THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Presented ■by- 
 
 Mrs. G. 1- Simpson 
 1934 
 
 SI 5 
 H |6w 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME 
 
 i 
 
 By MARY GRACE HALFINE. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by Bor¬ 
 man L. Munro, in the office of the Librarian of 
 Congress , at Washington, B, C. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 INTERNATIONAL BOOK COMPANY 
 
 310-318 SIXTH AVENUE 
 

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 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 By MARY GRACE HALFINE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE MEETING BY THE RIVER. 
 
 It was a wild, lonely, romantic scene upon the Highlands, 
 to which the shades of evening gave a gloomy, almost des¬ 
 olate look. 
 
 Down its steep, precipitous banks, the beautiful Hudson 
 moved over its rocky bed, its soft murmur the only sound 
 that broke the solemn stillness. 
 
 (suddenly a woman stole swiftly down a steep, narrow 
 path which wound in and around the rocks and hills that 
 arose to a great height in the background. 
 
 As, pausing, she glanced around with a timid, startled 
 air, a man sprung from beneath the shadow of a tree in 
 front of her. 
 
 ‘‘Oh! Geraldine, darling! how good, how very good you 
 are not to disappoint me. I was beginning to fear that you 
 were not coming.” 
 
 For a few moments Geraldine lay unresistingly in the 
 passionate embrace to which she was folded. Then releas¬ 
 ing herself, with a shudder, she stood up. 
 
 The moon, which now broke from beneath a cloud, re¬ 
 vealed the pale, beautiful face, and the midnight glory of 
 the eyes that were turned mournfully upon the face of her 
 companion. \ 
 
 “ No, no! Antonio, do not call me that. I aiti a bad wife, 
 a bad mother. But not irredeemably so—for I have come 
 to bid you farewell forever.” 
 
 “Geraldine!” 
 
 “Yes, forever. Listen to me, Antonio. When I first 
 learned of the cruel deception that had been practiced 
 upon me, upon us both, and which induced me to marry 
 another, I went almost wild, and my indifference V > my 
 husband changed to loathing and almost hate. And when 
 you wrote me entreating that I would give you one in- 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 Si 
 
 terview, I felt that I must see you, if only to tell you how 
 innocent I was of wronging you. If it had only stopped 
 there. But this is the third time we have met, and it 
 must be the last. ” 
 
 “Geraldine, only listen to me, darling. The man you 
 call husband not only knew but connived at this plot 
 against our peace. It is he that is the interloper, not 1; it 
 is he that is wronging me, not I him. Have you forgotten 
 the solemn vows you pledged me, and which made those 
 you took at the altar a mockery and a lie?” 
 
 “ But there is one thing that is neither a mockery nor a 
 lie, Antonio. I am a mother. He who holds the place 
 that should have been yours is the father of my children.” 
 
 The simple dignity of these words, the pure, sweet look 
 in the lifted eyes, evidently had an effect upon the man to 
 whom they were spoken. Then a jealous pang pierced his 
 heart. 
 
 “ Is my happiness nothing to you? Do you love them 
 better than me?” 
 
 “I should be unworthy of yours, or any honest man’s 
 love, were I unmindful of my duty to those who have so 
 sacred a claim upon me, as, in your better moments, you 
 would own. To do as you propose, would not make you 
 happy. I know you better than you know yourself. You 
 are not your right self now, no more than I have been mine. 
 Shall I tell you what aroused me from my wild dream of 
 madness and despair? It was such a simple thing, and yet 
 so strong and resistless—the touch of my baby’s dimpled 
 hand upon my cheek, as I bent over the cradle where she 
 lay. As I looked upon its innocent face, and thought that 
 it might live to blush for the mother that bore her, I saw, 
 for the first time, the fearful precipice upon which my feet 
 were standing. Saw it not too late, thank God! It was 
 wrong in me to meet you here, as I have done, wrong in 
 me to listen to your professions of love, and the still 
 stronger pleadings of my own heart. But there has been 
 no actual guilt as yet, and there must be none. Do you 
 love me, Antonio?” 
 
 “ Do I love you, Geraldine? No man ever gave to woman 
 a love more true and tender.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Then do not urge me to a course that can only result 
 in wretchedness to me, to you, and to my innocent children. 
 Help me to be strong. We, that are forbidden to love on 
 earth, can look forward to meeting in a better country, 
 where we can love unblamed.” 
 
 Antonio was silent for some moments, evidently a heavy 
 struggle going on in his heart. 
 
 “ Geraldine, as strong and passionate as my love is for 
 you, it is not so selfish as you think. It is for your sake, 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 n 
 
 more than mine, that I wanted to take you away with me, 
 
 I cannot bear the thought of leaving you in yonder gloomy 
 prison-house, not only cut off from all society, but all aid 
 and protection, and left to the mercy of a brutal tyrant, 
 for disguise it as you may, your husband is nothing less. 
 Nor are your brothers much better.” 
 
 “They are worse,” responded Geraldine, with a shudder. 
 “I would sooner trust to my husband’s mercy than to 
 theirs. In one thing you wrong Mr. Bayard. I am con¬ 
 vinced that my brothers never told him the true story of 
 our betrothal, and that he had nothing to do with the de¬ 
 ception practiced upon us both. He must have known that 
 I had no love for him, however, and that I was frightened 
 and threatened into marrying him. But though this 
 knowledge did not deter him from carrying out his de¬ 
 termination to make me his wife, it made him harsh and 
 distrustful of me almost from the first. He broke open 
 my desk one day, finding some of your letters there. Since 
 this he has been almost insanely jealous. I tremble when 
 I think what the result might be if he should know of our 
 meetings. You must not come here again.” 
 
 “ Do you stay in this lonely place, Geraldine, all the year 
 around, summer and winter?” 
 
 “ Except once, when I visited my brother Petro’s place, 
 Wolf’s Crag, and which is still more lonely and difficult of 
 access, I have not left Hunter’s Lodge for over two years. 
 My husband is sometimes away months at a time. But I 
 never know when to expect him back, as he always appears 
 suddenly and without warning.” 
 
 “My poor, dear love! what a hard, lonely life yours 
 must be!” 
 
 “ I do not mind that part of it. Since our cruel separa¬ 
 tion all places are alike to me. Do not fear for me, An¬ 
 tonio ; the saddest life will end some time, and while my 
 children are left me I cannot be utterly wretched. Should 
 I lose them I think I should go wild.” 
 
 A few more whispered words, a parting embrace, more 
 tender because it was to be for all time, and the two sep¬ 
 arated. 
 
 With the same swift, noiseless step, Geraldine retraced 
 her way to the steep, narrow path that led to Hunter’s 
 Lodge. 
 
 Built of rough gray stone, it looked more gloomy than 
 usual, standing in the black shadow of the tall trees that 
 surrounded it. 
 
 Avoiding the main entrance, she passed around to the 
 side of it. 
 
 Pausing beneath the shadow of some vines that clam¬ 
 bered up over a balcony, she glanced hurriedly around her, 
 
4 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 her heart almost standing still with terror as she fancied 
 she saw the dim outline of a form beneath an enormous 
 tree in the rear. 
 
 Convinced, upon a closer view, that it was only a shadow 
 of the tree itself, she looked up at the house, every win¬ 
 dow of which was shrouded in darkness, save the one over 
 the balcony by which she stood, where a faint light glim¬ 
 mered. 
 
 The pillars that supported the balcony being built of 
 blocks of rough stone of irregular size, it was not difficult 
 for Geraldine, aided by the tough fibers of the vine that 
 sent out its branches in every direction, to reach the top, 
 and which brought her on a level with one of the deep, low 
 windows of her own room. 
 
 Drawing the curtain across the window through which 
 she stepped, Geraldine let the long, loose mantle drop 
 from her shoulders. 
 
 Taking a candle from the mantel, she passed through the 
 half-open door into the inner room, where a lovely boy of 
 two and a sweet little baby girl were quietly sleeping. 
 
 Pausiug by the couch where they lay, she pressed a kiss 
 upon the rosy lips. Then returning to her own chamber, 
 her head was soon lying upon the pillows of a low couch in 
 one corner of it. 
 
 Wearied by her long walk and the excitement through 
 which she had passed, she soon sank into a deep slumber. 
 
 She did not know how long she had slept, but it must 
 have been several hours, when she was aroused by a heavy 
 hand upon her wrist. 
 
 Opening her eyes, she shrieked with terror as they fell 
 upon the man beside her bed and who was holding up a 
 lantern, the light of which shone full upon herface. 
 
 A moment later, recognizing that pale, stern face, she 
 faltered: 
 
 “ Is it you, Robert? I—I—how you frightened me.”, 
 
 A bitter smile curled the thin lip. 
 
 “Yes, it U I—your husband—returned unexpectedly, to 
 find how his wife has been amusing herself in his absence.” 
 
 A nameless terror seized Geraldine as she looked into 
 those gleaming eyes, and she made a furtive attempt to 
 free herself from the iron grasp which closed around the 
 delicate wrist still more tightly. 
 
 In the same tone of suppressed fury, Mr. Bayard con¬ 
 tinued : 
 
 “ I have been standing here all of ten minutes, admiring 
 the sweet, innocent look that a wife’s face can wear who 
 has returned from a midnight meeting with her lover—with 
 his kiss still warm upon her lins.” 
 
 “ Robert-” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 5 
 
 “Silence, woman! nor make your guilt still blacker by 
 falsehood. I saw you , and will you deny it to my face?” 
 
 “I am not going to deny it. I have sinned, but not so 
 deeply as you think. Were it a thousand times blacker, it 
 would be as white as snow compared to the sin that has been 
 committed against me. Ah, if I had only had the courage 
 to have spoken to you before, to have implored your aid 
 and protection. But, from the commencement of our ill- 
 starred marriage, you have been so harsh and stern.” 
 
 “ Ill-starred, indeed,” was the bitter response. “ I curse 
 the day that I ever looked upon your false and beautiful 
 face!” 
 
 Geraldine shrank before that look, so stern and accusing, 
 and yet so full of gloom and despair. Conscience began to 
 make itself heard, though so faintly as scarcely to be 
 audible. 
 
 There was a strange and indescribable sadness in Mr. 
 Bayard’s voice, as he continued: 
 
 “ As God lives! man never gave to woman a love more 
 strong and tender. Can you, dare you, look upon the man 
 you have so foully wronged, and assert that I have always 
 been harsh and stern? Can you not remember a time when 
 I was very different from what I now am? I studied your 
 every wish, in the vain hope of winning a smile, a look, 
 such as you bestowed freely upon every chance-comer. I 
 placed my heart beneath your feet, and you have trampled 
 upon it from first to last, you have bestowed upon me such 
 fond names as ‘tyrant’ and ‘jailer.’ Your words have 
 come true, as you will find. But it is all your work; what 
 I now am, you made me.” 
 
 There was a tremor to Geraldine’s voice, and a beseech¬ 
 ing look in her eyes, as she said: 
 
 “Robert, my cruel brothers made me think that the 
 man I loved was dead, else I had not married you. It is 
 only within a year since that I learned he was living, as you 
 know. I promised to be a good, true wife to you. And I 
 meant, I tried-” 
 
 “And you have the assurance to tell me this, when I 
 witnessed your interview with your lover, down by the 
 river, scarcely four hours ago?” 
 
 “As God lives, who locks upon my heart, I went down 
 there to bid him an eternal farewell.” 
 
 A strange laugh burst from Bayard’s lips, a laugh that 
 had in it nothing of mirth or pleasure. 
 
 “ And so you did—though you little meant that it should 
 be so.” 
 
 A nameless fear touched Geraldine’s heart. 
 
 “ What do you mean?” 
 
 “No matter; be patient, you’ll know full soon enough.” 
 
6 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 Letting go of the wrist lie had seized, and which bore the 
 imprint of his fingers for days after, Bayard surveyed his 
 wife for some moments in gloomy silence. 
 
 “What does that wife deserve who has deceived and 
 sinned against her husband, as you have deceived and 
 sinned against me?” 
 
 ‘ ‘ In your eyes, death, I suppose. And I would much 
 rather die than live, were it not for my children —our chil¬ 
 dren. Oh, my husband, surely, oh, surely, there must be 
 some touch of tenderness, of pity in your heart, for the 
 mother of your children!” 
 
 These words, and that appealing look and tone, would 
 have touched most any heart, but they seemed to add to 
 the fury of the man to whom they were addressed. 
 
 He raised his clinched hand as though he would smite 
 her to the floor, and then let it fall heavily upon a table by 
 which he stood. 
 
 “ Vilest of your sexl” he cried, hoarsely, “ how dare you 
 use such language to mef Will you add to the deadly 
 wrong y ou have done me by endeavoring to foist the child 
 of your paramour upon me? Lionel is my son, and I shall 
 act a father’s part by him by removing him forever from 
 your influence. As to the other—the offspring of your 
 guilty love—I utterly repudiate and disown it, even as I 
 repudiate and disown you!” 
 
 Uttering a low cry of terror and dismay, the wretched 
 woman threw herself down at the speaker’s feet. 
 
 “ Hear me, Eobert—condemn me if you will—only hear 
 me! I have erred, alas! alas! and sorely have I been pun¬ 
 ished. In my brief fit of madness and despair, I have given 
 you just cause to reproach and distrust me, but this is all. 
 I swear before Heaven that I am not guilty of the crime 
 with which you charge me. Disown, repudiate me, but 
 bring not down upon my innocent baby’s head such a 
 blighting shame as this —your baby.” 
 
 With an imprecation too horrible to repeat, Bayard 
 dragged Geraldine up from her knees, pushing her down 
 into a chair. 
 
 “Infamous woman! never dare call that child mine 
 again. You would swear that white was black and black 
 white to suit your purpose, take a most solemn oath that 
 you hadn’t met your lover at all if I had not been eye¬ 
 witness to your interview. Will you deny that less than 
 a week ago you agreed to fly with this man to Italy? 
 That you not only shamelessly avowed your love for him, 
 but your loathing for me, your husband ? It is here in your 
 own handwriting; I took it from its resting-place over your 
 dead lover’s heart, after if had ceased to beat. See! it is 
 red with his life-blood 1” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 1 
 
 The light from the lantern fell full upon the letter that 
 Bayard held up, revealing clearly the crimson stains 
 upon it. 
 
 For some moments Geraldine gazed bewildered into 
 those fiercely exultant eyes. Then, as the horrible import 
 of these words dawned upon her, with a sharp and bitter 
 cry, like the wail of a breaking heart, she fell forward 
 upon her face. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A HARD CHOICE. 
 
 When Geraldine aroused from that death-like faint, she 
 found herself lying upon a low bed in a place so strange 
 and unfamiliar that, at first, she felt that she must be un¬ 
 der the influence of some horrible dream. 
 
 The mist slowly clearing from her brain, she lifted her 
 head, and looked around. 
 
 It was evidently some place underground, or partially so. 
 
 The gray dawn was stealing through a deep, narrow 
 window near the top, and which was strongly guarded by 
 iron bars. 
 
 As dim as this light was, she soon became sufficiently 
 accustomed to it to be able to take a survey of her new and 
 strange quarters. 
 
 The place was square, or nearly so, built of heavy stones, 
 whose solid masonry seemed to defy any attempt to dis¬ 
 lodge them, looking like some prison-house or tomb. A 
 shudder ran through her veins, as she thought that it 
 might be, to her, both. 
 
 Her mind slowly traveled back to the time that she lost 
 consciousness, when, holding up the letter, with its blood- 
 red stains, her husband had spoken those terrible words, 
 which even now rang through her brain. 
 
 A deadly sickness came over her. Those words, that 
 blood-stained letter, could bear only one import—only one. 
 
 The man she loved, and who loved her, as, in ail her sor¬ 
 rowful life, no other had, had been most foully dealt with 
 —and because he loved her. 
 
 He had been followed, and struck down by the cowardly 
 hand of an assassin. 
 
 She recalled the words he had spoken, that he was the 
 wronged, not the wronger, and her heart acknowledged 
 their truth. 
 
 Oh! that the hate and loathing that surged through every 
 vein would only nerve her weak woman’s hand to take 
 vengeance on bis murderer! 
 
 As Geraldine looked upon the rough stones of her prison- 
 house, a strong impulse came over her to dash her head 
 
a 
 
 A WIFE '8 CRIME, 
 
 against them, and thus escape the maddening thoughts* 
 whose accumulated agony was more than she could bear. 
 
 When her cruel tyrant came, she would defy him, telling 
 him to finish the work he had commenced, by giving her 
 the same fate—all that earth could give hen now—the hope 
 of rejoining him. 
 
 Then came the thought of her helpless children. How 
 could she leave them, especially her baby, and to such cruel 
 hands? 
 
 All the mother in her revolted at the bare suggestion. 
 
 No! no! for their sakes she must temporize with the 
 man who held their fate, as well as hers, in his hands. 
 
 Rising, she groped around the room, hoping to find some 
 loose stone or aperture in the wall, but without avail. 
 
 Though it was a warm day in the early fall, there was 
 such a damp chilliness in the air and on everything upon 
 which her hands t ud feet rested that she was glad to creep 
 back to the rude straw bed that afforded her some protec¬ 
 tion from .t. 
 
 Upon one of the flat stones with which the floor was 
 paved was a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread. 
 
 Though she felt no inclination for food or drink, she par¬ 
 took sparingly of both, well knowing that she would have 
 occasion for all the strength and courage she could com¬ 
 mand. 
 
 The Jetter that was in her husband’s possession had been 
 written not long after her discovery of the means that had 
 been used to induce her to marry him, and when she had 
 been nearly beside herself with grief and indignation. 
 And, as she recalled some allusions in it to her husband, 
 her knowledge of his character and disposition, she felt 
 that it was something that he would neither forget nor for¬ 
 give. 
 
 Occupied by these and other quite as gloomy fears and 
 conjectures, the long hours dragged their slow length along, 
 and the light began to vanish from the narrow grated win¬ 
 dow, adding darkness to the gloom of her dreary sur¬ 
 roundings. 
 
 Thus far not a sound had broken the oppressive stillness, 
 and she well knew that any outcry she might make would 
 be unheeded if heard. 
 
 The unhappy wife had long known that the few servants 
 at Hunter's Lodge were creatures of her husband, em- 
 
 to watch and spy upon rather than to minister to 
 
 her comfort. 
 
 As poor Geraldine watched the last faint ray of light dis¬ 
 appear, leaving her in utter darkness, she recalled the 
 many instances she had read of people being incarcerated 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 8 
 
 in a place like this, with a pitcher of water and a loaf oi 
 bread, and left to slow starvation. 
 
 Was this to be her fate? 
 
 Was this the punishment meted out to her by the cruel 
 heart that was so hard and bitter against her—that seemed 
 determined to show no mercy to the temporary folly and 
 weakness to which she had been driven? 
 
 As these thoughts passed through Geraldine’s mind, she 
 heard the sound of a step, followed by the harsh turning of 
 the key in the rusty lock. 
 
 A moment later t he ponderous door swung open, and 
 her husband entereu. 
 
 The darkness had been so intense and long-continued, 
 that Geraldine involuntarily shielded her eyes from the 
 light that that uplifted lantern flashed into them. 
 
 Misinterpreting this, Bayard said: 
 
 “Nowonder that you shrink from the eye of the man 
 you have so basely injured, your loathed and hated hus¬ 
 band.” 
 
 The flashing eyes that were now turned upon the speaker 
 certainly had no fear in their steady gaze. 
 
 “Murderer!— never hated and loathed as now—have 
 you come to gloat upon my wretchedness, or make an end 
 to it, which ? Strike, if you will, only let your aim be true 
 and your hand steady.” 
 
 “ I am no murderer. For what I have done—and which 
 I would do a thousand times over were it necessary - 
 there is not a court in Christendom but what would hold 
 me guiltless. Were you not the mother of my son you 
 should share the same fate.” 
 
 Tears quenched the fierce light in Geraldine’s eyes. The 
 allusion in the last sentence had touched a chord that vi¬ 
 brated through her whole being. 
 
 “And if I were not a mother, I would consider it the 
 greatest boon you could grant. For the sake of my children 
 I would live, though every breath be drawn in agony. 
 For their sakes, I humble myself to implore your mercy. 
 There can be no more peace between us two, Kobert. You 
 have pre-judged and condemned me, placed the worst 
 possible construction upon my folly and weakness, and, 
 even if I could overlook and forget the past, you never 
 will. Give me my baby, the child you so causelessly dis¬ 
 owned, and the barest means of living, and I will go where 
 you will never be troubled by us again.” 
 
 Here the speaker’s voice, broken by sobs, ended in a 
 moan. 
 
 Bayard gazed upon the pale face, over which the tears 
 were streaming fast, apparently unmoved by all he saw 
 there. 
 
10 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “You shall never step outside these walls, or look upon 
 your child’s face, unless you sign this paper." 
 
 Taking a paper that her husband handed her Geraldine 
 ran her eyes over its contents. 
 
 “Just Heaven!” she cried, letting it fall from her trem¬ 
 bling hands, “ sign a paper that declares my own infamy 
 and brands my child as illegitimate? Never! never!” 
 
 Picking up the paper which had fluttered to the floor, 
 Bayard said: 
 
 “Then you shall not only never leave this place alive, 
 but both your children shall be taught to detest and scorn 
 your memory. Your son shall be taught to regard you as 
 too vile for him to call himself such, and your daughter 
 trained to consider you as the hated cause of the inherit¬ 
 ance of shame that will be hers.” 
 
 The speaker turned toward the door. Springing to her 
 feet, Geraldine seized his arm with a convulsive grasp. 
 
 “ Stay I Ah, God, what have I done that I should be tor¬ 
 tured so remorselessly? If I sign this paper will you give 
 me my baby and let me go?” 
 
 “ If you sign it, so far as I am concerned, you can take 
 the child and go where you will.” 
 
 “ Give me the paper.” 
 
 Again did this unhappy lady read the confession of her 
 guilt, every word of which seemed stamped in burning 
 characters upon her brain. 
 
 “ I call God to witness that it is a lie!” she cried, raising 
 her streaming eyes upward. “As black as the black heart 
 that coined it!” 
 
 “ Your language is not over complimentary,” responded 
 Bayard, coolly. “But no matter about that. Put your 
 name there. ” 
 
 Grasping the pen that was placed in her hand, Geral¬ 
 dine affixed her name hurriedly to the paper, as if she 
 feared that she should lack courage to do so if she paused 
 to think. 
 
 “It is done!” she cried, dashing the pen to the earth. 
 “ But I charge you to remember that it is done under pro¬ 
 test; that I declare my entire innocence of the crime of 
 which this paper declares me guilty.” 
 
 “ Never fear; I have a very good memory, as you will 
 find.” 
 
 Geraldine arose to her feet. 
 
 “ Now open my prison door. Give me my baby and let 
 me go.” 
 
 “All in good time, madam. All that I have promised I 
 shall perform to the letter, but there is no especial hurry 
 that I’m aware of. It will do you no harm to nave a few 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 11 
 
 tnore hours for solitude and reflection. To-morrow morn¬ 
 ing will be quite soon enough, I think.” 
 
 Bayard turned toward the door as he said this. 
 
 Pressing 0110 hand to her rapidly-beating heart, Geraldine 
 stretched out the other toward him. 
 
 “One thing further,” she faltered. “Lionel, my boy. 
 You will let me see him once more, though it be only to 
 bid him an eternal farewell?” 
 
 “He that you call your boy, but who is your boy no 
 longer, is a good many miles away by this time. However 
 uncertain your future fate may, in some respects, be, one 
 thing you may be sure of, that you will never look upon 
 his face again!” 
 
 Uttering these cruel words, and which fell like a blow 
 upon the heart of the wretched mother, Bayard passed out. 
 
 The door swung to with a heavy clang, and Geraldine 
 was alone. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 A TERRIBLE DEED. 
 
 The longer Geraldine reflected, the more she was con¬ 
 vinced that she was still at Hunter's Lodge. 
 
 She remembered hearing that it had been originally built 
 by an eccentric old man, who had a son, wholly vicious and 
 partly insane. 
 
 There had been strange rumors in regard to the latter. 
 That he had once attempted, and nearly succeeded in taking 
 his father’s life, and that ever after he had been incarcer¬ 
 ated in some cell under ground. 
 
 That she was in that cell, she entertained no doubt what¬ 
 ever. 
 
 And that she would never leave it without tbe consent of 
 the man who placed her there, she was equally as sure. 
 
 Now that she had time to think the matter over calmly, 
 she began to fear that she had acted unwisely in signing 
 the papers. 
 
 It was a terrible thing to go out to the world. 
 
 And what if she had made this sacrifice vainly ?—if her 
 husband failed to keep his promise? 
 
 Then remembering that, however harsh and cruel he 
 might be, he was a man th at always prided himself on 
 keeping his word, she drove the suspicion from her mind. 
 
 Wearied by these fears, conjectures and forebodings, to¬ 
 ward morning Geraldine fell into an uneasy slumber. 
 
 She was aroused by the harsh grating of the lock, and 
 the sudden clang that followed. 
 
 Springing to her feet, she saw, by the faint light that 
 
12 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 streamed through the barred window, her husband stand 
 ing by the door, with some garments over his arm. 
 
 With an eager look Geraldine turned toward him. 
 
 “ You have come to take me away from this hornble 
 
 E lace—to give me my baby. All night I have seemed to 
 ear its wailing cry for me. It was never away from me 
 a day before.” 
 
 “ It is your own work that you are separated from her 
 now, and may be always.” 
 
 “Always?” faltered the poor mother, “Oh! surely, 
 surely, Robert, you will not be so cruel, so dishonorable, as 
 to break your promise?” 
 
 “I shall keep it to the letter. What I said was, that so 
 far as I was concerned, you could take your baby and go 
 whither you would.” 
 
 Geraldine looked bewildered into the speaker’s face. 
 “And who else can it concern?” 
 
 “ Your brothers.” 
 
 “ Merciful Father!” 
 
 Entirely disregarding the piercing anguish in these 
 words, Bayard continued: 
 
 “ I took you from them, and shall return you to them. 
 Laying your confession and letter before them, I shall leave 
 them to deal with you as they see fit.” 
 
 Uttering a low cry of mortal terror, Geraldine flung her¬ 
 self upon the damp stones at the speaker’s feet. 
 
 “No! no! Anything—anything but that! Hard and 
 cruel as your heart is, I would sooner trust your mercy 
 than theirs. As a child, I lived in terror of them, trem¬ 
 bling at the sound of their voices and footsteps They 
 were ever hard and severe to my most trifling faults, and 
 I know only too well how they will judge me now. Sensi¬ 
 tive and proud as to their name and honor, they will never 
 forgive the reproach I have brought upon both.” 
 
 With the same stern, immovable face, Bayard disengaged 
 himself from the hands that clung to his knees 
 
 “As I told you, I shall leave your fate entirely to your 
 brothers. All you have to decide is, whether you will go 
 to them, or have me summon them hither. I advise you 
 to choose the former. If you do, dress quickly, as the car¬ 
 riage will be at the door in half an hour. ” 
 
 Pointing to the garments that he had tossed upon the 
 bed, Bayard left the room. 
 
 With her forehead pressed closely to the cold, damp 
 stones upon which she lay, Geraldine battled silently with 
 the despairing and maddening thoughts that rushed over 
 her. 
 
 Hearing the returning steps she had learned to know so 
 well, she sprung to her feet, 
 
A WIFE’S CHIME . 
 
 ie 
 
 As she did so, her eye fell upon a loose, rough stone, sev 
 eral pounds in weight. 
 
 Seizing it with both hands, she stationed herself on a 
 wooden bench back of the door. 
 
 As it swung back, the desperate and maddened woman 
 sprung forward, the stone in her hands falling heavily on 
 the top of Bayard’s head, who, uttering a faint moan, sunk 
 to the ground. 
 
 But he was evidently only stunned; for in a few mo¬ 
 ments he opened his eyes. 
 
 On perceiving the form standing over him with the up¬ 
 lifted stone in her hands, a wild plea for mercy trembled 
 upon his lips. 
 
 But she, who had been shown no mercy, showed none. 
 
 Again the stone descended, this time upon the temple; 
 and with another moan the head fell back. 
 
 For some moments Geraldine stood there, ready, at the 
 slightest movement, to repeat the blow. 
 
 But there was none; a leaden pallor overspreading the 
 face, save where the blood trickled from the temple, giving 
 it a still more ghastly aspect. 
 
 A sudden revulsion coming over her, the stone dropped 
 from her trembling hands. 
 
 As she looked down upon it, red with the horrible work 
 it had done, a shudder convulsed her frame. 
 
 “ Ah I God,” she moaned, “ and has it come to this? Am 
 I a murderess—the murderess of the father of my dear 
 babies? It is, it must be, some horrible dream, from which 
 I shall soon awaken.” 
 
 And flinging herself down by that cold, motionless form, 
 the wretched woman felt that she would gladly yield her 
 own life to bring back that she had taken. 
 
 Then other and sterner thoughts came over her. 
 
 If she would escape, there must be no delay; if she would 
 gain possession of her child, it must be now or never. 
 
 Quickly attiring herself in the garments that had been 
 brought her, Geraldine took the key from the fast-stiffen¬ 
 ing hand, and passed out, locking the door after her. 
 
 Here she found herself in a narrow, dimly lighted pas¬ 
 sage, which, after various crooks and turnings, led her to 
 a steep, rude stairway. 
 
 This evidently leading to the upper world, Geraldine 
 paused, listening intently for some moments. 
 
 Not a sound was audible; and knowing that it was very 
 early for the servants to be astir, creeping softly up the 
 stairs, she looked cautiously around. 
 
 To her great relief there was no one visible. 
 
 Remembering her husband’s words about the carriage 
 being at the door, she was not sorry to find herself in the 
 
14 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 back part of the house, and which was quite remote from 
 the main entrance. 
 
 The house being much larger than was needed, this part 
 of it was not used, but having wandered over it in some of 
 her many lonely, restless moods, it was sufficiently familiar 
 to her for her to be able to tell pretty clearly what course 
 to take to reach her own apartments. 
 
 Ascending some winding stairs, and passing through 
 various corridors and empty rooms, Geraldine came to a 
 wide hall, whose familiar aspect made her pause. 
 
 As she did so, the wailing cry of a babe smote upon her 
 ear. 
 
 A moment later, she heard the harsh, irritated voice of 
 the hired nurse, trying to hush it. 
 
 Controlling the strong impulse to rush forward and 
 snatch it from her arms, Geraldine pushed open a door that 
 was ajar and walked noiselessly in. 
 
 It was her own room, the nursery being adjoining. 
 
 Through the half- open door came the plaintive wail that 
 appealed so strongly to the mother’s heart. 
 
 Again that harsh voice grated upon her ear. 
 
 “ Whist, ye little divil, or I’ll give ye somethin’ to screech 
 fur! It’s nothin’ but crossness that ails ye. Sorra bit of 
 slape have I had wid ye the night.”. 
 
 A few moments later the speaker stood in the open door- 
 way. 
 
 “ Howly Vargin! the saints defind usl” she cried, as her 
 eyes fell upon Geraldine, 
 
 Laying aside her hat, as though she had just come in 
 from some journey, Geraldine turned her eyes serenely 
 upon that frightened face. 
 
 “I am Mrs. Bayard. You are the new nurse, I sup¬ 
 pose !” 
 
 “ Misthress Bayard, is it? Sure an’ I niver knew thero 
 was any sech. The masther niver towld me that-” 
 
 “You know now,” interrupted Geraldine, a little 
 haughtily. “ I hear the baby crying; bring it to me.” 
 
 Awed by that look and tone, the woman obeyed. 
 
 If she had had any doubts as to Geraldine’s identity, 
 they vanished as she saw how eagerly the babe sprung to 
 its mother’s arms. 
 
 A feeling akin to rapture filled Geraldine’s heart as she 
 pressed the little creature to her bosom. 
 
 “ Oh, my babe, my babe!” she thought. “ I have dared 
 and suffered much to get thee back to my arms. Heaven 
 pity those who would seek to tear ihee from them again!” 
 
 The little Isabel was a most lovely child, with the same 
 dark eyes and jetty hair that distinguished her beautiful 
 mother. 
 
A WIFE’S CHIME . 1 $ 
 
 ? Soothed by the encircling arms, the loving voice she 
 knew so well, the child fell into a tranquil slumber. 
 
 “Bless the darlint!” ejaculated Bridget Connor, in quite 
 another tone and strain from that she had used before. 
 “Sure, an’ that is jest what it was cryin’ an’ frettin’ fur. 
 I couldn’t plaze it, do what I wud. One cud see with half 
 an eye that it’s your child, ma’am. Ye are as alike as two 
 pays, barrin’ there’s a bit of the father about the mouth.” 
 
 Shuddering at this allusion, Geraldine went into the 
 nursery, and laying the child in the crib, stood looking 
 down upon it. 
 
 She had never thought Isabel like her husband, but as 
 she gazed she could see that there was, as the girl bad 
 stated, something of the father around the mouth. The 
 
 father she had mur- Ah, God! how could she repeat 
 
 the horrible word, or be again what she had been? 
 
 There was a strange fascination about the sweet baby- 
 mouth, so that she could not withdraw her eyes from it. 
 
 As she gazed, there floated before her mental vision an¬ 
 other face, so white and ghastly; lips—so like, and yet so 
 unlike—from which hau burst that agonizing plea for 
 mercy. 
 
 Ah! if she had only heeded it. But she was maddened 
 with grief and despair. 
 
 With a deathly sickness at her heart, Geraldine stag¬ 
 gered, rather than walked, into the adjoining room, which 
 Bridget was engaged in tidying. 
 
 “ The saints be betuneusan harm!” was that individual’s 
 pious ejaculation, as she turned round, “it's as white as a 
 shate ye are. An’, good fathers! what’s that upon yer 
 arm?” 
 
 In raising her hand to her forehead the loose sleeve had 
 fallen back from the arm, disclosing a dark red stain upon 
 its clear, white surface. 
 
 As Geraldine glanced down upon it, missing the chair 
 that Bridget had wheeled forward, she slid downward to 
 the floor. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OLD PRUE. 
 
 Believing that her mistress was suffering from some 
 wound or hurt, after laying her on the bed, Bridget di¬ 
 rected her chief attention to the crimson stain upon her 
 arm. 
 
 To her no small astonishment, however, the water of 
 which she made such a lavish use in trying to restore her 
 caused it to entirely disappear without leaving a trace be¬ 
 hind. 
 
A WIPE >S CRIME, 
 
 “ Sure, an’ there isn’t the laste scratch,” she said, as 
 Geraldine opened her eyes. ‘ ‘ I thought you was hurted. 
 It’s mighty quare, so it is.” 
 
 Then, observing for the first time the discolored marks 
 upon the wrist, which its delicacy of color and outline 
 made so distinctly visible, she gave it a careful examina¬ 
 tion, but as it was upon the other arm, it only served to 
 increase her perplexity. 
 
 Perceiving the danger of allowing the girl’s thoughts to 
 run in this direction, forcing a smile to her colorless lips, 
 Geraldine said: 
 
 “ I am not hurt, my good girl; I was a little faint from 
 over-fatigue, that is all. I am quite recovered now.” 
 
 Bridget shook her head dubiously. 
 
 “Yer lookin’ mighty white, onyway. Ye’d better let 
 me go an’ bring the masther. I heard him up an’ stirrin’ 
 at daybreak.” 
 
 The face of the guilty wife grew whiter yet with the 
 deadly apprehension at her heart. 
 
 “No! no!” she said, hurriedly. 
 
 Then, a moment later: 
 
 “ Mr. Bayard is away. He won’t be back again for—for 
 some time. Give me some wine from the decanter that 
 you will find on the sideboard. Then darken the room, 
 and I will try to sleep.” 
 
 The girl did as she was bidden, and then, perceiving 
 from Geraldine’s closed eyes that she was sleeping, or try¬ 
 ing to do so, left the room. 
 
 It is said that criminals, after a certain point, will sleep 
 upon the rack, exhausted nature seeking a brief respite in 
 forgetfulness and oblivion. 
 
 Certain it is that Geraldine, in spite of the horrors of the 
 past, the perils that still menaced her, now fell into a deep, 
 almost death-like, slumber. 
 
 She slept several hours, awakening with the heavy 
 weight upon her heart experienced by those whose sleep is 
 due to the exhaustion occasioned by some sharp and pro¬ 
 longed sorrow. 
 
 On going to the mirror to arrange her hair, Geraldine 
 started back at the reflection there. So pale, so haggard 
 and strange did it look, that it hardly seemed like hers. 
 
 One would suppose that ten years had passed over her 
 head since she last stood there. 
 
 At this moment Bridget opened the door and looked in. 
 
 “ An’ so it’s waked up, ye are? Sure, an’ it’s a foine 
 sleep ye’ve had, though it’s not much the bether ye are 
 lookin’ for it. Ye’ll fale the good effects after ye’ve had 
 somethin’ to ate, I’m thinkin’.” 
 
 “I think I shall,” responded Geraldine, with a faint 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 1 1 
 
 femile. “ I hope you have something for my dinner that is 
 
 “Indade, an’ I have, thin. Briled chicken an baked 
 pataties, smokin’ hot; lettin’ alone the sw^ biscakra an 
 pudden. It's a dinner fit fur a quane. Will ye have it 
 
 now, or wait a bit?” , „ 
 
 “ You can bring it in as soon as it is ready. 
 
 This Bridget did, who seemed to be good-natured, so tar 
 as she knew, and not at all sorry that there was to be a 
 “ misthress to the fore,” as she expressed it. 
 
 Setting down the tray, she took the baby from Geral¬ 
 “ You needn’t go,” said the latter. “ Stay here; I want 
 
 to talk to you.” , ...... , _ 
 
 No ways disinclined to what was likely to give her 
 opportunity for some use of her tongue, Bridget obeyed. 
 
 “ I don’t think I know your name yet? 
 
 “ Bridget Connor’s me name, ma’am.” 
 
 “ You haven’t been here a great while, Bridget ? 
 
 ‘ ‘ I came yisterday noon. An’ manin’ no offense, ma am, 
 it’s a month it sanies. If the masther hadnt offered to 
 double me wages, I wouldn’t have coom at all at all. bucn 
 n lonesome, out-of-the-way place as it is, wid nobody to 
 spake a word to but the naygur m the kitchen who s as 
 f crass as two sticks, even if I’d demane mesilf by makin 
 if rinds with the likes of her.” # 
 
 “Did you come before Lionel, my little boy, wenu 
 
 away ?” 
 
 Bridget looked a little surprised at this query. 
 
 “A little b’ye was tuck away jist afther. I mind now 
 that was what they called him. Was it your b ye, ma am? 
 But now I look at ye, I needn’t ask, fur he had 31st your 
 hair an’eyes, barrir.’ his chakes was like two roses, an 
 yours is as white as the wall, jist.” 
 
 “ Did he go with his father?” 
 
 “No; ’twas the hired man that tuck him. Battle, or 
 some such name, they called him. I mind now seem’ thim 
 put the b’ye in the carriage, an’ how the poor little crathur 
 kept sobbin’ an’ cryin’ fur his mother.” 
 
 As obtuse as the girl’s perceptions were, there was some¬ 
 thing in that look of agony, brief as it was, that struck 
 
 strangely upon her, , 
 
 “ Sure, an’ he didn’t go unbeknownst to ye, ma am? 
 
 “Of course not,” was the sharp rejoinder. “What a 
 
 ridiculous question!” 
 
 Then in a gentle, conciliatory tone: 
 
 “ It’s all right his going to—to- Strange I cant re¬ 
 
 member the name of the place. ” 
 
 “I didn’t hear ’em say where it was, maam, said 
 
A WIFE CRIME. 
 
 aa 
 
 Bridget, in response to the inquiring look fixed so eagerly 
 upon her. “The man that tuck him away, him they 
 called Battle, didn’t look as if he cud give a civil answer, 
 if he thried, an’ I asked no questions. Him an’ the nagur 
 is of one piece, I’m thinkin’. Both on’em wud get their 
 walkin’ tickets mighty sudden if I was to the fore?’ 
 
 Without appearing to notice the hint conveyed by these 
 words, Geraldine said: 
 
 “You looked very much astonished when you saw me.” 
 
 “ Indade an’ I was, ma’am. Whin I see ye standin’ in 
 the middle of the flure, jist as if ye belonged there, it give 
 me sech a turn as I hain’t got over yet.” 
 
 “ And so I did belong there,” was the quick response. “No 
 one has so good a right to be here as I.” 
 
 “ Av coorse. Sure, an’ that’s aisy seen. But manin’ no 
 oflinse, ma’am, I can’t help thinkin’ it’s mighty quare that 
 the masther didn’t let fall a word as to how I was to expect 
 ye.” 
 
 “You don’t mean to say, Bridget,” said Geraldine, with 
 a constrained laugh, “that Mr. Bayard told you he had no 
 wife?” 
 
 This question was evidently something of a puzzler to 
 the honest but rather obtuse mind to which it was directed. 
 
 “No, ma’am, I can’t say that. Sure, an’ I knew he had 
 a wife once, because of the childer. Igion’t mind now jist 
 what he did say, but he give me the impression that she 
 was aither dead or gone off, niver to come back again.” 
 
 “You must have misunderstood him,” smiled Geraldine. 
 “ Mr. Bayard is a little peculiar, perhaps, to those who 
 don’t know him, but he couldn’t have meant that.” 
 
 “ Faith an’ I suppose he couldn’t,” said Bridget, rubbing 
 her forehead with her forefinger, as though clearing away 
 some mental cobwebs. “It don’t look much like it any¬ 
 way to see you settin’ there so much at home, an’ the 
 baby a-smilm’ an’ cooin’ at ye, as though she niver saw 
 the likes av ye, bliss her! An’ I’m not sorry for that same 
 afther. As thrue as ye are settin’ there if ye hadn’t coom 
 I wouldn’t have stayed the wake out. No, not for double 
 me wages, twice over.” 
 
 “ And I am glad that you are here, too,” smiled Geral¬ 
 dine. “ I hope you’ll stay as long as I do.” 
 
 “It’s mesilf that hopes it won’t be long, thin. One 
 might be sort of continted in warm weather, when you 
 can get out av dures, but it must be lonesome enough in 
 winter. Sure, an’ ye don’t mane to stay here, thin?” 
 
 “ I don’t think I shall be here through the winter,” said 
 Geraldine, a little gravely, as the query arose in her mind 
 as to where she would be then. 
 
 Taking the baby from Bridget’s arms, Geraldine bid her 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 19 
 
 remove the tray, and bring her some crackers and a glass 
 of new milk; the little creature manifested every indica¬ 
 tion of joy and eagerness at an order she well knew was 
 for her express benefit. 
 
 “ Does Isabel want some crackers and nice new milk?” 
 said the fond mother, kissing the little fluttering hands and 
 sweet dimpled mouth. 
 
 Bridget was not long in executing this order. 
 
 Setting the tray down before her mistress, she said: 
 
 “ The carriage that ye come in is still at the dure, 
 ma’am. The horses will be nigh about aiten up by the 
 flies, poor bastes !” 
 
 Geraldine mused a little before she replied: 
 
 “The hired man being away, there is no one to put them 
 in the stable, I suppose?” 
 
 “ The masther might, if he was here. But he’s gone, ye 
 say?” 
 
 “ He is gone.” 
 
 As Geraldine said this, she hid her face among the 
 clustering curls of the child that was prattling on her 
 knee, which perhaps, was what made he# voice sound so 
 strange and hollow. 
 
 “I towlnd the cook what ye said, ma’am, an’ she was as 
 imperdant as ye plase. She said, ‘ it was little you knew 
 about it.’ If I was to the fore, I’d send her kitin’. I’d 
 sooner do the bit of cookin’ ye made, mesilf, than be 
 bothered wid the likes av her.” 
 
 Geraldine listened to these words with a heart that was 
 evidently ill at ease. 
 
 “I wouldn’t mind what old Pruesays, Bridget, nor talk 
 much with her any way. She has her cross days, and I 
 suppose this is one of them. I am sorry about the horses, 
 though. They are very gentle, and when baby is asleep, 
 we’ll see if we can’t put them up ourselves.” 
 
 “ Indade, an’ ye’ll do no sech thing, ma’am. I’ll do it 
 mesilf, an’wid no help from onybody. Many’s the time 
 I’ve harnessed an’ unharnessed ’em in the ould counthry. 
 An’ I’d done it before if the nagur hadn’t dared me to tech 
 ’em. Whin I wint down to the kitchen for the milk an’ 
 crackers, I sez to her: 
 
 “ ‘There’s the carriage still at the dure that the mis- 
 thress coom in, an’ the poor bastes nigh aboot dead with 
 the hate an’ flies.’ 
 
 “Wid that she pricked up her ears, lookin’at me rale 
 sharp. 
 
 “ ‘ Did madam,’ manin’ you, ma’am, ‘ say that she coom 
 in the carriage?’ sez she. 
 
 “ ‘Indade an’ she did,’ sez I. 
 
 ** ‘ Then she’s a liar,’ sez she. 
 
20 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “ Beggin yer pardon fur repatin’ it, but that be the very 
 words, ma’am.” 
 
 Kecking the baby to and fro, that she was lulling to 
 sleep upon her breast, Geraldine’s thoughts were busy with 
 the new peril that menaced her. 
 
 She knew what old Prue was. Strongly attached to her 
 husband, whose nurse she had been in his babyhood, she 
 had always manifested quite as strong a dislike and sus¬ 
 picion of her from the first of their acquaintance. 
 
 Anxious to ascertain what the old woman suspected, if 
 anything, she’said: 
 
 “ How did she think I came?” 
 
 “ ‘ That’s jist what I said to her, ma’am. ‘ An’ how wud 
 she coom, on fut an’ alone?’ sez I. 
 
 “ ‘ That’s best known to hersilf,’ sez she. 
 
 “ An’ not another word cud I get out av her, good or bad. 
 Save whin I mintioned that I cud put the bastes in the 
 stable mesilf. Thin she flew into a towrin’ rage, declarin’ 
 that Masther Robert put ’em there, an’ they shouldn’t be 
 teched by nobody till he coom.” 
 
 Entering the nursery, Geraldine laid the sleeping babe in 
 its crib. 
 
 “I think the horses had better be put up,” she said to 
 Bridget, who had followed. “ I will go with you. I don’t 
 think Prue will say anything to you if I am there. If she 
 should, don’t answer her. You see, she is Mr. Bayard’s old 
 nurse, not only taking care of him when a child, but serv¬ 
 ing him faithfully ever since; so she naturally takes more 
 liberty than she otherwise would, especially where he is 
 concerned. She never liked me.” 
 
 “That’s mighty quare,” responded Bridget, her eyes rest¬ 
 ing with a look of honest admiration on the pale but lovely 
 face of her mistress, to whom she had taken a strong liking. 
 “ Sure an’ a body wudn’t think she cud help it, if she thried. 
 It’s too good-natured ye are. It’s me belafe that to be tuck 
 down a peg or two wudn’t do her ony harm. You naden’t 
 have ony fear of me, ma’am. I won’t spake a word, or 
 aven look at her.” 
 
 Without any further words, the strong-armed, willing- 
 hearted girl stood beside the restive creatures, patting the 
 arched and shining necks, that were evidently glad enough 
 to get freed from the post to which they were tied. 
 
 Catching a glimpse of what was going on from the broad 
 window-seat where she was sitting, Prue sprung out upon 
 the porch, evidently ready for battle. 
 
 “ See here, you! you’d better let them hossesbel Marse 
 Robert wants to use ’em.” 
 
 Bridget made no reply, and Geraldine now coming down 
 the steps into view, Prue said no more, but stood leaning 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME 21 
 
 against one of the pillars of the porch, watching the pro¬ 
 ceedings in sullen silence. 
 
 She was a woman of about fifty, of the most pronounced 
 African type, as her woolly locks and jet-black skin testi¬ 
 fied. 
 
 She was not wanting in the shrewdness peculiar to such, 
 nor yet in native kindliness of heart, where she “took.” 
 But she never had taken to her master’s wife. There had 
 been mutual distrust and aversion between the two from 
 the first, and which recent events had not served to 
 lessen. 
 
 Bridget had gone with the carriage to the stable, and 
 slowly and wearily Geraldine ascended the steps, and 
 which brought her near the place where Prue stood. 
 
 Under the circumstance, anxious to conciliate rather 
 than irritate, Geraldine greeted her pleasantly as she ap¬ 
 proached. 
 
 Prue made no response to this either by word or look. 
 
 “That ’ar gal say ”—with a waving of the long, lank 
 arm toward the carriage-road—“ that you say Marse Rob¬ 
 ert gone?” 
 
 Startled by this abrupt query, Geraldine paused. 
 
 “That is precisely what I did say.” 
 
 “Where?” 
 
 However Geraldine might have felt, she met unflinch¬ 
 ingly those keen, questioning eyes. 
 
 “ Why do you ask inei You know more of Mr. Bayard’s 
 comings and goings than I do.” 
 
 “ So I allers did,” muttered the old woman. “ An’ that’s 
 why I think so strange now.” 
 
 Geraldine moved a step forward, and then turned back. 
 
 “ You can tell me where my boy, Lionel, has gone at all 
 events?” 
 
 The old woman’s eyes lighted up like a half-extinguished 
 coal of fire. 
 
 She raised her arm with a half-threatening, half-triumph¬ 
 ant gesture. 
 
 “Ay, that I can. He’s gone where you won’t see him, 
 never ag’in 1” 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 NEW FEARS AND PERILS. 
 
 Though Geraldine heard Prue’s threat with cold, impass¬ 
 ive face, deigning no reply to it, it fell heavy on her 
 heart. 
 
 Her boy, her noble and beautiful boy! was she never to 
 see him again? 
 
 It was in the hope of obtaining some clew to his where 
 
*s 
 
 22 A WIFE'S 0RIME. 
 
 abouts that she still lingered at a place rendered hateful by 
 such horrible associations, and where the perils thickened 
 round her steps hourly. 
 
 But for this she would take her only remaining child and 
 flee, putting as many miies between them and Hunter’s 
 Lodge as possible. But while the faintest hope remained, 
 she felt that she could not do this. 
 
 It was evident that the only way to this knowledge lay 
 through the man who had taken him away; and her heart 
 was divided between impatience for his return and terror 
 at the questions and suspicions on his part, to which her 
 husband’s sudden and unexplained absence could not fail 
 to give rise. 
 
 This man had been in Mr. Bayard’s employ for several 
 years, having, when a lad, by some famous encounter and 
 victory over his namesake, obtained the sobriquet of Rat¬ 
 tlesnake Jim, and which, in the process of time, had been 
 shortened into “ Rattle.” 
 
 He had attached himself to his master’s service with an 
 almost dog-like fidelity and affection, and though he had 
 neither the strong prejudices nor excitable temperament of 
 Prue, he had almost as strong a dislike and suspicion of 
 Geraldine. It was something to which he rarely gave ex¬ 
 pression, but Geraldine was not ignorant of it. 
 
 Peeling that they disliked her, she had taken no pains to 
 ingratiate herself with them; receiving the grudging serv¬ 
 ice they rendered her with haughty indifference. 
 
 Perhaps, in the strange and terrible position in which she 
 was now placed, she wished that she had taken some pains 
 to conciliate them. Certain it is, that often the thought 
 of her lonely and unprotected situation struck terror to her 
 soul. 
 
 The following morning Geraldine passed by the pantry 
 window where old Prue was kneading bread. 
 
 “ Good morning, Prue.” 
 
 Prue had always returned ungraciously, as if under pro¬ 
 test, any greeting from her mistress; she now gave her a 
 darker look than usual, proceeding to bring down some 
 baking-tins from a high shelf with a clatter and energy 
 entirely disproportioned to the occasion. 
 
 “ Good-morning—when Marse Robert gone, nobody know 
 where? It may be to you. I dessay’tis.” 
 
 Believing it to be the best policy to ignore the insinuation 
 conveyed by these words, Geraldine said: 
 
 “ When is Rattle coming back?” 
 
 “ He's cornin’ back, Rattle is, never you mind when,” re¬ 
 sponded the old woman, still more darkly. 
 
 Geraldine elevated her eye-brows, with a look com¬ 
 pounded of surprise and impatience. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 23 
 
 “ I suppose he is; at least I hope so.” 
 
 It being a settled conviction of Prue’s that her mistress 
 was, as she expressed it, a snake in the grass,” seldom 
 saying what she meant or meaning what she said, she shook 
 her head doubtfully. 
 
 “ P’r’aps you do. I dun know.” 
 
 Then, her mind traveling in the same weary track, she 
 added: 
 
 “ Marse Robert didn’t go with him. Mebby he went 
 after?” 
 
 The speaker fixed her eyes sharply and inquiringly upon 
 Geraldine’s face, as if more anxious to get the expression 
 there than any verbal reply. 
 
 But anxious as Geraldine was to give Prue some satis¬ 
 factory reason for her husband’s absence, she saw plainly 
 that Rattle’s return, which might occur at any moment, 
 would upset any such theory as this. 
 
 “ No, Prue,” she said, with an appearance of great can¬ 
 dor, “ I don’t think Mr. Bayard went with him.” 
 
 For some moments these two—so widely different in ap¬ 
 pearance and position—stood there, as if each was trying 
 to read the soul of the other. 
 
 Geraldine was the first to speak, 
 
 “ It is not an unusual thing for Mr. Bayard to be absent, 
 Prue—in fact, it has been of late quite an unusual thing 
 for him not to be—why do you feel so worried about him 
 now?” 
 
 The old woman lifted her long dark forefinger, her 
 gleaming eyes and black, wrinkled face making her look 
 not unlike one of the avenging Furies. 
 
 “ I know, and so do you .” 
 
 Geraldine’s face paled a little—with all her self-control 
 she could not help that—but, recovering herself almost 
 instantly, she passed on with her usually slow, stately 
 step. 
 
 But as she reached the solitude of her own chamber a 
 cold perspiration burst from the pale face, accompanied by 
 a stricture around the throat, as though she already felt 
 the hangman’s halter there. 
 
 That ghastly thing that was lying down there, hidden 
 from every eye save one, would it ever be dragged forth to 
 accuse her? 
 
 How much did this horrible old woman know ? 
 
 That she knew of her recent trouble with her husband, 
 that she suspected that she had some hand in his disap¬ 
 pearance, this was certain; but did she know of her incar¬ 
 ceration in the dungeon below? 
 
 Xf so, the connection between her appearance and his 
 
24 A WIFE'S CHIME. 
 
 disappearance would make the finding of the body only a 
 matter of time. 
 
 She knew Prue’s dislike of her, her fidelity and attach¬ 
 ment to her master, the blood-hound ferocity with which 
 she would hunt down his murderer. 
 
 Ought she not to flee now, while there was time? 
 
 “Was it not madness in her to defer it in the vague 
 hope that she could induce Rattle to betray her boy’s hid¬ 
 ing-place? 
 
 She knew what this man was; how faithful he was to his 
 master’s interests; how little likelihood there was that any 
 influence she might exert would move him. 
 
 Then her thoughts reverted to the confession extorted 
 from her, the letter that her husband had taken from her 
 dead lover’s breast, and what terrible witnesses they 
 would be against her. 
 
 She recalled her husband’s words, “ that he would lay 
 them before her brothers,” not that he Imd done so. 
 
 In all human probability those papers were about him 
 while he spoke, that they were about him when- 
 
 Ah, God! how could she bear to look back upon that 
 brief season of madness and despair, and the horrible 
 work it had wrought? 
 
 For she was mad, mad! Had it been premeditated, had 
 it been anything else but the frenzy of a hunted animal 
 brought to bay, she would have secured those papers be¬ 
 fore she left. 
 
 As it was, she thought only of her children, of escaping 
 the harsh sentence that had been pronounced upon her 
 and them. 
 
 She must not go away and leave those papers behind, 
 and where they would, if found, tell so strongly against 
 her. 
 
 She would wait until midnight, when all the house was 
 still, and go down and secure them, 
 
 A shiver ran through her veins, as she thought of all 
 that this would involve, the danger that attended it, but 
 for her children’s sake, if not for her own, have them she 
 must. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 HER HUSBAND’S DIARY. 
 
 Now that Geraldine had fully made up her mind to get, 
 at whatever cost, those dangerous papers into her own pos¬ 
 session, she began to be feverishly impatient for the shades 
 of night, under whose friendly cover it could alone be at¬ 
 tempted. 
 
 Knowing what it was that had called. Rattle from Hunt-’ 
 
A WIFE '8 CRIME, 
 
 25 
 
 er’s Lodge, and who he took with him, she had felt, at 
 times, an almost irresistible impulse to confront this man, 
 and wrest his secret from him. 
 
 But all this was now merged in the feai lest his return 
 should prevent, or at least make it difficult, to carry her 
 design into execution. 
 
 She employed the intervening time in making a thorough 
 examination of her husband’s papers, hoping to find some 
 letter or memoranda that would give her some clew as to 
 where he had sent her boy. 
 
 The desk in which . he kept his private papers was 
 locked, nor could she find any key that would open it. 
 
 Perceiving there was no other way to achieve her pur¬ 
 pose, Geraldine determined to force the lock. 
 
 Procuring a chisel and some strong wire, and taking the 
 precaution to send Bridget out to give her young charge an 
 airing in her little carriage, Geraldine bolted the door, so 
 as to guard against any interruption, and commenced 
 operations. 
 
 She did not find so much difficulty as she expected; a 
 few moments’ vigorous handling of the instruments at her 
 command, and the lock yielded. 
 
 Almost the first thing that Geraldine saw, as she opened 
 the desk, was a photograph lying in one corner of it. 
 
 On the back of it, in her husband’s handwriting, were 
 these words: 
 
 “ My Darling’s Picture.” 
 
 As she turned it over, her own lovely face, radiant with 
 the bloom and brightness that had no part there now, 
 smiled softly up at her. 
 
 She remembered when it was taken, a few days after 
 her marriage, and, at her husband’s request, attired as she 
 stood at the altar, the bridal veil which fell around her en¬ 
 hancing, while it half veiled, her loveliness. 
 
 She recalled his lover-like devotion, the ill-concealed in¬ 
 difference, weariness, and even impatience with which she 
 had received its every manifestation; the thought striking 
 her for the first time that in marrying a woman who had 
 no heart to give him, he had been more sinned against than 
 sinning. 
 
 Laid carefully away, as though something exceedingly 
 precious, were a few letters she had written him the first 
 year of their marriage, during a temporary separation. 
 
 Untying the ribbon that bound them, she ran her eye 
 over their contents. 
 
 How cold and brief they were, how different from the 
 warm and loving epistles to which they responded, if a re¬ 
 sponse they could be called 1 
 
26 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 The next thing she took up W ts a red morocco book with 
 silver clasps, and on which, in black lettering, was the 
 word “ Diary.” 
 
 She knew it to be her husband’s; she had often seen him 
 write in it latterly, with a dark, stern face, as though 
 what he had to trace there made it anything but a pleasant 
 task. 
 
 Possibly the clew she was anxious to obtain was here. 
 
 A strange feeling came over Geraldine as she opened it; 
 it seemed like the opening of a tomb. 
 
 She recalled to mind the last time she had seen her hus¬ 
 band sitting at his desk, with this book open before him— 
 only a few days ago, though it seemed such a long time to 
 her now. 
 
 How, with her baby on her knee, she had watched his 
 dark, moody face, a strange, vague terror coming over her 
 as she saw the change there. 
 
 She remembered how glad she was when he got up and 
 left the room. Ah! if she could only see him sitting there 
 again, no matter how dark his face might be or how heavy 
 his hand against her! Oh! to be able to blot out the inter¬ 
 vening time, with all its dark record! 
 
 Crushing down this wild, vain wish, Geraldine addressed 
 herself to the task before her. 
 
 The first entries in the diary showed that it had been 
 commenced before their marriage, and not long after he 
 first saw her, being full of enthusiastic comments on her 
 grace and beauty, and the impression they made upon 
 him. 
 
 “ September 3, 18—.—Was introduced last evening, by 
 Lorenzo Gaspardo, to his sister, Geraldine. A young 
 creature so altogether charming and lovely I never beheld. 
 She is rather tall, but so perfectly molded that she does 
 not seem the least bit too much so. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Her eyes are large and expressive, with a velvety soft¬ 
 ness in their intense blackness that I never saw in any 
 eyes before. 
 
 ‘ ‘ She has the most lovely color, which is never station¬ 
 ary, but keeps coming and going in the most bewitching 
 manner possible, and her hands are the whitest and softest 
 imaginable. 
 
 “Her manner is as perfect as her face, being a most 
 charming combination of girlish timidity, gentleness and 
 grace. 
 
 “ I have seen beautiful women by the score, but none 
 that ever affected me as she does. I consider it to be a 
 most fortunate thing my meeting her. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Her brother was most kind and cordial, He invited 
 me to call again, and I mean to do so.” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 m 
 
 tl A most fortunate thing!” 
 
 As Gt-eraldine read these words, there rose up before her 
 the terrible look in her husband’s eyes, as he cursed the 
 day that he ever saw her false and beautiful face. 
 
 The scales suddenly fell from her blinded eyes. 
 
 Had he not reason to do so? 
 
 Instead of being his good angel, as she should have been, 
 calling forth in him all that was good and gentle, had she 
 not fanned in his breast the destroying fire that had 
 wrought all this misery and desolation? 
 
 Taking up the diary, Geraldine read on. 
 
 For several pages, it was only a transcript of the above, 
 or, rather, a detailed account of how the admiration it ex- 
 pressed grew and culminated into passionate love. 
 
 It seemed not to have entirely blinded him, for, in allud¬ 
 ing to her, he wrote: 
 
 “It may be timidity, but it almost seems, sometimes, as 
 if she were afraid of her brothers, who have an abrupt, if 
 not to say harsh, way of speaking to her. Can it be* that 
 her home is not a happy one? It doesn’t seem possible. 
 Surely no one could treat harshly one so fair and gentle? 
 
 “ But if it be so, it is only an additional incentive to me 
 to offer her my love and protection; a home, in which 
 nothing that is harsh or gloomy shall ever enter, a love so 
 tender, that it will be joy to shield her from the slightest 
 sorrow, 
 
 “ My dainty and beautiful darling! how fast my heart 
 beats at the thought that I shall some day hold her in my 
 arms, my loved and loving wife. But I must not be too 
 precipitate, lest I frighten her.” 
 
 The next entry was made several weeks later, bearing 
 the following date: 
 
 “ November 4. —This has been a memorable and exciting 
 day to me. Happy in some respects, and yet I hardly 
 know whether it has not brought quite as much pain as 
 pleasure. 
 
 “ Geraldine, though born in this country, is Italian by 
 descent, as her name indicates, her father being obliged to 
 leave Italy, for some political offense, when quite a young 
 man. 
 
 “ Though I was pretty sure that her brothers favored my 
 suit, knowing it to be customary with such, I made 
 formal mention of my intentions before I said a word to 
 my darling, though I hardly know that words were nec¬ 
 essary to tell her how passing dear she had become. 
 
 “ Her brothers not only gave me their cordial approval, 
 but the assurance that their sister was heart-free and most 
 favorably disposed toward me. 
 
28 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 “ This was in the morning. 
 
 “ I saw Geraldine that same evening by appointment. 
 
 “ To my astonishment and disappointment, when 1 
 broached the subject, she burst into tears, declaring that 
 she had no heart to give me, that it was lying in her dead 
 lover’s grave. 
 
 “She looked so prettily as she said this, her eyes shone 
 so brightly through the tears that filled them, and she was, 
 in fact, so thoroughly charming in her helplessness and dis¬ 
 tress, that after the first shock was passed I was, if pos¬ 
 sible, more madly in love with her than ever; more thor¬ 
 oughly determined to win her heart, if it was in the power 
 of mortal man to do so. 
 
 “ Prefacing it with the assurance that she need fear no 
 persecution from me, I besought her to remember how 
 young she was—far too young and beautiful to doom her¬ 
 self to voluntary widowhood. If so much happiness was 
 not for me, some more fortunate man would prove to her 
 that affections blighted so early would bloom again. 
 
 “ She shook her head at this as though she thought such 
 a thing impossible, but her manner was so gentle, she 
 thanked me so sweetly for my sympathy and forbearance, 
 that I went away entertaining far more hope than fear. 
 
 ‘ ‘ When I mentioned to Geraldine’s brothers what she 
 had told me, they made light of it, declaring it to be a fool¬ 
 ish attachment, which they entirely disapproved of, a 
 mere girlish fancy, that would soon die out. 
 
 “ Lorenzo, the elder of the two, has offered to exert his 
 influence in my behalf, which I gladly accepted, forbid¬ 
 ding, however, that the slightest restraint should be put 
 upon her inclinations. 
 
 “How it will result I hardly know, but she is so young, 
 so gentle, that I can but hope for the best. 
 
 “ November 10.— I am nearly wild with delight! Give 
 me joy, my dear journal, Geraldine has promised to be 
 mine! Having no one to confide in, I hardly know what I 
 should do if I had not your friendly pages upon which to 
 pour out all my hopes and fears. 
 
 ‘ ‘ But let me relate what has occurred from the begin¬ 
 ning. 
 
 “ From motives of delicacy I did not visit Geraldine for 
 a week—and a long week it seemed to me. Near its close, 
 and just as I was thinking that I could stay away no lon- 
 
 £ er, I received a message from her through her brother 
 lOrenzo that she would like to see me. 
 
 “Hoping, though hardly daring to believe, that she had 
 relented, I lost no time in responding to her summons. 
 Meeting me at the door, her brother conducted me to the 
 room where his sister was sitting. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 20 
 
 “ It was rather dimly lighted, and I thought her looking 
 rather pale; but her mother had mentioned that she had 
 suffered from some slight indisposition, induced by a cold, 
 I think, so I thought nothing of that. 
 
 “ To my great delight, my darling said, her voic$ 
 trembling a little as she spoke, that she had reconsidered 
 my proposition, and if, knowing what she had told me, I 
 was willing to make her my wife, she would do her best to 
 give me a wife’s love and duty. 
 
 “Her words sounded a little strange and formal, but her 
 brothers were present, which might account for that. 
 
 “As soon as she had ceased speaking, her elder brother 
 stepped forward and placed her hand in mine. Then the 
 two went out, leaving us together. 
 
 “She looked so fair and sweet as she stood there, her 
 eyes cast timidly to the floor, that I could scarcely restrain 
 myself from clasping her in my arms. But, determined 
 to prove to her how little cause she had to fear, how de¬ 
 sirous I was that she should have no occasion to regret the 
 priceless privileges accorded me, I raised her hand tenderly 
 to my lips, declaring how happy her words made me, and 
 in spite of the past, I felt sure that I should be able to win 
 her love, now that I had the opportunity. 
 
 “With her bright eyes shining brightly through tears, 
 she faltered that she hoped I would give her time, and be 
 gentle and patient with her. 
 
 “In a transport of love, I vowed that no man could be 
 more tender, more gentle and patient than I would be with 
 her. 
 
 “And, God helping me, I will keep my vow.” 
 
 “ November 18.—Everything is settled. We are to be 
 married in two weeks. I can hardly realize that so much 
 happiness is to be mine. 
 
 “ One thing troubles me; I seem to make little headway 
 in winning the confidence of my bride-elect. She is gentle, 
 but so cold. 
 
 “I know my own disposition, how capable it is of being 
 irritated by persistent opposition and dislike; that the very 
 strength of my affections makes it all the harder for me to 
 endure coldness and indifference from any one I love. 
 
 But why should I anticipate trouble? She is gentleness 
 itself, and when she is once altogether mine I shall be able 
 to win her heart. Love so true and tender as mine cannot 
 fail to meet with some response.” 
 
 December 3.—Yesterday was my wedding-day—the hap¬ 
 piest day of my life, and the beginning, I hope, of many 
 just as happy. 
 
 “Never did I see my darling look so lovely as when she 
 stood at the altar. I have had a picture taken of her, at- 
 
so 
 
 A WIFK'S CRIME. 
 
 tired just as she was then, so that our children can see how 
 their mother looked on her wedding-day. In a few hours 
 we start on our bridal tour; so adieu, dear old journal, for 
 the present.'” 
 
 January 3.-—Home again, and not at all sorry to get back. 
 Didn’t enjoy the trip quite so well as I expected. We hur¬ 
 ried about so much—my wife and I—seeing so many new 
 things and people, that we had no time to be much to¬ 
 gether, in the true sense of the word. So that I am no 
 more acquainted with my darling than I was before—some¬ 
 times it seems less so. 
 
 “ But all this will be changed, now that we are at home, 
 our home, under the same roof, with every opportunity of 
 understanding and growing nearer to each other. 
 
 “ I never knew before the pleasure of having wealth at 
 my command. At my wife’s request I have taken a house 
 in the city, newly furnishing it throughout. I have spared 
 neither pains nor expense to make it a fitting nest for my 
 bird, consulting her taste in everything. I never knew 
 Geraldine to be so much pleased with anything. She 
 looked so charming in her excitement and animation, 
 thanking me so prettily for my attention to her wishes, 
 that I took the courage to ask her for a kiss. 
 
 “ She gave it to me, but—God forgive me if I wrong her 
 —more as if it was a debt that was due than if she cared to 
 do so.” 
 
 “ February 2 .—I never dreamed that Geraldine was so 
 fond of society and admiration. She lives in one constant 
 whirl of excitement, seldom spending an evening at home, 
 except when she has company. She pays no attention to 
 my expostulations, seeming to care nothing for her home 
 or husband. 
 
 “All this is very hard, but I must be patient with her— 
 so far as I can be. There is only one thing certain, that if 
 I lose patience at all it will be entirely. If I allow myself 
 to speak it will be so harshly that it will erect a still more 
 impassable barrier between us. It is not in me to do any¬ 
 thing half-way.” 
 
 “ March 4.—In spite of my disapproval, manifested in 
 many ways, Geraldine’s gay life continues. We have had 
 words more than once, on my part harsh and stern, as it 
 is my nature to be when roused, on her part so cold and 
 indifferent that they stung me nearly to madness. 
 
 “She accuses me of playing the tyrant, of wishing to de¬ 
 prive her of all the enjoyment that life has for her. 
 
 “I know that my heart is slowly but surely hardening 
 against her, but it is her work, not mine. 
 
 “God knows how all this will end.” 
 
 Geraldine had read with such breathless interest thia 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 31 
 
 Strange, and to her, now, most sad revelation of the heart 
 that had been a sealed book to her so long—who should 
 have known it best and prized it most—that she had been 
 unmindful of the flight of time. 
 
 As she read the last sentence, her eyes were suddenly 
 blinded by the remorseful tears that were now falling fast. 
 
 “ God knows how all this will end!” 
 
 Though it might be hidden from every mortal eye, she 
 knew how it all had ended. 
 
 What tears, though they might flow “like a river,’’could 
 fever wash away a guilt like hers, or make those soft, fair 
 hands white again? 
 
 Hearing Bridget’s step upon the tairs, together with the 
 prattling sound of the baby in her arms, Geraldine thrust 
 the book back into the desk, and, hastily closing it, un¬ 
 bolted the door. 
 
 The kind-hearted girl saw the trace of tears on her mis¬ 
 tress’ cheek, and ascribing it to only one cause, said: 
 
 “ Sure, an’ I wudn’t be afther frettin’ fur the masther, 
 ma’am; he’ll not coom to any harm. Somethin’s tuck him 
 away onexpicted. He’ll be here the day.” 
 
 Making no reply to words intended to be consolatory, 
 but whose effect was so different, Geraldine took the babe 
 that sprung to her arms, and going to an obscure corner 
 of the room, where her tears could fall unnoticed, sat list¬ 
 ening to the sharp reproaches of the suddenly-awakened 
 conscience that had slumbered so long. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 REMORSE THAT CAME TOO LATE. 
 
 Knowing what was to be done that night, and how nec¬ 
 essary it was that there should be no one to watch or hin¬ 
 der, Geraldine decided to have an early supper, so that she 
 might count on the house being still. 
 
 “Did you see Prue making any preparations for supper 
 as you came by?” she said to Bridget, as she laid the sleep¬ 
 ing child in its cradle. “I want mine early to-night.” 
 
 “Faith, an’ I did; an’ it’s somethin’ mighty noice, too, 
 be the smell av it. Hot corn cakes, I’m thin kin’—pones, 
 she calls ’em—made with eggs an’ crame. Sure, an’ she’s 
 an illegant cook; I’ll say that mooch fur her. Give ould 
 Nick his due, an’ hiven the glory!” 
 
 As heavy as Geraldine’s heart was, she could not forbear 
 a faint smile at Bridget’s emphatic and rather peculiar way 
 of expressing herself. 
 
 Supper being brought, it was dispatched very quickly so 
 far as Geraldine was concerned, Bridget being the only 
 9»e that did full justice to the tempting article she do 
 
83 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 scribed so eloquently, lifer appetite being one of the kind 
 that seems “to grow by what it feeds on.” 
 
 Geraldine had always had Isabel sleep in a little crib 
 beside her own bed. Now she said: 
 
 “ I think I will let baby sleep in the nursery with you 
 to-night, Bridget. I am so restless that I think it will be 
 better for both. You mustn’t mind if you hear me 
 walking about in the night, my good girl; it’s a way I 
 have lately.” 
 
 “ Sure, an’ I won’t moind it, ma’am, or hear it, aither, 
 for that mather. I shall go to slape as soon as me head 
 touches the pillow, an’ it’ll take a dale more nor that to 
 wake me.” 
 
 Geraldine was not sorry to hear this, as it tended to make 
 what she had to do more safe and easy. 
 
 As Bridget was up betimes, she retired early, being 
 sound asleep by nine o’clock, as her heavy breathing 
 showed. 
 
 Having ascertained, by personal investigation, that little 
 Isabel was sleeping quite as peacefully, Geraldine went to 
 her own room, bolting the door. 
 
 There being yet three hours to midnight, she resumed 
 the reading of her husband’s diary, which seemed to have 
 a strange fascination to her. 
 
 The entry following the one last read ran thus: 
 
 “ March 28 .—I can endure this iife no longer. For the 
 last two weeks I have escorted Geraldine every evening to 
 the gay scenes that are so distasteful to me—she is far too 
 young and beautiful to go alone—only to see her lavish 
 upon others the smiles and pleasant words that she denies 
 to me. 
 
 “ I know what I will do. She shall know me as master 
 of the home, of which she disdains to be mistress, in any 
 true sense of the word. I will sell my house here, and go 
 into the country, where solitude and rt Section may 
 humble if not teach her something of the duty she owes 
 me.” 
 
 It was painful to note the change that was slowly going 
 on in the heart of the writer, and against which he seemed 
 to struggle, though vainly. 
 
 He no longer called her his “darling,” or praised her 
 gentleness and beauty. It was a dark record of love, 
 chilled by indifference, imbittered by jealousy, and turn¬ 
 ing into a sharp sword to pierce the heart of both. 
 
 But still Geraldine read on, her heart faint and sick with 
 a sorrow and remorse that came too late. 
 
 “ April 20.—I have carried into effect my resolution, and 
 we have been two weeks in our new home. Things remaip 
 
A WTFjs'S CRIME . 83 
 
 touch as they have been—I am changing fast enough, and 
 it is all her work. 
 
 “Shecalled me a tyrant yesterday. Let her beware; 
 that prophecy may come true. 1 feel it in me to be such 
 —hard, cruel and pitiless. 
 
 4 4 1 can see that she is beginning to fear me; taking a curi¬ 
 ous sort of pleasure in the knowledge. It is a satisfaction 
 to be able to influence her in any way. 
 
 “ One thing is certain—I will never again be a suppliant; 
 for her love, though I shall take good care that she has no 
 opportunity to lavish her smiles on any one else.” 
 
 Here followed a silence of three months. 
 
 “ July 10.—A new hope has dawned upon me. In a few 
 months I shall be a father. Surely no woman, with a 
 woman’s heart in her bosom, can fail to have some consid¬ 
 eration, some tenderness for the father of her child ? Per¬ 
 haps this new tie—that which will be neither hers nor 
 mine, but ours —will bring our hearts, in some degree, 
 nearer to each other. God grant it.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ December 9.—My first-born son has been laid in my arms. 
 He is like his mother, having her dark eyes and jetty hair, 
 and is a most lovely boy. Will his advent bring any sun¬ 
 shine into my dark and wretched life?” 
 
 “February 28.—My boy is growing daily in intelligence 
 and beauty. Geraldine is devoted to him, seeming only to 
 live in his presence. Nothing can exceed the affection that 
 speaks so eloquently in every word and look. 
 
 “But, alas! alas! it has brought no softening of her 
 heart toward me, his father. 
 
 “ Is it my fault, I wonder? Perhaps it is. My feelings 
 have been so often chilled and thrown back upon my 
 heart, that I cannot act as I would. I can only stand 
 aloof, with lowering brow and heart torn with love and 
 jealousy, feeling that it is something in which I have no 
 part. 
 
 “ But there is one good result. She is more contented, 
 no longfr reproaching me for immuring her away from 
 all society.” 
 
 “ June 3. —Yesterday I stood upon the portico, looking 
 through the open window upon my child, and my child’s 
 mother, unnoticed by either. I never saw a prettier sight 
 in my life, or a lovelier look in Geraldine’s face as she sat 
 there smiling upon the boy that was prattling on her knee, 
 As I gazed, all the old love came back, and I felt that I 
 would be content to die to win one such look, one such 
 smile. 
 
 “In my eager intentness my arm brushed the vine that 
 partially shaded the window, and Geraldine glanced up, 
 
A WIFE'8 CRIME. 
 
 84 
 
 the expression of it changing so, as her eye met mine, that 
 it hardly seemed like the same face. 
 
 “ Never did I feel how utterly useless it was to hope to 
 be anything more to her than I am.” 
 
 For several months the entries made, from time to time, 
 were of the same tenor, betraying the gloom and bitterness 
 that were sinking down heavier and heavier upon his 
 heart. 
 
 Then came the following: 
 
 “ March 15—We have had a terrible scene, during which 
 Geraldine has spoken words that I hardly dared trust my¬ 
 self to look back upon. 
 
 “It seems that her brothers deceived her in regard to 
 her lover’s death—that he is still living. She accuses me 
 of being a party to the deception. 
 
 “I think my words and manner convinced her that I 
 had no part in it. But can I ever forget the words she 
 uttered, 4 that she loved this man now, and should love 
 him always.’ ” 
 
 “ False wife ana mother! it was with difficulty that I re¬ 
 strained myself from striking her to the floor. 
 
 “ She once called me ‘her jailer.’ I will be that to her, 
 if nothing else. And she will find me a vigilant one. She 
 shall never leave Hunter’s Lodge while I live, and I will 
 keep a strict watch over all her movements.” 
 
 Six months later, August 20, he chronicled the birth of 
 his baby-girl, but with no emotion of hope or joy. 
 
 “ September 28.—I have been absent for the last two 
 weeks. Prue, my faithful old nurse, has strange news for 
 me. She says that my wife has been meeting a man 
 down by the river. Swears that it is the same one that 
 she saw prowling about early last spring. 
 
 ‘ 4 Battle corroborates her statement. 
 
 “ My brain seems on fire with the horrible suggestions to 
 which this gives rise, and there are times when I find it hard 
 to resist the impulses that come over me. But no, no; 
 however ill she may have treated me, however hard I may 
 be, I will be just. I will trust to no hearsay evidence, i 
 will know if this shameful thing be so with my own eyes. 
 
 “ If it be true, God have mercy on them both, for I will 
 show none 1 
 
 “ I will make as though I was going away again, but stay 
 home and watch.” 
 
 The next entry bore no date, but was probably written 
 the day after, being so blotted as to be hardly legible. 
 
 ‘ ‘ It was, it is true—and oh! if that were all. The sun 
 shines upon me to-day, not only a dishonored husband, bnt 
 $ murderer! * 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “I saw him with his arms around her, his kiss upon her 
 lips, and my brain went wild. 
 
 “ Clutching the dagger that was destined to find that 
 black and treacherous heart, I followed him. 
 
 ‘ 1 took from his lifeless oody a letter that she wrote— 
 full of love for him, and detestation for me, her husband— 
 whose greatest sin until now has been in loving her too 
 well, whose heaviest misfortune it is that he ever saw her. 
 
 “ I call Heaven to witness that she has been my curse 
 and ruin, here and hereafter! And may the knowledge of 
 it pursue her through life and haunt her dying pillow!” 
 
 Geraldine could endure no more. 
 
 Uttering a smothered cry of horror, she threw herself 
 forward upon her face, that terrible curse still ringing in 
 her ears. 
 
 As in a mirror, it all rose up before her; the selfishness 
 that could see no wrongs or sorrows but her own, the blind¬ 
 ness and perversity that had called forth the demon in her 
 husband’s heart, making him all that he was. 
 
 She remembered that, however hard and harsh of late 
 years, there had been a time when he had not been so; that 
 in the first months of their marriage no man could be more 
 tender and loving than he. 
 
 in the light of these revelations, how black her sin looked. 
 Would she ever be able to atone? 
 
 As she lay thus, with her forehead in the dust, the clock 
 in the hall below struck the hour of midnight, bringing to 
 mind the work that was before her, and which must be 
 done now or never. 
 
 As the last stroke, sounding so distinctly in the silence, 
 died upon the air, pale but resolute, Geraldine arose. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 TWO MIDNIGHT VISITS. 
 
 Having forgotten to take the precaution of procuring a 
 dark lantern, Geraldine decided that it would be safer for 
 her not to light her candle until she came to the narrow 
 passage underground, and which led to the secret chamber. 
 
 She attired herself in a large cloak, which had a hood 
 attached to it, the latter partially hiding the face without 
 obscuring too much of the vir-ion. 
 
 After pausing by the nursery door, to see if Bridget was 
 still sleeping, and being reassured by her heavy breathing, 
 Geraldine took her way down-stairs, moving slowly and 
 cautiously along, eye and ear on the alert, lest she should 
 be watched and followed. 
 
 She found no difficulty in finding the steep, narrow 
 stairs, that she remembered so well mounting on that 
 
36 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 never-to-be-forgotten morning, and which led to the subteiS 
 ranean passage. 
 
 She had had the faint light of the moon to guide her 
 above, she was now plunged into a darkness so intense that 
 she could almost feel it. 
 
 Feeling that she was going in the right direction, and 
 that it would be safer for her to defer striking a light as 
 long as possible, Geraldine groped her way along, her heart 
 beating faster and faster, with the strange terror there as 
 she neared the end of her journey. 
 
 Taking the key from her bosom, she was about to strike 
 a light, when she heard the sound of a step. 
 
 Turning her eyes in the direction whence she had come, 
 she saw the faint glimmer of a light. 
 
 Fortunately she was opposite a small recess, formed by a 
 turn in the wall, and throwing herself down upon her 
 knees in one corner of it, she contracted herself into as 
 small a compass as possible, awaiting in trembling sus¬ 
 pense the approach of the footsteps, and which drew nearer 
 and nearer. 
 
 They came opposite the place where she crouched— 
 passed it. 
 
 Whatever it was, it carried a bunch of keys. Geraldine 
 could hear it jingle with every step. 
 
 As she expected, feared, it paused in front of the door of 
 the cell, which was only a short distance. 
 
 Cautiously raising her head, Geraldine listened, fixing 
 her eyes intently upon the faint light, which, streaming 
 out upon the darkness, served to make it more visible. 
 
 She heard the door tried, and then shook witRa vigorous 
 hand. 
 
 Then a familiar voice said: 
 
 “ Be you in there, Marse Robert?” 
 
 Here the speaker gave another violent shake to the door. 
 
 “ It’s me, Prue, your old nurse.” 
 
 Forgetting everything else in her terror and alarm, Ger¬ 
 aldine listened breathlessly, almost expecting to hear some 
 reply. But not a sound broke the profound hush that fol¬ 
 lowed. 
 
 Then she heard Prue trying to turn the lock by means of 
 the keys she brought, a muttered word of impatience 
 heralding each and every failure. 
 
 Evidently despairing of effecting an entrance, with slow 
 and reluctant steps the old colored woman began to retrace 
 her steps, muttering: 
 
 “Somethin’s wrong, an’ she's at the bottom of it. If 
 Rattle was only here.” 
 
 Geraldine pressed herself closely against the wall, Prue 
 passing so near to the place where she was secreted, 1J». t 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 3 ? 
 
 had not her eyes been dimmed with age she could not have 
 failed to see the dark figure that crouched there. 
 
 As it was, Prue passed along, muttering, and shaking 
 the bunch of keys viciously as she went. 
 
 After waiting until the last faint footfall had died in the 
 distance, Geraldine arose, glad enough to be released from 
 her constrained position. 
 
 Having no fears of Prue’s return, at least that night, she 
 stooped for the key that she had dropped in her trepida¬ 
 tion when she first heard her approach, but was unable to 
 find it. 
 
 Lighting the candle, she found, to her astonishment, the 
 place on which she was standing to be solid rock. 
 
 Near the wall, in the corner, where she had hidden from 
 old Prue, was a deep fissure or crack in it. On putting her 
 ear down to this, she heard the rush of water hundreds of 
 feet below. 
 
 As the key was nowhere to be found, the conviction 
 pressed strongly upon Geraldine’s mind that it had fallen 
 down this place. She remembered hearing a peculiar 
 sound in corroboration of this, though she was too terrified 
 to take any note of it at the time. 
 
 After another careful search, so as to make sure that it 
 was not where it would fall into the hands of any one else, 
 Geraldine retraced her way back, reaching her own room 
 without meeting any one, or being missed. 
 
 After divesting herself of her cloak and slipping on a 
 loose white wrapper, she went into the nursery, where she 
 found Isabel quietly sleeping, and Bridget in the same 
 deep, unbroken slumber. 
 
 Returning to her own room, Geraldine threw herself 
 upon the bed, so utterly exhausted in both body and mind 
 that she fell asleep almost immediately. 
 
 When she opened her eyes the sun was shining brightly 
 into her room, and so heavily had she slept, that she felt 
 more like one that had been aroused from death than ordi¬ 
 nary slumber. 
 
 As all the wretched past and dreary present rose up be¬ 
 fore her, she closed her eyes, with the wish uppermost in 
 her mind that she might never open them again. 
 
 But the prattling sound of her baby in the adjoining room 
 brought other and better thoughts. 
 
 During all the time she was dressing, Geraldine’s thoughts 
 were busy. 
 
 How much Prue knew it was impossible to say, but that 
 she knew something of her trouble with her husband was 
 evident. 
 
 She recalled the old woman’s evident surprise at her sud- 
 
88 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 den return, and wliich pointed strongly to the suspicion 
 tnat she knew of her incarceration in the cell below. 
 
 Why did she go down there, as though she had expected 
 to find her master inside of those stone walls, calling upon 
 him so strangely ? 
 
 Could it be that she knew of his going there on that 
 fatal morning, from whence he never came out alive? 
 
 After breakfast Geraldine was sitting in her room, with 
 little Isabel on her knee. 
 
 The open doorway leading into the hall suddenly darken¬ 
 ing, she glanced up, not a little surprised at the dark object 
 that stood there, regarding her with a look quite as dark as 
 herself. 
 
 As long as Geraldine had been at Hunter’s Lodge, Prue 
 had never crossed the threshold of her room, and even now 
 she took good care not to do so. 
 
 Prue’s words were quite as abrupt and startling as her 
 
 appearance. 
 
 “ Whar’s the key to the room in the suller?” 
 
 “The room in the cellar?” repeated Geraldine, more to 
 gain time, than because she failed to understand, or had 
 any expectation of deceiving the sharp-witted old woman. 
 “ What a strange question to ask me.'' 
 
 “It ain’t strange at all. It’s the very question any- 
 body’d ask that had the leastest hope of gettin’ a straight 
 answer.” 
 
 Determined to force her opponent to show her hand, 
 Geraldine now turned suddenly upon her. 
 
 “ What do you know about that room?” 
 
 “ Not so much as you do,” was the grim response, “ as I 
 h ain’t never sot foot in it yet.” 
 
 Geraldine’s face paled a little; it was all out now. Not 
 that she was sorry to know just how little she had to hope 
 from that quarter, how much to fear. 
 
 Reluctant as she was to discuss the matter, she went on: 
 
 “What should I know about it? Do you know of any 
 one ever being so wronged as to be made a prisoner there?” 
 
 Prue flung her arms aloft with a dissenting and scornful 
 gesture. 
 
 ‘ ‘ You wronged ? Marse Robert was the las’ of ol’ mars’r’s 
 chil’un. Mis’us put him in my arms when he warn’t more’n 
 a day ol’, an’ I nussed him last an’ loved him best. I’ve 
 knowed him, baby, boy, an’ man, an’ nobody couldn't 
 know him better. I knowed well’nough what was in him 
 when his blood was up, an’ how hard he could be with them 
 that wronged him. But it was never fur nothin’ with them 
 as was his friends; he alters had the lovinest heart an’ the 
 sweetest temper. I knowed what he was afore he met 
 you, with a merry word an’ smile fur everybody. 1 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 89 
 
 knowed wliat he was arterward. I see a change a-creepin’ 
 over liim, an’ your hand in it all. Many’s the time I’s seen 
 him ride pas’ the pantry winder as ef pursued by devils, 
 an’ knowed you’d had words together, an’ that you was 
 drivin’ him to destruction as fas’ as you could.” 
 
 Pale as death, Geraldine arose, ana placing Isabel in the 
 arms of the wondering Bridget, signed her to leave the 
 room. 
 
 “ What else do you know?” 
 
 Stretching out her long, dark arm with an accusing 
 gesture, Prue continued: 
 
 “ I knowed you to be the falsest of all false wives; I’s 
 seen him, who come prowlin’ ’bout the place, an’ knowed 
 what he come for. I’s seen you creepin’ out of the house 
 at night, and knowed what you went fur. ” 
 
 Is that all?” 
 
 “No. I’s knowed all that’s happened since—’cept whar 
 he is gone to. Marse Robert telled me the night afore, 
 that, bad as you was, you was the mother of his boy, an’ 
 he wouldn’t harm you. That he was goin’ to take ye to 
 yer brother’s the next mornin’, an’ never look on yer face 
 agin. I’s seen him the next mornin’, just as ’twas gro win’ 
 light, drivin’ the carriage to the door. I seen him go into 
 the house, but never seen him come out, though I was 
 watchin’ so’s to see ye go. I seen you, a few hours after, 
 lookin’ an’ goin’ ’bout as if nothin’ had happened, but him 
 I’s seen, never, no morel” 
 
 Here Prue ceased, her words ending in a prolonged wail, 
 like that of a wild animal deprived of her young. 
 
 Geraldine saw at a glance the array of evidence that it 
 was in the speaker’s power to bring against her, feeling 
 very much as if she was standing upon the brink of some 
 precipice, and where a careless step might precipitate her 
 to the depths below. 
 
 Something must be done to stave off this danger, if no 
 more. 
 
 “ How ridiculously you talk, Prue. Were it not caused 
 by your fondness for your master, I should be seriously 
 angry. You don’t suppose that I’ve made way with a 
 man, so much larger and stronger that he could hold me 
 with one hand if he tried?” 
 
 This evidently staggered Prue, who rolled her dark eyes 
 about, displaying the whites of them in a way peculiar to 
 her race. 
 
 “ I dunno what to think.” 
 
 “Of course you can’t think / have had any hand in his 
 disappearance,” continued Geraldine, following up her ad- 
 vantage. “ I know you have always disliked me, and per- 
 
40 
 
 A WIFE’S CHIME. 
 
 haps not without some reason; but that is too ridiculous to 
 be seriously entertained for a moment.” 
 
 It seemed so on the face of it, and yet the old woman 
 looked far from convinced. 
 
 “ Whar has he gone?” 
 
 “Not having posted me as to his movements, I couldn’t 
 give you the faintest idea,” responded Geraldine, resuming 
 her seat by the window. “ He might have gone to various 
 places. He wasn’t in the habit of letting me know whither 
 he was going, or why.” 
 
 “ ’Cause you never cared what he did, or anythin’ ’bout 
 him, ” interposed Prue, who always resented any reflection 
 upon her foster-child. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, I dare say it is my fault—in your eyes, at all 
 events. I only mentioned the fact. You know, as well as 
 I do, that he was in the habit of going away just as 
 abruptly.” 
 
 “ I don’t dispute that ’ar. If it warn’t fur the rest that 
 I knowed I wouldn’t think strange on’t, nuther. As ’tis, I 
 think it's mighty cur’us.” 
 
 “When your master comes, perhaps to-night, to-mor¬ 
 row, or the day after, you’ll laugh at all these foolish 
 fancies.” 
 
 Perhaps it was Geraldine’s conciliatory and pleasant 
 tone, and which she had never condescended to use before, 
 but Prue’s face did not brighten at this cheering prognosti¬ 
 cation; on the contrary, it darkened with a suspicion 
 that she did not know how to put into words. 
 
 “ If I laugh, it'll be with joy at seein’ him. Not that I 
 ’spect any such good fortin’. There’s somethin’ happened, 
 or goin’ to happen. I have such a cur’us feelin’ sometimes, 
 as ef I couldn’t draw my bref, an’ little shivers run over 
 me. I feel as ef I was in a house whar somebody's dead!” 
 
 These strange words, uttered in a hollow, sepulchral 
 voice, had a startling effect upon Geraldine; covering her 
 eyes with both hands, she uttered a suppressed scream. 
 
 Evidently taking a grim satisfaction in this result, Prue 
 continued: 
 
 “ As I said afore, I put all these yer things together, an’ 
 they’s mighty cur’us. This is why I axed ye fur the key. 
 Ef he ain’t thar, thar can’t be no harm in lookin’.” 
 
 Vexed at her want of self-control, and the inferences that 
 might be drawn from it, Geraldine now said: 
 
 “You are enough to give one a fit of the horrors, Prue. 
 Believe me or not, just as you choose, I haven’t the key 
 you speak of, nor do I know where it is.” 
 
 Geraldine spoke with a good deal of decision, looking her 
 accuser steadily in the eye. 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 41 
 
 Apparently unconvinced, Prue turned sullenly from the 
 door. 
 
 “There’s somethin’ wrong, some’eres, an’ I’ll find out 
 what ’tis ’fore I’m many days older.” 
 
 Prue uttered these words going down the stairs, but 
 they came very distinctly to Geraldine through the open 
 door-way, and shuddering as she thought of her lonely, 
 defenseless position, she again covered her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 “ Did onybody iver hear the likes av that?” was Bridget’s 
 indignant ejaculation, who had been drawn to the room by 
 her mistress’ involuntary cry, and was unable to keep si¬ 
 lent any longer. 
 
 “I am ridiculously nervous,” said Geraldine, forcing a 
 smile, “ and Prue always makes me more so.” 
 
 “ Sure, an’ I shud think she wud, ma’am. It made me 
 crape all over to hear her wild talk. Not that I under¬ 
 stand onything, but that she nursed the masther whin 
 he was a babby, an’ wanted you to give her the kay av the 
 suiter. Sure, an’ she might have nursed me husband and 
 all me relations, an’ I wudn’t put up with her imperdunce, 
 so I wudn’t!” 
 
 “She isn’t worth minding, Bridget. She talks very 
 wildly, as you say. In fact, I’ve often suspected, of late, 
 that her mind was disordered.” 
 
 Geraldine was in that state of mind which led her to fear 
 danger where she had cause to fear it least. She might 
 have dismissed the uneasy feeling at her heart, lest 
 Bridget’s suspicions had been aroused by Prue’s strange 
 words and manner, had she known how little credence the 
 girl placed upon anything she said. 
 
 “ To think av her axing ye for the kay av the suller,” 
 she said,. as she busied herself in righting the room. 
 “ Sure, an’ it’s drunk or crazy she is!” 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TWO UNWELCOME ARRIVALS. 
 
 Not long after Geraldine’s interview with old Prue, 
 there came the hurried tramp of horse’s feet along the 
 main avenue which led to the house. 
 
 “ Who is it, Bridget?” inquired Geraldine, coming to the 
 window opening out upon the balcony upon which the girl 
 stood, and who had uttered an exclamation, apparently of 
 satisfaction and triumph. 
 
 “Sure, an’ I thought it was the masther, but it ain’t,” 
 said Bridget, in a disappointed tone, who honestly believed 
 that her mistress’ sadness was occasioned solely by his ab¬ 
 sence. 
 
42 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 “It’s a tall, dark gintlemon. Looks like a furrener,” 
 continued Bridget, whose ideas of foreigners were consid¬ 
 erably mixed, by no means putting herself down in the 
 same category. 
 
 Stepping out upon the balcony, Geraldine peered through 
 the vines at the new-comer, who had flung himself from 
 his horse and was now standing beside the panting animal, 
 who looked as if he had been hardly driven. 
 
 “ It is my brother.” 
 
 Geraldine spoke quietly, but with the absence of the 
 pleasure and satisfaction so natural under the circum¬ 
 stances, adding, a moment later: 
 
 “You can take baby down-stairs, Bridget; my brother 
 is not very fond of children.” 
 
 “ Nor very fond of onybody, I’m thinkin’,” was the girl’s 
 shrewd reflection, as she passed Gaspardo on the stairs, 
 on his way to his sister’s room, and whose lowering brow 
 indicated that he was in anything but a pleas nt mood. 
 “ It’s aisy seen that he’s one of thim that’s fondest of him¬ 
 self.” 
 
 Gaspardo was the oldest and least loved of Geraldine’s 
 brothers. Her chief incentive in marrying was to escape 
 his harsh rule, who had been her terror from childhood, 
 nor did he make any attempt to disguise his satisfaction 
 at having “ got her off his hands,” as he called it. 
 
 So there was no pretense of anything more than the most 
 formal greeting between the brother and sister as they 
 met. 
 
 “Where is Mr. Bayard?” 
 
 That she was forced to hear so many times so very nat¬ 
 ural a query, was not the least of the sufferings of this un¬ 
 happy lady, and she was so long in replying that, frowning 
 impatiently, Gaspardo was about to repeat his question 
 when the answer came. 
 
 “ He is gone. I cannot tell you where.” 
 
 “ Strange, very strange!” 
 
 For the first time, Geraldine fixed her eyes full upon the 
 speaker’s face, which had a disturbed look. 
 
 “I don't consider it anything strange. He is in the 
 habit of going away just as abruptly, and without telling 
 me where.” 
 
 “ I don’t mean his going, but his sending me the note he 
 did.” 
 
 “Note?” responded Geraldine, faintly, and with sinking 
 heart. 
 
 “ Yes. Appointing an interview with Pedro and myself, 
 at Eagle’s Nest, yesterday morning.” 
 
 Geraldine drew a long breath as though the weight was 
 lifted a little from her heart. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 43 
 
 “Was that all that it contained?” 
 
 “ That was all that it said. It implied more. In fact, it 
 was so mysteriously worded, that it was impossible for 
 either Pedro or me to discover what it meant, especially as 
 he failed to keep his appointment. We both stayed in all 
 day, waiting for you.” 
 
 “For me?” repeated Geraldine, again taking the alarm. 
 “Did you expect me to come with him?” 
 
 “That is what the note says. You can judge for your¬ 
 self,” replied Gaspardo, tossing it into her lap. 
 
 Picking it up, with cold, unsteady fingers, Geraldine 
 read, through the mist that floated before her eyes, what 
 were probably the last lines her husband ever wrote. 
 
 It was dated the evening previous to that fatal morning 
 —the last morning of his life, and was as follows: 
 
 “ I shall be at Eagle’s Nest at an early hour to-morrow 
 morning, to confer with yourself and brother in regard to 
 an important matter, touching the honor of us both. 
 
 “Your sister, Geraldine, and her last-born child, will 
 come with me. Robert Bayard.” 
 
 “ What do you make of it?” 
 
 Geraldine did not dare to raise her eyes to those of the 
 speaker, still keeping them fixed on the paper in her hand. 
 
 “I think that it is very mysteriously worded, as you 
 say.” 
 
 “I don’t need to be told that. What do you know about 
 it?” 
 
 It was a matter of scornful surprise to Geraldine later, 
 that she, whose hands were stained with so dark a crime, 
 should feel so scrupulous about uttering a direct falsehood 
 to cover it. But the crime was mainly the result of im¬ 
 pulse, while the habit of truthfulness was too strongly in¬ 
 grained in her character to be easity set aside. 
 
 So there was considerable hesitancy and constraint in 
 her tone and manner, as she said: 
 
 “ I did not know that Mr. Bayard had written, or made 
 any appointment with you, either for myself or him.” 
 
 Gaspardo’s visible impatience now broke forth in words. 
 
 “ Do you know anything about it?” 
 
 This sharp, impatient, tone acted as a stimulus to those 
 trembling nerves; she turned her eyes steadily upon the 
 speaker’s face. 
 
 “About what? I heave already told you that I know 
 nothing about the writing of the note, or the appointment. 
 What more do you want to know?” 
 
 “Considerable more than you seem inclined to tell me,” 
 was the grim response: “ but I mean to get it out of you 
 for all that.” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 44 
 
 Here there was a knock at the door. 
 
 It was Prue, who rolled her eyes in a very mysterious 
 manner from one to the other. 
 
 “Rattle got back. He want to see Mr. Gaspardo ’fore 
 he goes; he got somethin’ ’ticular to tell him ’bout Marse 
 Robert. ” 
 
 Here there was another ominous roll of the eyes upon 
 Geraldine, who, as she felt the net closing around her, be¬ 
 gan to rouse herself for the struggle, well knowing, not 
 only that the odds were against her, but all that defeat 
 meant. 
 
 “ Where has Rattle been?” inquired Gaspardo. 
 
 “ He went to take Marse Lionel ’way, sah.” 
 
 “ Master Lionel! Where has he gone?” 
 
 Prue looked at Geraldine, and was silent. 
 
 Following the direction of those eyes, Gaspardo now ad¬ 
 dressed his sister. 
 
 “ Where has the boy gone, Geraldine?” 
 
 “ I don’t know.” 
 
 That sinister face had a still darker look. 
 
 “ That will do, Prue. Tell Rattle that I will see him. I 
 have some business to transact with Mrs. Bayard first.” 
 
 Old Prue chuckled audibly as she went down the stairs. 
 
 “Business?” she muttered. “Yes, yes; it’ll be pretty 
 black business for her. She thought she got froo the 
 woods now Marse Robert gone, but she’ll find, I reckon, 
 that she only hopped out of the fryin’-pan inter the fire.” 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 When Gaspardo resumed his seat, after Prue’s departure, 
 Geraldine had changed her position. 
 
 When her brother entered she bad designedly sat with 
 her back to the window; now she was sitting by it in order 
 that the cool breeze that came through it might assist her 
 in recovering from the slight"faintness that came over her. 
 
 This change brought the light full upon her face. 
 
 “ What’s the matter with you?” 
 
 Startled by this abrupt query, Geraldine involuntarily 
 raised her hand to her forehead, as if she feared that some 
 tell-tale mark there—like that of Cain—had betrayed her. 
 
 “The matter?” she faltered. 
 
 “ Yes. You look as if you had had some serious illness 
 since I saw you last.” 
 
 “I have never been very strong since the birth of my 
 baby.” 
 
 “It is not that. I saw you less than three weeks ago, 
 and you did not look as you do now.” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 45 
 
 There was not the faintest gleam of pity in those keen 
 eyes as they rested on Geraldine’s face, noting all the change 
 there. They looked as if their owner were engaged on 
 some problem, putting this and that together in the hope of 
 solving it. 
 
 Perhaps some such thought was suggested to Geraldine, 
 for there was a little curl to her lip as she said: 
 
 “ I never knew you to betray so much brotherly solici¬ 
 tude before.” 
 
 In the impatient lifting of Gaspardo’s shoulder there 
 was no smalt element of contempt. 
 
 “If I have any solicitude, it is for the family honor, and 
 not the weak feeling to which you allude.” 
 
 Determined to know the full extent of the clanger that 
 menaced her, Geraldine went on: 
 
 “And who is endangering that important thing, in your 
 estimation, the family honor?” 
 
 “ You! 
 
 “It is useless for us to waste any more time in skirmish¬ 
 ing,” continued Gaspardo, after a moment’s pause. “You 
 have been acquainted with me long enough to know that I 
 am not a man that is very easily deceived. You know 
 something of the nature of the appointment that your 
 husband failed to keep, and it is useless for you to deny it.” 
 
 Cornered, Geraldine now turned upon her inquisitor. 
 
 “ There is one thing that I deny, and that is your right 
 to question me.” 
 
 There was a complete change in Gaspardo’s look and 
 tone, as he arose to his feet. 
 
 “ You prefer, then, that I get my information from other 
 sources? Be careful /” 
 
 These words sent a sudden shiver through Geraldine’s 
 veins, but she had sufficient self-command to give no out¬ 
 ward token of the terror with which they inspired her. 
 
 “ You will act as you think proper, of course. I thought, 
 perhaps, that the family honor—I make no mention of the 
 family affection that has no existence in your heart—would 
 prevent your taking any such course as that.” 
 
 Perhaps if Geraldine had foreseen all to which it would 
 eventually lead, she would have refrained from appealing 
 to this ruling passion of her brother’s heart. 
 
 It acted as a temporary check, however. Resuming his 
 seat, he now said: 
 
 “ You are right. I have to deal with you only; and I 
 think that you will find me fully equal to the task. Per¬ 
 verse, headstrong girl! knowing me as you do, can you, 
 dare you defy me?” 
 
 “You forget that I am a girl no longer. I am a married 
 woman, and in no way subject to your control.” 
 
46 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 “I don’t forget thnt I discharged my duty by you, as 
 your brother and the head of the family, by providing you 
 with a husband much too good for you. But where is he?” 
 
 Oh! ghastly object, continually resurrected, forever 
 haunting her with its white face and glaring eyes, was 
 this question never to cease? 
 
 “ One would think,” said Geraldine, with a visible effort 
 at lightness and ease, “ from the frequency with which 
 this question is asked me, that I was supposed to keep him 
 under lock and key.” 
 
 Gaspardo kept his wary eyes fixed upon the speaker’s 
 face, his brow wearing a still more gloomy frown. 
 
 4 ‘ It is useless for you to try to deceive me. I have had 
 my eye on you for a long time, my lady. I knew that you 
 were bound to bring trouble on yourself and disgrace on 
 our family if you could. I advised your husband to bring 
 you off up here, hoping to avoid it.’* / 
 
 “So I have to thank you for that, too!” responded 
 Geraldine, with white and quivering lips. “It was such 
 a kind, brotherly thing in you to seek to isolate me thus 
 from all human companionship—so like you in fact, that 
 I wonder that I didn’t recognize your hand in it before.” 
 
 “ I tried to save you from ruin,” was the stern response, 
 “but I have only deferred, it seems, the inevitable result 
 of the course you have taken ever since your marriage. 
 The time was when your husband was blindly and foolishly 
 devoted to you, loving you with a tenderness and passion 
 that I never saw equaled. But you persistently set out, 
 from your wedding day, to do all you could to imbitter 
 and alienate his heart, making your home all that you 
 have made it.” 
 
 There was sufficient truth in this reproach to send it 
 home to Geraldine’s heart, and then there were circum¬ 
 stances that induced her to be more tender of her husband 
 dead than she had ever been of him living. 
 
 Those flashing eyes softened with tears, as she said: 
 
 “The greatest wrong I ever did my husband was to 
 marry him—and whose fault was this? Yours! You 
 knew, when you urged him upon me, that I had no love 
 for him—nay, that my heart was already won. Who told 
 me that the man I loved was dead, when you knew him to 
 be living? Who made my home so wretched that I was 
 glad to get out of it on any terms? You /” 
 
 “ I neither deny nor regret the part I acted in the affair 
 you mention; so you need get up no heroics on that score. 
 I did my best to prevent your disgracing our name by 
 marrying a needy adventurer, even as I shall do my best 
 now to prevent your bringing a worse disgrace on it.” 
 
 “ You speak in riddles.” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 47 
 
 Gaspardo surveyed the speaker for a few moments in 
 silence. 
 
 “ You understand me, I think. I shall have lntle diffi¬ 
 culty in making you understand me, at all events. You 
 have had serious trouble with your husband?” 
 
 Both look and tone were interrogative. Folding her 
 arms tightly over her rapidly-beating heart, Geraldine 
 said: 
 
 “ You seem to be so well posted in my affairs, knowing 
 so much more about them than I do, that it would be pre¬ 
 sumptuous in me to give you any additional information.” 
 
 “ You might throw light on some dark points, however, 
 not only saving me time and trouble, but earning for your¬ 
 self the forbearance that you will be likely to need. Not 
 that I suppose you will do it, or that you. need suppose 
 that it will prove any hinderance to me in the end. I am not 
 so ignorant as you think, and by what I already know I can 
 easily conjecture the rest. I know who has been lurking 
 in this neighborhood for several months past. I have 
 every reason to believe that you have had stolen inter¬ 
 views with him. Had I positive knowledge of it, your 
 punishment would be so swift and sharp as to give you no 
 opportunity to bring any further disgrace upon our name. 
 I will be just, but I warn you that I will show no mercy,” 
 
 There was a faint curl to Geraldine’s lips as she said: 
 
 “ As though any one that knew Lorenzo Gaspardo would 
 expect mercy from him.” 
 
 Without appearing to hear this taunt, Gaspardo con¬ 
 tinued : 
 
 “ Whether or not there is any actual guilt on your part 
 of this, I am convinced that you have designedly driven 
 vour husband wild with jealousy in the hope that it would 
 lead him to seek a divorce, thus leaving you free to marry 
 your lover. But you may be sure of one thing, that the 
 day of your marriage will be the day of your death and 
 his.” 
 
 Carefully noting Geraldine’s sudden start, Gaspardo went 
 on: 
 
 “ I am convinced, furthermore, that the appointment 
 your husband made with me was to consult me in refer¬ 
 ence to this matter, knowing how averse I would be to any 
 
 E ublic exposure. Why he failed to keep it I do not know, 
 ut fear that it is because he has decided to appeal to the 
 law for redress. If this be so, and it becomes a matter of 
 public notoriety, you will have good cause to wish that you 
 had never been born.” 
 
 Geraldine was so amazed and confounded at the con¬ 
 clusions at which her brother had arrived—conclusions so 
 uatural, under the circumstances, and yet so wide of the 
 
43 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 mark—that for a time she had room for no other thought 
 or feeling. 
 
 She made no reply, neither did her brother wait for any. 
 
 Gaspardo took his way down-stairs, proceeding directly 
 to that part of the house considered by Prue as her especial 
 province. 
 
 The old woman was evidently expecting him, though 
 she gave no token of it save by the additional roll to the 
 eyes, and which brought the whites of them so prominently 
 into view. 
 
 Gaspardo glanced impatiently around. 
 
 “ Where’s Rattle? I thought he wanted to see me.” 
 
 44 He had to go down town, an’ couldn’t wait, sah. Tol’ 
 me to say that he’d be at your place this evenin’, sah.” 
 
 Gaspardo looked narrowly at the speaker. 
 
 “ You’ve lived with Mr. Bayard a good many years. 
 Prue, and must know him ana his affairs as well, if not 
 better, than anybody else.” 
 
 The faithful old creature raised a corner of her checked 
 apron to her eyes, overcome by the recollections called 
 forth by these words, together with the fears that op¬ 
 pressed her. 
 
 “ I s his ol’ nuss, sah, and thar’ ain’t nobody as ever 
 knowed or loved him better. I had the car’ of all ol’ 
 mars’r’s chil'un-” 
 
 “I know, I know,” interrupted Gaspardo, with an im¬ 
 patient wave of the hand, “ and it is because of this that I 
 thought you might be somewhat in his confidence. Do 
 you know whether Mr. Bayard and his wife have had any 
 trouble lately?” 
 
 Prue rolled her eyes upon the speaker, and then around 
 the room, with the mysterious air that seemed to be 
 habitual to her of late. But though her manner indicated 
 that she could reveal volumes if she chose, her lips were 
 silent. 
 
 With his eyes still fixed upon that black, wrinkled face, 
 Gaspardo went on, the sullen gloom deepening upon his 
 brow as he did so. 
 
 4 ‘It’s no mincing matter; things have gone too far for 
 that now. My sister and her husband have never lived 
 happily together; nor am I the man to deny, because she 
 is my sister, that it is entirely her fault. From a note I 
 received from Mr. Bayard, together with some other things 
 that have come to my knowledge, I am convinced that 
 they have had serious trouble of late. What I want you 
 to tell me is, if you know the nature of this trouble, where 
 your master is gone, and if you think he has any idea of 
 separating from his wife?” 
 
