 

 

 

 

<<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

still.
enough at such times—a vailed lady in the gallery
had fallen forward in a dead swoon.

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE TURN OF THE WHEEL.

It was a wild night on the Sussex coast. A north
wind roared over the channel—a terrible north wind,
that shrieked, and raved, and lashed the waves into
white fury; that tore up trees by the roots, blew off
tall steeples, and filled the air with a shower of tiles
and chimney-pots, and demolished frailer buildings
altogether. A terrible night in Clifftonlea—the oldest
inhabitant had never remembered anything like it.
A terrible night in Lower Cliffe, where nobody
thought of going to bed at all; for the dreadful roar-
ing of the storm and the cannonading of the rising
sea on the shore seemed to threaten entire destruc-
tion to the little village before morning. A terrible
night within the park, where tall trees of a century’s
growth were torn up and flung aside like straws. A
terrible night, even within the strong walls of the
old castle, where the great kitchen, and the servants’
hall, and butler’s pantry, and the housekeeper's
room, were filled with terrified footmen and house-
maids; where Lady Agnes shivered as she listened
to itin the ghostly solitude of her own room; where
Margaret woke up, cowering and shuddering from
the stupor in which she lay, and covered her eyes
from the lightning, and wondered how the condemned
man bore it in his prison-cell.

He, sitting reading by the light of a flaring tallow
candle, in a little gold and purple book, lifted his
pale and quiet face, and .listened to it much more
calmly than any of them.

Much more calmly than Colonel Shirley, pacing up
and down in his own room, as the midnight hour
was striking, like an uneasy ghost. It was a splen-
did room—splendid in green velvet and malachite,
with walnut paneling and wainscotting, the furni-
ture of massive mahogany, upholstered in green
billiard-cloth, and the bed-hangings of green velvet
and white satin. The same sober tints of green and
brown were repeated in the medallion carpet; a
buh! cloek ticked ow the carved walnut mantel, and
over it a bright portrait of Vivia looked down and
smiled,

There was a small armory on one side, full of
Damascus swords, daggers, and poniards, pistols and
muskets, eel-spears, bows and arrows, and riding-
whips, all flashing in the light of a bright wood-tire
burning on the marble hearth; for though the month
was August, these grand, vast old rooms were always
chilly, and on this tempestuous night particularly so.
A round table, on which burned two wax candles,
was drawn up before the fire, and covered over with
ledgers, check-books, and packages of fresher look-
ing documents tied up with red tape. A green cush-
ioned arm-chair stood on either side of the table, and
though they were empty now, they had not been a
couple of hours previously.

In the first train to-morrow morning Colonel Shir-
ley was leaving Cliftonlea, perhaps. forever, and
going where glory led him; and he and Mr. Sweet
had had a very busy afternoon and evening in
settling the complicated accounts of the estate.
They had finished about ten, and Mr. Sweet had gone
home, despite the rising storm which was now at its
height; and ever since the colonel had been walking
up and down, up and down, anxiously impatient for
the morning that was to see him off.

It was the evening that had concluded Tom Shir-
ley’s trial; and he, too, like Margaret, was thinking
of himin his lonely cell; and though the lightning
came blazing through the shuttered and curtained
windows, and the roar of the storm, the sea, and the
wind boomed an awful harmony around them, he
scarcely heeded either; and as the clock vibrated on
the last silvery stroke of twelve, there was a tap at
the door, and then the handle was turned, and the
respectful face of Mr. Hurst looked in.

‘“There’s aman down below, sir, that has just ar-
rived, and he insists on seeing you. It is a matter of
life or death, he says.”’

The colonel stopped, astonished, in his walk.

“Some one to see me on such a night! Whois
he ?’

“TY don't know, sir. He looks like a sailor, in a pea-
jacket and a sou’-wester hat; but the collar of the
jacket is turned up, and the hatis pulled down, and
there’s no seeing anything of him but his nose.”

‘And he said it was a matter ot life or death. It
ought to be, certainly, to bring him out in a night
like this.”

“Yes, sir.
search the house over for you.
rough-looking customer, sir.”

“Show him up!’ was the curt reply; and Mr.
Hurst bowed and withdrew.

He was leaning against the carved mantel, one
elbow resting upon it, and his eyes fixed thought-
fully on the fire, when his visitor entered—a some-
what stout and not very tall max, in a large, rough
pea-jacket, a shining hat of the sailor pattern, and
splash top-boots. There was more of the man
splashed than his boots, for he was dripping all over
like a water-god; and, as Mr. Hurst had intimated,
his coat-collar was turned up, and his hat pulled
down, so that, besides the nose, nothing was visible
but a pair of fierce eyes. ;

This nocturnal intruder took the precaution to turn
the key in the lock as soon as the valet disappeared,
and then came slowly forward and stood before the
colonel.

“Well, my friend,’ said that gentleman, quietly,
“vou wanted to see me ?”’

“Yes, I did.”

“On a matter of importance, my servant said.”

“Tf it warn’t important,” said the man, grufily, ‘it
ain’t very likely ’d come here to tell it to you ona
night that ain’t fit for a mad dog to be out. It’s some-
thing you’d give half your estates to learn, Colonel
Shirley, or I’m mistaken.”

“Out with it, then; and, in the meantime, suppose
you sit down.”

