'^^K^ /^V V""' 4?^. ^ ä j« o p- .if-^r L > ihm» rv * it • ^ 4j3 AJ a A GREAT LADY. A ROMANCE. r FROM THE GERMAN OF VAN DEWALL. By MS., TRANSLATOR OP "BY HI3 OWN MTGHT," "A TWOFOLD LLFE," "MUST IT BE?" ETC. J. B. PHILADELPHIA: LIPPINCOTT & 1874. CO. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at "Washington. Lippincott's Piiess, Philadelphia. no. I A GREAT LADT. I- At the beginning of the carnival sea- son of the year 1863 three young women were seated around a table in a spacious apartment on the second story of the Z sehen palace in Warsaw, sewing busily by the light of a hanging-lamp, which fell brightly upon the seamstresses and the material in their skillful hands. A linen cloth was spread over the old- fashioned inlaid floor, and upon this flowed broad folds of velvet, satin, and lace. A huge stove of Dutch tiles diffused a comfortable warmth through the room, which possessed few other attractions, and was very scantily furnished. It was evidently a servant's chamber: the dark- red curtains before the deep window- niches showed signs of long use ; the table just mentioned, some bamboo chairs, a plain chest of drawers, with a Russian image of some saint, such as the nuns in the convents sell for a few copecks, and a large basket containing logs of wood, formed the whole furniture, with which the old tapestry on the walls, though it now showed many a stain and grease spot, made a striking contrast. The noise of carriages hurrying to the theatre, as well as the roar of the crowd in the principal street, penetrated into the room, and the windows were brightly illumined by the yellow glare of a watch- fire which blazed merrily in the court-yard of the palace. "Make haste, Saschinka," said the oldest of the three girls in a foreign accent to a young Russian, who was busily em- ployed in covering buttons with lilac satin, " everything must be ready in two hours : the countess wants to try on the dress and domino precisely at nine o'clock." "Yes, yes, Mademoiselle Juliette," answered the fair-haired little waiting- maid, as she made her pretty fingers move still more rapidly than before ; and then for some time perfect silence followed, scarcely interrupted by the rustling of the goods and the buzzing of the thread. Mademoiselle J uliette, the head waiting- maid of the Countess P , was a Pari- sienne, with a tall, graceful, though some- what thin figure, a tolerably interesting face, and intelligent but cold eyes. She always dressed with the utmost care ; no one in all Warsaw was better clothed than she, except perhaps her mistress, the young and beautiful Countess P , who had taken her skillful hands and genius in the arts of the toilette into her service. Saschinka, the young Russian, was a blooming, rosy maiden, with long, fair braids and dark -blue eyes, who had formerly been a serf on Count P 's estates. In her scanty black dress, and the dazzlingly white apron she wore over it, she might have been mistaken for a pretty nun. The third person in the room, who was busily occupied in sewing a broad lace border on the domino, was a young lady from German Poland, Wilhelmina by name, or Mincia, as she was called in the household, who took charge of the count- ess's linen. She was about twenty-one or 3 1 A GREAT LADY. twenty-two years old, and had a tall, stately figure ; grave, regular features ; and was usually silent and reserved. She stated that she was descended from a noble family which had been reduced to beggary by the Poles, and never neglected any opportunity of expressing her hatred towards the whole nation. " Hark ! what can be the matter down below?" said Mademoiselle Juliette, sud- denly letting her work fall into her lap and looking towards the window. "Who knows? — we are living in un- settled times!" replied Mincia, without looking up or taking any further notice of the noise and the trampling of horses below. " The saints preserve us! that is true, we are living in an evil day," said Sas- chinka, looking up towards the ceiling with an expression of fear and anxiety, as if seeking protection from above. " How can people think of masquerades and balls? Murder and manslaughter in the morning, and plays and dancing at night!"" " Hush, hush, child ! don't let any one hear you," said Mademoiselle Juliette, raising her finger warningly. " What good would it do for everybody to look mourn- ful and wear sackcloth and ashes before Ash-Wednesday? — matters would still re- main just as they are, — ces Polonais sont comme les betes f^roces."* This last thought she muttered in an undertone, more to herself than the others. At the same time she rose and went to the win- dow, for the noise below was increasing,. Mincia also rose and looked out of the other window, where Saschinka joined her, so that all three of the girls left their work a moment to see what was going on outside. In the spacious court-yard below, separated from the street by a strong iron railing, a large fire was burning, which, with the lamps on each side of the prin- cipal entrance, seemed to fill the whole space with its flickering, ruddy light. * These Poles are like wild beasts. Along the wall, clearly visible in its glow, stood the lean white mares of the Tscher- kessen guard, with their lofty saddles and long guns; while the turbaned sons of the Caucasus, wrapped in sheepskins, lay or sat on straw or blankets around the fire. Some were asleep, others eating or drinking, but most smoked and stared steadily into the flames, in a condition be- tween dreaming and waking. Before the principal entrance stood the general's state carriage, ready to take him to the opera ; a Cossack guard, with their long lances in rest, sat in their saddles behind it, prepared to accompany the carriage if the general did not expressly forbid the attendance of the escort. All this was a customary sight to the three girls ; a strong guard had been kept in the court-yard night and day ever since the insurrection had been threatening, and the general's carriage often waited in the court-yard for hours ; but what espe- cially attracted the eyes of the maids and the crowd of people who stared through the iron railings, was a small peasant's cart, which, loaded with prisoners and accompanied by a guard of hussars under an officer, had stopped at one side of the court-yard. The entrance of one of these trains of prisoners, the pressure of the crowd, threats, curses, the words of com- mand, and the trampling of so many horses, all these things made such a tumult that the whole house seemed to be alarmed, for at every window appeared dark shadows gazing down into the court- yard. " The people in that cart must be of some importance, or they would have been taken to the citadel at once, instead of being brought here to the palace," said Mademoiselle Juliette, staring earnestly at the cart with her black eyes. il Dear me, whpt a to-do about a couple of Polish Jews !" said Mincia, shrugging her shoulders, and turning to leave the window. "Those are no Jews, mademoiselle, — they are Catholic priests, if my eyes do A GREAT LADY. not deceive me; just see the round hats and smoothly-shaven faces," replied Sas- chinka. " What can the poor men have done? — they are bound with ropes." "Conspired, probably," said Mincia, coldly, turning towards the window again ; and then, placing both hands upon her temples, she gazed eagerly down into the little cart. If any one could have looked into her face, he would have seen how tightly her small teeth were clinched, while her eyes glowed with a gloomy fire, her bosom heaved painfully, and her lashes were wet with tears. " There come Baron Mengden and Prince Mussa down the steps ; the capture must be of great importance," said Juli- ette, eagerly. " See, they have both gone up to the cart and are talking to the poor 'fellows." " Who is this Baron Mengden, made- moiselle?" asked Mincia-, "this is the first time I have heard his name." "Don't you know? He has occupied the position of the general's second aid- de-camp ever since yesterday ; he comes to take the place of Apraxin, who went to St. Petersburg a few weeks ago, — a hand- some man, isn't he, mademoiselle? See how wretchedly the little yellow prince looks beside him." " Yes, he is certainly a handsome man, as well as I can see," replied Mincia, in her usual cold manner. Below, on a pile of straw in the little peasant's cart, lay a priest and a Polish nobleman. The mud on the wheels, and their pallid faces distorted with pain, proved that they had had a long and painful journey. While the hussar guard were standing beside their horses trying to warm themselves by stamping and beating their breasts with their arms, the captives whispered to each other in the Polish language. The general's aid, a handsome young man in the scarlet uniform of the hussars, and Prince Mussa, colonel of the Tscher- kessen regiment, now approached the cart, followed by a man in a dark fur coat with a military collar. The latter asked the prisoners some short questions, then turned to the officers, and after a few words had been exchanged between them the hussars again mounted their horses, and the cart, moving slowly for- ward, proceeded with its escort towards the citadel. Directly after, the general appeared at the top of the flight of steps, entered his carriage, and rattled away with his Cos- sacks towards the theatre, while Baron Mengden and the prince returned to the palace. Comparative stillness now fell upon the court-yard. The Tscherkessen guard still lay around the fire ; sometimes one of the horses stamped, or the flames crackled when fanned by the wind ; everything else was still, and the crowd had left the railings : the evening was bitterly cold. The three girls returned to their work. Mincia was silent and gloomy 5 the two others conversed in low tones. In this manner about an hour elapsed. The domino was finished, and hung over a chair. It was made of black satin, trimmed with velvet bows, gleaming with enamel and adorned with lace. The vio- let dress was also fast approaching com- pletion. The door opened, and a stout, comfort- able-looking woman, with broad cheeks, a little, turned-up nose, and small, pleas- ant eyes, entered the room. " Saints preserve us, girls ! how indus- trious you are!" she cried, waddling up to the table. "Almost finished, and how handsome ! How becoming it will be to batuschka I* My darling ! how you will shine, like a princess as you are !" She cautiously felt the material with her fat hands, bent down to examine it more closely, stood first on one side and then on another, nodded approvingly, and again began to praise the work and the industry of the seamstresses. * A pet name for the mistress of the house. 6 A GREAT LADY. "Why, you are a perfect enchantress, Juliette! you can do everything," she continued, " but this time you have sur- passed yourself." " The countess will bewitch every one to-morrow, as usual, won't she, Annusch- ka?" replied the latter, insinuatingly. " Yes, that she will. But good gracious, Saschka Pawlowna, child, how you look ! Your cheeks are burning like fire : you have overworked yourself. Just wait a minute, my dear, you shall have your tea at once ; you girls must be hungry. I'll go now, immediately." So saying, An- nuschka waddled out. The dress was now finished. Mademoi- selle Juliette took it on her arm, with the domino, and went down to try them on the countess. Tea was brought in, with preserves and cold meat ; the table was laid, and the supper quickly served. "Is there anything more for me to do?" asked Mincia, yawning. "I'm tired, and should like to go to bed." " No, my dear; pray go to sleep," said Annuschka, kindly, and Mincia went out. Saschka soon followed. Annuschka re- mained alone with Mademoiselle Juliette. Annuschka was the nurse of the young Countess P , the wife of the general commanding the army in Warsaw. She was the principal personage in the palace, with whom every one endeavored to keep on the best possible footing, since she had great influence over the young countess ; although, to be sure, this was somewhat shared by Mademoiselle Juliette, who, by her skill and cleverness in the arts of the toilette, had made herself indispensable to the general's young wife, — so indispens- able that the latter overlooked the fact that the elegant maid was the mistress of her husband, an old man of sixty-five. These two persons knew and respected each other's influence with that innate instinct and suppleness which women endowed with mother-wit often possess when in a subordinate position. The maid was now sewing on a dark silk dress, no longer for the countess, but for herself, while the nurse was putting down the daily expenses of the household in a small book, now and then gazing into the fire. Out-of-doors the city clocks were just striking ten, the streets were deserted and empty ; after nine no one was allowed to go out without a lantern, on pain of being seized by the guard and dragged to the watch-house. " Ten o'clock. What do you think of some cordial, duschka, my dear? The water is boiling," said the nurse, looking up at the Frenchwoman with her little, bright eyes. The latter nodded assent, and the nurse went out. Mademoiselle Juliette, evi- dently engrossed in her own thoughts, looked after her dreamily. Suddenly she laid her sewing on the table and hastily approached the window. The general was just driving into the court-yard, at- tended by his escort ; the guard presented arms, the gate was thrown open, the car- riage stopped, and, assisted by his first adjutant, Count P alighted. " Thank God that the day has passed without accident!" murmured Mademoi- selle Juliette, with a deep sigh. " I have felt so anxious. They hate the count because he is strict and energetic. I know that many cruelties are wrongly attributed to him. He is strict, but just. Bah ! how can one deal calmly with these beasts of Poles, the assassins, the ca- naille ? I would crush them utterly if I were a man!" Her eyes flashed as she uttered the words, and a heavy frown darkened her brow. " Only yesterday they treacherously stabbed poor Mursin in the back with a dagger, in the open street, the cowardly scoundrels. Pauvre gargon! I've had many a bright gold piece from him. Perfectly well yester- day, and to-day stiff and stark !" " What are you talking about, my dear?" asked the nurse, who had just re- turned with a large bowl of punch and two glasses, and had heard the last words of this soliloquy. A GREAT LADY. 7 " I was thinking of poor Mursin, An- nuschka, who was murdered yesterday, near the Hötel de 1' Europe. You knew him too." "Yes, these are horrible times, cruel times ! Poor Mursin ! May all the saints watch over us, especially my patron saint, the holy Cyprianus ! Ah, what a quan- tity of threatening letters have come to this house to-day! The porter told me about it at dinner. Every corner was filled with placards again, but they were instantly torn down." "Yes, it makes one anxious day and night. We are literally living over a volcano," continued the maid, stirring the sugar in her glass, " and it may break out any day. Who can tell how long God may yet grant us life ? Just think, Annuschka, suppose any accident should happen to our count, which may God forbid ! The very idea makes me shud- der. Our poor lady !" The nurse's sharp little eyes looked keenly at Mademoiselle Juliette as she uttered these words. " May Heaven for- bid anything so terrible !" she answered, sipping the liquid in her glass with toler- able composure; "but if worst should come to worst, my dove, Catharina Alexan- drowna would receive her twelve thousand roubles ; she told me so herself. We could both live on that. We should then join the baroness, the countess's mother, live in St. Petersburg, and go on journeys, or else marry again when the year of mourn- ing was over. God knows what will happen, we must be prepared." So say- ing, she folded her fat hands over her apron. For some time both gazed steadily into vacancy, absorbed in their own thoughts. " Put aside your work, my dear, or you will spoil your beautiful eyes," the nurse began, good-humoredly. " Drink a wee drop of punch instead, and smoke a cigar- ette. It's real Turkish tobacco, from Prince Apraxin. Take one." The maid drank a little punch and lighted the cigarette ; the nurse sat op- posite to her, with her fat hands folded comfortably on her apron, puffing out huge clouds of smoke. " Tell me, nurse," the Frenchwoman began, after a short pause, " as we are talking together so confidentially : I have now been two years in the countess's ser- vice. When I entered it she was just eighteen, and taking her bridal journey. How did it happen that so young and beautiful a lady married a man of sixty- five, who, according to ordinary opinion, must be called rather ugly than hand- some ?" " Yes, how did it happen?" replied the nurse, finishing her glass and again cast- ing a keen, searching glance at the maid. " You see, I really ought not to speak of it. I am no gossip, but I can surely tell you. Her mother, the baroness, you must know, had a large jointure from her late husband, the father of Catharina Alexandrowna. We then lived in Mitow, and afterwards in Moscow. The baron- ess was a very handsome woman, and the whole house was filled with officers and gentlemen. People thought she would marry again, but she could never make up her mind to do so ; a life of freedom — you understand — suited her better. Well, who can blame her? She led a merry life in feasting and dancing. Ah, what happy days those were ! But, you see. as time went on the money disappeared, mademoiselle ; we were in debt, and forced to go now here and now there. At last the baroness went to Riga, to get rid of this continual pestering, and there we made the general's acquaintance. He first paid his court to the mother, and it was rumored that she would not say no. But imagine our horror when one day he frankly offered his hand, not to Jhe baroness, but the child! We all three felt as if we had been struck by a thunder- bolt. To make a long story short, the general was rich and generous ; he would settle property enough upon the child for her to have a yearly income of twelve thou- sand roubles if widowed. Weeping and 8 A GREAT LADY. resistance were of no avail ; on the third day she gave her consent, and in six weeks the wedding took place. Between ourselves, hitherto Catharina Alexan- drowna has never regretted that she be- came his wife. Our count is very agree- able, you know." "Oh, yes," answered the maid. " There is no more gallant gentleman to be found. He lets batuschka have her own way, and seldom teazes her with jealousy. Dear me, such a young bird likes to try its wings sometimes. There is the clock striking eleven. Good- night ; I must go down and put her to bed. May the saints send you pleasant dreams !" " Good-night, nurse." II. Just as the city clocks struck ten a man with a lantern passed the Z sehen palace, paused for an instant half-way down the railings of the court-yard, and cast a searching glance from beneath his otter cap at the spacious building, then raised his lantern once as high as his head, and continued his way. About a hundred paces beyond the palace a senti- nel shouted an imperious "Stoy!" The man in the fur cap, without the slightest hesitation, approached the non-commis- sioned officer who commanded the guard, and gave the pass-word, " Cyril," where- upon the other muttered a "Paschol,'' and rode on. The man with the lantern now walked swiftly along the dark pavement, keeping as close to the houses as possible ; ever and^anon he paused, and, with a dexterity that showed long practice, pasted printed labels (proclamations) upon the houses, then glided into a side street, looked around a moment to see whether any one was following him, and disappeared down an alley. Here he softly knocked twice in a peculiar manner upon a window-shutter on the ground-floor. Some one instantly opened the low door, and gave him ad- mittance. In the narrow, over-heated room, the mysterious visitor threw his fur cloak on an empty chair, put the lantern on the floor, and, taking off his cap and a false beard, turned to the old man who had opened the door : "Anything new, Jan?" "A letter has come, Pan Winiewski, and Constantin Balewski is sitting in the private room with a gentleman who speaks French, and has been waiting for you an hour already," said the old man, with the respectful manner of a servant. Pan Winiewski, a short, slender man of about thirty, with curly hair, an ener- getic expression, and keen gray eyes, opened the envelope, put the lantern on the table, and began to read, his bold, clearly-cut profile sharply relieved against the light. When he had finished, he tore up the letter, threw it into the stove, and gazed at the flames until they had consumed it to ashes. Then he left the room, passed through a narrow entry, opened a cup- board, which seemed to contain cooking- utensils, and pressed a secret spring. The wooden frame, with all its contents, turned noiselessly upon a concealed hinge, and behind it appeared a curtained door- way. Winiewski raised the drapery and found himself in the presence of two men, who were sitting on a sofa in a small but tolerably comfortable room, drinking Hungarian wine and smoking. Both hastily rose, came towards him, and cor- dially shook hands. " Good-evening, Constantin, good-even- ing, my dear friend. Thank God you have reached here safely, Michael Buz- lawski !" The last words were addressed to a tall, elegant man, with dark, closely-cut hair and a large beard, whose clothing showed unmistakable traces that he had just come from a journey. In fact, Michael Buzlawski had come A GREAT LADY. 9 directly from Paris by rail, with a forged passport in his pocket, as a messenger from the secret revolutionary committee. He brought money and important dis- patches. The greeting between the men was a very cordial one. Then all three took their seats around the little table and touched their glasses. " Once more, God be praised, Michael, that you have reached here alive and well. I have spent many a sleepless night on your account. What news do you bring?" said Stanislaus Winiewski, warmly pressing the other's hand again. "According to all human judgment, everything is progressing most favor- ably," replied the other, cordially return- ing the pressure. " I bring money, and there is an immediate prospect of a pow- erful intervention on the part of sympa- thizers in Paris and London. The gov- ernment is duly prepared, and the press is doing its duty. But I can't tell you all in a few words, dear Stanislaus ; be- sides, I am worn out with traveling. Let me revel a moment in the pleasure of being at home and greeting old friends again. How sweet it is to be once more on the soil which gave us life, where our cradles stood, and which was the play- ground of our childhood!" "Semper Polonia!" he said, in an en- thusiastic, though suppressed, tone. His breast heaved, and his handsome dark eyes sparkled with a brilliancy which suggested the presence of tears. " Semper Polonia!" the glasses clinked against each other, and were then drained to the dregs. " And how did you fare on your jour- ney, — were you unmolested?" "Oh, that was a very amusing farce. Pardon me, Constantin, if I relate my ad- venture the second time. I procured a passport, under the title of Monsieur Du- four, a Parisian wine dealer, and started on Saturday by the express train for Ber- lin. At a hotel there I met Brodowski, who gave me some directions, and at the I same time informed me that the servant of one of the officers in Warsaw traveled between the two cities with dispatches almost every week, dressed as a harmless citizen, and was to set out at eleven o'clock Monday night. I determined to make his acquaintance on the way, and, if possible, get his dispatches, in case he really had any. No sooner thought of than done. I took a seat in the same carriage, made his acquaintance, and by the time we reached Bromberg we were the best of friends. He told me he was traveling under a false passport, for the railroad was often made unsafe, and the cars searched by the Poles ; that the lat- ter had even torn up the rails, etc., but after all they were not so bad as they had been made out in Warsaw; and if I wished, he would help me in case any- thing happened. We reached Alexan- drowo about eight o'clock. The whole station was filled with Russian troops. My heart bled to see the gray cloaks and stupid faces of the Muscovites here at the gates of Poland. We were thoroughly searched, and I had great difficulty in smuggling my little revolver and a dagger through the lines. My traveling com- panion seemed to be well acquainted here ; everywhere he had friendly words to answer, and several dirty hands to clasp, and to his honor I must admit that he gave me his full protection, as he had promised, and, moreover, regaled me with all the rumors that are afloat in ante- rooms and bureaus. It was said that a detachment of Poles had destroyed the railroad at Wloklaweck, and consequent- ly telegrams were constantly sent to and fro, and instead of starting at nine o'clock we were delayed until eleven. Half a com- pany of infantry accompanied the train, and a non-commissioned officer and two men with loaded guns sat on the loco- motive. On reaching Wloklaweck we had another long delay, and again found the station filled with soldiers. "Looking out of the window, I saw a guard who wore the sign of our league, and 10 A GREAT LADY. spoke to him. At first he was a little sus- picious, but soon perceived with whom he had to deal, and promised to see that I occupied a compartment alone with the officer's servant. We left Kutno at four o'clock, and when we reached Sciernie- wice it was quite dark. We were again obliged to wait a long time, — it was said that two hundred and fifty men under Demko were in the neighborhood. At last we continued our journey. Now, if ever, was the time to make my attack. I noise- lessly put my revolver between my knees, drew my dagger, and after begging my good, unsuspicious traveling companion's pardon for my uncourteous request, de- manded his dispatches. "You should have seen his astonished face, and heard the reproaches he uttered when he recovered the use of his tongue ! I can't help laughing when I think of it. "Under any other circumstances the lad's honest, simple words would have softened my heart ; and I condescended to ask his pardon again for my conduct. To cut a long story short, he at last gave me his papers, and then leaned silently back m his corner and was so angry that he would not say another word to me ; I had offended him too deeply. " On reaching Warsaw, I made him give me his word of honor not to follow me ; and then, to throw every one off the scent, ordered the coachman to drive toward the Prague suburb, where I left the carriage and came here by a roundabout way, — and here I am. "Unfortunately, with the exception of one note in cipher, the papers were only unimportant private letters ; but the key to the secret writing will be found, and reward us for the trouble." A smile flitted over Winiewski's grave face, then he looked at his watch, rose hastily, and, holding out his hand to Buz- lawski, said, "I will see you to-morrow, Michael. Be here at nine o'clock. I must go now to attend to some important business. I need scarcely ask you to take care of yourself for the sake of the good cause. Constantin will tell you all the rest. Farewell." So saying, he left the room. In the outer apartment, where Jan was sleeping in a leather-covered arm-chair beside the stove, he took the lantern again, lighted it, put on his cap, and went softly out. He ascended a flight of stairs, walked down a passage, then up two more flights to a dormer-window. Here he stooped down, drew a short rope-ladder furnished with two iron hooks from behind a pile of rubbish, fastened it to the window-sill, extinguished the lantern, and placed it on the floor. An instant after he swung himself noise- lessly out, and a few seconds later reached the flat roof of a building in the rear, which was occupied by a photographer's gallery. He walked through this, reached a nar- row passage, and uttered a low cough. A door instantly opened and he entered, — Mincia awaited him. III. Stanislaus Winiewski was the most active member of the secret "revolutionary committee, which had existed in Warsaw since the year 1861 ; he was one of the twelve who held the secret threads of in- surrection, and had hitherto succeeded in evading the closest search of the Russian police. Their mysterious connections extended everywhere, and formed a close, appar- ently indestructible network over the whole of Poland. They went from hut to palace, from the city over the entire country, and had their allies in the cell, the dungeon, the church, the government offices, and even the citadel, — nowhere were the Russians safe from their snares. The eyes of the secret committee looked into every hidden corner, and had faith- ful assistants everywhere. Even Mincia, I the silent girl who took charge of the A GR,' A countess's linen, was a tool of the safety committee, and skillfully concealed her designs behind the mask of hatred towards Poland. She was a member of this im- portant organ of the secret police, and had succeeded in finding a snug nest in the hostile camp in the palace of Count P himself. When she rose from the tea-table with a yawn and walked slowly down the echoing corridor, she met a footman, who whispered the pass-word "Cyril," and walked on as if he had not noticed the girl. On reaching her room, Mincia wrote a few lines in a memorandum-book, noise- lessly undressed, and then put on dark garments, threw a thick woolen cloak with a warm hood over them, and stood at the window looking out. She saw the sign made by the man with the lantern, and a few minutes after the mysterious personage had disappeared, noiselessly left her room, glided swiftly down a back staircase like a dark shadow, and tapped at a door on the lower story. Here she said a few words to the porter, concealed a small dark-lantern under her cloak, left the palace by a side-door, walked quietly past the blazing watch- fire and the sleeping guard, gave the pass-word, and succeeded in reaching the street without being delayed. She walked down the "new world" with hasty steps, turned into a side street, and, like the man with the lantern, knocked softly upon the window-shutter twice, entered the house, and the door closed behind her. An older woman received her with a dobrij-wieczör (good-evening), led her into a room furnished almost luxuriously, placed a lamp upon the table, and, after a few words, left the girl alone. She slowly laid aside her cloak and went to the mirror to smooth her hair, which the hood had slightly disarranged, then drew an old-fashioned arm-chair to- wards the fire, and leaned comfortably back in it with her feet on the andirons. For a time she gazed dreamily at the flames, listening to the monotonous crack- T LADY. 11 ling of the fire and hissing of the sparks, then its flickering light seemed to dazzle her, for she covered her eyes with her hand and let her head fall back against the chair. Mincia was one of those girls who must be seen several times before one discovers that they are beautiful. At the first glance one perceived only a pretty young person ; the second showed her to be charming. She was one of those women who have their days, their moments, of beauty, and there were days and moments when Mincia was a beauty of the very first order, beautiful in virtue of her in- tellect, the enthusiasm of a great soul, which sparkled in her eyes and irradiated her delicate features. As she leaned back in an attitude of apparent apathy, one could see that her hands were white and delicate, her feet small and exquisitely formed, and even beneath the heavy folds of the woolen dress the graceful figure was plainly visi- ble ; the shape of her arms was classic, the lines of her features were regular, and the skin was delicate, as is the case with almost all Polish women. But at the first glance a careless observer would probably have seen in her nothing more than a commonplace girl, and perhaps not considered her worth the trouble of a closer examination. And yet — she only needed to raise her dark, deep eyes, and she was beautiful; beautiful in conse- quence of the soul that illumined her features, as the sun gilds a lovely land- scape. Who can tell what thoughts or dreams were engrossing Mincia? Circumstances had placed her in a position which was in the highest degree exceptional and dangerous, which com- pelled her always to wear a mask and watch over all her actions. She was a Pole in heart and soul ; she deceived and spied, suffered and sacrificed herself for her native country ; her conscience did not condemn her, and the danger that- attended her course ennobled it in her eyes. 12 A GREAT LADY. The man for whom she waited, Stanis- laus Winiewski, was, as has already been stated, one of that mysterious number who spread consternation and terror through the enemy's camp; he was the most active and energetic member of the league who dealt their blows so mysteri- ously, and surrounded themselves with a halo of horror that bordered upon the supernatural. Stanislaus Winiewski was her betrothed husband, her lover. She clung to him with all the ardor of a deep affection, the boundless devotion of a Pole. Winiewski had studied medicine. They were to be married as soon as his practice should afford them the means of a decent livelihood. Ah! those were bright dreams which soon vanished. No woman on earth would have succeeded in contesting her place in the man's heart, but she pos- sessed a dangerous rival, who at first struggled with her for her lover, and then threatened to rob her of him entirely, — the woman with the bloody sword of venge- ance in her hand, the woman who, hurled prostrate on the ground a hundred times, has always proudly raised her head again, their native land — Polonia. Stanislaus Winiewski, or to give him his real name, Stephan Bobrowski, was the chief of the conspirators in the city. Mincia suffered and sacrificed herself. From being the betrothed bride of the physician, she be- came a willing tool of the revolutionist, and followed him into the restless, dan- gerous whirlpool of insurrection. She had done with life, buried her love, and strewn ashes on the past. Danger was a matter of indifference to her. What could the Russians do to her? Kill her, send her to Siberia? She would find her own people everywhere. Lash her ! Mincia shuddered. After a few minutes she rose and looked at her watch. " Sadze z£ dengo zor6zi" (I believe he has been delayed), she murmured, rising. She paced restlessly up and down the room several times, went to the window and peered cautiously out through the curtains into the darkness, then resumed her seat, and remained in the same attitude for some time. Sud- denly she started up, — her ear had distin- guished the sound of footsteps outside. She went to the door ; some one coughed : it was the usual signal. She drew back the bolt and stood before Stephen Bo- browski. " Dobry-wieczCr, cochanna Mincia" he said, gravely, kissing the blushing girl upon the forehead 5 " forgive me for hav- ing kept you waiting : it was against my will ; but I bring good news, Michael Buzlawski has arrived from Paris this evening. I have just left him !" So say- ing he led her to the arm-chair, and, draw- ing up a stool, sat down beside her. Mincia's eyes wandered anxiously over the man upon whom her heart had once calmly relied. " You look pale," she said, sadly. " I gave you the signal to-day, Mincia," replied the conspirator, who seemed in- tentionally to take no notice of the girl's words, "to ask you a few questions and give you some important directions." " Ask them. I too have something t Did not that induce them to sell out again ?" " No. They combined together, in- trigued with the laboring men who held shares, represented to them what an ad- vantage they would reap if each was al- lowed to secure a site at once, instead of waiting till he had money enough to build, and so losing the best lots. Then, taking advantage of Mr. Disland's ab- sence from Philadelphia, they procured BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 85 a call for a public meeting of the stock- holders, had the obnoxious resolution reconsidered and rescinded, and the next morning, within a quarter of an hour after the office opened, they entered, to the amount of their shares, the most valuable portions of the property." " The rascals !" « They considered it a fair business transaction." " Do you know how the matter finally resulted ?" " Mr. Disland returned the same day, and sold out all his shares before even- ing. The stock gradually declined, poor men being unwilling to enter and im- prove a bit of property lying by the side of a larger tract held by some rich man, who avowedly declined to do his part, waiting for others to move, and thus seeking to reap where he had not sowed. In four or five months after- ward the association went to pieces." " I think precautions might be taken to prevent such a result. In conveying the land to the company I might make it an imperative and irrevocable con- dition that it should not be sold out except under stringent improvement stipulations." " Our people are peculiar, Mr. Syden- ham. Wherever, in larger or smaller deliberative bodies, they have the right to debate and decide, they want, to use a common phrase, to have their < full swing ;' not to be cramped by restric- tions, however wholesome, that have been arbitrarily imposed. I think they would not submit to the Constitution itself if they did not know they had the right to amend it." Sydenham, struck with the sagacity of these strictures, pondered the mat- ter ; and meeting Ethan next day, in- vited him to spend the evening at his house. There the conversation was renewed. " I still think my plan of a land as- sociation practicable," said Sydenham, " if the first movers are prudent in se- lecting their associates, and if they have a wide range of choice. But it might be less advisable here, where the number of land purchasers is limited, and one has to take them as one finds them. Have you any substitute to propose ?" « The idea of selling land below the current rates, and under strict improve ment stipulations, seems to me practica and very important. But why not go directly to your object ? Retain in your own hands the powers you propose t<> delegate to an association. Say that you set apart five thousand acres. Have these laid out, in the vicinity of the vil- lage, in building lots of a few acres each, and farther off have the land di- vided into small farms. Reserve from sale each alternate lot and farm, and offer the rest (giving several years' credit for part of the purchase-money) at low and fixed rates. Instead of a deed, give the purchaser a bond of agreement containing a covenant on his part to erect, say within a year, a habita- tion for purposes of occupancy, and to make certain other specified improve- ments, with the right to demand a warranty deed as soon as these condi- tions are fulfilled and the land is paid for. Before the first two thousand five hundred acres are sold out, the remainder will have risen greatly in value." " I should be willing to stipulate that I will sell the reserved lots and farms at the same rates as before. The increase of price will be due to the labor of others, not to my own." " That would be generous : yet I ad- vise not to encumber yourself with any promise in advance. If the difference between the selling price and the actual value of these lands be great, great also will be the temptation to circumvent you. You may hereafter see fit to set apart a portion of the surplus which you now think of relinquishing, and to expend it in works of public value — to aid the schools of the village, or in drainage, in opening roads and avenues, and planting these out with shade trees. Possibly that might, in the end, be best for all parties." Sydenham sat silent for some time : then he asked, " How old are you, Ethan ?" "Just twenty-two." » You seem to have given much at- tention to this subject." 