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OL- - a Yeah No. 93 Willimn Street. New York. Five Cents-

 

IIE FLUNG HIMSELF DOWN ON THE FERN BESIDE HER.

A   . {lay a year ago the 01d master passed away—a

, death than. a birth today—and to my Way 0’

thinking, this vievuwill blring, atiorrow thnft rtafie

’ never could. a , we] , it s 9 way 0 i e

or, MAY LANGLEY—EMA” MARRIAGE' world—sorrow and joy, jov and sorrow; and
BY MRS. 019012014 NA DICKENs, th ‘ *wo are mar akin to each other.”

———— " My word, grannv, how you do g9 on! There

CHAPTER I. might be some sense in what you say if ’twas some

WHAT WAS THE MYSTERY. poor person’s child; but this balms iieii‘vss to Nor-

“AY, y 011 may think therP’S joy up at tho mantonmnd goodness knqws whathesules. She’ll

Hall to-day, but it’s nearer like a curse. This find pleasure euoughin this world, I‘ll be bound.”

 

 

9 A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

There was something of regret and discon-
tent in the girl‘s voice, and involuntarily asigh
escaped her as she bent her head lower over
her work.

She had been turning the ribbon on a straw
but which had seen some wear, endeavoring,
with a good deal of ingenuity, to hide the parts
which the sun had faded; but, try as she would,
she could not arrange it to her satisfaction.

Impatiently tossing the but aside, she rose
and stood with her folded arms resting on the
window-sill, gazing out thoughtfully through
the open casement over the beautiful grounds,
which stretched before her almost as fur as the
eye could reach.

The old woman watched her fora moment
or two in silence; then she too sighed. Going
up to the young girl, she laid her withered,
work-worn hand gently on the soft, rounded
shoulder.

“I know what’s in your heart, Bess, my
girl; I can read your thoughts just as plain
as___”

Innocent as the words were, they made her
granddaughter start nervously, and look with
anxious inquiry into her face.

“What d’you mean?” she asked, quickly.

“Only this, child; that you’ve no cause to
envy that poor babe up yonder. it‘ll have its
share of trouble like the 1'th of us. ’Tisn’t
money that brings happiness.”

“I’d like to have the chance to try, that’s
all!” rejoined Bess, with a short laugh. “Why
should some folks have all they want, and more
besides, when we’ve got so little. ’Tisn’t right,
that‘s what I say—’tisn’c right!”

“Hush, girl, husz You’ve no right to say
that. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Langley we
might have been turned away from the lodge,
and goodness only knows where we’d have
gone then. It’s not every one coming toa
property would have been so willing to have
kept on an old servant. No, no; he’s a good
master, and we ought to be grateful. Poor gen-
tleman, he don’t seem to be happy, for all his
riches. I never sawa man more cast down
and doleful like.”

“Oh, he’s been anxious about his wife, I
‘ fancy, that‘s all, Granny. You’ll see he will
be bright enough now the baby is come.”

“ That’s as it may be. I've a word I could
say about it if I’d a mind to,” mumbled the
old woman, oracularly, as she turned away
from the window and resumed her seat in the
chimney corner.

“ You do not mean that you’ve found out
anything, Gran ?” exclaimed her granddaughter,
excitedly. ' “They’re always asking me about
the Hall when I go down to the village; and
they’ve got hold of some queer stories about
the family, I can tell you. It’s only twice in
the whole six months they’ve been here that

 

Mr. Langley has been outside the gates. Mrs.
Bond. of the post-office, told me that nota single
invitation have they accepted, though all the
best families round have asked them to their
houses, and—”

“Mrs. Bond is a sight too fond of talking!”
interrupted the grandmother. “I’ll have to
stop your going to the village, if you waste
your time listening to such idle gossip us that.”

“But, granny, you owned that you knew
something yourself.”

“ Ay, ay; I could speak it I would, no fear.
A likely thing, though, that I’d be tellingr all I
know to a giddy young thing like you! Why,
it would be in every one’s month before the
end of the week!”

“No, indeed, Gran, not if I promise.
keep a secret as well as any one.”

“ And you’ll never go and chat about it?”

“No, never; as sure as I am here.”

“ Well, let me see. ’Twas yesterday evening,
just about this time, I was standing by the
garden—gate— But there, I ought not to speak,
after all, for it wasn’t meant for my ears.
Least said’s soonest mended."

“Indeed, Granny, but you must speak now;
you said you would if I'd promise not to tell,”
Bess said, coaxingly. “You were standing by
the garden-gate, you said.”

“ Yes,” went on the old woman slowly, “by
the garden—gate, when who should come walk-
ing down the foot-path which runs by the
drive but the master, his eyes on the ground.
as usual, and his arms folded over his chest. I
made so bold as to wish him good-evening; and
he came close up to the railings, and stood
speaking to me a while about my roses. They.
’re as fine as any up at the Hall; and he couldn’t
but own as much, though I says it as
shouldn’t. ”

“ Yes—yes, I know all that, Gran! But
go on. I don’t see what the roses has got to
do with it.”

“ Then I do, my girl, for if it hadn’t been for
the roses he wouldn’t have stopped.  don’t
know where I was, with you interrupting me
like that!”

“ You’d got no further than the gardentgate,"
Bess said slyly. ,

" Ah, to be sure! and the master was Speak-
ing to me about my roses. But I could See it
wasn’t of them he was thinking “5,8”; and
small blame to him too, for the carriage had
but just gone down to fetch the doctor. No
doubt he’d walked as tar as the lodge to Wait
for it to come back, being too nervous like to
stop in the house. You see. nobOdy ever
thought that the mistress would have been
taken ill so soon, and they were all In aflne
flurry up at the Hall. .

“Well, I’d heard that from Mary Brown,
who’d been sewing there; so I says to him that,

I can

 

A SCATHING- ORDEAL.

  

8

 

 

I hoped all would go well with his lady, and
that before morning dawned he might be father
to a fine son and heir.

“ No sooner were the words out of my mouth
than I saw I’d said something as I’d better
have left Unsaid, for he turned just as white as
white could be; and a. great groan came from
him, for all the world as if he was in some
mighty pain. Then, when he saw me look
frightened—us well I might—he tried to smile,
and said as ’twas nothing—only a sudden
spasm, us took him sometimes. I might have
thought he was speaking the truth if I’d heard
no more; but that wasn’t all.

“Just then the carriage came dashing up, and
I took a step or two forward before I saw you’d
gone already to open the gates. I stayed where
I was. and turned to look at the master. He
was standing with his two arms stretched up-
ward, his head thrown back. and his eyes cest
up at the sky, with a. look in them I shall never
forget to my dying day.

“Oh, Bess! talk of rich folks being happy,
and having all they want! That wretched look
of misery on his white face told something dif-
ferent to all that! You see, he thought I’d left
him, and he was alone. It seemed like as it
the words were forced from him.

“ ' Oh, Heaven!’ he cried, and his voice was
deep and shaking; ‘if my poor child lives, have
mercy on it! Let not the awful curse fell upon
its innocent head! mine was the sin; let mine
alone he the punishment!’

“ There! these was his very wordsl They’ve
been ringing in my ears ever since. I can’t,
somehow, get them out of my head.”

“ My goodness, Gran! it sounds awful! What.
ever can he have done, and who can have
cursed him? I’d give something to get at the
bottom of it all. I—I wonder if Mr. Dexter
knows. He‘s known the master all his life.
They were boys together; he told me so.

“ He told you so, did he!" inquired her grand-
mother, sharply. “ I thought he was a great
deal too proud and stuck-up to talk to the likes
of us. There’s the difference between true
gentlefolks and those that are not. One would
think, to see Abel Dexter, with his fine clothes
and his diamond ring, and to hear the way he
speaks, that he was the master, instead of only
a servant."

“ A servant, indeed, Gran! He isn’t that,
I’m sure. He’s the secretary, so there!”

The girl’s cheeks flushed, and she spoke den.
autly and with unnecessary warmth.

“Secretary, he calls himself, does he?" re-
torted the old woman, angrily. “Then who’s
the valet, I’d like to kn0wl It’s he who waits
on the master; none else. And it‘s the first

time that ever I heard or the secretary doing
valet’s work.
“My husband was ten years coachman in

 

the old squire’s family, so I should know some-
thing of servant’s duties! Secretary, indeed!
Valet’s not flue sounding enough for him, I
suppose! If I was the master I'd just pack him
out of the house —him and his old mother, bug
and baggage! They’ll find it hard work to get
a decent servant to stop at the ball so long as
she’s housekeeper! Bah! I hate the very sight
of the couple of them!

mTwas but yesterday, as I was telling you,
that I went up to the house, thinking that I
might be of use, for I’d heard there was no
nurse come. I was shown into Mrs. Dexter’s
own room—ju~t as fine as any lady‘s drawing-
room, if you please. She never so much as
asked me to be seated; but looks down at me as
I might be the dirt beneath her feet.

“'I shall attend on Mrs. Langley myself,’
says she, us proud and haughty as a queen.
‘If we’d wanted other help we should have
Sent to the city, but Mrs. Langley has a great
dislike to strangers.’

“ So that was all I got for my puinsl Then
she sends an impudvnt hussy of a servant to
the door with me, as it she thought I might luy
.mg hands on something if I wasn’t watched.
I never thought that the time would ever come
when I should be hustled out of the house like
that. And to think of the times, many and
oft, that my dear lady that’s gone has had me
into her own parlor and poured me out a glass
of wine with her own hands! Ah, Well! those
days are gone, and they’ll never come back
again—more’s the pity! The world's all wrong
somehow nowadays; or, maybe, I’ve grown too
old for it!”

She shook her head dolefully, and passed her
hand wearin across her brow.

It was not often that Bess suflered her
grandmother to ramble on so long without an.
interruption. The old woman, wondering at
her unusual silence, looked up presently, and
found that the little kitchm had no other oc-
cupant than herself. Bess’s quick ear had
caught the sound of wheels on the road outside,
and she had hastened out to open the gates.

“The doctor again!” murmured the girl to
herself, as she stepde aside and stood \- hen it
had passed, with one hand shading her eyes
looking after the carriage, which was being
driven rapidly toward the house. “It’s not
two hours since he was here; I wonder if an y-
thing’s amiss.”

She remained for several minutes in the
same position, her pretty brows puckered into
a thoughtful frown, her red lips pressed tightly
together.

The Hall possessed a. new interest for her
after what her grandmother had said. She
was already burning with curiosity respecting
the mysterious words which Mr. Langley had

 

used. To her ignorant and superstitious mind.

  

  

 

4 A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

there was something positively fascinating in,

the very word “ curse.”
Only two days ago Mrs. Bond had said, “I

wonder, Bess, you know so little about the,

family, living as you do under their very noses
so to say.” ,

This remark recurred to her now.

“I’ll have to find it all out one of these
days,” she decided.

It would be hard if, with such chances as
she had, she could not manage to discover
something of what went on at the old house.

Before her the long white drive wound in
and out beneath two somber rows of giant
evergreens, and beyond, on a grassy terrace,
rose the massive red-brick building, its win-
doWs gleaming with a lurid light from between
the twisted branches‘as they reflected the rays
of the setting sun.

In Bess’s vivid imagination, it seemed almost
as if the Hall Were ablaze, burning and glow-
ing with some awful and supernatural fire that
gave forth neither sound nor smoke.

“ Granny,” she said to the old woman, who
just then appeared in the doorway, “the
house looks strange this evening, doesn't it?”

“Tut, tut, girll—what have you got in your
head now? There’s nothing different to what
I’ve seen almost every evening at sunset.
Your brains are wool‘gachering, my lass.
Come, don’t stand there idling; it’s time the
supper was made ready. Why, I d-rclarv,
here's Will Bates! What's he been doing up
at the Hall, I wonder? This is an odd time to
be having carpentering done.

“ Good-evening to you, Will. You’ve been
working late, I see. Step in and rest a little,
my lad, and have a. bite of slipper with us.”

“Yes, do, Will,” put in Bess, pleasantly.
“There’s only bread and cheese; but such as
it is, you’re Welcome.”

She led the way into the lodge without wait-
ing for his reply, knowing well enough that he
could not withstand the smile with which her
words Wl‘l‘e accompanied.

Poor Will blushed with pleasure at her un-
usually gracions manner. Only too glad of
the chance of half an hour’s chat, he unslung
his basket of tools from his shoulder and en-
tered the kitchen.

“I suppose it’s not inside the house you’ve
been working, is it, Will?" the girl began,
cautiously, when, a. few minutes later, they
were all seated before the round table on which
the simple supper had been laid. “They'd
hardly like your hammering just now, I
fancy.” ,

“ So I should have thought too,” the young
man replied, slowly. “I asked Mr. Dexter if
thejob hadn’t better wait over a little, for I
couldn’t do the work he wanted without some
noise, and I knew the lady was ill."

 

“Then you was in the house?” queried the
old woman, no whit less curious than her
granddaughter.

“Yes, Mrs. Pearson; I’ve been putting a
new look to a door in one of the rooms of the
east wing; the old one had been wrenched
clean off. I can't think how it could he done;
it was broken right off, and some of the wood-
work along with it.”

“I cannot understand why they should be
in such a. hurry to have it mended,” Bess re-
marked, thoughtfully. “The east wing was
hardly ever used in the old Squire’s time; it’s so
old—and damp too, they sry. I remember
two years ago, when the house was full of
company, and I had gone to help in the kitch-
en, they put me to sleep there one night, for
I’d stayed late. I’d never have stopped, only
I didn’t like to go back then and wake up
grandmother. You see, I’ve always had a.
dread of that part of the house—it’s so lonely.
Nay, they say it’s haunted, too, only I didn’t
know that then. Such a dismal sort of a room
they put me in! One at the very end i of the
long corridor.”

“ That inu~t have been the same room where
I was working," Will interposed; “only I

couldn't see inside of it, for the baize inner
door was closed, all the while.”

“The baize doorl” cried the girl, excitedly;
“there was no haize door when I was there.
D‘you mean to say there are two doors?”

“To be sure. There is nothing very strange
in that, Bess; it’s common enough to have two
doors. If people don’t want to hear the noise
of the house, or are afraid of droughts, there‘s
nothing better.”

But Bess was not to be satisfied with any
such simple explanation. She felt certain that
there must be some sinister in tire in those
two doors, on the outer one of which so strum),r
a look was required. Her curiosity was raised
to such a. pitch, that for hours that night she
felt too excited to retire to rest, and sat, in-
stead, before the small window in her room,
unable to withdraw her eyes from the Hall,
which looked more weird than ever in the
ghostly, uncertain moonlight.

 

CHAPTER II.
A BATTLE rouonr AND won.

" WILL it live, doctor?”

The speaker, but little more than a. child her-
self, partly raised her head, with its wealth of
dark silky curls, from the frillcd pillow, and
eagerly, almost wildly, gazed into the doctor’s
face as he parted the delicate lace curtains of a.
swan-shaped cot at the further end or the room,
and bent wiLh grave solicitude over its tiny oc-

cupant

A SCATHING ORDEAL. 5

 

“ Livet—yes, I trust so.”

There was more severity than hopefulncss in
his voice; and his face, usually so kind and
sympathetic, assumed its very sternest aspect.
Ho let the filmy curtains fall back to their
place, and, crossing the room, sat down near
the bed.

“ Mrs. Langley, I will not disguise from you
the real ftU‘tS ot the Case. I told you this
morning how very inipoitant it was that you
should nurse your baby yourself."

He paused for a moment, apparently to listen
to the feeble wailing which came from the
child, but in reality to give his patient time to
recover herself; for his practiced eye had been
quick to detect the feverish flush which rushed
to her face, and the half-frightened, hnlf—plcad—
ing look which came into the soft brown eyes.

" I thought, as I say, thut it was impnrtant
this morning; this evmxing I consider it to be
absolutely necessary, if you would save your
child’s life.”

She made no reply, but raising her two
small white hands, covered her face vlith them.

He fancied she was wavering—deliberating;
and to add force to his Words, he fetched the
baby and laid it gently by her. side, thinking
the sight of it would speak more eloquently
than he could.

She did not discover what he had done, till
a slight cry cl0se to her made her start and
look down at it.

There was no doubting the expression in her
eyes then. They distended unnuturally with
a look of horror and aversion, while the flush
that had been on her cheeks a. moment before,
faded away, leavmg them of a wax-like pallor.

“ Take it away 1" she cried, seii'cely above a.
whisper, her voice dry and hoarse, though
each word was terribly distinct. “ Take it
awnyl I—I cannot look at it!”

The good doctor hastened to comply with
her request. To tell the truth, he was not a
little startled. Mrs. Langley was nervous and
excitable—ho knew that; but there was some-
thing more in all this than mere nervousness
and excitability. In all the course of his ex-
perience he had never had so dilficult a case to
deal with. This was the first time, thank
Heaven—and he hoped it might be the last.—
that he had ever seen such a look on the face
of any mother at such a time.

Horrible as the idea was, it seemed that Mrs.
Langley was actually seized with a. positive
aversion to her own child. ,

Replacing the baby in its cradle, he went to
the window, and stood there looking out. with
his hands clasped behind his back, not. know.
in: exactly what to do next. '

There was silence in the room for nearly five
minutes; then a voice canto from the bed—a.
pleading voice now, plaintive and patient.

“Doctor—Doctor Mellor!
very angry with me!”

He went to her at once, and smiled down at
her rcassuriugly.

The fawn-like eyes were full of tears, the
baby mouth quivu'ii'g with emotion. After
all, she was such a child, it was impossible to
be angry with her. He took the snmll hand
so shyly extended to him, and resumed his
seat by the bed. ’

“It is such a pity, my denr,”——-the word es—
caped him unuonsciously—“ such n great pity
that you excite yourself in this way.”

“ l—I can’t help it, doctor; 1 can’t, in-
deed!” she replied, with an 11» slei'ical little sol).

“ Well, well, never mind that now.” He
patted the trembling fingers sottly. “I do
wi~h you had some relation—some lady friend
who could come and talk to you instead 01' me.
lam a rough old l'eJow. I know, and I don’t
say things always as I ought; still, you must
know that when I urge a thing as I urge this,
it is because 1 believe—because I know it is to
be for the best."