His visitor drew up one of the green arm-chairs
closer to the hearth, and dropping into it, without,
however, removing his hat, spread out his splashed
top-boots to the genial influence of the hot wood fire.
There was something familiar about the man, in his
burly figure, rough voice, and fierce eyes; but the
colonel could not remember where he had seen the
man before; and a long silence followed, during
which the man in the top-boots looked at the fire,
the colonel looked at him, the lightning flashed, the
wind shrieked, and the portrait of Vivia smiled down
on all At last:

“Tf you merely wish to warm yourself, my friend,”
said the colonel, composedly, ‘‘I presume there is a
fire in the servants’ hall. Allow me to inform you
that it is past twelve, and I have a long journey to
commence to-morrow morning.”

“You'll commence no journey to-morrow morning,”
the man in the pea-jacket coolly said.

“Indeed! Suppose, for politeness’ sake, you re-
move that hat, and let me see the face of the gentle-
man who makes so extraordinary an assertion.”

“Just you hold on a minute, and you’ll see my face
soon enough! As I said, it’s a matter of life or death
brings me here; and you’ll hear it all in time, and
you won’t take any journey to-morrow. I’ve been
fool enough in my time, Lord knows, but I ain’t such
afool as to come out on such a night, and get half
drowned, for nothing.”

“Very good! I am waiting for you to go on.”

“There was a murder committed here a couple of
months ago,” said the mysterious person in the pea-
jacket, ‘‘wasn’t there ?’

“Yes,’”’ said the colonel,” with a slight recoil, as he
pnoughe that perhaps the real murderer sat before
lim.

“The young gentleman as was murdered was Mr.
Leicester Cliffe; and another young gentleman, Mr.
Tom Shirley, has been tried and condemned for the
murder ?”’

“Yes,”

“Well,” said the man in the pea-jacket, still quite
coolly, “he is innocent.”

“T know it.”

“Do you? Perhaps you know, too, who’s the guilty
party ?”

“No. Do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said the man, “and that’s what brings
me here to-night.”

Again there was a pause. The colonel’s lips had
turned white, but nothing could shake his stoical
composure. The man in the sailor’s dress had his
hands on his knees, and was leaning forward, looking
up at him.

“And who—but first, my mysterious friend, before
any more questions are asked or answered, I must
insist on your removing that hat, and showing me
who you are.”

“All right. It’s only a hanging matter, anyway!
Look here!”

His visitor rose up, turned down the collar of the
pea-jacket, lifted off the dripping sou’-wester, and
glared up athim in the firelight with a pair of ex-
ceedingly green and wolfish eyes.

“Ah!” said the colonel, slowly, “I thought it was
you. And you have come back, then ?”’

“T have come back,” said his visitor, with a savage
gleam in his wolfish eyes. “I have come back to be
hung, very likely; but by —— I'll hang over and
over again a thousand times for the pleasure of see-
ing him hang beside me once! Hunted down! hunted
down! He’s been at it for the last six years, until
he’s got me to the end of the rope at last! My dog’s
life hasn’t been such a comfort to me, Lord knows,
that Ishould care to lose it; but when I do hang,
he'll hang beside me, by ——!”

“Have the goodness to calm yourself, Mr. Black,
and become intelligible. Whom are you talking
about ?”’

“My name ain’t Black, and you know it! My name
is Wildman—Jack Wildman, as was transported for
life; and I don’t care if the Old Boy heard it! Who
am [ talking about? I'm talking about a man as I
hate, as I’ve hated for years ; and if I had him here, I
would tear the eyes out of his head, and the black
heart out of his body, and dash his brains out against
this here wall! I would, by the Eternal!”

The man’s oaths were appalling. The colonel shud-
dered slightly with disgust and repulsion as he heard
him, for his face was like that of a demon.

“Will you come to the point, Mr. Black, or Mr. Wild-
man, whichever you choose? You say you know the
real murderer of Leicester Cliffe—who is he?”

He said he would see you, if he had to
He’s a precious

It was breken at last by a sound common

 

“Him as Lam talking of—a yellow devil, with a
blaek heart, and his name is Sweet !”

Colonel Shirley started up, and grasped the mantel
against which he leaned.

“Man!” he cried, “what have you said?’

“Thave said the truth, and I can proveit! That
yellow dog, that I would strangle if [Thad him near
me, that Lawyer Sweet—he killed the young gentle
man; I saw him with my own eyes!”

The colonel stood looking a hundred questions he
could not speak—struck for the moment perfectly
speechless.

“Yes, you may wonder,” said Mr. Black, subsiding
into his chair again, and letting himself cool down
like a bottle of soda water after the first explosion ;
“but it’s true as gospel. I saw him do the deed my-
self the night of the wedding; and Mr. Tom Shirley—
he is innocent.”

“Tell me all,” said the colonel, finding voice; ‘‘and,
for Heaven's sake, do it instantly.”

“Tam going to. I have taken all this journey in
the wind and rain to-night todo it; and Pll hunt him
down, as he has hunted me, if they were to hang me
the next minute. You know that evening [ went
away, and I don’t think anybody here ever heard of
me since.”

“Go on.”

“T had been out that day, and it was nigh on to
sundown when [came home. I found my old mother
on the ground, just recovering from a fit, and just
able to tell me that that yellow villain had been with
her, and was going to tell all—the secret he had kept
so long. That was the first I ever knew of Barbara's
being your daughter, instead of mine; though I did
know he had some power over the old woman I could
not get at the bottom of. Whatever he may say, he
knowed the secret all along; and it was that made
him marry Barbara.

“From the time he met youin the grave-yard, the
night yon buried your wife, he never lost sight of my
wife and that baby. But when shetold me it all, and
how he threatened to peach about my being a re-
turned convict, I believe the very old Satan got into
me, and I started up, and went out to find him and
kill him. They say a worm will turn if trodden on;
he had trodden on me long enough, Heaven knows!
and it was my turn now. If I had met him in the
middle of the town, with all the people in it looking
on, [ would have torn his heart out as I would a mad
dog’s. I would have done it if they was to burn me
alive for it the next minute.