86 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. « I owe my ideas on it chiefly to Mr. Disland, who has made it a study for years." The young man's modesty attracted Sydenham : " Have you determined to follow out your profession as engineer ?" " My father wishes it, but, so far, no situation has offered. The former pres- ident of the Riverdale Railway, an inti- mate friend of my father, had promised to give me a post on his road as assist- ant engineer, but he died, as you may remember, a month before my return. I can hardly say I regret that I missed the chance, for I greatly prefer a farmer's life." " You managed a farm of your father's, I think, for two years before you went to Germany ?" '^Yes, and should be glad to return to it." " Perhaps I can offer you something better. You know, probably, that I have between nine and ten thousand acres in and around Chiskauga. I am quite ignorant of the details of Western farming and land management, and I want an educated young man as superin- tendent, to supply my deficiencies. I know how thorough German training is : it is an excellent preparation for our faster life. I think we should suit each other, Ethan. What say you ?" " As my father has recently finished paying for my education, I ought to con- sult him. But I feel most deeply the confidence with which you honor me, Mr. Sydenham, and should be delighted to accept the situation." " I can afford a salary of eight hun- dred or a thousand a year. I know you could save me as much as that." " Give me sixty dollars a month, if you find my services worth the amount. I can pay my own board and live com- fortably for less ; and that is more than a young man of my age can reasonably expect." " One can see that you come from a German college, Ethan. Young Amer- ica will leave you behind. By the way, when we talk business, let it be in Ger- man. How I envy you your accent !" With that they parted, mutually pleased. Not at all pleased, however when he heard of it, was Mr. Hart- land, Sr. Parents, especially those who, like Ethan's father, are of an arbitrary turn, are apt to forget that when their chil- dren reach adult age the time has ar- rived when advice should succeed au- thority. Mr. Hartland was angered that his son, after four years spent in pre- paring for one profession, should select another. '< I hate such change of pur- pose in a young man," he said. " You may remember, sir,' the son replied in a respectful tone, " that when you were about sending me to Europe, I begged you, instead, to let me study im- proved agriculture on Professor Mapes' farm. You yourself selected for me the profession of engineer. I am grateful for the expense you incurred in qualifying me as such, and in giving me an opportu- nity to see foreign countries and to learn German. I have always been ready, at a day's notice, to go into the field if a situation presented itself. But six months have elapsed, and I do not wish to be a burden on you, now that a chance offers to make m*y own livelihood." " Have I ever sent you in a board- bill, or refused to pay your store- accounts ?" " No, sir : I am grateful that you have not. But that is no reason why I should remain dependent upon you longer than is necessary." « You prefer to be dependent on Mr. Sydenham." Ethan did not reply. He saw it w^as a matter of feeling, not of reason. The next morning, after Mr. Hartland and his tin case had gone out botanizing, Mrs. Hartland spoke to the son. « My dear Ethan," she said, " there is no one living from whom I would sooner see you accept employment than from Mr. Sydenham. But don't vex your father. You know he could never en- dure opposition." " I know, mother ; but then / can't endure dependence." " Not on your own father ?" " No. I would accept the Axton farm from him, and trouble him for nothing BEYOND THE BREAKERS. more ; but you know he has no inten- tion to give it me." " No, he doesn't like putting prop- erty out of his own hands. But he never refuses you money when you want it." " I am no longer a child, to ask him for every dollar I need." « I have to do so." « I know you have, and that's all wrong." " Oh fie, Ethan ! to talk of your father so !" " It's the truth, mother." "Must not a husband support his wife ?" " Yes, but he needn't dole out every five-dollar note as if she were a pensioner on his bounty." " The money is his, to give or not as he pleases. He made it all." « I don't see that. If we hadn't you, mother, how much would he have to pay for an ordinary housekeeper, not to say some one that would hold his property as well together and make us all as com- fortable as you do ? I wouldn't under- take it for five hundred a year. I do believe I can manage Mr. Sydenham's land with less trouble. It's nearly eight years that you've been with us, mother ; and if all had their dues, I think father would open a bank account for you, and place three or four thousand dollars to your credit." " Did you get these ideas in Ger- many, Ethan ? When you marry are you going to pay your wife five hundred a year as housekeeper ?" " I shall be too poor for that ; and then the mistress of a domestic estab- lishment is far more than house^^r — she's house/w/rtkr." "How do you propose to manage, then ?" " I do not intend to ask any girl who doesn't understand housekeeping, and who can't tell what it costs. I'll ascer- tain how much she wants a month to keep house and to cover her personal expenses, and I won't marry till I can spare her that. Then I'll put enough cash to last for a month or two in her bureau drawer, and ask her for the key now and then, so I can see to it that it doesn't run out." Mrs. Hartland laughed : " Bache- lor's dreams, Ethan ! I expect nothing else than to see you marry a girl who don't know whether coffee needs roasting before it is ground. Young people al- ways do make up beautiful theories beforehand." " Well, mother, my only theory just at present is, that it won't do for me to sponge on my father any longer. It's wrong." " How hard set you men are in your opinions ! Ethan, you've never dis- obeyed your father yet ; and when he is dead and gone it will be a comfort to you to think that you never did." " It must come to an end some time, mother. As well now as later. I may have a household myself in a few years, and then maybe he'll object to that arrangement about the bureau drawer." The wife felt the justice of all this. But she felt more strongly still how serious is often the first breach between father and son. Alice Hartland was one of those of whom it is written that they shall be called the children of God. Hu- man strife — even war itself, no doubt — has its mission, yet the peacemakers are to be the ultimate rulers of a civilized world. "Dear Ethan," she said, "you have always been such a comfort to me in the house, especially since you returned from Europe. God knows how much more willingly I should see you accept Mr. Sydenham's generous offer than to have you going off, to remain for months or years from home, and then settling down at last, perhaps, as resident engi- neer in some distant State. I hope it will never come to that, and I know you have a right to choose. But you re- member Paul says : «All things are law- ful for me, but all things are not expe- dient.' Your father has paid much for your education. Cannot you give way to him a little? Cannot you agree to wait a few months ? Then, if there seemed no chance of a situation as en- gineer, I think he would give way." Alice's mediation was successful. The SS BEYOND THE BREAKERS. compromise was made. For six months, during which Ethan kept up his mathe- matical studies and sought in vain for employment in the field, Sydenham re- served for him the place he had offered. Then, without further opposition on his father's part, the young man accepted it. Hartland overlooked the contumacy of his son, but he never forgave Sydenham. Now that our readers know something of Ethan's connection with Sydenham, and of the cause that led to the antip- athy which grew up in the mind of Mr. Hartland, Sr., toward his son's employer, it is time that we return to the current of events that followed Sydenham's un- successful intervention in the love affairs of Celia Pembroke. CHAPTER XIV. THE MILLER AND THE GENTLEMAN. Ten days elapsed. Then, one even- ing, Cassiday came to report progress to Cranstoun. "A devilish hard time of it I've had," he said. » That miller of yours expects a man to do two days' work in one." « You've found out nothing ?" " He gave me little chance. But I like to keep a promise when I'm well paid for it." « Let us have it, then." " Widow Carson's boy Tom has been hired by Mowbray, at a dollar a week, to rub down that gray gelding of his once a day and clean out the stable on Saturdays. I thought it would be con- venient to take the widow for my washer- woman, so I got acquainted with the boy." « Not bad, that." " It's a stylish gelding enough, but there's a splint coming on the near fore leg." " What's that to me, you incorrigible horse-jockey ?" « And the shoe of that foot — " "You used to be straightforward, Delorny — " " Cassiday, if you please, while I'm here." « Very well. You used to be straight- forward in telling a story, Mr. Cassiday. What do I care for splints and horse- shoes ?" "A horseshoe's an important thing. The rider has been lost for lack of one before now ; and the rider of that, same gray may have cause to curse that very shoe." " Go on your own way, then." " On one side the iron has a notch in it, and on the other there's a nail that's been badly driven in, and the head's turned over a little. A man can tell the print of the shoe among a hundred." " You've tracked him ?" "He meets Ellen — damn L!m ! — about a quarter of a mile north of the road, and half a mile below the mill, near the bluff bank of the creek, where the brush is thick. It's an unfrequented spot." " You saw him ?" " And heard him, last Saturday after* noon, reading to her — from my name- sake, too — Byron's poems." " How did you know it was Byron ?" " We had an old copy in the Squire's stable at home, and 1 used to read it at night, by the lantern, when the horses were restless and wouldn't let me sleep : that was what made me think of Byron for a name to go by. He was dealing out to her some love-verses. I could have throttled the infernal scoundrel where he sat." "You take up Ellen's case warmly." " Did not you tell me the girl mustn't be ruined, and ar'n't you paying me thirty dollars a month to look after her?" " She's very pretty, isn't she, Cassi- day ?" "If there are any prettier girls, I haven't been lucky enough to light on them. And she's as good and as modest as she's pretty. I'll bet all I'm worth the poor thing wouldn't let that rascal say three words to her if she didn't be- lieve he intended to make her his wife. She ought to be some honest man's wife." " Your's, perhaps ?" "Why not ?" "Well, there are some small mat- ters—" BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 89 " That you and I were engaged in together long ago. Yes, I remember. But then we don't take any more heavy risks now. We have both reformed, you know. We're repentant sinners. And you would like to marry — " Cranstoun's eye warned Cassiday that he might go too far ; so he added : " To marry some rich, handsome girl ; and no doubt you'll do it, too, one of these days." " Are you serious, Cassiday ?" " Never was more serious in all my life. Didn't I tell you I had set up re- spectable, as you've done. I've been thinking it must feel very comfortable when a man has a house of his own over his head, like this of yours." " But then — " said Cranstoun, putting his hand to his mouth and turning up his little finger. "Yes, I know," rather dejectedly. " That cursed drinking has been the ruin of me. But I haven't touched a glass since I came here, nor I don't in- tend to. I felt mean about it when I was talking, last night, to — to the miller at supper." " I wonder," Cranstoun thought, "whether a fancy for a young girl really could reclaim a sot like that ?" But he only said : " Was the daughter at sup- per, too ?" " Of course. The handiest girl about a table, Mr. Cranstoun ! I believe she knows what a man's thinking about be- fore he asks for it." " The miller's pretty well }ff himself, and he'll look for a son-in-law that's well-to-do in the world." " And why shouldn't I be well-to-do ? I've made some money here already." " How was that ?" " I heard that Mr. Sydenham wanted a handsome pony for a lady. Nelson Tyler, who has an eye for a horse, told me where to find the snuggest fourteen- hand mare in three counties, and lent me a nag to go after her. Small, tho- roughbred head ; eyes like a deer's ; shoulder thin and high, running hand- somely back ; arched neck ; short- coupled ; legs flat and clean and slender as any racer's I ever backed ; the least little bits of ears ; coat like silk ; mane as fine as a young girl's hair, and drop- ping half way to the ground ; color just the thing — dark bay, with black legs. Where the old Dutchman who owned her got such a beauty I can't imagine. He thought her too spirited and too light for his work : I got her for a hun- dred and thirty-five." " And sold her to Mr. Sydenham — " " For a hundred and seventy-five, and cheap at that. Forty dollars clear, you see, for a few hours' work." " But Miss Sydenham has a saddle- horse already." "It was not for her he bought the mare." " How do you know ?" " Would you like to hear something about Mr. Sydenham's motions for the last ten days ?" " Such things never come amiss." " Well, the same day I hired to the miller, Miss Pembroke and her aunt started out, at nine o'clock in the morn- ing, to visit Mr. Sydenham. Mrs. Hart- land returned about eleven, but Miss Celia didn't get back till nearly one, though Miss Sydenham wasn't at home." " How do you know she wasn't at home ?" " She drove Mrs. Hartland back ; there was a runaway scrape, and if the girl hadn't been a trump, and rushed the mare into that pond close to town, they might both have had their necks broken." "Anything more ?" " Mr. Sydenham returned the visit next day. Then he set about getting a lady's horse. Then he bought, at Jacob Hentzlers, the handsomest side-saddle and double bridle — bit and bridoon, all bang-up — that were to be had in the vil- lage. And this morning, being Miss Celia Pembroke's birth-day, he sent down the old coachman on one of the carriage horses, leading that beauty of a pony — saddle, bridle, white saddle-cloth, ear-nets and all complete— a birth-day present to the heiress." " Confound his impudence !" " She don't care for him, Mr. Crans- toun : she's looking another way." 9 D BETOND THE BREAKERS. « Upon my word, Mr. Del — Mr. Cas- siday — considering that you've been doing two days' work in one at that mill, you seem to have been making good use of your extra time. Pray how did you happen to find out the state of the young lady's heart ?" " I was on hand when she and the aunt started for Mr. Sydenham's. Mow- bray came along on his gray, and I saw her color up red as a peony, and cast a look at the windows of her uncle's house like a guilty thing. It wasn't hard to guess that the young scamp was the favorite, and that old Hartland — well, that he didn't take to Mowbray, and probably did favor somebody else. I'm glad you think I've been industrious. If you care about any more informa- tion in that line, and will make it an object, I'm your man. There's one thing I'd like." « Well ?" "The mare that ran away, and might have killed Mrs. Hartland, was sold to her husband by the coachman, Potter. I've made the man's acquaintance : he says Hartland looks as black as night at him, and he's expecting every day to get notice to quit when the month's out. A word from you would settle it." " You want to leave the house where Ellen Tyler lives ?" " Next month, yes. It's no use for a fellow to see a girl every day as long as she cares more for another. Besides, I like being among horses better than among meal-bags. And then Hartland gives forty-five a month, and a house just across the street from the stables. It's small, but it's neat, and it's large enough for two." " Did you hear what Mowbray said to Ellen ?" " No. He read loud, but when he spoke to her it was so low I could not make it out." " I must have another witness before you leave the mill. I want you to watch your time and take the miller himself to the spot, so he can see them there to- gether with his own eyes. They'll have a nice time. Mowbray's not good for much, but he's fiery enough ; and Nelson Tyler, though he's hard to rouse, isn't a man to stand any nonsense." "An ugly job !" said Cassiday, hesi- tating ; and Cranstoun added : " You needn't appear. Don't you see it's for the girl's good, Cassiday ? These clan- destine meetings must be stopped, and who can put a stop to them but her father ? Do you want her to go on meeting that kid-gloved fop in secret till—" " Enough said !" broke in Cassiday. " I'll see to it that the burly miller has a chance at him." "And I'll look to that matter about the coachman's place." Thereupon the two worthies parted. The next Sunday afternoon the stout miller and Cassiday might have been seen not far from Tyler's mill, on the road leading thence to Chiskauga, walk- ing away from the mill, as two men might for a wager. Silent too. In the case of one of them, however, not (if physiognomy may be trusted) for lack of thought. The usual bold, frank, good- natured look of the miller seemed cloud- ed with anxiety or anger, the lips set, the veins of the forehead swollen. Cas- siday stopped at a point where two large poplars stood by the roadside close to each other. After passing back and forth along the road several times, ex- amining the ground carefully, he said : "We are in time : he has not returned." Then the men struck off into the woods at right angles to the road, pro- ceeding north, and, as they approached Chewauna Creek, slackening their pace. When, at some distance through the trees, there became visible a gray horse, saddled and bridled, fastened to a sap- ling, Cassiday turned to note the effect on his companion. A flush on the cheek and a twitch of the right hand, in which the miller carried a stout hickory. " Rather him than me," thought Cassi- day ; then to the miller : " I did it for the girl's good, Mr. Tyler, but I don't want to appear in it. I'm not used to act the informer, and you don't need me." « I should think not," was all the BEYOND THE BREAKERS. other said as he strode through the brushwood alone. Ellen was seated on a low ledge of rock, over which a horseman's cloak had been thrown : Mowbray on the grass at her feet, a book in his hand. "It is such a pleasure to read to those bright eyes of yours, dear Ellen. You ought to be a poet's wife." The young girl blushed with pleasure. " It was like sunshine to me," he pur- sued, " when you used to come three times a week to mother's French class. Wouldn't your father let you come for another quarter?" " No : he says I have learned French enough already ; and you know I am nineteen." "Then I must bring a French book with me next time and let you read to me, so you may not forget what you have learned. When can I see you again, Ellen ?" Ere the girl could reply, the sound of a heavy footstep caused Mowbray to start to his feet. Ellen turned, recog- nized her father, and, acting on the im- pulse of the moment, ran off through the underwood in the direction of the mill. The two men remained confront- ing each other. Mowbray was by no means deficient in animal courage, but, as the Dane ex- pressed it, " Conscience does make cow- ards of us all." He avoided the miller's fixed gaze. " I'm not surprised," the latter began, "that you can't look a man straight in the face." Mowbray raised his eyes : " Why shouldn't I look you in the face ? I happened to be riding through these woods hunting a board-tree to cover our wood-shed. I met your daughter and stopped to have a chat with her. We got acquainted when she was taking French lessons from my mother." " Yes. I wish I had run my hand in the fire rather than ever suffer the girl to darken your doors." " Have you a good board-tree any where on your land that you want to sell, Mr. Tyler ?" "A liar too ! Do you go hunting 9f board-trees all the time in the same place ? — yesterday was a week, for in- stance, when you came here with Byron's poems in your pocket ?" Mowbray flushed scarlet, but he re- strained himself, conscience-smitten; and Tyler added : " You young gentle- men think it fine, spirited amusement to cozen a poor young girl that knows no better than to believe you. You have respect neither for God nor man." " Ask Miss Ellen if I ever treated her otherwise than with respect." "If you had — " " I'll abide by whatever she says. I'm willing to suffer any punishment if she declares I ever did. Ask her." " I'll ask her whether yon ever asked her to be your wife, and the poor child will say no, and will weep as if her heart would break. Fm not going to ask you that question : God knows I want no such upstart as you for a son- in-law ; but I've another question I'd like to ask." « Well, sir ?" " Suppose you had a sister and I a son. Suppose that my son met your sister secretly, without your mother's knowledge, without yours. Suppose you found this out, and that you had every reason to believe my son never meant to marry your sister — was actually courting, at the very time, a richer girl — and only flirted with the other, and tried to win her foolish heart, for his own amuse- ment — nothing worse, observe ; and sup- pose you found him, one day, making love to her in a lonely spot, and telling her it was like sunshine to him when- ever he met her. Suppose you had happened, that day, to have a good stout hickory with you, what do you think would have been the probable result ?" " But the case is not the same." "Yes, I know. I'm a clod: you're some of the porcelain of the earth ; or at least you think you are, and that often answers just as well. What you do to me and mine I have no right to do to you and yours. That doctrine may answer in Russia, where they sell the working-people along with the land 9 2 BETOND THE BREAKERS. they live on.* It won't do here. What's the difference between us, Mr. Mow- bray ? Nobody ever asks me twice for a debt ; and the story goes that's more than you can say. There's not a neigh- bor I have that won't bear witness I never willfully injured him or his. You know there's one neighbor, at least, who would lie if he said that of you. Are you more respectable than I am ? Not in God's eyes : I'm not at all sure if you are in man's, either. Now I want to know about that son of mine, and what would happen if you caught him courting your sister, and you with a stout cane in your hand ?" « You won't listen to what I have to say to you, and I don't choose to answer a question when it implies a threat." « Oh, you don't ?" " No gentleman would." "John Mowbray, you shall have a piece of my mind. I suppose you would scorn to break into my house and get at my strong-box, and, if you found a couple of hundred dollars there, to go off with it under the cloud of night. If you did play me a trick like that, you wouldn't deny that you deserved the penitentiary ; and if anybody saw you at such work, you'd be very sure to get there. Now I think a midnight thief a decent, respectable man compared with you. He risks his life to get my money : there's some spunk in that ; and he may need it — who knows ? — to feed a wife and children. Then in a month or two I can make it up again. But you steal from me my very life — my child's heart, my child's honor. You do this in mere wantonness of purpose, out of no need, only out of profligate selfishness. She trusts you, and you deceive her : she loves you, and you betray her. None but a villain would do that : none but a base, treacherous coward would do that. John Mowbray you are both !" And the old man, in his hot indigna- tion, unconsciously raised the cane he held in his hand. Up to this point, Mowbray, exceed- ingly desirous to avoid a brawl with ♦The Russian serfs were not emancipated until 1862. Ellen's father, had done his best to curb his temper, though his blood boiled when the miller first called him a liar. But the villain and the coward ! And the menace of the cane ! It was more than his father's son could bear. His rage, long pent up, burst all bounds. Scarcely knowing what he did, he drew from a pocket a large spring-knife, snapped it open and rushed on Tyler. The miller, who had kept his eye on him, stood quite still and threw away his cane. With a sudden jerk of his left hand he clinched, with the grip of a vice, Mowbray's uplifted arm ; then with his right he seized the blade of the knife, wrenching it from the other's grasp with a force that sprained the wrist ; then, letting him go, he snap- ped the thick blade in two as if it had been a pipe-stem, pitched the pieces over the cliff into Chewauna Creek, and signed contemptuously to the young man, saying : " Get ye gone for a fool ! What business had you to meddle with edge- tools ?" If Mowbray's blood had not been in a ferment, he might have appreciated the generosity that let him off so easily. But he was maddened ; and he grappled fiercely with his opponent, his passion lending him a force which took the miller by surprise. Mowbray struck him two or three violent blows. Then, for the first time, the animal in Tyler was fairly roused. For a minute or two he had to do his best ; but he was a vete- ran wrestler, who in his youth had never been beaten ; and age had but little diminished his extraordinary strength. Closing with Mowbray, in a few minutes he had tripped him up, caught him, as he was falling, in his arms, and borne him, despite his struggles, to the verge of the cliff. It was a sheer descent of full forty feet to the bank of the creek, and that was covered with sharp-angled rocks. Had Mowbray at that terrible moment pleaded humbly for his life, it is just possible he might have lost it through the contempt he would have inspired ; but pride and passion overcame fear: he said not a word, and when he had ex- TYLER AND MOWBRAY. Page 92. BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 93 h aus ted himself by terrible but fruitless effort, and felt in that clutch of steel that he was overmastered, he submitted si- lently to his fate. Nelson Tyler stood, for a few moments, as if irresolute — it was no bad subject for a group of Her- cules and Antaeus — then, turning from the precipice, he flung the young man on the ground with stunning force. In fall- ing, Mowbray's head struck against a stray root of a tree just visible above the ground, and he lay insensible. The miller stood looking at him, "He's had enough," he said; then hastily descending to the creek, by a circuitous path well known to him, he brought back a hat-full of water just as Mowbray had recovered consciousness so as to sit up. The wound on his head was trifling, and the cold water soon revived him. Not a word passed between the men except the question : " Can you ride home ?" and the answer : "Yes." Tyler brought the horse, assisted Mowbray to mount ; and, as he gave him the reins, he said, in his deep bass tones : " Thank God, young man, that He preserved you from death and me from murder." PART V. CHAPTER XV. ELLINOR ETHELRIDGE. CELIA told Leoline the exact truth when she said, after the conversa- tion with Sydenham, that she was return- ing home hopeful and encouraged. But a few words, how wise and encouraging soever, so long as they fail to remove daily-recurring annoyances, afford alle- viation only. One cannot take a fire in one's hand by " thinking on the frosty Caucasus." Hartland's grim looks were real things — as real as frost or rainy weather — for they chilled her more than either. Sydenham's mediation, she saw, had only irritated her guardian ; but when his mysterious prescription reached her, on the morning of her birth-day, in the shape of a beautiful pony, it proved an habitual comfort, in substantial form, that almost offset the grim looks. Bess — so she named the little mare — became a petted favorite at once ; and the spirit- ed creature returned her mistress' daily caresses, after a time, with almost hu- man affection. She would follow Celia everywhere, though at large, even through a crowd. Morbid thoughts usually spring either from feeble health or from idleness. It is a difficult matter to get rid of such by sitting down and seeking to reason one's 94 self out of them. We do better to re- move the cause ; and this we can often effect by some simple arrangement of external circumstances. This young girl, while she reaped the advantages, suffered also the evils, which money brings. With a competence already assured, she was subjected to no wholesome demand for exertion of mind or body. She had finished her education, or what is called such by those who forget that the de- velopment and cultivation of our faculties go on not only through the life which now is, but doubtless through that which is to come. Had she been at the head of her own household, a sense of duty would have kept her busy ; and the actively busy have no time to be senti- mental. But she had no vocation — nothing imperatively calling her off from trifles and summoning to the realities of life. Sydenham, even if he did not realize all this, had prescribed wisely. Bess became educator as well as physician. As Celia gradually contracted the habit of riding out for an hour or two every fine day, the effect on health and spirits was notably salutary. She dwelt less on petty annoyances than formerly. On horseback she seemed to get away from them. The custom of the country per- mitted her to ride unattended ; and when BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 95 out in the woods her thoughts took freer scope and a fresher tone. After a time she found a companion with whom to ride — one who was at once a puzzle and a pleasure to her. In most villages there is to be found some mysterious personage, whom the villagers cannot exactly make out ; who dropped down among them, they scarcely know how ; with whose antecedents they are very imperfectly acquainted : some one, perhaps, whose manners and bear- ing are at variance with his apparent circumstances, and who becomes, by turns, an object of curiosity, of admira- tion and of suspicion. Nor was Chiskauga without her sphinx's riddle, welcomed by village gossip. It- had made its appearance about five years before the present epoch of our story, in graceful guise — to wit, in the form of a young lady of very striking appearance : not pretty, cer- tainly. Handsome ? Well, one scarcely knew whether to call her so or not. Stylish-looking she certainly was in face and in person, though her manners were very quiet, even reserved. Her features, though expressing dignity and intelli- gence, were irregular, but no one would call her plain who looked in her beauti- ful soft eyes. They were a little dreamy. Those might have thought her proud who did not note how uniformly unob- trusive her deportment was. Did these expressive features indicate spirit ? One would have said so but for a despondent look that was habitual to her. She had brought a letter to Mr. Syden- ham, introducing Miss Ellinor Ethel- ridge from England, an orphan. It was from a Mr. Williams, an elderly Quaker gentleman of Philadelphia, with whom Sydenham had accidentally made ac- quaintance at Pisa. They had traveled together to Florence and Rome, and Sydenham had been delighted with the benevolence and the inquiring spirit of his new acquaintance. What the exact tenor of Mr. Williams' letter was did not transpire, except that it contained a warm recommendation of the bearer as a person in every way well qualified to fill the post of teacher — a situation, it appeared, which the young lady desired to obtain in some quiet country place. Sydenham's influence and exertions soon procured her a school, to which the principal people in the place gradually sent their children. He was himself a frequent visitor, and he was pleased and surprised with the good judgment and ability which Miss Ethelridge displayed. No such teacher had ever before ap- peared in Chiskauga. Aside from music, in which she was not a proficient, her qualifications were admirable — among them a familiar acquaintance with French, which she spoke with the fluency of a native. This brought about an ac- quaintance with Dr. Meyrac's family, and after a time they received her as boarder. With Madame Meyrac, fas- tidious in her likings, she became a great favorite. Celia, desiring to perfect herself in French, had taken private lessons from her ; and, notwithstanding a five years' difference in their ages, was strongly attracted to her teacher. For a year or two her advances had been met, on the part of Miss Ethelridge, with a degree of coldness which would have repelled her in almost any one else ; but the soft eyes, with their spiritual light, and the cultivated tones of a low, sweet voice, drew her on with a strange fascina- tion, and her persistent love thawed the frost at last. Beneath, she found rare qualities — a noble spirit, generous and impulsive, covered, however, with a reti- cence so strict that Celia knew no more of this stranger's early history up to the time of which we are now writing than the rest of the Chiskauga world did. But if this woman, to others grave and undemonstrative, withheld even from Celia her confidence, she granted her at last, in unstinted measure, affection — unwillingly, it seemed, as if she were yielding to a reprehensible weakness, but with all the warmth of a genial nature breaking over the bounds of self-imposed restraint. And for the little kindnesses which Celia's position enabled her to bestow she returned a measure of grati- tude out of proportion to the benefits 9 6 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. conferred. One of these, which the girl had recently offered, seemed to touch her more than any other she had received. It happened that Cranstoun, in fulfill- ment of his promise to Cassiday, had spoken of the latter to Hartland ; and having exhibited the certificate which the groom had received from Rarey at- testing his ability as horse-trainer, he persuaded Hartland to try the new- comers skill in reclaiming Brunette, the runaway. So satisfactory had been the result that when a young city friend of Celia's, a timid rider but fond of the exercise, came for a day or two to visit them, the uncle permitted his niece to ride Brunette and to lend Bess to her visitor. The " brown beauty " behaved admirably, and both young ladies came home delighted with the trip. This suggested to Celia a plan, to which, as Mr. Hartland had somewhat demurred to her solitary strolls on horse- back, she hoped to obtain his assent. One evening, when her uncle, with infi- nite self-satisfaction, had been exhibiting to her a magnificent beetle yet unde- scribed, and one of the finest specimens he had ever added to his collection, her instinct bade her avail herself of the rare good-humor which her praises of the insect's brilliant colors had called out. She broached her proposal, which was, that she might be allowed, occasion- ally, on days when her aunt did not re- quire the dearborn, to have the use of Brunette for Miss Ethelridge, so that that lady might join in her rides. Hartland, after reflecting a little, gave a hearty assent ; for which Celia would have been more grateful had she been quite sure that his ready compliance \v ; th her wish was due to kindness alone. Sne zvas thankful, however, especially to her aunt, who joined warmly in the plan and placed Brunette at her disposal dur- ing three days a week. At the German saddler, Hentzler's, Celia early next morning picked out a saddle, bridle and accoutrements, the exact counterparts of her own, and her- self accompanied the man who carried them to Dr. Meyrac's. Ellinor was absent, but came up to her room, where Celia awaited her, a few minutes later. Her first look of surprise at sight of her friend's gift, which had been deposited on the floor, changed to one of sadness — it seemed almost of pain — so suddenly that Celia, disconcerted, presented her offering with hesitation. " For me !" was all Ellinor said, in an incredulous tone — " for me !" And when Celia disclosed her project, telling what a pleasure it would be to have such com- panionship in her rides, she was startled by the effect her words produced. She had never seen her friend give way to deep emotion in all the five years of their acquaintance ; and it was evident that Ellinor tried hard now for self-control. In vain ! The tears would come — the sobs could not be restrained. " Celia," she said, at last — " darling Celia, I used to have friends who called me Ellie : I have none now. They used to plan for my happiness as you do — as no one else has done since — since a dear friend died. If you treat me as you are doing to-day, I must be Ellie to you — Ellie, dear one, Ellie! What years since I heard my name !" Celia, startled by this unexpected burst of feeling, threw her arms about Ellinor's neck, called her " Ellie," and » darling," and other pet names besides, and then cried heartily, as if. she had just lost a friend instead of finding one. Her tears arrested Ellinor's. She took the excited girl in her arms and soothed her as a mother might. " Dear child !" she said: "how self- ish I am, giving pain to you when you were recalling to me dreams of pleasure ! I wish so much to gweyou pleasure ; and then your gift was such a temptation !" Celia looked up and met the sad, long- ing eyes : " You are not going to let me call you Ellie, and then refuse the only little bit of comfort I have the chance to offer you ? And the kindness is to me, not to you. Please, please believe me ! there's nobody — not even Leoline — that I feel drawn to as to you." " Yes, that's it. That is all wrong." " All wrong that I should love you, Ellie ?" BE TO IVB THE BREAKERS. 