Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 2) (1880 10 19)
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_ uavereu at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. 5 oT bt ye ct eee October 19, 1880. ary \ i i] i 2 gee ‘His Heart's Mistress ; or, Love at First Sight BY ARABELLA SOUTHWORTH. CHAPTER I. A LoNG line ef breken, rocky coast, ene side terminated by a ed. mountainous headland; the other stretching far away, unt last see ‘and sky meet on the horizon. Huge breakers, rushing, foaming, roaring, until they fall with thundering crash on the rocks which bar their pro- gress. The air filled with clouds of glittering spray, which the fierce wind ee ae d 14 Ni , ANN ASN veh \ 4 —, “SHE STOOD JUST INSIDE THE CASEMENT OF THE LARGE, OPEN WINDOW.” r ‘ is carrying far inland, and scattering like flakes of snow stunted grass. The red disk of the setting sun slowly d under a heavy bank of clouds, casting a lurid light over the eve and tinting the gleaming crests of the heaving billows with ¢ low. -_ Oh, for the pencil of a Claude or of a Turner, to make it allmy very own!’ The words, spoken near me, made me start, for I had fancied myself ee alone in the sheltered little cove or inlet, whither I had come to watch the storm. I turned to see who the speaker could be. Leaning against a fragment of rock,. which some convulsion of nature must, in bygone ages, have torn from the beetling cliff above, stood a J “a jp SO bo a -
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ie ey ai ~~ > ~~ HIS HEART'S ee MISTRESS ail, powerfully-built man. The words must $s ve fallen from him involuntarily.. His dark eyes were fixed on the seething expanse of waters before him, and there was a look of wistful admiration and unsatisfied longing on his pale, handsome face. For a long time I watched him unseen. Few strangers visited this wild desolate region, and J felt sorely puzzled as to who he could possi- bly be. That he was a gentleman, there could be no mistake; there was about his whole ap- pearance an air of elegance and refinement not to be disguised by his coarse, rough suit. The sun sunk slowly down into its watery couch; the red light chang-d into leaden-gray ; nearer and nearer rolled the waves, until one, larger than the rest, broke at my feet, and re- ceded, leaving me drenched with spray. Ther, for the first time, I recognized the fol- ly of which I had been guilty in remaining there so long. “Come away at once! We have not a mo- ment to spare!” I cried, forgetting all else save our mutual danger. The stranger turned his head, and gazed at me like one suddenly roused from a dream. “T do not understand,” he said, with a puz- zled look. “Do you not see? The tide is advancing; we are entire] y shut in between these rocks, and if we cannot round this point in time—” I could say no more, for I was struggling with all my strength against the wind, which rendered our progress almost impossible. On we battled; but soon I saw that all our efforts werein vain. The waves were already dashing against the point of rock round which our path to safety lay. ‘¢ Are we too late?’ he asked. “We are.” ‘“‘Ts there no o‘her way out?” ‘Could you climb that?” and I pointed to the huge overhanging cliff. “T might manage it; but you?” And he glanc- ed at my slight, girlish figure. At another time I could have laughed at the idea of a stranger’s being ablo to accomplish a feat which I, born and bred among.these rocks, would have found impossible; but now the sense of peril and responsibility drowned every other thought. “ Listen!” I shouted—for the howling of the wind and the roar of the sea made it almost impossible to make oneself heard. ‘‘Thereisa path not far from here leading to the top of , the cliff; there are few, even among the hardi- ” est fishermen, who care to climb it in calm weather. But it is our last chance. I will risk it; will you?” ae * “T will.” There was something so self-possessed in his one look and tone that I could not but feel thankful for his presence. rotection. _“ This is the path,” 1 eas It er such asupport and “Let me go first, - I have often climbed part of it, and know where tostep. You must follow as best you can.” Straining every nerve; clinging to every un- even point of rock; now gaining a few feet, now slipping back again, I strugg:ed up. Pausing for a moment to gather breath, I down to see how my companion was then a fierce gust of wind swept past, in seemed to swim round, my hands re- laxt heir grasp, there was a dull, heavy pain nay head, and I remembered no more. hen I came to myself, I was lying ona hard, rough surface, which I soon saw to be a narrow iodine of rock, some feet above the water, which had now completely base of the cliff. hn was riding high, obscured ten by fragments of scurrying, id by its fiitul light I could see 2 What is the matter?” I asked. “Nothing, we are quite safe; however, we must remain here for the present,”’ was the re- ply. ‘‘But, tell me, are you much burt?” - a ‘‘ Not at all, I think,” I answered, sitting up. ‘“My head feels a little confused, that is all.” ** Are you very cold?” “Not very. But what have you done?” For now I noticed that he had taken off his coat, and had wrapped it round me. “T cannot keep this,” Isaid. ‘“* Please put it on again. ‘Certainly not,” he answered, in a tone which I felt would admit of no contradiction. “ You want it far more than I do, and I insist on your keeping it. Now drink this.” He poured something out of a flask intoa small drinking-cup, and held it to my lips. The contents revived me, and sent a glow of heat through my chilled frame. “How did we come here?” I inquired. “T carried you up.” ‘You carried me up?” ‘*Yes. How I managed it, I don’t know; though you are no very heavy burden.” *¢T think I remember falling down.” “Yes; and the fall stunned you. I saw that to ascend the path was out of the question; but I discovered this ledge, and made for it, on the chance of its being above water level. Weare all right, I find; for there is no sign of seaweed here.” You have saved my life. thank you?” “You forget that you first saved mine. If you had not warned me, the tide would have washed me away while I was standing lost in dreamland.” The sense of the terrible danger in which we had been, rushed over me like an overpowering flood, and I began to sob bitterly. “ How silly you must think me!” I said, as soon as I could command my voice. “ But I really could not help it.” “Think you silly, my poor child! Certainly not, Indeed, I know few girls who would have acted as bravely as you did. But tell me, how came it that you remained in the cove so long? You must have known how very dan- gerous it was.” **T do not know. me,” I answered. And, oh, how thankful I felt for the cloud which at that moment was passing over the moon, and which prevented his ee how the color rushed to my cheeks, Well did I know why I had remained there so long, and why I had not noticed how rapidly the waves were closing round me, All my thoughts had been engrossed by the handsome stranger, who, to my romantic, girl- ish fancy, seemed like the hero of some won- drously beautiful fairy tale. ‘‘ How long must we remain here, I wonder?” I said abruptly, suddenly becoming alive to the peculiar situation in which I found my- self, “Until the tide goes out and sets us free. But what about your friends? Will they not be greatly anxious about you?” “Ob, no! No one knows that I am out. I expect I shall be back before any one misses me.” He looked at me rather curiously, then said, “ How strange it seems that we two should be here together! Both rescued from a sudden, violent death, and waiting for a common deliv- erance. Yet we do not even know each other’s names.” ' “ Yes, it is strange,” I assented. ‘* Shall we introduce ourselves? I am Herbert Cowper. Until within the last year, I was an unknown, struggling artist; trying, vainly, to persuade the public that my daubs were worth money enough to satisfy the demands of my landlady, and the tradesfolks who supply my wants. Thea, however, an old uncle of mine died, and, greatly to my surprise, left mea few hundreds a-year. The first use I made of my newly-found wealth was to travel, and visit all the best picture galleries of Europe. Then I How can I ever It was very thoughtless of | turned my back on civilized life, and started, like a modern Don Quixote, in search of ad- ventures. And a strange one I have encoun- tered, certainly; for I find myself transformed ; *) y , Ay, mY sas “ ss > ee eet mm ) into a knight errant, with an unknown damsel under my protection.” “Unknown she need not remain!” I answer- ed, laughing. ‘‘My name is Hester Macdon- ald, and my father and I live in the old castle which you have noticed on the hill, about half- wai tween the beach and the village. ? at! In that tumble-down old ruin?” my checking himself, he said, quickly, ‘‘ Par- don me! I was very rude. But I fancic? that the castle was merely a relic of bygon ages.” “And so it is; and all that is left to my father of the possessions of his ancestors. The Macdonalds have lived there for I amafraid to say how many hundred years. He is the last of the family, and could not bear to leave it.” “ But what is it like inside?” “One wing is weather-proof, and quite habi- table. There are more rooms than we want in it. Of the rest, I cannot say a great deal. It will hardly hold together much longer.” “And you do not think that there is any danger of your father’s missing you, Miss Macdonald?” “Oh, do not trouble about him! He cares for nothing but his scientific books, electric batteries, and bottles of acids. He spends all the day, and most of the night, in his labora- tory, trying experiments, or studying. He never knows where I am, or what I am doing.” “ But the servants?” “We have only one, an old woman. I had a bad headache this evening, and told her that I was going to bed; but I changed my mind, and came down to the beach instead, to watch the storm. You cannot think how I love the sea,” “You have had quite enough of it for this time, I fancy. I fear you will suffer severely from the effects of this night’s exposure.” “Oh, no; I am so strong that.nothing ever does me any harm.” But though I would not acknowledge it, I did feel bitterly cold, sitting there in my dripping clothes, exposed to the} full force of the wind, which, though far less violent than it had been before, swept every now and then in wild gusts along the face of the cliff. Mr. Cowper, too, was shivering, and I could see that his lips and cheeks were blue with cold. “I wish you would take back your coat?’ I said. ‘I really do not want it.” “Nor do I; please do not speak of it again.” Atter that’ we relapsed into almost total silence. Slowly the hours dragged on; the moon disappeared behind the rocky headland, and the first gray streaks of dawn began to appear in the sky. As the light increased, we saw, to our intense relief, that a narrow strip of sand at the base of the cliff was uncovered, which raj idly grew wider and wider. “T think we can almost get round the cor- ner now,” I said; ‘‘ the tide is out as far as the place where we were standing last evening.” “ Let us try, at any rate; but how are you to get down from here?’ “ Kasily enough; I have let myself slip down higher places than this,"“hundreds of times,” The next’ moment I had safely reached the level ground, and was watching the descent of my companion, which was performed much more slowly than my own, *“ Neither of us is very sorry to have left our perch in mid-air,” he said, as he rejoined me; ‘‘ but you must get home as quickly as possible, and take off your | wet things. Our roads lie in the same direc- tion, do they not?” "i “They do.” “Will you take my arm?” ‘No, thank you.” But hardly had I uttered the refusal, when my foot tripped over amass of tangled sea- weed, and I fell tothe ground. As he helped me to rise, he saw that I was trembling all over. “You must let me help you,” he said, de- cidedly, but gently. I felt that I needed the support, and did not refuse again. Leaning on his strong arm, we soon reached the ruined \
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; ~ HIS * a archway with its ponderous iron gate, destitute | ulate as to when and how I should meet the however of bolt or bar, which led into the | artist again, ° castle court. ‘“‘T will say good-by now, Miss Macdonald,” he said; ‘‘but our acquaintance, so strangely begun, must not end here.” And, with a warm pressure of my hand, he turned away. CHAPTER. II. “tte Tux entrance stood open, for old Hlsbeth was anearly riser. Passing through the spa- cious hall, with its broken marble pillars and discolored banners, I ran up-stairs, hoping to gain my own room unobserved; but just as 1 reached the door there was Elsbeth. ‘“Miss Hester,” she exclaimed, ‘‘ wherever have you been?” “Only to the strand, and got wet. I will undress at once and go to bed; come in, and I will tell you all about it.” With her assistance I was soon comfortably settled, and had given her an account of my adventure in as few words as possible. “Thank goodness, you are safe, my lamb!” was all that she said, but her voice trembled, and there were tears in her eyes. Flinging my arms round the good old wo- mans neck, my self-control, again gave way, and my over-wrought feelings found vent in a passionate fit of weeping. She soothed and caressed me,.as she had often done in my childish days; for since my dying motber had placed me, an infant of a few weeks old, in her arms, she had loved and eared for me as though I had been her own child, When I grew calmer she brought a warm drink; then darkening the room, and bidding me try to sleep, she left me alone, But to sleep was, I found, impossible. My mind kept running on the events of the last few hours; my thoughts, however, were less occupied with the danger in which I had been, than with the companion who had shared. it with me. . Soon I found myself drawing a comparison between him and tie fev gentlemen with whom I came in contact in my secluded Scot- tish home. There was Mr. Dare, the clergyman, of whom I stood so much in awe, He always treated me like a child, too insignificant to be noticed by aman. of his talents and position. The other day, when I was hurrying home to * escape from a drenching shower, he had passed me, unrbrella in hand, while I had none; but the thought of going a little out of his way to shelter me never occurred to him, Then there was Mr. St. John, whose father had bought up all the property which should have belonged to mine. He was the personi- fication of a London exquisite, and never hon- ored me with more than a supercilious nod or “‘ How do you do?” whenever we chanced to encounter each other, while he was down here for a few weeks in the shooting season, Then I thought of Harry Bolton, who had just succeeded his father as Mr. John’s agent, and my heart began to beat faster. I had known him all my life, we had played to- gether as children, and wandered haud in hand among the rocks. Many were the dangerous places into which he had led me, but he always contrived to bring me back again safely, often at great risk to himself. When I heard that he was to ke sent away to an English school, I wept bitterly, and he comforted me, promising soon to grow up to be aman, when he would come back for his little wife. I did not meet him again until within the last few weeks, and then I found that my boy- ish lover had changed into a fine, handsome young fellow. We called each other Hester and Harry, as of old, but his manner to me was formal and reserved; he never alluded to the parting promise; but somehow I felt that ‘the girl held a far dearer place in his heart than the child had done. I really liked and admired Harry very much, but now I caught myself wishing that he were more like Mr. Cowper.. Then I began to spec- | As might have been expected, a severe cold was the result of the chill I had received, and for several days I was unable to leave my room. “Very imprudent—very!” was my father’s verdict when he heard of what had happened. ‘Really, Hester, a girl of nineteen ought to be old enough to take care of herself; but was there ever a woman yet who was not always getting into mischief?’ That was all he said; not one word of thank- fulness for my escape, not a word of endear- ment for the only daughter, who but for the merest chance might have been brought home to him lifeless. Still I knew that I had nothing else to ex- pect; he had never shown me any mark of affection, and I felt that he was inclined to look on me only as a care and incum- brance. To be foolish, weak, or womanly was, in his opinion, the greatest blemish a character could have; and even as a child, Thad never dared to let him see how happy a few kind, loving words would have made me. Of my father’s history I knew but little. He never spoke to me of his past life, and I never dared to ask him any questions. My mother’s name he never mentioned to me, In the little graveyard, just outside the vil- lage, there was a simple headstone, with the inscription :— “Arick MAacponaLp. Aged 19.” There I would often sit and dream, and pic- ture to myself how different my life would have been had my mother lived. I thought of her—so young and lovely, snatched away in the spring-time of her loveli- ness; for she had been very happy, Elsbeth told me. She and my father had been all in all to each other during their brief wedded life. Her death seemed. to have changed him com- pletely. The brightness had vanished from his life, never again to return. Of me be rarely took any notice. None of the love he had lavished on his wife was trans- ferred to his child. ; My laugh was always hushed at his ap- proach, and I never went to him with any of my childish joys or troubles. And so I had grown up almost as neglected and untamed as one of the wild flowers grow- ing among the rocks which I loved so well, ac- quiring a strange, desultory education, partly from Elsbeth, partly from the village school- master, who used to come to me for a couple of hours each evening. I was taught none of the accomplishments generally supposed to form part of a young la- dy’s education; but my mind was stored with weird legends and tales of romance which I had heard from Elsbeth, or read in some of the old volumes which were lying in musty piles on the shelves of the deserted library of the Castle. Once my father had found me poring over one of these romances. ‘‘ What are you reading, Hester?” he asked, in his cold, hard voice. I handed him the book, in silence. Scornfully he turned over the pages, and my heart beat faster as I watched his cynical smile, “Can you find nothing better than this to read?” he asked, returning it tome. ‘‘ Come, and [ will find you a more profitable study.” I followed him to the room which he use as study and. laboratory, and stood nervously by the door, while he selected a large volume, in dark, plain binding. é, ‘This is a history of England,” he said, giv- ing it to me. “When you have read it, I shall expect you to be able to answer some questions as to its contents.” I did my best to remember the long names, and the dates of the several events, and by dint of hard work succeeded pretty well. HEART'S MISTRESS. 