A TERRIBLE SECRET. 

A Novel. 

BY

MAY AGNES FLEMING, To

CHRISTIAN REID, AUTHOR OF

"VALERIE AYLMER, " ETC. , AS A

TOKEN OF ADMIRATION AND ESTEEM, THIS

STORY IS DEDICATED. 

MAY AGNES FLEMING. 

BROOKLYN, _September_, 1874. 

CONTENTS. 

 I. --Bride and Bridegroom Elect II. --Wife and Heir III. --How Lady Catheron came Home IV. --"I'll not Believe but Desdemona's Honest" V. --In the Twilight VI. --In the Moonlight VII. --In the Nursery VIII. --In the Darkness IX. --From the "Chesholm Courier" X. --From the "Chesholm Courier"--Continued XI. --"Ring out your Bells! Let Mourning Shows be Spread!" XII. --The first Ending of the Tragedy

PART II. 

 I. --Miss Darrell II. --A Night in the Snow III. --Trixy's Party IV. --"Under the Gaslight" V. --Old Copies of the "Courier" VI. --One Moonlight Night VII. --Short and Sentimental VIII. --In Two Boats IX. --Alas for Trix X. --How Trix took it XI. --How Lady Helena took it XII. --On St. Partridge Day XIII. --How Charley took it XIV. --To-morrow XV. --Lady Helena's Ball XVI. --"O My Cousin Shallow-hearted!" XVII. --"Forever and Ever" XVIII. --The Summons XIX. --At Poplar Lodge XX. --How the Wedding-day Began XXI. --How the Wedding-day Ended XXII. --The Day After XXIII. --The Second Ending of the Tragedy

PART III. 

 I. --At Madame Mirebeau's, Oxford Street II. --Edith III. --How they Met IV. --How they Parted V. --The Telling of the Secret VI. --The last Ending of the Tragedy VII. --Two Years After VIII. --Forgiven or--Forgotten? IX. --Saying Good-by X. --The Second Bridal XI. --The Night XII. --The Morning

CHAPTER I. 

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM ELECT. 

Firelight falling on soft velvet carpet, where white lily buds trailalong azure ground, on chairs of white-polished wood that glitterslike ivory, with puffy of seats of blue satin; on blue and giltpanelled walls; on a wonderfully carved oaken ceiling; on sweepingdraperies of blue satin and white lace; on half a dozen lovelypictures; on an open piano; and last of all, on the handsome, angryface of a girl who stands before it--Inez Catheron. 

The month is August--the day the 29th--Miss Catheron has good reasonto remember it to the last day of her life. But, whether the Augustsun blazes, or the January winds howl, the great rooms of CatheronRoyals are ever chilly. So on the white-tiled hearth of the bluedrawing-room this summer evening a coal fire flickers and falls, andthe mistress of Catheron Royals stands before it, an angry flushburning deep red on either dusk cheek, an angry frown contracting herstraight black brows. 

The mistress of Catheron Royals, --the biggest, oldest, queerest, grandest place in all sunny Cheshire, --this slim, dark girl ofnineteen, for three years past the bride-elect of Sir Victor Catheron, baronet, the last of his Saxon race and name, the lord of all thesesunny acres, this noble Norman pile, the smiling village of Catheronbelow. The master of a stately park in Devon, a moor and "bothy" inthe highlands, a villa on the Arno, a gem of a cottage in the Isle ofWight. "A darling of the gods, " young, handsome, healthy; and best ofall, with twenty thousand a year. 

She is his bride-elect. In her dark way she is very handsome. She isto be married to Sir Victor early in the next month, and she is asmuch in love with him as it is at all possible to be. A fair fatesurely. And yet while the August night shuts down, while the windwhistles in the trees, while the long fingers of the elm, just outsidethe window, tap in a ghostly way on the pane, she stands here, flushed, angry, impatient, and sullen, her handsome lips set in a tight, rigidline. 

She is very dark at all times. Her cousin Victor tells her, laughingly, she is an absolute nigger when in one of her silent rages. She hasjet-black hair, and big, brilliant, Spanish eyes. She _is_ Spanish. Her dead mother was a Castilian, and that mother has left her herSpanish name, her beautiful, passionate Spanish eyes, her hot, passionate Spanish heart. In Old Castile Inez was born; and whenin her tenth year her English father followed his wife to the grave, Inez came home to Catheron Royals, to reign there, a little, imperious, hot-tempered Morisco princess ever since. 

She did not come alone. A big boy of twelve, with a shock head ofblue-black hair, two wild, glittering black eyes, and a diabolicallyhandsome face, came with her. It was her only brother Juan, an impincarnate from his cradle. _He_ did not remain long. To theunspeakable relief of the neighborhood for miles around, he hadvanished as suddenly as he had come, and for years was seen no more. 

A Moorish Princess! It is her cousin and lover's favorite name for her, and it fits well. There is a certain barbaric splendor about her asshe stands here in the firelight, in her trailing purple silk, in thecross of rubies and fine gold that burns on her bosom, in the yellow, perfumy rose in her hair, looking stately, and beautiful, anddreadfully out of temper. 

The big, lonesome house is as still as a tomb. Outside the wind isrising, and the heavy patter, patter, of the rain-beats on the glass. That, and the light fall of the cinders in the polished grate, are theonly sounds to be heard. 

A clock on the mantel strikes seven. She has not stirred for nearly anhour, but she looks up now, her black eyes full of passionate anger, passionate impatience. 

"Seven!" she says, in a suppressed sort of voice; "and he should havebeen here at six. What if he should defy me?--what if he does not comeafter all?"

She can remain still no longer. She walks across the room, and shewalks as only Spanish women do. She draws back one of thewindow-curtains, and leans out into the night. The crushed sweetnessof the rain-beaten roses floats up to her in the wet darkness. Nothingto be seen but the vague tossing of the trees, nothing to be heard butthe soughing of the wind, nothing to be felt but the fast and stillfaster falling of the rain. 

She lets the curtain fall, and returns to the fire. 

"Will he dare defy me?" she whispers to herself. "Will he dare stayaway?"

There are two pictures hanging over the mantel--she looks up at themas she asks the question. One is the sweet, patient face of a woman ofthirty; the other, the smiling face of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking lad. It is a _very_ pleasant face; the blue eyes lookat you so brightly, so frankly; the boyish mouth is so sweet-temperedand laughing that you smile back and fall in love with him at sight. It is Sir Victor Catheron and his late mother. 

Miss Inez Catheron is in many respects an extraordinary younglady--Cheshire society has long ago decided that. They would have beenmore convinced of it than ever, could they have seen her turn now toLady Catheron's portrait and appeal to it aloud in impassioned words:

"On his knees, by your dying bed, by your dying command, he vowed tolove and cherish me always--as he did then. Let him take care how hetrifles with that vow--let him take care!"

She lifts one hand (on which rubies and diamonds flash) menacingly, then stops. Over the sweep of the storm, the rush of the rain, comesanother sound--a sound she has been listening for, longing for, praying for--the rapid roll of carriage wheels up the drive. There canbe but one visitor to Catheron Royals to-night, at this hour and inthis storm--its master. 

She stands still as a stone, white as a statue, waiting. She loves him;she has hungered and thirsted for the sound of his voice, the sight ofhis face, the clasp of his hand, all these weary, lonely months. Insome way it is her life or death she is to take from his handsto-night. And now he is here. 

She hears the great hall-door open and close with a clang; she hearsthe step of the master in the hall--a quick, assured tread she wouldknow among a thousand; she hears a voice--a hearty, pleasant, manly, English voice; a cheery laugh she remembers well. 

 "The Chief of Lara has returned again. "

The quick, excitable blood leaps up from her heart to her face in arosy rush that makes her lovely. The eyes light, the lips part--shetakes a step forward, all anger, all fear, all neglect forgotten--agirl in love going to meet her lover. The door is flung wide by animpetuous hand, and wet and splashed, and tall and smiling, Sir VictorCatheron stands before her. 

"My dearest Inez!"

He comes forward, puts his arm around her, and touches his blondemustache to her flushed cheek. 

"My dearest coz, I'm awfully glad to see you again, and looking souncommonly well too. " He puts up his eye-glass to make sure of thisfact, then drops it "Uncommonly well, " he repeats; "give you my wordI never saw you looking half a quarter so handsome before in my life. Ah! why can't we all be Moorish princesses, and wear purple silks andyellow roses?"

He flings himself into an easy-chair before the fire, throws back hisblonde head, and stretches forth his boots to the blaze. 

"An hour after time, am I not? But blame the railway people--don'tblame _me_. Beastly sort of weather for the last week of August--coldas Iceland and raining cats and dogs; the very dickens of a storm, I can tell you. "

He give the fire a poke, the light leaps up and illumines his handsomeface. He is very like his picture--a little older--a littleworn-looking, and with man's "crowning glory, " a mustache. The girlhas moved a little away from him, the flush of "beauty's brighttranscient glow" has died out of her face, the hard, angry look hascome back. That careless kiss, that easy, cousinly embrace, have toldtheir story. A moment ago her heart beat high with hope--to the day ofher death it never beat like that again. 

He doesn't look at her; he gazes at the fire instead, and talks withthe hurry of a nervous man. The handsome face is a very effeminateface, and not even the light, carefully trained, carefully waxedmustache can hide the weak, irresolute mouth, the delicate, characterless chin. While he talks carelessly and quickly, while hisslim white fingers loop and unloop his watch-chain, in the blue eyesfixed upon the fire there is an uneasy look of nervous fear. And intothe keeping of this man the girl with the dark powerful face has givenher heart, her fate!

"It seems no end good to be at home again, " Sir Victor Catheron says, as if afraid of that brief pause. "You've no idea, Inez, how uncommonlyfamiliar and jolly this blue room, this red fire, looked a moment ago, as I stepped out of the darkness and rain. It brings back the oldtimes--this used to be _her_ favorite morning-room, " he glanced atthe mother's picture, "and summer and winter a fire always burnedhere, as now. And you, Inez, _cara mia_, with your gypsy face, mostfamiliar of all. "

She moves over to the mantel. It is very low; she leans one arm uponit, looks steadily at him, and speaks at last. 

"I am glad Sir Victor Catheron can remember the old times, can stillrecall his mother, has a slight regard left for Catheron Royals, andam humbly grateful for his recollection of his gypsy cousin. From hisconduct of late it was hardly to have been expected. "

"It is coming, " thinks Sir Victor, with an inward groan; "and, O Lord!_what_ a row it is going to be. When Inez shuts her lips up in thattight line, and snaps her black eyes in that unpleasant way, I knowto my cost, it means 'war to the knife. ' I'll be routed with dreadfulslaughter, and Inez's motto is ever, 'Woe to the conqueror!' Well, here goes!"

He looks up at her, a good-humored smile on his good-looking face. 

"Humbly grateful for my recollection of you! My dear Inez, I don'tknow what you mean. As for my absence--"

"As for your absence, " she interrupts, "you were to have been here, ifyour memory will serve you, on the first of June. It is now the closeof August. Every day of that absence has been an added insult to me. Even now you would not have been here if I had not written you aletter you dare not neglect--sent a command you dare not disobey. Youare here to-night because you dare not stay away. "

Some of the bold blood of the stern old Saxon race from which hesprung is in his veins still. He looks at her full, still smiling. 

"Dare not!" he repeats. "You use strong language, Inez. But then youhave an excitable sort of nature, and were ever inclined to hyperbole;and it is a lady's privilege to talk. "

"And a man's to act. But I begin to think Sir Victor Catheron issomething less than a man. The Catheron blood has bred many an outlaw, many bitter, bad men, but to-day I begin to think it has bredsomething infinitely worse--a traitor and a coward!"

He half springs up, his eyes flashing, then falls back, looks at thefire again, and laughs. 

"Meaning me?"

"Meaning you. "

"Strong language once more--you assert your prerogative royally, myhandsome cousin. From whom did you inherit that two-edged tongue ofyours, Inez, I wonder? Your Castilian mother, surely; the women of ourhouse were never shrews. And even _you_, my dear, may go a littletoo far. Will you drop vituperation and explain? How have I beentraitor and coward? It is well we should understand each other fully. "

He has grown pale, though he speaks quietly, and his blue eyes gleamdangerously. He is always quiet when most angry. 

"It is. And we shall understand each other fully before we part--bevery sure of that. You shall learn what I have inherited from myCastilian mother. You shall learn whether you are to play fast andloose with me at your sovereign will. Does your excellent memory stillserve you, or must I tell you what day the twenty-third of Septemberis to be?"

He looks up at her, still pale, that smile on his lips, that gleam inhis eyes. 

"My memory serves me perfectly, " he answers coolly; "it was to havebeen our wedding-day. "

_Was to have been_. As he speaks the words coldly, almost cruelly, as she looks in his face, the last trace of color leaves her own. Thehot fire dies out of her eyes, an awful terror comes in its place. With all her heart, all her strength, she loves the man she sobitterly reproaches. It seems to her she can look back upon no time inwhich her love for him is not. 

And now, it _was_ to have been!

She turns so ghastly that he springs to his feet in alarm. 

"Good Heaven, Inez! you're not going to faint, are you? Don't! Here, take my chair, and for pity's sake don't look like that. I'm a wretch, a brute--what was it I said? Do sit down. "

He has taken her in his arms. In the days that are gone he has beenvery fond, and a little afraid of his gipsy cousin. He is afraidstill--horribly afraid, if the truth must be told, now that hismomentary anger is gone. 

All the scorn, all the defiance has died out of her voice when shespeaks again. The great, solemn eyes transfix him with a look hecannot meet. 

"_Was to have been_, " she repeats, in a sort of whisper; "was tohave been. Victor, does that mean it never _is_ to be?"

He turns away, shame, remorse, fear in his averted face. He holds theback of the chair with one hand, she clings to the other as though itheld her last hope in life. 

"Take time, " she says, in the same slow, whispering way. "I can wait. I have waited so long, what does a few minutes more matter now? Butthink well before you speak--there is more at stake than you know of. My whole future life hangs on your words. A woman's life. Have youever thought what that implies? 'Was to have been, ' you said. Doesthat mean it never is to be?"

Still no reply. He holds the back of the chair, his face averted, acriminal before his judge. 

"And while you think, " she goes on, in that slow, sweet voice, "let merecall the past. Do you remember, Victor, the day when I and Juan camehere from Spain? Do you remember me? I recall you as plainly at thismoment as though it were but yesterday--a little, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed boy in violet velvet, unlike any child I had ever seenbefore. I saw a woman with a face like an angel, who took me in herarms, and kissed me, and cried over me, for my father's sake. We grewup together, Victor, you and I, such happy, happy years, and I wassixteen, you twenty. And all that time you had my whole heart. Thencame our first great sorrow, your mother's death. "

She pauses a moment. Still he stands silent, but his left hand hasgone up and covers his face. 

"You remember that last night, Victor--the night she died. No need toask you; whatever you may forget, you are not likely to forget_that_. We knelt together by her bedside. It was as this is a stormysummer night. Outside, the rain beat and the wind blew; inside, thestillness of death was everywhere. We knelt alone in the dimly-litroom, side by side, to receive her last blessing--her dying wish. Victor, my cousin, do you recall what that wish was?"

She holds out her arms to him, all her heart breaking forth in the cry. But he will neither look nor stir. 

"With her dying hands she joined ours, her dying eyes looking at_you_. With her dying lips she spoke to you: 'Inez is dearer to methan all the world, Victor, except you. She must never face the worldalone. My son, you love her--promise me you will cherish and protecther always. She loves you as no one else ever will. Promise me, Victor, that in three years from to-night you will make her yourwife. ' These were her words. And you took her hand, covered it withtears and kisses, and promised. 

"We buried her, " Inez went on, "and we parted. You went up to Oxford;I went over to a Paris _pensionnat_. In the hour of our parting wewent up together hand in hand to her room. We kissed the pillow whereher dying head had lain; we knelt by her bedside as we had done thatother night. You placed this ring upon my finger; sleeping or wakingit has never left it since, and you repeated your vow, that thatnight three years, on the twenty-third of September, I should beyour wife. "

She lifts the betrothal ring to her lips, and kisses it. "Dear littlering, " she says softly, "it has been my one comfort all these years. Though all your coldness, all your neglect for the last year and ahalf, I have looked at it, and known you would never break yourplighted word to the living and the dead. 

"I came home from school a year ago. _You_ were not here to meet andwelcome me. You never came. You fixed the first of June for yourcoming, and you broke your word. Do I tire you with all these details, Victor? But I must speak to-night. It will be for the last time--youwill never give me cause again. Of the whispered slanders that havereached me I do not speak; I do not believe them. Weak you may be, fickle you may be, but you are a gentleman of loyal race and blood;you will keep your plighted troth. Oh, forgive me, Victor! Why do youmake me say such things to you? I hate myself for them, but yourneglect has driven me nearly wild. What have I done?" Again shestretches forth her hands in eloquent appeal. "See! I love you. Whatmore can I say? I forgive all the past; I ask no questions. I believenothing of the horrible stories they try to tell me. Only come back tome. If I lose you I shall die. "

Her face is transfigured as she speaks--her hands still stretched out. 

"O Victor, come!" she says; "let the past be dead and forgotten. Mydarling, come back!"

But he shrinks away as those soft hands touch him, and pushes her off. 

"Let me go!" he cries; "don't touch me, Inez! It can never be. Youdon't know what you ask!"

He stands confronting her now, pale as herself, with eyes alight. Sherecoils like one who has received a blow. 

"Can never be?" she repeats. 

"Can never be!" he answers. "I am what you have called me, Inez, atraitor and a coward. I stand here perjured before God, and you, andmy dead mother. It can never be. I can never marry you. I am marriedalready!"

The blow has fallen--the horrible, brutal blow. She stands looking athim--she hardly seems to comprehend. There is a pause--the firelightflickers, they hear the rain lashing the windows, the soughing of thegale in the trees. Then Victor Catheron bursts forth:

"I don't ask you to forgive me--it is past all that. I make no excuse;the deed is done. I met her, and I loved her. She has been my wife forsixteen months, and--there is a son. Inez, don't look at me like that!I am a scoundrel, I know, but--"

He breaks down--the sight of her face unmans him. He turns away, hisheart beating horribly thick. How long the ghastly pause that followslasts he never knows--a century, counting by what he undergoes. Once, during that pause, he sees her fixed eyes turn slowly to his mother'spicture--he hears low, strange-sounding words drop from her lips:

"He swore by your dying bed, and see how he keeps his oath!"

Then the life that seems to have died from her face flames back. Without speaking to him, without looking at him, she turns to leavethe room. On the threshold she pauses and looks back. 

"A wife and a son, " she says, slowly and distinctly. "Sir VictorCatheron, fetch them home; I shall be glad to see them. "

CHAPTER II. 

WIFE AND HEIR. 

In a very genteel lodging-house, in the very genteel neighborhood ofRussell Square, early in the afternoon of a September day, a younggirl stands impatiently awaiting the return of Sir Victor Catheron. This girl is his wife. 

It is a bright, sunny day--as sunny, at least, as a London day evercan make up its mind to be--and as the yellow, slanting rays pour inthrough the muslin curtains full on face and figure, you may searchand find no flaw in either. It is a very lovely face, a very graceful, though petite figure. She is a blonde of the blondest type: her hairis like spun gold, and, wonderful to relate, no Yellow Wash: no GoldenFluid, has ever touched its shining abundance. Her eyes are bluer thanthe September sky over the Russell Square chimney-pots; her nose isneither aquiline nor Grecian, but it is very nice; her forehead is low, her mouth and chin "morsels for the gods. " The little figure isdeliciously rounded and ripe; in twenty years from now she may be aheavy British matron, with a yard and a half wide waist--at eighteenyears old she is, in one word, perfection. 

Her dress is perfection also. She wears a white India muslin, a marvelof delicate embroidery and exquisite texture, and a great deal ofValenciennes trimming. She has a pearl and turquoise star fasteningher lace collar, pearl and turquoise drops in her ears, and a halfdozen diamond rings on her plump, boneless fingers. A blue ribbonknots up the loose yellow hair, and you may search the big city fromend to end, and find nothing fairer, fresher, sweeter than Ethel, LadyCatheron. 

If ever a gentleman and a baronet had a fair and sufficient excuse forthe folly of a low marriage, surely Sir Victor Catheron has it in thisfairy wife--for it is a "low marriage" of the most heinous type. Justseventeen months ago, sauntering idly along the summer sands, lookinglistlessly at the summer sea, thinking drearily that this time nextyear his freedom would be over, and his Cousin Inez his lawful ownerand possessor, his eyes had fallen on that lovely blonde face--thatwealth of shining hair, and for all time--aye, for eternity--his fatewas fixed. The dark image of Inez as his wife faded out of his mind, never to return more. 

The earthly name of this dazzling divinity in yellow ringlets and pinkmuslin was Ethel Margaretta--Dobb!

Dobb! It might have disenchanted a less rapturous adorer--it fellpowerless on Sir Victor Catheron's infatuated ear. 

It was at Margate this meeting took place--that most popular and mostvulgar of all English watering-places; and the Cheshire baronet hadlooked just once at the peach-bloom face, the blue eyes of laughinglight, the blushing, dimpling, seventeen-year-old face, and fallen inlove at once and forever. 

He was a very impetuous young man, a very selfish and unstable youngman, with whom, all his life, to wish was to have. He had been spoiledby a doting mother from his cradle, spoiled by obsequious servants, spoiled by Inez Catheron's boundless worship. And he wished for this"rose of the rose-bud garden of girls" as he had never wished foranything in his two-and-twenty years of life. As a man in a dream hewent through that magic ceremony, "Miss Dobb, allow me to present myfriend, Sir Victor Catheron, " and they were free to look at each other, talk to each other, fall in love with each other as much as theypleased. As in a dream he lingered by her side three golden hours, asin a dream he said, "Good afternoon, " and walked back to his hotelsmoking a cigar, the world glorified above and about him. As in adream they told him she was the only daughter and heiress of awell-to-do London soap-boiler, and he did not wake. 

She was the daughter of a soap-boiler. The paternal manufactory was inthe grimiest part of the grimy metropolis; but, remarkable to say, shehad as much innate pride, self-respect, and delicacy as though "allthe blood of all the Howards" flowed in those blue veins. 

He wasn't a bad sort of young fellow, as young fellows go, andfrantically in love. There was but one question to ask, just eightdays after this--"Will you be my wife?"--but one answer, ofcourse--"Yes. "

But one answer, of course! How would it be possible for a soap-boiler'sdaughter to refuse a baronet? And yet his heart had beaten with a fearthat turned him dizzy and sick as he asked it; for she had shrunk awayfor one instant, frightened by his fiery wooing, and the sweet facehad grown suddenly and startlingly pale. Is it not the rule that allmaidens shall blush when their lovers ask _the_ question of questions?

The rosy brightness, the smiles, the dimples, all faded out of thisface, and a white look of sudden fear crossed it. The startled eyeshad shrank from his eager, flushed face and looked over the wide sea. For fully five minutes she never spoke or stirred. To his dying daythat hour was with him--his passionate love, his sick, horrible fear, his dizzy rapture, when she spoke at last, only one word--"yes. " Tohis dying day he saw her as he saw her then, in her summery muslindress, her gipsy hat, the pale, troubled look chasing the color fromthe drooping face. 

But the answer was "yes. " Was he not a baronet? Was she not awell-trained English girl? And the ecstasy of pride, of joy, of thatcity soap-boiler's family, who shall paint? "Awake my muse" and--but, no! it passeth all telling. They bowed down before him (figuratively), this good British tradesman and his fat wife, and worshipped him. Theyburned incense at his shrine; they adored the ground he walked on;they snubbed their neighbors, and held their chins at an altitudenever attained by the family of Dobb before. And in six weeks MissEthel Dobb became Lady Catheron. 

It was the quietest, the dullest, the most secret of weddings--not asoul present except Papa and Mamma Dobb, a military swell in thegrenadier guards--Pythias, at present, to Sir Victor's Damon--theparson, and the pew-opener. He was madly in love, but he was ashamedof the family soap-boiling, and he was afraid of his cousin Inez. 

He told them a vague story enough of family matters, etc. , thatrendered secrecy for the present necessary, and nobody cross-questionedthe baronet. That the parson was a parson, the marriage _bona fide_, his daughter "my lady, " and himself the prospective grandfather ofmany baronets, was enough for the honest soap-boiler. 

For the bride herself, she said little, in a shy, faltering little way. She was very fond of her dashing, high-born, impulsive lover, and verywell content not to come into the full blaze and dazzle of high lifejust yet. If any other romance had ever figured in her simple life, _the_ story was finished and done with, the book read and put away. 

He took her to Switzerland, to Germany, to Southern France, keepingwell out of the way of other tourists, and ten months followed--tenmonths of such exquisite, unalloyed bliss, as rarely falls to mortalman. Unalloyed, did I say? Well, not quite, since earth and heaven aretwo different places. In the dead of pale Southern nights, with theshine of the moon on his wife's lovely sleeping face; in the hot, brilliant noontide; in the sweet, green gloaming--Inez Catheron'sblack eyes came menacingly before him--the one bitter drop in his cup. All his life he had been a little afraid of her. He was something morethan a little afraid of her now. 

They returned. The commodious lodgings in Russell Square awaited him, and Sir Victor "went in" for domestic felicity in the parish ofBloomsbury, "on the quiet. " Very much "on the quiet" no theatre going, no opera, no visitors, and big Captain Jack Erroll, of the SecondGrenadiers, his only guest. Four months of this sort of thing, andthen--and then there was a son. 

Lying in her lace-draped, satin-covered bed, looking at baby's fatlittle, funny little face, Ethel, Lady Catheron, began to think. Shehad time to think in her quiet and solitude. Monthly nurses andhusbands being in the very nature of things antagonistic, and nursebeing reigning potentate at present, the husband was banished. AndLady Catheron grew hot and indignant that the heir of Catheron Royalsshould have to be born in London lodgings, and the mistress ofCatheron Royals live shut up like a nun, or a fair Rosamond in a bower. 

"You have no relations living but your cousin, Victor, " she said tohim, more coldly than she had ever spoken in her life. "Are you masterin your own house, or is she? Are you afraid of this Miss Catheron, who writes you such long letters (which I never see), that you darenot take your wife home?"

He had told her something of that other story necessarily--his formerengagement to his cousin, Inez. Only something--not the bare uglytruth of his own treachery. The soap-boiler's daughter was more nobleof soul than the baronet. Gentle as she was, she would have despisedhim thoroughly had she known the truth. 

"This secrecy has lasted long enough, " Lady Catheron said, aresolute-looking expression crossing her pretty, soft-cut mouth. "Thetime has come when you must speak. Don't make me think you are ashamedof me, or afraid of her. Take me home--it is my right; acknowledgeyour son--it is _his_. When there was only I, it did not so muchmatter--it is different now. "

She lifted one of baby's dots of hands, and kissed it. And Sir Victor, his face hidden in the shadow of the curtains, his voice husky, madeanswer:

"You are right, Ethel--you always are. As soon as you both can travel, my wife and child shall come home with me to Catheron Royals. "

Just three weeks later, as the August days were ending, came that lastletter from Inez, commanding his return. His hour had come. He tookthe next morning train, and went forth to meet the woman he feared andhad wronged. 

 * * * * *

The afternoon sun drops lower. If Sir Victor returns from Cheshireto-day, Lady Catheron knows he will be here in a few minutes. Shelooked at her watch a little wearily. The days are very long andlonely without him. Looks up again, her eyes alight. A hansom hasdashed up to the door, and it is her husband who leaps out. Half aminute and he is in the room, and she is clasped in his arms. 

"My darling!" he exclaims, and you need only hear the two words totell how rapturously he loves his wife. "Let me look at you. Oh! aspale as ever, I see. Never mind! Cheshire air, sunshine, green fields, and new milk shall bring back your roses. And your son and heir, mylady, how is he?"

He bends over the pretty bassinet, with that absurd paternal look all_very_ new fathers regard the first blessing, and his mustache ticklesbaby's innocent nose. 

A flush comes into her face. She looks at him eagerly. 

"At last! Oh, Victor, when do we go?"

"To-morrow, if you are able. The sooner the better. "

He says it with rather a forced laugh. Her face clouds a little. 

"And your cousin? Was she _very_ angry!" she asked, wistfully; "_very_much surprised?"

"Well--yes--naturally, I am afraid she was both. We must make the bestof that, however. To tell the truth, I had only one interview with her, and that of so particularly unpleasant a nature, that I left nextmorning. So then we start to-morrow? I'll just drop a line to Errollto apprise him. "

He catches hold of his wife's writing-table to wheel it near. By someclumsiness his foot catches in one of its spidery claws, and with acrash it topples over. Away goes the writing case, flying open andscattering the contents far and wide. The crash shocks baby's nerves, baby begins to cry, and the new-made mamma flies to her angel's side. 

"I say!" Sir Victor cries. "Look here! Awkward thing of me to do, eh, Ethel? Writing case broken too. Never mind, I'll pick 'em up. "

He goes down on his knees boyishly, and begins gathering them up. Letters, envelopes, wax, seals, pens and pencils. He flings all in aheap in the broken case. Lady Catheron cooing to baby, looks smilinglyon. Suddenly he comes to a full stop. 

Comes to a full stop, and holds something before him as though it werea snake. A very harmless snake apparently--the photograph of a youngand handsome man. For fully a minute he gazes at it utterly aghast. "Good Heaven!" his wife hears him say. 

Holding baby in her arms she glances at him. The back of the pictureis toward her, but she recognizes it. Her face turns ashen gray--shemoves round and bends it over baby. 

"Ethel!" Sir Victor says, his voice stern, "what does this mean?"

"What does what mean? Hush-h-h baby, darling. Not so loud, Victor, please. I want to get babe asleep. "

"How comes Juan Catheron's picture here?"

She catches her breath--the tone, in which Sir Victor speaks, is atone not pleasant to hear. She is a thoroughly good little thing, butthe best of little things (being women) are _ergo_ dissemblers. Fora second she dares not face him; then she comes bravely up to timeand looks at him over her shoulder. 

"Juan Catheron! Oh, to be sure. Is that picture here yet?" with alittle laugh. "I thought I had lost it centuries ago. " "Good Heaven!"she exclaims inwardly; "how _could_ I have been such a fool!"

Sir Victor rises to his feet--a curious passing likeness to his darkcousin, Inez, on his fair blonde face. "Then you know Juan Catheron. _You_! And you never told me. "

"My dear Sir Victor, " with a little pout, "don't be unreasonable. Ishould have something to do, if I put you _au courant_ of all myacquaintances. I knew Mr. Catheron--slightly, " with a gasp. "Is thereany crime in that?"

"Yes!" Sir Victor answers, in a voice that makes his wife jump and hisson cry. "Yes--there is. I wouldn't own a dog--if Juan Catheron hadowned him before me. To look at him, is pollution enough--to knowhim--disgrace!"

"Victor! Disgrace!"

"Disgrace, Ethel! He is one of the vilest, most profligate, most lostwretches that ever disgraced a good name. Ethel, I command you to tellme--was this man ever anything to you--friend--lover--what?"

"And if he has been--what then?" She rises and faces him proudly. "AmI to answer for his sins?"

"Yes--we all must answer more or less for those who are our friends. How come you to have his picture? What has he been to you? Not yourlover--for Heaven's sake, Ethel, never _that_!"

"And why not? Mind!" she says, still facing him, her blue eyesaglitter, "I don't say that he was, but _if_ he was--what then?"

"What then?" He is white to the lips with jealous rage and fear. "Thisthen--_you should never again be wife of mine_!"

"Victor!" she puts out her hands as if to ward off a blow, "don't saythat--oh, don't say that! And--and it isn't true--he never was a loverof mine--never, never!"

She bursts out with the denial in passionate fear and trembling. Inall her wedded life she has never seen him look, heard him speak likethis, though she has seen him jealous--needlessly--often. 

"He never was your lover? You are telling me the truth?"

"No, no--never! never, Victor--don't look like that! Oh, what broughtthat wretched picture here! I knew him slightly--only that--and he_did_ give me his photograph. How could I tell he was the wretch yousay he is--how could I think there would be any harm in taking apicture? He seemed nice, Victor. What did he ever do?"

"He seemed nice!" Sir Victor repeated, bitterly; "and what did he everdo? What has he left undone you had better ask. He has broken everycommand of the decalogue--every law human and divine. He is dead to usall--his sister included, and has been these many years. Ethel, can Ibelieve--"

"I have told you, Sir Victor. You will believe as you please, " hiswife answers, a little sullenly, turning away from him. 

She understands him. His very jealousy and anger are born of hispassionate love for her. To grieve her is torture to him, yet hegrieves her often. 

For a tradesman's daughter to marry a baronet may be but one removefrom paradise; still it is a remove. And the serpent in Lady Catheron'sEden is the ugliest and most vicious of all serpents--jealousy. He hasnever shown his green eyes and obnoxious claws so palpably before, andas Sir Victor looks at her bending over her baby, his fierce paroxysmof jealousy gives way to a fierce paroxysm of love. 

"Oh, Ethel, forgive me!" he says; "I did not mean to wound you, butthe thought of that man--faugh! But I am a fool to be jealous of you, my white lily. Kiss me--forgive me--we'll throw this snake in thegrass out of the window and forget it. Only--I had rather you had toldme. "

He tears up the wretched little mischief-making picture, and flings itout of the window with a look of disgust. Then they "kiss and make up, "but the stab has been given, and will rankle. The folly of her past isdoing its work, as all our follies past and present are pretty sure todo. 

CHAPTER III. 

HOW LADY CATHERON CAME HOME. 

Late in the afternoon of a September day Sir Victor Catheron, ofCatheron Royals, brought home his wife and son. 

His wife and son! The county stood astounded. And it had been a deadsecret. Dreadful! And Inez Catheron was jilted? Shocking! And _she_was a soap-boiler's daughter? Horrible! And now when this wretched, misguided young man could keep his folly a secret no longer, he wasbringing his wife and child home. 

The resident gentry sat thunderstruck. Did he expect they could call?(This was the gentler sex. ) Plutocracy might jostle aristocracy intothe background, but the line must be drawn somewhere, and the daughterof a London soap-boiler they would not receive. Who was to be positivethere had been a marriage at all. And poor Inez Catheron! Ah it wasvery sad--very sad. There was a well-known, well-hidden taint ofinsanity in the Catheron family. It must be that latent insanitycropping up. The young man must simply be mad. 

Nevertheless bells rung and bonfires blazed, tenantry cheered, and allthe old servants (with Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, and Mr. Hooper, the butler, at their head) were drawn up in formidable array toreceive them. And if both husband and wife were very pale, very silent, and very nervous, who is to blame them? Sir Victor had set society atdefiance; it was society's turn now, and then--there was Inez!

For Lady Catheron, the dark, menacing figure of her husband's cousinhaunted her, too. As the big, turreted, towered, ivied pile of stoneand mortar called Catheron Royals, with its great bell booming, itsUnion Jack waving, reared up before the soap-boiler's daughter--sheabsolutely cowered with a dread that had no name. 

"I am afraid!" she said. "Oh, Victor, I am afraid!"

He laughed--not quite naturally, though. If the painful truth must betold of a baronet and a Catheron, Sir Victor was afraid, too. 

"Afraid?" he laughed; "of what, Ethel? The ghost of the Gray Lady, whowalks twice in every year in Rupert's Tower? Like all fine oldfamilies, we have our fine old family ghost, and would not part withit for the world. I'll tell you the legend some day; at present 'screwyour courage to the sticking place, ' for here we are. "

He descended from the carriage, and walked into the grand manorialhall, vast enough to have lodged a hundred men, his wife on his arm, his head very high, his face very pale. She clung to him, poor child!and yet she battled hard for her dignity, too. Hat in hand, smilingright and left in the old pleasant way, he shook hands with Mrs. Marshand Mr. Hooper, presented them to my lady, and bravely inquired forMiss Inez. Miss Inez was well, and awaiting him in the Cedardrawing-room. 

They ascended to the Cedar drawing-room, one of the grandest rooms inthe house, all gilding and ormolu, and magnificent upholstery--MasterBaby following in the arms of his nurse. The sweet face and soft eyesof Lady Catheron had done their work already in the ranks of theservants--she would be an easier mistress to serve than Miss Inez. 

"If she ever _is_ mistress in her own house, " thought Mrs. Marsh, who was "companion" to Miss Catheron as well as housekeeper; "andmistress she never will be while Miss Catheron is at the Royals. "

The drawing-room was brilliantly lit, and standing in the full glareof the lamps--Inez. She was gorgeous this evening in maize silk, thatwas like woven sunshine; she had a white camelia in her hair, adiamond cross on her breast, scented laces about her, diamonds on herarms and in her ears. So she stood--a resplendent vision--so SirVictor beheld her again. 

He put up his hand for an instant like one who is dazzled--then he ledforward his wife, as men have led on a forlorn hope. 

"My cousin, " he said, "my wife; Inez, this is Ethel. "

There was a certain pathos in the simplicity of the words, in the toneof his voice, in the look of his eyes. And as some _very_ upliftedyoung empress might bow to the lowliest of her handmaidens, MissCatheron bowed to Lady Catheron. 

"Ethel, " she repeated, a smile on her lips, "a pretty name, and apretty face. I congratulate you on your taste, Victor. And this is thebaby--I must look at him. "

There was an insufferable insolence in the smile, an insufferablesneer in the compliment. Ethel had half extended a timid hand--Victorhad wholly extended a pleading one. She took not the slightest noticeof either. She lifted the white veil, and looked down at the sleepingbaby. 

"The heir of Catheron Royals, " she said, "and a fine baby no doubt, asbabies go. I don't pretend to be a judge. He is very bald and veryflabby, and very fat just at present. Whom does he resemble? Not you, Victor. O, no doubt the distaff side of the house. What do you callhim, nurse? Not christened yet? But of course the heir of the house isalways christened at Catheron Royals. Victor, no doubt you'll followthe habit of your ancestors, and give him his mother's family name. _Your_ mother was the daughter of a marquis, and you are Victor St. Albans Catheron. Good customs should not be dropped--let your son'sname be Victor _Dobb_ Catheron. "

She laughed as she dropped the veil, a laugh that made all the bloodin Sir Victor's body tingle in his face. But he stood silent. And itwas Ethel who, to the surprise of every one, her husband included, turned upon Miss Catheron with flashing eyes and flushing cheeks. 

"And suppose, he is christened Victor Dobb Catheron, what then? It isan honest English name, of which none of my family have ever hadreason to feel ashamed. My husband's mother may have been the daughterof a marquis--my son's mother is the daughter of a tradesman--the namethat has been good enough for me will be good enough for him. I haveyet to learn there is any disgrace in honest trade. "

Miss Catheron smiled once more, a smile more stinging than words. 

"No doubt. You have many things yet to learn, I am quite sure. Victor, tell your wife that, however dulcet her voice may be, it would soundsweeter if not raised so _very_ high. Of course, it is to beexpected--I make every allowance, poor child, for the failings ofher--class. The dressing-bell is ringing, dinner in an hour, untilthen--_au revoir_. "

Still with that most insolent smile she bows low once more, and in hergold silk, her Spanish laces, her diamonds and splendor, Miss Catheronswept out of the room. 

And this was Ethel's welcome home. 

 * * * * *

Just two hours later, a young man came walking briskly up the longavenue leading to the great portico entrance of Catheron Royals. Thenight was dark, except for the chill white stars--here under thearching oaks and elms not even the starlight shone. But neither forthe darkness nor loneliness cared this young man. With his hands inhis pockets he went along at a swinging pace, whistling cheerily. Hewas very tall; he walked with a swagger. You could make out no more inthe darkness. 

The great house loomed up before him, huge, black, grand, a row oflights all along the first floor. The young man stopped his whistling, and looked up with a smile not pleasant to see. 

"Four years ago, " he said, between his teeth, "you flung me from yourdoor like a dog, most noble baronet, and you swore to lodge me inChesholm jail if I ever presumed to come back. And I swore to pay youoff if I ever had a chance. To-night the chance has come, thanks tothe girl who jilted me. You're a young man of uncommonly high stomach, my baronet, proud as the deuce and jealous as the devil. I'll giveyour pride and your jealousy a chance to show themselves to-night. "

He lifted the massive brass knocker, and brought it down with a clangthat echoed through the house. Then he began whistling again, watchingthose lighted, lace-draped windows. 

"And to think, " he was saying inwardly, "to think of our little Ethelbeing mistress here. On my word it's a lift in life for thesoap-boiler's pretty daughter. I wonder what they're all about upthere now, and how Inez takes it. I should think there must have beenthe dickens to pay when she heard it first. "

The heavy door swung back, and a dignified elderly gentleman, in blackbroadcloth and silk stockings, stood gazing at the intruder. The youngman stepped from the outer darkness into the lighted vestibule, andthe elderly gentleman fell back with a cry. 

"Master Juan!"

"_Mister_ Juan, Hooper, if you please--_Mister_ Juan. William, myold cockalorum, my last rose of summer, how goes it?"

He grasped the family butler's hand with a jolly laugh, and gave it ashake that brought tears of torture to its owner's eyes. In the blazeof the hall chandelier he stood revealed, a big fellow, with eyes andhair raven black, and a bold, bronzed face. 

"What, William! friend of my childhood's days, 'none knew thee but tolove thee, none named thee but to praise'--not a word of welcome?Stricken dumb at sight of the prodigal son! I say! Where's the rest?The baronet, you know, and my sister, and the new wife and kid? In thedining-room?"

"In the dining-room, " Mr. Hooper is but just able to gasp, as withhorror pictured on his face he falls back. 

"All right, then. Don't fatigue your venerable shanks preceding me. Iknow the way. Bless you, William, bless you, and be happy!"

He bounces up the stairs, this lively young man, and the next instant, hat in hand, stands in the large, handsome, brilliantly litdining-room. They are still lingering over the dessert, and with asimultaneous cry, and as if by one impulse, the three start to theirfeet and stand confounded. The young man strikes a tragic theatricalattitude. 

"Scene--dining-room of the reprobate 'Don Giovanni'--tremulo music, lights half down--_enter_ statue of virtuous Don Pedro. " He breaksinto a rollicking laugh and changes his tone for that of every-daylife. "Didn't expect me, did you?" he says, addressing everybody. "Joyful surprise, isn't it? Inez, how do? Baronet, your humbleservant. Sorry to intrude, but I've been told my wife is here, andI've come after her, naturally. And here she is. Ethel, my darling, who'd have thought of seeing _you_ at Catheron Royals, an honoredguest? Give us a kiss, my angel, and say you're glad to see yourscrapegrace husband back. "

He strides forward and has her in his arms before any one can speak. He stoops his black-bearded face to kiss her, just as with a gaspingsob, her golden head falls on his shoulder and she faints dead away. 

CHAPTER IV. 

"I'LL NOT BELIEVE BUT DESDEMONA'S HONEST. "

With a cry that is like nothing human, Sir Victor Catheron leapsforward and tears his fainting wife out of the grasp of theblack-bronzed, bearded, piratical-looking young man. 

"You villain!" he shouts, hoarse with amaze and fury; "stand back, orby the living Lord I'll have your life! You scoundrel, how dare youlay hands on my wife!"

"Your wife! Yours! Come now, I like that! It's against the law of thisnarrow-minded country for a woman to have two husbands. You're amagistrate and ought to know. Don't call names, and do keep yourtemper--violent language is unbecoming a gentleman and a baronet. Inez, what does he mean by calling Ethel his wife?"

"She is his wife, " Inez answers, her black eyes glittering. 

"Oh, but I'll be hanged if she is. She's mine--mine hard and fast, byjingo. There's some little misunderstanding here. Keep your temper, baronet, and let us clear it up. _I_ married Miss Ethel Dobb inGlasgow, on the thirteenth of May, two years ago. Now, Sir VictorCatheron, when did _you_ marry her. "

Sir Victor made no answer; his face, as he stood supporting his wife, was ghastly with rage and fear. Ethel lay like one dead; Juan Catheron, still eminently good-humored and self-possessed, turned to his sister:

"Look here, Inez, this is how it stands: Miss Dobb was only fifteenwhen I met her first. It was in Scotland. We fell in love with eachother; it was the suddenest case of spoons you ever saw. We exchangedpictures, we vowed vows, we did the 'meet me by moonlight alone'business--you know the programme yourself. The time came to part--Ethelto return to school, I to sail for the China Sea--and the day we leftScotland we went into church and were married. There! I don't deny weparted at the church door, and have never met since, but she's my wife;mine, baronet, by Jove! since the first marriage is the legal one. Come, now! You _don't_ mean to say that you've been and marriedanother fellow's wife. 'Pon my word, you know I shouldn't havebelieved it of Ethel. "

"She is reviving, " Inez said. 

She spoke quietly, but her eyes were shining like black stars. Sheknew her brother for a liar of old, but what if this were true? whatif her vengeance were here so soon? She held a glass of iced champagneto the white lips. 

"Drink!" she said, authoritatively, and Ethel mechanically drank. Thenthe blue eyes opened, and she stood erect in Sir Victor's arms. 

"Oh, what is it?" she said. "What has happened?"

Her eyes fell upon the dark intruder, and with a cry of fear, ashudder of repulsion, her hands flew up and covered her face. 

"Don't be afraid, my darling, " Sir Victor said, holding her close, andlooking with flashing, defiant eyes at his enemy; "this coward hastold a monstrous falsehood. Deny it, my love. I ask no more, and myservants shall kick him out. "

"Oh, shall they!" said Mr. Catheron; "well, we'll see. Now, Ethel, look here. I don't understand this business, you know. What does SirVictor mean by calling you his wife? It isn't possible you've gone andcommitted bigamy--there _must_ be a mistake. You are my wife, andas such I claim you. "

"Ethel, you hear that, " Sir Victor cried in a voice of agony; "forHeaven's sake speak! The sight of this fellow--the sound of his voiceis driving me mad. Speak and deny this horrible charge. "

"She can't, " said Juan Catheron!

"I can! I do!" exclaimed Ethel, starting up with flushing face andkindling eyes; "It is a monstrous lie. Victor! O, Victor, send himaway! It isn't true--it isn't, it isn't!"

"Hold on, Sir Victor, " Mr. Catheron, interposed, "let me ask thisyoung lady a question or two. Ethel, do you remember May, two yearsago in Scotland? Look at this picture; it's yours, isn't it? Look atthis ring on my little finger; you gave it to me, didn't you? Think ofthe little Glasgow presbytery where we went through the ceremony, anddeny that I'm your husband, if you can. "

But her blood was up--gentle, yielding, timid, she had yet a spirit ofher own, and her share of British "pluck. "

She faced her accuser like a small, fair-haired lioness, her eyesflashing blue fire. 

"I do deny it! You wretch, how dare you come here with such a lie!"She turned her back upon him with a scorn under which even he winced. "Victor!" she cried, lifting her clasped hands to her husband, "hearme and forgive me if you can. I have done wrong--wrong--but I--I wasafraid, and I thought he was drowned. I wanted to tell you all--I did, indeed, but papa and mamma were afraid--afraid of losing you, Victor. I told you a falsehood about the photograph--he, that wretch, did giveit to me, and--" her face drooped with a bitter sob--"he was my loverthen, years ago, in Scotland. "

"Ah!" quoted Mr. Catheron, "truth is mighty and will prevail! Tell it, Ethel; the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. "

"Silence, sir!" Lady Catheron cried, "and don't dare call me Ethel. Iwas only fifteen, Victor--think of it, a child of fifteen, spending myholidays in Glasgow when I met him. And he dared to make love to me. It amused him for the time--representing himself as a sort of banishedprince, a nobleman in disguise. He took my silly, girlish fancy forthe time. What did I at fifteen know of love? The day I was to returnhome, we exchanged pictures and rings, and he took me out for a lastwalk. He led me into a solitary chapel, and made me join hands, andpledge myself to be his wife. There was not a soul in the place butourselves. As we left it we met papa. We shook hands and parted, anduntil this hour I have never since set eyes on his face. Victor, don'tblame me too much--think what a child I was--remember I was afraid ofhim. The instant he was out of my sight I disliked him. He wrote tome--I never answered his letters, except once, and then it was toreturn his, and tell him to trouble me no more. That is all. O Victor!don't look like that! I am sorry--I am sorry. Forgive me or I shalldie. "

He was ashen white, but there was a dignity about him that awed intosilence even the easy assurance of Juan Catheron. He stooped andkissed the tear-wet, passionate, pleading face. 

"I believe you, " he said; "your only fault was in not telling me longago. Don't cry, and sit down. "

He placed her in a chair, walked over, and confronted his cousin. 

"Juan Catheron, " he said, "you are a slanderer and a scoundrel, as youalways were. Leave this house, and never, whilst I live, set your footacross its threshold. Five years ago you committed a forgery of myname for three thousand pounds. I turned you out of Catheron Royalsand let you go. I hold that forged check yet. Enter this house again, repeat your infamous lie, and you shall rot in Chesholm jail! I sparedyou then for your sister's sake--for the name you bear and disgrace--butcome here again and defame my wife, and I'll transport you though youwere my brother. Now go, and never come back. "

He walked to the door and flung it wide. Juan Catheron stood andlooked at him, his admirable good-humor unruffled, something likegenuine admiration in his face. 

"By Jupiter!" he exclaimed, "who'd have thought it! Such a milk-sop ashe used to be! Well, baronet, I don't deny you got the upper hand ofme in that unpleasant little affair of the forgery, and PortlandIsland with a chain on my leg and hard labor for twenty years I don'tparticularly crave. Of course, if Ethel won't come, she won't, but Isay again it's deuced shabby treatment. Because, baronet, that sort ofthing _is_ a marriage in Scotland, say what you like. I suppose it'snatural she should prefer the owner of Catheron Royals and twentythousand per annum, to a poor devil of a sailor like me; but all thesame it's hard lines. Good-by, Inez--be sisterly, can't you, and comeand see a fellow. I'm stopping at the 'Ring o' Bells, ' in Chesholm. Good-by, Ethel. 'Thou hast learned to love another, thou hast brokenevery vow, ' but you might shake hands for the sake of old times. Youwon't--well, then, good-by without. The next time I marry I'll makesure of my wife. "

He swaggered out of the room, giving Sir Victor a friendly andforgiving nod, flung his wide awake on his black curls, clattered downthe stairs and out of the house. 

"By-by, William, " he said to the butler. "I'm off again, you see. Mostinhospitable lot _I_ ever saw--never so much as offered me a glassof wine. Good-night, my daisy. Oh river! as they say in French. Ohriver!"

The door closed upon him. He looked back at the lighted windows andlaughed. 

"I've given them a rare fright if nothing else. She went off stiff atsight of me, and he--egad! the little fair-haired baronet's pluckyafter all--such a molly-coddle as he used to be. Of course her beingmy wife's all bosh, but the scare was good fun. And it won't endhere--my word for it. He's as jealous as the Grand Turk. I hope Inezwill come to see me and give me some money. If she doesn't I must goand see her, that's all. "

He was gone--and for a moment silence reigned. Lights burned, flowersbloomed, crystal and silver shone, rare wines and rich fruits glowed. But a skeleton sat at the feast. Juan Catheron had done many evildeeds in his lifetime, but never a more dastardly deed than to-night. 

There was a flash of intolerable triumph in the dark eyes of Inez. Shedetested her brother, but she could have kissed him now. She had lostall, wealth, position, and the man she loved--this girl with thetangled yellow hair and pink and white face had taken all from her, but even _her_ path was not to be altogether a path of roses. 

Ashen pale and with eyes averted, Sir Victor walked back and resumedhis seat at the table. Ashen pale, trembling and frightened, Ethel satwhere he had placed her. And no one spoke--what was there to be said?

It was a fortunate thing that just at this juncture baby should seefit to wake and set up a dismal cry, so shrill as to penetrate even tothe distant dinner-room. Lady Catheron rose to her feet, uttered ahasty and incoherent apology, and ran from the room. 

She did not return. Peace reigned, the infant heir of the Catheronswas soothed, but his mamma went downstairs no more that night. Shelingered in the nursery for over an hour. Somehow by her baby's sideshe felt a sense of peace and safety. She dreaded to meet her husband. What must he think of her? She had stooped to concealment, tofalsehood--would he ever love her or trust her again?

She went at last to her rooms. On the dressing-table waxlightsburned, but the bedroom was unlit. She seated herself by the windowand looked out at the starlit sky, at the darkly-waving trees of thepark. "And this is my welcome home, " she thought, "to find in myhusband's house my rival and enemy, whose first look, whose firstwords are insults. She is mistress here, not I. And that fatal follyof my childhood come back. That horrible man!" She shuddered as shesat alone. "Ah, why did I not tell, why did mamma beg me to hide itfrom him? She was so afraid he would have gone--so afraid her daughterwould miss a baronet, and I--I was weak and a coward. No, it is allover--he will never care for me, never trust me again. "

He came in as she sat there, mournful and alone. In the dusk of thechamber the little half-hidden white figure caught his eye, the goldenhair glimmering through the dusk. 

"Ethel, " he said, "is that window open? Come away immediately--youwill take cold in the draught. "

He spoke gently but very coldly as he had never spoken to her before. She turned to him with a great sob. 

"Oh, Victor, forgive me!" she said. 

He was silent for a moment. He loved her with a great and passionatelove; to see her weep was torture, to see her suffer, misery. She hadnever been dearer than in this hour. Still he stood aloof, torn bydoubt, racked by jealousy. 

"Ethel, " he cried out, "_why_ did you deceive me? I thought--I couldhave sworn you were all truth and innocence, stainless as a lily, white as an angel. And to think that another man--and of all men JuanCatheron. No. I can't even think of it--it is enough to drive me mad!"

She fell down on her knees before him and held up her clasped hands. 

There was a little sob, and her head lay on his shoulder. 

"I tried to once or twice--I did indeed, but you know what a coward Iam. And mamma forbade my telling--that is the truth. She said I hadbeen a little fool--that was all over and done with--no need to be agreat fool, telling my own folly. And after we were married, and I sawyou jealous of every man I looked at--you know you were, sir!--I wasmore scared than ever. I thought Juan Catheron was dead. I never wroteto him. I had returned all his letters. I thought I had destroyed hispicture; I never knew that I had done so very wrong in knowing him atall, until that day in Russell Square. But Victor--husband--onlyforgive me this once, and I'll never, never have a secret from youagain as long as I live. "

She was little better than a child still--this pretty youthful matronand mother. And with the sweet, pleading face uplifted, the big blueeyes swimming in tears, the quivering lips, the pathetic voice, he didwhat _you_, sir, would have done in his place--kissed and forgave her. 

CHAPTER V. 

IN THE TWILIGHT. 

"No words can be strong enough to reprehend your conduct, Victor. Youhave acted disgracefully; you are listening, sir, --disgracefully, Isay, to your cousin Inez. And you are the first of your line who hasblurred the family escutcheon. Dukes' daughters have entered CatheronRoyals as brides. It was left for you to wed a soap-boiler's daughter!"

Thus Lady Helena Powyss, of Powyss Place, to her nephew, Sir VictorCatheron, just one fortnight after that memorable night of his wifeand heir's coming home. The young man stood listening in sullen anger, the red blood mounting to his very temples. His Cousin Inez hadmanaged during the past two weeks to make his existence as thoroughlyuncomfortable as a thoroughly jealous and spiteful woman can. He hadflown at last to his aunt for comfort, and this is how he got it. 

"Lady Helena, " he burst forth, "this is too much! Not even from youwill I bear it. A soap-boiler's daughter my wife may be--it is theonly charge that can be brought against her. I have married to pleasemyself, and it _does_ please me enormously. Inez, confound her!badgers me enough. I didn't expect, Aunt Helena, to be badgered byyou. "

"I have no wish to badger you. I bring no charge against your wife. Ihave seen her but once, and personally I like her excessively. Ibelieve her to be as good as she is pretty. But again _your_ conductI do and will protest. You have cruelly, shamefully wronged yourcousin--humiliated her beyond all telling. I can only wonder--yes, Victor, wonder--that with her fiery nature she takes it as quietly asshe does. "

"As quietly as she does! Good Heavens!" burst forth this "badgered"baronet. "You should live in the same house with her to find out howquietly she takes it. Women understand how to torture--they shouldhave been grand inquisitors of a Spanish inquisition, if such a thingever existed. I am afraid to face her. She stabs my wife in fiftydifferent ways fifty times a day, and I--my guilty conscience won'tlet me silence her. Ethel has not known a happy hour since she enteredCatheron Royals, and all through her infernal serpent tongue. Let hertake care--if she were ten times my cousin, even she may go one steptoo far. "

"Does that mean, Victor, you will turn her from Catheron Royals?"

"It means that, if you like. Inez is my cousin, Ethel is my wife. Youare her friend, Aunt Helena; you will be doing a friendly action ifyou drop her a hint. I wish you good-morning. "

He took his hat and turned to go, his handsome blonde face sullen andset. 

"Very well, " Lady Helena answered; "I will. You are to blame--not thatpoor fair-haired child. I will speak to Inez; and, Victor, I will tryto forgive you for your mother's sake. Though you broke her heart shewould have forgiven you. I will try to do as she would have done--andI like the little thing. You will not fail me on Thursday next? If_I_ take up your wife all the neighborhood will, you may depend. "

"We are not likely to fail. The invitation is like your kindness, AuntHelena. Thanks very much!"

His short-lived anger died away; he gave his hand frankly to his aunt. She was his wife's friend--the only one who had taken the slightestnotice of her since her arrival. For the resident gentry had decidedthat they couldn't--really couldn't--call upon the soap-boiler'sdaughter. 

Sir Victor Catheron had shocked and scandalized his order as it hadnot been shocked and scandalized for half a century. A banker'sdaughter, a brewer's daughter, they were prepared to accept--bankingand brewing are genteel sort of things. But a soap-boiler!--and marriedin secret!--and a baby born in lodgings!--and Miss Catheron jilted incold blood!--Oh it was shameful!--shameful! No, they could not callupon the new Lady Catheron--well, at least until they saw whether theLady Helena Powyss meant to take her up. 

Lady Helena was the only sister of the young baronet's late mother, with no children of her own, and very strongly attached to both SirVictor and Inez. His mother's dying desire had been that he shouldmarry his cousin. He had promised, and Lady Helena's strongest hope inlife had been to see that promise fulfilled. The news of his lowmarriage fell upon her like a thunderbolt. She was the proudest ofdowagers--when had a Catheron made a _mesalliance_ before? No; shecould not forgive him--could never receive his wife. 

But when he came to her, pale, sad, appealing for pardon, she relented. It was a very tender and womanly heart, despite its pride of birth, that beat in Lady Helena's bosom; and jolly Squire Powyss, who hadseen the little wife at the Royals, took sides with his nephew. 

"It's done, and can't be undone, my dear, " the squire said, philosophically; "and it's always wise to make the best of a badbargain; and 'pon my life, my love, it's the sweetest little face thesun ever shone on! Gad! I'd have done it myself. Forgive him, mydear--boys will be boys--and go and see his wife. "

Lady Helena yielded--love for her boy stronger than pride or anger. She went; and there came into one of the dusk drawing-rooms of theRoyals, a little white vision, with fair, floating hair, and patheticblue eyes--a little creature, so like a child, that the tender, motherly heart of the great lady went out to her at once. 

"You pretty little thing!" she said, taking her in her arms andkissing her as though she had been eight rather than eighteen. "You'renothing but a baby yourself and you have got a baby they tell me. Takeme to see him, my dear. "

They were friends from that hour. Ethel, with grateful tears in hereyes, led her up to the dainty berceaunette where the heir of CatheronRoyals slept, and as she kissed his velvet cheek and looked pityinglyfrom babe to mother, the last remains of anger died out of her heart. Lady Helena Powyss would "take Lady Catheron up. "

"She's pretty, and gentle, and good, and a lady if ever I saw one, "she said to Inez Catheron; "and she doesn't look too happy. Don't betoo hard on her, my dear--it isn't her fault. Victor is to blame. Noone feels that more than I. But not that blue-eyed child--try toforgive her Inez, my love. A little kindness will go a long way there. "

Inez Catheron sitting in the sunlit window of her own luxurious room, turned her face from the rosy sunset sky full upon her aunt. 

"I know what I owe my cousin Victor and his wife, " she answeredsteadily, "and one day I shall pay my debt. "

The large, lustrous Spanish eyes turned once more to the crimson lightin the western sky. Some of that lurid splendor lit her dark, colorless face with a vivid glow. Lady Helena looked at heruneasily--there was a depth here she could not fathom. Was Inez"taking it quietly" after all?

"I--I don't ask you to forgive _him_, my dear, " she said, nervously--"at least, just yet. I don't think I could do it myself. And of course you can't be expected to feel very kindly to her who hasusurped your place. But I would let her alone if I were you. Victor ismaster here, and his wife must be mistress, and naturally he doesn'tlike it. You might go too far, and then--"

"He might turn me out of Catheron Royals--is that what you are tryingto say, Aunt Helena?"

"Well, my dear--"

"Victor was to see you yesterday. Did he tell you this? No need todistress yourself--I see he did. And so I am to be turned fromCatheron Royals for the soap-boiler's daughter, if I don't stand asideand let her reign. It is well to be warned--I shall not forget it. "

Lady Helena was at a loss. What could she say? What could she do?Something in the set, intense face of the girl frightenedher--absolutely frightened her. She rose hurriedly to go. 

"Will you come to Powyss Place on Thursday next?" she asked. "I hardlylike to press you, Inez, under the circumstances. For poor Victor'ssake I want to make the best of it. I give a dinner party, as you know;invite all our friends, and present Lady Catheron. There is no helpfor it. If I take her up, all the country will; but if _you_ hadrather not appear, Inez--"

There was a sharp, quick, warning flash from the black eyes. 

"Why should I not appear? Victor may be a coward--_I_ am not. I willgo. I will face our whole visiting list, and defy them to pity me. Take up the soap-boiler's heiress by all means, but, powerful as youare, I doubt if even you will be able to keep her afloat. Try theexperiment--give the dinner party--I will be there. "

"It's a very fine thing for a tradesman's daughter to marry a richbaronet, no doubt, " commented Lady Helena, as she was driven home;"but, with Inez for my rival, _I_ shouldn't care to risk it. I onlyhope, for my sake at least, she will let the poor thing alone nextThursday. "

The "poor thing" indeed! If Sir Victor's life had been badgered duringthe past fortnight, his wife's life had been rendered nearlyunendurable. Inez knew so well how to stab, and she never spared athrust. It was wonderful, the bitterest, stinging things she could sayover and over again, in her slow, _legato_ tones. She never spared. Her tongue was a two-edged sword, and the black deriding eyes lookedpitilessly on her victim's writhes and quivers. And Ethel bore it. She loved her husband--he feared his cousin--for his sake she endured. Only once, after some trebly cruel stab, she had cried aloud in herpassionate pain:

"I can't endure it, Victor--I cannot! She will kill me. Take me backto London, to Russell Square, anywhere away from your dreadful cousin!"

He had soothed her as best he might, and riding over to Powyss Place, had given his aunt that warning. 

"It will seem a horribly cruel and inhuman thing to turn her from thehome where she has reigned mistress so long, " he said to himself. "Iwill never be able to hold up my head in the county after--but she_must_ let Ethel alone. By fair means or foul she must. "

The day of Lady Helena Powyss' party came--a terrible ordeal for Ethel. She had grown miserably nervous under the life she had led the pasttwo weeks--the ceaseless mockery of Miss Catheron's soft, scornfultones, the silent contempt and derision of her hard black eyes. Whatshould she wear? how should she act? What if she made some absurdblunder, betraying her plebeian birth and breeding? What if shemortified her thin-skinned husband? Oh! why was it necessary to go atall?

"My dear child, " her husband said, kissing her good-humoredly, "itisn't worth that despairing face. Just put on one of your prettydinner-dresses, a flower in your hair, and your pearls. Be your ownsimple, natural, dear little self, and there will not be a lady atAunt Helena's able to shine you down. "

And when an hour after, she descended, in a sweeping robe of silveryblue, white lilies in her yellow hair, and pale pearls clasping herslim throat, she looked fair as a dream. 

Inez's black eyes flashed angrily as they fell upon her. Soap-boiler'sdaughter she might be, with the blood of many Dobbs in her veins, butno young peeress, born to the purple, ever looked more graceful, morerefined. 

For Miss Catheron herself, she was quite bewildering in a dress ofdead white silk, soft laces and dashes of crimson about her as usual, and rubies flashing here and there. She swept on to the carriage withhead held haughtily erect, a contemptuous smile on her lips, likeanything on earth but a jilted maiden. 

Lady Helena's rooms were filled when they entered; not one invitationhad been declined. Society had mustered in fullest force to see SirVictor Catheron's low-born wife, to see how Miss Catheron bore herhumiliation. How would the one bear their scrutiny, the other theirpity? But Miss Catheron, handsome, smiling, brilliant, came in amongthem with eyes that said: "Pity me if you dare!" And upon Sir Victor'sarm there followed the small, graceful figure, the sweet, fair face ofa girl who did not look one day more than sixteen--by all odds theprettiest girl in the rooms. 

Lady Helena--who, when she did that sort of thing, _did_ do it--tookthe little wife under her wing at once. People by the score, itseemed to the bewildered Ethel, were presented, and the stereotypedcompliments of society were poured into her ear. Sir Victor wascongratulated, sincerely by the men, with an under-current of pity andmockery by the women. Then they were all at dinner--the bride in theplace of honor--running the gauntlet of all those eyes on the alertfor any solecism of good manners. 

She went through it all, her cheeks flushing, her eyes kindling withexcitement growing prettier every moment. Her spirits rose--she wouldlet these peoples and Inez Catheron see, she was their equal in allthings save birth. She talked, she laughed, she took captive half themale hearts, and when the ladies at length sailed away to thedrawing-room, Lady Helena stooped and kissed her, almost with motherlypride. 

"My dear, " she whispered, "let me congratulate you. Nothing could be agreater success. All the men are in love with you--all the womenjealous. A most excellent beginning indeed!"

She laughed pleasantly, this kindly dowager, and passed on. It was, anunspeakable relief to her to see her nephew's low-born wife facesociety so bravely and well. And better still, Inez had not launchedone single poisoned dart. But the evening was not ended yet. Inez'stime was to come. Enter the gentlemen presently, and flirtations areresumed, _tete-a-tetes_ in quiet comers recommenced, conversationbecomes general. There is music. A certain Lord Verriker, the youngestman present, and the greatest in social status, monopolizes LadyCatheron. He leads her to the piano, and she sings. She is on trialstill, and does her best, and her best is very good--a sweet Scotchballad. There is quite a murmur of applause as she rises, and throughit there breaks Miss Catheron's soft, sarcastic laugh. The flushdeepens in Ethel's cheek--the laugh is at her performance she feels. 

And now the hour of Inez's vengeance comes. Young Captain Varden isleaning over her chair; he is in love with Miss Catheron, and hoversabout her unceasingly. He talks a great deal, though not verybrilliantly. He is telling her in an audible undertone how JackSingleton of "Ours" has lately made an object of himself before godsand men, and irretrievably ruined himself for life by marrying theyoungest Miss Potter, of Potter's Park. 

"Indeed!" Miss Catheron responds, with her light laugh, and her low, clear voice perfectly distinct to all; "the youngest Miss Potter. Ah, yes! I've heard of them. The paternal Potter kept a shop in Chester, didn't he--a grocer, or something of the sort, and having made moneyenough behind the counter, has retired. And poor Lieutenant Singletonhas married the youngest Miss Potter! 'Whom the gods wish to destroythey first make mad. ' A very charming girl no doubt, as sweet as thepaternal treacle, and as melting as her father's butter. It's an oldcustom in some families--my own for instance--to quarter the arms ofthe bride on the family shield. Now what do you suppose the arms ofthe Potter family may be--a white apron and a pair of scales?"

And then, all through the room, there is a horrible suppressed laugh. The blood rushes in a fiery tide to the face of Sir Victor, and LadyHelena outglows her crimson velvet gown. Ethel, with the youthful LordVerriker still hovering around her, has but one wild instinct, that offlight. Oh! to be away, from these merciless people--from that bitter, dagger-tongued Inez Catheron! She looks wildly at her husband. Mustshe bear this? But his back is to her--he is wilfully blind and deaf. The courage to take up the gauntlet for his wife, to make a scene, tosilence his cousin, is a courage he does not possess. 

Under the midnight stars Lady Helena's guests drive home. In thecarriage of Sir Victor Catheron there is dead silence. Ethel, shrinking from her husband almost as much as from his cousin, liesback in a corner, pale and mute. Inez Catheron's dauntless black eyeslook up at the white, countless stars as she softly hums a tune. SirVictor sits with his eyes shut, but he is not asleep. He is in a ragewith himself, he hates his cousin, he is afraid to look at his wife. One way or other he feels there must be an immediate end of this. 

The first estrangement that has parted him and Ethel has come. Hehardly knows her to-night--her cold, brief words, her averted face, her palpable shrinking as he approaches. She despises him, and withreason, a man who has not the courage to protect his wife from insult. 

Next day Lady Catheron declines to appear at either breakfast orluncheon, and when, five minutes before dinner, Sir Victor and MissCatheron meet in the dining-room, she is absent still. He rings thebell angrily and demands where she is. 

"My lady has gone out, " the footman answers. "She went half an hourago. She had a book with her, and she went in the direction of thelaurel walk. "

"I will go in search of her, " Sir Victor says, taking his hat; "letdinner wait until our return. "

Ethel has gone, because she cannot meet Inez Catheron again, neveragain break bread at the same board with her pitiless enemy. She criedherself quietly to sleep last night; her head aches with a dull, sickening pain to-day. To be home once more--to be back in the cosy, common-place Russell square lodgings! If it were not for baby shefeels as though she would like to run away, from Sir Victor and all, anywhere that Inez Catheron's black eyes and derisive smile couldnever come. 

The September twilight, sparkling with frosty-looking stars, issettling down over the trees. The great house looms up, big, sombre, stately, a home to be proud of, yet Ethel shudders as she looks at it. The only miserable days of her life have been spent beneath its roof;she will hate it before long. Her very love for her husband seems todie out in bitter contempt, as she thinks of last night, when he stoodby and heard his cousin's sneering insult. The gloaming is chilly, shedraws her shawl closer around her, and walks slowly up and down. Slow, miserable tears trickle down her cheeks as she walks. She feels soutterly alone, so utterly forlorn, so utterly at the mercy of thismerciless woman. 

"Oh!" she says, with a passionate sob, and unconsciously aloud, "_why_ did I ever marry him?"

"If you mean Sir Victor Catheron, " answers a voice, "I think I cantell you. You married Sir Victor Catheron because he _was_ Sir VictorCatheron. But it isn't a marriage, my dear--you know that. A younglady can't have two husbands, and I'm your legal, lawful-weddedspouse. "

She utters a cry--she recoils with a face of terror, for there in thetwilight before her, tall, black, sinister, stands Juan Catheron. 

"_You_!" she gasps. 

"I, my dear--I, in the flesh. Did you think I had gone? My dear Ethel, so I would have gone, if Inez had come down in the sisterly way sheshould. But she hasn't. I give you my word of honor her conduct hasbeen shabby in the extreme. A few hundreds--I asked no more--and shewouldn't. What was a miserly fifty pun' note to a man like me, withexpensive tastes, and who has not set foot on British soil for twoyears? Not a jewel would she part with--all Sir Victor's presents, forsooth! And she's in love with Sir Victor, you know. Perhaps you_don't_ know, though. 'Pon my life, she is, Ethel, and means to havehim yet, too. That's what she says, and she is a girl to do as shesays, is Inez. That's why I'm here to-night, my dear. I can't go toSir Victor, you understand--motives of delicacy, and all that--soI waited my chance, and have come to you. You may be fickle, but Idon't think you're stingy. And something is due to my outragedfeelings, blighted affections, and all that. Give me five hundredpounds, Ethel, and let us call it square. "

He came nearer, his big, brown hand outstretched. She shrank away, hatred and repulsion in her face. 

"Stand back!" she said. "Don't come near me, Juan Catheron! How dareyou intrude here! How dare you speak to me!"

"How dare I? Oh, come now, I say, I like that. If a man may not speakto his own wife, to whom _may_ he speak? If it comes to that, howdare you throw me over, and commit bigamy, and marry Sir VictorCatheron? It's of no use your riding the high horse with me, Ethel;you had better give me the five hundred--I'm sure I'm moderateenough--and let me go. "

"I will not give you a farthing; and if you do not leave this placeinstantly, I will call my husband. Oh!" she burst forth, frantically, "between you and your sister you will drive me mad!"

"Will you give me the money?" asked Juan Catheron, folding his armsand turning sullen. 

"I have not got it. What money have I?--and if I had, I say I wouldnot give you a farthing. Begone! or--"

"You have diamonds. " He pointed to her hands. "They will do--easilyconvertible in London. Hand them here, or, by all the gods, I'll blowthe story of your bigamy all over England!"

"You will not!" she cried, her eyes flashing in the twilight--"youcoward! you dare not! Sir Victor has _you_ in his power, and he willkeep his threat. Speak one word of that vile lie, and your tonguewill be silenced in Chesholm jail. Leave me, I say!"--she stamped herfoot passionately--"I am not afraid of you, Juan Catheron!"

"And you will not give me the jewels?"

"Not one--not to keep you from spreading your slander from end to endof England! Do your worst!--you cannot make me more wretched than I am. And go, or I will call for help, and see whether my husband has notcourage to keep his word. "

"You will not give me the rings?"

"Not to save your life! Hark! some one is coming! Now you will seewhich of us is afraid of the other!"

He stood looking at her, a dangerous gleam in his black eyes. 

"Very well!" he said; "so be it! Don't trouble yourself to call yourhero of a husband--I'm going. You're a plucky little thing after all, Ethel. I don't know but that I rather admire your spirit. Adieu, mydear, until we meet again. "

He swung round, and vanished among the trees. He was actually singingas he went, "To-day for me. To-morrow for thee-- But will that to-morrow ever be?"

The last rustle of the laurels died away; all was still; the twilightwas closing darkness, and, with a shudder, Ethel turned to go. 

"But will that to-morrow ever be?"--the refrain of the doggerel rungin her ears. "Am I never to be free from this brother and sister?" shecried to herself, desperately, as she advanced to the house. "Am Inever to be free from this bondage?"

As the last flutter of her white dress disappeared, Sir VictorCatheron emerged from the shadow of the trees, and the face, on whichthe rising moon shone, was white as the face of death. 

CHAPTER VI. 

IN THE MOONLIGHT. 

He had not overheard a word, he had not tried to overhear; but he hadseen them together--that was enough. He had reached the spot only amoment before their parting, and had stood confounded at sight of hiswife alone here in the dusk with Juan Catheron. 

He saw them part--saw him dash through the woodland, singing as hewent--saw her turn away and walk rapidly to the house. She had comehere to meet him, then, her former lover. He had not left Chesholm;he was lurking in the neighborhood of the Royals, and she knew it. Sheknew it. How many times had they met before--his wife and the man heabhorred--the man who claimed her as his wife. What if she _were_his wife? What if that plight pledged in the Scotch kirk were binding?She had loved Juan Catheron then. What if she loved him still? She hadhidden it from him, until it could be hidden no longer--she haddeceived him in the past, she was deceiving him in the present. Sofair and so false, so innocent to all outward seeming. Yet so lost toall truth and honor. 

He turned sick and giddy; he leaned against a tree, feeling as thoughhe could never look upon her false face again. Yet the next moment hestarted passionately up. 

"I will go to her, " he thought; "I will hear what she has to say. Ifshe voluntarily tells me, I must, I will believe her. If she is silent, I will take it as proof of her guilt. "

He strode away to the house. As he entered, his man Edwards met him, and presented him a note. 

"Brought by a groom from Powyss Place, Sir Victor, " he said. "SquirePowyss has had a stroke. "

The baronet tore it open--it was an impetuous summons from Lady Helena. 

"The squire has had an attack of apoplexy. For Heaven's sake come atonce. "

He crushed it in his hand, and went into the dining-room. His wife wasnot there. He turned to the nursery; he was pretty sure of alwaysfinding her _there_. 

She was there, bending over her baby, looking fair and sweet as thebabe itself. Fair and sweet surely. Yet why, if innocent, that nervousstart at sight of him--that frightened look in the blue eyes. Thenurse stood at a distance, but he did not heed her. 

"A summons from Powyss Place, " he said; "the poor old squire has had afit of apoplexy. This is the second within the year, and may provefatal. I must go at once. It is not likely I shall return to-night. "

She looked at him, startled by his deadly paleness; but then, perhaps, the summons accounted for that. She murmured her regrets, then bentagain over her baby. 

"You have nothing to say to me, Ethel, before I go?" he said, lookingat her steadily. 

She half-lifted her head, the words half-rose to her lips. She glancedat the distant nurse, who was still busy in the room, glanced at herhusband's pale set face, and they died away again. Why detain him nowin his haste and trouble? Why rouse his rage against Juan Catheron atthis inopportune time? No, she would wait until to-morrow--nothingcould be done now; then she would reveal that intrusion in the grounds. 

"I have nothing to say, except good-by. I hope poor Mr. Powyss may notbe so ill as you fear. "

He turned away--a tumult of jealous rage within him. A deliberate liehe thought it; there could be no doubt of her guilt now. And yet, insanely inconsistent as it seems, he had never loved her morepassionately than in that hour. 

He turned to go without a word. He had reached the door. All at oncehe turned back, caught her in his arms almost fiercely, and kissed heragain and again. 

"Good-by, " he said, "my wife, my love--good-by. "

His vehemence frightened her. She released herself and looked at him, her heart fluttering. A second time he walked to the door--a secondtime he paused. Something seemed to stay his feet on the threshold. 

"You will think me foolish, Ethel, " he said, with a forced laugh; "butI seem afraid to leave you to-night. Nervous folly, I suppose; buttake care of yourself, my darling, until I return. I shall be back atthe earliest possible moment. "

Then he was gone. 

She crossed over to the low French window, standing wide open, andlooked after him wistfully. 

"Dear Victor, " she thought, "how fond he is of me, after all. "

The moon was shining brightly now, though the day still lingered. Shestood and watched him out of sight. Once, as he rode away, he turnedback--she kissed and waved her hand to him with a smile. 

"Poor Victor!" she thought again, "he loves me so dearly that I oughtto forgive him everything. How happy we might be here together, if itwere not for that horrible brother and sister. I wish--I wish he wouldsend her away. "

She lingered by the window, fascinated by the brilliancy of the risingSeptember moon. As she stood there, the nursery door opened, and MissCatheron entered. 

"You here, " she said, coolly; "I didn't know it. I wanted Victor. Ithought I heard his voice. And how is the heir of Catheron Royals?"

She bent, with her usual slight, chill smile over the crib of thatyoung gentleman, and regarded him in his sleep. The nurse, listeningin the dusk, she did not perceive. 

"By the bye, I wonder if he _is_ the heir of Catheron Royals though?I am reading up the Scottish Law of Marriage, and really I have mydoubts. If you are Juan's wife, you can't be Sir Victor's, consequently the legitimacy of his son may yet be--"

She never finished the sentence. It was the last drop in the brimmingcup--the straw that broke the camel's back--the one insult of allothers not to be borne. With eyes afire in the dusk, Sir Victor's wifeconfronted her. 

"You have uttered your last affront, Inez Catheron, " she exclaimed. "You will never utter another beneath this roof. To-morrow you leaveit! I am Sir Victor Catheron's wife, the mistress of Catheron Royals, and this is the last night it shall ever shelter you. Go!" She threwopen the nursery door. "When my husband returns either you or I leavethis house forever!"

The nurse was absolutely forgotten. For a second even Inez Catheronquailed before the storm she had raised; then black eyes met blue, with defiant scorn. 

"Not all the soap-boiler's daughters in London or England shall sendme from Catheron Royals! Not all the Miss Dobbs that ever bore thatdistinguished appellation shall drive me forth. _You_ may go to-morrowif you will. I shall not. "

She swept from the room, with eyes that blazed, and voice that rang. And Jane Pool, the nurse, thinking she had heard a little too much, softly opened an opposite door and stole out. 

"Good Lor'!" she thought, "_here_ be a pretty flare up! Ain't MissInez just got a temper though. I wouldn't stand in my lady's shoes, and her a-hating me so; no, not for all her money. I'll go down andget my supper, and call for Master Baby by and by. "

Mrs. Pool descended to the servants' hall, to narrate, of course inconfidence, to her most particular friends, the scene she had justoverheard. There was Welsh rabbits for supper--nurse was particularlyfond of Welsh rabbits--and in discussing it and Miss Inez's awfultemper half an hour slipped away. Then she arose again to see afterher charge. 

"Which he should have been undressed and tucked away for the nighthalf an hour ago, bless him, " she remarked; "but I could not make upmy mind to face my lady after _that_ row. Poor thing! It does seemhard now she can't be mistress in her own 'ouse. It's a pity SirVictor can't turn Turk and marry 'em both, since he can't abear topart with neither. "

Mrs. Pool made her exit and wended her way to the nursery. She tappedat the door--there was no reply--she opened it and went in--my ladyhad quitted it, no doubt. 

No--to her surprise my lady was still there. The window still stoodwide open, the white, piercing moonlight streamed in. An arm-chairstood near this window, and lying back in the arm-chair was my lady, fast asleep. 

Fast asleep. Jane Pool tiptoed over to make sure. She was pale as themoonlight itself. Her lips quivered as she slept like the lips of ahurt child, her eyelashes were yet wet with tears. Sitting there aloneshe had cried herself to sleep. 

"Poor thing!" Jane Pool said again. She was so young, so pretty, sogentle, that all the household loved her. "Poor dear thing! I say it'sa burning shame for Sir Victor, so fond as he is of her too, to letMiss Inez torment her. _I_ wouldn't stand her hairs and her'aughtiness, her temper and her tongue; no, not to be ten baronets'ladies, ten times hover!"

In his pretty blue silk, white lace, and carved rosewood nest, MasterVictor lay still, sleeping also. Mrs. Pool softly folded a shawlaround her lady's shoulder, lifted babe without awakening him, andstole softly out. The night nursery was an upper room. Jane Poolcarried him up, disrobed him, fed him, and tucked him up for the night. He fell again asleep almost instantly. She summoned the undernurse-maid to remain with him, and went back to the lower regions. Half an hour had passed since she left; it struck the half hour aftereight as she descended the stairs. 

"I'm sore afraid my lady will catch cold sleeping in the night air. I do think now I ought to go in and wake her. "

While she stood hesitating before it, the door opened suddenly andMiss Catheron came out. She was very pale. Jane Pool was struck by it, and the scarlet shawl she wore twisted about her, made her face lookalmost ghastly in the lamplight. 

"_You_ here?" she said, in her haughty way. "What do you want? Whereis baby?"

"Baby's asleep, miss, for the night, " Jane answered, with a stifflittle curtsey; "and what I'm here for, is to wake my lady. Sleepingin a draught cannot be good for anybody. But perhaps she is awake. "

"You will let my lady alone, " said Miss Catheron sharply, "and attendto your nursery. She is asleep still. It is not _your_ place todisturb her. Go!"

"Drat her!" Nurse Pool exclaimed inwardly, obeying, however; "she'sthat 'aughty and that stuck up, that she thinks we're the dirt underher feet. I only hope she'll be sent packing to-morrow, but I has mydoubts. Sir Victor's afraid of her--anybody can see that with half aneye. "

She descended to the servants' regions again, and encountered Ellen, Lady Catheron's smart maid, sociably drinking tea with the housekeeper. And once more into their attentive ears she poured forth this addendato her previous narrative. 

"What was Miss Inez doing in there?" demanded the maid; "no, good, I'll be bound. She hates my lady like poison; Sir Victor jilted her, you know, and she's in love with him yet. My lady _shall_ be wokeup in spite of her; she'd like her to get her death in the night air, I dare say. I've an easy missis and a good place, and I mean to keep'em. I ain't afraid of Miss Inez's black eyes and sharp tongue;_I'll_ go and wake my lady up. "

She finished her tea and left. She reached the nursery door and rappedas Nurse Pool had done. There was no reply. She turned the handlesoftly and went in. 

The large, crystal, clear moon was high in the sky now; its chillbrightness filled the room. The arm-chair still stood under the window;the small figure of my lady still lay motionless in it. 

"My lady, " Ellen said gently, advancing, "please wake up. "

There was no reply, no stir. She bent closer over her. 

"Please, my lady, wake up; I'm afraid you'll catch your death of--"

The words ended in a shriek that rang through the house from end toend--a woman's shrill, ear-splitting shriek. She had laid her handupon my lady's bosom to arouse her; she snatched it away and sprangback in horror. Asleep! Yes the sleep that knows no waking. Sir VictorCatheron's pretty young wife lay there in the moonlight--dead. 

Dead! There is blood on the white dress, blood on the blue shawl, blood on Ellen's hand, blood trickling in a small red stream fromunder the left breast. Ethel, Lady Catheron, lies there before her inthe moonlight stone dead--foully murdered. 

CHAPTER VII. 

IN THE NURSERY. 

She stands for a moment paralyzed--struck dumb by a horror too greatfor word or cry. Then she rushes to the door, along the passages, intothe midst of the startled household like a mad creature, shriekingthat one most awful word, "Murder!"

They flock around her, they catch hold of her, and keep her still bymain force. They ask her questions, but she only screams still thatghastly word, "Murder!"

"_Who_ is murdered? Where--what do you mean? Good Lord! young woman, "cries Mr. Hooper, the butler, giving her a shake, "do come out ofthese hysterics if you can, and speak! _Who's_ murdered?"

"My lady! Oh, my lady! my lady! my lady!"

She is like a creature distraught. There is blood on her right hand;she sees it, and with a gasping cry at the grisly sight, and beforethey know what she is about, she falls down in a faint in their midst. 

They lift her up; they look into one another's pale faces. 

"My lady!" they repeat, in an awe-struck whisper. "_Murdered_!"

"Here!" cries Mr. Hooper, his dignity coming to his aid, "let usinvestigate this here. Lay this young woman flat on her back on thefloor, sprinkle her with water, and let her come to. I'm going to findout what she means. "

They lay poor Ellen stiffly out as directed, some one dashes waterinto her face, then in a body, with Mr. Hooper at their head, theymarch off to investigate. 

"She was in the day-nursery, " Nurse Pool suggests, in a whisper, andto the day-nursery they go. 

On the threshold for a second or two they halt, their courage failing. But there is nothing very terrifying. Only the solemn moonlight, onlythe motionless little figure in the arm-chair. And yet a great aweholds them back. Does death--does murder stand grisly in their midst?

"Let us go in, in the name of Providence, " says Mr. Hooper, a tremblein his voice; "it--it can't be what she says. O good Lord, no!"

They go forward on tiptoe, as if afraid of awakening that quietsleeper whom only the last trump will ever awake now. They bend aboveher, holding their breath. Yes, there it is--the blood that is soakingher dress, dripping horribly on the carpet--oozing slowly from thatcruel wound. 

A gasping, inarticulate sort of groan comes heavily from every lip. Old Hooper takes her wrist between his shaking fingers. Stilledforever, already with the awful chill of death. In the crystal lightof the moon the sweet young face has never looked fairer, calmer, morepeaceful than now. 

The old butler straightens himself up, ashen gray. 

"It's too true, " he says, with a sort of sob. "O Lord, have mercy onus--it's too true! She's dead! She's murdered!"

He drops the wrist he holds, the little jewelled, dead hand falls limpand heavy. He puts his own hands over his face and sobs aloud:

"Who will tell Sir Victor? O my master! my dear young master!"

No one speaks--a spell of great horror has fallen upon them. Murderedin their midst, in their peaceful household--they cannot comprehend it. At last--

"_Where is Miss Catheron_?" asks a sombre voice. 

No one knows who speaks; no one seems to care; no one dare reply. 

"Where is Inez Catheron?" the voice says again. 

Something in the tone, something in the ghastly silence that follows, seems to arouse the butler. Since his tenth year he has been in theservice of the Catherons--his father before him was butler in thishouse. Their honor is his. He starts angrily round now. 

"Who was that?" he demands. "Of course Miss Inez knows nothing ofthis. "

No one had accused her, but he is unconsciously defending her already. 

"She must be told at once, " he says. "I'll go and tell her myself. Edwards, draw the curtains, will you, and light the candles?"

He leaves the room. The valet mechanically does as he is bid--thecurtains are drawn, the waxlights illumine the apartment. No one elsestirs. The soft, abundant light falls down upon that tranquil, marbleface--upon that most awful stain of blood. 

The butler goes straight up to his young lady's room. Wayward, passionate, proud Miss Inez may be, but she is very dear to him. Hehas carried her in his arms many a time, a little laughing, black-eyedchild. A vague, sickening fear fills him now. 

"She hated my lady, " he thinks, in a dazed, helpless sort of way;"everybody knows that. What will she say when she hears this?"

He knocks; there is no reply. He knocks again and calls huskily:

"Miss Inez, are you there? For the dear Lord's sake open the door!"

"Come in!" a voice answers. 

He cannot tell whether it is Miss Inez or not. He opens the door andenters. 