97 «' Wrong that I should have asked you to call me Ellie, as things stand. What do you know of me, Celia ? Who am I ? Why did I come here alone ? I was but twenty when I reached Chis- kauga, and I have had dear friends. Yet I am sought for by no one, cared for by no one. I scarcely receive a letter — never but from one person, and upon him I have no claim. You have given me your love, from pity maybe, or be- cause your heart is warm and trusting, and you knew I needed love. But have I a right to accept it and explain noth- ing ? You are so young and guileless ! You do not know the world and its false pretences and its crooked ways. Ought I to take advantage of that ?" » I know you are an orphan as I am ; and I dare say there was no uncle and no kind aunt, like mine, to take the or- phan in and care for her. Is not that enough ? Have I ever asked to know more ?" " Never : that is the worst of it. If you had been inquisitive, I should have had an excuse for reticence." " It needs none. I have known you five years, Ellie, and have loved you nearly as long. If you are not good, nobody is." The tears glistened again in Ellinor's eyes. « If I live," she said, " you shall know, some day, whether I am worthy of your love or not. Keep that beauti- ful faith of yours till then. We grow old when we lose it. God, in his mer- cy, send that your trust in his creatures may never be betrayed !" " Mr. Sydenham said, the other day, that you had done so much good here — that your pupils, as they grew up, would be an honor to the place." "Thank God !" Then, after a pause : " When they are mothers of families and I an old woman, I shall have friends in them." " But as you are a young woman still, I and working hard for them, you ought to have a ride now and then to do you good. Macbeth asked that 'doctor of I physic,' with the long black gown, if i he could not 'minister to a mind dis- 7 eased ?' I think Bess can. That's my experience." " What do you know about ' a mind diseased,' little pet?" Celia blushed : she would have been ashamed to talk of her sorrows to one like Ellinor — forsaken, alone. The quick eye of the latter saw and inter- preted the emotion at once. " Forgive me," she said ; then picking up the bridle Celia had brought for her, with its white web-reins and blue silk front- let : " Where did you find anything so pretty as this ?" " Mr. Sydenham had a set of horse equipments made, or sent for, expressly for me, by Mr. Hentzler, and this is a duplicate set which the saddler got up, or procured, at the same time, thinking, I suppose, that Bess would set off mine to advantage, and that somebody might fancy the pattern." " One recognizes Mr. Sydenham's taste : it is faultless. Every article is perfect, even to this beautiful riding- whip with its knobs wound with silver wire. Ah ! from Swayne & Adeney ! I thought I detected London work. The covered buckles of that bridle were never made in Chiskauga." « I am so glad it all suits you." " I could not help admiring it, but it does not suit me, dear Celia." She stopped, seeing how much pain she gave : " You ought to have a companion in your rides, but there is Leoline, nearly your own age, in your own rank — a far more fitting associate than I." " Leoline is a dear, good girl, merry as she can be, and I like her ever so much. Now and then she rides with me — more usually with her father. But I want you : I need you, Ellie." » Me, dear child ?" " Yes, you do me good. I feel better and quieter when I've had a real chat with you. And we can have such long, long talks on horseback in the woods. Don't you like riding ?" " I used to like it very much." " Did you ever take riding-lessons ?" « For nearly two years, before I left London. It was my chief amusement then." 9 8 1 BEYOND THE " Ah !" — Celia took her friend's hand and patted it coaxingly — " now do be a good girl, Ellie. Eve been wanting so much, for two years past, to take riding- iessons. I know I need them. Mr. Sydenham gave me some hints about my seat in the saddle : I'm certain he thinks I ride badly. You have praised me for my progress in French. Who knows but what I may do as well in riding ?" Strange ! Still that despondent look. Celia read refusal in her friend's face. "Ellie," she continued, "I'm not too proud to accept a gift from you. Won't you make me a present of a quarter's riding-lessons ?" " Little plotter !" It was said with a sad, sweet smile, but something in the tone or look convinced Celia that she had not reached the depth of her friend's objections, whencesoever arising. She made one last effort : "There's another reason why I want you ;" and with that she blushed a little, and Ellinor's expression changed. " My guardian is a good man, but he is not a cordial one. Yet he agreed cor- dially to this proposal of mine when I spoke to him about it. I think I know the reason. There is a young man against whom Mr. Hartland has very strong prejudices ; and he imagines that I shall not be able to meet him so often if you and I ride together sometimes." " It is Evelyn Mowbray." "Yes." " Do you wish to meet him alone ?" " Not often. We can be friends only, for two or three years at least ; and I am so anxious to do nothing that shall offend my guardian." Ellinor sat silent for a minute or two. " God forgive me if I do wrong !" was the thought which occupied her. " You are right," she said at last : " it is best not to meet Mr. Mowbray too often." " Then help me do right — there's a darling ! See !" taking up the riding- whip : " here's a tiny silver shield : mine has exactly such a one, and Mr. Sydenham had my initials engraved on it. There's just room for ' Ellie :' it won't hold < Ellinor.' I'm going to take BREAKERS. it to the watch-maker's — you know he engraves nicely." " I don't need a memento of this day, Celia." " Well, I shall carry off your whip with me, at all events ; and — let me see, to-morrow is Saturday : you do not keep school, and we can take the morning for it — to-morrow at half-past eight I'll be here. Potter shall call for your sad- dle and bridle at once : I only had them brought here to show to you. It's your hour for school, Ellie : you haven't time to argue with me any longer. Good-bye!" The little strategist had carried the citadel by assault. Ellinor let her go, saying only, " It's such a comfort to be able to teach somebody without asking payment in return ! You shall have your riding-lessons, Celia." Ellinor mounted Brunette next day. Even Celia's unpracticed eye detected the finished grace with which she rode. Whether she felt the inspiration which Bulwer may have realized when he de- clared that, "give him but a light rein and a free bound, he was Cato, Cicero, Caesar," I know not. But, as they cantered swiftly through the woodland glades, her eye appeared to kindle with a spirit, and her stately figure to dilate with a commanding power, which Celia had never seen in her before. Some old character, hidden till now under the veil of grief or despondency, seemed emerging. The village teacher was trans- formed. For a time her thoughts had strayed off, far off, beyond her control. Then, awaking to the present, she drew rein. She was in the Chiskauga woods once more. " The elbows a little closer to the body, Celia," she said. " That is well : if it seem stiff at first, the feeling will wear off by habit. I think I had better knit up that bridoon rein for you till you obtain more complete management of the bit." " I thought that was the snafiie rein." "A snaffle, as my riding-master took pains to tell me, has a bar outside of the ring, on each side, and it is used alone: the bridoon, you see, has none — it is used along with the bit, but inde- BEYOND THE pendently of it. The bridle hand lower, dear. That is important, especially in rapid riding." That flew creature whom Celia had admired, curbing her horse in queenly fashion beside her, a few moments be- fore, was gone. It was again Miss Ethelridge, the village teacher, pains- taking, with an eye on her pupil and giving her advice from time to time. As they were approaching home on their return, she said, with a smile : " My riding-pupil will do me as much credit as my pupil in French did." Then, with changed tone and manner, she added : " You have given me such a day as I have not had for years, dear child ■ — for years ! Dante was only half right when he spoke of the grief we suffer by recalling happy times in the past." Two days a week was all Celia could persuade Ellinor to agree to. " I took only two riding-lessons each week my- self," she said. The second day, when they were about to mount, she asked Celia, " Would you mind letting me ride Bess a little ?" " You shall have her most willingly." " She doesn't rein back readily, and she should be taught to passage." " To passage ?" " To move off sideways, her head turned just a little, so as to let one foot cross in front of the other. It is very convenient sometimes, when one is riding in company." They were not to have their talk to themselves this time. After a ride of some miles in the woods, they heard galloping behind them, and turning saw Ethan Hartland and John Evelyn Mow- bray approaching. Celia was a little surprised, for the young men were sel- dom seen together. Mowbray rode up at once beside Celia, and Hartland, with apparent hesitation, slowly moved his horse to the other side. " Cousin Celia," he said, " we had no intention of intruding on you and Miss Ethelridge. Mr. Mowbray asked me to show him a piece of land belonging to Mr. Sydenham which he thinks of purchasing." Ellinor, after a single glance at the BREAKERS. 99 speaker, turned quickly to Mowbray, who spoke, almost as if her look needed a reply : " Yes, mother finds cord-wood getting to be so expensive that she pro- poses to buy a bit of woodland, from which we can supply ourselves." They rode on, a little way, four abreast, then came to a spot where the road, cut into a hill and flanked with ditches, narrowed considerably. "We crowd you, Miss Ethelridge," said Hartland, reining back. " Perhaps we had better ride on," said Mowbray, and, without waiting for Celia's answer, he put his horse to a canter, Brunette keeping up. Ellinor checked Bess, prompted by the evident incivility of leaving Hartland behind ; but the animal — much to her surprise, for it had hitherto seemed perfectly do- cile — reared, made one or two dashes to the front, then, when checked, stamped impatiently, neighing the while ; and, when put in motion again, curveted so violently that a rider with less practiced hand and less assured seat might well have been in danger. But Ellinor, tho- roughly trained, sat with skill and self- possession, such as is said to have de- ceived the poor Peruvians into the be- lief that Pizarro and his followers formed a portion of the animals they rode. Hartland forgot his apprehensions for her safety in admiration of her horse- manship ; but when, after the mare was reduced to submission, she still fretted against the bit as impatiently as ever, he said : " Celia has stopped, alarmed, I think, for your safety, Miss Ethelridge. Had we not better ride up ? The road is wider now." " It is spoiling Bess to let her have her own way," replied Ellinor ; yet she acted on the suggestion and touched the mare with the whip. No dog ever showed joy more plainly at his master's return than did the high-spirited animal when once more by her mistress' side. She rubbed her head against her as if seeking the accustomed caress. Celia could not withhold it, but she said : " I am ashamed of you, Bess : how could you behave so ?" 100 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. It seemed almost as if the creature understood the tone of reproach. She drooped her head and submissively obeyed the slightest touch of the rein. " Have you had any difficulty in de- taching her from Brunette when you were riding her, Celia ?" said Ellinor, thoughtfully. " Not the least : I have separated them again and again, and Bess has always obeyed at once. I cannot under- stand her behavior to-day." « I can. It is not her comrade, it is her mistress, she is unwilling to leave. I knew just such an instance once," in a low voice. " Poor Bess !" she added, patting the mare's neck, "if that is your only fault — " What memory was it that gave so touching a tone to the broken words ? Whatever it was, it was harshly dispelled the next moment. " Celia," said Mowbray, " it will never do to let that pony get so willful. You'll have no peace with her. She ought to be broken of such tricks at once. I wish you'd let me take her in hand for a day or two." Ellinor's eyes had been fixed on Mow- bray during this speech, and she turned to Celia as if anxious for her reply. " Thank you, Evelyn, but I prefer to manage her myself. Miss Ethelridge will help me : I am taking riding-lessons from her." Mowbray's brow clouded. He seemed on the point of making some additional remark, but checked himself. They rode on for some distance, silently at first — afterward exchanging a few com- monplaces, until they reached a cross- road, little more than a bridle-path, leading deeper into the woods. Then Hartland said: » Our road leads off here to the right, Mr. Mowbray." * « Are you very busy this afternoon, Mr. Hartland ? We might accompany the ladies as far as their ride extends, and then have time, in returning, to look at this land before sundown." " Another day I shall be glad to show it to you, but I have several things which I have promised Mr. Sydenham that I would attend to this afternoon." The tone was barely civil. Celia, who knew her cousin well and liked him, had a dim feeling that there was some- thing wrong, especially when she saw a frown darkening the face of Mowbray, who, having no longer excuse for delay, coldly doffed his hat to the ladies and rode off with Hartland. If either of the riders who remained regretted this departure, one of their horses evidently did not. Bess resumed all her spirit and gentleness, arching her neck, as with pride or pleasure, and glancing with her bold, bright eyes at her mistress — a mute protest, one might almost have supposed it, against another separation. Ellinor ran her fingers through the long silky mane admiringly. " I shall not have the heart to correct this pretty creature for her one sin," she said. " I have the same weakness for her mistress that she has. She means only love, not harm. Should one be blamed for that ?" " We are told that to him who loveth much shall much be forgiven." Ellinor looked up quickly : she saw that Celia was not thinking of her. "That is God's own truth," she said, reverently : then after a pause — " yet we have no right to indulge even love at expense of others." This time it was Celia who looked up. Ellinor turned it off : " Bess won't an- noy you with her fondness : she'll be good at your bidding, if she is perverse with others." A fit of musing fell on the girls as they rode home. Something had jarred on Celia's consciousness, but she had forgotten it next day. Not so Ellinor: she laid up what seemed trifles in her heart. CHAPTER XVI. THE CANDIDATES. "Audi alteram partem." " Papa dear," said Leoline, as they rode one morning toward Tyler's Mill, " who is this Mr. Creighton that we are going to hear ?" " Candidate to fill a vacancy in Con- gress, against Mr. Emberly." BEYOND THE BREAKERS. ior « Yes, I know ; but who is he ?" " Have you any recollection of Mr. Williams ? But no — you were too young then." " The Quaker gentleman who traveled with us in Italy ? Why, I remember the very day we made acquaintance with him." " Are you sure of that, my child ?" " It was in the cathedral at Pisa. He asked the guide about Galileo's lamp. No, not Galileo's, but the lamp that was accidentally set swinging while mass was going on, and Galileo noticed it, and it helped him to invent the pendulum." " It suggested to him the principle of the pendulum, you mean : yes, that is the very Mr. Williams. Eliot Creigh- ton is his nephew — a young lawyer liv- ing about fifty miles from here." » A good speaker, is he ?" " They say so. I take an interest in him. He is, I believe, a Unitarian ; and I saw, this morning, an anonymous handbill attacking him on account of his religious opinions, and abusing him as an infidel." " I'm glad of that : I mean I'm glad he will have to defend himself." « Why, my child ?" "It will be nice : we shall see what he's made of. We shall see whether he'll let them catechise him. A man that's a coward won't do for me." " I like pluck myself. Moral courage is the rarest of qualities among our pub- lic men. But, in a political contest, where the party vote is so nearly bal- anced as in our district, there is great temptation to temporize and smooth things over." " Surely you wouldn't vote to send a man to Congress who could not stand temptation, papa?" said Leoline, in- dignantly. " Not if another offered who could," smiling at her warmth. " I hope Mr. Creighton can." « We shall see." The trysting-place was Grangula's Mount — so called after an Indian chief who had formerly held sway in these parts. It was in the woods, about two miles west of Sydenham's residence. The topmost summit of this eminence was bald, but a little way down, on its eastern slope, were loosely clustered a few broad-branching trees — old oaks and elms and dark hemlocks. Under the spacious shelter of this detached grove the eye commanded a magnificent view over the village, the pretty lake beyond and the expanse of forest and champaign that surrounded both. The spot was a favorite resort of the villagers on their pic-nic excursions ; and Sydenham, de- siring to encourage these easy, healthful social gatherings, had caused rustic seats to be placed where the shade was deep- est for comfort and accommodation. This had caused it to be selected, also, as a convenient spot for public meetings, political and sometimes religious. A crowd was gathering fast. It was a magnificent day — calm, cloudless, but the landscape veiled with the light, trans- parent, illuminated haze which marks that beautiful episode in the autumn season of the West, known as " In- dian Summer." As Sydenham and his daughter advanced to their seats, Leo- line exclaimed in delight ; and her father, albeit familiar with whatever is most striking in European scenery, stood still in admiration. It was at the epoch when the first light finger-touch of frost sprinkles magi- cal coloring over dark-green oceans of foliage. The woods, far more brilliant in their decay than in the tropic of their perfection, showed like groves in fairy- land, pranked with all that is gayest in the rainbow — golden and primrose yel- lows ; tawny orange of every shade ; deep, blood-red crimsons ; scarlets with color of flame ; gorgeous purples, with here and there a lilac tinge ; bright, rich browns, shaded off into russet and olive ; yet all harmonizing with a felicity which human pencil seeks in vain to emulate. A lover of Nature might well have traveled a thousand miles to wit- ness the scene, if nearer home such ex- hibition of sylvan splendor was not to be found. Yet most of the spectators who now sat down in full view of the wondrous prospect scarcely vouchsafed a second look or a single comment. 102 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. Their thoughts were on something less familiar — the two candidates, both per- sonal strangers in the county, who had just made their appearance on the ground. They had agreed to travel together and to speak alternately. On this day, Mr. Emberly had the opening speech. He ascended an elevated plat- form, occupied, on festal occasions, by the village band. A thin, middle-aged man, clad in black, with a slow step and somewhat solemn aspect ; known by reputation to many of the spectators as having filled, a few years before, the post of president- judge in an adjoining circuit — a fluent rather than forcible speaker. He began by a compliment to the audience, eulo- gizing the appearance of the village and surrounding country, then ran glibly over the political topics of the day in parti- san fashion, hitting his opponent from time to time with a touch of asperity, but without allusion to his religious sentiments, unless his concluding remark might be so construed. " Fellow-citizens," he said, « I here rest my cause, assured of helping hands. I am happy to have found among you many who agree with me, not only in politics, but on topics transcending in importance all matters of secular debate — men with whom I have a bond of fellowship closer than any party ties ; dear friends who sympathize with me in those opinions which will determine our Future when earthly scenes shall have passed away. That I have the hearty good-will of all such men I know, and with that I rest satisfied : it is not for me to inquire whether I shall obtain their votes also." At this all eyes turned toward Creigh- ton ; and Leoline, glancing round, noticed that one or two men, who had been read- ing a handbill before the speaking began, nudged their neighbors. She felt a little nervous as Creighton rose. The young man himself did not seem quite at ease. Instead of ascending to the platform which Emberly had occupied, and which stood a little on one side, he took his stand at the foot of a noble elm, di- rectly in front of the audience, who were chiefly seated, row above row, on the sloping hillside, so that he looked up as he addressed them. During the first ten minutes most of his auditors had come to the conclusion that the fluent Emberly was the better speaker. No easy preface ; no concilia- tory commendation of themselves or of their neighborhood : no sueing ; no allusion, in deprecatory tone or other- wise, to his own claims or to his inex- perience. A plain review of the facts at issue, curtly but carefully stated, rather as if it had been committed to memory. This called forth no token, expressed aloud, either of dissent or of approba- tion ; a Chiskauga audience never in- dulged in any such — it was contrary to the habit of the country ; but the faces were cold, and there was a smile, not of friendly import, on the lips of several prominent men — on those of Amos Crans- toun among the rest. Such a moment is a turning-point in the career of a young speaker. Creighton noticed the mute irony : it stung him, shaking him free from embarrassment at once. He took up the subjects he had laid out, one by one, just a little bit defiantly at first ; but, as the spirit began to work, with such earnestness and candor that, before half an hour more had passed, the audi- ence had forgotten to criticise or to admire ; had forgotten that it was Eliot Creighton who was speaking to them ; thought only of the facts submitted and of the arguments made ; so completely, by the magnetic tones, had they become wrapped up in the subject itself. Seve- ral had stretched themselves on the grass near him, their rifles beside them, and now, the chin propped on a hand, sat with eyes as eagerly fixed on the speaker as if they had been tracking a deer. Animated by the attention he had won, Creighton indulged, once or twice, in a vein of humor that was natural to him ; his allusions to Emberly and to his arguments, sharp as the wit was, still untinctured by ill-nature. That won simple hearts, always open to a pleasant jest. Several old farmers slapped their thighs, in a manner which said as plainly BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 103 as a slap could say it, " He'll do !" And when at last, in illustration of some point he had made, the speaker intro- duced, with graphic gestures, a sportive anecdote, the hillside rang with laughter. Then he paused, a sudden change passing over his features, sternness suc- ceeding the light pleasantry. The whis- pered comments which his amusing story had called forth instantly ceased, and there was a hush of expectation. Picking up from the grass beside him, where he had laid it ere he began to speak, a printed handbill, he unfolded it as if to read its contents : then, seeming to think better of it, he cast it from him again ; and, selecting from among several documents a small, time-stained-looking pamphlet, and alluding now, for the first time throughout his speech, to the fact that he was a candidate, he said, quietly, but with that emphasis which subdued emotion imparts : " If you send me to Washington City, it will not be as a propagandist to take action for you in matters of religion : it will be as agent or attorney to transact your worldly business. But it is not usual to ask a lawyer, before he is en- trusted with a cause, whether he be Presbyterian or Universalist. Nor do you catechise the tailor who sews your coat, or the shoemaker who fits you with a pair of boots. You want your busi- ness well done — that is your affair : you leave the man's creed alone — that is his. Now the same common-sense principle which prevails in every-day life would govern in politics also if voters, in this matter, were left to themselves. Yet ever since the commencement of our government there have been found, from time to time, those who have taken pains to lead astray, on this point, the good sense of the people. " Would you hear what was put forth, in the year 1800, when the author of the Declaration of Independence was candi- date for the Presidency ? Then let me read to you from a pamphlet of that day. The writer says : < Consider the effect which the election of any man avowing the principles of Mr. Jefferson would oave upon our citizens. The effect would be to destroy religion, introduce immorality and loosen all the bonds of society.' " Such was the prophecy. Shall we ask whether, four years afterward, when he whom his enemies persisted in call- ing ' the infidel President ' took his seat, the predictions of evil were fulfilled ? — whether religion was destroyed — whether immorality was introduced — whether the bonds of society were loosened ? The questions are an insult to the illustrious dead ! " Now, as then, we find men who en- gage in politics as they would gamble at cards. But it is not the religion of the heart that busies itself in this profligate game. True piety is quiet, unobtrusive, a keeper at home, a peacemaker. She enters into her closet and prays there, after she has closed the door. She does not thrust herself into the turmoil of party politics, catechising candidates and sowing broadcast the seeds of intoler- ance and of all uncharitableness. True piety, let it differ from me in the articles of its creed as it will, I honor and re- spect. Prom my youth up I have been trained to honor and respect it. But, for its base counterfeit — say, freemen of Ohio ! answer and say, whether I should better deserve the suffrages of brave and upright men if I lacked the spirit to scorn its slanders — if I consented to bow down my soul before its pharisaical sway ?" Creighton's voice was a low tenor, musical and of great power ; and its tones, as he warmed with indignant emotion, swelled out over the hillside and reached the edge of the forest, where some little children were nutting. They crept back on tiptoe, " to hear what the preacher was saying." When Creighton recommenced it was in a quieter key : " When a friend asks me about my creed — when any good man, anxious for my spiritual welfare, makes inquiry touching my religious opinions — I have an answer for him, full and frank. But when political intriguers, conspiring for sinister ends, go out of their way to charge upon me sentiments which as 104 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. little resemble those I ever held as their whole conduct in this affair resembles uprightness and fair-dealing — to such men, impertinently obtruding such a subject, I have no answer whatever. "It may be that some of you, if I told you my creed, might deem a few of its articles heterodox. So be it! They are my own. I am answerable for them at a higher tribunal than man's. I claim for myself, as the good and noble Roger Williams did of yore, that right of pri- vate judgment and free speech which it is our country's proudest boast that every American citizen may demand at the hands of his fellow-citizens. To the greatest it has not been refused — to the humblest it may not justly be denied. Jefferson claimed it when he asked your fathers' votes for the office of chief magistrate of the republic : I am equally entitled to its sacred shield, though I stand before you but one among the undistinguished hundreds who now aspire to a seat in the councils of the nation." Not a sound nor a movement in the audience. No one stirred from his place. They sat with eyes intent on the speaker, as if waiting for more. It was not till Creighton, noticing this, stepped forward with a smile and a blush of pleasure at this mute compliment to his eloquence, and thanked them grace- fully for the marked attention they had given him, that the spell was dissolved and the crowd arose. Then, indeed, all tongues were loosed. Some of the comments, even when laudatory, were more forcible than ele- gant. As Sydenham stopped to speak to Celia and her aunt, Leoline overheard, from a knot of four or five gray-headed men near them : "If that young fellow didn't give it to them good ! Now ain't he a horse ?" " Well, he's slick on the tongue — very," said another ; " but he's mighty high and independent. He didn't seem to care a chaw of tobacco whether we gin him our votes or not. If a man goes for him, he won't get a thankee for it. Emberly's something like : he has a civil tongue in his head." " They're both blooded nags," broke in a younger man who had come up during the last remark ; "but I'll tell you what it is : fair play's fair play. That hand- bill sort o' sticks in my craw. A fellow ought to have a chance. Here's just three days to the election, and it's only yesterday these dirty sheets showed their faces here. I hear'n they were kep' back in the other counties till the can- didates had spoke and gone. That's stabbin' a man behind his back. A scamp that'd be guilty of such a trick'd steal cold corn-bread from a nigger's saddle-bags." " Ye can't say Emberly had anything to do with the handbills." " No ; but, to my thinkin' there was a touch of the sneak in the way he wound up his speech about < bonds of fellowship.' A man could see with half an eye that it was a tub thrown out to the Methodists." « And you're a Hard-shell Baptist." « Not soft enough, any way, to he caught with such back-handed tricks." Leoline's party passed on toward the stand, so she heard no more. Syden- ham gave his hand to Creighton. " We must become good friends," he said, cordially. " Come and have a quiet cup of tea at my house this evening. Or cannot you ride home with us now ?" " Thank you, much. But a candidate is public property for two hours after his speech, and I must call on my friend, Miss Ethelridge. By six I can be with you." " That will suit us perfectly." Celia, having come on horseback, joined the Sydenham party as they rode home. « So he knows Ellie ?" she 1 thought to herself ; " < my friend Miss Ethelridge,' he said. And she has only one friend who writes to her. I wonder I if it is Mr. Creighton?" But all this ' she kept to herself. " Isn't he splendid ?" said Leoline to Celia : her father was riding in advance with Ethan Hartland. » Mr. Creighton ? I liked his speech ; but you surely don't think him hand- some, Lela?" Celia was comparing him, in her own mind, with Evelyn Mowbray. BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 105 « I really can't tell what ladies call handsome. Dr. Meyrac has a fine por- trait of Kosciusko, and Lucille Meyrac and I were looking at it the other day. She said it was an ugly face. Well, I don't know. I think if its owner had courted me right hard, I might have had him." « And you think Creighton resembles him ?" « Wicked creature ! You would en- trap me into giving as broad a hint as Desdemona gave to Othello — 1 And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her.' " "Well, Lela, why shouldn't you ad- mire him ?" « I like him. I like all brave and frank men, who speak their minds nobly — who won't temporize and truckle — who won't be taken to task and trodden on. But it's against my principles to care for any one— that is, really care, you know — who will never care for me." Celia laughed : " So you've made up your mind already that Creighton never will." " Quite," Leoline replied with the most sober and thoughtful air. "He never would, even if he were to settle here among us. I'm not the least the sort of person to take his fancy. I'm too like him. If I were fairly brought to bay and hard put to it, I'm not at all sure but I could make some such speech, myself. I felt like it when he talked about bowing down his soul — how was it ? — beneath Slander's Phari- saical sway. Such sort of men like sweet, quiet, domestic women. Ah ! if you were not disposed of, Celia ! The very person to suit him !" " But then I should never take a fancy to him." " No. It's a pity, though." And Leoline looked as serious as if she had the whole matter on her own shoulders : she was thinking of Mowbray, and com- paring the two men. Then she branched off to the speech again : " What a ges- ture that was !" — she threw up her own arm as the thought crossed her — "and what a look, as he talked of Roger Williams and claimed the right of free speech ! How came it, I wonder, with that slender figure and just medium height, that he could throw so much dignity into his bearing ?" Sydenham overheard her and turned : "In a measure, no doubt, because noble sentiments impart noble expression ; but it was partly due, I think, to an accident or an intuition." " How so, papa ?" " Instead of getting on the platform, as Emberly did, he took his stand on the grass below his audience. Thus, in ad- dressing them, his head was naturally thrown back a little, his eyes raised, and when his emotions sought expression in action, the gestures were all upward, corresponding to sentiments elevated and aspiring. I think clergymen do wrong to ascend high pulpits whence to deliver their sermons. There was a simple dignity about Creighton to-day such as young men seldom attain. But if he had been boxed up and looking down upon us, much of the expression would have been lost." Creighton came to tea. So, at an invitation from Sydenham, did Ellinor Ethelridge. Celia kept a promise given to Leoline to come over in the course of the evening, her cousin Ethan Hart- land accompanying her. Ethan informed Sydenham that the chairman of a certain committee that was about to convene sent a pressing request for his attendance. " You will excuse Mr. Hartland and myself, I know, Mr. Creighton : it is in your interest we meet. I leave you in charge of the ladies." They had a pleasant, lively party — after a while, music. Leoline played a portion of the overture to the Trovatore, then a fresh importation and just coming into Cisatlantic favor. Afterward Creigh- ton sang "Ah che la morte ognora " to Celia's accompaniment, and persuaded Leoline to join him in "Ai nostri monti," though she could but just reach the lower notes. After one or two of Schubert's songs, Creighton spied a volume labeled " Mo- io6 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. zart." "Ah !" he said, as he opened at some selections from Don Giovanni, " it is refreshing to see anything so old- fashioned." At his request Celia sang " Vedrai, carino ;" and together they ex- ecuted the duett, "La-ci darem." Their voices harmonized admirably. " You had music-lessons in Germany?" said Ellinor to Creighton. " Yes ; and I was about to ask the same question of Miss Pembroke," turning to her. " Have you been abroad ?" " In Europe ? Never. But I had a German teacher in Philadelphia." "Ah ! I thought so." Then he con- versed with Miss Ethelridge. His man- ner toward her was cordial and unem- barrassed. Celia blamed herself after- ward for having observed them so narrowly. She could not make out Ellinor's demeanor toward him. They were old acquaintances, certainly ; but it was not the manner usual between intimate friends of the same age, even if of opposite sex. There was deep respect in it, as if Creighton had been twenty years older than she — her guard- ian, perhaps, who had cared for her from her infancy. Yet he seemed to be rather the younger of the two. Evi- dently she took the warmest interest in his welfare: "Is your election doubtful ?" she said. " Very doubtful. I shall probably lose it." Celia, who had taken one of her friend's hands between hers, felt it tremble as Ellinor asked, " Because of that vile handbill ?" her eyes flashing. " It will cost me a good many votes." " Surely not !" exclaimed Leoline ; and she proceeded, in her animated way, to repeat the conversation she had over- heard as they were leaving the ground. Creighton laughed heartily: "It's very amusing, this electioneering, though it is tedious enough sometimes. I feel flat- tered by the old man's comparison. The horse is a noble animal, and the farmer's best friend, too." " But you have no idea how well your defender's hit aboitf the cold corn-bread came off," said Leoline. " I know your speech made a good impression." "There is in our people a strong sense of justice and love of fair play, to which one seldom appeals in vain. The handbill would probably have aided rather than injured me, had they left me a chance of reply. But they chose their time well." " 111, you mean," said Leoline, in- dignantly. Creighton smiled. " How can you take it so easily ?" she went on. " I do believe you forgot, while we were singing just now, that Monday next is election-day." " One likes to shake off the dust in the evening. Do not grudge it to me, dear Miss Sydenham. That last duett took me back to Göttingen. Miss Pem- broke's voice and style reminded me so much of a charming family of musicians I used to visit