Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 2) (1880 11 09)
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The On ly Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published! Ti Price, but 5 cents each. « W AI i n i) ; US HB aN SUNS. a LE AND ADAMS. Ae: OTe na | i Mein * ‘ an HM ri on fe “ inn ‘. ot) bs Ww Ninn’ oN NEAL “wah “NOW, MY LILI, STRAIGHT TO HIM WHO AWAITS YOU!” The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All For A Heart. BY MRS. MARY REED CROwzLL, Author of “The Masked Bride,” “Vials of Wrath,” Etc., Ete. CHAPTER I. THROWING DOWN THE GAUNTLET,” THE brilliant winter afternoon was drawing near its gunsetting, Al! day the sun had shone brightly on the white, freshly-falien snow, that jay in sloping piles in the streets, and now, as the flaming and ruby | ry k AN NINA } | Hi f CULL CHL AT + *~ es - 4 ltd a i i HM i ecounae an tints of the coming eve lent their rich glow, all the lai.Jscape seemed glorified as by a divinely fair presence. _ It seemed ‘a time, a place, for sweet, restful thoughts; for innocent joyousness, and merry gayety; the occasional peals of girlish laughter, or the shouts of deeper voices, told, all along the pretty village streets, that merriment reigned somewhere, if not in all places. And yet, while all Beechcrest was happy and gay, the fairest of then: all, the belle of the little village, whom the girls all envied while they could not but love, and the sterner sex admired where they dared net adore, was walking the floor of her room, with flashing eyes and haughty, compressed lips; her proud. little bead thrown back in indig- nant contempt, her white fingers restlessly lacing themselves in and ou“. Then, suddenly pausing by a little writing-desk, she drew from a eS Ss Se ee = = he
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“or 50: : * arcu, dearest, plese tell me what I must do. He has been here not ten minutes ago, and when I re- fused to see him, my mother bade me remain in my reom, a prisone7, till I should consent to tell him I[ would marry him. Arch, what skall 1 do? You 4 Ihate Ellis Dorrance even more than I fear im; you know I never will be false to you. *Y send this by Lili, our white-winged mes- “Senger, as usual. Arch, 1 await your advice. ** AS ever, FLORENCE.”’ -Then, inclosing the note in an envelope, and “tying a ribbon securely, with many a tender caress she fastened it around the neck of a eweet-eyed bird, a snowy carrier. dove, pure. as Florence’s own girlish heart. ili, straight to him who awaits set off her clear dark complexion, and large, dark eyes. ’ Florence Arbuthnot was called a pretty girl; and certainly she looked very beautiftd that afternoon in her elegantly simple house-dress o£ dark green poplin, fitting so perfectly her evraceful figure, and trailing off in stylish folds around her. : ‘Her hair was very soft, and of a dark, bright rown, with a wave running through it; and her expert fingers could arrange it in a variety of styles that drove the other girls to envious yg ‘To-day she had curled it, and then drawn it ack and fastened it with a large pearl and gold “omb, allowing littie tendrils of curls to escape wherever they chose. _-A half-hour passed; then came a quick ste - elong the hall, and then an authoritative knoc on the door brought back the scarlet bloom that _ ‘Was fading frcm her face as she sat there, in the a —_ gathering twilight, thinking of Mr. Ches = “Tt is I, Florence. Iam coming in.” vce It was Mrs. Arbuthnot’s voice. “Very well. Only I seeno need of announc- Re. ~ing the fact, seeing as the door was locked on ee ‘ outside.” , There was a quiet scorn in her tones as the _--- 'a@y relocked the door on the inside, and then sai down in a dusky corner by the fire. “* f “tT don’t like to co this, Florence; I think you _ eandislike it no more than your father and I die, “Only, Florence, so long as it is decided you ee to marry Mr. Dorrance, and you are so ob- ayy te— 4 - "Tam obstinate, and I never will marry , ‘him! Why do you insist on what I declare is an impossibility?” - - She burst we suey ol forth, growing angry at the calm smile on the lady’s face. cog I have heard young ladies talk so before, Florence, and have seen them marry _ their e cial aversions after all, justas I intend i shall, . ~ “There was a horrible strength in the mild assertion that chilled the girl’s heart, though she was nota’armed. “Yes.” wert on Mrs. Arbuthnot, ‘' I have ar- d with Mr. Dorrance for the wedding—” iin orence sprung from her chair, her whole frame quivering in excitement and indig- hati x es _ a; **Mother! if, indeed, you are—are you my Sat “nother?” aa: She asked the sicstion suddenly, almost ly, as she gazed through the gloom on the ae — 's face, But now the twilight had become too deep for eh her to see the white pallor that spread, as by ss wwagic, over Mrs, Arbuthnot’s face, or to note Ey 7 : ae, x ee ee lhe sick, terrified gleam of her y eyes. . ra ‘Then a low laugh—a little forced—issued val ; the thin, gray‘sh white mouth. “What an absurd question! [ think it de- ‘werves no answer. Rest assured no one but a mother would have borne with ycuas I have e ¥ - * Because,” went on Florence, ignoring the saa clause, ‘‘I never can remember the Yims "when you treated me as a pee another woud. I’ve ane it ‘often and a > often, end, 2s you said, thought how absurd was the idea. But likea revelation it has come to me this momerit—you are net my mother!” “ Biorence, I will not permit this talk!” “There! is that motherlike? would you not laugh and kiss me, and think I was joking, if yuu were my mother? Would eu try to sell me, body and soul, to a man I hate, if I were your child? Before God, I declare my solemn belief that I do not belong to you!” Mrs. Arbuthnot had gained complete control of herself now, and, as she struck a match and lit the gas, she was the impersonation of wound- ed dignity. “Florence, we will notediscuss so ridiculous a Guesion I came up-stairs to tell you that Mr. orrance is in the parlor, and that your father and J demand you to go‘to him, like a dutiful daughter.” sie gt 60 to him, yes,” flashed Fiorence; ‘ and T’ll read him such a lesson as he never heard before.” She turned disdainfully away from the lady; but Mrs. Ai buthnot followed her, and laid her finger on her arm. “Remember what I have said, Florence Ar- buthnot. You refuse Mr. Dorrance at ycur peril |” Her voice was almost a hiss, as she whispered in the girl’s ear, and Florence caught a momen- tary green gleam of the gray eyes, as she shock off the cold band. “T shall refuse him undoubtedly. I detest him now, if I never did before, and he shall know it.” -Like an empress she swept down the stairs, and into the parlor, and at full under the blazing glare of the chandelier. ‘‘Mr. Dorrance, what is it you want of me?” Her cold, curt, yet perfectly polite tones, made it very awkward for his proposed love- making. But Ellis Dorrance was a man of the world, well versed in courteous usages; one whom little things were not apt to annoy. He was certainly a very handsome man, ata first, sweeping glance, with his tall, elegant fig- ure, attired in the most faultless style, the pale, haughtily-cut features, and the starilingly black hair, eyes, brows and beard. Any one would have pene him very fine-looking at first, and then, little by little, was revealed the keen, sinister light in his eyes, the cold, crafty ex- pression of his face, and the unprincipled, licen- tious curve of his mustached mouth. + With a faultless bow, he rose from a chair he had been occupying during that interview above-stairs. “ Be seated, please, Miss Florence.” “Thank you—no. I have but five minutes to devote to you, and I can stand that short time.” She waved ‘away the camp-chair he had brought. “But I fear, my dear Miss—” a. “ You need fear nothing, sir, as I fear noth- ing. Avoid preliminaries, and let me know what it is you wish.” Their eyes met in a steady glance—Florence’s fierce and defiant; his tender and beseeching, and she felt-a thrill, of disgust tremble over her. “T will tell you what I came to say—that I love you very truly, and beg to be honored by being accepted by you as your lover.” A contemptuous smile flitted over Flerence’s face. Then she grew stern and dark again. ‘Ts that all? because I can answer as readily as you have asked; although I doubt if I have taken so much trouble to prepare and jearn it by rote.” ani : She paused a second, and Dorrance took in- stant advantage of it. ‘** Your parent have given me their cordial a poe hope Iam not distasteful to you. a more canlask than that you will love me “You need ask nothing, Mr. Dorrance; we are both of us assuming a cordiality we neither feel. You know as well asIcan teil you, that I care nothing for you, that I never will. You know my parents, as you term them, are de- termined to bring about this marriage. But, Mr. Dorrance, once and for all, I give you my answer in words, as you have had it for months in my conduct: J will not marry you.” She bowed, as if to «nd the matter then and there, but Ellis Dorrance caught ber hand, al- most rudely, as she turned to go. “But [had not expec‘ed this, Florence! This is so cruel, so harsh of you, when you know f love you, yes, worship you so!” A derisive little smile curled her red lips. “T harcly think vour heert is likely to break. But if ic did, 1 could not change my mind. I Gislike you exccedingly, and tis pressing of a , Cty, 2 ; 8 P 4% ‘ . bs. gard tor you.” His brow grew omincusly dark; and, althoug! Florence did not look cirectly at him, she tcib the lL ot glare of his eyes. ' ‘Florence!’ and then by the altered tone :f his voice, she knew there was scmething coming ; so she straightened her head, and strengtheneu her heart, resolved to fight to the very last. ‘* As you said, we need not play at cross-pur- poses. I was as well aware of the conditicn of your affections six montks ago asl am this moment. I knew you leved a young maz, whose pretty face has won what you suppose to be your love. Ilncw that you were engagca to Archer Chessom, and yet this knowledge cd not, will not deter me from my plans.” / = He paused, possibly emaged by Plorence’s elaborately polite attention and sarcastic smile. “Nor dol intend relir.quishirg what I lave in view. I love you, Florence Arbuthnot, with a fervor your lover or yourself can never con.- prehend. I have your parents’ consent to vi you, and make you my wife; more, I have iLcir sworn promise that you shall be my wife, ard 1 intend it'shail:so be! If you will be mine, well and good; I offer you a loyal love, a good hcime, and as happy a life as any one can give ycu. Otherwise, you may learn experimentally what you know now theoretically, that ‘all’s fair in love.’” ; ‘‘*Or war,’ please edd, sir, to your precise programme of arrangements, for I can assuic you there will be ‘war’ to the very knife if this disgusting farce goes on further. Mr. Do- rance, let me bid you good-night.” Then you throw down tke gauntlet?” ‘*T have nothing to do with you at all, sir.” ““And you defy me—my pcwer?” She flashed ‘a glance of supremest scorn st him, and Ellis Dorrance thought she never he «i i so peerlessty beautiful in all her life I. - re. ‘You tall of your power in these days; wher. were I to raise my voice, 1 could call a doxy men to my relief. -Just bear in mind the year, 1870, the vicinity twenty miles only from Ne\ York—and then you can, perhaps, comprehend how utterly silly such language sounds.” Without a further word, she walked quietly from the room and ascended the stairs to he: own arartment, Ellis Dorrance watched her a moment, then ; smile, more terrible than a frown, lighted his ace. , ‘How innocent she is, the darling! I wonder how she'd relish ‘war to the knife? From all appearances, that will be the only way!” f hen, his countenance growing gloomily stern, and his eyes lowering in their intense blackness, he muttered, as . and Mrs. Ar- Luthnot entered the door. * Til accomplish this thing, or may I aie in the attempt!” And the trio sat down together. e CHAPTER II. MOTHER AND SON. CuEssom’s Pride wes the finest old country seat for many a mile either side of Beechcre:¢. village. A large stone mansion, with deep mullicned windows, of good old-fashioned style, a high flight of stone steps, that led to the grand circu- lar entrance, a square, low tower, and ivy- grown walis all lent a delightfully picturesque aspect tothe mansion, making it in reality what. it was in name, Chessom’s Pride. For a dozen generations it had been the home- stead of the family, who loved it only second to- their name, of which they were foolishly, in- ordinately and yet pardonably vain. Foolishly vain, because, in their estimation, none of the human family were so great, © eee so good as the Chessoms of Chesscm’ : ride; because they vaunted this fact in every action of their lives, Pardonably proud, because really the Ches- soms were a noble rece; generous, benevolent, thoughtful of the welfare of otkers. 5 An cxception to this last consideration was very raie in the family; yet, once in a whilc, there would ke a Chessom who was like othe. people, selfish, prejudiced and heady. Such a one, or rather such a pair, were tlo present Mrs, Chessom, @ widuw, and her onl: dsughter, Cora. : The keir, the darling of mother and sister, was precisely opposite in every trait of char~ ac‘er. Archer Chessom was physically perfect; of rarely teautiful face, with his clear, tair, darkly - .goleen hair, that swept over his forehead ina, grucctul curve, his Lright, merry, fathoralesn
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Fei , vs * ; 3. # > a 7 ™ = eyes, ‘of an indescribable violet shade, and heavy, tawny mustache, he was one whom no woman could see without instantly admiring, or know at all intimately, without loving. Proud, without haughtiness, bold, without a | vestige of presumption, Arch Chessom was the | man to whom Florence Arbuthnot had given | her young heart’s whele affections; who in return was beloved by him with a strength and fervor that few persons are cap2ble of. Arch Chessom was in the elegant dining room that winter’s afternoon, when Florence was writing to him from her room, Mrs. Chesson and Cora, each with some trifle of gay knitting, F and attired in full dinner costume, were with | him, awaiting summons to dinner. “You knew Gussie was coming out from Beecherest for a week, didn’t you, Arch?’ _ “TL believe I heard some one mention it.” Jé Cora Chessom meant to create an en- thusiasm on her brother’s part she was mis- taken, for he just glanced up from the after- noon paper he was reading, “‘T meant to speak of it before, for Ido want you to help entertain her. I know she enjoys your society very much.” Arch smiled behind his paper, and thought what a miserable diplomatist Cora was; also, how thoroughly he disliked Gussie Palliser. ‘* And Pm sure Arch returns the compliment; we all love Gussie very dearly,” Mrs. Chessom pronounced her words _as | though they were the fiat of some awful des- tiny. WKnd she’d come over so much oftener if knew Archer wanted her here.” Arch laughed outright as he threw down his aper. ° Pek You ladies are meditating some attack on me, I judge by the skillful skirmishing, while I most cordially avow I prefer an out and out pitched battle.’ Cora laughed, and glanced at her mother. ‘““The truth is, my son, we’ve been hoping so you would marry Gussie Palliser; she is so suitable every way; so stylish and aristocratic if j she and handsome; just your style of beauty, too, Arch.” ’ He made a low bow. “Thanks, mother dear, but I much prefer dark young ladies,” A frown gathered.on Cora Chessom’s pretty face, and her brother knew what she was thinking of before the words left her lips. “T suppose so; like the Arbuthnot girl, for instance.” “Exactly; only be so good as to remember her name is Florence, or Miss, Arbuthnot, which- ever you prefer.” A derkly ominous frown mother’s brow, and angrily. “Indeed, I shall never call her by either name. The idea of you, a Chessom, to cen- sure me because I will not affiliate with a no- body—” : a) Cora!” Arch’s voice could contain that in its tones caleulated to awe pny one to whom he address- ed himself; and his sister knew she had offended lim by his voice. “Perhaps I had best tell you now, that you may set at rest forever, all hopes of my marry- ing Miss Palliser. gathered on _ his Cora, thus reproved, flushed Imade my choice months ago, and when I bring my awife to Chessom’s Pride, Cora can call her Mrs. Chessom, or Flor- ence, whichever she chooses.” Then, with a resolute air, as if the subject were dropped, he resumed his paper. But his indignant mother was not to be thus summarily disposed of, and she rose to her feet _in wrathful pride. _ “Ttis a i a disgrace! and I regret that llive tos day when my son, my only son, shall suily eeond name by taking in sucha creature! A what would your father say if he were alive to know this? and I, your raother, ask you who is she, what is she, that she should come here mistress of us all? But not cf me? never of me! I will leave the home that ba; been mine these thirty years, and beg {firsi! ‘You must choose between us, Archer, between your own mother and this girl!” . Mrs. Chessom was thoroughly in earnest, and _ the young man thought, as he glanced from her | ‘lushed, angerful face to the cold, impassive one of his sister, that the only path for him to pur- sue was that of kind firmness; and, if at all pos- | sible, reconcile them to the idea of his marriage with Florence Arbuthnot, with the mental re- , servation that it could make no possible differ- , ence to him if they did disapprove. He was sole master of Chessom’s ria Pride; and | a he loved his mother, and was proud of | j : i s “s Pei » , 7 = yr % oS p= = . ok THE* WI | aware, surely, that a man of twent % ie Ar his handsome sister, Florence was more dear than both. -He thought of all this as Mrs, Chessom stood before him, her very dress quivering among its heavy silken folds with the partially revealed, partially pent-up excitement she experienced. “ Mother dear, I am very sorry this should have occurred: and yet I had intended to make known my purpose very shortly. You must be -seven feels perfect liberty as to whom he shall marry ; and while I hope to honor and respect every wish of yours, and gratify, to the best of my ability, Cora’s desires, still, in an affair of this kind, I have chosen to be my own counselor.” “But to think we must be subject to her; second to a workingman’s daughter! Arch, it will crush me to the dust!” “Lanticipate no such unfortunate catastrophe, for two reasons: First, Florence has no am- bition to assume the reins of government at Chessom’s Pride, for a time, at least, although, after a while I shall prefer that she should, and shall insist upon it,” Mother and daughter could not but be struck with his quiet, gentlemanly air, his firm, de- cisive tones; they could but feel the dignity of his manner as he thus boldly, affectionately de- fined bis position. “Besides, my dear mother, Florence is not the daughter of a workingman, as you suppose. Were she the child of the humblest chore-we- man, and still Florence, with all her sweet, arch war and winning grace, I should love her as well. Yet, to gratify you and Cora, I will tell you that the Arbuthnots are comfortably off; ‘lorence has received as good an education as Cora, and in style, dress and deportment, is fully her equal.” A contemptuous smile curled Miss Chessom’s NGED MESSENGER lips at the disagreeable comparison; and Mrs. | Chessom drew a long breath. ‘It is only natural that you should talk so. Of course, if you are in love with her, you will admit no faults. Well, as I said before, I say again: choose between us.” Arch was vexed at the remark, and as he dashed his paper on the floor, his eyes glistened, and that look of stubborn haughtiness that was on his mother’s brow, that seldom disfigured his own, proclaimed his resolve. “We will allow the subject to rest. just ring for Hurst to bring in dinner.” It was not a cheerful meal; Mrs, Chessom sat rigidly upright in her gothic-backed chair, and silently ate a scanty morsel of food, while Cora assumed an attitude of indifference that was so unreal, it would have been ludicrous had Arch observed it. As it was, he hastily swallowed a few mouth- fuls of St. Julien soup; then, before the next course wis brought, excused himself and left the room, crossing the hall. to the library, his customary sitting apartment when at home. It was a long, high-ceiled room, with several green satin draped windows, a green and white velvet carpeting on the floor; a pleasant, cheery pam, where one would have loved to linger for ours among the hundreds of books that lined the walls; among the statues, bronzes and paint- Cora, gs. At one of the side windows, just outside, on a sunny veranda, a gorgeously-gilded cage ‘was swaying in the light breeze that had sprung up at sundown, and Arch went directly to this cage as he entered the room. is countenance brightened joyously as be saw it was occupied. ‘* Lili, you bave brought mea treasure!” He smoothed down the pure white f athers ou the beautiful bird’s back, and Lili cooed and nestled as though she understood his commenda- | tion. With carcssing hands he untied the tiny billet, then lifted the cage inside, where the air was genia} ‘end the last rays of the delicious sun | S anted athwart it. As he read, his cheeks grew flushed: and he compressed his lip: tightly, as if to hold back his tongue’s end, _ Then, hastily drawing paper and pencil to his side, he dashed cff an answer: ¢” “My own darling, Iam glad you have told me. I can help you; I a/¢help you; and this is what you must do: Make whatever preparations you need, and leave your home in the mosi secret manner, lest discovery should thwart us and make you dou- bly unhanpy. I will be at the corner of Prince and Church streets with the carriage, any hour you may name to-morrow! we will go direct to Dr. Baldwin’s, your on pestor, be married and return to your house at Chessom’s Pride. Remember, my ‘con- scientious little darling, I am proposing no runaway match: Iam only ng to place you beyond the ae - | some bitterly sharp words that had leaped to. | weeping and like to know? | plish cur long-anticipated ends? Mr. Derrance. | you know as well as I the reason why Florence should she? Woman, does she know a syllabic power of Ellis Dorrance’s annoyance. You will ecr- sent, my dearest Florence? and send our faith. 1 Lili back at once with your arrangen:cnts. Of cou. & it can not be to-night, as it is now near to fo o'clock, and Lili takes an hour or more for kor return to. Beechcrest, by the hand. of Esau, who wil carry this note and the bird to you. Be courageous, ‘my darling, and trust me ever to be your own * ARG Then he rung the bell, and delivered the ed note and Lili, the faithful Cupid’s mess whom Mr, Chessom had trained purposel) convey letters from Florence to himself, know - ing the hoplessness of urging his suit personal at the Arbuthnots’ house, and fearing lest th- wickedness of Ellis Dorrance would wayla) letters sent by ordinary methods of transmitta . Thus was the beautiful carrier-dove employ- ed, the emblem of peace and happiiess, but used, alas, in these sad days, when over the water, fond hearts wait with hope deterred fer the coming of the little winged messenger: dreading to learn the message under its wing, fearful lest some loved one has written for tLe last time, while, high up on seats of national power, the great ones of earth resort to trusty feathered servant to convey imp nf news toand from the doomed city, once Bot gayest of the gay—now, ab, pitifully = na . 1% gladsomeness, and with a million Ceaths knock- _ ing at its gates! And within, while the carrie dove soars aloft in the pure, free air, bearing its precious burden, there crouch the mothir and the daughter, the children and the babes, fearing, wondering why the lrightness bas gone out from earth, the light frem the sun, And yet, in all unhappy Paris, hemmed in by pitiless besiegers, there was no truer a prisoncr than Florence Arbuthnot, in her own becuse, un- der her own roof, that winter’s night. And to none of France’s daughters did ever carrier-dove bring more welcome news than that to her, after the darkness had set in; when trusty Esau, cautiously tapping tke wincow from the little balcony he was accustomed fo use, handed her the precious letter and white- winged Lili. « CHAPTER It. ; SHOW HIM OUT! v Wuegn Florence Arbuthnot bad left. Mr. Eis “si Dorrance standing $0 unceremoniously in tb. ‘pe: arlor, after her positive refusal of him a ; is offers, the girl’s parents had entered, hay- ing heard every word that passed, from an adjoining room. ; , t needed but a glance from either party te r veal the angry vexation that existed on bob sides. oF: ““She’s the most obstinately imp: Veit ent i She doesn’t cure hut — ever saw in all my life. for your authority or my threats.” Dorrance { snapped his fingers lightly. te te Pas ‘** But she must be nade to care, Derrar oe I tell you you shall have her, in spite of the vely vil One himself.” A black frown was ¢ athering on Mr, Arbuth. not’s brows, and bis wife sought to avert the coming storm. ‘Girls are all alike; she will consent soon am confident. You must be patient, Mr. Di rance,” re ‘Patient! did you hear her unqualified re fusal.of me? and en tell me to be patient rather have a chance at young Chessom; that’s causing all this troutle.” f ‘What need vou care for young Chessom, I . Don’t 1 say you shall have her? ‘“And don’t I say you've nothing to say about it?” : The two men were fast verging on to a quar- rel, when Mrs, Arbuthnot’s soft. smcoth voice came in. “There is no use talking this way. If we are ourseives divided, how can we expect to accom- must marry you; the secret is }ours as well ax ours.” : A hoarse Jaugh escaped Derrance’s lips. ** And if the young lady does not suspect of the mystery, at least, I’m 10 judge,’ - A cold, gray shade gathered on Mrs. Arhut- not’s face, and she averted ber eyes from busbana’s, darting an eppealing glance to i rance. that only brought a snecr to his lips, orn “Suspect! she suspect? By heaven's, bow through your intervention?” ; Mr Arbuthnot. grasped his wife’s ly, and glared fiercely do in | face. « “No, calle I e gasped ey uy 5) “J ~ i Se arm rough = 4 ier terrificd n tin tc aS Ie
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B. ees: — fe say a word; and when she told me her con- | vietions, I laughed at her and did tke very best | { eould to disarm her suspicions.” Her husband never let go his hold while she thus hurricdly explained. “Then she has spoken! What did she say? Tell me truly, and remember the sword so long muspended may drop very soon, if there is ey between you and I.” Tt was but a word; she declared I never had seemed Jike her mother, and she believed we - / were not her parents.” A, z a by A fierce, 2lmost insane wrath gathered in Mr. Arbuthnov’s eyes; then he tightened his hold of is wife’s arm. : “Tt will be ill with you if she does not change her mind! Mark that!” Then striding away he paced to and fro in restless agitation. *T suppose I may as well go, as I always go, unsuccessful, and no nearer any results than when I began. By Jove, if it wasn’t for the way I love her, and the way I hate those Ches- sams, I’d give it up.” rrance threw himself moodily back in the an ugly frown contracting his forehead. Mrs. Arbuthnot turned upon him like a “Don’t you give it up!, Just go on, say a month longer, and I swear to you she shall be ‘your wife.” A ay luminous light glowed in her eyes, os her husband glanced approvingly toward Pr. “ A month, is it? that is, granting she does not elope with young Chessom,” ~She’ll not do that. She can not leave her resem,” » WPorrance listened, then took up his hat. “Dye know where I am going? As straight to Chessom’s Pride as I can go.” “And tell young Archer for me that if he dare as much as look at Florence again, he'll ae the day.” _ Bilis Dorrance went out, and called a carriage ta fake him to Chessom’s Pride. fe was just after Arch had dispatched the jer-dove and letter to Florence that Mr. rance’s card.was handed to him by the foot- el. 4 ' A hot flame rushed yes 4 face as he read, then I ew calm and cold as he walked to the little veseption room to see this man to whom he owed so much dislike. Fie had met him frequently before, so they were no strangers, although it was the first oc- casion of Do ce’s visit at Chessom’s Pride. Arch v slightly, and Dorrance rose to his feet ie host entered. “Mr. Dorrance, I believe.” “Yes, I wish to have a short conversation with you, sir, if convenient.” lt was plainly evident that it would not re- ire many words from either to burst into ames the smoldering fire of mutual dislike be- iween them; and while Dorrance was wonder- ing how to begin to speak, Chessom was calcu- latmg .vhether his strength was equivalent to the task of collaring the ‘man and kicking him _dewn the steps. “ Perhaps you are not aware-that the object uy call is of a very delicate nature; so much n fact, that I feel almost at a loss to tell you hat [ wish you to understand.” It might have been that he was warming with his subject, or the sight of Arch Chessom’s aughty, repellent face vexed him; but certain it is that Dorrance’s voice took ona different twne as he finished his sentence. Mr. Chessom’s lips parted in a derisive smile. “ Pray inform me, sir, on this important sub- ject. y time is limited, and I beg you will be as explicit as possible.” The wrathful light rose to Dorrance’s eyes that had chilled Florence Arbuthnot’s heart. “Then, in as few words as possible, since I desire to leave your presence quite as ardently 1s you wish me to do, I wili ask you if you are aware that the attentions you are paying Miss Ptorence Arbuthnot are extremely odious to that young lady’s parents, as well as to my- self?’ If he had expected to work upon Arch Ches- som’s passions, he wes mistakcn, for there was not a quiver of the nostril, or a wink of the eye to indicate the insult he had pointed. “To you, sir? And may I ask who or what a to interfere between any lady and my- self His cool, scornful tone told upon the excit- able Dorrance. He had arisen from his chair in the heat of his wrath, and Chessom slowly rose, too, with an elaborate bow. ‘*Since you are to be the fortunate man, why come here and play this childish farce? John, show Mr. Dorrance the door, and do not bring me his card again.” He held open the door, with graceful, ironical courtesy, to permit Dorrance to pass through. Just at that moment Esau passed in the hall, and not observing the presence of a guest, doffed his hat. “‘T delivered the letter and the bird, sir, and Miss Florence said—” “That is all right, Esau. Mr. Dorrance, good-evening.” He walked out of the library, leaving Ellis alone with the polite footman; the chance words of Esau ringing over and over in his astonished ears as he took his departure. ‘* A bird, and a letter! what could that letter contain that made it necessary that the Chessom carrier-dove, a well-known curiosity in the vil- lage, needs be sent to Florence Arbuthnot to convey an answer?” en, as he was driven rapidly home- ward, a sudden idea seized him; he fairly cprune to his feet in delight at the thought; then, as the carriage whirled past the Arbuth- not house, and he saw a bright light shining in the windows of Florence’s room, a fiendish smile spread over bis sinister face, and he shook his head in villainous delight. ‘*Read your love-letter, Laat girl, and ca- ress your white dove! We’llsee to-morrow who holds the trump card!” CHAPTER IV. THE MAID OF LAKE VIEW. STANDING at a distance of two miles from Chessom's Pride, and situated in the prettiest part of the village of Beechcrest, was a tiny cottage, ornee, whose elegant grounds, laid out in such delightful walks, arbors, dells and glens, where fountains played, and white statues gleamed amid the vivid green of summer foli- age, was the admiration and pride of the Beech- crestians; while it possessed no less attractions in the wintry season, when the snow Jay in vast, trackless sheets on the lawn, or piled up in fantastic heaps on summer-houses, fountain- beds and pedestals. It was a gem of a place, and the house was no less perfect, with its marble-floored corri- dors, and beautifully furnished rooms, where all the elegant luxuries that money could buy, or taste devise, bad found places. : About the estate, as well as the lovely, soli- ee mistress of it, had ever hung a. mystery. ho had bought Lakeview or who had built it, was not known to an inhabitant of Beech- crest; all the facts that were known af all, were patent to every one; and the only known facts were these: That Mr. and Mrs. Edward Grayson, the gen- tleman and wife who lived at Lakeview ina secluded sort of way for a dozen or so of yeurs, had died on a European tour; and that the present proprietress, beautiful Gussie Palliser, was heiress and mistress. Who she was, or from whence she had come, no one knew; peu only knew how beauti- ful and gay and fashionable she was; and Law- yer Alden pored for days over a pile of musty papers. Then the fact went forth that Miss Gussie Palliser was heiress of Lakeview and all the ac- companying colossal fortune. It was no hard task for the young girl to gather about her the elite of Beechcrest. Lake- view was thoroughly remodeled and fashiona- bly refurnished; Miss Palliser established her elegant iittle two-horse ogi and dressed her little colored groom in blue and silver livery ; gave a large, splendid party—and then knew she was a success; second to none, even the Chessoms of Chessom’s Pride, with whom she was at once on terms of cordial intimacy. But with all her shrewdness, Gussie Pailiser had made a grand mistake at the very outset of her career; avd yet she could not help it, for the Fates had so ordained it. She had fallen in love—hopelessly, irretrieva- bly in love. At first it had been a delightful flirtation; then, when the affair began to assume serious proportions, pretty, willful Gussie Palliser made up her mind that life, even with all the extraordinary inducements it offered her, would *{ will tell you who and whatIam. Iam | bea waste, unless she was blessed with the love Florence Arbutimot’s future husband in spite of ven, and 1 demand that you cease your atten- , ‘ * ee he Ff - * of Ellis Dorrance. Possessed of a peculiar dis- position, Gussie Palliser was a girl who would ee ~~. - 4 Ys aa i by some fearfully severe blow. Well, she had never heard of Florence Arbuth:- not, so she gave herself up to the full enjoy- ment of her dream, undisturbed by visions of Dorrance’s disloyalty, feeling herself blessed among women because he had told: her how he loved her. He bad sworn to her how precious she was to him; and then, feeling secure be- cause their stations in life lay so far apart, had one direct to Florence Arbuthnot and sued for er hand! He loved—if such selfish and unprincipled men can experience the emotion—I say he loved sweet Florence far the best. To be sure, his vanity was deliciously flattered by the prefer- ence shown him by Gussie Palliser; and, Flor- ence failing him, he was not adverse to marry- ing the other. As far as the money was concerned, Florence was, on that score, less acceptable in her lack of riches, than Gussie with her snug fortune. And he loved Florence a thousand-fold the best, he said, even as he walked up the circu- lar path that led to Lakeview, whose dozens of lighted windows gave evidence of Gussie’s own bright presence. He went to her with lies on his lips, while she wore a ring he bad given her; he kissed her for a welcome, wondering what she would say if she knew; and then like a reve- lation it flashed across bim that he had been a consummate fool to have gone to Chessom’s Price as he did, avowing his interest in Florence Ar- kuthnot, and