Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 3) (1880 12 07)
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a i) ’ so The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Sigil eee arna « f) et i December 7, 1880. + No. 56. VoL. Ill, PRICE, 5 CENTS, i : | : Hh Hi | ac 3 ~ AN | i : 5 y}| pnenaneeee nite! ni ‘ S aun ean ware A z Wis = | NOR C5. ‘““MY HAND IS NOT MINE! ’TIS PROMISED TO ANOTHER!” SHE WAILED. Love-Mad: or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and—. BY WM. MASON TURNER, M. D. CHAPTER I. GLOOM ON THE HEARTH. “Ox! Fanny, I had rather die than go into this company!” exclaimed the fair young creature, suddenly sweeping her head of luxuriant, gold- en curls away from the manipulating care of the tender-hearted sewing- maid, and burying her face in her warm, throbbing hands, o : A sob burst from the pent-up bosom, and a wild shudder passed over her frame. ‘““Nay—nay, Miss Agnes, do not give way so! It will be worse for you; and then—then—you see—it will soon be over—all this fuss and Show. Well, well, if truth be told, I can’t see what has come over your uncle, and—” ““What bas come over him, Fanny? Why, wealth! Wealth that should not belong to him—wealth, worked hard for, by my poor, dead, murdered father! Nay, nay, Fanny!” and she shook her head sadly, yet emphatically—‘ I know it! for I feel it—and wno did it? Ay, Fanny, wealth has come, and come gloriously, over St. Clair Arlington—wealth that should be mine!” ’ The maid said nothing for a moment, but leaning against the bureau in La ‘~ * ‘wre et i th
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4a ts ons ~ and I cannot hel + wns wt = - = ’ the. room, gazed fixedly at her young mistress, as if lost in admiration at the peerless beauty of the soft, angel face, surrounded by its glittering halo of lus- trous hair. _ Agnes Arlington was a beautifulgirl, Perhaps she was twenty years of age—perhaps younger—certain- not older. There was, however, care-lines across the broad, white forehead—cut by the keen graver of Trouble. The mouth, too, though flexible for grief or mirth, was closed firmly together, shutting in the rows of pearly teeth—shutting in, too, dark trouble which was gnawing-at her young heart, Nevertheless, Agnes Arlington was wondrously beautiful. , aM ; And then, without isk comagne curtain, the maid lit the wax-taner; and with a half-sigh, turned again to her mistress, and gathered up the rich tresses in her hand. This time the girl did not take her head away, but nestled it softly back against the warm bosom_of her only friend, the sewing-maid. And Fanny leaned over, as she caressed the curls, which she was putting in array, and said: “Itis a strange affair, Miss Agnes, and there are more than you who think that your poor old father ought to have outlived his grudge and given you what, despite all the law, it seems to me is yours! But now—”’ ‘There is too much law, Fanny, and wondrous lit- tle susrice!’’ said the girl, bitterly, interrupting her; “and why that ‘grudge?’ Because, giddy, young and somewhat willful, as I was, at the time, I ecould © to_the ball in the village with Clavis Warne. layis—poor, dar Clavis! and he only a visitor here —my father’s guest, my lover!) Oh! [love him still, though four long years have passed since then, and not one word from him, and father dead—murdered ! and uncle St. Clair here as owner of this large estate, and J here, under the law, as his ward! Oh, God! Winn am I spared for such a life? Why do / not die ?”’ “Was it not rather, Miss Agnes, that you failed to go to the ball with that man, Delaney Howe, that our father, for a willful disobedience, as he termed it, disinherited you?” \ A scowl wrinkled the angel face at the name men- tioned by Fanny. The large blue eyes seemed to change in hue. **Mention not his name, Fanny! That man is my dark shadow—my evil angel; and [ loathe—I scorn him! And yet, he is my uncle’s friend! And that uncle sanctions ar and Fanny, I am not of age, ‘You can help it, Miss Agnes, and you should!” said the domestic, in alow tone. ‘‘I would appeal to the law, or would flee away, under the cover of some dark night, or—in your ear, Agnes—I would drive a knife into Delaney Howe’s heart!” The young girl started, and, turning around, gazed in the face of her maid. ; There was no swerving there; all was sternness, earnest and honest. 4 For a moment a wild light burned in Agnes Ar- lington’s eyes, and the hard expression around her mM dlowiy the ogry Uptistig,- Silane ¢ ut slow e angry g rom eo oo faded out; and a tear stole down over the cheek. feat “No; no, Fanny; you mean well; but do nots to me thus again! Donottempt me! I cannot doas you say; for then there would be no hope of Clavis, and I live for him yet—live on the memory of the sweet past! Oh, no! no!’ and she turned shudder- ingly away from the open window. fees ti dow, in’the second story of the large, shambling old mansion of RevOn THONGS Hees look- ed out far over a wide-stretching plain—a lonely cemetery in one end, here and there spectral poplars swaying in the wind. But now, the night had set- tled down; clouds, low and heavy, hurtled menac- ingly in the hot, close air; the mo wind crept around the old mansion and over the plain. Gloom was upon every thing. The maid noticed the gesture of her mistress, and shiv herself, as a dark memory came over her —shivering despite the sweltering July heat—step- ped to the window to lower the sash, as if to shut out some horrid sight. 3 But Agnes turned suddenly, and placed her hand on the arm of the maid. ig. “Stop, stop, Fanny! The Shadow cannot harm you! Nor can you see itin the—” “But, Miss Agnes, to-night is the fourteenth of the month—and the moon shines under the clouds! Oh, God! if it shines through, the Shadow will be there ’ and the servant turned shrinkingly from the window, “Ay! you are right, Fanny, and in my trouble I had rs ehh id in a low voice. “It is the night of the month—the fated night—the bloody fourteenth! when my father disappeared—when he was murdered! as 1 know, and when old Noon dis- appeared, too! And the birth-night of St. Clair Ar- lington, my uncle: this nent he is to celebrate, de- spite wind or weather! This night I am to be mis- tress! This night I am to be persecuted by that mon- ster, Delancy Howe! Well, well, Fanny; God be our friend; it cannot. be helped! Go on;.for it is getting late, and nine o’clock is the hour.” Without aword,the domestic, proceeded. with. her work, The golden curls, were one by one, neatly ar- ranged and eee up; a flashing jewel was placed here, another there; then an elegant robe of black satin was arranged on her form; a string of pearls was thrown around ber neck, and) asthe great hall- clock down-stairs struck eight Agnes Arlington, the dazzling, disinhevited. beauty. and belle of Labber- ton, viewed her resplendent form and glowing face in the mirror. . For an instant a proud smile spread over her fea- tures: but quickly that smile had fled, and the girl murmured: Again th : pa: All this glitte ‘ toms!” The LOV E-MAD.. ** Oh, Clavis! where are you to-night?” There was a tap at the door, and a note was hand- in. %y Agnes opened the sheet and glanced through it. A pallor and an expression of pain came to her face, asshe read.the few lines. But, she perused them calmly through to the end, The note was brief, reading thus: **Gome down into the library when you are dress- ed, and do not take all night to this work, I want to see you on business, to give you certain instruc- tions, which it will be well for you to heed. Don’t keep me waiting—remember that. “Str. CLAIR ARLINGTON.” Agnes Arlington heaved a deep sigh, and mur- mu A $ ‘‘Oh, that such a man is my uncle! Leave the light burning, Fanny, and go down and see that the servants are duly attired and ready for the birth- night festival.” She turned away. As she did so, a vivid flash of lightning gleamed over the wide-stretching, ghostly ain, and a hollow thunder-note pealed ominously in the hot air. Agnes Arlington glanced instinctively out over the dreary waste-land, and then, with a shudder, she wheeled abruptly and left the apartment, CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW. ‘ HEAVEN preserve us, sir! I’ve lost the way, and —ah! great God!” he suddenly exclaimed, at that moment, a blinding flash of lightning glared over the lonely road which ran through the dark woods, and a thunder-peal growled its hoarse notes along the black aisles of the forest. The horses attached to the carriage reared fear- fully; and, snorting in very fright, backed the vehi- cle rudely against a heavy tree by the roadside. ain the lightning flashed, illuminating, for an instant, the . forest fringed road, and then a thunderbolt ¢ d again. Brief as was the blinding glimmer of the flash, it lit up a wild and fearful scene. The place was a lonely road—narrow, precipitous and cut up with gullies, down which hissing streams were roaring in wild torrents. The tall, gloomy trees, overhanging the way and interlacing above their spectral. arms,-making a black, dismal, far- stretching archway, grew up to the very edge of the old stage-road. Backed up to one side—the trembling animals look- ing around with terror-stricken eyes—was a com- mon country carriage, splashed with mud, and streaming with the down-pouring sheets of rain. Behind the carriage was strapped a large “ibe > trunk, On the seat, the reins clutched in his shak- ing, almost nerveless grasp, his face blanched with fright, cowered the driver. Inside the vehicle sat one person—a young man, with pale stern, features. As the driver spoke, he put his head out of the window. this was seen as the bright, forked flash gleam- ed down from the low-hanging clouds above. The r was momentary; but the sight revealed stood out like a deep-graven pi ae ain the fla: , and aeaihies dise e. The one inside once more put his head out of the carriage and glanced around him a ‘Hold your horses up! Give them the whip,” he ‘said, in a stern voice, “ or they'll crush the carriage to ai ! : ““Can’t do it, sir; can’t doit!) They won’t mind!’ replied the man. ‘Can't doit! Why— Ha!” At that moment the black forest was lit a the splendor of a mid-day sun; then a deafening de- tonation, and a tall giant pine, not forty yards away, was riven from top to bottom, its fragments flying in every ion, . The young man waited no longer; but, buttoning his coat up to the chin, he hurled the carriage door open, and springing out, rushed to the horses and seized them by the bit. TESA ain “ Give them their head!” he shouted to the driver, at the same time forcing them gently forward, Fale, with his left hand, he patted them kindly on e neck. t 3 ‘ The driver loosed the reins, and now that they had some one to give them confidence, the animals bent their necks obediently, and drew the carriage out in- to the middle of the road. The young man stopped them at a word, and clambering up alongside the driver, took the reins. . *‘ And, so you are lost, are you, my man?”’ he ask- ed, grning ‘suddenly to the driver. “Yes, sir; you see, sir, there is a cross-road out there,” and he pointed ahead of him. ‘I don’t know where it leads to, and, you see, sir, this is my second trip from the station to the village. I’m a new hand, Bik.) “Ab! Well, let me see!,. As I said, we must get away from this wood, or the next thing, we won’t know what struck us!”? and he smiled grimly, as at that moment another crash of thunder awoke the echoes around, as with | them. on ““Yes,”’. continued the young. man, “we'll go straight. on, and not take the crossway. And, my good fellow, J will drive.” ; i He spoke to the horses, touched them lightly with the whip, and thecarriage moved on. Their progress was slow; now they were on fine round, and now floundering in one of the deep gul- ies down which the waters were madly roaring. But the young man, who held, the reins in a firm grasp, Kepe his eyes bent steadily before him, and made the horses stick to their work. Gradually the trees on either side grew more sparse; by degrees there was a lifting of the inky > darkness, and, atlast, they were clear out of the gloomy woods. : The young man checked the horses, and once more glanced around him, ; ; ““We cannot be a7, at all events, from Labberton,” he said, “‘and—ha! My God! what is that?” he sud- denly exclaimed, asa white figure dashed from be- hind, swiftly by the carriage, and fled on in the night, ; d gone, without noise or sound soever, in the twinkling of an eye—the pale spectral glimmer of the flying aregery isappearing as a gravestone sinking inthe earth. ~~ The driver uttered a ery: “Tis the ghost of Squire Arlington!” ‘Arlington! Arlington, my man?” * Yes, sir; murdered on the plain a half-year ago. Let’s turn back and—”’ **Nonsense! and—ha! Look!” and he pointed with his hand far away, in the gloom 0% the night, toward the right. Several bright lights shone in hea night, betokening life and comfort of some sort. “We must go there for the night, my good man, and crave hospitality; when the morning comes we can go on to Labberton.”’ : ‘Why, sir, of course,’ said the driver; ‘but, sir, there is a fence there, as you see, and there’s no road to the house—i/ it is a house!” and he closed his sentence at a low breath. “Wait here a moment and I’ll reconnoiter,”’ givin the reins to the other. ‘It looksto me, as well as can see, as if it were a low flat country, and we may not need a road.” As he spoke he placed a hand on the haunch of the nearest horse and sprung to-the ground. Ina moment he had ppeared, but only soon to return and mount to the seat. “T have let down a pannel of the fence,” he said, bi itis an open, level field the other side. I also found traces. of an old road. ‘Come, we'll go; the lights cannot be far off.” Again the carriage moved on. Turning abruptly, he guided the animals through the gap in the fence, and then they entered the large, bare field. The storm was now fast abating; a high wiid had sprung up, and the clouds were gradually drifting away toward the northward. Suddenly the moon shone out with a splendid ra- gence on the plain, lighting up a weird, wondrous picture. Lilt _The horses started back—the carriage was forced sideways on a low hillock, and beth the men saw plainly defined on the ground, a, large, distorted shadow. : Then, with a crash, the carriage went over, and a ery of pain moaned out on the air. CHAPTER IL A LIGHTNING STROKE. We must go back a few hours in our story. Despite the brewing storm, the lordly old mansion of St. Clair Arlington was lighted from toy to bottom in honor of the royal event, the birth-night of the resent owner. ven the wings of the ancienc welling in which a gleam of light seldom shone to il- lume the gloom a. resting there, were now aglow with flashing tapers, looking like an immense super natural fire-fly burning out brilliantly upon the night. St. Clair Arlington intended to make a grand af. fair of this, his birth-night—and he had meats iu abundance. 2 He had long looked for the coming of this event- ful night, for it was on this occasion he ted to melt his neighbors of the village into something like warmth—to break down the icy reserve existing be- tween him and them—to do away with the coldness and distrust with which ey had treated him, since his sudden return from—nobody knew whither, aud his quiet induction into his brother’s—old John Ar- lington’s—immense property. He intended, on this eum to show them what a genial fellow—what a liberal-hearted fellow, he was. o he had made extensive preparations; his perfum- ed cards of invitation he had sent around by his siv- eried coachman, and the edite and fashion had been solicited to honor the occasion with their presence. Strange to say, despite the evident coldness with which St. Clair Arlington had been looked upon, there were but few regrets returned to him. fF i; heart had glowed within him at the reception his cardshad met, and then he extended his prepara- tions to a princely lavishness. The long-expected night had rolled around, and the glorious old mansion glowed from cellar to gar- ret with fiashing lights. Agnes Arlington me 89° v lightly on the oak panel of the library door, There was no response, though she indistinctly heard within, the sound of slow, de- liberate strides. Again she rapped. This time the steps ceased; then a rough voice bade her enter, She turned the Lolt softly, pushed open the door, and stood within the room. R brilliant light stream- ed down over the richly furnished apartment from an old-fashioned but magsive and costly chandclier, suspended trom.the ceiling. The rays from the many aR fell full on St. Clair Arlington, who had paused in his promenace, and was now standing leaning one of his bejeweled hands upon the back of a chair, He was 4, fine-looking man, this uncle of Agnes Arlington. Tall, ‘erect, portly—a large, massive round face+garnished with long, sweeping side- whiskers, the lip and chin smoothly shaven, and a’ broad, well-developed forehead, made him:a man at whom it were pleasant to look twice. » But behind the glittering glasses, bridged over the nose, shone a pair of eyes into which it weze not
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ane oad oe pleasant to look, Few there were, indeed, who ever were allowed to gaze into the depths of those orbs, and read the tale they told. The Rentloman started involuntarily, when the girl ontered, and he saw her splendid beauty; for a mo- ment he gazed at her with undisguised admiration. ‘By Jove, Agnes, you are a pretty girl!” he ex- jaimed, rather coarsely; ‘‘and I don’t blame my ‘iriend, Mr. Howe, for being smitten with you! Don't {frown so! J care not, you know, and---yes, he is!— Howe is a friend of mine! But, what the deuce do you mean,” he rudely exclaimed, ‘‘ by appearing on such an occasion as this, Agnes, in a vlick dress? Did you do it,” and he scowled at her darkly, ‘* be- cause you knew it would displease me?” _ The girl’s eyes were now fiashing with scorn and indignation, Her bosom swelled; but a softer ex- preasion passed over the beautiful face, and a tear ied her eye. “You are cruel, uncle!’ she said, in a low, bitter tone; ‘‘ but you have the power to beso! You know why I wear black! You cannot, nor can I, forget that seven months ago I had a father, and that I have none now!” _ “Thad not forgotten it, my pretty girl! But he foft po little enough to remember him by.”’ _ “Tam grateful for what he did leave me. Buta truce to this. Tam here at your command. What ©O you wish with me?” and she gazed him fixedly in hes eee the first place, Agnes, you must play the mis- tress to-night, and help me in the duties of the hour. Of course, my child, you will do your best, and it will be better for you.” _ ‘Yes, uncle?’ and she gazed him straight in the face, as if expecting him to speak further. The man hesitated, but, as if summoning up his resolution, he said: 7 I want to speak to you about Delaney Howe.” Delaney Howe! I detest the man and loathe his very hame}!”’ and the girl made a step, as if about to Smit away, but the man did not move. He simply “I do not doubt it, Agnes; nevertheless, I will speak to you about Mr. Howe, and the day may come when you will think as well of him as I do.” I tell you, sir, I loathe the man; I despise the fround he treads, and I cannot listen to his ad- dresses. They are odious to me, and, had my poor father lived, the fellow would not have dared to vhow his face here!” At that moment, a sudden gust of wind sighed and ynoaned around the old mansion; the gleaming of a Jurid flash glittered through the slats of the blinds and for a moment dimmed even the splendid radiance of the lights from the chandelier. cheng a minute after, came the long, discon- nected peal of thunder, swelling grandly its deafen- ing scale; then dying away in the far distance with a solemn echo, St. Clair ane ee stepped hastily to the window, und pushing aside the blind, he flung up the sash and leaned out, while he drew the outside shutters together with a nervous jerk, and, lowering the window, stepped back into the room, A storm is pons up, and I do not like the glare of i dee oie he said, his face slightly pale, then he went on:— “I sent for you'to inform you that Mr. Howe will he present this evening, and that he has somethin to say to you. See to it, Agnes, that you do no shun him; see to it that you listen to him, and mark what I say!—if you wish for favor and protection from me, heed his words! Now you had better go. Ha! yes, they are pee a Hurry out, Agnes, and receive the guests,’ and he made way for her—half pushing her from the room as the ratile of carriage- wheels echoed in the apartment. The girl gave her relative one look, half of defiance, half of entreaty, and, without any word or further gesture, left the library. When she had gone, St. Clair Arlington shut the door quickly, and turned the key in the lock. No sooner had he done this, than from behind a tall book-case, in the deep shadow of which he had stood, a tall young man stepped out into the center of the room, and stood under the full glare of the igus. e was a wicked-looking fellow, des broadcloth in which he was arrayed; ‘despite the glittering stones which sparkled on his bosom. He was a man of about thirty years of age, rather above the medium hight, thick-set and muscular. His hair was light, and his red and bloated face was covered with a straggling tawny beard. Over his left eye- brow was a long, crimson scar, as if made by a Saber-cut. It was an old scar, as could be seen at a glance: but on this night, as the man stood under vhe chandelier, it shone brilliant and clear. For a moment he looked at the owner of the old ‘mansion, and then flung himself carelessly, and as if perfectly at home, into a chair. / Well, Sainty,’’ he said, in a low, grating voice “I heard her, and her views on your friend 3 but ri have her yet!’ and he emphasized this assertion with a foul oath. “Tam glad you stood back there, Delaney,” said the other, “for now, my dear fellow, you see that my niece does not like you.” ~“T should think I did! She despises me, the im- pertinent jade! But Vii not give her up!” “T did my best, Delaney.” : “Did you, Sainty? Are you quite sure you could not have been more positive with her? Methinks, old fellow, you are her guardian; and then, too, the sirl is penniless without you, and—don’t forget ‘t, Sainty—uthout me!” and he darted a quick, fiery glance at the other. “Exactly, my friend; but Delaney, why are you so euxious to marry Agnes? She is not rich, and—"’ ite the glossy “You are my friend! You'll endow. her well when the bullion. is found—of course ; and why, if you do not, then it may be, Til contest that little piece of paper.” Old Arlington sprung to his feet as if shot—his eyes flashed fire—and he thrust his right hand quickly into his bosom. But Delaney Howe's eagle eye was upon him, and a sickly smile swept over the rich man’s face, as he said, in a trembling voice: “You joke well, my friend, for—”’ At that momenta low, plaintive cry rung out on the outside air, and again, and again. Delaney Howe rose to his feet, approached the window which old Arlington had closed, flung open the shutter and peered out. For a moment, out in the gloom, revealed by the straight flash of light from the chandelier, a pale, beauteous, yet haggard face, with its great, staring black eyes, the long, unfettered masses of raven hair streaming unprotected in the rising wind, showed like a framed picture, and then as another low wail quivered in the air, it disappeared. Slowly Delaney Howe closed the shutters again, and retired to his seat. “°Tis Dora!’ he muttered, in a low, half-scared voice, “and abroad again onan unlucky night! Poor, crazy thing; I must pity her! and it is going to storm. Isometimes think, Sainty,”’ and he lowered his voice to a deep, hushed whisper, “that Dora has seen things |” Before Mr. Arlington could reply. riage-wheels sounded outside. T again. Sp thes guests were now coming, indeed, and it seemed in a body. The gentleman, the owner of the property, rose to his feet, drove away the brooding care from his face, and yieetas few words to his friend, turned and left the library. As he entered the brilliantly lit hall, now filled with company, gay and laughing, a sudden flash of lightning, followed by a startling, appalling thunder- stroke, streamed in through the open door. St. Clair Arlington threw his hand to his head, staggered, and fell heavily to the carpet. CHAPTER IV. COLD STEEL. THE horses struggled fearfully to extricate them- selves from the traces, and in their plunging man- aged to get to their feet. But, the carriage was still upset, and, were they inclined to do so, the animals could not run away. . Slowly the young man rose to his feet, but with his right hand he supported his left arm, ABODY. of pain was stamped upon his features, on which the moon, now shining brightly out, gleamed down. He looked about him. There lay the driver, groan- ing piteously, and begging for help, The young man pushed him slightly with his boot. “Get up, my man!’ he said half-sternly, half-en- couragingly; ‘‘up with you! Iam worse hurt than you; my arm is broken, I know.” : The driver ceased his groaning and then sprung the rattle of car- hen again, and Dp. “* Sorry, sir; very sorry you are hurt; and I hope *tisn’t so bad as you think, sir.” ‘Tam suffering a great deal, my man, I—” Before he could finish the sentence, he reeled and then sunk down where he stood. “This is awful! What shall Ido?” exclaimed the frightened driver. * Right your carriage and get the man into it!” said a low, deep voice, right at his elbow. old and weak, but T’ll"help you.” The driver looked back at the little bent form, which had, as it were, risen from the ground by his side, then said: ; “Tam much obliged to you for help. Wait; Ill unhitch the horses, and then we can see what is to be done.” The driver at once unhooked the traces and un- geared the horses. Tying them toa tree near by, he soon returned to the carriage, which he righted. in a very few moments, and went for the horses. “And how came you to be in this deserted field?” asked the old man. “Why, I got lost. I’m anew hand in these parts, and I was bringing a passenger from the station at Ollarway to Labberton. The horsés got frightened at what I believe was the shadow of the devil, right down there, and backed over on that bank. TI be- ately was the devil himself!” and the man shud- dered. “ Ah! the Shadow! You saw it, eh? Ha! ha! Many have seen it before. But come; the village is three miles from here, and you are notin the road. That en ip’ of yours is badly hurt, I fear. You had etter place him inside, and drive to where you see those lights. Thas is only a half-mile, and the owner keeps open house almost all the time. The gentle- qman too, needs attention.” _ “Yes and whose house is it, old man?” asked the driver, busying himself about the reins. There was no response. The driver turned. The old man was not there. He had gone as suddenly as he had come. ‘ The driver took the young man in his brawny grasp, and bore him gently to the carriage. Not a “Come, I am groan escaped the poor fellow’s lips. He was un- | conscious from the pain and shock, Carefully the driver placed him inside, half-re- clining on the seat. Then he closed the door. Mount- ing to his box, he took the reins, and struck the horses smartly with the whip.