Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 2) (1880 10 05)
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The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published! Price, but 5 cents e2->. LAER eH me § ° , . ae <<“ f N 5 rr rns ir : : Wr. e ees es eaves _ yy y i 2 ° s 7, oe CT nas Sati aT DLE AND ADAMS. October 5, 1880. $2.5u a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. ise es) See YO ae FOL EL PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM Sy ato ee PRICE, 5 CENTS. av = <= ~ 1” EE SS ‘(MISS TAYLOR, MY SON IS WAITING FOR YOU TO BEGIN.” Because She Loved Him: or, How Will Ut End? | mssztie?t ie"tte'wes one site sus choot igh ly have attempted; but it was exquisitely sweet and full, every word was | ee perfectly intoned. Still, the cipal. charm Jay in its wonderful / BY ALICE FLEMING. pathos—now rending the heart by its wild agony, now almost melting CHAPTER I to tears by i's infinite softmess and tendern a. ¢ 7 Slightly apart from the motley crowd which she was surrounded. : MIDNIGHT in Paris: a cold, raw wind driving through the streets; a | stood a tall, slight man, wrapped in a long da-k cloak. Why he re~ | yt ck, fine rain falling from the leaden sky; sounds of life and motion in | mained there, listening to tie atrest singer, he ardly knew. He ana «4 directions; for when does a great city find time to sleep? lover of music, but some strange attraction seemed to have drawn him Through the night air, ringing out clearly and distinctly above the | thither, and to keep him there as though chained to the spot. r ny mingled sounds, came the tones of a woman’s voice, singing a The song ended, she who d sung it turned toward her audience, aple English ballad. | holcing out her hand in’ a manner half shrinking, half-defiant. But as ait ee ae. x 2 ~~ a
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these » ho before bad crowded and pushed, so ns to stand as near to her as possible, now moved away. The crowd dispersed, and afew copper coins were all that she had received. ‘With a heavy sigh, she drew her threadbare shawl more closely round her, and was about leaving the spot, when the man in the long cleak stepped forward, and slipped a piece of ; Old into her hand. The thin fingers closed eagerly over it. “Heaven bless you!” she murmured, and hurried away. At that moment, the pale yellow light of a street-lamp fell full on her young, but pale «cud worn, countenance, Those two had met before; but the recogni- tion was on his side only, and, hardened man »t the world though he was, he shuddered as 4uo remembered how and when he had seen that fair, innocent-looking young girl, His first impulse was to follow her; but he soon gave up the attempt as useless. Several figures were flitting backward and forward, any ene of which might easily be mistaken for hers in the semi-darkness. “Shall we ever meet again?’ he wondered, as he slowly retraced his steps in the direction ef his hotel. Meanwhile, the object of his reflections was hurrying through a labyrinth of back streets. To her he had seemed an angel of mercy, and more than onoe she repeated, ‘‘ Heaven bless him!” as she thought of the many com- forts which his gift weuld enable her to pro- cure for one who was everything to her. At last she reached a large, dilapidated-look- ing house, one of those mansions which former: ly had been the abode of wealth and fasbion, Lut now let out in single rooms to some of the poorest inhabitants ef Paris. Dragging her weary feet up flight after flight of broken stairs, she paused for a few moments on a narrow landing to gather breath; then opening a door, entered a small attic, through which a solitary candle diffused a dim, uncertain light. A table, one or two chairs, and a low pallet- bed were all the furniture contained in that raiserable room. And on the bed lay a man, pale and motionless. The girl's light step seemed to rouse him. _ The heavy lids were slowly raised, and he. _ faintly smiled. “Father!” she whispered, bending lovingly over him, ““Kva, my child,” he said, speaking slowly and with difficulty, ‘‘ why did you remain out so long? 1 was afraid that something might have happened to you.”’ **T am very sorry; but I could not help it, I did not want to come back empty-handed. Seo what I have brought!” - And she held up the napoleon. - — “Where did you get that, Eva?”. “T sung in the streets, and a kind gentle- man gave it to me.” “Sung in the streets? Oh, Eva! you must ‘never do that eee It was very, very Y atiay of you!” *‘Our money was all gone, father, and I could think of no other way of getting more.” **So we are come to that; and it is all my fault!” he groaned. “Don’t fret, father! while.” a “‘Sleep?—no, not yet. You are tired, and need rest, my child. But there is something I must tell you now, or it may*be too late.” Eva pressed her hands more tightly together; her lips quivered, but there was no other sign of emotion. . It was not now only that she learned that Try to sleep now for a hus days, perhaps his very hours, were number- ed, and that ere lon» alone and friendless, o “Eva,” he continue low and indistinct. that ust be thrown, pitiless world. is voice was so ad to bend ker head close over his in order to catch his words, “you know sometbing of what my life has You know cf one dark stain which rests | 5 le been, ‘ 2 BECAUSE SHE on it, and yet your love for me has never changed. But when you have learnt all, you will turn from me in scorn and hatred; will never think of me save to curse my memory.” “Never shall I do that, father!” Eva inter- rupted, earnestly. ‘‘No matter what you may have been to the rest of the world, I shall know always what you were to me—the kind- est and dearest of fathers.” “Poor child! you little imagine, and shall not be undeceived, until I am no more. As long as I live, I would have you love me. Now, take this key, unlock my desk, and bring me what you will find in the under part.” The girl did as desired, and laid a small sealed package beside him. “This will explain all, Eva,” he said. “ You see the address.” She took the package, and holding it near the light, read aloud: ‘oe ean Henry Tremayne, The Elms, Darkshire, Eng- n 39 “Sir Henry Tremayne and [are first cou- sins—brother’s children; and my real name is Tremayne, not Taylor. Henry’s parents, as well as mine, died when we were quite children, and our grandfather—old Sir Mark—reared us both, “My father was the younger, but the fa- vorite son. None of the property was entailed, and it had been our grandfather's intention to divide it equally between him and his brother, and so I grew up; believing myself to be joint heir with Henry. “My cousin and I were of the same age. He had one sister, a year or two older than himself, and we were all very good friends; thoug me — the truth, I never really cared much: she was’ so cold; , and proud, p thea ‘thinking of what would be for her own advantage; and very glad indeéd I was when she married and went to live elsewhere, As tothe old man, I believe he was really fond of us; but he was remarkably strict, always making rules which it was almost impossible to obey, and punishing the least offense, real or imaginary, in-the severest manner. “Heury was a good, steady lad, and it was much easier for him than for me to obey our grandfather’s iron rule. As I grew older, I found obedience harder and harder. He was one who would brook no contradiction, and constant altercations took place between us. _ © At last, one day, when I was about nine- teen, I defied our grandfather openly; and he declared that if I did not go down on my knees and beg his pardon, he would disinherit me. But I wasreckless, and laughed at him. © “<¢T -was going to leave half of my property to your father,’ he said, his voice t:embling with suy ‘and always intended that you shotild take his place. I have absolute control over it, and can dispose of it as I please, and not a single penny shall come to you un- less you — line of conduct you have» “But I ae young aud cnt Win at with an intense desire for ‘ting with iberty? from h enlisted in a regiment wh Pa at em ordoed abroad. r name to Taylor, and no one suspected { 52 om a baronet’s “T had always believed that the life of a ‘| sailor was unalloyed enjoyment; but I soon found out my mistake. The low companions with whom I was forced to associate, what I imagined the insolence of my superior officors, and the strict discipline to which I was forced to submit, were very hard to bear. But Iknew that there was no help for it, and worked on doggedly, until I had almost lost sight of my real identity in that of Mark Taylor, the pri- vate soldier. “When I had served my time, I thought I would return home, and find out how things had been going on during my absence. All there was changed. My grandfatber was dead, and Henry was in possession of the title and prop- erty. LOVED. HIM. —— ‘* When I saw him so rich aud prosperous, 2 fierce jealousy sprung up in my heart. Halz of what he possessed had once been intevi:c i for me, and would certainly have been mine had I pot quarreled with grandfather. “T consulted some lawyers as to whether there was any chance of my recovering what I considered to be my rights. They all told ne that it would be madness to attempt it. ‘* At last I found an attorney who was will: ing to take up tbe case. Whether. he wus more a fool or a knave I do not know; but be persuaded me that he could prove that half the property had been settled on my father, ani: that my grandfather had no right to alienat. it from me. Iwas cnly too delighted to be- lieve him, and commence a lawsuit forthwith. ‘Henry offered me a large sum-.of money if I would give up my pretensions. -That only served to strengthen me in the delusion that Le believed I would succeed. “T was determined to have every thing «r nothing. Not even the thought of my youn ~ wife and my child could induce me to accept a compromise. So we went to law. The verdict was given in Henry’s favor, and the costs of the case swallowed up the little money I he:l possessed, the hard-earned savings of years. “Do not ask me how my wife met me when I returned to her, and tceld her that I had lost every thing. That is a time of which I can hardly bear to think. “She died; beside her grave I vowed vei:- geance on my cousin, and kept my word. I: never suspected who desolated his home anit turned his cup of bappiness to gall and worm- wood. But I have written a full confession or my crime. And you must go to him, ard place this package in his hands, and tell bin, that remorse for what I then did followed me to my, last moments. “You theught that our money was exbaust. ed; but in miy desk you will find sufficient for your journey to England. Pccr as we were, I was determined not to touch what 1 had laid by for that purpose. ‘“You need bave no concern for your future; I have taken care to secure that, and you will never know what poverty is again. “When my cousin reads what I have writ- ten, he will curse me. cy do not ask for pardon, ‘ That he can never grant me. I bave sinned against hin: too deeply té‘expect forgiveness. The name of Mark Tremayne will be branded with infamy ; but none of the shame will fall on you, dar ling. The sin is mine alone, end so are its fruits. And, ob! the sting of a guilty con- science Las brought me the punishment I have deserved! - “When -you are rich, and bappy, and pros perous, think of me sometimes with pity, and remember that the one pure and holy feeling ot my heart was my love for you. “Yes, Eva, and that love was very . It bas cast a dark shadow over your life, which I fear no future sunshine can entirely remove; but be lieve me, no father ever loved his child more . intensely than I bave loved you.” | . He ceased s es closed, and peaking; his eye ‘ soon his heavy breathing told that he slept. Eva did not move from ber place keside bim, She was thinking over the story which sho bed just heard. What was the secret of that package? What fearful revelation did it contain, that it should nake her sbrink frcm the father Whom she so dearly loved? And should her hand lift tbe vail which shrouded that mystery? Should ske add to the dishonor which ccvcred his name? No—a thousand’ times, no!* The confession contained in that package should never be read by mertal eye— least cf all, by that cf Sir Herry Tremayne. While thus she mused, the gray, weird light of early dawn crépt into the room. Ghcst-like shadows bovered round, and gradually disap- peared into the darkest corners. The candle, which had burned deep down into the socket, flickered and went out. ‘Ihe | weary, sin-stained spirit had flee — es Sew sime <4 eee “ Lo ae
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CHAPTER IL. “Tsay, Grantham, who is that girl playing the accompaniment for y: ur sister?” Philip Grantham turned his head quickly. ‘‘T was just on the point of asking you the same question,” he said. ‘Then you do not know her? How strange!” ‘My good fellow, I only arrived in London this afternoon, and have not been here more than half an hour. You certainly cannot ex- pect me to know every lady in the room.” * But I must find out who this one is,” said the first, speaker, a stylish-looking young guardsman. ‘‘She is perfectly lovely! A little pale, perhaps;, but her figure and features are faultless. And her hair! Did you ever see more beautiful golden? What a pity she is so badly dressed!” ‘‘She seems to be in deep mourning.” ‘So she is; but mourning can be made to look more pretty and becoming than that. However, I must go and find out all about her.” He began to work his way through the crowded drawing-room in the direction of the group which surrounded the stately form of the hostess; while Philip Grantham remained standing in the same place, his looks fixed on the girl seated at the piano. Presently the young man rejoined him. ‘‘ Prepare yourself for a disenchantment, old fellow!” he said, “She whom we were in- clined to fancy was some new social star is nobody, after all, but a Miss Taylor, your lit- tle sister’s new governess. They only let her in here because it is convenient to have some one who plays accompaniments well.” “Tf I were Mrs. Grantham, I would keep her in the school-room,” said, an elderly lady, who had been listening to the conversation. ‘I never allow my children’s governess to appear when we have company. I consider that the drawing-room is no fit place for her.” Philip Grantham turned away with an im- patient movement, and approached the piano just as his sister was finishing her song, She was a tall, showy-looking girl, with dark hair and eyes and a brilliant complexion, which some three or four London seasons had failed toinjure. A beauty, an heiress, it seem- ed strange that at the age of twenty-three she should still be unmarried. Many admired her immensely for a short time; but it was gener- ally acknowledged that she did not improve on acquaintance; and her cold, haughty manner seldom failed to repel those whom her beauty and wealth had attracted. “You here?” she exclaimed, in surprise, as she saw her brother. ‘Why, we all supposed you were in Norway!” ir) ‘‘ And so I was until a few days ago,” Philip answered. ‘I only arrived in London this af- ternoon,”’ ; y ‘*How good of you to come here! Have you seen mamma?’ ‘“Yes. She tells me that you return to Eastgrove after to-morrow.” ‘“We do; the season is just over. Are you coming with us?” ' “TT think not; but I will follow you in a few weeks.” ’ ; ‘‘T am so glad to leaye town!” Mabel said, with a suppressed yawn. t ‘Have you not been enjoying yourself?’ ‘Oh, yes; but I am nearly worn out.” “You do not look so,” Then he added, in a low voice: ‘‘ What about Lord Cosgrave, Ma- bel?—has he been much here?” “No; we have seen little or nothing of him. When last I heard of him, he was in Paris.” “‘T wish he would stay there!” i qi NOB, so?” asked Mabel, with an angry ook, “s Because he is a man with whose name I se not care to hear that of my sister coup- ‘‘ And I do not care to be interfered with by you!” Mabel answered. He made no reply, but turned away with a pained look on his face. Experience had al- a tired! See a BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. &. ready taught him that any interference with Grantham. A young English lady, who had his sister was perfectly useless. passed nearly all her life on the Continent, and Just then Mrs. Grantham joined them, and | was a good linguist and musician, seemed very asked Philip to sing something. ‘Please do, to oblige me!” she said, as he was about to refuse. ‘‘ We have so few.mu- sical people here this evening; nearly all those I counted on have disappointed me. Mabel has been obliged to make such a martyr of her- self.” ‘TI suppose I must, then,” he said, looking anything but well pleased. “Thanks so much! Here are some of your songs. This one, you say? Miss Taylor, my son is waiting for you to begin.” The governess bowed her head mutely, and resumed her seat before the instrument; but the angry flush which mantled her cheek did not escape Philip’s notice. “Poor girl!” be thought; ‘‘ wha a miserable life hers must be!” And his eyes wandered pityingly from her pale, sad face, to her dress of deepest mourn- ing. The song ended, he bent over her, and whispered, ‘‘I am very much obliged to you. You played that capitally; but you look very You must come with me, and let me get you some refreshment.” Once more she colored, this time not in anger, and her tears seemed ready to flow. Words of kindness were rarely given to Eva Taylor now. ‘¢Please come!” continued Philip. _ ‘‘Do not mind our not having been formally intro- duced. I should be neglecting my duty if I were to let a lady in my mother’s house want for anything.” She hesitated for a moment, and half rose. ‘Play this, if you please, Miss Taylor.” The words, spoken in Mrs. Grantham’s haughtiest tone, made them both start. An- other song was placed on the piano; and with knitted brows Philip watched the small white hands as they struggled to keep time with the very ad libitum style in which a retired naval officer sung, or rather shouted, a ditty which certainly was very little suited to a London drawing-room. . “Tf Ican do anything to help her, I will!” he thought; ‘‘ but I must be very careful. If my mother sees that I interest myself on her account, it will only make mischief.” Philip Grantham was right. His mother was fully determined to keep the governess in her proper place; and just then she was regret- ting haying brought her into the drawing- room at all that evening. Several of the gentlemen present had in- quired who she was in a manner which plainly. showed how her appearance had interested them; and the supercilious reply, ‘‘ She is enly my governess,” had not deterred more than one from requesting an introduction. ‘““Miss Taylor does not expect to be intro- duced to any one,” she had answered each time, in tones that would admit of no remonstrance. And she had begun to hope that no more notice would be taken of the governess. Very angry indeed she felt when she saw how her son lingered by the piano, and eb- served the polite, deferential manner in which he spoke to Eva, As soon as possible she in- terrupted the conversation by requiring Miss Taylor to play another accompaniment; and scarcely had the last notes died away, when she was told that she might retire, as her ser- vices would not be needed any more at present. Mrs. Grantham was the widow of a rich country gentleman. Out of. a large family but three children survived— Philip and Mabel, the two eldest, and Janie, the youngest, a girl about twelve. hi Wishing to procure a foreign governess for this child, she bad written toa distant cousin, who held an English chaplaincy in Paris, to request his assistance. Mr. Stuard had ac- cidentally discovered the Taylors, and had shown them no little kindness. On her father’s death Eva had asked him to help her to finda situation, and he bad propesed her to Mrs. ie % suitable; and on Mr. Stuard’s recommendatiorm Eva was engaged forthwith. Eva had never flattered herself that the life- of a governess would be an agreeable one; stil= she was quite unprepared for the haughty cold- ness with which she w4s treated. Her pupiif did not seem toher a very interesting child, delicate, backward, and rather self- willed, and the hours passed in the dull monotony of the school-room were insufferably long and wearé some to her. It was rather an agreeable surprise when onw evening, about a month after her arrival, she received a message requesting her presence im the drawing-room; but she soon was made pain— fully aware of the fact that it was infinitely pre— ferable to pass her free time in the solitude of her own room to being admitted/on sufferance: among a number of people who looked on her: as their inferior, and very thankful indeed she felt when the moment of her release had come. Utterly lonely and) miserable, she sunk om: her knees beside her bed, and sobbed as thougin. her heart would break. ‘Father, oh, father!’ she moaned; ‘ why” did I not die with youf/—why did you leaveme alone in this cruel, wretched world?” Carefully hidden in her trunk lay the sealeé. = | package which, placed in the hands of Sir Henry Tremayne, would, she had been told, secure her wealth and position. But she had never wayered in her determi- nation to shield her, father’s memory by the sacrifice of herself. CHAPTER JIL. EastGROVE, the family property of the- Granthams, lay in one of the western shires, __ Philip passed little of his time there; and it - was an understood thing that as long as he re—. mained unmarried his mother and sisters were‘ to consider it as their home. A noble old place it certainly was. Terraced gardens and smooth greensward, dotted with: eaks of unknown antiquity, surrounded the. stately mansion; while in the distance might be had glimpses of the river, gleaming and: glittering in the warm sunshine, and winding - like a silver thread among the wood-covered— hills which bounded the horizon. % A fairer picture could scarcely be imagined’ . than that which met the view of Eva Taylor a= she stood by the school-room window ome July afternoon; but the soft, peaceful beauty” of the landscape possessed no charm for her. The gay songs of the birds grated harshly om: her ears; and the bright summer sunshime- seemed only to mock at her sadness. What was all the loveliness of the outer world to her? Mere beauty of scenery could bring no comfort to a lonely, grief-strickem heart! The sound of the luncheon-bell awoke her from her gloomy thoughts; and she turned slowly away from the window. ‘ Silently and unnoticed the young governess entered the handsomely furnished dining-roomn,.. and took her place at the table. Sbe and her- pupil dined at Mrs. Grantbam’s luncheon hour, and that was almost the only time when Eva: came in contact with the mistress and her eldest daughter. To-day there was a strange gentleman sit— ting at the opposite side of the table, whom Eva heard Mrs. Grantham address as Lora Cosgrave. He was a man of about five-and-thirty, withe a dark, handsome countenance, which, how— ever, was rendered almost disagreeable by the» cold, cynical e which it constantly” wore. Looking up s , Eva met his gaze. It was fixed on her with mingled surprise and in— - quiry. He turned away his head, and con— tinued tke animated conversation in which» l had engaged him. She did not venture to look at him again=: .
