Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 3) (1880 12 28)
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Novels Publishe $2.50 a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. Copyrighted in 1880 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. December 28, 1688. No. 59, VoL Ill. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST,, ——— ee ¢ b who, with Herbert Cunningham, stood on the broad terrace of Cunning: ham Castle, looking upon a scene well worthy encomium, 4 The grounds, as the Castle, were of feudal date, and remained im all their ancient grandeur, disfigured by no hideous modern innovation af masses of staring color and ribbon flower-beds. There were sweeps of velvety lawns, where the sunlight loved tolinger; A Widow's Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. AEE eae BY RACHEL BERNHARDT. FP A | PLOTS AND PLOTTERS. . | CHAPTER I merging into half-lights and cool shedes as some ancient oak or beech = j spread wide its thickly-foliaged branches. There were avenues of chests ee ’ f nuts, and pleasant alleys, still and hushed, like academic groves. Ht v as ‘REALLY, this is charming! I never beheld anything like it! Such | a silent, dream-like place, where one, leaning on the terrace, might; & sight makes Herod appear a greater monster than ever. Is it not so, | were he or she imaginative, fancy each past generation wandering tr ite t. Herbert?” time—each costume not incongruous, but in excellent harmony—frone he speaker was a tall, handsome woman, of about eight-and twenty, ' Richard Lion Heart to the Regency; glittering, making seeming. ew * *; the, 7 q ' | ie . a in i a - — a — w jw eee
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ia al . Jung lashes—“‘so little about cbildren. 2 A WIDOW’S WILES. right earnest love, or plotting the overthrow of | ' only, it being no part of her desire to remain nations or parry. Fiirtation, love making, plotting, were yet rampant—do they ever die?—though, appar- | ently, the sceno was a most modern and inno- cent one; namely a fete given by Sir Hereward Cunningham to the children of the parish schools. Wie soft summer air rung with children’s | lan; iter. Bright marquees were erected on the | law. s, where the small guests might eat cake and crink tea to repletion, waited upon by jJadies in elegant summer costumes, and with hands white, soft, and much unused to all this kimi of thing; yet, on the whole, rather amus°2d at the novelty. Bueh was the scene that Mrs. Howard Deveril, hor graceful figure attired in the Jatest and most becoming of Worth’s toilettes, looked upon from the terrace, backed by the gray stone towers, battlements, and deep-mulli ned, vasemented windows of the Castle Had any modern Paris been called upon to bestow the gods’ apple upon the fairest woman in Wejrbourne, most surely in justice, without hesitation, he would have handed it to Mrs, Howard Deveril. Oval face; delicate, well-cut features; mobile expression; a complexion milk and pink, and velvety as a sun-warmed peach; eyes full, dreamy, seductive; lashes that were silken fringes, and red golden-bronze hair, completed the adornment of a countenance that was per- feciion, What wonder that, while itsowner regarded the children, Herbert Cunninghamm—a couple of years her senior, and tall, broad-shouldered, «nd handsome, too-—regarded her. “ How happy the darlings are! How thank- ful they must be to generous Sir Hereward!” vhe preceeded. ‘‘ But, though late, I must not be idle. I must help. Ha, ha! that was the vondition upon which we adults were asked, was not it?” And the bronze lashes were raised to let the shining gray eyes rest upon her companion. “*That is, I believe, the condition in* most 5 was the answer, while the speaker’s urly brown head was bent nearer. ‘‘ But ail rues have exception, and you, dear Mrs. everil, are the exception here. We feel suf- ficently grateful for your honoring this fete of | ihe innocents by your presence alone.” “That's flattery, nothing less, and I will not jisten to it,’ laughed the lady, thereby dis- closing two rows of exquisitely pearly teeth. ““Tintend to make up for lost time, and be viry busy. Only,” with a suspicion of plain- tiveness, ‘ will you—dare | ask you to keep by we awhile, just to show me the way? Una- turiunately, I know ”—a sigh, and droop of the Dare I confos3 it, at one time it made me angry to 2 vok upon them; their laughter drove me _anad,” ~ Mrs. Howard Deveril had a sad, and some- thing of a romantic past. happiness had ensued.’ For economy’s sake, however, Mr. Deveril had resided in the south of France; and, one aftern.on, while beating on the Medi rranean, his boat was capsized by a sudden squall, and he drowned, uot only in sight of land, but in sight of his: wife, who was on the beach awaiting his 1eturn, The shock produced brain fever, during which an infant was born. It lived long enough for the mother to look upon it, to know _ it, and then faded away. "Phe bereaved wife and widow was fora long time inconsolable; her enemies declaring that her grief was much added to by the fact of the straitened circumstances in which her bus- isund had left her. idis relatives, however, together allowed her an income while she remained unwedded; and e-rtuinly , she recovered rapidly after this, and direcily the prescribed period of mourning hhad elapsed, re-entered society, keeping her wadowbood and cbildlessness to use on occa- see as aig for little effective touches | single. She had married’ ior love, and eighteen months of unalloyed Fate bad brought her to Weirbourne, and Fate had brought her acquainted with Sir Hereward Cunningham, a widower with an only son. Fate did more than this, It speedily showed her that she had won the admiration of both father and son. ‘“ Which shall I take?’ she reflected. ‘‘ Bah!” (with a little joyous laugh) ‘“ Sir Hereward is sixty. Who would wed December when they could have May? Besides, wedding the father, when he dies I shall be put aside as Dowager Lady Cunningham; while, if I wed Herbert, when onee Lady Cunningham, I shall remain in power all my days, or give place only to my own children.” So the glances shot from the beautiful Mrs. Deveril’s eyes of gray into his of blue had a meaning in them deeper than coquetry—a meanine Herbert Cunningham apparently re- sponded to. “Tf the sight of children gives you pain— if their laughter distresses you,” he said, earnestly, as she lightly placed her gloved hand on the arm he had extended, ‘* why sub- ject yourself to it? Let us, Dear Mrs. Deveril, go in another direction. Their feast- ing is nearly over.” ‘‘No, no!” she interrupted, her hand spas- modically, as it seemed, tightening on his arm a second. ‘‘You are very kind. But Iam foolish! I must—I will get over it! Don't be frightened!” (with a winning laugh); ‘‘I shall not make a scene—I am better than I used to be!” Mrs. Deveril proving resclute, together they crossed the lawn to the largest marquee. People observing these two, the down-dropped lashes of the lady, the bent, earnest head of the gentleman, would have certainly put it down as a “case.” Yet Herbert Cunningham said little; but to the widow the shine of his eyes was sufficiently eloquent. Still, in trials of broken promises the mute language of the eyes has never been held bind- ing proof. “Surely,” reflected Mrs. Deveril, “he will speak to-day. I see a proposal on his lips.” On entering the canvas-striped marquee the ¢hildren were still busy with cake and tea, while aristocratic, well-born attendants flitted about them, growing somewhat weary. ‘‘A charming, a most exquisite scene of in- nocent enjoyment!” again remarked Mrs. Dev- eril, as, standing just within the canvas open- ‘ng, her head inclined toward her companion, she looked on the bustle, “ quite a picture.” Their entrance had been observed by two persons—Sir Hereward and pretty May Rivers, the curate’s daughter. The countenance of the former flushed and contracted with a frown; that of the Jatter grew suddenly pallid, even ‘to the lips, before she stooped over the child nearest to her to conceal her agitation. “ Now,” proceeded Mrs. Deveril, with a win- ning glance up at her cavalier, not unmarked by the baronet, too far off .and tco occupied at present to approach, “help me—tell me what I ought to do. Hand the eake? Let them eat as much as they like? Heavens, in what re- quest the parish doctor will be to-morrow !|— Come, please don’t leave me until I am fairly afloat.” Herbert Cunningham appeared not to have the least intention of leaving her. Loyally he kept by the widow’s side, aiding her, laughing, chatting, apparently having no eyes but for her; certainly not for May Rivers, nor the angry, jealous glances of Sir Hereward. Yes, the baronet loved Mrs. Deveril with all the intensity, we might say absurdity, of an elderly man, and was jealous of his handsome son. Before a quarter of an hour he had overcome all obstacles arising from his position as.host, and approached the widow. “A thousand, thousand welcomes!” he ex- claimed, bowing in courtly fashion over her aa white, sofo hand. ‘‘ How for the last quarter of an hour have i been envying Bertie monop- olizing the Queen of Beauty! Lucky dog! But every dog must have his day, and mine has arrived. Bert, Miss Ada Campbell has been inquiring for you. She wants your help: You know she believes—ha, ha!—that you can do everything. I said I would send you —be off! I will take the honor, the pleasure of attending upon Mrs, Deveril myself.” Mrs. Howard Deveril controlled her annoy- ance to a move of her pretty lips, while her eyes rested lingeringly on the young man be- fore he turned away. “Poor Ada Campbell!” she thought, with mocking pity. ‘And poor Sir Hereward! Can any man be so stupidly vain as to imagine that gray hairs can compete with brown? | Let him be content with being my father-in-law— a proper position. Still, he is Herbert's fa- ther, so 1 must be kind. Herbert—Bertie— Bert! Whata pretty name! What fond ab- breviations! So mused the widow, mechanically assisting the child insatiable to cake, and smiling, though only half hearing the flatteries Sir Hereward whispered in her ear. Finally, the child insatiable became satiated, and a general stampede was made to the swings and the lawns, where the elders were organizing numerous games. Mrs. Deveril sighed with relief. To say the least, the child insatiable, whether for cake or play, was decidedly a bore. In the confusion. of leaving tents the widow would have stolen away from her companion, but Sir Hereward was not to be quitted. His manner, his compliments, were more than ever impressive. They frequently con- veyed a meaning which Mrs. Deveril could not fail to understand, though she pretended not to, but threw up word-barriers like a skillful sapper. Meanwhile, her eyes sought Herbert. He was everywhere, the mirth and soul of this or that group o? children. “ But,” with a sigh, ‘he is not with Ada Campbell! That is a comfort!” Finally, the shades of evening began to darken beneath the old oaks. The happy, weary-footed little guests were to form in procession, and chanting a song of praise to their host, take their departure, a fact that necessitated the presence of the Bar- onet. “Never mind! He'll be as anxious to lock for me as I for him,” smiled the widow, who, to avoid falling again into the Baronet’s clutches, had slipped into a shadowy alley. “TY wonder what Sir Hereward will think when he knows I have accepted Herbert? Dear Bertie!” thus ran her meditations. *“He’il be awfully furious at first. Why, be has as good as proposed a dozen times himselt to-day! Perhaps he’ll refuse to keep Bertie. He ean’t disinherit him, for, of course, the place is entailed. Bertie and I must get on as well as we can until Sir Hereward’s time has come to quit this mundane sphere, then Lady Cunningham shall enter into. her estate. Realiy, Gwen, you are a clever woman!’ laughing low and miusically. ‘‘“When you came here, you went in for the son or the fa- ther—would have been glad of either—and may now take your choice. Both are at your feet!” . As, the last words were uttered, Mrs, Dev- eril halted abruptly. There were some people talking at the other sfde of the bawti orn h-dge. Who could it be She faucied all but her had gone to the terrace to see the march-past of the infantry. She had better retreat noise- lessly, not being desirous for company; anc, no doubt the persons, probably a pair of lov- ers, equally wished to remain undisturbed. Gathering her soft muslin skirts about her, she had already taken a step in retreat, when one of the voices exclaimed, ‘‘ Nay, you should not, even by a look, mistrust me. my heart must ever be faithful to you; and You know .
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\ you are aware of the reason I pay this seeming | court.” Mrs. Deveril’s countenance flushed, then paled. Her eyes dilated, her lips trembled. Then swiftly moving foward, she strove to peer through the hedge. She was successful, and saw that her ears had not deceived her. The speaker was Her- bert Cunningham, and it was May Rivers, the curate’s daughter, to whom he was speaking. CHAPTER IL. A PROPOSAL—THE WIDOW TRIUMPHS. WueEn Mrs. Deveril recognized the two, her hands clenched, her lips tightened, a dangerous light sprung into her eyes. The pair stood together in the twilight shad- ows of a wide-spread beech. Herbert Cunning- ham’s arm was about May’s slender waist; her hands rested one on each of his broad shoul- ders; her fair, sweet face was lifted; her eyes, with love’s own sunshine in them, were raised to his, which met them with a life's passion. Lovers, indeed! Were they only lovers? She was a poor curate’s daughter; he, Sir Hereward’s heir! Surely, if she listened, she should ascertain? Recaliing Herbert Cunningham’s melting glances, Mrs. Deveril felt not above eaves- repping. ““Of course, Bertie, I know .the reason,’ said May. ‘ Did I not—ob, my darling, , think my heart would break! The cause may be a just one; still I do not like it! Not only A WIDOW S_ Wins. does, it pain ’me—foolishly pain me, Bertie, if you » ill—to see you by her side, receiving and auswering her smiles; but, the part you your- se'f play does not seem honorable to you nor just to her. Imagine if’’—and the clear eyes expanded with fond affection—“ she really loves you! Why not? I could easily imagine it! “You are a dear, silly little pet!’ responded the young man, clasping her to him, and look- ing fondly Gown upon her before he pressed on her lips a kiss that went like a dagger to the watcher’s heart “Love! Mrs. Deveril does not know it; with her it goes by the name of self-interest. I tell you, May, I read her char- acter directly ill fate threw her across our path, Cunningham was a fine place, supported easily by a fine income. She was fascinating, beautiful, so laid her nets accordingly for ‘ither the father or the son. The younger suan best suited her; but he failing, the elder would serve!” “Oh, Bertie!” Mrs. Deveril’s filbert nails pierced her deli- tate pink palms as she listened. Rage boiled 1a ber heart—the more fiercely because Herbert Vunningham’ $s words were true. It is no pleasant thing to find our cleverly- plotted schemes have been unmasked. “You look horrified, May. But be certain Tam right.” ‘But how long ao. you intend—how long will it be necessary to make love to her?” “T do not make love to her. I only look it. Well, as to its duration, I can’tsay ; but I fancy .e end must be near.” ‘“‘Far nearer than you think!” muttered Mrs. Deveril, ‘““My foolish father is infatuated with her, and jealous of me. It I can only prove to bim what is her plot, however, the possession of Cunningham by any means, he has enough wisdom left not to be duped. At least I hope lhe has, or Heaven knows what would become ofus! That woman as an enemy would be Cangerous, pitiless!” A smile of satisfaction, as if the words con- veyed ac smpliment, passed over the widow’s jeatures, and, in the fast-waning light, she 2.odded her head significantly, ‘All seems very wretched, very miserable,” murmured May. “ Bertie, I cannot help it; it makes me sad. I do not like it,” ‘‘ How could you, poor love?” And tenderly be drew her so close that ber kead sunk on his breast’ as its natural, its legitimate pillow. ~~ 4 S “But for Mrs. Deveril’s arrival, I would, trust me, have owned our marriage to my father long before this; feeling aware that, as his only son, the only being he then loved, I might easily have won his pardon. But now it would be to cast him into the arms of this designing widow. . Then, sweet wife, what would become of us?” “His wife!”’ gasped the listener. ‘ A secret marriage! Oh, this is a lucky hearing for me! Poor fools, how completely are they in my power!” “Ob, darling!—oh, love!