“ Yes, I know.” she sighed, u narily; but still
she showed no sign of relcnting.

“ How do you like your nuisei” he inquired,
abruptly.

She glanced nervously round the room be-
fore rcplying, and her voice lowered.

“ Pretty well—that is, not very much, I
think. She is the housekeeper, you know, but
she understands nursing very well.”

“Ah, yes, I dare say,” Doctor Mi-llor snid,
doubtiully; “still, I should have preferred a.
regular nurse. It is not too lute for me. to
have one down from the city now if you_wish
it.”

“Oh, no; please do not suggest such a thing,”
she hastened to say. "Mrs. Dexter would not
like it."

“As you please, of course,” rejoined the
doctor; “ but I think your recovery would be
more rapid with a more ex; (’l'lEiICL‘Il person.”

She looked a'. little blank at this, and he was
quick to seize his advantage.

“It has just occnired to me that you might
perhaps like my wife to come and see you
sometimes. She has had a large family of her
own, so should know something of these mut-
ters; and she is so bright and cheerful— But,
bless my soull here am I forgetting all my
other patients. I must be oil? at once.”

Before she had time to raise any objections
—bet'0re she (‘Uultl say one word evon against
his proposition—ho had left the room, with a
hurried “Good-evening to you,” and was half-
way down the stairs, chuckling to himself con-
tentedly over this clever diplomatic move.

“ If any’ one can bring her to her senses and
get her to do what is right, it is Mary,” be

Please don’t be

 

, thought.

 

 

O A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

Doctor Mellor had unbounded faith in his
wife, and that faith seldom proved to be mis-
placad.

“So he’s gone at last, is he?” said Mrs. Dex-
ter, coming into the room with that noiseless,
cat-like step which some people persist in
adopting in a sick—room, and which is so irri-
tating to an invalid. “He thought he would
be able to talk you over if he Saw you alone, I
dare say. A likely thing! Did he think I had
been persuading you not to nurse the child. I
wonder? Really, I should like to know what
is goingr to happen next!"

" You did say the baby would get on very
well with the bottle,” Mrs. Langley ventured
to say.

“‘And so it would, too: it’s only Doctor Me!-
lnr’s old'fashioned notions. Lor’, l’ve siren
children twice as weak and sickly-looking as
this grow to be fine and hearty on the bottle;
you will see how it will thrive, and—”

“Hush! Oh, please, hush!" cried the poor
little mother, closing her eyes and turning her
face restlessly on the pillow, while great tears
began to force their way, one by one, through
the long. dusky lashes. “ IE only I could have
died—I and baby! If only we could have died!”

“And, indeed, it would be a. mercy if the
child was taken, at any rate,” said Mrs. Dex-
ter, in no way moved by the infinite pathos of
the Words, wrung as they were out of her very
misery.

“You have no right to say that," Mrs. Lung-
ley rejoined, excitedly, hardly knowing what
it was she said. “ How dare you say it would
be a mercy if my child were to die? Oh, baby,
baby, how proud I thought I should have been
of you! How happy I was, making your tiny
clothes! How I used to think of you and
dream of you, and ..ever, never tire of think-
ing of you! And now—and now-—”

Her voice was choked with sobs; she could
say no more.

Mrs. Dexte was not utterly heartless; she
did what she could to soothe her mistress. She
held a coollng draught to her lips, and smooth-
ed away the damp lock of hair from the
tear-stained cheeks.

Before long the poor girl, quite worn out and
exhausted, fell into a heavy, dre'imless sleep,
from which she did not awaken for nearly an
hour.

When at length she awoke she did not im-
mediately open her eyes. Mrs. Dexter would
be worrying her to take. something perhaps, as
soon as she knew she no longer Slopt. So she
lay there with eyes clased yet a little longer.

Gradually she became aware that there was
a. scent of reses in the air, and that a. soft,
cooling breeze was being waited across her
face. How refreshing it was! She could al-
most fancy she was in her favorite seat by the
oriel window of her own boudoir, with the

 

great creamy Gloire—de-Dijon roses climb-
ing round the carved stone framework near
her and nodding their dewy heads in the balmy
summer breeze.

The white lids lifted languidly only a. little
way. From beneath the partly-lowered lashes
she could see the little table which stood be—
side the bed. The roses were there in a vase
of Water, and near them were some green
and purple grapes.

Who had placed them there? Not Mrs.
Dexter, surely; she was not given to such lit-
tle attentions. Had Marmaduke, her husband,
brought them while she slept?

The thought brought the color to her cheeks,
and a deep sigh escaped her, while at the same
time she looked up and met the glance of a
pair of kindly gray eyes.

A lady was seated near her; not with her
bonnet and shawl on; Mrs. Mellor knew better
than that. She wore a gown of some soft
grey material, with a white handkerchief
crossed over her chest; her silvery hair was
smoothed away beneath a snowy cap. She
looked as much at home as if she had been
there fore. week. A piece of work of some
kind was on her lap; but just now she was not
sewing, for she held a large fan in one hand,
with which she gently fanned the invalid. I

“You have had a nice sleep. my dear. It
has done you good, I see,” she said, with a smile.

Such a soft, sweet smile! A feeling of
peacefulness and security stole over Mrs. Lang-
ley as her eyes rested on the kind, sympathetic
l’ace.

“Who are you?” she asked, Wonderiugly,
putting out her hand and letting her fingers
touch those of the lady, as it' she hardly be-
lieved in her reality. “ How is it Mrs. Dexter
lot you come to me 9”

“I don’t think there was any question of
‘letting,’ my dear. My husband sent me to
sit with you‘ for an hour or so, and dociors'
orders must be obeyed, you know.”

“Ah, yes! And you are Mrs. Mellor. I
remember it all now. But where is Mrs. Dex-
teri”

The nervous look returned once more, and
she glanced around anxiously.

“I asked her to see that some beef tea was
got ready for you by the time you awoke-
She has but just left the room. Shall I Call
her?”

“Oh, no; please do not.”

Mrs. Langley’s fingers closed spasmodically
over the hand. She seemed to have a. strange
dread of being left alone.

“ Who was it brought the fruit and flowers?”
she asked next. “ Was it you?”

“Indeed, no,” Mrs. Mellor replied. “We
have none halt so fine. It was your husband.
He__”

“Did he come in—in this room, I mean?"

A SCATHING ORDEAL. 7

 

She strove to speak calmly, but it was with
difficulty she could command her voice.

“No, he would not, though [ wanted him to
come and see you while you slept. He said he
would rather wait until you asked for him. He
just put the fruit and flowers into my hands,
and then went away; but he gave such a wist-
ful look at the room, I am sure he found it
hard to refuse. After you have taken your
beef tea and I have brushed your hair, you will
let him come, will you not?"

“Must I—I—I mean, yes, I suppose so; but
not just yet. By and by perhaps. ”

Mrs. Mellor feigned not to notice her agita-
tion, though she wondered at little at her
strange manner.

Mrs. Dexter came into the room soon after,
not in the best of tempers, as could be seen by
her tightly-compressed lips.

She was pushing rudely past the doctor’s
wife, when, to her surprise and mortification,
that lady, with a quiet dignity, took the tray
from her hands and proceeded to give Mrs.
Langley the beef-tea herself.

“ It seems I’m not wanted here,” she said,
impudently, with a toss of her head, not even
attempting to disguise her annoyance. “ Yet
I did think I was quite capable of attending
on Mrs. Langley without any other help.”

Mrs. Mellor was astounded at the woman’s
cool eifrontery. How could Mr. Langley suf-
fer such a person to remain near his wife?
All she said, however, was: “I am here by
my husband’s express desire.”

“I suppose he thought you would be able to
persuade her to nurse the child? You won’t
find it such an easy matter.” '

“Was it really only for that you came?”
Mrs. Langley asked, reproachfully.

“My dear, it is true that was one of my
reasons: but I should have come anyway as
soon as I heard that you were alone.”

The poor girl gave her a grateful smile. It
was so true that she was alone—more terribly
alone than her new friend could imagine; yet
she feared to accept the friendship so freely
ofiered, and for which she so longed.

For some time Mrs. Mellor sat beside her,
talking pleasantly of anything she thought
might amuseor interest her; of little bits of
harmless geseip in the neighborhood; of her
Own sons and daughters, most of them married
now and living at a distance; then, gradually,
when Mrs. Dexter had left them to go and
have her supper, she approached the all-import-

ant sub‘oct. ' '
“Tell me, my child, what the obJection is

which you hava to nursing your baby. Per-
haps I may be able to overcome it.”

“I cannot explain; you would not under-
stand. I—I think I am afraid of it!” she
added, with an hysterical little laugh whic
almost ended in a sob. .

 

“Afraid of your own childl That cannot
be. You are nervous, that is all. Such a
pretty little thing As it is too! with eyes just
like her father. Ah! you will be very proud
of her when she is a little older.”

“Eyes like Marmaduke, did you say?” cried
the mother, in sudden and unaccountable
alarm. “Then it is truel I fancied so my-
Self.”

Mrs. Mellor, though she was at a loss to un-
derstand the meaning of it, saw that the allu-
sion to the father had not been :1 happy one, so
she hastened to change the subject.

“ I think you know Mrs. Brerelonf” she said
next. “ She lives at the Grange, not far from
here."

“Very slightly,” Mrs. Langley replied, only
too glad to talk of anything else. “She and
the colonel called upon me, and I returned the
call; that is all I have even of them. She
looked ill and unhappy, I fancied.”

“Yet she is not really ill—in body, at least;
but she has a. secret sorrow which preys upon
her mind. I should like to tell you about it if
you will let me.

“Six years ago she had a little son. Like
you, she was greatly averse to nursing him her-
self. She was a. beautiful woman then,
thoughyou would hardly think it to see her
now, and very fond of society. She was un-
willing to deny herself any pleasure even for
her child's sake. My husband said all he could
to persuade her, but in vain. She fancied he
exaggerated when he told her the boy’s life de-
pended upon it, and would listen to neither him
nor her husband.

“My dear, she was terribly punished. The
poor baby grew weaker and more feeble every
day. When it was too late, she would have
given all she had to save him. Day after day
she would it with the child on her lap. her
tearless eyes fixed. with an expression of hope-
less egony, on the little wasted face. Ah, how
she must have hated thOSe foolish vanities and
pleasures for which she had sacrificed him! To
make her misery the greater, she had to endure
her husband’s well-merited, though silent re-
pronch. He never accused her in words, but
there was something in his very silence which
must have been doubly hard for her to bear.

“ Well, the end came all too soon. They
thought she would have gone mad when the
child died, and in their fright they sent for me.
It was dreadful to hear her self-accumtions and
to be able to offer her no consolation. I went
up to her, and endeavored to take her in my
arms, but she put out her hands, as if to keep
me from her, crying out wildly, ‘ Do not touch
me! You would not if you knew! I am a
murderess; I have killed my own childi’

“ Oh, my dear, if you had heard her then; it
you could know what her life has been since.

 

   

8

A SCATHING ORDEAL.

     

 

you would not hesitate now to do what is
right.

“The colonel is a just and good man. 1 do
not think he has spoken one unkind word to
her; indeed, I think he has been more consider-
ate to her, if possible, since; but there is a
difference. He has never been quite the same.
You see, he was so anxious for an heir—so
proud when the boy was born; and they have
had no other children.” '

She drew a deep sigh when she concluded;
then, taking up her work, went quietly on with
her sewing.

Mrs. Langley was silently weeping. There
was no word spoken by either of them for some
minutes. The poor girl was evidently fighting
a hard battle with herself.

By-and by she raised her face, all woe—begone
and tear-stained, a pitiful little smile trembling
on her lips.

Mrs. Mellor rose, and stooping, kissed her.
She understood what it meant, and knew that
she had conquered.

 

CHAPTER III.
THE SECRET on THE EAST WING.

THE Normanton estate, though not large,
was one of the most beautiful and picturesque
properties in the whole country. There was
no more romantic spot for miles around than
that portion of the grounds through which the
river wound its course. A plantation or
beeches grew on the sloping banks, and close
to the‘ edge weeping willows arched their
slender branches, and at every breath of wind
swept the shining surface of the water with
their pale green boughs.

In spring the ground was covered with violets
and wood anemones; a little later the wild hy-
acinths spread like a vast blue carpet beneath
the trees. But new summer was already far
advanced; violets, anemones and blue-bells had
all in turn disappeared, and in their place
feathery ferns grew thickly everywhere in
luxuriant profusion, only interspersed here
and there by buttercups and daisies.

Among these same ferns, half sitting, half
reclining, was Bess Pearson, the lodge-keeper’s
granddaughter. She had taken oif her hat,
for the afternoon was warm, and the little
flecks of sunlight came trembling through the
gently stirring branches of the beeches upon
her uncovered head, making her chestnut hair
glint like red gold.

She was a pretty girl—very pretty, as she

lay back there against the green fern fronds,
with the broken light and shade resting on her;
but a. look of discontent clouded her face, and
the rosy lips were pouting. Her dress was but
of coarse blue-and-white—striped calico, and
the edges of it were frayed and soiled; there
were two or three rents in the skirt, too, which

 

she had not attempted to mend—Bess hated
needlework.

The girl’s natural vanity and love of flnery
were apparent in the bunch of scarlet puppies
fastened at her neck, and the string of mock
coral beads which encircled the full and sh npely
throat.

A pace or two from her stood Abel Dexter,
leaning carelessly against a tree, smoking a
Cigar.

He was a tall, powerful-looking man, of
some thirty-five years of age, with a dark, sal-
low complexion, and hair and eyes black as
ink. At a. first glance, one might have taken
him for a gentleman. He had an easy grace
of movement, a somewhat haughty carriage of
the head, a'certain air of refinement which one
seldom sees in one of the lower orders. A closer
observer, however, would soon have detected
that his appearance alone was in his favor, for
every word and action displayed his indomit-
able pride and insolence. He acknowledged
no superiors, while to those whom be con-
sidered his inferiors he was overbearing and ex-
acting in the extreme.

Such being his character, it was not a little
surprising that he should consent to hold the
equivocal position which he did at Normanton
Hall.

Doubtless, though, Abel had his own reasons
for remaining in Mr. Langley’s household. It
is certain that both he and his mother had no
very bad time of it there, and the remunera-
tion which they received for their very meager
services must have bzen decidedly handsome.
to judge by the way Mrs. Dexter dressed, and
by the ample means which her son always
seemed to have at his disposal.

Poor, ignorant Bess thought herself a very
lucky girl when she succeeded in attracting his
attention, and it is doubtful whether hall‘ the
girls in the village would not have envied her
had they known that he had actually consented
to fall in love with her, and to tell her so, too.

But at least half the pleasure of her triumph
was spoiled by the fact that they did not know,
for he had strictly forbidden her to speak to
any one of their meetings.

It was this very subject which they had been
discussing to-day. and which had brought such
a discontented expression to the pretty face.

“ I’m sure I can’t see why you shouldn’t let
me tell folks that we’re ‘to be married one of
these days.” she said, fretfully.

“I don’t suppose you can; my dear; you
must allow me to be the best judge of that.”

He regarded her critically as he spoke, think-
ing the hightened color brought to her cheeks
by that slight ebullition of temper rather be-
coming than otherwise. He was speculating
on how she would look in a passion; he could
just imagine how those dark eyes of hers would

  

i

' A SCATHING ORDEAL. 9

 

blaze and flash; there was a want of animation
about her usually.

“Sometimes I wonder, Abel, if you ain’t
making a fool of me after all,” she said, with a
pettish impatience, watching him askance the
While from under her long lashes. “ If you
mean true, what's to prevent you making me
your wife at once? You’re rich enough. It
does seem so hard that I should have to go on
living at the lodge with Granny, and wearing
these shabby clothes, when you’re looking just
like a gentleman. She looked very much in-
clined to cry as she concluded. ‘

With a half smile, he flung himself down on
the ferns beside her, and put one arm round her
waist.

“ Now, Bess, you are unreasonable. Do you
think if I could do what I liked that I wouldn’t
marry you to-morrow?”

“I don’t know,” she rejoined, averting her
head, and turning partly away from him. “I
know well enough that I’m not half good
enough for you. There’s Jane Bond would
give her eyes for you, and Nellie James, too;
and they do say she’ll have a. fortune. How
do I know but you’ll get to like one of themin
time, and—and where will I be then? There,
I think, for I’d never try to live without
you!"

She pointed to the sluggish river, flowing
silently before them. But for a. broken twig
or a fallen leaf or two floating on its surface,
one might have thought the water stationary.

He took the outstretched hand in his, and
drawing her to him, passionately kissed the
full, pouting lips and tear-dimmed eyes.

“You little darling! Don’t you know it’s
you I love. and no one else? Listen to me; I
will tell you why I don’t want us to get mar-
ried fora year or two if it can possibly be-
avoided. You Say I am rich enough. Well,
maybe I am; but I’m not as rich as I mean to
be by along way. I mean that my wife "—
the word made Bess smile proudly, and rest her
head lovingly on his arm—“shall ride in her
carriage. There! what do you say to that?—
ride in her carriage and wear silks and satins
every day of her life, if she likes!”

“Do you mean it really, Abel—really and
truly?” the girl asked, a flush of pleasure and
excitement rushing over her face, and her eyes
sparkling with animation. “ And will I wear
rings and jewels, and lace and feathers, just
like a lady? Oh, Abel! it seems it’s all too good
to be true! How I’ve longed, and longed, and
prayed for these things! And now only to
think that one day it’ll all come true!”

“And it‘s worth waiting a bit for Bess,
isn’t it it?”

“ Yes, I suppose it is,” she replied, somewhat
dubiously, not quite so sure of this. “Abel,”
she began again, after a slight pause, “ I’d like

 

to know where all this money is coming from?”

He frowned at her words, and the arm which
still encircled her waist was withdrawn.

“You are always wanting to know some-
thing, Bess. Why cun’t you be content to
trust me without asking questions?”

“I thought, when folks were in love, they
always told each other everything?” she re-
joined. “I’m sure I tell you everything I
know!”

“Well, so do I—that is everything that is
right you should know!”

“No, you don’t, Abel; you never tell me
anything—not even what goes on at the Hall!”