8 — Then J felt that perhaps I might win some — words of praise from him. “‘T have finished the history, father,” I said to him, one day. ‘‘And I think I can remem- ber a great deal of it.” “Very well. You can leave it on my table,” he answered, and never alluded to the subject again. That was the only attempt he ever made to superintend my education personally, and I did not read much more history. “Tt is so fine, I almost’ think I might ven- ture out for an hour,” I said to Elsbeth one day, about a fortnight after my adventure on the beach. She did not appear at all pleased at my suggestion, and looked doubtfully first at the sky, then at me. “You will be sure to sit down, or do some- thing foolish, and so catch fresh cold,” she ob- jected; ‘‘and if it does look bright now, you know how quickly the days change in spring.” ‘‘ Nonsense, Elsbeth! The sun is quite hot, and there is not a cloud in the sky, and Iam longing so to go out.” “ Well, wait till to-morrow: and I shall be ~ able to go with you. I can’t to-day, for I have a good deal of cleaning up todo. You look so pale and weak, I don’t like the thought of your going by yourself.” But I had no wish for Elsbeth’s company. I wanted to go alone to the beach. A strange, vivid attraction had seemed to draw me thi- ther, through the long, weary days of my im- prisonment in my room. I had been longing for the time when I could stand at the foot of that cliff, and watch those waves which had so nearly claimed me as their prey. Elsbeth’s objections were at last,overruled, and I started forth. The fresh sea-breeze re- vived me; still 1 felt very tired by the time I reached the strand. The sea was as smooth as a sheet of glass; the blue sky reflected in its depths; not a sound to be heard but the gentle plashing of the ripples on the. sand, and the occasional cries of the seabirds among the rocks. “Has he been here since, I wonder?” I said to myself, as I approached the sea. Then I started; my heart began to beat violently, and hot blood rushed to my cheeks. Within afew yards of me sat the man of whomI had been thinking; before him was an easel with a half-finished painting, and he held a brush in his hand, but his gaze was fixed in- tently on the view before him, as though drink- ing in its calm, peaceful loveliness. I was about to retreat unobserved, when, suddenly turning his ead our looks met. His countenance changed i moment; the dreamy expression disappeared, and it wore a look of unmistakable pleasure as he came for- ward to meet me with outstretched hand. “Tam so glad that you are well enough to venture out,” he said. ‘I have been to the’ Castle several times to inquire for you, and was always told that you were still very unwell.” “Several times!” Iexelaimed. ‘“ Elsbeth only told me of once.” ~ Scarcely had I uttered the words, when I was very sorry for them. Elsbeth seemed have taken some unaccountable dislike to new friend, and I felt that I had now preju him against her, even had he been dispo like her. His next remark showed that I was right. — “So Elsbeth is the name of the old dragon who guards the Castle,” he said, looking very much amused. ‘‘ What a shame of her not to give you the polite messages I sent you; but I assure you it was like bearding the his den to venture near her. as | proof of courage to call aga glared so at me the previous time, — greatly to my surprise, it was your whom [ encountered.” ‘My father? And what did he say?” I in- quired, eagerly. ““T don’t think I ought to tell you.” “Oh, please do! Nothing very flattering; I feel sure of that.” & *
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| ~ Then he warm = {eS ‘““No; it was not flattering. Something about some people never having sense. But tell me about this Elsbeth. Does she keep you in great order?” ‘¢ Elsbeth is the dearest, best old woman in the world!” I answered, warmly. ‘‘I cannot imagine why she does not like you.” ‘‘Perhaps she thinks that Iam to blame for the otner night.” “How could she? And, indeed, I told her how nice and kind you were. But how un- crateful you must think me? I have not even thanked you.” ‘Please let there be no question of thanks between us, Miss Macdonald. Let us look on what happen. d as the beginning of a friendship which will, I trust, last a long, long tite.” I looked at him in great surprise. What could this man mean, this hero, artist, genius, as Icalled him to myself, by asking for my friendship?, What could the: e be in common be- tween him and an insignificant, half-educated girl like me?” ‘¢ Well,” he asked, watching my counte- nance, ‘‘are we to be friends?” My eyes gave the assent which my lips could not frame, and I placed my hand in his, which he had extended toward me. “May Ilook at your painting?’ I asked, feeling that I ought to say something. “Certainly; but it is not nearly finished yet. I only commenced it yesterday. I call it ‘Calm.’ I have painted its companion, ‘Storm,’ which I hope to have the pleasure of showing you some day.” “Oh, thank you! This is beautiful; but Iam interrupting you?” “T can talk and work. Look at that gleam of sunshine on those rocks near the horizon, I want to catch it. Will you sit down here for awhile, or are you afraid of cold?” I thought of Elsbeth’s many injunctions on no account to sit down, and to return home soon. I remembered that Harry Bolton had sent word that he would call at the Castle that afternoon, When he hoped to be able to see me, I hesitated for a moment or two, and sat down beside Mr. Cowper. .“ Will you tell me something about London and the great world you have lived in?’ I said. “Tt is an unknown land to me.” “ And I know it but too well.” Then he began to speak of the busy, bustling life which men and women had in the great capital, so totally different from the dreamy, monotonous existence to which I had been accustomed. He told me about the marvels of human genius, of which, until now, I had only read in books. But his tone was cold and indifferent until he began to speak of art. , his words came rapidly, ea- gerly, with a power and force of description which, to me, seemed perfectly wonderful. The wonderful cathedrals and galleries of Rome, Florence, Paris; Antwerp, Brussels, and I know not how many others, he had visited them all, and reveled among their priceless treasures, feasting on them as only an artist can, Isat silent and breathless, listening as one spellbound. Suddenly he stopped, a look of intense annoyance passed over his visage, and he set his lips tightly together. I glanced round to discover the cause of the change, and a thrill of something like contrite pain shot through my heart, for beside us stood larry Bolton, watching me with an expres- sion of mingled surprise and reproach. ‘Oh, is it you? You quite startled me!” I said, with an uneasy laugh. ‘‘I had not an idea that you were here.” I was trying hard to appear quite at my ease; but fel that I was failing signally. sorry if I frightened you, Hester,” rely; ‘‘but I found Elsbeth quite in a fright about you. She said that you were remaining out far too long; so I offered to go and look for you.” “Will Elsbeth ever find out that I am no longer a baby?” I exclaimed, angrily. ‘She knows that if you are nota little more orr “HIS HEART'S Py. , prudent you will make yourself ill again. Please come home with me now.” ‘““She must blame me, and not Miss Mac- donald,” said Mr. Cowper, now speaking for the first time, but without raising his head from his painting. ‘‘I persuaded her to sit down, and kept her talking until I quite forgot the flight of time.” ‘Mr. Cowper—Mr. Bolton,” I blurted out, as it suddenly occurred to me that I ought to introduce the gentlemen. Mr. Cowper rose, and bowed politely. Harry made the faintest possible inclination of his head, a look passed between them, and I felt that these two men could never be friends. A strong contrast they certainly presented to each other. Both about the same hight and figure; but, oh, how different their features! Harry’s handsome and good-humored, fair skin and hair, and light blue eyes; Mr. Cowper’s dark as an Italian’s, strongly marked, but ex- quisitely molded, and eyes dark and liquid, whose expression changed with every varying emotion. Now there was an angry sparkle in them, as, witb an impatient movement, he raised his hand to sweep back the hair which had fallen over his high forehead. “Come, now, Hester, like a good girl,” said Harry, turning again to me. It was not so much his familiar, protecting manner which vexed me, but that Mr. Cowper should be a spectator of the scene. Still, had Iasked myself why I minded it, I could not have answered the question. I knew that Harry would not leave the beach without me, and rose to go in no very amiable mood, which was not at all mollified by the peculiar smile which played round Mr. Cow- per’s lips as I bade him good-by. CHAPTER IIL “You and that man seem to have struck up a great friendship,” was Harry’s first remark as we walked along. ‘““Why should you think so? It is only the second time we have met.” ‘In my opinion you ought to have had quite enough of him the first time.” ‘“ Harry, what do you mean?” “JT mean that I wish you had let him get up the rock by himself, without waiting to keep him company.” My anger was fairly roused by this last re- mark. ‘‘How dare you speak to me like that?” I cried. “Do you think Iam to submit to be lectured by you?” “T do not want to lecture. I only want you to have nothing more to say to that good-for- nothing adventurer.” ‘‘Not another word, please. What right have you to abuse the man who saved my life? I will not allow it, I can tell you. Now good- by. Iam going to walk home by myself.” But, by a quick movement, he placed him- self before me, and laid his hands on my shoul- ders. ‘Do not be angry with me, Hester,” he said, in penitent tones. ‘‘I spoke hastily just now. Will you forgive me?” “Yes, if you promise not to be so unreason- ble and unjust again.” “T will promise. But, oh, Hester, you do not know how it pained me to see you sitting talking to aman you knew nothing whatever about, as if you were the greatest possible friends.” There was a tremor in his voice, and he looked so mournful, that I felt sorry for him, and terribly discontented with myself; why, I hardly knew. “Are we to part friends, Hester?” Harry asked. -‘* What do you mean by parting?” “T forgot; I have not told you yet. I must go away this evening on business for Mr. St. John, and I hardly think I can be back much before a month,” I felt more than relieved—was delighted; but I hated myself for the feeling, and tried MISTRESS. hard to fancy that I was speaking the truth when I said, ‘That is a pity, and we have seen so little of you since we came here; but a month will pass quickly.” Ah, little did I think what that month was to bring me! “< Hester, before I go, tell me that you care a little for me; tell me that you will not for- get me while I am away.” “We are too old friends to forget each other so easily,” I said, hastily; ‘“‘but ifI de-t lay much longer, Elsbeth will come to look for me herself.” And I hurried on so quickly that he had to walk with hasty strides to keep pace with me. He followed me into the hall of the Castle, and then, seizing my hand, said in a low, husky voice, ‘‘Come into the drawing-room with me. There is something I want particu- larly to say to you.” ‘‘No, not now; I haven’t time!” And bursting from him, I rushed up-stairs to my room. Exhausted by the exertion, I sunk ona chair, and panted for breath. Soon the sound of voices in the court-yard below attracted my attention, and, approaching the open window, I looked out. Elsbeth and Harry were standing together in close conversation. “How much longer does that man intend to stay?’ I heard him ask, in angry, impatient tones. ‘‘T do not know; but, Master Harry, I will do my best not to let her see much of him.” “Thanks, a thousand times, Elsbeth! You were always a good friend to me, and I can tell you—” Just then they moved to some little distance from the window, and I did not catch the rest of the sentence. 4 For more than a quarter of an hour longer I watched them, as they stood talking by the gate. Then I saw how he grasped the rough hand of the old servant and walked quickly} down the road toward the village. Elsbeth watched him till he was out of sight, then slowly returned to the Castle. I felt angry; the spirit. of opposition was thoroughly roused. These two were fast allies, nor could I doubt that all their conversation had been about me. And so Elsbeth was to watch me, and prevent my seeing much of Mr. Cowper, the hero who had condescended to stoop to my level, and ask me to be his friend! But they should not succeed; on that | point I had made up my mind. What right had Harry to set a spy over my actions? I would not submit to such interference. But I remembered the right which I well knew that Harry hoped and expected to possess, and felt wretched and miserable, and longed to escape to some place where I should never ~ see him again. To my great surprise, when next I en- countered Elsbeth she made no remark what- ever, either about Harry or about my remain- ing out so long. But that night, just as I was falling asleep, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looking up, saw her bending over me. ‘Ts anything the matter?” I asked. “No, love; I only wanted to say good-night. And, ob! Miss Hester, don’t forget Master Harry, who has loved you all his life! New features may be handsomer, and new voices more pleasant, but what are they against a faithful heart?” I could not answer; but I threw my arms round her neck, and kissed her rugged face » again and again. The next morning was wet and stormy, and hour after hour the rain fell in a steady down- pour. “No walk for me to-day,” I thought, re- gretfully, as I stood by the window after luncheon, watching the heavy sky. The time dragged on very slowly; neither work nor books seemed to have the power to interest me; nor did I care to seek Elsbeth’s company, not wisbing to give her an oppor- |
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tunity of speaking to me on the subject which, I guessed, was uppermost in her mind. “By the way, Hester” said my father, as we sat together at dinner that evening, ‘‘I went to-day to call on that Mr. Cowper with whom you distinguished yourself so signally a short time ago. He seems an uncommonly sensible, gentlemanlike man. What a pity he spends all his time over those daubs! He tells me he has done nothing but paint since he came here. However, I have asked him to luncheon to- morrow. Will you and Elsbeth see that every- thing is as it should be?” The expression on the countenance of Elsbeth, - who had entered the room in time to hear this piece of information, was certainly not very amiable; and as she went out again, she closed the door with a bang which made even my father look up in surprise. At two o’clock next day our guest arrived. During luncheon I took but little part in the conversa‘ion. My father’s presence always kept me very silent; and, besides that, the topics which they chose were far too deep for me. There was not a subject on which Mr. Cow- per did not appear to be quite at home; and I could see how my father’s cold, stern counte- nance assumed a look. of ever-increasing inter- est and pleasure, a very unusual thing with him. They went into the laboratory together, and Isat by one of the mullioned windows of the apartment which we used as a drawing-room, trying to fix my attention on a book which lay on my knee. A courle of hours passed thus. Then I eard steps approaching, and looking up, saw my father and Mr. Cowper. ‘‘Mr. Cowper says that he would like to see the unused part of the Castle,” said my father. ‘“‘T have some important letters to write, so will you take him over it?” “With pleasure,” I answered, springing up. “Now prepare for a scramble through all kinds of out of the way places, and I can tell you no end of ghost stories, legends, and—” ‘Hester!’ My father’s tone and the look that accompanied it made me long to sink into the ground at my feet. ““Sball we start at once, Miss Macdonald?” said Mr. Cowper, in his pleasant, cordial voice; “it is past five now, and the light will soon begin to fade.” Through suits of stately apartments, hung with discolored tapestry; along weird passa- ges, where the sound of our footsteps awoke strange, lingering echoes, we wandered. Then we climbed up flight after flight of broken stone stairs, until we reached a little turret chamber, the highest in the castle. “Let us rest here and enjoy the view,” he said, leaning out of the window. ‘‘And now for one of the stories you promised me. Let it be a legend of the Castle, if you please. I would like to hear something about the former inhabitants.” I looked at him to see if he were laughing at me, but there wis no ridicule in the look which met mine; and all my shyness vanished at once. “JT will tell you about the beautiful Edith Macdonald,” I said, ‘‘She lived here more than two hundred years ago. She was en- gaged to her cousin, Lord Ronald. She loved him passionately, and he thought that he loved her until a friend of hers, Lady Elsie, came to the Castle. She was as fair and lovely as Lady Edith was dark and stately, and when Lord Ronald saw her he liked her best. Edith hid herself behind the tapestry one day, and heard him telling her so. But Lady Elsie liked some one else, and would have nothing to do with tim, so he soon went back to his first love. She pretended to forgive him, and one day, as he was starting for the hunt, she brought out a stirrup-cup, drank some of it, avd handed him the goblet. He drained it, and five minutes later they were both dead. She had poisoned herself and him, That is all.” >.> yd. is in “ And quite enough. What a terrible tale you chose! I wonder if you could act like that, Miss Macdonald? Have you ever fancied your- self in Edith’s place?” “¢T have.” a3 Well?’ “T would have done the same. Even more; all three should have died. What right had he to offer her the crumbs of his love?” Why I spoke thus I never knew. Often had I thought over the legend, and fancied the re- pentant lover pleading for forgiveness. Edith at first proud, cold, and disdainful; but grad- ually relenting, and at last whispering, ‘‘I for- give all. You love me, and me alone, now; let the past be forgotten!” I was sorry for what I had said; yet felt ashamed to recall it, though I saw that he was watching me with a look of almost pained sur- prise. “Tt is getting quite dark. We must go now,” I said, rising, and leading the way down the narrow, Winding stairs. CHAPTER IV. I went down to the beach again next morn- ing, taking care not to tell Elsbeth that I was going out. 1 tried to persuade myself that I did not ex- pect to meet Mi. Cowper; but the day looked less bright, and a gloom seemed to fall over sea and land when I found that he was not there. Before long, however, I heard steps behind me, and knew who was coming, even before I heard a well-known voice exclaim, ‘‘Good- morning, Miss Macdonald! How fortunate that I should have met you! Will you come and talk to me while I finish my picture?” So we sat and talked; or, rather, he talked, and I listened, like one in an enchanted dream. The next morning found us there again; and the next, and the next. Nor were our meetings confined to the beach; for my father, having taken a great fancy to Mr. Cowper, used to ask him to the Castle almost every other day. They would pass hours in the laboratory, trying experiments, or discussing some new scientific discovery. Then, as the shadows lengthened, it generally fell to my lot to en- tertain our guest, and we would sit in some de- serted chamber or ruined turret, while I told him some of the weird old legends with which my memory was stored. But there was one tale which he never ask- ed me to repeat a second time—that about Edith Macdonald and her wavering lover. ““By the way, who is that Mr. Bolton who carried you off so unceremoniously from me the other afternoon?’ he asked me once. ‘ He seemed to think that you had no right what- ever to talk to me, and you obeyed him as meekly as possible.” “He is Mr. St. John’s agent,” I answered. “We have known each other all our lives, and he is accustomed to treat me as though I were his sister.” ‘Then he is a friend, and nothing more?” “Nothing more,” I said, decidedly. And after that, neither of us spoke of Harry again. During those days, Elsbeth and I said very little to each other. A shadow had fallen be- tween us, which J, for my part, made no effort to remove, Once or twice she commenced to warn me about what she termed my heartless folly; and the answers which I gave her were so short and cold, that she soon gave up the attempt to influence my conduct. j Her looks used to follow me sadly and wist- ully. I saw that she was very unhappy; but tried not to think about ber, and avoided being alone wit) her as much as possible. MISTRESS. | co) the laboratory; for it was seldom, indeed, that he wanted to speak to me. He handed me an open letter, and then, sit- ting down, turned over the pages of a book while I read it. It was dated from London; written by a dy- ing man to his hrother, entreating forgiveness for the many wrongs he had done him, and begging him to give a home to his only daugh- ter, so soon to be left a friendless orphan. “‘T do not quite understand,” I said, when I had finished. ‘**T dare say not,” my father answered. And rising, he commenced to pace the room, his head sunk on his breast, his arms crossed be- hind his back. I knew he would soon speak, and waited in silent expectation. “You never heard that I had a brother,” he began. ‘“‘For many years I have not men- tioned his name, and never intended to do so again. But he is dying now, and I must try to forgive him. He wronged me terribly! First he robbed me of my father’s love and trust, by false, malicious stories, too cleverly constructed to be doubted, and so succeeded in obtaining the greater part of the inheritance to which, as the elder son, I had a just claim. His ill-gotten gains did not prosper with him. A few years saw him almost reduced to beg- gary, and he fled the country, to escape from his creditors. All that I heard of him since was that he bad married a low-born French actress, whom he expected to support both her and himself. Now do you understand the let- ter?” “Yes, father. He wants you to take his daughter to live here?” “That is just it} And I suppose I must— of course I must. Poor Leonard!” And be brushed away the first tear I ever remembered having seen him shed. Then, as though ashamed of himself for his momentary weakness, he said, in his usual hard, business-like tones, ‘I will start at once for London. Let mesee! I can be there to- morrow afternoon, and I will write to let you know when to expect us. Now go! I have some business to attend to. Tell Eisbeth that your cousin is coming, and have one of the rooms near yours ready for ker.” “* Humph!’ was Elsbeth’s ejaculation when I told her the news. ‘‘ Tiere never was much gcod in Master Leonard. His child, indeed!— and her mother a French play-actor! A nice young lady to bring here as a companion for ou!” “What do you know about her mother?” I inquired. For on that point I had thought it better not to give ber any information. ‘T knew your father and all bis family long fore you were born, Miss Hester; and’ as ong as I live Is all never forget the day the news of his marriage came.” “‘Tell ine something about my uncle, please,” I said. ‘There is not a great deal to tell. Strangers thought him a handsome, frank, open-hearted young man; but I knew better. I saw how mean and selfish he was at heart. Still, nearly every one liked him, he had such a plea ' winning manner, As io your iather, he thought that there was no one like him in the world. He only discovered his mistake n your grandfather accused him of having forged his name for large sums of money. It was your uncle who had done it. He tried to shield himself by throwing the blame on his brother. The proofs of Mr. Leonard’s guilt were plain enough, but the old gentleman would believe nothing egainst bis favorite son, Shortly after be got what money he could from him and went abroad. He used to writ long letters home—so loving and affect but he never failed to ask for more money in them. The time came when there was no “Come with me, Hester; I have something | more money to send, and when he found that to say to you,” said my father, one afternoon, | out his letters soon stopped. For a long time as he met me in the hall. ncthing was heard of him. until, one day, a Very much surprised, I followed him into | letter came trom a friend of your grandfather’s, ah : wis i * = a Mea, * “4 ee
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HIS HEART’S MISTRESS. ere ws | ras = pe telling him that he was hiding away from his | never shall see the moutteebeather without creditors, and that he was married to a beauti- | recalling your image to my mind.” ful young actress. Poor old man, he never I took the spray outof his hand and fastened recovered the shock, so great was his grief; | it in my dress. but from that day to this I never heard Mr. Leonard’s name mentioned by any of the family.” “That is shocking! But we must not blame | what lovely flowers I may find on my path, my cousin for her father’s crimes.” ‘ She is his child—that is enough for me!” ‘* Come, now, Elsbeth, you are very unjust; and she way be very nice, after all. “Not very much chance of that, I fancy, | large open window, the bright sunsbine falling Miss Hester.” ‘‘Time will show, Elsbeth.” “Yes; time will show!” “How old is my cousin, do you know?” < “Let me see; her father was married some | the light, chintz curtains, against which the TT time before yours. I suppose his daughter is | outline of her beautifully-formed figure stood about twenty or twenty-one.” $ ‘¢T wonder whether I shall like her, Elsbeth. Oh, if we could only love each other like sisters! | which passed over my companion’s face as we —I have so longed for a sister all my life. am glad she is coming.” Elsbeth did not answer, and I went away, speculating as to what the new addition to our family would be like. The day on which I heard that I might ex- pect my father and cousin, arrived. From the window of my room I could see far down the road, and here I stood watching, for the first appearance of the carriage. At last it came in sight, and long before it drove up to the Castle, I was standing at the open door to receive the travelers. “Will you always keep it?” he inquired. ‘Yes; I think I will.” “‘Do; and oh, Hester, believe me, no matter this one shall always be my favorite.” CHAPTER V. SHE stood just inside the casement of the on her rippling brown hair, her gaze fixed dreamily on the blue peaks of the distant mountains, and her slender white hands lying listlessly on her black dress. Behind her hung out in full relief. I saw the look of surprise and admiration I | paused to watch her in the court outside. “You were right,” he whispered. ‘She is the lovely blush-rose.” ‘“‘And I am the heather,” I thought, ‘‘ sim- ple and homely, but always to remain the fa- vorite.” We went in together. Renee turned her head as we entered the room. ~ “‘ Will you introduce me to your cousin, Miss Macdonald?’ Mr. Cowper said. Only a few minutes before he had called me “Hester,” and I had been wondering whether he would return again to the formal mode of address. Renee bowed in acknowledgment of the in- Me “ Renee, this is your cousin, Hester,” said my troduction, which I fear I performed rather a father, when he had handed out aslight, grace- | 4 viwar aly: Then I lett Sains to tell Els- ful-looking girl, dressed in deep mourning, Her face was very pale; there were heavy circles under her dark violet eyes, but the first glance showed me that she was very lovely. ‘‘ Welcome home!” I exclaimed, kissing her She submitted languidly to the embrace, then said, in a low, sweet voice, with a slightly for- ; : : eign accent, é My head is "aching badly, and I how, I did not'like her quite so'much as ‘I had am very tired; may I go to my room at | affectionately. once?” beth that she might bring in luncheon. When I returned Renee was still standing by the window, Mr. Cowper beside her. There was no lack of animation now; the thoughtful look had vanished, and her eyes were raised laughingly to his. The change of expression made her look even more beautiful; but, some- done before. That night I stood longer than usual before the mirror. The knowledge that the face I went up-scairs with her to the little cham- | 1ich it reflected had no claim whatever to @ I had taken such pains to arrange prettily for her reception. Spring flowers, even beauty —that the eyes, large, soft and brown, were the only good feature—had never trou- in the beginning of May were very rare with bl 3 , i : ed me before. Now I turned away, with us, still I had contrived to find enough to fill something like a sigh, as I compared iy dal , some vases. I almost hoped that she would ie. have remarked them, but she seemed too list- a less and weary to notice anything. ; “So your cousin has arrived, Miss Macdon- with my lovely cousin. More than a fortnight passed, but Renee and I did not make much advance toward friend- ship. 1 generally found her silent and reserved + ald,” said Mr. Cowper to me the next morning, | when alone with me. She rarely alluded to yee -. as we strolled together along the beach. “v “Yes; she came yesterday morning.” ° re “ Well, deseribe her.” her past life, nor could I discover whether she was content with her new home. _ My father seemed rather to like her; and, to “She is lovely!” I exclaimed; then seeing my surprise she was quite at ease with him his incredulous look, I adaed, ‘‘ You seem to | from the very first. She would talk to him at have no opinion whatever of my taste, but wait | meals—almost the only time which he spent in until you see her, and you will have to ac- | our society—and he never gave her any of the knowledge that I am right.” short, impatient answers which | nearly always “Why did you not bring her out with you?” received whenever I attempted to engage him “JT made her remain in bed for breakfast; | in conversation. but if you come in to luncheon, you can make her acquaintance.” “ And until then I can wait patiently.” But if my father liked Renee, Elsbeth did not. “Depend on it, there is more under the sur- Then we began to tall of other things until | face than she cares to show,” she said to me a it was almost time for us to return home. few days after her arrival. ‘‘ And, if I am not Something fluttered in the air, and fell on ; very much mistaken, there is but one person in ; the sand at our fect. He stooped and picked it | the world whom it is possible for her to love, up; it was only a spray of purple heather, | and that person is herself.” whicb the breeze had carried down from the e chiff above. ‘©Oh, Elsbeth, you are too hard on her!” I exclaimed. § And I mean to make her like ‘‘ Miss Macdonald,” he asked, ‘‘do you ever | me before long.” associate certain people with certain flowers?” ‘““You will never ao that, Miss Hester,” ‘Oh, yes; very often. At once, when Isaw | Elsbeth answered. Renee, ‘she ded me of a beautiful blush- rose, the leaves a little crumpled, but only “‘T wish you would tell me something about waiting for the morning sun to open out into | your home in France, Renee.” perfect beauty.” We were walking along the head of the ‘* After that comparison, I hardly like to tell | cliffs together, and I was determined to do my you what I was thinking about. But to me | best to induce her to take me a little into her you always seem like this wild flower, and I | confidence at last. “Why do you want to know?” she asked, al- most sharply, looking hard at me. I felt confused, and did not reply. “ Curiosity, I suppose,” she said, with a laugh, which grated strangely on my ear. ‘““No, indeed, Renee!” I answered. ‘“ But I want so much to be your friend.” “No, Hester; that you could hardly be. You, brought up like a Puritan in this corner of the world, could never understand me. My home, indeed! I never had one. All my life I have been knocking about the world; but somehow I always managed to fall on my feet, and hope to do so to the end of the chapter. How would you like to see me a great aciress, Hester?” ‘Renee, are you in earnest?” “Do not look so shocked. Do you think I intend to wear out my life in humdrum mono- tony? I mean to have a position in the world yet; and, if the mountain does not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain. But, hush! Here is Mr. Cowper coming to- ward us. Don’t think any more about what I said of the stage; of course, it was all non- sense.” Mr. Cowper joined us just then. I could not forget Renee’s last speech, and was more silent than usual. With Mr. Cowper, as with my father, Renee generally engrossed the principal part of the conversation, and he, too, seemed to enjoy talking to her. This day, more than ever, I felt neglected and unnoticed. Not that his manner to me had changed perceptibly, but I could not but feel that I bad been more to him before Re- nee’s arrival. “What a glorious view!” I exclaimed, as we paused on the highest point along that line of coast, several hundred feet above the sea. ‘Glorious, indeed!” said Mr. Covper. “Mountain, sea, and cliff—what wonderful, yet what sublime confusion! Look, Miss Renee! Did you ever see anything more beau-- tiful than that rich, warm light on those black, rugged rocks yonder?” ‘* More beautiful!”—and she Jaughed bitter- ly—* TI call it all wild, terrible—grand, per- haps— but beautiful, never! Give me, instead, one giimpse of the sunny hills and plains of my beautiful France, and I would never ask to sce Scotland again!” “Nature is fair everywhere,” he said, quiet- ly, ‘‘and you will soon learn to like Scotland better than now you do.” ‘«Like it—this cold, dismal land! Not like- ly, Tassure you. Only think,in two days it will be the first of June—the niontb of ruses— and I doubt if I shall see so much as a single bud!” “We will not let you miss the roses, Miss Renee,’’ he said. . But she did not answer. The first of June dawned bright and cloud- less. The sunshine, streaming into my room, awoke me at a little after five. Isprung out of bed, dressed as quickly as possible, and was soon walking briskly along through the balmy morning air. A walk of a little more than an hour brought me to a sheltered, wooded dale, where, in a few minutes, I found the object of my early expedition—a clump of wild rose-bushes. They were not yet in blossom as I had hoped; however, I succeeded in finding some half. dozen buds—one or two pure white, the others delicately tinged with pink. ‘T am sorry they are not better; but I am sure these will please her,” I thought, as I placed them in a little basket and started on my homeward way. Two figures were standing near the Castle gate as I approached, which I soon recognized to be Renee and Mr. Cowper. In one hand she held what looked like a wooden box about a foot square, while the other was clasped in his. His head was bent over hers until it almost wy
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HIS HEART’S MISTRESS. touched her hair, and he seemed to be speaking earnestly and eagerly. Then she turned, and walked toward the Castle, and he strode along in the direction of the beach. I felt glad that he did not come toward me, as I did not want to meet him just then. ‘“‘Where have you been so early, Hester?” asked Renee, coming to the door of her room as I was passing it onmy way to mine. But, with out waiting for an answer to her question, she added, ‘“‘ Will you come in here? I have some- thing lovely to show you.” The box which I had seen in her hand was ly- ing on the table; and, raising the lid, she took- ing out one after another a number of the most exquisite roses I had ever seen. Notwo were alike, and there seemed to be one of almost every shade, from the purest white to the deepest crimson. ‘*Mr. Cowper gave them to you?” I inquired, trying to keep down the lump which rose in my throat. Yes, Only think! he telegraphed to a florist to send them at once, so as to be able to bring them to me this morning, and as soon as they fade I am to have more. I am not to be a single day this month without my roses, he says.” ’ “He is certainly very kind,” I murmured. “Yes; but he says that he felt far happier than I could have done, because he saw I was so pleased. This is the one he asked me to wear to-day.” And, taking up a half-open blush rosebud, she fastened it in her breast. ‘“Now let me choose one for you, Hester. This is a beauty. I will pin it for you.” “No, thank you,” I answered, almost rough- ly; ‘I do not care about wearing flowers.” ‘““As you please. I am sorry you will not take it. Is this basket yours? hat have you covered up so carefully under those leaves?” “ Nothing of any consequence.” And, taking it out of her hand, I hurried from the room. Poor little spray of heather, dry, faded, almost crumbling into dust. I looked at it, and thought of the roses. Was it still the favorite flower, I asked my- self? If not, the answer to that question re- vealed the whole truth. I saw plainly now what I had only vaguely guessed before. I loved this man; nay, more than loved—wor- shiped, adored him. Silently and unperceived the subtle poison had crept into my being, lulling it to sleep ina delicious dream. I had gone on from hour to hour, from day to day enjoying the happiness of the moment without a single thought of the future, or ask- ing myself whither all this was leading. Now my dream was at an end, and bitter indeed was the awakening. There seemed no hope, no escape for me. Life would go on as betore—life, out of which all the sunshine had disappeared. “Not quite twenty yet,” I thought, ‘and may still have fifty years or more to live, and all that time shai] love him just as much as I do now. Perhaps he will sometimes give me a kind word or look, or even speak of the time when we used to be such friends.” Could not Renee have left him to me? Beautiful and winning, could she not be con- tent to wait for some of the many whom fate had doubtless decreed should bow the knee be- fore her? Why had she come between me and the only man who could ever be anything to me? Why, indeéd—did she love him? Perhaps she did; but certainly not with a love such as mine. And while I thought that, it was very hard not to hate Renee with a fierce, jealous hatred. Some one knocked at my door. It was Els- beth, Who came to know why I was not going down to breakfast. “J donot want any; I had some before I went out,” I answered, heedless of the un- truth. And, to my fied. Before long I heard some one at the door again. This time it was Renee, asking if she might come in. “What do you want?” I asked, without un- locking the door. ‘Mr. Cowper ishere. He wants to go fora walk. Will you come?” : "No; I was out this morning. I am too tired.”’ “Very well; good-by.” And I heard her singing gayly as she ran along the passage. A few minutes later I saw them crossing the court together; and, with a bitter, tearless sob, I flung myself on my bed, lost to every- thing save a sense of my own misery. Gradually one idea forced itself on my mind. As yet no one knew my secret; and, if I could help it, none should ever know it. None should suspect that I had given my love unask- ed, and that it had been refused. I must soon meet them, I knew. In half an hour they would return to luncheon, and I would talk and laugh, and look quite as happy as they, and they should nevér guess what a scorching flood of anguish had just swept over me, leaving my life crushed, blighted and worthless. t relief, she went away satis- CHAPTER VL THE ordeal was over, the first meeting past, and I was again alone with my misery. I had acted my part well, without flinching or even changing color; but, oh, it was very difficult to appear calm and indifferent whils his every look, his every tone showed how passionately he loved her. “They will never think of looking for me here,” I thought, as I climbed up to the little turret chamber in which I had told Mr. Cow- per the legend of Edith Macdonald. ‘ “ Had Edith loved Lord Ronald as I loved that man?’ I wondered. ‘Oh, if he had but deceived and wronged me, and returned peni- tently to implore forgiveness,. could I have asked for greater happiness than to gather up the crumbs of a love, uncertain and wavering indeed, but at last mine, and mine alone?’ I heard a quick step on the stairs. Who was coming to invade my solitude? Could they not leave me in peace for a few hours? “Hester, are you there?” It was Harry Bolton’s voice. I had heard that he was to return the evening before, but had forgotten all about him. I felt cold and sick. 1 could not look up nor speak, but held out my hand in silence, . ‘“‘ Blsbeth told me that she believed you were here,” he said; ‘‘and I thought I might ven- ture to follow. I wanted so much to see you. However, if I am disturbing you, I will go away again.” ‘Yes; do, please,” trembled on my lips; but glancing at him, I saw how sad and pained he looked, and could not send him away like that. ‘There is room for you here. Will you not sit down?” I said. He did not wait for a second invitation, but placed himself beside me on the window-sill, for furniture the room had none, “What is the matter with you, Hester?’ he asked, after some minutes’ silence, laying his hand on mine. ; ‘‘ Nothing,” I answered, snatching my hand away. “‘T know you too well to believe that, Hes- ter.” “Harry, I will not bear this from you! What night have you to come here to question and tease me, I should like to know? I tell you I amas well and as happy as ever I was in my life!” . I tried to meet his look steadily; but there was an expression in it which told me that though I might deceive others, I could never deceive him, ; “ Will you not tell me your trouble, dear?” he said, gently. ‘Treat me as you used when we were like brother and sister together.” — ra There was something so kind and affection- ate in his voice, and my poor aching heart was so longing for sympathy, that, yielding to the impulse of the moment, I laid my head on hig shoulder, and sobbed bitterly. “ Oh, Harry,” { moaned, ‘‘if you would only be my brother! I have wanted you so badly to care for me like that; and Iam so wretched, so lonely !” “*Poor little Hester, you shall never repent having trusted me. But if any one has been playing false with you—” “Hush, Harry! No one has,” “ Are you telling me the truth, Hester?’ “Tndeed, I am! I--I have made a fool of myself, that is all.” I knew that 1 had betrayed my secret, but did not care; and Harry wasso noble, so kind. Not a word of reproach, not an allusion to his own hopes, which, like mine, had been cruelly dashed to the ground. And as we sat and talked, freely and unre- servedly as of old, I almost forgot that he had ever cared for me otherwise than as his sister. “Am I to congratulate you, Hester?” asked Rene», as she followed me into my room that night. “Congratulate me! Why so?” “About Harry Bolton, of course. You must be very glad to have him back again. I am sure you and he will suit each other fa- mously.” “Stop, if you please, Renee! There is noth- ing whatever between Harry and me. We are great friends, but we never can be any- thing more.” She gave me a peculiar, searching look. | “T am very sorry to hear you say so,” heaves a said. ‘He seems a very nice kind of yor “e man. But i had almost forgotten to tell you a piece of news. I am evgaged to Mr, Cow- per” “T wish you joy,” I said, speaking calmly, as though every word were not an almost un- endurable torture. ‘‘I trust you may be hap- py with him, Renee.” “Thanks, Hester! I am sure you mean what you say. But, to tell the honest truth, I do not feel quite content with myself, now that I begin to think over what Ihave done. Heis very nice and amiable, and all that, and of ecurse, Tlike him very much, cr I sbould not have accepted him; still I feel that if I had waited a little longer, I might have done bet- ter. “Renee!” My white lips could utter no more. “How sbocked you look!” she laughed, “But I am not one of those romantic girls who fancy that love in a cottage constitutes the sum-total of happiness. You see, lam terri- bly matter-of-tact. that I meant to win a position in the world for myself; and now I have promised to marry an artist, with only about three or four hundred a-year. However, tbe poor fellow is desper: ately in love with me. You sbould have see him when I told bim that I would have nothing whatever todo with him. Ialmost meant it at the the time, only he begged and prayed so for just a little love, that 1 had to give in at last.” And in this strain Renee continued to talk, making light of the love she had so easily won, her every word giving a fresh stab to my poor, stricken heart. mM Next morning I met Mr. Cowper alone, Never expecting to find him at the Castle so early, I went into the drawing-room a few minutes after breakfast to fetch some work which I had forgotten there, He was standing before the window, and came forward to meet me with the same cor- dial, friendly smile, which used to make me feel so happy. Now the room seemed to swim round me, and my lips trembled so that I could hardly speak. ‘ “{ will tell her that you are here,” I said, faintly. : I think I told you once 4 a 2 aa ae ee
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HIS HEART’S MISTRESS. "e ‘hie Se : Wait one moment; I have brought some- | ina low voice, ‘‘and I want to goto her grave. “Oh, no! Nothing can happen to me be- thing to show you. How do you like these?” | I always do.” tween this and the Castle. Good-by for the and he pointed to two small oil paintings which “May I accompany you?” present!” , - Macdonald,” said Mr. Cowper. were lying on the table. One represented a wild, heaving sea, heavy storm-clouds, here and there gleams of lurid light, and one solitary figure standing on the shore—a woman with disheveled hair, and dress drenched with rain and spray, and bend- ing before the wind, while the agonized look on her face showed that within, as well as with- _ out, a tempest was raging. Strange fancy of Mr. Cowper to give that woman my features! I looked at the other picture. It was exactly the same view, but, oh, how different! Bright, smooth water, of the deepest, clearest blue, bathed in a flood of golden sunshine. Leaning against a rock stood a girl, fair and young, her brow as cloudless as the sky, and a blush rose nestling among the coils of her rich brown hair. “‘T want you to accept these pictures, Miss “Will you keep them in remembrance of our friend- ship?” “Thank you; but—” “No buts, if you please. I said that I was going to paint something for you, and you told me I might.” **You are very kind. to you.” “Why do you look so grave? You surely are not vexed at my using your countenance as a model for ‘Storm?’ ” ‘““Why should I be vexed?” “T hardly know. I thought, perhaps, you might be. I think your face could look just like that; but Heaven grant it never may!” It had looked just like that, but he should never know it! “‘Miss Macdonald, has Renee told you any- thing?” he asked. The question was so quick and sudden that I started violently and changed color, | “Yes,” was all that I could say. ; ‘And will you not wish me joy?” “With all my heart!” a ‘*T can hardly believe my happiness to be real, Hester.” The sound of my name, prob- ably uttered unconsciously, was like a cruel wound, but his head was turned away, and he did not see how I shuddered. ‘‘She reaches the perfect ideal of everything a woman ought to be; and loves me with all her heart. Ihave not much to offer her, but she is far too noble and pure to care for the tawrdy prizes offered by the world of fashion and folly, But hush! I hear her coming—my Renee !” She was already at the door. He hurried to meet her, and while he stood with both her hands clasped in his, gazing fondly on her, I took up my pictures, and crept out of the room. Iam greatly obliged Harry kept his word nobly, and what J should have done without his friendship dur- ing the time which followed, I hardly know. In all our walks he was my constant com- panion, thus saving me from the painful neces- sity of forming a third with Renee and Mr. Cowper; but never by word or look did he re- mind me that he knew my miserable secret. How much Elsbeth guessed or knew of the true state of affairs I did not know; she was ven more kind and affectionate than usual, Bus the shadow which had fallen between us did not disappear. Meanwhile my father seemed to take very little interest in our movements. He had told Renee that he fully approved of her choice, and after that rarely alluded to the subject; but Mr. Cowper seemed to have fallen considerably in his good opinion since he had discovered that the gentleman preferred her society to the study of natural philosophy. “Where are you going, Hester?” asked Re- nee, one morning, as she met me at the en- trance door. “‘T am going to the graveyard.” “Why, what can you possibly want there?” “It is my mother’s birthday,” I answered, yr}. ‘‘ Yes, if you wish it,” I answered, feeling that I could not refuse, though I would far rather have been alone. Few words passed between us as we walked down the hillside and through the little vil- lage. “‘T hope you do not mind my coming with you?” Renee said, as I pushed open the church- yard gate. “No,” I answered, feeling at the same time that I was not quite speaking the truth. We stood by the grave together. ‘¢ Aged nineteen,” read Renee. ‘‘ How thank- ful you ought to be that she died while still young and happy. She had not time to grow tired of life. When I think of my mother—” and she sighed heavily. That was the first time she had ever spoken of her to me. “Did you love her very much?’ I asked, rather timidly. “Love! I worshiped—adored her! Oh, Hester! if you could only have seen her; she was so perfectly lovely, and what a glorious life she Jed until she met my father! If she had remained on the stage then she would have been famous now, but when she was just eigh- teen he saw her, and won her with his smoo h, false tongue. She gave up all—friends, fame, ambition for his sake, and what was her re- ward? Soon he tired of her, but she loved him to the last. He used to tell her that he had disgraced his family by marrying an actress, and yet she had to take an engagement in a theater to support them. I have heard him throw her low birth in her teeth, and then put the money she had earned into his pocket to spend on his own pleasures, wheu she had hard- ly enough left to buy food and clothes for her- self aud child. She was so weak and ill that she had scarcely strength to get through her parts. Shall l ever forget the day before she died? I was just fifteen then, and very old for my years. Sbe told me that the end was near, and did all she could to comfort me. Then she made me promise to try to love my father, and to remember that my first duty was to honor and obey him, Honor him I could not; obey him Idid. Yes, I have kept my promise to her; have given up the hope, the joy, the ambition of my life at his command. Oh, Hester! If you only knew how I have fought and struggled with myself!” And, resting her head on my shoulder, she began to sob bitterly. I was utterly amazed. Never had I suppos- ed that Renee, whom I had believed so light- hearted and careless, could speak thus, ‘‘-Your trials are our own,” I said. of the happiness before you.” ‘¢‘ Happiness!” she exclaimed, dashing away her tears. ‘‘ What happiness is there in store for me, I should like to know?” “Oh, Renee, think how he loves you!” She turned away from me, and, sitting down on the grave, rested her head on her hand. : ‘TI often wonder whether I have a heart at all,” she said; but I cannot care for people as they care for me, Love is supposed to makea woman’s life perfect. There you are, for instance. You will love some one before long, I suppose; life will then seem full of charm, and you will ask for nothing but to live on from year’s end to year’s end, as a good wife, mother, and house- keeper. I could not exist like that. If Mr. Cowper had but chosen you, and left me free!” “Renee, are you mad? Do you really mean what yousay?’ “There, now; I have shocked you again!” ‘The excited, passionate tone was gone, and she was her old self again. ‘‘ Could two girls be more different to each other than you and I, I wonder? I hardly think it possible. But how long do you intend to remain here? Is it not time to go?” ‘“Would you mind returning alone, Renee? I should like to stop here a little longer.” ‘¢ Think And, humming a gay French song, she saun- tered down the walk. I was more puzzled than ever. Would it at any time be possible to understand Re- nee? Was there more under the surface than I had given her credit for? How strange- ly good and evil seemed blended in her nature; how passionate her affection for her mother; how uncertain her love for the man whom she had promised to marry! When I returned to the Castle they were to- gether in the drawing-room—Mr. Cowper de- voted as usual; Renee apparently in the high- est spirits. “Tell me, are you ever sad, Renee?” he said, taking little notice of my entrance. “‘ Not often; only now and then, by way of achange. But you should have been with us an hour or two ago. Hesterand I were moral- izing in the most philosophical manner pos- sible.” “Indeed! ject?” “Oh, human life, of course; and we came to the conclusion that there is a great deal of hap- piness to be found in the world, after all, if we only know where and how to look for it.” “‘T have found more than happiness, Renee,” he answered, bending over her, and speaking in a low voice—not too low, however, for me to hear. ‘I have found bliss so perfect, so unutterable, that I sometimes fear that it can- not be real—that a cruel awakening must come sooner or later.” “ Are you afraid that your idol hes ‘feet of clay,’ after all?’ she asked, with a quiet laugh. e ‘ “No, Renee, no; you will always be perfect to me,” he answered, earnestly; but I remem- bered our conversation by the grave, and I thought that, could he have overheard it, he would have discovered ‘ the feet of clay.” I did not care to remain there any longer, and left the room, A little boy from the vil- lage was standing in the hall. “Do you want anything?” I asked. “‘ If you please, miss, did you drop this?” And be held out a smal)) gold locket. I touched the spring, and it flew open. There was a miniature painting inside, the likeness of a young man, with rather handsome features; yet there was something in the coun- tenance which I did not like. “Does it belong to you, miss?’ asked the child. “No; it is not mine; but perhaps my cousin lost it. Go down to the kitchen, and I will ask her.” ¢ I was going to take it to her; but the thought occurred to me that she might not wish Mr. Cowper to see it, sol called her out into the hall. ‘‘This was picked up in the village,” T said, placing the locket in her hand. ‘‘ Does it be- long to you?” I thought that she was going to faint; for every hue of color left her, and she sunk down on the chair beside her. ‘‘Who found it?’ she asked. “Some little boy.” «Has any one else seen it?” “T hardly know. I think not. gave it to me this minute.” “Hester, go and tell Mr. Cowper J have a headache, or give him any other excuse you like. I cannot go back to him just now.” “Are you ill?” “Do not worry me with questions, you not do as I ask?” She rose, and went up-stairs, and I told Mr, Cowper that she was engaged, and could not be seen for the present. I did not meet Renee again until dinner- time. She was much paler than usval, and I thought that I could detect traces of tears. ‘« Hester,” she said, ‘‘I want you to promise never to say anything about that locket to any one,” May I inquire what was the sub- He only Can sy 7 Sumree Ul lO