—have I thus so nearly ruined you?” cried the girl, passionately throwing her arms round his neck, and cling- ing to him. ‘Oh, Bertie, if harm should come to you—poverty, disinheritance through me— never could [ forgive myself!” “You, darling? You bring other than hap- piness? Nonsense, May! If the worst were to come, I should hold myself rich beyond measure in possessing you. But these are idle fears. We have only to keep our union secret.” “ But, ob, my love, in a few months that will be impossible: or—or I must leave home!” The trembling, whispered words, the blush- ing face averted on his bosom, revealed the truth. ““Good Heavens! is it sot” cried Herbert Cunningham. Then the whole heart of the strong man went out to the weak woman, and he clasped her to his breast with a new love, a new affection throbbing in his veins, In all their lives, this fated ae inter- view altogether—stood out clear and happy in their recollection. They did well to remember it, for it was the beginning of the end. They might have taken the ebon ae 2 falling about them as symbolic. At this moment voices were “heard, merely servauts’ voices, as their owners were busy clearing the marquees; but even by those people the heir and his young wile desired not to be detected. “Let us return, love,” whispered Herbert. “We shall be missed, and just at this time must not create suspicion. Lhave also prom- ised to escort Mrs. Deveril home.” Emerging from the beech-shaidle, they walked rapidly over the lawn, and disappeared. Then, not until then, the listener moved, and made her way, with slow step and bowed head, but busy brain, back to the Castle. Like a big, ugly biot on a fair page, one re- solve dominated all e!se—revenge. She had vowed it, and, better still, knew she could ac- compli:b it. He, Herbver*, sbould find how hard and pitiless she could be. “On!” she cried, with a shiver in ber tones which ran through her whole frame, ‘I could kili him! At least, Ill ruin him as far as Tam able. But the entail—that miserable entail!” As Mrs. Deveril, quitting the alley, swept gracefully, slowly across the lawn, a gentleman descending the steps of the terrace came quickly to meet her. A cold, pleaséd smile shone in the widow's eyes as she recognized Sir Herewaru. In youth he must have been r-markably handsome, for the aristocratic features were so yet, though the hair was iron-gray, and Time had drawn bis mark about the corners of the mouth and eyes; yet in the latier beamed, as they rested upon Mrs. Deveril, a fire to which love gave almost a youthful ardor. “At last, then, I have found you!” he ex- claimed. ‘I bave been seeking you every- where, I feared that perhaps the children had wearied you, and that you had found a pair of angel wings to fly homeward.” ‘That is not a compliment, Sir Hereward,” smiled the lady, accepting the proffered arm, and leaning rather upon it; ‘‘for only the wicked would fly from Par. adise,” ‘‘ Paradise !”—looking, or trying to look, into her eyes.“ Do you, then, consider Cunning- ham in thati light?’ “Tn what otner could I? The old Castle is a gem in itsel”, To me it is a casket of mar- ve's, It carries a mediaeval bistory on its gray re Sin al ns a | walls,” proceede.l hirs. i NS fe oe Deveril, in low-voiced, musical enthusiasm. “Old, indeed,” laughed the baronet. ‘‘ These are stairs and passages—secret ones, of course —crumbling with age, they say. I would have them renovated, but I am told it would ruin the appearance of the other portions.” “And I’m sure you would not be Gotha enough for that, Sir Hereward. I can imagime how proud you must be of the ancient place: and slumberous grounds. I should be, if’ - very faint sigh—‘‘ they were mine. Eve eoukit never have erred if her Paradise had been like this.” The opportunity offered by these words: tic baronet did not pass over. Halting, he plax. 2 his hand within the little one resting upom) © arm, bent his head, and remarked, “‘ Dit: Mrs. Deveril, will you make it yours, ang .5 the same time make me the happiest, most ts be envied man on earth? Will you. be my wife?” Ah, the triumphant thrill that quivered through the widow’s frame! It made her accents naturally tremulous as she mrur- mured, ‘Oh, Sir Hereward, I never expecteci —2xpected this!” Faintly she strove to remove her hand, buts his too surely imprisoned ir. “Have I offended you?’ he pleaded. “¥ know I am older than you - old enough to be your father instead of your husband, Yet, my love you shall find as sincere—nay, prate- ably moreso than a younger man’s. At my age affection is no ephemeral feéling; it grips the heart as the ivy the forest oak.” “Oh, Sir Hereward, are these apologies mc- cessary? Is love to be gauge) by years, mux- mured the siren. ‘‘Gffended! How could & be? I:am overwhelmed by the honor yx would do me.” ‘“‘Honor! ’Tis I who am honored. myself, and all that is mine, at your Only —only say that you care for me.” His, voice shook, also bis frame, as he lean @& toward her. She stood with bowed head am!’ swelling bosom before him, silent. Therm, I placa fest. abruptly, as with a little shivering cry, “ Cia, — Am @ is is true, Sir Hereward, is it true? awake? Is ita dream?” ; “Tt is serious truth tome. At my age re- jection would be difficult to support,” he xe joined, agitatedly. sufficient to—to be mine?” A pause; tien two white hands were tremblingly extended, a pgir of large grag eyes shining timidly were raised, and like @ whisper came the answer, ‘‘ Oh, Sir Herewar?. have you not seen that which, try as I would, I could not altogether hide—that I—I—~lore you? The accents died musically away as: the baronet, taking the extended hands in a rap- ture of joy, drew their owner to bis bosom. ““Gwendoline—my wife!” Te.: minutes later they stood at the foot wf the terrace, preparing to ascend. ‘The castie was full of light, but its rays hardly reached them. “Tris a grand old place, remarked. the: bar onet, with justifiable pride. ‘‘ You are promi of it too, now, Gwendoline, for it is yours.” “JT am prouder of you, for you will te always mine.” ‘And so will Cunningbam. It shall newer have another mistress, dear love.” “Oh, yes,” she laughed, gayly. “ Deer Bertie will marry, and in time, as of course %& should be, set up his Lares and Penates heme, while I, the Dowager, and mine, like alice, shall fold up our tents and silently steal da That is the result of entail.” “ Aliens!” broke in Sir Hereward, with: as- perity, recollecting his jealousy. Bertie must look to himself, if he bas thus ox-— garded you and yours, dear Gwendoline. Bias that is an absurity. As to the entail, wma mistake; Cunningham is not entailed.” “Not? ejaculated Mrs, Deveril, in quia surprise, - ‘No. It was up to the coming over of tae ‘Can you care for me “ “Mast x wy |
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A Prince of Orange. The then baronet, a loyal Rrotestant, was heart and soul for William, as washis youngerson. Unfortunately, however, his elder was a stanch supporter of James. _ uth, devoid of exaggeration. There was a grievous quarrel between the father and son, and the former, a hard, stern man, by means of a large sum and Court in- fluence got the entail destroyed, since when the raling Cunningham has had the power to wiil ié to whom he pleased.” “ How strange!” laughed the widow. lightly. “Then, if you liked—as the saying goes— you could cut dear Herbert off with a shilling?’ “Yes, exactly; and—shall Ilet you into a secret?—I felt very much inclined to do so this evening.” ‘* This evening!” “When I saw him by your side—when I was jealous of bim,” “Surely, you were never that! Did you not wead me better than that? I iike him, of @ourse,, for is he not your son?” “T see I was blind, thank Heaven! But the resent joy more than equals the past misery,” Wsughed Sir Hereward, as they ascended the ateps, while Mrs. Deveril was thinking: “Not entail! What an escape I have had!” As they stepped through the French windows ito the drawing-room, they came upon Her- ert. Perhaps it was a sense of pride to show ow age had triumpbed over youth that urged fe Baronet so quickly to annvounce the fact, txt’ he said, “ Bertie, the last hajf-hour has smide me the most to be envied man on earth. Ret me introduce to you your future step- weother and my wife.” Mrs. Deveril made a little deprecating, bash- a1 movement, and inclined ber head. But smee the future mother and son’s eyes met. It eremed a revelation. Herbert had gone pale. Bie bit his lip under his mustache. Neverthe- kese, he managed to bow, saying in a tone the asyness of which the Baronet imagined he «ould account for easily, ‘‘I congratulate you, wir.” Then, turning on bis heel, he added, weentally, “‘Ruined! Poor May! She hates me—I saw it in her eye. Could she have dis- ® vered ansthing/ If so, asI have said, she mil prove bha:d and pitiless, even unto death! , He was right. CHAPTER III. Tif ANONYMOUS LETTER —DISINHERITED, The society of’ which Cunningham Castle as the ruling center very sjeedlly was artled by two equally amazing pieces of ews, one following rapidly on the heels of the wher, as thunder succeeds lightning. Tae first was that Sir Hereward, on the “vening of the children’s fete, had proposed ® and been. accepted by Mrs. Howard Weveril. ‘the other, that.Herbert Cunningham had Been secretly. wedded» to May Rivers, the wirate’s daughter,..and had, in consequence, teen banished the castle. Tumor, many-tongued, whispered it; #.firmatory eviden:« 8) n followed. it was stated that a .csrible scene had taken gace between the father and son, and that imally the latter had quitted the paternal gwovof, enraged, indignant, banished, though Jirs, Deveril had gone on her knees to entreat @orgiveness for him. For a wonder, rumor told the tale with Even it was mot wrong in saying that. Sir Herewara’s pas- aicn had been augmented by jealousy, for all but ‘bad ‘seen the. serio-comedy which had been t oe iy? Ses cee es ite taking place--a comedy. that now promised to Wive a tragic ending.. . Late on the afternoon succeeding the fete am anouy mous letter had reached tbe Baronet. Whe envelope was yoor and smirched, the wiigraphy that of an uneducated servant- maid. The contents, in grammar equally Bd esthe-spelling, informed him cf, bis son’s secret union with May Rivers. The Baronet had read, confounde?. He wuld pot believe it—he could not. Had not Mote before bis. very cyes made.love to Mrs, ‘ ‘, “Th? = La x +i am] 7 ae ——~ 7% A WIDOW’'S Wiles. Deverii? Never would he have done that as May Rivers’s husband. He never would have dared so to insult her, the widow, so soon to be his, Sir Hereward’s wife. Yes, that wasit. Now ber honor was his; an insult to ber was an insult to him. And May Rivers, too! To wed her, if he really had, the child of a half-starved parson, a Sunday-school teacher and parish drudge— he, Herbert Cunningham, his heir! Heir! No; that must be seen to. The thing was preposterous-- unheard of. When Herbert re- turned—he had been absent all day—he, his father, would force the truth from him, Never had the Baronet been so angry —never in a state to be more easily worked upon. The matter so absorbed him, that he forgot | the appointment be had made with Mrs, Deveril to show her over the Castle, and was only re- | minded of it. by a footman announcing her presence in the drawing-room. Sir Hereward felt he would need a grave ex- cuse for so unloverlike a proceeding; and thought rightly none could be graver than the truth. Smoothing his ruffled countenance, he hast- ened to her. She met him with a reproving smile, ‘What a squire of dames!” she laughed. “JT waited for you ten minutes, then came on alone! I had half a mind to go back.” “Thank Heaven, dearest, you did not!” hea avswered, first kissing her hand, then her cheek. ‘‘ How can I best sue for forgiveness? I will, if you wish it, do so at your feet, or perform any penance you may command, though when you hear the cause I fancy you will pardon me. The truth is, I bave to-day received some bad news; but no, I cannot credit it.” “Ob, Tam so sorry! Pray do not think of my idle words!” she exclaimed, in thrilling ac- cents, her large, gray eyes full of compassion- ate sympathy. Then, taking a step nearer, resting one hand hesitatingly on his shoulder, lovuking timidly into bis face, she added, fondly, “May I know, Hereward? True, I am not your wife yet; but my beart is as much yours as if t were. As I am sure you would wish me to share your joys; may I not share your griefs?) Oh, you look worried! Would, dear- est love, besides hearing, I might aid you!” Such pretty words would thrill a young lover’s heart. How much more so one of sixty! Tue Baronet clasped her in his arms, and passionately looking down on the siiken fringes vow vailing the eyes, thought, ‘‘ Aud that villain, a married man, dared insult her with his love!’ Then be added, ‘‘ My darling, if my anonymous informant has spoken truth, then it is out of anybody’s power to aid. Let us be seated, Gwendoline, and I will tell you.” Mrs. Deveril listened with semblance of deepest interest and in silence until the Baronet spoke of the union; then, starting back in well- acted horror, ‘‘ Married!’ she ejaculated, seem- ing greatly shocked. ‘‘Ob, Sir Hereward, I will not believe it! Herbert is your son, and hence a gentieman. He cannot have acted so basely; he would not have dared!” Then she stopped in seetning confusion, averting her face. “‘Dared what, Gwendoline?’ “No, no; take no heed, pray,” she mur- mured. “i knew not what I said.” “Darling, I cannot be silent. Speak!” urged the Baronet, holding her hand. ‘‘ Yet why pain you? 1 know what you would say. Her- bert led you to believe he loved you.” “He did, though he never absolutely con- fessed; vet his looks, his tones, spoke bis pas- sion. Oh, Sir Hereward! if my heart had not been otherwise engaged, what a wretched wo- man I might have been now! I might have given bim my affection. But, ob, 10, no! this cannot be!” she proceeded, bursting into tears. « Yet, if it were, can you wonder, though he is your son, that I feel grieved—-insulted?”’ ‘*Gwendoline, he shall pay dearly for it, trust me!” exclaimed the infatuate! Baronet. “Not on my account, | entreat you, dear- est!”’ sue interrupted, placing her hand on his arm. ‘ Rather let me, soon to be his mother, as he will be my son—my dear son—plead for him. I can—I will forgive. Hereward, I will love hin for your sake.” Mrs. Deveril knew perfectly how to pour oil on fire. The Baronet was not blind to his sixty years, nor t* > fact that in everybody’s eyes a union be" ween this lovely woman, who looked youn- sr than she was, ‘and his handsom2 boy would have been far more natural. The idea of her loving Herbert as a son was not an agreeable idea to the young man’s el- derly and jealous father. Mrs. Devenl knew it, and went on: ‘But how selfish Tam to think of myself! It is you, Hereward, who neei all the sympathy. To be so cruelly, so unfilially treated! Herbert, just for the sake of a pretty face, to marry a girl like tbat! He, your heir!” ““By Heaven, he is not my heir!” cried the Baronet, starting up in his wrath. ‘For this I disinherit him! Let him keep himself, or let the curate keep him. But it may not be true. I hate anonymous letters. Hark!” asa quick, firm step sounded in the hall; ‘here he comes. Thank goodness, we shall bave the truth, at any rate.” Mrs. Deveril rose, with a little cry of alarm. ‘¢Oh, Sir Hereward! I cannot be present. It would not be right; we will meet later.” Swiftly she crossed the drawing-room, and disappeared behind a satin curtain, which cov- ered a door, as Herbert Cunningham entered. Did he notice the shaking of that curtain? His eyes were in that direction. Did he sus- pect who had passed through? “You have come most opportunely, Her- bert,” remarked the father, with effort con- trolling his excitement. ‘I desire to speak to you on a subject which has caused me consid- erable uneasiness.” The son looked curiously at the other. The reflex of tle storm yet was on his features. “Tt bas come too soon,” thought Herbert. Then, aloud, deferentially, ‘‘ My time is yours, father. I perceive something has troubled you. What is it?” “This.” And with one hand Sir Hereward indicated the letter in the other. ‘‘ Herbert, I put no trust in anonymous commubications, so shall accept your word if you deny the truth of this. ‘‘Is”—his eyes fixed steadily on the young fellow—‘‘ what this letter states true or false?” With deep misgiving, Herbert Cunningham, taking the paper, read it. As he did so, he started violently. Then his brow contracted, his teeth/bit his lips, all color left his face. With rising wrath the Baronet watched. ‘“‘ Well?’ he demanded, when he saw his son turn the page. ‘‘ There isno more. Is it true or false?” ® Herbert Cunningham raised his head. He was very pale, but calm. His glance met Sir Hereward’s steadily. “Tt is true,” he answered, clearly. ‘‘ May is my wife. It is a pity the information should have reached you through sucha source. I would rather my own lips had told you.” ‘Source?’ ejaculated the Baronet, with diffi- culty keeping bis fury in curb. ‘‘ You mean you know the writer of this?’ “T do; though how the knowledge has reached her I cannot imagine. Mrs. Howard Deveril wrete this letter!” ““Mrs. Howard Deveril?” cried Sir Hereward, the blood rushing to his forehead ‘‘It is false! She was in ignorance of your folly till I in- formed her of it.” ‘Tt is true, sir; for no other than she exists who would have sought to do me this injury.” ‘Have a care, sir! Do not malign a woman you have already so basely insulted. What interest could your low amours have to her?” “That, sir, of revenge.” “ Revenge?” ‘*No less. Listen to me, father. I may have done wrong—I bave, I confess it; bus, partly, it was for your sake. At any rate, in eS AA eo o es
