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$2.50 PUBLISHED WEEKLYBY BEADLE AND ADAMS price.
VOL.  . a Year. No. 93 William Strcct. New York. ' Five Cents.  96-

 

._‘ ' ' S ‘ .4..r~4 .~.(

THE GATE WAS REACHED, THE LAST GOOD-DY WAS SAID.

A   oloud of discontent which overshadowed the
, face 01’ Penvlope Heuthcote. Although the

581150111 was S))ll'illf.§,dfl chilliness in the aair lrlnarli:

9 her Sliver, mm a rizzling min cause a o -

or’ A YOUNG GIRL s POLLY' jects in the streets to assume the dejected ap-
BY A G N193 MARY 3115117101“ puamnce common to things. animate and inau-

—— 1mate,on a rainy day in Camden. Moreover,

CHAPTER I. the large but not scru ulously clean kitchen in

THE ECCENTRIC BOARDER. which she stood with t e handful of fire in the

Tums was certainly some excuse for the rusty stove and the square of torn carpet 111

 

    

9 A BITTER. MISTAKE.

 

the center of its flooring, forcibly reminded
her of the poverty which had been her portion
for so many years; but. for all that she had not
yet learnt to endure the latter with equani-
mity.

The tone of Penclope’s mind was gent-rally
in indignant protest against Fate; and us she
carefully smoothed the creases out of her
brother Bertrand‘s only c0at~a garment that
had seen much service—she looked so grim
that the Iittlo maid of all-work who waited on
the Heathsotes and their boarders opined that
" missis was in one of her tempers,” and fol-
lowing the teachings of experience, was careful
not to intrude upon her notice.

Penelope was a tall. straight, rather mas-
culinellooking woman of nine and twenty, with
an aquiline nose, thin compressed lips, thick
black brows, almost meeting above eyes of a
curious reddish-brown hue, which, when she
was angry, seemed to emit spurns of fire; but,
when she smiled, danced with a. vivacity which
illumed her whole countenance. Her coarse,
dark hair was drawn back from her t‘orohuud,
and fastened into an untidy knot at the back
of her head, while the defects of her angular
figure were rendered more apparent by the ill-
fitting calico wrapper she wore.

Penelope made no attempt at improving ap-
pearances, either in herself, her dress, or her
surroundings.

"Milly, have you, taken up Mr. E‘lerton’s
teal" she asked, sharply, breaking the long
silence.

“ Yes, Miss Penelope, more than half an hour
a 1."

“ Did he seem better than he was this morn-'

ing?"

“He looked awful bad,” answerei Milly,
pausing in her task of clearing up the kitchen,
in order to give emphasis and solemnity to her
words. “He was sitting in his arm-chair a-
lrembling and shivering with cold, though he
was close to the fire, and he hadn‘t. toucth no
dinner, nor taken his medicine. I’ve been
thinking, Miss Penelope, the old gent may not
get over this stretch.”

Before her mistress could reply, the hell of
a room above rung violently, and Miss Ileath-
cote, well accustomed to similar impatient
summonses, quitted the precincts dedicated to
domestic duties, and amended to the sitting-
room.

“You know I hate to sit moping lie-re all
alone!” exclaimed her brother, peevishly, as
she entered. “ What have you been doing?”

“Trying to make you look a little more
presentable whoa next you dine with your pa.
tron, Mr. Hurbury,” she answered; “but this
cost is so shabby it defies all my efforts at im-
provement. ”

“A‘nd that fellow, Fitwell, positively re-
fuses to make another until I settle his ac~

 

count,” obsc1'ved Bartrand, moodily. “But it
is or no g1 out, consequence. for inasmuch as I
have qllflrl'Plt‘d with my patron, as you term
him,it is not likvly that I shall again be in-
vitcd to partan of his hospitality.”

“ Qum'reledl Oh, Bertrand, how could you
be so foolish! I thought Mr. Hal-bury had
commissioned you to paint him another pic-
ture,”

“I believe there was some half-promise of
the sort; but the man was so dictatorial, be-
sides being niggardly, that I could hear his
whims no longer."

“Then how are we to live?” questioned
Penelope, stcrnly. “ You know he has always
given a fair price for any picture that took his
fancy; and you know how difficult it is to
please the regular dealcrs, not to mention the
hard bargains they always drive. what do
you mean to (lo, Bertrand!”

“I have not yet had time to give the mat-
ter a thought,” he rejointd, affectng an air of
indifference.

“Will you give drawing lessons if I can
find you pupils, Bertrand?”

“ Certainly not. I should not have patience
to direct and lecture’a svt of tiresome school-
boys who have no taste for art, and girls are
not much better. What a pity it is that there
should be any necessity for working! Labor
dertroys all enjoyment of life, and this per-
petunl obligation of studying ways and means
to provide bread and butter weighs down
onc’s spirits to a point that is most often too
heavy to bear up undrr."

“Yet such will be our destiny to the weary
end,” said Penelope, frowning at once at her
brother’s speech, and grieving at the unpro-
mismg prcsptcts vshich now presented them-
selVes to her.

“Peihaps not; we might become pcs:esscd
vfa fortune; in which case I would have a
luxurious home, replete with every comfort
and attraction wealth could furnish; while ycu
would marry Walter Maxwell, and, of course,
be happy ever after.”

Acold, half-snowing smile curled on his
slate-1’s lip as she answered, “I am afraid that
while you are building (-ustlesin'th'e air Walter
and I must grow old and gray. Our engagement
has already lasted several years, and we are pre-
maturely aged by trouble and anxiety. Only to.
day I noticed a few silver thieads in my hair;
and when I remember that I shall soon be
thirty years of age, it seems as if I were even
now the old for love, hope, or happiness.”

“You are, no doubt, losing fast all your
good looks,” obsrrved Bertrand, with that
brutal candor brothers sometimes affect. “ If
Walter were to cry off, one could scarcely
blame him. I Warned you long ago that a
lengthy engagement is risky for a. man, and
suicidal for a woman. One or the other is sure

    

  

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A BITTER MISTAKE. 8

 

to grew tired of waiting, and only quarrel and
part when it is too late to form new ties.”

“ What could we dos” she asked, after a
gloomy, mental survey of this disagreeable
picture. “ You know Walter has been unfor-
tunate in business, and was glad to receive a
clerkship of six hundred a year. Would you
have me marry upon that?"

“Certainly not," was his bitter anSu'er;
“ you would be committing a folly uhich is
generally punished more severely than a crime
In your case, Poverty would wield the scourge
to frighten away Cupid. Now if you had
only had the good luck to attract some rich
man’s fancy when you were young, how dif-
ferent things might now be with us both l"

“I should not have loved him so well as
Walter.”

“That matters little. I would marry one
of the Gorgons if she possessed a comfortable
independence; and even in your case I believe
that common» sense in such an emergency
would have caused you to give up the chance
of love in a cottage for a more brilliant match.
But, unfortunately, you have never been
tempted in that direction.”

Penelope‘s eyes flashed fire. Though her
faults were many, she was a woman of strong
affections, and had a capability fOr loving that
her brother did not possess. She was slavishly
faithful to Walter Maxwell, and would not
have deserted him to become the Sharer of a
throne. Though stung for the moment, she
was too much accustomed to her brother’s
taunting speeches to attempt rccrimination; so
after a short pause, she udroitly changed the
subject of conversation.

“ Old Mr. Ellerton seems very ill, Bertrand.”

“What, our first floor— the mysterious man,
who came three months ago, paid in advance,
gave no references, and seems to have no
friends? Well, Pen, if he is going to die, per-
haps he will first make a will in our favor.”

The lady tassed her head contemptuously.

“We should not be much the gainers. H3
is poorer than we are, with his shabby clothes
and frugal meals, for which he daily doles out
n few cents to Milly, giving her strict injunc-
tions to make no extravagant purchases. In-
deed, I have been anxious to speak to you on
the matter, and to ask your advice. Suppose
the old man were to be laid up with a long ill-
ness, which terminated fatally, and did not
leave enough money to pay all the expenses,
should we not be in an awkward position 2"

Bertrand stroked his long, fair mustache
meditatiVely, and assumed a thoughtful expres-
sion which, by so doing, made his resemblance
to his sister, whose junior he was by Several

‘ years, all the more striking. His hair was

several shades lighter, his skin paler, being al-
most cadaverous in hue; but the flickering
eyes beneath their beetling brows, the long,

 

thin mouth, and well-shaped nose and chin,
were like Penelope‘s.

“As you say, it might be awkward,” he as-
sented, at length; “yet the old fellow, so far,
has paid regularly, so I am loth to give him
notice. Shall I go up-stairs and pay him a.
visit? I might manage to gain some knowl-
edge of his pecuniary affairs, or at least find
out whether he has any friends to whom we
could apply in case of need.” ,

“Just. what I was about to suggest, Ber-
trand. He surely cannot be quite alone in the
world.” '

“We must endeavor to find that out; your
hints have alarmed me. We must not allow
ourselves to be put to the trouble and expense
of nursing a sick pauper: so if there is any
chance of our being out of pocket by Mr. Eller-
ton, he will hava to go.”

Saying which, Bertrand arose from the
cruch with an air of decision, which was in
striking contrast to his former languor. The1
prospect of his boarder falling into arrears,.
perhais dying on the premises, dispelled his:
dreamy indolence, and startled him into vigor—
ous action.

Bertrand Heathcote was not disturbed by
scrupulcusness. He was full of that selflove-
which rarely or never regards the claims of
others. What mattered it to him how long or'
how much others might sufl’er, provided he
himself escaped annoyance and injury.

He went up the narrow staircase, and
knocked at the door of Mr. Ellerton’s room.

It “as the first-floor front, and for years had
been let by the Heathcotes to eligible single
gentlemen, “hose payments were found con-
venient in assisting to pay the rent of the
small, dingy house in Budd street, Camden.

A high toned, quavering voice bade him
enter.

The old man had drawn his chair close to
the fire, and the ruddy blaze shone full upon
his meager form, which was wrapped in a
faded dressmg—gown; upon his wizen, sharp-
featured face, long white hair, which nearly
reached his shoulders, and into his wandering
eyes of lightest blue. A gray, unkempt beard,
hanging down upon his breast, gave him a.
\‘Fllelable, though stmewhat weird, appear
ance. In his younger days he might have
been tall of stature; but he was now so bent“
by age and ill~health, that it seemed an effort
to raise his head and look with inquiring
scrutiny upon his visitor.

“Good-evening, Mr. Ellertoui” began Bor-
trand, slightly disconcerted by his earnest
gaze. “My sister tells me you are unwell,
and—”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Heathcote; to be sure! I
did not recognize you at once, for my eyes are -
failing, though my hearing is as good as ever.
So you came to ask after my health? That is

 

4 A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

failing, too. I am not the same man I was
even six months ago. You must excuse me
for not being in the humor to entertain
visitors.”

Bertrand, in no way discomfiled by this
speech, sat down, uninvited, and glanced fur-
tively round the room, thinking he might
thereby discover some indication of his board-
er’s pecuniary condition. A sea chest, which
seemed to have seen rough service, and a bat-
tered valise stood together near the window;
but their contents were invisible, and no other
vestige of Mr. Ellertou’s personal property re-
warded his scrutiny.

“You should have medical advice, sir, from
some clever practitioner,” he recommenced,
blandly. “There is a doctor living in this
very street. You may have noticed the red
lamp over his door. I can highly recommend
him.”

“Poohl—nonsense! I want no long doctor’s
bills! The bottle of medicine Milly brings me
from the druggist round the corner is just as
eficacious, I dare say, as if it were prescribed
by a regular physician, while it saves at least a
dollar.”

“ But for the satisfaction of your-iriendsi"

“Friends! Why, I have none! I am
an old man, and have outlived all that were
worthy of the name. I have been absent from
America nearly fifty years, Mr. Heathcote. I
have traveled half over the world, seen many
strange sights, and have had all sorts of cu-
rious adventures. As you may imagine, I
now find myself quite a stranger in my own
country.”

“Yes, indeed; that is a long period to be a
wanderer,” said Bertrand, hoping to win his
' way by degrees into the old man’s confidence.
“ You must have undergone many vicissitudes.”

“ You may well say so. Why, sir, I Was in
the wilds of Australia when fortunes were
made in a week, and when the man who often
arrived a beggar left and went home, before
many years, a millionaire. Not that I was so
fortunate myself, though at one time I had no
reason to complain; but if I won at one time,
I lost at another, and this'went on year after
year, until, tired of it, I went to Brazil to try
my luck there.” . '

“ And there?” questioned Bertrand, eagerly.

“I did well-very well; but I placed too
much confidence in my partner, who turned out
a rogue and a cheat. I quarrelecl with him,
and grew tired of the country; so off I was
again, and after much travelling by sea. and
land, once more put fortune to the test at the
African diamond fields.” ’

“ Where you were successful, I hope?" said
Bertrand, interrogatively.