This room is unlit too--the shine of the moon fills it as it fillsthat other room below. Here too a solitary figure sits, crouches, rather, near the window in a strange, distorted attitude of pain. Heknows the flowing black hair, the scarlet wrap--he cannot see her face, she does not look round. 

"Miss Inez!"--his voice shakes--"I bring you bad news, awful news. Don't be shocked--but--a murder has been done. "

There is no answer. If she hears him she does not heed. She just sitsstill and looks out into the night. 

"Miss Inez! you hear me?"

He comes a little nearer--he tries to see her face. 

"You hear me?" he repeats. 

"I hear you. "

The words drop like ice from her lips. One hand is clutching the armof her chair--her wide-open black eyes never turn from the night-scene. 

"My lady is dead--cruelly murdered. O Miss Inez! do youhear?--_murdered_! What is to be done?"

She does not answer. Her lips move, but no word comes. An awful fearbegins to fill the faithful servant's heart. 

"Miss Inez!" he cries out, "you _must_ come--they are waiting for youbelow. There is no one here but you--Sir Victor is away. Sir Victor--"

His voice breaks; he takes out his handkerchief and sobs like a child. 

"My dear young master! My dear young master! He loved the very groundshe walked on. Oh, who is to tell him this?"

She rises slowly now, like one who is cramped, and stiff, and cold. She looks at the old man. In her eyes there is a blind, dazed sort ofhorror--on her face there is a ghastliness no words can describe. 

"Who is to tell Sir Victor?" the butler repeats. "It will killhim--the horror of it. So pretty and so young--so sweet and so good. Oh, how could they do it--how could they do it!"

She tries to speak once more--it seems as though her white lips cannotshape the words. Old Hooper looks up at her piteously. 

"Tell us what is to be done, Miss Inez, " he implores; "you are mistresshere now. "

She shrinks as if he had struck her. 

"Shall we send for Sir Victor first?"

"Yes, " she says, in a sort of whisper, "send for Sir Victor first. "

The voice in which she speaks is not the voice of Inez Catheron. Thebutler looks at her, that great fear in his eyes. 

"You haven't seen her, Miss Inez, " he says. "It is a fearfulsight--but--will you come down?"

He almost dreads a refusal, but she does not refuse. 

"I will go down, " she answers, and turns at once to go. 

The servants stand huddled together in the centre of the room. _It_lies there, in its dreadful quiet, before them. Every eye turns darklyupon Miss Catheron as she comes in. 

She never sees them. She advances like a sleep-walker, that dazed, dumb horror still in her eyes, the whiteness of death on her face. Shewalks over and looks down upon the dead mistress of Catheron Royals. No change comes over her--she softens neither into pity nor tears. Solong she stands there, so rigid she looks, so threatening are the eyesthat watch her, that Hooper interposes his portly figure between herand them. 

"Miss Inez, " he says, "will you please give your orders? Shall I sendfor Sir Victor at once, or--"

"Yes, send for Sir Victor at once. " She arouses herself to say it. "And I think you had better send to Chesholm for a doctor and--and thepolice. "

"The police!"

"A murder has been committed, " she says, in a cold, hard voice; "themurderer must be found. "

Something of her old calm, stately haughtiness returns as she speaks. 

"This room must be cleared. Let no one touch _her_, " she shuddersand looks away, "until Sir Victor comes. Ellen, Pool, Hooper, youthree had better remain to watch. Edwards, mount the fastest horse inthe stables and ride to Powyss Place for your life. "

"Yes, miss, " Edwards answers, in a low voice; "and please, miss, am Ito tell Sir Victor?"

She hesitates a moment--her face changes, her voice shakes a littlefor the first time. 

"Yes, " she answers, faintly, "tell him. "

Edwards leaves the room. She turns to another of the men servants. 

"You will ride to Chesholm and fetch Dr. Dane. On your way stop at thepolice station and apprise them. The rest of you go. Jane Pool, whereis the baby?"

"Up stairs in the night nursery, " Jane Pool answers sullenly. 

"And crying, too--I hear him. Hannah, " to the under nurse, "go up andremain with him. I am going to my own room. When, " she pauses a secondand speaks with an effort, "when Sir Victor comes, you will receiveyour further orders from him. I can do nothing more. "

She left the room. Jane Pool looked ominously after her. 

"No, " she said, between her set lips; "you have done enough. "

"Oh, Jane, hush!" Ellen whispers in terror. 

There has still been no direct accusation, but they understand eachother perfectly. 

"When the time comes to speak, you'll see whether I'll hush, " retortsJane. "What was she doing in this room fifteen minutes before youfound my lady dead? Why wouldn't she let me in? why did she tell me alie? what made her say my lady was still asleep? Asleep! Oh, poor soul, to think of her being murdered here, while we were all enjoyingourselves below. And if I hadn't took away the baby its my opinion itwould have been--"

"Oh, Jane!"

"'Oh, Jane, ' as much as you please, it's the gospel truth. Them thatkilled the mother hated the child. When the time comes I'll speak, ifshe was twice the lady she is, Ellen!"

"Lor!" Ellen cried with a nervous jump, "don't speak so jerky Mrs. Pool. You make my blood a mask of ice. What is it?"

"Ellen, " Jane Pool said solemnly, "where is the dagger?"

"What dagger?"

"The furrin dagger with the gold handle and the big ruby set in it, that my lady used as a paper knife. I'll take my oath I saw it lyingon the table there, shining in the moonlight, when I took away baby. Where is it now?"

The dagger the nurse spoke of, was a curious Eastern knife, that hadbelonged to Sir Victor's mother. It had a long, keen steel blade, aslim handle of wrought gold set with a large ruby. Sir Victor's wifehad taken a fancy to the pretty Syrian toy, and converted it into apaper knife. 

"I saw it on that there table when I took away baby, " Jane saidcompressing her lips; "_it_ would do it. Where is it now?"

"Gone, " Ellen answered. "Oh, Jane do you think--"

"She has been stabbed, you see, right through the heart, and thereisn't much blood. That devilish little glittering knife has done thedeed. There it was ready for its work, as if Satan himself had left ithandy. Oh, poor lady--poor lady! to think that the toy she used toplay with, should one day take her life!"

While they whispered in the death room, up in her chamber, while thehours of the dreary night wore on, Inez Catheron sat, crouched in aheap, as Hooper had found her, her face hidden in her hands. Two hourshad passed, an awful silence filled the whole house, while she satthere and never stirred. As eleven struck from the turret clock, thethunder of horses' hoofs on the avenue below, came to her dulled ears. A great shudder shook her from head to foot--she lifted her haggardface. The lull before the storm was over--Sir Victor Catheron had come. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

IN THE DARKNESS. 

Half an hour's rapid gallop had brought Edwards, the valet, to PowyssPlace. The stately mansion, park, lawn, and terraces, lay bathed inthe silvery shower of moonlight. From the upper windows, where thesick man lay, lights streamed; all the rest of the house was in deepshadow. 

In one of those dimly lighted rooms Sir Victor Catheron lay upon alounge fast asleep. He had remained for about two hours by the sickman's bedside; then, persuaded by his aunt, had gone to lie down in aninner department. 

"You look pale and ill yourself, " she had said, tenderly; "lie downand rest for a little. If I need you, I will call you at once. "

He had obeyed, and had dropped off into a heavy sleep. A dulloppression of heart and soul beset him; he had no mind to slumber--ithad come upon him unawares. He was awakened suddenly by some onecalling his name. 

"Victor! Victor!" the voice called, "awake!"

He sat up with a bewildered face. Was that his aunt's voice, so hoarse, so strange? Was this his aunt with that white, horror-struck face?

"Victor!" she cried, the words a very wail. "Oh, my boy! my boy! howshall I ever tell you? Oh, why did I send for you this dreadful night?Ethel"--her voice choked. 

He rose to his feet, staring at her blankly. 

"Ethel!" he repeated. "Ethel--"

She covered her face with her hands and burst into a hystericaloutbreak of tears. Edwards, standing behind her in the doorway, madea step forward. 

"Tell him, Edwards, " said Lady Helena. "I cannot. It seems toohorrible to tell or to believe. Oh, my poor Victor! my poor, poor boy!"

Edwards came forward reluctantly, with a very pale, scared face. 

"It's dreadful news, Sir Victor--I don't know how to tell you, but mylady, I'm afraid she--she's dead. "

"Dead!"

He repeated the word dully, staring almost stupidly at the speaker. 

"Dead, Sir Victor!" the man repeated, solemnly. "I'm sore afraid, murdered!"

There was a sudden, headlong rush from the room; no other reply. Likea flash Sir Victor passed them both. They heard him clear the stairs, rush along the lower hall, and out of the house. The next instant thevalet and Lady Helena were in pursuit. 

He was mounted on Edwards' horse and dashing furiously away, beforethey reached the court-yard. They called to him--he neither heard norheeded. He dashed his spurred heel into the horse's side and flew outof sight like the wind. 

"Follow him!" Lady Helena cried, breathlessly, to the groom. "Overtakehim, for the love of Heaven! Oh, _who_ can have done this awful deed?Edwards, you are sure there is no mistake? It seems too unnatural, too impossible to believe. "

"There is no mistake, my lady, " the man answered, sadly. "I saw hermyself, the blood flowing where they had stabbed her, cold and dead. "

Lady Helena wrung her hands and turned away. 

"Ride for your life after your master!" she said. "I will follow youas soon as I can. "

She went back to her husband's side. He was no worse--he seemed ifanything, better. She might leave him in her housekeeper's chargeuntil morning. 

She ordered the carriage and rapidly changed her dress. It was aboutone in the morning when she reached Catheron Royals. The tall turretswere silvered in the moonlight, the windows sparkled in the crystallight. The sweet beauty and peace of the September night lay like abenediction over the earth. And, amid all the silence and sweetness, a foul, a most horrible murder had been done. 

She encountered Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, in the hall, her facepale, her eyes red with weeping. Some dim hope that up to this timehad upheld her, that, after all, there _might_ be a mistake, diedout then. 

"Oh, Marsh, " she said, piteously, "_is_ it true?"

Mrs. Marsh's answer was a fresh burst of tears. Like all the rest ofthe household, the gentle ways, the sweet face, and soft voice of SirVictor's wife had won her heart from the first. 

"It is too true, my lady--the Lord have mercy upon us all. It seemstoo horrid for belief, but it is true. As she lay asleep there, fourhours ago, in her own house, surrounded by her own servants, somemonster in human form stabbed her through the heart--through the heart, my lady--Dr. Dane says one blow did it, and that death must have beeninstantaneous. So young, so sweet, and so lovely. Oh, how could theydo it--how could any one do it?"

Mrs. Marsh's sobs grew hysterical. Lady Helena's own tears wereflowing. 

"I feel as though I were guilty in some way myself, " the housekeeperwent on. "If we had only woke her up, or fastened the window, oranything! I know the monster, whoever he was, got in through thewindow. And, oh, my lady!"--Mrs. Marsh wiped her eyes suddenly, andlowered her voice to an excited whisper--"I wish you would speak toJane Pool, the nurse. She doesn't dare say anything out openly, butthe looks she gives, and the hints she drops, are almost worse thanthe murder itself. You can see as clear as day that she suspects--MissInez. "

"Marsh! Great Heaven!" Lady Helena cried, recoiling in horror. "MissInez!"

"Oh, my lady, _I_ don't say it--_I_ don't think it--Heavenforbid!--it's only that wicked, spiteful nurse, Pool. She hates MissInez--she has hated her from the first--and she loved my lady. Ah! whocould help being fond of her--poor, lovely young lady!--with a sweetsmile and pleasant word for every one in the house? And you know MissInez's high, haughty way. Jane Pool hates her, and will do hermischief if she can. A word from you might check her. No one knows theharm a babbling tongue may do. "

Lady Helena drew herself up proudly. 

"I shall not say one word to her, Marsh. Jane Pool can do my niece noharm. The bare repetition of it is an insult. Miss Catheron--that Ishould have to say such a thing!--is above suspicion. "

"My lady, I believe it; still, if you would only speak to her. Youdon't know all. She saw Miss Inez coming out of the nursery a quarterof an hour before we found Lady Catheron dead. She wished to enter, and Miss Inez ordered her away. She has been talking to the police, and I saw that Inspector Darwin watching Miss Inez in a way that mademy blood run cold. "

But Lady Helena waived the topic away haughtily. 

"Be silent, Marsh! I will not hear another word of this--it is toohorrible! Where is Miss Inez?"

"In her own room, my lady. And--I beg your pardon for alluding to itagain--but I think she suspects. She seemed dazed-like, stupefied atfirst; she is more like herself now. Will you not go in and see _her_, poor soul, before you go to Miss Inez? Oh, my lady, my lady! it breaksmy heart when I look at her--when I look at Sir Victor. "

For a moment Lady Helena shrank. 

"Sir Victor is in there--with her?" she faltered. 

"Yes, my lady--like a man all struck stupid. It frightens me to seehim. If he would only speak, or cry, or fly out against themurderer--but he just sits there as if turning to stone. "

His aunt covered her face for an instant with both hands, heart-sickwith all these horrors; then she looked up, and moved forward. 

"Where is she?" she asked--"in which room?"

"In the white drawing-room, my lady; the doctors brought her there. Sir Victor is with her, alone. "

Lady Helen slowly advanced. At the door she paused a moment to nerveherself for what she must see; then she turned the handle and went in. 

It was one of the stateliest rooms in the house--all white and gold, and dimly lit now by wax tapers. Lying on one of the white velvetsofas she saw a rigid figure, over which a white covering was drawn;but the golden hair and the fair, marble face gleaming in thewaxlights as beautiful as ever in life. 

He sat beside his dead--almost as motionless, almost as cold, almostas white. He had loved her with a love that was akin to idolatrous--hehad grudged that the eye of man should rest on his treasure--and nowhe sat beside her--dead. 

If he heard the door open, he neither moved nor stirred. He never oncelooked up as his aunt came forward; his eyes were riveted upon thatineffably calm face with a vacant, sightless sort of stare thatchilled her blood. 

"Victor!" she cried out, in a frightened voice; "Victor speak to me. For pity's sake, don't look like that?"

The dull, blinded eyes looked up at her, full of infinite, unutterabledespair. 

"She is dead, " he said, in a slow, dragging sort of voice--"dead!And last night I left her well and happy--left her to bemurdered--to--be--murdered. "

The slow words fell heavily from his lips--his eyes went back to herface, his dulled mind seemed lapsing into its stupefied trance ofquiet. More and more alarmed, his aunt gazed at him. Had the death ofhis wife turned his brain?

"Victor!" she exclaimed, almost angrily, "you must rouse yourself. Youmust not stay here. Be a man! Wake up. Your wife has been murdered. Goand find her murderer. "

"Her murderer, " he replied, in the same slow tone of unnatural quiet;"her murderer. It seems strange, Aunt Helena, doesn't it, that any one_could_ murder her? 'I must find her murderer. ' Oh, " he cried, suddenly, in a voice of anguish; "what does it matter about hermurderer! It won't bring her back to life. She is dead I tellyou--dead!"

He flung himself off his chair, on his knees by the couch. He drewdown the white satin counterpane, and pointed to that one dark, smallstab on the left side. 

"Look!" he said, in a shrill, wailing voice, "through theheart--through the heart! She did not suffer--the doctors say_that_. Through the heart as she slept. Oh, my love, my darling, my wife!"

He kissed the wound--he kissed the hands, the face, the hair. Thenwith a long, low moan of utter desolation, he drew back the coveringand buried his face in it. 

"Leave me alone, " he said, despairingly; "I will not go--I will nevergo from her again. She was mine in life--mine only. Juan Catheron lied, she is mine in death. My wife--my Ethel!"

He started up as suddenly as he had flung himself down, his ghastlyface flaming dark red. 

"Leave me alone, I tell you! Why do you all come here? I will_not_ go! Leave me, I command you--I am master here!"

She shrank from him in absolute physical terror. Never over-strong atany time, her worst fears were indeed true, the shock of his wife'stragic death was turning Sir Victor's brain. There was nothing to bedone--nothing to be said--he must be obeyed--must be soothed. 

"Dear Victor, " she said, "I will go. Don't be hard with poor AuntHelena. There is no one in all this world as sorry for you as I am. Only tell me this before I leave you--shall we not send for her fatherand mother?"

"No, " he answered, in the same fierce tone; "they can't bring her backto life--no one can now. I don't want them. I want nobody. Ethel ismine I tell you--mine alone!"

He motioned her imperiously to leave him--a light in his eye--a flushon his face there was no mistaking. She went at once. How was it allto end she wondered, more and more sick at heart--this mysteriousmurder, this suspicion against Inez, this dreadful overthrow of hernephew's mind?

"May Heaven help us!" she cried. "What have we done that this awfultrouble should come upon us!"

"Aunt Helena. "

She looked round with a little cry, all her nerves trembling andunstrung. Inez stood before her--Inez with dark, resolute eyes, andstony face. 

"I have been waiting for you--they told me you were _there_. " Shepointed with a shudder to the door. "What are we to do?"

"Don't ask me, " Lady Helena answered, helplessly. "I don't know. Ifeel stunned and stupid with all these horrors. "

"The police are here, " Miss Catheron went on, "and the coroner hasbeen apprised. I suppose, they will hold an inquest to-morrow. "

Her aunt looked at her in surprise. The calm, cold tone of her voicegrated on her sick heart. 

"Have you seen _him_?" she asked almost in a whisper. "Inez--Ifear--I fear it is turning his brain. "

Miss Catheron's short, scornful upper lip, curled with the old look ofcontempt. 

"The Catheron brain was never noted for its strength. I shall not besurprised at all. Poor wretch!" She turned away and looked out intothe darkness. "It does seem hard on him. "

"Who can have done it?"

The question on every lip rose to Lady Helena's, but somehow she couldnot utter it. Did Inez know of the dark, sinister suspicion againstherself? _Could_ she know and be calm like this?

"I forgot to ask for Uncle Godfrey, " Inez's quiet voice said again. "Of course he is better, or even at such a time as this you would notbe here?"

"He is better, Inez, " she broke out desperately. "Who can have donethis? She had not an enemy in the world. Is--is there any onesuspected?"

"There is, " Inez answered, turning from the window, and facing heraunt. "The servants suspect _me_. "

"Inez!"

"Their case isn't a bad one as they make it out, " pursued MissCatheron, cooly. "There was ill blood between us. It is of no usedenying it. I hated her with my whole heart. I was the last personseen coming out of the room, fifteen minutes before they found herdead. Jane Pool says I refused to let her go in--perhaps I did. It isquite likely. About an hour previously we had a violent quarrel. Theubiquitous Mrs. Pool overheard that also. You see her case is rather astrong one. "

"But--Inez--!"

"I chanced to overhear all this, " still went on Miss Catheron, quietly, but with set lips and gleaming eyes. "Jane Pool was holding forth tothe inspector of police. I walked up to them, and they both slunk awaylike beaten curs. Orders have been issued, that no one is to leave thehouse. To-morrow these facts are to be placed before the coroner'sjury. If they find me guilty--don't cry, Aunt Helena--I shall be sorryfor _you_--sorry I have disgraced a good old name. For the rest, itdoesn't much matter what becomes of such a woman as I am. "

She turned again to the window and looked out into the darkness. Therewas a desperate bitterness in her tone that Lady Helena could notunderstand. 

"Good Heaven!" she burst forth, "one would think you were all in aconspiracy to drive me mad. It doesn't matter, what becomes of you, doesn't it? I tell you if this last worst misery falls upon us, itwill kill me on the spot; just that. "

The girl sighed drearily. 

"Kill you, Aunt Helena, " she repeated, mournfully. "No--we don't anyof us die so easily. Don't be afraid--I am not likely to talk in thisway before any one but you. I am only telling you the truth. They willhave the inquest, and all that Jane Pool can say against me will besaid. Do you think Victor will be able to appear?"

"I don't think Victor is in a condition to appear at an inquest oranywhere else. Ah, poor boy! he loved her so dearly, it is enough toshake the mind of a stronger man. "

But Miss Catheron was dead silent--it was evident her feelings herewere as bitter as ever--that even the tragic death of her rival hadnot softened her. 

"He will survive it, " she answered, in the same half-contemptuous tone. "Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love. "

"Inez, " said her aunt, suddenly coming a step nearer, "a rumor hasreached me--is it true?--that Juan is back--that he has been here?"

"It is quite true, " her niece answered, without turning round; "he_has_ been here. He was here on the night Lady Catheron first came. "

"There is another rumor afloat, that there was a violent quarrel onthat occasion--that he claimed to be an old lover of Ethel's, poorchild, and that Victor turned him out. Since then it is said he hasbeen seen more than once prowling about the grounds. For everybody'ssake I hope it is not true. "

Inez faced round suddenly--almost fiercely. 

"And what if I say it _is_ true, in every respect? He did come--therewas a quarrel, and Victor ordered him out. Since then he has beenhere--prowling, as you call it--trying to see me, trying to forceme to give him money. I was flinty as usual, and would give him none. Where is the crime in all that?"

"Has he gone?" was Lady Helena's response. 

"I believe so--I hope so. He had nothing to stay for. Of course he hasgone. "

"I am glad of that, at least. And now, as it seems I can do nothingmore at present, I will return home. Watch Victor, Inez--he needs it, believe me. I will return at the earliest possible moment to-morrow. "

So, in the chill gray of the fast-coming morning, Lady Helena, veryheavy-hearted, returned to Powyss Place and her sick husband's bedside. 

Meantime matters were really beginning to look dark for Miss Catheron. The superintendent of the district, Mr. Ferrick, was filling hisnote-book with very ominous information. She had loved Sir Victor--shehad hated Sir Victor's wife--they had led a cat-and-dog life from thefirst--an hour before the murder they had had a violent quarrel--LadyCatheron had threatened to make her husband turn her out of the houseon the morrow. At eight o'clock, Jane Pool had left the nursery withthe baby, my lady peacefully asleep in her chair--the Eastern poniardon the table. At half-past eight, returning to arouse my lady, she hadencountered Miss Inez coming out of the nursery, and Miss Inez hadordered her sharply away, telling her my lady was still asleep. Aquarter of nine, Ellen, the maid, going to the room, found my ladystone dead, stabbed through the heart. Miss Inez, when summoned byHooper, is ghastly pale at first, and hardly seems to know what she isdoing or saying. A very pretty case of tragedy in high life, Superintendent Ferrick thinks, pursing up his lips with professionalzest, and not the first murder jealousy has made fine ladies commit, either. Now if that Turkish dagger would only turn up. 

Two policemen are sent quietly in search of it through the grounds. Itisn't likely they'll find it, still it will do no harm to try. Hefinds out which are Miss Catheron's rooms, and keeps his official eyeupon them. He goes through the house with the velvet tread of a cat. In the course of his wanderings everywhere, he brings up presently inthe stables, and finds them untenanted, save by one lad, who sitssolitary among the straw. He is rather a dull-looking youth, with aflorid, vacant face at most times, but looking dazed and anxious justnow. "Something on _his_ mind, " thinks the superintendent, and sitssociably down on a box beside him at once. 

"Now, my man, " Mr. Ferrick says, pleasantly, "and what is it that'stroubling _you_? Out with it--every little's a help in a case likethis. "

The lad--his name is Jimmy--does not need pressing--his secret hasbeen weighing uneasily upon him for the last hour or more, ever sincehe heard of the murder, in fact, and he pours his revelation into thesuperintendent's eager ear. His revelation is this:

Last evening, just about dusk, strolling by chance in the direction ofthe Laurel walk, he heard voices raised and angry in the walk--thevoices of a man and a woman. He had peeped through the branches andseen my lady and a very tall man. No, it wasn't Sir Victor--it was amuch bigger man, with long black curling hair. Didn't see his face. Itwas dark in there among the trees. Wasn't sure, but it struck him itmight be the tall, black-avised man, who came first the night SirVictor brought home my lady, and who had been seen skulking about thepark once or twice since. Had heard a whisper, that the man was MissInez's brother--didn't know himself. All he did know was, that my ladyand a man were quarrelling on the evening of the murder in the Laurelwalk. What were they quarrelling about? Well, he couldn't catch theirtalk very well--it was about money he thought. The man wanted moneyand jewels, and my lady wouldn't give 'em. He threatened to dosomething or tell something; then _she_ threatened to have him putin Chesholm jail if he did. He, Jimmy, though full of curiosity, was afraid the man would spring out and catch him, and so at thatjuncture he came away. There! that was all, if it did the gentlemanany good, he was welcome to it. 

It did the gentleman a world of good--it complicated mattersbeautifully. Five minutes ago the case looked dark as night for MissCatheron--here was a rift in her sky. Who was this man--_was_ itMiss Catheron's scapegrace brother? Jimmy could tell him nothing more. "If you wants to find out about Miss Inez' brother, " said Jimmy, "yougo to old Hooper. _He_ knows. All _I_ know is, that they say he wasan uncommon bad lot; but old Hooper, he's knowed him ever since hewas a young'un and lived here. If old Hooper says he wasn't here thenight Sir Victor brought my lady home, don't you believe him--he was, and he's been seen off and on in the grounds since. The women folksin the servants' hall, they say, as how he must have been an oldsweetheart of my lady's. You go to old Hooper and worrit it out ofhim. "

Mr. Superintendent Ferrick went. How artfully he began his work, howdelicately and skillfully he "pumped" old Hooper dry, no words cantell. Mr. Juan Catheron _was_ an "uncommon bad lot, " he had come tothe house and forced an entrance into the dining-room the night ofLady Catheron's arrival--there had been a quarrel, and he had beencompelled to leave. Bit by bit this was drawn from Mr. Hooper. Sincethen, Jackson, the head groom, and Edwards, the valet, had seen himhovering about the grounds watching the house. 

Mr. Ferrick ponders these things in his heart, and is still. Thisvagabond, Juan Catheron, follows my lady to Catheron Royals, isexpelled, haunts the grounds, and a man answering to his descriptionis discovered quarrelling with my lady, demanding money, etc. , two orthree hours before the murder. The window of the room, in which shetakes that fatal sleep, opens on the lawn; any one may enter who seesfit. No one is about. The Oriental dagger lies convenient to his handon the table. "Here, now, " says Mr. Ferrick _to_ Mr. Ferrick, witha reflective frown, "which is guilty--the brother or sister?"

He goes and gives an order to one of his men, and the man starts insearch of Mr. Juan Catheron. Mr. Catheron must be found, though theysummon the detectives of Scotland Yard to aid them in their search. 

The dull hours wear on--the new day, sunny and bright, is with them. The white drawing-room is darkened--the master of Catheron Royals sitsthere alone with his dead. And presently the coroner comes, and talkswith the superintendent, and they enter softly and look at themurdered lady. The coroner departs again--a jury is summoned, and theinquest is fixed to begin at noon next day in the "Mitre" tavern atChesholm. 

Lady Helena returns and goes at once to her nephew. Inez, in spite ofher injunctions, has never been near him once. He sits there still, asshe left him many hours ago; he has never stirred or spoken since. Left to himself he is almost apathetic in his quiet--he rouses intofury, when they strive to take him away. As the dusk falls, LadyHelena, passing the door, hears him softly talking to the dead, andonce--oh, pitiful Heaven! she hears a low, blood-chilling laugh. Sheopens the door and goes in. He is kneeling besides the sofa, holdingthe stark figure in his arms, urging her to get up and dress. 

"It is a lovely night, Ethel, " he says; "the moon is shining, and youknow, you like to walk out on moonlight nights. Do you remember, love, those nights at Margate; when we walked together first on the sands?Ah! you never lay like this, cold and still, then. Do get up, Ethel!"petulantly this; "I am tired of sitting here and waiting for you toawake. You have slept long enough. Get up!"

He tries to lift her. Horror struck, Lady Helena catches him in timeto prevent it. 

"Victor, Victor!" she cries, "for the love of Heaven put her down. Come away. Don't you know she is dead?"

He lifts his dim eyes to her face, blind with the misery of a dumbanimal. 

"_Dead_!" he whispers. 

Then with a low, moaning gasp, he falls back in her arms, faintingwholly away. 

Her cries bring aid--they lift him and carry him up to his room, undress and place him in bed. The family physician is summoned--feelshis pulse, hears what Lady Helena has to say, and looks very grave. The shock has been too much for a not overstrong body or mind. SirVictor is in imminent danger of brain fever. 

The night shuts down. A messenger comes to Lady Helena saying thesquire is much better, and she makes up her mind to remain all night. Inez comes, pale and calm, and also takes her place by the strickenman's bedside, a great sadness and pity for the first time on herface. The White Room is locked--Lady Helena keeps the key--one palelight burns dimly in its glittering vastness. And as the night closesin blackness over the doomed house, one of the policemen comes inhaste to Superintendent Ferrick, triumph in his face. He has found thedagger. 

Mr. Ferrick opens his eyes rather--it is more than he expected. 

"A bungler, " he mutters, "whoever did it. Jones, where did you findthis?"

Jones explains. 

Near the entrance gates there is a wilderness of fern, or bracken, ashigh as your waist. Hidden in the midst of this unlikely place Joneshas found the dagger. It is as if the party, going down the avenue, had flung it in. 

"Bungler, " Superintendent Ferrick says again. "It's bad enough to be amurderer without being a fool. "

He takes the dagger. No doubt about the work it has done. It isincrusted with blood--dry, dark, and clotted up to the hilt. A strong, sure hand had certainly done the deed. For the first time the thoughtstrikes him--_could_ a woman's hand, strike that one strong, sure, deadly blow? Miss Catheron is a fragile-looking young lady, with awaist he could span, slim little fingers, and a delicate wrist. Couldshe strike this blow--it is quite evident only one has been struck. 

"And besides, " says Superintendent Ferrick, argumentatively to himself, "it's fifteen minutes' fast walking from the house to the gates. Fifteen minutes only elapse between the time Nurse Pool sees her comeout of the nursery and Maid Ellen finds her mistress murdered. AndI'll be sworn, she hasn't been out of the house to-day. All last nightthey _say_ she kept herself shut up in her room. Suppose shewasn't--suppose she went out last night and tried to hide it, is itlikely--come, I say! is it likely, she would take and throw it rightin the very spot, where it was sure to be found? A Tartar that youngwoman is, I have no doubt, but she's a long way off being a fool. Shemay know _who_ has done this murder, but I'll stake my professionalreputation, in spite of Mrs. Pool, that she never did it herself. "

A thin, drizzling rain comes on with the night, the trees drip, dripin a feeble melancholy sort of way, the wind has a lugubrious sob inits voice, and it is intensely dark. It is about nine o'clock, whenMiss Catheron rises from her place by the sick-bed and goes out of theroom. In the corridor she stands a moment, with the air of one wholooks, and listens. She sees no one. The dark figure of a woman, whohovers afar off and watches her, is there, but lost in a shadowycorner; a woman, who since the murder, has never entirely lost sightof her. Miss Catheron does not see her, she takes up a shawl, wraps itabout her, over her head, walks rapidly along the passage, down a backstairway, out of a side door, little used, and so out into the dark, dripping, sighing night. 

There are the Chesholm constabulary on guard on the wet grass andgravel elsewhere--there are none here. But the quiet figure of JanePool has followed her, like her shadow, and Jane Pool's face, peerscautiously out from the half-open door. 

In that one instant while she waits, she misses her prey--she emerges, but in the darkness nothing is to be seen or heard. 

As she stands irresolute, she suddenly hears a low, distinct whistleto the left. It may be the call of a night-bird--it may be a signal. 

She glides to the left, straining her eyes through the gloom. It ismany minutes before she can see anything, except the vaguely wavingtrees--then a fiery spark, a red eye glows through the night. She hasrun her prey to earth--it is the lighted tip of a cigar. 

She draws near--her heart throbs. Dimly she sees the tall figure of aman; close to him the slender, slighter figure of a woman. They aretalking in whispers, and she is mortally afraid of coming too close. What is to keep them from murdering her too?

"I tell you, you _must_ go, and at once, " are the first words, shehears Inez Catheron speaking, in a passionate, intense whisper. "Itell you I am suspected already; do you think _you_ can escape muchlonger? If you have any feeling for yourself, for me, go, go, Ibeseech you, at once! They are searching for you now, I warn you, andif they find you--"

"If they find me, " the man retorts, doggedly, "it can't be much worsethan it is. Things have been so black with me for years, that theycan't be much blacker. But I'll go. I'm not over anxious to stay, Lordknows. Give me the money and I'll be off. "

She takes from her bosom a package, and hands it to him; by the glowof the red cigar-tip Jane sees her. 

"It is all I have--all I can get, jewels and all, " she says; "enoughto keep you for years with care. Now go, and never come back--yourcoming has done evil enough, surely. "

Jane Pool catches the words--the man mutters some sullen, inaudiblereply. Inez Catheron speaks again in the same passionate voice. 

"How dare you say so?" she cries, stamping her foot. "You wretch! whomit is my bitterest shame to call brother. But for you _she_ wouldbe alive and well. Do you think I do not know it? Go--living or dead, I never want to look upon your face again!"

Jane Pool hears those terrible words and stands paralyzed. Can it be, that Miss Inez is not the murderess after all? The man retortsagain--she does not hear how--then plunges into the woodland anddisappears. An instant the girl stands motionless looking after him, then she turns and walks rapidly back into the house. 

CHAPTER IX. 

FROM THE "CHESHOLM COURIER. "

The Monday morning edition of the _Chesholm Courier_, September 19th, 18--, contained the following, eagerly devoured by every man and womanin the county, able to read at all:

 THE TRAGEDY AT CATHERON ROYALS. 

"In all the annals of mysterious crime (began the editor, with intenseevident relish), nothing more mysterious, or more awful, has ever beenknown, than the recent tragedy at Catheron Royals. In the annals ofour town, of our county, of our country we may almost say, it standsunparalleled in its atrocity. A young and lovely lady, wedded littlebetter than a year, holding the very highest position in society, inthe sacred privacy of her own household, surrounded by faithfulservants, is struck down by the dagger of the assassin. Her youth, herbeauty, the sanctity of slumber, all were powerless to shield her. Full of life, and hope, and happiness, she is foully and hideouslymurdered--her babe left motherless, her young husband bereaved anddesolate. If anything were needed to make the dreadful tragedy yetmore dreadful, it is, that Sir Victor Catheron lies, as, we write, hovering between life and death. The blow, which struck her down, hasstricken him too--has laid him upon what may be his death-bed. Atpresent he lies mercifully unconscious of his terrible loss tossing inthe delirium of violent brain fever. 

"Who, we ask, is safe after this? A lady of the very highest rank, inher own home, surrounded by her servants, in open day, is stabbed tothe heart. Who, we ask again, is safe after this? Who was theassassin--what was the motive? Does that assassin yet lurk in ourmidst? Let it be the work of the coroner and his jury to discover theterrible secret, to bring the wretch to justice. And it is the duty ofevery man and woman in Chesholm to aid, if they can, that discovery. "

 * * * * *

 _From Tuesday's Edition_. 

The inquest began at one o'clock yesterday in the parlor of the MitreInn, Lady Helena Powyss, of Powyss Place, and Miss Inez Catheron beingpresent. The first witness called was Ellen Butters. 

ELLEN BUTTERS sworn. --"I was Lady Catheron's maid; I was engaged inLondon and came down with her here; on the afternoon of Friday, 16th, I last saw my lady alive, about half-past six in the afternoon; shehad dressed for dinner; the family dinner hour is seven; saw nothingunusual about her; well yes, she seemed a little out of spirits, butwas gentle and patient as usual; when I had finished dressing her shethrew her shawl about her, and took a book, and said she would go outa few minutes and take the air; she did go out, and I went down to theservant's hall; sometime after seven Jane Pool, the nurse, came downin a great flurry and said--"

THE CORONER. --"Young woman we don't want to hear what Jane Pool saidand did. We want to know what you saw yourself. "

ELLEN BUTTERS (sulkily). --"Very well, that's what I'm trying to tellyou. If Jane Pool hadn't said Sir Victor had gone off to Powyss Place, and that she didn't think it would be proper to disturb my lady justthen, I would have gone up to my lady for orders. Jane had her supperand went up to the nursery for baby. She came back again afterawhile--it was just past eight--in a temper, saying she had left mylady asleep when she took away baby, and returned to awake her. Shehad met Miss Inez who ordered her away about her business, saying mylady was still asleep. Jane Pool said--"

THE CORONER--"Young woman, we _don't_ want to hear what Jane Poolsaid. Jane Pool will tell her own story presently; we won't troubleyou to tell both. At what hour did you go up to the nursery yourself?"

ELLEN BUTTERS (more sulkily). --"I disremember; it was after eight. Icould tell all about it better, if you wouldn't keep interrupting andputting me out. It was about a quarter or twenty minutes past eight, Ithink--"

THE CORONER (dogmatically). --"What you think won't do. Be more preciseif you please, and keep your temper. What o'clock was it, I say, whenyou went up to the nursery?"

ELLEN BUTTERS (excitedly). --"It was about a quarter or twenty minutespast eight--how can I know any surer when I _don't_ know. I don'tcarry a watch, and didn't look at the clock. I'm sure I never expectedto be badgered about it in this way. I said I'd go and wake my lady upand not leave her there, to catch her death, in spite of fifty MissCatherons. I rapped at the door and got no answer, then I opened itand went in. There was no light, but the moon was shining bright andclear, and I saw my lady sitting, with her shawl around her, in thearm-chair. I thought she was asleep and called her--there was noanswer. I called again, and put my hand on her bosom to arouse her. Something wet my hand--it was blood. I looked at her closer, and sawblood on her dress, and oozing in a little stream from the left breast. Then I knew she had been killed. I ran screaming from the room, anddown among the rest of the servants. I told them--I didn't know how. And I don't remember any more, for I fell in a faint. When I came to Iwas alone--the rest were up in the nursery. I got up and joinedthem--that's everything I know about it. "

Ellen Butters retired, and William Hooper was called. This is Mr. Hooper's evidence:

"I have been butler in Sir Victor Catheron's family for twenty years. On the night of Friday last, as I sat in the servants' hall aftersupper, the young woman, Ellen Butters, my lady's London maid, camescreeching downstairs like a creature gone mad, that my lady wasmurdered, and frightened us all out of our senses. As she was always aflighty young person, I didn't believe her. I ordered her to be quiet, and tell us what she meant. Instead of doing it she gave a sort ofgasp and fell fainting down in a heap. I made them lay her down on thefloor, and then follow me up to the nursery. We went in a body--I atthe head. There was no light but the moon-light in the room. My ladylay back in the arm-chair, her eyes closed, bleeding and quite dead. Iran up to Miss Inez's room, and called her. My master was not at home, or I would have called him instead. I think she must have been deadsome minutes. She was growing cold when I found her. "

"William Hooper, " continued the _Chesholm Courier_, communicatively, "was cross-examined as to the precise time of finding the body. Hesaid it was close upon half-past eight, the half hour struck as hewent up to Miss Inez's room. "

James Dicksey was next called. James Dicksey, a shambling lad ofeighteen, took his place, his eyes rolling in abject terror, and underthe evident impression that he was being tried for his life. Everyanswer was wrung from this frightened youth, as with red-hot pincers, and it was with the utmost difficulty anything consistent could beextorted at all. 

"About half-past six on Friday evening, Mr. Dicksey was rambling aboutthe grounds, in the direction of the laurel walk. In the open groundit was still quite light, in the laurel walk it was growing dusk. Ashe drew near, he heard voices in the laurel walk--angry voices, thoughnot very loud--the voices of a man and a woman. Peeped in and saw mylady. Yes, it was my lady--yes, he was sure. Was it likely now hewouldn't know my lady? The man was very tall, had a furrin-looking hatpulled over his eyes, and stood with his back to him. He didn't seehis face. They were quarrelling and--well yes, he did listen. Heardthe man call her 'Ethel, ' and ask for money. She wouldn't give it tohim. Then he asked for jewels. She refused again, and ordered him togo. She was very angry--she stamped her foot once and said: 'If youdon't go instantly I'll call my husband. Between you and your sisteryou will drive me mad. ' When she said that, he guessed at once, whothe big furrin-looking man was. It was Miss Inez's brother, Mr. JuanCatheron. Had heard tell of him often, and knew he had been at thehouse the night of my lady's arrival, and that there had been a row. "

Mr. Dicksey was here sharply reprimanded, informed that his suspicionsand hearsays were not wanted, and requested to come back to the point. He came back. 

"My lady wouldn't give him anything, then he got mad and said: (JamesDicksey had been vaguely impressed by these remarkable words at thetime, and had been silently revolving them ever since) 'Give me thejewels, or by all the gods I'll blow the story of your marriage to meall over England!'"

The breathless silence of coroner, jury, and spectators at thisjuncture was something not to be described. In that profound silence, James Dicksey went rambling on to say, that he could swear before theQueen herself to those words, that he had been thinking them over eversince he had heard them, and that he couldn't make top or tail of them. 

THE CORONER (interrupting)--"What further did you overhear? Be careful, remember you are on oath. "

JAMES DICKSEY. --"I heard what my lady said. She was in an awfulpassion, and spoke loud. She said, 'You will not, you dare not, you'rea coward; Sir Victor has you in his power, and if you say one wordyou'll be silenced in Chesholm jail. ' Then she stamped her foot again, and said, 'Leave me, Juan Catheron; I am not afraid of you. ' Yes; hewas sure of the name; she called him Juan Catheron, and looked as ifshe could eat him alive. He had heard no more; he was afraid of beingcaught, and had stolen quietly away. Had said nothing at all about itto any one, was afraid it might reach my lady's ears, and that hewould lose his place for eavesdropping. At ten o'clock that night wastold of the murder, and was took all of a-tremble. Had toldSuperintendent Ferrick something of this next day, but this wasall--yes so help him, all he had heard, and just as he had heard it. "

James Dicksey was rigidly cross-examined, and clung to his testimonywith a dogged tenacity nothing could alter or shake. He could swearpositively to the name she had uttered, to the words both had spoken, if he were dying. A profound sensation ran through the room as JamesDicksey sat down--a thrill of unutterable apprehension and fear. 

The examination of these three witnesses had occupied the whole of theafternoon. The court adjourned until next morning at ten o'clock. 

On Tuesday morning, despite the inclemency of the weather (said the_Chesholm Courier_ to its readers) the parlor of the "Mitre, " thehalls, the stairways, and even the inn yard were filled at the hour ofnine. The excitement was intense--you might have heard a pin drop inthe silence, when the examination of witnesses was resumed. WilliamHooper was again called to take the stand:

THE CORONER. --"You remember, I suppose, the evening on which SirVictor brought Lady Catheron home?"

WITNESS. --"I do. "

CORONER. --"You had a visitor on that night. You admitted him, did younot, Mr. Hooper? Who was that visitor?"

"It was Mr. Juan Catheron. "

"Was Mr. Juan Catheron in the habit of visiting Catheron Royals?"

"He was not. "

"Can you recollect, how long a period had elapsed since his previousvisit?"

"Mr. Catheron had not been at the Royals for over four years. He waswild--there was ill-feeling between him and my master. "

"Between him and his sister also?"

"I don't know. I--believe so. " Here the witness looked piteously atthe jury. "I had rather not answer these questions, gentlemen, if youplease. I'm an old servant of the family--whatever family secrets mayhave come under my knowledge, I have no right to reveal. "

THE CORONER (blandly). --"Only a few more, Mr. Hooper. We require toknow on what footing Mr. Juan Catheron stood with his family. Did heever come to Catheron Royals to visit his sister?"

"He did not. "

"Had he ever been forbidden the house?"

"I--believe so. "

"On the evening of Sir Victor and Lady Catheron's arrival, his visitwas entirely unexpected then?"

"I don't know. "

"You admitted him?"

"I did. "

"What did he say to you?"

"I don't remember. Some rattling nonsense--nothing more. He was alwayslightheaded. He ran upstairs and into the dining-room before I couldprevent it. "

"How long did he remain?"

"About twenty minutes--not longer, I am certain. Then he came runningback and I let him out. "

"Had there been a quarrel?"

"I don't know, " doggedly; "I wasn't there. Mr. Juan came down laughing, I know _that_. I know nothing more about it. I have never seen himsince. "

CHAPTER X. 

FROM THE "CHESHOLM COURIER"--CONTINUED. 

Jane Pool was called. A suppressed murmur of deepest interest ranthrough the room at the name of this witness. It was understood herevidence would have the deepest bearing on the case. Mrs. Pool tookthe stand. "A decent, intelligent young woman, " said the _ChesholmCourier_, "who gave her evidence in a clear, straightforward waythat carried conviction to every hearer. " "I am Jane Pool. I am nurseto Sir Victor Catheron's infant son. Early in August I entered theservice of the deceased Lady Catheron in London; the first week ofSeptember I accompanied them down here. On the evening of the murder, about half-past six o'clock, or perhaps a quarter of seven, while Iwas busy in the day nursery over my duties, my lady came in, as sheoften did, though not at that hour. She looked pale and flurried, andbent over baby, who lay asleep, without speaking. Sir Victor came inwhile she was still there, and without taking any notice of me, toldher he had received a note from Lady Helena Powyss saying SquirePowyss had had a stroke, and that he must go at once to Powyss Place. He said he thought he would be absent all night, that he would returnas soon as he could, and that she was to take care of herself. Hekissed her good-by and left the room. My lady went to the, window andwaved her hand to him, and watched him out of sight. About ten minutesafter, while she still stood there, the door opened and Miss Inez camein and asked for Sir Victor; she said she wanted him. Then she stoopedover and looked at the baby, calling him the heir of Catheron Royals. Then she laughed in her soft way, and said: 'I wonder if he _is_ theheir of Catheron Royals? I have been reading the Scotch marriage lawand after what you and my brother said the other night--' If she saidany more I didn't catch it--my lady turned round in such a flame ofanger as I never saw her in before, and says she: 'You have utteredyour last insult, Inez Catheron--you will never utter another beneaththis roof. To-morrow you will leave it. I am Sir Victor Catheron'swife, and mistress of Catheron Royals--this is the last night it willever shelter you. ' Then she opens the door. 'Go!' she said; 'when myhusband returns you or I leave this forever. ' Neither of them took theleast notice of me; I was afraid of being seen, and kept as quiet as Icould. I heard Miss Inez answer: 'Not all the soap-boilers' daughtersin England shall send me from Catheron Royals. You may go to-morrow ifyou will, but I will never go, never!' With that she went away, and mylady shut the door upon her. I did not want her to see me there, whenshe turned round, so I slipped out of another door, and downstairs. Itook my supper, lingering, I dare say, half an hour; I don't think itwas much more than half after seven when I returned to the nursery forbaby. I found my lady asleep in the arm-chair besides the open window. She had been crying--there were tears on her cheeks and eyelashes asshe slept. I did not disturb her. I lifted baby and carried him up tothe nursery. I left him in charge of the under nursemaid, and returnedto the room my lady was in. The clock was striking eight as I camedownstairs. I was going in to awaken my lady, not liking to have hersleep in the night air. My hand was on the handle, when the dooropened and Miss Inez came out. She looked paler than common, I thoughtbut she spoke just as high and haughty as usual. She asked me what Iwanted there; I told her I wanted to waken my lady. She looked at me, as though she would like to bite off my head--she was in one of hertempers, I could see. 'You had better let my lady alone, ' she says, 'and attend to your nursery. She's asleep still, and it isn't _your_place to awaken her. Go. ' I was in a fury; I don't mind owning that, but I said nothing and I went. When Miss Inez looked and spoke likethat, every servant in the house knew it was as much as her placewas worth to disobey her. I went back and told Ellen Butters. Ellenwas drinking her tea; she couldn't abide Miss Inez, and the minuteshe finished her cup she jumps up. '_I'm_ not afraid of her, ' saysEllen; 'she ain't _my_ missis; I'll go and wake my lady up. ' She went;we staid below. It might be five minutes after, when she comes flyingback, screaming fit to wake the dead, 'Murder! murder!' There wasblood on one of her hands, and before we could get anything more fromher except 'My lady! my lady!' she drops down in a faint. We lefther there, and followed Hooper upstairs. There was my lady lying inthe arm-chair under the window, as I had seen her last--stone dead. We were all so shocked and frightened, I hardly know what was saidor done for a while. Then somebody says--I don't know who to thisminute, 'Where is Miss Catheron?' Nobody made answer. Says the personagain: 'Where is Miss Catheron?' I think it frightened Hooper. Heturned round, and said he would go for her. He went--we waited. Hecame back with her in a short while, and we all looked at her. Shewas nearly as much like a dead woman as my lady herself. I never sawsuch a look on any face before--her eyes seemed dazed in her head, like. She hardly seemed to know what she was saying or doing, andshe didn't seem a bit surprised. Hooper said to her: 'Shall I sendfor Sir Victor?' She answered, still in that stunned sort of way: 'Yes, send for Sir Victor, and the doctor, and the police at once. ' She wasshivering like one in the chills, as she said it. She said she coulddo nothing more, and she left us and went back to her room. It wasthen I first missed the dagger. I can swear it was lying on the tablebeside a book, when my lady first fell asleep; when I looked round, the book was still there, the dagger gone. "

The blood-stained dagger found by the policeman, was here produced andidentified at once by the witness. 

"It is the same--I have had it in my hand a hundred times, and seen itwith her. Oh, my lady--my lady--my dear lady!"

The sight of the blood-incrusted weapon, seemed totally to unnerve thewitness. She broke out into hysterical sobbing, which nothing couldquiet. It being now noon, the court adjourned till two o'clock. 

Jane Pool was then again called, and resumed her important testimony, in the same rapid, narrative, connected style as before. 

"I felt dreadfully about the murder, and I don't mind owning I had mysuspicions. I said to myself: 'I'll keep an eye on Miss Inez, ' and Idid, as well as I could. She kept her room nearly all next day. Towardnight, Sir Victor was took down with the fever--wild and raving like, and Miss Inez went with Lady Helena to sit with him and watch. I waswatching too, Sir Victor's room door. I don't know why, but I seemedto expect something. About nine, or a little later, as I stood at oneend of the hall in the shadow, I saw the door open and Miss Inez comeout. She looked up and down to see if the coast was clear, then puther shawl over her head, and walked very fast to the opposite end, downstairs and out of the side door. I followed her. It was rainingand very dark, and at first I lost her among the trees. Then I heard awhistle, and following it, the next thing I saw was a tall man smokinga cigar, close beside her. It was too dark to see his face; I couldjust make out that he was very tall. They were talking in whispers, and what with the drip, drip of rain and the rustling of the trees, Icouldn't catch at first what they were saying. "

"Indeed, Mrs. Pool, " the coroner observed at this point, "that is tobe regretted. Eavesdropping seems to be your forte. "

"I don't think it is any harm to listen in a good cause, " Mrs. Poolretorted, sullenly. "If you don't care to have me repeat myeavesdropping, I won't. "

"Repeat what you heard, if it bears on this case. "

"The first words I heard, were from Miss Inez. She was giving himsomething--money, I thought, and she said: 'Now go and never come back. Your coming has done evil enough surely. ' I couldn't catch his answer. He took what she gave him, and Miss Inez burst out, as she always does, in one of her tearing passions: 'How dare you say so, you wretch! whomit is my bitterest shame to call brother. _But for you she would bealive and well_--do you think I don't know it? Go! Living or dead, I never want to look upon your face again. '"

The sensation in the court [said the _Chesholm Courier_] as thewitness repeated these words, was something indescribable. A low, angry murmur ran from lip to lip; even the coroner turned pale. 

"Witness, " he said, "take care! You are on oath, remember. How can yourecall accurately word for word what you heard?"

"Are they the sort of words likely to be forgotten?" Jane Poolretorted. "I know I'm on oath; I'll take five hundred oaths to thesewords, if you like. Those were the very words Miss Inez Catheron spoke. She called him her brother. She said but for him _she_ would be aliveto-night. Then he plunged into the wood and disappeared, and she wentback to the house. I hav'nt spoken of this to any one since. I wrotethe words down when I came in. Here is the writing. "

She handed the coroner a slip of paper, on which what she had repeatedwas written. 

"I knew I would have to swear to it, so I wrote it down to make sure. But my memory is good; I wouldn't have forgotten. "

The witness was rigidly cross-examined, but nothing could shake hertestimony. 

"The window, " she said, "of the room where the murder was committed, opened on a lawn and flower-garden--any one could have entered by it. The knife lay on the table close by. "

Dr. Dane was next called and gave his medical testimony. The daggershown, would inflict the wound that caused Lady Catheron's death. Inhis opinion, but one blow had been struck and had penetrated the heart. Death must have been instantaneous. A strong, sure hand must havestruck the blow. 

The policeman who had found the dagger was called, and testified as toits discovery among the brake, on the evening succeeding the murder. 

Miss Catheron was the next and last witness summoned. At the sound ofher name a low, ominous hiss was heard--sternly repressed at once bythe coroner. 

"Miss Catheron came in, " quoth the _Courier_, "as pale as marble andlooking as emotionless. Her large dark eyes glanced over the crowdedroom, and dead silence fell. The young lady gave her evidence clearlyand concisely--perfectly calm in tone and manner. 

"On the Friday evening in question, the deceased Lady Catheron andmyself had a misunderstanding. It was my fault. I made a remark thatwounded her, and she retorted by saying I should leave Catheron Royalson the morrow. I answered equally angrily, that I would not, and leftthe room. When I was alone I began to regret what I had so hastilysaid. I thought the matter over for a time, and finally resolved toreturn and apologize. I went back to the nursery, and found LadyCatheron fast asleep. I would not disturb her, and immediately leftthe room. On the threshold, I encountered Nurse Pool. I had alwaysdisliked the woman, and spoke sharply to her, ordering her away. Halfan hour after, as I sat in my room alone, Hooper, the butler, came up, and told me my lady was murdered. I was naturally shocked andhorrified. I went down with him, and saw her. I hardly knew what to do;I felt stunned and bewildered by the suddenness of so terrible acatastrophe. I told the butler to send for Sir Victor, for the familyphysician, and the police. I knew not what else to do. I could notremain in the room, because the sight of blood always turns me faintand sick. I retired to my own apartment and remained there until thearrival of Lady Helena Powyss. "

 * * * * *

There was one fact, the _Chesholm Courier_ did not chronicle, concerning Miss Catheron's evidence--the formal, constrained manner inwhich it was given, like one who repeats a well-learned lesson by rote. 

 * * * * *

As she concluded, the coroner ventured to put a few respectfulquestions. 

"On the night succeeding the murder, Miss Catheron, you met after duska man in the grounds. Do you object to telling us who that man was?"

"I do, " Miss Catheron replied, haughtily. "I most decidedly object. Ihave told all I have to tell concerning this murder. About my privateaffairs I will answer no impertinent questions, either now or at anyfuture time. "

Miss Catheron was then allowed to retire. The jury held a consultation, and it was proposed to adjourn the inquest for a few days, until JuanCatheron should be discovered. 

 * * * * *

In one of the rooms of the "Mitre, " Miss Catheron stood with LadyHelena, Sir Roger Kendrick, and a few other sympathizing and indignantfriends. There was but little said--but little to say. All felt that adark, terrible cloud was gathering over the girl's head. It brokesooner than they looked for. 

As they lingered there for a few moments, awaiting the issue of theinquest, a constable entered with a warrant, approached and touchedMiss Catheron lightly on the shoulder. 

Lady Helena uttered a gasping cry; Sir Roger strode forward; the younglady slightly recoiled. The constable took off his hat and spoke:

"Very sorry, Miss, but it's my painful duty. I have a warrant herefrom Squire Smiley, Justice of the Peace, to arrest you on suspicionof wilful murder. "

CHAPTER XI. 

"RING OUT YOUR BELLS! LET MOURNING SHOWS BE SPREAD!"

Three days after, a long and stately procession passed slowly throughthe great gates, under the lofty Norman archway, bearing to theCatheron vaults the body of Ethel, last lady Catheron. 

A long and sad ceremonial! Why, it seemed only yesterday that thatmournful, passing bell had rung out the welcoming peal; but yesterdaysince they had lit the bon-fires, and tossed their hats in the air, and cheered with all their hearts and souls, the gallant husband andlovely wife. For a "squire of high degree" to marry beneath him, issomething that goes home, warm and true, to every humble heart. SirVictor's tenantry had never been half so proud of him, as when he hadbrought among them his low-born wife. It seemed but yesterday that allthe parish had seen her, walking up this very aisle, in pale, flowingsilks, and with the sweetest face the sun ever shone on, leaning onher happy young husband's arm; and now they carried her dead--foullymurdered--to the open Catheron vault, and laid her to sleep foreverbeside the high-born dames of the race who slept their last sleepthere. 

"All men are equal on the turf and under it, " once said a famoussporting nobleman. Ethel Dobb, the London soap-boiler's daughter, tookher place to-day, among the dead daughters of earls and marquises, their equal at last, by right divine of the great leveller, Death. 

A great and solemn hush pervaded all ranks, sexes, and classes. Struckdown in her sleep, without a moment's warning, in her own home--a deepmurmur, that was like the murmur of an angry sea, ran through them asthey collected together. 

_Who_ had done this deed?--the girl confined in Chesholm jail, orher scoundrel brother? They remembered him well--like Ishmael of old, his hand against every man, and every man's hand against him, the headand instigator of every poaching fray, or hen-roost robbery, everyfight and evil deed done in Chesholm. Both brother and sister hatedher--Inez Catheron that she had taken her lover from her--JuanCatheron that he had lost her himself. After Sir Victor he washeir-at-law. Failing the life of the infant son, he might one daywrite himself Sir Juan. 

It was a lucky thing, croaked the Chesholm gossips, that Nurse Poolhad removed the baby, else the dagger that stabbed the mother wouldhave found its way to the heart of the child. Curse the black-heartedmurderer of sleeping women and from the throng in the churchyard thererose up a groan to Heaven, and a hundred angry hearts pledgedthemselves to avenge it if the law would not. 

"The coroner would have let the young lady escape, " said one. "See howhe snubbed Mrs. Pool, and how easily he let her betters off. IfJustice Smiley hadn't got out his warrant, she'd have been off to thecontinent and clear away, long before this. "

"Why don't they find Juan Catheron?" said another. "They _say_ they'relooking for him--why don't they find him then? Murderers don't escapeso easily nowadays--the law finds 'em if it wants to find 'em. It'sseven days since the murder was done, and no tale or tidings of himyet. "

"And when he is found neither he nor his sister shall escape. If thelaw lets them clear, _we_ won't. The time when rank could shield crimeis over, thank Heaven. Let them hang as high as Haman--they deserveit. I'll be the first to pull the rope. "

Day-by-day, the feeling had grown stronger and bitterer, againstbrother and sister. The Englishman's proverbial love of "fair play, "seemed for once forgotten. The merciful reasoning of the law, thattakes every man to be innocent until he is proven guilty, was toolenient to be listened to. The brother had murdered her--the sisterhad aided and abetted. Let them both hang--that was the _vox populi_of Chesholm--hanging was too good for them. 

"How did she take her arrest--she was always as proud as Lucifer andas haughty as a duke's daughter?" asked the curious townfolk. 

She had taken it very quietly as though she had expected it. When LadyHelena and Sir Roger had cried out in horror at her arrest, she hadstood firm. A slight, sad smile had even crossed her lips. 

"Dear Aunt Helena--dear Sir Roger, " she had said, "there's nothing tobe surprised at. Don't interfere with this man; he is only doing hisduty. I knew this would come. I have expected it from the first. Itwill be unpleasant for the time--of the result I have no fear. Inthese days, when so many guilty escape, it is not likely the innocentwill be punished. Let me go with this man quietly, Aunt Helena; I, " aflush of proud pain passed over her face, "I don't want theservants--I don't want the rabble to see me. "

She held out her hand to her aunt, and her aunt's old friend. 

"Good-by, Aunt Helena, " she said wistfully. "Good-by, Sir Roger. Nothing that they can bring against me will shake your faith in me, Iknow. You will both come to see me often, I hope, and bring me news ofpoor Victor. Should--I mean _when_ he recovers--don't tell him ofthis--don't, I beg. It can do no good--it may do him harm. Good-byonce more--give my love to Uncle Godfrey. Aunt Helena, don't distressyourself so; I cannot bear it. "

"Do you think I will let you go alone? No, I will go with you to theprison, if these besotted wretches persist in sending you there. Butoh, there _must_ be some mistake--it is too atrocious. Sir Roger, can't you do something? Great Heaven! the idea of Inez Catheron beinglodged in Chesholm jail like a common felon!"

"Sir Roger can do nothing, " Inez answered; "the law must take itscourse. Let us end this painful scene--let us go at once. " Sheshuddered in spite of herself. "The sooner it is over the better. "

She shook hands again with Sir Roger. A cab was at the door--the oldbaronet handed the ladies in, and stood bare-headed, until they weredriven out of sight. They reached the square, gloomy, black buildingcalled Chesholm jail, standing in the center of a gloomy, pavedquadrangle. Miss Catheron was shown to a room. The jailer had oncebeen a servant in the Powyss family, and he pledged himself now tomake Miss Inez as comfortable as was admissible under thecircumstances. 

Once in the dreary room, with the heavy door closed and locked, LadyHelena suddenly fell down on the stone floor before her niece and heldup her hands. 

"Inez, " she said, "in Heaven's name hear me! You are shielding someone--that guilty man--you saw him do this deed. Speak out! Saveyourself--let the guilty suffer. What is he, that you should perishfor his sake? He was always evil and guilty--forget his blood flows inyour veins--speak out and save yourself. Let him who is guilty sufferfor his own crime!"

The soft September twilight was filling the room. One pale flash ofsunset came slanting through the grated window and fell on InezCatheron's face. She stood in the middle of the floor, her claspedhands hanging loosely before her, an indescribable expression on herface. 

"Poor Juan, " she said, wearily; "don't be too hard on him, Aunt Helena. We have none of us ever been too gentle with him in his wrong doing, and he wasn't really bad at heart _then_. If any letter should comefrom him to you, for me, say nothing about it--bring it here. I don'tthink he will be taken; he can double like a hare, and he is usedto being hunted. I hope he is far away at sea before this. For therest, I have nothing to say--nothing. I can live disgraced and diea felon if need be, but not ten thousand disgraceful deaths can makeme speak one word more than I choose to utter. "

Lady Helena's stifled sobbing filled the room. "Oh, my child! mychild!" she cried; "what madness is this, and for one so unworthy!"

"But there will be no such tragical ending. I will be tried at theAssizes and acquitted. They _can't_ bring me in guilty. Jane Pool'scircumstancial evidence may sound very conclusive in the ears of Mr. Justice Smiley, but it won't bring conviction with a grand jury. Yousee it wasn't sufficient even for the coroner. The imprisonment herewill be the worst, but you will lighten that. Then when it is allover, I will leave England and go back to Spain, to my mother's people. They will receive me gladly, I know. It is growing dark, AuntHelena--pray don't linger here longer. "

Lady Helena arose, her face set in a look of quiet, stubborn resolve. 

"Take good care of poor Victor, and watch the baby well. He is thelast of the Catherons now, you know. Don't let any one approach Victorbut Mrs. Marsh, and warn her not to speak of my arrest--the shockmight kill him. I wish--I wish I had treated her more kindly in thepast. I feel as though I could never forgive myself now. "

"You had better not talk so much, Inez, " her aunt said, almost coldly. "You may be overheard. I don't pretend to understand you. You knowbest, whether he, for whom you are making this sacrifice, deserves itor not. Good-night, my poor child--I will see you early to-morrow. "

Lady Helena, her lips set in that rigid line of resolve, her tearsdried, rode back to Catheron Royals. The darkness had fallen by thistime--fallen with black, fast-drifting clouds, and chill whistlingwinds. Two or three lights, here and there, gleamed along the loftyfacade of the old mansion, now a house of mourning indeed. Beneath itsroof a foul, dark murder had been done--beneath its roof its masterlay ill unto death. And for the guilty wretch who had wrought thisruin, Inez Catheron was to suffer imprisonment, suspicion, andlife-long disgrace. The curse that the towns-people invoked on JuanCatheron, Lady Helena had it in her heart to echo. 

Her first act was to dismiss Jane Pool, the nurse. 

"We keep servants, not spies and informers, at Catheron Royals, " shesaid, imperiously. "Go to Mrs. Marsh--what is due you she will pay. You leave Catheron Royals without a character, and at once. "

"I'm not afraid, my lady, " Jane Pool retorted, with a toss of her head. "People will know why I'm turned away, and I'll get plenty of places. I knew I would lose my situation for telling the truth, but I'm notthe first that has suffered in a good cause. "

Lady Helena had swept away, disdaining all reply. She ascended to SirVictor's room--the night-lamp burned low, mournful shadows filled it. A trusty nurse sat patiently by the bedside. 

"How is he now?" asked his aunt, bending above him. 

"Much the same, your ladyship--in a sort of stupor all the time, tossing about, and muttering ceaselessly. I can't make out anything hesays, except the name Ethel. He repeats that over and over in a waythat breaks my heart to hear. "

The name seemed to catch the dulled ear of the delirious man. 

"Ethel, " he said, wearily. "Yes--yes I must go and fetch Ethel home. Iwish Inez would go away--her black eyes make one afraid--they followme everywhere. Ethel--Ethel--Ethel!" He murmured the name dreamily, tenderly. Suddenly he half started up in bed and looked about himwildly. "What brings Juan Catheron's picture here? Ethel! come awayfrom him. How dare you meet him here alone?" He grasped Lady Helena'swrist and looked at her with haggard, bloodshot eyes. "He was yourlover once--how dare he come here? Oh, Ethel you won't leave me forhim! I love you--I can't live without you--_don't_ go. Oh, my Ethel!my Ethel! my Ethel!"

He fell back upon the bed with a sort of sobbing cry that brought thetears streaming from the eyes of the tender-hearted nurse. 

"He goes on like that continual, my lady, " she said, "and it's awfulwearing. Always 'Ethel. ' Ah, it's a dreadful thing?"

"Hooper will watch with you to-night, Martha, " Lady Helena said. "Mrs. Marsh will relieve you to-morrow. No stranger shall come near him. Iwill take a look at baby before going home. I shall return here earlyto-morrow, and I need not tell you to be very watchful!--I know youwill. "

"You needn't indeed, my lady, " the woman answered, mournfully. "I washis mother's own maid, and I've nursed him in my arms, a littlewhite-haired baby, many a time. I will be watchful, my lady. "

Lady Helena left her and ascended to the night nursery. She had topass the room where the tragedy had been enacted. She shivered as shewent by. She found the little heir of Catheron Royals asleep in hiscrib, guarded by the under-nurse--head-nurse now, _vice_ Mrs. Poolcashiered. 

"Take good care of him, nurse, " was Lady Helena's last charge, as shestooped and kissed him, tears in her eyes; "poor little motherlesslamb. "

"I'll guard him with my life, my lady, " the girl answered, sturdily. "No harm shall come to _him_. "

Lady Helena returned to Powyss Place and her convalescent husband, herheart lying like a stone in her breast. 

"If I hadn't sent for Victor that night--if I had left him at home toprotect his wife, this might never have happened, " she thought, remorsefully; "_he_ would never have left her alone and unprotected, to sleep beside an open window in the chill night air. "

Amid her multiplicity of occupations, amid her own great distress, shehad found time to write to Mr. Dobb and his wife a touching, womanlyletter. They had come down to see their dead daughter and departedagain. She had been taken out of their life--raised far above them, and even in death they would not claim her. 

And now that the funeral was over, Inez in prison, the tumult andexcitement at an end, who shall describe the awful quiet that fellupon the old house. A ghastly stillness reigned--servants spoke inwhispers, and stole from room to room--the red shadow of Murder restedin their midst. And upstairs, in that dusk chamber, while the nightsfell, Sir Victor lay hovering between life and death. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE FIRST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY. 

Eight days after the burial of Lady Catheron, several events, occurredthat wrought the seething excitement of Chesholm to boiling-overpoint--events talked of for many an after year, by cottage firesideand manor hearth. 

The first of these, was Miss Catheron's examination before the policemagistrate, and her committal to jail, until the assizes. The justicebefore whom the young lady appeared was the same who had alreadyissued his warrant for her arrest--a man likely to show her littlefavor on account of her youth, her beauty, or her rank. Indeed thelatter made him doubly bitter; he was a virulent hater of the "bloatedaristocracy. " Now that he had one of them in his power, he wasdetermined to let the world at large, and Chesholm in small see thatneither station nor wealth could be shields for crime. 

She took her place in the prisoner's dock, pale, proud, disdainful. She glanced over the dark sea of threatening faces that thronged thecourt-room, with calmly haughty eyes--outwardly unmoved. Her fewfriends were there--few indeed, for nearly all believed that if herswas not the hand that had struck the blow, she had been at least herbrother's abettor. Many were brought forward who could swear how shehad hated my lady; how she had taken every opportunity to insult andannoy her; how again and again my lady had been found crying fit tobreak her heart after the lash of Miss Inez's stinging tongue. She hadloved Sir Victor--she was furiously jealous of his wife--she had fierySpanish blood in her veins, and a passionate temper that stopped atnothing. Jane Pool was there, more bitter than ever--more deadly inher evidence. Hooper was there, and his reluctantly extorted testimonytold dead against her. The examination lasted two days. Inez Catheronwas re-committed to prison to stand her trial for murder at the nextassizes. 

The second fact worthy of note was, that despite the efforts of theChesholm police, in spite of the London detectives, no tale or tidingsof Juan Catheron were to be found. The earth might have opened andswallowed him, so completely had he disappeared. 

The third fact was, that Sir Victor Catheron had reached the crisis ofhis disease and passed it safely. The fever was slowly but steadilyabating. Sir Victor was not to die, but to "take up the burden of lifeagain"--a dreary burden, with the wife he had loved so fondly, sleeping in the vaults of Chesholm Church. 

The fourth fact was, that the infant heir of the Catherons had beenremoved from Catheron Royals to Powyss Place, to be brought up underthe watchful eye and care of his grand-aunt, Lady Helena. 

On the evening of the day that saw Inez Catheron committed for trial, the post brought Lady Helena a letter. The handwriting, evidentlydisguised, was unfamiliar, and yet something about it set her heartthrobbing. She tore it open; it contained an inclosure. There were butthree lines for herself:

 * * * * *

"DEAR LADY H. : If you will permit a reprobate to be on such familiarterms with your highly respectable name, I address I----, under coverto you, as per order. J. C. "

 * * * * *

The inclosure was sealed. Lady Helena destroyed her own, and next daydrove to the prison with the other. She found her niece sittingcomfortably enough in an arm-chair, reading, and except that she hadgrown thinner and paler, looking little the worse. All that it waspossible to do, to make her comfortable, had been done. Without a wordthe elder woman presented the letter--without a word the younger tookit. She turned to the window and read its brief contents. 

"Thank Heaven!" her aunt heard her fervently say. 

"May I see it, Inez? What does he say? Is he coming here to--"

"Coming here!" The girl's dark eyes looked at her in grave astonishment"Certainly not. He is safe away, I am thankful to say, and out of theirreach. "

"And he leaves you here to suffer in his stead, and you thank Heavenfor it! Inez Catheron, you are the most egregious--. Give me thatnote!"

Inez smiled as she gave it. Her aunt put up her double eye-glass, andread:

 "ON BOARD THE THREE BELLS, "OFF PLYMOUTH, Oct. --. 

"DEAR I. :--I've dodged the beaks, you see. I bought a disguise thatwould have baffled Fouche himself and--here I am. In twenty minuteswe'll have weighed anchor and away to the West Indies. I've read thepapers, and I'm sorry to see they've taken you on suspicion. Inez, you're a trump, by Jove! I can say no more, but mind you, only I knowthey can't commit you, I'd come back and confess all. I would, byjingo. I may be a scoundrel, but I'm not such a scoundrel as that. 

"I see the baronet's down with brain fever. If he goes off the hooks, there will be only the young 'un between me and the succession. Suppose _he_ goes off the hooks too, then I'll be a full-fledgedbaronet! But of course he won't. I'm always an unlucky beggar. You maywrite me on board the Three Bells, at Martinique, and let me know howthings go on in England. J. "

 * * * * *

A flush--a deep angry flush reddened the face of Lady Helena Powyss, as she finished this cool epistle. She crushed it in her hand asthough it were a viper. 

"The coward! the dastard! And it is for the heartless writer of thisinsolent letter that you suffer all this. Inez Catheron. I commandyou--speak out. Tell what you know. Let the guilty wretch you callbrother, suffer for his own crime. "

Inez looked at her, with something of the stern, haughty glance shehad cast upon the rabble of the court room. 

"Enough, Lady Helena! You don't know what you are talking about. Ihave told you before; all I had to say I said at the inquest. It is ofno use our talking about it. Come what may, I will never say one wordmore. "

And looking at her stern, resolute face, Lady Helena knew she neverwould. She tore the letter she held into minutest morsels, and tiedthem up in her handkerchief. 

"I'll burn them when I get home, and I never want to hear _his_ nameagain. For you, " lowering her voice, "we must save you in spite ofyourself. You shall never stand your trial at the assizes. "

Miss Catheron looked wistfully at the heavily bolted and barred window. 

"I should like to be saved, " she said, wearily, "at any other pricethan that of speaking. Once I thought I would die sooner than stoop torun away--a fortnight's imprisonment changes all that. Save me if youcan, Aunt Helena--it will kill me to face that horrible mob again. "

Her voice died out in a choking sob. She was thoroughly brave, but sheshuddered with sick fear and loathing, from head to foot, as sherecalled the dark, vindictive faces, the merciless eyes that hadconfronted her yesterday on every side. 

Lady Helena kissed her quietly and turned to go. 

"Keep up heart, " she said; "before the week ends you shall be free. "

Two days later, Lady Helena and the warden of Chesholm jail satcloseted together in deep and mysterious conference. On the tablebetween them lay a crossed check for seven thousand pounds. 

The jailor sat with knitted brows and troubled, anxious face. He hadbeen for years a servant in Lady Helena's family. Her influence hadprocured him his present situation. He had a sick wife and a largefamily, and seven thousand pounds was an immense temptation. 

"You risk nothing, " Lady Helena was saying, in an agitated whisper, "and you gain everything. They will blame you for nothing worse thancarelessness in the discharge of your duty. You may lose yoursituation. Very well, lose it. Here are seven thousand pounds for you. In all your life, grubbing here, you would never accumulate half orquarter that sum. You can remove to London; trust to my influence toprocure you a better situation there than this. And oh, think of_her_--young, guiltless--think what her life has been, think whatit is now destined to be. She is innocent--I swear it. You havedaughters of your own, about her age--think of them and yield!"

He stretched forth his hand and answered, resolutely:

"Say no more, my lady. Let good or ill betide--I'll do it. "

The issue of the _Chesholm Courier_ four days later contained aparagraph that created the profoundest excitement from end to end ofthe town. We quote it:

 * * * * *

"ESCAPE OF MISS INEZ CATHERON FROM CHESHOLM JAIL--NO TRACE OF HER TOBE FOUND--SUSPECTED FOUL PLAY--THE JAILER THREATENED BY THE MOB. 

 * * * * *

"Early on the morning of Tuesday the under jailer, going to MissCatheron's cell with her breakfast, found, to his astonishment anddismay, that it was empty and his prisoner flown. 

"A moment's investigation showed him the bars of the window cleanlyfiled through and removed. A rope ladder and a friend without, it isquite evident, did the rest. The man instantly gave the alarm and aidcame. The head jailer appears to be as much at a loss as his underling, but he is suspected. He lived in his youth in the Powyss family, andwas suspected of a strong attachment to the prisoner. He says hevisited Miss Catheron last night as usual when on his rounds, and sawnothing wrong or suspicious then, either about the filed bars or theyoung lady. It was a very dark night, and no doubt her escape waseasily enough effected. If any proof of the prisoner's guilt wereneeded, her flight from justice surely renders it. Miss Catheron'sfriends have been permitted from the first to visit her at theirpleasure and bring her what they chose--the result is to be seento-day. The police, both of our town and the metropolis, arediligently at work. It is hoped their labors will be more productiveof success in the case of the sister than they have been in that ofthe brother. 

"The head jailer, it is said, will be dismissed from his post. Nodoubt, pecuniarily, this is a matter of indifference to him _now_. He made his appearance once in the street this morning, and came nearbeing mobbed. Let this escape be rigidly investigated, and let allimplicated be punished. "

The escape created even more intense and angry excitement than themurder. The rabble were furious. It is not every day that a young ladyof the upper ten thousand comes before the lower ten million in thepopular character of a murderess. They had been lately favored withsuch rich and sensational disclosures in high life, love, jealousy, quarrels, assassination. Their victim was safely in their hands; theywould try her, condemn her, hang her, and teach the aristocracy, lawwas a game two could play at. And lo! in the hour of their triumph, she slips from between their hands, and, like her guilty brother andabettor, makes good her escape. 

The town of Chesholm was furious. If the jailer had shown his face hestood in danger of being torn to pieces. They understood thoroughlyhow it was--that he had been bribed. In the dead of night, the man andhis family shook the dust of Chesholm off their feet, and went to hidethemselves in the busy world of London. 

Three weeks passed. October, with its mellow days and frosty nights, was gone. And still no trace of the fugitive. All the skill of theofficials of the town and country had been baffled by the cunning of awoman. Inez Catheron might have flown with the dead summer's swallowsfor all the trace she had left behind. 

The first week of November brought still another revelation. SirVictor Catheron had left the Royals; Lady Helena, the squire, the baby, the nurse, Powyss Place. They were all going to the south of Francefor the young baronet's spirits and health. Catheron Royals, in chargeof Mrs. Marsh and Mr. Hooper, and two servants, on board wages, wasleft to silence and gloom, rats and evil repute, autumnal rain andwind. The room of the tragedy was shut up, a doomed room, "under theban" forever. 

And so for the present the "tragedy of Catheron Royals" had ended. Brother and sister had fled in their guilt, alike from justice andvengeance. Ethel, Lady Catheron, lay with folded hands and sealed lipsin the grim old vaults, and a parchment and a monument in ChesholmChurch recorded her name and age--no more. So for the present it hadended. 

PART II. 

CHAPTER I. 

MISS DARRELL. 

It had been a week of ceaseless rain--the whole country side wassodden. The month was March, and after an unusually severe January andFebruary, a "soft spell" had come, the rain had poured or drippedincessantly from a smoke-colored sky, the state of the earth was onlyto be described by that one uncomfortable word "slush. " Spring was athand after a horribly bitter winter--a spring that was all wet andslop, miserable easterly winds, and bleak, drizzling rain. 

Perhaps if you searched the whole coast line between Maine and Florida, you could not light upon a drearier, dirtier, duller little town thanthe town of Sandypoint, Massachusetts. It was a straggling place, morevillage than town, consisting mainly of one long street, filled withframe houses of staring white, picked out with red doors and verygreen shutters. Half a dozen pretentious "stores, " a school-house, oneor two churches, a town hall, and three hotels, comprised the publicbuildings. Behind Sandypoint stretched out the "forest primeval;"before Sandypoint spread away its one beauty, the bright, broad sea. 

To-day it looked neither bright nor broad, but all blurred in gray wetmist; the surf cannonaded the shore with its dull thunder; thewoodland in the background was a very black forest in the dreariness, and the roads--who shall paint the state of the Sandypoint roads?Worst of all, the weather showed no sign of relenting, no symptoms ofclearing up. The new clock recently affixed to the Sandypoint TownHall, was striking the matutinal hour of ten. The population ofSandypoint might all have been dead and buried, for any sign of lifeIndependence street showed. Doors and windows were all closed in amelancholy way--a stray, draggled dog the only living creature to beseen. 

Or stay--no! there was a girl besides the dog, almost as draggled asher four-footed companion. A girl of eighteen, perhaps, who walkedalong through rain and discomfort, without so much as an umbrella toprotect her. She had come out of one of the ugliest of the uglybuildings nearest the sea, and walked along in a slipshod sort of way, never turning to the right or left to avoid an unusually deep puddle. She plunged right on through it all--a dark, sullen-looking girl in ashabby black dress, a red and black tartan shawl, an old black felthat with dingy red flowers, long past being spoilt by rain or wind. 

And yet she was a pretty girl too--a _very_ pretty girl. Take theVenus Celestis, plump her down in a muddy road in a rainstorm, dressher in a draggled black alpaca, a faded shawl, and shocking bad hat, and what can you say for your goddess but that she isn't a bad-lookingyoung woman? Miss Edith Darrell labors under all these disadvantagesat present. More--she looks sulky and sour; it is evident her personalappearance has troubled her very little this dismal March morning. Andyet as you look at her, at those big black somber eyes, at thosealmost classically regular features, at all that untidy abundance ofblackish-brown hair, you think involuntarily "what a pretty girl thatmight be if she only combed her hair, put on a clean dress, and wasn'tin bad temper!"

She is tall, she is slender--there is a supple grace about her evennow--she has shapely feet and hands. She is a brunette of the mostpronounced type, with a skin like creamy velvet, just touched oneither ripe cheek with a peach-like glow, and with lips like cherries. You _know_ without seeing her laugh, that she has very white teeth. She is in no way inclined to show her white teeth laughingly thismorning. She goes steadily along to her destination--one of the"stores" where groceries and provisions are sold. The storekeepersmilingly accosts her with a brisk "Good-morning, Miss Darrell! Who'dhave thought of seeing you out this nasty whether? Can I do anythingfor you to-day?"

"If you couldn't do anything for me, Mr. Webster, " answers MissDarrell, in no very conciliatory tone, "it isn't likely you'd see mein your shop this morning. Give me one pound of tea, one pound ofcoffee, three pounds of brown sugar, and a quarter of starch. Put themin this basket, and I'll call for them when I'm going home. "

She goes out again into the rain, and makes her way to an emporiumwhere dry goods, boots and shoes, millinery, and crockery are for sale. A sandy-haired young man, with a sandy mustache and a tendency toblushes, springs forward at sight of her, as though galvanized, reddening to the florid roots of his hair. 

"Miss Darrell!" he cries, in a sort of rapture. "Who'd a thought it?So early in the morning, and without an umbrella! How's your pa and ma, and all the children?"

"My pa and ma, and all the children are well of course, " the younglady answers, impatiently, as though it were out of the nature ofthings for anything to ail her family. "Mr. Doolittle, I want sixyards of crash for kitchen towels, three pairs of shoes for thechildren, and two yards and a half of stone-colored ribbon for Mrs. Darrell's drab bonnet. And be quick. "

The blushes and emotion of young Mr. Doolittle, it was quite evident, were entirely thrown away upon Miss Darrell. "Not at home to lovers, "was plainly written on her moody brow and impatient lips. So Mr. Doolittle produced the crash and cut off the six yards, the threepairs of shoes were picked out, and the stoniest of the stone colorschosen, the parcel tied up and paid for. 

"We didn't see you up to Squire Whipple's surprise party last night, Miss Edith, " Mr. Doolittle timidly ventured, with a strong "Down East"accent. "We had a hunky supper and a rale good time. "

"No, you didn't see me, Mr. Doolittle, and I don't think you're likelyto in a hurry, either. The deadly liveliness of Sandypoint surpriseparties, and the beauty of Sandypoint, and its beastly weather areabout on a par--the parties, if anything, the most dismal of thethree. "

With which the young lady went out with a cool parting nod. There wasone more errand to go--this one for herself. It was to the post-office, and even the old post-master lit up into a smile of welcome at sightof his visitor. It was evident, that when in good temper Miss Darrellmust be rather a favorite in the neighborhood. 

"Letters for you? Well, yes, Miss Edie, I think there is. What's this?Miss Edith S. Darrell, Sandypoint Mass. That's for you, and from NewYork again, I see. Ah! I hope none o' them York chaps will be comingdown here to carry away the best-lookin' gal in town. "

He handed her the letter. For a moment her dark face lit up with aneager flush; as she took the letter it fell. It was superscribed in agirl's spidery tracery, sealed with blue wax, and a sentimental Frenchseal and motto. 

"From Trixy, " she said, under her breath; "and I felt sure there wouldbe one from--Are you _sure_ this is all, Mr. Merriweather? I expectedanother. "

"Sure and certain, Miss Edie. Sorry to disappoint you, but that's all. Never mind, my dear--he'll write by next mail. "

She turned shortly away, putting the letter in her pocket. Her facerelapsed again, into what seemed its habitual look of gloom anddiscontent. 

"He's like all the rest of the world, " she thought, bitterly, "out ofsight, out of mind. I was a fool to think he would remember me long. Ionly wonder Beatrix takes the trouble of writing to this dead-and-aliveplace. One thing is very certain--she won't do it long. "

She returned for her parcels, and set out on her wet return walk home. Mr. Doolittle volunteered to escort her thither, but she made shortwork of _him_. Through the rain, through the slop, wet, cold, comfortless, the girl left the ugly town behind her, and came out onthe lonely road that led along to the sea. Five minutes more, broughther in sight of her home--a forlorn house, standing bleak and bare ona cliff. One path led to it--another to the sands below. At the pointwhere she must turn either way, Miss Darrell stood still and lookedmoodily up at the house. 

"If I go there, " she muttered, "she'll set me to hem the towels, ortrim the bonnet, or make a pudding for dinner. It's wash day, and Iknow what _that_ means in our house. I _won't_ go--it's better outin the rain; the towels and the drab bonnet may go _au diable_, andmy blessed stepmother with them, if it comes to that. "

She turned sharply and took the path to the right. Half way down shecame to a sort of projection in the cliff, partly sheltered from therain by a clump of spruce-trees. Seating herself on this, with thegrey sea sending its flying spray almost up in her face, she drewforth her letter, broke the seal, and read:

 NEW YORK, March 13, 18--. 

"DEAREST DITHY:--Just half-an-hour ago I came home from a _splendid_ball, the most splendid by far of the winter, and before one ray ofall its brilliance fades from my frivolous mind, let me sit down andtell you all about it if I can. 

"The ball was held at the De Rooyter house, up the avenue, in honor oftheir distinguished English guests, Lady Helena Powyss, of PowyssPlace, Cheshire, and Sir Victor Catheron, of Catheron Royals, Cheshire. How grand the titles sound! My very pen expands as it writes thosepatrician names. Lady Helena. Oh, Dithy! _how_ delicious it must beto be, 'My Lady!'

"What did I wear, you ask? Well, my dear, I wore a lovely trainedgreen silk--gas-light green, you know, under white tulle, all loopedup with trailing sprays of lily of the valley and grasses--ditto, ditto, in my hair, and just one pink, half-blown rose. A tryingcostume you say? Yes, I know it, but you see, the only beauty poorTrixy can claim is a tolerable pink and white complexion, and a decenthead of light brown hair. So I carried it off--everyone says I reallylooked my very best, and--don't set this down to vanity dear--thegentlemen's eyes indorsed it. I danced all night, and here is wherethe rapture comes in, three times with the baronet. I can't say muchfor his waltzing, but he's delightful, Dithy--charming. Could abaronet be anything else? He talks with that delightful English accent, which it is impossible to imitate or describe--he is very young, aboutthree-and-twenty, I should judge, and really (in that blonde Englishway) very handsome. His hair is very light--he has large, lovely, short-sighted blue eyes, and wears an eye-glass. Now, I think aneye-glass is distinguished looking in itself, and it is _haut ton_to be short sighted. Why are they in New York do I hear you say? LadyHelena was recommended a sea voyage for her health, and her nephewaccompanied her. Lady Helena is not young nor beautiful, as you mightimagine, but a fair, fat, and sixty, I should say, British matron. Sheis the daughter of the late Marquis of St Albans, and a widow, herhusband having died some time ago. And they are immensely rich. IMMENSELY, Dithy! Capitals can't do justice to it. And of course allthe young ladies last night were making a dead set at the youngbaronet Oh, Dithy--child, if he should only fall in love with me--withME, and make me Lady Catheron, I believe I should just die of pureecstasy (is that word spelled right?) like Lord Berleigh's bride inthe story. Fancy yourself reading it in the papers:

"'On the ----th inst, by the Rev. Blank Blank, assisted by etc. , etc. , at the residence of the bride's father, Sir Victor Catheron, Baronet, of Catheron Royals, Cheshire, England, to Beatrix Marie Stuart, onlydaughter of James Stuart, Esq. , banker of Fifth avenue, New York. _No Cards_!

"Dithy, think of it! It makes my brain swim, and stranger things havehappened. My twentieth birthday comes next week, and ma gives a largeparty, and Lady H. And Sir V. Are coming. I am to wear a pink silkwith trimmings of real point, and pa sent home a set of pearls fromTiffany's yesterday, for which he gave $1, 000. If the rose silk andpearls fail to finish him, then there is another project on the carpet. It is this, Lady H. And Sir V. Go home the first week of May, and weare going with them in the same ship. I say _we_--pa, ma, Charley, and me. Won't it be lovely? If _you_ were coming, you might writea book about our haps and mishaps. I think they will equal the 'DoddFamily Abroad. ' Seriously, though, Edith dear, I wish you were comingwith us. It's a burning shame that you should be buried alive down inthat poky Sandypoint, with your cleverness, and your accomplishments, and good looks, and everything. If I marry the baronet, Dith, I shalltake you with me to England, and you shall live happy forever after. 