 Prue was in no way loath to tell Gaspardo what she 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 49 
 
 knew in regard to these points, together with her fears and 
 conjectures, much of which the reader already knows. 
 
 All that he heard tended to confirm Gaspardo in the 
 suspicion—a terrible one to him—that had taken such 
 strong possession of his mind. 
 
 Either because he was Geraldine’s brother, or on account 
 of its being so incredible—perhaps both reasons influenced 
 her—Prue hesitated about mentioning the darkest of her 
 fears. 
 
 There was something in Gaspardo’s words and manner 
 that tended to allay this. 
 
 “ Then you don’t think, sah,” she said, in conclusion, 
 “ that Marse Robert’s been made way wid?” 
 
 “ Made away with! of course not. Who’d make away 
 with him?” 
 
 Prue looked a little dubiously at the speaker. 
 
 “ I don’t name no names, sah, but there’s somebody we 
 both know that woula be mighty glad, in my ’pinion, ef he 
 was made way with.” 
 
 “ You mean my sister, I suppose?” said Gaspardo, coolly. 
 “ And so far as the wish is concerned, I dare say you are 
 right, but both strength and opportunity are wanting.” 
 
 “ But there’s the man she do like,” persisted Prue, “an’ 
 who’s been skulkin’ ’bout here.fur so long, p’r’aps she done 
 got him to do it?” 
 
 Gaspardo looked a little startled at this suggestion; then 
 he said: 
 
 “ That is more likely, but not at all probable. By your 
 own account, you saw Mr. Bayard drive up to the door, for 
 the purpose of taking my sister to me. You saw him go 
 into the house, didn’t you?” 
 
 “Yes, sah. But I’s never seen him come out, or sot eyes 
 on him from that day to this.” 
 
 “ But he might have done so, for all that; there are more 
 entrances and more ways of getting out of the house and 
 place than one. My idea is,* owing either to the persuasions 
 of his wife or some change in his own views, he has de¬ 
 cided to take a different course. I think we shall find that 
 he has gone to the city to consult his lawyer.” 
 
 “I hope so, sah; I’d be glad ’nough to think so. But it 
 seems mighty cur’us his goin’ so sudding, leavin’ the hosses 
 to the door, an’ without sayin' a word to me as he knowed 
 would be frettin’ ’bout him.” 
 
 “ Under ordinary circumstances, perhaps, or if he was in 
 his usual state of mind, but in the mood he was in it is the 
 very thing he would do. As I have his lawyer’s address, I 
 shall soon know. In the meantime, I want you to keep a 
 sharp watch on Mrs. Bayard’s movements. Tell Rattle, 
 when he returns, the same thing. Tell him not to come tQ 
 
50 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 Eagle’s Nest, as he proposed, as I don’t want him to 
 leave the premises. 1 shall be here this evening to see 
 him.” 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AN HUMBLE BUT TRUE FRIEND. 
 
 Geraldine was not slow to perceive the delay that her 
 brother’s conclusions in regard to her husband’s mysteri¬ 
 ous disappearance would give her. She knew that it would 
 not only prevent, for the present at least, any examina¬ 
 tion of the dungeon below, and which she dreaded more 
 than anything else, but give her opportunity for the flight 
 which w’as her only hope of safety. 
 
 She was strongly impressed by the honesty and good- 
 heartedness of Bridget Connor, especially the affection she 
 evinced for herself, and which was remarkable, consider¬ 
 ing the short time they had been together. 
 
 Taking into view how closely she was watched, and that 
 she would have her baby with her, Geraldine saw how 
 difficult, if not impossible, it would be for her to get away 
 without her assistance. 
 
 So she determined to confide in the girl; telling her 
 enough in regard to the danger of her present position to 
 enlist her aid and sympathies. 
 
 She had scarcely reached this determination when 
 Bridget entered, her face pale and her manner indicating 
 the utmost fright and consternation. 
 
 Alarmed at this unusual demonstration, and all it indi¬ 
 cated, Geraldine arose to her feet. 
 
 “What has happened, Bridget?” 
 
 “Happened, is it?” cried the girl, sinking down into the 
 nearest seat, from pure inability to stand any longer. 
 
 ‘ ‘ The saints be good to us! Oh! wirra! wirra! that iver I 
 shud lave ould Ireland to fall in with a band of thaves an’ 
 robbers, for sure an’ they ain’t no betther, bad luck to the 
 decavin’ villins!” 
 
 “Don’t talk so loudly, Bridget,” said her mistress, clos¬ 
 ing the door; “ we don’t know who may be listening.” 
 
 Going to a sideboard, Geralding poured out some wine 
 from a decanter, and bringing it to Bridget, said: 
 
 “ Drink this, my good girl, and then see if you can’t 
 collect yourself sufficiently to tell me what has happened. 
 I am sure that you wouldn’t keep anything from me that 
 I ought to know.” 
 
 “ Indade and I wadn’t, ma’am, But how can I till ye, 
 poor leddy, that’s like a lamb among wolves—if it ain’t 
 slanderin’ the wild bastes to call thim sech that turn agin 
 their own flesh an’ blood l Oh! swate mother l that iver I 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 61 
 
 shud be at the mercy of sech black-hearted, murtheriri 
 villins!” 
 
 Feeling that there was something back of this that she 
 ought to know, and with as little delay as possible, Geral¬ 
 dine endeavored to quiet the girl’s agitation, and to lead 
 her thoughts m the right direction. 
 
 “Where have you been. Bridget? I sent you down 
 stairs for baby’s supper; couldn’t you get it?” 
 
 This, together with the wine she had drank, had the de¬ 
 sired effect. 
 
 Putting down her apron from her eyes, the girl said: 
 
 “ Sure an’ there’s where I wint, ma’am, jist as straight 
 as I cud go. Findin’ nobody in the kitchen, I wint into 
 the panthry, knowin’ jist where the milk an’ crackers war, 
 to help mesilf. As I was pourin’ the milk into the pitcher 
 I heard voices, and lookin’ through the panthry winder I 
 see the nagur and Rattle jist forninst it on the porch out¬ 
 side. When I heerd ’em mention your name, ma’am, I 
 pricked up me ears an’ listened. I cudn’t understand half 
 on it, but it was all about yersilf, it war, an’ what a bad 
 woman ye was. Him that they call Rattle said as how he 
 cud till Muster Gaspar—I forgit the name ” 
 
 “Gaspardo,” interposed Geraldine. 
 
 “Yes ma’am, Gusperdo. I heard Rattle say as how he 
 cud tell Muster Gusperdo somethin’ that wud make him so 
 mad that he’d aither shoot ye or pit ye back into the cell 
 down sutler, where ye was before, kapin’ ye on bread an’ 
 wather as long as ye lived. 
 
 “ The nagur was ivery bit as bad as the other one. She 
 said ye’d been the ruin of Masther Robert, an’ she hoped 
 to live to dance on yer grave. Sure, an’ it made me blood 
 run cowld to hear thim two go on.” 
 
 The girl was evidently taken aback by the manner in 
 which her mistress received this, who listened gravely, 
 but with no appearance of surprise. 
 
 “ Sure an’ I can’t wondher if ye don’t belave me, ma’am. 
 I thought I was drainin’ mesilf, all the time they win 
 talkin’. But if it ain’t the truth, ivery word av it, may me 
 sowl niver see Saint Pether!” 
 
 “ I believe all you have told me, Bridget. If I manifest 
 no surprise, it is because I knew before you spoke what 
 bloodthirsty enemies I am in the midst of, and how little 
 mercy I have to expect at their hands. I know how utterly 
 friendless and unprotected I am better than any one can 
 tell me. I have not a friend in the wide world, unless I 
 can call you such. I hope and believe that you are my 
 friend, Bridget?” 
 
 That appealing look and tone went straight to that soft 
 Irish heart. 
 
52 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “Indade, an’ I am, ma’am. Yo might have mony a 
 frind betther able to hilp ye, but not one more faithfuler. 
 I’ll do my bist to sarve ye, ye may be sure of that. But 
 what to do is more’n I can tell, way up here in this God¬ 
 forsaken place, where there ain’t no p'lice, nor law, nor 
 anybody, an’ the murtherin’ thaves have it all their own 
 way, jist.” 
 
 “ You are right, Bridget; there is no hope for me here. 
 Not only my liberty, but lifd, depends upon my getting 
 away from this place, and it must be done to-night, or 
 never!” 
 
 “ Hiven help ye, poor leddy!” responded Bridget, wring¬ 
 ing her hands in despair, “ but it’s small chance ye have 
 of gittin' away, I’m thinkin’. I hard the nagur say that 
 Muster Gusperdo towld ’em to kape a close watch on all 
 yer movements, an’ not let yer slip outside av the dure. 
 Sure, an’ I think me ears must have decaved me, but I 
 thought I hard ye say he war yer brother?” 
 
 “If to be my father’s son makes him such, he is my 
 brother, Bridget. But far from expecting any brotherly 
 love or sympathy from him, I would rather be at the mercy 
 of any one else than his; for, from my earliest remem¬ 
 brance, no hand has been so hard and cruel against me as 
 his.” 
 
 “More shame to him thin! to turn ag’in his own flesh 
 and blood. It’s mesilf that belaves that they’ve murdhered 
 the masther, an’ now want to lay the blame on you. ’Cordin’ 
 to my way av thinkin’, a woman can’t have no betther 
 friend—’cept he’s a brute right out—thin the father av her 
 childer. If the masther wor here, they wudn’t dare to trate 
 ye this way.” 
 
 It was not the smallest part of the guilty wife’s punish¬ 
 ment to know that that rash act, instead of making her 
 situation more tolerable, had made it doubly hard and 
 perilous. 
 
 No one knew better than she that when the fury of her 
 husband’s jealous rage had abated, there would have come 
 some relenting touch of tenderness to soften his heart 
 toward the mother of his boy. That, however hard and 
 stern he might be, he was incapable of abetting or coun¬ 
 tenancing his cold-blooded cruelty at whose mercy she now 
 was. 
 
 Covering her face with her hands, she faltered: 
 
 “Don’t, don’t speak of him! I can’t bear it.” 
 
 Raising her head a few moments later, she added: 
 
 “I know as well as you do, Bridget, how closely I am 
 watched. It will be impossible for us to get away through 
 any of the known entrances, as they will be guarded night 
 and day. But I have discovered a secret passage out of the 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME , 53 
 
 building that no one knows anything about. If we act 
 prudently, we can escape by that, and be miles and miles 
 away before they miss us. Now go down-stairs and get 
 baby’s and my supper; we want to seem to retire early. 
 And be sure and not to give Prue the least hint or look to 
 show that you think there’s anything wrong.” 
 
 “ Never you fear, ma’am,” responded Bridget; “sorra a 
 word or hint will she git out av me.” 
 
 “ Sure, an’ it’s a tindher heart the mistress has,” thought 
 the simple-hearted girl, as she took her way down-stairs. 
 “ She can’t bear the mintion of her husband’s name, poor 
 thing! An’ to think av thim two declarin’ how she’s at the 
 bottom of his disaparence. The swate leddy! that’s too 
 gmtle an’ kind to dale with the likes av ’em. Bad luck to 
 'em! the murtherin’ spalpeens! Won’t I be glad enough to 
 git out av their rache, and won’t they be mad enough in 
 the morning to find that we’ve given ’em the slip in spite 
 av all their watchiiTs and spy in’s?” 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 GASPARDO’S CONFERENCE WITF RATTLE. 
 
 “ Be sure and eat a good supper, Bridget,” said Geral¬ 
 dine, on that individual’s return, bearing a tray containing 
 a number of covered dishes. “We shall have to walk a 
 long distance before coming to where we can take the cars, 
 and shall need all the strength we can muster/’ 
 
 “I hope ye’ll take thim words to yersilf, ma’am,” re¬ 
 sponded Bridget, as placing the tray on the round table, 
 she drew it in front of her mistress. “Ye naden’t have 
 ony fear av me in the aitin’, or slapin’ line neither. The 
 saints be praised! I can howld my own in aither respict. 
 But as to yersilf, ma’am, ye don’t ate enough to kape a 
 bird alive, lettin’ alone a woman with a baby. You shud 
 ate something nourishing an’ plinty av it, so ye shud. It’s 
 fitter ye look to be on the bed this minute, thin goin’ a 
 journey.” 
 
 Realizing the good sense as well as good feeling in these 
 words, Geraldine made a strong and successful effort to 
 overcome the repugnance to food that she had felt of late. 
 
 Many of the tempting dishes, prepared by the hand of 
 her faithful attendant, had been sent away untasted, while 
 the little nourishment she had taken had been fairly forced 
 down. But now, roused by the stimulus of how much de¬ 
 pended on it, our heroine made such an inroad on the lib¬ 
 eral supply that Bridget set before her as to fill her honest 
 heart with a joy and satisfaction that found expression in 
 the following words: 
 
 “Sure, an’ it does me heart good to see ye pluckin’ up 
 
54 
 
 A WIFE ’S CHIME, 
 
 an aitin’, as a Christian shud. I’ll put the rest by fur us 
 to ate on the way. It won’t come amiss, I’m thinkin’.” 
 
 These words had hardly left Bridget’s lips when there 
 came a not very gentle rap at the door, which she hastened 
 to open. 
 
 It was Rattle, who, looking a little curiously at the rosy 
 and rather defiant face that confronted him, said: 
 
 “ I want to see your mistress.” 
 
 The speaker was a strong, sturdy man about thirty, his 
 whole appearance indicating a bull dog tenacity of pur¬ 
 pose, combined with an amount of animal passions which 
 might make him a dangerous person to deal with when 
 they were aroused, though under ordinary circumstances 
 this was not so apparent. 
 
 It was evident from the look with which he regarded 
 Geraldine, who now came forward, that he shared old 
 Prue's dislike and distrust of her. 
 
 Without waiting for him to speak, Geraldine said: 
 
 “ I suppose you have come to tell me about Lionel. How 
 is he, and where?” 
 
 Rattle was evidently entirely unprepared for this ques¬ 
 tion, his mind being intent on something widely differ¬ 
 ent. 
 
 “ If the boy’s father hain't told you where he is, I hain’t 
 likely to,” was the sullen response. 
 
 Geraldine had already decided on the course of action 
 she would take with her unwelcome visitor. 
 
 “If you didn’t come to tell me about my boy, for what 
 did you come?” was the sharp and prompt query. 
 
 “ The lad’s safe enough, I made sure of that. I’m a deal 
 more concerned about his father just now. He didn’t say 
 nothin’ to me ’bout goin’ away. I spected he’d be here 
 when I got back. ’Bout what time did you see him last?” 
 
 Those dark eyes met with a look of haughty surprise that 
 questioning gaze. - 
 
 “ You strangely forget yourself, Rattle. It is not your 
 place to question me, nor will I suffer it.” 
 
 Rattle studied the face of the speaker for some moments, 
 but apparently without obtaining anything satisfactory, 
 
 “ Your brother said he was cornin’ to see me this evenin’, 
 he’s got some questions to ask me. It’s ’bout time he was 
 here. I thought p’r’aps you had somethin’ to say to me 
 afore he come.” 
 
 Geraldine knew all that this portended, that what the 
 speaker had it in his power to say would heighten to a 
 white heat her brother’s rage against her, but she knew, 
 also, that she might as well appeal to the solid rock on 
 which the house was founded as to his heart, whose eyes 
 were fixed so keenly upon her; that the hope that was held 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME . 
 
 55 
 
 out to her that anything she might say would influence 
 him was merely a trap to lure her to some admission that 
 could be used against her. So, though her heart sank like 
 lead in her bosom, her haughty look did not waver as she 
 said: 
 
 “ What would I possibly have to say to youi You must 
 have a strange idea of our relative positions to suppose 
 such a thing.” 
 
 A dark, ominous look passed over the man’s face at 
 these words. 
 
 “You must have a good deal stranger idee if you s’pose 
 your husband’s strange an’ sudden disappearance is goin’ 
 to be passed over in silence. He was a kind, good master 
 to me, an’ I ain’t goin’ to leave a stone unturned to ferret 
 this thing out, you may jist bet your life on that!” 
 
 As Geraldine listene d to those heavy, retreating foot¬ 
 steps, her heart grew sick with a fear and apprehension, 
 all the more deadly because of its vagueness and uncer¬ 
 tainty. 
 
 She knew her brother Lorenzo to be capable of terrible 
 things when his anger was fully aroused, as she was con¬ 
 scious it would be if Rattle revealed to him all that had 
 come to his knowledge, but how and in what manner it 
 would vent itself was not so clear. Whether it would be 
 only satisfied with the life, now valueless to her save for 
 the doubly orphaned children, or rest content with taking 
 from that life every pleasant thing, were questions that 
 would not be silenced, but which she found it impossible to 
 answer. > 
 
 As Geraldine reflected how utterly in the power she was 
 of these bold, bad, brutal men, her thoughts again reverted 
 to the strong arm that she well knew would have defended 
 her against any such cruelty as this, but which was power¬ 
 less to aid her now. 
 
 A heavy groan burst from the lips of the wretched 
 woman, who felt that her punishment was greater than 
 she could bear. 
 
 Bridget, who had been present during her mistress’ in¬ 
 terview with Rattle, could no longer keep silent. 
 
 “ Sure an’ I wouldn’t mind what he sez, ma’am, the im- 
 perdent blackguard, that hasn’t as much manners as a pig! 
 Let him wag his tongue an 1 plaze himself by talkin’, he 
 can’t harm ye ony. It’s mesilf that hopes that we’ll be a 
 good many miles away from this dreadful place by this 
 time to morrow. If I’d known what it was an’ the sort of 
 people I shud find here, I wild never have sot futin it!” 
 
 “ Don’t talk so loudly, my good girl,” said Geraldine, 
 glancing at the door a little apprehensively as she spoke. 
 “ If they should have the faintest idea of what l mean to 
 
56 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 try to accomplish to-night, our last and only chance of es¬ 
 cape will be lost. Take a seat by the balcony-window, and 
 tell me if you see any one coming up the avenue. Don’t sit 
 where you can be seen.” 
 
 Bridget had scarcely taken her seat at the place desig¬ 
 nated, when a man on horseback made his appearance, 
 riding swiftly up to the main entrance. 
 
 The first glance told the girl who it was, Lorenzo Gas- 
 pardo’s tall, erect figure bringing him very conspicuously 
 into view. 
 
 “ It’s y er brother,” she said, returning to where her mis¬ 
 tress sat. “ Leastways that’s what ye called him. A quare 
 brother he is, onyway.” 
 
 Geraldine’s situation was altogether too critical for her 
 to attempt the concealment, to which, under ordinary cir¬ 
 cumstances, pride would have induced her to resort. 
 
 “He is my brother, Bridget—alas for me! alas for us 
 both! I cannot remember that he ever evinced for me the 
 slightest brotherly affection, and to day there is not a be¬ 
 ing in the wide world to whom I would not sooner go for 
 aid and protection than he. Keep careful watch, and tell 
 me if you see him leave the house, as, pray Heaven, he 
 may. It will not do for us to commence preparations for 
 our flight until he goes.” 
 
 Bridget resumed her watch by the window, and, taking 
 Isabel in her arms, Geraldine began to rock her slowly to 
 and fro, her mind too intent on the conference that she 
 knew was being held below for her to share the quiet rest 
 into which the child soon sank, who was too young to be 
 conscious of the perils that menaced it. 
 
 As Geraldine sat thus she heard the sound of a heavy 
 step upon the stairs. 
 
 Rising to her feet, she clasped her babe more closely to 
 her bosom, as though she thought its innocence and help¬ 
 lessness would insure her some protection. Then, resum¬ 
 ing her sent, she nerved herself for the fierce storm that 
 she knew was approaching. 
 
 A few moments later the door was flung open, and 
 Lorenzo Gaspardo stood before her, his usually swarthy 
 face white with the fury that raged within, and which 
 found expression in the following words: 
 
 “Disgrace to your sex and name! if I do not know as 
 yet their full extent, I know something of your guilt and 
 folly in time to prevent the shame that you seem de¬ 
 termined to bring upon all connected with you. Though 
 you have escaped the vengeance of your justly incensed 
 husband, don’t think that you will escape me/” 
 
 “ What are you going to do? Whither are you going to 
 take ipe at this time of night?” shrieked Geraldine, 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 57 
 
 struggling in the fierce grasp that was endeavoring to drag 
 her toward the door. 
 
 “I'm going to take you to the dungeon below. You are 
 not altogether unfamiliar with the place, I believe. 
 Whether you escaped by force, fraud, or some foolish re- 
 lentings on the part of the man you have so basely 
 wronged, you may be sure that no such means will avail 
 with me.” 
 
 A feeling of unutterable horror took possession of Geral¬ 
 dine at these words. 
 
 “ Not there, not there!” she cried. “Unless you wish to 
 kill me outright, do not take me there!” 
 
 The thought of being thrust into the cell where lay the 
 body of her murdered husband—murdered by her own 
 band—was too much for the nervous system, already 
 strained to its utmost tension, unconsciousness coming 
 mercifully to her relief. 
 
 Gaspardo gazed unmercifully at the white face that was 
 lying at his feet, and then glanced up at Rattle, who was 
 now standing in the open doorway. 
 
 “ Bear a hand, man. She’s quiet enough, now, and we’ll 
 get her down there without any more outcry and ado. Let 
 old Prue go ahead with the light and open the door.” 
 
 Rushing past Rattle, Prue now stood beside the speaker, 
 her eyes, as they rested upon Geraldine’s prostrate form, 
 glancing with a look of mingled curiosity and triumph. 
 
 “ The door of the cell is locked, and the key ain’t to be 
 found nowhere.” 
 
 “ Not to be found?” echoed Gaspardo, in a tone of sur¬ 
 prise. “A key that would turn a lock like that could 
 hardly get astray. What do you think has become of it?” 
 
 “I do’ know. At first I thought she had it”—pointing 
 to Geraldine—“but latterly I’m of the ’pinion that Marse 
 Robert tuck it away with him—if so be he did go. I 
 minded that he alius kept that key himself.” 
 
 Rattle now spoke. 
 
 “ I don’t TTlieve there’s any danger of her gittin’ away 
 from here, sir; not if the back winders is nailed down, an’ 
 a sharp watch kept in front. I’ll take an impression of the 
 lock in the mornin’, an’ git a key made.” 
 
 “ I suppose that is the best thing that can be done now,” 
 said Gaspardo, making a careful survey around. “ I shall 
 trust to you to have everything safe and secure.” 
 
 “ Here, girl,” he added, addressing Bridget, who, during 
 this exciting scene, had been kneeling, or rather crouch¬ 
 ing, in the furthest corner of the room, uttering prayers 
 and ejaculations to all the saints she could think of, inter¬ 
 spersed with smothered moans, occasioned by the fright 
 that had seized her ‘ Here «to» that noise, and 
 
58 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME . 
 
 come at once and attend to your mistress. You are not 
 hurt or going to be hurt. You’ll be locked up here to¬ 
 night. To-morrow morning you’ll be paid a month’s 
 wages, blindfolded and taken to a certain point down the 
 river, where, if you are wise enough to keep your own 
 counsel, you will be allowed to go where you please. 
 
 “I shall look to you to attend to this, Rattle.” 
 
 The man nodded. 
 
 And without a glance at the insensible form lying there 
 so white and still, Lorenzo G-aspardo left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A. s 
 
 GERALDINE’S FLIGHT. 
 
 When Geraldine awoke to consciousness she found her 
 faithful handmaid almost in despair at her long swoon. 
 
 With the dim feeling that something terrible had or was 
 about to happen, she raised her hand to her forehead, 
 
 gasping: 
 
 “ “What is it—where am I?” 
 
 “ The saints be praised!” sobbed Bridget. “ Sure, an’ I 
 thought that ye’d niver open your eyes or spake again.” 
 
 Slowly it all came back to the wretched worn in. Lift¬ 
 ing her head, she looked shudderingly around. 
 
 “Have they really gone? Won’t they be back to drag 
 me down to that dreadful place?” 
 
 “ They’d do it if they cud; it’s no thanks to thim that ye 
 ain’t there now. I hard thim talkin’ betwixt thimsilves 
 that the kay av it was lost. Sure, an’ it’s mesilf that hopes 
 that it will kape lost.” 
 
 “Thank God!” ejaculated Geraldine, as her head sank 
 wearily back upon the pillow. “ I think that I should die 
 or go mad if I was taken there. If it were not for my poor 
 baby, death would be a welcome release. But for her sake 
 I must live; for her sake I must try to circumvent and es¬ 
 cape from my cruel enemies. ” 
 
 “ Cruel is the right name fur ’em,” exclaimed Bridget, 
 wringing her hands in despair. “Oh! wirra! wirra! that 
 iver I should fall into the hands of such murtherin’ villyuns 
 as thim!” 
 
 “ You have no occasion to fear, my good girl,” interposed 
 Geraldine, roused from the contemplation of her own mis¬ 
 ery by the terror so plainly depicted by every look and 
 tone of the speaker, who had flung herself down beside the 
 bed. “ It is I whom they hate and persecute; no harm will 
 come to you.” 
 
 “Ye wudn’t be so sure av that if ye’d hard your brother’s 
 words, whin ye lay faintin’ on the flure. He said I’d stay 
 here the night, an’ in the mornin’ be tuck to gome lonely 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME, 
 
 59 
 
 place down the river, where, if I’ll promise niver to revale 
 their wicked doin’s, they’ll set me free. They’ll silence me 
 tongue by murdherin’ me, more like!” 
 
 “So my cruel brother intends to deprive me of my only 
 friend,” said Geraldine, with a sad smile. “For you have 
 been a true and kind friend to me, Bridget: situated as I 
 am, I don’t know how I should have got along without you.” 
 
 These words went straight to that honest and kindly 
 heart. 
 
 “ Sure, an’ I’d like to sarve ye to the end of me days, if 
 so be I cud. If they’d let me, I’d stay with ye whativir 
 come. Not that I’d be able to help ye ony ; it’s little that 
 one man cud do against so many, let alone a woman. If I 
 got clear of thim, isn’t there some frind of yours that I cud 
 sind word to?” 
 
 “ No one; the only relatives thac I have in the world are 
 my brothers, if such they can be called. Besides, they will 
 not set you free unless you take a solemn oath not to be¬ 
 tray them.” 
 
 The girl glanced up in some surprise at the speaker. 
 
 “An’ do ye think it wud be bindin’ on me conscience to 
 kape it, ma’am, whin it’s forced from ye, an’ by sich divils 
 as thim?” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Perhaps not. It might be even wrong for you to keep 
 it, if so be you could do any good by breaking it. In this 
 instance it could be of no avail. What they have to do 
 will be done too quickly and effectually for any help to 
 reach me in that way.” 
 
 A look of horror overspread the girl’s face. 
 
 “The saints be good to us, sure, an’ ye don’t think they 
 mane to murther ye, ma’am?” 
 
 A faint smile touched Geraldine’s lips. 
 
 “ They may not call it by such an ugly name, Bridget. 
 By some strange process of reasoning, they may consider 
 that they are meting out to me the punishment that I de¬ 
 serve. This I know, that my brothers intend to either take 
 my life or to consign me to a living tomb,” 
 
 “Swate mother! did iver ony one hear the like?” ejacu¬ 
 lated Bridget, with uplifted hands. “ They’ll take me away 
 in the mornin’, an’ I’ll nivir know what become of ye.” 
 
 “ Never fear, Bridget, you follow my directions, and we 
 won’t either of us be here in the morning. So get up on to 
 your feet, my good girl, and take courage.” 
 
 “Sure an’ there’s nothin’ I’d like betlier,” responded 
 Bridget, as she obeyed. “But how we are to git away, 
 with the dure locked on the outside an’ all the windies 
 nailed down, is more than I can till.” 
 
 Making a strong and successful effort to overcome the 
 faintness that benumbed limb and brain, Geraldine moved 
 
60 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 across the room to the toilet-table, where she began to 
 bathe her face and head in the cool, fresh water there. 
 
 ‘Are the windows nailed down?” she said, as she took 
 the towel from Bridget’s hand. 
 
 “Indade, an’ they be, ma’am. Whin I was tryin’ to 
 bring ye to, an’ thinkin’ I never cud, in comes Battle, ham¬ 
 merin’ away at ’em, as though he liked nothin’ better. Bad 
 luck to |him! It’s me b’lafe that lie’s as bad as Muster 
 Gaspardo, ivery bit. And as for the nagur, she’s a dale 
 worse than aither av ’em.” 
 
 “Never mind about the windows, Bridget,” responded 
 her mistress, reassuringly; “we are not going out that 
 way. 
 
 “You foolish girl,” she added, as she looked upon 
 Bridget’s disturbed face, ‘ ‘ have you forgotten how high up 
 we are, and the jagged rocks below? It would be almost 
 certain death for us to attempt it. It is in our favor that 
 they have taken all these precautions, as, believing that 
 they have made everything secure, they will keen no 
 watch on our movements, leaving me free to carry out my 
 plan. The time to do this must be close at hand. My 
 watch has stopped; go into the next room and see what 
 time it is.” 
 
 “ It’s half-past ’leven, ma’am,” said Bridget, on her 
 return, upon whose spirits Geraldine’s hopeful words had 
 a most happy effect, as could be seen by her tone and move¬ 
 ments. 
 
 “Then we have just time to get ready,” responded 
 Geraldine, “ as we must leave a little after midnight. Get 
 the dark lantern from the closet where you hid it. 
 
 “We must put the other lights out,” continued Geral¬ 
 dine, as she proceeded to light the lantern, “ and talk very 
 low, so that they will think we are sleeping.” 
 
 Geraldine’s next move was in the direction of a desk. 
 
 The pressure of a spring brought some bank-bills and gold 
 into view. x ,r ||| 
 
 “We shall need money,” she said, as she put them in 
 her purse. “ If ever we get to the outside world again we 
 shall find it to be as good a friend as we can have.” 
 
 “ It’s a lucky thing that ye’ve got it, ma’am,” responded 
 Bridget, her eyes resting a little longingly upon the glit¬ 
 tering coin. 
 
 Perhaps Geraldine observed this, for taking two gold 
 eagles she put them in the girl’s hand. 
 
 “ You had better take this. I pray Heaven that we may 
 not become separated; but, if we should be, I shall feel bet¬ 
 ter to know that you have it with you. Sew it up in your 
 dress so that it will not be taken from you. Then bring 
 baby to me, being careful not to wake her.” 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 61 
 
 The girl obeyed all her mistress’ directions, the two work¬ 
 ing together with so much quietness and celerity, that 
 when the large clock in the liall below tolled forth the 
 hour of twelve all their preparations were completed. 
 
 When Geraldine had made sure of this she bade Bridget 
 assist her in removing from its place in one corner of the 
 room a cumbrous, old-fashioned secretary, whose top 
 reached nearly to the ceiling. 
 
 This had to be done with great care and caution, lest 
 lome sound should reach those outside. 
 
 This ancient piece of furniture concealed a secret door, 
 of which no one else in the house, not even its late master, 
 had any knowledge. 
 
 Geraldine had discovered it months before, as she was 
 rummaging through the house in one.of her restless moods, 
 never speaking of it to any one. 
 
 The opening of this door revealed some steep and narrow 
 stairs, leading downward, made, apparently, of solid 
 stone. 
 
 At the sight of this Bridget could not help uttering an 
 ejaculation of astonishment and delight, but which was 
 quickly checked by her mistress. 
 
 “We are by no means out of the woods yet, having 
 many dangers as well as hardships before us. Everything 
 depends on our having a fair start; any unusual sound or 
 movement will betray us.” 
 
 Geraldine would gladly have returned the secretary to 
 its place, so as to have concealed their way of escape, but 
 this was impossible, there being no one on the other side 
 to do this. But she darkened the room, drawing the sec¬ 
 retary as near to the door as she could, and leave sufficient 
 room to pass through, hoping, at least, to delay the dis¬ 
 covery. 
 
 The two now commenced this steep and perilous descent 
 into they knew not what, so intense was the darkness be¬ 
 low and around them, and which the faint light they car¬ 
 ried made little more than visible. 
 
 Bridget went before with the lantern, Geraldine follow¬ 
 ing with little Isabel in her arms, whom she would not 
 trust out of them at such a time as this. 
 
 The stairs, which were very long; had evidently not been 
 used for some time, being covered with a fine, soft dust. 
 Further down, the dampness had formed it into a sort of 
 slime, which would have been dangerous had it not been 
 for the roughness of the way, which prevented the feet 
 from slipping. 
 
 After going down forty or fifty steps in straight descent, 
 they came to a landing, or rather narrow passage-way, 
 which led directly forward to another stairs very similar 
 
62 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 in appearance, and full as long, as they found out as they 
 took their way down. 
 
 When they came to the second landing the murmuring 
 sound of water could be distinctly heard in the distance. 
 
 “ What’s that rushing sound that I hear?” inquired Brid* 
 get, who had sat herself down upon the last stair, intent 
 on having a “ breathin’ spell ” as she called it, before going 
 any further. 
 
 “ It is the river,” replied Geraldine. “We must be very 
 near it now. ” 
 
 The third flight of stairs was somewhat shorter, leading 
 directly down to the water. 
 
 As they neared the bottom the steps grew very moist, 
 while a damp chilliness pervaded the air. 
 
 A few moments later Geraldine stood upon the last step, 
 looking out upon the river that was moving swiftly past, 
 and which presented such a formidable barrier to any 
 further progress. 
 
 “Good fathers!” ejaculated Bridget, holding up her 
 hands, ‘ ‘ how iver are we to git acrass the river, when 
 ther’s niver a boat or bridge, or onybody to hilp us?” 
 
 There was considerable space where the stairs ended; the 
 entrance, opening out upon the river, being broad and a 
 little lower, the water entered it part way. It gradually 
 arose until it reached the stairs, forming what seemed like 
 a small cave, whether natural or artificial it was not easy 
 for Geraldine to decide from the small amount of light af¬ 
 forded by the lantern, and which Bridget was swinging 
 about, taking a careful survey of their new and strange 
 quarters, so far as the darkness would admit. 
 
 Suddenly she uttered an exclamation of joy. 
 
 “ D’ye see that, ma’am?” 
 
 On looking in the direction in which the girl pointed, 
 Geraldine saw a small skiff, or what looked like one, in the 
 dim light. 
 
 On examining it more closely Geraldine saw that it' was 
 whole, though very old, having the appearance of not 
 having been in the water for a long time. 
 
 It was not heavy, and by their united strength they suc¬ 
 ceeded in dragging it to the water’s edge. 
 
 Here the light of the moon, which now emerged from a 
 cloud, enabled them to obtain a clearer idea of its condi¬ 
 tion. 
 
 It was not only small and frail, but the wood consider¬ 
 ably decayed from its long disuse, though there were no 
 serious leaks in it. 
 
 As Geraldine looked at it she glanced in dismay at Brid¬ 
 get’s plump, buxom form, which was all of a third heavier 
 than her own. 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 63 
 
 Without communicating her fears to the girl, she as¬ 
 sisted her in pushing the boat off, and then, in order to test 
 it, stepped in. 
 
 The result showed that it was all that it would safely 
 bear, that the addition of twenty more pounds would sink 
 
 it. 
 
 Bridget was not slow to interpret the perplexity and dis¬ 
 appointment so clearly expressed in her mistress’ face. 
 
 “Sit ye down, ma’am. It will bear yerself an’ the babby, 
 but niver a bit more will it howld. ” 
 
 “And leave you here, my good girl, after all your faith¬ 
 fulness and devotion? I can’t find it in my heart to do 
 that.” 
 
 “ Ye can’t do onything else, ma’am,” said the girl, stoutly. 
 “ The boat won’t hold us both, that’s aisy seen, an’ your 
 stayin’ here will make it a dale worse for you, an’ not the 
 laste bit betther for me. It’s you that thim ugly divils 
 hate; they won’t be bothered with the loikes of me at all, 
 at all.” 
 
 There was sound sense in this, and as Geraldine looked 
 down upon her baby, her resolution wavered. 
 
 “ But what will you do? Go back to where we came 
 from?” 
 
 “ Av course. An’ whin I once git there I’ll fix the sacret 
 dure so they won’t mistrust there bein’ ony, an’ thin go to 
 bed as if nothin’ had happened. And in the morning, when 
 they find ye gone, I’ll pretind to be as much astonished as 
 thim.” 
 
 Geraldine’s countenance showed that she did not share in 
 the confidence of the speaker. 
 
 “I will not deceive you, my poor girl; my brother will 
 be very angry at my escape, and will be likely to visit his 
 anger on you. He can do dreadful things when he is 
 angry.” 
 
 There must have been an heroic element under that rough 
 exterior, for, though the rosy cheeks paled a little at all 
 that this implied, her resolution did not falter. 
 
 “ I’ll take me chances. They can’t more nor kill me. It’s 
 an aven chance, ony way, to be drowned or to fall into the 
 hands of thim divils. Don’t ye be afther worryin’, ma’am. 
 It’s me belafe that your brother will let me go, whin he sees 
 that there’s nothin’ to be gained by kaping me. It can’t be 
 fur from mornin’, so it's time ye was off. Sit as much as 
 ye can in the middle of the boat, an’ I’ll give it a shove. 
 Ye can’t row ag’inst the current, ye’ll have to float down 
 the sthrame, kapin’ as near as ye can to the shore. Ye had 
 betther land as soon as ye can do so safely; the boat is 
 nothin’ but a shell, an’ won’t take ye fur.” 
 
 Parting under such peculiar circumstances, neither of 
 
64 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 them knew what would befall the other, or if ever they 
 should meet again. 
 
 Their common perils and sufferings had thrown down 
 the barriers growing out of their respective positions, and 
 there were tears in Geraldine’s eyes as she felt the parting 
 grasp of the hand that had been so kind and helpful. 
 
 As for Bridget, her sobs were audible, in which there 
 was a curious mingling of blessings on the head of her 
 mistress and anathemas against her enemies. 
 
 Leaning over the water, Bridget watched the frail boat, 
 with its precious freight, until it disappeared around a 
 bend in the river. 
 
 Hearing a step back of her, she turned round, beholding 
 at a few feet distant the pale face and hollow eyes, turned 
 directly toward her, of a tall, gaunt figure which looked 
 more like a ghost than a living man. 
 
 Believing it to be such, the terrified girl gave a loud 
 screech, and for the first time in all her healthy, hardy life 
 tumbled over in a swoon. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 GASPARDO’S CONSTERNATION AND RAGE, 
 
 As soon as Bridget had recovered sufficiently to realize 
 her surroundings, she sat up and looked tremblingly 
 around. But not a trace could be seen of the dread specter 
 —as she considered it—that had so frightened her. 
 
 Nor could a sound be heard but the murmur of the river 
 that glided past, upon whose waters the rays of the moon 
 glittered that was shining so tranquilly in the heavens 
 above. 
 
 Far from having her apprehensions allayed, a still more 
 deadly terror seized the girl. 
 
 “ It was a ghost,” she muttered. “Howly Mother, de¬ 
 find us!” 
 
 Seizing the lantern and not daring to casta glance around, 
 lest she should be struck motionless by some vision of 
 terror, Bridget began to ascend the stairs as fast as her 
 trembling limbs would admit. 
 
 She found no difficulty in finding her way back to the 
 place she had quitted a few hours before, finding every¬ 
 thing exactly as she left it. 
 
 Her first move after closing the door was to endeavor to 
 return the secretary to its place in front of it. Bat it was 
 old and cumbrous, and in endeavoring to push it back one 
 of the legs came off. 
 
 After various fruitless efforts, to the imminent danger of 
 breaking the other legs, Bridget was obliged to relinquish 
 her design, 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 65 
 
 So contenting herself with propping it up on one side, 
 which was the best she could do under the circumstances, 
 the girl went to bed; being too “ complately wayried out,” 
 to use her own words, “ to drag one fut after the other.” 
 
 Crawling between the blankets, she fell into such a deep, 
 heavy slumber that she was conscious of nothing until she 
 felt the grasp of a strong hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 Bridget’s first thought, as she looked up to that dark, 
 angry face, was that her last hour had come. 
 
 “Mercy, mercy!” she shrieked. “Don’t be afther 
 murderin’ a poor girl, that niver did ye a bit of harm in 
 her loife 1” 
 
 “What has become of your mistress?” thundered Gas- 
 pardo, who, still retaining his grasp of the girl’s shoulder, 
 emphasized his words by a series of shakes that made her 
 teeth chatter with something besides fright. 
 
 “Oh! ow! ow! 0!-o-o-o-o!” continued Bridget, with a 
 rising inflection. “ Must I be murthered in me bed and 
 nobody hilp me?” 
 
 “ Will you stop your howling and answer me?” responded 
 Gaspardo, with an oath. “Again I ask, where is your 
 mistress?” 
 
 Fortunately for the part Bridget was to act, sleep and 
 terror had swept the events of the past night for the time 
 being completely from her mind. 
 
 The bewilderment in her honest face was too genuine to 
 be counterfeited, as she said: 
 
 “ An’ where shud she be but in her own room at this 
 toime av the day?” 
 
 Gaspardo’s belief that the girl had connived at Geral¬ 
 dine’s escape was evidently staggered as he looked at her. 
 
 “ She isn’t in her room, she’s gone,” was the gloomy re¬ 
 sponse. “Do you mean to say that you know nothing 
 about it?” 
 
 The occurrences of the preceding night instantly flashed 
 upon Bridget’s mind, but she was cunning enough to fol¬ 
 low up her advantage. 
 
 Turning toward the window, through which the rays 
 of the rising sun fell brightly, Gaspardo raised his hand, 
 muttering hoarsely: 
 
 “ She’s got away; I’d heve given my right hand to have 
 prevented it.” 
 
 “ Sure, an’ how cud she get away, with the dure locked 
 an’ all the windys nailed down?” interposed Bridget, with 
 an innocent air. 
 
 “True enough,” exclaimed Gaspardo, turning to Rattle, 
 who stood leaning against the door; “ it’s a sheer impossi¬ 
 bility. She must be secreted in the room: search every¬ 
 place and corner,” 
 
66 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 Both men had gone through every room, but they now 
 commenced a still more thorough search. 
 
 Observing something peculiar about the secretary, Gas- 
 pardo approached it. 
 
 As he laid his hand on it the prop came out, and it fell 
 over with a heavy crash. 
 
 Though this brought the place where the secret door was 
 into view, Gaspardo did not at once discover it; being, at 
 first, too much startled at so sudden and unexpected an 
 occurrence to think of anything else. 
 
 But a little reflection led him to believe that it had some 
 thing to do with his sister’s mysterious disappearance, and 
 a thorough examination gave him the key to it all. 
 
 “ Here it is; here is where she got out!” cried Gaspardo, 
 as opening the secret door he looked out into the passage. 
 “There must be some stairs here. Let us see where they 
 lead to. Get a lantern; it is as dark as Egypt.” 
 
 As Rattle turned to obey this order, he stumbled against 
 the lantern that had been used the preceding night, Bridget 
 having brought it back with her. 
 
 Hastily lighting it, the two men, forgetting everything 
 else in their eagerness to follow up this clew, disappeared 
 through the secret door. 
 
 As soon as they were gone, Bridget commenced dressing 
 with the utmost dispatch. 
 
 “ They’ve gone, the murtherin’thaves! bad luck go with 
 ’em! Hiven send that the poor, swate leddy is too fur away 
 fur thim to git howld av her, an’ git me safe out av this. 
 Now’s me chance, if I’m ever to git clare av ’em. ” 
 
 Bridget had tied on her hat, and was huddling together 
 a few of her “ duds,” as she called them, when she caught 
 a glimpse of a dark-looking object in the doorway. 
 
 It was old Prue, who stood regarding her with a suspi¬ 
 cious and sinister roll to her eyes. 
 
 “Humph! so ye’sgoing to leave us?” 
 
 Bridget took a critical survey of the speaker, whose form, 
 though strong and wiry for her age, she felt was no match 
 for hers. 
 
 Being confident, in a hand-to-hand tussle—which was all 
 that she had to fear—that she would come out victor, she 
 said, boldly: 
 
 “Yes, I be; an’ I ain’t none too sorry, aither.” 
 
 “ Did Marse Gaspardo say ye could go?” 
 
 “Not being a Hottentot or nagur, I didn’t ask him,” re¬ 
 torted Bridget, with a toss of the head. “He ain’t no 
 masther av mine. I hired out to Muster Bayard to take 
 care av the babby, an’ now that its ma has tuck it away, I 
 hain’t no call to stay ony longer.” 
 
 ♦‘That’s all ye know ’bout it,” responded Prue, darkly. 
 
, 4 . WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 67 
 
 “The baby ’ill be brung back, and its ma, too. Marse 
 Gaspardo’s boun’ to ketch ’em. Dey ain’t gom to slip out 
 of his hands so easy, you jist bet yer life on that; you take 
 my ’vice, and stop where ye am. If Marse Gaspardo comes 
 back, an’ finds ye gone, it’ll be the wuss for ye.” 
 
 “ It’ll be the worse fur me if I stay, I’m thinkin’,” was 
 the girl’s inward reflection, as, seizing her bundle, she 
 turned to the door. 
 
 Then dropping an ironical courtesy to Prue, whose coun¬ 
 tenance showed plainly her anger, she added, aloud : 
 
 “ I’m sorry to refuse yer pressin’ invitation, ma’am. Ye 
 are sech a plisant, agraerble person that me heart’s quite 
 broke at the thought of partin’ from ye. But I wouldn’t 
 live a day longer here fur me weight in goold. Till Muster 
 Gaspardo that I thought I’d save him the trouble of blindin’ 
 me eyes an’ lavin' me in some strange place. That now 
 the misthress is gone, I’m too glad to git away mesilf to 
 till av his tratement av his own flesh an’ blood, which was 
 more loike a wild Injin than a brother. So good-bye t’ ye.” 
 
 In the meantime, Gaspardo and Rattle had taken them¬ 
 selves down the three long flights of stairs which led to the 
 river. 
 
 Strong in the hope of reclaiming his prisoner, the former 
 stared blankly at the water that oarred his further prog¬ 
 ress. 
 
 “ She can’t swim; and then she had the child with her,” 
 he said, apparently as much at a loss as ever. 
 
 But Rattle’s keener eyes had detected the marks that the 
 boat made, as it was dragged to and lowered to the water. 
 
 “ Do you see that, sir,” he said to Gaspardo, “ and those 
 fresh foot-prints ? There’s been some heavy thing dragged 
 along here; a boat of some kind, I should say, by the 
 looks.” 
 
 Gaspardo’s face darkened. 
 
 “She must be pursued,” he cried with an oath, “She 
 can’t have got very far, with the child to carry. Which 
 way do you suppose she has gone, up or down?” 
 
 Rattle mused a moment. 
 
 “Was she used to rowing?” 
 
 “ Never used the oars in her life, that I know of.” 
 
 “Then, most likely, she went down the river, and not 
 very far by boat. We could be surest of ketchin’ her by 
 takin’ a direct course south, on horseback, than any other 
 way.” 
 
 This sounded very plausible, and they quickly retraced 
 their way. 
 
 There were two fleet horses in the stable, and these were 
 soon saddled and at the door. 
 
68 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 As Gaspardo was about to mount his, old Prue touched 
 his arm. 
 
 “ The gal’s gone.” 
 
 In his eagerness to recover his escaped prisoner he had 
 forgotten all about Bridget. 
 
 He turned an impatient look Upon the speaker. 
 
 “ What girl?’ 
 
 “The nuss-gal.” 
 
 Gaspardo's countenance changed. He realized the im¬ 
 prudence of allowing the girl to be at large at this time, 
 especially if any way inclined to be communicative. 
 
 “Gone, is she? That’s bad. I meant to have had her 
 locked up. Pid she say anything when she left?” 
 
 “She talked sassy enough,” responded the old negress, 
 sulkily; “ she was a sassy piece, anyway, sidin’ with her 
 mistress from the fust.” 
 
 “ Which way did she go?” 
 
 “I do’ know. She went down the main avenue, an’ 
 that’s the last I seed of her.” 
 
 “Well, it can’t be helped. I have more important busi¬ 
 ness to attend to now. We may come across her. Come, 
 Rattle.” 
 
 And urging their horses to their utmost speed, the two 
 men disappeared amid the shadows of the trees and rocks 
 with which the place abounded. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 We will now return to Geraldine, whom we left gliding 
 down the river in a boat, whose frail timbers were all that 
 lay between her and a watery grave. 
 
 As she glanced up at the grim-looking building, now so 
 high above her head that she had to look straight up at it, 
 she clasped her babe to her bosom, her heart overflowing 
 with devout thankfulness at her escape from the scene of 
 so much wretchedness and peril. 
 
 Not a light could be seen; solitary and stern it frowned 
 darkly upon her, as though cognizant of the terrible 
 tragedy that had been enacted within its walls. 
 
 With a slight shiver, Caused by something more than the 
 chilliness of the night, Geraldine drew her mantle more 
 closely around her, glad when a bend in the river hid it 
 from her sight. 
 
 “God grant that I may never see that dreadful place 
 again,” she thought, “or anybody belonging to it.” 
 
 Following Bridget's advice, she kept as near to the banks 
 of the river as she safely could, her heart growing lighter 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 69 
 
 and lighter as the current bore her further and further 
 away. 
 
 It was her intention to cross the river when she got to 
 where there was no danger of her being seen from Hunter’s 
 Lodge, whose elevated position gave it an extended view, 
 especially in that direction. • 
 
 If pursued, as she knew she would be, there would be 
 less danger of her being taken. 
 
 But very fortunately, as, if she had been further from 
 the shore her death would have been certain, just as she 
 was about to make the attempt the boat sprung a leak, fill¬ 
 ing so rapidly that she barely succeeded in reaching the 
 land. 
 
 Five minutes later, standing on the shore, she saw it 
 sink beneath the water. 
 
 Exhausted by the effort it had cost her, as well as chilled 
 by the water that had wet her feet and garments, Geral¬ 
 dine seated herself beneath a tree and began to wring out 
 the dripping folds of her dress. 
 
 Then she looked around. 
 
 There was no house or any signs of life visible in any 
 direction. There was nothing but an extended sweep of 
 hills and depressions, broken here and there by rocks and 
 clumps of trees. 
 
 It was her aim to reach some town on the river, which 
 would afford her an opportunity of traveling, either by 
 boat or car, she did not care in what direction, if it only 
 took her away from her cruel enemies. 
 
 Unfortunately for the carrying out of this plan, Geral¬ 
 dine had been kept so closely that she was entirely ignorant 
 as to whither to direct her steps. 
 
 She knew that the nearest village from Hunter’s Lodge 
 was up the river. It was nearly three miles distant, and 
 rarely visited by any of its inmates, Mr. Bayard getting 
 all his supplies direct from New York. 
 
 But she was too far down the river now for her to take 
 the cars from that place, even if it had not been attended 
 with too much danger for her to attempt it. ' 
 
 So her only resource was to go as directly south as pos¬ 
 sible. 
 
 Knowing that all the large towns were on the river, she 
 would have kept alongside of it but for the fear that if search 
 was made for her, it would be likely to be in that vicinity. 
 
 So she struck across the fields away from it, but still 
 taking a southerly direction. 
 
 Geraldine avoided the highway for the same reason. 
 
 At first, nerved on by the fears that would not let her 
 
 rest, she walked briskly along, scarcely feeling the weight 
 
70 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 of the babe in her arms, except to feel what a precious 
 weight it was. 
 
 But weak from all the hardships she had undergone, her 
 footsteps soon began to lag, and she was obliged to make 
 frequent pauses for rest. Still, as she persistently pushed 
 ahead, her progress, though slow, was considerable, and 
 she would have been greatly encouraged had she not felt 
 her strength gradually giving way. 
 
 To add to her troubles, Isabel began to fret and cry, from 
 the combined discomforts of hunger and cold, together 
 with the constrained position in which she was held. 
 
 The suddenness with which the boat had sprung a leak 
 had prevented Geraldine securing the food that Bridget 
 had provided, so that she had none to give her. 
 
 So, soothing the little creature as best she could, she 
 walked wearily on, having now struck into a narrow wood- 
 path that ran the other side of a fence that separated it 
 from the highway. 
 
 It was the first time she had ventured so near to the pub¬ 
 lic road, she making this change in the hope of reaching 
 some farm-house, where she might procure a drink of milk 
 for her babe, it being now near morning. 
 
 But it was in vain that she strained her weary gaze in 
 every direction; not a house was to be seen. 
 
 Finally, too faint and weary to go further, she seated 
 herself upon a stone, forgetting her own peril in her anxi¬ 
 eties for her child, whose cries had subsided into moans 
 that went straight to the mother’s heart. 
 
 “ My poor baby,” she murmured, “have we escaped so 
 many perils to die of hunger and cold in these dreary 
 woods?” 
 
 The dawn was just reddening in the east, and soon the 
 sun arose, clear and bright, and casting a cheering radiance 
 on everything around her. 
 
 But its rays brought to poor Geraldine nothing but fear 
 and gloom. 
 
 “They have probably missed me by this time,” she 
 thought, “ and I must not linger here. If I only had some¬ 
 thing to allay this tormenting thirst. ” 
 
 As this thought passed through her mind, to her great 
 joy, she heard the murmuring sound of a brook near by. 
 
 Going to it, she scooped up some of the water with her 
 hands, drinking eagerly of it and giving some to Isabel. 
 
 Feeling considerably refreshed, she went on; though ob¬ 
 liged to pause for rest many times, she made but a slow 
 progress. 
 
 The sun was now high in the heavens, and not a house 
 visible, when a sturdy, tow-headed boy came whistling 
 along the road* 
 
71 
 
 A WIFE'S ClilMZ 
 
 Geraldine’s hopes revived at this sight. 
 
 Going to the fence, she called to him. 
 
 Suddenly stopping, the boy stared with Open eyes and 
 mouth at “the pretty lady,” as he afterward called her. 
 
 “Can you tell me where the nearest station, steamboat 
 landing or ferry is?” 
 
 ‘ 1 The landin’ an’ ferry is a good three mile from here. 
 You’ll bev to cross the river to git the cars.” 
 
 Feeling that she could not go half or quarter of that dis¬ 
 tance without food and rest, Geraldine leaned heavily 
 against the fence by which she stood. 
 
 There was something in the honest face of the lad that 
 won her confidence. 
 
 “ That is a long way, and I am very tired. Can you tell 
 me of some house near by, where the people are kind and 
 good, and where my baby and I can get some food and rest 
 a little?” 
 
 “ A’nt Jane’s the kindest body I know on,” responded 
 the boy, after a thoughtful pause, “but she lives a mile 
 back, on the river. Mr. Burchard’s house ain’t fur off; 
 vou kin see it when you git down to the turn. He ain't 
 bad, the old man ain’t, ’cept when he gits riled, an’ his wife 
 is tiptop. She'll give you somethin’ to eat. Le’ me hold 
 the baby while you get over the fence. Wait, an’ I’ll let 
 down the bars.” 
 
 Geraldine passed out into the road, the two walking 
 along together, her guide carrying the baby, as she was 
 very glad to have him do, it being only with difficulty that 
 she kept upon her feet. 
 
 “ How pretty’tis—most as pretty as you be,” said the 
 boy, looking up at Geraldine with such a look of honest 
 admiration in his honest blue eyes that it called a faint 
 smile to her lips. 
 
 “ What is your name?” she said, placing her hand lightly 
 on the unkempt locks. 
 
 “ Robert—they call me Bob, for short.” 
 
 “Well, Robert, you look like a kind, good boy. You 
 wouldn’t do me any harm, I am sure?” 
 
 The boy looked amazed. 
 
 “Of course not. Nobody could harm ye.” 
 
 Geraldine shook her head. 
 
 “ I don’t know about that. I am try ing to get away 
 from some bad and cruel men. Should they come along 
 and ask you if you had seen me, as they may, it might 
 do me a great deal of harm if you should tell them where 
 I am.” 
 
 The boy was quick-witted enough to take in the purport 
 
 of this. 
 
72 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “ I won’t tell, I won’t tell anybody,” he replied, with an 
 earnestness that showed that he meant what he said. 
 
 “There’s the house,” he added, pointing to a pleasant 
 looking farm-house, half-hidden by trees and shrubbery. 
 “And there’s the old man at the well, drawin’a pail o’ 
 Water.” 
 
 They were standing on a little eminence, and shading 
 his eyes with his hand, Bob cast a searching look back¬ 
 ward. 
 
 “ There’s two men on horseback, yander.” 
 
 “Where, where?” cried Geraldine, turning her eyes in 
 the same direction. 
 
 ‘ ‘ There, on the cross-road. Don’t you see ’em? They are 
 cornin’ down the hill, lickety-cut!” 
 
 “Merciful Father!” ejaculated Geraldine, trembling in 
 every limb, “ it is, it must be my cruel enemies! How can 
 I escape; what can I do?” 
 
 “Don’t you be none afeard, ma’am,”.responded Bob, 
 coolly; /’ll ’tend to em. All you've got to do is to- 
 walk into that house, an’ git somethin’ t’ eat. Tell the 
 folks Bob Martin sent ye, an’ th'ey’11 show ye every Men¬ 
 tion. ” 
 
 Opening the gate Bob put the baby in its mother’s arms, 
 and then walked up the road toward where the two horse¬ 
 men had been seen, but who were now temporarily hidden 
 from view by the friendly shadow of some intervening 
 trees. 
 
 With a rushing sound in her ears, a mist before her eyes, 
 Geraldine staggered, rather than walked, up the path to 
 the house. 
 
 So that when the master of it walked up to the porch, 
 with the dripping pail in his hand, he stared in amaze¬ 
 ment at the heap that lay there, so limp and motionless. 
 
 “Good gracious me! mother! mother!” he shouted, 
 “ come here, quick! Here’s a woman and a baby, dead or 
 dying; I don’t know which.” 
 
 In the meantime little Isabel, having rolled away from 
 those nerveless arms, set up a loud and plaintive wail. 
 
 These combined outcries brought to the door a pleasant¬ 
 faced, matronly-looking woman, whose experienced eye 
 soon took in the situation. 
 
 Bidding her eldest girl pick up the baby, by her hus¬ 
 band’s help, Geraldine was soon transferred from the porch 
 to the neat, cozy-looking bedroom opening out of the 
 “ spare room.” 
 
 Breaking from its confinement, the long, dark hair fell 
 around the beautiful face, making it look still more white 
 and deathly. 
 
 “ I swow, if I don’t believe she’s dead, wife,” said Jfc 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME, n 
 
 Burchard, who stood at the foot of the bed watching that 
 individual’s energetic efforts to restore consciousness. 
 
 Drawing a long, shuddering sigh, Geraldine now opened 
 her eyes, fixing them with a frightened air upon Mr. Bur- 
 chard’s round, rubicund face. 
 
 “ No, she ain’t dead,” responded the good woman. “Go 
 away, father, do. ’Tain’t no place for men-folks. She’s 
 cornin’ to, and will be frightened to see so many strange 
 faces. 
 
 “Tom and Sammy, you go out, an’ see that you don’t 
 make a bit of noise. Salmanthy, you kin stay an’ help 
 me.” 
 
 Geraldine relapsed into half-unconsciousness, while kind 
 and gentle hands removed the torn and drabbled dress, 
 whose costliness called forth many an exclamation of ad¬ 
 miration and wonder. 
 
 “All silk an’ velvet, just see, ma!” said Salmanthy, hold¬ 
 ing it up. 
 
 “An’ the shoes are kid, lined with satin,” said the 
 mother, as she took them off; “ all cut they be an’ torn, as 
 if she had walked a long way. Poor, pretty dear! I won¬ 
 der who she kin be. She belongs to some rich family, 
 that’s certain.” 
 
 At this moment Geraldine opened her eyes again, look¬ 
 ing up appealingly into the kind face that was bending 
 over her. 
 
 “ You won’t let them take me away?” 
 
 At first the woman looked puzzled, then suspecting, 
 from the wild glitter in the eyes, that her mind was wan¬ 
 dering, said, soothingly: 
 
 “ No, no, dearie, there sha’n’t nobody take you away.” 
 
 “ Where’s my baby?” 
 
 “ Oh, baby’s all right. Hepsey’s got her in the kitchen, 
 givin’ her some bread an’ milk, an’ it would do your heart 
 good to see her eat. Hepsey is the best hand I know of to 
 take care of babies. Now, you must eat somethin’. 
 
 4 v Salmanthy, go into the kitchen and git me a hot, 
 strong cup of coffee, with plenty of cream an’ sugar in it, 
 an’ some of that new white bread an’ fresh butter.” 
 
 The coffee was delicious, and the bread and butter the 
 sweetest that Geraldine had ever eaten, or else they 
 seemed so from her long fast, and she partook of them 
 with a relish that was very satisfactory to her kind 
 hostess. 
 
 Then, too tired and weak even to think connectedly, 
 she fell into a deep slumber. 
 
 In the meantime Bob pursued his way up the road, feel¬ 
 ing bigger, stronger, and of more importance than he ever 
 felt before in his life, with the thought of being installed 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 protector of the pretty lady, whose lovely face and gentle 
 words and ways had made such a strong impression on his 
 boy-heart. 
 
 “ Gorry!” he exclaimed, “ if she don’t jest look like one 
 of them pictures that I see in the store-winders when I 
 went to ’Kipsie.” 
 
 His eye catching the glitter of something lying by the 
 roadside, he picked it up. 
 
 It proved to be a beautifully embossed portemonnaie full 
 of bank bills and gold. 
 
 “It must be hers,” he said, thrusting it under his torn 
 jacket. “ I’ll keep it and give it to her.” 
 
 At this moment the two horsemen came in sight. 
 
 Planting himself by the roadside, with his back toward 
 them, with the air of one either entirely unconscious or in¬ 
 different to their movements, Bob awaited their approach. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Ef they ask me anythin’, ef I don’t put them on the 
 wrong scent, my name ain’t Bob Martin!” was his inward 
 reflection. 
 
 The taller of the two horsemen drew his rein as soon as 
 he saw him. 
 
 “My lad, have you seen a lady on the road anywhere 
 about here, this morning?” 
 
 Bob honored the speaker with a prolonged stare, as if 
 desirous of knowing him again when he saw him. 
 
 “ Was it a real pretty lady with black eyes and hair?” 
 
 “ Yes. Tell me where you saw her, and you shall have 
 this,” said Gaspardo, holding up a silver dollar. 
 
 “Did she have a baby in her arms?” 
 
 “Yes; yes!” was the impatient response; “that is the 
 one. Where is she?” 
 
 “I don’t know where she is now,” drawled the boy, 
 speaking with a slowness and deliberation in strong con¬ 
 trast to the fierce impatience in the look and tone of his 
 questioner. “ I see such a lookin’ lady ’bout three miles 
 down the road. She asked me how fur it was to the 
 landin’, an’ I said-” 
 
 The men did not wait for the speaker to finish his sen¬ 
 tence, but urged their horses forward in the direction to¬ 
 ward which the lad pointed. 
 
 Bob picked up the coin that was flung at his feet, a know¬ 
 ing twinkle in his eye as he rubbed the dust off with the 
 sleeve of his jacket. 
 
 “ I bet a cooky that they’ll be in too much of a hurry to 
 stop at Mr, Burchard’s, but I guess I’ll jest foller on an’ 
 see.” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 HUNTED DOWN. 
 
 As Bob reached Mr. Burchard’s house, to his great satis¬ 
 faction no one was visible except Mr. Burchard, who was 
 leaning against the gate. 
 
 “How’s the lady I sent ye?” 
 
 The man looked surprised at this query. 
 
 “Did you send her? Where on earth did she come 
 from?” 
 
 “ I do’ know more’n the man in the moon. I found her 
 a piece back, settin’ by the roadside clean tuckered out. 
 Said she hadn’t had nothin’ t’eat sence yisterday; so I sent 
 her to you. Knowed you’d be glad to give her a good 
 turn.” 
 
 “Sartin, sartin, my boy; glad you did. I found her 
 tumbled down in a heap on the 'horeh. I declare for’t ef I 
 didn’t think she was dead when I looked at her. Wife an’ 
 me got her on the bed, an’ she’s fast asleep njw.” 
 
 “ When she wakes, tell her that I’m goin’ to get Uncle 
 Jake’s team an’ take her to the landin’to-night; there’s 
 where she wants to go. Now you take good care on her. 
 She’s somebody, you’d better believe; a real lady, ef 
 there ever was one. And a word in your ear, old man. 
 Don't let on to nobody that she’s there. She’s layin’ low, 
 D’ye understand?” 
 
 These words, and the knowing wink that accompanied 
 them, combined to mystify Burchard more than ever, 
 whose head was none of the clearest. 
 
 “ You don’t say so?” 
 
 “Yes, but I do, though,” responded Bob, moving along. 
 “I’ve got to go to the ‘ Corners ’ to help Silas Badger haul 
 logs; when I git back I’ll tell you more; you stan’ by the 
 poor lady; you won’t lose nothin’ by’t, now I tell you.” 
 
 Perhaps Bob had in view the purse, heavy with gold, 
 and whose weight he could feel as he spoke, but he was too 
 shrewd to give any information of his “ find,” or let it pass 
 out of his hands. 
 
 “When I come to take her to the landin’ Ill give it to 
 her,” was his inward reflection, his heart swelling with 
 boyish pride at the thought of the consequence it would 
 give him in her eyes. 
 
 In the meantime, Gaspardo and Rattle pursued their 
 rapid way to the next village, keeping a sharp lookout for 
 the person described by Bob, but without coming across 
 any one in the least resembling her. 
 
 After making sure that there was no one at the ferry or 
 landing, Gaspardo left his companion at the former place 
 ^knowing that no boat left until evening— and carefully 
 
76 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 retraced his way, being strongly impressed with the feel¬ 
 ing that he had either gone in the wrong direction or missed 
 the object of his search some way. 
 
 On reaching Mr. Burchard’s house, he saw a girl at the 
 gate with a child in her arms, whose appearance arrested 
 his attention. 
 
 “ Is that child your little sister?” he asked. 
 
 “No, sir,” said the girl, bashfully, “it belongs to the 
 strange lady.” 
 
 “ What strange lady?” 
 
 “ The one that come this morning.” 
 
 “So there’s a strange lady with you?” continued Gas- 
 pardo, speaking in the softest of tones, but his eyes gleam¬ 
 ing with exultation, as he spoke. “ Is she pretty, with 
 dark eyes and hair, like this little one here?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir.” 
 
 “Where is she now?” said Gaspardo, speaking in the 
 same soft, silky tone, slipping a piece of silver in the girl’s 
 hand. 
 
 The girl examined the coin with an expression of pleased 
 interest, dropping a courtesy of thanks, as she said: 
 
 “She’s in the ‘spare bedroom’ asleep, so mam said.” 
 
 “So she is in the ‘spare bedroom,’ asleep? She is very 
 tired, I dare say. You are a good girl, a very good girl, 
 and won’t disturb her, I know. Is that your father who is 
 smoking on the porch?” 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 “Ask him to step down to the gate, a moment. And 
 mind,” he smiled, as the girl turned to obey, lifting up his 
 forefinger to emphasize his words, “ mind that you don’t 
 disturb the strange lady.” 
 
 Gaspardo’s position was admirably adapted to secure his 
 object, which was to avoid being seen by any one inside, 
 there being an abundance of shrubbery near the gate, and 
 a large tree just outside of it, in the shadow of which he 
 stood. 
 
 Pipe in hand, Mr. Burchard came down the path to the 
 gate. 
 
 “I wish to thank you, sir, for your kindness and hu¬ 
 manity in taking in and caring for my poor, unhappy 
 sister.” 
 
 The look of subdued sorrow in Gaspardo’s face, as he said 
 this, would have deceived a shrewder man than the old 
 farmer. 
 
 “ So the sick lady is your sister? Mighty glad to hear it. 
 The poor critur needs someone to look arter her, if anv one. 
 do.” 
 
 “Very true, sir,” said Gaspardo, in the same sad an i 
 gentle tone 5 “ nnd X consider it my duty, m her brother, ty 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 77 
 
 take charge of her. She is entirely out of her mind, as I 
 suppose you saw.’' 
 
 “You don’t say? Wife said she seemed sort o’ light¬ 
 headed, but I didn’t mistrust ’twas anythin’ ser’us. How 
 long has she been so?” 
 
 “ Ever since the oirth of her last child. Sometimes she 
 is so wild and furious as to be dangerous. ” 
 
 “ Land o’ Goshen!” ejaculated Burchard, in tones of pity 
 and astonishment. “An’ she looks an’ speaks so gentle. 
 Though I minded that her eyes had a kind o’ wild glitter 
 in ’em. But won’t you come in? She’s been asleep, but I 
 think she’s waked up now.” 
 
 “ Oh, no. I don’t want you to mention my name to 
 her, or let her know that I have been here. It would throw 
 her into such a state of excitement that we could do noth¬ 
 ing with her. You know how it is with the insane, they 
 always fear and hate their best friends?” 
 
 The wily man studied Burchard’s face, as he said this, 
 being very well satisfied with the effect he was produc¬ 
 ing. 
 
 “ Ay, to be sure, sir. I remember when Will Taylor was 
 took crazy, he wouldn’t let his wife or any of his folks 
 come nigh him, and he was so fond of them afore.” 
 
 “ That is precisely the case with my poor sister; she ran 
 away from home under the impression that I was her 
 worst enemy, and seeking her hurt. I have been greatly 
 distressed in mind, fearing that she had come to some 
 harm. Now the question is, how to get her back again, 
 which must be done without her suspecting my agency in 
 the matter. You spoke about your wife; will you please 
 tell her what I have told you, and bring her down here, I 
 want to talk with her.” 
 
 Gaspardo maintained his position under the shadow of 
 the tree during Burchard’s absence, his cheek flushed and 
 his heart beating fast under the stimulus of the exciting 
 game he was playing. 
 
 There was a grave, startled look in Mrs. Burchard’s eyes 
 as she looked at him. Her woman’s instinct warned her 
 that there was something wrong, though she was unable 
 to perceive in what direction it lay. 
 
 Gaspardo saw at a glance that he would have more diffi¬ 
 culty with her than her husband, but he trusted in the 
 powers of persuasion at his command, whenever he chose 
 to exert them, and not vainly. 
 
 “I must repeat to you, madam, the thanks proffered 
 to your husband for the kindness you have extended to my 
 poor sister, whose mental condition you were clear-sighted 
 enough to perceive at the first.” 
 
 “I don’t want any thanks,” saicl the woman, a little 
 
78 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 coldly; “ I’ve only treated the poor thing as I’d like to tie 
 treated if I was in her situation.” 
 
 “Very true; and it does you great credit. Very few 
 are actuated by so kind and Christian a spirit, I am sorry 
 to say.” 
 
 This bland and genial tone and manner dissipated much 
 of the instinctive distrust that she had conceived of the 
 speaker; still, there were some doubts remaining, and 
 which impelled her to say: 
 
 “ I thought the poor lady a little flighty, but I judged 
 it to be more from weariness and trouble than anything 
 
 else.” 
 
 Gaspardo shook his head with a melancholy air. 
 
 “ I wish I could think so. But the fact is, the trouble 
 she speaks of exists only in her imagination. Gentle as 
 my sister seems, she is not only incurably, but danger¬ 
 ously mad; so much so as to render it unsafe for her to be 
 at large.” 
 
 Though evidently impressed by these words, Mrs. Bur- 
 chard was silent. 
 
 Displeased at this, her husband now said: 
 
 “Wife, you know you said yourself that you thought 
 she was out of her mind. The gentleman speaks very fair 
 an’ honest, an 1 , being her brother, ought to know.” 
 
 There was a strong family resemblance between Geral¬ 
 dine and her brother, and, though their faces were, in ex¬ 
 pression, so widely different, it was not so apparent in the 
 expression that Gaspardo’s countenance now wore. 
 
 This resemblance had a marked effect on Mrs. Burchard. 
 
 “ I don’t doubt what the gentleman says, my dear,” she 
 said, apologetically. “ But I can’t help feelin’ sorry for 
 the poor young thing.” 
 
 “Such sentiments do you honor, my dear madam,” 
 responded Gaspardo, blandly. “I feel that I cannot be 
 too thankful that she has fallen into such kind and worthy 
 hands. The greatest service you can do her is to assist 
 me in returning her to her home, where she will be sur 
 rounded with all the care and comforts that her unhappy 
 condition demands. Now, the question is, how is this to 
 be done?—it being necessary that there should be none of 
 the excitement and alarm that would act so unfavorably 
 upon her. Did she speak of where she intended to go?” 
 
 “Yes, sir; she seems very anxious to get away, an’ spoke 
 about taking the boat, though I don’t mind that she said 
 what place she was goin’ to. She asked me if I couldn’t 
 get some team to take her to the landin’.” 
 
 “ That will give us just the opportunity we want. You 
 tell her that you have secured a conveyance, and I will bring 
 or send round a carriage, and so take her away as quietly 
 
A WIPE'8 CRIMP, 
 
 w 
 
 and ns comfortably as possible. By assisting me in the 
 matter, you will not only earn my gratitude, but a liberal 
 compensation for all your trouble.” 
 
 Mr. Burchard did not wait for his wife to speak. He 
 placed implicit credence on all that Gaspardo said, and 
 then was not at all averse to take advantage of what is 
 called “ the main chance,” whenever he could honestly do 
 so. 
 
 “Certingly, sir; you may depend on me an’my wife 
 doin’ all we can to help you. It’s a hard case, an’ a hard 
 thing to do ; but seem’ she’s so sot agin you, an' so detar- 
 mined to git away, it’s the best an’ easiest way to fix it. 
 The poor cre’tur ain’t fit to travel alone, as a body can see 
 with half an eye.” 
 
 “Then I may count on the help of both of you?” said 
 Gaspardo, looking a little anxiously at Mrs. Burchard, 
 who had not spoken. 
 
 “Sartin, sartin,” interposed Burchard, nudging his wife. 
 “ Why don’t you answer the gentleman, mother?” 
 
 “ ’Cause you haven’t given me no chance,” retorted the 
 woman, sharply, who evidently viewed with considerable 
 dislike the part she was expected to act. 
 
 “ I’d rather have nothin’ to do with it,” she added, turn¬ 
 ing toward Gaspardo. “Meanin’no offense, sir, it seems 
 so cruel and treacherous. But if she’s so crazy as you say 
 she is, it may be a kindness to her in the end; I d’e say 
 ’tis.” 
 
 With this reluctant consent Gaspardo was obliged to con¬ 
 tent himself. 
 
 “A close carriage will be here at half-past four in the 
 afternoon,” he said, with the air of considering everything 
 satisfactorily settled. “Be careful to keep my sister’s 
 mind perfectly at rest. If she entertains the slightest sus¬ 
 picion that she is not going to the landing to take the boat, 
 but in another direction, she will be so wild and furious 
 that we can do nothing with her.” 
 
 Mrs. Burchard returned to the house, but her husband 
 remained by the gate, watching Gaspardo, who was search¬ 
 ing his pocket-book, and who, being a shrewd judge of 
 character, was not slow in reading that of the man who 
 was regarding him with such an eager, expectant look. 
 
 Selecting one of the glittering coins, he slipped it into 
 Burchard’s hand, saying: 
 
 “You have already been to considerable trouble in the 
 matter. As soon as it is concluded, and my sister is under 
 my own charge again, as it is for her best good she should 
 be, you shall have two more.” 
 
 Burchard waited until he heard the clatter of the horse’s 
 feet, as Gaspardo rode away. Then stealing a pleased, 
 
/ 
 
 80 A WIFE'S CHIME. 
 
 admiring look at the gold eagle in his hand, he thrust it 
 into his pocket, and went up to the house. 
 
 There was no one in the kitchen but his wife. 
 
 “ A very nice, pleasant spoken gentleman,” he said, cast¬ 
 ing a furtive glance at his wife’s face. 
 
 “ Mebby he is,” she responded, applying herself with in¬ 
 creased energy to the clothes she was folding, as though 
 desirous of working off her disturbed feelings; “I don’t 
 know anything to the contrary. But there's something 
 ’bout him that I don’t like, fur all that.” 
 
 “ Why, mother, how can you be so uncharitable?” said 
 her husband, in a tone of virtuous indignation. “ An’ you 
 a church-member, too! ’Taint right; an’ I’m surprised 
 at ye.” 
 
 “ P’r’aps it ain’t; but that’s jist the way I feel ’bout it.” 
 
 “ Anybody that had seen ’em would know they was re¬ 
 lated, an’ why shouldn’t the rest that he told us be true?” 
 continued Burchard, in the tone of a man trying to con¬ 
 vince himself, as well as his audience. “ You can’t deny 
 but what they look ’nough alike to be brother an’ sister.” 
 
 “ They look alike, and then again they don’t. There's 
 somethin’ deep an’ dark ’bout his face that you don’t see in 
 her’n.” 
 
 “Well, wife, however that may be, our duty is plain. 
 It’s an onpleasant thing to do, I aon’t deny that, but we 
 mustn’t shirk it on that account. We orter help this gen¬ 
 tleman in gettin’ his sister back to her home. She’d be 
 obleeged to us for’t, if she knew what was for her best 
 good. We hain’t had no ser’us difference sence we was 
 married, an’ I hope ye ain’t goin’ agin me now. ” 
 
 “No, father, I ain’t. Not but what I’d stand out till 
 doomsday, if I thought I was in the right on’t, but I ain’t 
 sure. It may be jest as you say, I d’e say ’tis, but it goes 
 ’gainst my heart to deceive the poor lady this way.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 SNARED AND TAKEN. 
 
 Geraldine, who was in entire ignorance of the storm 
 that was gathering over her head, the new perils that 
 menaced her, began to be restless and uneasy at Mrs. Bar- 
 chard’s prolonged absence, whom she had sent to her hus¬ 
 band to inquire about the conveyance she was so anxious 
 to secure. 
 
 The thought that her brother was in the neighborhood, 
 searching for her, struck terror to her soul, making her 
 almost wild with anxiety to get away from it. 
 
 Unable to endure the weight of her fears any longer, 
 Geraldine found her way out into the kitchen, where her 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 81 
 
 unexpected appearance, combined with her pale face and 
 gleaming eyes, were quite startling to its two inmates, and 
 Which, certainljj did much to corroborate what Gaopardo 
 had told them. 
 
 Without heeding the effect she had produced, or think¬ 
 ing of anything but the object she had in view, Geraldine 
 said, hurriedly: 
 
 “I am quite well now, and cannot stay here any longer. 
 It is very necessary that I should take the next boat down, 
 but am unable to walk to the landing, which I understand 
 is three or four miles distant. I said that I felt unable to 
 walk so far, but I can and must, if there is no conveyance 
 to be had.” 
 
 Mrs. Burchard looked at her husband, and then down at 
 the towel in her hands. 
 
 Clearing his throat, and speaking with a visible effort, 
 the man said: 
 
 “ Of course, you can’t walk; that’s out of the question. 
 Wife told me that you wanted to take the next boat, an’ 
 I’ve jest heard of a man who’s goin’ that way with a car¬ 
 riage, and who kin take you along jest as well as not.” 
 
 Geraldine’s face brightened. 
 
 “ Thank you, my good, kind friends—for such you have 
 been to me. I have, unfortunately, lost my purse, and so 
 have but little money about me, but my watch and chain, 
 rings and other ornaments are worth several hundred dol¬ 
 lars, and as soon as I can dispose of them, I will see that 
 you are paid for all your trouble.” 
 
 This grateful look and tone did not serve to put Mr. 
 Burchard any more at ease. 
 
 “ I don’t want no pay,” he said, almost gruffly. “ What 
 I do is from a sense of duty. My conscience won’t let me 
 see you do what you ain’t no ways fit fur doin’; an’ some 
 day you’ll thank me fur’t.” 
 
 “ I thank you now,” smiled Geraldine, who was too 
 much pleased at the prospect before her to be very critical 
 of her host’s obscure and rather peculiar phraseology. 
 “ At what time will the carriage be here?” 
 
 “ At half-past four.” 
 
 “ And that will give us time to reach the dock?” 
 
 “ Plenty.” 
 
 Anxious to avoid any further questions, here Burchard 
 left the room, and in compliance with his wife’s sugges¬ 
 tions, Geraldine made an effort to compose herself to rest, 
 if not to sleep, during the intervening time, so as to gain 
 strength for her journey. 
 
 Geraldine’s strange words and manner, the excitement 
 and restlessness visible in all her looks and ways, so fully 
 -corroborated all that Gaspardo had told her that it was im- 
 
82 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 possible for Mrs. Burchard longer to doubt that her mind 
 was seriously affected, but it only increased her tenderness 
 and pity for her unfortunate guest. 
 
 “Poor thing!” she thought, as stealing softly into the 
 room she looked upon Geraldine, who was sleeping, with 
 little Isabel in her arms, “she looks as sweet an’ innocent 
 as a baby. How sure she is that she’s goin’ to be taken to 
 the boat, an’ how disappointed she’ll be when she finds out 
 her mistake. It may be all right, I d’e say ’tis, but I wish, 
 fur massy's sake, that I hadn’t no hand in’t!” 
 
 Promptly, at the appointed time, the carriage made its 
 appearance at the door. 
 
 There were two men on the box, one of whom was Gas- 
 pardo, though he was so completely disguised that Bur¬ 
 chard, who came down to the gate, did not recognize him 
 until he spoke. 
 
 “Is everything all right?” said the former, in a low tone. 
 
 “Everythin’ is all right,” was the prompt response. 
 “ Wife’s helpin’ her on with her things; she’ll be out in a 
 minute.” 
 
 “ As she may recognize my voice, I shall let you do all 
 the talking. Get her into the carriage as quickly as possi¬ 
 ble. so that there will be no time for many words.” 
 
 Slipping the two additional gold pieces into Burchard’s 
 hand, Gaspardo resumed his seat upon the box, where 
 Rattle was sitting, muffled up to the eyes, and with a close 
 cap drawn over his forehead. 
 
 Geraldine was too eager to be on her way again to linger 
 many minutes; in a very short space of time she made her 
 appearance, Mrs. Burchard accompanying her, with little 
 Isabel in her arms. 
 
 The kind-hearted woman’s eyes were full of tears. 
 
 Geraldine turned toward her as they reached the gate. 
 
 “You have been very good to me,” she said, sweetly, 
 holding out her hand, “ and I should be glad to give you 
 something more than thanks, Pray accept this ring as a 
 token of my gratitude.” 
 
 This was more than poor Mrs. Burchard could bear. 
 
 “No! no! I couldn’t think on’t,” she sobbed, thrusting 
 away her hand. “ God forgive me--God bless you, I 
 mean, I liain't done nothin’ but what I felt obleeged to, an’ 
 I hope you’ll think the best on me that you can.” 
 
 “Wife,” whispered Burchard, angrily, twitching her 
 sleeve 
 
 Roused and half frightened at this appeal, Mrs. Burchard 
 wiped her eyes, saying to Geraldine: 
 
 “ Now get into the carriage, dearie, an’ I’ll hand you the 
 
 baby.” 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 bu 
 
 Here Geraldine, observing the position of the carriage 
 for the first time, said: 
 
 “ The horses are headed in the wrong direction. From 
 what the boy told me, the village must be down that way. 
 You had better turn the carriage before I get in.” 
 
 For a moment Burchard was at a loss; but it was only for 
 a moment. 
 
 “ It’s all right, ma’am. You see, the driver’s got to go 
 up a piece. Then he’s going down by another road that is 
 a shorter way.” 
 
 Then, addressing the men on the box: 
 
 “You must be lively, now This lady doesn't want to 
 miss the boat, an’ there’s nO time to lose.’ 
 
 The bare suggestion of losing the boat was all that Geral¬ 
 dine needed. Stepping into the carriage, she took little 
 Isabel from Mrs. Burchard’s arms, the carriage door was 
 slammed to, and the carriage moved away at a r pid pace. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Burchard remained at the gate watching 
 it until it disappeared from view. 
 
 Mr. Burchard s countenance wore a relieved and self 
 satisfied expression, and which was not unnoticed by his 
 wife, whose feelings were very different. 
 
 “I hope you won’t never be sorry, Josiah Burchard. fur 
 this day’s work,” she said, with considerable emphasis; 
 “ but I ain’t so sure on’t as I’d like to be.” 
 
 “How strange you talk, wife. I’ve took measures to 
 hev a poor, crazy woman carried back to her home an’ 
 friends. I hain’t no call to be sorry for’t, an’ I don’t think 
 I ever shall. ” 
 
 Half an hour later Bob made his appearance at the door, 
 his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining with haste and ex¬ 
 citement. 
 
 “ I've called to tell the lady that I’ve engaged a team to 
 take her to the dock. It’ll be here in ’bout twenty minutes. 
 Where is she?” 
 
 Mr. Burchard took the pipe from his mouth, with which 
 he was solacing himself. 
 
 “ She ain’t here; she’s gone.” 
 
 “Gone?” echoed the boy in a disappointed tone. “ What 
 made her go so airly? The boat don’t leave ’fore eight 
 o'clock.” 
 
 Then, remembering the portemonnaie he had found, he 
 added: 
 
 “ I’mgoin’ right down to the dock. I’ve got to see her 
 ’fore she goes; I’ve got somethin’ to—to say to her.” 
 
 Burchard was not a little surprised at the agitation 
 manifested by Bob, as well as the interest he took in his 
 late guest. 
 
 “ Why, what have you got to say to her?” 
 
84 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “ Never you mind what, old man/’ retorted Bob, with a 
 mysterious air. “ It’s somethin’ important.” 
 
 Now Burchard had his own reasons for preventing any 
 such movement as this. 
 
 “ You take my advice, lad, an’ don’t meddle with what 
 don’t consarn ye. You’d much better take a good hot sup¬ 
 per with us, than streakin’ it off down there on a fool’s 
 arrant. ” 
 
 “ It happens to be somethin’ that does consarn me,” re¬ 
 sponded Bob, turning toward the door. “So I’ll hev to de¬ 
 cline both advice an’ supper, though I’m obleeged to ye all 
 the same.” 
 
 Mrs. Burchard, who was present, had been silent through 
 all this. 
 
 Unable longer to restrain her indignation, she now 
 said: 
 
 “ I declare if it ain’t a shame for you to let the boy think 
 she’s gone down there.” 
 
 Then, springing through the doorway, out upon the 
 porch, she cried: 
 
 “Bob! Bob!” 
 
 But Bob had got too far along on his way to hear her. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WHAT BOB FINDS IN THE WOODS. 
 
 The reader will not be surprised to learn that Bob failed 
 to find Geraldine at the dock, to his unconcealed surprise 
 and disappointment. 
 
 He lingered around, however, until the boat left, enter¬ 
 ing into conversation with a number, whose business called 
 them thither, for the purpose of ascertaining if any one 
 answering to Geraldine’s description had been seen, but 
 without any satisfactory result. 
 
 “ There were some other folks here this morning inquir : 
 ing about a lady they expected to find here,” said one of 
 these. “Just such a looking lady, too, I should say, by 
 what they said of her.” 
 
 Though only fourteen, and with limited opportunities for 
 education. Bob had considerable natural shrewdness and 
 common sense, and this set him to thinking. 
 
 “ Was it two men on horseback, one on ’em short an’ the 
 other tall, with black eyes an’ hair, an’ sort o’ fierce- 
 like?” 
 
 “Yes. And I heard the tall one say to the other, ‘ that 
 they must have missed her on the road, and that he would 
 leave him here and go back.’ Then he rode away,” 
 
 “An' you didn't see nothin' more of ’em?” 
 
 “No,” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 85 
 
 “I did,” said another; “ I see him come back an’ talk a 
 spell to the other one. Then they both went to Manson’s 
 stable an’ hired a carriage an’ drove off.” 
 
 “ Which way?” 
 
 “ I didn’t notice?” 
 
 Bob was both puzzled and indignant. That the lady he 
 had befriended had fallen into the hands of these men 
 seemed more than probable, but had it been through the 
 connivance of Burchard? It certainly looked like it. 
 
 He was not long in retracing his way back to the house, 
 bursting in upon Burchard and his wife like a small hurri¬ 
 cane. 
 
 “ A pretty trick you’ve played me! The lady ain’t there, 
 an’ she hain’t been there nuther!” 
 
 “ I didn’t s’pect she was,” said the old farmer, dryly; 
 “ she went another way.” 
 
 “ An’ you knowed it alt the time, an’ let me go clear 
 down there, jist for nothin’?” 
 
 “ I’d hev told ye, if ye hadn’t been in such a thunderin’ 
 hurry. Not that I consider it any of your business.” 
 
 “ I sent that lady to ye, old man,” responded Bob, in a 
 towering rage, “an’ you may jest bet that I shall make it 
 my business to find out what you’ve done with her.” 
 
 “You see, Bob,” interposed Mrs. Burchard, with a mild, 
 conciliatory air. “the poor thing is crazy, an’ so her 
 brother come an’ took her away.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe it. I don’t believe she is any more crazy 
 than I am. 
 
 “ What did she do, that made you think she was?” added 
 Bob, turning to Mrs. Burchard, in whom it was easy to see 
 lie had the most confidence. 
 
 “ Well, she seemed wild and flighty-like.” 
 
 “ I guess you’d be wild and flighty too, if you’d been 
 wanderin’ ’bout all night with nothin’ to eat, and knowed 
 that somebody was huntin’ you down as if you was a 
 wild beast.” 
 
 “ So I told her brother. I said it seemed more as if it 
 was trouble, or gettin’ so worn out like, that made her act 
 so strange, than anythin’ ser’us.” 
 
 “ P’r’aps he wasn’t her brother at all. I met him up at 
 the corner jest arter I left her here this mornin’, and if 
 ever a man had a bad, cruel face, he had. Did she go with 
 him contented?” 
 
 “ The poor dear never knowed she was goin’with him at 
 all; she thought she was goin’ to the dock. Her brother 
 didn’t want us to let on that he had anythin’ to do with it. 
 I told Josiah that that was what made me feel the wust. 
 It seemed so deceitful an’treacherous. ” 
 
 “ An’ so it was. An’ I never thought you was the woman 
 

 A WIFE’S CRIME . 
 
 to do it, either. A poor, hunted-down defenseless things 
 an’ with a baby, too.” 
 
 The doubts that Mrs. Burchard had all along entertained 
 sent these words home to her heart. 
 
 ‘‘It was somethin’ that I didn’t want anythin’ to do 
 with, an’ so I told ’em. I declare for’t I never felt wuss in 
 my life than when I see her gittin’ into the carriage, spe¬ 
 cially when she thanked me so pretty for all my kindness; 
 but her brother talked so fair, an’ Josiah thought ’twas all 
 right-” 
 
 “An’ so I think now,” interrupted Burchard, wrathfully. 
 “ An’ I tell ye what ’tis, young man, I don’t want ye to 
 come y ere an’ talk to me an’ my wife this way. We hain’t 
 done nothin’ we’re ashamed on; crazy folks has to be man¬ 
 aged. There was my brother’s wife’s cousin, Jane Petti¬ 
 grew, nobody could have got her to the ’silum if they 
 hadn’t made her believe she was goin’ to visit her sister. 
 Things has come to a pretty pass when a lad like you lays 
 down the law to a man of my years 1” 
 
 Here the speaker pulled out of his pocket his red ban¬ 
 dana handkerchief, taking with it one of the gold coins 
 that Gaspardo had given him, and which rolled to Bob’s 
 feet. 
 
 Picking it up, Bob laid it on the table. 
 
 “How many of these did that black-eyed feller give ye 
 fur doin’ his dirty work fur him?” 
 
 Burchard’s face was almost as red as the handkerchief 
 with which he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. 
 
 He cast a shame-faced look at his wife, whose counte¬ 
 nance showed that this was a new and unwelcome revela¬ 
 tion. 
 
 “I didn’t ask no pay,” he said, surlily; “and I’d done 
 jest the same if I hadn’t got none. He put this in my hand 
 jest as he was goin’ off, an’ it’s nobody’s business. An’ 
 now, you young sass-box, if you don’t make yourself 
 scarce-” 
 
 Believing discretion to be the better part of valor. Bob 
 put the door between himself and the speaker’s wrathful 
 face. 
 
 “ If I was only bigger, an’ he wasn’t an old man, I’d soon 
 let him know what I thought of sech doin’s, an’ it wouldn’t 
 be by words, nuther!” he thought, as he pursued his way 
 home. “ I never will believe she was crazy; an’ I declare 
 if it ain’t a burnin’ shame!” 
 
 The moon was high in the heavens, making everything 
 as clear as day. 
 
 “ Here is where I fust saw her.” he thought, as he came 
 to the fence by which Geraldine stood when she called to 
 him. “Didn’t she look pretty, though! Sech beautiful 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 87 
 
 black eyes, an’ sech a sweet smile an’ voice! I never see 
 anybody like her, an’ never expect to ag’in.” 
 
 Here Bob gave a half-sigh. 
 
 He was a warm-hearted, imaginative boy, with a good 
 deal of unawakened poetry in his nature; still too young 
 to have any idea of love as a oassion, he was of that age 
 and temperament when a beautiful woman becomes the 
 object of wonder and admiration. 
 
 Geraldine’s beauty and gentle, winning word 4 and 
 ways, combined with her appeal to him for aid and protec¬ 
 tion, had made her the object of chivalrous affection and 
 devotion, rarely excelled by those of riper years and ex¬ 
 perience. 
 
 The sadness and uncertainty of Geraldine’s fate filled 
 him with pity and terror. 
 
 “ Poor lady,” he thought. “ I wonder where she is now. 
 There can’t nothin’ make me believe that she’s crazy. 
 That man had a real wicked look, an’ I don’t believe he 
 means her any good. An’ to think of his gettin’ hold on 
 her, arter all the pains I took to send him another way.” 
 
 Here Bob was startled by a plaintive cry. 
 
 Pausing, he listened, but hearing nothing further, and 
 supposing it to be the cry of a bird or animal, he walked 
 on. 
 
 Presently he heard the same sound again, this time 
 louder and more prolonged. 
 
 It seemed to come from a dense piece of woods on the 
 right, and was evidently the cry of a child in great want 
 or distress. 
 
 Getting over the fence, he moved quickly in the direc¬ 
 tion whence the cries proceeded. 
 
 He had gone only a few steps, when he saw a bundle of 
 something white in the path beyond. 
 
 The sounds that proceeded from it, showed that it was an 
 animated bundle, and on picking it up and unrolling the 
 blanket and cloak that enveloped it, he found that it con¬ 
 tained a child of less than a year old. 
 
 On further examination, he saw that it was the babe that 
 he had held in his arms in the morning, and whose resem¬ 
 blance to her beautiful mother he remembered so well. 
 
 As though she knew that she had found a friend, the 
 little creature’s cries ceased as soon as Bob lifted her in his 
 arms, nestling there as though glad to find so pleasant a 
 shelter. 
 
 Just then he heard the hurried clatter of horses’ feet 
 along the highway he had just quitted. 
 
 Suddenly stopping, it was followed by the sound of ap¬ 
 proaching footsteps. 
 
 More from instinct than anything else, Bob crouched 
 
88 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 down in a little thicket of tall bushes, that completely 
 screened him from view. 
 
 “ Here is where I threw the little brat out of the carriage,” 
 said a voice that Bob well remembered, though he had 
 heard it but once. “It’s killed, no doubt. It never should 
 have had any being—that it had is an eternal disgrace to 
 our name. So I’m glad of that; only if it should be found, 
 it might arouse unpleasant suspicions. Do you see any 
 signs of it, Pietro? Look in that direction.” 
 
 A cold perspiration started out on Bob’s face; if discov¬ 
 ered, he knew his life would be the forfeit, as well as the 
 innocent child’s, toward whom his heart was drawn so 
 strongly. 
 
 Supposing it should cry? His heart stood still at the 
 bare thought. 
 
 But as though the little creature knew that its preserva¬ 
 tion depended upon it, it lay with its head on Bob’s shoulder 
 without making a sound or motion. 
 
 One of the men had a dark lantern, and in the search 
 they were making its rays were thrown so directly on the 
 place where Bob was secreted, that for a moment he was 
 almost sure that he was seen. 
 
 Then, to his great relief, the man that held it passed on; 
 and, apparently satisfied that he had made a thorough 
 search m that direction, did not come that way again. 
 
 “ Are you sure this was the place?” he hears one of them 
 say. 
 
 “Yes; I know I stopped the carriage just by that tree 
 yonder. I flung the child right over the fence. Some¬ 
 body must have found it; it was too young to walk 
 away.” 
 
 “ It wouldn’t have been very likely to have done so, after 
 the fling you gave it, if it hadn’t been,” said the other. 
 “You had better have kept your temper.” 
 
 “I suppose I had,” was the gloomy response. “But 
 what is a man to do with a woman screaming in the way 
 Geraldine did, and with the expectation of some one 
 coming along and hearing her? I could have strangled 
 her!” 
 
 “ I dare say. And you had better have done it, too, 
 than fling the child where it would be picked up, and so, 
 perhaps, bring everything out. ” 
 
 “Why, do you think the child has anything on it that 
 could identify it?” 
 
 “ I can’t say as to that. It is rather too young to wear 
 ornaments. But I think, under the circumstances, that it 
 was a very risky thing to do, and may make us trouble. 
 There is no knowing what it may lead to, We had better 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 89 
 
 do what we have to do quickly, and get out of this part of 
 the country as soon as we can.” 
 
 Scarcely daring to breathe, Bob listened to the retreating 
 footsteps, and then to the clatter of the horses’ feet until 
 they died in the distance. 
 
 Then, pale and trembling, he arose from his constrained 
 position, staggering, rather than walking, to a natural seat 
 formed by some stones near by. 
 
 Cool as the night was, the terror he had been in had 
 brought the moisture out in large drops upon his fore¬ 
 head. 
 
 His first thought was of the child. 
 
 Alarmed at its limpness and quietude, Bob looked down 
 upon it. 
 
 Its eyes were shut, but it did not look as if it was sleep¬ 
 ing, and he noticed, for the first time, that there was a 
 livid mark across the forehead. 
 
 Frightened at its death-like appearance, he went to a 
 brook near by, laving its head and face in the cool, clear 
 water. 
 
 To his great relief and delight, Isabel opened her eyes, 
 smiling up into his face. 
 
 Then she moaned, as if in pain, crying: 
 
 ‘ ‘ Mamma! mamma!” 
 
 His eyes filled with tears. 
 
 “ Poor, poor baby! I wish your mamma was here. Poor 
 lady! she’s wuss off than you be, I’m afraid.” 
 
 The events of the last few hours, especially the responsi¬ 
 bilities thrust so suddenly upon him, had done the work 
 of years in arousing the capabilities of his nature. 
 
 “ The little thing hain’t nobody but me,” he thought, as 
 he looked down on it, his heart swelling with a sense of 
 pride and ownership as he saw how sweet and helpless she 
 was; “an’ it ain’t goin’ to want fur nothin’ if I can help 
 it. She’s left to me to take care of, an’ I’m goin’ to do it!” 
 
 But in spite of the confident tone of these reflections, 
 there was a puzzled feeling at Bob’s heart as he queried 
 what he was to do with this helpless charge. 
 
 There were no bones broken, the blanket and cloak in 
 which she was wrapped having prevented that; but the 
 bruise on the forehead ought to be attended to, and then 
 she was evidently suffering from cold and hunger. 
 
 At first, he thought he would take it back to Mr. Bur- 
 chard’s, but, after some deliberation, he rejected it. 
 
 He knew how kind-hearted his wife was, but he had lost 
 all confidence in her husband, judging him more hardly 
 than he deserved to be; for though a man capable of being 
 blinded by his own interest, like many another, he would 
 fxot do a cruel or unjust thing, if he knew it to be such, 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 9i 
 
 “It will be just like him to let those men know where 
 she is. He’ll take their story instead of mine, an’ the up¬ 
 shot of it will be that she’ll be given up to ’em. I know what 
 I’ll do, I’ll carry it to Aunt Jane. There ain’t a kinder 
 heart anywhere, an’ though uncle don’t like babies, he’ll 
 like this one or I’ll lose my guess. They’ll keep it for a 
 spell, I know. When they hear its strange, sad story, 
 they’ll love an’ pity it, jist as I do, poor baby!” 
 
 And holding his precious charge carefully in his arms, 
 Bob struck into a narrow path that led to a road that 
 wound along the river. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 baby’s new home and friends. 
 
 Mrs. Brown was bustling about in her pleasant kitchen 
 getting supper, or rather putting the finishing touches to it. 
 
 It was all lying upon the round table, covered with 
 snowy linen, that the old-fashioned grandmother, who sat 
 knitting in the corner, had spun and woven with her own 
 hands. 
 
 And a plentiful and tempting repast it was. 
 
 A blue-edged platter was in the center, on which were 
 the vegetables and meat left over from dinner. At one end 
 of the table was a loaf of brown bread, at the other a loaf 
 of white, supplemented by a “ pat ” of golden butter. 
 
 Then there were clear white honey, in the comb, a plate 
 of doughnuts and cheese, and a pitcher of cider and of 
 milk. 
 
 All making up an array of “creature comforts,” very 
 pleasant to look at, and still more agreeable to partake of. 
 
 Twice Mrs. Brown went to the door, looking down toward 
 the road. 
 
 “ I wonder what keeps Robert so late?” she said, as she 
 returned from her second look, addressing her husband, 
 who was sitting by the cheerful blaze. “ He ought to have 
 been here more’n an hour ago.” 
 
 “ He’s stopped on the road some’eres, I s’pose,” was the 
 response. “Boys will be boys. I only wish he was more 
 like other boys than he is.” 
 
 “ That he wan’t so fond of his book, I s’pose you mean?” 
 said the wife, a little anxiety visible beneath the smile 
 that was seldom absent from the placid, motherly face. 
 
 “Yes, I do,” was the rather irritable response. “ What 
 good is book-larnin’ goin’ to do the boy? He’s got all that 
 I ever had, an’ that’s enough. It’ll only make him discon¬ 
 tented and shiftless.” 
 
 “I do’ know ’bout that, John. Robert ain’t like the gen¬ 
 eral run of boys—never seemed to care to j’ine in any of 
 
A WIFE 8 CRIME. 
 
 91 
 
 their fun an’ frolics. An’ I can’t help thinkin’, if he had a 
 good chance fur schoolin’, that he’d turn out somethin’ 
 more’n common.” 
 
 “ That's because you’re so wrapped up in the boy. He 
 won't be fit fur nothin’; you jest sp’ile him.” 
 
 “ No, you can’t say that he’s sp’iled, John, even if I am 
 partial; a sweeter-tempered, more industrious boy never 
 breathed. He was almost beside himself with joy when I 
 told him that you said he could go to school this winter, 
 an’ I do hope thaG there won’t be nothin’ happen to prevent 
 it.” 
 
 “ I ain’t goin’ back from my word,” said Mr Brown, 
 more in response to his wife’s look than words. “I said 
 the lad should go to school this cornin’ winter if he wanted 
 to, an’ so he shall. But I think it’s jist foolishness, all the 
 same.” 
 
 Mrs. Brown’s face cleared at this assurance. 
 
 “ I guess we won’t wait supper any longer? you must be 
 hungry arter cutting wood all day. Come, grandma. I 
 can’t help thinkin’ it’s queer about Kobert though; he’s 
 always been as reg’lar as a clock.” 
 
 The “supper things” had been put away, except what 
 had been left for Bob, who still tarried. 
 
 Mrs. Brown’s surprise at this was fast giving place to 
 alarm, when the door opened, and in Bob walked, laying 
 a little animated bundle in her lap. 
 
 “ I found it in the woods!” he cried excitedly. “ It’s my 
 baby; God gave it to me!” 
 
 The good woman gazed in speechless amazement upon 
 the child that was lying on her knees. 
 
 It was no time for questions, however; ‘ ‘ lawful sakes, did 
 you ever!” being all that escaped her lips as she proceeded 
 to attend to the wants of the forlorn little creature, whose 
 helplessness and beauty appealed so strongly to her heart. 
 
 Bob assisted her to the extent of his ability, bringing 
 warm water, bandages and liniment, and, lastly, some 
 cunning little garments that had been lying there at the 
 bottom of Mrs. Brown’s chest for many a year. 
 
 In the meantime, Mr. Brown sat motionless in his seat on 
 the other side of the fire, staring at the two and the object 
 of their loving ministrations. 
 
 Having eaten to repletion of the nice new milk and white 
 bread, which Bob had prepared for her in his own pewter 
 porringer, little Isabel lay contentedly in Mrs, Brown’s lap, 
 staring up at the faces that were bending over her. 
 
 Mr. Brown now approached. 
 
 As though she saw something that pleased her in thac. 
 rugged but not unkindly face, the little creature cooed, 
 holding out her dimpled hands toward him. 
 
99 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 At this, the half frown that the man’s face wore changed 
 to a look of pleased interest. 
 
 His wife was quick to notice and take advantage of this. 
 
 “Ain’t she pretty, John?” 
 
 Though John made no verbal response, he surrendered 
 his big brown forefinger to the clasp of one of the little 
 fluttering hands, gazing with an involuntary admiration 
 into those black, velvety eyes. 
 
 “She’s pretty enough, if that’s all,” he said, a few mo¬ 
 ments later, as his wife repeated 'the question, speaking a 
 little gruffly, as though half ashamed of his weakness 
 
 “ She ain’t half so pretty as her mother,” burst out Bob. 
 “Oh! auntie, oh! Uncle John, if you could have seen her I” 
 
 Mr Brown turned his eyes inquiringly upon the speaker, 
 and his voice had an impatience and even sternness in it, 
 as he said: 
 
 “ Where is the child’s mother? And where did you come 
 across either? Come, lad, I want an explanation,” 
 
 Bob needed no urging to tell his wonderful story; the 
 strange events, in which he had so strangely participated, 
 having made so strong an impression on his mind that he 
 could think of little else. 
 
 He commenced, when Geraldine called to him over the 
 fence, in the dawn of the early morning; narrating in his 
 own way, his rude, but expressive language enhancing its 
 interest to his simple-hearted auditors, his futile efforts to 
 aid and defend her; his stormy interview with Burchard; 
 his finding of her babe in the woods, down to the time 
 when those evil men came back to complete their cruel 
 work. 
 
 “Blessme!” ejaculated Mrs. Brown, with uplifted hands, 
 at its conclusion, “did ever any one hear the like? If it 
 don’t sound just like a story out of a book.” 
 
 “ That proves what I heard Parson Decker say t’other 
 day,” responded Bob. “ He said there was things goin’ on 
 all around us that folks dursent put into print, fur fear no¬ 
 body wouldn’t believe ’em.” 
 
 Mr. Brown had listened to Bob’s story with absorbing 
 interest. 
 
 “That reminds me of somethin’ I heard neighbor Lar¬ 
 kins say, though I didn’t take no account on’t at the time. 
 He said, as he was walkin’ through Allen’s woods, ’bout 
 sundown, he saw a carriage come tearin’ along the road, 
 an’ a woman in it, screamin’ like mad.” 
 
 “It was the poor, pretty lady,” said Bob, sorrowfully; 
 “those wicked and cruel men were carryin’ her off.” 
 
 “There’s law for sech people,” responded Mr. Brown, 
 with a grave shake of the head. “It’s somethin’ that 
 ought to be looked arter.” 
 
A T VIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 28 
 
 “Oh, uncle! if you make any stir’bout it they’ll come 
 an’ take away my baby. It won’t do a mite of good. You 
 see, they know just how to talk an’ make everythin’ 
 smooth. An’ then they’ve got lots of money, an’ money 
 can do most anythin’.” 
 
 “ Well, I’ll see ’bout it in the mornin’. It’s time you was 
 to bed now, an’ we all was.” 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 DISCOVERY AND CONFESSION. 
 
 The latter part of Geraldine’s journey back to Hunter’s 
 Lodge was performed in an enforced quietude, in marked 
 contrast to the excitement that had followed her first sus¬ 
 picion of the treachery that had been practiced against 
 her. 
 
 For a few minutes consciousness had given way beneath 
 the horrors of her position and the violence ,to which she 
 was subjected. 
 
 When it returned she found herself gagged and her 
 hands pinioned behind her; her last sensation being the 
 clutch of the fingers of one of her captors around her 
 throat, in his endeavors to stifle her outcries. 
 
 Her first thought was of her baby. 
 
 She remembered her brother snatching it from her arms, 
 in his first struggle with her, and she remembered no more. 
 
 Unable to move, or make the slightest sound, she cast 
 her eyes around the carriage, her heart full of deadly ap¬ 
 prehension as she found that it was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 Then, as she felt the motion of the revolving wheels, 
 knowing only too well whither they were taking her, her 
 thoughts took a still darker direction. 
 
 Had her husband’s body been found? was the involun¬ 
 tary query that arose, her heart sinking as she thought 
 how impossible it was that that dark secret could be kept 
 any longer. 
 
 A feeling akin to despair seized her, as she saw how vain 
 were all her efforts to escape, that, in spite of all her care¬ 
 fully-laid plans, the hardships she had undergone, she had 
 been brought back to face the unspeakable horrors and 
 perils that this discovery would inevitably bring. 
 
 Why should she struggle any longer? 
 
 The carriage stopped, and with her eyes unbound, but 
 her arms still pinioned, Geraldine was lifted out. 
 
 Her eyes had been so long in darkness, that at first all 
 she could discern was the outlines of a dusky figure upon 
 the steps, made visible by the flash of alighted candle, th J 
 was held high above the head. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 $4 
 
 Then some thin, wiry fingers clutched her arm, and a 
 voice hissed in her ear: 
 
 “ Marse Robert is come. Do you want to see him?” 
 
 4 ‘No—oh, no!” moaned the conscience-stricken wife, 
 sinking down upon her knees. 
 
 Lorenzo Gaspardo and his brother Pietro were witnesses 
 to this strange spectacle. 
 
 The former now said: 
 
 “ Is Mr. Bayard here, Prue?” 
 
 There was a strange look in Prue’s eyes as she rolled 
 them from one to the other. 
 
 “Yes, sah. Marse Robert here. Do you want to see 
 him?” 
 
 “ Of course. Take me to where he is directly.” 
 
 Some idea must have entered the speaker’s mind that 
 the person he expected to see would hardly approve of the 
 harsh measures he had taken with his wife, however hard 
 he might be with her himself, for he said, in a low tone, to 
 his brother: 
 
 “ Unbind her arms.” 
 
 “ She got to come, too,” said Prue, who still maintained 
 her position and strange demeanor. 
 
 “No! no! I cannot, I cannot?” moaned Geraldine, still 
 cowering upon the ground. 
 
 “And I say yes, yes,” cried Lorenzo, angrily, lifting her 
 on to her feet. “What do you mean by such conduct? 
 Your husband was once fool enough to love you, as few 
 women are loved, and if you don’t make your peace with 
 him. at least sufficienly to save our name, from disgrace, 
 you’ll soon find out what to expect from me. He’ll show 
 you a good deal more mercy than I shall.” 
 
 It was part of the wretched wife’s punishment to feel 
 and realize this, as no one else could. 
 
 Silent and grim, Prue moved on ahead; the light from 
 the candle flashing about her tall, gaunt form, and giving 
 it a still more spectral appearance. 
 
 Impelled by the strong hand that grasped her arm, Ger¬ 
 aldine soon found herself in a room, in the middle of which, 
 on a long narrow table, lav a ghastly spectacle, from which, 
 hardened as Lorenzo Gaspardo’s nature was, he recoiled 
 with an ejaculation of horror and dismay. 
 
 Like some gnarled and leafless tree, tossed by the tem¬ 
 pest, Prue flung her long arms aloft, while a cry of mingled 
 grief and rage burst from her lips, more like a wild animal’s 
 than anything human. 
 
 “ There’s Marse Robert,” she cried, rocking herself back¬ 
 ward and forward, “all there’s left on him. I found hirn. 
 Tf> the cell, down suller. She, she murdered him!” 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 95 
 
 Lorenzo turned a dark, inquiring look upon Geraldine’s 
 face. 
 
 Raising her hand, with a still more impressive tone and 
 gesture, Prue continued: 
 
 “ Here, beside his dead body, I charge her with the crime, 
 an’ she can’t, she dursen’t deny it.” 
 
 Contrition and remorse swept every other feeling from 
 that crushed and desolate heart. Covering her face with 
 her hands, Geraldine’s tears fell fast, as she faltered : 
 
 “ It is true—alas! alas ! that I should live to say it! I 
 killed the man that I know, too late, to have been the best 
 and truest friend I had. I was mad, mad!” 
 