“As I got up near his house, I saw him come out,
and [I hid behind a tree to watch him. Before he got
far he stopped, and began watching somebody him-
self; it was Mr. Leicester Cliffe, who came along
High street without seeing either of us, and went in.
Then Sweet dodged round the back way, and went
into the house after him, and I was left alone waiting
Reet the tree, and waiting for my game to come
out.

“T don’t know exactly what passed, but I havea
notion that Mr. Leicester wanted Barbara to run
away with him, and that the yellow viper was listen-
ing, and heard it all. It was nigh onto dark when
Mr. Leicester came out, and set off like a steam-
engine toward Lower Cliffe, to take a short cut, I ex-
pect,to the castle; and Sweet came sneaking after him,
like thesnake in the grass he is. There we was, a-dodg-
ing after each other, the three of us, and Sweet and
me trying to keep out of sight as well as we could,
and getting into alley-ways and behind trees when-
ever We saw anybody coming. There wasn’t many
out to see us, for that matter; for all the town, and
the village, too, was up in the park; and Mr. Leices-
ter went up through the park gates, and we two
sneaked after him without meeting a soul. Instead
of going straight up to the castle, as he’d ought to
do, Mr. Leicester turned off to that lonesome spot
they call the Nun’s Grave; and still we two was
dodging in through the treés after him. When he
got there he stopped and stood, with his arms
crossed, looking down at it; and there was that yel-
low devil Sweet behind him, and I could see his face
in the moonlight, and he looked more like a devil
than ever. There was a club lying on the grass, just
asif Old Nick had left it there for his favorite son—a
big knotted stick, that would have felled an ox; and
Sweet he raised it, his grinning mouth grinning more
than you ever saw it, and, with one blow, knocked
the young gentleman stiff on the ground.”

Mr. Black paused in his long narration to turn the
other side of his steaming legs to the influence of
the blaze, and to look up searchingly at the colonel.
But, as that gentleman stood as rigid as the marble
guest in Don Giovanni, and made no comment, he
went on:

“The minute he did the deed, as if he knew his
work was finished, he dropped the club, made a rush
through the trees, and I lost him. So there I was
foiled again, with the young gentleman lying as stiff
as if he had been a month dead at my feet. I
shouldn't at all have minded being hung for murder-
ing Sweet; I wouldn’t have cared a curse for it; but
I didn’t want to hang for a murder I hadn’t done; so
I took leg bail, and got away from the place, as he
had done. I knew Cliftonlea would be too hot to
hold me now. I didn’t know but what that lying vil-
lain would make me out to be the murderer; so my
notion was to be off in the evening train for London,
amd take ny timefor revenge. Justas I got through
the park gates, whom should I see but Barbara on
the beach, pushing off in a boat from the shore. I
sung out to her, but it was no use; she wouldn’t
stop; so [ just swam up to her, got on board, and
asked her where she was going. I don’t know what
she said. I think she was out of her mind; but I
found out that she was running away from that vil-
lain, Sweet—from Cliftonlea; and then it struck me,
as I was in the boat, the best thing I could do was to
row to Lisleham, take the cars for London there, and
so throw folks off the scent. And that is the way it
happened you couldn’t hear anything from either of
us.’

“Well,” said the colonel, “you went to London ?’

“No, we didn’t. The first person we met on the
wharf at Lisleham was an old chum of mine. He had
been with me from New South Wales, but he was
well off now, and the captain of a schooner. I had
nothing to do but to tell him the police were on my
track, and I was sure of safe quarters on board his
craft until the heat of the hunt wasover. We sailed
that very day for Dover; and before we were two
hours out, Barbara was down raving mad with brain
fever. There was no doctor on board, and she had
to get out of it the best way she could; but we made
the voyage, staid awhile in France, and was back
in Lisleham long before she stopped raving or knew
anybody. I gotsome English papers in Dover, and
there I sawall about the murder; I read how Mr.
Tom was took up forit; and I knew I had held my
tongue about longenough. I would have come post-
ing back by express, but I couldn’t leave Barbara
alone in the schooner, and I knew I was time enough.
We got in two hours ago. The schooner is at anchor
out there now ; and, in spite of the storm, I came on
shore. And now, sir, that’s the whole story. Sweet
he’s the murderer; and I'll see him hung for it, if I
hang myself beside him.”

There was along pause. The storm seemed to in-
crease in fury, and the uproar without had become
terrific. The colonel lifted his head and listened to
it.

“Barbara, you say, isin the schooner !”

“She is—but more like a ghost or a skeleton, than
anything living.”

“You are sure the achooneris safely anchored, and
not exposed to the fury of this storm ?”’

Mr. Black opened his mouth to reply in the affirma-
tive, when he was ominously stopped by the sharp
report of a minute-gun echoing through the roar of
the hurricane, and rapidly followed by another and
another.

“T thought it would come to that,” said the colonel.
“The coast in the morning will be strewn with
wrecks. I am going down to the shore.”

“All right,” said Mr. Black, ‘‘we can’t be of any
use, you know; but I have got cramped with sitting
here, and want to stretch my legs a bit. Heaven,
how it’s storming !”