"I set out to tell you of the De Rooyter ball, and see how I run on. All New York was there--the crush was awful, the music excellent, thesupper--heavenly! Sir Victor likes us Americans _so_ much; but thenwho could help liking us? Oh, it has been a charming winter--partiessomewhere every night. Nilsson singing for us, some sleighing, andskating no end. I have had the loveliest skating costume, of violetvelvet, satin and ermine--words can't do it justice. 

"Hark! A clock down-stairs strikes five, and, 'Kathleen Mavourneen, the grey dawn is breaking' over the deserted city streets. As LadyMacbeth says, 'To bed--to bed!' With endless love, and endless kisses, ever thine own. 

 "BEATRIX. "

She finished the letter--it dropped upon her lap, and her large, darkeyes looked blankly out over the cold, gray, rain-beaten sea. _This_was the life she longed for, prayed for, dreamed of, the life forwhich she would have sold half the years of her life. The balls, theoperas, the rose silks and pearls, the booths and merry-go rounds ofVanity Fair. She thirsted for them as the blind thirst for sight. Shelonged for the "halls of dazzling light, " the dainty dishes, theviolet velvet and ermine, with a longing no words can paint. She hadyouth and beauty; she would have suited the life as the life suitedher. Nature had made her for it, and Fate had planted her here in thedreariest of all dreary sea-coast towns. 

The rain beat upon her uncovered head, the cold wind blew in herface--she felt neither. Her heart was full of tumult, revolt, bitterness untold. 

Beatrix Stuart's father had been her dead mother's cousin. Why wasBeatrix chosen among the elect of Mammon, and Edith left to drag out"life among the lowly?" She sat here while the moments wore on, theletter crushed in her lap, her lips set in a line of dull pain. Theglory of the world, the flesh-pots of Egypt, the purple and fine linenof life, her heart craved with an exceeding great longing, and alllife had given her was hideous poverty, going errands in shabby hats, and her stepmother's rubbers, through rain and mud, and being waitedupon by such men as Sam Doolittle. She looked with eyes full ofpassionate despair at the dark, stormy sea. 

"If I only had courage, " she said, between her set teeth, "to jump inthere and make an end of it. I will some day--or I'll run away. Idon't much care what becomes of me. Nothing can be worse than thissort of life--nothing. "

She looked dangerous as she thought it--dangerous to herself andothers, and ready for any desperate deed. So absorbed was she in herown gloomy thoughts, as she sat there, that she never heard a footstepdescending the rocky path behind her. Suddenly two gloved hands wereclasped over her eyes, and a mellow, masculine voice, sang a verse ofan appropriate song:

 "'Break, break, break, On thy cold grey stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. '

"I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me, concerning young ladies who sit perched on rocks in the rain. Is ityour favorite amusement, may I ask, Miss Darrell, to sit here and berained on? And are there no lunatic asylums in Sandypoint, that theyallow such people as you to go at large?"

She sprang to her feet and confronted him, her breath caught, her eyesdilating. 

"Oh!" she cried, in a breathless sort of way, "it _is_ Charley!"

She held out both her hands, the whole expression of her facechanging--her eyes like stars. 

"Charley, Miss Darrell, and if it had been the Man in the Moon youcould hardly look more thunderstruck. And now, if I may venture topropound so delicate a conundrum, how long is it since you lost yoursenses? Or had you ever any to lose, that you sit here in the presentbeastly state of the weather, to get comfortably drenched to the skin?"

He was holding both her hands, and looking at her as he spoke--a youngman of some five-and-twenty, with grey eyes and chestnut hair, well-looking and well-dressed, and with that indescribable air of easeand fashion which belongs to the "golden youth" of New York. 

"You don't say you're glad to see me, Dithy, and you _do_ lookuncommonly blank. Will you end my agonizing suspense on this point, Miss Darrell, by saving it now, and giving me a sociable kiss?"

He made as though he would take it, but Edith drew back, laughing andblushing a little. 

"You know what Gretchen says to Faust: 'Love me as much as you like, but no kissing, that is vulgar. ' I agree with Gretchen--it is vulgar. Oh, Mr. Stuart, what a surprise this is! I have just been reading aletter from your sister, and she doesn't say a word of your coming. "

"For the excellent reason that she knew nothing about it when thatletter was written. Let me look at you, Edie. What have you been doingto yourself since I left, that you should fall away to a shadow inthis manner? But perhaps your failing is the natural and inevitableresult of my leaving?"

"No doubt. Life would naturally be insupportable without you. Whatever_I_ may have lost, Mr. Stuart, it is quite evident you have not lostthe most striking trait in your character--your self-conceit. "

"No, " the young man answered; "my virtues are as lasting as they arenumerous. May I ask, how it is that I have suddenly become 'Mr. Stuart, ' when it has been 'Charley' and 'dear Cousin Charley' for thepast two years?"

Miss Darrell laughed a little and blushed a little again, showing verywhite teeth and lovely color. 

"I have been reading Trixy's letter, and it fills me with an awfulrespect for you and all the Stuart family. How could I presume toaddress as plain Charley any one so fortunate as the bosom friendof a baronet?"

"Ah!" Mr. Stuart remarked, placidly; "Trixy's been giving you aquarter quire crossed sheets of that, has she? You really wade throughthat poor child's interminable epistles, do you? I hardly know whichto admire most, the genius that can write twenty pages of--nothing--orthe patience which reads it, word for word. This one is Sir Victorfrom date to signature, I'll swear. Well, yes, Miss Darrell, I knowthe baronet, and he's a very heavy swell and a blue diamond of thefirst water. Talk of pedigree, there's a pedigree, if you like. ACatheron, of Catheron, was hand and glove with Alfred the Great. He'sa very lucky young fellow, and why the gods should have singled _him_out as the recipient of their favors, and left _me_ in the cold, isa problem I can't solve. He's a baronet, he has more thousands a year, and more houses in more counties than you, with your limited knowledgeof arithmetic, could count. He has a fair complexion, a melancholycontrast on that point to you, my poor Edith; he has incipient, pale, yellow whiskers, he has an English accent, and he goes through lifemostly in a suit of Oxford mixture and a round felt hat. He's a veryfine fellow, and I approve of him. Need I say more?"

"More would be superfluous. If you approve of him, my lord, all issaid in that. And Lady Helena?"

"Lady Helena is a ponderous and venerable matron, in black silks, Chantilly lace, and marabout feathers, who would weigh down sixteen ofyou and me, and who worships the ground her nephew walks on. She isthe daughter of a marquis and a peeress in her own right. Think ofthat, you poor, little, half-civilized Yankee girl, and blush toremember you never had an ancestor. But why do I waste my breath andtime in these details, when Trix has narrated them already by thecubic foot. Miss Darrell, _you_ may be a mermaid or a kelpie--thatsort of young person does exist, I believe, in a perpetual shower bath, but I regret to inform you _I_ am mortal--very mortal--subject tomelancholy colds in the head, and depressing attacks of influenza. Atthe present moment, my patent leather boots are leaking at every pore, the garments I wear beneath this gray overcoat are saturated, andlittle rills of rain water are trickling down the small of my back. You nursed me through one prolonged siege of fever and freezing--unlessyou are especially desirous of nursing me through another, perhaps wehad better get out of this. I merely throw out the suggestion--it's amatter of indifference to me. "

Edith laughed and turned to go. 

"As it is by no means a matter of indifference to me, I move anadjournment to the house. No, thank you, I don't want your arm. Thisisn't the fashionable side of Broadway, at four o'clock of a summerafternoon. I talk of it, as though I had been there--I who never wasfarther than Boston in my life, and who, judging from presentappearances, never will. "

"Then, " said Mr. Stuart, "it's very rash and premature to judge bypresent appearances, my errand here being to--Miss Darrell, doesn't itstrike you to inquire _what_ my errand here may be?"

"Shooting, " Miss Darrell said, promptly. 

"Shooting in March. Good Heavens, no!"

"Fishing then. "

"Fishing is a delightful recreation in a rippling brook, on a hotAugust day, but in this month and in this weather! For a Massachusettsyoung lady, Dithy, I must say your guessing education has beenshamefully neglected. No, I have come for something better than eitherfishing or shooting--I have come for _you_. "

"Charley!"

"I've got her note somewhere, " said Charley, feeling in his pockets asthey walked along, "if it hasn't melted away in the rain. No, here itis. Did Trix, by any chance, allude to a projected tour of thegovernor's and the maternal's to Europe?"

"Yes. " Her eyes were fixed eagerly on his face, her lips apart, andbreathless. "Oh, Charley! what do you mean?"

In the intensity of her emotions she forgets to be formal, and becomesnatural and cousinly once more. 

"Ah! I am Charley again. Here is the note. As it is your healthful andrefreshing custom to read your letters in the rain, I need hardly urgeyou to open and peruse this one. "

Hardly! She tore it open, and ran over it with kindling cheeks andfast throbbing heart. 

 * * * * *

"MY DEAR EDITH: Mr. Stuart and myself, Charles and Beatrix, proposevisiting Europe in May. From my son I learn that you are proficient inthe French and German languages, and would be invaluable to us on thejourney, besides the pleasure your society will afford us all. If youthink six hundred dollars per annum sufficient recompense for yourservices and _all_ your expenses paid, we shall be glad to have youreturn (under proper female charge) with Charley. I trust this willprove acceptable to you, and that your papa will allow you to come. The advantages of foreign travel will be of inestimable benefit toa young lady so thoroughly educated and talented as yourself. Beatrixbids me add she will never forgive you if you do not come. 

"With kindest regards to Mr. And Mrs. Darrell, I remain, my dear Edith, Very sincerely yours, "CHARLOTTE STUART. "

 * * * * *

She had come to a stand still in the middle of the muddy road, whilein a rapture she devoured this. Now she looked up, her facetransfigured--absolutely glorified. Go to Europe! France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland! live in that radiant upper world of her dreams!She turned to Charley, and to the unutterable surprise of that younggentleman, flung her arms around him, and gave him a frantic hug. 

"Charley! Charley! _Oh_, Charley!" was all she could cry. 

Mr. Stuart returned the impulsive embrace, with a promptitude andwarmth that did him credit. 

"I never knew a letter of my mother's to have such a pleasant effectbefore. How delightful it must be to be a postman. It is yes, then, Edith?"

"Oh, Charley! as if it could be anything else? I owe this to you--Iknow I do. How shall I ever thank you?"

"By a repetition of your little performance. You won't? Well, as yourstepmother is looking at us out of the window, with a face of verjuice, perhaps it is just as well. You're sure the dear old dad won't say no?"

"Poor papa!" her radiant face clouded a little, "he _will_ miss me, but no--he couldn't refuse me anything if he tried--least of all this. Charley, I _do_ thank you--dear, best cousin that ever was--with allmy heart!"

She held out both hands, her heart full, and brimming over in herblack eyes. For once in his life Charley Stuart forgot to be flippantand cynical. He held the hands gently, and he looked half-laughingly, half-compassionately into the flushed, earnest face. 

"You poor child!" he said; "and you think the world outside this sea, and these sandhills, is all sunshine and _coleur de rose_. Well, thinkso--it's a harmless delusion, and one that won't last. And whateverbetides, " he said this earnestly, "whatever this new life brings, you'll never blame _me_, Edith, for having taken you away from theold one?"

"Never!" she answered. And she kept her word. In all the sadness--theshame, the pain of the after-time, she would never have gone back ifshe could--she never blamed him. 

They walked on in silence. They were at the door of the ugly bleakhouse which Edith Darrell for eighteen years had called home, butwhich she was never to call home more. You would hardly have knownher--so bright, so beautiful in a moment had Hope made her--a smile onher lips, her eyes like dark diamonds. For Charley, he watched her, ashe might some interesting natural curiosity. 

"When am I to be ready?" she asked him, softly, at the door. 

"The sooner the better, " he answered. 

Then she opened it and went in. 

CHAPTER II. 

A NIGHT IN THE SNOW. 

One snowy February night, just two years before, Edith Darrel andCharles Stuart had met for the first time--met in a very odd andromantic way. 

Before relating that peculiar first meeting, let me premise that EdithDarrell's mother had been born a Miss Eleanor Stuart, the daughter ofa rich New York merchant, who had fallen in love at an early period ofher career with her father's handsome book-keeper, Frederic Darrell, had eloped with him, and been cast off by her whole family fromthenceforth, forever. Ten years' hard battling with poverty andill-health had followed, and then one day she kissed her husband andlittle daughter for the last time, and drifted wearily out of thestrife. Of course Mr. Darrell, a year or two after, married again forthe sake of having some one to look after his house and little Edithas much as anything else. Mrs. Darrell No. 2 was in every respect theexact contrast of Mrs. Darrell No. 1. She was a brisk little woman, with snapping black eyes, a sharp nose, a complexion of saffron, and atongue like a carving-knife. Frederic Darrell was by nature a feeble, helpless sort of man, but she galvanized even him into a spasmodicsort of life. He was master of three living languages and two deadones. 

"If you can't support your family by your hands, Mr. Darrell, " snappedhis wife, "support them by your head. There are plenty young men inthe world ready to learn French and German, Greek and Latin, if theycan learn them at a reasonable rate. Advertise for these young men, and I'll board them when they come. "

He obeyed, the idea proved a good one, the young men came, Mrs. Darrell boarded and lodged them, Mr. Darrell coached them in classicsand languages. Edith shot up like a hop-vine. Five more littleDarrells were added in the fulness of time, and the old problem, thatnot all the mathematics he knew could ever solve, how to make bothends meet, seemed as knotty as ever. For his daughter he felt it mostof all. The five great noisy boys who called Mrs. Darrell "ma, " helooked at through his spectacles in fear and trembling. His handsomedaughter he loved with his whole heart. Her dead mother's relativeswere among the plutocracy of New York, but even the memory of the deadEleanor seemed to have faded utterly out of their minds. 

One raw February afternoon two years before this March morning, EdithDarrell set out to walk from Millfield, a large manufacturing town, five miles from Sandypoint, home. She had been driven over in themorning by a neighbor, to buy a new dress; she had dined at noon withan acquaintance, and as the Millfield clocks struck five, set out towalk home. She was a capital walker; she knew the road well; she hadthe garnet merino clasped close in her arms, a talisman against coldor weariness, and thinking how well she would look in it next Thursdayat the party, she tripped blithely along. A keen wind blew, a darkdrifting sky hung low over the black frozen earth, and before MissDarrell had finished the first mile of her pilgrimage, the greatfeathery snow flakes began whirling down. She looked up indismay--snow! She had not counted on that. Her way lay over hills anddown valleys, the path was excellent, hard and beaten, but if itsnowed--and night was coming on fast. What should she do? Prudencewhispered, "turn back;" youth's impatience and confidence in itselfcried out, "go on, " Edith went on. 

It was as lonely a five-mile walk as you would care to take in anAugust noontide. Think what it must have been this stormy Februaryevening. She was not entirely alone. "Don Caesar, " the house dog, a bigEnglish mastiff, trotted by her side. At long intervals, down by-pathsand across fields, there were some half dozen habitations, betweenMillfield and Sandypoint--that was all. Faster, faster came the whitewhirling flakes; an out-and-out February snow storm had set in. 

Again--should she turn back? She paused half a minute to debate thequestion. If she did there would be a sleepless night of terror forher nervous father at home. And she _might_ be able to keep the pathwith the "Don's" aid. Personal fear she felt none; she was athoroughly brave little woman, and there was a spice of adventure inbraving the storm and going on. She shook back her clustering curls, tied her hood a little tighter, wrapped her cloak more closely aroundher, whistled cheerily to Don Caesar, and went on. 

"In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as 'Fail', " shesaid gayly, patting the Don's shaggy head. "_En avant_, Don Caesar, _mon brave_!" The Don understood French; he licked his mistress'shand and trotted contentedly before. 

"As if I _could_ lose the path with the Don, " she thought; "what agoose I am. I shall make Mamma Darrell cut out my garnet merino, andbegin it before I go to bed to-night. "

She walked bravely and brightly on, whistling and talking to Don Caesarat intervals. Another mile was got over, and the night had shut down, white with whirling drifts. It was all she could do now, to make herway against the storm, and it grew worse every instant. Three miles ofthe five lay yet before her. Her heart began to fail her a little; thepath was lost in the snow, and even the Don began to be at fault. Thedrifting wilderness nearly blinded her, the deep snow was unutterablyfatiguing. There was but one thing in her favor--the night, forFebruary, was mild. She was all in a glow of warmth, but what if sheshould get lost and flounder about here until morning? And what wouldpapa think of her absence?

She stopped short again. If she could see a light she would make forit, she thought, and take refuge from the night and storm. But throughthe white whirl no light was to be seen. Right or wrong, nothingremained but to go on. 

Hark! what was that? She stopped once more--the Don pricked up hissagacious ears. A cry unmistakably--a cry of distress. 

Again it came, to the left, faint and far off. Yes--no doubt about it, a cry for help. 

She did not hesitate a moment. Strangers, who had tried this hillpathbefore now, had been found stark frozen next day. 

"Find him, Don--find him, good fellow!" she said and turned at once inthe direction of the call. 

"Coming!" she shouted, aloud. "Where are you? Call again. "

"Here, " came faintly over the snow. "Here, to the left. "

She shouted back a cheery answer. Once more came a faint reply--thenall was still. 

Suddenly the Don stopped. Impossible to tell where they were, butthere, prostrate in a feathery drift, lay the dark figure of a man. The girl bent down in the darkness, and touched the cold face with herhand. 

"What is the matter?" she asked. "How do you come to be lying here?"

There was just life enough left within him, to enable him to answerfaintly. 

"I was on my way to Sandypoint--the night and storm overtook me. Imissed the path and my footing; I slipped, and have broken my leg, I'mafraid. I heard you whistling to your dog and tried to call. I didn'tdream it was a woman, and I am sorry I have brought you out of yourway. Still, as you _are_ here, if you will tell them at the nearesthouse, and--" his voice died entirely away, in the sleepy cadenceof a freezing man. 

The nearest house--where _was_ the nearest house? Why, this poorfellow would freeze to death in half an hour if left to himself. Impossible to leave him. What should she do? She thought for a moment. Quick and bright of invention, she made up her mind what to do, shehad in her pocket a little passbook and pencil. In the darkness shetore out a leaf--in the darkness she wrote, "Follow Don. Come at once. "She pinned the note in her handkerchief--tied the handkerchief securelyround the dog's neck, put her arms about him, and gave his black heada hug. 

"Go home, Don, go home, " she said, "and fetch papa here. "

The large, half-human eyes looked up at her. She pushed him away withboth hands, and with a low growl of intelligence he set off. And inthat sea of snow, lost in the night, Edith Darrell was alone with afreezing man. 

In her satchel, among her other purchases, she had several cents'worth of matches for household consumption. With a girl's curiosity, even in that hour, to see what the man was like, she struck a matchand looked at him. It flared through the white darkness a second ortwo, then went out. That second showed her a face as white as the snowitself, the eyes closed, the lips set in silent pain. She saw a shaggygreat coat, and fur cap, and--a gentleman, even in that briefest ofbrief glances. 

"You mustn't go to sleep, " she said, giving him a shake; "do you hearme, sir? You mustn't go to sleep. "

"Yes--mustn't I?" very drowsily. 

"You'll freeze to death if you do. " A second shake. "Oh, do rouse uplike a good fellow, and try to keep awake. I've sent my dog for help, and I mean to stay with you until it comes. Does your leg pain youmuch?"

"Not now. It did, but I--feel--sleepy, and--"

"I tell you, you _mustn't_!" She shook him so indignantly this timethat he did rouse up. "Do you want to freeze to death? I tell you, sir, you must wake up and talk to _me_. "

"Talk to you? I beg your pardon--it's awfully good of you to stay withme, but I can't allow it. You'll freeze yourself. "

"No, I won't. _I'm_ all right. It isn't freezing hard to-night, andif you hadn't broken your leg, you wouldn't freeze either. I wishI could do something for you. Let me rub your hands--it may help tokeep you awake. And see, I'll wrap this round your feet to keep themout of the snow. "

And then--who says that heroic self-sacrifice has gone out offashion?--she unfurled the garnet merino and twisted its glowing foldsaround the boots of the fallen man. 

"It's awfully good of you, you know, " he could but just repeat. "If Iam saved I shall owe my life to you. I think by your voice you are ayoung lady. Tell me your name?"

"Edith. "

"A pretty name, and a sweet voice. Suppose you rub my other hand? Howdelightfully warm yours are! I begin to feel better already. If we_don't_ freeze to death, I shouldn't much mind how long this sortof thing goes on. If we do, they'll find us, like the babes in thewood, under the snow-drifts to-morrow. "

Miss Darrell listened to all this, uttered in the sleepiest, gentlestof tones, her brown eyes open wide. What manner of young man was thiswho paid compliments while freezing with a broken leg? It was quite anew experience to her and amused her. It was an adventure, and excitedall the romance dormant in her nature. 

"You're a stranger hereabouts?" she suggested. 

"Yes, a stranger, to my cost, and a very foolhardy one, or I shouldnever have attempted to find Sandypoint in this confounded storm. Edith--you'll excuse my calling you so, _my_ name is Charley--wouldn'tit have been better if you had left me here and gone for some one. I'm dreadfully afraid you'll get your death. "

His solicitude for her, in his own danger and pain, quite touched MissEdith. She bent over him with maternal tenderness. 

"There is no fear for me. I feel perfectly warm as I told you, and caneasily keep myself so. And if you think I could leave you, or any oneelse with a broken leg, to die, you mistake me greatly, that is all. Iwill stay with you if it be till morning. "

He gave one of her hands a feebly grateful squeeze. It was a lasteffort. His numbed and broken limb gave a horrible twinge, there was afaint gasp, and then this young man fainted quietly away. 

She bent above him in despair. A great fear filled her--was he dead, this stranger in whom she was interested already? She lifted his headon her lap, she chafed his face and hands in an agony of pity andterror. 

"Charley!" she called, with something like a sob; "O Charley, don'tdie! Wake up--speak to me. "

But cold and white as the snow itself, "Charley" lay, dumb andunresponsive. 

And so an hour wore on. 

What an hour it was--more like an eternity. In all her after-life--itspride and its glory, its downfall and disgrace, that night remainedvividly in her memory. 

She woke many and many a night, starting up in her warm bed, from somestartling dream, that she was back, lost in the snow, with Charleylying lifeless in her lap. 

But help was at hand. It was close upon nine o'clock, when, throughthe deathly white silence, the sound of many voices came. When overthe cold glitter of the winter night, the red light of lanterns flared, Don Caesar came plunging headlong through the drifts to his littlemistress' side, with loud and joyful barking, licking her face, herhands, her feet. They were saved. 

She sank back sick and dizzy in her father's clasp. For a moment theearth rocked, and the sky went round--then she sprang up, herselfagain. Her father was there, and the three young men, boarders. Theylifted the rigid form of the stranger, and carried it between themsomehow, to Mr. Darrell's house. 

His feet were slightly frost-bitten, his leg not broken after all, only sprained and swollen, and to Edith's relief he was pronounced ina fainting-fit, not dead. 

"Don't look so white and scared, child, " her step-mother saidpettishly to her step-daughter; "he won't die, and a pretty burthenhe'll be on my hands for the next three weeks. Go to bed--do--anddon't let us have _you_ laid up as well. One's enough at a time. "

"Yes, Dithy, darling, go, " said her father, kissing her tenderly. "You're a brave little woman, and you've saved his life. I have alwaysbeen proud of you, but never so proud as to-night. "

It certainly _was_ a couple of weeks. It was five blessed weeks before"Mr. Charley, " as they learned to call him, could get about, evenon crutches. For fever and sometimes delirium set in, and Charleyraved and tossed, and shouted, and talked, and drove Mrs. FredericDarrell nearly frantic with his capers. The duty of nursing fell agood deal on Edith. She seemed to take to it quite naturally. In his"worst spells" the sound of her soft voice, the touch of her cool hand, could soothe him as nothing else could. Sometimes he sung, asboisterously as his enfeebled state would allow: "We won't go hometill morning!" Sometimes he shouted for his mother; very often for"Trixy. "

_Who_ was Trixy, Edith wondered with a sort of inward twinge, not tobe accounted for; his sister or--

He was very handsome in those days--his great gray eyes brilliant withfever, his cheeks flushed, his chestnut hair falling damp and heavyoff his brow. What an adventure it was, altogether, Edith used tothink, like something out of a book. Who was he, she wondered. Agentleman "by courtesy and the grace of God, " no mistaking _that_. His clothes, his linen, were all superfine. On one finger he wore adiamond that made all beholders wink, and in his shirt bosom stillanother. His wallet was stuffed with greenbacks, his watch and chain, Mr. Darrell affirmed were worth a thousand dollars--a sprig ofgentility, whoever he might be, this wounded hero. They found nopapers, no letters, no card-case. His linen was marked "C. S. " twistedin a monogram. They must wait until he was able himself to tell themthe rest. 

The soft sunshine, of April was filling his room, and basking in itsrays in the parlor or rocking-chair sat "Mr. Charley, " pale and wastedto a most interesting degree. He was sitting, looking at Miss Edith, digging industriously in her flower-garden, with one of the boardersfor under-gardener, and listening to Mr. Darrell proposing he shouldtell them his name, in order that they might write to his friends. Theyoung man turned his large languid eyes from the daughter without, tothe father within. 

"My friends? Oh! to be sure. But it isn't necessary, is it? It's verythoughtful of you, and all that, but my friends won't worry themselvesinto an early grave about my absence and silence. They're used to both. Next week, or week after, I'll drop them a line myself. I know I mustbe an awful nuisance to Mrs. Darrell, but if I _might_ trespass onyour great kindness and remain here until--"

"My dear young friend, " responded Mr. Darrell, warmly, "you shall mostcertainly remain here. For Mrs. Darrell, you're no trouble to her--it'sDithy, bless her, who does all the nursing. "

The gray dreamy eyes turned from Mr. Darrell again, to that busyfigure in the garden. With her cheeks flushed, her brown eyes shining, her rosy lips apart, and laughing, as she wrangled with that particularboarder on the subject of floriculture, she looked a most dangerousnurse for any young man of three-and-twenty. 

"I owe Miss Darrell and you all, more than I can ever repay, " he said, quietly; "_that_ is understood. I have never tried to thank her, oryou either--words are so inadequate in these cases. Believe me though, I am not ungrateful. "

"Say no more, " Mr. Darrell cut in hastily; "only tell us how we are toaddress you while you remain. 'Mr. Charley' is an unsatisfactory sortof application. "

"My name is Stuart; but, as a favor, may I request you to go oncalling me Charley?"

"Stuart!" said the other, quickly; "one of the Stuarts, bankers, ofNew York?"

"The same. My father is James Stuart; you know him probably?"

The face of Frederic Darrell darkened and grew almost stern. "Yourfather was my wife's cousin--Edith's mother. Have you never heard himspeak of Eleanor Stuart?"

"Who married Frederic Darrell? Often. My dear Mr. Darrell, is itpossible that you--that I have the happiness of being related to you?"

"To my daughter, if you like--her second cousin--to me, _no_, " Mr. Darrell said, half-smiling, half-sad. "Your father and his family longago repudiated all claims of mine--I am not going to force myself upontheir notice now. Edie--Edie, my love, come in here, and listen tosome strange news. "

She threw down her spade, and came in laughing and glowing, her hairtumbled, her collar awry, her dress soiled, her hands not over clean, but looking, oh! so indescribably fresh, and fair, and healthful, andhandsome. 

"What is it?" she asked. "Has Mr. Charley gone and sprained his otherankle?"

"Not quite so bad as that. " And then her father narrated the discoverythey had mutually made. Miss Dithy opened her bright brown eyes. 

"Like a chapter out of a novel where everybody turns out to be somebodyelse. 'It is--it is--it is--my own, my long-lost son!' And so we'resecond cousins, and you're Charley Stuart; and Trixy--now who's Trixy?"

"Trixy's my sister. How do you happen to know anything about her?"

Edith made a wry face. 

"The nights I've spent--the days I've dragged through, the torturesI've undergone, listening to you shouting for 'Trixy, ' would havedriven any less well-balanced brain stark mad! May I sit down? Diggingin the sunshine, and rowing with Johnny Ellis is awfully hot work. "

"Digging in the sunshine is detrimental to the complexion, and rowingwith Johnny Ellis is injurious to the temper. I object to both. "

"Oh, you do?" said Miss Darrell, opening her eyes again; "it mattersso much, too, whether you object or not. Johnny Ellis is useful, andsometimes agreeable. Charley Stuart is neither one nor t'other. If Imayn't dig and quarrel with him, is there anything your lordship wouldlike me to do?"

"You may sit on this footstool at my feet--woman's proper place--andread me to sleep. That book you were reading aloud yesterday--what wasit? Oh, 'Pendennis, ' was rather amusing--what I heard of it. "

"What you heard of it!" Miss Darrell retorts, indignantly. "You dowell to add that. The man who could go to sleep listening to Thackerayis a man worthy only of contempt and scorn! There's Mr. Ellis callingme--I must go. "

Miss Darrell and Mr. Stuart, in his present state of convalescence, rarely met except to quarrel. They spoke their minds to one another, with a refreshing frankness remarkable to hear. 

"You remind me of one I loved very dearly once, Dithy, " Charley saidto her, sadly, one, day, after an unusually stormy wordy war--"in fact, the only one I ever _did_ love. You resemble her, too--the same sortof hair and complexion, and exactly the same sort of--ah--temper!Her name was Fido--she was a black and tan terrier--very like you, mydear, very like. Ah! these accidental resemblances are cruelthings--they tear open half-healed wounds, and cause them to bleedafresh. Fido met with an untimely end--she was drowned one dark nightin a cistern. I thought I had outlived _that_ grief, but when I lookat you--"

A stinging box on the ear, given with right good will, cut short themournful reminiscence, and brought tears to Mr. Stuart's eyes, thatwere not tears of grief for Fido. 

"You wretch!" cried Miss Darrell, with flashing eyes. "I've acomplexion of black and tan, have I, and a temper to match! The onlything _I_ see to regret in your story is, that it wasn't Fido's masterwho fell into the cistern, instead of Fido. To think I should liveto be called a black and tan!"

They never met except to quarrel. Edith's inflammatory temper was upin arms perpetually. They kept the house in an uncommonly lively state. It seemed to agree with Charley. His twisted ankle grew strong rapidly, flesh and color came back, the world was not to be robbed of one ofits brightest ornaments just yet. He put off writing to his friendsfrom day to day, to the great disapproval of Mr. Darrell, who wasrather behind the age in his notions of filial duty. 

"It's of no use worrying, " Mr. Stuart made answer, with the easy_insouciance_ concerning all things earthly which sat so naturallyupon him; "bad shillings always come back--let that truthful oldadage console them. Why should I fidget myself about them. Take myword they're not fidgeting themselves about _me_. The governor'sabsorbed in the rise and fall of stocks, the maternal is up to hereyes in the last parties of the season, and my sister is just out andabsorbed body and soul in beaux and dresses. They never expect meuntil they see me. "

About the close of April Mr. Stuart and Miss Darrell fought their lastbattle and parted. He went back to New York and to his own world, andlife stagnant and flat flowed back on its old level for Edith Darrell. 

Stagnant and flat it had always been, but never half so dreary as now. Something had come into her life and gone out of it, something brightand new, and wonderfully pleasant. There was a great blank whereCharley's handsome face had been, and all at once life seemed to loseits relish for this girl of sixteen. A restlessness took possession ofof her. Sandypoint and all belonging to it grew distasteful. Shewanted change, excitement--Charley Stuart, perhaps--something differentcertainly from what she was used to, or likely to get. 

Charley went home and told the "governor, " and the "maternal, " and"Trixy" of his adventure, and the girl who had saved his life. MissBeatrix listened in a glow of admiration. 

"Is she pretty, Charley?" she asked, of course, the first inevitablefemale question. 

"Pretty?" Charley responded, meditatively, as though the idea struckhim for the first time. "Well, ye-e-es. In a cream-colored sort of way, Edith isn't bad-looking. It would be very nice of you now, Trix, towrite her a letter, I think, seeing she saved my life, and nursed me, and is your second cousin, and everything. "

Beatrix needed no urging. She was an impetuous, enthusiastic youngwoman of eighteen, fearfully and wonderfully addicted tocorrespondence. She sat down and wrote a long, gushing letter to her"cream-colored" cousin. Mrs. Stuart dropped her a line of thanks also, and Charley, of course, wrote, and there her adventure seemed to cometo an end. Miss Stuart's letters were long and frequent. Mr. Stuart'srambling epistle alternately made her laugh and lose her temper, adaily loss with poor, discontented Edith. With the fine discriminationmost men possess, he sent her, on her seventeenth birthday, a set ofturquoise and pearls, which made her sallow complexion hideous, or, atleast, as hideous as anything _can_ make a pretty girl. That summerhe ran down to Sandypoint for a fortnight's fishing, and an oasiscame suddenly in the desert of Edith's life. She and Charley mightquarrel still, and I am bound to say they did, on every possibleoccasion and on every possible point, _but_ they were never satisfieda moment apart. 

The fortnight ended, the fish were caught, he went back, and the dulldays and the long nights, the cooking, darning, mending began again, and went on until madness would have been a relief. It was the oldstory of the Sleeping Beauty waiting for the prince to come, and wakeher into life and love with his kiss. Only in this instance the princehad come and gone, and left Beauty, in the sulks, behind. 

She was eighteen years old and sick of her life. And just when disgustand discontent were taking palpable form, and she was debating betweena jump into Sandypoint bay and running off, came Charley, with hismother's letter. From that hour the story of Edith Darrell's lifebegan. 

CHAPTER III. 

TRIXY'S PARTY. 

Two weeks sufficed for Miss Darrell's preparations. A quantity of newlinen, three new dresses, one hat, one spring sacque--that was all. 

Mr. Darrell had consented--what was there he could have refused hisdarling? He had consented, hiding the bitter pang it cost him, deep inhis own quiet heart. It was the loss of her mother over again; thetender passion and the present Mrs. Darrell were two facts perfectlyincompatible. 

Mrs. Darrell aided briskly in the preparation--to tell the truth, shewas not sorry to be rid of her step-daughter, between whom and herselfperpetual war raged. Edith as a worker was a failure; she went aboutthe dingy house, in her dingy dresses, with the air of an out-at-elbowsduchess. She snubbed the boarders, she boxed the juvenile Darrell'sears, she "sassed" the mistress of the house. 

"It speaks volumes for your amiability, Dithy, " Charley remarked, "theintense eagerness and delight, with which everybody in thisestablishment hails your departure. Four dirty little Darrells runabout the passages with their war-whoop, 'Dithy's going--hooray! Nowwe'll have fun!' Your step-mother's sere and yellow visage beams withbliss; even the young gentlemen who are lodged and boarded, Greek-edand Latin-ed here, wear faces of suppressed relief, that tells its owntale to the student of human nature. Your welfare must be unspeakablyprecious to them, Edie, when they bear their approaching bereavementso well. "

He paused. The speech was a lengthy one, and lengthy speeches mostlyexhausted Mr. Stuart. He lay back, watching his fair relative as shesat sewing near, with lazy, half-closed eyes. 

Her work dropped in her lap, a faint flush rose up over her dusk face. 

"Charley, " she responded, gravely, "I don't wonder you say this--it istrue, and nobody feels it more than I. I _am_ a disagreeable creature, a selfish nuisance, an idle, discontented kill-joy. I only wonder, you are not afraid to take me with you at all. "

Mr. Stuart sat up, rather surprised. 

"My dearest coz, _don't_ be so tremendously in earnest. If I hadthought you were going to take it seriously--"

"Let us be serious for once--we have all our lives left forquarrelling, " said Miss Darrell, as though quarrelling were a pleasantrecreation. "I sit down and try to think sometimes why I am somiserable--so wretched in my present life, why I hail the prospect ofa new one with such delight. I see other girls--nicer, cleverer girlsthan I am every way, and their lives suffice for them--the daily, domestic routine that is most horrible drudgery to me, pleases andsatisfies them. It must be that I have an incapacity for life; Idaresay when the novelty and gloss wear off, I shall tire equally ofthe life I am going to. A new dress, a dance, a beau, and the hope ofa prospective husband suffices for the girls I speak of. For me--noneof your sarcastic smiles, sir--the thought of a future husband is--"

"Only vanity and vexation of spirit. But there _is_ a future husband. You are forced to admit that, Dithy. I wonder what he is to be like?A modern Sir Launcelot, with the beauty of all the gods, the courageof a Coeur de Lion, the bow of a Chesterfield, and the purse ofFortunatus. That's the photo, isn't it?"

"No, sir--not a bit like it. The purse of a Fortunatus, if you like--Iask nothing more. The Sir Launcelots of life, if they exist at all, are mostly poor men, and I don't want anything to do with poor men. Mymarriage is to be a purely business transaction--I settled _that_long ago. He may have the form and face of a Satyr; he may haveseventy years, so that he be worth a million or so, I will drop mybest courtesy when he asks, and say, 'Yes, and thanky, sir. ' If theApollo himself, knelt before me with an empty purse, I should turn myback upon him in pity and disdain. "

"Is that meant for me, Edie?" Mr. Stuart inquired, rising on his elbow, and admiringly gazing at his own handsome face in the glass. "Becauseif it is, don't excite yourself. Forewarned is forearmed--I'm notgoing to ask you. "

"I never thought you were, " Edith said, laughing. "I never aspired sohigh. As well love some bright particular star, etcetera, etcetera, asthe only son of James Stuart, Esquire, lineal descendant of thePrinces of Scotland, and banker of Wall Street. No, Charley, I knowwhat _you_ will do. You'll drift through life for the next three orfour years, as you have drifted up to the present, well looking, welldressed, well mannered, and then some day your father will come toyou and say gruffly, 'Charles!' (Edith grows dramatic as shenarrates--it is a husky masculine voice that speaks:) 'Here's MissPetroleum's father, with a million and a half--only child--order asuit of new clothes and go and ask her to marry you!' And you willlook at him with a helpless sigh, and go. Your father will select yourwife, sir, and you'll take her, like a good boy, when you're told. Ishouldn't wonder now, but that it is to select a wife for you, and ahusband for Trixy, he is taking this projected trip to Europe. "

"Shouldn't you? Neither should I. Never wonder. Against my principles, "Charley murmurs. 

"There are plenty of titled aristocracy abroad--so I am told--ready tosilver-gild their coronets by a union with plutocracy. Plenty LadyJanes and Lady Marys ready to sell themselves to the highest bidder. "

"As Edith Darrell is?"

"As Edith Darrell is. It's all very fine talking of love and devotion, and the emptiness of life without. Believe me, if one has plenty ofmoney one can dispense with love. I've read a good many novels, butthey haven't turned my head on _that_ subject. From all I've read, indeed, I should think it must be a very uncomfortable sort ofintermittent fever, indeed. Don't love anybody except yourself, and itis out of the power of any human being to make you _very_ wretched. "

"A sentiment whose truth is only equaled by its--selfishness. "

"Yes, it is selfish; and it is your thoroughly selfish people, who getthe best of everything in this world. I am selfish and worldly--ambitiousand heartless, and all that is abominable. I may as well own it. You'llfind it out for yourself soon. "

"A most unnecessary acknowledgment, my dear child--it is patent to thedullest observer. But, now, Edith--look here--this is serious, mind!"He raises himself again on his elbow, and looks, with a curious smileinto her darkly-earnest, cynical young face. "Suppose I am madly inlove with you--'madly in love' is the correct phrase, isn'tit?--suppose I am at your feet, going through all the phases of thepotential mood, 'commanding, exhorting, entreating' you to marryme--you wouldn't say no, would you, Edie? You like me--don't deny it. You know you do--like me well enough to marry me to-morrow. Would yourefuse me in spite of my dependence on my father, and my empty purse?"

He took her hand, and held it tightly, despite her struggles. 

"Would you, Edie?" he says, putting his arm around her waist. "I'm nota sentimental fellow, but I believe in love. Come! you wouldn't--youcouldn't bid me go. "

Her color had risen--that lovely rose-pink color, that lit herbrunette face into such beauty--but she resolutely freed herself, andmet his half-tender, half-merry glance, full. 

"I would, " she said, "if I--liked you so, that you filled my wholeheart. Let me go, sir, and no more of this nonsense. I know whatI am talking about, and what comes of marrying for love. There wasmy own mother, she left a rich and luxurious home, wealthy suitors, all the comforts and elegances of life, without which life isn'tworth living, and ran away with papa. Then followed long years ofpoverty, discomfort, illness, and miserable grubbing. She nevercomplained--perhaps she wasn't even very unhappy; her's wasn't thesort of love that flies out of the window when poverty comes in atthe door--she just faded away and died. For myself I have beendissatisfied with _my_ lot ever since I can remember--pining forthe glory and grandeur of this wicked world. There is but one wayin which they can ever be mine--by marriage. If marriage will notbring them, then I will go to my grave Edith Darrell. "

"Which I don't think you will, " Mr. Stuart responded. "Young ladieslike you, who set out on the search-matrimonial with lots ofcommon-sense, worldliness, selfishness, and mercenary motives, generally reach the goal. It's a fair enough exchange--so much youthand good looks for so many thousand dollars. I wish you all success, Miss Darrell, in your laudable undertaking. It is well we shouldunderstand each other, at once and forever, or even I some day mightbe tempted to make a fool of myself. Your excellent counsels, mydearest cousin, will be invaluable to me, should my lagging footstepsfalter by the way. Edith! where have you learned to be so hard, soworldly, so--if you will pardon me--so unwomanly?"

"Is it unwomanly?" she repeated dreamily. "Well, perhaps it is. I amhonest at least--give me credit for that. My own hard life has taughtme, books have taught me, looking at my mother and listening to mystep-mother have taught me. I feel old at eighteen--old and tired. Iam just one of those girls, I think, who turn out very good or verybad women, as fate deals with them. It's not too late yet to draw back, Charley. Your mother can easily get another young lady to do theFrench and German business. You can tell her I don't suit, and leaveme at home. "

"Not too late to draw back, " he said, with his indolent smile. "Isthere ever such a thing as drawing back at all? What is done is done. I couldn't go without you now, if I tried. O, don't look alarmed, Idon't mean anything. You amuse and interest me, that is all. You'resomething of a study--entirely different from the genus young lady I'maccustomed to. Only--keep your frankness for Cousin Charley, he'sharmless; don't display it to the rest of the world. It might spoilyour chances. Even senile millionnaires don't care to walk into thetrap, unless the springs are hidden in roses. Come, throw down thatendless sewing, and let's have a walk on the beach. Who knows when wemay see the sun go down, together again, over the classic waters ofSandypoint Bay. "

Edith laughed, but she rose to obey. 

"And I thought you were not sentimental. One would think it the Bay ofNaples. However, as we start to-morrow, I don't mind going down andbidding the old rocks and sands good-by. "

She put on her hat, and the two went wandering away together, to watchthe sun set over the sea. In the rosy light of the spring sunset, thefishing boats drifted on the shining waters, and the fisherman's chantcame borne to their ears. 

"It reminds me of that other April evening two years ago, Dithy, whenwe came down here to say good-by. You cried then at parting--do youremember? But you were only sixteen, poor child, and knew no better. You wouldn't cry now, would you, for any man in the universe?"

"Not for Charley Stuart certainly--he needn't think it. "

"He doesn't think it, my pet; he never looks for impossibilities. Iwonder if that night in the snow were to come again if you'd risk yourlife now, as you did then?"

"Risk my life! What bosh! There was no risk; and bad as I am, andheartless as I've grown, I don't think--I _don't_ think I'd walkaway, and leave any poor wretch to die. Yes, Charley, if the night inthe snow came over again, I'd do now as I did then. "

"I don't believe it was a kindness after all, " Charley responds. "Ihave a presentiment that a day will come, Dithy, when I'll hate you. I shouldn't have suffered much if you had let me freeze to death. AndI've a strong prescience (is that the word) that I'll fall in lovewith you some day, and be jilted, and undergo untold torture, and hateyou with a perfect frenzy. It will be a very fatiguing experience, butI feel in my bones that it is to be. "

"Indeed! A Saul among the prophets. I shall not be surprised, however;it is my usual fate to be hated. And now, as we seem to have driftedinto disagreeable and personal sort of talk, suppose we change thesubject? There is a dory yonder; if your indolent sultanship can bearthe labor of steering, I'll give you a last row across the bay. "

They take the dory and glide away. Charley lies back, his hat pulledover his eyes, smoking a cigar and steering. She has the oars, the redsunlight is on her face. Edith defies tan and sunburn. She looks atlazy Charley, and sings as she pulls, a saucy smile of defiance on herlips:

 "It was on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, That Charley came to our town, The young Chevalier. And Charley he's my darling, My darling, my darling; And Charley he's my darling, The young Chevalier!"

What Charley answers is not on record. Perhaps the aged millionnaire, who is to be the future happy possessor of Miss Darrell's charms, would not care to hear it. They drift on--they are together--they askno more. The rosy after-glow of the sunset fades out, the night comeswhite with stars, the faint spring wind sighs over the bay, and bothare silent. "And, " says Charley's inner consciousness, "if this be notfalling in love, I wonder what is?"

They linger yet longer. It is the last night, and romantically enough, for so worldly and cynical a pair, they watch the faint little Aprilmoon rise. Edith looks over her left shoulder at it, and sayssomething under her breath. 

"What invocation are you murmuring there?" Charley asks, half asleep. 

"I was wishing. I always wish when I see the new moon. "

"For a rich husband of course, Edie!" He sits up suddenly. "There'sthe baronet! Suppose you go for _him_. "

"'Go for him!' What a horribly vulgar way you have of speaking. No. I'll leave him for Trixy. Have you had enough of starlight andmoonlight, Mr. Stuart, on Sandypoint Bay, because I'm going to turnand row home. I've had no supper, and I shall eat you if we stay herefasting much longer. "

She rows back, and arm in arm they ascend the rocky path, and lingerone last moment at the garden gate. 

"So ends the old life, " Edith says, softly. "It is my last night athome. I ought to feel sad, I suppose, but I don't. I never felt sohappy in my life. "

He is holding her hand. For two who are not lovers, and never mean tobe, they understand each other wonderfully well. 

"And remember your promise, " he answers. "Let the life that is comingbring what it may, you are never to blame me. "

Then Mrs. Darrell's tall, spare figure appears in the moonlight, summoning them sharply to tea, and hands are unclasped, and in silencethey follow her. 

The first train from Sandypoint to Boston bears away Edith Darrell andCharley Stuart. Not alone together, however--forbid it Mrs. Grundy!Mrs. Rogers, the Sandypoint milliner, is going to New York for thesummer fashions, and the young lady travels under her protection. Theyreach Boston in time for the train that connects with the Fall Riverboats. It has been a day of brightest sunshine; it is a lovely springnight. They dine on board. Mrs. Rogers is sleepy and tired and goes tobed (she and Edith share the same state-room), with a last charge toMr. Stuart not to keep Miss Darrell too long on deck in the night air. 

They float grandly up the bright river. Two wandering harpists and aviolinist play very sweetly near them, and they walk up and down, talking and feeling uncommonly happy and free, until Charley's watchpoints to eleven, and the music comes to a stop. They say good-night. She goes to Mrs. Rogers and the upper berth, and Mr. Stuartmeditatively turns to his own. He is thinking, that all thingsconsidered, it is just as well this particularly fascinatingcompanionship, ends in a manner to-morrow. 

To-morrow comes. It is Miss Beatrix Stuart's birthday. The great partyis to be to-night. They shake hands and part with Mrs. Rogers on thepier. Charley hails a hack and assists his cousin in, and they arewhirled off to the palatial avenue up-town. 

The house is a stately brown-stone front, of course, and on a sunnycorner. Edith leans back, quite silent, her heart beating as she looks. The whirl, the crash, the rush of New York streets stun her, thestateliness of the Stuart mansion awes her. She is very pale, her lipsare set together. She turns to Charley suddenly, and holds out herhands to him as a helpless child might. 

"I feel lost already, and--and ever so little afraid. How big andgrand it looks. Don't desert me, Charley. I feel as though I wereastray in a strange land. "

He squeezes the little hand, he whispers something reassuring, andlife and color come back to her face. 

"Make your mind easy, Dithy, " is what he says. "Like Mrs. Micawber, 'I'll never desert you. '"

He rings the door bell sharply, a smart-looking young woman admitsthem, and Edith goes with him into a splendid and spacious apartment, where three people sit at breakfast. Perhaps it is the garish sunshine, sparkling on so much cut glass and silver, that dazzles Edith's eyes, but for a minute she can see nothing. Then the mist clears away, thetrio have risen--a pompous-looking old gentleman in a shining baldhead and expansive white vest, a pallid, feeble-looking elderly ladyin a lace cap, and a tall, stylish girl, with Charley's eyes and hair, in violet ribbons and white cashmere. The bald gentlemen shakes handswith her, and welcomes her in a husky baritone; the faded, elderlylady, and stylish young lady kiss her, and say some very pleasant andgracious words. As in a dream Edith sees and hears all--as in a dreamshe is led off by Beatrix. 

"I shall take you to your room myself. I only hope you may like it. The furniture and arrangement are my taste, every bit. Oh you deardarling!" cries Miss Stuart, stopping in the passage to give Edith ahug. "You don't know how frightened I've been that you wouldn't come. I'm in love with you already! And what a heroine you are--a realGrace--what's-her-name--saving Charley's life and all that. And bestof all, you're in time for the ball--which is a rhyme, though I didn'tmean it. " She laughs and suddenly gives Edith another hug. "You prettycreature!" she says; "I'd no idea you were half so good-looking. Iasked Charley, but you might as well ask a lamp-post as Charley. Hereis your room--how do you like it?"

She would have been difficult to please indeed, if she had not likedit. To Edith's inexperienced eyes, it is a glowing nest of amber silkcurtains, yellowish Brussells carpet, tinted walls, pretty pictures, gilt frames, mirrors, ornaments, and dainty French bed. 

"Do you like it? But I see by your face you do. I'm so glad. This ismy room adjoining, and here's your bath. Now lay off your things andcome down to breakfast. "

Still in a dream Edith obeys. She descends to breakfast in her graytravelling suit, looking pale, and not at all brilliant. Miss Stuart, who has had her doubts, that this country cousin may prove a rival, isreassured. She takes her breakfast, and then Beatrix conducts her overthe house--a wonder of splendor, of velvet carpets, magnificentupholstering, lace drapings, gilding and ormolu. But her face keepsits pale, grave look. Trixy wonders if she is not a stupid little bodyafter all. Last of all they reach the sacred privacy of Trixy's ownroom, and there she displays her ball dress. She expiates on its makeand its merits, in professional language, and with a volubility thatmakes Edith's head swim. 

"It is made with a court train, trimmed with a deep flounce, waved inthe lower edge, and this flounce is trimmed with four narrow flounces, edged with narrow point lace. The sides are _en revers_, with sashestied in butterfly bow in the centre of the back, below the puffingof the skirt near the waist. The front of the skirt is trimmed tocorrespond with the train, the short apron, flounced and trimmed withpoint lace, gathered up at the sides, under the _revers_ on the train. The waist is high in the shoulders, V shaped in front and back, withsmall flowing sleeves, finished with plaitings of white silk tulle. And now, " cries Trixy, breathless and triumphant, "if _that_ doesn'tfetch the baronet, you may tell me what will! The pearls aresuperb--here they are. Pearls are _en regle_ for weddings only, buthow was poor pa to know that? Arn't they lovely?"

They lie in their cloudy luster, necklet, earrings, bracelet. 

"Lovely!" Edith repeats; "lovely indeed. Beatrix, what a fortunategirl you are. "

There is a touch of envy in her tone. Beatrix laughs, and gives her athird hug. 

"Why? Because I have pearls? Bless you! they're nothing. You'll havediamonds beyond counting yourself, one of those days. You'll marryrich, of course--brunettes are all the style now, and you're sure tolook lovely by gaslight. What are you going to wear to-night?"

"I'm like Flora McFlimsey, " Edith laughs; "I have nothing to wear. There is a white Swiss muslin in my trunk, but it will look wofullyrustic and dowdy, I'm afraid, in your gorgeous drawing-rooms. "

"Nonsense! Plain Swiss is always in taste for girls of eighteen. Iwore it greatly my first season. Do you know I feel awfully old, Edith--twenty-one to-night! I _must_ do something toward settlingbefore the year ends. Let us see the white Swiss. Now there is alovely amber tissue I have--it isn't my color. I never wore it butonce, and it would suit you exactly. Lucy, my maid, is a perfectdress-maker, and could alter it to fit you easily before--Now, Edith!you're not angry?"

For the color has risen suddenly all over Edith's proud, pale face. 

"You have made a mistake, Miss Stuart, that is all--meant kindly, I amsure. If my white muslin is admissible, I will wear it; if not, I cankeep to my room. But neither now, nor at any future time, can Iaccept--charity. "

Trixy gives a little shriek at the word, and inflicts a fourth hug onEdith. She is the soul of easy good-nature herself, and ready to takeanything and everything that is offered her, from a husband to abouquet. 

"Bless the child!" she exclaims. "Charity! As if any one ever thoughtof such a thing. It's just like me, however, to make a mess of it. Imean well, but somehow I always _do_ make a mess of it. And myprophetic soul tells me, the case of Sir Victor Catheron will be noexception to the rest. "

The day wears on. Edith drives down town, shopping with Madame andMademoiselle Stuart; she returns, and dines in state with the family. The big, brown house is lit up from basement to attic, and presentlythey all adjourn to their rooms to dress. 

"Don't ask me to appear while you are receiving your guests, " Edithsays. "I'll step in unobserved, when everybody has come. "

She declines all offers of assistance, and dresses herself. It is asimple toilet surely--the crisp white muslin, out of which thepolished shoulders rise; a little gold chain and cross, once hermother's; earrings and bracelet of gold and coral, also once hermother's; and her rich, abundant, blackish-brown hair, gathered backin a graceful way peculiar to herself. She looks very pretty, and sheknows it. Presently sails in Miss Stuart, resplendent in the pink silkand pearls, the "court train" trailing two or three yards behind her, her light hair "done up" in a pyramid wonderful to behold, and loadedwith camelias. 

"How do I look, Dithy? This strawberry-ice pink is awfully becoming tome, isn't it? And you--why, you look lovely--lovely! I'd no idea youmade up so handsomely. Ah! we blondes have no chance by gaslight, against you brunettes. "

She sweeps downstairs in her rose-colored splendor, and Edith is alone. She sits by the open window, and looks out at the night life of thegreat city. Carriage after carriage roll up to the door, and somehow, in the midst of all this life, and brightness, and bustle, a strangefeeling of loneliness and isolation comes over her. Is it the oldchronic discontent cropping up again? If it were only not improper forCharley to come up here and sit beside her, and smoke, in the sweetspring dusk, and be sarcastic as usual, what a comfort it would bejust now! Somehow--"how it comes let doctors tell"--that restlessfamiliar of hers is laid when _he_ is by her side--never lonely, never discontented then. As she thinks this, innocently enough, despite all her worldly wisdom, there is a tap at the door, and Lucy, the maid, comes smilingly in, holding an exquisite bouquet, all pinkand white roses, in her hand. 

"Mr. Charles' compliments, please, miss, and he's waiting for you atthe foot of the stairs, when you're ready, miss, for the ball-room. "

She starts and colors with pleasure. 

"Thank you, Lucy!" she says, taking the bouquet. "Tell Mr. Stuart Iwill be down in a moment. "

The girl leaves the room. 

With a smile on her face it is just as well "Mr. Charles" does not see, she stands looking at her roses; then she buries her face, almost asbright, in their dewy sweetness. 

"Dear, thoughtful Charley!" she whispers gratefully. "What would everhave become of me but for him?"

She selects one or two bits of scarlet blossom and green spray, andartistically twists them in the rich waves of her hair. She takes onelast glance at her own pretty image in the mirror, sees that fan, lace-handkerchief, and adornment generally, are in their places, andthen trips away and goes down. 

In elegant evening costume, looking unutterably handsome andwell-dressed, Mr. Charles Stuart stands at the foot of the grandstairway, waiting. He looks at her as she stands in the full glare ofthe gasaliers. 

"White muslin, gold and coral, pink roses, and no chignon. My dearMiss Darrell, taking you as a whole, I think I have seen worse-lookingyoung women in my life. "

He draws her hand through his arm, with this enthusiastic remark, andEdith finds herself in a blaze of light and a crowd of brilliantlydressed people. Three long drawing-rooms are thrown open, _en suite_;beyond is the ball-room, with its waxed flows and invisible musicians. Flowers, gaslight, jewels, handsome women, and gallant men areeverywhere; the band is crashing out a pulse-tingling waltz, and stillEdith hears and sees, and moves in a dream. 

"Come, " Charley says. His arm is around her waist, and they whirl awayamong the waltzers. Edith waltzes well, so does Charley. She feels asthough she were floating on air, not on earth. Then it is over, andshe is being introduced to people, to resplendent young ladies andalmost equally resplendent young gentlemen. Charley resigns her to oneof these latter, and she glides through a mazurka. That too ends, andas it grows rather warm, her partner leads her away to a coolmusic-room, whence proceed melodious sounds. It is Trixy at the piano, informing a select audience in shrill soprano, and in the character ofthe "Queen of the May, " that "She had been wild and wayward, but shewas not wayward _now_. " Edith's partner finds her a seat andvolunteers to go for an ice. As she sits fanning herself, she seesCharley approaching with a young man of about his own age, taller thanhe is--fairer, with a look altogether somehow of a differentnationality. He has large blue eyes, very fair hair, and the blondestof complexions. Instinctively she knows who it is. 

"Ah, Edith, " Charley says, "here you are. I have been searching foryou. Miss Darrell, allow me to present to you Sir Victor Catheron. "

CHAPTER IV. 

"UNDER THE GASLIGHT. "

Two darkly solemn eyes look up into Sir Victor Catheron's face. Bothbow. Both murmur the _pianissimo_ imbecility requisite on suchoccasions, and Edith Darrell is acquainted with a baronet. 

With, a baronet! Only yesterday, as it were, she was darning hose, andironing linen at home, going about the dismal house slipshod andslatternly. Now she is in the midst of a brilliant ball, diamondssparkling around her, and an English baronet of fabulous wealth andancestry asking her for the favor of the next waltz! Somethingridiculous and absurd about it all, struck her; she felt an idioticdesire to laugh aloud. It was all unreal, all a dream. She would awakepresently, to hear her step-mother's shrill call to come and help inthe kitchen, and the howls of the juvenile Darrells down the passage. A familiar voice rouses her. 

"You'll not forget, I hope, Edith, " Charley is saying, "that nextredowa is mine. At present I am going to meander through the lancerswith Mrs. Featherbrain. "

He takes her tablets, coolly writes his name, smiles, shows his whiteteeth, says "Au revoir, " and is gone. She and the baronet are alone. 

What shall she say to him? She feels a whimsical sort of trepidationas she flutters her fan. As yet the small-talk of society, is Sanscrit, to this young lady from Sandypoint. Sir Victor leans lightly againstthe arm of her chair, and looks down upon her as she sits, withflushed cheeks, half smiling lips, and long black lashes drooping. Heis thinking what a wonderfully bright and charming face it is--for abrunette. 

For Sir Victor Catheron does not fancy brunettes. He has his ideal, and sees in her the future Lady Catheron. In far-off Cheshire there isa certain Lady Gwendoline; she is an earl's daughter, the owner of twosoft blue eyes, a complexion of pink and snow, a soft, trained voiceand feathery halo of amber hair. Lady Gwendoline is his ideal of fair, sweet womanhood, turning coldly from all the rest of the world to holdout her arms to one happy possessor. The vision of Lady Gwendoline ashe saw her last, the morning sunshine searching her fair English faceand finding no flaw in it, rises for a second before him--why, he doesnot know. Then a triumphal burst of music crashes out, and be islooking down once more upon Edith Darrell, in her white dress andcoral ornaments, her dark hair and pink roses. 

"You seem quite like an old acquaintance, Miss Darrell, " he says, inhis slow, pleasant, English accented voice; "our mutual friend, theprince, has told me about his adventure in the snow, and your heroism. "

"The prince?" she repeats, interrogatively, and Sir Victor laughs. 

"Ah! you don't know. They call him the prince here--Prince Charlie. Idon't know why, I'm sure, unless it be that his name is CharlesEdward Stuart, and that he is the prince of good fellows. You have noidea how delighted I am that he--that the whole family are goingacross with us in May. You accompany them, I understand, Miss Darrell. "

"As companion and interpreter on the continent, " Miss Darrell answers, looking up at him very steadily. "Yes. "

"And you will like the continent, I know, " Sir Victor goes on. "Youwill like Paris, of course. All Americans go to Paris. You will meetscores of your countrymen in every continental city. "

"I am not sure that _that_ is an advantage, " responds the young ladycoolly. "About my liking it, there can be no question. It has beenthe dream of my life--a dream I thought as likely to be realized amonth ago, as that I should take a trip to the moon. For you, SirVictor, I suppose every nook and corner of Europe, is as familiar toyou, as your own native Cheshire?"

The brown brilliant eyes look up at him frankly. She is at her ease atlast, and Sir Victor thinks again, what beautiful eyes, brown eyes are. For a dark young person, she is really the most attractive youngperson he has ever met. 

"Cheshire, " he repeats with a smile, "how well you know my birthplace. No, not my birthplace exactly, for I was born in London. I'm a cockney, Miss Darrell. Before you all go abroad, you are to come and spend aweek or two down in my sunny Cheshire; both my aunt and I insist uponit. You don't know how many kindnesses--how many pleasant days andnights we owe to our friends, the Stuarts. It shall be our endeavorwhen we reach England to repay them in kind. May I ask, Miss Darrell, if you have met my aunt?"

"No, " Edith replies, fluttering a little again. "I have not even seenLady Helena as yet. "

"Then allow me the pleasure of making you acquainted. I think you willlike her. I am very sure she will like you. "

The color deepens on Edith's dark cheek; she arises and takes hisproffered arm. How gracefully deferential and courteous he is. It isall custom, no doubt, and means nothing, but it is wonderfullypleasant and flattering. For the moment it seems as though he wereconscious of no other young lady in the scheme of creation than MissDarrell--a flirting way a few young men cultivate. 

They walk slowly down the long brilliant rooms, and many eyes turn andlook after them. Every one knows the extremely blonde youngbaronet--the dark damsel on his arm is as yet a stranger to most ofthem. "Dused pretty girl, you know, " is the unanimous verdict ofmasculine New York; "who is she?" "Who _is_ that young lady in thedowdy white muslin and old fashioned corals?" asks feminine New York, and both stare as they receive the same whispered reply: "A poorrelation--a country cousin, or something of the sort, going to Europewith them as companion to Beatrix. "

Edith sees the looks, and the color deepens to carnation in her face. Her brown eyes gleam, she lifts her head with haughty grace, andflashes back almost defiance at these insolent starers. She _feels_what it is they are saying of her, and Sir Victor's high bred courtesyand deference, go to the very depths of her heart by contrast. Shelikes him; he interests her already; there is something in his face, she can hardly tell what, --a sort of sombre shadow that underlies allhis smiling society manner. In repose and solitude, the prevailingexpression of that face will be melancholy, and yet why? Surely atthree-and-twenty, life can have shown nothing but her sunshine androses, to this curled darling of fortune. 

A stout, elderly lady, in gray moire and chantilly lace, sits on asort of a throne of honor, beside Mrs. Stuart, and a foreign gentleman, from Washington, all ribbons and orders. To this stout, elderly lady, as Lady Helena Powyss, his aunt, Sir Victor presents Miss Darrell. 

The kindly eyes of the English lady turn upon the dark, handsome faceof the American girl; the pleasant voice says a few pleasant words. Miss Darrell bows gracefully, lingers a few moments, is presented tothe ribbon-and-starred foreigner, and learns he is Russian Ambassadorat Washington. Then the music of their dance strikes up, bothsmilingly make their adieux, and hasten to the ball-room. 

Up and down the long waxed room, in and out with gorgeous young NewYork, in all the hues of the rainbow, the air heavy with perfume, thematchless Gounod waltz music crashing over all, on the arm of abaronet--worth, how much did Trixy say? thirty or forty thousand ayear?--around her slim white muslin waist Edith is in her dreamstill--she does not want to wake--Trixy whirls by, flushed andbreathless, and nods laughingly as she disappears. Charley, lookingcalm and languid even in the dance, flits past, clasping gay littleMrs. Featherbrain, and gives her a patronizing nod. And Edith'sthought is--"If this could only go on forever!" But the golden momentsof life fly--the leaden ones only lag--we all know that to our cost. The waltz ends. 

"A most delicious waltz, " says Sir Victor gayly. "I thought dancingbored me--I find I like it. How well you waltz, Miss Darrell, like aParisienne--but all American young ladies are like Frenchwomen. Takethis seat, and let me fetch you a water ice. "

He leads her to a chair and departs. As she sits there, half smilingand fluttering her fan, looking very lovely, Charley saunters up withhis late partner. "If your royal highness will permit, " cries Mrs. Featherbrain, laughing and panting, "I will take a seat. How cool andcomfortable you look, Miss Darrell. May I ask what you have done withSir Victor?"

"Sir Victor left me here, and told me he would go for a water ice. IfI look cool, it is more than I feel--the thermometer of this room muststand at a hundred in the shade. "

"A water ice, " repeats Mrs. Featherbrain with a sigh; "just what Ihave been longing for, this past half hour. Charley, I heard _you_ saysomething about bringing me one, some time ago, didn't I? But I knowof old what you're promises are worth. You know the adage, MissDarrell--never more true than in this instance, 'Put not your trust inprinces. '"

Miss Darrell's dark, disdainful eyes look full at the frivolous youngmatron. Mrs. Featherbrain and Mr. Stuart have been devoted to eachother all the evening. 

"I know the adage, " she answers cooly, "but I confess I don't see theapplication. "

"What! don't you know Charley's sobriquet of Prince Charley? Why hehas been the Prince ever since he was five years old, partly onaccount of his absurd name, partly because of his absurd grandseigneur airs. I think it fits--don't you?"

"And if I were Prince, " Charley interposes, before Miss Darrell cananswer, "my first royal act would be to order Featherbrain to thedeepest dungeon beneath the castle moat, and make his charming relictPrincess consort, as she has long, alas! been queen of my affections!"

He lays his white-kidded hand on the region of his heart, and bowsprofoundly. Mrs. Featherbrain's shrill, rather silly laugh, ringsout--she hits him a blow with her perfumed fan. 

"You precocious little boy!" she says, "as if children of your ageknew what their affections meant. Miss Darrell, you'll not credit itI'm sure, but this juvenile cousin of yours--Charley, you told me, Miss Darrell, was your cousin--was my first love--actually--my first!"

"And she jilted me in cold blood for Featherbrain. Since then I'vebeen a blighted being--hiding, like the Spartan chap in the story, thefox that preys on my vitals, and going through life with the hollowmockery of a smile on my lips. "

Again Mrs. Featherbrain's foolish little laugh peals out. She leansback, almost against him, looks up, and half whispers something verydaring in French. 

Edith turns away disgusted, gleams of disdainful scorn in, her shininghazel eyes. What a little painted giggling idiot the woman is--whatfools most young men are! What business have married women flirting, and how much more sensible and agreeable Englishmen are than Americans. 

"Miss Darrell looks sick of our frivolity, " Mrs. Featherbrain gaylyexclaims; "the wickedness of New York and the falsity of mankind, arenew to her as yet. You saved Charley's life, didn't you, my love?Trixy told me all about it, --and remained with him all night in thesnow, at the risk of your own life. Quite a romance, upon my word. Nowwhy not end it, like all romances of the kind, in a love match and amarriage?"

Her eyes glitter maliciously and jealously, even while she laughs. Ifit is in the shallow heart of this prettily-painted, prettily-powderedwoman, to care for any human being, she has cared for Charley Stuart. 

"Mrs. Featherbrain!" Edith exclaims, in haughty surprise, half rising. 

"My dear, don't be angry--you _might_ do worse, though how, it wouldbe difficult to say. I suggested it, because it is the usual ending ofsuch things in novels, and on the stage--that is all. "

"And as if I _could_ fall in love with any one now, " Mr. Stuartmurmurs, plaintively. "Such a suggestion from you, Laura, is addinginsult to injury. "

"Here comes our baronet, " Mrs. Featherbrain exclaims, "bearing a waterice in his own aristocratic hand. Rather handsome, isn't he?--only Idetest very fair men. What a pity, for the peace of mind of our NewYork girls, he should be engaged in England. "

"Ah! but he isn't engaged--I happen to know, " said Charley; "so yousee what comes of marrying in haste, Mrs. Featherbrain. If you hadonly waited another year now, instead of throwing me over for oldFeatherbrain, it might have been for a baronet--for of course thereisn't a girl in New York could stand the ghost of a chance beside_you_. "

"A most delicate compliment, " Edith says, her scornful lip curling;"one hardly knows which to admire most--the refined tact of Mr. Stuart's flatteries, or the matronly dignity with which Mrs. Featherbrain repels them!"

She turns her white shoulder deliberately upon them both, and welcomesSir Victor with her brightest smile. 

"And for a rustic lassie, fresh from the fields and the daisies, itisn't so bad, " is Mrs. Featherbrain's cool criticism. 

"And I hope, despite Sir Victor's aristocratic attentions, MissDarrell, you'll not forget you're engaged to me for the redowa, "Charley finds a chance to murmur, _sotto voce_, in her ear, as heand his flirtee move on. 

"You see the poor child's jealous, Charley, " is the Featherbrain'slast remark--"a victim to the green-eyed monster in his most virulentform. You really should be careful, my dear boy, how you use thecharms a beneficent Providence has showered upon you. As you arestrong, be merciful, and all that sort of thing. "

The hours go on. Edith eats her water ice, and talks very animatedlyto her baronet. Balls (he has had a surfeit of them, poor fellow!)mostly bore him--to-night he is really interested. The Americans arean interesting people, he thinks that must be why. Then the redowabegins, and Charley returns and carries her off. With him she iscoldly silent, her eyes are averted, her words are few. He smiles tohimself, and asks her this pleasant question:

"If she doesn't think Laura Featherbrain the prettiest and best-dressedlady in the room?"

"I think Mrs. Featherbrain is well-named, " Miss Darrell answers, herdark eyes flashing. "I understand Mr. Featherbrain is lying sick athome. You introduced me to her--while I live in this house, Mr. Stuart, you will be kind enough to introduce me to no more--Mrs. Featherbrains!"

She brings out the obnoxious name with stinging scorn, and a looktoward the lady bearing it sharper than daggers. There is a curioussmile in Charley's eyes--his lips are grave. 

"Are you angry, Edith? Do you know--of course you do, though--that itbecomes you to be angry? My charming cousin, I never knew untilto-night how really handsome you were. "

She disengages herself with sudden abruptness from his clasp. 

"I am tired of dancing, " she says. "I detest redowas. And be kindenough to keep your odious point-blank compliments for the 'prettiestand best-dressed lady in the room. ' _I_ don't appreciate them!"

Is it jealousy? Charley wonders, complacently. He sits down beside her, and tries to coax her into good humor, but she is not to be coaxed. Inten minutes another partner comes up and claims her, and she goes. Thepretty, dark girl in white, is greatly admired, and has no lack ofpartners. For Mr. Stuart he dances no more--he leans against a piller, pulls his mustache; and looks placid and handsome. He isn't devoted todancing, as a rule he objects to it on principle, as so much physicalexertion for very little result; he has only fatigued himself to-nightas a matter of abstract duty. He stands and watches Edith dance--thiscountry girl has the lithe, willowy grace of a Bayadere, and she islaughing now, and looking very bright and animated. It dawns upon him, that she is by all odds the prettiest girl in the house, and thatslowly but surely, for the hundred-and-fiftieth time in his life, heis falling in love. 

"But I might have known it, " Mr. Stuart thinks, gravely; "brownbeauties always _did_ play the dickens with me. I thought that atfive-and-twenty I had outgrown all that sort of youthful rubbish, and here I am on the brink of the pit again. Falling in love in thepresent, involves matrimony in the future, and matrimony has beenthe horror of my life since I was four years old. And then thegovernor wouldn't hear of it. I'm to be handed over to the first'daughter of a hundred earls' across in England, who is willing toexchange a tarnished British coronet for a Yankee million or twoof dollars. "

It is Trixy who is dancing with the baronet now--Trixy who descends tosupper on the baronet's arm. She dances with him once again aftersupper; then he returns to Edith. 

So the hours go on, and the April morning is growing gray. Once, Edithfinds herself seated beside genial Lady Helena, who talks to her in amotherly way, that takes all her heart captive at once. Sir Victorleans over his aunt's chair, listening with a smile, and not sayingmuch himself. His aunt's eyes follow him everywhere, her voice takes adeeper tenderness when she speaks to him. It is easy to see she loveshim with almost more than a mother's love. 

A little longer and it is all over. Carriage after carriage rollsaway--Sir Victor and Lady Helena shake hands with this pretty, well-bred Miss Darrell, and go too. She sees Charley linger to thelast moment, by fascinating Mrs. Featherbrain, whispering the usualinanity, in her pretty pink ear. He leads her to her carriage, when itstops the way, and he and the millionnaire's wife vanish in the outerdarkness. 

 "Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day; Low on the sand, and loud on the stone, The last wheel echoes away. "

Edith hums as she toils up to her pretty room. Trixy's grand fieldnight is over--Edith's first ball has come to an end, and the firstnight of her new life. 

CHAPTER V. 

OLD COPIES OF THE "COURIER. "

"Two waltzes, " said Trix, counting on her fingers; "that's two; onecracovienne, that's three; les lanciers, that's four; one galop, that's five; and one polka quadrille, that's six. Six dances, roundand square, with Sir Victor Catheron. Edith, " cried Miss Stuart, triumphantly, "_do_ you hear that?"

"Yes, Trixy, I hear, " said Edith, dreamily. 

"You don't look as if you did, or if you do hear, you don't heed. Sixdances--two more I am certain, than he danced with any other girl inthe house. That looks promising, now doesn't it? Edith, the long andshort of the matter is this: I shall break my heart and die if hedoesn't make me Lady Catheron. "

A faint, half-absent smile--no other reply from Miss Darrell. In thehandsome reception-room of the Stuart mansion, the two girls sat. Itwas half-past three in the afternoon, of the day succeeding the ball. In the luxuriant depths of a puffy arm-chair, reclined Edith Darrell, as much at home, as though puffy chairs and luxuriant reclining, hadever been her normal state. The crimson satin cushions, contrastedbrilliantly with her dark eyes, hair and complexion. Her black silkdress was new, and fitted well, and she had lit it up with a knot ofscarlet tangled in some white lace at the throat. Altogether she madea very effective picture. 

In another puffy rocking-chair near, sat Trixy, her chestnut hair_crepe_ to her eyebrows and falling in a crinkling shower down toher waist. Her voluminous draperies balloon over the carpet for thespace of a couple of yards on either side, and she looked from top totoe the "New Yorkiest of New York girls. " They made a very nicecontrast if you had an eye for effect--blonde and brunette, dash anddignity, style and classic simplicity, gorgeous furniture, and outsidethe gray, fast-drifting April afternoon, the raw, easterly April wind. 

"Of course, " pursued Miss Stuart, going on with the web of rose-coloredknitting in her lap, "being the daughter of the house, and consideringthe occasion, and everything, I suppose a few more dances than usualwere expected of him. Still, I _don't_ believe he would have askedme six times if--Edith! how often did he dance with you?"

"How often did--I beg your pardon, Beatrix; I didn't catch what yousaid. "

"I see you didn't. You're half-asleep, arn't you? A penny for yourthoughts, Dithy. "

"They're not worth a farthing, " Edith answered, contemptuously. "Ichanced just then to be thinking of Mrs. Featherbrain. What was it youasked--something about Sir Victor?"

"I asked how often Sir Victor danced with you last night. "

"I really forget. Four times, I think--yes, four times. Why?"

"He danced six with me, and I'm sure he didn't dance more than half asoften with any one else. Mamma thinks he means something, and he tookme to supper, and told me about England. We had quite a longconversation; in fact, Edith, I fairly grow crazy with delight at thethought of one day being 'My lady. '"

"Why think of it, then, since it sets you crazy?" Edith suggested, with cool indifference. "I daresay you've heard the proverb, Trix, about counting your chickens before they're hatched. However, in thiscase I don't really see why you should despair. You're his equal inevery way, and Sir Victor is his own master, and can do as he likes. "

"Ah, I don't know!" Trix answered with a despondent sigh, "he's abaronet, and these English people go so much for birth and blood. Now you know we've neither. It's all very well for pa to name Charleyafter a prince, and spell Stuart, with a _u_ instead of an _ew_, likeeverybody else, and say he's descended from the royal family ofScotland--there's something more wanted than _that_. He's sent toLondon, or somewhere, for the family coat-of-arms. You may laugh, Edith, but he has, and we're to seal our letters with a griffin_rampant_, or a catamount _couchant_, or some other beast of prey. Still the griffin rampant, doesn't alter the fact, that pa beganlife sweeping out a grocery, or that he was in the tallow business, until the breaking out of the rebellion. Lady Helena and Sir Victorare everything that's nice, and civil, and courteous, but when itcomes to marrying, you know, that's quite another matter. Isn't hejust sweet, though, Edith?"

"Who? Sir Victor? Poor fellow, what has he ever said or done to you, Trix, to deserve such an epithet as that? No, I am glad to say hedidn't strike me as being 'sweet'--contrariwise, I thought himparticularly sensible and pleasant. "

"Well, can't a person be sweet and sensible too?" Trix answered, impatiently. "Did you notice his eyes? Such an expression of wearinessand sadness, and--now what are you laughing at. I declare, you're asstupid as Charley. I can't express a single opinion that he doesn'tlaugh at. Call me sentimental if you like, but I say again he _has_the most melancholy expression I ever looked at. Do you know, Dithy, I love melancholy men. "

"Do you?" said Edith, still laughing. "My dear lackadaisical Trixy! Imust confess myself, I prefer 'jolly' people. Still you're notaltogether wrong about our youthful baronet, he _does_ look a prey attimes to green and yellow melancholy. You don't suppose he has beencrossed in love, do you? Are baronets--rich baronets--ever crossed inlove I wonder. His large, rather light blue eyes, look at onesometimes as though to say:

 "'I have a secret sorrow here, A grief I'll ne'er impart, It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear, But it consumes the 'art!'"

Miss Darrell was an actress by nature--she repeated this lachrymoseverse, in a sepulchral tone of voice. 

"That's it, you may depend, Trixy. The poor young gentleman's a preyto unrequited affection. What are you shaking your head so vehementlyat?"

"It isn't that, " said Trix, looking solemn and mysterious, "it'sworse!"

"Worse! Dear me. I didn't think anything could be worse. What is itthen?"

"_Murder_!"

It was Trixy's turn to be sepulchral. Miss Darrell opened her bigbrown eyes. Miss Stuart's charnel-house tone was really bloodcurdling. 

"My dearest Trix! Murder! Good gracious, you can't mean to say we'vebeen dancing all night with a murderer? Who has he killed?"

"Edith, don't be an idiot! Did I say he killed any one? No, it isn'tthat--it's a murder that was committed when he was a baby. "

"When he was a baby!" Miss Darrell repeats, in dense bewilderment. 

"Yes, his mother was murdered, poor thing. It was a most shockingaffair, and as interesting as any novel you ever read, " said Trixy, with the greatest relish. "Murdered in cold blood as she slept, andthey don't know to this day who did it. "

Edith's eyes were still very wide open. 

"His mother--when he was a baby! Tell us about it, Trix. One naturallytakes an interest in the family murders of one's future secondcousin-in-law. "

"Well, " began Miss Stuart, still with the utmost relish, "you see hisfather--another Sir Victor--made a low marriage--married the daughterof a common sort of person, in trade. Now there's a coincidence tobegin with. _I'm_ the daughter of a common sort of person in trade--atleast I was!"

"It is to be hoped the coincidence will not be followed out after thenuptial knot, " answered Edith, gravely, "it would be unpleasant foryou to be murdered, Trix, and plunge us all into the depth of despairand bombazine. Proceed, as they say on the stage, 'Your tale interestsme. '"

"He was engaged--the other Sir Victor, I mean--to his cousin, a MissInez Catheron--pretty name, isn't it?--and, it seems, was afraid ofher. She was a brunette, dark and fierce, with black eyes and a temperto match. "

A bow of acknowledgment from Miss Darrell. 

"As it turned out, he had good reason to be afraid of her. He was ayear and a half married, and the baby--this present Sir Victor--wastwo or three months old, when the marriage was made public, and wifeand child brought home. There must have been an awful row, you know, at Catheron Royals, and one evening, about a month after her arrival, they found the poor thing asleep in the nursery, and stabbed to theheart. "

"Was she asleep after she was stabbed or before?"

"Bother. There was an inquest, and it turned out that she and MissCatheron had had a tremendous quarrel, that very evening: Sir Victorwas away when it happened, and he just went stark, staring mad thefirst thing, when he heard it. Miss Catheron was arrested on suspicion. Then it appeared that she had a brother, and that this brother was anawful scamp, and that he claimed to have been married to Lady Catheronbefore she married Sir Victor, and that _he_ had had a row with her, that same day too. It was a dreadfully mixed up affair--all thatseemed clear, was that Lady Catheron had been murdered by somebody, and that Juan--yes, Juan Catheron--had run away, and when wanted, wasnot to be found. "

"It appears to have been a strictly family affair from first tolast--that, at least, was a consolation. What did they do to Miss InezCatheron?"

"Put her in prison to stand her trial for murder. She never stood it, however--she made her escape, and never was heard of, from that day tothis. Isn't it tragical, and isn't it dreadful for Sir Victor--hismother murdered, his father crazy, or dead, ages ago for what I know, and his relations tried for their lives?"

"Poor Sir Victor! Dreadful indeed. But where in the world, Trixy, did_you_ find all this out? Has he been pouring the family history sosoon into your sympathetic ear?"

"Of course not; that's the curious part of the story. You know Mrs. Featherbrain?"

"I'm happy to say, " retorted Miss Darrell, "I know very little abouther, and intend to know less. "

"You do know her, however. Well, Mrs. Featherbrain has a father. "

"Poor old gentleman!" says Miss Darrell, compassionately. 

"Old Hampson--that's his name. Hampson is an Englishman, and fromCheshire, and knew the present Sir Victor's grandfather. He gets theCheshire papers ever since he left, and, of course, took an interestin all this. He told Mrs. Featherbrain--and what do you think?--Mrs. Featherbrain actually asked Lady Helena. "

"It is precisely the sort of thing Mrs. Featherbrain would be likelyto do. 'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. ' How copious are myquotations this afternoon. What did Lady Helena say?"

"Gave her a look--a lady who was present told me--such a look. Sheturned dead white for a minute, then she spoke: 'I never discussfamily matters with perfect strangers. ' Those were her words--'_perfectstrangers_. ' 'I consider your question impertinent, madame, anddecline to answer it. ' Then she turned her back upon Mrs. Featherbrain;and shouldn't I like to have seen Mrs. Featherbrain's face. Since then, she just bows frigidly to her, no more. "

"Little imbecile! Trixy, I should like to see those papers. "

"So you can--I have them. Charley got them from Laura Featherbrain. What could _not_ Charley get from Laura Featherbrain I wonder?" addsTrix, sarcastically. 

Edith's color rose, her eyes fell on the tatting between her fingers. 

"Your brother and the lady are old lovers then? So I inferred from herconversation last night. "

"I don't know about their being lovers exactly. Charley has thatridiculous flirting manner, young men think it their duty to cultivate, and it certainly _was_ a strong case of spoons--excuse the slang. Pawould never have listened to it, though--_he_ wants birth and bloodtoo, and old Hampson's a pork merchant. Then Phineas Featherbraincame along, sixty years of age, and a petroleum prince. Of course, there was a gorgeous wedding--New York rang with it. I don't see thatthe marriage makes much difference in Charley and Laura's flirtation, though. Just wait a minute and I'll go and get the papers--I haven'tread it all myself. "

Miss Stuart swept, stately and tall, from the room, returning in a fewmoments with some half-dozen old, yellow newspapers. 

"Here you are, sir, " she cries, in shrill newsboy singsong; "the full, true and particular account of the tragedy at Catheron Royals. Soundslike the title of a sensation novel, doesn't it? Here's No. 1 foryou--I've got on as far as No. 4. "

Miss Darrell throws aside her work and becomes absorbed in the_Chesholm Courier_ of twenty-three years back. Silence fell--themoments wore on--the girls become intensely interested, _so_interested that when the door was thrown open and "Sir VictorCatheron" announced, both sprang to their feet, conscience-strickenwith all their guilt, red in their faces. 

He advanced, hat in hand, a smile on his face. He was beside Trixfirst. She stood, the paper still clutched in her hand, her cheeksredder than the crimson velvet carpet. His astonished eyes fell uponit--he who ran might read--the _Chesholm Courier_ in big, blackletters, and in staring capitals, the "TRADGEDY OF CATHERON ROYALS. "

The smile faded from Sir Victor Catheron's lips, the faint color, walking in the chill wind had brought, died out of his face. He turnedof that dead waxen whiteness, fair people do turn--then he lifted hiseyes and looked Miss Stuart full in the face. 

"May I ask where you got this paper?" he asked, very quietly. 

"Oh, I'm _so_ sorry!" burst out Trixy. "I'm awfully sorry, but I--Ididn't know--I mean, I didn't mean--oh, Sir Victor, forgive me if Ihave hurt your feelings. I never meant _you_ to see this. "

"I am sure of that, " he said, gently; "it is necessarily very painfulto me. Permit me to ask again, how you chanced to come by thesepapers?"

"They were lent us by--by a lady here; her father is from Cheshire, and always gets the papers. Indeed I am very, very sorry. I wouldn'thave had it happen for worlds. "

"There is no need to apologize--you are in no way to blame. I trust Ifind you and Miss Darrell entirely recovered from the fatigue of lastnight. The most charming party of the season--that is the unanimousverdict, and I for one indorse it. "

He took a seat, the color slowly returning to his face. As he spoke, two eyes met his, dark, sweet, compassionate, but Edith Darrell didnot speak a word. 

The obnoxious papers were swept out of sight--Miss Stuart madedesperate efforts at ease of manner, and morning call chit-chat, butevery effort fell flat. The spell of the _Chesholm Courier_ was onthem all, and was not to be shaken off. It was a relief when thebaronet rose to go. 

"Lady Helena desires best regards to you both--she has fallen quite inlove with _you_, Miss Darrell. As it is a 'Nilsson night' at theacademy, I suppose we will have the pleasure of seeing you there?"

"You certainly will, " answered Trix, "Edith has never heard Nilssonyet, poor child. Remember us to Lady Helena, Sir Victor. _Good_afternoon. "

Then he was gone--and Miss Stuart looked at Miss Darrell, solemnly andlong. 

"There goes my last hope! Oh, my, why did I fetch down those wretchedpapers. All my ambitious dreams of being a baro--nette are knocked inthe head now. He'll never be able to bear the sight of me again. "

"I don't see that, " Edith responded; "if a murder is committed, theworld is pretty sure to know of it--its something not to be ignored. How deeply he seems to feel it too--in spite of his rank and wealth Ipity him, Trixy. "

"Pity him as much as you like, so that it is not the pity akin to love. I don't want _you_ for a rival, Edie--besides I have other views foryou. "

"Indeed! The post of confidential maid when you are Lady Catheron?"

"Something better--the post of confidential sister. There! You needn'tblush, I saw how the land lay from the first, and Charley isn't a badfellow in spite of his laziness. The door bell again. Nothing butcallers now until dark. "

All Miss Stuart's masculine friends came dropping in successively, toinstitute the necessary inquiries as to the state of her health, aftereight hours' steady dancing the preceding night. Edith'sunsophisticated head ached with it all, and her tongue grew paralyzedwith the platitudes of society. The gas was lit, and the dressing-bellringing, before the last coat-tail disappeared. 

As the young ladies, yawning drearily in each other's faces, turned togo up to their rooms, a servant entered, bearing two pasteboard boxes. 

"With Sir Victor Catheron's compliments, Miss Beatrix, and brought byhis man. "

Each box was labelled with the owner's name. Trix opened hers witheager fingers. A lovely bouquet of white roses, calla lilies, andjasmine, lay within. Edith opened hers--another bouquet of white andscarlet camellias. 

"For the opera, " cried Trix, with sparkling eyes, "How good of him--howgenerous--how forgiving! After the papers and all! Sir Victor's aprince, or ought to be. "

"Don't gush, Trixy, " Edith said, "it grows tiresome. Why did he sendyou all white, I wonder? As emblematic of your spotless innocence andthat sort of thing? And do _I_ bear any affinity to '_La Dame auxCamellias_?' I think you may still hope, Trix--if there be truth inthe language of flowers. "

Three hours later--fashionably late, of course--the Stuart party sweptin state into their box. Mrs. Stuart, Miss Stuart Mr. Stuart, junior, and Miss Darrell. Miss Stuart dressed for some after "reception" insilvery blue silk, pearl ornaments in her hair, and a virginal whitebouquet in her hand. Miss Darrell in the white muslin of last night, ascarlet opera cloak, and a bouquet of white and scarlet camellias. Charley lounging in the background, looking as usual, handsome of face, elegant of attire, and calmly and upliftedly unconscious of both. 