“Ah, there is nothing like enterprise!” was
Mr. Ellertou’s rather evasive answer. “ I t «je-
seers success. Men who pass their liVes at

 

 

home labor incessantly, and are only just able
to keep the wolf from the door. The digger is
always sustained by the hope of being raised
to the pinnacle of his ambition by a lucky
chance. If he has patience to wait and work,
sooner or later comes his reward.”

W hen Bertrand retired it was with a strong
suspicion that his boarder was an eccentric
being of miserly habits, Who. having amassed
Wealth, loved to hoard rather than to spend it.
From his own account, he was friendless in the
world; so who would these hoards ultiliiately
enrich? If any persons, suflivriently alive to
their own interests. studied Mr. Ellcrton‘s
whims, and ingratiated themselves in his good
graces, they might be his heirs, and have a
goodly reward f or their trouble.

From that day a perceptible change came over
the Heathcotcs’ behavior toward their boarder.
They ministered to the old man’s wants and
Wishes with praiseworthy assiduity. Penelope
smoothed her ruffled brow as she busied herself
in giving his apartment a more comfortable
homelike appearance, while her brother would
relieve the tedium of illness by half an hour’s
friendly chat or reading aloud the evening
newspaper.

Nor were their efforts altogether unsuccessful.
Mr. Elierton grew accustomed to their [res—
ence, and was inclined to be sociable. Some-
times, however, he would repulse their ud-l
vances without reason, and would incase him-
self in an armor of reserve just at the moment
they fancied they had secured his favorable
regard. He would have fits of distrust which
he did not attempt to conceal, and would ab-
ruptly interrupt a conversation that was grow-
ing confidential with hints as to the propriety
of every reasonable man keeping his private
affairs locked in his own breast.

Brother and sister would occasionally lose
hope, and relax their exertions, when a chance
word from Mr. Ellerton would brace them up
to fresh endeavors.

CHAPTER II.
' ICNID’SHOME.

FAR away from muddy Camden, near a
small town in the Berkshire hills called Dale~
bury, stood a low-roofed white house of some
pretensions, which was approached by a car.
riage-drive, and boasted of a well-arranged
flower-garden and smoothly—shaven lawn suit-
able either for lawn-tennis or croquet. This
was Sunnymead, the residence of Mrs. Ormes-
by, widow of the late rector. .

One morning she, with her daughter Jesswa,
lingered at the breakfast-table, though the
morning was already far advanced. Mrs.
Ormesby was a stately, imperious woman
about forty years of age, exhibiting the re-
mains of great beauty, which her daughter
had partially inherited. But Jessica would

_,..-

A BITTER MISTAKE.

5

 

never boast that majestic hieht and well-
developed figure, nor was she possessed of
those lustrous orbs and qunisitcly-chisoled
features which had once caused the fame of
her mother to be spread throughout the county.

“\Vell, Jessica,” began the elder lady, as
she slowly sipped her chocolate, “you are
strangely silent this morning. I expected you
would give me a. full account of the birthday
party yesterday at Mrs. Brooke’s, which I was

unfortunately prevented from attending in1
consequence of a wretched headache. Did it:

go oll’ well!”

“Very well, momma.

“You danced a great deal, of course, and
had agreeable partners?"

“Oh, yes!”

“I suppose Basil Clifford was there, and
helped to make the evening pass pleasantly?”

“ We danced together once or tn ice.”

“Jessica, do not be provoking," cried the
mother, With some irritation. “You give me
no particulars when you know how anxious I
am."

“Why are you so anxious, dear momma?"
asked the girl, with assumed simplicity.

“ That you should one day be Mrs. Basil Clif-
ford, of the Ball,” answered Mrs. Ormcshy, slow—
ly and impressively.

fancy that the dictates of your own heart ap-
prove my conduct."

A bright blush dyed the girl’s face, rising
even to her broad, low forehead.

“I fear—J mean I think that will never be,” ‘

she fultered.

“Why not, Jessica? I am not apt to form
plans which are not to he realized. You and
Basil were play fellows in childhood, and even
then 1 encouraged him, and smiled to hear him
call you his little wife. Since then you have
been thrown much together, andI have noticed

-with pleasure that the childish friendship has
suffered no diminution as the years have passed
on, but rather has steadily progressed.”

“Friendship is net love, momma,” hazarded
the girl. timidly.

“ With young folks it is hard to say where
the line is drawn,” remarked  Ormesby,
with a complacent sense of her own sagncity.
“Believe, me, my love, I have had some ex-
peiience in such matters. and do not doubt that
the day will come when 1 can congratulate you
on your conquest.”

There was a moment’s hesitation.

“ Perhaps I am mistaken; but sometimes the
fancy crosses my mind that Basil is in love with
Enid,” replied Jessica. ‘

Mrs. Ormesby gave a little scream of indig-
nation.

“What! in love with that pale-faced, ilent,
dreamy-eyed child, when he has had the oppor-

“I have planned for you :
that future, my child, and I am inclined to ’

 

trinity of Seeing, associating and of conversing
with you, JeSsit-a?”

“ She has greatly improved during the last
two years. I have several times lately heard it
remarked that there is something in her face
more striking than regular beauty. Then that
pile golden hair, which gleams in the sunshine
like threads of light, and ripples all over her
hen I, defy ing band or comb to keep it in per-
fect order, is a. great attraction. Irdeed,
Inamina, it is no use shutting our eyes to the
fur-t that Enid is a dangerous rival."

The elder lady remained Silent for awhile,
evidently in deep meditation. She was anx-
ious that her daughter should marry well, and
years ago settled in her own mind that Basil
Clifford would be an acceptable son-in-law when
Jessie was of an age to marry. He was young,
handsome, with afine estate and an extensive
income. Clifford Hall was at no great distance
from Sunnymeadwin itself a recommendation
to a mother in selecting a husband for her only
child.

Altogether she had grown so familiar with
the idea, and liked the plan so Well, that she
was resolved not to accept defeat, especially
from a girl like Enid Lisle, an orphan niece of
her late husband, the rector, to whom he had
given a home, after her parents had died of
fever within a few days of one another.

“ What has given rise to your wild supposi-
tions?" she inquired, after mentally deciding
that she would not submit tnniely to have her
schemes frustrated, but would endeavor to lead
Basil and her daughter to that happy future
which, unaided by her, they might never reach.

“ It is preposterous to think of Enid as mis-
tress of Clifford Hall; and surely Basil has not
spoken to you on the subject?” '

“0! course not, mamma; and I may be
wrong. Yet he seemed so disappointed that.
you had not allowed her to accept Mi 5. Brooke’s
invitation for last night, and “as so eager to
know whether he might expect to meet her
at the Greys’ musical party next, week, that I
felt sure he prized her society highly.”

Mrs. Ormesby gave a sigh of relief.

“Your t pinion rests on a poor foundation,
my dear,” she said, lightly. “Ytu know that
some people think Enid has a. fine voice, so
Basil might look forward with pleasure to an
oprortunity of hearing her sing at the Greys’,
without any feeling of which we might disapi
prove.” .

She smiled encouragineg at Jessica as she
rose from the table, the matutinal meal having
now been over some time, and Jessica faintly
returned the smile. Yet an inward monitor
told her that she was right in her belief, and
must relinquish the hope of having her first
love-dream realized. -

Meanwhile Enid Lisle, unconscious that she

 

 

  

A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

had proved such an interesting topic of con-
ver ntion to the ladies of Sunnymead, had
wa‘l:ed briskly down the quiet road leading to
Dalol.ury, in order to execute a commission
which Jessica had given her the previous day;
10-wit. to order some materials for fancy-work,
and to try to match some trimming, when she
had leisure; and the young girl, scorning to
ask for the use of her aunt’s pony-pliactun, had
set 03 on her expedition, before either Mrs.
Ormeshy or her daughter had descended to the
the breakfast-parlor.

To her it seemed pleasant to have the fresh,
cool air playing on her checks; to listen to the
song of the robin amid the thick green foliage
waving overhead. Sometimes a butterfly flit-
ted across her path, or a wild flower of more

than ordinary beauty tempted her to gather

it.

On reaching town, Enid quickly completed
her purchases, and was about to turn her steps
homeward, when she noticed Basil Clifford
standing by her side.

“I thought I was not mistaken,” be ex-
claimed, joyfully. “You passed Mapleton’s
while I was buying gloves, and I hurried to
overtake you. How fortunate that we should
happen to meetl”

She gave him her hand, and for an inst ant
they looked into each other’s eyes. In Enid’s
beamed shy happineSs, in Basil’s ardent love.

“You are going home, I presume: may I
walk with you?” he asked, persuasively; and
although the girl was conscious that her aunt
would disapprove, she had not the courage to
deny his request.

“I was disappointed at not seeing you last
night,” he said, as they walked on together.
“ What is the reason you so seldom accompany
Jessica into society? Do you dislike parties and
dancing?”

“Not in the least. 021 the contrary, I like
them very much; but aunt Oi'mesby raises many
objections. In the first place, she says I am
almost too young; next, that my uncle had
Scruples concerning various amusements, and
that, had he lived, he Would be sure to have
disapproved of my participating too freely in
County gayeties. Dear uncle! either living or
dead, his wishes are sacred to me, for he was al-
ways kind and loving!”

“Mrs. Ormesby is not so conscientious with
Jessica," he remarked. rather bitterly.

“It would be unreasonable to expect her to
be influenced by‘ my uncle’s opinion. since she
was only his step—daughter,” said Enid, with
decision.

“You must not be offended if I ask you a.
question most young ladle would think impar-
tinent,” he began, after a. short pause, smiling
upon her under his thick mustache. “ i should
not be so rude, only I perceive your aunt treats

 

you as a child, whileI have reasons for wishing
you to grow quickly into womanhood. How
old are you, Enid?”

" Eighteen on the twenty—first of next Octo-
ber,” she answered, demurely.

“And we are now in May. Not much
longer than five months to wait before I shall
claim a precious gift from Mrs. Ormesby. If
she consents to bestow on me the treasure which
I crave, I shall come to you for the ratification
of the bond, Enid.”

He looked down from his stately hight on the
slight petite figure of the girl beside him, who,
with her lovely flowing hair and unadorned
dress of simple gray, looked even younger than
she really was.

They were silent for awhile. Euid’s mind
was in a sweet tumult, for Wen her girlish in-
experience and simplicity could guess a mean-
ing in the young man’s words—words which
thrilled her heart with joy; while he, still un-
decided whether or not the important words
should be spoken, walked on beside her, content
to watch the color rising on her cheek, and the
flickering smile on the sweet sensitive lips,
which he tool: as a token that she understood.
his allusions, and at lea-5t in some measure re
turned his affection.

“ Would it make you very unhappy to leave
Sunnymead?" he asked at length.

“ Oh, no,” she replied, innocently; “for
though aunt Ormesby is kind. I often feel I am
an intruder in the house where she and Jessica
might be happier without my continual pres-
ence. It is hard to describe exactly what I
mean, but there is no real sympathy between
us. Oh, if my own dear mother had but lived,
I should have been a happier and better girl.”

“ Happier, perhaps; I will not hear of your
béing better. You are quite good enough for
this work-n-day world.”

“ You do not know me thoroughly. 1 am
often willful and obstinate, apt to act upon the
impulse of the moment without calculating the
consequences of my rash folly; and then, when
too late, I abuse myself in bitter repentance,
making all sorts of good resolutions—~resolu-
tions, however-,Which are unfortunately ofteuer
broken than kept.”

“ You underrate your own good qualities,”
he answered, smiling, “and exaggerate your
‘Jaults. Thoughtless you may be—I, who am
near] y nine years older than you, sometimes do
things of which my better judgment disap-
proves—but I will not believe you are willful
and obstinate unless I obtain ocular demonstra-
tion of the fact.”

She shook her pretty head gravely.

“I can assure you that I am not taking too
harsh a view of my failings. Even uncle,
dear, indulgent uncle, used to scold me occa-
sionally; and nurse Rachel, who is so very,

 
 
    
     
    
  
    
   
  
   
   
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
   
  
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
    
    

A BITTER MISTAKE. ~ 7

 

very old that she remembers my grandmother
when she was u little girl, says I am like her
both in face and disposition.”

“ Was your grandmother, then, a very head-
strong old lady?” asked Basil, laughing out-
right.

" She never lived to be old,” answered Enid,
with a pensive air. “ She died of consumption
a few years after her marriage, and though
she left a kind husband and two little children,
she was quite willing to go. Rachel says that
she was never the same girl after her parents
forbade her to think any more of young Eller-
ton, but fretted and wasted away, so that her
health was quite broken when at last she was
persuaded to marry grandfather.”

“Who was young Ellerton?” inquired Basil,
with but faint interest in this story of proba-
bly over fifty years ago, yet liking to hear
Enid talk so earnestly.

“He was her father’s clerk, and she loved
him, though he was very poor, and altogether
unsuited to be the husband of a wealthy mer-
chant’s daughter. She was wayward and
headstrong, refusing to be advised by those
who were older and wiser than herself. So her
parents sent her for a while tol'n' convent, and
her lover emigrated to some ybutiaudish coun-
lry and was never heard of more.”

“ Quite a. romance of the olden time,”smiled
Bisil. “I wish it had ended more happily.”