there." "And you actually forgot that hand- bill ?" persisted Leoline. " The evil which others seek to do us is worth forgetting only." Creighton turned toward Miss Ethelridge as he said it. Again that tell-tale hand ! But this time Ellinor gently withdrew it from Celia's clasp. At this juncture Sydenham and Ethan Hartland returned. " Mr. Creighton," said the latter, "your concluding remarks were taken down in shorthand, and are now in type for our Chiskaiiga Gleaner, of which we have hastened the publication one day, so that it will appear to-morrow. An extra thousand will be printed and sent over the county. Do not fear the result at our precinct. There is reaction al- ready. Here you will outrun the party vote." Creighton expressed his thanks in strong terms. "It is we who are your debtors," said Sydenham, warmly. " We have tempta- tions enough to hypocrisy already among us, without suffering an honest man's creed to be made a political test. I am sorry you live so far from us." " I liked the expression of those faces BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 107 on the hillside to-day. I like the social atmosphere of your little place ; and I have serious thoughts, when the election is over, of returning this way and asking you if you have not a small dwelling- house to rent or sell." " You shall be heartily welcome. Come and make your home with me for a day or two." « But if Mr. Creighton has to go to Congress, papa ?" « Then his time will be short ; but we shall be thankful even for a flying visit." « One doesn't like to be beaten, Miss Sydenham," said Creighton, "and I have had dreams of being useful if elected ; but if Emberly is to be Con- gressman, it may be all for the best. A man's traducers often do him good. I am very sure I shall spend a pleasanter winter here, if I succeed in finding a home in this pretty village of yours, than I should in Washington City." "At all events," said Leoline, "we'll do our best to make it up to you if these rascals, with their handbills, hoodwink the people. Won't we, Miss Ethel- ridge ?" she added with sudden impulse, noticing that lady's anxious looks. Ellinor colored just a little, was em- barrassed for a moment, then replied, in a quiet tone : " Mr. Creighton deserves all we may be able to do for him." Creighton seemed about to reply to her, but he merely bowed and expressed, in warm terms, his sense of the kind- ness with which he had been received at Chiskauga. They parted, with sentiments of mu- tual esteem. That evening Celia spent twice the usual time in doing up her hair. The comb dropped on her knee, and she dropped into a musing fit : " He liked the faces on that hillside ! Did he, in- deed ! I think I could pick out one in the village that has more attractions for him than that whole audience, and can do more to make a winter pleasant to him than all of us put together : I saw him glance across at her when he talked of settling here. Then I should like to know what chance a man has of judging the ' social atmosphere' of a place which he has inhabited for just two-thirds of a day ; especially when half of that pro- tracted period was spent in two rooms — Dr. Meyrac's parlor and Mr. Syden- ham's drawing-room. How transparent men are when they fall in love !" Then the labor of the comb was re- 1 sumed, but by and by there was another intermission : " I wonder whether a wo- man ought to reverence a man before she marries him — he about her own age, or even if he were two or three years older. I don't the least believe that I could. Isn't there a text about 'perfect love casting out fear ?' " Another pause : " It's best not to let even a clear friend hold one's hand when it's not convenient to have it known what one is thinking about. But never mind, poor, dear Ellie ! If that's your secret, it's safe with me." Before Celia went to sleep she had come very decidedly to the conclusion that Ellinor Ethelridge either was, or very soon would be, engaged to Eliot Creighton. The vote was close, but Creighton lost his election ; and six weeks after- ward Chiskauga gained an addition to her population in the shape of an honest lawyer and estimable young man. CHAPTER XVII. LABOR LOST. One day, about a week after the elec- tion, Celia received, through the post- office, the following anonymous letter : " Miss Celia Pembroke : " You are basely deceived, and you ought to be informed of it. J. E. M. has private assignations with Ellen Ty- ler in a lonely part of the woods on the bank of Kinshon Creek, about half a mile below her father's mill, where he reads poetry and makes love to her. Not long since the father caught them at it, and they had a tussle which M won't forget in a hurry : he carried the marks home. The girl is simple and innocent, öS BEYOND THE BREAKERS. and no doubt believes that he intends marriage. You know best whether he does or not. The miller might give her a couple of thousand dollars, but there is a good deal of difference between two and forty. " The writer has seen you often, but is unknown to you. If you wish to know whether he is telling you a lie or not, ask Nelson Tyler. The new groom that Mr. Hartland lately engaged, and who worked several weeks at the mill, could, if he would, tell you something about it. One who Knows." " Cranstoun !" was Celia's first thought when she read this startling epistle. She went over it a second time. The spell- ing throughout was correct, but not a stroke of the writing seemed his. She was familiar with his hand, having copied several law-papers made out by him for her uncle. And this almost resembled a school-boy's handwriting. It annoyed her very seriously, espe- cially the innuendo about her forty thou- sand dollars ; but it did not unsettle her faith in Mowbray. She knew that her lover was acquainted with Ellen, for she had seen her frequently at Mrs. Mow- bray's, when the girl came thither for her French lessons ; and she thought it likely enough that Evelyn, in the course of his rides — perhaps in search of wood- land to purchase — might accidentally have met Ellen, and even, for once, have read to her. But what of that ? She called to mind that only two or three months since, one day that Ethan Hart- land met her in the woods, they had sat down together on a log and he had read to her, from a pocket edition of Thom- son's Seasons, some passage appropriate to the sylvan scene around them. To be sure, Ethan was her cousin ; but then cousins do marry sometimes, though she had heard Sydenham express the opinion that they never should.* * Celia, like many others, had probably failed to distinguish between affinity and consa.7igninity . Ethan was not Celia's cousin-german, being a son by Thomas Hartland's first wife, not by Celia's aunt. He was, therefore, related to her by marriage only, not by blood. But it could only have been to marriages of cousins by blood that Sydenham, a man of discrimination, had objected. Celia was not the girl to discard one to whom she had given her confidence be- cause he laughed and chatted with some one elsei: those who do ought to delay marriage until they learn better. She had read that wonderful thirteenth chap- ter of First Corinthians, and she acted up to its declaration, that Love thinketh no evil. She thought : " Shall I trust an anony- mous scribbler rather than one I have known since childhood ? And then the creature thought me dishonorable enough to act the spy on Evelyn's actions — to go asking a comparative stranger whether the man I am engaged to is a rascal or not, or putting the same question to a servant who came not six weeks ago to the village, from nobody knows where ? What a mean wretch he must be him- self !" And, with that, after glancing once more over the letter, she threw it contemptuously into the fire. Thus, as generous natures are en- listed in favor of the persecuted, this covert attack on Mowbray reacted in his favor. His mistress held but the more faithfully to her troth because others sought to malign and to injure. Ten days later, Cranstoun and Cassi- day sat together, in the evening, conver- sing. The latter spoke, in reply to some inquiry addressed to him : " It's hard to come round them, Mr. Cranstoun — these highflyers especially, like Miss Celia. You never can tell how they'll take things." " You're sure she got it ?" " You posted it yourself. How could it miscarry ?" " What makes you think it did harm rather than good ?" " First, the black looks she cast at me for three or four days after we sent it. She's over that now, I take such capital care of Bess ; and then I told her what a splendid seat she had, and how much better she handled her reins since she took riding-lessons from the school-teacher. She's a stunner, is Miss Ethelridge. I've been out fox-hunting with the old Squire that fathered me, and I've seen those Irish girls take their BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 109 fences — it's a sight to see, Mr. Cran- stoun ! — but if she's not up to any of them, may I never back horse again ! I praised her to Miss Ceh'a, too. She liked all that. She knows I'm a good judge. So I've got into favor again ; but if she'd had her way the first day or two, good-bye to that snug little shealin' where I hope to see Ellen one of these days." " Is that all your evidence ? Black looks don't amount to much." " No, it isn't all. Yesterday we had the sorrels out — Mr. and Mrs. Hartland, Miss Celia, and who else, do you think, in the carriage ?" " Not Mowbray ?" " Mowbray ! Why he dar'n't come within our doors. The beaten candi- date, Mr. Creighton." « What ! Currying favor with Hart- land already ?" " Looks like it. He told the old man he'd make him a present of some speci- mens, I think he called them — stones or something — that he had collected in Europe." " So he is going to settle here ?' " Did not you hear he was bargaining with Mr. Hugo for his house, just this side of Mrs. Mowbray's, on the lake shore ? As pretty a cottage as there is in the village, with a handsome lawn clear down to the lake." « What does he want with a house ?" " His mother's a widow, and she's to keep house for him." " Mr. Cassiday, you were explaining to me how you knew that our letter had missed its mark. What has all this to do with it ?" « I'm coming to that. Hartland and this Creighton hitch horses together in politics. When we were out driving they had a heap of talk about that hand- bill, you know." "Well ?" " Miss Celia, she joined in. And the way she abused every man that would not sign what he wrote ! I did not quite hear it all. She was telling some story, I think, to her uncle : in course she didn't say a word about our little affair. But she was as bitter as gall ; and some- how she brought it round that any scamp that would abuse another, and not set his name to it, wasn't too good to steal cold corn-bread from a nigger's saddle- bags." " You are surely mistaken. She could never have said anything so coarse as that." " Her dander was up, I tell you. I heard her as plain as I hear you. Pretty hard on us, wasn't it ?" " She may repent that one of these days." Something in the tone caused Cassi- day to look up surprised ; but Crans- toun was not thinking of him, and didn't notice it. The groom feigned indifference, and said, in an easy tone : "Anyhow, that's a lost ball. I thought it was well shot, too. I've known a good deal less than that play hell in a family before now. I wonder what on earth the girls see in that stuck-up coxcomb of a Mow- bray to cajole them so ? If I were as mean as that fellow is, I'd want to creep into a nutshell." Cassiday understood the meaning of the smile with which Cranstoun received this, and replied to it : " Well, Mr. Cranstoun, you've a right to think just what you like about me : we've done some hard things, in our day, to raise the cash — you and I. But if I loved a girl as well as I — as well as maybe that rascal himself loves Ellen, for I'd like to see the man as could stand that smile of hers — may the foul fiend catch me if I'd turn away from her for money-bags ! You don't believe what I'm telling you, and a fellow that's as bad as me has no right to complain. But I'm a gentleman's son, if it is on the wrong side of the blanket. And if gentlemen are wild, there's some things some of them won't do. That father of mine never paid his tailor's bill that I know of, but he'd have shot himself sooner than let a racing-debt run over the day it was due." » Maybe somebody else would have shot him if he had tried that game on them." " He had his faults, the old Squire had — rest his soul ! — as mother knows 110 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. and me, to our cost ; but he'd stand the click of cocked pistol just as you would a knock at your door ; and he'd put a ball through a good-sized wedding-ring at fifteen steps, every other pop." " So you think Mowbray's meaner than you ?" " We say just what we like to one another, Mr. Cranstoun ; so it's all right for you to ask me that. But if John Mowbray should take it in his head to follow suit, he might have a chance of finding out which was the best shot — him or my father's son." " I have no objection to your trying, and I hope you'll hit him, Cassiday. But all I meant to ask was, whether you didn't think Mowbray was after the dollars, and not after Mr. Hartland's niece." " I'll give you a plain answer to a civil question. If Ellen and Miss Celia had a fair start, with two thousand a piece, the niece would be nowhere, distanced, beaten out of sight. I'll bet two to one on that, and put up fifty any day." " Stranger things have happened than that you should have a chance to find out, before another twelvemonth's gone, whether that would have been a safe bet or not." It was more than Cranstoun would have said had he not been thoroughly out of humor, as bafHed plotters are wont to be. Cassiday took his hat and departed without a word, except the remark that it was time his horses had their supper. As he was measuring out the oats, the import of Cranstoun's last speech seemed to dawn upon him. " I must look out for my wages," was his reflection : " these guardians are the very devil. Who would have thought it, with that sancti- monious look of his ? Cranstoun ought to know ; he's constantly here, closeted with him ; but the old fellow must be hard up if he has laid hands on Miss Celia's cash. Any way, he has promised he'd pay me the last day of every month, and I'll hold him to it. He can't get anybody that'll keep things as tight and bright as I do. I hope he won't run high and dry and have to sell his horses. I'd be hard put to it to find such another place." It was a snug berth. Cassiday had thriven on perjury so far. Some rogues do thrive to the end of the chapter — the earthly chapter, which is but a small portion of the great Book of Life. Some accounts seem to be squared here. Others, unsettled, are carried over. The Roman who said that no man should be accounted happy till Death sealed his good-fortune looked but a little way. There are heavy debits of which he took no account. What has been happening to Cassi- day's victim ? Did the world smile or frown upon him after his release from prison ? We left him knocking at his own door for admission. CHAPTER XVIII. GOOD OUT OF EVIL. How wonderfully does the principle of Compensation intervene in human affairs ! How bright— as a grand old Reformer, poet and philosopher has sug- gested — how bright is often the silver lining of the darkest cloud! It was a terrible injustice that had be- fallen our friend Terence ; and yet, had the lines always fallen to him in pleasant places, it is doubtful whether, throughout a prosperous lifetime, he would ever have known such supreme and unalloyed hap- piness as when — just emerged from the gloom of prison-life — he took in his arms his weeping wife — weeping because no language other than tears could express the fullness of her joy. If all had gone well with him, it is doubtful if he would ever, with so stirring a conviction of mercies vouchsafed, have kissed his sleeping babes, lying there unconscious alike of the storm that had passed and of the sunshine that was succeeding it. He was better as well as happier. There had been, till now, little or no evi- dence of the spiritual to be detected in that thoughtless, careless nature. Yet it was there. It always is where warm affections exist. It came forth now, at BEYOND THE BREAKERS. ill the moment when these affections were stirred to their depths. Not with much outward demonstration : the man did not go down on his knees, but his heart knelt to the Giver of all good. No set form of thanksgiving came to his lips, beyond the single exclamation that burst from him as Norah, between sobs, re- turned his passionate kisses : " The Lord be praised for this blessed hour !" Only an exclamation, yet almost as long as that of the publican who im- plored for mercy to him a sinner. All that sleepless night, as the young Irish- man gradually came to realize his great deliverance, his soul prayed in more than words. The effectual fervent prayer — the availing one — often ascends ungar- mented by human phrase, in robeless purity. I do not assert for Terence anything like a change of heart. Nature, as Lin- naeus has expressed it, makes no great leaps. She does not deal in sudden transformations. The seed, the plant, the blossom, the fruit, — these are the types of her gradual workings. If there be examples of men regenerated by a single experience, these are so rare as only to prove the general rule of patient progression. In the present case the young man's better nature had been stirred : that was all. After influences must decide whether the first impression was to grow and strengthen, or to fade out, leaving him to sink back again to the level of his former life. One of these influences followed close on his release. During the evening of the next day, Kullen, the prison-agent, came to see his emancipated client. No need to say how he was received ! Norah gave him both her hands, unable at first, in her agitation, to utter a. word ; but, in default of speech, she offered to the preserver of her husband her matron cheek to kiss. Terence spoke with all the warmth of his country: " Mister Kullen, it's owin' to you that I'm alive, and, more nor that, that I can stand up and face the world like an hon- est man. It's all owin' to you, wid yer cheering ways and yer lovely stories, that Norah's got a husband and the chil- dher's got their father back agin. It's no earthly use to speak about payin' such a debt as that ; but sure ye know, Mister Kullen " — here the tears rose to the poor fellow's eyes — « sure an' ye know, with- out iver my tellin' ye, that, as long as Norah and me's got a roof over our heads, come rain, come shine, let it be mornin' or noon or black midnight, ye'll be as welcome to our fireside as the flowers in May." Then he hesitated, as if he didn't know exactly how to proceed. At last he brought out : "An, Mister Kullen, you wouldn't be refusin' a poor fellow the little he can do for you. I heard down yonder — it was Walter Richards tould me — that yer salary's but a small one, Mister Kullen, for all the good ye do. Now, ye see, I've got two hundred and fifty dollars in the bank, and sorra a bit o' use I have for it now, becase I can't buy the house, and that was all I laid it up for — " Here the prison-agent interrupted him : " You need not say a word about that, Terence : the State pays me for what I do, and it wouldn't be honest to take pay twice, you know. But, since you are willing to do me a pleasure, what if I were to ask you for something that might cost you more than two hundred and fifty dollars ?" Terence's face brightened : " Sure an' I can borrow the rest," he said. " No, I don't approve of a man get- ting into debt. You can do it without borrowing. How long have you the lease of this house ?" " Till the first of May comin' : that's near five months and a half." " Have you done well with it ?" " Very fair. Last year it cleared me seventeen hundred and fifty dollars. And this year, if it hadn't been for that damned — " Norah laid her hand on his arm : " Not to-day, Teddy darlint — not to-day, just when the Lord sint ye back to me." " Well, thin, I won't swear, Norah, ef ye don't like it. But ef it hadn't been for that scoundrel Bryan — bad luck to him ! — sure there's no harm in callin 112 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. him what he is, and wishin' him his desarts — I'd have made two thousand dollars clear this very year ; and I can live on half o' that and lay by the other half." " How much of the profit you make is from the bar and how much by lodgers ?" « It's close on half and half." " So you expect to clear from the bar, between this and the first of May, some seven or eight hundred dollars ?" « Full that." " Unless some rascal like that Delorny should play you just such another trick as he did." "Yes, Mister Kullen ; but I've hearn old sailors, as has been to the war, say that a cannon-ball niver comes through the same hole twice." " Well, Terence, to confess the truth, I don't think it likely that anybody, in the next six months, will accuse you of going into a bed-room at night and steal- ing a hundred and seventy dollars. But something as bad might happen. Norah, did Terence use to swear when you lived in Cumberland county ?" "No, Mister Kullen, niver a bit: he's larnt it — " " Behind the bar-counter ?" The young wife flushed scarlet, and looked at her husband. "You're a good girl, Norah," said Mr. Kullen. " I see I shall have your help. Terence, what would you say if that eldest boy of yours were to come out with an oath ?" " Deny knows better nor that, Mr. Kullen : his mother's larned him better." " I'm glad to hear it. I once knew an excellent man who had served as lieutenant, and then as captain, for fifteen years under the First Napoleon. He came to this country poor and learned English perfectly. He had received a college education before he entered the army, and he set up school and became an excellent teacher. One habit of the soldier, however, clung to him. When his pupils proved unruly he would swear. One day he was much shocked to hear a youngster of twelve, who had been with him a year or two, utter a round oath. 1 Dick, don't you know you mustn't swear ?' said his teacher: 'it's wrong and it's vulgar.' ' But if it's wrong, Mr. Tinel,' said the boy, half afraid to finish his question — < if it's wrong, why do you swear ?'' < Because I'm a damned fool,' was the rejoinder: ' don't you be one too !' Now, Terence, if little Dermot, imitating his father, should venture on an oath, would you like to give him such a reply as that ?" Norah interposed : " Where's the loss to be droppin' a word or two out o' yer talk, Teddy asthore — and a bad word at that — that ye should be refusin' the likes o' Mr. Kullen ?" " Well, it's little enough to promise for them as has done so much for me : I won't swear no more." " But for your children's sake, and for your own, I want you to do some- thing else, Terence. It's a good deal to ask you. I want you to give up that seven or eight hundred dollars — in a word, to close your bar." Norah clasped her hands with a look of entreaty. Her husband sat silent, looking first at her, then at Mr. Kullen. The proposal evidently took him by surprise. " Listen to me before you answer," pursued the agent, "and then I'll leave you to talk it over with Norah there. It would be a terrible thing, Terence, if a man like you, that God has given so good a wife to, were to go to the bad. And, let me tell you, that might happen. Men are not depraved sots because they frequent a bar-room, but they're on the way to be good for nothing, or worse. Then, a tippling-house attracts riff-raff. Yours attracted Delorny, a common drunkard. See what came of it. You're not safe among such men." Norah turned pale, changed her seat to one close to her husband and took his hand in hers. "It's true, Terence," added Kullen. " You're easy and good-natured — just the sort of man that might take the color of his life from the ways of his associates. Just the man, too, to be imposed on by swindlers. But no man is safe with BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 113 thieves and perjurers around him. An innocent man's always more or less at their mercy ; and next time I mightn't be there to help you out." The tears were in Norah's eyes. Terence wiped them away with a gentle- ness one would hardly have expected of him, and kissed her. « That's not all," said Kullen. » Do you think a man deserves to be helped out, if, after he has once been warned, he still keeps on with a business that makes men worse instead of better ? I lived many years in the West, where crimes then were rare and could be easily traced to their source ; and I know that two-thirds of them began in tippling-houses, and in the habits that grew out of them. Two crimes out of every three that were committed, Ter- ence ! and growing out of just such places as that room of yours below, where Patrick Murphy is tending bar." At this juncture little Dermot came into the room. Kullen and he had made close acquaintance during the visits of the former to Mrs. O'Reilly, when he brought her news how her husband fared during his imprisonment ; and the child ran, delighted, to his friend. Kullen took him on his knee and resumed : " The very day you were arrested, Terence, you would probably, but for the arrest, have bought this house. The chances are you would have kept it, sell- ing brandy and whisky to all comers, till this boy of yours was a young man ; perhaps till he got into the habit of coming, two or three times a day, for a dram ; perhaps till he learned to make companions of such men as Bryan De- lorny. Are you quite sure Providence did not send you to prison that day, so that this chubby little fellow might grow up under more wholesome surroundings and with better associates ? You love that wife of yours, Terence, and well she deserves it. Have you ever thought that it might break her heart if Derry turned out a drunkard ?" Norah had listened with ever-increas- ing excitement ; and now she threw her arms round her husband's neck, gave him one bright, hopeful look, then laid 8 her head on his bosom and sobbed as if her heart would break. Love has its triumphs in the humblest breast. The good fellow, more than half persuaded by Kullen's earnestness, was wholly won over by his wife's silent emotion. " Whisht, lassie," he said, passing his brawny hand soothingly over her long soft hair — « whisht, then, me darlint. D'ye think I'd bring up that babe to be a drunkard ? I know what ye'd be axin' me, acushla, and d'ye think I'd refuse ye, this very day that the Lord brought me back to yer arms ?" Then to the prison-agent : " Maybe the arrest was His doin', Mr. Kullen. It looks like He sint you to that cell to save me life and me character ; and who knows but what He's sint ye here to-day to talk to me about Derry and that bar ? It'll be all I can do " — he winced a little at this — " to make the two ends meet without the bar. But, ony way, I'll not be after standin' out agin the Lord and you and the lassie. I'll sell off the liquors and quit the trade bright and early to- morra." Norah looked up, smiling through her tears. " Thin my heart's continted," was all she said. Before Kullen went he said to Ter- ence : « I heard when I was in Cumber- land county that Norah's a famous dairy- woman. You understand market-gar- dening and keeping stock and managing horses. If you choose to go into the country when you leave this house, I'll recommend you to a friend of mine in the West, who wants a man and his wife to take care of his farm. Would you like to ride a real horse, Master Dermot ? " Wouldn't I, Mr. Kullen ?" said young America. Terence kept his promise. His for- mer companions were not a little sur- prised ; and one of them, a strapping young fellow, said that same evening, when Terence announced to them his intentions : " So, Teddy, you've turned milksop since they had you under lock and key." Terence's eyes flashed and he had an 114 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. oath on the tip of his tongue, but he re- membered his promise to Norah : « I've changed some of my opinions, Mister Malone, bein' I don't intend to sell no more drinks to the likes o' you. But there's one opinion I haven't changed at all, at all, Mister Malone." « What's that ?" " That whatever a man's sintiments is, he ought to stand up to them like a man /" the last three words very dis- tinctly accented. Thereupon Terence deliberately laid off his coat on a chair, and took his place in the centre of the room ; adding, in a civil tone : " Any time ye're ready, Mister Malone." But Malone didn't seem quite ready, and the others interfered : « Not the last evening, O'Reilly : let's part good friends, any way." "Ye're no coward, Terence," said Malone : " nobody ever said you was. And sure a man has a right to his opin- ions, and a right to sell liquor or not as he pleases." Terence resumed his coat and they all parted in amity. Whether Malone's conciliatory speech — just though the aphorisms were which it contained — tended to raise him in the estimation of the man he had offended, we need not too curiously inquire. J PART VI. CHAPTER XIX. THE SIX-ACRE LOT. THROUGHOUT the winter that fol- lowed Terence's liberation from prison and Creighton's defeat for Con- gress, events of great importance to some of our Chiskauga acquaintances were ripening ; yet on the surface matters seemed to proceed smoothly enough. The place made progress, socially and intellectually. Under Ethan Hartland's supervision, Sydenham's land operations had turned out (as all bargains worthy to be called good, do) profitable alike to seller and buyer. There had, indeed, been attempts to evade the prescribed stipulations for building and improvements : men pleaded illness or bad luck — pleas sometimes feigned, sometimes real — and Syden- ham's easy temper induced him to grant indulgence. This, as Harthnd showed his employer, usually resulted in a sale to third parties, who bought on specu- lation and refused to improve, setting up the plea that the seller had waived his right to enforce the provision on that subject. The young man said, one day : " Mr. Sydenham, may I speak to you very frankly?" *< If you think well of me, Ethan, you will speak to me frankly at all times." " Thank you. If a purchaser, through ill health or bad management, is unable to pay his land-notes at maturity, and if you give him an extension of time in which to pay them, it is entirely your affair. If you can afford it, and if the man has done his best, I think it kind and wise in you to do so. But if he fails to comply with the stipulation for improvement, have you the right to in- dulge him ? You gave public notice, through me, to all who desired to pur- chase, that your land would be sold only to those who would build and occupy it. You permitted me, also, to head the bonds of agreement with the words l No purchase without improvement? 1 1 was a virtual promise on your part, upon which men depended ; and, because of it, your land has been sold much more rapidly, for purchasers know well that the tendency of occupancy and improve- ment is to give additional value to all ad- jacent property. Thus it is no longer your affair only. Others are injured if you give way." " That is a just view of the case." " May I bring suit against these non- complying speculators ?" "Yes." It made quite a flurry among them. 115 u6 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. One man, who had bought up three or four farms, was overheard threatening personal violence against Mr. Sydenham. This coming to his ears, he sent for Ethan. " Hereafter," he said to him, » I will take no excuse or apology whatever for violation of our improvement covenants. If you find any case where a deserving man. from continued sickness or other unavoidable misfortune, cannot comply with these, report it to me, and I will lend him the money that may be neces- sary to fulfill his engagement. In all other cases press the suits to a verdict." Ethan smiled : « Have you heard of the threats Tom Bellinger has been making?" "Yes." « I thought so." « I hold it a duty to see to it, so far as I can, that those who defy the law shall make nothing by it." " Tom is from Western Missouri : they're a wild set there. Shall you arm yourself?" " With a good, stout cane — yes ; but I have no idea I shall need it. There is an old proverb that 'threatened folks live long.' " Tom Bellinger subsided ; and several other well-dressed men, who, for a month or two past, had been seen sauntering, with gilt-headed canes, through the streets of the village, gradually disap- peared. Chiskauga survived their ab- sence. One, however, more obstinate than the rest, remained and resorted to law ; his plea being that covenants for build- ing and other improvements to be com- pleted within a given time were of no binding force, and that a purchaser, even after such covenant in writing, was en- titled to a deed as soon as the purchase- money was paid. The court, however, decided that covenants of that character constituted a lawful consideration, in which time was an essential element, and that noncompliance with them was legal cause of forfeiture. From this time on, Sydenham added to the covenants of his land-agreements a provision that no assignment of such agreements should be made before the improvements were completed ; and thai on pain of forfeiture. This and the other covenants somewhat retarded the sales for a time ; yet within five years from the day Ethan became manager the first two thousand five hundred acres were all sold and occupied. The al- ternate farms and lots that had been reserved from sale had, meanwhile, risen in value about seventy-five per cent. Then Sydenham instructed his agent to offer these remaining two thousand five hundred acres at seventy-five per cent, advance on the prioes to which, so far, he had adhered ; but as this left the land still at two-thirds only of the cur- rent market rates, and as, by this time, it had become evident that Sydenham's stipulations of sale resulted quite as much to the benefit of the purchaser as to his own, this last-offered land went off even more rapidly than the first. At the end of three years more — which brought it up to the preceding spring — Ethan, one afternoon, reported the whole sold out. "What net gain have I made," Syd- enham asked Ethan, "by the advance of price, on this second installment of farms and building lots ?" " So far, about fourteen thousand dol- lars ; but when your land-notes are paid up, there will be some eight or ten thou- sand more." » You have managed well. The sales, I think, do not include a six-acre build- ing site on the lake, just north of the Elm Walk — a site you admired, one day, Ethan, as the prettiest we had." « I remember. It is unsold ; I fol- lowed your instructions to reserve it, and to have it neatly fenced in and nicely graded, and laid out and planted. I could have sold it fifty times over. I refused two thousand for it last week : it is worth much more than that." " Make out a deed of it to yourself, and bring it to me for signature to-mor- row morning. Nay," he added, as he noticed the young man's look, "it is my turn now : you had your way last time. You made me do violence to my con- BEYOND THE BREAKERS. ir; science by accepting your services for three years at seven hundred and twenty dollars." " Which you increased, first to a thousand, and then to twelve hundred." " It ought to have been fifteen hun- dred long ago. Please credit yourself at that rate from the close of this half year. As to the two thousand, I owe you twice that sum, fairly reckoned ; only I thought the lot was as much as I could get that obstinate nature of yours to accept. And then, listen ! I have ad- ditional work for you to do. You need not look so incredulous — I have." The tears glistened in Ethan's eyes, but Sydenham proceeded as if he had not noticed them : "You have been studying practical architecture of evenings, I know, and I've had proof enough what a neat draughts- man you are. I want a plan of a house. Now, don't be frightened, man : I'm not going to offer to build you one : you'll have to lay by money, and attend to that, one of these days, yourself." Ethan could not help smiling. " Ah !" said Sydenham, " now we can attend to business. I wish to have a < Land-Trust Account ' opened on the books of the estate. Let it be credited with that fourteen thousand dollars, or whatever the gain by advance on land has been. Then add to the credit what- ever more may come in from the same source. You must help me expend this fund for the benefit of the village and of the neighborhood." " It is a pleasure to work for you, Mr. Sydenham." « Then pray set about the plan of my building." " When I know what you want." " Tea, in the first place," said Syden- ham, as the bell rang. " Stay with us, Ethan, and let us talk this over." Mrs. Clymer had gone out for the evening, and Leoline presided at the tea- table. To an understanding of Sydenham's views, it should be premised that there were in the village two small public libraries — one belonging to a " Working Man's Institute," established ten years before, and the other the township library. The first had been aided by a gift from Sydenham and by a legacy of one thou- sand dollars left by an eccentric old gen- tleman named Lechaux : it contained about twelve hundred volumes. In the township library, to which Sydenham and others had contributed, there were six hundred ; but both were in small, inconvenient premises, and were kept open one evening only in the week, when books were lent out ; there being no fund to pay a librarian. The one public hall in the village would seat five hun- dred people, but was owned by a com- pany of young men, some belonging to the brass band and others members of a Thespian society, and could only be had on rent from them. It was used for balls, concerts, theatrical representations, township meetings, political gatherings and the like. " What I want," said Sydenham to Ethan, " is a plain, substantial, two-story brick building — the lower story laid out, at one end, as a library and reading-room, and at the other as a small lecture-room, to hold two hundred persons ; the library to contain all the books belonging to the Institute and to the township, with room for two or three thousand more ; and the lecture-room to be free for public read- ings, for literary or scientific lectures, and for the meetings of the Agricultural and Floral societies. The upper story I intend for school-rooms." « For Miss Ethelridge ?" " Yes. I learn that she is likely soon to be crowded out of the two rooms she is now occupying in the public school ; and they have long been too '•mall for her." » Altogether too small. She engaged a second assistant teacher last week. But there is one objection to the plan." "And that is ?" " The noise of the school-rooms above might disturb the frequenters of the reading-room. Ah ! I have it ! Eight or nine inches of deafening below the upper floor. Then Miss Ethelridge's classes are always so orderly and quiet. It can all be arranged, Mr. Sydenham." " We have a half-acre lot just oppo- us BEYOND THE BREAKERS. site Mr. Hartland's : take that. Will six or seven thousand dollars put up the building." "The latter, at all events." « Then set apart, for the object, seven thousand from our land-trust fund." Leoline startled them by breaking in here : " Papa, I do believe you are the very. best man that ever did live. I'm so glad for dear Miss Ethelridge." Ethan's face brightened with pleasure, and, as he looked at Leoline's kindling eyes, with admiration. « I'm delighted that you think I've been behaving well, dear child," said Sydenham, smiling: "perhaps I shall stand some chance now of a second cup of tea. I've been wondering when you would make up your mind to pour it out." " The common lot, papa ! Good deeds shine like farthing candles in a naughty world. But, since virtue is not its own sufficient reward, there ! not a grain too much sugar, not a drop too little cream." " Lela dear, I want you to take a good look at that engraving, in the library, from Dubufe's picture." " Of the poor widow who put two mites into the treasury ?" » Do you remember what was said of her ?" " That while others had lavished their charities, she had given more than they all." "Yes. 