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common justice, yo: wi. boar my extenuc- | tion” exclaimcd Heibert, with suddcn earnest- | ness and force. “Speak, sir; Ido not refuse you that. At least one thing you cannot deny—May Rivers is your wife?” | “She is, father. would not deny it.” “Tt is well,” interrupted the Baronet, halting in his angry pacing: “for that, sir, is the price you will pay for your mad infatuation for a pretty face.” “Did dear May only possess that, then would the price be too much; but she is as good and true as she is beautiful!’ exclaimed the young husband, with euthusiasm. “‘If you did but know her, as one day I trust you will—” “Never!” “You are angry now— justly angry, owing to the source frou: which you have learned the truth; yet I wi:l hope, knowing that your heart is not so stern and pitiless as you believe. That my secret marriage was a grave error I confess. Nay, hearme! It took place before I left last for. college. May had many suitors, two of: which her father strongly favored. With the fear of lovers, I could not rest until I bad put a barrier to her union with another, which nothing but my death could destroy. The time was “too short.to obtain your consent. I knew, until you were better acquainted with May, you would never consent.” “Never!” interpolated the Baronet. He was again pacing tke room, his hands hohind, his back, his fingers twitching con- Isively. . He hid given Herbert permission to speak. He listoned with little interrup- tion, for be had already pronounced the ver- dict, and had his son spoken until doomsday - he could not then have altered it. As it hap- pened, he made matters worse. ‘“We were married privately,” proceeded Bertie. .**L went to college for my last term. Eagerly I looked forward to its conclusion, de- termining when we again met to tell you all. But; to commemorate my return, you gave a large party, and among the guests was a stranger—Mrs. Howard Dever.” “What!” broke in Sir Hereward, wheeling short around; ‘fhave you the audacity to mention her—her to whom you, a married man, dared to make love? You see, sir, Iam acquainted with all.” “No doubt from Mrs. Deveril’s own lips.” ““As my future wife, I forbid you to men- tion her name.” “T must; for of all this wretched misery she is the willful cause. Stay!’-—as the Baro- net was about to speak—‘* you have promised to hear me.” “‘T have—proceed!’ said Sir Hereward, clenching his teeth, and throwivg himself on a chair. “The evening had not elapsed before I read Mrs, Deveril thoroughly, and the plan she had in her mind.” Herbert paused; but the Baronet looked at him with a smile and an air of complacency which his son knew boded more danger than his wrath. He continued: ‘“Phis plan was to become mistress of Cun- ningham, by wedding either the father or the son. Love was no consideration to her, for she would have wedded either. She is beautiful, fascinating; hence was powerful. I saw even “then you were. not indifferent to her attrac- “+. tions. Father, had she been worthy of your affection,” proceeded the son, fervently, “I ' swear by Heaven I would not have acted as I . © did; but I accepted the attentions she speedily, _ “ @8 you know, lavished on me. I seemed to re- turn them. for your sake—to save you from | becoming the prey of a beautiful but design- ing woman.” Sir Hereward’s lip contracted sharply, but he remained silent. Though Cunni ngham, | he wus aware, was in the balance, Herbert | was now determined to tell all. At least, he | would try to open his father’s eyes. ‘Tam telling you no new thing when I say soon found favor with her. Inwardly [| to <a For all Cunningram I .| wife in the grounds. i effect I have spoken. A WibOW'S VWILES. blushe.l at the part I was patie but cunning | can omy be met. by cunning; and 1 wished to | | show to you what this woman’s love was | worth. I hoped to devise some innocent means of disclosing it to you; for I knew I had but to propose to be accepted. It sounds like egotism; itis truth. Yesterday, by word | and look, she gave me fifty opportunities of doing so before you sent me to Ada Campbell. The fete’ kept us apart after that. When the children left, [ had a conversation with my That conversation, I be- lieve now, Mrs. Deveril overheard. . She learned that ', even as she, had been plotting; but, unfortunately, the ball was in her hands. Five minutes Jater you must have met her, proposed, and been accepted. The sequel, sir, is yonder letter. Every line is eloquent of a malignant woman. This is her revenge, and to the grave she will be relentless. Would to Heavea, father, you could read her as well as I have read her!” “Have you finished?” inquired the Barvunet, in a firm but hard voice. “JT have; and what — have said I swear is) | truth,” said the young man, with emotion. face tells me to what little But, I entreat you, pause! Reflect before you utter the words you are impatient to speak. Iam your only sor, your only child;;and have been a dutiful ono save in a single case. Think of the strong ties of affection which have united us until now. “ Father, your | Oh, shali a woman part us forever No, no; think, sir, of my mother!” The Baronet had risen slowly from his Giair, not a muscle of his face moved. ‘* Not one+it is two women who part us for-- ever,” he said. ‘‘Mark~ me; forever! You have made your choice; follow it. . Go! leave this house at once; and never, while I live, | shall you again put foot in it, or my curse will rest upon you!” Almost automatically raising his arm, he pointed to the door. At the same moment the satin curtain was. dasbed aside, and Mrs. Deveril, radiantly beau- tiful and in tears, rushing in, threw herself at Sir Hereward’s feet. ‘*No, no!” she cried, clasping his knees and lifting’ her wet eyes; ‘‘not banishment! ; I cannot bear it. Let not me be the cause. For my sake, forgive—pardon. him. He has sinned, but is repentant: He is your son, dear Here- ward, and [ am merely—” “Mh y wile!” exclaimed the Baronet, seating his hand fondly on her head. “Rise, madam!” broke in Herbert, - hardly able— indeed, scarcely trying—to modify his indignation and scorn. ‘‘ At least, you and I understand each other. Your bypocrisy and eavesdropping have gained you the victory; be content. Father, farewell! Tobey you, praying atime may ‘speedily arrive when you and 1— father and son—may be again united. { } not Cunningham, so much as your love, I re- | gret. My love you still possess, and ’—with a glance at the still kneeling widow—‘* pity.” Then he.swung round, and, without another word, quitted the apartment, “Ob, Hereward, dearest,” sobbed Mrs. Dev- eril, piteously, plaintively, “do I deserve this?’ He raised her, pressing sigh to bis breast, kissing her lips. “My darling, he'answered, their own purposes, would malign angels. Henceforth I have no son. ‘In all the world I have but you to’care for and love. ; Wait! He is a fool who needlessly delays important miat- - ters, evén’for a second.” ~ Crossing to a davenport, he’ wrote a note hurriedly, sealed it, then rung the: bell. ‘The widow watelied him: “ euriously, anxiously. FRM See ‘that this letter is delivered at onee,” he said, on the footman appearing; ‘adding, as the man left, ‘It is to summon my lawyer. Gwendoline, I will not sleep until ‘my will is | made disinheriting my ungrateful en, and | rendering you, dearest, safe.” “ Oh, Hy reward!” “some men, for | | that ke was bungering to summon him back bed. : It is, And the widow iiegs her face in her cambrie handkerchief, to hide the smile of ‘triumph that pased over it. Hers had beem the victory, indeed. That night, Herbert Cunningham. started for London with his young wife, ignorant— though the fact would not have surprised him —that at the same minute the will was being signed which disinherited him, and made Mrs, Deveril sole inheritrix. A month later wedding-bells rung their merry peal, and the widow, leaning on her elderly bridegroom’s arm, entered. the.castle ag Lady ‘Cunningham. CHAPTER IV. FATE PLAYS INTO LADY GWENDOLINE’S HANDS, Our story demands that the reader should leap over a space of five years. . Summer has gone; autumn has placed her artistic hand upon the ancient Cunningham woods, making them redden and glow like fire beneath her touch, Decay is within the castle, as without. The year is dying, and Sir Hereward is stretched upon the bed from which he will never rise alive. How those five years bave passed with him there is. not space minutely to inquire, Whether that second wedded life had not an- swered quite the expectations he had formed; whether there had been moments when, ac apite all efforts, the truth had forced itself in upen him that his son had been right, and he wrong, there is no need to speculate. If there had. been regrets, ne kept them, as proud mea will, to himself. But certain it is, perhaps because aware that his health was failing, his heart had long been yearning for his son—yearning in seerct, ‘for he had not ventured to make known this yielding to Lady Gwendoline, As usual, in the union of June and Decem- ber, it was the strong, healthful, self reliant June that ruled. Not one in all Cunningham society would have said Sir Herewara’s will bad to be that of his beautiful wife. The mica considered him a lucky old fellow; the ladies, — that no husband could have so attentive and considerate a helpmate, Yet the Baronet knew otherwise. Wheilor or not it.arose from that disinclination to con~ tend or assert authority which so often accom- panies failing vital power, certain it is th ‘Lady Gwendoline had long governed. Inde though he kardly could explain it, he w rather frightened of her, especially on the ‘ube ject of Bertie. Thus be kept his longings te, _ himself, waiting a favorable opportunity te_ speak; for see his son he felt he must. Once be had hinted his desire, and had been readily answered. “Of course, Hereward, it must be as ou please. No doubt I fall far shirt of what. he can be to you. Have bim here, by all means. Only, considering the flattering opinion he «n- tertains of me, while he is in the Castle .you will excuse my leaving it.” “You, Gwendoline! As if I coud permit that! Well, well, say no more about it now. In time, I hoe, you will pardon him.” ‘As he has already!” reflected. Lady..Grn- ningham, furiously. ’ The conversation had dropped there, but its subject ever haunted Gwendoline’s mind. The Baronet had no need to speak. She knew perfectly well he had pardoncd Bertice— 4 io ‘In that case, how long would that will, whick made her mistress of everything, Jas: ? ? How ‘leng before it would it be eunulled by another, | reinstating Herbert in his rights? ‘* He shall never retur:: here if I can belpsit,” she reflected, ‘‘and no other will than that:shill | ever be made.” To prevent this, ber affectionate care so-in- creased that she scarcely }ermitted. Sir Here- ward to be ter minutes alone. Six months later, two. fits following rap: ly one on the other, laid the Buronet.on his des’ +
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¥ Ore? a 1 ee = ““ Gwendoline,” he said one mcerning, after ‘he doctor’s visit, “it is no use either you or he ‘trying’ to hide it from me. I know that my mmd is near. I must see Herbert—dear Bertic! Surely you will suffer that I may say farewell my son?” “1! Oh, dearest,” in tones of fond reproach, “you know not how you pain me! Iwill send Sor ‘him ‘this instant!” “Thank you—thank you! Heaven bless you, |; €xwendoline!” And, tears of gratitude in his eyes and ‘voice, he pressed her hand, ‘‘ Dar- Zing, -you ‘cannot tell how I crave to see my oy!” “You shall. I will telegraph at once. will be here, no doubt, before to-morrow. But forgot ”—and.a perplexed, anxious expression ezine into herieyes—‘‘his address. We do not Snow it. How, then, send?’ A conscious ‘blush passed over the dying ‘nan’s countenance. “*TDhave it;\Gwendoline,” he said. ‘‘Some- hing seemed to whisper me that a time might ome like this, and I wished to be prepared. ‘Wou will find it in the left drawer of the escri- |. Eoire.”’ A blue tinge, ‘unpleasant to see, touched Eady Cunningham’s lips and temples, but she said, smiling, ‘‘I perceive: You wanted to _ Sead) him.money without my knowing.” Then, Sm avsudden burst » on i
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A WIDOW'S WILES. “Put why should I not see my futuer io- night?” “ Because Sir Hereward is now under the influence of.a soporific, from which it would be perilous to arouse him, and which may cause him to sleep till dawn, or you would not have found me here. The doctor expects it will make him stronger. Excuse me; are you alone at Weirbourne?—your wife ~ have you children?” ‘‘T ama widower. My May died eighteen months ago on giving birth to her second child —my only one, for death robbed me of the first.” ‘¢ Where will you stay until to-morrow?” “ At the inn.” “Will you, do you think, ke recogniz2d? Jt would be better not. Should your presence become known to your father, he might, con- ceiving it a plot to take advantage of his fail- ing health, pive such orders that even I would would have to obey them, Illness makes him 89 irritable.” “That is true. recogniz? me.” “Then farewell, until to-morrow. I need not say be punctual,” she remarked, extending her hand. “I must stop no longer. Never sine? Sir Hereward’s illness have I left him ‘so ong.” Herbert Cunningham pressed a kiss on ber white fingers. It sent a thrill through her, for it recalled that past she never could forget nor forgive. Again he would ‘have thanked her, but sho ‘checked him, and hurried off among ths trees, “That those anonymous sums so require t should have come from her!’ thought ‘the young man, as he watched the twilight shad- ows close round the graceful, stately figure. , ‘‘How I bave wronged her, or how she has. changed!” At the same time her ladyship’s thoughts ran, ‘‘ What a fortunate meeting! I must not be idle, for there is much to do before to-mor- row night. Oh, idiot! to trust a woman he has deceived, whose vanity be has wounded to the quick! Can time ever wipe out that? Never |” Since that meeting’ in the grounds, twenty- four hours had gone by. To his nurses it was apparent Sir Hereward was sinking fast. The feverish restlessness upon him was but hastening the end. A lamp burned on the table of the oak bed- chamber, the heavy curtains of the bed were drawn back, and the Baronet, supported by pillows, ever turned his haggard eyes from the door to his wife, who stood in the recess of the casement window gazing intently down into the grounds, upon which the moon, ever and anon sailing from some massy pile of wrack, shone with a fitful light before 1t was again hidden, “Gwendoline,” called the Baronet, fretfully, “an hour niust surely have elapsed since you last inquired. Ask again if no news, no tele- gram bas arrived.” “Tt would be useless, Hereward. From here I command a free view of the road, aud no ‘ne has appioached, Be ceriain Iam right. He has no: waited to telegraph, even, but in person is hastening hither. “Tn that ease, the journey at the most is tut nine hours) He would have arrived ere this,” responded the Baronet, testily. ‘ Then—” she stopped abruptly. “Then whai? Why do you hesitate, Gwen?” he demanded, with the irritability of sickness, while his thin finge’s clutched at the coverlet. “Out of fear of paining you, Hereward. I would have said be 1s not as forgiving as you. But that I wiil not believe.” “Could he be so cruel, so unnatural? No, DO; impossible! I had the most to. pardon, There, as you say, that is not to be believed, for mercenary mo’ives alone, even if all effec- tion were dead, would bring him. Does he not believe that be is disimherited?” Believe! Was it that word which mace her ladyship Be assured that none shall ata a ies . - aie. ‘ wr aes start and pale so? sciously ? toiled? iously into the darkness, her hand pressed over her heart; then swiftly she glided back to the bed. ‘*He believes,” she repeated. “Of course, Hereward, he would so believe; I had forgotten that. Ah, did he only know what he loses, he would not travel with such feet of lead.” The Baronet moved his hands and eyes ner- vously, and, finally, fixed the latter on his wife’s face. It was not easy to see, for his vision was failing fast, and her back was to the light. ‘“@wen,” be said, hurried'y, yet besitating in reaching the confe-sion, “blood is thicker than water, None feel that more than the old and dying.” He did not meet her ‘eyes now; had he, it would have been a revelatian. “Herbert has been cruel, disobedient; but he is my only son. ‘Not a child has blessed our union, so there will be more than enough for both. “You shall always live as mistress in the Castle. less you marry again, Of course, I should not, after all, like the old place to go out of the fam- ily—to go to strangers.” her to speak, but did not look at her. Lady Cunningham was pale as death. There were blue lines about the mouth and nose, aris- ing froma s:vere muscular contraction. Her gray eyes throbbed, contracted, and dilated ‘with a dangerous light. Commanding her voice, she said, quietly, ‘You are anxious for Herbert’s return to make ‘a new. will, Hereward?” is so uncertain—I—I have felt ill so long, that I did not wait until the eleventh bour. !—have made it already.” ‘What!’ The word wes simple enough, but the tone in which it was uttered brought his eyes quickly upon her. For a space a vail seemed lifted, and he saw clearly. “Great Heaven, Gwen!” he cried; “don't look Jike’tha:! What would you do?’ ‘“ What should [ do?’ she rejoined. have I not a right to do? and nursing have been returned—by deceit, secrecy, ingratitude! Where is the will? Who bas it?” ‘“What would you do with it? Gwendoline, remember he is my only child—my son. have left you rich— rich!” “Do I say otherwise? You have deceived me, mistrusted me. Where is the will? Her- bert shall never enter this room until I know, Who has it?” ‘No one,” “You have hidden it. Where?’ but dropped helpless on the pillow. ‘Gwen, fetch the nurse; I—I am worse!’ he gasped. which disinherited her. Swiftly she moved to the door, lut halted half-way, and involuntarily looked back with haggard, startled eyes. through the room. It had not come from the bed, but from behind the paneling, Had he heard it? Quickly sbe stepped to Sir Hereward. His eyes were open, the muscles of the face relaxed. Uttering a shriek, Lady Cunningham rushed to the door. She found tho nu:se in ihe cor- ridor. “Come, come!” ske cried; ‘I fear Sir Here- ward is much worse.” The woman hurried in, and looked upon the patient. Had it been uttered we-n- | Was there meaning in jt—meaning | threatening to balk that end for which she had | Leaning by the casement, she peered anx- | I have made that certain, unless—un-_ He stopped, breathless, working his fingers, with piteous fecbleness, He seemed to wait for “Gwen,” be rejoined in a low tone, ‘ death. “What. This is how my love. He made a. feeble attewpt to lift his arm, | She saw it, and had no wish he should die~ until she had learned where was that will. A sudden, muffled cry had seemed to ring. Then she dropped the curtain, say- | ing, solemnly, ‘'Y ur isdyship, vear it—pray, bear it—he is dead!” CHAPTER V. LADY GWENDOLINE’S PROTEGER—A CHAMPION. AT the opening of this preseut chapter, peu- ple who had known Sir Hereward jpersonaly or otherwise, spoke of “‘his death fifteen year ; ago,” for such is the period elapsed: Fev, however, did speak of it; though, at the vi:me, it had caused much curiosit«, speculation, in- terest, surinise, and wonderment, Would Sir Herbert attend the 'fune al? Tad he been forgiven? Was he the heir? Would he and his wife instantly take possession «i the Castle, ousting her ladyship? What was tho nature of the Baronet’s will? These queries for eight days kept the smail neighborbood in a constant state of excitems ot. Every train was watched for Sir Herber®s ar- rival, yet in vain. Tt got rumored that Lady Cunningham tal dispatched a special messenger to Londen $0 announce his father’s death, and bring ‘him back. This, too, was a failure. THerberi’s lantHady had stated her lodger had left the house a? av’ days before, without saying where he 1 going, and had never returned. Surely, oe would appear on the day of ihe funeral, if oly to hear ‘the will read. But, no; Sir Herbert Cunningham put in» » appearance. The remains of ‘the late Bar nu; were consigned to the family vault withour « son’s hallowing tear, at ‘which none showel more am:zement, more distress than her tady - ship. i. But wonderinent was yet sdded cn the rvart- ing of the will, made on the day when Berbers. had been banished and the lawyer had Scem. ‘summoned, : Herbert’s name was not mentioned, After bequests to friends and servanis, if left everything to Lady Cunningham, ‘®nly in the event of her not marrying again ‘ffhat was the strangest part of it) was it to pass bacic to his nearest of kin. In that the sen, ao doubt, was implied, but not named. It seems! little to signify, for he put in no claim nor . oe x —