The colonel rapidly donned cap and overcoat, and,
followed by Mr. Black, left his bright fire and pleas-
ant room, and hastened out into the night and storm.
The sharp report of the minute-guns still rang
through the uproar; but though they were met in
the door by a rush of wind and rain, that for an in-
stant beat them back—though the lightning still
flashed, and the thunder relled, the storm had passed
its meridian, and was subsiding. Dawn was liftinga
leaden eye, too, above the mountains of black cloud,
and lighting up with a pale and ghastly glimmer the
sue and foam-crested sea and the storm-beaten
earth.

Long before they reached the shore in the lashing
tempest, the mournful minute-guns had ceased their
signal for help, and the vessel, whatever it was, must
inevitably have sunk with allits crew. Despite the
wind, and rain, and lightning, the shore was lined
when they reached it by the fishermen, and thrown
up high on the shingly beach were broken spars,
fragmeuts of wreck, and, most ghastly sight of all,
the stark bodies of drowned men. <A crowd had col-
lected in one spot around a man who, it turned out,
was the only survivor, and who was telling the story
of the disaster, as the new-comers came up.

“We were scudding along like old Nick in a gale of
wind,” the man was saying, ‘‘our spars snapped off
like knitting-needles, when we run afoul of the other
craft, smashed her like an egg-shell, and down she
went, head foremost, like a stone.”

A shrill screech from Mr. Black, and off he darted
like one possessed. Something had just been washed
ashore, something his quick eye had caught, and
over which he was bending now with a face as
ghastly as that of the drowned men. With an awful
presentiment, the colonel followed him, and his pre-
sentiment was realized to its utmost extent of hor-
ror. In the ooze and mud of the beach, her long
hair streaming around her, her soaking dress cling-
ing to her slender form, lay the drowned heiress of
Castle Cliffe, with her face in the loathsome slime.

CHAPTER XXXII.
RETRIBUTION,

Man proposes, but God disposes! Colonel Shirley
was not the only one who had intended starting on a
journey that morning, and was doomed to disap-
pointment, Mr. Sylvester Sweet, having settled all
the affairs of the estate. and ,having nothing to do
for the next month or two, intended in his bereave-

 

ment to give himself along holiday, and to go post
haste to Paris. Perhaps, too, being such an uncom-
monly tender-hearted gentleman, he did not wish to
stay to witness the execution of his young friend,
Tom Shirley. Or, perhaps, he was anxious to drown
his grief for the recent loss of his wife in the delights
of that delightful city.

At all events, whatever his motives, Mr. Sweet was
going on a journey, and was sitting down to an early
breakfast in the back parlor. Most elaborately was
he got up; always radiant, he was considerably
more so this morning than ever; his buff waistcoat
had the gloss of spick-span newness, his breastpin
and studs were dazzling, the opal rings he wore on
his fingers made you wink, his pocket-handkerchief
was of the brightest yellow China silk, his Malacea
eane had a gold head, his canary colored gloves were
as new as his waistcoat, and his watch-chain with
its glistening ornaments, his yellow whiskers and
hair, and white teeth gleamed out with more than
ordinary brilliance, and his smile was so bland and
debonair, it would have done your heart good to see
it. He had so far recovered from his late bereave-
ment that he laughed a little silvery laugh as_ he sat
down to breakfast—whether at it, or at his own cley-
erness, or at his expected two months’ holiday,
would be hard to say. So he was sitting, pleasantly
sipping his coffee, and eating his eggs and rolls,
when the door-bell rang sharply; and two minutes
after, Colonel Shirley stood inthe door-way regard-
ing him. Mr. Sweet arose in a little surprise.

“Good-morning, colonel. This is an unexpected
pleasure. I thought you were offin the six o’clock
train?” » ;

“T have been delayed. Will yoube good enough to
order your horse ride back with me to Castle
Cliffe Y’

“Certainly, colonel!” But Mr. Sweet hesitated a
little, with his hand on the bell-rope. “I have pur-
chased my ticket for London, butif the business is
pressing——”

“Tt is most pressing!
diately !"”

Mr. Sweet knew better than to disobey the Indian
officer when his dark eye flashed and his voice rang
outin that ringing tone of command; so he ordered
his horse, drew on his overcoat, and substituted
buckskin gloves for the yellow kids, with a little dis-
appointment and a great deal of curiosity in his sal-
low face. But his unceremonious companion seemed
no way inclined to satisfy curiosity, and was ina
mood Mr. Sweet dared not question. So they mount-
ed their horses, and drove through the town as rap-
idly as they had ridden once before, when on the
search for Barbara.

The storm had subsided, the rain had entirely
ceased, but the wind still blew in long, lamentable
blasts; and between keeping his seatin the saadle
and his hat on his head, Mr. Sweet had enough to do
until Castle Cliffe was gained. And still, in grim
silence, its master strode into the hall and into the
morning-room, where that memorable inquest had
been held, and where Mr. Sweet again found Mr.
Channing, the magistrate, and the head doctor of the
town. ;

Lying on a long table, at the farther end of the
room, was something that looked like a human figure;
but it was so muffled from sight, in a great cloak,
that he could searcely-tell what to make of it. He
turned from it to the others, and their stern faces
and ominous silence sent a sudden and strange chill
to his heart. Trying to look easy and composed, he
pulled out his watch and glanced at it.

“Half-past seven! If the business is brief, per-
haps [ may be in time to catch the nine o’clock train
ret.” -
: “You need not trouble yourself about the nine
o’cloek train. You will not catch it!’ said the

colonel, frigidly.

“Exeuse me! Of eourse I am willing to wait any
time you please. I merely thought it might have
been some unimportant matter we had forgotten last
night. A terrible night last night, gentlemen—was
it not?