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4 tne RA 7 BECAUSE SHE “LOVED HIM. 4 . Sar * sm she knew that he was watching her, and +, undefined feeling of dread began to cree, over her, togéther with a consciousness that abe had seen him before, where and when she could not recall. “Janie is to come for a drive with me at ozce, Miss Taylor,” said Mrs. Grantham, as they rose from the table, ‘“‘so you can spend the afternoon as you please.” ““T will get a book, and find some nice quiet j ace in the grounds where I can sit and read!” ti ought Eva, Deep down in the park, shaded from the hot rays of the July sun by the thick, overhanging branches of a clump of lime-trees, she found a fimall rustic seat, and, sitting down, opened her book; but it lay on her knees unheeded, tho light breeze blowing the leaves backward an forward, Further and further back wandered her thoughts; one scene after another of the wild, vagrant existence which she had led with her fa: ber rose before her mind. €he shuddered, and pressed her hands to her eyes, as though to shut out some dark memory, some specter of the past. A low, frightened y escaped her lips, Now she knew why Lori Cosgrave’s features had seemed familiar. Was it possible that he remembered her?) Her bears almost stood still at the thought. “Well, really, what a pretty picture!” Ske looked: up. ‘Lord Cosgrave was stand- in. before her. Every trace of color left, and her frightened looks were fixed on him. ““T see you have not forgotten me, Miss Tay- lor!” he said, sitting down beside her, and lay- ing his hand on hers with an air of familiarity. She sprung to her feet, and fled along the —— path as fast as her trembling limbs ould permit; but he was by her sidein a mo- t, aud she felt his strong, firm grasp on her ant vain did she try to shake off his hand; he only laughe:l at her feeble efforts. “‘Covae, now, Miss Taylor, that is hardly kind!” he said. ‘i take the trouble of looking | for you all through the park, in order to renew our acquaintance, and this is the way you treat me!” ' «(Have you no pity?’ she exclaimed. » “Ain I not wretched and friendless enough without - your coming to persecute me?” “« Persecute you? Why should you imagine that I intendto do any such thing? | assure youl never felt mere inclined to be on good tcrms with any one than I do with you.” ‘(Then why are you here?” 2 Come back to the seat; I want to talk to ou.’ i Se suffered him to lead her back, and me- chanically resumed her plaee. ‘“Are you afraid of me?” he asked. As feu,” “Why?” ‘Ts there any need for you to ask? Would M-s. Grantham keep me in her house, or would it be pessible for me to find another situation, i: you were to tell what you know?” “Then you bave not acquainted Mrs, Gran- tam witha certain part of your father’s his- tery? “No; why should I? She has never conde- scnded to ask me any questions about him,” ‘Who recommended you to her?” ‘* An English clergyman who used to visit uy father when he was ill.” ‘* How long has your father been dead?’ ‘* Not two months,” she answered, trying to fc-ce back the rising tears. ‘‘ And did this clergyman you speak of know that it was a mere accident which saved your fc her from being an in?’ “i No, » “Did he know that yo: si:cets of Paris for money e Eva started violently. ‘1 only did that once,” she exclaimed. “ Really,” he answered, incredulously, how strange that | should have had the pleasure of to sing in the | y night?” mec ting you on that one particular occasion!” ‘You met me! I do not remember. you certainly are not the gentleman who gave me the napoleon?” “ iF am. ” Greatly ashamed and mortified she felt. This man had given her money, as he would have given it to any ordinary beggar, and she had thanktully accepted his charity! ““T want to hexr,” continued Lord Cosgrave, ‘if this clergyman friend you have told me about knew of the nights—I beg your pardon, I should say of the night—that you spent sing- ing in the streets?” ‘“No,” Eva answered, in a low voice. ‘Then I presume you have not told Mrs. Grantham about it either?” ‘*No. Could I possibly tell her? You know her quite well enough to understand that she would not keep me here another hour if she were told that.” “T dare say you are right. Ladies do not generally care to have a street-singer as the governess of their children.” His words and tone stung her to the quick. ‘““Are you a gentleman?” she demanded, in a voieé trembling with anger and mortifica- tion. Are you a gentleman? I have done nothing to be ashamed of. My father was dy- ing; we had not a single franc left inthe world. IfIcould have earned money in any other way I would willingly have done s0; but I could not leave him. He would hardly bear me a minute out of his sight. One even- ing I had to go out—shall-I tell you where? —to the Mont de Piete to pawn a little brooch which had been given to me years ago. It was my only trinket, and I was very fond of it. But we were starving, and I thought that it might procure me a few francs. When I gave it to the man, he laughed, and said that it was not gold at ali, and not worth more than a few sous, On my way back, it struck me that I might get something if I were to sing, and I had heard of money being made that way. So I tried, and sung for a | long time; but in vain. The people came to listen to me; but they hardly gave me any- thing, until—” She paused, and he said, in a kinder, gen- tler tone, ‘I am very glad that I was! able to help you, and do not fancy that I think less of you for what you have done; but you must not be angry if I speak very plainly. You have entered Mrs. Grantham’s employment under false colors. You must acknowledge that. Granted she never asked you any ques- tions, yet you are tacitly deceiving her; and do you not think that it is my duty, as an inti- mate friend of the family, to acquaint her with what I know both about your father and yourse!f?” * Stop!—in mercy, stop!” she cried. you no pity?) What harm have I done you that you should have me turned out of ber me of my only means of support? And but for m6, you would not now be here to tell the tale. You must know that.” “I owe you’ my sincerest gralitude, Miss Taylor; but for you, your father would have been my assassin!” “T know that I am completely in your power,” Eva continued, hardly appearing to hear him; “but what object can you have in destroy ing me? What harm can my remain- ing here do to any one? ' Indeed, I will try to perform my duty toward my pupil, and there is nothing more required of me. Spare me now, as I once stood oe sh you and destruc- tion!” * You are right,” a answered, slowly. ‘I ought not to forget that you saved my life that night in Baden-Baden. It was a fearful mo- ment; the knife flashing before my sight, and your father furious. I had given myself up for lost, when you rushed in, and caught his arm. Had you delayed one moment longer, | you would have been too late.” v | “Thank Heaven that I was able to shield you!” Eva said. “Miss Taylor’—and Lord Cosgrave fixed SC “ Have. house in disgraco—that you should deprive’ Stay! | on her an inguiring look—‘‘do you know why a P | your father attempted my life?” “cc No.” Did he never tell you?” ; ‘‘No; he said that you-were his enemy, and that you had insulted him. That is all.” ‘And you believed him, I suppose?” “ Certainly.” ‘That was not his true reason, I assure you.” “What was it then?” **7 will not tell you. He doubtless remem- bered the proverb, ‘Dead men tell no tales.’ But we are wandering from our subject. You were, I believe, asking me to say nothing about you to Mrs. Grantham; but I don’t think I can promise you that.” ‘Why not? Does it make the least differ- ence to you who teaches her child? And to me it makes the difference between being able to earn my own bread, and being turned out a homeless outcast on the world.” *T do not want’ to be bard on you, Miss Taylor; only I must do my duty as Mrs. Gran- tham’s friend.” — “TI can appeal to nothing but your pity,:my lord. Think of what would become of me if I were to lose my place! I have not a friend to whom I could turn for help. It surely could be no crime in you to let a friendless, homeless girl ‘support herself by honest work. If your heart is not shade of stone, you will spare me!” He smiled, anid it was well for Eva that she did not see that smile, ““T cannot give you any decided promise,” he said, slowly, ‘except that for the present, at all events, I will keep silence. It shall be our se- cret—yours and mine.” She drew a long sigh of relief. **Oh, my lord, I hardly know how to’ thank you!” she murmured. “Then give me your hand, and tell me that you will trust me,” he said. She placed her hand in his: he retained it for a moment, then raised it to his lips. With an angry exclamation, she snatched it away. Lord Cosgrave laughed. “TI can tell you that Miss Mabel would not glare so at me if I were to kiss her hand,” he said. Instead of answering, she rose, and began to walk quickly in the direction of the house. *‘ Are you angry with me?” he asked, over- taking her, and walking by her side, oo 1 am. ” ; “I really did not mean to vex you. you forgive me, and let us te friends?” ‘How can there be friendship’ between us, my lord?) Remember that you are a noble- man; while I am aiawet better than a ser- » vant. » “Friends or enemies, Miss Taylor—take your choice.” + Eva trembled, and turned pale, |» Just then, steps were heard approaching. “] will leave you now,” he said, ‘It would not do for us to be seen here together. But remember that what I know remains a secret only so long as I shall choose to continue silent.” He disappeared behind the trees, and scarce- ly was he out of sight when, round a turn of the walk, appeared Mabel Grantham, Will CHAPTER IV. TuE two girls stood opposite each other in silence. Eva’s looks were fixed on the ground, while Mabel was watching the governess’ flushed cheeks and trembling hands, which were playing nervously with one of the crapé | folds of her dress, ‘“T hardly expected to find you here, Miss Taylor,” she said, presently. ‘Have you been ' exploring the park?” “7? Thad nothing to do, as Janie went out with her mother,” stammered Eva; “so I came here to read.” ““T do not see any book,” 2% a e
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“My book? Oh, I must have left it on the seat. I’ will go back for it.” She turned’ and hastily’ retraced her steps, Mabel following. The book was not on the seat, but was lying on the ground beside it. Eva picked it up, and began to smooth out the crumpled leaves, ‘““May linquire who your companion was, Miss Taylor?’ inquired Mabel, watching her suspiciously. Eva looked quite as guilty as she felt, and her confusion did not escape Mabel. “Well,” she repeated, “who was with you here?” “T was by myself, Miss Grantham.” It was the first direct untruth which she re- membered ever having told, and she spoke it falteringly, and witli difficulty. “¢ Really,” said Mabel, incredulously, ‘I was quite certain that I heard voices asI came along.” ‘‘Have Mrs. Grantham and Janie returned yet?” asked Eva, anxious to change the subject. ““Yes; they came home more than half an hour ago.” “Then I must hurry back.” “Tt would beno harm for you to doso; and, indeed, I believe some of the servants have been sent to look for you. Our uncle has driv- en over from the Elms tosee us. Janie isa great pet of his, and he has been asking for her governess.” “The Elms?” exclaimed Eva, starting back. “Yes; do you find anything strange in the name?” “No; I was thinking of The Elms—a place in Darkshire.” “Then it must be the same. borders of Darkshire here.” ‘‘ And your uncle is?” “Sir Henry Tremayne.” >. How va reached the house she hardly knew. Her brain seemed to whirl round, and she found it impossible to collect her thoughts. But one idea was uppermost ‘in her mind—she was about to meet the man whom her father had so greatly wronged, between whose life and her own there was so’ mysterious a link. As ina dream she: followed ‘Mabel to the drawing-room. She knew that Mrs. Grantham was speaking to her, and that her yoice sound- ed less cold’ than usual; but had not: the faint- est idea what sha was saying. Then she fel. her hand cordially grasped, and heard a kind, manly voice say, “‘I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Tay- lor! My visit to-day is intended principally for you.” “You are very kind,” she said; and looked up. She saw a tall, spare figure, slightly bent; a countenance which must once have been very handsome, but now deeply furrowed with care, and with an expression of settled melan- choly. His hair was white as snow, yet Eva knew that he could hardly have passed his fif- tieth year, and a bitter pain shot through her heart as she fully realized, for the first time, what a wreck that unknown crime of her father’s must have made of his cousin’s life. “My sister has promised tv let Janie come over to luncheon to-morrow, and spend the rest of the day with me, Miss Taylor,” Sir Henry said, “‘ You must come too, and I will promise to do my best not to let you find the society of an old man stupid.” “Tt is never stupid at The Elms, uncle Hen- ry,” said Janie, passing her hand through his We are on the arm. ‘You always make the time pass so quickly. I am very glad we are going there to-morrow.” The door opened, and Lord Cosgrave saun- tered into the room. The greeting between him and Sir Henry Tremayne was formal and dis- tant in the extreme. He did not take the least notice of Eva, but began to talk in a low voice to Mabel. “‘T hope you had a pleasant walk in the park this afternoon?” Eva heard her say. “What do you mean? I wae vot there at , R Par vophs BECAUSE, SHE, LOVED. HIM. ‘her treat me civilly: There certainly strong flavor of romance about ‘the whole 5 Then would come the remembrance of meete- ing with Mabel Grantham, and the knowledge that the young lady’s suspicions had been aroused. The evident pleasure with which she ‘received Lord Cosgrave’s attentions had not es- caped the notice of Eva, who felt sure that she would be closely watched in future. “It is nearly one o’clock, Miss Taylor; you might really let me ‘stop now,” exclaimed Janie, suddenly closing her book, and prs?" z her chair back from the table. “Mery weil,” Eva answered; ‘‘half u. uvur more or less cannot make a great deal of differ- ence for one day.” “What is the matter with you, Miss Tay- lor¢” Janie asked, looking curiously at her gov- erness. ‘‘Do you not want to go to The Elms to-day?” ‘There is nothing the matter!” she answer ed, almost sharply; “‘and, of course, I am very much obliged to your uncle for his invita tion.” She rose, and, standing by the window, rested her head on her hand. ‘‘ How will it all end?—shall I ever be free from this mystery and deceit?” she asked herself. ‘¢ And a voice seemed to answer: ‘“ Never!” In about an hour Eva and Janie started for The Elms, which was only a few miles distané — from Eastgrove. oq “So this was once my father’s home?” thought Eva, as the carriage rolled up the long avenue, and stopped before a low, irregular house, rather out of repair. The shutters of many of the windows were closed, the walls discolored, and partly covered with ivy and other creeping plants, and the whole place had an uncared-for and neglected appearance. Still it was a lovely spot, more picturesque perhaps in its desolation than i had been when the hand of man had ruled supreme. Now nature alone bore sway, and a lover of wild, untamed beauty would have reveled in the unchecked luxuriance of tho scene. Rris* Sir Henry was waiting at the hall door to receive them, He gave them a cordial wel- come, and brought them into a small but com- fortably furnished dining-room, where lunch- eon was prepared. Nothing cculd have been more friendly than his manner to Eva, but she felt awkward and constrained; his kindness only served to make her utterly miserable, and never had the bur- den of her father’s unknown crime weighed more heavily on her. , “If he only knew!” she thought. “It seems so base and hypocritical to accept his hospitali- ty, and yet what can I do?’ ‘* Would you care for a row up the jiver, Miss Taylor?’ Sir Henry asked, when luncheon was over. “Oh, yes, please, uncle!” exclaimed Janie, eagerly answering for her governess. ‘I am sure she would enjoy it; I have been telling her how lovely it is.” They went down together to the place where the boat was moored, and scon were skimming along the smooth, clear surface of the river, the powerful strokes of the boatmen impelling them rapidly against the current. “This is almost. my only amusement, Miss Taylor,” said Sir Henry. ‘Every fine after- noon I spend some hours on the water. And, indeed, the weather must be very severe that can keep me altogether from it,” “ Do you remain all the year at The Elms?” she asked. “‘T rarely leave it now. Years ago I travel- ed, until variety lost its charms for me. Now I almost lead the life of a recluse, my oniy companions my books and my boat.” There was a tone of intense sadness in his look and voice as he said this, and Eva bent “You surprise me. I thought I saw you going down in that direction after luncheon.” “Yes; I did go down in that direction, as I wanted to go home across the fields; but I was not in the park;” he answered. ‘ “Home! You 'certainly do not mean to tell me that you walked to- Woodlawn and back this hot day?’ said Mabel, fixing her black eyes on his face. ‘““T do mean to tell you that I walked there and back,” he answered, smiling. “And left your horse standing stable?” ‘Yes; is there anything so strange in that? It-is over six miles by the road, aad only one and a half across the fields.” ** You have often ridden across the fields?” “By taking several fences; but Stella hurt her foot the other day, and { did not care to make her jump.” Mabel said uo more; but it seemed to Eva that she did not look convinced. Lord Cosgrave’s property adjoined that of the Granthams. Woodlawn was one of the finest places in the neighborhood; and, when the young noble- man had come of age, his rent-roll was a very large one; but some ten or fifteen years of reck- less dissipation and extravagance had left his affairs in a state of almost hopeless embarrass- ment, There seemed but one way of saving him from ruin—a rich marriage; and for some time past he had seriously thought of proposing to Mabel Grantham. But to-day a better pros- pect had opened before him; and he turned his steps homeward with a triumphant smile. “T must contrive tu’ be better acquainted with that little governess,” he said to himself, “She is not one to stand any nonsense, I feel sure of that, and I like her all the better for it; but at any rate, I know how to make is a in the business, but I must take care that I am not running after a will-o’-the-wisp; that would be rather awkward, with the Jews closing round me like a set of harpies: Why is not Mabel Grantham like her? | 1 could be sure ‘of a good round sum in that quarter, without any fur- ther difficulty, Mabel—bah!—I know that that young lady would be only too delighted to become Lady Cosgrave if I chose to ask her, and will be rather disappointed if I do not. But if I were to marry any one from choice, it would be the governess!” Then he laughed aloud. “TI do believe I am falling in love,” he thought, ‘‘ but certainly I cannot do better than sift this matter to the utmost; and if Iam right, | may yet save the old castle from com- ing t the hammer, and have a charming wife into the bargain.” And he reined in bis horse on the top of a hill, and surveyed the castellated building, just visible among the trees of the demesne which lay before him. Neither pupil nor teacher paid much atten- tion to their tasks next morning. | Janie’s thoughts were fully occupied with the antici- pated pleasure of a visit to The Elms; while her governess was unusually nervous and dis- turbed, and found it impossible to fix her at- tention on her uncongenial work. “Can I trust him? Will he betray me?’ was the thought which had racked her brain through the long hours of a sleepless night, and which now made her tremble and start at every unexpected sound. The words, “ Re member that what I know remains a secret only so long as I choose to continue silent,” echoed, and re-echoed in her ears, and she saw how completely she was se man’s mercy. her head low | the side of the bort, in At first she had been inclined to believe him | order to hide the tears which she could not re- when he said that he had been induced to speak | strain. " to her as he had done by his sense of duty to- ward Mrs, Grantham; but now the conviction was gradually strengthening in her mind that his principal object had been to frighten her. saw! %* make her feel his power over hey ‘“When I grow up, uncle, I will come ¢o live with you,” said Janie; “you will not be so lonely then.” “You would find me rather dull COMPA, now snilG!” 9: anid. with 9 emiie. «It ounce
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: | | ; ; ance was cut of sight, SB fe BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. ~wery well to'come to me for an afternoon z:mow and then, but you would soon grow tired «sof diving here.” “+ I think not,” Janie said; ‘‘ and you know ‘@ Jove the river quite as much as you do.” Sir Henry was by no means a melancholy scomapanion, Rousing himself, as if by an effort, he spoke on various subjects. Gradually #va’s restraint vanished, and she found her- -self talking to him quite freely. Once he asked “her some trivial question about her past life, ‘bat when he saw her look of pain he dropped the subject at once, and afterward carefully saroided any allusion to it. A change seemed to have come over Janie; she was not like the same child as when at home, she was so gay and affectionate in her manner toward her uncle. “‘T thought her stupid and uninteresting,” jiva said to herself; ‘‘but I suppose the fault wwae mine, because I did not understand her. I only tried to do my duty toward her, but now & mean to make her love me.” ‘““We have nearly an hour before dinner,” said Sir Henry, as they were returning to the jaouse. ‘‘ What had we better do? “ Leto us: go to the portrait-gallery,” said »adanie ; “T never get tired of looking at the grand old knights and beautiful ladies there.” So to the portrait-gallery they went. It was sa long, narrow chamber, extending along one sentire wing of the house. Knights in their -ecoats of mail, gallants in court dress, stately - dames and fair young beauties, looked down on i -ehem from their canvas, frames. To Janie they all seemed like old friends; she ad some remark to make about each, or some dnoidents in their lives to tell. “(How do you know so much about these -qeople, who were dead long years before you - vere born?” her uncle asked at last. “TI make Mrs, Jones tell me,” answered * Janie, looking very wise. “ That is my grandfather,” said Sir Henry, wausing as they reached the middle of the gal- ry. With eager interest Eva examined the stern wisage of the old baronet; his broad, high fore- head, heavy brows, cold gray eyes and tightly- -lxawn mouth, filled her with a feeling almost cain to fear. — “‘Ts your portrait here?’ she asked, turning «s Qj oso Sir Henry. “There I am; would you recognize me?” She saw before her two. lads, apparently ..apout the same, age, standing arm-in-arm, a 4arge mastiff lying on the ground at their feet. ‘Whey were very like each other, but the looks 4 tae One. were thoughtful and earnest, those ~epf¢he other bright and restless. ““That is meant for you,” she said, pointing ito the former. “Yes; and the other one is my cousin, “Mark, We parted in anger years ago, and [ Shave heard nothing whatever of him. since. He, probably, is dead, and I am the last. of my . same. Little did he think that the girl standing he- . side bim was a scion of his ancient race, CHAPTER V. “(Ir you please, Sir Henry, your. steward ewants to speak to you fora few minutes,” said »he Baronet’s housekeeper, appearing at the -\ver of the gallery. -4¢Very well, Mrs. Jones,” he answered; ‘‘ tell ‘nim Tam coming.” Then)turning to Eva and A apie, he added; ‘‘ Will you excuse me for a | short time? Tiere are some poriraits.at the «other side which Miss Taylor has :.o6 yet seen; oer LApS she.mizht care to look at thm,’ “Come this wiy,” said Janie, laying, ber * and on her govevuess’s arm assoon.as her “Thre is a room ‘uere I want s+ niuch to see. She drew ber toward a room at the further end of the. gallery. There was a key in the Mock; turning it, she went in, Eva foilowing « per, They found themselves in a small, square SAHOO, en nn EE ait REGENT SEE SEP" SSRESEt ERE Se So arm-chair and a table. Three of the walls were covered with well-filled book-shelves; on the fourth hung the portrait of a lovely young woman, dressed in a simple white dress, her only ornament a spray of white jessamine on her breast. She was bending over a cradle, in which lay a child, several months old; its face was radiant with smiles, and its plump hands had clutched one of the long, golden curls of its mother’s hair. ‘“‘Those are his wife and child,” whispered Janie; ‘‘I wanted to see them so much, but he never lets any one but Mrs. Jones come in here. She knew his wife, and told me that Lady Tre- mayne was the most beautiful young creature to be found. any where.” “ And what became of her?” ‘‘She and the baby died about a year after that picture was painted, and he has never re- covered the shock. He comes up here every day, he says to read, but Mrs. Jones believes he is grieving for his wife, and thinking over the past.” ‘‘ Did she die suddenly?” Eva asked, her in- terest fully aroused, ‘‘T don’t know. I never could get any one to tell me about her, except Mrs. Jones, and she does not like speaking of her. I asked mamma once what happened to her, but she got very angry, and told me that I was a naughty, inquisitive child, so I was afraid ever to say anything more.” ‘Is she not lovely? How afflicting it must have been to him to lose her!” Eva said, pity- ingly. ‘* Far worse than death!” Both started, It was Sir Henry who had said that, and he.was standing beside them, ‘“Why did you come in here, Janie?’ he asked, sternly, with a look of anger in his eyes which she had never seen there before. “Oh, uncle, I.am so sorry if you are angry; but I wanted so much to see the picture, and—” ‘‘You thought that I should never know anything about it?’ he interrupted. ‘I did not expect this from you!” She hung her head, and did not answer. ‘“‘T fear we have done very wrong, Sir Henry,” said Eva, timidly; “can you forgive us?” ‘Tt was not your fault,” he replied; ‘but come, dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” He let them pass out, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. ‘ Uncle, Iam so very sorry!” Janie said, pen- itently, taking his hand. He bent down and kissed her. Say no more about it, dear. But do not forget again that there are some sacred shrines, into which we.cannot bear those even whom we love best to enter.” Nothing more was said, and from his man- ner during dinner, no one would have supposed that,anything had happened to disturb him. Afterward they went into a large panelel drawing-room; the furniture was costly but old-fashioned, and the silk and velvet fittings were faded and discolored. The sun had set, and the shadowy twilight gave the room a strange, almost ghost-like look. “You are a musician, I believe, Miss Fay- lor?’ Sir Henry said. ‘f Wiil you sing or play something?” ‘« With pleasure, if you care to listen.” ‘“‘T love music! Shall I ring fox “ights??” “No, thank you; I like singing in the twi- light best,’ “Eva bad a remarkable talent; for, with searecly any training, she nadacqaired an ex. ecution .and. brilliancy.suck -as m2 seldom hears with an amateur; and uov, forgetful of everything else, her hands wandered slowly over the, keys; awakening iow, sweet echoes through the lofty room; then a voice, tremb- ling and» uncertain at first, took up the strain; but it gradually gathered strength and power, causing her listener to forget everything save _| its rich, wild melody. “ Please do not stop; sing something more,” the only furniture of which was an | he said, almost impatiently, as she paused. Le asking you to go there very soon again. And so she went on, almost unconsciously, until the summer twilight had well-nigh deep- ened into night. She ceased, and there was unbroken silence in the room. Janie had stolen away to spend half an hour with the old housekeeper. Sir Henry sat, his head resting on his arms, which were folded on the table before him. There was a low sound— something between a sob and a groan. Eva was startled, and, crossing the room, stood beside him. There was just light enough for her to see that his frame was quivering, as though with some violent emotion. ‘“‘ Are you ill?” she asked, anxiously. He rose slowly, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “JT am not ill,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice; ‘‘ but this eyening the past has come back to me with painful reality. There wasa tinie when one—she whose portrait you. saw to- day—used tosing to me in the gloaming, as you have been doing, and, for a few moments I almost believed that she was there again, in her old place, that the tragedy which made me what I am was but some fevered dream, Such fancies come to me sometimes, and, oh! the sense of desolation which follows the awakening is almost enough to drive me mad?” Janie’s step was heard in the hall. Sir Henry resumed his place. A. few min- utes later, he and bis niece were engaged in an animated conversation. Eva sat silent and thoughtful, a dull, aching pain: in her heart, Had she found any clew to the mystery of the sealed package? “Miss Taylor,” said Janie, as they were driving home, ‘‘do you not like uncle Henry?” * Yes; very much.” $4 And Iam sure, he likes you. I cond gam at is a great compliment from him.” ot Is it?’ ‘Yes; he generally dislikes strangers Ee) much, and hardly ever asks any one to The Elms, People say that he is a very strange old man. Do you think he is?” ‘« fe may be strange, but he is very, nice.” Then neither spoke again until they had reached Hastgrove. Just as Eva was stepping out of the carriage, the hall door opened, and a gentleman came down the steps. One glance served to show her that it was Lord Cosgrave. He raised his hat as she pass- ed him; she bowed as stiffly as possible, » White as a sheet, she hurried through the hall and: up to her own room. Looking nervously round, she unfolded a small piece of paper, there were only a few words written on it, but there was) the wild, frightened look of a hunted animal about her as she read them. ‘*May I come: in to say goodsnight#? said Janie, softly opening the door. She started back as she saw the governess. Then, coming up to her, she put her arms around her. ‘¢ Why do you look so miserable, Miss Tay- lor?’ she asked. ‘Do you not like being here?” “Like it! Ask the victim if he likes being on the rack!” Eva exclaimed. Then, startled by her own words, she added, “I have not very much to make me happy, Janie. It is very hard to be quita alone ia the world, with- out a singie friend.” “Jt is very hard,” Janie said, softly; “ but I like you very much, Miss Taylor, and I know I could be very fond of you if you would let me. I don’t think either mamma or Mabei care for me much, and I want very badiy to have some one to love me.” The next moment Eva was sobbing bitterly, her head resting on the shoulder of the giil whom she had fancied a stupid, uninteresting child, with whom her only connection was a dull, monotonous routine of lesson:. rit =e