The sweet singer was on the stage. Edith Darrell leaned forward, forgetting everything in a trance of delight. It seemed as though hervery soul were carried away in the spell of that enchanting voice. Ascore of "double barrels" were turned to their box--Beatrix Stuart wasan old story--but who was the dark beauty? As she sat, leaning forward, breathless, trance-bound, the singer vanished, the curtain fell. 

"Oh!" it was a deep drawn sigh of pure delight. She drew back, liftedher impassioned eyes, and met the smiling ones of Sir Victor Catheron. 

"You did not know I was here, " he said. "You were so enraptured Iwould not speak. Once it would have enraptured me too, but I am afraidmy rapturous days are past. "

"Sir Victor Catheron speaks as though he were an octogenarian. I haveheard it is 'good form' to outlive at twenty, every earthly emotion. Mr. Stuart yonder prides himself on having accomplished the feat I maybe stupid, but I confess being _blase_, doesn't strike me in the lightof an advantage?"

"But if _blase_ be your normal state? I don't think I ever tried tocultivate the _vanitas vanitatem_ style of thing, but if it _will_come? Our audience are enthusiastic enough--see! They have made hercome back. "

She came back, and held out both hands to the audience, and the prettygesture, and the charming smile, redoubled the applause. Then silencefell, and softly and sweetly over that silence, floated the tender, pathetic words of "Way down upon the Swanee River. " You might haveheard a pin drop. Even Sir Victor looked moved. For Edith, she satscarcely breathing--quivering with ecstasy. As the last note was sung, as the fair songster kissed hands and vanished, as the house arosefrom its spell, and re-rang with enthusiasm, Edith turned again to theyoung baronet, the brown eyes luminous with tears, the lips quivering. He bent above her, saying something, he could hardly have told what, himself--carried away for once in his life, by the witchery of twodark eyes. 

Mr. Charles Stuart, standing in the background, beheld it all. 

"Hard hit, " he murmured to his mustache, but his face, as he gave hismother his arm, and led her forth, told nothing. 

An old adorer escorted Miss Stuart. Miss Darrell and her camellias, came last, on the arm of the baronet. 

That night, two brown eyes, haunted Sir Victor Catheron's slumbers--twobrown eyes sparkling through unshed tears--two red lips trembling likethe lips of a child. 

For the owner of the eyes and lips, she put the camellias, carefullyin water, and far away in the small hours went to bed and to sleep. And sleeping she dreamed, that all dressed in scarlet, and wearing acrown of scarlet camellias, she was standing up to be married to SirVictor Catheron with Mr. Charley Stuart as officiating clergyman, whenthe door opened, and the murdered lady of Trixy's story came stalkingin, and whirled her screaming away in her ghostly arms. 

Too much excitement, champagne, and lobster salad had engendered thevision no doubt, but it certainly spoiled Miss Darrell's beauty sleep_that_ night. 

CHAPTER VI. 

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT. 

The pleasant days went on--April went out--May came in. On the tenthof May, the Stuart family, Sir Victor Catheron, and Lady Helena Powysswere to sail from New York for Liverpool. 

To Edith, fresh from the twilight of her country life, these days andnights had been one bewildering round of excitement and delight. Opera, theatre, dinner and evening parties, shopping, driving, calling, receiving--all that goes to make the round of that sort of life, hadbeen run. Her slender wardrobe had been replenished, the white Swisshad been reinforced by half-a-dozen glistening silks; the corals, by aset of rubies and fine gold. Mr. Stuart might be pompous andpretentious, but he wasn't stingy, and he had insisted upon it for hisown credit. And half-a-dozen "spandy new" silks, fresh from Stewart'scounters, with the pristine glitter of their bloom yet upon them, werevery different from one half-worn amber tissue of Trixy's. MissDarrell took the dresses and the rubies, and looked uncommonlyhandsome in both. 

On the last night but one, of their stay in New York, Mrs. Featherbraingave a last "At Home, " a sort of "P. P. C. " party, Trixy called it. Miss Darrell was invited, and said nothing at the time, unless tossingthe card of invitation contemptuously out of the window can be calledsaying something; but at the last moment she declined to go. 

"My head is whirling now, from a surfeit of parties, " she said to MissStuart. "Aunt Chatty is going to stay at home, and so shall I. I don'tlike your Mrs. Featherbrain--that's the truth--and I'm not fashionableenough yet to sham friendship with women I hate. Besides, Trix dear, you know you were a little--just a little--jealous of me, the othernight at Roosevelt's. Sir Victor danced with me once oftener than hedid with you. Now, you dear old love, I'll let you have a wholebaronet to yourself, for this night, and who knows what may happenbefore morning?"

Miss Edith Darrell was one of those young persons--happily rare--who, when they take a strong antipathy, are true to it, even at thesacrifice of their own pleasure. In her secret soul, she was jealousof Mrs. Featherbrain. If she and Charley carried on their imbecileflirtation, at least it would not be under _her_ disgusted eyes. 

Miss Stuart departed--not the lilies of the field--not Solomon in allhis glory--not the Queen of Sheba herself, ever half so magnificent. Charley went with her, a placid martyr to brotherly duty. And Edithwent down to the family sitting-room where Aunt Chatty (Aunt Chatty byrequest) sat dozing in her after-dinner chair. 

"We are going to have an 'At home' all to our two selves to-night, auntie, " Edith, said, kissing her thin cheek; "and I am going to singyou to sleep, by way of beginning. "

She was fond of Aunt Chatty--a meek soul, born to be tyrannized over, _and_ tyrannized over, from her very cradle. One of those large women, who obey their small husbands in fear and trembling, who believeeverything they are told, who "bless the squire and his relations, and live contented with their stations;" who are bullied by theirfriends, by their children, by their servants, and who die meeklysome day, and go to Heaven. 

Edith opened the piano and began to play. She was looking veryhandsome to-night, in green silk and black-lace, one half-shatteredrose in her hair. She looked handsome--at least so the young man whoentered unobserved, and stood looking at her, evidently thought. 

She had not heard him enter, but presently some mesmeric _rapport_between them, told her he was near. She turned her head and saw him. Aunt Chatty caught sight of him, in her semi-sleeping state, at thesame moment. 

"Dear me, Charley, " his mother said, "_you_ here? I thought you wentto Mrs. Featherbrain's?"

"So I did, " replied Charley. "I went--I saw--I returned--and here I am, if you and Dithy will have me for the rest of the evening. "

"Edith and I were very well off without you. We had peace, and that ismore than we generally have when you and she come together. You shallbe allowed to stay only on one condition, and that is that you don'tquarrel. "

"_I_ quarrel?" Charley said, lifting his eyebrows to the middle ofhis forehead. "My dear mother, your mental blindness on many points, is really deplorable. It's all Edith's fault--all; one of the fewfixed principles of my life, is never to quarrel with anybody. Itupsets a man's digestion, and is fatiguing in the extreme. Our firstmeeting, " continued Mr. Stuart, stretching himself out leisurely on asofa, "at which, Edith fell in love with me at sight, was a row. Well, if it wasn't a row, it was an unpleasantness of some sort. You can'tdeny, Miss Darrell, there was a coolness between us. Didn't we passthe night in a snow-drift? Since then, every other meeting has been asuccession of rows. Injustice to myself, and the angelic sweetness ofmy own disposition, I must repeat, the beginning, middle, and endingof each, lies with her. She _will_ bully, and I never could standbeing bullied--I always knock under. But I warn her--a day ofretribution is at hand. In self-defence I mean to marry her, and then, base miscreant, beware! The trodden worm will turn, and plunge theiron into her own soul. May I ask what you are laughing at, MissDarrell?"

"A slight confusion of metaphor, Charley--nothing more. What have youdone with Trix?"

"Trix is all right in the matronly charge of Mrs. Featherbrain, andengaged ten deep to the baronet. By the bye, the baronet was inquiringfor you, with a degree of warmth and solicitude, as unwelcome as itwas uncalled for. A baronet for a brother-in-law is all very well--abaronet for a rival is not well at all. Now, my dear child, try toovercome the general nastiness of your cranky disposition, for once, and make yourself agreeable. I knew you were pining on the stem for meat home, and so I threw over the last crush of the season, made Mrs. Featherbrain my enemy for life, and here I am. Sing us something. "

Miss Darrell turned to the piano with a frown, but her eyes weresmiling, and in her secret heart she was well-content. Charley wasbeside her. Charley had given up the ball and Mrs. Featherbrain forher. It was of no use denying it, she was fond of Charley. Of late ithad dawned dimly and deliciously upon her that Sir Victor Catheron wasgrowing very attentive. If so wildly improbable a thing could occur, as Sir Victor's falling in love with her, she was ready at any momentto be his wife; but for the love which alone makes marriage sweet andholy, which neither time, nor trouble, nor absence, can change--thatlove she felt for her cousin Charley, and no other mortal man. 

It was a very pleasant evening--_how_ pleasant, Edith did not careto own, even to herself. Aunt Chatty dozed sweetly in her arm-chair, she in her place at the piano, and Charley taking comfort on his sofa, and calmly and dispassionately finding fault with her music. Thatthose two could spend an evening, an hour, together, withoutdisagreeing, was simply an utter impossibility. Edith invariably losther temper--nothing earthly ever disturbed Charley's. Presently, inanger and disgust, Miss Darrell jumped up from the piano-stool, andprotested she would play no more. 

"To be told I sing Kathleen Mavourneen flat, and that the way I holdmy elbows when I play Thalberg's 'Home, ' is frightful to behold, Iwill _not_ stand! Like all critics, you find it easier to point outone's faults, than to do better. It's the very last time, sir, I'llever play a note for you!"

But, somehow, after a skirmish at euchre, at which she was ignoblybeaten, and, I must say, shamefully cheated, she was back at the piano, and it was the clock striking twelve that made her start at last. 

"Twelve! Goodness me. I didn't think it was half-past ten!" Mr. Stuartsmiled, and stroked his mustache with calm complacency. "Aunt Chatty, wake up! It's midnight--time all good little women were in bed. "

"_You_ need not hurry yourself on that account, Dithy, " Charleysuggests, "if the rule only applies to good little women. "

Miss Darrell replies with a glance of scorn, and wakes up Mrs. Stuart. 

"You were sleeping so nicely I thought it a pity to wake you sooner. Come, auntie dear, we'll go upstairs together. You know we have a hardday's work before us to-morrow. Good-night, Mr. Stuart. "

"Good-night, my love, " Mr. Stuart responded, making no attempt to stir. Edith linked her strong, young arm in that of her sleepy aunt and ledher upstairs. He lay and watched the slim green figure, the beautifulbright face, as it disappeared in a mellow flood of gaslight. Theclear, sweet voice came floating saucily back:

 "And Charley he's my darling, My darling--my darling, And Charley he's my darling, The young Chevalier!"

All that was sauciest, and most coquettish in the girl's nature, cameout with Charley. With Sir Victor, as Trixy explained it, she was"goody" and talked sense. 

Mr. Stuart went back to the ball, and, I regret to say, made himselfobnoxious to old Featherbrain, by the marked _empressement_ of hisdevotion to old Featherbrain's wife. Edith listened to the narrationnext day from the lips of Trix with surprise and disgust. Miss Stuart, on her own account, was full of triumph and happiness. Sir Victor hadbeen most devoted, "_most devoted_" said Trix, in italics, "that is, for him. He danced with me very often, and he spoke several timesof _you_, Dithy, dear. He couldn't understand why you absentedyourself from the last party of the season--no more can I for thatmatter. A person may hate a person like poison--I often do myself--andyet go to that person's parties. "

But this was a society maxim Miss Darrell could by no means be broughtto understand. Where she liked she liked, where she hated shehated--there were no half measures for her. 

The last day came. At noon, with a brilliant May sun shining, the shipfired her farewell guns, and steamed away for Merrie England. Edithleaned over the bulwark and watched the receding shore, with her heartin her eyes. 

"Good-by to home, " she said, a smile on her lip, a tear in her eye. "Who knows when and how I may see it again. Who knows whether I shall_ever_ see it?"

The luncheon bell rang; everybody--a wonderful crowd too--flockedmerrily downstairs to the saloon, where two long tables, bright withcrystal and flowers, were spread. What a delightful thing was an oceanvoyage, and sea-sickness--bah!--merely an illusion of the senses. 

After lunch, Charley selected the sunniest spot on deck for hisresting-place, and the prettiest girl on board, for his companion, spread out his railway rug at her feet, spread out himself thereon, and prepared to be happy and be made love to. Trix, on the arm of thebaronet, paraded the deck, Mrs. Stuart and Lady Helena buriedthemselves in the seclusion of the ladies' cabin, in expectation ofthe wrath to come. Edith got a camp-stool and a book, and hid herselfbehind the wheel-house for a little of private enjoyment. But she didnot read; it was delight enough to sit and watch the old ocean smiling, and smiling like any other coquette, as though it could never be cruel. 

The afternoon wore on; the sun dropped low, the wind arose--so did thesea. And presently--staggering blindly on Sir Victor's arm, pale asdeath, with speechless agony imprinted on every feature--Trixy madeher appearance behind the wheel house. 

"O Edith, I feel awfully--awfully! I feel like death--I feel--"

She wrenched her arm from the baronet's, rushed wildly to the side, and--Edith's dark, laughing eyes looked up into the blue ones, that noeffort of Sir Victor's could _quite_ control. The next moment shewas by Trixy's side, leading that limp and pallid heroine to theregions below, whence, for five mortal days, she emerged not, nor didthe eye of man rest on Miss Beatrix Stuart. 

The weather was fine, but the wind and sea ran tolerably high, and ofcourse everybody mostly was tolerably sick. One day's ordeal sufficedfor Edith's tribute to old Neptune; after that, she never felt a qualm. A great deal of her time was spent in waiting upon Aunt Chatty andTrix, both of whom were very far gone indeed. In the case of MissStuart, the tortures of jealousy were added to the tortures ofsea-sickness. Did Sir Victor walk with the young ladies on deck? Didhe walk with _her_, Edith? Did he ever inquire for herself? Oh, itwas shameful--shameful that she should be kept prostrate here, unableto lift her head! At this juncture, generally, in her excitement, Trixy did lift it, and the consequence was--woe. 

It was full moon before they reached mid-ocean. How Edith enjoyed it, no words can tell. Perhaps it was out of merciful compassion to Trix, but she did not tell her of the long, brisk twilight, mid-day, andmoonlight walks she and the baronet took on deck. How, leaning overthe bulwarks, they watched the sun set, round and red, into the sea, and the silver sickle May moon rise, like another Aphrodite, out ofthe waves. She did not tell her, how they sat side by side at dinner, how he lay at her feet, and read aloud for her, in sheltered sunnynooks, how uncommonly friendly and confidential they became altogether, in these first half-dozen days out. People grow intimate in two daysat sea, as they would not in two years on land. Was it _all_gentlemanly courtesy and politeness on the baronet's side? the girlsometimes wondered. She could analyze her own feelings pretty well. Ofthat fitful, feverish passion called love, described by the countryswain as feeling--"hot and dry like--with a pain in the side like, "she felt no particle. There was one, Mr. Charles Stuart, lying aboutin places, looking serene and sunburnt, who saw it all with sleepy, half-closed eyes, and kept his conclusions to himself. "_Kismet_!"he thought; "the will of Allah be done. What is written is written. Sea-sickness is bad enough, without the green-eyed monster. EvenOthello, if he had been crossing in a Cunard ship, would have put offthe pillow performance until they reached the other side. "

One especial afternoon, Edith fell asleep after luncheon, on a sofa, in her own and Trixy's cabin, and slept through dinner and dessert, and only woke with the lighting of the lamps. Trix lay, pale andwretched, gazing out of the porthole, at the glory of moonlight on theheaving sea, as one who sorrows without hope of consolation. 

"I hope you enjoyed your forty winks, Edith, " she remarked; "what aRip Van Winkle you are! For my part, I've never slept at all since Icame on board this horrid ship! Now, where are you going?"

"To get something to eat from my friend the stewardess, " Edithanswered; "I see I am too late for dinner. "

Miss Darrell went, and got some tea and toast. Then wrapping herselfin a blanket shawl, and tying a coquettish red wool hood over her hair, she ascended to the deck. 

It was pretty well deserted by the ladies--none the worse for that, Edith thought. The full moon shone with untold splendor, over the vastexpanse of tossing sea, heaving with that majestic swell, that neverquite lulls on the mighty Atlantic. The gentlemen filled thesmoking-room, the "Tabak Parliament" was at its height. She took acamp-stool, and made for her favorite sheltered spot behind thewheel-house. How grand it was--the starry sky, the brilliant whitemoon, the boundless ocean--that long trail of silvery radiancestretching miles behind. An icy blast swept over the deep, but, wrapped in her big shawl, Edith could defy even that. She forgot SirVictor and the daring ambition of her life. She sat absorbed in thebeauty and splendor of that moonlight on the sea. Very softly, verysweetly, half unconsciously, she began singing "The Young May Moon, "when a step behind made her turn her head. It was Sir Victor Catheron. She awoke from her dream--came back to earth, and was of the worldworldly, once more. The smile that welcomed him was very bright. Shewould have blushed if she could; but it is a disadvantage of palebrunettes that they don't blush easily. 

"I heard singing, sweet and faint, and I give you my word, MissDarrell, I thought it might be the Lurline, or a stray mermaid combingher sea-green locks. It is all very beautiful, of course, but are younot afraid of taking cold?"

"I never take cold, " Miss Darrell answered; "influenza is an unknowndisease. Has the tobacco parliament broken up, that I behold you here?"

"It is half-past eleven--didn't you know it?--and all the lights areout. "

"Good Heaven!" Edith cried, starting up aghast; "half-past eleven!What will Trixy say? Really, moon-gazing must be absorbing work. I hadno idea it was after ten. "

"Stay a moment, Miss Darrell, " Sir Victor interposed, "there issomething I would like to say to you--something I have wished to speakof, since we came on board. "

Edith's heart gave one great jump--into her mouth it seemed. Whatcould such a preface as this portend, save one thing? The baronetspoke again, and Miss Darrell's heart sunk down to the very soles ofher buttoned boots. 

"It is concerning those old papers, the _Chesholm Courier_. Youunderstand, and--and the lamentable tragedy they chronicle. "

"Yes?" said Miss Darrell, shutting her lips tight. 

"It is naturally a deeply painful subject to me. Twenty-three yearshave passed; I was but an infant at the time, yet if it had, occurredonly a year ago, I think I could hardly feel it more keenly than Ido--hardly suffer more, when I speak of it. "

"Then _why_ speak of it?" was the young lady's very sensible question. "_I_ have no claim to hear it, I am sure. "

"No, " the young man responded, and even in the moonlight she could seehis color rise, "perhaps not, and yet I wanted to speak to you of itever since. I don't know why, it is something I can scarcely bear tothink of even, and yet I feel a sort of relief in speaking of it toyou. Perhaps there is 'rapport' between us--that we are affinities--whoknows?"

Who indeed! Miss Darrell's heart came up from her boots, to its properplace, and stayed there. 

"It was such a terrible thing, " the young man went on, "such amysterious thing. To this day it is wrapped in darkness. She was soyoung, so fair, so good--it seems too horrible for belief, that anyhuman being could lift his hand against so innocent a life. And yet itwas done. "

"A most terrible thing, " Edith said; "but one has only to read thepapers, to learn such deeds of horror are done every day. Life is aterribly sensational story. You say it is shrouded in darkness, butthe _Chesholm Courier_ did not seem at all in the dark. "

"You mean Inez Catheron. She was innocent. "

"Indeed!"

"She was not guilty, except in this--she knew who _was_ guilty, andconcealed it. Of that, I have reason to be sure. "

"Her brother, of course--the Juan Catheron of the papers?"

"Who is to tell? Even that is not certain. No, " in answer to her lookof surprise, "it is not certain. I am sure my aunt believes in hisinnocence. "

"Then who--"

"Ah--_who_?" the baronet said mournfully, "who was the murderer? Itmay be that we will never know. "

"You will know, " Edith said decidedly. "I am sure of it. I am a firmbeliever in the truism that 'murder will out. ' Sooner or later youwill know. "

She spoke with the calm conviction of prophecy. She looked back toshudder at her own words in the after-days. 

"Three-and-twenty years is a tolerable time to forget even thebitterest sorrow, but the thought of that tragedy is as bitter to myaunt to-day, as it was when it was done. She cannot bear to speak ofit--I believe she cannot bear to think of it. What I know, therefore, concerning it, I have learned from others. Until I was eighteen, Iknew absolutely nothing. Of my mother, of course I have no remembrance, and yet"--his eyes and tone grew dreamy--"as far back as I can recall, there is in my mind the memory of a woman, young and handsome, bendingabove my bed, kissing and crying over me. My mother was fair, the faceI recall is dark. You will think me sentimental--you will laugh at me, perhaps, " he said, smiling nervously; "you will set me down as adreamer of dreams, and yet it is there. "

Her dark, earnest eyes looked up at him, full of womanly sympathy. 

"Laugh at you! Think better of me, Sir Victor. In these days it israre enough to see men with either memory or veneration for theirmother--whether dead or alive. "

He looked at her; words seemed struggling to his lips. Once he halfspoke. Then he checked himself suddenly. When he did speak it was witha total change of tone. 

"And I am keeping you selfishly here in the cold. Take my arm, MissDarrell; you must not stop another instant. "

She obeyed at once. He led her to her cabin-door--hesitated--took herhand and held it while he spoke:

"I don't know why, as I said before, I have talked of this; I couldnot have done it with any one else. Let me thank you for your sympathywith all my heart. "

Then he was gone; and, very grave and thoughtful, Edith sought Trixyand the upper berth. Miss Stuart lay calmly sleeping the sleep of thejust and the sea-sick, blissfully unconscious of the traitorous goingson about her. Edith looked at her with a sort of twinge. Was it fair, after all? was it strictly honorable? "Poor Trix, " she said, kissingher softly, "I don't think it will be _you_!"

Next morning, at breakfast, Miss Darrell noticed that Mr. Stuart, junior, watched her as he sipped his coffee, with a portentouscountenance that foreboded something. What it foreboded came outpresently. He led her on deck--offered her his arm for a morningconstitutional, and opened fire thus wise:

"What were you and the baronet about on deck at abnormal hours of thenight? What was the matter with you both?"

"Now, now!" cried Edith, "how do you come to know anything about it?What business have small boys like you, spying on the actions of theirelders, when they should be safely tucked up, and asleep in theirlittle beds?"

"I wasn't spying; I was asleep. I have no restless conscience to keepme prowling about at unholy hours. "

"How do you come to know, then?"

"A little bird told me. "

"I'll twist your little bird's neck! Who was it, sir? I command you. "

"How she queens it already! Don't excite yourself, you small Amazon. It was the officer of the deck. "

"The officer of the deck might be much better employed; and you maytell him so, with my compliments. "

"I will; but you don't deny it--you were there!"

"I never deny my actions, " she says with royal disdain; "yes, I wasthere. "

"With Sir Victor--alone?"

"With Sir Victor--alone!"

"What did you talk about, Miss Darrell?"

"More than I care to repeat for your edification, Mr. Stuart. Have youany more questions to ask, pray?"

"One or two; did he ask you to marry him, Edith?"

"Ah, no!" Edith answers with a sigh that is genuine; "there is no suchluck as _that_ in store for Dithy Darrell. A baronet's bride--LadyCatheron! no, no--the cakes and ale of life are not for me. "

"Would you marry him, if he did? Will you marry him when he does? forthat is what it comes to, after all. "

"Would I marry him?" She looks at him in real incredulous wonder. "Would I marry Sir Victor Catheron--I? My dear Charley, when you askrational questions, I shall be happy to answer them, to the best of myability, but not such absurdity as that. "

"Then, you _will_?"

"Charley, don't be a tease--what do young persons of your juvenileyears know about such things? I don't like the turn this conversationhas taken; let us change it, let us talk about the weather--that'salways a safe subject. Isn't it a splendid morning? Isn't it charmingto have a perpetual fair wind? And how are you going to account for it, that the wind is always fair going to England, and always ahead comingout?

 "'England, my country--great and free Heart of the world--I leap to thee!'"

She sings, with a wicked look in her dark eyes, as she watches hercavalier. 

Charley is not going to be put off however; he declines to talk ofeither wind or weather. 

"Answer my question, Edith, if you please. If Sir Victor Catheron asksyou, will you be his wife?"

She looks at him calmly, steadily, the man she loves, and answers:

"If Sir Victor Catheron asks me, I will be his wife. "

CHAPTER VII. 

SHORT AND SENTIMENTAL. 

Two days later, and Fastnet Rock looms up against the blue sky; theiron-bound Irish coast appears. At noon they will land in Queenstown. 

"Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, " sings Charley's voicedown the passage, early in the morning. 

Charley can sing a little still. He is to lose Edith. Sir VictorCatheron is to win and wear; but as she is not Lady Catheron yet, Mr. Stuart postpones despair and suicide until she _is_. 

She sprang from her bed with a cry of delight. Ireland! One, at least, of the lands of her dreams. 

"Trixy!" she cries. "O Trixy, look out! 'The land of sweet Erin' atlast!"

"I see it, " Trixy said, rolling sleepily out of the under berth; "andI don't think much of it. A lot of wicked-looking rocks, and not a bitgreener than at home. I thought the very sky was green over Ireland. "

For the last two days Trixy's bitter trials had ended--her sea-sicknessa dismal dream of the past. She was able, in ravishing toilet, toappear at the dinner-table, to pace the deck on the arm of Sir Victor. As one having the right, she calmly resumed her sway where she hadleft it off. Since that moonlight night of which she (Trixy) happilyknew nothing, the bare civilities of life alone had passed betweenMiss Darrell and the baronet. Sir Victor might try, and did, but with, the serene superiority of right and power Miss Stuart countermandedevery move. Hers she was determined he should be, and there was allthe lost time to be made up besides. So she redoubled her attentions, aided and abetted by her pa--and how it came about the perplexed youngEnglishman never could tell, but somehow he was constantly at MissStuart's side and unable to get away. Edith saw it all and smiled toherself. 

"To-day for me, to-morrow for thee, " she hummed. "I have had my day;it is Trixy's turn now. She manoeuvres so well it would be a pity tointerfere. "

Charley was _her_ cavalier those pleasant last days; both weredisposed to take the goods their gods provided, and not fret forto-morrow. It would not last--life's fairy gifts never do, for to-daythey would eat, drink, and be merry together, and forget the evil tocome. 

They landed, spent an hour in Queenstown, then the train whirled themaway "to that beautiful city called Cork. " There they remained twodays, visited Blarney Castle, of course, and would have kissed theBlarney Stone but for the trouble of climbing up to it. Then off, andaway, to Killarney. 

And still Sir Victor was Trixy's captive--still Edith and Charleymaintained their alliance. Lady Helena watched her nephew and theAmerican heiress, and her fine woman's instinct told her he was in nodanger _there_. 

"If it were the other one, now, " she thought, glancing at Edith's dark, bright face; "but it is quite clear how matters stand between her andher cousin. What a handsome pair they will make. "

Another of the elders--Mr. James Stuart--watched the progress ofmatters, through very different spectacles. It was the one dream ofhis life, to marry his son and daughter to British rank. 

"Of wealth, sir, they have enough, " said the Wall Street banker, pulling up his collar pompously. "I will leave my children a coolmillion apiece. Their descent is equal to the best--to the best, sir--the royal rank of Scotland is in their veins. Fortune I don'tlook for--blood, sir--BLOOD, I do. "

Over his daughter's progress after blood, he smiled complacently. Overhis son's conduct he frowned. 

"Mind what _you're_ at, young man, " he said, on the day they leftCork, gruffly to Charley. "I have my eye on you. Ordinary attention toFred Darrell's daughter I don't mind, but no fooling. You understandme, sir? No fooling. By George, sir, if you don't marry to please me, I'll cut you off with a shilling!"

Mr. Stuart, junior, looked tranquilly up at Mr. Stuart, senior, withan expression of countenance the senior by no means understood. 

"Don't lose your temper, governor, " he answered calmly. "I won't marryFred Darrell's daughter, if that's what you mean by 'fooling. ' She andI settled _that_ question two or three centuries ago. "

At the village of Macroom, they quitted the comfortable railwaycarriage, and mounted the conveyance known in Ireland, as a public car, a thing like an overgrown jaunting-car, on which ten people can ride, sitting back to back, isolated by the pile of luggage between. Therewas but one tourist for the Lakes besides themselves, a large, military-looking young man, with muttonchop whiskers and an eye-glass, a knapsack and knickerbockers. 

"Hammond, by Jove!" exclaimed Sir Victor. "Hammond, of the ScotchGrays. My dear fellow, delighted to see you. Captain Hammond, myfriend, Mr. Stuart, of New York. "

Captain Hammond put up his eye-glass and bowed. Charley lifted his hat, to this large military swell. 

"I say, Sir Victor, " the Captain of Scotch Grays began, "who'd havethought of seeing you here, you know? They said--aw--you had goneexploring Canada, or the United States, or some of those kind ofplaces, you know. Who's your party?" _sotto voce_; "Americans--hey?"

"American friends, and my aunt, Lady Helena Powyss. "

"Now, thin--look alive yer honors, " cried the car-driver, and ascramble into seats instantly began. In his own mind, Sir Victor haddetermined his seat should be by Miss Darrell's side. But what isman's determination beside woman's resolve?

"Oh, p-please, Sir Victor, " cries Miss Stuart, in a piteous littlevoice, "_do_ help me up. It's so dreadfully high, and I _know_ I shallfall off. And oh, please, do sit here, and point out the places aswe go along--one enjoys places, so much more, when some one pointsthem out, and you've been along here before. "

What could Sir Victor do? More particularly as Lady Helenagood-humoredly chimed in:

"Yes, Victor, come and point out the places. You shall sit bodkin, between Miss Beatrix and me. Your friend in the Tweed suit, can sitnext, and you, my dear Mrs. Stuart--where will _you_ sit?"

"As Charley and Edith will have all the other side to themselves, "said meek Mrs. Stuart, "I guess I'll sit beside Edith. "

"Ay, ay, " chimed in her spouse, "and I'll mount with cabby. All serene, there, behind? Then away we go!"

Away they went, clattering over the road, with the whole tatterdemalionpopulation of Macroom after, shouting for "ha' pennies. "

"Rags enough to set up a paper-mill, " suggested Charley, "and all thenoses turn-ups! Edith, how do you like this arrangement?"

"I think Trixy's cleverer than I ever gave her credit for, " laughedEdith; "it's a pity so much diplomacy should be 'love's labor lost. '"

"Poor Trixy! She means well too. Honor thy father, that thy days maybe long in the land. She's only trying to fulfil the command. And youthink she has no chance?"

"I know it, " Edith answers, with the calm serenity of conviction. 

"Sir Victor, who's your friend with the solemn face and the funnyknickerbockers?" whispers Trixy, under her white parasol. 

"He's the Honorable Angus Hammond, second son of Lord Glengary, andcaptain of Scotch Grays, " replies Sir Victor, and Miss Stuart opensher eyes, and looks with new-born reverence, at the big, speechlessyoung warrior, who sits sucking the head of his umbrella, and who isan honorable and the son of a lord. 

The day was delightful, the scenery exquisite, his companionvivacious in the extreme, Lady Helena in her most genial mood. But Sir Victor Catheron sat very silent and _distrait_ all theway. Rallied by Miss Stuart on his gloom, he smiled faintly, andacknowledged he felt a trifle out of sorts. As he made the confessionhe paused abruptly--clear and sweet, rang out the girlish laugh ofEdith Darrell. 

"Our friends on the other side appear to be in excellent spirits atleast, " says Lady Helena, smiling in sympathy with that merry peal;"what a very charming girl Miss Darrell is. "

Trixy shoots one swift, sidelong glance at the baronet's face, andanswers demurely:

"Oh, it's an understood thing that Dithy and Charley are never reallyhappy, except when together. I don't believe Charley would have takenthe trouble to come at all, if Edith, at his solicitation, had notbeen one of the party. "

"A very old affair I suppose?" asks her ladyship, still smiling. 

"A very old affair, indeed, " Trix answers gayly. "Edith will make acharming sister-in-law; don't you think so, Sir Victor?"

She looks up at him artlessly as she plunges her small dagger into avital place. He tries to smile, and say something agreeable inreturn--the smile is a failure; the words a greater failure. Afterthat, all Trixy's attention falls harmless. He sits moodily listeningto the gay voices on the other side of the luggage, and finds out forsure and certain that he is dead in love with Miss Darrell. 

They reach Glengariff as the twilight shadows fall--lovely Glengariff, where they are to dine and pass the night. At dinner, by some luckychance, Edith is beside him, and Captain Hammond falls into theclutches of Trix. And Miss Darrell turns her graceful shoulderdeliberately upon Charley, and bestows her smiles, and glances, andabsolute attention upon his rival. 

After dinner they go for a sail by moonlight to an island, where thereare the remains of a martello tower. The elders, for whom "moonlighton the lake, " long ago lost its witchery, and falling dews and nightairs retain their terrors, stay at home and rest. Edith and Sir Victor, Trix and the Honorable Angus Hammond, saunter down arm in arm to theboat. Charley and the two Irish boatmen bring up the rear--Mr. Stuartsmoking a consolatory cigar. 

They all "pile in" together, and fill the little boat. The baronetfollows up his luck, and keeps close to Edith. How beautiful she iswith the soft silver light on her face. He sits and watches her, andthinks of the laureate's lines:

 "A man had given all other bliss And all his worldly worth for this, To wast his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips. "

"_Am_ I too late?" he thought; "does she love her cousin? Is it ashis sister hints; or--"

His jealous, anxious eyes never left her. She saw it all. If she hadever doubted her power over him, she did not doubt to-night. Shesmiled, and never once looked toward Charley. 

"No, " he thought, with a sigh of relief; "she does not care for him inthat way--let Miss Stuart think as she pleases. She likes him in asisterly way--nothing more. I will wait until we reach England, andspeak then. She, and she alone, shall be my wife. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

IN TWO BOATS. 

Early next morning our tourists remounted the car and jogged slowlyover that lovely stretch of country which lies between Glengariff andKillarney. 

Their places were as on the day before--Sir Victor in the possessionof Trix, Charley with Edith. But the baronet's gloom was gone--hopefilled his heart. She did _not_ love her cousin, --of that he hadconvinced himself, --and one day he might call her wife. 

Sir Victor Catheron was that _rara avis_, a modest young man. Thatthis American girl, penniless and pedigreeless, was beneath him, henever thought--of his own rank and wealth, as motives to influenceher, he never once dreamed. Nothing base or mercenary could find aplace in so fair a creature; so noble and beautiful a face must surelybe emblematic of a still more noble and beautiful soul. Alas! for theblindness of people in love. 

It was a day of delight, a day of cloudless skies, sparkling sunshine, fresh mountain breezes, sublime scenery. Wild, bleak valleys, frowningKerry rocks, roaring torrents, bare-footed, ragged children, pigs andpeople beneath the same thatched roof, such squalor and utter povertyas in their dreams they had never imagined. 

"Good Heaven!" Edith said, with a shudder, "how can life be worthliving in such horrible poverty as this?"

"The bugbear of your life seems to be poverty, Edith, " Charleyanswered. "I daresay these people eat and sleep, fall in love, marry, and are happy even here. "

"My dear Mr. Stuart, what a sentimental speech, and sillier even thanit is sentimental. Marry and are happy! They marry no doubt, and thepig lives in the corner, and every cabin swarms with children, but--_happy_! Charley, I used to think you had one or two grains ofcommon-sense, at least--now I begin to doubt it. "

"I begin to doubt it myself, since I have had the pleasure of knowingEdith Darrell. I defy mortal man to keep common-sense, oruncommon-sense, long in her company. Poverty and misery, in yourlexicon, mean the same thing. "

"The same thing. There is no earthly evil that can equal poverty. "

They reached Killarney late in the evening, and drove to the"Victoria. " The perfect weather still continued, the moon that had littheir last night at sea, on the wane now, lifted its silver light overthe matchless Lakes of Killarney, lying like sheets of crystal lightbeneath. 

"Oh, how lovely!" Trix exclaimed. The rest stood silent. There is abeauty so intense as to be beyond words of praise--so sweet, so solemn, as to hush the very beating of our hearts. It was such beauty as thisthey looked upon now. 

They stood on the velvety sward--Sir Victor with Trixy on his arm, Charley and Edith side by side. A glowing mass of soft, scarletdrapery wrapped Miss Darrell, a coquettish hat, with a long, blackostrich plume, set off her Spanish face and eyes. They had dined--andwhen is moonlight half so poetical as after an excellent dinner?

"I see two or three boats, " remarked Sir Victor. "I propose a row onthe lakes. "

"Of all things, " seconded Beatrix, "a sail on the Lakes of Killarney!Edith, do you realize it? Let us go at once, Sir Victor. "

"Will you come with me, Edith?" Charley asked, "or would you rather gowith them?"

She looked at him in surprise. How grave his face--how quiet his tone!He had been like this all day, silent, preoccupied, grave. 

"My very dear Charley, how polite we grow! how considerate of others'feelings! Quite a new phase of your interesting character. I'll gowith you, certainly--Mr. Charles Stuart, in a state of lamblikemeekness, is a study worth contemplating. "

He smiled slightly, and drew her hand within his arm. 

"Come, then, " he said, "let us have this last evening together; whoknows when we shall have another?"

Miss Darrell's brown eyes opened to their widest extent. 

"'This last evening! Who knows when we shall have another!' Charley, if you're meditating flight or suicide, say so at once--anything isbetter than suspense. I once saw a picture of 'The Knight of the WofulCountenance'--the K. Of the W. C. Looked exactly as you look now! Ifyou're thinking of strychnine, say so--no one shall oppose you. Myonly regret is, that I shall have to wear black, and hideous is a mildword to describe Edith Darrell in black. "

"Hideous!" Charley repeated, "you! I wonder if you could possibly lookugly in anything? I wonder if you know how pretty you are to-night inthat charming hat and that scarlet drapery?"

"Certainly I know, and charming I undoubtedly must look to wring aword of praise from you. It's the first time in all your life, sir, you ever paid me a compliment. Hitherto you have done nothing but findfault with my looks and everything else. "

"There is a time for everything, " he answers, a little sadly--sadly!and Charley Stuart! "The time for all that is past. Here is our boat. You will steer, Edith? Yes--then I'll row. "

The baronet and Trix were already several yards off, out upon theshining water. Another party--a large boat containing half-a-dozen, Captain Hammond among them, was farther off still. In this boat sat agirl with a guitar; her sweet voice as she sang came romantically overthe lake, and the mountain echoes, taking it up, sang the refrainenchantingly over and over again. Edith lifted up her face to thestarry sky, the moonlight bathing it in a glory. 

"Oh, what a night!" she sighed. "What a bright, beautiful world it is, and how perfectly happy one could be, if--"

"One had thirty thousand a year!" Charley suggested. 

"Yes, exactly. Why can't life be all like this--moonlight, capitaldinners, lots of friends and new dresses, a nice boat, and--yes--Iwill say it--somebody one likes very much for one's companion. "

"Somebody one likes very much, Edith? I wonder sometimes if you likeme at all--if it is in you to like any one but yourself. "

"Thanks! I like myself, certainly, and first best I will admit. Afterthat--"

"After that?" he repeats. 

"I like _you_. No--keep quiet, Charley, please, you'll upset the boat. Of course I like you--aren't you my cousin--haven't you been awfullykind--don't I owe all this to you? Charley, I bless that night in thesnow--it has been the luckiest in my life. "

"And the unluckiest of mine. "

"Sir!"

"O Edith, let us speak for once--let us understand one another, andthen part forever, if we must. Only why need we part at all?"

She turns pale--she averts her face from him, and looks out over theradiant water. Sooner or later she has known this must come--it hascome to-night. 

"Why need we part at all?" He is leaning on his oars, and they arefloating rightly with the stream. "I don't need to tell you how I loveyou; you know it well enough; and I think--I hope--you care for me. Betrue to yourself, Edith--you belong to me--come to me; be my wife. "

There is passion in his tone, in his eyes, but his voice is quiet, andhe sits with the oars in his hands. Even in this supreme moment of hislife Mr. Stuart is true to his "principles, " and will make no scene. 

"You know I love you, " he repeats, "as the man in the Cork theatresaid the other night: 'I'll go down on my knees if you like, but I canlove you just as well standing up. ' Edith, speak to me. How can youever marry any one but me--but me, whose life you saved. My darling, forget your cynicism--it is but lip-deep--you don't really mean it--andsay you will be my wife. "

"Your wife!" She laughs, but her heart thrills as she says it. "Yourwife! It would be pleasant, Charley; but, like most of the pleasantthings of life, it can never be. "

"Edith!"

"Charley, all this is nonsense, and you know it. We are cousins--weare good friends and stanch comrades, and always will be, I hope; butlovers--no, no, no!"

"And why?" he asks. 

"Have I not told you already--told you over and over again? If youdon't despise me, and think me heartless and base, the fault has notbeen my want of candor. My cynicisms I mean, every word. If you hadyour father's wealth, the fortune he means to leave you, I would marryyou to-morrow, and be, " her lips trembled a little, "the happiest girlon earth. "

"You don't care for me at all, then?" he calmly asks. 

"Care for you! O Charley! can't you see? I am not _all_ selfish. Icare for you so much that I would sooner die than marry you. For youa marriage with me means ruin--nothing else. "

"My father is fond of me. I am his only son. He would relent. "

"He never would, " she answered firmly, "and you know it. Charley, theday he spoke to you in Cork, I was behind the window-curtains reading. I heard every word. My first impulse was to come out and confronthim--to throw back his favors and patronage, and demand to be senthome. A horrid bad temper is numbered among the list of my failings. But I did not. I heard your calm reply--the 'soft answer that turnethaway wrath, ' and it fell like oil on my troubled spirit. 

"'Don't lose your temper, ' you said; 'Fred Darrell's daughter and Iwon't marry, if that's what you mean. '

"I admire your prudence and truth. I took the lesson home, and--stayedbehind the curtains. And we will keep to that--you and Fred Darrell'sdaughter will never marry. "

"But, Edith, you know what I meant. Good Heavens! you don't for asecond suppose--"

"I don't for a second suppose anything but what is good and generousof you, Charley. I know you would face your father like a--like a'griffin rampant, ' to quote Trix, and brave all consequences, if Iwould let you. But I won't let you. You can't afford to defy yourfather. I can't afford to marry a poor man. "

"I am young--I am strong--I can work. I have my hands and my head, atolerable education, and many friends. We would not starve. "

"We would not starve--perhaps, " Edith says, and laughs again, ratherdrearily. "We would only grub along, wanting everything that makeslife endurable, and be miserable beyond all telling before the firstyear ended. We don't want to hate each other--we don't want to marry. You couldn't work, Charley--you were never born for drudgery. And I--Ican't forget the training of my life even for you. "

"You can't, indeed--you do your training credit, " he answered bitterly. 

"And so, " she goes on, her face drooping, "don't be angry; you'llthank me for this some day. Let it be all over and done with to-night, and never be spoken of more. Oh, Charley, my brother, don't you see wecould not be happy together--don't you see it is better we shouldpart?"

"It shall be exactly as you wish. I am but a poor special pleader, andyour worldly wisdom is so clear, the dullest intellect mightcomprehend it. You, throw me over without a pang, and you mean tomarry the baronet. Only--as you are not yet his exclusive property, bought with a price--answer me this: You love me?"

Her head drooped lower, her eyes were full of passionate tears, herheart full of passionate pain. Throw him over without a pang! In herheart of hearts Edith Darrell knew what it cost her to be heartlessto-night. 

"Answer me!" he said imperiously, his eyes kindling. "Answer me! Thatmuch, at least, I claim as my right. Do you love me or do you not?"

And the answer comes very humbly and low. 

"Charley! what need to ask? You know only too well--I do. "

And then silence falls. He takes up the oars again--their soft dip, and the singing of the girl in the distant boat, the only sounds. White moonlight and black shadows, islands overrun with arbutus, that"myrtle of Killarney, " and frowning mountains on every hand. The wordsof the girl's gay song come over the water:

 "The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing, The light that lies In woman's eyes Has been my heart's undoing. 

 "Though wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me; My only books Were woman's looks, And folly's all they've taught me. "

"And folly's all they've taught me!" Charley says at length. "Comewhat may, it is better that I should have spoken and you should haveanswered. Come what may--though you marry Sir Victor to-morrow--Iwould not have the past changed if I could. "

"And you will not blame me too much--you will not quite despise me?"she pleads, her voice broken, her face hidden in her hands. "I can'thelp it, Charley. I would rather die than be poor. "

He knows she is crying; her tears move him strangely. They are in theshadow of Torc Mountain. He stops rowing for a moment, takes her hand, and lifts it to his lips. 

"I will love you all my life, " is his answer. 

 * * * * *

This is how two of the water-party were enjoying themselves. A quarterof a mile farther off, another interesting little scene was going onin another boat. 

Trixy had been rattling on volubly. It was one of Trixy's fixed ideasthat to entertain and fascinate anybody her tongue must go like awindmill. Sir Victor sat and listened rather absently, replied ratherdreamily, and as if his mind were a hundred miles away. Miss Stuarttook no notice, but kept on all the harder, endeavoring to befascinating. But there is a limit even to the power of a woman'stongue. That limit was reached; there came a lull and a pause. 

"The time I've lost in wooing, " began the English girl in the thirdboat. The idea was suggestive; Trixy drew a deep breath, and made afresh spurt--this time on the subject of the late Thomas Moore and hismelodies. But the young baronet suddenly interposed. 

"I beg your pardon, Miss Stuart, " he began hastily, and in a somewhatnervous voice; "but there is a subject very near to my heart on whichI should like to speak to you this evening. "

Trix sat straight up in the stern of the boat, as if she had beengalvanized. Her heart gave one great ecstatic thump. "Oh, " thoughtMiss Stuart, "he's going to pop!" I grieve to relate it, but that wasthe identical way the young lady thought it. "He's going to pop, assure as I live!"

There was a pause--unspeakably painful to Miss Stuart. "Yes, SirVictor, " she faltered in her most dulcet and encouraging accents. 

"I had made up my mind not to speak of it at all, " went on Sir Victor, looking embarrassed and rather at a loss for words, "until we reachedEngland. I don't wish to be premature. I--I dread a refusal sounspeakably, that I almost fear to speak at all. "

What was Miss Stuart to say to this? What could any well-trained younglady say?

"Good gracious me!" (this is what she thought, ) "why don't he speakout, and not go beating about the bush in this ridiculous manner!What's he afraid of? Refusal, indeed! Stuff and nonsense!"

"It is only of late, " pursued Sir Victor Catheron, "that I have quiterealized my own feelings, and then when I saw the attention paid byanother, and received with evident pleasure, it was my jealousy firsttaught me that I loved. "

"He means Captain Hammond, " thought Trixy; "he's jealous of him, assure as a gun. How lucky we met him at Macroom. "

"And yet, " again resumed the baronet, with a faint smile, "I don'tquite despair. I am sure, Miss Stuart, I have no real cause. "

"No-o-o, I think not, " faltered Miss Stuart. 

"And when I address myself to your father and mother--as I shall verysoon--you think, Miss Stuart, _they_ will also favor my suit?"

"_They_ favor his suit?" thought Trix, "good Heaven above! was everearthly modesty like this young man's?" But aloud, still in thetrembling tones befitting the occasion, "I--think so--I _know_ so, Sir Victor. It will be only too much honor, I'm sure. "

"And--oh, Miss Stuart--Beatrix--if you will allow me to call youso--you think that when I speak--when I ask--I will be accepted?"

"He's a fool!" thought Beatrix, with an inward burst. "A bashful, ridiculous fool! Why, in the name of all that's namby-pamby, doesn'the pop the question, like a man, and have done with it? Bashfulness isall very well--nobody likes a little of it better than I do; but thereis no use running it into the ground. "

"You are silent, " pursued Sir Victor. "Miss Stuart, it is not possiblethat I am too late, that there is a previous engagement?"

Miss Stuart straightened herself up, lifted her head, and smiled. Shesmiled in a way that would have driven a lover straight out of hissenses. 

"Call me Beatrix, Sir Victor; I like it best from my friends--from--from_you_. No, there is no previous engagement, and" (archly, this) "I amquite sure Sir Victor Catheron need never fear a refusal. "

"Thanks. " And precisely as another young gentleman was doing in theshadow of the "Torc, " Sir Victor did in the shadow of the "Eagle'sNest. " He lifted his fair companion's hand to his lips, and kissed it. 

After that of course there was silence. Trixy's heart was full ofjoy--pure, unadulterated joy, to bursting. Oh, to be out of this, andable to tell pa and ma, and Charley, and Edith, and everybody! LadyCatheron! "Beatrix--Lady Catheron!" No--I can't describe Trixy'sfeelings. There are some joys too intense and too sacred for theQueen's English. She shut her eyes and drifted along in that blessedlittle boat in a speechless, ecstatic trance. 

An hour later, and, as the clocks of Killarney were striking ten, SirVictor Catheron helped Miss Stuart out of the boat, and had led herup--still silently--to the hotel. At the entrance he paused, and saidthe only disagreeable thing he had uttered to-night. "One last favor, Beatrix, " taking her hand and gazing at her tenderly, "I must ask. Letwhat has passed between us remain between us for a few days longer. Ihad rather you did not speak of it even to your parents. My aunt, whohas been more than a mother to me, is ignorant still of my feelings--itis her right that I inform her first. Only a few days more, and thenall the world may know. "

"Very well, Sir Victor, " Beatrix answered demurely; "as you please, ofcourse. I shan't speak to pa or ma. Goodnight, Sir Victor, good night!"

May I tell it, Miss Stuart actually gave the baronet's hand a littlesqueeze? But were they not engaged lovers, or as good? and isn't itpermitted engaged lovers to squeeze each other's right hands? So theyparted. Sir Victor strolled away to smoke a cigar in the moonlight, and Miss Stuart, with a beatified face, swept upstairs, her high-heeledNew York gaiters click-clicking over the ground. Lady Catheron, LadyCatheron! Oh, what would all Fifth Avenue say to this?

Sleep was out of the question--it was open to debate whether shewould _ever_ sleep again. She would go and see Edith. Yes, Edithand Charley had got home before her--she would go and see Edith. 

She opened the door and went in with a swish of silk and patchouli. The candles were unlit. Miss Darrell, still wearing her hat andscarlet wrap, sat at the window contemplating the heavenly bodies. 

"All in the dark, Dithy, and thinking by the 'sweet silver light ofthe moon?' O Edie! isn't it just the heavenliest night?"

"Is that what you came in to say, Miss Stuart?"

"Don't be impatient, there's a dear! I wanted to tell you how happy Iam, and what a delicious--de-li-ci-ous, " said Trix, dragging out thesweet syllables, "sail I've had. O Edie! _how_ I've enjoyed myself!Did you?"

"Immensely!" Edith answered, with brief bitterness, and something inher tone made Trixy look at her more closely. 

"Why, Edith, I do believe you've been crying!"

"Crying! Bosh! I never cry. I'm stupid--I'm sleepy--my head aches. Excuse me, Trix, but I'm going to bed. "

"Wait just one moment. O Edith, " with a great burst, "I _can't_ keepit! I'll die if I don't tell somebody. O Edith, Edith! wish me joy, Sir Victor has proposed!"

"Trix!"

She could just say that one word--then she sat dumb. 

"O yes, Edith--out in the boat to-night. O Edith! I'm so happy--I wantto jump--I want to dance--I feel wild with delight! Just think ofit--_think_ of it! Trixy Stuart will be My Lady Catheron!"

She turned of a dead white from brow to chin. She sat speechless withthe shock--looking at Trixy--unable to speak or move. 

"He's most awfully and aggravatingly modest, " pursued Beatrix. "Couldn't say plump, like a man and brother, 'Trixy Stuart, will youmarry me?' but beat about the bush, and talked of being refused, andfearing a rival, and speaking to ma and pa and Lady Helena when we gotto England. But perhaps that's the way the British aristocracy makelove. He asked me if there was any previous engagement, and any fearof a refusal, and that rubbish. I don't see, " exclaimed Trixy, growingsuddenly aggrieved, "_why_ he couldn't speak out like a hero, and bedone with it? He's had encouragement enough, goodness knows!"

Something ludicrous in the last words struck Edith--she burst outlaughing. But somehow the laugh sounded unnatural, and her lips feltstiff and strange. 

"You're as hoarse as a raven and as pale as a ghost, " said Trix. "That's what comes of sitting in draughts, and looking at themoonshine. I'm awfully happy, Edith; and when I'm Lady Catheron, youshall come and live with me always--always, you dear old darling, justlike a sister. And some day you'll be my sister in reality, andCharley's wife. "

She flung her arms around Edith's neck, and gave her a rapturous hug. Edith Darrell unclasped her arms and pushed her away. 

"I'm tired, Trix; I'm cold. " She shivered from head to foot. "I wantto go to bed. "

"But won't you say something, Dithy? Won't you wish me joy?"

"I--wish--you joy. "

Her lips kept that strange feeling of stiffness--her face had lostevery trace of color. Oh, to be alone and free from Trix!

"You say it as if you didn't mean it, " said Trix indignantly, gettingup and moving to the door. "You look half-frozen, and as white as asheet. I should advise you to shut the window and go to bed. "

She was gone. Edith drew a long breath--a long, tired, heavy sigh. So!that was over--and it was Trix, after all. 

Trix, after all! How strangely it sounded--it stunned her. Trix, afterall and she had made sure it was to be herself. He had looked at her, he had spoken to her, as he had never looked or spoken to Trix. Hiscolor had risen like a girl's at her coming--she had felt his heartbound as she leaned on his arm. And it was Trix, after all!

She laid her arm upon the window-sill, and her face down upon it, feeling sick--sick--that I should have to write it!--with anger andenvy. She was Edith Darrell, the poor relation, still--and Trix was tobe Lady Catheron. 

"A pretty heroine!" cries some, "gentle reader, " looking angrily up;"a nasty, envious, selfish creature. Not the sort, of a heroine_we're_ used to. " Ah! I know that--none better; but then pure andperfect beings, who are ready to resign their lovers and husbands tomake other women happy, are to be found in--books, and nowhere else. And thinking it over and putting yourself in her place--honestly, now!--wouldn't you have been envious yourself?

CHAPTER IX. 

ALAS FOR TRIX!

"And after to-night we will all have a rest, thank Heaven! and _my_pilgrimage will come to an end. A fortnight at Powyss Place before yougo up to London, my dear Mrs. Stuart--not a day less. "

Thus Lady Helena Powyss, eight days later, seated luxuriously in thefirst-class carriage, and flying along by express train between Dublinand Kingston, _en route_ for Cheshire. 

They had "done" the south of Ireland, finished the Lakes, spent apleasant half-week in Dublin, and now, in the light of the Mayafternoon, were flying along to meet the channel boat. 

Captain Hammond was of the party still, and included in the invitationto Powyss Place. He sat between Lady Helena and Sir Victor now--MissStuart, in charming travelling costume, in the sunny seat next thewindow. On the opposite seat, at the other extreme end, sat EdithDarrell, her eyes riveted upon the pages of a book. 

Since that night in the boat Miss Stuart had quietly but resolutelytaken entire possession of Sir Victor. He was hers--she had the right. If a gentleman is modest to a fault, mayn't a lady overstep, by aninch or two, the line that Mrs. Grundy draws, and meet him half way?There is an adage about helping a lame dog over a stile--that work ofmercy is what Trixy was doing now. 

Before she left her room on the ensuing morning following thatnever-to-be-forgotten night, Edith had entered and taken Trix in herarms and kissed her. 

"I was stupid and out of sorts last night, Trixy, " she had said. "If Iseemed churlish, I ask your pardon, dear, with all my heart I wassurprised--I don't mind owning _that_--and perhaps a little, just alittle, envious. But all that is over now, and I _do_ wish you joyand happiness from the bottom of my heart. You're the best and dearestgirl in the world, and deserve your fairy fortune. "

And she had meant it. Trix _was_ one of the best and dearest girlsin the world, and if Sir Victor preferred her to herself, what righthad she to grudge her her luck. Against the baronet himself, she feltanger deep and strong still. How dared he seek her out as he had done, select her for his confidante, and look love in fifty different ways, when he meant to marry Trix? What a fool she might have made ofherself had she been a whit less proud than she was. Since then shehad avoided him; in no marked manner, perhaps, but she _had_ avoidedhim. He should pour no more family confidences into her ear, that sheresolved. He belonged to Trix--let him talk to Trix, then; she wantedno other girl's lover. If he felt this avoidance, he showed no sign. Perhaps he thought Miss Stuart had dropped some hint--girls, despitetheir promises, have been known to do such things--and this change wasbecoming maidenly reserve. Sir Victor liked maidenly reserve--none ofyour Desdemonas, who meet their Othellos half way, for him. Trixy'sunremitting attentions were sisterly, of course. He felt gratefulaccordingly, and strove to repay her in kind. One other thing heobserved, too, and with great complacency--the friendship between MissDarrell and her Cousin Charley had come to an end. That is to say, they rather kept aloof from each other--beyond the most ordinaryattention, Mr. Stuart seemed to have nothing whatever to say to hiscousin. This was as it should be; certainly Beatrix must have droppedthat very judicious hint. He was glad he had spoken to her. 

They reached Kingston in the early twilight, and embarked. It wasrough crossing, of course. Trix was seized with agonies of _mal demer_ once more. Edith waited upon her assiduously. Mrs. Stuart andLady Helena had a stewardess apiece. Happily, if severe, it was short;before midnight they were at Holyhead, and on the train once more. Then off--flying through Wales--whirling by mountains--illuminatedglass stations--the broad sea to their left, asleep under the stars, the spray at times almost in their faces. Past villages, ruins, castles, and cottages, and at two in the morning thundering into thebig station at Chester. 

Two carriages awaited them at the Chester station. Into one entered Mr. And Mrs. Stuart, Sir Victor, and Beatrix; into the other, Lady Helena, Edith, Charley, and Captain Hammond. They drove away through quiet, quaint Chester, "rare old city of Chester, " with its wonderful walls, its curious old streets--looking like set scenes in a theatre toAmerican eyes--glimpses of the peaceful Dee, glimpses of Curson Park, with its stately villas; away for miles over a country road, thenChesholm at three in the morning, silent and asleep. Presently anendless stretch of ivied wall appears in view, inclosing a primevalforest, it seems to Edith; and Lady Helena sits up and rubs her eyes, and says it is Catheron Royals. The girl leans forward and strains hereyes, but can make out nothing in the darkness save that long line ofwall and waving trees. This is to be Trixy's home, she thinks--happyTrixy! Half an hour more of rapid driving, and they are at PowyssPlace, and their journey is at an end. 

They emerge from the chill darkness of dawning day into a blaze oflight--into a vast and stately entrance-hall. A long file of servantsare drawn up to receive them. And "Welcome to Powyss Place, " LadyHelena says with kind courtesy "I can only wish your visit may be aspleasant to you as you made mine in New York. "

Without changing their dresses, they are ushered into a lofty andhandsome dining-room. More brilliant lights, more silent, respectfulservants, a round table luxuriously spread. They sit down; forget theyare tired and sleepy; eat, drink, and are merry; and it is five, andquite day, before they were shown up to their rooms. Then, hastydisrobing, hasty lying down, and all are at peace in the land ofdreams. 

Next day, somewhere about noon, Miss Stuart, clicking along in hernarrow-soled, preposterously high-heeled boots, over a polished oakencorridor, as black as ebony, and several degrees more slippery thanice, lost her footing, as might be imagined, and came down, with anunearthly screech, on one ankle. Of course the ankle was sprained; ofcourse every one flew to the rescue. Sir Victor was first on the field, and in Sir Victor's arms Miss Stuart was lifted, and borne back to herroom. Luckily it was near, or even Sir Victor's chivalry and musculardevelopment would not have been equal to it, for Trix was a "finewoman. " The ankle was bathed and bandaged, the invalid's breakfastbrought up--everything done for her comfort that it was possible to do;and in the midst of their fussing, having cried a great deal, MissStuart suddenly dropped off asleep. Edith came out of the room lookingpale and tired. In the slippery passage she encountered Sir Victorwaiting. 

"I have waylaid you on purpose, Miss Darrell, " he said, smiling, "lestyou should meet with a mishap too. A carpet shall be placed hereimmediately. You look pale--are you ill?"

There was a solicitude in his face, a tremulous, suppressed tendernessin the commonplace question, a look in his eyes that had no businessin the eyes of another young lady's betrothed. But Edith felt toofagged and spiritless just at present to notice. 

"I feel well enough; nothing is ever the matter with me; but I _am_rather stupid. Stupidity, " she said, with her old laugh, "is fastbecoming my normal state. "

"You will come with me for a walk, will you not?" he asked. "The parkis very well worth seeing. To-morrow, Miss Stuart's sprain permitting, we will all visit Catheron Royals. Do come, Miss Darrell; it will doyou a world of good. "

She hesitated a moment, then went. What difference did it make? Trixwouldn't be jealous now. What difference did anything make, for thatmatter? She was dull and low-spirited; she needed a walk in the finefresh air. So they went on that fateful walk, that walk that was to belike no other in all Edith Darrell's life. 

It was a perfect May day, an English May day; the grass, green beyondall ordinary greenness, the fragrant hawthorn hedges scenting the air, the thrush and the linnet singing in the trees, cowslips and daisiesdotting the sward. A fresh, cool breeze swept over the uplands, andbrought a faint trace of life and color into Edith's dark pale cheeks. 

"This is the Lime Walk--the prettiest at Powyss Place, to my mind. "This was the young baronet's first commonplace remark. "If you willascend the eminence yonder, Miss Darrell, I think I can point outCatheron Royals; that is, if you think it worth the trouble. "

It was all the same to Edith--the Lime Walk, the eminence, or anyother quarter of the park. She took Sir Victor's arm, as he seemed toexpect it, and went with him slowly up the elevation. Pale, weary, listless, she might be, but how charmingly pretty she looked in thesparkling sunshine, the soft wind blowing back her loose brown hair, kindling into deeper light her velvety-brown eyes, bringing a sea-shellpink into each creamy cheek. Beautiful beyond all ordinary beauty ofwomanhood, it seemed to Sir Victor Catheron. 

"It is a wonderfully pretty place, " she said. "I should think youEnglish people, whose ancestors, time out of mind, have lived and diedhere, would grow to love every ivy-clad stone, every brave old tree. If I were not Alexander I would be Diogenes--if I were not an Americangirl, I would be an English miss. "

She laughed and looked up at him, her spirits rising in the sunshineand the free, fresh air. His eyes were fixed upon her face--passionateadmiration, passionate love, written in them far too plainly for anygirl on earth not to read. And yet--he had proposed to Trix. 

"You would?" he eagerly exclaimed. "Miss Darrell, do I understand youto say you could live in England all your life--give up America andyour friends, and pass your life here?"

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"It would be no great sacrifice. Apart from my father, there isn't asoul in all wide America I care a farthing for, and your English homesare very charming. "

The last barrier broke down. He had not meant to speak--he had meantto be very prudent and formal--to tell Lady Helena first, to refer thematter to Mr. Stuart next. Now all prudence and formality were sweptaway. Her hands were in his--he was speaking with his whole heart inevery word. 

"Then stay and share an English home--share _mine_ Edith, I loveyou--I have loved you, I think, since I saw you first. Will you be mywife?"

Alas for Trix!--that was Edith's first thought. To burst outlaughing--that was Edith's first impulse. Not in triumph orexultation--just at this moment she felt neither--but at the awfulblunder Trix had made; for Trix had made a blunder, that was clear asday, else Sir Victor Catheron had never said those words. 

"I meant to have spoken to Lady Helena and Mr. Stuart first, " SirVictor went on; "but that is all over now. I can't wait longer; I musttake my sentence from your lips. I love you! What more can I say? Youare the first my lips have ever said it to--the first my heart hasever felt it for. Edith, tell me, may I hope?"

She stood silent. They were on the summit of the hill. Away, far off, she could see the waving trees and tall chimneys of a statelymansion--Catheron Royals, no doubt. It looked a very grand and nobleplace; it might be her home for life--she who, in one sense, washomeless. A baronet stood beside her, offering her rank andwealth--she, penniless, pedigreeless Edith Darrell! All the dreams oflife were being realized, and in this hour she felt neither triumphnor elation. She stood and listened, the sunlight on her gravelybeautiful face, with vague wonder at herself for her apathy. 

"Edith!" he cried out, "don't tell me I am too late--that some one hasbeen before me and won your heart. I _couldn't_ bear it! Your cousinassured me that when I spoke the answer would be favorable. I spoketo her that night in Killarney--I did not mention your name, but sheunderstood me immediately. I told her I meant to speak as soon aswe reached England. I asked her if she thought there was hope for me, and she--"

The passionate eagerness, the passionate love and fear within himchecked his words suddenly. He stopped for a moment, and turned away. 

"O Trixy! Trixy!" was Edith's thought; and ridiculous and out of placeas the emotion was, her only desire still was an almost uncontrollabledesire to laugh outright. What a horrible--what an unheard-of blunderthe child had made!

She stood tracing figures on the grass with the point of her parasol, feeling strangely apathetic still. If her life had depended on it, shecould hardly have accepted Sir Victor then. By and by she might feelhalf wild with exultation--not now. 

He waited for the answer that did not come. Then he turned from her, pale with despair. 

"I see how it is, " he said, trying, not quite successfully, to steadyhis voice; "I am too late. You love your cousin, and are engaged tohim. I feared it all along. "

The brown starry eyes, lifted slowly from the grass and looked at him. 

"My cousin? You mistake, Sir Victor; I am engaged to no one. I"--sheset her lips suddenly and looked away at the trees and the turrets ofCatheron Royals, shining in the brilliant sun--"I love no one. "

"No one, Edith! Not even me?"

"Not even you, Sir Victor. How could I? Why should I? I never dreamedof this. "

"Never dreamed of this!" he repeated, in amaze; "when you must haveseen--must have known--"

She interrupted him, a faint smile curling her lips. 

"I thought it was Trixy, " she said. 

"Miss Stuart! Then she has told you nothing of that night atKillarney--I really imagined she had. Miss Stuart has been my kindfriend, my one confidante and sympathizer. No sister could be kinderin her encouragement and comfort than she. "

"O poor Trix--a sister!" Edith thought, and in spite of every effort, the laugh she strove so hard to suppress dimpled the corners of hermouth. "_Won't_ there be a scene when you hear all this!"

"For pity's sake, Edith, speak to me!" the young man exclaimed. "Ilove you--my life will be miserable without you. If you are free, whymay I not hope? See! I don't even ask you to love me now. I will wait;I will be patient. My love is so great that it will win yours inreturn. O darling! say you will be my wife. "

Her hands were in his. The fervor, the passion within him almostfrightened her. 

"Sir Victor, I--I hardly know what to say. I wonder that you care forme. I wonder you want to marry me. I am not your equal; I have neitherrank, nor wealth, nor descent. "

"You have the beauty and the grace of a goddess--the goodness of anangel; I ask nothing more. You are the mate of a prince; and I loveyou. Everything is said in that. "

"Lady Helena will never consent"

"Lady Helena will consent to anything that will make me happy. Thewhole happiness or misery of my life lies in your hands. _Don't_ sayno, Edith--don't, for Heaven's sake. I could not bear it--I cannotlose you; I _will_ not!" he cried, almost fiercely. 

She smiled faintly again, and that lovely rose-pink blush of hersdeepened in her cheeks. It was very nice indeed to be wooed in thisfiery fashion. 

"_Fortes fortuna juvat_, " she said, laughing. "I learned enough Latin, you see, to know that fortune assists the brave. People who won'thave 'no' for an answer must have 'yes, ' of course. "

"And it is 'yes!' Edith--"

"Be quiet, Sir Victor; it is not 'yes' just yet, neither is it 'no. 'You must let me think all this over; my head is giddy with yourvehemence. Give me--let me see--until to-morrow. I can't answer now. "

"But, Edith--"

"That much is due to me, " she interposed, proudly; "remember, I havenot expected this. You have surprised me this morning more than I cansay. I am proud and grateful for your preference and the honor youhave done me, but--I am honest with you--I don't love you. "

"But you love no one else. Tell me that again, Edith!"

She grew pale suddenly. Again she looked away from him over the sunlitslopes before her. 

"I am a very selfish and heartless sort of girl, I am afraid, " sheanswered. "I don't know that it is in me to love any one as Iought--certainly not as you love me. If you take me, you shall take meat my true value. I am not an angel--ah, no; the farthest in the worldfrom it--the most selfish of the selfish. I like you very much; it isnot hard to do that. To be your wife would be my highest honor, butstill I must have time. Come to me to-morrow, Sir Victor, any time, and you shall have your answer. Don't say one word more until then. Now let us go back. "

He bowed and offered his arm. She took it, and in profound silencethey walked back. The one topic that filled him, heart and soul, strength and mind, was forbidden--it was simply impossible for him tospeak of any other. For Edith, she walked calmly beside him--her minda serene blank. 

They reached Powyss Place--they entered the drawing-room. All werethere--Trixy lying on a sofa, pale and interesting, Lady Helena besideher, Charley lounging in the recess of a sunny window. All eyes turnedupon the newcomers, Trix's with suspicious jealousy. If Sir Victorwere in love with herself, was not his fitting place by her side inthis trying hour, instead of meandering about with Dithy? And whatbusiness had Dithy monopolizing another girl's lover?

"I think I shall ride ever to Drexel Court between this and dinner, "Sir Victor said. "I promised Hampton--"

Lady Helena laughed and interrupted:

"And Lady Gwendoline is there--I understand. Go by all means, Victor, and give Gwendoline my love. We shall expect you back to dinner. "

The young man colored like a girl. He glanced uneasily at Edith, butMiss Darrell had taken up a photograph book of literary celebrities, and was immersed therein. 

Would she understand him, he wondered--would she know it was becausehe could not endure the suspense at home? How should he drag throughall the long, heavy hours between this and to-morrow? And whento-morrow came, if her answer were _no_? He set his teeth at thethought--it could not be no--it _should_ not! She loved no oneelse--she must learn to love him. 

Captain Hammond and Charley betook themselves to the billiard room. Trixy turned her suspicious eyes upon her cousin. 

"Where were you and Sir Victor all day, Edith?"

"I and Sir Victor have not been any where all day, Beatrix. During thelast hour we have been walking in the grounds. "

"What were you talking about?"

"Many things, " Miss Darrell responded, promptly. "The beauty of theprospect--the comfort of English homes, and the weather, of course. IfI understood short-hand, and had been aware of your anxiety on thesubject, I might have taken notes of our conversation for yourbenefit. "

"Did you talk of _me_?"

"I believe your name was mentioned. "

"Dith!" in a whisper, and raising herself on her elbow, "did SirVictor say any thing about--about--you know what"

"He did not say one word about being in love with you, or marrying you, if that is what you mean. Now please stop catechising, and let me lookat the pictures. "

Twilight fell--dinner hour came; with it Sir Victor. He looked pale, anxious, tired. He answered all his aunt's inquiries about the Drexelfamily in the briefest possible manner. His over-fond aunt looked athim a little uneasily--he was so unlike himself, and presently drewhim aside, after dinner, and spoke. 

"Victor what is the matter? Are you ill?"

"Ill? No. My dear aunt, " smiling, "don't wear that alarmed face--thereis nothing the matter with me. "

"There is something the matter with you. You are pale, you are silent, you eat nothing. Victor, what is it?"

"I will tell you to-morrow, " he answered. "Spare me until then. I amanxious, I admit, but not even to you can I tell why to-night. Youshall know all about it to-morrow. "

No glimmer of the truth dawned upon her as she left him. She wonderedwhat it could be, but she would not press him further. 

For Edith--she was in that mood of serene recklessness still. Ofto-morrow she neither cared to think, nor tried to think. The tide ofher life was at its flood; whither the stream might bear her afterthis night, just now, she neither knew nor cared. For the present shewas free, to-morrow she might be a bondwoman. Her fetters would be ofgold and roses; none the less though would they be fetters. 

She played chess with Sir Victor--_his_ hand trembled--hers wassteady. Captain Hammond asked her for a Scotch song. She went to thepiano and sang, never more clearly and sweetly in her life. 

"Sing 'Charley he's my darling, '" suggested Trix, maliciously; "it'sone of your favorites, I know. "

Charley was reposing on a sofa near--the waxlights streaming over hishandsome, placid face. 

"Yes, sing it, Dithy, " he said; "it's ages since you sang it for menow. "

"And I may never sing it for you again, " she answered, with a carelesslaugh; "one so soon grows tired of these old songs. "

She sang it, her eyes alight, her cheeks flushing, thrilling spiritand life in the merry words. Sir Victor stood beside her, drinking inuntil he was intoxicated by the spell of her subtle witchery. 

 "And Charley he's my darling-- My darling, my darling!"

Edith's contralto tones rang out. She had never looked so reallybeautiful, perhaps, before in her life--suppressed excitement lent hersuch sparkle and color. She finished her song and arose. And presentlythe evening was over, and it was half-past eleven, and one by one theywere taking their candles, and straggling off to bed. 

Edith Darrell did not go to bed. She put the lights away on thetoilet-table in the dressing-room, wrapped something around her andsat down by the window to think it out. 

Should she marry Sir Victor Catheron, or should she not?

She cared nothing for him--nothing whatever--very likely she neverwould. She loved Charley Stuart with all the power of her heart, andjust at present it seemed to her she always must. That was how theproblem stood. 

If she married Sir Victor, rank and wealth beyond all her dreams wouldbe hers, a life of luxury, all the joys and delights great wealth canbring. She liked pleasure, luxury, beauty, rank. For love--well, SirVictor loved her, and for a woman it is always better, safer, to beloved than to love. 

That was one phase of the case. Here was the other: She might go toCharley and say. "Look here--I care for you so much, that life withoutyou, isn't worth the living. I will marry you, Charley, whenever youlike. " He would make her his wife. Alone in darkness, her heartthrilled as she thought of it--and the intensest joy of life would behers for a while. For a while. They would be poor--his father wouldcast him off--he must, for the first time in his life, begin towork--the old story of pinching and poverty, of darning and mending, would commence over again for her, poor food, poor clothes, all theuntold ugliness and misery of penury. Love is a very good and pleasantthing, but not when bought at the price of all the glory and pleasureof the world. 

She turned from the life she pictured with a shudder of abhorrence. And Charley was not of the stuff the toilers of the earth are made. She would never spoil his life for him as well as her own--not if herheart broke in giving him up. But it would not break--who breaks herheart in these days? She would say "Yes" to-morrow to Sir VictorCatheron. 

Then for a moment the thread of thought broke, and she sat lookingblankly out at the soft spring night. 

On the day she pledged herself to Sir Victor she must say good-byforever to Charley--so it began again. One house must not contain themboth; her word, her plight must be kept bright and untarnished--Charleymust go. 

She tried to think what her life would be like without him. It seemedto her, she could think of no time, in which he had not belonged toher; all the years before that night in the snow were blank and void. And now, for all time, she must give him up. 

She rose, feeling cold and cramped--she undressed with stiffenedfingers, and went to bed. She would think no more, her head ached--shewould sleep and forget. 

She did sleep, deeply, dreamlessly. The sunlight was pouring into herroom, flooding it with golden radiance, when she awoke. 

She sprang up; her heart gave one bound of recollection and rapture. Sir Victor Catheron had asked her to be his wife. 

Doubt was at an end--hesitation was at an end. 

 "Colors seen by candlelight Do not look the same by day. "

Last night a hair might have turned the scale and made her say "No, "reckless of consequences--to-day a thousand Charleys would not haveinfluenced her. She would be Lady Catheron. 

She sang as she dressed. Not the May sunshine itself was brighter thanher face. She left her room, she walked down the corridor, down thestairs, and out upon the emerald green lawn. 

A well-known figure, in a gray suit, stood a few yards off, pacingrestlessly about and smoking. He flung away his cigar and hurried upto her. One glance at her smiling face, was enough, his own flusheddeep with rapture. 

"I have come for my answer, " he cried. "O Edith, my darling, don't letit be 'No. '"

She laughed aloud at his vehemence--it was the sort of wooing sheliked. 

"I should like to please you, Sir Victor--what, then, shall it be?"

"Yes! a thousand times, yes! Edith, my love--my love--yes!"

She was smiling still--she looked him frankly in the eyes as no womanon earth, in such an hour, ever looked at the man she loved. She laidin his one slim, brown, ringless hand. 

"Since you wish it so much, Sir Victor, let it be as you please. Yes!"

CHAPTER X. 

HOW TRIX TOOK IT. 

It was half-past twelve, by all the clocks and watches of Powyss Place. Miss Stuart sat alone, in the pleasant boudoir or sitting-room, assigned her, her foot on an ottoman, a novel in her hand, a frown onher brow, and most beautifully dressed. In solitary state, at half-pastten, she had breakfasted, waited upon by the trimmest of Englishhandmaidens in smiles and lace cap. The breakfast had been removed forover an hour, and still Miss Stuart sat alone. 

Her mamma had called to see her, so had Lady Helena, but _they_ didnot count. She wanted somebody else, and that somebody did not come. Hernovel was interesting and new, but she could not read; her troubles weretoo many and great. 

First, there was her ankle that pained her, and Trixy did not likepain. Secondly, it was quite impossible she could venture to standupon it for the next three days, and who was to watch Sir Victorduring those three days? Thirdly, next week Lady Helena gave a largeparty, and at that party it was morally and physically impossible shecould play any other part than that of wall-flower; she who was one ofthe best waltzers, and loved waltzing better than any other girl inNew York. Is it any wonder, then, that an absorbing novel failed toabsorb her?

The door opened and Edith came in. At all times and in all array, MissDarrell must of necessity look handsome. This morning in crisp muslinand rose-colored ribbons, a flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in hereyes, Miss Darrell was something more than handsome--she was beautiful. Something, that was more the memory of a smile, than a smile itself, lingered on her lips--she was so brightly pretty, so fresh, so fair, that it was a pleasure only to look at her. 

"Good morning, Trixy, " she said. "How is our poor dear ankle? Itdoesn't hurt much, I hope?"

She came up behind Miss Stuart's chair, put her arms around her neck, stooped down and kissed her forehead. The frown on Trixy's facedeepened--it was the last straw that broke the camel's back, to seeEdith Darrell looking so brightly handsome, privileged to go where shepleased, while she was chained to this horrid chair. 

"It _does_ hurt, " Trixy responded crossly. "I wish I had never hadan ankle, sooner than go spraining it this way. The idea of horridfloors, like black looking-glasses, and slipperier than a skating-rink. Edith, how long is it since you got up?"

"Now for it!" thought Edith, and the smile she strove to repress, dimpled her sunny face. Luckily, standing behind Trix's chair, Trixdid not see it. 

"How long? Oh, since nine o'clock. You know I'm not a very earlyriser. "

"Did you go straight down to breakfast?"

"The breakfast hour was ten. It doesn't take me all that time todress. "

"Where did you go then?"

"I walked in the grounds. "

"Edith!" with sudden sharpness, "did you see Sir Victor?"

"Yes, I saw Sir Victor. "

"Where? In the grounds too?"

"In the grounds too--smoking a cigar. "

"Edith!" the sharpness changing to suspicion and alarm. "_You_ werewith Sir Victor!"

"I was with Sir Victor. That is to say, Sir Victor was with _me_. "

"Bother! What did you talk about? Did he ask after me?"

"Ye-e-es, " Edith answered doubtfully--the fact being Sir Victor hadutterly forgotten Miss Stuart's existence in the dizzy rapture of hisacceptance--"he asked for you, of course. "

"Was that all? _He's_ a pretty attentive host, I don't think, " criedTrixy, with bitterness, "having a young lady laid up by the le--theankle in his house, and never so much as calling to see if she isdead or alive!"

"My dearest Trix, " said Edith, struggling with a laugh, "gentlemendon't call upon young ladies in their chambers at break of day, eventhough they have a sprained ankle. It isn't _de rigeur_. "

"De rigger be blowed! It isn't my chamber; it's my private parlor; andaristocratic as we have got lately, I don't think half-past twelve isthe break of day. Edith, upon your word, _did_ he say anythingabout--about--you know what?"

"Marrying you? No, Trixy, not a word. "

She put her arms closer around poor Trixy's neck, and hid her face inTrixy's chestnut hair. 

"Trix, pet, don't you think there may have been a little--just alittle, misunderstanding that night at Killarney?"

"Misunderstanding! I don't understand _you_, Edith, " Miss Stuartexclaimed, in increasing alarm. "For goodness' sake come round where Ican see you, and don't stand there like a sort of 'Get thee behind me, Satan. ' I like to look people in the face when I talk to them. "

"In one moment, dear; please don't be cross. I have something that isnot pleasant to say that _you_ won't like. I am afraid to tell you. Trix, there _was_ a misunderstanding that night. "

"I don't see how; I don't believe there was. Edith Darrell, what doyou mean? He asked me to marry him--at least he told me he was in lovewith me in a stupid, round-about way, and asked me if he might hope, and if there was any danger of a refusal, or a rival, when he spokeout, and that balderdash. He said he meant to speak to pa and ma, asplain as print. Now how could there be a misunderstanding in all that?"

"It was, as you say, awfully stupid of him, but these Englishmen havesuch different ways from what we are accustomed to. There was amisunderstanding, I repeat. He means to speak to your father andmother to-day, but--not about you. "

"Edith!" Trix half sprung up, pale as death and with flashing eyes. "What do you mean? Speak out, I tell you!"

"O Trix. " She twined her arms still closer around her neck, and laidher cheek coaxingly alongside of Miss Stuart's. "There has been ahorrid mistake. All the time in that boat on Killarney lake he wastalking of--me!"

"Of--you!" The two words drop from Trixy's ashen lips. 

"Of me, dear, and he thinks at this moment that you understood him so. Trixy--don't be angry with me--how could I help it--he proposed to meyesterday afternoon. "

"Proposed to you yesterday afternoon!" Trix repeats the words like onewho has been stunned by a blow, in a dazed sort of tone. "Andyou--refused him, Edith?"

"Accepted him, Trixy. I said yes to Sir Victor Catheron this morningin the grounds. "

Then there was a pause. The ticking of the little Swiss clock, thejoyous warble of the thrushes, the soft rustle of the trees soundingpreternaturally loud. Beatrix Stuart sat white to the lips, with anger, mortification, amaze, disappointment. Then she covered her face withher hands, and burst into a vehement flood of tears. 

"Trix! dear Trix!" Edith exclaimed, shocked and pained; "good Heaven, don't cry! Trix, dearest, I never knew you were in love with him. "

"In love with him!" cried Trix, looking up, her eyes flashing throughher tears, "the odious little wishy-washy, drawling coxcomb! No, I'mnot in love with him--not likely--but what business had he to gotalking like that, and hemming and hawing, and hinting, and--oh!"cried Trix, with a sort of vicious screech, "I should like to tear hiseyes out!"

"I dare say you would--the desire is both natural and proper, "answered Edith, smothering a second desire to laugh; "but, under thecircumstances, not admissible. It was a stupid proceeding, no doubt, his speaking to you at all, but you see the poor fellow thinks youunderstood him, and meant it for the best. "

"Thought I understood him!" retorted Miss Stuart, with a vengefulglare. "Oh, _shouldn't_ I like to make him understand me! The wayhe went on that night, kissing my hand, and calling me Beatrix, andtalking of speaking to pa, and meaning you all the time, isenough--enough to drive a person stark, staring mad. All Englishmenare fools--there!" exclaimed Miss Stuart, sparks of fire drying up hertears, "and Sir Victor Catheron's the biggest fool of the lot!"

"What, Trix! for wanting to marry me?"

"Yes, for wanting to marry you. You, who don't care a bad cent forhim!"

"How many bad cents did you care, Miss Stuart, when you were sowilling to be his wife?"

"More than you, Miss Darrell, for at least I was not in love with anyone else. "

"And who may Miss Darrell be in love with, pray?"

"With Charley, " answered Trix, her face still afire. "Deny it if youdare! In love with Charley, and he with you. "

She was looking up at her rival, her angry gray eyes so like Charley'sas she spoke, in everything but expression, that for an instant Edithwas disconcerted. She could not meet them. For once in her life herown eyes fell. 

"Are we going to quarrel, Trix? Is it worth while, for a man you havedecided we neither of us care for--we who have been like sisters solong?"

"Like sisters!" Trix repeated bitterly. "Edith, I wonder if you arenot scheming and deceitful!"

"Beatrix!"

"Oh, you needn't 'Beatrix' me! I mean it. I believe there has beendouble dealing in this. He paid attention to me before you ever cameto New York. I believe if I hadn't been sea-sick he would haveproposed to me on the ship. But I _was_ sea-sick, --it's always myluck to be everything that's miserable, --and _you_ were with himnight and day. "

"Night and day! Good gracious, Trixy, this is awful!"

"You know what I mean, " pursued Trix loftily. "You got him in lovewith you. Then, all the way to Killarney you flirted with Charley--poorCharley--and made him jealous, and jealousy finished him. You're avery clever girl, Edith, and I wish you a great deal of joy. "

"Thank you; you say it as if you did. I don't take the trouble to denyyour charges; they're not worth it--they are false, and you know themto be so. I never sought out Sir Victor Catheron, either in New York, on board ship, or elsewhere. If he had been a prince, instead of abaronet, I would not have done it. I have borne a great deal, but evenyou may go too far, Trixy. Sir Victor has done me the honor of fallingin love with me--for he does love me, and he has asked me to be hiswife. I have accepted him, of course; it was quite impossible I coulddo otherwise. If, at Killarney, he was stupid, and you made a blunder, am I to be held accountable? He does not dream for a moment of themisunderstanding between you. He thinks he made his meaning as clearas day. And now I will leave you; if I stay longer we may quarrel, andI--I don't want to quarrel with you, Trixy. "

Her voice broke suddenly. She turned to the door, and all the smallnessof her own conduct dawned upon Trix. Her generous heart--it _was_generous in spite of all this--smote her with remorse. 

"Oh, come back, Edith!" she said; "don't go. I won't quarrel with you. I'm a wretch. It's dreadfully mean and contemptible of me, to makesuch a howling about a man that does not care a straw for me. When Itold you, _you_ wished me joy. Just come back and give me time tocatch my breath, and I'll wish you joy too. But it's so sudden, sounexpected. O Dithy, I thought you liked Charley all this while!"

_How_ like Charley's the handsome dark gray eyes were! Edith Darrellcould not meet them; she turned and looked out of the window. 

"I like him, certainly; I would be very ungrateful if I did not. He islike a brother to me. "

"A brother! Oh, bother, " retorted Trix, with immeasurable scorn anddignity. "Edith, honor bright! Haven't you and Charley been in lovewith each other these two years?"

Edith laughed. 

"A very leading question, and a very absurd one. I don't think it isin either your brother or me to be very deeply in love. _He_ wouldfind it feverish and fatiguing--you know how he objects to fatigue;and I--well, if love be anything like what one reads of in books, anall-absorbing, all consuming passion that won't let people eat orsleep, I have never felt it, and I don't want to. I think that sort oflove went out of fashion with Amanda Fitzallen. You're a sentimentalgoose, Miss Stuart, and have taken Byron and Miss Landon in too largedoses. "

"But you like him, " persisted his sister, "don't you, Dithy?"

"Like him--_like_ him!" Her whole face lit up for a second with alight that made it lovely. "Well, yes, Trix, I don't mind owning thatmuch--I do like Charley--like him so well that I won't marry and ruinhim. For it means just that, Trixy--ruin. The day we become anythingmore than friends and cousins your father would disinherit him, andyour father isn't the heavy father of the comedy, to rage through fouracts, and come round in the fifth, with his fortune and blessing. Charley and I have common-sense, and we have shaken hands and agreedto be good friends and cousins, nothing more. "

"What an admirable thing is common-sense! Does Sir Victor know aboutthe hand-shaking and the cousinly agreement?"

"Don't be sarcastic, Beatrix; it isn't your forte! I have nothing toconfess to Sir Victor when I am married to him; neither your brothernor any other man will hold the place in my heart (such as it is) thathe will. Be very sure of that. "

"Ah! such as it is, " puts in Trix cynically; "and when, is it to be, Dithy--the wedding?"

"My dear Trix, I only said yes this morning. Gentlemen don't proposeand fix the wedding-day all in a breath. It will be ages from now, nodoubt. Of course Lady Helena will object. "

"You don't mind that?"

"Not a whit. A grand-aunt is--a grand-aunt, nothing more. She is hisonly living relative, he is of age, able to speak and act for himself. The true love of any good man honors the woman who receives it. Inthat way Sir Victor Catheron honors me, and in no other. I haveneither wealth nor lineage; in all other things, as God made us, I amhis equal!"

She moved to the door, her dark eyes shining, her head erect, lookingin her beauty and her pride a mate for a king. 

"There is to be a driving-party to Eastlake Abbey, after luncheon, "she said; "you are to be carried down to the barouche and ride withyour father and mother, and Lady Helena--Charley and Captain Hammondfor your cavaliers. "

"And you?"