Gussie going there so soon, when she surely would learn all. But*he consoled himself with the thought that all might be de- cided before Gussie went to Chessom’s Pride. If his plans worked, as he hoped they would work, Florence would be his own before Arch Chessom could tell Gussie of his perfidy. And so intent were his thoughts, that more than once Gussie tapped his cheek with her fan, and offered a penny for his meditations. CHAPTER V. THE BEGINNING OF WRATH. Gussrm PALLISER never looked more regally than she did that night; and Mr. Dorrance, as he noted the short, boyish curls of sunny brown hair that clustered around her shapely head, and saw the dusky splendor of her black eyes as they fairly scintillated with merriment, wondered if, beneath that gay, joyous exterior, was a hears whose vengeance he would dread to encounter when he proved false to her; and then he wished he had never seen her, or else had never known Florence Arbuthnot. He bade her adieu early, and at the gate bela a burried consultation with a rusty-looking man awaiting him. “Well, Palmer, did she get the letter? Did you see the man leave it?” “With my own eyes; and if you want the answer to it, the sooner you are on the grcunds the better.” ‘*Then you hasten back, and if lam not there in time, attend toit yourself.” Dorrance sauntered slowly along, not desiring to attract even chance attention by undue haste in leaving the grounds of Lakeview; so he lighted a cigar, and walked leisurely ws all unconscious of the presence of Gussie Palliser, as she followed him, rapidly walking to keew pace with bis longer strides. It had happened curiously, and yet the finge? of Fate could be plainly discerned. After Ellis Dcrrance had bade her good-night and had got as far as the fountain, Gussie sud- denly remembered a message she had particu- larly desired to tell bim. Snatching a shawl from the hat-rack in the corridor, she had flown after him; there, just where a large evergreen tree had interposed be- tween them, she had heard the mysterious salu- tations exchanged between Dorrance and the stranger. What was more natural than that her love and jealousy should be outraged and inflamed when she heard her betrothed husband discuss- ing the subject of another lady’s receiving a letter from him, and he awaiting the answer? Gussie Palliser was a person cf strong pas- sions; one who could love as few women do, and hate, despise, as well. At first, as she heard the words that struck a sickening chill to her heart, she had experienced apang of agony, because she loved Ellis Dor- rance so well, and the thought of Icsing him was death to her. Then, as his cool, cautious tones continued, from bs , . * va cv . : ‘> ‘ % ae ‘ « wr a ss eet she wondered who it was that had won Bi
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~ So, We lorrance walked on, her first im- sulse was to stop him, and demand what she inet was her just right to know. Buta sec- ond’s thought told her to find out for herself, and so she walked noiselessly on, twenty yards behind him, with wild fires surging in her veins, | For a moment, as she gazed after bis tall, handsome figure, she verily believed she want- ed to kill him for his falseness; a keen desire to punish him to the fullest extent of her power— and her dark, clouded face wore a strange smile | as she thought how little he, or any one, knew her power, the power a_ passionate, “reckless, ) jealous temper gives into its possessor’s hands THE P 1 . + 5. . the curtains, Ellis saw Fio ? a forth, with a little folded billet around its neck. His face denoted the evil gladness of his heart as he leisurely made exit from the side entra: ce and walked along to his own rooms, where he was to await Palmer. An hour later Pa! mer returned, the dove safe in an uwnsuspicious basket he carried, and Florence’s daintily-worded note still attached to its neck. ** ARCH, dearest, I consent to your proposals. Let it be to-morrow evening, between nine and ten, when I will leave my room by means of some | strategy, even if I have to consent to promise my- | self to that despicable wretch.” It was a long walk from Lakeview to the end | of the village where Florence Arbuthnot lived ; and the snow was cold under her feet. But Gussie kept on, never regarding the time or the distance—only wondering how Ellis Dor- rance could be so treacherous; he, whom she had éxalted to agod among men; and compres - sing ‘her red lips as she thought how dearly he f should suffer if he had dared trifle with her. At the corner Dorrance quickened his steps: and then, when he had reached the sidewalk di- rectly opposite the residence of the Arbuthnots, he paused and steadily regarded the light win- dows of Florence’s room. The moon was going down, but it was light; perhaps on account of the snow; so that Gussie, from her post of jealous observation—a tree- box, just around the corner, where she might have stood in the broad sunlight and never have been observed—could wateh every play of Dor- rance’s features, as he gazed at the gleaming windows. Directly the gas wasturned off; and then Gussie saw a young girl come to the win- dow, ‘raise the sash and look out. Dorrance was earnestly watching her, a half-audible exclama- tion on his lips; and Gussie, her beart throbbin wildly, made up her mind that this fair-face girl was the one who had robbed her of all she | held dear. With eyes flashlIng like those of an enraged feopardess, she suddenly stepped directly before Dorrance. An oath sprung to his lips; less from fear than surprise to see her, face to face, her white trail- ing velvet dress lying whiter than the snow be- neath it. : | Her flaming eyes seemed almost as luridly red as the shawl she had flung around her; and her face was pale as the ghostly moonlight. “ Well, Ellis Dorrance?” - Her commonplace words cut him like a sword, so full were they of stinging wrath. ‘‘Gussie, you in your slippers, and bonnetless, so far from home? Why—” | “Don’t be fretting about me; don’t assume what you do not feel. I ask you what does this all mean?” She raised her hand—and Ellis saw the flash ot the diamond ring he had sworn was his troth- plight to her—toward Florence Arbuthnot’s windows. For a moment Dorrance stood busily searching for a plausible excuse; then, before he could frame a sentence, Gussie spoke: ““Why need I desire you to scl 7 It is enough that I am outraged, insulted by the affair; that you are a rogue, a villain! Ellis | Dorrance, what shall I do to you?” ; Her passionate anger aroused his own un- 3 angelic temper; he saw the game was up; the ; time had come of its own accord when Gussie ) inust learn his perfidy; he would battle with an adverse fate no longer. ae “Gussie Palliser, you count without your | host when you dare threaten me. Remembera man has a right to love whom he chooses;-and | such fiery women as you do not often keep a . man’s heart after they have won it.” “J have kept your heart till she won it; but now, if a free gift I’d not accept it. Ellis Dor- rance, I believe you are one of Satan’s own—go your way; when you least expect it, you may regret the treachery you have shown me.” She turned away from him, and retraced her 2 long, weary, chilling walk to her elegant home, while Dorrance, with a balf-curse that she had detained him so long, hastened after Palmer. _ The two watched from a distance until ; Florence closed the sash again, then, while Palmer went to his home, Ellis walked over to | the hotel opposite the Arbuthnots’ residence. He secured a front room, and there he resolved te await the going forth of the carrier-dove. | Early next morning, Palmer came, according to previous ement; then he set forth on a | walk toward Chessom’s Lodge, where, at a con- venient spot he was to capture the little messen- ger. : erisen, when from his window, peering thrower There was not long to wait. The sun had just | BOS 222 OS ai 5" OS eee ee ee > Dorrance felt a glow of wrath flush his dark cheeks as he read. ‘Now, Palmer, you attend to the errands I spoke of. Go to Isabel first, remember; then return to Norman street.” The man Palmer obeyed; a look of imper- turbable stoniness on his heavy, stolid face; then after he was out of sight of Dorrance he laugh- ed coarsely. “Pm getting well paid for this job, but I reckon the boss don’t suspect what’s at the bot- tom of all my devotion. shag my gay Mr. Dorrance—policy’s the word; for Jim Palmer oars work as hard as this for anybody but him- self. He walked along, a self-satisfied grin on his ugly lips as he glanced up at the darkened win- dows of Florence’s room. “My pretty little lady, it’s lucky you can sleep to-night; for, if Iam a judge, you'll be broke of your rest to-morrow night, on two ac- counts, seeing that J know the contents of your love-letter as well as Dorrance does.” CHAPTER VI. THE CAGED BIRD. THE next day was one of peculiar excitement to Florence Arbuthnot. She had sent her note of acceptance to Arch Chessom, never of course doubting but that he had received it; then, after a restless night, she awoke, resolutely de- termined to break the bonds that were fettering er. Florence’s childhood had not been made up of those delightfully sacred confidences between herself and mother; Mrs. Arbuthnot, though proud of the girl’s beauty and style, had not satisfied the young, craving heart with tender demonstrations of affection, and many were the times Florence had cried herself to sleep in her younger days that she had no one to kiss her good-night, or tuck her up in her crib. Latterly, when she had learned to depend on other resources for her be Sig she had very naturally grown alienated from her parents in heart, if not in manner. Often she had seriously wondered why her life was so barren of the sweet tenderness she saw in other families; then, little by little, ina mat- ter-of-fact way, she had accustomed ‘herself to think she was not the child of Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot. Whose, then, was she? Perhaps another person would have imagined most romantic improbabilities, but Florence supposed she was a charity child, very likely; and while she gave the Arbuthnots te: thanks for their benevolence, she inwardly wish ed she had been less favored in a worldly point of view, and not so starved in her heart. But, all in all, mother, father, lover, was Arch Chessom - to her; whom the Arbuthnots seemed to hate with a most venomous hatred, while, with unseemly determination, they forced upon her the attentions of Ellis Dorrance: which very assiduity, against her oft expressed wishes, was the latest, strongest proof to her that they were not her own parents, who would care for her happiness above all things. So it had come to happen that there were few feelings of compunction or regret in Flor- ence’s heart that day, as she made her prepara- tions for the evening. She had her breakfast brought to her room; and then, by the maid, sent word to Mrs. Ar- buthnot she would be down to luuch, according to the arrangement of the previous day, which meant she was ready to comply with her de- mand to give Mr. Dorrance a satisfactery an-_ swer. >a With beaming face, Mrs. Arbuthnot hastened to the room. leak Iq “T knew you would think better of it, Flor- ence, Just remember his money, and the ele- + mansion he is building on Park Walk. nd he is so handsome, too, my dear!” Fiorence had made up her mind to listen to eulopies on the gentleman’s behalf, and she olathe lady so. Pi 2 sa be “T don’t want to herra word about him, if you please. 1 will see lim at ten this evening; not sooner.” Mrs. Ar-uthnot arched her brows in lady- like amazement. : “Ten o’clock! isn’t that very late?” ‘ “Phen or not at all, whichever you prefer,” returned Fiorence, stiffly. To which the lady assented, only too gladly, through fear of the alternative. - Let it be ten then, in the library. Your father and I will be home till nine or there- abouts, and then we’ve arranged to stay. ali night with Mrs. Orman’s boy that’s ill wit A scarlet fever. I would have been grieved t : have left you in your own room, Florence; as it is, I am_ perfectly content that Ellis Dorrance shall help you to pass an hour or two away. Ann will be in the kitchen you know.” Florence’s heart throbbed gladly. The house to be deserted by her parents, and she left to ge out as she chose! She knew Mr. and Mrs, Ar- buthnot would remain until they knew that Dorrance had come. Mrs. Arbuthnot left the room, to write a sum mons to Dorrance tc come at ten, as Florence had relented, and would see him. At bis room, where he was lodging while the house in Park Walk was being erected, ; 7 -~ = S!lCU Palmer had acquainted himself with the ec tents. . yw Dorrance smiled, and tossed Mrs, Arbuthnot’s note in the grate. % It was nearing the hour of eight o’clock, and Florence, from ber room up-stairs, heard Ellis Dorrance’s voice in the parlor. > “*T came early on a business call, Mr. Arbuth- not, and will retire in a half-hour, to return at ten, to see Miss Florence—” Then the door closed, and Florence, half vexed that he should be under the same roof,-half ex- ultant as she thought how she would out tri- umphed him, went on with her dressing. She was very pretty with her pink-flushed cheeks, and red, arching lips; very lovable with the tender love-glow in her bright eyes ass adjusted her dress before the toilet-glass, thought it was her wedding-dress. To be sure it was all very different from dreams she had conjured up in earlier such dreams as all young girls enjoy, vis a trailing sheeny silken dress, with rich, c: lace gleaming mistly over it; the white, vail bound by the inevitable orange blooms; th white gloves, etc. And yet arrayed in the customary bridal attire, Florence would have failed_to look lovelier than she did in a silver gray Irish poplin, trimmed with crescent folds of darker satin. Her hair was flowing over her shoulders and a narrow band of cherry velvet held it off her face. 7 : Lace cuffs and a collar, her wateh and chain completed her elegant attire, and then she sat down and waited for Ellis Dorrance to ge away. It was only a very few minutes before she his clear ringing voice at the parlor oor. “Don’t trouble yourself to come to the froné door, it’s bitterly cold, Mrs. Arbuthnot. 1 think I know the way, I’ll be back by ten. ood x night.” aed e went out alone, Florence knew ny ‘ footsteps on the carpet. Then the front door closed with a quick jerk. She drew a breath of relief, ‘I can sear breathe when that man is in the hou glanced impatiently at her watch ‘that nounced the time to be half then Mrs. Arbuthnot came in neted, cloaked and furred. “Walter Orman is worse and we must not lose a moment. Florence,” and she stepped closely to the young girl’s chair, speaking in a low, intense voice, ‘‘ Ellis Dorrance wil’ ba here at ten, possibly earlier. I trust you to treat him the same as if 1 were here. Ann will take care to report, remember,” A flush of anger reddened Florence’s face, “Tdo not need a servant to spy me. Wher see Mr. Dorrance this evening, I think | shail satisfy both you and him.” The lady failed to notice the accented “when,” and the covert sneer in Florence’s (ona page iat her. ‘ et her eyes shone with a steely gray pt; as she bade ‘‘ good-night.” Rea eae “T shall look for the ring on your finver in the morning, when T return.” < ‘You shall see the ring when you're‘rrn,” And a,gind little flatter wes im Flerence’s ATG er room, Li-