 “See!” cried the negress, exultantly, “ she owns it. She 
 ain’t goin’ to escape me. I’ll have a constable here in the 
 mornin’. She’s a murderess, an’ shall die the death of 
 one!” 
 
 Lorenzo Gaspardo now spoke: 
 
 “ If she is a murderess, she shall surely die the death of 
 one, but not in the way you propose, Prue. Do you want 
 to drag your master’s name, as well as mine, through all 
 the mire and dirt that such a course as that would render 
 inevitable? Leave her to me ; she will be far less likely to 
 escape the punishment she merits.” 
 
 The spirit of cruelty and revenge had taken full posses¬ 
 sion of Prue’s heart, and she was evidently unwilling to re¬ 
 linquish the advantage she had gained over the woman she 
 hated. So there was a dubious expression to her counte¬ 
 nance and tone as she said: 
 
 “ How am I to be sure of that, sah?” 
 
 “You shall be an eye-witness to it.” 
 
 “No! no!” implored Geraldine, in accents of horror; 
 “ deliver me to the nearest magistrate, Prue, but not to 
 him.” 
 
 “ You see which she would rather you would do,” said 
 Gaspardo, significantly. 
 
 These words, together with Geraldine’s evident reluct¬ 
 ance, turned the wavering scales. Disengaging her dress 
 from the hands that clung to it, she said sullenly: 
 
 “Take her, then; you said I should see for myself, sab, 
 an’ you mustn’t forgit it.” * 
 
 “Never fear, Prue; I sha’n’t forget.” 
 
 Though so altered as to be recognizable in no other way, 
 the garments worn and the papers on them made it clearly 
 evident to the Gaspardos that the body found by Prue was 
 that of their unfortunate brother-in-law. 
 
 In pursuance of their determination to keep the whole 
 matter in their own hands, they decided to have the re¬ 
 mains buried privately, and at night. 
 
 W ith a refinement of cruelty of which few are capable, 
 
S3 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 Lorenzo Gaspardo obliged Geraldine to follow her husband 
 to his nameless and untimely grave. 
 
 So the following night, a little after twelve, a carriage 
 containing three persons moved slowly down the back 
 avenue, and which led to a wild, dreary, unfrequented 
 piece of woods, which lay between two high hills. 
 
 The carriage was preceded by a covered wagon, and 
 which stopped by an open grave. 
 
 Chilled to the marrow by the dampness of the chill De¬ 
 cember night, Geraldine sat listening to the rattling of the 
 earth upon the rough coffin; a vague feeling of wonder at 
 her heart as to how soon it would fall upon her own. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE TRIAL AND SENTENCE. 
 
 In Eagle Nest, the home of the two brothers, Lorenzo 
 and Pietro Gaspardo, and which was situated on a high, 
 lonely, almost inaccessible spot on the river, sat two men 
 in solemn conclave. 
 
 They wore black masks; the walls of the room being 
 hung and the table in the center of it covered with cloth of 
 the same somber hue. 
 
 There was no other furniture, with the exception of three 
 chairs—one of these being empty, and placed at the further 
 end of the table, those occupied by the masked men being 
 at the other end. 
 
 For full five minutes not a word was spoken, the faces 
 of the two being turned in mutual expectancy toward the 
 door, which now opened to admit a man, also masked, who 
 led, or rather supported, a woman to the vacant chair, 
 whose trembling limbs seemed inadequate to bear the 
 weight of the heavy manacles that bound the slender 
 wrisis, and whose pale face was rendered still more pallid 
 by the wealth of jetty hair which fell in disordered masses 
 around her. 
 
 Removing the manacles, the man took his stand by the 
 door, standing there silent and motionless. 
 
 As though they were desirous of striking terror to the 
 soul of their helpless prisoner, the two men surveyed her 
 for some moments in silence. 
 
 Then the taller of them stretched out his arm, saying: 
 
 “ Lost and guilty woman! all is discovered. That dark 
 deed, which you thought to be hidden from every human 
 eye, has come to the light. Are you prepared to acknowl¬ 
 edge your guilt and accept the conquences of it?” 
 
 Geraldine’s voice, though low, was clear and resolute as 
 she said: 
 
 “ l am willing to acknowledge all that I am guilty of. I 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 97 
 
 Own —ah! woe is me!—that, in a frenzy of terror and 
 despair, I struck the fatal blow that deprived my husband 
 of life. But the other charge brought against me is false. 
 I have been blind, foolish, weak; but, as God is my judge, 
 I am guiltless of doing him any other wrong.” 
 
 “ Peace, woman!” was the stern reply; “ you do but add 
 to your guilt by denying it. Will you disown your own 
 handwriting—the confession signed by your own hand?” 
 
 “ It was extorted from me. If this were my last hour 
 on earth, I should still protest my innocence.” 
 
 “Unfortunately for your protestation to be of any avail,’’ 
 was the cool response, “ there are too many things to cor¬ 
 roborate it. I believe that confession to be true. And set¬ 
 ting that aside, I know from your own lips that you are a 
 murderess!” 
 
 That pale face flushed, while the dark eyes glowed with 
 something of their wonted fires. 
 
 “ And you are a murderer!” 
 
 And without heeding, if she noticed, the consternation 
 that these words occasioned, Geraldine continued speaking 
 in tones of horror and anguish, which gave them added 
 intensity and meaning: 
 
 “You killed my innocent baby, who never harmed you 
 or any one. You threw it out of the carriage, leaving it 
 for dead upon the road. I heard you own and exult over 
 it, wnen you thought me too insensible, from your bru¬ 
 tality, to hear you. You are taking high-handed measures 
 with me for an act into which I was goaded by madness 
 and despair. What punishment do you think that the law 
 Would mete out to your crime?” 
 
 If there had been any disposition to spare the speaker, 
 any touch of mercy or compassion in the hearts of her 
 self-constituted judges, they were destroyed by these 
 words,. 
 
 Going to the window, the two brothers conversed together 
 in low and earnest tones. 
 
 Pietro, the younger brother, was in favor of imprison¬ 
 ment or exile, his nature being less hardened, but Lorenzo 
 would not hear to this. 
 
 “Such a course would be attended with innumerable 
 dangers,” he urged. “She got away from us once, and 
 may again. You heard what she said? She has been a 
 trouble and disgrace to us all her life, and the only way is 
 to silence her tongue, at once and forever.” 
 
 Geraldine awaited in silence the result of the ominous 
 conference upon which her life hung; separated from her 
 boy, her baby snatched from her by so cruel a fate, a feel? 
 ing of despair had begun to take possession of her. 
 
98 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 The brothers resumed their seats. The eldei was the first 
 to speak. 
 
 “ The sentence that we pronounce upon you, and which 
 any judge would pronounce after hearing the evidence, is 
 — death!" 
 
 A sudden shiver of horror roused Geraldine to a brief 
 struggle against this merciless fate. 
 
 “ I deny your right to pronounce it. Deliver me over to 
 the law. Denying and extenuating nothing, I will submit 
 to any penalty it may inflict.” 
 
 “And have our name eternally disgraced?” was the 
 fierce response. ‘ ‘ All your shameful conduct published in 
 every paper throughout the land? Nev'er! 
 
 “ It is useless for you to make any appeal for mercy,” 
 continued Lorenzo, speaking in a less excited, but more 
 impressive tone and manner; “your doom is fixed. A 
 week’s time will be given you for preparation, and then 
 your sentence will be executed. But you may, if you will, 
 choose the manner of your death.” 
 
 “ I know you too well to expect any mercy from you. 
 All the favor I ask of you is to let me see a minister of our 
 most holy faith. How else am I to make the preparation 
 you speak of? As you hope for Heaven’s mercy, when you 
 need its mercy most, I implore you not to have "the blood 
 of my soul on your hands!” 
 
 The two brothers were rigid Catholics, placing implicit 
 reliance upon the rites of the Church, and this appeal evi¬ 
 dently made a strong impression upon them. 
 
 Retiring to the window again, they conferred together 
 for some minutes. 
 
 Then returning to the table, Lorenzo said: 
 
 “ If any way can be devised by which this favor can be 
 accorded you, safely, it shall be granted.” 
 
 “ Safely ?” echoed Geraldine, in a tone of surprise. “ You 
 surely must know that anything revealed under the seal of 
 the confessional will be safe?” 
 
 Lorenzo took an ebony cross from his bosom. 
 
 “Will you swear that you will reveal nothing, except 
 under that seal? That you will mention no name or place 
 that will tend to lead to suspicion or detection?” 
 
 Geraldine held the cross to her lips. 
 
 “I swear it!” was the low and solemn response. 
 
 “Then you may have a good degree of confidence that 
 your request will be granted. At all events, we will use 
 our best endeavors to that end. Now what death do you 
 choose to die?” 
 
 Though torn from all that made life pleasant or desir¬ 
 able, and her heart so wrung with anguish that the grave 
 at tipcies seemed q yrelcome refuge, it was not in humaij 
 
A WIFE'S cniME. 99 
 
 nature to repress the involuntary shudder called forth by 
 these words. 
 
 Twice did the wretched woman essay to speak, and twice 
 did the words die in an inarticulate moan upon her lips. 
 
 Then she said: 
 
 “I have no wish to express on the subject, except that 
 it be as quick and painless as possible. ” 
 
 Lorenzo nodded, and then turning to the man at the 
 door, said: 
 
 “ Remove the prisoner.” 
 
 As soon as the brothers were alone, Pietro flung his 
 mask upon the table with a gesture of impatience. 
 
 Why is all this mummery necessary? Do you suppose 
 that it prevents her from recognizing us?” 
 
 “I know that it will prevent her from swearing as to our 
 identities,” said the other, “ which will be a strong point 
 in our favor, should our plans miscarry or any untoward 
 event occur to bring matters to the light. She has 
 not seen our faces since she was brought here, nor do I 
 mean that she shall. As to the rest, in the forms we have 
 gone through with we are not committing murder. I 
 meant that she should have as fair a trialas she would 
 have before any court, and she has had.” 
 
 “ Have it your own way,” was the response. “ If I had 
 piine, I should have made quicker work of it.” 
 
 “You wouldn’t have had any work at all; you’d have 
 let the whole tiling drop through.” 
 
 “ No, I wouldn’t. My idea was to give her a thorough 
 scare, make her think that her life was on the point of 
 being taken, and then let her off. And I think it will be 
 the best way now. With her confession and letters in 
 our possession, together with all the proofs we have, we 
 should be able to preserve such a hold on her that she 
 would be only too glad to keep quiet.” 
 
 “ Keep quiet? Not she,” retorted Lorenzo, enforcing his 
 assertion with more emphatic language than we care to 
 repeat. “ It isn’t in her to be quiet anywhere. Didn’t you 
 hear what she said about the child? The very first thing 
 she’ll do will be to make a stir about that; and you know 
 as well as I what that will lead to. And then there is 
 Prue. ” 
 
 “What has Prue to do with it?” 
 
 “ A good deal—or she thinks she has, which amounts to 
 the same thing. She loved her master almost as much as 
 she hates Geraldine, and if we let her off she’ll be just rav¬ 
 ing. Nothing will keep her from publicly denouncing 
 Geraldine and getting her punished by due process of law, 
 which is the very thing we want to avoid. No, the only 
 way by which we can insure safety to ourselves is by the 
 
100 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 way I propose. Setting everything else aside, her crimes 
 merit death, and die she must. 
 
 “And that reminds me,” added the speaker, rising to his 
 feet, “that Prue had better be brought here; it will be 
 safer and better every way. She knows too much. There 
 is no knowing what she will take into her head to do, and 
 I want her where she will be under my own eye.” 
 
 “ But supposing she refuses to be brought?” 
 
 “ Sh® won’t do that. I shall tell her that I want her to 
 keep guard over Geraldine and to see that her sentence is 
 carried into execution, and she won’t want anything bet¬ 
 ter. We couldn’t have a more faithful and vigilant jailer 
 for our prisoner than old Prue.” 
 
 Prue fully justified Gaspardo’s expectations, entering 
 upon her new duties with a zeal and alacrity that were 
 clearly visible in her countenance as she entered the room 
 where Geraldine was confined. 
 
 It was hard telling what Geraldine’s feelings were as she 
 looked upon that dark, familiar face, and whose look of 
 exultation at her misery it was not easy to mistake. 
 
 Weary of contending, hopeless of any escape from the 
 doom that had been pronounced upon her, a feeling of 
 apathy began to creep over her, occasionally broken by 
 the penitence that swept across her as she thought of her 
 crime and how near she was to her final account. 
 
 One good thing resulted from Prue’s presence; the man¬ 
 acles upon her wrists were removed, the sleepless vigilance 
 with which she was now watched rendered them un¬ 
 necessary. 
 
 Two nights later, Lorenzo Gaspardo was closeted with a 
 man, whose closely-shaven face and garb betrayed his 
 sacred calling. 
 
 “ It seems right that I should tell you something of my 
 sister’s state of mind,” said the former, in the soft, gentle 
 tone that he could so well assume. “ She has been in deli¬ 
 cate health for some time, and like a good many invalids 
 fancies that she is much worse than she is—in fact, that 
 she is about to die. I presume you have met with similar 
 cases before, father?” 
 
 The good priest’s patience had been too often taxed in 
 this respect for him not to yield a ready assent to this. 
 
 Satisfied with the impression he was making, Gaspardo 
 continued: 
 
 “ Though there are no indications that her life may not 
 be indefinitely prolonged, certainly none of immediate dis¬ 
 solution, as she has expressed a strong desire to see you, I 
 have not thought it best, in her nervous condition of mind, 
 to thwart her.” 
 
 “Surely not,” said the priest. “You have acted wisely 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 301 
 
 as well as kindly in the matter. The relief and consola¬ 
 tions of the confessional are often of incalculable benefit to 
 such. It is the holy mission of the Church to give peace 
 to the troubled mind—to remove even the fancied sorrows 
 of her children.” 
 
 The speaker was evidently an enthusiast in his calling, 
 his mild blue eyes lighting up with zeal and earnestness a3 
 he spoke. 
 
 “ I am glad to know that you feel in this way, father. 
 I was somewhat fearful that you would consider me pre¬ 
 sumptuous in soliciting your holy offices, when there seemed 
 to be no apparent need for them. There is another thing 
 that I think it right to mention. My poor sister has cer¬ 
 tain hallucinations, such as considering that she has com¬ 
 mitted some great crime, and so on. Of course, you will 
 pay no attention to this.” 
 
 Rising, the speaker approached the sideboard, on which 
 was a decanter of wine. 
 
 Placing it on a table beside the glowing fire, he filled a 
 glass with its ruby contents to the brim, saying: 
 
 “You must be chilled and tired with your long, cold ride, 
 father, and in need of some refreshment. In the mean¬ 
 time, I will see if my sister is ready to receive you. ” 
 
 Slowly sipping the wine, that was so grateful to his 
 chilled and wearied frame, and with his eyes fixed on the 
 cheerful blaze before him, the good priest gave himself up 
 to the comforts of his position; his thoughts very naturally 
 reverting to his kind and genial host. 
 
 “ What a truly Christian gentleman!” he mused. “ And 
 so kind and considerate to his unfortunate sister. Rich and 
 generous, too, I should say,” glancing around—“I wonder 
 if he wouldn’t give something toward the building of our 
 new church?” 
 
 While the priest was pleasing himself by the thoughts of 
 furthering what was ever uppermost, in his mind, Lorenzo 
 Gaspardo took his way to Geraldine’s room, who was re¬ 
 clining upon a low couch, which she seldom left now. 
 
 She manifested neither surprise nor terror at his unex¬ 
 pected entrance, all this was passed now. 
 
 After glancing around to see that everything was as it 
 should be, that there was nothing to be seen that could 
 give the slightest intimation of the true facts of the case, 
 Gaspardo said: 
 
 “In order that you may not make such a shipwreck of 
 the life upon which you will soon enter as you have made 
 of this, I have succeeded in finding, at the expense of no 
 little risk and effort, a priest to absolve your guilty soul. 
 I warn you to confine yourself strictly to your own acts. 
 No intimation of it to this man will save you from the sen- 
 
102 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 tence that has bean pronounced against you, though it can 
 and will cause his life to pay the forfeit, thus bringing the 
 guilt of two murders upon your soul!” 
 
 Geraldine lifted her eyes to that hard and cruel face. 
 
 “ Have you no sins to be repented of, that you judge me 
 so hardly for mine? I have taken a solemn oath to reveal 
 nothing, and have no wish, even if I dared, to break it. 
 Life is a burthen, too intolerable to be borne, and I look 
 forward with joy to the time when I shall leave it, and go 
 to my husband and child.” 
 
 A faint sneer curled Gaspardo’s lip. 
 
 “ You seem to love your husband better dead, than you 
 ever loved him living. Do you think that he will care to 
 meet you , his murderess?” 
 
 “ I cannot tell. I only know that I understand his worth 
 and prize his love as I never did before. I shall tell him 
 all, and in the clearer light that is now his, I cannot but 
 believe that he will pity and forgive.” 
 
 Despite the satisfactory explanation that had been given 
 him, there was a strange feeling at the priest’s heart as he 
 followed his guide into the room where his penitent lay. 
 
 Gaspardo immediately retreated to the door. 
 
 The priest’s face being turned from him, raising his hand 
 with a warning gesture, that Geraldine well understood, 
 he disappeared through it, leaving the two alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A JUDGMENT. 
 
 The good priest gazed with an air of benign compassion 
 upon the face, whose dark, mournful eyes were turned 
 with singular intentness upon him. 
 
 The story he had heard, together with her youth and 
 beauty, the nameless air of grace and refinement that per¬ 
 vaded every look and motion, gave an added gentleness to 
 his tone, as he said: 
 
 “ Daughter, I have been given to understand that there 
 is some weight upon your conscience, for which you desire 
 to obtain pardon and peace. Speak freely, as you would 
 to our common Father, whose minister I am, knowing 
 that all you say will be as safe with me as with Him.” 
 
 “Were I not assured of this, father,” responded Geral¬ 
 dine, in a soft, clear voice, in which there was no apparent 
 haste or agitation, ‘ ‘ I should not dare to reveal to human 
 ears a crime so dark as mine. Before proceeding further 
 I will say that I wish to direct your attention to my sins 
 only, and to make no allusion to any that may have been 
 committed against me.” 
 
 “ Surely, my child, that is the proper spirit with which 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 i03 
 
 to approach the confessional. Our own sins, and not the 
 sins of other people, are what we have to do with at a time 
 like this. -I trust, however, that you forgive all who have 
 wronged you. 4 Unless we forgive, we cannot be forgiven.” 
 
 Geraldine laid her hand upon the sorely wounded heart, 
 which throbbed anew at this allusion. 
 
 “I have tried, father,” was the meek response. “ But it 
 is hard, hard.” 
 
 I think it would have touched Lorenzo Gaspardo’s heart 
 —if he had any heart to touch—to have seen how carefully 
 Geraldine refrained from casting blame upon any one but 
 herself in the dark and sorrowful confession that fell from 
 her trembling lips. 
 
 She mentioned no names, making no allusion to either 
 of her brothers; and though she hesitated occasionally in 
 her choice of a word, as if fearful of saying too much, her 
 words and manner were so collected and at variance with 
 anything like fancifulness or incoherence, and which he 
 was led to expect from her brother’s story, that the good 
 father was not a little puzzled as she went on. 
 
 Geraldine, on her part, was at a loss to understand the 
 entire lack of astonishment and horror at so dark a revela¬ 
 tion, as well as the alacrity with which he pronounced the 
 absolution, [that fell like a benison upon her perturbed 
 spirit. 
 
 Perhaps some faint suspicion of the cause entered her 
 mind, for she said: 
 
 * ‘ I think that I must have been mad when I did this, but 
 I am quite sane now.” 
 
 “ He who reads the heart notes and weighs every extenu¬ 
 ating circumstance,” said the priest, soothingly. “Now 
 that you have obtained forgiveness, do not let your 
 thoughts rest upon it any more. You are young, and 
 have, I trust, many pleasant years before you.” 
 
 Geraldine looked with mournful intentness into those 
 kindly eyes. 
 
 “ The young die as well as the old, father. The hours 
 appointed to me on earth are very few, else I had not been 
 so anxious to unburden to you the sin that weighed so 
 heavily upon my soul. Now that I have obtained, as I 
 humbly trust, pardon and peace, I am not only willing but 
 glad to go.” 
 
 “ You found my sister in a rather peculiar state of 
 mind?” said Gaspardo a few minutes later, looking keenly 
 into the priest’s thoughtful face. 
 
 “ She certainly seems to be laboring under some strong 
 and strange hallucinations. It is almost pitiful to hear one 
 so young and fair talking of death with such a calm cer¬ 
 tainty of its being so near.” 
 
104 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “It is only her morbid condition of mind,” responded 
 Gaspardo, with a shrug of the shoulder. “Not that it is 
 any less real to her on that account. I am very glad you 
 have seen her, as I think it will be of benefit to her in more 
 ways than one. It is my intention to take her to a warmer 
 climate soon; this place doesn’t seem to agree with her. 
 As a slight return for your trouble, allow me to contribute 
 a trifle to some one of the benevolent objects in which you 
 are interested.” 
 
 The priest did not glance at the bill that the speaker 
 slipped into his hand until he was on his way home, his 
 heart being gladdened as he noted the amount. 
 
 “ He called it a trifle,” he thought, as he returned it to 
 his pocket, “ and it may be so to him, but it is quite an im¬ 
 portant item to me.” 
 
 Then his thoughts returned to his young and interesting 
 penitent. 
 
 He was fain to confess, with the sole exception of the 
 assertion of her nearness to death, that there was nothing 
 in her words or manner to indicate a disordered mind. 
 
 Was the story she told him the product of a diseased 
 imagination, or was there some basis in fact for it? 
 
 But even if the latter proposition were true, and her 
 brother had taken this method to shield her from the conse¬ 
 quences, what had he, in the sacred character of a con¬ 
 fessor, to do with that? 
 
 With this thought he dismissed it from his mind. 
 
 As Geraldine listened to the priest’s retreating footsteps, 
 a feeling of peace and tranquillity settled upon her soul to 
 which she had long been a stranger. 
 
 With the heavy weight that had been lifted from her 
 heart, all desire for life, all fear of death, had vanished. 
 
 Even Prue noticed the change in her, noting it with a 
 feeling of sullen disappointment at her heart, having 
 counted with fiendish satisfaction on the dismay and terror 
 that her helpless prisoner would experience as her doom 
 drew near. 
 
 That same night, a couple of hours after midnight, old 
 Prue was summoned into Gaspardo’s presence, who had 
 been walking restlessly about the room ever since the 
 priest left. 
 
 “Well, how is she now?” 
 
 “ She’s sleepin’ sah, as soun’ and peaceful as a chil’,” was 
 the discontented response. “It’s mighty cur’us, when she 
 don’ know that she be ’live in de mornin’.” 
 
 “Sleeping, is she?” said Gaspardo, entirely ignoring 
 Prue’s evident dissatisfaction; “ that is well.” 
 
 Taking another turn up and down the room, Gaspardo 
 paused again where the old negress stood. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 105 
 
 “I don’t mean that she shall be alive in the morning, 
 Prue,” he said, in a significant tone. “What I have to do 
 must be done before the dawning of another day. Did I 
 understand you to say that you wanted to help me?” 
 
 “Yes, yes,” cried the woman, with glittering eyes. “ She 
 killed Marse Robert, an’ I want to help. An’ is she goin’ 
 to die to-night? Oh, good, good! Let me go an’ tell her.” 
 
 “No, no,” responded Gfaspardo, impatiently; “that 
 would spoil all. I am going to manage this thing. You 
 must put yourself under my guidance, obeying my instruc¬ 
 tions implicitly. Do you understand what I say?” 
 
 “ Yes, sah.” 
 
 “ Then come with me, and I will show you, better than 
 any words can, how I intend to carry out my purpose.” 
 
 Taking a lantern from the table, he passed out of the 
 room into a long, narrow entry, which led to a side en¬ 
 trance, going down a short flight of steps, and from thence 
 into the open air. 
 
 He moved cautiously along until he came to a sort of 
 rocky promontory that projected over the river, whose 
 murmurous flow could be heard nearly a hundred feet 
 below. 
 
 Prue followed close behind, reaching the spot almost as 
 soon as he did. 
 
 “ Do you think any one would be likely to survive after 
 being thrown over here, Prue?” said Gaspardo, turning 
 toward her. 
 
 “ No, sah; not if dey went to the bottom of the river.” 
 
 “ I shall take good care of that,” replied Gaspardo, point¬ 
 ing to a little pile of stones, together with a quantity of 
 rope and cord. “ I have studied the matter over a good 
 deal, and have come to the conclusion that this is the surest 
 and safest way. In this disposition of her no trace will be 
 left behind that will tend to arouse suspicion.” 
 
 The light from the lantern fell full upon Prue’s face, re¬ 
 vealing clearly its expression of sullen dissatisfaction, and 
 which arrested Gaspardo’s attention. 
 
 He studied the face for a moment and then said: 
 
 “ What is the matter? Don’t this plan suit you?” 
 
 “ No, sah, it don’t.” 
 
 “Perhaps you will have the goodness to state what 
 would suit?” inquired Gaspardo, in a tone of ironical polite¬ 
 ness that only thinly veiled his impatience, and something 
 of distrust, which had begun to creep into his heart. 
 
 “ You need not answer me here,” added Gaspardo, as 
 Prue was about to speak. “Come back to the house, and 
 then we will have this thing out.” 
 
 Having regained the room, whose cheerfulness and 
 
106 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 warmth contrasted pleasantly with the dreary aspect out¬ 
 side— 
 
 “Now, then,” he said, confronting Prue, who had fol¬ 
 lowed him, “let us know what would satisfy you? Not 
 that I mean to say that it will alter my plans any; I don’t 
 think it will, but I am curious to hear.” 
 
 “There’s only one thing that would rely satisfy me,” 
 replied Prue; “ to hev her hung—hung as high as Haman, 
 an’ all the people hootin’ an’ p’intin’ their fingers at her!” 
 
 “ I thought I had explained all that to you,” interposed 
 Gaspardo, with visible impatience. 
 
 “You say that this covers Marse Kobert’s name an’ 
 your name with shame, an’ so I guv that up. All I ask is 
 that when her las’ hour come—you say it come now—that 
 she be given over to me— me!” 
 
 It almost seemed as if Prue’s grief at the loss of her 
 master and hatred of Geraldine had turned her brain; 
 there being something akin to madness in the fierce vehe 
 mence with which these words were spoken. 
 
 Gaspardo, who was something of a philosopher in his 
 way, looked curiously at those gleaming eyeballs and out¬ 
 stretched arm, whose fingers clutched the empty air as 
 though it was the throat of some invisible foe. 
 
 “ Supposing I should consent to this, what would you do 
 with her?” 
 
 “ She’d die,” was the grim response; “an’ that’s all you 
 want.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, no, Prue! it’s the main thing, perhaps, but it isn’t 
 the whole by any manner of means. I don’t think you 
 quite understand me, Prue, so I will explain. If I have 
 no love for my sister, and I make no pretext of having 
 any, I don’t feel toward her as you seem to do. By her 
 own confession, she has committed a crime against the law 
 that would render her life a forfeit to it, and to save the 
 family name from dishonor I simply take the law in my 
 own hands. That is all.” 
 
 “ That be all, hey?” 
 
 That significant look and tone made Gaspardo change 
 color. 
 
 He turned his face quickly toward the speaker. 
 
 “ What else should there be?” 
 
 “ I do not know. I heard ye speak to her one night ’bout 
 somethin’ else.” 
 
 Gaspardo remembered the time when his anger got the 
 better of his prudence, biting his lips with vexation as it 
 came to his mind. 
 
 But it was only for a moment. 
 
 “ You are right; there are other reasons. But what does 
 
A WIFE*S CRIME, 
 
 107 
 
 that prove? Nothing more than that she is in my way, 
 and is to be got out of the way just as easily as it can be 
 done, and have it done effectually. She isn’t going to be 
 given over to your tender mercies, you may make sure of 
 that. Now the question is, whether you are going to help 
 me or not? Situated as you are, there is no other course 
 for you to take.” 
 
 There was a peculiar look in Gaspardo’s eye as he 
 uttered the last sentence, and which produced a marked 
 change in Prue. 
 
 For the first time the thought struck her that it was 
 hardly prudent, in such a lonely, out-of-the-way place, to 
 arouse the fears or resentment of a man wdio had so little 
 scruple in removing any one who stood in his way. 
 
 “ Of course, I’s willing to help, sah,” she said, humbly. 
 “ I didn’t mean nothin’ by what I said, ’cept that I wanted 
 to be sure on’t.” 
 
 Gaspardo was quick to see and follow up his advantage. 
 
 “I hope you didn’t, Prue; because that is a game that 
 two can play at, and in which you would be very likely to 
 get worsted. You are already seriously implicated in this 
 affair, and it is my intention that you shall take an equal 
 snare in its completion—though, of course, under my direc¬ 
 tion. Do you understand me?” 
 
 “ I understand that I’s to help, sah, and do prezactly as 
 you tell me.” 
 
 During this conversation, Gaspardo had removed his 
 boots, substituting in their place a pair of felt slippers. 
 
 Now taking a bottle and sponge from the table, he opened 
 the door, and, pointing in the direction which led to Ger¬ 
 aldine’s room, said: 
 
 “ Then take the lantern and go before me. No noise, 
 mind!” 
 
 Pausing by the door, Gaspardo whispered: 
 
 “ Go in and see if she is still sleeping. Take special note 
 if she wears any garment or ornament with her name or 
 any mark on it.” 
 
 The harsh grating of the key as it turned in the lock 
 roused Geraldine. 
 
 Opening her eyes, she fixed them—with a look that had 
 not the slightest touch of fear or resentment— upon the 
 dark and evil face that bent over her. 
 
 41 Is that you, Prue? I have had such a sweet, restful 
 sleep. ” 
 
 Old Prue scowled. 
 
 “I wonder that yer conscience will let ye sleep.” 
 
 “I wonder, too,” was the meek response. “But since I 
 have seen the good priest, the heavy weight has been lifted 
 from my heart. I had such a beautiful dream, I thought 
 
108 
 
 A WIFE’8 CRIME. 
 
 1 saw my husband and child; that my husband put my 
 baby in my arms, and then, putting his own arms around 
 us both, kissed me.” 
 
 The old woman’s scowl was darker than before ; had it 
 not been for the sharp ears that she knew were listening 
 outside, the rage that filled her soul at these words would 
 have found audible expression. 
 
 “Ye had better sleep while ye can,” she muttered, re¬ 
 treating toward the door. 
 
 Making a slight change in her position, Geraldine closed 
 her eyes, sinking into another slumber quite as peaceful 
 and profound. 
 
 As soon as Prue was convinced of this, she went to the 
 door, and, placing her finger on her lip, beckoned to GaS' 
 pardo, who was leaning against the wall outside. • 
 
 Entering with noiseless step, he stood beside the couch 
 where Geraldine lay, a peaceful look brooding over her 
 face, such as a child might wear. 
 
 But if Gaspardo noted this, it brought no tender and 
 subduing recollections to soften his hard heart. 
 
 He looked at her intently for a few moments, as if to 
 make sure that her slumber was as profound as it seemed, 
 and then saturating the sponge with the contents of the 
 bottle, which gave forth a peculiar penetrating odor, held 
 it within a few inches of the mouth and nostrils. 
 
 Carefully watching the effect, which was very soon 
 visible in the deep lethargy that seemed to steep the 
 senses, he gradually brought the sponge nearer and 
 nearer to the slightly-opened lips until it almost touched 
 them, and through which the breath came slower, and 
 slower, and finally seemed to cease altogether. 
 
 Startled by the sudden pallor that overspread the face, 
 Gaspardo dropped the sponge, placing his fingers on the 
 wrist, but found no pulse there. 
 
 “Prue, Prue!” he shouted. 
 
 Approaching the couch, Prue lifted up the head, which 
 rolled limp and helpless over her arm, and then laid it 
 back upon the pillow. 
 
 “ What does it mean?” inquired Gaspardo, as she turned 
 toward him. 
 
 ‘It means that she has not only cheated the gallows, 
 but you /” replied the woman, with a short laugh. 
 
 “ Dead?” said the other. 
 
 “Dead!” repeated Prue. 
 
 “ Did you mean to do it?” she added, glancing at the 
 bottle and sponge. 
 
 “ No; not in this way. It was my intention to produce 
 unconsciousness, and so save trouble on both sides. But it 
 doesn’t matter; it amounts to the same thing in the end. 
 
109 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME . 
 
 “ Can you find your way to the place I showed you?” 
 
 Prue nodded. 
 
 “Then take the lantern, and go before me.” 
 
 The woman obeyed, and taking up, not only the body, 
 but the light, narrow mattress on which it lay, Gaspardo 
 followed her. 
 
 Being very strong and muscular, he did not pause once 
 in his swift and stealthy stride, though he was evidently 
 glad to lay down his burden as he reached the high point 
 upon the river, and which he had selected for the comple¬ 
 tion and covering up of his dark work. 
 
 After pausing a few moments for breath, he proceeded 
 to bind the body of his victim to the mattress by means of 
 the cords he had provided. 
 
 Having done this, with the assistance of Prue, he fash¬ 
 ioned one of the sheets into a bag, by knotting the corners 
 of it, so securing it to the mattress that, when filled with 
 stones, it would turn over in its descent, bringing tiie body 
 downward upon its face. 
 
 Having made sure of this, he turned to Prue, who was 
 silently watching him. 
 
 “ Before we fill the bag we had better get the mattress 
 nearer to the bank.” 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, Gaspardo passed around 
 to the head of it, and stepping cautiously backward, drew 
 it along. 
 
 A moment later the place upon which he stood, to the 
 extent of four feet or more, suddenly gave way, precipitat¬ 
 ing him down into the dark vortex below. 
 
 Uttering a cry of terror, Prue sprung back, thereby nar¬ 
 rowly escaping the same fate. 
 
 Throwing herself down upon her face, she listened shud- 
 deringly to the rattle of the stones and earth as they struck 
 against the shelving cliffs in their descent. 
 
 Lifting her head, she looked around. 
 
 “They’re both gone,” she muttered, rising to her feet; 
 “ an’ I’s mighty glad on it, too. If this yer ain’t a judg¬ 
 ment I do’ know what is.” 
 
 And then, as if she feared some judgment might over¬ 
 take her, Prue ran down the rocky, precipitous path to the 
 house. 
 
 CHAPTER XXin. 
 
 bob’s dream. 
 
 It was ten minutes past nine, and all was quiet under 
 the humble roof of the Browns. 
 
 Little Isabel had been over a week in the tender, motherly 
 care of Mrs. Brown, and having entirely recovered from the 
 
110 
 
 A WIFE*S CRIME. 
 
 rough treatment to which she had been subjected, and 
 from whose naturally-to-be-expected result she had been so 
 providentially delivered, was beginning to blossom into all 
 the infantine graces which made her so sweet and attract¬ 
 ive to at least two of her new-found friends. 
 
 It was hard to tell what Mr. Brown thought of this new 
 accession to his household. 
 
 He was not a man of many words, but if actions go for 
 anything he viewed with great dissatisfaction the increased 
 expense it would bring, and this feeling was not, perhaps, 
 to be wondered at when one looked at his gray head, and 
 thought of the hard toil by which he had been able to make 
 such scant provision for his old age. 
 
 In the meantime he kept away from the child as much 
 as possible, as if he feared that her beauty and winning 
 ways would obtain too strong an influence over his heart. 
 
 Mrs. Brown, like the wise and prudent wife that she was, 
 said nothing, trusting that time, and the presence of the 
 babe, that was becoming every day more precious to her, 
 would do better for her than any words could. 
 
 They were early sleepers at Mr. Brown’s, and on the 
 night alluded to the mistress of the house was the only one 
 that was in the cozy, old-fashioned kitchen, all the rest 
 having retired. 
 
 She was busy setting some yeast to rise for to morrow’s 
 baking, when she caught a glimpse of Robert, who had 
 stolen softly down the stairs. 
 
 “Why, Robert, I thought you were fast asleep by this 
 time,” she said, in a tone of mild reproof. 
 
 '“ I wanted to speak to you a moment, a’ntie, an’ jist 
 look at baby. Don’t she look sweet?” added the boy, going 
 to the cradle, which he had brought down from the garret 
 for the benefit of his baby guest, and in which he had lain 
 during his own babyhood. 
 
 Having admired the pretty picture presented by the 
 sleeping child to his heart’s content, Bob, as he was gener¬ 
 ally called by every one but his aunt, approached the 
 table where she stood. 
 
 “Aunt Jane, you know the pocket-book I found and 
 gave you the mornin’ after I brought baby here? Did you 
 tell him anythin’ ’bout it?” 
 
 Here the speaker pointed to the bedroom, through whose 
 half-open door could be heard heavy breathing, from some 
 one in a deep slumber. 
 
 Mrs. Brown shook her head, while a somewhat troubled, 
 disconcerted look disturbed her usually placid face. 
 
 “No, not yet. There ain’t no hurry ’bout it.” 
 
 “’Cause if I can’t find the poor lady that lost it it be¬ 
 longs to her S' 1 said the boy, pointing to the cradle. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 Ill 
 
 u That’s jesfc wliat I’ve been thinkin’, lad. ’Taint no 
 secb wonderful sum—’bout a hundred dollars—an’ the little 
 thing may need it. So I thought that I’d put it away for 
 her, an’ not say nothin’ ’bout it, at present, to nobody.’’ 
 
 “Oh! thank you, a’ntiel” cried the boy, throwing his 
 arms around the neck of the speaker. “ I knew you’d 
 think an’ do jest the best way. I think you’re jest the 
 best an’ lightest woman in the world! you see baby’ll want 
 little dresses an’ things, an’ you’ll know jest what she 
 needs, an’ get ’em.” 
 
 Mrs. Brown kissed the boy, her dead sister’s son, and 
 whom she loved as well as if he had been her own. 
 
 She could never bear the slightest reflection against 
 “ John,” though it might he in praise of herself. 
 
 “Your uncle means to do what’s right, too; there ain't 
 a better man nowheres. Only he don’t see things always 
 jest as I’d like to have him. You see, he has to work so 
 hard, an’ ain’t so young as he was; an’ it looks sort o’ dis¬ 
 couragin’ to have another mouth to feed. Mebby I’ll have 
 to use the money for somethin’ besides dresses, an’ sech, 
 but the little mite that the child eats, jest now, ain’t goin’ 
 to kill nobody.” 
 
 The next evening Bob was having the little frolic with 
 Isabel that the two always had after supper, and in which 
 the child was unusually gleesome and winning, at least it 
 seemed so to the warm-hearted boy, who was becoming so 
 strongly attached to her. 
 
 Mrs. Brown was clearing away the supper things, and 
 her husband sitting by the fire not far from where Bob sat 
 with Isabel on his knee. 
 
 Perceiving that his uncle was looking at her, which he 
 seldom did, when anybody was by, the boy ventured to 
 say: 
 
 “Ain’t she pretty and cunnin’, uncle?” 
 
 “ Pretty is that pretty does,” was the sententious and not 
 very sympathetic reply. 
 
 “Ay, but she does pretty,” persisted Bob; “it’s her 
 sweet, cunnin’ ways that I like most. You mean to keep 
 her, don’t you, uncle?” 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 “It’s ruther resky, lad, fur a man of my years to take 
 any more responsibilities than he’s got already.” 
 
 “ But you wouldn’t—you couldn’t turn her out of doors?” 
 faltered Bob, his arms tightening around the child as he 
 spoke. 
 
 “ That don’t foller; there’s a place an’ means pervidedfur 
 all sech.” 
 
 “ You mean the poor-house? Oh, uncle, I can’t bear the 
 thoughts of her goin’ there—an’ she sech a little mite of a 
 
112 
 
 A WIFE 9 8 CRIME. 
 
 thing, too I I remember goin’ there to see old Daddy Colby, 
 an’ everythin’ was so mixed up an’ disagreeable. It ain’t a 
 nice place at all!” 
 
 “ It’s plenty good ’nough!” retorted Mr. Brown, sharply. 
 “ Them that hain’t no home nor means mustn’t be so per- 
 tic’ler. ” 
 
 “ But I’m gittin' to be sech a big boy now, that I can git 
 half a man’s wages, an’ I’ll give all I earn to you.” 
 
 The old man looked keenly into those earnest, eager 
 eyes. v 
 
 “Ay; but I thought you were going to school this win¬ 
 ter, lad?” 
 
 “Uncle, if you’ll keep baby, I’ll give up going to school.” 
 
 “If you’ll agree to that, I’ll keep her, at least, fur a 
 spell. Not that I’d make a pint on’t, if I didn’t think your 
 goin’ to school any more wasn’t sheer foolishness.” 
 
 “ I had sech a strange dream last night ’bout her poor 
 mother,” said Bob, turning to his aunt, whose face showed 
 her silent sympathy and interest. “I thought she stood 
 holdin’ Isabel jist as she did when I fust saw her, only it 
 was by a river. She put the child in my arms, jist as she 
 did then, sayin’, ‘ Take good care of my baby, Bob.’ Then 
 a big wave came an’ took her away. I sometimes think 
 that I shall see her again, somewheres. Anyway, I mean 
 to do jist as she said.” 
 
 “All I’ve got to say,” said Mr. Brown, rising from his 
 chair, “is that if you’ll stick to your agreement, I’ll stick 
 to mine. But I think you’d better sleep on’t; you may 
 change your mind in the momin’. You’d better be off to 
 bed now. I’m a-goin to take the boat airly in the mornin’, 
 an’ row up the river a piece, an’ shall want you to go with 
 me. I promised to take Dr. Graham some butter and 
 eggs, an’ we can bring back some shingles to fix the barn 
 with.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 WHAT BOB FOUND IN THE RIVER. 
 
 Mrs. Brown was generally the last one up, being one of 
 those women mentioned in Proverbs, who “see well to the 
 ways of her household.” 
 
 Though she had not thought it prudent to express it by 
 words, she had sympathized strongly with her nephew in 
 having to relinquish what he had been counting upon for 
 so many months, knowing well the effort it cost him. 
 
 She had had the care of him ever since he was a baby, 
 laid in her arms by his dying mother, commended by her 
 last breath to her love and care. 
 
 JIad he not been the affectionate, conscientious boy that 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 113 
 
 he was, her heart must have gone out toward him with more 
 than common sympathy and tenderness; as it was, no son 
 was ever loved better, or deserved it more. 
 
 She did not share her husband’s ideas in regard to what 
 he called “ book lamin’;” it being one of her deeply-cher¬ 
 ished convictions that Bob had possibilities in him that 
 would, if allowed to develop, place him far above the po¬ 
 sition in which he was born. 
 
 So, for the first time, there was something like dissatis¬ 
 faction at her heart as she looked at the little interloper, 
 who was now soundly sleeping, as she thought to what her 
 advent might lead. 
 
 As soon as she was sure that her husband was sleeping, 
 she went up to Bob’s room, ostensibly to see if he was 
 warm, but really to say some comforting words to him. 
 
 Bob generally fell asleep as soon as his head touched the 
 pillow, but he was wide awake now, and Mrs. Brown felt 
 that his cheek was moist as she touched her lips to it. 
 
 “I shall be sorry that baby came, if it’s going to make 
 my boy unhappy.” 
 
 “Oh, it ain’t that, auntie; I'm e^er so much happier 
 since it came. The house seems another sort of place now, 
 an’ I’m sure that you love the dear little thing, and would 
 hate to part with her. I’d do twice as much to keep her 
 from goin’ to the poor-house; but I’m dreadfully disap¬ 
 pointed about not goin’ to school. Don’t you think uncle 
 a little hard?” 
 
 “ He don’t mean to be, Robert; yer uncle has a real kind 
 heart, if you only come down to it. You see it’s ruther 
 hard fur him, too.” 
 
 “ Why, settin’ aside baby, there ain’t only three on us; 
 an’ there’s the fruit we sell, an’ all the milk, butter an’ 
 eggs. I don’t see how we can be so dreadful poor.” 
 
 “We wouldn’t be if twan’t for the mortgage. It takes 
 all we can rake an’ scrape to pay the int’rest on’t. If we 
 should fail to do this we’d be pretty sure of bein’ turned 
 out of house an’ home before a great while.” 
 
 “I forgot about the mortgage,” said Bob, in quite an* 
 other tone. “ Yes, it is hard for uncle, I know; an’ I mean 
 to stay home an’ help him all I can. It’s tough fur me, 
 too. I was thinkin’, before you come up, how hard you 
 an’ uncle had worked all your life, an’ with nothin’ to 
 show for’t, as I can see. Uncle thinks there ain’t no good 
 in learnin’, but I know that there are a good many ways 
 that he could have done better if he had had more schoolin’; 
 an’ I don’t want to go through my whole life an’ not know 
 more’n I do now.” 
 
 “ You ain’t goin’ to,” was the soothing response. “ You 
 jest go on, an’ do the very best you can, an’ see if some way 
 
114 
 
 A WIFE'S (ffilMK 
 
 don’t open after a spell. I’ve often noticed, if we*re care¬ 
 ful to do that, it often does, quite onexpected.” 
 
 Bob was up before the sun the next morning, and after 
 taking an early breakfast, the uncle and nephew took their 
 way down to the river, which was only a short distance 
 from the house, and whose smooth surface was glittering 
 in the light of the early dawn. 
 
 It was one of those mild, clear days that we sometimes 
 have in the early part of December, and which seemed 
 more like the early fall. 
 
 “ It looks as if we was goin’ ter have an open winter,” 
 said Mr. Brown, as they pushed off, rowing up the stream. 
 “ It was cold enough last year at this time.” 
 
 Whether it was the influence of the bright and pleasant 
 morning, or the comforting words of the preceding night, 
 Bob’s face wore its usual cheerful aspect. 
 
 Mr. Brown made no allusion to their conversation the 
 evening before, but his nephew did not forget it if he did. 
 
 “ I have slept upon what I said to you last night, uncle, 
 and I’m of the same mind still.” 
 
 “ All right, lad. I hope you won’t be sorry for’t.” 
 
 “ I don’t think I shall be—not for that,” was the thought¬ 
 ful response. 
 
 Then, a moment later: 
 
 “You’ll keep baby?” 
 
 “ Sartin. That is, if nobody comes that she belongs to.” 
 
 “ I don’t mean to give her up, not if I can help it, to no¬ 
 body but her mother; there hain’t nobody else got any 
 right to her. You wouldn’t let those wicked men have 
 her, uncle, who treated her so cruelly?” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t let nobody have her that would do her any 
 harm, not if I knowed it,” said Mr. Brown, whose slow, 
 measured accents were in marked contrast to Bob’s excited 
 tone and manner. 
 
 “What’s that over yonder?” exclaimed Bob, suddenly 
 breaking the silence that followed. 
 
 “Where?” said Mr. Brown, shielding his eyes from the 
 sun, and looking in the direction toward which the boy 
 pointed. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Why, there, right under those tall cliffs; don’t you see 
 it?” 
 
 “Yes, I do now,” responded the other. “ Looks like a 
 wreck, as though there had been an accident. We’d better 
 go and see.” 
 
 Changing the course of the boat, they rowed to the oppo¬ 
 site side, where the dark, beetling rocks rose up many feet 
 above them. 
 
 The water had worn into the stone and earth so as to 
 form a little curve or inlet, and here could be seen a long, 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 115 
 
 narrow, flat substance of some kind, which moved gently 
 to and fro by the swelling of the tide, being kept in position 
 by the rocks, whose sharp, jagged points could be seen so 
 clearly beneath the clear, shadow water. 
 
 As they approached it, Bob rose up in the boat. 
 
 “ Uncle!” lie cried, excitedly, " it's a woman! I can see 
 her dress and long, black hair.” 
 
 Spurred on by this Mr. Brown urged the boat forward. 
 Then he paused. 
 
 “We can't go any nearer without gittin’ aground.” 
 
 Bob’s only reply was to roll up his trousers and spring 
 into the water. 
 
 Wading along a few steps without letting go of the boat. 
 Bob reached forward, and seizing a rope which was at¬ 
 tached, as he now saw, to something which looked like a 
 bed, drew it toward him, thus bringing the face of the per¬ 
 son that lay on it clearly into view. 
 
 “Uncle!” screamed the boy, “it’s her—the poor, pretty 
 lady! She’s tied with ropes on to this thing. Help me to 
 get her free.” 
 
 Without wasting any time in words, Mr. Brown took out 
 his jack-knife, and both setting to work, the ropes were 
 soon unbound, and the insensible form was lifted into the 
 boat. 
 
 “ Is she dead?” said Bob, as he chafed the cold hands,- 
 while his uncle doubled up his overcoat and placed it under 
 the head. 
 
 “I don’t know,” responded Mr. Brown, as he looked 
 down into the pale face and closed eyes; “if she is, she 
 was dead ’fore she was put into the water, fur her face an’ 
 shoulders ain’t the least mite wet, an’ there ain’t no bruise 
 on her, as I can see.” 
 
 The mattress had fallen in such a way as to leave the 
 upper part of it higher than the lower, the ragged points of 
 the rocks on which it lay keeping it in position; so that, 
 while the feet were immersed in water, the head and 
 shoulders were quite dry. 
 
 The elasticity of the substance on which she lay had pre¬ 
 vented Geraldine from receiving any injurious effect from 
 the fall. On the contrary, the shock of it, no doubt, pre¬ 
 served her life, as it tended to neutralize the deadening 
 effect of the powerful drug she had inhaled. 
 
 A little distance from where the mattress lay a man’s hat 
 floated; no other trace being seen of Gaspardo, who, struck 
 senseless by his fall, had gone down beneath, the water, a 
 fitting end to a life so wild and lawless. 
 
 “We had better take her to Dr. Graham’s,” said Bob. 
 “ It’s the nearest place, an’ then, being a doctor, he’ll know 
 jest what to do.” 
 
116 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 Impelled by the danger of any delay, the strong arms 
 that held the oars sent the boat swiftly over the water. 
 
 As if roused by the rapid motion, Geraldine uttered a 
 faint moan, unclosing her eyes, relapsing almost imme¬ 
 diately into insensibility. 
 
 “ She’s alive!” cried Bob, as he noticed this. “ Oh, un¬ 
 cle, if we can only get there in time!” 
 
 They soon came in sight of the place alluded to, River- 
 view, whose smoothly shaven lawn came down to the 
 water. 
 
 There were broad stone steps leading to the river, on the 
 banks of which was a boat-house. 
 
 Beyond could be seen the main building, whose deep 
 windows and broad verandas and porticoes stood out very 
 clearly from the belt of leafless trees that surrounded 
 them. 
 
 A man was standing on the portico fronting the river; 
 his pale face, and the manner in which he leaned against 
 one of the pillars of it, showing him to be one of Dr. 
 Graham’s patients, a limited number of whom he treated 
 at his own home. 
 
 Springing out of the boat, Bob ran up the steps, nor did 
 he slacken his pace until he reached the man’s side, to 
 whom he cried, breathlessly: 
 
 ‘‘Where’s Dr. Graham? We’ve found a woman in the 
 river, that’s only just alive!” * 
 
 “ The doctor is out,” said the man. 
 
 Stepping up to an open window, the speaker notified some 
 one inside, and then followed Bob down to the boat where 
 Geraldine lay, looking, in her pallor and stillness, like 
 some beautiful statue. 
 
 Bending over her, the man made a motion as if he would 
 lift her up, and then, as if suddenly remembering his phy¬ 
 sical disability, stepped aside and let Bob take his place. 
 
 Assisted by his nephew, Mr. Brown took Geraldine up to 
 the house, being met at the door by Mrs. Graham, who 
 conducted them to her own room. 
 
 The good lady’s sympathies were strongly moved as she 
 looked at her unfortunate guest, and being, as the wife of 
 a physician, well versed in the measures necessary in such 
 cases, under her gentle ministrations something of her 
 natural color and warmth returned to Geraldine’s face. 
 Opening her eyes, she looked around, but evidently took in 
 no sense of her surroundings, as, after glancing wildly 
 about, she murmured something and then closed them 
 again. 
 
 “ I wish Francis would come,” said Mrs. Graham, ceas¬ 
 ing, in evident perplexity, her renewed efforts at restora¬ 
 tion. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 117 
 
 Hearing a deep-drawn sigh, she looked around, being 
 startled by the sight of her husband’s patient standing in 
 the open doorway. 
 
 “Mr. Smith!” she exclaimed, drawing the counterpane 
 over Geraldine’s uncovered shoulders. 
 
 “I beg pardon, but is there not something that I can 
 do?” 
 
 “Certainly not,” said Mrs. Graham, in a tone of dis¬ 
 pleasure. “ What could you do here?” 
 
 Then remembering the doubts that her husband had ex¬ 
 pressed as to his patient’s entire sanity, she added, in a 
 gentler tone: 
 
 “ If you would kindly watch for the doctor, telling him 
 to come directly here?” 
 
 As if glad to be of service, Mr. Smith instantly disap¬ 
 peared. 
 
 In a few minutes Dr. Graham entered, to his wife’s great 
 relief, who gladly relinquished her charge to him. 
 
 Dr, Graham made a careful examination of his new pa¬ 
 tient. 
 
 “ She is very ill,” he said, in reply to his wife’s inquiring 
 look; ‘ ‘ evidently suffering, not only from exposure, but 
 from some heavy strain upon the nervous system. Her 
 constitution, however, which seems to be strong and 
 elastic, is greatly in her favor. You say that Mr. Brown 
 and his nephew rescued her; where are they?” 
 
 “ They are here; I asked them to stay until you came, 
 thinking you would like to see them.” 
 
 “ That was right; I can tell better what to do for her if I 
 know all the circumstances.” 
 
 Half an hour later Dr. Graham and his wife were listen¬ 
 ing to Bob’s account of all he knew about his strange 
 patient, to which he listened with deep interest, but with 
 less surprise than might be expected. 
 
 “It is a strange story,” remarked the doctor, as Bob 
 concluded, “almost incredible, I should say, if so many 
 strange things did not come to my knowledge, in my pro¬ 
 fession, especially. The poor lady seems to have her worst 
 enemies among those who should be her best friends, not 
 an unusual circumstance, perhaps, though not often 
 manifested in such a strange and cruel way. ” 
 
 “They must be very wicked people,” responded Bob. 
 
 “ See how they treated baby—flung her out of the carriage 
 as if she’d been nothin’ but a dog! Aunt Jane says that 
 if she hadn’t been so wrapped up in flannel she’d been 
 killed sure! There’s the mark on her forehead now. Such 
 a pret ty little thing, too, with big black eyes jist like her 
 mother’s. You couldn’t help lovin’ her if you tried.” 
 
118 A WIFE'S CRIME, 
 
 Dr. Graham smiled kindly into the speaker’s flushed 
 and earnest face. 
 
 “They have found a warm friend in you, it seems?” 
 
 “ That they have!” was the prompt response. “ And in 
 you, too, I hope, sir.” 
 
 “ I shall certainly do all I can for them,” said the doctor, 
 a little gravely. 
 
 “ And you won’t give her up to those bad men who hate 
 
 her so?” 
 
 “ Assuredly not. On the contrary, I shall do all I can to 
 protect her. It is not always easy to decide what is best 
 to do under given circumstances,” added the doctor, as he 
 turned to the door. “The lady is very ill now, being 
 threatened with a fever. The best thing to do for her now 
 is to see that she has the best medical care and nursing 
 that are possible.” 
 
 “ And I may come to see her, mayn’t I?” 
 
 “ Certainly, my boy. Come any time you like. You 
 have the best of all rights to do so. In all human prob¬ 
 ability, you have been instrumental in saving her life, as 
 well as that of her baby. You are a brave, honest boy, and 
 I am proud to know you.” 
 
 Dr. Graham shook hands with Bob, as he said this, whose 
 face flushed with almost as much embarrassment as pleas¬ 
 ure. 
 
 Mr. Brown was present during this interview, though in 
 accordance with his usual habit he said nothing, except to 
 answer a few questions that were asked him. 
 
 Dr. Graham’s words of commendation to his nephew made 
 a strong impression on him, and he was very silent and 
 thoughtful on their way home. 
 
 “Wife always said that there’s somethin’more’n com¬ 
 mon in Bob,” he mused; “an’ I don’t know but what she’s 
 in the rights on’t.” 
 
 Bob’s thoughts, though busy, were very different, being 
 entirely fixed on the strange and delightful news he had to 
 tel! his aunt. 
 
 Though their way back was down the river, instead of 
 up, and the light boat moved very swiftly along on its 
 smooth, clear surface, it seemed to his excited and impa¬ 
 tient heart that they would never reach the place from 
 whence it started. 
 
 “ How glad aunt will be to know that baby’s mother is 
 found,” he said, as he sprung from the boat, “ and how 
 astonished, too. We never could have believed that such 
 a strange thing could have happened when we left home l” 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 119 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE STRUGGLE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 When Mrs. Graham returned to Geraldine she found 
 that quite a change had come over her, her cheeks being 
 flushed and her eyes brilliant with the fever that had be¬ 
 gun to run riot in her veins. 
 
 She had aroused to consciousness enough to take some 
 cognizance of her surroundings; but it was all colored with 
 the delirious fantasies so common under the circum¬ 
 stances. 
 
 Lifting her eyes to the sweet, compassionate face that 
 bent over Her, she said: 
 
 “ Oh, I know; I have left the world. You are one of the 
 angels. I don’t suppose my husband cares to come—per¬ 
 haps he will when he knows how sorry I am; but please 
 bring me my baby. It died only a few days ago, and will 
 be fretting for me.” 
 
 There was an indescribable pathos in these words, espe¬ 
 cially the tone in which they were spoken, and there were 
 tears in Mrs. Graham’s eyes, as she assured the poor 
 mother that her child was in good hands, and she should 
 see her in the morning. 
 
 But when the morning came, and, accompanied by Bob, 
 Mrs. Brown had, in compliance with the message that was 
 sent her, brought Isabel to Riverview, the fever had made 
 such rapid headway that she was in no condition to recog¬ 
 nize her baby, or to make her presence advisable or even 
 safe for either. 
 
 Geraldine remained in this condition for several days, 
 passing from a state of such wild delirium as to necessi¬ 
 tate constant watchfulness, and even physical restraint, to 
 the dull stupor of exhaustion. 
 
 In the former state she raved incessantly; her wrongs 
 and sufferings, especially her guilt and remorse, were con¬ 
 tinually upon her tongue. 
 
 It was a little curious, though the doctor and his vrife 
 listened attentively, anxious to obtain some clew to her 
 home and family, that she mentioned no names. 
 
 Sometimes the fear that she had done so would arise in 
 her mind. 
 
 “ Have I spoken anybody’s name?” she would say. “ I 
 must not. I t©ok a solemn oath kissing the cross, that I 
 would mention no names.” 
 
 And only the repeated assurance that she had not done 
 this would calm her distress and excitement. 
 
 The fever ran so long, requiring such incessant watchful¬ 
 ness by night and day, that Dr. Graham’s household would 
 Jiave been worn out by the constant demands upon it, had 
 
120 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 it not been for the assistance volunteered by Mr, Smith, his 
 kind-hearted but eccentric patient—if such he could be 
 called, having been convalescent for some weeks. 
 
 He made himself useful in a variety of ways, especially 
 in aiding the doctor to soothe and restrain Geraldine in her 
 frenzy, during which she had more than once tried to fling 
 herself from the window. 
 
 He rarely spoke, but the touch of his hand upon her, his 
 very presence, seemed to have a wonderful calming effect 
 upon her. 
 
 During the course of his long practice, Dr. Graham had 
 occasionally met with those possessing this power over the 
 disordered mind, always observing that such generally had 
 peculiarly strong, tender, self-centered natures, so it pro¬ 
 duced no other effect on him than to induce him to count 
 upon his aid, whenever needed, and to increase his confi¬ 
 dence and respect. 
 
 “ In spite of Mr. Smith’s oddities, and they, certainly, are 
 not few,” remarked Dr. Graham to his wife, “ I can’t help 
 liking the man. I don’t think that I ever had more efficient 
 help in a sick-room. He seems to know just what to do, 
 ana is so quiet about it, and is never in the way when not 
 wanted. And then to think of a man of his apparent 
 means taking so much trouble for an entire stranger. It 
 can proceed from nothing but pure kindness of heart. Not 
 that any one can help being interested in our very interest¬ 
 ing patient! I take a deep interest in her myself; and, if 
 you were like some women I know of, you would be jeal¬ 
 ous.” 
 
 Mrs. Graham smiled; her faith in her husband was 
 founded on a rock, and her interest in the stranger, thrown 
 so strangely upon their care and protection, quite as strong 
 as his. 
 
 The two listened to Geraldine’s incoherent ravings, her 
 strong self-accusations, her agony and remorse, with 
 strange feelings at their hearts. 
 
 Were these the wild imaginings of a disordered mind, or 
 had they a basis in fact? 
 
 One day Mr. Smith stood by the bed, holding a basin of 
 water, in which Mrs. Graham was bathing the hot hands 
 and forehead. 
 
 “ It is of no use,” she said, holding up her right hand 
 and surveying it with wild, glittering eyes. “See! noth¬ 
 ing can wash away the blood-red stains there!” 
 
 In the afternoon Bob crept softly in, as he often did, his 
 heart full of pity for the pretty lady,” who lay there so 
 changed and wasted, taking no apparent heed of him or 
 any one. 
 
 fc. Smith, who happened to be the only one that was 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 121 
 
 present, was standing at the foot of the bed, in the deep 
 shadow of the heavy curtains that fell around it. 
 
 Geraldine was apparently lying in a half-doze, and the 
 boy stood looking at her for some moments without speak¬ 
 ing. 
 
 Then approaching Mr. Smith, he said: 
 
 “ Do you think she is any better?” 
 
 “ I do not know. She is, certainly, no worse.” 
 
 “ Oh! I do hope she will live! It will be such a terrible 
 thing to have her die.” 
 
 “ There is nothing terrible but sin, boy,” was the almost 
 stern response. 
 
 As if roused by the sound of these voices, Geraldine’s 
 eyes flew open. 
 
 “ Robert!” she cried, stretching out her hand. 
 
 “ She speaks your name; go to her,” said Mr. Smith. 
 
 Gently pushing the boy forward, the speaker retreated 
 toward the door. 
 
 He met Dr. Graham just outside, who gazed fixedly at 
 him for a moment. 
 
 “ You are looking pale, and no wonder. You have had 
 little or no rest for some days. If you don’t take better 
 care of yourself, I shall have you on the sick list next.” 
 
 “It is nothing. I am not very strong, as yet; it is 
 hardly to be expected that I should be. Your patient re¬ 
 quires your immediate attention. There is a change in 
 her, though of what nature I cannot tell.” 
 
 Dr. Graham went immediately to Geraldine’s room, 
 where he remained nearly half an hour. 
 
 When he returned he found Mr. Smith sitting in the 
 same position in which he left him. 
 
 “ The fever has left her,” said the doctor, as Mr. Smith 
 lifted his head from the hands upon which it was resting, 
 “ and she is sleeping.” 
 
 “ And the result?” 
 
 “That cannot be stated with any degree of certainty. 
 Her naturally fine constitution is in her favor, so that I 
 have rather more hope than fear, still she is very low. 
 If she wakens she will live; if she dies, she will never 
 wake.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 MR. SMITH. 
 
 There was a solemn hush in Dr. Graham’s household; 
 even the servants moved about with gentle step and sub¬ 
 dued voices, their hearts and sympathies with the pale, 
 pasted form that was lying in that quiet chamber, an4 
 
122 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 which might never waken to the light of an earthly morn- 
 ing. 
 
 She lay in this state for some hours; the pulse only just 
 perceptible, and the breath coming so faintly from the 
 slightly-parted lips, that sometimes it could hardly be seen 
 that she breathed at all. 
 
 Mr. Smith came in, looking down upon the still, white 
 face. 
 
 “Is she living?” he said, turning to Dr. Graham, who 
 was standing beside him. 
 
 “Yes, but the life is very small.” 
 
 “ Is there any more hope?” 
 
 “ There is no change for the better or the worse. Her 
 youth and constitution are on her side. If she wakes, so as to 
 be able to take nourishment and restoratives, the chances 
 are in her favor.” 
 
 Had Geraldine been the only and petted daughter of the 
 household, instead of a nameless stranger, she could hardly 
 have been watched with more anxious, devoted, and 
 watchful care. But there was little to be done now, except 
 to watch the scales that hung so tremblingly in the bal¬ 
 ance, to see on which side it would turn. 
 
 Mr. Smith did not go into Geraldine’s room again, keep¬ 
 ing his own room much of the time, which, aside from his 
 natural aversion to society, was not strange, as he must 
 have been not a little worn and weary. 
 
 But he often saw her from the hall, out of which her room 
 opened, whose width and windows scarcely made it 
 look like one, moving up and down it with the slow, 
 measured step peculiar to him. 
 
 At one of these times the doctor accosted him with a 
 bright smile on his face. 
 
 “ Our patient has waked with her mind perfectly clear 
 and collected.” 
 
 The face that confronted the speaker was a little more 
 colorless than usual, but there was no other change there 
 as he said: 
 
 “You think she will recover, then?” 
 
 “Unless something new sets in. She has taken some 
 nourishment, and her pulse is stronger. But come in and 
 judge for yourself.” 
 
 Mr. Smith drew back. 
 
 “ Impossible. I leave on the next train for New York.” 
 
 “ On the next train?” said the doctor, in a tone of sur¬ 
 prise. “ Is not this very sudden and unexpected?” 
 
 “ Oh, no; I have had it in contemplation for some days. 
 My business is there, and now that I am fully recovered, I 
 must attend to it.” 
 
 Dr. Graham took a careful survey of the speaker, 
 
A WIFE'S Cm ME, 
 
 m 
 
 u But are you fully recovered?” 
 
 Something approaching to a smile brightened the grave 
 face. 
 
 “ I am on the road to it. I have not recovered my full 
 1 strength yet, but that will come. You have been very 
 patient and forbearing with me, and I owe you more than 
 money can repay. But that must not be forgotten.” 
 
 Dr. Graham glanced at the check that was placed in his 
 hand. 
 
 “I cannot conscientiously take so much as this, Mr. 
 Smith. You have been no more than a boarder for the last 
 three weeks, besides being of great service to me in regard 
 to this poor lady.” 
 
 “Pray oblige me, doctor. I have a large income, with 
 none to share it, and it is, really, your just due. As for the 
 other matter you refer to, it was simply a matter of com¬ 
 mon humanity. I apprehend that you expect no re¬ 
 muneration from that quarter for all your expense and 
 trouble?” 
 
 “Well, no; it does not seem very probable. But we 
 doctors are used to giving our time and services. And, 
 then, this is a peculiar case, awakening more than usual 
 sympathy and interest.” 
 
 “Very true. I feel this in some degree myself, and 
 should be glad to know-” 
 
 Here Mr. Smith hesitated, as if a little doubtful of the 
 ground he was venturing upon. 
 
 “Of course,” said Dr. Graham, hastily. “Considering 
 all the trouble you have taken, it is very natural that you 
 should. Give me your address, and I will let you know 
 how she gets along.” 
 
 Mr. Smith was so long in replying that the doctor raised 
 his eyes from the note-book that he had taken from his 
 pocket. 
 
 “ I will communicate with you,” said the former, as he 
 met that inquiring look. 
 
 Then returning from the door to which he had abruptly 
 turned, he added: 
 
 “ I have only time to reach the station before the train 
 leaves. Present my adieus to Mrs. Graham, together 
 with my thanks for all her kindness.” 
 
 “What a strange genius!” thought Dr. Graham as he 
 looked after him. “ He’s gone as strangely as he came.” 
 
 As weak as an infant, it was some days before there was 
 any perceptible change in Geraldine; but when she began 
 to mend, she did so with great rapidity, so that in less 
 than three weeks, she was able to leave her bed, though 
 she Poked like only the shadow of her former self. 
 
 At the early period of her convalescence she had ex- 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 i24 
 
 pressed disappointment and regret at being brought back 
 to an existence so full of pain and sorrow. 
 
 “If my baby had only lived!” she said. “But now 
 there is nothing.” 
 
 And finding that she was likely to slip away from life, 
 from the mere fact of having nothing to attach herself to 
 it, Dr. Graham decided to let Bob, who claimed this 
 privilege, take Isabel in to her. 
 
 The result of this experiment, which was somewhat risky 
 on account of her weak state at this time, was all that 
 could be desired. 
 
 Large tears rolled down the pale cheeks of the poor 
 young mother as the child was placed in her arms that 
 she supposed had met with so cruel a fate. But they 
 were tears of joy and gratitude, which did much to ease 
 her heart of its heavy weight of pain. 
 
 She asked no questions, seeming to think of and care 
 for nothing save to feel that it was in her arms again. 
 
 Later, Bob related how and where he found Isabel, and 
 all the circumstances connected with it. 
 
 Shuddering, Geraldine held the child more closely to her 
 heart as she listened; but she expressed no surprise, and 
 made no comments. 
 
 There were no marks on the garments worn by their 
 guest to indicate her name, but there had been a ring on 
 one of her wasted fingers, which, being too loose to be worn 
 safely, Mrs. Graham took charge of, on the inside of which 
 was the name of Geraldine. 
 
 Perceiving that she responded to this in some degree, 
 even when most delirious, Mrs. Graham called her by it, 
 her husband altering it in time to Mrs. Geraldine, by which 
 title she became known to the rest of the household. 
 
 Bob had become a member of the family. Dr. Graham 
 employing him in the house and garden, paying him regu¬ 
 lar wages. 
 
 The lad was greatly delighted at this arrangement, as it 
 not only enabled him to see “ his baby,” as he always called 
 Isabel, but her mother, for whom he still retained his boy¬ 
 ish affection and admiration. 
 
 Geraldine was fully conscious of all that she owed the 
 honest, warm-hearted boy, though she showed it less by 
 her words than manner. 
 
 It got to be a very common thing to see the three to¬ 
 gether, whenever Bob was at leisure. 
 
 One day, Geraldine had been watching the two—Bob and 
 Isabel—who were having a frolic upon the porch, by the 
 open window of which she was sitting. 
 
 Entering the house. Bob placed the child, flushed and 
 laughing, upon her mother’s knee. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 125 
 
 Geraldine’s eyes moistened, as she looked from one to the 
 other. 
 
 “If it were not for you, Robert, I should have no little 
 Isabel; my heart and arms would be empty.” 
 
 The boy’s face flushed with pride and pleasure. 
 
 “I’m so glad that I found her! Oh, Mrs. Geraldine, I 
 think that it must have been God that sent me through 
 those dark, lonesome woods! There was another way that 
 I could have gone, and which I often take atf night.” 
 
 Geraldine smiled softly into the clear, earnest eyes that 
 were lifted to hers. 
 
 “It must have been He that directed your course up the 
 river. If you had not found me as you did, baby would 
 have no mother.” 
 
 This was the first time that Geraldine had made any al¬ 
 lusion to the dark tragedy of her past life; and, as if the 
 remembrances it aroused were more than she could endure, 
 hiding her face in the clustering curls of the child that was 
 clinging to her neck, she hastily left the room. 
 
 It was a mild and pleasant evening in the early spring, 
 and when Geraldine returned she found Dr. Graham and 
 his wife seated on the porch entirely by themselves. 
 
 This was precisely what Geraldine wanted, and she cer¬ 
 tainly had no reason to fear either, still the words she felt 
 constrained to say were not an easy thing to utter, and 
 there was a little tremor in her voice, as she said: 
 
 “ My friends, you have been very kind to the friendless 
 and nameless stranger, far kinder than I had any right to 
 expect, but now that health and strength have returned to 
 me, I feel that I ought to trespass on your hospitality no 
 longer.” 
 
 After looking in her husband’s face for the encourage¬ 
 ment that she never failed to find there for any kindness 
 she meditated, Mrs. Graham said: 
 
 “ I hope that nothing has been said or done to make you 
 feel that you were burdensome?” * 
 
 “ On the contrary, you have done everything that is 
 possible to make my stay with you pleasant. You have 
 not only been exceptionally kind to me, but have done it 
 in the kindest possible way. But this only makes it more 
 incumbent upon me to act justly and kindly by you. I am 
 now strong enough to earn my own living, and ask you to 
 aid me in my endeavors to do so.” 
 
 The husband and wife looked at each other for some mo¬ 
 ments in silent perplexity. Then Dr. Graham said, glanc¬ 
 ing a little gravely at the soft, white hands of the speaker: 
 
 “ You do not look as if you were used to work. 1 have 
 no wish to be inquisitive or to pry into anything that you 
 
m 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 may wish to keep secret, but is there no friend or relative 
 to whom you have a right to look?” 
 
 Geraldine shuddered at the retrospection occasioned by 
 these words. 
 
 “No one. 
 
 “I know how strange my conduct must seem to you,” 
 added Geraldine, breaking the silence that followed ; “and, 
 worse than all, hew impossible it is for me to say anything 
 tnat will make you consider it in any other light. You 
 have not only the best of all rights to my fullest confidence, 
 but it would be an untold relief to me to be able to unbur¬ 
 den to you a heart so ladened with sin and sorrow. But 
 this may not be. In regard to my past life, my lips are 
 sealed, and ever must be. But this I can tell you. I have 
 only two living relatives in the world, and those two seek 
 my life, and would have taken it if something scarcely less 
 than a miracle had not delivered me from them. I dread 
 nothing so much as falling again into their cruel and piti¬ 
 less hands.” 
 
 Both surprise and compassion were in Dr. Graham’s 
 eyes as he met that terrified, appealing look. 
 
 “ My dear Mrs. Geraldine, you surely have no reason to 
 fear them now? The strong arm of the law can he in¬ 
 voked to shield you from such high-handed measures as 
 these.” 
 
 “ God forbid that I should ever have to appeal to it. It 
 would give me inexpressible pain to be obliged to do so. 
 Such a course would be perilous, and not to me only; 
 bringing undeserved shame and sorrow upon innocent 
 heads. 
 
 “ You look surprised,” continued Geraldine, as she met 
 the wondering eyes of her listeners. “ But if all my dark 
 and sorrowful life could be laid open before you—as it never 
 can be—you would see that this is the only and best course 
 for me to take. The two persons I have alluded to think 
 me dead, and my only hf>pe for peace and safety consists 
 in their continuing to think so. It is as though all my past 
 life was a blank, and I was beginning a new one, which 
 had nothing whatever to do with the old. The question is, 
 will you help me to live this new life?” 
 
 “ I—we both—will help you all we can, you may be sure 
 of that,” said Dr. Graham. “ In relation to earning your 
 own support, you may be happier, under the circumstances, 
 to do so, as it will give you something to occupy your time 
 and thoughts. The next question is, what can you best 
 do?” 
 
 ‘ ‘ My education qualifies me to teach nearly, if not quite, 
 all the branches that young ladies pursue, buk I should 
 not like to take any position that would separate me from 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 127 
 
 Isabel. On her account, I should prefer that of a nursery- 
 governess, and would be willing to take a very low salary 
 if I can have my little girl with me.” 
 
 “Do you know of anybody needing any one in that 
 capacity, my dear?” said Dr. Graham, turning to his wife. 
 
 “I can’t think of any one, just now, but I presume I 
 shall.” 
 
 Then, after a little thought: 
 
 ‘ ‘ There is Mr. Smith, Francis, why not apply to him ? He 
 is a man of means and position, and might know of some 
 opening in that or some other direction.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Very true. And he has seemed to take, in his odd way, 
 some interest in our friend.” 
 
 “ Mr. Smith is the gentleman I told you about,” added 
 Dr. Graham, turning to Geraldine. ‘ k He made himself very 
 serviceable when you were so ill and delirious. I hardly 
 know how we should have got along without him. He 
 went away before you were able to take much notice of 
 anything, so I suppose that you have no recollection of 
 him?” 
 
 “I have a dim recollection of some one whose presence 
 seemed to give me rest and peace. But it is so vague, and 
 mixed up with—with other things—that I thought—per¬ 
 haps, I dreamed it.” 
 
 “ No, you didn’t dream it. I don’t wonder that it seems 
 unreal to you, though, for you were about as wild and de¬ 
 lirious a patient as I ever had. Mr. Smith could manage 
 you, though. How he did it, I don’t know. He scarcely 
 ever spoke, and then only a word or two, but you always 
 seemed calmer when he was by. Taking him altogether, 
 Mr. Smith is a very peculiar man, one not easy to fathom. 
 But, with all his oddities, he has a vein of good sense and 
 good feeling that makes it impossible for one not to like 
 him. He wrote several times after he left—or, rather, his 
 secretary did—to inquire after you.” 
 
 “ How long is it since we have had a letter from him?” 
 added the doctor, turning to his wife. 
 
 “ Five or six weeks, I should say.” 
 
 “Supposing you should write him, my dear, stating 
 what Mrs. Geraldine desires to do, and asking if he can aid 
 her in any way? It will do no harm.” 
 
 “ So I will; a letter shall go out the very next mail.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 GERALDINE’S FAIRY GODMOTHER. 
 
 Mrs. Graham was as good as her word, her letter to Mr. 
 Smith going out in the next mail; the hopefulness with 
 which she viewed this effort in her behalf infusing into 
 
128 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 Geraldine's heart a feeling of quiet and security that she 
 had not experienced for many a day. 
 
 If she could only be allowed to win her own and her 
 child’s bread in peace and safety, no matter how much 
 toil and hardship it might involve, how glad she would be. 
 
 With this thought uppermost in her mind, Geraldine 
 approached the steps of the porch on which Bob was sit¬ 
 ting, who looked up at her with the same glad and loving 
 smile with which he always greeted her, though there was 
 more than usual thoughtfulness in his face and tone, as he 
 said: 
 
 “ I heard Dr. Graham speak to his wife a little while ago 
 as if you were goin’ to get some work to do to support 
 yourself an’ baby. If I was only a man you should not 
 work at all; I would work for you.” 
 
 “ Work is far from being the worst thing in the world, 
 Robert; it is sometimes a great blessing. I only wish I was 
 sure of getting it to do.” 
 
 Bob did not speak for some minutes, looking as if his 
 thoughts were elsewhere. 
 
 When he did it was apparently on a very different sub¬ 
 ject. 
 
 “When you told me the fairy story last evening you 
 said that you shouldn’t mind having a fairy godmother 
 yourself, for a little while; was it that she might bring you 
 money?'’ 
 
 Geraldine was a little touched, as well as surprised, at 
 the aptness with which the boy read her thoughts. 
 
 “Yes. Not a great deal though; just sufficient to get 
 baby and baby’s mother a modest outfit in case they should 
 go among strangers, as they may have to do.” 
 
 There was a roguish, exultant look in Bob’s eyes. 
 
 “ Now, suppose 1 was your fairy godmother?” 
 
 Geraldine smiled as she looked at the sturdy form that 
 was certainly not very fairy-like in its proportions, and 
 then looked very grave. 
 
 “ And so you have been, Robert, and in more ways than 
 one.” 
 
 “You know the morning that I first saw you?” 
 
 “ Indeed I do; it is something that I shall not soon for¬ 
 get.” 
 
 “Nor I nuther. I can see you now standin’ by the 
 fence, with baby in your arms. Did you lose anything?” 
 
 “ Lose anything?” 
 
 “ Yes. Did you drop anything from your pocket—any¬ 
 thing like this?” added the boy, taking something from 
 his own and laying it in Geraldine’s lap. 
 
 Geraldine looked down in mingled amazement apd 
 thankfulness upon the lost porte-monnaie. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 129 
 
 “And did you find it, my dear boy?” 
 
 “Yes; I found it in the road when I went back to the 
 corner to meet those two men on horseback. I thought it 
 was yours, so I kept it for you.” 
 
 Geraldine opened the porte-monnaie, finding there every 
 penny of the coin and bills that she had placed there so 
 many weeks before. 
 
 “ It could hardly come in a better time,” she said. 
 “ The good doctor and his wife have offered to supply all 
 my needs, but they are far from rich, having many out¬ 
 goes, and I do not like to put them to any further expense. 
 They have been to a great deal of trouble and expense for 
 me already. 
 
 “You have, indeed, been a fairy godmother to me,” 
 added Geraldine, stooping and kissing the boy’s forehead; 
 “I hope the day will come when I shall be able to be a 
 fairy godmother to you.” 
 
 Geraldine was now very busy in fashioning garments for 
 herself and Isabel, with the assistance of Mrs. Graham, 
 who entered, heart and soul, into all that concerned her 
 protegee , making rapid progress in her work. 
 
 Riverview stood upon the edge of a small village. 
 
 There was only one mail from New York, and that one 
 not always on time. 
 
 “We can hardly expect a reply before Saturday,” said 
 Mrs. Graham, in response to Geraldine’s query as to when 
 she expected to hear from her letter. “ Mr. Smith will be 
 sure to reply. Or, rather, his secretary will; he never 
 seems to write letters himself.” 
 
 Geraldine had heard so much about this quondam pa¬ 
 tient and boarder, that she felt not a little curious about 
 him. 
 
 “He was very good to me, you say,” she said, after a 
 litte pause; “ I wish he had stayed longer, so I could have 
 thanked him.” 
 
 “ I wish you could have seen Mr. Smith. I think you 
 would have liked him, though I hardly think that he would 
 have cared for thanks. I have noticed that anything of 
 the sort always seemed to displease, or, at least, make him 
 feel uncomfortable.” 
 
 “ I should like to see him, anyway, and hope I shall some 
 time. He must be a very uncommon character.” 
 
 “So he is. He isn’t a man easy to read. In fact, I 
 never could quite understand him. But I liked him, and 
 so does Francis. He is a person that one instinctively 
 trusts. He said very little, but you could not help feeling 
 that he meant all he said.” 
 
 “ He was a patient of Dr. Graham’s?” 
 
 “Yes, Though never ill enough to keep his room, ex? 
 
130 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 cept the first few days; he looked very pale and thin when 
 he first came. I think that he told Francis that he had 
 had an accident, which had given a severe shock to his 
 nervous system. He was a good deal better when he left, 
 but I don’t think he was quite well and strong.” 
 
 “ And he wrote to inquire about me?” 
 
 “Yes, several times; in fact, I think I have his last 
 letter, if you would like to see it?” 
 
 The letter that Geraldine took from the speaker’s hand 
 was very brief, running as follows: 
 
 “Dear Doctor, —Many thanks for your promptness in 
 answering my inquiries concerning your patient. 
 
 “ Now that she is able to be about, having recovered her 
 usual health and strength, or nearly so, I will not trouble 
 you further. 
 
 “ If there is anything that I can do for you, or any one, 
 I hope you will not fail to let me know. Yours truly, 
 
 “ R B. Smith, 
 
 “ Per A., Private Sec.” 
 
 Geraldine betrayed more emotion as she read this than 
 the case seemed to warrant. 
 
 “The handwriting is a—a—rather peculiar,” she said, 
 studying it curiously for some moments, and then putting 
 it away;, as though it stirred unpleasant memories. 
 
 “It isn’t Mr. Smith’s, you know,” said'Mrs. Graham, 
 looking up in some surprise at the speaker’s perplexed face. 
 “ It is written, like all the others, by his private secretary. 
 He came here once or twice to see his employer. But that 
 was before you came. ” ’ 
 
 “Did you see him?” 
 
 “ No; Francis did. He said he had a sort of foreign look 
 and way with him.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A STRANGE AND JOYFUL SURPRISE. 
 
 “I am going down-town, my dear. Have you or Mrs. 
 Geraldine any commissions for me?” 
 
 It was Dr. Graham who spoke, suddenly making his ap¬ 
 pearance upon the threshold of the quiet room where the 
 two ladies were sitting. 
 
 “I don’t know what Geraldine may have,” responded 
 his wife, looking up from her sewing; “I have nothing, 
 except to remind you not to forget to go to the post-office. 
 The mail must be in. ” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Something which I believe I never do forget, you have 
 such a very extensive correspondence, my love. Who are 
 you expecting to hear from now?” 
 
 “I plight hear from various people,” was the demure 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 131 
 
 response. “ There’s Brother Will, Uncle James, and 
 Cousin Lucy, that I haven’t heard from for an age, to say 
 nothing of many others of our numerous kith and kin. And 
 then there is—Mr. Smith. It is over a week since I wrote 
 him ; and he is always so punctual.” 
 
 “So it is. I mailed it, myself, last Tuesday; and it is 
 quite time, under ordinary circumstances, that you had an 
 answer. But then he may be out of town, or waiting to 
 make inquiries concerning what you wrote him.” 
 
 Geraldine, who was present, said nothing, looking from 
 one to the other with a quiet intentness peculiar to her, 
 and which showed the subject they were discussing to be 
 of no little interest to her. 
 
 It was noticeable that she changed her seat not long 
 after, taking one by a window which commanded a view 
 of the avenue down which Dr. Graham rode on his way to 
 town, and by which she knew he would return. 
 
 Mrs. Graham might have guessed her motive for this, 
 for she said: 
 
 “ I shouldn’t wonder if we heard from,Mr. Smith to-day. 
 If we don’t, I shall think that he is waiting, as Francis 
 says, for the purpose of writing something definite.” 
 
 In the course of an hour Dr. Graham made his appear¬ 
 ance. 
 
 Taking several papers and one letter from his coat 
 pocket, he tossed the latter into his wife’s lap, exclaiming: 
 
 “ There it is, my dear. ‘Long looked for, come at last.’ ” 
 
 The letter was directed to Mrs. Graham, in the same 
 angular, and, as Geraldine had remarked, somewhat pe¬ 
 culiar hand of t the one she had examined a few days pre¬ 
 viously. 
 
 Mrs. Graham was not long in making herself mistress of 
 its contents, and which seemed to give her undisguised 
 satisfaction. 
 
 “ I declare,” she exclaimed, a little incoherently, “ if Mr. 
 Smith isn’t the dearest man in the world! Such a fortu¬ 
 nate thing that I wrote to him 1” 
 
 “Dear, me,” said the doctor, in mock amazement and 
 despair, “ I thought that I was the dearest man in the 
 world! And now it seems that it’s some other man.” 
 
 “And so you are, in my world,” laughed his wife; “but 
 in Geraldine’s, if I mistake not, Mr. Smith will bear away 
 the palm.” 
 
 “I am sure that there couldn’t be anything more satis¬ 
 factory and desirable,” she added, turning to Geraldine. 
 “ Read the letter; it concerns you more than any one, and 
 you can judge for yourself. ” 
 
 Geraldine took the letter that was handed her, glanced 
 at it, and then returned it, saying: 
 
182 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME . 
 
 “ Will you kindly read it to me?” 
 
 “Certainly. Francis would like to hear it, too, I dare 
 say.” 
 
 “ That I should,” responded the doctor, with a sly twinkle 
 of the eye. “ I should like to know what the dearest man 
 in the world has to say for himself.” 
 
 “ He hasn’t anything to say for himself,” retorted Mrs. 
 Graham; “ he never does have.” 
 
 “ Very true,” responded her husband. “ Mr. Smith has 
 as little to say for himself as any man I ever saw; a very 
 good thing, too, if it isn’t carried too far. Now for the let¬ 
 ter, which has seemed to make you so happy.” 
 
 “ It is for Geraldine’s sake,” said Mrs. Graham, glancing 
 at our heroine. Observing the impatient and expectant 
 look there, she unfolded the letter, reading as follows: 
 
 “ ‘Dear Madam, —I should have replied to your kind 
 favor earlier had I not been out of town for the last few 
 days. I now write to say that I shall not only be very 
 glad to serve you in the way you mention, but trust that 
 it will open the door for me to be relieved in some measure 
 from a responsibility that rests very heavily upon me. 
 
 “‘A few months ago, by a series of painful circum¬ 
 stances, unnecessary, and which, indeed, I have no right, 
 to reveal, I became the guardian of a lovely and intelligent 
 boy of about six, who has been deprived of both parents. 
 
 “ ‘ While I take the deepest possible interest in my ward, 
 there are circumstances, unnecessary, and indeed impos¬ 
 sible, to explain, which place it beyond my power to have 
 him under my own personal supervision, as, otherwise, I 
 would be glad to do. 
 
 “ ‘ I have had him boarded in a private family, who have 
 attended carefully to his physical wants, trying to supply 
 his loss, so far as they know how. I have no particular 
 fault to find with them. 
 
 “ ‘ Still it is evident that the boy is not happy there; the 
 poor little fellow pines after his mother, to whom he was 
 strongly attached. And your letter has suggested to me 
 the possibility that the lady of whom you speak in such 
 high terms may be able to supply in some degree a moth¬ 
 er ’s place to him. 
 
 “ ‘Lionel is a boy that no woman, especially a mother, 
 can help loving-’ ” 
 
 “Lionel, did you say?” interrupted Geraldine. 
 
 Somewhat startled at this abrupt and unexpected query, 
 Mrs. Graham examined the word carefully. 
 
 “ Yes, Lionel.” 
 
 Recollecting herself, Geraldine drew back still further 
 into the shadow of the corner where she sat. 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME . 
 
 133 
 
 “I beg pardon; go on,” she said, in a tone husky with 
 suppressed emotion. 
 
 “ 4 Lionel is a boy that no woman, especially a mother, 
 can help loving,’ ” resumed Mrs. Graham; “ ‘and as your 
 young protegee has a little girl, about the same age of a 
 baby sister he lost, thus insuring him a little playmate, I can 
 but hope that this change will have a most happy effect 
 upon the boy, who has suffered both in health and spirits 
 from the grief and loneliness consequent upon his sad be¬ 
 reavement.’ 
 
 “ Poor little fellow!” interpolated Mrs. Graham, whose 
 heart was as warm and open as the day, “ I wish he were 
 here now. But just hear the rest. 
 
 “ ‘Being the heir to a large estate, the terms will be pro- 
 portionably liberal, consisting of five hundred a year, ex¬ 
 clusive of board for both and all the boy’s incidental ex¬ 
 penses. 
 
 “ ‘ I hardly need add that no menial labor will be re¬ 
 quired of her; nothing but the love, care, and instruction 
 that she would naturally bestow upon her own child. 
 
 “ ‘ Should be glad to have my ward at Biverview, at least 
 through the warm weather, on account of its pure air and 
 pleasant surroundings. When cool weather comes, I will, 
 if found necessary, make other arrangements. 
 
 “ ‘ I had nearly forgotten to say that my ward’s name is 
 Lionel Bayard. 
 
 “ ‘ Be good enough to let me hear from you by return of 
 mail. 
 
 “ * My private secretary will take the boy to Biverview 
 as soon as I learn that the arrangements named are satis¬ 
 factory to all parties. Bespectfully, 
 
 “ ‘B. B. Smith, 
 
 “ ‘ Per A., Private Sec’y.’ ” 
 
 Fortunately Mrs. Graham was too much absorbed in her 
 own thoughts and feelings to notice with what deep and 
 strange emotions Geraldine listened to this letter, and 
 which were so vividly portrayed by the dilated eyes and 
 alternately flushed and paling cheek, but which the shadow 
 in which she sat failed to bring very clearly into view. 
 
 “ Isn’t it delightful news, my dear Geraldine?” said Mrs. 
 Graham, breaking the little pause that followed. “The 
 salary is liberal, far more so than could be expected, and 
 the duties light—only one pupil—and then you can have 
 your own dear little girl with you. And, best of all to 
 me, you will not have to leave Biverview. I should be 
 very lonely if you were to go, for I am really getting to be 
 very fond of you.” 
 
 This long and characteristic speech gave Geraldine time 
 
134 
 
 A WIFE'S GRIME . 
 
 to recover in some degree from the agitation that at first 
 threatened to be too strong for her self-control. 
 
 With cheek very pale and eyes full of tears, she said, 
 tremulously: 
 
 “ God is very good to me, dear friends—far better than 
 you think, or I have any right to expect or ask. Tell this 
 noble-hearted man that I accept the trust he offers me, and 
 will do my best to deserve it. In the meantime, if you do 
 not need the letter to answer it, will you let me take it to 
 my room, where I can examine it more carefully?” 
 
 “Certainly. I shall not need the letter, as all I have to 
 say in reply is that the arrangements he proposes will be 
 very satisfactory to you and all of us. That is what you 
 wish me to say, I suppose?” 
 
 “Yes; so far as I am concerned, no arrangement could 
 be so pleasant and desirable.” 
 
 Mrs. Graham looked at her husband as Geraldine left the 
 room. 
 
 “ It can’t be wondered at that she should be somewhat 
 overcome, poor thing! It was quite a surprise to me— 
 something that I didn’t at all expect. But did you notice, 
 Francis, how pale she was, and how strangely she looked? 
 It don’t seem to me that she can be quite well and strong 
 yet.” 
 
 “ It is very evident that she is very far from strong, my 
 dear,” replied the doctor, “nor is it to be wondered at. 
 People don’t get up very soon from so serious an illness as 
 hers; it is apt to leave more or less of weakness for some 
 months.” 
 
 Geraldine went directly to her own room. Bolting the 
 door, she read the letter that had brought such unexpected 
 and welcome tidings to her, line by line, dwelling with ma¬ 
 ternal pride and fondness on all that related to her boy. 
 For h was, oh, happy thought !—her boy it spoke of. 
 
 Sinking down beside the bed, Geraldine’s grateful and 
 happy tears fell fast. 
 
 “ I shall hold Lionel, my poor lost boy, in my arms!” she 
 sobbed. “I thank Thee, O God, that Thou hast, in Thy 
 just wrath, remembered mercy!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A STRANGE MEETING. 
 
 The days that intervened before the advent of her ex¬ 
 pected guest at Riverview were very busy ones to Mrs. 
 Graham, whose kind, sympathetic nature made her bent 
 on making everything as pleasant as possible to all con 
 cerned. 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. • 135 
 
 Geraldine’s room was in the east wing. It contained two 
 other good-sized and pleasant rooms. 
 
 The smaller of these, and which opened out of Geral¬ 
 dine’s, Mrs. Graham had designed as a bed-room for her 
 boy-guest, fitting it up with everything that she could 
 think of, that was pretty and attractive; the other one was 
 to be the school-room. 
 
 Geraldine was consulted in regard to every detail, Mrs. 
 Graham following every hint and suggestion, so far as it 
 was practicable. 
 
 “It is very easy to see that you are a mother,” smiled 
 that lady, as Geraldine suggested some addition that had 
 not occurred to her. “We are very happy, Francis and I, 
 and I suppose my husband pets and makes more of me 
 than if he had children upon which to lavish his surplus 
 affection. Still I must confess that it is a great disappoint¬ 
 ment to me that I have been debarred from this crowning 
 joy of wedded love. The house has seemed quite another 
 place since your dear little girl came into it. And now I 
 am looking with real pleasure to the coming of this boy!” 
 
 “ You will love him; you can’t help it,” said Geraldine, 
 a little incautiously. 
 
 Then catching Mrs. Graham’s surprised glance, she 
 added, hastily: 
 
 “That is to say, if all be true that Mr. Smith says of 
 him.” 
 
 He is at a very interesting age, at all events,” responded 
 Mrs. Graham. ‘ ‘ I only hope he will be contented. Poor 
 little fellow ! to think of his being deprived of both parents 
 so young. Isn’t it sad?” 
 
 “Very,” said Geraldine, in tones that she vainly en¬ 
 deavored to render steady. 
 
 “ My dear Geraldine,” said Mrs. Graham, as she caught 
 a glimpse of the speakei’s quivering lips and tearful eyes. 
 
 “ I beg pardon,” faltered Geraldine, “ but I am not very 
 strong, as yet. You will understand something of my 
 feelings when I tell you that I lost a boy of about the age 
 of this one, and it brought it all back fresh to my mind” 
 
 “I think my boy must have been a little younger when 
 I lost him,” added Geraldine, smiling through her tears 
 into the sympathetic face of her listener. “ You, my kind, 
 good friend, who have been denied a mother’s joy, have 
 been spared a mother’s agony in the loss of her darling.” 
 
 “ But I can feel for those who have sustained it. And 1 
 hope that the boy that is coming will take, in some degree 
 at least, the place of the boy you have lost.” 
 
 “ I hope he may. It predisposes me, at all events, to re 
 ceive him with more tenderness and affection, and to take 
 more interest in him.” 
 
A WIFE 8 CRIME. 
 
 Here the Conversation ceased, much to Geraldine’s relief. 
 
 This first and brief allusion to her past life was a matter 
 of policy—or, rather, necessity with her. It might tend to 
 explain not only the agitation that she had already mani¬ 
 fested, but what it might be impossible for her to entirely 
 repress at her meeting with Lionel, and which she feared 
 would arouse suspicions that would prove disastrous to all 
 her hopes. 
 
 It was the morning of the day on which Lionel was ex¬ 
 pected, and Geraldine stood before the mirror in her own 
 room looking with sad, inquiring eyes into the face from 
 which all the bloom and brightness had vanished, making 
 it seem strange even to herself. 
 
 Would her boy recognize her? 
 
 As this was something to be feared and avoided, she ex¬ 
 perienced a feeling of satisfaction and relief as she noted 
 the change there. 
 
 Her long and beautiful hair had fallen out, so that she 
 had been necessitated to wear a cap to conceal its loss, 
 which added not a little to her changed appearance. 
 
 True, it was coming out now, soft and thick, and with a 
 natural wave in it that added to its beauty; so that when 
 Mrs. Grali am surprised her without the cap, one day, she 
 urged its discontinuance, declaring it to be a shame for her 
 to disfigure herself so. 
 
 But Geraldine had her own private reasons for declining 
 
 to do this. 
 
 I think that I will wear it for the present,” she smiled; 
 “at least until my hair is a little longer.” 
 
 Her clear, soft, musical voice; her jetty eyes with their 
 long curved lashes, were all that remained unchanged, and 
 these she hoped to be able to disguise sufficiently for the 
 attainment of her purpose. 
 
 For obvious re'asons, Geraldine decided that her first 
 meeting with Lionel should have as few spectators as pos¬ 
 sible. In order to make this practicable, she resolved to 
 be in her own room at the time of his arrival. 
 
 The boy was not expected until late in the afternoon, 
 and, as it began to wear away, there was no necessity for 
 Geraldine to feign the headache that was to enable her to 
 carry her design into execution. 
 
 There was a dull, throbbing pain in the temples, born of 
 the heavy strain made upon her nervous system by the 
 hard and unnatural part that she was forced to act. 
 
 From the windows of her own room Geraldine watched 
 the carriage disappear down the avenue that had been sent 
 to meet the train, and then lying down upon the lounge, 
 endeavored to still the quivering nerves and throbbing 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 137 
 
 pulses to a successful encounter of the ordeal through 
 which she must soon pass. 
 
 She had hardly done this, when Mrs. Graham made her 
 appearance to inquire how she was. 
 
 “ It is nothing more serious than a headache,” said Ger¬ 
 aldine, with a faint smile, “ which will be quite gone in the 
 morning. Pat has gone to the station, I understand. I 
 wish that you would send the boy up-stairs to me as soon 
 as he returns.” 
 
 “But won’t it be bad for your head, my dear Geral¬ 
 dine?” said Mrs. Graham, as she noticed the speaker’s pale 
 face and heavy eyes. 
 
 “ On the contrary, it will do me good. Let him come up 
 to me quietly, as though his finding me here, in the next 
 room to his own, was the most natural thing in the world. 
 In this way he may attach me, in some degree, with the 
 mother he has lost, and thus make it much pleasanter for 
 us both. There is a good deal in first impressions, you 
 know.” 
 
 “Very true. Children are so unconventional, that a 
 formal introduction might make him feel shy and uncom¬ 
 fortable. I’ll take him up, myself; and after showing him 
 his pretty room and telling him who you are, leave him to 
 get acquainted himself.” 
 
 Both Dr. and Mrs. Graham were upon the porch when 
 Pat lifted Lionel from the carriage. 
 
 The two were not long in reaching his side. 
 
 The boy had evidently been well brought up. He shock 
 hands with the doctor, submitting to, but not returning, 
 the kiss that his wife pressed upon each cheek. 
 
 There was a disappointed, wistful look in the dark eyes 
 that searched Mrs. Graham’s face, which gave her “ an odd 
 sort of feeling,” as sbe expressed it afterward. 
 
 “ Are you well, my dear?” 
 
 “ I’m pretty well, thank you, ma’am,” said the boy, his 
 eyes roving about as though in search of something or 
 somebody that he could not find. 
 
 Holding Lionel by the hand, Mrs. Graham now led him 
 into the general sitting-room, the boy giving every part of 
 it the same silent, disappointed scrutiny. 
 
 “I thought, perhaps, I should find my mamma here?” 
 
 Startled by these unexpected words, Mrs. Graham was 
 silent for some moments. Then she said: 
 
 “ Your mamma is dead, isn’t she?” 
 
 The boy’s eyes suddenly dilated. 
 
 “Papa never said she was; nobody ever said she was. 
 Is my papa dead, too?” 
 
 “ Goodness me!” thought Mrs. Graham, “ what a strange 
 
 child!” 
 
188 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 Then aloud: 
 
 “Your dear papa and mamma are in heaven, and if you 
 are a good boy, you will go and see them some day. Now, 
 if you’ll come with me, I will show you your pretty new 
 room, and the kind lady who is going to have the care of 
 
 you.” 
 
 The stopping of the carriage wheels that brought Lionel 
 to Riverview came very distinctly to the strained ears 
 that were watching for them. 
 
 Rising from the lounge, Geraldine went to the mirror, 
 carefully adjusting her cap over the short, wavy hair that 
 covered her head. 
 
 As she stood thus, looking at the reflection there, as 
 though it were some other face than hers, she heard steps 
 ascending thestairs. 
 
 Her heart beat almost to suffocation as there floated to 
 her ear the clear, childish voice so familiar to her, in which 
 there was a minor key, never heard in it before, and which 
 went straight to the mother’s heart. 
 
 As the steps came nearer and nearer, an almost irresist¬ 
 ible impulse came over Geraldine to rush forward and 
 clasp her boy to her heart. 
 
 Controlling herself with a strong effort, she drew a shawl 
 around her shoulders, seating herself in a large easy-chair 
 in the furthest corner of the room. 
 
 There were two doors to Lionel’s room, one opening into 
 Geraldine’s, the other into the hall. 
 
 Mrs. Graham took the boy through the latter into the 
 pretty chamber, that looked very dainty and attractive in 
 its drapery of white, relieved only by the tinted walls of a 
 pale pink, and the rose-colored ribbons that knotted back 
 the muslin curtains from the broad, deep windows. 
 
 Lionel’s eyes wandered around with the same searching, 
 wistful look, saying, almost immediately. 
 
 “ Where is the lady you told me about?” 
 
 Opening the door into Geraldine’s room, Mrs. Graham 
 pointed to its motionless and silent occupant, whose only 
 safety consisted in the self-control that taxed her strength 
 to the utmost, saying: 
 
 “There she is. She once had a little boy, just about 
 your age, and was so sorry to lose him. Wouldn’t it be 
 very nice if you could take his place?” 
 
 Lionel drew back from the hand that gently pushed him 
 forward. 
 
 “But if she isn’t my own mamma how could I? I 
 couldn’t love anybody as I did her.” 
 
 “ Well, go and speak to her, dear, while I go down and 
 get your supper ready.” 
 
 The door closed after the retreating form of the speaker, 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 139 
 
 and through eyes misty with tears Geraldine looked out 
 from her obscure corner upon the little term that was 
 framed so distinctly in the doorway upon whose threshold 
 the feet still lingered. 
 
 “Lionel.” 
 
 “Mamma!” cried the boy, darting forward. 
 
 Then, looking into the face so changed from the one 
 that had smiled down upon him last, he suddenly stopped 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 Reaching out her hand. Geraldine drew the boy toward 
 her so that his head rested against her knee. 
 
 “ Did you think that it was your own mamma speaking 
 to you, my dear boy?” she said, laying her hand softly on 
 his head. 
 
 “Yes; you speak just as she used to.” 
 
 “ Does my face look any like hers!” 
 
 Lifting his head Lionel again scanned the face that bent 
 over him, a disappointed look coming into his eyes as he 
 did so. 
 
 “You make me think of her, somehow, but you don’t 
 look like her. My mamma didn’t wear a cap. Her eyes 
 were bright and her cheeks red, and she had dimples 
 around her mouth when she smiled. And she always 
 smiled when she spoke to me. My mamma was pretty, so 
 pretty!” 
 
 “ When did you see her last?” 
 
 “ It’s a long time; a good many weeks and months. It 
 was one evening. I said my prayers at her knee, just as I 
 always did. She didn’t say anything to me about going 
 away, or bid me good-bye either, but in the morning she 
 was gone. When I cried and asked papa where she was, 
 he looked so white and angry, and said I mustn’t never 
 speak her name to him again. And when I kept talking 
 about her, ’cause I couldn’t help it, he shook me real hard. 
 Then he seemed sort of sorry, and kissed and cried over 
 me, saying that I was a poor little motherless boy. Alter 
 breakfast Rattle took me away in a carriage. Rapa said 
 that he would come and see me in a few days, but he never 
 come.” 
 
 Geraldine could not restrain her tears at this artless re¬ 
 cital, a big drop falling upon the little hand that she held 
 in both of hers. 
 
 This seemed to trouble the sensitive, affectionate-hearted 
 boy. 
 
 “What makes you cry?” 
 
 Making a successful effort to restrain her emotion, Ger¬ 
 aldine smiled through her tears upon the little questioner. 
 
 “ Because I am so sorry for you, dear child. And then 
 I had a little boy once, and you make me think of him. 
 
140 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 Don’t you think that you can learn to love me after a 
 time, so that I shall not miss him so much?” 
 
 Lionel threw his arms around the speaker’s neck. 
 
 “I love you now! Only you won’t mind if I love my 
 own mamma the best?” 
 
 For the first time since their long separation Geraldine 
 held her boy warmly and closely to her heart. 
 
 “No, Lionel, I shall always want you to love your own 
 mamma the best.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 MR. SMITH'S SECRETARY. 
 
 When Mrs. Graham went down stairs she found her hus¬ 
 band sitting out on the porch, a favorite place w r ith him at 
 that time of day, in an unusually thoughtful mood. 
 
 “ What a pretty boy it is, don’t you think so, Francis?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Such black eyes I never saw in anybody’s head. ” 
 
 “ Except Mrs. Geraldine’s, her eyes are quite as black.” 
 
 “So they are, I’ve often remarked it. She told me yes¬ 
 terday that she had lost a little boy about Lionel’s age.” 
 
 “Well, he couldn’t have looked much more like her than 
 this one does.” 
 
 “ Goodness me! Francis, what do you mean?” 
 
 Dr. Graham laughed outright at the open-eyed wonder 
 in the face that was turned toward him. 
 
 “ Nothing at all, my dear, except that it is a remarkable 
 coincidence to which I casually drew your attention. We, 
 occasionally, see in two strangers a strong resemblance, 
 while those near akin are totally dissimilar. So I place no 
 particular stress upon that. 
 
 “Still,” continued the doctor, after a thoughtful pause, 
 “ I hate mysteries; and must say that I wish that we knew 
 something of the antecedents of the lady who is domiciled 
 beneath our roof, and of whom we know no more than if 
 she had dropped down from the skies.” 
 
 “ Perhaps she did,” smiled Mrs. Graham; “ people some¬ 
 times entertain angels unawares, you know?” 
 
 Then, sobering a little as she met her husband’s grave 
 look, she added: 
 
 “ Do you say this, in view of the responsibility we have 
 assumed in relation to Mr. Smith’s ward ?” 
 
 “No. 1 don’t acknowledge that we have assumed any 
 responsibility in regard to him. Mr. Smith knows all we 
 know in relation to Geraldine, being here when she name; 
 and if he chooses to place this confidence in her—1 ao not 
 say it is misplaced—the responsibility is his, not oilrs.” 
 Mrs. Graham had the firmest confidence in her husband’s 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 141 
 
 judgment and integrity, having seen it tested in many 
 ways, and a strange fear arose in her heart, that she 
 would have found it hard to put into words, if she had 
 tried. 
 
 “ My dear Francis, you speak so differently in regard to 
 Geraldine than I ever knew you to do before. Have you 
 1 seen anything in her of late that makes you distrust her?” 
 
 Dr. Graham smiled reassuringly into the troubled face 
 of the speaker. 
 
 “ On the contrary, I see things in her every day that 
 make me esteem her more highly. Still, as I said before, 
 I hate mysteries. And now let us drop the subject.” 
 
 “ I thought that Mr. Smith’s secretary was coming with 
 the boy.” 
 
 44 So he did, as far as the village,” responded the doctor. 
 “ He told Pat that, as he had some business to do there, he 
 should remain overnight at the hotel, coming up to see 
 the boy early in the morning, before the train leaves.” 
 
 Bob was sitting in his favorite seat on the steps of the 
 porch, with little Isabel on his knee, whose merry prattle 
 was the sweetest of all music to him. 
 
 “I wish that you would take baby up to her mother, 
 Bob,” said Mrs. Graham. “ I think that I will let her and 
 Lionel have their supper together, so that they will get ac¬ 
 quainted. Tell Mrs. Geraldine that I will send Katy up 
 with it directly.” 
 
 When Bob entered Geraldine’s room, which he did in 
 response to the summons that followed his gentle tap at 
 the door, he gazed in wonder and admiration at the lovely 
 boy that was seated on a cushion at her feet, with his head 
 resting against her knee. 
 
 He had Isabel in his arms, who looked a little askance 
 at this new claimant for her mother’s love. 
 
 Smiling upon both, Geraldine held out her arms to the 
 child, who, after a little hesitation, sprung eagerly into them. 
 
 * k Lionel,” said the happy mother, “ you have been telling 
 me about your own dear little sister, and how much you 
 loved her. My baby must be several months older, but she 
 has the same name, and I hope you will learn to love her, 
 after a time, almost as well.” 
 
 Isabel had altered so much during the months that had 
 followed their separation, that no thought entered the boy’s 
 mind of her true relationship to him. 
 
 All that he saw was a sweet, dimpled face, eyes that 
 looked gleefully into his, rosy lips held up for the kias that 
 he was nothing loath to give. 
 
 Katy now entered with the nicely arranged and appetiz¬ 
 ing supper, which consisted of bread and milk for Isabel, 
 
142 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 to which were added some delicious rice cakes, honey, and 
 some early strawberries. 
 
 It was hard to say which enjoyed it the most, the chil¬ 
 dren or she who sat watching them with such a happy, de¬ 
 lighted look upon her face, that Mrs. Graham hardly rec¬ 
 ognized it when she entered the room, as she did, a few 
 minutes later, to see if there was anything further that 
 she could do for the comfort of any of them. 
 
 So strong was the constraint that Geraldine was obliged 
 to put upon her feelings, that it was a great relief to her to 
 find herself alone with these dear children, so strangely 
 separated, and still more strangely brought together, now 
 sleeping quietly in the same room, under her loving and 
 watchful care. 
 
 Though they both inherited their mother’s jetty hair and 
 eyes, there was a good deal of their father’s looks in them, 
 especially in Isabel. 
 
 Considering the charge that had been brought against 
 her, it will not be wondered at that Geraldine viewed this 
 with no little satisfaction. 
 
 It brought vividly to her mind the husband, the memory 
 of whose love and manly worth grew more precious to, her 
 day by day, and her eyes grew dim with tears as she gazed. 
 
 “ If he could look upon his baby now,” she thought, “ he 
 would know, however foolish and faulty my conduct, that 
 I was guilty of doing him no other wrong. I will atone for 
 my great sin by devoting my life to his children, and it 
 may be that he will some day come to me, as he did in my 
 dream, and putting my baby in my arms, kiss us both, 
 though it be in another and a fairer country than this.” 
 
 Mr. Smith’s secretary kept his word, coming to Kiver- 
 view the following morning for the purpose of seeing 
 Lionel and learning in regard to his welfare. 
 
 Despite her changed appearance, Geraldine felt reluctant 
 to meet strangers, especially from New York, lest it should 
 be some one who would recognize her. 
 
 “I suppose I shall have to meet him, sooner or later,” she 
 thought, “ but I will put it off as long as possible.” 
 
 So, on the plea of not having fully recovered from the 
 headache of the preceding day, she remained in her own 
 room until after he had left. 
 
 Lionel saw him, and came running back to Geraldine as 
 soon as he had gone, his animated look and manner show¬ 
 ing that the parting was not the occasion of any heart¬ 
 break. 
 
 “Were you sorry to have him go?” inquired Geraldine. 
 