"Sir Victor drives me. "

"Alone, of course?" Trixy says, with a last little bitter sneer. 

"Alone, of course, " Edith answers coldly. Then she opens the door anddisappears. 

CHAPTER XI. 

HOW LADY HELENA TOOK IT. 

But the driving-party did not come off. The ruins of Eastlake Abbeywere unvisited that day, at least. For while Edith and Trixy'ssomewhat unpleasant interview was taking place in one part of thehouse, an equally unpleasant, and much more mysterious, interview wastaking place in another, and on the same subject. 

Lady Helena had left the guests for awhile and gone to her own rooms. The morning post had come in, bringing her several letters. One inparticular she seized, and read with more eagerness than the others, dated London, beginning "My Dear Aunt, " and signed "Inez. " While shesat absorbed over it, in deep and painful thought evidently, therecame a tap at the door; then it opened, and her nephew came in. 

She crumpled her letter hurriedly in her hand, and put it out of sight. She looked up with a smile of welcome; he was the "apple of her eye, "the darling of her life, the Benjamin of her childless old age--thefair-haired, pleasant-faced young baronet. 

"Do I intrude?" he asked. "Are you busy? Are your letters _very_important this morning? If so--"

"Not important at all. Come in, Victor. I have been wishing to speakto you of the invitations for next week's ball. Is it concerning thedriving-party this afternoon you want to speak?"

"No, my dear aunt; something very much pleasanter than all thedriving-parties in the world; something much more important to me. "

She looked at him more closely. His face was flushed, his eyes bright, a happy smile was on his lips. He had the look of a man to whom somegreat good fortune had suddenly come. 

"Agreeably important, then, I am sure, judging by your looks. What aradiant face the lad has!"

"I have reason to look radiant. Congratulate me, Aunt Helena; I am thehappiest man the wide earth holds. "

"My dear Victor!"

"Cannot you guess?" he said, still smiling; "I always thought femalerelatives were particularly sharp-sighted in these matters. Must Ireally tell you? Have you no suspicions of my errand here?"

"I have not, indeed;" but she sat erect, and her fresh-colored, handsome old face grew pale. "Victor, what is it? Pray speak out. "

"Very well. Congratulate me once more; I am going to be married. "

He stopped short, for with a low cry that was like a cry of fear, LadyHelena rose up. If he had said "I am going to be hanged, " theconsternation of her face could not have been greater. She put out herhand as though to ward off a blow. 

"No, no!" she said, in that frightened voice; "not married. For God'ssake, Victor, don't say that!"

"Lady Helena!"

He sat looking at her, utterly confounded. 

"It can't be true, " she panted. "You don't mean that. You don't wantto be married. You are too young--you are. I tell you I won't hear ofit! What do boys like you want of wives!--only three-and-twenty!"

He laughed good-humoredly. 

"My dear aunt, boys of three-and-twenty are tolerably well-grown; itisn't a bad age to marry. Why, according to Debrett, my father wasonly three-and-twenty when he brought home a wife and son to CatheronRoyals. "

She sat down suddenly, her head against the back of a chair, her facequite white. 

"Aunt Helena, " the young man said anxiously, approaching her, "I havestartled you; I have been too sudden with this. You look quite faint;what shall I get you?"

He seized a carafe of water, but she waved it away. 

"Wait, " she said, with trembling lips; "wait. Give me time--let methink. It _was_ sudden; I will be better in a moment. "

He sat down feeling uncommonly uncomfortable. He was a practical sortof young man, with, a man's strong dislike of scenes of all kinds, andthis interview didn't begin as promisingly as he had hoped. 

She remained pale and silent for upward of five very long minutes;only once her lips whispered, as if unconsciously:

"The time has come--the time has come. "

It was Sir Victor himself who broke the embarrassing pause. 

"Aunt Helena, " he said pettishly, for he was not accustomed to havehis sovereign will disputed, "I don't understand this, and you willpardon me if I say I don't like it. It must have entered your mindthat sooner or later I would fall in love and marry a wife, like othermen. That time has come, as you say yourself. There is nothing I cansee to be shocked at. "

"But not so soon, " she answered brokenly. "O Victor, not so soon. "

"I don't consider twenty-three years too soon. I am old-fashioned, very likely, but I do believe in the almost obsolete doctrine of earlymarriage. I love her with all my heart. " His kindling eyes andsoftened voice betrayed it. "Thank Heaven she has accepted me. Withouther my life would not be worth the having. "

"Who is she?" she asked, without looking up. "Lady Gwendoline, ofcourse. "

"Lady Gwendoline?" He smiled and lifted his eyebrows. 

"No, my dear aunt; a very different person from Lady Gwendoline. MissDarrell. "

She sat erect and gazed at him--stunned. 

"Miss Darrell! Edith Darrell--the American girl, the--Victor, if thisis a jest--"

"Lady Helena, am I likely to jest on such a subject? It is the truth. This morning Miss Darrell--Edith--has made me the happiest man inEngland by promising to be my wife. Surely, aunt, you must havesuspected--must have seen that I loved her. "

"I have seen nothing, " she answered blankly, looking straight beforeher--"nothing. I am only an old woman--I am growing blind and stupid, I suppose. I have seen nothing. "

There was a pause. At no time was Sir Victor Catheron a fluent orready speaker--just at present, perhaps, it was natural he should berather at a loss for words. And her ladyship's manner was the reverseof reassuring. 

"I have loved her from the first, " he said, breaking once more thesilence--"from the very first night of the party, without knowing it. In all the world, she is the only one I can ever marry. With her mylife will be supremely happy, superbly blessed; without her--but no!I do not choose to think what my life would be like without her. You, who have been as a mother to me all my life, will not mar my perfecthappiness on this day of days by saying you object. "

"But I do object!" Lady Helena exclaimed, with sudden energy and anger. "More--I absolutely refuse. I say again, you are too young to want tomarry at all. Why, even your favorite Shakespeare says: 'A young manmarried, is a man that's marred. ' When you are thirty it will be quitetime enough to talk of this. Go abroad again--see the world--go to theEast, as you have often talked of doing--to Africa--anywhere! No manknows himself or his own heart at the ridiculous age of twenty-three!"

Sir Victor Catheron smiled, a very quiet and terribly obstinate smile. 

"My extreme youth, then, is your only objection?"

"No, it is not--I have a hundred objections--it is objectionable fromevery point. I object to _her_ most decidedly and absolutely. Youshall not marry this American girl without family or station, and ofwhom you know absolutely nothing--with whom you have not beenacquainted four weeks. Oh, it is absurd--it is ridiculous--it is themost preposterous folly I ever heard of in my life. "

His smile left his face--a frown came instead. His lips set, he lookedat her with a face of invincible determination. 

"Is _this_ all?" he demanded. "I will answer your objections whenI have thoroughly heard them. I am my own master--but--that much isdue to you. "

"I tell you she is beneath you--beneath you!" Lady Helena saidvehemently. "The Catherons have always married well--into ducalfamilies. Your grandmother--my sister--was, as I am, the daughterof a marquis. "

"And _my_ mother was the daughter of a soap-boiler, " he said withbitterness. "Don't let us forget _that_. "

"Why do you speak to me of her? I can't bear it. You know I cannot. You do well to taunt me with the plebeian blood in your veins--you, ofall men alive. Oh! why did you ever see this designing girl? Why didshe ever come between us?"

She was working herself up to a pitch of passionate excitement, quiteincomprehensible to her nephew, and as displeasing as it wasincomprehensible. 

"When you call her designing, Lady Helena, " he said, in slow, angrytones, "you go a little too far. In no way has Miss Darrell tried towin me--'tis the one drawback to my perfect happiness now that shedoes not love me as I love her. She has told me so frankly and bravely. But it will come. I feel that such love as mine must win a return. Forthe rest, I deny that she is beneath me; in all things--beauty, intellect, goodness--she is my superior. She is the daughter of ascholar and a gentleman; her affection would honor the best man onearth. I deny that I am too young--I deny that she is my inferior--Ideny even _your_ right, Lady Helena, to speak disparagingly of her. And, in conclusion, I say, that it is my unalterable determinationto marry Edith Darrell at the earliest possible hour that I can prevailupon her to fix our wedding-day. "

She looked at him; the unalterable determination he spoke of wasprinted in every line of his set face. 

"I might have known it, " she said, with suppressed bitterness; "he ishis father's son. The same obstinacy--the same refusal to listen toall warning. Sooner or later I knew it must come, but not so soon asthis. "

The tears coursed slowly over her cheeks, and moved him as nothing sheever could have said would have done. 

"For Heaven's sake, aunt, don't cry, " he said hurriedly. "You distressme--you make me feel like a brute, and I--really now, I don't thinkyou ought to blame me in this way. Miss Darrell is not a LadyGwendoline, certainly--she has neither rank nor wealth, but in mysight their absence is no objection whatever. And I love her;everything is said in that. "

"You love her, " she repeated mournfully. "O my poor boy, my poor boy!"

"I don't think I deserve pity, " Sir Victor said, smiling again. "Idon't feel as though I did. And now tell me the real reason of allthis. "

"The real reason?"

"Certainly; you don't suppose I do not see it is something besidesthose you have given. There is something else under all this. Now letus hear it, and have done with it. "

He took both her hands in his and looked at her--a resolute smile onhis fair blonde face. 

"Troubles are like certain wild animals, " he said; "look them straightin the eye and they turn and take to flight. Why should I not marry attwenty-three? If I were marrying any one else--Lady Gwendoline forinstance--would my extreme juvenility still be an obstacle?"

"You had much better not marry at all. "

"What! live a crusty old bachelor! Now, now, my good aunt, this is alittle too much, and not at all what I expected from a lady of yourexcellent common-sense. "

"There is nothing to make a jest of, Victor. It _is_ better you shouldnot marry--better the name of Catheron should die out and be blottedfrom the face of the earth. "

"Lady Helena!"

"I know what I am saying, Victor. _You_ would say it too, perhaps, if you knew all. "

"You will tell me all. Oh yes, you will. You have said too much or toolittle, now. I must hear 'all, ' then I shall judge for myself. I maybe in love--still I am amenable to reason. If you can show me any justcause or impediment to my marriage--if you can convince me it will bewrong in the sight of Heaven or man, then, dearly as I love her, Iwill give her up. But your proof must be strong indeed. "

She looked at him doubtfully--wistfully. 

"Would you do this, Victor? Would you have strength to give up thegirl you love? My boy, my son, I don't want to be hard on you. I wantto see you happy, Heaven knows, and yet--"

"I will be happy--only tell me the truth and let me judge for myself. "

He was smiling--he was incredulous. Lady Helena's mountain, seen by_his_ eyes, no doubt, would turn out the veriest molehill. 

"I don't know what to do, " she answered, in agitated tones. "I promisedher to tell you if this day ever came, and now it is here and I--oh!"she cried out passionately, "I _can't_ tell you!"

He grew pale himself, with fear of he knew not what. 

"You can, you will--you _must_!" he said resolutely. "I am not a childto be frightened of a bogy. What terrible secret is there hiddenbehind all this?"

"Terrible secret--yes, that is it. Terrible secret--you have said it!"

"Do you, by any chance, refer to my mother's death? Is it that youknew all these years her murderer and have kept it secret?"

There was no reply. She covered her face with her hands and turnedaway. 

"Am I right?" he persisted. 

She rose to her feet, goaded, it seemed, by his persistent questioninginto a sort of frenzy. 

"Let me alone, Victor Catheron, " she cried. "I have kept my secret fortwenty-three years--do you think you will wring it from me all in amoment now? What right have you to question me--to say I shall tell, or shall not? If you knew all you would know you have no rightswhatever--none--no right to ask any woman to share, your life--noright, if it comes to that, even to the title you bear!"

He rose up too--white to the lips. Was Lady Helena going mad? Had theannouncement of his marriage turned her brain? In that pause, beforeeither could speak again, a knock that had been twice given unheard, was repeated a third time. It brought both back instantly from thetragic, to the decorum of every-day life. Lady Helena sat down; SirVictor opened the door. It was a servant with a note on a salver. 

"Well, sir, " the baronet demanded abruptly. "What do you want?"

"It's her ladyship, Sir Victor. A lady to see your ladyship on veryimportant business. "

"I can see no one this morning, " Lady Helena responded; "tell her so. "

"My lady, excuse me; this lady said your ladyship would be sure to seeher, if your ladyship would look at this note. It's the lady inmourning, my lady, who has been here to see your ladyship before. Which this is the note, my lady. "

Lady Helena's face lit up eagerly now. She tore open the note at once. 

"You may go, Nixon, " she said. "Show the lady up immediately. "

She ran over the few brief lines the note contained, with a look ofunutterable relief. Like the letter, it was signed "Inez. "

"Victor, " she said, turning to her nephew and holding out her hand, "forgive me, if in my excitement and haste I have said what I shouldnot. Give me a little time, and everything will be explained. Thecoming of In--this lady--is the most opportune thing in the world. Youshall be told all soon. "

"I am to understand then, " Sir Victor said coldly, "that this stranger, this mysterious lady, is in your confidence; that she is to be receivedinto mine--that she is to be consulted before you can tell me thissecret which involves the happiness of my life?"

"Precisely! You look angry and incredulous, but later you willunderstand. She is one of our family--more at present I cannot say. Go, Victor; trust me, believe me, neither your honor nor your love shallsuffer at our hands. Postpone the driving-party, or make my excuses; Ishall not leave my rooms to-day. To-morrow, if it be possible, thetruth shall be yours as well as mine. "

He bowed coldly--annoyed, amazed, and went. What did all this mean? Upto the present, his life had flowed peacefully, almost sluggishly, without family secrets or mystifications of any kind. And now all atonce here were secrets and mysteries cropping up. _What_ was thiswonderful secret--_who_ was this mysterious lady? He must wait untilto-morrow, it appeared, for the answer to both. 

"One thing is fixed as fate, " he said to himself as he left the room, "I won't give up Edith, for ten thousand family secrets--for all themysterious ladies on earth! Whatever others may have done, I at leasthave done nothing to forfeit my darling's hand. The doctrine thatwould make us suffer for the sins of others, is a mistaken doctrine. Let to-morrow bring forth what it may, Edith Darrell shall be my wife. "

CHAPTER XII. 

ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY. 

As he descended the stairs he encountered Nixon and a veiled lady inblack ascending. He looked at her keenly--she was tall and slender;beyond that, through the heavy crape veil, he could make out nothing. "Mysterious, certainly!" he thought. "I wonder who she is?" He bowedas he passed her; she bent her head in return; then he hastened toseek out Edith, and tell her an important visitor had arrived for LadyHelena, and that the excursion to Eastlake Abbey would be postponed. He was but a poor dissembler, and the girl's bright brown eyes weresharp. She smiled as she looked and listened. 

"Did you know I could tell fortunes, Sir Victor? Hold out your handand let me tell you the past. You have been upstairs with Lady Helena;you have told her that Edith Darrell has consented to be your wife. You have asked her sanction to the union, and have been naturally, indignantly, and peremptorily refused. "

He smiled, but the conscious color rose. 

"I always suspected you of being an enchantress--now I know it. Canyou tell me the future as truthfully as the past?"

"In this instance I think so. 'You shall never marry a pennilessnobody, sir. ' (And it is exactly Lady Helena's voice that speaks. )'Your family is not to be disgraced by a low marriage. This girl, whois but a sort of upper servant, hired and paid, in the family of thesecommon rich American people, is no mate for a Catheron of Catheron. Irefuse to listen to a word, sir--I insist upon this preposterousaffair being given up. ' You expostulate--in vain. And as constantdropping wears the most obstinate stone, so at last will her ladyshipconquer. You will come to me one day and say: 'Look here, Miss Darrell, I'm awfully sorry, you know, but we've made a mistake--_I've_ madea mistake. I return you your freedom--will you kindly give me backmine? And Miss Darrell will make Sir Victor Catheron her best curtseyand retire into the outer darkness from whence she came. "

He laughed. Her imitation of his own slow, accented manner of speakingwas so perfect. Only for an instant; then he was grave, almostreproachful. 

"And you know me no better than this!" he said. "I take back my words;you are no seeress. I love my aunt very dearly, but not all the auntson earth could part me from you. I would indeed be a dastard if a fewwords of objection would make me resign the girl I love. "

"I don't know, " Miss Darrell answered coolly; "it might be better forboth of us. Oh, don't get angry, please--you know what I mean. I _am_a nobody, as your somebodies go on this side. My Grandfather Stuartwas a peddler once, I believe; my Grandfather Darrell, a schoolmaster. Not a very distinguished descent. My father by education and refinementis a gentleman, but he keeps a boarding-house. And I am Miss Stuart'spaid companion and poor relation. Be wise, Sir Victor, while there istime; be warned before it is too late. I promise not to be angry--toeven admire your common-sense. Lady Helena has been as a mother to you;it isn't worth while offending her for me--I'm not worth it. There aredozens of girls in England, high-born, high-bred, and twice as handsomeas I am, who will love you and marry you to-morrow. Sir VictorCatheron, let us shake hands and part. "

She held it out to him with a smile, supremely careless and uplifted. He caught it passionately, his blue eyes afire, and covered it withkisses. 

"Not for ten thousand worlds! O Edith, how lightly you talk of parting, of giving me up. Am I then so utterly indifferent to you? No; I willnever resign you; to call you wife is the one hope of my life. Mydarling, if you knew how I love you, how empty and worthless the wholeworld seems without you! But one day you will, you must--one day youwill be able no more to live without me than I without you. Don't talklike this any more, Edith; if you knew how it hurts me you would bemore merciful, I am sure. Life can hold nothing half so bitter for meas the loss of you. "

She listened in a sort of wonder at his impassioned earnestness, looking at him shyly, wistfully. 

"You love me like this?" she said. 

"A hundred times more than this. I would die for you, Edith. How emptyand theatrical it sounds, but, Heaven knows, I would. "

She passed her hand through his arm and clasped the other round it, her bright smile back. 

"Don't die, " she said, with that smile, and her own rare, lovely blush;"do better--live for me. Ah, Sir Victor, I don't think it will be sucha _very_ hard thing to learn to like you!"

"My darling! And you will talk no more of parting--no more of givingme up? You don't really wish it, Edith, do you?"

"Most certainly not. Would I have accepted you, if I did? I'll nevergive you up while you care for me like this. If we ever part, theparting shall be your doing, not mine. "

"_My_ doing--_mine_?" he laughed aloud in his incredulity andhappiness. "The days of miracles are over, _belle amie_, but a summerbreeze could more easily uproot these oaks than that. And lest youshould think yourself fetterless and free, I will bind you at once. "He drew from his pocket a tiny morocco box. "See this ring, Edith:it has been worn by women of our house for the past two centuries--thebetrothal ring of the Catherons. Let me place it on your finger, neverto be taken off until I bind you with a golden circlet strongerstill. "

Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked at it. It was a solitaire diamondof wonderful size and brilliance, like a great drop of limpid water, set in dull red gold. 

"There is some queer old tradition extant about it, " he said, "to theeffect that the bride of a Catheron who does not wear it will lead amost unhappy life and die a most unhappy death. So, my dearest, yousee how incumbent upon you it is for your own sake to wear itreligiously. "

He laughed, but she lifted to his, two deep, thoughtful, dark eyes. 

"Did your mother wear it, Sir Victor?"

He started, the smile died from his face, his color faded. 

"My mother?" he answered; "_no_. My father married her secretly andhastily after six weeks' courtship, and of course never thought ofthe ring. 'Lead an unhappy life, die an unhappy death, '" he said, repeating his own words; "she did both, and, to the best of my belief, she never wore it. "

"An odd coincidence, at least, " said Edith, her eyes fixed on thediamond blazing in the sunshine on her hand. 

A priceless diamond on the hand of Edith Darrell, the brown hand thattwo months ago had swept, and dusted, and worked unwillingly in theshabby old house at home. 

"Don't let us talk about my mother, " Sir Victor said; "there is alwayssomething so terrible to me in the memory of her death. Your life willbe very different from hers--my poor mother. "

"I hope so, " was the grave reply; "and in my case there will be nojealous rival, will there? Sir Victor, do you know I should like tovisit Catheron Royals. If we have had love-making enough for one day, suppose we walk over?"

"I shall never have love-making enough, " he laughed. "I shall bore youawfully sometimes, I have no doubt; but when the heart is full thelips must speak. And as to walking--it is a long walk--do you thinkyou can?"

"As I am to become a naturalized Englishwoman, the sooner I take toEnglish habits the better. I shall at least make the attempt. "

"And we can drive back in time for dinner. I shall be delighted toshow you the old place--your future home, where we are to spendtogether so many happy years. "

They set off. It was a delightful walk, that sunny day, across fields, down fragrant green lanes, where the hedges in bloom made the airodorous, and the birds sang in the arching branches overhead. A long, lovely walk over that quiet high-road, where three-and-twenty yearsago, another Sir Victor Catheron had ridden away forever from the wifehe loved. 

With the yellow splendor of the afternoon sunlight gilding it, itstall trees waving, its gray turrets and towers piercing the amber air, its ivied walls, and tall stacks of chimneys, Catheron Royals came inview at last. The fallow deer browsed undisturbed, gaudy peacocksstrutted in the sun, a fawn lifted its shy wild eyes and fled away attheir approach. Over all, solemn Sabbath stillness. 

"Welcome to Catheron Royals--welcome as its mistress, my bride, mylove, " Sir Victor Catheron said. 

She lifted her eyes--they were full of tears. How good he was--howtenderly he loved her, and what a happy, grateful girl she had reasonto be. They entered the house, admitted by a very old woman, whobobbed a curtsey and looked at them with curious eyes. Two or threeold retainers took care of the place and showed it to strangers. 

Leaning on her lover's arm, Edith Darrell walked through scores ofstately rooms, immense, chill halls, picture-galleries, drawing-rooms, and chambers. What a stupendous place it was--bigger and more imposingby far than Powyss Place, and over twice as old. She looked at thepolished suits of armor, at battle-axes, antlers, pikes, halberds, until her eyes ached. She paced in awe and wonder down the vastportrait-gallery, where half a hundred dead and gone Catherons lookedat her sombrely out of their heavy frames. And one day herpicture--hers--would hang in solemn state here. The women who lookedat her from these walls lay stark and stiff in the vaults beneathChesholm Church, and sooner or later they would lay _her_ stark andstiff with them, and put up a marble tablet recording her age andvirtues. She shivered a little and drew a long breath of relief asthey emerged into the bright outer day and fresh air once more. 

"It's a wonderful place, " she said; "a place to dream, of--a placesuch as I have only met before in English books. But there is one roomamong all these rooms which you have not shown me, and which I have amorbid craving to see. You will not be angry if I ask?"

"Angry with you?" Sir Victor lifted his eyebrows in laughing surprise. "Speak, Edith, though it were half my kingdom. "

"It is--" a pause--"to see the room where your mother--Ah!" as heshrank a little, "I beg your pardon. I should not have asked. "

"Yes, yes, you should. You shall visit at once. I am a coward aboutsome things, I confess--this among others. Come. "

They went. He took from a huge bunch he carried the key of thatlong-locked room. He flung it wide, and they stood together on thethreshold. 

It was all dark, the blinds closed, the curtains drawn, dark anddeserted, as it had been since that fatal night. Nothing had beenchanged, absolutely nothing. There stood the baby bassinet, therethe little table on which the knife had lain, there beneath the openwindow the chair in which Ethel, Lady Catheron, had slept her lastlong sleep. A hush that seemed like the hush of death lay over all. 

Edith stood silent and grave--not speaking. She motioned him hastilyto come away. He obeyed. Another moment, and they stood together underthe blue bright sky. 

"Oh!" Edith said, under her breath, "who did it?"

"Who indeed? And yet Lady Helena knows. "

His face and tone were sombre. How dare they let her lie in herunavenged grave? A Catheron had done it beyond doubt, and to save theCatheron name and honor the murderer had been let go. 

"Lady Helena knows!" repeated Edith; "it _was_ that wicked brotherand sister, then? How cruel--how cruel!"

"It was not the sister--I believe _that_. That it must have been thebrother no doubt can exist. "

"Is he living or dead?"

"Living, I believe. By Heaven! I have half a mind yet to hunt him down, and hand him over to the hangman for the deed he has done!"

"An ancient name and family honor are wonderful things on this side ofthe Atlantic, a couple of million dollars on ours. They can save themurderer from the gallows. We won't talk about it, Sir Victor--itmakes you unhappy I see; only if ever I--if ever I, " laughing andblushing a little, "come to be mistress of that big, romantic oldhouse, I shall wall that room up. It will always be a hauntedchamber--a Bluebeard closet for me. "

"If ever you are mistress, " he repeated. "Edith, my dearest, when willyou be?"

"Who knows? Never, perhaps. "

"Edith--again!"

"Well, who can tell. I may die--you may die--something may happen. Ican't realize that I ever will be. I can't think of myself as LadyCatheron. "

"Edith, I command you! Name the day. "

"Now, my dear Sir Victor--"

"Dear Victor, without the prefix; let all formality end between us. Why need we wait? You are your own mistress, I my own master; I amdesperately in love--I want to be married. I _will_ be married. Thereis nothing to wait for--I _won't_ wait. Edith shall it be--this isthe last of May--shall it be the first week of July?"

"No, sir; it shall not, nor the first week of August. We don't dothings in this desperate sort of hot haste. "

"But why should we delay? What is there to delay for? I shall have abrain-fever if I am compelled to wait longer than August. Bereasonable, Edith; don't let it be later than August. "

"Now, now, now, Sir Victor Catheron, August is not to be thought of. Ishall not marry you for ages to come--not until Lady Helena Powyssgives her full and free consent. "

"Lady Helena shall give her full and free consent in a week; she couldnot refuse me anything longer if she tried. Little tyrant! if youcared for me one straw, you would not object like this. "

"Yes I would. Nobody marries in this impetuous fashion. I won't hearof August. Besides, there is my engagement with Mrs. Stuart. I havepromised to talk French and German all through the Continent for themthis summer. "

"I will furnish Mrs. Stuart a substitute with every European languageat her finger-ends. Seriously, Edith, you must consider that contractat an end--my promised wife can be no one's paid companion. Pardon me, but you must see this, Edith. "

"I see it, " she answered gravely. She had her own reasons for notwishing to accompany the Stuart family now. And after all, why shouldshe insist on postponing the marriage?

"You are relenting--I see it in your face, " he exclaimed imploringly. "Edith! Edith! shall it be the first week of September?"

She smiled and looked at him as she had done early this eventfulmorning, when she had said "Yes!"

"As brain-fever threatens if I refuse, I suppose you must have yourway. But talk of the willfulness of women after this!"

"Then it shall be the first of September--St Partridge Day?"

"It shall be St. Partridge Day. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

HOW CHARLEY TOOK IT. 

Meantime the long sunny hours, that passed so pleasantly for theseplighted lovers, lagged drearily enough for one young lady at PowyssPlace--Miss Beatrix Stuart. 

She had sent for her mother and told her the news. Placid Aunt Chattylifted her meek eyebrows and opened her dim eyes as she listened. 

"Sir Victor Catheron going to marry our Edith! Dear me! I am sure Ithought it was you, Trixy, all the time. And Edith will be a greatlady after all. Dear me!"

That was all Mrs. Stuart had to say about it. She went back to hertatting with a serene quietude that exasperated her only daughterbeyond bounds. 

"I wonder if an earthquake would upset ma's equanimity!" thought Trixsavagely. "Well, wait until Charley comes! We'll see how he takes it. "

Misery loves company. If she was to suffer the pangs of disappointmentherself, it would be some comfort to see Charley suffer also. And Trixwas not a bad-hearted girl either, mind--it was simply human nature. 

Charley and the captain had gone off exploring the wonders andantiquities of Chester. Edith and Sir Victor were nobody knew where. Lady Helena had a visitor, and was shut up with her. Trix had nothingbut her novel, and what were all the novels in Mudie's library to herthis bitter day?

The long, red spears of the sunset were piercing the green depths offern and brake, when the two young men rode home. A servant waylaid Mr. Stuart and delivered his sister's message. She wanted to see him atonce on important business. 

"Important business!" murmured Charley, opening his eyes. 

But he went promptly without waiting to change his dress. 

"How do, Trix?" he said, sauntering in. "Captain Hammond's compliments, and how's the ankle?"

He threw himself--no, Charley never threw himself--he slowly extendedhis five-feet-eleven of manhood on a sofa, and awaited his sister'sreply. 

"Oh, the ankle's just the same--getting better, I suppose, " Trixanswered, rather crossly. "I didn't send for you to talk about myankle. Much you, or Captain Hammond, or any one else cares whetherI have an ankle at all or not. "

"My dear Trix, a young lady's ankle is always a matter of profoundinterest and admiration to every well-regulated masculine mind. "

"Bah! Charley, you'll never guess what I have to tell!"

"My child, I don't intend to try. I have been sight-seeing all theafternoon, interviewing cathedrals, and walls, and rows, and places, until I give you my word you might knock me down with a feather. Ifyou have anything preying on your mind--and I see you have--out withit. Suspense is painful. "

He closed his eyes, and calmly awaited the news. It came--like a boltfrom a bow. 

"Charley, Sir Victor Catheron has proposed to Edith, and Edith hasaccepted him!"

Charley opened his eyes, and fixed them upon her--not the faintesttrace of surprise or any other earthly emotion upon his fatigued face. 

"Ah--and _that's_ your news! Poor child! After all your efforts, it'srather hard upon you. But if you expect me to be surprised, you doyour only brother's penetration something less than justice. It hasbeen an evident case of spoons--apparent to the dullest intellectfrom the first. I have long outlived the tender passion myself, butin others I always regard it with a fatherly--nay--let me say, evengrandfatherly interest. And so they are going to 'live and lovetogether through many changing years, ' as the poet says. Bless you, "said Charley, lifting his hand over an imaginary pair of lovers athis feet--"bless you, my children, and be happy!"

And this was all! And she had thought he was in love with Edithhimself! This was all--closing his eyes again as though sinkingsweetly to sleep. It was too much for Trix. 

"O Charley!" she burst forth, "you _are_ such a fool!"

Mr. Stuart rose to his feet. 

"Overpowered by the involuntary homage of this assembly, I rise to--"

"You're an idiot--there!" went on Trix; "a lazy, stupid idiot! You'rein love with Edith yourself, and you could have had her if you wished, for she likes you better than Sir Victor, and then Sir Victor mighthave proposed to me. But no--you must go dawdling about, prowling, andprancing, and let her slip through your fingers!"

"Prowling and prancing! Good Heaven, Trix! I ask you soberly, as manto man, did you ever see me prowl or prance in the whole course of mylife?"

"Bah-h-h!" said Trix, with a perfect shake of scorn in theinterjection. "I've no patience with you! Get out of my room--do!"

Mr. Stuart, senior, was the only one who did _not_ take it quietly. His bile rose at once. 

"Edith! Edith Darrell! Fred Darrell's penniless daughter! BeatrixStuart, have you let this young baronet slip through your fingers inthis ridiculous way after all?"

"I never let him slip--he never was in my fingers, " retorted Trix, nearly crying. "It's just my usual luck. I don't want him--he's astupid noodle--that's what he is. Edith's better-looking than I am. Any one can see that with half an eye, and when I was sick on thathorrid ship, she had everything her own way. I did my best--yes I did, pa--and I think it's a little too hard to be scolded in this way, withmy poor sprained ankle and everything!"

"Well, there, there, child!" exclaimed Mr. Stuart, testily, for he wasfond of Trix; "don't cry. There's as good fish in the sea as ever werecaught. As to being better-looking than you, I don't believe a word ofit. I never liked your dark complected women myself. You're the biggestand the best-looking young woman of the two, by George!" (Mr. Stuart'sgrammar was hardly up to the standard. ) "There's this young fellow, Hammond--his father's a lord--rich, too, if his grandfather _did_ makeit cotton-spinning. Now, why can't you set your cap for _him_? Whenthe old rooster dies, this young chap will be a lord himself, anda lord's better than a baronet, by George! Come downstairs, Trixy, and put on your stunningest gown, and see if you can't hook themilitary swell. "

Following these pious parental counsels, Miss Trix _did_ assume her"stunningest" gown, and with the aid of her brother and a crutch, managed to reach the dining-room. There Lady Helena, pale andpreoccupied, joined them. No allusion was made at dinner to _the_topic--a visible restraint was upon all. 

"Old lady don't half like it, " chuckled Stuart _pere_. "And no wonder, by George! If it was Charley I shouldn't like it myself. I must speakto Charley after dinner--there's this Lady Gwendoline. He's got tomarry the upper-crust too. Lady Gwendoline Stuart wouldn't sound bad, by George! I'm glad there's to be a baronet in the family, even ifit isn't Trixy. A cousin's daughter's better than nothing. "

So in the first opportunity after dinner Mr. Stuart presented hiscongratulations as blandly as possible to the future Lady Catheron. Inthe next opportunity he attacked his son on the subject of LadyGwendoline. 

"Take example by your Cousin Edith, my boy, " said Mr. Stuart in alarge voice, standing with his hands under his coat-tails. "Thatgirl's a credit to her father and family, by George! Look at thematch _she's_ making without a rap to bless herself with. Now you'vea fortune in prospective, young man, that would buy and sell half adozen of these beggarly lordlings. You've youth and good looks, andgood manners, or if you haven't you ought to have, and I say you shallmarry a title, by George! There's this Lady Gwendoline--she ain'trich, but she's an earl's daughter. Now what's to hinder your goingfor _her_?"

Charley looked up meekly from the depths of his chair. 

"As you like it, governor. In all matters matrimonial I simplyconsider myself as non-existent. Only this, I _will_ premise--I amready to marry her, but not to court her. As you truthfully observe, I have youth, good looks, and good manners, but in all thingsappertaining to love and courtship, I'm as ignorant as the childunborn. Matrimony is an ill no man can hope to escape--love-making_is_. As a prince in my own right, I claim that the wooing shallbe done by deputy. There is her most gracious majesty, she poppedthe question to the late lamented Prince Consort. Could LadyGwendoline have any more illustrious example to follow? You settlethe preliminaries. Let Lady Gwendoline do the proposing, and you maylead me any day you please as a lamb to the slaughter. "

With this reply, Mr. Stuart, senior, was forced for the present to becontent and go on his way. Trix, overhearing, looked up with interest:

"_Would_ you marry her, Charley?"

"Certainly, Beatrix; haven't I said so? If a man _must_ marry, aswell a Lady Gwendoline as any one else. As Dundreary says, 'One womanis as good as another, and a good deal better. '"

"But you've never seen her. "

"What difference does that make? I suppose the Prince of Wales neversaw Alexandra until the matter was cut and dry. You see I love toquote lofty examples. Hammond has described her, and I should say fromhis description she is what Barry Cornwall would call 'a golden girl'in everything except fortune. Hammond speaks of her as though she weremade of precious metals and gems. She has golden hair, alabaster brow, sapphire eyes, pearly teeth, and ruby nose. Or, stay--perhaps it wasruby lips and chiselled nose. Chiselled, sounds as though her olfactoryorgan was of marble or granite, doesn't it? And she's three-and-thirtyyears of age. I found that out for myself from the Peerage. It'srather an advantage, however, than otherwise, for a man's wife to beten or twelve years the elder. You see she combines all the qualitiesof wife and mother in one. "

And then Charley sauntered away to the whist-table to join his fatherand mother and Lady Helena. He had as yet found no opportunity ofspeaking to Edith, and at dinner she had studiously avoided meetinghis eye. Captain Hammond took his post beside Miss Stuart's invalidcouch, and made himself agreeable and entertaining to that young lady. 

Trixy's eyes gradually brightened, and her color came back; she heldhim a willing captive by her side all the evening through. Papa Stuartfrom his place at the whist table beamed paternal approval down thelong room. 

A silken-hung arch separated this drawing-room from another smaller, where the piano stood. Except for two waxlights on the piano, thissecond drawing-room was in twilight. Edith sat at the piano, SirVictor stood beside her. Her hands wandered over the keys in soft, dreamy melodies; they talked in whispers when they talked at all. Thespell of a silence, more delicious than words, held the young baronet;he was nearing the speechless phase of the _grande passion_. Thatthere _is_ a speechless phase, I have been credibly assured againand again, by parties who have had experience in the matter, andcertainly ought to know. 

At half-past ten Lady Helena, pleading headache, rose from thewhist-table, said good-night, and went away to her room. She lookedill and worn, and strangely anxious. Her nephew, awaking from histrance of bliss, and seeing her pale face, gave her his arm andassisted her up the long stairway to her room. Mrs. Stuart, yawningvery much, followed her example. Mr. Stuart went out through the openFrench window to smoke a last cigar. Captain Hammond and Trix werefathoms deep in their conversation. Miss Darrell, in the inner room, stood alone, her elbow resting on the low marble mantel, her eyesfixed thoughtfully on the wall before her. The twinkle of the taperslighted up the diamond on her hand, glowing like a miniature sun. 

"You have been so completely monopolized all evening, Dithy, " said afamiliar voice beside her, "that there has been no such thing asspeaking a word to you. Better late than never, though, I hope. "

She lifted her eyes to Charley's face, Charley looking as he everlooked to her, "a man of men, " handsome and gallant, as though he wereindeed the prince they called him. He took in his, the hand hanging soloosely by her side, the hand that wore the ring. 

"What a pretty hand you have, Edie, and how well diamonds become it. Ithink you were born to wear diamonds, my handsome cousin, and walk insilk attire. A magnificent ring, truly--an heirloom, no doubt, in theCatheron family. My dear cousin, Trix has been telling me the news. Isit necessary to say I congratulate you with all my heart?"

His face, his voice, his pleasant smile held no emotion whatever, savethat of kindly, cousinly regard. His bright gray eyes looked at herwith brotherly frankness, nothing more. 

The color that came so seldom, and made her so lovely, rose deep toEdith's cheeks--this time the flush of anger. Her dark eyes gleamedscornfully; she drew her hand suddenly and contemptuously away. 

"It is not necessary at all, Cousin Charley. Pray don't troubleyourself--I know how you hate trouble--to turn fine phrases. I don'twant congratulations; I am too happy to need them. "

"Yet being the correct thing to do, and knowing what a stickler youare for _les convenances_, Edith, you will still permit me humblyto offer them. It is a most suitable match; I congratulate Sir Victoron his excellent taste and judgment. He is the best fellow alive, andyou--I _will_ say it, though you are my cousin--will be a bride evena baronet may be proud of. I wish you both, all the happiness sosuitable a match deserves. "

Was this sarcasm--was it real? She could not tell, well as sheunderstood him. His placid face, his serene eyes were as cloudless asa summer sky. Yes, he meant it, and only the other day he had told herhe loved her. She could have laughed aloud--Charley Stuart's love!

On the instant Sir Victor returned. In his secret heart the baronetwas mortally jealous of Charley. The love that Edith could not givehim, he felt instinctively, had long ago been given to her handsomecousin. There was latent jealousy in his face now, as he drew near. 

"Am I premature, Sir Victor, in offering my congratulations?" Charleysaid, with pleasant cordiality; "if so, the fact of Edith's being mycousin, almost my sister, must excuse it. You are a fortunate man, baronet. It would be superfluous to wish you joy--you have an overplusof that article already. "

Sir Victor's brow cleared. Charley's frankness, Charley's perfectgood-humor staggered him. Had he then been mistaken after all? Hestretched forth his hand and grasped that of Edith's cousin. 

She turned suddenly and walked away, a passion of anger within her, flashing as she went a look of hatred--yes, absolute hatred--uponCharley. She had brought it upon herself, she had deserved it all, buthow dared he mock her with his smiles, his good wishes, when he knew, he _knew_ that her whole heart was in his keeping?

"It shall not be in his keeping long, " she said savagely, between herset teeth. "Ingrate! More unstable than water! And I was fool enoughto cry for him and myself that night at Killarney. "

It was half-past eleven when she went up to her room. She hadstudiously avoided Charley all the remainder of the evening. She haddemeaned herself to her affianced with a smiling devotion that hadnearly turned his brain. But the smiles and the brightness all fadedaway as she said good-night. She toiled wearily up the stairs, pale, tired, spiritless, half her youth and beauty gone. Farther down thepassage she could hear Charley's mellow voice trolling carelessly asong:

 "Did you ever have a cousin, Tom? And could that cousin sing? Sisters we have by the dozen, Tom, But a cousin's a different thing. "

Every one went to bed, and to sleep perhaps, but Sir Victor Catheron. He was too happy to sleep. He lit a cigar and paced to and fro in thesoft darkness, thinking of the great bliss this day had brought him, thinking over her every word and smile, thinking that the first ofSeptember would give him his darling forever. He walked beneath herwindow of course. She caught a glimpse of him, and with intolerantimpatience extinguished her lights and shrouded herself and her wickedrebellion in darkness. His eyes strayed from hers to his aunt's, farther along the same side. Yes, in her room lights still burned. Lady Helena usually kept early hours, as befitted her years andinfirmities. What did she mean by "burning the midnight oil" to-night. Was that black lady from London with her still? and in what way wasshe mixed up with his aunt? What would they tell him to-morrow? Whatsecret did his aunt hold? They could tell him nothing that could inthe slightest influence his marriage with Edith, that he knew; butstill he wondered a little what it all could be. At one the lightswere still burning. He was surprised, but he would wait no longer. Hewaved his hand towards Miss Darrell's room, this very far gone youngman. "Good-night, my love, my own, " he murmured Byronically, and wentto bed to sleep and dream of her. And no warning voice came in thosedreams to tell Sir Victor Catheron it was the last perfectly happynight he would ever know. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

TO-MORROW. 

To-morrow came, gray and overcast. The fine weather which had lastedalmost since their leaving New York showed signs of breaking up. MissStuart's ankle was so much better that she was able to limp downstairsat eleven, A. M. , to breakfast, and resume her flirtation with CaptainHammond where it had broken off last night. Miss Darrell had a headacheand did not appear. And, in the absence of his idol and day star, SirVictor collapsed and ate his morning meal in silence and sadness. 

Breakfast over, he walked to one of the windows, looking out at therain, which was beginning to drift against the glass, and wondering, drearily, how he was to drag through the long hours without Edith. Hemight go and play billiards with the other fellows; but no, he was toorestless even for that. What was he to do to kill time? It was arelief when a servant came with a message from his aunt. 

"My lady's compliments, Sir Victor, and will you please step upstairsat once. "

"Now for the grand secret, " he thought; "the skeleton in the familycloset--the discovery of the mysterious woman in black. "

The woman in black was nowhere visible when he entered his aunt'sapartments. Lady Helena sat alone, her face pale, her eyes heavy andred as though with weeping, but all the anger, all the excitement ofyesterday gone. 

"My dear aunt, " the young man said, really concerned, "I am sorry tosee you looking so ill. And--surely you have not been crying?"

"Sit down, " his aunt replied. "Yes, I have been crying. I have hadgood reason to cry for many years past. I have sent for you, Victor, to tell you all--at least all it is advisable to tell you at present. And, before I begin, let me apologize if anything I may have saidyesterday on the subject of your engagement has wounded you. "

"Dear Lady Helena, between you and me there can be no talk of pardon. It was your right to object if you saw cause, and no doubt it isnatural that Edith's want of birth and fortune would weigh with you. But they do not weigh with me, and I know the happiness of my life tobe very near your heart. I have only to say again that that happinesslies entirely with her--that without her I should be the most miserablefellow alive--to hear you withdraw every objection and take my darlingto your arms as your daughter. "

She sighed heavily as she listened. 

"A wilful man must have his way. You are, as you told me yesterday, your own master, free to do as you please. To Miss Darrell personallyI have no objection; she is beautiful, well-bred, and, I believe, anoble girl. Her poverty and obscure birth _are_ drawbacks in my eyes, but, since they are not so in yours, I will allude to them no more. The objections I made yesterday to your marriage I would have madehad your bride been a duke's daughter. I had hoped--it was an absurdhope--that you would not think of marriage for many years to come, perhaps not at all. "

"But, Aunt Helena--"

"Do I not say it was an absurd hope? The fact is, Victor, I have beena coward--a nervous, wretched coward from first to last. I shut myeyes to the truth. I feared you might fall in love with this girl, butI put the fear away from me. The time has come when the truth must bespoken, when my love for you can shield you no longer. Before youmarry you must know all. Do you remember, in the heat of my excitementyesterday, telling you you had no right to the title you bear? In onesense I spoke the truth. Your father--" she gasped and paused. 

"My father?" he breathlessly repeated. 

"Your father is alive. "

He sat and looked at her--stunned. What was she saying? His fatheralive, after all those years! and he not Sir Victor Catheron! He halfrose--ashen pale. 

"Lady Helena, what is this? My father alive--my father, whom fortwenty years--since I could think at all--I have thought dead! Whatvile deception is here?"

"Sit down, Victor; you shall hear all. There is no vile deception--thedeception, such as it is, has been by his own desire. Your fatherlives, but he is hopelessly insane. "

He sat looking at her, pale, stern, almost confounded. 

"He--he never recovered from the, shock of his wife's dreadful death, "went on her ladyship, her voice trembling. "Health returned after thatterrible brain fever, but not reason. We took him away--the bestmedical aid everywhere was tried--all in vain. For years he washopelessly, utterly insane, never violent, but mind and memory a totalblank. He was incurable--he would never reclaim his title, but hisbodily health was good, and he might live for many years. Why thendeprive you of your rights, since in no way you defrauded him? Theworld was given to understand he was dead, and you, as you grew up, took his place as though the grave had indeed closed over him. Butlegally, as you see for yourself, you have no claim to it. "

Still he sat gazing at her--still he sat silent, his lips compressed, waiting for the end. 

"Of late years, gleams of reason have returned, fitfully and atuncertain times. On these rare occasions he has spoken of you, hasexpressed the desire that you should still be kept in ignorance, thathe shall ever be to the world dead. You perceive, therefore, though itis my duty to tell you this, it need in no way alarm you, as he willnever interfere with your claims. "

Still he sat silent--a strange, intent listening expression on hisface. 

"You recollect the lady who came here yesterday, " she continued. "Victor, looking far back into the past, have you no recollection ofsome one, fair and young, who used to bend over you at night, hear yousay your baby prayers, and sing you to sleep? Try and think. "

He bent his head in assent. 

"I remember, " he answered. 

"Do you recall how she looked--has her face remained in your memory?"

"She had dark eyes and hair, and was handsome. I remember no more. "

She looked at him wistfully. 

"Victor, have you no idea who that woman was--none?"

"None, " he replied coldly. "How could I, since she was not my mother. I never heard her name. Who was she?"

"She was the lady you saw yesterday. "

"Who was the lady I saw yesterday?"

She paused a moment, then replied, still with that wistful glance onhis face:

"Inez Catheron. "

"What?" Again he half-started to his feet. "The woman who was mymother's rival and enemy, who made her life wretched, who wasconcerned in her murder! Whom _you_ aided to escape from Chesholmjail! The woman who, directly or indirectly, is guilty of her death!"

"Sir Victor Catheron, how dare you!" Lady Helen also started to herfeet, her face flushing with haughty anger. "I tell you Inez Catheronhas been a martyr--not a murderess. She was your mother's rival, asshe had a right to be--was she not your father's plighted wife, longbefore he ever saw Ethel Dobb? She was your mother's rival. It was heronly fault, and her whole life has been spent in expiating it. Was itnot atonement sufficient, that for the crime of another, she should bebranded with life-long infamy, and banished forever from home andfriends?"

"If the guilt was not hers it was her brother's, and she was privy toit, " the young man retorted, with sullen coldness. 

"Who are you, that you should say whether it was or not? The assassinis known to Heaven, and Heaven has dealt with him. Accuse noone--neither Juan Catheron nor his sister--all human judgment isliable to err. Of your mother's death Inez Catheron is innocent--by ither whole life has been blighted. To your father, that life has beenconsecrated. She has been his nurse, his companion, his more thansister or mother all those years. _I_ loved him, and I could not havedone what she has done. He used her brutally--brutally I say--andher revenge has been life-long devotion and sacrifice. All those yearsshe has never left him. She will never leave him until he dies. "

She sank back in her seat, trembling, exhausted. He listened ingrowing wonder. 

"You believe me?" she demanded imperiously. 

"I believe you, " he replied sadly. "My dear aunt, forgive me. Ibelieve all you have said. Can I not see her and thank her too?"

"You shall see her. It is for that she has remained. Stay here; I willsend her to you. She deserves your thanks, though all thanks are butempty and vain for such a life-long martyrdom as hers. "

She left him hastily. Profound silence fell. He turned and looked outat the fast-falling rain, at the trees swaying in the fitful wind, atthe dull, leaden sky. Was he asleep and dreaming? His father alive! Hesat half dazed, unable to realize it. 

"Victor!"

He had not heard the door open, he had not heard her approach, but shestood beside him. All in black, soft, noiseless black, a face devoidof all color; large, sad, soft eyes, and hair white as wintersnow--that was the woman Sir Victor Catheron saw as he turned round. The face, with all its settled sadness and pallor, was still the faceof a beautiful woman, and in weird contradiction to its youth andbeauty, were the smooth bands of abundant hair--white as the hair ofeighty. The deep, dusk eyes, once so full of pride and fire, looked athim with the tender, saddened light, long, patient suffering hadwrought; the lips, once curved in haughtiest disdain, had taken thesweetness of years of hopeless pain. And so, after three-and-twentyyears, Victor Catheron saw the woman, whose life his father's falsityand fickleness had wrecked. 

"Victor!"

She held out her hand to him shyly, wistfully. The ban of murder hadbeen upon her all these years. Who was to tell that in his inmostheart he too might not brand her as a murderess? But she need not havedoubted. If any suspicion yet lingered in his mind, it vanished as helooked at her. 

"Miss Catheron!" He grasped her hand, and held it between both his own. "I have but just heard all, for the first time, as you know. That myfather lives--that to him you have nobly consecrated your life. He hasnot deserved it at your hands; let my father's son thank you with allhis soul!"

"Ah, hush, " she said softly. "I want no thanks. Your poor father! AuntHelena has told you how miserably all _his_ life has been wrecked--alife once so full of promise. "

"She has told me all, Miss Catheron. "

"Not Miss Catheron, " she interposed, with a smile that lit her wornface into youth and beauty; "not Miss Catheron, surely--Inez, CousinInez, if you will. It is twenty-three years--do you know it?--sinceany one has called me Miss Catheron before. You can't fancy how oddlyit sounds. "

He looked at her in surprise. 

"You do not bear your own name? And yet I might have known it, lyingas you still do--"

"Under the ban of murder. " She shuddered slightly as she said it. "Yes, when I fled that dreadful night from Chesholm prison, and made my wayto London, I left my name behind me. I took at first the name of MissBlack. I lived in dingy lodgings in that crowded part of London, Lambeth; and for the look of the thing, took in sewing. It was of allthose years the most dreary, the most miserable and lonely time of myprobation. I lived there four months; then came the time of yourfather's complete restoration to bodily health, and confirmation ofthe fear that his mind was entirely gone. What was to be done with him?Lady Helena was at a loss to know. There were private asylums, but shedisliked the idea of shutting him up in one. He was perfectly gentle, perfectly harmless, perfectly insane. Lady Helena came to see me, andI, pining for the sight of a familiar face, sick and weary to death ofthe wretched neighborhood in which I lived, proposed the plan that hasever since been the plan of my life. Let Lady Helena take a house, retired enough to be safe, sufficiently suburban to be healthy; lether place Victor there with me; let Mrs. Marsh, my old friend andhousekeeper at Catheron Royals, become my housekeeper once more; letHooper the butler take charge of us, and let us all live together. Ithought then, and I think still, it was the best thing for him and forme that could have been suggested. Aunt Helena acted upon it at once;she found a house, on the outskirts of St. John's Wood--a large house, set in spacious grounds, and inclosed by a high wall, called 'PoplarLodge. ' It suited us in every way; it combined all the advantages oftown and country. She leased it from the agent for a long term ofyears, for a 'Mr. And Mrs. Victor, ' Mr. Victor being in very poorhealth. Secretly and by night we removed your father there, and sincethe night of his entrance he has never passed the gates. From thefirst--in the days of my youth and my happiness--my life belonged tohim; it will belong to him to the end. Hooper and Marsh are with mestill, old and feeble now; and of late years I don't think I have beenunhappy. "

She sighed and looked out at the dull, rain-beaten day. The young manlistened in profound pity and admiration. Not unhappy! Branded withthe deadliest crime man can commit or the law punish--an exile, arecluse, the life-long companion of an insane man and two old servants!No wonder that at forty her hair was gray--no wonder all life andcolor had died out of that hopeless face years ago. Perhaps his eyestold her what was passing in his mind; she smiled and answered thatlook. 

"I have not been unhappy, Victor; I want you to believe it. Yourfather was always more to me than all the world beside--he is so still. He is but the wreck of the Victor I loved, and yet I would ratherspend my life by his side than elsewhere on earth. And I was not quiteforsaken. Aunt Helena often came and brought you. It seems butyesterday since I had you in my arms rocking you asleep, and now--andnow they tell me you are going to be married. "

The sensitive color rose over his face for a second, then faded, leaving him very pale. 

"I was going to be married, " he answered slowly, "but she does notknow this. My father lives--the title and inheritance are his, notmine. Who is to tell what she may say now?"

The dark, thoughtful eyes looked at him earnestly. 

"Does she love you?" she asked; "this Miss Darrell? I need hardlyinquire whether _you_ love her. "

"I love her so dearly that if I lose her--" He paused and turned hisface away from her in the gray light. "I wish I had known this fromthe first; I ought to have known. It may have been meant in kindness, but I believe it was a mistake. Heaven knows how it will end now. "

"You mean to say, then, that in the hour you lose your title andinheritance you also lose Miss Darrell? Is that it?"

"I have said nothing of the kind. Edith is one of the noblest, thetruest of women; but can't you see--it looks as though she had beendeceived, imposed upon. The loss of title and wealth would make adifference to any woman on earth. "

"Very little to a woman who loves, Victor. I hope--I hope--this younggirl loves you?"

Again the color rose over his face--again he turned impatiently away. 

"She _will_ love me, " he answered; "she has promised it, and EdithDarrell is a girl to keep her word. "

"So, " Miss Catheron said, softly and sadly, "it is the old Frenchproverb over again, 'There is always one who loves, and one who isloved. ' She has owned to you that she is not in love with you, then?Pardon me, Victor, but your happiness is very near to me. "

"She has owned it, " he answered, "with the rare nobility and candorthat belongs to her. Such affection as mine will win its return--'lovebegets love, ' they say. It _must_. "

"Not always, Victor--ah, not always, else what a happy woman _I_ hadbeen! But surely she cares for no one else?"

"She cares for no one else, " he answered, doggedly enough, but in hisinmost heart that never-dying jealousy of Charley Stuart rankled. "Shecares for no one else--she has told me so, and she is pride, and truth, and purity itself. If I lose her through this, then this secret ofinsanity will have wrecked forever still another life. "

"If she is what you picture her, " Inez said steadily, "no loss of rankor fortune would ever make her give you up. But you are not to loseeither--you need not even tell her, if you choose. "

"I can have no secrets from my plighted wife--Edith must know all. Butthe secret will be as safe with her as with me. "

"Very well, " she said quietly; "you know what the result will be if byany chance 'Mrs. Victor' and Inez Catheron are discovered to be one. But it shall be exactly as you please. Your father is as dead to you, to all the world, as though he lay in the vaults of Chesholm church, by your mother's side. "

"My poor mother! my poor, murdered, unavenged mother! Inez Catheron, you are a noble woman--a brave woman; was it well to aid your brotherto escape?--was it well, for the sake of saving the Catheron honor andthe Catheron name, to permit a most cruel and cowardly murder to gounavenged?"

What was it that looked up at him out of her eyes? Infinite pity, infinite sorrow, infinite pain. 

"My brother, " she repeated softly, as if to herself; "poor Juan! hewas the scapegoat of the family always. Yes, Sir Victor, it was acruel and cowardly murder, and yet I believe in my soul we did rightto screen the murderer from the world. It is in the hands of theAlmighty--there let it rest. "

There was a pause--then:

"I shall return with you to London and see my father, " he said, as onewho claims a right. 

"No, " she answered firmly; "it is impossible. Stay! Hear me out--it isyour father's own wish. "

"My father's wish! But--"

"He cannot express a wish, you would say. Of late years, Victor, atwide intervals, his reason has returned for a brief space--all theworse for him. "

"The worse for him!" The young man looked at her blankly. "MissCatheron, do you mean to say it is better for him to be mad?"

"Much better--such madness as his. He does not think--he does notsuffer. Memory to him is torture; he loved your mother, Victor--and helost her--terribly lost her. With memory returns the anguish anddespair of that loss as though it were but yesterday. If you saw himas I see him, you would pray as I do, that his mind might be blottedout forever. "

"Good Heaven! this is terrible. "

"Life is full of terrible things--tragedies, secrets--this is one ofthem. In these rare intervals of sanity he speaks of you--it is he whodirected, in case of your marriage, that you should be told thismuch--that you are not to be brought to see him, until--"

She paused. 

"Until--"

"Until he lies upon his death-bed. That day will be soon, Victor--soon, soon. Those brief glimpses of reason and memory have shortened life. What he suffers in these intervals no words of mine can tell. On hisdeath-bed you are to see him--not before; and then you shall be toldthe story of your mother's death. No, Victor, spare me now--all I cantell you I have told. I return home by the noon-day train; and, beforeI go, I should like to see this girl who is to be your wife. See, Iwill remain by this window, screened by the curtain. Can you not fetchher by some pretence or other beneath it, that I may look and judgefor myself?"

"I can try, " he said, turning to go. "I have your consent to tell hermy father is alive? I will tell her no more--it is not necessary sheshould know _you_ are his keeper. "

"That much you may tell her--it is her right. When I have seen her, come to me and say good-by. "

"I shall not say good-by until I say it at Chester Station. Of course, I shall see you off. Wait here; if Edith is able to come out you shallsee her. She kept her room this morning with headache. "

He left her, half-dazed with what he had heard. He went to thedrawing-room--the Stuarts and Captain Hammond were there--not Edith. 

"Has Edith come down?" he asked. "I wish to speak to her for a moment. "

"Edith is prowling about in the rain, somewhere, like an uneasy ghost, "answered Trixy; "no doubt wet feet, and discomfort, and dampnessgenerally are cures for headache; or, perhaps, she's looking for_you_. "

He hardly waited to hear her out before he started in pursuit. As iffavored by fortune, he caught a glimpse of Edith's purple dress amongthe trees in the distance. She had no umbrella, and was wanderingabout pale and listless in the rain. 

"Edith, " Sir Victor exclaimed, "out in all this downpour without anumbrella? You will get your death of cold. "

"I never take cold, " she answered indifferently. "I always liked torun out in the rain ever since I was a child. I must be an amphibioussort of animal, I think. Besides, the damp air helps my headache. "

He drew her hand within his arm and led her slowly in the direction ofthe window where the watcher stood. 

"Edith, " he began abruptly, "I have news for you. To call it bad newswould sound inhuman, and yet it has half-stunned me. It is this--myfather is alive. "

"Sir Victor!"

"Alive, Edith--hopelessly insane, but alive. That is the news LadyHelena and one other, have told me this morning. It has stunned me; Irepeat--is it any wonder? All those years I have thought him dead, andto-day I discover that from first to last I have been deceived. "

She stood mute with surprise. His father alive--madness in the family. Truly it would have been difficult for Sir Victor or any one else tocall this good news. They were directly beneath the window. He glancedup--yes, a pale face gleamed from behind the curtain, gazing down atthat other pale face by Sir Victor's side. Very pale, very set justnow. 

"Then if your father is alive, _he_ is Sir Victor and not you?"

Those were the first words she spoke; her tone cold, her glanceunsympathetic. 

His heart contracted. 

"He will never interfere with my claim--they assure me of that. Alivein reality, he is dead, to the world. Edith, would it make anydifference--if I lost title and estate, would I also lose _you_?"

The beseeching love in his eyes might have moved her, but just atpresent she felt as though a stone lay in her bosom instead of a heart. 

"I am not a sentimental sort of girl, Sir Victor, " she answeredsteadily. "I am almost too practical and worldly, perhaps. And I mustown it would make a difference. I have told you I am not in love withyou--as yet--you have elected to take me and wait for that. I tell younow truthfully, if you were not Sir Victor Catheron, I would not marryyou. It is best I should be honest, best I should not deceive you. Youare a thousand times too good for so mercenary a creature as I am, andif you leave me it will only be serving me right. I don't want tobreak my promise, to draw back, but I feel in the mood for plainspeaking this morning. If you feel that you can't marry me on thoseterms--and I don't deserve that you should--now is the time to speak. No one will be readier than I to own that it serves me right. "

He looked and listened, pale to the lips. 

"Edith, in Heaven's name, do you _wish_ me to give you up?"

"No, I wish nothing of the sort. I have promised to marry you, and Iam ready to keep that promise; but if you expect love or devotion fromme, I tell you frankly I have neither to give. If you are willingstill to take me, and"--smiling--"I see you are--I am still ready tobe your wife--your true and faithful wife from the first--your lovingwife, I hope, in the end. "

They said no more. He led her back to the house, then left her. Hehastened to Miss Catheron, more sombre even than when he had quittedher. 

"Well, " he said briefly, "you saw her?"

"I saw her. It is a beautiful face, a proud face, a truthful face, andyet--"

"Go on, " he said impatiently. "Don't try to spare me. I am growingaccustomed to unpleasant truths. "

"I may be wrong, but something in her face tells me she does not loveyou, and, " under her breath, "never will. "

"It will come in time. With or without love, she is willing to be mywife--that is happiness enough for the present. "

"You told her all?"

"I told her my father was alive and insane--no more. It will make nodifference in our plans--none. We are to be married the first ofSeptember. The secret is safe with her. "

The door opened, and Lady Helena came hastily in. 

"If you wish to catch the 12. 50 train, Inez, " she said, "you must goat once. It is a long drive from this to the station. The brougham iswaiting--shall I accompany you?"

"I will accompany her, " said Sir Victor. "You had better return to ourguests. They will begin to feel themselves neglected. "

Miss Catheron left the room. In five minutes she reappeared, closelyveiled, as when he had met her on the stairs. The adieux were hastilymade. He gave her his arm and led her down to the close brougham. Asthey passed before the drawing-room windows, Miss Stuart uttered anexclamation:

"Oh! I say! where is Sir Victor going in the rain, and who is thedismal-looking lady in black? Edith, who is it? _You_ ought to know. "

"I don't know, " Edith answered briefly, not looking up from her book. 

"Hasn't Sir Victor told you?"

"I haven't asked Sir Victor. "

"Oh, you haven't, and he hasn't told? Well, all I have to say is, thatwhen _I'm_ engaged I hope the object of my affections will keep nosecrets from me. "

"As if he could!" murmurs Captain Hammond. 

"I declare, he is going off with her. Edith, do come and look. There!they are driving away together, as fast as they can go. "

But Edith never stirred. If she felt the slightest curiosity on thesubject, her face did not show it. 

They drove rapidly through the rain, and barely caught the train atthat. He placed her hurriedly in an empty carriage, a moment before itstarted. As it flew by he caught one last glimpse of a veiled face, and a hand waving farewell. Then the train and the woman were out ofsight. 

Like a man who walks in his sleep, Sir Victor Catheron turned, re-entered the brougham, and was driven home. 

CHAPTER XV. 

LADY HELENA'S BALL. 

Three days after, on Thursday, the fifth of June, Lady Helena Powyssgave a very large dinner-party, followed by a ball in honor of herAmerican guests. When it is your good fortune to number half a countyamong your friends, relatives, and acquaintances, it is possible to beat once numerous and select. The creme de la creme of Cheshireassembled in Lady Helena's halls of dazzling light, to do honor to SirVictor Catheron's bride-elect. 

For the engagement had been formally announced, and was the choice bitof gossip, with which the shire regaled itself. Sir Victor Catheronwas following in the footsteps of his father, and was about to bringto Catheron Royals one of the lower orders as its mistress. It was theDobb blood no doubt cropping up--these sort of mesalliances _will_tell. An American, too--a governess, a poor relation of some commonrich people from the States. The best county families, with daughtersto marry, shook their heads. It was very sad--_very_ sad, to see agood old name and a good old family degenerate in this way. But therewas always a taint of madness in the Catheron blood--that accountedfor a good deal. Poor Sir Victor--and poor Lady Helena. 

But everybody came. They might be deeply shocked and sorry, but stillSir Victor Catheron _was_ Sir Victor Catheron, the richest baronetin the county, and Catheron Royals always a pleasant house tovisit--the reigning Lady Catheron always a desirable acquaintance onone's visiting-list. Nobody acknowledged, of course, they went frompure, downright curiosity, to see this manoeuvring American girl, whohad taken Sir Victor Catheron captive under the aristocratic noses ofthe best-born, best-bred, best-blooded young ladies in a circuit oftwenty miles. 

The eventful night came--the night of Edith's ordeal. Even Trix was alittle nervous--only a little--is not perfect self-possession thenormal state of American young ladydom? Lady Helena was quite pale inher anxiety. The girl was handsome beyond dispute, thoroughbred as ayoung countess, despite her birth and bringing up in a New Englandtown and Yankee boarding-house, with pride enough for a princess offorty quarterings, _but_ how would she come forth from the fieryfurnace of all those pitiless eyes, sharpened to points to watch forgaucheries and solecisms of good breeding--from the merciless tonguesthat would hang, draw, and quarter her, the instant their owners wereout of the house. 

"_Don't_ you feel nervous, Dithy?" asked Trix, almost out of patienceat last with Edith's serene calm. "I do--horribly. And Lady Helenahas got a fit of the fidgets that will bring her gray hairs to anearly grave, if this day lasts much longer. Ain't you afraid--honorbright?"

Edith Darrell lifted her dark, disdainful eyes. She sat reading, whilethe afternoon wore on, and Trixy fussed and fluttered about the room. 

"Afraid of the people who are coming here to-night--is that what youmean? Not a whit! I know as well as you do, they are coming to inspectand find fault with Sir Victor Catheron's choice, to pity him, andcall me an adventuress. I know also that any one of these young ladieswould have married him, and said 'Thank you for asking, ' if he hadseen fit to choose them. I have my own pride and Sir Victor's goodtaste to uphold to-night, and I will uphold them. I think"--she liftedher haughty, dark head, and glanced, with a half-conscious smile, inthe pier-glass opposite--"I think I can bear comparison by lamplightwith any of these 'daughters of a hundred earls, ' such as--LadyGwendoline Drexel for instance. "

"By lamplight, " Trix said, ignoring the rest of her speech. "Ah, yes, that's the worst of it, Edith; you dark people always light up well. And Lady Gwendoline Drexel--I wonder what Lady Gwendoline will wearto-night? I should like to be the best-dressed young lady at the ball. Do you know, Dith, " spitefully this, "I think Charley is quite struckwith Lady Gwendoline. You noticed, I suppose, the attention he paidher the evening we met, and then he has been to Drexel Court byinvitation. Pa is most anxious, I know. Money will be no object, youknow, with Charley, and really it would be nice to have a titledsister-in-law. 'My sister, Lady Gwendoline Stuart, ' will sound verywell in New York, won't it? It would be a very suitable match forCharley. "

"A most suitable match, " Miss Darrell repeated; "age included. She isten years his senior if a day; but where true love exists, what does atrifle of years on either side signify? He has money--she has rank. Hehas youth and good looks--she has high birth and a handle to her name. As you say, Trixy, a most suitable match!"

And then Miss Darrell went back to her book, but the slender, blackbrows were meeting in a steady frown, that quite spoiled her beauty--nodoubt at something displeasing in the pages. 

"But you mustn't sit here all day, " broke in Trix again; "it's hightime you were up in your dressing-room. What are you going to wear, Dith?"

"I have not decided yet. I don't much care; it doesn't much matter. Ihave decided to look my best in anything. "

She arose and sauntered out of the room, and was seen no more, untilthe waxlights blazed from end to end of the great mansion and the Junedusk had deepened into dewy night. Then, as the roll of carriages camewithout ceasing along the drive, she descended, arrayed for battle, tofind her impatient slave and adorer awaiting her at the foot of thegrand stairway. She smiled upon him her brightest, most beaming smile, a smile that intoxicated him at sight. 

"Will I do, Sir Victor?" she asked. 

Would she do? He looked at her as a man may look half dazzled, at thesun. He could not have told you what she wore, pink and white cloudsit seemed to him--he only knew two brown, luminous, laughing eyes werelooking straight into his, and turning his brain with their spell. 

"You are sure I will do? You are sure you will not be ashamed of meto-night?" her laughing voice asked again. 

Ashamed of her--ashamed! He laughed aloud at the stupendous joke, ashe drew her arm within his, and led her into the thronged rooms, assome favored subject may once in his life lead in a queen. 

Perhaps there was excuse for him. "I shall look my best in anything, "she had said, in her disdain, and she had kept her word. She wore adress that seemed alternately composed of white tulle and blush-roses;she had roses in her rich, dark hair, hair always beautifully worn;Sir Victor's diamond-betrothal ring shone on her finger; round herarching throat she wore a slender line of yellow gold, a locket setwith brilliants attached. The locket had been Lady Helena's gift, andheld Sir Victor's portrait. That was her ball array, and she looked asthough she were floating in her fleecy white draperies, her perfumery, roses, and sparkling diamonds. The dark eyes outshone the diamonds, asoft flush warmed either cheek. Yes, she was beautiful; so beautifulthat saner men than her accepted lover, might have been pardoned iffor a moment they lost their heads. 

Lady Helena Powyss, in sweeping moire and jewels, receiving her guests, looked at her and drew one long breath of great relief. She might havespared herself all her anxious doubts and fears--low-born and pennilessas she was, Sir Victor Catheron's bride would do Sir Victor Catheronhonor to-night. 

Trix was there--Trix resplendent in pearl silk with a train half thelength of the room, pearl silk, point lace, white-camelias, andNeapolitan corals and cameos, incrusted with diamonds--Trix, in allthe finery six thousand dollars can buy, drew a long breath of greatand bitter envy. 

"If one wore the Koh-i-noor and Coronation Robes, " thought Miss Stuartsadly, "she would shine one down. She is dazzling to-night. CaptainHammond, " tapping that young warrior with her point-lace fan, "_don't_you think Edith is without exception the most beautiful and elegantgirl in the rooms?"

And the gallant captain bows profoundly, and answers with a look thatpoints the speech:

"With _one_ exception, Miss Beatrix, only one. "

Charley is there, and perhaps there can be no doubt about it, thatCharley is, without exception, far and away, the best looking man. Charley gazes at his cousin for an instant on the arm of her proudand happy lover, radiant and smiling, the centre of all that is bestin the room. She lifts her dark, laughing eyes as it chances, andbrown and gray meet full. Then he turns away to a tall, languidrather passive lady, who is talking slowly by his side. 

"Is Miss Darrell really his cousin? Really? How extremely handsome sheis, and how perfectly infatuated Sir Victor seems. Poor Sir Victor!What a pity there is insanity in the family--insanity is such a veryshocking thing. How pretty Miss Stuart is looking this evening. Shehas heard--is it true--can Mr. Stuart inform her--are _all_ Americangirls handsome?"

And Charley--as Captain Hammond has done--bows, and looks, and replies:

"I used to think so, Lady Gwendoline. I have seen English girls since, and think differently. "

Oh, the imbecile falsehoods of society! He is thinking, as he says it, how pallid and faded poor Lady Gwendoline is looking, in her dingygreen satin and white Brussels lace overdress, her emeralds and brightgolden hair--most beautiful and most expensive shade to be had inLondon. He is thinking how the Blanc de Perle and rouge vegetal isshowing on her three-and-thirty-year-old face, and what his life wouldbe like if he listened to his father and married her. He shuddersinwardly and gives it up--"that way madness lies, " and while there isa pistol left, wherewith to blow his brains out, he can still hope toescape a worse fate. 

But Lady Gwendoline, freighted with eleven seasons' experience, andgrowing seedy and desperate, clings to him as the drowning cling tostraws. She is the daughter of a peer, but there are five youngersisters, all plain and all portionless. Her elder sister, whochaperones her to-night, is the wife of a rich and retiredmanufacturer, Lady Portia Hampton. The rich and retired manufacturerhas purchased Drexel Court, and it is Lady Portia's painful duty totry and marry her sisters off. 

The ball is a great success for Miss Edith Darrell. The men rave abouther; the women may sneer, but they must do it covertly; her beauty andher grace, her elegance and high breeding, not the most envious daredispute. Music swells and floats deliciously--scores are suitors forher hand in the dance. The flush deepens on her dusk cheeks, thestreaming light in her starry eyes--she is dangerously brilliantto-night. Sir Victor follows in her train whenever his duties allowhim; when he dances with others his eyes follow his heart, and goafter her. There is but one in all those thronged rooms for him--onewho is his idol--his darling--the pride, the joy, the desire of hislife. 

"My dear, I am proud of you to-night, " Lady Helena whispers once. "Yousurpass yourself--you are lovely beyond compare. You do us all credit. "

And Edith Darrell's haughty eyes look up for a moment and they areflashing through tears. She lifts the lady's hand with exquisite grace, and kisses it. Then smiles chase the tears, and she is gone on the armof some devoted cavalier. Once--only once, she dances with Charley. She has striven to avoid him--no, not that either--it is _he_ whohas avoided her. She has seen him--let her be surrounded by scores, she has seen him whispering with Lady Gwendoline, dancing with LadyGwendoline, fanning Lady Gwendoline, flirting with Lady Gwendoline. Itis Lady Gwendoline he leads to supper, and it is after supper, withthe enchanting strains of a Strauss waltz filling the air, that hecomes up and asks her for that dance. 

"I am sure I deserve it for my humility, " he says plaintively. "I havestood in the background, humbly and afar off, and given you up to mybetters. Surely, after all the bitter pills I have been swallowing, Ideserve _one_ sugar-plum. "

She laughs--glances at Sir Victor, making his way toward her, takeshis arm rather hurriedly, and moves off. 

"Is Lady Gwendoline a pill, or a sugar-plum?" she asks. "You certainlyseem to have had an overdose of her. "

"I owe Lady Gwendoline my deepest thanks, " he answered gravely. "Herefforts to keep me amused this evening, have been worthy of a bettercause. If the deepest gratitude of a too-trusting heart, " says Charley, laying his hand on the left side of his white waistcoat, "be anyreward for such service, it is hers. "

They float away. To Edith it is the one dance of the night. She hardlyknows whether she whirls in air or on the waxed floor; she only knowsthat it is like heaven, that the music is celestial, and that it isCharley's arm that is clasping her close. Will she ever waltz with himagain, she wonders, and she feels, feels in her inmost heart, that sheis sinning against her affianced husband in waltzing with him now. Butit is _so_ delicious--what a pity most of the delicious things ofearth should be wrong. If it could only last forever--forever! Andwhile she thinks it, it stops. 

"O Charley! that _was_ a waltz!" she says, leaning on him heavily, and panting; "no one else has my step as you have it. "

"Let us trust that Sir Victor will learn it, " he responds coolly;"here he comes now. It was a charming waltz, Dithy, but charmingthings must end. Your lawful proprietor approaches; to your lawfulproprietor I resign you. "

He was perfectly unflushed, perfectly unexcited. He bows, smiles, yields her to Sir Victor, and saunters away. Five seconds later he isbending over Lady Gwendoline's chair, whispering in the pink, patrician ear resting against the glistening, golden chignon. Edithlooks once--in her heart she hates Lady Gwendoline--looks once, andlooks no more. 

And as the serene June morning dawns, and larks and thrushes pipe inthe trees, Lady Helena's dear five hundred friends, sleepy and pallid, get into their carriages and go home. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

"O MY COUSIN SHALLOW-HEARTED!"

The middle of the day is past before one by one they straggle down. Breakfast awaits each newcomer, hot and tempting. Trix eats hers witha relish. Trix possesses one of the chief elements of perpetual humanhappiness--an appetite that never fails, a digestion that, in her ownmetaphorical American language, "never goes back on her. " But Edithlooks fagged and spiritless. If people are to be supernaturallybrilliant and bright, dashing and fascinating all night long, peoplemust expect to pay the penalty next day, when lassitude and reactionset in. 

"My poor Edie!" Mr. Charles Stuart remarks, compassionately, glancingat the wan cheeks and lustreless eyes, as he lights his after-breakfastcigar, "you do look most awfully used up. What a pity for their peaceof mind, some of your frantic adorers of last night can't see you now. Let me recommend you to go back to bed and try an S. And B. "

"An 'S. And B. '?" Edith repeats vaguely. 

"Soda and Brandy. It's the thing, depend upon it, for such a case asyours. I've been seedy myself before now, and know what I'm talkingabout. I'll mix it for you, if you like. "

There is a copy of Tennyson, in blue and gold, beside Miss Darrell, and Miss Darrell's reply is to fling it at Mr. Stuart's head. It is alast effort of expiring nature; she sinks back exhausted among hercushions. Charley departs to enjoy his Manila out under the wavingtrees, and Sir Victor, looking fresh and recuperated, strolls in andbends over her. 

"My dear Edith, " he says, "how pale you are this morning--how tiredyou look. If one ball is going to exhaust you like this, how will youstand the wear and tear of London seasons in the blissful time tocome?"

She does not blush--she turns a trifle impatiently away from him andlooks out. She can see Charley and Hammond smoking sociably togetherin the sunny distance. 

"I will grow used to it, I dare say. 'Sufficient unto the day is theevil thereof. '"

"Have you had breakfast?"

"I made an effort and failed. I watched Trix eat hers, however, andthat refreshed me quite as well. It was invigorating only to look ather. "

He smiles and bends lower, drawing one long brown silken tress of hairfondly through his fingers, feeling as though he would like to stoopand kiss the pale, weary face. But Trix is over yonder, pretending toread, and kissing is not to be thought of. 

"I am going over to Catheron Royals, " he whispered; "suppose youcome--the walk will do you good. I am giving orders about the fittingup of the old place. Did I tell you the workmen came yesterday?"

"Yes; you told me. "

"Shall I ring for your hat and parasol? Do come, Edith. "

"Excuse me, Sir Victor, " Edith answers, with an impatient motion, "Ifeel too tired--too lazy, which ever you like--to stir. Some other dayI will go with pleasure--just now I feel like lying here and doing the_dolce far niente_. Don't let me detain you, however. "

He turns to leave her with a disappointed face. Edith closes her eyesand takes an easier position among the pillows. The door closes behindhim; Trix flings down her book and bursts forth:

"Of all the heartless, cold-blooded animals it has ever been my goodfortune to meet, commend me to Edith Darrell!"

The dark eyes unclose and look up at her. 

"My dear Trix! what's the matter with you now? What new enormity haveI committed?"

"Oh, nothing new--nothing new at all, " is Trixy's scornful response;"it is quite in keeping with the rest of your conduct. To be purelyand entirely selfish is the normal state of the future Lady Catheron!Poor Sir Victor! who has won you. Poor Charley! who has lost you. Ihardly know which I pity most. "

"I don't see that you need waste your precious pity on either, "answered Edith, perfectly unmoved by Miss Stuart's vituperation; "keepit for me. I shall make Sir Victor a very good wife as wives go, andfor Charley--well, Lady Gwendoline is left to console him. "

"Yes, of course, there is Lady Gwendoline. O Edith! Edith! what areyou made of? Flesh and blood like other people, or waxwork, with astone for a heart? How can you sell yourself, as you are going to do?Sir Victor Catheron is no more to you than his hall-porter, and yetyou persist in marrying him. You love my brother and yet you hand himover to Lady Gwendoline. Come, Edith, be honest for once; you loveCharley, don't you?"

"It is rather late in the day for such tender confessions as that, "Edith replies, with a reckless sort of laugh; "but yes--if thedeclaration does you any good, Trix--I love Charley. "

"And you give him up! Miss Darrell, I give you up as a conundrum Ican't solve. Rank and title are all very well--nobody thinks more ofthem than I do; but if _I_ loved a man, " cried Trix, with kindlingeyes and glowing cheeks, "I'd marry him! Yes; I would, though he werea beggar. "

Edith looked up at her kindly, with a smothered sigh. 

"I believe you, Trix; but then you are different from me. " Shehalf-raised herself, looking dreamily out on the sunlit prospect oflawn, and coppice, and woodland. "Here it is: I love Charley, but Ilove myself better. O Trix, child, don't let us talk about it; I amtired, and my head aches. " She pushed back the heavy, dark hairwearily off her temples with both hands. "I am what you call me, aselfish wretch--a heartless little brute--and I am going to marry SirVictor Catheron. Pity him, if you like, poor fellow! for he loves mewith his whole heart, and he is a brave and loyal gentleman. But don'tpity your brother, my dear; believe me, he doesn't need it. He's agood fellow, Charley, and he likes me, but he won't break his heart orcommit suicide while he has a cigar left. "

"Here he comes!" exclaimed Trix, "and I believe he has heard us. "

"Let him come, " Edith returns, lying listlessly back among hercushions once more. "It doesn't matter if he has. It will be no newsto _him_. "

"It is a pity you should miss each other, though, " Trix sayssarcastically, as she turns to go; "such thorough philosophers both;I believe you were made for each other, and, as far as easy-goingselfishness is concerned, there is little to choose between you. It'sa thousand pities Sir Victor can't hear all this. "

"He might if he liked, " is Edith's answer. "I shouldn't care. Charley!"as Charley comes in and Trix goes out, "have you been eavesdropping?Don't deny it, sir, if you have!"

Charley takes a position in an easy-chair some yards distant, andlooks at her lying there, languid and lovely. 

"I have been eavesdropping--I never deny my small vices. Hammond leftme to go to the stables, and, strolling under the window, I overheardyou and Trix. Open confession is beneficial, no doubt; but, my dearcousin, you really shouldn't make it in so audible a tone. It mighthave been Sir Victor instead of me. "

She says nothing. The sombre look he has learned to know is in herdusk eyes, on her dark, colorless face. 

"Poor Sir Victor!" he goes on; "he loves you--not a doubt of that, Dithy--to the depths of idiocy, where you know so well how to castyour victims; but hard hit as he is, I wonder _what_ he would sayif he heard all this!"

"You might tell him, Charley, " Edith says. "I shouldn't mind much, andhe _might_ jilt me--who can tell? I think it would do us both good. You could say, 'Look here: don't marry Edith Darrell, Sir Victor; sheisn't worthy of you or any good man. She is full of pride, vanity, ambition, selfishness, ill-temper, cynicism, and all uncharitableness. She is _blase_ at nineteen--think what she will be at nine-and-twenty. She doesn't love you--I know her well enough to be sure she neverwill, partly because a heart was left out in her hard anatomy, partlybecause--because all the liking she ever had to give, went long agoto somebody else. ' Charley, I think he would give me up, and I'drespect him for it, if he knew that. Tell him, if you have thecourage, and when he casts me off, come to me and make me marry you. You can do it, you know; and when the honeymoon is over--when povertystalks in at the door and love flies out of the window--when we hateeach other as only ill-assorted wives and husbands ever hate--let thethought that we have done the 'All for love, and the world well lost'business, to the bitter end, console us. "

She laughs recklessly; she feels reckless enough to say anything, doanything, this morning. Love, ambition, rank, wealth--what emptybaubles they all look, seen through tired eyes the day after a ball!

He sits silent, watching her thoughtfully. 

"I don't understand you, Edith, " he says. "I feel like asking you thesame question Trix did. _Why_ do you marry Sir Victor?"

"Why do I marry him?" she repeated. "Well--a little because of hishandsome face and stately bearing, and the triumph of carrying off aprize, for which your Lady Gwendoline and half a score more havebattled. A little because he pleads so eloquently, and loves me as noother mortal man did, or ever will; and oh! Charley, a great dealbecause he is Sir Victor Catheron of Catheron Royals, with arent-roll of twenty thousand a year, and more, and a name that isolder than Magna Charta. If there be any virtue in truth, there--youhave it, plain, unvarnished. I like him--who could help it; but lovehim--no!" She clasped her hands above her head, and gazed dreamily outat the sparkling sunlit scene. "I shall be very fond of him, veryproud of him, when I am his wife--that I know. He will enterParliament, and make speeches, and write political pamphlets, andredress the wrongs of the people. He's the sort of man politicians aremade of--the sort of man a wife can be proud of. And on my wedding day, or perhaps a day or two before, you and I shall shake hands, sir, andsee each other no more. "

"No more?" he repeats. 

"Well, for a year or two at least, until all the folly of the past canbe remembered only as a thing to be laughed at. Or until there is atall, handsome Mrs. Stuart, or, more likely, a Lady Gwendoline Stuart. And Charley, " speaking hurriedly now, and not meeting the deep grayeyes she knows are fixed upon her, "the locket with my picture and theletters--you won't want them _then_--suppose you let me have themback. "

"I won't want them then, certainly, " Charley responds, "if by 'then'you mean when I am the husband of the tall, fascinating Mrs. Stuart orLady Gwendoline. But as I have not that happiness yet, suppose youallow me to retain them until I have. Sir Victor will never know, andhe would not mind much if he did. We are cousins, are we not? and whatmore natural than that cousins once removed should keep each other'spictures? By the bye, I see you still wear that little trumpery pearland turquoise brooch I gave you, with my photo at the back. Give it tome, Edie; turquoise does not become your brown skin, my dear, and I'llgive you a ruby pin with Sir Victor's instead. Perhaps, as turquoisedoes become her, Lady Gwendoline will accept this as love's firsttimid offering. The rubies will do twice as well for you. "

He stretched out his hand to unfasten it. She sprang back, her cheeksflushing at his touch. 

"You shall not have it! Neither Lady Gwendoline nor any one else shallwear it, and, married or single, _I_ shall keep it to my dying dayif I choose. Charley--what do you mean, sir! How dare you? Let mego!"

For he had risen suddenly and caught her in his arms, looking steadilydown into her dark eyes, with a gaze she would not meet. Whilst heheld her, whilst he looked at her, he was her master, and he knew it. 

"Charley, let me go!" she pleaded. "If any one came in; the servants, or--or--Sir Victor. "

He laughed contemptuously, and held her still. 

"Yes, Edith; suppose Sir Victor came in and saw his bride-elect with asacrilegious arm about her waist? Suppose I told him the truth--thatyou are mine, not his: mine by the love that alone makes marriage holy;his for his title and his rent-roll--bought and sold. By Heaven! Ihalf wish he would!"

Was this Charley--Charley Stuart?

She caught her breath--her pride and her insolence dropping fromher--only a girl in the grasp of the man she loves. In that moment, ifhe had willed it, he could have made her forego her plight, and pledgeherself to be his wholly, and he knew it. 

"Edith, " he said, "as I stand and look at you, in your beauty and yourselfishness, I hardly know whether I love or despise you most. I couldmake you marry me--_make_ you, mind--but you are not worth it. Go!"He opened his arms contemptuously and released her. "You'll not bea bad wife for Sir Victor, I dare say, as fashionable wives go. You'llbe that ornament of society, a married flirt, but you'll never runaway with his dearest friend, and make a case for the D. C. 'All forlove and the world well lost, ' is no motto of yours, my handsomecousin. A week ago I envied Sir Victor with all my heart--to-day Ipity him with all my soul!"

He turned to go, for once in his life, thoroughly aroused, passionatelove; passionate rage at war within him. She had sunk back upon thesofa, her face hidden in her hands, humbled, as in all her proud lifeshe had never been humbled before. Her silence, her humility touchedhim. He heard a stifled sob, and all his hot anger died out in painedremorse. 

"Oh, forgive me, Edith!" he said, "forgive me. It may be cruel, but Ihad to speak. It is the first, it will be the last time. I am selfish, too, or I would never have pained you--better never hear the truththan that the hearing should make you miserable. Don't cry, Edith; Ican't bear it. Forgive me, my cousin--they are the last tears I willever make you shed. "

The words he meant to soothe her, hurt more deeply than the words hemeant to wound. "They are the last tears I will ever make you shed!"An eternal farewell was in the words. She heard the door open, heardit close, and knew that her love and her life had parted in thatinstant forever. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

"FOREVER AND EVER. "

Two weeks later, as June's golden days were drawing to a close, fiveof Lady Helena's guests departed from Powyss Place. One remainedbehind. The Stuart family, with the devoted Captain Hammond in Trixy'strain, went up to London; Miss Edith Darrell stayed behind. 

Since the memorable day following the ball, the bride-elect of SirVictor Catheron had dwelt in a sort of earthly purgatory, had livedstretched on a sort of daily rack. "How blessings brighten as theytake their flight. " She had given up Charley--had cast him off, hadbartered herself in cold blood--for a title and an income. And nowthat he held her at her true value, that his love had died a naturaldeath in contempt and scorn, her whole heart, her whole soul cravedhim with a sick longing that was like death. It was her daily tortureand penance to see him, to speak to him, and note the cold scorn ofhis gray, tranquil eyes. Jealousy had been added to her other torments;he was ever by Lady Gwendoline's side of late--ever at Drexel Court. His father had set his heart upon the match; she was graceful andhigh-bred; it would end in a marriage, no doubt. There were times whenshe woke from her jealous anger to rage at herself. 