- The carriage rolled away rapidly over the plain, toward the lights still flashing in the distance. All was consternation in the Arlington mansion, as the master was so sudden stricken down by _ that blinding flash of lightning. Though. the, hall- way was crowded with the gay, merry-hearted, richly-dressed guests, yet not one of them had felt the stroke. In an instant all was confusion. Several of the gentlemen hastened to the side of the fallen man, and among them suddenly appeared Delaney Howe, of whom everybody had heard so much and knew | So little, and that little not to his credit and reputa- | tion. Terror was on his face as he looked upon the | livid features of Mr. Arlington. In an instant,.as\a | shade of fearful anxiety passed over his face, Howe had knelt by the side of the fallen man. “He lives! he lives!” he exclaimed, in a voice of exultation. “He is only stunned; send for a phy- sician at, once!”” He rose to his feet and looked around; his eyes fellon Agnes Arlington. Pale, stern, marble-like, the orphan girl had drawn near, her sable dress making an almost painful ne ase with the butterfly apparel of those around er, physician. May I ask you to be kind enough to send a message at once to the village?”’ ? Delaney Howe glanced at her; then, bowing low, he immediately left the Seamer The gentlemen carried the senseless form into the library, and with a few hasty regrets to the marble- like niece, wishes for the best, they took their de- parture, Agnes stood alongside the unconscious man. There he lay, helpless as an infant—his mouth slightly opened, a deep, stertorous breath, now and then, at long intervals, filling his aS the eyes half-showing under the purple-ringed lids; a fearful, livid hue covering the blank, expressionless face; the hands, half-clutched, falling limp and nerveless by_his side. , t Silently Agnes looked on, and a wild desire took possession of her tired and tortured heart; a hard, stony expression grew around the mouth; her swell- ing bosom rose and fell tumultuously. he storm, now at its hight, roared and howled around the mansion. The lurid lightning blazed con- tinuously, and the ee thunder broke,,it seemed, just above the roof. It was a fearful night, one well-fitted for fearful scenes. But Agnes quailed not at the loud-breathing storm without. There was a storm in her bosom ng as wildly as the elemental battle was fought on the out- side of the time-stained mansion. “*Oh! Fanny—Fanny!”’ she murmured in an under- - breath; “unwittingly, you have put fierce thoughts into my head! Tempted! tempted!’ she hissed, as at that moment the lape) of St. Clair Arlington’s coat was blown back by a wind-gust, that forced it- oor through the crevices of the rear door of the li- rary. The girl paused, and gazed with fiery eyes at some- thing revealed inthe breast-pocket of the coat. It was an ivory-handled knife. A violent Agr lpgea seized her; an iron sternness crept over her features. She made a step forward: “Til doit! Til doit! if only to avenge my mur- dered father! I'll murder—murder, as he murdered!” Stooping, she drew the glittering steel from its sheath, and raised it in her unflinching grasp. CHAPTER V. VISIONS. A witp, stormy night_in November. Snowflakes hurtling in the air; a bleak north wind blowin around the corners and under the eaves of an old, storm-battered mansion. Without, all desolation—dreariness. Within this mansion, comfort, luxury, warmth and cheer! The hour, eleven. All sounds hushed in the large old house; and the wailing wind blowing so shrill and cutting over the waste land, sounds fearfully distinct in the warm, dimly-lighted, quaint old room. A glowing grate, red with burning coals, a mellow blaze from the wax-candles on the grotesque walnut secretary; one single burner overhead from the chandelier. Up and down the room, an old man, witha few scattered locks of gray falling down his neck, walks. His hands clasped behind him, his"old head bent upon his breast, deep, anxious thought upon the wrinkled brow. | The clock strikes twelve. Suddenly, the old man auses. He bends his ear. A low rap sounds on the oor. The door opens and another person enters— likewise an old man—affliction beaming from his / face, as his eyes fall upon the occupant of the room, | No words. The door is closed and locked; the | light is lowered. A half-hour, and two men, clad_ well, to protect them from the weather, cautiously leave by the rear door and go out into the wind-storm. T ey carry between them an iron-bound chest. Now they have aaa Kees Hs Od pray rage oe the falling snow; an e far-stretching plain, white and ghastly, looks like the winding-sheet Be a dead y Ww : Old Year. The vision has gone! Another wintry evening. Snow again on the ground; a bitter north wind, raw and bleak, creep: | eee over the wintry waste-land. |. Lights of a village town, gleaming dull @nd dead, in i Bee eel A deserted bar-rocm in the village inn. The lights ie a the sae getting cold. i a Jne lamp, bright and glittering, suspended over a , tatle. At that table, two mene: one old, shriveled, | Shrunken, with trembling fingers and scattered } pt le a hair—a half-wild fire in’ his eyes, an un- | steadiness in his movements, 7 a te nered face, bronzed by hot a “You are right, Mr. Howe; we will summon a . “S -
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z 24 * ‘ *& a 4 He ee suns; a large frame and swelling muscles. A wide- brimmed hat pulled over his eyes, Cards on the table; wine at the elbow. The storm howling louder than ever. A shambling figure, tottering along over a wide waste-land, A pistol-shot, and then another! A wail on the air. A crouching, bent form—a flying, spectral figure! CHAPTER VI. A FACE AT THE WINDOW. In a distant corner of the wide, out-stretching rs on this eventful night—the one on which we ave opened our story, an yg heme re light gleam- ed out. It came from a small, humble-looking frame building, just one story high. The quiet little abode stood under the grim shadows of several-old worm- eaten Lombardy poplars, which reared themselves in the gloom, like giant statues. Just to the left of the house, was a little grave- yard —the pale, rain - beaten, time-worn marbles standing out in the gloom, unprotected by railing, and unrelieved by the friendly foliage of willows or other trees. That cemetery had been there for years. In the early days of the colony—for New York State wasthen a epengenty of Great Britain—this beauteous section of country was settled by the Dutch, and among those settlers were a few wealthy Padroon families. On this wide stretching waste, or plain, as the peo- ple now called it, the rich mynheers built their splendid be esto their quaint, odd - fashioned, p-roofed, but commodious and comfortable dwell- ings; and the less rich founded what was then called the Labbertaun-dory, now corrupted into the village of Labberton. This little cemetery was peopled with the dead that came out from the mansions of the wealthy on the plain. And init are found, fo-day, many names which have shone with a brilliant luster in our oe halls, and in high offices, the gift of the nation. The village had its own humble God’s acre, where those who died were laid away to the last sleep. Of course, there were many wild tales current among the country-folks and villagers, of strange sights seen on the plain. And the writer has heard one—a most marvelous one, and well vouched for— of an old Padroon who, ina winding-sheet, prowled over the plain on every fitting opportunity; but, Mo or storm, shine or fair, aivays on Christmas e. Latterly, however, another sin, apparition, far outstripping in terror anything before told, heard of, or seen on the dreary waste, had made its ores cide to vex and torment the rest and peace of the villagers. This wonderful appearance was a large black shadow, showing on the plain at a cer- tain locality, between the hours of eleven and twelve o’clock at night, and always, when the moon shone, on the eve of the fourteenth of the month. By a strange notion—freak of cr some termed it—it was conceded by the superstitious (and they numbered the ink ed portion of the ape that this shadow had something to do with the sudden death, or mysterious disappearance, of old John Arlington, late owner of the Arlington mansion, which, as the reader has seen, was now the property of the state- ly St. Clair Arlington—the brother. This was, of course, simply absurd, for anybody, almost, would tell you that old John Arlington, the rich, miserly old man—so miserly, indeed, that he dared not put his immense savings in a bank, but caring naught for interest, and all for principal and its safety, kept it, nobody knew where. W , as we were saying, almost everybody in the village would tell you that, seven or eight months ago, old John Arlington very foolishly got intoxicated, ‘due cold, snowy night, at the Washington House in the village Pr yy he cards with a sun-browned foreigner until a late hour of the night, and then having lost all the money he had about him, reeled away to his old mansion, the other side of the plain. ey further- more will tell you that, in company with his ancient body-servant—as quaint and odd as was his master —the old miser fallen from the rustic bridge over the eb and was drowned. This they asseverate with additional force, and at a low breath, when they swear that on the following morning, two large holes were seen in the ice! The old servant had followed his master, even unto death. And an old nurse, returning one night late from professional duties, seen the miser playing cards with his ancient servant—crazy Noon—as he was called—on the further abutment of the bridge. So, of course, that black shadow on the plain had not to do with the sudden death or disappear- ance of old John Arlington. There were those in the village who said that old John Arlington was not dead. That, in one of his freaks, sometimes bey aera 4 to him, the old miser had gone somewhere; but no one knew whither. This, however, was a the most considered even Shavtow, as a vation to earth be uneasy spi W, 48 a visitation to ear e uneasy spi of arp — old man. A Sirs Ss thing was certain; in the old Padroon bury- ing-ground there was a handsome tomb erected, and on it, cut deep with the graver’s chisel, were the plain words: “JoHN ARLINGTON: aged 67 years and 4 months. Erected by his brother, ST. CLATR ARLINGTON.” The strangest part of this plain epitaph—if we can call it Spat Wa. the niga ata characters used for LOVE-MAD. slab, whose half-erased letters told that underneath the stone slept the mortal part of one ‘‘ KLAUDER Van AARLINGTONE, @ good and worthy man.” Of course, the reader sees, from the patronymic, that old John was a direct descendant of the Padroons, and by consequence, not necessarily stingy, but ab- solutely economical, and pavin with his means. But we are wandering. e will return to the small frame house, in which a single pale light was burning. The wild storm of thunder, wind and rain had blown over, and the moon, from behind the broken cloud-banks in the sky scudding along rapidly to- ward the north, shone down with a brilliant splendor upon the outstretched plain. We will enter the house fora moment. Walking meditatively up and down the small, plainly-fur- furnished room, was an old woman, certainly past six- ty. Her white cap scrupulously clean; her smooth- ly-brushed, frosted h gathered back from her calm forehead; her hands crossed meekly upon her bosom; her very step, all told the pure soul—the guileless heart of the aged creature. She er in her promenade, and turning to the open hearth-fire gave it a poke and a rake, so that the flashing sparks flew up the wide throat of the chimney ina glittering cloud. Then she examined with a fork the contents of a pot, suspended ona hook, simmering above the fire. Then she turned ey to her walk, but paused suddenly, and bent er ear. Long she listened. The dying wind outside moan- ed and sighed deeply. But the old woman was lis- tening for other sounds, which came not, though she fancied she had heard them, Straightening herself up. she shook her head: “No, no; not yet! not yet!” she murmured. “And both are ait th away, and I have been all alone on this terrible night—this, the night of the Shadow! He, my boy! m:; t-born! God shield him! I know eople say har — of him;I know they distrust m, and yet, where does he get so much money? He tells me he earns it, earns it honestly; and if he 4s wild a little, if people do not like him, why, my darling boy is kind to me, his old, stricken mother. And more than all, he is my son! Ha!” She paused again and bent her head, listening intently, with her hand to her ear, for several moments. er frame shook, and she almost tottered to the door, and bent her ear to the keyhole, through which the night- wind was moaning drearily. But n she drew away, as a look of anxiety set- tled on her face. ‘Tis getting late, late!”’ she said, “and she poor thing, is away, too! Out in the night—and been exposed to the fury of this storm! Why does not God either heal her broken heart—or, why does He not take her home to him- self? Oh, unlucky day when her eyes fell on the form— Ha! again! ey here?” and she paused. She scarcely seemed to breathe. This time she did hear something—some sounds— but they were not those she longed to hear and to welcome. First, a low but distinct whistle sounded on the air. There was no response from the house, and in an in- stant the lonely old woman had extinguished the light, and slipped a bar across the door. The whis- tle came again; still no response. ; Cautious steps were then heard rad i red the dwelling; then a low tap sounded on the door. The poor old woman shivered with fright, and lifted her eyes to heaven in meek, silent supplication. Again the rap; this time louder than before. And then, as no response came, the door cracked and rattled as if a heavy man had tried its strength with his weight. But the bar held firmly. Then ensued a low conversation, the indistinct muttering of which could be plainly heard by the ea old woman within. is consultation on the outside lasted only a mo- ment, Then a , hard voice said aloud: “There is nobody at home, that’s certain; but the commodore must be notified.” rer’ a moment elapsed, when a slight, rustling sound was heard. It seemed to come from the bottom of the door, and sounded like the rattling of paper. ; ‘Then the footsteps moved off, the sounds died away, and all was silence again. For ten minutes the lonely old woman did not move. She was afraid of the sound of her own foot- ak ag But, at length, summoning up co e, she relit the lamp, ing it away from near the win- dow, and drew cautiously near the door. She started, as she saw at her feet a long, yellow envelope. She hesitated not a moment, but stooped and picked it up. It was sealed. The old woman adjusted her Fe goa and gazed at Rpg envelope. It was directed rudely, in pencil, to her son, The poor old mother looked at the missive earnest- ly. en, glancing around her, she suddenly tore open the envelope, and with her nervous fingers drew out the small strip of ead within. At the top was coarsely engraved a death’s-head. Then below fol- lowed a few printed lines. But what the poor mother he was written rudely in pencil, and ran as fol- ws: ‘“‘WortHy Commopore:—Strange sail insight! You are wanted to direct the chase. Come to the ren- dezvous, No new hands. BROTHERS, thoes! eat apy carefully refolded the ase me aced it er bosom, as an_ expression of terrible pain, board a 3 ac She walked to the door and loo out cautiously. The moon was now shining brightly down. The widow glanced toward the silent country, so lonely and desolate, Every grave-stone was lighted up, She started violently and away. 4 Se si : wees Seated at the base of the new-made tomb of old John Arlington, was the figure of a man, or of some- ae fo it was, plain as day; but motionless and silent. : One look, and the old mother closed the door with a sudden snap, and hurried up to the fire-place. Scarcely had she cowered there when flying feet were heard outside. They paused at the door. Then a low, guarded tap; then one word echoed inside, gently whispering, ‘* Mother!’ With a glad cry of joy the poor woman sprung to the door and opened it. In another moment she had locked in her arms a wet, fainting form. ““Oh, Dora! Dora! God be thanked; I have you again! But oh! ay child, why do bel ‘ “Sh! ‘sh! said the girl, her large black yh lancing wildly around her, ‘‘’Sh! ’sh! mother, I’ve en to see the Shadow! And, mother, I’ve seen him! Clavis, who years ago, mother, d he—” She suddenly paused. ‘‘Quick, mother! At the window! hand shudderingly toward the window, The mother looked. “ The Padroon’s wi aith |’? and she buried her hand on her daughter’s shoulders, and drew her wet form closer to her bosom. The old, withered face at the window had disap- peared when she looked again, CHAPTER VII. OATH-BOUND. - Bur ea Arlington’s uplifted arm did not de- scend. It was suddenly seized from behind, in a powerful grasp, and she heard hissed in her ear: ‘*Hold! hold! my preity, one! °Tis dangerous to play with edged tools! Ha! ha! lucky for Sainty I chanced to come in!” os oo Arlington turned like a ess at bay. ‘You here, Delaney Howe?’’ she exclaimed, her voice faltering, and her face blanching with terror. “Yes, Miss Agnes. "Tis I yours to command! And excuse me, Miss Agnes; i'll trouble you to give me that knife. It belongs to your uncle, and as he may not require it again, I think it but just that no one should claim itnow. Though I grant ’tis a fine ng iy saw by your scrutiny that you are pleased with i And his steel-gray eyes fairly seemed to burn her baie 2, ser Without a word, Agnes, her face now a dead-white, her eyes staring fixedly on the young man’s counte- nance, turned toward him. She held out the keen- edged knife, and said, in a calm voice: “I thank God that you came, Delaney Howe! For a frenzy had seized me, and you have saved me from murder |”? Delaney Howe took the dagger in his hands and ten it away, having carefully wrapped its glitter- blade in his handkerchief, in the breast-pocket of bis coat. _ ‘ ‘*’You are in my power now, Agnes Arlington!”’ he said, in a harsh voice, ‘‘and no one knows it better than myself! You can imagine what course the law would pursue, were it known that you had been, by me, prevented from get aioh ¢ in.cold blood, your own blood uncle!” and he gazed at her fixedly. The girl shivered. All at once she had seen the terrible position in which a single impulsive moment had ees her. ' re . spare me! spare me! new not what I was doing!’ She reeled and fell backward. But the man caught her in his arms, and carried her swiftly across the room to a sofa on the opposite side. Lay- ing her down gently he stood abcve her. Slowly she opened her eyes, and, as she saw Delaney Howe standing there, a shiver passed over her frame. The fers Sage turned away, and going to a side- board, asif he knew the locality well, he drew out a decanter of brandy. Pouring out a small portion in o bitsy eed and adding a little water he went back e girl. ‘Here, Miss Agnes,’ he said, “ drink this; it will give you strength ie spirits.” ” P ae if obe. re gra pie a ogee she took the glass, swallowed the draught, then suddenly sat u mii oye sa ee me “3 4 if . “You are all ri now, Miss Agnes, and,” con- tinued Delaney Howe: speaking rapidly, his tone growing harder as he proceeded, “‘your secret is safe on one condition,” and his burning eyes stared her meannely in the face. ‘“* Shall I tell you the condition?” he continued. oe ae her ieee Wids 2. rm “ Of course you know, S$ es, that my infor- mation would meee to the Sounty jail, end that my testimony would consign you to the peniten- mee e girl answered not, but the expressi face, told well enough the answer he would ethene * Agnes ape Seton Tlove you! There, that’s flat and plain, though you need not start so. Iam poor, it bn a more = ae you, and I am ae an ong. You hav not aio beter aly rat sagt a emtieg “Enough, Delaney Howe! Would you have me say I love you, when I despise you?” and the girl glanced at him with flashing eyes. I do not ask you to love me; Idon’t care for that, Twant you to marry me! Marry me—do you under- stand, girl? And Iswear solemnly you shall, or you shall go to jail! Mark that! And now, Agnes Ar- ize is Ges, lemon ike ye can al bh: : back to the girl, as he Spoke. pecans pte The gloomy rison walls rose before her, and cd ren pave . very horror within itself. , not bear that race; and she dared “ : ani not brave the dagger, he slow poi- In a mad, impulsive moment, she turned, te nile 7 b baa For God’s sake!” and she pointed her thin ©
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“Spare me, man! Spare my family’s name, and I’ll be your wife!” “Swear it! swear it! Agnes Arlington, on the — bell of ges n pete Bs reine an, drawing out the weapon, and unrolling from i the handkerchief, oe : The girl drew away with a shudder; but meetin: the man’s es, she turned and seized the knife, an ena the bright blade to her lips, said in a choking voice: az I swear!” . ‘Tis well, Agnes; I'll keep this knife as a re- minder, for— eels; the doctor has come,” A rap sounded on the outside door of the hall. The summons was answe and in a few moments the village physician entered the library. We shall not give the details of the struggle be- tween science and 1 ete death. Suffice it tosay, that after having tried every means, and resorted to almost every method for resuscitation, at the end of an hour St. Clair Arlington opened his eyes and ghee around him. In a half-hour more, he sat p. _The rich man was almost miraculously restored to life, and the physician, with a smile of pleasure on his face, turned to go. At that instant there was a thundering knock on the door. A servant hurried thither in a moment. ,. U’'ve a wounded man, hurt badly! Can’t you take in tee a mes A ig No e. me ington, standi the library-door, an- swered at once: ar: ; ahh ie ; : ou know we have a guest in this house, Dela- ney?’ ‘Yes; that is, I thought so, and may the devil take Clavis Warne!” was the vehement reply. “Then you do not likehim? Perhaps you know something of the young lawyer?”’ “Know him? I should t so! He it was who first stood between me and Agnes Arlington!” “T think I heard something of the fellow’s old love-scrape with my niece!’ and Mr, Arlington’s eyes flashed behind the Fearing glasses. The scar on Delaney Howe’s forehead was now as red as crimson, always a token with him of deep feeling, of joy or anger. ‘Yes,’ he continued; ‘‘Clavis Warne, then a visitor at this house on law business, first turned Agnes Arlington’s heart from mé. Zhen I had money, and her old father did not dislike me. Clavis Warne came; and he, too, had money. More than that, he had an oily tongue, and—I can not deny it— a handsome face and Then Agnes turned es from me!” “Do you think she ever cared for you?” asked Mr. Arlington, with a slight sneer. Howe’s brow contracted fearfully at the question. He bit his lip, but said, quietly: ““No, she never did, confound her! But her old father cared for me, because, then, we had gold! Old John Arlington—” “Leave him ,out, leave him out!” said the rich man, hastily. «As I was sa: Delaney, you d Wane. "Neither d61% y, you do not like Clavis “You y, you never saw him before to- cht?” and Howe looked sharply at the other. Yes, I Have seen him before. "Tis a long tale De — I can not tellit now. But, it chance that while traveling abroad several ene ago, I met lan Clavis Warne. On one occasion we some word him a grudge, which I would be glad to and he gazed at the young man “" lad
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— = SC 6 LOVE-MAD. Delaney started, and a singular, knowing expres- sion came over his face. . His cold gray eyes glitter- ed as he said, in a low tone: “JT begin to understand you, Sainty! The old trick, eh? But heis a guest under your roof!” Arlington did not reply to this; he simply said: “‘Clavis. Warne lives in Albany now, and he comes here on Vusiness, depend upon it!” “He comes to stay a year, I should judge by the size of his trunk!” said Howe. ‘‘But, what business, Sainty?”’ “You know he is a lawyer, I suppose? He has a great reputation for untangling snotty estate ques- tions, and securing property to rightful heirs.” ‘““Ah! I understand! Yes, yes! And he may have been called hither for some such work!” “You have it!” said Arlington, fiercely. _‘‘He sleeps under this roof to night, and to-morrow night certainly. Chloroform tied over the nose, or a thumb pressed on the wind-pipe, are procedures generally followed by serious consequences! Be- sides that, there is a danger of shock, as the surgeons The other did not answer. “*Moreover, my friend,’ continued the rich man, his mouth atthe ear of the other, ‘‘one thousand dollars is a nice pile of money for looking on and lending a hand!”’ ‘““T understand you, Sainty! _You area bold fel- low, and we'll talk a little over this matter,’ was the answer. CHAPTER X. GOLD AND STEEL. Tuer conversation between St. Clair Arlington and his friend continued until the clock pointed to half- past two, then Arlington arose. “Well, Delaney,” he said, in a satisfied voice, ‘it is all managed, and— Yousee the clock; it is late. As you live a mile or so from here, I think—”’ “Spare yourself the trouble of thinking any thing on my, account, Sainty. Ill just turn in here for the night. Arlington stared. ‘Sleep on the sofa?” “Yes, sleep on the sofa! You see, Sainty, I’ve done the same thing before, on several occasions, and then, that confounded plain! I will not cross it again this night—not if I know myself!” “Of course, Delaney, I’ve no objection; but, as we will not see one another to-morrow morning—for, of course, you will go early—I’ll just say, now, we'll consider that matter as settled, and you know when will be the time.” As he spoke, he stepped to his secretary, locked it, and. placing the key in his pocket, bade the other ‘*@ood-night,” and retired softly. He did not seek at once his own almost royal sleeping-apartment, but, ascending the stairs to the second story, he paused for a moment in the dim-lit ssageway. One single taper was shedding its ams over this hall, throwing every thing below it in a gloomy shade. Arli m stood some minutes and listened in- tently; but no sound came to his ears. Then, cautiously creeping forward, he turned into an- other passageway, and, at afew steps, stood before adoor. He paused, as he saw a faint light gleam- ing through the key-hole. He scarcely breathed as he leaned his head down, and listened. Muffied ‘sounds as of sobs, and soothing, sympa- thizing words echoed faintly from the apartment. But the words were not distinguishable. Treading like a cat, he drew away from the door, and, once out of ear-shot, hurried away to the further end of the passage. : ‘*Confound her, she is up yet! Broken-hearted, of course! And her comforter is—/he maid! Well, in a day or so, perhaps, she will be more inconsola- ble than now! We'll see! But now I must recon- noiter!”’ So saying, he turned to an open window and plac- ed his hands upon the sill; then, having looked eau- tiously around him, and listened well for some min- utes, he sprung lightly outside. Running entirely around this portion of the old mansion—the portion being the wings, before refer- red to—was an old rickety porch, beaten and decay- ed by many rains and snows. Informer times these porches were always resorted to by the family and guests, to enjoy the cool breeze playing over the wide plain, in the hot evenings of summer. But, for many years they had been but little used, and had gone to decay, and the present owner of the old man- sion had not seen fit to have them repaired. Into one of these, at the western wing of the house, Arlington had leaped from the window. The old lass-door leading into it had not been opened or many’a year, and perhaps Mr. Arlington knew that, in attempting to get out that way he would alarm the household, is, it was very evident from his cautious movements, he did not desire to do. So EP took the most noiseless route, by the open win- ow. He paused not now; but hurried around the house to the front, closely hugging the old weather-board- ing, as if he fe. to trust his weight out further. Suddenly he came to a window. One of the shut- ters was thrown opeu, A light inside was burning dimly. Through the open shutter and through the | Laon window, the dying moon, far over and just above the tops of the trees, shed askant its mellow radiance full into the room. Arli nm started at the sight revealed; he raised his hand to his eyes.and peered in. Lying on the bed, directly in the splendor of the moon’s rays—his pale, half-stern, half-sweet, intel- leetual face showing with a deathlike luster, was Clavis Warne, the stranger. There he Jay, sleeping soundly, his bandaged’ arm lying on the pillow, as the surgéon had arran " ¥ For several moments the rich. man gazed on the face of the sleeper; and, as he gazed, his eyes grew stony; a scowl swept over his features. ‘** Here he lies!”” he muttered —* he who holds my other secret! He who laid his hand upon my collar and would have dragged me away to the tribunal! And here he is now, sleeping under my roof! and to- morrow he will know me as the brother of old John Arlington, and not as— No, ‘tis nothing! Yes, he will know me as. the uncle of Agnes, the woman of his heart! Will he dare to breathe what he knows? The thought crazes me! Zhus will Iend my sus- pense, and none will ever know who did the deed.” In the twinkling of an eye, he drew from his bosom the revolving pistol, threw back the hammer and ex- tended his arm. His eyes were flashing down the barrel, and his finger was pressing the trigger. ; At that instant a deep groan echoed on the air, seeming to come from Arlington’s very elbow. With acry of terror, he turned and fled like light- ning around the house. And then a short, bent figure sprung nimbly through the open window, and, in a moment, stood by the side of Clavis Warne, who still slumbered soundly on. When Arlington, after locking his secretary, had left the room--the library, as will be remembered— Delaney Howe sat still for a moment, gazing vacant- ly at the door through which his host had just pass- ed. Gradually a scornful smile spread over his face. “He was too late!’ muttered the oe man, tap- ping lightly on the memorandum-book, concealed under his waistcoat. ‘‘There is no need to lock his desk now. At last Iam possessor of that I have long coveted. I know that the scrap was taken from this book!” As he spoke, he placed his hand under his vest, and drew out the memorandum-book. rats it, he hastily examined the leaves. On the leaf before him were a few written words, and then, just below, was a large, square hole. The leaf had been—or a portion of it—cut out. Delaney Howe scrutinized the writing and the ori- fice. At length, with alow chuckle, he said: “So much for old John Arlington’s will! But now, I must try and. sleep. I must see the ‘ Bro- thers’ to-morrow, for there may be work else- where.” He approached the door, locked it, then extinguish- ed all the tapers but one, threw aside his coat, and A ey crs upon the sofa. A half-hour passed; then the man’s deep breath- ing showed that he was in sound slumber. Sudden- ly alarge shadow appeared on the floor of the li- brary. Then a dark, misshapen figure stole with cautious steps from behind the row of shelving to the east, and stepping forward it bent over the sleeper, while the pale light of the taper caught and reflected the glitter of steel. ; CHAPTER XI. MORE SECRETS THAN ONE. For several moments, the low, dark figure leaned over the unconscious sleeper, then cautiously, the vest, which concealed the purloined memorandum- book, was unbuttonec, and the book slowly drawn out. In a moment, the man noiselessly turned the bolt, went out into the dimly-lit hall. Silently he ascend- ed the stairs, and followed in the footsteps of St. Clair Arlington to the open window, through which the other had sprung out on the porch. The face lighted up by the pale rays was that of an old man, withered and haggard, a wild fire gleaming from his eyes. He it was who stood by the bedside of Clavis Neng and looked upon his sleeping, marble-like ace, “Ha!” he muttered; ‘tit is he! He has heeded the warning, and has come at last!” The strange old creature then turned and disap- peared in the gloom of the apartment. Clavis Warne moved uneasi yin his sleep; he press- ed upon his wounded arm. ith a half-groan, he opened his eyes. He was half-stupefied, and at first knew not where he was. But, gradually his con- sciousness returned to him; he remembered every- thing, and uttered a deep sigh. At that moment Clavis Warne started so sudden- ly that he disarranged the dressings from his arm, causing him much pain, and he sunk back on his illow with a groan, But he distinctly saw through s half-closed eyes the figure of an old man, bent and decrepit, shamble toward the open window, and then he was gone. Clavis Warne slept no more that eventful night, The dawn broke, and his eyes were still wide open; and his cheek was flushed with fever. At an early hour Delaney Howe aroused himself. He started to his feet. He felt in his bosom. His vest was open! The book was gone! y He stepped to the door and tried it. It was un- locked; yet he was certain, that before !lying down he had locked it. A. frown gathered upon his face, a venomous fire shot from his eyes. ' “You saw me, Sainty! And you have paid me back, have you? We'll see, we'll see, my cove, for I have the knife yet!”’ With this, he walked to the rear door, cautiously opened it, and went out in the gray gloom of the early dawn, 7 i The sun, shining red and warm, was just breakin in the East, when he rapped gently on the door o his mother’s humble dwelling, by the cemetery. When the village doctor came that morning, and 4S ¢ ¢ rm ‘ “ had looked upon his patient, he shook his head. The dressings were almost off, and the arm wai, feverish and swollen. ‘*You have not slept well, my dear sir,’’ he said. “Yet the opiate was powerful and given in a larg: quantity. You must be careful, sir, or erysipela.: will supervene.” Clavis Warne thanked the physician for his kind- ness, and submitted himself again to his manipula. tions. The operation of dressing and splinting the wound. ed arm was tedious, and to the patient excessivel painful. But when it was over he expressed himse as feeling better. Then the physician, telling him he might dress and sit up, though enjoining him to remain in his room, bade him good-morning, and left. The young man had been duly served with a nice breakfast, but his host had not made his appear- . ance. About ten o’clock that day, however, there was a knock on the door. Before the young man could say ‘Come in,” St. Clair Arlington, stern and pale, walked into the room, his eyes glittering behind the flashing glasses. He quickly jclosed the door and turned toward his guest. “Do you not know me, Clavis Warne?’’ he asked, pa low, trembling voice, gazing straight at the other. The young man started violently, and, half-shrink- ing away from his host, exclaimed: « “Then it was nota dream! Yes, I do know you, Ralph Thornton, for a cheat, and a mur—” “Take care, or, by heavens, Pil—” Without fin- ishing the sentence, he strode menacingly toward the other. “Stand back, ye Thornton, or I'll shoot you like a dog, as you deserve!’’ and the young man with his unwounded hand, suddenly drew a istol from his bosom. His eyes were flashing, and there was a fearful sternness about his pale, calm face. The other recoiled; his own face grew paler than ever, and he clutched at a chair for support. “T onee swore, Ralph Thornton,” continued the young man, ‘‘to be even with you! God has order- ed it, and it now, before high Heaven, renew my vow! I shall never forget that fatal night, when your vengeful knife—”’ “Hold! hold! Clavis Warne! Ibe kill me afresh with your words! fered the tortures of the damned? Have I not ever seen a black shape at my elbow? Come, come, Clavis Warne; I am here to talk with you. You know me not; I am not Ralph Thornton, but St, Clair Arlington, the uncle of her whom you in old times loved—of Aa@nrs!”’ “The uncle of Agnes Arlington! Alas! alas!’ and thrusting his pata back in his pocket, he reeled anq tottered into hi you! Do not ave I not suf: is chair. * Fora moment there was silence, and the young man leaned his head low down, while his eyes wera fixed upon the sun-shadows on the carpet. “Yes, Clavis Warne, I am the uncle of es Ar. lington, and I came to speak with you, to leg you, ee <i — to keep my secret! I acted in self-de- ense! J—” “Bah, man! Don’t add falsification to your dou- ble crime! Do not attempt toimpose upon me/ I know you to bea villain of the deepest dye, and, and— Ha! Resent it if you choose; and I'll shoot you dead on the spot!” and again he felt for his pis- tol, as St. Clair Arlington suddenly strode forward Paes the ringing words of Clavis Warne fell upon ear. But the rich man paused before the frowning muz- zle of the pistol. “JY meant nothing! But, Clavis Warne, I am but flesh and blood! Put oP, our pistol, and I will tell you a tale, and then will plead with you again!” ee speaking the invalid bowed to the other to procee: A long, earnest conversation, carried on in alow breath, ensued between the two. At tne expiration of an hour Clavis Warne, after a short pause said as if to end the conversation: “ For Agnes’s sake, Mr, Arlington, I will spare you. But, mark me! I will watch you. Be warned, for I have registered a vow against you! You can take up the gauntlet, if you wish! And now, by neces- sity, Iam forced to remain under your roof this day and to-night; but, if I can stand upon my feet in the morning, I shall leave for the village. Good- morning, sir.” As St. Clair Arlington strode out into the hall; a grim smile spread over his face. re down- stairs, he entered his Jibrary and closed the door. “Tt is settled! and He has fixed hisdoom! Before to-morrow’s sun will rise we’ll be square, Clavis Warne! Old scores will be settled; and then we will see about the vow! He knows not the man he deals with! Look to yourself, Qlavis Warne! and leave others to manage their own affairs!’ A while he paced the floor and then paused. “Tt is not,” he said aloud, “the part of wisdom ta put away the evidence! to destroy it! I hate to do so, for, on that page, I have so long delighted to feast my eyes! I cannot bear to part with it now. Yet, it is better, and ashes tell no tales! It must it one, and now is as good a time as any. I'll do i ’ As he thus spoke he placed his hand in his vest- pocket, and drew out a key. Then he approached * the secretary. He unlocked it, and without lookin into it, placed his hand down to a familiar corner of the drawer. \ Arlington started. Hurling the top of the desk violently back, he leaned down and gazedin. His face blanched, What he sought was not there! “Gone! gone!”? he muttered, ‘‘My secreT taken t ~
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piece of paper, and all at once getting po from me! And Delaney Howe slept here last night! Pl wring it from him!” He snatched his hat, and hurrying out strode away over the plain. Agnes Arlington, her face pale and care-worn, her eyes starting before her, drew from behind a book- case, and hastened from the room. } ‘Murder is on the air!’ she muttered, as she dis- appeared. CHAPTER XII. DELANEY HOWE’S NEWS. 5 ALTHOUGH it was a very early hour that morning when Delaney Howe oS on the door of his mo- ther’s little home, yet there Was an ear inside the humble abode which had always heard his step and a glad sunlight seemed to stream over the 0. d wo- man’s face, as she hurried to let him in. “God be thanked, my son, that you are home at last! What has kept you away from your poor old mother, Delaney?” and she released her arms around his neck to allow him to enter. Delaney Howe’s greeting with his aged mother was warm and affectionate—far more so than one would expect from the character of the man as we know him. He drew her tenderly to his bosom, and kissed her cheek several times, as she gave way for bim to pass. _ But he did not at first answer his mother’s ques- tion, as to where he had been, or what had kept him away. He started, and trod more softly when he glanced at the bed, in the further corner of the room, and Doe quietly sleeping upon it, his poor crazy sister, ora. _-“Tam glad she has come, mother,” he said ina low tone. “ Last night was her night, you know, and. what a fearful stormraged. It was a bad night for her, Mage thing, to be abroad in, mother.” ; , My son, and when she came in she was soak- ing wet,” replied the mother! then gazing anxiously at the sweet face of the sleeper, upon which there rested the faintest tinge of an expression of pain, she continued: “and, Delaney, eects heavily, and her hands are hot.” The young man, hurrying over to her bedside, laid his hand softly upon her hot wrist. He started as he felt the thrilling artery. “Dora is very ill mother,” he said, in an excited, half-subdued voice. “I will go over to the village oy summon the doctor. She must be pee Oe] ic spoke very earnestly. The old mother start- “Do you think she is very ill, Delaney?’ and she looked him earnestly in the face. “She is, mother. The storm was violent, and as ever, she wore a very thin dress. She has taken cold. Isaw her myself, last night.” ‘You, Delaney? and where?” ‘‘ At Mr. Arlington’s mansion,” was the reply. Delaney Howe started, as he had replied so romptly; but he could not now correct his slip of ongue, The old mother cast her eyes down, anda frown came upon her face, : She looked up. ‘‘I don’t like that man, my son; I don’t like St. Clair Arlington!” she said, in a low, calm voice, Delaney Howe frowned. ‘‘ And why not, mother?” he asked, without looking her in the face. : _* Because, Delaney, there’s something wrong. about him! You may not know it, for you were a child then, but /know that, from a boy, he never had a good name. His old brother, John, now dead and gone, despised him. And old John would groan in his grave if he knew that the reckless, flashy, de- ceitful St. Clair governed the old mansion. Be warn- my son, of this man. He handles too much money for such as you to associate with him,’’ and the old woman laid her withered hand upon. her son’s shoulder. ; _ Delaney did not at once reply. He bent his gaze in the fire-place, wherein the frugal breakfast. was pe ng; but, he did not shake off the old hand aid so lovingly, so trustingly upon his shoulder. Perhaps the young man was thinking of what. his» mother had said; perhaps he was thinking of poor Dora. Atall events, he still kept his eyes dee. and answered not a word. The old woman looked upon him kin eyes beamed with affection as they fe face and his brawny frame, “ You will take it indy, my son, what your old mo- ther has tosay toyou. She has seen a great deal of the world, and, in some things, she has, perhaps, more experience than you. St, Clair Arlington was a bad man in his youth, squandered what patrimony jand her upon his -he had, and his name was connected with some dark transactions, which some peonle called crimes. He quarreled with his old brother—a stingy, miser- y man, I admit, but an honest aD an then he left the country. When he came back no one knows ; but he did return here one month after the death, or disappearance, of old John. And then, findi 7 ion 0 old John’s property, and leaving poor Agnes out in the cold. tiateoe Delaney, thar are pag people han your old nother who think very strange of this. They surmise that all is not right, and others -hint right out that—” “What the deuce. does all this stuff mean, mo- ther?” suddenly and half-rudely asked the young man, starting from his seat, and gazing with an angry frown at his mother. he old woman cowered el and bent her meekly on the cold, bare boards of the floor. But ake recovered he ) bial said, firmly z ie & means, my son,’’ she y, at the same time raisimg her dim old eyes lovingly upon her hw - EE * LOVE-MAD. first-born, ‘it means that many people still think that St. Clair Arlington is a bad man—that he has come into this property of his brother by some un- derhanded means, and, as a mother, my boy, a fond, and affectionate mother, as knows Iam, I must warn you of thatman! I know that you are often at the mansion: I know, too, that you are often with him. Wow, Delaney, you are a rman; Mr. Ar- lington is a rich one—if, indeed, he even got a third of old John’s earnings. Tt will ruin you to stay with sucha man, and—” : “Enough, mother! Iam tired of such talk. member I have been a man for many years, and—’’ “T cannot mat yo my dear child, that you aremy son, however old you are,’ interrupted the old wo- man, ina faltering tone, and her eyes allthe time beaming witha mother’s love upon L Delaney Howe’s face flushed; a shade of pain, of regret, passed over his forehead. | Stopping sudden- ly, as a tear came to his eye, he kissed her cheek gently, and said, ina low voice: ‘“*Forgive me, mother! God knows I value and re- turn your earnest affection. But you judge Mr: Ar- lington harshly. He may.ave been all you say, but, that is no reason he is so now. And, because I told you I saw Dora in the mansion last night, does not go to show that I have been nowhere else.”’ “Well, Delaney, if itis proper for your old mother to know it, where have you been during the night?” and she gazed him searchingly in the face, The yo man almost trembled at the words; his face wrinkled into an angry frown, and he bit his ys But he felt the old mother’s eye upon him, and he could not escape her question. So he an- swered: ; “Thave been upon my own business, and that is enough for you to know.” The old woman’s frame shook at the cruel answer; silent tears trickled down her cheek, and fell upon her clean, white apron. The young man saw the effect of his words, and stooping down, he Jaid his hand upon her shoulder, and said, in a kinder tone: “There, mother, I meant not to hurt your feelings. But, I think it isa little hard that you should lecture me so often about matters you do not know as much about as you think you do, and especially is this un- necessary when, wherever I am, l am working for ou as well as for myself! See, mother, what I have rought you!” As he spoke, he suddenly drew from his pocket a handful o gold coins. He laid them in her lap with- out a word. The old woman’s face paled. “Pure gold!, More gold, Delaney? And you out of work! Whence comes this wealth, my son? Oh! tell gone old mother, is this gold honestly yours ?” “Honestly mine? That’s good, mother, especial- ly opraang from you!’ and he laughed a bitter ugh. But, do what he could, and Jangh as he did, there was a moment, just then when a deadly pallor rush- ed like a whirlwind. over Delaney’s face. Turning, however, toward the mantle, to hide his emotion, his old mother saw it not. ‘Well, well, Delaney,”’ she said, in a satisfied and gentle tone. “If the money is honestly come by— and I can not think otherwise—why, my dear boy, I will take it, and may God bless you for it.” She transferred the coin at once toa bag, and hid it away in an old trunk, which she drew, from. be- neath the bed, upon which the poor mad. girl was sleeping so quietly. Delaney walk gently up and down the limits of the small room, His. mother, without awakening the sleeping bap toa the old trunk back. under the bed, and ed to the fire, to superintend the cooking. No word was spoken for several moments, and the heavy. ssaoatition of poo Dora, was. painfully distinct, .Up. and down the room walked Delaney, and the tea-kettle bubbled over. the fire its gen’ music, Suddenly the young man paused and said: “Mother, I have something to tell you—a little se- cret,” and.a grim smile passed over his face, as he muttered the words. “A secret, my son?” and the old woman, turning trom the fire, confronted her boy, surprise and curi- ity depicted upon her face. osi : wyae mother, and a weighty secret—a piece of searing. news! Pe is: Agnes sinters hap eed ‘o be my wife!” s e very quietly, and wa’ the effect Ue his eee n. his mother. The old woman started, as if struck by a thunder- bolt. , “ What!” she exclaimed. ‘‘Agnes Arlington prom- ised to be your wife?” ' “4 mother! More than that! she swere she be!” and, as he emphasized the word,-a hor- rible leer swept over his face. But the old mother CTT Delkaas plis. Caleta tae. owe eatin ey, * she $ a_low, trembling voice, nf ou astound me! Iknew that you pbays had akind of longing for the girl. But I thonght that had passed De Dlr our money was lost to t now; when we were poor, ee and .| with a thousand others, the youn CHAPTER Xiil. A RAP AT CLAVIS WARNE’S DOOR. Wuen St. Clair Arlington had left the room that morning, in’ which his guest, Clavis Warne, was ‘domiciled, the young man satstill for many minutes. An anxious shade of thought was upon his brow, and a dark foreboding: frown was on his handsome face. « Clavis Warne was handsome, both in face and fig- ure, ’In the latter he-was tall—certainly above the medium hight—rather spare, very erect, wih a thin flank, and a good spread of "shoulders, indicating at once physical endurance and museular power. His face was an‘open one.” He wore no beard or whis- kers; but a‘deep-brown mustache swept down over his mouth, concealing that organ entirely from view. He had a ‘square jaw, and a rounded, prominent chin, both expressing strong will and determination. His eyes were iarge; melancholy and pensive, and of a dark-brown or hazel color. The brow was broad, prominent and massive, and was shaded by a. heavy mass of eurling chestnut hair. Upon the young man’s face, however, there was the stamp ofan habitual melancholy, and ‘across the broad, intellectual: brow, were care-lines, those un- mistakable indices of secret ‘soul-suffering. But, he was a wondrously handsome person. Several minutes after. Mr. Arlington had gone, the unwilling guest remained in his seat;looking intently | upon the floor. The anxious expression deepened, and the scowl on his brow: grew darker and more anxious, as the moments sped by: Clavis Warne was thinking of mnipes long ago; he was recalling the time when Jast he stood in this proud, old-time mansion. He was thinking of that night when he had journeyed from his native home to that little country. village of Labberton—journey- ed there, pursuing the ignisjatuus which led him on —journeyed, follewing the star-of his heart’s devo- tion—that star then glimmering so resplendently in the clear sky that bended above him! He was think- ing of that night of the village bal!—he at that time just graduated, a fledgling in the law—that night, when, all age witha great triumph, and a trust- ing love in his heart—he entered the ball-room with the belle of Labberton on his arm—the blushing oo nes Arlington, the only daughter and child of old John, the miser! He was thinking of the scene next morning at the mansion—of the dark frown on old John. Arlington’s face—of the hard words he had spoken—and how he, the student, in the conscious dignity of manhood, had retorted, word for word. Then, the door—slammed rudely in his. face—then his altercation with young Delaney Howe as he turned indignant, yet_ sorrowful, from the house— Delaney Howe, then the son of 7ich parents, and liv- ing in the village in one-of the grandest mansions there!. He was thinking of his last—a stolen inter- view with Agnes, under the shadow of one of the Lombardy poplars, on the plain—a dark cloud above in the heavy atmosphere—a darker cloud in his bosom. He was thinking of the faith there pee hott the virgin kiss. given—of the heart- reaking farewells—of his departure for a distant city. ‘then the shade of Clavis Warne’s face grew very dark, and with it mingled an expression of sorrow in. The form of a sweet, beauteous girl rose be- forehim. He thoughtof his admiration of her splen- did face and figure—her noble, trusting heart--his fas- cination! Then of the sad, discovery that she loved him. But then came at once his return to fidelity, and the final scene between him and her, that won- drously fair creature! And Clavis Warne groaned in spirit as the memory of an old report, coming to his ears, in the dead days of the past, flashed through his brain again—that report, that madness had de- throned reason in that fascinating beauty—that Dora Howe was a maniac! : The young man shuddered, and a — came up from his oppressed breast. After months and years of wanderings in old lands—after loitering and stucy- ing by turns in the great cities of another hemi- sphere—he found himself in this ancient’ mansion again-+the house of Agnes Arlington, and she under the same roof with him—for he had seen her in. that brief moment of consciousness, on the night before. He-was here in Labberton, the home, or what ‘was formerly the home, of Dora Howe, the beautiful! And he, here on business—that business, undefined, mysterious—and he, as yet, robs nted utth ut, but, weighty nevertheless, for he fel it to be such. Destiny had beckoned him hither, and almost me- chanically he had followed, As these we rushed through his mind, along ] man. sudden} placed his unwounded hand in a side pocket of his coat and drew outa package of three letters. Aided by. his. teeth, he opened the package; and castin only a glance at two of the comunications, he too out the third. Carefully he opened it, as well as maveotlds and his eyes seemed to burn down into the eet. At that instant, a faint yet decided rap sounded ony nie door, as the bolt, at the same instant, was urned. CLAPTER XIv. ‘ A LEAF pe AN ap BOOK. YOUNG man Shugly wrapped up in his overcoat hurried along the dark street. There was a stern yetsad frown upon his face, and his eyes were cast upon the, pavement before him, The: wind was blowing fresh ard chill from the north-west, and falling snow was commencing to whiten the streets) of the great, city of New York. The hour was.about eight in the evening; the night, that following a cold and blustering day in De x be 15 g bee bluate g dey in Decem | the ae mane ft the mansion, on Four- ae S