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. HS BEARTS:MISTREsS. i) “Very well.” “Never to speak of it again—not even to me.” “Certainly not, if you do not wish it,” I an- swered, But I did not forget the occurrence. CHAPTER VIL. ‘‘Hestrr, I have come to show you my dress; is it not perfection? Do I not make a charming Laura ?” And Renee surveyed herself in the mirror with a look of great satisfaction. “Your dress is beautiful,” I said; “but, Renee, believe me, you ought really to give up those theatricals.” “Give up the theatricals!} Are you mad? And what would they all think of me? Mr. St. John says they could not get on without me at all, for no one else could take that part.” ‘“‘Have you forgotten what Mr. Cowper said in his letter this morning?” ‘‘That absurd letter! I am sorry I showed it to you at all! The idea of his telling me that he did not wish me to have anything whatever to do with the theatricals!” “He will be very angry, I am sure!” “T can’t help it if heis. And it is quite time to show him that I have not the least idea of being his obedient slave. It is most unrea- sonable of him not to wish me to enjoy my- self.” “Tf you really cared for him, it would give you vo pleasure to do what you knew he dis- liked.” “Rubbish! But I see Mr. St. John coming. I will go down and ask him if my dress is quite right.” And with another survey of herself in the glass, she left the room, Nearly three months had passed since Re- nee’s engagement to Mr. Cowper, and as yet he had not discovered that she was not all he fondly supposed her to be. ’ I saw how his love for her strengthened from day to day, blinding him to her faults, and making him the willing slave of her many whims and caprices; but until to-day I never knew how lightly she valued that love. About a fortnight ago, business had called \bim to London, and he had not yet returned. “However, his absence seemed to trouble Renee very. little, as she found plenty to amuse her- self with in another quarter, Mr. St. John and a large party of friends having arrived for the shooting season, Game was unusually scarce this year, and soon all but a few indefatigable sportsmen laid by their guns in disgust, and began to look out for a better way of passing their time. Mr. St. John’s shooting-box, as it was called, was in reality a tolerably large and commodious country house, at about half a mile from the Castle. He had induced some ladies to join his party —his aunt, with her two pretty, lively daugh- ters, his sister, a dashing young widow, and the wives of two or three of the gentlemen. The weather was glorious, and not a day passed without some excursion or pleasure- party, in which it soon became a recognized thing that we should take part. Then private theatricals were proposed, and the idea gave general satisfaction. The public were to be admitted on payment of a small entrance fee, and the proceeds were to be distributed among the poor. Renee had mentioned the theatricals, in wri- ting, to Mr. Cowper; and in reply he had beg- ged, almost commanded her not to take any part in them. But his wishes had little weight with her, . and she was determined not to deny herself the pleasure of acting. The principal role had been allotted to her. She was to be Laura, the heroine of the play; and Mr. St. Jobn her devoted lover. In about half an hour, I heard Renee coming up-stairs, ; ; She entered my room without knocking, as usual, opagh ae Se ee , UR ‘Will you help me to take off this dress?” she said. ‘‘ Some of the people from the shoot- ing-box are going out boating, and will call for usin a few minutes; so we must make haste.” I wondered whether it was the idea of the boating party, and her eagerness to to be ready in time, which madeher hands tremble, and gave such an unwonted glow to her cheeks. The evening on which the theatricals were to take place arrived. Harry Bolton was one of the actors, but no part had been offered me, it never occurring to any one to suppose that I could possibly possess any dramatic talent. Still, I had been very busy all day, helping with the arrangements. Two large rooms, opening into each other by folding doors, had to be fitted up—one as the stage, the other for the audience. And it was only just as the hour at which the doors were to be opened struck, that everything was finished. * Glad to be able to sit down at last, I secured a corner place, and dreamily watched the spec- tators arrive. They consisted principally of the neighbor- ing farmers, with their wives and daughters, the shopkeepers from the village, and Mr. St. Jobn’s servants. “ An interesting set of people for ladies and gentleman to act before, certainly!” said a well-known voice beside me, and looking round, I saw Mr. Cowper leaning over my chair. ‘You here!” I exclaimed, greatly surprised. ‘‘ When did you arrive?” “Only about an hour ago. I went at once to the Castle, and Elsbeth told me that I should find you here. But where is Renee?” “You will see her presently.” ‘*She is not in there, certainly?” And he pointed to the curtain which con- cealed the stage. “She is.” ‘¢ And she is to act?” “é Yes.” ‘Let me get this chair in beside you, Miss Macdonald. I want to talk to you. Now, tell me, do you know whether she received a letter from me the day before yesterday?” ‘Yes, she did.” ‘¢ And in that letter I told her plainly that I did not wish her to act.” “Do not be too hard on her, Mr. Cowper. She had promised before that letter came. They could hardly have managed this piece without her, and she did not like to disappoint.” “But why did she promise in the first place? She knew perfectly well what my feelings on the subject were.” ‘How could she?” “We were talking about theatricals one day, and I told her what a dislike I had to them. She could not possibly have forgotten that.” “Perhaps she had; do not condemn her un- heard. But hush; they are going to raise the curtain.” Something like a muttered curse fell from Mr. Cowper’s lips as the stage was revealed to our view. Reclining in an arm-chair, looking wonder- fully beautiful in her cloudy gauze dress, lay Laura, listening to the passionate professions of l6ve made by the young man, who was kneeling beside her. I had never liked the play. Perhaps my ideas were prudish and old-fashioned, as Renee often laughingly told me, but I could not conquer my dislike to see my cousin going through the farce of a clandestine intrigue and elopement with Mr. St. John, for the amusement of any one who chose to pay a shilling to wateh her. What did Mr. Cowper think of it? I wondered, and glanced at him. His look startled me—so fixed and rigid; and yet I could not but feel that it was the calm of suppressed passion, which might break forth at any moment. Renee, evidently, did not see him until to- ward the close of the first act, when, kneeling Pex: Un wo . 4 nO SVE <n a eae _ before her father, she begged his pardon for her secret marriage. Then she turned her head, and saw him watching her. She start- ed slightly, and her color came and went, but her agitation only lasted for one moment; the next she had lost her identity in the character which she was representing. The curtain fell; thunders of applause filled the room, and Laura was called on to reap- pear, which she did, bowing and smiling, her hand resting on Mr. St. John’s arm. Her triumph was complete; every one ac- knowledged that her acting had been perfect, and that a professional could hardly have sur- passed her. “Will you not come to her?’ I said to Mr. Cowper; it was the first time that I had ven- tured to speak to him since the commencement of the play. “Meet her to-night! No; I am not suffi- ciently master of myself. Tell her that she may expect to see me to-morrow morning.” And without even wishing me good-night, he hurried away. Harry Bolton and Mr. St. John walked home with us. I could think of nothing but of Mr. Cowper, and wonder what he would say to Renee in the morning. ‘‘Why are you so silent, Hester?’ Harry asked. ‘Iam afraid you have not been en- joying yourself.” “Not very much, to tell the truth.” “ That’s too bad. But, by the way, how do you think I got on? They all seemed to think that I did very fairly.” His had been a very minor part—only a clerk in a registry office. answered evasively. “You know that Iam nota judge of that kind of thing, but I am sure you were quite as good as any of the others.” “T am glad you think so, And so Mr. Cowper has come back? I saw him sitting near you.” “Yes; be returned this evening.” ‘*Ts he displeased that she has acted? He looked out of sorts. J don’t think he even wait- ed to speak to her afterward.” **T can tell you nothing whatever about him,” I answered, shortly. For though I could now mention Mr. Cowper’s name without a effort, I could not speak’ to Harry about his love for Renee. ne. “Hester,” said Renee, passing her arm through mine, when we had wished the gentle- men good-night, ‘‘did Mr. Cowper say any thing to you about me? Of course he was talk- ing to you.” “‘He said very little.” “Ts he very angry?” *T am afraid he is.” : “Soam I. Ob, how be did scowl at me!” And she shuddered. ‘Tell me more about him,” she continued, following me into my room, ‘“ Was he long there?’ “He came in just before the play com- menced.” “‘How thankful J am I did not see him until the end! I could never have got through if I had known he was watching me.” “He told me to tell you that he was coming to see you in the morning.” “Did he?” She spoke carelessly, but I saw how her hand trembled as she unfastened her cloak. “Oh, Renee, do you know that you have Mr. St, John’s pearl necklet on still?’ I ex- claimed. “a She drew her cloak hastily over it, and gave a forced, awkward laugh. 4 “Did you forget to return it to Mr. St. John?” I asked. “ “No, After all, I may as well tell you the truth. I thought he was only lending me the necklet, and I was very glad to have it, know it was the thing for Laura to wear pearls, and I had none. But when I wanted to return it to him, he refused to take it; said that it was a present, and that he had got it on purpose to give me,” I had not once — noticed him, but did not like to sayso,and You |
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10 ‘* But, Renee, you surely do not intend to keep it?” is “T must. If I say any thing more I shall offend him.” ‘* But, Renee—” ‘Really, Hester, you are very tiresome. Is there any thing very wrong in a girl’s taking a present from a gentleman?’ “T don’t think an engaged girl ought; and what will Mr. Cowper say to it?” “Mr. Cowper!—always Mr. Cowper, until I am sick of hearing his name! I tell you, you will soon make me hate the man. What is it to him if Mr. St. John chooses to give me a few pearls?” _“T know he would not like it.” “‘T don’t care. Iwish I had never seen him, that I had never had any thing to do with him!—and if he dares to lecture me, I shall just tell him so.” “No, no; you cannot be in earnest?” “c I am \?? And she left the room, CHAPTER VIII. ** Don’t I look like a naughty child, waiting for a scolding?’ laughed Renee, next morning. “YT wonder if Iam to be put in the corner, with my face to the wall, or what my punish- ment will be!” I could not laugh; I felt strangely, unac- countably miserable—haunted by a presenti- ment that something serious was going to hap- e:. mo see him coming!” Renee exclaimed. ‘I vill go into the drawing-room, and be the first in the field! Now, my gentleman, you shall . soon discover that T have a will of my own!” ‘ I heard Mr. Cowper’s voice in the hall, ask- ing Elsbeth if he could see Miss Renee; then he went into the drawing-room, and shut the door. About an hour afterward, Renee brushed past me on the stairs, and.went into her own room. I hesitated for a few minutes as to whether I should follow her, but thinking that she might wish to be-alone, went down to the drawing- room. I supposed that Mr. Cowper had gone, but as _ Lopened the door met him. “Hester,” he said, hoarsely, “I want to ws) ; to you—perhaps you can explain all 7 to me?” Py began to pace the room with hasty, un- ven strides, while I stood by the window, _ we ting and trembling. Suddenly he stopped before me, and, looking closely, almost fiercely, at me, said, «Hester, tell me the truth—did Renee love me when ' she promised to marry me, or did she not?’ I could not truthfully say ‘‘Yes;” I dared not say ‘‘ No.” ‘Tell me,” he demanded again, his features : working, his eyes flashing; ‘‘or was she only playing with me from the very first?” “Please do not ask me; how could I know?” “You could, and you do know. You knew all along that she never cared forme. You let her deceive me, without giving me one word of warning. Hester, was that fair or just of you?” ‘What could I have done?” “You should have told me what she really was, instead of letting me find it out, like this.” ‘Would you have believed me, Mr. Cow- per?” He turned quickly away, and began to pace oe room once more. Then coming up to me said, in alow, broken voice, ‘‘ You give me, Hester; but I hardly know I am saying. You cannot think t is to love madly, desperately, as I bave and have your passion scorned and tram- In this very room, on that very spot, ® swore that she loved me; on that very spot, not ten minutes ago, she told me that I was nothing whatever to her. So much for the blind fool who gives his happiness into the Keeping of a woman!” HIS HEART'S MISTRESS. ‘¢Perhaps she did not mean it. She may be sorry now; I will go and speak to her.” ‘*No; do not. Even if she were to come and kneel before me, and beg and pray of me to forgive her, I would not do it.” ‘You think so; but if she were here it would be different.” “Tt would not. After what she said just now there can never be any thing more be- tween us. Am Ito marry a girl who persists in doing that of which she well knows I have the greatest horror? And not only so, but who dares me to prevent her doing it a second time? I never told you or her before, but the knowl- edge that her mother had been an actress was agony to me. Renee has inherited her love fur the stage, and told me that she would far rather take an eagagement at a theater than become my wife, unless I promised to let her gratify that passion. But that is not all. I left her for a couple of weeks, believing that she would think of meand miss me. How does she pass the time?—by flirting with another man! When I accused her of her falseness, she could not deny it—but she did not even at- tempt to offer an apology for her conduct. They walked home together last night, and I watched them. You and Bolton were on in front, and could not see how she hung on his arm, and let him hold her hand in his. Enough! Oh, that I could forget the past, and be the man I was three months ago; but that can never be!” “Forgetfulness will come in time,” I said. ‘¢We must all learn how to suffer.” “Yes, it is the lot of every human ¢reature, I suppose; but it is painful to have all the brightness suddenly swept out of one’s life. And now I must say good-by. I am going away at once, and can never return to this place so long as she is here. You will not quite forget me, Hester—you will sometimes think of those happy days when we used to be such friends?” **T will not forget you. of that.” “Thank you for the promise; and now, be- fore I go, let me ask you one question. Often, lately, I bave fancied that you had some secret trouble; that you were not the same happy, light-hearted girl as when first I knew you. Am I right?” I tried to answer, but no words would come, ‘* Hester,”—and he took my hand in his— “tell me what is wrong, and perhaps I can help you. Probably, it is the last request I shall ever make,” ‘*} cannot—it is impossible!” “ Are you sure?” ‘Yes. Please do not say anything more about it.” “Of course you know best; but I am sorry you will not trust me. Good-by, and Heaven bless you?” He drew me close to him, and I felt his lips pressed to my forehead. Thon he was gone— gone in grief and anger—hbis love scorned and trampled on, his most sacred feelings wounded, his trust and confidence in women lost forever. And I sat alone—I, who would have died for him. My love for him a bitter, humiliating secret. But that secret was mine still, and he should never know it, ‘Hester, what is the matter?” The voice roused me; and raising my head, I saw my cousin standing beside me, bright and gay as ever, not a chadow of the cloud which she had cast over another’s life resting on her fair brow. ‘Oh, Renee,” I exclaimed, ‘“‘ how could you? What have you done?” “You mean about Mr. Gowper, I suppose,” she auswered. ‘‘ That gentleman seems to trouble you far more than be does me, Well, he and I have had a regular quarrel, that is all. I dare say he will sulk for some time before he will try to make it up again.” “He wiil not try to make it up again, Renee, He means never to see you again.” “ How do you know?” You may be sure —— ey a ‘¢ He told me so just now.” “ Are you quite sure he is in earnest?” “T have not a doubt of it.” For some time she did not speak. Her back was turned toward me, and I could not see her visage. Then she said, slowly, “‘ And so it is all at an end between us! Poor fellow, I am really very sorry for him; he was so fond of me. But, we never should have suited each other; and 1 am glad that he has found it out in good time. I suppose he will let me know what I am to do with his letters and presents.” “¢ Probably.” Weeks ago I had given up the idea of ever learning to love Renee. At this moment I al- most hated her—so utterly heartless, so indif- ferent to the sorrow which he was inflicting on others. And yet it was this girl who had crushed the life of Herbert Cowper; this girl, but for whose fatal beauty he might have— But I dared not let mvself think of what might have been had not she come between us, And yet I could not forget that the heather had once been the favorite flower. “Ts it not nearly time for ve to dress, Hes- ter?” Renee said. “Dress? Why so?” ‘*Do you not remember, we are to go to the shooting-box to luncheon. Make haste, or we shall be late. ’ **T do not intend to go.” “Why not?” ‘1 do not care about any of the people there, and I know that they do not care about me.” ‘* Nonsense! Do, please, come; I do not like the idea of going alone, and you know Harry Bolton will be there.” “‘ What is that to me?” “TI thought it was a great deal,” she laughed, meaningly. ‘Renee, please do not speak of Harry like that.” “Well, you certainly are a strange girl. You jet bim waste all his time with you, and then are furious if any remark is made. You take it upon yourself to tell me that I have treated Mr. Cowper very badly; may I in- quire whether it is treating Harry Bolton well to encourage him as you do if you mean noth- ing by it? not mine. Do not think that I wish to inter- fere. Good-by; I am going by myself, as you are so cross and disagreeable,” A gulf seemed to open at my feet; I felt like one who could neither advance nor re- treat. Was Renee right? Had I been treating Harry badly? Had he still any hopes that the time would yet come when I should learn to care for him? If so, he had never once be- trayed himself. Never had he alluded to any feeling warmer than that of friendship for me since the day when I had told him that friend- ship was all that I could give him. I tried to forget Renee’s accusation, but in vain. Thinking over this new difficulty, won- dering how I ought to act toward him in fu- ture, I wandered down to the beach, to the spot fraught with so many recollections for me. What would my life have been had I not come down here that evening to watch the storm? JI wondered. Then I might never have met him; and perhaps Harry— Whose step was that behind me? I turned my bead to look. Jt was Harry Bolton, who bad almost reached my side. “Why, Harry,” I exclaimed, ‘‘I thought you were at Mr. St. John’s!” “‘T did intend to go, because I thought you would be there.” The remembrance of what Reneeshad said, more than the words and the. way in which they were uttered, sent the color tomy cheeks. “Yes,” he continued, speaking in those eager, excited tones which I had not heard from him for so long; ‘‘do you think that I could possibly enjoy myself among all those people, when you were not there? Hester, un- til now I have faithfully kept the promise I as ,& ee iss a Pd However, that is your affair and .