“So used I to wish; but Rachel saysa re-
bellious spirit is never contented in any condi-
tion of life; therefore, things might not have
been much better if Enid the first—her name
was the same as mine—had been allowed to
follow her own inclination.”

“ Would you, then, Enid, tamer submit to
be Separated from the man you loved? Nay,
you need not answer in words; there is a flash
of indignant dissent in your eyes that suffi-
ciently settles the question. May you be as
tender and true as your namesake, but far
more fortunate: and may the happy man who
wins your hand he the possessor of your heart‘s
best love!”

A turn in the road brought Mrs. Ormesby
and Jessica in sight. The beauty of the niorn-
ing had tempted them forth for a constitu-
tional. Jessica looked grave, and the elder
lady accosted her niece with an air of frigid
displeasure.

“I am surprised, child, to see you out at
this hour of the morning when you should be
practicing your music and drawing. Pray
lose no more time, but hasten home as quickly
as you can. I like young persons to be dili-
gent in their studies.”

Then, fearing lest Basil might not be in.
clined to relinquish his position as escort, she
added, “ Ithink, Jessica, we will not continue

our walk, as I am rather weary; so you and,

 

Mr. Clifford can talk ovr-r Mrs. Brooke’s party
while I give Enid directions regarding the em-
ployment of her time until luncheon. Come,
my love," turning to the latter, “you look
warm and tired, and will be glad to walk at a
310wer pace.”

So Mrs. Ormesby enjoyed the satisfaction of
watching her pretty daughter laughing and
talking gayly as she moved onward beside her
companion, who politely exerted himself for
her entertainment, though his heart lingered
with Enid.

 

CHAPTER III.
OLD ELLEnrox‘s HEIRESS.

IN the course of a few weeks, Bertrand
Heathcote became quite intimate with his
somewhat eccentric boarder. He would sit for
hours listening to the old man’s rambling con-
versation, which often turned on deeds of past
prowess, culminating almost invariably in an
encounter with seine bushrangers or wild

beasts, wherein Mr. Ellerton performed prodiv

gios of valor and put his enemies to flight.

Fortune was at a low ebb iu the house in
Budd street. Bertrand idled away his hours,
producing occasionally a water—color sketch
which brought in small gain; while Penelope,
always most industrious and energetic, found
time to instruct a few [upils in music. Thus
they struggled on, managing to make enough
to supply their daily wants. But it was a
weary, anxious life, and Bertrand had some
excuse for his earnest longings after the riches
in perspective, which he fancied might one day
be the reward of his attention to old Ellerton.

Meanwhile, the invalid rallied considerably
—perhaps the extra c'axe and kindness gave
fresh vigor to his nearly worn-out frame—and
regained a modicum of strength. When the
Weather was propitious he ventured forth upon
long, solitary strolls, refusing all companion-
ship. This was rather annoying to his self-
appointed proiector, who was jealous lest Mr.
Ellerton should make any new acquaintance
who might rival him in the old man‘s favor.

One evening, on paying his usual visit, Ber-
trand found Mr. Ellerton seated at the table
with a desk before him full of papers which he
was examining and sorting. He looked more
than ordinarily bright and cheerful, and greet-
ed his friend with cordiulity.

“Sit down, Mr. Heathcote—sit down; you
do not disturb me. I am always glad to see
you. I am making the most of my time now
that 1 am comparatively strong and well, set-
tling all my affairs, and seeing that evorything
is ship-shape and as it should be. This im-
provement in my health may not last long.
What can a man expect who is over seventy
years of age, and has led a hard life? Never
mind, we shall all take our turn, and now my

 

 

 

 

 

8 . A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

heart is at ease, for my task is accomplished,
and my will has this day been proper'y signed
and attested.”

Bertrand flushed with excitement, and list-
ened eagerly for further revelations.

“ You may not suppose me to be a wealthy
man,” continued his companion, “because it is
my whim to live quietly, without show or osten-
tation. Money can do wonders. I love it as a mi-
raculous power that can remove difliculties, and
gives us in many cases life's choice:-t hleSsings.
For me it came too late! How happy a por-
tion of the gold I now possCSs would have
made me years ago, when my frame was
strong, and my heart lighter! 1 could then
have had a blissful home,‘ the sweetest and
dearest of women for my wife, perhaps chil~
dren prattling round my knees, to be my pride
and solace. For want of money that hope was
crushed.- [have passed through life alone—-—a
solitary, disappointed man!”

“You can still enjoy the sweets of friend-
ship, sir,” observed Bertrand, blandly. “ Both
my sister and myself have the highest regard
for you.”

“Thanks, thanks!” he muttered, mechani-
cally.

Then, fumbling in his desk with feeble hands,
he brought forth a faded miniature, on which
he gazed with evident gratification.

“If many years would roll back into the past,
and Enid Vere come to life again in her well-
remembered loveliness, I would lay my fortune
at her feet, and tell her how I struggled to win
the gold which would have purchased her
father’s consent to our union. Work—good
Heavens, how I workedl—although my early
eflorts at money-making proved futile, and al-
though long before I scored my first succuss I
learned that she was married.”

“ Women are proverbially fickle. It is
strange how often they repay our love with
falsehood,” observed Bertrand, anxious to ap-
pear sympathetic.

The old man turned on him almost fiercely.

“Faisal—who told you she was false? One
might as well suspect an angel of treacheryl
No; she Was cajoled or forced into a marriage
from which her 'heart revolted. It was no
wonder she died so young!”

“ She has, then. been dead for many
years?" '

"Yes. yes; it was the very summer I se-
cured that grant of land from the Mexican
Government which proved such a. good invest-
ment that I saw the announcement in a news-
paper that- had made its Way out to the diggings.
Look on her sweet, pure countenance, young
man, and never more associate with falsehood
the name of Enid Vere l”

Bertrand took the miniature held out to him
with some curiosity. It was the likeness of a
woman who had inspired this enduring passion

in

 

of a lifetime. He saw a. slender figure, claddn

a short-waisted white gown, with a blue scarf I

thrown lightly around it. The face was refined
and delicate, her eyes were pensive, and there
was a profusion of light golden hair, arranged
in a quaint, old-fashioned style.

Bertrand, who preferred showy, black eyed
beauties, piquunte, striking, with an expression
of pertness rather than melancholy, inwardly
marveled at his taste.

“You have now some notion of Enid’s beauty
in her youth,” said Lionel Ellerton, compla-
ccntly, as he received back his treasure, and
carelully dupes-item! it in a drawer of his desk.
“ It was her farewell gift, and has accompanied
me over land and sea. You cannot even guess
how I have prized itl”

“ You were speaking“ about business inat-
ters,” hinted Bertrand, anxious to bring back
the discussion to the point whence it had strayed.
“ Can I be of any service? Have you been well
recommended to the lawyer to whom, I‘pre-
sume, has been intrusted the drawing up of

your will? Excuse my interference, but I am '

anxious for your interests, and there are so
many rogues in the profession.”

“Thank you; I have my own lawyers.
When I returned from the Cape I brought a.
letter of introduction to a respectable firm,
whom I authorized to undertake a case which
I had much at heart. They have acquitted
themselves of their task entirely to my satis-
faction, and enabled me to carry out my
whim.”

This speech sounded somewhat mysterious,
and Bertrand waited impatiently for the next.

“There are many charitable institutions I
might have benefited,” pursued the old man;
“ but I prefer settling the bulk of my wealth
upon one who will cherish my memory with
tenderness and gratitude. Two hundred thou-
sand dollars is a large bequest to a person in no
way related by blood to the testator; is it not,
Mr. Heathcote?”

Bertrand assented, and his heart seemed
beating as if it Would burst during his brief
agony of suspense. The sum mentioned ex-
ceeded his wildest calculations; and as Mr. E!-
lerton had no friends, and did not intend mak-
ing charitable bequests, surely the future
inlieritor would he himself rather than Pene-
lope.

“ You must understand,” continued his com-
panion, with the provoking deliberation, pecu-
liar to age, “that if my relatives were living
I should not consider myself justified in mak.
ing such a will. But I am the last of my race,
and free to act according to my pleasure. My
heiress will be Enid Lisle, now residing with a.
Mrs. Ormesby at Sunuymead. near Dalebury,
Mass, grand-daughter and only surviving de-
sceudunt of the woman I loved.”

' Bertrand had difliculty in preserving an out-

A BITTER

Mlb‘TAK E. 9

 

ward appearance of composure. He would
have liked to lay violent hands on the venera-
ble graybeard, and accused him of a heartless
deception.

“ The girl is very young, I am told,” pur-
sued the unconscious cause of his disappoint-
ment, “ and may by chance resemble the sainted
lady Whose name she bears. My heart yearns
toward her.”

“ I wonder how you got to know of the girl’s
existence when you had been halt' a. century
absent from the United States,” said Bertrand,

petulantlv, for his vexation was too 5;: eat to'

be concealed altogether.
her out?”

“ The lawyers managed that matter for
me. I commissioned them to spare no expense
in making inquiries, although all was to be
done quietly and without publicity. Of course,
it was a work of time, for many changes had
taken place—marriages, deaths, and removals
complicated affairs, and raised difficulties.
Finally, however, they were successful in their
quest. and to day the document was signed that
makes the second Enid my heiress.”

“ Is she to be made aware of her good luck?”
inquired Bertrand, moodily.

Mr. Ellerton pondered before answering.

“ Well, no, I think not; when I am gone it
will be time enough. She may not resemble
my lost love in face or character, so it would
be a disappointment if we met, and I would
not like to disturb the portrait I have formed
of her in my imagination. Unless my plans
are somehow altered, I do not mean to see
her; but I have written a letter which will be
forwarded, when the proper hour arrives, by
those who will inform her of my death and of
the will I have made in her favor.”

There was silence for a moment; the aged
man had an opportunity to brood over his own
thoughts; but suddenly he burst out into aloud,
triumphant laugh.

“Ha, bill It is amusing to reflect that old
Vere, who was too proud to let me marry his
daughter, died a. ruined bankrupt; while the last
of his line will wear diamonds a duchess might
envy, the gift of poor Lionel Ellerton, whom
he scorned and contemned. You little thought,
Mr. Heathcote, that in the sea-chest yonder is
an iron box containing stones of such value
that it they were in your possession you would
be independent for life.”

He looked up and met the full gaze of Ber-
trand’s eyes fixed upon him—eyes gleaming
with hungry eagerness and greed .for wealth.
Perhaps the old man was struck by the revela-
tion so obtained of his companion’s nature, and
began to distrust him; or he may have become
conscious he was talking wildly.

Whatever was the reason, he paused abrupt-
ly, and passed his hand across his forehead, as
if to chase away the shadows from his brow.

“How did you ferret

gHis next words were uttered in a tone quite
ldifl’erent to that which he had used during his
late excitement.

_ “I am growing rather tired, Mr. Heathcote,
l and shall be better alone. I think, ton, my
,lllllld has been wandering alittle—indulging,
‘ in fact, in flights of fancy. We old travelers,
I you know, get into bad habits, and you must
| not believe all we tell you. Good-evening—
. good-evening.”

l Butrand had no resource but to take his
1 leave, and seek Penelope, whose sharp eyes
soon discovered there was something amiss.

She listened in silence to her brother’s ac-
count of his recent interview with their
boarder, and the disappointment of his hopes.

“ I think the old man is mad!” she exclaimed,
contemptuously. “Lalways doubted him.”

“ Because you have no insight into charac-
ter. For my own part, I am convinced not
only of Ellerton’s sanity, but that his wealth is
as great as he represents it to be. I discovered
the moment when his suspicious nature reas-
serted its influence, and when he would have
given worlds to retract his words, but it was
then too late.”

“At any rate, it is clear we have not a
chance of being a cent the better for all these
boasted hoards,” rejoined Penelope.

"That remains to be seen.”

“ How perverse you are, Bertrand! Did he
not tell you that he had willed away his
money?”

“But a bright idea has just struck me. I
will not relinquish the prize for which I have
striven, and may possibly win it after all.”

“ What is your brilliant project?” sneered
Penelope.

“If this girl, Enid Lisle, is an heiress,” he
answered, impressively, “she will be able to
enrich the husband of her choice.”

“Well, what then?”

“Why should I not marry her?”

Penelope stared at him with open-mouthed
. astonishment.

4‘ Marry a. girl you have never seenl What
nonsense you are talking!” -

“ I mean to seek her out without delay.
The idea is plausible; at all events, it is worth
while spending some time and trouble upon it
before giving it up as impracticable. It I woo,
win, and wed Miss Enid while she is uncon-
scious of the impending change in her fortunes
1 I shall obtain the character of being a disinter-
, ested lover, and afterward‘reap the reward of
' my devotion.” r

“ Is it likely her friends will consent to such
a marriage, even it the girl approves? You
must own, Bertrand, you could not be consi-
dered an eligible match.”

“They may not have the opportunity of re-
fusing. Young girls are romantic, and do not
I object to an slopement with an ardent suitor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

10 A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

who pleads his cause well. If she is poor—
living in dependence upon relulives or friends
—she will not have been pestered with wooers,
and I shall have less dfficulty in persuading
her to lis en to my vows.”