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rp ry Se 8 teenth street, which was flashing its many lights out in the night, and which bore upon its heavy walnut double-door a, plate, indicating that it was a certain fashionable ‘‘Seminary for fab oy oeeige There was a wild storm in his heart, or his face was no index to his soul. He hurried on. “What have I done!’ he muttered, in a deep, agonizing voice, ‘what have [done? Andshe, poor, innocent, loving girl, worships me! Ah, I have done wrong--% monstrous wrong; unwittingly have I been insnared. I have followed blindly a Ree light which has led me to the verge of self-ruin! Have I, even now, drawn ba€k in time to avert the sad, the fcarful consequences? I do not love her! No, no; whenI search my heart, there is only one answer—I do notlove Dora Howe! But, I do love with my heart’s warmest pulsings, my lighted Agnes! Yet Dora loves me/ Alas! the wretch that Tam! and Lhave given her to understand that she was not indifferent to me! I have just lefs her, with strange words on my lips—words strange to her— words harsh and cruel! I see her white, scared face now, and I feel that her shadow is by my side!” As he spoke he shuddered, and glancing around him, drew his overcoat more closely about him, and strode on faster than ever, through the falling snow. We will return for a moment to that fashionable seminary on Fourteenth street. In one of the parlors next the street—that parlor lit by a single light from the chandelier—coweri away on a sofa.was the bent form of a young girl. She was clad in all the elegance and richness that taste could dictate, and money could purchase. She half-reclined on the sofa, her face buried in her hands, Now and then adeep sob welled up from her bosom, though it seemed she strove to repress her emotion. A tremor shook her frail frame, as if by a rude wind. Suddenly she raised her pale face, red with weep- ing and sat up. She glanced around her. There were none others in the room, That was a beautiful face, upon which the single light shone down, and reflected its mellow radiance —a face beautiful in the tender expression resting there, despite the look of agony and_heart-breaking which showed there too—beautiful in the large, black eyes, now suffused with tears—beautiful in the white, translucent skin, under which, even now, though that face was red and swollen, the network of vessels showed distinctly; beautiful in the cloud of raven hair, which, now unfastened, and levers J about her n ck and shoulders, shaded the broad, prominent brow. The maiden could not have been more than eigh- teen years of age. She was evidently tall and _slen- der, though possessing a 1 ee grace and airi- ness, which was perceptible at a glance. Again she shuddered, as she looked about her; and as a deep sob broke from her lips, she closed her eyes and leaned back on the sofa. A marble ed spread over her face; the rich, red blood, lately flowing there, fled wildly away, and the soft, tremu- lous hands fell lifelessly by her side. Dora Howe, stricken in heart, crushed to the earth, her br love flying away, had swooned. She had been dreaming a sweet, delicious dream for several months—had already builded up a happy future for herself, and had laid awake night after night, and had spent day after day in rea: ng fai castles of wondrous beauty in the airy cloud-lan above her; she, to occupy those aerial chateau» along with another—with him whom she loved with her woman’s truest devotion—with him for whom her young heart had gone out—for him, upon whose words she had hung—for him whose smile had ever and often gladdened her heart—for him for whom she would have died—for ‘‘ Chavis WARNE!” And on this night he had told her a fearful secret, and he had showed her a locket bearing a face other than hers, yet a face she knew—the face of one dear to her; that night, as he held her hand softly in his —while he looked into her eyes, his and hers filled with down-dropping tears, he had told her that his heart and hand were pledged to another! And then he had gone. Slowly the maiden opened her eyes and ed around her; the warm blood came to her face; a + er bag passed over her, and then she arose to her eet. A large alabaster clock was ticking upon the man- tle. The hands pointed to half-past eight. Dora Howe’s eyes flashed over the dial-plate for a second, and then she turned and walked with tottering steps to the window. She placed her white, haggard face to the pane and peered out. The cold wind crept silently through the sash- joints, and struck her fainting form. She shivered and sarunk half-away; but again gazed out through the filmy glass. The snow was falling fast, and pedestrians, few in number, wrapt ona in overcoats and furs, hur- ried rapidly along. Now and then, a hack rolled by, its rattle and creak halt-muffled and deadened by ‘the snow upon the eh, Le stones. Now and then, ng too, a policeman, thras his arms around him to start his chilled blood, hastened by on his accus- tomed rounds. These were all the moving objects which the girl saw, as she peered out into the falling snow. Ten minutes passed, and then Dora re ae back from the window, allowing the lace to fall again to its accustomed place. And again she glanced at the clock. “T am determined!” she muttered, and_her hin were stony and fixed; and her step firm. “I'll follow him, and—nay, I’ll not reproach him, for I love him too much, and he has been honest with me! But I will go to him, and veg hinijatay to him to—to con- SO ES: ee LOVE-MAD. tinue to love me! Oh, God! I cannot give him up! I cannot! It may be unmaidenly—it may be criminal, but I can not help it! What is the world to me with- out him? Oh, why was it ordained that I should meet him? Why was it that 1 was—born? But time flies! The scholars think he is here yet. It is well they do, for I can get away unperceived. What care I for orders or regulations? Is not my heart riven, and torn, and—yes, I must see him! I would die did I not?” Yor a moment she paused, and looked around her. Then she glanced at the attire in which she was ar- rayed. A tear came again to her eye, for she re- membered well—it was only an hour ago—what joy- ous feelings had held possession of her bosom when she was enrobing herself in that dress—what a glorious triumph was before her—the complete con- quest of a noble man’s heart! Alas, now! The conquest was a terrible illusion, and now she was thinking of the outside weather— was thinking that her own wrappings were up the second story of the house, in her room—thinking that she could not_get them, for then her purpose would be known. Her heart sunk within her. She dared not go out in such a dress, and yet, what should she do? aed She ater 4 wnear the door wage into the hallway, and looked out. The light had some time since been lit. The girl’s heart bounded with joy, for on the hat-rack was flung a shawl. n a moment she stole out, and snatching the shawl, cast it over head and shoulders, and opening the street door softly, crept out. Down the tall — she bounded, caring not for the thin shoes which covered her feet, naught for the wild north- wind, naught for the falling snow! And she had disappeared in the gray gloom of the winter night. Clavis Warne hurried on, and at length reached his rooms in Place. -He placed a key in the lock, and ina moment stood within. Lighting the gas, he flung off his overcoat, hat and gloves, and en, without resting, he commenced to promenade the limits of the apartment. The frown on his brow grew darker moment by moment, his face sterner, yet more sad, as he walk- ed. Up and down the room he strode, his hands clasped behind him, his face bent down in deep and anxious thought. Suddenly he paused, a shade of relief, as if he had fallen upon some resolve, ES over his features. “Tlldoit! What can I do better? Why shall I remain here longer? Why longer in the country? This sad affair but fixes me in a resolution half-form- ed months ago! I cannot marry es—owing to her father’s unbending will, nay, unfounded preju- dice—though we have plighted ourlove. God knows when the time wil come that J can claim her as my own sweet wife! Then, why need Istay here? Ob God! that I have been so’ blindly, so foclishly led away foratime! And now I am meeting with my punishment! Yet, yet, poor Dora! poor Dora! She, too, suffers; suffers more, alas, than Ido! God pity her! But I'll pack my trunk now, and—and—to-mor- row the Persia sails! "Tis well! i am resolved—and and—poor Dora—poor, dear, sweet Agnes!” So muttering, he approached a closet, and in a moment drew fromit a largetrunk. Throwing back the top, he proceeded to examine the contents, tak- ing out article by article. t le he had finished, and then he arose to his feet, and turned toward a bureau in the room. At that moment hasty feet echoed outside; then they paused at the young man’s door; then the bell jingled. Clavis Warne stepped hastily to the door and open- ed it. Dora Howe stumbled into the room, and sunk in a chair, breathing heavily. “M. Dora!” exc ed the young man has- tening to her side. ‘* What does this mean?”’ and he took her hand, so cold and purple, in his. The maid- en did not withdraw that hand, but looking up in his face, while a warm met hae flashed over him, said, ina broken, anguished voice: “T could not stay away, Clavis! I longed to see you again, to look upon_you once more, or, Clavis, I would go wild! Dear—dear Clavis!” With a bursting heart the young man_ turned at a J fall the small cold hand. He could no Clavis, do not leave me! do not leave me! I feel that the world is growing dark around me! I ans all reason is fo: Alas, Clavis, “There, there, Dora!”’ he suddenly said, in a voice, tremulous with emotion, re to her side, an seating himself close by her. ‘‘ Your words, Dora, are torture to my soul. I know that I have done wrong; but, Dora, it is not too late to retrieve my error, to do justice to you, to myself, and to others / Nay, nay, poor Dora; do not interrupt me; I must speak now, or 1 could never again hold up my head in honor, I was puzzled and bewildered, Dora, by your beauty. I was fascinated by your laughing voice, your winning ways, your ess of heart, and sweetness of temper, But, Dora, it «as fascina- tion, and nothing else. Forgive me for the words Ispeak; but I love only one—Agnes Arlington! To her I have pledged my troth, and, Dora, I do not love you as I do her! But, poor Dora, 1 feel very a to you, I feel that I could love you as a sister, ani — “*No, no, Clavis! I crave not such love as that!” and her words were wondrously quiet and calm, and her face was pale and stern, like marble. The ponne 88 started, and gazed at her. But unheeding his anxious glance, she continued; “You once intimated, Clavis, that you loved me! You won my heart, Clavis, and you have it still! ng me! it er wee * P| ed Agnes Arlington, nor the world can change it! I must love you, Clavis, or I would die a raving maniac. And now I must be gone! We must part, Clavis! When we meet we must not know each other, since you would not like it; and are you go- ing, Clavis?” she suddenly exclaimed, as her eyes fell upon the trunk. “T could not stay here now, Dora; I leave to-mor- row for Europe.” A low wail came from the stricken girl; for an in- stant her frame shook violently. Then she arose to her feet, and pulled the wet shawl around her shoulders. “There, there, I can not look upon you! The comforting angels stand by me! And now, Clavis, we part; we must say farewell! We may never meet again on earth; but, Clavis, I shall ever pray for you, for your happiness! And, Olavis, think— think sometimes of peg? Dora! Clavis, one request. Kiss me once, and then farewell jcrever |” She held her mouth up to him. In an impulsive moment, he leaned down, Mae a a his lips to hers, and drew her yearningly to his bosom. Then, re- leasing her, he staggered back against the mantle- piece. Another moment, and the door was opened, and hurriedly closed. Dora Howe had gone! And then, after a moment’s pause, a long, low cry, wailed up, that winter night, and echoed in the now loncly room of Clavis Warne. The young man sprung to the door, ovened it, and looked out. But the blinding snow was scurrying down, and he saw nothing of poor Dora Howe. That night, a poor wanderer, laughing wildly, mut, tering unmeaningly, crying at intervals, praying again, was picked up by the police. Two days from that time, poor Dora Howe, a help- less maniac, was taken to her home in the interior, And that home had already sorrow and sack-cloth upon it. The head of the family had just died, and his widow and children were suddenly—and to the i Sa of all—poverty-stricken. The day following that eventful night, Clavis wan ae = young lawyer, sailed away from his na- ve Jan CHAPTER XV. ANOTHER OLD LEAF. Nicut in a foreign capital—the streets lighted here and there with flaring gas-lamps—a drizzling rain coming down—the shop windows dim and misty--- pedestrians few. The hour was ten o’clock. Two young men stood together at the steps of the theater. The drop-scene was dowh for the act, and the young men had made their way out of the crowded place to the more congenial atmosphere of the streets—more congenial because purer, and to be preterred to the stifling air of the crowded thea- ter, despite the rain which was falling fast in a thick, penetrating mist. _ “Come, Harry,” said the talier of the two, speak- ing in English. ‘‘ Come, the call-bell has sounded. Let us enter,’ and taking his companion by the arm, be turned and was about to re-enter the place. “What time is it, Clavis?” asked the other, sud- denly, not moving at all. “ Just ten, Harry; but, come, hurry in; they have a queer way here in phdeey | of taking possession of your seat if you are not in it when the curtain goes up. Come along; I hear the bell again. Still the other paused. There was trouble upo his face; he was undecided. “T cannot go back, Clavis; I have an engage ment,” he said, hesitating at the close of the sen- tence, and turning as if to go. “An tay be gee Harry ? Why, I made this en- gagement with you a week ago. I certainly expect- ed that ae would spend the entire evening with me,” and Clavis Warne looked very grave. “T am sorry—very aes but, Clavis, I canno: heJp it. I promised—why romised the ‘colonel to drop around to his rooms and smoke a cigar.” “The colonel? I am a little surprised, Harry; but when did you make such a promise as this?’ and the young man gazed his friend in the face. Harry Waring paused again, and looked around him with an air of vexation. But he knew that Cla- vis Warne’s eyes were bent upon him. *‘ Well, Clavis, I promised the colonel last night, n “Last ht! Why, my dear fellow, to tell the truth, you do not seem to care for me, or my com- a said Clavis Warne, a little bitterly. ‘Please o remember, your engagement with me lasts through this evening, and that it was made a whole week since!”’ “T cannot we it, Clavis,” said the other, a little . “TIT must go.” And he turned; but Calvis Warne laid_his hand firmly upon his arm. ¥ “Stay a moment or s0, Harry—just a moment or so,” he continued, seeing the frown that came upon the face of Harry Waring. ‘‘ Pardon me, my dear fellow; you know that I am a friend to igaeoen warm and sincere friend. You cannot doubt it, and—” “T do not doubt it, Clavis,” said the otber, half smiling: ‘‘ but what has this to do with my meeting Colone] Thornton this evening for an hour?” “It a a J prompt reply—‘‘a great deal whic our Taiterest, if ra follow my advice,’ and he nt his eyes steadily, but kin on the counte- nance of the other. ' Harry Waring’s face slightly flushed under that scrutiny. sie am well aware, Clavis,”’ he said, somewhat bit- ae that you do not like Colonel Thornton; but that is no reason why others should not, I have must result to &_Y A 2 ~ ~ io - , t deal to do with it, Harry,’’ was the >
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er ee found him a clever gentleman, and a whole-souled, generous-hearted countryman.” ““Granted—granted, Harry,” replied the other, still kindly, though his face reddened slightly. ‘‘ But I am more of a friend to you—remember that! And now, Harry, I will tell you in a few words why I am anxious about you in regard to your relations with thatenan.” He paused, and looked at the other; but Harry Waring bent his eyes on the ground. ** Colonel Thornton is a notorious gern Harry, ant his reputation for honesty and fair-dealing is no ” “By Jove, Clavis, this is too much! I can not listen to such words concerning a gentleman with whom I associate,’’ was the hot interruption. Clavis Warne’s forehead wrinkled into a dark frown, and for a moment he bit viciously at the ends of his jong mustache. But he controlled himself, as he said, quietly: 7 “What I said, Harry, I can substantiate, and what I said was spoken for your benefit, But { shall not dissuade you further. Good-night.” . With that, the young man turned and re-entered the theater, while H Waring, without bee rte any answer to the words spoken, left the brillian lights in front of the theater, and hurrying away, was soon lost in the gloom of the street. Another figure had hung upon the steps of the other two, every foot of the way, from the rooms in the fashionable thoroughfare to the small, unpre- vending house far away, on a little by-street in a dis- reputable quarter of the city. And when the figures walking in front had disappeared within the house, the other, lagging behind, after waiting a moment or so, entered likewise. ; The wind was still flaring the street lamps, and the de rain, fine and pentrating, came ceaselessly own. Away to the rear of the house, on the second story was a large and brilliantly-lit room. In it, seated a a table in the further end, were two persons playing peti and two large piles of money were upon the le, Card after card went down, and the piles were Swept away again and again, Still they ever rose to fill the place of those lost and won. The large, ey: benevolent-looking man, with the gold eye-glasses, invariably won. ill the other drew forth his gold and staked it, unflinching] , upon the hazardous game. No others were present in the room, except the bar-tender, half nodding behind the epee array of cut-glass on his counter and upon S shelves. Again another pile was swept away by the dex- terous colonel. But as he veer the amaner: rather hurriedly, toward him, several cards fell from his ar et: Edy an instant the younger of the two men spru upon his feet, and grasping the other by the Sollee Ghee oa back t heat ve me my money, you cheating villain!” The older man started Hock! as a wild frown spread over his face. ‘That for your words!” he suddenly hissed, at the same time drawing a knife from his bosom, and driving it vengefully full into the chest of the other. With a wild cry, the young man fiung his hands in the air, and fell to the floor, the warm, red blood eying: forth, as the murderous blade was with- At that moment Clavis Warne rushed into the apartment. Before, however, he could reach the side of his fallen friend, the murderer struck him a violent blow with a chair and sent him reeling to the floor. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, the gambler had disappeared down the gloomy stairway. Slowly Clavis Warne recovered senses, and erecene up to the motionless figure of his bosom friend, he gazed at him. He started, as if struck with aknife. Then kneeling on the floor, he lifted his ng and said, in a deep, stern voice: * One day, Ralph Thornion, I swear to be even with you! So help me God!” ; Waring, young and gifted, was dead. —_— CHAPTER XVI... IN THE CEMETERY. he heard the og on the door. He did not move, and he laid his han a ae ae old woman glanced at him inquiringly. di wide open as if to welcome his guest. Mg No, Delaney. want to see you at once, pri- rately,’ was the rude, answer of Mr. Arlington, who, ag in the room, saw the old woman with her eyes fixed upon him. He drew back. 5 ‘“What’s your business, Sainty?” asked the other, coolly, at the same time bending a suspicious glance upon him who had called. “Tl tell you when I can see you alone—when only your ears can hear what I have to say,” was the cau- ious “P » given at a low breath. “Is it about what we spoke of last night, Sainty— about the job for to- it?’ and the other ste outside to Hater to Caeewée ped _ “No, not exactly; but get your hat, and come to _LOVE-MAD. 9 the cemetery,’’ was the reply. “I will await you there,” and Mr. Arlington moved off, as he spoke, taking it for granted that the other would follow. Delaney Howe gazed after him as he walked away, and there was something more and more suspicious in his gaze. Then a hard smile passed over his red face as he muttered: ji “Sainty misses something, 1 think! He comes to me to get it, and I have it not! Sainty is a rough customer at times, and he may take liberties with me! Well, he’ll catch a severe cold, that’s all, if he goes too far! I could then draw with a little more freedom! But, I’ll go and see him.” hoe again went into the house. His old mother met im. “Oh, my darling son, shun that man!” she said, in a 1OW, entreating tone. ‘I saw his face—/ know im |” “Mother, let me alone! Mr. Arlington comes to see me on business, and you must not interfere. I know what Iam doing!” was the rude reply. “Oh, Delaney, my son, I /ee/ that harm will come to you if you persist in going with that man! He is rich. Whatever we were, We are not rich now! Oh, a dear boy, for your old mother’s sake, for the sake of—”’ s “Out of my way, mother, and be done with it!” was the heartless reply, as he shoved her suddenly to one side, and strode out of the room. With a sad wail the poor old woman reeled away under the heavy blow, and sunk, with a muttering sob, into a chair. “My God! and has it come to this? And he my first-born?” Just then the sufferer lying on the bed moaned in her uneasy slumber and turned upon her side, Her lips parted, and a smile of seraphic sweetness played over the beautiful mouth. She murmured: “Clavis! Clavis! Come back again to me!” And then, in an instant, the sweet smile had gone, yeni iron sternness stamped her features, as if in eath. ““Yes, yes, poor child! Always dreaming of him who toyed with you and crushed your poor heart! Alas, poor thing! he will never come back to you! Alas! alas!’’ and the poor old mrther bent herjhead and sobbed gently to herself. An almost sacred silence fell upon the humble home of poverty. Delaney Howe felt in his bosom eabicteges as he left the door to follow St. Clair Arlington, who, seat- ed negligently on a broad slab of granite in the cem- etery, awaited him; and a smile passed over the yo man’s face as he muttered: “The book has gone; but, the knife is there, and that is what he seeks! He'll be a better man than | if he gets that.” In a few moments Delaney Howe stood by St. Clair Arlington. There was a dark frown on the rich man’s face,’and an ominous flash in the deep glitter- ing orbs-behind his bright eye-glasses. He sat for a aca without peaking: then, looking up, he said: “You slept in my library last night.” His words were menacing. Your library, eh? I slept in the library of the Arlington mansion, Sainty—yes,” was the cool re- ply. “You see, I was afraid another cloud might come up, and another flash of lightning might shock —somebody |” Arlington’s face paled for a moment; but, with a sickly smile, he said: ‘*& truce to such nonsense, Delaney! But,” and his voice | ld hard, “you slept in the ‘library last night, and—” ‘Nobody knows that better than Ido! Go ahead; you have said that twice,’’ was the reply. “When / left the room there was a very important book in my secretary. When you left there was no such book! Give it to me, Delaney Howe, or I’ll send a bullet through your head!” As he spoke, he leaped to his feet in the twinkling of aneye. Ina moment he had seized the other by ee st ar, and pressed the barrel of a pistol to his mple. But he was not quicker in his movements than was Delaney Howe. No sooner had he caught the flash of St. Clair Arlington’s eyes behind the glitter- ing glasses, than, in a moment, a long gleaming blade twinkled in his hand. With his left hand he clutched the right of Arlington, which held the pisol and bent it down like a feather. Then the See sal of the dagger scratched the rich man’s oat. A deathly A amg) spread like wind over St. Clair Arlington’s face; his eyes seemed to start from their sockets, his limbs shook beneath him. He was in the grasp of a young giant. ‘ “Drop that istol, Sainty! Drop it, or I'll cut your windpipe! Hurry, I aay, Sainty! I am in earnest!” and he pressed on the knife, till the rich blood trickled down on his spotless shirt-front,. That pressure was a powerful argument. St. Clair Arlington could not withstand its potency. He ae the pistol to the soft, wet earth without a word, “Very good, Sainty! Now, I'll let you go! and if you will ask me a decent question, ty) await a respectful answer, I'll tell you that I know nothing about your book. Ill do more; I'll swear solemnly, I know no more where it is this minute than do-you! Bp sal ad FARK be veld itn ’plas tin’ this ‘cits ng thus, he on the other, and with a half-shove, sent him ree backward. “And I'll tell you another thing, Sainty,” resumed the young man, at the same time stooping and pick- ing up the pistol, from which, at once, he proceeded toremove thecap. “If you ever in try a trick of that sort on me, why, I'll just step over to the village, and have a little talk with a constable, eh? r : Do you see? Here, take your pistol!’ and he tossed the weapon toward his companion. Arlington made no reply. He caught the pistol and placed it in his pocket: then he felt his throat, which was stinging him a little. Then he seated himself on a grave-stone again. _ Several moments passed in silence. At length, however, Arlington said: “T believe you, Delaney. - But that book has gone! I fancied you wanted it as evidence against me, You know the scrap—the witt—came from that book! We can not afford to lose it, Delaney! I tell you, with that book gone, why our projyits cease!” He spoke very gee Delaney Howe reflected for a moment; he saw'the truth of what the other had spoken; but he knew of no remedy for the evil. So he said nothing. : ad “Well, if that’s your business, Sainty, it is now over; and I have not had my breakfast yet. Imust go over to the village. Dora is ill, and I must sum- mon the doctor. And he, who tarries in the Arling- ton mansion—/e has broken her poor heart.” As he spoke, a fearful frown came to Delaney’s face. He clenched his hand, and a bitter oath broke from his lips. : : St. Clair Arlington glanced at him; a smile passed over his face. “Clavis Warne has deeply wronged you and ours, Delaney, you know how!” he said, in a low, issing voice; ‘‘and he is no friend of mine! He holds secrets! And, mind you, Delaney, do not for- get that Clavis Warne sleeps to-night at the Arling- ton mansion! Good-by.” : “Depend upon me; I'll nor forget it!’ was the reply. 4 men parted—St. Clair Arlington hastened back over the plain toward his aristocratic old dwell- ing, and Delaney Howe turned again to his own humble home. 3 As the young man entered the door, his poor old mother again met him. As she threw her arms around his neck, a letter fluttered from her bosom and fell to the floor. Delaney Howe caught it with his foot, and, stooping, picked it up. His face crim- soned; then, as he turned it over, a dark flush came to his cheek. ie. “This letter has been opened, mother!” he said, in a threatening tone. “Itisforme/ Beware! be- ware! how you trifle with me!” itd With that, he opened and read the eommunica- tion. His face was covered with an ominous scowl =a he finished it, and bent his gaze again on his mo-\. ther. Then, without a word, without a glance at her en- treating face, without even a look toward the tempt- ing breakfast, which the poor old mother had so daintily and lovingly prepared for him, he turned and left the house. np That ee when the humane physician came. he shook his head seriously as he noted the re cheek, the labored breathing, and the bounding pulse of his patient. Promising to call in the evening, he left. That afternoon, toward sunset, Delaney Howe emerged from the village, where he had passed the day, and took his way rapidly toward a neighboring forest, that grew to the east. No one noticed him. CHAPTER XVII. HEART-SECRETS AND SUFFERINGS. CLavis WarRNE had just time to force the letter back into his bosom when the door opened, The mellow sunlight of this warm July day was pouring in through the open window; it streamed full on the pale, haggard face of her who had entered. . With a low ery of joy, the yo man sprung for- ward, and, in another moment, had drawn to his bosom the fainting form of Agnes Arlington. Tor several moments no word was spoken. Each of the loving hearts seemed to be holding soft communion with itself, At length, however, Clavis Warne gently disen- gaged his arm from herneck, and holding her at a short distance, gazed her in the face, his eyes glow- ing with a radiant, thextinguishable love-light, his chest heaving with wild emotion. Then the maiden raised her soft eyes to his and murmured, in alow, sweet voice: “Oh! the angels be thanked, Clavis, that I see you again!” But, as she uttered the words, a deadly pallor came to her already haggard face, and a wild thrill shot through her frame, She staggered back. In an in- stant, Clavis, with his strong unwounded arm, caught her and prevented her from falling. fr at is this, Agnes, my love?’ he murmured, in a gentle voice, as he tenderly assisted her to a seat. The en started back with a shudder; she seemed to repel his kindness—to shrink away from him. ee gently forcing her into a chair, he sat down r er. “T thank heaven, my sweet one,” he said, in a 1% musical Mig “that I eee permitted to Seeiyou again, to press your han look upon you, and to know that you ake still mine!” fier The girl shrunk again from him, as he uttered these warm words of affection; but he paid no heed to it, and continued: “T know, darling, that long years have rolled by since we met—since that night, lon 0, when be- neath the gloomy shade of the ol poplar on the lain, we pledged our parting vows. ever, since hen, sweet one, though I have been absent from you, my heart has warmed for you! Love for no other woman has ever thrilled my heart! And I have longed for you, dearest—longed even for a single item of news of you! Oh! darling, you know that your father, years ago forbade me his house, and I knew not, es, that the poor old man was » oF