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HIS» HEART'S "MISTRESS. made you months ago, All that time I have waited and hoped, for I felt sure that, sooner or later, love such as mine must win its pro- per return. Tell me that T am right—that I have not been deceiving myself by thinking that you have at last learned to care for me a little.” ‘Harry, stop; you must not speak like that!” “T will not stop! I have broken the ice between us, and you must hear me out. Oh, Hester, do you not know that I have loved you for years—all my life, I think, and have always looked on you as mine? I do not ask fora great deal; only for the right to love you, and make you happy. I know I could do that, Hester. The business of my life should be to please you. DoTI not know you better than you know yourself? Can I not read your slightest wish before you utter it? You are going to say ‘yes,’ darling. You must, you shall; I will take ne refusal!” He had seized my hand, and was trying to draw me toward him, but I shrunk back. “T cannot, Harry!” I exclaimed—‘“‘I can- not! You must not ask me!” “Why not?” be demanded, and his voice sound hollow and unnatural. Iturned away my head, and did not answer. “T see now howit is. That man still stands between us. Hester, I would not have be- lieved this of you. To give me up for one who never cared for you, who never asked for your love, who is all but the husband of another! Have you no spirit—no pride? If you had, you could not do it.” Every word he uttered seemed to fall like a drop of fire on my heart. Bitter was the humiliation which the knowl- edge of my unrequited passion brought me; but to hear him thus speak of it was almost more than I could bear. “Hester,” he pleaded, his voice once more changing to passionate entreaty, ‘‘ will noth- ing induce you to take pity on me? I will wait for weeks, months, years—any time you choose to name, only do not tell me that there is no hope!” For a moment I hesitated. Of what value was my life to me now? Why should I not devote it to making another bappy? Happy, indeed! Could Harry be happy if he knew that every thought, every feeling, every wish of my heart belonged, and would always belong, to another—to him on ‘whom all my love had been bestowed, until there was not any left for one so good, and who so well deserved it all? No; I could not do it! “Harry,” I said, “I shall always care for you as a very dear brother; but we can never be anything more to each other.” He staggered back as though [I had struck him; he was very pale, and for some time did not speak. I felt so sorry for him, that very little would have made me yield; but the thought of the future, and the long years of misery which would be the consequence, gave me strength to say, “Do you not think we had better wish each other good-by now? There is nothing more to be said on either side.” ‘You are right,” he answered, slowly; “and after what has happened, there cannot be even a pretense of friendship between us. You little know what I have suffered lately, meeting you day after day, making you think tbat I was cold and calm, but fearing every moment that the fire which was raging within would burst forth. That is all at an end now. Heaven grant that you may find the happiness which I shall never know, and that I may never see you more!” He was turning away, but I laid my hand on his arm, “Harry,” I said, “before you go, tell me that you forgive me.” He placed his hands on my shoulders, and looked at me for a minute or two; then I felt myself clasped in his arms, and his lips pressed to my cheék again and again. 44 “T cannot let you go!” he exclaimed—‘TI cannot—I cannot! I ask for nothing from you save the right to love you! Do not send me away like this!” ¥ With a violent effort I released myself. “The sooner we part, the better,” I said. “Please go now.” “You are right,” he answered. ‘‘ As long as I am here with you, I am not master of my- self. You asked me just now to forgive you. I do so, with all my heart, Farewell!’ “Farewell!” I replied. Then he lett me, and something in my heart told me that we should never meet again. How long I remained on the beach I know not; but when I returned to the Castle, the evening shadows had commenced to fall. Renee was standing at the gate, and came to meet me. “Did Harry Bolton find you?” she asked. ‘‘He told me that he was going to look for you.” “Yes; he found me.” “‘Something has happened, Hester; you look so pale and frightened. What is it?’ “Renee, what you said to me to-day, was true. I shall never forgive myself about Har- r Red “Then he has been speaking to you. Well?” “Everything is at an end between us. We have said good-by forever.” “ And that is what makes you look so miser- able. If you refused to be his, I suppose it was because you did not care for him. So, why need you think any more about it?’ ‘‘Because my heart is not quite so hard as yours!” I could not help exclaiming. ‘‘ When I know that I have made some one very unhap- py, I cannot forget it so easily.” She gave a low, musical laugh. “After that I am almost afraid to tell you something,” she said; ‘‘ but, sooner or later, you must hear it. Mr, St. John proposed to me to-day, and I accepted him.” CHAPTER IX. AFTER that memorable day, my life flowed on in dull monotony. Renee was so much en- grossed with her new lover, that I saw but lit- tle of her. Mr. St. John’s guests had all taken their departure, so he was able to spend the greater part of his time at the Castle, or in walking with Renee. To me he was always polite and attentive, but in a lofty, condescending manner, which I could not endure; and every day 1 wondered more and more how any girl could tolerate him after such a man as Mr, Cowper. Time, the great healer, was bringing relief to my aching heart; but whether what I felt was resignation to my fate, or listless apathy, I hardly knew; nor did I care to inquire too closely. The breach between Elsbeth and me had grown wider and wider. Harry’s name was hardly ever mentioned between us, nor was Mr. Cowper’s; but I knew that she guessed pretty correctly how matters stood, and I knew, too, why her face always wore such a wistful, troubled expression now, Poor Harry! I felt very sad and contrite when I thought about him. I bad not seen him since that evening when we parted on the beach. He had thrown up his appointment almost immediately, and had gone to commence life afresh in the New World; but more of him I did not know. My father took Renee’s exchange of lovers very quietly. “You are of age; so have the right to choose for yourself,” he said, ‘‘I will give you what money you require for your trousseau, only do not be too extravagant, and do not trouble me about any of the arrangements.’ ‘ Then be went back to the laboratory, to bury himself in his beloved studies. The first snow was falling. The dark brown earth and withered herbage had disappeared, and, as far as the eye could reach, the land- scape was covered with a pure white carpet. ‘What a change since yesterday!” Isaidto _ Renee, as we watched the descent of the feath- ery flakes. ‘‘Do you remember how bare and bleak everything looked then?” “ * And, as soon as the snow melts, the bare- ness and bleakness will return. It is but a vail, after all; and we know what lies under- neath.” There was a hard, bitter ring in her voice, which I had often noticed of late. For some time past I had been quite ata loss to understand Renee. Everything which she had seemed to wish for had fallen to her lot, A few weeks would see her the wife of a man of boundless wealth, able to take up her position among the leaders of society; and that I imagined was the hight of her ambition. Yet she was not happy. A nervous rest- | lessness had taken possession of her. At one | moment she would be apparently in the high- | est spirits; the next, silent and depressed. | I fancied that I could trace the beginning of the change to one day, some weeks ago, when I had seen the postman give her a letter witha foreign stamp. She put it in her pocket, and went at once to” her room. About balf an hour afterward I followed her there, having some trivial question to ask her. “What is the matter? Are you ill?’ I ex- | claimed; for she was lying on her bed, her head buried among the pillows. = wilt At the sound of my voice she looked up. She was very pale, and glared at me wildly. ‘‘ Was there bad news in your letter, Renee?” I asked. om ‘“My letter! What do you know about my letter?” she cried, springing to her feet, and confronting me. | “TJ know nothing!” I faltered. ‘I only | thought—” ; “And what right had you to think? How dare you come here to spy on me?’ mh | “But, Renee—” “T will not hear another word! you?” And she pointed to the door. I left the room, sorely puzzled as to what could be the cause of all this. When next we met, she was a little y than usual; otherwise there were no traces her recent agitation. CW Go, will bad received a letter from an old school-fellow, telling me of the death of a great friend. It gave me rather a shock, and I did not feel in- clined. to talk to any one just them Do not say anything more about it, please. I hate to be reminded of disagreeable things.” I did not allude to the subject again, but could not forget the occurrence, nor conquer the suspicion that she had not told me the truth. : After that, Renee wrote and received a good many letters. She watched the postman closely on certain’ days, and took each Jetter which she wrote to the cffice herself. She sent more than one — parcel, too, which she carefully registered; and once when I asked her why she never wore q costly diamond brooch--one of Mr, St. John’s many gifts—she said that she bad sent it to a jeweler in London to be repaired, but [noticed that the brooch was not returned. I was thinking of ajl these things, and did ~ not answer Renee’s Jast observation. ©. ‘‘ Hester,” she said, abruptly, “tha just like my outer life!” “Your outer life! What do you me: “Tt is all a vail—a sham—a meat deceit; looking so fair and spotless—bea trace of what lies underreath—hidd deep down—but always there!” And she gave a convulsive sob. I neither loved nor respected her, but I felt more convinced than ever that she had some secret trouble, and longed to be able to. com- tw” iY fort her. eve .: f - ap ime ad oi ees
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12 “> HIS HEART’S MISTRESS. © “TI wish you would trust me, Renee!” I said, putting my arm round her waist. “I am sure it would do you good to be able to speak freely to some one.” ‘‘No, no—I never can do that! Oh, Hester be thankful that you are not like me—that there has been no history like mine in your past life!” Then, appearing to recollect herself, she said, - inachanged voice: ‘‘ How childish I am this evening! The snow looks so weird and ghost- ly, it has made me feel quite nervous! But here comes my intended! Oh, dear! I wish he were not dining here to-day! I do not feel at all in the humor to entertain him!” As soon as possible I escaped to my room. As I opened the door, the two paintings, “Storm” and ‘‘ Calm,’”’ which were hanging on the wall, caught my attention. * Are we to change parts?” I thought. ‘Is my life to be ‘Calm’ henceforth, and Renee’s ‘Storm? ” We were sitting round the drawing-room fire after diner—my father, Mr. St. John, Renee, and I~—when Elsbeth came to the door, and called me out into the hall. “There is a man here who tells me that he has some important private business to trans- act with you,” she said. ‘‘I wanted him to give me his message, but he said that he must see Miss Macdonald herself, so I told him to wait in the dining-room.” Leaning against the chimney-piece was a tall, stout, middle-aged man—well-dressed, certainly, but wanting the stamp of the gentle- man. He looked up when he heard my step, and made a low bow. “May I inquire your business with me?” I asked. , ‘<I hoped to have the pleasure of a few min- utes’ conversation with Miss Macdonald,” he said, in correct English, but with a very foreign accent. “T am Miss Macdonald.” ““You?—but, surely—” ‘Oh! perhaps you mean my cousin?” ‘“‘T mean Miss Renee Macdonald; a young _lady who came here from France. Is-she not here now?” Z “She is, Who shall I say wants to see her?” _ “ell her that Monsieur Guinard is anxious to renew his acquaintance with her, if you + please.” —_ “Very well.” _ He gave another low bow, which I acknow- ledged as stiffly as possible, and went back to the drawing-room to give Renee the message. Bending over her chair, I told her, in a low voice, who wanted her. She did not start or scream, but her face grew very white, and she struggled for breath. “ Are you not coming?” I asked, as she did not move. She rose; and leaning heavily on my arm, left the room with me. In the hall she stood still. ‘“‘ Hester,” she said, in a low, frightened whisper, ‘‘have you told that man that I am here?” “Ho asked me, and I said that you were.” “T cannot see him, Hester. Go back and tell him that I am ill—that I have gone away —anything you like.” ‘‘T do not think be would believe me.” She thought for a few moments, then said, ‘‘Tell him to go back at once; I will write to him to-morrow, to the old address, only he must not remain here; then come to me to my ‘room, and tell me what he has said.” She opened the dining-room door, and almost pushing me in, closed it after me, ‘Where is Renee?” Monsieur Guinard asked, sharply. I told him what she had said, “So my lady will not even see me! But I do not intend to be put off like thar, Write to me, indeed, and try to.Luy me «ff as she did beforc! ButI havo had enough of that already; she must do as I wish now.” oRike Cpe. 0d) ites, Os A a * ¢ " ‘“What claim have you to Renee, Monsieur Guinard?” “Time enough for you to hearthat. But look here, my dear!” And he laid his hand on my arm. I sprung back, with an angry exclamation. He laughed, rather uneasily, and continued: “Let me see; what was I saying? Oh, yes; you will soon hear all about me, and athing or two about Renee as well. Now, will you have the kindness to take me to your father, her uncle? I have a few words to say to him,” “T cannot do that; he is not alone. Mr.—” I stopped abruptly, thinking that I might do harm by telling too much. “Mr. St. John—that is the name of the man she is going to marry, is it not?” he said, quietly. ‘‘But Iam going to put a stop to that.” And, pushing past me, he went into the hall. The sound of voices was faintly audible, and, guided by these, he soon found the right door, opened it, and walked into the drawing-room. ‘*Pardon, gentlemen,” he said, coolly seating himself beside Mr. St. John, who had raised his eye-glass to survey the unexpected arrival. ‘Tt is rather late for a formal visit, but I have some business to arrange with you, which I want to get done at once.” ‘*Say what it is, as quickly as possible!” ex- claimed my father, impatiently; ‘cand let me have an explanation of this unwarrantable in- trusion.” ‘‘That explanation I will give with pleasure, as soon as Miss Renee honors us with her pres- ence.” ‘““Renee!—what have you to do with her?” -asked Mr. St. John, in accents of intense sur- prise. ‘““A great deal, I can assure you,” Monsieur Guinard answered, folding his arms, and lean- ing back in his chair. “Hester, where is your cousin?” asked my father, turning to me. “Tn her room, I believe.” “ Bring ber here.” Renee did not say a word when I told her what had happened. As one stunned and be- wildered by a sudden blow, she suffered me to” lead her as far as the drawing-room door, Then she started back. ‘‘What are you doing? Where are you tak- ing me?” she cried. ‘“‘I cannot goin. He is there!” But at that moment my father placed his hand on her wrist. ‘“Come here, and have this explained,” he said, sternly. *|* And she had to yield. ““My darling child,” exclaimed Monsieur Guinard, coming toward her with extended arms—‘‘ my precious one, have I found you at last?” But she motioned him away, and, with an af- fected sigh, he said, ‘‘ Cruel, ungrateful, as usual! But now, my friends, listen to my story. My father was the manager of a small but highly respectable theater in Paris, and at his death I succeeded him. The star of my com- pany was my only sister, Lucille. But just as her fame was at its zenith she must needs make a runaway match with a good-for-nothing Scotchman. I never saw her again; but years afterward I discovered, by accident, that she was dead, and that her husband had placed their daughter as pupil teacher at a school in a small village near Paris, I went to see my niece, and obtained leave for her to visit me. I told her a great deal about the stage and she soon began to compare the weary life she led at school with the delightful existence of actors and actresses, The result was, she left the academy, and joined us, Her father gave his consent on condition of my allowing hima small sum monthly. Renee has inberited a double portion of her mother’s talent, and af- ter a little training was able to take the prin- cipal parts, and tor two years was cur bright est ornament,” He paused, and there was silence in the room. oy ne ‘Renee, is all this true?” It was my father who spoke. Mr. St. John had not once looked at her. “Yes, uncle, it is.” ‘Certainly it is true,” continued Monsieur Guinard. ‘‘ When her father was dying he sent for her, and for a long time I was not able to make out what he had done with her; but she was of age a few days before she left me, and signed papers binding herself to me for three years; and not only that, but her betrothal with my son, Antoine, was publicly announc- ed. Now can you say that I have no claim to her—no right to come here to look for her? She has treated me very badly, and nearly broken my poor son’s heart; but we do not wish to force her inclinations in any way. If we can come to a friendly agreement, we will consent to renounce all claim to her, and per- mit her to live wheve she pleases, and marry as she likes.” “To what kind of friendly agreement do you allude?’ asked my father. “T mean that you must make it worth our while to give her up. Sbeis worth three or four hundred a year tothe theater. Then there are my Antoine’s feelings to be considered. I can- not name a smaller sum than three thousand— or, perhaps I may be very generous, and say two.” That two thousand pounds could be found in my father’s power to give we all very well knew was out of the question. 7 Involuntarily he glanced at Mr. St. John, and so did I. He had been sitting, bis bead resting on his hand, and now, looking up, said, ‘‘ Miss Renee Macdonald was my affianced wife. That being the case, T wish to keep this business as pivate as possible, JI will pay you the sum you de- mand as the price of ber treedom from ber en- gagements to you aud your scn,” Renee threw herself on her knces beside him, and rested her head against his arm. “How can I ever thank you?" she said, in her softest voice. ‘‘I never knew how noble and generous you were, or how much you loved me until now.” “You must not misunderstand me,” he an- swered, rising, and moving away trom her a few steps, She rose, too, and fixed on him an inquiring look. ‘Miss Renee,” he went on, “and you, Mr. Macdcnald, let me assure you that no one can feel more deeply grieved than I do by what has cccurred. When I asked the young lady to Le my wife I knew nothing of the part of her history which this gentleman has now told us. No one can therefore blame me for breaking cff our ergagenent. As to the two thousand pounds, mcre if ne cessary—” “Silence!” commanded Retree, her vice trembling with passion, ‘‘Do not irsult me by offering ne money. Itbave had enough of you and your fair, talse world of fashion. My father on his dying bed charged me to slake off old associations, to become one of those whom society calls honcrable and se:pcctuble. I tried hard to do so, but all in vain. Oh, how I have pined and si kened for one ¢linyse of my native land. How longed to stand betore a crowded audience once more, and receive the ovations of epplause which are my due! The stage is my Lome; I see it all now. My beart bas told me so all along, and I would not listen to it, because, indeed, I hoped to win a place in your could, dull, formal social woild. Take back these Leubies!’—arnd diagging ring afier ring from her fingers, sbe flurg tem on tle ground at Mr, St. Jobn’s feet, ‘ ‘Lhese toc!” —and bracelets, earrings, ard a sbowe: of pearls followed. ‘There! why don’t you pick them up, to keep safely for the piece «f uncon- taminated humanity whom jou will think worthy of bearing your name—a wonan who never degraded herself ty appearing befcre the footlights; never was disgraced by riceiving cheers and applause? And when the nume of Renee Macdonalu is famous thicvghvut the length and breadth of the dramatic world, she will scorn you, as \ou now scorn bei! Hester, uncie, farewell! You have been very kind to de Thes t, ‘ | ee