No one spoke. Mr. Sweet felt as if their three pairs
of eyes were three pairs of burning-glasses scoreh-
ing into his very skin. At last the silence was
broken.

“Your wife haf®returned, Mr. Sweet,’ said the
colonel, in a voice that thrilled with the same name-
less terror to Mr. Sweet’s inmost heart.

“Returned! When—where—how ?”

“Last night, in the storm.”

“Good Heaven! Alone?’

“Quite alone.”

“And where is she now ?”’

“She is here. Will you come and look at her?”

He walked toward the table whereon the muffled
figure lay. “Mr. Sweet, with his knees knocking
together, followed. : ;

The muffling was removed, the dead face, livid and
bruised, the dark eyes staring wide open, the white
teeth gleaming behind the blue lips, as if she were
grinning up at him a ghastly grin...

It was an awful sight, and Mr. Sweet recoiled with
a sort of shriek, and made a frantic rush for the door.
But a man in a blue coat and brass buttons, the cap-
tain of the Cliftonlea Police, stood suddenly be-
tween him and it, andMaid his hand forcibly on his
shoulder. -, ps ,

“Not so fast, Mr. Sweet. You_are my prisoner.”

That brought Mr. Sweet to his senses faster than
cold water or smelling-salts. He stood stock-still and
looked at the man.

“What?”

“Just so, sir. You are my prisoner. I arrest you
for the murder of Leicester Cliffe!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Order your horse imme-

 

iui o ct

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM']

Manager's Favorite:

The Tragedy af Carli Shores,

A STORY OF THE STAGE.
By HERO STRONG.

Author of “The Captain’s Orphan Daughter,”
“The Lost Bride,”’ “Born to Command,” etc.

(“THE MANAGER’S FAVORITE” was commenced in No. 46.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER X.
A RESPITE FROM FATE.
R. BELMONT’S dark gray
eye flashed fire.
“You are an envious and
bad-tempered meddler,’ he
. said, indignantly, ‘‘and Ihave
‘ CA no further place for you in
| in myemploy. You can go
: // at once!”
«4 “Yes, I will go!” said Mad-
ih emoiselle Euphrosyne, quite

; N /)  Heside herself with anger.
“And I will tell the story wherever I go. Mr. Bel-
mont has long been called the model manager, and
he has prided himself on having none but good, moral
actors and actresses in his company.’ Good morals,
forsooth! The world has not yet heard of his model
favorite, who steals out at night and meets young
men in lonely parks and——”

“Stop!” roared Mr. Belmont. ‘‘Another word of
that kind, and I shall forget that you are a woman!
Out of my sight!”

He took a step or two toward her, and Euphrosyne
who had seen him in a temper before, and knew
that he was not to be trifled with, disappeared
through the door, and next day sent for her belong
ings.

The other actresses—some half-dozen in number—
stood around in silence, some with a half-satisfied
expression on their faces, for truth to tell, the de-
cided favor which Mr. Belmont had sflown for Ethel
had not been any too pleasing to such of the com-
pany as thought that from having been longer in the
business than this new member they had a better
right to desirable parts than she had. ;

Ethel had resumed her self-possession, though
S Sena spot of indignation still burned in her

eek.

“T owe you all an explanation,” she said, quietly.
“Itis true that Mademoiselle Euphrosyne saw me as
as she describes; but it was quite by accident that I
met the young man, Mr. Ross Montgomery, and he
was telling me of friends I have not heard from in a
long time,”

“An!” gaid Mr. Belmont, with well assumed <in-
difference, but literally burning with jealousy and
curiosity. ‘Mr. Montgomery must be.an old ac-
quaintance, I presume ?”

“He is. He boarded for two summers with Miss
Glenmere and her mother, at the hotel near—near
where I once lived.” :
Sei ere Sere. comes of one of the first families
in the city. Itis quite an honor to know him,” said

Mr. Belmont, speaking for the benefit of the listen-

 

VOL, 43—No, 50,

 

ing companions of Ethel. “And now let it pass,

I
hope that no one present will repeat this silly goeslp
of Mademoiselle Euphrosyne. Whoever does will fall
under my most decided displeasure, for I will not
have any gossiping among my company.

The young ladies were silenced for the time, but
they talked it over afterward among themselves, and
concluded that it was odd, to say the least, that
Ethel should have known Ross Montgomery, and
then it was still more singular that he should be
walking out with her of evenings to tell her about
old friends.

And though it might have been very difficult to
trace it to its source, the rumor grew that the beauti-
ful Miss Atherton, whose rare loveliness charmed all
beholders, was fond of intrigues, and had abused the
contidence placed in her by Mr. Belmont. /

And Mr. Belmont heard of it, and was exceedingly
annoyed, much more, indeed, than he would have
been willing to acknowledge. ,

Mr. Montgomery was at the theater almost every
night, and about a week after Ethel had given him
her reluctant promise, it was announced in the
fashionable circles of the city that his engagement
with Miss Maude Glenmore was a thing of the past,
and that Miss Glenmore was shortly to become the
wife of a wealthy bank official thrice her age.

No one knew just how it had happened, but both
parties seemed satisfied; so the curious world was
obliged to acceptit as it was, for no answer ever
came to the questions asked.

Mr. Montgomery called at Mrs. Vanstead’s one
afternoon, and asked for Miss Atherton.

Ethel went down to meet him with a terrible fear at
her heart. He had come, no doubt, to urge her to a
speedy marriage. And only herself knew how she
dreaded it—how she dreaded the man himself when
away from him, though in his presence she was con-
scious of a strange fascination which drew her to
him in spite of herself.
¢ Sie went into the parlor, pale and trembling.