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She remained at the Castle, keeping in her proper place, though the other domestics de- - einred sho lived like a lady. Lady Cunningham’s passion always subsided » arben Jane Derner appeared; while Hilda had ‘evea known the servant to enter and check ‘bose restless midnight vigils, ‘Among those who attributed Hilda’s timid, shrinking expression to the third stated reason, wal decidedly not to the second, was Jac’ Brawber, son of old Lord Bramber, who had lately rented The Lodge. Duriag the first large ball given by: Lady Cunningham, he had come upon the girl simply ptt'red in plainest white, standing nervously ixecnimd the curtains of a window recess, P ifardly knowing who she was, but pitying wer isolation in a scene of so much gayety, not- ~withstanding she received his advances in a «seared manner, he entered into conversation. He-started it first from compassion; but as his genial nature and merry blue eyes, giving her confidence, drew her out, he continued it from interest. The small lips more than once smiled; the erp violet eyes met his as brightly. as his own; nnd Jack Bramber, in less than ten minutes, ~eame to the conclusion he had never before s2e2 so sweetly pretty a countenance nor so dovable.a girl. Teve gives no warning when it sows its seed.- A quarter of an hour ago, Jack had been heart-whole; and now aseed had fallen om it that was to bear rapid leaf and flower. Suddenly the band struck up a lively waltz, whereupon Jack Bramber asked Hilda to be lis partner. “J” ejaculated the girl, amazed, and re- treating into her timidity like a snail into its shel, “You are very kind. But, oh, no, thank you! Iam not one of the guests, you { see,” “Ne; but you are one of the family,” re- tortea Jack. ‘‘And Iam sure you can dance . like-a fairy.” “Phen it would be only from seeing others,” Dae she smiled, sadly, drawing back, ‘TI have aever learned.” “But you like it?” , “Qh, yes,” came the instant response. > “ Then we will try together, and I will teach ) you.” | og _ ‘Before she was aware, his strong arm was ‘arovnd her slender waist, and in another sec- “ead be would have whirled her out among the doneers, had his gaze not rested on Hilda’s “A ~- countenance. ts pale terror frightened him. “Good heavens!” he ejaculated. “Qh, dor?t—please, don’t!” gasped the girl. ““(Her Jadysbip would never pardon me, _ I kvow you meéan it kindly, but it would be in- gorieus to me. And I’m sure you would nop - =wich te do me barm.” “-. “Harm-I? > Not for worlds!” exclaimed ‘tke “young man, slackening his hold, but not witogether releasing it; for his companion - -sseeamed really in need of some eupport. “Why, _ im Heaven’s name, should her ladyship objec.? ~ “fren’t you her relation?” ° _. “¥es—or, rather, no. My father was oust te her ladyship’s first husband. He— he died when I was very young, and left me pemiiless, without a friend. Lady Cunning- bam says he is not dead; that he ran away aud deserted me. But I am sure that is not arae; ferI remember bim the kindest, dearest father, Still, her ladyship took me out of char- lig” “Charity!” repeated Jack, contemptuously. | “Tt is not always easy to bear, is it?” asked Hilda, raising her violet eyes, with touching “nubye confidence, to her new friend. “Easy ?’—it must be one of the most diffi- cult things possible.” : “Yes. Ihave been taught, and have in secret learned myself.a good deal; for I should like to go away and be a governess s»me where, earning my own living. But her ladyship ; will not hear of it, She hardly lets me out of hher sight.” A WIDOW’S WILES. “Does she—loye you?” “‘T don’t think she cares for me at all.” ‘‘T was going to say she has a confoundedly strange way of showing her affection,” re- marked Jack. “Oh!” cried Hilda, with a trembling start; ‘““here she comes!. Pray don’t let her see you with me! Please do not say you have been talking to me, or she will never let you do so again!” . As she spoke, she raised her hand to the window-cateh, preparatory to flight into the dark grounds, He put his hand on hers. ** But I will speak to you!” he said, firmly. ‘Her ladyship shall not prevent me.” ‘But she will prevent me,” said Hilda. ‘‘Then I will keep our secret, by all means. But, Miss Horne, you will let me see you again? I must! I am sure we might be capital friends!” ‘Oh, pray let me go!” she pleaded. ‘Not until you have told me where I may see you to-morrow, and apologize for my rude- ness. Yct I don’t. mean it as rudeness. I only want to see you.” . ‘‘T shall be among the trees on the east side of the grounds to-morrow at eight. I always walk there,” auswered Hilda, turning a scared glance toward her ladyship, who had been detained by oue of her guests. ‘‘Thank you! I want—I would so much like to be your friend!” said Jack, with earnest chivalry, while he opened the window himself. Hilda turned upon him a grateful look as she darted through. ‘‘Confound it all!” muttered Jack, watch- ing the slim, white figure vanish in the dark- ness; ‘to take such a beautiful girl as that ‘out of charity,’ and treat her so shamefully! Her ladyship must have a heart of stone! Jl just try if I can’t alter matters!” It sometimes happens in endeavoring to set things right we create greater wrong. It was quite possible that Jack Bramber was about to experience that. “Playing laggard, Mr. Bramber?’ remarked alow, musical voice behind him, while a fan tapped bis arm. ‘Can so dark a night have greater charms for you than the entertainment I have provided for your pleasure?” “ That would be impossible!” answered Jack, inclining his handsome head. ‘‘ But the fact is, I was attracted by the beauty ofa star. I think .it must haye been the twin sister of Venus. Certainly I never saw one that so struck me.” ‘Really you are enthusiastic!” laughed her ladyship. “I fancy your star must have ac- quired splendor from contrast with the dark- ness around it,” “‘ That is very probable,” was the quiet re- sponse. “May I see your star?” ‘“‘T fear it has gone now. An unkind cloud seared it. But your ladyship, no doubt, will soon have another opportunity.” ‘‘Not worth troubling about!” she retorted, smiling, raising her lovely shoulders, making the diamond necklet she wore flash forth’ fifty hues. ‘‘ Are you not going to join the dance? It is a square one next. Or, perhaps, you have forsworn Terpsichore?” ; ‘Not if your ladyship will honor me by be- coming my partner!” ‘‘T am sorry, but your uncle has already got my promise.” “My uncle!” ejaculated Jack, in a ‘surprise he could not quite check. ‘‘I did not think he still danced.” . “Then be will astonish you. I can answer that he dances much better than many youn- ger men.” “Really, then,”—and he looked meaningly at his companion—‘“it must be from inepira- tion.” “Perhaps it is,” laughed Lady Cunningham. ‘J will say I hope it is, J think Lord Bramber most charming.” Jack would have liked to have made the long tace he felt; but he said, instead, “ So do I this Spl tea SE Ges old Castle! Outside and in, I think it is quite a picture.” ‘“‘Pray is that meant to refer to your uncle’s age?’ questicned Lady Cunningham, tapping her jeweled fan on her glove. ‘‘Men should not be judged by years, but by their nature. Some are old—worn out at thirty.” ‘““That is true; but really 1 intended no ref- | erence to my uncle, I assure you. I thought but of the Castle. It is very, very ancient, is it not? Played its part, and held its own, in the Civil Wars, no doubt! Possibly—though that is not a pleasant idea—has had murders committed in it! In that case, of course,” he laughed, lightly, ‘‘in some stated corridor or room the spirits still perambulate, Alas, poor ghost!” Did her ladyship’s cheek grow paler despite the suspicion of rouge tinging it? Certainly her gray eyes, from under their long lashes, cast a rapid, keen glance at the speaker. However, she anwered in a tone as light as his, ‘‘I believe no ancient house or race is con- - sidered quite perfect without a ghost, so [have no doubt Cunningham has one—at least, I shall maintain so!_ Excuse me, Mr, Bramber, but I will now release you from your escort ” (they had been moving through the vast ball-room). ‘‘Here is your uncle,” she added, dismissing Jack with a bow, as a tall, well looking, elderly gentleman—a ‘‘ beau” in dress and appearance —came toward them, Jack, by no means loth to be free (for within the last hour he had takena great dislike to bis hostess), lounged through the ball and other rooms in quest of Hilda Horne. He thought it quite probable that she would have stolen in by another window. So she had, but only to creep away up to her own little room on the second story, throw herself on her bed, and weep tears that, could Jack have seen them, would have made his honest heart ache with pity and indignation. Yet for many, many years Hilda had never been so happy. And Jack—how his cheeks would have burned!—was the cause. The ball was yet progressing gayly; Jack Bramber was moving about, smiling outwardly, but with brooding annoyance in his breast, and Lady Cunningham was still listening to Lord Bramber’s whispered compliments, when Hilda Horne finally fell asleep, these words on her lips—‘‘ I shall see him again to-morrow.” CHAPTER VI. AN UNPLEASANT ANNOUNCEMENT—OLD JAMES STONE. Tue gilt French clock on the mantle-piece of The Lodge morning-room had just struck eleven, ' The door-windows were open; breakfast was: on the table; but, as yet, the only occupant of ) the apartment was Jack Bramber. Dressed in a light gray suit, he walked the floor, his head’ bent, and whistling thoughtfully. It need scarcely be said that the interview among the trees with Hilda had taken place, and the result had thrown him into a state of perplexity. Two things he found difficult to answer. Why did Lady Cunningham treat her husband’s relation so unnaturally ?—had the father really run away, a black sheep altogether, and did he- (Jack) love Hilda Horne? If not, he was be- having most dishonorably; for he had got her promise to see him again. “ But I do love her,” he ejaculated, halting, and sternly regarding « portrait of his paternal uncle, ‘What's the good of beating about the bush? As pity is akin to love, so is love akin to pity. If I didn't love Hilda Horne, why should the treatment she receives make me so indignant? It's a first sight affair, that’s cer- tain. But it’s awkward about the father. Suppose he should crop up again? Besides, there’s my uncle. T’m his heir, certainly, as. far as the title? But his money? He’s sucha stickler about birth and position,” A step in the hall caused him to break off his. reflections. Jack had oreak‘asted long before,, ee
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A WiDOW'S_ -WILES. but he always bore Lord Bramber company at his more substantial repast, and had been wait- ing for him. Now the door opened, and his uncle entered. Lord Bramber, when young, had been one of the handsomest and most gentlemanly men of his time, and he could not forget it. He never would, A beau at twenty, he practiced the beau at sixty-seven, and would if he should live to be a hundred. Skilfully applied cosmetics and unguents kept his complexion smooth and free from sallow- ness, but rendered it a dead white, scarcely improved by the slight, delicate color on the cheek, His hair and mustache were dyed, and Jack fully believed, though not quite cer- tain, that his uncle wore stays. Attired in a rich cashmere dressing- “gown, and holding a scented cambric handkerchief in his white hand, Lord Bramber dropped grace- fully into his chair by the table. “Good-morning, Jack,” he remarked, in easy tones. ‘‘ Kear I’ve kept you waiting, eh? You youngsters are up at dawn, I believe? It used not to be so in my time. We, as Sheridan did, ‘liked the day to be well aired first.’ Well, what do you think of our charming neighbor? Those sardines, plea.e.” Jack shot a scrutinizing glance at his uncle before he replied. Finally, he evaded a de- cided response. ‘She is very beautiful,” he answered. “Beautiful? ‘Gud, Jack, she’s lovely— divine!’ ejaculated my lord, warming into, en- thusiasm, and delicately kissing his scented fin- ger-tips. ‘‘ The Duchess of Athone, an old flame of mine, cou'dn’t have held a candle to ber in her best season. She is exquisite—such form, such intellect, such vivacity! But she’s lost here—absolutely lost!” “Why doesn't she go to London, then, uncle?” said Jack, dryly, not relishing quite this praise. “Why not?’ assented Lord Bramber, leaning back, and reflectively tapping the Sevres coffee-cup with his spoon, ‘Ah, I wish I had but the opportunity of introducing her! At my age, Jack—ha, ha!—I would be content to shine with a borrowed light.” “You take her to London, my lord?” ex- claimed his nephew, throwing up his head, and tis blue eyes wide with surprise. “T said 1 wished, my dear boy,” laughed his lordship, lightly brushing the tips of his fingers with his handkerchief, ‘‘ No, ’gad—ha, ha!—I may not have aged as other men, but still I have passed the time when to come and to.see was to conquer.” Jack Bramber was silent from amaze. Here, ‘decidedly, was a threatened complication of matters. Did his uncle really mean that he was smitien by Lady Cunningham, and intend- ed to enter the lists as her wooer? Ia that case, any remarks of his own that Jack might have intended to make respecting her ladyship and Hilda Horne would not only be thrown away, but do more harm. than good. “Tn a brown study, Jack?’ remarked Lord Bramber, darting a keen glance across the _ table. ly i trust we are not to be rivals. Tut! She is ‘bitty but too old for you.” **TIndeed, uncle, you need have no fear on that point. But is it possible—do you really mean that you contemplate—” “Marrying again—or, rather, wedding Lady Cunningham?’ broke in his lordsbip, conclud- ing the sentence. ‘ Well, why not, Jack? I have been thinking it over during the night. A man, especially 8 widower, rather finds the need of a companion as his years begin—begin just a little to tell upon him, Of course,” be added, rapidly, ‘*I do not intend it should make any difference in your prospects, Jack; my present income you would still jnherit. Should any family bless our union, of course, the Castle, their mother’s property, would be for them,” Jack Bramber bit his lip. He was astonished, vexed, annoyed, His uncle had every right to i a marry again if he chose; yet it was hard. For the time he even forgot Hilda Horne. “Do you not see it in that light, Jack?” “T see, uncle, you havea right to marry again, if you please.” He had wished to say, ‘perpetrate an idiotic folly,” but wisly curbed his tongue. ‘Thank you—thansx you, Jack. Take my word, you should not lose by it. If there were no family, the Castle would still come to me— I have ascertained that; and, in time, my dear boy, as my heir, it would become yours. It’s a fine place—a very fine place!” “Have you at all hinted the state of—of your feelings to her ladyship?’ queried Jack, mastering his voice. “No more than the language of the eyes goes,” remarked the old beau, shrugging his thin shoulders. ‘Even in affections of the heart, Jack, I never leap in the dark. But come—what is your opinion of my success? ’ The nephew paused, recalling Lady Cun- ningham’s looks and words regarding Lord Bramber the preceding evening; then an- swered frankly, ‘‘I believe, my lord, you will succeed.” ‘¢ Thank you—thank you. it in flattery?’ “No; in right down sober earnest,” re- plied the- young man; adding, mentally, ‘‘I wish to Heaven I did not!” ‘Then thank you again. You shall not lose, I repeat, by taking it in this spirit.” .“TIn what spirit did you expect me to take it?’ was the reply, as the speaker took the the other’s extended hand. ‘‘Surely you are at liberty to act as you please?” ‘Yes, yes;and my income will be yours, only,”—-hesitating—‘‘ you see, Jack—of that I’m sorry—if there should be any children,— an heir, the title must pass to him.” ‘Very well, uncle; then I shall have to go to my grave with plain esquire tacked to my name,” answered Jack Bramber, with a short laugh, as he rose from the table. ‘* Will you excuse me if I leave you, but I have an ap- pointment, and I see Clegg has brought my horse?’ That. statement about an appointment was scarcely true. But Jack always rode after breakfast, and wanted, as quickly as he could, to get away, and think over what he ha‘ heard. The possibility of his uncle wedding Lady Cunningham had, for the moment, stunned him. Honest, frank, and not an atom selfish, he had owned Lord Bramber’s right to do. as he chose. Yet, as he rode slowly along the country road, he saw it might prove very peril- ous to his future. His interviews with Hilda had given bim a better insight into her ladyship’s disposition than his uncle had. By her years of juniority, and her dangerous fascination, Lord Brambei would prove but soft clayin ber hand. Did children chance to appear, her ladyship might not care to have their father’s property willed away to a nephew. Besides, Jack had come across one or two ‘old inhabitants” who had known her when plain Mrs. Howard Deverii, and who had told him of her marriage with the Baronet, the banishment of the son Herbert, and his singular disappearance out of every- body’s ken. ‘““Who knows but her ladyship may have had a finger in that pie,” meditated Jack. “No one ever heard a stranger will than Sir Hereward’s, I’m sure. They say the son was | never mentioned. Her doing, I swear. Well, then, supposing I married Hilda—and I have never seen any one I cared for so much—and that were to offend my lady, she might get me kicked out, and cut off witb a shilling, too.” Certainly the prospect was not encouraging. Jack’s reverie was broken by a faint railway whistle. Raising his head, he perceived the smoke in white wreaths rising through a clump of beeches, from which the train, small at present as a toy affair, speedily issued. The rails passed across the road that he was traversing; and, as it was easy to see a long You don’t mean ea ee distance down every way, no gate or guardian was placed. ‘““Shall I be able to get over before it comes?” he thought. ‘ Whex a man’s time is his own, why need he hurry tosave a lew ‘seconds? Be- sides, it’s express.’ He came to this conclusion as he reached the crest of a rise in the road leading to the rails. _ He might as well draw rein, and wait its pass- ing there as anywhere, As he did so, he became conscious of an old man in leathern gaiters, straw hat, and a blue coat, some twenty paces in advance, proceeding in the direction of the rails. His gait was un- steady, as of one much enfeebled; and, having nothing better to.do, Jack watched him. ““The confounded idiot!” he muttered, as he saw the old fellow approach to the lines, and heard the swift rush of the train. ‘‘ Why does he go so close? The velocity with which it will pass will be enough to knock him down. Good Heaven!” he added, with a ery and a shiver; ‘‘he’s going over! He’il be smashed! Is he mad? By Heaven, I see it!—heis drunk!” The old fellow had c:ossed half over before he seemed to become aware of the pitiless monster, rushing upon him, The sight took all power of motion away save from the hands. These he rose, with a piteous scream, toward the smoke-belching engine, as pleading for mercy. To get out of the way he did not try. He was paralyzed with terror, and if drunk previously, was now sobered sufficiently to see his awful danger. ‘‘Great Heaven!” cried Jack, as he beheld the shaking knees, the poor, extended, trem- bling hands, and white hair blowing on the wind; ‘‘I can’t stand this. If it's to crush us both, I must risk it.” Alr eady he had put his Sine at full speed. He knew it was a race between him and the express. One, perhaps two, lives depended on a second lost or gained—on the strength of wrist and steadiness of eye! | In imagination he saw the train hurl the wretched old mau yards forward, then crush and tear him as it rushed on; and the idea sick- ened but did not deter him. He thought not at that supreme moment of peril to himself. It appeared an age before he reached the rails; yet it was but a few seconds, The thud of the train seemed to bea! like thunder in his brain. He saw the monster close upon him. He seemed to feel the heat of the furnace. But all he was really conscious of was dash- ing across the rails behind the old man, seizing the latter by the coat collar with a ’ grip of iron, dragging him after him, then swerving his horse round; for so close had been the en- counter, that otherwise its bind quarters might have been struck. Then all three—the tright- envd, snorting beast, the preserved and pre- server—sunk down in a heap together, as with. an awful noise the train flew on, with eager, frightened, inquiring heads gazing cut at them from the windows, : Jack, in a few moments, staggered to his feet, secured bis horse, that was paipitating and trembling with terror, its large eyes diated and nostrils blue, then pulled up the shaking object who had been the cause of all. “You old idiot!” he said; “ what made you place yourself in such dahger?” i But the “old idiot” was in too pitiable a state even to be angry with. As pale as death, his eyes starting, every nerve trembling, he could but clutch bis preserver’s arm, and mut- ter unintelligible sentences. “The fright has utterly turned his brain, or be isnt yet sober,” thought Jack Bramber. “T can’t leave him, or he'll be getting into fresh trouble. Where do you live? Down in the village, man‘ But the words, or their significance, failed to reach the old inebr late. ‘Saved, saved! Oh, if I had died—died! I— I couldn’t—I mustn’t—not yet— not: yet!’ he- mumbled; andtears began to trickle down his cheeks, ‘‘T ain’t fit to die, I ain’t!” ie a
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nae tremens, I suppose. 10 i ‘“Yow’re not fit to live, you old sinner!” said | Jack, heedless that he spoke above his breath. “Yes, yes; sinner—sinner!’ And the tears fell faster. “Good Heavens, what a pitiable sight!” thought Jack Bramber, witha shudder. ‘‘De- Well, Pi get him n to the village. Perhaps I may meet some one who knows the old drunkard.” Putting one hand on the hors*’s rein, and with the other grasping the arm «f the man, he proceeded in the direction. Within half a mile be overtook a field laborer. “Tsay, my man,” he called, ‘‘can you tell me who this old fellow is, and where he lives?” “Thot; zur,” said the laborer, with vicious fingers irritating his shock head ‘‘thot be ol: Jemmy Stone; her ladyship’s pet pensioner, we calls’un. Be he drunk? What be the mat- ter, zur?” Jack briefly explained. “ An you risked your loife to save ’un? Oi wouldn’t ha’ risked moy ‘horse’s, even, the drunken old reprobate! He’s allis dronk. I reckon moy lady would ha’ been _ better pleased if you’d let ’un go. She ha’ kep’ him theso fifteen years.” “Why, was he disabled for work? Who was he?” “ Just a servant oop at t’ Castle. Disabled? —not as I ever heerd on. She’d pay him dou- ble; I’ve heerd, if he’d leave the ;loice.” “T won’t leave, I won’t,” abruptly broke in James Stone, with senile passion, clenching his trembling bands. “I was born here, and I won't go for her ladyship, nor any one. Can’t her ladyship trust me?” He gazed, with his weak, watery eyes, from one to the other; then, apparently forgetting thé eause of his wrath, relapsed into tears. “Do you mind taking him home?” asked Jack, accompanying the request with a prof- fered shilling. ‘‘Ill call and see how he is, to-morrow, The shock may prove more thau he can battle against, after all.” The man, readily consenting, led James Stone off; and Jack Bramber,; mounting his horse, rode away in an opposite direction, ig- norant to what important results his having risked his life in this act of charity was to lead. e " CHAPTER VIL. TWO PROPOSALS OF MARRIAGE—JACK'S TER- RIBLE SUSPICION. THREE weeks had passed siuce the rescue of old Stone, and Jack Bramber had been much lionized for his bravery. The universal opin ion} however, was, especially in the village, that he would have done a greater benefit to society had he left the old fellow on the rails. James Stone, indeed, being always drunk, was av unmitigated nuisance, and why her ladyship showed such favor to him, above others, was a surprise to all In fact, others hinted, as had the laborer, that Lady Cunningham would) have been better pleased had the express been left to remove James Stone out of her path. From her ladyship herself Jack would never bave drawn that cosclusion. No one could have been more profuse in her thanks and praise. “My late busband, Sir Hereward, was much ieteched to Janies Stotie,” she said. “‘ Trusted im quite like a confidential servant, and Stone - was a faithful creature. Unhappily, after on : Sparowey! death he took to drinking. So, as I could not keep him at the Castle, and could not let him starve, I thought, out of res; et to Sir Herewaru’s memory, it would be best to pension him off. I am indebted to you much, Mr. Bramber. It would bave deeply grieved me had the poor old man met so awful a death. i sball drive over and see him.” Wiich promise her ladyship fulfilled, surpris- ing the whole village by her unprecedented condescension. Had she beeu five minutes earlier she would | have met Jack Bramber. Indee®, he frequently looked in ‘upon James Stone. Perhaps, ‘as he had saved his life, 'e felt it right be should take an interest in it. The shock produced upon the drink-sodden a i re A WIDOW’'S WILES. old man was never to be overtume. his chair by the bearth, shasing Jike an aged | paralytic. Even his eraving for stimulants bad ceased. The only thing thit aroused bim was the entrance of Jack. His dull eyes would brigbten, and he always utterel the same thing—‘“ Ah, you saved me! Heaven bless you, sir! I ain’t fit to die! I sha’n’: die yet, though Amos Peggin sed my lady would be glad. Ha, ha! Would she? She begrudges me the poor little bit of money, then! Humph! I wonder if she'll be glad when I’m really ° dead? Ah,” catching Jack’s arm, “ but you won’t let me die? You saved me once—you | | ness.” will again, eh?’ And so he would ramble on till Jack with- | dr: w—not, however, before James Stone had made him promise to come again. The sweetest reward the young man re- ceived for his prowess was the expression— half pride in him, half fear for him—of Hilda Horne’s face when next they met. Her hand trembled as he tovk it, and she murmured, plaintively, ‘You were very brave—a hero! But if you had been killed, Mr. Bramber, oh, what should I have done?” ‘Would you so have missed me?’ he asked, smiling down upon her. ‘* Missed you! How ecouli I have dona other- wise? No one has ever spoken so kindly to me as you have done. You seem to have bright- ened my whole life! You eannot tell how wretched that life has been—so dull, so drear! | And I tremble Jest Lady Cunningsam should fiud out that [come bere! She never would let me do so again!” “Poor child!” said Jack, in eompassionate tones, gazing at che lovely countenance raised so trustfully to bis, ‘‘ Her ladyship appears to have only one person dependent upon her that she: cares to be kind to —tbat druuken old fel- low, James Stone!” ‘* Yes,” smiled Hilda, as, side by side, they sauntered under the trees in the early morn- ing, brushing with their feet the dew from the grass aud ferns; “is it not singular? She treats him as she treats none other cf her infe- riors: Sometimes; but not often, he comes half tipsy to the Castle, but she always re- ceives him: | It és strange!” ; “Very,” said Jack, dryly, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes on his boots, | “‘ Miss Horne, have you ever heard Lady Cunningham speak of her late husband’s son?’ “Never more than that he offended his father by marrying benea'h him, was disin- herited, and sent from the Castle, and was never heard of again.” ‘But be did marry the curate’s daughter?” “Ou, yes; he had married ber in secret long before it was discovered.” “Do you think he did wrong?” “In marrying the girl he loved, and who loved him? No!’ was the instant reply. “Neither do L.” “Only it was wrong, perbaps, to do it in secret,” put in Hilda, like a rider. na Ab! bat I have beard that the Baronet might have ovérlooked that after a time, but for her ladyship.” ‘That is possible. and revengeful.” “Did you ever hear whether Sir Herbert— for of course the title became his+had any children?’ proceeded Jack, ‘turning to get a glimpse of the sweet face beside him. “No,” with a shake of the head; ‘‘ her lady- ship never" speaks of his affairs.” “Abt! and Mr, Riverss rhe curate?” She seems very jealous Ha sat in | “ Got an exchange after bis daughter left, and diéd, I think, a year Or so later.” Jack was silent, falling into meditation. He was a rnbust, musculer young Christian, yet had an imaginative brain for ail that, aud sometimes the stranges* crotchets would get into ‘his head. Now. ab uptly, he threw up that member, and burst out laughing. “Why no?” ‘he qneried, unconsciously, aloud, “Oh, please do n t, for my sake!” pleaded a rightened, tender voice. seared girl, Looking, Jack bebeld Hilda Horne, peering anxiously among the trees. ‘‘T would do anything for your sake,” he exclaimed, perplexed. ‘‘ But what, Miss Horne, aw I particularly not to do?” ‘Laugh so loud, Mr. Bramber, It might attract somebody’s notice, and then—”’ ‘«Then you would suffer,” said Jack, as the girl, stopping, drocped her’ head. ‘‘ Confound it all, that you should be in such a state of bondage! y? ‘“‘Ab!’—and she looked up with a timid smile—‘‘ I shall run away one day, and try to work for freedom and independence as a gover- ‘ Freedom ard independence as a governess, without capital. You! poor child!” said Jack, gazing still down at her as in a brown study, but as if he hardly saw her. A flush came to Hilda’s cheek, She had a dim sense that she ought to be indignant. But how could she be with this handsome young map, who spoke so kindly as, since that vague recollection of ber father, none had ever done, Nevertheless, she said, “‘I think I must ge now, Mr. Bramber.” , He still seemed wrapt in the brown study, ‘Tf I stay longer, I sball be missed. ‘‘ Good- morning!” She had taken a step away before he roused himself. Following, taking her hands into his, gasing with earnest passion into her violet eyes, he said, in a low, quick, clear tone, ‘“ Miss Horne— Hilda, do you know what love is? Cam you, do you thivk, ever love me?.. I love you with all my: soul. Will you be my wife?” She turned red, then terribly pale, as, shrink ing back, she gasped, ‘*Your wife?’ But Jack could see the shrinking was not pain; he bad only startled her. ‘Miss Horne, I confess to thinking there is a mystery about you. Will you give me the right, as your lover and future husband, to un- ravel it?” She had plucked her bands away to cover her faee, and stood trembling before him. Was it joy or sorrow that made her heart beat so fast? “T will not ask your answer now,” Jack proceeded, gently. ‘‘My abruptness, I per- ceive, has startled you, Take time to think over ifs; atid will you meet me bere again to- morrow, t0 let me know your decision? If- if you ean say yes, Hilda, you will make me the happiest man on carth.” She lifted her bead, tears were in her eyes, but they shone like stars. Impulsively she ex- tended her hands, ‘Oh, Mr. Bramber, you carry your pity tov far—you are too good!” “My pity!—it is my love, Hilda,” he ex- claimed, clasping her bands, and drawing ber to him, Can you love me?” Before she could reply, there was a dietant sound of sdéme one among the trees. The instantly taking alarm, darted away. Jack bad but time to whi per ‘“‘To- moriow,” when; nodding back at bim, ee was gone, “Well,” repeated the young fellow, ‘8 he strode to "the gate giving onto the roaq, ‘Im glad I've done it. Whatever may bapped in the future, no stain shall be cast on my affee-. tion; she, at least, will know it was sincere,” He proceeded with quick strides to: The Lodge, the fingers of one hand in his trowser- pocket, those of the other puiling bis anus tache. “Ts a confoundedly queer holies’, ae mut*ered. ‘How the deuce it popped mte my head I don’t know. As the world is made up of atoms, p’raps this idea is—the atoms: of words, circumstances, molded into form by imagination, Ha, ha! One thing is certain-- it’s there, and will not be dislodged; and J think there’s foundation for its tenacity. There is another thing positive: I’m bound to Hilda Horne, and ”—lifting bis hat, as he bent, his sparkling love-lit eyes on the blue sky —‘‘bless Heaven for it!” - e 4 ae ¢ ius nin