 “No,” was the frank response, “I wasn’t sorry, as I 
 know of. He asked me, Mr. Tjny did, what he should tell 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME . 
 
 143 
 
 my guardian, and I said that he was to tell him that I liked 
 you and my new home ever so much.’ 
 
 “ I am glad that you were able to send him such good 
 news,” smiled Geraldine. ‘‘ I suppose your guardian comes 
 to see you quite often. ” 
 
 “ He never comes.'’ 
 
 “Never comes to see you!” repeated Geraldine, in as¬ 
 tonishment. 
 
 “ He came one night, a long time ago, after I had gone 
 to sleep. He came up-stairs to look at me—so Mrs. Roper 
 said—but I didn’t see him. I never saw him in my life.” 
 
 Geraldine was too prudent to let Lionel see the lull extent 
 of her wonderment at such strange conduct, especially in 
 the guardian of a child of such tender years. 
 
 “ Your guardian is very busy, I dare say. He has been 
 out of health, too, I understand. I suppose that he used 
 to write often to ask how you were getting along?” 
 
 “Oh, yes; Mrs. Roper got lots of letters. She used to 
 read some of them to me, sometimes, how I must be a 
 good boy, and let him know if I wanted anything He 
 used to send me lots of toys and pretty things when Mr. 
 Tony came, and I was to be sure and let him know if 
 I wanted anything else. I told Mr. Tony to tell my guard¬ 
 ian that I wanted to go to my own home and see my 
 mamma, and papa, and little sister.” 
 
 “And what did Mr. Tony say to that?” inquired Geral¬ 
 dine, as soon as her emotion would allow her to speak. 
 
 “ He looked very sober, but didn’t say much, only that 
 he would tell Mr. Smith what I said. The next time my 
 guardian wrote, he said that he was going to put me in the 
 care of a kind lady, who would love me just as though I 
 was her own little boy. So when Mr. Tony came for me, 
 I thought, perhaps, that it was my mamma he was taking 
 me to.” 
 
 “You were greatly disappointed when you saw me?” 
 
 The boy’s ear, quickened by affection, caught the under¬ 
 tone of pain in these words. 
 
 Throwing his arms around Geraldine’s neck, he cried: 
 
 “Yes; but I don’t mind it so much now. You seem 
 more and more like my own mamma all the time. And I 
 love you, oh, so dearly.” 
 
 There was one thing that puzzled Geraldine. Mr. 
 Smith’s secretary had countersigned his letters by the 
 initial letter “ A,” which certainly did not stand for the 
 name that Lionel gave him. Still, it might stand for his 
 Christian name. 
 
 “ Has Mr. Tony any other name than the one you call 
 him by?” she said to Lionel, after turning the matter over 
 
 in her" mind. — 
 
144 
 
 A WIPE'S CUXME. 
 
 “Mrs. Roper called him by some other name, I forget 
 what. It was too hard for me to speak, so he said, and 
 that I was to call him Mr. Tony. I asked him once if that 
 was his real name, and he laughed and said, ‘ yes.’ ” 
 
 * * * * $ a(e •" 
 
 Mr. Smith was in his library, being seated at a desk on 
 which were various letters and papers demanding his im¬ 
 mediate attention, but to which he paid no heed, being ab¬ 
 sorbed in thought, which the gloom that rested upon his 
 brow showed to be of no very pleasant nature. 
 
 Suddenly arousing himself, he glanced at his watch. 
 
 “ The train was in an hour ago. I wonder what keeps 
 him,” he muttered. “ They have met by this time. What 
 will the result be? But why should I ask the question? 
 The result will be what I expected. By this time he has 
 forgotten everything. He will not come before to-morrow, 
 and then to tell me—what?” 
 
 As though the suspense he was evidently suffering was 
 too intolerable to be borne, the speaker partially arose 
 from his chair. 
 
 Then sinking back in it he turned his eves resolutely 
 upon the papers before him, one of which he began to read, 
 though with an abstracted air, as though his mind took in 
 no sense of its meaning. 
 
 A moment later ana his privacy was invaded by his 
 secretary, who, entering by a side door near the desk, now 
 stood before his employer with a quiet, deferential air. 
 
 Mr. Smith cast a quick, searching glance upon the face, 
 evidently both baffled and surprised by the tranquil look it 
 wore. 
 
 “Well, sir?” 
 
 The person addressed might have thought the speaker to 
 be displeased at his coming unsummoned into his presence, 
 for he said: 
 
 “I understood you to say that you wished to see me 
 immediately on my return?” 
 
 “You are right. I did say so. What news do you 
 bring?” 
 
 “ Well, sir, I followed your instructions in regard to 
 your ward, taking him from Mrs. Roper’s to Riverview. I 
 saw him this morning for a few minutes, before the train 
 left, and he seemed quite happy and animated, more as a 
 boy of his age should be than I ever saw him. He said I 
 was to tell you that he liked his new governess very much; 
 that she seemed like his own mamma.” 
 
 “ How did you like her?” 
 
 “Iam sorry to say that I didn’t see her. On account of 
 my long illness there, I had some matters to arrange in 
 that vicinity, so I remained at the village hotel over night. 
 
A WIFE'S CHIME. 
 
 145 
 
 When I called at Riverview the next morning, I inquired 
 for her especially, but Mrs. Graham informed me that she 
 was suffering from a nervous headache, and had not left 
 her room.” 
 
 “No matter; it is my intention to have you visit my 
 ward every month, so you will soon have an opportunity of 
 seeing her. I shall make it a point that you do see her on 
 your next visit.” 
 
 The secretary bowed, saying a few minutes later, his face 
 flushing a little as he spoke: 
 
 “ I found the good farmer and his wife who nursed and 
 cared for me so kindly, they having moved from their 
 former place, being now not far from Riverview. But when 
 I would have recompensed them for their trouble, I found 
 that you had forestalled me.” 
 
 “You were correctly informed,” said the other, a little 
 coldly. “ You have been of service to me in various ways, 
 and then those in the circumstances of these people can ill 
 afford to wait. Take these letters and see that the replies 
 to them go out in the next mail.” 
 
 The concluding sentence making it appear evident that 
 his presence was no longer desired, the secretary gathered 
 up the letters, retreating to a little side room which had 
 been fitted up for his especial use. 
 
 It was here that he spent the larger part of the hours 
 devoted to business; a small bell suspended just above his 
 desk, and which communicated with the one in the adjoin¬ 
 ing room, summoning him into the presence of his chief, 
 whenever he desired to see him. 
 
 “ What a singular being,” thought the secretary, as he 
 seated himself at the desk. “ Why he should have sought 
 me out as he did, dealing with me so liberally, is one of 
 the mysteries that I cannot fathom. True, I am of some 
 service to him, but no more than any one else would be in 
 the same position. It can’t be from any personal affection, 
 for he has shown none; keeping me at the same distance 
 that he maintained at the first, and which no effort of 
 mine can bridge over. And now see what he has paid out 
 for me, twice what I should have paid, at the most. Well, 
 it is his business; he’s rich and can afford it.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 Under the new order of things, inaugurated by the late 
 addition to their number, the household at Riverview 
 moved quietly and happily along. 
 
 Happy in the presence and companionship of her two 
 dear children, something of the olden bloom and bright- 
 
146 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 ness came back to Geraldine’s face, and though nothing 
 approaching to merriment ever dimpled her mouth, a 
 smile often lingered there more sweet and gracious than 
 ever rested there in her palmiest days. 
 
 Only one thing cast a shadow on the new-born joys that 
 were springing around her, the memory of the sin that 
 had borne such bitter fruit, and which rested all the more 
 heavily on her heart that she could speak of it to no one. 
 
 Many times did she rise softly from her couch, and, after 
 gazing on the sleeping babe, the living image of its father, 
 sink down upon her knees, and, holding the crucifix to her 
 lips, plead with Him who hung thereon to give her soul 
 pardon and peace. 
 
 At her own request, Geraldine had two to teach instead 
 of one, her second pupil being good, kind, honest Bob, 
 who, to use his Uncle John’s expression, “would rather 
 have a book than his dinner, any day.” 
 
 Geraldine was not ignorant of the boy’s love for what his 
 uncle called “lamin’,” nor yet the sacrifice that he’was will¬ 
 ing to make for the sake of providing a home for her baby- 
 girl, and s he was - determined that he should have tne 
 education for which he so thirsted, and of which she was 
 confident that he would make a worthy use. 
 
 So she made arrangements with Dr. Graham, who en¬ 
 tered heartily into her plans, to have Bob work around 
 sufficient for his board, spending the rest of the time in 
 study. 
 
 A happier boy the sun never shone upon when Geral¬ 
 dine unfolded to Bob this arrangement, taking him into 
 the school-room for this purpose, which had been fitted up 
 with books, maps, charts, and everything that could make 
 study pleasant and profitable. 
 
 “It is high time that I should begin to be your fairy 
 godmother,” smiled Geraldine, as she observed the boy’s 
 astonishment and grateful joy, and which had temporarily 
 deprived him of the power of speech. 
 
 Then putting Isabel into his arms,she added: 
 
 “You were very good to baby and her poor mother, 
 when they were friendless wanderers, having neither 
 friends nor shelter, and both baby and her mother must now 
 be as good as they can be to you. I mean, my dear boy, 
 that you shall have as good an education as you will re¬ 
 ceive; so everything depends upon yourself, you see.” 
 
 Mrs. Brown was delighted at the brightening prospects 
 of her nephew, and as for her husband, the capabilities 
 that the boy evinced, no less than the estimation in which 
 he was held by his new friends, had caused quite a revolu¬ 
 tion in his thoughts and feelings, saying to Geraldine, as 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 147 
 
 he rather awkwardly expressed his acquiescence in this 
 arrangement for his benefit: 
 
 “ I never was much of a scholard myself, but Bob allers 
 took as naterly to books as a duck takes to water. Wife 
 allers said that there was sometiiin’ more'n common in the 
 lad, an’ I do’ know but what she’s in the rights on’t.” 
 
 So this important matter was settled to the mutual satis¬ 
 faction of all concerned. 
 
 As Mr. Brown supplied River view with eggs, poultry, 
 fruit, etc., he saw his nephew every week, to say nothing 
 of the frequent Sundays that Bob spent at his old home. 
 
 Mrs. Bro wn occasionally accompanied her husband in his 
 trips to Riverview, spending the day there; Bob going back 
 with her in the evening, if the weather was fine, being ac¬ 
 companied by Lionel, who, boy-like, was delighted to get 
 on the water. 
 
 These were very enjoyable seasons, not only to Bob. but 
 to Lionel and Isabel, who grew to be very fond ot “Auntie 
 Brown,” as f hey called her. 
 
 In accordance with the wish that Mr. Smirli had ex¬ 
 pressed through his secretary, Geraldine wrote him every 
 week in regard to the health and general welfare of his 
 ward. 
 
 Her knowledge of his peculiarities, together with her 
 fears of betraying too much interest in her pupil, placed 
 her under considerable constraint at first. 
 
 But this gradually wore away, until, at last, she began to 
 take absolute pleasure in describing the marked improve¬ 
 ment and growing graces of her boy, and who was all the 
 more dear to her that no one recognized her right to call 
 him such. 
 
 On one occasion she wrote, “ that hearing her little girl 
 call her ‘mamma,’ Lionel was beginning to give her the 
 same title. Sometimes it was ‘ my new mamma,’ as though 
 to make a distinction between her and the one he had lost. 
 That, as it seemed to afford his ward no little satisfaction, 
 she had encouraged the boy to do this, hoping that it would 
 not be displeasing to him.” 
 
 Mr. Smith briefly alluded to this in his next letter, ex 
 pressing his gratification “ that his ward regarded her in 
 this light.” 
 
 Mr. Smith had intimated that his secretary would visit 
 Riverview every month, to inquire personally in regard to 
 the welfare of his ward; but more than two passed and he 
 failed to make his appearance. 
 
 One morning Lionel burst into Geraldine’s room, his 
 cheeks glowing, and his eyes radiant with excitement. 
 
 “Oh! mamma, Mr. Tony is in the parlor! Mrs. Graham 
 is out, and he wants to see you. Just see what he brought 
 
148 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 me. A horse and wagon, with a real mane and tail, which 
 can be harnessed and unharnessed! Can I go down into 
 the garden and show it to Bob? 
 
 Receiving the required permission, Lionel darted out of 
 the room. 
 
 Geraldine paused in front of the mirror to take a cursory 
 glance of the face and form that were fast rounding into 
 all their old grace and contour. 
 
 She had discarded the cap, her own beautiful hair, just 
 long enough to fall in jetty waves around the face, giving 
 it an air of youthfulness that was in strong contrast to the 
 gentle gravity of her look and manner. 
 
 In order to exclude the rays of the hot July sun, the 
 windows of the parlor had been darkened, so that Geral¬ 
 dine saw only the dim outline of the form that arose on 
 her entrance, but this faint glimpse made her listen with 
 painful intentness to the voice that said: 
 
 “ I beg pardon for troubling you, madam, but Mr. Smith 
 has made it an especial point that I should see you at my 
 next visit to River view. He desires to know-” 
 
 Going to the window Geraldine turned the blinds so that 
 the light fell full, not only upon her face, but that of the 
 speaker. 
 
 Springing forward, he stared wildly into the pale but 
 beautiful face that confronted him. 
 
 “ Good heavens! Geraldine—Mrs. Bayard—is it, can it 
 
 be youV' 
 
 “Hush! Do not speak that name here! it is no longer 
 mine. Any intimation that it ever has been will not fail 
 to bring upon me a sorrow and trouble that I shudder to 
 contemplate.” 
 
 “I will say nothing to harm you, Geraldine,” said the 
 man, in an agitated manner. “ I would a thousand times 
 rather harm myself. You surely ought to know this. But 
 how is it that I find you here in this strange guise and 
 position? Tell me-” 
 
 “ I can tell you nothing,” interrupted Geraldine, shrink¬ 
 ing back from the hand that was extended toward her— 
 “ at least not now, not here.” 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Graham’s voice was heard in the 
 hall, speaking to one of the servants. 
 
 Geraldine continued, still more hurriedly: 
 
 ‘ ‘ I beseech you to be silent! To give no token that we 
 have ever met before ” 
 
 Geraldine was standing near the open window, which 
 descended to the floor, stepping through it upon the porcli 
 just as Mrs. Graham entered. 
 
 That lady paused upon the threshold, glancing around 
 
A WIFE'S CHIME. 149 
 
 the room with an air of surprise. Then, advancing, she 
 said: 
 
 “I beg pardon, this is Mr. Smith’s secretary, I believe? 
 You are very welcome. I thought Mrs. Geraldine was 
 here.” 
 
 The secretary bowed, showing a self-possession that was 
 remarkable, under the circumstances. 
 
 “ She was here a moment ago, madam, but the air being 
 a little close, she has stepped out upon the porch.” 
 
 Acting upon this hint, Mrs. Graham threw up another 
 window, so as to make a circulation of air, remarking, as 
 she did so: 
 
 “ It is a very close and sultry day, and a thunder-storm 
 would be very welcome and refreshing.” 
 
 Leaning against one of the pillars of the porch, Geraldine 
 listened, like one in a dream, to the murmur of voices 
 within. 
 
 Suddenly she heard the patter of little feet, and then a 
 clear, childish voice, rising above all the others, cried: 
 
 “Mamma! Where is mamma?” 
 
 These words aroused in the unhappy mother’s heart an 
 agony of terror that swept everything before it. 
 
 Not daring to trust herself to speak or act in this new 
 and unlooked-for emergency, she fled to her own room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A HARD AND PERPLEXING POSITION. 
 
 Interested as Mrs. Graham was in Geraldine, she was 
 very naturally anxious that she should make a favorable 
 impression upon one sustaining such confidential relations 
 to the guardian of her pupil. 
 
 So, as soon as her husband entered, and she was able to 
 excuse herself to her guest, she sought Geraldine’s room. 
 
 She was beginning to take an elder sister’s pride in her 
 protegee's grace and beauty, the new-born bloom and bright¬ 
 ness that was giving to cheek and eye such a wondrous 
 charm; so she was proportionably disappointed as she 
 looked at the pale face that confronted her. 
 
 “Dear me! I hope you are not going to have one of 
 your nervous headaches. Mr. Smith’s secretary is here, 
 and I am so anxious that you should see and converse with 
 him.” 
 
 “I did see him just a few moments,” responded Geral¬ 
 dine, forcing a smile to her lips as she saw the dismayed 
 look in the speaker’s face. “This is nothing; it will pass 
 away in an hour or so.” 
 
 “ Do you really think so?” said Mrs. Graham, her face 
 
150 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 brightening; “and that you will be well enough to come 
 down to dinner? It will not be served before two.” 
 
 “I shall be entirely recovered by that time, probably 
 before. A couple of hours’ rest will be all that I shall 
 need.” 
 
 “Then I won’t hinder you from taking it. I wouldn’t 
 mind it at any other time. You could remain in your 
 room all day—and it would probably be the best thing you 
 could do, for you are looking quite ill. But you did not 
 see him before, you know, though he expressed a particu¬ 
 lar desire to meet you, and if you do not now, I’m afraid 
 that Mr. Smith will consider it to be a little odd.” 
 
 “ I shall certainly see him,” responded Geraldine, rais¬ 
 ing her hand to her forehead, which contracted as if with 
 sudden pain. “ How long does he intend to stay?” 
 
 “ He spoke of leaving by the last boat down. Now lie on 
 the lounge, and I will bring you something that Francis 
 gave me once, when I had just such an attack, and which 
 did me a wonderful amount of good.” 
 
 After darkening the room, and seeing Geraldine’s head 
 laid upon the pillow that she placed upon the lounge, Mrs. 
 Graham left the room. 
 
 She returned in a few minutes, bearing a wine-glass filled 
 with a clear, ruby liquid, which did not look as if it would 
 be at all hard to take. 
 
 “ Now drink this. It always drives my headaches away, 
 as if by magic, if it is only taken in time. Don’t leave a 
 bit of it.” 
 
 In obedience to this instruction, Geraldine drained the 
 glass to the last drop, 
 
 “ You are good to me.” 
 
 There was something in the beautiful eyes that were 
 lifted to hers that made Mrs. Graham kiss the lips that 
 uttered these words. 
 
 “ I mean to be very good to you.” 
 
 “ Considering the relation that I sustain to his ward,” 
 said Geraldine, speaking with a visible effort, “it is not 
 strange that Mr. Smith should desire his secretary to see 
 me, and I should not think of allowing him to leave with¬ 
 out giving him an opportunity to do so. But the condition 
 in which he finds Lionel will be more conclusive evidence 
 as to my fitness or unfitness for the relation I sustain to 
 him than anything I can say. It will be hardly necessary 
 for him to hold much converse with me.” 
 
 “ I don’t know about that,” was the quick response. “A 
 person occupying the position that he holds, must have 
 more or less influence with his employer, and it is, there¬ 
 fore, of no little importance that you should make a favor¬ 
 able impression upon him, as you are sure to do, if you are 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 151 
 
 well enough to be yourself. But I mustn’t tire you by 
 talking. Try to take a little nap. I will send Katy up 
 when it is time to dress. ” 
 
 “ How good, how kind she is!” thought Geraldine, as the 
 door closed softly behind the speaker. “ But, ah! it is be¬ 
 cause she does not know me. Were the dark records of 
 my past life laid open before her, how differently she would 
 regard me! Did she know of the terrible crime that stained 
 so redly these soft, white hands, she would shrink away 
 from me with horror and loathing. What a terrible life to 
 lead, but there is no respite, no help, as I can see. For the 
 sake of my children, whom I have robbed of their natural 
 guardian and protector, I must go on with all these shams 
 and hypocrisies, this seeming to be what I am not. Ah! 
 how true it is that one sin, one deception, inevitably leads 
 to another. Will he betray me? I cannot believe that he 
 will meaningly do this, but a chance word, a look even, 
 may do me incalculable mischief.” 
 
 Mrs. Graham did not fail to interpret aright the inquir¬ 
 ing look that her guest gave her as she re-entered the room. 
 
 Dr. Graham was present, who had been doing his best 
 to entertain him, with rather indifferent success, as could 
 be seen by the absent look upon the face of his guest, as 
 well as his evident air of relief as his wife entered. 
 
 “ Mrs. Geraldine has a touch of her old enemy, the head¬ 
 ache,” said Mrs. Graham, addressing her husband. “But 
 she is better already, and I think will be down to dinner.” 
 
 The speaker’s eyes resting on the face of her guest as 
 she pttered these words, he said, with an air of hesitation 
 and constraint that amounted almost to awkwardness: 
 
 “ I thought Mrs.—this lady—to be looking rather pale; 
 is not her health ordinarily good?” 
 
 “Mrs. Geraldine’s severe illness of last winter left her 
 very weak,” said Dr. Graham, who felt that he could best 
 speak in relation to this point, “ and with a predisposition 
 to attacks of nervous headache, but she has been unusually 
 well of late. In fact, I could see an improvement in her 
 every day.” 
 
 Here the fear arose in Mrs. Graham’s mind lest it might 
 be considered that these attacks would affect Geraldine in 
 the duties she owed to her pupil, and in her zealous friend¬ 
 ship, she said: 
 
 “Yes, indeed, I think that I never saw any one improve 
 so much in such a short space of time.” 
 
 “I don’t remember of her having one of her nervous 
 headaches since you were here before,” added the speaker, 
 turning to her guest. “She had one at the time, as you 
 remember, and was unable to see you. I have often 
 
152 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 noticed that they were generally brought on by some anxi 
 ety or excitement.” 
 
 Mrs. Graham smiled as she saw the startled look in the 
 eyes that were turned inquiringly upon her, hastening to 
 say: 
 
 “ Mrs. Geraldine has become very much attached to her 
 pupil—as, indeed, we all are; and knowing the object of 
 your visit here, has, naturally, the anxiety that she would 
 have in regard to anything likely to affect, however re¬ 
 motely, her relations to him.” 
 
 “It is entirely unnecessary, madam, I do assure you. 
 Mr. Smith is quite satisfied with the relation she sustains to 
 his ward, and I have no wish, even if I had the power, to 
 disturb it. I beg that you will assure her that she has 
 nothing to fear from me, in this or any other respect.” 
 
 Mrs. Graham was not only surprised, but somewhat em¬ 
 barrassed, by the earnestness with which this was spoken, 
 and which was so disproportioned to the occasion. 
 
 “I will take great pleasure in doing so,” she said, with a 
 smile. “ You will have an opportunity of doing this per¬ 
 sonally, however, which will be more satisfactory, I dare 
 say.” 
 
 Then, desirous of changing the conversation, si ie asked 
 some questions concerning his journey, addressing him by 
 the name by which Lionel always called him, and which 
 she supposed to be his. 
 
 “ It seems that we have made a mistake in regard to the 
 gentleman’s name,” interposed Dr. Graham; “he informs 
 me that it is not Tony, but Antonelli.” 
 
 “ The mistake is a very natural one,” remarked that gen¬ 
 tleman, as he met the surprised look in the eyes of his 
 hostess—“indeed, quite unavoidable, under the circum¬ 
 stances. My name being rather long, and difficult to pro¬ 
 nounce, I let our little friend call me by the name by which 
 I was called when I was at his age, and which is a con¬ 
 traction of my Christian name. Contrary to my expecta¬ 
 tion, Lionel politely prefixed Mr. to it, which gave it the 
 appearance of being my true name. Being constitutionally 
 averse to taking any unnecessary trouble, as it seemed to 
 suit him and did no harm to me, I let the matter go.” 
 
 Mrs. Graham smiled her acceptance of this frankly ex¬ 
 pressed apology and explanation, her eyes taking a more 
 careful survey of the speaker than they had yet done. 
 
 He had the appearance of a man about thirty, with dark 
 hair and eyes, and a form less remarkable for strength 
 than grace and suppleness. 
 
 Beneath the constitutional indolence alluded to could be 
 seen a latent fire and passion, which showed that he was 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 153 
 
 capable, when fully aroused, of strong, if not lasting feel¬ 
 ing. 
 
 On the whole she felt interested in him. 
 
 They were all seated at the table when Geraldine came 
 in, holding Lionel by the hand. 
 
 Though Mrs. Graham had intended that the children 
 should eat by themselves that day, she was secretly 
 pleased at the boy’s appearance; he looked so neat and 
 pretty in his fresh suit of embroidered linen, and was, 
 withal, thanks to Geraldine’s patient and careful tutoring, 
 so quiet and mannerly, that she felt that they could not 
 fail to produce a most favorable impression upon her 
 guest, and which she considered of the first importance. 
 
 With this thought uppermost in her mind, sne bade the 
 servant bring Lionel’s chair, and place it by Geraldine. 
 
 But it is doubtful as to whether Antonelli saw the boy, 
 his eyes being fixed upon his beautiful mother with a pas¬ 
 sionate intensity, which it was well that there was no one 
 present with sufficient leisure to observe. 
 
 Geraldine’s face, though somewhat pale, was composed. 
 
 In their first general sweep around the table, her eyes 
 rested for a moment upon Antonelli, inclining her head al¬ 
 most imperceptibly to his deferential bow. 
 
 Then she busied herself in attending to Lionel’s wants, 
 and did not look in that direction again. 
 
 There being other company at dinner, Mrs. Graham was 
 too much engaged with her duties as hostess to pay much 
 attention to Geraldine, except to observe that she was more 
 silent than usual. 
 
 “ Mrs. Geraldine is hardly looking herself to-day,” she 
 remarked to Antonelli, as they left the dining-room for the 
 parlor; “she is generally very cheerful and companion¬ 
 able. Has not Lionel improved wonderfully since he came 
 here?” 
 
 He is looking very finely, indeed,” said her companion, 
 abstractedly, who had not the faintest idea as to whether 
 the boy looked well or ill. 
 
 Geraldine followed, Still holding Lionel's hand, as though 
 she thought that the presence of so much beauty and inno¬ 
 cence would shield her from wrong and danger. 
 
 Turning round to her, Mrs. Graham now said: 
 
 “We were speaking of Lionel, my dear; Mr. Antonelli 
 thinks that he is looking finely.” 
 
 Those coldly averted eyes turned gratefully upon the 
 person alluded to, a soft and tender smile brooding around 
 the lips that said: 
 
 “ I am glad to know that Mr. Antonelli will have such a 
 favorable and pleasant report to take back with him.” 
 
 “ X shall, most certainly, have nothing else to report,” 
 
154 
 
 A . WIFE '8 CRIME. 
 
 said Antonelli, making an effort to repress the passion that 
 surged up from his heart at these words, but which was 
 clearly perceptible to its object. 
 
 A shudder ran through her veins, the transient flush 
 faded from her cheek, and her manner returned to its old 
 coldness and quietude. 
 
 Here the advent of several persons into the room made 
 anything but general conversation impossible, to Gerald¬ 
 ine’s evident relief, who joined, as she was never known to 
 do before, in the gay talk that followed. 
 
 In the meantime Antonelli stood moodily apart, his 
 mind distracted by the passionate desire to speak to Geral¬ 
 dine privately, and angered at her evident determination 
 to give him no opportunity to do so. 
 
 To this was added the wild fear, that occasionally swept 
 over him, lest he should do or say something that would 
 draw suspicion on them both. 
 
 It may be that Geraldine, who knew his hot, impulsive 
 temper, shared this fear, for once she looked toward him, 
 a sad, beseeching expression in her eyes which touched his 
 heart, allaying his anger, but not the impatience that had 
 taken such complete possession of him. 
 
 On the plea of not feeling well, which no one could deny 
 that looked at her, Geraldine excused herself early, saying, 
 in reply to Mrs. Graham’s remonstrance, “that she would 
 take her tea with the children.” 
 
 Geraldine felt, rather than saw, the eyes that followed 
 her to the door, toward which she could not, dared not 
 look. * 
 
 The feeling of relief that she experienced as she found 
 herself in her own room was followed by a disquietude 
 which grew deeper and deeper the longer she reflected 
 upon the position in which she was placed. 
 
 It was evident that she must see this man. Even if he 
 were content to do so, it would be a dangerous thing to let 
 him go away without an explanation and understanding. 
 
 But how was she to do this? 
 
 It could not be effected in the presence of a third party, 
 and there were things in her past life which made her 
 shrink with unconquerable repugnance from anything like 
 a clandestine interview. 
 
 Oh! if he would only go away, and leave her to live the 
 life she had marked out for herself, to make the atone¬ 
 ment she could make in no other way. 
 
 Seeking in various ways to solve this hard problem, Ger¬ 
 aldine sat in her favorite seat by the window, with little 
 Isabel in her arms, listening absently, and yet insensibly 
 goothed by her innocent .prattle, 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 155 
 
 Suddenly there came the patter of little feet, and then 
 Lionel burst in, his face full of importance. 
 
 ‘ k I’ve got something for you, mamma. Mr. Tony said 
 that I was to let no one see it but you.” 
 
 As Geraldine’s eyes fell on the note that Lionel held out 
 to her, her face flushed with shame and indignation. 
 
 Was her innocent child to be the medium of casting 
 further dishonor on his dead father, whose memory had 
 become so dear? 
 
 Stung by this thought, Geraldine snatched the note from 
 Lionel’s hand, uttering words of sharp reproof, such as 
 she had never spoken to him before. 
 
 Overcoming the impulse that came over her to tear the 
 note into fragments, Geraldine opened and read it. 
 
 Its contents were brief, and as follows: 
 
 Geraldine,—I can bear this suspense no longer. Your 
 strange conduct, you careful avoidance of me, is driving 
 me to the verge of madness. I ask you, for your own 
 sake, not to push me too far. When I look at you, and 
 think of all we have been to each other, and how we now 
 seem to stand, I am not sure of myself, or what it may 
 lead me to do. 
 
 . must and will see you, if only for ten minutes, and 
 it must be alone. It is for you to say when and where.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE MEETING IN THE SUMMER HOUSE. 
 
 Antonelli stood in the lower part of the garden, near 
 the vine-covered summer-house, and in full view of the 
 window by which Geraldine was sitting, taking no heed 
 of the bloom and fragance around him. 
 
 He could see the the outlines of her form, the form of 
 the one woman, in all the world, to him, and it stirred to 
 its depths his passionate nature, bringing before him all 
 that she had oncebeen to him, all that he fondly hoped 
 she would be to him again. 
 
 The sunset fires were burning redly in the western sky, 
 while no sound broke the stillness of the hour and place, 
 save the gay tones of Mrs. Graham, who was saying a few 
 last words to her departing guests. 
 
 Moving up and down the walk with restless, irregular 
 steps, Antonelli strove vainly to still the fierce impatience 
 at his heart, as he watched for the return of his little 
 messenger. 
 
 Lionel made his appearance at last, but not with the 
 animated and eager face with which he bounded away; 
 his step was slow and his face sober. 
 
£56 
 
 A WIFE'S CHIME. 
 
 “What made you so long V” was the impatient inquiry. 
 “You gave her the note; what did she say?” 
 
 “She was very angry, mamma was,” said the boy in a 
 low tone. “ She said I mustn’t bring her any more letters 
 that nobody was to know about.” 
 
 “ She’s very particular all at once!” muttered Antonelli, 
 a bitter sneer curling his lip, which gave his face anything 
 but a pleasant expression. “ She defies me, it seems. Let 
 her be careful; love turned to hate is not a pleasant thing 
 to encounter.” 
 
 Antonelli clinched his hand as he said this, his face 
 darkening with the conflicting passions which struggled 
 for the mastery in his breast. 
 
 All this was in full view of Geraldine. She saw Lionel 
 go up and speak to Antonelli, well knowing that he would 
 not fail to repeat the ill-advised words that had fallen from' 
 her lips. She saw the angry and passionate gesture that 
 followed, well knowing all that it portended. 
 
 Her resolution was quickly taken. 
 
 With Isabel still clinging to her neck, she passed down 
 the stairs, out into the garden. 
 
 Mrs. Graham was just ahead of her, going apparently 
 in the same direction to where Antonelli was standing, who 
 evidently saw their approach. 
 
 A beautiful woman never looks more lovely than when 
 she holds her babe in her arms. And as Antonelli looked 
 at Geraldine, as she stood there before him, invested with 
 the sacredness, the dignity the tender grace of maternity, 
 every resentful feeling was swept from a heart not 
 naturally hard or evil, however impulsive and passionate 
 it might be. 
 
 Geraldine experienced a feeling of relief as she saw the 
 softened look in the eyes, saying, before any one else could 
 speak: 
 
 “ I learned through Lionel, Mr. Antonelli, that you desire 
 a private interview with me before returning to New York, 
 which it is quite natural and right that you should have, 
 under the circumstances.” 
 
 The calm, clear, steady tone in which Geraldine said this 
 was a marvel to herself. 
 
 Mrs. Graham had been secretly vexed at Geraldine’s 
 reserve, and apparent avoidance of one whose good opinion 
 she was so anxious that she should gain, so the first reeling 
 of surprise was followed by one of pleasure. 
 
 Turning to Isabel, she said: 
 
 “Come with auntie, darling, and let us go and find 
 Bob.” 
 
 In anticipation of the frolic that was sure t>> f< llow this* 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 157 
 
 the child uttered a crow of delight, springing into the arms 
 that were held out to her. 
 
 Geraldine watched Mrs. Graham as she moved toward 
 the house, holding Lionel by the hand, until she disap¬ 
 peared from view, and then, as if in mute recognition of 
 his claim to a private interview, went into the summer¬ 
 house by which they were standing, Antonelli following 
 her. 
 
 The human heart is a strange, unreasoning thing. An- 
 tonelli had gained the boon for which he had so earnestly 
 sought, but that which lay back of it—as he fondly be¬ 
 lieved—seemed further away from him that ever. 
 
 He had imagined all that he would say to the idol of his 
 heart, were the opportunity given him—the eloquent and 
 passionate words he would utter, not; one of which he could 
 recall now. 
 
 There was something in the gentle dignity of Geraldine’s 
 bearing, the open, straight-forward course she had taken, 
 which chilled him, he hardly knew why. 
 
 He would have been far better pleased if fche had stolen 
 out of the house at midnight to see him, as she did before, 
 clinging to him in her passionate despair and sorrow, even 
 though it might only be to bid him an eternal farewell. 
 
 Contrary to what might have been expected, Geraldine 
 was the first to break the constrained and rather awkward 
 silence that followed. 
 
 “ No doubt you wonder why the sight of you should be 
 such a shock to me, Antonio. I had been led to believe 
 that you were killed—murdered.” 
 
 “And so I was—or nearly so: it was only by a hair’s 
 breadth that my life was saved,” 
 
 Geraldine shuddered. 
 
 “ God has been very good to Us both. If you had died, 
 in His eyes I should be your murderess.” 
 
 Antonelli started back, looking at Geraldine as though 
 he thought she was bereft of her senses. 
 
 Reassured by the steady, mournful gaze that he encount¬ 
 ered, he said: 
 
 “ You my murderess? Why do you say that, Geraldine?” 
 
 “Because it is the truth. Because it was my folly, if 
 not actual guilt, that drove my husband to the madness 
 and despair that alone could make such a thing possible.” 
 
 Antonelli s face darkened. 
 
 “So it was he? I thought so at the time; but it was a 
 back-handed thrust, and so dark that I could not see. Not 
 that I should have known him, as I never saw him, to my 
 knowledge.” 
 
 In the silence that followed, Antonelli cast a look of 
 
168 A WIPE'S CHIME. 
 
 tender reproach upon his companion’s partially averted 
 face. 
 
 “ You say that you were surprised to see me, Geraldine; 
 were you not glad, also?” 
 
 “ How could I help being glad to' know that the father 
 of my dear babes has not such a stain upon his hand as 
 this?” 
 
 “You think only of him!” exclaimed Antonelli, bitterly, 
 “ you care nothing for me.” 
 
 “I am glad for your sake, also,” said Geraldine, with 
 the gentle coldness that was more irritating to her com¬ 
 panion than scorn or defiance; “ glad, very glad to know 
 that you are not only alive, but happy and prosperous. I 
 should like to know more about yourself, especially how 
 you came to be the private secretary of Lionel’s guardian?” 
 
 “I know no more about that than you do,” responded 
 Antonelli, with the shrug of the shoulder that Geraldine so 
 well remembered. “ He heard of me a few weeks after I 
 was wounded—through Dr. Graham, I think, coming to 
 see me at the^farmer’s house to which I was taken. When 
 I got well, he took me into his employ. I can’t tell you 
 why he did that either. ” 
 
 There was something in the tone in which this was 
 spoken, the absence of the gratitude that might be ex¬ 
 pected under the circumstances named, which struck 
 strangely upon Geraldine’s ear. 
 
 “He did it from pure kindness of heart, I presume. 
 What else could it be? Mrs. Graham tells me that he has 
 the kindest of hearts, and I am sure that he has proved it 
 by his treatment of me. You should be very grateful to 
 him, Antonio.” 
 
 Antonelli responded to this reproachful tone with an¬ 
 other shrug of the shoulder. 
 
 “So I am, so far as his nature and mine will allow. Mr. 
 Smith has been kind to me, there’s no denying that—unac¬ 
 countably so, in some ways—but it always seemed to me 
 that it was from some freak, fie is, certainly, the oddest 
 man alive. Notwithstanding the position I hold, and which 
 brings me into such confidential relations with him, I am 
 no better acquainted with him now than I was the first 
 day I saw him. The thought has often struck me, that he 
 endured, rather than cared for, my presence. However, 
 I suppose that would be his way toward any one. But tell 
 me about yourself, Geraldine. How is it that you are here 
 in this strange guise, away from your home and husband?” 
 
 “ I have no home and no husband.” 
 
 An exultant flash broke from Antonelli’s eyes. 
 
 “ Is your husband dead? Then you are free, Gerald in® f* 
 
 Geraldine drew back from that outstretched hand. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 m 
 
 “My husband is dead, but his death has not freed me; 
 on the contrary, it has bound me more strongly than be¬ 
 fore.” 
 
 “You—you talk very strangely, Geraldine,” faltered 
 Antouelli, gazing almost in awe at the speaker, whose face 
 wore a look that he had never seen there before. 
 
 “ Do I? 1 have passed through strange experiences, have 
 endured terrible sufferings. And what is more bitter than 
 anything else, I have the consciousness that all that I have 
 suffered, all that others have suffered, has been the out¬ 
 growth of my own folly. For the sake of my children. I 
 can say no more—save that I am widowed, they rendered 
 fatherless, and by my own hand. 
 
 “ I cannot tell you how this is,” continued Geraldine, as 
 Antonelli, with a gesture of astonishment and incredulity, 
 was about to speak. “I can say little more. I cannot, 
 prudently, linger here; nor can I at this, *or any other 
 time, enter into particulars. I can only tell you that my 
 husband’s death threw me into the power of my brothers, 
 who treated me most cruelly. I escaped from them, and 
 they consider me dead. Not only my own safety, but what 
 is far dearer to me, the guardianship of my boy, depends 
 upon their continuing to think so.” 
 
 Antonelli was touched by that appealing look. 
 
 “ You, surely, cannot think that I would betray you, 
 Geraldine, or do anything to cause you any fresh sorrow?” 
 
 “No; I do not think you would. I should be sorry to 
 think so.” 
 
 Geraldine stepped out of the summer-house as she said 
 this. 
 
 Springing forward, Antonelli cried: 
 
 “ Surely this is not all? I shall see you again?” 
 
 “Certainly; the relation you sustain to Lionel’s guard¬ 
 ian makes that a matter of course.” 
 
 Antonelli watched Geraldine as she moved up toward 
 the house. 
 
 “ HAw changed she is!” he thought, “ how cold and in¬ 
 different. But she loved me once, I know, and she shall 
 again!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 MR. SMITH’S ADVICE AND OPINION. 
 
 Antonelli’s long and late conference with Geraldine pre¬ 
 vented the carrying out of his purpose to leave by the last 
 boat, for which, perhaps, he was not sorry, as it gave him 
 an opportunity to see Geraldine again, though only in the 
 presence of others, and to hold some conversation with 
 per, though as to the merest commonplaces. 
 
160 
 
 A WIFjL 
 
 o 
 
 CRIME. 
 
 fortunately for the latter, in carrying out her purpose, 
 the house was full of company, friend^ from the city, who 
 usually visited Riverview at that season of the year, and 
 which enabled Geraldine to avoid the slightest approach to 
 anything like private conversation, and without appearing 
 to do so. 
 
 There was a new-born grace and beauty about Geraldine 
 which her former lover had never seen there before, which 
 came from within rather than from without, finding a nat¬ 
 ural outlet and expression in the external loveliness with 
 which she was so richly endowed. And however incapable 
 Antonelli might be of comprehending or appreciating this, 
 he felt its charm. 
 
 He was not a man capable of enduring affection, espe¬ 
 cially in the prolonged absence of its object; and might 
 have thought the love, for which he nearly paid the forfeit 
 of his life, to be costing him too dear. 
 
 But however this might be, his first glance at Geraldine 
 had swept all prudential considerations away; at the first 
 sound of her voice, all the passionate love of his ardent nat¬ 
 ure had come back to him, and which was intensified by 
 the strange, intangible barrier that had sprung up between 
 them. 
 
 So, impelled by a fascination that he was unable to resist, 
 he lingered until after dinner, glad, if not content, to be 
 within the sound of her voice, and to watch her at a dis¬ 
 tance. 
 
 But, though able to keep guard over his tongue, his eyes 
 were not so easily governed. 
 
 Even Mrs. Graham noticed the intensity of his gaze. 
 
 Not having the slightest idea of the true state of things, 
 or that the two had ever met before, she ventured upon a 
 sly allusion to it to Geraldine, whom she met in the hall 
 after dinner, on her way to the school-room. 
 
 But it was something that she never repeated; the 
 pained look in Geraldine’s eyes, the few disjointed words 
 that fell from her lips, showing how distasteful to her this 
 allusion, and all that it implied was. 
 
 Antonelli, who was to leave in the course of half an hour, 
 was not long in missing Geraldine, and conjecturing 
 whither she had gone, followed her; Mrs. Graham having 
 taken him there the day before, he experienced no diffi¬ 
 culty in finding his way. 
 
 He found Geraldine’s two pupils there, Bob and Lionel, 
 the latter leaning his head against his mother’s knee, the 
 former so absorbed in the book that was lying open upon 
 the desk before him, that* he only glanced up as Antonelli 
 entered. 
 
 Now Antonelli did not mind Lionel, though fie would 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME . 161 
 
 have preferred his absence, but Bob was not a little in his 
 way. 
 
 Addressing Geraldine, he said: 
 
 “I have come to take leave of you, madam.” 
 
 “Would you mind, my good lad,” he added, turning to 
 Bob, “ stepping down-stairs to see if the carriage is 
 come?” 
 
 Bob arose, giving Geraldine a questioning look as he did 
 so, who was fully equal to the emergency. 
 
 “My dear boy,” she said, addressing Lionel, “ Robert is 
 very busy at his lessons, will you run down and see if the 
 carriage is at the door? Come directly back.” 
 
 Then, without appearing to notice the smothered annoy¬ 
 ance and irritation m Antonelli’s countenance at being thus 
 “ headed off,” she turned to that individual, saying: 
 
 “ You will have a delightful day for your journey. Please 
 convey my thanks to Mr. Smith for the confidence that he 
 reposes in me, and of which I will endeavor to prove myself 
 worthy. Mrs. Graham and myself have hoped that he 
 would visit Riverview some time in the course of the sum¬ 
 mer.” 
 
 Antonelli’s irritation subsided somewhat beneath the in¬ 
 fluence of the smile that accompanied these words. 
 
 “ I cannot say as to that. Mr. Smith seems to be con¬ 
 siderable of a recluse. I will tell him what you say. I 
 shall come.” 
 
 While Antonelli was speaking Lionel came running back 
 with the announcement, that the carriage was waiting; and 
 uttering the last sentence with a meaning look and tone 
 that Geraldine did not fail to understand, the speaker bowed 
 and departed. 
 
 Geraldine listened with a feeling of relief to the sound of 
 the carriage wheels as it moved away from the door. 
 
 What she had so greatly feared was deferred, at least. 
 But she knew the nature of the man too well not to know 
 that it was only deferred; that he would not only “come,” 
 as he had said, but that it would be impossible for her not 
 to see him, no matter how distasteful the hopes that she 
 could not but see that he cherished. 
 
 And she had once loved this man, or thought she did, 
 toward whom she now felt so strong a repugnance, that if 
 it had not been for Lionel and the separation it would in¬ 
 volve, she would have taken her babe and fled to where 
 there would be no possibility of her meeting him again. 
 
 And this man loved her; there was no seeming in this, 
 it was instinct in every look that he gave her. 
 
 It seemed like an additional wrong to the husband, to 
 whose memory she had so solemnly vowed to be true, to 
 harbor such thoughts, but so it was, 
 
162 
 
 t 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 How could she convince him that he could more easily 
 kindle to life cold, dead ashes, than awaken any response 
 to it in her heart? And if she did, would it not arouse a re¬ 
 sentment that would prove disastrous to all her hopes? 
 
 But all this was in the future. She knew the straight 
 path that lay before her, and in which she must walk, to 
 whatever it might lead. 
 
 In her temporary madness, she had separated herself 
 from her husband in this life, had, voluntarily, made her¬ 
 self his widow, and his widow she would remain, devoting 
 herself entirely to his children. 
 
 She knew the struggle that must sooner or later ensue; 
 but whether it brought victory or defeat, her course, so far 
 as she was left in freedom, must be the same. 
 
 At the worst she could throw herself upon the mercy and 
 compassion of the eccentric but kind-hearted man who was 
 Lionel’s guardian, why, she did not know, nor was it a 
 matter that could safely be inquired into. 
 
 If Antonelli’s eager passion turned to open enmity, as is 
 so often the case with men of his stamp and temperament, 
 when it fails to meet any response from its object, she 
 would tell Mr. Smith as much of her sorrowful history as 
 she dared to reveal to any one. 
 
 And though her hopes in regard to any favorable result 
 were far less strong than her fears, she felt that it would be 
 the least painful of the two alternatives. 
 
 In the meantime, Antonelli took his way back to.the city, 
 his mind a perfect maze of conflicting hopes, fears and con¬ 
 jectures . 
 
 Beneath his elation at the unexpected discovery he had 
 made, were the mortification and disappointment at the re¬ 
 buff he had had from a quarter where he had least thought 
 to receive it, and which wounded his vanity quite as much 
 as his love. 
 
 From this he fell to pondering on the relation that his 
 employer sustained to Geraldine’s boy. 
 
 He had known, in a casual way, that she had children, 
 and that Lionel had the same name, but being more accus¬ 
 tomed to Geraldine’s maiden than married name, it had 
 made little impression upon him, while the supposition 
 that Mr. Smith’s ward was an orphan precluded any sus¬ 
 picion of the true state of things. 
 
 But he was not sorry for the hold that this gave him on 
 the woman he loved, and who had once loved him. Not 
 that he intended to use it hardly; on the contrary, he 
 meant to be very gentle and forbearing in its exercise; to 
 be her friend and protector in the strange position in which 
 she was placed, at least so far as she would let him. 
 
 StiU power is sweet, and that which he nad over Gerab 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME, 163 
 
 dine would afford him numerous advantages in re-winning 
 her affections, as he had fully determined to do. 
 
 It would give him the privilege of seeing her often, 
 establishing confidential relations between them, and then 
 she could not help feeling grateful to him for his silence 
 and aid. 
 
 Antonelli’s mind was so completely absorbed by these 
 thoughts that the idea as to how his employer might view 
 his prolonged absence never occurred to him until he 
 reached the house. 
 
 Being informed by one of the servants that Mr. Smith 
 had inquired for him several times, he proceeded imme¬ 
 diately to the library, having no very clear idea as to how 
 he was to explain his conduct, or of anything, in fact, ex¬ 
 cept his determination to keep what he had discovered to 
 himself, at least for the present. 
 
 Mr. Smith turned himself squarely around, on his en¬ 
 trance. 
 
 “ Well, sir?” 
 
 Antonelli looked slightly confused at that penetrating 
 and questioning look. 
 
 “No doubt you are surprised at my long absence, sir, 
 and which was entirely unforeseen when I left, as well as 
 impossible to avoid, under the circumstances.” 
 
 “ You are right; I am surprised. What has happened?” 
 
 Antonelli’s face took a still deeper flush. 
 
 “ Nothing, sir. That is to say, nothing that I could well 
 help. I missed the boat yesterday afternoon, and this 
 morning-” 
 
 If Mr. Smith did not enjoy his secretary’s embarrass¬ 
 ment, he certainly was in no way inclined to help him out 
 of it. 
 
 “Well, sir, there have been two trains and another boat 
 since then. What happened this morning?” 
 
 Whatever Antonelli’s fault might be. either of education 
 or temperament, it was not an easy thing to him to stoop 
 to absolute falsehood. 
 
 “I don’t deny but what something has happened of some 
 moment to me perhaps, but which can be-” 
 
 “Of no concern to me,” said Mr. Smith, filling up the 
 pause which followed. 
 
 “ Which can be of no particular interest to you,” con¬ 
 tinued Antonelli, smiling at this fresh proof of what he 
 considered his patron’s oddity. 
 
 “Perhaps I might be left to judge of that,” said Mr. 
 Smith, dryly. “But I have no wish to force your confi¬ 
 dence. In the meantime I should be glad to have your 
 report concerning the mission I intrusted to you, and in 
 
164 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 regard to which I may be allowed to take some interest 
 How did you find my ward?” 
 
 “ Quite well and very happy.” 
 
 “You saw his governess?” ; 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 “Whatis your opinion of her?” 
 
 “What everybody’s must be that sees her, that she is a 
 most lovely and attractive woman.” 
 
 “ Considering your long stay at Riverview, her attract¬ 
 iveness—to you, at least—is beyond all dispute. I referred, 
 however, to her fitness as governess to my ward?” 
 
 “ I beg pardon, sir,” responded Antonelli, coloring. 
 “ My opportunities for judging as to this have been limited, 
 as you know, but so far as I have seen, I do not think you 
 could have made a better choice.” 
 
 “I will see that you have all the opportunity in futurd 
 that your desire. 
 
 “Mind, I don’t send you to Riverview to make love to 
 my ward’s governess,” continued Mr. Smith, as he ob¬ 
 served the sparkle to his companion’s suddenly lowered 
 eyes. “Still, if mutually agreeable, I don’t know why I 
 should object; provided, of course, neither of you neglect 
 the duties that you owe me. 
 
 “ Now you will oblige me by attending to these accounts 
 and making a clean copy of some papers that you will find 
 on your desk.” 
 
 Antonelli retreated to his own room in the best possible 
 spirits. 
 
 The unexpected manner in which Mr. Smith played into 
 his hands was a source of surprise as well as pleasure. 
 
 “ He certainly is the oddest man alive,” he thought. 
 “ One would almost think that he sent me there purposely. 
 If I can retain my secretaryship, and Geraldine continues 
 to have the care of Lionel, as she will, of course, desire to 
 do, our united salary will be all that we shall require.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE WOOING. 
 
 The longer that Antonelli pondered on the interest that 
 his wealthy patron had manifested, not only in himself 
 but Geraldine, the more he was convinced that he would 
 not be ill-pleased at the marriage of his two proteges, a 
 conclusion that gave him no little satisfaction, as the 
 reader will infer. 
 
 He recalled Mr. Smith’s evident dissatisfaction at not 
 seeing Geraldine on his first visit to Riverview, the efforts 
 he had made to throw them together, the hints and allu¬ 
 sions, all of which pointed the same way. 
 
165 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “ She being all alone in the world, he doubtless considers 
 that it would be a good thing for her,” he mused, ‘‘and 
 that I would be better off married. He must think that 
 I have vR}? kittle common sense, however”—here the lip 
 curled a little—* to marry a woman of whose antecedents 
 I know, as he supposes, so little. But men in love have 
 done quite as foolish things as this; so I will not quarrel 
 with the good fortune that I believe is in store for me, if I 
 am brave enough to make a right use of the opportunities 
 that are now mine.” 
 
 With these views and considerations, Antonelli received, 
 with evident satisfaction, Mr. Smith’s announcement of 
 his intention of sending him again to Riverview, and 
 which was made in less than two weeks from the date of 
 his last visit. 
 
 Being naturally disposed to think highly of himself, no 
 serious doubt entered Antonelli’s mmd as to his ultimate suc¬ 
 cess in re-winning Geraldine's love—her husband’s death 
 was too recent, the circumstances under which they had 
 parted too painful for her to take kindly to his advances 
 now, but all this would pass away. 
 
 With few fears on this score Antonelli’s thoughts took 
 <piite another direction as he neared his destination, center¬ 
 ing upon the mystery that enveloped Geraldine, and which 
 he was unable to fathom, the dark cloud that rested on 
 her, and which was likely to affect him in the relation he 
 was so sure of sustaining to her. 
 
 He knew that her husband had been a very wealthy man; 
 how was it that this boy inherited all, and his widow noth 
 ing? 
 
 He paid very little heed to Geraldine’s wild accusations 
 in regard to her husband, and which he believed to be the 
 imaginings of a morbid conscience, rendered additionally 
 sensitive by her husband’s death following so soon his jeal¬ 
 ous outburst against her. 
 
 Why, she had declared that she had considered herself 
 his murderer, which was preposterous, there being prob¬ 
 ably as much foundation to one as the other. 
 
 But the other matter was a different thing; it behooved 
 him to lose no time in looking after his interests as well as 
 hers, for her interests were his; also, the time was ap¬ 
 proaching when she must and would acknowledge it to be 
 so. 
 
 It being a pleasant daj , Antonelli walked up from the 
 station, finding Mrs. Graham and Geraldine in the sitting- 
 room, whose open doors and windows brought him very 
 clearly into view as he stepped upon the porch. 
 
 As he had given no notice of his coming, it was “a pleas- 
 
166 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 ant surprise,” to use Mrs. Graham’s words as she came 
 forward to receive him. 
 
 If there was any surprise in Geraldine’s face, Antonelli 
 looked vainly for any reflection of the pleasure that spark¬ 
 led in his own eyes as he greeted her. 
 
 “You did not expect to see me again so soon?” 
 
 “No.” - 
 
 “But I am welcome, nevertheless?” responded Antonelli, 
 with the winning smile that Geraldine had once found so 
 irresistible, but which now recalled so many painful rec¬ 
 ollections that her tone and manner were still more chilling 
 as she said: , 
 
 “Mrs. Graham has already assured you of this, whose 
 welcome to Riverview is of more importance than mine.” 
 
 “But not to me, not to me/” said Antonelli in an eager 
 whisper, which only reached the ear for which it was in¬ 
 tended. . 
 
 At this moment Dr. Graham entered, and taking advan¬ 
 tage of the greetings which followed, Geraldine slipped out 
 of the room, nor did Antonelli see her again until the next 
 morning. 
 
 He no longer took any pains to conceal his interest in 
 her from his host and hostess; he was greatly encouraged 
 in this course by Mrs. Graham’s evident sympathy with 
 him and desire for his success—her husband being more 
 practical, not being disposed to commit himself either way. 
 
 “ It would be just the best thing in the world for Geral¬ 
 dine, don't you think so, Francis?” said Mrs. Graham in 
 one of their private conferences. 
 
 “That depends. It might be the very worst.” 
 
 “ I don’t see how you can say that, when he is so de¬ 
 voted, and would make her such a kind husband, just ex¬ 
 actly what she needs.” 
 
 “But supposing she has a husband somewhere?” 
 
 “Oh, Francis, I don’t think that. She as good as told 
 me she was a widow.” 
 
 “We know very little about her anyway, far too little 
 to be able to judge in a matter of so much importance. I 
 suppose that Mr. Antonelli is aware how and in what way 
 she came to us?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes; I’ve told him over and over again. He asks 
 me so many questions, and seems so interested in all that 
 concerns her.” 
 
 “ He is more interested in her than she is in him, I should 
 say.” 
 
 “True. I sometimes think she almost dislikes him. I 
 don’t see why. He is very handsome and agreeable. Don’t 
 you think so?” 
 
 “He is certainly handsome after a certain style, and 
 
A WIPE'S CHIME. 
 
 i m 
 
 appears to have the manners and instincts of a gentleman, 
 Most ladies would consider him very agreeable, I dare say.” 
 
 “ I really wish you would speak out, Francis*” said Mrs. 
 Graham, a little pettishly, “and if you dislike the man, 
 say so.” 
 
 “ But I don’t, my dear. Why should I? He Seefns to me 
 like a man of no great depth or strength of character, one 
 who would be shaped very much, either for good or evil, 
 by his feelings and surroundings. Still, I may do him in¬ 
 justice in this respect. It does not speak very highly, 
 however, for his good sense, that he should be so ready to 
 fall in love with a woman of whom he not only knows 
 nothing, but to whom his attentions are so distasteful. 
 But people are not noted, I believe, for having a super¬ 
 abundance of that article when under the dominion of what 
 is termed the tender passion. I don’t think that I was my¬ 
 self, and though I am fain to confess that I drew a prize in 
 the lottery, where there are said to be so many blanks, I’m 
 afraid that it was more by good luck than any wit or wis¬ 
 dom of mine. I am sorry to pour cold water on your 
 benevolent design of enabling Geraldine to make this young 
 man as happy as you have made me, but I think we had 
 both better remain neutral in this case, giving neither let 
 nor hinderance to either party.” 
 
 Like most women happily married and of a benevolent 
 turn of mind, Mrs. Graham, if not a match-maker in the 
 true sense of the word, was fond of helping along any af¬ 
 fair of the sort that happened to be in progress; but she 
 had a good deal of respect for her husband’s judgment, 
 and so contented herself, with something of an effort, it 
 must be confessed, to being merely an eye witness to the 
 little drama that was being enacted beneath her roof. 
 
 Geraldine played her part in this—if a part it was—with 
 no little skill and prudence. 
 
 During the two days that Antonelli remained at River- 
 view he never lost an opportunity of conversing with 
 Geraldine, and without appearing to avoid him or treating 
 him with any apparent discourtesy, she never saw him ex¬ 
 cept in the presence of a third party. 
 
 Determined to re win Geraldine’s affections, he bore this 
 with all the patience he could muster, but he chafed in¬ 
 wardly under the restriction that it laid upon him, his dis¬ 
 satisfaction sometimes being visible in his countenance. 
 
 Whenever Geraldine was down stairs she kept as close 
 as possible to Mrs. Graham, who, influenced by her hus¬ 
 band’s caution, and perhaps by Geraldine’s evident un¬ 
 willingness to be left alone, paid no heed to the appealing 
 looks and hints of her guest. 
 
 If Antonelli went into the school-room, as he occasionally 
 
168 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 did, hoping to have an opportunity for a little private talk, 
 he invariably found Bob there. 
 
 At last, he began to entertain a feeling of personal dis¬ 
 like to the lad, whose boyish devotion to Geraldine was a 
 source of annoyance and inconvenience, and who, whether 
 wittingly or unwittingly, was such a valuable auxiliary to 
 her in the desperate effort she was making to defer, at 
 least, the issue that she well knew must sooner or later be 
 met, whatever it might bring. 
 
 It was the last day of Antoneili’s stay at Riverview, and 
 he was obliged to confess, to his visible chagrin and mor¬ 
 tification, that he was no nearer to the goal of his hopes 
 than when he came. 
 
 Determined that he would not leave without a thorough 
 understanding, he resolved to cut, with one bold stroke, 
 the knot that he had vainly endeavored to untie. 
 
 He had been watching Geraldine for the space of ten 
 minutes or more, who was seated at the further end of the 
 room, in company with Mrs. Graham, Lionel, and Isabel, 
 the latter playing at her feet. 
 
 Never had she looked so lovely, or seemed so far away 
 from him as now. 
 
 Walking up to her, he said: 
 
 I leave in a few hours for New York, and have some¬ 
 thing to say to you before 1 go. Will you take a walk with 
 me down by the river?” 
 
 Geraldine’s only response to this was to tie on the hat 
 that was lying on the lounge. 
 
 Mrs. Graham looked at her a little curiously as she did 
 
 so. 
 
 There was no conscious flush to the cheek; on the con¬ 
 trary, it was a shade paler, while there was that hunted 
 look in her eyes seen in those of certain animals, whose 
 only safety is in flight, and who see every way of escape 
 closed to them. 
 
 But, however puzzled Mrs. Graham might be to account 
 for the expression on Geraldine’s face, she was at no loss 
 to understand the look in Antonelli’s eyes as they rested 
 upon it. 
 
 “ He means to speak to her,” she thought. 
 
 Then going to the window, she watched the two as they 
 moved down the winding path that led to the river. 
 
 A What a handsome-looking couple,” was her inward 
 reflection. It’s easy to see that he worships the very 
 ground she walks on, but she don’t act as if she cared 
 two straws for him.” 
 
 Here Mrs. Graham shook her head, with an air of regret 
 that bad in it something of disapproval. 
 
 They had been gone nearly two hours, and some surprise 
 
A WIPE’S CRIME . 
 
 160 
 
 began to mingle with her anxiety for their appearance, 
 when she saw Geraldine coming up the path alone. 
 
 “Dear me!” was her involuntary exclamation as soon as 
 she entered the door. “What have you done with Mr. An- 
 tonelli?” 
 
 “Nothing,” responded Geraldine, the faint smile that 
 came to her lip giving her face a strange expression, so out 
 of keeping was it with the disturbed look it wore. “He 
 wanted to take the next train, and having only just time 
 to do so, commissioned me to give his adieus and apolo¬ 
 gies.” 
 
 “She has refused him,” thought Mrs. Graham, as she list¬ 
 ened to Geraldine’s retreating footsteps as she ascended the 
 stairs to her own room. “ But he doesn’t look to me like a 
 man that would be easily discouraged in an affair of this 
 kind, and I’ve known women to refuse men more than 
 once, and marry them after all.” 
 
 As Geraldine looked upon Lionel, who came bounding to 
 meet her, a yearning desire came over her to take him and 
 Isabel and flee. 
 
 But this was quickly repressed by the thought of the in¬ 
 jury it would do to the boy’s future prospects. 
 
 “By my own folly I have forfeited a mother’s claims to 
 him,” she thought; “if the sorrow that I so greatly fear 
 must come, I will meet it bravely, and here.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 MR. SMITH’S COUNSEL. 
 
 Antonelli returned to his duties in a very strange and 
 unequal frame of mind. 
 
 Wounded in his vanity as well as heart, there were times 
 when he was on the point of telling Mr. Smith of the rela¬ 
 tion that Geraldine sustained to his ward, and then a feel¬ 
 ing of pity for the woman whose love—now a thing of the 
 past—had cost her so dear, deterred him. 
 
 At the early part of their acquaintance, while he was still 
 suffering from the effect of the wound that had nearly 
 caused his death, he had made, in some degree, a confidant 
 of his employer in regard to the circumstances that pre¬ 
 ceded it, of course suppressing all names. 
 
 Would it tend to his advantage to make a still further 
 revelation? 
 
 At all events, he would make some inquiries concerning 
 his knowledge of Lionel’s father. 
 
 Since his discovery of Geraldine, it had often been on his 
 mind to do this, but Mr. Smith was not a man that it was 
 easy to question. 
 
 His inquiries concerning his ward, soon after his return 
 
HO A WIFE'S CRIME, 
 
 from Riverview, opened the door to this, and he strode 
 boldJy in. 
 
 “I beg pardon, but I think you told me that Master 
 Lionel’s father was an old friend of yours?” 
 
 “I told you that he was an old acquaintance; it’s hard 
 telling who are our friends. I knew my ward’s father 
 when we were boys—in fact, ever since I can remember.” 
 
 “You knew his mother, too, I suppose?” 
 
 “ I never knew his mother at all.” 
 
 “ Is she dead?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 There was a momentary pause, which Mr. Smith broke 
 by saying: 
 
 ‘ ‘ I repeat it; while I was as intimately acquainted with 
 my ward’s father as any man well could be, his mother I 
 never knew. I confess that there is a mystery connected 
 with her loss, which must remain such as" far as I am con¬ 
 cerned.” 
 
 A little uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking, 
 Antonelli hastened to say: 
 
 “ I have no wish to pry into it, believe me.” 
 
 Mr. Smith looked attentively at the speaker. 
 
 “You seem to be in the mood for asking questions. 
 Doubtless the interest you evince in Lionel springs from 
 the still deeper one that you take in his charming gov¬ 
 erness?” 
 
 Antonelli colored. 
 
 “ It has a good deal to do with it, I acknowledge. ” 
 
 Then a few moments after: 
 
 “ Mr. Smith, I believe that you take an interest in me. 
 Why you should do so I don’t know, except it is from pure 
 goodness of heart.” 
 
 “ I certainly do take an interest in you, Mr. Antonelli, 
 though I cannot say that it springs from any goodness of 
 heart.” 
 
 “ I believe, also, that if I was in any difficulty, you would 
 help me out of it, if you could?” 
 
 Mr. Smith took such a long time to reply that the 
 speaker looked a little anxiously at those grave, but kindly 
 eyes. 
 
 “ You may count on that, too. Though in order that I 
 may do this, it is necessary that you should be frank with 
 me.” 
 
 “ That is what I mean to do, as far as I can be. Do you 
 remember my telling you that I was betrothed to a lady 
 who was induced to marry another man, under the suppo¬ 
 sition that I was dead?” 
 
 ‘ I remember you telling me something of the kind, i# 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. J 7t 
 
 explaining the wound you received, and which you sup^ 
 posed came from the hand of her husband.” 
 
 “ I did not see the man who stabbed me, still I had every 
 reason to suppose it to be so; now I know it. Not that I 
 blame him any; I should probably have done the same 
 thing, had I believed as he did. Now that he is dead, I am 
 willing to believe that he may have been quite as much 
 wronged in the matter as I was.” 
 
 “You can hardly look upon his death in the light of a 
 misfortune, though?” 
 
 “ I cannot say that it has brought me any good fortune 
 as yet. I have made a strange discovery lately. I can 
 mention no names, but this man’s wife, or widow rather, 
 the woman that I love, whom I love now more madly than 
 ever, is your ward’s governess.” 
 
 Drawing his own inference from the silence that fol¬ 
 lowed this announcement, Antonelli continued: 
 
 “ I do not wonder that you are surprised, sir. You can 
 judge something of what my feelings must have been at 
 this discovery.” 
 
 “Joy must have been largely in excess of surprise, I 
 should say. As to this lady, kow glad she must have been 
 to find you living!” 
 
 “ She was glad, certainly,” said Antonelli, a tinge of bit¬ 
 terness in his tone that he made no effort to repress; “ but 
 it was less, I believe, to find me living than to learn that 
 her husband’s hand was not stained with blood.” 
 
 Mr. Smith turned his partly-averted face toward the 
 speaker. 
 
 “ Are you sure of that?” 
 
 “ I have had the repeated assurance of it from her own 
 lips.” 
 
 “ If she is a mother, that is very natural. However that 
 may be, your course is plain. You were not only pledged 
 to each other before she met her husband, but, by your 
 own confession, you have been instrumental in bringing 
 upon her a great deal of trouble. And now that she is not 
 only free, but all alone in the world, she has the best of all 
 claims to your love and protection.” 
 
 “God knows how willingly I would give them to her if she 
 would let me. Never was she half so lovely, half so dear 
 to me as now. Her coldness, her careful avoidance of me, 
 almost drives me wild!” 
 
 “ Do you mean to say that she refuses your love?” 
 
 “I mean to say that all my efforts to re-establish our 
 former relations have been w ithout the slightest avail. She 
 seems to view with horror the least allusion to them.” 
 
 “That is very strange. How do you account for it?” 
 
 X can’t account for it, She acknowledges the love that 
 
172 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 % ■ :■ ry ifvyr* f 
 
 she once had for me, but savs that the death of her hus¬ 
 band killed it.” , 
 
 “ One would suppose that it would have the contrary ef¬ 
 fect, seeing that it leaves her free.” 
 
 “ One would suppose so,” said Antonelli, gloomily. “ Bjit 
 who can fathom the ways of woman, or say what she will 
 or won’t do?” 
 
 “ You consider her fickle, then; that her strange conduct 
 is due to want of stability of character?” 
 
 “No, sir, I don’t; I can’t say that. I never thought her 
 fickle, and she seems to have more stability of character 
 than before. It looks more like some radical change in 
 her; and that is the discouraging part of it.” 
 
 “ I think you are too easily discouraged. I have no right 
 to inquire into what she evidently wishes to keep con¬ 
 cealed, but it is clear, from her friendless and lonely posi¬ 
 tion, that she has passed through a great deal of sorrow. 
 It would not be at all strange, especially taking into con¬ 
 sideration her long and serious illness, if it resulted in a 
 somewhat morbid and unhealthy state of mind, and which 
 will pass away after a time.” 
 
 “I’ve thought of that, sir,” said Antonelli, his face 
 brightening a little. “ She talks so wildly at times that it 
 seems as if her mind couldn’t be altogether right; accusing 
 herself of what, in the very nature of things, it is impossi¬ 
 ble she should be guilty of. Why, it will surprise you to 
 learn that she even goes so far as to accuse herself of being 
 instrumental to her husband’s death!” 
 
 Mr. Smith’s face did not express the surprise that the 
 speaker evidently expected, but then it rarely indicated 
 emotion of any kind. 
 
 “ I ha ve seen too much of the dark side to human nature 
 to be easily surprised,” he said, after a moment’s thought. 
 “History teaches us that women, with hands as soft and 
 white as hers, have done terrible things.” 
 
 “ Oh! but if you knew Geraldine you would not could 
 not think such a terrible thing as that! She has at, gentle 
 and tendei* a heart as ever beat.” 
 
 As Mr. Smith looked upon the speaker, the grave, almost 
 stern face softened to as near an -approach to a smile as 
 ever rested there. 
 
 “ She has a warm advocate in you, I see. It is, at least, 
 safe to suppose that you know her heart better than any 
 one.” 
 
 Antonelli’s face gloomed. 
 
 “ I used to think so; but she has shut me out of her heart 
 now.” 
 
 “Oh! that is only fop a time; you will win your way 
 back again , 51 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME. 173 
 
 14 1 wish it might be so. However that may bo, I should 
 be sorry to give you any cause to think ill of her.” 
 
 “ You have given me no reason to think ill of her. Nor 
 do I think that you will ever regret having confided in 
 me.” 
 
 “I have my own theory in regard to her wild and 
 strange accusations in regard to the death of her hus¬ 
 band ” 
 
 “What is it?” 
 
 “ When I first heard of her marriage, and the treachery 
 that had been practiced against us both, I wrote her—I 
 hardly know what, I was nearly wild with grief and de¬ 
 spair. She was as nearly frantic as I, replying by a letter 
 full of affection for me and detestation of her husband, 
 whom she considered at the time to be a party to the plot 
 to separate us. This letter being about me when I was 
 stabbed, unfortunately fell into her husband's hands. 
 Whatever this man’s faults might have been—I suppose he 
 had faults, like all the rest of us—he was passionately at¬ 
 tached to his wife, and the reading of it must have been a 
 great shock to him. It is hardly to be credited, however, 
 that it was sufficient to cause his death; but it following 
 soon after, his wife must have thought so, bringing the re¬ 
 morseful sorrow that makes her consider herself his mur¬ 
 derer. Doesn’t it look to you as if it might be so?” 
 
 Antonelli was so intent upon building up his theory, that 
 he moved a step nearer to the desk at which Mr. Smith was 
 sitting, and upon whose face his eyes now turned for sym¬ 
 pathy and encouragement. 
 
 4 4 It looks very much as if it might be so. There are things 
 that kill quite as effectually as poison or the dagger.” 
 
 Antonelli looked puzzled and disappointed. 
 
 “ But I don’t say that he was killed at all; only that she 
 might think so. He might have died, anyway.” 
 
 “ True enough. But he is dead, it seems, which is the 
 most important thing—to you. His widow is young and 
 beautiful. She will, doubtless, marry again; and why not 
 you as well as another?” 
 
 “ Then you counsel me to persevere?” 
 
 “ I don‘t counsel the persecution of any woman. In a 
 matter that concerns her own happiness so largely, she 
 ought to be left entirely free. By your own showing, the 
 fact that she was not left free has been fruitful of sorrow, 
 and not to her only. Still I would not act hastily in the 
 matter. For her sake, as well as your own, I would make 
 sure that she thoroughly understands herself ; that her re¬ 
 fusal to become your wife does not spring from any mor¬ 
 bid desire to make atonement to the dead, and which she 
 will be very likely to regret whoa her mind is in a more 
 
174 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME: 
 
 healthy condition. If she is acting freely, only one course 
 is open to you; but it looks very much to me as if she wag 
 refusing you from a mistaken sense of duty.” 
 
 The eager sparkle in Antonelli’s eyes showed that re¬ 
 newed hope was springing up in his heart. 
 
 “ What you say sounds very reasonable, sir; but as she 
 absolutely refuses to have any further talk with me on the 
 subject, I don’t see how I am to ascertain this. What 
 would you do if you were in my place?” 
 
 “ I would write her a plain, dispassionate letter, asking 
 her to reply to you in the same way. I would set before 
 her clearly my love and my claims, stating that if her 
 feelings are so entirely altered as she says, that you will 
 annoy her no further; but if she really does love you, as 
 you are fain to hope is the case, that she has no right to 
 make the living wretched for the sake of some real or 
 fancied wrong to the dead, and who would probably be the 
 last to ask or desire any such sacrifice of her. It is impos¬ 
 sible for me to say what I should do if I were in your 
 place, but this is the course I think I should take.” 
 
 “ I will write her this very day.” 
 
 Mr. Smith now directed his attention to the papers on 
 his desk, and taking this as the signal for his dismissal, 
 Antonelli made a movement to withdraw, when he was 
 arrested by these words: 
 
 “ One thing more. You say that this man believed his 
 wife to be faithless to him. Had this any foundation in 
 fact? You need not answer unless you choose.” 
 
 “Not the slightest. Considering her marriage as no 
 marriage I urged her to flee with me, but she would not. 
 Several letters passed between us, but she granted me only 
 three interviews, the last one being to tell me that we must 
 never meet again. I trust, sir, in justice to this most un¬ 
 fortunate lady, that you will believe me when I tell you 
 this.” 
 
 The thought of how Mr. Smith’s judgment of her might 
 affect Geraldine, especially as to her boy, gave a good deal 
 of earnestness and feeling to Antonelli’s tone and manner 
 as he uttered these words. 
 
 Mr. Smith was evidently touched; there being an un¬ 
 wonted light in his eyes as he said: 
 
 “ I not only believe, but thank you. That is all.” 
 
 \ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE NEW GIRL. 
 
 Mrs, Graham entered the school-room all equipped for 
 One of the long rides that she was so fond of taking. 
 
 4 ‘ I am going up to Haven Rock, and shall not be back 
 
1 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 175 
 
 before tea. I leave you and Bob to keep house. The new 
 girl is coming on the next train. I wish you would see 
 that Pat doesn’t forget to meet her. I told him about it, 
 but I suppose he’ll forget it, if he can. And be sure and go 
 to the post-office. I do hope that this one will be better 
 than the last. She can't be much worse, that’s certain. 
 She comes well recommended from one of the doctor’s old 
 patients, whose family is going to Europe. If she is all he 
 says she is, she’ll be sure to get home-sick and want to go 
 back to the city. That is my experience with all that are 
 worth keeping.” 
 
 The difficulty of getting steady, reliable help was a 
 standing grievance with Mrs. Graham, occasioning her, as 
 is often the case in such matters, genuine pleasure to dilate 
 upon. 
 
 Geraldine raised her eyes from the lesson that she was 
 explaining to Bob, who was looking over her shoulder, 
 knowing the speaker too well to consider it necessary to do 
 more than smile an assent to all this. 
 
 As soon as the lessons were over, she sent Bob to remind 
 Pat, the hired man, to go to the station, but found that he 
 had already gone. 
 
 Ever thoughtful in regard to all that concerned the com¬ 
 fort of his liege lady, when Bob returned with this message 
 he looked wistfully into the face, whose wearied aspect 
 was caused by the anxious thoughts that she vainly en¬ 
 deavored to banish from her mind. 
 
 “ I’ll take Lionel and baby out into the garden. Shall I, 
 ma’am?” 
 
 “ If you will, Robert, I shall be glad. I have a little 
 headache; and they will enjoy being out in the open air, I 
 dare say.” 
 
 Taking a new magazine from the library table, Geral¬ 
 dine took a seat in the deep recess of one of the bay- 
 windows, and endeavored to interest herself in its con¬ 
 tents. 
 
 Finding this to be a hopeless task, with a weary sigh she 
 let it fall upon her knee. 
 
 Her eyes wandered around the quiet room, with its pleas¬ 
 ant appointments, then out of the window upon the 
 beautiful prospect that extended as far as the eye could 
 reach. 
 
 There floated up to her from the garden beneath the glee¬ 
 ful sound of childish voices, the sweetest of all music to a 
 mother’s ear. 
 
 What a safe and pleasant haven this had been to her 
 from the fierce tempest that had made a wreck of every 
 other refuge! 
 
 Blow long would it be open to her? 
 
178 A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 How long would she be able to keep secret the terrible 
 crime, whose revelation would make her again a homeless 
 wanderer, with the mark of Cain upon her forehead* even 
 if she escaped the penalty of a shameful death? 
 
 And her kind friends and protectors, whose love and con¬ 
 fidence, manifested in so many ways, had become so dear, 
 with what horror and loathing would they shrink away 
 from her if they knew what might come to their knowl¬ 
 edge at any moment! 
 
 She knew that Antonelli had left her in a state of mind 
 that would make him reckless as to what he did or said, 
 but she knew, also, that his anger was as short-lived as it 
 was hot and hasty; that if his resentment had time to cool, 
 his naturally kind heart would prevent a merciless use of 
 the power he possessed. 
 
 So her heart was divided between hope and fear, a state 
 of mind which made her watch eagerly for news, especially 
 from one quarter, anxious, and yet afraid to hear. 
 
 Hearing the sound of wheels, she looked out. It was 
 Pat, with the new girl, who, before the man could offer his 
 assistance, jumped out of the wagon to the ground, disap¬ 
 pearing from view behind some trees and shrubbery. 
 
 Presently Bob came running in to her with a letter. 
 
 She recognized the hand at once, observing that it was 
 thicker than the usually brief missives that had reached 
 her from the same quarter, and surmising that it was not 
 from Mr. Smith, but from his secretary, dismissed her 
 messenger before breaking the seal. 
 
 Its contents were as follows: 
 
 “ Dear Geraldine, —I ask you to hear patiently the last 
 appeal that I shall ever make to you. Nor would I trouble 
 you with this were I sure that you thoroughly understood 
 yourself or what you were doing. 
 
 “You solemnly pledged yourself to me. Through no 
 fault of mine or yours, but in consequence of false and 
 treacherous misrepresentations, you were induced to marry 
 another man. 
 
 “ Hard as it was to give you up, I accepted as final your 
 decision that we were to be ns strangers, nor can you say 
 that I have made any efforts, during your husband’s life, 
 to induce you to change it. 
 
 “ But now that he is dead, you are free. 
 
 “ You say that your feelings have entirely changed, than 
 you love me no longer, but you mingle so much that is 
 improbable in this assurance, make so many strange allu¬ 
 sions, that I cannot but believe that you are influenced by 
 a morbid feeling, occasioned by dwelling too much upon 
 the wrongs and sorrows of the past, and from which I 
 yyould so gladly shield you in the future. 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 Ill 
 
 “ Even though you rejected my suit, as you have an urn 
 doubted right to do, why you should regard with such a 
 feeling of horror the slightest allusion to my love, or our 
 possible marriage, is something that I cannot understand, 
 except that it springs from the strange delusion that it 
 would be a wrong to the dead. 
 
 ‘ * In spite of your discouraging words, the hope is strong 
 within me that down deep in your heart your love for me 
 still lives—that we shall both yet be as happy in each 
 other’s love as we have been in the past. 
 
 “ My dear Geraldine—how dear, words are powerless to 
 tell you—I entreat that you will not make a shipwreck of 
 my happiness, as well as yours, through a mistaken idea 
 of making reparation for some error in the past. 
 
 “ I don’t see how it could be, but even if your husband’s 
 death was occasioned by his unfortunate discovery of our 
 meeting, and all that followed, I cannot believe that he 
 would wish you to make a sacrifice of your whole life as 
 an atonement, nor can I understand what good it is going 
 to do him, or any one. 
 
 “ I ask you to weigh the matter well, and write me. Re¬ 
 member that your answer will be final, and that it will 
 bring me great joy or great sorrow. 
 
 “ I have made a confidant of Mr. Smith, so far as my 
 love for you and our past relations are concerned, and he 
 fully approves my suit, promising me a responsible position 
 abroad, with double the salary I am having now. 
 
 “ This, by removing us from the scene of so many pain¬ 
 ful recollections, will be a pleasant change to us both. 
 
 “Your children shall be mine, and no home happier 
 than ours. Lovingly, Antonio Antonelli.” 
 
 Geraldine read this letter, from the first to the conclud¬ 
 ing line, and then, thrusting it into her pocket, arose, with 
 the intention of going to her own room. 
 
 As she approached the partly-open door, she saw a sturdy 
 form upon the threshold, whiie a voice that sounded start¬ 
 lingly familiar, said: 
 
 “ If ye plase, ma’am, I’m the new girl—Bridget Connor’s 
 me name. Will ye tell me——” 
 
 As the speaker obtained a clearer view of Geraldine, she 
 stopped, staring wildly into her face. 
 
 “ The saints be good to us!” she ejaculated in a tone of 
 delighted surprise, “ an’ is it yersilf, ma’am? Niver did I 
 think to look upon yer swate face again!” 
 
 Geraldine was not long in recognizing the broad, 
 rosy face of the speaker, or all the complications to which 
 her unexpected advent w r ould be likely to give rise. 
 
 “ Come in and close the door, Bridget,” she said, in as 
 calm and steady a tone as she could command. 
 
178 
 
 A WIFE'S GRIME, 
 
 The girl obeyed; and as soon as her rather incoherent 
 expressions of joy and surprise would allow her, Geraldine 
 continued: - 
 
 “ I am glad to see you, too, Bridget, or rather, I should 
 be if I were not afraid that it might bring upon me a great 
 misfortune.” 
 
 “ How cud that be, ma’am?” said the girl in a tone of 
 surprise. “Sure, an’ you can’t think that I’d do ye the 
 laste bit of harrum?” 
 
 “ You wouldn’t mean to, and yet you might do so, all 
 the same. No one knows me here by the name I had when 
 you knew me, or where I came from. If it should get out 
 it might result in my being taken back there; you wouldn’t 
 wish to do anything to cause that?” 
 
 “ The saints presarve us! indade, an’ I wudn’t, ma'am. 
 Niver a word will I spake that wud give thim the laste 
 idea that iver I set eyes on ye ontil now. Glory be to 
 God! an’ so ye got away all right? Mony's the time I’ve 
 thought of ye sence the day I seen ye floatin’ down the 
 river in that shell of a boat, that didn’t look as if it cud 
 bear a haporth more without goin’ to the bottom. The 
 man that brung me from the deppo was tillin’ me of a lady, 
 that was governess here, bein’ fished up out of the river, 
 but I niver dramed it was you.” 
 
 As much confidence as Geraldine had reason to place in 
 Bridget, she was no way inclined to tell her all that had 
 intervened since then. 
 
 ‘ ‘ My good girl, your faithfulness in the past gives me 
 every reason to trust you. You had better go now; it will 
 be considered strange if you stay any longer. Remember 
 that my name is now Mrs. Geraldine. ” 
 
 Bridget looked back from the door, through which she 
 disappeared a moment later. 
 
 “ I won’t forgit. Don’t ye be afther havin’ the laste fear, 
 ma’am.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 AN UNWELCOME REPLY. 
 
 After sending the letter given to the reader in the pre¬ 
 ceding chapter, Antonelli waited with an eager impatience 
 that made the hours seem like days to him, for a response. 
 
 Hope being a strong element in his character, it was 
 largely in excess of his fears, especially when he pondered 
 on the encouragement that he had received from Mr. 
 Smith. 
 
 Not that he was so foolish ns to suppose that the result 
 would put him at once on toe footing of an accepted suitor, 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 179 
 
 but be felt that it would, by softening her feelings and re¬ 
 establishing something of their former intimacy, pave the 
 way to that happy event. 
 
 It was one of Ms duties to receive and take charge of 
 all letters, ami he now watched all that cam with an in¬ 
 terest that he had n-ver felt bef ore: his heart Mating fast 
 as he saw. one morning, tnat well rememher d hand. 
 
 Contrary to ^is usual custom, instead oi pacing through 
 his own room to that of his employer, he paused tnere, 
 tearing the letter open with eager anu trem. ling nands. 
 
 Let us look over his shoulder, as he re<±ds. 
 
 14 Aktosio, — I had hoped that you would spare yourself 
 the pain of t lis ; ppeaL and me the hard and sorrowful task 
 
 of replying to it. 
 
 " I told you. at our last interview, that the shock of my 
 husband s death killed my love for you; it did more — it 
 aroused a remorseful tenderness that has gr dually changed 
 my whole ttitude toward him. making it impossible for 
 me to give to any other the place where he is enshrined in 
 my heart. ^ 
 
 ” hot long after his death I came across my husband's 
 diary, which he had kept ever since our first meeting, and 
 it contained snch a revelation, not only of his inherent 
 worth and goodness, and the love and devotion that met 
 with so cold a return, but of my own folly and blindness, 
 that it created an entire revolution in my feelings. 
 
 "You say that my husband is dead — but he lives in my 
 heart, he will live there ahcays. 
 
 "I was the cause of his death — it matters not how — and 
 I have made a solemn vow to devote myself entirely to his 
 children, so far as I am permitted to do so. 
 
 " I dreamed once that he came to me, rend put tine our 
 baby in my arms — the child that in his jealous fury he re¬ 
 pudiated — kissed us bot h. 
 
 "Since then my heart has been less heavy and sor 
 
 row fill. 
 
 "Remaining faithful to hi memory through all the 
 years of my earthly pilgrimage, I hope some day to meet 
 him. and receive his kiss of forgiveness and love. 
 
 " There is no morbid feeling in this. Antonio, but a deep- 
 seated conviction that it is the path of duty, which can 
 alone lead to peace. 
 
 * * By consenting fo a marriage without love. I made a 
 shipwreck of my husband's happiness as well as my own. 
 and shall I now do you the same wrong; 
 
 " I ask you not only to leave me to the life that I have 
 marked out tor myself, but to help me to live it. 
 
 " Tnat you may be happy with the love of some better 
 
180 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 and happier woman is the earnest wish of one, who, though 
 she can never be more to you, would gladly remain always 
 
 “ Your friend and sister, 
 
 “ Geraldine.” 
 
 How long Antonelli remained pondering over this un¬ 
 welcome missive he could not have told had he tried, but he 
 was aroused from the train of reflections to which it gave 
 rise by the impatient jingle of the bell over his desk, and 
 which communicated with that of his employer in the ad¬ 
 joining room. 
 
 Taking the letter he had received, together with some 
 others that came with it, and which were directed to Mr. 
 Smith, he passed into the room where that gentleman had 
 for some time been impatiently expecting his appearance. 
 
 “ I trust that you will excuse this long delay, sir. I have 
 been reading this letter. I wrote to Mrs. Geraldine, as you 
 advised me to do, and this is her reply. You have taken 
 so much kindly interest in the affair that I can do no less 
 than give it to you for perusal.” 
 
 Mr. Smith looked at the disturbed fafce of the speaker, 
 his own scarcely less agitated, and then taking the letter 
 signed him to leave the room. 
 
 An hour dragged its slow length along, and Antonelli sat 
 at his desk in the same dejected attitude that he had oc¬ 
 cupied for the last fifteen minutes. 
 
 Feeling a light touch upon his shoulder he glanced up, 
 being not a little startled at seeing his employer, who was 
 standing: just back of him, and who had never entered his 
 room before. 
 
 “ Mr. Antonelli, this is a heavy disappointment to you. 
 That you should consider it in the light of a great mis¬ 
 fortune is very natural; but it would be a much greater 
 one for you to marry a wom^n who had no love for you.” 
 
 “ But she loved me once,” was the bitter response. 
 “ And never did I love her so passionately, so madly as 
 now! It is very hard to give her up; especially so to have 
 it occasioned by such a strange, incomprehensible devotion 
 to a man who needs her love no longer.” 
 
 “ It may not be so strange as you think,” said Mr. Smith, 
 resuming something of his old caustic tone and manner, 
 “ though I dare say that it is incomprehensible.” 
 
 Then, his eye softening as it rested upon the gloomy 
 face of his companion, he continued in quite another 
 tone: 
 
 “ X"ou certainly ought to respect the motives that govern 
 her. She would be doing you a great wrong to marry you, 
 feeling as she does. So cheer up and be glad that it is no 
 worte.” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 181 
 
 Antonelli was in no mood to be “cheered up ” in so short 
 a time as this. 
 
 He shook his head disconsolately. 
 
 “It’s easy talking, sir; especially when it’s something 
 you’ve had no experience in. I don’t suppose that you 
 were ever seriously in love with any woman in your life.” 
 
 Coloring, Mr. Smith looked keenly at the speaker, whose 
 countenance showed that he was entirely absorbed by his 
 own pain and disappointment. 
 
 “ That is as it may be,” he said, dryly. 
 
 Antonelli continued: 
 
 “ My whole life is a blank; I shall never know what it 
 is to have a happy day again.” 
 
 As disposed as Mr. Smith was to sympathize with his sec¬ 
 retary, he actually smiled at this speech, something that 
 Antonelli had never seen him do before; its transforming 
 influence giving his face such a different expression that it 
 hardly seemed the same. 
 
 But it vanished almost as quickly as it came. 
 
 “Nonsense! Young, with good health and bright pros¬ 
 pects, you have any number of happy days before you. 
 Before you met her, this last time, you were not unhappy; 
 on the contrary, you seemed to get a good deal of enjoy¬ 
 ment out of life. Under the favoring influences of new 
 scenes and a change of occupation, a year hence you will 
 have forgotten all about it. You will remember what I 
 promised to do, in case you married this lady? That oppor¬ 
 tunity is still open to you. If I remember rightly, you 
 were born in Italy, having relatives there?” 
 
 “Yes, sir. I was a mere boy when I left, but I remem¬ 
 ber my native country well.” 
 
 “So I recollect hearing you say. Also, that you had a 
 strong desire to revisit it. Now, it is in my power to offer 
 you a position at one of the principal ports there, to attend 
 to the consignment of fruit, wine, etc., to a wholesale house 
 in this city. The salary will be liberal and the duties 
 neither hard nor unpleasant. Now, what do you say to 
 this offer?” 
 
 “That I should like nothing better.” 
 
 “ If you accept, you will have to leave within a week.” 
 
 “I shall be ready at any time,” exclaimed Antonelli, 
 rising to his feet; “ the sooner the better.” 
 
 “You will have ample time to get your outfit. I think 
 you have decided wisely. Of course, I shall be sorry to 
 lose my secretary, but it is the best course for you to take 
 under the circumstances, as well as for all concerned.” 
 
 “I don’t think that you will find it hard to supply my 
 place,” said Antonelli, after a moment’s thought; “I don’t 
 feel that I have earned half what you’ve paid me. In fact fi 
 
i&3 
 
 A WIFE'S CHIME. 
 
 I have sometimes thought that you kept me more for my 
 sake than your own.” 
 
 “You are wrong; you have been useful to mein more 
 ways than one, earning all that I have paid you.” 
 
 “I am glad to know that. Ever since our first meeting, 
 in that old farm-house by the river, you have manifested 
 a kindly interest in me that I had no right to expect from 
 a stranger. I feel it very sensibly, especially this last 
 proof of it, as it will enable me to put into execution what 
 I have long wished to do.” 
 
 Antonelli was very busy for the next few days in get¬ 
 ting his outfit, and receiving instructions from his new 
 employer in regard to the duties that would be required of 
 him in the new position he would fill; all the bustle and 
 excitement consequent upon this complete change in his 
 life having a most happy effect upon him, by rousing him 
 from his gloom and despondency, and turning his thoughts 
 into different channels. 
 
 “I have everything in readiness, now,” he said, one 
 morning, to Mr. Smith. “It is now Monday, and as the 
 vessel will not sail till to-morrow evening, I think I will 
 run up to Biverview.” 
 
 Antonelli said this in a hesitating, inquiring tone, as if a 
 little doubtful as to how it would be received. 
 
 “ Do you think that would be a wise thing to do?” 
 
 “ It would be a satisfaction to me; and I don’t know as 
 there would be any harm in it. You object, I see?” 
 
 “ I have no right to object; nor have I, personally, any 
 objection to offer,” said Mr. Smith. “I am only question¬ 
 ing its wisdom as to yourself, as well as the lady, whom, I 
 inter, you are going to see.” 
 
 Then, after a moment’s thought, and in a graver tone: 
 
 “I trust that you have no intention of annoying this lady 
 by reopening a question in regard to which she has ex¬ 
 pressed herself so clearly and decidedly? Her friendless 
 and unprotected position ought to make her doubly sacred 
 against anything that looks like persecution, as this most 
 assuredly would.” 
 
 “Believe me, sir, I have not the slightest intention of 
 doing this. On the eve of leaving the country, perhaps 
 never to return, I merely wish to bid her farewell in per¬ 
 son, instead of by letter, as I first thought of doing. Not a 
 word will pass my lips that could possibly give her the 
 least annoyance.” 
 
 Mr. Smith was so long in replying, that Antonelli turned, 
 an impatient look upon his face. 
 
 “ You consider, perhaps, that a parting interview would 
 be satisfactory to both?” 
 
 “ I think so. It would be to me, I know,” 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 
 
 183 
 
 There was another pause, almost as long as the first. 
 
 “ I think, on the whole, that it would be as well for you 
 to do as you propose. Tell Mrs. Geraldine, that as soon as 
 you are gone, I am coming to see her.” 
 
 Antonelli had moved toward the door; he now turned 
 back. ; 
 
 “Mr. Smith, I trust that you are contemplating no change 
 in your arrangements for your ward; in short, that his 
 present governess will continue to take charge of him?” 
 
 “ She is fond of the boy, then?” 
 
 “Very fond. I think that it would break her heart to 
 part with him.” 
 
 “ Most mothers are attached to their children, I believe.” 
 
 Changing color, Antonelli looked at the speaker, thinking 
 that his ears must have deceived him. 
 
 “Mr. Smith!” 
 
 Without appearing to notice the speaker’s astonishment 
 and dismay, Mr. Smith continued: 
 
 “I have known for several months, ever since he has 
 been under her care, in fact, the true relation that this lady 
 sustains to Lionel.” 
 
 “ I—you amaze me, sir. And to think that she should 
 be so afraid of your finding it out!” 
 
 “Am I so hard a man, that she should stand in so much 
 fear of me?” 
 
 There was something in the tone, even more than the 
 words, that touched the warm, impulsive heart of the 
 listener. 
 
 “No, indeed; I have not found you so, at all events. 
 But then, you see, she does not know you.” 
 
 “True. It may be said, in excuse for many misun¬ 
 derstandings, that she has never really known me, or *1 
 her.” 
 
 Somewhat mystified by these words, and which seemed 
 to be spoken to himself rather than to him, Antonelli was 
 silent for a moment. 
 
 Then he said: 
 
 “ Have I your permission to tell her this?” 
 
 “Yes; I think that it is best now that she should know 
 
 it. 
 
 
 “And may I tell her also, that you will make no change 
 in regard to the boy?” 
 
 “You may say that I am coming to talk matters over 
 with her. Now, unless you hurry, you will miss the 
 boat. Remember that y ou must be back to-morrow with¬ 
 out fail,” 
 
134 
 
 A WIFE’S GRIME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Antonelli’s sudden arrival at River view was quite as 
 unexpected to its occupants as his previous appearance. 
 
 Lionel was the first to spy him, as he came up the walk. 
 
 “There’s Mr. Tony !” he shouted, running down to meet 
 him in glad anticipation of the toys and sweetmeats of 
 which he was generally the bearer. 
 
 Geraldine, who was sitting by the window, half arose, 
 and then, conscious tl at she had been seen, resumed her 
 seat, her changing color alone showing her secret agitation 
 and disturbance. 
 
 Antonelii addressed himself to Mrs. Graham, who, mind¬ 
 ful of her duties as hostess, came forward to greet him, 
 
 “ You hardly expected to see me so soon, Mrs. Graham; 
 but I leave the country to-morrow evening for an indefi¬ 
 nite period, and thought that I would pay a farewell visit to 
 my friends at Riverview. ” 
 
 “ I am very glad you did. Going to leave the country, 
 did you say? Is not that a very sudden thing?” 
 
 “ Rather so. I certainly had no thought of going a week 
 ago, though it is something that I have long desired to do. 
 Knowing this, Mr. Smith has kindly placed at my disposal 
 a pleasant and lucrative position in one of the ports of my 
 native country, and which I was only too glad to accept.” 
 
 Antonelii glanced at Geraldine as he said this, who was 
 listening with eager attention. 
 
 Then, observing Lionel’s wistful looks, he added, with a 
 smile: , 
 
 “ I didn’t bring you anything this time, Master Lionel; 
 I.came away in too great a hurry. But your guardian is 
 coming to Riverview before long, and he’ll pnake amends, 
 I dare say.” 
 
 “Is Mr. Smith really coming?” cried Mrs. Graham. 
 “ How glad I am! I was telling Francis, only yesterday, 
 that I did hope he would come before the season was over; 
 everything looks so much pleasanter in the summer. He 
 has been confined in the city so many months that a trip 
 to the country will do him good.” 
 
 It being near tea-time, excusing herself, Mrs. Graham 
 now went out, leaving the two together. 
 
 “ Is what you told Mrs. Graham really so?” said Geral¬ 
 dine, glancing a little timidly at the face that wore such a 
 different aspect when she saw it last. 
 
 “ That I am going to leave the country? It certainly is. 
 Something that you are not at all sorry to hear, I suppose.” 
 
 In spite of Antonelli’s good resolutions, he found it im¬ 
 possible not to infuse a certain amount of tender reproach 
 m these words. 
 
A WIPE’S CRIME. 
 
 185 
 
 Geraldine’s face flushed a little, as she said: 
 
 “ It would be a very unfriendly act in me to regret what 
 you seem to consider such a pleasant and desirable open¬ 
 ing. I didn’t refer to that, however, but to what you said 
 about Lionel’s guardian. Is he really coming to River- 
 view?” 
 
 “ That is what he told me. Come down into the garden 
 with me a few minutes, Geraldine. Now, that I am on 
 the point of leaving the country, you surely might grant 
 me that much. Little pitchers have large ears, you 
 know,” glancing at Lionel, “ and I really have something 
 of importance to say to you.” 
 
 Geraldine’s only response to this was to rise and join 
 him by the half-open door, and together the two moved 
 down toward the arbor, where they had had their first in¬ 
 terview. • , r i j. 
 
 Geraldine’s countenance showed no little anxiety and 
 agitation; her words indicated plainly the direction that 
 her thoughts had taken. 
 
 “ Does what you have to say relate to Lionel?” 
 
 “ It does. Mr. Smith knows that he is your son.” 
 
 Geraldine turned white to the lips, and there was indig¬ 
 nation as well as grief in her tones, as she said: 
 
 “ You have told him, then?” 
 
 “ I have not told him a word.” 
 
 “ He has inferred it from what you have said, at all 
 events. And this is your boasted honor; dealing a back- 
 handed blow to the woman that you profess to love above 
 all others!” 
 
 The anger that Antonelli felt at these stinging words, 
 especially their injustice, vanished as he saw the grief and 
 despair in the pale face that confronted him. 
 
 “You wrong me, Geraldine, as you cannot fail to see 
 when I tell you that Mr. Smith knew that you were the 
 mother of his ward at the time he sent him to you; which 
 was certainly before / had any idea of it.” 
 
 “ Mr. Smith knew that I was Lionels mother before he 
 sent him to me?” repeated Geraldine, with a dazed, be¬ 
 wildered air. “ How strange!” 
 
 “ That is what he told me; and I have no reason to doubt 
 his word. When Mr. Smith spoke about going to River- 
 view, I referred to your strong affection for the boy; ex¬ 
 pressing the hope that he would remain under your care. 
 He replied by saying k that it was natural for a mother to 
 love her child, ’ or words to that effect; going on to state 
 what I have already told you. I was greatly astonished. 
 I don’t think you could have been much more so, as it was 
 something I had never dreamed of. ” 
 
 “Was that all? Did he tell you nothing more?” 
 
186 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “ T asked him if I was to tell you this. He said yes, that 
 he thought it was best that you should know it.” 
 
 “Go on,” said Geraldine, in a stifled voice, evidently 
 speaking with an effort. 
 
 “ I asked him if I should tell you, also, that there would 
 be no change in regard to the boy. He said that I was to 
 say to you that he would see you shortly and talk matters 
 over.” 
 
 Geraldine sank down upon the rustic seat by which she 
 was standing. 
 
 “ To talk matters over—ah, me! Did he say whether he 
 intended making any change or no?” 
 
 ‘ ‘ That was all the reply he made. I was just on the point 
 of leaving; there was no time for many words.” 
 
 “But if he knows that Lionel is my son, he must know 
 also-” 
 
 Here Geraldine abruptly paused. 
 
 “ Antonio,” she added, “answer me truly, is what you 
 have told me all that passed between you?” 
 
 “As far as I can recollect, it is certainly all that passed 
 between us of any moment.” 
 
 * ‘My dear Geraldine,” added Antonelli, after a few mo¬ 
 ments of perplexed silence, “while it is natural that you 
 should feel some anxiety in regard to Mr. Smith’s coming, 
 I can’t understand why you should be so distressed and 
 frightened. From what I know of him—and it seems as if 
 I knew him better the last few weeks than any time be¬ 
 fore—I am confident that he will not be so unjust,and cruel 
 as to take Lionel from you. And even if it were other¬ 
 wise, the remedy is in your own hands. All you have to 
 do is to appeal to the law, that considers a mother to be the 
 natural guardian of a child of such tender years.” 
 
 “The law?” said Geraldine, with a shudder. “God help 
 and pity me! There are things that lie back of this— 
 things that I can speak of to no one.” 
 
 Here the sound of a bell was heard, followed by the 
 merry voice of Lionel, who came running down the walk 
 toward them. 
 
 “ There is the tea-bell,” added Geraldine, rising to her 
 feet. “ Go on before me. I will follow in a few moments.” 
 
 •CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE FULFILLED DREAM. 
 
 Geraldine did not see Antonelli again until the next 
 morning, when he was just on the point of leaving. 
 
 The aversion that she felt for him, and which had grown 
 out of his persistency in urging a suit that had become 
 hateful to her, had vanished since the announcement of his 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME, 
 
 U1 
 
 departure, especially since she became convinced that in- 
 stead of betraying her, as she had at first thought, he had 
 done all he could to save her from the difficulties and perils 
 that were thickening around her. 
 
 This gave an added warmth and gentleness to her very 
 look and manner, and which made her very charming to 
 Antonelli’s beauty-loving nature, as his eyes, as they 
 rested upon her lovely face, testified. 
 
 The two were standing out upon the porch together, 
 whither Antonelli had gone to wait for the carriage. 
 
 “ t I hope you are not blaming me for anything?” he 
 said. 
 
 “ No; on the contrary, I feel that I owe you many 
 thanks for your efforts to defend and protect me. My 
 best and warmest wishes will accompany you to the new 
 life to which you are going.” 
 
 “ I wish that you were going with me, Geraldine.” 
 
 Geraldine gently removed the hand, around which the 
 speaker’s closed with a warm pressure. 
 
 “ It is better as it is; better for us both. You will some 
 day be glad that it is so.” 
 
 AntonelL shook his head. 
 
 “ It doesn’t seem at all likely to me now.” 
 
 Then a moment later: 
 
 “What shall I say to Mr. Smith?” 
 
 The unwonted color in Geraldine’s cheeks receded at 
 these words. 
 
 “ *ay that I shall be glad to see him. That I hope that 
 he will not keep me in suspense, but come soon.” 
 
 Antonelli noticed the change in Geraldine’s look and 
 tone. 
 
 “I think you will feel better after seeing him; being 
 quite sure that it will be the means of relieving your mind 
 of the doubts and fears that you seem to entertain con¬ 
 cerning him.” 
 
 Pat now driving up with the carriage, there was no op¬ 
 portunity for anything more than the general adieus that 
 followed, for which Geraldine was not sorry. 
 
 After watching the carriage disappear down the avenue, 
 she went to her own room; glad that this ordeal was over, 
 and wishing that the one to which her thoughts now 
 turned with such dark forebodings was as happily ended. 
 
 She had vainly tried to recall some old acquaintance of 
 her husband by the name of Smith. 
 
 She remembered hearing him speak of an uncle of that 
 name, from whom he had been named, but was under the 
 impression that he had died some years ago. 
 
 This Mr. Smith might be a son; his telling Antonelli 
 
388 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 that he had known her husband when a boy gave a strong 
 air of probability to this inference. 
 
 To this was added the coincidence of the initial letters of 
 their Christian names being the same. 
 
 On thinking the matter over, she become convinced 
 that Lionel’s guardian was the son of Uncle Robert, and, 
 therefore, her husband’s cousin. 
 
 This near' relationship gave her little comfort, however, 
 in looking forward to their approaching interview, and 
 all to which it was likely to lead. 
 
 When Geraldine reached her room, she found Bridget 
 there, putting it to rights. 
 
 She was the same honest, outspoken soul, taking the 
 same kindly interest in her former mistress; in her sim¬ 
 plicity and good-heartedness, frequently making allu¬ 
 sions, when they were by themselves, from which Geral¬ 
 dine would gladly have been spared. 
 
 “An’ so poor Misther Bayard niver came back at all, 
 at all?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “ It’s me belafe thim murtherin’ thaves av the world 
 spirited him off. They ain’t a bit too good for’t onyway. 
 Did I tell ye, ma'am, that I once thought I see him?” 
 
 “ Thought that you saw my husband, Bridget? Where 
 was that?” 
 
 “ ‘Twas in New York, at the Grand Centhral Deppo, 
 ma'am. I was goin’ in the dure, when I run against a 
 gintleman that was jist cornin’ out, an’ who looked as 
 much like him as one pay is like another. 
 
 “‘The Lord be praised! is that you, Misther Bayard?’ 
 says I. 4 And did ye find yer wife?’ 
 
 “ He looked at me real hard for a minute. 
 
 “ ‘ Bayard isn’t me name,’ says he, ‘an’ I haven’t ony 
 wife. ’ 
 
 “ I was struck all of a heap whin he said this. 
 
 “ ‘I beg pardon,’ says I; ‘I thought it wor the husband 
 av a lady I used to work for.’ 
 
 “ ‘ There’s no harm done,’ says he. 
 
 “ With that he walks off, lavin’ me a-starin’ afther him 
 till he was lost in the crowd.” 
 
 “ It is only a curious coincidence,” said Geraldine. 
 
 “A what?” said Bridget, with a puzzled air. 
 
 “ A chance resemblance, such as we sometimes see be¬ 
 tween people in no way related. I never expect to see my 
 husband again in this life.” 
 
 Here Bridget was summoned below. 
 
 Geraldini* sighed heavily as she listened to the sound of 
 the dosing door 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME. 189 
 
 How vain were all her efforts to win forgetfulness and 
 peace! 
 
 In how many different ways was she reminded of the 
 sin that would not be covered, staring her in the face at 
 every turn? 
 
 “ Mr. Smith writes Francis that he will be here on the 
 midday train,” said Mrs. Graham to Geraldine, the follow¬ 
 ing morning. 
 
 Not all Geraldine’s efforts at self-control could prevent 
 the sudden paling of her cheek at this announcement. 
 
 Mrs. Graham noticed this, and being now accustomed to 
 what she considered sprung from undue Sensitiveness, 
 said, with a smile: 
 
 “I really believe that you are afraid of Mr. Smith and 
 dread his coming. 
 
 “ I don’t see how you can with such a convincing proof 
 of your success and capacity as this before you,” she added, 
 glancing at Lionel. “ I declare! I should hardly know the 
 boy; he looked so pale and spiritless when he came, and is 
 looking now so healthy, rosy and happy.” 
 
 As Geraldine looked at the kind face, which was so ex¬ 
 pressive of the kindly spirit that actuated these words, a 
 strong impulse came over her to ease her heart of the heavy 
 weight that oppressed it, by forestalling a revelation that 
 she now felt was inevitable. 
 
 Then she checked herself. For the sake of her children, 
 upon whose innocent heads it would bring so much un¬ 
 merited shame, it must be done by other lips than hers. 
 
 “ I hope she won’t have one of her headaches,” thought 
 Mrs. Graham, as Geraldine left the room. “ She is so apt 
 to, if anything troubles her, especially of this kind. How 
 strange, when she shows so much sense in every other way, 
 she should have so little in this respect.” 
 
 Mrs. Graham’s fears were not realized. Geraldine per¬ 
 formed her usual morning duties; a little more silent and 
 abstracted, perhaps, but showing no indication of that 
 much-dreaded malady. 
 
 Instead of sending Pat, Dr. Graham himself went to the 
 station for their expected guest, dinner being delayed an 
 hour in honor of his arrival. 
 
 Geraldine kept herself strictly to the school-room, trying 
 to busy herself with the accustomed duties, but listening 
 with feverish suspense to any unusual sounds. 
 
 Nearly two hours passed, and while she wondered at this 
 delay, Mrs. Graham entered. 
 
 “I don’t think we will wait any longer; you must be 
 faint. I don’t see wnat has detained them.” * 
 
 ‘‘Perhaps the train was late.” 
 
190 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 “ No; it can’t be that. We always hear it at one point, 
 and I’m sure I heard it at the usual time.” 
 
 Hearing the sound of carriage wheels, Mrs. Graham 
 turned to the window. 
 
 “ It’s Francis, and he’s alone,” she said, hurrying from 
 the room. 
 
 Geraldine lingered a few minutes, and then went down 
 to the dining-room, but there was no one there. 
 
 On stepping out upon the porch, she heard the sound of 
 Dr. Graham’s voice in the library, talking to his wife. 
 
 It was evident that their guest had disappointed them. 
 
 Geraldine was disappointed too; for though she dreaded 
 seeing this man, she knew that it was something that must 
 be, and the suspense she was suffering was growing more 
 intolerable every day. 
 
 Over half an hour passed; then the dinner-bell sounding, 
 Geraldine re-entered the dining-room, finding Dr. Graham 
 and his wife already seated at the table. 
 
 Somewhat to her surprise, nothing was said about the 
 non-appearance of Mr. Smith, nor was his name men¬ 
 tioned. 
 
 The doctor had a grave, preoccupied air, while his wife 
 looked nervous and excited to a degree that not only sur¬ 
 prised Geraldine, but inspired her with a vague feeling of 
 uneasiness. 
 
 Mrs. Graham betrayed more than usual anxiety that 
 Geraldine should be supplied with whatever was on the 
 table, especially that she should drink the strong cup of 
 coffee that she prepared with her own hands, but aside 
 from the conversation incidental to this, the meal was dis¬ 
 cussed in almost total silence. 
 
 When Dr. Graham rose from the table, Geraldine vent¬ 
 ured to say: 
 
 “ You didn’t find Mr. Smith at the depot?” 
 
 The doctor cleared his throat twice before he spoke. 
 
 “Yes, he was there. He will be here by and by.” 
 
 Without pausing for a reply, Dr. Graham left the room, 
 going directly to the library, whirher his wife followed him. 
 
 With feelings that it would be impossible to describe, 
 Geraldine went to her own room. 
 
 Dr. Graham’s long absence, his wife’s excited and dis¬ 
 turbed manner, all was clear to her now. 
 
 He and Mr. Smith had met; nor could she doubt the nat¬ 
 ure and result of this conference. 
 
 Concealment was no longer possible, the blow had fallen; 
 that which she had so long and greatly feared had come 
 upon her; and, as is often the case, she found it less terri¬ 
 ble than she had anticipated. 
 
 After the first shock had passed a feeling of calmness 
 
A WIFE'S CRIME . 191 
 
 came over her, born of something higher and nobler than 
 despair. 
 
 There was One before whom her whole life lay open, who 
 knew the wrong teachings, the evil influences that sur¬ 
 rounded her early years; how earnestly she had striven to 
 atone, how patiently and steadfastly she had walked in the 
 path of duty, so far as she had the light to see what that 
 path was. 
 