“ Your plan seems to me beset with dangers
and difficulties,” observed Penelope. “I
lrankly confess I do not like it.”

“ What special apprehensions assail you, sis-
ter mine!”

“The old man may linger on for years, and
alter his will at last.”

“ We must run a risk. like all other specu-
lators. If his frail lile was all that stood be-
tween me and the wealthl crave, I have a
presentimept he would not linger long.”

“ Bertrand!”

“ Well, Penelope, why do ycu look so scared?
Presentiments do not always Come true; and if
mine did, you would be none the poorer. You
should have a dowry of ten thousand dollars
when you married Maxwell, it I Were master
of old Ellerton’s money.”

“Hush, Bertrand! We will not discuss the
subject further. I fancied just now I heard a
step on the landing outside. Perhaps Milly is
listening.”

But if the household drudgehad been diver-
sifying her mcnotonous labors by applying.r her
ear to the keyhole, she managed to dive down
stairs in time to escape detection, for when the
door was opened, and Penelope looked over the
balusters, all was gloom and silence.

 

CHAPTER IV.
ms. ORMESBY‘S MANEUVEB.

ENID LISLE sat near the window of the
morning room, looking out upon the sweet
scented garden, where countless roses opened
to the sunshine, and filled the air with fra-
grance. Her eyes, however, were apt to stray
in the direction where she could catch the fizst
glimpse of Basil Clifford if he approached the
house. -

Nearly a. week had elapsed since his last
visit, and a week seems like a century (08.
lovecsick maiden whose beloved is absent.

Generally Basil was able to find some plausi-
l-le excuse for calling regularly every day.
There was sure to be a. book either to lend or
borrow, a duet to practice, or Mrs. Ormesby‘s
co-operation to obtain in some plan of amuse-
ment. He was always cordially received as a.
favored guest, so Enid felt a vague sense of
uneasiness,vboth at his continued absence and
the silence preserved on the subject by her aunt
and Jessica.

“Again idling away your time, my dear
Enid!” sighed Mrs. Ormeshy‘s voice behind
her. “The task of training you to habits of

 

industry is beyond my strength. I relinquish
it in despairl”

“Indeed, aunt, I only came here five min-
utes ago, and have done all you bade me.”

“My dear. you are an incorrigible idlerl
Do not contradict me by denying the fact. I
Wish I did not feel so acutely the responsibility
laid upon my shoulders; but it is my nature to
endeavor to perform even unpleasant duties to
the best of my ability. You must be aware,
Enid, that your education is not so thorough
and complete as your dear uncle would have
approved." a

“I did not know—” began the girl. then
stopped, embarrassed by the stern, judicial
gaze fixed upon her.

Mrs. Ormeshy gave a. frosty smile.

“Of course not, my dear; you are only a.
child. It is for your elders to judge of such
matters, and remedy that deficiency. I have
lately given much thought to the important
subject, and have made arrangements which I
trust your good sense will recognize assatis-
factory. What say you to a twelvemonth
passed at Madame Belleville’s establishment
for young ladies in New York. ‘

“Oh, aunt,” exclaimed Enid, in consterna-
tion, “you would not send me away from
Sunnymoadl I have never lived among
strangers. Their ways will be new to me. I
shall be always regretting the home and
friends left behind in dear Dalebury.”

“Very natural and proper, my dear; but
these home-sick feelings will soon pass away.
Both Jessica and I will miss you; but we must
stifle our selfish sorrows in the reflection that
the brief separation is for your welfare. A
year soon slips away. You can then return
with your education finished, and be ready to
be introduced into society.”

Enid knew it would be useless to rebel
against an arrangement ostensibly made for
her own benefit, though the prospect was de-
cidedly disagreeable.

She did not at the moment conjecture that
Mrs. Ormesby was desirous of removing her
out of Basil‘s way as a dangerous rival to Jes-
rslca.

She had even a vague idea of enlisting his
sympathy and persuading him to intercede on
her behalf. He was such a favorite at Sunny-
mead that he might be able to induce her aunt
to change her mind, and not insist on carrying
out this unwelcome project.

This hope lightened her trouble. She
dashed away the gathering tears, and said,
half smiling, “At least I need not make my-
self miserable until the hour of departure ar-
rives; that will be time enough.”

“ I am glad you are so reasonable,” observed
the elder-lady, surprised us well asrgratified at
her uiece‘s ready acquiescence. “Today you

A BITTER MISTAKE. 11

 

may employ in packing such things as you
desire to take with you, though Madane Belle-
ville has instructions to attend to your ward-
robe, and to provide all that is necessary. We
start for New York by an early train tomor-
row.”

“ To-morrowl" Enid could only repeat the
word that sounded the knell of her hopes.

“ Why not?” inquired her aunt, sharply.
“ We are not going to take a. voyage round the
Wurid, that a month neerl he went in prepara-
tion. The journey is a mere trifle, and I shall
place you myself under inudame’s charge.”

“ I should like to wish my friends good-by,"
murmured the girl.

"I will give them your adieux and mes-
sage-I. People will understand that you had no
time for leave-taking.”

“ Do you think Mr. Clifford will call to—day?”
risked Enid, carelessly, though her face was
suifused with crimson, and the hand that put
back an intrusive spray of honeysuckle, which
persisted in looking in at the window, trembled
as it performed its task.

“ What an extraordinary question !” remark-
ell her aunt, severely. “ I never thought that
you would feel interested in the young man’s
visit when matters of far more importance
claim your attention. But I must tell you that
he is not likely to return from the Highlands
urtil his friend is out of danger.”

“ The Highlands! Is be there? Oh, aunt,
you never told mel"

“Pray, Enid, do not get into a silly way of
repeating words and asking idle questions. It
is exceively ill-bred. Basil is at present up
the Hudson, whither he was summoned to the
sick-bed of a. friend, who met with serious in-
juries in a railway accident. They had been
school-fellows and college chums, or something
of the sort, and as the poor fellow's relatives
are abroad, Basil has decided to stay w'th him
while he can be of any use.”

“‘You knew all this, aunt, while I was won-
dering as to the reason of his long absence 1”

Jane Ormesby’s large, dark eyes flushed with
wrath. The audacious girl dared openly to
proclaim her interest in the young man’s move-
ments. She would have liked to shake her,
yet she controlled all outward display of anger,
and answered with an air of indiiference.

“ It would have been strange it Basil had
not enlightened me as to the object of his sud-
den journey, since I disapprove of a direct
correspondence with Jessica until their engage-
ment is made public.”

A mist arose before Enid’s eyes, and the
sound of rushing waters «as in her ears.

Mrs. Ormesby Secretly enjoyed her manifest
confusion.

“ I did not know he was engaged to J essica,”
said Enid, in a constrained voice.

 

“Oh, it was a. settled thing months ago.
But I cannot consent to part With my sweet
child at present, nor permit the whole town to
gossip over her intended marriage until the day
is absolutely fixed. Jessica is so shy and sen-
sitive that she dislikes any allusion being made
to the subject; therefore, I warn you, Enid,
not to repeat what I have told you.”

Enid made an inurticulute response. Her‘
heart was now the prey of love and jeal' usy.
Why had Basil dealt so triachevuusly in!
winning her aifection when he was pledged to-
another?

It did not occur to the maiden of seventeen
that her aunt was capable of overstepping the-
boundaries of truth. Although she did not:
love the austere lady who exucisod a stem
guardianship over her, she respected her too
much to believe her guilty of utterirg a willful
falsehood.

The ordeal at length was over. Mrs. Ormes-
by swcpt her silken draperies out of the room,
and Enid, thankful to be alone, stole quielly to
her own chamber. She could not have pre-
served the semblanee of composure a minute
longer, but must have given vent to her grief,
shame, and anger. So great was her cox: tempt
for Basil’s conduct, that she almost hoped her
love would turn to aversion. If he intruded to
marry Jessica St. Aubyn. why had he neglect-
ed Mrs. Ormesby’s daughter so frequently in
order to seek the society of her humble little
cousin, with looks and words no unfettered
heart could withstand?

She paced the small apartment, blaming,
by turns, her own folly, her lover‘s periidy,
and her aunt’s cruelty in banishing her from .
home.

 

Madame Belleville‘s “finishing schoo ” was
a large square house, with extensive gardens in
the rear. It had long narrow windows with
green shutters, and a sort of court-yard at the
side, to which admission was gained through a.
tall iron gate, whose repellent aspect was in-
creased by being studded with rusty knobs, as
if intended to withstands siege. There was an
air of conventnal seclusion about the place; the
windows commanding a view of the street had
their shutters closed and barred, while the foot
of man was never allowed to tread the pres
cincts where madame superintended the edu-
cation, health, and morals of her youthful
charges.

Enid Lisle, transplanted from Sunnymead to
this large, dull house, where everybody sur-
veyed her with critical eyes, and no one offered
a kindly word of welcome, felt her heart sink
with despondcncy.

Mrs. Ormesby had driven away with inward
relief now that her task was finished; and Enid,
sensitive and impulsive, felt like a prisoned

 

 

 

 

12 A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

bird, powerless to try its wings, longing for
liberty, yet condemned to pine in captivity,
and sing only at its master’s will.

As days lagged slowly on, the monotonous
routine of school life, to which she had never
been inured in childhood, became more unen-
durable. Her mind was restless, her temper
irritable. She could not forget Basil, and pic-
tured him often by Jessica’s side, paying her
lover-like attentions and basking in her smiles,
while she, with-whom, for pastime, he had
flirted, was scarcely honored with a pas:ing
thought.

There was a girl at the school, whose name
was Rosetta Marsden. She was a short, plump
damsel, about sixteen years of age, with an
(quable temper, and a capability of being, like
the immortal Mark Tapley, “ jolly under any
circumstances.” It is not surprising, then, that
Enid and Miss Marsden soon became constant
companions, if not friends.

“ You are positively growing quite lhin,
Enid!” exclaimed this lively maiden, as they
walked side by side out of the recitation room.
“Your checks have a washed-out appearance,
as if they were never to be revisited by a tinge

of color. I believe you are homesick. Why

not follow my example? Make yourself as
comfortable here as madame’s had temper will
permit, and look forward hopefully to a future
which cannot be long in coming."

Enid’s answer was cold and brief.

“I am not homesick, nor can I look forward
with hope, for the future will bring me no
happiness.”

“ Oh, my dear, it is very bad to give way
to such gloomy thoughts! No wonder your
spirits are depressed. I shall begin to imagine
you have been crossed in love.”

“You are quite mistaken,” said Enid, stifl‘ly,
elevating her proud young head in anger at
the suggestion. “And, Rosetta, you know
madame would be very angry if she heard us
talking in study hours.”

“ Oh, I am not to be silenced so easily! She
would find it difficult to make me hold my
tengue if I wanted to speak. Besides, I rlid
not mean any harm, only I thought if you had
quarreled with your lover, and knew he was
now anxious to see you and make it up, you
would be ever so much happier.”

“I cannot understand you, Rosetta,” said
Enid, her heart beginning to throb Wildly with
undefined hopes.

“Well, he is a fine young fellow, with a
mustache which makes you remember the
Spanish proverb, ‘A kiss without a mustache
is like an egg without salt.’ He has followed
you from Massachusetts, and hung about the
house, having found out, goodness knows how,
“here you were living; so, out of common
g flillnile, you ought to reciprocate such evi-

- dent attachment,”

 

“Dear Rosetta, do be serious if you have
really anything to tell.”

“Anything to tell! I like that! Why, it
was quite an adventure, and adventures are
scarce enough at Madame Belleville’s. Ican
see by your blushes that the hero of my ro-
mance is a favored swain, so if you are very
good you shall hear the story.”

Glancing slyly into Enid’s face, to which
alternate hope and fear lent an ever-varying
expression, the girl continued, “You know
that I spent yesterday, being a holiday, with
my friends the Banks. As the day was fine I
persuaded them to take me to the Park. Oh,
I had such a fine time! I only wish you had
been with me! Such gayly dressed crowds,
laughing and talking, and the driving! But
there! I see you are growing impalient, so I
will tell you about them another time. We
had not been long in the grounds when I
noticed a tall, gentlemanly man was eying me
with great-attention, and following our party
at a respectful distance. I thought I had
made a conquest; but I was never more
deceived in'my life, for though I was the
object of attraction, it 'was not on my own
acoount. In the museum I got separated from
the Banks, and, to my consternation, found
my supposed admirer was making his way
toward me through the crowd. In vain I looked
round for Mrs. Bank’s white-plumed bonnet or
Marie's smiling face; they had disappeared,
and the intrusive stranger was at my elbow.
His first words, however, told me the real
object of his interest in me. He asked me if I
were not a pupil of Madame Belleville’s, and if
a young lady named Enid Lislevwas in the
same establishment.”

“ What did you answeri” asked Enid, almost
breathless with anxiety.