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ete at ee genta But these events, with Hilda’s whispéred, _ happy confession of a reciproéal love, were Hot -the only onés that oceurred dtring the three weeks, Orie morning, Lerd Bramber, lovking youv- gér than ever, having béen longer than usual ever his toilet, which, save to his valet, was a mystery of mystéries, took his seat at the breakfast-table with an air of gayety, and ex- claimed, as lé waved the delicate perfume from his handkerchief, “‘My dear Jack, con- gratulate me. Yes, egad! you are such a decidedly unselfish, right-minded, right-seeing young fellow, that I can really ask for your congratulation.” “T am ready to bestow it, I assure you, uncle, if it be for your happiness.” *““My happiness? Gad!” kissing h’s fidger- tips. ‘‘ What Goth could doubt it} Were you Teally ever in love, my dear boy?’ Jack evaded the question by saying, “I Suppose, uncle, in your case, love and Lady Cunningham are synonymous? I draw from your words that she has aécepted you?’ ‘She has, Jack; Iam the happiest man in the world. Gad! I feel twenty years younger. And she is as amiable as beatiful. Jmagite, she made not the silghtest demur. Indeed, she approved of your remaining my heir as far as the income, In fact, she spoke most flatteringly of you, and of thé excellent marriage such a fellow as you with your appearance is cer- tain to make.” “Tam really much obliged to her ladyship for taking an interest in my affairs,” said Jack. “Not surprising. She, of course, feels like one of the family. A high-sounding alliance— ha! ha!” Jaughed bis lordship, airily. ‘ Yes; your lovely step-moth2r and J shall expect it of you. Remember that, Jack; we shail ex- pect it,” “Pll not forget,” responded Jack, off-handly, muttering, however, beneath his breath, ** Confuund her !—does she suspect?” Breakfast over, Jack set off to the village. He had a cail to make, and it was upon James Stone, That awful shock he had recéived was never to be got over by the wretched ifebriate. He was rapidly sitik'ng. No greuter proof was needed than the loathing be had taken for the drink that had been his ruib. All day he would sit in lis chair ina state of apparent stupor. Only Jack knew that there was vitality éiough in him to throw this otf if he chose Lady Cunningham éarried her sympathy so far that she would havé sent Jane Derner to nurse him; but James Stone had refuséd in a fashion that her ladyship had not deetned it advisable to argue against. He only ellowed the wife of a neighb r to come in as she had always done for a weekly sum, to “tidy up;” and also Jack Bramber. “You saved my life at the risk of your own,” he said. ‘And I can trust you. .You €an’é want a poor old chip dead.” idy Cuntingham, toward the close of those three Weeks, had jested her future step: Son upon turning nurse. He had answered, Carélessly, ‘Tani no nurse. But it séém’s the right thing for me to take an interést in his wretched lite. So, as an idle man, I drop in to say “How are you?—vhaf i all!” “You think bind ill?” “Very. The stupor in¢reases. I shouldn’t be in’ the least surprised to find'one day that he _ had died peacefully i his chair,” Had Jat¢k Brambér beeh looking at Lady Cutiningham instead of covertly into the cor- Servatory, where Hilda had’ beén sent to’ gather the table flowers, he might have been’ startled by thé singular light that appeared in her ladyship’s eyes, As he entered James Stone’s cottage, he found the old man not in bis usual’placé by the Wiudow, but sdated itt the corier near thé fire- ie He was in & state of evident agita ** What is the matter?” asked Jack. “ Aren’t You so well?” e ¢ Tur ‘‘Well! It’s my opinion, sir, Pll never be | that,” moaned the old fellow. ‘‘I’m going to die!” “The surest way not to recover is to give up hope, Mr. Stone,” said Jack, kindly. ‘‘ Though every one should try to be prepared for death when it comes, For it must come one day to us all.” “Thav’s it—that’s it! Prepared! I might die to day —I might live for years—eh?’ ‘‘T see no reason why you should not,” said Jack, not truthfully, but encouragingly. ‘Well, that’s cheering. If you don’t mind, would you sit down? I'd like to chat a bit.” Jack Bramber was one of the best fellows out. Drawing forward a chair, he sat down. Half.an hour later he made an inquiry. ‘Ts there any one in the cottage besides our- selves?” ‘‘Mrs. Mather—she’s tidyin’ up; and a furi- ous row she makes, bother her!” “She'll do. TH fetch her. have some beef tea, too, I think.” Jack went in search of Mrs. Mather, whom he found banging old Stone’s feather bed, as if if had beeh her mortal enemy. After a brief, bub rapid conversation, be led her into the parlor, A quarter of an hour later than that he left the co tage, a strange elation on his handsome countenance. “ Tf—if—if!’ he kept half singing to him- self; but if what, he did not state. That evening he told his uncle that he thought he’d run up to London for a few days fur a change, ‘“That’s right, Jack; by all means!” re- marked Lord Bramber. ‘I have some com- missions, if you will take the trouble.” So Jack prepared to start pext morning. As he was in the act of mounting the dog-cart to drive to the station, a man came hurrying up from the village. * What is it?” inquired Jack. ** Please, zur, I wor told to coom and tell ’ee as olé Jummy Stone wor found dead in his cher this marning.” » “In hischair? Then he had never been in bed? » Who saw the poor fellow last?” “Tt mun’a’ been Lady Cunningham. She called to ask how he wor yester noight.” “Good Heaven!” gasped Jack beneath his breath, for an uzly thought had sprung into bis brain, James Stone’s death, however, did not pre- vent his going to London, You’d better CHAPTER VITI. AN UNFAIR FIGHT—THE ROOM IN THE WEST TOWER, On the night of James Stone's death, Lady Cunningham, returning from her visit to him, had proceeded at once to her bed-chamber, Here throwing off her outdoor attire, she dis- closed a face pale with indignation and passion. | Her very beauty made the expression of rage thé more awful. bar's Her bed-chamber was the large, dark oak- panéled one in which Sir Hereward had’ died. She had always disliked it for its gloom, but when it was in her own power to quit the apartment, a feéling, a fear kept her there. They weré the cak panels which had witnessed thoss midmght pacings; and now her ladysbip began walking to and fro, her fingers twitching convulsively,and a thin line of froth lying upon her lips: sh ‘No sooner do I remove one obstacle from my path than another springs up in it,’ she muttered. ‘But I’m not to be balked—balked by her! I have vowed to set all beneath my foot, and I will. Beggars I made them, beg- gars they shall remain! Oh,” and her eyes wandered round the darkling room, “if oniy— if only I bad succeeded in that, I need have had no fear—none! Now any accident, or any day— But that is not the most important subject at this moment,” she interrupted. ‘It is this girl. So there are clandestine meetin » | 44 between ber and Jack Bramber! I wonder for how Jong this has been going on? Ob, how cunning has miss been! But she shall find I can outwit'er! Does she—can he mean hon- orable love? Impossible, in his position! Still, men bave been known to sacrifice everything for a pretty face—witness Herbert Cunning- ham! Then, if I die childless, the Castle would go by right to bim and her. Never!” The voice alone could describe the deep sig, nificance there was in that last word. “T must discover—-I must ascertain the truth,” proceeded Lady Cunningham, as, cross: ing to the beil, she rung it three distinct times, q Then she sat down, her lips compresséd, her face gleaming strangely white from the dark, high-backed chair, and waited. In a brief space the door opened, and Hilda’s slight, fair figure appeared on the threshold. ‘‘ Your ladyship rung for me?” questioned tha low, sweet voice. ‘1 did. Come in, close the door, and come here.” Hilda obeyed, with a shiver, for the expres- sion on the features of her patroness startled her. The cold, hard, clear gray eyes seemed to pierce her, ‘| searcely expected you to answer my sum- mons, Miss Horne,” began my lady, in chill, sneering tones, as the young girl timidly halted in front of her, with drooped, clasped hands, and bent head. “I feared you thight not have returned from your assignation with your lover,” A wave of brilliant red rushed over Hilda’s fair skin at the idea that her secret had been discovered. Involuntarily she raised her frightened éyes as she gasped, ‘‘ Your ladyship!” | “What well-acted amazement!” broke in Lady Cunningham, with a short laugh. “Or is your alarm created by finding, Miss Horne, you are detected? I suppose you do not méan to deny, after what I witnessed to-night, his arm round your waist, his lips pressed to yours, that Mr. Bramber is your lover?” ‘You witnessed, your ladyship?” gasped the poor girl, overwhelmed with terror and con- fusion. W'g ? “I witnessed. Returning from my visit to that wretched old James Stone, I came through the trees, and saw your parting, I suppose, as you have so soon followed, from your lover, Mr. Bramber. Answer me, girl,” her voice breaking into anger, and bringing her white fingers sharply down on the oak arms of the chair, ‘‘is he not your lover?” A violent struggle seemed guing on in Hilda’s slight frame, Then, rendered bold by the knowledge of Jack’s affection, she said, low, but firm, while her glance calmly met the other’s, ‘‘ Yes, your ladyship, Mr. Bramber loves me.” * How?’ “How?” and the girl’s pure eyes opened, mutely interrogative. ts * Yes, how? Hea, gentleman; you a beggar, a pauper dependent for your daily bread! Do you think be would marry such,as you?”, Again that wave of color. Then, with sud- denly erect, proud, head and. flashing . eyes, Hilda replied, ‘‘ Lady Cunningham, Mr, Bram- ber is a gentleman; and is too. noble, too hon- est, to address me save as a lady. My very helpless, penniless dependence would in his eyes — be my shield from insult.” __ ; th Her ladyship had dropped rather back in her chair, her lips more set, her gaze riveted ow the girl. She was evidently taken by surprise at ibis new spirit in the worm which until now she had held so easily beneath ber heel. | When she spoke again she no longer did so in passion; she had measured her antagonist—tbis child, young, yet suddenly so resolute—-and saw its uselessness. : ‘* Well,” she said, coldly; “he loves you— honorab'y.” ‘He has asked me to be his wife,” “ And you?” * Haye "with a quick radiance of expres- ion—‘‘ consented.” St ne
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was thé answer, with a scornful shrug. ‘pass.to more serious matters. “A pag thing for you, But have you, in your wonderful affe ciion, thought of bim?’ **T do not understand your ladyship.” “The probable misery and trouble you will entail upon him by letting him, out of a sense of chivalry, wed a poor, penniless dependant?” _ Why am I derendent, Lady Cunningham?” broke in Hilda Horne. ‘“‘ Not by my own wish, but by your will. Have I not entreated to go forth into the world, to work, I cared not how hardly, teat I might win independence and make my own future, instead of suffering the bondage I undergo beneath this roo’? Why would you not permit me?” Lady Cunningham rose, stiffly erect. Her -face was set, but threatening, scornful, Why?” she answered. ‘That you should never mar the future of another as you would now Mr. Bramber’s. That you should not bring the disgrace on others that rests on your- self, as your father’s daughter a forger, a—” “Stop!” And the girt, looking straight into my lady’s eyes, said steadily, ‘‘ Lady Cunning- bam, who was my father?’ A ’ shadow swift and fleeting swept over her ladysbip’s countenance; her lips turned paler ; she stepped back. * “Why do you ask?’ she demanded. know—” ; “Many things. That he was, according to your account, your first husband’s cousin, In that case, why am I not permitted to see my father’s own kin? Why am I kept here a stranger to them?’ ‘Your father disgraced them. not own you. They cast vou off ” “Stay, Lady Cunningham!” and Hilda raised her small hand, ‘‘T said I knew many things. I know this. Your first husband had neither uncle nor aunt; therefore, he could have no cousin, You must have told me wrongly.” Her ladyship never moved. She only looked at her antagonist; yet there was a red, shifting light in the eyes beneath the half-drooped lashes, and a quiver of the mouth-muscles, that, could Hilda Horne have perceived wight have warned her to keep her knowledge to herself— certainly not to expose her band to her enemy, for the contest was not equal. But brave im the assurance of Jack Bram- “You They would _ber’s love, she no longer could, nor cared to, control the new spirit within her. She had ceased to be friendless and alone, and the bonds of ber lad yship once revolted against, she desired to break them entirely. In her ignorance, she hoped by showing her knowledge to terrify the other into confession. Lady Cunningham, after a space, slowly re- sumed her seat, a smile partling her lips. ‘* Really this is wonderful,” she said. ‘‘ Then, if not Edmund Horne’s daughter, who do you think you are?” “T do not know; I only have my suspicion.” “Am I permitted to learn what that points to? You think you are—?’ ‘““T think very possibly I am,” said Hilda, quietly, “Sir ‘Herbert Cunningham’s daugh. ter:” : Perhaps her ladyship expected that answer. Certainly directly it was given she lLurst into, for her, a loud, derisive laugh. “You Sir Herbért Cunningham’s daughter! Sir Herbert, the mysterious!” she exclaimed. “Well, this’ would add to the mystery and _ romance, certainly. Girl,” she added, sharply, “who put this absurity into your head?” ‘¢Fancies,” responded Hilda. ‘‘If it be an absurdity, then, Lady Caseig bara, I am just where { was before.” ‘‘And where you will continue to remain,” “ Had J known you would have flown at such bigh im- uginings, never would I have had anything todo with you, nor shown you charity. But I must The other can wait until you can prove Sir Herbert had a daughter, You are aware that Iam engaged to wed Lord Bramber?” OL aan “Then neither he nor I would countenance such a misalliance as his nephew, according to mk _WIDOW'S WILES. you, contemplates. I have agreed that Mr. Bramber shall yet remain his uncle’s heir, but if he wed you he will be disinherited—cast adrift on the world, even as was Sir Herbert. Reflect. You say you love him, Will you marry and cause his ruin, or will you sacrifice yourself, and save him?’ Hilda paused, and then replied, ‘‘ I must see Mr. Bramber before I decide.” ‘““Impossible! You may write. There — write! Give him up, and you sbail have your wisb. You shall go abrvad, and I will start you to win your independence.” ‘* Your ladyship, what you have said about my ruining Mr. Bramber may be true. If so, be sure I should hesitate before doing that. Yet, I must see him again. I can consent to nothing util I have. There are circumstances whieh make it absolutely necessary.” Lady Cunningham looked at the girl through her long, drooping lashes, and her lips began to tighten with rage as she noted her calm, resolute demeanor, Then something like a sensation of fear stole over her. What did she mean by ‘ circumstances?” What was their nature? “Do you intend to say that nothing will make you alter your mind?” she asked, quietly, after a pause of reflection. ‘‘That nothing will change you? That you will subject yourself and him to the pain of an inte: view? ? Nothing.” “Then the matter is ended,” remarked her ladyship, as if abandoning the subject. ‘‘John Bramber’s ruin rests with you, so look to it. Only know this, and tell him, neither his uncle nor I will be disgraced by sucha union. There! pass me my desk and stay here. EI may want you.” Hilda, relieved at the cessation of the topic, readily obeyed. Lady Cunningham, for a quarter of an hcur, occupied herself in sorting and docketing letters, as if preparatory for her marriage, which was to take place in about three weeks. One packet she tied with red tape, and put apart .rom the rest. Her manner .was composed. Had that thought of Jack Bramber’s, on hearing of James Stone’s death, any foundation? If so, this was a wonderful woman, indeed. Suddenly she rose, “Bring the light, Hilda,” she said, in her usual tones. ‘“‘I have got to look for some leiters.” Tve girl took the lamp, and followed. They ascended the. broad staircase, their blending shadows nodding and waving like warning gnomes on the oak wainscot of the walls as they went, Passing the next corridor, they ascended to the next, which, like the former, had but dis- used rooms giving on to them, for tley were guest-chambers. Proceeding along the last, Lady Cunningham unlocked the door of what used to be called the west tower room, being situated in one of the towers. On rare emer- gencies, the servant of a guest would be put there, so there were the usual bedchamber re- quisites. Yet, the place being round, and with the merest slit for a window, it had a prison- like aspect, especially as the door was furnished wiih a movable wicket or slide. Lady Cunningham, going to a chest of draw- ers, unlocked one, and put some papers in it, then began to turn over some loose articles. Abruptly, she said, “I think I will put those other letters here, too—those tied with tape. Fetch them, Hilda; you can take the light. I am not afraid of the dark.” The girl took the lamp, and went. It was nearly ten minutes before ‘she returned. She entered unsuspectingly, approached the table, and placed the packet down. “Here it is, Lady Cunningham,” she said. Then, with a start, looked round, for she heard the door close, and the lock turn! She was alone, and a prisoner, The next moment, the little wooden door slid back, and Lady Cunningham's face appeared at it. “What do you gon by this, your lady- phi Bets ship?’ cried Hilda, half-terrified, balf-indig- nant. ‘Is it a jest?” “Var from it. It is a method, Hilda Horne, to cure romantic, refractory children. If you will not listen to reason, you must be made to submit to force. Do not fear you are safe. Here you will have time for quiet reflection. Lord Bramber, and I as his future wife, cannot be disgraced. Directly you promise to give up John Bramber, and never see him again, you shall be free. Until you do, you remain here!” “This is shameful! It is terrible!” cried Hilda. ‘ Ob, help!—help! Is there no one to. free, to help me?” ‘‘None. As you are aware, directly this door is closed, your cries, be they ever so Joud, cannot through this oak be heard, even down in the next corridor. As to the. window, it runs slanting upward, so your cries could never reach any one in the grounds, Now, for the last time, will you go abroad, and give up John Bramber?’ ‘Never, now,”’ “though I die!” ‘‘T shall have you asked the question every’ day for two months,” said her ladyship, “Then, if you still remain obstinate—” “Then?” The gray eyes glittered like a cat’s; the voiee came tense, clear. A “Then—I will kill you! Farewell!” And without another word, Lady Cunning- ham secured the slide, and groped her way back to ber bedroom, where, sinking into the high-back chair, she murmured with satisfac- tion, “That is accomplished.. It was well thought of; what could have made her hit upon that idea of beiny Sir Herbert’s daughter? It is singular. For her, it is dangerous. Better to cross the panther’s path than mine!’ Her beautiful brows contracted. She drum- med her fingers thoughtfully on the table; then rung for Jane. replied the girl, haughtily, CHAPTER IX. THE LAWYER’S LETTER—DESPERATION. For a week matters went on pretty much ag usual at Weirbourne—that is, as far as appear- ances went. James Stone had been buried, much to the village’s relief, and the prepara- tions for Lord Bramber and Lady Gwendoline’s marriage were progressing rapidly. Large packages from West End tradespeople were incessantly arriving at the Castle or The Lodge. His lordship fell in a beautiful dream, and all the time he was not with his future bride, was busy with selections of horses, carriages, upholsterers, tailors, and others, The village caught the infection, and, in ex- pectancy of gay doings, began to prepare for the day, too, In the midst of the bustle Jack Bramber came back, looking decidedly better for his trip, though at times bis manner.was marked by a restless excitement that was not habitual to ‘him. When he saw his uncle’s arrangements for the soon-coming ceremony, his. countenance changed somewhat. A certain regret settled about his heart. . “¢ Confound it all!” he wouttered. can a fellow do?’ It appeared not easy to decide, especially as Lord Bramber was full of talk, being in excel- lent spirits, as they sat -at the late dinner, in time for which Jack had arrived. ‘‘Are you engaged this evening, my lord?’ asked the nephew, abruptly. “Tam, Jack. You see I did not know of your return. I shall leave you to drink your wine alone, my boy. I’m due at half-past seven at the Castile.’ ‘Not, I suppose, to meet the lawyers, for settlements or that kind of thing?’ ‘No, not yet; that matter is to take plaee the day after to-morrow.” “ Ah,” said Jack, thoughtfully, then. ‘‘ Well, uncle, what I have to speak to you about will do as well at breakfast time as new.” “Yet what