“ What goes on at the Hall!” he exclaimed,
in unfeigned surprise. “ Why, how could any-
thing that takes place there possibly interest
you?” 4

“Oh, I know more about itthan you think!”
she went on, nodding her head, with an as-
sumption of sagacity and wisdom. “Folks
will talk, you know.”

“Oh, folks talk, do they? They had better
be minding their own business, I think i”

There was an ominous scowl upon his hand-
some face, and his nostrils dilated like those of
an angry animal. Bess was not looking at him
or she would hardly have continued her taunt-
ing, jesting tone.

“ You see, as you won’t tell me anything, I
just have to find out for myself, Abel. Oh,
yes; you think I know nothing about the room
with the double doors, and the strong lock
that had to ,be put on in such a hurry!”

“ What!”

He turned on her savagely, his face close to
hers, and grasped her arm with such farce that
she cried out in sudden pain and alarm.

Her frightened face recalled him to him-
self. With a. nervous laugh, be relaxed his
hold.

Bess, white and trembling, had risen to her
feet. He saw he would have some difllculty in
reassuring her.

“Whata cursed fool I am,” he thought, “to
betray myself like that! Of course, it was
that idiot of a' carpenter who spoke about
mending the lock! I might have guessed it
was impossible she could really know any-
thing."

Meanwhile, he exerted himself to his ut-
most to make friends again—no difficult matter,
after all. ‘

“And now I must tell you, I suppose, why
I was so angry,” he said, when he had seen the
color return once more to her cheeks. “ The
fact is, Mr. Langley would he awfully wild if
he thought I had told you the secret of that
room.”

“Then there is a secret?” she exclaimed,
breathlessly.

“ Yes; but it’s not such a grand secret,

 

    

10 A SCATHING ORDEAL. _

    

 

after all. You will laugh when you hear
what it is. Mr. Langley has got a couple of
foreign birds caged up there — great wild
things they are, standing nearly as high as we
do.”

“But why does he keep them there? Won’t
they die, being shut up like that?” Bess asked,
her eyes opening with astonishment.

“No; they are owls, you see -— at least,
something like owls, so they never want to go
out in the daytime. We let them out now and
again at night, and they make a fine noise
then, I can tell you.”

“But why should Mr. Langley make a se-
cret of it, Abel?"

“Oh, because ”—he hesitated a moment, at
a loss what to say—only a moment, but it was
a moment of enlightenment to Bess—“ because
if it came to the ears of the people who keep
the Zoological Gardens in Philadelphia that
there were two such valuable birds here at
Normantown, they’d be wanting to have them;
and Mr. Langley is very proud of them, and
would be sorry to lose them. You will have
to take care you say nothing about this to any
one. If you do I’ll never tell you anything
again—remember that.”

“Oh, I’ll be sure not to tell a living soull”
the girl said confidently.

' But when they had parted, and Bess was
making her way home to the lodge along the
little path which led through the wood, she
gave a little exultant laugh to herself.

“ I may be a fool,” she thonght, “ but I’m not
quite such a fool as he takes me for. A likely
thing that I’m going to believe that about the
foreign birdsl Birds, indeed l—it’s my opinion
there’s some one locked up in that room—some
one as Mr. Langley keeps a prisoner. I don’t
know as it makes much odds where the money
comes from, so long as we get it. To think
that I’ll be a lady one dayl”

She stood for awhile, her head thrown back,
her lithe young figure drawn up proudly, a
smile of rapture on her lips, and her hands
clasped together in ecstasy.

“And Abel shall never repent having chosen
me; he shall see I’ll look the lady, too. Folks
will be seeing a grand carriage go by, ever so
fast, with big black horses and silver-real sil-
ver—on the harness; and there’ll be a beauti-
ful lady inside, all in white, with a pink para-
sol, like Mrs. Langley’s; and she’ll lean back

’against the cushions, all easy and careless-like,
as if she’d been used to it all her life; and she‘ll
smile, ever so slightly, and bow like this. ” Bess,
carried away by her own thoughts, suited the
action to the word.

“And every one will say, ‘ Who is she? Who
can she bel’ And all the time it’ll be me—
Bessl”

 

Once more she laughed outright, and clapped
her hands in delight.

“You seem to be very merry,” some one
said close behind her.

At the words she started and looked round
sharply. Had she been speaking those words
aloud? She could not remember. The face of
the stranger reassured her; she showed no con-
sciousness of having overheard.

She was a lady, young and handsome, with
clear blue eyes and fair golden hair cut short
and curling like a boy’s. In that one swift
glance Bess took in everything— the plain blue
linen dress, trimmed with embroidery to match,
the simple straw hat with its bouquet of field
flowers, and the sunshade guiltless of ornament.

“ When I’ma lady,” she thought, contempt-
uously, “I’ll dress better than that."

“Can you tell me if this is the way to Nor-
manton Halle" the stranger asked, regarding
her with rather an amused expression in her
bright eyes.

“Yes, you’ll get to it in this way if you walk
straight on.” She would have said “miss” a
few weeks ago, but lately Bess had taken to
dropping such little marks of civility. “The
path will take you out of the wood and into the
drive itself. You will see the house plainly
from there.” a

With a brief “ Thank you, ” the lady passed
on.
Bess stood looking after her curiously.
“Now, I’d like to know who she is,” she
laid to herself. “I don’t believe that I’ve
(seen her about here before. And why does
the come through the wood instead of by the
road? Ah, I have it. She’s stopping at The
Grange, I suppose, with Mrs. Brereton, and
she’s crossed the river in the boat. The colonel
and his wife used to come that way, I re-
member, in the old Squire’s time. If she’s a
friend of Mrs. Langley’s, she’s the first ever
I’ve seen since they‘ve been here. I doubt
whether she’ll be made welcome. There’s not
a soul’s been at the house but Mrs. Mellor, the
doctor’s wife, since the baby was born, and
that’s nearly a month ago.”

She left the wood soon, and came out on the
broad, white carriage drive, where she paused
once more.

“Ay, there she goes,” she murmured,
“through the last gate and across the lawn.
Now she’s by the door. I wonder will they
let her in? Yes. there’s the door open, and
she’s gone in. I’ll ask Abel about her to-mor-
row; not that I’m likely to get much out of
him, though.”

Just then the big clock over the Hall stables
struck five.

“My word! who ever’d have thought ’twas
so late?” cried Bass, in consternation, “ Gram

   

 

  

A SCATHING ORDEAL.

   

1|.

 

ny’ll be angry with me for b dug ofl‘.’ most all
the afternoon like this.”

She turned her back upln the Hull. and set,
off running as last as she could in the direc-
tion of the lodge.

CHAPTER IV.
~ A F A 'r A L s T EP.

Mns. LANGLEY had not been at all strong
since her baby was born, though she had for
some days insisted that she was well enough,
and llflll left her room and come down stairs
as usual.

She looked terribly pale and thin. There
were deep hollows in the once rounded cheeks;
aid the dark eyes, unnaturally large now,
had a wistful, snurlei look in them that was
incxprissihly painful to see.

~Ducl01‘ Mellor was puzzled, and did not
know what to make of her. Many a. long
talk did he and his good old wife have about
her.

“She would be so much better if only we
could get her away from this place,” he said.
“You succeeded so well before, Mary; don’t
you think you could persuade her to go to the
sea side for a couple of months? I can’t get
her to listen to me.”

Of course Mrs. Mellor promis;d to do her
best. and the very next day she went to the
Hull and broached the subject; but this time
she was not successful. ‘

Mrs. Langley listened to all she had to say
with that listless apathy which was becoming
so natural to her, tnen refused firmly and de-
cidedly to leave Normanton even for a. week.

So Mrs. Mellor took her leave, and started
back for the village, feeling sad and dispirited,
for she had taken a great fancy to her hus-
band’s patient, and it pained and grieved her
inexpreSsibly to see the poor girl fading away,
as it were, before their very eyes.

Not far from the house she came upon Mr.
Langley, walking slowly up and down the
drive. His head Was bent, his eyes on the
ground. '

His wife had seemed unhappy enough; but
there was a. set look of misery and despair on
his face that made the old lady long to stop
and say something to comfort him.

But he never saw her—never once raised his
head, only walked on mechanically, like a man
walking in his sleep.

“What is it that is wrong with them?” she
asked herself, almost impatiently, as she passed
on. “1 dare say it is nothing more or less
than some foolish quarrel they have had, and
each is too proud to he the first to own to
being in the wrong. Oh, it makes me angry
to think that two young people should spoil
their lives in this way!”

But there was more sorrow than anger in

 

her thoughts just then, and tears were glisten-
ing; in her eyes.

No sooner did Mrs. Langley find herself
alone than she sunk down on the nearest couch,
and burying her face in tho pillows, burst mto
a. passionate flood of tears.

“Oh, why can’t they let me alonel” she
sobbed. “Why will they tempt me to have
this hateful place? Cannot they see how I am
longing to gowhow the thought that I must
stily here is killing,' me?”

She endeavored to rise, and clasped her
hands together tightly over her heart.

“The very air of this house stifli-s me. I
seem to draw in poison at every breath. What
have I done—oh, what have I done that I .
should be chosen for such a. lot as this?"

Halt-fainting, she fell back upon the iillnw,
where she lay for some time motionless, her
fore white as death, her eyes clOSed.

Had she really fainted, or u as it only sleep
that was stealing over her? She neither knmv
nor cared. Either was nqu‘xlly welcome to
her then, for it brought with it a sumo (-f rest
and peace, a. delicious unconsciousness, gradu-
ally numbing her faculties and lifting her, as
it were, out of herself.

One by one, scenes from her past life floated
before her as in a dream.

She was little May Sandinrd again, a happy,
merry, light-hvnrted child, seated in the swing,"
beneath the big pear-tree in Uncle Gregory’s
old-fashioned harden. What a dear old i urtlsn
that wus, with its high, close-clipped box
helices and many winding paths, its sweet-
swelling cnblluge roses and mignonette, and its
borders of five o‘clocks. As she swung to and
fro, the soft breeze, laden wirh the scent of
many flowers, met her, and lightly lifted the
curls'from hlr brow. “men she went back
she was almost hidden by the leaves of the
pear-tree; when she flew forward again she
could look straight over the box hedges at the
houses beyond. Ah, yes. and there was old
Patience, in her snow-white cap and apron,
standing in the doorway honeth the honey-
suckle covered porch! She was waving to her
to come in. It must be six o‘clock. Uncle
Gregory would be waiting for her to pour out
his tea.

Then that scene passed, and another ap-
peered.

It was the same house, but she was no longer
quite achild. The old pear-tree was leafless;
the garden was Covered with a. smooth while
shroud of snmv; and a few naked stalks among
the trellis-work of lhc porch were all that re~
malned of the honeysuckle, nor the summer
had long since passed, and winter was come.
Everything looked very, very dismal to May
now, for it had been decided that she must go
to school. Before the door a carriage was

  

 

12

A SCATEING- ORDEAL.

 

standing, with her trunks on Hm top. She was
in the hall, with her arms cf: sped ughtly round
Uncle Gregory‘s neck, hog; ng n in, with tears
streaming down her cheeks, not to send her

from him. She could hear his voice now as he

answered her. It ti-enibltd a. little, and there

was a suspicious moisture in his own eyes.

“ My dear, you speak as if we were parting
forever. What are six months, after all.l
They will soon fuss, and you will be home
again.”

Am] that was the last time she saw him; yet
Uncle Gregory was not dead. It was a. fate
cruellcr than death which Iarted them.

The six months passed, and she was not
going home, for Uncle Gregory was abroad,
and had written a letter full of regret and
sympathy; but the bitter truth was there,
clothed in tender, loving words. She was to
spend the holidays in scluol.

She was in the shabby, ill furnished school-
room, standing discomolutely by the window,
looking over the Wire»hlind at her more fortu-
nate school-fellows as, one by one, with laugh—
ing eyes and happy faces, they took their de-
parture.

What a real trouble that seemed to her, and
how wretched she felt at the thought that she
would be the only one left! But the door was
flung open, and her dear, true friend, Kate
Dunstable, came rushing in, waving a letter
triumphantly in her hand. It was all settled
at last; the lelter had but just come. May
was to go home with her to The Hollies. Half-
laughing, half-crying, the two lriends hurried
upstairs to pack. Soon they were being driven
rapidly toward the station.

Those had been happy holidays. What with
riding and driving, beating on the lake, and
picnic parties, the six weeks passed like a
pleasant dream. Soon she was back at the
school again. She might have fancied she had
never left it, were it not for Fred Dunstable’s
little emerald ring shining upon her hand.
That ring- troubled her. She had sufl’t red Fred
to place it on her finger; had almost promised
—not now, of course, but some day lar in the
dim future—she would be his wife, and she
was not quite sure that she loved him. But
then she liked Fred very much; not, of course,
quite so well as Uncle Gregory, nor Kate, nor
perhaps old Patience, who had been like a.
nr other to her, but next to these three, and.it
l,an been so hard to say no outright.

She was in church next, in one, of the pews
Mich belonged to the School. The organ
pouled forth, and the evening hymn began; but
the words trembled on her lips. and she scarce-
ly (lured look up from her book, for if sin did,
so sl e knew she shrnld nzret the admiring gaze
of a pair of dark, melancholy e3 es. fixed upon
her with a look of such yearning, pleading
tenderness that her romantic heart was touched.

 

A letter was placed in her hand one day;
Jane, the waitress had been bribed to deliver
it. Instinctively May knew from whom it
came. She stood deliberating, with the letter
in her hand. Should she open it. or ought she
not rather to take it at once to Miss Malcomei
No; that would perhaps get Jane into trouble.

She hesitated a moment; then slowly broke
the seal. Ah! what beautiful, poetic words it
contained! She read them again and again.
Heloved her, this handsome stranger: loved
her without having seen her more than half a.
dozen times, and without ever having ex-
changed one word with her!

Well, she had heard somewhere that love at
first sight was the truest love; but he had no
right to have written to her like that. and she
knew she ought to be very angry. or course

she was not going to answer the letter; only—
only something ought to be done to prevent
him sending her another. So she just wrote
him two lines, in her round, schoolgirl hand,
nailing him he must never attempt to do such a
thing again.

But that did not stop the letters coming;
perhaps she had almost hoped it would not.
She was getting to care for him more than she
glared own to herself. Meetings followed in
the little summer—house at the bottom of the
garden. He had to climb the orchard-wall to
gel: there, and she had to steal twenty minutes
from her study hour. 0! course it was all
very wrong-very wrong indeed; and what
she most felt was not being able to take Kate
into her confidence. But it was so delightfully
romantic, and May believed she knew what it
was really to love now.

When he asked her to be his wife, how could
she refuse? She hardly thought it strange that
he should wish the marriage to be a secret one.
Was not an elopement the natural sequence to
their romantic courtship? She would like
Uncle Gregory and Patience to have been told,
and perhaps Kate; but Kate might be indig-
nant and angry with her for her brother’s sake.

She could not bear for any one to be cross
with her. She was to write to Uncle Gregory
immediately after the marriage. He would be
sure to forgive her. He could not be angry
with her for long.

What a bright, clear morning it was when
she turned her back for the last time on the
school. Not a soul was stirring in the house.
She had kissed Kate as she slept, then silently
descended the stairs, unbarred the shutters,
opened the low French windows, and stepped
out onto the lawn, where the dewdrops glisten-
ed in the early morning sun. She was a little
frightened; her heart was a. little Sure; but
she forgot all when Marmaduke Langley took
her in his arms and thanked and blessed her
for her bravery and trust in him. ‘

It was a dismal wedding—in a moldy

A SCATHING ORDEAL.

1—.

h

 

old church somewhere in the suburbs.
No one was present but the clergyman, the
pcwopener and the verger. Not the sort of
wedding she and Kate had so often tilked or,
whure the bride would, of course, be in satin,
and lace, and orange-blossoms, and be followed
by a long train of bridemaids. Now she
stood by the altar in her old school frock of
black alpaca. What could have temptel her
to come away in that drew? It was so dread-
fully unlucky to be married in black!

A chill dread crept over her—a foreboding
of evil; the empty church struck so icy cold,
and it smelt like a vault! Sue glnncei around,
terror-stricken. If there had only been some
friend near, she would have fled. But where
could she go?—-to whom could she fly? Ah,
. no; it was too Intel The clergyman was al-
ready reading the service; she hid mechani-
cally spoken the fatal words; and Marmaduke,
withn strange, exultant look in his eyes, had
imprinted a. husband’s kiss upon her lips.

Oh, why was not Kate here to save her?—
Krite, who was so strong, so sensible! The
dump, moldy scent of the old church was in
her nostrils; Marmaduke‘s arms held her in a.
vise-like clasp from which she could not escape.
The clergyman stood passively aside—he would
not help her.

A horrible darkness was sprea ling over the
church; the distant aisles were in shadow‘;
vague, indistinct, intangible forms—doubly
awful because of their indistinctness~crept up
out of the blackness. The air was full of
them! They came nearer—nearer! Soon
they would close in round herl Already their
shroud-like, vapory garments almost touched
her! '

Her brain reeled; she could bear no more.
She made one supreme effort to release herself,
and shricked out for help.

“ Oh, Kate, save me! save me!"

With a wild cry, she opened her eyes.

Two arms were still encircling her; but they
were loving arms, holding her fondly. Was
that really Kate’s face so’near her Owni—
Kate’s dear eyes looking into hers with such ten-
der solicitude? Surely, she must be dreaming
still! I

But no; here she was in her own drawing-
room at Normanton, and it was indeed Kate's
voice which spoke to her.

“ My darling, it is I; tell me what it is that
troubles you?”

She could not reply; she could only fall,
weeping, on her friend’s neck.

J ust then the drawing-room door opened
softly, and Mrs. Dexter came in with the tea-
tray in her hands. Her step was so noiseless
that neither of them heard her enter.

She put the tray down on a. small table, and
then stood looking at them suspiciously. “ Abel
did right to send me in,” she thought.

 

“Mrs. Langley is capable of saying anything
when she is in that mood.”

“ Perhaps you Would like me to pour the ten.
out for you, nia’am, as you don’t seem very
well?” she said, blundiy.

Her mistress started at her voice. How
cruelly it recalled her t) the pl‘ESentl She
dried her eyes quickly, and endeavored to re-
gain her composure.