 However she might humble herself to God, it was not for 
 her to shrink before the gaze of her brother man, who, with 
 the same ignorance, under the same circumstances, might 
 have done far worse than she. 
 
 Geraldine heard, like one in a dream, the sound of car¬ 
 riage wheels, followed, a few minutes later, by a summons 
 to the library. 
 
 Dr. Graham met her at the door, conducting her to a seat 
 opposite his own. 
 
 His disturbed and agitated manner, so different from 
 anything that she had ever seen in him before, had the 
 natural effect of calming her own. 
 
 “ I thought that I should find Mr. Smith here,” she said, 
 glancing around. 
 
 “ He is in the house. I have had a long talk with him. 
 He desired me to see you first, and prepare you somewhat 
 for what he feared would be too great a surprise.” 
 
 “ I beg that you will assure this gentleman that I need 
 no preparation. I can readily understand the nature of 
 his disclosures concerning me. Nor can I say that they 
 are not, in all probability, substantially true. It is you that 
 must have been surprised.” 
 
 “ I was surprised, certainly, and so, I think, will you be 
 when you know who this man is.” 
 
 “ I know that he is my son’s guardian, and as such I 
 wish to see him.” 
 
 “ He is more than that.” 
 
 “ I know the relation that he sustains to both my chil¬ 
 dren.” 
 
 Dr. Graham turned a startled look upon the speaker’s 
 face. 
 
 Geraldine continued. 
 
 “ I remember hearing their father speak of his Uncle 
 Bobert; I believe this man to be his son. ” 
 
 It was some moments before Dr. Graham spoke. When 
 he did it was slowly, and with the t air of one choosing his 
 words carefully as he went on. 
 
 “Mrs. Bayard—I call you by your rightful name, you see 
 —you are laboring under a grave mistake. As a physician, 
 X must ask you to iierve yourself to meet a great and joy- 
 
192 
 
 A WIFE'S CRIME. 
 
 ful surprise. Lionel’s guardian sustains to your children 
 a much nearer relation than this.” 
 
 Geraldine arose to her feet. 
 
 “You are talking very strangely, Dr. Graham. I have 
 few relations, and my husband had fewer still.” 
 
 “You say that your husband is dead; but there are 
 cases of mistaken identity which have led to grave 
 
 r> 
 
 got 
 
 the 
 
 the 
 
 the 
 
 errors- 
 
 The window by which Geraldine stood reached to the 
 floor, opening out upon the portico. 
 
 As Dr. Graham spoke a dusky form paused beside it. 
 
 A moment later a dark face was thrust into the room, 
 whose gleaming eyes glared at Geraldine with a look or' 
 fiendish triumph. 
 
 Another moment, and it stepped through the window 
 and confronted her. 
 
 “ I’s tracked you down at las’! I allers thought you 
 away, an’ when I heeard of a woman bein’ found in 
 water, I’s sure of it. You’ve ’scaped the dungeon an’ 
 water, but you won’t ’scape the hangman’s rope-‘ 
 
 Here a man, who had entered the room back of 
 speaker, laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. 
 
 “Silence, Prue!” 
 
 Paying no heed to the woman who cowered in one corner 
 of the room, in a mortal terror from whose effect she never 
 fully recovered, Robert Bayard lifted up the insensible form 
 that was lying at his feet, and laid it upon a couch in an 
 adjoining room. 
 
 “ Is she dead?” he cried, as he bent distractedly over it. 
 
 “Oh, no!” said Dr. Graham, who, assisted by his wife, 
 was busy in applying restoratives. “See! the color is com¬ 
 ing back to her face now. Stand back a little, so she will 
 not see you.” 
 
 Opening her eyes, Geraldine looked wildly around. 
 
 “ I thought I saw 
 was it, indeed, he?” 
 
 my husband. Oh! tell me, doctor, 
 
 At this moment Lionel, who could not be restrained any 
 longer, sprung forward. 
 
 “Oh! mamma, papa has got back! And I’m so glad!” 
 
 Taking up Isabel, Mr. Bayard placed her in her mother’s 
 arms. 
 
 “Your dream has come true,” he whispered, as, putting 
 his arms around his wife and child, he kissed them Doth. 
 
 Feeling that it was a scene too sacred for other eyes to 
 witness, Dr. Graham quietly withdrew, leaving them to- 
 
A WIFE ’3 CRIME. 
 
 193 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 We will relate briefly to the reader Robert Bayard’s ac* 
 count to his wife of his almost miraculous restoration to 
 life, and final escape from the underground cell at Hunter’s 
 Lodge. 
 
 The loss of blood, which flowed freely from the wound he 
 had received, was, under God, the means of saving his life. 
 
 For several hours he lay like one dead; then he aroused 
 sufficiently to realize something of his surroundings. 
 
 It was very brief, however, he relapsing immediately 
 into a state of half-unconsciousness, combined with a 
 helplessness which made it impossible for him to make the 
 slightest sound. 
 
 How long he remained in this state it is impossible to say, 
 but probably for several days. 
 
 When he recovered entire consciousness, so as to remem¬ 
 ber clearly all that had happened, he was weak from want 
 of food. 
 
 On groping about, his hands came in contact with the 
 loaf of bread and pitcher of water he had left there for Ger¬ 
 aldine, of which he partook eagerly, using moderation on 
 account of his long fast. 
 
 Having regained something of his old strength, he began 
 to devise how he was to get out of his present uncomfort¬ 
 able quarters. 
 
 The door was locked, nor was there any possibility of his 
 making himself heard through the thick walls that sur¬ 
 rounded him. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered that one of the heavy stones 
 that formed it was capable of being moved from its place 
 by means of a secret spring, known only to himself, and 
 which he had discovered one day by the merest accident 
 when he was examining the place. 
 
 But even then he was by no means sure that it would be 
 large enough to admit of the egress of a person of his 
 breadth of shoulders and chest, but it was his only chance, 
 and he determined to try it. 
 
 On trial, he found that the aperture thus formed would 
 admit him with ease. 
 
 On passing through, he found himself in a narrow pas¬ 
 sage-way, that led to the little cave, partly natural and 
 partly artificial, which opened out upon the river, and 
 which is already familiar to the reader. 
 
 As he stood looking out upon the water, and pondering 
 on what he should do to get across, he saw something float¬ 
 ing toward him. 
 
 On closer inspection, he $aw that it wag a human body. 
 
194 
 
 A WIFE’S CRIME. 
 
 The advancing tide brought it so near to him that by 
 grasping it by the hair, that was thick and curly, he was 
 able to drag it to the mouth of the cave. 
 
 On finding that it was the body of a man of about his 
 own age and size, and with very much the same hair and 
 complexion, he conceived the idea of placing his own cloth¬ 
 ing on it and thus inducing his wife to think that she had 
 accomplished what he, at that time, believed to be the 
 settled purpose of her heart, rather than the unreasoning 
 and frantic impulse that he was led to consider it at a later 
 day. 
 
 Alter thoroughly drying the garments, he effected the 
 exchange. Then carrying the body into the cell, he placed 
 it in the same position in which he had fallen, and passing 
 back into the passage-way, moved the stone back into its 
 place. 
 
 On returning to the mouth of the cave, he encountered 
 Bridget, who had just seen her mistress off, and whose 
 fright at his unexpected appearance the reader will re¬ 
 member. 
 
 Taking advantage of the swoon into which the girl fell, 
 he secreted himself in an obscure corner, from which he 
 observed the direction she took in the rapid flight im¬ 
 mediately after her recovery. 
 
 Following this, he came to the long flight of stairs, al¬ 
 ready described, and which led to the rooms above. 
 
 As it was now broad daylight, and he was desirous of 
 leaving the house unobserved, he decided to wait until 
 evening before he attempted to mount them. 
 
 As soon as it was dusk he crept cautiously up to the 
 door, which was in the same condition in which Bridget 
 left it in the morning. 
 
 After listening intently to see if he could hear any 
 sound, he opened the door and looked in, almost as much 
 surprised as relieved to find the coast clear. 
 
 G-aspardo and Rattle having gone in pursuit of Geral¬ 
 dine, there was no one but Prue in the house, who generally 
 kept herself to her especial province at the back part of it; 
 so there was no one to observe his movements. 
 
 Fortunately, having collected a large amount of money 
 lately, he had it about him, and taking some articles of 
 clothing, together with some papers, with him, he passed 
 out through an unfrequented part of the house, striking 
 into a narrow cross path which led by the quickest possible 
 route to the highway. 
 
 With his mind full of the purpose which had taken such 
 strong possession of him, and anxious to get away as far as 
 possible from the scene of so many painful associations, he 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME . 
 
 195 
 
 took his way down the river, along which Geraldine had 
 passed, all unknown to him, the night before. 
 
 The evening being clear and starlight, he had no difficulty 
 in finding his way. 
 
 His strong, elastic constitution enabled him to bear up 
 wonderfully against the heavy strain upon it. 
 
 Under the stimulus of the excitement under which he was 
 laboring, he walked along briskly for some time. 
 
 But at last his strength began to fail him, the wound 
 in his head throbbed and burned, an occasional dizziness 
 coming over him which obliged him to sit down by the 
 roadside. 
 
 But still he pushed ahead, having made considerable 
 progress by the dawn of day. 
 
 Feeling utterly unable to continue any further without 
 rest and refreshment, he was not sorry to come in sight of 
 a village hotel. 
 
 Mr. Bayard’s full name was Robert Smith Bayard, and 
 firm in his resolution to conceal his identity, at least for 
 the present, he decided to transpose it, registering himself 
 as R. B. Smith. 
 
 By noon he was obliged to take to his bed; by night, to 
 have a physician. 
 
 He was attended by Dr. Graham, under whose care he 
 improved so rapidly that in a week’s time he was able to 
 be removed to his house. 
 
 Much of what followed the reader already knows. 
 
 It was not until Mr. Bayard listened to Geraldine’s wild 
 ravings, during the fever that followed her arrival at 
 Riverview, that he knew how little cause there was for 
 the fierce jealousy that had turned all his love and tender¬ 
 ness to fury, that had led him to so much that was harsh 
 and unjust. 
 
 ! It was not until then that he fully realized the extenu¬ 
 ating circumstances attending much that he could not but 
 condemn in his wife’s conduct, or understood the tem¬ 
 porary madness that impelled her to an act so foreign to 
 her nature. 
 
 But all the remorse and newly-awakened tenderness that 
 this reaction aroused only strengthened his determination 
 to allow her to consider herself free. 
 
 He was still further strengthened in his resolution by his 
 meeting with Antonelli, and all that he told him. 
 
 It was then that he conceived the idea of bringing the 
 two together, and thus insuring their happiness. 
 
 Even after he learned of the hold that he had obtained 
 on his wife’s heart, and the tenderness in which she held 
 his memory, he decided upon the final test that was to 
 
196 
 
 A WIFE'S GRIME . 
 
 prove to him the depth and sincerity of her love, and how 
 far he could build upon it for their mutual happiness. 
 
 How happily this test ended, the reader knows. 
 
 We will sum up briefly in regard to the rest of our char' 
 acters. 
 
 Rattle and Petro Gaspardo, Geraldine’s younger brother, 
 fled the country, and were never heard of again. 
 
 Prue, whose mind had been affected for some months, 
 never recovered from the shock of her master’s unexpected 
 appearance, and which she supposed to be his disembodied 
 spirit. 
 
 In memory of her long and faithful service. Mr. Bayard 
 had her kindly cared for at a private asylum until she died. 
 
 Bridget lives with Geraldine, who would hardly know 
 how to dispense with her honest and loyal service. 
 
 Antonelli is very well satisfied and prosperous in his 
 new home and position, as his letters to Mr. Bayard tes¬ 
 tify. 
 
 He is not likely to leave them, having found a powerful 
 magnet in the form of one of the fair daughters of his 
 native land, to whom he is happily married. 
 
 Bob, good, honest Bob, bids fair to attain to the promise, 
 of his boyhood, being now a rising young lawyer of the 
 Kings County bar; and better still, what some consider 
 incompatible with that calling, an honest man. 
 
 He has paid the mortgage on Uncle John’s farm, who has 
 considerably modified his opinion of the benefit of what 
 he terms “ book lamin’.” 
 
 He is a man of few words, however, merely remarking 
 to a neighbor who congratulated him on his nephew’s 
 prospects: 
 
 “Wife allers said that there was somethin’ more’n com¬ 
 mon in Bob, an’ I guess she’s in the rights on’t.” 
 
 Aunt Jane takes a good deal of pride in her nephew, as 
 she has an undoubted „ right to do, who never forgets all 
 that he owes to her love, especially her unwavering faith 
 in him. ' 
 
 Isabel, “Bob’s baby,” and to whom he always laid an 
 especial claim on account of his finding her in the woods, 
 is now a blooming miss of thirteen, inheriting her mother’s 
 beauty and her father’s kind heart. 
 
 She thinks that there is no one like Robert, while she 
 has grown dearer to his heart every succeeding year; and 
 if that should come to pass, which may in the years that 
 are coming, there will be no one to say them nay, certainly 
 not Geraldine, to whom he is almost as dear as an own 
 son now. 
 
 Not caring to live there any more, Mr. Bayard has sold 
 Hunter’s Lodge, buying a much more pleasant and cheer- 
 
A WIFE’S CRIME . 
 
 197 
 
 fill summer residence near Riverview, much to the satis¬ 
 faction of their respective occupants, who continued to be 
 on the friendliest of terms. 
 
 Since their happy reunion, two more children have been 
 given to Geraldine and her husband, and which serve to 
 bind their hearts more closely together. 
 
 Profiting by the painful experience of the past, and hav¬ 
 ing learned the great lesson of mutual forbearance and 
 mutual trust, each year enables them to realize more per¬ 
 fectly what marriage should be—a union of hearts as well 
 as hands. 
 
 And here we leave them. 
 
 [THE END.l 
 

 
A FATAL WOOING 
 
 By LAURA JEAN LIBBEY 
 
 Copyrighted by NORMAN L. MUNRO, 1883. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A TERRIBLE TOW. 
 
 “Oh, pilot, ’tis a fearful night; there’s danger on the deep, 
 
 I’ll come and pace the deck with thee, this is no time to sleep.” 
 “Go down!” the sailor cries. “Go down! this is no place for 
 thee, 
 
 The night is wild, yet wilder far, the fury of the sea.” 
 
 It is midnight on the ocean. 
 
 The great silver moon breaks through the white, fleecy 
 clouds, flooding the dark, rippling waves into a sheen of 
 sparkling, silvery brightness. 
 
 A land-bird flutters aloft, weary with long flying; lost in 
 a world where there are no forests, but the tall, careening 
 masts of the ships, and no foliage but the drifts of spray; 
 it cleaves awhile to the smooth spars, till, urged by some 
 homeward yearning, it bears on in the face of the wind, 
 sinking, then rising over the angry waters, until its 
 strength is gone, and the blue waves gather the poor flut- 
 terer to their cold, glassy bosom. 
 
 Ulmont TJlvesford leans his arms on the railing of the 
 deck, gazing down into the deep, shimmering water, then 
 up at the clouds overhead. 
 
 “ By this time the following week,” he told himself, “he 
 should reach Boston.” 
 
 How little the handsome young heir of the TJlvesford 
 Silver Mines knew, as he watched the moon scudding in 
 the blue dome above him, as he stood there, not one care 
 on his proud, noble face, ere the sun should pierce the 
 clouds in yonder smiling heavens, the whole course of his 
 life would be changed. 
 
 The smile on his face deepened as he thought 01 the 
 great event which was to happen on the day he reached 
 
 Boston. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 steamer had been due on the day previous, but, 
 mg to unaccountable delay, they would not reach port 
 until late the following week* 
 
 TJlmont Ulvesford passes his twenty-first birthday watch¬ 
 ing the blue waters and the bluer sky. There were few 
 young men that could boast of a more magnificent inher¬ 
 itance than that to which the young heir had succeeded. 
 
 The Ulvesfords were a proud, haughty race, one of the 
 oldest and noblest in Boston. 
 
 Glendon Ulvesford, the wealthy owner of the Ulvesford 
 Silver Mines, had died two years before, and in the last 
 words he uttered, he thanked God a son had been born to 
 him, to prolong the good old name. 
 
 This son had been given them late in life, and upon him 
 they had lavished all of their worshipful love; no wish from 
 his infancy up had ever been denied him, and this very 
 over-indulgence, which never sought to curb the fire of his 
 impetuous, willful nature, was the deep root from which 
 sprang all the keenest sorrows he experienced in his after 
 life. Those who knew him best trembled for his future, 
 and wondered how it would all end. 
 
 He was finely proportioned, tall, and broad-shouldered, 
 his features were marked and fine, the white brow, over 
 which the dark-brown hair waved, was broad and intel¬ 
 lectual, his hazel eyes piercing and quick, and his well-cut 
 lip, unadorned by mustache, varying with every chang¬ 
 ing feeling or momentary emotion, gave by the peculiar 
 bend in which they were fastened in repose, a peculiar tone 
 of scornful playfulness to every expression of his coun¬ 
 tenance, 
 
 He knew the elite of the country would be gathered to¬ 
 gether to bid him welcome; he smiled when he looked down 
 into the white, seething water, thinking of the moment 
 he should clasp pretty Loraine Lorrimer’s little white hand 
 in greeting, and watch the flush sweep across that high¬ 
 bred face, clear-cut as a cameo. On the day he reached 
 Boston he was to claim the peerless young heiress as his 
 bride. There could be no question as to the suitability of 
 the alliance, both were of wealthy families, young and 
 handsome, they we're both very young, yet it was much 
 better for Ulmont Ulvesford, thought those who knew him, 
 that he should marry young, for they knew there was a 
 spice of fickleness in the young man’s nature, which gave 
 promise of grave results, unless they were timely nipped in 
 the bud. 
 
 He had been abroad a year, which makes quite a dif¬ 
 ference in the human heart; and of late doubtful shadows 
 flitted across his mind. 
 
 There could be no question of his love for his pretty, gold- 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 8 
 
 en-haired Loraine. he was true to her in word, deed and 
 thought; still he often wondered if that one eventful mo¬ 
 ment, when influenced by some sweet, mysterious spell, he 
 had impulsively asked Loraine to be his wife, were to be 
 lived over again, would he have done otherwise? 
 
 He smiled as he thought how differently the poets ex¬ 
 press their dreams of love, how it thrilled the heart, ay, 
 the very soul, how the-moments that separated a lover from 
 the one beloved, seemed the length of eternity, 
 
 Ulmont leaned his handsome head on his white hands, 
 gazing thoughtfully down into the white foam-tipped 
 waves, thinking how strange it was that he had expe* 
 rienced none of this; one week more and he should see 
 America and Loraine, yet the thought afforded him not 
 one extravagant pulse glow. He laughed at the sweet 
 fancies of the poets. They had said: 
 
 “A life without love is never a perfect one.” 
 
 "When he had asked Loraine Lorrimer to become his 
 wife he had fulfilled the dearest wish of his haughty, lady- 
 mother’s heart. One week more, then he could claim his 
 bn le. 
 
 A week! ah, what might happen in that time; volcanoes 
 have swallowed peaceful villages; wind and tide destroyed 
 great cities; whole nations in the brief interval of a week 
 have been swept from the face of the earth. 
 
 Already a shadow no larger than a bird’s wing had 
 crossed his path, and in the distance the lowering storm 
 clouds would suddenly burst upon his hapless head, sow¬ 
 ing the seeds that would end in the bitterest of tragedies. 
 
 So intent was Ulmont with his own thoughts, he had not 
 observed an old man and a young girl kneeling by his side, 
 where the shadows were thickest, in the most secluded por¬ 
 tion of the deck. 
 
 “ To-morrow we shall reach Boston, Izetta,” said the old 
 man, wistfully, laying his hands lightly on the girl’s dark 
 curls. 
 
 “Yes, grandfather,” she answered, softly, “let us hope 
 in sunny America we may forget the past.” 
 
 The old man shook his head with a long, low sigh. 
 
 “I fear not, Izetta,” he replied; “the world has been 
 cruel to me, child, cruel to the bitter end. It is hard for 
 one of my years, Izetta, to commence gathering up the fallen 
 ends of fortune that slipped though my heedless fingers in 
 youth. I have lived my life, and dreamed my dreams, but, 
 Izetta, you will never know how sweet a, dream it was.” 
 
 “ Let us trust, dear grandfather, that in America, we may 
 vet retrieve our fallen fortunes,” answered the young girl, 
 hopefully. 
 
 ’ “Hushl” cried the old man, with a quivering voice; 
 
4 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 “those were the words your mother spoke long years 
 ago.” 
 
 “Poor, dear mother,” sighed Izetta, gazing up at the 
 great sorrowful stars that glittered in the blue dome above 
 her, as if in that far-off cloud-land she could trace the fair, 
 young mother’s face that had smiled upon her under the 
 sunny skies of Itajy. 
 
 “If she had only lived, grandfather,” she said, “our 
 lives would have been so different.” 
 
 “My Natalie died of a broken heart,” he murmured, 
 plaintively; “she married against my will—in vain I 
 warned her; youth is blind and will not see. When our 
 fortune was wasted, and the fever threatened Natalie, you 
 were born; in the midst of all lie fled, none knew whither— 
 ’twas said he died. The shock killed my poor Natalie; we 
 have had a hard lot of it ever since, you and I, little one. I 
 have tried to be very kind to you. Heaven only knows what 
 a comfort you have been to me! Izetta, child,” he said, as 
 if stirred by a sudden impulse, “ sing me the song Natalie 
 loved so well. I feel a strange unrest; perhaps ’twill 
 soothe me.” 
 
 ’Twas then the sweetest melody ever uttered by a human 
 voice fell upon the startled ear of UlmontUlvesford, a voice 
 that thrilled him to the very heart core, he could not tell 
 why, a voice pathetic, low, and wondrous sweet, with 
 only the wild dashing of the waves for an accompaniment, 
 or the flapping of some night-bird’s wing of plaintive, 
 quivering note. 
 
 Ere the first vibrations of that sweet, sad strain had died 
 away, the young heir seemed to have commenced a new 
 life, and those bright, aimless years of his past—a desert 
 lying far behind him. 
 
 The pale moon broke through the overhanging clouds, 
 and Ulmont leaned breathlessly forward to gaze upon the 
 face of the singer. 
 
 She was of scarcely sixteen summers and the face turned 
 toward him, so wondrously lovely in its rich, dusky 
 beauty, thrilled his heart as it had never thrilled before, a 
 rare, brilliant, sparkling, foreign face, framed in a mass of 
 jetty curls that fell upon the crimson cloak she wore in un¬ 
 confined luxuriance; eyes, large, dark, and luminous, 
 fringed by tneir heavy silken lashes, before which the stars 
 seemed pale in their wondrous splendor. A face which 
 ripens only under sunny foreign skies. 
 
 The shifting moonbeams pierced the fleecy clouds, flood¬ 
 ing the dark shadows where they sat in its silvery light. 
 
 There was a time coming in the life of Ulmont Ulvesford 
 when he would look back to that scene with almost a curse 
 on his lips; now, he only saw its brightness, the rare, ex- 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 5 
 
 quisite face in its glorious beauty, and the beautiful eyes 
 gazing up into the haggard face of the old man at her side 
 with wistful tenderness. 
 
 “ Did you like the song, grandfather?” she asked, softly. 
 
 His only answer was a sigh that died away in a fitful 
 moan. 
 
 The young girl little dreamed the picture she made, her 
 head resting on the old man’s shoulder, her long curls, 
 darker than a raven’s plume, lying against his snowy 
 beard. 
 
 “Izetta,” said the old man, solemnly, turning toward 
 her with a look she had never seen on his face before, “I 
 have had such strange fancies, such strange forebodings 
 to-night. In the whisperings of the wind I can hear Nat¬ 
 alie’s voice, and in those fleecy clouds I can see a white 
 hand beckoning me. Are you there, Izetta, child? I can- 
 yot see you.” 
 
 “Grandfather, oh, grandfather,” she said, “are you ill? 
 Speak to me!” 
 
 She saw a strange light gathering in his eyes, and break¬ 
 ing over his face. The white lips moved, but no sound is¬ 
 sued from them. Then the roving eyes saw the figure of 
 a young man not far from them, leaning against the rail¬ 
 ing, watching them intently. 
 
 Dy a great effort the old man raised his hand, and beck¬ 
 oned him to his side. 
 
 There was something in that pitiful appeal Ulmont 
 Ulvesford could not resist. 
 
 Long and earnestly those strangely brilliant eyes scan¬ 
 ned the noble young face. One hand the old man stretched 
 out to him, and with the other clasped the young girl to 
 his breast. 
 
 Ulmont took the outstretched hand with a firm, gentle 
 pressure. 
 
 “You are an American?” said the old man, speaking 
 with difficulty. 
 
 Ulmont bowed assent. 
 
 “You have an honest and noble face,” he said huskily, 
 “one I can trust.” 
 
 Again Ulmont bowed over the wan, thin hand that clung 
 tenaciously to his. 
 
 “We are strangers,” continued the old man, “but I 
 have the greatest favor to ask of you that man can grant 
 to man.” 
 
 A puzzled look swept over Ulmont’s face. He scarcely 
 knew what answer to make him. 
 
 “ You are surely ill, sir,” said he, gravely. “Allow me 
 to call the ship’s physician to your aid.” 
 
 The other smiled faintly. 
 
6 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 “ No,” he whispered, “I shall soon be beyond all help. 
 My moments are precious. I could not die with the thought, 
 that presses hard upon me, unspoken. 
 
 Again Ulmont insisted upon calling medical assistance, 
 but the wan hand tightened its hold upon his own. 
 
 “ I have a strange presentiment,” whispered the old man. 
 “I shall never reach America. A mist rises before me. 
 Should anything befall me ere we reach the port will you be 
 a brother to my child? I could not die and know she was 
 uncared for and alone. In this belt about me you will find 
 one hundred francs. Will you take them for her? Will 
 you accept the trust?” 
 
 There was a strange gurgling in his throat, but the fleet¬ 
 ing breath still clung to its mortal tenement. 
 
 Ulmont was bewildered. What should he say—what 
 should he do? 
 
 “Promise me,” wailed the old man. sharply, in an agony 
 of entreaty. “Another moment, and my life is spent. 
 Promise you will protect my child, ccme what may, and 
 you will gain a dying man’s eternal blessing. For the love 
 of Heaven speak quickly!” 
 
 It was all so sudden Ulmont scarcely realized what he 
 did. 
 
 How could he refuse so vital a request, with those en¬ 
 treating eyes burning into his very soul? He seemed as if 
 in a strange dream. 
 
 “ I promise,” he answered, slowly. 
 
 “ Swear it!” gasped the dying voice. “ You will protect 
 Izetta, come what may.” 
 
 “I will protect Izetta, come what may,” repeated Ul¬ 
 mont, steadily. “As I deal by your child, so may Heaven 
 deal with me 1” 
 
 “ God bless you! I shall hold the trust a sacred one,” 
 whispered the faint voice. 
 
 A smile of unutterable joy lit up his wrinkled face. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Bless you!” he muttered; then he turned to the young 
 girl, clinging and sobbing her heart out on his breast. 
 
 “Izetta,” he murmured, “ Izetta-” 
 
 That beloved name was the last word Victor Rienzi ever 
 uttered. His hands relaxed their hold; his head fell for¬ 
 ward on his breast. 
 
 The steamer plowed heavily through the dark seething 
 waters. The pale moon looked pityingly down from the 
 misty clouds upon the white, horrified face of Ulmont Ul- 
 vesford and the fair, young girl, who uttered, in piercing 
 cries: 
 
 “ Grandfather! oh, my grandfather, speak to me; do not 
 leave me all alone. See, my heart is breaking!” 
 
 The WMv eries diqd away over the dark, rippling water*, 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 7 
 
 the stiffening fingers and the cold lips gave back no answer¬ 
 ing caress, as was their wont. It was all over. The sands 
 of the old man’s life were run. He was dead. And the 
 White Cresson bore steadily on her way. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 All through the long night and the day that followed, 
 IJlmont pondered long and earnestly over the strange pre¬ 
 dicament in which he found himself suddenly placed; he 
 felt annoyed and perplexed. 
 
 Two days ago he was as free and untrammeled as the 
 wind that blew; now, the responsibility of this young girl’s 
 future was thrust suddenly upon him. 
 
 He paced the deck to and fro, asking himself over and 
 over again what he should do with her. 
 
 At first, he had thought of taking Izetta directly home; 
 then the stern, haughty face of his lady-mother rose up 
 before him in bitter censure, as her keen eyes fell search- 
 ingly, coldly on the timid, shrinking orphan who had been 
 thrust so unceremoniously upon their care; then he won¬ 
 dered what Loraine, his promised bride, would think of 
 this affair. 
 
 That thought disturbed him above all others; her calm 
 proud face rose up before him in wondering disapproval. 
 
 That quite convinced him it would be the most impru¬ 
 dent course he could possibly pursue, taking Izetta home 
 until he had prepared the way for her. 
 
 He was certainly vexed about the whole rfi^ter. 
 
 Since the death of her grandfather, Izetta had turned to 
 him instinctively for sympathy, a world of unutterable 
 woe in the mute, dark eyes raised to his face. 
 
 She was wholly adrift on the world—without rudder, or 
 compass. 
 
 By some strange, capricious impulse, when Izetta had 
 timidly asked him his name, he had answered by giving 
 her his middle name—Alderic Ross. 
 
 A flush mantled his clear brow as his lips framed the 
 name; over-indulgence through all his boyhood had given 
 somewhat of a dash of recklessness to his nature, yet this 
 was the first deception he had ever willfully lent him¬ 
 self to. 
 
 He quite regretted it the next moment after he had 
 spoken. 
 
 He could hardly have told why he did it. Only Heaven 
 alone could have foretold the terrible consequences which 
 were to accrue from that one heedless act of folly, 
 
8 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 Ulmont thought it best to acquaint Izetta at once with 
 the plans he had made in regard to her future. 
 
 He knew just where he should find her, sitting on a coil 
 of rope in a remote quarter of the deck; her large eyes 
 with a far away look in them, gazing out over the water, 
 her hands clasped idly in her lap. 
 
 Ulmont’s vexation and annoyance partly vanished as he 
 took a seat by her side. 
 
 “ Izetta,” he said kindly, “.I have concluded it will be 
 best to leave you at the next port, which we shall reach in 
 probably an hour or so, while I go on alone-” 
 
 He was amazed at the startled cry which she uttered as 
 she turned to him, ere he had finished his sentence. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, Mr. Ross, ” she cried, clinging tremblingly to his 
 arm, 1 ‘ let me go with you, I shall surely die if I am left 
 all alone!” 
 
 The pleading expression on the beautiful young face, the 
 quivering lips, and the tears lying on the dark eye-lashes, 
 touched him strangely. 
 
 “How could I lose sight, even for a day,” she sobbed, 
 “of the only kind face that has smiled upon me in the land 
 of strangers to which we are going?” 
 
 Her great grief had so wrapped her in its mantle that she 
 had not once thought of her future that spread out darkly 
 before her. 
 
 Izetta was a strange picture of child and budding girl¬ 
 hood blended. 
 
 She had not the remotest idea of the peculiar position 
 into which fate had drifted her. 
 
 Youth is impulsive ; there was no one to warn her how 
 far she should trust the handsome young stranger who had 
 become so unexpectedly part and parcel of her life. 
 
 To whom should she turn for comfort, sympathy, and 
 guidance, if not to Mr. Ross, as she called him? 
 
 Ulmont reassured her with the kindest of words: 
 
 “It will only be for a day or so, Izetta,” he said, “be¬ 
 fore I can take you home.” 
 
 “You wish to ask your mother if you may bring me 
 home?” she asked. 
 
 “Yes,” he replied frankly; “I believe it to be my duty 
 to consult her first in regard to the matter.” 
 
 “What if she should refuse,” she questioned in a low 
 voice, “what would become of me—what should I do?” 
 
 “ She will not refuse,” he answered, “ when I explain to 
 her the vow which I have made to protect you, and tell 
 her your sorrowful history.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Do you think your mother will learn to love me, Mr. 
 Ross?” 
 
 The simple question startled him. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 “I do not see how she can help loving you,” he replied, 
 gazing down into the girl’s eloquent face, mentally think¬ 
 ing she little knew into what good hands her fate had 
 drifted her. He released himself gently from her clinging 
 hands. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I had not thought you would be so sorry to lose me for 
 so short a time,” he said, gently.” 
 
 He gazed earnestly at the sweet, white face that was 
 raised to his, changing eloquently with every emotion. 
 
 “ You will not stay away long, Mr. Ross,” she asked, in 
 a low voice: “ oh, Mr. Ross, what should I do without you, 
 how should I bear my lonely life? I should die if you 
 did not come back. 1 have not one friend on all the 
 wide, wide earth but you—since—since ” 
 
 “You must not worry yourself with such thoughts, 
 Izetta, I have given my word, I will never break it. You 
 must from this time forth look upon me as your best and 
 truest friend—your brother!” 
 
 He was very enthusiastic at that moment; he quite meant 
 what he said. 
 
 He had intended speaking of Loraine, yet ho could not 
 bring himself to mention her—his proud, peerless Loraine 
 —to the timid young creature who he was certain would 
 be in such awe of hen. 
 
 After all, as he gazed at the beautiful, trusting, clinging 
 little creature at his side, he could not feel so very sorry 
 he had undertaken the responsibility of her future. 
 
 He was only anxious as to how his mother and Loraine 
 would receive the strange intelligence. 
 
 Just as the sun was setting behind the western hills, 
 flushing the sky a rosy red, Ulmont and Izetta were 
 making their way up the straggling, moss grown street to 
 the heart of the little seaport town of Sussex, which was 
 but little over a day’s journey from his destination; yet 
 Ulmont had never been in that locality before. 
 
 There was not a more picturesque spot to be found, with 
 its quaint old square-towered churches, over which the 
 ivy twined in long, trailing sprays, and in which the twit¬ 
 tering sparrows built their nests. 
 
 A little purling brook leaped from the green hills, that 
 raised their towering heads in the distance, while beyond 
 the white stretch of beach that led to the sea, were the 
 peaceful meadows filled with flowers, upon which the sun 
 shone, with the blackbird and the robin swaying to and 
 fro on the blossoming peach trees. 
 
 “Oh, Mr. Ross,” cried the girl, a glad flush creeping 
 into her face, ‘ ‘ I never knew, I never dreamed America 
 could be one half so fair as this!” 
 
 They passed up the moss-grown street, which led to the 
 
10 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 only tavern in the place. A long, low, old fashioned 
 structure, with a wide porch in front shaded by stately 
 elms. 
 
 Into a wide parlor, overlooking a thrifty garden, they 
 were ushered. 
 
 The floor, dark and polished, was covered with bright- 
 hued rugs, while the chintz-covered settees and low willow 
 rockers, placed here and there, gave the room an exceed- 
 in 1 comfortable and home-like aspect. 
 
 mont went in search of the landlord while Izetta sank 
 
 into a seat, not observing the bustling little woman in the 
 dark gingham gown and white frilled cap, whose sharp, 
 twinkling gray eyes were regarding her steadfastly from 
 across the room. 
 
 “She does not look like a married woman,” mentally 
 commented Mrs. Bruce. “ I must know more of her be¬ 
 fore she finds shelter here. You and your husband have 
 come quite a distance, I should judge,” she said, aloud. « 
 
 Izetta turned in surprise; she had imagined herself quite 
 alone; she saw a woman’s face turned kindly toward her. 
 
 No woman’s voice had spoken to her since she had bid 
 farewell to Italy. 
 
 Izetta longed to cross to where the speaker sat, fling her¬ 
 self on the low footstool beside her, and tell her of the 
 great sorrow that had come upon her in the death of the 
 only being to whom she was bound by a kindred tie in all 
 the wide world. 
 
 How little the child knew of the pitiless, relentless world, 
 or its intriguing people! 
 
 She had longed, hungered, for a woman’s gentle words 
 and kindly sympathy; great tears rose in Izetta’s eyes as 
 she answered simply, yet with the candor of a child: 
 
 “ Mr. Ross is not my husband, madam.” 
 
 “Perhaps your brother, then?” queried Mrs. Bruce. 
 
 “I have had a great sorrow, madam,” said Izetta, 
 mournfully, tears filling her large, dark eyes; “a sorrow 
 so great I have wondered since that I had not died with 
 the shock. I had neither father nor mother—I had no one 
 to whom I could turn for sympathy. Mr. Ross was so 
 kind to me—I do not know what would become of me 
 if I were to lose Mr. Ross. I am quite alone now, only for 
 him.” 
 
 The dark frown deepened on Mrs. Bruce’s comely face. 
 
 “ Do you mean to say the young man who brought you 
 here is quite a stranger to you?” she asked, sharply and 
 interrogatively. 
 
 “Yes,” answered Izetta, simply, “we came over from 
 Italy on the steamer White Cresson .” 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 11 
 
 She wondered why, in one short moment, the speaker’s 
 voice had grown so bitter and so hard. 
 
 Izetta’s answer had quite convicted her in the eyes of the 
 bustling housewife, whose face had grown white with 
 rage. 
 
 From the open window where she sat she had heard Ul- 
 mont ask her husband if his companion might find shelter 
 at the inn during his absence of a few days. 
 
 “Money was no object,” he said, “if she were only com¬ 
 fortable.” 
 
 Ulmont had pressed a purse so filled with gold into his 
 hand, he fairly took the landlord’s breath away; and he 
 had looked at the handsome, courteous, impatient stran¬ 
 ger, wondering what it could all mean, while his wife, 
 closely observing all from the window, mentally concluded 
 all was not right with them; and she said to herself, if the 
 handsome stranger left the young girl there, she would 
 doubtless never look upon his face again. 
 
 Mrs. Bruce had passed many a year at the inn, and had 
 seen many pitiful scenes. She had said to herself: 
 
 “ He is tired of the girl, he wishes to abandon her, if she 
 is not his wife.” 
 
 Then she had turned to Izetta, whose simple candor had 
 confirmed her worst suspicions. 
 
 At that moment Ulmont entered the cool, shadowy par¬ 
 lor, bowing to the lady present, and holding out both hands 
 to Izetta. 
 
 His quick perception told him there was something amiss 
 between Izetta and the landlady, as such he judged her 
 rightly to be. 
 
 Mrs. Bruce turned sharply toward him. 
 
 “You are a gentleman,” she said, “bred and born. I 
 know blue blood when I see it, and I say there is a mystery 
 here between yourself and this young creature, scarcely 
 more than a child, who confesses she is not your wife, yet 
 you have crossed the seas together. We are poor people, 
 here, sir, but we are honest ones. I have daughters grown 
 of my own. We care not for your gold; the Sussex Inn 
 shall never harbor even the shadow of wrong-doing while 
 Esther Bruce lives. Food you may have in plenty, but not 
 shelter. No, not for a single night I” 
 
 In vain Ulmont bent his haughty pride to explain the 
 circumstances which surrounded this peculiar case; the 
 inflexible woman was deaf to his words. 
 
 “ I had no intention of stopping myself,” he expostulat¬ 
 ed; “I take the boat lying down at the wharf which leaves 
 in half an hour.” 
 
 The landlady looked at him with gathering scorn in her 
 
 eyes. 
 
a Fatal wooing. 
 
 “ A very pretty story,” she said, ironically, “when the 
 boat left quite half an hour ago.” 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford staggered back as though a heavy 
 blow had been suddenly dealt him. 
 
 Lurid flashes of light seemed gleaming before his eyes; 
 the hissing voice falling sharply on his senses seemed to 
 flaunt back the words: 
 
 “ The boat has left!” 
 
 With trembling hands he hurriedly consulted his watch 
 —it was indeed too true; he had loitered too long: the 
 darkness of night was gathering sullenly around them, 
 and Izetta was refused shelter at the inn because she was 
 not his wife! 
 
 For himself he cared not; then and not until then did 
 the full realization of his exact position strike him for¬ 
 cibly. 
 
 How was he to keep the terrible vow forced upon him, 
 when failure beset him at the very outset? 
 
 How little they thought that one incident would reap 
 such a harvest of woe. 
 
 Had Ulmont found shelter for the young orphan at the 
 inn, the seeds of the bitterest of follies would never have 
 been sown. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AT HIS MERCY. 
 
 An hour later, two figures stood on the white pebbled 
 beach watching intently the approaching steamer, whose 
 headlights, each moment growing nearer, glowed like 
 bright stars against the dark, overhanging background of 
 clouds. 
 
 The moonbeams fell clear and bright upon them, cast¬ 
 ing weird, gigantic shadows on the white beach; the low 
 j winds moaned as they stirred the blossoming trees, and 
 ’ the waves dismally beat against the shore. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford was lost in a deep reverie, as he stood 
 there impatiently watching the incoming steamer, scarcely 
 heeding the silent little figure watching every expression 
 that crossed his face, who stood by his side. 
 
 “But for this unfortunate affair, I should have been al¬ 
 most at Boston,” he told himself. 
 
 The arrival of the steamer was so uncertain, they would 
 not expect him until the following week. 
 
 He had intended surprising them by arriving a week 
 sooner, but now the suprise would take quite another 
 form. 
 
 How his friends would laugh at his sorry plight if 
 they were to see him now—he, an Ulvesford, heir that 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 15 
 
 fore the rector; surely, he of all people could advise him 
 what course to pursue. 
 
 He was sorely perplexed; he quite shrank from the 
 thought of taking Izetta to his haughty mother; the con¬ 
 viction was growing stronger upon him each moment, that 
 he dared not until he had first consulted her. 
 
 “ I trust you will not wrong me in your thoughts, my 
 dear Mr. Tilings worth,” he said, proudly, “until I have 
 had the opportunity of explaining how strangely this poor 
 child was placed in my care.” 
 
 The rector took the proffered seat he indicated. 
 
 Izetta nestled closer to Ulmont’s side, thoughtlessly, con¬ 
 fidingly, as a child might have done, as he repeated to this 
 stranger her sorrowful story. 
 
 There were tears in Mr. IUingsworth’s eyes as he finished 
 the narrative. 
 
 “ I don’t see how you can take her to your home know¬ 
 ing your mother as well as I do, without preparing the way 
 for her,” said the rector, decidedly, shaking his head. 
 “ Could you not leave her with some of your friends for a 
 few days, at least?” 
 
 “ That is a point which I have myself been trying to de¬ 
 cide. I confess I was never so sorely puzzled. I had pre¬ 
 ferred leaving her for a short time with strangers. I had 
 not desired my friends to know of the affair. My experi¬ 
 ence at Sussex makes me doubtful of success. No one 
 would receive this innocent child, money was no induce¬ 
 ment, simply because she was not my wile.” 
 
 “Precisely,” answered the rector; “you do not realise 
 how a curious world receives this story, which seems more 
 like a romance than a sad reality; truths are stranger than 
 fiction, yet often unbelieved. Poor child,” he added sadly, 
 patting Izetta’s dark curls, “ the poor boy means well by 
 you, but Heaven alone knows the bitter scorn and weary 
 heartaches you will have to'endure alone and unprotected.” 
 
 “Not so,” answered Ulmont, quickly, “I am her pro¬ 
 tector. Have I not made the most solemn vow man can 
 make to stand between this helpless orphan and the cold 
 world, and I certainly mean to fulfill it.” 
 
 “You could only have protected her fully from the 
 world s storms in one way. ” 
 
 “ And that?” asked Ulmont, a strange, indefinable feel¬ 
 ing creeping over him. 
 
 “ As your wife,” answered the rector, gravely. “You 
 have wealth, youth, and beauty, Ulmont; I can foresee how 
 this will end. This child will learn to love you, you will be 
 her world, her all; but hark you, as you value the honor of 
 your race, an honor never tarnished, as you deal by this 
 hapless orphan Heaven will deal with you. You have 
 
16 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 always been wayward from boyhood up, but I shall be 
 lieve your heart is pure and spotless. Never forget the 
 future welfare of this trusting orphan lies at your door— 
 she is at your mercy.” 
 
 The Reverend Paul Illingsworth spoke rapidly, vehe¬ 
 mently. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford rose to his feet, pacing rapidly to and 
 fro. 
 
 The eloquent appeal of the rector filled him with strange 
 thoughts, he stopped suddenly before him, his proud head 
 tossed back, his dark-brown, waving hair pushed back 
 from his forehead in careless disorder. 
 
 Scarcely two minutes before he spoke, the idea had not 
 crossed his mind; and when he looked back at that mo¬ 
 ment in after years, it almost seemed to him that another 
 voice had spoken with his lips. 
 
 His honor was touched, his pride wounded. 
 
 “Mr. Illingsworth,” he said, calmly, “I have resolved 
 upon Izetta’s future.” 
 
 His brave voice never faltered as he continued: 
 
 “I have determined she shall be my wife; see how she 
 clings to me,” he cried. “ I have sworn to protect her. I 
 can and I will as my wife.” 
 
 He had quite forgotten the beautiful, golden-hatred 
 young girl who awaited his coming, the peerless, proud 
 young beauty who was to have been his wife in one short 
 week. 
 
 In one brief instant the recklessness of his impulsive nat¬ 
 ure asserted itself; he forgot the warning face of his 
 mother and of his promised bride; he thought only of the 
 present difficulties and of a way out of them by which 
 he could keep his vow to the very letter. 
 
 How strange it was, in that terrible moment not one 
 thought of Loraine crossed his mind. 
 
 “Mr. Illingsworth,” he continued; “you must help me 
 —you must marry us.” 
 
 “You cannot be serious,” replied the pastor; “besides 
 you are too young to think of marrying yet.” 
 
 “I am of age to-day,” continued Ulmont; “one ought 
 certainly to be able to think for themselves at that age, 
 they are men not boys. I am terribly in earnest, I assure 
 you.” 
 
 Persuasion Avas useless; the one great evil—self-will— 
 which had been sown in his breast in infancy, would brook 
 no opposition. 
 
 He quite forgot what was due to his mother, to Loraine; 
 forgot what was due to the honor of his race. He only 
 saAV in his rashness a Avay Avhich should compel the 
 world to respect and honor the poor young orphan 
 
A FATAL WOOING, IT 
 
 whom they had turned from their doors because she was 
 not his wife. 
 
 The rector was sorely discomforted; he was too wise 
 to openly thwart the young heir, yet he begged him “ not 
 to be too rash, to take time to consider so important a 
 step.” 
 
 An angry flush rose to Ulmont’s face, but he controlled 
 his impatience. 
 
 “I shall make the request but once, Mr, Illingsworth. 
 If you refuse me, you may perhaps rue it all your life.” 
 
 The rector wondered if he did not refuse him, if he 
 would not be more apt to rue it; he was irritated at Ul¬ 
 mont’s recklessness and utter folly, while he was forced to 
 admire the young heir’s honor and courage. 
 
 Izetta, as she listened, was conscious of but one thought 
 —she was not to lose Mr. Ross—they were settling her fut¬ 
 ure; she was not to lose the handsome, sympathetic 
 young friend, who seemed brighter to her than the sun¬ 
 shine. 
 
 Izetta had been born under the warm, bright, sunny 
 skies of Italy: she had imbibed the warm, bright, passion¬ 
 ate heart of its people; such natures as Izetta’s were not 
 slow to feel the mystic power of love. Yet she had never 
 once dreamed of it. 
 
 How was she to understand that the bright, swift love of 
 a lifetime, the one great crown of womanhood, was slowly 
 but surely engulfing her? 
 
 The bright, dreamy years of her childhood lay far back 
 in the past. 
 
 Izetta Rienzi stood on the borderland of womanhood 
 as her hands clasped Ulmont’s while he explained to her 
 in the fervor of his eloquent fancy that she must be his 
 wife. 
 
 “ Is there nothing which can shake your purpose?” asked 
 the rector in despair. 
 
 “ Nothing,” answered Ulmont, decisively. 
 
 Again they stood upon the silent deck, quite deserted 
 now, save by these three. Again the pale moon looked 
 down upon a tragic picture. 
 
 The fleecy clouds, like a white hand, seemed to warn 
 them. A star or two fell from the heavens, leaving long 
 trails of phosphorescent light against the blue sky. 
 
 The green waves dashed their white foam like a restless 
 spirit against the swaying steamer. 
 
 Was it a dream? Izetta almost fancied the wild, dashing 
 waves were singing a requiem, murmuring, oh, so sadly ip 
 their song: 
 
 “ Be warned—be warned l” 
 
It 
 
 'A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 In all her after life, she could always hear in the mur¬ 
 muring of the waves that one, sad voice, whispering: 
 
 “ Be warned—be warned!” 
 
 Now, she was only conscious of handsome Mr. Ross hold¬ 
 ing her hands tightly, while the minister of God impres¬ 
 sively performed the marriage ceremony; she had but a 
 confused remembrance of the words he was saying, as she 
 made her responses. 
 
 At last it was over, and the hands of the rector were laid 
 upon her head in fervent blessing. 
 
 Surely there was never so strange a wedding as this. 
 
 A few rain drops fell from the darkening heavens—Izetta 
 always thought they were angels’ tears—and the stars died 
 out of the sky. 
 
 If those silent waves could only have whispered to her 
 of the woful secret, which, from this night’s work, was to 
 darken her young life, she would have cast herself then and 
 there in their cold embrace, and been gathered to happiness 
 and rest in their bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 REPENTED AT LEISURE. 
 
 The week that followed seemed like a strange dream to 
 Izetta. 
 
 Those who saw the young gentleman and his beautiful, 
 clinging girl-wife wondered at them. 
 
 There was a world of passionate love in the girl’s dark 
 eyes; everyone could see she lived on his words and glances; 
 her sweet, foreign face told its own story. A child no 
 longer—love had made her a woman, devoted and tender, 
 as the genial sunshine expands the bud into the rose. 
 
 Her husband made little pretense of affection, yet it was 
 not in human nature to be wholly blind to the ardent love 
 that glowed in that beautiful face. 
 
 Ulmont was beginning to realize that the love which the 
 Reverend Paul Illingsworth had predicted was coming to 
 his young wife; he had yet to learn its depths. He never 
 dreamed the one great thought that filled Izetta’s soul was: 
 
 “ I love Alderic so dearly, so deeply, he must love me in 
 return.” 
 
 The week had hardly passed ere Ulmont repented most 
 bitterly what he had done; it was a sad fact, yet too ter¬ 
 ribly true, he told himself. 
 
 The vow which had been extorted from him had cost him 
 a terrible price. 
 
 How should he meet Loraine, who was his betrothed 
 bride, and tell her what he had done? What excuse could 
 lie offer to atone for her outraged pride? He knew Horaipe 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 19 
 
 loved him deeply in her cold, proud way; he knew how she 
 would come forth to meet him, a flush on her beautiful 
 face, and with the love light in her eyes; his ring—the ring 
 with which they had plighted their troth—sparkling on her 
 little, white hand; how the light would die out of her 
 beautiful eyes when he told her what he had done. 
 
 She could easily see he had not married for love, he told 
 himself; he had been forced into it through duty; still, the 
 fatal work had been done—he was securely married. 
 
 Brave as the young man was, he had not the courage to 
 face his stern, haughty mother; he would not have flinched 
 in the foremost of a battle, with shot and shell falling 
 thickly about him, yet he did shrink from the fury that 
 would gather in his mother’s eyes when he spoke the words 
 which were beginning to gall like wormwood on his lips— 
 he was married. If it had been Loraine, proud, peerless, 
 and self-possessed, how different it would all have been. 
 
 If he chanced to meet a maiden with golden hair, his 
 heart almost ceased to beat, and the name Loraine would 
 spring unconsciously to his lips. 
 
 If he saw a handsome, graceful woman, whom everyone 
 universally admired, or heard her silvery laughter, he 
 would remain silent for long hours, thinking how blind and 
 rash he had been; thus his impulsive recklessness struck 
 home to his heart at last. 
 
 It was a strange bridal week. 
 
 Ulmont treated his young wife gently, considerately, but 
 in his own heart he cried out: 
 
 “ This marriage was a great mistake !” 
 
 The young heir of the Ulvesford Mines told himself he 
 was wretchedly unhappy; yet all of his future years must 
 pay the price of one moment’s impulsiveness. 
 
 There was no one to blame but himself. He fully re¬ 
 solved, however, that Izetta should not suffer for it. 
 
 One bright, sunlit morning, toward the close of that 
 eventful week, Ulmont asked Izetta if she would like to 
 take a ramble by the seashore; the sun was lighting the 
 water with a thousand arrowy sparkles, and the air was 
 vigorous and exhilarating, with a sweet perfume, as if each 
 zephyr were laden with the aroma of the distant spice- 
 
 t roves and myriads of blossoms over which it had lately 
 ngered. 
 
 Izetta looked up into his face with glad, shining eyes. 
 
 “ I should be so pleased to go, Mr. Ross,” she said. 
 
 How she longed to call him husband, but Ulmont’s 
 proud, haughty face invited little familiarity. 
 
 He had grown quite used to the title; indeed, it had 
 never struck him as strange his beautiful young wife 
 should call him Mr, Ross, 
 
20 
 
 A FATAL WOOING: 
 
 Woman-like, Izetta had donned her prettiest robes, of 
 which he had purchased her quite a supply, to please him. 
 Ulmont had been simply surprised at the great difference 
 dress could make in her. 
 
 In her plain dark dress and crimson cloak he had 
 thought of her as a child, yet he was forced to admit she 
 was a beautiful young girl in the soft, dark plush traveling- 
 dress she wore, which fitted her so perfectly; yet, after the 
 first surprise, he quite forgot to notice her appearance at 
 all. 
 
 For quite an hour they promenaded the beach in utter 
 silence; those who passed them wondered why the young 
 man’s face was turned so persistently away from the beau¬ 
 tiful, foreign face that was raised so wistfully toward his 
 own; they wondered why he looked far out over the sea 
 and sighed. 
 
 Izetta never attempted to converse with him, being only 
 too content to answer his questions if he chanced to address 
 her. 
 
 She often saw him take from his pocket a packet of let¬ 
 ters, tied by a dainty, pale-blue ribbon; some of them were 
 old and worn, as if by many perusals, and once she was 
 quite sure she saw him gazing long and earnestly at a lock 
 of golden hair, which he replaced with the letters in his 
 breast-pocket. 
 
 Then, for the first time during the* short week of her 
 marriage, she addressed him voluntarily: 
 
 “Do you like golden hair very much, Alderic?” she 
 asked, wistfully. 
 
 For a brief instant Ulmont quite forgot it was his dark¬ 
 haired wife who asked the question, as he answered, en¬ 
 thusiastically : 
 
 “It is the most glorious of all the crowns of woman¬ 
 hood.” 
 
 Ulmont never dreamed that Izetta was wondering why 
 God made her own curls so dark, with a deep pain in her 
 heart, while her handsome young husband admired fair, 
 shining hair. 
 
 “I will show you, Izetta,” he said, “how gloriously 
 shimmering golden hair can crown a beautiful face.” 
 
 As he spoke he drew from his pocket a pearl case, half 
 hidden in its bed of purple velvet. Izetta silently took the 
 picture from his hand. 
 
 “ I warn you not to be enraptured,” he laughed. “Jam 
 the artist, so you see it is by no means what it should have 
 been; the subject, though, is worthy of the grandest 
 masters.” 
 
 Izetta gazed long and earnestly at the picture, drinking 
 in every detail of that exquisitely perfect face. 
 
A FATAL W001N& 
 
 21 
 
 A strange, numb feeling stole over her. 
 
 She was to remember it all with vivid distinctness in 
 after years.. 
 
 The picture was certainly a strange one—half reality, 
 half ideal. 
 
 A graceful, tall, white lily was represented on the pol¬ 
 ished ivory, quite in the center of a vase of rare exotics, 
 while upon its snowy petal was the rarest face Izetta had 
 ever gazed upon. 
 
 A face pure md spiritual, yet blended with the coldest 
 pride, from the perfect, arched brows to the delicate curves 
 of the smiling, sensitive mouth, so like a cleft, deep crimson 
 rose-leaf. 
 
 The eyes were a large, deep, expressive blue, the face was 
 perfect in contour and dainty coloring, crowned in a halo 
 of golden hair, long and curling, which mingled with the 
 lily’s golden calyx. 
 
 Beneath was written in fanciful design, “ My love.” 
 
 Izetta scarcely knew how long she gazed at it. Ulmont 
 interrupted her. 
 
 “ You are pleased with my fancy?” he said, gently. 
 
 “This is your ideal of love, Alderic,” she said, softly; 
 “it is very beautiful, yet is only a picture from your im¬ 
 agination, is it not, Alderic?” 
 
 The flush deepened on Ulmont’s face as he answered, 
 evasively: 
 
 “ I have seen such a picture; it was one of a few choice 
 ones in a private collection. I painted it quite from 
 memory.” 
 
 “ It must have impressed you strongly, Alderic.” 
 
 “ So it did,” he replied, carelessly enough. 
 
 How little she knew every lineament of that beautiful 
 face, of which Loraine Lorrimer was the original, was 
 stamped indelibly on his heart. 
 
 The great wonder was, how was he ever to learn to forget 
 her? Izetta’s hand trembled as she handed the portrait 
 back to her husband. 
 
 Was it fate that caused the handsome case to drop from 
 her nervous fingers upon the sharp crags at her feet? She 
 uttered a startled cry. 
 
 There was but little damage done; the face was unin¬ 
 jured, only a portion of one of the corners was broken off, 
 which fell into her hand as she stooped to recover it. 
 
 Izetta could not just then account for the sudden im¬ 
 pulse that led her to preserve that little jagged edge of pearl 
 so carefully; perhaps because it had belonged to something 
 her husband had prized; it had lain in his hands; his eyes 
 had gazed upon it. 
 
23 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 TJlmont was quite amused at the grieved face turned 
 toward him. 
 
 “ I hope you will forgive me, Alderic,” she said; “I have 
 spoiled your beautiful portrait, your pretty love.” 
 
 How little Izetta realized the vital truth of her words 
 Ah! she had spoiled his love, and his life; yet he laughed 
 gayly at her sorrow. Of course he was "sorry, too, but 
 mistakes would happen; there was no help for them. 
 
 Ulmont laughed as he noted how a few pleasant words 
 had brought back the sunshine to her eyes. 
 
 She came up closer to him and laid her hand timidly on 
 his arm. 
 
 “Do you think, Alderic,” she asked, simply as a child 
 might have done, “your ideal of love is prettier than I? 
 You had not seen me then.” 
 
 The very candor of the question amazed him. Looking 
 down into those starry eyes, he, so chivalrous to all women, 
 how could he help telling her evasively that her face, above 
 all others, was the most beautiful in the world? 
 
 As he looked down upon her he wondered if, after all, 
 there was ever any possibility of his becoming really in¬ 
 terested in his fair young wife. 
 
 At that moment a sudden impulse seized him to throw 
 the portrait far out into the sea and the letters after it. 
 
 What right had he, now that he was bound to another, 
 to dream of the fair face of Loraine Lorrimer, or to gaze 
 ruefully upon the pictured face? 
 
 Had Ulmont, for once in his life, obeyed the sudden im- 
 
 E ulse that sprang from his heart, the greatest tragedy of 
 is life would have been spared him. 
 
 The grand old name and honor of Ulvesford, which the 
 young heir would have shielded with his life, would never 
 have been dragged through the mire of dishonor, and this 
 story would never have been written. 
 
 Then a strange event happened. 
 
 When Ulmont had parted from the rector, he had asked, 
 as a special favor, that the Reverend Ulingsworth should, 
 upon his arrival at Boston, call immediately on his mother. 
 
 Ulmont knew that the rector, above all others, was the 
 one best fitted to break the news of her son’s marriage to 
 the stern, cold woman, who never forgot nor forgave an 
 injury. 
 
 If she would pardon him and receive Izetta as his wife 
 Ulmont had decided to return home at once: that was the 
 message he sent her, which the strange workings of fate 
 destined she should never receive. 
 
 It happened in this wise: 
 
 Ulmont had desired the rector to let him know at once 
 
28 
 
 A FATAL WOOING, 
 
 the result of this interview, directing his communication 
 to a small station at the cross-road, which they should 
 reach late in the week. 
 
 If favorable, he could take Izetta direct to Boston, if not 
 he could take her for the present to his old nurse at Silver- 
 nook, who would receive her with open arms for his 
 sake. 
 
 He hoped when his haughty mother saw remonstrance 
 was useless and regrets vain, the principal difficulty would 
 be removed. 
 
 When they reached the station at the cross-roads, Ul- 
 mont received a note which quite unmanned him. 
 
 A letter dated two days previous, hastily written, 
 awaited him, which was as fellows: 
 
 “Boston, Thursday morning— My dear boy:— if you 
 would see your mother alive hasten home at once or you 
 may be too late. I found her in so feeble a condition, fear¬ 
 ing the slightest shock might prove fatal, I dared not 
 broach the subject of your marriage. Leave your wife 
 there until the crisis is past. I will be at each train to 
 meet you. Your faithful friend, 
 
 “Paul Illingsworth.” 
 
 Again Ulmont made the mistake of his life by not con¬ 
 fiding fully and unreservedly in his young wife. 
 
 In ten minutes the train started for Silvernook; five 
 minutes later he could catch the express direct to Boston. 
 He had not a minute to lose. 
 
 He hurriedly explained to Izetta, as he thought, all that 
 was necessary for her to know at present. His mother lay 
 ill, perhaps dying, he must go to her at once, while she 
 must go on alone to Silvernook, which was fortunately but 
 an hour’s ride. 
 
 He would give her a note to his old nurse, whom she 
 could readily find, who would receive her kindly until he 
 came for her, which would certainly be within the follow¬ 
 ing week. 1 
 
 Ulmont hastily tore a leaf from his memorandum, wrote 
 a short note which he addressed and placed in her hand, 
 together with the little package containing the money her 
 grandfather had left her, and two hundred dollars which 
 he happened to have by him. 
 
 It was all so sudden. 
 
 Izetta struggled hard to bravely bear the separation 
 from the husband whom she so madly worshiped. The 
 next moment found her alone on the train. 
 
 Ulmont watched long and earnestly till she was quite out 
 of sight, the sweet, tear-stained face pressed close against 
 the window-pane. 
 
u 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 His heart gave a great throb. 
 
 “Wasit possible,” he asked himself, “he was learning 
 to love his young wife after all?” 
 
 Izetta’s face haunted him during all of his journey home; 
 he quite wished she was by his side again. 
 
 How little Ulmont Ulvesford dreamed under what pitiful 
 circumstances he should look upon her face again. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN EXPECTANT BRIDE. 
 
 In the midst of a green and grassy lawn, thickly studded 
 here and there with towering elms and stately beech trees, 
 stood a gray-stone structure, half hidden from the main 
 road by creeping vines and intervening shrubbery; its 
 moss-grown turrets and gabled roof towering toward the 
 sunshine—this was Lorrimer Place, one of the finest old 
 mansions to be found in the suburbs of Boston. 
 
 The spacious grounds which surrounded it were a model 
 of artistic beauty, from the miniature lakes on which the 
 graceful, white-necked swans glided to and fro, to the mar¬ 
 ble statuary half hidden by the rare, dense foliage, and 
 rose-covered arbors which extended to the thickly-wooded 
 glen which lay beyond. 
 
 At one of the windows, from which the heavy, amber 
 satin curtains were looped back, stood Loraine Lorrimer, 
 the heiress. 
 
 The golden sunshine never lingered upon a fairer picture 
 than she made in her morning dress of creamy lace, which 
 fell in graceful folds about her perfect figure; she looked 
 what she was—a queenly young girl, one born to com¬ 
 mand. 
 
 There were pride, poetry and passion, blended in each 
 glance of her blue, flashing eyes, her face in its haughty, 
 charming repose, was simply a perfect one, from which 
 her long, golden hair was pushed carelessly back, a spray of 
 white heath in its golden waves, fastened with a diamond 
 arrow. 
 
 A magnificent solitaire gleamed upon her finger, on which 
 her eyes often rested. 
 
 At last she turned from the window, with a slight shade 
 of disappointment on her face. 
 
 “ I had quite expected a letter from Ulmont,” she said 
 meditatively. “ I am surprised at not having some kind of 
 a message from him.” 
 
 Her mother, who reclined on an adjacent divan, closed 
 the book she held in her lap, with a smile, as she replied: 
 
 “Ulmont may count himself lucky if he reaches here 
 by to-morrow. You must not forget, my dear Loraine, 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 S5 
 
 how very uncertain the arrival of these steamers are now* 
 adays. Young people are always impatient. I never see a 
 young, expectant bride, without thinking of-the day before 
 my own wedding.” 
 
 “Did you feel a strange, happy restlessness that you 
 could scarcely explain, mamma?” asked Loraine, blushing 
 rosily, seating herself on a low hassock at her feet. 
 
 “Yes, and I was much like you, never quite satisfied 
 unless I was at the window, watching for the coming of my 
 lover.” 
 
 The rose bloom deepened on Loraine Lorrimer’s flower¬ 
 like face. 
 
 “You are mistaken, there, mamma,” she said. “I do 
 not expect him until the eventful to-morrow.” 
 
 As she spoke, she thought of the closing sentence of the 
 last letter she had received from him; he had written: 
 
 “ I shall be at Lorrimer Place by the 15th inst., positively, 
 to claim for my bride, the sweetest, fairest girl in all the 
 wide, wide world. My sweet Loraine, time nor tide could 
 e’er withhold me.” 
 
 The superb trousseau a princess might have been proud 
 of, had arrived the day before; then Loraine had done a 
 foolish thing; she had arrayed herself in the shimmering 
 gossamer robes to note the effect; even clasped the pearls 
 around her perfect neck and arms, and fastened the veil to 
 her golden hair, smiling proudly the while, as she thought 
 how pleased her handsome young lover would be with her. 
 
 As Loraine stood there an event happened, which, though 
 trifling in itself, caused her a strange sensation. 
 
 She had gone to her jewel-case to consult her watch. 
 
 “ How strange,” she said to herself, as she took it in her 
 hand. ‘ 1 It has stopped!” 
 
 It wanted twenty minutes to eight. Loraine gathered 
 up her bridal robes about her, stepping out into the corri¬ 
 dor, to where the huge old clock ticked away the hours; 
 her heart almost ceased to beat —the pendulum stood still , 
 watch and clock, as if by common consent, had stopped 
 on the self-same moment—twenty minutes to eight. 
 
 Loraine hastily re-entered her boudoir; she was not su¬ 
 perstitious, yet she could not help but remember the story 
 she had often heard, how that same old clock had stopped 
 on the eve preceding some great, sorrowful family event. 
 Still she did not like to remember old traditions on the eve 
 before her wedding-day. 
 
 Pretty young bridesmaids had taken full possession of 
 the hall. “ Every thing should be in perfect readiness on 
 the morrow,” they said. 
 
 The bride-cake had arrived, and was really a work of art 
 in its way. 
 
26 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 Merry peals of laughter filled the corridors and spacious 
 rooms, as nimble fingers fashioned the great pillars of 
 roses. 
 
 “ One wedding makes many.” More than one maiden 
 secretly hoped that some faint-hearted lover would take 
 courage, under the mystic influence of the occasion, and 
 who knew but their own wedding-niglit might be the next 
 to follow? 
 
 Full many a happy thought was twined among those 
 roses, those sweet, fragrant roses, that could keep their 
 own secrets. 
 
 Mrs. Lorrimer gazed upon her daughter with all a 
 mother’s fond pride. 
 
 “You are so peerlessly beautiful, Loraine,” she said, car 
 ressing the young girl’s bright, golden hair. “You might 
 have married a duke or prince, yet you have chosen love. 
 You have wealth, beauty and love; truly your lines have 
 fallen in pleasant places.’ ” 
 
 She kissed her daughter’s upturned face and left the 
 room, leaving Loraine alone with her own happy reflec¬ 
 tions. 
 
 At that moment Katy, the maid, appeared at the door. 
 
 4 4 If you please, Miss Loraine, ” she said, 4 4 there is a per¬ 
 son down-stairs who insists upon seeing you, although I 
 told him you gave the strictest orders that no stranger 
 should be admitted.” 
 
 “ Did he give you no card, or state his business?” asked 
 Loraine, surprisedly. 
 
 “Card! oh, no,”answered the maid, with a slight grim¬ 
 ace. 44 He is down in the servants’ hall and refuses to give 
 his name. ” 
 
 “That’s strange,” murmured the heiress, reflectively, 
 thinking perhaps it was some poor tena.it, or a former re¬ 
 cipient ot her generous bounty; for Loraine was as capri¬ 
 cious and generous as she was haughty and beautrrul. 
 
 “What kind of a looxmg person is he, Katy?” 
 
 “A dark, swarthy man,” answered the maid, promptly, 
 “ with a long, dark beard, and the sharpest, cruelest, and 
 blackest of eyes, over which his bushy eyebrows meet in a 
 straight line across his face, and he has the whitest of teeth, 
 and, indeed, he scarcely reaches to my shoulder—he is a 
 dwarf.” 
 
 “ It is Vatal, the dwarf,” gasped Loraine, sinking back 
 in affright in her seat. “ Quick, quick, Katy,” she cried, 
 “bar the doors against him, fasten him out; let him not 
 gain even so much as a foothold in the hall; quick, or you 
 may be too late!” 
 
 As the maid sped quickly to do her bidding, Loraine hid 
 het* face in her white, jeweled hands. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 27 
 
 u Vatal’s visit seems the forerunner of some impending 
 evil,” she muttered. “Is some cruel blow about to fall 
 upon me? I cannot, I will not, believe it. I wonder what 
 could have brought him here, the day before my wed¬ 
 ding?” 
 
 A dark shadow fell between her and the sunshine, linger¬ 
 ing for a moment only on the opposite wall, upon which 
 her eyes were fastened. Loraine knew full well it was the 
 shadow of Vatal, the dwarf. 
 
 The fair young heiress little dreamed the enraged dwarf 
 was at that moment shaking his finger back at her as he 
 muttered: 
 
 “ You have had your fate in your own hands to-day—I 
 might have saved you and yours, but you scorned my 
 words, barred me from j our door—proud daughter of a 
 proud race, go blindly on to your fate!” 
 
 The next morning broke clear and bright, no bride ever 
 looked out upon a fairer wedding-morning. No cloud was 
 in the blue, smiling heavens; all nature seemed striving 
 its best to put forth its beauty. 
 
 Even the little robins poured forth their sweetest melody, 
 as though they were singing their hearts out in their song, 
 as they gazed up at the fair, happy face at the window 
 with their little, bright eyes, while they dashed their wings 
 in the fountain’s spray. 
 
 “ How bright love makes the world,” laughed Loraine; 
 “ah! who has so handsome a lover as I!” 
 
 She hid her face in a bouquet of fragrant blossoms. 
 
 “My darling,” she whispered softly to herself, “how I 
 have counted the long days of the year that have passed! 
 Ah, Ulmont, my love, after a few more hours, nothing can 
 separate us!” 
 
 She wondered why the word came questioningly back 
 upon her heart. Nothing? 
 
 Those who saw Loraine Lorrimer that day wondered at 
 her intense happiness, her brilliancy and wit, as she flitted 
 here and there, a merry group of laughing maidens follow¬ 
 ing after, fluttering and chirping like robins in the bright, 
 gay spring-time. 
 
 Everyone was sure Loraine would make the most peer¬ 
 less bride that ever was seen. 
 
 At last everything was in perfect readiness; the last 
 touches had been put to the great columns of roses and the 
 fern-bordered, scented fountains, over which a thousand 
 mellow lights twinkled from the grand chandeliers. 
 
 The magnificent repast had been laid, and in the spacious 
 parlors the guests were already beginning to assemble. 
 
 % * * * * * * 
 
 Jis the train, bearing Ulmont Ulvesford neared Boston. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 28 
 
 a close carriage drawn by a pair of dark horses was moving 
 slowly along the high, narrow road, but a few miles distant 
 from Ulmont’s home. 
 
 As they reached a narrow, abrupt turn in the road, one 
 of the two occupants of the carriage touched his compan¬ 
 ion lightly, on the shoulder. 
 
 “This must be the spot, Vatal,”he said slowly, “ they 
 will be sure to take the cross cut from here.” 
 
 The one addressed as Yatal quietly drew rein, replying: 
 
 “No better spot could have been selected. We have 
 everything in our favor if-” 
 
 “ Hark you, Vatal,” interrupted his companion, impa¬ 
 tiently, “ there must be no ifs and ands in this matter; it 
 must be done!” 
 
 “If you did not know me so well, Heath Hampton, I 
 might affect amusement at this needless precaution,” re¬ 
 plied the dwarf, doggedly. “Did I ever make a blunder 
 out of anything I undertook yet? and you have given me 
 some rather hard cases to manage.” 
 
 “Hush!” muttered the other; “no more of this—it is 
 your business to forget a transaction as soon as it ends. 
 This case is of greater importance to me than all those 
 other affairs, and one on which your lips must be forever 
 sealed. I am a desperate man, Vatal; you know me well 
 enough for that. Do you know how I should punish 
 treachery?” 
 
 Heath Hampton leaned forward, and whispered just one 
 word in the dwarf’s ear, which made the other quail as if 
 a terrible blow had been suddenly dealt him. 
 
 As Heath Hampton leaned forward, the long, dark cloak 
 which he wore fell 1 ack from his shoulders, and through 
 the fast gathering twilight the faultless evening dress he 
 wore and the flashing of the jewels upon his person were 
 easily discernible, and from beneath the heavy slouch hat 
 which concealed a handsome, dark, desperate face, a pair 
 of dark eyes eagerly scanned the road in the distance, 
 which the gathering twilight was fast obscuring. 
 
 More than once he consulted his watch with growing im 
 
 E atience, which he held in his white, shapely fingers, as 
 e beat a tattoo with the heel of his polished boot on the soft 
 carriage rug. 
 
 “ There can be no doubt about Ulvesford’s arrival on this 
 train—I was at the station when the rector received the tele¬ 
 gram to that effect,” he remarked, presently, continuing, 
 aie there was no response from the dwarf; “youwill have 
 close work of it, Vatal; you will have ten miles of good 
 hard driving to Lorrimer Place —after that A 
 “ I car. easily make it,” answered Vatal 
 Then both relapsed into silence—Vatal mentally wondejr- 
 
A FATAL WOOING. m 
 
 ing which is the greater villain of the two—the one who 
 plans a diabolical deed—or the poor wretch who executes 
 his bidding; the one who reclines the while at his ease, or 
 the hunted criminal—fleeing from the clutch of outraged 
 justice. 
 
 Heath Hampton exercised a strange influence over the 
 j dwarf. 
 
 Five years before he had rescued him—an escaped con¬ 
 vict—from the minions of the law—not for the sake of 
 mercy, but for his own designs; lie recognized in Yatal a 
 willing tool. He had not mistaken the quality of the terri¬ 
 ble wretch whom he held in his power. 
 
 At the moment a shriek of a far-off train fell distinctly 
 on their ears. The poor horses, as if scenting danger, 
 pawed the ground in fear, uttering low whinnies. 
 
 “Hold those horses, Vatal, I say!’ cried Heath Hamp¬ 
 ton, with a muttered imprecation, as the poor beasts started 
 down the road at a sharp gallop. 
 
 “ I am-trying my best, sir, but-” 
 
 “Out of the way!” cried Hampton, frantically, and in 
 another instant he had leaped into the seat beside the dwarf, 
 and grasped the reins in his firm white hands with such a 
 powerful wrench that it brought the trembling horses 
 quiveringly back on their haunches, to a dead standstill, 
 panting and covered with foam. 
 
 At that instant the sound of wheels dashing along at a 
 rapid pace over the rocky road smote upon their ears. 
 
 Heath Hampton pulled his hat further down over his 
 face, while the terrible smile on his cruelly handsome face 
 deepened as he called out in a low, steady voice; 
 
 “Swerve suddenly to the right, remember.” 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 “ No spirit so gay, but recalls the hour 
 When it learned what all must know; 
 
 That, enshrined in every human heart. 
 
 Lies the mystery of woe.” 
 
 In the spacious parlors of Lorrimer Place, the guests 
 were already beginning to assemble; this was to be a gala 
 night; a festive occasion long to be remembered the whole 
 country around. 
 
 Loraine was seated in her boudoir , while Katy, her maid, 
 was putting the finishing touches to her exquisite toilet—- 
 and a most beautiful bride she made. 
 
 The long mirror reflected a tall, graceful, willowy figure, 
 draped in shimmering white satin and rich old Lace. IXa* 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 m 
 
 monds and pearls gleamed on her snowy breast, and in the 
 meshes of her golden hair. 
 
 The long, sweeping veil, like a misty cloud, and the cor¬ 
 onet of orange blossoms became her fair beauty exceed¬ 
 ingly. Never had Loraines beauty shone out so brilliantly 
 as on this, her wedding night. 
 
 A minister from New York had arrived to perform the 
 ceremony. The merry laughter of the throng of guests 
 floated up to Loraine where she sat. 
 
 “There!” cried Katy, taking a step or two back toad- 
 mire her work; ‘ ‘ you are just simply perfect. I shall never 
 forget you, Miss Loraine, as you look to-night; but a slight 
 touch of rouge on your cheeks wouldn’t come amiss—you 
 are just the least trifle too pale—you look like a marble 
 statue.” 
 
 “I hope Ulmont will share in vour enthusiasm,” replied 
 Loraine smilingly; “I believe I do look a little pale; to tell 
 the truth I am feeling just a little nervous; it is time Ul¬ 
 mont was here; and he will be sure to want to see me before 
 we go down to the parlors.” 
 
 “ He will be in raptures when he does see you, miss.” 
 
 “ I hope so, Katy,” replied Loraine, gently. “ If I please 
 him I am content.” 
 
 The little ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the hour 
 of seven. Loraine started, with a little cry of surprise. 
 
 “ I did not dream it was half so late,” she said. “Ul¬ 
 mont should be here by this time—he is probably here, en¬ 
 joying his last bachelor cigar out on the lawn.” 
 
 Time does not linger long with the present, and the mo¬ 
 ments flew with quick, winged feet. 
 
 Loraine sat idly on a divan, tapping her little slippered 
 foot on the thick velvet carpet, expecting each moment a 
 summons from her lover, but the moments dragged them¬ 
 selves slowly by, yet no summons came. 
 
 She glanced up nervously at the clock; it wanted a quar¬ 
 ter of eight, and yet there was no message for her. 
 
 Joyous mirth below was at its height; she could hear the 
 rippling music mingled with the sound of fresh young 
 voices. 
 
 Her face flushed and paled. Suddenly the memory of a 
 story she had once read, of a bridegroom who came not, 
 came slowly back to her on this her wedding-night. 
 
 “What if anything were to happen?” she asked herself. 
 “Katy, slip down-stairs and see if Mr. Ulvesfordhas yet 
 arrived.” 
 
 Katy hastened to do her bidding, muttering to herself: 
 
 “ I wouldn’t give much for a man who was not prompt 
 on his wedding-night.” 
 
 Down-stairs she went, searching vigorously everywhere. 
 
A JAiNL WOOING. 
 
 31 
 
 but Ulmont Ulve^ord was nowhere to be found. She came 
 slowly back with a troubled face, and reported her non 
 success. 
 
 Loraine Lorrimerwas growing extremely nervous; twice 
 her mother had anxiously come to see what was the cause 
 of the delay; but Loraine had begged her to go down 
 among the guests. 
 
 “Ulmont must be here very soon,” she jaid; “leave me 
 alone, mamma.” 
 
 A gentle knock sounded on the door, and to Loraine’s 
 glad “come in,” the minister entered. 
 
 She started back; she had been so sure it w as U Imont. 
 
 “ My dear,” he said gently, “ our friends are getting quite 
 impatient; I have been making inquiries for Mr. Ulves- 
 ford, but he has not yet arrived.” 
 
 “Oh, he must come soon,” sobbed Loraine, her heart 
 fluttering strangely, while a nameless dread and strange 
 foreboding crept over her. 
 
 Silently the minister seated himself on the divan beside 
 her, taking her small, white hand, with perhaps some such 
 thought in his mind as had crossed the maid's, yet he gave 
 no expression in words to his thoughts. 
 
 “ Ulmont should certainly be here by this time,” said 
 Loraine, striving to speak calmly. 
 
 “Patience, my dear, patience,” replied the minister, pat¬ 
 ting gently the little hand that now lay nervously in her 
 lap, “although I do not wonder you should be a little 
 nervous on your wedding-night; it "is but natural. Still,” 
 continued he, glancing up at the clock, “it is yet early— 
 I will go below, for I expect he has already arrived. ” 
 
 Saying which, he arose, and with a reassuring smile left 
 the room. 
 
 “Katy, Katy!” she whispered, “see, it grows late; do 
 you think anything could have happened him?” 
 
 The maid did not answer, she knew not what to say. 
 With slow, measured chimes, that struck a strange knell 
 in Loraine’s heart, the clock on the mantel struck the hour 
 of eight. 
 
 She arose from her seat and paced up and down the 
 room. M 
 
 Five—ten—fifteen minutes dragged themselves slowly 
 Still the mirthful hum of voices floated up, as if to 
 
 mock her. 
 
 “ They are growing impatient,” she said to herself, as 
 she drew aside the curtain from the window, and gazed 
 anxiously down the road. 
 
 The moon shone brilliantly; every object was discernible 
 —she saw nothing of Ulmont Ulvesford. 
 
 Twenty minutes—a half hour, and yet another ten 
 
 dragged by. 
 
32 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 “Katy,”she said, “leave the room; I want to be left 
 alone.” 
 
 As the door closed softly after her, Loraine threw herself 
 down on a seat by the window, pressed her flushed face to 
 the cool pane, straining her eyes eagerly down the main 
 road. 
 
 “He has not come,” she cried, wringing her hands in 
 sharp agony. She felt bewildered; there was a strange 
 pain in her heart, growing more intense each moment. 
 
 “Could anything have happened?” 
 
 Only the echo of her own voice answered her. 
 
 Again there was a knock at the door; this time it was a 
 servant. 
 
 “ Has Mr. Ulvesford yet arrived?” asked Loraine, eagerly 
 scanning the girl’s face. 
 
 “No, ma’am, but the minister and your ma says may 
 they come up again and talk with you?” 
 
 “No, no, no!” groaned Loraine, pitifully, throwing her¬ 
 self down on the divan and burying her face in the cushions. 
 “ I don’t want to see anyone. I want to be left alone. Do 
 you understand—all alone.” 
 
 The girl quietly withdrew from the room. There was a 
 strange hush in the voices down below. 
 
 “ Oh, he must have come,” she said. 
 
 With bated breath she opened the door of her boudoir 
 slightly, and listened. 
 
 The conversation of the guests below was plainly 
 audible. 
 
 The words of a young lady, seeming to come from close 
 proximity, caught her attention. They seemed to have 
 been shrieked on the air, caught up and muttered on every 
 breeze; they were simple words, jestingly spoken, yet they 
 “hit a mark the archer little meant.” It was a young, 
 careless voice that spoke them, but each word pierced 
 Loraine’s heart like a sharp dagger. 
 
 “I do not think the bridegroom is coming. Poor 
 Loraine! What a terrible blow this must be to her; such 
 a keen disgrace.” 
 
 There seemed to be a general murmur of assent from all 
 below. 
 
 Loraine quickly closed the door. She had heard enough. 
 Her brain seemed on fire; her senses reeled. She drew the 
 bolt of the door, flung herself down on the carpet, and 
 there the beautiful, proud young heiress wept the bitterest 
 tears that ever welled up from a human heart. 
 
 After a violent storm of grief, a calm usually follows, 
 but it was not so in this case. 
 
 The sparkling diamond glowing upon her finger —his ring 
 —-maddened her with its prismatic glow; she drew it from 
 
A Fatal wooing. 
 
 83 • 
 
 her finger, flinging it with all the fury of her strength into 
 the furthermost corner of the room. 
 
 She laughed a little, low, wild laugh. 
 
 “I will fling it from me as I do his love,” she cried; 
 “tear out his image from my heart forever and ever. Yes, 
 
 I say, forever and ever. ” 
 
 Loraine felt a wondrous, strange sensation creeping over 
 
 her. 
 
 Every sob ended in a mocking laugh. The strange still¬ 
 ness of the house puzzled her. Queer specters danced 
 around her, and with their *long, bony fingers pointed 
 mockingly at the white robes and bridal veil she wore. 
 How dared they approach the secret of her own chamber? 
 She flung back upon them their cruel taunts and jeers; 
 and they in turn mocked her every look and word. 
 
 “ Fools!” she cried. “ Do you think I care? What if the 
 whole world were gathered down-stairs, what need I care 
 if they do know he did not come? I do not care,” she 
 sobbed, her voice growing louder and louder. “ I will go 
 down among them and be the gayest of the gay; no wit 
 shall be more brilliant than mine. 
 
 “Yet, why are they here, all these people?” she pondered, 
 slowly. “ What do they want? I am trying hard to think, 
 yes, to think; but my poor brain is on fire. I cannot re¬ 
 member why they are here. Where are my flowers and 
 fan? But an instant ago I placed them on this table. No, 
 they were on that stand. I do not see them in the room. 
 Ha! Katy has taken them down-stairs.” 
 
 She unbolted the door and rushed into the hall. 
 
 There were strange, hilarious laughter and burst of song 
 heard by those below, that froze the blood in their veins; 
 the next moment Loraine Lorrimer, the beautiful, spoiled, 
 petted child stood among them. 
 
 Her hair was disheveled, her white veil torn and dis¬ 
 ordered. There was a strange pallor on her face; even 
 the ripeness had faded from her lips, as she fell into a deep 
 swoon, which mercifully preserved her reason. 
 
 At that moment, a horseman, covered with dust and 
 foam, dashed rapidly up to the entrance gate, bearing a 
 telegram in his hand addressed to Loraine. 
 
 The next morning the whole country round was rife 
 with the terrible news, that had ended in a fearful 
 tragedy, on what was to have been the marriage-day of 
 the young heir of the Ulvesford Mines and the peerless 
 Loraine Lorrimer, of Lorrimer Place. 
 
 He had but that day returned from abroad, so the story 
 ran, and while en route to the home of his bride to be, 
 where he was to have found his mother also in waiting, he 
 •was intercepted by a telegram urging him, if he would see 
 
u 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 his mother alive, to come directly home. Rev. Paul 
 Illingsworth, with a pair of the fleetest bays from the 
 Ulvesford stables, and a driver, had met Ulmont at the 
 train. They were last seen driving at a furious pace alon# 
 the highway. 
 
 Their path lay through a high, narrow roadway over¬ 
 looking the sea on one side, high, shelving rock on the 
 other. ’Twas there the terrible tragedy had been enacted. 
 
 Two vehicles, approaching each other from opposite 
 directions, had collided, and* the carriage containing the 
 young heir had been thrown over into the sea. 
 
 In an instant the wildest confusion had prevailed. 
 
 Horses nor vehicle, driver, nor the white, peaceful face of 
 Paul Illingsworth, the good old rector, ever rose again. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford alone had been recovered. He had 
 sustained a terrible fracture of the skull against the sharp 
 rocks as he fell. It was hardly expected his life would last 
 until they reached his home, some four miles distant. 
 
 While the mother called for her son, the long halls echo¬ 
 ing with his beloved name, and fair Loraine awaited him 
 in her bridal robes, Ulmont Ulvesford, in another part of 
 his home, lay hying. 
 
 In the soft, solemn stillness that had fallen around those 
 who watched by his couch, the physician bending over 
 him had said, slowly and solemnly, as he watched critical¬ 
 ly the motionless, white face: 
 
 “ His life hangs by a single thread; if he lives, his reason 
 may be partially restored; never wholly, unless by a vio¬ 
 lent shock, which might cost him his life. If he lives at 
 all, you must be content.” 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A FATAL CONSEQUENCE. 
 
 There were few dry eyes among these wedding-guests 
 assembled as the contents of the telegram was read to 
 them, and every heart throbbed with pity for hapless 
 Loraine save one, who stood leaning gracefully against a 
 marble Psyche, engaged in conversation with Mrs. Lor- 
 rimer, when Loraine had so unexpectedly appeared among 
 them. 
 
 The dark, handsome face of Heath Hampton, for it was 
 he, grew a shade paler as he listened to the telegram. 
 
 “ Saved,” he muttered, und^r his breath; “ I do not see 
 how it could have been possible. I have failed—igno- 
 miniously failed!” 
 
 “ Did you say he was dying?” he asked, taking the tele¬ 
 gram from Mrs. Lorrimer’s nerveless fingers. 
 
 Yes, so it read; his life hung by a slender thread, 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 35 
 
 Silently the guests quitted the mansion. Heath Hamp¬ 
 ton was among the last to depart; his dark eyes roved 
 eagerly over the stately mansion, and the magnificent 
 grounds which surrounded it, as they lay dark and silent, 
 bathed in the shadowy moonbeams. 
 
 “If he dies,” he said to himself, “all this may yet be 
 mine. It is worth a desperate struggle, and I mean to 
 make it.” 
 
 Of the past life of Heath Hampton but little was known. 
 He had come with his mother to Boston some three years 
 previously; none know from whence. 
 
 They had purchased what was afterward known as 
 Hampton Place, and there they lived in stately, lonely 
 splendor. 
 
 The mother was haughty, peculiar, silent and reserved, 
 shunning all intercourse or overtures from the outside 
 world. 
 
 The son was quite the opposite, winning and refined, 
 with much grace of presence and courtesy of breeding. 
 
 He spent money with a lavish hand, yet one who was a 
 keen observer of human nature could see he was utterly 
 devoid of principle; one who only lacked the opportunity 
 of becoming the deepest of villains; yet the cloak of hypoc¬ 
 risy was gathered so tightly about him, the outer world 
 little dreamed of the inner blackness. 
 
 Heath Hampton found no difficulty in gaining ar entree 
 into the most exclusive society; as is too often the case, no 
 one thought of inquiring into his antecedents. 
 
 He had lain seige at once to the heart and hand of the 
 pretty heiress. It had been a close tie between Ulmont 
 Ulvesford and himself as to which was in reality the 
 favored suitor. 
 
 There had been a time when Loraine hardly knew herself 
 just which she liked better; when she ultimately chose 
 Ulmont Ulvesford, all hopes of reigning as master of Lorri- 
 mer Hall fell like a house of cards around the schemer. 
 
 He had never loved the fair, haughty beauty, yet he 
 had vowed to win her fortune, he had been resigned to ac¬ 
 cept Loraine with it. 
 
 Eagerly he watched the rapid recovery of his rival, 
 bitterly cursing his luck. His congratulations, although 
 being anything but sincere, had the essence of earnestness 
 in tone and look, which, although a spurious article, readily 
 passed for the genuine coin. 
 
 Loraine, who had rapidly recovered from her terrible 
 shock, had taken up her place with his mother, whose ill¬ 
 ness had not proven so serious as was at first supposed, 
 &t Ulmont’s bedside, and good old Doctor Nelson often re 
 
m 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 marked his patient’s rapid recovery was in a great meas* 
 ure due to Loraine’s careful nursing. 
 
 “ I never could have spared him,” she would say, with a 
 bright, happy laugh, while Ulmont answered gently: 
 
 “ The life you have striven so hard to save, Loraine, shall 
 ever be devoted to you! ” 
 
 To Ulmont Ulvesford there seemed to exist no break in 
 the love he had always borne to Loraine. 
 
 Mrs. Ulvesford had taken up her vigil by his bedside, 
 refusing to be comforted; all the love of her life was cen¬ 
 tered in her handsome, only son. 
 
 Once, in his dreams, and she saw his lips move, as she 
 bent her head, she thought she heard him whisper a sweet, 
 fanciful name; v it sounded like “ Izetta.” 
 
 He never uttered the name but once, and she soon forgot 
 the incident, it was of so little import. 
 
 Slowly Ulmont Ulvesford gathered up the tangled 
 threads of his life again; by degrees a part of the scattered 
 past returned to him. 
 
 He remembered quite well his travels abroad, the people 
 whom he had met, and the pleasant ocean voyage home¬ 
 ward as he was coming to claim his bride. 
 
 He remembered he must have passed his twenty-first 
 birthday on the ocean. He remembered often gazing upon 
 Loraine’s portrait in the moonlight, but beyond this, 
 Heaven help him! he remembered nothing; leaning ovei 
 the rails, gazing down on the moonlit waves at midnight, 
 was the last recollection that crossed Ulmont Ulvesford’s 
 mind. 
 
 The following events, which had so quickly followed in 
 rapid succession—how he landed, or the slightest remem¬ 
 brance of the accident which had so nearly cost him his 
 life, were entirely obliterated from his mind. 
 
 Was the past ever more to be as a sealed book to him? 
 Alas, for the strange complications of fate, often more cruel 
 than death. 
 
 His vow, his marriage, and the existence of his fair, 
 young wife were swept entirely from Ulmont Ulvesford’s 
 mind. 
 
 Heaven pity him! how should he ever know of them 
 again? 
 
 The only one who could have pierced the darkness of 
 that benighted brain, and whispered to him of the broken¬ 
 hearted young wife who waited in vain for his coming, was 
 good old Paul Illingsworth, and with him every memento 
 of that brief, strange past was swept entirely from the face 
 of the earth. 
 
 Owing to Ulmont’s strong constitution, his convales¬ 
 cence was more rapid than might have been expected. Ho 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 3 1 
 
 was amazed when they told him the fall and winter had 
 passed away, and spring had come once more. Everyone 
 was so pleased to greet the young heir again. 
 
 “ It was quite worth his illness to see how much people 
 cared for him,” he said, with a gay laugh. 
 
 He was the same happy, careless, debonair fellow as of 
 old; he was changed only in appearance, yet that change 
 was wonderful—his most intimate friends were amazed. 
 
 The deep hazel eyes and laughing mouth were the same; 
 but the dark waving masses of nut-brown hair were gone; 
 fair rings clustered around his brow instead, gold as 
 Loraine’s own, soft and shining. 
 
 The effect was marvelous. Those who had admired 
 Ulmont Ulvesford before, were doubly charmed with him 
 now. 
 
 Since his illness he had been given to strange fits of mel¬ 
 ancholy reveries, which seemed ever seeking some thought 
 quite forgotten, which brought with them a vague, inde¬ 
 finable pain; he could never tell why he always attributed 
 it to some vanished fancy during his illness; he did not 
 care to remember it. Mrs. Ulvesford clasped Loraine in 
 her arms, saying the happiest day of her life would be the 
 day which made her her son’s wife. 
 
 Again, through the cruel mysteries of fate, the wedding 
 preparations weie going steadily on. This time it was con¬ 
 cluded that the ceremony should be performed at the 
 church in the early morning, when the sun was shining 
 and the birds were singing. 
 
 “ I could never endure a repetition of that cruel night at 
 Lorrimer Hall, when I thought I had lost you,” whispered 
 Loraine. 
 
 “ You shall have your own way, my darling,” answered 
 Ulmont; “ your will shall be my law.” 
 
 So it was arranged that the wedding should take place 
 at the church, and be as quiet a one as was possible. 
 
 The propitious morning dawned at last. 
 
 At an early hour a long array of carriages drew up be" 
 fore the little vine-covered church in the suburbs. The 
 sunshine drifted down through the foliage like molten 
 gold; the robins in the green branches mingled their notes 
 with the tuneful bobolink, the sweet scent of honeysuckle 
 and pink clover wafted their fragrance over the hawthorn 
 hedges, the sun hinted love to the clouds, the birds sang 
 of love to their mates; love was the song the little brook 
 sang as it danced joyfully over the white pebbles—all 
 nature sang of love on this pitiful marriage morn. 
 
 Ulmont would allow no shadow to cross the brightness 
 of the day. If one of those strange, brooding fancies he 
 
38 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 could not define stole over liim, he shook it off and forgot 
 it in watching the beautiful, fiower-like face of Loraine. 
 
 Neither the sunshine, the flowers, the birds, nor the 
 brooklet warned them of the fatal tragedy which was about 
 to be enacted; a, tragedy too deep, too bitter for words to 
 describe, and they went on to their doom with a smile on 
 their faces. 
 
 The sunshine streamed in through the colored windows, 
 flecking the bride’s soft, fleecy robes, with bars of crimson, 
 purple, and gold. 
 
 Ulmont pressed the little hand tenderly as they took 
 their places at the altar. 
 
 Suddenly, and without warning, dark clouds scudded 
 across the sunshine, the soft, summer breeze wailed among 
 the tall oak trees and the flowering lilacs; the blossoms 
 on the hillside swayed to and fro, bending their hoads be¬ 
 fore the storm. 
 
 The distant ocean wildly beat the shore like a relentless, 
 angry spirit; in one brief instant the face of nature had 
 changed. Thunder rolled across the darkening sky, and 
 vivid flashes of lightning, following each other in rapid 
 succession, felled many a stately forest oak, whose crash¬ 
 ing as it fell to earth was plainly heard, and they lit up 
 the group that stood before the dim altar, with its cold, 
 bright glare. 
 
 Loraine’s face was very pale, and Ulmont noticed the 
 little hand which he held fluttered slightly. Ulmont 
 Ulvesford’s face was calm and implacable as a marble 
 statue. A half hour after they had entered the dim, old 
 church they were pronounced—oh, cruel mockery of fate 
 —pronounced man and wife. Both loyal, innocent, and 
 trusting, fate was dealing them a bitter blow. 
 
 As the last words had been spoken by the pastor, which, 
 as they firmly believed, bound them to each other for weal 
 or for woe, Loraine Ulvesford lifted her eyes to meet the 
 cold, calm gaze of Heath Hampton, while behind him, 
 stealing silently away like a grim, foreboding shadow, 
 was the figure of Yatal, the dwarf. 
 
 CHAPTER VEX 
 
 A FATAL JOURNEY. 
 
 Six weeks abroad had passed since that bright, sunny 
 morning, when Ulmont Ulvesford and Loraine had stood 
 before the altar in the little church. They had visited 
 France, Italy, and sunny Spain, and were now en route to 
 Switzerland. 
 
 “ Let us visit the Alps last, my husband,” Loraine had 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 3fl 
 
 said. “I want the scenes I love best to linger last in my 
 memory. ” 
 
 Ulmont was loth to leave the blue skies of Spain, where 
 the olive and the myrtle ripen luxuriantly under the gold¬ 
 en sunshine. 
 
 “Now that I have you with me, Loraine,” he said, “I 
 could linger here forever.” 
 
 Had Loraine remained in Spain, as her husband so 
 strangely urged, the first cloud that crossed the horizon of 
 their wedded life might never have risen. 
 
 Together they went to Savoy, that marvelous valley 
 which lies under the bowlders of Mont Blanc. 
 
 Loraine’s delight was as rapturous as a child’s as she 
 culled the Alpine roses from the edge of the frowning 
 glaciers. 
 
 Loraine never forgot that first day in Switzerland, or the 
 surprise which awaited her before it had ended. 
 
 ulmont had gone to visit the monastery of St. Bernard. 
 Loraine had remained behind, being fatigued with the day’s 
 ramble. 
 
 “You will not be lonely, my darling,” questioned Ul¬ 
 mont, encircling the slender waist with his arm, and draw¬ 
 ing the golden head to his shoulder. “If I thought you 
 would have one lonely moment, I could enjoy nothing. 
 Your sweet face would rise between me and aught else.” 
 
 He took the rosy face between his hands, kissing the 
 proud, rosebud mouth. 
 
 “Lonely, oh, no,” she replied, with a blithe little laugh; 
 “I shall have too much to think of for that. I shall draw 
 this couch before the window, and watch the bright stars, 
 thinking how happy we are, Ulmont. I have been think 
 ing, too, of so many little plans for the future; some of 
 them, perhaps, very foolish ones. I will tell you them 
 when they are quite perfected, but not now, Ulmont.” 
 
 “Very well, dear, I shall try to bear very patiently being 
 shut out from these wonderful plans, but remember, my 
 sweet, deep thinking is hurtful to youth and beauty; 
 leave that to those who are older, more careworn, and 
 weary.” 
 
 Below, they could hear the voices of the tourists, who 
 were quite ready for the evening jaunt, in the hallway be¬ 
 low, awaiting Ulmont’s coming. 
 
 “ One moment more,” said Ulmont, smilingly; “ I should 
 like one of those roses you are wearing, Loraine; it will 
 seem to me a part of your own sweet self.” 
 
 As Loraine handed to him the coveted bud, which she 
 wore on her breast, the leaves fell in a crimson shower 
 upon the floor at his feet; nothing but the stem remained. 
 Loraine dropped it with a startled cry. Ulmont saw. 
 
40 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 even in tlie shaded lamplight, how pale her face had 
 grown. 
 
 He caught the white hands in his own, clasping them to¬ 
 gether round his neck. 
 
 “Nevermind, Loraine,” he said, laughingly: “no worn 
 der the rose preferred total extinction to repose on any 
 other resting-place than that from which it had been dis¬ 
 placed. I fear I too am very much like that rose, Lo¬ 
 raine.” 
 
 She laughed a sweet, low, happy laugh. 
 
 “ I wonder if every husband is as clever a lover as you 
 are, Ulmont,” she said. 
 
 “ If they are not, they certainly ought to be.” 
 
 “Then Shakesphere never would have written: ‘Men 
 are April when they woo, but December when they wed,’ y 
 she replied, archly. 
 
 “Your sky shall never change, love,” said Ulmont, ten¬ 
 derly, filling out the sentence that he read in the limpid 
 blue eyes upraised to his own. 
 
 Loraine’s face flushed to the exquisite hue of a blush-rose; 
 her beautiful eyes were filled with the sweetest love-light, 
 and her scarlet mouth was curved in the sweetest of smiles; 
 she was so happy, her heart was as light and free as a 
 bird’s. 
 
 Life was so full and rich—the world was so fair; if that 
 kind of a dream could last, earth would be Heaven. 
 
 Loraine stood at the window watching her husband’s 
 form in the moonlight until he had disappeared. 
 
 How long she stood there wrapped in her happy dreams 
 she never knew. 
 
 A slight touch on her arm startled her. 
 
 “ I beg madam’s pardon,” said a tidy, white-capped maid, 
 “ I have spoken twice, yet madam did not heed me. I was 
 to place this letter in your own hands, and return for your 
 answer.” 
 
 She placed a small, white envelope in Loraine’s hand, 
 courtesied, and was gone. 
 
 “I wonder from whom it can possibly be?” thought Lo¬ 
 raine wonderingly, glancing at the signature. “Heath 
 Hampton,” she cried aloud in her surprise. 
 
 She was amazed at finding him in Switzerland. 
 
 “You will forgive me, Loraine—Mrs. Ulvesford,” he 
 wrote, ‘ * but when I heard you were stopping here I could 
 not pass Savoy without seeing you. The sight of American 
 faces, and especially old friends, too, are really a treat in 
 Switzerland. As I expect to leave Savoy to-morrow, if 
 agreeable, I should like to call. I sincerely trust you will 
 grant me at least a few moments.” 
 
1 
 
 A FATAL WOOING, 41 
 
 At that moment the maid reappeared. 
 
 “ Tell the gentleman I will await him on the portico,” 
 she said. 
 
 As Loraine stepped out on the portico, which ran, ac¬ 
 cording to the Swiss custom, the entire length of the build¬ 
 ing, accessible from the ground floor by a flight of steps 
 from either end, a gentleman who had evidently awaited 
 her with no little impatience, stepped gracefully forward, 
 extending his hands. 
 
 Tall, stately, self-possessed, she went forward to greet 
 
 him. 
 
 “ Loraine, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ulvesford, I should 
 say,” bowing low over the slender, white hand, “need I 
 tell you how pleased I am to see you?” 
 
 The proud blue eyes held none other than a courteous, 
 formal greeting for him. 
 
 “How you have altered, Loraine; you left us a few 
 weeks ago" a bright, merry school girl, now I find you— 
 a queen!” 
 
 Loraine merely bowed at the pretty compliment. 
 
 “ I am sorry my husband is not here,” she said; “ he will 
 be sorry to have missed seing you if you leave Savoy to¬ 
 morrow morning.” 
 
 The smile on his handsome face darkened. 
 
 Had Loraine been more worldly wise she would have 
 known Ulmont’s absence was what he desired above all 
 things 
 
 “You seem to have forgotten the time, Loraine,” be 
 said, half-laughingly, half-bitterly, still persisting in call¬ 
 ing her by the old name, “ when we found the moments 
 passed quite quickly and happily without a third party.” 
 
 “ Of course that is all different now, Mr. Hampton,” she 
 said, looking up surprisedly. 
 
 “ Most certainly it is, as you say, different now, Loraine.” 
 
 He was perfectly calm and unembarrassed; while Lo¬ 
 raine looked away over the moonlit hills, murmuring some¬ 
 thing about childish folly. 
 
 They talked of home, and Loraine told him how happy 
 she would be when she reached America. 
 
 Their conversation was the exchange of thought of old 
 friends. 
 
 Loraine spoke of their travels, and of the people whom 
 they had met. 
 
 Heath Hampton always referred to himself as being the 
 loneliest of men. 
 
 “I cannot understand why that should be so,” she re¬ 
 plied. 
 
 “ I shall never care to look upon a woman’s face again,” 
 
42 
 
 A FATAL WOOING, 
 
 he said, with a deep sigh, “ or care for their friendship ; 1 
 love the memory of the old ones best, Loraine.” 
 
 Deep in her heart Loraine was wishing her husband 
 would return; the conversation was growing exceedingly 
 irksome. 
 
 “ I have thought so much of the old ones,” he continued; 
 “I have found home fearfully dull, I sought what little 
 comfort I could find abroad. ” 
 
 “ I sincerely hope you will find the comfort you seek, Mr. 
 Hampton,” she replied, with the artless simplicity of a 
 child. 
 
 “ I have found it now for the first time in many weeks,” 
 he said. 
 
 Loraine was certainly blind not to have read the mean¬ 
 ing in those dark, reckless, flashing, eager eyes, bent so 
 steadily upon her face, so deaf that she could not hear it in 
 the modulation of his low, intense voice. 
 
 “I am pleased you think so well of Switzerland,” she 
 said, simply. 
 
 “ It is not that,” he answered, quite impatient that she 
 did not understand him more fully. “I shall always like 
 Savoy, for the pleasant associations of this one evening, 
 Loraine.” 
 
 She looked at him in wonder. 
 
 “Loraine,” he said, sorrowfully and respectfully, draw¬ 
 ing his chair closer to where she sat. “You must not 
 chide me for what I am going to say, the words have trem¬ 
 bled upon my lips for months, I must speak, if I am never 
 permitted to look upon your face again. Can you tell why 
 I left America, why home had lost all charms for me, and 
 why I came to Savoy?” 
 
 “ I cannot even guess,” she replied. 
 
 “ I was ever haunted by a beautiful face—a face that 
 was dearer to me than my very life, one whom I would 
 have died to have called my wife. You cannot imagine 
 such a depth of love; words cannot explain it!” 
 
 “ I can, and do fully understand such a love, Mr. Hamp¬ 
 ton ; such is my love for Ulmont; I never could find words 
 to fully express it.” 
 
 It was well the shadow of night fell between them. 
 Loraine Ulvesford would have started back in horror had 
 she beheld the terrible expression on the darkly-handsome 
 face turned from her, or could have probed the terrible re¬ 
 solve that lay brooding in his heart. 
 
 That one answer Loraine had spoken, forged the last link 
 in the fatal chain of his thoughs. 
 
 Had she breathed those words standing near a cliff, in 
 bitter anger, maddened at the thought of the wealth 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 48 
 
 that might have been his had she hut married him, he could 
 not have answered for what he might have done. 
 
 “ Your husband possesses a jewel in you, Loraine; on© 
 whose rare purity is a blessing to the sex.” 
 
 As he spoke, he clasped quickly both her small, white 
 hands that lay idly in her lap. 
 
 At that opportune moment Ulmont Ulvesford, with light, 
 bouyant tread, sprang lightly up the steps, appearing 
 suddenly before them. 
 
 As he glanced at the dark, handsome face of Heath 
 Hampton, bowing low over Loraine’s hands, he turned 
 white to the very lips. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 Ulmont’s amazement was scarely exceeded by his an- 
 novance upon recognizing Heath Hampton, whom he had 
 left in Boston, bending over his wife’s hand in far-off Swit¬ 
 zerland, in that lover-like fashion; it reminded him too 
 forcibly of the days when neither of them had been quite 
 sure as to which was the favored one in .Loraine’s eyes. 
 
 A sudden, keen, quick pang of iealousy leaped into his 
 heart; that torch, which, once lighted, causes many a con¬ 
 flagration in hitherto peaceful homes. 
 
 Ulmont had quite forgotten the old, unhappy forebodings 
 that had enfolded him. 
 
 Heath Hampton’s face, dark, flashing and brilliant, 
 filled him with a strange sense of pain. 
 
 He had thought he had Loraine all to himself. 
 
 He found himself wondering if it was merely a chance 
 accident that brought Heath Hampton just then to Swit¬ 
 zerland. * 
 
 Ulmont knew, although they had been rivals, as his 
 countryman he must greet him at least courteously, if not 
 cordially. 
 
 The Ulvegfords were a deep-loving race, self-willed and 
 exacting. 
 
 I could never accept half a heart,” Ulmont had often 
 said. “ I must have the whole, or I relinquish all. One 
 whom I love must give not even one thought to another.” 
 
 “ My dear boy, you are surprised to see me in Switzer¬ 
 land, I imagine,” Hampton said, with a warm, hearty 
 hand-shake, “ but I assure you not more so than I myself 
 at being here. I heard you were at Savoy, and I promised 
 myself the pleasure of calling.” 
 
 It was only accidental then. 
 
 Ulmont felt relieved. 
 
 JPLeath Hampton possessed the happy faculty of making 
 
44 
 
 a fatal wooing. 
 
 himself exceedingly agreeable to men as well as the fair 
 sex, and before the evening wore away, Ulmont was seri¬ 
 ously pondering if he did not do him an injustice by har¬ 
 boring the suspicions which for a brief time had disturbed 
 him. 
 
 Loraine had excused herself and retired to her own room, 
 leaving them alone together to chat over old times as they 
 puifed their Havanas, and by the time Heath Hampton 
 parted from Ulmont, it was agreed he should stay the 
 following week at Savoy, making one of their party and 
 returning home to America. 
 
 A deep, meaning smile hovered for an instant about 
 Heath Hampton’s mouth. 
 
 ‘‘Capital,” he muttered, under his breath, meanwhile 
 inwardly wondering at Ulmont’s trustfulness, who little 
 dreamed that the serpent, who had slowly but surely 
 gained an entrance into this peaceful Eden, would turn 
 upon the hand that had given it shelter. 
 
 “So, so!” muttered Hampton that night, as he slowly 
 retraced his steps to his lodgings, “I had not expected 
 such an easy victory—the leaven works well; Loraine shall 
 reach America, and so shall I; but mark me, I have sworn 
 by the fortune he swept from my grasp, the green vales of 
 Switzerland shall be Ulmont Ulvesford’s tomb, and these 
 icy towers his monument!” 
 
 Meanwhile Ulmont was wondering, as he entered the 
 room where she sat, what she would say when he told her 
 Heath Hampton had decided to remain in Savoy, accom¬ 
 panying them on their homeward trip to America. 
 
 An exclamation of surprise and dismay broke from Lo- 
 raine’s lips, which she instantly repressed. No matter 
 what her own secret feelings were on the subject, she be¬ 
 lieved she had no right to raise an objection if her husband 
 really desired his presence. While Ulmont, as he watched 
 Loraine’s face narrowly, was thinking: 
 
 “ How foolish I was, after all, to ever imagine my Lo¬ 
 raine cared for Heath Hampton.” 
 
 The week that followed was the most eventful one that 
 had ever come to the gay, careless life of Ulmont Ulves- 
 ford; a week which brought the bitterest of bitter fruits, 
 which were to be deep sown in his heart. 
 
 There were strange whisperings among the tourists, who 
 watched with darkening brows the assiduous attention the 
 dark-browed stranger paid the beautiful, stately, fair-haired 
 wife. 
 
 Was the young husband mad, they asked themselves, to 
 permit it? Why was he so blind? 
 
 Everyone, even the most exacting, could see that the 
 lair young wife, in action, thought and word, was as pure 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 46 
 
 as the white lilies that lay on the tranquil bosom of the 
 stream down in the smiling valley. 
 
 She was utterly innocent and ignorant of the world of 
 sin, or the flowery paths that led to its horrible-brinks 
 
 One friend, more daring than th< j rest, who had a fair 
 young bride of his own, whom he quite idolized, ventured 
 to remonstrate with Ulmont in a mild way 
 
 “ I have heard Mr. Hampton was quite attached to your 
 wife at one time, Mr. Ulvesford.” he sard, carelessly. 
 