“At first I was inclined to seek refuge in
dignifivd silence; but he pleaded his cause so
well that I was induced to relent. It seems
he had fallen in love with you before you left
Dalebury, and had taken no end of trouble to
follow and find out whither you had gone.
list Sunday he happened to see us coming out
.af church; but of course we were chaperoned
by the ugliest and most grim lnoking of the
teachers, so he dared not approach. He recog-
nized me as your friend when he saw me in the
Park, and took courage to speak. 0h, Enid, it
must be charming to have such a devoted
low-r; and now that you know he is fond
and faithful you will no longer wear such dole-
ful looks, but be as happy as the day is
long.”

In the joy of believing that Basil Clifford
loved her, and hal taken the only means of
communication that lay in his power to assure
her of that love, Enid at first forgot her jeal-
ousy of Jessica. It returned now with full
force, and she said, coldly:

    

A BITTER MISTAKE.

    

 

“If this mysterious stranger is the person
whom I suppose, he owes me an explanation,
without which I could not receive any pro-
fession of love.”

“ He said he could explain everything,”
cried Rosetta, eagerly, delighted with her role
as Confederate, “if you would only grant him
an imerview.”

“ That seems impossible," said Enid, thought-
fully. “ Do you think madame woqu allow
me to see him if he culleii”

“I am certain she would not. Madame ob
jects to gentleman visitors even if they are re-
lations; and unless she had special directions
from your aunt to relax her rules in your favor,
your friend would have no chance of gaining
admittance.”

“Then I cannot see hinl,”_ said Enid, in a
dejected tone. “You know we are never al-
lowed to go out alone.” '

“Poohl nonsense! — you are easily disheart-
ened. I have been at school much longer than
you, and know there are means of eluding the
Vigilance of ln-ulame and her spies.”

“Tell me, Rosetta, what to do, and I will
follow your advice.”

“Suppose, then, you make up your mind to
meet your handsome arlorer at the foot of the
garden when all the rest of the household have
retired. He told me he would be there to-
night."

“ How could I leave the house when all the
doors are securely fastened?" asked Enid, trem—
ulously, almost determinoll‘ to run any risk
rather than lose the promised delight of a few
minutes’ conversation with her lover.

“You can descend from the window of our
sleeping-room, which luckily happens not to he
very far from the ground, and has a friendly
tree standing close at hand, whose strong
branches will serve the purpose of a ladder. I
promise not to tell.”

“It would be so hold, so wrong!” stammered
the poor girl, troubled by conflicting feelings.

“There is not much harm. ‘ Love laughs at
locksmiths,’ they say; and if madame is cruel
enough to attempt to separate two confiding
hearts by arbitrary rules and regulations, it is
necessary, in self-defense. to resort to artifice.
Think of the poor young fellow scramblingr as
he best can over the high fence, and standing
in the dismal garden counting the moments nn~
til hislady-love appears! What would be his dis-
appointment ii‘ he did not see you? He would
make up his mind that you were quite indiffer-
ent to his devotion.”

Enid, after a sharp struggle between duty
and love, yielded, in defiance of her better
judgment, to these specious arguments.

CHAPTER V.
A YOUNG GIRL‘S FOLLY.

THE night—wind was whispering amid the
trees, the moon hung clear and bright in the
summer sky, when Enid stood in her quiet
room, looking pale and agitated, but withal
resolute, as she gazed out into the night. The
other inmates of the house had long been sleep<
ing, except Rosetta, who remained awake to

, see the fun, as she phrased it, or give any as-

 

isistance her friend might need.

A church
clock chimed forth the hour of the intended
met-ting, yet Enid lingered.

“ Enid,” murmured Rosetta, from her little
white bed at the further end of the room,
" did you not hear eleven strike? Are you
not going?”

Enid turned a pale face toward her.

“ You are positive that he really wishes to
see me, and said this would be our only chance
of exchanging a few words?"

“ Don’t ask such silly questions! Of course
I am certain. His entrcaties were quite heart-
rending; and you must be cold as an icicle if
you disappoint him.”

At that moment a tall, manly figure was
seen moving amid the shadows cast by a group
of trees at the end of lhe garden. it was un-
recognizable, 0wing to the distance and partial
darkness; but Enid’s last scruples vanished at
the thought of her lover’s presence.

Slowly and noiselessly she opened the
window, and, standing on the sill, her heart
beating quicker than usual, prepared for the
descent.

She was soon seated on a strong branch
capable of bearing twice her weight, and it
was not long before she reached the ground. ‘

From the shadows the tall figures stepped
forth to meet her, and she stood face to face
with—Bertrand Heathcote! V

A low cry of terror and dismay escaped her
lips at the sight of this stranger instead of the
familiar form of him she loved. Faintness
crept over her, she tottered and would have
fallen had not Bertrand caught her.

“My dear Miss Lisle, pray be composed,” he
whispered, in honeyed accents. “ It is so kind
of you to meet me here!”

His voice and touch roused her more quickly
than the most reviving cordial.

She extricated herself hastily from his
arms, and exclaimed, with flashing eyes,
“ There is some mislakel What brings you to
this place? Why did you dare send a message
to me—a. stranger?”

“ Because I love you, and have followed you
from your home to tell you of my love,” an-
swered Bertrand, with well-feigned warmth.
“Sweet Enid, do not look on me so coldly. I
hoped for a kinder reception."

 

H A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

“ 1 never saw you before," she stammered,
in bowililerniv nt.

“ But 1 have seen you, and fallen a captive
to the newer of your beauty. Did not your
gnod~natured little friend repeat the message I
S‘Hlt you yesterday—else why are you here to-
niaht?”

“ I expected to see a. very different person.”

“ Ah, I can guess his name—Mr. Basil Clif-
ford."

Enid started. Had this strange man come
as ambassador from h<-r lover? Was she mis-
taken in supposing he pleaded his own love?
In her confusion, nothing seemed too wild or
improbable for belief.

" Has he sent you 1” she faltered.

“I do not hold my services at his disposal;
but as I have lately come from Dalebnry, I can
give you tidings of your friend. I warn you,
the news may not be agreeable; so, if you pre-
fer, I will keep silence.”

“ Anything is better than suspense,” she mur-
mured, inwardly. “Speak on, sir, if you have
aught to tell me,” she added, aloud.

“You know that in a country town people
will talk when any special event is likely
to take place. A grand wedding, for instance,
is always the subje't for gossip, particularly
when bride and bridegroom are well known and
respected.”

“ Is Basil married ?” she questioned eagerly,
forgetful of all else but this threatened death-
.blow of her hopes.

“Not yet, but I believe the day is fixed. Do
you wish to know the name of the fortunate
:t‘air one i”

“ I can guess.”

“No doubt your suspicions are correct, for it
seems an old attachment, Miss Jessica St. Au-
byn, the late rector’s step-daughter, will be
envied by many of the ladies in the county who
might desire to rule over Clifford Hall.”

Enid made an effort to rally her spirits, and
hide all outward sign of suffering.

“I wish them every happiness,” she said,
firmly. “They are both my friends, and I
trust have a. blissful future before them.”

"You are courageous, Miss Lisle.” remarked
Bertrand, with deliberate emphasis. “ You
hear the news well; yet I have been told that
you were sent away from Sunnymeadbecause
you threatened to become your cousin's rival.
Mrs. Ormesby was too shrewd a mother not to
observe your partiality for her daughter’s be-
trothed.”

Enid looked almost with fear into the calm
face before her, and to which the moonlight
gave a. ghastly pallor.

“ How have you learnt all this? You are to
me a stranger, yet seem to know what I
thought to keep secret from the prying gaze of
those who can have no interest in the matter.”

 

“ My interest is in you, Enid. Have I not
said I love 5 on 2”

“Leave me,” she said, proudly; “your pres-
ence is an insult; your protestations of love in-
credible. I huve been weak and foolish to
come here tonight; but you will let the mad
folly of which I am guilty be buried in oblivion
if you are a man of honor.”

“ One word of kindness would purchase my
secrecy more effectually than these airs of cold
disdain. Even from you. Enid, I will not
brook a command, although your smile might
bend me to your will.” a

“You would not betray me?" she faltered.

“Only think of the temptation l” he returned,
with a mocking smile. “ I should be able to
boast that Enid Lisle, the lovely niece of Da‘e-
bm‘y’s late respected rector, met me alone at
midnight while her worthy teacher slept,
never dreaming of her pupil’s escapade. But we
will not speak of this now. Rather let me tell
you how you may show your aunt and Mr.
Clifford that the knowledge of this approaching
marriage gives you no pain.”

“Ah, if I could only die!” she said, bursting
into a flood of passionate tears. “ No one
loves n e. I am forsaken and despised by those
whom I most trusted.”

“Do not talk of dying; you must live to
forget the past, and enjoy a future which shall
be made happy by the devotion of a constant
heart. Waste not another thought on Basil
Clifford. .

Then seizing her hand, he poured forth im-
passioned vows of love, and told the false story
he had concocted concerning a first meeting at
Dalebury, where he had been sl ruck with her
beauty, though himself unnoticed, and how that
from that hour he had lost his heart. He of-
fered to take her away from the hated school,
and bear her to a pleasant home, where, as his
beloved wife, she would no longer be depen-
dent on Mrs. Ormesby’s bounty.

“I am but a poor artist, dearest,” he said,
“ and our home will have few luxuries; yet
you shall be happier than you have ever been
before. My life will be devoted to shielding
you from every care; and my sister Penelope,
a noble-hearted and amiable woman, will re-
ceive my young bride with open arms.”

While he thus spoke, Enid, at first indignant
and wrathful, became gradually calm; and it
must he confessed that, in her state of mind,
the picture he draw was not devoid of charm.
She was reckless as to her own future, but re—
joiced in imagining aunt Ormesby discomflted
and Basil’s vanity wounded when they should
hear that she was married.

It is not to be supposed the girl deliberately
consented to marry Bertrand during this first
interview, but she listened to his pleading more
patiently than was prudent, and was at length

4..

A BITTER MISTAKE. 15

 

prevailed upon to walk in the garden at a. cer-
tain hour nuxt day, for the purpose of picking
upa letler which should explain more fully
than time just then permitted the aspirations
of her new lover.

When they separated, ho was justified in
considering he had made good progress.

“I shall succeed in winning her,” he thought,
“ thoughI wish it were possxble to get posses-
sion of her fortune without the accompanying
incumhrnnce. She is rather pretty, but too
pale and lackadaisical for my taste. Iwish she
were more like Rose Burton, the variety ac-
tress. She is a fine woman, and_no mistakel
Then this Enid is evidently over head and ears
in love with the fellow of whom Rachel told
me. Indeed, I may thank that gossiping old
woman for all her correct information regard<
ing her former nursling. A little money ju-
diciously bestowed, and a great deal of ‘soft
saWder,’ work miracles.”

In pursuance of this resolution, Bertrand
continued the campaign with dogged perse-
verance. No knight in days of chivalry fought
more energetically to win his fair lady. But
the weapons used were neither sword nor
spear; they were skillful probing of human
weakness, falsehood dexterously insinualed, or
truth suppressed.

Before starting for Dalebury he had raised a
sum of money by borrowing from a loan office
and selling his.watch and chain, also a few old-
fashioned trinkets belonging to Penelope; so he
had plenty of funds to carry out his scheme.
He managed not only to live respectably, but
to secure allies even in Madame Belleville's
strict establishment by liberal bribery. Sym—
pathetic domestics were ready to oblige him
by taking letters and messages for a. suitable
recompense, and to assist him in his romantic
love-affair.

Meetings were arranged by the exertions of
Rosetta, who coaxed her friends, the Banks,
into becoming promoters of the match. It is
scarcely wonderful that Enid, surrounded by
these influences, gave way to the impulse of
her own undisciplined nature, and before a
month was OVer became the promised wife of
Bertrand Heathcote.

CHAPTER VI.
AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.

PENELOPE Hnarncora, as we have seen, was
at the best a person of gloomy and anxious
temperament, ever prone to see gathering
clouds in the distance, which foretell the speedy
departure of those interludes of sunshine that
are mercifully allowed to brighten the most
troubled lives. ,

One particular afternoon toward the close of
August she Seemed more burdened than usual
with the weight of care, now pacing the room
with feverish energy, now casting herself into

 

 

a chair, and burying her face in her hands,
while she gave way to a train of reflection,
evidently the reverse of soothing.

“Why does he not mite?” she said, half
aloud, apostrophizing her absent brother. “ It
is of the greatest importance that he should
learn what has happened, yet I know not where
a letter would reach him.”

As if in answer to her impatient speech, she
heard the slight noise made by a latch-key
turning in the lock‘of the outer door, followed
by a familiar footstep in the hall. Bertrand
walked into the room, alert and smiling, tri-
umph impressed on every lineament.

“Well, Pen, I am at home at last. How
have you been getting on since I left you? I
cannot compliment you on your appearance;
you look wretchedly ill. As for me, I have
succeeded almost beyond my expectations.
You may congratulate me, my dear. Behold
in me the happy bridegroom of old Ellerton's
heiress.”