"What a dog in the manger I grow, " she said, with a bitter laugh. "Iwon't have him myself, and I cannot bear that any one else should havehim. If he would only go away--if he only would--I cannot endure thismuch longer. "

Truly she could not. She was losing flesh and color, waxing wan as ashadow. Sir Victor was full of concern, full of wonder and alarm. LadyHelena said little, but (being a woman) her sharp old eyes saw all. 

"The sooner my guests go, the better, " she thought; "the sooner shesees the last of this young man, the sooner health and strength willreturn. "

Perhaps Charley saw too--the gray, tranquil eyes were very penetrating. It was he, at all events, who urged the exodus to London. 

"Let us see a little London life in the season, governor, " he said. "Lady Portia Hampton, and _that_ lot, are going. They'll introduceus to some nice people--so will Hammond. Rustic lanes and hawthornledges are all very pretty, but there's a possibility of their pallingon depraved New York minds. I pine for stone and mortar, and the fogand smoke of London. "

Whatever he may have felt, he bore it easily to all outward seeming, as the men who feel deepest mostly do. He could not be said toactually avoid her, but certainly since that afternoon in thedrawing-room, they had never been for five seconds alone. 

Mr. Stuart, senior, had agreed, with almost feverish eagerness, to theproposed change. Life had been very pleasant in Cheshire, with picnics, water-parties down the Dee, drives to show-places, lawn billiards, andcroquet, but a month of it was enough. Sir Victor was immersed in hisbuilding projects and his lady-love; Lady Helena, ever since thecoming and going of the lady in black, had not been the same. Powyssplace was a pleasant house, but enough was enough. They were ready tosay good-by and be off to "fresh fields and pastures new. "

"And, my dear child, " said Lady Helena to Edith, when the departurewas fixed, "I think you had much better remain behind. "

There was an emphasis in her tone, a meaning glance in her eye, thatbrought the conscious blood to the girl's cheek. Her eyes fell--herlips quivered for an instant--she made no reply. 

"Certainly Edith will remain, " Sir Victor interposed impetuously. "Asif we could survive down here without her! And, of course, just atpresent it is impossible for me to leave. They don't need her half asmuch as we do--Miss Stuart has Hammond, Prince Charley has GwendolineDrexel; Edith would only be in the way!"

"It is settled, then?" said Lady Helena again, watching Edith with acuriously intent look. "You remain?"

"I will remain, " Edith answered, very lowly and without lifting hereyes. 

"My own idea is, " went on the young baronet confidentially, to hislady love, "that they are glad to be gone. Something seems to be thematter with Stuart _pere_--under a cloud, rather, just at present. Has it struck you, Dithy?"

He had caught the way of calling her by the pet name Trix and Charleyused. She lifted her eyes abstractedly now, as he asked the question. 

"Mr. Stuart? What did you say, Sir Victor? Oh--under a cloud. Well, yes, I have noticed it. I think it is something connected with hisbusiness in New York. In papa's last letter he alluded to it. "

"In papa's last letter, " Mr. Frederick Darrell had said this:

"One of their great financial crises, they tell me, is approaching inNew York, involving many failures and immense loss. One of the mostdeeply involved, it is whispered, will be James Stuart. I _have_heard he is threatened with ruin. Let us hope, however, this may beexaggerated. Once I fancied it would be a fine thing, a brilliantmatch, if my Edith married James Stuart's son. How much betterProvidence has arranged it! Once more, my dearest daughter, Icongratulate you on the brilliant vista opening before you. Yourstep-mother, who desires her best love, never wearies of spreading thewonderful news that our little Edie is so soon to be the bride of agreat English baronet. "

Miss Darrell's straight black brows met in one frowning line as sheperused this parental and pious epistle. The next instant it was torninto minute atoms, and scattered to the four winds of heaven. 

There seemed to be some foundation for the news. Letters without end keptcoming for Mr. Stuart; little boys bearing the ominous orange envelopesof the telegraph company, came almost daily to Powyss Place. After theseletters and cable messages the gloom on Mr. Stuart's face deepened anddarkened. He lost sleep, he lost appetite; some great and secret fearseemed preying upon him. What was it? His family noticed it, andinquired about his health. He rebuffed them impatiently; he was quitewell--he wanted to be let alone--why the unmentionable-to-ears-politeneed they badger him with questions? They held their peace and let himalone. That it in any way concerned commercial failure they neverdreamed; to them the wealth of the husband and father was somethingillimitable--a golden river flowing from a golden ocean. That ruincould approach them never entered their wildest dreams. 

He had gone to Edith one day and offered her a thousand-dollar check. 

"For your trousseau, my dear, " he had said. "It isn't what I expectedto give you--what I would give you, if--" He gulped and paused. "Things have changed with me lately. You will accept this, Edie--itwill at least buy your wedding-dress. "

She had shrunk back, and refused--not proudly, or angrily--very humbly, but very firmly. From Charley's father she could never take a farthingnow. 

"No" she said, "I can't take it. Dear Mr. Stuart, I thank you all thesame; you have given me more already than I deserve or can ever repay. I cannot take this. Sir Victor Catheron takes me as I am--poor, penniless. Lady Helena will give me a white silk dress and veil to bemarried in. For the rest, after my wedding-day, whatever my life maylack, it will not lack dresses. "

He had replaced the check in his pocket-book, inwardly thankful, perhaps, that it had not been accepted. The day was past when athousand dollars would have been but as a drop in the ocean to him. 

The time of departure was fixed at length; and the moment it _was_fixed, Trix flew upstairs, and into Edith's room, with the news. 

"Oh, let us be joyful, " sang Miss Stuart, waltzing in psalm time upand down the room; "we're off at last, the day after to-morrow, Dithy;so go pack up at once. It's been very jolly, and all that, down here, for the past four weeks, and _you've_ had a good time, I know; butI, for one, will be glad to hear the bustle and din of city life oncemore. One grows tired doing the pastoral and tooral-ooral--I meantruly rural--and craves for shops, and gaslight, and glitter, andcrowds of human beings once more. Our rooms are taken at Langham's, Edie, and that blessed darling, Captain Hammond, goes with us. LadyPortia, Lady Gwendoline, and Lady Laura are coming also, and I mean toplunge headlong into the giddy whirl of dissipation, and mingle withthe bloated aristocracy. Why don't you laugh? What are you looking sosulky about?"

"Am I looking sulky?" Edith said, with a faint smile. "I don't feelsulky. I sincerely hope you may enjoy yourself even more than youanticipate. "

"Oh--you do!" said Trix, opening her eyes; "and how aboutyourself--don't you expect to enjoy yourself at all?"

"I would, no doubt, only--I am not going. "

"Not going!" Thunderstruck, Trix repeats the words. 

"No; it has been decided that I remain here. You won't miss me, Trix--you will have Captain Hammond. "

"Captain Hammond may go hang himself. I want _you_, and you I meanto have. Let's sit down and reason this thing out. Now what newcrotchet has got into your head? May I ask what your ladyship-electmeans to do?"

"To remain quietly here until--until--you know. "

"Oh, I know!" with indescribable scorn; "until you are raised to thesublime dignity of a baronet's wife. And you mean to mope away yourexistence down here for the next two months listening to love-makingyou don't care _that_ about. Oh, no need to fire up; I know how muchyou care about it. And I say you shan't. Why, you are fading awayto a shadow now under it. You shall come up to London with us andrecuperate. Charley shall take you everywhere. "

She saw her wince--yes, that was where the vital place lay. MissStuart ran on:

"The idea of living under the same roof for two mortal months with theyoung man you are going to marry! You're a great stickler foretiquette--I hope you don't call _that_ etiquette? Nobody ever heardof such a thing. I'm not sure but that it would be immoral. Of course, there's Lady Helena to play propriety, and there's the improvementsat Catheron Royals to amuse you, and there's Sir Victor's endless'lovering' to edify you, but still I say you shall come. You startedwith us, and you shall stay with us--you belong to us, not to him, until the nuptial knot is tied. I wouldn't give a fig for Londonwithout you. I should die of the dismals in a week. "

"What, Trix--with Captain Hammond?"

"Bother Captain Hammond! I want you. O Edie, do come!"

"I can't, Trix. " She turned away with an impatient sigh. "I havepromised. Sir Victor wishes it, Lady Helena wishes it. It isimpossible. "

"And Edith Darrell wishes it. Oh, say it out, Edith, " Trix retortedbitterly. "Your faults are many, but fear of the truth used not to beamong them. You have promised. Is it that they are afraid to trust youout of their sight?"

"Let me alone, Trix. I am tired and sick--I can't bear it. "

She laid her face down upon her arm--tired, as she said--sick, souland body. Every fibre of her heart was longing to go with them--to bewith him while she might, treason or no to Sir Victor; but it couldnot be. 

Trix stood and looked at her, pale with anger. 

"I will let you alone, Miss Darrell. More--I will let you alone forthe remainder of your life. All the past has been bad enough. Yourdeceit to me, your heartlessness to Charley--this is the last drop inthe cup. You throw us over when we have served your turn for newer, grander friends--it is only the way of the world, and what one mightexpect from Miss Edith Darrell. But I didn't expect it--I didn't thinkingratitude was one among your failings. I was a fool!" cried Trix, with a burst. "I always was a fool and always will be. But I'll befooled by you no longer. Stay here, Miss Darrell, and when we saygood-by day after to-morrow, it shall be good-by forever. "

And then Miss Stuart, very red in the face, very flashing in the eyes, bounced out of the room, and Edith was left alone. 

Only another friend lost forever. Well, she had Sir Victor Catheronleft--he must suffice for all now. 

All that day and most of the next she kept her room. It was nofalsehood to say she was ill--she was. She lay upon her bed, her darkeyes open, her hands clasped over her head, looking blankly before her. To-morrow they must part, and after to-morrow--but her mind gave it up;she could not look beyond. 

She came downstairs when to-morrow came to say farewell. The whitewrapper she wore was not whiter than her face. Mr. Stuart shook handsin a nervous, hurried sort of way that had grown habitual to him oflate. Mrs. Stuart kissed her fondly, Miss Stuart just touched her lipsformally to her cheek, and Mr. Charles Stuart held her cold fingersfor two seconds in his warm clasp, looked, with his own easy, pleasantsmile, straight into her eyes, and said good-by precisely as he saidit to Lady Helena. Then it was all over; they were gone; the wheelsthat bore them away crashed over the gravel: Edith Darrell felt asthough they were crashing over her heart. 

That night the Stuarts were established in elegant apartments atLangham's Hotel. 

But alas for the frailty of human hopes! "The splendid time" Trixy soconfidently looked forward to never came. The very morning after theirarrival came one of the boys in uniform with another sinister orangeenvelope for the head of the family. The head of the family chanced tobe alone in his dressing-room. He took it with trembling hand andbloodshot eyes, and tore it open. A moment after there was a horriblecry like nothing human, then a heavy fall. Mrs. Stuart rushed in witha scream, and found her husband lying on the floor, the message in hishand, in a fit. 

 * * * * *

Captain Hammond had made an appointment with Charley to dine at St. James Street that evening. Calling upon old friends kept the gallantcaptain of Scotch Grays occupied all day; and as the shades of eveningbegan to gather over the West End, he stood impatiently awaiting hisarrival. Mr. Stuart was ten minutes late, and if there was one thingin this mortal life that upset the young warrior's equanimity, it wasbeing kept ten minutes waiting for his dinner. Five minutes more!Confound the fellow--would he never come? As the impatient adjurationpassed the captain's lips, Charley came in. He was rather pale. Exceptfor that, there was no change in him. Death itself could hardly havewrought much change in Charley. He had not come to apologize; he hadnot come to dine. He had come to tell the captain some very bad news. There had been terrible commercial disasters of late in New York; theyhad involved his father. His father had embarked almost every dollarof his fortune in some bubble speculations that had gone up like arocket and come down like a stick. He had been losing immensely forthe past month. This morning he had received a cable message, tellinghim the crash had come. He was irretrievably, past all hope ofredemption, ruined. 

All this Charley told in his quietest voice, looking out through thegreat bay window at the bustle and whirl of fashionable London life, at the hour of seven in the evening. Captain Hammond, smoking a cigar, listened in gloomy silence, feeling particularly uncomfortable, andnot knowing in the least what to say. He took out his cheroot andspoke at last. 

"It's a deuced bad state of affairs, Charley. Have you thought ofanything?"

"I've thought of suicide, " Charley answered, "and made all thepreliminary arrangements. I took out my razor-case, examined the edges, found the sharpest, and--put it carefully away again. I loaded all thechambers of my revolver, and locked it up. I sauntered by the classicbanks of the Serpentine, sleeping tranquilly in the rays of the sunset(that sounds like poetry, but I don't mean poetry). Of the three Ithink I prefer it, and if the worst comes to the worst, it's therestill, and it's pleasant and cool. "

"How do your mother and sister take it?" Captain Hammond gloomilyasked. 

"My mother is one of those happy-go-lucky, apathetic sort of peoplewho never break their hearts over anything. She said 'O dear me!'several times, I believe, and cried a little. Trix hasn't time to'take it' at all. She is absorbed all day in attending her father. Thefit turns out not to be dangerous at present, but he lies in a sort ofstupor, a lethargy from which nothing can rouse him. Of course ourfirst step will be to return to New York immediately. Beggars--and Itake it that's about what we are at present--have no business atLangham's. "

Captain Hammond opened his bearded lips as though to speak, thoughtbetter of it, replaced his cigar again between them in moody silence, and stared hard at nothing out of the window. 

"I called this afternoon upon the London agent of the Cunard ships, "resumed Charley, "and found that one sails in four days. Providentiallytwo cabins remained untaken; I secured them at once. In four days, then, we sail. Meantime, old fellow, if you'll drop in and speak aword to mother and Trix, you will be doing a friendly deed. Poor souls!they are awfully cut up. "

Captain Hammond started to his feet. He seized Charley's hand in agrip of iron. "Old boy!" he began--he never got further. The torrentof eloquence dried up suddenly, and a shake of the hand that madeCharley wince finished the sentence. 

"I shall be fully occupied in the meantime, " Charley said, taking hishat and turning to go, "and they'll be a great deal alone. If I canfind time I'll run down to Cheshire, and tell my cousin. As we may notmeet again, I should like to say 'good-by. '" He departed. 

There was no sleep that night in the Stuart apartments. Mr. Stuart waspronounced out of danger and able to travel, but he still lay in thatlethargic trance--not speaking at all, and seemingly not suffering. Next day Charley started for Cheshire. 

"She doesn't deserve it, " his sister said bitterly; "I wouldn't go ifI were you. She has her lover--her fortune. What are we or ourmisfortunes to her? She has neither heart, nor gratitude, noraffection. She isn't worth a thought, and never was--there!"

"I wouldn't be too hard upon her, Trix, if I were you, " her brotheranswered coolly. "You would have taken Sir Victor yourself, you know, if you could have got him. I will go. "

He went. The long, bright summer day passed; at six he was in Chester. There was some delay in procuring a conveyance to Powyss Place, andthe drive was a lengthy one. Twilight had entirely fallen, and lampsglimmered in the windows of the old stone mansion as he alighted. 

The servant stared, as he ushered him in, at his pale face and dustygarments. 

"You will tell Miss Darrell I wish to see her at once, and alone, " hesaid, slipping a shilling into the man's hand. 

He took a seat in the familiar reception-room, and waited. Would shekeep him long, he wondered--would she come to him--_would_ she comeat all? Yes, he knew she would, let him send for her, married orsingle, when and how he might, he knew she would come. 

She entered as the thought crossed his mind, hastily, with a softsilken rustle, a waft of perfume. He rose up and looked at her; so forthe space of five seconds they stood silently, face to face. 

To the last hour of his life Charley Stuart remembered her, as he sawher then, and always with a sharp pang of the same pain. 

She was dressed for a dinner party. She wore violet silk, trailing farbehind her, violet shot with red. Her graceful shoulders rose upexquisitely out of the point lace trimmings, her arms sparkled in thelights. A necklace of amethysts set in clusters, with diamonds between, shone upon her neck; amethysts and diamonds were in her ears, andclasping the arms above the elbows. Her waving, dark hair was drawnback off her face, and crowned with an ivy wreath. The soft, abundantwaxlights showered down upon her. So she stood, resplendent as a queen, radiant as a goddess. There was a look on Charley Stuart's face, alight in his gray eyes, very rare to see. He only bowed and stoodaloof. 

"I have surprised you, I am sure--interrupted you, I greatly fear. Youwill pardon both I know, when I tell you what has brought me here. "

In very few words he told her--the great tragedies of life are alwayseasily told. They were ruined--he had engaged their passage by thenext steamer--he had merely run down as they were never likely to meetagain--for the sake of old times, to say good-by. 

Old times! Something rose in the girl's throat, and seemed to chokeher. Oh, of all the base, heartless, mercenary, ungrateful wretches onearth, was there another so heartless, so ungrateful as she!Poor--Charley poor! For one moment--one--the impulse came upon her togive up all--to go with him to beggary if need be. Only for onemoment--I will do Miss Darrell's excellent worldly wisdom thisjustice--only one. 

"I see you are dressed for a party--I will not detain you a secondlonger. I could not depart comfortably, considering that you came overin our care, without informing you why we leave so abruptly. You aresafe. Your destiny is happily settled. I can give to your father agood account of my stewardship. You have my sincerest wishes for yourhealth and happiness, and I am sure you will never quite forget us. Good-by, Miss Darrell. " He held out his hand. "My congratulations arepremature, but let me offer them now to the future Lady Catheron. "

"Miss Darrell!" When, in all the years that were gone, had he evercalled her that before? She arose and gave him her hand--proud, pale. 

"I thank you, " she said coldly. "I will send Lady Helena and SirVictor to you at once. They will wish to see you, of course. Good-by, Mr. Stuart Let us hope things may turn out better than you think. Givemy dearest love to Trix, if she will accept it. Once more, good-by. "

She swept to the door in her brilliant dress, her perfumed laces, hershining jewels--the glittering fripperies for which her womanhood wasto be sold. He stood quite still in the centre of the room, as she hadleft him, watching her. So beautiful, so cold-blooded, he was thinking;were all her kind like this? And poets sing and novelists rave ofwoman's love! A half smile came over his lips as he thought of it. Itwas very pretty to read of in books; in real life it was--like this!

She laid her hand on the silver handle of the door--then shepaused--looked back, all the womanliness, all the passion of her lifestirred to its depths. It was good-by forever to Charley. There was agreat sob, and pride bowed and fell. She rushed back--two impetuousarms went round his neck; she drew his face down, and kissed himpassionately--once--twice. 

"Good-by, Charley--my darling--forever and ever!"

She threw him from her almost violently, and rushed out of the room. Whether she went to tell Lady Helena and Sir Victor of his presence heneither knew nor cared. He was in little mood to meet either of themjust then. 

Five minutes later, and, under the blue silvery summer night, he waswhirling away back to Chester. When the midnight stars shone in thesky he was half way up to London, with Edith's farewell words in hisears, Edith's first, last kiss on his lips. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE SUMMONS. 

The sun was just rising over the million roofs and spires of the greatcity, as Charley's hansom dashed up to the door of Langham's hotel. Heran up to his father's room, and on the threshold encountered Trix, pale and worn with her night's watching, but wearing a peculiarlyhappy and contented little look despite it all. Charley did not stopto notice the look, he asked after his father. 

"Pa's asleep, " Trix replied, "so's ma. It's of no use your disturbingeither of them. Pa's pretty well; stupid as you left him; doesn't careto talk, but able to eat, and sleep. The doctor says there is nothingat all to hinder his travelling to Liverpool to-day. And now, Charley, "Trix concluded, looking compassionately at her brother's pale, tiredface, "as you look used up after your day and night's travelling, suppose you go to bed; I'll wake you in time for breakfast, and youneedn't worry about anything. Captain Hammond has been here, " saysTrix, blushing in the wan, morning light, "and he will attend toeverything. "

Charley nodded and turned to go, but his sister detained him. 

"You--you saw her, I suppose?" she said hesitatingly. 

"Edith do you mean?" Charley looks at her full. "Yes, I saw her. As Iwent down for the purpose, I was hardly likely to fail. "

"And what has she to say for herself?" Trix asks bitterly. 

"Very little; we were not together ten minutes in all. She was dressedfor a party of some kind, and I did not detain her. "

"A party?" Trix repeats; "and we like this! Did she send no message atall?"

"She sent you her dearest love. "

"She may keep it--let her give it to Sir Victor Catheron. I don't wanther love, or anything else belonging to her!" Trix cries, explosively. "Of all the heartless, ungrateful girls--"

Her brother stops her with a look. Those handsome gray eyes ofCharley's can be very stern eyes when he likes. 

"As I said before, that will do, Trix. Edith is one of the wisevirgins we read of--she has chosen by long odds the better part. Whatcould we do with her now? take her back and return her to her fatherand step-mother, and the dull life she hated? As for gratitude, Iconfess I don't see where the gratitude is to come in. We engaged herat a fixed salary: so much cleverness, French, German, and generalusefulness on her part; on ours, so many hundred dollars per annum. Let me say this, Trix, once and for good: as you don't seem able tosay anything pleasant of Edith, suppose you don't speak of her at all?"

And then Charley, with that resolute light in his eyes, that resolutecompression of his lips, turned and walked up-stairs. It was anunusually lengthy, and unusually grave speech for him, and hisvolatile sister was duly impressed. She shrugged her shoulders, andwent back to her pa's room. 

"The amount of it is, " she thought, "he is as fond of her as ever, andcan't bear, as he has lost her, to hear her spoken of. The idea of hisscampering down into Chester to see her once more! Ridiculous! She_is_ heartless, and I hate her!"

And then Trixy took out her lace pocket-handkerchief, and suddenlyburst out crying. O dear, it was bad enough to lose one's fortune, tohave one's European tour nipped in the bud, without losing Edith, justas Edith had wound her way most closely round Trixy's warm littleheart. There was but one drop of honey in all the bitter cup--a dropsix feet high and stout in proportion--Captain Angus Hammond. 

For Captain Angus Hammond, as though to prove that _all_ the world, was not base and mercenary, had come nobly to the front, and proposedto Trixy. And Trixy, surprised and grateful, and liking him very much, had hesitated, and smiled, and dimpled, and blushed, and objected, andfinally begun to cry, and sobbed out "yes" through her tears. 

Charley slept until twelve--they were to depart for Liverpool by thetwo o'clock express. Then his sister, attired for travelling, awokehim, and they all breakfasted together; Mr. Stuart, too, looking verylimp and miserable, and Captain Hammond, whose state would have beenone of idiotic happiness, had not the thought that the ocean to-morrowwould roll between him and the object of his young affections, throwna damper upon him. He was going to Liverpool with them, however; itwould be a mournful consolation to see them off. They travelledsecond-class. As Charley said, "they must let themselves downeasily--the sooner they began the better--and third-class to startwith might be coming it a little too strong. Let them have a fewcushions and comforts still. "

Mr. Stuart kept close to his wife. He seemed to cling to her, anddepend upon her, like a child. It was wonderful, it was pitiful howutterly shattered he had become. His son looked after him with asolicitous tenderness quite new in all their experience of Charley. Captain Hammond and Trixy kept in a corner together, and talked insaccharine undertones, looking foolish, and guilty, and happy. 

They reached Liverpool late in the evening, and drove to the Adelphi. At twelve next day they were to get on board the tender, and beconveyed down the Mersey to their ship. 

Late that evening, after dinner, and over their cigars, CaptainHammond opened his masculine heart, and, with vast hesitation and muchembarrassment, poured into Charley's ear the tale of his love. 

"I ought to tell the governor, you know, " the young officer said, "buthe's so deucedly cut up as it is, you know, that I couldn't think ofit. And it's no use fidgeting your mother--Trixy will tell her. I loveyour sister, Charley, and I believe I've been in love with her eversince that day in Ireland. I ain't a lady's man, and I never cared afig for a girl before in my life; but, by George! I'm awfully fond ofTrixy. I ain't an elder son, and I ain't clever, I know, " cried thepoor, young gentleman sadly; "but if Trix will consent, by George!I'll go with her to church to-morrow. There's my pay--my habits ain'texpensive, like some fellows--we could got along on that for a while, and then I have expectations from my grandmother. I've had expectationsfrom my grandmother for the last twelve years, sir, and every day ofthose twelve years she's been dying; and, by George! she ain't deadyet, you know. It's wonderful--I give you my word--it's wonderful, theway grandmothers and maiden aunts with money do hold out. As Dundrearysays, 'It's something no fellow can understand. ' But that ain't what Iwanted to say--it's this: if you're willing, and Trix is willing, I'llget leave of absence and come over by the next ship, and we'll bemarried. I--I'll be the happiest fellow alive, Stuart, the day yoursister becomes my wife. "

You are not to suppose that Captain Hammond made this speech fluentlyand eloquently, as I have reported it. The words are his, but the longpauses, the stammerings, the repetitions, the hesitations I havemercifully withheld. His cigar was quite smoked out by the time he hadfinished, and with nervous haste he set about lighting another. For Mr. Stuart, tilted back in his chair, his shining boots on the window-sillof the drawing-room, gazing out at the gas-lit highways of Liverpool, he listened in abstracted silence. There was a long pause after thecaptain concluded--then Charley opened his lips and spoke:

"This is all nonsense, you know, Hammond, " he said gravely, "folly--madness, on your part. A week ago, when we thought Trixy anheiress, the case looked very different, you see; then I would haveshaken hands with you, and bestowed my blessing upon your virtuousendeavors. But all that is changed now. As far as I can see, we arebeggars--literally beggars--without a dollar; and when we get to NewYork nothing will remain for Trixy and me but to roll up our sleevesand go to work. What we are to work at, Heaven knows; we have come uplike the lilies of the field, who toil not, neither do they spin. Itis rather late in the day to take lessons in spinning now, but you seethere is no help for it. I don't say much, Hammond, but I feel this. Ihold a man to be something less than a man who will go through lifehowling over a loss of this kind. There are worse losses than that offortune in the world. " He paused a moment, and his dreamy eyes lookedfar out over the crowded city street. "I always thought my father wasas rich as Crow--Crae--the rich fellow, you know, they always quote inprint. It seemed an impossibility that we could ever be poor. But weare, and there is an end of it. Your family are wealthy, your fatherhas a title; do you think _he_ would listen to this for a moment?"

"My family may go--hang!" burst forth the captain. "What the deucehave they got to do with it. If Trixy is willing--"

"Trixy will not be willing to enter any family on those terms, "Trixy's brother said, in that quiet way of his, which could yet besuch an obstinate way; "and what I mean to say is this: A marriage forthe present is totally and absolutely out of the question. You and shemay make love to your heart's content--write letters across the oceanby the bushel, be engaged as fast as you please, and remain constantat long as you like. But marriage--no, no, no!"

That was the end of it. Charley was not to be moved--neither, indeed, on the marriage question, was Trix. "Did Angus think her a wretch--amonster--to desert her poor pa and ma just now, when they wanted hermost, and go off with him? Not likely. He might take back his ring ifhe liked--she would not hold him to his engagement--she was ready andwilling to set him free--"

 "So Jamie, an' ye dinna wait Ye canna marry me, "

sang Charley, as Trix broke down here and sobbed. Then with a halfsmile on his face he went out of the room, and Trixy's tears weredried on Angus Hammond's faithful breast. 

Next day, a gray overcast, gloomy day, the ship sailed. CaptainHammond went with them on board, returning in the tender. Trix, leaning on her father's arm, crying behind her veil; Charley, by hismother's side, stood on deck while the tender steamed back to the dock. And there under the gray sky, with the bleak wind blowing, and theship tossing on the ugly short chop of the river, they took theirparting look at the English shore, with but one friendly face to watchthem away, and that the ginger-whiskered face of Captain Hammond. 

 * * * * *

Edith Darrell left Charley Stuart, and returned to the brilliantly-litdrawing room, where her lover and Lady Helena and their friends satwaiting the announcement of dinner. Sir Victor's watchful eyes saw herenter. Sir Victor's loving glance saw the pallor, like the pallor ofdeath, upon her face. She walked steadily over to a chair in thecurtained recess of a window. He was held captive by Lady PortiaHampton, and could not join her. A second after there was a sort ofsobbing gasp--a heavy fall. Everybody started, and arose inconsternation. Miss Darrell had fallen from her chair, and lay on thefloor in a dead faint. 

Her lover, as pale almost as herself, lifted her in his arms, the cold, beautiful face lying, like death on his shoulder. But it was not death. 

They carried her up to her room--restoratives were applied, andpresently the great dark eyes opened, and looked up into her lover'sface. 

She covered her own with her hands, and turned away from him, asthough the sight was distasteful to her. He bent above her, almostagonized that anything should ail his idol. 

"My darling, " he said tremulously. "What was it? What can I do for you?Tell me. "

"Go away, " was the dull answer; "only that--go away everybody, andleave me alone. "

They strove to reason with her--some one sought to stay with her. LadyHelena, Sir Victor--either would give up their place at dinner andremain at the bedside. 

"No, no, no!" was her answering cry, "they must not. She was betteragain--she needed no one, she wanted nothing, _only_ to be leftalone. "

They left her alone--she was trembling with nervous excitement, alittle more and hysterics would set in--they dared not disobey. Theyleft her alone, with a watchful attendant on the alert in thedressing-room. 

She lay upon the dainty French bed, her dark hair, from which theflowers had been taken, tossed over the white pillows, her handsclasped above her head, her dark, large eyes fixed on the oppositewall. So she lay motionless, neither, speaking nor stirring for hours, with a sort of dull, numb aching at her heart. They stole in softly toher bedside many times through the night, always to find her like that, lying with blank, wide-open eyes, never noticing nor speaking to them. When morning broke she awoke from a dull sort of sleep, her headburning, her lips parched, her eyes glittering with fever. 

They sent for the doctor. He felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, asked questions, and shook his head. Overwrought nerves the whole ofit. Her mind must have been over-excited for some time, and this wasthe result. No danger was to be apprehended; careful nursing wouldrestore her in a week or two, combined with perfect quiet. Then achange of air and scene would be beneficial--say a trip to Scarboroughor Torquay now. They would give her this saline draught just atpresent and not worry about her. The young lady would be all right, onhis word and honor, my dear Sir Victor, in a week or two. 

Sir Victor listened very gloomily. He had heard from the hall porterof Mr. Stuart's flying visit, and of his brief interview with MissDarrell. It was very strange--his hasty coming, his hasty going, without seeing any of them, his interview with Edith, and herfainting-fit immediately after. Why had he come? What had transpiredat that interview? The green-eyed monster took the baronet's heartbetween his finger and thumb, and gave it a most terrible twinge. 

He watched over her when they let him into that darkened chamber, as amother may over an only and darling child. If he lost her!

"O Heaven!" he cried passionately, rebelliously, "rather let me diethan that!"

He asked her no questions--he was afraid. His heart sank within him, she lay so cold, so white, so utterly indifferent whether he came orwent. He was nothing to her--nothing. Would he ever be?

Lady Helena, less in love, and consequently less a coward, asked thequestion her nephew dared not ask: "What had brought Mr. CharlesStuart to Powyss Place? What had made her, Edith, faint?"

The dark sombre eyes turned from the twilight prospect, seen throughthe open window, and met her ladyship's suspicious eyes steadily. "Mr. Stuart had come down to tell her some very bad news. His father hadfailed--they were ruined. They had to leave England in two days forhome--he had only come to bid her a last farewell. "

Then the sombre brown eyes went back to the blue-gray sky, the crystalJuly moon, the velvet, green grass, the dark murmuring trees, thebirds twittering in the leafy branches, and she was still again. 

Lady Helena was shocked, surprised, grieved. But--why had Edithfainted?

"I don't know, " Edith answered. "I never fainted before in my life. Ithink I have not been very strong lately. I felt well enough when Ireturned to the drawing-room--a minute after I grew giddy and fell. Iremember no more. "

"We will take you away, my dear, " her ladyship said cheerfully. "Wewill take you to Torquay. Changes of air and scene, as the doctor says, are the tonics you need to brace your nerves. Ah! old or young, all wepoor women are martyrs to nerves. "

They took her to Torquay in the second week of July. A pretty littlevilla near Hesketh Crescent had been hired; four servants from PowyssPlace preceded them; Sir Victor escorted them, and saw them dulyinstalled. He returned again--partly because the work going on atCatheron Royals needed his presence, partly because Lady Helenagravely and earnestly urged it. 

"My dear Victor, " she said, "don't force too much of your society uponEdith. I know girls. Even if she were in love with you"--the young manwinced--"she would grow tired of a lover who never left her sight. Allwomen do. If you want her to grow fond of you, go away, write to herevery day--not _too_ lover-like love-letters; one may have a surfeitof sweets; just cheerful, pleasant, sensible letters--as a young manin love _can_ write. Come down this day three weeks, and, if we areready, take us home. "

The young man made a wry face--much as he used to do when his goodaunt urged him to swallow a dose of nauseous medicine. 

"In three weeks! My dear Lady Helena, what are you thinking of? We areto be married the first week of September. "

"October, Victor--October--not a day sooner. You must wait until Edithis completely restored. There is no such desperate haste. You are notlikely to lose her. "

"I am not so sure of that, " he said, half sullenly under his breath;"and a postponed marriage is the most unlucky thing in the world. "

"I don't believe in luck; I do in common-sense, " his aunt retorted, rather sharply. "You are like a spoiled child, Victor, crying for themoon. It is Edith's own request, if you will have it--thispostponement. And Edith is right. You don't want a limp, pallid, half-dying bride, I suppose. Give her time to get strong--give hertime to learn to like you--your patient waiting will go far towardsit. Take my word, it will be the wiser course. "

There was nothing for it but obedience. He took his leave and wentback to Cheshire. It was his first parting from Edith. How he felt it, no words can tell. But the fact remained--he went. 

She drew a long, deep breath as she said good-by, and watched him away. Ah! what a different farewell to that other only two short weeks ago. She tried not to think of that--honestly and earnestly; she tried toforget the face that haunted her, the voice that rang in her ears, thewarm hand-clasp, the kisses that sealed their parting. Her love, herduty, her allegiance, her thoughts--all were due to Sir Victor now. Inthe quiet days that were to be there, she would try to forget the loveof her life--try to remember that of all men on earth Sir VictorCatheron was the only man she had any right to think of. 

And she succeeded partly. Wandering along the tawny sands, with theblue bright sea spreading away before her, drinking in the soft saltair, Edith grew strong in body and mind once more. Charley Stuart hadpassed forever out of her life--driven hence by her own acts; shewould be the most drivelling of idiots, the basest of traitors, topine for him now. Her step grew elastic, her eye grew bright, herbeauty and bloom returned. She met hosts of pleasant people, and herlaugh came sweetly to Lady Helena's ears. Since her nephew _must_marry--since his heart was set on this girl--Lady Helena wished tosee her a healthy and happy wife. 

Sir Victor's letters came daily; the girl smiled as she glancedcarelessly over them, tore them up, and answered--about half. Love himshe did not; but she was learning to think very kindly of him. It isquite in the scope of a woman's complex nature to love one manpassionately, and like another very much. It was Edith's case--sheliked Sir Victor; and when, at the end of three weeks, he came to jointhem, she could approach and give him her hand with a frank, gladsmile of welcome. The three weeks had been as three centuries to thisardent young lover. His delight to see his darling blooming, and well, and wholly restored, almost repaid him. And three days after the triadreturned together to Powyss Place, to part, as he whispered, no more. 

It was the middle of August now. In spite of Edith's protest, grandpreparations were being made for the wedding--a magnificent trousseauhaving been ordered. 

"Simplicity is all very well, " Lady Helena answered Miss Darrell, "butSir Victor Catheron's bride must dress as becomes Sir Victor Catheron'sstation. In three years from now, if you prefer white muslin andsimplicity, prefer it by all means. About the wedding-dress, you willkindly let me have my own way. "

Edith desisted; she appealed no more; passive to all changes, she letherself drift along. The third of October was to be the wedding-day;my ladies Gwendoline and Laura Drexel, the two chief bridesmaids--thenthree others, all daughters of old friends of Lady Helena. The pretty, picturesque town of Carnarvon, in North Wales, was to be the nest ofthe turtledoves during the honeymoon--then away to the Continent, thenback for the Christmas festivities at Catheron Royals. 

Catheron Royals was fast becoming a palace for a princess--its groundsa sort of enchanted fairy-land. Edith walked through its lofty, echoing halls, its long suites of sumptuous drawing-rooms, libraries, billiard and ball rooms. The suite fitted up for herself was gorgeousin purple and gold-velvet and bullion fringe--in pictures that werewonders of loveliness--in mirror-lined walls, in all that boundlesswealth and love could lavish on its idol. Leaning on her proud andhappy bridegroom's arm, she walked through them all, half dazed withall the wealth of color and splendor, and wondering if "I be I. " Wasit a fairy tale, or was all this for Edith Darrell?--Edith Darrell, who such a brief while gone, used to sweep and dust, sew and darn, indull, unlovely Sandypoint, and get a new merino dress twice a year? No, it could not be--such transformation scenes never look place out of aChristmas pantomime or a burlesque Arabian Night--it was all a dream--afairy fortune that, like fairy gold, would change to dull slate stonesat light of day. She would never be Lady Catheron, never be mistressof this glittering Aladdin's Palace. It grew upon her day after day, this feeling of vagueness, of unreality. She was just adrift upon ashining river, and one of these days she would go stranded ashore onhidden quicksands and foul ground. Something would happen. The dayswent by like dreams--it was the middle of September. In little morethan a fortnight would come the third of October and the wedding-day. But something would happen. As surely as she lived and saw it all, shefelt that something would happen. 

Something did. On the eighteenth of September there came from London, late in the evening, a telegram for Lady Helena. Sir Victor was withEdith at the piano in the drawing-room. In hot haste his aunt sent forhim; he went at once. He found her pale, terrified, excited; she heldout the telegram to him without a word. He read it slowly: "Come atonce. Fetch Victor. _He_ is dying. --INEZ. "

CHAPTER XIX. 

AT POPLAR LODGE. 

Half an hour had passed and Sir Victor did not return. Edith stillremained at the piano, the gleam of the candles falling upon herthoughtful face, playing the weird "Moonlight Sonata. " She played sosoftly that the shrill whistling of the wind around the gables, theheavy soughing of the trees, was plainly audible above it. Ten minutesmore, and her lover did not return. Wondering a little what thetelegram could contain, she arose and walked to the window, drew thecurtains and looked out. There was no moon, but the stars werenumberless, and lit dimly the park. As she stood watching the trees, writhing in the autumnal gale, she heard a step behind her. Sheglanced over her shoulder with a half smile--a smile that died on herlips as she saw the grave pallor of Sir Victor's face. 

"What has happened?" she asked quickly. "Lady Helena's dispatchcontained bad news? It is nothing"--she caught her breath--"nothingconcerning the Stuarts?"

"Nothing concerning the Stuarts. It is from London--from Inez Catheron. It is--that my father is dying. "

She said nothing. She stood looking at him, and waiting for more. 

"It seems a strange thing to say, " he went on, "that one does not knowwhether to call one's father's death ill news or not. But consideringthe living death he has led for twenty-three years, one can hardlycall death and release a misfortune. The strange thing, the alarmingthing about it, is the way Lady Helena takes it. One would think shemight be prepared, that considering his life and sufferings, she wouldrather rejoice than grieve: but, I give you my word, the way in whichshe takes it honestly frightens me. "

Still Edith made no reply--still her thoughtful eyes were fixed uponhis face. 

"She seems stunned, paralyzed--actually paralyzed with a sort ofterror. And that terror seems to be, not for him or herself, but for_me_. She will explain nothing; she seems unable; all presence ofmind seems to have left her. No time is to be lost; there is a trainin two hours: we go by that. By daylight we will be in London; howlong before we return I cannot say. I hate the thought of a deathcasting its gloom over our marriage. I dread horribly the thought of asecond postponement--I hate the idea of leaving you here alone. "

_Something will happen_. All along her heart had whispered it, andhere it was. And yet the long tense breath she drew was very like abreath of relief. 

"You are not to think of me, " she said quietly, after a pause. "Yourduty is to the dying. Nothing will befall me in your absence--don'tlet the thought of me in any way trouble you. I shall do very wellwith my books and music; and Lady Gwendoline, I dare say, will driveover occasionally and see me. Of course _why_ you go to London isfor the present a secret?"

"Of course. What horrible explanations and gossip the fact of hisdeath at this late date will involve. Every one has thought him deadfor over twenty years. I can't understand this secrecy, thismystery--the world should have been told the truth from the first. Ifthere was any motive I suppose they will tell me to-night, and Iconfess I shrink from hearing any more than I have already heard. "

His face was very dark, very gloomy, as he gazed out at the starlitnight. A presentiment that something evil was in store for him weighedupon him, engendered, perhaps, by the incomprehensible alarm of LadyHelena. 

The preparations for the journey were hurried and few. Lady Helenadescended to the carriage, leaning on her maid's arm. She seemed tohave forgotten Edith completely, until Edith advanced to say good-by. Then in a constrained, mechanical sort of way she gave her her hand, spoke a few brief words of farewell, and drew back into a corner ofthe carriage, a darker shadow in the gloom. 

In the drawing-room, in travelling-cap and overcoat, Sir Victor heldEdith's hand, lingering strangely over the parting--strangelyreluctant to say farewell. 

"Do you believe in presentiments, Edith?" he asked. "I have apresentiment that we will never meet again like this--that somethingwill have come between us before we meet again. I cannot define it. Icannot explain it. I only know it is there. "

"I don't believe in presentiments, " Edith answered cheerfully. "Inever had one in my life. I believe they are only another name fordyspepsia; and telegrams and hurried night journeys are mostlyconductive to gloom. When the sun shines to-morrow morning, and youhave had a strong cup of coffee, you will be ready to laugh at yourpresentiments. Nothing is likely to come between us. "

"Nothing shall--nothing, I swear it!" He caught her in his arms with astraining clasp, and kissed her passionately for the first time. "Nothing in this lower world shall ever separate us. I have no lifenow apart from you. And nothing, not death itself, shall postpone ourmarriage. It was postponed once; I wish it never had been. It shallnever be postponed again. "

"Go, go!" Edith cried; "some one is coming--you will be late. "

There was not a minute to spare. He dashed down the stairs, down theportico steps, and sprang into the carriage beside his aunt. Thedriver cracked his whip, the horses started, the carriage rolled awayinto the gloom and the night. Edith Darrell stood at the window untilthe last sound of the wheels died away, and for long after. A strangesilence seemed to have fallen upon the great house with the going ofits mistress. In the embrasure of the window, in the dim bluestarlight, the girl sat down to think. There was some mystery, involving the murder of the late Lady Catheron, at work here, she felt. Grief for the loss of his wife might have driven Sir Victor Catheronmad, but why make such a profound secret of it? Why give out that hewas dead? Why allow his son to step into the title before his time? IfJuan Catheron were the murderer, Juan Catheron the outlaw and Pariahof his family, why screen him as though he had been the idol andtreasure of all, and let the dead go unavenged? Why this strangeterror of Lady Helena's? why her insufferable aversion to her nephewmarrying at all?

Yes, there was something hidden, something on the cards not yetbrought to light; and to the death-bed of Sir Victor Catheron theelder, Sir Victor Catheron the younger had been summoned to hear thewhole truth. 

Would he tell it to her upon his return, she wondered. Well, if he didnot, she had no right to complain--she had _her_ secret from him. There was madness in the family--she shrank a little at the thoughtfor the first time. Who knew, whether latent and unsuspected, thetaint might not be in the blood and brains of the man to whom she wasabout to bind herself for life? Who was to tell when it might breakforth, in what horrible shape it might show itself? To be the widowedwife of a madman--what wealth and title on earth could compensate forthat? She shivered as she sat, partly with the chill night air, partlywith the horror of the thought. In her youth, and health, and beauty, her predecessor had been struck down, the bride of another Sir Victor. So long she sat there that a clock up in the lofty turret struck, heavily and solemnly, twelve. The house was still as the grave--allshut up except this room where she sat, all retired except her maidand the butler. They yawned sleepily, and waited for her to retire. Chilled and white, the girl arose at last, took her night-light, andwent slowly up to bed. 

"Is the game worth the candle after all?" she thought. "Ah me! what amiserable, vacillating creature I am. Whatever comes--the worst or thebest--there is nothing for it now but to go on to the end. "

Meantime, through the warm, starry night, the train was speeding on toLondon, bearing Sir Victor Catheron to the turning point of his life. He and his aunt had their carriage all to themselves. Still in deadsilence, still with that pale, terrified look on her face, Lady Helenalay back in a corner among the cushions. Once or twice her nephewspoke to her--the voice in which she answered him hardly sounded likeher own. He gave it up at last; there was nothing for it but to waitand let the end come. He drew his cap over his eyes, lay back in theopposite seat, and dozed and dreamed of Edith. 

In the chill, gray light of an overcast morning they reached Eastonstation. A sky like brown paper lay over the million roofs of thegreat Babylon; a dull, dim fog, that stifled you, filled the air. Thefog and raw cold were more like November than the last month of summer. Blue and shivering in the chill light, Sir Victor buttoned up hislight overcoat, assisted his aunt into a cab, and gave the order--"St. John's Wood. Drive for your life!"

Lady Helena knew Poplar Lodge, of course; once in the vicinity therewould be no trouble in finding it. Was he still alive, the young manwondered. How strange seemed the thought that he was about to see hisfather at last. It was like seeing the dead return. Was he sane, andwould he know him when they met?

The overcast morning threatened rain; it began to fall slowly anddismally as they drove along. The London streets looked unutterablydraggled and dreary, seen at this early hour of the wet morning. Thecab driver urged his horse to its utmost speed, and presently thebroad green expanse and tall trees of Regent's Park came in view. LadyHelena gave the man his direction, and in ten minutes they stoppedbefore the tall, closed iron gates of a solitary villa. It was PoplarLodge. 

The baronet paid the man's fare and dismissed him. He seized thegate-bell and rang a peal that seemed to tinkle half a mile away. While he waited, holding an umbrella over his aunt, he surveyed thepremises. 

It was a greusome, prison-like place enough at this forlorn hour. Thestone walls were as high as his head, the view between the lofty irongates was completely obstructed by trees. Of the house itself, exceptthe chimney-pots and the curling smoke, not a glimpse was to be had. And for three-and-twenty years Inez Catheron had buried herself alivehere with a madman and two old servants! He shuddered internally as hethought of it--surely, never devotion or atonement equalled hers. 

They waited nearly ten minutes in the rain; then a shambling footstepshambled down the path, and an old face peered out between thetrellised iron work. "Who is it?" an old voice asked. 

"It is I, Hooper. Sir Victor and I. For pity's sake don't keep usstanding here in the rain. "

"My lady! Praise be!" A key turned in the lock, the gate swung wide, and an aged, white-haired man stood bowing before Lady Helena. 

"Are we in time?" was her first breathless question. "Is your masterstill--"

"Still alive, my lady--praise and thanks be! Just in time, and nomore. "

The dim old eyes of Hooper were fixed upon the young man's face. 

"Like his father, " the old lips said, and the old head shook ominously;"more's the pity--like his father. "

Lady Helena took her nephew's arm and hurried him, under the drippingtrees, up the avenue to the house. Five minutes brought them to it--ared brick villa, its shutters all closed. The house-door stood ajar;without ceremony her ladyship entered. As she did so, another, doorsuddenly opened, and Inez Catheron came out. 

The fixedly pale face, could by no possibility grow paler--could by nopossibility change its marble calm. But the deep, dusk eyes looked atthe young man, it seemed to him, with an infinite compassion. 

"We are in time?" his aunt spoke. 

"You are in time. In one moment you will see him. There is not asecond to lose, and he knows it. He has begged you to be brought tohim the moment you arrive. "

"He knows then. Oh, thank God! Reason has returned at last. "

"Reason has returned. Since yesterday he has been perfectly sane. Hisfirst words were that his son should be sent for, that the truthshould be told. "

There was a half-suppressed sob. Lady Helena covered her face withboth hands. Her nephew looked at her, then back to Miss Catheron. Thewhite face kept its calm, the pitying eyes looked at him with a gentlecompassion no words can tell. 

"Wait one moment, " she said; "I must tell him you are here. "

She hurried upstairs and disappeared. Neither of the two spoke. LadyHelena's face was still hidden. He knew that she was crying--silent, miserable tears--tears that were for _him_. He stood pale, composed, expectant--waiting for the end. 

"Come up, " Miss Catheron's soft voice at the head of the stairs called. Once more he gave his aunt his arm, once more in silence they went intogether. 

A breathless hush seemed to lie upon the house and all within it. Nota sound was to be heard except the soft rustle of the trees, the soft, ceaseless patter of the summer rain. In that silence they entered thechamber where the dying man lay. To the hour of his own death, thatmoment and all he saw was photographed indelibly upon VictorCatheron's mind. The dim gray light of the room, the great white bedin the centre, and the awfully corpse-like face of the man lying amongthe pillows, and gazing at him, with hollow, spectral eyes. Hisfather--at last!

He advanced to the bedside as though under a spell. The spectral blueeyes were fixed upon him steadfastly, the pallid lips slowly openedand spoke. 

"Like me--as I was--like me. Ethel's son. "

"My father!"

He was on his knees--a great awe upon him. It was the first time inhis young life he had ever been in the presence of death. And thedying was his father, and his father whom he had never seen before. 

"Like me, " the faint lips related; "my face, my height, my name, myage. Like me. O God! will his end be like mine?"

A thrill of horror ran through all his hearers. His son strove to takehis hand; it was withdrawn. A frown wrinkled, the pallid brow. 

"Wait, " he said painfully; "don't touch me; don't speak to me. Wait. Sit down; don't kneel there. You don't know what you are about to hear. Inez, tell him now. "

She closed the door--still with that changeless face--and locked it. It seemed as though, having suffered so much, nothing had power tomove her outwardly now. She placed a chair for Lady Helena away fromthe bed--Lady Helena, who had stood aloof and not spoken to the dyingman yet. She placed a chair for Sir Victor, and motioned him to seathimself, then drew another close to the bedside, stooped, and kissedthe dying man. Then in a voice that never faltered, never failed, shebegan the story she had to tell. 

 * * * * *

Half an hour had passed. The story was told, and silence reigned inthe darkened room. Lady Helena still sat, with averted face, in herdistant seat, not moving, not looking up. The dying man still laygazing weirdly upon his son, death every second drawing nearer andmore near. Inez sat holding his hand, her pale, sad face, her dark, pitying eyes turned also upon his son. 

That son had risen. He stood up in the centre of the room, with awhite, stunned face. What was this he had heard? Was he asleep anddreaming?--was it all a horrible, ghastly delusion?--were they mockinghim? or--O gracious God! was it _true_?

"Let me out!" They were his first words. "I can't breathe--I amchoking in this room! I shall go mad if you keep me here!"

He staggered forward, as a drunken man or a blind man might stagger, to the door. He unlocked it, opened it, passed out into the passage, and down the stairs. His aunt followed him, her eyes streaming, herhands outstretched. 

"Victor--my boy--my son--my darling! Victor--for the love of Heaven, speak to me!"

But he only made a gesture for her to stand back, and went on. 

"Keep away from me!" he said, in a stifled voice; "let me think! Leaveme alone!--I can't speak to you yet!"

He went forward out into the wet daylight. His head was bare; hisovercoat was off; the rain beat unheeded upon him. What was this--whatwas this he had heard?

He paced up and down under the trees. The moments passed. An hour went;he neither knew nor cared. He was stunned--stunned body and soul--toostunned even to think. His mind was in chaos, an awful horror hadfallen upon him; he must wait before thought would come. Whilst hestill paced there, as a stricken animal might, a great cry reached him. Then a woman's flying figure came down the path. It was his aunt. 

"Come--come--come!" she cried; "he is dying!"

She drew him with her by main force into the house--up the stairs--intothe chamber of death. But Death had been there before them. A dead manlay upon the bed now, rigid and white. A second cry arose--a cry ofalmost more than woman's woe. And with it Inez Catheron clasped thedead man in her arms, and covered his face with her raining tears. 

The son stood beside her like a figure of stone, gazing down at thatmarble face. For the first time in his life he was Sir Victor Catheron. 

CHAPTER XX. 

HOW THE WEDDING-DAY BEGAN. 

Six days later, Sir Victor Catheron and his aunt came home. These sixdays had passed very quietly, very pleasantly, to Edith. She was notin the least lonely; the same sense of relief in her lover's absencewas upon her as she had felt at Torquay. It seemed to her she breathedfreer when a few score miles lay between them. She had her pet booksand music, and she read and played a great deal; she had her long, solitary rambles through the leafy lanes and quiet roads, her longdrives in the little pony phaeton her future husband had given her. Sometimes Lady Gwendoline was her companion; oftener she was quitealone. She was not at all unhappy now; she was just drifting passivelyon to the end. She had chosen, and was quietly abiding by her choice;that was all. She caught herself thinking, sometimes, that since shefelt so much happier and freer in Sir Victor's brief absences, how wasshe going to endure all the years that must be passed at his side? Nodoubt she would grow used to him after a while, as we grow used andreconciled to everything earthly. 

One circumstance rather surprised her: during those six days ofabsence she had received but one note from her lover. She had countedat least upon the post fetching her one or two per day, as when atTorquay, but this time he wrote her but once. An odd, incoherent, hurried sort of note, too--very brief and unsatisfactory, if she hadhad much curiosity on the subject of what was going on at St. John'sWood. But she had not. Whether his father lived or died, so that henever interfered with her claim to the title of Lady Catheron in thefuture, Miss Darrell cared very little. This hurried note briefly toldher his father had died on the day of their arrival; that by his ownrequest the burial place was to be Kensal Green, not the Catheronvaults; that the secret of his life and death was still to be keptinviolate; and that (in this part of the note he grew impassionedlyearnest) their marriage was not to be postponed. On the third ofOctober, as all had been arranged, it was still to take place. Noother note followed. If Miss Darrell had been in love with her futurehusband, this profound silence must have wounded, surprised, grievedher. But she was not in love. He must be very much occupied, shecarelessly thought, since he could not find time to drop her a dailybulletin--then dismissed the matter indifferently from her mind. 

Late in the evening of the sixth day Sir Victor and Lady Helenareturned home. 

Edith stood alone awaiting them, dressed in black silk, and with softwhite lace and ruby ornaments, and looking very handsome. 

Her lover rushed in and caught her in his arms with a sort ofrapturous, breathless delight. 

"My love! my life!" he cried, "every hour has been an age since I saidgood-by!"

She drew herself from him. Sir Victor, in the calm, courteous characterof a perfectly undemonstrative suitor she tolerated. Sir Victor in therole of Romeo was excessively distasteful to her. She drew herself outof his arms coldly and decisively. 

"I am glad to see you back, Sir Victor. " But the stereotyped words ofwelcome fell chill on his ear. "You are not looking well. I am afraidyou have been very much harassed since you left. "

Surely he was not looking well. In those six days he had grown morethan six years older. He had lost flesh and color; there was anindescribable something in his face and expression she had never seenbefore. More had happened than the death of the father he had neverknown, to alter him like this. She looked at him curiously. Would hetell her?

He did not. Not looking at her, with his eyes fixed moodily on thewood-fire smoldering on the hearth, he repeated what his letter hadalready said. His father had died the morning of their arrival inLondon; they had buried him quietly and unobtrusively, by his ownrequest, in Kensal Green Cemetery; no one was to be told, and thewedding was not to be postponed. All this he said as a man repeats alesson learned by rote--his eyes never once meeting hers. 

She stood silently by, looking at him, listening to him. 

Something lay behind, then, that she was not to know. Well, it madethem quits--she didn't care for the Catheron family secrets; if itwere something unpleasant, as well _not_ know. If Sir Victor toldher, very well; if not, very well also. She cared little either way. 

"Miss Catheron remains at St John's Wood, I suppose?" she inquiredindifferently, feeling in the pause that ensued she must say something. 

"She remains--yes--with her two old servants for the present. Ibelieve her ultimate intention is to go abroad. "

"She will not return to Cheshire?"

A spasm of pain crossed his face; there was a momentary contraction ofthe muscles of his mouth. 

"She will not return to Cheshire. All her life she will lie under theban of murder. "

"And she is innocent?"

He looked up at her--a strange, hunted, tortured sort of look. 

"She is innocent. "

As he made the answer he turned abruptly away. Edith asked no morequestions. The secret of his mother's murder was a secret she was notto hear. 

Lady Helena did not make her appearance at all in the lower rooms, that night. Next day at luncheon she came down, and Edith was honestlyshocked at the change in her. From a hale, handsome, stately, upright, elderly lady, she had become a feeble old woman in the past week. Herstep had grown uncertain; her hands trembled; deep lines of troublewere scored on her pale face; her eyes rarely wandered long from hernephew's face. Her voice took a softer, tenderer tone when sheaddressed him--she had always loved him dearly, but never so dearly, it would seem, as now. 

The change in Sir Victor was more in manner than in look. A feverishimpatience and restlessness appeared to have taken possession of him;he wandered about the house and in and out like some restless ghost. From Powyss Place to Catheron Royals, from Catheron Royals to PowyssPlace, he vibrated like a human pendulum. It set Edith's nerves onedge only to watch him. At other periods a moody gloom would fall uponhim, then for hours he sat brooding, brooding, with knitted brows anddowncast eyes, lost in his own dark, secret thoughts. Anon his spiritswould rise to fever height, and he would laugh and talk in a wild, excited way that fixed Edith's dark, wondering eyes solemnly on hisflushed face. 

With it all, in whatever mood, he could not bear her out of his sight. He haunted her like her shadow, until it grew almost intolerable. Hesat for hours, while she worked, or played, or read, not speaking, notstirring--his eyes fixed upon her, and she, who had never been nervous, grew horribly nervous under this ordeal. Was Sir Victor losing hiswits? Now that his insane father was dead and buried, did he feel itincumbent upon him to keep up the family reputation and follow in thatfather's footsteps?

And the days wore on, and the first of October came. 

The change in the young baronet grew more marked with each day. Helost the power to eat or sleep; far into the night he walked his room, as though some horrible Nemesis were pursuing him. He failed to thevery shadow of himself, yet when Lady Helena, in fear and trembling, laid her hand upon his arm, and falteringly begged him to see aphysician, he shook her off with an angry irritability quite foreignto his usual gentle temper, and bade her, imperiously, to leave himalone. 

The second of October came; to-morrow would be the wedding-day. 

The old feeling of vagueness and unreality had come back to Edith. Something would happen--that was the burden of her thoughts. To-morrowwas the wedding-day, but the wedding would never take place. Shewalked through the glowing, beautiful rooms of Catheron Royals, through the grounds and gardens, bright with gay autumnal flowers--ahome luxurious enough for a young duchess--and still that feeling ofunreality was there. A grand place, a noble home, but she would neverreign its mistress. The cottage at Carnarvon had been weeks agoengaged, Sir Victor's confidential servant already established there, awaiting the coming of the bridal pair; but she felt she would neversee it. Upstairs, in all their snowy, shining splendor, the bridalrobe and veil lay; when to-morrow came would she ever put them on, shevaguely wondered. And still she was not unhappy. A sort of apathy hadtaken possession of her; she drifted on calmly to the end. What waswritten, was written; what would be, would be. Time enough to wakefrom her dream when the time of waking came. 

The hour fixed for the ceremony was eleven o'clock; the place, Chesholm church. The bridemaids would arrive at ten--the Earl ofWroatmore, the father of the Ladies Gwendoline and Laura Drexel, wasto give the bride away. They would return to Powyss Place and eat thesumptuous breakfast--then off and away to the pretty town in NorthWales. That was the programme. "When to-morrow comes, " Edith thinks, as she wanders about the house, "will it be carried out?"

It chanced that on the bridal eve Miss Darrell was attacked withheadache and sore throat. She had lingered heedlessly out in the rainthe day before (one of her old bad habits to escape from Sir Victor, if the truth must be told), and paid the natural penalty next day. Itwould never do to be hoarse as a raven on one's wedding-day, so LadyHelena insisted on a wet napkin round the throat, a warm bath, gruel, and early bed. Willingly enough the girl obeyed--too glad to have thislast evening alone. Immediately after dinner she bade her adieux toher bridegroom-elect, and went away to her own rooms. 

The short October day had long ago darkened down, the curtains weredrawn, a fire burned, the candles were lit. She took the bath, thegruel, the wet napkin, and let herself be tucked up in bed. 

"Romantic, " she thought, with a laugh at herself, "for a bride. "

Lady Helena--was it a presentiment of what was so near?--lingered byher side long that evening, and, at parting, for the first time tookher in her arms and kissed her. 

"Good-night, my child, " the tender, tremulous tones said. "I pray youmake him happy--I pray that he may make _you_. "

She lingered yet a little longer--her heart seemed full, her eyes wereshining through tears. Words seemed trembling on her lips--words shehad not courage to say. For Edith, surprised and moved, she put herarms round the kind old neck, and laid her face for a moment on thegenial old bosom. 

"I will try, " she whispered, "dear, kind Lady Helena--indeed I willtry to be a good and faithful wife. "

One last kiss, then they parted; the door closed behind her, and Edithwas alone. 

She lay as usual, high up among the billowy pillows, her hands claspedabove her head, her dark, dreaming eyes fixed on the fire. She lookedas though she were thinking, but she was not. Her mind was simply ablank. She was vaguely and idly watching the flickering shadows castby the firelight on the wall, the gleam of yellow moonlight shimmeringthrough the curtains; listening to the faint sighing of the night wind, the ticking of the little fanciful clock, to the pretty plaintivetunes it played before it struck the hours. Nine, ten, eleven--sheheard them all, as she lay there, broad awake, neither thinking norstirring. 

Her maid came in for her last orders; she bade the girl good-night, and told her to go to bed--she wanted nothing more. Then again she wasalone. But now a restlessness, as little to be understood as herformer listless apathy, took hold of her. She could not lie there andsleep; she could not lie there awake. As the clock chimed twelve, shestarted up in bed in a sudden panic. Twelve! A new day--her weddingday!

Impossible to lie there quiet any longer. She sprang up, locked herdoor, and began, in her long, white night-robe, pacing up and down. Soanother hour passed. One! One from the little Swiss musical clock; one, solemn and sombre, from the big clock up in the tower. Then shestopped--stopped in thought; then she walked to one of her boxes, andtook out a writing-case, always kept locked. With a key attached toher neck she opened it, seated herself before a table, and drew fortha package of letters and a picture. The picture was the handsomephotographed face of Charley Stuart, the letters the letters he hadwritten her to Sandypoint. 

She began with the first, and read it slowly through--then the next, and so on to the end. There were over a dozen in all, and tolerablylengthy. As she finished and folded up the last, she took up thepicture and gazed at it long and earnestly, with a strangely dark, intent look. How handsome he was! how well he photographed! that washer thought. She had seen him so often, with just this expression, looking at her. His pleasant, lazy, half-sarcastic voice was in herear, saying something coolly impertinent--his gray, half-smiling, half-cynical eyes were looking life-like up at her. What was he doingnow? Sleeping calmly, no doubt--she forgotten as she deserved to be. When to-morrow came, would he by any chance remember it was herwedding-day, and would the remembrance cost him a pang? She laughed atherself for the sentimental question--Charley Stuart feel a pang forher, or any other earthly woman? No, he was immersed in business, nodoubt, head and ears, soul and body; absorbed in dollars and cents, and retrieving in some way his fallen fortunes--Edith Darrelldismissed contemptuously, as a cold-blooded jilt, from his memory. Well, so she had willed it--she had no right to complain. With asteady hand she tied up the letters and replaced them in the desk. Thepicture followed. "Good-by, Charley, " she said, with a sort of smile. She could no more have destroyed those souvenirs of the past than shecould have cut off her right hand. Wrong, you say, and shake your head. Wrong, of course; but when has Edith Darrell done right--when have Ipictured her to you in any very favorable light? As long as she lived, and was Sir Victor's wife, she would never look at them again, butdestroy them--no, she could not do that. 

Six! As she closed and locked the writing-case the hour struck; abroad, bright sunburst flashed in and filled the room with yellowglory. The sun had risen cloudless and brilliant at last on herwedding-day. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

HOW THE WEDDING-DAY ENDED. 

She replaced the desk in the trunk, and, walking to the window, drewback the curtain and looked out. Over emerald lawn and coppice, talltrees and brilliant flowers, the October sun shone gloriously. Nofairer day ever smiled upon old earth. She stood for an instant--thenturned slowly away and walked over to a mirror--had her night's vigilmade her look wan and sallow? she wondered. No--she looked much asusual--a thought paler, perhaps, but it is appropriate for brides tolook pale. No use thinking of a morning nap under the circumstances--shewould sit down by the window and wait for them to come. She could hearthe household astir already--she could even see Sir Victor, away inthe distance, taking his morning walk. How singularly haggard and wanhe looked, like anything you please except a happy bridegroom about tomarry the lady he loves above all on earth. She watched him with agravely thoughtful face, until at last he disappeared from view amongthe trees. 

Seven o'clock! Eight o'clock! Edith's respite was ended, her solitudeinvaded at last. There was a tap at the door, and Lady Helena, followed by Miss Darrell's maid, entered. 

Had they all kept vigil? Her ladyship, in the pitiless, searchingglare of the morning sun, certainly looked much more like it than thequiet bride. She was pale, nervous, agitated beyond anything the girlhad ever seen. 

"How had Edith slept? How was her cold? How did she feel?"

"Never better, " Miss Darrell responded smilingly. "The sore throat andheadache are quite gone, and I am ready to do justice to the nicebreakfast which I see Emily has brought. "

She sat down to it--chocolate, rolls, an omelette, and a savory littlebird, with excellent and unromantic appetite. Then the service wascleared away, and the real business of the day began. She was underthe hands of her maid, deep in the mysteries of the wedding-toilette. 

At ten came the bridemaids, a brilliant bevy, in sweeping trains, walking visions of silk, tulle, laces, perfume, and flowers. Athalf-past ten Miss Darrell, "queen rose of the rose-bud garden ofgirls, " stood in their midst, ready for the altar. 

She looked beautiful. It is an understood thing that all brides, whatever their appearance on the ordinary occasions of life, lookbeautiful on this day of days. Edith Darrell had never looked sostately, so queenly, so handsome in her life. Just a thought pale, butnot unbecomingly so--the rich, glistening white silk sweeping farbehind her, set off well the fine figure, which it fitted without flaw. The dark, proud face shone like a star from the misty folds of thebridal veil; the legendary orange blossoms crowned the rich, dark hair;on neck, ears, and arms glimmered a priceless parure of pearls, thegift, like the dress and veil, of Lady Helena. A fragrant bouquet ofspotless white had been sent up by the bridegroom. At a quarter ofeleven she entered the carriage and was driven away to the church. 

As she lay back, and looked dreamily out, the mellow October sunshinelighting the scene, the joy-bells clashing, the listless apathy of thepast few days took her again. She took note of the trifles abouther--her mind rejected all else. How yellow were the fields of stubble, how picturesque, gilded in the sunshine, the village of Chesholmlooked. How glowing and rosy the faces of the people who flocked outin their holiday best to gaze at the bridal pageant. Was it health andhappiness, or soap and water only? wondered the bride. These were herwandering thoughts--these alone. 

They reached the little church. All the way from the carriage to thestone porch the charity children strewed her path with flowers, andsang (out of tune) a bridal anthem. She smiled down upon their vulgar, admiring little faces as she went by on the Earl of Wroatmore's arm. The church was filled. Was seeing her married worth all this troubleto these good people, she wondered, as she walked up the aisle, stillon the arm of the Right Honorable the Earl of Wroatmore. 

There was, of course, a large throng of invited guests. Lady Helenawas there in pale, flowing silks, the bridemaids, a billowy crowd ofwhite-plumaged birds, and the bridegroom, with a face whiter than thewhite waistcoat, standing waiting for his bride. And there, insurplice, book in hand, stood the rector of Chesholm and his curate, ready to tie the untieable knot. 

A low, hushed murmur ran through the church at sight of thesilver-shining figure of the bride. How handsome, how stately, howperfectly self-possessed and calm. Truly, if beauty and high-bredrepose of manner be any palliation of low birth and obscurity, thisAmerican young lady had it. 

An instant passes--she is kneeling by Sir Victor Catheron's side. "Whogiveth this woman to be married to this man?" say the urbane tones ofthe rector of Chesholm, and the Right Honorable the Earl of Wroatmorecomes forward on two rickety old legs and gives her. "If any one herepresent knows any just cause or impediment why this man should not bemarried to this woman, I charge him, " etc. , but no one knows. Thesolemn words go on. "Wilt thou take Edith Darrell to be thy weddedwife?" "I will, " Sir Victor Catheron responds, but in broken, inarticulate tones. It is the bride's turn. "I will!" the clear, firmvoice is perfectly audible in the almost painfully intense stillness. The ring slips over her finger; she watches it curiously. "I pronounceye man and wife, " says the rector. "What God hath joined together, letno man put asunder. "

It is all over; she is Lady Catheron, and nothing has happened. 

They enter the vestry, they sign their names in the register, theirfriends flock round to shake hands, and kiss, and congratulate. AndEdith smiles through it all, and Sir Victor keeps that white, haggard, unsmiling face. It is a curious fancy, but, if it were not so utterlyabsurd, Edith would think he looked at her as though he were afraid ofher. 

On her husband's arm--her husband's!--she walks down the aisle and outof the church. They enter the carriages, and are driven back to PowyssPlace. They sit down to breakfast--every face looks happy and bright, except the face that should look happiest and brightest of all--thebridegroom's. He seems to make a great effort to be, cheerful and atease; it is a failure. He tries to return thanks in a speech; it is agreater failure still. An awkward silence and constraint creep overthe party. What is the matter with Sir Victor? All eyes are fixedcuriously upon him. Surely not repenting his mesalliance so speedily. It is a relief to everybody when the breakfast ends, and the bridegoes upstairs to change her dress. 

The young baronet has engaged a special train to take them into Wales. The new-made Lady Catheron changes her shining bridal robes for acharming travelling costume of palest gray, with a gossamer veil ofthe same shade. She looks as handsome in it as in the other, and hercool calm is a marvel to all beholders. She shakes hands gayly withtheir friends and guests; a smile is on her face as she takes herbridegroom's arm and enters the waiting carriage. Old shoes in ashower are flung after them; ladies wave their handkerchiefs, gentlemen call good-by. She leans forward and waves her gray-glovedhand in return--the cloudless smile on the beautiful face to the last. So they see her--as not one of all who stand there will ever see heron earth again. 

The house, the wedding-guests are out of sight--the carriage rollsthrough the gates of Powyss Place. She falls back and looks out. Theyare flying along Chesholm high street; the tenantry shout lustily; thejoy-bells still clash forth. Now they are at the station--ten minutesmore, and, as fast as steam can convey them, they are whirling intoWales. And all this time bride and bridegroom have not exchanged aword!

That curious fancy of Edith's has come back--surely Sir Victor is_afraid_ of her. How strangely he looks--how strangely he keepsaloof--how strangely he is silent--how fixedly he gazes out of therailway carriage window--anywhere but at her! _Has_ his brain turned?she wonders; _is_ Sir Victor going mad?

She makes no attempt to arouse him; let him be silent if he will; sherather prefers it, indeed. She sits and looks sociably out of theopposite window at the bright, flying landscape, steeped in the amberglitter of the October afternoon sun. 

She looks across at the man she has married--did ever mortal manbefore on his wedding-day wear such a stony face as that? And yet hehas married her for love--for love alone. Was ever another bridaljourney performed like this--in profound gravity and silence on bothsides? she wonders, half-inclined to laugh. She looks down at hershining wedding-ring--is it a circlet that means nothing? How is herlife to go on after this grewsome wedding-day?

They reach Wales. The sun is setting redly over mountains and sea. Thecarriage is awaiting them; she enters, and lies back wearily withclosed eyes. She is dead tired and depressed; she is beginning to feelthe want of last night's sleep, and in a weary way is glad when theCarnarvon cottage is reached. Sir Victor's man, my lady's maid, andtwo Welch servants came forth to meet them; and on Sir Victor's armshe enters the house. 

She goes at once to her dressing-room, to rest, to bathe her face, andremove her wraps, performing those duties herself, and dismissing hermaid. As she and Sir Victor separate, he mutters some half-incoherentwords--he will take a walk and smoke a cigar before dinner, while sheis resting. He is gone even while he says it, and she is alone. 

She removes her gloves, hat, and jacket, bathes her face, and descendsto the little cottage drawing-room. It is quite deserted--sleepysilence everywhere reigns. She throws herself into an easy-chairbeside the open window, and looks listlessly out. Ruby, and purple, and golden, the sun is setting in a radiant sky--the yellow sea creepsup on silver sands--old Carnarvon Castle gleams and glows in therainbow light like a fairy palace. It is unutterably beautiful, unutterably drowsy and dull. And, while she thinks it; her heavyeyelids sway and fall, her head sinks back, and Edith falls fastasleep. 

Fast asleep; and a mile away, Sir Victor Catheron paces up and down astrip of tawny sand, the sea lapping softly at his feet, the birdssinging in the branches, not a human soul far or near. He is notsmoking that before-dinner cigar--he is striding up and down more likean escaped Bedlamite than anything else. His hat is drawn over hiseyes, his brows are knit, his lips set tight, his hands are clenched. Presently he pauses, leans against a tree, and looks, with eyes fullof some haggard, horrible despair, out over the red light on sea andsky. And, as he looks, he falls down suddenly, as though someinspiration had seized him, upon his knees, and lifts his claspedhands to that radiant sky. A prayer, that seems frenzied in itsagonized intensity, bursts from his lips--the sleeping sea, thetwittering birds, the rustling leaves, and He who has made them, aloneare to hear. Then he falls forward on his face, and lies like a stone. 

Is he mad? Surely no sane man ever acted, or looked, or spoke likethis. He lies so--prostrate, motionless--for upward of an hour, thenslowly and heavily he rises. His face is calmer now; it is the face ofa man who has fought some desperate fight, and gained some desperatevictory--one of those victories more cruel than death. 

He turns and goes hence. He crashes through the tall, dewy grass, hiswhite face set in a look of iron resolution. He is ghastly beyond alltelling; dead and in his coffin he will hardly look more death like. He reaches the cottage, and the first sight upon which his eyes restis his bride, peacefully asleep in the chair by the still open window. She looks lovely in her slumber, and peaceful as a little child--novery terrible sight surely. But as his eyes fall upon her, he recoilsin some great horror, as a man may who has received a blinding blow. 

"Asleep!" his pale lips whisper; "asleep--as _she_ was!"

He stands spell-bound for a moment--then he breaks away headlong. Hemakes his way to the dining-room. The table, all bright with damask, silver, crystal, and cut flowers, stands spread for dinner. He takesfrom his pocket a note-book and pencil, and, still standing, writesrapidly down one page. Without reading, he folds and seals the sheet, and slowly and with dragging steps returns to the room where Edithsleeps. On the threshold he lingers--he seems afraid--_afraid_ toapproach. But he does approach at last. He places the note he haswritten on a table, he draws near his sleeping bride, he kneels downand kisses her hands, her dress, her hair. His haggard eyes burn onher face, their mesmeric light disturbs her. She murmurs and movesrestlessly in her sleep. In an instant he is on his feet; in another, he is out of the room and the house; in another, the deepeningtwilight takes him, and he is gone. 

A train an hour later passes through Carnarvon on its way to London. One passenger alone awaits it at the station--one passenger who entersan empty first-class compartment and disappears. Then it goesshrieking on its way, bearing with it to London the bridegroom, SirVictor Catheron. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE DAY AFTER. 

The last red ray of the sunset had faded, the silver stars were out, the yellow moon shone serenely over land and sea, before Edithawoke--awoke with a smile on her lips from a dream of Charley. 

"Do go away--don't tease, " she was murmuring half smilingly, halfpetulantly--the words she had spoken to him a hundred times. She wasback in Sandypoint, he beside her, living over the old days, goneforever. She awoke to see the tawny moonshine streaming in, to hearthe soft whispers of the night wind, the soft, sleepy lap of the seaon the sands, and to realize, with a thrill and a shock, she was SirVictor Catheron's wife. 

His wife! This was her wedding-day. Even in dreams Charley must cometo her no more. 

She rose up, slightly chilled from sleeping in the evening air, andshivering, partly with that chill, partly with a feeling she did notcare to define. The dream of her life's ambition was realized in itsfullest; she, Edith Darrell, was "my lady--a baronet's bride;" thevista of her life spread before her in glittering splendor; and yether heart lay like lead in her bosom. In this hour she was afraid ofherself, afraid of him. 

But where was he?

She looked round the room, half in shadow, half in brilliant moonlight. No, he was not there. Had he returned from his stroll? She took outher watch. A quarter of seven--of course he had. He was awaiting her, no doubt, impatient for his dinner, in the dining-room. She would makesome change in her dress and join him there. She went up to herdressing room and lit the candles herself. She smoothed her ruffledhair, added a ribbon and a jewel or two, and then went back to thedrawing-room. All unnoticed, in the shadows, the letter for her lay onthe table. She sat down and rang the bell. Jamison, the confidentialservant, appeared. 

"Has Sir Victor returned from his walk, Jamison? Is he in thedining-room?"

Mr. Jamison's well-bred eyes looked in astonishment at the speaker, then around the room. Mr. Jamison's wooden countenance looked stolidsurprise. 

"Sir Victor, my lady--I--thought Sir Victor was _here_, my lady. "

"Sir Victor has not been here since half an hour after our arrival. Hewent out for a walk, as you very well know. I ask you if he hasreturned. "

"Sir Victor returned more than an hour ago, my lady. I saw him myself. You were asleep, my lady, by the window as he came up. He went intothe dining-room and wrote a letter; I saw it in his hand. And then, mylady, he came in here. "

The man paused, and again peered around the room. Edith listened ingrowing surprise. 

"I thought he was here still, my lady, so did Hemily, or we would havetaken the liberty of hentering and closing the window. We was sure hewas here. He suttingly hentered with the letter in his 'and. It's_very_ hodd. "

Again there was a pause. Again Mr. Jamison--

"If your ladyship will hallow, I will light the candles here, and thengo and hascertain whether Sir Victor is in hany of the hother rooms. "

She made an affirmative gesture, and returned to the window. The manlit the candles; a second after an exclamation startled her. 

"The note, my lady! Here it is. "

It lay upon the table; she walked over and took it up. In Sir Victor'shand, and addressed to herself! What did this mean? She stood lookingat it a moment--then she turned to Jamison. 

"That will do, " she said briefly; "if I want you I will ring. "

The man bowed and left the room. She stood still, holding the unopenednote, strangely reluctant to break the seal. What did Sir Victor meanby absenting himself and writing her a note? With an effort shearoused herself at last, and tore it open. It was strangely scrawled, the writing half illegible; slowly and with difficulty she made it outThis was what she read:

 * * * * *

"For Heaven's sake, pity me--for Heaven's sake, pardon me. We shallnever meet more! O beloved! believe that I love you, believe that Inever loved you half so well as now, when I leave you forever. If Iloved you less I might dare to stay. But I dare not. I can tell youno more--a promise to the living and the dead binds me. A dreadfulsecret of sin, and shame, and guilt, is involved. Go to Lady Helena. My love--my bride--my heart is breaking as I write the word--the cruelword that must be written--farewell. I have but one prayer in myheart--but one wish in my soul--that my life may be a short one. "VICTOR. "

 * * * * *

No more. So, in short, incoherent, disconnected sentences, thisincomprehensible letter began and ended. She stood stunned, bewildered, dazed, holding it, gazing at it blankly. Was she asleep?Was this a dream? Was Sir Victor playing some ghastly kind ofpractical joke, or--had Sir Victor all of a sudden gone wholly andentirely mad?

She shrank from the last thought--but the dim possibility that itmight be true calmed her. She sat down, hardly knowing what she wasdoing, and read the letter again. Yes, surely, surely she was right. Sir Victor had gone mad! Madness was hereditary in his family--had itcome to him on his wedding-day of all days? On his wedding-day thelast remnant of reason had deserted him, and he had deserted _her_. She sat quite still, --the light of the candles falling upon her, uponthe fatal letter, --trying to steady herself, trying to think. She readit again and again; surely no sane man ever wrote such a letter asthis. "A dreadful secret of sin, and shame, and guilt, is involved. "Did that dreadful secret mean the secret of his mother's death? Butwhy should that cause him to leave her? She knew all about it already. What frightful revelation had been made to him on his father's dyingbed? He had never been the same man since. An idea flashed across herbrain--dreadful and unnatural enough in all conscience--but why shouldeven _that_, supposing her suspicions to be true, cause him to leaveher? "If I loved you less, I might dare to stay with you. " Whatrhodomontade was this? Men prove their love by living with the womenthey marry, not by deserting them. Oh, he was mad, mad, mad--not adoubt of that could remain. 

Her thoughts went back over the past two weeks--to the change in himever since his father's death. There had been times when he hadvisibly shrunk from her, when he had seemed absolutely afraid of her. She had doubted it then--she knew it now. It was the dawning of hisinsanity--the family taint breaking forth. His father's delusion hadbeen to shut himself up, to give out that he was dead--the son's wasto desert his bride on their bridal day forever. Forever! the lettersaid so. Again, and still again, she read it. Very strangely shelooked, the waxlights flickering on her pale, rigid young face, hercompressed lips set in one tight line--on her soft pearl gray silk, with its point lace collar and diamond star. A bride, alone, forsaken, on her wedding-day!

How strange it all was! The thought came to her: was it retributivejustice pursuing her for having bartered herself for rank? And yetgirls as good and better than she, did it every day. She rose andbegan pacing up and down the floor. What should she do? "Go back toLady Helena, " said the letter. Go back! cast off, deserted--she, whoonly at noon to-day had left them a radiant bride! As she thought it, a feeling of absolute hatred for the man she had married came into herheart. Sane or mad she would hate him now, all the rest of her life. 

The hours were creeping on--two had passed since she had sent Jamisonout of her room. What were they thinking of her, these keen-sighted, gossiping servants? what would they think and say when she told themSir Victor would return no more?--that she was going back to Cheshirealone to-morrow morning? There was no help for it. There was resoluteblood in the girl's veins; she walked over to the bell, rang it, herhead erect, her eyes bright, only her lips still set in that tight, unpleasant line. 

Mr. Jamison, grave and respectful, his burning curiosity diplomaticallyhidden, answered. 

"Jamison, " the young lady said, her tones clear and calm, looking theman straight in the eyes, "your master has been obliged to leave Walessuddenly, and will not return. You may spend the night in packing up. To-morrow, by the earliest train, I return to Cheshire. "

"Yes, me lady. "

Not a muscle of Jamison's face moved--not a vestige of surprise or anyother earthly emotion was visible in his smooth-shaven face. If shehad said, "To-morrow by the earliest train I shall take a trip to themoon, " Mr. Jamison would have bowed and said, "Yes, me lady, " inprecisely the same tone. 

"Is dinner served?" his young mistress asked, looking at her watch. "If not, serve immediately. I shall be there in two minutes. "

She kept her word. With that light in her eyes, that pale composure onher face, she swept into the dining-room, and took her place at theglittering table. Jamison waited upon her--watching her, of course, asa cat a mouse. 

"She took her soup and fish, her slice of pheasant and her jelly, I doassure you, just the same as hever, Hemily, " he related afterward tothe lady's maid; "but her face was whiter than the tablecloth, and hereyes had a look in them I'd rather master would face than me. She'sone of the 'igh-stepping sort, depend upon it, and quiet as she takesit now, there'll be the deuce and all to pay one of these days. "

She rose at last and went back to the drawing-room. How brilliantlythe moon shone on the sleeping sea; how fantastic the town and castlelooked in the romantic light. She stood by the window long, lookingout. No thought of sympathy for him--of trying to find him out on themorrow--entered her mind. He had deserted her; sane or mad, that wasenough for the present to know. 

She took out a purse, that fairies and gold dollars alone might haveentered, and looked at its contents. By sheer good luck and chance, itcontained three or four sovereigns--more than sufficient for thereturn journey. To-morrow morning she would go back to Powyss Placeand tell Lady Helena; after that--

Her thoughts broke--to-night she could not look beyond. The misery, the shame, the horrible scandal, the loneliness, the whole wreck oflife that was to come, she could not feel as yet. She knew what shewould do to-morrow--after that all was a blank. 

What a lovely night it was! What were they doing at home? What wasTrixy about just now? What was--Charley? She had made up her mindnever to think of Charley more. His face rose vividly before her nowin the moonrays, pale, stern, contemptuous. "Oh!" she passionatelythought, "how he must scorn, how he must despise me!" "Whatever comes, "he had said to her that rainy morning at Sandypoint; "whatever the newlife brings, you are never to blame _me_!" How long ago that rainymorning seemed now. What an eternity since that other night in thesnow. If she had only died beside him that night--the clear, white, painless death--unspotted from the world! If she had only died thatnight!

Her arms were on the window-sill--her face fell upon them. One hour, two, three passed; she never moved. She was not crying, she wassuffering, but dully, with a numb, torpid, miserable sense of pain. All her life since that rainy spring day, when Charley Stuart had cometo Sandypoint with his mother's letter, returned to her. She hadstriven and coquetted to bring about the result she wanted--it hadseemed such a dazzling thing to be a baronet's wife, with an incomethat would flow in to her like a ceaseless golden river. She hadjilted the man she loved in cold bloody and accepted the man to whomher heart was as stone. In the hour when fortune was deserting herbest friends, she had deserted them too. And the end was--_this_. 

It was close upon twelve when Emily, the maid, sleepy and cross, tapped at the door. She had to tap many times before her mistressheard her. When she did hear and open, and the girl came in, sherecoiled from the ghastly pallor of her lady's face. 

"I shall not want you to-night, " Edith said briefly. "You may go tobed. "

"But you are ill, my lady. If you only saw yourself! Can't I fetch yousomething? A glass of wine from the dining-room?"

"Nothing, Emily, thank you. I have sat up too long in the nightair--that is all. Go to bed; I shall do very well. "

The girl went, full of pity and worries, shaking her head. "Only thismorning I thought what a fine thing it was to be the bride of so finea gentleman, and look at her now. "

Left alone, she closed and fastened the window herself. Anunsupportable sense of pain and weariness oppressed her. She did notundress. She loosened her clothes, wrapped a heavy, soft railway rugabout her, and lay down upon the bed. In five minutes the tired eyeshad closed. There is no surer narcotic than trouble sometimes; herswas forgotten--deeply, dreamlessly, she slept until morning. 

The sun was high in the sky when she awoke. She raised herself uponher elbow and looked around, bewildered. In a second yesterday flashedupon her, and her journey of to-day. She arose, made her morningtoilet, and rang for her maid. Breakfast was waiting--it was past nineo'clock, and she could leave Carnarvon in three quarters of an hour. She made an effort to eat and drink; but it was little better than aneffort. She gave Jamison his parting instructions--he was to remainhere until to-morrow; by that time orders would come from Powyss Place. Then, in the dress she had travelled in yesterday, she entered therailway carriage and started upon her return journey. 

How speedily her honeymoon had ended! A curious sort of smile passedover her face as she thought it. She had not anticipatedElysium--quite--but she certainly had anticipated something verydifferent from this. 

She kept back thought resolutely--she would _not_ think--she satand looked at the genial October landscape flitting by. Sooner orlater the floodgates would open, but not yet. 

It was about three in the afternoon when the fly from the railwaydrove up to the stately portico entrance of Powyss Place. She paid anddismissed the man, and knocked unthinkingly. The servant who openedthe door fell back, staring at her, as though she had been a ghost. 

"Is Lady Helena at home?"

Lady Helena was at home--and still the man stared blankly as he madethe reply. She swept past him, and made her way, unannounced, to herladyship's private rooms. She tapped at the door. 

"Come in, " said the familiar voice, and she obeyed. Then a startledcry rang out. Lady Helena arose and stood spellbound, gazing in muteconsternation at the pale girl before her. 

"Edith!" she could but just gasp. "What is this? Where is Victor?"

Edith came in, closed the door, and quietly faced her ladyship. 

"I have not the faintest idea where Sir Victor Catheron may be at thispresent moment. Wherever he is, it is to be hoped he is able to takecare of himself. I know I have not seen him since four o'clockyesterday afternoon. "

The lips of Lady Helena moved, but no sound came from them. Some greatand nameless terror seemed to have fallen upon her. 

"It was rather an unusual thing to do, " the clear, steady tones of thebride went on, "but being very tired after the journey, I fell asleepin the cottage parlor at Carnarvon, half an hour after our arrival. Sir Victor had left me to take a walk and a smoke, he said. It wasnearly seven when I awoke. I was still alone. Your nephew had come andgone. "

"Gone!"

"Gone--and left this for me. Read it, Lady Helena, and you will seethat in returning here, I am only obeying my lord and master'scommand. "

She took the note from her pocket, and presented it. Her ladyship tookit, read it, her face growing a dreadful ashen gray. 

"So soon!" she said, in a sort of whisper; "that it should have fallenupon him so soon! Oh! I feared it! I feared it! I feared it!"