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—— ‘Not caught in Hymen’s net yourself, eh, Jack?’ “IT don’t know,”—with a careless laugh. ‘But as to the Castle, I suppose things are go- ing on just as when I left? No influx of vis- itors?” ‘**No; those that are invited are to arrive only within a few daysof the ceremony. All is yet the same; except, by the way, that pretty girl, Gwend>line’s protegee, Hilda Horne—” “What of her?” inquired Jack, quickly. “Has left the Castle to visit some of her ladyship’s friends.” ‘Left the Castle?’ repeated Jack Bramber, an imperceptible fall in his tones. ‘“Went away, I was told, the very day you did, 1 don’t know whether she is to return for the wedding or not. Now, my boy, I must ask yeu to excuse me,”—and_ his lordship rose. “It would hardly be the right thing, you know, for a lover to keep his mistress waiting; and such a mistress!”—kissing his finger-tips. “She is divine; as lovely as she is good.” “Does he really, sincerely love her?” reflect- ed Jack, watching the antiquated beau’s jaunty exit from the room. Then dropping back on his chair, his counte- nance grave, he muttered, ‘‘ Hilda left the ‘Castle, and so suddenly! She knew nothing of it when we met that night, I’d swear, or she would havetold me. Can there be anything in it? ‘He who does will yet dare,’ says the proverb. Well, but it is a game two can play at. 1 must find out. Hilda will surely have found means to leave some communication.” Finishing his wine hurriedly, Jack Bramber rose, took his hat, and set off for the old ren- dezvous—for old it was now—in the Cunning- ham grounds. Of course he did not expect to find Hilda; but he did a notice from her, as to why and where she had gone. Walking straight to an old oak, whose fibrous, knotty base was covered with fern, he drew the latter aside, and put his hand into a small hole, till then concealed, in the trunk. Natur- ally, he found it empty. ‘It’s strange,” he muttered. ‘‘She couldn’t have found an opportunity to come. And I’ve a strong suspicion if I were to ask Lady Cun- ningham where she is gone, she would not tell me. I should fear for my darling’s safety if I imagined her ladyship could at all have sus- pected. But that’s impossible. Lve taken too many precautions, and worked in secret like the nile.” During these reflections he had quitted the grcunds. He was annoyed, but not uneasy, even when it occurred that in a week’s time Hilda might have written. Fear of her letter falling into other hands would have prevented that, as she did not know his London address, and was uncertain about the time of his return to Weirbourrne. So, as he strode along the high road, he turned his eyes with very differ- ent fee ings upon the Castle than he would have done had he known that his beloved lay pining a prisoner in yonder high, gray tower, rearing itseif up into tho slate-blue, gloomy sky, and how frequently her piteous cries issued from the loop-bole to beat themselves against the vault of heaven, but never reaching earth, from whence help might come. Ignorant of this, Jack Bramber retired early, fatigued by his journey; but mental excitement overcame pbysical weariness, and, broad awake, for long he tossed, thinking about that conversation with his uncle on the morrow which was to be no pleasant one, and for which Lord Bramber might blame him and feel exces- sive anger; also cf the communication which he knew was to arrive for Lady Cunningham by the earliest post. In fact, he knew the next day would be an eventful cne. He was right. But it was to exceed even his expectations. As her ladyship, awaking to it, pushed back the heavy curtain, she saw tho morning was, bright and beautiful. | “How oppressive has been the night, Der- ner!’ she said to the servant who had entered. rl | dence, that the late A _WIDOW’S WILES. ¢ *y 5 / “And so still, my lady!” was the curt re- “Tf there’s any more such nights, that | sponse, girl up there may make herself heard. sure I heard her once last night.” ‘‘Never!” cried ber ladyship, starting up. “Tf so, I must see to it.” Jan» Derner, facing round, looked fixedly at her; then, raising her finger, said, in sentences that were not vague to the hearer, ‘‘ Not in that way, my lady! Recollect that. ‘Tbere’s been enough of it already.” Lady Cunningham’s fine shaped lips com- pressed viciously; but she rejoined, with a mocking laugh, ‘‘As if there were no way of keeping the child quiet but one!” ‘“‘Humph! you can laugh; Ican’t. As I’ve said over and over again, it isn’t fair. But there! ill seeds once sown can’é be picked up again.” “You are right; so help me to dress, Derner, and cease maundering.”’ Elegantly attired in a tasteful morning toi- lette, Lady Cunningham descended to the bright little apartment where she always break- fasted. A heap of letters awaited her, and those in blue envelopes predominated. They were from those West End _trades- people; and between discussing her chocolate, my lady opened them, made notes on the backs, and put them aside. At last she came upon one, blue enveloped, and having no distinctive mark outside to warn her that it was no tradesman’s polite missive, like the rest. . Carelessly she broke it asunder, then abruptly sat erect, for her eyes had rested on the printed address at the top—Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Curiosity, perplexity, surprise, interest, biended in her face, and she read :—- ae T feel ADAM,— “Tt having been told bo) upon clear, authentle evi- Sir Hereward Cunningham, an- terior to his demise, in secret executed a later will than that read at his funeral, we bez to inform you that, as the solicitors retained by those who are act- ing in the interest of Sir Herbert Cunningham and his heirs, we find it necessary that a search should be instituted through the Castle, and strict inquiries made, for which eae ose the head of our firm will wait upon you the day after to-morrow, when we should like to be put into communication with your solicitor, as it is wished to have the unpleasant mat- ter Smicaply arsangell, it possible. “We are, madam, “ Your obedient servants, * GRANITE, HARDWARE & Son. “To Lady Cunningham, Cunningham Castle.”’ Before my lady had ended the jerusal, a greenish hue had spread over her countenance. Not a muscle moved. Only her eyes seemed to contract, and the light in them grow more brilliant. She sat gazing on the letter, mo- tionless. Finaily, with an effort, she raised her head, and strove to speak. She could not until she had moistened her lips; then, in a hard whis- per, ‘‘ Whose work is ibis ?”’ she gasped, hoarse- ly, her eyes fixed before her, as though she wera addressing some unseen person. She paused, as if for areply, then went on. “T know. 1 cannot doubt. This is John Bramber’s work. I see it all. I was too late. I hastened the old sinner’s end to little pur- pose. He must have contessed—before— Ob, Heaven !” Suddenly she dropped back, covering her face with her hands. Soon she burst forvb again, more rapidly and with increasing ex- citement. “Tt is he who has been working against me, and for love of that gir.! Is love to prove my overthrow, as it has been the ladder of my re- venge? John Bramber must- have told her, hence her suspicions that sbe is Sir Herbert’s daughter. Sir Herbert! If so, he held his title but a brief space. But why think of that now? Is not this”—and furiously she struck the letter—‘‘ enough, and more than enough, to occupy me? What am Ito do? Deny all knowledge of this will, of course. Yet how can I tell what James Stone has said? The old villain, to turn upon me when he cculd no : let me think!” * 3 * iS ae Po - ie | but now that idea was rater too late. longer benefit by my bounty! Lot me think— | — el’ Too restless to remain still, rising, she paced the room, pressing with ber hands the hair back from her temples. Her face was of a strange pallor, save for two glowing red spots on the cheeks; while her eyes, fixed, stony, yet seemed to emit a red, angry light. “‘Tf Llie to them,’ she proceeded, ‘do not let me be idiot enuugh to seek to deceive my- self! O£ course it is James Stone who con- fessed! And he has told all—all; else why should these men term it an ‘unpleasant mat- ter,’ and desire ‘anamicable arrangement? No; they know, they know—know that I paid him, one of the witnesses to that secret will, te hold his tongue! While he lived terror held him mute! But dying, what cared he for me? Well—ha, ha!—I had my revenge on him, too; and I am glad, glad!” She was silent a space, during which her countenance changed to many expressions. Sometimes to fear, but that was rare and transient; sometimes she gave short, sharp laughs, but as if unconsciously, aud having no connection with her thoughts. “They will be here to-norrow!” she broke out once more. *‘Of course to search! Well, they can do notbing without the will; and can- not I outswear James Stone?—for they will never find it! Have I not searched every- where?’ But they may possibly pull down the panels, or tear up the floors! Ah!”—and with fierce passion she beat her hands together— ‘‘why did I not carry out my first intent, and burn the place to the ground? There would have been no finding then! I dare not do it now! And yet I would, this instant, accept- ing all the consequences, rather than a child of Sir Herbert’s, the man I hated, ruined, and— and killed—yes, let me say the word—should call this place theirs!’ This thought, somehow, got a hold over her brain. Never bad Herbert Cunningham read a nature so well as when he called her hard and pitiless. For an hour she remained lost in troubled reflection. summoning Jane Derner, but refrained, “No,” she muttered; ‘‘better take no one into my confidence! She, too, has begun to preach, and finds she has a conscience!” “Taking the letters, sho went to her room, where she locked Messrs. Granite, Hardware and Son’s away in herdesk. Then she dressed; for she had promised to drive to visit a friend that morning, and determined no alteration in her plans should create suspicion. ‘‘ As, handsome, stately, statuesque, reclining amid the soft cushions of the carriage, she drove through the lodge-gates, she saw a man talking to the lodge-keeper. My lady’s eyes and lips contracted. “Tam watched!” she reflected. If that man be not a detective, I never saw oue!” She was made cure of it before she returned. For the man, now on horseback, passed her on the road, and every now and then kept turning up in ber path. ‘‘T couldn’t escape if I would!” she muttered. ‘‘ That man bas a warrant for my arrest in his pocket! I know it! If lL attempted to fly, he would serve it! Affairs are desperate! Well, soam I! Before all things, my revenge; and 16 shall be bitter! They shall see!” CHAPTER X. PITILESS UNTO DEATH—SUNSHINE, A Gwoom hung over the Lodge. Jack had said bis say al last, but after much nerveus de- lay. As the morning dawned, the difficulties of his part seemed considerably to increase, and greater caution to be requisite. Supposing his uncle was so infatuated as not to believe? Supposing, flying into a passion, he went over to Cunningham, and put her lady- ship on her guard? There was nothing more likely, and nothing Jack would so much avoid. What was to be done? Better to defer his intelligence until a‘ter the arrival ct the lawyer, Lord Bramber, whose memory bad even, like him- self, seemed to grow younger, would surely in- cae | ae Once she had been on the point of |
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of 14 A WIDOW’S quire what that news was which Jack had desired to commur cate “Supp°se I go o.t, and don’t see him?” re- fiected Jack, ruffling his silky hair into a per- fect tangle in his perplexit7. ‘‘ Not until the evening, that is? It is but justice, it is but kindness, that he should bave the newy first from me, I fear he’ll be awfully cut. Before he could decide, Lord Bramber en- tered the breakfast-room, and, to cover bis agitation, Jack seized one of the morning pa- pers, The first thing his eyes rested upon was a murder that was for a Jong time to excite the world. He seized upon it as a drowning man seizes a straw, but it rendered him truer service. Lord Bramber grew interested, and Jack, sometimes not knowing the words he was uttering, read on, until Clegg appeared with his horse, and he escaped, For a time only. He reiurned during the afternoon, meaning, however, again to take flight—but it was not to be, As he was passing through the hall, Lord Bramber, opening the study door, called him iv. “By the way, Jack,” he said, kindly, ‘* you had something to speak to me about. At least, you said so Jast evening. It was very careless of me to forget, my dear boy. You should have reminded me. But I suspect that horri- ble murder put it out of both our heads. Mur- der! The mere word makes one shudder. I can conceive many things, Jack, but J cannot that of one being taking another’s life. In my eyes, no circumstances can extenuate the deed. But there! I don’t beheve there would be half the murders there are if they were not written and talked about so much. Let us, at least, change the subject. You want to speak to mo—I to you—and hope both subjects will be of a pleasanter nature.” Never had Jack Bramber felt more wretch- edly uncomfortable. All had seemed to be such plain sailing until now. “You wish to speak to me, uncle?’ he said, secking yet to gain a few minutes’ respite. “Yes; I wish, my boy, to arrange about your future—to settle a larger income on you, you know, for you will not care, of course, to be tied down to Cunningham. But your affair first—yours first.” Then Jack, taking his courage in both hands, made his statement of James Stone’s confession, luis suspicions that Hilda was really Sir Her- bert’s daughter, and how he had placed the matter in the hands of Messrs. Granite, Hard- ware & Son. Loid Bramber wes at first surprised, then frightened, then angry. Why had Jack dared t> act thus, on his own responsibility, without consulting him? ‘To save you, out of very deep consideration to you, my lord,” replied Juck. ‘ I kn:w that the chivalric sentiments you hold towar] the sex would have moved your heart, too gener- cusly, to sacrifice yourself for them, Also, aware of your affection for Lady Cunningham, I wished to keep your name from the unpleas- untness of being mixed up in this unhappy matter; though, love her as you may, I do not think you would ‘care to wed a woman who, I fear, has committed worse than robbery—even murder!” *-I don’t believe it. I will not; at least, sir, without further proof.” So estrangement grew between the uncle and nephew. They met at dinner without speak- ing, until, testily, Lord Bramber said, as they sat silently over their wine, ‘‘ How insufferably close it is! Can’t you draw back the curtains? What induced Clarke to close them?” As Jack —o he uttered a loud excla- mation, ‘* What’s the matter?” demanded my lord, “The Castle is on fire!” “Fire!” repeated his lordship, springing up. ‘Yes, uncle. By Heaven, she has set fire to it to destroy the will and proofs of her guilt!” “Jack ‘Bramber!” cried my lord, though he had turned white; ‘“‘how dare you?” 4 But J=¢: bad rashe.1 into the hall, seized his hat, and wa3 off to Cunningham. He bad not been deceived. The w ct tower was in flames. He had seen the glare on the windows, and the rolling volumes of smoke, when he pulled back the curtain. Before he had gone far, he met crowds of excited villagers runuing inthe same direction as himself, while the air was vibrating with the word ‘ Fire!” The engines had been sent for; every bucket and every hand was in requisition. As Jack rushed with the crowd through the gates, the man whom my lady had declared a detective accosted bim. “Do you fancy you can account for this fire, sir?” “‘T fear so.” “‘She’s a determined one, she is!” ‘“‘T suppose the flames can be got under?” ‘Not the west tower. That's done for; and there, a’ course, the will’s hid that nobody could find.” On reaching the front, the detective’s words proved true. The rooms of the west tower were chiefly of oak panel, and burned furiously. The place was doomed. — When the firemen arrived, they confirmed this, and directed their efforts to prevent. the spread of the flames; while a band was organ- ized to carry out and guard any valuable fur- niture, pictures, and plate. “Where is Lady Cunningham?” inquired Jack of a servant he managed to ~ in the confusion. “Safe, sir. She is directing what articles are to’ be removed, No one is in the west tower now.” “Thank Heaven!” turned, for, as the mun had sped on, a hand was laid on his arm. Looking down, he be- held the scared, pale, terrified face of Jane Derner. ‘¢Tss false,” she whispered, excitedly. ‘‘Ha doesn’t know. I’ve gone far, and done much with my lady, but I can’t do this. ‘here is some one in the tower, and she can’t get out, fcr she’s locked in. Oh, horror! I fancy I hear tho screams above this hubbub; but it can’t be!” And she wrung her hands ‘Ob, save her! save her! Here is the key!” Jack seized it, as he cried, ‘‘Some one locked in, woman? Whom? “Miss Hilda Horne—or Hilda Cunningham, gi eed s what she is!