He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed
her tenderly.

“You are looking pale and frightened, Ethel,” he
said, gently; ‘I hope that seeing me has not given
you that expression.” :

“T—I am tired to-day, and my head aches a little.”

“Oh, yes, [dare say. A headache is excuse for a
heart-ache. Ethel, have you heard that Miss Glen-
more has thrown me over ?”

“T have heard something to that effect.”

“Perhaps ho wil) hardly credit it when I tell you
that she took the initiative. Old Grandy has a pile
of money, and he is upward of seventy-five, and
there is apoplexy in the family. My Lady Maude’s
prospects are promising, and Granby has come
down like a prince, and settled half his posses-
sions upon her on the day of their marriage, and
the remainder is to be hers if she survives him.
Think of the prospect! Maude was always a shrewd
girl; and I confess I admire her skill in hooking the
old fellow. Excuse me, Ethel, if I shock you, but I[
cannot help it. And when I received a little scented
note informing me that Miss Glenmore had decided
that she did not love me well enough to keep the en-
gagement into which our parents had unthinkingly
hurried us, I threw up my hat, figuratively speak-
ing, and danced as merry a hornpipe as ever was
danced on any ship’s forecastle. For you see, it re-
lieved me of such a responsibility. Forsay what you
will, it is always a little awkward for a man to tell
the woman he has promised to marry that he has
changed his mind. And I shall always look upon
Mande as my best friend. My darling, speak to me!
Be glad with me!”

She lifted her great dark eyes to his face, and he
saw that it was with an effort that she kept back the
tears.

He caught her passionately to his heart.

“Ethel, [love you! Cannot love like mine win a
return? I would do anything you asked of meif by it
ITcould win your love. Speak to me, darling! tell me
that by and by, when you have become used to me,
you will take me into your heart, even as I have taken
you into mine.”

“T—I cannot promise—but I will try,” cried Ethel,
lying quietly in his embrace; “I amso young and so
ignorant, and I do not know myself.”

“Ethel, will you marry me in a week’s time?” he
asked, suddenly, and held his breath for her answer.

And her gustures, more than her words, cut him to
the quick.

She drew hastily away from him, and pushed off the
hands which would have taken hers.

“No, no!” she cried, wildly; “you could not ask
that! You promised to give me time. You surely
would not take an unwilling bride?’

“No, I would not,’ he said, hoarsely ; ‘‘I will wait.
Time works miracles, sometimes. But I had hoped
you would have consented. But, dearly as I love
you, no power on earth should force Ine to marry you
unless you came to my arms Willingly. Ethel, lam
going away.” AM ;

She was afraid he would see the light which leaped
into her face at his words. A respite. Oh, how glad
she was! And yet she tried so hard not to show her
gladness.

He looked at her keenly, and a slight frown shad-
owed his white forehead.

“Going away,” she faltered. “‘When? Where are
yougoing?” os <i

“Tam going to Australia.” — .. ;

“To Australia?” She tried to suppress the eager
quiver in her voice. “That is a long way off.”

“Quite at the other side of the world. Oceans will
roll between us, and the length of continents divide
us, and I shall love you just as well then as I do this
moment.” ;

“Will you be long away 2” ;

“About two years. Our firm has a business in Syd-
ney—a very important branch of the business, in-
deed—and the managing partner has lately died. It
is of the utmost importance that his place should be
at once supplied, and I am the only person to do it.
TI have agreed to resume the responsibility, and I sail
next Wednesday.”

She clasped her slender hands together, and stood
with her eyes fixed onthe floor. She wished that
she could tell him that she was sorry that she had
not learned the lesson of deception. And there was
such a wild joy at her heart. So much might pe! a
a two years. For two years longer she would be

ree.

He read her thoughts, and, though his heart was
wrung, he spoke to her very gently.

“Ethel, dear, I can see that the thought of my going
does not grieve you. I could hardly expect that it
would. Butin those two years you will have time
to learn to think kindly of me, and when I return I
shall claim my wife. And let thisremind you that in
life or in death you belong to me only.”

He took her passive hand and slipped on the third
finger a ring set with a diamond of priceless value.
And he kissed the hand on which he had put the
ring.
“Tis a sweet, white hand,” he said, holding it up
and letting the sunlight fall through the rosy finger-
tips, “and it is mine. And now, Ethel, will you do
something for me ?”

“Tf Ecan.”

“T should not ask anything out of your power. I
want you to quit the stage, and go and live quietly
with a good woman whom I know, where you will
see some society, and receive lessons from masters
who will remedy all defects in your early educa-
tion.” ~

“T cannot promise,” said Ethel. “I owe a great
deal to Mr. Belmont, and I am advertised on his bills
for six months to come. I must keep the engage-
ment.”

“T wish you would do as I desire,’ he said, a little
sadly; ‘‘but, nevertheless, Iwill not urgeyou. I said
in the beginning that I would not force your inclina-
tions. But I do so dislike to think of you as subject
to the admiration of every idle frequenter of a thea-
ter. You cannot understand it, perhaps, but every
time An audience applauds you, I feel as if I should
go wild.’

“But you will not hear them in Australia.”

“But I shall know that it is going on all the same.
Ethel, for my sake—the sake of the man who loves
you and who hopes to be your husband—will you not
give up this life, which is so unsuited to you?”