"You feared it!" Edith repeated, watching her intently. "Does thatmean your ladyship understands this letter?"

"Heaven help me! I am afraid I do. "

"It means, then, what I have thought it meant: that when I married SirVictor yesterday I married a madman!"

There was a sort of moan from Lady Helena--no other reply. 

"Insanity is in the Catheron blood--I knew that from the first. Hisfather lived and died a maniac. The father's fate is the son's. It haslain dormant for three-and-twenty years, to break out on hiswedding-day. Lady Helena, am I right?"

But Lady Helena was sobbing convulsively now. Her sobs were her onlyreply. 

"It is hard on _you_, " Edith said, with a dreary sort of pity. "Youloved him. "

"And you did not, " the elder woman retorted, looking up. "You lovedyour cousin, and you married my poor, unhappy boy for his title andhis wealth. It would have been better for him he had died than everset eyes on your face. "

"Much better, " Edith answered steadily. "Better for him--better for me. You are right, Lady Helena Powyss, I loved my cousin, and I marriedyour nephew for his title and his wealth. I deserve all you can say ofme. The worst will not be half bad enough. "

Her ladyship's face drooped again; her suppressed sobbing was the onlysound to be heard. 

"I have come to you, " Edith went on, "to tell you the truth. I don'task what his secret is he speaks of; I don't wish to know. I think heshould be looked after. If he is insane he should not be allowed to goat large. "

"If he is insane!" Lady Helena cried, looking up again angrily. "Youdo well to say _if_. He is no more insane than you are!"

Edith stood still looking at her. The last trace of color faded fromher face. 

"_Not_ insane, " she whispered, as if to herself; "_not_ insane, and--he deserts me!"

"Oh, what have I said!" Lady Helena cried; "forgive me, Edith--I don'tknow what I am saying--I don't know what to think. Leave me alone, andlet me try to understand it, if I can. Your old rooms are ready foryou. You have come to remain with me, of course. "

"For the present--yes. Of the future I have not yet thought. I willleave you alone, Lady Helena, as you desire. I will not trouble youagain until to-morrow. "

She was quitting the room. Lady Helena arose and took her in her arms, her face all blotted with a rain of tears. 

"My child! my child!" she said, "it is hard on you--so young, sopretty, and only married yesterday! Edith, you frighten me! What areyou made of? You look like a stone!"

The girl sighed--a long, weary, heart-sick sigh. 

"I feel like a stone. I can't cry. I think I have no heart, no soul, no feeling, no conscience--that I am scarcely a human being. I am ahardened, callous wretch, for whom any fate is too good. Don't pity me, dear Lady Helena; don't waste one tear on me. I am not worth it. "

She touched her lips to the wet cheek, and went slowly on her way. Noheart--no soul! if she had, both felt benumbed, dead. She seemed toherself a century old, as she toiled on to her familiar rooms. Theymet no more that day--each kept to her own apartments. 

The afternoon set in wet and wild; the rain fell ceaselessly anddismally; an evening to depress the happiest closed down. 

It was long after dark when there came a ring at the bell, and thefootman, opening the door, saw the figure of a man muffled anddisguised in slouch hat and great-coat. He held an umbrella over hishead, and a scarf was twisted about the lower part of his face. In ahusky voice, stifled in his scarf, he asked for Lady Helena. 

"Her ladyship's at home, " the footman answered, rather superciliously, "but she don't see strangers at this hour. "

"Give her this, " the stranger said; "she will see _me_. "

In spite of hat, scarf, and umbrella, there was something familiar inthe air of the visitor, something familiar in his tone. The man tookthe note suspiciously and passed it to another, who passed it to herladyship's maid. The maid passed it to her ladyship, and her ladyshipread it with a suppressed cry. 

"Show him into the library at once. I will go down. "

The muffled man was shown in, still wearing hat and scarf. The librarywas but dimly lit. He stood like a dark shadow amid the other shadows. An instant later the door opened and Lady Helena, pale and wild, appeared on the threshold. 

"It is, " she faltered. "It is--you!"

She approached slowly, her terrified eyes riveted on the hidden face. 

"It is I. Lock the door. "

She obeyed, she came nearer. He drew away the scarf, lifted the hat, and showed her the face of Sir Victor Catheron. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY. 

The morning dawned over Powyss Place--dawned in wild wind and drivingrain still--dawned upon Edith, deserted more strangely than surelybride was ever deserted before. 

She had darkened her chamber; she had forced herself resolutely tosleep. But the small hours had come before she had succeeded, and itwas close upon ten when the dark eyes opened from dreamland to life. Strange mockery! it was ever of Charley and the days that were forevergone she dreamed now. 

For hours and hours she had paced her room the evening and nightbefore, all the desolation, all the emptiness and loss of her lifespread out before her. She had sold herself deliberately and with hereyes open, and this was her reward. Deserted in the hour of hertriumph--humiliated as never bride was humiliated before--the talk, the ridicule of the country, an object of contemptuous pity to thewhole world. And Charley and Trixy, what would _they_ say when theyheard of her downfall? She was very proud--no young princess had everhaughtier blood coursing through her royal veins than this portionlessAmerican girl. For wealth and rank she had bartered life and love, andverily she had her reward. 

She suffered horribly. As she paced up and down, her whole face wasdistorted with the torture within. She flung herself into a seat andtried to still the ceaseless, gnawing, maddening pain. In vain! Shecould neither sit still, nor think, nor deaden her torment. And whenat last she threw herself face downward on her bed it was only tosleep the spent sleep of utter exhaustion. But she was "pluck" to thebackbone. Next day, when she had bathed and made her toilet, anddescended to the breakfast-room, the closest observer could have readnothing of last night in the fixed calm of her face. The worst thatcould ever happen had happened; she was ready now to live and die game. 

Lady Helena, very pale, very tremulous, very frightened andhelpless-looking, awaited her. A large, red fire burned on the hearth. Her ladyship was wrapped in a fluffy white shawl, but she shivered inspite of both. The lips that touched Edith's cheek were almost as coldas that cold cheek itself. Tears started to her eyes as she spoke toher. 

"My child, " she said, "how white you are; how cold and ill you look. I am afraid you did not sleep at all. "

"Yes, I slept, " answered Edith; "for a few hours, at least. Theweather has something to do with it, perhaps; I always fall a prey tohorrors in wet and windy weather. "

Then they sat down to the fragrant and tempting breakfast, and atewith what appetite they might. For Edith, she hardly made a pretenceof eating--she drank a large cup of strong coffee, and arose. 

"Lady Helena, " she began abruptly, "as I came out of my room, two ofthe servants were whispering in the corridor. I merely caught a wordor two in passing. They stopped immediately upon seeing me. But fromthat word or two, I infer this--Sir Victor Catheron was here to seeyou last night. "

Lady Helena was trifling nervously with her spoon--it fell with aclash now into her cup, and her terrified eyes looked piteously at hercompanion. 

"If you desire to keep this a secret too, " Edith said, her lipscurling scornfully, "of course you are at liberty to do so--of courseI presume to ask no questions. But if not, I would like to know--itmay in some measure influence my own movements. "

"What do you intend to do?" her ladyship brokenly asked. 

"That you shall hear presently. Just now the question is: Was yournephew here last night or not?"

"He was. "

She said it with a sort of sob, hiding her face in her hands. "MayHeaven help me, " she cried; "it is growing more than I can bear. O mychild, what can I say to you? how can I comfort you in this greattrouble that has come upon you?"

"You are very good, but I would rather not be comforted. I have beenutterly base and mercenary from first to last--a wretch who has richlyearned her fate. Whatever has befallen me I deserve. I married yournephew without one spark of affection for him; he was no more to methan any laborer on his estate--I doubt whether he ever could havebeen. I meant to try--who knows how it would have ended? I married SirVictor Catheron for his rank and riches, his title and rent-roll--Imarried the baronet, not the man. And it has ended thus. I am widowedon my wedding-day, cast off, forsaken. Have I not earned my fate?"

She laughed drearily--a short, mirthless, bitter laugh. 

"I don't venture to ask too many questions--I don't battle with myfate; I throw up my arms and yield at once. But this I would like toknow. Madness is hereditary in his family. Unworthy of all love as Iam, I think--I think Sir Victor loved me, and, unless he be mad, Ican't understand _why_ he deserted me. Lady Helena, answer me this, as you will one day answer to your Maker--Is Sir Victor Catheron saneor mad?"

There was a pause as she asked the dreadful question--a pause in whichthe beating of the autumnal rain upon the glass, the soughing of theautumnal gale sounded preternaturally loud. Then, brokenly, intrembling tones, and not looking up, came Lady Helena's answer:

"God pity him and you--he is not mad. "

Then there was silence again. The elder woman, her face buried in herhands and resting on the table, was crying silently and miserably. Atthe window, the tall, slim figure of the girl stood motionless, herhands clasped loosely before her, her deep bright eyes looking out atthe slanting rain, the low-lying, lead colored sky, the black treesblown aslant in the high October gale. 

"Not mad?" she repeated, after that long pause; "you are quite certainof this, my lady? Not mad--and he has left me?"

"He has left you. O my child! if I dared only tell you all--if I daredonly tell you how it is _because_ of his great and passionate lovefor you, he leaves you. If ever there was a martyr on this earth, it is my poor boy. If you had seen him as I saw him last night--wornto a shadow in one day, suffering for the loss of you until deathwould be a relief--even _you_ would have pitied him. "

"Would I? Well, perhaps so, though my heart is rather a hard one. Ofcourse I don't understand a word of all this--of course, as he said inhis letter, some secret of guilt and shame lies behind it all. And yet, perhaps, I could come nearer to the 'Secret' than either you or hethink. "

Lady Helena looked suddenly up, that terrified, hunted look in hereyes. 

"What do you mean?" she gasped. 

"This, " the firm, cold voice of Edith said, as Edith's bright, darkeyes fixed themselves pitilessly upon her, "this, Lady Helena Powyss:That the secret which takes him from me is the secret of his mother'smurder--the secret which he learned at his father's deathbed. Shall Itell you who committed that murder?"

Her ladyship's lips moved, but no sound came; she sat spellbound, watching that pale, fixed face before her. 

"Not Inez Catheron, who was imprisoned for it; not Juan Catheron, whowas suspected of it. I am a Yankee, Lady Helena, and consequentlyclever at guessing. I believe that Sir Victor Catheron, in cold blood, murdered his own wife!"

There was a sobbing cry--whether at the shock of the terrible words, or at their truth, who was to tell?

"I believe the late Sir Victor Catheron to have been a deliberate andcowardly murderer, " Edith went on; "so cowardly that his weak brainturned when he saw what he had done and thought of the consequences;and that he paid the penalty of his crime in a life of insanity. Themotive I don't pretend to fathom--jealousy of Juan Catheron perhaps;and on his dying bed he confessed all to his son. "

With face blanched and eyes still full of terror, her ladyship lookedat the dark, contemptuous, resolute speaker. 

"And if this be true--your horrible surmise; mind, I don't admit thatit is--would _that_ be any excuse for Victor's conduct in leavingyou?"

"No!" Edith answered, her eyes flashing, "none! Having married me, notten thousand family secrets should be strong enough to make him desertme. If he had come to me, if he had told me, as he was bound to dobefore our wedding-day, I would have pitied him with all my soul; ifanything could ever have made me care for him as a wife should carefor a husband, it would have been that pity. But if he came to me now, and knelt before me, imploring me to return, I would not. I would diesooner!"

She was walking up and down now, gleams of passionate scorn and ragein her dark eyes. 

"It is all folly and balderdash, this talk of his love for me makinghim leave me. Don't let us have any more of it. No secret on earthshould make a bridegroom quit his bride--no power on earth could everconvince me of it!"

"And yet, " the sad, patient voice of poor Lady Helena sighed, "it istrue. "

Edith stopped in her walk, and looked at her incredulously. 

"Lady Helena, " she said, "you are my kind friend--you know theworld--you are a woman of sense, not likely to have your brain turnedwith vapors. Answer me this--Do you think that, acting as he has done, Sir Victor Catheron has done right?"

Lady Helena's sad eyes met hers full. Lady Helena's voice was full ofpathos and earnestness, as she replied:

"Edith, I am your friend; I am in my sober senses, and, I believe inmy soul Victor has done right. "

"Well, " Edith said after a long pause, during which she resumed herwalk, "I give it up! I don't understand, and I never shall. I amhopelessly in the dark. I can conceive no motive--none strong enoughto make his conduct right. I thought him mad; you say he is sane. Ithought he did me a shameful, irreparable wrong; you say he has doneright. I will think no more about it, since, if I thought to my dyingday, I could come no nearer the truth. "

"You will know one day, " answered Lady Helena; "on his death-bed; and, poor fellow, the sooner that day comes the better for him. "

Edith made an impatient gesture. 

"Let us talk about it no more. What is done is done. Whether SirVictor Catheron lives or dies can in no way concern me now. I think, with your permission, I will go back to my room and try to sleep awaythis dismal day. "

"Wait one moment, Edith. It was on your account Victor came here lastnight to talk over the arrangements he was making for your future. "

A curious smile came over Edith's lips. She was once more back at thewindow, looking out at the rain-beaten day. 

"My future!" she slowly repeated; "in what possible way can my futureconcern Sir Victor Catheron?"

"My child, what a question! In every way. You are honest enough toconfess that you married him--poor boy, poor boy--for his rank andrent-roll. _There_, at least, you need not be disappointed. Thesettlements made upon you before your marriage were, as you know, liberal in the extreme. In addition to that, every farthing that it isin his power to dispose of he intends settling upon you besides. Hisgrandmother's fortune, which descends to him, is to be yours. You mayspend money like water if it pleases you--the title and the wealth forwhich you wedded are still yours. For himself, he intends to goabroad--to the East, I believe. He retains nothing but what willsupply his travelling expenses. He cannot meet you--if he did, hemight never be able to leave you. O Edith, you blame him, you hate him;but if you had only seen him, only heard him last night, only knew howinevitable it is, how he suffered, how bitterer than death thisparting is to him, you would pity, you would forgive him. "

"You think so, " the girl said, with a wistful, weary sigh. "Ah, well, perhaps so. I don't know. Just now I can realize nothing except thatI am a lost, forsaken wretch; that I _do_ hate him; that if I weredying, or that if he were dying, I could not say 'I forgive you. 'As to his liberality, I never doubted that; I have owned that Imarried him for his wealth and station. I own it still; but there aresome things not the wealth of a king could compensate for. To desert abride on her wedding-day is one of them. I repeat, Lady Helena, withyour permission, I will go to my room; we won't talk of my futureplans and prospects just now. To-morrow you shall know my decision. "

She turned to go. The elder woman looked after her with yearning, sorrowful eyes. 

"If I knew what to do--if I knew what to say, " she murmured helplessly. "Edith, I loved him more dearly than any son. I think my heart isbreaking. O child, don't judge him--be merciful to him who loves youwhile he leaves you--be merciful to me whose life has been so full oftrouble. "

Her voice broke down in a passion of tears. Edith turned from the door, put her arms around her neck and kissed her. 

"Dear friend, " she said; "dear Lady Helena, I pity _you_ from thebottom of my heart. I wish--I wish I could only comfort you. "

"You can, " was the eager answer. "Stay with me, Edith; don't leave mealone. Be a daughter to me; take the place of the son I have lost. "

But Edith's pale, resolute face did not soften. 

"To-morrow we will settle all this, " was her reply. "Wait untilto-morrow. "

Then she was gone--shut up and locked in her own room. She did notdescend to either luncheon or dinner--one of the housemaids served herin her dressing-room. And Lady Helena, alone and miserable, wandereduneasily about the lower rooms, and wondered how she spent that longrainy day. 

She spent it busily enough. The plain black box she had brought fromNew York, containing all her earthly belongings, she drew out andpacked. It was not hard to do, since nothing went into it but what hadbelonged to her then. All the dresses, all the jewels, all the costlygifts that had been given her by the man she had married, and hisfriends, she left as they were. She kept nothing, not even herwedding-ring: she placed it among the rest, in the jewel casket, closed and locked it. Then she wrote a letter to Lady Helena, andplaced the key inside. This is what she said:

 * * * * *

"DEAR FRIEND: When you open this I shall have left Powyss Placeforever. It will be quite useless to follow or endeavor to bring meback. My mind is made up. I recognize no authority--nothing willinduce me to revoke my decision. I go out into the world to make myown way. With youth, and health, and ordinary intelligence, it oughtnot to be impossible. The things belonging to me when I first camehere I have packed in the black box; in a week you will have thekindness to forward it to the Euston station. The rest I leavebehind--retaining one or two books as souvenirs of _you_. I takenothing of Sir Victor Catheron's--not even his name. You must see thatit is utterly impossible; that I must lose the last shred of pride andself-respect before I could assume his name or take a penny belongingto him. Dear, kind Lady Helena good-by. If we never meet again in theworld, remember there is no thought in my heart of you that is not oneof affection and gratitude. EDITH. "

 * * * * *

Her hand never trembled as she wrote this letter. She placed the keyin it, folded, sealed, and addressed it. It was dark by this time. Asshe knelt to cord and lock her trunk, she espied the writing-casewithin it. She hesitated a moment, then took it out, opened it, anddrew forth the packet of Charley Stuart's letters. She took out thephotograph and looked at it with a half-tender, half-sad smile. 

"I never thought to look at you again, " she said softly. "You are allI have left now. "

She put the picture in her bosom, replaced the rest, and locked thetrunk, and put the key in her purse. She sat down and counted hermoney. She was the possessor of twelve sovereigns--left over from Mr. Stuart, senior's, bounty. It was her whole stock of wealth with whichto face and begin the world. Then she sat down resolutely to thinkit out. And the question rose grim before her, "What am I to do?"

"Go out into the world and work for your daily bread. Face the povertyyou have feared so much, through fear of which, two days ago, you soldyourself. Go to London--it is the centre of the world; lose yourself, hide from all who ever knew you. Go to London. Work of some kind cansurely be had by the willing in that mighty city. Go to London. "

That was the answer that came clearly. She shrank for a moment--thethought of facing life single-handed, poor and alone in that great, terrible, pitiless city, was overwhelming. But she did not flinch fromher resolve; her mind was made up. Come woe, come weal, she would goto London. 

An "A. B. C. " railway guide lay on the table--she consulted it. Atrain left Chester for London at eight o'clock, A. M. Neither LadyHelena nor any of her household was stirring at that hour. She couldwalk to Chesholm in the early morning, get a fly there and drive tothe Chester station in time. By four in the afternoon she would be inLondon. 

No thought of returning home ever recurred to her. Home! What home hadshe? Her step-mother was master and mistress in her father's house, and to return, to go back to Sandypoint, and the life she had left, was as utter an impossibility almost as though she should take a ropeand hang herself. She had not the means to go if she had desired, butthat made no difference. She could never go back, never see her father, or Charley, or Trixy more. Alone she must live, alone she must die. 

The flood-gates were opened; she suffered this last night as women ofher strong, self-contained temperament only suffer. 

"Save me, O God! for the waters are come into my soul!" That was thewild, wordless prayer of her heart. Her life was wrecked, her heartwas desolate; she must go forth a beggar and an outcast, and fight thebitter battle of life alone. And love, and home, and Charley mighthave been hers. "It might have been!" Is there any anguish in thisworld of anguish like that we work with our own hands?--any sorrowlike that which we bring upon ourselves? In the darkness she sank downupon her knees, her face covered with her hands, tears, that were asdreadful as tears of blood, falling from her eyes. Lost--lost! allthat made life worth having. To live and die alone, that was her fate!

So the black, wild night passed, hiding her, as miserable a woman asthe wide earth held. 

 * * * * *

The gray dawn of the dull October morning was creeping over thefar-off Welsh hills as Edith in shawl and hat, closely veiled, andcarrying a hand-bag, came softly down the stairs, and out of a sidedoor, chiefly used by the servants. She met no one. Noiselessly shedrew the bolt, opened the door, and looked out. 

It was raw and cold, a dreary wind still blowing, but it had ceased torain. As she stood there, seven struck from the turret clock. "Onelong, last, lingering look behind"--one last upward glance at LadyHelena's windows. 

"Good-by!" the pale lips whispered; then she passed resolutely outinto the melancholy autumn morning and was gone. 

PART III

CHAPTER I. 

AT MADAME MIREBEAU'S, OXFORD STREET. 

Half-past four of a delightful June afternoon, and two young ladiessit at two large, lace-draped windows, overlooking a fashionableMayfair street, alternately glancing over the books they hold, andlistlessly watching the passers-by. The house was one of those bigblack West-End houses, whose outward darkness and dismalness is indirect ratio to their inward brilliance and splendor. This particularroom is lofty and long, luxurious with softest carpet, satinupholstery, pictures, flowers, and lace draperies. The two youngladies are, with the exception of their bonnets, in elegant carriagecostume. 

_Young_ ladies, I have said; and being unmarried, they are youngladies, of course. One of them, however, is three-and-thirty, countingby actual years--the peerage gives it in cold blood. It is the LadyGwendoline Drexel. Her companion is the Honorable Mary Howard, justnineteen, and just "out. "

Lady Gwendoline yawns drearily over her book--Algernon Swineburne'slatest--and pulls out her watch impatiently every few minutes. 

"What can keep Portia?" she exclaims, with irritation. "We should havebeen gone the last half-hour. "

The Honorable Mary looks up from her Parisian fashion-book, andglances from the window with a smile. 

"Restrain your impatience, Gwendoline, " she answers. "Here comes LadyPortia now. "

A minute later the door is flung wide by a tall gentleman in plush, and Lady Portia Hampton sweeps in. She is a tall, slender lady, verylike her sister: the same dully fair complexion, the same coiffure ofcopper-gold, the same light, inane blue eyes. The dull complexionwears at this moment an absolute flush; the light, lack-lustre eyes anabsolute sparkle. There is something in her look as she sails forward, that makes them both look up expectantly from their books. 

"Well?" Lady Gwendoline says. 

"Gwen!" her sister exclaims--absolutely exclaims--"_whom_ do yousuppose I have met?"

"The Czarina of all the Russias, Pio Nino, Her Majesty back fromOsborne, or the Man in the Moon, perhaps, " retorts Lady Gwendoline. 

"Neither, " laughs Lady Portia. "Somebody a great deal more mysteriousand interesting than any of them. You never will guess whom. "

"Being five o'clock of a sultry summer day, I don't intend to try. Tell us at once, Portia, and let us go. "

"Then--prepare to be surprised! Sir Victor Catheron!"

"Portia!"

"Ah! I thought the name would interest you. Sir Victor Catheron, mydear, alive and in the flesh, though, upon my word, at first sight Ialmost took him to be his own ghost. Look at her, Mary, " laughs hersister derisively. "I have managed to interest her after all, have Inot?"

For Lady Gwendoline sat erect, her turquoise eyes open to their widestextent, a look akin to excitement in her apathetic face. 

"But, Portia--Sir Victor! I thought it was an understood thing he did_not_ come to England?"

"He does, it appears. I certainly had the honor and happiness ofshaking hands with him not fifteen minutes ago. I was driving up St. James Street, and caught a glimpse of him on the steps of Fenton'sHotel. At first sight I could not credit my eyes. I had to look againto see whether it were a wraith or a mortal man. Such a pallid shadowof his former self. You used to think him rather handsome, Gwen--youshould see him now! He has grown ten years older in as many months--hishair is absolutely streaked with gray, his eyes are sunken, his cheeksare hollow. He looks miserably, wretchedly out of health. If men everdo break their hearts, " said Lady Portia, going over to a large mirrorand surveying herself, "then that misguided young man broke his on hiswedding-day. "

"It serves him right, " said Lady Gwendoline, her pale eyes kindling. "I am almost glad to hear it. "

Her faded face wore a strangely sombre and vindictive look. LadyPortia, with her head on one side, set her bonnet-stringsgeometrically straight, and smiled maliciously. 

"Ah, no doubt--perfectly natural, all things considered. And yet, evenyou might pity the poor fellow to-day, Gwendoline, if you saw him. Mary, dear, is all this Greek and Hebrew to you? You were in yourParisian pensionnat, I remember, when it all happened. _You_ don'tknow the romantic and mysterious story of Sir Victor Catheron, Bart. "

"I never heard the name before, that I recall, " answered Miss Howard. 

"Then pine in ignorance no longer. This young hero, Sir VictorCatheron of Catheron Royals, Cheshire, is our next-door neighbor, downat home, and one year ago the handsome, happy, honored representativeof one of the oldest families in the county. His income was large, hisestates unincumbered, his manners charming, his morals unexceptionable, and half the young ladies in Cheshire"--with another malicious glanceat her sister--"at daggers-drawn for him. There was the slightdrawback of insanity in the family--his father died insane, and in hisinfancy his mother was murdered. But these were only trifling spots onthe sun, not worth a second thought. Our young sultan had but to throwthe handkerchief, and his obedient Circassians would have flown on thewings of love and joy to pick it up. I grow quite eloquent, don't I?In an evil hour, however, poor young Sir Victor--he was buttwenty-three--went over to America. There, in New York, he fell inwith a family named Stuart, common rich people, of course, as they allare over there. In the Stuart family there was a young person, a sortof cousin, a Miss Edith Darrell, very poor, kept by them out ofcharity; and, lamentable to relate, with this young person poor SirVictor fell in love. Fell in love, my dear, in the most approvedold-fashioned style--absurdly and insanely in love--brought the wholefamily over to Cheshire, proposed to little missy, and, as a matter ofcourse, was eagerly accepted. She was an extremely pretty girl, that Iwill say for her"--with a third sidelong glance of malice at her_passee_ sister--"and her manners, considering her station, or, rather, her entire lack of station, her poverty, and her nationality, were something quite extraordinary. I declare to you, she positivelyheld her own with the best of us--except for a certain _brusquerie_and outspoken way about her, you might have thought her an Englishgirl of our own class. He _would_ marry her, and the wedding-day wasfixed, and Gwendoline named as chief of the bridemaids. "

"It is fifteen minutes past five, Portia, " the cold voice ofGwendoline broke in. "If we are to drive at all today--"

"Patience, Gwen! patience one moment longer! Mary most hear the wholestory now. In the Stuart family, I forgot to mention, there was ayoung man, a cousin of the bride-elect, with whom--it was patent tothe dullest apprehension--this young person was in love. She acceptedSir Victor, you understand, while this Mr. Stuart was her lover; acommon case enough, and not worthy of mention except for what cameafter. His manners were rarely perfect too. He was, I think, withoutexception, the very handsomest and most fascinating man I ever met. You would never dream--never!--that he was an American. Gwendolinewill tell you the same. The sister was thoroughly trans-Atlantic, talked slang, said 'I guess, ' spoke with an accent, and looked youthrough and through with an American girl's broad stare. The fatherand mother were common, to a degree; but the son--well, Gwen and Iboth came very near losing our hearts to him--didn't we, dear?"

"Speak for yourself, " was Gwen's ungracious answer. "And, oh! forpity's sake, Portia, cut it short!"

"Pray go on, Lady Portia!" said Miss Howard, looking interested. 

"I am going on, " said Lady Portia. "The nice part is to come. TheStuart family, a month or more before the wedding, left Cheshire andcame up to London--why, we can only surmise--to keep the lovers apart. Immediately after their departure, the bride-elect was taken ill, andhad to be carried off to Torquay for change of air and all that. Thewedding-day was postponed until some time in October; but at last itcame. She looked very beautiful, I must say, that morning, andperfectly self-possessed; but poor Sir Victor! He was ghastly. Whethereven then he suspected something I do not know; he looked a picture ofabject misery at the altar and the breakfast. Something was wrong; weall saw that; but no explanation took place there. The happy pairstarted on their wedding-journey down into Wales, and that was thelast we ever saw of them. What followed, we know; but until to-day Ihave never set eyes on the bridegroom. The bride, I suppose, none ofus will ever set eyes on more. "

"Why?" the Honorable Mary asked. 

"This, my dear: An hour after their arrival in Carnarvon, Sir Victordeserted his bride forever! What passed between them, what sceneensued, nobody knows, only this--he positively left her forever. Thatthe handsome and fascinating American cousin had something to do withit, there can be no doubt. Sir Victor took the next train from Walesto London; she remained overnight. Next day she had the audacity toreturn to Powyss Place and present herself to his aunt, Lady HelenaPowyss. She remained there one day and two nights. On the first night, muffled and disguised, Sir Victor came down from town, had aninterview with his aunt, no doubt told her all, and departed againwithout seeing the girl he had married. The bride next day had aninterview with Lady Helena--her last--and next morning, before any onewas stirring, stole out of the house like the guilty creature she was, and never was heard of more. The story, though they tried to hush itup, got in all the papers--'Romance in High Life, ' they called it. Everybody talked of it--it was the nine-days' wonder of town andcountry. The actors in it, one by one, disappeared. Lady Helena shutup Powyss Place and went abroad; Sir Victor vanished from the world'sken; the heroine of the piece no doubt went back to her native land. That, in brief, is the story, my dear, of the interesting spectre Imet to-day on the steps of Fenton's. Now, young ladies, put on yourbonnets and come. I wish to call at Madame Mirebeau's, Oxford Street, before going to the park, and personally inspect my dress for theduchess' ball to-night. "

Ten minutes later and the elegant barouche of Lady Portia Hampton wasbowling along to Oxford Street. 

"What did you say to Sir Victor, Portia?" her sister deigned to ask. "What did he say to you?"

"He said very little to me--the answers he gave were the most vague. I naturally inquired concerning his health first, he really looked sowretchedly broken down; and he said there was nothing the matter thathe had been a little out of sorts lately, that was all. My convictionis, " said Lady Portia, who, like the rest of her sex, and the world, put the worst possible construction on everything, "that he has becomedissipated. Purple circles and hollow eyes always tell of late hoursand hard drinking. I asked him next where he had been all those ages, and he answered briefly and gloomily, in one word, 'Abroad. ' I askedhim thirdly, where, and how was Lady Helena; he replied that LadyHelena was tolerably well, and at present in London. 'In London!' Iexclaimed, in a shocked tone, 'my dear Sir Victor, and _I_ not knowit!' He explained that his aunt was living in the closest retirement, at the house of a friend in the neighborhood of St. John's Wood, andwent nowhere. Then he lifted his hat, smiled horribly a ghastly smile, turned his back upon me, and walked away. Never asked for you, Gwendoline, or Colonel Hampton, or my health, or anything. "

Lady Gwendoline did not reply. They had just entered Oxford Street, and amid the moving throng of well-dressed people on the pavement, hereye had singled out one figure--the figure of a tall, slender, fair-haired man. 

"Portia!" she exclaimed, in a suppressed voice, "look there! Is notthat Sir Victor Catheron now?"

"Where? Oh, I see. Positively it is, and--yes--he sees us. Tell Johnto draw up, Gwendoline. Now, Mary, you shall see a live hero ofromance for once in your life. He shall take a seat, whether he likesit or not--My _dear_ Sir Victor, what a happy second rencontre, andGwendoline dying to see you. Pray let us take you up--oh, we willhave no refusal. We have an unoccupied seat here, you see, and we allinsist upon your occupying it. Miss Howard, let me present our nearestneighbor at home, and particular friend everywhere, Sir VictorCatheron. The Honorable Miss Howard, Sir Victor. "

They had drawn up close to the curbstone. The gentleman had doffed hishat, and would have passed on, had he not been taken possession of inthis summary manner. Lady Gwendoline's primrose-kidded hand wasextended to him, Lady Gwendoline's smiling face beamed upon him fromthe most exquisite of Parisian bonnets. Miss Howard bowed and scannedhim curiously. Lady Portia was not to be refused--he knew that of old. Of two bores, it was the lesser bore to yield than resist. Anotherinstant, and the barouche was rolling away to Madame Mirebeau's, andSir Victor Catheron was within it. He sat by Lady Gwendoline's side, and under the shadow of her rose-silk and point-lace parasol she couldsee for herself how shockingly he was changed. Her sister had notexaggerated. He was worn to a shadow; his fair hair was streaked withgray; his lips were set in a tense expression of suffering--eitherphysical or mental--perhaps both. His blue eyes looked sunken andlustreless. It was scarcely to be believed that ten short months couldhave wrought such wreck. He talked little--his responses to theirquestions were monosyllabic. His eyes constantly wandered away fromtheir faces to the passers-by. He had the look of a man ever on thealert, ever on the watch--waiting and watching for some one he couldnot see. Miss Howard had never seen him before, but from the depths ofher heart she pitied him. Sorrow, such as rarely falls to the lot ofman, had fallen to this man, she knew. 

He was discouragingly absent and _distrait_. It came out by chancethat the chief part of the past ten months had been spent by him inAmerica. 

In America! The sisters exchanged glances. _She_ was there, no doubt. Had they met? was the thought of both. They reached the fashionablemodiste's. 

"You will come in with us, Sir Victor, " Lady Portia commanded gayly. "We all have business here, but we will only detain you a moment. "

He gave her his arm to the shop. It was large and elegant, and threeor four deferential shop-women came forward to wait upon them andplace seats. The victimized baronet, still listless and bored, satdown to wait and escort them back to the carriage before taking hisdeparture. To be exhibited in the park was the farthest possible fromhis intention. 

Lady Portia's, dress was displayed--a rose velvet, with point-lacetrimmings--and found fault with, of course. Lady Gwendoline and theHon. Mary transacted their affairs at a little distance. For her elderladyship the train did not suit her, the bodice did not please her;she gave her orders for altering sharply and concisely. The deferentialshop-girl listened and wrote the directions down on a card. When herpatroness had finished she carried robe and card down the long roomand called:

"Miss Stuart!"

A voice answered--only one word, "Yes, " softly spoken, but Sir VictorCatheron started as if he had been shot. The long show-room lay insemi-twilight--the gas not yet lit. In this twilight another girladvanced, took the rose-velvet robe and written card. The lightflashed upon her figure and hair for one instant--then shedisappeared. 

And Sir Victor?

He sat like a man suddenly aroused from a deep, long sleep. He had notseen the face; he had caught but a glimpse of the figure and head; hehad heard the voice speak but one little word, "Yes;" _but_--

Was he asleep or awake? Was it only a delusion, as so many otherfancied resemblances had been, or was it after all--after all--

He rose to his feet, that dazed look of a sleep-walker, suddenlyaroused, on his face. 

"Now, then, Sir Victor, " the sharp, clear voice of Lady Portia said, at his side, "your martyrdom is ended. We are ready to go. "

He led her to the carriage, assisted her and the young ladies in. Howhe excused himself--what incoherent words he said--he never knew. Hewas only conscious after a minute that the carriage had rolled away, and that he was still standing, hat in hand, on the sidewalk in frontof Madame Mirebeau's; that the passers-by were staring at him, andthat he was alone. 

"Mad!" Lady Portia said, shrugging her shoulders and touching herforehead. "Mad as a March hare!"

"Mad?" Miss Howard repeated softly. "No, I don't think so. Not mad, only very--very miserable. "

He replaced his hat and walked back to the shop-door. There reason, memory returned. What was he going in for? What should he say? Hestood still suddenly, as though gazing at the wax women in elegantball costume, swinging slowly and smirkingly round and round. He hadheard a voice--he had seen a shapely head crowned with dark, silkenhair--a tall, slender girl's figure--that was all. He had seen andheard such a hundred times since that fatal wedding evening, and whenhe had hunted them down, the illusion had vanished, and his lost lovewas as lost as ever. His lost Edith--his bride, his darling, the wifehe had loved and left--for whom all those weary, endless months he hadbeen searching and searching in vain. Was she living or dead? Was shein London--in England--_where_? He did not know--no one knew. Sincethat dark, cold autumn morning when she had fled from Powyss Placeshe had never been seen or heard of. She had kept her word--she hadtaken nothing that was his--not a farthing. Wherever she was, shemight be starving to-day. He clenched his hands and teeth as hethought of it. 

"Oh!" his passionate, despairing heart cried, "let me find her--let mesave her, and--let me die!"

He had searched for her everywhere, by night and by day. Money flowedlike water--all in vain. He went to New York--he found the peoplethere he had once known, but none of them could tell him anything ofher or the Stuarts. The Stuarts had failed, were utterly ruined--itwas understood that Mr. Stuart was dead--of the others they knewnothing. He went to Sandypoint in search of her father. Mr. Darrelland his family had months ago sold out and gone West. He could findnone of them; he gave it up at length and returned to England. Tenmonths had passed; many resemblances had beguiled him, but to-dayEdith was as far off, as lost as ever. 

The voice he had heard, the likeness he had seen, would they provefalse and empty too, and leave his heart more bitter than ever? Whathe would do _when_ he found her he did not consider. He only wantedto find her. His whole heart, and life, and soul were bound up inthat. 

He paced up and down in front of the shop; the day's work would beover presently and the work-women would come forth. Then he would seeagain this particular work-woman who had set his heart beating with ahope that turned him dizzy and sick. Six o'clock! seven o'clock! Wouldthey never come? Yes; even as he thought it, half mad with impatience, the door opened, and nearly a dozen girls filed forth. He drew his hatover his eyes, he kept a little in the shadow and watched them one byone with wildly eager eyes as they appeared. Four, five, six, seven--she came at last, the eighth. The tall, slender figure, thewaving, dark hair, he knew them at once. The gaslight fell full uponher as she drew her veil over her face and walked rapidly away. Notbefore he had seen it, not before he had recognized it--no shadow, nomyth, no illusion this time. His wife--Edith. 

He caught the wall for support. For a moment the pavement beneath hisfeet heaved, the starry sky spun round. Then he started up, steadiedhimself by a mighty effort, and hurried in pursuit. 

She had gained upon him over thirty yards. She was always a rapidwalker, and he was ailing and weak. His heart throbbed now, so thickand fast, that every breath was a pain. He did not gain upon her, heonly kept her in sight. He would have known that quick, decided walk, the poise of the head and shoulders, anywhere. He followed her as fastas his strength and the throng of passers-by would let him, yet doingno more than keeping her well in sight. 

Where Oxford Street nears Tottenham Court Road she suddenly divergedand crossed over, turning into the latter crowded thoroughfare. Stillhe followed. The throng was even more dense here than in OxfordStreet, to keep her in sight more difficult. For nearly ten minutes hedid it, then suddenly all strength left him. For a minute or two hefelt as though he must fall. There was a spasm of the heart that waslike a knife-thrust. He caught at a lamp-post. He beckoned a passinghansom by a sort of expiring effort. The cab whirled up beside him; hegot in somehow, and fell back, blinded and dizzy, in the seat. 

"Where to, sir?" Cabby called twice before he received an answer; then"Fenton's Hotel" came faintly to him from his ghostly looking fare. The little aperture at the top was slammed down and the hansom rattledoff. 

"Blessed if I don't think the young swell's drunk, or 'aving a fit, "thought the Cad, as he speeded his horse down Tottenham Court Road. 

To look for her further in his present state, Sir Victor felt wouldbe useless. He must get to his lodgings, get some brandy, andhalf-an-hour's time to think what to do next. He had found her; shewas alive, she was well, thank Heaven! thank Heaven for that!To-morrow would find her again at Madame Mirebeau's at work with therest. 

At work--her daily toil! He covered his wasted face with his wastedhands, and tears that were like a woman's fell from him. He had beenweak and worn out for a long time--he gave way utterly, body and mind, now. 

"My darling, " he sobbed; "my darling whom I would die to makehappy--whose life I have so utterly ruined. To think that whileI spend wealth like water, _you_ should toil for a crust ofbread--alone, poor, friendless, in this great city. How will Ianswer to God and man for what I have done?"

CHAPTER II. 

EDITH. 

The last light of the July day had faded out, and a hot, murky nightsettled down over London. The air was stifling in the city; out in thesuburbs you still caught a breath, fresh and sweet scented, from thefragrant fields. 

At Poplar Lodge, St. John's Wood, this murky, summer night all thewindows stood wide. In the drawing-room two women sat together. Theelder reading aloud, the younger busy over some feminine handicraft. A cluster of waxlights burned above them, shining full on two pale, worn faces--the faces of women to whom suffering and sorrow have longbeen household words. Both wore deepest mourning--the elder a widow'sweeds, the hair of the younger thickly streaked with gray. Now andthen both raised their eyes from a book and needlework, and glancedexpectantly at the clock on the mantel. Evidently they waited for someone who did not come. They were Lady Helena Powyss and Inez Catheron, of course. 

"Eight, " the elder woman said, laying down her book with a sigh as theclock struck. "If he were coming to-night he would be here before now. "

"I don't give him up even yet, " Inez answered cheerfully. "Young menare not to be depended on, and he has often come out much later thanthis. We are but dull company for him, poor boy--all the world are butdull company for him at present, since _she_ is not of them. Poor boy!poor Victor! it is very hard on him. "

"I begin to think Edith will never be found, " said Lady Helena with asigh. 

"My dear aunt, I don't. No one is ever lost, utterly, in these days. She will be found, believe me, unless--"

"Well?"

"Unless she is dead. "

"She is not dead, " affirmed Lady Helena; "of that I am sure. Youdidn't know her, Inez, or you wouldn't think it; the most superbspecimen of youth and strength and handsome health I ever saw in mylife. She told me once she never remembered a sick day since she wasborn--you had but to look into her bright eyes and clear complexionto be sure of it. She is not dead, in the natural course of things, and she isn't one of the kind that ever take their lives in their ownhands. She had too much courage and too much common-sense. "

"Perhaps so, and yet suffering tells--look at poor Victor. "

"Ah, poor Victor indeed! But the case is different--it was only herpride, not her heart, that bled. He loved her--he loves her with ablind, unreasoning passion that it is a misfortune for any humancreature to feel for another. And she never cared for him--not as muchas you do for the sewing in your hand. That is what breaks my heart--tosee him dying before my eyes for love of a girl who has no feeling forhim but hatred and contempt. "

Inez sighed. 

"It is natural, " she said. "Think how she was left--in her very bridalhour, without one word of explanation. Who could forgive it?"

"No one, perhaps; it is not for that I feel indignant with her. It isfor her ever accepting him at all. She loved her cousin--he would havemarried her; and for title and wealth she threw him over and acceptedVictor. In that way she deserved her fate. She acted heartlessly; andyet, one can't help pitying her too. I believe she would have done herbest to make him a good wife, after all. I wish--I wish he could findher. "

"She might be found readily enough, " Inez answered, "if Victor wouldbut employ the usual means--I allude, of course, to the detectivepolice. But he won't set a detective on her track if she is neverfound--he persists in looking for her himself. He is wearing his lifeout in the search. If ever I saw death pictured on any face, I saw itin his when he was here last. If he would but consult that Germandoctor who is now in London, and who is so skilful in all diseases ofthe heart--hark!" she broke off suddenly, "here he is at last. "

Far off a gate had opened and shut--no one had a key to thatever-locked outer gate but Sir Victor, and the next moment the roll ofhis night-cab up the drive was heard. The house door opened, hisfamiliar step ascended the stairs, not heavy and dragging as usual, but swift and light, almost as it used to be. Something had happened!They saw it in his face at the first glance. There was but one thingthat _could_ happen. Lady Helena dropped her book, Inez started toher feet; neither spoke, both waited breathless. 

"Aunt! cousin!" the young man cried, breathless and hoarse, "she isfound!"

There was a cry from his aunt. As he spoke he dropped, panting andexhausted with his speed, into a chair and laid his hand upon hisbreast to still its heavy, suffocating throbs. 

"Found!" exclaimed Lady Helena; "where--when--how?"

"Wait, aunt, " the voice of Inez said gently; "give him time. Don't yousee he can scarcely pant? Not a word yet Victor--let me fetch you aglass of wine. "

She brought it and he drank it. His face was quite ghastly, livid, bluish rings encircling his mouth and eyes. He certainly lookeddesperately ill, and more fitted for a sick-bed than a breathlessnight ride from St. James Street to St, John's Wood. He lay back inhis chair, closed his eyes, struggled with his panting breath. Theysat and waited in silence, far more concerned for him than for thenews he bore. 

He told them at last, slowly, painfully, of his chance meeting withLady Portia Hampton, of his enforced visit to the Oxford Streetdress-maker--of his glimpse of the tall girl with the dark hair--ofhis waiting, of his seeing, and recognizing Edith, his following her, and of his sudden giddy faintness that obliged him to give up thechase. 

"You'll think me an awful muff, " he said; "I haven't an idea how Icame to be such a mollicoddle, but I give you my word I fainted deadaway like a school-girl when I got to my room. I suppose it was partlythis confounded palpitation of the heart, and partly the shock of thegreat surprise and joy. Jamison brought me all right somehow, afterawhile, and then I came here. I had to do something, or I believe Ishould have gone clear out of my senses. "

Then there was a pause. The two women looked at each other, then athim, his eager eyes, his excited, wild-looking, haggard face. 

"Well, " he cried impatiently, "have you nothing to say? Is it nothingto you that after all these months--months--great Heavens! it seemscenturies. But I have found her at last--toiling for her living, whilewe--oh! I can't think of it--I dare not; it drives me mad!"

He sprang up and began pacing to and fro, looking quite as much like amadman as a sane one. 

"Be quiet, Victor, " his aunt said. "It is madness indeed for you toexcite yourself in this way. Of course we rejoice in all that makesyou happy. She is found--Heaven be praised for it!--she is alive andwell--thank Heaven also for that. And now--what next?"

"What next?" He paused and looked at her in astonishment "You ask whatnext? What next can there be, except to go the first thing to-morrowmorning and take her away. "

"Take her away!" Lady Helena repeated, setting her lips; "take her_where_, Victor? To you?"

His ghastly face turned a shade ghastlier. He caught his breath andgrasped the back of the chair as though a spasm of unendurable agonyhad pierced his heart. In an instant his aunt's arms were about him, tears streaming down her cheeks, her imploring eyes lifted to his:

"Forgive me, Victor, forgive me! I ought not to have asked you that. But I did not mean--I know _that_ can never be, my poor boy. I willdo whatever you say. I will go to her, of course--I will fetch herhere if she will come. "

"If she will come!" he repeated hoarsely, disengaging himself fromher; "what do you mean by _if_? There can be no 'if' in the matter. She is my wife--she is Lady Catheron--do you think she is to be leftpenniless and alone drudging for the bread she eats? I tell you, you_must_ bring her; she _must_ come!"

His passionate, suppressed excitement terrified her. In pain and fearand helplessness she looked at her niece. Inez, with that steadyself-possession that is born of long and great endurance, came to therescue at once. 

"Sit down, Victor!" her full, firm tones said, "and don't workyourself up to this pitch of nervous excitement. It's folly--uselessfolly, and its end will be prostration and a sick-bed. About yourwife, Aunt Helena will do what she can, but--what can she do? You haveno authority over her now; in leaving her you resigned it. It isunutterably painful to speak of this, but under the circumstances wemust. She refused with scorn everything you offered her before; unlessthese ten past months have greatly altered her, she will refuse again. She seems to have been a very proud, high-spirited girl, but her hardstruggle with the world may have beaten down that--and--"

"Don't!" he cried passionately; "I can't bear it. O my God! to thinkwhat I have done--what I have been forced to do! what I have made hersuffer--what she must think of me--and that I live to bear it! Tothink I have endured it all, when a pistol-ball would have ended mytorments any day!"

"When you talk such wicked folly as that, " said Inez Catheron, herstrong, steady eyes fixed upon his face, "I have no more to say. Youdid your duty once: you acted like a hero, like a martyr--it seems apity to spoil it all by such cowardly rant as this. "

"My duty!" he exclaimed, huskily "Was it my duty? Sometimes I doubtit; sometimes I think if I had never left her, all might have beenwell. Was it my duty to make my life a hell on earth, to tear my heartfrom my bosom, as I did in the hour I left her, to spoil her life forher, to bring shame, reproach, and poverty upon her? If I had not lefther, could the worst that might have happened been any worse thanthat?"

"Much, worse--infinitely worse. You are the sufferer, believe me, notshe. What is all she has undergone in comparison with what _you_have endured? And one day she will know all, and love and honor youas you deserve. "

He hid his face in his hands, and turned away from the light. 

"One day, " they heard him murmur; "one day--the day of my death. PrayHeaven it may be soon. "

"I think, " Inez said after a pause, "you had better let _me_ go andspeak instead of Aunt Helena. She has undergone so much--she isn'table, believe me, Victor, to undergo more. Let me go to your wife; allAunt Helena can say, all she can urge, I will. If it be in human powerto bring her back, I will bring her. All I dare tell her, I will tell. But, after all, it is so little, and she is so proud. Don't hope toomuch. "

"It is so little, " he murmured again, his face still hidden; "solittle, and there is so much to tell. Oh!" he broke forth, with apassionate cry, "I can't bear this much longer. If she will come fornothing else, she will come for the truth, and the truth shall betold. What are a thousand promises to the living or the dead to theknowledge that she hates and scorns me!"

They said nothing to him--they knew it was useless--they knew hisparoxysm would pass, as so many others had passed, and that byto-morrow he would be the last to wish to tell. 

"You will surely not think of returning to St. James Street to-night?"said Inez by way of diversion. "You will remain here, and at theearliest possible hour to-morrow you will drive me to Oxford Street. Iwill do all I can--you believe that, my cousin, I know. And if--_if_I am successful, will"--she paused and looked at him--"will you meether, Victor?"

"I don't know yet; my head is in a whirl. To-night I feel as though Icould do anything, brave anything--to-morrow I suppose I will feeldifferently. Don't ask me what I will do to-morrow until to-morrowcomes. I will remain all night, and I will go to my room at once; Ifeel dazed and half sick. Good-night. "

He left them abruptly. They heard him toil wearily up to his room andlock the door. Long after, the two women sat together talking withpale, apprehensive faces. 

"She won't come--I am as sure of it as that I sit here, " were LadyHelena's parting words as they separated for the night. "I know herbetter than he does, and I am not carried away by his wild hopes. Shewill not come. "

Sir Victor descended to breakfast, looking unutterably pallid andhaggard in the morning light. Well he might; he had not slept for onemoment. 

But he was more composed, calm, and quiet, and there was almost aslittle hope in his heart as in Lady Helena's. Immediately afterbreakfast, Miss Catheron, closely veiled, entered the cab with him, and was driven to Oxford Street. It was a very silent drive; she wasglad when it was over, and he set her down near the shop of MadameMirebeau. 

"I will wait here, " he said. "If she will come with you, you will takea cab and drive back to Poplar Lodge. If she does not--" he had topause a moment--"then return to me, and I will take you home. "

She bent her head in assent, and entered the shop. Her own heart wasbeating at the thought of the coming interview and its probableending. She advanced to the counter, and, without raising her veil, inquired if Miss Stuart were come. 

The girl looked inquisitively at the hidden face, and answered:

"Yes, Miss Stuart had come. "

"I wish to see her particularly, and in private, for a few moments. Can you manage it for me?"

She slipped a sovereign into the shopwoman's hand. There was a secondcurious look at the tall, veiled lady, but the sovereign was accepted. A side door opened, and she was shown into an empty room. 

"You can wait here, ma'am, " the girl said. "I'll send her to you. "

Miss Catheron walked over to the window; that nervous heart beatquicker than ever. When had she been nervous before? The windowoverlooked busy, bright Oxford Street, and in the distance she sawthe waiting cab and her cousin's solitary figure. The sight gave hercourage. For his sake, poor fellow, she would do all human power coulddo. 

"You wish to see me, madame?"

A clear, soft voice spoke. The door had quietly opened and a younggirl entered. 

Inez Catheron turned round, and for the second time in her life lookedin the face of her cousin's wife. 

Yes, it was his wife. The face she had seen under the trees of PowyssPlace she saw again to-day in the London milliner's parlor. The samedarkly handsome, quietly resolute young face, the same gravelybeautiful eyes, the same slender, graceful figure, the same silkywaves of blackish-brown hair. To her eyes there was no change; shehad grown neither thinner nor paler; she had lost none of the beautyand grace that had won away Sir Victor Catheron's heart. She was veryplainly dressed in dark gray of some cheap material, but fittingperfectly; linen bands at neck and throat, and a knot of cherryribbon. And the slim finger wore no wedding-ring. She took it allin, in three seconds; then she advanced. 

"I wished to see you. We are not likely to be disturbed?"

"We are likely to be disturbed at any moment. It is the room whereMadame Mirebeau tries on the dresses of her customers; and my timeis very limited. "

The dark, grave eyes were fixed upon the close veil expectantly. InezCatheron threw it back. 

"Edith!" she said--and at the sound of her name the girl recoiled--"youdon't know me, but I think you will know my name. I am Inez Catheron. "

She recoiled a step farther, her dark face paling and growing set--herlarge eyes seeming to darken and dilate--her lips setting themselvesin a tense line. "_Well_?" was all she said. 

Inez stretched out her hands with an imploring gesture, drawing nearas the other retreated. 

"Oh, Edith, you know why I have come! you know who has sent me. Youknow _what_ I have come for. "

The dark, deep eyes met hers, full, cold, hard, and bright asdiamonds. 

"I don't in the least know what you have come for. I haven't an ideawho can have sent you. I know who you are. You are Sir VictorCatheron's cousin. "

Without falter or flinch she spoke his name--with a face of stone shewaited for the answer. If any hope had lingered in the breast of Inezit died out as she looked at her now. 

"Yes, " she said sadly; "I am Victor Catheron's cousin, and there couldbe but one to send me here--Victor Catheron himself. "

"And why has Sir Victor Catheron given you that trouble?"

"Oh, Edith!" again that imploring gesture, "let me call you so--needyou ask? All these months he has been searching for you, losing healthand rest in the fruitless quest--wearing himself to a very shadowlooking for you. He has been to New York, he has hunted London--it hasbrought him almost to the verge of death, this long, vain, miserablesearch. "

Her perfect lips curled scornfully, her eyes shot forth gleams ofcontempt, but her voice was very quiet. 

"And again I ask why--why has Sir Victor Catheron given himself allthis unnecessary trouble?"

"Unnecessary! You call it that! A husband's search for a lost wife. "

"Stop, Miss Catheron!" she lifted her hand, and her eyes flashed. "Youmake a mistake. Sir Victor Catheron's wife I am not--never will be. The ceremony we went through, ten months ago, down in Cheshire, meansnothing, since a bridegroom who deserts his bride on her wedding-day, resigns all right to the name and authority of husband. Mind, I don'tregret it now; I would not have it otherwise if I could. And this isnot bravado, Miss Catheron; I mean it. In the hour I married yourcousin he was no more to me than one of his own footmen--I say it tomy own shame and lasting dishonor; and I thank Heaven most sincerelynow, that whether he were mad or sane, that he deserted me as he did. At last I am free--not bound for life to a man that by this time Imight have grown to loathe. For I think my indifference then wouldhave grown to hate. Now I simply scorn him in a degree less than Iscorn myself. I never wish to hear his name--but I also would not goan inch out of my way to avoid him. He is simply nothing tome--nothing. If I were dead and in my grave, I could not be one whitmore lost to him than I am. Why he has presumed to search for me isbeyond my comprehension. How he has had the audacity to hunt me down, and send you here, surpasses belief. I wonder you came, Miss Catheron!As you have come, let me give you this word of advice: make your firstvisit your last. Don't come again to see me--don't let Sir VictorCatheron dog my steps or in any way interfere with me. I never was avery good or patient sort of person--I have not become more so oflate. I am only a girl, alone and poor, but, " her eyes flashedfire--literally fire--and her hands clenched, "I warn him--it will notbe safe!"

Inez drew back. What she had expected she hardly knew--certainly notthis. 

"As I said before, " Edith went on, "my time is limited. Madame doesnot allow her working-girls to receive visitors in working hours. MissCatheron, I have the honor to wish you good-morning. "

"Stay!" Inez cried, "for the love of Heaven. Oh, what shall I say, howshall I soften her? Edith, you don't understand. I wish--I wish Idared tell you the secret that took Victor from your side that day! Heloves you--no, that is too poor a word to express what he feels; hislife is paying the penalty of his loss. He is dying, Edith, dying ofheart disease, brought on by what he has suffered in losing you. Inhis dying hour he will tell you all; and his one prayer is for death, that he may tell you, that you may cease to wrong and hate him as youdo. O Edith, listen to me--pity me--pity him who is dying for you!Don't be so hard. See, I kneel to you!--as you hope for mercy in yourown dying hour, Edith Catheron, have mercy on him!"

She flung herself on her knees, tears pouring over her face, and heldup her clasped hands. 

"For pity's sake, Edith--for your own sake. Don't harden your heart;try and believe, though you may not understand. I tell you he lovesyou--that he is a dying man. We are all sinners; as you hope for pityand mercy, have pity and mercy on him now. " With her hand on the door, with Inez Catheron clinging to her dress, she paused, moved, distressed, softened in spite of herself. 

"Get up, Miss Catheron, " she said, "you must not kneel to me. What isit you want? what is it you ask me to do?"

"I ask you to give up this life of toil--to come home with me. LadyHelena awaits you. Make your home with her and with me--take the nameand wealth that are yours, and wait--try to wait patiently to the end. For Victor--poor, heart-broken boy!--you will not have long to wait. "

Her voice broke--her sobs filled the room. The distressed look wasstill on Edith's face, but it was as resolute as ever. 

"What you ask is impossible, " she said; "utterly and absolutelyimpossible. What you say about your cousin may be true. I don'tunderstand--I never could read riddles--but it does not alter mydetermination in the least. What! live on the bounty of a man whodeserts me on my wedding-day--who makes me an outcast--an object ofscorn and disgrace! I would die first! I would face starvation anddeath in this great city. I know what I am saying. I would sweep acrossing like that beggar in rags yonder; I would lie down and die ina ditch sooner. Let me go, Miss Catheron, I beg of you; you onlydistress me unnecessarily. If you pleaded forever it could not avail. Give my love to Lady Helena; but I will never go back--I will neveraccept a farthing from Sir Victor Catheron. Don't come here more--don'tlet _him_ come. " Again her eyes gleamed. "There is neither sorrownor pity for him in my heart. It is like a stone where he isconcerned, and always will be--always, though he lay dying before me. Now, farewell. "

Then the door opened and closed, and she was gone. 

CHAPTER III. 

HOW THEY MET. 

Miss Stuart went back to the workroom, and to the dozen or more youngwomen there assembled. If she was a shade paler than her wont theywere not likely to notice it--if she was more silent even than usual, why silence was always Miss Stuart's forte. Only the young person towhom Miss Catheron had given the sovereign looked at her curiously, and said point blank:

"I say, Miss Stuart, who was that? what did she want?" And the dark, haughty eyes of Miss Stuart had lifted from the peach satin on whichshe worked, and fixed themselves icily upon her interrogator:

"It was a lady I never saw before, " she answered frigidly. "What shewanted is certainly no business of yours, Miss Hatton. "

Miss Hatton flounced off with a muttered reply; but there was thatabout Edith that saved her from open insult--a dignity and distancethey none of them could overreach. Besides, she was a favorite withmadame and the forewoman. So silently industrious, so tastefully neat, so perfectly trustworthy in her work. Her companions disliked anddistrusted her; she held herself aloof from them all; she hadsomething on her mind--there was an air of mystery about her; theydoubted her being an English girl at all. She would have none of theircompanionship; if she had a secret she kept it well; in their noisy, busy midst she was as much alone as though she were on RobinsonCrusoe's desert island. Outwardly those ten months had changed herlittle--her brilliant, dusk beauty was scarcely dimmed--inwardly ithad changed her greatly, and hardly for the better. 

There had been a long and bitter struggle before she found herself inthis safe haven. For months she had drifted about without rudder, orcompass, or pilot, on the dark, turbid sea of London. She had come tothe great city friendless and alone, with very little money, and verylittle knowledge of city life. She had found lodgings easily enough, cheap and clean, and had at once set about searching for work. On theway up she had decided what she must do--she would become a nurserygoverness or companion to some elderly lady, or she would teach music. But it was one thing to resolve, another to do. There were dozens ofnursery governesses and companions to old ladies wanting in thecolumns of the _Times_, but they were not for her. "Where are yourreferences?" was the terrible question that met her at every turn. She had no references, and the doors of the genteel second andthird-rate houses shut quietly in her face. 

Young and pretty, without references, money or friends, how was sheever to succeed? If she had been thirty and pock-marked she might havetriumphed even over the reference business: as it was, her case seemedhopeless. It was long, however, before her indomitable spirit wouldyield. Her money ran low, she pawned several articles of jewelry anddress to pay for food and lodging. She grew wan and hollow-eyed inthis terrible time--all her life long she could never recall itwithout a shudder. 

Five months passed; despair, black and awful, filled her soul at last. The choice seemed to lie between going out as an ordinary servant andstarving. Even as a housemaid she would want this not-to-be-got-overreference. In this darkest-hour before the dawn she saw MadameMirebeau's advertisement for sewing girls, and in sheer despairapplied. Tall, handsome girls of good address, were just what madamerequired, and somehow--it was the mercy of the good God no doubt--shewas taken. For weeks after she was kept under close surveillance, shewas so very unlike the young women who filled such situations--thenthe conviction became certainty that Miss Stuart had no sinisterdesigns on the ruby velvets, the snowy satins, and priceless laces ofher aristocratic customers--that she really wanted work and wasthoroughly capable of doing it. Nature had made Edith an artist indressmaking; her taste was excellent; madame became convinced she hadfound a treasure. Only one thing Miss Stuart steadfastly refused todo--that was to wait in the shop. "I have reasons of my own forkeeping perfectly quiet, " she said, looking madame unflinchingly inthe eyes. "If I stay in the shop I may--though it is not likely--berecognized; and then I should be under the necessity of leaving youimmediately. "

Madame had no wish to lose her very best seamstress, so Miss Stuarthad her way. The sentimental Frenchwoman's own idea was that MissStuart was a young person of rank and position, who owing to someill-starred love affair had been obliged to run away and hide herselffrom her friends. However as her hopeless passion in no way interferedwith her dressmaking ability, madame kept her suspicions to herselfand retained her in the workroom. 

And so after weary months of pain, and shame, and despair, Edith hadcome safely to land at last. For the past five months her life hadflowed along smoothly, dully, uneventfully--going to her work in themorning, returning to her lodgings at night--sometimes indulging in ashort walk in the summer twilight after her tea; at other times toowearied out in body and mind to do other than lie down on the littlehard bed, and sleep the spent sleep of exhaustion. That was her outerlife; of her inner life what shall I say? She could hardly have toldin the after-days herself. Somehow strength is given us to bear allthings and live on. Of the man she had married she could not, dare notthink--her heart and soul filled with such dark and deadly hatred. Sheabhorred him, --it is not too much to say that. The packet of treasuredletters written in New York so long--oh, so long ago! it seemed--becamethe one spot of sunshine in her sunless life. She read them until thewords lost all meaning--until she knew every one by heart. She lookedat the picture until the half-smiling eyes and lips seemed to mock heras she gazed. The little turquoise broach with the likeness, she worein her bosom night and day--the first thing to be kissed in themorning, the last at night. Wrong, wrong, wrong, you say; but the girlwas desperate and reckless--she did not care. Right and wrong were allconfounded in her warped mind; only this was clear--she loved Charleyas she had never loved him before she became Sir Victor Catheron'sbride. He scorned and despised her; she would never look upon his faceagain--it did not matter; she would go to her grave loving him, hispictured face over her heart, his name the last upon her lips. 

Sometimes, sitting alone in the dingy London twilight, there rosebefore her a vision of what might have been: Charley, poor as he wasnow, and she Charley's wife, he working for her, somewhere andsomehow, as she knew he gladly would, she keeping their two or threetiny rooms in order, and waiting, with her best dress on, as eveningcame, to hear his step at the door. She would think until thoughtbecame torture, until thought became actual physical pain. His words, spoken to her that last night she had ever spent at Sandypoint, cameback to her full of bitter meaning now: "Whatever the future brings, don't blame _me_. " The future had brought loneliness, and poverty, and despair--all her own fault--her own fault. That was the bittereststing of all--it was her own work from first to last. She had dreadedpoverty, she had bartered her heart, her life, and him in her dreadof it, and lo! such poverty as she had never dreamed of had come uponher. If she had only been true to herself and her own heart, what ahappy creature she might have been to-day. 

But these times of torture were mercifully rare. Her heart seemednumb--she worked too hard to think much--at night she was too deadtired to spend the hours in fruitless anguish and tears. Her lifewent on in a sort of treadmill existence; and until the coming ofInez Catheron nothing had occurred to disturb it. 

Her heart was full of bitter tumult and revolt as she went back to herwork. The dastard! how dared he! He was dying, Inez Catheron had said, and for love of her. Bah! she could have laughed in her bitterscorn, --what a mockery it was! If it were true, why let him die! Thesooner the better--then indeed she would be free. Perhaps Edith hadlost something--heart, conscience--in the pain and shame of the past. All that was soft and forgiving in her nature seemed wholly to havedied out. He had wronged her beyond all reparation--the onlyreparation he could make was to die and leave her free. 

Madame's young women were detained half an hour later than usual thatevening. A great Belgravian ball came off next night, and there was aglut of work. They got away at last, half fagged to death, only tofind a dull drizzling rain falling, and the murky darkness of earlynight settling down over the gas-lit highways of London. Miss Stuartbade her companions a brief good-night, raised her umbrella, andhurried on her way. She did not observe the waiting figure, muffledfrom the rain and hidden by an umbrella, that had been watching forher, and who instantly followed her steps. She hurried on rapidly andcame at last to a part of the street where it was necessary she shouldcross. She paused an instant on the curbstone irresolute. Cabs, omnibuses and hansoms were tearing by in numbers innumerable. It was aperilous passage. She waited two or three minutes, but there was nolull in the rush. Then growing quite desperate in her impatience shestarted to cross. The crossing was slippery and wet. 

"I say! look out there, will you!" half a dozen shrill cabbies called, before and behind. 

She grew bewildered--her presence of mind deserted her--she droppedher umbrella and held up her hands instinctively to keep them off. Asshe did so, two arms grasped her, she felt herself absolutely liftedoff her feet, and carried over. But just as the curbstone was reached, something--a carriage pole it appeared--struck her rescuer on thehead, and felled him to the ground. As he fell, Edith sprang lightlyout of his arms, and stood on the pavement, unhurt. 

The man had fallen. It was all the driver of the hansom could do tokeep his horse from going over him. There was shouting and yelling andan uproar directly. A crowd surrounded the prostrate man. X 2001 cameup with his baton and authority. For Edith, she stood stunned andbewildered still. She saw the man lifted and carried into a chemist'snear by. Instinctively she followed--it was in saving _her_ he hadcome to grief. She saw him placed in a chair, the mire and bloodwashed off his face, and then--was she stunned and stupefied still--orwas it, _was_ it the face of Sir Victor Catheron?

It was--awfully bloodless, awfully corpse-like, awfully like the faceof a dead man; but the face of the man whose bride she had been tenmonths ago--the face of Sir Victor Catheron. 

She leaned heavily against the counter, feeling giddy and sick--theplace swimming around her. Was he dead? Had he met his death trying tosave her? "Blessed if I don't think he's dead and done for, " said thechemist. "It ain't such a bad cut neither. I say! does anybody knowwho he is?"

Nobody knew. Then the keen eyes of X 2001 fell upon Edith, pale andwild-looking, with evident terror and recognition in her face. 

"I say, miss, _you_ know, don't you?" Bobby suggested politely. "Itwas reskying you he got it, you know. You know this 'ere gent, don'tyou, miss! Who is he?"

"He is Sir Victor Catheron. "

"Oh, " said Bobby. "Sir Victor Catheron, is he? I thought he was aheavy swell. " And then his eyes took in Edith's very handsome face, and very plain dress, and evident station, and he formed his ownsurmise. "Perhaps now, miss, you knows too, where he ought to betook?"

"No, " she answered mechanically; "I don't know. If you search hispockets, you will most likely find his address. You--you, don't reallythink he is dead?"

She came a step nearer as she asked the question--her very lipscolorless. An hour ago it seemed to her she had almost wished forhis death--now it seemed too horrible. And to meet it saving hertoo, --after all her thoughts of him. She felt as though she couldnever bear that. 

"Well, no, miss, I don't think he is dead, " the chemist answered, "though I must say he looks uncommon like it. There's something morethe matter with him than this rap on the 'ead. Here's hiscard-case--now let's see: 'Sir Victor Catheron, Bart. Fenton's 'Otel. 'Fenton's 'Otel. Bobby, I say, let's horder a cab and 'ave him driventhere. "

"Somebody ought to go with him, " said X 2001. "I can't go--_you_ can'tgo. I don't suppose now, miss, " looking very doubtfully at Edith, "_you_ could go nuther?"

"Is it necessary?" Edith asked, with very visible reluctance. 

"Well, you see, miss, he looks uncommonly like a stiff 'un thisminute, and if he was to die by the way or hanythink, and himhalone--"

"I will go, " interposed Edith, turning away with a sick shudder. "Callthe cab at once. "

A four-wheeler was summoned--the insensible young baronet was carriedout and laid, as comfortably as might be, on the back seat. Edithfollowed, unutterably against her will, but how was she to help it? Hewas her worst enemy, but even to one's worst enemy common humanity attimes must be shown. It would be brutal to let him go alone. 

"Don't you be afraid, miss, " the chemist said cheerfully; "he ain'tdead _yet_. He's only stunned like, and will come round all rightdirectly. "

"Fenton's, Bill, " and the cab rattled off. 

CHAPTER IV. 

HOW THEY PARTED

That ride--all her life it came back to her like a bad nightmare. Shekept her eyes turned away as much as she could from that rigid formand ghastly face opposite, but in spite of herself they would wanderback. What Miss Catheron had said was true then--he was dying--deathwas pictured in his face. What if, after all, there was some secretstrong enough to make his conduct in leaving her right? She hadthought it over and wondered and wondered, until her brain was dazed, but could never hit on any solution. She could not now--it was _not_right. Whatever the secret was, he had known it before he marriedher--why had he not left her then--why in leaving her after had henot explained? There was no excuse for him, none, and in spite of thewhite, worn face that pleaded for him, her heart hardened oncemore--hardened until she felt neither pity nor pain. 

They reached the hotel. Jamison, the valet, came down, and recoiled atsight of his master's long lost wife. 

"My lady!" he faltered, staring as though he had seen a ghost. 

"Your master has met with an accident, Jamison, " Edith said calmly, ignoring the title. How oddly it sounded to her. "You had better havehim conveyed to his room and send for a surgeon. And, if Lady Helenais in town--"

"Lady Helena is in town, my lady. Will--" Jamison hesitated, "will younot come in, my lady, and wait until her ladyship comes?"

Again for a moment Edith hesitated and thought. It would be necessaryfor some one to explain--she could not go away either without knowingwhether the injury he had received were fatal or not, since thatinjury was received in her service. She set her lips and alighted. 

"I will remain until Lady Helena arrives. Pray lose no time in sendingfor her. "

"I will send immediately, my lady, " answered Jamison respectfully. "Thompson, " to a waiter, "show this lady to a parlor at once. "

And then Edith found herself following a gentlemanly sort of man inblack, down a long hall, up a great staircase, along a carpetedcorridor, and into an elegant private parlor. The man lit the gas andwent, and then she was alone. 

She sat down to think. What a strange adventure it had been. She hadwished for her freedom--it seemed as though it were near at hand. Sheshuddered and shrank from herself. 

"What a wretch I am, " she thought; "what a vile creature I must be. Ifhe dies, I shall feel as though I murdered him. "

How long the hours and half hours, told off on the clock, seemed--eight, nine, ten, --would Lady Helena never come? It was along way to St. John's Wood, but she might surely be here by thistime. It was half past ten, and tired out thinking, tired out withher day's work, she had fallen into a sort of uneasy sleep and fitfuldream in her chair when she suddenly became half conscious of some onenear her. She had been dreaming of Sandypoint, of quarrelling with hercousin. "Don't Charley!" she said petulantly, aloud, and the sound ofher own voice awoke her fully. She started up, bewildered for asecond, and found herself face to face with Lady Helena. With LadyHelena, looking very pale and sorrowful, with tear-wet eyes andcheeks. 

She had been watching Edith for the past five minutes silently andsadly. The girl's dream was pleasant, a half smile parted her lips. Then she had moved restlessly. "Don't Charley?" she said distinctlyand awoke. 

It was of him then she was dreaming--thoughts of him had brought toher lips that happy smile. The heart of the elder woman contractedwith a sharp sense of pain. 

"Lady Helena!"

"Edith!"

She took the girl's hand in both her own and looked kindly at her. She had liked her very much in the days gone by, though she had neverwished her nephew to marry her. And she could hardly blame her verygreatly under the circumstances, if her dreams were of the man sheloved, not of the bridegroom who had left her. 

"I--I think I fell asleep, " Edith said confusedly; "I was very tired, and it all seemed so quiet and tedious here. How is _he_?"

"Better and asleep--they gave him an opiate. He knows nothing of yourbeing here. It was very good of you to come, my child. "

"It was nothing more than a duty of common humanity. It was impossibleto avoid coming, " Edith answered, and then briefly and rather coldlyshe narrated how the accident had taken place. 

"My poor boy!" was all Lady Helena said, but there was a heart sob inevery word; "he would die gladly to save you a moment's pain, and yetit has been his bitter lot to inflict the worst pain of your life. Mypoor child, you can't understand, and we can't explain--it must seemvery hard and incomprehensible to you, but one day you will know all, and you will do him justice at last. Ah, Edith! if you had not refusedInez--if only you were not so proud, if you would take what is yourright and your due, he _might_ bear this separation until Heaven'sgood time. As it is, it is killing him. "

"He looks very ill, " Edith said; "what is the matter with him?"

"Heart disease--brought on by mental suffering. No words can tell whathe has undergone since his most miserable wedding-day. It is knownonly to Heaven and himself but it has taken his life. As surely asever human heart broke, his broke on the day he left you. And you, mypoor child--_you_ have suffered too. "

"Of that we will not speak, " the girl answered proudly; "what is done, is done. For me, I hope the worst is over--I am safe and well, and ingood health as you see. I am glad Sir Victor Catheron has not met hisdeath in my service. I have only one wish regarding him, and that isthat he will keep away from me. And now, Lady Helena, before it growsany later, I will go home. "

"Go home! At this hour? Most certainly you will not. You will remainhere all night. Oh, Edith, you must indeed. A room has been preparedfor you, adjoining mine. Inez and Jamison will remain with Victoruntil morning, and--you ought to see him before you go. "

She shrank in a sort of horror. 

"No, no, no! _that_ I cannot! As it is so late I will remain, butsee him--no, no! Not even for your sake, Lady Helena, can I do that. "

"We will wait until to-morrow comes, " was Lady Helena's response; "nowyou shall go to your room at once. "

She rang the bell, a chambermaid came. Lady Helena kissed the girl'spale cheek affectionately, and Edith was led away to the room she wasto occupy for that night. 

It was certainly a contrast in its size and luxurious appointments tothat she had used for the last ten months. She smiled a little as sheglanced around. And she was to spend the night under the same roofwith Sir Victor Catheron. If anyone had predicted it this morning, howscornfully she would have refused to believe. 

"Who can tell what a day may bring forth!" was Edith's last thought asshe laid her head on her pillow. "I am glad--very glad, that theaccident will not prove fatal. I don't want him or anyone else to cometo his death through me. "

She slept well and soundly, and awoke late. She sprang out of bedalmost instantly and dressed. She could but ill afford to lose a day. Before her toilet was quite completed there was a tap at the door. Sheopened it and saw Miss Catheron. 

"I fancied you would be up early, and ordered breakfast accordingly. Aunt Helena awaits you down stairs. How did you sleep?"

"Very well. And you--you were up all night I suppose?"

"Yes. I don't mind it at all, though--I am quite used to nightwatching. And I have the reward of knowing Victor is muchbetter--entirely out of danger indeed. Edith, " she laid her handson the girl's shoulders and looked down into her eyes, "he knows youare here. Will you be merciful to a dying man and see him?"

She changed color and shrank a little, but she answered proudly andcoldly:

"No good can come of it. It will be much better not, but for my ownpart I care little. If he wishes to urge what you came to urge, I warnyou, I will not listen to a word; I will leave at once. "

"He will not urge it. He knows how obdurate you are, how fruitless itwould be. Ah, Edith! you are a terribly haughty, self-willed girl. Hewill not detain you a moment--he wishes to make but one partingrequest. "

"I can grant nothing--nothing, " Edith said with agitation. 

"You will grant this, I think, " the other answered sadly. "Come, dearchild, let us go down; Lady Helena waits. "

They descended to breakfast; Edith ate little. In spite of herself, in spite of her pride and self command, it shook her a little--thethought of speaking to _him_. 

But how was she to refuse? She rose at last, very pale, very stern andresolute looking--the sooner it was over and she was gone, the better. 

"Now, " she said, "if you insist--"

"I do insist, " answered Inez steadily. "Come. "

She led her to a door down the corridor and rapped. How horribly thickand fast Edith's heart beat; she hated herself for it. The dooropened, and the grave, professional face of Mr. Jamison looked out. 

"Tell Sir Victor, Lady Catheron is here, and will see him. "

The man bowed and departed. Another instant and he was again beforethem:

"Sir Victor begs my lady to enter at once. "

Then Inez Catheron took her in her arms and kissed her. It was herfarewell. She pointed forward and hurried away. 

Edith went on. A door and curtain separated her from the inner room. She opened one, lifted the other, and husband and wife were face toface. 

He lay upon a low sofa--the room was partially darkened, but even inthat semi-darkness she could see that he looked quite as ghastly andbloodless this morning as he had last night. 

She paused about half way down the room and spoke: "You wished to seeme, Sir Victor Catheron?"

Cold and calm the formal words fell. 

"Edith!"

His answer was a cry--a cry wrung from a soul full of love and anguishuntold. It struck home, even to _her_ heart, steeled against him andall feeling of pity. 

"I am sorry to see you so ill. I am glad your accident is no worse. "Again she spoke, stiff, formal, commonplace words, that soundedhorribly out of place, even to herself. 

"Edith, " he repeated, and again no words can tell the pathos, thedespair of that cry, "forgive me--have pity on me. You hate me, andI deserve your hate, but oh! if you knew, even you would have mercyand relent!"

He touched her in spite of herself. Even a heart of stone might havesoftened at the sound of that despairing, heart-wrung voice--at sightof that death-like, tortured face. And Edith's, whatever she might sayor think, was not a heart of stone. 

"I do pity you, " she said very gently; "I never thought to--but frommy soul I do. But, forgive you! No, Sir Victor Catheron; I am onlymortal. I have been wronged and humiliated as no girl was ever wrongedand humiliated before. I can't do that. "

He covered his face with his hands--she could hear the dry sobbingsound of his wordless misery. 

"It would have been better if I had not come here, " she said stillgently. "You are ill, and this excitement will make you worse. Butthey insisted upon it--they said you had a request to make. I thinkyou had better not make it--I can grant nothing--nothing. "

"You will grant this, " he answered, lifting his face and using thewords Inez had used; "it is only that when I am dying, and send foryou on my death-bed, you will come to me. Before I die I must tellyou all--the terrible secret; I dare not tell you in life; and then, oh surely, surely you will pity and forgive! Edith, my love, mydarling, leave me this one hope, give me this one promise beforeyou go?"

"I promise to come, " was her answer; "I promise to listen--I canpromise no more. A week ago I thought I would have died sooner thanpledge myself to that much--sooner than look in your face, or speakto you one word. And now, Sir Victor Catheron, farewell. "

She turned to go without waiting for his reply. As she opened thedoor, she heard a wailing cry that struck chill with pity and terrorto her inmost heart. 

"Oh, my love! my bride! my wife!"--then the door closed behindher--she heard and saw no more. 

So they had met and parted, and only death could bring them togetheragain. 

She passed out into the sunshine and splendor of the summer morning, dazed and cold, her whole soul full of untold compassion for the manshe had left. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET. 

Edith went back to the work-room in Oxford Street, to the oldtreadmill life of ceaseless sewing, and once more a lull came intoher disturbed existence--the lull preceding the last ending of thisstrange mystery that had wrecked two lives. It seemed to her as shesat down among madame's troop of noisy, chattering girls, as thoughlast night and its events were a long way off and a figment of somestrange dream. That she had stood face to face with Sir VictorCatheron, spent a night under the same roof, actually spoken to him, actually felt sorry for him, was too unreal to be true. They had saidrightly when they told her death was pictured on his face. Whateverthis secret of his might be, it was a secret that had cost him hislife. A hundred times a day that pallid, tortured face, rose beforeher, that last agonized cry of a strong heart in strong agony rangin her ears. All her hatred, all her revengeful thoughts of him weregone--she understood no better than before, but she pitied him fromthe depths of her heart. 

They disturbed her no more, neither by letters nor visits. Only asthe weeks went by she noticed _this_--that as surely as evening came, a shadowy figure hovering aloof, followed her home. She knew who itwas--at first she felt inclined to resent it, but as he never camenear, never spoke, only followed her from that safe distance, shegrew reconciled and accustomed to it at last. She understood hismotive--to shield her--to protect her from danger and insult, thinking himself unobserved. 

Once or twice she caught a fleeting glimpse of his face on theseoccasions. 

What a corpse-like face it was--how utterly weak and worn-out heseemed--more fitted for a sick-bed than the role of protector. "Poorfellow, " Edith thought often, her heart growing very gentle with pityand wonder, "how he loves me, how faithful he is after all. Oh, Iwonder--I wonder, _what_ this secret is that took him from me a yearago. Will his mountain turn into a mole-hill when I hear it, if Iever do, or will it justify him? Is he sane or mad? And yet LadyHelena, who is in her right mind, surely, holds him justified in whathe has done. "

July--August passed--the middle of September came. All this time, whatever the weather, she never once missed her "shadow" from hispost. As we grow accustomed to all things, she grew accustomed tothis watchful care, grew to look for him when the day's work wasdone. But in the middle of September she missed him. Evening afterevening came, and she returned home unfollowed and alone. Somethinghad happened. 

Yes, something had happened. He had never really held up his headafter that second parting with Edith. For days he had lain prostrate, so near to death that they thought death surely must come. But bythe end of a week he was better--as much better at least as he everwould be in this world. 

"Victor, " his aunt would cry out, "I wish--I _wish_ you would consulta physician about this affection of the heart. I am frightened foryou--it is not like anything else. There is this famous German--dogo to see him to please me. "

"To please you, my dear aunt--my good, patient nurse--I would domuch, " her nephew was wont to answer with a smile. "Believe me yourfears are groundless, however. Death takes the hopeful and happy, and passes by such wretches as I am. It all comes of weakness ofbody and depression of mind; there's nothing serious the matter. If I get worse, you may depend upon it, I'll go and consult HerrVon Werter. "

Then it was that he began his nightly duty--the one joy left in hisjoyless life. Lady Helena and Inez returned to St. John's Wood. AndSir Victor, from his lodgings in Fenton's Hotel, followed his wifehome every evening. It was his first thought when he arose in themorning, the one hope that upheld him all the long, weary, aimlessday--the one wild delight that was like a spasm, half pain, halfjoy--when the dusk fell to see her slender figure come forth, tofollow his darling, himself unseen, as he fancied, to her humblehome. To watch near it, to look up at her lighted windows with eyesfull of such love and longing as no words can ever picture, and then, shivering in the rising night wind, to hail a hansom and go home--tolive only in the thought of another meeting on the morrow. 

Whatever the weather, it has been said, he went. On many occasionshe returned drenched through, with chattering teeth and livid lips. Then would follow long, fever-tossed, sleepless nights, and a morningof utter prostration, mental and physical. 

But come what might, while he was able to stand, he must return tohis post--to his wife. 

But Nature, defied long, claimed her penalty at last. There came aday when Sir Victor could rise from his bed no more, when the heartspasms, in their anguish, grew even more than his resolute will couldbear. A day when in dire alarm Lady Helena and Inez were once moresummoned by faithful Jamison, and when at last--at last the infallibleGerman doctor was sent for. 

The interview between physician and patient was long and strictlyprivate. When Herr Von Werter went away at last his phlegmaticTeuton face was set with an unwonted expression of pity and pain. After an interval of almost unendurable suspense, Lady Helena wassent for by her nephew, to be told the result. He lay upon a lowsofa, wheeled near the window. The last light of the September daystreamed in and fell full upon his face--perhaps that was whatglorified it and gave it such a radiant look. A faint smile lingeredon his lips, his eyes had a far-off, dreamy look, and were fixedon the rosy evening sky. A strange, unearthly, exalted lookaltogether, that made his aunt's heart sink like stone. 

"Well?" She said it in a tense sort of whisper, longing for, yetdreading, the reply. He turned to her, that smile still on his lips, still in his eyes. He had not looked so well for months. He tookher hand. 

"Aunt, " he said, "you have heard of doomed men sentenced to deathreceiving their reprieve at the last hour? I think I know to-dayhow those men must feel. My reprieve has come. "

"Victor!" It was a gasp. "Dr. Von Werter says you will recover!"

His eyes turned from her to that radiant brightness in the Septembersky. 

"It is aneurism of the heart. Dr. Von Werter says I won't live threeweeks. "

 * * * * *

They were down in Cheshire. They had taken him home while there wasyet time, by slow and easy stages. They took him to CatheronRoyals--it was his wish, and they lived but to gratify his wishes now. 

The grand old house was as it had been left a year ago--fitted upresplendently for a bride--a bride who had never come. There was oneparticular room to which he desired to be taken, a spacious andsumptuous chamber, all purple and gilding, and there they laid himupon the bed, from which he would never rise. 

It was the close of September now, the days golden and mellow, beautiful with the rich beauty of early autumn, before decay hascome. He had grown rapidly worse since that memorable interviewwith the German doctor, and paralysis, that "death in life" waspreceding the fatal footsteps of aneurism of the heart. His lowerlimbs were paralyzed. The end was very near now. On the last dayof September Herr Von Werter paid his last visit. 

"It's of no use, madame, " he said to Lady Helena; "I can donothing--nothing whatever. He won't last the week out. "

The young baronet turned his serene eyes, serene at last with theawful serenity that precedes the end. He had heard the fiat notintended for his ears. 

"You are sure of this, doctor? _Sure_, mind! I won't last the weekout?"

"It is impossible, Sir Victor. I always tell my patients the truth. Your disease is beyond the reach of all earthly skill. The end maycome at any moment--in no case can you survive the week. "

His serene face did not change. He turned to his aunt with a smilethat was often on his lips now:

"At last, " he said softly; "at last my darling may come to me--atlast I may tell her all. Thank God for this hour of release. AuntHelena, send for Edith at once. "

By the night train, a few hours later, Inez Catheron went up toLondon. As Madame Mirebeau's young women assembled next morning, she was there before them, waiting to see Miss Stuart. 

Edith came--a foreknowledge of the truth in her mind. The interviewwas brief. She left at once in company with Miss Catheron, and MadameMirebeau's establishment was to know her no more. 

As the short, autumnal day closed in, they were in Cheshire. 

It was the evening of the second of October--the anniversary of thebridal eve. And thus at last the bride was coming home. She lookedout with eyes that saw nothing of the familiar landscape as itflitted by--the places she had never thought to see more. She wasgoing to Catheron Royals, to the man she had married a year ago. A year ago! what a strange, terrible year it had been--like a baddream. She shuddered as she recalled it. All was to be told at last, and death was to set all things even. The bride was returning tothe bridegroom like this. 

All the way from the station to the great house she never spoke aword. Her heart beat with a dull, heavy pain--pity for him--dreadof what she was to hear. It was quite dark when they rolled throughthe lofty gates, up the broad, tree-shaded drive, to the grandportico entrance of the house. 

"He is very low this evening, miss, " Jamison whispered as he admittedthem; "feverish and longing for her ladyship's coming. He begs thatas soon as my lady is rested and has had some refreshment she willcome to him at once. "

Lady Helena met them at the head of the stairs, and took the pale, tired girl in her arms for a moment. Then Edith was in a firelit, waxlit room, lying back for a minute's rest in the downy depths ofa great chair. Then coffee and a dainty repast was brought her. Shebathed her face and hands, and tried to eat and drink. But the foodseemed to choke her. She drank the strong, black coffee eagerly, and was ready to go. 

Lady Helena led her to the room where he lay--that purple and goldchamber, with all its dainty and luxurious appointments. She shranka little as she entered--she remembered it was to have been _their_room when they returned from their bridal tour. Lady Helena justopened the door to admit her, closed it again, and was gone. 

She was alone with the dying man. By the dim light of two wax tapersshe beheld him propped up with pillows, his white, eager face turnedtoward her, the love, that not death itself could for a momentvanquish, shining upon her from his eyes. She was over kneeling bythe bedside, holding his hands in hers--how, she could never havetold. 

"I am sorry--I am sorry!" It was all she could say. In that hour, in the presence of death, she forgot everything, her wrongs, herhumiliation. She only knew that he was dying, and that he lovedher as she would never be loved again in this world. 

"It is better as it is, " she heard him saying, when she could hear atall, for the dull, rushing sound in her ears; "far better--far better. My life was torture--could never have been anything else, though Ilived fifty years. I was so young--life looked so long, that therewere times, yes, Edith, times when for hours I sat debating withinmyself a suicide's cowardly end. But Heaven has saved me from that. Death has mercifully come of itself to set all things straight, andoh, my darling! to bring _you_. "

She laid her face upon his wasted hand, nearer loving him in hisdeath than she had ever been in his life. 