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4 | | .% HIS.. HEART’S: MISTRESS. a me—much kinder than I deserved. Our paths lie in different directions, but I shall never for- Now I am ready to go with youl” and she passed her hand through Monsieur ‘*T am yours now—yours and get you. Guinard’s arm. Antoine’s!” “Stay!” said my father, placing himself be- fore her. ‘‘ You cannot go to-night.” “T must! to put up my things?” I went with her to her room. A few minutes sufficed to pack a few neces- saries in a small traveling bag, but until we had finished neither of us spoke. Then Renee, taking both my hands in hers, looked long and earnestly at me. “Hester,” she said, slowly, ‘‘shall we ever meet again?” ““T hope so, Renee.” “You hope sol” she exclaimed. ‘‘ Well, with all my faults, I think, perhaps, you do care for me a little, and I feel sure you will think of me sometimes when I am gone.” ‘“When you are gone, Renee!” I repeated. “Tt all seems so strange and unreal. I can hardly believe that it is not a dream!” “The snow has melted, and you see what is beneath at last. Do you remember what we were saying this afternoon, just before Mr. St. John came? I did not think that the climax was so near at hand then. A glorious climax it certainly was! Did you ever see anything to equal the expression of Mr. St. John’s countenance when my respected uncle claimed relationship with me?” And a wild, strange laugh rung out through the room. ; ‘Renee, I cannot understand you. glad or sorry to go?” “T hardly know myself. Yes; I am glad, charmed, delighted. The dream of my life will be realized at last. When I think of the strange scenes I have lived through, I wonder how I could have existed here all these months without Leing moped to death. And Mr. St. John—oh, how he used to weary me! I was like a prisoner in gilded fetters; but the chains are broken now. 1am free—free!” “Tell me something about your cousin An- toine, Renee. Do you care for him? Do you really wish to marry him?” “T do, Hester. You will not believe me, . perhaps, but I do love that man. I loved him while 1 was engaged to Mr. Cowper—loved him passionately at the moment when I prom- ised to be Mr. St. John’s wife. -I tried hard to persuade myself that I did not, and sometimes almost succeeded. I wonder what my life would have been if I had married Mr. St. John? He would have been proud of ime, as he is proud of his hunters, or lis mansion in London; and I should have cared for him as I care for the money which is the ‘open sesame’ to pleasure. Courted and admired in London for some months every year, I then should have gone back to the country, to play Madame Bountiful among his tenants, and all the time longing and pining for the old stage life; yes, and for him, too—for Antoine!” “Loving him so, how could you make up your mind to treat him as you have done?” “Dear little innocent! love is not everything in the world. Did I not tell you that I hoped to be able to take my place among the upper ten thousand?—and as I could not bring him up with me, there was nothing for it but to leave him behind. But since Fate has ordained that the upper ten are never to number xne as one of them, I bow my head meekly to her decree. Ob, how delighted the poor fellow will be to have me Back!” “ And yet your uncle said that they would let you remain with us for two thousand pounds,” I could not help saying. Her brow darkened. ‘“‘My uncle would have sold me. He would sell bis own child, I believe; but Antojne- never! Idonot believe him when he says that Antoine was willing to give me up; and even if he were, would it not be treating me as I Are you I will dress myself warmly; I do not fear the cold. Hester, will you help me would have treated him? But we must not de- lay any longer. Lock my bag, and give me the key.” ‘Renee, may I ask you one question?” ‘Yes; I suppose you may.” “Ts that Antoine’s portrait in the locket you lost in the village one day, a good while ago?” “Yes. What a good memory ycu have!” “Do you always wear it?” “T do. But come, now; my uncle will be impatient.” “Very well. But whatdo you wish done about your clothes?) That bag holds so little.” “You will have the rest sent after me,” she said, then. ‘‘I will let you know when and where to send them; but, remember, every- thing that that man gave me must go back to him at once. But what are you looking at? Oh, those withered flowers! They may be thrown away; they are only some of the roses Mr. Cowper gave me that June morning. Do you remember?” Did I remember? “T am ready now,” she said, wrapping a warm cloak round her. She kissed me two or three times; then went down-stairs. I followed her slowly, carrying her bag. Monsieur Guinard took it out of my hand, and offered his arm to his niece. On the door-step she paused, and looked k at me. Was I mistaken, or was she really weeping? CHAPTER X. Tuk tempest, which had been raging for hours, was over; the sea still rose and fell un- easily, but the huge breakers had subsided into angry swells. Dark masses of cloud still lin- gered on the horizon, which the sun had just pierced with his bright beams, which were soothing troubled nature into peace and rest. Once more I stood in the little cove at the foot of the beetling cliffs, my eyes fixed on the well-known scene before me; but my thoughts had wandered far, far away, back to the shadowy past. I thought of my brief dream of happiness and my bitter awakening; of the friend of my childhood who had loved me so truly, yet so vainly; and of Renee, so bright and lovely, so false and heartiess! What her life bad been since she left us we never heard. One short letter was all that I received from her. I answered it at once, beg- ging her to write often, and to tell me all about herself; but to that letter I never received a reply. For more than two years after her departure nothing occurred to break the monotony of my life. Then came a time of passionate grief, when I knelt beside Elsbeth’s dying bed, and listened tothe last words of the faithful old servant, who had been all but a mother to me. There was no reserve or concealment be- tween us then. She told me how she had mourned and wept over my blind folly, and how she bitterly re- proached herself for not having better kept the promise she had made to Harry to watch over me. “Do not blame yourself, Elsbeth,” I said, again and again. “ You could have done noth- ing forme. I was determined to go my own way.” “ Perhaps you are right,” she would say; but I felt that her grief for my blighted life was troubling her last hours. About a month after her death my father was taken dangerously ill. I nursed bim as well as I could, and had the satisfaction of feeling that at last he had learn- ed to value me a little. Still, when the end came, I felt, not so much that I had lost a pa- sent, as that I now stood alone in the world. Yes, quite alone; for I knew that there could be no possible sympathy between me and the rich, fashionable aunt, my mother’s step-sister, with whom I was henceforth to live. There had been but little communica- tion between her and my father; but she “hah eeveneny Yee Ce eet =A - , y tex “— : : ee a ee ee ee Se was my only near relative, and, by his direc- tion, I had written to her shortly before his death. She arrived at the Castle in a few days, and proved herself a capital woman of business. All the domestic arrangements were taken out of my hands. She ordered and directed everything, finding fault with whatever she herself had not super- intended. Any opposition to her will was utterly hope- less, and soon I found myself submitting like a. child to her guidance. Very little remained out of the wreck of the family property; and as no other course seem- ed open, I agreed to accept the offer which my aunt made, of taking me to live with her in London. And so my last day in my old home came. The next morning I was to leave it with my aunt, to commence a new existence as her hum- ble companion, dependent on her bounty, and expected to be deeply grateful for any marks of affection and kindness which she might, now and then, see fit to show me. I shuddered when I thought what was before me; but knew that since such was my fate, I must bow my head meekly before it. The sound of footsteps in the distance sud- denly roused me from my reverie. It wasa quick, decided tread, such as I had so often waited and listened for in bygone days. Strange fancy !—and_I almost laughed at my- self for my folly. Still my breath came thick .and fast, and my heart beat wildly as the sleps came nearer. It was no fancy after all. Herbert Cowper and I had met once more. I hardly knew whether I was waking or dreaming. I felt my hands warmly clasped: in his; but no word of welcome fell from my trembling lips. “T felt certain that I should find you here, Hester,” he said. ‘Something told me that you would be waiting for me in the place where first we met. But will you not say that you are.glad to see me again?” : ““T am glad to see you,” I answered, speak- ing almost mechanically. . “This is the rock where we used to sit to- gether. Does it not look like an old friend? Come, we will rest here, and you must tell me all about yourself, poor child! I know that you have been greatly tried lately!” “Then you know that I have lost my father and Elsbeth?”’ I said; “‘and am going to-mor- row with my aunt to London. I have nothing | more to tell.” “Then you must listen to me for a few min- utes. Ihave a great deal tosay to you. Have you forgotten the day when I asked you for your friendship, Hester? That was the begin- ning of avery happy time for me. Do you remember my telling you that I always associ- ated you with the mountain heather? I see that you do, but you did not suspect then how dear you were becoming to me. I had resolved to win your love, when tbat girl, with her false, fair face, came between us. She cast a spell over me, making me her slave—her blind, idolatrous slave. There is no need for me to remind you how and why weparted. At first I was half mad with grief, rage, and disap- pointment, but soon learned to bless the day on which I was set free froma bondage which would have been the bane of my life. Then my heart went back again to you, and I longed to find you to tell you all, and to ask you if there were any hope for me, but I dared not.| — Perhaps you wonder why. Do you remember! — telling me the legend of Edith Macdonald, ana what you answered when I asked you what you would have done had you been in her place? ‘What right had he to offer her the crumbs of his love? you said; and I felt that I could not offer you the crumbs of mine, the scorned and despised leavings of another! A spirit of restless wander- ing took possession of me. Since then] have wandered over the greater part of the world. Many and strange the adventures I have en-
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es ee i rt et a a tia to , vree Wes - Are }reweree es ews. ee See 14 countered, but a month past I met with the strangest of all. I had joined a hunting party in North America, and whom should I find among the number but Harry Bolton. You know that there was but little friendship between us, and for some days we studiously avoided each other. One night, however, it so happened that we two had to sit up by the watch-fire together, and we began to talk of you. How it came about, I can hardly say, but soon each knew that the other loved you. Hester, he is a noble fellow. ‘Go, tell her your story,’ he said; ‘ from something that she once said to me, I feel convinced that she will not refuse to listen to you.’ And so I came to find you. You know all now. Is the love I have to offer you too worthless to accept?” “ Worthless! said. “Then you will love me a little, Hester?” “T have loved you with all my heart since the first day I saw you,” I answered. No; any thing but that!” I The theater was crowded to overflowing; curiosity and expectation were at their hight, for a French star, who had been creating an enormous sensation in Paris, was to appear, that ‘ht, for the first time, on the London stage. IT was conscious of the hum of many voices round me, but they sounded distant and indis- tinct. The outer world with its gayeties and amusements, was nothing to me, for happiness, perfect and complete, had fallen to my lot. He was beside me, the man whom I had loved so long, and as I had thought vainly and hopeless- ly, and in another week I was to be his wife. It had not been our desire to go to the thea- ter that evening, but I was still an inmate of my aunt’s house, and her wishes were law. ‘Every one is going to see Mademoiselle Olympe to-night; of course you must go,” she had said. And so we went. But the thought that I was about to see a great actress made very little impression on me. I was thinking how much pleasanter it would have been had Herbert and I been al- lowed to remain at home. : * “ And so you actually knew her—you have enim spoken to her?” some one near me ex- Cc. NAe _ The remark was addressed by a bright, ani- mated-looking young girl, to the gentleman be- side her. : They were so close to us that even had she not spoken so loud we could have heard every word distinctly. “Yes,” he answered, smiling at her enthu- siasm. ‘‘ Only think! I was talking to her for a long time this morning.” ‘Do, please, tell me all you know about her; I want so much to hear.” ‘‘ Well, her mother was French; but I believe her father belonged to a very good Scotch or English family, I forget which. I heard what her name was, but I cannot remember it.” “Ts not Mademoiselle Olympe her real name?” — _ “Ob, no; that is only her stage name. At any rate, her father’s people took her up for a while; and the report is that she ran away and joined her mother’s relations, who were connected with the theater. She married a usin of hers. I know very little of him; but he is very jealous of his wife, and some say that he is not kind to her. My opinion is that he only cares for her for what he can make by her. However, she seems very fond of him; why, no one can make out, Some months ago, when he was dangerously ill, she nursed him with such devotion that she almost wore her- self out. I heard that she was almost crazy all the time that his life was in danger, but as soon as he was better commenced a violent flirtation with an Italian count. No one can understand that woman. But we must not ‘talk ‘any more now, the play is going to be- The curtain was raised, and I saw Renee again. ‘ “HIS HEART’S MISTRES S. ; : a Like, yet unlike herself, her beauty seemed almost supernatural; and she acted her part with a power and passion which held the whole house as though spell-bound. With a strange, sickening sense of dread I Was she once more to dash the cup of happiness from my lips—to rob me of I dared not think of the possibility, and was afraid to watched her. all that made my life worth having? look at Herbert Cowper. Once I turned from the stage, and glanced round the house. Directly opposite I recognized Mr. St. John. He, too, had come to witness Mademoiselle Oly mpe’s first appearance. It seemed so strange to see him there, and I wondered if he were thinking of the time when she had been bis promised wife; or if he had seen her since the evening when they had part- ed with such bitter words. But it was impossible to judge. His lan- guid, aristocratic countenance betrayed no trace of agitation. For some time he calmly surveyed her through his opera-glass, and then leaned. back with a yawn. Gathering all my courage, I glanced at Her- bert. He was very pale, and until the close of the last act neither moved nor spoke. Then, laying his hand on my arm, he whis- pered, ‘‘Did you know that she and Mademoi- selle Olympe were the same, Hester?” ‘** No; I had not the least idea.” “Nor I. If 1 had, I would not have been here. But now I am glad that I came, for I have proved to myself that her power over me is completely gone—that the love which once I fancied that I felt for her was only a fevered dream. You, and you alone, are the mistress of my heart!” Deafening thunders of applause were rend- ing the air, and shaking the building to its very foundations; bouquets of costly flowers were showered on the stage, until they lay ina bruised, fragrant mass at her feet. Again and again she bowed and smiled to the enraptured audience; again and again the thunders of applause were renewed with re- doubled energy. Proudly triumphant sbe looked in her rich, radiant beauty; but I noticed how one glance of withering scorn was cast in the direction of the box where Mr. St. John sat, What her inner life was I knew not; proba- bly I should never know. Whether her spirit was still fretting and chafing, wearing itself out in restless, unsatis- fied longing for some unattainable bliss; or, whether, the highest goal of her ambition be- ing reached, she had found perfect content and happiness, was her secret and hers alone. I felt no envy of her now. The whole world might turn away from the mountain heather, and bow the knee before the beautiful blush-rose. What did it matter to me now that Herbert Cowper loved me? Every one was speaking of her, of her beauty and talent; exhausting every possible epithet of praise and admiration. But I felt no humiliation in the thought that the love and happiness which filled my life were some of the crumbs which had fallen from her table? THE END. . ‘ge The Sunnyside Library. 