“No, no, thank you, Mrs. Dexter.
do it myself; I am betth now.”

“I am glad of that, ma’nm; you know the
doctor said it was very necessary you should
keep perfectly quiet, and not excite yoursol”.’

She smiled as she Spoke—not a pleasant
smile—and her eyes rested on Mrs. Langley
with a. glance that was full of meaning.

Lately, she had constituted herself a sort of
muid to Mrs. Langley. The poor girl wasany-
thing but pleased by this arrangwincnt, but she
felt herself utterly powerless to raise any oh-
jection; probably it would have made no dif-
ference if she had. The consequence was
that she was hardly ever from the woman’s
presence.

If she walked in the park, Mrs. Dexter
would be sure to follow her soon with a shawl
or asunshade. Whenever Mrs. Mellor came
to see her, Mrs. Dexterwould bring in the
afternoon tea, generally taking care to leave
the door open when she went out again. At
any moment she would come unexpectedly
into the room on some pretext, or other. There
was no denying the fact, Mrs. Langley was
spied upon—watched in her own house, and
very closely watched too.

“I don’t like that woman, May,” Kate said,
decidedly, when they Were alone nynin. “You
know I always flattered myself I was rather a
judge of character. Who is she?"

May glanced nervously toward the door be
fore she replied.

“She is the housekeeper; but she nursed me
when baby was born, and she has waited on'
me since.”

Kate had noticed the look. and wondered
at it. May seemed strangely in em: of her
servant.

“ Oh, yes, I must see your baby; is she like
you or Mr. Langley?”

“ I—I don’t know; like ’Duke, I think.” Hi r
face looked a shade paler. and it almost seemed
as if she shuddered. “ But never mind baby
now; tell me about yourself. How did you
find me out?”

“Oh, that was no very difficult matter.
Mrs. Brereton is a. sort of aunt of mine—at
least. she is u cousin of papu. When she was
staying with us in town this season she told
me you were living here quite near her. 0!
course I was instantly seized with a great wish
to come on a long visit to The Grunge, though,
as a rule, it is not a very lively house, my

I will

 

     

dear. Aunt Constance said that you denied
yourself to all visitors, and that most likely
you would not see me. But I am not like any
ordinary visitor, am 1! Say you are glad I
am here, May."

“Yes, dear, I am glad; why should I not
be?”

But there was a want of heartiness in May’s
tone, and that half-frightened 1001: came into
her eyes, which were filling with tears.

“May, what is wrong—what is it that has
changed you so? You are ill and unhappy.
Oh, my dear, can’t I help you?”

“ No one can help rue—no one l" Mrs. Lang—
ley whispered, with another quick‘ glance
toward the door. “ Hush! say no more.”

At the same time she placed her trembling
hand over her friend’s mouth, for the handle of
the door turned slightly.

It was her husband who entered this time.
He came forward with forced checrfulness as
May introduced him to her friend. and for some
time they talked on general subjects; but the
conversation flagged perceptihly, and there was
constraint in the manner of all. '

It seemed that Kate was to have no chance
of seeing May alone. She rose to take her
leave presently, feeling that the visit had
altogether not been a satisfactory one. But
she was not to be balked so ensily. She was
quite determined that she would see her again
before long, and alone too.

“What! must you be going already?” May
asked, somewhat feebly.

“Yes, dear; I promised Aunt Constance I
would be back by six. But I think you said
you had not been out all day. Why not come
with me a little way?”

“Yes, I shall like it very much,” May re-
plied, quickly.

She had half-risen from her chair; but she
sunk back again, and the words died from her
lips, for she had met her husband’s eyes fixed
on her with a look of doubt and suspicion in
them.

“He is afraid to trust me,” she thought,
bitterly; “he fears I may be tempted to say
more than I ought, He should know me
better than that. ‘ After all, what does it
matter—what does anything matter now?
Thcn aloud she added, “It looks very warm
out; I dare say it will be wiser if I stay in the
house.”

Mr. Langley understood why she so suddenly
changed her mind, and his heart smote him.

“You won’t find it too warm in the Wood,
May, it is quite cool and shady beneath the
trees,” he said, laying his hand upon the bell.
“ l will ring for your hat.”

, He Watched the two friends as they crossed
the lawn, each with an arm around the other’s
’Waist. How often he had seen them walking

A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

 
   

just in the same way a year ago in the garden
behind the school! May’s Step was more
elastic then; her cheeks had the glow of health
in them, and a smile was ever ready on her
lips. It was seldom she smiled now.

“ He turned away from the window with a.
groan; he could not bear to see her now, re-
membering what she was then. The change
was too painful, and it had been his doing.
\Vhy had he not left her in peacel—why had
he come into her life only to mar it’!

“ I wonder you should let them go off like
that alone.”

It was Mrs. Dexter who spoke; she did not
even make a pretense of civility when stran-
gers were not present. She was standing close
behind him, looking over his shoulder.

He did not resent her right to question him.

“ Why should I not?” was all he said. '

“ Why? I should think you ought to know
that best yourself. Here’s this school friend
of hers has turned up to whom she has likely
been in the habit of conflding everything.
VVhat’s to prevent her telling her all now?”

“She would not for my sake,” Mr. Langley
replied; but there was a want of confidence in
his tone.

“ Wouldn’t she?” Mrs. Dexter laughed out
loudly and coarsely. “Don’t flatter yourself
she cares for you, now that she knows the

truth; ’tisn’t in human nature she should. I

told you how it would be when you came back
that day and said you were married; didn’t I?”

“ You did,” he replied, calmly—the calm~
ness of despair. The same thought had been
haunting him for some weeks. “ But I loved
her so! I had had so little happiness in my
dreary life! Why should my life be one long
sacrifice? ,Heaven knows I would have kept
the truth from her if I could!”

“And so you sacrificed her—J’ Mrs. Dexter
began. But he looked so wretched that even
she thought it wiser to pursue the subject no
further. “What can’t be cured must be en-
dured,” she said, as she left the room. “But
I’d keep an eye on that friend of hers, if I
were you.”

 

CHAPTER V.
A FRIEND IN NEED.

“ You look tired, dear; let us rest here; it is
delightfully cool by the water.”

And Kate Dunstable sat down on the bank
of the river, almost in the same place as Bess
and Abel Dexter had chosen for their meeting
an hour or so before.

May sunk down wearily beside her, and
rested her head lovingly on her friend’s
shoulder.

“ on, Kate, it is good to be with you again I"
she sighed. “How I wish 1 could awake and
find the last twelve months had been only a
dream!”

A SCATHING O‘RDEAL. 15

 

“Then your marriage has not been a happy
one, dear!” Kate said, very gently.

She did not want to force May’s confidence:
but she thought it would be a. relief to her to
speak.

“I did not say that, Kate.
sure I did not say so!”

She looked behind her timidly, as if she
feared some one might be lurking behind the
trees.

“You did not say so, certainly; but, as a
rule, if one is happy, one would rather that
happiness were a reality than a dream.”

“ Ah, you are so clever. It is no use trying
to deceive you; and it is true, Kate, I am not
happy; I am very, very wretched!”

“ He is not cruel to you, my poor child? Do
not say that Mr. Langley is unkind to you!”

She drew the poor trembling girl nearer to
her, as if to protect her from all danger.

“Unkind!” May exclaimed. “ ’Duke unkind!
Ah, how little you know him! He has
never used one hard word to me since
the day we were married. Kate, were
you very angry, did you think very badly of

No, no; I am

me when you found I had gone away without/

,one word?"

“I was very grieved, dear, to think you
should not have taken me into your confidence;
but I think, perhaps, I can guess at the reason.
It was because of Fred, was it not?”

“Yes, partly. I thought naturally you
would have been vexed with me on his ac-
count, for I did treat him Very badly, I know
that. How he must hate and despise me now!”

Kate preferred to ignore the latter part of
her remark.

“It would have been kinder to have told
him the truth at the time,” she said. “And
it was the truth that you did not love him: I
I felt sure of it from the first. You are so
totally diSsimilar in every way. Fred is so
pructicaL—so matter-of—fact. Mr. Langley is
as romantic as yourself, I should say. Do you
know, May, I have often wondered why he,
took so much trouble to meet you secretly and
then run away with you, instead of getting
your uncle’s consent to your marriage, and
being married in an orthodox way. He is a.
gentleman, and had just inherited this property.
Mr. Sandford could hardly have objected to
him."

“ Perhaps uncle Gregory would have thought
the too young,” May stammered, “and ’Duke
wished there should be no delay; he was so
afraid something might happen that would
separate us. But oh, Kate! uncle Gregory has
been so cruel to me, so very unkind! I know
I had no right to act as I did after all his kind-
ness to me; I know it was deceitful and wicked
of me, but I fancied he loved me too‘well not
to forgive me.”

 

“ And has he not?" Kate inquired, in sur«
prise. “There must be some mistake—some
extraordinary misunderstanding somewhere.
I saw your uncle not very long ago. Let me
see—it was last winter in St. Louis; we were
all spending a few weeks there, and he was at
the same hotel. Papa knew him slightly, and
when I heard who he was, you may be sure I
was anxious to make his acquaintance for your
sake.”

The languid, apathetic expression passed
from May’s face. ,She laid her hand on her
friend’s arm and looked up eagerly into her
face.

“And did he speak. of me, Kate? 0h, tell
me all he said.”

“Yes, he did speak of you, but not until we
had got to be quite friendly, and that took
some little time. I think he took rather a
fancy to me after a little bit.

“I am sure that it was no more than his
duty to do so, considering that I never in all my
life took so much trouble to please any one. I
used to play crihbage with him of an evening
sometimes; and now and then we would walk
together around town. Oh, how tired I used
to get of that monotonous, uninteresting
stretch of pavement! And all this time he
never once mentioned your name voluntarily.

“ Well, I could stand it no longer, and we were
going away in a day or two. I was deter-
mined to make him speak of you. You see, I
had of course asked after you before, but I
saw by his manner that the subject was a pain-
ful one.”

“ Ah, yes, I understand,” May said, with 'a
sigh. “He wishes to forget me. But go on,
dear.”

“ We were sitting in one of the little glass-
houses looking out over the sea. He had been
silent for a long time. I felt sure he was
thinking of you, and Imado up my mind to
speak. Then he told me all; how you had
sent aletter to him on the day of your mar~
riage begging him to forgive you; and how he
had written back in the first burst of anger,
saying he never wished to see you nor to speak
to you again.”

“ Yes, it was a cruel letter,” May said, “and
it made we very miserable; yet I did not quite
believe he really meant what he Said. I fan-
cied he would relent in time.”

" “And so he did. He told me he regretted it
almost as soon as the letter was posted.” ‘ ‘

“Then why has he never taken any notice
of any of the letters I have written' to him
since?”

“What! did you then really write to him
again?" Kate cried, excitedly. “He never
heard from you but that once; he told me so.
He fancied that you could not forgive him for
the harsh words he used in that first note. Aud.

 

 

1‘ ‘ A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

though he has posted many and many a letter
to you since, he had no reply to one. He be-
lieved you had quite ceased to love him.”

“ I can’t understand it all,” said May, in an
awe-stricken tone. “ Some one must have in
tercepted the letters. It must be—”

She paused abruptly, fearing to say more.

“ After all,” she added, thoughtfully, “it is
far better Uncle Gregory should not come here.
Yes; it could do no good. But I should like to
send him just one line to say that I shall never
forget him—that I love him as Ialways have—
no, more; for I am more in need of love and
sympathy than ever I was before. Kate, I
may tell you this much. There is a wretched
secret in my husband’s life; a fearful secret,
which I may never breathe to living soul.
’Duke would have kept it from me if he could;
for eleven months he succeeded; but just be-
fore my baby was born, I found it out quite
by accident.”

. She shuddered as the recollection returned to
her, and covered her face with her hands.

“ And so you think it is your husband who
has kept back your letters, and who wishes you
to be entirely separaled from your friends and
relations, lest they. too, should discover it!”

"No; it is not ’Duke’s doing—at least, not
entirely. I think it must be Mrs. Dexter or
her son—perhaps both. Oh, Kate, how I hate
them! I wonder if it is very wicked to hate
people as I hate them? You have not seen
Dexter yet. He is ’Duke’s valet, and I think I
detest him more than his mother. You cannot
think how insolent he is at times.”

“ Then why does Mr. Langley keep him?”
inquired Kate, bewildered. “Why does he
not send him away?” .

“ Because—oh, cannot you understand?—
because he dare not!”

The words were scarcely uttered, when the
ferns behind them were parted, and Dexter
himself came leisurely forward, a fishing.
basket slung across his shoulder, and a fishing-
rod in his hand.

“Excuse me interrupting you, ma’am, but
Mr. Langley told me, if I happened to come
across you, to say he hoped you wouldn’t stop
out too long, for the dew will soon be rising.”

There was a gleam of malice in his black
eyes, which made both girls feel certain he had
overheard, at any rate, part of their conver-
sation; how much, it was impossible to say.

May trembled with apprehension; but Kate
rose and regarded him defiantly. For a mo-
ment or two they stood looking at each other,
distrust on the lacs of both. Kate’s eyes were
lhe first to waver and fall, for an expression
of bold, undisguised admiration had come into
his.

Such a look would have been an insult from
from any one;-but from a man in his position—
; servanti—it made her wish she were a man

 

that she might strike him. A hot flush of in-
dignation spread up to the roots of her fair
hair. Perhaps be guessed something of her
feelings; but, if such were the case, it did not
appear to affect him in the very smallest de-
gree. Kate fancied she heard him laugh softly
to himself as he turned upon his heel, and
moved off to where a turn in the river hid him
from their sight.

“ I am afraid you must go, dear," she said
to May. “It is not safe for us to talk here;
and if you remain longer, we shall be sus-
pected. You are right about that man; he
looks dangerous, and I mistrust him entirely.”

“But we shall meet again—I shall see you
again before long?” May pleaded.

“Yes; but I must think it all over and ar-
range something. In the mean time, write
your letter to your uncle. Stay; you see that
fallen willow, a little lower down, close to the
water, not very far from where my boat is
moored? There is a hollow in the trunk. If
you can manage to get away unperceived to-
morrow morning, come here early and place
the letter there. I will go and fetch it some
time in the day, and it shall be posted the same
evening.”

“Dear Kate, you are a true friend! How I

wish I could .tell you all; but I dare not, for the
secret is not my own.”
_ “ Yes—yes, I quite understand; do not let
that trouble you. Poor little Mayl I would
give a great deal to be able to help you—to
make you look a little more like what you used
to be in the old days. And now good-by. We
shall soon meet again, never fear.”

Kate stood looking after her until she had
reached the little path leading to the drive;
then, with a sigh, she turned and walked quick-
ly to where the boat Was fastened.

Not a dozen yards from it stood Abel Dexter
fishing.

Of course there was nothing against his be-
ing there. He had more right there than she
had.

Yet Kate felt angry; she believed he had
chosen that spot only because it was there she
must cross the river.

Turning her back upon him, she hurriedly
began trying to unloosen the knots in the rope
which secured the boat to the trunk of a tree.
The old proverb of “more haste, less speed,”
was never truer than then; for the more she
pulled and tugged away at the cord the tighter
it became. Surely she never tied it so firmly
as this herself!

Abel laid down his fishing-rod and came
toward her. She heard his step approaching.
What would she not have given then for a.
knife? Sinking on her knees on the damp
ground, she tried to loosen the stubborn knots
with her teeth. Not a dignified attitude for a
young lady; but Kate was desperate.

JD.

4b.

A SCATHING ORDEAL. i?

 

“Perhaps I can do it for you,” he said;
“ won’t you let me try?”

What did he mean by speaking to her in
that tone—almost as if he considered himself
an equal?

“No, thank you; I can manage it quite well
myself,” Kate replied, baughtily—that is, as
haughtily as she could under the circumstances.

It was not very easy to look haughty and
dignified kneeling there among the river
sedges.

Abel went leisurely back to his place and
resumed his fishing.

For ten minutes more she worked away
bravely, till her fingers ached and her teeth
felt loose. Still the knot was as tight as
ever.

A large drop of rain splashed down upon
her hand; then another. The sky had become
overcast; there was evidently going to be a
heavy storm.

Abel drew in his line and put up his fishing-
tackle. He was going away. Soon he would
pass her. If he offered to help her now she
would not refuse.

But he did not offer; he did not even glance
in her direction. She rose to her feet; there
was no help for it, she must speak to him or go
back to the Hall for assistance.

“ Do you happen to have a. knife with you?”
she asked, with assumed carelessness, as if the
idea had but just occurred to her.

He pretended not to hear her. She had to
repeat her question; then he stopped, a slight
smile of quiet amusement on his lips, infinitely
more irritating than words could have been.
Takingaknife from his pocket, he opened it
and handed it to her.

Kate took it and cut away the rope almost
savagely, fully conscious that he was watching
her with that disagreeable smile still on his
lips. Soon the boat was free, and she was
rowing vigorously across the river.

It was raining hard nhw. She was not sorry,
when she had landed and was walking quickly

toward the house, to see some one coming]

toward her with an umbrella and shawl.

When she came nearer, to her surprise she
saw it was her brother Fred. Her heart gave
a. sudden bound and then seemed to stand still,
[or she guessed at once that something must be
wrong at home and he had come to fetch her.
Her little sister had not been well when she
last heard from home; perhaps she was worse
_seriously ill!

“on, Fredl” she cried, running up to him
and clasping her hands over his arm, “what is
15.45 anything the matter?"

n My dear girl, it you get so excited be-
fore you hear a. word, how shall I be able to
tell you?”

He stooped and kissed her; then, unfolding
the shawl, wrapped it roundher.

 

“Don’t keep me in suspense, please, Fredl Is
it Dora!"

“Yes, it is Doru,"he replied, gravely. “She
has the scarlet fever. We all thought it wiser
that you should not come home; but she was
not so well lust night, and she asked for you,
and so—-”

“And so you have come for me. It was
cruel not to have told me the truth from the
first. There could be no danger for me, for I
have had the fever. Please Walk faster; we
must start immediately.”