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7 «> BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. 7 Ah, little do we dream what treasures often lie at our feet, and how we overlook them! “T cannot tell you much about myself or my troubles, Janie,” said Eva, at last raising her head; ‘‘but I shall be far less unhappy now that I know that there is some one who really cares for me.” ‘‘Miss Taylor, do you mean it?” ‘¢-Yes, dear, I do!” “But Iam only a child. IfI were grown up I might be able to do something for you.” ‘¢ Love me, Janie; you could not do more for me than tkat.”’ ‘Indeed I will, Miss Taylor,” Janie answer- ed, earnestly. And, from that moment, a friendship, deep, firm, and lasting, sprung up between teacher and pupil. Sorely indeed did Eva need some one to love and comfort her, for after that day her life was a constant martyrdom. The note which Lord Cosgrave had slipped into her hand required her to meet him at an early hour in the park next morning, and she dared not disobey. ‘‘Good-morning! I was beginning to fear you would disappoint me; it is past the time I mentioned,” was the greeting with which he met her. “Why did you ask me to come here, my lord?” she inquired, “Why, simply for the pleasure of seeing you and talking to you. I never have the chance of speaking half a dozen words to you during the day; so that our only plan is to meet here in the morning.” ‘J do not see the necessity of our meeting at all,” Eva answered, flushing angrily. ‘Oh, but Ido,” he replied, fixing on hera look of undisguised admiration. ‘I thought we settled, the other day, that we were to be friends.” - “You certainly are giving me peculiar marks of your friendship,” Eva answered, bit- terly. “What do you suppose the result would be were Mrs, Grantham to discover that we meet here by appointment?” “ But how is she to hear it? ‘There are never any work-people about the park at this hour, and there is no one else to see us.” ‘Fear of Mrs. Grantham is not my only reason. Ido not wish to meet you.” “ Why not?’ The proud blood of the Tremayfies ran in Eva’s veins. * You think that because I am a poor, friend- less governess that I have no self-respect!” she exclaimed. “Our paths lie in different direc- tions. Can you not take yours, and leave mo to follow my own in peace? Permit me to pass now, my lord, I wish to return to the house.” . ee =_ “She certainly has a will of her own,” thought Lord Cosgrave, as he placed himself before her, so as to bar her path, ‘‘ and I enjoy the prospect of forcing it to bend to mine. Miss Taylor,” he said, “you are, of course, tho best judge of your own conduct, and you are at liberty to act as you think best; but I warn you that it would be rather dangerous for you to quarrel with me.” ; “T have no wish to quarrel with you. All I ask of you is to leave me in peace,” “Am TIto understand from that that you will not meet me here again?” “ Yes. ” ‘** Are you in earnest?” ity I am. ” “You do not, then, wish for my friendship?” “cc No. ”» ““My enmity, then?” he said, approaching a step or two nearer to her. Her courage well-nigh failed her, She saw that it would indeed be dangerous to rouse his anger. “ Well,” he asked, as she did not speak, “am Ito be your enemy? If so, you know what it means.” ‘‘Tt means ruin!” she said, hopelessly. “It does. So take your choice. Promise to do as I wish. Ido not ask much, only for half an hour now and then in the morning. Refuse me this, and I tell all to Mrs, Grantham this very day!” Her pride urged her to dare him to do his worst; but fear of the consequences was strong- er even than pride. ‘Be it as you wish!” she answered. And so she had to meet him there again and ayain, in constant dread of being discovered. She had to listen to his fulsome flattery and expressions of undisguised admiration. She hated and detested him, and yet dared not cross his will. Before Mrs. and Miss Grantham he hardly ever spoke to her, and that served all the more to make her feel how humiliating was her position. Passionately, wildly, she longed to find some means of escape. Many were the plans she made; but all seemed equally imprac- ticable, and she could do nothing but live on from day to day, hoping that some happy chance might set her free from his persecu- tions. It might be that he would grow tired of her, as he had doubtless tired of many another woman, and then, perhaps, he would leave her in peace; or, more probable still, might make up his mind to propose for Mabel Gran- tham, whose fortune would help him very con- siderably to clear his heavily-incumbered es- tate, Lord Cosgrave saw plainly how greatly she disliked him. She took no trouble to conceal her aversion, but it only served to increase his anxiety to win her. His was no unselfish love, as he would fain have made her believe. He knew more about her father’s true history than she supposed, and knew, too, that she had a claim on Sir Henry Tremayne which, could he make it good, would render the governess a prize well worth gaining. His chain of evidence was all but complete— only a few more proofs were wanting, and, to find them, he had set his agents busily to work. When all was ready he would ask her to marry him. She, never dreaming that he could have any interested motives, would doubtless accept him—if not for himself, at any rate for his title and position; and, once his wife, he would establish her right to be the heiress of Sir Henry Tremayne, Such were his plans, deeply and cleverly laid, incapable of failure, he told himself; yet, to make all doubly sure, he resolved to seek out certain: parties himself, and to hear their testimony with his own ears. This would entail an absence of a couple of weeks, at the end of which time he hoped that his golden dream would be near its realiza- tion. Great was Eva's joy when she heard that he was going away fora short time. The sense of freedom and security was almost enough to make her feel happy. : Knowing that there was now no possibility of meeting bim, she was able to roam about the sunlit park in the delicious morning hours; she could sit by the open school-room window after Janie had gone to bed, and watch the moonbeams gleaming on the trees, and grass, and listen to the wild, plaintive song of the nightingales, without the haunting dread of seeing his figure coming along the terrace, and meeting his basilisk gaze. CHAPTER VI. “Doxs not Miss Taylor. come into the draw- ing-room in the evening?” The question was addressed to Mabel Gran- tham; but her attention seemed to be too much absorbed by her fancy-work to permit her to reply; and her mother, fixing a cold, inquiring look on her son, answered for her. “Certainly not. It is generally an under- stood thing that the governess spends her even- ings in the school-room,” “*And do you never ask her in here?” ‘¢No,” a ‘Not even when you have no company?” ots, Wie ‘ 3 ‘No; I think it better not.” “Why so? Though she is a governess, she certainly has quite the appearance of a lady.” Mrs. Grantham looked rather uncomforta- ble. “T do not think it right to bring people out of their proper position; and Miss Tayler would, I fear, be only too ready to forget hers,” she answered, with some hesitation. She hardly cared to tell her son her trne reasons—namely, that she was jealous of tive admiration which her pretty and attractive governess excited, and also that she deemed it advisable to keep her as much out of bis way as possible. “‘How lonely the poor girl must be!” said Philip. “She has plenty to occupy her if she ,re- pares properly for the next day’s lesson~ Then you must remember that I engaged Mi-~ Taylor to teach Janie, and not to amuse her self.” ““T would not like to be your governess. mm ther,” Philip answered; and in a few miratcs left the room, saying he would smoke a weed in the grounds. “What is it to Philip how Miss Touyhr _ Ea ; spends her time?’ said Mabel, crossly. never remember his having taken any notice of Janie’s governesses before.” ‘He used to call Miss Eaton a blue stock- ing, and laugh at Miss White for her affecta- tion; that is all.” ‘“‘T am certain that Miss Taylor isa flirt.” ‘“*My dear Mabel, what grounds have you — for such a supposition? She never has the op- portunity of meeting any of the gentlemen who come to the house; I take care of that. Have you seen or heard anything?’ —_. “No,” Mabel answered;. ‘‘ but I do not trust: her.” Since the day when Mabel had encountered: Eva in the park. she had watched her nar- rowly. That was now nearly three weeks ag? , yet she had failed to make any particular dis- covery. The governess and Lord Cosgrave never en- countered each other to her knowledge, except: now and then at luncheon, but more thar once she fancied that a look of recogniticm had passed between them. She had not men-- tioned her suspicions to her mother, fearing. that she might say something either to Eva cr Lord Cosgrave, which, were there really any- thing going on between them, would put then: on their guard. And so day after day passed. The maz. whose title she was so willing to share eam - frequently. to Eastgrove. His manner was ax polite and attentive as ever, Still the offer; for which she had now waited and hoped for more than a year, was not made, It had never occurred to her to look on Exa__ as a possible rival... The idea of bis preferring — the governess to her would have seemed utter ly ridiculous; yet she felt instinctively thet Lord Cosgrave admired Eva, and that coz- sciousness made Mabel hate her cordially. She longed to have scme excuse for asking her mother to dismiss Eva; but until then it had seemed impossible to find eny, for Jaxie was making far better progress with her thas with any former governess. “If Philip speaks about her to mamma like that, she will not be kept here very long,” sie thought; and then began to wonder how mech longer Lord Cosgrave would remain away fi ons home, and to build castles in the air as to y bat might happen on his return. Meanwhile, Philip, having lighted his cigar, walked slowly down the terrace walk, which extended along one side of the house. ‘*Shall 1 be able to speak to her at all,” he thought, ‘‘or do they watch her too closely! But I must contrive to have some talk with her, and find out who she is, aad why she lecks . so sad!’ A flood of light streamed out of one of the windows a little before him, His pulse qu iek ened, for he knew that, window belonged to the school-room. ,
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BECAUSE, SHE; LOVED . HiM. tion in a place where he was screened from view, but from which he could 'see the intericr of the room. A large lamp was burning on the table, books and writing materials lay scatter- ed about, but the governess had left her. work, 5 unbarred the shutters, and was standing by ) the window, gazing out into the night. - From his place of concealment, Philip could watch the varying expression of the pure, lovely ccuntenance, which, though only once seen, he had been unable to Lanish from his | thoughts. He saw her harassed, restless look, and the nervous quivering of her flaely-cut | lips. But gradually the stillness of the night seem- ed to shed a soothing influence over her, and she smiled faintly; then, throwing up the window, leant out, and the night-breeze toyed lovingly with her bright, golden hair. Strange indeed is the power which music | possesses of conjuring up images from the land : of long ago, of making us live once more in the almost forgotten past. She left the window, and sat down before the piano. Music, soft, dreamy, and indistinct, came floating out, blending with a rich, low _ voice, and, as Philip listened, the present van- _ ished from his mind; he was once more a child, sitting beside the river in the balmy summer _ twilight, his head resting on the knee of a fair and lovely lady, who was singing for him, and i. him alone. He felt the soft touch of her ‘hand on his brow as he nestled closer and Closer to mee ; he vision vanished; he was once more the proud, passionate man of the world, “All around was darkness; the window was closed, - the music had ceased, and the singer had dis- appeared, But that night, for the first time in his life, Philip Grantham felt that he had met his fate, Cautiously approaching he took up his posi- 4 ——-—~, : ; ii 7 ) « The dewdrops were glistening on the grass | and flowers, the birds were singing their morn- ) ing carol among the trees, and a light, gray | mist, which the sun’s rays had not yet the strength to disperse, hung on the sides of the ‘hills as Philip left the house next morning. © How surprised his London intimates, who ‘were accustomed to find him lounging over his breakfast at noon, would have looked could they have seen himnow! Still more surprised -would they have been had they known that he had been induced to take this early walk by | catching a glimpse of a woman’s dress among ) the trees of the park. “« How fortunate that I should meet you here, ‘Miss Taylor!” he said to Eva, as he overtook “her on a narrow, shady patb. The pale cheeks flushed angrily; she gave him a haughty, indignant Jook, but took no no- tice whatever of his extended hand, This was quite a new experience for him, ac- customed as he was to bave his advances met swith soft, flattering glances, even by the most celebrated beauties of the day. “Your memory seems less faithful than mine,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Do you forget that I had the pleasure of meeting you at a reception at my mother’s house in London about a month ago?” Eva had not by any means forgotten it, but she answered coldly, “ Mrs. Grantham desired me to play an accompaniment for you, and I Obeyed; does that constitute an acquaintance?” “T believe she forgot to introduce us, but does that signify so very much? Please do not look so indignant; I really did not mean to be rude when I spoke to you just now.” *‘As a gentleman, I suppose I must consider you incapable of rudeness,” Eva answered, be- ginning to move on. Philip hesitated a moment; then, walking on beside her, said, ‘‘ At the risk of incurring your further displeasure, I must ask you not to send me away just yet. I want to know if Tam right in supposing that my mother and eldest sister are not kind to you, This is my “‘nouse, and not theirs; I am Janie’s guardian as. a * tre , wellasmy mother; therefore think that lam au-_ “you speak of, thorized to tuke an interest in her governess,” ‘You do well to reniind me of my depen- dent position, Mr. Grantham,” Eva answered. “T see that Iam not to expect you to meet me as a gentleman is supposed to meet a lady, but as an employer his servant.” ‘‘Miss Taylor, you misunderstand me com- pletely. Indeed I meant to imply no such thing. A month ago I saw one whom a single glance convinced me wasa perfect lady. I saw her shamefully slighted, neglected, and | spoken to as an inferior. I meet her again and my thought is that it may be in my power to make her feel that some one does not look down on her because ill-fortune has rendered it | necessary that she should become a governess. That is the simple truth. Will you pardon me now for having taken the liberty of speakibg to you?” “Certainly, Mr. Grantham. I was foolish to take offense where none was intended,” “Then we will say no more about it. Will you let me ask you a few questions about yourself? Not from curiosity, believe me,” he added, quickly, seeing how the hot blood rushed again to her cheeks, ‘* But I confess I should like very much to know how one so young—” He paused, as though at a loss how to finish his sentence. “Why a girl not nineteen yet, and with the appearance of a. lady, is obliged to earn, ber own bread?’ she said, with a bitter smile, “‘T can answer that question in a few words. My father was poor, but of good family; he died a couple of months ago, and I had no ‘choice but to work or starve. There is but one course Open to a girl circumstanced as I was— to turn governess, whether she has any talent for teaching or not. But no one seems to think about that.” “I will not ask whether you have the talent making great progress with you.” “T do my best to get her on, and I am real- ly very fond of the child; dia I not care for her, I hardly think I could ‘stand such a life.” “You must find it terribly lonely?” ~ “Rather, It is hard to have to fight life’s battle entirely by one’s self. “Have you no other relations?—no friends?” “< None. ” He looked as though he were going to ask ‘her something more; but changed his mind, and said, “‘Do you know that you gave me a wonderful treat yesterday evening?” * How so?” ““T happened to be on the terrace while you were singing in the school-room,” “You! I had no idea,” “Of course you had not. of me te tell you; I might have had the same pleasure this evening.” “T very seldom sing, except when I go to The Elms; there I do it to please Sir Henry.” But bow ‘i Philip started, and gave her a long, search ing look. “Strange!” he said to himself, ‘Has he felt it, too? ‘You seem to have been very well taught,” he said, aloud, “No, I fear not, As a governess, I suppose I ought to be ashamed to confess it; but I hardly know how I learned—it seemed almost to come of itself.” ‘‘ Were you never at school?” “*Oh, no; at least, never more than for a few months at a time, when I was quite a child; but my father took a great deal of trouble with me, and used to make me read and study with him when he had any spare time, ” ‘Where did you live?” “In different places. But it is getting late, I must not remain out any longer.” “Tt is not half-past eight yet.” “No matter, Janie and I breakfast at nine, and then begin lessons at once. I have a good deal to do this morning, as I did not correct her exercise last evening” He went back part of the way with her, eae, T hear that Janie has been | stopping when they were, almost in) iew of the | house, “Perhaps I had better not go any further,” he said, ‘But will you take an early wuik to- morrow?” . She shook her head. ‘*Please do. I shall be on the watch for you, ” She walked quickly toward the house; he watched her. until she was. out of sight, and then retraced his steps toward the other end of the park. He met her again at luncheon; but his mother’s. looks when he attempted to engage her in conversation warned him that it would be not only wiser, but kinder, to refrain from taking much notice of her in company. “T shall see her again to-morrow morn: he thought. But be was mistaken; it wis in vain that he watched and waited, for she did not come, io? mB? CHAPTER VIL. “Tr certainly is rather hard to live in the same house with a person with whom one can- not exchange half a dezen words from morning till night,’ was Philip Grantham’s angry solilo- quy. Fate had been rather unpropitious to him; he had been at Eastgrove for four days, and, with the exception of lis conversation with Eva.on the morning after bis arrival, had had no opportunity of speaking to her alone. He saw plainly that she avoided bim, and was angry with her for it, and still more angry with himself for minding it. What was this girl to him? he would ask himself again and aguin. _ Young, rich, and handsome, he had _but.to make his choice among the noblest and fairest of the Iand, argued reason; but his eart told him that no “woman could. ever be alf so dear to him as this charming gover- ness. For some time past, Janie had been far from well. A severe cold, which the delicate child found it impossible to shake off, made her mother feel so-uneasy that the family doctor was summoned. . “A holiday, and change of air for a few weeks, would do her more good than any of my physic,” was his opinion; and, at Sir Henry’s urgent request, it was arranged that she and the governess should pay him a short visit, “Ts it not delightful here# Would you not like to live bere always?” said Janie to Eva, as they strolled along by the river-side, Eva did not answer, but she felt that here she could be almost happy. Treated as a welcome visitor by a kind and courteous host, free to pass her time as she pleased, feeling that her pupil’s love for her was daily strengthening, she tried to forget her troubles, and to live only in the present. Now and then she thought that the delicious, , dreamy existence must soon draw to an end; but she would try resolutely to banish that fear, and shut out the memory of the man who held her fate in bis hands, and who of late had used his power so as to make her bend com- pletely to his will. Here she knew tbat, even when he should return home, she would be free from his persecutions; the master of The Elms regarded him with unfeigned dislike, and as long as she was at that place her persecutor could not intrude his unwelcome preserce on her, ‘“‘Here are uncle Henry and Philip!” ex- claimed Janie, in accents of intense pleasure, as she perceived two figures ccming toward them. She ran forward to meet them, while Eva followed more slowly. Philip’s greeting was polite, but distant, and Eva felt rather embarrassed as Janie, having passed her arm through her uncle’s, walked on with him, ‘“Why have you avoided me so persistent- ly?” Philip asked Eva, abruptly after some minutes’ silence. ‘““Why should you suppose that I avoided you, Mr. Granthan?”’ i ere +e