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6 | THE WIN Gt 4 =a bf > fa ‘ yi TITS REE SEES ENE LS : heart as she thought whose ring Mrs.. Arbuth- | Dorran’e was, as he placed the unconscious | for the answer—‘“‘or, is ib another one whom 5 | you think you love? Remember, Elis, though “he house was deathly still after Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot had gcne; broken at intervals by the jolly melody of Irish Ann and her beau in the sitchen as they sung their old Erin songs, or ; laughed at their own wit. ; Tt was arriving near half-past nine, and ina fever of impatience, Florence began her final 3 preparations. Her sacque, furs and dainty white felt jockey were quickly donned, just as ‘the sound of carriage-wheels went flying past. She ran to the windows, but too late to recog- nize what she knew was the Chessom coach. She drew on her kids, and then sat down for a second before the grate to warm her feet. A feeling of strange, restful peace came over her as she realized how near the end was of all her troubles; a sweet, almost solemn light came } floating into her eyes, and asmile was hovering _ on her pretty lips at her own thoughts. Then, she arose and turned to the door to go out, down away from persecution to love and happiness forevermore. ' . Ellis Dorrance, smiling in malignant triumph, was standing just inside, with the door shut and locked, and the key in his hand. 4 . low, bitter cry came from her lips; a pallid rony swept the light and joy off her face. She luntarily recoiled as her affrighted eyes d upon him; then hot indignation quickly every other emotion before it. — , “Whet do you mean, sir? are you aware this ; iy room?” Dorrance laughed lightly. erfectly well. sony Ad ie Are you aware I am an in- vited guest?” ‘Not to this apartment. If you please we wi'l adjourn to the parlor.” : 5 Ske stepped to the door, but he intercepted f ner, “Thank you, no. Besides you. can not get through, for the door is locked. See!” He swung the key lightly before her. A little shiver of fear ran through her frame. ‘Tt is very like you; all rascals and villains : ne! But in my home, I presume I am either unlock that door or permit me her wise I shall sound an alarm from the ark, ace was pale now, and she saw the fiend- : e on Dorrance’s face that always sicken- ee o, as he stepped closely to her. _ “Do not attempt to make a disturbance, or—” and he drew the gold-mounted pistol from his eat ee ocket. 4 wa “Florence, lam in earnest. I ama desperate many, as you will learn. Now, Florence Arbuth- not, I c e to-night because you are all ; ready ee cher Chessom on the corner of - Gburchst Se hgot intend to be married at your own pas :; But—” - _He paused to enjoy the blank amazement on her face. ow had he learned it ? _ “But, Florence, I have said J loved you; I have sworn anoath tomake you mine; imine, hark you, by fair means or foul. I have offer- -. ed you the fair, and now I shall make you ac- cept the alternative.” aa _ His flashing eyes were burning into her face; words came slowly, forcibly, sternly; the ittle weapon he held with awful grace rence, in a whirl of contending emo- ified, angered, wonder-stricken, stood Derrance really shoot her if she screamed? ‘Then, while she was striving to decide what plans to pursue, he stepped suddenly forward, so near her she felt the natoe of his breath on _ ber cheek; she saw in a single second of horror, that he took from a small box a sponge; she smelled the chloroform, she knew it would ren- der her insensible and she threw out her hands _ to fight him off. It touched her lips; she felt the t sickening sensation that pervades total insensi- bility, and then— Poor Florence! _ Ellis Dorrance was holding her in his arms, ail unconscious, so beautiful, so fair, and his 5 passionate eyes devoured her face in its perfect - eontour, the shapely form, the oath ands sud high arched foot, in the small uttoned Loot. CHAPTER VII. A WOMAN’S VENGEANCE, Wirn oll his bad traits of character, no pre ec form of Fiorence in the large easy rocking-chair, and crew a hassock for her feet to rest upon. | Then he Spans her writing-desk and left there- | on a note he took from his pocket. “T have gone with Arch Chessom. was the only alternative left me.” It was a perfect fac-simile of Florence’s chi- rography, that had_ taken him hours to accom- plish ‘that day, with the intercepted letter to Chessom lying before him. To the note was subscribed her name and Arch Chessom’s, writ- ten in a large, bold hand, that the keen-headed, cunning-handed plotter had practiced on as well; his copy, a blue silken ribbon, he had taken from the carrier-dove’s neck; that bore the name of the owner in his own hand-writing, written in a golden bronze, indelible fluid. This note Dorrance left on the desk where it would be observed the moment one entered the room. Then he took Florence, and drew her vail over her face; carried her gently, silently down the stairs; at the door, fearful lest the cool night air might revive her, he placed the sponge closely to her mouth, while, with but one or two steps he lifted her into the carriage that Palmer had driven to the door—the carriage Florence had heard while she was dressing. He lifted her gently in, and then followed. , ‘Now, Palmer, my good fellow, to the Haunted House as fast as the horses can carry you. Palmer touched up the horses, that had been impatiently pawing the crumbling snow-heaps; down through the village streets the ed along, then out on the country road, past Ches- som’s Pride, where Arch sat in the lighted library, wondering why Florence had been so tardy in answering his letter: and giving him- self as a reason that she knew best when to write im, He heard the rattle of the carriage as it dash- ed by, and he glanced carelessly out at it, then resumed his reading. If he had but known! Ah! if we all but knew sometimes of the invisible danger or sorrows so near, yet so far! Ellis Dorrance’s dark face lighted with sar- donic pride as he peered out at the elegant man- sion, and faintly discerned the forma of Arch by the center-table, where the drop gas was burn- Es:ape ing... Sim Palmer’s sinister face wore a smile, too, as he sneered to himself: ‘*T hate them both! .I wonder which the worst! And as I hate them, so do I love her. Jim Palmer, body-servant to Mr. Ellis Dor- rance, in love with Florence Arbuthnot, heiress of— There, that secret shall not leave my lips, even to the winds.” ; He lashed the horses into a still madder gal- lop, as if the wild speed cooled his heated brain. ‘Yes, I know the secret! and I'll use it too! But I’d love her none the less were she a milk- maid. I wonder who'll win this race? that blackguard inside this carriage, or dandified young Chessom, back yonder? Or Jim Palm- er: His reverie was broken by Dorrance’s. voice: “* As quick as you can, Palmer; for I fear the effects of the drug are wearing off.” *‘ Pye only a quarter mile, sir; it’s all right.” vee dreary, stony road, where the snow had drifted off, the carriage was dragged through a bleak lawn, and to the door of an immensely large, dilapidated house. ith the same jealous care, Dorrance lifted Florence from the pillowed seat, and supported her sete figure to the inner . ‘““Waitamoment. Palmer, come to the fire, and warm yourself. T’ll go back with you.” Then he touched a bell that sat on the table. . A repulsive-f black woman answered the summons. a Bid your mistress come hither. At once, tell er. It was hardly a second, when the door open- ed and a woman ente and came up to Dor- rance: her bright, fiercely-handsome eyes stead- ily regardin orence, ‘Isabel, this is she. Will you attend to her | Palmer, who was sipping hot rum be- £ p side the blazing fire, stolidly indifferent, appar- ently, to whatever passed between the two, she raised her eyes to Dorrance’s face. ““Tell me truly, Ellis, before I touch her: is the story you told me true, that she is an heir- ess you want to get rid of for a friend? or—” and here the low, clear, ringing voice took in a Waive been more centile than Ellis! Coftant int nsenrss that fai fairly challenged him ( % Phy ? lve sworn toserve you, and stand by you, lt gan not brook this.” She laid her ‘nervous, brunette hand on his” sleeve; he met her glance bravely, while a reas- suring smile broke over his handsome, wicked. ace. “‘T told you the truth, Isabel. This gir] musf be eae hidden, for a while at least, as I ex- plained last night. She is nothing to me, nor ever can be. How could she be, when my peer- less [sabel lives?” How tenderly he caressed her; how enchant- ingly her dark face lighted up under his smile! ‘But, Isabel, I fancy she will tell yo strange things; you will not believe them, I know, be- cause I deny them beforehand. Besides, fam sure the tofand I administered has turned her brain somewhat. Seeto her, [sabel, and I will return to-morrow at the same hour.” Then, just as Florence opened her eyes in a frightened, dazed sort of way, and Palmer set down his rum-glass, Ellis Dorrance clasped Isa- bel about the waist, and kissed her. Palmer chuckled, and Florence gave a little pitiful cry, as the door closed on the men. Ssabel reached out her hand, in a winning, tender way. ‘* What is it? You are not afraid of me?” “No, but of him! Where am I? where has he brought me? Oh, Arch! Arch! will no one come to me? Won't you please let me go home?” She grasped Isabel’s two hands with her own daintily-kidded ones; her eyes, wild and wide- opened, pleading more forcibly than her lips. idd Why aapest you desire to go home, Miss *Tda!’ My name is not Ida! it is Florence— Florence Arbuthnot!” Isabel smiled indulgently. “I fear you are mistaken, my dear; Mr, Dor- rance distinctly told me you were a Miss Ida Glenville.” Florence felt the net tightening around her; a horrible apprehension of danger came sweeping over her. “It is false—false as his own black sou]! In- deed, on my solemnest, sacredest word, I am Florence Arbuthnot; I was to marry Mr. Ches- som this very night; and Ellis Dorrance, the © vile monster, came to my bedroom, and swore I should be his. Then—yes, I have been under the influence of some spell, I know—I awoke to find myself here.” She gazed around her with pitiful, saddened Ze. “Well, for the present, you are safe and well. Let me show you your room; it is nearly eleven.” “TI do not wish to retire. I will remain here.” : “No. !” called Isabel, just raising her voice. ‘* Assist Miss Ida to her room.” There was atone of stern, decisive resolve in . that smooth, ladylike order: and Florence felt how utterly helpless she was. The negress re- spectfully opened the door, and Isabel wished her a good-night, There was no choice left; and with heavy step, and aching heart, she trod the echoing s, guiltless of covering; the creaking, trem- bling stairs, up flight after flight, till it seemed she was mounting the clouds. Mary seeped before a door that she un- locked, and then preceded her in. “Tt ain’t as nice as it might be, Miss Idy—” But Florence sunk on her knees, the tears streaming from her eyes, as she clutched the gown of the ugly woman. “Oh, don’t call me that; it’snot my name— please believe me! Let me go out, and see what I’ll give you!” She piled her rings, her watch and chain, her bracelets and portemonnaie, in Mary’s hands, in a fever of eagerness. “There! there! now show me the way do~wn- stairs! Come, before that Dorrance finds me again!” She caught the negress by the arm, to drag her to the door. _ Then, seeing her hesitate, and concluding the temptation was not strong enough, Florence snatched off her elegant furs. ‘Take these too, if you will! and I'll exchange dresses with you. — rake all I’ve got, only let me get away!” ‘eta Just then the dar Brilliant face of the Itali- enne looked over Mary’s shoulder. a Carry Miss Glenville’s trinkets to my room, ary. ; Then, when Florence had turned away in bit- mm
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“* Miss Ida, you may as well be content to re- main where you are. Here Mr. Dorrance brought you, for reasons best known to himself, and here you will remain until he sees fit to re- move you.” Then she, too, followed Mary, and poor Flor- ence heard the key grate as it turned in the rusty lock. “Merciful Heaven! what shall I do?” Then, as thought crowded on thought, her strength gave way again, and she slid softly down on the carpeted floor, in a deep fainting condition. Down the four-flights of stairs, in the large, cloomy, well-warmed but dimly-hghted dining- room, Isabel Lefevre sat beside the fire, her hands idly crossed on her knees, her black eyes gazing dreamily in the fire. Around her hand- some, full-cut lips a peculiar expression was ereeping; one of thoughtfulness mingled with distrust, jealousy. and uncertainty. Her face seldom proved an index of the thoughts within, but to-night, when she knew that no humau eye was cn her, she suffered full play to the boldly handsome, expressive fea- tures; and her tiny brown hands folded and un- folded as she sat there. “ Am I to believe him, or not? Does he care for her? I would murder her in her sleep if 1 thought he did!” Then the eyes flashed and flamed like those of Gussie Palliser. A rap at the door; a loud, peremptory sum- mons startled her; and Mary, napping over the kitchen fire, sprung to her feet insudden alarm, for a knock at the door of the Haunted House was an occurrence as rare assnow in May. And at that hour, too! Isabel bade Mary answer; they had no cause for fear, and so the negress opened the door. A clear, high, girlish voice it was, who in- quired for the mistress of the house. Mary stood dumbfounded, but the midnight caller, whose horses stood impatiently waiting at the gate, walked past her into the room, where sat Isabel, sternly indignant. ‘*T beg a thousand pardons for this untimely intrusion, but you will overlook it when you learn the cause. Iam Miss Palliser; Gussie, if you choose,” She smiled frankly, and extended her hand; then a rigid frown, dark as the midnight shad~ ows, chased it away. “T saw Ellis Dorrance bring her here; I fol- lowed them from the very door; I have watch- ed him ever since I discovered his perfidy to me, and I know he and his pretty Florence Arbuth- not left her home together. Where is she?” Tsabel Lefevre stood like a statue, her hands clenched in a silent desperateness. “ What has Ellis Dorrance to do with you?” A shudder sats over Gussie’s frame. ‘‘He never will be more to me again! his betrothed wife a week ago.” “WHat?” Isabel grasped her arm in a sudden impulse of wrath. ‘““ What do you tell me? you engaged to m Ellis Dorrance; this girl, they c Ida Glenville, one of his loves—what then am Ie” f She raised her voice to a pitch almost of frenzy; and Gussie’s face saddened as she gazed at the storm of passion on the beautiful dark face. “Are you a victim of his treachery, too? Then let us be friends.” But Isabel never moved a finger; she stood gazing into Gussie’s pitying face. “You do not love him as I do, or you’d never bear it so indifferently,” she said, after a si- lence. \ : ; “ You forget it is two days since I learned his falsity.” “Two days!” she repeated, contemptuously, ‘“ acta — ee veer to - eo colored inky- , and cur some para- tion, ito tight Kinks.’ > rea eenet Still she lay, like a broken reed, all uncon- scious of the fatality in store for her, while the jealous woman gloated over her double revenge; on poor innocent Florence, for loving Ellis Dor- rance; on Dorrance, for loving Florence; for Isabel had never, even in thought, admitted the idea of any one’s being loved by Ellis Dorrance, and not loving in return. It was just midnight when she had entered Florence’s room; the gray tints of a winter’s dawn were streaking the blue-black, star-sprin- kled east when she departed. _ Florence slept long and heavily, and the sun at nine o’clock found her just awakening from her unnatural exhausting slumber. The moment she opened her eyes she observed the change of garments. She sprung to her feet in a sudden passion of alarm; and then she saw the hue of hands and arms. A shriek burst from her lips; and another, followed by a series of low, wailing moans. It was so terribly suggestive of the fate Ellis Dorrance had prophesied to her if sherefused to marry him. And still it was so vague. What was his object in this metamorphosis? What would he gain by it? « And I am this moment started on my track I shail strike him first through And then, of a sudden, she missed ber hair. She raised her hands to her head, and felt. the short, crispy curls. The hot blood boiled madly in her veins; grief . and ae struggled for the ascendancy neither gained. a ~ She strove to gain egress from the apartment but in vain; and it was high noon when Ise came to her, her dinner on a plate. Florence almost dragged her to the floor im her passionate attempts to take hold of her hands, and her tears streamed over her strange; wild eyes, that, only cognizant of the madness in her own breast, failed to notice the stern pal- lor on her jailer’s features, or the cold, st t gleam of the bright, pitiless eyes. ; ‘‘Tda! what does this mean?” “Tda!” cried Florence, passionately. not ‘Ida.’ Who has done this thing, this ac- | cursed thing? Who dared do it?” | A low, unmusical laugh issued from Isabel’s mouth, - : ‘ia ‘‘Do what, child? besides, I am in a hurry | for you to eat; I shall discharge Mary, and take you on my tour to England in her place, as lady’s maid.” ‘** England! ‘lady’s maid! surely I am in some horrid nightmare! Wake me! wake me! or I shall die from fright!” ‘Nonsense, Ida. Eat your dinner.” pe. “T will not eat! I will starve myself to death first!” 5 ‘*No you won’t. Listen, while I tell you what I shall do—what you shall do.” he Isabel sat down on the side of the bed; face still wearing that merciless look i taken when Gussie Palliser had reveale Dorrance’s treachery. 4 “1 shall not call you Ida during this view, because no one knows better than you are really Florence Arbuthnot. There— sit quietly down while I finish my story. ‘“A week or less ago, Dorrance came to me aud arranged for Ida Glenville, an heiress, who was to be ‘put out of the way,’ to come lere, and be closely guarded by me, the only cne, besides Jim Palmer, bis valet, who knows the secret. ‘‘ Trusting him as I ever had done, I believed his story; never dreaming he loved you, too, until I saw how very pretty you. were, and then I suspected at once. He denied any re- — for you, as you have done for him; he ied, for another of his sweethearts cam meat bare — ii e I am + urged by her L gkics espionage, and xs his treble-dyed blackness of heart. You may — think I was wild to believe her, a stranger, but, mind you, I had been led to doubt. — him the moment I saw you. ; ~ “Well, Florence Arbuthnot, you shall s impose upon me. You have endeavored: make me think you don’t care for him’; é Sg been 1_know by his ear him; and I am going to do ; e very worst thing Ican do. I am going to take yeu at your word. uth: 1y es “You were as beautiful a girl as ever I saw when you entered the Haunted oe last. night; but Ellis Dorrance will not be so proud of you when he sees you again. I have sworn | to revenge myself on bim, and because I hate you on his account, I shall use you to accom- plish my ends. See there!’ \ She suddenly thrust a hand-mirror before Florence's een A wild peal of terror fell from her ie as the reflection met her gaze. “Have pity on me! I will swear by all is sacred on earth and in heaven that ] Ellis Dorrance more than you do! sw you on my knees that I am enga to n another—Mr. Arch Chessom, who lives ni Beecherest. Send to him; oh, let Mary go bring him, and he will give you all the money you | Lie for me! Believe me—pray, pray, believe me Isabel smiled grimly. . ; ‘* Believe Gag well, tear I do, but it’s all the same. He is false to me, and I am resolved. to strike a blow home to him, while I have the opportunity. 4 ‘Think now you loved him, and remember I love Mr. Chessom just as well! Please send for him, and he can tell you how I fear and hate Mr, Dorrance.” ‘Tam not acquainted with this Mr. Chessom: why should I be, when I have only been a week: in this locality? I only came when he tele- peahey me that he wanted me; the Haunted ouse is only occupied a few weeks in the shooting season, when he brings his friends out. _ If it will gratify you to know where we are, yonder is Beechcrest, three miles distant. The nearest house is a very elegant one they cell some one’s Pride,” ii wae? tions—yeu.