1 Latta Rooxn. By Thomas Moore........... 10c. 2 Don Juan. By Lord Byron... ............ 20¢c. 8 Parapise Lost. B John Miltor PRR Rais fo 4 Tue LApy of THE E. Sir W .ter Scott... 10c. 5 Luctne. By Owen Meredith F403 1 : 10, ta. ehOO 6 UNDINE ok, THE WaATER-SpIr |, From the German of Friederich De La .ovte Fouque... 10c. For sale by all newsdealers, - sent, postage paid, on receipt of twelve cents for single numbers, double numbers twenty-four ents. ADAMS, VICTOR = CO., Publishers, 9 William street, N. Y. ae BEADLE & ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. Speakers. BrADLE AND Apams have now on their lists the fol- lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, prepared Sr igs A for schools, families, ete. Each volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear, open type, comprising the best collection of Dia- logues, Dramas and Recitations, (burlesque, comic and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season of 1880—as far as now issued—embrace twenty-three volumes, viz. : reenencan Speaker, 13. School Speaker. ational Speaker. 14, Tudicrous Speaker. | 1 2 3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komikal Speaker. 4, Comic Speaker. 16, Youth’s Speaker. 5. Elocutionist. 17. Eloquent Speaker. 6. Humorous Speaker. 18. Hail Columbia Speak 7. Standard Speaker. er. : 8. Stump Speaker. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker. 9. Juvenile Speaker. 20. Select Speaker. 10. Spread-Eagle Speaker | 21. Funny speaker. 11. Dime Debater. 22. Jolly Speaker. 12, Exhibition Speaker. | 23, Dialect Speaker. These books are replete witi: choice pieces for the School-room, the Exhibition, for Homes, ete. They are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain some of the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Declama- tions and Recitations in each book, Dialogues. The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em- brace twenty-six books, viz.: , Dialogues No. One. Dialogues No. Fourteen. Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Fifteen. Dialogues. No. Three. Dialogues No. Sixteen. Dialogues No. Four. Dialogues No. Seventeen. jialogues No. Five. Dialogues No, Eighteen Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No. Nineteen. Dialogues No. Seven. Dialogues No. Twenty. Dialogues No. Eight. Dialogues No. Twenty-one. Dialogues No. Nine. Didiogues No. Twenty-two, Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-three Dialogues No. Eleven. | Dialogues No. Twenty-four. Dialogues No. Twelve. | Dialogues No. Twenty-five. ig oe No. Thirteen. | Dialogues No. Twenty-six, 15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book. These volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availability in all school-rooms. They are adapted to schools with or without the fur- niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac- ters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and female. It is fair to assume that no volumes yet offered to schools, at any price, contain so many po rin Fg useful dialogues and dramas, serious and comic. Dramas and Readings. 164 12mo Pages. 20 Cents. For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, comprising Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Farce, Dress Pieces, Humorous Dialogue and Burlesque, by noted writers; and Recitations and Speen new and standard, of the ea celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof. A, M. Russell. . DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Series. Brapie’s DiaE Hanp-Booxs ror Youne Prorie cover a wide range of subjects, and are especially adapted to their end. They constitute at once the cheapest and most useful works yet put into the market for popular circulation, Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of Games. Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortune-Teller. Book of Etiquette. Lovers’ Casket. Book of Verses. Ball-room Companion. Book of Dreams, Book of Beauty. Hand-Books of Games. BEADLE’S Dime Hanp-Books or GAMES AND POPULAR Hanp-Books cover a variety of subjects, and are es- pecially rery om to their end. andbook of Summer Sports. Yachting and Rowing. Book of Croquet. p Riding and Driving. Chess Instructor. Cricket and Football. Book of Pedestrianism. Guide to Swimming. Base-Ball Player for 1880, Handbook of Winter Sports. Manuals for Housewives. Beapie’s Dime Famity Serres aims to supply a class of text-books and manuals fitted for every per- son’s use—the old and the young, the learned and the unlearned. They are of conceded value. 1, Cook Book, 4, Family Physician. 2. Recipe Book. 5. Dressmaking and Mil- 8. Housekeeper’s Guide. linery. { Lives of Great Americans | Are presented complete and authentic biographies of many of the men who have added luster to the Republic by their lives and deeds, The series em- braces: I.—George Washington. | VII.—David Croc - —John Paul J ones. Me a res Patna — nthony Wayne —Kit Carson. Ivcithan Allen |x 4 .—Tecumseh, V.—Marquis de Lafay-| XI.—Abraham Lincoln, ette. XII.—Pon: : VI.—Daniel Boone. The above publications for sale by all newsdealers or will be sent, post-paid, on receipt of pri BEADLE & ADAMS, 08 Wrutast oY es ge et
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Beadle & Adams’ Sta Speakers. BrADLE AND ADAMS have now on their lists the fol- lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, prepared Ce es for schools, families, ete. Each volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear, open type, comprising the best collection of Dia- logues, Dramas and Recitations, (burlesque, comic and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season of 1880—as far as now issued—embrace twenty-three be pad viz. : {, American Speaker. 13. School Speaker. 2. National Speaker. 14. Imdicrous §; er. 3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komikal Speaker. 4. Comic Speaker. 16. Youth’s Speaker. 5. Elocutionist. 17. Eloquent Speaker. 6. Humorous Speaker. 18. Hail Columbia Speak- 7. Standard Speaker. er, 8. Stump Speaker. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker. 9, Juvenile Speaker. 20. Select pees 10. Spread-Eagle Speaker | 21. Funny Speaker. 11. Dime Debater. 22. Jolly Speaker . Exhibition Speaker. 23. These books are replete with choice pieces for the School-room, the Exhibition, for Homes, etc. They are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain some of the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Declama- sions and Recitations in each book. Dialogues, The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em- brace twenty-six books, viz.: Dialogues No, One. Dialogues No. Fourteen. Dialogues No, Two. Dialogues No. Fifteen. Dialogues No. Three. Dialogues No. Sixteen. Dialogues No, Four. Dialogues No. Seventeen. Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No. Eighteen Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No. Nineteen. Dialogues No. Seven Dialogues No, Twenty. Dialogues No. Hight. Dialogues No. Twenty-one. Dialogues No. Nine. Dialogues No. Twenty-two. Dialogues No. Dialogues No. Dialogues No. Twelve Dialogues No. Twenty-three Dialogues No. Twenty-four. i relve. | Dialogues No. Twenty-five. Dialogues No. Thirteen. | Dialogues No. Twenty-six. 15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book. These volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availability in all school-rooms. They are adapted to schools with or without the fur- niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac- ters suited to scholars of @yery grade, both male and female. It is fair to assume that no volumes yet offered to schools, at any price, contain so/many ph useful dialogues and dramas, serious and comic. Dramas and Readings. 164 12mo Pages, 20 Cents. For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am- ateur ie ‘comprisin Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Farce, Dress Pieces, Humorous Dialogue and Burlesque, by noted ters; and Recitations and Readings, new and standard, of the greatest celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof, A. M. Russell. DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Series. Bravie’s Diwe Hanp-Books FOR Youna Propie cover a wide range of subjects, ani are especially adapted to their end. They constitute at once the cheapest and most useful works yé put into the market for popular circulation. Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of es. Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortune-Teler. Book of Etiquette. Lovers’ Casket. Book of Verses. Ball-room Companion. Book of Dreams. Book of Beauty, Hand-Books of Games, Bravir’s Dime Hanp-Booxs or GAMES Ann PopuLar Hanp-BookKs cover a variety of subjects, and are es- pecially Adapted to their end. andbook of Summer Sports. Book of Croquet. Yachting and Rowing. Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving, Cricket and Football. Book of Pedesttignism. Guide to Swimming. Base-Ball Player for 1880. Handbook of Winter Sports. Manuals for Housewives. Brapie’s Dive Famiiy Series aims to Supply a class 01 text-books and manuals fitted for €V@ry per- son’s use—the old and the young, the learned and the unlearned. They are of conceded value. E ete Stk ms ey, Fhysich . Recipe Book. : . Dressmaking il- 8, Housekeeper’s Guide. linery. ml Lives of Great Americans. Are presented complete and authentic biograPhie, of an of the men who have added jatar 0 the Repub c by their lives and deeds, The series €m- races: I.—George Washington. | VII.—David Crockett. il —Johw Paul J aor ity -—Israel oho. Iil.—MadAnthonyWayne| IX.—Kit Carson. .—Ethan Allen. ' X.—Tecumseh. ain” oy de Lafay-| XIl.—Abraham Lincoln. VI.--Daniel Boone. XTI1.—Ulysses 8, Grant. pos oare oe for sale zy og a na or W sent, pos on rece ri BEADLE & ADAMS, 08 WriuiaM Sty Ne yee bY efor a sad Incomparable in Merit. with those of other publishers, sold at the same | DIME NOVELS. Unapproachable in Price. «= Be very careful not to confound these books price. The vast success of the Dime Novels called into existence ‘‘ Ten Cent Novels,” which the public is sometimes deceived in buying as Dime ovels. The only Dime Novels are those published by BEADLE AND ADAMS, whose copyright trade-mark and signet the word “ Dime” Novel is. 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The Gulch Miners. . Blackeyes. . Old Honesty. . The Border Foes. . Sagamore of Saco. . The Trader Spy. . The Mohave iptive. The Prairie Queen. . The Forest Specter. Old Zip. Graybeard. The Black Princess. Keetsea. . The White Apache. . Antelo . The . The Border Huntress . The Young Spy. Abe. ite Brave. The Balloon Scouts, . Black John. . The Tonkawa Spy. . The Hussar Captain. . Mustang Sam. . Glass Hye. . Dick Darling. . The Red Brotherhood Rival Lieutenants. . Hurricane Bill. . Old Grizzly. . Dashing . Will-o’-the-Wisp. . Dashing Dick. . Old Crossfire. ragoons, Ben Bramble. . The Brigand Captain . Old Strategy. . Gray Hair, the Chief. e Tigers. The . The Rival Hunters. . The Texan Scout. Zebra Zack. Masked Messenger. Mee an, the Pirate. i oe ee 344, 845. Sees Se 22825 424, 425. 426. 427. 428. “; comprises a complete list as far as umbers omitted are out of print. The Indian King. The Long Trail. . Kirk, the Guide. ?. The Phantom Trail. . The Apache Guide. . The Mad Miner. . Keen Kye, the Ranger . Blue Belt, Guide. . On the Trail. . The Specter Spy. . Old Bald Head. . Red Knife, Chief. . Sib Cone, . The Bear rapper. Hunter. . Bashful Bill, Spy ; The White Chief. i pe Boourge ° e uaw ° , Scout pf 76 os 3. Spain Jack. asked Spy. « . Kirke, Renegade. . Dingle, the . The Green Ranger. . Montbars, Scourge. . Metamora. . Thornpath, Trailer. . Foul-weather Jack. . The Black Rider. . The Helpless Hand. . The Lake Rangers. . Alone on the ins. . Phantom Horseman. . Winona, . Silent Shot, pnt . The Phantom Ship. . The Red Rider, . The Grizzly-Hunters. . The Mad Ranger. . The Specter Skipper. . The Red Coyote. . The Hunchback. . The Black Wizard. utlaw. The Mad Horseman. The Privateer’s Bride . The Jaguar Queen. ; Shadow Jack. . Eagle Plume. . The Ocean Outlaw. Red Slayer. The Phantom Foe. . The Blue Anchor. Sheet-Anchor Tom. Old Avoirdupois. White Gladiator. Blue Clipper. Red Dan. The Fire-Eater. . Blackhawk. . The Lost Ship. . Black Arrow. . White Serpent. . The Lost . The Twin Trailers. . Death’s-head Ranger . Captain of Captains, . Warrior Princess, . The Blue Band, . The Squaw Chief, . The Flying Scout, . Sonora Ben. . The Sea King. aptain. Mountain Gi Death Trailer. Crested Serpent. Arkansas Kit, The Corsair Prince, Ethan Allen’s Rifles. Little Thunderbolt. . The Falcon Rover. Honest Hand, The Stone Chief, The Gold Demon, Masked Guide. . The Conspirators. . Swiftwing, p. . The Privateer. . The Black 1 . The Doom . Barden, the . The Gray Scalp. Spy. Pinter. er. The Peddler Spy. . The White Canoe, . Eph Peters. The Two Hunters. . The Traitor Spy. . The Gray Hunter. 451. Little Moccasin, | 452. The White Hermit. 453. The Island Bride. | 454. The Forest. Princess. 455. The Trail Hunters. 456. Backwoods Banditti. | 457. Ruby Roland. | 458. Laughing Eyes. . Eutawan, the Slayer |- 459. Mohegan Maiden. 460. The Quaker Scout. 461. Sumter’s Scouts. ndard Dime Publications. The Five Champions, The Two G Quindaro. Rob Ruskin. The Rival Rovers. _ Ned Starling. Single Hand. Tippy, the Texan, Young Mustanger. ae Ee, e. e Buffalo Trapper Old Zip. we Foghorn Phil, Mossfoot, the Brave Snow-Bird. - Others in Press 462, 463. 464. 465. 466, 467, 468. 469, 470. 471, 4772, 473. 474, 475. 476, THE ILLUMINATED DIME POCKET NOVELS. Comprising the best works only of the most popular living writers in the field of American romance, Each issue a Si novel, with illuminated cover, rivaling in effect the popular chromo. . Hawkeye Harry. . Dead Shot. The Boy Miners. . Blue Dick. Nat Wolfe. The White Tracker. . The Outlaw’s Wife. . The Tall Trapper. . Lightning Jo. . The Island Pirate. . The Boy Ranger. . Bess, the Trapper. . The French py. . Long Shot. , . Gunmaker of Border. . Red Hand. . Ben, the Trapper. . Wild Raven, Ranger, . The Specter Chief. The B’ar-Killer. Wild Nat. Indian Jo, the Guide. . Old Kent, the Ranger. One-Eyed Trapper. Godbold, the Spy. The Black Ship. Single Eye. Indian Jim, se path Eagle Eye. The Mystic Canoe. The Golden Harpoon. Sse mao ewus SSHBIDUA WMS OMNIS OVA CoROME 2 i? SSSASHESEESSSASKESSESBRNSEEEN! © = E ®, Rainbolt, the Ranger. The Boy Pioneer. Carson, the Guide. The Heart-Kater. Wetzel, the Scout. The Huge Hunter. Wild Nat, the Trapper L -cap. The \ White Outlaw. The Dog Trailer. tae. the Pilot. rian, the Pilo The Man-hunter. The Phantom Tracker Moccasin Bill. . The Wolf Queen. . Tom Hawk, Trailer. . The Mad Chief. . The Black Wolf. . Arkansas Jack. . Blackbeard. . The River Rifles. . Merciless Mat. 61. Mad Anthony’s Scouts . The Luckless Trapper fe Ub pe nt i e rapper. Wolf-Cap. Rattli ick, Sharp-Eye. Tron-Hand. The Yellow Hunter. The Phantom Rider. Delaware Tom. . Silver Rifle. . The Skeleton Scout. . Little Rifle. . The Wood Witch. . Old Ruff, the Khe peal 77. The Scarlet Shoulders . The Border Rifleman. . Outlaw Jack. . Tiger Tail, Seminole, Death Dealer. . Kenton, the Ranger. SHUESNASSRASRESS 82333 Specter Horseman. 84. The Three Trappers. . Kaleolah, . The Hunter Hercules. . Phil Hunter. . The Indian Scout. . The Girl Avenger. . The Red Hermitess. . Star-Face, the Slayer. . The Antelope Boy. | . The Phantom Hunter . Tom Pintle, thi ' 96. The Riv re ir . . The Rival: Trappers. . The Squaw a m . Dusky Dick. / 99. Colonel Croc 100. Old Bear Paw. — 101. Redlaw. : 102. Wild Rube. __ 103. The Indian Hunters _ 104. Scarred Eagle. % 105. Nick Doyle. 106, The Indian Spy. 107. Job Dean. 108. The Wood King. 109. The Scalped Hunte:, 110. Nick, the Scout. 111, The Texas Tiger. 112, The Crossed ives, 118. Tiger Heart, Tra~ket 114, The Masked Avengey 115, The Pear! Pirates. 116. Black Panther, 117. Abdiel, the Avenget 118. Cato, the Creeper. 119. Two-Handed 120. Mad Trail Hunter. 121. Black Nick. 122. Kit Bird. 123. The Specter Ridera _ . .. 124, Giant ete. 125." The Girl Captain. 126. Yankee Ep! 127. Silverspur. 128. Squatter Dick. 129. The Child Spy. 180, Mink Coat. 181. Red Plume. 182. Clyde, the Trailer, 133. The Lost Cache. 184, The Cannibal Chief. 135. Karaibo. 136. Scarlet Moccasin, 1387. Kidnapped. 138. Maid of the Mountain. 189. The Scioto Scouts. 140. The Border Renegade 141. The Mute Chief. 142. Boone, th 3 Hunter. 143. Mountain Kate. 144. The Red Sculper, 145. The Lone ef, 146. The Silver Bugle. 147. Chinga the Cheyenng 148. The Tangled 7 149, The Unseen Hand. 150. The Lone Indian, 151. The Branded Brave, 152. Billy Bowle; 153. The Valley Scout. 154, Red Jatket. : 155. The Jungle Scout, 156. The Cherokee Chiet 157. The Bandit Hermit. — 158. The Patriot Scouts 159. The Wood Rangerd 160. The Red Foe. ss 161. Beautiful Unknow 162. Canebrake Mose. — 163. Hank, the G . 164. The Border SONG BOOKS. BrADLE’s Dime Sone Books, Nos, 1 to 88, contaiptr the onl found in the market. Melodist popular collection of copyright songs ti be School Melodist, { Music and Words, JOKE BOOKS. Pocket Joke Book, Jim Crow Joke Book Paddy Whack Joke Boek.
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