"’ No; certainly notl” he said, decidedly.
“You are out of breath already. There is not
a train for more than an hour, and we shall
not take twenty minutes diving to the station.
You will have plenty of time to change your
wet clothes and get something to eat. Re-
member, we have a long jwurney before us,
and you will need all your strength when you
arrive.” ‘

Perhaps it was not very surprising, with so
much to think of and trouble her, that Kate
forgot all about May. It was not until she and
Fred were in the train that she remembered.
her promise about the letter.

They were just passing Normanton. The
red chimneys of the old Hull could be seen
above the trees. It was that which reminded
her.

What would poor May think of her going
away without any explanation?

Of course she could write as soon as she got
home, but it was more than doubtful whether
the letter would ever be allowed to reach the
person for whom it was intended.

In her dilemma she could think of nothing
better than asking her brother’s advice. In as
few Words as possible she told him of her inter-
view with Mrs. Langley.

She was a little surprised at the way in
which he received her news. She had never
seen Fred so excited before. She had fancied
it was possible he might care for May still, but
she did not know how much until now.

When the first flush of anger had faded from
his face, it left him deathly pale.

“I shall sit‘t this to the bottom, Kate,” he. ’

said firmly. “‘ Who knows what horrible crime
this man may not have committed? Is she to
be always kept a prisoner in her own house—
watched, insulted, and intimidated by her own
servants? ls her life to be sacrificed for his?
Good Heaven! to think that I should have lost
her for this!”

“But, Fred,” his sister interposad, gently,
“remember, whatever Mr. Langley may have
been guilty of, he is her husband. Do you
imagine that May Would thank you for drag-
ging this wretched secret to light? Though it
may cost her much, she is as anxious as he is to
hide the truth.”

“Kate,” he said, bending forward, the bet-

 

 

18

A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

ter to see how she received his words, and
speaking in a low, concentrated voice, “who
can say but he may have been alrz-udy married
when be tempted May to elope with him?
Perhaps she is not really his wife.”

There were beads of perspiration on his brow
as he concluded, and the hand which in his ea-
gerness he had laid on hers trembled percepti-
bly; but she had no pity for him. She shook
oif the hand angrily, and her eyes flushed upon
him indignantly.

“ And you can think this of her—of the
woman you pretended to love! Do you believe
May capable, once she had learnt the truth; of
staying one hour longer beneath his roof?”

“ Forgive me. Kate!” he said despondently.
“ I don’t think I quite know what I am say-
in .”

“And all this time you are not helping me.
You say nothing of how that letter is to be
got from the trunk of the willow.” ,

“ I see no other way than going to fetch it.”

“ You! Do you mean that you will go back
to Normanton for it?”

“ Yes; if Dora. is better, I will return by the
first train. 1! the letter is left there, it may fall
into somebody else’s hands.”

But more than the wish to get the letter was
the desire to be near May, to be ready to save
and protect her in case of need.

 

CHAPTER VI.
Two 3 CEEMERS.

OLD Mrs. Pearson had spoken no more than
the truth when she described Mrs. Dexter’s
sitting-room as being “fit for any fine lady."
The carpet was of the richest and softest; the

chair-coverings and window—hangings of deli?

cately tinted satin brocade; valuable pictures—
the greatest gems of the old Squire’s collection
—adorned the walls; while the cabinets con-
tained old china and ornaments so costly that
the former mistress of Normanton had suflered
no one to touch them but herself, dusting them
always with her own fair hand.

Abel had had this room prepared for his
mother under his own especial supervision, and
it did him credit.

Mrs. Dexter was seated before a small table.
on which was a quantity of lace, yellow with
age. She had been a lady’s-maid at one time,
and had had too much to do with lace not to ful-
ly understand and appreciate its value.

Abel came in presently, looking tired and
cross. He flung himself down heavily on one
of the couches, never heeding that his dirty
boots left a mark on the satin cushion.

Mrs. Dexter loved her son; perhaps he occu-
pied the one soft spot in her heart. Going up
to him, she laid her hand caressineg on his
forehead.

“ It aches, dear, I know,” she said—her voice

i~

 

always took a softer tone when she addressed
him. “ Shall I fetch you some can-de-
Cologne?”

He jerked his head away from her impatient-
1y.
“For goodness sake, mother, leave me in
peace. Can’t you see I am fagged to death
and worried, and want to he let alone? You
ought to know by this time that I hate being
fawned upon. If you want to be of use, get
me a. glass of brandy and soda.”

“ Oh, Abel!" she remonstrated. “ You almost
promised me yesterday you would try and
leave 01! this evil habit. It is growing on you,
dear, or I wouldn't speak. Remember what
came of it last month. If you had been quite
yourself, you would never have forgotten to
draw the heavy bolt of that door, and Mrs.
Langley would have learned nothing to this
day.”

“Are you going to bring all that up again?
You are forever dinning it into my ears.”

‘fI wouldn’t speak of it, my boy, but for
the sake of getting you to let the brandy
alone.”

“ What else can a fellow do but drink during
this internally hot weather?" he retorte.‘.
“But there, mother, just get it me now, there‘s
a good soul; my throat is parched with thirst.
One glass won’t hurt me.”

With a sigh, she rose and did as he bade her.

When she had received the empty glass from
his hands she went back to her place and began
sorting and folding the lace.

“ What is it you have got there?” he asked.

“Some lace, dear; they are beautiful, and
worth quite a little fortune. I found them in
the old wardrobe; such a quantity, tool”

“ So you have been at your old games!” he
cried, rising and regarding her angrily.
“Didn’t I tell you I’d have you take nothing
more?” I

“Nonsense, Abel; I only take what was in
the house when we came. I don’t believe Mrs.
Langley has a notion of half what is here. I
found the inventory, and have got it myself,
put away-safely. It is but anticipating things
a little, anyway,” she added, with a laugh. “ I
suppose you won’t grudge me these bits of
things when they come to you?”

“I am sick to death of it all,” he said, with
a frown. “ Sometimes I think it would be
wiser to throw the whole business up, and go
OE With What we have got.”

“Abel i” Mrs. Dexter looked at him in blank
dismay; and the flounce of Brussels point
which she was in the act of folding, fell from
her hands to the ground! “ You must be
mad! What! go away and give up all chance
of being the master of Normanton?”

“ I think it is more than doubtful Ishall ever
be that,” he replied, gloomily.

-..., ‘

A SCATHING ORDEAL. 19

 

“You seem to forget the will, duly signed
and witnessed, mmlo six months ago, on the
very day before we came here.”

“ What is to prevent his making another?”

“He cannotl” Mrs. Dexter exclaimed, tri-
umphantly; “for we could soon prove it was
no better than waste paper!”

“We could, certainly; but that wouldn’t
help us,” Abel rejoined. sharply; her confi-
dence irritated him. “Would you like to
know what he said to me not an hour umfl'
In} inquired, looking up at her from under his
Huck brows. “I suppose I had angered him,
and put him out of patience. 'Take care,
Dexter,’ he said; ‘you may go too far. A
little more, and I will risk everything and
give myself up.’ ”

“ He never said that?” cried his mother.

“He did; and, what is more, I believe he
meant what he said, too. I have noticed a
change in him lately—a change I don’t like.
Since his little fool of a wife has been in the
secret, he hasn’t been the same man. He
knows that she fears him now more than loves
him; and he can’t help seeing how ill and wretch-
ed she is. My opinion is he will disappear one of
these fine days if we don‘t keep a pretty sharp
look-out after him."

“That would spoil everything with a. ven-
geaDCe,” his mother said, thoughtfully. “It
would be hard to give up all, just as it seems
within our grasp. But don’t be in a hurry,
Abel; you may be wrong. He is such a cow-
ard, I believe he will put up with anything
sooner than let the truth be known. Ican’t
see Normanton slip through our fingers without
making one effort to keep it. After all, my
boy, it should have been yours by right. It
will be no more than justice for you to reign
here as master.”

“And, in the mean time, I am nothing but a
servantl” he remarked bitterly. “And I’ve
got to endure the haughty sneers and superior
airs of girls who would be glad enough to be
my wife if I were muster here instead of valet.”

“ Never mind. dear; all that will he
changed when that time comes."

“Yes, when it comes! It's only your ner-
vous silliness that keeps it back now. What
does that fellow Marks want here? He is com-
ing up to the window—like his impudencel

“What do you want, Marks? I told you,
only the other day. that if you wanted to see
me, you could come to the front door and ask
to speak to me.”

“it’s only a half—dozen of sparrers, Mr.
Dexter, as I’ve been and trapped for your
owls,” the gardener said, handing the birds in
at the window.

“Then why the devil do you bring them .

here? Just take them round to the kitchen
and give them to the cook, will you? It I
want them I will get them. But it’s not at all

 

likely, for I mean to let the birds out to-night
to forage for thcumelvvs.”

The man was turning away, but at Abel's
words he stopped and looked at him implor-
ingly.

“ Ohl sir, I do hope as you don’t mean that!
Ido hope as you won’t let ’em out to-night of
all nights. My poor old woman is took worse.”

He paused and rubbed his coat-sleeve across
his eyes.

“ What on earth has all this to do with me?”
Abel asked, irritably.

“ Well, you see, sir, I got them spnrrers only
because I thought thele keep the dratte‘d birds
quiet. And now, if you go and let one on ’cm
out, Polly’ll not geta wink of sleep the livelong
night. Now, if you must let ’em out, couldn’t
you let the two loose for once? Maybe they then
wouldn’t make such a row. It’s the one as is
still shut up makes such a-screaming, a-crying
for its mate.”

It was a long speech for old Marks to make,
Few of the servants ever ventured to rumou-
strnte with Ahel Dexter.

“Have you quite done?” Abel asked, in ill-
suppressed rage. He had been longing for
something on which to vent his bud temper 101‘
some time.

“Yes, sir; I don’t know as I've anything
else to say.”

Mark’s voice had grown very despondent—
he knew his mission had failed.

“ Then he olt‘ with you and go on with your
digging; and remember, I am not one to stand
being dictated to. Do you think lshall con-
sult your wishes as to whether I ‘let the birds
out or not? Let me hear no more of this. 11
you don’t find the situation at the cottage to
your liking, you can leave it. There’s many a.
man would be only too glad to have your
place; and I don‘t know but we should be the
gainers by the change.”

“ I am sure I didn’t mean that, Mr. Dexter;
and I wouldn’t have spoken as I did if I’d
thought ’twould have angered you. I meant
no offense; but Polly, shc begged me to do my
best. She’s nervous, you sec, and the cries
them birds gives is enough to frighten a. timid
thing like her—it’s so awful human."

Marks turned away, very sore at heart.

He was an old man, and his wife was slowly
dying. He could not risk being turned out *0!
his situation at such a time. ‘

When he was gone Mrs. Drxter carefully
closed the window, and then cast an anxious
look of inquiry upon her son.

“ Did you mean what you said, Abel? Will
the bird have to be let loose to-nighti”

“Yes, I think so; it will be safest, anyway.
One never knows what may happen. If I am
not greatly mistaken, we shall have a bad
time of it.”

“I am always so anxious about you, my

 

 

20

A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

boy, at these times,” she said, with a. deep
sigh. “I would almost as soon trust you in a
den of wild blasts as see you enter that hate
ful rooml”

“ And yet you Won’t let me have my own
way,” he rejoined, sullenly. “How long is
this to go on, I should like to know? Mother,
I am growing desperate. I shall leave the
door unbolted to-night; I will put it oil? no

longer. We have agreed that it shall be done,
sooner or later. what is the use of delay-
ing?”

“No, no; not that, Abel!
murdered in our bedsl”

She clung to him, trembling in every limb,
her eyes wide open in terror.

He pushed her from him roughly. She had
to take hold of the back of a chair to prevent
herself from falling. A contemptuous sneer
curled the corner of his thin lips as he regarded
her.

“What acoward you are, motherl” he cried,
scornfully. “All my life you have led me to
h lieve that Normanton shall be mine. \Ve
have waited long enough. as you know, to
come here. I thought the old Squire was
never going to die; and, even then, six
months were wasted, what with repairing the
place, and one thing and another. Now, when
there is nothing more to be done, and I say
that the finishing touch must be put to what
we have both been planning and plotting for
all these years, you shrink irom it.”

Mrs. Dexter covered her face with both
hands; her whole frame shook with emotion,
which she vainly strove to conquer.

“Have you so easily forgotten your own
wrongs, and how you swore you would one
day have your revenge, and see me righted?
Mother, I am ashamed of you; I thought you
‘ would have had more spirit.”

Her hands dropped helplessly to her side.
She was white to the lips, and her voice was
but little above a whisper.

“Do as you will, Abel; I will say no more.
Only don’t let it be this time. If it must be.
lvtitbe whenIam away from here. I will
go to New York when the time comes.”

“Perhaps it would be better. You are so

, weak. It you were here, very likely you
would say or do something that would betray
us. Yes, I see it would be wiser you should
not be here. I can manage best alone.”

“Don’t speak like that, Abel; you talk as if
you were going to do it yourself!” she ex-
claimed, with n shudder. “Remember, it
won’t be your doing, whatever happens!”

“No; it won’t be my doing,” he rejoined,
with ashort laugh; “but I shall be obliging
enough to give the opportunity.”

His mother did not join in the laugh; even
she felt something like horror at his treating

We might be

 

such a suij'ct lightly. She was leaving the
room, when. he called her buck.

“Where are you going now?" he asked,
authoritatively. He seemed to enjoy the petty
tyranny which he exelcised ovar her.

“ I was going to look for Mrs. Langley," she
replied, meekly. “ I haven’t seen her tor over
an hour. Goodnes< knows what she is up to!
I was so taken up with this lace, and then with
talking with you, that I forgot all about her.”

“Well. you can come back and look over
your precious laces a little longer, if you like.
Luckilv, I don’t trust everything to you. She
was off to the wood long ago.”

“ Good gracious, Abnll Why didn’t you tell
me as soon as you came in? I must go after
her at once. She will be meeting that Miss
Dunstable there, who is stopping at Colonel
Brereton’s, The Grange grounds are only di-
vided from ours by the river, you know.”

“Exactly; but you see I have already sent
her husband aftorhcr. Oh, he saves me a lot
of trouble, I can tell you.”

While this little scene had been taking place
in Mrs. Dexter‘s room, May had made her way
through the wood, taking the direction of the
river.

The precious letter was in her pocket. In a
few minutes more it would be safe in the trunk
of the fallen tree, and by to-morrow uncle
Gregory would know that she had never for a
moment cea~ed to love him.

Her heart beat fast, and the unusual exercise
brought a faint flush to her cheeks. She be-
lieved she had left the house quite unobserved;
but before she had gone far, the sound of rapid
footsteps behind her made her turn round in
sudden alarm.

The next moment she was face to face with
Mr. Langley.

“I thought perhaps you would let me come
with you, May, it you are going for awalk,” he
said, hesitatingly. ‘9 We see so little of each
other now.”

His eyes fell beneath her mournful look of
reproach, and the color spread over his face.
He knew intuitively she had divined his reason
for following her.

“You are afraid to trust me alone, ’Duke,”
she said, sadly. ‘,‘ Is it always to be like this?
Am I always to he watched and followed?”

“Heaven knows I meant to trust you!” he
cried, wildly. “Whm some demon thought
has tempted me to doubt you I have tried to
put it from me. i believed you loved me too
much to betray me; but your love has turned
to horror and loathing. Ah, yes, you cannot
deny itl You shrink from me even as Ispeak.”

“’Duke——’Duke, you don't know what you
are saying! Why should I hate you?”

“Is there not reason enough; Have I not
sufficient proof, it proof were needed?”

A SCATHING ORDEAL. 21

 

He came nearer to her, bending till his hot
breath was in her face.

“Listen,” he said, his voice hearse and un-
natural. “You thought you were alone just
now v1 hen you wrote the letter; but you were
not. I was in the room, hidden by the win-
dow curtain. I had not gone there to spy
upon you. I wished for nox hing more than to
be near you; to breathe the some air as you
did; to see your dear eyes without that look of
terror in them which my presence always
brings. It was reward enough (or me if your
dress but touched me in pnssn-g. I was so
near, I need but bavo put out my nl'ms to have
clasped you to my bcnrt; but I stifled the
wild longing that was in me, as I have stifled
it so often of into. Then I saw you tiike paper
and envelcpo and write the words which are
to bring my ruin. That letter is in your
pocket DOW! Ah, you tremble! It is true; I
have found you out. You were to meet your
friend here and give it to her, no doubt. In a
few days my cousin would have learnt all,
and I should be taken from you, a prisonerl—
betrayed by my wil‘e——the only being in this
whole world whom I love!”

May had cowered from him, a. look of
fright in her distended eyes; but now she
started forward, her arms outstretched, forget-
ting her fear in pity for his great agony.

“No, no; you are wrong. See, you shall
read the letter yourself: it is not to your
cousin. Oh. ’Duke, how could you think me
capable of that 1"

With trembling fingers, she tore open the
envelope and held the sheet of paper before
him.

“ Look; there is no word here that could be-
tray you. I only wanted to let uncle Gre-
gory know that I had not forgotten him. I
said there were reasons why we might never
meet again; but that he must not think I had
ceased to love him.”

Her voice shook, and large tears rolled down
her pale cheeks. ‘

“There: I will tear it up. It shall not go
at all. What does it matter? One day all
things will be known. Life is so short.”

As the pieces of pupei‘ fell fluttering to the
ground, involuntarily her eyes were raised to
the blue sky above, with a look of yearning,

- lonuin .
weigh; hushungd gazed at her spell-bound. How
frail and weak she looked! He had never
fully realized how ill and changed she was un-
til HOW, Was she going to die? Il.’ so, it
would be his doing—he would have killed her!

He staggered back against a tree, covering
his eyes with his hands. He wanted to think.
It had come to this; he must choose between
his life and hers. , .

Ah. but, it mg were the sacrlfice. he would

 

have to give up more than life itself. How
could he live away from her? It only they
could die together—he, she, and the childl
Surely that Would be the be~t way of putting
an end to all their troubles? It would be so
sweet to die like that. No one could part
them thenl

He wondered how it had been possible that the
idea had never occurred to him before. Now
that the glorious thought had come, he seized it
eagerly, gladly—gloating over it. He could
almost laugh out in his joy to think how soon
they would all be free.

But the look of exultation faded from his
face; in its place came the old expression of
hopeless melancholy.