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2 waiting last night. a ESS a ae ete ~.Florencs sprung to the window; truly the tewer of Chessom’s Pride was not a mile off. _ “And it is Arch’s home! I must go from here. I will go!” “TT shall be sorry to use force to subdue you. vhole story lies in a word, namely: that IT know you never again as Florence; from this ~maoment you are Ida, my quadroon servant #irl, To-morrow we leave this house, by car ‘viage to New York, to take the first English steamer. Attempt to disobey my instructions, and, believe me, I will not hesitate to kill you— not to bring trouble to myself, mind you—but there are poisons, and poisonous inhalations, anit wo jealous Italians often use them, acci- Wentally, you know. They leave no trace bedind.” Morence shuddered at the low, horrible tone, so musical in its fearful earnestness. What could she do? a prisoner and threatened with death if she dared disobey. ‘ There was no possible choice; life was very recious, and there poe ee of escape in New York, where she would tell her story to the very first man she saw on the streets—it might be Arch. ; isabel seemed to fathom her very thoughts, for she said: :* “Telling your story will be useless, for I shall take good care to spread the report wherever I _ go, that you are an intelligent, harmless luna- tic, whose vagaries alter; the present being that_you are a certain Miss Arbuthnot; and, re- member, even your own mother would not . you. Poor Florence! the darkness was very dense around her. CHAPTER IX. THE ALARM. Mn. and Mrs. Arbuthnot had returned from (heir friendly vigil several hours earlier than ihey expected; and, anxious as was the lady to congratulate Florence on her engagement with Bilis Dorrance, she did not disturb that young jady’s slumbers; deciding that undue haste might strengthen the suspicions already strong as dsuath, Breakfast was just over, and still Florence had not come down, when EvJis Dorrance was «nnounced. Ge was very stern, almost angry, in his de- ameanor. “Mr. Arbuthnot, madame, I have intruded tus to demand the reason of my fruitless I spent an hour in the par- ler without seeing your daughter. May I beg _ en interview this morning?” ' Mrs. Arbuthnot rose from her chair in speech- tess wonder. = “Not see her!” echoed her husband, in a be- ‘wildered yh “Why didn’t you see her?” a2 Then she glanced affrightedly around the room, and saw the note. She clutched it eagerly, and read it through, 2 red, intense flame seeming to come from her eyes, and a gray, deathly paleness creeping eround her lips. With no audible word she turned and went down-stairs, and silently laid the paper before toe two men. Arbuthnot snatched it, and read it aloud. “The deuce! the—the—what does it mean, anyhow? Dorrance, look at that!’ Ellis took it, and then laid it down again, as ho spoke: “This is what I have feared, expected—” “Heavens, man! how can you stand still tere, knowing she has gone with that rascal i hate above ground? How can you coolly say wou ‘feared’ and ‘expected?’ hy don’t you start off, post-haste, and find’em? If I catch Lim, the villain!” Thee * Mre Arbuthnot stood, still pallid and trem- Liing, by the hastily-vacated breakfast-table. Severs? ail’ ha tq-eloss, T fear,” she seid, at _THE WINGED MESSENGER. length. ‘‘ But, Mr. Arbuthnot, go at once to Chessom’s Pride, and acquaint the family. Possibly they may have heard bim mention where he was going.” Her eyes giittensd coldly as she gave her di- rections. “What will be the good?’ asked Dorrance, gloomily. ‘‘They are married, doubtless, ere this, and he can protect his wife. If they are not—well, ’'m sure I shouldn’t care to—” ‘* Hold on!” shouted Arbuthnot, hotly. ‘‘ Look out what you say about that girl! She is as good and pure as the falling snow, whatever she does.” “‘Tll remember, sir. Also, allow me to jog your memory regarding the fact of your sworn oath that she should be mine. How am I to look upon that now?” There was coming a dangerous light in Dor- rance’s eyes, a certain expression that Mr. Arbuthnot never liked; and he paled under it. “How could I keep it, Ellis? Haven’t I work- ed for you to the best of my ability? and now, when she has fooled you as well as me, am I to blame?” “T think so; a father should have taken bet- ter care of his only daughter.” Arbuthnot reddened angrily. / ‘*Be careful, Ellis, how you speak. Remem- ber it is not too late yet to—you know what. Besides, you can’t afford to give her up yet. If you lose her after ali these years, it’ll be a more serious loss than if we never had undertaken the game.”” “Mr. Arbuthnot, we will not discuss that int; it was settled when she was a child that | was to have her, to end the little difficulty 1 ot into. We will still adhere to that opinion. shall go on a tour of discovery myself—by the by, she is under age.” Mr. Arbuthnot’s face lightened as he replied: “JT had forgotten that. Yes, she can be brought home; and, Ellis, the very best thing you can do is to start right off. Don’t forget the interest you have at stake.” He spoke in a confidential, meaning voice. ‘*T’'m off, then.” Dorrance bowed to the two, and hastened off, a smile of utter triumph on his face as he went through the streets. Mr. Arbuthnot went out imme rene after, direct to Chessom’s Pride. Beautifully fair it was in the early morning sunshine, its inmates all unconscious of the storm about to break upon their heads. Arch was preparing to ride to the village, to learn why: Florence had not written to him; he had fully resolved to go to her home and -de- mand an interview, when Mr. Arbuthnot was shown into the morning breakfast-room, where the family had not as yet assembled. Arch was astonished, yet extended his hand with easy cordialit y. ‘Mr. Arbuthnot, I am glad to see you. Will | you take a chair? Have you breakfasted?” _ But the man refused the offered hand, with hot anger in his face. * Don’t insult me! I demand to know where she is; where have you left her, since I am as- tonished at seeing you here?’ ‘* Where is who—you can mean but one, and that is your daughter. Do you not know your- self, sir?” Consternation and alarm were visible on Chessom’s face, and he searchingly scanned the man’s countenance. ‘Do I know?” he repeated, bitterly. ‘I wish to Heaven I did know! And you have the impudence to ask me such a question. Answer me, at once; where have you taken my girl?” “T have not seen her for a fortnight. don’t know what you mean, unless—God_ forbid!— danger has come to ber through that black- hearted scoundrel, Dorrance!” Arbuthnot reddened. ‘“* A scoundrel, eh? Not half 90 much as your- self! But all [ want to know is, where’s Flo- rence? I will have an answer, or you shall be arrested within an hour!” ' Arch paled; it was a stinging insult; but his alarm for Florence overpowered all other feel- ings. a Mr. Arbuthnot, I wish I knew. Until this moment I —— she was at home.” Mr. Arbuthnot handed him the forged letter. ‘Look at that, will you?” i An exclamation of surprise burst from Arch’s ips. ‘“‘T am mystified! Florence never wrote that! and certain it is Jnever signed it. Depend upon it, sir, there’s foul play somewhere. I suspect Dorrance.” “And I know it’s you. Dorrance left my house not an hour ago, as thoroughly crushed ard heart-hroken as a rranein he. And vou, - _-— — here, in your fine house, can dare tell me you don’t: know where you have taken my daughter to! Sir, the law shall compel you to tell! and Tl have a policeman here before the noon.” Arch bit his lip to keep back the angry words. “‘T am as truly wounded and enraged as you can be, sir, for I love Florence dearly. But all I can say | have said; all I can do shall be done to find her.” There was excitement in Arch Chessom’s handsome face, that only the more convinced Mr. Arbuthnot of his guilt; and then, when Arch bade him good-morning and begged to be excused, so keen was his alarm on Florence’s pele Mr. Arbuthnot’s wrath was greater than ore. ‘¢ You refuse to tell me, sir; you request me to go home; but all of this can’t convince me you are not the greatest rogue out of jail.” And he went out, trembling in his vexatious- ness. (eee CHAPTER X. FROM HYENA TO HAWK. ArtER Isabel Lefevre had so cruelly made known her intentions to Florence, she left her alone to complete the preparations for her has tily decided trip for England. ad it been possible, Isabel would not have gone that day, for two reasons. One of which was, she desired to see Gussie Palliser again; the other, a burning disposition to hurl Ellis Dor- rance’s rudeness in his face, So she packed her trunks, sent Mary with a message to Lakeview for Gussie Palliser to call next noon, and then waited for the interview with Doriance. Once before dusk she went up to Florence, and left a light, with her supper. Slowly the evening passed away to the terri- fied girl, and when the distant clock at Beech- crest struck out nine slow, distinct strokes, it seemed to her a very death-knell. She dared not sie: she dared not partake of the food Isabel had left her; so she sat by the high window, looking down on the far-off twink- ling lights of Beechcrest, wondering whether all hope and joy and happiness was over for her forever. : Utter misery was in possession of her heart, as she glanced, shiver nett over the repulsive disguise Isabel had wrought, and thought how her way was hedged closely up. Yet she re- solved to proclaim the truth in New York city, let the consequences be what they might, . Suddenly a slight noise smote her ear. Then a low, cautious rap on her door was followed by the pronqanging of her name, in a strange, kindly voice. } ‘‘ Miss Arbuthnot! Miss Florence!” She sprung to her feet in a sudden deliriuns of hope. ‘Come in. IT am unable to open the door. But come in and save me, I pray.’ “T have come to save you, Miss Florence. 1 am your friend, and Mr. Chessom’s. He dis-— covered your whereabouts and sent me to rex cue you. The carriage waits just below the house.” “God bless you! I am all ready—but how can I come out? Can’t you break the door?” “T can, but the noise will reach Miss Lefevre’s. ears. Is there no way to come out? No win- dow opening on a balcony ?” Florence eagerly examined the windows. There was none, aud in returning despair, she felt the tears springing to her eyes. ‘‘T see no way,” she said, presently, plaintive- ly; ‘‘and if you saw me, you might not know me, for I am dressed in most horrid clothes,. and the Italian woman has colored my skin brown.” An indignant cry fell from the stranger’s.. ps. ‘*How dare she! Never fear, Miss Florence, but that ’ll know you; your voice is natural, at. least.” U Then, after a moment’s silence, he suddenly exclaimed: “The ventilator, over the door! You can climb up by the table—kave you one?—or the bureau or a washstand; you cancreep through, and I will catch you.” . Alive only to the one Leech hope of es- cape, Florence eagerly aragced.t e light pi chest of drawers underneath the door, and lifte the one chair upon it mt There was room f« f to climb to the wide, dusty, open space, a ith her eage?, wistfuli. eyes she looked down upon her rescuer. “Don’t be frightened, am Florence, you'l? not fall,”
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Te Im a. second she had dropped down in Jim Palmer’s outstretched arms. “Oh, thank you! thank you! Jet us hurry out as quickly as we can. Do you know the way? Do you think any one hears us?” _ ey were silently descending the stairs. “No,” was his whispered reply. ‘I will ex- plain after we get clear of the house.” At the lower hall he nervously opened the door, and they walked out into the fresh night air, and Florence thought never was life so sweet before. +, St Jim Palmer lifted her into the carriage and wrapped the blankets carefully around her. ‘‘Mr. Chessom would never forgive me if you caught a cold.” er ‘* Darling Archer.” -" And her eyes lighted! up in a fond, affection- ate glow. v Fre’s a fine young man, sure enough, Miss Florence, and very nearly wild at your disap- pearance. It was only to-day he learned of your whereabouts.” ‘“How, Mr. Palmer, how?” she asked, ea- Ly. SFr shook his head. “That is more than [ know, you see. I sup- pose he’ll tell you all about it when you get to Chessom’s Pride.” ‘Am I to go to Chessom’s Pride?” A delicious little smile playéd on her lips. ‘* So he said, by the back road, for fear they’d miss you a5 the Haunted House, and be sure to follow on the main turnpike. It’s a little fur- ther and lonelier, but that don’t signify.” ““Chessom’s Pride!” repeated Florence, half- earessingly, as the carriage dashed on; then to Mr. Palmer: ‘Tf I only could get this disfiguring dye from my face and hair before I see him.” Palmer did not answer for a second; then he spoke, half-apologetically: **T s’pose my old aunt’s house on the plank road’d be too far for you to go? You might fit up there a little, and borrow®a dress of my cousin Kate.” “TY wish I could! Would it take very long?” Her eyes were piercing mogh the keen dark- ness, but she could not see his face. “ An hour, about; but I wouldn’t mind that if you think Mr. Chessom wouldn’t. Only I don’t quite like to take a iady like you to such a lace.’ Figrence laughed; the first merriment that she had indulged in in all those awful hours. “As if I cared! Besides, Mr. Palmer, your kindness entirely overbalances their poverty. wish you would drive around that way.” ss right! it’s just as you say, Miss Flor- ence.” He urged the horses into a faster trot, and the earriage dashed along, bearing Florence every second nearer and nearer to a yawning pit. ' And Jim Palmer, smiling under his rough fur cap, qhirmuped to the horses and chuckled to hi ‘S My lucky star is in the ascendant! Poor in- nocent child, to believe my trumped-up story! Aunt and cousin Kate! ell, I’ve. got her, at any rate!’’ ——_—_—_- CHAPTER XI. i THE EMPTY ROOM. TRUE to his word, Ellis Dorrance came to the Haunted House that evening at the appointed h our. Mary admitted him to Isabel’s presence at ence, who awaited him with a knowledge in her heart illy calculated to render his call as delight- ful as he had anticipated. ; He had been congratulating himself the past few hours on the bold coup @ etat he had con- summated; Florence Arbuthnot a prisoner un- der the surveillance of her fiery-hearted rival, Isabel Lefevre. Perhaps the only drawback to the wicked pleasure he enjoyed was the knowledge that Dae Palliser and he were en- ora the very depths of his soul he was sorry it was so; for, try as he might to persuade himself to the contrary, and pretend he cared nothing for it, it was a disagreeable disappointment to Ellis Dorrance to be so suddenly deprived of Gussie’s charming society, especially when he realized the manner in which she had become possessed of his secret, that he had guarded so carefully from her, and still intended to pre- se til it suited him to divu ge it. : - §o, all that day, he had chided _peee ar ie clumsiness in permitting Gussie to learn of her rival, and of his foolishness in not healing the breach immediately it was made; and he went to Isabe. Kefevre ally dele mined after an in- terview with her prisoner, to seek Gussie and * E WINGED MESSENGER. effect a recontiliation. The moment he entered Isabel’s presence, he experienced a sensation that told him there was evil brewing; a second glance at her dark, gloomy face and eyes, where a hidden fire smoldered, assured him of it: he thought Florence had prevailed upon her to believe what was the truth. ‘“Tsabel, you have no word of welcome? It is the first time you ever withheld a kiss and a caress.” Her lip curled contemptuously. “ And it is the last. Miss Arbuthnot can pos- sibly accommodate you.” 4 She looked him steadily in the face, smiling when she saw the look of amazement overspread his features. “Miss Arbuthnot!’ Who is she?” Then Isabel laughed; a low, musical sound, that somehow made Dorrance feel that the ground under his feet was sliding. ‘‘There is no need of any more childish mas- querading. I certainly know, as well as you, that the young lady up-stairs is Florence Ar- buthnot, whom youabducted from her room an hour or so before you brought her here.” A tense line gathered around Dorrance’s lips, but he never flinched under the smiling, sardon- ic, defiantly-triumphant eyes that were piercing him through and through. “Tt is a lie,” he said, slowly. “Granted that you sometimes indulge in the little prevarications yourself, Ellis, we will leave the disputed question. Suppose I were to tell you you have been darkly false to me?” The suppressed rage in her stormy face, under her low, even tones, was disagrecable even to Ellis Dorrance, so bold in his badness. ‘*T should answer as I answered before.” “ Ah! but you would not dare! and see if Iam in earnest.” And her flashing, scornful eyes were lurid in their gleaming wrath. She suddenly sprung from her chair, where she had been indolently reclining, as one might imagine a leopardess crouching for a sudden, violent attack. ‘‘T am in earnest; you have dared whisper love words to other women—this pretty Fior- ence, and another, a dark-faced beauty, whose name I know. You dared do this when you thought J would not know it; and, because for months you have succeeded, you bave grown foolhardy in your triumphs, and was childish Look at me, enough to bring her here, thinking to blind my eyes because T have erst-time trusted and loved you. Dorrance was dismayed at this outburst, and he was wondering how he could best refute what she said; but she began again, more wrathful than before. . ““T tell you you have awakened a very devil in my heart! You have trifled with one who will not brook such an outrage! I shall mete out to you your own reward, Ellis Dorrance. You are in my hands, this very moment, to be used as I see fic.” A contemptuous laugh—he regretted the next moment—issued from bis lips. “You are beside yourself, Isabel! I know not what ideas you have in that pretty little head of yours; I only know you are talking sheerest nonsense. Call Mary to show me to Ida’s room.” ; ‘No, sir. ‘Ida’ is no lessa myth than ‘ Flo- rence.’ The beautiful, graceful girl you left here twenty-four hours ago is no more.’ He wheeled sharply around. “What do you mean? Have you dared to kill her? Isabel! answer me before I strike you down!” He was deathly pale, and his eyes were in- tensely black in their anger. She waved him off. ““ Have rhe never heard of we hot-hearted Italiennes killing our rivals?” “Tf you have, by ——-, I'll murder you, you woman!” He strode fiercely to the hall door, but her little firm band arrested him. “Hark, Ellis Dorrance! Last night, when I learned of your treble perfidy, I vowed a vow before high Heaven, to be avenged. This gir ae think you love; this girl was in my power. 0, Ellis Dorrance, through her I have touched eK Ihave made of her a mulatto girl, whom er own mother, or even you, would not recog- nize. I shall take her on a foreign tour—where ou_need not know—as my maid. I have tol er I would shoot her, or poison her, if she at- tempts to escape; she is mine, and you dare not prove who she is!” The ringing triumph in her voice was mad- dening to the man who stood listening to her defiant tones. A hen eehateil ad : jr e fee. ie] ’ ’ ‘ ; 3 F s : a ae Se — | . 