'They, of their abundance, cast in offerings, but she, of her penury, cast in all she had.' " " I think you'd have handed out the two mites, papa dear." " Who knows ? I have never been tried. In giving these people this build- ing I do not abate one comfort, either yours or my own." " But I think they ought to do their part." " So do I, Miss Leoline," said Ethan ; " I wish you would try to persuade your father to let me head a subscription with his name for seven thousand dollars, to be paid only on condition that half as much more is subscribed by others. The fitting up and furnishing of such a building will cost some fifteen hundred dollars, and we ought to have two thou- sand, in addition, to purchase standard works that are much needed. That would make the thing complete. It isn't the best plan, Mr. Sydenham, to let people, in a village like this, get into the habit of depending on one man for all public improvements. They value more that to which they have partly con- tributed." To this Sydenham finally assented. " They shall have the management of the library and lecture-room," he said, "provided no charge beyond lighting and heating is made for the latter." » And you retain in your own hands the disposition of the upper rooms ?" " That would be fair, and perhaps I had better do so." " Decidedly." Then, after a pause : " You wish to give Miss Ethelridge what aid you can ?" « Certainly. She is an honor to the place." " Then perhaps, as I shall have leisure on my hands now that we have sold that land, you would not object to my offering to give German lessons in her school twice a week. Some of her pupils are desirous of learning that language, and I am anxious to keep up my familiarity with it. But I shall have to say that it is your time I am giving her: she would not accept my volunteer aid." " It is an excellent idea, Ethan. Carry it out." . " May I join Mr. Hartland's class, papa ?" said Leoline. " By all means, my child. Thanks to Miss Ethelridge, you read and write French fluently enough. I shall be very glad that you give some time now to a language that has always been a favorite with me. Ethan's accent is perfect." When Ethan Hartland left Rosebank that evening he could not make up his mind to return directly home. A full moon shone down brilliantly from a cloudless sky. His heart needed the quieting influence. It was full of grati- tude, and not without hope, but it was restless : the hope was dashed with uncertainty. The figure that Ethan saw on the Lake shore. Tage 119. BETOND THE BREAKERS. He took a path leading up the hill which surmounted Sydenham's residence, and, when he reached the edge of the forest at a point which overlooked the valley for miles, he sat down to com- mune with that restless heart of his. It was a warmer heart than Ethan's common acquaintances at all imagined it to be ; coming to him, not from his hard father, but from the quiet, anxious, affec- tionate mother he still remembered so well ; as gentle, though not with as much character, as his stepmother. Strange, that these austere social dictators so often seek and win their opposites ! — perhaps from an instinctive feeling of the need that, in the next generation, their own asperities should be corrected. " If he knew, if he could but imagine" — that was the first thought — " what a kindness he has done me ! How much more of a father than my own ! In another year I shall have saved enough to build — in a very humble way, to be sure — but perhaps — " Then the heart began to sink a little. " So far above me — so beyond my sphere ! — in educa- tion, in manners, in accomplishments ! She ought to be a queen ! Not that she assumes ; ah no : who has less pre- tension than she ? But there is no sta- tion she would not grace. And what have I to offer ?" He looked dreamily out into the soft moonlight : " It is not so brilliant as the blaze of day, but how peaceful ! Who knows but that she might be satisfied with my lot ? Peace is so much in this world — peace and affection. And how many, how many, miss them both !" With that his thoughts reverted to a large, formal dwelling down in the vil- lage, where the heart of one parent was closed to him, and the pensive eyes of another awoke sympathy and sorrow — reverted to that half home, then wan- dered down toward the lake, past a stately avenue of elms, to a charming spot, untenanted yet, but where Nature and Art had combined to prepare a site for a simple, happy home. Nothing, in- deed, to tempt worldly grandeur : a few acres only, decked out with no ambitious embellishment ; fresh greensward sloping gently down to the pebbly shore of the lake ; back of that a little tastefully- selected shrubbery intersected with a gravel-path ; then a few clumps of trees so disposed as to leave vacant a building spot on the highest point of the site ; back of that again, two or three acres of blue-grass pasture. Commonplace a worldling would have thought it — dull and commonplace : Ethan's thoughts in- vested it with a halo of light. The young man dreamed dreams — dreams of a picturesque cottage among those clumps of trees ; and from its porch, shaded with woodbine and eglantine, he looked out eastward on the lake ; then across, on the left, to its pine-crowned barrier of cliff, and saw the summer sun rise from behind the pines. And in his dream he thought : "Ah ! if she were but here to rejoice with me in that glo- rious sunrise !" And, with that, there was a light step coming from within, and there was a gentle touch on his shoulder ; and he turned to look into eyes that he had never yet ventured, ex- cept in dreams, fairly to encounter. Such eyes ! He had found out their color at last ! Then it all faded away, and he was out in the dim world again, talking to men, attending to business. How tedious they were ! He thought it would never end. But at last there came tender moonlight, and he was walking, all alone, down a familiar avenue, and thinking that while he had been gone, exiled from happiness, she had been sheltered from the fervor of the noonday sun by those old elms, and that she would come forth, by and by, fresh and bright, to meet him — brighter than the sun, more tender than the moonlight. Suddenly he saw, within that paradise .of his, standing on the edge of the shingly beach, looking out on the silver-tinted lake, a figure in white : there was but one form in all the world as graceful as that ; arid was it waiting for him ? He approached it slowly, with hesitation, as only half assured that he might, until it turned upon him those eyes — the same, only darker in the moonlight ; and then he felt his welcome. He struggled to 120 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. ipeak — as in dreams we often do — in vain. He awoke, on the hillside by the edge of the forest, alone. Was this Ethan Hartland, the plod- ding, the practical ? — the hard worker who had gone his round of humble duty year after year ? — the prudent manager who had made so much money for his employer ? What business had he with such dreams ? Would any of his friends — even Sydenham who knew him best — believe it of him ? Not one of them. Yet this was the man himself : they were acquainted only with the outer, work-a- day semblance. Nor — though under the glamour of Hope phantasms had been evoked — was this dream of Sydenham's man-of-busi- ness all a dream. The moonlight was there ; and there, in the distance, lay the lake, with a streak of silvery light dividing its blue waters. The Elm Walk, too — a dark line of foliage from the village to those blue waters ; and near to it, out in the moonlight- Ethan started up, strode down the hill, through the silent streets of the village, and then, urged by a strange impulse, along that dark avenue, turning to the left near its termination. No white figure on the lake shore — he al- most expected to see it — but there, un- der his eyes, and in a few hours to be his, lay the fairy-land of his dream — the dotted groups of trees, the dainty shrubbery, the sloping lawn. These, at all events, were real. And something else which he had heard at Sydenham's, that evening, was real too. " Twice a week at least," he said, as he turned to- ward home — " twice a week ! Thank God for that !" The summer had passed, and the au- tumn, bringing with it events which we have already related. The subscription, as suggested by Ethan, had been filled out. The proposed building had been erected and fitted up : the libraries con- solidated, additional volumes purchased ; and the lecture-room had been opened, with all due ceremony, by an address from Sydenham. Three weeks after the election, Ellinor Ethelridge removed to her new rooms. Ethan's German class had increased in numbers ; Celia and Lucille Meyrac had joined it, and Leo- line, the brightest scholar among them, was a constant attendant. She thought her new teacher « was very nice.'' This brings us again to the time when Celia Pembroke received that anonymous letter. It was not followed up by any others, but reports injurious to Ellen Tyler's reputation were bruited about, and became, after a while, a staple ar- ticle of village gossip. No one was able to trace these tales to their source, ex- cept Cassiday, and in his heart there sprang up a cordial hatred of Amos Cranstoun. " The infernal hypocrite !" he said to himself. " To pretend friend- ship for the girl, and tell me she mustn't be ruined, and then set to work in the dark and blast her name !" But Cran- stoun was still paying him thirty dollars a month to watch Celia ; so he avoided an open breach with him, and contented himself with bitterly denying all scandal- ous stories about Ellen, and knocking down Mrs. Wolfgang's stable-boy, Sam, who was speaking ill of her. Mrs. Wolfgang was a widow lady, past middle age, who had been many years in Chiskauga. She was a sister of Mr. Hartland the elder — an unfortunate wo- man, sour and vicious, who seldom said a good word of any one, and never missed a chance to pass round a piece of scandal. Through her, in the course of the winter, Cranstoun contrived that the evil rumors touching Ellen Tyler should reach Celia's ears ; but when Mrs. Wolfgang broached the subject, the girl received it so frigidly that the nar- rator was fain somewhat to abridge her story. Her comments upon it, however, were sufficiently pointed and envenomed — so pointed, at last, that the resolution Celia had made not to reply gave way. " Perhaps you can tell me," she said, " who is the author of these slanders." " I only repeat what is the common talk of the town," said Mrs. Wolfgang, taken a little aback. "You spoke so confidently that I supposed you must know who set the common talk of the town afloat. I dare BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 121 say it was the same tale-bearer who sent me a letter two or three months since on this very subject, and was ashamed, as he well might be, to sign his name to the falsehoods it contained." « Oh, if you take it in that way, Miss Pembroke, I have nothing more to say." » I am glad of it, Mrs. Wolfgang." The lady flounced out of the room. " The pert hussy !" she said, as she issued into the street. « Cranstoun shall hear of this. He's a fool if he'll stand that, even for forty thousand dollars." Cranstoun did stand it for some time. He was playing for a large stake, which he was unwilling to lose by rashness, or to forfeit so long as a chance remained. But during a casual interview with Celia, one day, at her uncle's house, that young lady's manner was so unmistakably dis- couraging that he began to lose hope and patience. A letter from England which he received in April brought him to a decision. " I may as well try my fortune first as last," he said to himself : " she drives me to it ; and, at the worst, half a loaf is better than no bread." Thus, progress and plotting kept pace in our little village. A village is often an epitome of the great world. CHAPTER XX. REPARING FOR AN IMPORTANT MOVE IN THE GAME. Cranstoun was a man of quiet nerves and well-controlled temper. He was rare- ly excited beyond equanimity, and not easil) startled out of his self-possession. But any one who could have looked now through the Venitian blinds of his office — they were carefully dropped — would have doubted his right to the character. Whatever the cause, he exhibited a degree of nervous agitation very unusual with him. Now he paced the small room in moody thought, head sunk and arms crossed behind his back. Now he seat- ed himself before a large, baize-covered table, backed by numerous pigeon-holes for papers ; absently took up his pen and drew a blank sheet before him ; then threw the pen down, pushed the paper impatiently away, and fell into a long and apparently unsatisfactory fit of musing. " I wish to God it were over !" he said at last, half aloud. Then he took from one of the pigeon-holes, and began to read, a half sheet headed : " Copy : Letter to C. Pembroke" The letter, dated the day before, might have puz- zled any one else to decipher, for it was covered and blotted with erasures% and interlineations ; and the final docu- ment seemed very short, compared to the original draft. It contained only these words : "Dear Miss Pembroke: " When I inform you that I have a communication of the utmost importance to make to you — one which will disclose to you much connected with your moth- er's early history, and much involving your future welfare ; and one which, if you do not hear it from me, may reach you unexpectedly through some less friendly source " (he had it, at first, "less agreeable source," but agreeable was erased and friendly substituted), "and under less advantageous circum- stances — I trust you will favor me with an interview to-morrow at ten o'clock, or at any other day and hour more con- venient to yourself. I name to-morrow at ten, because I learn that your uncle and aunt will both be absent at that hour, and I am quite sure " (these two words underscored) " that, when you learn the nature of the communication, you will wish it made without witnesses. I entreat you to believe this, and also that I am, most respectfully, " Your friend and well-wisher, " Amos Cranstoun." How that brow cleared as the keen eyes ran over the paper ! The brief and unwonted signs of agitation had passed away, and there sat the man in his normal condition — the passionless player considering his next move in the world's great game, calculating its chances, settling down into conviction of 122 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. its success. A complacent smile flitted over his features — a smile born of such thoughts as these : '* Nature cut you out for a diplomatist. Amos Cranstoun. A fool would barely have asked her for a private interview on matters of importance to her happi- ness, and would have had a plump re- fusal for his pains. But '■her mother's early history,' and then 'a communica- tion which might reach her unexpectedly through some less friendly source ' — that ^brought her down. Curiosity, anxiety, apprehension — I stirred them all. And they, being stirred, dictated the message : < Miss Pembroke will be at home at the hour named.' The gypsy would not risk ä committal on paper ! She thinks her- self cunning. Well, I must play the game warily. But the devil is in it if I don't win with such cards as I hold in my hands." We are told that the children of this w r orld are, in their generation, wiser than the children of light. And so, in one sense, they assuredly are. Cranstoun, a true world-child, spurred on by lust of wealth, of station, of power, had studied his fellow-creatures — not profoundly, for the most astute rascality is not profound — but with sharp and careful eyes and shrewd judgment. In regard to a large portion of his species it might be said that he knew them well. Especially had his study been their weaknesses, failings, besetting sins, selfish ambitions, vulnerable points of temptation. To these he had the clue within himself, and he detected them with keen scent, and employed them with efficient cer- tainty in a thousand cases in which a better man would have overlooked or neglected them. Thus, in the race after riches and honors, the world's children, wise after their kind, often distance men who in all true knowledge are as far above them as the heavens above the earth. But there is a point beyond which this worldly wisdom reaches not. Crans- toun had heard, and had often read in books, of generosity, self-devotion ; up- rightness that was proof against earthly temptation ; love that was stronger than death. He had a vague belief that such things might be — a belief about as strong and definite as our grandmothers' faith in ghosts. These romantic fancies were not "dreamed of in his philosophy ;" but somewhere, in heaven or earth, they might, for aught he could tell, have existence. He had never detected them, however ; and he never seriously calcu- lated upon them as disturbing elements having power to defeat any plan upon which he had set his heart. Had Cranstoun, then, in his walk through life, never encountered any man without the taint of mercenary motive about him ? — never met the generous, the devoted, the unselfishly loving ? Beyond doubt he had met them, had come face to face with them, time after time. But seeing, he perceived them not. There was nothing in his character to respond to or call out the noblest parts of theirs. The key was wanting. The highest virtues do not stalk forth osten- tatiously in the sunshine. They do not, like the almsgiving hypocrites in Jesus' day, sound a trumpet before them in the synagogues and in the streets. They enter into the closet of the heart ; and he who would thence win them forth to speech and sympathy, must possess the signs and passwords of the soul's free- masonry. There were men, then, beyond his reach, because beyond his apprehension. Virtue is a generously careless leader, falling into many an ambush, paying many a time the penalty of over-confi- dence ; but then, to fall back upon, she has an inner citadel, its pure recesses impregnable, because unknown, to her enemies — accessible to those only whom she vouchsafes to guide. The clock in Cranstoun's room struck the half hour after nine. He started, replaced the copy of his letter to Celia. took from another pigeon-hole a package of papers, the separate titles of which he carefully examined before placing them in his pocket; closed and locked the many-celled depository of his secrets ; and, after adjusting his dress in an ad- joining room, issued into the street. BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 123 CHAPTER XXI. THE DISCLOSURE. When Cranstoun was ushered into the parlor, he found Celia sitting at the centre-table, an open letter before her — the letter he had sent her the day before, as his quick eye instantly detected. She rose, indicating a chair. Crans- toun had made the ordinary inquiries after her health, and then, somewhat unexpectedly to him, she took the initiative. " You have written to me," she said, taking up the letter, » that you have some important matter connected with my mother's history which you wish to com- municate. Have the goodness to inform me what it is." There was a subtle something in the tone and the grave manner, rather than In tTie words, which fell unpleasantly on Cranstoun's ear. This young lady had hitherto seemed somewhat embarrassed in his presence, especially when he met her alone. She had avoided his look, and evinced trepidation sometimes when he spoke to her. Now, though she trembled a little, she looked him steadily in the eye, and awaited his reply in a quiet way for which he had not been prepared. He felt that his power over her was lessened — Sydenham's influence probably. No matter. He, Cranstoun, was master of the situation now. All this glanced through his mind during the second or two which elapsed ere he replied : "It is of the utmost importance, Miss Pembroke ; and I deeply regret to say it is of an unpleasant character : I most deeply regret the pain I shall have to give you. Let me hope that you will disassociate, in your feelings, the evil tidings and unwilling bearer of them." Her sudden pallor and look of alarm reassured Cranstoun, and he went on with more confidence : " The property which you have always considered yours does not legally belong to you." " Am I not papa's heir ? Is that what you mean ?" " Ycu were so young at the time of your father's death, Miss Celia, that you may not have noticed in his manner in- dications of a secret burden." " I remember," Celia forced herself to say, " that papa was often sad and thoughtful." « He had good reason to be so. At the time he married your mother, and for many years afterward, he had a wife living in England. You will require proof of this. It is contained in your father's own letters." He took a small package from an in- ner pocket, untied the red tape which bound it, and handed her the contents. Poor Celia ! The stern realities of life were upon her now. The actual shadow had fallen across her path at last. Mechanically she took from Cran- stoun the offered letters, opened one of them, gazed on its contents. Her fa- ther's hand was remarkably fair and legible, but the characters gave back, for a time, no idea — no more than to an unlettered Indian they would. Her mind, after the first stunning blow, wan- dered far away, back to her years of childhood — to her earliest memories of her father — of her injured mother. " Did she know it ?" were her first eager words. " Your mother ? No. She died be- lieving herself your father's legal w r ife." " Thank God ! oh thank God for that !" and the fast-flowing tears, for the first time, would come. Cranstoun looked on, in curious aston- ishment. He had just been communi- cating to an orphan girl, who till now had borne a reputable name and enjoyed a handsome fortune, the fact that she was entitled to neither. He had thought to overwhelm her with the idea of de- pendence, of poverty, of the world's con- tempt. And her first expression was one of gratitude — almost of joyful grat- itude, it seemed — that another had been spared the misery which seemed closing around her ! " No matter," was his next thought : " this can't last long." And in the ex* pressive countenance before him, mark- ing every change within, he already read that she was gathering up the severed 124 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. links of thought, arranging and com- bining, out of sudden confusion, what were at first only vague shadows — be- ginning, in short, to realize her actual position. " Miss Pembroke — " he began. "Pembroke is not my name. It was not my mother's — poor mother ! — but she thought it was ! She always thought it was." And then the tears, in spite of her best efforts, would force their way afresh. « Miss Celia — " « Yes, that is mine still. They can't take it from me. Mamma gave it me." "A name is of little consequence. The chief point is, that the property which you have always supposed you in- herited belongs to another. You are not—" He hesitated. Celia turned very pale, but she said, in a low tone, " I know — I understand — I am not a legitimate child. I have no right to my father's property." " No, only to your mother's. Your father's estate goes, by law, to the near- est legitimate heir." He had awakened a new train of thought : "Is she — I mean, is my fa- ther's wife alive ?" « No, she died nearly three years be- fore your father." " And he had an opportunity to rem- edy the evil he had done, and did not do it ! I don't believe it. I am sure — oh sure ! — that he loved my mother. You are not telling me the truth." " I am, indeed I am. You need not trust to my word for it. One of these letters will prove what I say. But your father had every disposition to legalize his marriage with your mother." « Every disposition, and not do it ?" " Yes. He was extremely sensitive to the opinion of the world, and he feared that a second marriage with your mother, no matter how secretly solemnized, might become generally known. Still more, he feared to disclose the truth to her. The very strength of his affection for her held him back from confessing that he had deceived her, and that she had been living with him for years as — " Cranstoun stopped involuntarily. Was this Celia ? How the world's lesson was telling upon her ! Every trace of tears was gone. The glance was steady, almost stern, and her tone was cold and firm as she broke in upon his unclosed sentence : "You have no right, sir — he had no right — to couple my mother's name, even in thought, with any term except such as may be applied to the best and the most virtuous. She deserved — and well you know she commanded, even to the last moment — my father's unbounded con- fidence and respect." "It was that very respect, Miss Pem- broke, which caused him to delay, day after day, what he earnestly longed, but had not courage, to do. Had he not, he would, at least, have made a will." « Could he have left his property, by will, to mamma ?" " To her, or to you or to any one. His wife being dead, the dower in the real estate was extinguished. He had the entire control, free from incumbrance, of all his property." « And even that he failed to do ! But perhaps — " How new ideas were crowd- ing on Celia as the several phases of her position, one after another, presented themselves ! — this time, however, the new emotion had joy mingled with its sorrow. "Perhaps he meant — " She stopped again, and with flushed cheek and lighted eye she asked Cranstoun, abruptly, " Have I a sister ?" "Your father had, by his wife, one child, a daughter. But I know he never intended she should have any of his property in this country. When he left her mother, they separated by mutual consent, and he made over to her half his property, real and personal. At her death it would go to her child." "A sister — a sister!" Celia repeated. But the light gradually faded from her eye, and she added: " Perhaps she would despise me. She might feel as if I had wronged her, and hate me. Am I her sister, or does the law say I am not?" "You are undoubtedly her sister of the half blood, but I am not sure she is alive." " Has she been ill ?" BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 125 " Not that I know of. I am sorry that I have t6 tell you a melancholy story, that leaves everything in uncertainty. At her mother's death, as your father had not been heard of for years, and had caused a report of his death to be circu- lated, she was received into the family of her nearest relative, a Mr. — a Mr. Dunmore, her father's first cousin, a gay man of the world, addicted to horse- racing, and who was afterward appointed her guardian. There she remained sev- eral years. Among the fashionable fre- quenters of this gentleman's house, a captain of the Guards paid especial at- tention to Miss Mary — " " And she married this captain ?" " She eloped with him, under promise of marriage, it seems, but has not been seen or heard of by her mother's rela- tions since." Celia sighed deeply. She felt as if the only gleam of sunshine in a stormy sky had been suddenly shut out. She would have given up all her property willingly, she thought — joyfully — if there- by she could but have won a sister, a sister's love ! " But some explanation must have been given," she said at last. " This captain — " " He prevaricated — told first one story, then another. There was a duel, I be- lieve. Finally, he protested, in the most solemn terms, that he knew not where she was ; that she had disappeared in the most unaccountable manner ; and that he had made every effort to trace her, but in vain. The cousin believed, or affected to believe, the story. Indeed there seems pretty strong ground for the conclusion that she came to an unfor- tunate end." " Poor, poor sister !" And though Celia's chaste ignorance failed to suggest to her the horrors of which such a narra- tive opened up the possibility — for a great city has darker depths than those of the swollen river, last refuge of the suicide —still, she could not but feel that her own fate was mild and endurable com- pared to what had possibly been the portion of one who was born to name and to fortune. Cranstoun was obliged to recall her thoughts to her own situation. » Miss Mary, if she be alive," he said, « is un- doubtedly heir to all the property which you imagined that you had inherited from your father, she being his only legitimate child. If she is dead, Mr. Dunmore is heir-at-law. But ten years have elapsed since your father's death. He had evidently not been traced by his English relations. They know noth- ing, in all probability, of your existence, nor have any clue to the property that is in your guardian's hands. As you have enjoyed it unmolested until now, I do not see why you may not continue to do so as long as you live, if — if you will only act prudently at this juncture." " What has prudence to do with it ? I know, now, that the property is not mine — you have taken pains to tell me that — and you know it also." " Very true. I know it ; and if I were to sit down and write to your father's cousin, whose address I have, he, as heir-at-law, would sue and un- doubtedly recover. But I have known the same thing for twenty years, and have never written to him a word about it." Celia was silent for some time, and Cranstoun sat anxiously watching the effect of the hint he had given. At last she said : " Mr. Cranstoun, you must have had some motive for concealing all this so long and for disclosing it to me now. What was it ?" Most persons would have been taken aback by so downright a question, and might have replied, in the commonplace style, that if the young lady would but consent to marriage, she would save for- tune and name ; otherwise, she would surely forfeit both. But Cranstoun, though a man incapable of appreciating nobility of motive, had been partially en- lightened as to Celia's character by the preceding conversation, and was too shrewd not to perceive that such a move would be false and unprofitable. In a quiet tone he replied : "As a member, however unworthy, of the legal profession, it was, in one sense, my duty to have made these disclosures long ago to those concerned, so that 126 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. the persons to whom the property law- fully belongs might obtain possession of it. Cannot Miss Pembroke imagine why I have not done so ?" " I prefer to learn the reason from you, sir." "It is very simple. I have ever been unwilling — at this moment I am more than ever unwilling — to take any step that should give you pain and do you an injury." " But this does not explain why you have broken silence to me at last." " If I could have believed that I stand as high in your esteem as I most earn- estly wish and hope to stand, you should never have known a syllable of all I have told you to-day. As it is, can you blame me for seeking to inspire you with some sentiments of— of gratitude, of good-will, through the knowledge that, by my for- bearance, you have lived in ease and affluence, your name has been saved from dishonor and your father's memory from reproach. Miss Celia, I desire, above all things in this world, your good opinion." How smooth the villainy ! How fair the words in which it was clothed ! Celia felt her way through it, as the blind sometimes safely thread field and forest, by an inscrutable instinct. "Allow me to ask another question," she said, after a pause. " Supposing the forbearance of which you have spoken to continue in the future as in the past, do you expect me to live, as heretofore, but with the consciousness ever present that not a dollar I spend, nor an article I possess, is, of right, my own ?" " Most assuredly I do, Miss Pem- broke. It was your father's intention to make your mother and yourself his heirs. I have personal knowledge of that. I am willing to make oath to it." " No oath can make that mine which belongs to another." " I beseech you, Miss Celia, to make no rash move, as you seem to purpose. It would be the very extravagance of Quixotic humiliation." " You do expect, then — or did expect, at least — that, if no one disclosed to the heir-at-law — to Mr. — " " Mr. Dunmore." " — That if no one disclosed the truth to Mr. Dunmore, I would leave him in ignorance, and go on using his property as if it were mine. You are mistaken." A man of the world might, on mature reflection — after taking into view the miserable anxiety which attends the holding of property by uncertain tenure, the chances of black-mail and like con- tingencies — have come to the same con- clusion as Celia. She, at the moment, had no such thoughts. Her womanly instinct, cutting across them all, went direct to the precept, " Render to every man his due." Be such instincts ever kept unspotted from the world ! Cranstoun's version of it was, that, instead of being actuated by common- sense considerations of practical conse- quences — as of the risks she ran, the imprudence of placing herself at others' mercy, to all which it might have been hard to reply — the girl was moved by a mere romantic fancy, a figment set up under the name of honor, which he might succeed in combating. "This is madness," he said, earnestly — "sheer madness, Miss Pembroke. It may be law, but it is not justice, that a far-off relative of your father — a gambler and spendthrift whom he despised — should inherit his property to the exclu- sion of his own daughter. The spirit of the law is, that the intentions of a dy- ing man, if they can be ascertained, should determine the disposition of his property. You propose, as to your father's proper- ty, by your own act to bring about a disposition of it which you are quite sure he never wished, never intended, and which, if he were now alive, would be abhorrent to his feelings. Most deeply do I regret that I said a word to you on the subject. But how could I for a mo- ment imagine that it would bring about such a result ?" "Is common honesty so rare a thing ?" was Celia's thought, but she did not ask Cranstoun that question. She said to him : " You desire to take back with you my father's letters ?" He bowed in assent. BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 127 « Then allow me a few minutes to wook over them." They confirmed everything that Cran- stoun had said. A portion of one of them, in which the main facts were the most distinctly stated, she read with amazement. Her father therein accept- ed an offer which, it appeared, Cran- stoun had made to him, to maintain silence on the subject of the previous marriage so long as Mr. and Mrs. Pem- broke should live, on payment of ten thousand dollars hush-money. She was so startled when she came to this pas- sage that she interrupted her reading to ask, " Did you intend me to see all these letters ?" " Certainly," he replied. He had asked her in marriage, he had just expressed eager desire for her good opinion, and yet he was willing she should see this memorial of his shame ! Even in the midst of her own bitter griefs she could not help saying to her- self, "What manner of man is this ?" As she handed him back the letters, she said : « Some time since you did me the honor to make to me, through my guardian, a proposition which I declined. I think you must be glad now that I de- clined it. We have neither thought nor principle in common. You think me, no doubt, a young woman lacking com- mon sense ; and I think you" — she paused, and then added — » the last per- son who would wish to connect himself in marriage with one who will hence- forth bear a stain on her name and have to work for her living. I feel confident I may now assure my guardian that your proposal will not be renewed." He rose, as much exasperated by her coolness as it was in the nature of his impassive character to be. He had made his great move and been check- mated by a simple girl. " You will do me a favor," Celia added, "if you will send me Mr. Dunmore's address." He bowed, and left her without an- other word. Two hours afterward Celia received the following note : " Mr. Cranstoun trusts that Miss Pembroke will excuse him for delaying to comply with her request for the ad- dress of the gentleman to whom the re- quest referred. " Mr. Cranstoun will not write to England for a week to come. If in that time he receives no letter or mes- sage from Miss Pembroke, he will con- clude that the resolution she has ex- pressed to-day is irrevocable, and will act upon that resolution. " Mr. Cranstoun reminds Miss Pem- broke that a knowledge of the facts he communicated to her this morning is as much a piece of property as any other. He placed it at Miss P.'s disposal with- out condition attached; and Miss P. did not see fit to avail herself of it. " At the end of a week from this day (under the contingency above referred to), Mr. C. will proceed to dispose of it elsewhere. Whether the information