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ws BECAUSE (SHE . \HIM. 9 ‘«That-is evading the question, |. Have Lsaid | remember hearing that there. was: an, encamp- or done anything to make you dislike or mis- | trust me?’ - “ No, ”? ‘(Then what is your reason?’ ‘Since you press me so hard, I suppose I must give it. You know perfectly well that before your mother and sister you cannot treat me as your equal; and neither my sense of duty nor self-respect would permit me to meet you on a different footing when they are not present.” ““There certainly is truth in what you say,” he said; ‘* but while you are my uncle’s visitor, I hope that we may be able to see something of each other.” Aud before her stay at The Elms came to an end, Philip and Eva had seen a great deal of each other. Hardly a day passed the greater part of which he did not spend there; he used to join her and Janie in their morning walk; he generally made fone of the party in the lit- tle boat as it shot along under the overhanging trees, or between grassy banks fringed with forget-me-nots and water-lilies; and often in the evening, as she sung to Sir Henry in the twilight, he would steal into the room, and sit listening with that vague, undefined feeling that her voice was the echo of one which he had heard in childhood. “How Sir Henry will miss you when you return to Eastgrove!” Philip said to her, one day, as they were walking together. ‘He seems almost as fond of you as he is of Janie,” ‘*He has been very kind to me indeed ,” Eva answered, quietly; and Philip little guessed what pain his words had caused. She knew that he had spoken the truth; knew how fond Sir Henry had grown of her—the daughter of the man who had wrecked his happiness; she could not but return that affection, and the thought of how she was deceiving him was misery to her. ‘Tf I had only given him that package long ago!” she used to’ say to. herself, againyand again. ‘‘But it is toolatenow. I cannot do it—I cannot bear the thought of how he would hate me for being his child!” “ Just look at that house!” said Philip, paus- ing before the dilapidated old building, ‘Is it not a fit symbol of its master—a noble wréck, stately and grand even in its ruin?’ “Do you remember him before—before he had changed to what he is now?” Eva asked, speaking with trembling tones, ‘“Not very well. I was only a boy when it happened; but I have a perfect recollection of my aunt. I was a petted darling of hers, and she used to have me a great deal with her. I never grew tired of watching her. I used to think that she was like an angel,” The words, ‘‘ Will you tell me all the story? —I want so much to know what it really is!” trembled on Eva’s lips, but she had not the courage to utter them, and after that day she and Philip did not speak about Sir Henry’s misfortune again. Far too soon the time fixed for the termina- tion of the visit arrived. “T cannot bear to think that we are to go back to Eastgrove tomorrow,” said Janie, sad- ly, on the morning of the last day they were to pass at The Elms. ‘‘ But here comes Philip, Are you ready, Miss Taylor? I think be wants you and me to drive with him to the ruined abbey.” Eva was ready, and, in little more than an hour, they had reached the ruins of what had unce been a fine old abbey, but now was little more than a mass of broken arches and walls, round which the ivy twined itself in untamed iance, a How funnily those children are dressed id said Janie, pointing to two little girls, who were sitting on a pile of rubbish, eagerly de- youring some food, Their dresses were bright red, but stained and tattered, and they wore a quantity of col- ored beads twisted round their necks, and among the matted locks of their dusky hair. | “They must be Gipsies,” said Philip. ‘1 | 'mice.?).; ment in the neighborhood. . They haye. evi- dently come for the scraps, left. here by. some pienic party.” | . , Just then a tall, dark woman appeared from behind a corner, and came toward them. “Have your fortunes told, my pretty ladies and handsome gentleman?” she said. “Oh, yes, please!” cried Janie. , ‘‘ I have so longed to have my fortune told by a Gipsy. Here is my hand; now begin!” ““The hand must be crossed first, missie.” ‘‘Oh, dear! I have no money.” “Here is some,” said Philip, taking out his purse; ‘though it is, indeed, a shame to en- courage you in such nonsense.” ‘“What Is:e here is no nonsense,” retorted the Gipsy. ‘‘There is a bright future before you, my little lady. You have a good, kind heart, and will be rewarded yet for. kindness shown to some who needed it. I can see you in years to come with a group of fair-baired children round your knee, teaching them to do as you have done.” “Is that all you have to tell her?’ asked Philip, as she dropped the child’s hand. “Ts it not enough?” “Well, I suppose it is. Here, look at my hand. What can you see there?” “Many things. You have a noble heart, which the world has done its .best to spoil. You are fighting a hard battle between pride and love. Which will win I cannot say.. But mark my words; pride can never bring true happiness—love can. And then—” “No more!” he said, snatching his hand away. ‘‘Miss Taylor, have you any ambition to hear your fortune?” sal ‘‘No, thank. you,” said Eva, shrinking back. ‘‘Oh, yes, you must!” exclaimed Janie, ‘I am sure she will tell.you something. very tan rite? | tor has : After a little more hesitation her hand was laid in the Gipsy’s, crossed bya piece of gold from Philip’s purse, 7 ot Dies ‘Strange, confused lines!” the woman mut- tered; ‘‘troubles past and troubles to. come; secrets dark and dread, which, sooner or later, must come to the light of day., You are loved, my lady, passionately, fiercely; and. there is one man of whom you must beware, One so young and fair has no right to have secrets, and yours may be your ruin. Heavy clouds are gathering round you, but behind them there is a glimmer of light, The sun might yet pierce through them; yes, I am sure it will But take warning from the Gipsy —whatever it may cost you, speak the truth,” - She left them, and calling the children, moved slowly toward the forest on the bor- ders of which the ruins lay. No remark was made about Eva’s fortune, for both Philip and Janie saw how she trembled, and how ghastly pale she had grown. “Shall we return now, or do you wish to remain here any longer?’ Philip asked her. ‘« Let us go back at once, if you please,” The horse, impatient at being kept waiting so long, was pawing the ground, and it was with considerable difficulty that Janie and Eva were able to get into the tax-cart. Then it started off at a brisk pace, and it seemed to Eva that it gave Philip no little trouble to keep the animal in hand. On they went at an ever-increasing speed, trees and hedges whirling past, Philip’s face growing whiter and whiter, the veins on his temples changing into thick, knotted ropes, “Ts the entrance gate open?’ Such was tlie thought which occurred to each of them as they neared The Elms, but none spoke. Round a sharp corner they dashed. Their last hope was gone; the gate was shut! A sudden shock, a crash, a heavy fall, and Eva remembered no more. ‘*Speak to me, darling—speak to me! Tell me that I have not killed you!” Such were the words which sounded in her ears, dreamy and in indistinct as a far-off sound, Gata ~ =. ee a mo Fy Slowly her eyes opened. . Philip was bend- ing over her in agonized suspense, . “Thank Heaven, you are safe!” he whisper- ed, as she smiled faintly. ’ Janie—what of her?’ was her ‘first ques- tion, “Do not trouble about Janice; she was not hurt in the least, so I sent her *o the house for help. But do you feel any pain? Do you think you could stand?” “T think so; I believe I am not burt.” Gently he assisted, her to rise. ‘“‘Not much harm done,” she said. ‘TI feel better now, only my head aches a good deal. But look at your horse!” For the splendid animal was lying dead be- side them, the shivered fragments of the tax- cart scattered around, “And do you imagine that I think of the horse for one moment now that 1 know you are safe?’ he exclaimed. ‘When I saw you: lying there I felt as if I should go mad. But take my arm, and let me help you to the house, My uncle will be in a sad fright about you.” The accident bad happened at the back en- trance gate, and they had not far to walk to the house. When about hall-way they met Janie, Sir Henry, and some of the servants. “ She is coming! she is coming!” cried Janie. “ And I thought she was killed!” “She had a wonderful escape,” Philip said, gravely. ‘‘Had her head struck on the stones at the side of the lane ,the blow, in all proba- — bility, would have been fatal.” ; mew ee re B® CHAPTER VIII. & “Speak to me, darling! Tell me that I have ~ not killed you!” Was it a dream, or had she really heard those words from Philip Grantham’s lips? Eva asked herself, as, late in the afternoon, she sat by, the drawing-room window. She was all alone, Janie and her uncle hav- ing gone to take. their last row on the riyer. They had been very unwilling to leave her, va : she had begged them to go, feeling that would far rather be by herself, Had he really spoken those words? Noe, it could not be; and yet the fancy, if fancy it were, had seemed so real, And for a few brief moments a picture of wondrous beauty rose be- fore her mind—a picture of love and trust, and a strong arm to leanon— of one who henceforth would stand between her and all the ills of life, But scarcely was the castle in the air built when it fell in ruinsat her feet. For her there never could be such happiness; she must pass through. life alone, shut out from the lot of other women by those two dark, miserable secrets, Why had she ever come to The Elms? Why had she been showna glimpse of the paradise into which she never might en’er? She had known all along that sooner or later it must come to an end; she had known that the child who still plays with the fire which is already darting its lurid tongues among its clothes could be called wise when compared to her; she had shut her eyes to her danger; tell- ing herself that she only thought of him as a friend, that it was nothing more than friend- ship which had made their intercourse so sweet. But the delusion could be kept up no longer. The vain sophistry with which she had striven to drown the voice of conscience could no Icn- ger avail her anything. It was hard, terribly hard, but it was her lot, and she must face it bravely. She must not meet Philip again as she had been accustomed to meet him of late; must never listen to the voice which had become like music to her; must never watch for the kind stwoile as he spoke to her, All must be at an end now—all must be changed. She would meet him now and then, but never once as her equal; she would see his smile, and hear his voice, but neither voice nor smile would be for her. The battle with her heart would be a very hard one, but she resolved to fight it bravely. z And yet in that moment of anguish there iy
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ee ———— a ie b have done me. ‘you understand how grieved I am that yeu. 40 was no feeling of bitterness or reproach against him for whose sins she was suffering. And, even as these thoughts passed through her mind, Philip was coming nearer and nearer. He saw the well-known figure by the open win- dow. A minute or two later he was standing beside her. He took her trembling hands in his, and gazed at her for some time without speaking. She knew that she would need all her courage now, In low, broken words he told her all—how he had loved her from the first moment he had seen her; how he had tried to conquer that love, which had become part of his very being. He did not hide from her that pride of race had bade him forget her, and seek a bride among those who were his equals in the eyes of the world. Each time he had come to see her he had determined should be the last, but an irresistible power had brought him to her again and again. That very morning he had told himself that all intercourse with her should now come to an end; but in that moment, when he almost feared that he had lost her forever, pride, ambition, and all thought of what the world might say, had vanished, and love had gained the day. “Do not fear that I shall ever regret what I am now saying,” he concluded. ‘I am not hurried away by blind passion. I have earn- estly reflected, jt have weighed everything, and know that nothing which the world has to offer can for oné moment be compared with your love; that, parted from you, my life would be utterly worthless; that had I a hun- dredfold as much as I possess to offer, I would only value it because I could lay it at your feet.” She heard him to the end; and then, without raising her head, said, scarcely above a whisper, but every word. distinct: “Mr. Grantham, I thank you most sincerely for the honor you No words of mine could make should have cared for me. you ever saw me.” “ya, you cannot surely mean it? Am I to understand that I am nothing to you?—that you find it impossible to love me?” he exclaim- ed, in tones of amazement and yexation. cai mean whatI say. Please go, now. This is equally painful to both,” she answered, quickly. “JT will not go until I know your true rea- son. What is there to hinder you from be- coming my wife?’ ““T can never be your wife, Mr. Grantham .” “Why not? I will know!” — ‘ I cannot tell you my reasons.” “Ts it because you do not love tne?” he de- manded. Sie was silent. Try to forget that The beautiful head bent - lower and lower, and he could not see her face; but be saw how convulsively her fingers twined themselves together, ‘Ts it because you do not love me?” he ask- cd again; but no answer came. How she longed for the power to say the words, ‘‘I do not love you—I never can care for you but as a friend.” But those words she could not say—she dared not. “T have not deceived myself, then!” he ex- claimed, falling on his knees beside her, and clasping his arms round her waist. She struggled to release herself but he would not let her go. ‘‘Thave not deceived myself,” he went on. “T know—I feel that you love me. What is there, then, to yrevent our happiness? Am { not my own master? Am I not free’ to mariy whom I choose? Are you thinking of my mother? She has no voice whatever in the matter, What do we two care fer her dis- pleasure? Do not fear that all my family will look coldly on you. My uncle knows all; I told him to-day, and he said it made him feelso happy; and Janie, I know, loves you like an elder sister. And we shall have each other, Eva. You must promise to be mine, I will take no denial.” “T cannot promise; I can never be yours.” He sprung to his feet, strode up and down through the room two or three times; then, stopping before her, said, “‘ Tell me’ the rea- son of this, Eva. I demand to know. It is my right.” She looked up at him for the first time—at the man she loved so dearly, yet whom her duty forced her to refuse. “Tdo not recognize that right, Mr. Gran- tham.” “You tell me that, Eva! You deny my right to question you! Does not the love of which I have just told you give me the right than which there is no better? Do you mean to say that you will send me away with no reason whatever for your refusal? You can- not do it—in common justice and honor you cannot!” “T have no choice but to tell you, then,” she said. ‘‘ There is a shadow over my life, which, had you known, would have prevented you from speaking to me as you have just done.” **T do not understand you. your life?” ‘Yes, Mr. Grantham; the shadow of crime.” “JT can hardly believe you; no, it is im- possible that one so fair and pure should have done aught to render herself unworthy of any man’s best love!” *¢ And I have done nothing. The sin is not mine; but I must bear the punishment.” “You are speaking in riddles, Eva. Can you not tell me plainly what you mean?” “T cannot.” “Why not? How can the sin of any one else separate us?’ ‘« Listen to me, Mr. Grantham. There are passages in my life of whieh I. could never tell you. Ihave secrets that ‘you could ‘never know; and yet, I tell you again, that the fault ig noné of mine—I am perfectly innocent.” A shadow over ‘Eva, do you remeniber what the Gipsy | woman'said to you this morning? ‘You ‘start; ‘T see you have not forgotten her words. She ‘was right, then, when she spoke of secrets dark and dread; but do not forget what she said about their eoming to the light of day, and her warning—*‘ Whatever it may ‘cost you, speak the truth!’ Throw off all disguise now. ‘Tell me your secret, whatever it may be.” “T cannot. You would shrink’ from and avoid me if I did.” “T- swear to you I would ‘not. Have you not ‘told me just now that you are perfeétly inrio- cent? From the bottom’of my heart I believe ‘you. Lét me’ hear all; I give you my word of honor it shall not make the least difference be- | tween us,” “T repeat again, I cannot tell you.” He was silent for ‘some minutes, then said, slowly, ‘‘ Eva, I am going to prove to you how strong is‘my love. Keep your’ secret; I shall never seek to know it. And iow will you be | my wife under that condition?” ~ “*No, Mr. Grantham, that cannot be. Ask yourself seriously if you would be right in marrying me after what I have just told you? Could you bear the thought that there was a page in the history of your wife’s life which she could never dare to let you read?” He did not answer, and she continued, “* You must acknowledge that I am right—that there is an impassable gulf between us.” “No; it can be bridged over!” he exclaimed. “T know it can. Eva, once more I plead. Do not send me away like this. You love me—I know you do—and why should you not trust me? Tell me all now. Are you afraid of your secrets being discovered? If so, is not the world large? Could I not take you some- where where no memory of the past could fol- low? Think of your life, then—think of what we could be to each other; we could make each other’s happiness, and no cloud ever come: be tween us.” And Eva did picture to herself her life’ as Philip’s wife, a dream-like, blissful existence; happiness, perfect and complete, because created by his love. But she answered, calm- <a pe - 6b. ek ' Miss Taylor is’ a flirt. ‘of himself.’ BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. ly and ‘firmly, as before, ‘No, it. can never bel” Philip started; a new idea seemed | to strike him, “There is oné thing at least that I insist on knowing!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ Have I a rival? Answer me!” She trembled, and changed her voice, but still she answered, ‘t No.” ‘* Are you certain?” 6¢- Yes,” “Then it is not too late yet. Have pity on yourself, if you have none on me. I know how miserable your life at Eastgrove must be, and instead of returning there to-morrow as a governess, you could remain here till I bring you back as my wife and its mistress.” “Nothing that you say would make me change my mind, Mr. Grantham. I have given you my last answer; do not force me to repeat it.” Philip made no reply, but strode out of the room. Half an hour later, Sir Henry found her in the place where Philip had left her, shivering with cold, and very pale. There were no signs of tears; anguish such as hers rarely suffers its victims to weep’ until time has laid his healing hand on the wounds. “‘ What is it, my child?” he said, gently tak- ing her hand in: his. ‘‘T have justseen Philip,’ he said. ‘‘I did not speak to bim; but his look told me that the hope I had entertained) is not to be real- ized.. You ‘know’ best, I suppose. I will ask no questions; but I want to tell you that what- ever may happen, you must always look on me as your friend.” She pressed his hand in silence, while she repeated to herself, ‘‘If he only knew!—if he only knew!” pee CHAPTER IX. ‘Eva’s’ reception by’ Mrs, and Miss Gran- tham was stiff-and chilling in the extreme. Rumors had reached them that) Philip had been paying her a good deal of attention during her stay at The Elms. ‘Driving with her, indeed!” exclaimed the younger lady, when the news of the accident arrived. “ Yousee, mamma, that I was right; I ‘should not be in the least surprised if she were laying a trap for Philip.” a Nor should 1,” her. mother answered. “But Philip knows very well how to take care However, I see that it. will be as well to watch her sharply in future.” **My opinion is that’ it) would be better to let her go, and to look fora more suitable person in her place,” said Mabel, who was not at all anxiout to have the governess thrown in Lord Cosgrave’s way. But -a suitable’ person’ is not so easily “found,” was the reply; ‘and she certainly does her work well, Janie. bas got ‘on better with her than with any governess'she éver had. Do you remember how tied we’ used to be vf Miss White’s never-ending complaints?” “As you please, mamma. I only hope you may uot have reason to regret not having taken my advice,” answered Mabel. Philip Grantham felt utterly miserable. Never had he imagined that it could. possibly be in any one’s power to make him so wretched, and hé had nevér dreamed of the possibility of being refused by the woman whom he should see fit to honor by the offer of his hand. Refused by a governess! Two months ago, he would have laughed at the idea. And yet she had refused him, and in a manner which left him entirely destitute of hope. . ‘“What-ean be that secret? Why would she not trust me with it?’ he asked himself, for the hundredth time, as’ be leant against the trunk of an oak tree, bis looks fixed on the school-room window. The night was dark and chilly; a thick, wet- ting rain was falling; yet for nearly an bour
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BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. 44 he did not move from his post, and at last his patience was rewarded. A light appeared inside, and he could see her moving backward and forward, rearrang- ing books and music in their places. Then she sat down by the table, and soon was, apparent- ly, absorbed in study. But before long her attention seemed to flag. She pushed the book aside, and leaned back in. her chair. Philip could see how pale and rigid were her features, and knew that she was thinking and suffering. But though he almost despised himself for it, the sight of that miserable face filled him with a feeling almost akin to joy. Was it not a fresh proof that she really loved him? True, no one could have given a more decided refusal than hers had been, but it was not too late yet; might she not change her mind, and give him the answer he longed for? Something appeared between him and the window. It was a man’s figure, and Philip’s heart beat with fearful violence as he waited in dread expectation for what was to follow. The girl inside seemed to interest him also, for he stood still, and looked on, Then he tapped lightly on the pane. She started, rose, and crossed the room. Then she threw up ‘the window, and Philip could hear the sound of low, cautious voices, She turned away, but a few minutes after- ward reappeared at a small side-door, which she closed softly after ler. The man went forward to meet her, and they walked along together. They were com- ing in the direction of the place where Philip stood, and he heard Lord Cosgrave’s voice: say, ‘Excuse yourself as you will, I say you have not been true to our engagement! What right had you to leave Eastgrove without telling me how I could communicate with you? I can assure you that on my return home, very lit- tle would have made me go to The Elms, and ask to see you.” Her reply was not audible to Philip; but he could hear how Lord Cosgrave answered. |: You had better take care, or I will do it! And now let me ask you, why did you: allow Philip Grantham to be so much with you? I forbid you to have anything whatever to do with that man.”’ “That prohibition is unnecessary, my lord,” Eva said, firmly. ‘*So much the better for—” They had passed him by this, and the rest of the sentence was lost. Philip stood as one stunned. . Was it thus that Eva was deceiving him? He had believed her so noble, so truthful! He had never doubted her word when she had told him that it was no fault of hers which parted them. © The story of the secret which overshadowed her life must be an invention since there seem- ed to be no such barrier between her and Lord Cosgrave. ‘“‘Our engagement,” he had heard him. say, and yet had she not declared to him that he had no rival? Was it, then, possible that she was engaged to that:man, who was almost looked on as the future husband of his sister, and that he himself had been merely the toy with which she had been amusing herself, or, worse still, the tool of which she had made use, in order to draw on her noble lover? Everything seemed to witness against ‘her, and Philip felt at that moment almost a desire to kill her. They were coming toward him again, and he drew in his breath and listened. r “T will not keep you out in the rain any jonger,” Lord Cosgrave was saying. ‘‘ But, re- member, to-morrow morning, at half-past sev- en- the usual hour,” ‘* Very well.” ““T shall wait for you at the end of the walk ly the lime trees. Mind you are not late, as you were last time.” ‘‘T shall be punctual.” He went with her as far as the door through which she had come out, and left her there, ASS SE a ee ae pe - — “T shall watch them, and learn what all this really means,” Philip said to himself, ‘‘and she shall know that my love is not to be trifled with,” : When Eva arrived at the reudezyous next morning, she found Lord Cosgrave awaiting her. He came forward eagerly to meet her, with outstretched hands; but she drew herself up proudly. “Say what you have to say, and quickly,” she exclaimed; ‘‘and do not keep me here any longer than necessary.” ‘Eva, I did not expect this from you. Can you not find something kind to sa, ?” “‘ My name is Miss Taylor, my lord!” “Tam not quite so sure of that.” ‘“*How? What do you mean?” “Simply this—that I know rather more about you than you suppose.” “What do you know?” ‘When and where Mark Tremayne died, and what kind of a life he led for the last eighteen or twenty years.” ‘¢ What have I to do with Mark Tremayne?” ‘“‘There is no need for me to tell you; you know perfectly well.” She saw that he had discovered another of her secrets, and that it-would be useless to at- tempt any disguise with him. ‘Was it to tell me of that that you asked me to meet you here this morning?” she asked. ‘No, indeed. I was prompted hy a far dif- ferent motive.” ‘“ And that was?” “Can you not guess? Did you neverask yourself why I was always planning and_ plot- -ting for a few moments’ conversation with you? ‘You, would have repelled me; would have-re- fused to have any thing to do with me, had I ‘not made you feel that I had some power over you. It. may, have been base and mean. to /make.use of that power, but what was I to do? You-must, blame: not me, but the love with which;you have inspired me,” “Stop, if you please, my lord! listen’ to’such words,” “You must and shall listen! Eva Tremayne, I tell you that I love you passionately; so I cannot much so that, forgetting the difference invour positions, the dearest wish of my heart is to make you my wife. I see I havestartled you. You did not expect this, You did not know -what barriers love such as mine was capable of breaking through.” Eya stood before him confused. and bewil- dered, Never had she deemed it possible that Lord Cosgrave would make her such an offer. To her he -had. always: seemed a hard, selfish, pleasure-loving man, capable of strong pas- sions, perhaps, but one who would never suffer himself to. be so; blinded by them as to lose sight of his own interest. ; She knew, too, that his property was heavi- ly involved, and that his, only chance of saving it was a wealthy marriage. The love which he professed for her migbt be real; but, could it possibly make him not only. forget. the cloud which bung over her fa- ther’s name, but also her own want of fortune, without which marriage for him would be cer- tain, ruin? He. knew who her father really was—did that throw any light on the subject? Then she remembered her father’s words when giving her his confession for Sir Henry Tremayne, ** You will be rich, happy and. prosperous,” he had said; could it be that Lord: Cosgrave knew what her claim on Sir Henry was, and that he hoped to secure a Jarger dower with her than with Mabel Grantham? Thoughts. such as these flashed through. her brain, and she felt that, even if she had not seen Philip Grantham, she could never love this man.” ‘‘Tam waiting for your answer, Eva,” he said, as she did not speak. ‘‘Do not keep me longer in suspense!” ** Lord Cosgrave, if you have hoped to make me love you by threatening and frightening me, you were greatly mistaken.. You bave made me look on you as an enemy, and how can you expect that I should think differently of you now?” “There is no difficulty about that, now that you know my real motives.” “TI do not agree with you. Dislike is not so easily overcome.” “Do you imply, then, that you dislike me?” be angrily demanded. ¢ if do. ” ‘‘But you will try to conquer it—you will learn to love me yet!” “No; never!” She looked at him, intending to be bold; but his rageful expression made her tremble. “You shall do as I wish!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ Before you leave this spot you shall promise to be my wife!” ‘¢f will not!” “‘Do you know that a few words from me would ruin you?” fy, do.? “* And you still refuse?’ Yes.’ ‘‘Eva, youare mad. ‘You, a penniless gov- erness, with a name which, were the truth known, is blackened with crime; and yet, when a nobleman asks you to be his wife, you refuse him! Take some time to think of this, then you will give me a different answer.” “T have already given you my final answer, my lord. I never could care for you, and have not fallen so low as to marry merely for a home and position.” ‘*Do you know what the consequences will be if you change my love into hatred?” ‘TI can guess,” : “Can you? Do you know that by to-mor- row you will not have a roof over your head— that Mrs, Grantham. sball know all, and that _you. will be driven out into the world, without a friend? You. think, perhaps, that Sir Henry will stand by you? You have, I hear, been flat- tering and fawning on him, until you have quite gained his heart, But what will that avail. you when he knows that you are the daughter of the man who slew his wife and child?” Eya staggered back, and, almost fell against the trunk of one of the;trees. Clinging to it for support, she turned.toward Lord Cosgrave, who was. watching’ her. “Is is false—it is false!” she faltered. “Ibis true, and I can prove it... It was be- cause ‘he discovered that I knew his secret that he tried to silence me on that. night when I first made your acquaintance!” His words. brought conviction with them. She could deny her father’s guilt no longer, and now knew what was contained in the seal- ed package, Should she make a further sacrifice of her- self to his memory? Should she promise to wed the man whom she so utterly loathed? The thought was madness: yet what was she to do? She would make one more effort. If he loved her he might possibly be moved to pity. ‘Lord Cosgrave,” she said, slowly, ‘I ap- peal to your honor as an Englishman—as a nobleman. It is not my fault that I cannot give you my heart. Love is not to be bought and sold. Do not think that Iam going to plead for myself; but, if you have one spark of manliness or generosity, you will not refuse to listen to a daughter’s prayer to spare the memory of, ber father. Revenge is sweet, they say; but ean it give you any pleasure to crush a defenseless girl, whose only offense is that she cannot love you?” His better nature struggled for the mastery; but only for one moment did he besitate. “Do you love any one else?” he asked, coming a step or two nearer. She did not answer. “T believe you do, Philip Grantham is my rival; deny it if you dare!” _ Still no answer. “T see it all now; and you think by fine