2 : a eae oe =): Se oe Se eee eS ee alk a Oo © . 9 aS His complexion grew more deathly pale; his eyes were insufferably brilliant in their concen- trated glare; his hands were trembling from the horrible rage that was in his soul; when he spoke, his voice was low and husky. Paes “Isabel! lead me to her at once; and, as as there is a God in the Heavens above us, you shall suffer for this—if it be true! I doubt ever: word you say.” ““ As you please. will believe?” She led the way up the stairs, her fingers clasping a tiny stiletto in her pocket; she was on her guard. But Ellis was only thinking of Florence; Isa- bel would dare the deed, he knew, despite what he had said If she had, bow could he regain her without exposing himself? He ground his teeth in a paroxysm of rage, as Isabel turned the key and opened the door. It pushed heavily, as if something was stand- ing againstit. A second effort, and they stood within—an empty room! ; omething like a howl of supremest wrath came from Dorrance’s lips. “You have done this, you fiend! you lying traitress!” But Isabel, with whitened cheeks and parted lips, was standing in blank amaze at the signs of confusion in the room. ‘“As I bope for mercy, I did not know she was gone!” And when Dorrance saw her face he was constrained to believe her. * He pushed roughly past her; ran down the stairs and into the room for bis hat and gloves, then dashed out into tbe dark night, with un- Lae wh seg thoughts flying madly through his rain, “Tt is Chessom’s doings! curses eternal light on him!” Perhaps, when you see, you CHAPTER XII.* OH, HOW NEAR. Ir Ellis Dorrance and Isabel Lefevre were stupefied and stunned by finding the room vacant, Florence Arbuthnot was no less s0, when she alighted from the carriage and entered the roadside cabin. : There was but one room, and it was deso of human presence, almost of any signs of there ever having been a resident in it. . She turned to Jim Palmer with a troubled, inquiring gaze. * “I thought you said we should find your re- latives here?” _ “Did I? Really I don’t remember what I did say; only I know I haven’t a relative in the world,” Pid a” He shut and barred the door as he eke. With a sick apprehension rushing over her soul, Florence turned to him. ea = be then did you bring me here, Mr. Palmer?” aa But the wild, hunted look in her eyes told she had suspected the truth. se tee ae “Because I think you are just the prettiest, finest girl ashore, and I pitied you in that fourth- story room,” ‘‘And I am entrapped! Oh, God help me and save me!” ‘No use praying so long as you can touch bottom, you know, Miss Florence. You don’t think I’m going to kill you now, do you?” She had retreated to the far end of the where the rays of the lantern Palmer had sot ci a rude table, penetrated the most. a Fost Her lips were quivering, her heart frozen with despair and terror. if Palmer leaned nonchalantly against the door, looking satisfiedly at her. ‘“Tt’s not_so snug a place as I have seen, to be sure, but there’s the advantage of the lonel pei where a traveler dosen’t pass once a fort. night. . She trembled at the ill-concealed triumph in is tone. “But, Mr. Palmer, why should you detain me? I’m sure I never harmed you, by word or deed to make you my enemy; and your friend, Mr. Chessom, will never forgive this of you.” “* My friend, Mr. Chessom!’ thatis rich! Why, my pretty Flo’, I never have spoken a word to the young aristocrat of Chessom’s Pride in my life. That was all gammon, you know, manu- factured expressly for the occasion.” Florence grew deathly sick and horrified, and barely murmured the question: “Who are you, then? why did you take me ak there?” ania ecause, when rove you up from your house in Mr. Dorrance’s Catlage. I tnade up my mind you were too good for him, or Ches- som, either; just about suited to me, in fact. eo -
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a ‘ 5 ” a! ce NGED MESSENGER. ————————— eys from the ring, so I might let myself in.” ‘ith dilating eyes Florence listened. “But Flo’, my beauty, you cidn’t know I had known you these years back? You didn’t know I entered Ellis Dorrance’s service only because J knew he was going to try for you, and J there- by would have a better chance? Bless you, my girl, I have been looking forward to this hour for ten years. Then, above all, I love you; more than Dorrance can or Chessom does.” A furtive glance at him thrilled Florence with awful dread. What was she to do? alone with this man, at midnight, with a heavy’oaken bar keeping her from liberty? She lowered her head and pray- ed; only such a prayer as one in direst peril could frame. ROS ais) se Palmer came over the rude, uncarpeted floor to her side. tgs a ee Plorence, will you love me? Tam not rich, Tam not good, Iknow. But Iam good enough to love you.” eee She rose from her chair, the tears falling from her eyes, as she laid her two hands on his arm. “Oh, Mr. Palmer! think again of it! Just place your sister, if ever you had one, or your own dead mother in my place! And then have pity on me, and take me to my friends. ‘Your Sper surely tells you what you ought to 0. * “Tt does, my sweet, graceful pleader! it tells me to take you for my own forever!” A pitiful ery came from her lips, as she buried her face in her hands, her wild sobs bursting from her agonized heart. Palmer gazed at her in silent admiration a moment. *€T will tell you what I'll do, Florence. I will leave you here to-night, safely guarded, and come on the morrow evening; provided you will give me a kiss before I go.” . ‘He laid his hand on her shoulder; away from the touch. “ Just as you say, Florence. and Ill go. Refuse, and—” She sprung almost wildly to her feet. “Youll go right away? You'll promise it?” “ Right away; I promise it.” She raised her face, and touched his cheek lightly with her lips; then pointed to the door. “* Now, please go.” _ “That delicious kiss tempts me to stay, but Till keep wed th to so faira girl. Au revoir!” she shrunk Give me a kiss, He vaulted through a window, and then pushed a heavy shutter against it, locking it with a huge bolt on the outside. rd the noise of the carriage as nc hed on the snow, and then she wn in.a corner near the fire that ply of fuel lay piled in the L SU] ; a loaf of bread, a plate of but- chimney- ter and “a. of milk stood on the table; and she saw she was secured from physical discom- fort at least, A sensation of relief came to her as she thought she might yet escape before the mor- row night; she ate heartily of the bread and butter and drank of the sweet, rich milk, and a feeling almost of buoyancy came over her when wee had finished, for it was the first mouthful te Be _ Then, at had passed her lips since the eventful night. ed yet strengthened, she fell asleep; ever waking until the broad daylight was g through the circular loopholes of the huge wooden shutters. . 4 cs . ‘ * = wee breakfast like the supper, and then, a tour of inv tion. Hopefully she set about her work, almost con- fident she would somehow succeed in eacepins : trying the shutters, doors, and sounding the solid wooden walls. Then, when fatigued, but not discouraged, she climbed up on the table to peek out through the little round window. It did look lonesome, the little patch of land- scape she could see; the road, piled up with un- ironic snow, where the one track told her how truly Palmer had said travel was very unfre- quent; bis tracks were the only ones on the broad, white expanse glistening in the morning sunlight, A feeling of utter desolation stole over her as she looked out, wondering why all this trouble was sent upon her; wondering what Arch must think; wondering where he was. A sound of merrily tinkling bells came of a sudden upon her ears, borne by a current of wind ; a wild, new hope sprung up in her heart; she felt the blood dancing phe her veins as the joyous noi me nearer and nearer, + 4 a” A shrill scream burst from Ler lips. The occupant was Arch Chessom! He glanced up at the house as he caught the faint sound, then, apparently regarding it a wind-moan, turned away. Florence, with her heart beating to an agoniz- ing fury, her cyes almost starting from her head, called hoarsely to him; her voice deadened by the thick walls, until it was a mere articu- late moan when it reached him. He was going on; what could she do? what a ae she do, with salvation so near and yet so ar? Frantically she thrust out her hand and waved it; and then, when Arch sprung from the sleigh ahs grew giddy from the excitement, reeled an ell, Ever alive to the idea that she whom he sought was somewhere near him, Archer when he caught a aah glimpse of a hand thrust from the hole, felt a wild thrill of hope that it, perchance, might be Florence; and yet. as he plunged through the snow, he could no but think how foolish was such a thought, for, of course, Dorrance would find a gilded prison for his bird. He was on his way then to the city, and it being a better road for sleighing, and desiring to bring back several parcels for his mother, he had gone in the sleigh instead of the train. He had ample time, however, to stop a moment and indulge the wild curiosity in his soul. The door was moveless; but, all of the shut- ters being fastened on the outside with huge iron bolts, ingress was a matter of comparative ease. He leaped through one of the windows, and approached the prostrate figure; a pang of dis- appointment, at which he was vexed, thrilled his breast when he saw the dirty room, the shab- bily-attired negro girl, with unkempt kinky hair, lying on the floor. He touched her, spoke to her, looked at her, and was about to turn away, when his better nature told him the person was suffering, in some way or other, else why the signal evident- ly of distress—and this deep, death-like faint? Then, with a courage and nobility few men possess, he determined to take her in his sleigh to the nearest house, wherever it might be, or whosesoever it was, tor attention. With Arch Chessom to will was to do. He lifted the figure in his arms, and laid her on the floor of the sleigh, with a robe over and under her. If he had known, if he had but heard her voice as Palmer had done! but Fate was not to be appeased just then; the wicked was “to flourish as a green bay tree” yet longer before the inevitable downfall came. So he drove on, watching for a house. It was not twenty minutes’ gallop: before the forbidding walls of the Haun ouse loomed up. He turned his horses’ heads up the avenue, and drove round to the side entrance. Mary came to the door. “Tt is a half-frozen colored girl I picked up. You can warm her and feed her, can’t you?” He gave her a bill, and Mary turned down the buffalo-robe. “Bress my stars! ef it ain’t dat Ida!” *) am glad you know her. Take her in with ou; and give Mr. Chessom’s compliments to he master of the house, whom I have not the pleasure of knowing. He drove off, while Mary, her wrinkled, red face all smiles, carried poor, unconscious Flor- quce in, and laid her down on the kitchen ounge. “It’s a pity missus hab gone! but ll kee her anyhow! Maybe de boss’giv me sumthin’.” CHAPTER XIII. THE LOST BIRD. FrrED with rage, Ellis Dorrance had re- turned to Beechcrest, bewailing his luck, and cursing the hour he had left Florence’s pretty face lead him on. : on What if it had been planned years ago, when Florence was a child, that he was to be her hus- band? What if it was true, that unless she be- came his wife, if certain affairs became known, he was liable to imprisonment? He had been goaded into it first by selfish- ness;.then when he began to admire Florence’s retty face, and had seen her evident dislike or him, his pride and willfulness had led him on and on—to this! Away down in his heart he disliked Isabel better than before. - * He had plenty of time to think of all these things as he walked rapidly toward the vil- lage; and among them was the resolve to seek a reconciliation with Gussie. she was of a jealous, passionate disposition, and that he must be wary if he wanted to suc- ete ceed. j How to effect only a clean conf d a would serve her) 7) Would she see him? He doubted it, and then, as he entered his room, he bethought him that Gussie must be on her visit to the Chessoms about now; there she would learn that Archer Chessom really loved Florence, and so she might be inclined to forgive him what he intended to explain plausibly. ut how communicate with her? Chessom’s Pride was not open to him; a personal inter- view, even if granted, would be too hasty, too fiery. He would write, then; there was the beautiful white carrier-pigeon in the cage he had placed it. : Its wing was nearly healed: it would fiy straight to Chessom’s Pride; there was a ro- mance about such a messenger that Gussie could not withstand. He rung the bell for Palmer to ascertain whether or not Gussie had gone to Chessom’s Pride; but Palmer was not within call], and not until an hour and a half later did he return, ‘from a visit to bis aunt.” He was strangely jubilant, but Dorrance did not observe it. “Jim, that Chessom’s been too much for us! he’s spirited her away from the Haunted House.” Palmer opened his eyes in the most amazed manner. 4 “No! Mr. Dorrance, I can’t believe it.” ** And that Itdlienne is as bad as he is,” went on Dorrance. ‘‘She ,rigged her up @ la mu- latta, so she says, never dreaming that Chessom was going to liberate her! so if you come across a such—” . e paused significantly. “T ‘understand: onjy, Mr. Dorrance, I am about to change my business. I am sorry to leave your employ, but I think it best to leave America, and join my relativesin England,” A look of dismay shadowed Dorrance’s face. “*T don’t see how I can spare you, Palmer. You’ve been faithful—” *¢ And I'll ever keep secret whatI know. De- pend on that, Mr. Dorrance.” ‘‘Tf you could do me one more favor, Jim?” * Anything in my power that can be done be- fore to-morrow, at six. I shall leave Beech- crest then, forever.” Dorrance unfolded a roll of notes. “Here is what is due you. Now, Jim, find out whether Miss Palliser is at eview or Chessom’s Pride.” When Palmer had said good-night, or good- morning, rather, for it was near three o’clock, Dorrance wrote a letter to Gussie, a letter that such a man knew so well how to write, one that in the fervor of its earnestness, intensity of pas- sion, tenderly a apologies, was well cal- culated to appeal to the heart, however estrang- ed, of the woman who bad once loved bim. The gray shades of daydawn were looming up among the faint shining stars, when Dor- rance ed and directed the envelope to Miss Gussie Palliser, Chessom’s Pride. Early that forenoon, Palmer brought the de- sired information that Gussie had gone to Ches- som’s Pride that morning, and that Arch Ches- som had gone to New York for a day or s0, robably longer, to seek additional aid in find- ing Florence. ‘So you see Mr. Chessom is as ignorant of her whereabouts as you are, Mr. Dorrance.’ Ellis was surprised beyond measure, and he frowned darkly. ‘Then it is the work of that Jezebel! I'll dispatch this at once, and go to the Haunted House. If there is anything in my power to do toward extorting a confession, it shall be done.” The rays of the sun were streaming a hwart the window, when Ellis threw it open to admit a question of doubt; d a humble apology ‘~* eae it Ellis Dorrance atta He softly caressed ; $ 7 Angin =" MI al q eres: ie e aie * iid soe ig wiet i“ a . a ae ws ee 4 He knew
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bo as he held it in his hand, the missivo on which so much depended swinging from its throat. ‘“‘Amazing stupidity! as if the fact of this dove returning to Chessom’s Pride, bearing a letter from me, will not at once reveal m agency in the Arbuthnot affair! Fool that am! Ah, furies and—” Well might he exclaim in that sharp tone, for the bird had flown from his grasp, and was soar- ing up into the clear, oe air. expression of i his face, and he reached f) “Curses alight on The Fates or the Furies ¢ bird, and it is a sign I am end.” Then, after a moment’s gaze at the white speck floating up, off and away, he dashed the window down and struck his clenched fist on the table. . age overspread ily after it. to victory. And now, for Isabel!” CHAPTER XIV. LOST. For several hours Florence Arbuthnot lay in a succession of fainting-spells, and it was not until toward noon that she became aware of her condition and whereabouts. She remem- ‘Thwarted! no! not if I wade through blood | bered how she had hailed Arch as he passed by; she recollected the dizziness and illness she had ; experienced; after that all was a blank until she saw Mary’s face bending over her. | She essayed to rise, but discovered she was very much prostrated. ‘“Where’s Mr. Chessom? where is the gentle- man who got out of the sleigh at that cabin?” Her sharp, eager voice, her face all aglow with feverish earnestness, met a decided cooling from Mary. *‘Oh, he’s gone long ago. He left him com- relliments fur de mas’er, and gi’ me a ten-dollar ‘ ereenback to fotch ye around all squar’, honey.” " _ He brought me here, then? and left me with you? Ob-h-h-h; I comprehend! be didn’t know me in this disguise! Oh, Mary! Mary! you are a woman! you have a woman’s heart! Do help me get this off, and show me the way home! The gentleman will give you ten times that money, if you will.” ; Mary folded and unfolded the precious money thoughtfully. ae Dans it Miss Isabel say to dat! Ye see she’s gone down into de village to see a sy Ba and, jest like’s not she’ll take a notion to rabbel to Europe afore I see hide or hare o’ her again. She’s so cur’us, Miss Isabel is, no countin’ on a cd ou? for stuff off et me my clothes again, Mary, and you shall ‘ Ch : 3 eyes. t was that . Dorrance’s ioned arm-chair, To walk was sim- ply impossible; the unshoveled snow lay knee- deep along the road, and the day was windy and intensely cold. She fully recognized the folly of attempting it. Carriages seldom passed that way; but she determined that the very first should be siz- naled; unless she could prevail upon Mary to go to the village and procure aid. This, however, she found utterly impossible to do; al would not stir from the house until Miss Tsabel came or sent; besides, knowing as she did, with her natural shrewdness, Dor- rance’s affair with Florence, she was resolved to retain the girl there until he or Isabel came. It was not for long; just as the sun was going down, Ellis Dorrance came up to the door, with a paper in his hand. ‘¢Tt?s from Miss Isabel, Mary; I was coming to see her when the telegraph messenger gave me this for you. She will not condescend to notify me of her comings and goings.” It was a telegram telling Mary to stay at the Haunted House as long as she wished; after to _return to the old place; she (Isabel) would sail for England the next day, per Albion, for an indefinite time. Isabel bad not given her reasons for the sud- den step; and, as it removes her from our story, we will explain. She had gone to Lakeview to tell Gussie Palliser of Florence’s sudden disap- si pik bad learned that Gussie was visiting, or a time, at Chessom’s Pride. Thus disappointed of communicating with Gussie, although she left a sealed note marked ‘‘ private,” she had gone by train to New York; partly on business of her own, partly from a conviction that Dorrance had taken Florence secretly away, and that they might possibly propose a tour to England. She resolved to examine the lists of entered passengers on several leading steamships; to her anger and wrath, she found on one the name— “Mr, James Palmer and ah Knowing Palmer to be in the secret employ of Dorrance, she instantly sup’ Florence to be the “lady,” and her own faithless lover the gen- tleman who had borrowed his valet de chambre’s name. With exultant triumph she secured a state-room, registered an assumed name; made a few necessarily hasty preparations, and went aboard the Albion; determined to keep closely to her state-room until they were fairly at sea; and then confront him with the truth she knew he feared and dreaded; the truth she had sworn never to reveal, but which now, sho justly de- cided, was due herself to tell. She telegraphed the last thing before she went on board. It is needless to state her vexation, disappointment, or chagrin, to learn, when miles and miles away, that she was thwarted. A fortnight later, and the news rung through both continents: the Albion was burned at sea, and not a soul left to tell the story. Florence heard Dorrance’s voice in the other room, which he had entered before Mary could give the warning she would have done, had not the surprise of the telegram driven all thoughts of Florence from her mind. Her first impulse was to fly anywhere—any- where from his hated presence; she obeyed that sudden. intention, and, with wild eyes, sprun toward the door just as a large, white hand wit a costly ring gleaming on its finger, arrested her flight. “Can it be possible? Is it really true Iam ponentet this great pleasure? Florence, come c ; ae turned on him a proud, yet beseeching 00 ‘*Mr. Dorrance, have I not been persecuted ar ce »“ When I left you here, Florence, I solemn] assure you I had no idea of what was to befall you before we met oat What intervened be- tween that night and this I know nothing of, except it was the work of a jealous woman.” Florence had never seen him so es in earnest; and yet she was afraid to trust him. ‘“Where you have been I know not; will you tell me?” - ‘“‘T do not know myself; I only know the name of the who took me in the carriage and lock- ed me in thedreary, lonely cabin, I think you know him, Mr. Dorrance, for ‘ birds of a feather flock together.’ His name is Palmer.” Dorrance sprung from the chair, an oath on his lips. ‘The rascal! the villainous liar! So that is why he wished to leave my service to- day, is it? Leaves Beechcrest for England at six to-night, hey?” He paced to and fro in the long room, with a pg tn expressive of the rage in his “Tt seems I am not the only one who admires SENGER. | been that his loving eyes did not recognize her; your pretty face. Florence, how did you es- cape from the cabin?” se ‘ lorence raised her head haughtilv. ie; > ‘*T prefer not to talk further on the subject, — Mr. Dorrance. {f have only to ask that you will take me home at once.” ‘ A loud, incredulous laugh answered her. ‘‘That is an admirable piece of effrontery! Do you think I shall relinquish my prize assoon _ Pas as I have regained it?” 8 BRO. Set She paled a little but her answer was firm = and undaunted. “Then I shall go myself. Mr. Dorrance, I tell you there will be no use of endeavoring to persuade me to be your wife; an imprisonment of twenty years would not change my mind. | To save trouble, you may as well let me go first * as last.” Dorrance gazed admiringly at her flushed, eager face, with its red, ted lips, and duskily flashing eyes. He waited several minutes in re- spectful silence, and — orence thought he was about to relent, when he said: “Upon my word, Florence, - are prettier r than ever with your air s! Florence turned sadly away to the window, her lips quivering. Dorrance followed her. “Florence, 1 will tell you what I am going to do. This house shall be yous home; Mary shall be your servant; I will be lord and slave; and you will be mistress. But, Florence, it will necessarily be a prison-house because you will not accede to my wishes. So content yourself, Florence, as best you can. 1 will bring you books and musie, clothes and—” She confronted him with her bright, flashing eyes. ore dare you? How dare you? and she ‘stamped her foot, angrily. ‘‘Toinjury you add insult! Not an article will I touch from your hands, unless it be food to keep me in strength to defy you! Appoint me my prison-cell, Ellis — Dorrance, and | will go toit. I will live in it ; and die in it, with the sweet consciousness that d 4 3 from his lips. “Captives do not dictate terms, you know.” Then he called to Mary to spread wh oye for them, and Florence, fearing lest he might drug her victuals, was glad to partake of the same food he ate. Gradually the dusk drew on, and after lam had been lighted, Dorrance drew an easy-chair and the light oval table nearer the fire, _ He took the afternoon’s paper from his over- coat-; ocket, and ensconced himself cosily in the .genial warmth and lighttoread. = = | Florence drew frigidly back in the shadow corner, her proud, pale face ning in darkness like some rare e; her eyes, covered by the long, droa lashes, filled with the proud, indignant tears e would not I will not be bought or coerced by such a villain © ; as you! These are my terms.” | s A — impertinent laugh came tantalizingly i jet % suffer to fall. . Fa es ee Mary was at work in her kitchen; the win- dows and doors were fast closed and locked, and: Florence thought how inexpressibly lonely and still it was. r She wondered if Arch would go back home by the same route, or had he already gone, and left her behind to grope about in the awful darkness that had come upon her? Of Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot she scarce thought at all, and yet she could not help wondering how they re, ed her absence; if they knew how it had hie and were seeking for her. Dear h! how disfigured she must have she knew her voice would have done what her altered face could not. All the horrors of the past night came vividly before her, and she was forced to acknowledge that it was better as it was; for there was creature comfort here, at the Haunted House, and a woman besides herself. th Then a sudden imperious summons made her praa from her chair, part in alarm, more in wild hope that rescue bad come.. : Dorrance dashed down the paper, and wheel- ed sharply around, his face pale with anawful — fear that Florence’s friends were on his track. Then, when Mary had opened the door, Jim Palmer sprung in! And the door closed again. CHAPTER XV. SHOWING HIS TENTH. It was with feelings of inexpressible exulta- tion that Jim Palmer made his preparitbegn be~ fore going after Florence at the cabin. He had been paid up by Dorrance, and with his money he had gone to New York, secured passage in the Albion, purchased elegant
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“=, 4 ] 4 Madi ty . | » pel he | is. outfit of clothing for Florence, and then bired a coach and horses. Himself attired in garments of the finest ma- terial and best maker, he bad gone alone to the place in which he had left her. Tying his horses, he had burried to the door, marveling at the want of light gleaming be- tween tho chinks, He unbolted the window nearest the back of the cabin, not noticing the front one that Arch Chessom had unfastened; jumped through, and then struck a light. The fire had burned out hours before, and a chilly shiver seized him as he strode to the mid- die of the room, A second’s surveillance betrayed the fact that Florence had escaped! Chagrined and enraged, be sat down a mo- .ment to collect his thoughts. “Tt was not Dorrance’s work,” he reasoned, “pecause Dorrance had been at home nearly allday with him. It was Isabel’s, that black- haired witch at the Haunted House!” No sooner had he arrived at that conclusion than he returned to the carriage, turned his horses’ heads toward the Haunted House, and galloped on. UF oe ee oe Wild thoughts were afloat in his brain as he rattled along; he would compel Isabel to give Florence up, under pain of revealing her crim- inality in transforming Florence from white to black. He had arranged the mode of. word attack, and when he sprung from the carriage, a little distance from the house, he concluded to act strongly on the offensive from the first. Thus he strode to the door, and knocked de- eidedly. To his utter su rance, when -he Isabel Lefevre. For a moment he was confounded; then, re- ecting that Dorrance did not know of his ade with Florence Arbuthnot, he resolved ut a bold face on, and manufacture the most plausible excuse he could, for his sudden, evidently unwonted appearance. ‘On the other side, Dorrance, who was infinite- ly relieved when he saw who the intruder was, having feared so much more, determined at once to make known to Palmer his acquaintance with his actions. Palmer did not observe Florence, who had shrinkingly retired to the most dark, distant eorner. ““Well, you are not off for England, I see?” tone was full of cutting irony, rise, he confronted Ellis Dor- ad so surely hoped to meet DL te Mee bare | Yes, exactly. By the way, Jim, where were yo nie t about eleven o'clock? from then on until after two?” He stared wrathfully at Palmer, who return- ed it with interest. _ “JT donot know thatI am in duty bound to answer any such questions.” “When you take it upon yourseif to interfere private arrangements, and turn traitor in my ? _ to the one you pretend to serve, I think I have | the right to demand an answer from yu. _ Palmer knew then that, by some mysterious agency, Dorrance knew his villainy ; and. he in- stantly resolved to fight for every inch of ground. — Dorrance’s face grew darker and stormier, then “egies forth in a torrent of passion: “ Why | ou assist Florence Arbuthnot to escape fro is house? Why did you convey her to that lonely cabin on the Stony Road? bitin ge you leave her there a guarded pris- oner?” . ... His tones were intensely bitter. - ‘ Pe gel ae lady was iu love with you?” i Perhaps so; at any rate, her.” ~ Palmer-—” c ia: 7 aes ” i Bis Palmer looked coolly at him, his light gray eyes almost white in their glare. “or the same reason you took her from her home several nights ago.’ A hoarse, sarcastic laugh came from Dor- rance. ‘Good! then you perhaps imagined the young I was in love with “You dare to aspire to her hand! Jim . ar. + c2 : sia Beye y., e 4 qf Ss iy ali ee ea er: « MESSENG ee Later, the next day ors), in a conversation Palmer smiled with supreme indifference. | on the subject, Gussie had found out that Arch ‘Do you know whe I au?” he asked, care- ey | really loved Fiorence, and that Florence return- ~ ‘“T ought to, after being your master for years | ed that love; thus partially exonerating Dur- | and years.” rance. ‘*Nominally, yes; but, after all, Dorrance, it And only partially, for his sin was none the is J whom am master. I could enlighten your | less: indeed she concluded it was the greater, bewildered understanding on several subjects | for forcibly abducting one who did not love that have been transpiring these last ten or | him. fifteen years; regarding the—” While at Chessom’s Pride. she received Ellis’s A vague fear seized Dorrance; besides, there | letter, and that same day, as Arch returned, was Florence sitting in that dusky corner, lis- | went back to Lakeview. — tening to every word. Of all this Dornaade was yet ignorant; but, as “That will do, Palmer. You may be excused | he neared the village, he found himself resolved from the premises now.” to pay a call at thi Arbuthmnots, and, if at all It was hardiy the language to use to a man like Jim Palmer, and Dorrance saw it too late, for Palmer turned sharply on him. “You excuse me, you black-hearted knave? Don’t attempt to insult me, or it will be worse for you; besides, when you make a deadly enemy of the man who knows your secrets, all about the secrets of those vou serve, it is apt to prove a bad move. So be careful, Dorrance, for your own sake.” His patronizing air maddened Dorrance. “T defy you and your secrets! Begone, or Vl assist you!” He drew a pistol from his pocket, and pointed it at Paln.er, who sneered at it. ‘‘T confess that’s not pleasant. You’re a capital shot, I know, and I value my life quite too much to stand for atarget. Ill retire, Ellis Dorrance, but mark these words. When you least expect or desire it, I will confront you with those secrets you sneer at; then, and not till then, will you know who I am.” CHAPTER XVI. THWARTED. As soon as Palmer had gone, Ellis Dorrance turned to Florence. : “You are quite in demand, you perceive. I hope the fact will not add to your stubborn- ness.’ She flushed at his rude address, ‘Nothing can add to, or detract from, my re- solution. I repeat, that 1 will die as your pri- soner rather than live as your wife.” ‘““Time will change all this,” he returned, lightly. e went from the room, locking the door after him; he was gone, probably twenty min- utes, then returned. possible, rid himself of the affair. He passed the night at his rooms, and the next morning, after a careful toilet—for he was going to attempt an interview with Gussie Palliser—started gfor the house of the Arbuth- nots. o@ It being just the village dinner hour, he found Mr. Arbuthnot at home, who greeted him warm- Mi We didn’t know that you were ever coming again. Where have you kept yourself?” Dorrance began to feel it would require all his moral courage to confess the affair; a glimpse of Gussie’s sparkling eyes seemed to rive before him, and he plainly saw Florence’s pale features, so proudiy contemptuous, so stubbernly re- solved, and he plunged straight into the deepest of the difficulty, with a sort of recklessness that men feel when they have an idea they are not succeeding exactly as they would wish. Dorrance had become possessed of that feel- ing, somehow, since Palmer had shown‘a know- ledge of his (Ellis’s) secrets; for it has been per- ceived there were episodes in Dorrance’s life he would well like to be kept still; and how Palm- er, of all men, had learned—if he knew—was a sort of mystery to him. One of these past troubles was in his mind as he looked at Mr. Arbuthnot’s face, so ugly in its set, willful lines; but ‘‘ nothing venture, no- thing have,” he thought. ** Where have I heen? You will be surprised to learn I came from Florence last evening.” The listeners sprung to their fect in a simul- taneous gesture of amaze. “From Florence!” eched Mr. Arbuthnot. “Then how the deuce did you find out where Chessom and she went?” Dorrance felt the lady’s gray eyes coldly ‘‘T have secured the doors and windows on | fixed on his hot cheeks; but, with an assump- ts the floor above, that Isabel used, that now is | tion of utter indifference he was far frcm feel- yours. Mary, attend Miss Florence.” ing, he replied: Stepping as queenly as a princess of the blood ““Chessom never went with her. It was I royal, Florence went up to her prison, and dis- | who took her off, and I’m sick enough of the ' missed the negress at the door. bargain. You’re welcome to her.” 2 The suit of rooms was pleasantly lighted and “ You?” warmed. The accommodations plain, but good; Mrs. Arbuthnot fairly bissed the words in his and at a glance she saw escape was impossible. | ear. ‘‘ After all, it was you ?” As soon as she had retired from the dining- ae a 2 : room, Dorrance left the house; his horse wasin| The three sat silent, glaring at each other in } the rickety old stable, and he led him out, for | silent anger. Then Dorrance burst forth, impetuously. ‘“‘'There’s no need to carry on this play longer. The truth is, I don’t care for the girl, and I do love Gussie Palliser. You needn’t argue, or rave, it will do no good.” “But think how you have lived all these years, Ellis, off her money—or a small portion of it, at least. Remember, a marriage is the H only way to cover up this.” rs. Arbuthnot’s voice was low and intense; but Dorrance was imperturbable. ‘* All you can say will not avail” “Then you shall be exposed, sir.” Mr. Arbuthnot thundered the words; but Dorrance smiled calmly, turning to the lady. “How is that? do gentlemen often deal so with step-sons? Mother, you will side with me at the last?’ “She dare not! I have borne with you long enough; I have been an ally in this conspiracy: and now, when your own selfishness is so ap- eek I seem to see what a blind fool Pve een to respect the secret Mrs. Dorrance told me when it was too late for me to help it. We have palmed off this trick of secrecy long enough. You shall be known as my wife’s son; be Florence shall be declared the true heiress 16) — his return to Beechcrest. z Several things were on his mind as he rode slowly along. : First, was the momentarily increasing desire to be friends again with lissome Gussie Palli- ser; and now that the letter must have ere this been read by her, accidental as the sending had been, he was in a state of feverish anxiety. Would she refuse his overtures? would she ecept his apologies? or had he separated him- self forever from her? Co-equal with this wish on his part was the regret that he had implicated himseli so with Florence; to be sure, no one—except Chessom and Palmer, the former by intuition, the latter by absolute knowledge—knew of his complicity in the affair; and while all Beechcrest was ring- ing with the news of Florence Arbuthnot’s elopement, it was universally whispered—not spoken, for the Chessoms were too rich and proud to have anything positively told about them—that young Arch knew where she was. Mr. Arbuthnot had not hesitated to spread these reports; and the two facts of Ellis Dor- rance’s being seen in the village every day, while Arch, in his rapid detective tours about the country, was never seen, helped the goss Gussie Palliser alone knew the true s affairs; and, during her brief visit at Ches Pride—brief, because of her own unsettled state of mind, as well as the peculiar situation in which the family was placed—had ascertained, to her entire satisfaction—which accounted for her visit to the Haunted House, after her watch yo OW of Dorrance the one preceding day and evening | which, is the fact vou need not follow your — from the window of the hotel directly opposite | attention to Gussie Palliser. You will not, the Arbuthnot’s mansion—that Florence had | morrv her, rest aseumres.” gone with Dorrance. |. Dorrance sneered. Se og back then?” 4 of, perhaps; among — rs - ¥