“T cannot. Honor binds me to it for the present.
And I like it. My companions are kind to me. Iam
paid liberally, and——”

“Ethel, don’t, for Heaven’s sake, speak of being
paid liberally. My darling, I have wealth enough to
run a dozen theaters, and all that Ihaveis at your
service.” ais

“Do you think I would accept a cent from you when
Iam capable of earning my own living?” she asked,
indignantly. “You entirely mistake me.”

“Very well. Have it your own way. I will not
urge you,” he said, coldly. ‘‘Butif anything should
happen to Zo abc me that you will call on me
first for aid. I demand your promise.”

“And I give it to you.”

He rose, and took her hands in his.

“In five days I shall sail. I shall see you once
more. Ethel, be as kind to me as you can, for itis
a long time before I shall speak to you again; and
a two years Heaven only knows what may take
place.”

The anguish in his voice smote her, and she did not
repel the kiss he left on her forehead.

“You must be patient with me,” she said, faintly.
“T do not know myself.”

“Tam patient with you, and you will find me so
always. And now good-by. I shall see you next
Tuesday to say adieu.” 4

And when he was gone, Ethel went up to her
chamber and cried bitterly. She was glad he was
going, and yet, in spite of her gladness, her heart
was heavy.

On Tuesday he came, as he said he would, to take
his leave.

Reca Vanstead was out, and Ethel received him
alone.

“T have only a few moments, and there is no need
of telling you, Ethel, that Llove you entirely. And
I trust you utterly. {[ trust you just as fully as
though you loved me. You are a woman of honor,
and you will, I feel sure, never forget that you are
my aa wife.” ; :

I shall not forget,” she said, sadly.

He put his arms around her, and drew her to his
breast in a strong embrace. Pera eg es

““Good-by, my love! my life! and may Heaven
keep you! And when we meet again, I trust that

 

from your heart you can tell me that yon love me.
200d-by 1” ee. ?

6 kissed her lips, and went away without another
word,

eee

CHAPTER XI.
AN ANONYMOUS LETTER.

Mr. Belmont seemed determined to show his prefer-
ence for Miss Atherton on every occasion; and it
happened that when Mrs. Van Deusen, one of the—
ladies of fashion, proposed giving some private —
theatricals at her aristocratic mansion, on the occa-
sion of a reception to an English nobleman, she sent
to Mr, Belmont, who was a friend of hers, and had
more than once assisted herin entertainments of this
kind. When she sent for him to find her a lady to
take a ene part for the evening, the manager in-
troduced his favorite. :

Mrs. Van Deusen was charmed with Ethel’s beauty
and grace, and when the evening arrived, and:every-
thing was arranged, and the curtain went up in the —
lady’s spacious parlors, and Ethel appears, radiant
in her robes of azure silk, enacting the part of a lady
of high degree, the applause was tumultuous, -

Mr. Belmont, well satisfied and beaming, stood
near Mrs. Van Deusen, and just as the curtain fell, a
note was placed in the hand of the hostess by one of
the servants.

Mrs. Van Deusen read it, and a dark flush rose to
her cheek and was visible through the rouge which
covered her tawny skin. =

She turned to Mr, Belmont in hot indignation.

“What do you mean by imposing upon me as you
have done?’ she cried, angrily. “Have you not
known me long enough to know that I will counte-—
nance none but pure women, women of good char-
acter, in my house ?” ;

Belmont read the few lines the note contained.

“(A friend begs leave to warn Mrs. Van Deusen that
the young girl from the Argentine Theater, who
plays the part of Princess Leilia at her house to-
night, isa girl of doubtful character, aud that she
has been seen by night far from frequented streets
walking with a man far above her in station. A word
to the wise is sufficient.” wa

“There, what have
manded, fiercely.
“Ttis a lie!” said the manager.

“Tt was gotten

by some envious person to injure Miss Atherton |
whose beauty has driven other women, not so highly
favored in that respect, mad with jealousy.” ea
‘‘And there have never been any suchrumors about |
you tell me that?”

her as this letter hints at? Do

asked Mrs. Van Deusen, sharply.

“Well, thatis to say, if there have been such rumors |

they were without foundation.” |

“Mr. Belmont,” cried Mrs. Van Deusen, ‘‘you are
dodging the question. This girl has been talked
about. I can read it in your hesitation.” Z

“But it was not deserved; and it was only because ~
they were jealous of her. Surely you would not let
that prejudice you.” Tigh So

“A woman who comes tomy house must be, like —
Cesar’s wife, abovesuspicion,” said Mrs. Van Deusen, |
with decision. “I have daughters of my own, and I
could not consent for a moment to bring them into
the same atmosphere with a woman of doubtful |
reputation, no matter how beautiful she may be. I
shall be obliged to ask you to take your protegee
away.” Sea

At that moment Lord Rainsford, the distinguished
guest of the evening, came to Mrs. Van Deusen and
asked a question.

“Will you please tell me, madam, the name of the
young lady who personates Princess Leilia ?”’

“Her name—her name ?” repeated Mrs. Van Deusen,
striving to recover from her indignation, and speak ©
with her usual suave placidity, ‘‘is--is—Miss Ather-
ton, is it not, Mr. Belmont?”

“Miss Ethel Atherton?’ said Mr. Belmont, thus ap-
pealed to. ‘She is a member of my troupe.”

“Ah!” said his lordship, dropping into conversa-
tion with the manager, “in the theatrical business? |
“Well, she is beautiful enough to make the fortune of
any manager.”