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b. - + “ 2 SS dsb lain no more! Pardon me, my love, if my words give you pain, and—” “ There—there, Clavis! Speak no more now on that subject! I cannot bear it. Pity me, and—’’ She hesitated,.and bent her head—bent it so low that the glorious cloud of golden ringlets fell in the Jap and upon the throbbing hand of him who sat by her. And Clavis placed that hand tenderly upon the glittering, aureate ringlets. But, es if an adder had stung her, Agnes Arlington raised her head, and suddenly drew away again from him, * Am I distasteful to you, Agnes?” he asked, as an expression of poignant pain shot over his face, and a lavge tear stood in his eye. “No, no, Clavis! Oh, no, darling! And yet, spare me, Clavis!”’ and again her head went down. The young man, with wonder, surprise, fear, and trouble all showing in his. face, bent his eyes upon her; but he spoke no word—made no moyement. Several moments passed, neither speaking. Then Agnes Arlington looked up; her tears had ceased to flow, and she sat quiet. and calm, as if, by some powerful effort, she had forced a peace of mind, even as her face was now emotionless and composed. “J did not think such would be our meeting, _ Clavis!”’ she said, in.a clear, audible voice. ‘‘1 had long since mourned you as lost to me, forever! _ When you went away beyond the broad seas, with- out even bidding me a last farewell, my yearni heart was well-nigh broken! And, Clavis, I learne why you went away! I did not blame you; I knew, Clavis, that Dora Howe loved you, and that you, at one time, hinted that you were not indifferent to her. Nay, Clavis, do not interrupt me, for I know that, in the end, you were still true to me! And, I know, too, Clavis, that Dora, poor girl! was worthy of your love! Poor thing! she is not now what she was, and—”’ ‘“What mean you, Agnes?” andthe young man bent his eyes eagerly upon her. Agnes Arlington started at the vehemence of these words; a.slight flush mantled her cheek, and a quick, agonizing expression shot over her brow. ui she recovered herself and replied in a low tone: “T mean, Clavis, that Dora has faded wonderfully since then! And then, she—her family—has been reduced to poverty; and that, alas! poor Dora is now a maniac!” This “ A maniac? can not be!” ** Alas, only too true, Clavis!’’ and a choking sen- sation stifled her words, Clavis Warne sprung to his feet, and heedless of the, presence of her who sat there watching him with tear-bedimmed eyes strode upand down the room with anxious, nervous step. His mind was travel- ing back to that wild wintry night, of snow and north-wind, in the great city—that gray, gloomed eve, when, in his quiet rooms in Irving Place, he had crushed the heart of the gentle Dora Howe—crushed ij as thoroughly as though it were trodden under a heel shod with iron. He was thinking of the thin- clad feet of that night—of the cold, wet shawl cover- ing the frail ee of the burning eyes—the eager, hagrard face—thinking of that sacred mo- ment when he pressed with his own the warm, yet almost bloodiess lips of Dora Howe. There was a wild storm in Clavis Warne’s bosom, for now the terrible truth had reached his ears, that poverty had laid its gaunt fingers upon the family who once lived in wealth and comfort—that reason had fled from the brain of her who had loved him so wildly, so tenaciously, so tenderly. And he—the cause! Was he the innocent cause? That was the question a para? his bosom now, as, heedless of the pres- ence of herwho sat there before him, he strode with quick stride up and down the room. Agnes Arlington, in her own heart—her great wo- man’s heart—knew well.enough the weighty ques- tion that was rending his soul! And her brain reeled as.an answer came to that question, for, what was she now? In what relation steod se now to Clavis Warne? That terrible oath rose up, like a grim phantom, before her: Suddenly the young man paused: achange came over his face; the hard, stern expression passed aivay; softness and gentleness came there again and a love-light sparkled in his eye as his gaze fell ou the face and figure of Agnes Arlington. Hate He drew near her, and seating himself by her side, took both her hands unresistingly in his, “Listen to mea moment, and I will tell you what I have kept locked up in my bosom asa secret. But I see you know it partly, and I can not keep it from you—nor do I wish to do so, What I have to say can « iold in a few words. Will you listen, Agnes, and ‘then I will pray you to forgive me?” the girl shivered, but answered at once: “Say on, Clavis. Iam listening.” ‘The young man hesitated for a moment, but sum- moung up resolution, he turned to her and in a low voi te, sai ; is agi ret “When I was studying, es, in the city of New York, chance—nothing but chance—flung me in the way of Dora Howe, “I met her at a select party. She told me that she lived in Labberton. That name was introduction enough for me ; my darling Agnes, from whom I had just parted, lived there, likewise. I mentioned your name; she smiled with pleasure, and said she knew you well and loved you much! We met again. Dora Howe, at that time, Agnes, as you know, was wondrously beautiful ond fascinating, 1 conceal nothing from, you, darling. Thera was a’ loadstone attraction about her—a magnetism —a subtle yet mighty force, which, for ‘@ time No! no! Say it not, Agnes. eee EL A ES eee ee ee er eee ae. aol) SE 2 a eS Oe SE Sa A eee 2 ee | (and she exercised it unwittingly), no one could resist. I did not forget you, darling—oh,no! Day and night I worshiped your image enshrined in my heart. But gradually, before I was aware, there arose along with yours, darling, another image, glorious and resplendent! Forgive me—forgive me, Agnes, if my words give you pain! I must tell the whole truth.” ied Arlington. bowed her head, but spoke no word. “Time passed on,’ resumed the young man, speaking hurriedly, “‘ and almost every day I found rmayself in Dora Howe’s company. I was not forget- ting you, Agnes, but I was learning to bow down be- fore another shrine! One day, under an impulse I could not resist, I took her hand—Dora Howe’s—in mine, and toid her that I loved her! Ah, the misery which that little declaration has caused ine! Then'I learned how madly she loved me! I suddenly awoke, In the twinkling of an eye, I saw that I did not love Dora Howe. Isaw the pit into which I had fallen, and I determined, at all events, to be honest, and to extricate myself fromit. 1, one night, told the poor thing the truth!” he continued, after a pause, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion. “And the memory of that night is seared deep in my brain: But, Agnes, I was ever true to you! I was misled; I did not know myself, but, before high heaven, I have ever been faithful to you!” A long pause followed. An ashen paleness now overspread the haggard face of Agnes Arlington. She seemed, of a sudden, to have recalled a half-for- gotten, hideous fact, and that again, Banquo-like, it was slowly rising before her. She turned toward the young man, and lifted her eyes to his, © “T cannot escape destiny!” she said, in an an- uished tone. “I, too, have a secret, a searful one, lavis, which, considering the relation existing be- tween us in the past, I must tell to you.”” She paused. Clavis Warne, his face now aglow with excite- ment, his eyes flashing brightly, looked straight at her, earnestly and tenderly. “Go on, Agnes, my love,” he said, gently. The girl still hesitated; but, at length taking cour- age, she began again. ‘“*T thought, Clavis, that you had Her aera me, that you were forever lost tome! And, Clavis, I had reason! It has been long years since I heard a word from you; yet, I knew that, in the meantime, you had returned to your native land! Oh, Clavis, why have you tarried away from your affianced so long— your affianced—alas! that was! Do not interrupt me, Clavis. Icame to tell you this, and to’’—she sunk her voice to a low whisper—‘‘ put you on your guard! Nay, please Jet me finish. I must hurry, and be gone, for if uncle knew I was here he would frown darkly upon me! Listen, Clavis; I will be brief. Father died seven months ago! It was thought he was drowned in the creek, by the village, Soon after that, my uncle, St. Clair Arlington, re- turned from abroad. He said he had been serving as a colonel in the Sardinian army. He came to this mansion, and quietly took possession. .On searching for a will among my poor father’s papers, none could be found. But one day my uncle did find a small scrap in my father’s handwriting, to which I was compelled to testify! The eruel provisions, as given in that paper, crushed me! It seems, Clavis, that father was displeased at me, you remember, years ago, for going with you to the ball, instead of with Delaney Howe.” She. paused, and, as she mentioned that name, a convulsive shudder passed over her frame. Clavis Warne’s face, too, grew darker as that name fell upon his ear; but he was silent. “Well, Clavis,”’ she resumed, “ that piece of paper gave my uncle ail of my father’s property—every bit of it—and his wealth in gold and silver was immense}; and though no one knew where he kept it, yet, it seems that my uncle has found it, for he spends money with a lavish hand. And I, Clavis, have noth- ing! Yam as poor as unfortunate Dora Howe!” Again she paused, y Clavis Warne started violently, and a peculiar look came to his eyes, a sin r expression spread over his face. But he said nothing, and the girl again proceeded; this time, however, in a very low and tremulous voice. 5 “And Delaney Howe is my uncle’s friend, and my uncle, at times, is very harsh and exacting toward me. And’’—she paused for a moment—‘“ and, Clay- is, 1am surrounded by peculiar circumstances—cir- cumstances which control me, circumstances which blindfold my eyes and tie my hands! Oh! pity me, Clavis, when I tell you that, since you have been away a dark shadow,” and she instinctively drew away from him, ‘has fallen at my feet. Ihave been unwary, and I have been snared!” F pe bent her head, and again her tears flowed reely. - itieads darling? What do you mean? Speak, Agnes, my love!’ and he leaned down eagerly over her. “T have met another, Clavis! Time and again has he been in my company! J could not help it, could not avoid him. And my uncle zowd have itso, And now, Clavis, be calm, for all hope is over! You come too late! Oh, dear life! too late! too late!” : And her sobs came wailing up from the bursting heart, one after another. ; j The young man rose tottering ly to tis feet; his frame shook like an aspen leaf; the blood forsook his cheek; his eyes glared out, Untneaniney “What does thismean? Speak, my darling Agnes; tell me the truth!’ Agnes Arlington slowly lifted her eyes to bis, her face now calm—calm in its despair, marble in its pallor, She glanced at him one ardent look, full of yearning love, and then her lips parted. : a a rn ee “My hand is not mine! “Tis promised to another!” she wailed. : ‘Promised to another! Who dares—” “Nay, Clavis, I have sworn to be the wife of an- other!”’ : “Do you love him, Agnes Arlington?” ** T hute the ground he treads on!” “His name?”’ “ Dora’s brother—Delaney Howe!’’ CHAPTER XVIII. STRANGE THINGS. CuLavis Warne reeled, as if stricken by a rifle-ball. His eyes were blinded, and his senses seemed to have forsaken him. He staggered back and sunk into a seat. Agnes looked up. No pen can describe the emo- tions rioting on her face. With her eyes starting from their sockets—her face bloodless—her golden hair hanging in wild disarray upon her shoulders. she arose to her feet, and staggered to the side o him who had sunk, as it were, helpless before the terrible words which had fallen from her lips. She leaned down, and, with her soft hands, pushed back the matted, disheveled masses from his brow, and imprinting a warm virgin kiss upon that bold fore- head, she murmured in his ear: “Though my hand is another’s, Clavis, my heart ean be but yours. Its every ;ulse thrills for you— for yon alone, my Clavis! My Clavis! Alas, no; and yet Ican not give you up!” ? As she spoke, she suddenly knelt and threw her arms impassionedly around his neck. : Just then a soft step echoed in the porch outside, and a dark shadow fell into the room. : Agnes looked up. She caught aut of the passing form; she saw the glitter of the gold Bit tol But he who had trode so softly by ain. aeWith a face almost livid in the terror and confu- sion showing there, Agnes Arlington straightened up. Her face was preternaturally calm and hard, as she said: “But, Mr. Warne, another object called me here. I came to put you on your— Hist! I can not speak more. [hear his step! Good-by, and God watch over you!”’ and without looking at him again, she hurried from the room. Once in the hall outside, she hastened along, ant, turning ee an angle, almost fled on toward her room, in a distant part of the large old house, She was near the door, when suddenly she stop ped, as if an apparition had risen before her. Mr. St. Clair Arlington stood near her door—a ma licious smile, bitter and biting, curling his lip, hard, stony frown upon his broad face. ““T have waited for you, Agnes,” he said, ina sir ister voice, “and you have not kept me fone. An obliged to you. I just have this to say: Please be mor, private in your demonstrations of affection toward strange young gentlemen. You certainly do not stand in the relation of mother to Clavis Warne. Besides that, it would not be well for Delaney Howe to witness the sight I saw; he is somewhat jealous, and given to spells of anger. That’s all I have to d gone. Ys As he spoke, he made way for her to pass, Agnes answered not a word, but, with flashing eyes and haughty port, she swept by him—whom nature had made her relative—majestically and disappear- edin the privacy of her own room. , St. Clair Arlington still smiled that same sardonic smile, ashe gazed at the door through which the queenly girl had passed. Then he turned slowly any down the hall, muttering as he went: “i don’t blame Delaney, by Jove! But she must be watched, for Clavis Warne is here after no good! We'll see what a day will bring forth!” He had reached the stairs, Hurrying down, he disappeared in the solitude of his aaah Clayis Warne slowly recovered himself; the blood came again to his cheek, bringing lifé and color; strength sosiges infused his muscles, and he raised his head. hat a change those few minutes of suffering had made in his face. Traces of acutest agony were plainly visible, and great, deep lines of heart trouble marked his pale brow. But he aroused himself, and glanced around him. “And has it come to this?” he muttered. ‘Have I been a wanderer from the shrine so long, to re- turn now and find it polluted by the worship of an Ishmaelite? Oh! thisis too much! And yet shall I turn away again, and golonely homeward? No, no! Something bids me remain and work out the prob- lem, the solution of which brings me here: Reig little dreams my errand here in Labberton, and I only had a faint idea of it until the revelation I have this morning listened to. I'll stay, and when my poor arm is well, why Pll watch and wait. “Shall I give up Agnes Arlington?” and his words were labored and slow, and the roses fled away from his cheek. ‘‘CanI do any thing else? Yes—I can shoot Delaney Howe through the head! There’s a pict in this matter, and by heavens! Ill read it yet !*% ut, alas, Delaney Howe is Dora’s brother! “Dora! Dora! She lives yet! Can she fill, in my heart, Agnes’s place? What a—a thought! Yet. can I do otherwise?, Heaven help me! I can not give up Agnes, but—”" ** Without finishing the sentence, he suddenly arose to his feet, and began to walk the room with a slow and meditative stride. Up and down he strode, He thought not now of his broken. arm; he thought not of the pirange. adventures of the night before., His mind was filled with gloomy forebod- ings; dark clouds’ enveloped him’on. every sidc; strange.questions were being put’ and answered, ar’ ents ube debated, and wild fancies were rushing through Clavis'Warne's brain, But, as if recollecting himself and his surround
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2 Oe oo ings, the young man ceased his again flung himself into a chair. “T forgot myself,’’ he said. which called me hither! duty!” As hespoke, he drew out the letter again from his pocket, and, after some difficulty, succeeded in spreading it open. He glanced his eye over it, and read as follows: “Mr. Warne:—We have heard of your reputa- tion away out here in Labberton. Some of us re- member you on a former visit, but that was years ago.. Ihave written to you twice already, but you have failed to come as yet. I write again. A singu- lar case has occurred here. An old man, leaving one child, suddenly ag ie pe some months ago. He was a wealthy man. is brother has succeeded to his property. A good many people here shake their heads and suspect foul play. There has been a dark crime committed. You are a lawyer and can work the matter out. Come down, and I teli you witnesses and proofs shall not be lacking! More than that, you ARE INTERESTED PERSONALLY IN THE MATTER. ONE WHO Knows.”’ _. When Clavis Warne had folded the note, he placed it in his pocket, and was about to take out the pack- age containing the other two. But, just then, a low rap sounded on his door, and, in an instant, a nar- row ems of paper was shoved in under the crevice at the bottom. Then the young man distinctly heard light steps hastening away. Warne arose from his chair, and drawing near the door, stooped and picked up the small strip. He lanced his eyes over it. There were afew scribbled es upon it, which read as follows. “Be on your guard to-day and to-night. If you value your life, sleep not! ‘i ‘ A. AD The handwriting was familiar; the words written were grave. The paper fell from his hand, and with scosri na brow and flashing eyes, Clavis again sat This time, after glancing around him, he drew from his pocket a pistol and cautiously examined the leaden bullets lying in the chambers. We will briefly follow Delaney#Howe the after- noon of this same day, when, as the twilight was be- to settle down, he left the village of Labber- n, and took his way toward the dark belt of forest in the distance. The shadows of night had fallen when he entered _the gloom of the woods; but he did not pause. He struck right inte the depths of the forest, follo neither road nor path, for there was none. He continued on at a elinging stride for an hour. Suddenly he paused as he came to a small, nar- row path. Delaney Howe looked cautiously around him in the gloom, and then stepped suddenly up to a i tree bordering this path. He scrutinized the rough sides of the tree for several moments, and then he laughed low as he turned away and strode on up the path. “The boys have gone on, and the coast is clear!”’ Fenn sary ay along. nother half-hour elapsed, when sudde he stopped at the foot of a hill. This hill was tokie covered over with dwarfish trees, growing closely everywhere, Below these, the wild vines interlaced in every direction, forming a complete net-work through which it seemed almost impossible for a rabbit to pass. It was a wild, desolate scene, and the dense gloom hanging over every thing made it more lovely and dreary still. Delaney Howe paused just an instant, and then, poo straight into the thicket, made his way carefully along through the undergrowth. At length he stopped again, as he stood near the entrance, dark and gloomy, of what seemed to be a cave. Placing his hands to his mouth, he uttered a low, peculiar cry. The lonely call echoed through the sleeping woods, but no eee ea came back. Again the young man sent forth the wailing note, and once more waited in silence. This time, there came back a wild, unearthly groan, Pr ceeding, as it were, from the bowels of the earth. Ina moment adark figure rose before him at the entrance of the cave, a naked saber flash- ing in the dim light. “Who comes hither? Friend or foe? If friend, advance and whisper low!’ said a deep voice. “Tam a friend, ever good and true; True to myself, true, too, to you!” was the reply, in a low voice, Delaney still standi at bay before the naked sword. A ay “Advance then, friend; I bend my ear; Speak low the word, and never fear!” was the solemn rejoinder. Delaney Howe at once drew near and whispered some words, Then, in a moment, a red flambeau flashed far down in thé cave, and the two who stood a‘ the mouth disappeared in the large, distorted shadows of the gloomy place. An hour afterward, Delaney Howe emerged from the cave into the outer air, and, glancing around him, strode away. promenade, and “T forgot the duty I now know that it is a CHAPTER XIX. A DARK PLOT. - Tae shades of night had long since fallen. The moon had come out from behind a distant cloud- bank, and was now gleaming down brilliantly u 20N. the sleeping wo’ Faint lights wore . away in the neighboring village of Labberton, but - E 3 ~ ald 2 Ls ef es Aes _ ~ at * the long-stretching wasteland lying between it and the Arlington mansion was unlit, save by the pale rays of the moon. But, that light was sufficient to reveal the lonely desolation of the plain, its bare, bold look relieved here and there by the tail, slender poplars, bowing gently in the breath of the light night-wind, moaning along. Arlington mansion was almost as gloomy as the silent, shadowy plain extending around. Only two LC my beamed forth from the large, shambling old pile. One of these lights shone faintly from the window of the room in which Clavis Warne slept as a guest; the other flashed out from the rear window of the library. The old house looked gloomy enough in compari- son with its gay and brilliant appearance of the night before. ‘The flashing lights were now extin- guished and the somber wings of the ancient struc- ture were now enshrouded in their usual garb of darkness. No carriages rolled up to the great state- ly door, and no gayly-cressed maidens and attentive beaux thronged the large hall. The night, in marked contrast, too, to the previous one, was all that could be desired. It was lovely. Mr. Arlington satin the library all alone. He was leaning his hand upon the secretary, his eyes bent on a small torn serap of paper lying before him. Suddenly he started, and, clutching the paper, glanced nervously around him, A faint sound, coming whence he could not positively determine, had reached his ears. He arose to his feet. “T am sure I— There, again!’ He suddenly paused, and his limbs shook beneath him. That time the noise was plainly perceptible, but, coming whence, as before, it was impossible to determine. “Isthis jugglery, or is it a visitation from the other world ?* he said, in a low, tremulous voice, great drops of sweat breaking out suddenly upon his fore- head. ‘I can not stay here!” and he turned quickly toward the door. ‘ — hand was on the knob, but he did not turn the olt. “No, no,’ he said with more determination; ‘I was mistaken! It was the creaking of the shutter, nothing more. [ll fix it! And I have an appoint- ment to-night which I must keep! Will Delaney be here? ‘Tis getting late.” He went to the window, and adjusting the shut- ter, returned to his seat. As he sat down he muttered: ‘Delaney must be here! The work is important, and he is interested in it! Yes, the deed must be done! The coil must be severed which is slowly gathering aroundme ! I must have room in whic to breathe! I feel that the air is hot and stifiing around me! I feel skeleton fingers clutching at my throat! I see fiery eye-balls glaring upon me; I must shake them off, must shut them out! Good heavens! I feel as if 1 were strangling!” He epmung to his feet, his eyes starting from his head, “his face livid, his mouth foaming! At one vicious effort, he tore away his cravat and collar, and then peered away with reeling steps toward the’sideboard. In an instant he stooped down, and taking out the decanter containing brandy, piaced ne aia to his lips and drank freely of the fiery uid. he diffusible stimulant flashed through his sys- tem. Steadying himself a moment by a chair, he walked back across the room to his seat by the sec- retary. Hal ha!” he cried, nero, is a wondrous friend, and one never failing! Now I am strong! Now TI care not for gibbering fiends, come as they may! And he who knows @ secret of mine is here now! To-night he sleeps beneath this roof!’ and he sunk his voice almost to a whisper. ‘‘ Does he come hither attending to business of his own, or does he come here to meddle in that of others? Does he come to look into titles and old wills, and to adjust certain claims? I distrust you, Clavis Warne, and it were better for us both if scores were settled be- tween us! * And this piece of pabet which / discovered, gives me property—this old mansion and grounds—and an immense pile of gold, when jownd/ And, by heavens! it shall be found! More than once I have thought I had found the clew. But Delaney Howe haunts me like a shadow! Smapow did I say?” and the man cowered aot he spoke, and covered his face with his hands. frame shook asif with a convulsion. . ‘ F But suddenly he bestirred himself, and glancing around, said, in a low voice: ‘“‘T am strong, and I fear not! But I'll speak no more of shadows! .This precious scrap!” he con- tinued, again examining the torn strip of paper; how I fondle it! how I_hug it to my heart! And where is that book?” Hepaused, and for amoment seemed lost in thought. “Tt must be found, or all may be lost!” Again his glance fell on the blurred paper, and gaz- ing at it with burning eyes, he read, in a low voice, as follows: ‘ “ Forget it! Never, so help me heaven. She dis- obeyed me in a slight command—would she not have done the same, whafever that command had been? St. Clair, my brother, is needy. Shall he have my property, allowing, as he may see fit, some- thing to my willful daughter? Yes, this seems good; -| and— He ceased reading, and carefully folding the scrap, laid it upon the secretary along with a few other apers. ¥ That is all that is written upon TH scRAP!’’ he muttered, ‘‘and that. has been declared to be John Arlington’s will! It is very well for me! and I'll not y it! But it grows late!” he exclaimed, glanc- toward the clock again, ‘“‘and still, Delaney a a a comes not! Beit so! If ‘ worse comes to worst” Tu do the work singly andalone! For Iam not— A long, thrilling whistle at that moment echoed faintly intheroom; and then again. Then came a gentle rap on the rear-door of the library. i Before Arlington could say ‘‘come in,” the bolt was turned; but the door was locked. ] A short, vigorous blow on the panel followed, as if the door lad been kicked hy a heavy boot. ; Mr. Arlington turned to the secretary, on which lay the papers. Picking up one, he crowded it into his pocket-book, hurried to the door, and opened it. In an instant the tall brawny form of Delaney Howe stood inside. “Where the deuce have you been, Delaney, all this time?’ asked Mr. Arlington, gruffly. ‘““On my own business! See toit, Sainty, that you attend to yours!’ was the prompt, sharp answer, as the young man pushed by, and flung himself ina chair. ; “Tam tired, Sainty! Excuse familiarity,” he said, with a low, wicked laugh. ‘‘Have you found thav book yet?” and he gazed the other steadily in the face. : “No, Lhavenot! But, Delaney, we have work to- night; do not forgetit!’’ sald Arlington, in a voice slightly tremulous. f Howe started, and a serious look came to his face, as he replied: ? ni **T know it, Sainty! Itis very serious, and I don’t exactly like it.”’ ; ’ St. Clair oie Sera turned upon him suddenly, his eyes gleaming like a tiger’s. “Are you getting chicken-hearted, man?’’ he ex- claimed, in an angry tone. “I tell you, Delaney, our sete is in danger—our necks, too! Do you mind?’ The young man started again, and for a moment his cheek paled. “Then we'll work together, come what may!” he said, in a decided tone. : A long, earnest conversation followed. It certain- ly lasted an hour. At the end of that time, the hands on the clock now pointing to a quarter of twelve, St. Clair Arlingtou arose, and took down from a shelf a bottle. Beckoning his companion to follow, he extinguished all but one of the lights in the library, and, opening the door, crept softly out into the dark hall. f Delaney trod close behind him, The large old house was wrapped in perfect silence. than a small, bent figure, as of an old man, suddenly emerged from behind one of the book-cases, and ap- roached the secretary. Leaning down over the few scattered papers, he suddenly seized one, and secured it about his person. Then, cautiously opening the library door, he, too, zee disappeared in the gloom of the hallway out- side. CHAPTER XX, IN THE CAVE. WHEN Delaney Howe disappeared that night, after the conclusion of the singular dialogue, in the gloom of the black cavern, no further word was spoken for several minutes. After the two had proceeded some distance—that is, Delaney and the man with the naked sword—they were suddenly joined by another, who carried a flaming torch in his hands. Here a part of the same cabalistic ceremony was gone through with, and then a natural, easy con- versation ensued, carried on in a light, rollicksome spirit, as the three hastened forward, deeper and deeper into the dark cave. ; At length they paused as they reached a heavy door of wood, set, as it were, into the living rock. Delaney Howe drew from his pocket a key, and fitting it in the lock—a massive one of peculiar con- struction—soon rolled open the door. It moved berg its hinges without any sound soever. The three entered at once, and in a moment the little rocm was aglow with the reflection of the flaming brand. A si sight was revealed. The apartment was quite small. It was a natural excavat.on in the earth, though it was plain to see that those who had occupied it had fashioned it with axes and picks somewhat to suit themselves. The sides otf the apartment had been cut down, and the roof and floor leveled, making an irregular square of the place. But those walls, with the exception of the ceiling, were, to a considerable extent, covered with long strips of carpeting, suspended from above by nails, and reaching to the floor. This latter was en- tirely concealed from view by a magnificent carpet of costliest material. The man with the torch tebped to the center of the room, and marching up, drew down a cord. Seizing this, he hauled to his reach a flashing, elitter- ing chandelier. Then he proceeded to light the dozen tapers in the chandelier. e effect was magical. Everything stood out in bold relief. A fen table occupied one side of the room: an ele- gant sofa the other. Chairs of most elaborate work- mansbip and costly material were grouped about; and in one corner, draped over from above with black cloth, bearing the death-head device, was a raised chair or throne. Everything in this subterranean chamber betoken- ed luxury, ease and comfort. It was a weird, strange place, more fitting the abode of rock-elves and spirits of the wood than the rendezvous of crea- tures of flesh and blood. Ah! boys, this 7s comfort!" said Delaney Howe, familiarly, at the same time throwing himself into one of the easy-chairs, and stretching his limbs out cosily. No sooner had the two confederates left the library
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ar. a ~ Sore ee aaa = * _ r a= ait Big he eyed the other two as he spok \ Joe that he will not live very lo s “Yes, commodore, all—”’ ** Don’t ‘commodore’ me to-night, Dick! We will not hold a regular council, for I have not time,” said the young man, hastily: ‘“‘I have other business on hand. Ireceived your communication, and havi an hour to spare—knowing, too that you expecte me—I have just run over for a while to have alittle chat. What’s the news, and how about the ‘sail?’” e. men like himself—younger in fact than Delaney Howe. There was an air of recklessness, dare-deviltry, and _ bloodthirstiness about them which spoke badly for their morals. Thon their faces were youthful, it was quite evi- dent that the men were old in crime. But one of them—he who had not as yet spoken— ose two were youn: answered: “Why, we were caught out last night on the old stage road while cruising about—caught out in the ae Ss . But we kept our eyes about us, and saw ing: a large traveling-trunk aie tay behind —a young man—a stranger in these parts— ide. Perhaps he has gold.” Delaney Howe started just the least. at ey speaker as he asked: “Did you follow?” ‘*‘No, we could not; we dared not leave our hiding- Seay by the roadside. It was lightning fearfully. ut the carriage was on the road to the village, that’s certain, and if this stranger 7s in Labberton, why, we may find means to get at his gold or his throat!’ and the man smiled grimly, as he lifted his coat-lapel, and tapped on the handle of a large scabbardless knife. Delaney smiled, too, as grimly as the others. But, almost in a second, there came over his face a deep shade of thought, and then he leaned his hands on his knees, and bent his eyes down in deep medita- tion. The others did not interrupt him. It was evitlent hg nee their chief, and it may be, they were fearful of him. ‘ Gradually, however, the expression of thought passed away, and as he looked up, a glad triumph bi on his face. He laughed low to himself, as he said: “°Tis well, boys! And J have seen the young fel- low, too. If he has not money he holds that whi:h will bring it. Perhaps we may have to bring him here, and [ am sure we can doit. In the meantime, take no steps in the matter; leave alltome. Itmay , as he was hurt badly last night. Im any event, there’s money in He glanced ‘him—for somebody!"’ and he glanced around him ‘ain. "Gite of the men looked up, and asked suddenly: “True enough, but will there be any for the fe Alogi *—for us?” and he kept his eyes on young owe. That young man flushed for a moment—then his face slightly paled. He knew that the fierce eyes of those men were upon him; he knew, too, that their wills were like iron—their muscles powerful and brawny. More than that; he knew that beneath their coats sheathless knives were in their reach. ; But he recovered himself, and answered, coolly: “How can you ask, Fred? Are wenot the * Buc- eaneers of the Plains?’ and do we not ail share prize- money.” “That is all I want to know, commodore,” said the man with a satisfied air, sinking back in his seat. Then ensued a long conversation. At the con- clusion of it, they all rose, and after joining hands in a mysterious manner, left the brilliant apartment— having extinguished the lights. But Delaney Howe was the only one who emerged from the cave into the thick, dark woods; and, as he strode away, he muttered: “They are getting troublesome! And I carry the CHAPTER XXI. keys! e’ll see!” ; ’ THE WINDOW LIGHT. CLAviIs WARNE let the little strip lay where it had fallen. Long he sat there, pondering on his singular situation, and on the circumstances which sur- rounded him. What did all this mean? Should he leave this strange old house at once, with its new master, and go to the village? Or, should he remain, and see what was to follow? He was assured in his own mind that something was to come; he felt it. His arm was now giving him excessive pain, and the physician had told him positively that he must not leave his room that day. He determined to stay at all hazards, but he would be wary. He was well aware that between him and St. Clair Arlington—whom he held firmly by some secret power—was no friendship. He knew the bold, wicked heart that beat in Arlington’s bosom; he knew the man of old! Nevertheless, he would re- main until the morrow, any way, and then he would say good-by to the mansion—good-by to es! at was the struggle in Clavis Warne’s breast; he had seen and heard enough to know that there was some deep plot in that mansion against the interests and peace of that maiden, whom he now worshiped more madly than ever; he knew that there was a deep mystery hiding the real truth, and surrounding everything connected with the sudden of old John eyes letters which had so persistently sent him. Come what would, he would remain this night, and he would be ready to defend himself. So again the young man examined the little pistol. The day wore away, and no One came near Clavis disappearance | And then, too, the singular | | dared not violate her vow. Warne’s room, save the man-servant who prouryt e his meals. The young man ate not a mouthful. would not trust St. Clair Arlington in any way. arne did not light his lamp at once, but, drawing near the open window, sat down and gazed at the quiet, dreary scene. Then as the minutes and the hours fp thought after thought rushed through his bewildered brain. His mind wandered back over the dead years; the past, blissful and joyous in many respects, yet sad and gloomy in others, he lived over again. Once more moving shapes, bright and glorious, flitted before him; once more he was in the heyday and sunshine of youth; once more Agnes Atlington, in all the splendor and fascination of her budding beauty, flasbed like a shooting-star across his path. Suddenly a bright light flashed out in the gloom ote over the plain. Again and again it beamed orth, Clavis gazed intently at it. It was pit pte | to relieve the dull monotony of the shadowy, moonlight scene; something to recall his wandering thoughts. All at once—he could plainly see it, though the dis- tance was great—an open buggy drove up and _ halt- ed in the;reflection of the light, Then a mansprun out, Then, for a moment, the ey disappeared, and all was gloom and darkness. But only for amo- ment, for suddenly the same oe flashed out again, but more subdued, nor did it flare about as before. Silently Clavis rose to his feet. He trembled with excitement, never once removing his gaze from the now steadily-burning light. He glanced around him, and turning suddenly, strode to the door of his room, and locked it. The snap of the bolt rung loud on the silent air, and awoke the echoes in the dreary, gloomy hallway without. The young man stood still for a moment, scarcely breathing. But the sounding echoes died away. He turned, and going to a chair took his coat therefrom, and as well as he could, flung it over his shoulders, buttoning it with his unwounded hand. Again he approached the window, raised it, and gazed out. e light was still gleaming far away in the gloom. “Twill go and see what it means; no harm can come of alittle exercise. The air here oppresses me!” So saying he stepped out on the rickety porch, passed through the yard, and over the fence surrounding the mansion, and at last stood outside on the plains. He glanced back. <A light was burn- ing brilliantly in the library, and he saw a dim form brag J up and down the apartment. The lamp which he had lit, was burning likewise in his own room; but, as it sat back, it did not show much. In another moment, Clavis Warne, with the far-off light all the time in view, turned and strode away. € was soon swallowed up in the gray gloom of the wide-spreading waste. The light came nearer and nearer every moment. He paused by a lonely little cemetery. One glance at the pale, time-stained marbles, and he hurried on, Suddenly the outline of a small frame house arose upon his view, and Clavis paused. In front of the door stood a doctor's carriage. He gradually drew near, and in a moment stood under the little window—whence flashed the light which had drawn him thither. He looked within. A tall, sedate-looking man, with a very grave face, | was standing silent and gloomy by a bedside. It was the doctor who had dressed his arm! Near him, her eyes filled with tears, and bent upon the physician’s face—an expression of agony showing in her every feature—was an old woman. On the bed, motionless and white, more like death than life, lay Dora | Howe! Clavis Warne sunk to the ground with a low sob wailing from his distracted bosom; then he arose, ain eres away in the gloom of the summer night. CHAPTER XXII. A STRANGE DREAM—AND A WOMAN’S LOVE. A HALF-HOUR from that time, Clavis Warne, almost fainting from exertion and excitement, clambered over the fence which skirted around the old man- sion, reached the window, and entered, flinging himéelf into a chair as soon’as he was in the room. The clock in the hall struck eleven. Sick in body, fainting in spirit, the young man leaned his head down and groaned. Dora Howe in all her old-time beauty came before him; her soft eyes beamed lovingly upon him; her | | rose up before him! That marble-like image he could not drive out of his mind. Then, gradually his face grew calmer, milder; the deep thought-shade faded away, and a sad, sweet smile spread over his features, as he murmured: “Tt must be so! It shall be so! God, in His in- scrutable wisdom has decreed it, and the same des- tiny which drove me yonder to that sorrowful abode, drives me on still in what must be the path of right! I'll struggle no more against fate! My efforts in such a warfare are futile! Agnes is lost to me, and, if God spares me—/ vow it—and if he spares her, my heart shall be Dora Howe’s.” Gradually his wounded arm sunk by his side; his head drooped to one side, and then it settled down upon his breast. Wearied out, in body and in mind, forgetting the warning he had received—forgetting all his own precautions—Clavis sunk into a deep slumber. J He dreamed he was wandering upon a desolate heath-land; gloomy shapes in the air and upon the ground, surrounded him in every direction. The sky was black above him, and a Cimmerian dark- ness had settled over the earth. He saw a flash of light. In amoment, without being aware of it, he stood within a small house. By his side was Dora Howe—her head leaning on his shoulder—her hands clasped in his, and from her side a stream of blood was ebbing! What horror filled his mind! And then a clergyman appeared. By his side, Agnes Ar- lington, in widow’s weeds, stood stern and silent. The marriage-ceremony began, and— But suddenly a terrific peal of thunder shook the little house, Clavis awoke with a sudden start, and glanced about him. Slowly he recollected himself, and where he was. He knew that he had been dreaming, and he thanked God from the bottom of his heart that it was only a dream. There lay the plain now in darkness; the moon had gone down, and the little light, far away, couid no onger be seen. e started. A creak, as of a shaking board, fell upon hisear. He felt for his pistol and stepped for- ward a pace. His heart leaped wildly, and he half extended the pistol as he saw two dim forms, followed by anoth- er, hurrying away in the gloom along the creaking porch. Another m®inent and all three had disap- peared around the angle of the old house. With an expression of relief, Clavis Warne, trem- bling with excitement, stepped back in his room; and now, being completely worn out, he threw him- self, without Soe upon the bed—the pistol still clutched in his hand, his eyes wide open, and his ear catching every sound. ‘he time wore on—the early hours of morning came, and still Clavis Warne lay with open eyes. But gradually exhausted nature gave way; flesh and blood could not endure more than he had; his hand relaxed its hold mye the pistol, his eyes closed, and again sleep claimed him as a subject. Suddenly the window, still open, was darkened, and the forms of two men stood there. They wait- ed not a moment, but sprung inside. Instantly the room was filled with a half-suffocating odor, as of chloroform or ether. The men stood by the bedside of the sleeper. One of them leaned over their intended victim. At that instant a deep, unearthly groan echoed in the apartment. The men fared: A tall figure, in white, stood in the door, which was now opened, leading into the hall. With a stifling cry the men sprung away, darted through the open window and disappeared. And, as before, a small, bent form, on the outside, slowly emerged from the gloom, and followed on after. And then the white figure tottered into the room, and falling at the bedside, murmured: . “God be thanked that-I could not sleep. And now, Clavis—darling Clavis~you are safe! safe!’ and she bowed her head on the bed, and wept silent tears of joy and gratitude. Then rising softly, she gazed for a moment at the motionless figure upon the bed, and turning gently, left the apartment. As she passed the dim hall-light, its rays fell upon the spotless robe de chambre and angelic face of Ag- nes Arlington. Clavis Warne still slept on, in sweet oblivion of all that had transpired around him. The night passed; the dawn broke, and morning had come. As before, Clavis touched not the meal which had been sent him. Then the doctor arrived. After an earnest con- versation with him, Clavis Warne descended with him to his carriage. hand was in his; the form of Agnes Arlington grew Mr. Arlington, pale and haggard, stood by. The dim in his heart. young man approached him, and said in a low She was forever sworn away from him! In his | voice: . absence she had given her hand to another—impul- “I thank you, St. Clair Arlington, for your hospi- sively or otherwise it was all the same. She was | tality; at some day, I may be able to returnit. But, lost to him. He did not stop to consider the agoniz- | hark ye, my friend—your house is haunted |” ing words ©f poor es—to remember her words of He did not stay to observe the effect of his words, yearning love for him yet; he did not pause to con- sider or surmise the motives, whatever they were, impelling Agnes to such a step. arne’s brain, knew that his heart worshiped as ever Agnes Arling- ton—worshiped and loved her done; but alas! he heart and soul were on fire. He | knew that the maiden had vowed her hand to | another, and that, from the way she spoke, she What was now left to him for which it was worth Pe Where now any glimmer of hope for him in the black sky of the future? And then a sudden and strange revolution of thought took place in his bosom. Dora Howe, mo- tionless, pale, scarcely breathing as she lay there on that humble bed, in the poverty-stricken home— , iss but, assisted by the doctor, got into the carriage. In another moment they were driving rapidly to- wand Ch mis Wa had ‘lavis Warne not seen nor said good- to Agnes Arlington. % yy a CHAPTER XXIII. ; A PACKAGE FROM A QUEER POSTMAN. Ir wasa chilly night in November of this same year. The few streets of the little village of Labberton were deserted—the lights from shop-windows throw- ing a sort of civilized glare about in the gloom. But, these were, one by one, extinguished, and soon the place was in perfect gloom. " Nevertheless, one light from the little group of houses flickered out on the night. We will go thither,
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It was a small brick house; and on the window- casing was nailed a sign, already rusted and storm- stained. It bore the following: Ciavis Warne, Atty. at Law. Seated within the room of his small home, trom which flashed the light, was the young lawyer. He sat _by a table, leaning his hand upon it—his face as we have seen him last, pale and stern, gloomed over with anxious thought and a settled shade of sorrow. His left arm, however, was not now in splints and suspended in a sling. The truth is, several months have elapsed since that morning when Clavis, after those significant words to St. Clair Arlington, entered the doctor’s carriage and drove away tothe neighboring village. And many events have happened since then; but which, as they do not havea special bearing wpon our story, we will give only in brief. The hot days of summer had gone; then the rus- set-tinted autumn, with its falling leaves, had been ushered in; and now, this night—the 14th of Novem- ber—had dragged itself slowly onward. The day on which Clavis Warne had left the old manor, he did not, as we have said, even say good-by to poor Agnes, The truth is, his mind was so con- fused that, as he did not see the maiden, he did not ask for her; but he was not. indifferent to her; far from it. And, had the young man known that a Pe tear-bedimmed face was gazing out yearning- y after him from behind the curtains of a room in the second story, he would never have left the house without a word of cheer to the lonely, stricken girl, who watched with loving eyes his every movement. And when Clavis had gone—when the carriage in which he sat whirled rapidly out of sight, Agnes Arlington, with tottering steps, had sought her own apartment. Late in the afternoon of that same day, a wagon from the village came for Clavis Warne’s trunk. Agnes Arlington watched i go, too; but, though there was a slight shiver in her heart, yet her face remained impassive and cold. As the days went by, gradually there came a softer expression to the poor girl’s wan, marble-like fea- tures. Suddenly, one afternoon, a copious flood of tears came to her relief—opened up her woman’s heart again, and saved from wreck her almost crazed brain. Without a word to any one, she threw on her shawl, left the mansion quietly, and hurried across the plain toward the humble home of the widow Howe, in the distance. When she passed a certain portion of the wide- stretching waste, a shudder passed over her frame. But she hurried on. Her sudden me in the home of poverty and sickness took all by surprise; but Agnes came quietly in, embraced the poor old woman, and gently called her mother! Then she drew near the dside of the sufferer, and took her hot hand in her cold, nerveless palm. Day after day Agnes regularly made her eres ance at the widow's; day after day she kissed the old woman’s cheek; day after day she called her mother; day after day she sat by Dora Howe's bed- a and heard the sufferer murmur, “ Clavis! Cla- vis!’ Thus the time had passed with Agnes Arlington, those long weeks and months. And, as the days went by, a look of resignation spread over her countenance, and her face was that of a vestal. Her daily visits were looked for, too, and. were she an hour later than usual, the widow would grow anx- ious and nervous, and the sufferer on the bed would weep silent tears. More than once Delaney Howe had been present when Agnes had entered. His eyes had burned into her soul, and he had watched her like a hawk. But the girl had spoken to him kindly and called him “Delaney,” and then a softer expression—one tell- ing somewhat of pity—came over the young man’s face; but it had quickly gone. Never but once, since the morning he‘had left the mansion, had Agnes laid eyes on Clavis Warne. That one time was on a dark night, when she sat by Dora Howe’s bed; when the physician stood there, too; when Dora Howe’s life was hanging on a thread. There had come a gentle tap at the door; the door had silently swung open, and a tall man, with a stern, sorrowful, handsome face—his left arm in a sling—stood there. One glance in the room, and he turned hastily, and closed the door. His peg footsteps fading in the distance, told that he hac one. Agnes Arlington knew well enough who it was, but the poor old mother insisted that it was the padroon’s wraith, and that its presence boded evil, and was a sign of death! The battle between science and death—if we can thus narrow down the contest—over poor Dora Howe was long and determined. But the faithful physician was ever ready at his Ree watching every movement of the enemy. he crisis had come the nigat that Clavis had suddenly appeared, and as suddenly disappeared. The critical hour and Dora Howe had a new lease upon life. St. Clair Arlington was now a care-worn, haggard man. He was often in company with Delaney Howe, and the light in his library was never extin- guished until the early morning. He was always stern and rude toward Agnes, though it was but sel- dom he met her. ; There was an anxious, foreboding expression about his face, which showed well that there were consuming fires constantly preying upon him. And then—he could not conceal it—his money, of which every one thought he had a perfect mine, was going fast—in fact, was almost gone; and Delaney Howe, as of old, drew on him regularly. He could not refuse this man—dared not even tell a or a od - \ 2 LOVE-MAD._ him of his diminished and impoverished exchequer, for then he fearéd Delaney’s tongue, and that young man held a secret of his! : Twice in the streets of Labberton, St. Clair Arling- ton had stood face to face with Clavis Warne; but between them there was no salutation, nothing but a quick flashing of the eyes, which showed that at heart they knew one another well. Delaney Howe went occasionally to the mysterious rendezvous in the cave, and every time he came away the frown upon his face was darker and more ominous. A net was drawing around him outside; he felt it; these ‘ brothers’ incumbered him; and then very dark thoughts grew up in his mind. For some months past the mysterious shadow on the plain had, for some reason or other, failed to make its appearance. People wondered at this, for there were curious ones who made it a business to watch for it—at a safe distance. Various surmises, too, were made of it among the more appre OUs some of which were to the effect that old John Ar- lington’s spirit was “‘laid’’; others had it that the shadow had disappeared for a time, only to come again in a more awful form; and so on, ad in- Jinitum. But, at length it made its appearance once more, andit was the same old shadow! He who saw it was Delaney Howe. The young man had been out searching for Dora, who was abroad that inauspicious evening, and was crossing the open common on his return home. He knew well enough that Dora often went, in her wild moods, to watch the shaow herself; but he would not have dared to seek her there! Shortly after his return to his home, with a white, scared face, Dora came in, smiling, and talking her poor, foolish words. Clavis Warne’s arm, thanks to the skill and unre- initting attention of the village doctor, was long ago well and as strong and useful as ever. The young man had opened, unexpectedly to all, a law-office in the village; though as litigation was not often re- sorted to by the worthy inhabitants, it was im- ossible to see that he had any encouragement. evertheless, Clavis Warne was very busy. Always in his quiet office, he was striding up and down the room, his face wrinkled with deep thought, or, he was sitting by the table with scattered piles of paper—scraps, memorandums and letters, is eyes bent moodily upon the heaps before him; or, again, he was sitting by the same table with a pen in his hand, carefully and slowly jotting down item after item. On this night he sat by his office-table leaning his hands upon it. His face, as always, was the theater of vexed thoughts and contending emotions. There came a loud ring on his office-bell. Clavis started. Who could this be? Delaney Howe and St. Clair Arlington flashed through his mind. Thrusting his hand in his bosom, Warne, with a look of grim determination upon his face, entered the hall, approached the door and opened it, when a parcel was flung in by some one from without. The young man strode quickly to the steps and peered out. In the distance, hastening away, he saw the dim outlines of a form. Then it was gone. pense 3 the hall, the young man closed the door, picked up the parcel, and hurried into the office. With nervous fingers, he untied the twine and unrolled the bundle. A long, thin memorandum-book—evidently made years ago—and a letter fell out upon the table. The young man picked up the letter and glanced at the su ~ereg eee He started violently and trembled like a leaf. He knew that handwriting! That handwriting had called him hither! He tore the envelope with —-. fingers, spread out the folded sheet, and read— At that moment his office-bell again rung; this time, not so loud and fierce as before. CHAPTER XXIV. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. THE young lawyer raised the lid of the desk at which he sat, and cast into it both the book and the letter which he had not time to read, or even to glance over, Locking the desk, he arose and went to the door. He saw there a closely-vailed female oe The woman glanced quickly around her, and then, without 2 cm hurried by him into the hall; then into the office. Clavis closed the door; and with wonder in his bosom, followed. ‘“Well, madam,” he said, as soon as he had en- tered the room, “be seated, and tell me in what manner I can serve you,” and he endeavored to penetrate with his gaze through the thick black vail core. the woman’s face. But, he sat down himself, stil ee ee) his eyes upon the other. “You do not know me, Clavis! Then I am well disguised!” said the visitor, in a sweet, yearning, trembling tone, and she threw her vail back. ‘** Agnes!” exclaimed the young man, springing to his feet, his eyes gleaming, his limbs trembling be- neath him, from excitement. ‘You here?” “Yes, Clavis; is my visit distasteful to you?’ and she gazed him sadly in the face, Going up to the girl, who watched him with her sad eyes, Clavis took her by the hand, and said: ** Yes, Agnes, I am glad to see you; but I would be false to my heart—false to you, darling Agnes— false to everything that is honest and honorable, did I not say, too, that your visit gives me pain—that, my sweet one, you, whom alone I can —- love— that the less often we meet the better for us both!” He looked at her with tearful eyes, as if inviting her to proceed. Agnes casting down her eyes, said in a voice low and tremulous with excitement: A] BS 3 eee “T know, Clavis, that we can never be united in ties closer than those of friendship. God has so or- dered it, and we cannot say nay! We must bow, though our hearts should bréak. But, Clavis, there may be a happy day for you in store. You are young and gifted, and well fitted in every way to make woman happy. As for me, alas! I will fulfill my vow! I will marry Delaney Howe, and then— then ,Clavis—/’U/ die/ Nay, start not, and let not unjust suspicions enter your mind! I mean not destruction ; I mean not that / will solve this terrible roblem by taking that which God gave. But, Biavis, Tara dying now, by inches, and I cannot long _ survive my wedding-day. That day, one month ~ from to-night—the night of that day—the anniver- sary of my father’s disappearance! Oh, és it thus fated? But, Clavis, time flies. Listen to me yet further, and give careful heed to what I have to say. In the dear old days, Clavis, you admitted that your heart, for the time, at least, was touched with something like love for Dora Howe. I you not to interrupt me, Clavis, for time goes E! have other things to tell you, and then Im be gone. I know the old tale well, Clavis, and I will not recall it. But, as you know, Dora Howe been spared to life. She is still fair to look upon, and her heart is as tender as of old. Marry her, Clavis; re- store, by that means, her wandering reason; make her happy; lift those poor ones from their misery and reform Delaney—my husband to be! Marry Dora, Clavis, and I will pray for you both, night and day. She has not forgotten you, for, time and over, has she breathed. your name—ah, how tenderly !— when she knew not of what she was spe 2" Agnes paused; her face, though still e, was tinged now with faint roses, for the warm blood was welling up grandly from her woman’s h 3 nf fh you promise me, Clavis, that you will think of this—think of it well—and let the voice of Duty be heard?” and she gazed him straight in the face. “T promise you, Agnes,’’ he said, in a low, almost inaudible voice, ‘‘provided that hideous wall between you and myself not removed ere it be too late!”’ Agnes Arlington’s face lit up with a sudden glow, and for an instant a wild lig. t flashed in her eyes; but, the glow passed away, the light faded out, and a cold shiver thrilled her frame. “No!no! Idare not dveam it!” she murmured, as if to herself. ‘‘ The wall cannot be femoved—save by God’s interposition! But, Clavis, beforeI go, I must tell you something else. Beon your guard. My un- cle and Delaney Howe are not friends to ! This morning I overheard them talking in the library, and have, on more occasions than one; and with our name were coupled dark threats! Oh! darling, e careful! My uncle, I know, is a wicked man, for, Clavis, [have felt his power! Now, darling Clavis, ray for me as I do for you: pray that, if we be not ppy here, we may be hereafter! Think of whatI have spoken to you—of poor Dora Howe—and, above all things, be watchful and wary! Clavis, good-by, and may God Pelee ever!’ She held her hand out. arne took it, and in an a moment he drew the maiden to his heart and imprinted one long, warm kiss upon her lips. ’ For a moment the poor girl half yielded to his yearning caress; but then, as if recollecting herself, she drew away like a frightened doe, and a crimson blush spread rapidly over her pale face. In another instant she had torn herself away, and hurried out into the street. Clavis Warne stood as one dumfounded. His eyes were wet with tears, and his strong frame shook with emotion. But the paroxysm slowly passed off; then he bowed his head upon his hands, and prayed silently to God for strength. CHAPTER XXyV."' ON THE WASTE-LAND. AGneEs ARLINGTON had not gone ten yards from Clavis Warne’s when a man stood before her. In- stantly he had clutched her by the wrist. “T have followed you, Agnes Arlington, and I have caught you |” he exe ed in a hissing tone. ‘“‘ What . were you doing in Clavis Warne’s office? Isaw you enter, and Isaw you come cut! Speak, girl!” At first, Agnes was startled; but shaking off the reas ane , She said, in a low, determined voice: wei 5 me, Delaney Howe! Unhend me, or ’ll ery for vermi & This well becomes your character, and I'll not forget your gallantry! Good-night, sir,” and she was about to move on. But the young man, stepped before her. “Not so soon, my pretty one! 1 eli know what you weré doing in the office of Clavis Warne! Why did you go there?” Agnes, trembling in every limb, hesitated, and bi sectors : , o not forget my oath to you Delaney, and I shall marry you at the appointed time, he ou aint release me. But my business with “Mr. Warne had nothing to do with the relation ex- isting between you and myself. I went on other business, which concerned his more than you or me.” He did not answer for a time; but, at length, said: _ ‘Til take you at your word, A es; and now, I'll just see you home, for the plain is dark and a snow- storm is coming up. So, let’s be off.” He spoke very ecidedly. Agnes silently took his arm, and in a few moments they disappeared in the gloom of the deepening night. Clavis Warne suddenly aroused himself. He had almost forgotten the parcel which had been flung in to the entry, He lifted the lid of his desk and took vege first the letter, then the memorandum-book. € carelessly lifted the latter, its leaves spread open, anda torn, jagged scrap of paner was revecied,
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tnt “> (44 _ , LOVE-MAD. He glanced his eye over it, his cheek paled, and his eyes fairly burned into the paper before him. When he had read the small script carefully through, he placed it, almost sacredly, upon his desk, and secured it with a heavy paper-weight. Then, taking up the letter, he read as follows: “I see, sir, you have come at last—come at the mysterious pidding of one, who represents justice | Guard this serap of paper and the memorandum-book as you would your life’s blood! On examining both you will see why this request is made. @ who writes this has watched over you, eagerly, since ke have been here, and he sees that you can be rusted. Trust him ‘who writes this. Whatever news may reach you, keep quiet; do not show your power; do asI have done—abide your time! *And that time is swiftly coming! Do not be surprised at a visit from one you may not know, but one whom, in times past, you have seen. Now, a word more. Seek the shadow and follow it. There is a mystery in it! And this is the night, if the moon shines from behind the clouds! Be watchful and be strong, and right must come!” ‘Warne slowly laid down. the letter, and pondered for several moments. Then he gathered up the book, the scrap and letter, and making a secure bun- dle of them, placed them in the desk, locked the lid down and put the key in his pocket, A singular light was beaming in his eyes—a strange glow of triumph hovered on his cheek, as he slowly rose to his feet and commenced to stride up and down the room, with a firm, self-assured step. Upand down the room he strode, and one hour a cenny Then the young man muttered, in a low voice: “Tt has come! I see through the m sigh but the end is not yet! And the Shadow! Yes, I'll follow the advice; and I’ll trust him, even as he places con- fidence in me!”’ then, drawing on his overcoat, took ae and gloves, extinguished the light and hurried ou He took his way swiftly on through the deserted streets of the sleeping town. No one was abroad. It was now eleven o’clock and all lights were out. In twenty minutes the young man was upon the wide, desolate common. He knew well the spot whereon he had once beheld the strange Thing. His heart beat wildly, as he approached the place. Then he started almost with affright, for there, not ten ards ahead of him, was the little hillock on which he carriage had upset; and there—oh! horror! not a ace further on was the gigantic, motionless ow But, in the twinkling of an eye, the Shade was gone! Clavis, not to be thwarted, dashed forward, only to meet nothing! But glancing to the westward he saw dimly in the distance a flying figure in aly white. ot daunted, he darted on after “it, but the figure fled on the faster. The race was an exciting one. On, on, and yet the young man held his flying hy Suddenly the White Thing disappeared, as if swallowed up awe—something, indeed, akin to terror, Clavis ouce found himself in the lonely little cemetery, among the storm-stained gravestones, He glanced around; but the figure was nowhere in sight. And there, not a hundred steps away, the humble home of the widow Howe reared its dim outlines in the gloom. He sat down upon an old slab and looked around him at the dismal, dreary scene. He could scarcely realize his ition. Then, suddenly, a _ light flashed from the win- dow of the lonely house, and the rays glittered into Clavis Warne’s eyes. A strange feeling grew apace over the young man as he continued to gaze - the light. Fifteen minutes passed—then a half- our, “Destiny! destiny!’ suddenly muttered the young lawyer. ‘I cannot resist it! 1 follow!’ So saying, he rose to his feet, hurried out of the gloomy precincts of the cemetery, then pushed on and in a few moments he rapped lightly on the door of the little house. CHAPTER XXVI. AN EMPTY TREASURY. Devaney Howe listened intently for a moment, Then he placed his eye to the keyhole and peered through. A bright light was burning in the room, and St. Clair Arlington was reclining upon a table, evidently asleep, for he did not move. Delaney Howe straightened up and struck the anel of the door again, at the same time turn he bolt several times with a rattle. Then he place his eye again to the is ea St. Clair Arlington had been aroused. He was looking around him, as a wild expression aprvae over his haggard face. but, without waiting, he rose to his feet, and drew near the door. _ ‘Who's there?” he asked, in a low voice. _ “A friend, Sainty, and you know his voice!” was «» the Panty from Delaney Howe. The door was opened, and Mr. Arlington stood there. He did not bid the other enter, but remained in the doorway, as he asked, in a stern voice. ‘‘ What do you want, Delaney Howe? It is very late, and Iam worn out,” “TH tell anys what I want, Sainty, when I am in- side,” was the coarse reply.‘ J am tired, too,” and pushing by the other, he entered the room. Arlington frowned and glared after him. But he closed the door, locked it, and returned to his seat. ““You see, Sainty,’’ resumed the young man, care- lessly, ‘I was just returning from the village; I accompanied Agnes home.” St. Clair Arlington started. ** Agnes ! did you say, Delaney?” ~ “Yes. You see, I found her in strange company, by the earth, and with a eee | bes al and, considering the relationship existing between that fair maid and myself, why I thought I would see her safely housed here.’ ‘*Where, and in whose or what company did you find her, Delaney?’ he asked. **T saw her come from Clavis Warne’s law-office, and Isaw him and her talking earnestly inside.” “ Clavis Warne’s office! My ! this is too bad!” “That’s what / thought, Sainty. I consider such conduct a, unbecoming, when I remember that Agnes is to be my wife one month from to-night.” *One month from to-night! Ay! I had forgotten! But, Delaney,” he continued, speaking rapidly, “that will be the fourteenth, and, good heavens! it will be an ee Did you think of that? You can have your way, Delaney, and _I can not say nay. But I can tell ee one thing; that ceremony will not—shall not take place in this house.”’ For an instant, a flush of anger mantled Delaney’s swarthy cheeks. But his face suddenly changed ain, and he said, with a low laugh: **Don’t be alarmed, Sainty, especially before you are hurt! I have no intention of vety ae Agnes Arlington here. That would necessitate display and expense, and I would save you that! I shall have the ceremony performed where no display will be expected—at my mother’s. However, Sainty, I came for something; 1 want MonrEy--I’m cleaned out again!” Strange to say, St. Clair Arlington did not start this time. He showed no emotion whatever. “So do I want money, Delaney—and I have none!”’ he said, as a bitter laugh curled his lip. ‘‘ But what I have i will share with you. I have now only eight hundred dollars!” “Ts that true, Sainty? Can it be so?” “Before God, I mean it!” was the answer. The young man saw the other was speaking the truth—that he was in terrible earnest. “ A small sum to marry on, Sainty—to begin keep- ing house!’’ said Delaney Howe, with a bitterness in his tone. ‘And this being the case,’’ he continued, ‘‘that the treasury is low—why the time has come when we must search around for the other, the big ile! It is somewhere and we shall and must find it! e are too deep into it now! That immense pile of eer and silver and plate is somewhere, and I be- eve itis in this house! Come, Sainty, there is no better time than now. We'll search for that gold— for gold to us now is life itself!” St. Clair an face brightened. “You are right. Time is precious, and we must have gold! e hour is propitious, and we’ll search thoroughly this night. This old mansion was built in other days, and it is filled with all sorts of old closets, secret ges, and out-of-the-way places! And if the gold és here, by heavens, we’ll find it!” * And having found it, will divide, Sainty—don’t forget it!” said Delaney Howe, with a grim, signifi- cant smile. “Til not forget any thin laney! Trust me for that!” CHAPTER XXVII. SOMETHING FOUND. In a half-hour’s time the two night poe dark- lantern in hand, were in the cellar of the old man- sion, at their work. Every old nook and cobwebbed corner was examined; large heaps of old lumber, stowed there for kindling wood, were overturned; but,as yet, they had met with no success. f They pa’ for a moment—and consulted in a low tone together—and then, turning at once, reas- cended the stairs, and entered the hallway again. Avoiding the inhabitable portion of the house, they sought the quaint old the most ancient part of the building. Then began a most thorough search. Every closet was ransacked, the walls of the rooms, the pote and ceiling were sounded for secret ways, but invain, ~ The men paused. “A bad job, Sainty!” ‘ What’s to be done?” “ Precious little more. There’s the garret above, but Soe eme be stowed away in that. The ser- vants, too, keep their things there. We must give this up for to-night. Come, Delaney, we’ll go!” Then the two turned and retook their way to- ward the library. Little did St. Clair Arlington and his tool think that a dark figure had hung upon their steps, whi- thersoever ay piety and when they had eft the last room in the old deserted back-building, that this mysterious figure had emitted alow chuckle, and then ge silently up-stairs, and disappeared in the gloom of the lonely arret. ‘ They were soon in the library. Mr. Arlington, lighting other tapers, flung himself into a chair. Delaney Howe remained standing. “Well, Sainty,” he said, in a half-hurried man- ner, “the thing’s up for to-night! I must go—but— we'll divide the eight hundred—according to agree- ment. Four eanaeee dollars are considerably better than nothing |” Arlington said not a word, but rising, disappeared around the angle of a bookshelf. As soon as he had gone, Delaney Howe reached over suddenly, and strove to lift the lid of the secre- tary. But it was locked, and an expression of disap- pointment came over his face. ‘ Just then St. Clair Arlington returned ee the money—as before—in gold and in notes. This was quickly divided—each talking: his share. Delaney Howe, after stowing the gold and bank- notes about him, rose to his feet, and saying simply “Good night, Sainty—better luck next time!” turned and left the library by the rear door. ; He strode along hurriedly over the plain. Sud- denly the sharp rattle of a vehicle, as if driven ra idly, sounded ahead of him, in the direction in whic he was hastening. 6 I have promised, De- In an instant he had compe’ on his knees under the gloom of one of the o poplars: He had searcely sunk down, when a black, closed spring wagon, drawn by one horse, rolled by him, As his eyes fell on the vehicle he started—then a low laugh burst from him. ; “omnis all right!’ he muttered. *‘ The ‘ Buccaneers’ have overhauled some strange sail on the old cruis- sag that’s all. And I'll see to-morrow,” na moment more he was lost in the gloom! St. Clair Arlington sat for an hour after aeeey Howe had left the library. But when the clock struck one, he started. “Yes, Pll search again through the old box!’ he muttered. ‘It was there I—I found my first good luck—the will! Iam not sleepy, and the sooner to work the better!’ So saying, he rose, and going to a small closet behind a book-case, he opened the door, and stooping down, drew out what seemed an old tea-box. Dragging it after him, he hauled it by his seat, near the secretary, where the light from the chandelier would fall directly upon it, He kicked off the old lid, and was about to stoop down, when someting attracted his attention, and he paused as if shot. Tt was a piece of to the Jotiom of the the top of the box. : St. Clair Arlington peered down at the piece of old cape: He scarcely seemed to breathe, n the paper were the points of the compass marked down, and courses laid out, and at the bottom of it several lines in a bold handwriting. ‘With nervous, yet cautious fingers, St. Clair Arling- ton dislodged the tacks, which held the paper, and taking the old parchment in his hand, he gazed at it with burning eyes. Then he muttered: “7 have found it! And—DELANEY HowE! A BUL- LBT IS IN MY PISTOL FOR YOU!” CHAPTER XXVIII. LOVING HEARTS AND LOVING HANDS. Wirnour waiting to be bidden, Clavis Warne turned the bolt, and entered the widow’s house. He had seen a light in the window, and, as he stood by the door, had heard voices in the humble dwelling. He could not draw back; something seemed to impel him onward—to bid him look again upon Dora. uch had been his resolve for many weeks, nay months; but, that resolve he had never carried into execution. Once only, and that when it was whis- red one evening in the village that Delaney owe’s crazy sister was dying, had he summoned courage to go near the home of poverty and dis- tress. i The reader knows when that was, and how, ata sight of Agnes Arlington’s pale face, Clavis Warne had turned and hurried away. But, oN) since he had determined in his mind on a course to take—long before this night now, when es in his own office, had urged him to the step. hat was, to offer bis: heart, hand and fortune—as much as he possessed— to Dora Howe. : : And now, this cold night, with the gray clouds ee the raw wind sweeping in from the west, it did seem that Fate had directed his steps— that, to say the least, there was a providence in the circumstances of this autumn evening. Seated in a large chair, close to the fire burnin brightly on the hearth, was Dora Howe, thin, frail, yet transcendently beautiful. A little shawl was flung over her shoulders, and she was rubbing her re s together, and holding them toward the cheery aze, Near the girl stood the old mother, looking affec- tionately, yet sadly, at her. She had just spoken some words in a low tone, as the rap sounded in the room! She paused as the door opened, and as her eyes fell upon Clavis Warne—to her a stranger, for she had never seen him—bher face paled, and she shrunk away toward the chimney corner, The voene man paused, His heart was throbbing wildly; his brain was reeling. But, by an effort he controlled himself, and removing his fully, he said; “Pardon me, Mrs. Howe—for such I take you te be—I am one who once knew your daughter Dorat ITam—TI am Clavis Warne!”’ ‘“OClavis Warne! My God, sir! And what—” At that moment the er suddenly rose to her feet; her eyes, lustrous and black as night, were pape from her head. The well-remembered name h fallen upon her ear. Those beaming orbs fell on thy young man’s face, and then, with a wild cry, she tottered forward. Another moment, and she had flung her army around his neck, and her head sunk upon his shoul’ der. Clavis Warne drew her frail form close to hig breast, and his eyes were lit up by an almost holy fire. He pressed his lips to hers in one long, ardent kiss. That token of love brought life back to the fainting maiden. Still clinging to him, her eyes full of love and yearning, her warm breath upon his cheek, she mur- mured: “The good God be thanked, Clavis, that yuu have come again! Come again to cheer my lonely heart and to chase the shadows from my brain! Here, mother, here he is! Here is my darling, mother! and he has come back now, never to leave me again! Clavis! Clavis! is it not so, darling?’ and her eyes ren with a wild look of inextinguishable love n ne) * Regardless of the presence of the bewildered old woman, he rained kisses a her face, and smooth- ed back her glossy hair with his hot, nervous hand. ‘““What does this mean, sir!’’ at length asked the poor mother, scarcely cre: ne 3 her senses. “Ttmeans, my dear madam, that, after many heart: ener ey ellow with age—tacked ard he had just kicked trom hat respect- ny - PY ‘ ie aP - ee ee ee ee CU LT ot ae » ~—