be given in the proper quarter by Miss Pem- broke herself or by Mr. Cranstoun, the result to Miss P. will be the same, but the result to others will be very different. In the latter case (i. e., if given by Mr. C), a reckless spendthrift will probably secure for himself half the amount in- volved, while the other half may become the rightful property of a man who will not spend it in dissipation and horse- racing. " Chiskauga, April 9, 1856." CHAPTER XXII. THE FIRST DARK DAY. " If there be an evil in this world, 'tis sorrow and heaviness of heart. The loss of fame, of wealth, of coronets and mitres, are only evils as they occasion sorrow. Take that out, the rest is fancy, and dwelleth only in the head of man." — Sterne. The shield of our fate has ever two sides, but, like King Alfred's headlong knights meeting at the cross-roads, we too often look but on one of them. There is no stroke of earthly happi- ness so unquestionable that it entails not mischiefs unforeseen, and no human mis- fortune so heavy that it brings not its attendant mitigations. Barring the worm 128 BEYOND THE that dieth not, our short sight scarcely suffices to distinguish what is calamity. Evil changes to good, good to evil, even before our eyes. But this is a lesson taught only by experience. It is espe- cially in the days of impulsive youth, fresh to enjoy, quick also to suffer, that we fail to discern the reverse of the shield. When the sun shines out, we rejoice as if it would never be obscured ; and when the clouds arise and cover it, we droop as if its light were gone for ever. If there be, aside from the stings of conscience, one unmitigated evil, it is that which a common phrase aptly ex- presses : we "lose heart" — a loss, as Sterne has well reminded us, worse than of wealth, of station, of all this world affords. For the world's goods and the world's high places may be lost and won again if, in the storm which swept these away, we did not lose heart along with them. We speak of the night of adversity, but the darkness is often within us, rather than without ; and if we but pre- serve the spirit to retrieve, the courage to undertake, the perseverance to prose- cute, Ajax's noble prayer will be an- swered in our case. The struggle we may not escape — to contend is man's destiny — but we shall have light to strug- gle by. It was dark enough now around Celia, poor child ! And when Cranstoun was gone, and she was left alone with her thoughts, she remained in the gloom, for a time, with but a dim sense of some vague and terrible misfortune — of dis- grace, of desolation. Gradually, as she recovered the power to recall and arrange the thoughts that had wardered off, like worldlings desert- ing the unfortunate, the realities of her situation rose up, one by one, in array before her. Not at first the ruin of her fortune, for the young and the generous, bred in easy affluence, and to whom life's com- forts have come as comes the air to re- fresh and the sunlight to cheer us, do not feel, at the time, even at its true cost, the loss of money, though it be all they possess. BREAKERS. But^t was the position in which her mother had stood — she so good, so lov- ing: it was, even more, the conduct of her father— so fondly remembered, and who had always treated herself and her mother with indulgent affection. Could it be ? That father to whom she had ever looked up so dutifully, whom all men had seemed so highly to respect — had his life with her mother and herself been but one long, acted falsehood ? Was this the world in which she had to live ? Who was true ? Whom was she to trust? Could any one have seemed more worthy of trust than her father ? It is youth's sorest trial when on its warm, trusting faith comes the first icy breath of suspicion. W T ell may the wounded spirit pray to be saved from the infidelity of the heart, from skepticism in human virtue, from unbelief in Truth and Righteousness upon earth ! Who was to be trusted ? Was he to whom she proposed to commit the hap- piness of her life? What would Mow- bray say ? What would Mowbray do ? It was with a start almost of terror that Celia met the question as it arose in her mind. Could it be that she was not sure how her lover would feel — how he would act? Was she, indeed, losing faith in humankind ? Not quite that. But now, for the first time, she became conscious of an in- stinctive impression that both Mowbray and his mother prized station, set store by wealth. And what was she ? What had her mother been? Not her father's wife. The terms which a world, heartless and undiscriminating, applies alike to the vicious and the unfortunate — terms that grate so cruelly on the ears of the pure and the young — thrust themselves upon her. She seemed to hear them spoken, and she shrank, as from the public gaze, under a feeling of degradation. Her mind dwelt on this until the thought stung like a venomous reptile. She rose and moved about, as if thus she might shake it off. She closed her eyes, as though to shut it out. But it seemed only to stamp itself the more vividly on BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 129 her imagination. Then she began to reflect that it would never leave her as long as she lived — that she would bear it with her day by day, year by year — at night when she lay down, at morning when she arose. The thought became intolerable. Ah ! if she could only go back twenty- four hours ! — could only feel as she had felt yesterday, the day before, throughout her life up to this very hour ! What would she not give to be again as she was then ! — to awake and find that all she had just been suffering was but in a frightful dream ! It is often as true of happiness as of time, that we take note of it only by its loss. Celia suddenly bethought herself (it seemed to her hardly credible now) how miserable she had sometimes fancied herself! — for what slight cause she had bewailed her hard fate to her aunt, to Sydenham ! Sydenham ! A new train of ideas arose with the name, the first faint glimpse of light through the storm. The words he had once spoken to her — the very words — came back to her now, in her sore affliction, as with a new sense. She remembered the flashing eye, she seemed to hear again the indig- nant tones in which he had said, " No man whose good opinion is worth caring for will visit on the daughter the father's sins. If any man ever does, take my word for it you are well rid of him." She felt that she could yet count upon one sure friend. If the rest of the world forsook her as the child of shame, he, at least, would pronounce her innocent — her and the unmarried mother, well de- serving the love and reverence she in- spired, who had lived and died uncon- scious of her fate, unconscious of the stigma that was one day to attach, through her, to her daughter. But even this gleam of comfort was obscured a moment after. It flashed upon her, as she recalled Sydenham's words, that at the moment she first heard them she had experienced a vague apprehension, dispelled afterward by Sydenham's disclaimer, that they might apply to Mowbray. 9 How was this ? She trusted Sydeit ham, a mere friend ; her faith in him was even stronger now, in the hour of trial, than before ; but the man she had loved and had chosen from all the world as her future husband — twice, while these gloomy thoughts had been sweeping over her, there had mingled with them almost a doubt of his loyalty. What had Mow- bray ever done to deserve this at her hands ? And then again she thought, if her present position did change his views, ought she to blame him? It was not that she was poor now : he was not much richer himself. It was not as if she had discovered that she was born of parents in the humblest condition of life : she did not, she believed, think so meanly of him as to imagine he would despise her because of a lowly origin, so that her birth was only honest; but now, dis- graced as well as disinherited, could it reasonably be expected — She was going on with this reasoning when there suddenly crossed her train of thought the idea — What if the case had been reversed ? What if Mrs. Mowbray had been the deceived one, and the stain had been cast on Evelyn's birth ? Oh how warmly the conviction gushed to her heart that she would have met him with open arms — with a love far stronger, in his day of sorrow, than when all went well ; that she would have re- joiced unspeakably to be able to soothe when the world frowned ; to prepare a home, sheltered by changeless affection from the blasts without — a home where, if her constant devotion could make it bright to him, there should ever be genial warmth and pleasant sunshine ! But it was not — and she sighed — it was not, she supposed, with men as with women ! She forgot, when she made this ex- cuse for her lover at expense of his sex, that she had not, even for a moment, lost confidence in Sydenham. But it is little to be wondered at if the poor girl's ideas, all startled into disorder by the news that had burst upon her like a clap of thunder from a summer sky, 130 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. strayed hither and thither, without much order or consistency. A carriage at the door ! It was her aunt and uncle returning. She retired hastily to her room, there to reflect whether she should communicate to them what had passed. Her first impulse was to speak of it openly. Then she reflected that without fortune she be- came, as it were, a pensioner on their bounty, until she could arrange some self-supporting mode of life. Her aunt, s.ie was quite sure — shocked and pained as she must be — would never regard, in that light, her sister's child ; but how her uncle would look upon it she did not quite know. So she concluded that she would think over her plans for the future before saying anything. This, at least, was the reason she gave to herself. There was another, unacknowledged, that probably had greater weight — the natural reluctance to make the first trial as to the effect which her disclosures would produce on those around her. She made a strong and not unsuccess- ful attempt to master her agitation. And when, after half an hour, she descended to the parlor, no suspicion was excited. It is true that she went through the petty duties of the day with a sort of mechanical unconsciousness, and that her aunt once rallied her, in a tone of pleasantry, about her evidently absent thoughts. But the day passed, as the weariest days will ; and she retired early to her chamber to sink into a long reverie, crowded with the thoughts she had so resolutely shut out while the eyes of others were upon her. When she sought rest, her mother's image rose before her so distinctly, so vividly, it seemed but yesterday she had received her parting kiss. If she could but have laid her head once more on that faithful breast, and poured forth all she felt, and told how her love for that dear parent, that had grown with her growth, seemed increased and renewed within her, now that they were com- panions in misfortune ! (It was thus Celia put it : her mother was alive to her still.) And oh, if she could but have heard, in reply, a mother's answer- ing words of sympathy ! — those words of the dear old time — what was ever like to them in after years ? — that fell on the young heart like fresh spring flowers on the surface of a brook bright with glad sunshine. The earnest longing so grew upon her that she stretched forth her arms as if to embrace a tangible form. And then, as a sense of lonely grief came back, she wept long and silently. But at length youth and health triumphed over sorrow, and she dropped into a heavy sleep : not, indeed, unbroken by wildering dreams, but which lasted till the slanting rays of the sun, just risen, came cheerfully through an eastern win- dow athwart her bed-chamber. CHAPTER XXIII. TAKING HEART. " Quale i fioretti, dal notturno gelo Chinati e chiusi, poi ch'il Sol gl' imbianca, Si drizzan tutti aperti in loro stelo ; Tal mi fee 'io di mia virtute stanca."* Dante, Inferno, Canto II. When any powerful emotion, whether of joy or grief, has possession of us, it can hardly be said to depart, even during the forgetfulness of sleep. It rests, almost with a palpable weight, on our slumbering senses, as if importunate for recognition on the first instant of return- ing sensation. And thus the moment of awaking on the morrow after some heavy stroke of affliction is like a re- newal of that on which the blow origin- ally fell. Our earliest consciousness is a sense of some misfortune waiting to assail us the very instant our eyes open on the world. But, after the first shock, Celia found herself more capable, than under the weary depression of the preceding even- ing, of reviewing, with some degree of calm, the new phases of her destiny. Sleep, that gives fresh power and zest to enjoy, renews also, in youth especially, our courage to suffer. A cold bath, her * "As flowerets, by the frosty breath of night Shut up and drooping, soon as daylight glows Spring on their stems all open and upright, Even so my wearied courage freshly rose." Parson's Translation* BEYOND THE BREAKERS. constant daily practice, while it braced her limbs, seemed to extend its invigor- ating influence to her mind likewise. Her toilet completed, she threw open a window that looked out southward on the valley, and sat down beside it. To the healthy mind there is some- thing strangely hopeful in the fresh morning air and the calm beauty of the early landscape. It comes to the sor- rowful a reminder of happiness yet re- maining. Celia felt the encouraging im- pulse it imparted. All, except it be impassive or defiant spirits — and our heroine was not one of these — bend before the first blast of ad- versity, the brave heart and the coward- ly alike. But there is this difference : some are of an inherent feebleness that is beaten down, like the slightly-rooted maize-stalk, hopelessly prostrate, to rise and flourish no more. Others, who at first seem equally overwhelmed, have within them a recuperative principle — an elastic spirit not to be subdued — that rallies when the immediate pressure is removed, and rises, like the lithe willow, erect, when the storm has passed. Hap- py he who is numbered among these children of hope ! It is often difficult, until the day of trial comes, to decide to which of these classes one belongs. This was now to be determined in Celia's case, and the first indications seemed favorable. Hartland's house was situated, as we have said, on the southern extremity of the village. Beyond the shrubbery that i immediately surrounded it lay a pasture dotted with small clumps of trees : the green herbage, with Spring's freshness on it, glistening in the morning dew. Beyond that again were grain-fields, their boundaries marked with a fringe of dwarf copsewood; and to the right, some three-quarters of a mile distant, rose [ that semicircular range of hills to which we have already alluded, with orchards 1 which the rich pink blossom of the peach, now in its early bloom, decked I out in gayest beauty. Celia gazed on this placid, rural scene, pensively, sadly it is true, but without bitterness. The terrible impatience of suffering which, the day before, had caused her to pace the room as if to es- cape from a burden too heavy to bear, was gone. She sorrowed, but no longer as those who have no hope. The charms of the external world brought soothing, not flouting, to her sorrow. The small birds that made their home in the branches of the neighboring acacias, their blithe notes ringing out cheerily in the morning air, were welcome. Burns' poor, lost songstress complained to Na- ture of the earth's freshness and bloom — to the very birds that their songs broke her heart ; and never did hopeless desolation find truer interpreter of its despair. He is steeped in misery to the lips who is beyond the reach of consola- tion from our great Mother, smiling on him in her daily beauty, speaking to him in her thousand voices of love. But though the sense of an intolerable burden had passed away, poor Celia's heart was very, very heavy. And she began to think, more than the evening before she had, of the loss of property, and of the plan of life which it behooved her, in consequence, to adopt. A chance thought first brought home to her a consciousness of the practical workings of poverty. She felt an espe- cial longing, this morning, for her daily ride — for the free air, the quiet of the shady forest, the bracing excitement of quick and easy motion. But these were luxuries which she would now have to deny herself. She recollected that, in her guardian's accounts, he had charged her two dollars and a half a week for the keep and care of Bess. She had never bestowed a second thought on the item ; but now it occurred to her that, if she was to seek her own living, a hundred and thirty dollars annually added to her expenses, for an object not at all of ne- cessity, was an imprudence which she must avoid. It cost her a pang to come to this conclusion. To part with her beautiful pony, so gentle, so spirited, that she had learned to love so well — Sydenham's gift, too ! The breakfast-bell broke in on these unwelcome cogitations. Hartland kept early hours, according to the primitive 132 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. habits of the country: it was half-past six. The breakfast passed over without comment. The uncle's thoughts were engrossed with a butterfly — a new species he had found the day before — and he dilated to Celia on its beauty. Mrs. Hartland looked anxiously at her niece several times. As they rose, and after Mr. Hartland had gone, she said, " Celia, my love, are you not well ?" " Quite well, dear mother, except a slight headache, and, I believe" — she tried to say it lightly — "a touch of low spirits. An hour or two in the saddle will do me good." " Is anything wrong, my child? Has Mowbray — " " Do not alarm yourself about Mow- bray and me. Nothing has occurred between us except what you know. I dare say it is all best just as it is." " There is something wrong, Celia, or you would not — " " Between Mowbray and me, nothing, I do assure you, mother. I have not seen him, or heard of him, for several days." "It is so unnatural for you to say, while your uncle seems to become daily more averse to your marriage, that it is all for the best." " Did I say so?" " Did you not ?" " I was thinking, I believe, how ne- cessary it is to be very, very sure of a man's character before one marries him. And you know, mother, that in two or three years I shall be absolutely free to choose, if, in the mean time, neither Evelyn nor I change our minds." "7/" neither of you change !" " Why should we not ? This is a changeful world. Circumstances change, and they say we are the creatures of circumstances. And how much better that a lover should change before mar- riage than a husband afterward!" "This from you, Celia!" "Is it not true, dear mother? And in a world of such uncertainty, is it not well to be prepared for the worst ? Have I been so thoughtless hitherto," she add- ed, with a faint smile as she noted Mrs. Hartland's increasing anxiety, "that if I utter a sage reflection or two on the in- stability of human affairs, you must needs conjure up mystery and misfortune?" "I do not know you, this morning, my child. Your dear mother felt, when she confided her orphan to my hands, that she would never want a parent's care or sympathy while I lived. And you used to confide in me, Celia.' Poor Celia's tears, with difficulty re- strained till now, filled her eyes. She threw her arms round Mrs. Hartland's neck and kissed her again and again. « I do, oh indeed I do !" she said. " My own mamma could not have been kinder. Pray, pray, don't cry. You shall know all that has been vexing me. But not now. I know Mr. Hartland expects you in the library to color the sketch of that wonderful butterfly he has been describing to us ; and there is Bess at the door. When I return you shall know all." "It has nothing to do with Mow- bray ?" " Dear mother that cares so much about my happiness! I have already told you that nothing whatever has passed between Mowbray and me that need dis- tress you." " Then I dare say all will be well yet.' " Perhaps." " You are a riddle to me this morning, Celia. But there is Mr. Hartland's voice. A pleasant ride, dear child." Through bypaths that skirted the vil- lage, Celia reached the main road leading west toward the railroad station : then she put the little mare to a canter, caught a glimpse of Mr. Harper at work in his flower-garden as she passed, arrested the animal's inclination to take the side road which turned off to Sydenham's residence, and galloped on, without drawing rein, until she was fairly in the shelter of the woods. There she checked Bess's speed, and, a little farther on, diverging from the main road into a path on the right hand — an ancient Indian trace that led to Tyler's mill — she found herself traversing the same solitude that had been broken, a hundred years be- BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 133 fore, only by tread of wild beast, or of the red man, scarcely less wild, who was pursuing him. There is something wonderfully tran- quilizing in the deep stillness of these primeval forests. Alone with Nature in one of her most impressive garbs, that which is natural and genuine in our feel- ings expands, and asserts the mastery over the meretricious and the conven- tional. Under that stately shelter we seem, in a measure, protected from the capricious influences of an artificial world. In the haunts of men the eternal prin- ciples of right and justice appeal to the reason : here they speak to the heart. We distinguish truth in society, but we feel it in the solemnity of the forest. This was telling now upon Celia. Her rapid ride, too, had had its usual in- spiriting effect. The fresh bloom came in her cheeks ; the languor was gone from her eye ; her courage rose. The spirit of the place was upon her: the very color of her destiny seemed to change under the influence of the scene. As, in such mood and with slackened rein, she passed slowly on, an incident occurred, of which the results materially influenced her fortunes. PART VII. CHAPTER XXIV. A TALK IN THE FOREST. " L'alternative des succes et des revers a son utility. Nous nous plaignons de l'inconstance de la fortune. C'est de sa Constance que nous devrions nous plain- dre ; alors, en effet, eile a plus de moyens de nous corrompre."* Degerando, " Z>u Perfectionnentent Moral" ONE of the long vistas characteristic of the rude country-paths by which the early settlers threaded their way from cabin to cabin opened before Celia ; and the animal she rode, raising its head and pointing its small, taper ears, caused the rider to look round, in expectation of some one's approach. The road before her was vacant, but off to the right, through the open woods, gay with blossoms of the dogwood and the redbud, she thought she distinguish- ed in the distance a horseman, riding in the same direction as herself. " It must be Sydenham," she thought, for she knew that the bridle-path from his residence to Tyler's mill led through these woods, and connected, a few hun- dred yards farther on, with the road she was pursuing. Yes, it was he. But how was she to meet him ? — what to say to him ? Should she reveal all, and ask his advice ? An hour before she would have shrunk from such a disclosure. But now a quickened pulse gave bolder impulses. She took heart. She felt that the world must soon know her real position ; and who so worthy of her confidence, or so capable to counsel her in her present strait, as her mother's trusted friend, to whom she was already beholden for so much encouragement in her former trou- bles — ah, such petty troubles they seem- ed now ! But if she was to say any- thing to him at all, it must be at once, ere courage cooled : she felt that. If she had any remaining hesitation, * " The alternation of success and reverse is useful. We complain of the inconstancy of fortune, but its constancy would corrupt us more." Peabody's Translation. 134 it was dispelled by Sydenham's manner — the evident pleasure with which he met her, the cordial earnestness with which he extended his hand and in- quired after her welfare. " And Bess still continues to behave well ?" he asked as they rode on to- gether. "No creature could behave better. So full of spirit and so docile, too, as she is ! She knows me, and I do believe loves me, for she will come, at my call, from the farthest corner of our pasture. It is hard to part with a favorite," she added, sadly, stoop- ing over the pony's neck and patting it fondly. The tone, more than the words, ar- rested Sydenham's attention. « I know, Mr. Sydenham," she re- joined, looking up, "that you must have thought me foolish and unreasonable." " When ?" " Do you remember the day Brunette ran away with Mrs. Hartland and Lela — the day we had that long conversation together ?" " As if it were yesterday." "You thought me weak and childish then : do not deny it." " I thought you inexperienced — de- pressed without sufficient cause. I did miss in you a certain force of mind — a spirit that often lies dormant within us till circumstances call it forth." " I am ashamed of myself when I look back upon it. I know now exactly what you must have thought of me. I hope you are right when you say that there is often within us more than ap- pears during prosperity. I had every- thing to make me happy in those days — everything : kind friends, a respected name, an easy competency. I had noth- ing, absolutely nothing, as an excuse for low spirits. The delay of my marriage with Mowbray, how little, in reality, did that signify ! I once heard you say that girls marry too young in this country. BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 135 So they do : they marry in haste, to re- pent at leisure." Sydenham was thoroughly alarmed. " What is the matter ?" he said. " Tell me at once." " Why do you imagine that something terrible has happened ?" "What is it, Celia ? It is useless to attempt to deceive me. Some influence is changing your character. It is not the old Celia I used to know." " Do I look as downcast now as when I came to complain to you that day of my hard fate ?" " No : you are a different creature. You are agitated, and I am sure some- thing is amiss. But there is a light in your eye and a determination in your tone that seem anything but downcast." " I am glad of it. At least you will not feel contempt for me." " Celia, do I deserve this ? Did I not promise your mother that I would watch over her daughter's happiness ? Why will you keep me in suspense ? What is it?" " My father deceived that mother you knew so well. He was already married. I am an illegitimate child. Not a dol- lar of my father's property belongs to me. I am a penniless orphan, who must work for her bread and make her own way in the world." "Good God !" And Sydenham involuntarily checked his horse so sharply that the spirited animal started and reared against the bit. For a moment the girl and her auditor seemed suddenly to have exchanged cha- racters. She sat erect and quiet, her graceful form drawn up to its full height: her young face, shaded by the wide- rimmed riding-hat, very sad indeed, but quite calm ; and though her voice trem- bled somewhat, she spoke so deliberate- ly, and met Sydenham's first agitated glance of alarm, astonishment, incred- ulity with a look so steady and collect- ed, that it took him almost as much by surprise as the astounding tidings she had just imparted. But this was for the first moment of excitement only, and then nature and habit reasserted their power. Syden- ham's evident dismay was communicating itself to Celia. He saw it, and it recall- ed his self-possession at once. Putting his horse again in motion, he came close to her side and spoke in his usual tone : " So ! You have surprised me. Äh, this comes from Cranstoun." "Yes." " The man is capable of any duplicity. Did he give you proof?" " Papa's own letters, written about seventeen years ago, admitting the fact of his previous marriage, and adjuring Cranstoun to silence." " You are sure of the handwriting ?" " Perfectly sure. Mamma preserved many of papa's letters : I have read them often, and I cannot be deceived in this." " It may be," said Sydenham, after a pause, for the strange influence Cran- stoun had maintained for years over one so dissimilar to him in character and station occurred forcibly to his mind. " It may be — probably it is. At all events, the facts can be positively ascer- tained, and they shall be." " Oh they are true : do not doubt it, Mr. Sydenham. They explain so much in papa's conduct that was unaccount- able till now." " I have admitted that they are prob- able. W 7 ell, Celia ?" " It is very terrible, is it not ?" " No. I fear I have forfeited all claim to be believed when I say so. You did startle me, Celia — that is the truth — coming out with that sudden, solemn an- nouncement, but there is nothing terrible in what you told me." " Have I not just cause for unhap- piness ?" « For unhappiness, no : for regret, certainly. It is a very painful thing to hear of a parent's misconduct." " Oh so very painful !" " And it would not be one's duty, as it is, to watch over the preservation of one's property if its loss were not an evil." " I remember well your once explain- ing to me how much independence there is in forty thousand dollars." "You have a good memory, and I 136 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. will not gainsay that opinion. Independ- ence is the power to act, within lawful limits, as we please ; and money adds greatly to that power. I am very sorry for your loss ; yet, after all, it may prove a gain to you." " I have often read," said Celia with a sigh, " of the chastening and purify- ing effects of adversity." " That sentiment is to be taken with some grains of allowance. Many, doubt- less, have been able to say from the heart, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted.' But there is a grinding adversity that crushes oftener than it re- forms. I have seen terrible things in the course of my life, Celia — not here, but in the Old World — terrible things that make one shudder to recall them : entire masses of human beings dying for lack of food ; selling their youth and their health, and at last their very lives, for a pittance too small to keep body and soul together. I was in Ireland during that dreadful famine of 1847. It haunted my dreams for years ! Ah, Celia, if you could but imagine the utter destitution that is the lot of millions, how small would seem your present loss ! — how numberless the comforts that are still within your reach !" Sydenham's kindling eyes and stirring words touched Celia to the soul. How faithfully the heart feels for others when it begins to learn sorrow by experience of its own ! " It is true," she said, submissively. " I should be most unthankful if I for- got that I have far more to rejoice at than to deplore. If I may but retain the affection and esteem of my friends ! But some of them of course I shall lose — " " Is that your idea of friends ? I es- teem you much more than I did before. To me there was always something pleas- ant and attractive about you, Celia. But I confess you have sometimes seemed to me, like many other girls one meets with in the world, very good and amiable doubtless — " « Love-sick damsels, in short." " I never thought you that. But one felt the lack of something vigorous, racy, self-relying. You are gaining that. You bear this trial admirably well. I see that it will be of real service to your character. Why, it has strengthened it already. You are coming out grandly, Celia." How grateful sometimes — more genial than sunshine, more welcome than the first fresh air of spring — comes the breath of praise from those we love ! It brings on its wings healing to the wounds of sorrow, healthy invigoration to the spirit sick and depressed. Wholly un- wonted as it was from Sydenham, it proved to Celia, at this juncture, inex- pressibly soothing. Her heart felt braver at each word. "Ah, Mr. Sydenham," she said, "if others did but feel as you do, how easily I could bear the loss of fortune, and even of name ! But you, who never deceive any one, even in kindness^, will not tell me that of those who flattered the heiress none will desert the penniless girl with a stain on her birth." " You are right. I shall certainly not try to persuade you that you will lose no flatterers. I do not even say that you will have the same chance which the heiress might have had of enlarging your circle of acquaintances." " I know it well. Ah ! that true line of the ballad — < The poor make no new friends.' " " Now you are running away with the idea. That line is touch ingly true, and it came from the experience of the heart, whoever wrote it. But there is little chance that it should ever apply to you. You do not know — I hope you never will — what poverty means." " I must work for a living now." " But that is not poverty in this coun- try, especially in a village like Chiskauga. It is not even hardship, if one has an education to fit for useful and profitable employment, with good friends to inter- est themselves in procuring it ; and you have both, Celia. No new friends ! Look round you, and see how many maintain themselves happily, reputably, increasing both in money and in friends, with far less resources. Your education has been no common one. You have a good knowledge of two foreign languages : t BEYOND THE BREAKERS. Ethan speaks highly of your progress in German. Your talent for music, rare by nature and carefully cultivated, is, in itself, a competence. I admit that you no longer possess the independence which a surplus of money bestows ; but you have a surer one, of which no man can deprive you — the independence which lies in labor — less honored than the other, but more honorable. And if, in seeking it, you find those whom you call friends dropping away, let them go ! You are better without them." " You think, then, that this reverse of fortune is a gain instead of a loss to me." "The future must determine that. Many pleasant things, of course, you will lose by it — the opportunity of travel- ing, for instance. I know you have had dreams of Switzerland and Italy, and I'm afraid I had something to do in nursing them. The very butterfly ac- quaintances that come round us when the sun shines, though they may not be friends, are often agreeable, well-informed people, whom we may like to meet and be sorry to lose. But then you gain one of the essentials to happiness." " What is that ?" " A regular, settled object in life — a steady pursuit (I see you have deter- mined on that), requiring daily exertion of body and mind. I'd like to give you — for it touches your case — a recollection of my childhood ?" " If it is not encroaching on your time, Mr. Sydenham, I should be delighted. But you came out on business, did you not ?" " Chiefly for exercise this fine spring weather, with a message from Leoline to Nelson Tyler about flour." They were then within a few rods of the mill. "Let me deliver it, and my time is entirely at your service for the rest of the morning." They rode up, and the miller, his gray clothes well sprinkled with dust, came out to greet them, and to ask Mr. Syd- enham what he could do for him. After he had taken an order for two barrels of flour, Celia, whose thoughts had reverted to the anonymous letter, inquired after Ellen's welfare. A slight shade came over the miner's hearty manner and open 137 face, but after a moment's hesitation he called to his daughter, his deep, base tones reaching their dwelling, which stood a little way off. Thence Ellen came forward, fresh and neat indeed, but with a look of depression over her pretty features. When she recognized Celia, a sudden blush overspread face and bosom. " Ellen," said her father, himself some- what embarrassed, " Miss Celia has been asking after you." Celia extended her hand and shook Ellen's cordially. " We seldom see you in town now, Ellen," she said: "are you no longer taking French lessons from Mrs. Mow- bray ?" The blush, which had been passing away, deepened again. But the girl struggled for composure: "No, Miss Celia. Mrs. Mowbray's French class is broken up, and — and it's expensive to take private lessons." " Do you wish to join another class ?" Ellen looked at her father. " The reason I ask," added Celia, " is, because I may have a French class my- self one of these days." " You !" said the girl, her blue eyes dilating with astonishment. " I thought rich folks — " " I am not rich ; and, besides, it is a good thing for young people to do some- thing for a living." " I should be very glad, Miss Celia — that is — if father — " She stopped, read- ing dissent in his face. " It's very kind of you," he said — "very kind, Miss Celia: I shall not for- get it. If Ellen takes any more French lessons, I'll send her to nobody but you. But I think she's had as many as will do her any good for the present. That was a true word you said, miss, that young folks should do something for a living ; and this lass of mine " — he patted her head — "she's a good girl, if she does dress out now and then, and even herself to them that cares little for her — she does what she can to take her dead mother's place. I want to do the best for her, if I only knew what is best. If anything were to happen to me — " BEYOND THE BREAKERS. I 3 8 « Oh don't, father, don't !" said the girl, her eyes full of tears ; and then, ashamed of her emotion, she made a sudden retreat to the house. " You must excuse her, miss," said Tyler to Celia : " she don't mean to be uncivil, and it's done her good that you spoke so kind to her ; but she can't stand it to think the old man must go one of these days. Mr. Sydenham, you may count on having that flour this evening." They bade the miller good-morning, and turning homeward rode on for some time in silence. Then Sydenham said : " I am glad that we called there this morning, and very glad that you spoke to Ellen as you did. As the father said, it did the poor child good." " I like Ellen. But I was afraid you might think me premature in beginning to electioneer, as politicians say, for pupils already." " Far from it. Promptitude is one of the elements of success." " But that anecdote, Mr. Sydenham — or was it an anecdote you were about to tell me ?" « Yes. My good father — a man who, even to extreme old age, maintained habits of active employment — was speak- ing, one day, of an English friend of his, Mr. Walsingham — one of those whom the world considers eminently fortunate. A man of letters, educated