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| 2 12 speeches, and appeals to my generosity, to make me promise to keep your secrets, so that x a may be free ‘to marry him. Cleverly lanned, Miss Eva; but allow me to tell you that you have failed!” ry # * You mistake me, my lord. to T have already ld him:that we can never be anything to each other, My motives are not quite to base as you seem to believe.” “Pardon me, Eva, for the suspicion; I really think that you are a noble, high-minded girl, and that you would give the same answer to whoever asked your love. Thivk, then, what your future life would be. Year after year spent in hopeless drudgery; no rest’ for you. And, instead’ of that, you can be the wife of a nobleman; may hold your own with the haughtiest ladies in the land; not a single wish ungratified; not one rough spot left in your path. Donot stand in the way of your happiness! Tell me that you will be my wife!” She was driven almost to despair, There seemed no hope for her but to submiit to her fate. A little more or less miserable, what did it matter—what did it signify what became of her? So she reasoned to herself. Then she said, ‘I did not ask for happiness, my lord; only for peace. Will you wait for my final answer until to-morrow?’ ) CHAPTER X. THERE had been an unseén spectator of the interview between Eva and Lord Cosgrave. Concealed from view by the thick shrubs, Philip Grantham had watched the woman he loved coming through the’ park to keep her appointment with the Earl. oo _ Unable to catch their ‘words, he had’ seen | _ how passionately and eagerly he was speaking; \but’ he told himself that there: was no trace either of love or happinéss on her pale feattres. Why, then,’ was she’ there? ‘That ‘question he could not answer, except by the suppésition that she was a falsé, heartless deceiver. +) © He knew perfectly well that he was ‘playing a base, dishonorable part, but he ‘could not tear himself away from the spot—could not turn away his eyes from the countenance of the girl whom at that moment be hardly knew whether he loved or hated. In agonized suspense he watched them— now cursing her for her baseness, now racking his brains to find excuses for ber’ conduct, hoping that all might yet be satisfactorily ex- *-ained, He knew that she loved him. She had not been able to hide that from him, yet she had told him that she could never be his. What, then, could be her connection with this map? Why should she meet Cosgrave thus secretly? Why had he spoken to her last evening as though he had a right to demand it? ““Oh, Heaven!” he moaned; and covered bis face with his hands. When he looked again, Eva was clasped in Lord Cosgrave’s arms. The embrace lasted but for a moment; then she hurried away as noiselessly and quickly as she had come. ‘*Gained at last!’ muttered the nobleman to himself. ‘‘I have won the only woman in the world whom I ever wished for as my wife, and shall be the husband of the greatest heiress in the shire,” At that moment there was a hand on his throat, and a voice hissed the word “ Villain!” into his ear. For some minutes Philip Grantham and Lord Cosgrave closed in a fierce, desperate struggle; then, as though by mutual consent, they relaxed their hold, and stood scowling at each other, ‘* Villain!” repeated Philip; ‘‘ what have you to do with her?” . ‘“ Whom do you mean, Mr. Grantham?” “Whom should I mean but Miss Taylor?’ “Oh, Miss Taylor!” “Yes; and I ask what you and she have to do with each other?’ Lord Cosgrave stroked his mustache, and eyed his rival superciliously, “What have you and Miss Taylor to do with each other?” questioned Philip again, his fury now thoroughly aroused. And ‘supposing that I' refuse to answer?’ the other replied, coolly.” Tie “T tell you I will know!” ‘Really, Mr, Grantham; ‘your condtét is slightly peculiar.~ I happen’''to meet ‘a/ lady here for a few minutes, and you throw yourself on mé like a maniac; as though you bad a right to call me to uccount for my actions.” Philip paused for a moment. He saw that he would gain. nothing by a display of temper, and, struggling to control himself, said, ‘Lord Cosgrave, Miss Taylor happens to'be under my protection ‘as an inmate of my house. TI dis- cover that a gentleman is in the habit of meet- ing her clandestinely; is there, therefore, any- thing strange in my asking him to explain his conduct?” ‘*Perhaps not; particularly when you hap- pen to take a very warm interest in the young lady,” sueered Lord Cosgrave. ‘‘ But that warm interest hardly excuses the meanness of playing the spy on her, as you have evidently been doing this morning.” Philip felt that this taunt was merited, and bit his lip. “Have you anything more to say to me?” asked Lord Cosgrave. “Yes!” thundered Philip. ‘Let me tell you that I am going to give orders to the servants to horsewhip you off the grounds whenever you dare set foot inside my gates, unless you give me your promise to exchange no word with Miss Taylor in future.” ‘That I can hardly do, seeing that she has “agreed to be my wife.” ‘She has not. I do not believe you!” “Really, Mr. Grantham, you ‘use very strong language; but, under thecirenmstances, I suppose I must excuse you.'” I ‘repeat that, bélieve it or not as you like, Miss Taylor and I are engaged. You look incredulous still! . Let me‘see;’ I have promised your mother to lunch ‘at’ Eastgrove to-day. I suppose you will be there, too; and then itis my intention: toan- notinee the fact.” 289! And, without waiting for a reply, he turned on’his heel, and walked away, ” : The morning hours dragged slowly on. With fevered brain and aching heart, Eva struggled bravely to get through her work. © “TJ ath sure you are ill, Miss Taylor,” Janie said, kindly.’ ‘Shall I ask mamma if we may have no more lessons to-day ?” ‘No, dear,” Eva answered; ‘‘my head feels rather bad; that is all. Go on with your history now,” ” But scarcely had the lesson recommenced when the door opened, and Philip Grantham came into the room, Governess and pupil looked up in surprise, while the changing cheek of the former be- trayed how agitated she was, ‘*Would you mind leaving the room for a short time, Janie?” he said. ‘‘I want to speak to Miss Taylor.” Janie obeyed, and went up-stairs, picturing to herself the time when the governess she loved so dearly would be her own darling sis- ter. After one quick, startled glance, Eva had not moved since Philip came into the room, He stood at the opposite side of the table, his arms folded across his chest, watching her with knitted brows, and an angry light in his eyes, "The silence became oppressive, yet she dared not speak, “Miss Taylor,” he said at last—and oh, how hard and cold his voice sounded!—“I have come to thank you for your kindness toward me, You taught me what love and happiness really were, and lulled my senses to sleep in @ delicious dream. From hour to hour, from day to day, I lived on, caring for and thinking of you, and only you. You saw it, you knew it; and lured me on unti] I was passionately, hopelessly in love with you, and all vhe time BECAUSE, SHE,,LOVED. ,HIM. i $$ seme one you were laughing at me for my blind folly, and thinking: of the »time-when, you would be the wife of a man who had:succeeded in win- ning: you, ‘because he'-has' a» title to his name, Shame on!youto triflé with an honest heart} The time may come when «you will: suffer as:I am \suffering, now; | then! you may feel some remorse for the wrong..you. have done me, That is all I have to say, false, treacherous creature! . Soon I shalk be master of myself again, and then shall hate and despise: you far more than I have ever leved you!” He. turned io go, but Eva placed. herself be- tween him and the door. He tried to pass her, but she would not move. **Do not condemn me quite unheard,” she pleaded. ‘There is truth in what you say, but you misjudge my motive completely.” “ Are you going to marry Lord Cosgraye?” ‘“‘T— I cannot tell,” she faltered. “You cannot tell, indeed!” he exclaimed. “You met him yesterday evening; met him by appointment agsin this morning. Perhaps you mean nothing by that either... You intend to draw him on as you did me—to throw bim over and laugh at him afterward. You fancy, I dare say, that your beauty may draw a coro- net to your feet any day, and that you have only to make your choice, _Can I wonder now that you should have refused me, when you have the prospect of becoming an earl’s wife?” “T do not want Lord Cosgrave er his title— indeed, I do not, Mr. Grantham.” ‘¢ Phen why flirt with him as you have done? —why:come between my sister and the man to whom she was all but engaged? Was that fair or honorable of you?” _| “JT have done nothing dishonorable, Mr, Grantham.” **Then your sense of honor must be a rather peculiar one, or how could» you have acted so?” i i “T could not help it—indeed, I could not! He—” aT ‘He let you see how he admired you, and your.vanity rendered it impossible for you to’ resist the temptation of making a nobleman love you; there is no difficulty in understand- ing that.” “No, indeed, Mr. Grantham,” *‘) do not want to hear any of your excuses, I know not: what power forced me to seek your presence now. But I could not rest until Ihad let you know that you were unmasked; that I saw you at last in your true colors. And now let me give you one piece of information. Lord Cosgrave, nobleman though he be, is lit- tle more than a ruined bankrupt. How he is to live if he marries you I cannot imagine; and what is more, he is a bad, worthless man. It was in direct opposition both to my wish and that of Sir Henry that he was admitted so frequently to Eastgrove. Give your happiness to his keeping and you will bitterly repent it to your dying day.” “You are speaking to me as though I werea free agent; but I am not. I would give worlds to escape the doom of becoming that man’s wife.” “Flattering to bim, certainly! And only this morning you promised,” ““T promised him nothing.” “So you say; but I had the contrary from his own lips.” ‘Did he dare?” “Yes; he dared to tell me that you were his affianced wife. And now I shall have the honor of wishing you good-morning, Miss Tay- lor. Our interview has not been a pai ticular- ly pleasant one; but, at any rate, I fancy that we understand each other.” Wait one moment, and I will tell you all.” He gave her a look of withering scorn. “T might listen if I thought I could believe you,” he said. ‘‘ That not being the case, per- mit me to pass.” As he was opening the door, he was met by one of the servants. The girl looked surprised to see him there; but went in, and handed a small box to Eva. ~
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‘With Lord Cosgrave’s compliments,” he heard her say. With a bitter laugh, Philip walked down the passage leading from the school-room. “False, heartless girl!” he muttered. ‘* The worst I can do is to let her alone. The course which she has chosen will bring its own punish- ment,” ; With trembling hands, Eva opened the box. It contained a crimson rose, and on a piece of paper were these words:— “You must decide at once. I shall see you at luncheon to-day. If you wear the flowerI send you, I shall know that you accept me, and shall tell Mrs. Grantham of our engagement. If I do not see the token, all I knowof your father and of yourself shall be told, Philip Grantham and Sir Henry will be there, and shall also hear the story.” The luncheon-bell, had rung some time. Every one had taken their place. There was but one vacant chair—that generally occupied by the governess. ‘Where is, Miss Taylor, Janie?’ asked Mrs. Grantham. “JT do not know, mamma, I thought she was coming.” ‘Tt is very rude of her to come late!” said Mabel. : Just then Eva came into the room, A bright red spot burned on each cheek,» Daz- zlingly beautiful she looked in her plain black dress. But she did not wear the crimson rose, CHAPTER XI. Wir a nervous, scarcely audible apology to Mrs. G.antham, Eva todk her place ‘beside Janie, Sir Henry was siting next Lord Cos- grave at the opposite side of the table, and’ gave her a friendly nod and a smile, which she did not seem to see. Not once during luncheon did she raise her head. She felt that Lord Cosgravé was watch- ing her. She had defied his power; she had dared him to do his worst, and was waiting for his vengeance. Every moment seemed'an age. Each time he spoke, or that there was a pause in the con- versation, she believed he was about to begin, until, the intense strain was almost more than she could endure, and she longed: for the storm to burst. Luncheon cane to an end. inz. Had his heart been moved to pity? he going to spare her? “Mrs. Grantham!” at last, he said, The dreaded m ment had arrived. The Jady of the house looked up. Something in his tone surprised her, and made her wonder what was coming. “Well, Lord Cosgrave?’ she said. “There is a story which I think it is my duty to tell you—all of you, I mean; for there are some here whom it will interest greatly.” ‘You quite raise my curiosity: Is your story an amusing one?” “By no means; and, as it relates to family matters, may I ask you to come into the libra- ry? Here, in the drawing room, we might be interrupted by servants or visitors.” * Certainly.” And she glanced at Eva. She looked on the governess as scarcely more than an upper ser- vunt, ‘‘ Miss Taylor must also favor us by her pres- ence,” Lord Cosgrave said; and no further re- mark was made. Wondering very much what the mysterious story could be, they crossed the hall to the li- brary. None was more surprised than Philip. This was hardly the way in which he had ex- pected Lord Cosgrave to announce his engage- ment. As she reached the library door, Eva felt a hand laid on her arm, and a voice said in her He had told noth- Was ear, ‘I give you oue more chance, Will you be mine?” Her answer was, ‘‘ No.” ‘‘Blame yourself, not me, then. I am sorry to tell all.” There was complete silence in the library. Mrs. Grantham and Sir Henry bad seated them- selves on a sofa; Mabel on a low chair near ) aay . _ -_- them. Eva retreated into the furthest corner, | none guessed that I knew what had really hap- whither Janie followed her. Philip stood lean- ing against the window-frame, and his eyes moved restlessly from the motionless figure of the governess to Lord Cosgrave, who had a look of mingled anger and malicious triumph. ‘*Sir Henry,” he commenced, “would you care to know something of the history of your cousin, Mark Tremayne?” Philip started. What could Mark Tremayne possibly havs to do with Eva? “Tf you know anything of my cousin, I should like to hear it,” the Baronet answered; “but, as I fear that you cannot have any very pleasant communication to make respecting him, I should prefer your telling me when we are alone.” : “ Excuse me, Sir Henry; but all here must know what I have to tell,” Lord Cosgrave said, decidedly. “ Very ‘well; proceed.” **Do you remember how, not very long after your lawsuit ‘with Mark Tremayne, you went with your wife and child to stop by the sea- side, on a wild part.of the Devonshire coast?” ‘‘Why remind me of’ that?’ groaned Sir Henry. J ; : ‘* Because it is of that time I must speak. I was then’a lad of about sixteen, and had for some time been at a’ school in’ Dévonshire. * I hated it. with all ‘my heart—masters, ‘place, and lessons. The summer holidays were over, and Iwas forced to return; no one I knéw was traveling with me, and T thought what fun it would be to get out'at one of the smaller stations, spend the day as I liked, and go on to school on the morrow. No one would ever be any the wiser, and I had ‘plenty of money to pay for a night’s lodging. By some strange chance, I got out at’a station within a mile or two of the place. where you weré' stopping, Sir Henry; though of course’ I did not know that at the time. I was walking along’ the cliff, enjoying my adventure immiensely, when sitting under a grass-covered bank, I saw a lady and a child) As I came near, I recog- nised Lady Tremayne and her little girl. The child was creeping about, but the mother had fallen asleep. I was going to hurry away, thankful that; I had not been seen by her, when I saw a gentkeman coming teward them, so I hid behind the bank. At first I thought that it was you, and. wondered why you were so poorly dressed; but soon I saw that it was your cousin Mark. He went straight up to Lady Tremayne, and stood looking at. her for a moment or two, Then he took out some toy, which he showed the child; she seized it at once, and Jet him take her in his arms. A few strides brought him to the edge of the cliff—” ‘‘No, no; it cannot be; he never could have done that!” cried Sir Henrys ‘*He could, and he did. .He had vowed vengeance, and kept his word. Terrified, I hurried back to. the station just in time’ to catch the evening train. Not even to one of my school-fellows did I ever breathe a word of what I had seen} I had read tales of cases where. it had happened that the accidental witnesses of crimes were accused of having | committed: those crimes themselves; and it did not seem impossible to me that, were I to ac- cuse: Mark Tremayne of having dashed your child down the cliff, he would retort the ac- cusation on myself. Then whose word would have prevailed’—his or mine? Every one in the neighborhood knew that I disliked you, on account of you having informed my father of some of my boyish delinquencies which you had discovered. I had been severely punished, and had been heard to utter the wish that I might find some way of repaying you, there- fore the fear that suspicion might fall on me was