 “That was all nonsense,” laughed Ulmont, good-hu¬ 
 moredly; “ he had quite a fancy for my wife at one time, 
 I believe. We have often laughed over our wine about it 
 since.” 
 
 “ There are many men whose first love is the one grand, 
 supreme passion of their lives,” remarked Wylmer Lee, 
 gravely. 
 
 “How seriously you are inclined to treat such trifling 
 matters,” said Ulmont, thoughtfully, lighting his cigar, and 
 waving the curling rings of smoke away with his hand. 
 
 “ Contemplation makes me serious,” remarked his fellow- 
 traveler; “I have seen much of life in my time. Why, 
 do you know,” he continued, energetically, “I would as 
 soon think of a sleek tiger creeping stealthily into the fold 
 where my lambs were treasured, as to see an old lover hold¬ 
 ing my wife’s hand, or gazing into her eyes, with poisonous 
 adulation upon his lips.” 
 
 “ A man’s wife should be held above all reproach, all cen¬ 
 sure; she whom he trusts with his life’s happiness, can 
 guard his honor,” responded Ulmont, proudly; but even 
 though he spoke confidently, a thousand doubts and fears 
 were busy with his imagination. 
 
 He did not care to admit, even to himself, he had not 
 acted wisely in permitting his wife’s old lover to join their 
 party. 
 
 Had not the past proven conclusively which one of them 
 Loraine had loved? 
 
 “Pshaw!” he said to himself. “ How absurd of me to 
 indulge such ridiculous fancies! ” 
 
 Still, the arrow had pierced his heart; he was a prey to 
 conflicting emotions. 
 
 There is nothing that rends the heart, that destroys all 
 hope, that ruins a life by arousing the keenest sorrow so 
 quickly as the pangs of jealousy, the worst disease which 
 can afflict the human race. 
 
 Ulmont would have died before he would have doubted, 
 fqr an instant, the beautiful, peerless Loraine; still, he 
 realized he had made a mistake in playing with fire that 
 had once burned with a passionate flame. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 46 
 
 How could lie tell that love for his beautiful Loraine did 
 not still slumber in Heath Hampton’s heart? 
 
 He remembered vividly how the Count de Risnar, a per¬ 
 sonal friend of Hampton’s, had engaged him so often for 
 hours at a time in his subtle ; graceful way, while Heath 
 Hampton invariably talked with Loraine. 
 
 On Ulmont’s previous visit to France he had met the 
 Count de Risnar; once they had differed slightly in opinion 
 on some trifling matter; those who heard the debate were 
 unanimously in favor of Ulmont’s theory; the count had 
 submitted with the courtly grace of his race, but then and 
 there he had registered a bitter vow of vengeance against 
 the young American. 
 
 He would humble him yet, in the very dust at his feet. 
 He meant to keep his word, he was shrewd and far-seeing. 
 
 When he learned Heath Hampton had once been the 
 lover of Loraine Ulvesford, he saw a way to work out that 
 revenge. 
 
 He well knew the crudest blow he could inflict upon 
 Ulmont’s haughty heart, was through his beautiful young 
 bride. 
 
 Still, with all his suave manners and subtle arts, the 
 count owned to himself he was not more cunning than 
 Heath Hampton. 
 
 This was the link that bound these two so closely. 
 
 Strange thoughts had found lodgment in Ulmont’s breast 
 since that conversation with Wylmer Lee. 
 
 Could it be his imagination only that his friends dropped 
 their voices to almost a whisper when he came unexpect¬ 
 edly among them, or ceased speaking altogether? 
 
 Of what were they talking? Was it possible they, too, 
 thought—but, pshaw! Why give himself unnecessary an¬ 
 noyance? 
 
 It was a lovely day preceding their departure for 
 America. Ulmont never forgot that terrible day; it stood 
 out clear and distinct upon his mind for many a year after¬ 
 ward. 
 
 That morning he had gone with Loraine to see the sun 
 rise for the last time on the Alps. 
 
 The first golden rays were peeping above the huge, icy 
 pillars, lighting them up with a thousand arrowy sparkles; 
 a waterfall, struck by its rays, fell in fiery orange foam 
 down the red and blue sparkling walls of a beautiful glacier, 
 losing itself in the still bluer mist of the double dome be¬ 
 low, that seemed to spread out like transparent, purple 
 glass, gradually melting into glowing crimson as the sun’s 
 rays pierced the ravine below. 
 
 Loraine’s hands were clasped within his own; they were 
 trembling slightly, and her face was very pala 
 
A FATAL WOOING, 47 
 
 “ I wish you had not brought me to this spot on the edge 
 of the precipice, Ulmont,” she whispered. 
 
 “Why, my love?’’ he asked, wonderingly. “ This is the 
 grandest and most sublime spot on the Alps.” 
 
 “If I tell you why, you will not laugh at me, my hus¬ 
 band?” 
 
 For answer he drew the golden head closer to his breast, 
 kissing the rosy mouth. 
 
 “Certainly not, my sweet.” 
 
 “I saw this very spot in my dreams last night,” she an¬ 
 swered, slowly. “I thought you were standing on this 
 very spot; others were around you, their dark faces be¬ 
 tween you and the sunlight. Your face was white, and 
 you called out suddenly : ‘Loraine, my wife, where are 
 you?’ As I ran to you with outstretched hands, a woman’s 
 face came between us, a proud, beautiful, foreign face, 
 with scornful lips and flashing eyes. As I turned from 
 her in wonder, the beautiful face had vanished, the cold 
 pillars of ice seemed to close over you, my husband, and I 
 saw, standing there, only Heath Hampton, while beside 
 him, a cruel smile on his lips, stood a dark-browed stranger. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A DUEL IN THE ALPS. 
 
 All the day that followed, Heath Hampton hovered like 
 a persistent shadow around Loraine, who was quite an¬ 
 noyed at his attention. 
 
 “Why,” she asked herself, sorrowfully, “did Ulmont, 
 her husband, seem to prefer the society of the Frenchman 
 to her own, leaving her to spend the lonely hours as best 
 she might in the society of Heath Hampton?” 
 
 Ths scenery from Loraine’s window was sublime; yet, as 
 she stood there in her royal, azure-tinted robe, the breeze 
 toying with the soft lace that encircled her throat, and 
 loosened her golden hair in which a spray of blossoms 
 clung, she was not thinking of the beautiful sights upon 
 which her eye rested; she had pushed aside her books, the 
 very sunlight and the flowers tired her; she was glad, she 
 told herself, she was to start for America on the morrow. 
 
 Loraine was writing for her husband; she had no heart, 
 no thought away from him, and the hours seemed dull and 
 long which parted them. 
 
 Again she took up her book, but the story had no power 
 to charm her. 
 
 She laid her fair young cheek on the crimson cover, with 
 the question on her red lips: 
 
 “Why does Ulmont not come to me?” 
 
48 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 Ah! it was well for Loraine Ulvesford she did not know 
 why. 
 
 In another part of the building, where the tourists 
 smoked their cigars, watching the snow-covered crags 
 above and the crags beneath, Heath Hampton sat with a 
 party of friends, including De Risnar. 
 
 Ulmont came among the group quite unnoticed, so en¬ 
 grossed were they in the recital of some story from the 
 reminiscence of Hampton’s exploits. 
 
 “Ah, yes, gentlemen,” continued Hampton, buoyantly, 
 “at that time I stood in high favor with the peerless 
 beauty.” 
 
 There were the fumes of wine on his breath and a reck¬ 
 less glance in his eye. 
 
 De Risnar, alone, of all the group, had noticed Ulmont’s 
 approach. 4 
 
 “ It is a thousand pities you did not marry her then, but 
 I suppose there is a double charm about her now that she 
 is beyond your reach, eh, Hampton?” remarked some lo¬ 
 quacious bystander. 
 
 A low, sardonic laugh broke from Heath Hampton’s lips, 
 a laugh that froze the blood in Ulmont’s heart as he heard it. 
 
 “Loraine will always be the most charming girl in the 
 world in nry eyes; let us drink, gentlemen,” he cried, “to 
 the fair beauty of Loraine!” 
 
 A gentleman sitting a little apart from the rest, and who 
 would bear no more, sprang to his feet, but he was too late; 
 a strong arm forced him back, as a face white as death 
 flashed past him, crying out: 
 
 “Sit down, Wylmer, thank God, I am here to protect my 
 wife’s fair name! ’ 
 
 The next instant Heath Hampton had received a sting¬ 
 ing blow in the face, that sent him reeling into De Risn^ir’s 
 arms. 
 
 “ Now, coward that you are,” cried Ulmont, white to the 
 very lips, “apologize this instant for taking my wife’s 
 name thus wantonly upon your base lips, or your life shall 
 pay the forfeit!” 
 
 “Never,” cried Heath Hampton, recklessly, his cheeks 
 flushed, and a baleful light gleaming in his eyes. “ I re¬ 
 peat it. Let us drink to the peerless Loraine!” 
 
 “Ulvesford, for Heaven’s sake come away,” cried Wyl¬ 
 mer Lee, holding him back by main force, but he might as 
 well have spoken to the winds. 
 
 Heath Hampton by this time had recovered himself, and 
 hastily taking his glove from his pocket, his eyes flashing 
 with a glaring, triumphant gleam, he flung it in Ulmont’s 
 face. 
 
 “ I accept your challenge,” said Ulmont, in a clear, ring' 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 49 
 
 mg voice, having regained his composure; “and,” he con¬ 
 tinued, briefly, “ this duel must be fought at once!” 
 
 “ That suits me perfectly,” answered Hampton. 
 
 “I will meet you in fifteen minutes et any place you 
 may choose to name; is the time too short?” asked Ulmont, 
 haughtily. “Say an hour from now, in the old abbey 
 above the village. ” 
 
 Ulmont bowed haughtily, while Hampton concluded: 
 
 “ Our seconds will attend to the rest.” 
 
 Again Ulmont bowed coldly. 
 
 “ Wylmer,” he said, turning to Lee, who stood near him, 
 “ I am in need of a friend to-night—can I rely upon you?” 
 
 Wylmer Lee pressed his hand warmly—that one hearty 
 clasp without words was enough. Ulmont Ulvesford 
 knew that he would stand by him in life—or in death, if 
 need be. 
 
 This was the ultimatum Wylmer Lee had long foreseen. 
 * * * * * 
 
 The dark sky was star-set, and a full moon had risen, 
 bathing the snow-covered grounds and ruins upon the ex¬ 
 treme heights with a silvery radiance, giving the pictur¬ 
 esque spot, upon which an awful tragedy was soon to be 
 enacted, a qui,et, peaceful look. 
 
 It was a lonely, romantic spot, high up on the summit of 
 the Alps. No sound could be heard save the whistling of 
 the wind through the branches of the trees, and through 
 the crumbling, ivy-grown walls and deserted halls of the 
 once grand old abbey, that had fallen into ruin. 
 
 The spot chosen for the duel was a clearing in the midst 
 of the ruins. 
 
 On one side were high, perpendicular, icy crags; on the 
 other a steep, slippery descent; its only canopy, the starry 
 heaven and the meeting branches of the dark pine trees. 
 
 Suddenly footsteps sounded on the crisp, crackling snow, 
 and two dark figures halted at the place indicated. 
 
 A low cry, which Ulmont instantly suppressed, sprang 
 to his lips. 
 
 “ Heaven—can it be an ill omen?” he muttered, thought¬ 
 fully. “This is the exact spot Loraine saw in her dream!” 
 
 Wylmer Lee touched him on the arm. 
 
 “ They are coming, Ulvesford,” he said. 
 
 Another moment Heath Hampton, De Risnar, and a 
 small, wiry individual, enveloped in a dark cloak, and 
 carrying a black leather case, appeared, who was intro¬ 
 duced to Ulmont as the surgeon. 
 
 Few words passed between them. Proud, cold, defiant, 
 and bitter, they stepped forth, swords in hand, out into the 
 moonlight. \ 
 
 A silence, still as death, lasted for a second only. Then 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 50 
 
 the combatants had crossed swords and the terrible work 
 began; both felt the strength of his opponent’s arm. 
 
 Heath Hampton was sure this would be a victory easily 
 won. Only one thought rushed madly through Ulmont 
 Ulvesford’s brain—his wife, his beautiful Loraine, and his 
 mother. 
 
 The thought gave renewed strength to his arm; one 
 instant only he pressed his hand to his feverish brow; 
 another instant and a terrible imprecation burst from 
 Heath Hampton’s lips, as his arm dropped heavily to his 
 side. It was a never-to-be-forgotten scene by those who 
 witnessed it. His sword fell to the icy ground with a dull 
 clang. 
 
 “ You have won the game this time, Ulvesford,” he cried, 
 hoarsely, bitterly, and still defiantly; “ but mark me, there 
 is still a future. ” 
 
 “ There is also a present,” responded Ulmont, sternly. 
 
 Seeing further satisfaction was at an end, as he was not 
 one of those who would pursue a worsted foe, nor trample 
 a fallen enemy, Ulmont turned on his heel, and followed 
 by Wylmer Lee, left the spot, leaving the surgeon and 
 the count with Heath Hampton and the solemn hush of the 
 night. 
 
 A half hour later Ulmont entered the room where Loraine 
 still sat, her white hands clasping the book which lay in 
 her lap. 
 
 “ Truant, how late you are,” she said, playfully; “ where 
 were you?” 
 
 “ I was unexpectedly detained,” he replied. 
 
 “Thank you, dear, for your very lucid explanation; I 
 know all about it now,” she said, sweetly, with a pretty, 
 arch smile. 
 
 “ I have certainly explained all worth knowing,” he said. 
 Loraine was sure she detected a forced calmness in his 
 voice. 
 
 She turned on the light and looked at her husband. 
 She saw his face was colorless, with a hard, fixed expres¬ 
 sion about the mouth. 
 
 “What is the matter, Ulmont, my husband!” she cried, 
 springing to his side, speechless with terror; “has any¬ 
 thing happened? How white and ill you look!” 
 
 He sat down on the sofa, drawing her toward him, with 
 a deep sigh, as he replied: 
 
 “ Nothing out of the usual order of events has happened, 
 Loraine; everything is as it should be.” 
 
 He did not care to tell her the truth—just then; not until 
 he knew more of Heath Hampton’s condition. 
 
 They sat for a few moments in silence; then Ulmont 
 turned and looked upon bis beautiful young wife in her 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 51 
 
 artless, peerless beauty. She wore a soft, shining, violet 
 silk, ana just where she sat the lights from the colored 
 lamps fell full upon her; one great dash of purple lay at 
 her feet, a bar of crimson quivered on her breast, and on 
 the beautiful head there shone a glow of gold; her lovely 
 face was pale with wonder, yet it seemed like a fair, tender 
 flower among the mystical lights. 
 
 “Loraine,” said Ulmont, with a brave attempt at ga,j 
 raillery, “if anything were to happen to me, would it 
 change your love for me?” 
 
 For answer, she led him to the window. 
 
 “Do you see that pale, serene moon,” she said, “strug¬ 
 gling athwart those fleecy clouds? The broad glare of day 
 may hide it from our sight, and the dark clouds of night 
 may for awhile envelop it, yet we feel sure that calm, 
 patient moon will struggle silently through all, and resume 
 her constant vigil over the slumbering earth. My love 
 shall be just as constant, Ulmont. Nothing could change 
 my love for you; I have often thought I could never die 
 and leave you, husband I” 
 
 As Ulmont looked down upon her, he noticed all the 
 dainty bloom had vanished from both cheek and lip, like a 
 delicate blossom in a sudden frost. 
 
 “ My sweet Loraine,” he whispered, reverentially, bend¬ 
 ing his head and caressing her white brow. 
 
 As his hand clasped hers, a low, startled cry fell from 
 her lips. 
 
 “ Look, Ulmont 1” she cried, in an awful whisper, holding 
 his hand full up to the light; “ oh, Ulmont—my husband 
 —see 1 there is blood upon it!” 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MARKS OF BLOOD. 
 
 For a moment the husband and wife stood facing each 
 other in ominous silence. 
 
 “Will you tell me how this came upon your hand, Ul¬ 
 mont?” she asked. 
 
 For one brief instant the impulse seized him to tell her 
 all. He could not endure the glance of horror such a 
 recital would bring to those blue eyes; Loraine, so pure 
 and artless; what, could* he tell her what he had done for 
 her sake? 
 
 He glanced down at the hand which the two dark spots 
 defaced, quite at a loss how to account for them. His 
 quick, keen perception soon showed him a loophole. 
 
 “I have been on a ramble to the old abbey ruins,” he 
 replied, carelessly; “I may have touched one of the jagged 
 rocks in passing, but I really have no recollection of doing 
 
52 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 so; in fact, 1 had not noticed my hand until you called my 
 attention to it. ” 
 
 Loraine took her handkerchief from her pocket—a small, 
 delicate, flimsy affair of lace and perfume. 
 
 “ Let me bind it up for you, dear,” she said, earnestly. 
 
 Ulmont looked at the tiny bit of lace with an amused 
 irmile. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I assure you, my sweet Loraine, you are making a 
 mountain out of a mole-hill.” 
 
 He drew the white arms around his neck and the golden 
 head drooped on his breast. 
 
 “You know you are my world, Ulmont,” she whispered. 
 “Why should I not be solicitous about you? I always 
 imagine that those who love deeply, yet do not show their 
 love, resemble the sun shining behind a cloud.” 
 
 “ That is certainly one way of looking at it, Loraine,” he 
 replied, “but remember, still waters run deep. There are 
 people who love intensely, yet have no power of expressing 
 their affection.” 
 
 Loraine pondered many a time over her husband’s re¬ 
 mark, and wondered more than once what he had meant 
 by it. 
 
 Ulmont was more tender than usual, if that were possible, 
 but beneath it all, Loraine read a strange unrest. 
 
 He scarcely smiled, until the towering icy heights and 
 sunny vales of Switzerland had faded from his sight. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Ulmont and Loraine reached Boston late in the fall. 
 
 The sky was blue, but the air was keen and sharp, and 
 the hoar-frost lay white on the ground, the trees, and the 
 housetops, and shone like diamonds in the sunlight on the 
 branching evergreens. 
 
 That was a coining home long to be remembered. Every¬ 
 one spoke of the glowing beauty of the happy young 
 wife, and of the lover-like devotion of the young hus¬ 
 band. 
 
 The two mothers watched their children with great con¬ 
 tentment. Ulmont’s mother declared it was quite like 
 living her own youth over again to watch the pretty love- 
 dream of her son and his beautiful bride. Yet there was 
 one circumstance which puzzled her—there seemed to be 
 some secret thought preying upon his mind. 
 
 The day he had returned home, a greeting had been 
 given him which would have pleased a lord; yet, after it 
 was all over he had flung himself down on the sofa and 
 turned his face to the wall, saying he “ was tired of it all 
 —he wanted to rest.” An hour later, upon kneeling beside 
 liim, his mother found the pillow, upon which his fair 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 5a 
 
 r x- •„ ^ r 
 
 head lay, wet with tears. Did this look like happiness— 
 yet, why should he not be so? 
 
 There was another matter which did not escape the 
 keen, watchful eyes of his mother; she noticed how eager¬ 
 ly Ulmont watched for the mails which brought the for¬ 
 eign papers; she did not fail to observe the look of relief 
 that crept into his eyes as he laid them down, one by one, 
 still she made no comment. She never remembered her 
 son to have taken so much interest in foreign affairs be¬ 
 fore; she was exceedingly puzzled. 
 
 One evening Loraine sat at the piano, her white fingers 
 running idly over the ivory keys. Ulmont sat near her, 
 gazing thoughtfully into the gloomy coals in the grate, 
 while his mother sat opposite him, deeply interested in the 
 columns of the Boston Herald. 
 
 Suddenly she glanced up. 
 
 “ Loraine, my dear,” she said, “ there is news for you.” 
 
 “ Good news, I hope,” laughed Loraine. 
 
 “Better than might have been expected,” replied Mrs. 
 Ulvesford, as she continued; “it is about young Heath 
 Hampton. Shall I read it?” 
 
 Loraine turned, with a look of wonder on her face. 
 
 “What of him? Read it, by all means. We met him 
 abroad, in Switzerland. Has he returned?” 
 
 “No, my dear, nor is he likely to do so soon.” 
 
 “Why?” asked Loraine; “has some Swiss beauty cap¬ 
 tured the devoted cavalier?” 
 
 “No,” replied Mrs. Ulvesford, gravely; “not that.” 
 
 As she spoke, she spread out the paper she held; her eyes 
 voluntarily falling upon the face or her son; in that one 
 instant, it seemed as if long years had passed over his 
 head; his face was hard and drawn, and his eyes wore a 
 strange, unnatural brilliancy. 
 
 “You have not told us the news yet,” persisted Loraine. 
 
 Ulmont’s questioning eyes repeated the remark more 
 eloquently than words could have done. 
 
 “It is about a duel,” continued his mother; “a duel 
 wherein a young and beautiful American lady was con¬ 
 cerned.” 
 
 “Is—is her name mentioned, mother?” 
 
 Both ladies looked up in surprise; they could scarcely be¬ 
 lieve the hoarse, unnatural voice they had heard belonged 
 to Ulmont. 
 
 “ No name is given,” replied Mrs. Ulvesford. 
 
 Neither his young wife nor his mother heard the fervent 
 “thank God” he breathed from his heart, although no 
 sound issued from his lips. 
 
 “ I always imagined him an impulsive young man,” pur- 
 
64 
 
 0 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 sued Mrs. Ulvesford, calmly; “still I never imagined hia 
 rashness would lead him to such an end.” 
 
 “ Surely he is not dead,” gasped Ulmont, his impatience 
 and intense anxiety almost overpowering him; in another 
 instant he was kneeling by his mother’s side, eagerly scan¬ 
 ning the paper in her lap. 
 
 No, not dead; the wound on the hand had occasioned 
 considerable loss of blood, ending the encounter, but was 
 not necessarily considered dangerous, unless inflammation 
 set in. His opponent had hurriedly left Savoy. 
 
 The details concerning the affair were meagerly given. 
 
 “See,” exclaimed Loraine, pointing to the date, “this 
 must have happened the evening before we left Savoy. I 
 wondered why Heath Hampton failed to put in an appear¬ 
 ance on the day of our departure; this accounts for it.” 
 
 The news of the duel, which, for some unaccountable 
 reason, failed to give Ulmont’s name, proved a nine days* 
 wonder. 
 
 Curiosity was rife concerning the lady, who she was, and 
 everything concerning the scandal being the general topic 
 of the day. 
 
 Ulmont heard it discussed on the streets, in his mother’s 
 drawing-room, even his young wife when they were alone, 
 seemed eager to speak of the one absorbing topic; wonder¬ 
 ing who the young and beautiful lady was, and if she had 
 loved Heath Hampton. * 
 
 Ulmont thought he would certainly go mad. How little 
 Loraine imagined she had been the cause of that combat, 
 against which Ulmont had pitted his very life to protect 
 her honor! 
 
 Soon after this an event happened which had long been 
 expected. Ulmont’s mother, who had never been strong, 
 when the leaves began to fall, was laid at rest in the church¬ 
 yard, where the ladies of their race had slumbered for long 
 years. Otherwise, everything moved on in the same rou¬ 
 tine at the manor. 
 
 One December morning Mrs. Lorrimer had driven over 
 from Lorrimer Place to see her daughter. 
 
 A deep snow lay on the ground, and the merry, jingling 
 sleigh-bells rang sharply out on the morning air. It was 
 just such a morning as brings a flush to the cheek, bright¬ 
 ness to the eye, and a warm glow to the heart. 
 
 The sunshine gleamed ruddily through the leafless 
 branches of the trees, and the deer bent their heads to 
 drink, breaking through the thin ice that had formed over 
 the clear, glassy pools. 
 
 Never did Loraine look so picturesquely lovely as she 
 Stood at the window, gazing out upon the winter landscape, 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 5 ® 
 
 her crimson robe forming a glowing background to her fair 
 beauty. 
 
 She was so gentle, so clinging, just such a woman as men 
 reverence, love, and protect. Her life had been free from 
 care. She was not at all the kind of a woman to be slain by- 
 love—smitten to the earth idly as the yellow buttercup that 
 grows in the fields. 
 
 How was she to know, on this beautiful day, that the 
 darkest shadow that ever fell upon a pure, young life, was 
 to cast its first blight upon her! 
 
 All the joy and happiness that life holds had been hers. 
 She had married for love, and her handsome, debonair 
 young husband’s love was the crown of her earthly ambi¬ 
 tion, the star of her existence. She had been a loved and 
 petted child, and was a loved and petted wife. 
 
 Loraine's life had always been gay and brilliant; the 
 quiet isolation of home life was beginning to tell upon her. 
 
 It had been the custom for generations back to give a 
 grand ball at Ulvesford Mansion every Christmas Eve. 
 
 It was at last decided, after much discussing, that the 
 annual ball should be given. It was to be a grand affair, 
 everyone agreed. 
 
 Whatever the charming young mistress of Ulvesford 
 Mansion did, would be done brilliantly. 
 
 “You know, dear,” said Loraine, laying her hand on her 
 husband’s arm, “ it is our first ball at home. I mean to 
 make this a memorable one.” 
 
 “ As if anything you undertook would be aught else,” he 
 replied, smilingly. 
 
 A memorable one! Heaven pitv her I That one night 
 would shut out from her young life all the brightness of 
 this world. 
 
 The chiming bells which would usher in that Christmas 
 morning could have whispered a strange, startling secret 
 to her. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford little knew, as he caressed his young 
 wife’s golden hair, that the event which would happen on 
 that Christmas Eve would bring him the keenest sorrow 
 mortal man ever experienced. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IZETTA. 
 
 Some few months previous to the events narrated in 
 our last chapter, the golden sun was just setting over the 
 quiet little village of Silvernook. 
 
 Thesoft, dreamy silence which pervaded this quiet, rural 
 spot, was broken only by the chirping of birds the lowing 
 
56 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 of the distant kine, or bit of song from some blithe young 
 milkmaid’s lips, as she drove home the cows. 
 
 Along the flower-bordered path that followed the wind¬ 
 ings of a deep, silent, rock-bedded river, walked an old 
 man, leaning heavily on his cane. 
 
 As he turned an abrupt angle he started back with a cry 
 of surprise; before him, lying face downward in the long, 
 daisy-studded grass, lay a young girl, sobbing bitterly. 
 
 She was certainly a stranger in that locality; Abel never 
 remembered having seen her before. 
 
 “Child,” said the old flute-maker, touching her gently 
 on the shoulder, “ why do you weep? Surely youth can¬ 
 not know so soon the bitter dregs life’s cup holds; why do 
 you weep?” 
 
 He never forgot the sad expression on the beautiful face 
 raised to his in the gloaming; a sweet, foreign face, white 
 with anguish, yet perfect as a marble statue. 
 
 Tear-drops quivered on the long, dark lashes that veiled 
 the beautiful, scornful, dark eyes. 
 
 For a moment only those eyes searched wistfully the 
 rugged, yet honest face before her. 
 
 She only shook her head, and the tears flowed afresh; 
 then a sudden thought came to her. 
 
 “ Perhaps you will tell me, sir, what I ought to do,” she 
 said, with a low, pitiful sob. “I am so helpless I cannot 
 even think.” 
 
 u Perhaps I may be able to advise you if you will tell me 
 your trouble, you forget that I do not know,” replied the 
 flute-maker, seating himself on an adjacent rock. “ Surely 
 you are not alone, my child?” he asked, wonderingly. 
 
 “Yes, sir, I am all alone,” she replied. “I will -tell you 
 how it came about. Then, perhaps, you can tell me what 
 I ought to do. My husband, who had been called suddenly 
 home, gave me a to bring to his old nurse in Silver- 
 nook, with whom I was to remain a few days until he 
 came for me.” 
 
 Again the tears started to the lovely eyes, and her voice 
 quivered in a broken sob. 
 
 “I have lost the address he gave me, and—and the 
 money my husband gave me I must have left in the train.” 
 
 Abel Moore was lost in bewilderment; he could not un¬ 
 derstand it. 
 
 She married! This young creature with the beautiful for¬ 
 eign face, scarcely more than a child, married! He could 
 hardly credit what he heard. 
 
 “ Have you no recollection of the name of the person you 
 wish to find?” he asked. 
 
 “None whatever, sir.” 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 57 
 
 “Who is your husband, child, what is his name, I 
 mean?” 
 
 “ Alderic Ross, sir, and I am his wife Izetta.” 
 
 She repeated the words with a simple, child-like dignity, 
 as if the words were the sweetest music to her. 
 
 “ Mr. Ross, of where?” 
 
 “That I do not know, sir.” 
 
 The old flute-maker was growing each moment more 
 mystified. 
 
 “ Perhaps your own people could advise you best,” he 
 said, thoughtfully. 
 
 He never forgot how the beautiful face turned away from 
 him with the saddest cry he had ever heard from human 
 lips, as the words slowly trembled on the white lips. 
 
 “I have no one, sir; no one in all the wide world but 
 Mr. Ross.” 
 
 Gradually he drew from her her story, that seemed like 
 a page of a sad romance. 
 
 “I could find no one in Silvernook who knew my hus¬ 
 band,” continued Izetta, “though I went from house to 
 house; then I tried so hard to think what I should do, 
 sir, until Alderic came for me, without home, friends, or 
 money.” 
 
 “ How long have you been in Silvernook?” 
 
 “ Since early yesterday morning. I could not find my 
 husband’s old nurse, so I came to this spot to think what 
 was best to do.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Have you been out in the cold and the darkness all 
 night?” he asked. 
 
 “ Yes, sir; but I did not feel the cold, and I hid my face 
 among the daisies to shut out the darkness until morning 
 came again.” 
 
 Abel Moore could have wept for her, but one thought 
 drifted across his mind, the same thought that had .come 
 to all who had heard her story. 
 
 Poor child! Heaven help her; she is cast adrift on the 
 world; whether from folly or inexperience, they could not 
 tell; it was hard to judge her. 
 
 The flute-maker hid his face in his hands; he could see 
 she loved this man who had won her love with all the 
 depths of her young, trusting heart. 
 
 It was one of the cruelest of tasks to undeceive her; how 
 could he tear from her eyes the veil of innocence and trust, 
 showing her the cold, mocking world, that would laugh at 
 the woe which stretched out before her? 
 
 “ Some villain has taken this means of ridding himself of 
 this beautiful girl,” he thought. “ Oh, Lord!” cried Abel, 
 holding up his hands to Heaven, “howcanst Thou have 
 patience with men?” 
 
58 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 He wondered how they could live and breathe God’s pure 
 air, while such a sin as this stained their souls. 
 
 “You must bide your time patiently until he comes, my 
 poor child. Has any thought occurred to you as to where 
 you could go in the meantime?” 
 
 “ No, sir; I had not thought much of that. I had a lit¬ 
 tle change left, quite by accident, in my pocket, with which 
 I could purchase food until my husband comes for me. I 
 shall go to the depot when each train arrives, that I may 
 be sure he will not miss me.” 
 
 “ God help her,” mentally ejaculated the old flute-maker. 
 “I fear those raven locks will whiten beneath the snows of 
 many a year before the return of him for whom she would 
 watch and wait! 
 
 “ If she only had a mother to advise her,” he thought; 
 “she is so young, beautiful, artless, and so helpless. If 
 she had sinned, it was with a soul so pure it might plead to 
 Heaven for pardon, and find forgiveness there.” 
 
 The flute-maker scarcely knew which way to point out 
 to her. 
 
 “ I have a good old wife at home, my child; come to her; 
 surely Marguirette abcw r all others will know what is 
 best for you.” 
 
 His face was so kin" 7 /, his voice so gentle, Izetta arose 
 and followed him at once. 
 
 “There is one thing I should like to ask you,” said the 
 old man, stopping short in the path. “ Mind, I do not 
 doubt what you have told me. but before I take you home 
 to my Marguirette, I should like to ask you one question.” 
 
 Izetta raised her eyes earnestly to his face. 
 
 “You have told me, child, your mother is dead.” 
 
 Izetta looked up at the blue arched dome above her. 
 
 “ If death were to claim you, would you have the hope 
 of meeting your sainted mother, spotless, in Heaven?” he 
 asked, solemnly. 
 
 “Yes,” answered Izetta, clasping her hands reverential¬ 
 ly, and turning her dark, sorrowful eyes up to the fleecy 
 clouds above her. 
 
 From that moment the flute-maker would have staked 
 his life upon Izetta’s truthfulness and purity. Not another 
 word was spoken, as he led her through the gloaming to 
 his humble home. 
 
 How little she knew, as she walked up that shell-border¬ 
 ed path that, far away in his stately home, at that moment 
 the good old doctor was bending over her husband’s pros¬ 
 trate form, saying: 
 
 “His life hangs by a single thread; if he lives, his rea¬ 
 son may be partially restored; never wholly, unless by a 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 59 
 
 violent shock, which would probably cost him his life. If 
 he lives at all, you must be content.” 
 
 In the midst of a bower of honey-suckles, purple lilacs 
 and nodding sun-flowers, quite hidden from view like a 
 bird’s nest, was the flute-maker’s cottage. 
 
 From the open doorway the soft whirring of a spinning- 
 wheel fell upon their ear, and the low notes of a woman’s 
 voice singing the sweetest, most plaintive melody Izetta 
 had ever heard. 
 
 The room was frrnished plainly and neatly. A shaded 
 lamp burned upon the mantel, from which the single occu¬ 
 pant of the room was partially turned as if in expectancy. 
 
 “Is that you, Abel?” she called, as he paused on the 
 threshold. 
 
 “Yes, Marguirette, wife, it is I.” 
 
 “Ah!” exclaimed the old lady, softly. “I thought I 
 heard a stranger’s footsteps.” 
 
 The venerable face, framed in its snowy hair, was bent 
 slightly forward, and the blue eyes were turned inquiring¬ 
 ly toward the door; yet in them was no sight. Poor lady! 
 she was blind. 
 
 “ You are right, Marguirette,”answered the flute-maker; 
 “ I have brought a stranger with me—-a young girl.” 
 
 Izetta noticed how soft and low his voice grew as he 
 spoke to her. 
 
 “ A young girl, did you say, Abel?” 
 
 “Yes, one just about the age of our Amy, when— 
 when——” 
 
 He did not finish the sentence, and Izetta saw him turn 
 aside, a tear rolling down his furrowed cheek. 
 
 Izetta wondered why the poor lady clasped her in her 
 arms so firmly to her beating heart, while her hands wan¬ 
 dered tremblingly over her long, dark curls, as she mur¬ 
 mured, quite under her breath: 
 
 “So like—ah, Abel, so like!” 
 
 ] Again Izetta, in her artless way, told Marguirette her 
 pitiful story; there were tears in the sightless eyes when 
 she ceased speaking. 
 
 The young girl spoke in such hopeful eagerness of the 
 few days which must soon pass before her husband came 
 for lier. 
 
 Abel Moore looked at her, pondering what was best to 
 be done. The sun had set, the birds were folding their 
 wings, and the flowers long since had closed their eyes, 
 while the bright stars were slowly fixing themselves in the 
 sky above. 
 
 “ Marguirette,” he said, gently, “what shall we do toX 
 this child?” 
 
 Marguirette led him quietly to the window, 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 flO 
 
 “Look,” she said; “I cannot see that white cross upon 
 which the stars are shining through the trees: but you can 
 see it, Abel. ” 
 
 “ I can see it,” he replied, with a husky voice. 
 
 “For the sake of her who sleeps there, Abel—our all, 
 who was so like this one—let us Keep her here until the 
 first great sting of her grief is over. I can better judge 
 then, what is best for her future.” 
 
 “ Child, would you like to remain here for a few days?” 
 he asked, turning to Izetta. 
 
 She crossed quickly over to where the old flute-maker 
 and his wife stood by the window. 
 
 “I am very grateful to you,” she said; “ my husband 
 will be very pleased that I have found so good a shelter.” 
 
 “You love your—your husband very much?” said Mar- 
 guirette, sadly. 
 
 “ More than I can tell you,” answered Izetta. 
 
 She wondered why the good woman said “poor child!” 
 while she was so rich in her husband’s love. 
 
 For many days that followed, the passengers on the in¬ 
 coming trains saw, eagerly watching from amid the green 
 trees, a beautiful, expectant, joyful face, the most glori¬ 
 ously beautiful, foreign face they had ever seen, and they 
 never forgot the white, despairing woe that settled over it, 
 from which all joy, all light and happiness died out as the - 
 train slowly moved onward, leaving her there alone in her 
 pitiful sorrow. 
 
 Thus the days slowly dragged along, lengthening into a 
 week and the week to a fortnight; and yet he came not, 
 and dark thoughts were creeping into the sad girl-wife’s 
 heart as she crept slowly home by the path on the brink 
 of the dark river. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 HE COMETH UOT. 
 
 Who could attempt to describe the next few days that 
 followed; the rosy dawns watched for with such a"pitiful, 
 pleading face, and the tears which ushered in each gloam¬ 
 ing? 
 
 After each train had departed and Izetta came not, Abel 
 always knew where to look for her—down by the dark, 
 silent water where he had first met her, with her face 
 buried in the long, cool grass, 
 
 There were no tears now; it might have been better had 
 there been. 
 
 Abel and his wife were sorely troubled about her. 
 
 , 4 ‘ Love often makes a woman desperate,” she thought, 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 
 as she listened to the girl’s low, quivering sighs. “ There 
 is no telling what she might do if left to herself.” 
 
 Abel had thought her scarcely more than a child: he was 
 amazed at the tragic sorrow that swayed her soul; the 
 haunting look in the dark eyes was terrible to see. 
 
 Slowly the thought was beginning to dawn upon Izetta 
 —what if he never came? Ah, God! how was she to live 
 through the suspense? 
 
 The week and two succeeding days had slowly dragged 
 away, bringing Izetta no tidings. 
 
 She crept slowly back to the flute-maker’s home, where 
 Marguirette sat knitting in the twilight, sinking down on 
 a low footstool by her side. 
 
 Marguirette knew full well the terrible, heart-rending 
 lesson of disappointment that young heart was learning. 
 
 She knew there are times in life when silence is a blessing 
 —this was one of them. At last Izetta broke the silence. 
 
 “ Mrs. Moore,” she said, “ why do you think my husband 
 does not come to me?” 
 
 There seemed to be years added to that young voice; all 
 the sweetness was gone from it. 
 
 “My child,” replied Marguirette, “God forbid my lips 
 should be the ones to speak that which must give you pain, 
 but it is my duty. You will look back to this moment all 
 the years of your after life, and remember it was my duty 
 to speak.” 
 
 She could not see how marble-white the beautiful face 
 had grown. 
 
 “Izetta,” she continued softly, “the world is wicked; 
 there are men who have helped to make it so; there are 
 crimes too dark for young minds to fully comprehend; 
 but the cruelest of all crimes is the blighting of innocent 
 girlhood.” 
 
 Izetta’s lips parted, but no sound issued from them. 
 
 “There are men,” continued blind Marguirette, sadly, 
 “ who are attracted to a pretty face; beauty is often a fatal 
 gift, child, the voice is tender, the smile sw T eet. I have not 
 wondered they win the love of young girls, but the folly 
 does not rest there, Izetta; they soon tire of them; can 
 you think what would happen then, child?” 
 
 “No,” came the girl’s answer, in a low voice, something 
 like the truth of Marguirette’s meaning flashing across her 
 brain. 
 
 “ They too often tire of a light, romantic love, and with 
 a smile on their lips, or a kiss on their cheeks, they leave 
 them. Heaven pity the poor, unprotected innocents! They 
 never return, Izetta, never. May Heaven pity the heart of 
 her who waits; they never come, child.” 
 
 “ It cannot be so with Alderic,” sobbed the girl; “ I am 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 6 1 
 
 his wife, Mrs. Moore, surely that makes a difference. Why 
 did. he marry me if he meant to desert me?” 
 
 “Abel tells me you are fair to look upon. He was young 
 and reckless; your beauty was the fatal rock; it was ad¬ 
 miration, not iove.” 
 
 Izetta recalled her husband’s every word and look. She 
 did not remember the words, “ I love you ,” ever to have 
 crossed his lips. 
 
 “ Surely God would never be so cruel to me,” moaned 
 the girl passionately, ‘ 4 when I love him so. Ah! Mrs. 
 Moore, I did not know then my life was so bound up in 
 his. Alderie is the other half of my soul. I could not live 
 my life out and know I should never look upon his face 
 again,” she cried, vehemently. 
 
 “ Others have lived through sorrows just as deep and 
 dark, my child.” 
 
 “There never could have been a life so dark and desolate 
 as mine,” wailed Izetta; “ first my beautiful young mother 
 was taken from me, then my father, and next my patient 
 old grandfather. I had always been so good, so dutiful, 
 why was 1 left all alone to suffer so? My husband’s love 
 was all I had to comfort me. Can you tell me why that 
 was denied me too?” 
 
 “ God knows best, child.” 
 
 “ I cannot believe he could be guilty of such a wrong, 
 Mrs. Moore! if you had only known Alderie, you would 
 have felt how impossible it would have been for him to de¬ 
 ceive anyone. I have heard him say again and again: ‘his 
 honor was his shield.’ ” 
 
 “Alas! alas! poor child, how little he cared for your 
 honor,” sighed the flute-maker’s wife, sorrowfully. “ You 
 will wonder, child, why I have so little faith in the prom¬ 
 ises of men. Do you see a motto with the simple word 
 ‘ mother ’ worked in worsted flowers, that hangs on yon¬ 
 der wall?” 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Izetta, pressing the worn hand she 
 held. 
 
 “That was my Amy’s handiwork: she was my only 
 child. You cannot know the depths of mother-love, Izetta,: 
 you cannot realize how I loved my only child—I worshiped 
 her, I often think that is why Goa took her from me. Amy 
 was fair and good—she was just about your age when the 
 dark cloud of her life settled over her. Love caused it all, 
 Izetta—love caused it all. 
 
 ‘ 4 This was the way it came about. A stranger was rid¬ 
 ing through Silvernook when, opposite this gate, his horse 
 slipped and the rider fell. We took the stranger in and 
 cared for him. They told me he was young and handsome; 
 but I took no heed; it did not strike me then as strange* 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 68 
 
 “He lingered, after he recovered, many a day—I shall 
 never forget the day he left. As the night came on, I missed 
 my Amy I cannot describe to you the agony of that day. 
 Abel found a note in Amy’s room saying she had gone with 
 the handsome stranger. ‘ We are to be married this very 
 day, mother dear, and in a few short weeks we will return 
 to you.’ 
 
 “ All the long days that followed, I sat with my face to 
 the wall; darkness shrouded my eyes, but a darkness more 
 bitter than death shrouded my soul. In all the long months 
 that followed, no word came from my child. Heaven alone 
 knew what sorrows surrounded Amy; still I held my faith 
 with God. When Amy’s sorrows are greater than she can 
 bear, she will come back to her poor old mother’s arms, I 
 said. 
 
 “When she was a little child, she found shelter on this 
 breast; she knows her mother’s love will prove faithful to 
 the last, though all else fail her; if harm befalls my child, 
 she will come to me. 
 
 “I was right,” continued the poor old blind woman, 
 softly; “ one night as I sat in this same chair, I heard soft 
 footsteps creep close up beside me, and a stifled sob. Two 
 soft arms stole round my neck, a tired head fell on my 
 breast, and a voice, I scarcely knew was Amy’s, sobbed: 
 
 “‘Do not censure me, mother, I have come home to die.’ 
 
 “ ‘ What of your husband, Amy?’ I cried. 
 
 “ ‘Do not speak of him, mother.’ 
 
 “ Little by little she told me all; of the morning they had 
 left, and of the little, dwarfed minister who had married 
 them in the morning light—of the few short weeks that 
 had been like a dream of Heaven to her. Then came the 
 horrible awakening. Saying ‘ he would soon return,’ he 
 left her. He never returned; instead, he wrote her a let¬ 
 ter which broke her trusting heart, confessing that the 
 marriage she so fully believed and trusted in was no mar¬ 
 riage, that the dwarf who married them was no minister. 
 A bank-note was inclosed in the letter, which read: 
 
 “ ‘ I would indeed undo the past if it was in my power, 
 Amy, but it is too late. I cannot. Go back to Silvernook, 
 Amy, and forget me.’ 
 
 “ Poor child, she came back to her mother’s love, but she 
 never forgot him—she died with his name on her lips. 
 You can see a grave, a little white cross beneath the trees. 
 That is Amy’s grave. Her poor old father never was the 
 same. His heart is buried in Amy’s grave. 
 
 “The name of our child has seldom been spoken since be¬ 
 tween us; our sorrow is too deep for words. Now you will 
 
64 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 understand, Izetta, how my heart yearns toward you—how 
 I would shield your trusting heart from every cruel stab.” 
 
 Izetta laid her head on Marguirette’s shoulder. 
 
 “ She was young, as I am,” she said. “ She could not 
 live without her love, I cannot live without mine.” 
 
 “She might have lived,” answered Marguirette, “had 
 she come to me for comfort when the first stab of grief fell 
 upon her. She pined away for want of a loving word of 
 courage and strength. You must look to God to be righted, 
 if you have been wronged, my child. Promise me you 
 will look for guidance up there.” 
 
 “I cannot believe I have been so wronged, Mrs. Moore. 
 I solemnly believe it was a minister of God who married 
 Alderic and me.” 
 
 “ There are others, child, who have been just so trust¬ 
 ful.” 
 
 “ Mrs. Moore,” said Izetta, solemnly, “ in Heaven I have 
 an angel mother. She could not have allowed a crime so 
 dark to fall on her helpless child. I have never done a 
 single wrong for which I should atone.” 
 
 “ Alas! it is the good who seem to be called upon to suf¬ 
 fer most,” said Marguirette, sadly. 
 
 “I shall always believe I am his wife in the sight of 
 Heaven and in the sight of man,” said Izetta, firmly. 
 “ That is the one great thought that will help me to bear 
 my life bravely. It may be with me - as it was with your 
 poor Amy. He may have ceased to love me, hut for all 
 that I believe I am his lawful wife. The world shall pro¬ 
 claim it. I never could die with the least stain clouding the 
 name my mother gave me in all its purity. I shall know 
 no rest until I have sought my husband out, and he has 
 said, that all the wide, wide world may know it, 
 
 “ ‘ This is Izetta, my wife.’ ” 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 A HEART PANG. 
 
 Soon another fact became apparent to Izetta; she must 
 not remain longer under the flute-maker’s roof. 
 
 Abel’s scanty earnings scarcely provided the necessaries 
 of life for himself and wife; she must not add to their 
 burden. 
 
 She made one more effort, with Abel’s help, to find the 
 former old nurse of her husband; the endeavor proved 
 useless. 
 
 “ I have known everyone in Silvernook this many a year. 
 I never knew but two who were nurses; one was good old 
 Auntie Becket, as we used to call her; she died full forty 
 years ago, %en there is Mrs. Ryegate, who, in her early 
 
 {. 
 
65 
 
 A FATAL WOOING, 
 
 clays lived up at Ulvesford Mansion, but never anywhere 
 else, so ’twas not she. No one hereabouts ever heard of a 
 Mr. Ross! Ah! child, there is too deep a mystery here for* 
 honest country folk like us to probe.” 
 
 “Shall I have to give up the search?” asked Izetta, piti¬ 
 fully, sick and weary at heart. 
 
 “I don’t see what else you can do,” replied Abel. 
 “ Could you pick up a grain of sand and fling it into that 
 rushing river, with the hope of finding it again? He has 
 gone out of your life, child. There is nothing left you but 
 to forget.” 
 
 “ If I only could forget!” she sobbed, passionately. ‘ ‘ Why, 
 the soft wooing of the breeze against my cheek reminds 
 me of his voice ; the very trees, the flowers, and birds, 
 whisper of nothing but him. I might not know the dif¬ 
 ference between one grain of sand and its mates, but, oh! 
 Mr. Moore, my love would teach me by its sweet thrillings, 
 when Alderic is near me; he is like none other.” 
 
 “Was there ever a love so grand, so passionate, so sub¬ 
 lime as this w 7 as?” thought Abel, in simple wonder; he 
 could not comprehend its great depths. 
 
 One great prayer rose up from Abel’s heart that these 
 two should never meet, if, perchance, fate e’er willed it 
 otherwise. He trembled .for the young girl standing there, 
 so beautiful, so passionate, so loving; he little knew what 
 lay in store for her. 
 
 Izetta began to look around her, wondering what she 
 should do. 
 
 Those little white hands were unused to toil, other than 
 the pleasant task of drawing the sweetest melody from 
 piano, harp, or guitar. 
 
 Her grandfather had been wont to say that her voice 
 alone was a fortune to her. 
 
 Alas! alas! it was worse than useless to her in time of 
 need. 
 
 “ What use have we for teachers of music?” the simple 
 folk of Silvernook had said to her, “with such great mas¬ 
 ters as the birds, the brook, and the great sighing trees? 
 Your voice is sweet, like the music of silvery, chiming bells, 
 but we are content with our own.” 
 
 “Is there nothing I can do?” cried Izetta, turning her 
 white face to the fleecy clouds. “ Father in Heaven! which 
 way shall I turn? Without home or friends, where shall I 
 go? what shall I do?” Many a time had the good old par¬ 
 son of Silvernook watched that beautiful, wistful face as 
 she hurriedly passed his cottage to greet the approaching 
 train, noting the woful tears and the agony in the dark 
 eyes, as she slowly and sadly retraced her steps. 
 
 He had deeply pitied her, wishing he knew her history. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 m 
 
 He was sure some great sorrow had crept into her life, and 
 he longed to comfort her. 
 
 Izetta shrank from repeating to him the sad tale, which 
 caused everyone who had heard it to gaze at her in such 
 sorrowful pity, with the words, “ poor child!’ upon their 
 lips. 
 
 “ I must find something to do,” she told the parson. “ I 
 am all alone in the world; home, friends, or money, I have 
 none. Can you tell me, sir, what I can do?” 
 
 “You are very young, my child,” replied the pastor, 
 slowly; “ the world calls for experience, and experience 
 goes with age. I will see what I can do for you; still, I can 
 give you no hope as to the results.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Perhaps I might teach the village school, or something 
 of that kind,” suggested Izetta. 
 
 The Rev. Dr. Morleigh shook his head. 
 
 “Miss True is twice your age,” he said, “and she finds 
 her task no light one.” 
 
 “ Perhaps I could find some one who would engage me 
 for lace-work. ” 
 
 He shook his head; there was no one in Silvernook who 
 required such services. 
 
 She could not spin, neither could she knit; these were the 
 principal industries of the village. 
 
 She had invested her little store in an advertisement as 
 governess, in an adjacent city paper, but nothing had come 
 of it. She had dispensed with all the pretty ornaments her 
 husband had given her, waiting patiently in the hope that 
 some one would want her who read that advertisement, 
 but all in vain; only the plain gold band Alderic had placed 
 upon her finger, remained. 
 
 “I would not part with that,” she told herself, “ if I were 
 to die of hunger; when I gaze upon it, this little band re¬ 
 minds me, even though deserted, that I am an honorable 
 wife. I have done no wrong; this must be my passport to 
 Heaven.” 
 
 One day the pastor sent for Izetta; he had said she must 
 not hope; yet why had he sent for her so suddenly? 
 
 She lifted the latch of the cottage gate and entered. 
 
 Dr. Morleigh was among his flowers, carefully pruning 
 the dead leaves and withered tendrils. 
 
 “ Would there were gentle hands to prune away all that 
 is harmful from the buds of life’s garden,” he thought, as 
 he looked up benignly upon seeing who his visitor was. He 
 never forgot the mournful expression of the beautiful eyes 
 that searched his face so eagerly for one ray of hope. 
 
 “Sit down, my dear,” said Doctor Morleigh, motioning 
 to a rustic garden seat beneath a spreading cedar; “ I have 
 news for you, ” 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 67 
 
 For one brief instant the hope that it might be from Al- 
 deric, her husband, rose in her heart. 
 
 A tide of color rushed across the white face, her breast 
 heaved, and her little white hands were clasped convul¬ 
 sively together. 
 
 “It is about a situation,” continued Doctor Morleigh, 
 cheerily. 
 
 He wondered why the young girl leaned so wearily back 
 against the cedar tree. 
 
 The white lids closed over the dark eyes, and all the 
 bright color left the delicate face; he thought, in his hon¬ 
 est heart, the good news had been quite too much for her. 
 
 “ I have grave doubts, however, as to whether you will 
 be able to fill the position, my dear. I do not refer to your 
 capability, but your age, child, will be a serious draw¬ 
 back.” 
 
 “If I were only older how much better it would be for 
 me,” sighed Izetta. 
 
 “Ah,” replied the minister, softly, “those who have the 
 weight of years upon their brow cry out in the bitterness 
 of their soul, * If I had but youth again what would I not 
 do?’” 
 
 He looked at the fair face, more gloriously beautiful than 
 an artist’s dream, and thought how many of the grand 
 ladies he had known would give princely fortunes for a 
 face like that. 
 
 “ You are not much more than sixteen, are you, child?” 
 he ask< d. 
 
 “Not much more, sir; sixteen and a few months.” 
 
 “ There are not many of Madame Root’s pupils below that 
 age,” he reflected: “a serious drawback, indeed. You 
 speak your native tongue, I presume?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, sir; my grandfather took the greatest of pains 
 with my French and music.” 
 
 “ Could you give a recommendation from the school you 
 last attended, as to qualifications?’ 5 
 
 “ I never attended a school, sir. My grandfather was my 
 only teacher; it was the one bright dream of his life that I 
 should master the languages and music perfectly.” 
 
 “ I will give you a letter to Madame Root; you can do no 
 more than apply. Hush,” said he gently, as Izetta was 
 about to speak, “you must not talk of failure; if that is 
 what you were about to say, until after you have first 
 tried. It is a sad thing in life when light-hearted youth 
 first finds out the terrible reality of the words: ‘I have 
 striven hard, but alas, I have failed.’ Madame Root is a 
 wDe woman and will judge wisely at all events, I am sure. 
 I have known the lady well for many a year, and I have 
 
68 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 $ 
 
 asked, as a special favor to myself, that she will give you 
 full opportunity of testing your abilities. ” 
 
 u Oh, sir, you are more than kind,” sobbed Izetta; “how 
 can I ever sufficiently thank you?” 
 
 ‘ 4 By not attempting it. I am but a humble instrument 
 in the hands of God. Thank Him for all things.” 
 
 He placed a sealed envelope in her hands, advising her to 
 peruse it before she started, that she might be familiar with 
 the duties which might be assigned her. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Should I prove satisfactory to madam, there is one re¬ 
 quest I would like to ask of you,” said Izetta, still linger¬ 
 ing in the path. 
 
 “Speak out, my child; never hesitate in good thoughts.” 
 
 Izetta drew nearer to where he stood; the little, soft, 
 white hand she laid upon his arm trembled as the sweet 
 voice whispered, hesitatingly; 
 
 ‘ 4 If any one—a stranger, I mean—a gentleman—should 
 come to Silvernook and inquire for me, will you please tell 
 him where I have gone, sir?” 
 
 The hand which held the pruning knife fell to his side, 
 and the keen blade severed a white blossom from the bush 
 in its descent, falling in the dust at his feet. 
 
 The old man looked Izetta full in the face. 
 
 “I will not question you,” he said; “but if I were to 
 promise you this, can you answer me truthfully—would it 
 be a just action? Your motive is strictly a true one?” 
 
 “You need have no fear, sir,” Izetta answered; “ Heaven 
 would bless you for such a kind action to me.” 
 
 Still the thought troubled the old minister; he pondered 
 over these words long and earnestly after Izetta had gone. 
 
 Was this the key that solved the hidden sorrow of this 
 beautiful young girl’s past? 
 
 The question greatly troubled him; he could not tell why. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE COLLEGE OF MUSIC. 
 
 There were tears in the eyes of the good old flute maker 
 and his wife, when Izetta told them of the situation the 
 minister hoped to procure for her at Madame Root’s, in a 
 neighboring city. 
 
 “ God bless you, my child,” whispered Marguirette, as she 
 folded the young girl to her heart. ‘ ‘ Always remember, if 
 you find the world too cold and stormy, you shall have a 
 place by our hearthstone, humble though it be. You have 
 been with us scarcely a fortnight, yet we love you very 
 dearly; you will not forget us, Izetta?” 
 
 Izetta sobbed as if her heart would break. Forget those 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 69 
 
 two kind souls who had cheered her so patiently through 
 her dark sorrow? Never! never while life lasted. 
 
 She looked around upon the quiet hills and vales that had 
 silently witnessed the great tragedy of her life. She laid 
 her hand tenderly on the mossy stone, beside which Abel 
 had first found her, murmuring softly; 
 
 “ I shall never forget how this spot looks; ’twas here my 
 heart broke.” 
 
 The tender violets swayed by the evening breeze, lowly 
 bent their purple heads earthward as if in sorrow because 
 she had said farewell to them. 
 
 As Izetta sat in the doorway of the little cottage, which 
 on the morrow she should leave perhaps forever, she thought 
 of the letter the minister had given her, with the request 
 that she should make herself aware of its contents at her 
 leisure. 
 
 As she opened the envelope something fluttered to her 
 feet. 
 
 Heaven bless the kind old parson; it was a bank-note for 
 a smell amount, which would enable her to defray the ex¬ 
 pense of her journey. 
 
 “ If you never repay me perhaps I may find the mterest 
 which collects from a worthy deed up there.' 1 ' 1 
 
 The letter to Madame Boot spoke of her as ‘ ‘ Miss Bienzi. ” 
 Then it occurred to her she had not told her kind bene¬ 
 factor she was married. 
 
 She thought she had explained to him that Bienzi was 
 her grandfather’s name, not her own. 
 
 She fully meant to make these facts known to Madame 
 Boot, however. 
 
 u Wil! you promise me,” asked Marguirette, holding the 
 little white hands in her own for the last time, “ no matter 
 what you are called upon to suffer in life, should you in 
 the years to come ever meet him , promise me that you will 
 do nothing rash?” 
 
 For a moment only Izetta hesitated. 
 
 “I give you my promise, Mrs. Moore,” she said. 
 
 She little knew under what trying circumstances that 
 sacred promise made to the blind, would forcibly return to 
 her. 
 
 A few hours later Izetta, traveling-satchel in hand, 
 alighted from the hack in front of a spacious, imposing 
 edifice, which announced to the public in golden letters 
 over the arched doorway: “ College of Music.” 
 
 Izetta’s heart sank within her, as she gazed up at the 
 tall marble building, with its long, narrow, coldly-staring 
 windows, its gables and turrets. 
 
 She would have sat down on the stone stops ap.d ened, 
 
 had it not been for the passers-by. 
 
70 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 She asked herself why everyone stared at her in such 
 wonder. 
 
 She never once dreamed it was her wondrously lovely 
 foreign face that caused the ladies who passed her by to 
 look so coldly on the beautiful, forlorn girl, and the men to 
 pause in unfeigned admiration, taking a lingering back¬ 
 ward glance as they pursued their journey. 
 
 Izetta ascended the marble steps and timidly rang the 
 bell, clutching the Rev. Dr. Morleigh’s letter nervously in 
 her hand. A tidy waiting-maid answered the summons. 
 
 “I should like to see Madame Root, if you please,” said 
 Izetta. 
 
 “Surely you are not the music-teacher madam was ex¬ 
 pecting from Silvernook?” asked the maid, curiously. 
 
 “Yes,” answered Izetta, simply, and she wondered why 
 a suppressed giggle shook the girl’s frame, as she ushered 
 her into the reception-room to await madam’s appearance. 
 
 Like the exterior, the interior of the house was imposing 
 in its stately appointments; no unnecessary article found 
 lodgment there; an air of stiffness pervaded the elegance of 
 the establishment, which struck a cold chill to Izetta’s 
 heart. 
 
 “All brightness and joy have gone from me,” she said to 
 herself. ‘ ‘ I shall try to wear my life out as patiently as I 
 can.” 
 
 She was so young to have had such thoughts. 
 
 So intent was Izetta with her own thoughts she did not 
 hear the measured thread of approaching footsteps, nor the 
 rustling of a stiff silk dress as it swept over the thick 
 carpet. 
 
 “You wished to see me, I believe?” said a hard, metallic 
 voice at her elbow. 
 
 Izetta raised her eyes like a startled, timid fawn to the 
 speaker's face. 
 
 “I had thought you wished to see me , madam,” she re¬ 
 plied. 
 
 Madame Root looked at the shrinking young girl before 
 her in unfeigned astonishment. 
 
 “Surely you are not the person I was expecting from Sii¬ 
 vernook?” she asked, interrogatively. 
 
 Izetta bowed, placing the letter of Rev. Dr. Morleigh in 
 her hands. 
 
 She never forgot the angry, ominous frown that crossed 
 her face. 
 
 Once, twice, even a third time she carefully perused its 
 contents. Izetta watched the hard, set face" thinking on 
 what a slight thread hung her hopes of remaining at the 
 college. She was quite expecting the stern lips to decide 
 against her. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 71 
 
 “ Of course, I can give you a trial to test your abilities,” 
 said madam. “ Yet it is utterly useless to think of engag¬ 
 ing you for the position you sack; it requires a person older 
 than yourself, more dignified, and commanding.” 
 
 Again those words sounded like a death-knell in the girl’s 
 ears. , . 
 
 “You have a good knowledge of vocal as well as instru¬ 
 mental music, I presume?” 
 
 “Yes, madam.” 
 
 “ What is your voice?” 
 
 “Soprano,”answered Izetta. 
 
 “ That is quite against you, ” replied madam. ‘ ‘ We were 
 in need of a contralto voice. Step this way, miss,” she 
 glanced rapidly at the letter she held in her hand, “ Miss 
 Bienzi, step this way if you please; it may as well be said 
 I gave you the trial asked for.” 
 
 She led the way to the music-room, which, at that hour 
 of the morning was quite deserted. 
 
 A grand piano stood open; it seemed like a dear, old, 
 familiar face to the girl. 
 
 “Your own selection,” said madam, briefly, waving her 
 to be seated. “I must ask that it may be short.” 
 
 For an instant the white fingers ran lightly over the 
 keys. Izetta had never sung since the night of her grand¬ 
 father’s death. 
 
 As she sat there, the ship plowing through the dark 
 waters, tipped by the silvery light of the stars, and the 
 moonbeams drifting through the fleecy clouds, rose up be¬ 
 fore her. Again her lips took up the sad, sweet strain. 
 
 There was a low, subdued trill in the great, wide room, 
 then the young, sweet voice broke forth in all its wondrous 
 melody, like a yearning soul, first in hope, joy, and glad¬ 
 ness, gradually dying away to subdued despair. 
 
 Izetta was thinking of Alderic, the lost love of her heart 
 and soul; then the room filled with the most pathetic wail 
 ing that ever broke forth in the power of song. 
 
 The room was quite empty when they had entered it; now 
 it was crowded with a breathless throng. 
 
 As the last notes of that wondrous young voice died 
 away, a young girl with a sweet, sad face, framed in wavy, 
 auburn hair, fell in a swoon at Izetta’s feet. 
 
 Those who lifted her never forgot the glorious light that 
 lit up the white face. 
 
 Silently the throng dispersed. 
 
 Izetta and Madame Boot stood facing each other—quite 
 alone. 
 
 Madame Boot understood at once why Doctor Morleigh 
 had sent this young girl to her. 
 
 “ If she were only older,” thought madam. 
 
72 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 She recognized Izetta’s wonderful talent would be a valu« 
 able acquisition to the college; her extreme youthfulness 
 alone was against her. 
 
 She motioned Izetta to a seat, touching sharply a call- 
 bell lying on the table. 
 
 “Send Miss Glendyke to me,” she said to the servant 
 who answered the summons. 
 
 A few moments later that lady appeared. 
 
 There are faces which attract or repel us at a single 
 glance. Miss Glendyke’s face was undeniably one of the 
 latter. 
 
 She was a woman who might have passed for youthful, 
 but a keen observer could detect in the hard expression of 
 the face that she was probably on the shady side of thirty; 
 she was of medium height, slightly inclined to portliness; 
 her black hair was curled low upon her forehead, brought 
 back into a double coil at the back of her head, fastened 
 with a very long, narrow silver comb worn lengthwise. 
 
 There was no color in her pale face, and its expression 
 was at all times disagreeable; her mistaken idea of digni¬ 
 fied pride. 
 
 Miss Glendyke’s eyes, cold, searching, and merciless, fell 
 upon the desolate young stranger; it was plainly evident 
 that there would never be friendship between them. For 
 one brief instant their eyes met; cruel, harsh Miss Glen¬ 
 dyke’s, and innocent, trusting Izetta’s. 
 
 There was a brief conversation carried on in a low key 
 hurriedly between Madame Root and her principal. 
 
 “I may be in the wrong, as you say,” Izetta heard 
 Madame Root say, ‘ ‘ still I am determined to try her for at 
 leasta quarter.” 
 
 Miss Glendyke’s lip curled contemptously, and she shrug¬ 
 ged her shoulders ominously, making a parting suggestion 
 in a deep, coarse voice, as she swept from the room. 
 
 Izetta never afterward saw a hateful curl of the lip but 
 she unconsciously associated it with disagreeable Miss Glen- 
 dyke. 
 
 “I have concluded to try you for one quarter, Miss 
 Rienzi,” madam said in her slow, impressive way; “if 
 mutually agreeable at the expiration of that time, I may 
 re-engage your services; although without references from 
 former instructors, I take you upon the Reverend Doctor 
 Morleigh’s recognizance.” 
 
 Izetta hardly knew whether she felt happy or very sorry. 
 If anyone had spoken just one kind word to her at that 
 moment, the chances are that she would have burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Twice she attempted to tell Madame Root that she was 
 not Ivetta Rienm, but Ivetta Ross. The words froze on her 
 
A FATAL WOOING. IB 
 
 lips; she dared not tell her pitiful sorrow to the cold wom¬ 
 an before her. 
 
 “ Perhaps it will be as well as it is,” she sighed, wearily. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE CLASS OF THE “ PRETTY TEN.” 
 
 Soon after the same maid that had shown her to the re¬ 
 ception-room appeared to conduct her to her apartment. 
 
 “Your dinner may be served in your room to-day,” 
 called Madame Root, coldly; “to-morrow morning I should 
 like you to come to the music-room early, that I may as¬ 
 sign you your duties.” 
 
 “Yes, madam,” replied Izetta, as the woman turned 
 haughtily away. 
 
 “Did you say,” asked the lingering maid, her hand on 
 the door-knob, “Madame Root had engaged you to teach 
 music here?” 
 
 “Yes,” answered Izetta, wearily. 
 
 “Did Miss Glendyke see you, miss?” queried the girl. 
 
 “ Yes,” responded Izetta. 
 
 “Well, well,” muttered the girl, “that is the strangest 
 thing I ever did hear of.” 
 
 “What is it that is so strange?” asked Tzetta. 
 
 “Won’t you never breathe a word of it if I tell you?” 
 asked the girl, re-entering the room and closing the door 
 softly after her. 
 
 Izetta smiled ; she was very glad of even the maid’s chat¬ 
 ter to divert her thoughts even for the moment from her 
 own sad thoughts. 
 
 “You see, miss, it’s just this way here,” commenced the 
 maid, mysteriously. “All the people in this whole insti¬ 
 tution are a mean set, if I do say it.” 
 
 “Hush,” remonstrated Izetta, in a pained voice, “you 
 should not talk so.” 
 
 “ But it’s so all the same,” reiterated the girl, stubbornly; 
 “ why, there’s never a new teacher comes here but she’s 
 abused in a shameful way; the nicer she is and quiet, the 
 more she’s talked about and picked on,” continued the girl, 
 with a sidelong look at the beautiful face; “that’s why 
 they’re always wanting more talent here, as they call it, 
 You can hear a good deal of talk about getting in new 
 scholars and needing ’em, but I tell you it isn’t that; they 
 can’t get no teacher to stay, and it’s all that Miss Glen- 
 dyke’s fault, the hateful old thing,” cried the girl; shaking 
 her forefinger warningly. “ She’s the worst of the lot; she 
 sets ’em up against a body from the first. All I’ve got to 
 say is, I’d look out for her if I were you.” 
 
 With this parting advice, the girl quitted the room, ancl 
 
74 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 Izetta was left to the contemplation of her own confused 
 thoughts. 
 
 She stretched out her hands with a low, bitter cry, the 
 one great cry of her life issuing from her white lips. 
 
 “Oh, Alderic, my love, my husband, where are you?” 
 
 The tea which was sent up to her remained untasted; it 
 was not the hunger of the body but of the heart which 
 Izetta felt most keenly. 
 
 She rose early the next morning, donning one of her 
 plainest dresses, a dark silver-gray that fell in graceful 
 folds about her shapely form, and her dark curls were 
 drawn back by a pearl comb, which was her only orna¬ 
 ment. 
 
 The picturesque, foreign beauty of Izetta struck Mad¬ 
 ame Root forcibly as she entered the music-room. Soon 
 after the young ladies of the college took their seats. 
 
 By nature Izetta was timid and shrinking; there she sat, 
 the cynosure of all eyes, a sea of curious faces before her; 
 she could see the curling of red lips, the flashing of angry 
 eyes and tossing of heads, even the murmur of their 
 voices was in a measure audible to her from where she 
 sat. 
 
 One face only out of that vast throng smiled kindly up¬ 
 on her, the sweet, quiet, sad young girl whose tender soul 
 hed overflowed at her song the previous day. The mem¬ 
 ory of that smile was priceless to Izetta all the years of her 
 after-life. 
 
 “I shall try hard to win their love,” thought Izetta, as 
 she listened to their low whispers, which ended in sup¬ 
 pressed bursts of laughter. 
 
 There was rebellion in their hearts and war in their faces. 
 She might as well have attempted to govern the fiery lava 
 of Vesuvius as stayed the torrent of their dislike; her very 
 beauty, and the picturesque, large, dark, starry eyes were 
 the main causes of their envy. 
 
 They fully determined the young stranger should not 
 have a comfortable time at the College of Music if they 
 could help it. 
 
 There was another prime cause; on reception days 
 Madame Root’s establishment was crowded with the elite , 
 for the pretty young ladies of the College of Music were 
 far-famed, and many a match was made through these re¬ 
 ception days. 
 
 Many who sat intently studying that exquisite face, so 
 like none other, trembled for their own laurels. 
 
 A class of the dullest pupils were assigned to Izetta, 
 young girls who were apt enough at penning billets-doux, 
 but who could not, or would not, interest themselves in 
 their music, simply to annoy their young teacher. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 75 
 
 Fretful parents complained of the want of attention 
 shown by their daughter. Madame Root was alarmed. 
 
 “This state of affairs will never do, Miss Rienzi,” she 
 said. 
 
 Izetta was in despair. 
 
 “ Whose fault was it if they would not learn,” she cried 
 out to herself in the solitude of her own room. 
 
 The class of “the pretty ten,” as Izetta’s was called, en¬ 
 joyed their little ruse immensely; they even jeered in her 
 race, predicting a turbulent future for her. 
 
 Among the visitors at the college on reception days was 
 a wealthy young lieutenant, drawn thither by the galaxy 
 of beauty, he often laughingly declared. 
 
 There had been a time when Miss Glendyke’s charms had 
 lingered in his memory; but like many another careless 
 young fellow he soon tired of her, and what was to Miss 
 Glendyke the one sweet dream of her life, was to the young 
 officer a few easily-spoken, pleasant words, and quite as 
 easily forgotten. 
 
 Vernor Key never thought seriously of any woman, 
 until the sweetest, saddest face he had ever gazed upon 
 burst upon his startled vision. 
 
 He meant to win her for his wife, if he could. He had 
 come across this pearl in quite an unexpected fashion. 
 
 It was a chilly morning in early winter, Vernor Key 
 strolled leisurely up the marble steps of the college. 
 
 It was rather an early hour for visitors, still, as he was 
 quite a favorite, he knew admittance would not be denied 
 him. 
 
 The long halls were quite deserted; from where he stood, 
 he had a good view, unobserved, of the music-room beyond. 
 
 A young girl sat at the piano, her head drooped over the 
 keys; while beside the instrument, her arms folded across 
 her chest, stood Miss Glendyke. 
 
 There was no mistaking the look of fierce hatred she bent 
 upon the girl before her. Vernor Key was completely elec¬ 
 trified at the change apparent in her hitherto smiling coun¬ 
 tenance. 
 
 “How abhorrent is the face of an angry woman,” be 
 muttered, feeling that he should turn away, but some 
 impulse chained him to the spot. 
 
 “You will play the last bar over again, Miss Rienzi.” 
 
 The white fingers rippled over the ivories, and the sweet, 
 sad strains touched a hidden chord in Vernor Keys heart; 
 the saddest and sweetest that ever fell on a human heart. 
 
 “Ha! I thought as much,” continued Miss Glendyke, 
 wrathfully; “no wonder that passage sounded unfamiliar 
 to me; how dared you insert those variations; answer me, 
 girl 1” 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 ?8 
 
 The slight figure swayed to and fro. 
 
 Vernor could not catch the reply. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I am in time to frustrate a grand scheme of yours, 
 Miss Eienzi. No doubt you would like to get your name up 
 for a composer, but you shall never build up your triumphs 
 from this establishment,” she said, in her coarse, deep, 
 peculiar voice. 
 
 In another moment she had snatched the music from 
 Izetta’s hand, tearing it spitefully into a thousand shreds. 
 
 For one brief instant Izetta’s face was turned partially 
 toward him, and the voice, the sweetest Vernor Key had 
 ever heard, faltered, brokenly: 
 
 “ I am very sorry indeed if I have displeased you, Miss 
 Glendyke; believe me, I never once thought of being known 
 as a composer.” 
 
 A low, discordant laugh was Miss Glendyke’s only re¬ 
 sponse. 
 
 “I assure you I was only practicing it for my own 
 amusement,” continued Izetta. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Amusement, indeed! do not trouble yourself with un¬ 
 necessary explanations. I can see for myself,” sneered 
 Miss Glendyke. 
 
 “ I hope you will forgive me,” sighed Izetta. 
 
 A look, freighted with such abominable scorn and con¬ 
 tempt, Vernor Key never forgot it, crossed Miss Glendyke’s 
 face. 
 
 “ We will waive all that,” she said; “ by rights I should 
 report this affair instantly to Madame Boot. A severe rep¬ 
 rimand in the presence of the whole school is what you 
 richly deserve. Leave the room at once, Miss Eienzi, or I 
 mavbe tempted to change my mind.” 
 
 The next moment a quiet little figure glided past the spot 
 where Vernor Key sat, quite shaded by the heavy curtains; 
 he knew he was unobserved, for the large, dark, lustrous 
 eyes were suffused with blinding tears that rolled off the 
 long, curling lashes in pearly drops. 
 
 That was the first time Vernor Key ever remembered an 
 imprecation to have willfully passed his lips; as he turned 
 savagely on his heel, hurriedly quitting the building, mur¬ 
 muring to himself: 
 
 • * Woman’s inhumanity to woman is certainly heartrend¬ 
 ing?” 
 
 Miss Eienzi—Miss Eienzi, the name had a sweet musical 
 sound to his ears; he was wondering when he should see 
 her again. 
 
 The beautiful, foreign face haunted him like a dream. 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 11 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A STARTLING EVENT. 
 
 Lieutenant Xey haunted the college like a shadow. 
 
 A bright glow of hope had dawned for a moment in Miss 
 Glendyke's bosom, only to be extinguished as she heard 
 him remark to Madame Root, quite carelessly, “that h© 
 should like to be presented to the young lady at the win¬ 
 dow,” indicating Izetta, one reception-day. 
 
 “Certainly,” said Madame Root, amiably, though at 
 heart greatly annoyed; they had scarcely turned round, 
 ere the object of their conversation was silently and mys¬ 
 teriously spirited from the room. 
 
 Miss Glendyke took great care Izetta should never again 
 enter the reception-room during visitors’ hours. 
 
 How little Miss Glendyke knew that no face save one 
 had power to charm the sweet young girl whose absorbing 
 thought was bound up in the husband whom she believed 
 had so cruelly abandoned her. 
 
 When a strange voice fell upon her ear, she gazed wist¬ 
 fully at the speaker, to see if it were not he; she sought 
 for him in the midst of crowds; his face, and his alone, 
 was ever before her. 
 
 Izetta lived over in her dreams how she should fling her¬ 
 self at his feet, when she found him, and cry out: 
 
 “ Alderic, my love, my love, do not send me away from 
 
 you.” 
 
 Sweet little wife, she was so true to her husband of one 
 short, happy week. 
 
 Much to the young lieutenant’s chagrin, he never caught 
 more than an occasional glimpse of Izetta. 
 
 Thus matters might have stood for many a day had not 
 a singular occurrence happened. 
 
 One morning Izetta was standing in a curtained alcove, 
 wondering how long she should have to live like this and 
 how it would all end, when the sound of voices fell upon 
 her ear. 
 
 Miss Glendyke and Lieutenant Key sauntered leisurely 
 past her. Every word of their conversation, which seemed 
 commonplace enough, fell distinctly upon her ear. 
 
 “ How long do you think you will remain abroad?” Miss 
 Glendyke was saying. 
 
 “ That I really cannot say,” he replied. 
 
 “ That is hardly a definite answer,” she replied, laugh¬ 
 ingly. 
 
 I assure you, I wish I could guide my own fortunes,” 
 sighed the lieutenant, thinking of Izetta; “ but alas, I can* 
 not; I am quite beginning to despair* 55 
 
78 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 ‘‘I can hardly realize that this is your last day in Ox¬ 
 ford, for some time to come, lieutenant; J am very pleased 
 to s< e you remember your old friends in calling to-day.” 
 
 “ I had intended bringing an old friend of mine up to¬ 
 day, whom I have not seen for years. I do not think you 
 have ever met him.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ I might be better prepared to answer, if you were to 
 tell me his name,” she replied, archly. 
 
 “ His name,” repeated the lieutenant, absently, “is- 
 
 Ross.” 
 
 Not another word of their conversation reached Izetta’s 
 ears; her heart was in a whirl and her brain on fire; she 
 had great difficulty in restraining herself from rushing out 
 and imploring the young man to tell her where she could 
 find the Mr. Ross of whom he spoke. 
 
 “It must be, oh, it must be my husband,” she gasped 
 out brokenly to herself; then, like a cold avatanche, the 
 lieutenant’s words fell back upon her benumbed heart; 
 “ he was going away that very day.” 
 
 Merciful Heaven 1 what should she do? With him would 
 depart the knowledge she was wearing her young life out 
 to obtain. 
 
 She must think quickly; whatever she decided to do, 
 must be done at once. 
 
 Every moment that scudded past, laden with glorious 
 golden opportunities she was losing. 
 
 She pressed her cold, clammy fingers to her hot brow. 
 Already he was rising to depart. 
 
 She parted the curtains and sped quickly from the room. 
 
 “If L oo ild but reach the portico— first , I might find an 
 opportunity of exchanging at least a few words with him.” 
 
 It seemed to her she had waited there long hours, so in¬ 
 tense was her excitement; in reality, but a few moments 
 had elapsed. 
 
 She heard his quick, springy tread as he approached; she 
 was almost overjoyed to find he was all alone; no one else 
 was in sight. 
 
 Lieutenant Key’s astonishment knew no bounds upon 
 seeing Izetta appear so suddenly from behind the curtains 
 and vanish from the room. 
 
 His first impulse was to follow her with the hope of being 
 able to overtake her. 
 
 Fortune favored him; as he neared the portico, he saw 
 her leaning like a statue against one of the marble col¬ 
 umns. 
 
 Speak with her he must, he told himself, at any cost; 
 and if she smiled—well, upon her smile hung his chances 
 of leaving Oxford the following morning. 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 There never was a more desperate case than his own, he 
 told himself. 
 
 He had expected the darK eyes to droop as he neared 
 the spot where she stood; but the great, dark, eloquent 
 orbs raised so inquiringly to his, almost took his breath 
 away. 
 
 Now that he stood almost beside her for the first time 
 in his life, he was at a loss as to what he should say to 
 her. 
 
 “ If you please, sir, may I speak with you a moment?” 
 
 The poor lieutenant stopped short. Surely this was 
 some delicious dream. 
 
 Again Izetta repeated her question before he regained 
 sufficient composure to answer her. 
 
 “ Certainly,” he replied; “it will be the greatest pleas¬ 
 ure of my life to answer as many questions as you choose 
 to put to me. Shall we return to the reception-room, Miss 
 Rienzi?” 
 
 Izetta wondered how this stranger happened to know 
 her name. 
 
 “I had rather not, if you please, sir; I would much 
 prefer speaking with you here.” 
 
 He saw she was quite confused as to how to proceed. 
 
 “I—I—could not help overhearing a part of your con¬ 
 versation with Miss Glendyke ; ” she began, nervously. 
 
 The lieutenant’s face certainly expressed his astonish¬ 
 ment, yet he spoke no word. 
 
 “ You—you—spoke of a Mr. Ross,” she went on, hurried¬ 
 ly; “ I could not help asking you if you would kindly de¬ 
 liver a message from me to Mr. Ross. I ask it as a great 
 favor, sir.” 
 
 If a thunderbolt had suddenly exploded at his feet he 
 could not have been more astounded. 
 
 “You wish me to take a message from you to Mr. Ross?” 
 he queried, hardly daring believe he had heard aright. 
 
 “If you please, sir,” answered Izetta, simply, noting the 
 strange expression on his face, and adding, timidly: “If 
 you knew—oh, sir, you could riot, would not refuse me!” 
 
 The lieutenant actually believed he was losing his senses; 
 he was quite positive his reason was playing a trick upon 
 him. 
 
 “ You will say to him, if you please, I would like him to 
 call; say to him I have waited so long—so long! No word 
 of reproach shall pass my lips; say I have freely promised 
 that. There will be no blot on the past if he will only 
 come back to me. Will you tell him?” she whispered. 
 
 “ I will tell him, certainly, all you have said,” he re¬ 
 sponded, slowly; “but-” 
 
80 
 
 a fatal wooing. 
 
 The sweet, red lips trembled eagerly, deep flushes coming 
 and going over her white face. 
 
 “Do you think he will come to-day?” she asked, hesitat¬ 
 ingly. 
 
 “Mr. Ross is a courteous gentleman,” responded the 
 lieutenant, gravely, ‘ ‘ and when I tell him you have so 
 earnestly requested his presence, I have no doubt he will 
 come immediately.” 
 
 Vernor Key wondered at the ecstatic joy that swept 
 across her face. 
 
 He would have given the best years of his life, if a look 
 like that had passed over her face on his account. 
 
 “Why does that which we covet most elude our grasp?” 
 he pondered, as he walked slowly down the street, sorely 
 puzzled as to what it all could mean. 
 
 All the morning Izetta was extremely nervous, now that 
 the one great longing of her heart was to be suddenly re¬ 
 alized ; she was bewildered, the air seemed to stifle her. 
 
 She never remembered how the hours rolled by as she 
 waited in eager expectancy. 
 
 “Would he really come to her?” was the cry that ever 
 and anon broke from her lips, as she listened eagerly at 
 each peal of the bell. 
 
 At last the welcome sound fell upon her ear; a moment 
 later the waiting-maid handed her two cards, announcing 
 that the gentlemen awaited her in the reception-room. 
 
 She ganced at the cards; one read, “ Vernor Key,” and 
 the other, “A. Ross.” 
 
 Izetta fell on her knees, pressing the dear name to her 
 lips and covering it with kisses. 
 
 Ah! she must go down to him at once. She wondered 
 how she was to greet him with a stranger’s eyes upon her. 
 
 “ If he had only come alone!” she murmured. 
 
 She brushed her dark, glossy curls back from her fair 
 face, little dreaming, as she fastened a few crimson rose® 
 in her hair, how exquisitely lovely she looked. She only 
 remembered Alderic had once admired her hair worn so. 
 
 She walked down the long, silent corridor like one in a 
 dream; her heart beat tumultuously as she told herself 
 each moment she was nearing her husband. 
 
 If he held out his arms to her, she would fling herself in¬ 
 to his embrace with a glad, happy cry; if he looked 
 haughtily, coldly upon her, she felt she would die then and 
 there at his feet. 
 
 “ He might pity me then, and kiss my face,” she said to 
 herself. 
 
 With these thoughts she turned the knob; the huge 
 oaken door swung heavily back on its hinges. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 81 
 
 Hesitatingly she crossed the threshold, her brain in a 
 whirl. 
 
 She put out two little, fluttering white hands gropingly 
 and slowly raised her great, dark, starry eyes to the face 
 of—Mr. Ross! 
 
 CHAPTER XVIH. 
 
 DEMANDING AN EXPLANTION. 
 
 Izetta raised her lovely eyes. 
 
 As they encountered those of the gentleman before her, 
 she started back with a low, despairing cry; she was dimly 
 conscious of Lieutenant Key saying: 
 
 “Mr. Aaron Ross, Miss Rienzi.” 
 
 Her white lips parted in a sharp, agonizing cry. 
 
 “I have waited so long, so long, and ’tis not he,” and she 
 fell in a deep swoon at the stranger’s feet. 
 
 For an instant only the two gentlemen gazed at each 
 other in consternation. Mr. Ross, a kindly, elderly gentle¬ 
 man of perhaps some fifty years, was the first to recover 
 himself and touch the bell sharply, bringing the servants 
 instantly to the room. 
 
 “ The young lady has fainted,” said the lieutenant. “ I 
 should advise her wants to be seen to as speedily as possi¬ 
 ble.” 
 
 He made some remark about the heat of the room, but 
 the keen attendants were not so easily baffled; they sur¬ 
 mised something greatly out of the usual order of things 
 had transpired; perhaps some mystery they could unearth; 
 they meant to probe the affair to the very root. 
 
 “ I suppose we may as well go,” suggested Mr. Ross to the 
 lieutenant. “You see, my dear sir, this is exactly what I 
 predicted; the young lady has undoubtedly made a mis¬ 
 take. I am sorry tor the poor child; she felt the disap¬ 
 pointment keenly.” 
 
 “Iam completely dumfounded,” confessed the lieuten¬ 
 ant. “I cannot get at the bottom of this mystery, al¬ 
 though I feel there is one.” 
 
 “ It is strange you cannot understand this affair,” replied 
 Mr. Ross. “ From what you told me she had said this morn¬ 
 ing, and from her present actions, I draw my own conclu¬ 
 sions.” 
 
 “Would you mind expressing them?” asked Yernor. 
 
 “ Certainly not. but you must remember they are only 
 mere suppositions, and take them for what they are w^rth. 
 I gather that the young lady has a lover probably of the 
 name of Ross, from whom she has been separated by some 
 means; anyone can see it is an affair of the heart. As she 
 1>old you, she heard you mention a Mr. Ross this morning; 
 
82 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 the young lady jumped at conclusions, which ended in send' 
 ing for the one whom she supposed was her lover. Maiden’s 
 freaks are often hard problems to solve, my dear friend,” 
 continued Mr. Ross, sagaciously. “Women in general are 
 hard problems; a man may devote all of his life to the 
 engima to give it up at last. You may take it for granted 
 we never understand them; in fact, I might say, that is 
 their principal charm.” 
 
 The tiit ory of Mr. Ross was quite lost upon Vernor Key; 
 he had heard but one sentence—Izetta undoubtedly had 
 a lover. If he felt uncomfortable before, with no known 
 rival in the field, he felt doubly so now at the very idea of 
 a prospective one. 
 
 If his affairs just then were not in the shape they were, 
 demanding his presence elsewhere, he would have re¬ 
 mained in Oxford and settled his chance of winning her 
 beyond a doubt. 
 
 The young lieutenant cared for Izetta more than he ever 
 cared to admit to himself. 
 
 He had raised Izetta from the floor; for one brief instant 
 the beautiful head had lain against his shoulder; his arms 
 had been about her, and the poor fellow had said to him¬ 
 self, as he gazed down on the lonely face: 
 
 ‘ ‘ Ah, sweet one, you, and no other, shall be my wife. I 
 should have but one thought in life, that of making you 
 happy. If cruel fate should separate us, I shall go down 
 to my grave unmarried.” 
 
 Vernor Key meant every word that he said. 
 
 Izetta was carried to her room, and Madame Root quickly 
 summoned; each attendant had his or her theory of the 
 matter, and bv the time madam reached the scene, matters 
 had assumed alarming proportions. 
 
 One servant was quite sure she heard loud, angry words 
 issuing from the reception-room ; another had heard a 
 sharp, piercing voice cry out, “’tis he, ’tis he!” while still 
 another hinted in a vague manner of the words he had 
 heard the stranger utter. 
 
 Madame Root was intensely annoyed. Straightway Miss 
 Glendyke was summoned, who impaneled quite a jury on 
 the spot. 
 
 “Well, well,” said Miss Glendyke, emphatically, “there 
 was something dark about some people’s ways.” 
 
 There was no mistaking the significant look she cast on 
 the still, white face lying against the pillow, as to whom 
 the words “ some people ” referred. 
 
 “We will let the matter rest where it is now, and to¬ 
 morrow we will fully investigate this matter,” said Madame 
 Root, severely, sweeping haughtily from the room, followed 
 h.y Miss Glendyke, who could scarcely repress her malicious 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 83 
 
 delight in nnt'c : pation of the sweei morsel on the morrow. 
 
 None but Becky, the maid, remained behind. She ad¬ 
 vanced close to the couch on which Izetta lay so white and 
 still. 
 
 “Poor little thing,” sighed Becky, “how unfit you do 
 look for the knockings about of this world. I knew how 
 they would act to you—I said so from the very first.” 
 
 She brushed back the dark curls that strayed over the 
 pillow, murmuring: 
 
 “ It will be a dark to-morrow for you, I’m afraid.” 
 
 A tear dropped from Becky’s honest eyes upon the small, 
 white hand; she hastily gathered up a corner of her ging¬ 
 ham apron, and brushed it away. 
 
 The action aroused Izetta. 
 
 “ Is that you, Becky?” she sighed. 
 
 “ Yes, miss,” answered the girl, meekly. “ I had some¬ 
 thing to tell you; I couldn’t go away and leave you lying 
 there so white an’ still, till I said it.” 
 
 At that moment a rush of memory brought back to 
 Izetta's mind all that had transpired. 
 
 “ I must have fainted,” she murmured. 
 
 “Yes, ma’am, you did,” answered Becky. 
 
 “I hope Madame Root does not know of it,” whispered 
 Izetta, in a startled voice. “ Do you think she has heard 
 of it, Becky?” 
 
 “ That she has, miss,” answered Becky, shaking her head, 
 “and it’s only this minute, she and that Miss Glendyke 
 left the room.” 
 
 “ What were they doing here?” asked Izetta, in a scared 
 voice. “ Tell me about it—tell me all they said.” 
 
 There was not much to tell, but as Becky repeated it, a 
 faint tinge of color arose in her listener’s face. 
 
 What the morrow had in store for her, she could not 
 even guess. 
 
 The dark, ominous cloud of some coming event was 
 slowly casting its shadows before. 
 
 Iz tta had gleaned from Becky’s conversation that they 
 did not actually know what had caused her to faint. 
 
 She was very thankful that Lieutenant Key left Oxford 
 on the morrow; they would never know the cause of her 
 agitation, she told herself. She flushed scarlet when she 
 wondered what the two gentlemen must have thought of 
 her strange behavior; her position was certainly the most 
 awkward one imaginable, how could she explain it? what 
 could she say in her own defense? 
 
 That morning her hopes had been so high, now they lay 
 crumbled in ruins at her feet. 
 
 Ah! had it been her husband, how different life would 
 have been for her. 
 
84 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 “ Do you know, Becky,” she asked, suddenly, “if 
 Madame Root spoke with the gentlemen who were in the 
 reception-room?” 
 
 “ No, miss, I am sure she did not. I saw them leave a 
 moment or two after we were summoned.” 
 
 Izetta felt greatly relieved. 
 
 “ Can I make you more comfortable, miss?” queried 
 Becky, as if loath to depart. 
 
 “ No, thank you, Becky, I am doing very nicely.” 
 
 “If ever you need a friend, miss,” said honest Becky, 
 coming a step nearer, “ will you come to me? I would do 
 anything in the world for you, miss, indeed I would.” 
 
 Izetta smiled up into the kind, homely face bending over 
 her, and pressed warmly the girl’s work-worn hand. 
 
 “Yes, Becky, I will always remember it,” she said. 
 
 With a pleasant “ good-night,” the girl left the room. 
 
 The next morning dawned bright and clear. 
 
 The maple boughs swayed to and fro in the keen, frosty 
 air, nipping the autumn leaves that had left the protecting 
 shelter of the boughs to whirl through the air—red in the 
 sunshine, gold in the shade. 
 
 Izetta looked sorrowfully out upon the bare branches, 
 upon which but a few clinging autumn leaves remained. 
 
 She sighed as she thought how her poor grandfather had 
 always loved them; how he had murmured: 
 
 ‘ ‘ As bathed in blood, the trailing vines appear, 
 
 While round them, soft and low, the wild wind grieves; 
 
 The heart of autumn must have broken here, 
 
 And poured its treasure out upon the leaves.” 
 
 “ Poor grandfather,” she whispered, “no autumn leaves 
 are drifting o’er your watery grave.” 
 
 At that moment a servant at the door announced that 
 Madame Roof wished to speak with her at once. 
 
 Izetta had not forgetten what Becky had said the previ¬ 
 ous evening, and she was trying to nerve herself for the 
 coming interview. 
 
 A few moments later she was ushered into madam’s 
 presence. 
 
 All hope died out of her heart as before her, in solemn 
 array, sat the full quota of teachers of the college, Miss 
 Grlendykein their midst. 
 
 Once again the hope died out of Izetta’s heart of telling 
 Madame Root her pitiful story. Her lips were sealed, an 
 icy band seemed pressing around her heart. 
 
 It was strange the pitiful pleading in that sweet, young 
 face did not melt the milk of human kindness in those 
 stern, frozen breasts. 
 
 There was a set, stoical expression on the faces of that 
 grim circle: no mercy need be expected from them, 
 
a Fatal wooim. 85 
 
 Izetta would have fallen had she not clutched the back 
 of a chair for support. 
 
 “We. the faculty of the College of Music, have sent for 
 you to demand an explanation of yesterday’s behavior; we 
 will hear, if you please, what you have to say for yourself, 
 Miss Rienzi,” said Madame Root, slowly, laying stress upon 
 each particular word. 
 
 “I—I—ladies,” faltered Izetta, beseechingly, glancing 
 from one to the other. “It was all a cruel mistake, 
 I-” 
 
 “So we have observed,” commented madam, grimly, “a 
 grievous mistake on your part.” 
 
 The quivering lips and tearful eyes of the young girl 
 would have melted hearts of stone. 
 
 The hearts of the faculty of the College of Music were 
 made of harder material, invulnerable to pity. 
 
 “We are waiting with patience to know the cause of yes¬ 
 terday’s disturbance.” 
 
 “I cannot tell you ” said Izetta, respectfully but fbmly. 
 
 “What!” exclaimed madam, opening her eyes widely; 
 “ am I to understand you refuse us an explanation?” 
 
 “I would tell you if I could,” replied Izetta, in a low 
 voice, “but. oh. madam, I cannot, I cannot tell you more 
 than this. I—oh, believe me, it was all a mistake!” 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A CRUEL SENTENCE. 
 
 “Well,” said Madame Root, impressively, “we have 
 all agreed as t o what course should be pursued in case the 
 explanation proved unsatisfactory to us, have we not, la¬ 
 dies?” she added, turning to the calm, grim circle on her 
 left; whereupon each person nodded her head gravely in 
 the affirmative. 
 
 “Please do not be hard upon me, ladies,” sobbed Izetta, 
 wringing her hands; “I have suffered—oh, so much!” 
 
 At this remark each one of the stoical circle glanced 
 knowingly at her neighbor, with a peculiar suspicion of a 
 wink. No one vouchsafed a reply. 
 
 “ There are some sorrows which enter our lives,” said 
 Izetta, plaintively, “which are too bitter to repeat; mine 
 is one of them.” 
 
 “If I had known there was that which through shame 
 should cause you to remain silent concerning your past 
 life, we should never have given you refuge at the College 
 of Music, should we, ladies*” again addressing the circle, 
 who grimly chorused: 
 
 “ Never 1” 
 
66 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 1 
 
 “Oh, madam,” cried Izelta, in agony, “ do not speak SO; 
 I am more sinned against than sinning.” 
 
 Although innocentJy meant and innocently uttered, Izet- 
 ta's words had again condemned her in the hearing of the 
 grim audience; their worst opinions were confirmed by 
 those pure lips. 
 
 Madame Root turned slowly and impressively to her 
 confederates. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I see no other course than the one agreed upon in this 
 case, do you, ladies?” 
 
 The ladies of one accord arose slowly, responding metal¬ 
 lically : 
 
 “ We see no other course, madam.” 
 
 “We have concluded,” said madam, slowly, noting the 
 effect of each word on her quivering victim, “ that it w ill be 
 necessary to dispense hereafter with your services, Miss 
 Rienzi. We, the faculty, wish it understood that we have 
 expelled you from the College of Music.” 
 
 For some moments, Izetta hardly realized the great blow 
 that had befallen her. 
 
 Madame Root opened the door with a calm, cold bow. 
 
 “ The porter will call for your luggage in an hour or two,” 
 she said. 
 
 Izetta felt all remonstrance was useless; the conversa¬ 
 tion was at an end. 
 
 What else could she do but pass from their presence, a 
 cruel example of woman’s inhumanity r to woman? 
 
 Izetta paused hesitatingly on the threshold. 
 
 “ If I had a recommendation from you, madam, I-” 
 
 “ I am forced to courteously but firmly refuse your re¬ 
 quest,” said Madame Root; “I cannot conscientiously rec¬ 
 ommend to another roof one whom I refuse to harbor 
 beneath my own. Good-morning, Miss Rienzi.” 
 
 Again the warp of fate was weaving its web closer around 
 her. 
 
 She was so young to bear the weight of sorrow, such ag 
 was hers. 
 
 As she retraced her steps to her own apartment, she met 
 a few of the scholars on tne stairway ; she noticed they all 
 turned their heads away. 
 
 “What have I done?” she asked herself, wearily, “ th® 
 world is so cruel to me!” 
 
 Kind-hearted Becky was her only friend in need. 
 
 She could not go back to Silvernook—w here could she 
 go, what could she do? 
 
 Then a practical idea occurred to her; she would procure 
 a boarding-place and seek for a situation. 
 
 She counted over the contents of her purse. Yes, her 
 means were ample for the purpose. 
 
A FATAL WOOING SI 
 
 “Where to, miss?” asked the driver, as he mounted the 
 box an hour later. 
 
 “ I should like to find a nice, quiet boarding-house; do 
 you know of any such?” 
 
 He shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 “A boarding-place, such as you would like, miss, is 
 pretty hard to find in Oxford. I’m around rather much, 
 an’ I’m sure I don’t know of any. There’s only one place 
 that I can really recommend.” 
 
 “Take me there, if you please,” she answered. 
 
 In the course of a half hour, the hack stopped before a 
 neat frame house, upon which was painted in unpreten¬ 
 tious black letters, “ Intelligence Office,” and beneath this 
 a small sign of “ Boarding.” 
 
 Izetta was ushered into a neat little parlor, and in a few 
 moments Mrs. Guth made her appearance. 
 
 “What can I do for you, miss?” asked the landlady, in a 
 cheery, bustling way that made Izetta feel quite at home. 
 
 “ I should like to stay with you for awhile,” she replied, 
 “until I procure a situation.” 
 
 “Ah!” said Mrs. Guth, briskly, “I think I can accommo¬ 
 date you; and, by the way, you have come to just the 
 place you want. I have an intelligence office here, too, with 
 some of the best people in Oxford for patrons, and if there 
 is anybody can get you just the place you want, I am that; 
 body.” 
 
 As she spoke, she looked at the sweet, young face, won¬ 
 dering what sorrow had visited her, for she read a deep 
 tragedy in the dark, sorrowful eyes. 
 
 “ Of course you have good references, miss?” she said, in- ‘ 
 terrogatively. 
 
 “ No,” replied Izetta sadly, “ I have no references what¬ 
 ever.” 
 
 “ I am sorry, miss,” she said, “ but of course I could not 
 think of sending you to any of my customers without rec¬ 
 ommendations. If I were to judge from your face, that 
 would be sufficient for me, but there are faces that are sad¬ 
 ly deceptive—I 'do not mean ofEense when I say—I have 
 learned not to trust too much to appearances. 
 
 She saw the distressed expression on the wistful face. 
 
 “ You might remain here a week or so until you looked 
 about,” continued Mrs Guth, kindly. 
 
 Izetta gladly availed herself of the opportunity, paying 
 for two weeks’ board in advance. 
 
 “ I shall certainly find something to do in that time,” she 
 told herself. 
 
 Izetta bad never been thrown so much on her own re-, 
 sources as now. A long, weary week had passed. Every¬ 
 where she had been met with the same reply, no one could 
 
88 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 think of engaging her without reference. Often she had 
 been rudely repulsed. 
 
 “How dared Mrs. Guth send them a person whom she 
 could not recommend?” they said. “ I am afraid I shall 
 have to take your name from my books, Miss Rienzi,” she 
 said at last. “ I cannot get the ill will of any more of my 
 customers; I really cannot. I have done what I Gould for 
 you, I am sorry it was without success.” 
 
 Mrs. Guth was wondering how long she would be able to 
 
 E ay for her lodgings; she was heartily sorry she had taken 
 er in. 
 
 Again the last dollar was taken from Izetta’s purse. 
 
 “ I must find something to do, or starve,” she told her¬ 
 self. 
 
 She looked up at the bright blue sky and fleecy clouds. 
 “Ah, mother, mother, if I had but you,” she cried, “I 
 might bear it patiently!” 
 
 Since she had left Madame Root’s the word husband had 
 never crossed her lips. 
 
 “ He has left me to die,” she cried out in bitterness, “ let 
 me try to forget him.” 
 
 It was easy to say those words, but only Heaven knew 
 how that young heart yearned for him. 
 
 She was so fragile to buffet the wild storms of life. 
 
 Izetta knew so little of the ways of the world; still she 
 readily understood that Mrs. Guth would wish her to go at 
 once, when she had no money to pay for her board. 
 
 Twice dark thoughts, like grim sentinels, had rushed 
 across her brain. 
 
 “ I shall end it all to-morrow,” she told herself wearily. 
 “After to-morrow I shall never need a recommendation.” 
 
 She did not ask herself if men would forget, and God 
 would forgive what she so sorrowfully meditated as a pan¬ 
 acea for her woe. 
 
 As she neared the porch of her humble abode she saw 
 Mrs. Guth in the doorway. 
 
 “ I have good news for you, Miss Rienzi,” she said; “I 
 have secured you a situation.” 
 
 The swift joy mounted to Izetta’s eyes; she looked the 
 gratitude she could not express in words. 
 
 “ Sit down,” said Mrs. Guth, “ while I tell you all about 
 it. It is with a very wealthy family, by the name of 
 Hampton—the Hamptons, of Hampton Place, in the suburbs 
 of Newburyport, ten miles from Boston. The family con¬ 
 sists of mother and son. The lady is exceedingly peculiar. 
 I cannot explain more to you. She is in want of a com¬ 
 panion—it is against my rules, still, in this case I recom¬ 
 mended you myself, Miss Rienzi, and she has consented to 
 see you.” 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 89 
 
 She had scarcely ceased speaking when a coach, drawn 
 by two dark horses, drew up before the door. 
 
 The equipage was a magnificent one, the only thing 
 which detracted from its appearance was the dwarfish 
 driver, who scrambled nimbly down from his seat, throw¬ 
 ing open the carriage door for an elegantly-attired young 
 man whom Mrs. Guth met at the door; the next moment 
 the stranger was ushered into her presence. 
 
 Izetta could never explain the strange sensation of 
 horror that stole over her as she raised her eyes, bowing 
 quietly to Heath Hampton’s careless nod. 
 
 There was a something in the bold glance of evident 
 admiration he cast upon her that caused her heart to 
 flutter like a caged bird against its prison bars. 
 
 She noticed he was darkly handsome; still, without 
 knowing why, she felt a great distrust of him. 
 
 She also noticed, as he raised his white right hand to his 
 forehead, it bore across it a deep, irregular, livid scar, 
 upon which her eyes rested, strangely fascinated. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A TERRIBLE WARNING. 
 
 The preliminaries were satisfactorily arranged, and 
 Izetta was soon seated in the coach beside Heath Hampton, 
 whirling rapidly in the direction of Hampton Court. 
 
 Then, and not till then, did Hampton’s true character 
 begin to show itself, and Izetta noticed, with feelings of 
 horror, that there were fumes of wine upon his breath; it 
 was a rare occasion, indeed, when such was not the case. 
 
 “I had no idea,” he said, breaking the silence Izetta so 
 persistently attempted to maintain, “my mother had 
 secured such a little jewel of a companion; indeed, I may 
 say for the first time in life I shall envy my own mother 
 such charming society. ” 
 
 Izetta was mentally praying their destination could not 
 be far distant. In her wildest dreams she had never 
 anticipated such a horror as this which was forced upon 
 her. 
 
 “If you please, sir,” she said, with dignity, “ I should be 
 very grateful if you would not talk to me so; I-” 
 
 A low, mocking laugh interrupted her. 
 
 “ I sincerely hope you are not going to be prudish, Miss 
 —Miss Rienzi,” he said; “ if there is anything I do detest, 
 it is a prude; really, now, prudery does not become fresh, 
 handsome young faces like yours; leave that for homely 
 old maids; my advice is wholesome, I assure you.” 
 
 Izetta shrank from him, pale with unspeakable horror, 
 gcorn, and disgust blazing from her dark eyes, as she pict- 
 
90 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 ured to herself—how could she live under the same roof 
 with this man, when she found even the first few moments 
 passed in his society almost unbearable? 
 
 “ Come, come, Miss Rienzi,” he said, “ I do hope we are 
 not going to quarrel. I want to become the best of friends 
 with you, if possible.” 
 
 Heath Hampton, wild and reckless though he was, never 
 forgot the graceful dignity with which the fair young girl 
 drew herself up proudly, as she answered: 
 
 “There is one way, sir and one way only which could 
 command my respect and friendship.” 
 
 “ I should like to be enlightened,” he declared, ironically. 
 
 “That one way,” repeated Izetta, firmly, “is to leave 
 me quite alone.” 
 
 Heath Hampton opened bis eyes very wide. 
 
 “ Dictated to by my mother’s companion,” he muttered, 
 under his breath. “Well! well! this is decidedly rich!” 
 
 Had he met Izetta under any other circumstances he 
 would have been the pink of propriety, but, as his mother’s 
 paid companion, that was quite a different affair; her evi¬ 
 dent scorn and disgust piqued him. 
 
 “ I will show her,” he thought; “those little airs and 
 graces are lost upon me.” 
 
 He did not mean to be rude to her, still he meant she 
 should worship at his shrine as the generality of women 
 did. 
 
 He told himself that she was really the prettiest piece of 
 prudery he had ever come across. 
 
 One thought and one only filled Izetta’s mind; how long 
 would she be obliged to sit opposite those bold scru¬ 
 tinizing eyes that seemed to burn tauntingly into her very 
 soul. 
 
 Despite her utmost endeavors to maintain her com¬ 
 posure, she was trembling like a leaf when the coach 
 stopped. 
 
 Izetta scorned his proffered hand, alighting quite with¬ 
 out his aid. 
 
 Heath Hampton stood gazing after her with a strange 
 expression crossing his wickedly handsome face, and ag 
 she disappeared in the hall, he muttered quite inaud- 
 ibly: 
 
 “ Ah! why not?” 
 
 He had spoken the words quite carelessly, yet there was 
 a pair of keen ears to hear them, and a hissing voice 
 whispered, as Hampton turned on his heel and strode to¬ 
 ward the library: 
 
 “Never—never, villain, if Yatal can prevent it, you have 
 played your last game, now it is my turn; even the worm 
 will turn when bruised, why shouldn’t I?” 
 
A FATAL WOOING 
 
 91 
 
 In an apartment which had once been luxurious, but was 
 now dingy and worn by age, Izetta was soon ushered. A 
 small, dark little lady half rose as she entered. 
 
 “Ah! you are Miss Eienzi, ” she said, “I have been ex¬ 
 pecting you.” 
 
 If the son had made an unfavorable impression upon 
 Izetta, who was slow to judge of like or dislike, the mother 
 formed but a little better one. 
 
 She was small and dark, her mouth alone was the only 
 pleasant feature about her. There was a strange, restless 
 expression about the eyes not easily defined nor under¬ 
 stood. 
 
 Again Izetta’s heart sank; she had no thought she would 
 be able to please the critical lady before her. 
 
 “ You are young,” she said in a crisp voice, with that 
 
 { )eculiar glance bent full upon her, “and rather good- 
 ooking. I will be frank with you, I must say to you I 
 do not like that, it is not well for you; otherwise you 
 will be most suitable. There is one thing I wish to warn 
 you against from the outset; you see, Miss Eienzi, I am 
 candid with you. I do not wish you to ever meet my 
 son.” 
 
 Izetta was on the point of explaining that that calamity 
 had already happened her, when the lady continued: 
 
 “You will have a very pleasant life of it here, if you 
 strictly observe that one condition. I have no doubt we 
 shall be mutually pleased with each other. You will 
 strictly avoid my son, will you not, Miss Eienzi?” 
 
 Izetta readily promised to fully obey her instructions. 
 
 “I have had apartments fitted up for you in what we 
 call the western wing. Yatal will take you to them,” add¬ 
 ing, as she touched the bell: “ I shall not need you until 
 after luncheon; then you may come to me here.” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, miss,” said the dwarf, stopping hes¬ 
 itatingly at her door, “ Mr. Hampton requests you to please 
 not mention having met him, to his mother.” 
 
 “Why?” said Izetta, hardly knowing what construction 
 to put upon the strange actions which pervaded this house 
 of secrets; “his mother sent him for me herself.” 
 
 “ No,” replied the dwarf; “J was the one sent. He over¬ 
 heard the message, and would go to see how you looked, 
 miss.” 
 
 Izetta looked surprised. 
 
 “I do not know why that should have interested him,” 
 she said. 
 
 “It will be best for you, miss, if you never seek to 
 know,” replied the dwarf, in a low, earnest whisper. 
 
 Ivetta felt faint and terrified; she sank down on a chair 
 
 ) ' 1 v 's 
 
92 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 when she found herself alone, wondering what it all 
 meant. 
 
 “If I only had a little money, I would not rest a night, 
 no, not an hour beneath this mysterious roof.” 
 
 She could not shake off the forebodings that came over 
 her. 
 
 Izetta’s duties were not arduous; there was much of the 
 mornings she had quite to herself. The afternoons were 
 spent in reading to Mrs. Hampton. 
 
 Izetta greatly wondered at the style of books the lady 
 preferred; there was one book in particular which seemed 
 to captivate her capricious fancy. From ‘ ‘ Queen Freder¬ 
 icks Kevenge ” she was never weary of hearing selections. 
 
 “What is your idea of revenge, Miss Kienzi?” she asked, 
 suddenly, one day, as Izetta closed the book with a shud¬ 
 der. 
 
 This was the very question Izetta had asked herself 
 many a time. 
 
 “I can hardly tell you,” answered Izetta: “ I have often 
 heard that revenge is sweet, but I have often thought for¬ 
 giveness a thousand times sweeter.” 
 
 “Should you think it strange,” said Mrs. Hampton, 
 slowly, “there could be persons who live only in the hope 
 of revenge?” 
 
 “ I could not imagine such a life, madam,” said Izetta, 
 simply. 
 
 “Yet, like Queen Fredericka, there are such in real life,” 
 said Mrs. Hampton, slowly; “they have wealth, position, 
 everything that should make life enjoyable—yet they would 
 forego all this for revenge; it is their dream by night, their 
 thought by day.” 
 
 “ I should pity such people more than I can express,” re¬ 
 plied Izetta. 
 
 The lady laughed a short, hard, bitter laugh, that had a 
 peculiar ring in it, so like the son’s. 
 
 “ Had you experienced the same sorrows in life that som© 
 people have, you would not be so sanguine in believing it 
 easy to forgive or forget a cruel wrong.” 
 