to every classical attainment and the inheritor of a princely fortune, he had been able to gratify, at a wish, his cultivated tastes. He had married, in early life, an amiable wife, and had seen his children (though he never personally concerned himself with their education) grow up around him with the fairest promise. He had a handsome town-house in a fashionable square in London, and a country-seat ten or twelve miles off, in the midst of one of those magnificent English parks — the ideal of stately rural elegance, with its trimly-kept lawn and its widespread- ing chase, dotted over with clumps of noble old trees, where the deer sought refuge from the noonday heat and a lair at nightfall." " I have so often heard of these beau- tiful English parks, and dreamed that some day I might see one." " The dream may come true, for all that is past, Celia. Mr. Walsingham had traveled over Europe, and brought back, as mementoes of his journey, paint- ings and statuary by some of the best masters, ancient and modern, with which to adorn his favorite retreat. The house itself (I have seen it since), with its rich marble columns and balustrades, was a fine specimen of the purest Palladian manner, where all that luxurious refine- ment could devise had been unsparingly lavished. There my father found his friend with no occupation more pressing than to pore over the treasures of his library, and no graver care than to su- perintend the riches of a conservatory where wealth had brought together, from half the world, its choicest plants and flowers." " What a charming life !" exclaimed Celia. " How happy he must have been !" " That was my father's thought. They spent some days in undisturbed quiet : not an incident, beyond the conversation of a sedate and intellectual family circle and the arrival and departure of a friend or two, to break the complete repose. Delightful it was to my father, no doubt, in contrast with the city bustle and the constant occupation he had left. One morning he said to his host : « I have been thinking that if I ever met with a man who has nothing left to desire, you are he. Health of body, cultivation of mind, a charming family, wealth and all it procures — whatever Nature and Art present of most beautiful — you have them all. Are you not completely hap- py ?' Never, my father said to me, should he forget the dreary sadness of the unexpected reply : ' Happy ! Ah, Mr. Sydenham, I committed one fatal error in my youth, and dearly have I abied it ! I started in life without an object, even without an ambition. My temperament disposed me to ease, and to the full I indulged the disposition. I said to myself, " I have all that I see others contending for : why should I struggle ?" I knew not the curse that BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 139 lights on those who have never to strug- gle for anything. Had I created for myself a definite pursuit — literary, scien- tific, artistic, social, political, no matter what, so there was something to labor for and to overcome — I might have been happy. I feel this now — too late ! The power is gone. Habits have become chains. Through all the profitless years gone by, I seek vainly for something to remember with pride, or even to dwell on with satisfaction. I have thrown away a life. I feel, sometimes, as if there were nothing remaining to me worth living for. I am an unhappy man.' That was my father's story. I never forgot it, and I trust I have profited by its lessons." "And so will I, Mr. Sydenham. In- deed, indeed, you shall not have to fore- go your good opinion of me. I know how much you have been doing to bene- fit our village and its inhabitants. Per- haps — oh, in a very humble way I know it must be — but yet perhaps I may be able to aid you, just a little, while I pro- vide for my own support." " You are thinking of a school. That is right. You really possess a gift for teaching, as grateful Ellinor Ethelridge can testify." " Dear Ellie ! I have been able to assist her so far ; but then — ah, what a pity ! If now I begin a school in oppo- ition to hers — " "It might be an injury to her, you think ? So it might. But yet, if that is really necessary, there is nothing wrong in it. Every merchant who be- gins a business may take from the profits of those already engaged in the same. We ought to be generous to others, as you have been to Ellinor, while we can afford it ; but it may become equally a duty, if circumstances change, to be just to ourselves." Celia sighed r " I am beginning to find out the pleasant things I have lost." " The exercise of generosity is one of the most pleasant things that money permits." " But I am resolved never to take any of Ellie's scholars away from her, even if they apply to me." " Very good. One can be generous, you see, without being rich ; and such generosity is worth more, for it costs more, than what we carelessly give from superfluity. But perhaps there need be no competition between you. I know that Miss Ethelridge has almost daily offers of pupils whom she refuses, fear- ing to take a greater number than she can do justice to. These applications would be more numerous still if she could teach music, as you can. What if you were to join her and carry on the school in partnership ? I am sure there will be found enough for both to do." When they came to talk over the de- tails of the plan, Sydenham asked, " Have you not some money which came to you through your mother ?" "About sixteen or seventeen hundred dollars, I think my uncle once told me. That is legally mine, is it not ?" « Undoubtedly, even if all the rest is gone. Now let me give you one or two business hints that occur to me. Shall you propose to Miss Ethelridge to be equal partner with her in her school ?" « That would not be just. She has worked hard to establish it and build up its reputation." " You are right. For this you ought to give some equivalent. I happen to know that Miss Ethelridge thinks it an admirable plan to teach children as much as possible through the eye, and that she wishes much to obtain a set of hand- some illustrations ; some representing objects of natural history, including geol- ogy ; others, charts exhibiting what has been called the stream of Time, bring- ing tangibly before children the leading events and revolutions of ancient and modern history. Then she would like to have a large magic lantern, with slides affording other useful illustrations ; also to have photographs of the most inter- esting scenes in our own and in for- eign countries. It would be of great advantage to the school. But all that is expensive." " Would the money I have purchase it ?" " A thousand dollars, she said, would be enough. I offered to advance that 140 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. sum, but she is sensitive about obliga- I tions, and declined. I think she would receive it from you as an equivalent for the privilege of equal partnership ; and then the illustrations, when they are bought, should be considered the joint property of both. There would still re- main to you six or seven hundred dol- lars, which you ought to keep, in case of accidents." The discussion of this and other mat- ters connected with the proposed part- nership brought them to the point where the road to Rosebank diverged, and there they parted. How things were smoothing them- selves in Celia's path ! How "way," to use the Quaker phrase, "was opening be- fore her !" Sydenham's proposal saved her from even the appearance of doing a hard thing — that severest trial of strait- ened circumstances. CHAPTER XXV. BREAKING THE ICE. A friend once said to me : "Do you know I think those old martyrs must have been very uncomfortable people to live with ?" At first the idea struck me as very odd — afterward as very true. I should not have relished a life among the Puritans in the days when Hester Prynne walked about with that scarlet letter on her breast. Yet they were a grand old race, those Plymouth-rock pilgrims — the stuff that heroes and founders of empires are made of. What they thought right they did, and seldom asked whether it was pleasant to do it. They were hard on themselves : it is not surprising that they were hard also on others. If they were not amiable, they were estimable. If they were not pleasant people to deal with in daily life, they were men and women to trust to in the day of need or in the hour of trial. Thomas Hartland, born in Connecti- cut, had a considerable touch of Puritan severity about him. He was, indeed, an improvement on his father, a stern old Englishman *vho took credit to him- self for admitting that a man must not I chastise the wife of his bosom with a rod any thicker than his thumb. He meant to be kind to the gentle Alice, and he thought he was because he ab- stained from all physical coercion. But he inherited so much of his father's spirit as devoutly to believe that domes- tic discipline was wholesome just in pro- portion as it was strict and exacting. If he acted the tyrant to his wife and son, it was on principle, not from wick- edness : it was because his ideas of marital and paternal authority were none of the clearest, and because the heart was not warm enough to correct the errors of the head. Sydenham and he frequently came into conflict. One day, for example, on a school committee of which they were both members, the question of corporal punishment coming up, Sydenham had taken ground against it, and Mr. Harper had added a few words on the same side. This aroused Hartland. " These new-fangled, sentimental no- tions," he said, " may suit squeamish people, but the old-fashioned scriptural morality is good enough for me. A rod is for the back of him who is void of un- derstanding ! If that text is not plain enough, there are others plainer yet — direct injunctions : < Thou shalt beat the child with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.' Gentlemen will not, I think, deny the authority." » The texts are correctly quoted," said Sydenham, quietly : " we know that this has been said by them of old time, but we know also that the word rod does not occur even once in all the receded teachings of Christ." A bitter reply rose to Hartland's lips, but he restrained himself. " What is the use ?" he thought. " A man who will encourage a son to rebel against his father's will !" In this spirit it was that Hartland had hitherto treated his niece — with judicious firmness he called it ; acting a father's part, he thought, when he thwarted her inclinations and pressed Cranstoun's suit. She was now afraid to encounter him. She found Mr. and Mrs. Hart- land both out when she returned from BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 141 her ride, and it was with fear and trem- bling she resolved, that same evening, to disclose all to her formidable uncle, not having had an opportunity previously to converse with her aunt alone. She ex- pected her Cousin Ethan to go out, as he often did, after tea, but he remained. " He is good and kind," she thought : « they may as well all hear it at once : then it will be over." Yet she shivered, like some faint-hearted swimmer about to take the first plunge. Even in her dis- tress she had a droll sense that she was going to break the ice about as willingly as a poor wretch might who had risen before sunrise in a tireless bed-room, some morning when the thermometer was below zero, and found the water in his pitcher frozen hard. Hartland's first surprise almost equaled Sydenham's, bat the two men took the disclosure differently. The uncle felt keenly the social disgrace that had over- taken his niece, and thought bitterly and resentfully of his dead brother-in-law's offence. Yet toward the poor girl her- self the better part of his nature came out now. Celia began her relation with hesita- tion and in an unsteady voice, but she gathered confidence as she proceeded. We often lament that the first keen relish of a new pleasure fades in proportion as it is repeated : we forget that, by the same law of our nature, the sting of a fresh misfortune abates as, by recurrence, the idea of it becomes familiar. Even the lapse of a single day had dulled the edge of Celia's sorrow ; and the fortitude with which she met her fate, and the composure with which she declared to Mr. Hartland her resolve to earn her own living in the future by teaching, won his esteem. He had been far from giv- ing her credit for so much spirit and in- dependence, and he did not guess the share Sydenham had had in sustaining and encouraging her. Celia's newly-acquired equanimity gave way for a time, however, before the burst of grief and the tender endearments of her aunt. Alice, who had drilled herself to repress all manifestations of deep emotion or outbursts of affection in the presence of her husband, sat at first with fixed eyes and clasped hands and in breathless silence, scarcely taking in the full import of Celia's appalling com- munication, but when the latter came to the expression of her resolution to be a burden to no one, it seemed all to burst upon her at once. Unable longer to re- strain herself, she fell on her niece's neck, her tears and sobs attesting her grief and sympathy ; called her her dear child and her darling daughter ; and then, forgetting the presence of the master of the house, protested against the idea of her working for a livelihood, asking her if she did not know that she would al- ways have a home with them, whatever might betide. This unwonted encroachment on his domestic authority, which nothing but his wife's ungovernable excitement would have tempted her to commit, almost up- set Hartland's favorable disposition to his niece, but he tried to restrain himself. " Alice," he said, " Celia shows more sense than you do. You spoil the child when you ought to encourage her." Then to Celia, who had released her- self from her aunt's embraces, and was drying her own eyes : " I never had much sympathy with your father, but he is gone to his account, and it is wrong to speak ill of the dead. At all events, your mother was not to blame, and neither are you. I have thought you obstinate sometimes, disposed to take your own way more than a young person should ; but you deserve credit for the manner in which you have stood this blow : it is more than I expected of you. If you see fit to teach so as to procure pocket-money for your little ex- penses, I see no objection ; I suppose it would be pleasanter for you than to take the money from me. But I hope you knew, before your aunt thought it neces- sary to tell you, that the orphan of my sister-in-law will always find a home and a welcome in her uncle's house." Celia's acknowledgments would have been more cordial but for the tone Hart- land had assumed toward her aunt. Yet she was grateful, and did thank him, adding : 142 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. "If my health should fail, or if by teaching I cannot earn enough to pay all my expenses, then, dear uncle, I shall accept your kindness without scruple. But while I am well and able to work, it is my duty to pay my own way, if I can. And you have always told me that I ought to act up to my highest ideas of duty." " Well, Celia, you are a good girl, and I shall stand by you through this matter. The first thing to be done is to ascertain its exact legal bearings. Did Cranstoun give you Mr. Dunmore's address ?" « I asked for it, and this is his an- swer," handing him the letter she had received the day before. Hartland read it twice, his face dark- ening the while. « The impertinent scoundrel !" was all the comment he made ; then to his son : " Ethan, step down to Mr. Creighton's and tell him I wish to see him, on important business, as early after breakfast to-morrow as he can spare me an hour or two. Lucky that he settled here !" There was a school-committee meet- ing that evening, which Hartland had to attend. Thus, as Ethan had gone on his father's errand to Creighton, the aunt and niece were left alone. Both had restrained themselves, by a strong effort, in Hartland's presence ; and the first thing after he went was to have a hearty cry together, which did them good. Then Alice said : " It was very wrong in your father, no doubt, Celia dear ; but then his first wife may have been a high, haughty dame, who made no true home for him ; and it's so hard to live with a famished heart ! Then your mother was a woman that any man might risk his soul for ; and they did love one another so dearly ! Don't think I excuse him, my darling : it was a great sin, and see what it has brought upon his child! But you know that I stayed at your house for five years before I was married — five years ! — and there was not a day in all that time but he made me feel that it was a pleasure, as well to him as to your mother, to have me there. He was a sinner, but he was very, very kind to me !" Then she looked at her niece, and with a pas- sionate burst of tears she added : « And oh, Celia, Celia, you mustn't be hard on us now !" " Hard upon you, mother ?" " Hard upon me. After others had made me feel that I was a burden to them, I sat for years an honored guest at your father's table, and half an hour ago his daughter told us — you never thought how cruel that was, Celia ! — you told us that you must pay us if you sat any longer at mine." "But you know, auntie, what a com- fort, and what a help too, you always were to mamma. You know what care you took of me : you were always doing something for me. And what have I been ? A useless idler that has never done anything for anybody. But that's over, now." « Never done anything for anybody ! God forgive me the thought, but I've felt — I'm glad you don't know how often, Celia — that life would not be worth having if it were not for you — and for Ethan, maybe. You've been the best joy in my life — the greatest comfort I've had — always, always, cruel child, until now !" When the fountains of the great Deep of feeling are broken up and the windows of the soul are opened, hidden things come to light upon which the heart has set jealous guard through half a lifetime. Celia was so amazed at the glimpse which her aunt unwittingly gave her be- neath the placid flow of a quiet, regulated life that, for a moment, she had not a word in reply : then her aunt added : " But there's one comfort still : your uncle will never take money from you — never ! He's hard, Celia — I won't deny it — but he's just." The girl, quite overcome, was about to throw her arms around her aunt's neck, and tell her she would do anything in the world she wished if she would not cry so, when Ethan entered. He saw that both the women were deeply moved, and stopped as if, uncer- tain whether he was an intruder or not, he was about to leave the room. Celia broke the pause that ensued. BEYOND THE BREAKERS. H3 « Sit down, Cousin Ethan," she said. « Let us refer the matter to him, mother: he is kind and wise." Ethan smiled : " Pray don't make a Nestor of me, Celia. Tell me if I can help you : that's better." "Yes, you can help us to decide — can't he, mother ? — what is right to be done." And, taking her aunt's silence for consent, she stated the case. Ethan reflected for a little ; then he asked : « You are anxious not to be a burden on your uncle ?" "Yes." " Celia, Celia !" said her aunt, im- ploringly. " It is best so, dear mother," said Ethan — » best for her." " Best that my own sister's child should go on paying us board and lodg- ing as if she were a stranger ?" » Xo. that is not my opinion." Both Celia and Mrs. Hartland looked up surprised. « Do you happen to know," Ethan asked Celia, " how much your uncle has been charging you for board and lodg- ing ? You need not blush if you have been looking : it was right you should." « I have been looking — a hundred and ninety-five dollars a year." What Ethan said next must, in main- tenance of historical truth, be set down just as he said it, even though he lose caste in consequence. Deal not too hardly with a villager's ignorance, O fair young aristocrat, reading these pages, perhaps, in the boudoir of a Fifth Avenue palace ! You know bet- ter than to mistake a poor forty thou- sand dollars for riches ; but plain people, with country ways, who find that one can obtain all one needs or desires in this world for that paltry pittance, should be forgiven if they rise not to the level of your enlightened views, and forget to add on the right hand of the sorry sum that additional cipher which would make it worth talking about. When Celia stated the rate at which her uncle had charged her for maintenance, Ethan, simple fellow ! not at all in jest, said : " B^ a guardian who has a rich heiress for ward the charge is moderate enough. Good board and lodging can scarcely be had in Chiskauga under four dollars a week." " But the dear child," interrupted Alice, "does not cost Mr. Hartland half that sum. Her chamber would stand empty if she did not occupy it. We should not have one servant the less. We have our own washing done in the house : what matters it whether her's is thrown in or not ? Does the butcher, even, send us one pound of meat the more on her account ?" "Perhaps not," said Ethan. "Yet an additional person in a family must, necessarily, add to the expense, were it but in the consumption of tea, coffee, sugar, flour and the like ; lamplight also, and many trifling incidentals." " While you're about it, Ethan," said Alice, half amused, half indignant, " I think you'd better take out your pencil and make a nice calculation how much ought to be charged against the poor child for wear and tear of our carpets and door-mat." " I have the fear of Walter Scott be- fore my eyes," replied Ethan, laughing. " Who has a right to say that Celia is heavier-footed than Ellen Douglas ? But you know ' E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread.' I'm a poor hand at calculating infinites- imals." " I'm glad you've so much conscience." "But, seriously, I don't think father pays out a hundred additional dollars be- cause of Celia being one of the family." " Surely you don't want Mr. Hart- land to make money out of the poor child, now that all her fortune is gone." " No, nor would he consent to that ; but if Celia gets a good situation as teacher, and finds that she can afford it, I think a hundred dollars a year for her maintenance would be a fair compromise between uncle and niece. You are not so savagely independent, I hope, Celia, as to refuse from father and mother such kindness as they can offer you without actual cost to themselves." 144 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. Celia smiled: "Since I endorsed your character for wisdom, Cousin Ethan, I suppose I must accept your decision." « You are as bad as she is, Ethan," said Alice: "you encourage one another in foolish notions." But they coaxed her, at last, to use her influence with her husband to allow Celia, besides furnishing her own pocket- money, to pay him a hundred dollars a year as her contribution to the expenses of the household. And so, at last, it was settled, with some grumbling from the uncle about the niece's stiff-necked unwillingness to accept his hospitality, and a condition attached that the hun- dred dollars was to be received only if Celia found that, after clothing herself and paying other incidentals, she could spare the amount without any inconve- nience whatever. This was a great satisfaction to Celia, both because it relieved her, on the one hand, from a painful consciousness of dependence, and — truth to say — because, on the other hand, it unexpectedly light- ened the burden which her new and un- tried task of self-maintenance imposed. Next morning Mr. Hartland, Sr., was closeted for two hours with Eliot Creighton. Lawyers learn to look with a quiet eye on the calamities of life. Surprised, deeply concerned at the unexpected tid- ings Creighton undoubtedly was, but he did not take them to heart, as the uncle and guardian expected. " My first impression is," he said, " that it will not be proper or even safe to give up your ward's property until compelled by law." " You doubt the previous marriage ? Celia says her fathers letters which she inspected were conclusive on that point." " That may be : Cranstoun can read- ily prove it to us if it is so. But there are questions back of that. There may have been a will." " Mrs. Pembroke knew of none. None, of course, was offered for probate, either in this county or in Philadelphia, where part of Celia's property lies." " Still, there may have been a will : possibly left in Cranstoun's hands, and — I beg his pardon if I suspect him unjustly — suppressed." " But why not shown by Pembroke to his wife during his lifetime ?" " He may have been living under an assumed name. Those who risk the punishment of bigamy generally take that precaution against detection. He would, of course, be unwilling to show Mrs. Pembroke a will executed under his real name ; and Cranstoun, for his own pur- poses, may have persuaded him that a will signed by him as Frederick Pem- broke would be valueless." " If your conjecture is right, such a document would be worthless, would it not ?" " No. One not versed in law, like Mr. Pembroke, would be likely to sup- pose so. But a will is valid if the identity of the signer with the person entitled to dispose of the property be established." " Yet if such a will has been sup- pressed or destroyed, of what avail that it was executed ?" " It must have been witnessed, and we may discover by whom ?" " By Cranstoun himself, perhaps ?" " Likely enough ; but in this State two witnesses are required." " If there was a prior marriage, and if no will can be found, then, I sup- pose, the English heir-at-law takes the property." " The statute law of Ohio, unfortunate- ly for Miss Pembroke, permits an alien to inherit real estate as well as personal property ; but there are law-points in- volved in your question which I must study before I can reply to it. The cruel rule of the Common Law is that one born out of wedlock is filius nullius — no- body's child — and as such can inherit neither the property of his father nor — strange to say ! — of his mother. Our statute law remedies the latter injus- tice. Under what circumstances — in- deed whether at all — it affords relief under the former I cannot yet say, never having had occasion to examine that point. Indeed, I am not as familiar with BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 1 45 the Ohio statutes as I ought to be. I studied law chiefly in Pennsylvania. Did Cranstoun speak positively on the subject ?" « He told Celia that, being illegitimate, she could not inherit a farthing of her father's property." Creighton looked grave. " Cranstoun is too shrewd," he said after a pause, "to make such an assertion except on plausible authority ; and he is doubtless far better acquainted with the law of this State, and the decisions under it, than I am. With so much depending on it under his rascally calculation of profit to himself as informer, he has, in all probability, sifted the matter to the bottom. To be frank with you, I don't like the look of it ; yet I am not entirely convinced even of Miss Pembroke's illegitimacy." " It surely must be, if her father was a bigamist." «« Not necessarily. Under the old Spanish law, once prevalent in Florida and Texas, as I happen to know, she would have been legitimate." « But our laws are not so lax. With a former wife alive, the marriage of Mrs. Pembroke must have been null and void." " Yes ; at all events at the time it was solemnized, and probably as long as it lasted. The rest seems a natural de- duction. The case is probably against us ; and I beg of you not to mention to Miss Celia the doubts I have expressed, which may be entirely without founda- tion. It would be cruel to raise hopes only to be disappointed. How does she stand this ?" " The disgrace of her birth affects her seriously. Otherwise, I must say, she bears it well. She is gone this morning to talk to Miss Ethelridge about a part- nership in her school. And the gypsy is too proud to stay in her uncle's house without paying for it." Creighton's face brightened. " I was not deceived in thinking there was cha- racter beneath that soft exterior." " She is obstinate enough, certainly." " She will come out all right, even if we are beaten, Mr. Hartland : you will 10 sec. But if you think fit to entrust the case to me — " " That is what I have been thinking about." " You do me honor. It is a great re- sponsibility for one so young in the pro- fession as myself. Yet it will go hard but I shall deserve your confidence. If industry and painstaking may avail, we shall not be defeated. And this at least I may promise you — that I will work up the case as faithfully as if the young .ady were my own sister, as faithfully as if life and death were on the issue." Self-confidence breeds confidence in others, as young and small and slender General Bonaparte, taking command of the army of Italy, shiningly proved. Hartland agreed with Creighton on poli- tics, and found in him a patient and in- terested listener when speaking on nat- ural history and expatiating on his (Hartland's) favorite pursuits. On the other hand, the young man often startled him, and sometimes shocked his con- servative proclivities, by coming out with some daring radicalism ; so that he had hesitated a little about putting his ward's interests in his hands. But Creighton's bold assurance awoke faith in his pow- ers as an advocate, and Hartland hes- itated no longer. " You shall have the management of the case, at all events," he said ; " and if you desire to have other counsel as- sociated with you, let me know." CHAPTER XXVI. jean's services not needed. " And one, in whom all evil fancies clung Like serpent-eggs together, laughingly Would hint at worse in either." Tennyson's Enoch A rdeiu « No, Miss Celia — not jist exactly at home. Miss Ellinor went out to Betty Carson's on some business for the mad- ame. A half hour she said she'd be gone, and it's mor'n that already. Won't ye step into the parlor ?" "Yes, Nelly, I'll wait for her; but don't tell Madame Meyrac I'm here, I know she's always busy at this hour." 146 BE TON D THE Beyond the parlor was a small exten- sion-room, used by the doctor as office and library. The door that communi- cated with it standing open, so that Celia saw it was vacant, she sauntered thither in an absent mood and sat down by an eastern window, looking out on the lake ; for Dr. Meyrac's dwelling was on the eastern edge of the village, not far from the Elm Walk. At another time Celia would have rejoiced in that sunny spring morning and admired the graceful little sail-boat that was just leaving the wharf. But her mind was preoccupied, and the bright scene was lost upon her. Busi- ness was in her thoughts. She was con- gratulating herself that this was Satur- day, and that she would probaby find her friend at leisure for a long talk. Me- chanically she picked up and opened a book from a small table that stood near. It was that wonderful story of Jane Eyre, instinct with pathos drawn from the very depths of sorrow ; and she had opened it at the incident of the wedding in the dim village church, so nearly solemnized, by such startling disclosure interrupted. " And she married him, after all," the girl thought. " And I re- member I was so much afraid she would marry that handsome, pious St. John ; and so glad when she found Rochester, blind and lame, in that gloomy parlor. Ought she to have kept away from him ? Ought she to have married the mission- ary ?" Her thoughts were in a maze, and she dipped into the absorbing vol- ume, reading page after page, till she was interrupted by voices in the adjoin- ing room. It was Madame Meyrac and some one who had entered with her, un- noticed by Celia in her abstraction. A voice said : "It would be a great accommodation, madame, if you could give me up Betty for Monday. I have friends coming from Mount Sharon on Wednesday, and I must absolutely get through house- cleaning before they come." How that harsh, sharp voice grated on Celia's ear ! Well she knew who was the speaker ! She could not make up her mind to encounter her just then ; and so, unwilling to become privy to BREAKERS. a conversation not intended for her ear, she stepped lightly across the library, intending to go up to Ellinor's room But the door that opened on the passage was locked outside ; so that she was fain to remain a prisoner. "It can only be for a few moments," she thought as she reseated herself ; " and it is a mere matter of every-day business." " I much grieve, Madame Volfgang," was what she heard next. " Ah, if the vornan Carson might aid me Tuesday, or, veil, Vendesday, very good. But no, she has said me she is retained for these days there by Madame Hartland." "I don't think sister Hartland cares about having her house cleaned this week. I could speak to her about it. She has something else to think of— something not very pleasant." "Is monsieur ill ? He has not sent to seek my husband." " My brother is not ill, but in great trouble." " I am much afflicted to hear it." " Mrs. Hartland's sister made a pretty mess of it when she married Frederick Pembroke." " A praty mase ! Vat is happen ? He is dead, there are ten, eleven years — is he not ?" " When Eliza married him he had another wife living in England." « My God ! vat you tell me ?" » It was no marriage at all. She was no more his wife than you or I." " Ah, vat unhappy ting ! And that charmante Celie ! Poor litel mignonne ! She is not — she is one — " » A bastard, of course, and not en- titled to a cent of her father's property.' » Is it that the first vife lives still ?" « No : she died three years before her husband ; but that's of no conse- quence." " Your law says it so ? Ve have much better in our Code Civile. If de second vife know noting and marry all of good faith, then if de first vife come to die, de children of de oder can have de goods — vat you call propertay.' 