“She is, indeed, a very lovely girl,” said Belmont,
with enthusiasm, ‘and our country is noted for fine
women,” ia et a Saad

“I shall begin to believe it,” said Rainsford, gal-
lantly, ‘if this Miss Atherton is a specimen. I won-
der if you would introduce me.” :

“Mr. Belmont is about to take Miss Atherton —
away,” said Mrs. Van Deusen, speaking with cold —
precision, ‘‘and it is my duty to inform your lord- —
ship that she is not the proper person to be presented _
to any of my guests.” Ri tee

The manager flushed red with anger. z

“Come now, Mrs. Van Deusen, this is carrying the
matter a little too far. I know of a certainty that
there is no purer young girlin this house than Miss
Atherton.” se eee

“Sir, you forget that J am here. daughters are
here, and a score of the fairest
this city are here,” returned Mrs. Van Deusen, with
indignatiou. He ry ae fen
tg am pe es of a oot Mr. Belmont, a
am surprised at you, madam, fi aying any atten-
lion to that meanest cf ‘oll tate Wikies an anony-
mous letter. And I will take Miss Atherton ouf of —
your house at once.” | oe ee

He swept away, and in a few words made Ethel to.
understand that the play was over for the evening,
and though greatly surprised the young girl, who
knew little of the ways of fashionable women, made
a way to the dressing-room. :

_ Mrs.
ladies. Ethel heard Mrs. Van Deusensay: | Pe:

“It will make such a scandal, if there is any truth —
in it, and I
dare deny it. And there are so many of these crea-_
tures who trust to their pretty faces to get them the
entree of our best houses. ButI never tolerate any-
thing of the kind ” ; ; RIS:

“She has a lovely face,” replied the companion of
the hostess. ‘I should never have suspected from
her looks that she was anything but a well-disposed
young girl But, then, one can never judge by looks.
Hush! here she comes.” :

And the ladies hastily left the room, as if they
feared contamination. :

Ethel had heard their words, but only dimly did
she comprehend them. Yet she was conscious that
something had occurred in which she was concerned.
Her cheeks flushed, her hands trembled and grew
cold, and it was with diffieulty that she could fasten
her wraps. _

Mr. Belmont met her at the door, and drew her
hand within his arm, and led her down to the car-

riage.

When the door was closed on them, Ethel said:

“Itis no use to try to put me off, Mr. Belmont.
Something has occurred which has obliged you to
bring me away. What is it?’ ;

“My dear girl.” said Belmont, fidgeting uneasily,
‘no man ever yet lived who could account for the
whims of a fashionable woman. Mrs. Van Deusen —
has taken it into her head that—that—hang me if T
know what she as taken into her head! I wouldn’t
trouble myself about it, my dear.”

“You may as well tell me,” said Ethel, calmly; “I
must know. Is it the old story which Mademoiselle
Euphrosyne set afloat?” ‘

“Yes, itis the old story. Confound that girl! I.
always knew that she was a bad lot, but I did not
think she would carry her deviltry so far. Well,
well, ajealous, envious woman will not hesitate at
anything!’ ; ed

thel was silent for a little while; then she said:

“T think that the best thing I can do will be to go
away, and not subject you to further annoyance on
my account. I am quite innocent of any evil intent,
but circumstances are against me. I had best leave
New York.” é

“You willdo no such thing,” said the manager,
warmly. “You carry the stamp of your innocence
on your face, and no one who sees you cau doubt
your —. The Earl of Rainsford wished to be pre-
sented to you this evening. And I venture to say that
he will seek another opportunity to know you.”

“And if he does, you must manage to save me from
being presented to him,” said Ethel, decidedly,
“since it seems that a woman in my situation cannot
know any man without being subjected to slander
and insult, Oh, what a world this is! And a year

>

ago I knew so little of it, and now I amlearning so {|

fast!”

Ethel cried herself to sleep that night, and Mrs.
Vanstead noticed her heavy eyes next morning, and
won from her the history of the preceding evening. ~

“Do not lay it to heart, dear,” she said, kissing the
young girl’s forehead, as she put her motherly arms ©
around her. ‘So long as the world endures there
will be envy and ousy. And there are j le
among us 80 ignorant, aud so narréw-minded, that
they look upon every one connected with a theater as
necessarily depraved. When society is educated up
to the truth that one’s profession does not make the
man, but that the integrity inherent in:his nature
molds him, regardless of associations, then these
bigoted aristocrats will know that because a woman
is an actress it is no reason why she should not
among the noblest and purest of her sex.”

“But it isso cruel to believe such things of one
who is innocent,” said Ethel, drying her eyes. ;

“There is a great deal of injustice in the world, my —
dear girl, and as you grow older it will not- hurt you ~
so keenly to be misjudged and misunderstood. You
will take it quite as a matter of course. And per-
haps, in due time, you will learn, as I have, to laugh
at it and give it no thought.” : . ;

As Mr. Belmont had prophesied, the Earl of Rains- |
ford called upon the manager of the Argentine, and —
begged to be presented to Miss Atherton. ;

She reminded him very strongly, he said, of a lady
he once Knew in England, but he was not disposed to
be communicative upon the subject, and Mr. Belmont |
told him that Miss Atherton positively declined
making any acquaintances. r : 7

The earl pleaded to be made an exception, but |
Belmont was firm, and he was fain to depart disap-

pointed. :
The Earl of Rainsford was a handsome, middle- —
aged man, with an air of sadness and mystery about
him well calculated to interest the fancy of suscep-—
tible young ladies, and his title and hissgreat Wwenith
made him a most desirable man to know. aS ee
But his stay in New York was limited to a very few

 

 

you to say to that?’ she de- | |

My ;
aa purest girlsin |

an Deusen was there, and with hertwo other | _

feel sure that there is. Belmont didnot |

be |

4

ae

+