It was the sight of Abel Dexter coming to-
ward them which caused the change.

Mr. Langley’s eyes sought the ground as the
valet drew near, fearful lest they should h-‘tray
the thoughts which were passing in his mind.

Dexter was very clever; it was seldon be
trusted him for long out of his sight. But~a
who could telli—the time might come. He
must be very wary; he would watch and wail. .

 

CHAPTER VII.
A. VILLAJN’s POLICY. -

“ I’VE come to ask if you’d mind looking in
on my old woman to-night, Mrs. Pearson,”
Marks, the gardener, said, putting his head in
at the lodge door.

“ What! is she worse again, John? Well,
well, it’s a hard life for some of us. Come in,
do; and tell us all about it. It’s lucky we’re
up; we’re in bed most nights afore this; but I
had some. ironing to finish.”

“ And I wouldn't have come at such a time,
but she’s going, poor thing—she’s going fast.
There’s not bite nor sup has passed her mouth
this blessed dayi” .

He shook his head dejectedly as he sunk
wrari‘ly into the chair which the old woman
pushed toward him.

“I feel strange and lonely-like when I think
of there being only her and me in the cottage.
l’i take it kindly if you’d come and watch with
me to-night. You‘re more used to sick folk
than I am, and you and she was always
friends.” ,

“And that’s true enough,” she replied, her
thoughts going back to the time when ,she and
little Polly had played together on the village
green; “we was fast friends, Polly'and I, ever
since we was little more than babies. I’ll come
with you, John, now at once, and welcome; but
lI’mgtraid ’tisn’t much any of us can do for
ier.

v She reached for her bonnet and shawl, which
were hanging on a. peg behind the door.

 

 

2!

A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

“ Bess,” she called, looking toward .an inner
room, “I’m off to John Marks’s cottage to
nurse his sick wife. Maybe I’ll not be back till
morning.”

Bess appeared in the doorway, a. brush in
her hand, and her red-brown hair loose and
falling in pretty waves and curls all over her
shoulder. Brlss spent most of her spare time
in the little closet she called her bedroom, be-
fore the square of cracked lUOklllg—gla‘s, brush-
ing and combing her beautiful hair. This eve—
ning she had been arousing herself by arrang-
ing it as Mrs. Langley dirl hers, smiling com-
placently at her own reflection as she acknowl-
edged to herself, with a. flush of triumph and
gratified vanity, that she was prettier—yes, a
hundred times piettier-thau the lady up at
the Halli She had but just time to pull it
down when her granddaughter sulled her.

“So your wife’s worse, is she, Mr. Marks?"
she asked, somewhat carelessly.

Bess thought too much of her own little
worries to have much feeling for other people’s
troubles.

“Yes, she is, Bess,” replied the gardener;
“and Abel Dexter—out of iure contrariness I
do believe—has chosen this night of all nights
to let them blessed owls of his out—leastwuys,
it's one as is out and one in. BetWeen the two
of them screeching, she’ll be worse still afore
the morning.”

“Owls,” she cried, eagerly: “then there
rially are owls at Normantou Hall?”

“Not much doubt of that, my girl; I should
have thought you’d have heard them from
here.”

“ Then Abel was telling me the truth, after
all!” she thought. “But it’s no secret. He
was only making a fool of me when he said
that. He thinks I’m just a. silly, ignorant girl
that will swallow any lrush he likes to tell me.
I’ll pay him for that, yet. Maybe thrre’s more
in those owls than folks think of. I don’t see
what a. couple of birds wants with tle doors
to their room—and strong locks, too!”

“ We’d better be going, Mrs. Pearson, if
you’re ready,” said Marks. “ Ipromised Polly
I wouldn’t be away long. ”

“Poor thing! yes, let us be off. Good-night,
Bess. I mayn’t be able to get back till after
daylight; but you can leave the door uubulted
on the chance.” '

“All right, Granny; and I’ll have the fire

, lighted early and a. cup of tea ready for you
when you do come.”

“Ah, she’s a. good girl, John," said the old
woman, proudly, as she left the lodge with her
companion—“agood and a pretty as one would
wish to see; a bit fond of pleasure and finery,
I don’t deny—what girl isn‘t? But she’s fond
of her old Granny, too; and her heart is in the
right place."

Marks, thought it Wiser to make no reply

 

to this. He had heard one or two tales he
didn’t like about the girl lately, and he knew
something of her frequent meetings with Abz‘l
Dexter; but he was not going to grieve her
grandmother by telling her of this. Let her
keep faith in Bess as long as she can; she will
know soon enough. How he wished later on
that he had had the courage to speak!

Meanwhile, Bess was standing. with her
shapely arms folded, leaning in her favorite at-
tiiude river the garden pare. The moon was at
the full; the night bright, clear and peace-
ful.

She was looking out dreamily over the park
Where the moon was shining through the trees.
making the dewdrops sparkle like diamonds,
She had no thought for the rare beauty of the
scene; she was only saying to herself if those
s larkling. glittering drops were real gems, how
she would gather them by thousands and be
rich—richer even than Abel could ever make
her.

The cuckoo clock within the cottage behind
her jerked out the hour in shrill. unmusical

tones. She counted the strokes—eleven! She
had no idea it was so late as that. Yet Mo

was not at all sleepy; if she went to bed she
should not close her eyes, she knew.

Hark! what was that?

The sound, though only faintly borne to her
on the breeze, made her start back in alarm, it
was so wild and unearthly. The next moment
She laughed at herself. It was but the cry of
the owls, of course.

Were these birds so big and fierce as Ah(l
had pretended, she wondered? She wrnld
very much like to have a look at them. What
was to prevent her getting her hat and walk
ing toward the Hall? No one could see her if
she kept in the shade, eVen if there were any
one still up; but, as a rule, the whole house-
hold had retired and the house shut up for the
night before this. .

The idea no sooner suggested itself than she
hastened to act upon it. Seen she was step-
ping swiftly hut cautiously along the narrow
footpath £1 at skirted the drive.

Weird shadows stretched across her path,
cast by the gaunt, twisted branches of the tall
trees. Now and then she would stop suddenly,
her heart beating fast as her eyes fell upon
some dead, barklrSR trunk or fallen tree Whose
sharp oullines took almost human shape in il a
uncertain light. Then she would summon 11p
all her courage and hurry past it, glancing at
it feurfully the while.

She could not say what it was that made her
so anxious to prom ed. Something seemed to
compel her to advance. Soon the stately walls
of the old Hall rose before her, its tall chim-
neys stunning out in sharp relief against the
deep blue of the clcrudless sky.

This part of the house was in shadow, and

A SCATHING ORDEAL. 2Q

 

no light glimmered in any of the windows.
Bess did not pause here, for the cry ot the
birds, which had been almost continuous, came
from the back. Sims-times it was low and
plaintive; then suddenly it would rise to a
shriek like the demouiacal laugh of a madman.

No wonder poor, nervous old Polly llllarks
found it impossible to sleep with such hideous
sounds rending the air. '

Keeping Well out of the moonlight, and
close to the hedge which bordered the terrace,
Bess crept round to the other side of the budd-
ing. A light was burning in one of the rooms
here, and the blind was not drawn.

She could see Mrs. Langley, clad in along
white wrapper, hei‘ dark hair streaming for
below her waist, walking agitatedly up and
down. I

Bess knew the baby was weak and Sickly,‘
she was kept awake by it, perhaps. All, ye§i
now she paused beside the cot, bending over it
solicitously, and weeping and wringing her
hands; then she would place her fingers on her
ears, as it to shut out some dreaded sound.

She, too, apparently, was upset by the
shrieking of the owls. Why, then, were they
kept here?

It was a question Bess could not answer
at all satisfactorily; yet she felt convinced
there was some reason for it, some hidden mys-
tery in all this that she was resolved to
fathom.

While she was pondering on it, one of the
birds swooped down past l]er—- so near, that'it
almost touched her as it beat the air With its
heavy wings.

It had come from an upper window, the
window of the room with the double doors;
she remembered it well. The sash was wide
open, and on the narrow ledpe sat the captive
owl, chained by the leg, flapping its wmgs,
and uttering the most dismal ones.

But stay; surely that was another cry from
Whig? strained her ears to listen. Yes, there
it was again. A cry more Wild, more fearful,
more human than the others. V\ but did it
mean? Abel and Marks had both spoken of
two owls, and only two. or these one was
still in the park, the other she saw above her,
What was it that had given that unearthly
yegllis trembled with fear as she crouched there
among the bushes, her white face uplifted, her
strained eyes fixed on that little upper wmdow.
Yet, ‘even then, her curiosity was quickly mas-
tering her fear. She was rapidly rcvolvmg m
her mind the possibility of getting near enuth
to look into the room. She w0uld never, per-
haps, have such a chance as this again; she
must make the most of the opportunity now:

" There was a tree growing near the house; its

 

boughs reached to that very window. She
remembered, on the night when she had slept
there, how frightened she had been by the
branches tapping against the pane. If only
she could manage to climb it, her object would
be gained.

Bess was a good climber; only a. few weeks
ago she had gone to the very top of her grand-
mother’s biggest apple-tree in search of a bird’s
net. This would be a rather more difficult
teat; but she thought she could do it. She was
ready to attempt harder things than that to
discover the meaning of that third mysterious

cry.

Abel had thought her silly and gullible, had
he? V\"ell, he should see; by tomorrow, per-
haps, he might see cause to change his opinion.
She would be able to make him do just what
she liked, once she had found out this secret of
his. =

Knotted roots of ivy encircling the trunk of
the tree offered uncert‘iin footholds here and
there; but notwithstanding this. Bess found it
no easy matter to ascend the first few feet.
However, after two or three atte .xpts, she at
length accomplished this, and once she had
reached the part from which the branches
sprung. she was not many minutes climbing to
the desired hight.

Her frock was torn in several places, and her
hands were scratched and bleeding; but what
of that? She neither heeded the one nor felt
the other, for was she not on a level with the
very window itself?

The owl, frightened at her near neighbor-
hood, crept to the further corner of the ledge,
thus enabling her more space to 1001: within.

At first she could see nothing; the floor was
some distance below the window, and only
a small portion of the room was lighted by the
moon. But, as she looked, something crept out
from the darkness, and stood in that streak of
moonlight.

Her breath came fast. For a moment she
had to close her eyes in order to give herself
time to recover from a sudden giddiness which
had seized her.

When she'looked again the figure had turned
toward her. Oh, the horror of that ghastly,
ashen face upraised to hers! No wonder she
had to cling with all her strength to the bongh
to prevent herself from falling. The eyes, pro—
truding and bloodshot, seemed to fix her with
their fearful stare; both arms were stretched
out toward her, the hands open and the fingers
curved, as it to clutch at her. Ani then that
horrible laughter rung out once more, peal
after peal, soulless and awful in its utter mirth-
lessness.

Bess never quite knew how she came down
from the tree, for before she had descended
two-thirds of it she grew taint, her head swam,

 

 

94 A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

her hands relaxed their hold, and she fell
heavily to the ground.

For a, time she was unconscious. When she
came to hersull’ she was lying on the grass,
bruised and aching in every limb, but, fortun-
ately, not seriuu~ly hurt.

The first thing that she realized was that
some one was supporting her head. Almost at
the same time came the recollection of what
she had seen. lVith a. scream, she endeavored
to rise, believing she was in the grasp of the
fearful being who had so alarmed her.

She was a little reassured, though not alto-
gether so, when she looked up and saw Abel
Dexter’s stern taco bending over her, his dark
eyes blacker than ever for the suppressed anger
that lurked in their depths. .

She had known that he would be angry

when he learned that she had foiled him, and ,

found out what he meant to keep from her; and
she had meant, notwithstanding, to tell him of
the discovery she had made; yet now when he
knelt beside her, gazing down at her with such
cold severity, she shrunk from him in fear and
trembling, all her courage gone. -

With an eflort she rose to her feet; but she
was still a little faint, and. would have fallene
had he not put out his hand to save her. ,

“Don’t look at me like that, Abel,” she mur-
mured, faintly, “or I'll think you don’t love
me.”

Love her! She would have fled from him in
terror had she known \\ hat was passing in his
mind at that moment. Even then he was
calmly and dispassionutcly deliberating whether
it would not be wiser and safer for him to
silence her now forever, before she should
have time to talk or what she had seen that
night. He could spring upon her and strangle
her. It would be but the work of a moment;
and be had but to carry her body to the river
and cast it into the water.

There was but one thing that deterred him,
and that was the fear of detection. Marks
already knew of his meetings with the girl,
and he thought it probable tunt old Mrs. Pear-
son might be aware of them also.

True, Bess had promised not to tell her, but
he put no great faith in any girl's promise.
Not because he thought that no woman could
keep a secret; his opinion of the sex was not
flattering nor eXzilted; still, he did believe a.
woman could be silent and loyal—once it was
made thoroughly worth her while to be so.

The question now was hOiv could he convince
Bess that it would be to her advantage to say
. nothing of what she had seen.

“ What demon of curiosity prompted you to
come here to-night?" he asked, his fingers clos-
ing tightly over her arm. “I suppose the
whole village will be as wise as you before you
are a day Older?”

 

Bess was cunning; she would not contradict
him. Her courage was rapidly returning;
with a feeling of exultation, she realized her
power over him.

“ What would happen if 'twas known, Abel?
I don’t see what difference it would make to
you.”

“ Don’t you?” he rejoined, eagerly. “It
would make this difference. There would be
no carriages nor fine dresses for you in the fu-
ture, I can tell you. Do you know,” he hissed
out from between his half-closed teeth, bend-
ing his head close to hers, and speaking in a
low, concentrated voice—“ do you know that
if you have the sense to hold your tongue it
won’t be very long now before I shall be master
here—master, do you hearl—masterl—owner
of Normantonl”

“ Abel,” she gasped, incredulonslr, his words
almost taking away her breath, “ I can‘t make
it all out! You never mean that you’ll be the
master, and me your wife?"

Perhaps that was a little more than he did
mean; at any rate, he did not immediately re—
ply.

Bess, glancing at him sideways from beneath
her long lashes, fancied she saw his dark brows
contract in a frown. Once he was master, she
thought he might be wanting to marry a. lady;
it would be safer not to wait for that time.

“ I’m thinking I’ll find it easier to keep the
secret when I am your wife, Abel," she said.
The color rushed to her cheeks and her voice
tremblel; but she would speak. Was it not
for this she had been waiting? “I don't see
what’s to prevent your marrying me at once
instead of putting it 011’. if the good fortune’s
coming so soon, why a few weeks can’t make
much dilference one way or another to you;
and—and, Abel, you know it may make so
much difference to me. I’m forever dreading
lest Granny shall find out about you and me.
And you wouldn’t like for folks to be talking
about your wife, Abel, now would you?”

His stern features never relaxed, though her
voice was pleading and pathetic, and tears
were shining in her eyes.

She paused for a moment, hoping he might
answer with some tender, reassuring words of
love; but finding he remained silent, she con-
tinned:

“Abel, dear, it can’t be that you don’t care
for me just because I‘ve found this out? Only
let me be your wife, and you’ll see I’ll never

so much as breathe one word! We could go'

away and be married on the quiet one day
soon; no one need be a, bit the wiser. I'd stay
on here with Granny just the same. Then,
when you’re master here, you can claim me.”
“ And do you think I could allow my wife
to live at the lodge?” he asked, putting his arm
round her, and drawing her to him with some

A SCATHING ORDEAL.

    

25

 

show of tenderness. “No, indeed; if it must
be as you say, you must go away—to New
York, perhaps, where I can join you in a day
or two; then we can he married, and I could
leave you there in some comfortable lodgings
more suitable to your future position. Is not
that a better plan?”

“ Oh, Abel, yes, of course; you alwaysknow
best. And I’ll be so glad to see New York;
and you’ll give me money, won’t you. to get
dresses and things, so that when you come I’ll
be looking as I ought, and you wouldn‘t be
ashamed of me?”

. “Yes, yes, to be sure; you shall have all
that is necessary. ”

He was ready to agree to anything now that
he saw so easy a method of getting her out of
the way. That “as the first thing to h con-
sidered. Once she was safely away here
wiuld be time enough to form plans for the
future. or one thing, at any rate, he was very
sure—and that was that Bess Pearson should
never be his wife.

And so he smiled to himself, a smile of
quiet satisfaction, as he stooped and kissed
her; and foolish, trusting Bess, laid her head
upon his shoulder and almost laughed out in
he: happiness, believing that she had triumphed
at ast.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BITTER END. _

FRED DUNSTABLE had been a week at The
Grange. He had gone home with Kate, just
waited to hear that little Dora was better, and
then returned by the first train, as he had said
he would. .

Mrs. Brereton was not a little surprised to
see him back so soon. Had it been any one
but Fred she would have been alarmed, for she
knew that at one time he had been engaged to
May, and she more than suspected that the
young man had got over that attachment.
She did feel a. little uneasy when, not an hour
after his arrival, he was starting with his fish-
ing-rod in the direction of the river, and she
even ventured to speak to him. But the look
of pain on his frank, honest face made her feel
ashamed of her suspicions before she had said
half a dozen words. She felt herself growing
led under his steady, reproachful gaze, and her
lime speech was concluded with almost an
a 010 .

p“IghyaV8 known you so long. Fred,” she said,
“you must not mind my talkigg to you like
this. It is not that I Lelieve u capable of
acting dishonorably, butI fear if ycu renew
your acqmiintance with Mrs. Langley it will
only bring trouble to both of you. Poor girl!
I am afraid her life is far from a happy one as

it is”.

p

 

 

“ 1 know it,” he replied, sadly; “and believe
me, aun'u Constance, Iwould sooner die than
do anything which might add to lll‘l‘ unhappi-
ness. I shall rot seek to speak to her—«I may
not even see her; but I have reason to know
that she needs a friend, and I would he that
friend. Cannot you trust me?"

He held out his hand as he spoke, and Mrs.
Brereton placed hers unhesitutingly in it. ‘ Then
he had left her and gone his way,

Alfew moments later, when he was rowing
across the river. he heard voices in the wood.
One he would have recognized anywhere—it
was May’s; the other be suspected to be Mr.
Lnngley’s.

Not wishing to be seen, he guided his boat in
among some lull reeds, which. completely con-
cealed him. From there he witnessed May’s
interview with her husband.