 Izetta’s dark eyes wandered afar off across the distant 
 horizon. There were few lives that held such a hidden sor¬ 
 row as her own, yet no thought of vengeance had crossed 
 her pure mind. 
 
 The subject was never resumed between them again. 
 
 The first glance at that beautiful, young face, had been 
 the doom of Heath Hampton; he was heedless of all con¬ 
 sequences. 
 
 He fell to comparing her, quite unconsciously, with 
 Loraine Ulvesford, the fair, haughty beauty, whom he 
 would have married for her money; he little dreamed 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 03 
 
 'rhat a cruel mockery of fate such a comparison would 
 necome. 
 
 He bad never loved Loraine; her wealth had been the 
 reward for which he had striven; but he loved this beauti¬ 
 ful Izetta, with her fair, foreign face, as such a reckless 
 nature as his was only capable of loving—for herself. 
 
 He had seen more of life in his twenty-six years than 
 most men at forty. 
 
 He had tested to the full, that all knowledge begins with 
 experience. 
 
 Izetta had been at Hampton Court only a month, be¬ 
 fore he succeeded in obtaining another interview with 
 her. 
 
 All of his numerous schemes to waylay her in the parlor, 
 the library, or the hall, failed signally; she never ventured 
 anywhere where there was the least likelihood of his 
 presence. 
 
 Affairs should not go on in this way much longer, he 
 promised himself. 
 
 Fortune favored him quite unexpectedly. 
 
 One evening, as he entered the library, his quick eye 
 detected a small, dark-robed figure in the further corner 
 of the room. 
 
 “ Ah! Miss Rienzi,” he said, with a curious smile on his 
 lips, “ I have long awaited just this opportunity.” 
 
 Izetta would have passed him, but he coolly placed him¬ 
 self before her. 
 
 “ Not until you have listened to what I have to say,” he 
 said. 
 
 “ Let me pass, if you please, sir; I have no wish to hear 
 you,” she replied. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Probably not, still you will favor me by listening, all 
 the same. You have mistaken me from the very first, Miss 
 Rieuzi. I am a dangerous man to be trifled with. I am 
 frank with you; my follies are many and my virtues few; 
 my will is my law. You are the first woman I have ever 
 met whom it was possible for me to love; for that reason 
 I have decided to make you my wife.” 
 
 •‘Sir?” cried Izetta, “ this is outrageous. I will not listen. 
 Allow me to pass, or I will call for assistance.” 
 
 “ From whom would you expect to obtain it?” he asked, 
 sarcastically, his face was growing livid with passion. 
 “ Have a care, girl!” he cried, “ you and you alone might 
 have made of me what you would—if I cannot win your 
 love I swear none other shall! I come of a passionate race, 
 quick to love and as quick to hate! I would win you in spite 
 of the whole world—in spite of yourself. I love you too 
 madly to have a care as to that.” 
 
 Izetta held up her hands to stay the mad torrent of his 
 
94 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 vehement words; her heart fluttered wildly; by a great 
 effort she restrained herself from swooning at his feet. 
 
 “Never,” she cried, “I would never marry you. I 
 could not. I would die first.” 
 
 “Shall I tell you why you shall?” he said, quietly, his 
 hot breath scorching her face, his mocking eyes gleaming 
 down into her own. 
 
 He whispered but a few words in her ear, yet those 
 few words produced the most startling effect upon her. 
 
 Izetta would have fallen, had he not stretched out his 
 hand and caught her. 
 
 He opened the door, with a low bow, for her to pass. 
 
 “ Think well of what I have said, Miss Rienzi; I shall 
 await your answer here to-morrow.” 
 
 The next moment Izetta was alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 Long after the door had closed behind her, Izetta leaned 
 against the balustrade in the corridor, her white face 
 buried in her hands, wildly asking herself if it was not a 
 dream from which she must soon awaken. 
 
 ‘ ‘ It cannot, oh, it cannot be true, ” she moaned. ‘ 4 Heaven 
 could not be so cruel to me!” 
 
 Alas, she knew not which way to turn from her own mad 
 thoughts. 
 
 “Oh, mother! mother!” she cried, throwing open her 
 window, “what shall I do?” 
 
 The dark night gave back no answer, save the low moan¬ 
 ing of the wind among the towering pines. No friendly 
 star pierced the frowing face of the heavens. 
 
 Izetta leaned far out on the casement; the great, white 
 snow-flakes drifted down upon her agonized face, but they 
 did not cool her fevered brow. 
 
 She laid her hot cheek against the little hand which 
 wore her marriage-ring, bitter, scalding tears falling upon 
 it. 
 
 “Oh, little ring,” she cried, “if you could only tell me 
 where my husband is to-night.” 
 
 She closed the window with a shudder. 
 
 It was the night before Christmas Eve. A bitter storm 
 was setting in; the snow-drifts covered hill and valley in 
 their cold embrace; the winds, freighted with their icy 
 burden, howled dismally, and the shutters creaked, as 
 they swung restlessly to and fro on their hinges, yet the 
 darkness and the storm without were nothing to the storm 
 of agony that raged in Izetta’s heart as she paced to and 
 flQ. 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 98 
 
 u Grandfather, grandfather!” she wailed, “this never 
 would have happened, if you and I had never left sunny 
 Italy.” 
 
 But a few fleeting months had passed since then, yet it 
 seemed to the friendless girl who stood there, alone in the 
 greatest sorrow her young life had ever known, as if long 
 years had flown. 
 
 She remembered hut too well the vow that had been 
 made to her grandfather, as the steamer plowed through 
 the dark, seething waters: she could hear again those 
 words, as if spoken by an honest heart: 
 
 “ I will protect Izetta, come what may.” 
 
 How had that sacred trust to the dying been fulfilled? 
 Alderic had doomed her to the coldest, most pitiless neg¬ 
 lect. 
 
 The poor young wife, scarcely more than a child, flung 
 herself wildly on her knees, imploring Heaven to tell her 
 why he had married her, if he meant to desert her. He 
 had married her of his own free will. 
 
 “Ah, Alderic, Alderic!” she wailed, “my sorrow is 
 greater than I can bear!” 
 
 Those last words sounded mockingly which Heath Hamp¬ 
 ton had tauntingly uttered: 
 
 “ I will wait until to-morrow morning for your answer; 
 if you consent we will leave Hampton Court together at 
 once; if you refuse, the consequences shall mock your 
 folly.” 
 
 Izetta little realized the resources of which a desperate 
 man was capable. 
 
 Ruin and disgrace stared the poor, innocent, hapless 
 young wife in the face. 
 
 On the morrow she would be spurned from their door 
 with scathing contempt. 
 
 “What have I done,” she wailed, “that fate should 
 weave such a terrible web about me?” 
 
 She was so guiltless of the dark ways of the world; her 
 heart was as pure as the snow-drifts out there. 
 
 Like a gleam of hope across her benighted soul, rose the 
 calm, peaceful faces of blind Marguirette and the good old 
 flute-maker. 
 
 “If I could only get back to Silvernook,” she thought, 
 “ she would not turn me from her door—other refuge I have 
 none.” 
 
 Then a terrible fear seized her; what fierce alternative, 
 what terrible revenge would Heath Hampton take on that 
 to-morrow, of which she hardly dared trust herself to think. 
 
 Once again she went to the window, peering out into the 
 dark, wild night. 
 
 “If I only dared,” she murmured. 
 
96 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 The more she thought of that morrow that in a few short 
 hours would dawn upon her, despair sank deeper in her 
 heart. 
 
 If she fled from Hampton’s home, there and then, would 
 not the son pursue her? It was her last chance; she made 
 a desperate effort to calm herself, and quickly donning 
 cloak and hood, she sped noiselessly down the long, dark 
 corridors, out into the storm and the night; swift as a 
 shadow she threaded her way through the snow-drifts and 
 beneath the friendly, leafless trees, until she reached a pool, 
 lying dark and silent in its snowy bed, the white drifts 
 shrouding its dark outline; where solemn owls uttered their 
 piercing cries, and flocks of ravens fluttered. The snow¬ 
 flakes fell tremulously upon its dark waters, and were si¬ 
 lently gathered into its cold, glassy bosom. 
 
 Izetta felt no fear, as she knelt down on the brink. 
 
 “ One plunge, and all the bitterness of life will be over 
 for me,” she muttered. 
 
 The snow-flakes fell unheeded on her long, dark hair that 
 blew across and about her face with the piercing storm. 
 
 “I am so young to die,” she sobbed; “but I cannot bear 
 my sorrow alone. Alderic, Alderic,” she wailed, “you 
 will never know how your name was on my lips as the 
 dark waters closed over my head; the silent pool can never 
 tell its story or whisper to you how dearly I loved you!” 
 
 The moaning winds took up the wild cry, echoing softly: 
 
 “I loved you!” 
 
 Izetta gathered her cloak closer about her; she closed 
 her eyes, her lips parted in a sweet, sad smile. 
 
 “I’m coming, grandfather,” she murmured; “coming, 
 coming, sweet mother.” 
 
 As the words fell from her lips, she started back with a 
 low cry. 
 
 Was it the voice of the young mother who had hushed 
 her to rest on her breast, or the night winds whispering 
 sternly: 
 
 “ What wculdst thou do? Darest thou take into thine 
 own hands the life thy God hath lent thee?” 
 
 “Forgive me, angel mother,” humbly whispered the 
 young girl, shuddering. “ Heaven forgive me; I had not 
 thought of that; the dark waters seemed to hold out their 
 arms for me; the world was so cold and cruel I thought I 
 could find rest there!” 
 
 She knelt down, burying her face in the cold snow. 
 
 “Forgive me, mother,” she sobbed; “I have been so 
 sorely tried.” 
 
 She raised her dark eyes to the inky heavens above her, 
 graying her angel mother to guide her faltering footsteps. 
 Slowly @he raised herself from her knees and turned her 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 07 
 
 back to the dark pool that had so nearly engulfed her, 
 pressing steadily onward in the face of the storm, never 
 pausing to look back at the great, dark building she was 
 leaving behind her. 
 
 One thought buoyed up her hopes and waning cour¬ 
 age: each step brought her nearer the humble flute-mak¬ 
 er’s abode. 
 
 She remembered Hampton Place lay directly midway 
 between Silvernook and a city they had called Boston. 
 
 She remembered Silvernook must lie toward the north. 
 There were no stars to guide her; still she told herself she 
 knew the way; she could not miss the road, it could be 
 but a few miles distant. 
 
 Izetta watched the first gray streaks of dawn pierce the 
 dull, leaden sky with a grateful heart. All the night long 
 she had pushed steadily onward. It was dark and lonely; 
 she thanked God for the friendly morning light; she could 
 not be far from there, she told herself. 
 
 Then she stood still and looked about her. Merciful 
 Heaven! where was she? She never remembered having 
 been in that locality before. She had been so sure she was 
 in the right path, whereas, she found herself in a track¬ 
 less, boundless sea of snow. 
 
 She was the only living being amidst all that vast ex¬ 
 panse of frozen whiteness, whose outline was broken, here 
 and there, only by some hardy, bare-banched shrub or tree 
 that rose up darkly from its white, shrouded bed; the cold, 
 white, dreary expanse of snow stretched out on all sides 
 as far as her eye could reach; no path was discernible 
 through the uneven driftings. 
 
 For some moments Izetta gazed around her in blank be¬ 
 wilderment ; then her lips grew white with a sudden fear. 
 
 “I have lost my way l” she cried out in horror. 
 
 There was no path before her, and the footprints of her 
 own feet were completely obliterated by the thick, falling 
 snow. 
 
 She could not retrace her steps; she sat down in the snow 
 and tried to think. 
 
 Izetta was growing c[uite used to sorrow; unforeseen 
 events were ever thrusting themselves unawares upon her. 
 
 She could see the ravens careening about in the upper 
 air above her head. One thought occurred to her: 
 
 “ Should she ever be able to reach Silvernook?” 
 
 She felt cold and benumbed; she longed to lie down in 
 the soft, white snow and rest. Yet she had often heard 
 such rest meant death. 
 
 She would try to bear up a little longer. 
 
 “ Ah, well,” she thought, “it does not matter much what 
 becomes of me.” 
 
98 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 She had not tasted food since the night before, still she 
 did not feel the need of it.* 
 
 She felt wofully tired and weary, that was all. Ere she 
 was hardly aware, the sun had sunk behind the crimson, 
 western clouds. 
 
 The darkness of night would soon fall around her, ushered 
 in by the still heavily falling snow. 
 
 Suddenly the chiming of far-off bells fell upon her ear; 
 at first they sounded like church bells; then she remembered 
 that this was Christmas Eve. 
 
 As she paused in the twilight, the jingling bells sounded 
 nearer and nearer. A dark speck was skimming toward 
 her from the distant horizon. 
 
 Could it he a human being? Her first impulse was one 
 of intense joy, which suddenly gave place to the most piti¬ 
 ful terror. 
 
 ‘‘What if it should be Heath Hampton?” she thought, 
 trembling like a leaf. 
 
 Ah, she could screen herself behind the bushes; if it 
 was no one who might be seeking her, she would cry out to 
 them. 
 
 Izetta was not a moment too soon. Nearer and nearer 
 each moment dashed the sleigh and its occupants over the 
 white, crusted snow. 
 
 Another instant, and they had reached the very spot 
 where she knelt, screened by the alder bushes! they were 
 so near she could have put out her hand and touched them 
 as they grazed her hiding-place. 
 
 Had those panting steeds swerved ever so slightly toward 
 those alder bushes, they must have crushed her. 
 
 Now she could see their faces. A voice, hoarse with 
 wrath, which she knew but too well, cried sharply: 
 
 “I say she must have come this way; you stupid dolt, 
 to have lost track of the footprints.” 
 
 “I could not help it,” answered a voice, which she im 
 st mtly recognized as the dwarf’s; “ the fault is the snow 
 falling so fast, not mine.” 
 
 Suddenly Vatal drew rein. 
 
 “Have you forgotten, sir, you are nearing dangerous 
 ground? Yonder lies Ulvesford Manor in the distance, to 
 the right, there.” 
 
 His companion uttered a short, hard, mocking laugh, 
 that made Izetta, crouching in her ambush, almost faint 
 with fear. 
 
 “ I have forgotten nothing,” answered Heath Hampton, 
 wrathfully. “Ulvesford knows nothing of my return 
 from abroad. I have succeeded in keeping that a profound 
 secret. I could not wish better luck than to meet him 
 here and now. He has led a charmed life; twice he has 
 
99 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 escaped me, once in Switzerland, and once on this very 
 road by the cliff; he shall never escape me the third time. 
 He little dreams of the vengeance which shall soon be 
 meted out to him. 
 
 “ Fate seems against you of late,” answered the dwarf. 
 
 “Yes, I’m at the bottom of the wheel now, Vatal,” an¬ 
 swered Hampton; “ but it revolves quickly. “ I’ll soon be 
 at the top. Dame Fortune dealt Dlvesford the winning 
 cards in gaining the heiress of Lorrimer Hall. Even this 
 dark-eyed little beauty has eluded my grasp. I was so 
 sure—hark! what noise was that?” 
 
 The next instant Izetta met the glaring eyes of Heath 
 Hampton gazing fixedly upon her through the branches. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ULVESFORD MANSION. 
 
 “What noise was that?” again queried Heath Hampton. 
 
 “I’m sure I did not hear any,” answered Yatal. 
 
 “Pshaw!” muttered the other, impatiently, “I believe 
 I’m growing as fanciful as a woman.” 
 
 His keen, shrewd eyes had not detected the startled, 
 dark eyes, gazing as if fascinated upon him. 
 
 “You had better turn about, Vatal,” he ordered, “she 
 cannot have gone very far; we will take a short cut 
 across, she must be somewhere about.” 
 
 The next moment the horses were plunging on through 
 the darkness in an opposite direction. 
 
 “ Mother,” she cried, raising her eyes to Heaven, through 
 her tearles sobs, ‘ ‘ I had rather lie cold and lifeless upon 
 the pure, cold snow here, food for the vultures of the air, 
 than breathe the same air with this human vulture, from 
 whom you have saved your child.” 
 
 The bitter cold and the great mental excitement through 
 which she had so lately passed were beginning to tell upon 
 Izetta’s sadly shattered nerves; her garments were white 
 with the fallen snow, and with great difficulty she made 
 her way step by step. 
 
 Once she staggered and fell. She was beginning to feel 
 delightfully warm and drowsy; the bitter cold seemed to 
 have passed harmlessly by her. If she could only lie 
 down and rest a few moments, she would feel refreshed 
 directly. 
 
 Suddenly the shrill cry of a night-bird circling above her 
 head, partially aroused her lagging energy. 
 
 They had spoken of some place at the right; she had 
 walked many miles and found no such place, she had told 
 herself, with a pitiful little laugh that sounded strangely 
 weird among dark trees and waste of snow. 
 
100 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 Suddenly the flashing of many lights burst upon heir 
 view; for one brief instant she half imagined she was 
 walking down the street of some Italian city upon a gala 
 night. Delightful strains of music fell upon her ear. 
 The music awoke Izetta’s soul to consciousness of her 
 position. 
 
 Oh! how she strove to reach the lights and the music. 
 A few steps more and she reached the park gate. Th* 
 sound of revelry was at its height. 
 
 Izetta crept up the broad walk, from which the snow 
 had been carefully brushed. 
 
 From the great row of windows which opened out upon 
 the arched porch the shimmering curtains were looped 
 back, and the brilliant, rosy light poured warmly out upon 
 the cold, white snow. 
 
 Izetta crept nearer and nearer, her dark garments trail¬ 
 ing after her. 
 
 She could see great throngs of gayly-dressed women, 
 against backgrounds of great banks of roses, who seemed 
 to laugh at the cold, the storm, and the snow without. 
 
 Their arms and shoulders, ’neath gossamer tulles, shone 
 like polished marble under the blazing light of the colored 
 chandeliers. 
 
 Izetta pressed her white, wild face closer against the 
 window-pane. No one could see her, she told herself; no 
 one would know she was watching out there in the cold 
 and the darkness. 
 
 Her long, dark hair, on which the white snow-flakes 
 lay thick, tossed about her face with the breeze. Her 
 dark, sorrowful eyes, like gleaming stars, shone strangely 
 lustrous. 
 
 She could have gazed on the scene forever, with never a 
 thought of the cold or the storm. She quite forgot she had 
 intended to inquire of someone the way to Silvernook. 
 
 She was riveted to the spot by the mirth and lights 
 within. 4 
 
 o 
 
 ******* 
 
 Loraine Ulvesford intended her first Christmas at home 
 should be a magnificent affair. 
 
 An hour before her guests arrived, she stood before her 
 mirror, clasping a diamond bracelet on her white, rounded 
 arm, that gleamed and quivered with every motion with 
 a thousand jets of flame, her proud, haughty mouth was 
 wreathed in smiles. 
 
 Loraine was always thinking of her husband when she 
 smiled. 
 
 He sat at a little distance from her, his head bent on his 
 hands in a strange fit of despondency, which even sho 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 101 
 
 could not charm away with her witty banter and winning 
 smile. 
 
 Suddenly she turned to him. 
 
 “Ulmont,” she asked, “ are you quite sure you are pleas¬ 
 ed that you married me?” 
 
 She was leaning both her elbows on his chair, her lovely 
 eyes gazing up into his own. 
 
 “ It is rather late in the day for you to be asking such a 
 question of me, Loraine. ” 
 
 She put back the fair hair from his forehead with her 
 soft, white, jeweled hand, answering slowly: 
 
 “Ulmont, my husband, I can never feel quite sure of 
 your love for me. Sometimes when your arms are about 
 me, and your lips pressed to mine, I feel a strange sensa¬ 
 tion, as if a strong hand had suddenly thrust us asunder, 
 and your kisses, while yet warm, seem to grow cold on 
 my lips; there are times you seem so silent and abstracted 
 —why is it?” 
 
 “There has ever been a weight on my mind since the 
 accident which befell me; probably some trifling affair, it 
 may be after all. ” 
 
 “ Do you think it is the memory of someone whom you 
 have met abroad?” she asked anxiously. 
 
 “ Jealous, Loraine,” he laughed; “it is more likely some 
 message I have promised to deliver for some friend which 
 eludes my memory so persistently.” 
 
 “You have never loved anyone except me, have you, 
 Ulmont?” 
 
 “ You do not doubt that you are my first, last and only 
 love, do you, Loraine?” 
 
 “No; to doubt you would be death,” she answered; “yet, 
 somehow you are not the same; you have seemed so 
 changed since you went abroad. You are not gay and 
 merry as before.” 
 
 Ulmont laid his handsome head back upon the crimson 
 cushions with a merry laugh. 
 
 “ How would you have it, my pretty Loraine; if a man’s 
 love does not strengthen and deepen under the influence of 
 so peerless a wife as yourself, he may safely be labeled 
 heartless—better have lived a bachelor forlorn.” 
 
 Still Loraine was not satisfied; she would be the sharer 
 of his every thought. 
 
 “I believe I am growing jealous,” she said, with a smile; 
 “still I am thankful I have only your thoughts for rivals.” 
 
 A rival—it was the first time such an idea had crossed 
 
 her mind. 
 
 “ If I had ever had a rival in your affections, Ulmont,” 
 she said, “ I could not have answered for myself.” 
 
 She was the last d&ugh ter of the long line of Loraine^; 
 
103 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 it had often been said they were never crossed in love. 
 Heaven pity the man who was weighed in the balance of 
 their affections and was found wanting. 
 
 Loraine, with a bright glow in her heart, went down 
 among her guests, little dreaming of the terrible web fate 
 was weaving around the husband she so madly loved. 
 
 Had her very life been asked as a ransom for his, she 
 would cheerfully have paid it. Those who saw Loraine 
 Ulvesford that night in the glow of her peerless beauty, 
 never forgot her, or the strange occurrence that made that 
 Christmas Eve a memorable one. 
 
 Mirth was at its height, intoxicating the sense with rap¬ 
 turous bewilderment. Loraine had given the first waltz to 
 Doctor Stafford; he regretted when it was over. 
 
 “ It is not often I am favored with so graceful a partner 
 as yourself, Mrs. Ulvesford,” he said, gallantly, leading 
 her to a seat in a bower of bending ferns that arched above 
 one of the long, French windows that led out into the 
 porch. * 
 
 Loraine was about to made some light rejoinder, but the 
 words died away on her lips in a piercing scream whioh 
 brought the guests hurriedly about her as she pointed to the 
 window. 
 
 There, crouching close against the dark pane, they be¬ 
 held a white, wistful, beautiful face, framed by long, dark, 
 disheveled hair, and gleaming, mournful eyes. 
 
 The white, cold snow on the ivy vines, and the long, 
 glistening icicles formed a weird background that struck a 
 subtle fear to the hearts of all who gazed. 
 
 In an instant flashed across Loraine’s mind that beauti¬ 
 ful, foreign face that had haunted her so strangely in the 
 vine-covered Alps. 
 
 The gentlemen had started out to search for the owner 
 of the face which, when observed, had instantly disap¬ 
 peared. 
 
 Loraine looked around for Ulmont; he was not among 
 them. She heard strange murmurs from the porch with¬ 
 out. 
 
 “ Keep the ladies back,” the gentlemen were saying; but 
 the ladies would not he kept back; they would know all 
 about the disturbance. 
 
 Loraine, heedless of shawl or wrap, made her way out 
 to the group hovering around some dark object lying upon 
 the snow. 
 
 The gentlemen entreated her to return to the house. 
 
 “You will catch your death of cold, Mrs. Ulvesford,” 
 they urged; “see, you are shivering now.” 
 
 As Loraine persisted in seeing what was the matter, the 
 group silently made way for her. 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 103 
 
 There was something in the still beauty of the white up¬ 
 turned face lying there that touched a deep chord in 
 Loraine’s heart, as she knelt down in the snow beside her. 
 
 In after life people often spoke, who witnessed that sight, 
 of the strange contrast they made. Loraine in her robe of 
 velvet, the flashing lights quivering on her flaming jewels 
 and on her golden hair, and the slight, delicate figure lying 
 there wrapped in the dark, snow-covered cloak, the sweet 
 face, perfect as if carved in marble, cn which the dark, 
 silken lashes lay, seemed the face of a child; there was a 
 pitiful expression about the mouth, hard to see on one so 
 young. 
 
 “ Where is Doctor Stafford?” called Loraine. 
 
 “ I am here,” he responded, promptly; “I have forced 
 some wine down the poor creature’s throat; she will soon 
 recover, Mrs. Ulvesford.” 
 
 “ Why is she not brought into the house?” asked Loraine. 
 
 “ I have ordered a carriage to have her removed to the 
 hospital,” replied the doctor; “ little good comes of har¬ 
 boring people of this kind in one’s home.” 
 
 There was something appealing in the still, white face 
 that made the heart of Ulmont Ulvesford’s wife warm un¬ 
 consciously toward her. 
 
 It was a strange fate which lead these two women to- 
 
 § ether, these two who so passionately loved the same lius- 
 and—the bitterest of rivals. 
 
 “ The child must be brought into the house, for the pres¬ 
 ent, at least,” responded Loraine, resolutely. 
 
 The long cloak, which had hitherto quite concealed the 
 silent figure lying there, was suddenly tossed back by the 
 driving wind. 
 
 “Merciful heaven!” cried Loraine, as she gazed in star¬ 
 tled awe upon the white, marble face; ‘ 1 she is no child; 
 she is-” 
 
 “ Hush!” commanded the doctor, who hastily replaced 
 the cloak about the quiet form, and bore her tenderly 
 within. “ Shall she not be sent to the hospital, Mrs. 
 Ulvesford?” he asked, anxiously. 
 
 “No,” answered Loraine, simply; “ I could not have the 
 heart to turn the poor creature from the sheltering walls 
 of Ulvesford Mansion.” 
 
 How little she knew who it was whom she harbored; she 
 knew not that she, who had been borne into that home so 
 helplessly, should by rights have reigned there, its mis¬ 
 tress, the loved and honored wife of its master. 
 
104 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 IN THE GRAY DAWN. 
 
 The mirth and revelry, which had been momentarily 
 suspended, flowed on again with redoubled zest, little 
 heeding the strange occurrence which was taking place in 
 another part of the building. 
 
 The doctor had been quickly and secretly summoned. 
 
 “ I am sorry for making a pleasure visit one of busi¬ 
 ness,” said Mrs. Lorrimer, apologetically; “but there may 
 be occasion for your services before morning, doctor.” 
 
 “ I shall be only too pleased to render what assistance 
 lies in my power.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ If anything out of the usual order transpires, you will 
 please inform me at once,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. 
 
 “ Certainly.” 
 
 It was a strange, unatural sight; Doctor Stafford in 
 full ball-room costume, sprays of white heath in the lapel 
 of his coat, watching gravely the flickering shadows that 
 crossed the most beautiful face upon which he had ever 
 gazed. 
 
 He felt a strange thrill of interest in the friendless young 
 outcast. 
 
 Once the dark eyes opened wide, and a sweet voice 
 whispered: 
 
 “ Alderic, darling, is that you?” 
 
 Doctor Stafford clinched his hands in a tight grip as he 
 brushed a tear from his eye; then patiently resumed his 
 watching. 
 
 In the gray early dawn of the Chistmas morning, the 
 doctor hurriedly called for Mrs. Lorrimer. 
 
 “You wished to be notified if anything unusual oc¬ 
 curred ;” there was a kindly smile on his careworn face as 
 he continued: “ I am happy to inform you of the presence 
 of a handsome male child. ,, 
 
 “Oh! Dr. Stafford!” 
 
 “It is very true, madam,” he replied, leading the way to 
 the apartment he had lately quitted. 
 
 “See,” whispered Mrs. Lorrimer, pointing to the white 
 hand of the young mother as it lay beside the infant; “ she 
 wears a marriage-ring. Poor thing, where is her husband, 
 I wonder?” 
 
 “ That is not an easy question to answer, madam.” 
 
 Suddenly the dark eyes opened wide, fixing themselves 
 upon the elegantly-attired lady and gentleman bending over 
 her. 
 
 “ Where am I?” asked Izetta, in a weak voice. 
 
 The doctor took up a little bundle which lay beside her; 
 
A FATAL WOOING, 
 
 m 
 
 the wee, piping voice of a little babe fell upon her ear; 
 those two standing at that bedside never forgot the glorious 
 light that broke over the young mother’s face when she 
 heard the voice of her little babe. 
 
 Tears sprang to Mrs. Lorrimer's eyes, cold, proud wo¬ 
 man though she was, and the doctor, quite used to such 
 sights, turned away his head. 
 
 “ You are not to talk, my dear,”commanded the doctor, 
 placing the little bundle in her arms. “You are to lie 
 still, and keep very quiet.” 
 
 As the sun rose on that well-remembered Christmas 
 morning, and the chiming church bells kept time to the 
 merry sleigh bells’ jingle and the merry laugh of sportive 
 children, a great sense of security and peace fell over 
 Izetta as she closed her eyes in a dreamless sleep. 
 
 Loraine was almost incredulous when she heard the 
 news. 
 
 Ulmont had been quite indignant when he heard of the 
 affair. 
 
 Loraine, who was sitting beside him when the intel¬ 
 ligence was brought her, looked up into her husband’s face, 
 reading intuitively his thoughts. 
 
 “ Of what are you thinking, Ulmont?” she asked, 
 timidly. 
 
 He gazed thoughtfully over the distant hills as he an¬ 
 swered : 
 
 “ Loraine, this is the first stranger ever born beneath 
 the roof of the Ulvesfords. Every member of the family 
 was born here,” he repeated, “ and here they returned to 
 die. It is strange, the first break has been made in our 
 time, Loraine. I had rather it had been otherwise.” 
 
 “I am sure I did not know, Ulmont, I never thought.” 
 
 “It was all due to your kindness of heart, Loraine; there 
 is no help for it now. The bells of Ulvesford Mansion 
 should not ring; it is not an heir of the Ulvesford’s, whose 
 birth should be joyously celebrated.” 
 
 “ You are not angry with me, Ulmont?” 
 
 “ Certainly not, dear,” and he passed on to his library. 
 
 A few moments later Loraine followed him, the most 
 curiously beautiful smile playing about her mouth. 
 
 “I have something here to show you,” she said, blushing 
 
 “Ulmont leaned back in his chair, and pushed the pile 
 of letters before him into a drawer. 
 
 “ Now I am all attention, what is it?” 
 
 For answer she placed a little, wee, soft bundle she car¬ 
 ried, directly in his arms; the next instant an infant’s pip¬ 
 ing wail fell upon his ear. 
 
 Two great, dark eyes were staring wonderingly up into 
 
106 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 his own, and a little waxen hand curled confidingly around 
 his forefinger. 
 
 For an instant every drop of blood left Ulmont Ulves- 
 ford’s handsome face. 
 
 What was there about that tiny creature that held him 
 spellbound, causing his heart to thrill as it had never 
 thrilled before. 
 
 The magic touch of the little waxen hand unmanned him. 
 
 The little head rested against his breast with a soft, low 
 coo. 
 
 The great, dark, searching eyes never left his face. 
 
 Ah! who could tell what that tiny, nursing cherub had 
 discovered. 
 
 Loraine’s face grew white as death as she watched the 
 infant lying so contentedly upon her husband’s breast. 
 
 She was beginning to feel heartily sorry she had brought 
 it to him. 
 
 “Ah, Loraine,” he sighed, “I would give half my for" 
 tune, and think it well spent, if this little one was the heir 
 of Ulvesford Manor!” 
 
 The white lines of pain grew deeper about Loraine’s face, 
 as with a forced laugh, she replied, quite carelessly: 
 
 “You will make me forget my errand, Ulmont!” 
 
 “ It must have been a very important one if it could be 
 so easily forgotten.” 
 
 “ Is it not important the baby should have a name? that 
 was my errand here. The young mother held out her hands 
 to me and said, ‘call him what you will,’ I thought per¬ 
 haps you could help me, dear.” 
 
 “I—how?” 
 
 “ By suggesting something you think appropriate.” 
 
 “ There’s plenty of time to think of that. 
 
 “I have already thought of a name for him,” declared 
 Loraine, timidly. “Somehow I thought—I did not know 
 whether you would approve of it.” 
 
 “What is the neme you thought of?” he asked, curiously. 
 
 Was it the cruel irony of fate that caused Ulmont Ul- 
 vesford’s guileless young wife to lay her hand trustingly 
 upon her husband’s arm as she answered, with a smile on 
 her lips. 
 
 “Because this little stranger was born at Ulvesford Man¬ 
 sion, I wish him called Ulmont.” 
 
 A silence, deep as death, fell between them.” 
 
 The dark eyes of the infant pleadingly searched Ulmont 
 Ulvesford’s face. 
 
 His beautiful young wife knelt at his feet, the firelight 
 playing on her golden hair. 
 
 Baby c-ooed softly, lying against his breast. 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 10 ? 
 
 The very chiming of the Christmas bells seemed echoing 
 the strain. 
 
 “ Call him Ulmont!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Which side would the scales fall. 
 
 One day, two weeks later, Loraine and Izetta sat in the 
 drawing-room in deep conversation. 
 
 “ Yours is indeed a strange story, Mrs. Ross; still, after 
 hearing it, I again repeat my former offer. You say you 
 are searching for a situation, why not accept mine?” 
 
 “It is very different now, Mrs. Ulvesford, since I have 
 baby. I cannot expect to procure the same kind of a sit¬ 
 uation as before.” 
 
 “ That will not make any difference with me, Mrs. 
 Ross.” 
 
 “You are very, very kind,” murmured Izetta, impul¬ 
 sively kneeling at Loraine’s feet, her eyes filled with tears. 
 “You have been so good to me,” she sobbed, “I would 
 give my very life for yours, if I could ever repay you.” 
 
 Loraine smiled down into the dark, beautiful face, little 
 dreaming of the heroic will lying dormant in the girl’s 
 breast, or of the terrible ordeal which would try her be¬ 
 yond all power of human endurance. 
 
 It was a question evenly balanced, only heaven could 
 tell on which side the scales would fall. 
 
 “ How strange it is,’ ’said Loraine, “ that such deep shad¬ 
 ows have fallen over your life while mine has been all 
 sunshine. I can understand, poor child, how well you have 
 loved your husband, but I cannot see how your love would 
 five through such bitter neglect. Truly the ways of women 
 are wonderful.” 
 
 “ You would not have wondered had you seen him,” an¬ 
 swered Izetta; “ he was all that was good and noble. It 
 is so hard to believe those lips I thought so true, could have 
 uttered falsehoods while they smiled.” 
 
 “ Still you say,” pondered Loraine, “ he never once told 
 you he loved you?” 
 
 “ No, he never spoke of love; he may not have cared for 
 me at first, but, oh, Mrs. Ulvesford, I truly believe he was 
 learning to love me before that cruel letter came to sepa¬ 
 rate us.” 
 
 A doubtful expression crossed Loraine’s face; she knew 
 very little of the world, yet, she felt that no husband, who 
 truly loved, could desert his wife in that dastardly 
 fashion. 
 
 “What makes you think that?” she asked. 
 
108 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 “His last farewell,” responded Izetta. “It was not the 
 parting of an indifferent husband, madam* ‘ My darling,’ 
 he said, ‘ something has happened which will necessarily 
 part us for a few days, but it will be for only a few days 
 at most, then I shall return for my wife.’ He placed all 
 the money he had about him in my hands, together with 
 the address of the nurse. He never knew I was left des¬ 
 titute, he was not so hard as that.” 
 
 “ But the address,” questioned Loraine, “ even had you 
 not lost it, it was useless; no one in Silvernook knew of 
 him, you say.” 
 
 “ That was the only part of it I could not understand, 
 madam. I advertised for months in the city papers for 
 Aid eric, or anyone who knew his whereabouts; it was all 
 useless. Since that fatal morning I have never looked 
 upon his face.” 
 
 s Loraine could not imagine the depths of such cruelty. 
 
 “I ought to be very happy, Mrs. Ross; I have never 
 known one wish unfulfilled. I never had a serious thought 
 in life until I met my husband; then I said to myself, un¬ 
 less I gain the love of this man, life will hold no pleasure 
 for me; he was more to me than all the world, and when I 
 married him my happiness was complete. I would as soon 
 think of living without the sunshine, as without my hus¬ 
 band’s love,” and the proud, petted beauty trembled as she 
 spoke. 
 
 Izetta sighed, as she replied: 
 
 ‘ ‘ My husband’s love was wholly apart from my life; I 
 had no share in it; now I shall live only for my boy alone. 
 I loved Aid eric so fondly, such a love as mine ends only in 
 death.” 
 
 There was such pathos in her voice that Loraine felt 
 vaguely uneasy; she did not like somber thoughts. 
 
 She was so irresistibly drawn toward Izetta, that she de¬ 
 termined not to part with her. 
 
 “You have not seen my husband, Mrs. Ross; he was 
 called suddenly away the morning after Christmas. I ex¬ 
 pect him home some time to-day.” 
 
 “ I shall tell him the sad story of this poor creature, then 
 when he sees her, he will think more kindly of her,” she 
 thought. 
 
 Loraine did not quite like the idea of having the child 
 there, and as soon as practicable she believed Izetta could 
 be induced to part with it; she believed, too, that having it 
 taken charge of elsewhere would be best for the child. 
 
 She had yet to learn the power of mother-love; she was 
 sorry she had named this stranger’s child after her hus¬ 
 band. 
 
 Loraine was wondering how she should find words to tell 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 109 
 
 her she must part from her child, as Izetta thanked her so 
 gratefully for her goodness. Poor Izetta, how could she 
 think that this fair, proud woman envied her the posses¬ 
 sion of her little child. 
 
 Deep down in Izetta’s heart she had a hope that someday 
 she would be united to Alderic through his child, her faith 
 was so steadfast. 
 
 “We must wait very patiently, you and I, baby,” she 
 said, “some day we shall meet Alderic,” her heart gave 
 such a great throb of joy at the thought, it almost took her 
 breath away. 
 
 Loraine had decided to say nothing of the plans she had 
 concluded for baby’s future until she conferred with Ul- 
 mont. 
 
 Quite as Loraine had expected, he was amazed; he heard 
 his haughty wife, whom few could please, had decided to 
 keep the benighted wanderer, who had fled there for shel¬ 
 ter beneath their roof. 
 
 A feeling of pity for the deserted young wife, whom he 
 determined not to like, stole over him, as his golden-haired 
 Loraine repeated her sad story. 
 
 “ It seems almost incredible.” he said, “that such wrongs 
 can go unpunished. I will see this young person to morrow ; 
 then I can better judge whetner she is more sinned against 
 than sinning; whether or no she is a fit companion for you, 
 my wife. 
 
 He was determined she should not be urged to remain, 
 until after he had seen her. 
 
 There was but one incentive which led him to think 
 favorably of the affair, which was a keen desire to keep 
 the child near him. 
 
 He meant to never lose sight of the child born at Ulves- 
 ford Mansion; if he never had an heir of his own, per¬ 
 haps—who could tell what he would do for the little fel¬ 
 low in the future! 
 
 He told himself he would think as well of the mother 
 as he could—for the child’s sake. 
 
 The next morning Izetta was summoned to the library. 
 Loraine had sent word that her husband wished to speak 
 with her. 
 
 Izetta was holding baby when the maid delivered her 
 message. 
 
 “Mr. Ulvesford wishes to see me?” she asked, in dis¬ 
 may. 
 
 “ He says you are to comeat the earliest moment, please; 
 he’s a walking up and down the room, and not in a pleas¬ 
 ant mood, either. He’s a nice gentleman, but he does get 
 most awfui cross when he has those thinking spells, as 
 'We call ’em. Why, them times you could go straight past 
 him a dozen times a minute and he would look straight 
 
110 
 
 A FATAL WOOING 
 
 over your head without seeing you. I’ve seen him even 
 turn his head away from his wife, and say: ‘ Don’t trouble 
 me now, Loraine; go away, I’m thinking.’ He’s always 
 been thinking, no one but himself knows what about. If 
 we have anything particular to say to Mr. Ulvesford, we 
 always wait till he’s through with his spell o’ thinking.” 
 
 “Ah, baby,” whispered Izetta, when alone, “perhaps 
 Mr. Ulvesford regrets his wife has offered you and me a 
 shelter.” 
 
 Unconsciously her hand closed over the same little 
 waxen fingers that had curled so confidingly in Ulmont’s 
 clasp; slowly she turned and descended the grand stair¬ 
 way. 
 
 “Come in, Mrs. Ross,” called Loraine, as she passed her 
 door. 
 
 Loraine’s boudoir was a fitting casket for the jewel it 
 held; the room was a mass of softened bloom and per¬ 
 fume with a great profusion of tall, white lilies, that held 
 up their white cups to the glimmering sunlight. 
 
 Izetta never forgot Loraine as she stood there on that 
 winter morning; the memory lingered with her, half 
 pleasure, half pain, all the years of her after life. 
 
 She wore a robe of spotless white; as she bent her 
 beautiful head over the lilies, one of her golden curls 
 twined around the lily’s stem, and mingled with its golden 
 calyx. 
 
 For an instant the blood receded from Izetta’s face; this 
 picture which Loraine formed was certainly no new one to 
 her; where had she seen one like it? 
 
 Quickly her mind drifted back to that morning on the 
 beach, and to the portrait her husband had shown her; his 
 work, he had said. 
 
 “How strange it is.” she thought, “I should see just 
 such a picture in real life as crossed his brain in fancy.” 
 
 She remembered the dull pain in her heart when Alderic 
 had carelessly admitted he liked fair women best. 
 
 Loraine never knew why a sudden faintness seized Mrs. 
 Ross; she would have fallen to the floor had she not 
 steadied herself against the marble mantel. 
 
 “ You are nervous and agitated, Mrs. Ross,” said 
 Loraine ; “ I trust it is not due to this interview with Mr. 
 Ulvesford; he has heard your story and feels very kindly 
 disposed toward you.” 
 
 A hesitating rap at the door interrupted her. 
 
 “ Well, Annette, what is it?” asked Loraine. 
 
 “If you please, ma’am,” answered the maid; “the artist 
 has finished Mr. Ulvesford’s portrait and sent it home; do 
 you wish it brought up to you.” 
 
A FATAL WOOING, 
 
 111 
 
 “By ail m a ans,” answered Loraine; “let it be brought 
 Up here at once.” 
 
 “Now, Mrs. Ross,” she said, “you shall see my hus¬ 
 band’s portrait and judge for yourself; he is just the re¬ 
 verse of one to inspire fear, even in the heart of the most 
 timid. I have told him so much of you, he has a desire to 
 have his curiosity gratified.” 
 
 There was a slight shuffling of feet without, and the next 
 moment a servant entered bearing the portrait of Ulmont 
 Ulvesford. 
 
 “Ah! it is true to the very life,” exclaimed Loraine, de¬ 
 lightedly. 
 
 Then she turned to Izetta, proudly as a young queen 
 might have done, as she said: 
 
 “ Look, Mrs. Ross, this is my husband!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 FACE TO FACE. 
 
 The bright sunshine fell full upon the pictured face. 
 
 “Look, Mrs. Ross!” Loraine repeated, proudly; “this is 
 my husband.” 
 
 Izetta stepped forward; for a single instant only her 
 dark eyes rested on the picture; then, with a low, piercing 
 cry, she sank down beside it in a dead swoon. 
 
 “ I wonder what could have startled her so?” pondered 
 Loraine. 
 
 The white lips opened with a faint moan: 
 
 “ Alderic—Alder ic!” 
 
 “Poor child!” thought Loraine, “she must have been 
 comparing her own cruel lot with mine.” 
 
 Slowly the dark eyes opened. 
 
 “I—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ulvesford,” she said, while 
 in her heart rose one great cry; “so like, ah! so like!” 
 
 “ If my husband’s portrait had represented a stern, for¬ 
 bidding face, I should s^y it was that which caused you to 
 faint.” 
 
 Izetta shuddered. 
 
 “ May I look at the portrait again?” she asked. 
 
 Loraine was only too pleased. 
 
 “ Yes,” she answered, leading the way to an inner apart¬ 
 ment; “I have had it hung where the best light will be 
 thrown upon it.” 
 
 As she spoke, she parted the amber satin curtains, and 
 Izetta was face to face with the portrait of Ulmont Ulves¬ 
 ford. 
 
 She did not cry out or utter a moan, her 1 * brain whirled 
 and her breath seemed to come and go in short, convul¬ 
 sive gasps. At the first glance the fatal resemblance to 
 
m 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 Alderic had almost overpowered her. As she looked 
 again she saw the portrait of a fair-haired young man, 
 while Alderic’s was a dark, glossy brown. She remem¬ 
 bered Alderic’s mouth, proud and haughty; this one was 
 - almost wholly concealed by the long, drooping mustache. 
 The proud, uplifted head, and the dark-blue, searching eyes 
 alone reminded her forcibly of Alderic. 
 
 “ It is simply a coincidence,” she told herself, “ nothing 
 more.” 
 
 She had not thought it possible for anyone in the wide, 
 wide world to look like Alderic. She was startled at the 
 tumultuous throbbing of her own heart. The sudden warb¬ 
 ling of a yellow canary, hanging in a gilded cage above her 
 head aroused her from her deep reverie. 
 
 “ I am pleased that you like my husband, Mrs, Ross.” 
 
 It suddenly occurred to Izettathat Mrs. Ulvesford might 
 not be pleased with the intense scrutiny and rapt gaze 
 she had bestowed on the portrait, but she could not turn 
 away; the dark-blue eyes held an unacoountable fascina¬ 
 tion for her, the same questioning expression in their 
 depths she had often read in Alderic’s; then the heavy, 
 silken folds of the curtain fell between Izetta and the por¬ 
 trait, and she felt as if the darkness of night had slowly 
 settled around her. 
 
 The words of Loraine still sounded in her ear. She could 
 not tell why the bitterness of death seemed to fall upon 
 her, as she gazed upon that pictured face and heard the 
 words: 
 
 “ Look, Mrs. Ross, this is my husband!” 
 
 “Mr. Ulvesford awaits Mrs. Ross in the library,” said 
 the maid, again making her appearance. 
 
 “Tell him she is with me, in the morning-room, I will 
 send her down directly. There need be no hurry,” she said, 
 turning to Izetta; “I want you to regain some of your 
 lost color before you go down. Anyone would imagine 
 you had seen a ghost.” 
 
 Ah! she little knew the young girl had stood that morn¬ 
 ing amid the shattered ruins of her dead hopes, face to face 
 with her past. 
 
 Izetta walked with a firm step toward the library. 
 
 “Why should I shrink and cower?” she asked herself. 
 “I have done no wrong—I must be brave for baby’s 
 sake!” 
 
 The door was standing ajar, she knocked timidly, once, 
 twice, but there was no response; at the third and little 
 louder rap, Zack, th coachman, answered the summons. 
 
 “ If you please, you are to take a seat, master was called 
 away for a moment, he will return in a very few mo¬ 
 ments,” he said. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 118 
 
 Then Zack withdrew from the room and Izetta was left 
 to the contemplation of her own thoughts. 
 
 A note-book, a glove, and a riding-whip lay on the desk 
 before her. A huge mastiff lay on the hearth-rug watch¬ 
 ing her from under his shaggy eyebrows. The sound of her 
 own name falling upon her ears from the adjacent room 
 chained her attention. 
 
 “Are you not afraid your daughter will rue it, Mrs. 
 Lorrimer, allowing this stranger to remain beneath her 
 roof?” said a strange voice. 
 
 “I have been seriously expostulating with Loraine on 
 this very point; I assure you I have felt a great depression 
 ever since that woman, with the beautiful, foreign face, en¬ 
 tered this house; then there is the child, I am urging 
 
 strongly that he shall be-” at the mention of the child 
 
 Izetta strove to hear what they were saying, but the voice 
 had sunk to a low, inaudible whisper. 
 
 “I heartily agree with you,” responded the stranger, 
 “only yesterday I told your daughter: ‘Take care, my 
 dear Mrs. Ulvesford, this child does not prove a thorn in 
 your path of roses!’ Is the child pretty?” 
 
 “ Decidedly so,” answered Mrs. Lorrimer; “yet there 
 is something about that child that puzzles me. I have told 
 Loraine so, but she only laughs, and replies: ‘How fanci¬ 
 ful you are, mother.’ Still, I repeat it, I do not like the 
 child.” 
 
 “What does Mr. Ulvesford think of the plan you pro¬ 
 pose?” 
 
 “ He has not heard of it yet, he will certainly object. I 
 assure you he is quite interested in that child.” 
 
 “That is averv startling idea,” exclaimed the visitor; 
 “ it reminds me or the serious trouble a friend of mine once 
 experienced. Her husband and she, although dearly lov¬ 
 ing children, were childless, that boon was denied them. 
 She took a neighbor’s child into her home. Husband and 
 wife never seemed the same to each other after that; im¬ 
 perceptible at first, the husband turned from his wife to 
 that child. When at last an heir of their own was born, it 
 was too late; no power on earth could alienate the husband’s 
 affections which were lavished upon the stranger. The 
 young wife lived to see her own child turned from its own 
 father’s door, its place usurped by a stranger’s child.” 
 
 “Your story quite frightens me,” replied Mrs. Lorrimer; 
 “if I anticipated such a denouement in this case, do you 
 know what I should be tempted to do?” 
 
 In vain Izetta strove to catch the next few words. 
 
 “ Heaven help me!” she cried, rocking herself to and fro, 
 
 ‘surely they do not wish to separate baby and me!” 
 
 She could hear the distant rumbling of the storms which 
 
114 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 were gathering over her future. One thought only forced 
 itself upon her—they did not want her little child. 
 
 “No!” she cried, starting with new energy to her feet; 
 “my darling, you are all I have in this wide, wide world. 
 No one shall take you from me. If they turn us from their 
 door we shall still have each other; and if we find the world 
 too cold, baby, you and I can die together.” 
 
 She remembered how the dark waters looked tipped by 
 the silvery light of the stars; those waters which gently 
 laved the coral bed which entombed her grandfather; still, 
 she tried hard to put these dark thoughts away—for baby’s 
 sake. 
 
 Then she quite laughed aloud; she had certainly misun¬ 
 derstood them. How could anyone mean to separate her 
 from her little child? 
 
 She remembered they had said Mr. Ulvesford was pleased 
 with baby; they said of him, too, that he was kind of heart. 
 
 She would tell him a home beneath that roof would be 
 Heaven to her; but she would kneel at his feet, and tell 
 him she must keep her little son with her. Better home¬ 
 less, penniless, out in the perils of the storm again, than 
 parted from her little child. 
 
 Suddenly the sound of a clear, ringing step was heard 
 on the stair; the shadow of a tall, dark form fell between 
 Izetta and the sunlight, a strong, white hand pushed back 
 the partially opened door, and a pair of dark-blue eyes 
 flashed pleasantly about the room, observing at once the 
 slight figure by the fireside, and a voice, whose cadence 
 fell upon her ear like the memory of some forgotten dream, 
 said courteously: 
 
 “Mrs. Ross, I believe?” 
 
 A deep silence fell between them. 
 
 At last Ulmont Ulvesford and Izetta had met—face to 
 face! 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE PLOT DEEPENS. 
 
 In the library at Hampton Place quite another scene was 
 being enacted. 
 
 It was early morning, yet the lights remained as they had 
 been lit the previous evening. The fire was burning low 
 and fitfully in the grate. There was a haggard expression 
 on the face of Heath Hampton in the flickering firelight. 
 He strode up and down the room in deep thought. 
 
 No word had broken the deep silence for an hour or 
 more. 
 
 JJe clinched the letters he held in his hand, as if they 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 115 
 
 were sensible of the pain he would inflict upon the writers 
 if he could. 
 
 “Read these letters again, Vatal,” he commanded; “I 
 say there must be some loop-hole.” 
 
 Slowly the dwarf picked up the letters that had been 
 tossed into his lap, smoothing them out carefully with his 
 hand. The first was marked “Official,” post-marked 
 “Switzerland,” and read as follows: 
 
 “ My Dear Hampton: —As per agreement, I ascertained, 
 upon close investigation, owing to the extraordinary com¬ 
 plications which surround this uncommon case, that a war¬ 
 rant for the extradition papers, for the removal of Ulmont 
 Ulvesford back to Switzerland on the charge of murder in 
 the first degree, could be obtained if the facts in the case 
 were clearly proven, as stated. 
 
 “True, the surgeon who officiated is dead; and the oppo¬ 
 site parties left the ground before the extent of the injury 
 had been declared. 
 
 “ My testimony was corroborated by the finding of some 
 poor fellow’s mangled remains over the cliff, utterly un¬ 
 recognizable. 
 
 “ Everyone at the inn admits the knowledge of a dis¬ 
 turbance. Upon the stand, Wylmer Lee admitted that the 
 duel had taken place on the very edge of the precipice, 
 though he insisted that death had not taken place at the 
 time he departed in company with Ulvesford. 
 
 “Of course, old fellow, I say now, as I said then, you 
 were foolish in returning to America. You should have 
 remained abroad. 
 
 “ I am lost in wonder when I imagine you back in a lo¬ 
 cality where you are so well known; if you were once rec¬ 
 ognized, all our work here would be in vain. 
 
 “The officers in charge of the necessary papers sailed on 
 the steamer White Cresson. I hope to hear in your reply 
 of the successful issue of our enterprise. 
 
 “ Yours very truly, 
 
 “De Risnar.” 
 
 With a grating, sardonic laugh, Hampton took the let¬ 
 ters from Vatal’s hand, thrusting them into the breast 
 pocket of his coat. 
 
 s “ Money,” he said, “ I never knew a day’s peace in my 
 life; someone is always hounding me down for money. I 
 staked my all on winning the heiress of Lorrimer Hall; 
 even my mother’s companion, like a frightened bird, took 
 wings and flew away while under my very grasp.” 
 
 Vatal was just on the point of telling the great secret he 
 had but yesterday unearthed. 
 
 4# he was driving slowly past Ulvesford Manor, lie had 
 
116 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 seen a white, terrified face that had instantly vanished 
 from the window, as her gaze met that of the dwarf. 
 
 “No,” he told himself, “the secret will keep; it will bo 
 worth money to me in the future; it was not worth while 
 to divulge it just now; Hampton has no money to pay 
 for it.” 
 
 “What are you mumbling about; why don’t you speak 
 out, man?” cried Hampton, angrily, stopping short in hi* 
 walk. 
 
 “Because there’s no cause for my saying anything,” 
 growled the dwarf, snapping his white teeth viciously to¬ 
 gether, his small, ferret-like eyes flashing fire. 
 
 For a moment Heath Hampton regarded the creature be¬ 
 fore him with a keen, critical, searching gaze. 
 
 “ There’s no use in our quarreling over trifles, Vatal,” he 
 said, with a forced, grating laugh; “honest men get their 
 just dues, when rogues fall out.” 
 
 He did not notice the dull gleam in the dwarf’s eye, as 
 he turned impatiently on his heel, resuming his quick tread 
 up and down the room. 
 
 ‘ ‘ All would have gone well with me if I had captured 
 the heiress.” he muttered, excitedly, “ all this would never 
 have happened, but for that cursed Ulvesford!” 
 
 He clinched his nails deep into the palms of his hand, 
 as the imprecation burst from his lips. The loss of the 
 golden prize had been a bitter blow to him. 
 
 “ It is evident that I must have money,” he muttered, 
 
 “ no matter where I get it, or how.” 
 
 His brow darkened vindictively. 
 
 “What’s the time, Vatal?” 
 
 There was no response, and, turning round, he found the 
 dwarf had silently left the room. 
 
 “Curse that fool!” he muttered, “he must be watched 
 like a sleuth-hound. If he was only out of the way I could 
 breathe freer. He knows too much—altogether too much; 
 we have worked in the harness together too long; he must , 
 be effectually swept from my path!” 
 
 A deep, diabolical plot was revolving in Heath Hamp¬ 
 ton’s brain, a fatal plot which led to the sorriest of crimes. 
 
 “I have not lost all my cunning yet,” lie said to him¬ 
 self. “Ha! did not Robert Bruce, of Scotland, fail a score 
 of times ere he reached his grand success?” 
 
 Hampton did not stop to reason that that cause had 
 been an honest one. He smiled as he thought of the dar¬ 
 ing bravery of King Richard III. 
 
 ‘ ‘ What are my few petty deeds, ” he cried, 1 ‘ to the many 
 daring deeds of Richard before he gained the crown? 
 Yatal has been a willing tool, but his days of usefulness 
 
*4 
 
 A FATAL WOOING, ITt 
 
 Are over; his knowledge would make him a dangerous 
 foe.” 
 
 Suddenly attracted by a slight rustle in the room, he 
 raised his eyes. 
 
 “ Mother,” he said, harshly, fixing his keen, penetrating 
 eyes sharply upon her, as if lie would read her very 
 thoughts, “tellme how long you have been here.” 
 
 “ I have just entered,” she replied. “ What is the mean¬ 
 ing, Heath, of the brightly burning gas-light in the broad 
 glare of day. Surely you have not been up all night, have 
 you, my son?” 
 
 She laid her hand wistfully on her son’s arm. He shook 
 off her light touch impatiently. 
 
 “ Don’t annoy me with your importunings,” he said, un¬ 
 graciously. 
 
 “ There was a time, Heath,” she said, “ when you would 
 listen to your mother’s counsel; depend upon it, without it, 
 you will rush headlong to your ruin.” 
 
 He answered her with a bitter, taunting laugh. 
 
 “You might as well talk of the horrors of hanging to 
 the poor wretch who stands at the gallows with the rope 
 about his neck, Bah! lamas near, ruined now as 1 can 
 be.” 
 
 “ It is all your own fault, Heath, you should have-” 
 
 “Never throw up the past, mother, what good can that 
 do?” 
 
 “The rocks of the past warn us of the future.” 
 
 “ It’s rather late in the day to commence moralizing now, 
 mother; you should have practiced what you preach years 
 ago. I’m in a series of scrapes; there’s only one way you 
 can help me out.” 
 
 For a moment this mother and son stood facing each 
 other. 
 
 “If it is the want of money again, Heath,” she said 
 with the slow, cold tones peculiar to her, “ we will not dis¬ 
 cuss the subject; let it drop. I have humored your whims 
 and spent a fortune upon you. Your waywardness has 
 Been the cause of my deepest grief. I have raised you 
 like a gentleman, while the other-” 
 
 Heath Hampton raised his hand warningly. 
 
 “Have a care, mother,” he cried, “walls have ears; trust 
 a woman for never yet keeping a secret.” 
 
 His face was pale, and livid lines were drawn about his 
 ^jnouth. 
 
 “See how you have repaid me,” cried his mother, in 
 bitter anger, forgetting her caution, “a gambler and a 
 roue.” 
 
 “It’s a wonder you do not add murderer and thief in the 
 
118 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 true bill,” he said, sneeringly, taking a cigar from hid 
 pocket and calmly lighting it. 
 
 “ The road you are on leads to it,” she retorted. 
 
 How little sne knew he stood upon the brink of it. 
 
 “ You could help me, mother, if you would,” he answer¬ 
 ed; “and I would leave the country.” 
 
 “ Never again.” she replied, sternly. “ You have had it 
 in your power to do well; you have always let your 
 chances slip. See the terrible sacrifice I made for your 
 sake. If I ever repented-” 
 
 Heath Hampton leaped to his feet, crying hoarsely : 
 
 “ You dare not repent after all these long years; think 
 how the world would rise at such heartlessness and cruelty. 
 You think I, your son, could be faultless. Ask the raven 
 why he is not a canary, and he will tell you: ‘ By right of 
 ancestry I’ ” 
 
 She held up her hands with a low cry. 
 
 “ Is it for this,” she groaned, “ after all these long years 
 —you, for whom I have toiled and schemed, taunt me 
 with my crime. I reared you a gentleman; see how little 
 it avails you. You might have retrieved your fortune with 
 the Lorrimer money, but you let it slip, and wasted your 
 time abroad; then, worst of all, you came home to me a 
 cripple,” she cried, pointing to the scarred hand, so hid¬ 
 eously seamed. ‘ ‘ I believe it is vengeance. One cripple 
 in the house was enough. And you mysteriously creep 
 home under cover of the night, shunning the gaze of men 
 like a felon. What does all this mean? Answer me, Heath 
 Hampton. I have the right—I demand to know this mys¬ 
 tery you would keep from me, here and now!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE ROBBERY PLANNED. 
 
 “ I may have reasons for my actions, which I do not 
 choose to disclose,” responded Hampton. “You will be 
 wise not to interfere in my affairs. Money is the only 
 thing that will help me; advice is a cheap commodity.” 
 
 “ You shall never have another cent until I die,” she re¬ 
 torted, sternly, her white, thin, jeweled hands clasped 
 nervously together. ‘ ‘ I have borne patiently with you 
 for years, and you would beggar me in my old age, if per¬ 
 mitted.” 
 
 Although the mother knew but too well his many follies, 
 she loved this handsome, daring, reckless son as she had 
 never loved anything in her solitary life. What had she 
 not undergone for his sake? 
 
 “Listen, mother,” he cried; “ I appeal to you for the last 
 
A FATAL WOOING . X19 
 
 time; advance me a thousand dollars, and I will never ask 
 you for another cent!” 
 
 The rare diamonds on her breast gleamed strangely in 
 the pallid morning light. 
 
 Her face was rigid as the marble Flora against which 
 she leaned. 
 
 “ No,” she said, “not another cent—mark me, not one 
 cent.” 
 
 “So be it,” he answered, gloomily; “but I want you to 
 always remember, whatever happens, I was not thoroughly 
 wicked; there was a time, and not long ago, when I might 
 have been redeemed by love.” 
 
 “ I am certainly at a loss to understand you. What do 
 you mean?” 
 
 “I am dealing in plain facts; first, I followed your in¬ 
 structions by offering myself to the haughty heiress of 
 Lorrimer Hall, only to be refused for my pains. I had 
 never met any woman then whom I thought I could love 
 for herself.” " 
 
 Mrs. Hampton’s cold, glittering eyes never once left her 
 son’s white face as he continued: 
 
 “ I cursed the fate that swept that grand estate from my 
 grasp; wealth was my idol: suddenly my heart awoke to 
 the subtle influence of a woman’s face—do not start, 
 mother, it is true—yet you kept us asunder, yes, you; had 
 you permitted me to woo and win your late companion 
 for my wife, I might have been a different man to-day. I 
 loved her passionately, madly, yet you kept us asunder, 
 poisoned her against me; now, she has fled from me, and 
 with her all hopes of my ever leading a better life.” 
 
 He finished his sentence with a hard, bitter, mocking 
 laugh, that grated harshly on his listener’s ear. 
 
 “ Ah, this is the reason, then, Miss Rienzi fled from us so 
 unceremoniously,” she said, slowly. 
 
 She had been so vigilant lest Izetta should meet her son, 
 yet they had met; she wondered where and when. 
 
 With a quick motion she advanced to where her son sat, 
 placing her hand on his dark hair as she said: 
 
 “ Heath, my boy, I would rather see you dead than wed¬ 
 ded to a beautiful pauper. In me you see a shattered life, 
 still I know the advantages of money; while you throw 
 yourself headlong at the shrine of a pretty face; from this 
 time on I have done with you. It’s but Dead Sea fruit, 
 after all,” she said, slowly, a spasm of pain crossing her 
 dark face. 
 
 Turning hastily, she left the room, her heavy, black silk 
 robes trailing after her on the thick carpet. 
 
 She little realized under what circumstances she would 
 again look upon the desperate, reckless face of her son* 
 
120 
 
 a Fatal Wooim. 
 
 Late that afternoon she sent for Vatal. It had been 
 years since the dwarf had received such a summons. 
 
 “ What can she want of me?” he muttered, as he made 
 his appearance at her door. 
 
 “ Come in, Vatal,” she said. 
 
 Her voice had a weary sound in it. 
 
 Although it was scarcely dusk, the curtains were closely 
 drawn, and the red firelight, which leaped and spluttered 
 in the burnished grate, threw grotesque shadows against 
 the walls and on the jewels that quivered on Mrs. Hamp¬ 
 ton’s breast, as she sat in her low rocker by the hearth. 
 
 The dwarf noticed that she sat with her face partially 
 turned from him. She was not a woman to waste time in 
 unnecessary words. 
 
 “Sit down, Vatal.” 
 
 On this occasion she came to the subject uppermost in 
 her mind at once. 
 
 “ Can you tell me, Vatal, where and when my son first 
 met Miss Eienzi, the young girl who so mysteriously dis¬ 
 appeared from here lately?” 
 
 “ On the day she first came here, madam.” 
 
 “ You are in the habit of driving my son about consider¬ 
 ably, are you not?” 
 
 “ I was, madam, before he went abroad; very little since 
 his return.” 
 
 “ Try to remember if he ever met Miss Eienzi before she 
 came here.” 
 
 “ Not to my knowledge; they appeared to meet that day 
 as perfect strangers.” 
 
 “ Do you know if they have met since. 
 
 “No, madam; I am sure they have not.” 
 
 “ Why are you so positive, Vatal?” 
 
 For a moment the dwarf was silent. 
 
 “ I command you to answer me, Vatal,” she said, fasten¬ 
 ing her flashing eyes upon him, those eyes which had such 
 a strange influence over him. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I am sure he has not met Miss Eienzi since, for he has 
 moved Heaven and earth almost to find her.” 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Hampton scarcely breathed in her 
 intense excitement. 
 
 “You are perfectly sure he has not succeeded, Vatal?” 
 
 “ Perfectly sure, madam; she flitted in all that terrible 
 storm; we traced her footprints some distance only to lose 
 them effectually in the drifts beyond.” 
 
 “There is still another question I would ask, Vatal. 
 Who are these strangers who persistently haunt this 
 house?” 
 
 “They wish to see Mr. Hampton.” 
 
 “ What do they want ?” 
 
A FATj^lL, WOOING . 
 
 121 
 
 “They are creditors, madam, pressing for money.” 
 
 “Poor Heath,” she said, quite under her breath, “I did 
 not dream it was so bad as that.” 
 
 “ They believe Mr. Hampton is still abroad, and come to 
 ask when he will return.” 
 
 “Yes, yes,” she answered, abstractedly; “you may go 
 now, Yatal. Stay,” she called, as he was about to quit the 
 room. “You are quite contented, are you not, Vatal?” 
 
 Her face was turned away, but there was a thrill of 
 wistfulness in her voice. 
 
 The dwarf was amazed; this cold woman, who had not 
 deigned even so much as a glance at him for years, to ask 
 him if he—the miserable, despised dwarf—the tool of her 
 capricious son, was contented. He wondered if he had 
 heard aright. 
 
 The deep silence annoyed her. 
 
 “ You are contented with, your lot in life, are you not, 
 Vatal? Never having had wealth, education, or luxury, 
 you do not realize the loss of them. You are satisfied, are 
 you not?” 
 
 “ What good would it do me if I were not?” he answer¬ 
 ed. “I was accursed from the hour of my birth, and 
 abandoned-” 
 
 “ For God’s sake spare me,” she cried; then almost in¬ 
 stantly recovering herself. 
 
 The dwarf gazed at her with a frightened expression. 
 He thought he had annoyed her by saying too much. 
 
 “Go, now, Vatal.” 
 
 Instantly he obeyed. 
 
 One thought troubled him. If she mentioned this inter¬ 
 view to her son, he dared not think of the consequences; 
 he would go back and beg her not to mention it; and turn¬ 
 ing noiselessly he retraced his steps and entered. 
 
 He was about to speak, when suddenly the sound of his 
 name on her lips chained his attention. 
 
 “Poor Vatal,” she said, with a hard, dry sob. “ His in¬ 
 firmity should have caused pity, not hatred; all should 
 have been his!” 
 
 She rocked herself to and fro. 
 
 “’Twas all for Heath’s sake,” she muttered. 
 
 Vatal could not explain the impulse which caused him to 
 secrete himself behind the heavy, hanging curtains where 
 he could see and hear unobserved. 
 
 “ Fool that I am, ’tis too late now to give vent to sorrow 
 thus,” she cried, touching a taper to the fire, and securely 
 fastening the door. 
 
 Heath shall have money, just this once,” she mutter* 
 ed; and drawing from her bosom a peculiar long, thin key, 
 
122 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 she parted the hanging curtains of an alcove, disclosing a 
 heavy, iron chest, which she hastily unlocked. 
 
 The iron door creaked noisily back on its rusty hinges. 
 From the safe she took two dark, mahogany boxes, which 
 she placed on the table, drawing up her rocker close beside 
 them, and proceeded to examine their contents. 
 
 One was filled with papers—most of them dingy with 
 age, at sight of which for a moment she lay back so white 
 and still in her chair, Yatal thought she must have fainted. 
 
 She aroused herself, crushing the papers hastily back 
 into the box; she did not notice a small, well-worn package 
 that slipped from her grasp, rolling noiselessly to Yatal’s 
 very feet. 
 
 Had she turned her head ever so slightly, she must have 
 observed it, if she put forth her hand to recover it, detec¬ 
 tion must have surely followed. 
 
 The dwarf knew this, and in an instant he stooped down 
 and possessed himself of the package, which he hastily 
 thrust into his pocket. 
 
 The contents of the other box absorbed Mrs. Hampton’s 
 attention. 
 
 The dwarf fairly held his breath as the glimmering light 
 fell upon its contents, heaped to the brim with bright, 
 shining gold. 
 
 The very sight made the fire leap through Yatal’s veins. 
 
 She carefully counted out one thousand dollars in coins, 
 piling them upon the table, replaced the boxes in the safe 
 and the key about her neck; tied the coins in her kerchief, 
 and after placing them securely under her pillow, tossed 
 herself upon her couch to rest. 
 
 The eyelids slowly closed over the tired eyes, and her 
 regular breathing showed Yatal that she slept. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 A CRUEL SON. 
 
 A wild desire had seized the dwarf, at the sight of the 
 gold, to possess it. 
 
 What could he not do if it were only his! 
 
 Yatal had never been totally depraved at heart. 
 
 There had been moments when many a generous impulse 
 to do a good deed had stirred in the dwarfs heart; but the 
 world had shunned and derided him, and the good impulses 
 were wholly crushed out by cruel insults. 
 
 The great temptation was more than he could withstand. 
 
 To possess himself of the gold beneath the pillow was but 
 the work of an instant; but the key to the chest, how could 
 fje obtain that, the key which held the treasure? 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 123 
 
 “I must have the gold in yonder chest, let the conse¬ 
 quences be what they may,” he muttered. 
 
 As he stooped over the prostrate form, the door swung 
 softly back on its hinges. 
 
 Vatal had hardly time to draw back into the shadow of 
 the curtains ere Heath Hampton, with white face and 
 gleaming eyes, softly and stealthily as a panther, glided 
 into the room. 
 
 He carried a shaded night-lamp in his hand, which he 
 placed noiselessly on the table. 
 
 For an instant only he hesitated. 
 
 “By fair means or foul,” he muttered, setting his lips 
 firmly together, “ I must have money.” 
 
 He groped his way carefully about the room until his 
 hand came in contact with the iron safe; again the curtains 
 were looped back, and the midnight intruder proceeded to 
 carefully examine the lock. 
 
 He drew a bunch of skeleton-keys from his pocket, in¬ 
 serting them one by one in the rusty lock. 
 
 “ The money will not be missed for a day or two,” he 
 muttered. 
 
 He drew the last key from the lock; the desperate frown 
 on his face deepened— useless I 
 
 Then commenced a thorough search through the room, 
 bureaus were rifled and boxes overturned without success. 
 
 Mrs. Hampton moved uneasily in her slumbers at that 
 moment; the cord about her neck .attracted his attention. 
 Without an instant’s deliberation, he severed it in twain 
 and held the coveted key at last in his hand. 
 
 Again the door of the safe swung back on its rusty hinges 
 with a loud creak. 
 
 Heath Hampton stooped, listening intently. 
 
 The sleeper stirred uneasily, and the dwarf from his hid¬ 
 ing-place distinctly heard her murmur: 
 
 “No one must know thd contents of the safe, for Heath’s 
 sake; the secret must die with me!” 
 
 Carefully the son abstracted the two boxes, quickly and 
 noiselessly forcing open the lids. 
 
 “ Ah! the papers,” he muttered, “they must be secured 
 as well as the gold. Women must not guard so vital a 
 secret; once destroyed they will tell no tales.” 
 
 He made a hurried examination of the remaining con¬ 
 tents of the safe, and evidently satisfied, he hurriedly 
 locked it, replacing the key about the sleeper’s neck, and 
 securing the two boxes, he stole softly from the apartment, 
 followed by the revengeful dwarf. 
 
 When quite opposite the library, Vatal spoke. 
 
 “ Js that you, Mr, Hampton?” he aspect 
 
124 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 With a bitter oath, which nearly caused him to drop the 
 two boxes he carried, Heath Hampton turned upon him. 
 
 “ What are you doing up at this hour of the night?” he 
 demanded, sharply. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I have been waiting to see you all the evening. I have 
 important-•’ ’ 
 
 “You miserable cur!” cried Hampton, with an impotent 
 yell of rage; “ you have been watching me, have you, dog¬ 
 ging my footsteps, eh? I’ll have a short settlement with 
 you here and now.” 
 
 “You are mistaken,” said the dwarf, coolly, his eyes 
 gleaming a dusky fire; “I have news of Miss Eienzi, which 
 I learned to-night, but it takes money to buy it.” 
 
 For a moment Hampton glared at him as if in doubt 
 what course to pursue. 
 
 “Well, in that case it’s a little different. What makes 
 you think I can pay for your cursed secret, when you know 
 how I am fixed financially?” 
 
 “You might raise the money for that, if it’s worth any¬ 
 thing to you,” answered Vatal, doggedly. 
 
 “ How much do you want? Five dollars?” 
 
 The blood boiled in Vatal’s veins as he thought of the box 
 so heavily laden with gold which he knew was secreted 
 under the cloak Hampton wore. 
 
 “ Not a cent less than one hundred dollars,” replied the 
 dwarf, determinedly. 
 
 “Well, for once I’ll humor you. What do you know 
 about Miss Eeinzi’s whereabouts?” 
 
 Still Vatal hesitated. 
 
 “Oh, I see; it’s cash in advance, eh ? See that the in¬ 
 formation is worth it, or it will be the worse for you.” 
 As he spoke he placed the sum grudgingly in Vatal’s 
 hand. 
 
 “I have traced her to her hiding-place, not ten miles dis¬ 
 tant.” 
 
 “ Can it be possible?” cried Hampton, excitedly. 
 
 “Yes,” replied Vatal; “and the strangest part of the 
 affair—she is at Ulvesford Manor!” 
 
 “ W-h-a t!” shrieked the irate Hampton, “do you mean 
 to tell me that she, too, is beneath that roof? How do you 
 know?” 
 
 “ I saw her face at the window twice.” 
 
 “ When?” 
 
 “ Once last week, and again to day.” 
 
 “You rascally cur, how does it happen you did not come 
 to me directly with the information then? Why, do you 
 know, I have half a mind to thrash you within an inch of 
 your life?” 
 
 The dwarf set his lips tightly together as he replied; 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 125 
 
 ‘*1 was not quite sure until to-day that it was she.” 
 
 “Humph!” ejaculated Hampton, slightly mollified, as he 
 turned on his heel and strode toward his apartment. 
 
 An hour later, with a heavy, dark cloak thrown about 
 his shoulders, more to conceal the boxes he carried, than 
 from actual need, Heath Hampton quietly quitted the 
 house. 
 
 “ I must never lose sight of him and that girl,” muttered 
 Vatal, stealthily following his footsteps. 
 
 It was evident that Hampton was at a loss as to which 
 road he had better take. 
 
 A sudden thought seemed to occur to him; he would go 
 down the river a short distance toward Ulvesford Manor. 
 
 A bold scheme occurred to him—why not abduct the girl 
 -—he had plenty of money to see himself through? 
 
 “I will do it,” he cried: “ha! my bird, flap your pretty 
 wings as much as you like, I will hover about like a hawk 
 and swoop down upon you when you least expect.” 
 
 Several skiffs lay fastened to their moorings; he tossed 
 his burden into one of them, took up the oars and floated 
 silently down with the tide. 
 
 A few moments later, a second boat pushed out quietly 
 into the stream, keeping close to the bank, silently follow¬ 
 ing in the wake of the first. 
 
 The night was dark and cloudy; the two boats—out 
 alone in the darkness and the night, were within a few feet 
 of each other. 
 
 Suddenly Hampton’s skiff lay motionless on the wave. 
 
 There was a, low, gurgling sound, as of a heavy weight 
 dropped down into the silent water, followed by a moment¬ 
 ary ripple; then the dark waters, that had had full many 
 a secret, which they never yet divulged, intrusted to their 
 keeping, flowed on. 
 
 The dwarf marked the spot well. 
 
 Hampton’s skiff glided rapidly onward to its fatal mis¬ 
 sion, followed closely in the rear by the one occupied by 
 Vatal, the dwarf. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE LINKS OF FATE. 
 
 For an instant the room seemed to whirl around Izetta. 
 
 “Alderic, Alderic!” she cried, but the words died away 
 on her lips, making no sound. 
 
 He-turned his handsome face where the sunshine fell full 
 upon his fair, curling hair. 
 
 Ah, God! It was not an imprecation, but a prayer for 
 strength to live through it. 
 
126 A FATAL WOOING 
 
 The fair-haired stranger, with a voice so like, was not 
 Alderic. 
 
 Yet the great resemblance for an instant had electrified 
 her. She was face to face with the original of the portrait, 
 yet this was not Alderic. 
 
 For an instant Ulmont Ulvesford gazed down into those 
 dark, terrified eyes, with a puzzled, thoughtful expression. 
 
 He could not remember that they had ever met before; 
 yet just such a pair of dark, soulful eyes as these seemed 
 ever haunting him. 
 
 In crowded halls, in sunlight and in gloaming, in the 
 silent hour of midnight, he had seen just such passionful, 
 pleading eyes. 
 
 Then he remembered he must not be wanting in courtesy 
 toward this helpless stranger. 
 
 He held out his hand to her. 
 
 “Mrs. Ross, I believe,’ v he said. 
 
 He wondered why the little, cold hand dropped so sud¬ 
 denly from his own, and the blood swept over those pale 
 cheeks and receded again, leaving them whiter than the 
 petals of a white rose. 
 
 “ I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs. Ross; I was 
 unexpectedly summoned out into the grounds; I trust you 
 will pardon my delay,” he said, in his clear, musical voice 
 
 He drew up a chair tbward the fire, sitting opposite her. 
 
 Izetta thought she must surely die then and there, as she 
 watched that handsome face over which the firelight 
 flickered; every gesture reminded her so forcibly of Alderic, 
 her faithless husband. 
 
 She wondered if the mouth, quite concealed by the 
 drooping mustache, was firm and haughty like Alderic’s. 
 Had this stranger had dark, waving hair like him, Izetta 
 would have fled; the sight would have been more than she 
 could bear. 
 
 The very touch of his hand, and the sound of his voice 
 thrilled her through and through. 
 
 “Oh, cruel, relentless fate,” she cried, “ why have you 
 brought me face to face with one so like Alderic, whom I 
 thought like none other!” 
 
 How could she remain beneath the same roof with this 
 man, breathe the same air, listen to his voice—and live? 
 The very torture would drive her to madness. 
 
 By a great effort Izetta collected her scattered thoughts 
 to listen to what he was saying. 
 
 “My wife has told me your sad history; believe me, you 
 have my deepest sympathy, Mrs. Ross. My wife was warm 
 in your praise, but I see she has not overdrawn in her de¬ 
 scription. You will pardon me, I trust, for broaching so 
 sore a subject, but I cannot understand how a man could 
 
A FATAL WOOING, 
 
 127 
 
 desert a tender, clinging little creature like yourself; it is 
 so strange, I am lost in amazement. TVas your husband 
 of the same nativity as yourself. Mrs. Boss?" 
 
 “ No. I t hink not. he came from France, yet I believe 
 him to be an American." 
 
 “ Ah!” thought Ulmont. “ the wretch brought her over 
 the seas to his own land to abandon her. '‘You have no 
 cert iiicate of your marriage? ' 
 
 “No, sir: mv husband said the rector was to forward 
 one, as soon as he reached home.” 
 
 “ That is very bad — very bad. indeed, " reflected Ulmont; 
 ‘‘for the sake of trie child he should be found, if possible. 
 I will do all I can to assist you; the case must be put in 
 the hands of the most experienced detectives: they are 
 used to such cases. Society is in danger with such a man 
 at large." 
 
 ‘ 4 1 firmlv believe some dav we shall meet." exclaimed 
 
 «* 
 
 Izetta: “ a solemn voice seems whispering — we shall 
 one day meet; then, before the world, he shall acknowl¬ 
 edge me—his wife, and acknowledge his little, innocent 
 
 child!” 
 
 “You have no clew by which you could trace him?” 
 
 “None whatever, sir." she answered, sadly. “I shall 
 trust blindly to Heaven to guide me.” 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford felt the deepest compassion for this 
 beautiful young Greature; there was no taint of worldii- 
 ness about her. 
 
 Five minutes after he heard her speak, he would have 
 stake.! his life on her virtue and her honor. 
 
 “ iou will find a haven of rest here.” he said. “for both 
 yourself and your child. You please Loraine. therefore I 
 am only -too "pleased to join with her in offering you a 
 home . n 
 
 Izetta could not speak, so great was her emotion, great 
 tears of gratitude filled her eyes. 
 
 “ As for the child." he continued. “ a suitable nurse can 
 soon he procured for the little fellow." 
 
 How sweet and restful it sounded to Izetta to hear this 
 
 E l easant- voiced young man planning so thoughtfully for 
 ,er little babv s future. 
 
 m 
 
 “ Even a stranger." she thought, bitterly. “ is more kind 
 to the child than his own father has been, the father who 
 knows not of his very existence." 
 
 “ I think the little one is the handsomest child, without 
 a doubt. I have ever seen. I s hould like him to remain 
 here." Ulmont said. 
 
 Izetta could have fallen on "her knees and blessed him for 
 
 those words. 
 
128 
 
 'A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 “I hope you have decided to remain with us, Mrs. Rossf’ 
 he asked, earnestly. 
 
 “Oh, most willingly, sir, if I may only be permitted to 
 keep my little child with me.” 
 
 “ There is no doubt about that—why, of course, you will 
 keep the child,” he replied. “It is seldom my wife takes 
 as much of a fancy to anyone as she has to you, Mrs. Ross. 
 She is as capricious as the April sunshine, my proud, will¬ 
 ful Loraine, but you will find her heart kind and appreci¬ 
 ative, her friendship stanch and true. I do not hesitate 
 in believing that you will always maintain the high regard 
 in which she now holds you. I can say no more than that, 
 Mrs. Ross.” 
 
 “I thank you more than I can find words to express,” 
 murmured Izetta. “ I shall try to be deserving.” 
 
 “ Then we may consider the matter fully settled, shall we 
 not?” 
 
 “If you please, sir,” she replied, gratefully. 
 
 At that moment Loraine entered the room, gliding grace¬ 
 fully to an ottoman beside her husband’s chair, upon which 
 she seated herself. 
 
 Ulmont passed his arm lovingly around the slender 
 waist. 
 
 “My dear, Mrs. Ross has consented to remain with her 
 charming little one.” 
 
 “ I am very pleased at her decision.” 
 
 Ulmont did not notice the cloud that settled for a mo¬ 
 ment over his wife’s face, as he mentioned the child. 
 
 “ I am very sure, Mrs. Ross and I will get along famous¬ 
 ly together,” she replied, with a smile. “She must put 
 away that sorrowful face, though, and look at the bright 
 side of life. I would rather die young,” she said, laughing¬ 
 ly, than live to know sorrow. Let me live like the bees 
 and birds coquetting with the flowers.” 
 
 “ Not like the bees or the birds, I hope, for they are fickle, 
 coquettish rovers,” said Ulmont, with a roguish twinkle in 
 his eyes. I could not endure seeing you coquetting with 
 other-” 
 
 Loraine put her white fingers over his lips. 
 
 “ Other flowers, you were going to say; how do you 
 know that you are not considered a thorn or a, thistle, sir?” 
 
 “Not quite so bad as that I hope,” he answered, quizzi¬ 
 cally, gazing down into the azure eyes laughing so brightly, 
 sparklingly up into his face. 
 
 “ Have you never heard how the last coquettish ‘ Queen 
 Bee’s’ life is passed in the pretty poem?” 
 
 “ No,” he admitted.; “ won’t you repeat it for me?” 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 139 
 
 “Yes/’responded Loraine, leaning her arm on the back 
 of his chair. 
 
 “ ‘ Queen bee through many a garden roves, 
 
 And hums her lay of courtship o’er; 
 
 When she finds the flower she loves, 
 
 She settles there, and roams no more.’ ” 
 
 Izetta watched the lover-like husband and wife with a 
 sick, troubled heart. 
 
 “Why is not such love mine?” she sighed. “ Why was 
 the cup of happiness dashed so rudely from my lips?” 
 
 She was so young to realize that love, light, and happi¬ 
 ness were lost to her forever. 
 
 Every caress Ulmont Ulvesford gave his golden-haired 
 young wife sank into her heart like a sword-thrust; she 
 could not tell why the sight gave her such inexpressible 
 pain. 
 
 “ I am so glad the subject is settled, and that you are 
 really to stay.” 
 
 Loraine, gliding gracefully across the room, leaned over 
 Izetta, taking the little, trembling hands in her own white, 
 jeweled ones. 
 
 “I want you to feel perfectly at home with us. Mrs. 
 Ross sounds so cold and formal, I would much prefer call¬ 
 ing you by your given name. I am sure it must be some¬ 
 thing very poetical and sweet, matching your foreign face. 
 What may I call you?” 
 
 “ My name is Izetta,” she answered, blushingly. 
 
 “ Izetta! What a picturesque, musical name. I do not 
 think I have ever heard it before. Has she not a lovely 
 name, Ulmont?” cried his wife, turning toward him. 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, my dear,” he said. “ I did not hear 
 your remark. I was thinking.’* 
 
 Loraine’s lips curled like a pouting, spoiled child’s. 
 
 “ How terribly provoking,” she cried. “ Half of what I 
 say is lost upon you. I do not know which claims more of 
 your attention, your wife or your thoughts.” 
 
 “You might with safely decide in favor of my wife,” T he 
 replied, gallantly, “ for I assure you my thoughts are about 
 her.” 
 
 The frown cleared like magic from Loraine’s face; she 
 blushed rosily. 
 
 “I must beg your pardon,” she said, “but, really, Ul¬ 
 mont, I have never heard a name quite as pretty as Mrs. 
 Ross’s—it is Izetta; does it not sound sweetly foreign?” 
 
 The goblet of ice-water which Ulmont held in his hand 
 fell to the floor with a loud crash. 
 
 He could scarcely believe it was the sweet, melodious 
 voice of Loraine he had heard, it seemed to have been, 
 shrieked out on the air. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 130 
 
 The name seemed to pierce his very soul—Izetta—had he 
 never heard that name before? 
 
 He looked at the sweet, foreign face before him, passing 
 his hand over his brow with a strange, bewildered sensa¬ 
 tion stealing over him. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford made, in that supreme moment, a 
 mighty, heroic effort to follow the tangled thoughts which 
 beset him. 
 
 The name, Izetta, struck a strange chord in his soul. He 
 sighed sorrowfully, and his thoughts melted into chaos. 
 
 “Why, Ulmont, see what you have done!” cried Lo¬ 
 raine. “See, you have spoiled mv pretty Undine,” she 
 cried, pointing to the hearth-rug, from which the water 
 trickled in little, tiny rills. 
 
 It was too true; the red wool had dyed the white hand 
 of the fairy maid, which lay lightly upon her bodice, a deep 
 crimson. 
 
 Loraine shuddered; the white hand seemed as if it were 
 clasping a broken, bleeding heart, and the glowing firelight, 
 leaping playfully in the grate, threw strange shadows over 
 it. 
 
 “Take the rug away,” said Loraine, nervously, covering 
 her face with her hands. ‘ ‘ I never want to behold it 
 again 1” 
 
 Someone had once laughingly suggested that the fair, 
 dainty coloring of this Undine resembled Loraine—would 
 her heart ever break like this fair Undine’s? 
 
 The servant removed all trace of the accident; still 
 Loraine felt nervous. 
 
 “Come,” said Loraine, clasping Izetta’s hand, “come 
 with me to my boudoir. ” 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford, as one fascinated, watched them 
 leave the room together. 
 
 Never did mortal man gaze upon such a strange sight; 
 both of these innocent women, peerless in their startling 
 beauty, cruelly wrecked by the love of one man upon the 
 jagged rock of fate. 
 
 How was it to end? 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE BABY’S FUTURE. 
 
 Ulmont vetoed the idea of sending Izetta’s child from 
 Ulvesford Manor, when the subject was broached to him 
 two weeks later. 
 
 “ I cannot imagine how my tender-hearted Loraine could 
 entertain, for a moment, a thought so cruel as to separate 
 that suffering creature from her child. ” 
 
 A tear stood in Loraine’s eyes as she answered proudly; 
 
! A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 181 
 
 “ I did not think you would—you would—care to see a 
 Stranger’s child playing about these old corridors. ” 
 
 “ Do you mean you would not care to see him here, 
 Loraine?” 
 
 She tossed her golden head proudly back; the Lorrimer 
 fire leaped into her calm, blue eyes. 
 
 “It does not matter to me, I assure you,” she replied, 
 
 coldly. 
 
 She would sooner have cut her right hand off than admit 
 to him that she was actually jealous of a strange little 
 child, bitterly jealous, because she had seen it lying for one 
 brief moment upon his breast, placed there by her own 
 hands. 
 
 Ulmont took her at her word. 
 
 “ I wondered if you really desired that poor helpless lit¬ 
 tle child sent away; it was not like my own generous- 
 hearted Loraine to have such thoughts.” 
 
 She did not answer him. 
 
 “ How does it happen I have never seen Mrs. Eoss since 
 that morning you sent her to the library?” he asked sud¬ 
 denly. 
 
 “ I am sure I do not know,” she replied. 
 
 “ I often laugh at the foolish fancy, but I quite believe 
 she avoids me. You should make the shy little creature 
 feel more at home. If I meet her in hall, parlor or library, 
 she flits before me like a shadow. If I speak to her sud¬ 
 denly, she looks as if she were about to faint, she is as 
 timid as a young fawn.” 
 
 “Well,” answered Loraine, breaking into a jolly, little 
 laugh, “ if that is the case, the greatest kindness you can 
 do her, is to let her quite alone. It is plainly evident she 
 does not appreciate you, my dear.” 
 
 He laughed good naturedly, replying: 
 
 “So I supposed. And do you know,” he continued, 
 “ your protege is creating quite a furor hereabouts. Sev¬ 
 eral of my friends have urged me to present them to the 
 pretty, little, foreign beauty. You must look to your laurels, 
 Loraine, or the crimson rose may outbloom the tall, white, 
 golden-hearted lily. 
 
 ‘ ‘ As long as there was one who preferred the lily. I 
 should not care who chose the crimson rose, or what tne 
 world thought,” she said, putting back the fair hair that 
 clustered round his forehead. 
 
 Ulmont quickly imprisoned the little, white hand, but 
 she drew it hastily away, remembering he had not granted 
 the request she had asked. ___ 
 
 “ I shall never like that child,” she cried, her fair face 
 flushing angrily, after her husband had quitted the room; 
 “I am sure it will be war between us to the bitter end I” 
 
m 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 There was a germ of jealousy away down at the root of 
 Loraine’s heart; it was the inheritance of the Lorrimer 
 daughters for generations back. Gentle, loving, tender 
 women, all of them, but their love was their life, their ruin, 
 or their salvation. Loraine was the most willful, proudest, 
 most capricious of them all. 
 
 Mrs. Lorrimer had always said she thanked Heaven her 
 child had secured the man she loved; had it been other¬ 
 wise, she would have trembled at the depths of despair 
 and passion which she knew lay dormant beneath that 
 fair, smiling exterior. Mrs. Lorrimer had been bitterly 
 opposed to Izetta, because of her rare beauty; she watched 
 her every glance and word. 
 
 “I wish to Heaven,” she often said to herself, “fate had 
 not driven her there.” 
 
 She often saw Ulmont’s eyes resting on Izetta’s face with 
 a strange, indefinable expression, and each day he waa 
 
 S owing more fond of the child. Loraine might have felt 
 nder toward the little one, had not her mother spoken so 
 bitterly on the subject. 
 
 Although Izetta fled from TJlmont Ulvesford, she leved 
 to gaze upon him unobserved; she told herself it was be¬ 
 cause he was so like Alderic. 
 
 His step upon the stair made her heart flutter wildly; 
 she often wondered her heart did not break when he spoke 
 to her suddenly. 
 
 If she saw him caress his wife, the hot blood mounted to 
 her cheeks, and she sought safety in instant flight. She 
 could not endure it. 
 
 “ How can I see other women content in the priceless 
 love of their husband, while I, who have loved so madly, 
 so purely, and so blindly, was so cruelly deceived, shut out 
 from the arms that should have been my shield!” she cried 
 out to herself. 
 
 If she saw a father returning from his work with his lit¬ 
 tle child upon his shoulder, or happy parents leading a little 
 child between them, she would cry out like a wounded bird ; 
 the pain was more than she could bear. 
 
 People wondered why the beautiful companion of pretty 
 Mrs. Ulvesford always drooped her head when anyone 
 chanced to mention how dearly fathers loved their little 
 sons, watched over them, planned for them, and were so 
 proud of them. They thought the beautiful Mrs. Ross was 
 thinking of some far-off grave. 
 
 Ah! if there had been a grave; but there was none. Her 
 husband walked the smiling earth, unconscious, uncaring 
 of the love of a little son. 
 
 It was strange, but she never once imagined Alderic 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 138 
 
 clasping another in his arms, or another woman basking 
 in the love that was her own. 
 
 “He is my husband,” she told herself; that thought 
 alone seemed to shut out any such possibility from her 
 
 mind. 
 
 One morning Izetta, from her window, saw Ulmont 
 Ulvesford kiss his wife good-bye on the portico; he was to 
 be gone but one day, only a few hours. Izetta noticed 
 how even so slight a separation grieved them; the memory 
 of that kiss almost drove her mad. 
 
 For hours she paced the floor of her room. Such a tor¬ 
 rent of passionate tears welled up from her tortured heart! 
 She had no one but baby to whom she could turn in her 
 loneliness for sympathy, and even baby’s face oft-time re¬ 
 minded her alarmingly of—Ulmont Ulvesford. 
 
 Suddenly she caught sight of her own agonized face in 
 an opposite mirror, and her soul was filled with wonder. 
 
 She had suffered the keenest and most poignant grief, 
 because she had seen a young husband lovingly kiss his 
 own wife. 
 
 Then the startling truth burst upon her; she must leave 
 or she would go mad. 
 
 How dare such thoughts stir her bosom when she thought 
 of the husband of Loraine Ulvesford, or met the glance of 
 his keen, blue eyes fixed upon her face. 
 
 Izetta threw herself down on her knees beside baby Ul- 
 mont’s couch and prayed Heaven to pardon the sin of her 
 own wild, thoughtless fancies. 
 
 She was drifting on toward the brink of her destiny; 
 there was but a dim shadowy outline separating the present 
 from that future. 
 
 Izetta bathed her eyes, pressed her lips to sleeping Ul- 
 mont’s snowy forehead and went down to the morning- 
 room, where she knew Mrs. Ulvesford awaited her. 
 
 Loraine sat with some pretty worsted-work in her hand, 
 but as Izetta entered she threw it aside. 
 
 “ You shall read to me,” she said; “ lam very dull; after 
 that we will make out those invitations for the lawn fete 
 for the first of May. Guess how long you have been here, 
 Izetta.” 
 
 “ Quite four months, I believe.” 
 
 “ Yes, a little over four months, yet you are as sny and 
 reserved as on the first day you came. My husband was 
 saying only yesterday that he wondered where in the 
 world you were hiding yourself; he has seen you but twice 
 since you have been at the manor. I really must protest 
 against this, Mrs. Ross; you are too pretty to immure your¬ 
 self from the world in this fashion.” 
 
 “Believe me, Mrs. Ulvesford, the greatest happiness I 
 
1S4 
 
 A FATAL WOOING 
 
 can find is administering to your wishes or baby’s comfort; 
 there are moments when, thus employed, I quite forget my 
 sorrow.” 
 
 “Do you never long for some of the brightness that 
 makes other women’s lives?” asked Loraine. 
 
 “No,” answered Izetta, wearily, “why should I?” 
 
 “Why, by right of your youth and loneliness. When 
 the strains of a waltz and merry tripping feet fall upon 
 your ear, is there no throbbing of your heart to break away 
 from the gloom that surrounds you and mingle with the 
 gay throng—to feast your eyes on the brilliancy, the bloom, 
 and beauty?” 
 
 “No,” replied Izetta; “I should feel out of place; I 
 should not care for it; my one great longing would be to 
 escape it.” 
 
 Loraine looked at the beautiful, foreign face, so exquisite 
 in its rich, dark coloring, and she thought how mistaken 
 the poets were when they chose dark-eyed women as their 
 ideals of passionate love. They do not see the brightness 
 and gayety; they see only the somber side of life, these 
 sad, dark, dreamy-eyed women. 
 
 Loraine could not believe that down in the turbulent 
 depths of their hearts there lay such a whirlpool of love as 
 would have made her shudder at its mighty depths, only 
 awaiting the whirlwind of some tragic event to lash it into 
 a raging tempest. 
 
 At last, simply to gratify Loraine, Izetta promised to at¬ 
 tend the lawn fete. 
 
 Loraine was busy with a thousand plans for the coming 
 summer. 
 
 “You must decide the most important cases for me, 
 Izetta,” she said, with a blush; “you know this is my first 
 summer at home.” 
 
 “We must make it a memorable one on that account,” 
 answered Izetta. 
 
 “ The first of May,” saifjL Loraine, poising her pen on her 
 dainty fingers; “ we will set the fete down for the first day 
 in May. I love the sweet month of May; yet once it 
 brought me the greatest sorrow I had ever known.” 
 
 “ No one would think you had ever known a single care,” 
 said Izetta, turning her dark, sympathetic eyes wonder- 
 ingly, questioningly on Loraine’s face. 
 
 “Yes,” continued Loraine, “ I was to have been mar¬ 
 ried last May. Ulmont was abroad, but was expected 
 home on the tenth, our marriage was set for the fif¬ 
 teenth.” 
 
 Izetta started slightly; she remembered she was mar¬ 
 ried on the tenth of May. 
 
 6 ‘The steamer was detained, I believe, qy for some unex- 
 
A FATAL WOOING, 
 
 185 
 
 plainable reason he reached port late in the afternoon of 
 what was to have been our wedding-day. Just as he land¬ 
 ed he was immediately summoned to his mother’s bedside: 
 although I lived but ten miles distant, no one sent for me, 
 lest the shock on my wedding-day would prove too much 
 for me. I did not kno^v she was ill, and expected her each 
 moment at my home. I awaited my love in my bridal 
 robes. I can never describe to you the long, weary hours 
 I waited; still he came not.” 
 
 Loraine crossed over to where Izetta sat, standing before 
 her like a beautiful statue carved in marble; and with a 
 sudden motion her white hands were clasped round her 
 rival's neck. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 “Izetta.” whispered Loraine, “you will never realize 
 what I suffered, on what was to have been my bridal eve, 
 for the lover-bridegroom who came not. People look upon 
 my face and say, with a smile: 4 Her life has been sweet 
 
 and dreamy, like a poem; no cloud has ever fallen athwart 
 her sunshine.’ Nobody except poor mamma knew that I 
 lived the agony of a life-time in those few hours: at last a 
 messenger came, breaking the terrible news. He was at 
 Ulvesford Mansion, lying dangerously wounded by a fall 
 over the cliff into the raging sea.” 
 
 There was no lack of sympathy in the dark eyes which 
 gazed into Loraine’s, expressed more kindly than words 
 would have done. 
 
 “I never knew a happy moment until he recovered; you 
 cannot wonder why I tremble so when he leaves my eight. 
 Do you know, Izetta, that if anything were to happen to 
 my husband I should pray Heaven that I might die! ’ 
 
 “You must not have such strange thoughts, Mrs. Ul¬ 
 vesford ; nothing could happen to your husband; nothing 
 could separate you.” 
 
 “ So you thought, Izetta, when your husband parted from 
 you." 
 
 “That was a’sadly different case, Mrs. Ulvesford, your 
 husband loves you." 
 
 Loraine shuddered at the pitiful wail in the sweet, young 
 voice. 
 
 “ I should droop and die without Ulmont’s love,” whis- 
 
 E ered Loraine. “Mrs. Ross,”she exclaimed, coming nearer, 
 er fair face eloquent with emotion, “I often wonder if 
 God does not disapprove of so great a love as is mine. I 
 cannot find words to express to you how dearly I love Ul- 
 paont. I could not be like those noble women of old who 
 
136 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 have given up their love for duty; I should fling myself in 
 the dust at his feet and pray him to take the life which 
 was not worth the living—without his love.” 
 
 “You are fanciful, Mrs. Ulvesford, you are as pale as 
 death,” cried Izetta, in alarm. 
 
 “ The very thought of such a possibility makes me weak 
 and faint,” shuddered Loraine. 
 
 “Believe me, you are entertaining impossibilities in 
 your thoughts; we must banish them at once,” said Izetta 
 cheerfully; continuing: “Now that we have finished the 
 invitations, shall we not examine the new silks which 
 arrived for you yesterday?” 
 
 Again, like the April sunshine, Loraine’s fair, flower-like 
 face cleared, and Izetta saw she had quite forgotten^ al¬ 
 most the next moment, in beholding the shimmering silks, 
 her late gloomy fancies. 
 
 “I have a surprise for you, Izetta,” she cried gayly; “I 
 did not anticipate your refusal to attend my lawn fete , and 
 have ordered a special costume for the occasion for you. 
 Stop! do not thank me, Izetta; you will quite overwhelm 
 me if you do.” 
 
 “ It is you who quite overwhelm me , Mrs. Ulvesford ;'I—I 
 do not deserve such kindness at your hands—I have done 
 so little to merit it.” 
 
 Loraine playfully placed her white fingers above the red, 
 quivering lips, holding up a jaunty, amber silk, with here 
 and there a dash of the richest, softest, and darkest crimson. 
 
 “ I knew how superbly this costume would set off that 
 piquant, foreign face. Stop! I command you to hear me 
 through,” she said, laughingly: I wanted your dark, rich 
 coloring as a foil to my own colorless face.” 
 
 “ Mrs. Ulvesford-” 
 
 Loraine continued, laughingly: 
 
 “You must not think that my kindness, as you are 
 pleased to term it, sprang from an exactly generous 
 impulse; but mind,” she added roguishly, “you are not to 
 outshine me, you know.” 
 
 “That would be as impossible, my dear Mrs. Ulvesford, 
 as for the dark, starless night to eclipse the fair, smiling, 
 sun-radiant day,” Izetta exclaimed, earnestly. 
 
 Loraine shook her golden curls eoquettishly; still she was 
 quite willing to be convinced. 
 
 How little either of these two women realized how bit¬ 
 ter the struggle was to be between them; the one, proud 
 haughty, beautiful, and wilful; the other sweet, submis¬ 
 sive, meekly lovely, and loveable. 
 
 They were well matched. Loraine, the capricious beauty, 
 Was in quite quandary as to what to wear. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 187 
 
 “I want something new and startling; you must decide 
 for me, Izetta.” 
 
 “ If it rests with me,” said Izetta, “ I should not hesitate 
 in selecting this white, silvery gauze.” 
 
 “ Do you think it would suit me?” 
 
 “Perfectly.” 
 
 “ I do not like the half-sleeves and bared shoulders,” 
 answered Loraine, ruefully. 
 
 “ I did not notice the neck and sleeves,” answered Izetta; 
 “ if it only had a covering of lace at the throat, the effect 
 would be charming.” 
 
 “ I have a lace fichu somewhere, quite yellow with age; 
 do you think we could make it answer?” 
 
 “That would be very appropriate indeed, and with a 
 bunch of white heath or heliotrope on the breast, would 
 form so pleasing a picture, that the guests who saw you 
 would never forget the lovely apparition.” 
 
 “You sweet little flatterer,” exclaimed Loraine; “you 
 will make me exceedingly vain. You may go to the old 
 chest in my room and bring the fichu—we will look at the 
 effect anyhow; the chest is not locked.” 
 
 Izetta little dreamed that that one event was the turning- 
 point of her life; and fair Loraine, the golden-haired, be¬ 
 loved young wife, knew not that she had spoken the words 
 which were to be the death-warrant of her love, her life 
 her home, and happiness. 
 
 The sweet odor of May blossoms stole in at the open 
 window. The yellow canary in its gilded-cage coquetted 
 with the crimson-breasted robin swaying two and fro on 
 the budding cedar boughs hard by, as if the crudest blow 
 that could be stricken at a human heart was not about to 
 fall. 
 
 “ I call that my ‘ curiosity shop,’ ” said Loraine, gayly; 
 “ I have no idea of the contents of it; some day, Izetta you 
 shall assort its contents for me; you will find no end of 
 interesting bric-a-brac; the histories of many of these 
 souvenirs are wonderfully romantic; among the debris you 
 will come across a bunch of faded forget-me-nots, to which 
 is attached a card with the initials H. H. The person 
 whose name those initials represent was a beau of mine. 
 You look surprised, Izetta,” she added, with a gay laugh; 
 “oh, I assure you I was quite a belle before I married; 
 why, the poor fellow who sent those flowers quite refused 
 to be comforted. We met him abroad; I would scarcely 
 have recognized him he was so changed, and all for love 
 of me,” sighed Loraine, pityingly; “ ’twas said he lingered 
 long over the wine-cup; I do not know how true that was ; 
 though he was to accompany Ulmont and me on our re¬ 
 turn trip home, he failed to join us, and I afterward read 
 
138 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 in the papers that he was dangerously wounded in a duel 
 on the slippery Alpine heights the evening before we left. 
 I never knew if he recovered, although I nave repeatedly 
 searched the foreign exchanges. You will find among the 
 rest a faded lily; shall I tell you why I prize that above all 
 else?” 
 
 “Yes,” answered Izetta, taking up the lily which lay in 
 a crimson velvet bed. 
 
 “Because,” whispered Loraine, with a faint flush, “I 
 wore that twined in my hair on the evening Ulmont asked 
 me to be his wife: he was going abroad on the morrow. 
 
 “ ‘ Give me thai lily, Loraine,’ he said, ‘ and I shall wear 
 it over my heart; whenever I gaze upon it I shall remem¬ 
 ber my Loraine’s golden curls have rested against its white 
 
 E etals and its golden cup.’ That is the reason that faded 
 ower is beyond all price to me,” she said, softly. 
 
 At last the fichu was found. As Izetta shook out its 
 filmy folds, something dropped into her lap, hitting the 
 wedding-ring she wore with a clear, musical sound. Care¬ 
 lessly she stretched forth her hands to clasp it. 
 
 Loraine never forgot the wild, terrified crv that broke 
 from Izetta’s lips as she held up at arm’s length a pearl por¬ 
 trait of a woman’s face upon the petal of a graceful lily, 
 her drooping curls wound round the stem and mingling 
 with its golden calyx. 
 
 One sharp, jagged end had pierced her tender hand 
 falling, the hand which wore her marriage-ring. 
 
 “My husband painted that portrait,” said Loraine, 
 proudly. 
 
 “ Alderic, Alderic,” moaned Izetta, faintly; the next mo¬ 
 ment she lay white and motionless at Loraine Ulvesford’a 
 feet. 
 
 Heaven pity her, the wronged voung wife and mother, 
 the plaything of fate, more cruel than the grave in its bit* 
 ter sting I 
 
 Kind hands bore Izetta to her chamber, placing her on 
 the couch beside little Ulmont, who gazed in baby wonder 
 at the still, white face of her who was wont to caress him. 
 
 Was it kind of Heaven that the terrible stroke had not 
 killed her then and there; was it kind she should struggle 
 back to life when death would have been such a relief to 
 her? 
 
 Loraine had left the room in charge of the nurse an hour 
 before. And the good old nurse wondered why the dark 
 eyes bore such an expression of agony in their depths. 
 
 “ Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Ross?” she inquired, 
 and the answer came in a pitiful wail: 
 
 ‘‘ Yes; leave me alone; it is the greatest kindness you 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 180 
 
 can do me,” and the beautiful face was turned toward tne 
 wall. 
 
 Still the attendant was loth to leave her alone; all the 
 years of her life she had been used to seeing sickness and 
 sorrow, but she had never seen such terrible woe in a human 
 face before. A sudden fear crossed her mind. 
 
 “If I leave you alone,” she said, “promise me you will 
 do nothing rash. I do not know what great sorrow has 
 come to you, but try to remember, for your baby’s sake, 
 that you must bear up bravely. Have you forgotten your 
 little baby in your sorrow, lady?” 
 
 “No,” exclaimed Izetta, “it was of him I was thinking 
 most; God help him; I shall go mad if I think of my poor 
 little child,” she cried. 
 
 Once more she was shut out from the gaze of mortal 
 eyes—she was alone; had not little Ulmont been there, 
 whom she loved, to claim her attention, her reason must 
 certainly have left her. 
 
 Loraine Ulvesford’s voice still rang in her ears, saying: 
 
 “ My husband painted that portrait.” 
 
 Izetta leaned far out into the summer night, gazing up 
 into the starry heavens. 
 
 “It was Alderic, my husband, who painted that por- 
 trait,” she cried, wildly. 
 
 Her thoughts flashed through her brain like lightning. 
 
 How came Loraine Ulvesford with that portrait? Was 
 she dreaming? Ah! the face of the portrait, where had she 
 seen one like it? 
 
 Merciful Heaven! it was the smiling face of Loraine 
 which she had seen in the hand of Alderic, her husband; 
 which Alderic, her husband, had worn on his breast. 
 
 Izetta’s breath came quick and hot; the blood leaped 
 through her veins like molten lead; the very air seemed 
 seething with all-consuming fire, bathing her very soul in 
 its fiery caldron. 
 
 There could be no mistake; was not the very jagged cor¬ 
 ner proof positive? Izetta held the portrait tightly clinch* 
 ed in her hand when she had swooned, and they had not 
 taken it from her. 
 
 She saw the portrait like a mocking, jeering falsehood 
 coolly confronting her upon the table. She thought of 
 that jagged edge of pearl she had so carefully treasured. 
 
 In another instant she held them in her hand; would 
 those rough edges meet? God pity her, in another instant 
 rile would know. 
 
140 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 WHICH WAS HIS WIFE. 
 
 Hoping almost against hope, lzetta caught up the por¬ 
 trait. 
 
 Oh, cruelest of cruel evidence, the jagged edges fitted 
 each other exactly; this was no dream, but a terrible 
 reality forced upon her. 
 
 The face, the form, the voice of Ulmont Ulvesford were 
 so like Alderic, the husband who had abandoned her to the 
 cold mercies of the pitiless world, the husband who had 
 cast her adrift, with a smile on his lips and the blackest of 
 falsehoods in his heart. The very breeze seemed whisper¬ 
 ing the startling thought. 
 
 Great God, it could not be true. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford and Alderic, her husband, could not 
 be one and the same. 
 
 “ This one has fair hair; Alderic’s was dark,” she cried; 
 “ and brother or other kindred he had none; he was the 
 last of his race.” 
 
 The very enormity of the terrible discovery which was 
 dawning upon her almost drove her mad. 
 
 If Loraine’s husband was Alderic, did he not know her? 
 If he was her husband, how could he be the husband of 
 Loraine? 
 
 “ If this is Alderic,” she cried, “ Great Heaven, which of 
 us is his wife?” 
 
 The low breathing of little Ulmont aroused her; the 
 thought of baby was the keenest thrust of all. 
 
 “For baby’s sake,” she whispered, “I must probe this 
 mystery to the very bottom.” 
 
 lzetta drew herself up proudiv to her full height; she 
 forgot the wild, passionful love she had borne her husband 
 in the face of the foul wrong that had been done the de¬ 
 serted wife. 
 