"Surely you are not mnrriedl”

“No wonder you are astonished. I can
scarcely believe my Own good luck. It required

_ a good deal of tact and finesse, I can tell you,

to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion
in so short a time. What falsehoods I was
obliged to toll—what bribes to bestow in or-
der to stimulate the zeal of thOse who assisted
mel I will not bore you now with details of
the manner in which I overcame dimculties
whirl] seemei insuperable. Suffice it to any
that Enid Lisle, the heiress, has been converted
into Mrs. Bertrand Heathcote.” .

Penelope made no answer, but sat rocking
herself to and fro, like one in pain.

"How glum you arel Is Maxwell ill, or
have you got the toothache? You might con-
gratulate a follow on his marriage, I should
think,” said Bertrand, in an injured tone.

“ Where is your wife?" questioned Penelope,
evading a. direct reply.

“I~ have placed her in a, cheap boarding-
placa for the present, until I decide what is to
be done. So far 1 have prospered, but much
depends on the next move. Old Ellerton’s
death would simplify matters, as there would
be nothing to do then except to claim the
money. Is there any chance of sucha consum‘
motion? 1 have not yet asked after the old
gentleman.”

“How can I tell youl” {altered Penelope,
despairiugly.

“ Tell me whati"

A vague yet (willie fear caused his face to
become almost livid. He had cast his all upon
that one die, and if he lost it would be ruinl

“Speak womanl do not torture me!" he
cried, roughly, clutching her arm until the
pressure gave her pain. ‘

“ Ellerton has gone—left the housel”

“Gone where?”

l

 

 

16 A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

“ I do not know.”

An oath escaped Bertrand’s lips. What with
rage and impatience, his countenance assumed
almost a fiendish expression as he stood before
his sister looking eagerly down into her face.

" You have more to tell me. Go on, go on,
before I wring the truth from you!”

“ Yesterday,” replied Penelope, “I went out
in the morning to do a little shopping. When
i returned Milly told me that almost immedi-
ately after my departure our boarder sent her
for a hack, in which he drove off with his
valise, giving her to understand that she “as
not likely to see him again.”

' Bertrand looked slightly relieved.

“ I always knew he was an eccentric indi-
vidual, but we shall hear from him soon. At
all events I have married the girl he has made
his heiress, and it it is necessary to confess the
fact we shall soon persuade him to give his
blessing on the union.” .

flung it violently to the other side of the
room.

“ l have, been duped by a madman!” he
cried angrily. "Fool that I was not to de<
tt'ct the vagaries ofacrazy brain in the old
idiot’s rambling statement concerning bis'pre-
tended wealth! I must have been only a trifle
less insane than he!”

“ I warned you to be careful," sighed Pene-
lope, who derived some solace from recollecting
that she had never entirely shared her brother‘s
confidence in their eccentric boarder.

“ Hold your tongue, or utter somethirg more
sensible than that parrot-like cry l” exdaimed
the enraged young man.

And hurrying from the room he strode up-
stairs, and entered the vacant apartment
where he had dreamt such golden visions of
prosperity.

More than an hour he remained there, turn-
ing over and examining the articles Mr. Eller-

ton had left, in the hope of finding some clew
to the mystery. Every pocket was ransacked,
every garment unfolded, but no old letter or
addressed envelope came to light which would

,‘gll “ Ah, my dear brother, you are ever too san-
Iig' guine and rash. Remember I always had my
 ' doubts. The man I believe to be animpostor!"
iii Bertrand stared at her in amazement; he was

3! stricken dumb. I enable him to follow up the old man's track in
 “ When I went into his room," she continued, order to find out the cause of his strange be«

havior.
As to the value of the threadbare, old-
fashioned raiment, Penelope‘s estimate was

"'2 “I saw a paper, on which he had scribbled in
;i pencila few lines addressed to you, lying on
H the table. I ventured to glance over it, and

 

 

. thus was prepared for the worst.‘ His great

sea chest was open and its contents scattered
about the room—a few old clothes such as a.
Jew clothesman might buy for a trifle, and the
famous iron box, in which, instead of diamonds,
were pieces of broken glass and valueless crys—
tals. Ah, Bertrand, you have been cruelly de-
ceived. It the man is not an impostor, he is a.
raging lunatic!"
“Give me the note!” said Bertrand, hoarse-
1y.
She took it from a little drawer in her work-
hcx, and gave it him without a word, eying
him, meanwhile, compassionately. As we
have said, she loved her brother dearly, and
- in his disappointment forgot her own.
This is what he read:—

“ Mn. Barman) Hammers:—

“I have thought fit to leave your house without
giving the. usual notice. but as I always paid a mouth
in advance. you are no loser. The contents of my
chest, which are at your disposal, I consider a fair
equivalent for any inconvenience you may sustain
through my unexpecte'l departure. You are also
welcome to the diamonds which I told you were in-
tended tor my heiress. I really think that you he-
licved my flights of imagination and that my castle-
building was not in the air. The shrew< est are
mistaken sometimes; why not you as well as the
rest? Itis probable we shall never meet again._ I
may go abroad. and die; it is almost time I did.
Thanks to you and Miss Penelo for vour disinter-
ested kindness. Yours. roman LLERTON."

Twice did Bertrand read over this strange
epistle. Then he crushed it in his hand, and

‘ nan.

 

undoubtedly correct; and the rusty old cash-
box, which Bertrand’s too ,vivid imagination
had beheld as the chosen receptacle of priceless
gems, contained hoards of rubbish such as only
a child or a madman would care to amass.

“And for this you have burdened yourself
with a wife!” said Penelope; “ a foolish, head-
strong girl, no donht, or she would not have
been in such haste! 01d Ellerton’s heiress,
indeed! Why, the man has nothing to be—
queath! His wealth is a. chimera, for which
you hartered liberty!”

“ You need not remind me of my bondage!”
retcrted her amiable brother. “1 own I have
been a fool. Let that avowal do once for all.
Do not twit me again with my folly. As for
Enid. I must- bring her here."

“This is a. shabby home for a young bride,
brother.”

“ It is the best I can give her. I wish I had
never seen her pale face, nor listened to old
Ei’crton’s falsehoods."

They were silent for a time, for this was in-
deed a crushing blow. Bertrand, who fancied
that he had wealth, and the advantages which
accompany it, in his grasp, found himself
poorer than ever, since he must repay his loan
with exorbitant interest, besides having an
unloved and unloving wife tied to him for life.
He always reckoned on not having long to
wait for Ellerton’s demise. Perhaps the dark
thought crossed his mind that, if need be, that

cvw

A BITTER

MISTAKE. 17

 

feeble existence could be easily extinguished;
a iriemlloss old man boarding in his house,
waited on chiefly by his sister, was almost at
his mercy.

“ What are you going to do now, Bertrand?"
asked Penelope; for the silence was growing
oppressive.

“ I shall fetch my wife.
for her reception.”

With a scowling brow, he strcde cut of the
house, crossed the ferry, and was soon at the
house, where, he had taken Enid on their ar-
rival in Philadelphia.

Enid was reading in a small but cheerful
room; the tea articles were ready for use, and
she had placed a bowl of late roses on the table.
The young bride was striving with all her
might to perform her duty as a wife, and to
reciprocate the affection which she imagined
her husband felt for her.

“ Had he not overcome obstacles, ” she
thought, “most men would have found insur-
mountable to woo and win her? Yes, there.
fore she must be grateful for such love, and
endeavor to repay it.”

So she decked her table with roses, wore her
prettiest dress in anticipation of his return, and
now greeted him with a smile which, if not
bright and loving, was still very Winsome.

“ l have been waiting for you so long, dear,
Has anything detained you?"

Y He flung himself on a chair opposite to her.
fiis visage now Wore an expression she had
never before seen there. The veneer of ten-
derness and general amiability had given place
to the natural moroseness and cruelty indica-
tive of a depraved nature. She was alarmed
at the sudden transformation.

“Get on your things,” he said, abruptly.
‘ ‘ We must quit this place. It is too expensive
for beggars like you and me. I shall take you
home at once.”

Get ready 8. room

“Do you mean to your sister Penelope? Oh, '

Bertrand, I am so gladl I never had a sister
of my own; but now I shall feel the loss no
longer. Do you think she will like me?”

“I cannot tell. It does not much matter.
She will have to put up with your society.”

His voice was harsh, his manner brutal, and
Enid looked at him with amazement.

“I think something has happened which I
ought to know,” she said, with quiet firmness.
“You have been away only a few hours. ‘and
have returned thoroughly transformed. What
has effected this sudden change? Does your
sister disapprove of our marriage?”

This was the only solution to her perplexity
which presented itself to her mind. Her calm,
somewhat dignified, demeanor rather shamed
Bertrand, and he attempted a feeble imitation
of his former manner as he. answered, “You
must excuse me, my dear. I have been much

 

annoyed about business matters, which you do ‘

not understand, and my remner being il‘l'it'ihle, '

I cannot always keep it under control. We
shall understand one another better by-and-
by.”

Enid sighed. It was sousoon to receive a
revelation of her husband’s character.

Her anticipation; of wedch bliss were. of
course, not brilliant, for she was conscious that
Bertrand did not posSeSS her heart; but she
had looked forward to a life of calm content—
ment, relying on his promise to devote himself
to the task of trying to make her happy.

“Are you going to stand there until nights
fall?" he cried, impatiently, breaking in on her
refl-ctions. “You have not much baggage,
and it will not take long to put on your hon-
net. Go up-stairs at once; I will settle with
the landlady.”

Sorrowfully she obeyed his mandate, casting
a lingering glance at the tastefully arranged
tea-table, the appointment of which she had
superintended with all the pride of a young
wife aux ons to try her skill indainestic duties.
She saw Bertrand take up her admired bowl of
roses (purchased on the street at a somewhat
extravagant price) and fling the flowers out of
the window, with a muttered remark that
“ their strong odor made his head ache."

She did not attempt remonstranco. though
her heart sunk within her. Already she began
to realize that she had found her master.

Such of her small possessions as had been an-
packed were soon replaced in their various
receptacles, and, hastin assuming hat and
wrap, she descended to the parlor, where
Bertrand, still sullen and frowning, hai be-
guiled the last quarter of an hour in drum-
ming impatiently with his fingers-on the table,
and anathemutizing the dawdling propensities
of womankind.

Enid had barely time to bid the landlady
good-by (the latter was a. kind-hearted crea-
ture, with daughters of her own, and had been
inclined to make much of the pretty little

bride) when she was hurried away. During

the journey Bertrand maintained almost per-
fect silence, and Enid was not in a mood for
conversation. Sunk back in a corner, she fell
into a reverie, which lasted until Bertrand in-
formed her they had arrived at their destina-
tion.

Very dreary and comfortless appeared.the
house in Budd Street. Enid, who had no prac-
ticul acquaintance with poverty, shrunk back
aghast at sight of the dark, narrow hall where
Milly stood, with her ‘ coarse bib-apron, un-
washed face and tangled hair, innocent of brush
and comb.

Her husband took her hand and led her into
the sitting-room.

1 “Here is my wife, Penelope,” he said, care-
eSsly.

Enid. in timid awe, raised her eyes to the

t

 

  :2, r

18 A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

tall, dark woman who towered far above her.
To her MIX—s Henthcote looked harsh-featured,
Illit’ldle-ngeil, altogether unprepo~scs~ing, and
different to the creature of her imagination;
while Penelope regarded contemptuomly the
fragile form and fair, delicate face of the child-
wife who had already turned out a failure.

“ What a wife for Bertrandl A woman
without beauty, manner- above all, without
money i” was Penelope’s mental comment.

There was no sisterly greeting, no kiss of
welcome. Penelope’s cold fingers just touched
Enid’s hand, then, turning to a fnir»hnired,
good-natured-looking young man who had risen
on the bride‘s entrance from his seat near Pene-
lope‘s, the introduction was formally made,
“Mr. Walter Maxwell—~Mrs. Ht-athcote.”

“ Delighted to make your acquaintance,
madam! This is an agreeable surprise. I had
no idea until ten minutes ago that my friend
Bertrand had stolen a march upon us and got
married."

He gave Enid’s hand a hearty shake, and the
poor girl‘s heart went out to him in silent grat-
itude for his friendly reception. Under other
circumstances she might have considered him
ordinary in person and vulgar in manner; but
at this moment she only noticed that he had a
pleasant smile and that he surveyed her with
an air of respectful admiration.

" Milly will show you your room,” observed
Penelope, coldly. “You have come so unex-
pectedly that I have had no time for prepara-
tion; but I trust you are not over—particular?”

“ Oh, no!”

Enid glanced once more at the harsh, un-
smiling countenance. Could this be the wo—
man whom she had been promised would take
her to her heart with more than sisterly affec-
tion?

Preceded by Milly, and followad by Bertrand
grumbling, Enid ascended to the room recently
occupied by old Ellerton.

How little she guessed what strange influence
had altered the tenor of her lifel But for this
man, whom she had never SEED, and whom she
had heard of only in records of the past, which
to her girlish fancy seemed as remote as if cen-
turies had rolled away since' all they told of had
happened, she would have been still in Madame
Bgllville’s seminary, undisturbed by the atten-
tion of Bertrand Heathcote.