1 ' " It's just as likely as not that Mrs. Pembroke knew it all the time. Of course she kept the secret. She was BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 147 dying to have him before he married her. Everybody could see that." " But if de poor soul did truly not know anyting ?" " Whose fault was that ? It was her business to find out whether he was married or not before she took him ; but she didn't care if she was his kept mis- tress. It served her just right." Celia choked down her sobs, pride coming to her aid. She was terribly afraid now of being detected. The next words she heard were : " You are one very hard vornan." " Hard ! I see no hardship in it. That mawkish fop of a Pembroke was a felon, yet he wasn't sent to hard labor in the penitentiary — the more's the pity: you won't deny tha* the bigamist de- served it. Well, thf. daughter will suffer for it, that's one comfort." " Madame Volfgang — " " Mr. Cranstoun told me that just such a case as hers had lately been decided — I forget in what county of this State — and not a penny were the bastards al- lowed to inherit. The saucy minx is a beggar." " I vill not hear — " " There's no need for my brother to trouble himself about John Mowbray now. The Mowbrays stand on their dignity, and don't marry beggars. Ellen Tyler always was a prettier girl than that whey-face, and now she's a far better match. Her mother was an honest mar- ried woman, and the old miller can spare a son-in-law three or four thousand hard dollars if he likes him. The Pembroke girl hasn't a ghost of a chance." « Madame Volfgang !" Such a menace was there in the tone that Celia, beaten down as her very soul had been by that malignant outburst of abuse, started to her feet, expecting a blow to follow the wosds. She need not have feared. " Madame Volfgang ! I have de honor to remind you dat Mademoiselle Celie is my vary excellent friend. I did tell you I vould not hear, but you speak, speak, ever more. Jean is digging in my gar- den at dis moment — it is a moch strong young man, is Jean — and what I say to him, he do it. It vill make talk de world to turn some lady out of my house. But what to do ? If you say only one litel vord more, I vill make seek Jean, and he shall have you in his arms, and I vill make him descend the front steps and set you down outside de litel door of de garden, in de street : den I shall say you, 1 Good-morning, madame !' " What a world is this ! — tragedy one moment, comedy the next. The hot tears were already dry on Celia's cheeks : she saw, in imagination, the stout young Frenchman picking up, at his mistress' bidding, Mrs. Wolfgang's solid weight of a hundred and sixty or seventy pounds. But his prowess was not called into re- quisition. The lady shook with rage, but she moved quickly to the door with- out a word. Celia saw Madame Meyrac sweep out after her with an air that would have graced the stage, and heard her say, as Mrs. Wolfgang stepped out on the gravel walk : " Ah, madame shows herself sage at de last. Dat is much better, for vy should one make talk the world ?" Then Celia heard her muttering to herself, as she passed up stairs to her domestic duties : " Dieu mercie, elle s'est en alle' ä la fin, cette diablesse-la !" * CHAPTER XXVII. A. GLIMPSE INTO A LIFE. " Work — work — work, Till the brain begins to swim ; Work — work — work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim !" Hood. Celia ascended to her friend's cham- ber, and ten minutes afterward Ellinor entered. She went up to Celia without a word, kissed her tenderly, and then, the tears rising to her eyes, passed her hand caressingly over the auburn tresses. " Ah ! you know all ?" said Celia. " My darling, yes — from Betty Carson this morning." "All the world knows my disgrace already !" was the poor girl's bitter thought. * " Thank God, she's gone at last, that she-devil I" 148 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. Ellinor added : « That odious Mrs. Wolfgang had been trying to poison the poor creature's mind against you : but Betty — brave soul ! — is a champion of yours. She washed for your family, it seems, when you were a mere child, and your father and mother seem to have been objects of her veneration." « Dear, good Betty !" — her eyes fill- ing with tears. " She told me what an angel of good- ness your father had been to her when her children were sick and her husband raving with delirium tremens." " Ah, if others could feel so about him !" "Your father's misconduct is the worst blow. Is it not, little pet ?" « I can't bear to think of it, Ellie !" shuddering as she said it. " Do you doubt that he repented of his misdeed !" « No, indeed, no," eagerly. " As I remember dear papa, sad, depressed, like one bearing a secret grief, his life with mamma must have been one long repentance." "Yet you mourn as without hope. Do you remember the words of One who needed no forgiveness himself, touching the joy in heaven over one sin- ner that repenteth ? Joy, Celia — joy be- cause of the repentance, not sorrow be- cause of the sin. How often I have thought of that !" " Papa was a good man, Ellie : I wish you had known him." Ellinor took down a small volume from a book-shelf. « I like 1 Vivien,' " she said, as she turned the leaves over, " less than any other of the Idyls, yet it has some of the finest lines Tennyson ever wrote. Here, for example : ' The sin that practice burns into the blood, And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, Wiil brand us, after, of whose fold we be.' " « Dear Ellie ! No one like you to come to, when one is miserable and needs to be comforted ! You are merciful." "Am I ?" — a sudden, solemn look shadowing her face — " am I ? Thank God ! The merciful, we are told, shall obtain mercy." The two girls sat silent for a minute or two : then Celia took one of Ellinor's hands in both hers, and the expressive features, as she looked up to them, brightened again. "I came to talk to you about business, Ellie dear, but I have almost lost heart. That Mrs. Wolfgang was here this morning, and I heard — I could not help hearing — oh such terrible things ! The full sense of my position never came home to me be- fore. Name, fortune, good repute, all lost ! Everything, everything gone !" " Everything ? There are these little dimpled hands left — " kissing one of them — "and they have not forgotten their cunning. The eyes are somewhat dimmed, I admit, but they can still read Liszt's music at a glance, and win hearts besides, provided they are worth the winning. I hear the very voice that charmed us all — and Mr. Creighton es- pecially — in Schubert's «Ave Maria,' the other night. These golden curls are the same I used to admire, and this little brain beneath them has just as much French and German and history and logic and literature, and just as many kind thoughts and generous sentiments, stowed away in its delicate cells, as there were there a week ago." The look from those brilliant eyes spoke deep affection more strongly even than the words as Ellinor proceeded: "Everything gone! Why every bit of my own precious Celia, who stole my heart in spite of all I could do to keep it, is here still. That money, if it be gone, was no part of her. As little any name the law may assign her. Like Juliet's rose, she is just as sweet under one as another. Young girls will change their names, you know, and do their dearest friends think the less of them for that ?" " I am so glad you don't despise me." " Naughty childJ What sort of love is it you give me credit for ? A weed, that has root among dollars and titles, and withers when these are plucked up? Do you take me for one of those who mis- take money or a name for the chief part of that < noblest work of God' that Pope talks about ? You are unmerciful. Come, Celia, I'm not so bad as that : tell me BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 149 what business it was you had almost lost I heart to talk to me about." Celia disclosed her plans. At first Ellinor listened eagerly, well pleased it seemed. Then, as if some painful thought had swept over her, her face saddened and her manner betrayed ner- vous excitement. « It does not suit you, dear : never mind," said Celia, struggling bravely to conceal sad disappointment. Ellinor's quick apprehension detected the feeling instantly. " Dear, good Celia !" she said after a moment's pause, "it is cruel to say a word to you of my misfortunes when you are overtasked by your own. But between the closest friends there should be the most scrupu- lous good faith in matters of business." Then she hesitated, adding, at last : " Did you ever notice anything peculiar about my eyes ?" . " Never — " bewildered by the sudden question — " never, except that I think they are love-eyes, that I should have lost my heart to if I had been a man." "They told you the truth, at all events," faintly smiling, "yet they are not trustworthy eyes, for all that." " Good Heavens ! It can't be, Elli- nor — " and Celia turned deadly pale. "You have guessed it. If I were to accept your offer, you migh't have a blind partner on your hands one of these days." When Cranstoun came out with that terrible announcement: "Your father had a wife living in England," it was scarcely a greater blow to Celia than this. She gazed at her friend, unable at first to utter a single word. Then she fell on her neck, sobbing, "Ellie, Ellie !" Miss Ethelridge had spoken quite calmly, but under this uncontrollable burst of sympathy her equanimity also gave way. Celia was the first who broke silence : " Don't cry, darling. I'll try to be as brave as you. But your eyes — you see me, Ellie ?" "Yes, little pet, quite well." " Your eyes are weak, that is all ?" " Come on this sofa, beside me ;" and she put one arm round her and took a hand in hers. " I said you may have a blind partner. Till darkness comes there is hope. God may spare me this, but I do not think it is His will." " Is it only a presentiment, Ellie ?" " No. I must tell you a little bit out of a sad, sad story. I hope I was not bad — though I sometimes think I was — but I never intended to be, or I would not have let you love me, Celia. I was in cruel hands — cruel and powerful hands" — Celia felt her shudder con- vulsively — "and at times I scarcely knew what I did or what I ought to do. I promised to tell you all about it some day, and I will, but not now. I left my friends — what the world called so, I mean. I dare say they considered me dishonored ; and they would probably disown me if I showed my face among them again, which I never will — God be my witness ! — never will. I'm afraid I thought of doing a very wrong thing, for when one is forsaken by all the world, there's such a temptation to slip out of it. But when all the world forsook me, God sent — " she hesitated. " I think there are those on this earth who will be angels in the next world ; and some of them act an angel's part here. Such an one — God bless him ! as He surely will — saved me from myself, and found for me such home as was within his power. I accepted life from him : I could not accept money. To preserve the life he rescued, I had to win my daily bread. I am usually considered a skillful needlewoman, but others had to make profit of my labor. The miserable pittance they left me — well, it is the fate of thousands : I was not worse off than they. You know that fearful 'Song of the Shirt,' Celia : I hardly dare read it now: it terrifies me. I don't think the English language was ever wrought into another such picture : it conjures phan- toms that haunt me still, yet it scarcely exaggerates what was my lot. The sum- mer's earliest light often found me bend- ing over my work. Perhaps even such labor as that would not have seriously injured my eyes, for they were strong, had it not been — you mustn't cry, Celia BEYOND THE BREAKERS. dear : nothing so weakens the eyes as tears/' " But at last ?" was all Celia could say. " At last, when sight had almost failed, an old gentleman — he was a Qua- ker and from your country — found me out. He spoke to me of America, of green fields and summer skies in a land where labor was honored and brought fair reward. Even then, though his words were like tidings from Paradise, my pride revolted against pecuniary ob- ligation. Then he spoke to me as one of Christ's apostles might have spoken : k Pride is sinful and goes before destruc- tion : suicide is a crime. In another month thee will probably be quite blind : then thee will die a miserable death. Thee has no right thus to cast life away, for thee may employ it still to benefit, maybe to bless, our fellow-creatures. Thee may be able to repay them a .hun- dredfold the trifle I offer thee.' " " Ah, Ellie, how true that was !" " I dared not reply to it. I accepted money enough to pay for a second-class passage across the Atlantic. In Phila- delphia I remained six months in the house of a charming old lady, sister of my benefactor, as governess to her niece. An eminent oculist restored comparative strength to my eyes, but warned me against ever again taxing them severely, especially by artificial light, and strongly recommended country air and exercise. Mr. Williams — that was the good man's name — gave me a letter of introduction to Mr. Sydenham ; and here too, I think, as in that London garret, I have been ministered to by angels unawares." " But your eyes, Ellie — they are beau- tiful as they can be. Surely the danger is past. Do they pain you ?" " Don't grieve, dear, but I have no right to conceal the truth from you. They have been gradually failing — more, I think, this year than ever before. I must use them a good deal, sometimes by lamplight. But they do not pain me much." " What does Dr. Meyrac say ?" " He is a faithful friend and speaks the truth. What a sigh was that ! Don't trouble yourself about me, pooi child, You have burden enough. Yen have your own affairs — your own way to make. You may find some one else as a part- ner ; or perhaps — who knows, Celia, whether it may not be all for the best that I should become blind and give up school ? Somebody must take my place." " Hush, Ellie ! I want to talk to you about something else." « Well, dear ?" " Had you ever a sister ?" " Never." " Nor a brother ?" " Nor a brother. I was an only child." " So was I. Would you like to have a sister, Ellie ?" Such a look of love ! but not a word in reply ; and Celia went on : "I need a sister ; and then — you and Dr. Meyrac may both be wrong ; God may not in- tend that you should suffer this. But if He does, Ellie — if He does — you will need a sister, too." And with that she threw her arms round her friend's neck, and after a time all that she felt and all that she meant came home to Ellinor — warm kisses say so much more than words. After they had become a little more calm, Celia spoke again : " I have com- plained for such small cause : I have so little fortitude in suffering. I am a poor, weak creature compared with you, Ellie — little worth your love except because I love you so ; but then you have no other sister ; and besides — there is a secret I must tell you, Ellie." « Well, darling child ?" " Do you believe in magnetism — hu- man magnetism, I mean ?" Ellinor started with an expression al- most of terror, but she controlled her- self, answering calmly, " Yes, I do be- lieve in it." "Because — you will scarcely credit me, Ellie — but when you first came this morning I had been trembling all over : that woman's venomous words had got hold of me, so that I was scarcely my- self. I think my nerves were shattered : I could not keep my hands still, ard when you opened the door I could hard- BEYOND THE BREAKERS. ly restrain a scream. But when you came up to me and kissed me, and passed a hand over my hair, I felt quieter and able to sit still. Then, afterward, when you bid me come and sit beside you on the sofa, and put your arm round me and took my hand in yours, it all grad- ually passed away — the fear, the ner- vousness, the restlessness : even that odious vituperation seemed to drop off from me like some soiled garment, and I began to feel stronger, braver, more hopeful, and then, after a time, almost like a soothed child that could go to sleep in your arms. I have often felt something of the kind before when I was near you, but never anything like that dreamy luxury of to-day. I know this must all seem fanciful to you, ridiculous perhaps — " "Far from it, dear child. It is real." " Then see, Ellie ! For my sake we ought to be sisters and partners, so that I can be often with you. I am weak, and through you I gain strength ; I am nervous and irritable, and near you I find solace and peace. Then after a time, maybe, I may get to be better worth living with, more like you — brave, energetic, self-possessed. You'll never find a sister you can do so much good to, Ellie, nor one that will honor and love you more. Will you have me, dar- ling, just as I am ?" " Just as you are ? — God forgive me, if I am selfish in this — yes, Celia, just as you are." There are many more estimable and more meritorious people in this world than Celia Pembroke ; but toward those she loved there was a witchery about her that few hearts, save very cold ones, could resist. It almost silenced Elli- nor's misgivings, and before evening partnership articles between the two orphans were agreed upon. Before leaving Madame Meyrac's, Celia took an opportunity of apologizing to that lady for having been an unwilling listener to Mrs, Wolfgang's tirade, speak- ing in French, as she always did to her. " Ah, poor little one !" replied mad- ame, sympathetically, "you heard it, then ? It afflicts me that you should have been so cruelly wounded. But what would you have ? That sort of creature has neither sense nor common decency. Without these, one becomes brutal. Dogs will bite and cats scratch. One can guarantee one's self only by se- lecting for associates bipeds and quad- rupeds that are too well bred to do either. For the rest, I owe to you much, my dear : through you I shall obtain re- lief from ennui and disgust, for I do not think that madame will trouble me again very soon." PART VIII. CHAPTER XXVIII. JOHN EVELYN MOWBRAY. *' Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, ' It might have been.' " Whittier. EARLY in the afternoon of the next day, Ethan and Celia were stand- ing at Mr. Hartland's front gate. " Are you going toward Mr. Syden- ham's, cousin ?" Celia asked. " No. I — I thought of calling on Dr. Meyrac." Give him my kindest regards, and — shall you see Ellinor Ethelridge ?" " Probably." " Tell her I hope to be with her this evening." The cousins separated, Celia taking the road to Rosebank. She passed the house, however, and a little way beyond turned into a path to the right, which ran outside the west fence of the vineyard, and was bordered by a light fringe of shrubbery. It led her to that rustic bridge over Kinshon Creek already mentioned, and she crossed it, entering the village cemetery beyond. Nature had done much for this little secluded spot. Its surface, some eight or ten acres in extent, was gently undu- lating, with a slope to the east. It was bounded on the north and west by the forest, on the south by Kinshon Creek, and was open eastward toward the vil- lage. A few of the handsomest forest trees had been left : there had been planted cedars, willows and graceful weeping birches, and around the whole was a hedge of laurel, thick set, the lower line of this hedge reaching Kin- shon Creek just above the fall. Over a simple arched entrance on the east, built of the same warm gray freestone that Sydenham had selected for his residence, was the inscription : •' Why should not He whose touch dissolves our chain, Put on His robes of beauty when He comes As a Deliverer?" The memorials to the dead were, with i5 2 few exceptions, quite simple and unpre- tending : some were of the same gray stone as the entrance, others of white marble : here and there a touching in- scription, usually from some well-known author. Celia paused before one of these, over the grave of her aunt Alice's only child, which had died when but five years old. Selected by Alice her- self, but only faintly depicting the deso- lation that fell on the mother as she laid her little one to rest on that hillside, it read : " Above thee wails thy parents' voice of grief ; Thou art gone hence. Alas, that aught so brief So loved should be ! Thou tak'st our summer hence : the light, the tone, The music of our being, all in one, Depart with thee." A little farther on she passed a mar- ble slab which she had not seen before, for it had been but recently placed. It recalled to her a melancholy incident. A few weeks before a German professor and his wife, friends of the Meyracs, had spent a few days at the doctor's house, on their way to Iowa. Their infant died there suddenly, of croup, and this was the grave. The inscription was in Ger- man ; and Celia, struck with its grace, translated it : « Ephemera all die at sunset, and no insect of this class ever sported in the rays of the rising sun. Happier are ye, little human ephemera ! Ye play in the ascending beam and in the early dawn and in the eastern light ; drink only the first sweet draughts of life ; hover, for a little while, over a world of freshness and blossoms, and then fall asleep in innocence, ere ever the morning dews are exhaled." Celia glanced around the cemetery : she was its only visitor. Slowly she passed on to where, under the shade of an old oak of the forest, lay the remains of her father and mother. The sight of the spot awoke a new train of thought : " She knows it all now, and she has for- given him." Celia was as sure of that BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 153 as if her mother had suddenly appeared before her, there by her grave, in robes of white, and told her so. " On earth as it is in heaven," were the next words that occurred to her. But was it on earth as in heaven ? What is forgiven there must be punished here. Her father had saved himself from the pen- alty of penitentiary labor only by years of deception. And if his crime had come to light during his life, what a frightful blow for her mother ! How could he risk the happiness of one he loved so much ! Herself, too, his child : she had escaped being a convict's daughter by mere accident — through the lie that her father had lived. And not a man or woman, or child even, in Chiskauga but knew it now, or would know it all before another week had passed. Was she justified in pro- posing that partnership to Ellinor ? What if the mothers of Ellinor's pupils should object to send their daughters to the child of a malefactor — a girl, too, who was — oh the vile epithet from that horrid Mrs. Wolfgang's lips ! It had seared like burning steel. Could moth- ers be blamed if they sought to preserve their daughters from contamination ? Evelyn Mowbray ! — his name swept over her next. A man must protect his children — from reproach as much as from any other injury. Children living in fear that others should know who their mother was ! Had she a right to marry at all ? One thing was clear as noonday. It was her duty to absolve Evelyn from his promise to make her his wife. If he did not come to see her, she must seek him, to tell him that. The murmur of the waterfall, wafted up by a soft southern breeze, had sooth- ed her when she first reached the spot, but her ear was deaf to it now : bitter thoughts overpowered Nature's sooth- ings. Impatient of inaction, she re- traced her steps. As she passed along the vineyard, she had one of those dim premonitions which sometimes intimate the approach of a person to whom the thoughts have been directed Looking down the road by which Sydenham's house was approach- ed, she saw some one ascending it. The villagers often passed that way, it being the most direct route for foot- passengers from the village to Tyler's mill. Celia felt who this was, but it did not occur to her that he might be on his way to visit a rival. Stern feelings en- grossed her, excluding all inklings of jealousy : she forgot Ellen's existence. Her thought was : " Shall I accost him or avoid a meeting?" She saw him now distinctly, but the high paling and the shrubbery which fringed the path on the side next the forest afforded protection sufficient if she resolved to escape ob- servation. She was too restless, how- ever, to delay the issue. With a sort of desperate feeling she quickened her steps, confronting Mowbray as she turn- ed the corner of the vineyard fence. When a man occupied by secret thoughts of a friend or a foe — thoughts which he would fain hide from all the world — comes suddenly and unexpect- edly on the object of his cogitations, he must be an adept in dissimulation if he can wholly conceal what he has been thinking. Celia read in her lover's face a conflict of feelings — embarrassment, hesitation. He rallied quickly, however, greeted her cordially and asked after her health. " Which way were you going ?" Celia asked, after replying to his inquiries. " I sauntered out for exercise, and my good angel must have guided me here. Where have you been ?" " In the cemetery." A pause ; then Mowbray said : " Shall we walk a little way into the woods, they are so fresh and beautiful ?" Celia turned in assent. Mowbray walked by her side a few steps ; then added : « I see you so seldom now, Celia. I feel as if it would be an intru- sion to enter Mr. Hartland's house, he is such a crabbed old fellow. What a pity you have such a guardian ! We might have been married before this if he had behaved like a decent man." « Probably." Do you think, dear, he will ever get over that grudge he has against me ?" 154 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. " I cannot tell : it is not likely. But he will not press Cranstoun upon me any more : he considers him a scoundrel." "That is one point gained." " My uncle is a strict, austere man, subject to prejudices, but he is a man to trust in time of trial ; and that is a good deal in this world. He is upright, and means to be kind." " Let us hope, then, that he will change his opinion of me, as much as he has of Amos Cranstoun." "Would that be important ?" Something in the steady tone, more than the words, startled Mowbray. The look of embarrassment came over his face again. Celia turned very pale, but she asked him quietly : " Have you ever thought about choosing a profession, Evelyn ?" "Yes, often, but I've never been able to make up my mind what it is best for me to do. I'm not as clever as you, Celia dear." " I don't see that. You're as far ad- vanced in German as I am ; and if you would only cultivate Dr. Meyrac's ac- quaintance, you would soon speak French fluently." " But how would French and German help me to a profession ?" Another pause. Celia broke it, say- ing : " I hear your mother is not as well as usual." " No ; mother's health is certainly failing. I tell her she works too hard, and that she ought to give up some of her pupils, but she thinks she can't afford it. She has been in the habit of doing our ironing, so as not to make it too hard on Susan — you know we have only one girl — but I persuaded her to get Betty Carson for half a day each week. Betty's so busy she had only Saturday afternoons to spare, but we made that suit." " You had Betty yesterday afternoon, then ?" "Yes." They had reached the forest by this time. Here a footpath, diverging to the left from the direct road to the mill, led, in a circuit through the woods, back to the village. " Let us return home by this path," said Celia: I am a little tired." As they walked on, she looked up in the face of the man she had loved so dearly and trusted so utterly, and had always thought so generous and kind. It was as much as she could do to re- strain her tears, but she did restrain them, and commanded her voice so as to say, in a steady tone : " You know what has happened to me, Evelyn. I'm sure Betty Carson must have told it to your mother yesterday." Mowbray blushed scarlet, like a girl. " I believe " — he stammered — " I think I heard mother say — Betty told her — " " What did Betty tell her ?" " It was some difficulty about your father's marriage, as I understood." " That he had a wife living in Eng- land—was that it ?" " I think that was the story, as far as I made it out." " Did you believe it ?" " I hope it is not true, dear Celia. I should be so glad to hear from you that it is all a fabrication." " You didn't say a word to me about it when we met ?" " Why should I repeat to you such a scandalous report ?" " You expected, then, that we should meet day after day, and pass it all over, without any explanation, without any consultation?" " Your denial is sufficient." " My denial ? Every word of it is true, Evelyn — every word. My father was a bigamist. A bigamist is a felon. If he had been found out, he would have worked in the penitentiary, a convict. I am a felon's daughter. I am — " She caught her breath, but hesitated only for a moment : " I am a bastard — a bas- tard ! I heard myself called so yester- day. I heard my mother called my father's kept mistress. Do you hear that ? Do you think we can live on and say nothing about such things to one another — you and I, lovers, two people who are engaged to be married — engaged to stand up and take each other for bet- ter, for worse, till death part us ?" Mowbray was weak, of facile nature, BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 155 inconstant, but he had a certain gener- osity withal, and Celia had roused it. He turned to address her, but stopped, fearing she was about to faint. By the side of the path, close by, there lay a large poplar that had been blown over a few days before. He begged her to sit down, supporting her toward it, but she recovered herself, saying, " Never mind, Evelyn — I'm better : let us walk on slowly." " Surely, my darling Celia," Evelyn said, offering her his arm — " Surely you know how much I love you. What difference can it make to me whether your father behaved ill or not ?" " What difference ? You don't care whether your children might live to be ashamed of one of their parents or not ? You wouldn't care if, some day, it should be thrown up to a girl of yours that her grandfather was a felon, who cruelly wronged the one he loved dearest on earth, and that her mother was an ille- gitimate child ? You would care, Eve- lyn : you could not help it. You once told me the Moubrays were in Domes- day Book. You stand on the honor of the name." He was about to protest, but she stopped him : « One word more. I must think for you, dear friend, as well as for myself. You have no profession. You have never seriously thought — you don't think now — of studying one. Your mother is barely able, faithfully as she works, to support herself. If her health gives way, she cannot continue to do that ; and then to whom can she look but to her son ? I saw all this before, when we were first engaged ; but I knew then that I had enough for both, and that your mother could always have a home with us — " " Dear Celia, how unjust is fortune to disinherit one so generous as you !" " I thought then that, in any event, neither you nor your mother would suffer; but now — I'm not a beggar, Eve- lyn, though a woman (my uncle's sister) said I was : it was in Dr. Meyrac's parlor ; I heard her ; her words haunt me — but I'm not a beggar : those who have health and friends and good-will to work need never beg ; but I am a poor orphan, without power to help any one, only too happy if I can earn my own support." "And you think I am dishonorable enough to desert you in your adversity?" "Your father left your mother and you little but an honorable name and an unblemished reputation. You must guard these — you must take care of your mother, and—" the color left her cheeks as she added firmly, but in a low voice — "you must find some other wife than me." " Celia, Celia !" said Mowbray earn- estly, " I would marry you, in spite of everything that has passed — I'd marry you to-morrow and brave it all, if your uncle would only consent." Now, for the first time, the tears filled Celia's eyes, and she could scarcely re- ply. They had come to a turn in the path whence a vista opened down on the village and distant lake. Sydenham had caused a rustic seat to be placed there, whence to enjoy the view. This time she was persuaded to rest : the agita- tion she had passed through had un- nerved her. " It's very kind of you, Evelyn," she answered, after they were seated, " to say that you would marry me still, but it cannot be. Your mother would not wish it. We have not the means of support- ing a household : that will confirm my uncle in his opposition. He is certain, now, to adhere to his refusal so long as my promise to mamma gives him the right to do so ; and I'm glad of it." " You, Celia !— glad of it ?" "Yes, glad." " Then the hints Cranstoun threw out to me about Creighton's frequent visits to your uncle's house were true, after all ? He has a profession — he can support a wife. He is an orator, and the ladies always admire orators. Mr. Sydenham speaks highly of him, too. You and Leoline Sydenham called on his mother last week. I see it all. I have nothing to say to it : it's all right. Only you might have told me honestly, Celia, how the land lay, instead of fooling me with these long stories about your father and i 5 6 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. mother. You had only to give me a hint that another was preferred, and I would have released you at any time. I might have known — " Mowbray stopped, amazed at the effect of his words. Celia had dried her eyes and had spoken to him quietly, kindly, in reply to that offer of marriage. But now hot tears burst forth without re- straint — convulsive sobs shook her frame from head to foot. Long and bitterly she wept, covering her face with her hands. Mowbray, repentant, began in humble tone to apologize for his sus- picions. She did not intimate, by reply or gesture, that she heard him. Then he spoke to her tenderly, using terms of endearment : still, not a word, not a sign, but the passion of grief seemed gradually to wear itself out. As she became quieter he gently took one of her hands : she left it passively in his grasp. Then he put an arm around her waist. The touch seemed to awake her at once. She rose to her feet, confront- ing him. He rose too. They stood there for a minute or two, neither speak- ing — Mowbray actually afraid; poor Celia struggling desperately for com- posure. At last she spoke, faintly at first, but gathering courage as she went on : " I used to think we had so much in common. It seemed to me we suited each other. I thought you understood me, Evelyn. Eight months ago you asked me to marry you. Did you take me for a girl who would say yes, as I did, and then leave you bound by the promise you made to me in return, after I had changed my mind and preferred another ? I loved you, Evelyn : I thought so much of you." " Forgive me — oh forgive me !" he broke in. " Slanderers tried to poison my mind against you. They sent me an anony- mous letter telling me that you met Ellen Tyler and made love to her, secretly, at a lonely spot in the woods near her father's mill, and that her father had surprised one of your interviews." " Did you believe all that of me, Celia ?" « Not a word of it. If I had, I should have spoken to you about it that very day. I burned the letter, and have scarcely thought of it since — till now. I trusted you." " How nobly you have acted !" " Have you trusted me f Do you know what you have just been telling me ? — that, after I had solemnly prom- ised to be your wife, and without ever asking to be released from that promise, I played you false, secretly encouraging another because he was better able to support a wife than you. You accuse me of this — on whose authority ? On the authority of a villain who traduced yourself (I'm certain that anonymous letter was from him) — on the say-so of a scoundrel who took ten thousand dol- lars from poor papa — hush-money to conceal the English marriage — and who has just written to the heir-at-law in England, offering to bring suit against me and recover the property for him, on half shares. You set his lies against your faith in me, and they outweigh it ?" " Spare me, Celia, spare me." « I am sorry — very sorry, Evelyn — " in a softened tone — " but you force me to defend myself. And the truth must be told : the happiness of both our lives depends upon it." " I absolve you from all blame, Celia." « As to Mr. Creighton, he is a brave, generous man ; any woman might be proud of him as a husband. I do honor him — you touched the truth there — be- cause he selected a profession and works hard at it, as every young man should. He has a right to ask any woman in marriage, and I hope he will find one worthy to be his wife. But he is nothing to me. I do not love him, and I never shall. He does not love me. I don't even think he likes me. He thinks me purse-proud, I believe : at least his man- ner has seemed to say so. When I told you that I was glad my uncle persisted in refusing assent to our marriage, I had forgotten there was such a man as Mr. Creighton in the world. I was thinking of you — not of him. I was thinking that if I had been free to marry, and you had proposed to make me your wife BEYOND THE BREAKERS. 157 to-morrow, it would have been wrong in me to accept the offer. I was glad that, if you did persist in seeking me, two years and a half would intervene, so that you could make no sacrifice on the im- pulse of the moment. If you had under- stood anything about me, you would have felt that at once." " Celia, Celia, leave me hope yet." "It is too late. We have not the power of trusting whom we will. If I had my property back, I would give it all — freely, joyfully — to regain the faith in you that I have lost. Oh, Evelyn, you have uttered suspicions — you have spoken words to-day — that will stand up for ever a barrier between us. You said " — she trembled, reseating herself and pausing, as if to gain courage — "you said that I had dealt falsely by you, and that, to conceal my encouragement of Mr. Creighton's addresses, I was fooling you with tales about my father and mother. It was an insult — an insult to their memory and to me. I know it was caused by a petulant burst of anger. But the words were said, and can never, in this world, be recalled." " Is this your final decision ?" " Yes, final and irrevocable. I shall never marry. I don't want any man to brave reproach for me. I can bear my own burden. I release you from all promise, and you shall have a witness in proof. I shall see your mother to- night, and tell her that her son is free." " And you throw me over, without more ado, like that, as if I were a worth- less scapegrace. What am I to think of your love, Celia ?" " Do not let us part in anger, Evelyn. I don't think you worthless. I think we are unsuited to each other, and that we should be unhappy together if we married. And it is not you who have to fear insinuations about being thrown over, as you call it. It is not a rich girl jilting a poor man. I accepted you when I was able to offer a competency. A penniless girl, I reject you — a penni- less and nameless girl, whom nobody would care to own. You ask what you are to think of my love" — again that tremble in the tones : " it may be a comfort to you some day, Evelyn, to re- member that a young girl once loved you dearly, trusted you implicitly, would have given her life for yours. I am not ashamed to own it, even now that you and I — " If she coifld have arrested her tears, how gladly she would have done it ! but tears are tyrants and will have their way. " We must part friends, dear Evelyn : that may be, and ought to be, and shall be, unless you reject my friendship. You will not do that ?" Mowbray gave her both his hands ; and long afterward, when he was far away and at the head of a household in which Celia was a stranger, the girl re- membered, with feelings of tender re- gard, that when they rose to walk home — nevermore to enter these woods as lovers again — hers were not the only eyes that were wet. The man had been touched to the soul at last ; and all he could say was, " Can you ever forgive me, noble girl ?" " I have forgiven everything, dear friend. Do not let us say a word more about it." And they walked home — these two — talking quietly and amicably of common- place things, attracting the inquiring looks of many villagers whom they met, until, near to Hartland's dwelling, they reached the cross street that led to Mrs. Mowbray's cottage on the lake. There Mowbray wrung Celia's hand in silence, parted from her — and it was all over ! CHAPTER XXIX. ON THE LAKE SHORE. " I do believe it, Against an oracle." Shakespeare — The Tempest. When Celia parted from her cousin at her uncle's front gate that afternoon, some tone or look of his suggested to her that his projected visit was to Ellinor only, not to Dr. Meyrac. Yet it seems she was mistaken. When Ethan called at the house he asked for the doctor, and was closeted with him for some time. Afterward, it is true, he inquired for Miss Ethelridge, and she came to the parlor. i 5 3 BEYOND THE BREAKERS. " It is a charming afternoon," he said, " soft and balmy, like a day of early summer. I thought, perhaps, you would not object to a stroll on the banks of the lake." She hesitated for a moment, and Ethan added : " You are so much con- fined during the week, Miss Ellinor — " ; < I'll put on my hat and shawl and go with pleasure," rising to prepare for the walk. April is proverbially inconstant, yet in temperate latitudes, when the sun shines out and a southern breeze stirs the air, what more delightful days, fresh and inspiring ! — all the fresher and brighter that they shine upon us, like joy succeeding sorrow, after a season of murky clouds and drifting rains. No days m all the year when hearts, if they be true and warm, so gratefully yield to tender and trustful influences. The an- niversaries are they of Faith and Hope and Love. These two, Ellinor and Ethan, were faithful and cordial ; and as they passed down the shady avenue, and thence to the left along the pleasant lake shore, there came over them, with genial glamour, the spirit of the hour and the place. Ethan had been a frequent visitor of the Meyracs, whom he liked : he had often joined their walking-parties when Ellinor was of the number ; occasionally he had accompanied his cousin and her friend when they rode out together ; but this was the first time he had ever in- vited Miss Ethelridge to walk with him alone. Ellinor felt that it was, and the consciousness of it embarrassed Ethan. After a little commonplace talk, they walked on for some time in silence. Then Ellinor was the first to speak. "What a beautiful spot for building!" she said, as they passed a certain six- acre lot that our readers wot of. " Has it been bought ?" " No. Mr. Sydenham had instructed me not to sell it." " How prettily it is laid out ! Is it for sale now ?" « No." " Somebody has shown much taste there. Mr. Sydenham entrusted the laying of it out to you, did he not, Mr. Hartland ?" "Yes. I'm glad it pleases you. I like to lay out pretty spots, and this always took my fancy. It's embellish- ment was a labor of love." " I have not seen a more charming site for a picturesque cottage for many a day." Then they relapsed into silence again. After a time Ethan said : " Cousin Celia tells me you and she are to be partners in carrying on the