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ee. 15° | LOVE-MAD. . aches and trials, my heart has at last found its inate!” exclaimed the young man. “I have come, my dear mother—I can call you so—to take Dora to my heart, to restore her to reason. I have come to say that, after a while, I will take her and you from this house of poverty to my own home. Two hours of uninterrupted bliss ensued. At the end of that time, Clavis Warne, said good-night to the old mother, and ieee to call often went out. He did not notice that a white form stood in the door of the little cottage and gazed yearningly after him, as he was swallowed up in the darkness. Clavis Warne strode on; h:s heart light, and his soul rejoicing. Suddenly he pa ised, as a dark object loomed up ahead of him, black and motionless. The young, man /e/t that something was wrong. Without 1esitating long, he turned as if to retrace his aes and to pursue his way to the village reg the old Stage road, when he was struck suddenly from be- hind a fierce blow upon the head. He went down. Instantly two men sprung upon him, bound him, gogeed, and, dragging him along a half-dozen paces, ung him heavily into a close-covered wagon. Ina moment more the vehicle was jolting atts, away. Gradually consciousness returned, but he could not speak, nor could he move. On rattled the wagon. Then it entered a lonely, black road in the midst of a forest, where it halted. The men came around, and dragging the helpless man rudely from the vehicle, they grasped him in their arms, and bearing him between them, plunged right into the woods, At length they entered a dark cave, and cast their urden heavily upon the coid earth. Such was the shock that the young man’s consciousness forsook him entirely. When he recovered his senses through and through. Tie glanced around him, but the darkness was absolutely inky. He could not see an inch before his face. A wild, bacchanalian song, coming as it were from the depths of the earth, far beyond him, smote on his ear. he time flew by—a half-hour, then an hour. From sheer exhaustion, despite his terrible position and surroundings, Clavis Warne’s eyes closed; his senses were slipping away, and a deep sleep was creeping over him, w en a twig snapped at the mouth of the cave. Instinctively the hao: man opened his eyes and glanced thitherward. A feeling of irrepressible awe spread over him, as his gaze fell upon a white, moving object, * Hist! vis! It is I—Dora! I knew the Black Wagon! Speak not, darling, when I remove the cruel gag. They who would murder you, at the least provocation, are not Syreaty, ces away! J pier tapes And, as you value life, breathe not a word, In a moment Clavis Warne felt the thongs removed from his ankles; fhen the gag was drawn from his mouth. He staggered to his feet. The poor girl laid her hand gently upon his arm, and wh Bpered : “ Now, my own Clavis, follow without a word!” From the dark cave into the gloomy woods, they went, the girl leading the way, as one thoroughly acquainted with it. At the end of a half-hour Dora paused upon the broad stage-road. “We part here, Clavis,” she said, in a low tone, her words, as they had been all along, perfectly rational, **‘ Yonder, where you see the b oy group, lies Labberton. Go thither. I will return home, or mother will be uneasy about me; and I fear Delaney. Now, Clavis, a word before we part. Bloodhounds are upon your track! Be wary. When the day shines to-morrow, be not known as Clavis Warne. 1 know you understand me! One more kiss, Clavis, and good-night!* Ina moment she had flung her arms around his neck; in another, she was gone. The next day, early in the morning, Clavis Warne quietly took down the sign from the window-sill and settled for his rent. He requested, however, that his trank be allowed to remain in the house. The office was not long without a tenant, for that very evening an old man, who said he gave lantern- shows and tableau-entertainments, applied for the room, and obtained it. He was a stranger to all. CHAPTER XXIX. THE SHOWMAN’S LATE VISITOR. Time rolled on; and December was ushered in, icy and bleak. < _ The old man still occupied the room recently in possession of the young lawyer; but he had no visitors, and always kept himself to himself. He spent most of his time with a magic lantern, getting the proper light, the right distance, and the correct clearness. Strange to say, the objects which showed on the transparent curtain before the magni- fying lens of the lantern, were scribbled sheets of paper, ay by day the old man amused himself thus, and then it was given out by his landlord that the old showman was to give an exhibition. But no hall in Labberton was then suitable, and the landlord had suggested that Mr. Arlington, of the manor, would gladly allow the exhibition to be held there, and that, if the old man wished it, he (the landlord) would see the gentleman and get his permission. The old showman had started at this; and then, ‘he laughed, and acknowledged his thanks in his squeaking voice, saying, at the same time, that, from what he had learned, the large parlor at the mansion would be the very place for his purpose. Strange to say—and yet not strange, for we are not attempting to deceive the reader—on more oc- casions than one, a frail female figure had entered, gi night always, what was recently the law-office of ~Clavis Warne. But, she did not remain long, and wacn.she left, cne wight, the low light in the hall- ame er he was chilled . a oe oe ea RS ee ee ee ee ree eee eee ee a way revealed the wan, pale, yet beautiful face of Dora Howe, the mad girl. Late one night, the old man—whom the reader must know to be Clavis Warne—sat by his desk. The room was in deep darkness, but the brilliant bull’s-eye of the magic-lantern was shining full on the stretched curtain of white muslin beyond. The old man—as we shall continue to call him for awhile—cautiously took up an object-glass, ob- secured the light for a moment, and then flashed it fullon again. On the curtain large, well-defined let- ters stood out, reading singularly disconnected, and without meaning for the entertainment of an audi- ence. The old man then fitted another plate, and flashed the light on once more. This time, likewise, it them, faintly in the background, was the dim shape of a st, ae t 4 Silently for a moment St. Clair Arlington gazed at the singular sight, and then, as a strange feeling of awe crept over him, he turned with a deep, sup- ressed anathema on his lip, and shrunk away in he gloom, en he had gone, the two motionless figures set to work, with picks and spades. The ground was frozen hard. The work was laborious; but they kept on, without scarcely stopping to breathe. At length one of them, as he drove his pick down, said suddenly: . “We have found it, young man. Run and bring the old carpet, and be not afraid to touch rT!” The other went to the wagon, and returned at once, seemed to be the reflection of a large, entire sheet, | bringing with him the large roll of et. 3 whereas the other had torn, ragged edges. This He looked on, as the other gently threw aside the time, too, what stood out so boldiy had a meaning; | frozen clods. in it was absorbed all that had appeared from the first plate. “oPwilldo! *Twill do well /” he muttered; ‘and now—” “ There is no need.to fail, CLAvVIS WaRNE!”’ said a low, calm voice at his elbow. : In an instant the showman turned; like lightning he sprung upon the little bent figure which stcod by him, then his strong nervous hand was upon the other’s throat, and he pushed him backward upon the table. ““Hold! hold! Clavis!” gasped the other. ‘You would strangle your best friend! There, lean down, and I will tell you who Tam!” The showman tremblingly released his hold, and bent his ear to catch the whispered words. “You! You! My God, I thought you were dead!” “No, no young man; andI am come now to help you—to be present at the show—to be a witness in a ableau—to furnish you material for that tableau!’ “Thank God that you have come!’ he muttered; “and now we'll work together!” “Ay! to the end, Clavis Warne! You can be trusted to the death. But we must work, for the Jourteenth is one week from to-night.” Clavis Warne lowered the light, and then, between him and his singular visitor, there ensued a long and an earnest conversation. “Then, to-morrow night will be the time. It must not be postponed later! And it is dangerous now in ee mansion for me. I must stay with you for a ime.’ The old visitor slept that night, a sweet sleep, up- on the lounge in the office of the showman. CHAPTER XXX. A NIGHT-SCENE ON THE PLAIN. Sr. CLAIR ARLINGTON paced anxiously up and down the limits of the library. It was a dead hour of night—and the night—the one after the strange occurrences in the room of the showman, “Yes!” he muttered, “‘fortune has again favored me, and, as / have found it, so shall all be mine! Yes, I swear it! I cannot hesitate now! I must follow the tort that guides me! I cannot put it off longer. ) g0 ] ' So saying he paused. Then ste ping softly to the rear of the library, he took up a field compass, lifted it gently, and brought it near the light. Placing it carefully down, he allowed the sensitive needle to oscillate for a moment, as it settled down to its point of attraction. Then Mr. Arlington took from his pocket his large memorendum-book, and drawing from it a piece of faded, yellow-stained paper, he spread it out. The paper was covered with dottings of courses, and marked here and there with the points of the compass. Consulting the needle, which now stood motionless, he made out the courses as marked on the piece of paper. At once he started and a pallor came to his cheek, “My God! is there any fatality in this? That spot is where the Shadow appears! But, what care I?” he suddenly exclaimed, straightening up and stand- ing erect. ‘What care / for a thousand Shadows provided I can lay hands on the Goxp! and, as long as I possess ‘hat magic scrap of paper—the Wii// By heavens! with these at_ my disposal, I can defy the world. And now, both are in my grasp; the id is mine, and the paper—the precious scrap—in his memorandum-book!”” As he spoke he opened the leaves of the little book referred to, and looked through it. His search be- came eager. Every leaf he turned; into every ocket he drove his trembling fingers, but in vain: the scrap was not there! { | Then a ghastly sight wasrevealed, The other—he who had brought the carpet—turned fainting awa; But, at a sign from the old man he rallied, and, leaning down, gave his assistance to the work. The ghastly object, rattling and stiff, was rolled gently in the carpet, and, between the two, was carried to the wagon and deposited in it. Then the two men returned again, and once more fell to work. They had dug down about three feet deeper when they struck something hard. The elder. man paused, and muttered: “Tis safe! We'll remove it, and be off!” _ In a few moments they had unearthed a large iron-bound chest, covered with clay and mold. After a considerable effort, they sueceeded in dragging it from the hole to the surface, and, after resting for a moment, they hauled itto the wagon, and lifted it in. “These are the contributions I make to the ta- bleaux, Clavis Warne!” said the old man, in a low, exuliant breath. ‘‘And now we'll go.” In a moment more they had entered the wagon, and were driving rapidly toward Labberton. / The next day the showman, accompanied by his landlord, went over to the Arlington mansion, to ask of the owner the privilege of showing his magic- lantern views and tableaux—gvatis—as a sort of ad- vertisement to any future shows to be held and ex- hibited when the hall in the village could be suitably arranged. fe They found Mr, Arlington haggard and care-worn. But, without hesitating he gave his consent. The showman thanked him, placed in his hands a num- ber of cards of invitation, for any friends he might choose to have come, and then left. _ Essa Arlington rather welcomed the coming exhibition, for he was sick at heart and troubled in mind. Then the week slowly passed. ; Agnes Arlington, pale, almost broken-hearted, sat hour after hour, awaiting the time when she was to stand up and plight her troth to Delaney Howe. And the terrible day was fast approaching. She had been informed by Delaney that the marriage, for reasons of his own, would take pace at his mother's. And the poor girl had consented. All that week, which passed slowly away, Clav Warne and the strange friend of his had busied the selves in making preparations for the grand tabl to come off at. the Arlington mansion. At the en of a week they, together, had finished a large gia: case. Into it they had placed something—shuddering- ly placed it, too—and then had covered the case with a large cloth of green baize. The day rolled around—the eventful day; and then Delaney Howe came and escorted the impassive Agnes to his mother’s. St. Clair Arlington did not go. Only Fanny went with her poor, heart-broken mistress. At the*close of this day the showman’s wagon drove up. He was accompanied by a strange-look- ing old man, in Turkish costume. They lifted from the wagon a long case and a short box, both covered with green baize. CHAPTER XXXI. A MARRIAGE SCENE AND A TABLEAU. THE night had Tahar mee down black and threaten- ing upon the earth—the night of the 14th of Decem- ber—the anniversary of old John Arlington’s disap- pearance—the wed ing eve of Agnes Arlington to a man she hated —this the night when a select: com- pany had |-een invited by St. Clair Arlington to wit- ness tableaux and magic-lantern views at the old mansion. _ f A bright tight flashed from the single window of the widow Howe’s humble home—a light brighter than that which usually shone there. unusual was going on. , Standing in the center of the little room, book in hand, was a solemn-faced, benevolent looking man. He had just opened the book, and his kindly eyes wep resting on the two persons who stood before im. Somethin, “Gone! gone!” he muttered. ‘Gone like the wi book, and yet, / placed it there myself! Are there really spirits in this old mansion? “Nay! Ili not be thwarted now! Nothing can turn me, for I'll have gold—bright, shining gold in abundance! I must go!” He arose, replaced the compass, and then, throw- ing on a heavy overcoat, he lowered the light. Ina moment he emerged from the rear-door of the library, gently closed it behind him, and strode away over the dreary, desolate waste-land. On his shoulder he earried a pick, 2 heavy hoe,and a shovel. 2 He paused not until he reached an old, decayed | poplar, standing alone and dreary in the wide com- | mon, Here he stopped for a moment, and tken | glanced around him. Suddenly, however, he strode away, going nearly at rigbt-angles to the course he first pursued. On and on! Then his steps grew slower and slower. ways, her face care-worn, pressionless as it was emotionless. The latter was clad from “tip to toe” ina shining, glossy suit of black, and his face wore a glad, triumphant glow. Near the ecourle and cn either hand stood the widow, in new, scrupulously neat attire, and: Dora dressed in spotless white, 'a sad, pitying, half-wild expression on her marble-like face. After the usual responses and: the consequent de- claration, and benediction by the minister, the mar- f 1 riage was over. Delaney Howe aud Agnes. Arling- Then they stopped still, as suddenly looking up, he | ton were man and wife! Then the minister. after saw distinctly, not thirty yards away, two motion- | speaking bis congratulations in a low, irdistimet less figures standing on the very spot to which he voice, as if he was not in earnest, left, and then the was hastening the epee on which the wonderful | family was alone, Shadow had always made its appearance. When the minister had gone it was noticed that They stood perfectly quict, and to the rear of Dora Howe had suddenly disappeared, No one had = * vt as 4 ayy X'S a4 a. os, a Pee) Sr eee Pe? Tear im ir! \ : Those two persons were Agnes Arlington and De- laney Howe—the former clad in sober blacks as al- * pain-stricken, almost 'ex- at
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tbe seen her go. But this was nothing unusual with her, and special attention was not paid to the fact. i Seated in a chair by the log fire, Agnes leaned her head on her hand, and prayed to God that she might die. The old mother sat by her side, and spoke gentle words in her ear; but, they were: not heeded by the pale-faced woman, who had bartered her heart and her peace of mind away. Delaney Howe had scarcely spoken since the farcical ceremony was over. But, now, as he stood by the chimney-piece, gazing into the coals, he sud- denly started, and glanced at the old Dutch clock in the corner of the room. ‘““T have an invitation to attend the tableau enter- tainment to-night at the mansion,” he said. ‘‘ Will you go, Agnes?” and he looked down at her. The girl recoiled from the man. But she re- covered herself, and said: “No, Delaney; I am tired, and, with your permis- sion, I'll remain here.” “All right, of course. Don’t go, if you’re disin- _ clined. But, I must go, for Sainty—that’s your uncle, _ Agnes—will expect me, and I cannot disappoint him. __ Expect me back soon,” —__ 4 ith this, he drew on his overcoat, and taking his hat, left the house without another word, As he stepped out in the darkness, and then strode away i on the plain, he paused and muttered: “Tforgot! This is the night of that infernal Sha- dow. But, ’tis only eight o’clock, and I am armed. But, I care not for Shadows now! Agnes is mine, and next week, I'll look into that will business!”’ Early that evening Mr. Arlington strode up and down library. One or two of the invited ones had | arrived, and had been shown into the large dining- : room of the mansion, wherein the ‘ show” was to be given. The = epee was already lit by many lights. Stretched across the rear end was a long green curtain. Behind that screen the showman k and his assistant in Turkish costume were still busi- ly engaged at work, getting ready. The guests began to come in more frequently. St. r Arlington heard the rattle of carriage wheels, the slamming of doors, and the voices of the ests. He paused suddenly in his promenade. “T musi go! go now /”’ he muttered. ‘* Something impels me, and I will have time before that mum- mery begins!” He quickly lowered the light and left the library by the back-door. He was soon out upon the plain and, as ona previous night, he carried a pick shovel on his shoulder. He strode rapidly on.. The moon was shining down i ; brilliantly. i} In twenty minutes St. Clair Arlington paused and : peered ahead of him. He was near the spot which was bis destination. He did not hesitate long; but, as if summoning up a needful courage, he strode on again. In a few ee he paused again, and then he started back wildly. 7 “My God!” he exclaimed. ‘ What is this?’ and, with starting eyes, he gazed down into the deep hole at his feet. “Cheated! Cheated /’? he moaned, ‘‘and all is lost! I must be gone! I must fly! When this mum- mery is over I'll go!” _ With that he staggered back over the plain toward the brilliantly-lit mansion. When he reached the house his face was white and his step faltering. The guests all had assem- bied, and as Mr. Arlington stepped into the entry he . sow Delaney Howe disappear in the large’ dining- it room, wherein the entertainment was to take place. Then, pausing a moment to compose himself, St. Clair Arlington opened the door and went in. The room. was filled in every available portion, and glancing around him the host saw many strange faces; he was certain he had not invited them. But there was no time for comment; for as soon as he had made his appearance, the showman’ stepped promptly forward and announed. that the entertain- ment. would commence at once. Then the lights were nny ea here and there, ) ' leaving only a few burning, thus throwing the audi- 4) turium, so to speak, into darkness. a The glaring bull’s-eye of the lantern showed upon the: object-curtain. And then, in rapid succession, view after view was thrown out—the showman ac- companying each with appropriate explanations, At length there was a pause of some minutes. The t figures of the showman and his assistant were plain- ly visible behind the curtain, busily making ar- f rangements for another view. And then the former strode out in front of the curtain and said: “Thope my friends near the entrance will keep the door closed, as the wind flares the light in the an A) ' ph lantern and makes the views imperfect. And I be would state to the company that the evening’s en- aa tertainment will close with one more view and @ ta/- , leau! The audience is particularly requested to re- , main perfectly uiet, as the view and tableau will if - need no explanation.” 1 hy " The showman disappeared. Suddenly, in the _ twinkling of an eye, the bull’s-eye glare of the lan- tern showed another view—an enlarged copy of a leaf of paper on which was writing. One glance at the paper, as shown by the magni- ) fying lens, and St. r Arlington, with a loud cry. an sprung to his feet. He was immediately followe by Delaney Howe, The writing, which stood out so plainly, and at which all stared, read thus: “T am displeased at aie and her willful conduct, and such conduct! Can forget it? Never, so hel me heaven! She disobeyed mein a slight command. 7 ‘Would she not have done the same, whatever that | eye es — St. ronal LA gecgreh R ‘ needy, e have my prope: allowing, as he a, see fit, something to my willful daughter? Yes, good; and yet, Agnes, Agnes! she is my 16 fe TS ONG » es “daughter! No—no! by heavens! I'll not disinherit | This time, too, he held an open book in his hand. her! It would be monstrous! She shall not remem- ber with fear and hate her still doting father. ‘* JOHN ARLINGTON.”’ The room was instantly in confusion, and cries resounded, high and threatening. And then again the voice of the showman, ringing clear and stern above the din, was heard: - “ Now, friends, gaze on the tableav, and watch the oor | Instantly the room was aglow with flashing lights, suddenly lit, and then the green curtain was hurled aside, A ghastly: por was presented. Within a case, the light streaming full upon it, were the withered remains of a dead man—a knije sticking in his breast ! Tothe one side of this stood a large chest, opened ; gold in heaps and massive plate were glittering within it. -On top, in large letters, on a piece of pasteloard, the words, JOHN ARLINGTON’S FORTUNE! With another wild ery, St.-Clair Arlington turned, and avoiding the door, which he knew to be guarded he dashed through the window, carrying sash an with him. He was instantly followed by Delaney owe. Some of the sheriffs, who were in the room in dis- guise, be through the door, and darted in pur- suit. But all trace was quickly lost, though they did not give up the chase. It was now between eleven and twelve o’clock, and the moon was shining brilliantly down. A man crept along the plain, glancing about him in every direction. Suddenly he paused. Not twen- ty yards from him was the dark Shadow! The man trembled, and turned as to fly. But at that moment, ale and dim before him,rose a white figure,standing acing the Shadow. It was waving its arms sadly to et fro, and the Shadow made the same move- ment. The man looked steadily at the figure; he slowly drew a pistol, cocked it, and muttered: ‘Be you man, devil or ghost, I'll try you!” As he spoke he quickly extended his arm, and pull- ed the trigger of the deadly weapon. A taint flash of light illumined the gloom, then a sharp report rung out; then a low wail led on the night-air and the white figure, flinging up its arms, reele away. % My God! my God! what have I done!” exclaim- ed the man, in an agonized voice. “That voice— that voice! Ha! well met, St. Clair Arlington!” he suddenly cried, as a man rushed by him, “‘ you brought me to this—you have ruined me—you have dyed my hands in blood and the reckoning hour has come!” ‘*Back! back, Delaney Howe! Iam mad! And—’’ he could say no more, for, at that moment, the other sprung upon him. Then ensued a desperate struggle, but St. Clair Ar- lington was no match for the frenzied man who clutched him. Back, back, Delaney Howe pressed him; and, at length, the struggling men stood on the verge of the pit, which had so i held its dark secret. A moment more and a bright blade flashed in the air, then it descended, driven by the full force of Delaney Howe's arm, and St. Ciair Arlington, with a gurgling groan, fell backward, lifeless, into the dark hole. Delaney Howe paused not, but dashed along. On he fled. “He looked not behind him, and then he stoodin the dark woods. He plunged in heedless of briers and obstructions. In ten minutes he stood at the entrance of the cave; then he entered. He knew the passage and he groped his way on. At length he reached the door; in a moment he had opened it, and entered. He paused; he heard the sound of heavy breathing as of men mai rf A grim smile crept over his face. Quietly he stole in, and felt aroundhim. He soon found what he was seeking; it was a bag, and it sent forth a metallic ring as he hantled it. “He turned at once, and, setting a neeyy, spring on the outside, he cautiously removed the key from the lock, sprung outside, and, hurling the door to, he hurried away. lass The door at the mansion was suddenly hurled open, and a white-faced woman—her hair dishev- eled, her dress torn, her eyes staring wildly, her limbs failing beneath her, fell into the hall. “For God’s sake! Come—Dora—is dying!” and she sunk in a swoon. And Clavis Warne, now un ed, stood there. i his side was the long-missing old man, crazy Noon—the servant of old John Arlington. CHAPTER XXXIU. ANGELS’ WINGS. A STRANGE and terrible scene was that presented one hour after the events of the last chapter. The time, midnight; the place, the humble home of the widow Howe. Reclining in a chair, her face pale as the whitest marble, her soft eyes, fading and almost lusterless, raised on high, her spotless garments bathed in a ruby tide of her life’s Mood, welling from her side, sat Dora Howe. Her left hand was clutched tight in that of Cldvis Warne, who, with agonized face, tear-dimmed eye, knelt by her side. _The kind-hearted physician of the village held her right hand—his sensitive finger on the flickering pulse, flashing swiftly away. The man of science had done all that lay in the Eye of earthly remedies, but he could not stanch he flowing tide. A deep artery, far beyond his reach, had been severed, Before the dying girl, andthe kneeling, stricken man, stood the man of God—the same who had offi- ciated at the marriage scene of four hours sinee, nite His fatherly face was wet with falling tears. Lying on the bed, motionless as death, was the coe heart-broken mother. Near her; upon her nees, her glorious golden hair in wild disarray, her head propped up on the bed, was Agnes. . The stricken girl in the chair closed her eyes fora moment, and her lips murmured faintly to herself. Then she aroused herself and glanced around her. Her breath was fearfully rapid. “Brandy! brandy! doctor!” she moaned. ‘‘I have something—something to say !—I—I—must say it!” Without a word the physician reached out and took a wine-glass, containing the stimulant, from the mantle-piece. He placed it to the lips of the girl. She drank deeply. A moment orso of stifling silence passed. Sud- a Pr girl raised her drooping head. “Listen, friends. I—I—have my reason again now! One winter night,a year ago this nighi—old John Arlington came across the bridge and entered the plain. He had been drinking. He was followed by two men, w some distance a . I was out that night, wandering! wandering!—for m soulwas at unrest—and—and—but I must h my sands are fast oie tH The old man stumbled The one behind him hastened up. along. Then a ete -shot rung in the air. Old John Ar nm fell. he man rushed up to him, and leaned down, At that moment the other, who had lingered behind, ran up. Astruggle ensued, but the last comer was more powerful; he flung his antagonist to the ground, And then he said, wickedly: ‘I'll hel ou!’ With that, he drove a knife into the s reathing body of the old man. Oh! God. They rifled his body—and then one of them went fora = and a spade, and they buried the old man un- er the snow—under the earth! I heard the voices; I knewthe men. They were St. CLarr Ar- LINGToN—and—and—oh! God!—my poor brother, DeLanrey. Then another figure appeared. It was ig old Crazy Noon. They fired at him, and he ell, too! I then fled. And, my friends, / always went to the spot, and mourned over the old man— went there when the moon was shining—on the 14th! For a strange infatuation led me thither, and —and—I made the Shadow /—I dared not tell the horrible tale—for my poor, dear brother would have been in danger. But, the time has come—and—and —ah! God!—he has murdered me! But—but—kind friends, harm him not! He knew not it was I!” She paused. The red blood was still flowing pro- fusely from the terrible wound. A cold shudder passed over her frame. She suddenly whispered: “ And now—now—Clavis—darling—idolized Clavis —are you ready?” and she pressed his hand. He bowed his head and still kneeling, took both her hands in his. , Then ensued a wondrous solemn scene. The awe- inspiring ceremony was over, and Clavis Warne and Dora Howe were united at last. A wild, exultant fire for a moment gleamed in the eyes of the fe girl; a heavenly smile lighted up her seraphic features, and she murmured, in a voice just audible -: oe last! Av wast! Kiss me, Clavis—my HUS- BAND!” Then her head went down slowly upon his shoul- der, the dark masses falling upon his bosom. A moment, and the physician said, in a voice that sounded preternaturally solemn: ** Dead /” A holy silence settled in the death-chamber. The air was fanned by the sweep of angels’ wings, L’ENVOI TO THE READER, There is but little now to say. Old_ crazy Noon corroborated all that was told by oor Dora Howe, and added that the murderers had Vas is body into the creek. He revived with the shock, crawled out upon the ice, and dragged him- self to the mansion, where watching his opportuni- ty, he crept in and secreted himself in the garret. Gradua y he had recovered. Knowing many of the old secret passages with which the house was filled, he readily managed to get out and obtain food. He was the shadowy shape about the house —the Roe who had taken the memorandum-book from Delaney Howe’s vest-bosom; also the scrap; and the one who had made the mysterious noises about the mansion. He it was, too, who had written the letters to Clavis Warne. He it was who, away back in one of the ‘visions,’ had helped his old master to bury the treasure. : Time p on. Nothing was heard of Delaney Howe—and at the end of one year, Agnes obtained a regular divorce. : ‘hteen months from the night of that death-bed wedding scene, there was another marriage—a very quiet one, at the mansion, Agnes and Clavis were at last united in holy wedlock. The poor old mother—the Widow Howe—rapidly followed her unfortunate daughter to the grave, dying of a broken heart. Mother and daughter were both buried in the little Padroon Cemetery, and a monument was in time erected over each, by Clavis Warne and his wife. The terrible cave secret, two blackened skeletons —at lastcame to light. But none knew of this terri- ble ending of the ** Buccaneers of the Plain.” Clavis Warne and oom live to this day in the old mansion, and Crazy Noon is still body-servant to the new master. Waverley Library. 57 A BRAVE Grtrw. Alice Fleming. 58 Tue Epon Mask. By Mrs. Reed Crowell 59 A Wipow’s Wiizs. By Rachel Bernhardt, A new Issue every week,