“ A poor, white faced, delicate thing is Ber-
trand’s wife, to my fancy I” observed Penelope
to her betrothed when they were left alone. “I
fear my brother will learn to repent bitterly his
bargain.”

“ I’m sure I don’t know why you should think
so,” replied Mr. Maxwell. “ She seems a pretty
little creature, and the color of her hair is posi-
tively beautiful!”

“ I did not know that you admired fair wo-
men!” said Penelope, coloring with anger.

 

“Every man who is not blind must know a.
prelty woman wit-n he sws her. And she
looked quite trim and smart, too, with the blue
ribbon in her hair. and a hat with a jaunty
feather! I think, Pen, you must profit by your
sister-in-law’s taste, and let her smarten you up
a bit." ~

Penelope hit her lips.

“ I thought you liked me as I am, Walter.”

“So I do, of course, dear, or I shonld not
have kept true to you all these years. You are
a clever woman, strong-minded, and an excel-
lent manager—just the partner a. poor man
should choose to help him fight the battle of lifel
Bertrand’s wife looks as if she must be petted
and cherished, or else the fairies would carry
her away.” ,

‘ You are growing quite poetical l” she re-
marked. coldly.

" You mean I am generally such a prosy fel-
low. Well, never mind, Pen; we shall be well
matched—a regular steady going, matter-0f-
l'act couple!”

Penelope did not answer. Her bosom was
often greatly agitated by jealousy when Walter
Maxwell (who, by the way, “as severalyears
younger than herself) ez'zpressed his approval
of any other lady‘s charms; and now his praise
of Enid had provoked a more angry feeling
within her than she ever before had experi-
enced.

She could see the sharp contrast between the
girl-wife and herself. And what was more, she
knew that Maxwell was conscious of it; and al-
though he had clumsin attempted to pay her a
compliment, it was plain that he regarded Enid
as the more attractive and lovable of the two.

Penelope from this moment began to hate her
brother’s wife.

CHAPTER VII.
BROKEN TIES.

THE cloud which hung over the little house-
hold in Budd street on the evsning when the
bride came home showed no signs of disappear-
ing; on the contrary, it rather threatened to
increase in density and gloom.

Bertrand, soured by disappointment, threw
off altogether the mask under which his real
character had been studioust concealed, and
treated his wife with cruel neglect.

Forgetting that his own greed for gold had
wrought all the mischief, he vented upon her
defenseless head the misfortunes he had en-
countered in consequence of old Ellerton’s du-
plicity. In his own mind, though most un-
justly, he blamed her for everything that had
happened. He was in great financial straits,
and instead of working at his pictures to re-
lieve himself, be wasted his time either in idly
meditating over his troubles or searching for
his former boarder. But as he could not
afford to amply a detective, and in the city

p...

A BITTE t MISTAKE. 19

 

of Philadelphia there are many old gentlemrn
with gray hoards, lone white hair. and shnldiy
hrnwn coats, his qinst was fruitless. Moro-
ovor he was not now quite clear as to the hem
efits that might accruu should the search prove
succcsdul.

Lionel Ellerton always seemed childish and
weakmiuded, and he had in addition, some
)eurs heiore, suffered from a sunstrnke. His
appearance and style indicated poverty, and
he could not forgive himself for the folly of
listening to the inventions of an old man’s
di~eased brain.

Enid, in her misery, had no sympathizing
friend to offer her sympathy or support, since
l’ciielope’s dislike was most pronounced, and
Walter Maxwell dared only treat her with
cold civility, for he dreaded greatly the dis-
pleasure of his betrothed.

After much anxious thought, Enid resolved
to make an effort to restore happiness and.
unity between her husband and herself.
Though she had been married scarcely a
month, yet a lifetime of sorrow was crowded
into in that short period.

How bitterly she repented her foolish step!

To her mind already the conventnul seclu-
sion of Madame Belleville’s establishment
seemed 8. Paradise as compared with her pres-
ent abode.

Bertrand was smoking in the dingy, bare,
untidy-looking room he called his studio, when
Enid timidly entered. A glass 01‘ hrandymnd-
water stood beside him, which had been emptied
and filled so many times in the course of the
evening, that the effects, although not out
wardly perceptible, produced in him an acer-
hity of temper, and raised up in his mind an
exaggerated estimate of his own wrongs, which
boded no good for the success of the young
wife‘s mission.

Indeed, she could hardly have selected a.
more inopportune moment, but with her inex-
perience of mankind as represented byisuch
worthless rogues as Bertrand Heathcote, she
was not likely to perceive this until too late
for remedy.

The slight rustling made by her dress made
him aware of her presence; yet he did not turn
his head as she advancsd to the faded lounge
on which he half-reclined, and laid her hand
upon his shoulder.

“Bertrand, I must speak with you; I can-
not longer lead this life without telling you
the sufi'ering it costs me. In what have I dis-
pleased youl Why am I treated with this
persistent coldness and cruelty?"

“No reproaches, if you please,” he answered,
turning upon her fiercely; “my temper will
not stand them. It is enough 'to be tied for
life to a fretful, sad-faced girl, whose indiffer-
ence for me equals mine for her. I will not be
bored with her complaints.” ,

 

“ Why did you marry me?" she asked, with
indignation.

“ Because I was an idiot, and thought—but
that is no matter. I ma-le ll. terrible mistake,
for which we must both sufller."

“ You said you loved me," she said, timidly.

“I said anything that was likely to attain
my cnd.’Y

" You do not, then?"

“Since you force me to speak. I must say
no. I am not over susceptible; if ever I did
care for any women, it was for a. certain hand—
some, dark-eyed witch, who had a. heart to give
the man who should marry her.”

“And you are shameless enough to confess
that you love another?"

“ That speech does not come with a good grace
from your lips, my young lady; you only
married me out of pique, hecunsa you were so
madly jealous of Mr. Basil Clifford. I mean
to pay you off now for your want of taste. I
was obliged to fawn and flutter, and tell lies by
the dozen before I got you in my power. My
turn has come at last. As for that young
man, you may set- your mind at ease, for
though it was rumored at Dalebury that Mrs.
Ormesby was anxious to secure him as a bus-
band for her daughter, the gossips all allege
that he showed no inclination for gratifying
her ambition.”

“Then you have deceived mel” burst out
Enid.

A loud and mocking laugh was her only
answer.

In her despair, reproaches, wild and violent,
were poured foth upon the man who had so
deeply wronged her. From this moment she
lost all fear of Bertrand, all restraint over her-
self, and remembered only her wrecked life
and her forfeiture of all happiness.

These upbraidiugs exhausted the scanty rem-
nant of Bertrand Heathcote’s patience. Pale
with passion, he rose from his seat, and in
another instant Enid was lying unconscious on
the ground, felled by a stroke of his powerful
arm.

 

A strange sense of bewilderment, a feeling
of weakness, then memory gradually returned,
and like the vague fantastic images in a, dream
sprung up the recollection of the scene which
had taken place in the studio.

She was now in her Own room, with the
sun shining brightly in at the open . window,
and a bird, putting her in mind of the feathered
songsters that war-bled among the trees near
Suunymead, perched on the window-sill, with
his head on one side, and a knowing expression
in his heady eyes, as if he wondered why she
lay so still and pale, while the rest of the world
were either at work or play.

Penelope out near her, dhrning stockings.

 

 

20 A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

Her lips were compressed and her countenance
severe. Had the needle she was plying been a
dagger making its way to the heart of a toe,
she could scarcely have worn a more appro-
priately tragic expression.

Enid noticed all this, but she did not speak,
for her head ached, and the sound of her own
voice would, she fancied, make it worse. Bet—
ter lie there, enjoying the brief interval of
peace, until she must again take up her burden
of care.

It was not long, however, before Penelope
finished her stocking, and happening to glance
at the bed, saw that the light of consciousness
had returned to Enid’s eyes. She rose and ap-
proached the bedside.

“So you are better now? I was beginning
to wonder when you would come round.”

“Yes, I am better. Have I been ill long?”

“Not more than a fortnight. You have had
a kind of low fever, and were delirious most
of the time. You had better not talk before
y on take some nourishment.”

Without the slightest show of tenderness,
Penelope administered a few spoonfuls of some
dark and greasy fluid, the product of Milly’s
culinary skill, which was not at all calculated,
either in taste or appearance, to tempt a sickly
appetite.
grim and inflexible dcportment, as if she were
acting under mental protest.

“ I fear that I have given you much trouble,”
Enid said with hesitation.

Miss Heathcote only sighed, but it was so
deep-drawn and significant a sigh that words
could not have been more expressive. She
looked searchingly into the cold, set face; she
wondered whether Penelope knew all that had
happened between her husband and herself, or
whether she guessed the nature of that deadly
breach, which no time or penitence could heal?

“ Where is your brother?” she asked at length;
for worlds she could not at that moment call
him husband.

“I hava not seen him since the night of
your quarrel, Enid: you have driven him from
home and to an untimely death!”

A fit of trembling seized the poor girl, and
she clasped her hands imploringly.

“ Penelope, do not speak so cruelly!”

“I cannot hide the truth, Enid, even al-
though it be unpleasant. Every one could see
that Bertrand was not happy in his married
life. It might be either his fault or yours—I
am no judge of such matters, though naturally
I take my brother’s side. One thing seems
clear—your mutual dissensious have led him to
a dreadful doom!”

“ Surely he is not dead?” cried Enid, wildly.

“What else can I think when he disappears,
and his hat and cane are found on the bank of
the river.”

There was a. long' silence. Enid, weakened

She preserved, meanwhile, the same

 

by illness, could scarcely realize what Pene-
lopc’s words sought to convey. A great awe
and horror fell upon her.

“You mean that Bertrand has committed
self-destruction?” '

“Spare me; I am his sister, and loved him
better than his wife did,” said Penelope,
coldly.

“ He may live; we cannot tell ”

“As he took no money, nor even achange
of clothes, with hlm, you may easily imagine
that he had no intention of journeying either
by l’md or sea; while the articles found on the
river’s bank are, to my mind, conclusive evi-
dence of the fate that has befallen him.”

She moved away from the bedside, as if she
wished to say no more upon the subject, and
Enid, stricken with awe rather than sorrow,
lay quivering in every nerve. Tears at last
relieved her overcharged heart, and she wept
until exhaustion caused her to fall into a state
of half-sleep, half-stupor.

As the days passed slowly away, Enid‘s
health slowly improved. Her youth and sound
constitution triumphed over all disadvantages,
and though her spirits were depressed and her
mind full of anxiety, she was Well enough to
leave her room and even to resume in a meas-
ure her usual avocations.

“ Is there any news?” she daily asked Pene-
lope, to whom she clung in despair, notwith—
standing that lady’s frigid and repulsive man-
her.

The answer was always in the negative.

“ Have you caused inquiries to be made?
Perhaps the police Could help you to find Ber-
trand, or, at least, give you some proof of his
death,” urged Enid, one morning when her
question had received the same reply as usual.

"Mr. Maxwell has done all that is needful.”

“ i thought he was away from the city just
now, on business connected with the firm.” re-
marked the girl, innocently, but that observa-
tion roused Penelope's displeasure.

“ You are mistaken, unless you are speaking
out of pure vindictivcness. He has been exert-
ing himself, although unsuccessfully, tothe ut-
most in this melancholy affair; that is the
reason we have not seen him lately.”

“And the river has been dragged?" hazard
ed Enid, timidly.

"Have I not told you that Mr. Maxwell has
spared me the painful duty of directing meas-
ures for the recovery of the body and of listen-
ing to detailed accounts. of their failure in the
searches which have been instituted? I Wish
you were as couiderate. Every reasonable
person must feel that all hope is over of Ber-
trand’s safe return.”

Enid sat grave and silent, troubled by a.
vague self-reproach. Could it possibly be, as
Penelope affirmed, that she was in any way
responsible for having sent the man to whom

.w

-w

A BITTER MISTAKE. 21

 

she had given her hand at the altar to a sui-
cide’s (loom? Surely, in their last altercation,
she had been more sinned against than sinning.

She began, however, to realize that her con-
duct had not been such as her now awakened
conscience could approve. Putting aside the
ingrntitude and (ii-obedience she had shown
toward her aunt by eloping from the school
where she placed her, nothing could excuse the
step of forming a loveless marriage. It was
wrong both to Bertrand and herself. But the
past was irrevocable, as she acknowledged,
with a sigh, and she had not yet begun to con-
template the future.

“Is there not a particular style of dress for
widows!” she began. with hesitation, thinking
it would be nemssary' to show at least the or-
dinary outward signs of respect for the de-
parted. “ Have you ordered our mourning,
Penelope?”

“Mourning is expensive, and we are very
poor. Your marriage has not been announced
to your friends; therefore I advise you to keep
it a profound secret, and return home without
105: of time.” .

Enid stared at her in amazement.

“But I caunot.’ My aunt; will have learnt
that I quitted Madame Belleville's, and will re-
quire an explanation.”

“Tell her you were unhappy at school, so
ran away and entered the service of a. lady
w ho brought you to Philadelphia.”