He could not hear what they said, but he
could see that Mrs. Langley was greatly agi-
tated. When’ she took n letter from her pocket
and tore it up, he understood that it was the
same letter which he had come to fetch, and
that she was renouncing all intention of com-
municating with her uncle. ‘r

There was nothing for him to do but go back
to The Grange as soon as they left the spot and .
the coast was clear. However, each morning
he had crossed the river and searched in the
hollow trunk of the fallen willow, thinking
it was possible she might have changed her
mind.

Though he hardly allowed the thought to
frame itself, he had some hope of seeing her
once more. Her face, as he had beheld it last,
sad, pale, and tear-stained, had haunted him
ever since. He said he would not seek to speak
to her; still, if they should meet, perhaps she
would confide to him; perhaps she might lell
him of her trouble, and suffer him to help her.

But May never came near the river, never
even entered the wood. ‘ It was seldom, if ever,
that she went further than the terrace.

And so Fred could do nothing but torture
himself with the thought that the woman he
loved was unhappy—possibly, even ill-treated
—and he was powerless to assist her.

There was no excuse for his staying here
any longer. His father had already written to
him, urging his return home. On the morrow
he decided that he would do so.

It was more than half-past tWelve, but still
Fred remained out on the balcony, leaning
with folded arms over the carved stone balus-
trade, his eyes turned in the direction of Nor-
manton.

He could not see the house, but the tall trees
marked the spot where it stood. To-niorrow
he would be many miles away, and it was

quite within the range 'of possibility that he
might never see May again. Well, it was bet.

.-\

  

A SUATHING ORDEAL.

 

ter so—hetter for his peace of mind at any
rate, he told himself. And yet he felt a
strange reluctance at leaving the neighbor-
hood.

The night was not quite dark, for there was
a moon, but every now and then its light was
obscured by heavy masses of cloud drifting
across the sky. Angry gusts of wind swept
round the house, and howled and' whistled
among the trees. Soon large drops of rain be-
gan to fall, and a sound of muffled thunder
rolled in the distance.

He moved toward the window, but before
stepping into the room turned for one last look
at Normanton. With a muttered exclama-
tion, he went quickly back to his former posi-
tion.

There was a strange glow in the sky above
the trees. He could not make it out. It had
not been there five minutes before, or he must
have seen it.

It brightened and reddened. as he gazed.
The windows of the hall, like fiery eyes, were
visible now through the branches. What could
it mean?

The rain was beating down upon his uncov-
ered head, but still he stood there, a look of
horror coming into his face, and what had at
first been but a vague dread in his mind
gradually growing and strengthening until it
became an indisputable certainty.

Normanton Hall was on fire!

A minute later Fred was hammering away
at Colonel Brereton’s door.

“ Hullol” shouted the colonel, putting out his
hand to feel for his revolver, which always lay
ready loaded on a table near the bed. “ Who’s
there? What’s wrong?”

His thoughts instantly rushed to thieves, for-
getting that, as a rule, they do not think it
necessary to go through the formality of

\ knocking before entering a room.

“Don’t be alarmed, sir,” said Fred, vainly
endeavoring to speak calmly. “I am afraid
there is something wrong at the hall. It looks
to me very like a fire.” .

This was received by a little scream from
Mrs. Brereton, who had only caught the last
word.

“ Fire, Fred 1” she cried, excitedly. “ Where?
—which room?”

“Not here at all, Aunt Constance,” he re-
plied, impatiently. “At Normanton.”

“ Thank heavenl” she ejaculated, fervently.
“Oh, dear. what a tearful fright you gave
me! I thought the housa was on fire.”

Mrs. Brereton was not selfish as a rule, but
most people would prefer that a fire should
break out in their neighbor's house than their
own. She was soon full of concern for May.

In an incredibly short space of time she and
her husband were dressed, and the whole

 

household roused; and in little more than ten
minutes, Fred, the colonel, and a couple of
men servants had reached the water’s edge, un—
moored the boat and crossed the river.

The storm was raging violently. It was so
dark that they could not find the path in the
wood. They made their way as best they
could through the wet fern, which reached
knee high, and close-growing underwood: but
the rain heat in their faces, and their progress
was impeded by prickly bramble bushes. '

Fred, always first, pushed on bravely through
all, never slacking his pace, though his face
and hands were scratched and bleeding. Soon
he had no cause to complain of the darkness.
for as he emerged from the wood, the Whole
neighborhood was rendered bright as day by the
light from the burning building.

Flames were issuing from some of the lower
windows, and wreaths of smoke curled up-
ward toward the lowering clouds, till earth and.
sky alike were aglow. Hot blasts of air came
toward him as be rushed up the drive, and
above the bowling of the storm he could hear
the hissing and crackling of the fire.

The old Hall looked grand and majestic in
the lurid light, its solid masonry seeming to
defy the enemy which raged within its walls.

A crowd had already collected before the
house.

“ Are all safe? Has every one left the house!”
Fred asked breathlessly of the first man he
came to.

“Yes, sir, I think so. ’Twas all so sudden,
there’s no one seems to know nothing for certain.
The fire must have broken out in half-a dozen
places at once. You see—”

“ Where are Mr. and Mrs. Langley?” he in-
terrupted impatiently.

The man pointed to a summer-house at the
further end of the terrace.

“I think they are there with the servants.
sir, sheltering from the storm. Ah, it’s a bad
night’s work. I hope the scoundrel that did it
will get what he deserves.”

Fred was already oflf toward the summer-
honse without waiting to hear more. A group
of half-dressed, frightened maid-servants were
collected here. On the bench sat Mrs. Dexter,
white and trembling, her teeth chattering with
fear. She was wrapped in a large shawl, and
was endeavoring to support her son, who, with
a dazed expression on his dark face, was lean-
ing back against the ivy-covered wall, appar-
ently half-stupefled.

“ I tell you I don't care who hears me,” the
cook, a tallnmnsculine-looking woman was say-
ing‘ in a high-pitched tone, as Fred approached.
“ I’ve known this long while that Abel Dexter
was given to drink. I’ve seen him more than
once as he is now, and I always said we’d be
all burned in our beds one of these nights.”

 

 
 

 

     

   
    

 

 

i
l
i
z

  
   
   

 

  

 

  

A SCA’l‘lllNG ()RDEAL.

  

2?

 

“Hold your tongue. Mary,” began Mrs Dex-
ter, with ill-assumed dignity; “ how dare you
speak like that? You forget yourself. My
son is not well; the smoke. the fright have—7’

“Is Mrs. Langley here?” said Fred, coming
suddenly into their midst.

The nurse who was huddled up in a corner
with nothing but a thin cloak over her night-
dress, and who had been weeping hysterically
over some slight burns she had received, looked
up as he spoke.

“ I think she and the master must have gone
to the lodge, sir; there’s several of the servants

here, too.”

“ Are you sure they are out of the build-
ing?”

“Yes, sir, I Went to their room myself,
meaning to fetch the child; but the cot was
empty and my master and mistress gone. I
think they must have left the house soon after
the fire broke out.”

Fred was hurrying off again when he met
Colonel Brereton, consternation and dismay de-
picted on his countenance.

“ My dear Fred, this is very terrible. You
hear what is said? No one seems to be able to
say with any certainty where Mr. and Mrs.
Langley are.”

“ I hear that they are at the lodge,” Fred re-
plied. “ I am going there now.”

“Stay; it is useless,” the colonel rejoined,
gravely; “they are not there, I have been
questioning one of the housemaids; it is she
who saw them last. She was coming down
from her bedroom when she passed her master
and mistrch going up. There is something
very mysterious in this. What could their
reason be for going to the third floor at a time
when they could have escaped in m below
with comparative safety? The girl was too
much concerned at her own danger to stay to

address them, but she noticed that Mrs. Lang-r

lcy appeared wild with fright, and was clasp-
ing the baby to her breast, while her husband‘s
chief anxiety seemed to be to hurry her for-
ward.” .

“And you stay here talking, while they
are in the burning house i” cried Fred excitedly.

“My boy, there is nothing to be done; it
would be madness to attempt to enter the
building. You must do nothing rash. I have
senta groom 03 on horseback f0r the fire-
engine; but it is five miles to the town, and—J,

“Good Heavens! would you donolhing un.
til then? The Hall may be a ram before in

J,

coages-Ldashed off, and was soon .lost in the
Some men Were busy splicmg a couple
It was the colonel “he
with the intention
self by one of the

crowd.
of ladders together.
had ordered it to be done,
of entering the house him
upper windows. H

e was willing to risk his

[almost ended?

 

own life, but he did not mean to let Fred risk
his if he could help it.

Fred, lloWeYUl'. tool: matters pretty much
into his own hands. No soot cr wus the ladder
made secure and p‘ac. d against the Wall than
he was mounting it. It reached to a paswge
window on the second floor. Luckily the hasp
was unfaslenwd; but as he threw up the sash
he was almost choked and blinded by the dense
volume of smoke which nuhed through the
opening. Scarcer pausing to recover his
breath, he loapt down into the passage, and
creeping along the floor on his hands and feet,
at length reached the staircase.

Below was a roaring gulf of flame. The at—
mosphere was stifling. His skin was scorched,
and each breath was torture, but still he ad-
vanced, all thought of self forgotten in the one
hope of savii g May.

When he reached the landing: of the third
floor he hesitated, uncertain \\ hich way to turn.
It was then that a strange sound smote his
ears. He could scarcely credit his sensua—
some one was laughing! A slmut of wild, or
ultant laughter echoed through the house! At
the same time the door of a room to his right;
was suddenly thrown open, and Mr. Langley
appeared, hall’ dragging, half carrying his ter-
rified wile, who still clasped the baby convul-
sivcly to her.

“ Oh, it is glorious—glorious!" cried her hus-
band, ecstaticully. “\Vhy don't you rejoice,
May, as I do. to think that our martyrdom is
Are “0 not about to die a.
martyr‘s death? Come, let us get out on the
roof and take, up our station as we should, at
the top of the pile! Oh, it is a fine pile—e.
noble pile! See what a \‘.()l'lll_V fire I have
lighted for us by which to die! Death would
have stolen you from me first. and left me here
with the child; but I have cheated him, for we
shall go tog-etherl How could I part from
vou, when I 'had risked so much to win you?
I knew to what I sacrificed you when I made
you my wife; but I loved you so! No matter,
our troubles will soon be over now—so soon, .
so very soon!’ ’

Again he laughed discordanlly. With a.
supreme elfort, May succeeded in wrenching
herself free from his grasp. Then a shrill cry
of joy escaped her. for at the same moment
her eyes fell on Fred.

“Save nae—save my childi” she shrieked.
“Oh, Fred, he does not know what he does!
He would destroy us ulli Do you not see?—
do you not lllld-él'Sl‘fillld?’ He is mad 1”

No need to say that now. Fred had under-
stood it all only too well. There was no mis-
taking the vacant stare of those wildly rolling
eyes. A look of halilid rage came into Mr.
Langloy’s face when he saw Fred. '

“So you have come to take me at lastl” he

  

 

 

28

‘ A SCATHING ORDEAL.

 

shouted, “but it is too late. Death was here
before you, he will save me even from you.
You would have deprived me of my liberty,
imprisoned me, tortured mel You would have
published to the world that I was mad. Well,
and it is true. I am mud, mad, mad! I care
not who hears me now; but all my life no one
has known it—no one but Dexter and his
mother. They kept the secret well—oh, very
well! But still my wife found it out. Who
told you?” he asked, abruptly. Then, pausing,
he glanced in doubt from one to the other.
When he next spoke, the words came in a his-

 

sing whisper from between his white, drawu<
back lips. “Did May send for you? Was it
my wife who betrayed me?”

There was murder in his eyes as they rested T
on the shrinking, trembling girl. Fred knew i
that the danger which threatened her now was ‘
more terrible than that from which he had'
come to save her.

He might perhaps havo saved her from the -
fire, but what was his strength, compared with l
that of amadmani And they had no time to i
lose; already the fire was creeping along the‘
passage, and the boards were growing hot be- ,
neath their feet.

May clung to him frantically, not realizing
that she was hampering his movements,’and
preventing him from defending himself. He
put one arm around her, and raised the other
ready to ward oflf his antagonist. But he knew
he was powerless to protect her.

It had come to this—they must die; but at
least they could die together.

Mr. Langley took a step forward; he was
about to spring upon them. May did not cry
out, but she closed her eyes and laid her face
on Fred’s shoulder.

Suddenly the madman paused and looked
round. There was a. sound behind him—the
sound of approaching footsteps! Then a shout
came from the further end or the passage, and .
the next moment Colonel Brereton came hurry-
ing toward them, followed by a couple of
men.

“Thank Heaven, we have found you!” he
cried. “This way, Mr. Langley; bring your
wife. Come, Fred, there is yet time; we can
escape from the roof of the billiard-room."

But as he reached them, Mr. Langley pushed
Fred aside, and rushed past toward the top of
the stairs. Seizing one of the blazing rails of
the balusters, he stood waving it wildly above
his head. Then, with a piercing shriek of mad
laughter that none of them would ever forget be
tossed the burning brand from him, and throw-
ing up his arms, leaped down the awful gulf of
flame that curled and cracked and roared in
the abyss below.

 

    

CHAPTER IX.
ALL’s WELL THAT END-S WELL.

THREE months have gone by sincn the tragic
occurrences of the last chapter. The village
gossips had long since wenricd of discussing
the fire at Normanton, and the old home itself
was being repaired and rebuilt. Little was
left of it save the outer Walls; but numerous
workmen were already busy there, and it was
said the Hall would be once more habitable by
the beginning: of the new year.

Mrs. Langley had been very ill for several
weeks after that terrible night on which her
husband had lost his life. She had been car-
ried to the Grangeand there for some time
had lain between life and death. As soon as
she was able to think of anything, she had
asked for her baby.

It had died many days before; but they
hesitated to tell her the truth. '1 he child had
always been sickly and ailing, and the expo-
sure on the night of the fire brought on an in-
flammation from which it never recovered. It
lingered for arew days, seldom crying as other
babies would have done, but just lying pas-

. sively in its cot, with a pitiful expresdon of

-uifering and/ endurance on its strangely old-
!ooking little face. Then it had passed away,
almost without a moan. May received the
news better than they could have hoped. She
heard all they had to say, and then, turning to
the wall, shed a few silent tears.

When the child was born she had almost
prayed it might die; but since then it had
grown very dear to her. She had learned to
love the little solemn face, so unlike the faces
of other children. And yet there had been
times when she had turned from it in fear: for
the large eyes would be raised to h<-rs with a
look in them so painfully like its father, that it
made her tremble with a dread foreboding.

How could she mourn its loss when she knew
the terrible fate which awaited it? There is
little doubt, had it lived, that it would later on
have developed the same fatal symptoms of
madness as those to which Mr. Langley had
been subject.

When she was well enough to be moved, her
uncle came to fetch her, and sle went back
with him to her old home. Mr. Sandford had
aged greatly since she had seen him last, and
there were lines about'tbe kind old face which
were not caused by time alone. May never
divined how much he had missed her, until she
saw the change which her absence had caused
in him.

Should she ever be able to make no to him
for what, she had made him suifl r? She must
never leave him again—«never! She and uncle
Gregory and old Patience would go on living

    

A SCATHING ORDEAL.

99

 

the quiet, peaceful life they had lived long
ago.

But even as she told herself this, she knew
it could never be quite the same again. She
had been a child than, happy and thunghtlc-s,
Without a care in the woxld; now, she was a
Woman sadtlrned and aged by sorrow. \thn
she regarded l‘ersell‘ in the little mirror, which
had in the old days so often reflected her smil-
ing, girlish face. sholielicved evm her beauty
wasa thing,r of the past. Yet, had she known
it, there was an added charm in the nlournful
depths of her eyes that had been wanting be-
fore, and a new beau: y in the pathetic droop
of the sensitive mouth.

It was evening now. Without. the shadows
of the night were spreading over the dreary
landscape; a damp mist hungover everything;
the brown and yellow leaves Wuro fast falling;
from the trees and lying thickly on the garden
paths.

The old gardener, who had been endeavoring
to collect them, shook his head hopelesly as
he saw fresh showers of them come fluttering
down at every gust of wind as fast as he had
raked them away.

He got together his tools presently and
moved toward the house, glad to exchange the

damp atmoSphei-e of the garden for the com-'

fortuble warmth of the kitchen.

Within, in the library, the light from the
leaping flames of a wood fire cast a ruddy glow
around, making the gilt frames of the pictures
on the walls. and the many brass nails in the
bookcases. shine and glitter. It smilnd upinto
Uncle Gregory’s kindly face, and rested ten-
derly on May’s bowed head, brightening the
coils of dark hair.

She had been reading aloud until it grew too
dusk; now she sat on a stool at the oid man’s
fret. one hand lying listleSSIy across the open
book.

Both were busy With their own thoughts; so
preoccupied that they did not hear a stealthy
tread on the path outside, nor see a. pale face
pressed clo<e to the window-pane, gazing yearn-
inuly, longingly, hopelessly into the (-cnilort-
able room.

By and by May raised her head and looked
up with a sigh.

“ Uncle Gregory,” she said, “there are on:-
or two things I want you to tell me. I lave
never asked you nnyihimz nhi up—amut Nor
manton since I have [PHI here.”

“No, my dear, and I have not liked tobe the
first to mention it for fair of pinning you; hut
it is better that you should know all. The
property dors not l:elong to you now; it has
passed into other lands.”

“ I am glad,” she replied, musingly; “I
could never have lived there. Had it l‘ccn
mine I should have sold it. But 1 did not ex-

 

pect to have Normunton, for I knew Duke had

made. a nil] leaving it to Abel Dexter; he mn-
fcssed this to me only the day before th" fire.
I understood afterward what he nwant, when
he added that Dexter should not have the hall
if he had the property.”

She paused, shuddering.

“But he has neither the one nor the other."
inlerrupted Mr. Sandforil. “Mr. Langleys
cousin is the heir. The will was valueless— do
you not understand?"

He hesitated, not knowing how to explain.