"You have suffered, " he said tenderly, looking at her. "I thoughtto shield you from every care, to make your life one long dream ofpleasure and happiness, and see how I have done it! You have hatedme--scorned me, and with justice; how could it be otherwise? Evenwhen you hear all, you may not be able to forgive me, and yet, Heaven knows, I did it all for the best. If it were all to comeover again, I could not act otherwise than as I have acted. But, my darling, it was very hard on you. "

In death as in life his thoughts were not of himself and his ownsufferings, but of her. As she looked at him, as she recalled whathe had been only a year ago, in the flush and vigor and prime ofmanhood--it seemed almost too much to bear. 

"Oh, Victor! hush, " she cried, hiding her face again, "you breakmy heart!"

His feeble fingers closed over hers with all their dying strength--thatfaint, happy smile came over his lips. "I don't want to distress you, "he said very gently; "you have suffered enough without that. Edith, Ifeel wonderfully happy to-night--it seems to me I have no wish left--asthough I were sure of your forgiveness beforehand. It is joy enough tosee you here--to feel your hand in mine once more, to know I am atliberty to tell you the truth at last. I have longed for this hourwith a longing I can never describe. Only to be forgiven and die--Iwanted no more. For what would life have been without you? My dearest, I wonder if in the dark days that are gone, whatever you may havedoubted, my honor, my sanity, if you ever doubted my love for you?"

"I don't know, " she answered, in a stifled voice. "My thoughts havebeen very dark--very desperate. There were times when there seemedno light on earth, no hope in Heaven. I dare not tell you--I darenot think--how wicked and reckless my heart has been. "

"Poor child!" he said, with a touch of infinite compassion. "Youwere so young--it was all so sudden, so terrible, so incomprehensible. Draw up that hassock, Edith, and sit here by my side, and listen. No, you must let go my hand. How can I tell whether you will not shrinkfrom it and me with horror when you know all. "

Without a word, she drew the low seat close to the bed, and shadingher face with her hand, listened, motionless as a statue, to thebrief story of the secret that had held them apart so long. 

"It all begins, " Sir Victor's faint, low voice said, "with the nightof my father's death, three weeks before our wedding-day. That nightI learned the secret of my mother's murder, and learned to pity myunhappy father as I had never pitied him before. Do you remember, Edith, the words you spoke to Lady Helena the day before you ranaway from Powyss Place? You said Inez Catheron was not the murderer, though she had been accused of it, nor Juan Catheron, though he hadbeen suspected of it--that you believed Sir Victor Catheron hadkilled his own wife. Edith, you were right. Sir Victor Catheronmurdered his own wife!

"I learned it that fatal night. Lady Helena and Inez had known itall along. Juan Catheron more than suspected it. Bad as he was, hekept that secret. My mother was stabbed by my father's hand. 

"Why did he do it? you ask. I answer, because he was mad--mad forweeks before. And he knew it, though no one else did. With thecunning of insanity he kept his secret, not even his wife suspectedthat his reason was unsound. He was a monomaniac. Insanity, as youhave heard, is hereditary in our family, in different phases; thephase it took with him was homicidal mania. On all other points hewas sane--on this, almost from the first, he had been insane--_thedesire to take his wife's life_. 

"It is horrible, is it not--almost incredibly horrible? It is true, nevertheless. Before the honeymoon was ended, his homicidal maniadeveloped itself--an almost insurmountable desire, whenever he wasalone in her presence, to take her life. Out of the very depth andintensity of his passion for her his madness arose. He loved herwith the whole strength of his heart and being, and--the mad longingwas with him always, to end her life while she was all his own--inshort, to kill her. 

"He could not help it; he knew his madness--he shrank in horrorfrom it--he battled with it--he prayed for help--and for over ayear he controlled himself. But it was always there--always. Howlong it might have lain dormant--how long he would have been ableto withstand his mad desire, no one can tell. But Juan Catheroncame and claimed her as his wife, and jealousy finished what adreadful hereditary insanity had begun. 

"On that fatal evening he had seen them together somewhere in thegrounds, and though he hid what he felt, the sight had goaded himalmost to frenzy. Then came the summons from Lady Helena to go toPowyss Place. He set out, but before he had gone half-way, thedemon of jealously whispered in his ear, 'Your wife is with JuanCatheron now--go back and surprise them. ' He turned and wentback--a madman--the last glimpse of reason and self-control gone. He saw his wife, not with Juan Catheron, but peacefully andinnocently asleep by the open window of the room where he had lefther. The dagger, used as a paper knife, lay on the table near. Isay he was utterly mad for the time. In a moment the knife was upto the hilt in her heart, dealing death with that one strong blow!He drew it out and--she lay dead before him. 

"Then a great, an awful horror, fell upon him. Not of the consequenceof his crime; only of that which lay so still and white before him. He turned like the madman he was and fled. By some strange chance hemet no one. In passing through the gates he flung the dagger amongthe fern, leaped on his horse, and was gone. 

"He rode straight to Powyss Place. Before he reached it some ofinsanity's cunning returned to him. He must not let people know _he_had done it; they would find out he was mad; they would shut him upin a madhouse; they would shrink from him in loathing and horror. How he managed it, he told me with his dying breath, he neverknew--he did somehow. No one suspected him, only Inez Catheron, returning to the nursery, had seen all--had seen the deadly blowstruck, had seen his instant flight, and stood spell-bound, speechlessand motionless as a stone. He remembered no more--the dark night ofoblivion and total insanity closed about him only to open at briefestintervals from that to the hour of his death. 

"That, Edith, was the awful story I was told that night--the storythat has ruined and wrecked my whole life and yours. I listened toit all as you sit and listen now, still as a stone, frozen with ahorror too intense for words. I can recall as clearly now as themoment I heard them the last words he ever spoke to me:

"'I tell you this partly because I am dying, and I think you oughtto know, partly because I want to warn you. They tell me you areabout to be married. Victor, beware what you do. The dreadful taintis in your blood as it was in mine--you love her as I loved the wifeI murdered. Again I say take care--take care! Be warned by me; myfate may be yours, your mother's fate hers. It is my wish, I wouldsay command, if I dared, that you never marry; that you let the nameand the curse die out; that no more sons may be born to hear theghastly story I have told you. '

"I could listen to no more, I rushed from the room, from the house, out into the darkness and the rain, as if the curse he spoke of hadalready come upon me--as though I were already going mad. How longI remained, what I did, I don't know. Soul and body seemed in awhirl. The next thing I knew was my aunt summoning me into thehouse. My most miserable father was dead. 

"Then came the funeral. I would not, _could not_ think. I drove thelast warning he had spoken out of my mind. I clenched my teeth--Iswore that I would _not_ give you up. Not for the raving of athousand madmen, not for the warning of a thousand dying fathers. From that hour I was a changed man--from that hour my doom was sealed. 

"I returned to Powyss Place, but not as I had left. I was a hauntedman. By day and night--all night long, all day through, the awfulwarning pursued me. 'My fate may be yours--your mother's fate_hers_!' It was my destiny, there was no escape; my mother's doomwould be yours; on our wedding-day I was fated to kill you! It waswritten. Nothing could avert it. 

"I don't know whether the family taint was always latent within me, or that it was continual brooding on what I had heard, but the fatecertainly befell me. My father's homicidal mania became mine. Edith, I felt it, felt the dreadful whisper in my ear, the awful desirestirring in my heart, to lift my hand and take your life! Often andoften have I fled from your presence when I felt the temptationgrowing stronger than I could withstand. 

"And yet I would not give you up; that is where I can never forgivemyself. I could not tell you; I could not draw back then. I hopedagainst hope; it seemed like tearing body and soul asunder, thethought of losing you. 'Come what may, ' I cried, in my anguish, 'she shall be my wife!'

"Our wedding-day came; the day that should have been the most blessedof my life, that was the most miserable. All the night before, allthat morning, the demon within me had been, battling for the victory. I could not exorcise it; it stood between us at the altar. Then cameour silent, strange wedding-journey. I wonder sometimes, as I lookedat you, so still, so pale, so beautiful, what you must think. I darenot look at you often, I dare not speak to you, dare not think ofyou. I felt if I did I should lose all control of myself, and slayyou there and then. 

"I wonder, as you sit and listen there, my love, my bride, whetherit is pity or loathing that fills your heart. And yet I deserved pity;what I suffered no tongue can ever tell. I knew myself mad, knew thatsooner or later my madness would be stronger than myself, and thenit came upon me so forcibly when we reached Carnarvon, that I fledfrom you again and went wandering away by myself, where, I knew not. 'Sooner or later you will kill her;' that thought alone filled me;'it is as certain as that you live and stand here. You will kill thisgirl who trusts you and who has married you, who does not dream shehas married a demon athirst for her blood. '

"I went wild then. I fell down on my knees in the wet grass, and heldup my hands to the sky. 'O God!' I cried out in despair, 'show mewhat to do. Don't let me kill my darling. Strike me dead where I kneelsooner than that!' And with the words the bitterness of death seemedto pass, and great calm fell. In that calm a voice spoke clearly, and said:

"Leave her! Leave your bride while there is yet time. It is the onlyway. Leave her! She does not love you--she will not care. Better thatyou should break your heart and die, than that you should harm a hairof her head. '

"I heard it as plainly, Edith, as I hear my own voice speaking now. I rose--my resolution taken--a great, unutterable peace filling myheart. In my exalted state it seemed easy--I alone would be thesufferer, not you--I would go. 

"I went back. The first sight I saw was you, my darling, sitting bythe open window, fast asleep. Fast asleep, as my mother had been thatdreadful night. If anything had been wanting to confirm my resolution, that would have done it. I wrote the note of farewell; I came in andkissed your dear hands, and went away from you forever. O love! itseemed easy then, but my heart broke in that hour. I could not livewithout you; thank Heaven! the sacrifice is not asked. I have toldyou all--it lay between two things--I must leave you, or in my madnesskill you. Edith, it would have happened. You have heard my story--youknow all--the dreadful secret that has held us asunder. It is foryou to say whether I can be forgiven or not. "

She had all the time been sitting, her face hidden in her hands, neverstirring or speaking. Now she arose and fell once more on her kneesbeside him, tears pouring from her eyes. She drew his head into herarms, she stooped down, and, for the first time in her life, kissedagain and again the lips of the man she had married. 

"Forgive you!" she said. "O my husband, my martyr! It is I who mustbe forgiven! _You_ are an angel, not a man!"

CHAPTER VI. 

THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY. 

An hour later, when Lady Helena softly opened the door and came in, she found them still so, his weak head resting in her arms as sheknelt, her bowed face hidden, her falling tears hardly yet dried. One look into his radiant eyes, into the unspeakable joy and peaceof his face, told her the story. All had been revealed, all had beenforgiven. On the anniversary of their most melancholy wedding-dayhusband and wife were reunited at last. 

There was no need of words. She stooped over and silently kissed both. 

"It is growing late, Edith, " she said gently, "and you must be tiredafter your journey. You will go up to your room now. I will watchwith Victor to-night. "

But Edith only drew him closer, and looked up with dark, imploringeyes. 

"No, " she said, "no, no! I will never leave him again. I am not inthe least tired, Lady Helena; I will stay and share your watch. "

"But, my dear--"

"O Lady Helena--aunt--don't you see--I must do something--makereparation in some way. What a wretch--what a wretch I have been. Oh, why did I not know all sooner? Victor, why did I not know _you_?To remember what my thoughts of you have been, and all the time--allthe time--it was for me. If you die I shall feel as though I wereyour murderess. "

Her voice choked in a tearless sob. She had hated him--loathedhim--almost wished, in her wickedness, for his death, and all thetime he was yielding up his life in his love for her. 

"You will let me stay with you, Victor?" she pleaded almostpassionately; "don't ask me to go. We have been parted long enough;let me be with you until--" again her voice choked and died away. 

With a great effort he lifted one of her hands to his lips--thatradiant smile of great joy on his face. 

"She talks _almost_ as if she loved me, " he said. 

"Love you! O Victor!--husband--if I had only known, if I had onlyknown!"

"If you had known, " he repeated, looking at her with wistful eyes. "Edith, if you really had known--if I had dared to tell you all Ihave told you to-night, would you not have shrunk from me in fearand horror, as a monster who pretended to love you and yet longedfor your life? Sane on all other points--how would you havecomprehended my strange madness on that? It is gone now--thankGod--in my weakness and dying hour, and there is nothing but thelove left. But my own, if I had told you, if you had known, wouldyou not have feared and left me?"

She looked at him with brave, steadfast, shining eyes. 

"If I had known, " she answered, "how your father killed your mother, how his madness was yours, I would have pitied you with all my heart, and out of that pity I would have loved you. I would never have leftyou--never. I could never have feared you, Victor; and this Iknow--what you dreaded never would have come to pass. I am as sureof it as that I kneel here. You would never have lifted your handagainst my life. "

"You think so?" Still with that wistful, earnest gaze. 

"I _know_ so--I feel it--I am sure of it. You could not have doneit--I should never have been afraid of it, and in time your delusionwould have worn entirely away. You are naturally superstitious andexcitable--morbid, even; the dreadful excitement of your father'sstory and warning, were too much for you to bear alone. That is all. If you could have told me--if I could have laughed at yourhypochondrical terrors, your cure would have been half effected. No, Victor, I say it again--I would never have left you, and you wouldnever have harmed a hair of my head. "

Her tone of resolute, conviction seemed to bring conviction even tohim. The sad, wistful light deepened in his blue eyes. 

"Then it has all been in vain, " he said very sadly; "the sufferingand the sacrifice--all these miserable months of separation and pain. "

Again Lady Helena advanced and interposed, this time with authority. 

"It won't do, " she said; "Edith you _must_ go. All this talking andexcitement may end fatally. If you won't leave him he won't sleepa wink to-night; and if he passes a sleepless night who is to answerfor the consequences? For his sake you must go. Victor tell her togo--she will obey you. "

She looked at him beseechingly, but he saw that Lady Helena was right, and that Edith herself needed rest. It was easy to make one moresacrifice now, and send her away. 

"I am afraid Aunt Helena is right, " he said faintly. "I must confessto feeling exhausted, and I know you need a night's sleep, so thatI may have you with me all day to-morrow. For a few hours, dear love, let me send you away. "

She rose at once with a parting caress, and made him comfortable amonghis pillows. 

"Good-night, " she whispered. "Try to sleep, and be strong to talkto me to-morrow. Oh!" she breathed as she turned away, "if the elixirof life were only not a fable--if the days of miracles were not past, if he only might be restored to us, how happy we all could be!"

Lady Helena heard her, and shook her head. 

"It is too late for that, " she said; "when suffering is prolongedbeyond a certain point there is but one remedy--death. If your miraclecould take place and he be restored, he has undergone too much everto live on and be happy and forget. There can only be one ending tosuch a year as he has passed, and that ending is very near. "

Edith went to her room--one of the exquisite suite that had beenprepared for her a year before. She was occupying it at last, buthow differently from what she had ever thought. She remembered thisnight twelve months so well, the strange vigil in which she had spentin taking her farewell of those letters and that picture, and waitingfor her wedding-day to dawn. 

To-night she slept, deeply and soundly, and awoke to find the Octobersun shining brightly in. Was he still alive? It was her first thought. Death might have come at any moment. She arose--slipped on a dressinggown, and rang the bell. 

It was Inez who answered in person. 

"I heard your bell, " she said as she kissed her good-morning, "andI knew what you wanted. Yes, he is still alive, but very weak andhelpless this morning. The excitement and joy of last night werealmost too much for him. And he remembers what anniversary this is. "

Edith turned away--some of the bitterness, some of the pain of lossshe knew he was enduring filling her own heart. 

"If I had only known! if I had only known!" was again her cry. 

"If you had--if he had told--I believe with you all would have beenwell. But it is too late to think of that--_he_ believed differently. The terrible secret of the father has wrought its terrible retributionupon the son. If he had told you when he returned from Poplar Lodge, you would have been happy together to-day. You are so strong--yourmind so healthful--some of your strength and courage would have beenimparted to him. But it is too late now--all is over--we have onlyto make him happy while he is left with us. "

"Too late! too late!" Edith's heart echoed desolately. In those hoursof his death she was nearer loving her husband than perhaps she couldever have been had he lived. 

"I will send breakfast up here, " said Inez, turning to go; "when youhave breakfasted, go to him at once. He is awake and waiting for you. "

Edith made her toilet. Breakfast came; and, despite remorse and grief, when one is nineteen one can eat. Then she hurried away to thesick-room. 

He was lying much as she had left him, propped up among thepillows--his face whiter than the linen and lace, whiter than snow. By daylight she saw fully the ghastly change in him--saw that hisfair hair was thickly strewn with gray, that the awful, indiscribablechange that goes before was already on his face. His breathing waslabored and panting--he had suffered intensely with spasms of theheart all night, sleeping none at all. This morning the paroxysmsof pain had passed, but he lay utterly worn and exhausted, the colddamp of infinite misery on his brow, the chill of death already onhands and limbs. He lay before her, the total wreck of the gallant, hopeful, handsome gentleman, whom only one year ago she had married. 

But the familiar smile she knew so well was on his lips and in hiseyes as he saw her. She could not speak for a moment as she lookedat him--in silence she took her place close by his side. 

He was the first to break the silence, in a voice so faint as hardlyto be more than a whisper. "How had she slept--how did she feel? Shelooked pale, he thought--surely she was not ill?"

"I?" she said bitterly. "O, no--I am never ill--nothing ever seemsto hurt hard heartless people like me. It is the good and the generouswho suffer. I have the happy knack of making all who love me miserable, but my own health never fails. I don't dare to ask you what sort ofnight you have had--I see it in your face. My coming brings, as italways does, more ill than good. "

"No, " he said, almost with energy; "a hundred times no! Ah, love!your coming has made me the happiest man on earth. I seem to havenothing left to wish for now. As to the night--the spasms _did_trouble me, but I feel deliciously easy and at rest this morning, and uncommonly happy. Edith, I talked so much last evening I gave_you_ no chance. I want you to tell me now all about the year thathas gone--all about yourself. "

"There is so little to tell, " she responded; "it was really humdrumand uneventful. Nothing much happened to me; I looked for work andgot it. Oh, don't be distressed! it was easy, pleasant work enough, and I was much better busy. I begin to believe plenty of hard workis a real blessing to dissatisfied, restless people--you can't bevery miserable when you are very busy--you haven't time for luxuries. I got along very well, and never was ill an hour. "

"But, tell me, " he persisted; "you don't know how I long to hear. Tell, me all about your life after--after--"

"Hush!" she interposed, holding his hands tight. "You were thesufferer, not I. O my poor boy! I never was half worthy such a heartas yours. I am only beginning to realize how selfish, and cruel andhard I have been. But, with Heaven's help, I will try and be differentfrom this day. "

She told him the story of her life, from the time of her flight fromPowyss Place to the present, glossing over all that was dark, makingthe most of all that was bright. But he understood her--he knew howher pride had suffered and bled. 

"I never thought of your going away, " he said sadly. "I might haveknown you better, but I did not--I was so sure you would have stayed, if not with Lady Helena, then in some safe shelter; that you wouldhave taken what was justly yours. I was stunned when I first heardof your flight. I searched for you everywhere--in America and all. Did you know I went to America, Edith?"

"Inez told me, " she answered faintly. 

"I could not find your father--I could not find the Stuarts. I musthave been very stupid somehow--I could find no one. Then arrived thatday when I saw you in the Oxford Street shop, when I tried to followyou home and could not. What an evening it was! Then came my lastdesperate hope when I sent Inez to you and failed. It seemed almosthardest to bear of all. "

"If I had only known--if I had only known!" was still her cry. 

"Yes, the trouble lay there. With your pride you could not actotherwise than as you did. For you are very proud, my darling, " witha smile. "Do you know it?"

"Very proud--very heartless--very selfish, " she answered brokenly. "Oh, no need to tell me how base I have been!"

"Yet, I think I like you the better for your pride; and I foresee--yes, I foresee, that one day you will be a happy woman, with as noble, andloving, and generous a heart as ever beat. I understand you, it seemsto me now, better than you understand yourself. One day--it may beyears from now--the happiness of your life will come to you. Don'tlet pride stand between you and it then, Edith. I hope that day maycome--I pray for it. Lying in my grave, love, I think I shall resteasier if I know _you_ are happy on earth. "

"Don't! don't!" she said; "I cannot bear it! Your goodness breaksmy heart. "

"There is one thing I must ask, Edith, " he resumed after a pause;"a last favor. You will grant it, will you not?"

"Victor! is there anything I would _not_ grant?"

"It is this, then--that when I am gone, you will take what is yourright and your due. This you must promise me; no more false pride--thewidow of Sir Victor Catheron must take what is hers. Juan Catheronis married to a Creole lady, and living in the island of Martinique, a reformed man. He inherits the title and Catheron Royals, with itsincome, as heir-at-law. For the rest you have your jointure as mywidow; and my grandmother's large fortune, which descended to me, I have bequeathed to you in my will. So that when I leave you, mydearest, I leave you safe from all pecuniary troubles. It is my lastwish--nay, my last command, that you take all without hesitation. You promise me this, Edith?"

"I promise, " she answered lowly. She could not look at him--it seemedlike the Scriptural words, "heaping coals of fire on her head. "

Then for a long time there was silence. He lay back among the pillowswith closed eyes, utterly exhausted, but looking very happy. Thebitterness of death was passed--a great peace had come. With the wifehe loved beside him, her hand clasped in his, he could go forth inpeace, knowing that in her heart there was nothing but affection andforgiveness--that one day, in the future, she would be happy. In hisdeath as in his life he was thoroughly unselfish. It brought no pangto him now to feel that years after the grass grew over his graveshe would be the happy wife of a happier man. He talked little more;he dozed at intervals during the day. Edith never left him for amoment. His aunt and cousin shared her watch off and on all day. Theycould all see that the last great change was near. Pain had lefthim--he was entirely at rest. 

"Read to me, Edith, " he said once as the day wore on. She took upa volume of sermons that Lady Helena was fond of. She opened it, haphazard, and read. And presently she came to this, reading of thecrosses and trials and sorrows of life: "And God shall wipe away alltears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death; neithersorrow nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain. "

His eyes were fixed upon her with so radiant a light, so infinitea thankfulness, that she could read no more. Her voice choked--shelaid the book down. Later, as the sunset came streaming in, he awokefrom a long slumber, and looked at the glittering bars of light lyingon the carpet. 

"Open the window, Edith, " he said; "I want to see the sun set oncemore. "

She obeyed. All flushed with rose light, and gold and amythistsplendor, the evening sky glowed like the very gates of paradise. 

"It is beautiful, " Edith said, but its untold beauty brought to hersomehow a sharp pang of pain. 

"Beautiful!" he repeated in an ecstatic whisper. "O love! if earthis so beautiful, what must Heaven be!"

Then she heard him softly repeat to himself the words she had read:"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shallbe no more death; neither sorrow nor crying; neither shall there beany more pain. " He drew a long, long breath, like one who is veryweary and sees rest near. 

"Darling, " he said, "how pale you are--white as a spirit. Go out fora little into the air--don't mind leaving me. I feel sleepy again. "

She kissed him and went. All her after life she was glad to remembertheir last parting had been with a caress on her part, a happy smileon his. She descended the steps leading from the window withunquestioning obedience, and passed out into the rose and gold lightof the sunset. She remained perhaps fifteen minutes--certainly notmore. The red light of the October sky was fast paling to coldgray--the white October moon was rising. She went back. He still layas she had left him--his eyes were closed--she thought he was asleep. She bent over him, close--closer--growing white almost as himself. And then she knew what it was. 

"And there shall be no more death; neither sorrow nor crying; neithershall there be any more pain. "

A cry rang through the room, the long, wailing cry of widowhood. Shefell on her knees by the bed. An hour after, the passing bell tolledsombrely through the darkness from the steeple of Chesholm Church, telling all whom it might concern that Sir Victor Catheron had gonehome. 

CHAPTER VII. 

TWO YEARS AFTER. 

One brilliant, August noonday a Cunard ship steamed gallantly downthe Mersey and out into the open sea. 

There were a great number of passengers on board--every cabin, everyberth, was filled. Every country under Heaven, it seemed, wasrepresented. After the first two or three days out, after the firstthree or four times assembling around the dinner-table and congregatingon the sunny decks, people began to know all about one another, tolearn each other's names and histories. 

There was one lady passenger who from the first excited a great dealof talk and curiosity. A darkly handsome young lady in widow's weeds, who rather held herself aloof from everybody, and who seemed allsufficient unto herself. A young lady, pitifully young to wear thatsombre dress and widow's cap, remarkable anywhere for her beauty, and dignity, and grace. Who was she? as with one voice all thegentlemen on board cried out that question the moment they saw herfirst. 

She was a lady of rank and title, an English lady, travelling withher two servants--otherwise quite alone--the name on the passengerlist was Lady Catheron. 

For the first two days that was all that could be ascertained--justenough to whet curiosity to burning-point. Then in the solitude andseclusion of the ladies' cabin the maid servant became confidentialwith one of the stewardesses, and narrated, after the manner of maids, her mistress's history as far as she knew it. The stewardess retailedit to the lady passengers, and the lady passengers gave it at thirdhand to the gentlemen. This is what it was:

Lady Catheron, young as she looked and was, had nevertheless beena widow for two years. Her husband had been Sir Victor Catheron, ofCheshire, who had died after the first year of married felicity, leaving an immensely rich widow. Miserable Sir Victor! thought allthe gentlemen. She--Sarah Betts, the maid--had not known her ladyshipduring the year of her married life, she had been engaged in London, some months after my lady's bereavement, to travel with her on thecontinent. My lady had travelled in company with her aunt, the LadyHelena Powyss, and her cousin, a "Mrs. Victor. " They had spent thebest part of two years wandering leisurely through every country inEurope, and now my lady was finishing her tour of the world by comingto America--why, Betts did not know. Not many ladies of rank cameto America alone, Betts thought, but she had heard my lady wasAmerican by birth. Everywhere my lady went she had been greatlyadmired--gentlemen always raved about her, but she seemed as coldas marble, very high and haughty, utterly indifferent to them all. She did not go into society--she had been awfully fond of her latehusband, and quite broken-hearted at losing him so soon. That wasMiss Betts' story, and like Sam Weller's immortal valentine, wasjust enough to make them wish there was more. 

For the man servant and _avant courier_ of my lady, he was a genteel, dignified, taciturn gentleman, like an elderly duke in difficulties, with whom it was impossible to take liberties or ask questions--asort of human oyster: who kept himself and his knowledge hermeticallysealed up. He told nothing, and they had to be contented with Betts'version. 

So Lady Catheron became _the_ lady of interest on board. Everybodysaw her on deck, her railway rug spread in the sunshine, her lowwicker-work chair placed upon it, a large umbrella unfurled overher head, reading or gazing over the sea toward the land they werenearing. She made no acquaintances, she was perfectly civil toeverybody who spoke to her, friendly to a degree with the children, and her smile was bright and sweet as the sunshine itself. Herreticence could hardly be set down to pride. Before the voyage wasover she was many times forward among the steerage passengers, leavinglargesses behind her, and always followed by thanks and blessingswhen she came away. Not pride, surely--the great dark fathomless eyeswere wondrously sweet and soft; the lips, that might once have beenhaughty and hard, tender and gentle now, and yet there was a vague, intangible something about her, that held all at arm's length, thatlet no one come one inch nearer than it was her will they should come. Lady Catheron had been their interest from the first--she was theirmystery to the end. 

Yes, it was Edith--Edith going home--home! well hardly that, perhaps;she was going to see her father, at his urgent request. He hadreturned once more to Sandypoint, he had been ailing lately, and heyearned to see his darling. His letter reached her in Paris, and Edithcrossed over at once, and came. 

Was there in her heart any hope of seeing, as well, other friends?Hardly--and yet, as America drew near and nearer, her heart beat witha hope and a restlessness she could no more explain than I can. InNaples, six months ago, she had met a party of Americans, and amongthem Mrs. Featherbrain, of light-headed memory. Mrs. Featherbrainhad recognized an old acquaintance in Lady Catheron, and hailed herwith effusion. 

For Edith, she shrank away with the old feeling of dislike andrepulsion, and yet she listened to her chatter, too. 

"How sad it was, " said gay Mrs. Featherbrain, "about the poor, dearStuarts. That delightful Charley, too! ah! it was very sad. Did LadyCatheron correspond with them? But of course she did, being a relativeand everything. "

"No, " Edith answered, her pale face a shade paler than usual; "shehad entirely lost sight of them lately. She would be very glad tohear of them, though. Did Mrs. Featherbrain know--"

"Oh, dear, no!" Mrs. Featherbrain answered; "I have lost sight ofthem too--every one has. When people become poor and drop out of theworld, as it were, it is impossible to follow them up. She _had_heard, just before their party started, that Trixy was about to bemarried, and that Charley--poor Charley! was going to California toseek his fortune. But she knew nothing positively, only that theywere certainly not to be seen in New York--that the places and peoplewho had known them once, knew them no more. " That was all. 

It could not be, then, that the hope of meeting them was in Edith'smind, and yet, her whole soul yearned to meet them--to ask theirforgiveness, if no more. To clasp Trixy's hand once again, --honest, loving, impulsive, warm-hearted Trixy, --to feel her arms about heras of old, it seemed to Edith Catheron, she could have given halfher life. Of any other, she would not let herself think. He hadpassed out of her life forever and ever--nothing could alter that. 

"Everywhere she went, she was admired, " her servants had said, "butto all she was cold as marble. " Yes, and it would always be so whilelife remained. There had been but one man in all the world for herfrom the first--she had given him up of her own free will; she mustabide by her decision; but there never would be any other. Oneloveless marriage she had made; she never would make another. CharleyStuart might--would, beyond doubt--forget her and marry, but she wouldgo to her grave, her whole heart his. 

They reached New York; and there were many kindly partings and cordialfarewells. Lady Catheron and her two servants drove away to an up-townhotel, where rooms had been engaged, and all the papers duly chronicledthe distinguished arrival. One day to rest--then down to Sandypoint, leaving gossiping Betts and the silent elderly gentleman behind her. And in the twilight of an August day she entered Sandypoint, andwalked slowly through the little town, home. Only three years sinceshe had left, a happy, hopeful girl of eighteen--returning now asaddened; lonely woman of twenty-one. How strangely altered the oldlandmarks, and yet how familiar. Here were the stores to which sheused to walk, sulky and discontented, through the rain, to do thefamily marketing. Here spread the wide sea, smiling and placid, whereon she and Charley used to sail. Yonder lay the marsh where, that winter night, she had saved his life. Would it have been as well, she thought with weary wonder, if they had both died that night? Herewas the nook where he had come upon her that wet, dark morning withhis mother's letter, when her life seemed to begin--here the gatewhere they had stood when he gave her his warning: "Whatever thatfuture brings, Edith, don't blame me. " No, she blamed nobody butherself; the happiness of her life had lain within her grasp, andshe had stretched forth her hand and pushed it away. There was theopen window where he used to sit, in the days of his convalesence, and amuse himself setting her inflammable temper alight. It was allassociated with him. Then the house door opens, a tall, elderly mancomes out, there is a great cry, --father and daughter meet, and foran hour or so, she can forget even Charley. 

She remains a week--how oddly familiar and yet strange it all seems. The children noisier and ruder than ever, her father grown grayerand more wrinkled, her stepmother, shrill of tongue and acid of temperas of yore, but fawningly obsequious to her. 

The people who used to know her, and who flock to see her, the youngmen who used to be in love with her, and who stare at her speechlesslyand afar off now. It amuses her for a while, then she tires of it, she tires of everything of late, her old fever of restlessness comesback. This dull Sandypoint, with its inquisitive gapers andquestioners, is not to be endured, even for her father's sake. Shewill return to New York. 

In the bustling life there--the restless, ceaseless flow of humanity, she alone finds solitude and rest now. She goes, but she leaves behindher that which renders keeping boarders or teaching classics foreverunnecessary to Frederick Darrell. 

She goes back. What her plans are for the future she does not know. She has no plans, she cannot tell how long she may remain, or whereshe will eventually take up her abode. It seems to her she will bea sort of feminine Wandering Jew all her life. That life lackssomething that renders her restless--she does not care to think what. She may stay all winter--she may pack up and start any day forEngland. 

September passes, and she has not gone. A few of the acquaintancesshe made when here before with the Stuarts call upon her, but theycan tell her nothing of them. If the Stuarts were all dead andburied they could not more completely have dropped out of thelives of their summer-time friends. It must be true, she thinks, what Mrs. Featherbrain told her. Trixy is married and settledsomewhere with her mother, and Charley is thousands of miles away, "seeking his fortune. "

Then, all at once, she resolves to go back to England. Her handsomejointure house awaits her, Lady Helena and Inez long for her, loveher--she will go back to them--try to be at peace like other women, try to live her life out and forget. She has some purchases to makebefore she departs. She goes into a Broadway store one day, advancesto a counter, and says:

"I wish to see some black Lyons velvet. " Then she pauses, and looksat some black kid gloves lying before her. 

"What is the number?" she asks, lifting a pair. 

The young man behind the counter makes no reply. 

She raises her eyes to his face for the first time, and sees--CharleyStuart!

CHAPTER VIII. 

FORGIVEN OR--FORGOTTEN?

Charley Stuart! The original of the pictured face that lies over herheart by night and day. Charley--unchanged, calm, handsome, eminentlyself-possessed as ever, looking at her with grave gray eyes. 

She turns giddy, with the utter shock of the great surprise--she leansfor a second heavily against the counter, and looks at him with eyesthat cannot believe what they see. 

"Charley!"

"Edith!"

Yes, it is his voice, his smile, and he stretches his hand acrossthe counter and takes hers. Then she sinks into a seat, and for amoment the store, and the faces, swim about her in a hot mist. Buther heart has given one great glad leap, and she knows she has foundwhat all unconsciously she has been longing for, seeking for--Charley!

He is the first to recover himself--if indeed he has lost himselffor an instant--and speaks:

"This is a staggerer, " he says; "and yet I don't know why it shouldbe either, since everybody, high and low, who visits New York dropsin here for the necessaries of life, sooner or later. I began tothink, however, that you must have gone away again. "

She looks at him. He is in no way changed that she can see--the verysame Charley of three years before. "You knew I was here!" she asks. 

"Certainly, Lady Catheron. I read the morning papers, and _always_look out for distinguished arrivals. Like the scent of the roses, my aristocratic tastes cling to me still. I thought you would hardlyendure a month of Sandypoint--delightful, no doubt, as that thrivingtownship is. I don't need to ask you how you have been--I can seefor myself you never looked better. "

He meets her steady, reproachful gaze with perfect _sang-froid_. "Youknew I was here, and you would not come to see me, " those darkluminous eyes say. His perfectly careless, indifferent manner stingsher to the quick. 

"Trixy knew I was here too, of course!" she says in a very low voice. 

"No, " Charley answers; "I don't think she did. _I_ didn't tell her, and I am pretty sure if she had found it out for herself her familycircle would have heard of it. I greatly doubt even whether she wouldnot have taken the liberty of calling upon you. "

She lifts her eyes again, with a reproach her lips will not speak. 

"I have deserved it, " that dark, sad glance says, "but you mightspare me. "

"We were all very sorry to hear of Sir Victor Catheron's death, "Charley resumes gravely. "Hammond told us; he writes occasionally. Heart disease, wasn't it?--poor fellow! I hope Lady Helena Powyssis quite well?"

"She is quite well. "

Then there is a pause--her heart is full, and he stands here soutterly unmoved, talking common-places, and looking as though eventhe memory of the past were dead and buried. As no doubt indeed itis. She handles the gloves she still holds nervously, for once inher life at a loss. 

"Your mother and Trix are well?" she says after that pause. 

"Quite well. "

She looks up desperately:

"Charley, " she exclaims; "_mayn't_ I see them? I have wanted to seethem so much--to--" No, her voice breaks, she cannot finish thesentence. 

"Certainly you can see them, " Mr. Stuart answers promptly; "they willbe delighted, I am sure. They might not feel at liberty to call uponyou, Lady Catheron, of course, but all the same they will only betoo happy if Lady Catheron will so far honor _them_. "

He says this in the old lazy, pleasant voice, but it is quite evidenthe does not mean to spare her--his half-sarcastic accent makes herwince as though in actual bodily pain. 

"I'll give you the address if you like, " he goes on; "it's not themost aristocratic neighborhood in the world, but it's perfectly quietand safe. " He scribbles something in pencil. "Here it is--due eastyou see. Trix won't be home until seven; she's at work in a fancyshop in Sixth avenue, you know--no, you don't know of course, butshe is, and I generally call round for her at closing-up time. Butyou're safe to find her at home any evening you may name, LadyCatheron, after seven P. M. "

She takes the slip of paper very humbly--very unlike the Edith heused to know--her lips quivering, as he can see. 

"May I go at once?" she asks in that humble little voice; "I can'twait. I want to see your mother, and I will stay until Trixy comes. "

"My mother will be there, and charmed to see you. Of course you cango at once--why should you hesitate--it's very kind of you and allthat I would escort you there if I could, but unhappily I'm on duty. You'll have no trouble at all finding it. "

He is perfectly cordial--perfectly indifferent. He looks at her ashe might look at Mrs. Featherbrain herself. Edith, it is all overfor you!

"I thought you were in California, " she says as she rises to go; "andthat Trixy was married. "

"No, I have never left New York, and Trix is pining in singleblessedness still. We are going to alter all that shortly though--forfurther particulars, apply to Trix. Are you going? good-by, for thepresent, Lady Catheron. "

She is out in the bright sunshine, feeling as though she were in adream. 

She summons a hack, and is driven away eastward to the address hehas given her. She finds it--a tall tenement house in a close street, smelling of breweries, and she ascends a long flight of carpetlessstairs, and knocks at a door on the upper landing. It is opened, andthe well-remembered face of Aunt Chatty looks out. 

"Mrs. Stuart!"

A darkly, beautiful face is before her, two black gloved hands areoutstretched, two brown brilliant eyes shine upon her through tears. And Mrs. Stuart recoils with a gasp. 

"Oh, dear me!" she says, "it _is_ Edith!"

Yes, it is Edith, with tears large and thick in her eyes, who kissesthe familiar face, and who is sitting beside her, how, Mrs. Stuartnever knows in her amaze and bewilderment, in the humble little frontroom. 

How changed it all is from the splendor of that other house in FifthAvenue. How different this dingy black alpaca dress and rusty widow'scap from the heavy silks and French millinery of other days. But AuntChatty's good, easy, kindly face is the same. 

A hundred questions are asked and answered. Edith tells her how longshe has been in New York, of how only an hour ago she chanced uponCharley, and found out their whereabouts. And now, if Aunt Chattypleases, she is going to take off her bonnet and wait until Beatrixcomes home. 

"Of course you will wait! take off your things right away. Dear me!and it is really our Edith; won't Trix be surprised and glad. It isn'tmuch of a place this, " says poor Mrs. Stuart, glancing about herruefully; "not what you're used to, my dear, but such as it is--"

An impetuous kiss from Edith closes her lips. 

"Ah hush!" she says; "_you_ are in it--and glad to see me. I ask nomore. "

"And you are a widow too, dear child, " Mrs. Stuart sighs, touchingher black dress compassionately; "it is very hard--so young, and onlyone short year his wife. Captain Hammond told us--he writes to Trixy, you know. Poor Sir Victor! so nice as he was, and that good pleasantLady Helena. We were all so sorry. And you, my dear--how have youbeen?"

"Perfectly well, " Edith answers, but she will not talk of herself. Aunt Chatty must tell her all about their trouble. Aunt Chatty tellsplaintively, only too glad to pour her sorrows into sympathizing ears. 

"It was very hard at first--dreadfully hard. Poor Mr. Stuart died--itwas too much for him. Everything was sold--everything--we were leftbeggars. Work was difficult to get--then I fell ill. Charley was indespair almost--he grew thin and hollow-eyed, the very ghost ofhimself. All our old friends seemed to drop off and only Providencesent Nellie Seton along, we might all have died or gone to thealmshouse. "

"Nellie Seton?" Edith inquired; "who is she? what did she do?"

"She was a school friend of Trixy's, in reduced circumstances likeourselves, who came to our succor like an angel in human form. Shegot Trix a situation in a fancy store, she nursed me, and kept mealive on wine and jellies when I could touch nothing else. Shecheered up Charley and kept him from dying of despair. To NellieSeton, under Heaven, we owe it that we are alive at all"

"She is a young lady--this good Miss Seton?" Edith asks, with a sharpcontraction of the heart. 

"Yes; about Trixy's age, and wonderfully clever. She writes poetryand gets paid for it, and the prettiest stories for the magazines, and is quite rich. She is one of the family now almost, --very likelyshe will be home presently with Charley and Trix--they're alwaystogether. And now, if you will excuse me Edith, I'll go and get tea. "

She bustles away, and Edith sits in the little parlor alone. And shefeels, with a heart like a stone, that what she has lost forever, this brave, good Nellie Seton has won. Well! she deserves it; shewill try to like her, Edith thinks; but somehow even at the thought, her heart revolts. The old feeling for Mrs. Featherbrain, for LadyGwendoline, tries to come back, in spite of her, for this unseen MissSeton. She is an altered woman--a better woman, a more unselfishwoman, but the old leaven of iniquity is not dead yet. 

The moments drag on--it is drawing near seven. How will Trixy receiveher, she wonders. Will she be generous, and forget the past, or willshe make her feel it, as her brother has done? Seven. Mrs. Stuarthas set the table. How odd, it seems to see Aunt Chatty working. Thetea is sending its fragrance through the little rooms, the butteredtoast is made, the cake is cut, the pink ham is sliced, everythinglooks nice and inviting. Suddenly there is the sound of footstepson the stairs, of girls gay tones and sweet laughter--then the kitchendoor flies open, and Trixy's well-remembered voice is animatedlyexclaiming:

"Ma! is tea ready? I am famished and so is Nell. What! the table setin the parlor in state. Goodness!"

Edith rises, white as the dainty Marie-Stuart widow's cap shewears--still and beautiful she stands. She sees Trixy's tall figure, a smaller, slighter young lady beside her, and Charley standingbehind both. Half a minute later Trix sweeps in, sees the motionlessfigure, and recoils with a shriek. 

"Trix!" Edith advances with the word that is almost a sob. And Trixy'sface grows radiant. 

"It is! it _is_! it IS!"

She screams, and rushes forward, and catches Edith in a perfect bear'shug, laughing, crying, and kissing, all in a breath. 

CHAPTER IX. 

SAYING GOOD-BY. 

No coldness about the welcome here, no ungracious remembrances ofthe past, no need ever to doubt Trixy's warm heart, and, generous, forgiving, impulsive nature. 

All Edith's shortcomings were long ago forgotten and forgiven--itis in Edith's way to inspire ardent love. Trixy loves her as dearly, as warmly as she had ever done--she hugs, she kisses, she exclaimsat sight of her, in a perfect rapture of joy:

"O darling!" she cries, "_how_ good it is to see you again! what asurprise is this! Charley, where are you? look here! Don't you knowEdith?"

"Most undoubtedly I know Edith, " Charley answers, advancing; "oldage may have impaired my faculties, but still I recognize a familiarface when I see it. I told her I thought you would be glad to seeher, but I didn't tell her you intended to eat her alive. "

"You told her! Where? when?"

"In the store--this afternoon. She came in 'promiscuous' for blackLyon's velvet, wasn't it, Lady Catheron? You didn't get it, by theway. Permit me to inform you, in my professional capacity, that wehave a very chaste and elegant assortment of the article always instock. Trix, where's your manners? Here's Nellie hovering aloof inthe background, waiting to be introduced. Allow _me_ to be masterof the ceremonies--Lady Catheron, Miss Nellie Seton. "

Both young ladies bowed--both looked each other full in theface--genuine admiration in Miss Seton's--keen, jealous scrutinyin Lady Catheron's. She saw a girl of two or three and twenty, under-sized and rather plump, with a face which in point of beautywould not for one instant compare with her own or Trixy's either. But it was such a thoroughly _good_ face. And the blue, beaming eyes, the soft-cut smiling mouth, gentle, and strong, and sweet, were surelymade to win all hearts at sight. Not a beauty--something infinitelybetter, and as a rival, something infinitely more dangerous. 

"Lady Catheron's name is familiar to me as a household word, " MissSeton said, with a frank little laugh, that subdued Edith at once. "Trix wakes with your name on her lips, I believe, and goes to sleepmurmuring it at night. Lady Catheron doesn't know how madly jealousI have been of her before now. "

Edith turns once more to Trix--faithful, friendly, loyal Trix--andstretches forth both hands, with a swift, graceful impulse, tearsstanding, large and bright, in her eyes. 

"My own dear Trix!" is what she says. 

"And now I'll run away, " Miss Seton exclaims brightly; "auntie willexpect me, and I know Trix has ten thousand things to tell and tohear. No, Trixy, not a word. Charley, what are you doing with yourhat? put it down instantly--I don't want you. I would very muchrather go home alone. "

"Yes, it's so likely I'll let you. There's no earthly reason whyyou shouldn't stay; but if, with your usual obstinacy andstrong-mindedness, you insist upon going--"

"I do insist upon going, and without an escort. You know you arerather a nuisance--in the way than otherwise--oh, I mean it I gethome twice as fast when I go by myself. "

He looks at her--Edith turns sick--sick, as she sees the look. Hesays something in too low a tone for the rest to hear. Miss Setonlaughs, but her color rises and she objects no more. Edith sees itall. A gray-kidded hand is extended to her. 

"Good-night, Lady Catheron, " Miss Seton's bright, pleasant voice says, and Lady Catheron takes it, feeling in her heart that for once shecannot dislike a rival. This girl who will be Charley's wife--Oblissful fate!--is worthy of him. They go out together, laughing asthey go. 

"Isn't she just the dearest darling!" cries Trix in her gushing way;"and O Edith! whatever would have become of us all without her, Ishudder to think. In the dark days of our life, when friends werefew and far between, she was our friend--our savior. She nursed mammafrom the very jaws of death, she got me my place in the fancy-store, and I believe--she won't own it--but I do believe she saved Charley'slife. "

"Saved his life?" Edith falters. 

"It was such an awful time, " Trix says in sombre tones, "we werestarving, Edith, literally starving. All our old friends had forsakenus; work we could not get, 'to beg we were ashamed. ' If you had seenCharley in those days, gaunt, hollow-eyed, haggard, wretched. He looksand feels all right now, " goes on Trix, brightening up a bit, "but_then_! it used to break my heart to look at him. He tried for work, from morning until night, and day after day he came home, footsore, weary, despairing. He could not leave mother and me, and goelsewhere--she was sick, father was dead--poor pa!--and I was justcrazy, or near it. And one dark, dreadful night he went out, and downto the river, and--Nellie followed, and found him there. Ah Edith, he wasn't so much to blame; I suppose he was mad that night. She cameup to him, and put her arms around him, as he stood in the darknessand the rain, and--I don't know what she said or did--but she broughthim back to us. And Providence sent him work next day--the situationin the store he has now. I don't know about his merits as a salesman, "says Trix, laughing, with her eyes full of tears "but he is immenselypopular with the ladies. Nellie says it isn't his eloquence--wherethe other clerks expatiate fluently on the merits of ribbons, andgloves, and laces, shades and textures, Charley stands silent andlets them talk, and smiles and looks handsome. I suppose it answers, for they seem to like him. So now you see we get on splendidly, andI've almost forgotten that we were ever rich, and wore purple andfine linen, and feasted sumptuously every day. "

"You are happy?" Edith asks, with wonder and envy in her eyes. 

"Perfectly happy, " Trix replies cheerily; "I haven't a wishunsatisfied--oh well! now that you've come. I did want you, Dithy;it seems such ages and ages since we met, and I was troubled aboutyou. I heard of _him_, you know, poor fellow. "

She touches timidly Edith's widow's weeds. There is no answer--Edith'stears are falling. She is contrasting her own cowardice with Trixy'scourage; her own hardness with Trixy's generosity. 

"How do you know?" she asks at length. 

"Captain Hammond. You remember Angus Hammond, I suppose?" Trix says, blushing and hesitating; "he wrote us about it, and"--a pause. 

"Go on; what else did he write?"

"That there was trouble of some sort, a separation, I think--thatyou had parted on your very wedding-day. Of course we couldn't believethat"

"It is quite true, " was the low reply. 

Trixy's eyes opened. 

"True! O Dithy! On your wedding-day!"

"On our wedding-day, " Edith answered steadily; "to meet no more untilwe met at his death-bed. Some day, Trix, dear, I will tell you howit was--not now. Two years have passed, but even yet I don't careto think of it. Only this--_he_ was not to blame--he was the bravest, the noblest, the best of men, ten thousand times too good for me. I was a mercenary, ambitious wretch, and I received my just reward. We parted at the last friends, thank God! but I can never forgivemyself--never!"

There was a pause--an uncomfortable one for Trix. 

"How long since you came to New York?" she asked at length. 

Edith told her--told her how she had been wandering over the worldsince her husband's death--how she had come to America to see herfather--how she had tried to find them here in New York--how signallyshe had failed--and how to-day, by purest accident, she had come uponCharley in the Broadway store. 

"How astonished he must have been, " his sister said; "I think I seehim, lifting his eyebrows to the middle of his forehead. Did he takeyou for a ghost?"

"By no means, and he was not in the least surprised. He knew I washere, from the first. "

"Edith!"

"He told me so. He saw my arrival in the paper when I first landed. "

"And he never told _me_, and he never went to see you! The wretch!"cried Trix. 

"I don't know that he is to blame, " Edith responded quietly. "Ideserved no better; and ah! Trixy, not many in this world are asgenerous as _you_. So you are perfectly happy, darling? I wonderif Captain Hammond, now, has anything to do with it?"

"Well, yes, " Tax admits blushingly again; "I may as well tell you. We are to be married at Christmas. "

"Trix! Married!"

"Married at last. We were engaged before I left England, three yearsago. He wanted to marry me then, foolish fellow!" says Trix withshining eyes, "but of course, we none of us would listen to sopreposterous a thing. He had only his pay and his debts, and hisexpectations from a fairy godmother or grandmother, who _wouldn't_die. But she died last mail--I mean last mail brought a black borderedletter, saying she was gone to glory, and had left Angus everything. He is going to sell out of the army, and will be here by Christmas, and--and the wedding is to take place the very week he arrives. And, oh! Edith, he's just the dearest fellow, the best fellow, and I'mthe happiest girl in all New York!"

Edith says nothing. She takes Trix, who is crying, suddenly, in herarms, and kisses her. Angus Hammond has been faithful in the hourwhen she deserted them--that is her thought. Her self-reproach neverceases--never for one hour. 

"We go to Scotland of course, " said Trix, wiping her eyes; "andma--also, of course, stays with Charley. Nellie will be here to fillmy place--don't you think she will make a charming sister?"

She laughs as she asks the question--it is the one little revengeshe takes. Before Edith can reply she runs on:

"Nellie's rich--rich, I mean, as compared with us, and she has madeit all herself. She's awfully clever, and writes for magazines, andpapers, and things, and earns oceans of money. _Oceans_, " says Trix, opening her eyes to the size of saucers; "and I don't know reallywhich of us ma likes best, Nellie or me. That's my one comfort ingoing. Here comes Charley now--let's have tea at once. I forgot allabout it, but nobody has the faintest idea of the pangs of hungerI am enduring. "

Charley sauntered in, looking fresh and handsome, from the night air. 

It was quite dark now. Trix lit the lamp and bustled about helpingto get supper. "You told Nellie?" she asked her brother in a low tone, but Edith caught the words. 

"Yes, " Charley answered gravely, "I told her. "

"What did she say?"

"Everything that was like Nellie--everything that was bright, andbrave, and good. She will be here in the morning to say good-by. Now, Mrs. Stuart, if you have any compassion on a famished only son, hurryup, and let's have supper. "

They sat down around the little table where the lamp shonebrightly--Edith feeling cold and strange and out of place. Trixyand Aunt Chatty might, and did, forgive the past but she herselfcould not, and between her and Charley lay a gulf, to be spannedover on earth no more. And yet--how beautiful and stately she lookedin her little white widow's cap, her sombre dress, and the frill ofsheer white crape at her throat. 

"Edith!" Trix said involuntarily, "how handsome you have grown! Youwere always pretty, but now--I don't mean to flatter--but you aresplendid! It can't be that black becomes you, and yet--Charley, don'tyou see it? hasn't Edith grown lovely?"

"Trix!" Edith cried, and over her pale cheeks there rose a flush, and into her dark, brilliant eyes there came a light, that made herfor the moment all Trixy said. 

Charley looked at her across the table--the cool, clear, gray eyes, perfectly undazzled. 

"I used to think it impossible for Edith to improve; I find out mymistake to-day, as I find out many others. As it is not permittedone to say what one thinks on these subjects, one had better saynothing at all. "

The flush that has risen to Edith's cheeks remains there, and deepens. After tea, at Trixy's urgent request, she sits down at the littlehired piano, and sings some of the old songs. 

"Your very voice has improved, " Trix says admiringly. "Edith, sing_Charley he's my darling_, for Charley. It used to be a favorite ofhis. "

She gives him a malicious sidelong glance. Charley, lying back inhis mother's comfortable, cushioned rocking-chair, takes it calmly. 

"It used to be, but it has ceased to be, " he answers coolly. "Trix, go out like a good child, and get me the evening paper. Among myother staid, middle-aged habits, Lady Catheron, is that of readingthe _Post_ every evening religiously, after tea. "

Never Edith any more--always Lady Catheron--never the girl he lovedthree years ago--whom he had said he would love all his life, butthe richly dowered widow of Sir Victor Catheron. He will notgenerously forget, even for an instant, that he is an impecuniousdry goods clerk, she a lady of rank and riches. 

She rises to go--it is growing almost more than she can bear. Trixpresses her to stay longer, but in vain; _he_ never utters a word. 

"Shall Charley call a carriage, or will you prefer to walk?" Trixasks doubtfully. 

"She will walk, " says Charley, suddenly looking up and interfering;"the night is fine, and I will see her home. "

For one instant, at the tone of his voice, at the look of his eyes, her heart bounds. 

Her bonnet and mantle are brought--she kisses Trix and Aunt Chattygood-night--they have promised to dine with her to-morrow--and goesforth into the soft October night with Charley. 

He draws her hand within his arm--the night is star-lit, lovely. Theold time comes back, the old feeling of rest and content, the oldcomfortable feeling that it is Charley's arm upon which she leans, and that she asks no more of fate. To-morrow he may be NellieSeton's--just now, he belongs to her. 

"Oh!" she exclaims, with a long-drawn breath, "how familiar it allis! these gas-lit New York streets, the home-like look of the menand women, and--you. It seems as though I had left Sandypoint onlyyesterday, and you were showing me again the wonders of New York forthe first time. "

He looks down at the dusk, warm, lovely face, so near his own. 

"Sandypoint, " he repeats; "Edith, do you recall what I said to youthere? Have you ever wished once, in those three years that are gone, that I had never come to Sandypoint to take you away?"

"I have never wished it, " she answers truly; "never once. I havenever blamed you, never blamed anyone but myself--how could I? Theevil of my life I wrought with my own hand, and--if it were all tocome over again--I would still go! I have suffered, but at least--Ihave lived. "

"I am glad to hear that, " he says after a little pause; "it hastroubled me again and again. You see, Hammond wrote us all he everknew of you, and though it was rather incomprehensible in part, itwas clear enough your life was not entirely a bed of roses. All that, I hope, is over and done with--there can be no reason why all therest of your life should not be entirely happy. This is partly whyI wished to walk home with you to-night, that I might know from yourown lips whether you held me blameless or not. And partly, also--" asecond brief pause;--"to bid you good-by. "

"Good-by!" In the starlight she turns deathly white. 

"Yes, " he responded cheerily; "good-by; and as our lives lie so widelyapart in all probability, this time forever. I shall certainly returnhere at Christmas, but you may have gone before that. To-morrowmorning I start for St. Louis, where a branch of our house isestablished, and where I am permanently to remain. It is an excellentopening for me--my salary has been largely advanced, and I am happyto say the firm think me competent and trustworthy. I return, as Isaid, at Christmas; after that it becomes my permanent home. You know, of course, " he says with a laugh, "why I return--Trix has told you?"

So completely has she forgotten Trix, so wholly have her thoughtsbeen of him, that she absolutely does not remember to what he alludes. 

"Trix has told me nothing, " she manages to answer, and she wondersat herself to find how steady is her own voice. 

"No?" Charley says, elevating his eyebrows; "and they say the ageof wonders is over! Trix in the new roll of keeping her own secrets!Well, I very naturally return for _the_ wedding--_our_ wedding. It'sextraordinary that Trix hasn't told you, but she will. Then--myWestern home will be ready by that time, and we go back immediately. My mother goes with me, I need hardly say. "

Still so absolutely wrapped up in her thoughts of _him_, so utterlyforgetful of Trix, that she does not understand. _Our_ wedding--hemeans his own and Nellie Seton's of course. His Western home, thehome where she will reign as his wife. In the days that have gone, Edith thinks she has suffered--she feels to-night that she has neversuffered until now! She deserves it, but if he had only sparedher, --only left it for some one else to tell. It is a minute beforeshe can reply--then, despite every effort, her voice is husky:

"I wish you joy, Charley--with all my heart"

She cannot say one word more. Something in the words, in her mannerof saying them, makes him look at her in surprise. 

"Well, yes, " he answers coolly; "a wedding in a family is, I believe, a general subject of congratulation. And I must say she has shownherself a trump--the bravest, best girl alive. And you"--they aredrawing near a hotel--"may I venture to ask your plans, Lady Catheron?how long do you think of remaining in New York?"

"I shall leave at once--at once, " she replied in the same husky tone. To stay and meet Nellie Seton after to-night is more than she is ableto do. They are close to the hotel now. Involuntarily--unconsciously, she clings to his arm, as the drowning may cling to a straw. She feelsin a dull, agonized sort of way that in five minutes the waters willhave closed over her head, and the story of her life have come toan end. 

"Here we are, " his frank, cheery voice says--his voice, that has yeta deeper, more earnest tone than of old. "You don't know, Edith, howglad I am of this meeting--how glad to hear you never in any wayblamed _me_. "

"I blame you! oh, Charley!" she says with a passionate little cry. 

"I rejoice to hear, that with all its drawbacks, you don't regretthe past. I rejoice in the knowledge that you are rich and happy, and that a long, bright life lies before you. Edith, " he takes bothher hands in his strong, cordial clasp, "if we never meet again, Godbless you, and good-by. "

She lifts her eyes to his, full of dumb, speechless agony. In thatinstant he knows the truth--knows that Edith loves him--that theheart he would once have laid down his life almost to win, is hiswholly at last!

The revelation comes upon him like a flash--like a blow. He standsholding her hands, looking at her, at the mute, infinite misery inher eyes. Someone jostles them in passing, and turns and stares. Itdawns upon him that they are in the public street, and making a scene. 

"Good-by, " he says hastily once more, and drops the hands, and turnsand goes. 

She stands like a statue where he has left her--he turns a corner, the last sound of his footsteps dies away, and Edith feels that hehas gone out of her life--out of the whole world. 

CHAPTER X. 

THE SECOND BRIDAL. 

Miss Nellie Seton came early next morning to see her friend, Mr. Charley Stuart, off. He is looking rather pale as he bids themgood-by--the vision of Edith's eyes upturned to his, full of mute, impassionate appeal, have haunted him all night long. They haunthim now, long after the last good-by had been said, and the trainis sweeping away Westward. Edith loves him at last. At last? therehas never been a time when he doubted it, but now he knows he hasbut to say the word, and she will lay her hand in his, and toil, and parting, and separation will end between them forever. But hewill never, say that word--what Edith Darrell in her ambition oncerefused, all Lady Catheron's wealth and beauty cannot win. He feelshe could as easily leap from the car window and end it all, as askSir Victor Catheron's richly dowered widow to be his wife. She madeher choice three years ago--she must abide by that choice her lifelong. 

"And then, " he thinks rather doggedly, "this fancy of mine may beonly fancy. The leopard cannot change his spots, and an ambitious, mercenary woman cannot change her nature. And, as a rule, ladiesof wealth and title _don't_ throw themselves away on impecuniousdry goods clerks. No! I made an egregious ass of myself once, andonce is quite enough. We have turned over a new leaf, and are notgoing back at this late day to the old ones. With her youth, herfortune, and her beauty, Edith can return to England and make abrilliant second marriage. "

And then Mr. Stuart sets his lips behind his brown mustache, andunfolds the morning paper, smelling damp and nasty of printer's ink, and immerses himself, fathoms deep, in mercantile news and the doingsof the Stock Exchange. 

He reaches St Louis in safety, and resumes the labor of his life. He has no time to think--no time to be sentimental, if he wishedto be, which he doesn't. 

"Love is of man's life a thing apart, " sings a poet, who knew whathe was talking about. His heart is not in the least broken, nor likelyto be; there is no time in his busy, mercantile life, for that sortof thing, I repeat. He goes to work with a will, and astonishes evenhimself by his energy and brisk business capacity. If he thinks ofEdith at all, amid his dry-as-dust ledgers and blotters, his buyingand selling, it is that she is probably on the ocean by thistime--having bidden her native land, like _Childe Harold_, "One long, one last, good-night. " And then, in the midst of it all, Trixy's firstletter arrives. 

It is all Edith, from beginning to end. Edith has not gone, she isstill in New York, but her passage is taken, and she will leave nextweek. "And Charley, " says Trix, "don't be angry now, but do you know, though Edith Darrell always liked you, I fancy Lady Catheron likesyou even better. Not that she ever says anything; bless you! sheis as proud as ever; but we women can tell. And last night she toldma and me the story of her past, of her married life--or rather her_un_-married life--of her separation from Sir Victor on theirwedding-day--think of it, Charley! _on their wedding-day_. If everanyone in this world was to be pitied, it was he--poor fellow! Andshe was not to blame--neither could have acted other than they did, that I can see. Poor Edith! poor Sir Victor! I will tell you all whenwe meet. She leaves next Tuesday, and it half breaks my heart to seeher go. Oh, Charley! Charley! _why_ need she go at all?"

He reads this letter as he smokes his cigar--very gravely, verythoughtfully, wondering a great deal, but not in the least movedfrom his steadfast purpose. Parted on their wedding-day! he has heardthat before, but hardly credited it. It is true then--odd that; andneither to be blamed--odder still. She has only been Sir Victor'swife in name, then, after all. But it makes no difference tohim--nothing does--all that is past and done--she flung him offonce--he will never go back now. Their paths lie apart--hers overthe hills of life, his in the dingy valleys--they have said good-by, and it means forever. 

He goes back to his ledgers and his counting-room, and four moredays pass. On the evening of the fourth day, as he leaves the storefor the night, a small boy from the telegraph office waylays him, and hands him one of the well-known buff envelopes. He breaks itopen where he stands, and read this:

 "NEW YORK, Oct. 28, '70. "Charley: Edith is lying dangerously ill--dying. Come back at once. BEATRIX. "

He reads, and the truth does not come to him--he reads it again. _Edith is dying_. And then a grayish pallor comes over his face, from brow to chin, and he stands for a moment, staring vacantly atthe paper he holds, seeing nothing--hearing nothing but these words:"Edith is dying. " In that moment he knows that all his imaginaryhardness and indifference have been hollow and false--a wall of pridethat crumbles at a touch, and the old love, stronger than life, stronger than death, fills his heart still. He has left her, and--Edithis dying! He looks at his watch. There is an Eastward-bound train inhalf an hour--there will be barely time to catch it. He does notreturn to his boarding house--he calls a passing Mack, and is drivento the depot just in time. He makes no pause from that hour--hetravels night and day. What is business; what the prospects of allhis future life; what is the whole world now? Edith is dying. 

He reaches New York at last. It seems like a century since thattelegram came, and haggard and worn, in the twilight of the autumnday, he stands at last in his mother's home. 

Trix is there--they expect him to-night, and she has waited to receivehim. She looks in his face once, then turns away and covers her own, and bursts into a woman's tempest of tears. 

"I--I am too late, " he says in a hoarse sort of whisper. 

"No, " Trix answers, looking up; "not too late. She is alive still--Ican say no more. "

"What is it?" he asks. 

"It is almost impossible to say. Typhoid fever, one doctor says, and_cerebro spinal meningitis_ says the other. It doesn't much matterwhat it is, since both agree in this--that she is dying. "

Her sobs breaks forth again. He sits and gazes at her like a stone. 

"There is no hope?"

"While there is life there is hope. " But it is in a very dreary voicethat Trix repeats this aphorism: "and--the worst of it is, she doesn'tseem to care. Charley, I believe she wants to die, is glad to die. She seems to have nothing to care for--nothing to live for. 'My lifehas been all a mistake, ' she said to me the other day. 'I have gonewrong from first to last, led astray by my vanity, and selfishness, and ambition. It is much better that I should die, and make an endof it all. ' She has made her will, Charley--she made it in the firstdays of her illness, and--she has left almost everything to you. "

He makes no reply. He sits motionless in the twilit window, lookingdown at the noisy, bustling street. 

"She has remembered me most generously, " Trix goes softly on; "poor, darling Edith! but she has left almost all to you. 'It would havebeen an insult to offer anything in my lifetime, ' she said to me;'but the wishes of the dead are sacred, --he will not be able to refuseit _then_. And tell him not to grieve for me, Trixy--I never madehim anything but trouble, and disappointment, and wretchedness. Iam sorry--sorry now, and my last wish and prayer will be for thehappiness of his life. ' When she is delirious, and she mostly isas night draws on, she calls for you incessantly--asking you to comeback--begging, you to forgive her. That is why I sent. "

"Does she know you sent?" he asks. 

"No--it was her desire you should not be told until--until all wasover, " Trix answered with another burst of tears; "but I _couldn't_do that. She says we are to bury her at Sandypoint, beside hermother--not send her body to England. She told me, when she was dead, to tell you the story of her separation from Sir Victor. Shall I tellit to you now, Charley?"

He makes a motion of assent; and Trix begins, in a broken voice, andtells him the sad, strange story of the two Sir Victors, father andson, and of Edith's life from her wedding-day. The twilight deepensinto darkness, the room is wrapped in shadow long before she hasfinished. He never stirs, he never speaks, he sits and listens tothe end. Then there is a pause, and out of the gloom he speaks atlast:

"May I see her, and when?"

"As soon as you come, the doctors say; they refuse her nothing now, and they think your presence may do her good, --if anything can doit. Mother is with her and Nellie; Nellie has been her best friendand nurse; Nellie has never left her, and Charley, " hesitatingly, for something in his manner awes Trix, "I believe she thinks youand Nellie are engaged. "

"Stop!" he says imperiously, and Trixy rises with a sigh and putson her hat and shawl. Five minutes later they are in the street, ontheir way to Lady Catheron's hotel. 

One of the medical men is in the sick-room when Miss Stuart entersit, and she tells him in a whisper that her brother has come, andis waiting without. 

His patient lies very low to-night--delirious at times, and sinking, it seems to him, fast. She is in a restless, fevered sleep at present, and he stands looking at her with a very sombre look on hisprofessional face. In spite of his skill, and he is very skilful, this case baffles him. The patient's own utter indifference, as towhether she lives or dies, being one of the hardest things he hasto combat. If she only longed for life, and strove to recruit--if, like Mrs. Dombey, she would, "only make an effort. " But she will not, and the flame flickers, and flickers, and very soon will go outaltogether. 

"Let him come in, " the doctor says. "He can do no harm--he maypossibly do some good. "

"Will she know him when she awakes?" Trix whispers. 

He nods and turns away to where Miss Seton stands in the distance, and Trix goes and fetches her brother in. He advances slowly, almostreluctantly it would seem, and looks down at the wan, drawn, thinface that rests there, whiter than the pillows. Great Heaven! andthis--_this_ is Edith! He sinks into a chair by the bedside, andtakes her wan, transparent hand in both his own, with a sort ofgroan. The light touch awakes her, the faint eyelids quiver, thelarge, dark eyes open and fix on his face. The lips flutterbreathlessly apart. "_Charley_!" they whisper in glad surprise;and over the death-like face there flashes for a second an electriclight of great amaze and joy. 

"Humph!" says the doctor, with a surprised grunt; "I thought it woulddo her no harm. If we leave them alone for a few minutes, my dearyoung ladies, it will do _us_ no harm either. Mind, my younggentleman, " he taps Charley on the shoulder, "my patient is not toexcite herself talking. "

They softly go out. It would appear the doctor need not have warnedhim; they don't seem inclined to talk. She lies and looks at him, delight in her eyes, and draws a long, long breath of great content. For him, he holds her wasted hand a little tighter, and lays his facedown on the pillow, and does not speak a word. 

So the minutes pass. 

"Charley, " she says at last, in a faint, little whisper, "what asurprise this is. They did not tell me you were coming. Who sent foryou? When did you come?"

"You're not to talk, Edith, " he answers, lifting his haggard facefor a moment--poor Charley! "Trix sent for me. " Then he lays it downagain. 

"Foolish boy!" Edith says with shining eyes; "I do believe you arecrying. You don't hate me, then, after all, Charley?"

"Hate you!" he can but just repeat. 

"You once said you did, you know; and I deserved it. But I have notbeen happy, Charley--I have been punished as I merited. Now it isall over, and it is better so--I never was of any use in the world, and never would be. You will let me atone a little for the past inthe only way I can. Trix will tell you. And, by and by, when you arequite happy, and she is your wife--"

The faint voice breaks, and she turns her face away. Even in deathit is bitterer than death to give him up. 

He lifts his head, and looks at her. 

"When she is my wife? when _who_ is my wife?" he asks. 

"Nellie--you know, " she whispers; "she is worthy of you, Charley--indeed she is, and I never was. And she loves you, andwill make you hap--"

"Stop!" he says suddenly; "you are making some strange mistake, Edith. Nellie cares for me, as Trix does, and Trix is not more a sister tome than Nellie. For the rest--do you remember what I said to you thatnight at Killarney?"

Her lips tremble--her eyes watch him, her weak fingers close tightlyover his. Remember! does she _not_?

"I said--'I will love you all my life!' I have kept my word, and meanto keep it. If I may not call you wife, I will never call, by thatname, any other woman. No one in this world can ever be to me again, what you were and are. "

There is another pause, but the dark, uplifted eyes are radiant now. 

"At last! at last!" she breathes; "when it is too late. Oh, Charley!If the past might only come over again, how different it all wouldbe. I think"--she says this with a weak little laugh, that remindshim of the Edith of old--"I think I could sleep more happily evenin my grave--if 'Edith Stuart' were carved on my tombstone!"

His eyes never leave her face--they light up in their dreary sadnessnow at these words. 

"Do you mean that, Edith?" he says bending over her; "living or dying, would it make you any happier to be my wife?"

Her eyes, her face, answer him. "But it is too late, " the pale lipssigh. 

"It is never too late, " he says quietly; "we will be marriedto-night. "

"_Charley_?"

"You are not to talk, " he tells her, kissing her softly and for thefirst time; "I will arrange it all. I will go for a clergyman I know, and explain everything. Oh, darling! you should have been my wifelong ago--you shall be my wife at last, in spite of death itself. "

Then he leaves her, and goes out. And Edith closes her eyes, and liesstill, and knows that never in all the years that are gone has suchperfect bliss been hers before. In death, at least, if not life, shewill be Charley's wife. 

He tells them very quietly, very resolutely--her father who is therefrom Sandypoint, his mother, sister, Nellie, the doctor. 

They listen in wordless wonder; but what can they say?

"The excitement will finish her--mark my words, " is the doctor'sverdict; "I will never countenance any such melodramatic proceeding. "

But his countenance does not matter it seems. The laws of the Medeswere not more fixed than this marriage. The clergyman comes, a veryold friend of the family, and Charley explains all to him. He listenswith quiet gravity--in his experience a death-bed marriage is notat all an unprecedented occurrence. The hour fixed is ten, and Trixyand Nellie go in to make the few possible preparations. 

The sick girl lifts two wistful eyes to the gentle face of NellieSeton. It is very pale, but she stoops and kisses her with her ownsweet smile. 

"You will live now for _his_ sake, " she whispers in that kiss. 

They decorate the room and the bed with flowers, they brush away thedark soft hair, they array her in a dainty embroidered night-robe, and prop her up with pillows. There is the fever fire on her wancheeks, the fever fire in her shining eyes. But she is unutterablyhappy--you have but to look into her face to see that. Death isforgotten in her new bliss. 

The bridegroom comes in, pale and unsmiling--worn and haggard beyondthe power of words to tell. Trix, weeping incessantly, stands near, her mother and Mr. Darrell are at one side of the bed. Nellie isbridesmaid. What a strange, sad, solemn wedding it is! The clergymantakes out his book and begins--bride and bridegroom clasp hands, herradiant eyes never leave his face. Her faint replies flutter on herlips--there is an indescribable sadness in his. The ring is on herfinger--at last she is what she should have been from thefirst--Charley's wife. 

He bends forward and takes her in his arms. With all her dyingstrength she lifts herself to his embrace. It is a last expiringeffort--her weak clasp relaxes, there is one faint gasp. Her headfalls heavily upon his breast--there is a despairing cry from thewomen, cold and lifeless, Charley Stuart lays his bride of a momentback among the pillows--whether dead or in a dead swoon no one therecan tell. 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE NIGHT. 

At first they thought her dead--but it was not death. She awoke fromthat long, death-like swoon as morning broke--so near unto death thatit seemed the turning of a hair might weigh down the scale. And sofor days after it was--for weary miserable days and nights. The greatreaction after the great excitement had come, all consciousness lefther, she lay white and still, scarcely moving, scarcely breathing. The one beloved voice fell as powerless on her dulled ears now asall others, the dim, almost lifeless eyes, that opened at rareintervals, were blank to the whole world. She lay in a species ofstupor, or coma, from which it was something more than doubtful ifshe ever would awake. The few spoonfuls of beef-tea and brandy andwater she took they forced between her clenched teeth, and in thatdarkened room of the great hotel, strangely, solemnly quiet, Lifeand Death fought their sharp battle over her unconscious head. 

And for those who loved her, her father, her friends, and one other, nearer and dearer than father or friend, how went those darkest daysfor _them_? They could hardly have told--all their after life theylooked back, with a sick shudder, to that week. 

For Charley Stuart he never wanted to look back--never to the lastday of his life will he be able to recall, to realize the agony ofthose six days--days that changed his whole nature--his whole life. 

They watched with her unceasingly--death might come at any moment. There were times when they bent above her, holding their own breath, sure that the faint thread had already snapped--times when they helda mirror to her lips to be sure she breathed at all. For her new-madehusband, he never left her except when nature succumbed to theexhaustion of ceaseless vigil, and they forced him away. He forgotto eat or sleep, he sat tearless and still as stone by the bedside, almost as bloodless, almost as wan and hollow-eyed as the dying brideherself. The doctors stood gloomily silent, their skill fallingpowerless here. 

"She needed only the excitement of this most preposterous marriageto finish her, " one of them growled; "I said so at the time--I sayso now. She had one chance for life--perfect quiet--and thatdestroyed it. "

On the fourth day, a letter from England, in a woman's hand, anddeeply bordered with black, arrived. Edith, in the first days of herillness, had told Trix to open all her letters. She would have passedthe power over to her brother now, but he waved it away impatiently. What did it matter whom it was from--what it contained--what didanything matter now?

His haggard eyes went silently back to the marble face lying amongits pillows, so awfully still. 

Trixy opened and read it. It was from Inez Catheron, and announcedthe death of her aunt, the Lady Helena Powyss. 

 * * * * *

"Her end was perfect peace, " said the letter; "and in her will, shehas left her large fortune divided equally between you and me. Ifpossible it would be well for you to return to England as speedilyas may be. If wealth can make you happy--and I hope at least it willaid--my dearest Edith, you will have it. For me, I join a charitableSisterhood here in London, and will try to devote the remainder ofmy life to the relief of my suffering and poor fellow-creatures. Asto the rest, if you care at all to know, my brother reigns at CatheronRoyals now! He is, in all respects, a changed man, and will not, Ithink, be an unworthy successor of him who is gone. His wife andchildren are all that can be desired. 

"Farewell, my dear cousin. When you return to London come to theenclosed address, and see me. No one will welcome you more gladlythan, "INEZ CATHERON. "

 * * * * *

So another large fortune had been left Edith--she was rich now beyondher wildest dreams. Rich! And yonder she lay, and all the gold ofearth, powerless to add a second to her life. What a satire it seemed. Youth, beauty, and boundless wealth were hers and all were vain--vain!

The seventh night brought the crisis. 

"This can hold out no longer, " the physician said; "before morningwe will know the end, whether it is to be life or death. "

"Then--there is hope yet?" Trix breathed, with clasped hands. 

He looked at her gloomily and turned away, the meaningless formulaon his lips:

"While there is life there is hope. "

"It will be little less than a miracle if she lives, though, " theother added; "and the days of miracles are over. Hope if youlike--but--"

"You had better not let _him_ sit up to-night, " said the firstphysician, looking compassionately at Charley; "he won't be able tostand it. He is worn out now, poor fellow, and looks fit for asick-bed himself. "

"He knows it is the crisis, " Trixy answered; "he won't go. "

"He has watched the last two nights, " Miss Seton, interposed: "he_must_ go, doctor; leave me an opiate--I will administer it. If--ifthe worst comes, it will be but a moment's work to arouse him. "

The doctor obeyed. 

"I will return at day dawn, " he said, "if she be still alive. Ifnot--send me word. "

The twilight was falling. Solemn and shadowy it crept into the sombre, silent room. They went back to the bedside, pale and tearless; theyhad wept, it seemed, until they could weep no more. This last nightthe two girls were to watch alone. 

She lay before them. Dead and in her shroud she would never look moreawfully death-like than now. He sat beside her--ah, poor Charley!in a sort of dull stupor of misery, utterly worn out. The sharp painseemed over--the long, dark watches, when his passionate prayers hadascended for that dear life, wild and rebellious it may be, when hehad wrestled with an agony more bitter than death, had left theirimpress on his life forever. He could not let her go--he could not!"O God!" was the ceaseless cry of his soul, "have mercy--spare!"

Nellie Seton's cool, soft hands fell lightly on his head--Nellie'ssoft, gentle voice spoke:

"Charley, you are to leave us for a little, and lie down. You musthave some rest, be it ever so short; and you have had nothing to eat, I believe all day; you will let me prepare something, and take it, and go to your room. "

She spoke to him coaxingly, almost as she might to a child. He liftedhis eyes, full of dull, infinite misery, to hers. 

"To-night?" he answered: "the last night! I will not go. "

"Only for an hour then, " she pleaded; "there will be no change. For_my_ sake, Charley!"

All her goodness, all her patience, came back to him. He pressed herhand in his own gratefully, and arose. 

"For your sake, Nellie, then--for no other. But you promise to callme if there is the slightest change?"

"I promise. Drink this and go. "

She gave him a glass of mulled wine, containing the opiate. He drankit and left the room. They listened breathlessly until they heardhis door, further down the passage, open and shut--then both drewa deep breath. 

"Thank Heaven, " Trix said; "I couldn't bear to see him here to-night. Nellie, if she dies it will kill him--just that. "

The girl's lips quivered. What Charley had been to her--how whollyher great, generous, loving heart had gone out to him, not even Trixever knew. The dream of her life's best bliss was at an end forever. Whether Edith Stuart lived or died, no other woman would ever takeher place in his heart. 

The hours of the night wore on. Oh! those solemn night watches bythe dying bed of those we love. The faint lamp flickers, deepeststillness reigns, and on his bed, dressed as he was, Charley liesdeeply, dreamlessly asleep. 

It was broad day when he awoke--the dawn of a cloudless November day. He sat up in bed suddenly, for a moment, bewildered, and stared beforehim. Only for a moment--then he remembered all. The night had passed, the morning come. They had let him sleep--it seemed he _could_ sleepwhile she lay dying so near. Dying! Who was to tell him that in yonderdistant room Edith was not lying dead. He rose up, reeling like adrunken man, and made for the door. He opened it, and went out, downthe passage. It was entirely deserted, the great household was notyet astir. Profound stillness reigned. Through the windows he couldsee the bright morning sky, all flushed, red and golden with the firstradiance of the rising sun. And in that room there what lay--deathor life?

He stood suddenly still, and looked at the closed door. He stood theremotionless, his eyes fixed upon it, unable to advance another step. 

It opened abruptly--quickly but noiselessly, and Nellie Seton's pale, tired face looked out. At sight of him she came forward--he askedno questions--his eyes looked at her full of a dumb agony ofquestioning she never forgot. 

"Charley!" she exclaimed, coming nearer. 

The first ray of the rising sun streaming through the windows fellfull upon her pale face, and it was as the face of an angel. 

"Charley!" she repeated, with a great tearless sob, holding out bothhands; "Oh, bless God! the doctor says we may--_hope_!"

He had braced himself to hear the worst--not this. He made one stepforward and fell at her feet like a stone. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE MORNING. 

They might hope? The night had passed, the morning had come, and shestill lived. 

You would hardly have thought so to look at her as she lay, deathlywhite, deathly still. But as the day broke she had awakened from along sleep, the most natural and refreshing she had known for weeks, and looked up into the pale anxious face of Trix with the faint shadowof a smile. Then the eyelids swayed and closed in sleep once more, but she had recognized Trix for the first time in days--the crisiswas over and hope had come. 

They would not let her see him. Only while she slept would they allowhim now to enter her room. But it was easily borne--Edith was notto die, and Heaven and his own grateful happy heart only knew howinfinitely blessed he was in that knowledge. After the long bitternight--after the darkness and the pain, light and morning had come. Edith would live--all was said in that. 

"There are some remedies that are either kill or cure in theiraction, " the old doctor said, giving Charley a facetious poke. "Yourmarriage was one of them, young man. _I_ thought it was Kill--itturns out it was Cure. "

For many days no memory of the past returned to her, her existencewas as the existence of a new-born babe, spent alternately in takingfood and sleep. Food she took with eager avidity after her longstarvation, and then sank back again into profound, refreshingslumber. 

"Let her sleep, " said the doctor, with a complacent nod; "the morethe better. It's Nature's way of repairing damages. "

There came a day at last when thought and recollection began tostruggle back--when she had strength to lie awake and think. Morethan once Trix caught the dark eyes fixed in silent wistfulness uponher--a question in them her lips would not ask. But Miss Stuartguessed it, and one day spoke:

"What is it, Dithy?" she said; "you look as if you wanted to saysomething, you know. "

"How--how long have I been sick?" was Edith's question. 

"Nearly five weeks, and an awful life you've led us, I can tell you!Look at me--worn to skin and bone. What do you suppose you will haveto say for yourself when Angus comes?"

Edith smiled faintly, but her eyes still kept their wistful look. 

"I suppose I was delirious part of the time, Trixy?"

"Stark, staring crazy--raving like a lunatic at full moon! But youneedn't look so concerned about it--we've changed all that. You'lldo now. "

"Yes, " she said it with a sigh; "you have all been very kind. Isuppose it's only a fancy of the fever after all"

"What?"

"I--Trixy! don't laugh at me, but I thought Charley was here. "

"Did you?" responded Trix; "the most natural thing in life. He _is_here. "

Her eyes lighted--her lips parted--a question trembled upon them, but she hesitated. 

"Go on, " said Miss Stuart, enjoying it all; "there's something elseon your mind. Speak up, Edie! don't be ashamed of yourself. "

"I am afraid you _will_ laugh this time, Trixy--I know it is onlya dream, but I thought Charley and I were--"

"Yes, " said Trixy; "were--what?"

"Married, then!" with a faint little laugh. "Don't tell him, please, but it seems--it seems so real, I had to tell you. "

She turned her face away. And Trixy, with suspicious dimness in hereyes, stooped down and kissed that thin, wan face. 

"You poor little Dithy!" she said; "you _do_ like Charley, don'tyou? no, it's not a dream--you were married nearly a fortnight ago. The hope of my life is realized--you are my sister, and Charley'swife!"

There was a little panting cry--then she covered her face with herhands and lay still. 

"He is outside, " went on Trix; "you don't know what a good boy hehas been--so patient--and all that. He deserves some reward. I thinkif you had died he would have died too--Lord Lovel and Lady Nancy, over again. Not that I much believe in broken hearts where men areconcerned, either, " pursued Trix, growing, cynical; "but this seemsan exceptional case. He's awfully fond of you, Dithy; 'pon my wordhe is. I only hope Angus may go off in a dead faint the first timeI'm sick and get better, as he did the other day. We haven't let himin much lately, for fear of agitating you, but I think, " says Trixy, with twinkling eyes, "you could stand it now--couldn't you, Mrs. Stuart?"

She did not wait for a reply--she went out and hunted up Charley. Hewas smoking downstairs, and trying to read the morning paper. 

"Your wife wants you, " said Miss Stuart brusquely; "go! only mindthis--don't stay too long, and don't talk too much. "

He started to his feet--away went _Tribune_ and cigar, and up thestairs sprang Charley--half a dozen at a time. 

And then Miss Stuart sits down, throws her handkerchief over her face, and for the next five minutes indulges in the exclusively feminineluxury of a real good cry. 

 * * * * *

After that Mrs. Charles Stuart's recovery was perfectly magical inits rapidity. Youth and splendid vitality, no doubt, had somethingto do with it, but I think the fact that she _was_ Mrs. CharlesStuart had more to do still. 

There came a day, when propped up with pillows, she could sit erect, and talk, and be talked to as much as she chose, when blinds werepulled up, and sunshine poured in; and no sunshine that ever shonewas half so bright as her happy face. There came still another day, when robed in a pretty pink morning-dress, Charley lifted her in hisarms and carried her to the arm-chair by the window, whence she couldlook down on the bright, busy city street, whilst he sat at her feetand talked. Talked! who is to tell of what? "Two souls with but asingle thought--two hearts that beat as one, " generally find enoughto say for themselves, I notice, and require the aid of no outsiders. 

And there came still another day--a fortnight after, when lookingpale and sweet, in a dark-gray travelling suit and hat, Mrs. CharlesStuart, leaning on her husband's arm, said good-by to her friends, and started on her bridal tour. They were to spend the next threeweeks South, and then return for Trixy's wedding at Christmas. 

Christmas came; merry Christmas, sparkling with snow and sunshine, as Christmas ever should sparkle, and bringing that gallant ex-officerof Scotch Grays, Captain Angus Hammond--captain no longer--plain Mr. Hammond, done with drilling and duty, and getting the route forever, going in for quiet, country life in bonnie Scotland, with Miss BeatrixStuart for aider and abettor. 

Charley and his wife came to New York for the wedding. They had toldMr. Hammond how ill Edith had been, but the young Scotchman, as hepulled his ginger whiskers and stared in her radiant, blooming face, found it difficult indeed to realize. She had been a pretty girl--ahandsome woman--happiness had made her more--she was lovely now. ForCharley--outwardly all his easy insouciance had returned--he submittedto be idolized and made much of by his wife, after the calm fashionof lordly man. But you had only to see him look once into herbeautiful, laughing face, to know how passionately she was beloved. 

Mr. And Mrs. Angus Hammond had a splendid wedding; and to say ourTrixy looked charming would be doing her no sort of justice. Andagain Miss Seton was first bridesmaid, and Mrs. Stuart, in lavendersilk, sniffed behind a fifty dollar pocket handkerchief, as in dutybound. They departed immediately after the ceremony for Scotlandand a Continental tour--that very tour which, as you know, Trixywas cheated so cruelly out of three years before. 

Mr. And Mrs. Stuart went back South to finish the winter and thehoneymoon among the glades of Florida, and "do, " as Charley said, "Love among the Roses. " Mr. Darrell returned to Sandypoint. Mrs. Stuart, senior, took up her abode with Nellie Seton, pending suchtime as her children should get over the first delirium ofmatrimonial bliss and settle quietly down to housekeeping. Afterthat it was fixed that she was to divide her time equally betweenthem, six months with each. Charley and his wife would make Englandtheir home; Edith's ample fortune lay there, and both loved the fairold land. 

In May they sailed for England. They would spend the whole of thesummer in Continental travelling--the pleasant rambling life suitedthem well. But they went down to Cheshire first; and one soft Mayafternoon stood side by side in the old Gothic church where theCatherons for generations had been buried. The mellow light camesoftly through the painted windows--up in the organ loft, a younggirl sat playing to herself soft, sweet, solemn melodies. And bothhearts bowed down in tender sadness as they stood before _one_ tomb, the last erected within those walls, that of Sir Victor Catheron. Edith pulled her veil over her face--the only tears that had filledher eyes since her second wedding-day falling quietly now. 

There were many remembrances of the dead man. A beautiful memorialwindow, a sombre hatchment, and a monument of snow-white marble. Itwas very simple--it represented only a broken shaft, and beneath ingold letters this inscription:

 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF SIR VICTOR CATHERON, of Catheron Royals, Bart. DIED OCT. 3, 1867, in the 24th year of his age. "_His sun set while it was yet day_. "

THE END.