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oe ie a He INGED: ‘MESSENHo Re} + ceo sitacched O 2 ee ee eee * Pray, do you know the lovely young lady | ‘‘ You’vechanged your mind rather suddenly,” “He has stopped at Chessom’s Pride for some- ‘, also?” remarked the lady, dryly. ‘‘So far as I am | thing, and I’ve got a man on the watch until he ys Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot exchanged glances, | concerned, I never liked him, and never will. | brings up somewhere. Gussie, you can give us tnen the lady replied: I only regret Ellis’s stubbornness to marry Flor- | a cup of tea? it will probably be the last we take ‘Better than you do, Ellis.” ence.” at Lakeview, unless we are invited, which I - A dark frown gathered on Dorrance’s face. ‘What have I been telling you all these | hardly think. I polberaeece for your brother “I am disgusted with so much mystery; mo- | years? didn’t I say he never would succeed? | Will, Gussie, to come. He'll be in by the 8:30 ther, Mr, Arbuthnot, good-afternoon.” didn’t I say it was a wicked shame to impose | down train.” He departed silently, and while there was a | on her as long as we did? But she shall have ‘©Will!” repeated she, joyfully. ‘I’ve not gloomy frown on his forehead, a smile of self- | her rights, and that, too, as soon as I can ar- | seen Will since I’ve been at Lakeview. Lamso gratulation was on his lip. range it.” anxious to see him!” a ** At any rate, one band is broken. I will seek ‘““One would think you were her father, to “Then so soon as he comes, we are to go, all my bonnie Gussie this very afternoon. She | hear your disinterested kindness. Iam wicked | of us, to the place where Ellis has taken Flo- must be mine; for I love her; and, besides, my enough to confess I have always wanted her | rence, and explain the affair to her, and bring ‘ast speculation was remarkably unlucky; Lake- | and my son to make a match. If I hacn’t de- | her home.” view would not come amiss to me.” sired it, I certainly would not have schemed Mingled with Gussie’s beauty that night, was So, in his selfishness and wickedness, he hasten- | and plotted when she was a babe in her cradle; | a sadness; a weary sort of way she had with , ‘lon to Lakeview. she and Gussie together.” her that her mother and father could not under- At the entrance, he gave the man a familiar ‘Gussie shall be told as well as Florence of | stand. They forbore asking questions, however, : nod, and attempted to pass in, but was respect- | the romantic drama in which she has al] uncon- | and at early evening left her, quietly as the (ully prevented. sciously been acting; and then, when Ellis finds | came, unseen as they always came, for th “I have orders not to admit you, Mr. Dor- | he has lost all, perhaps he’ll be less independent.” | home: me : ; rance. Miss Palliser bade me give you this if Mr. Arbuthnot was slowly pacing the room, we, ares ty , | ever you came.” and his wife toyed with the spoons on the table. | cal enna s ar | He handed Ellis a letter; the same he had | ‘ Ellis’s spirit can never be broken; and as for ee Oe \ sent by the carrier-dove to Chessom’s Pride, so | the money he has used—Florence can well spare CHAPTER XVIII. ; he knew she had received it. it, Oh, iP he had only married her and secured GRAND TABLEAU | On tke last page was written, in Gussie’s hand- | the rest.” - : we | writing: _ The impatient promenader did not answer ELLIS DORRANCE was not in the best of hu- “Go to Isabel Lefevre and show her this letter, | immediately; then suddenly paused before his | mors when he arrived at the Haunted House. if Never speak to, or of, me again, Gere wife. ; Florence, from her window in the second i He started in amazement; how did Gussie | _ ‘| Have you heard from Gussie’s brother, late- | story, saw him coming through the twilight - know of his acquaintance with Isabel? ly? “ darkness, his steps rapid and firm. : if It was ample food for reflection, as, chagrined | _‘\ Not for a six-month, at least. Why? A fluttering of some tiny white object at- | and angered, he pursued his way, on foot, to- I desire him to be informed of the change | tracted her attention; she saw Dorrance Sard thie Hanated Eouse. that will take place; he knew it would occur | smooth the little spot of white; then a head It lay directly past Chessom’s Pride, by the | S0me time, though not when. I will just tele- | peered from beneath his hand. main road; Florence Arbuthnot’s residence being | 8™aph to him to come to Beechcrest.” With a scream of rapturous joy, Florence re- = | at one end of the village, furthest from Ches- | , Then the restless walk went on, broken as be- | eognized Lili. For the first time since her de- som’s Pride: Lakeview at the end nearest, with fore by a sudden stop. pera from home, there came a genuine satis- Chessom’s Pride lying about two-thirds of the ‘That rascal never told us where Florence | factory ray of hope to her; for with Lili for distance between Gussie’s residence and the | Was! By Jove! I wish I had tracked him. It’s | her ally, she asked no stronger frierid. She Haunted House. only ten minutes since he went, and I'll try. | too excited, too nervous to question how or ‘ A feeling of bitter enmity toward Florence’s Get your shawl and hat and come with me.” Dorrance had obtained possession of Lili; she ee | aecepted lover was in his heart as ke gazed at |, To will was to do, in the Arbuthnot house- | was content to simply accept the fact he had =| the elegant mansion, its long and satin draped | hold, and in less than five minutes they were | possession. : +2. windows; its statues standing in the snow. off, having been told by a boy who was skating | _ Almost before Dorrance had entered the door, He wondered if Chessom had ever seen the | 00 the little pond near by, which direction Mr. | Florence had decided upon her course. To note he had sent by the carrier-dove; wondered Dorrance had taken. avoid being suspected by her captor, she re- if he had not suspected who had detained the Absorbed by his thoughts, Dorrance had | solved to go down to her meals as usual; care- bird those days it was a prisoner in his own | Walked slowly; urged by far different motives, | fully observe where the dove was placed, and ha room, the Arbuthnots hastened on, catching a sight of | at her earliest possible convenience, obtain pos- He glanced up at the sunny side of the house, | him as he entcred the grounds of Lakeview ; they | session, and send it home with a message she and caught sight of the gilded cage, reflecting | Slackened their speed, and suffered him to de- | should prepare in the meantime. the bright sunlight as the light wind swung it to | Part. ‘ | She knew that it would take not a half-hour and fro. As they passed the window, they saw the | for Lili to reach Chessom’s Pride, and for Arch Lili was within, basking in the warm after- | Stony, ‘vengeful face of Gussie peering after | to hurry back, if he were home- © "* : : noon sunshine, her white plumage smooth and | him. “Suppose you ask for an interview, | So, wild with inward nervousness, she went =| shining. while I keep on,” : down the stairs just in time to see Dorrance — Had it been Gussie’s hand—now lost to him | _ And, in compliance with her busband’s com- | shut down the cover of sket, and thrust it forever—that had caressed it? mand, Mrs. Arbuthnot went up to the elegant | in the lower section of the large, old-fashioned The thought sent an added balefulness to the | entrance. Gussie met ber in the hall, with an | secretary. pracs Ss already ugly glitter of bis eyes. affectionate kiss, t Dorrance glanced suddenly at her, but her “‘ Gussie lost! Isabel estranged! and Florence | “Come right in; it isso cold. You saw Ellis | gaze was into the blazing fire on the hearth, unmanageable! By Jupiter, she shall be mine, | 8° away ?” ? : “Bring in supper, Ma ry! Florence, T want a if only to spite this haughty-headed Chessom, The black eyes flashed direfully as the lips | few moments’ conversation with you.” who ordered me from his house! Yes, and mine | framed the words. She turned her head away with a gesture of before the midnight bells shall ring, if not by Mrs, Arbuthnot caressed the small, shapely | disdain that did not im prove his t emper, and fair means, by foul!” hand in a tender, half-hungering sort of way. | he laid his hand heavily on her shoulder. He still stood, sereened by asnow-laden arbor, I saw him, dear. But I’d so much rather look She sprung from under it, her eyes flashing glancing jealously at the house, that lay still | 4 you! it has been so long since [ saw you. | fire. and apparently uninhabited, in the early gather- | Ths unnatural mode of living will soon be | ‘‘ Remove your hand, sir! and be careful not ing shadows; for it was four o'clock or very near | Ver, though, my darling, and ]’ll have you all | to repeat the offense!” of a January day. the time then. : ‘‘“That’s all very fine, you know, but such ‘If I could but once gain possession of that | Gussie sbrugged her shoulders prettily. acting is about ‘played’ with me. I am tired carrier-pigeon! Id like to have the satisfac- “T must admit I like all this elegance and | of this ceaseless, senseless shilly-shallying—” , tion of wringing its neck! no—I’ve a better luxury, only of course I have taught myself it “Which argues less for your grammar than _ dea! by. Jove, what a glorious revenge! |’/] | isnot mine. Suppose my handsome, stern bro- | it does for your refinement,” she interpolated, ake it from its cage—the shutters are all closed, ther knew who Lakeview belonged -to, I think | keenly. j , ind I see no one on that side of the house— | be’d open his black eyes wider.” “Refinement notwithstanding. Florence Ar ‘arry it to the Haunted House, and from there Mrs. Arbuthnot’s eyes were full of tenderest | Luthnot, I am going to put an end to oll this. 8 a bulletin to my lord Chessom, stating | love as she gazed on Gussie’s piquant, sparkling Bes you § ll consent to be my wife, or a ‘lorence’s condition, aud m rmination; | face. worse fate— ; : after which I will adopt aie ieee ties th “‘You’ve been a faithful daughter, my Gussie, She held up her hand in quiet, wrathful dig- leave this part of the country with my unwill- and you shall be rewarded for serving us so | nity. ns aan ing bride.’ well.” “Do not speak such words in my presence. is black eyes gleamed with the anticipation A little look of pain came into Gussie’s face. If your vile lips will speak , Say them te of evil triumph as he quickly entered the ‘But, mother, dear, I fear I have lost my | yourself. I will not listen.” = snowy path that led to the library windows, | heart in this daring game. I had learned to She turned to go from the room, but he ar- against one of which the dove was hanging. | love Ellis better than I should have done. | rested her. Ba eet a e secured it without detection, thrust it in the | Often I forgot he was only a step-brother; and ‘Not yet! Just wait until ‘T give Mary her =. breast of his overcoat, and amid the darkenin remember, I never saw him until we were both | orders for locking up,” ee Oe sunset shadows, proceeded to the Haunted grownup; you kept me at school so closely.” He smiled sarcastically and stepped to the — House. know, dear, because I was so anxious he | next room. : * ; (se dias should marry Florence, and secure her wealth. It was Florence’s golden opportunity; qui need i CHAPTER XVII, threw them together constantly, with that | as FA vos u, lightning she opened the ba ms: pay Saas eG ope. and too e tiny pigeon therefrom, securing it — A P a0 es PLOT. Which was the very worst thing you could | in her jacket. +p ; re 42 Exiis DoRRANCE had b a, left the residence | have done; besides, mother, did you not know Just as she had replaced the lid, and sunl of the Arbuthnots, when his step-father turned | that Ellis was already—” | upon a chair, covering her conscious ; sharply to bis wife. _ A knock at the door, followed by Mr. Arbuth- | with her hands, Ellis returned. Sie “ A pretty trick this noble son of yours has | not’s entrance, interrupted Gussie’s remark. ‘Pardon me for leaving you so long, but I layed us! And I’ve insulted Mr. Chessom, | With a fond kiss and a caress, her father | had further to go for Mary than I thougl olnowseeisagentleman.” = turned to his wife. - s y , % | Allow me to escort you to your room-dcor,” Mos : ( " ho ae ¥ - " be ‘ V2 ae Ieee ae ri li i a i wee Bee ~ te + \ - ——_ Dt *2 ee,
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- ~~ 14 ees SS ee 2 Sa: e silently submitted, lest an attempt to re- Was pi his distasteful offer might lead to a discov- -_-_ ery of her precious treasure __ At her door he bade her good-night.” “Pleasant dreams, Florence, if you insist on retiring. However, I'll venture to say you'll be down stairs before long, I am going to break another bottle of that Green Seal.” _ Florence saw he was already slightly under the influence of liquor, to which she attributed his willingness to permit her to seek her own i noom, Not a moment was to be lost; trembling with fear jest Dorrance should discover the absence of Lili, she lighted her lamp, and having neither pencil or paper, pen or ink, she tore a piece of sapering from tre wall, and with the burnt end of the match scrawled to Arch the fact of ‘ber 1g a prisoner at a p) r bis house; with high towers; the house bE ‘morning before chee for deliverar il’s wing with me, with a paper to rom. her dress. The window w , but she broke a pane in pie ff, beyond reach or recail! Then, with true feminine n and cried. : , Tt did her good, that hearty storm of nervous grief, that was a relief to her feelings, that, de- spite all her awful dangers, had never brought J 4 a tear to her eyes. ; ’ How long she sat there she did not know; it } might have been five minutes or an hour, when os a subdued knock was heard on her door, follow- ed by Mary’s voice. “Oh, Miss Florence, ef dere ain’t de awfullest goin’s on down dem stairs! Massa Dorrance he half tipsy, and a-boss’in me roun’, an’ swearin’ you shall kim down! Oh, Miss Florence, ef you on’y could cum afore he cums up! ’deed and weer’ you’d better! an ef he comes fur to go fur 30 tech you, I'll poker him, I will!” : will come down, Mary. I do not think he abuse me.” o down she went, wondering if Arch would e home; if he would come in time to save her. orrance was walking to and fro in furious 1. “Where is that bird, you—” ould find no word that suitably expressed at he wished to say, so he stopped abruptly. he met his lurid gaze as calmly as she could. What bird, Mr. Dorrance?” your evading the question! I ask bird?’ what reply she could th, and yet not enrage st forth again: fe enough now, my ay for the trouble there and I’ll come had that pleasure in 6 edge of a chair near- leath, and her eyes fur- $ every movement. chair I mean, you little co- quette you! Come here on the lounge where I can ny arm around you and kiss you!” _‘* Will you wait one moment, Mr. Dorrance, _ -while I go in this room for a glass of water?” A deadly glitter in her eyes told she was not ‘a be trifled with. . To moisten those sweet lips? certainly, only excuse my want of gallantry in not waiting upon you.” ‘She walked deliberately into the next room 1¢ heard her pour out a glass of water and ow it; then she came out, paler than be- vy come! I’m impatient, you see!” stood perfectly still a moment, then a low, terrible voice: ice! I shall never accede to your nds. beyond where I stand I ep. ome to you! By Jove, I will, a the lounge, and advanced to yes glaring redly upon her, his i ine-tainted. nded his arms to enclasp her in bis *e; she drew back a pace and pointed a istol full in bis face. s your own that I saw lying there, which ained under pretense of wanting water, Dorrance was taken aback; then by a sud- den, swift motion of bis hands, he caught her greet in bis iron grasp; as cream issued from her ips. A sudden, thunderous, prolonged knockin was heard at the Coor of the room; a powerfu blow by more than one pair of hands, and Arch Chessom dashed in clasping Florence’s fainting form just as Palmer pinioned Dorrance in his strong grip. Mr. ana Mrs, Arbuthnot, followed by Gussie, occupied the center of the room in solemn, pain- ful silence. It was as if the shadow of Death had fallen upon them, so awfully still it was; with Florence lying pale and unconscious in her lover’s arms, and Dorrance staring in Speech- less surprise at tte unexpected intruders. Then Mr. Arbuthnot broke the silence. ‘* Hillis, justice must be meted out, sooner or later, to every soul. It has come to you to- night. We have found you to be a villain, and even if you are my wife’s son, I do not hesitate to unmask you. First, Gussie, what is your accusation?” She bent on Dorrance a glance of mingled scorn and pity as she stepped forth. ‘‘T would prefer that something be done for that poor gir] first; bring water,” she said, to Mary, who stood trembling in the doorway. Then, when Florence had revived, and sat with ‘her lover tenderly supporting her, Gussie produced a little note. “‘It is from Isabel Lafevre, and declares on her oath she is Ellis Dorrance’s lawful wife,” A gleam of rage shot from Dorrance’s eyes, but he said nothing; he evidently knew he was baffled. “And I,” said, Palmer, wish to inform this gentleman that I am Gussie’s brother, ‘Will; who, knowing the romantic game being played by the Arbuthnots, and desising an equal share in the prize, devoted my life to the winning of Miss Florence, who, as heiress of Lakeview, would be a very acceptable wife, notwithstand- ing my worthy mother’s desire that her first- born by her first husband should be the favored one. Florence looked epitaph teak! at them all; while Arch, to whom the story had been told on the way, asthe parties met near Chessom’s Pride, congratulated her lovingly. “You see, darling,” he explained, ‘‘ Lake- view belonged to you always; your. grand- parents having died intestate; not knowing you were living as Florence Arbuthnot; that family having been hired to nurse you by your own mother when you were a baby in Europe. “The Arbuthnots kept track of the family; and when they died, conceived the idea of pass- ing their daughter Gussie as Miss Palliser, and keeping 1 at home as their daughter, thereby hoping Mr. Dorrance would marr thus secure the preperty legally to them.” | Glad tears sprung to Florence’s bright eyes. ‘* And now yon family will receive me?” Arch flushe pered, bravely: od “Tam ashamed to confess it, that I think so.” “ And, dear Florence, I have vacated Lake- view forever; the carriage is at the door, and ou and Mr, Chessom are to go to your rightful ome, and be married at on : ‘“‘T have done wrong, Florence,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, “and to atone I have given up the necessary papers to year futufe husband; Mr. Chessom will see to the proper settlements.” Dorrance still sat in stolid silence, while Will Arbuthnot, alias Palmer, stood behind him. ** Miss Palliser,” said Palmer, ‘‘for I will be the first to call you _by your true name, may I ever be forgiven? I am ashamed and repent- ant; I can say no more.” Florence, safe in Arch’s arms, smiled bright- ly at him. ‘You did me one favor, at least, Mr. Arbuth- not: I shall not forget that. Let us all be friends, and forget the past; all but—” She hesitated, and flushed painfully as looked at Dorrance. > He glanced es fet at her. ‘* All but me, I suppose? Well, this is friend I want—” He snatched the pistol, laid, it a temple, fired, and fel dead among the man, whom no one regretted but bis m whom the blow was severe. } Why need we linger over this story longer? Florence Palliser and Arch Chessom were married at Lakeview that very night; and on the morrow were received with open arms at Chessom’s Pride! Such is the way of the world! she THE END. you, and a little in chagrin, but he whis- i THE WINGED MESSENGER. . _ : | volumes, viz.: ia Lapa gies B ah BEADLE & ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. Speakers. 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