“You mean that no will made by any one in
my husband’s state of health could be legal.“
She spoke unfalteringly though with an (fl‘ort.
“ And so Dexter and his mother will have noth-
ing, though they planned and schemed and made
so sure of all. Oh, uncle Gregory, they have
been justly punishch Hark! What is that?"

A low, wailing cry came from the garden.
She rose hastily and wont toward the window.
It was almost dark now; but a ray of light
from within stretched across the path and
showed her something lying there—the form of
a. woman. ’

She went out, calling to the servants to £01- .
low her.

In a few minutes they brought the stranger
into the hall, and the lamp—light fell upon her.
Then May, who had been tenderly suppon ting
her, started back with a cry. It was Mrs.
Dexter!

Yes, it was the same Woman, though the
cheeks were gaunt and hollow from hunger
and privation; and the dark eyes, so bold and
defiant of old, were now gazing up into hers
impluringly.

“For 'Heaven’s sake give me food l” the
woman cried faintly. “ 1 am starving!”

May did not hesitate even for a moment.
As those beseeching, hopeless tones fell upon
her ears, she forgot the many indignities she
had endured at her hamls-r-forgot all that this
woman had made her suffer; forgot every-
thing, save that a human beingr was ill and in
want, and thatit was in her power to help
her.

Half an hour later, Mrs. Dexter was in bed,
enjoying that perfect rest which is so grateful
alter lrvng fatigue. She had walked the ten
lrng miles from the city to find May. in her
dire distress there had been no one to whom
she could look for help, no one to whom she
dared apply with any hope of success, but the
girl she had so cruelly wronged.

May saw that she had all lhat was necessary,
and then left her, thinking she might sleep.
But when, some hours later, she returned,
Mrs. Dexter was still awake. There were
traces of tears on her face and her cheeks
were flushed.

“I am glad you have come,” she began, ex-

 

 

 

80 A SCATIIING ORDEAL.

 

citedly. “I could not have slept until I had
spoken to you. I want you to say you forgive
me. I have been thinking of things as I lay
here alone. I have so often thought of them
of late-so oftenl I never doubted that you
would give me food, and perhaps a lodging for
the night; but I did not expect you would seem
sorry for me. You said awhile ago, when I
was by the window, that I had been justly
punished. but you never guessed how bitter
my punishment really is. It was for Abel that
I sinned—for him that I was ready to sin even
more. And he has left moi-left me to starve
—mo, his motherl"

“ Do not speak of these things now,” urged
May. “You will make yourself ill. Try and
go to sleep; to—morrow, if you wish it, you
shall tell me more.”

“No, nol [must speak—~it relieves me; I
have kept silent so long. I could have for
given him if he had written or given me some-
thing to keep me from the workhouse; but he
has gone out West without one word, taking
with him all that had taken us so many years
to scrape together. He has not Nurmunton,
but he will be rich—-yes, rich-while I am a
beggar! I taught him to think only of him-
self, and he learned the lessin well. Oh, my
boyl my boy! I was so proud of him—so proud
of his handsome face and gentlemuuly ways.
I should have been content: to stand uside when
he was master of Norm mton if he would have
had it so. It would have been enough for me
to have seen him in his right place—for it was
his right place—and now it has come to this?”

She half-raised herself upon one arm, and
pushed back the hair from her hot brow;

May was silent, thinking her mind wandered,
but it was not 50.

“Look at me,” she went on, excitedly.
“You would not think now that I ‘had ever
been beautiful? No, I know you would not;
but it is true. I was so beautiful that Mr.
Langley fell in love with me and promised
to- marry me, though I was but his sister’s
maid.”

“You do not know what you are saying,”
interrupted May, indignantly. “I will not
believe it.”

“ Oh, I don’t mean your husband; I am
speaking of his father. He was going abroad
for some months; but he promised that when
he returned he would make me his wife and
acknowledge my boy. I was a fool, believed
him, trusted him, and waitel. When he did
return he brought his wife with him. A dark,
handsome Italian woman she was. How I hated
berl Yet I made no sign; and when he came
to me with money and gifts, to purchase my
silence, I took them and promised to hold my
tongue; but to myself I swore that I would be

revenged. One day he came to me and begged

 

that I would go and nurse his wife.
not liked in the neighborhood, and had few
friends. He paid me handsomely, and I want.
It did not take me long to discover what it was
that had made Mr. Langley look so haggard
and unhappy of late, and why he had allowed
his wife to go so little into society. She was
mad! Rational enough at times, but at others
a raving lunatic. In one of her most violent
fits her son was born—my boy’s half—brother!”

May covered her face with her hands, and
shuddered convulsively.

It was this terrible malady which ’Duke had
inherited.

“Go on,” she murmured faintly.

“There is not much more to say,” Mrs. Dex-
ter said, w.th a weary sigh. “Mrs. Langley
died a. few years after. She was drowned.
People thought it an accident at the time, but
I knew better; I knew it was suicide. Her
husband sent for me, and made his promise
never to leave his son. You may guess why;
I alone knew his secret.

“ With so much power in my hands, no won-
der I abused the trust. I taught the boy to
fear me. Iencouraged him to believe that if
his cousin, the next heir, knew of his insanity
he would have him confined in an asylum. He
lived in perpetual dread of this, till at last it
became a mania. Abel and I lost no oppor-
tunity of talking of the horrors which took
place in madhouses, and of the tortures he
would have to endure if he were sent there.

“ This went on until old Mr. Langley died,
and Marmaduke became his heir. It was for
this we had waited. We forced him to make
u. will leaving everything to Abel. It was
while my son was away at Normanton, having
the Hall made ready to receive us, that Mr.
Lungley made your acquaintance, and married
you."

“ I know the rest,” said May, sadly.

“No, no; you do not.
that we were so afraid of his betraying him-
self at last and telling the truth for your Sake,
that we had determined to give him on oppor-
tunity of destroying himself. We knew in his
paroxysms of madness the desire of self-de-
struction was always strong, and we decided
to leave open the door of the room in which, at
those times, he was confined, never doubting
that he would take advantage of it, and per-
haps drown himself, as his mother had done.
Then Abel would have had at last what should
have been his all along.

“ But now he is gone, and I feel I shall never
see my boy again. And from whom do you
think I heard that he had left the East? It
was Bess Pearson that told me."

“Then it is true what was said—it was
was through your son that Bess left her
home?"

She was

You do not know I

. r--. .

A SCATHING- ORDEAL. 81

 

\

“Yes; I met her in New York some weeks
ago. He ha; deserted her, too. But what
could she expect? Did she think a gentleman
like my Abel would ever stoop to marry such
as she? She was poor—very ponr, for the
little money he had left with her was spent
long ago. She was earning a few cents a day
selling flowers. I had disliked the girl brfore,
and she had hated me for my pride; but we
clung together in our common misery, and she
shared her hardly-earned crust with me.

“ For shume’s sake she would not no home
to her grandmother; she darrd not face her
old friends. But poverty and hunger soon
brought down her pride; she started for Nor.
manton yesterday morning to walk all the
way, and beg her food on the road, for she had
no money. Then, when I was alone, I could
think of no one who would give me even a
piece of bread but you, and so I came here.

"There! I have told you all. Perhaps I
have been a fool for my pains; for now, no
doubt, you will turn me away, and there will
be nothing left for me but the workhluse.
Good Heavens, the workhnusel And I thought
to be mistress of Normantoul”

But May did not turn her away: she let her
stay until she had gained strength, and then
she put her in the way of some honest employ-
ment that was suited to her. But Mrs. Dexter
had lived so long for her son that she did not
even care to try to live without him; she
would not want anything very much longer.

For some months Mrs. Langley’s uneventful
life went on, without one single incident .to
break the monotony. She was growing just a
little weary of the .days so much like each
other, and was beginning to ask herself in
some dismay if it would be always like this.

Kate Dunstable came to stop with her in the
spring. No one could be dull with Kate, so the
girls were happy enough together; but Kate
would be going away soon, and than the dreary
routine would begin again. They tacitly agreed
not to mention the past, so the dark page of
May’s brief married life was not turned.

There was another subject on which Kate
kept a marked silence, which did not please
May so well. This was the sayings and doings
of her brother Fred. Only once did she vol-

TEE

uhtarily speak of him—it was two days before
she left. ‘

May was sitting half in and half out of the
open window, her lap full of purple and white
violets and ferns, which she'was arranging into
a bouquet. Every now and then she glanced
furtively across at her friend, who was writing
at a little table at the further end of the room.

“Kate.” she said, presently, “I can see you
are troubling about something. What is it?"

Kate laid down her pen with a sigh, and
rested her head on her hand.

“ I am troubled,” she replied, sadly. “It is
about Fred. He is talking of leaving us all,
and going to Australia. We have an uncle
there, and he thinks of joining him for ayear
or two.”

“ To Australial” echoed May, with a sinking
at the heart. “ on, Kate. you must not let
him go!”

“I fear nothing I can say would make much
difference, she rejoined. “He is reckless and
unsettled. There is only one woman in the
whole world who can speak the word that
would keep him."

“And who is that?” May asked, faintly,
without looking up.

She had only seen Fred two or three times
since that dreadful night, when they had been
ready to face death together, and on each oc—
casion he had seemed to her cold and distant.

“Yourself, dear. But. May, do not look so
grieved. It is not your fault that you can not
love him, We will not speak of it again.”

Not speak of it again! May bent her head
low down over her flowers, her heart beating
wildly. What could she do? She could not
tell him that she loved him before he asked her,
and yet, it she made no sign, he would go away
and perhaps she might never see him again.

Kate had taken up her pen again, and
was finishing her letter. Soon it would be
folded and sealed. If she would speak, it must
be now. ‘

She rose tremblingly, and crossing the room,
went behind Kate’s chair, and putting her arms
round her friend’s neck, laid her burning cheek
against hers.

“Kate,” she whispered, softly, “tell him—-

 

tell him not to go."

END.

 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

 

 

 

 

PUBLISHED EVER Y T UESDA Y.

1 \ 
—./ Waverley Library. 2——

/

 

/

1 A Brlde oanny; or. Tim )lysn-ry of Winil‘rul
Leigh. nv Anny lluull Uruuwll.
2 The Girl Wife; mun... Tm- nnd n... 1mm. By
llnrtlr-y 'l‘. ('mnphvll.
8 “'un It Love? Ur, Unlluginm and Swenlhenrts.
\Nm. )Illsllll 'l'urnvr, M. l).
4 Mnrrlml III Ila-Ale. lly Ran. Winwnml.
5 “'1” She Murry lllul? Ur,'l'l|u Masked Ilride.
By Mr. Mnry Rvml Crmwll.
nl “'lfe: or, Myrn, the Child at Adop-
tin". By His. Ann S. uplmnq.
7 A Fnlry' lance; 0r, Out in the VVurld. By Bnrtley '1'.
Cum 1m .
8 A Mad Mnrrloge; or,Thn Iron Will. By Mnry
A, Denim“.
9 A "no 'htvr of Eve' or, Blinded hy Love. By
Mrs. N :ll‘V Reed Crnwrl .
10 The Broken Betrothnl; or, Love versus Ilnte.
ny Mm- Grnrn Hum...
11 The Brhlc of an Actor; or, Driven {mm Home.
By the Author of u Alunc in o.» win-1.1,” .-1c.,«t.-.
12 A l’ulr ol'Grny Eye»; or, The EnmrnldNechlnce.
lly l’ w Kennrily.
13 “’lthout n lleiu-t. Ry Col. Prentiss Inzrnhnm.
14 Alone In the \Vorltl; or. The- Young Mnn’s Wnrd.
Ily the Aurthur 0f “ 'l'lw llrillv nl'nn Artur,” elm, Mr.
15 Bloth *rlem: or, The Farmer‘s Sweethean By Col.
l’re ‘ Ii L'rnluun.
16 The heel‘t‘t Mnrrlugc. By Sum Cluxtnn.
L1? Einter ugnlnnt h‘lnter; or, The Rivnlryul Henna.
lly Mrs. Mm'y lluwl Crnwell.
18 Heart to lleuI-t‘: or, Fair Phyllis’s 1mm,va
Arnlwlln Snnthworlli. '
19 S19}! for Gold; or,Almosi Lost. By Mrs. M. V.

ny

Mgr.

20 Entangled; nr, ADnngerous Game. By Henrietta
'l‘linckern)’.

21 Sybll Chime; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs.
Ann S. Slephvns.

22 Trout Iler .Vot; or, A True Knight.
Leiveslur.

28 Slnned A Must. By Clnrn Augusta.

2-!- A Lovnl .over. By Arulmllu Suulhwnrth.

25 The (‘ouutry Cousin. By lime Kennedy.

26 llli Idol: or, The. Ill-Smrrml Murringe. By Mrs.
Mary Reed Crowell.

2’? Fllrtutlon: or. A Young Girl‘s Good Name. By
meb Almrlmnell (Ralph llm'nl).

28 Now and Forever; nr, Why Did Sha l\lnrryllim1
By llenrivlln Tlinrhemy.

B9 Orphuu Nell, the Ornnge Girl; or, the Lost Heir.
lly Agile l‘xéllnl‘.

30 Charlene ’I‘e )lc. ll_\' Mrs. Rmvsnn.
81 The thlle II new; or, Ulhll'l'll Cloud. Bv Mrs.
Mnry i. Delilanh. '

32 Lgup Yeur ; or, Why She Proposed. By SnrnCinx-

By Mnrgnrut

ill.

88 In Splte of llernelf; or, Jaanetle’s Reparation.
By s. n. Sllul'wmul.

84 Her Focu‘Vo‘ Her For! uuc. Br Elennnr Blnine.

85 The Cuban llelreni. By Mrs. Mury .\. Denisrm.

86 Only a fichoolmlutrcnn. By Arnhelln Snuthwnrth.

8? The \Vlnged Mennenzer; nrrRisking All for n
llenrt. lly MN. Mary Rwd (.Irnwell.

88 “'ns “he a Coquette? hr. A Strange Courtship.
By Hu‘lll‘luttu 'l'hm-herny.

89 One \Vnrnon’n Heart. By Georg» S. Knime.

40 Love-Mull: or, Bulrnthwl, Mnrriud, Divorced and—-
By Win. Mnaon 'I‘nrner, M, I).

41 For Her Dcnr Sake. By firm Cluxton.

THIR T l 1TW'0 0 UTA V0 PA GES.

' 42 The Bouquet Glrl. By Agile Pnnnn.

)lflrlulllhllw l’rinm Donna. lly Arnlmllu Smnhmmh.

4—1 The Eholl Monk; or, The l\l_\slcl‘l0u§ Uunrdinn.
liy hm. Mm 11m CI'IHVcll.

4:? Lucy Temple . llnuuhlur urChnrlnuo.

4b ’l‘hc 'l'Im-c Mute-m. nv Aliu: Flaming.

4" 'l he Creole Fintern. By Mrs. Annn 1-2.1‘urtrr.

48 A “urn-lo rt: oi'Convenlenue. Byh'nmClnxlun.

i9 ’1 ho wm- n secret. lSy u I. .lnnn Lewis.

Sh- Aruher‘s lh-ldo. 'A :llmlln sunihwnrth.
Led Antruy. ll_\' (Mum 8. ‘Ih-t.

52 llolueleus; or, Two Urldinn Girls in New York. lly

y Alhcrl w. Alla-n.

£33 The Mnulol- Bride. B“ Mnrgnrec Blnunk.

b3} Pledzed to Murry. llyS rul'lllxlnn.

05 Cet‘ll'n Irecolt. lly .\lrx».. .lvnnie m. a. I:u.~m..

56 Bentrlvo, Ihe Bountiful; or, llis Sex-0nd LUV“.
lly Arnhrlln Sunllm'urlli.

57 “'Ithuut Morey . liy Burlle T. Cmnplmll.

58 The Borouot‘n Hecret. By Sum Clnxn-n.

59 Agnes "one. the Aotrcln; or, (he lnmmwc (if n
nuhy Ring. By Wm. Mum-n Inner, ‘.\l. I).

60 A “'ldow‘s “'iles. By llnrliel Burnhnrdz.

61 llltl He Love Her? lly Jln llvy T. Cnmpb.ll.

(i2 Allnont in llln Power.

(18 film lbld Not. Love Him.
worLli.

64. Bonnie Raynor. the “’ork Girl.
Mnsun Turnery M. D.

65 A Brave Girl. By Alice Fleming.

(16 Lord Roth’n lilu. lly Georgiana Diclagns..

6? A “Flaked "curt. By Sam ('liutlm.

(is "In “col-L’s )Hntrens. By Arolmlln Suutlnvorth.

69 The (Duly Duunlner. By Alive Fleming.

70 “'hy I )hlrrled llllnl ]l_\' Sum Cluxton.

71 Honor Bound. By Lillmn Lavrjny,

72 A )Iun’! Sln. By Rm “'inwuml.

73 Ills own Again. By Amhelln Snuthwonh

74 Adria, the Adopted. By Jrnuie Davis isnrlun.

76 A Brother’n Sln. By Rlll'llol Bernhardt.

76 BBL-none She Lovell llhn. lly Alice Fluminz.

7'? A Strange Marriage. By Lilinn Luvrjny.

's'S For the \Volnnn lle Loved. By Agnes Mary
Shullon.

79 Forbidden Buns. By Arnbclln Smithwnrlh.

80 Two Young Girl: By Alire Naming.

81 A Point of Honor. lly Lillinn Lovejny.

82 A “'omnn’n \Yltchery. lly Sum ('lnxmm

83 A Southan Ordenl. By Mrs. Geurginnn Dickens.
Randy llecemlzer T1.

84: 0utn'l ted by llerncll‘. lly Arnhelln Southworih.
Ready Devan-Mr W.

85 “'hot Jeulouny Dld.
Ready .l.4nuur}' 5.

86 A “'nmuu’n Mnneuvcr. lly llillinn anqqu.

Reme Jnnnnry 1'1.

Futeful (Some.

Randy Jnnunry l'J.

lly Lillinn Luvejny.
lly Arnbclla Soulliv

lly Wm.

lly Alive Flmuiuz.

 

l S? A By Sam Chmum.
l

The Waverley Library 15 for sale by all newsdealers, five cents per copy, or
sent by mail on receipt of six cents each.

QBeacZZe and Adar/Ls, PubZishers,
No. 98 William street. New,York.

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