not by any means groundless. So I kept my secret. I heard how, Lady Tremayne havy- ing fallen asleep, the child must have crept too near the edge of the cliff, and fallen over. I heard how the shock was fatal to the mother’s reason, and how her death a few months after- ward was almost looked on as a happy release, so great had been her anguish of mind; and BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. | 13 pened to the infant.” He ceased’ speaking, and: for a long time no one broke the silence. Cosgraye’s story could possibly bave with her. ‘Have you finished?” asked Sir Henry, “or — is there any more?” “Three years ago, I was traveling on the Continent, and stepped for some days at Baden- Baden,” Lord Cosgrave went on. ‘One eve- ning I went into one of the gaming houses, and ' began toplay. Suddenly a man stepped for- ward, and said that I had cheated. The charge was utterly false, I need hardly say; but I had no way of disproving it. From the very first, the man’s features had seemed familiar, and just as he was repeating his accusation for the second or third time, and had arrested the at- tention of every one in the room, I remembered where I had seen him before.. It was Mark Tremayne. I knew how to silence him, then. The words, ‘Mark Tremayne, I know what you did with Sir Henry’s child when you stole it from its sleeping mother,’ whispered to him, were quite enough. He humbly withdrew his charge, begged my pardon for his mistake, and left the Kousé, An hour or two later, as IT was returning to my hotel, a girl stopped me in the street. She asked me if I was an Englishman; and, when I said that J was, she begged me to come with her to her father, Who was in great trouble. The girl’s look and ‘manner pleased me and I went with ber. She led me to a small house in the suburbs. I followed her in- to the sitting room, and whom’ should I find waiting for me there but Mark Tremayne. I thought he was going to beg for mercy; but in- stead of that, he began to threaten. . That was more than I could bear, and I called him an as- — sassin to his teeth. He flew on me like a wild beast. I saw the flash of something like a huge knife, and gave myself up for lost, when the girl, who had lefc us alone, dashed into the — room, and held back his arm, and before he had time to shake her off Imade my escape. At first I intended to set the police after him, but changed wy mind, thinking it was no affair of mine, I never saw him again; but that was not my last meeting with the girl. 1 found her singing for money in the streets of Paris some months ago; but before I had had time to speak more than a few words, she disappeared, and I was unable to trace her,” ** And you have not seen her since?” inquir- ed Mrs. Grantham, as he paused. “Yes; I have seen her again, in your house, as your governess!” " :; ‘There ‘was a pause—the silence before a storm, Then, her head thrown back, her fea- tures working with passion, Mrs. Grantham crossed the room to where Eva sat. ‘Vile, miserable adventuress!” she exclaim- ed; ‘how dared you so deceive me? Yeu, a street singer—the child of an assassin—to enter my house under a false name! But here you shall not remain. -Go, pack your trunk; in an hour you leave Eastgrove. My house shall be polluted no longer by your presence!” “No, mamma, no!’ sobbed Janié.” “Do not send her away; I love her'so!” é, “Love her! — that creature?’ Shame on you!” cried her mother, pushing away the child. ‘Leave the room, Miss Taylor—that is the name you intend to call yourself by still, I presume?—and remember, in an hour the car- riage will be ready to take you to the station. I will pay you your salary up to the end of the quarter, and after that I hope never to see you or bear of you again!” “Let me say a word,” interrupted Sir Henry. ‘‘ You are too hard on her, Mary; she is not answerable for her father’s crimes.” ‘‘She knew of them; she came here under false pretenses,” Mrs, Grantham answered. “‘T only knew of one!” said Eva, despair giving her courage to defend herself. “I knew that my father did attempt the life of Lord Cosgrave; but that was all. Until my father was dying, I had not an idea that we did not bear our real name, Then he told me, and Philip looked at Eva, and wondered again what connection Lord — = ¥
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F | ‘ f 14 also that he had wronged Sir Henry; but it was from Lord. Cosgrayve’s lips that I heard for the first time what he had really done. _When you engaged me as your governess, I knew not that Sir Henry was any relation of yours. It was very wrong of me, I suppose, to accept so much kindness from him; but if he only knew what anguish of remorse I felt for my father’s sin, he would forgive me!” “JT do forgive you, my child,” said Sir Henry. ‘ You have been wrong, I, confess. You should have told me the truth, but I pity more than I blame you. CanI ever pardon your father?’ I fear not. But his child shall not be punished for his sin. My sister says that you must leave this house at once, Will you accept of my protection until you shall have arranged your future plans?” : With tears of affection and gratitude, and with a trembling voice, ‘‘ How noble and gene- rous you are, Sir Henry!” said Eva, “But I cannot accept your kind offer. No; do not urge me; it isimpossible. Farewell, and know that I shall never forget all your goodness!” “Wait one moment,” said Philip, speaking for the first time, ‘‘ I have a few words to add to Lord. Cosgrave’s story. Much that before was @& mys is now explained... Eva. Tre- mayne—let me giye her her real name—inter- ested me. fr the first moment I saw her, When I came here from London, I was determin- ed to be her friend. While she was staying at The Elms I learned to know and.love her. I asked her to he my wife, and she refused, tell- ing me that there was.a secret in her life which was an impassable barrier between us, The evening of her return here, I saw her meet Lord Cosgrave; heard her make an appoint- ment with him for next morning. I was mad. with rage and jealousy; I thought that she had deceived me; and when I questioned his lord- ship there, he told me that she had promised to marry him. That promise, [know now, she never gave; but he thought to force her to submit by threatening to betray her secret, Tell me, Eva—Am I right?” “ Yes,” “And can you forgive the words that I spoke to you this morning? But I thought that you had been playing with me, and felt that nothing I could say would be hard or cruel enough.” “Certainly I forgive you, Mr. Grantham. Please say no more about it.” “Philip,” exclaimed his mother, ‘‘ what does all this mean? You cannot surely say that both you and Lord Cosgrave have propused to this gurl?” “Tt is the case,” said Eva, quietly; ‘and you see how Lord Cosgrave has taken his mean, pitiful revenge because I refused him, Read that, if you do not trust my word.” And she placed the note which she had re- ceived from him just before luncheon in her hands. * : Intense amazement mingled with anger was depicted on that lady’s face as she read it, Then she handed it to her daughter. Lord Cosgrave, had tasted the sweets of re- venge. Now he began to experience its bitter- ness. He saw the looks of scorn and contempt, and fully realized what a despicable part he had been playing. Never had he supposed that. Eva would drive him to the fulfillment of his. threat. She had done so; his vengeance had been satisfied; but what else bad he gained? Nothing but shame and remorse, ; “‘T have only to say to you, my lord,” said Mrs. Grantham, turning toward him, ‘ that I hope this is the last time you will ever darken my doors. Henceforth I cannot, look on you even as an acquaintance. , Good-morning!” He bowed in silence and left the room. “ Bya!” said Philip, taking her hand. She hastily withdrew it, and turned from him. “Eva,” he continued, determined that she should hear him, “ the mystery is cleared up now. I know all there was to be known, and repeat what I said to you theother day. Here, BECAUSE SHE .LOVED in the presence of my mother, my sisters, and my uncle, I ask you again if you will be my wife?” She looked at him in mute surprise. “Every one seemed to hold their breath whlle they waited for her answer, ‘¢ You think that you are bound in honor to say this,” she replied;..‘‘ but I cannot accept the sacrifice.” “Tt is no sacrifice, Eval..Were you a thousand times the daughter of Mark Tremayne, were your father the greatest, villain that ever polluted society, I would.say the same, I want you, and your love—nothing more.” “Mr. Grantham, again. I say it cannot be! I will not bring a tarnished name into any family. I must bear the disgrace alone.” And she left the library, and went up to her own room, CHAPTER XII. “Ox!” sobbed Janie, throwing herself into her governess’s arms, ‘‘ what am Ito do with- out you? I cannot bear to let you gol No one will ever care for me as you do!” “ Poor little Janie!” said, Eva, tenderly kiss- ing the child’s tear-stained cheek, ‘‘'You ¢an- not be more sorry than I am to part from ou,” ‘““Why will you not go to live with uncl Henry, or why will you not marry Philip?” continued Janie, ‘But you are going away where I, shall not see you again.” ‘Tt cannot.be helped, Janie dear,” Eva an- swered, ‘And now you must not delay me. You know I have only an hour to pack up’ all my things, and I want to. get away as soon as possible.” ‘* Will you let me help? I would like so much to do something for you,” asked Janie, trying to force back her tears, ‘‘Thank you, dear! Well, you put those books and boxes in the bottom of the trunk, That would save me a great deal of trouble,” _* Oh, yes! I will put them in so nicely |” And she set herself to work, “ Miss Taylor!” she exclaimed, presently, in accents of surprise. ‘“‘ Well, Janie, what is it?” “Look at this.” And she held up a small sealed package. Eva snatched it away almost roughly. ‘¢ What are you doing with that? Give it to me at once!” she exclaimed. “T could not help seeing it—indeed I could not, I did not know that it was wrong «to look at it. But do you not want it brought. to uncle Henry? It is addressed to him—is it not?” F ‘‘ No; the package is mine, not Sir Henry’s.” ‘But Iam sure it is directed to bim! He ought to have it,” ‘Hush! that is my affair, not yours,” ‘‘ Here is your money, Miss Tremayne,” said Mrs. Grantham, appearing at the door of the room, ‘f But what did I hear Janie say’ that some one ought to have, as I came down the passage.” & wwol ine Janie hung her head, and did not reply. “T insist on knowing! Speak this moment, Janie!” | be “Only a little parcel, mamma; and I thought I saw uncle Henry’s name‘on it,” “Ts that it.in your hand, Miss Tremayne?” ‘Tt is,” Janie answered, ‘Give it to me!” trod Eva had not power to resist, and handed it to her, ‘‘More mysteries!” exclaimed Mrs. Gran- tham. “ What is the meaning of your havinz this in. your: possession?” A My futher gave it to me when he was dy- ing.’ ‘To give to Sir Henry?” < Ye 3, ” “And why have you kept it all this time?” ‘*T am not obliged to give you my reasons, Mrs. Grantham.” ‘* Well, you must give them to Sir Henry.” “c I will.” ‘*Come, then,” ae s yi £9" . HIM.: — “ Where?” “To Sir Henry.” Eva followed her back to the library—VJanie, full of childish curiosity, accompanying them. Sir Henry was in the same place on the sofa, still a prey to the violent emotion caused by Lord Cosgrave’s revelation. Mabel sat near him,,pretending to read, while Philip stood moodily beside the win- dow. ‘Without, giving Mrs. Grantham time to speak, Eva knelt down beside the Baronet, and said, quickly: ‘‘Sir Henry, | have something to tell you. When my father was dying, he gave me this for you. It is the written account of his crime. ‘When he reads it, he will curse me as I deserve to be cursed, and. my name will be branded with infamy,’ he said. And —oh, Sir Henry !—I loved my father dearly, and could not.bear to give it to you; so I hid it away, dnd meant to keep my secret—not for my sake, but for his. My father said also that in this confession he had taken care ‘to secure my future, and that I should be rich and happy; but I did not want to gain wealth at the price of his good name. As I told you be- fore, I had not an idea what was that crime until Lord Cosgrave declared it. There can- not be much more to learn; still, you may as well read what my father says. But remem- ber that I do not intend to reap any advantage whatever from it.” Sir Henry took the package, and slowly opened it. There was a little missive directed to himself, a small locket attached to a gold chain of exquisite workmanship, and a soft flaxen curl. He opened the locket. It con- tained two portraits—his own, as a gay and happy man, and that of the young mother, whose likeness hung in the small room off the picture-gallery of The Elms. 4 Then he broke the seal of the letter; but a mist had gathered on his eyes, and he could not distinguish the contents. | “Read it, Philip—read it aloud,” he said, holding it out toward his nephew, ‘‘ They have heard so much, they may as well hear the rest—if indeed, there be any more.” Philip took the paper from Sir Henry’s hand, and read: hold the fess all. you for be’ rich and happy, while I was so r and miserable. I returned to land, to The Elms; . but you were not there. They told me that you ~ were in Devonshire with your wife and child—wife 2 and..child—wealth and position. You had every- thing, while I had nothing; and when I thought of that, my hatred increa tenfold. I followed you _ to Devonshire, and walked up the cliff one after-~ noon, close to the place where I heard you were toppin . Suddenly I arrived near a lady who had , evi ently come out there to read; but the book had - dro from her hand, and she had fallen asleep. She was your wife, I saw at a glance. I had met her once or twice at the time of the lawsuit, Her child was playing about near her, and I coaxed it to me, It came at once, and I took it in my arms. * Now was the moment for my revenge. The edge of the cliff was near. I had but to d it over; but it looked at me and smiled—I could not do it. I would take it far away, where you would never hear ~ of it again. soe its hat and some of its clothes over the precipice, I left the place, as I supposed, unseen by any. ft was not until three years ago that I discovered that there had been a witness of my theft. I was in a gaming-house at Baden-Baden, * when I detected false cards in a player's hand. tf accused him of cheating. Hed not deny it, but he whispered into my ear that he not only knew my
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RR oe VL ee ee BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. ee 45 real name, but also what I had done with your child. I withdrew my charge, and in a few minutes had formed a plan by which I might discover how much he knew, and then effectually silence him. I hurried home, and fetched Eva. We watched for him as he was leaving the gaming-house; then I bade her go and tell him that a countryman of his needed him sorely. Poor child! she believed that she was speaking the truth, and had no difficulty in inducing him to accompany her to our house. He had secn me take the child, and believed that I had killed it. Isueceeded in convincing him that it still lived. Then he said that I should restore the child to you; but Irefused, and threatened that, should he take any steps in the matter, I would prove that he had followed a course of systematic cheating that evening. BEADLE & ADAMS, 98 Wiuuam St Ny ee OY be di i ees re .
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By Jennie Dayis paregts maid 6 Ready October 7th.. & AUG .21060 5 By Margaret Blount... 10¢ % Prerry aNd Pxotp; or, The Gold- Bug. of 10¢ Fr’isco, By Corinne ome October 21. 10¢ | ee - A new issue every two weeks. 4 a ‘ : For sale by al! newsdealers, orsent, postage paid, By Mrs. M. V. Victor... 10¢ on receipt of twelve cents... BEADLE AND ADAMS: g 10¢ Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y. ' | 36 Sir Ar: hers Nec ©: or, eid pone or His - Heart. By Arabella thwort 37 The Country Jounin od ALL 1s Nor Gotp Tat GLITIERS. ennedy. 38 His Own A n atu: Ne - Arabella Again : PASTE oF 39: By Ralph hore Ra A Youre Giru’s Goop Name. By Ralph Ro; 40 eet ri Marry 3 or, Ix Loyr’s Bonps, By Sara Claxton. 41 Blind Devotion; or, Love AGAINsT THE Worip. By Alice Fleming. 42 se the Aafia ag ald or, His Srconp Love. By A. Southworth. 43 The Baronet's Secret: Haur-Sistrer. By Sara Claxton, 44 The Only Daughter: or, BRoTHER AGAINST Lover. By Alice Fleming. 45 Wer Hidden Foe; or, Love ar Aut Opps. By Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress; or, Unper A Croup. By Mrs. M. A. Denison. 47 Because She Loved Him; or, How Wu ir Env. By Alice Fleming. Ready Oct. 5th. 48 In Spite of Herself; or, Jennertr’s Rrp- ARATION. By §, R. Sherwood, Ready Oct. 12th. A new issue every week. or, THe Rivan Tue Waver.tey Lisrary is for sale by all News- dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each, BEADLE AND ADAMS, | Publishers, 98 William street, New York.