—that’s what she is!” ith a loud ery, Jack seized the speaker. ““Woman,” he ejaculated, ‘“‘you speak not truly! Who dared lock her there? If i‘’s true, Pll kill you.” “Ip was Lady Cunningham, I tell you. If you stop to /:ill me you'll never save her. Are you mad? Oa, on; the smoke may already have overpowered her,” cried the woman, ex- citedly. ‘‘And, mark me, should you meet my lady on your way, she will not allow you to proceed.” By this time, Jack had recovered himself. He saw the necessity of being cool, and acting promptly. Even now, ob, Heaven! he might be too late. Rapidly Jane Derner led him into the house, accompanied him as far as she dared, then gave him directions too clear to be misunder- stood. By the energetic efforts of the firemen, and the copious supply of water, the west tower had been pretty well separated fronmy the rest of the building, but there the flames raged fiercely, with fiery tongues running over and clutching relentlessly the old oak panels, while volumes of smoke, thick and stifling, rolled through the corridors and up the niaircamen, as if on guard. But Jack Bramber, rage and terror in his heart, was not to be driven back by heat or smoke, Swiftly he mounted to the first aoreidow, then started back amazod, for abruptly, out of the dense smoke, came Lady Cunningham. Her eyes flashed with hate as she beheld him. ‘How dare you enter here?” she exclaimed. “What want you?” me > WILES. . exclaimed ack: then. = “ To free Miss Cunrin sham, wnom you have here a prisoner,’ he answer.d, passicnately. ‘¢Tt is falss! Who told you thar?” “That matters not. Stand aside!” he cried, authoritatively; for, as the smoke grew hotter and more stifling, he knew how precious was every moment. ““T shall not!’ she retorted, barring his way. “T tell you there is no one there. % It was no time for ceremony. Jack caught her by the shoulder, but like a vise her arms closed fast round him, ‘You shall not go!” she hissed through her teeth. ‘¢You have thwarted me once, John Bramber; you shall not again. We'll die to- gether, rather!” ‘“‘Woman! fiend!” cried Jack, struggling to free himself; ‘is not your list of crimes full enough but. that you would yet add to it? Know that James Stone’s body is to bo ex- humed, and if poison be found in it, you will be charged as his destroyer!” “ Ah )?? Lady Cunningham could not control that guilty start. Jack seized his advantage, and flung her violently from him. She reeled, staggered back, and disappeared into the vail of smoke. He heard her fall; but it was not to be sup- posed he would risk Hilda’ s safety by attending to her cruel enemy first. Choking with the stifling smoke, his veins swelling, his breath labored, he sprung on, stumbling, at times, fearful ever that he should be too late. Ob, Heaven, should he find her suffocated— dead} The door was reached at last, the key in- serted; the next instant Jack was in the room. That strong door, which had smothered her cries, had been her preservation. It had been a barrier to the smoke. As the young fellow rushed in, calling her name, Hilda sprung into his arms, “Jack!—-ob, dear, brave Jack!—oh, my love!” she exclaimed, in tears. of hysterical joy. ‘Saved, saved!” One long, passionate embrace, taken, as it were, in the very jaws cf death; then, with a few hurried words of explanation, and an en- treaty that she would trust in him, whicb she replied to by a fond hand-pressure, he, half- leading, half-supporting her, and finally carry- ing, fought his way back through the smoke, which, to his alarm, was rapidly becoming of a reddish hue. ~ In his auxiety for his beloved charge, he for- got Lady Cunningham. But on reaching the corridor, no one attempted to bar their progress. The place seemed deserted. Had Jack recol- lected her, he would have imagined she had wisely provided for her own safety. With much difficulty, finally, staggering and reeling as one drunk with wine, Jack Bramber at last reached the ground floor with Hilda, As swiftly they made their way to the un- touched portion of the Castle, they met others, when Jack had but time to give Hilda to their care before he fell insensible. At the same instant, there was a fearful crash. Those without beheld an instant’s dark- ness, quickly followed by a mighty cloud of brilliant sparks, followed by an upward rush of a great spiral flame. The lower portion of the west tower had fallen in, bringing much of. the upper with it. In falling, Lady Cunningham’s temple had come in such violent contact with a projection of the cornice of the wainscot as to cause in- sensibility, and there she still was lying uncon- scious when Jack Bramber hurried by with Hilda. Hardly, however, had they.passed, than her senses began to return in a dazed fashion. Stunned by the blow, stifled by smoke, her intellect was not clear enough for reason, or perception of her imminent danger. All she remembered distinctly was that Jack Bramber had gone to rescue Hilda, and her resolve to balk him. Sbe groped her way to the stairs, and as- scended them, reiterating like a madwoman, as at the moment she was, ‘‘he can’t save eae Oe
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on her—he can’t—he can’t! He hasn't the key— he hasn’t the key! They’ll both go—both! My revenge will be complete!” When, however, she found the door open, and the :oum empty, with a scream of rage, she rushed out and down tke stairs, Blinded, giddy, dazed, her bhauds burnt, on reaching the first corridor she missed her foot- ' ing, and fell before she could recover herself. The crash came, the wall and staircase were cayyied away, and Lady Cunningham was car- ried with them, never to open her eyes in this world again; proving Sir Herbert’s words to have been true—that she was ha:d and _ pitiless unto death. Had it been Lady Cunningham’s intention, as no doubt it was, to destroy the will and Hilda; the only heir to Sir Herbert, in part she had succeeded. The will was never found! That it had existed was put beyond dispute by James Stone’s confession, signed by Jack and the neighbor’s wife, Mrs. Mather. That had stated that he, James Stone, and Sir Hereward’s valet had been summoned iuto the Baronet’s presence duriug the absence of her ladyship, and required to witness their master sign a paper, They were paid to hold their tongues, and given to understand it was a will, reinstating Mr. Herbert, and most hand- somely providing for Lady Cunningham. He dismissed them with the entreaty that, should he die suddenly, they would make: the existence of this will known, if he had not done so previously. The Baronet dead, the valet had believed that he was doing right in telling her ladyship of the will. Whereupon, not without much diffi-, culty in either case, she had with a large sum Purchased the witnesses’ silence, James Stone consenting to take less if he were kept in idle- ness all his days. in regard to Hilda, her identity was equally placed beyond, disgu e, for Jave Derner also confessed everything. Lady Cunningham had sent her the very day afte. the Baronet’s death to London, to remove Herbert’s child, as if to take it to its father, and to pay any debts that might be owing in Herbert’s name. The little thing was at once put to school as Hilda Horne, and there she remained until four- teen, when she was taken to Lady Cunning- ham, who was then abroad, There was one mystery yet that needed elu- cidatinz—what had become of Herbert Cun- ningham? Here Jane Derner could give a little, but very little, help, and that, she averred, was only obtained by cance. Having been down to the village on the night previous to the Baronet’s death, in takiag a short cut through the trees she bad come upon two persons. Oue she knew to be my lady; the other she had imagined was Herbert Cun- ningbam. She could not get near enough to hear what was being said, but the two seemed on trieudiy ‘terms. Befvre they parted they had come closer, and Jane Derner hear i Lady Cunningham distinctly say these words: “ Farewe.l until to-morrow. T need not say be putictual.” The next day, entering the oak bed-chamber while the Baronet was under the influence of a soporific, she had seen my lady coming through the seeret panel into the room. Jase Derner had noiselessly withdrawn, unperceived; but when her time came to watch, she had entered the passage herself, but. found nothing, save that the boards were very unsafe, and at one part bad, as it appeared to her, recently broken, or been broken away, exposing a dark, yawn- ‘ing chasm below. Whetaer Jane Derner’s recital was true, or she bad recons.ructed it to shield herself from the punishment of complicity, could not he de- cided, but the conuecting link of her story and Sir Herbert’s apenas. disapp.arance was ar- rived at when the (ee Se See ON, ee eee ee eee ee ee a ee Se Te ok Se es See Sy a eae ee | eee ee a ruins of the west wing, came upon a skeleton, which the letters and remnants of clothes found near, proved to have once been Herbert Cunningbam, at a spot that must have been immediately beneath the secret passage. Lady Cunningham had lured the unhappy man to his ruin, and be had tailen into the trap. Little remains to be told. Though the sec- ond will was never discovered, Hilda, by the first, came into her right, as Lady Cunningham bad died unmarried. Being +o friendless, she readily consented to a qitiet union with Jack, when they started for the Contisent, to which Lord Bramber, rather erestfallen, but tnankful for his escape, had already flown. It was three years before Mr. and Mrs. Bramber r-turned to Cunningham, wHich soon put on quite a gay and festive appearance. Happiness, as unalloyed as earthly happiness can be, took up its perpetual abode there. The ancient walls, and the dim, soft shadows among the od trees, were made musical by children’s laughter. But to their dying day, a cold, chill shudder would pass througa Jack and Hilda, even in their supremest momeats of happiness, when they thought of beautiful Lady Gwendo- line and her better vengeance. THE END. The Saturday Journal, “The Model Family Paper * —AND— é Most Charming of the Weeklies.” A pure paper; good in every thing; bright, brilliant and attractive. Serials, Tales, Romances, Sketches, Adventures, Biographies, Pungent Essays, Poetry, Notes and Answers to Correspondent’, Wit and Fun— All are features in every number, from such celebrated writers as no paper in America can boast of. 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Miss M. E. Braddon,...... 10c 89 A WicKED Woman. By Lillie Devereux Blake.. 10c 14-15 Toruers or THE Sea. By Victor Hugo...... 10c 60 Burxp BarBara’s Secret. Mary G. Halpine.. 10c 16 Tue QvapRoon. By Catharine A Warfield.... 10¢ 61 AN AMERICAN QUEEN. By Grace Mortimer... 10¢ 17-18 Ynote Sinas. By J. S. Le Fanu ........... 10c 62 Maraoun, THE Stranar. By Wm. M. Turner. 10c 19-20 Dzap-Sza Frorr. Miss M. E. Braddon...... 10c 68 Wirz on Wipow. By Rett Winwood....... . We 21-22 Lirrie Kate Kirsy. F. W. Robinson....... 10c 64 Tux Creotz Cousins. By Philip 8. Warne... 10c 23 Sowine THE Winp, Mrs. Mary R. Crowell..... 10c 65 Pursvep Tro THE AuTaR. By Cushman . -. 100 24-25 Brrps of Prey. Miss M. E. Braddon ...... 10c 66 Tue TrerRIBie TRoTH. By Jenuie D. Burton. 10c = oa Boy or ge taal og Sg — a0 67 Execant Eesrrt. By Philip 8S. Warne....... 10c 28 CHARLOTTE’S INHERITANCE. on. , 29 A Grru's Heart. By Rett Winwood ........ 10c = SN eae sper on Current es , rne : ss pag Ss aoe > tad = ae Hepes Stet id 70 D, @ To Ruin. By Mary Reed Crowell... 10c ne Lity of St. Erne. By Mrs. We 3. Baz. ’ na te 3 Semaxouty Wao. Dy Mrs. J. D. Burton... 10 Be Rens peat Bee Ramede) THE Gipsy BRIDE. ery fp meee 72 Tur Mysterious GuarpIAN. Corinne Cushman 10e 35 Annie Tempue. By Rev. J. H, Ingraham. .... 10¢ 73 Was SHE A Wire. By Rett Winwood......... 10 36 Wirnovr Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell. ... 10¢ 74 ADRIA, THE ApopTeD. By Jennie D. Burton.. 10c 87 Buack Eyrs AND Biur. Uorinne Cushman.... 10c [5 Prerry AND PROUD By Corinne Cushman. . 10c 38 Brave BarBara. By Corinne Cushman ...... Oc 7 Tar Brrier FEUD. By Jennie D. Burton beh i*3 39 A Danacerovus Woman. By Margaret Blount... 10c 7 A Woman's Work. By Mrs. E. F. Ellett.. . 10c 40 Ovma’s Love. By Henrietta E. DeConde... . 10c 7 Tue Biack Rippie. By Corinne Cushman.. 10c ° on rely By Soarencet Bloat thay i 79 CoRAL AND Rusy. By s. Jennie D. Burton. 10c 2 * ell wey a i aC a : Dovamaedi tic eect clk ae el S este ; HE DEAD LETTER. By secley Megester. .. 81 ALmost Marriep; or, Jacqueline’s Oath. By 45 Lorp Liste’s Daventer. By C. M. Braeme.. 10c ’ Slit 46 A Wowan’s Haxp. Author 0 “ Dead Letter. * We A Parson’s Daughter. Teas Jan. 13th... 10¢ IALS OF WRATH. By . Mary well. A issue two weeks. 48 A Wiitp Girt. By Corinne Cushman....... . 10c ans ris - ’ 49 Tae Mappest Marriage Ever Was. Burton. 10c For sale by al! newsdealers, or sent, postage Ped 50 Love iN A Maze. By Mrs. E. F. Bllet.......... 1 on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, 51 Carnorina. By Dr. J. H. Robinson....... ... 10e Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y. or, Wir. Soe Marry 1 The Masked Bride; Reed Crowell. Him. By Mrs. Mary 2 Was HEARTS. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 8 The Girl Wife; or, Tr Fautsz. By Bartley T. Campbell. ’4 A Brave Heart; or, SrarTiincty STRANGE. ae agg Southworth. | 5 ears Raynor, the Work Girl. By m. Mason Turner, M. D. 6 The Secret Marriage; or, A DUoHEsS IN | Sprrz oF HERSELF. By Sara 7 A Daughter of Eve; or, By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 Heart to Heart; or, Farr Pxyuuis’ Love. By Arabella Southworth. 9 Alone in the World}; or, Taz Youna Man’s Warp. By the author of “ Clifton.” 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, Taz Emeratp NeEckKLAcE. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Entangled; or, A Danycrrovs Game. By Henrietta ae OE 12 His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, Taz Camp or Apoption. By Mrs. Ann 8, Stephens. 13 Madcap, the Little By Corinne Cushman. a4 Why I Married Him: or, Taz Woman In Gray. By Sara Claxton. 15 A Fair Face; or, Our mw THE Wortp. By Bartley T. Campbell. 16 Trust Her Not; or, Taz Truz Kyicur. By Margaret Leicester. or, THe Last OF THE 17 A Loyal Lover ETHS. By Arabella Southworth. Quakeress, GrimsP 18 His eor on, Tue Int-STarrep MARRIAGE. By Mrs. Mary Crowell. 19 The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Harz. By Grace Halpine. 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, THE Wrrones or NEw YorE:. Agile Penne. 21 Now and Forever; or, Way DiwSHe Marry , 43 The Haro By the author 44 Ly Hm. Henrietta keray. 22 The Bride of an Actor. e of “ Alone in the World,” etc., ete. wa ; a v% ‘ ¢ > ’ - + RUE AND THE © n. BLINDED BY LOVE. | e Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published. t Love? or, CoLLEGIANS AND SWEET- | Claxton. 24 Her Face Was Her Fortune, By Eleanor Blaine. 25 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Hur UNTOLD | Secret. By Arabella Southworth. 26 Without a Heart: or, WALKING ON THE) Brink. By Prentiss Ingraham. 27 Was Shea Coquette ? or, A Strance Court- sHip. By Henrietta Thackeray. : 28 Sybil Chase: or, THE GAMBLER’S Wire. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens. 29 For Mer Dear Sake: or, Savep From Aim SELF. BY Sara Claxton. 30 The Bouquet Girl: or, A Mrion oF Money Agile Penne. 31 A Mad Marriage: or, TszE Inon Witn. By Mrs. Mary A. Dennison. 32 Miriana, the Prima Donna: or, Roszs anp Lities. By A. Southworth. 33 The Three Sisters: or, THE Mystery or Lorp CHaLFontT. By Alice Fleming. 34 A Marriage of Convenience: or, Was He A Count? By Sara Claxton. $5 Sinned Against: or, THE WINTHROP PRIDE. By Clara Augusta. 36 Sir Archers Bride: or, THE Queen or His Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 37 The Country Cousins; or, Aut 1s Nor Gorp Tsat Gutrers. By Rose Kennedy. 38 His Own Again; or, Trust Her Nor. By Arabella Southworth. 39 Flirtation; or, A Youne Giru’s Goop Name. By Ralph Royal. . 40 Bledged to Marry}; or, In Lovn’s Bonps. 41 Wor.Lp. Sara Claxton. By Alice Flemi 42 Beatrice, Love. By A. ng. the Beautiful; or, Hts Szconp Secret: or, THe Rrvan : mn. he O VER. T y D2 Lover. By Alice yr Each Issue Complete. PACS y 3 Waverley Libr 23 Leap Vear; or, Way Sar Proposep. By Sara | 45 Her Hidden Foe or, BROTHER AGAINST | receipt of six cents each. or, Love at ALL Opps. By Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress; or, Unper A Croup. ie vem ison. 47 Because She Loved Him; or, How Wm ir Enp. By Alice bec 48 In Spite of Herself; or, JENNETT2’s Rep- ARATION. By 8. R. Sherwood. 49 His Heart’s Mistress 3 or, Love at First SieHt. By Arabella Southworth. 60 The Cuban Heiress; or, Taz Prisonwmr or LaVintresse. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 51 Two Young Girls; or, Tar Brie or san Ear. By Alice Fleming. 52 The Winged Messenger} or, Rising ALL For a Heart. By Mrs. Mary Crowell. 53 Agnes Hope, the i geek or, Tux Ro- MANCE OF A Rusy Rixa. By W. M. Turner, M. D. or, Savep From - 54 One Woman’s Heart Street. B S. me. THE , By 55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Stoopme ro Conquer. By Arabella Southworth. 56 Love-Mad3 or, BrrrorHep, Marrmp, Dt- VORCED AND ——. By W. M. Turner. 57 A Brave Girl; or, Sunssine at Last. By Alice Fleming. 58 The Ebon Mask} or, Taz Strance @warpr- an. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Brrrmr Rerrnt- AaNncE. By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Cecil’s Deceit; or,THe Dramonp Laeacy. i By Mrs. Jennie Davis ‘Burton, 61 A Wicked Meart; or, Tue Fatse anv Tar TrvuE. By Sara Claxton. Ready January 11th, lind Devotion; or, Love AGAINST THE 62 The Maniac Bride; or, Taz Drap Sacrer or Hottow Asn. By Margaret Blount. Jan. 18, A new issue every week, * Toe WaAvERLEY Liprary is for sale by dealers, five cents per co or sent ADLE AN aH News- mail on ADAMS, | Publishers, 98 William street, New York.