 “ This/cannot be Alderic,” she wailed, “ the husband of 
 another—for am not I his wife before God and man? The 
 very Heaven that bends above us, and the listening angels 
 can bear witness to my marriage. I would have flung my¬ 
 self into the stormy ocean before I would have bent myself 
 to even a shadow of wrong in thought or action. I have 
 always held my honor stainless. I shall not believe it sul¬ 
 lied now. Heaven could not have been so cruel. I could 
 not hope to meet my angel mother above, if a stain lay 
 on my soul.” 
 
 A great torrent of tears welled up from the dark eyes, 
 bringing no relief. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 14l 
 
 She flung herself down on the couch, her long dark hair 
 falling around her like a veil, moaning out: 
 
 “Alderic, Alderic! oh, cruel love, better I had died in 
 infancy upon my mother’s breast, than live to suffer this!” 
 
 All the long summer night Izet-ta paced the floor, love, 
 horror, and bitterest despair struggling in her ht*art for 
 supremacy. Scenes such as that have made gentle, lov¬ 
 ing woman, the bitterest, most revengeful of foes. 
 
 “ Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” 
 
 It was strange her overcharged young heart did not 
 burst then and there. How strange life should cling to 
 her so tenaciously, when she wanted so much to die; she 
 told herself she had not strength to live. 
 
 “ My poor little Ulmont,” she said, laying her hot cheek 
 against baby’s; “ 7 tis well you are a boy; I could not have 
 left an innocent little girl to have been thrown out on the 
 mercies of relentless fate. Which would have been the 
 worst crime, to have taken her with me in her innocent, 
 spotless babyhood, or to have realized she would be buf¬ 
 feted about by adversity; and, if too weak to cling to life 
 and hope, would not some cruel, blighting hand have 
 struck her down like a reed in the storm? Thank Heaven, 
 you are a boy, my sweet little one,” she murmured. “I 
 am very grateful for that boon. There is but one course 
 left us, baby,” she whispered. “We must leave this place 
 at once; we will utter no word of the terrible wrong that 
 has been done us!” 
 
 Izetta had read deep, tragic sorrows that had come to 
 the lives of women, but she never remembered to have 
 read of one as pitiful as her own. 
 
 How dared he gaze upon her face or the face of her child 
 if he be Alderic, who had pledged himself so solemnly to 
 the dying to protect her? 
 
 If she could only settle the question of the fair hair to 
 her satisfaction, she would go forth with her child upon 
 her arm and confront him, flinging out her wrongs that 
 the whole wide world might know; crying out: 
 
 “See! this is the man who married me but to forsake 
 me in my greatest need—and, lo! I find him the husband 
 of another!” 
 
 Ah, this was why each caress he had given Loraine en¬ 
 tered her heart like a dagger thrust. 
 
 She remembered, with a burning flush, how he had 
 pressed his false, fair, smiling lips to Loraine’s, but yester- 
 noon at parting, while she, his wife, stood by. 
 
 She had heard of the daring treachery of men, but this 
 exceeded her wildest imagination; all other crimes paled 
 before this. 
 
142 A FATAL WOOING 
 
 Izetta knew Lorain e would soon come, or send to see if 
 she were better. 
 
 “She would never be better now,” she told herself, 
 “ until she died.” 
 
 How could she look into Loraine’s fair face, knowing she 
 had stolen her husband’s love from her, the love which had 
 been her very life? 
 
 God help these two fair, proud women; ’twas hard to 
 judge between them; who could tell which breast would 
 feel the deadly arrow’s stroke the keener? 
 
 If this indeed be Alderic, Izetta could but pity poor, de¬ 
 ceived Loraine; she had not forgotten that ’twas she who 
 sheltered her that night from the pitiless storm. She 
 wished devoutly she had perished out m the cold and the 
 snow. 
 
 At that moment she heard Loraine’s step in the corridor; 
 she knew full well the dainty tapping of the little slippered 
 feet. 
 
 “ May I come in, Izetta, please?” 
 
 “Yes,” answered Izetta, and she was startled at the 
 hoarseness and hollowness of her own voice. 
 
 Loraine tripped lightly across the room to where she sat; 
 the very room seemed brighter for her presence there. 
 
 “You are better this morning, are you not, Izetta? I 
 had hardly expected to find you up and dressed so early.” 
 
 Loraine drew back with a startled cry at the white, 
 haggard face raised up to her own. 
 
 Izetta did not tell her she had not laid her weary head 
 upon the pillow all the long night through. 
 
 “ I was frightened about you last night; but I am still 
 more frightened about you this morning. All the bloom 
 has left your face • you look like a rose suddenly withered 
 by an unexpected frost. If you have a secret sorrow, 
 Izetta, tell me, could I lighten it in any way for you?” 
 
 A sudden impulse seized Izetta to unburden the terrible 
 secret to Loraine, but it was instantly abandoned. She 
 could not bear that the fair face of the only being who had 
 been kind and gentle toward her, should turn from her in 
 horror and amazement, at the accusations she would bring 
 against her husband’s honor. 
 
 “No, no, not yet,” Izetta told herself; “she must think 
 first what would be best.” 
 
 A sudden thought occurred to her; she would speak to 
 Loraine about her husband’s hair; the suspense of the ter¬ 
 rible mystery was killing her. 
 
 “Did you tell me, Mrs. Ulvesford, your husband painted 
 that portrait?” asked Izetta, pointing toward the table on 
 which it lay. 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Loraine, always pleased to speak of 
 
^ FATAL WOOING. 
 
 14b 
 
 her husband. “ He painted it while he was abroad in 
 Italy, I believe, and quite from memory, too.” 
 
 There was no mistaking the face; anyone could see 
 Loraine was certainly the original. 
 
 “How strange it seems, Mrs. Ulvesford,” said Izetta, 
 in a low voice, striving to appear calm, ‘ ‘ that you should 
 have preferred a—a—husband with fair hair so like your 
 own.” 
 
 Loraine laughed a little, jolly laugh, replying: 
 
 “That is quite the amusing part of our romance. I al¬ 
 ways tell Ulmont I could never have fallen in love with a 
 fair-haired suitor. Why, when we were first engaged, his 
 hair was brown, a dark, glossy, nut-brown.” 
 
 Loraine did not notice that the white, drooping face 
 turned away from her was pale as death. 
 
 “ I have a pretty portrait of my husband, the way he 
 used to look; it is quite amusing to see the two pictures 
 together, curiously alike, yet so unlike. Come to my room, 
 you shall see them.” 
 
 Izetta followed her like one in a dream. 
 
 “There,” said Loraine, drawing aside the heavy silken 
 curtains, “ here they are side by side.” 
 
 Izetta raised her eyes to the fatal picture. No word or 
 cry escaped her; she seemed as if turned to stone. 
 
 No mustache concealed the proud mouth, whose every 
 curve she remembered so well, and the dark-brown hair 
 clustered about the brow of Alderic. 
 
 She had hoped against hope, prayed blindly to Heaven 
 that this might be a mere coincidence; all hope lay crush¬ 
 ed ; the last strav/ was broken. She was face to face with 
 the terrible truth. Ulmont Loraine’s husband and Alderic 
 were one. 
 
 In that critical ordeal the promise she had given blind 
 Marguirette came back to her. 
 
 “ If ever you meet the one whom you have called hus¬ 
 band, promise me that you will do nothing, say nothing, 
 on the impulse of the moment.” 
 
 Izetta knew that hour had now come to her; she would 
 not break the promise she had given. 
 
 “You look so white and wretched. I beg you to go back 
 to your room and lie down again; you are not yet rested. 
 I can get on nicely without you. I am expecting mother 
 to drive over from Lorrimer Hall to-day, and Ulmont will 
 return by dusk. I shall fill in the time very nicely,” urged 
 Loraine. 
 
 Glad of escaping to her own room again, Izetta consent¬ 
 ed to rest. She wanted time to think. 
 
 “ I will take my child away at once,” she said, bitterly. 
 
144 
 
 A Fatal wooing. 
 
 “He shall never again look upon the face of the child h& 
 has so cruelly wronged.” 
 
 How his words taunted her. 
 
 “ I should not like to part with the little child,” he had 
 eaid. “ Indeed, I think him the handsomest little fellow 1 
 have ever seen.” 
 
 She concluded to take little Ulmont to blind Marguir- 
 ette’s cottage that very night; then she would come back 
 and confront her guilty husband. 
 
 A terrible idea occurred to her in her bewilderment and 
 agony; she was rendered desperate by the thought of the 
 cruel wrongs that had been done her. 
 
 “ Heaven help me!” she cried out bitterly. “Whatever 
 happens, I cannot hold myself accountable for my actions; 
 my very sufferings cry out to Heaven for vengeance l” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 FOR HER CHILD’S SAKE. 
 
 Hah it not been for her child, Izetta would have crept 
 silently away from the home which should have been hers 
 and little Ulmont’s in the dead of night. 
 
 “ For my child’s sake I must act differently,” she told 
 herself. A strong fear was upon her that he might attempt 
 to keep her child. 
 
 No! she must guard against that at all events. She 
 would take the child at once to Silvernook. She hastily 
 wrapped a thick, dark shawl around him and bore him 
 from the room. 
 
 If she met anyone, ohe could say she was taking baby 
 out for an airing in the grounds. No one would question 
 her except Loraine; she must certainly avoid meeting her. 
 
 Izetta took the path that led around by the carriage 
 drive. She would certainly meet no one there, she told 
 herself. 
 
 She had scarcely proceeded a dozen rods ere she came 
 face to face with Mrs. Lorrimer, who was leisurely driving 
 her pony-phaeton along the highway. 
 
 A dark frown crossed the lady’s face as her glance fell 
 upon the child; she inclined her stately head in a cold, 
 formal bow in Izetta’s direction, touched her pony lightly 
 with her whip, and was soon lost to sight beyond the lime 
 trees. 
 
 Izetta tremblingly clasped little Ulmont closer to her 
 breast, speeding quickly onward. 
 
 She was greatly fatigued when she reached Silvernook, 
 which was about dusk; and her arm’s ached with Ulmont’s 
 weight. 
 
 It had been long months since she had trodden those 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 145 
 
 grassy lanes; how much suffering she had passed through 
 since then? 
 
 Izetta crept softly up the walk that led to the flute- 
 maker’s door. A cheerful, home like picture met her 
 gaze. 
 
 Marguirette sat at the spinning-wheel and Abel sat 
 near her, puffing great wreaths of smoke from his 
 stumpy pipe. Her keen ear had detected cautious, ap¬ 
 proaching footsteps. 
 
 “There is some one at the door, Abel,” she said; “see 
 who it is.” 
 
 Izetta stole softly in, as Amy had done—the poor Amy, 
 whom the blind, patient mother so sadly mourned. 
 
 “Mrs. Moore,” she said, softly, “I have come back to 
 you, but I am not alone. I have brought my little child.” 
 
 Izetta never forgot the cheery welcome she received at 
 that humble cottage, a welcome that came from the very 
 depths of their hearts, and, like a weary child, she sobbed 
 out her sorrows on faithful Marguirette’s honest breast. 
 
 She told her of her wanderings and of her persecution; 
 how she had lost her way in the terrible storm while on 
 her journey to Silvernook, and had found shelter at Ulves- 
 ford Mansion, but a few miles distant; but she could not 
 bring herself to divulge the terrible discovery she had 
 made; she could not tell them that at Ulvesford Manor she 
 had found her husband. Ah, no; she could not tell them 
 that! 
 
 “What is the little one’s name?” asked Marguirette, 
 patting the little, curly head; “ what do you call him?” 
 
 “Ulmont,” said Izetta, in a voice she strove vainly to 
 steady. 
 
 “Is he named after the master of Ulvesford Mansion?” 
 questioned Marguirette. 
 
 “ His wife gave him that name,” answered Izetta, in a 
 low, quivering voice, deep flushes burning her pale face at 
 the startling truth. 
 
 Strange, she had not thought of it before. 
 
 “ Will you keep little Ulmont here for a few days, Mrs. 
 Moore? I will pay you well for it. I must return to th@ 
 manor to-night. 
 
 “ To-night?” echoed both Abel and Marguirette, in 
 astonishment. 
 
 “Yes,” she replied, firmly, “to-night.” 
 
 “Bless the dear little fellow,” said Marguirette, crying 
 softly over him; “of course I will keep him for you, Izetta; 
 but do not speak of money; poor as we are, I could not 
 take it; the happiness of havmg this little form resting 
 against my lonely breast, if but for a day or an hour, is all 
 l ask.” 
 
m 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 It was with the greatest difficulty Izetta induced the 
 aged couple to accept the money of which they stood in 
 such need. 
 
 Assurance of her keen displeasure and refusal to leave 
 Ulmont under any other condition alone persuaded them. 
 
 Marguirette forbore from questioning Izetta; she had 
 full faith in the motive which prompted her actions. 
 
 “ I shall not remain here longer than to night,” she said, 
 hesitatingly; “ then I will tell you what course I have de- 
 cided upon for little Ulmont’s future and my own.” 
 
 Izetta resolved to take the stage back to Boston; by so 
 doing she could reach there a little after dusk; she was 
 nerving herself bravely for the ordeal of seeing Ulmont 
 Ulvesford and confronting him with his crime, of which 
 she had been the innocent dupe, that very night. 
 
 The old flute-maker accompanied her to the cross roads, 
 where they found the Boston and Silvemook stage in 
 waiting. 
 
 “I shall be sure to come to-morrow evening,” said 
 Izetta, leaning out of the doorway to shake Abel’s out¬ 
 stretched hand; “perhaps a little later, and alone; yet I 
 will be sure to come.” 
 
 The lumbering stage-coach was barely lost to sight in 
 the distance, ere a man emerged from the dense copse- 
 wood that skirted the roadside. 
 
 There were none near to hear him. He laughed a low, 
 mocking laugh. 
 
 “Ah, coquettish dame fate,” he cried, “now you are 
 kind. You goad us on to madness by your frowns, but 
 when you smile—ah! how you smile upon us mortals! 
 How little did I think when I rowed my boat to this se¬ 
 questered spot that I should meet my pretty little runaway 
 beauty. My sweet Izetta will come here, alone, at dusk 
 to-morrow eve, eh?” 
 
 He laughed again, long and loud. 
 
 “But she shall not leave it alone, for I will bear her 
 company!” 
 
 Heath Hampton, for it was he, gazed at the foot of the 
 alder bushes where he had secreted his golden treasures. 
 
 There was naught but the night winds to hear his plans, 
 he told himself, why should he not speak out? 
 
 “ Ah! why indeed?” whispered the fickle winds. 
 
 “I will have my boat and a thick, dark cloak in waiting 
 to-morrow eve,” he soliloquized; “ i will wrap it quickly 
 about her; struggle then, my sweet, as much as you like, 
 ’twill be in vain. I will be as dear to your prayers and 
 entreaties as you were to mine. There was a time I might 
 have been kind; but when you scorned my love you awoke 
 § slumbering demon who will make you his wife, curb 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 141 
 
 your proud spirit, tame your pride, bend your will to sub¬ 
 jection, though it breaks your heart. Ay, and a thousand 
 hearts as well. By the time the sun shall break upon an¬ 
 other morrow, we shall be far away from the shores of 
 America, my bonny jewel. I risk much by loitering a 
 single hour upon American soil. There do I peril my very 
 liberty for you, my sweet, thankless Izetta!” 
 
 Flattering himself that his plans were laid well and 
 deeply, Heath Hampton quickly re-entered his boat, and 
 with long, sweeping, energetic strokes pushed out in the 
 direction of Hampton Place. 
 
 As the solemn darkness shut him out of sight, Vatal, the 
 dwarf, crept from his place of concealment. 
 
 Not a word or a motion had escaped his attention. He 
 deftly commenced the search for the hidden treasure; long 
 and patiently he worked; the moon rose, its friendly rays 
 piercing the dense gloom. 
 
 At last his hand came in contact with the coveted prize; 
 quickly he removed it, heaping the earth back into its 
 place. 
 
 He grasped the box firmly under his arm, wiping the 
 perspiration from his damp brow as he stooped down, un¬ 
 tied his own boat, and clambered hastily into it. 
 
 “ Farewell, cold, heartless woman,” he cried shaking his 
 finger in the direction of Hampton Court, ‘ ‘ farewell, thou 
 meanest and most dastardly of sons—I have been your dupe 
 too long; your sins shall recoil on your own reckless heads!” 
 
 He rested his arms thoughtfully a moment on his oars. 
 
 A beautiful, innocent, pleading face rose up before him. 
 
 “Miss Rlenzi was the only one who was ever kind to 
 me,” he muttered. 
 
 Suddenly he put his hand up to his brow. 
 
 “ I have not the courage to do it,” he whispered to him¬ 
 self; “I dare not!” 
 
 He devoutly wished in his heart that the dastardly plan . 
 of Heath Hampton might be frustrated on the morrow; 
 then he struck out down the stream in quite an opposite 
 direction from Hampton Place. 
 
 Loraine Ulvesford stood on the veranda, which opened 
 out upon a broad view of that self-same river, watching 
 the gleaming stars as they mirrored themselves in the bos¬ 
 om of the rippling water; the hours were drawing on; 
 dusk had settled into darkness, she was still waiting for 
 her husband. 
 
 She saw a dark shadow flit quickly down the stream 
 with the tide. She little knew ’twas an evil omen crossing 
 
 *1 t n W 
 
 her life. 
 
 It was the boat of Yatal, the dwarf. 
 
148 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 GUILTY OR INNOCENT. 
 
 It wanted a quarter to eight as Izetta noiselessly ro-at 
 tered her room. 
 
 No baby Ulmont was there to welcome her, yet she fell 
 she had done wisely in secreting him. 
 
 She knew it was Ulmont Ulvesford’s custom to repair te 
 the smoking-room immediately after dining; if not there 
 she could with safety leave a note there for him. 
 
 Izetta hastily tore a leaf from her memorandum, writing 
 hastily the following lines: 
 
 “ Mr. Ulmont Ulvesford, —Have the courtesy to meet 
 me to-night in the lilac grove that borders the park. I have 
 the right to demand this interview, which I could have 
 forced upon you without warning had I so chosen, but 
 scorned to do. I shall await you there immediately 
 your receipt of this, which will probably be between 
 and nine. Izetta Eo 
 
 God pity her! how many times she had gone over in her 
 mind what her meeting with Alderic would be like; how 
 she should tell him of her deep, deathless love which had 
 clung to him through all; how she would lay her tired head 
 upon his shoulder and whisper to him of another who 
 claimed his iove, her precious little Ulmont—their child! 
 
 All that bright dream was over now; its ruins lay scat¬ 
 tered at her feet. She could breathe no word of the love 
 which consumed her. She must hear his voice and know 
 another claimed him. 
 
 It was strange that through all she still clung to the be¬ 
 lief that her marriage was legal. 
 
 “If not, I shall hear it frorp his own lips,’’ she whispered, 
 falteringly. 
 
 If so a great wrong had been done her, she believed her 
 heart would break then and there. 
 
 It did not matter much what happened after that; she 
 could not rest nor breathe while even the faintest shadow 
 hovered over the fair name of her innocent child. She for¬ 
 got all else in the dark sorrows of the outraged wife and 
 mother. 
 
 The lights were not lit in either library or smoking-room; 
 the long, French windows were thrown wide open, and the 
 flickering moonbeams bathed each room in its pale, white 
 light. 
 
 Izetta nervously entered the library, her dark eyes scan¬ 
 ning the deep, shadowy corners with a hurried glance. 
 
 It seemed quite deserted sa,ve by her own presence, 
 
 upon 
 
 eight 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 She could hear Ulmont and Loraine’s laughter out on the 
 lawn; he was evidently not in the smoking-room. 
 
 She glided down the long drawing-room with a beating 
 heart. So intense was her excitement her dress brushed 
 the low, cushioned rocker in which Mrs. Lorrimer was re¬ 
 clining; but Izetta did not see her. The lady turned her 
 head slightly. 
 
 “ Ah!” she muttered, quite under her breath, “ Mrs. Ross 
 again!” 
 
 She bit her lip with vexation, as she wished devoutly that 
 the mother and child were away from Ulvesford Manor 
 with their dark, sparkling, foreign faces. 
 
 “ This is the creature Loraine tells me is lying danger¬ 
 ously ill in her room, when I have just met her stealing 
 stealthily down the carriage drive; all the long day she 
 does not make her appearance, and now in the darkness of 
 night she steals down to the library. What does she here, 
 I wonder?” 
 
 She fairly held her breath upon seeing Izetta proceed 
 directly toward the smoking-room. The door stood open 
 and she fearlessly entered. 
 
 From the reflection in an opposite mirror Mrs. Lorrimer 
 saw her draw from her bosom a white envelope which she 
 placed beside the match-safe on the mantel, then turned, 
 with the fleetness of a startled deer, disappearing through 
 the long, open window and down the lilac path in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 A strange light gleamed in Mrs. Lorrimer’s eyes. 
 
 “I must breathe no word of this to my poor Loraine, ,;/ 
 she thought ; “ I must act upon my own judgment.” 
 
 Mrs. Lorrimer was a proud and conscientious lady, who 
 would have scorned to do a mean act; yet for the sake of 
 her idolized Loraine she told herself she must know the con¬ 
 tents of the letter which had been secretly conveyed to her 
 daughter’s husband under cover of night; she felt fuTf 
 justified in acquainting herself with its contents. 
 
 There are women who would have raged and stormed 
 nad they read the contents of that note; she did nothing of 
 the kind; for an instant she held it over the gas jet. 
 
 “No,” she said, crushing the letter in her hand, “ I will 
 not do that. I will go myself and confront her. I will 
 wring from her lips the secret she holds, force her to tell 
 by what right she dares demand an interview with the 
 husband of Loraine.” 
 
 She threw a dark shawl quickly over her head, crushing 
 the letter in her tight grasp as though it were the life of 
 the hapless girl whom she was going forth to meet. 
 
 At each step she took her fierce fury fanned itself into 
 
150 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 new flame. There was little mercy in the mother’s heart 
 when she thought of her trusting Loraine. 
 
 As the lioness, the tigress, and the panther are aroused 
 when danger threatens their young, a terrible fury was 
 lashing the heart of Loraines mother as she hurriedly 
 approached the lilac path, where she knew she should find 
 Izetta Ross. 
 
 As Izetta heard the hurried footsteps, her heart beat 
 cruelly; they stopped suddenly before her. 
 
 Izetta stood quite still, with clasped hands and eyes 
 downcast, the tall lilac bushes tossing their fragrant, pur¬ 
 ple plumes above her dark, flowing hair. 
 
 She had hoped Alderic, as she still called him in her 
 thoughts, would break the torturous, embarrassing si¬ 
 lence. 
 
 Slowly she raised her dark eyes, not to the face of 
 Alderic, but to the stormy, wrathful face of Mrs. Lor- 
 rimer. 
 
 The faint cry died away on her lips, making no sound. 
 
 “ I flatter myself I have disturbed what you intended to 
 be a very charming tete-a-tete , Mrs. Ross. Perhaps it will 
 suprise you to learn that I saw you place this letter in the 
 smoking-room. We will waive all question as to my 
 actions m regard to it and come to the point at once. I de¬ 
 mand to know by what right you solicit this secret inter¬ 
 view with Ulmont Ulvesford. I have said to Loraine, be¬ 
 ware lest the serpent, whom you have warmed and fed, 
 does not turn upon the hand that gave it shelter. She gave 
 you life, and you, false-hearted woman, would stab her 
 heart with a blow worse than death itself!” 
 
 For a moment, deep, crimson flushes came and went 
 over Izetta’s fair face; then she drew herself up proudly to 
 her full height. 
 
 “ I cannot tell you, madam—I dare not,” she replied. 
 
 “Cannot and dare not! Those are strong words,” re¬ 
 torted Mrs. Lorrimer, ironically. “I shall know what 
 secret intrigue you are attempting, vile woman, if I have 
 to wring it from your false lips!” 
 
 “ Spare me, oh, spare me your reproaches, madam,” mur¬ 
 mured Izetta, tearfully, her white hands working convul¬ 
 sively; “I beseech you, by the love you bear Loraine, do 
 not torture the terrible secret from me 1” 
 
 “ Do you know what I fully intend to do? I shall have 
 you prosecuted to the full extent of the law for your vile 
 scheme!” 
 
 Izetta raised her hand supplicatingly. 
 
 “Mercy, madam,” she whispered, “I beg of you to 
 spare me!” 
 
 “ Mercy,” sneered the irate mother; ‘ ‘ what mercy would 
 
fA FATAL WOOING, 
 
 151 
 
 you show my poor Loraine, were it in vour power? You 
 are a scheming adventuress; cunningly you laid your 
 plans to gain an entrance into this home!” 
 
 “As Heaven is my judge, madam, I-” 
 
 “Stop,” commanded Mrs. Lorrimer, sternly, “it is not 
 for such as you to call upon Heaven to hear you.” 
 
 “Madam,"” responded Izetta, sadly, “believe me, had I 
 known what I now know, I should have flung myself into 
 the depths of yonder silent river rather than cross this 
 threshold.” 
 
 The cold, taunting laugh of Mrs. Lorrimer stung her al¬ 
 most to madness as she continued: 
 
 “ Why did you not add—you did not dream IJlmont Ul- 
 vesford had such a charming young wife?” 
 
 “ God help me, no, I did not know that,” moaned 
 Izetta. 
 
 “Yet, with your false arts, you would seek to win him 
 from her,” cried Mrs. Lorrimer, hoarsely. 
 
 “No,” answered Izetta, “I never did that, madam. I— 
 
 “Well?” questioned her companion, grimly. 
 
 “ I avoided him,” responded Izetta. 
 
 Again Mrs. Lorrimer laughed, that peculiar, taunting 
 laugh, pointing grimly to the note she held crushed in her 
 hand. 
 
 “This certainly looks like it,” she said. 
 
 “I wanted to look upon his face just once, madam,” she 
 said, brokenly; “then I would be content to go away, 
 breathing no word, and die. ” 
 
 The woful agony in the young voice did not reach the 
 heart of the impassioned mother. 
 
 “Speak, girl!” cried Mrs. Lorrimer, grasping Izetta 
 firmly, cruelly, by both shoulders. “What is Ulmont Ul- 
 vesford to you?” * 
 
 “ I cannot tell you—I must not for Loraine’s sake.” 
 
 “ Do not mention my pure Loraine!” shrieked the irate 
 mother; “ don’t dare to mention her, I say. Once again I 
 ask you to divulge this secret.” 
 
 “And I repeat I cannot,” said Izetta, in a low, trem¬ 
 bling voice. 
 
 The sorrow of that beautiful, drooping face was lost in 
 the intense anger of Mrs. Lorrimer’s heart. 
 
 “I say I shall know what all this means, miss or Mrs. 
 —Heaven best knows which of the two names you have the 
 right to bear.” 
 
 “Yes!” cried Izetta, drawing herself up proudly, and 
 answering in clear, ringing tones, 1 ‘ Heaven does know 1 I 
 am an honorable wife 1” 
 
m 
 
 A NATAL WOOING. 
 
 “A precious example of an honorable wife, forsooth, 
 making appointments with other ladies’ husbands!” 
 
 “ Madam!” cried Izetta, hoarsely, “if you will hear, if 
 you will goad me on to madness, know, then, why I have 
 sought this interview with Ulmont Ulvesford.” Her voice 
 rang out in a sharp, agonizing cry. “ Hear me, Mrs. Lor- 
 rimer!” she cried, “and may God in Heaven judge if I 
 speak falsely 1 Ulmont Ulvesford is my husband.” 
 
 ' CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 AM A LAWFUL WIFE. 
 
 “ Are you mad I” cried Mrs. Lorrimer, recoiling as though 
 a sudden blow had been struck her. 
 
 “No,” answered Izetta, solemnly, “I am not mad, I have 
 spoken the solemn truth, I am Ulmont Ulvesford’s lawful 
 wife.” 
 
 “ ’Tis false!” shrieked Mrs. Lorrimer. “ If an angel cried 
 it, trumpefc-tongued, I would not believe it. You have for¬ 
 gotten, girl, that you are speaking of—my daughter’s hus¬ 
 band.” 
 
 “Hear me, Mrs. Lorrimer,” said Izetta, in a clear, calm 
 voice. “A year ago Ulmont Ulvesford and I crossed‘from 
 Italy in the same steamer, the White Cresson. One mid¬ 
 night, as we neared the American port, my grandfather 
 fell back in my arms in the throes of death. A young man 
 stood near us on the deck leaning over the rails; poor grand¬ 
 father beckoned him to us and whispered that he was dy¬ 
 ing. ‘ I will soon be gone, ’ he cried, ‘ and my child will be 
 alone. I cannot die and leave her unprotected; will you 
 protect my little orphan child?’ The young man promised. 
 That man was Ulmont Ulvesford. My grandfather died 
 that night, and I was left alone—alone but for Ulmont Ul¬ 
 vesford, or Alderic Ross, as he falsely called himself,” 
 
 Like one fascinated, Mrs. Lorrimer’s intense gaze never 
 left her face during the brief recital; the very power of 
 speech seemed to leave her. 
 
 “I cannot tell you what impulse prompted him; he said 
 I should marry him, and on the evening of the 10th of May, 
 an aged pastor married us on the silent ocean, in the moon' 
 light, beneath the gaze of the glimmering stars and listen¬ 
 ing angels, married Ulmont Ulvesford, or Alderic Ross and 
 me.” 
 
 “The 10th of May,” whispered Mrs. Lorrimer, In an 
 awful voice: for one brief instant she was tempted to believe 
 her, there was a world of truth in the clear, noble voice, 
 and the pale, calm face turned unflinchingly toward her 
 own in the moonlight; the next instant she had recovered 
 herself. 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 153 
 
 To say I am amazed at your mad audacity in concoct¬ 
 ing such a wild tale, but faintly expresses my indignation,” 
 cried the exasperated mother, never losing her tight hold 
 on the girl’s arm. “I wonder I do not strike you down at 
 my feet.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Had it not been for my child’s sake I would never have 
 spoken; I would have held the bitter secret all my whole 
 life through,” cried Izetta, vehemently. 
 
 “You are a daring woman,” replied Mrs. Lorrimer, 
 stormily. “ Do you think the world would credit even for 
 an instant your fanciful story? Do you see that path?” she 
 added; “take it and begone, never cross this threshold 
 again, or I will have you thrown into prison! It is worse 
 than folly to repeat this wild tale elsewhere,” she con¬ 
 tinued, mockingly. “ The world would ask you to furnish 
 proofs. Could you furnish the slightest proofs to substan¬ 
 tiate such a base fabrication?” 
 
 Izetta staggered back against the lilac branches with a 
 low cry, which went up to Heaven from her white lips. 
 
 “ Where are your proofs?” demanded Loraine’s mother, 
 exultantly. 
 
 Heaven help her, she had none. It was one of the 
 cruelest sights which could have been imagined upon which 
 the great stars pityingly gazed; the white, startled face of 
 the wronged young wife, and the haughty, experienced, 
 worldly woman who held her at bay, turning her own 
 weapon of safeguard against her. 
 
 “ Droof,” Izetta had never once given it a thought. 
 
 “You have certainly lost your reason,” continued Mrs. 
 Lorrimer, grimly, ‘ ‘ in supposing for an instant that a man 
 would be so insane as to bring two wives under one roof. 
 Why, he never saw you before that stormy Christmas eve 
 when you found shelter here. You were strangers. Had 
 he been what you claim, you would have cried out, ‘see, 
 this is the husband who deserted me!’ you did nothing of 
 the kind; you wound yourself into the wife’s heart, to 
 learn more of the husband!” 
 
 “I—I—did not know Aide—, Mr. Ulvesford then,”gasp¬ 
 ed Izetta. 
 
 “You do not adhere to your story, first you claim him as 
 your husband, now you admit you did not know him,” 
 said Mrs. Lorrimer, sarcastically, eying the young girl 
 crouching before her, half leaning against the lilac bushes, 
 stunned by her cruel words. 
 
 “ Aldenc’s—Mr. Ulvesford’s hair was dark then, and he 
 wore no mustache,” faltered Izetta. 
 
 Had a thunderbolt suddenly fallen from a clear sky, 
 Mrs. Lorrimer could not have been more astounded, tne 
 blood receded from her face, leaving it deadly pale. 
 
154 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 t 
 
 With the rapidity of lightning something akin to tjb.e 
 truth flashed upon her. 
 
 She remembered the dark-brown curls had been shorn at 
 the time of the almost fatal accident, and the fair hair 
 changed him wonderfully; then, most pitiful of .all, she 
 remembered that that accident had left a blank in the mind 
 of Ulmont Ulvesford, the incidents of that past he had so 
 fruitlessly endeavored to recall. 
 
 “Great God I” she muttered, “can this be the missing 
 link? No,” she cried, vehemently, “ Heaven is not so un¬ 
 kind to my poor Loraine.” 
 
 A great spasm of pain shot through her as she turned to 
 Izetta in her woe. She forgot her anger, pride, everything 
 in her agonized fear for Loraine; she only remembered she 
 was a mother standing by, hearing her darling Loraine’s 
 honor called in jeopardy. 
 
 There was solemn truth depicted in Izetta’s face; yet 
 how could she believe her? it was beyond human nature. 
 
 She put out her hands in a groping way, and would have 
 fallen had Izetta not caught her in her arms. 
 
 Izetta knew she was her most bitter foe, yet she felt the 
 deepest pity for the mother’s woe. 
 
 That mother was blindly praying that Loraine might 
 not be sacrificed, come what might, she would do valiant 
 battle for the sake of her child. 
 
 “No one would believe you,” she cried out sharply. 
 “ The whole world would say it was false; you have no 
 proofs. I will compromise with you, leave America with 
 your child at once, and I will give you half my wealth. I 
 will provide handsomely for your little child; when I die 
 he shall be the heir of the Lorrimer estates. I will gladly, 
 freely, give it, only go away. If you breathe one word of 
 this you will break Loraine’s heart. She has been little less 
 than an angel to you; ’twas she who rescued you from the 
 storm in which you would have perished but for her. I am 
 a proud old woman,” she cried, “but see, I kneel in the 
 dust at your feet, I kiss the hem of your garment, I beg 
 you to leave Loraine in peace!” 
 
 Izetta’s face was white as marble as she raised the kneeL 
 ing, trembling, sorrow-stricken mother to her feet. 
 
 “ If it was but for my own sake I would not hesitate for 
 an instant, Mrs. Lorrimer,” she said. “I would sooner 
 die than breathe one word of this terrible secret. My lit¬ 
 tle child’s honor, alone, demands that I should speak.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ God would bless and time immortalize you if you 
 would make a sacrifice for her who succored you in your 
 sorest need. You ar^ a noble woman, will you make it?” 
 groaned the unhappy mother. “Your child is a boy, his 
 life is all before him. My child is a fair, proud woman, in 
 
A FATAL WOOING 
 
 155 
 
 the zenith of her beauty, her love, and all that makes life 
 worth the living. No stain ever crossed her fair name; her 
 honor is a pearl beyond price. Oh, think, Mrs. Ross, with 
 a man the world holds life in a different light; think, 
 Izetta, think, while I kneel and implore you in the dust at 
 your feet. ” 
 
 They could hear Loraine’s sivery laughter in the dis¬ 
 tance. 
 
 “See how happy my child is,” cried the frenzied mother. 
 “ Could you strike a dagger into her heart while she gazed 
 into your eyes with her gay, happy smile; it would be 
 kinder far to do that than to question her right to her hus¬ 
 band’s love; he is her very life!” 
 
 “Yet he is my husband,” cried Izetta. 
 
 “Let God judge between you in Heaven,” cried the 
 unhappy mother. “Leave him in peace to Loraine on 
 earth!” 
 
 A deep, bitter groan broke the terrible silence that fell 
 between them; the drooping lilac branches were parted 
 slowly asunder, and Ulmont Ulvesford, with a face pale as 
 marble, on which the veins stood out like knotted cords, 
 hurriedly stepped between them. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 “she has no proof.” 
 
 “ Ulmont !” cried Mrs. Lorrimer, springing forward, “ tell 
 me who is this woman,” pointing to Izetta. 
 
 “ Mother,” he cried, “ rise from your knees. I-” 
 
 As she looked up into his haggard face, she read some¬ 
 thing there that made her cry out with the sharpest 
 agony. 
 
 In an awful silence that seemed the length of eternity, 
 Ulmont Ulvesford turned to Izetta and for one brief instant 
 their eyes met. He spoke no word to Izetta; he addressed 
 himself to the hapless, prostrate mother; his head fell on 
 his breast and in his averted eyes the poor mother read her 
 child’s doom, ere the white lips answered, slowly: 
 
 “ May God help my poor Loraine, she speaks the truth!” 
 
 “You dare not tell me you are married to this woman!” 
 shrieked Mrs. Lorrimer, pointing to Izetta, who stood up 
 proudly before them, calm as a marble statue. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford bowed his head, he could find no 
 words in which to answer her. 
 
 “It is not true!” she cried, wildly; “it is a cruel jest; 
 you are Loraine’s husband, my pretty, innocent darling.” 
 
 Ulmont bared his head to the cool winds of Heaven, 
 great drops of ^perspiration rolled do wn his cheeks, the 
 veins twitched convulsively. 
 
156 
 
 A FATAL WOOING , 
 
 “Hear but a word in my defense,” he cried. “God 
 knows I was innocent. My God! I remember all blit too 
 plainly now. I have found the missing link. Stop,” he 
 commanded, ‘ ‘ hear me out. I married her on the impulse 
 of the moment; a mad vow urged by the dying to protect 
 her, but one way occurred to me, I married her, I sent my 
 wi—, I sent her to my old nurse in Silvernook when I re¬ 
 ceived the telegram that my mother was dying. I intended 
 to crave Loraine’s pardon; I knew she would forgive my 
 rashness, you know the rest; the accident drove that past 
 entirely from my memory. I never knew, God help me, 
 when I led your daughter to the altar, that I had a living 
 wife, but swiftly as memory fled it returned when I heard 
 the accusation in a voice that pierced the dimness of the 
 past, crying out: ‘Ulmont Ulvesford is my husband!’ I 
 gave the name Alderic Ross in bitter sport. I meant when 
 we reached Boston to tell her I was Ulmont Ulvesford; the 
 consequences have recoiled upon my own head. Although 
 innocent I am guilty of a crime most horrible.” He spoke 
 the words rapidly, vehemently, never once turning toward 
 the silent figure at his right, his arms folded across his 
 breast like one awaiting his doom. 
 
 “ Ulmont!” cried the mother, clinging to the last hope, 
 crouching at his feet, and covering his hands with passion¬ 
 ate tears, ‘ ‘ this girl has no proof of this, no proof whatever; 
 for Loraine’s sake, your golden-haired young wife, who 
 loves you so, deny it, say that she is mad, ’tis a scheming 
 plot to ruin you. Loraine will never know; the bitter 
 truth would kill her. You might say she died of a broken- 
 heart, but the angels in Heaven would cry out you mur¬ 
 dered her! 
 
 “Ulmont, listen to my prayer,” she wailed; “send this 
 woman away—we will bury the terrible secret, the world 
 shall never know—defy her to do her worst, remember she 
 is powerless, she has no proof!” 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford raised his eyes to Izetta’s face; a bit¬ 
 ter war was raging in his soul, such as words are power¬ 
 less to express. 
 
 “I have asked no mercy for myself,” said Izetta, in a 
 clear, ringing voice—“ but for the honor of our child.” 
 
 Those words cut him keenly; he did not turn to his 
 wronged young wife, and hold out his hands to her; he 
 turned from her with a bitter groan, the name Loraine on 
 his lips. 
 
 Loraine—his sweet, haughty, beautiful Loraine, who 
 loved him so well, whose life Ee had so cruelly blighted by 
 one rash act. Never did mortal man waver between 
 such conflicting doubts. 
 
 Igetta had no proofs of that fatal marriage; the rector 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 Was dead who married them. Should he cry out it was 
 all false, and with Loraine clinging to his breast, deiy her 
 to the bitter end. 
 
 “ Choose between them,” cried the frantic mother. 
 
 Like a beautiful marble statue Izetta stood before him, 
 yet she spoke no word. 
 
 “My God!” he groaned, how can I ever again feel the 
 clinging arm of Loraine about my neck, her golden head 
 upon my breast, hear her whisper ‘my husband,’ and 
 know she is not my lawful wife, before God and man! 
 Heaven knows I meant well, but fate has conspired against 
 me. Was ever man placed in such a terrible position?” he 
 groaned, “I know not which way to turn.” 
 
 “ Turn to Loraine, she will never know,” sobbed the 
 wretched mother. 
 
 “It would be a sin, now,” he cried out, sharply, “you 
 have forgotten she is not my wife.” 
 
 His honor was his shield. 
 
 “Yet I cannot tell my pure Loraine of the great wrong 
 I have unconsciously done her,” he cried out, “she would 
 die then and there at my feet. Give me time to think,” he 
 cried, hoarsely. 
 
 “ Go to Loraine,” pleaded the mother. She knew if he 
 were to go to Loraine just then he would clasp her to his 
 heart and defy the whole world to part them. 
 
 “ No, no,” he groaned, “I cannot, honor forbids, it would 
 unman me. I need all my strength.” 
 
 Then he turned to Izetta, avoiding her clear, calm eyes 
 as he spoke. 
 
 “ Please leave me to myself awhile. I must have time 
 to consider.” 
 
 With a haughty bow she turned from him. 
 
 “I have one favor to ask,” he said, “will you send our 
 little child to me here?” 
 
 “No; a thousand times no!” cried Izetta, passionately; 
 “ the fafher who could spurn from him the wronged wife 
 and mother, shall not look upon the innocent face of her 
 child. I shall not enter your door again, nor break your 
 bread. I am going to the home of Abel Moore, the flute- 
 maker of Silvernook; send me word there what you intend 
 to do.” 
 
 She turned with the imperial grace of a queen; turned 
 from the husband whom she so madly loved even yet, and 
 glided swiftly down the lilac-bordered path in the moon¬ 
 light out of their sight, leaving Ulmont Ulvesford and the 
 mother of Loraine with a nameless anguish on their faces, 
 gazing into each other’s eyes under the star-spangled 
 heavens as they listened to the merry laughter of Loraine 
 as it floated out to them from the rose-bordered porch. 
 
158 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 4 
 
 / 
 
 Loraine, or Xzetta and her child. ' ' > 
 
 God help him to choose between them! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 SWISS OFFICERS. 
 
 All that long night Ulmont Ulvesford paced the library 
 fighting with honor, love, truth, and loyalty, the fiercest 
 battle mortal had ever been called upon to face. 
 
 There were no words to express the horror with which 
 he gazed upon the bitter fruit of that fatal wooing; uncon¬ 
 sciously he had blighted the lives of two women—one he 
 loved with all his soul, sweet, trusting Loraine; the other 
 was his wronged young wife, whom he had sworn to the 
 dying to protect. How could he choose between them? 
 
 That night many a silver thread found its way into his 
 fair, clustering hair. Twice Loraine had sent for him. 
 
 “Say I am busy with important letters, Zack,” he said 
 to the servant who delivered the message. 
 
 The man looked in wonder at the haggard face of his 
 young master, as he closed the door softly after him. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford resumed his walk face to face with 
 the horrible crime which shadowed his life. Again the 
 servant tapped gently at the door. 
 
 “ If you please, sir, Mrs. Ulvesford says her head aches, 
 and she is waiting for you.” 
 
 A sudden impulse swept over Ulmont to go to her; but 
 he checked it quickly. 
 
 “ No,” he muttered; “ there must be no wavering in the 
 path of duty. Say I cannot come, I am very busy, she 
 need not wait for me,” he commanded, wearily; “do not 
 disturb me again.” 
 
 The man walked away wondering what had come over 
 the young master. 
 
 Toward morning the library bell rang furiously. 
 
 “Zack,” he said, “I want you to pack my valise and 
 your own immediately; order the carriage to be in readi¬ 
 ness at the door within half an hour. You have been a 
 tried and trusted servant; I command you to let no one 
 know of this matter: not even my wi—not even Mrs. 
 Ulvesford.” 
 
 “What, sir!” cried Zack,-aghast, scarcel/*believing he 
 had heard aright; “not even Mrs. Ulvesford?” 
 
 Ulmont turned away his face with a bitter groan. 
 
 “ Sir,” said the old servant, gravely, “ I’ve been here long 
 years—ay, sir, years before you were born, and I make 
 bold this once to speak my mind. I have known every 
 sorrow that has come upon the people of Ulvesford, but I 
 do not know yours. I can see by your face it is no small 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 1M 
 
 <me; but I'say this, sir, if you leave your young wife in 
 this way, without one word, her heart will break. Master, 
 do go to her; she was quite ill when I left her; her cheeks 
 were flushed and her eyes burned like stars.” 
 
 ‘‘ Zack, Zack,” cried Ulmont, distractedly; “you must 
 not tempt me too! I must act like a man of honor. I 
 have never flinched from a terrible ordeal—I must not 
 now. You and I are going away, Zack; I am driven from 
 here by a terrible crime. I cannot tell you more. Pack 
 the valises quickly, bring the carriage around by the park 
 gate; let me know at once when all is in readiness. 
 
 The preparations were soon completed. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford leaned his head wearily against the 
 mantel, gazing round the room for the last time. 
 
 “Better Loraine should learn to despise me,” he sighed, 
 “than sully for one instant her spotless honor.” 
 
 He dared not think of Izetta. 
 
 “ No, no—I must leave home at once and forever. I shall 
 never look upon their faces more.” 
 
 A great yearning came over him to see his child, but the 
 thought he put quickly from him. 
 
 He heard the trampling of feet on the thick carpets of 
 Loraine’s apartments overhead, yet he quite forgot to think 
 it an unusual occurrence at the dead of night. 
 
 His overcoat lay on his arm and his valise at his feet; 
 he was impatient at the unaccountable delay; he had in¬ 
 tended to be faraway from Boston when daylight overtook 
 him. 
 
 The carriage stood in waiting at the park gate. Zack 
 had scarcely stored his luggage under the seat when a 
 heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a foreign voice 
 asked * 
 
 ‘ ‘ Is this Ulvesford Place ?” 
 
 Too astounded to speak, Zack nodded his head. 
 
 “Is your master within?” 
 
 “Why, of course,” answered Zack; “ where else would 
 he be at this time of night?” 
 
 There were two cloaked strangers. Zack saw a strange 
 smile pass between them. 
 
 “ There is some mystery here,” said the stranger, indi¬ 
 cating the carriage. 
 
 “Not that I know of,” answered Zack, tartly. 
 
 “ Perhaps it is the custom of the country then to have a 
 carriage standing at a gentleman’s gate, ready for use, 
 after midnight, eh?” 
 
 “Ireckon my master knows his own business,” retorted 
 Zack. 
 
 Again he noticed tbe same strange smile pass between 
 
 tbe strangers. 
 
160 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 “ Mr. Ulvesford anticipates a trip abroad?” dsked one of 
 them interrogatively. 
 
 “ I say it’s none of your affairs,” said Zack, irascibly; 
 “if anybody asks you, just you tell them you don’t 
 know.” 
 
 “Not so fast, my good man,” interposed the stranger: 
 “supposing Ido know?” 
 
 “ Eh!” said Zack, surprisedly. 
 
 “ My business here to-night is to tell your master he need 
 not go.” 
 
 Zack dropped the whip he held in his hand in utter 
 
 amazement. 
 
 “You don’t say so!” he ejaculated. 
 
 “Yes,” responded the stranger; “you have noticed your 
 master is greatly worried of late, have you not?” 
 
 “Oh, Lord bless you, yes, sir; he’s clean broke up.” 
 
 “Exactly,” chuckled the man softly, rubbing the palms 
 of his hands together; “I have come to lift that trouble 
 from your master’s mind, my good man. I want you to 
 lead the way to where your master is waiting; if you 
 please; my friend and I will follow.” 
 
 “I will go and announce you first.” 
 
 “Quite unnecessary; it will be all right, my good man, 
 your master is expecting us; time is valuable.” 
 
 Still Zack was not wholly satisfied; he had strange mis¬ 
 givings. No thought of the terrible consequences came to 
 faithful old Zack as he answered, bowing low before 
 them: 
 
 ‘ 4 If that is the case, gentlemen, I will conduct you to 
 him at once.” 
 
 He led the way down the long graveled walks and 
 through the dim, wide corridors, their footfalls making no 
 sound on the velvet carpet. 
 
 They reached the library door. Zack threw it open wido 
 with a low bow. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford, his traveling duster and rug thrown 
 over his arm, his valise at his feet, still leaned his head 
 upon his arm, against the mantel; he did not even raise 
 his head as the door opened. 
 
 “If you please, master.” said Zack, “two gentle¬ 
 men-” 
 
 “ Never mind formalities, my good man,” interrupted 
 the spokesman of the two, stepping forward, “allow us to 
 present ourselves. ” 
 
 Their cloaks slipped from their shoulders, 
 
 “ Swiss officers who bear the extradition papers wherein 
 Ulmont Ulvesford was wanted in Savoy for the mupdep gi 
 one Heath Hampton in the Alpine Mountains l” 
 
 
A FATAL WOOINGr. 
 
 161 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 LORAIN E. 
 
 “ I am sorry we have interrupted your flight to climes 
 more cogenial,” said the officer, stepping forward; “we 
 must do our duty—you are our prisoner, sir.” 
 
 Then, and not until then, did the heroic bravery of the 
 noble young heir clearly manifest itself. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” he said calmly, “I am not guilty of the 
 charge you bring against me; ’tis true, a duel was* fought 
 between Heath Hampton and myself, but I swear to you I 
 left him with but a mere scratch on his right hand.” 
 
 “ That is not for us to judge,” answered the officers, 
 doggedly. 
 
 At that moment the door was flung open, and Mrs. 
 Lorrimer, her eyes red and swollen with weeping, swiftly 
 entered the room. 
 
 She saw the officers in their strange foreign dress and 
 Ulmont in his traveling garb standing between them. 
 
 “Ulmont,” she whispered, pointing to the officers, 
 “ what do they wish here?” 
 
 Ulmont was frightened at the terrible calmness of her 
 voice. 
 
 “ What do they wish? answer me,” she commanded. 
 
 Slowly the officer stepped forward. 
 
 “ He is wanted in Switzerland: madam; we are come to 
 escort him thither.” 
 
 They all read the terrible question in her eyes, and they 
 pitied the proud, white-haired lady before them, as they 
 continued m a low voice: 
 
 “ For the murder of one Heath Hampton in a duel.” 
 
 “ My Gfod 1” cried the mother, the tears rolling down her 
 furrowed cheeks; “and in the room above his wife, my 
 only child, lies dying! Oh, Ulmont!” she wailed, “ tell me 
 this new sorrow is not true; I cannot bear much more; my 
 cup of grief is already full.” 
 
 No word issued from Ulmont Ulvesford’s white, set lips. 
 
 “Come, sir,” said the officers hurriedly, “we must be 
 off.” 
 
 “ Gfentlemen,” she whispered, stepping nearer them, “ in 
 yonder room his young wife lies ill—I say she is dying— 
 he must come to her at once. She will not die if she but 
 looks upon his face before it is too late.” 
 
 “No,” said the officers, sternly, “we are sorry to dis¬ 
 oblige you, madam, but delays are dangerous; we must re¬ 
 fuse you.” 
 
 “If you are human,” she cried, “listen to me; he must 
 see her. She has called for long hours upon his name, yet 
 
168 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 he came not; she has worked herself up into a high fever 
 —if she looks upon his face and rests her golden head upon 
 his breast, she will drop into peaceful slumber like a little 
 child; if he comes not the fire of her weary watching must 
 soon consume her; for the sake of your own wives, mothers, 
 and daughters, grant my prayer.” 
 
 Something very like a tear glistened in both officers’ 
 eyes. 
 
 “See, the morning is breaking swiftly—we must be far 
 from here ere the sun lias risen; still we cannot refuse the 
 young gentleman a few moments—in our presence—with 
 his wife. Lead the way, madam.” 
 
 Silently the officers stationed themselves unobserved be¬ 
 hind the hanging draperies, while Ulmont, followed by the 
 sorrowing mother, quickly approached the couch upon 
 which Loraine reclined. 
 
 They heard a glad cry: “Ulmont, my darling,” and two 
 white arms were flung round Ulmont’s neck. 
 
 “ What have I done that has displeased you, dear?” 
 whispered Loraine; “you could not have stayed away from 
 me so cruelly if it were not so. Why did you not come 
 hours ago, love?” 
 
 Ulmont’s heart was full; he only shook his head, clasp¬ 
 ing the lovely form he was so soon to leave madly to his 
 wildly beating heart; in that moment he quite forgot she 
 was not his wife. 
 
 “I have had such horrid dreams, love,” she sighed, 
 “but they are all gone now that I have you with me 
 again.” 
 
 “ You would not like to lose me, Loraine?” he asked, in a 
 voice terribly calm. 
 
 The clasp of the white arms tightened about his neck. 
 
 “Do not say such frightful words, Ulmont. I cannot 
 bear such thoughts, dear; you most not try my heart so 
 cruelly.” 
 
 Ulmont could scarcely repress a groan that rose to his 
 lips. 
 
 “I want you to clasp your arms closely about me, Ul¬ 
 mont,” she said, with a smile on her innocent face, “and 
 tell me how truly you love me. I want you to whisper: 4 1 
 love you dearly, my wife.’ ” 
 
 Ulmont’s heart was nearly broken; he was but human, 
 and his suffering was growing beyond human endurance, 
 as he whispered every tender word of his pent-up love, 
 clasping her madly to his breast, knowing it was for the 
 last time while they both lived. 
 
 “Thank you, dear,” she said, “if you had come to me 
 long hours ago it might have been different. I feel, Ul- 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 163 
 
 mont, as if I were slowly drifting away from you; ere the 
 sun rises in the eastern sky you may have no Loraine.” 
 
 A gradual whiteness had stolen over the beautiful flower- 
 like fare, whose life was like a sensitive plant; the first 
 chilling blight that had come upon her, had struck like a 
 keen b!a-t to her heart. 
 
 “You see, Ulmont,” she smiled, “I could not endure 
 even a few brief hours out of your presence.” 
 
 The fountain of the mother’s tears was dry. 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford, strong man though he was, flung him¬ 
 self on his knees beside the couch and wept like a child. 
 
 When the doctor had been called, he said: 
 
 “If there is one power above all others that can save her, 
 it is her husband’s presence; if that fails her she is lost to 
 us.” 
 
 “Ulmont,” she whispered, “such long, dark shadows 
 seem stealing around me; clasp my hands tightly or I may 
 slip from your grasp.” 
 
 Suddenly the blue eyes flashed brightly open, gazing 
 around upon the little group. 
 
 “Where is Izetta,” she asked, softly; “that she is not 
 here?” 
 
 Mother and husband’s eyes met in a horrified glance. 
 
 “ Tell Izetta I want her here at once,” she said, with 
 sudden energy. 
 
 How could they answer her? 
 
 “Mother,” she said, “you will bring Izetta to me; she 
 can sooth me with her sweet, sad voice, like tolling bells. 
 Bring her here; do not refuse me, mother.” 
 
 Again that agonized gaze passed between Ulmont and 
 Loraine’s mother. 
 
 “Do not refuse her,” whispered the doctor, “if it be 
 possible; her very life hangs on the fulfillment of her 
 wishes.” 
 
 Slowly the mother turned and quitted the room. 
 
 An hour afterward a light, swift step was heard in the 
 corridor, and Izetta, quite alone, entered the room. A 
 beautiful smile flitted around the sweet mouth of the 
 golden-haired girl lying against Ulmont Ulvesford’s shoul¬ 
 der. 
 
 “ I knew you would come to me, Izetta,” she said, hold¬ 
 ing* out her white hands to her; “ come nearer,” she whisp¬ 
 ered, “ I can hardly see your face.” 
 
 Again, with averted faces, the tortured young wife and 
 husband met, bending over the fair golden-haired girl be¬ 
 tween them. 
 
 The officers, screened by the silken curtains, turned 
 away their heads; they could not break in upon so solemn 
 a scene. 
 
m 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 The gray clouds broke in the sky, the slanting rays of 
 the morning sunshine bathed in a flood of crimson and 
 gold the stony, agonized face of Ulmont Ulvesford and the 
 unearthly beauty of the pallid face against his breast, and 
 fell on the beautiful, dark, glossy head of Izetta kneeling 
 by the couch, her face buried in the pillow, the white- 
 haired mother watching the face of her only child in an 
 agony too deep for words. 
 
 Slowly Loraine’s lips moved. 
 
 “Ulmont,” she said, “hold me closer.” 
 
 The strong arms tightened about her. 
 
 “Izetta, are you here?” 
 
 The pressure of Izetta’s hand reassured her. 
 
 “I am going to ask a favor of you, Ulmont, and of you, 
 Izetta, a last request. I am dying, love, don’t weep so. 
 God has called me; if, after I am gone, Ulmont, dear, you 
 can love Izetta for my sake, promise me, she and mother 
 shall hold the place I am leaving vacant in your heart.” 
 
 A terrible groan escaped Ulmont’s lips, wrung from the 
 very depths of his tortured soul by the innocent words of 
 hapless Loraine. 
 
 “ Promise me, Ulmont,” she whispered. 
 
 Izetta turned her quivering face away, and the mother 
 hurriedly quit the room; she could not endure the cruel stab 
 each word had cost her. 
 
 “I love you both,” whispered Loraine; “promise me, 
 Ulmont, if another is ever brought to this dear old home I 
 have loved so well, ’twill be Izetta; I love her next to you 
 and mother.” 
 
 Slowly Loraine clasped their hands together, the hand 
 of Ulmont and Izetta, holding them clasped tightly within 
 her own. 
 
 “Promise,” she whispered, faintly. 
 
 For one brief instant Ulmont raised his troubled head 
 and gazed upon Izetta’s face; deep sobs convulsed his 
 frame. 
 
 “ I promise, dear,” he whispered, sorely grieved, 
 
 Loraine's hands still clasped theirs, even while the 
 shadow of death crept over her. 
 
 “It is hard to die so young, Ulmont, dear,” she signed. 
 “When they ask you how I lived and why I died so young, 
 tell them my life was like the sunshine and the flowers— 
 short but very sweet. 
 
 “No sorrow ever came to me; it is hard to die so young 
 and leave you, Ulmont, dear, but I whisper to my God, 
 ‘ Tliou knowest.’ ” ^ 
 
 “You will love Izetta’s little child,” she whispered, “and 
 remember, when you speak his name, it was your lost Lo* 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 165 
 
 raine who gave it him; because it was my husband’s name 
 I loved its melodious music.” 
 
 Ulmont bowed his head and wept. 
 
 “Ulmont, love—mother,” these were the last words 
 Loraine Ulvesford ever uttered; the white hands that 
 clasped those two so closely relaxed their hold. 
 
 In all the glow of her fair, young beauty, she was dead. 
 
 There had been no pain; she had died like the blossoms, 
 scarcely without warning. 
 
 And the golden sunlight drifting in through the half- 
 closed windows, fell upon Loraine’s bright, waving hair, 
 lighting a golden halo round it like a crown—such a crown 
 as angels wear in Heaven. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 LONG YEARS—PERHAPS FOREVER. 
 
 The officers stepped forth Trom their concealment; it 
 was the hardest duty they had ever performed to unclasp 
 Ulmont’s arms from the beautiful, waxen form. 
 
 “ I cannot go yet,” he gasped. 
 
 They pointed to the white, smiling, peaceful face. 
 
 “ See, it is all over,” they said: “you must come.” 
 
 They unclasp his arms, and lay all that was mortal of 
 sweet Loraine 1 ack on the pillow. 
 
 “I will give my heritage,” he cried, “if I may stay un¬ 
 til the last sad rites are over.” 
 
 They shook their heads; stern duty called them. 
 
 “No, not another hour,” they said. 
 
 “Izetta,” said U.lmont, it was the first time he had vol¬ 
 untarily addressed her, as they still stood with averted* 
 faces at Loraine’s bedside; “lam forced from Loraine’s 
 grave by the stern decree of the law. Nearly a year ago 
 in Switzerland I fought a duel. I never dreamed I had 
 struck my adversary fatally I saw but a slight wound on 
 his right hand. They tell me he is dead, and I am accused 
 of—his murder.” 
 
 He held up his hand as she was about to speak. 
 
 “It was for the honor of my name,” he said, “morel 
 cannot tell you. I shall sign my entire estate over to you 
 before I leave America. I shall pay tor my folly with my 
 life. In the after years, when you tell our boy of his un¬ 
 happy father, tell him, God knows I never intended injur¬ 
 ing his innocent mother; tell him that Izetta, and say a 
 web of fate wove me in its meshes, from which my death 
 alone can extricate me; one thing more, Izetta; ’twould 
 grieve me to know that the sad story of Loraine, in after 
 time, would be given to the world, Our boy ^hall inherit 
 hut, Ivetta, m you value poor Loraine’s memory, l 
 
166^ 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 ask you to keep tlie terrible tragedy of her young, guileless 
 life, which she never knew herself, forever locked in your 
 own breast. Forgive me, Izetta, for "the past—I ask it for 
 Loraine’s sake and little Ulmont’s.” 
 
 Izetta held out her hands for answer, she could not 
 speak, so great was her emotion. 
 
 “ Come, sir,” urged the officers, “ you must come.” 
 
 “One word more. Always remember, Izetta—I say it 
 in the solemn presence of Loraine—my sword but barely 
 touched Heath Hampton’s hand nine months ago. I am 
 not his murderer!” 
 
 “Did you say he is accused of the murder of Heath 
 Hampton in Switzerland, nine months ago?” cried Izetta, 
 springing eagerly toward the officers. “ Then it is false— 
 all false, I say. I saw Heath Hampton, alive and well, but 
 four months since; there was a deep scar on his hand, but 
 otherwise he was uninjured,” she cried, vehemently. 
 
 There was something in the commanding tone of this 
 beautiful girl that awed them. 
 
 The officers gazed at her in dismay; it had been proven 
 beyond a doubt that he lay crushed into an unrecognizable 
 mass at the foot of the Alpine Mountains. She was surely 
 mad. 
 
 “ It is as true as Heaven,” cried Izetta, solemnly. 
 
 At that moment they observed a throng of people gather¬ 
 ing on the river bank which skirted Ulvesford Park. Both 
 officers could not leave their prisoner, so one hurried forth 
 to learn the cause of the disturbance; the other stood guard 
 with Ulmont at the window. 
 
 The throng made way for the strange officer in the 
 foreign dress. 
 
 “ What is this?” he asked of them. 
 
 They pointed to two men who lay tightly clasped in each 
 other’s arms—a box of gold clutched between them, washed 
 up by the tide. There was a sudden commotion among the 
 crowd. 
 
 “ Step back!” they cried; “ make way for the mother of 
 Heath Hampton,” as, with slow, feeble steps she advanced 
 to the spot. 
 
 “ This is the end of all my hopes. “ Oh, my sons!” she 
 cried, “my sons!” 
 
 Those who had known those two in life, looked upon her 
 pi wonder, but she did not heed them. 
 
 “Yes, they are both my sons,” she cried. “I despised 
 the one for his deformity, and loved the other for his 
 beauty. I abandoned the one in his infancy that the other 
 might inherit all. My sin has recoiled upon my own 
 bead.” 
 
 She clasped both damp forms to her heart, pitting back 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 167 
 
 the clustering hair from their foreheads; then her head fell 
 on her breast—she had followed her two sons through the 
 dark, shadowy valley of death. 
 
 Someone suddenly stepped forward and gazed a moment 
 at the handsome, cruel, mocking face of Heath Hampton. 
 
 “ Ah, Amy,” muttered Abel Moore, the flute-maker, as 
 he hastily and mercifully threw a cloak about them, shut¬ 
 ting them out from the curious gaze of the throng, “at last 
 your wrongs are avenged.” 
 
 No one ever inquired how they had met, or where. The 
 box with the gold clutched between them told its own 
 story. 
 
 The identity of Heath Hampton was proven then and 
 there beyond a doubt. It was a strange story which the 
 brother officer related to his companion. 
 
 “ Well,” replied the chief, “ it seems then as if the party 
 came to his death months later by drowning, not by the 
 hand of Ulmont Ulvesford, on Swiss soil.” 
 
 He drew the papers from his breast pocket. 
 
 “ These are useless now, sir,” he said, handing them to 
 Ulmont; ‘ ‘ we shall sail immediately on the White Cresson 
 without you.” 
 
 Ulmont was so astounded at the complicating events 
 transpiring around him, that he hardly realized what they 
 said. 
 
 “We honorably discharge you from custody; our mis¬ 
 sion is ended. We hope you will pardon the cruel duty of 
 officers in thus intruding upon your sorrowful privacy.” 
 
 They held out their hands to him. In another moment 
 they were gone. Ulmont could scarcely realize that he 
 was a free man. He was thankful Loraine had never 
 known the slightest shadow of the deep woes that had hung 
 over her. 
 
 He knelt at the couch of Loraine, his head upon her 
 mother’s shoulder, refusing to be comforted. 
 
 That was a funeral never to be forgotten. It was a piti¬ 
 ful sight to see the same group of sorrowful maidens that 
 had held white roses at her wedding, place snowy flowers 
 on her tomb. 
 
 She was so beautiful even in death, so fair, so young to 
 die. 
 
 Young girls looked upon her smiling, marble face, with 
 tear-stained eyes, while mothers, with a shudder, clasped 
 their own darlings closer to their breasts. 
 
 For many a long year after they told of the beautiful, 
 golden-haired young wife, who was so young and fair to 
 die. 
 
 They told, too, of the broken-hearted husband who fol¬ 
 lowed the sad procession to the grave one bright, May 
 
168 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 / 
 i v 
 
 morning, and of the white-haired, feeble mother who had 
 lost her all, whose bitterest sorrow had fallen upon her in 
 her old age, and they told of a dark-eyed stranger who 
 wiped away that mother’s tears and comforted her, how 
 she held her in her arms when the world grew dark around 
 her, drew the weary, white head upon her strong, young 
 breast and comforted her with hopeful, loving words that 
 brought tears to every eye. 
 
 Even strangers cried: 
 
 “ God bless her for the comfort she has brought this grief- 
 stricken mother. ” 
 
 It was all over. 
 
 “Izetta,” Ulmont said, sadly, “I am going away—going 
 abroad for the present. Ulvesford Mansion haunts me. 
 Will you stay here with our child until I return?” 
 
 He turned away abruptly. 
 
 1 ‘ Send at once for Abel Moore and his good old wife, that 
 you may not live here alone, now that Loraine’s mother 
 has returned to Lorrimer Hall. Do not teach my child to 
 think unkindly of me, Izetta,” he added, holding out his 
 hands, “ always let him think of me at my best.” 
 
 Silently Izetta placed her hands in his—the husband who 
 had been separated from her by such strange webs of cruel 
 fate. 
 
 Ulmont held them for a moment only, dropped them 
 suddenly, and was gone. 
 
 The same day that fair, golden-haired Loraine was laid 
 to rest under the drooping willows Ulmont Ulvesford left 
 America, to be gone long years—perhaps forever. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 “my wife and my child.” 
 
 Two years later, one beautiful morning in midsummer, 
 Izetta Ross—as she was still called—stood at one of the 
 lace-draped windows of Ulvesford Mansion, gazing out into 
 the brilliant sunshine. 
 
 Fragrant crimson roses climbed riotously against the 
 casement, kissing Izetta’s soft cheeks and dark, glossy curls 
 at every breath of the gentle breeze. 
 
 The balmy air was redolent of the aroma of blossoms, 
 while little crimson-brea sted birds, swaying on the maple 
 boughs and on the rippling fountain’s brim, were pouring 
 their very hearts out in thrilling, joyous song. 
 
 It was not of these Izetta was thinking; her large, dark 
 eyes, fringed by their silken lashes, dreamily sought the 
 distan hills j &er beautiful, proud, sweet Uni were parted 
 in a smile-, 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 169 
 
 “Ulmont, my husband! Ah, Ulmont Ulvesford, where 
 art thou now?” she murmured, half aloud. 
 
 “ Did ’oo call, mamma?” chirped a little voice, sweet as a 
 robin’s, and a wee, dainty-dimpled little darling, in white 
 lace and soft, pink ribbons, bounded into her arms. 
 
 “No, Ulmont, my darling,” she answered, clasping him 
 so closely in her arms that the roses she wore on her breast 
 fell in a shower on the child’s rosy cheeks; “mamma did 
 not call you; go and play with the butterflies and the 
 flowers; mamma will watch you from the window.” 
 
 “ ’Es, ’oo did call me,” persisted the child, tossing his lit¬ 
 tle curly head and pouting his sweet, red mouth that was 
 only made for kisses, and opening wide a pair of dark, vel¬ 
 vety eyes; “ ’oo said, ‘ Ulmont, Uly, where is ’oo now?’ ” 
 
 Izetta blushed rosy red. 
 
 “I meant your papa, sweet,” she said. 
 
 “The papa in’ee pic-cer in’ee uzzer room?” lisped the 
 child, “ ’at makes ’oo cry so when ’oo sees it?” 
 
 “Yes, dear,” said Izetta, hesitatingly; “you must look 
 at that picture every day, Ulmont, and you must learn to 
 love him very much.” 
 
 “ Does ’oo love him, mamma?” 
 
 “ Yes,” she answered, “ very much.” 
 
 “ Does ’oo wish he would ’turn home, mamma?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, very much, my pet,” answered Izetta, caress¬ 
 ing the beautiful face raised to her own. 
 
 A shadow fell between Izetta and the brilliant sunshine; 
 she wondered why her heart was thrilling with such ecsta¬ 
 tic delight. 
 
 f “Izetta—my wife! Ulmont—my baby!” cried a deep, 
 thrilling voice, with the happiest cry that ever was heard. 
 
 The beautiful, queenly girl turned her head, the child 
 still clasped in her arms. 
 
 A tall manly form stood before her; she glanced into the 
 eloquent, pleading face; she heard the low, tremulous 
 voice cry: 
 
 “ I have come to claim my wife and my child!” 
 
 The strong arms were outstretched in another instant, 
 and Izetta and her child were folded to Ulmont Ulvesford’s 
 breast. 
 
 He drew his wife to a sofa, seating himself beside her, 
 his arms still encircling her slender waist, while little Ul¬ 
 mont, chirping like a robin on his breast, was stealing 
 half of mamma’s kisses. 
 
 “Izetta,” whispered Ulmont, raising the blushing face 
 of his lovely girl-wife to his own, and gazing down into her 
 dark eyes, “ I must whisper a secret to you, darling. I am 
 madly, passionately in love—for the first time—with my 
 own lovely wife. Without your love, Izetta, the world 
 
m 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 would be a blank to me; forget the past; we will live only 
 in the future, in which I shall have but one great aim, 
 ‘the hope of winning my wife’s love.’ Seel I have little 
 TJlmont’s already. Will you try to love me, too, dear, for 
 little Ulmont’s sake.” 
 
 Izetta glanced shyly up into the one noble face in all the 
 wide world she had loved so truly and so well, as she 
 whispered: 
 
 “You have not to try to win my love, Ulmont, my hus¬ 
 band ; that you have already, not for little Ulmont’s sake, 
 but for your own I” 
 
 Ulmont Ulvesford kissed her rosy mouth bashfully, 
 joyously, like a lover. That was the most supremely 
 happy moment either of them had ever experienced. 
 Izetta knew she had won her way to her husband’s heart 
 atlast. <" 
 
 That night there was a quiet wedding at Ulvesford 
 Mansion to appease the curiosity of the outside world, who 
 never dreamed of the strange drama that had been enact¬ 
 ed by those two lives so ruthlessly torn asunder by the 
 band of fate. 
 
 * 
 
 Some five years later the dancing summer sunshine 
 fell across a pathway, powdered on either side with jes¬ 
 samine and sweet mignonette, up which a lady and 
 gentleman walked. Two children gamboled on before, 
 and dropped white roses, which they carried, on a mossy 
 grave. 
 
 “Ulmont,” called the mother, gently, “take the roses 
 from little Loraine’s hands, and place them with your 
 own.” 
 
 “Let me put my own roses on the pretty lady’s grave,” 
 cried golden-haired Lorain e. 
 
 The children knelt beside a grassy mound, while the 
 father and mother, with their arms aoout each other, rev¬ 
 erentially bowed their heads. 
 
 Beneath a drooping willow, where the whispering sum¬ 
 mer winds love to linger, and the birds trill forth their 
 sweetest notes, stands a tall, white, marble shaft pointing 
 heavenward, and as the golden sunshine falls lovingly 
 athwart it they read the inscription which it bears: 
 
 SACRED 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 LORAINE, 
 
 BELOVED WIFE OF 
 
 ULMONT ULVESFORD, 
 
 Aged 18 Years. 
 
 “Thou Knowest 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 m 
 
 No one but those two standing there, and God, save the 
 feeble, white-haired mother, who spent many a lonely hour 
 with her face pressed close against the cold, white marble, 
 and her arms twined around it, not even she, who slept 
 beneath the daisies, knew of the great tragedy that had 
 spread its dark wings over her bright, young life. 
 
 The careless, curious world never knew. 
 
 The secred of that “Fatal Wooing” was buried with 
 her. 
 
 “ Fair Loraine,” murmurs Izetta, her gentle tears falling 
 on the daisies, and the soft, green grass. 
 
 “ Heaven knows I loved her who slumbers here with a 
 love that might have been my doom,” murmurs Ulmont; 
 “ but after all, Izetta, when God called her He knew best; 
 now all the love of my manhood is centered in my second 
 love, and purified by sufferings, a love that will last 
 through eternity!” 
 
 Izetta’s head droops upon Ulmont’s breast; their little 
 children, Ulmont and golden-haired Loraine, flit close to 
 their mother’s side. 
 
 Izetta clasps her darlings in her arms, while Ulmont 
 gazes proudly on his treasures. 
 
 Perhaps the father’s gaze lingers longest on his hand¬ 
 some, noble son, who will one day bear his name and 
 fortune proudly. 
 
 The smiling heavens bend over them, the ripple of the 
 brooklet and the song the birds sing to the flowers are of 
 their wondrous love. 
 
 No sound breaks upon the harmony of those reunited 
 lives, whispering of what might have happened through 
 the youthful folly of that “ Fatal Wooing.” 
 
 [the end.] 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 
 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 A PORTSMOUTH STORY. 
 
 By CLEMENT MAINLAND. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 On a certain afternoon at the beginning of this century, 
 the town of Portsmouth was all astir. Men and women 
 were standing in groups, talking and gesticulating in an 
 excited manner; wagons and drays were passing in long 
 lines to and from the harbor; a sound of continuous labor 
 came borne upon the air. Something unusual had hap¬ 
 pened. On the morning of that very day a rumor had 
 spread abroad that Napoleon was preparing an armament 
 to invade England: a sufficient cause for such visible 
 anxiety. 
 
 An order had been given that the great ships lying at 
 anchor in the roads were to be got ready and furnished 
 with all the implements of war without a moment’s delay. 
 All the merchant sailors to be found in or out of the 
 town were being seized by press-gangs for the service of 
 His Most Gracious Majesty King George III. 
 
 Bands of blue-jackets with an officer at their head had 
 been busily employed since morning searching all the 
 lodging-houses and taverns throughout the town, and 
 nearly everj^ available hand had been taken before the 
 evening. Numbers had also enlisted of their own accord, 
 persuaded to it by the entreaties and prayers of mothers, 
 wives, and sisters; for Francophobia was the order of the 
 day. Napoleon Bonaparte, commonly knowii as “Bony,” 
 had come upon the English nation as a terrible nightmare, 
 a fearful demon that had turned his evil eye on Albion’s 
 happy shores; against whom a nation’s strength, and that 
 the British nation, could scarce hope to contend. 
 
 Over the outlying parts of the town a peaceful stillness 
 prevailed, broken only by a distant murmur of sound 
 borne thither on the breeze. Few people were about, every 
 
{A FATAL WOOING . 173 
 
 one having hied harbor-wards to hear the latest reports, 
 and to watch the business of preparation. 
 
 Standing back from one of the roads leading out toward 
 the country, was a pretty white-washed cottage. It had a 
 small garden in front, blight with hollyhocks and sun¬ 
 flowers, and fenced in by green palings. Over the white 
 front of the house was carefully-trained jessamine and 
 climbing roses. 
 
 In the garden was a girl. She was standing with one 
 hand resting on the little green gate, looking with dreamy 
 gray eyes toward the town, which was bathed in the soft 
 crimson rays of the setting sun. A gentle breeze from the 
 sea played among her fair hair, which scaping from under 
 her white cap, fell in silken waves over her forehead; over 
 the cap, and concealing all except the white frill, was a 
 straw bonnet, with pale-blue ribbons tied beneath the chin. 
 Her dress was of white muslin, with a pattern of pale-yel¬ 
 low flowers, made in the pretty short-waisted style of the 
 time. A pair of long black mittens and a satchel com¬ 
 pleted her dress. She was like the original of one of Mr. 
 Boughton’s pictures. Thus she stood, lost in a day-dream. 
 
 “ Musing, Mistress Margery?” asked a voice close to her. 
 
 She started back. The speaker was a short, dark man ; 
 he might have been called handsome as far as his actual 
 features went, but his whole appearance was tainted with 
 an expression so sinister that his natural beauty lost all 
 charm and became actually repellant. He had come silent¬ 
 ly along the road in the opposite direction to that in which 
 Margery had been looking. 
 
 “There is nothing to be afraid of in me, is there?” ho 
 said, observing her action; “ I’m a friend, ain’t I?” 
 
 “I suppose so—I hope so, but I don’t know,” she an¬ 
 swered, retreating a pace further. 
 
 “I don’t see what right you’ve got to doubt it. Any 
 friend of Carey’s must be your friend too, mustn’t he, eh? 
 I’m a friend of Jack Carey’s, you know.” 
 
 “So you say,” Margery replied, “and I can’t disbelieve 
 you.” 
 
 “ Of course not. Well you know, you ought to behave 
 handsome to your friends now. You oughtn’t to have any 
 unfriendly feelings to any one now, least of all to me. 
 Why, you are a lucky girl. Going to be married to-morrow 
 to Jack Carey, the pet of the service, officers and men. 
 You ought to thank your stars, or rather me, for coming 
 across such a chap. He’s been doing splendidly. Ah, I 
 have a piece of news about him—like to hear it?” 
 
 “Oh, please tell me anything about Jack, Mr. Bed- 
 bank,” cried Margery, tier iQQk brighttftiflg, rifling 
 nearer. ' 
 
174 
 
 A fATAL WOOING. 
 
 “ Now, why can't you call me Roger, like a sensible girl, 
 and not Mr. Redbank? It ain't friendly of you.” 
 
 “Well, will you tell me, please—Roger?” 
 
 “Now, that's better. 1 do like to hear you call me 
 Roger; you do it so pretty. Do it again, will you?” 
 
 “ Certainly not,” replied Margery, with a red flush on 
 her cheek. 
 
 “ Oh, don’t if you don't wish to. I only thought it would 
 show you was friendly, that’s all. But I don't think I’ll 
 tell you the news. You would much rather have it from 
 his own dear lips, wouldn't you, eh?'' and Roger gave a 
 short, sharp laugh. 
 
 “No, no. Please tell me, Mr.-1 mean Roger,” im¬ 
 
 plored the girl. 
 
 “Well, since you ask me so nice, I will. He's been 
 specially recommended for promotion by his superior 
 officer, all on account of his admirable conduct. There!” 
 
 “Oh, that does make me so happy! Is he promoted 
 yet?” 
 
 “No; he ain’t promoted yet, nor likely to be for some 
 time. You know, Margery, such a recommendation don’t 
 necessarily mean more pay. We poor fellows in the ser¬ 
 vice don't see too much of ‘ the ready,’ you know.”" 
 
 “You don’t suppose I care for that, does you?” said Mar- 
 gerj^. “If Jack is poor, I shall be poor too, that is all. I 
 care for nothing but him, and him for himself, and not for 
 what he is worth as a commercial speculation.” 
 
 “ Your sentiments does you honor, my lady,” remarked 
 Roger, with a faintly perceptible sneer. “But, after all, 
 you can’t live on love, you know. Money does count for 
 something. It makes a smooth road for love to travel by. 
 But as you seem determined to marry him,” he added. “ it 
 ain’t no use saying anything, I suppose. 
 
 “If marrying him meant ruin to myself, I’d do it.” 
 Margery spoke with a determined voice. 
 
 “Good again. But I think, you know,” Roger contin¬ 
 ued, “that you don’t consult your own comfort much. 
 It'll be very hard for you to have to live alone on almost 
 nothing, when he’s away at sea—very hard, indeed. I 
 dare say you'll think some day that it’s a pity you didn’t 
 have me instead of him after all.” 
 
 “Sir!” 
 
 “Now don’t burst out like that; I ain’t saying nothing. 
 
 Only-look here.” Roger Redbank unbuttoned his coat, 
 
 and from the inside pocket drew out two canvas bags, 
 tightly tied at the mouth. 
 
 “Hark at that!” he said, letting them swing lightly 
 against the palings. “ Hold pieces, every one of ’em l” 
 
A FATAL WOOING. tf5 
 
 Margery drew back, with an expression of anger on her 
 pale face. 
 
 “ Do you think to tempt me from my love with your 
 miserly money-bags? You do not know Margery Seaton 
 if you think that. Put that back again directly; and never 
 speak to me again like that. ” 
 
 “Oh. I didn't mean anything, ’ replied Roger, replacing 
 the bags. “I never thought of tempting vou, bless me! 
 I only meant to show that I might have done something 
 toward making you happy, if you'd done the same for me. 
 That was all.” 
 
 “You seem certain that money is happiness to man. 
 Take care that it is not the opposite for you, and prove 
 your misery!' 5 Margery walked toward the cottage. 
 
 “Well, good-night, Miss Margery, as you seem to be 
 tired of my company. I want to say something first, 
 though; come here. ” 
 
 ‘‘What is it?” she asked, in a voice betraying no in¬ 
 terest. * • 
 
 “ X was going to advise you to tell Jack Carey to keep 
 clear of the press-gangs to-night, because they'll be very 
 busy. That's all. Don't take my advice if you don't like 
 it; only remember. I give it to you gratis, just to show I 
 leave friendly-like.” 
 
 “Thank you very much,” answered the girl, relaxing 
 her former cold tone of voice. “ It’s very kind of you to 
 give it. I shall certainly take it. Good-night.” - 
 
 “Good-night," said Roger, and turning away he took a 
 
 path leading across the downs toward the setting sun. 
 
 “Very good, my fine lady. We'll see,” he muttered to 
 
 himself as he strode awav. 
 
 %> 
 
 The girl watched his retreating figure standing out clear¬ 
 ly defined against the opal background of the western sky, 
 then as it disappeared behind a ridge of rising ground, she 
 breathed a sigh of relief, and turned once more towards 
 the town, now scarcely discernible in the twilight. 
 
 Before many minutes had elapsed a quick step was heard 
 coming along the road in the direction of the town. Mar¬ 
 gery pushed open the little green gate and stood in the 
 road in an attitude of happy expectancy. In another min¬ 
 ute the figure of a man appeared, suddenly taking form 
 out of the grav of twilight. 
 
 “Jack!” 
 
 “Margery!” 
 
 “I am so glad you have come. Jack,” said Margery, a a 
 he stooped to kiss her tenderly. “ I have been waiting for 
 you, oh! such a long, long while.” 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 m 
 
 p 
 
 “Dear little girl I” said Jack, almost beneath his breath. 
 “ But now I am here and have such a piece of news to tell 
 you. Can you guess what it is?” 
 
 “ I think I can. Roger Redbank was here just now and 
 told me some good news about you. I expect it is the 
 same.” 
 
 “ Roger Redbank? How did he know? And what was 
 he doing here talking to you?” 
 
 “ He often comes and talks to me,” replied Margery. “ I 
 wish he wouldn’t. I don’t like him, and yet I can’t say 
 why. He always speaks well of you, and insists on the 
 fact of being your best friend.” 
 
 “ So he tells me, three or four times a day. I don’t care 
 to hear it so often. Margery, there is something about that 
 man that I, too, don’t like. Don’t talk to him; he means 
 no good.” 
 
 “I don’t more than I can help; but if he speaks to me, 
 what am I to do?” 
 
 “ Answer him as shortly as possible, and show him that 
 you don’t want him. But let’s talk of something else; he 
 is not a pleasant subject.” Jack drew Margery to him. 
 “Margery, I wonder if you are as happy as 1 am when I 
 think of to-morrow. I can hardly bring myself to believe 
 that you will be mine—forever.” 
 
 “ Jack. Jack, I pray Heaven that it may be so, but—oh ! 
 I don’t know why, I know no reason, and yet—I am afraid 
 when I think of it. Do not ask me the cause: I know of 
 none, but—I fear.” 
 
 “ Margery, you ought not to fear,” replied Jack in clear, 
 steady tones. “We must trust in God. He it is who 
 guides us. How often has He watched over me in storm 
 and hurricane, battle and shipwreck! At such times, when 
 each moment was as my last, I have known that you were 
 praying for me, and that He heard your prayer. Margery, 
 you should not fear now.” 
 
 Margery gazed up at his earnest, trustful face when he 
 had finished speaking, her soft gray eyes bright with happy 
 tears. Then— 
 
 “Jack, I have no fear now,” she said. 
 
 Two hours have passed. The tones of a distant clock 
 striking eleven float softly through the night air. Jack 
 and Margery have been talking the while. Ask not of 
 what: there are some things “too sacred and too sweet 
 for words.” And now they must part. 
 
 “Margery,” says Jack, softly, “sing me once again that 
 dear old song. 1 love it well for itself, and from your lips 
 jt is for me as a hymn from another world.” 
 
A FATAL WOOING 177 
 
 Margery began, and her clear, sweet voice filled with soft 
 melody the breeze. 
 
 “ Blow softly, breeze, across the seas, 
 
 Thine angry passions stay; 
 
 And calm, O deep, thy wrath in sleep— 
 
 My love has gone away. 
 
 4 ‘ Blow freshly, gales, and fill his sails 
 And waft him o’er the main; 
 
 His ship, O wave, from danger save— 
 
 My love, come back again.” 
 
 The air was such an one as our grandfathers loved; 
 simple and plaintive, a true melody with nothing that was 
 forced or unnatural in it. Margery ceased. 
 
 “I shall never forget that song till I die,” said Jack. 
 “ When I am away from you on my voyages, it will ring 
 forever in my heart, and X shall think of the sweet voice 
 that sang it.” 
 
 A pause followed. Then— 
 
 “ Good-bye!” 
 
 “ God bless you, dear. Good-bye—till to-morrow.” 
 
 And Margery tripped lightly into the house. Jack Carey 
 passed through the gate and started at a brisk pace down 
 the road toward Portsmouth. Soon, however, he slackened 
 his walk, and with eyes on the ground, moved on silently, 
 lost in happy meditation and oblivious to all around him. 
 In this manner he neared the town. He was passing some 
 broken ground a short distance outside, when a sharp 
 sound like a whistle through the teeth caught his ear, then 
 close behind him a whisper, “ That’s him,” then a rush of 
 footsteps. He turned sharply round and found himself 
 face to face with five men; at some little distance he 
 thought he discerned a sixth vanishing in the darkness. 
 
 “What do you want?” he said. 
 
 Without making answer four of the men seized him. 
 He struggled violently to free himself. He was a strong 
 mam and they had no slight difficulty in holding him. 
 
 “ Let me go,” shouted Jack, “ or it will be the worse for 
 some of you!” 
 
 Then the fifth man, who seemed to be in command, 
 cried, in clear tones, “ In the name of His Gracious Majesty 
 King George!” 
 
 “Ah! the press-gang!” he cried, in a hoarse voice. He 
 ceased struggling; then turning his face to heaven, he 
 murmured softly, “ Thy will be done!” 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Ten years have passed. England, and indeed the whole 
 of Europe, has been freed of a nightmare. Statesmen 
 
178 
 
 A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 breathe more freely; merchants open their coffers, and 
 “cast their bread upon the waters;” soldiers exhibit their 
 medals and their scars with equal pride; sailors spend their 
 pay like millionaires; the world is light-hearted. And why? 
 It is the autumn of the year 1815: St. Helena now holds 
 the “ Ogre of’Corsica.” 
 
 But this light-heartedness is not quite universal; there 
 are some heavy hearts throughout England. Mothers 
 mourn for children, wives for husbands, maids for sweet¬ 
 hearts. 
 
 In Portsmouth town great anxiety prevails; for the lists 
 of killed and missing are often found to be not faultless. 
 
 It is a cold gusty day, and night has already begun to 
 close in before its time; yet the quays are crowded with 
 men and women, standing silent with anxious eyes turned 
 seawards. They stand there seemingly unconscious of 
 cold and damp, except that from time to time one walks 
 briskly backward and forward, with hands buried deep 
 in pockets, stamping somewhat heavily on the wet slip¬ 
 pery stones. 
 
 A ship has come to anchor in the roads; and they are 
 waiting for the boats which are bringing off the men. The 
 first one arrives: an eager rush is made to the landing- 
 place. Then there is a sound of heart-felt welcomes and 
 embraces, and manv a.prayer of thanks rises to heaven; 
 but others turn back with a cold chill in their hearts, and 
 stand and wait once more. 
 
 Two hours have passed in this manner; the last boat has 
 left the ship’s side. In it were twelve men; all were laugh¬ 
 ing and talking except one, and he sat silent in the stern- 
 sheets, and scarcely raised his eyes toward the land. He 
 was a powerful man, of some thirty-two years of age. His 
 face was handsome though weather-beaten, and marked 
 with lines of care, and there was a look of sadness in his 
 keen gray eyes. A thick beard and mustache concealed 
 his mouth and chin. 
 
 “ Well, Carey,” said one of his companions, “you don’t 
 seem to be very happy to get back to old Portsmouth 
 again. What’s the matter?” 
 
 “Nothing, nothing; only I haven’t seen the old place 
 for ten years and more, and it brings back old recollec¬ 
 tions.” 
 
 “Aha!” replied another, laughing, “I believe you’re 
 afraid your sweetheart hasn’t remained true for such a 
 long time. You’ve got one, I suppose?” 
 
 “ I had a sweetheart, and she remained true to me.” 
 
 “Well, where is she now?” 
 
 “ In Portsmouth.” 
 
 “ Of course we know that. But in what part is she?” 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 179 
 
 All the rest of the men were laughing at Carey’s solem¬ 
 nity. 
 
 “In the church-yard.” he answered. 
 
 The smile faded from their faces. They were silent for 
 a few minutes, and nothing was heard but the steady plash 
 of the oars, as the boat sped landwards. Then the con¬ 
 versation began again, but it was of other things. The 
 honest, open-hearted fellows all felt for Jack Carey, and 
 would not have grieved him for the world. 
 
 The boat reached the landing-place. The men sprang 
 ashore nimbly, and each in turn was seized by eager hands, 
 and submitted with good grace to the broadside of kisses 
 he received from the women, and the mutilation his fin¬ 
 gers underwent from the men. 
 
 Carey landed last; but there was none to welcome him. 
 Some of his companions saw this, and in the fullness of 
 their hearts tried to persuade him to “come along home 
 with them.” But he refused all on one pretext or another, 
 knowing well how much happiness he would spoil. A 
 stranger is always de trop at a family gathering. Jack 
 Carey felt this very plainly, and knew that each who asked 
 him, although the kindness he wished to show was sincere, 
 experienced, nevertheless, a feeling of relief when the of¬ 
 fered hospitality was refused. But he was not the less 
 grateful to the good-hearted fellows. 
 
 So, wishing them all good-night, he wandered on into 
 the town. The night had set in with a a cold drizzle; every¬ 
 thing looked miserable and deserted; there were few 
 loiterers in the street that night. Yet Carey wandered on 
 with slow steps, lost in meditation, and heedless of the 
 cold and damp. Arrived at a lamp which blinked with 
 pale, sickly flame at the black night, he stopped, and draw¬ 
 ing from his breast-pocket a crumpled letter, set himself to 
 read it through for the hundredth time. These were the 
 contents: 
 
 “Dear Carey: —I am sorry to have to be the one to 
 break to you a sad bit of news; I had rather any one else 
 had got to do it. It is about Margery Seaton. The poor 
 girl was heart-broken when she heard of your misfortune 
 in being seized by the press-gang, and began to mope from 
 the day the ships sailed. She wasn’t a bit like ordinary, 
 but went about doing nothing, as if lost in a dream. This 
 went on for some time, till we got the news of the battle 
 of Trafalgar, and by some mistake (as we learnt after¬ 
 ward) your name appeared in the list of killed. When 
 we broke the news to her (for we all believed it) she said 
 nothing, but went on with her usual work. 
 
 “ The next morning her body was taken up dead out of 
 the harbor. She had drowned herself.” 
 
ISO 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 “ My dear old friend, I wish there was somebody to find 
 softer words in which to wrap up such hard facts, but the 
 duty, has unfortunately, fallen to 
 
 “ Your Friend, 
 
 “Roger Redbank.” 
 
 When he had finished reading the letter, Carey folded it 
 up carefully and returned it to his breast-pocket. He stood 
 for a moment silent and motionless, then, heaving a heavy- 
 drawn sigh, wandered on once more. He cared not whither 
 his footsteps led him; his consciousness left their guidance 
 to the memory, which, like a good pilot, steered him by 
 channels which it had known years back, and recognized 
 now. 
 
 His thoughts were sad, sad as the heavy, dank air about 
 him, and broken by wild, fitful gusts of despair; yet there 
 glimmered through the darkness, from time to time, faint 
 wavering lights of hope. He would embrace death as a 
 welcome friend; how often had he courted it openly, 
 bravely, in the battle of man with the powers of man, and 
 more than bravely in the battle of man with the powers of 
 nature land yet death came not. Self-murder! No; that 
 was too horrible a thought. His whole nature revolted at 
 it. He would trust himself to God’s mercy, and do His will; 
 He at least would care for him. A bright gleam this, flash¬ 
 ing through the murky darkness of his soul. His mind was 
 made up. He would visit her grave, just once, and hold 
 commune with her spirit; for, surely, the spirits of the 
 dead linger in such places as their bodies have known. 
 Then he would find a ship, and roam the “watery ways,” 
 whither he knew not. 
 
 In the midst of such thoughts he became conscious, sud¬ 
 denly, of things around him. He was passing by an eat¬ 
 ing-house that he had known in former years. Hunger 
 told him that it had been unsatisfied for many hours, and 
 that here it desired to be appeased by meat and drink-offer¬ 
 ing. For hunger is a stern god, powerful to kill if unpro¬ 
 pitiated. 
 
 Carey pushed open the door and passed in. The tables 
 were divided from one another by screens, and he selected 
 one which was empty, and in a retired corner. He ordered 
 some food; he did not care what—whatever the waiter 
 chose to give him. 
 
 There were many supping there, as he judged by the 
 murmur of voices, and lie soon discovered that some men, 
 sailors by their talk, were in the next compartment, and 
 with them a woman who spoke but little. Her voice pro¬ 
 duced in him a strange thrill; it was so long since he had 
 heard an Englishwoman’s voice, and it called up sad memo 
 ries to his heart. 
 
A FATAL WOOING . 
 
 18 $ 
 
 181 
 
 They were talking loudly enough for him to catch what 
 they said, and having nothing else to do, he listened. Lit¬ 
 tle harm, he thought, there could be in listening; it was a 
 public room, and they would speak no secrets; even if they 
 did, “dead men tell no tales,” and he was dead to the 
 world. 
 
 “ Strange thing, though,” said one of the men; “ I can’t 
 see how it happened.” 
 
 “ Very simple,” replied a second voice; “ I tell you, he 
 fell over.” 
 
 “ Fell over, yes, but why didn’t he get into the boat 
 again?” 
 
 ‘ ‘ He never appeared above the water after he fell in. 
 Sunk quite straig .t, just as if you’d thrown in a lump of 
 lead. Couldn't swim, I suppose.” 
 
 “Ah, but that’s just it,” returned the first speaker; “I 
 knew him well—swam like a cork!” 
 
 “Well, I was there,” said the other, “and saw it all. 
 Look here, it was like this; when he got into the boat to 
 come off to the ship he was drunk, dead drunk.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes,” broke in the woman’s voice, “he was when 
 I last saw him, and said it was all my fault. God forgive 
 him and me!” 
 
 “The wind was getting up gusty,” continued the man’s 
 voice, “and the waves were chopping rather. Now, a man 
 must be pretty steady at any time when it’s like that. I 
 had just thrown the rope, and he stood up in the boat to 
 catch it. All of a sudden”—here the voice ceased, but it 
 was evident that the description was being carried on in 
 dumb show, then—“he was gone,” it continued. “We 
 waited till he reappeared, to hand him an oar, or throw a 
 rope. He never did. They’re dragging for him now.” 
 
 There was silence for a moment; then a sound of woman’s 
 sobs was heard. 
 
 “ Oh, if it has been in any way my fault, I shall never, 
 never forgive myself, nor will others forgive me.” 
 
 “ Now, now! you mustn’t take on like that, you know,” 
 said one of the men in a gentle voice. “You needn’t 
 blame yourself, and I’m sure no one will blame you. We 
 all of us know how badly he has treated you these past 
 years, trying to break in your will, and spreading stories 
 about you. And we all honor you for being true to a man 
 who was worth a thousand such as him. By the way, 
 there’s a report going about, which I’d like to tell you, 
 only I don’t dare in case it shouldn’t be true. It’s about 
 him.” 
 
 “Who?” 
 
 “Jack,” replied the man. 
 
 Carey listened more attentively, and he was seized with 
 
a fatal wooing . 
 
 
 a strange trembling, although he knew that one out of 
 every half-dozen of his shipmates was called Jack. 
 
 “ Did he die bravely ?” asked the woman. 
 
 “ I can’t say as he did, from what I’ve heard.” 
 
 “ What! do they say he died a coward? It’s a lie, a base 
 lie!” 
 
 “ No, no; you mistake me. It’s just what I want to ex¬ 
 plain. Some who’ve come home to-day were in the battle, 
 you know, and they say-” 
 
 “What, what? quickly!” 
 
 “ That he wasn’t killed.” 
 
 “ Who says so? Who? Don’t you know? Where can I 
 find him? Tell me where to find him that I may question 
 him. Not killed! Not dead! Oh, it is too much! Stop! 
 vnswer me; you are not telling me a lie?” 
 
 “ Lie! do you think I’d tell a lie to Margery Seaton?” 
 
 With a wild bound Carey sprang from his seat and stood, 
 with face aghast and limbs trembling, at the entrance of 
 the next compartment. His voice was hoarse and came 
 with effort. 
 
 “Who is called by the name of Margery Seaton?” 
 
 The woman crouched terrified into the corner, and with 
 lips white with emotion, said: 
 
 “ I am Margery Seaton. Who are you that ask?” 
 i “Jack Carey!” 
 
 “Ah!” 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 It was three days before Margery recovered conscious¬ 
 ness. When she opened her eyes, after a deep sleep, she 
 asked for Jack. He came to her. What words passed be¬ 
 tween them shall not be written; they are too sacred. 
 
 It was toward the evening that one of the men who had 
 been with Margery came and asked to see her. He was 
 admitted. When he entered he said: 
 
 “They have found him. Roger Redbank had two heavy 
 bags of gold tied to his belt.” 
 
 Carey was holding Margery’s hand in his. 
 
 “God be merciful to him,” he said, “ as He has been 
 merciful to us?” 
 
 [the end.J 
 
A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 183 
 
 A MODERN CINDERELLA. 
 
 Not that she was so scandalously ill-used as the poor 
 little heroine of the fairy tale that has delighted so many 
 generations in their childhood, but the circumstances were 
 not dissimilar, as you will see. 
 
 Violet Effingham had lived a very happy, unfettered 
 life with her widowed father, the working partner of a 
 prosperous firm in Bircliin Lane, till she was twelve years 
 old, when Mr. Effingham took to himself a second wife, 
 partly with the idea that it would be better for his mother¬ 
 less girl to have some one who could better supply her lost 
 parent’s place than he, with his time so busily employed, 
 could do; partly—i is to be feared—that he was fascinated 
 by the full-blown charms of the widow whom he selected 
 for that purpose, and whose earliest exercise of her dele¬ 
 gated authority was to find out an eligible establishment 
 for young ladies at Wimbledon, to which, despite her 
 tears, Violet was forthwith sent. 
 
 She had been there a little over four years, tolerably con¬ 
 tented with her life, after all, and always returning cheer¬ 
 fully enough after her holidays; but on one such occasion 
 she discovered that her stepmother had issued invitations 
 for a fancy dress ball, and actually wanted to pack her off 
 to school again three days before the time on that account. 
 
 It need hardly be said that to be present at the ball was 
 Violet’s most ardent wish, and had her father been at home 
 there is no doubt that a very small amount of coaxing on 
 her part would have assured the consummation of her 
 desire; but unfortunately Mr. Effingham was absent on 
 business in the South of France, and, plead as she would, 
 her stepmother was inexorable. 
 
 Not indeed that that lady was so remorseless a tyrant as 
 the grim baroness of the fairy tale, but like her she was 
 the mother of two grown-up daughters, so much grown 
 up, indeed, that they felt it was high time they had homes 
 of their own, and like the wicked step-sisters of Cinderella 
 thought it would be quite as well to keep poor Violet in 
 the background as long as possible—at any rate until they 
 were settled. 
 
 Hinc illce lacrymce that flowed from Violet’s r pretty blue 
 eyes as she in vain protested against her stepmother's de¬ 
 cree. 
 
184 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 “I am turned sixteen!” she cried, “ and I was put intd 
 long-dresses last month, and I am sure papa would let me 
 if he were here, and I will!” 
 
 She stood in the middle of the floor, with her fluffy- 
 golden hair falling over her eyes, her cheeks glowing a 
 mild pink, and her whole personnelle indicative of resolve 
 and determination in the extremest degree. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham looked at her in despair. The two Misses 
 Smythson, Julia and Arabella, sat as stiff and prim as two 
 carved marble images. “ Violet’s temper ” was proverbial 
 in the family, and these very proper and precisely behaved 
 young women were wont to affect the greatest dismay at 
 its vehement gusts. 
 
 “ Violet,” said Mrs. Effingham, solemnly, “ in your dear 
 papa’s absence it is my duty to enforce his precepts, and 
 carry out his discipline. You are a great deal too young 
 to be introduced into society yet. You are to go back to 
 boarding-school to-morrow.” 
 
 “But!” cried Violet, in dismay, “my holidays do not 
 expire until Wednesday!” 
 
 “That is very true,” said Mrs. Effingham, compressing 
 her thin lips to a mere slit; ‘ ‘ consequently, you can see 
 how far you have abridged your own period of recreation 
 by your ungovernable will.” 
 
 Violet, forgetting all about the sixteen years and the long 
 dresses, burst into loud weeping. 
 
 “ Pray, Violet, don’t be so silly,” said Julia. 
 
 “One would think,” tartly spoke up Arabella, “that 
 you were a child of ten years old. Of course, it is all for 
 your own good-” 
 
 “ My own fiddlesticks!” irreverently interrupted Violet, 
 as she fled from the apartment in floods of undignified 
 
 tears. 
 
 But numbers are certain to conquer in the long run: and 
 so Violet was packed remorselessly off to boarding-school, 
 and Mrs. Effingham’s two girls returned to their consulta¬ 
 tions with the dressmaker. 
 
 Julia, a pallid blonde, with cold, watery-blue eyes and 
 colorless flaxen hair, was to wear blue damask, embroid¬ 
 ered around the skirt in palm leaves of seed-pearls. 
 
 Arabella, who had a little more bloom, and ventured to 
 call herself a brunette, had chosen pink satin, with cloud¬ 
 like draperies of black lace; while the matron herself, no 
 bad exemplification of the poet’s idea of ‘ ‘ fat, fair, and for¬ 
 ty,” was to wear ruby velvet, richly trimmed with 
 point-applique lace, and a diamond cross, which, in the ab¬ 
 sence of her husband, she had hired from an accommodate 
 in 'eweler for this occasion. 
 
 hile Violet—poor, heart-broken child!—was sent ruth- 
 
A fatal WOOING. im 
 
 lessly to Wimbledon, where Miss Gardiner, the governess, 
 was telegraphed to meet her. 
 
 But Miss Gardiner, as it chanced, did not received the 
 message in time, and was not there; and Mr. Herbert Car¬ 
 rington was there! 
 
 Violet knew him very well. She had met him several 
 times at home, and Bella Smythson had selected him as the 
 special target for the arrows of her hazel eyes, this season. 
 
 Mr. Carrington recognized Violet at once. 
 
 “Miss Smythson’s little sister, isn’t it?” said he. 
 
 Violet furtively whisked away her tears, and answered: 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Is anything the matter?” said Mr. Carrington. “ Can 
 I be of service? Pray command me, if-” 
 
 “If you could please take me home!” said eager Violet. 
 “Very slyly, indeed, mind, because I’ve been sent back to 
 boarding-school before the holidays are out, just because 
 Julia and Bella and mamma consider me too young to be 
 at the ball they are going to give.” 
 
 “ This is a serious trouble, indeed,” said Mr. Carrington, 
 laughing. 
 
 “ Oh, it is, indeed!” sighed Violet. “ I am sixteen, you 
 know, and I should so like to be a young lady like Julia 
 and Bella! But, you see,” returning to the subject, “Miss 
 Gardiner is not here to receive me, and if you would 
 please take me back in your carriage, I could creep in 
 by the area-gate, and perhaps—perhaps I shall be at 
 the ball after all- But,” her large dark eyes sud¬ 
 
 denly blazing into indignation, ‘‘you are laughing at me!” 
 
 “ Not laughing at you, Miss Effingham,” he hastened to 
 explain, “ only with you I” 
 
 “ Miss Effingham!” 
 
 Violet’s heart leaped at this first delicious tribute to her 
 young-ladyhood. She felt a little frightened, though when, 
 Mr. Carrington, having escorted her back to London by 
 the first train, brought her in a Hansom to Lowndes 
 Square. 
 
 “ Leave me at the corner, please,” said Violet. “ It 
 would never do for mamma and the girls to see me in a 
 cab with you. And Bella would be so vexed.” 
 
 And so the wild little gypsy stole in at the area-gate, and 
 bribed the cook with a kiss not to betray her surreptitious 
 re-entrance into the family circle, while Mr. Carrington 
 went home to wonder what there was so fascinating in 
 Violet Effingham’s round, dimpled face and liquid, dark 
 eyes. 
 
 “A child, indeed!” he said to himself. “ She is a woman, 
 and a dangerously lovely woman, too—only she doesn’t 
 know it. Eyes like pools of deep garnet-brown; hair ali 
 
m 
 
 a Fatal WooiM* 
 
 glittering like tangles of sunshine! Little Violet, if yoli 
 could only see yourself as others see you* you might be 
 tempted to be vain. I shall make a point of attending 
 Mrs. Effingham’s ball, and if she is not there I shall cer¬ 
 tainly inquire for her.” 
 
 The pink satin dress vindicated Mme. Chaussau’s fame 
 as an artistic dressmaker; the blue damask came home in 
 time to be tried on and pronounced “ perfect,” on Satui day 
 night; and on Monday the Misses Smythson dressed them¬ 
 selves with judicious care, and many lavings with rose¬ 
 water and continuous applications of pearl-cream and 
 blush-pink. 
 
 The drawing-rooms, decorated with hot-house flowers, 
 and illuminated, not with vulgar gas, but with the white 
 luster of many wax candles in myriad-branched candelabra, 
 had been personally inspected by Mrs. Effingham before 
 she went to make her toilet, and the little room at the back, 
 where her husband ordinarily kept his boots, and over¬ 
 coats, and pipes, had been transformed into a garlanded 
 bower, where faint lights glowed through shades of Nile- 
 green glass, and the most elegant and aesthetic refresh¬ 
 ments were arranged in cloisonnee enameled ware, trays of 
 repoussee silver, and baskets of Dresden china. 
 
 And just at the time when Arabella was saying to her 
 sister, “How do I look, dear?” and Julia was twisting her¬ 
 self into the shape of the letter S, to see the back of her 
 false puffs and plaitings in the mirror, little Violet was en¬ 
 thusiastically tossing about the contents of an old cedar 
 chest in the lumber-room, which contained the long-for¬ 
 gotten wardrobe of the first Mrs. Effingham. 
 
 “Oh!” she cried, “this is beautiful!” and she unfolded 
 a scented robe of long China crape, crimped like the shingly 
 bars of the finest sea-sand, and embroidered in fantastic 
 figures of scarlet silk. “ I’ll wear this!” 
 
 “ But it is so odd and old fashioned, miss,” said Louisa, 
 the maid. 
 
 ‘ ‘ That is the very charm of it!” pronounced Violet. 
 “ Oh, do make haste, Louisa, with my hair! Are you sure 
 you can do it like the plate in the fashion-book?” 
 
 Mrs. Effingham was still arranging the folds of the point- 
 lace over her shoulders, when Julia rushed up stairs. 
 
 “Mamma, Bella!” she cried, “who is the lady down¬ 
 stairs?” 
 
 “The lady down-stairs!” repeated both mother and 
 daughter, in amazement. 
 
 “ Receiving Mr. Carrington in our drawing-room!” cried 
 breathless Julia. “In the loveliest dead-white dress, 
 brocaded in scarlet silk, and long, golden hair, braided with 
 antique Roman pearls.” 
 
a Fatal vroonra. 
 
 187 
 
 
 “My dear,” said Mrs. Effingham, “you must be crazy!” 
 
 And both she and Arabella hurried down-stairs, just in 
 time to see the beautiful young intruder courtesy a gra¬ 
 cious geeting to two of the most aristocratic and exclusive 
 of th e jeunesse doree of the world of fashion. 
 
 “ Ah!” said Violet, with the utmost self-possession, “here 
 is mamma now, and my sisters. Don’t move, Mr. Carring¬ 
 ton,” she added, in a lower tone, “I’m quite safe now. 
 Mamma won’t dare to scold me before company.” 
 
 And Mrs. Effingham and the Misses Smythson were 
 forced to digest their rage and mortification as best they 
 could. 
 
 For Violet outshone them as a real, crimson-hearted rose 
 outshiues the milliner’s false presentiment—as the diamond 
 outshines the wretched paste ornament—and they knew it 
 but too well. 
 
 But success excuses everything, and Mrs. Effingham 
 could not but perceive that the quaint young beauty, in the 
 antique dress, was emphatically a success. 
 
 “Violet,” she cried, when she found an opportunity, 
 “how dared you play us such a trick?” 
 
 “I did it for fun, mamma,” said Violet, “and if you 
 scold me I shall tell Mr. Carrington. It was he that brought 
 me back from Wimbledon, and he. is my friend.” 
 
 “ I never heard anything so insolent in all my life,’’cried 
 Arabella, turning pale with anger. 
 
 “ She ought to be locked up for a week on bread and 
 water,” said Julia, passionately. 
 
 But Violet only arched her brows and smiled. 
 
 For the child had bloomed out into a woman. Violet 
 had discovered her own talisman of power. 
 
 They could none of them ever scold or tyrannize over 
 her again. She had no more fears of being sent back to 
 boarding-school. 
 
 But Miss Arabella Smythson could hardly conceal her 
 spite the next day when Mr. Carrington called and asked 
 for Violet, nor wben bouquets, with cards attached, kept 
 arriving for Violet. 
 
 “ Mamma,” she said, “ what is to be done?” 
 
 “ Nothing that I can see,” said Mrs. Effingham, dryly. 
 “ The child can’t help being a beauty, I suppose.” 
 
 “She will have to go everywhere with us now,” said 
 Julia, plaintively. 
 
 “ I tried my best to keep her back,” sighed Mrs. Effing¬ 
 ham ; “ but she has precipitated herself into society.’’ 
 
 And pretty Violet Effingham reigned the belle of the 
 season, and, in the spring, Mr. Carrington asked her 
 father for her hand in marriage. The honest man stared 
 in amazement. 
 
188 
 
 A FATAL WOOING. 
 
 “ I — I thought it was Arabella you fancied 1” said he. “1 
 knew she liked you!” 
 
 “I am too much honored,” said Mr. Carrington, with¬ 
 out changing a feature; “but I have never aspired to that 
 honor.” 
 
 “Oh!” said Mr. Effingham. “Well, suit yourself—suit 
 yourself!” 
 
 And so, before she was quite seventeen, Violet was mar¬ 
 ried, and Arabella and Julia had the field all to themselves. 
 
 But they were not satisfied, after all. Some people never 
 are satisfied. 
 
 [THE END.] 
 
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