Evidently Penelope had given some thought
previously to the subject.

"She would ask all kinds of questions, and I
could not weave a tissue of falsehoods,” said
Enid, disconsolately.

“ Then say whatever you please; but I give
you fair warning you cannot remain here
much longer.”

“ Oh, Penelope, what will become of me?”

She was scarcely more than a child, and had
always hitherto had a home, protection, and a
due amount of the comforts if not luxuries of
life. She now found heiself estranged from
her friends, almost penniless, about to be cast
from the shelter to which she clung, not be-
cause she loved it, but because she dreaded
being thrown on the tender mercies of a cold
world ever ready to neglect the claims of the
poor and helpless. The prospect was appalling,
and even Penelope’s hard heart was touched by
her appeal.

“ You had better take my advice, and go
back to Dalebury,” she said, in a gentler tone;
“for you would find it difficult to get em-
ployment without references. You might be
suitable for a governess or companion il' you
were a few years older; but ladies are apt to
make so many inquiries, which you might find
it difficult to answer. But you must do some-
thing, as my small stock or money has nearly

.such a document.

 

run out. The landlord presses for rent, and
threatens to seize the furniture, so we have no
choice but to separate.”

“ What do you mean to do yourself, Pene-
lope?”

“Oh, I shall manage well enough. I may
marry Wat-tor Maxwell. It is time I Settled
in life; or if we decide on waiting awhile
longer, I could get an engagement as house-
keeper. You have been brought up a useless
fine lady; but my habits are active and in-
du-trious, so I can always gain my living.”

Enid, who was plunged for a. time, in medi-
tation, at length said, decisively, “It may be
after all, best for me to return to Dalebury,
where I have several friends who will no doubt
interest themselves on my behalf; but I shall
not disown my marriage.”

Penelope‘s reddish-brown eyes seemed to
emit sparks of fire. '

“ You \Vlll repent your obstinacy,” she said,
in a menacing tone. “I am older than you,
and have advised you for the best. Once let
folks know that you eloped with Bertrand, and
questions would be asked, disagreeable rumors
circulated, and people might even doubt
whether you were legally married.”

“But I could show them my certificate,”
said Enid. triumphantly. “I have got it; at
least,"—recollecting herself—“ not I, but Ber-
trand took charge of it."

“ I have looked carefully among my brother’s
papers, without discovering the least trace of
Do not imagine I wish to
cast the slightest slur upon his memory or
your character; but it is unfortunate—very
unfortunate.”

This sounded terrible to Enid. who, like
most girls of her age, was totally ignorant of
all legal matters. Had she been older and
wiser, she would have been aware that a copy
0! the cert flcate could be easily. procured by
application to the proper quarter; but not
knowing this, she picturei the doubts and
sneers with which aunt Ormesby would receive
the intelligence that she was a wife and widow,
without any proof except her bare word. She
began to ponder over the advisability of con-
cealing all about it.

t “Will you be ready to-mnrrow?" asked
Penelope. “There is a. morning train at 12.30,
which you had better take to makea connection
in New York.

“Yes: I will go to-morrow,”she replied,
meekly.

“That is well. Whatever really has to be
done is less troublesome when there is no un-
necessary delay. It I were obliged to swim
through a river, I would rather plunge in at
once than wait about shivering on the'shore.
Suspense is worse than reality.”

In the prospect of her sister-in-law’s almost

 

 

 

22 A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

immediate departure, Penelope’s spirits became
lighter; and Enid soon after heard her speak-
ing to Milly in the kitchen with a cheerfulness
which was quite surprising in one who pro-
fessed such deep regret for her brother’s un-
timely end.

When the day was drawing to a close, and
twilight’s gray vail descended on the streets,
Penelope assumed walking attire, and telling
the little handmaiden she was going for a short
stroll. and would return shortly, took her way
out a country road.

It was nearly dark, and the place looked
comparatively deserted; but she had not pro-
ceeded many yards when footsteps sounded be-
hind her, and a man, wearing a broad-brim-
med hat pulled down upon his brows, and a
wrap round his throat, arranged so as to hide
the lower part of his face (although the
weather was not cold). came up and touched
her on the elbow. It was Bertrand.

Penelope did not faint nor scream, neither
did she give vent to any rapturous expressions
of joy; on the contrary, she seemed as little
discompOSed by his sudden appearance as if
she expected to meet him, which perhaps she
did.

“ Well, Penelope, what news? Have you
spoken to Enid as l directed? Is there a chance
of my getting rid of her without any unpleas-
ant exposure?”

“ She leaves for Dalebury to-morrow."

“Good news, indeed! And you really be-
lieve she thinks me dead?”

“ If she does not, it is no fault of mine.”

“Thanks, Pen! You are a clever woman
anda stanch ally. Have you persuaded her
to keep our marriage secret?”

“I scarcely think i should have succeeded if
you had not prudently retained possession of
the certificate. Armed with that knowledge,
Pm able to manage her.”

“Then I am, to all intents and purposes, a
free man once more, and not hampered with a
dull, unloving wife, who would hang like a

stone around my neck, dragging me down to '

ruin. As my creditors are troublesome, I am
better out of the way. Perhaps I may emi-
grate, and try my fortune in one of those
happy places where money is made with greats-r
ease and rapidity than in overcrowded cities.”

“Sanguine as ever, Bertrand. Will expe-
rience never make you wise? Remember, you
would not have fallen into this scrape had you
possessed common prudence.”

“Don’t preach, Pen. I shall come out of it
all not much the worse.”

“ But the poor girl?”

Even Bertrand’s hardened conscience felt a
slight sting.

“ I know she has been badly treated. If she
loved me, I could not do it, beso though my
morals may be; but she only married me to

 

spite that fellow down at Dalebury, and for
aught I care he is welcome to her now.”

After a few minutes more, spent in conver-
sation, the brother and sister parted, and as
Penelope Wended her way homeward she mur-
mured to herself, “Much as I love you, Ber-
trand, I would not aid you in thus breaking
your fetter-s if I did not feel that Enid’s baby-
face and affected Sweetness was winning from
me the affection I prize above all else the world
can bestow. VValter’s eyes kindle with admi-
ration when they gaze upon her, while I sit by
neglected. Let her then depart and leave me
the lover of my youth, whose allegiance to me
never swerved until she came between hiu‘
and me.”

 

The autumnal sky was gray and chill, while
a sharp wind reminded those passengers who
passed out of Broad street depot, bound on a.
journey northeast, that summer had departed
and winter was drawing near with rapid,
though stealthy strides.

Enid, .ensconced in a corner of a. seat, of
which she happened to be the sole occupant,
put aside her vail to let the breeze play upon
her face. She had so long been immnred in
the close, dark house in Budd street that the
pure air appeared to have the invigorating
qualities of a reviving cordial, which refreshed
her frame and raised her spirits.

A faint rose-tint crept over her cheek, and
her eyes lost their heaviness and languor as she
was whirled onward from the smoke, and dust,
and dirt of the city out into the open country,
where the grass still locked fresh and green,
though the trees hogan to 1059 their foliage.

She did not wish to become dependent on
her aunt’s bounty—if, indeed, that lady was
willing to condone the past, which was more
than doubtful. But Mrs. Brooke had shown
her great kindness, and was renowned for her
untiring benevolence to all in whom she took
an interest. .

What was more likely, then, than that she
should be able to find some situation for Enid,
whether as teacher in a humble school, or an
assistant in a store or work-room, where she
might earn her bread honestly and keep her
secret to the end? -

She had reached a station where the train
stopped to take in more paSSengers. An old
gentleman, with a long, gray beard, and rest-
less, light-blue eyes, was standing among
others on the platform. He started as his
glance fell on Enid’s face. and made all haste
that his age and infirmity would permit to
enter the car where she was seated.

Once settled in the some seat, his scrutiny
become almost embarrassing; yet such an
expression of intense pleasure flitted over his
countenance, he seemed so childishly happy in

-w

-w

A BITTER ' MISTAKE. 23

 

scanning her thus curiously, that she scarcely
could imagine him to be actuated by deliberate
rudeness.

Suddenly be stretched his trembling hand
toward her, and as if obeying an irrepressible
impulse, murmured: “Enid Vere, have you
forgotten Lionel Ellerton?”

A remembrance of nurse Rachel’s stories of
bygone times like a ray of light began to dawn
on the girl‘s mind. By intuition she knew that
her strong resemblance to one now moldering
in the grave had brought back to her ques-
tioner the vanished past, causing the aged man
to forget the lapse of years, and lo belie\e he
saw before him the unforgetten love of his

~youth.

“ I am Enid Lisle,” she said, gently. “Re—
member that Enid Vere, had she lived, would
he an old woman now. I am her grandchild,
but I know who you are, for nurse Rachel has
spoken of you often.” .

The shadows cleared from old Ellerton’s
weak, bewildered brain. He knew he had
found the girl in search of whom he was at this
moment on his way to Dalebury.

And here it may be as well to explain the
motive which led this eccentric gentleman to
leave the Heathcotes in so strange a manner,
causing them to believe they had harbored an
impostor.

0n the evening when, in ’a fit of unwanted
confidence, he had chanced to communicate to
Bertrand his intention of making Enid his heir-
ess, he was ‘struck by the expression of eager
cupidity on the young man’s face while the
latter listened to his narration.

A feeling of regret that he had reposed so
much trust in a comparative stranger, mingled
with vague suspicions that the Heathcotes
might devise some plan of robbing him
(through his own imprudence they had become
aware of the valuable property in his posses-
sion), caused him to form aresolution not quite
compatible with strict notions of honor, though
Mr. Elierton considered he was only using pro-
per precautions.

Bertrand would doubtless, so he thought,
take Penelope into his confidence, and he deter-
mined to overhear What was said upon the
subject. Very softly he stole down stairs, and
applied hi ear to the crevice of the parlor
door.

By that time the brother and sister had been
some minutes in conversation; but though too
late to hear of the conspiracy against Enid, he
gathered sufficient to warn him of danger in re-
maining longer under their roof.

“ if his frail life were all that stood between
me and the wealth I crave, I have a presenti-
ment he would not linger long.”

This was what the old man had heard Ber-
trand tell his sister, and no wonder he uflixed
to it a fearful significance.

 

The next day Bertrand had left home—os-
tensibly on business, but in reality to com-
mence his designs on the supposed heiress.

Mr. Ellerton determined not to await his re-
turn; aud as a grim kind of practical joke, as
well as to prevent any chance of pursuit, he
wrote the letter which entirely misled the
Heathootes, and substituted worthless imita-
tions for real diamonds.

Having thus in his own estimation turned
the tables on his enemy, he quitted Budd street
with all his valuables, and after awhile deter-
mined to travel to Dalebury to make Enid’s
acquaintance.

He had once started on his journey, when
excitement and unaccustomed exertion brought
on an attack of illness. He had seemed in such
a dangerous condition, that when the train
reached the next station, he was removed by
the railway officials to ahotel, where he lay
for weeks under medical treatment, thinking
his last hour .was at hand.

But he had recovered, and was resuming
once more his interrupted journey, when the
sight of Enid made him her fellow-traveler,
and resulted in mutual recognition.

It may have been a proof of Mr. Ellerton’s ~
eccentricity, or only the natural consequences
of a passion cherished through life, but he who
had ama-sed and boarded a large fortune, be-
grudging every quarter spent upon his own re-
quirements, was now prepared to lavish wealth
upon the girl who so forcibly reminded him of
his early love. ‘

Enid was to be his adopted child, the joy and
pride of his age. If she could only bear with
an old man’s whims, and bestow on him some
share of affection, he would be amply repaid
for all the advantages he was ready to give.

He told her of his disappointed youth and
struggling manhood; how at last, when age and
infirmity stole upon him, and he could no longer
hope to add to his store, he returned to his as.
tive land, and took up his residence with Ber-
trand and his sister.

Enid’s heart sunk within her when he spoke
of his recent sojourn beneath their roof, and
the causes which led to its abrupt termination.

“The man was a scoundrel—an assassin!” he
concluded, with perhaps ' justifiable wrath.
“Sooner than he should be enriched by me, I
would have flung my money into the river. I
can fathom now the depths of his mean nature.
He suspected me to be rich, and tried to wheedle
himself into my favor; and when he found
there was no chance of inheriting my gold, I
believe he would have murdered me for the
sake of the diamonds. I can only pray, Enid,
my love, that he may never cross your path
when I am no more, for he is just the cring-
ing, pitiful knave who would resort to any
artifice or any crime for 'the sake of marrying
an heiress.”

 

 

 

‘24 A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

She could not tell him now; the words died
away on her cold lips, a mist obscured the
wrinkled. kindly face before her; but she un-
derstood the plot to which she had fallen a vic-
tim, and its presumed failure. 'Why need she
speak? Bertrand was dead, so would never
trouble her again; and Penelope, living in Cam-
den, absorbed in her daily cares, need never
learn that the despised girl whose marriage
she pretended to doubt was prosperous and
happy.

What made her most uneasy was the thought
of how to parry aunt Ormesby‘s curiosity con-
cerning events subsequent to her flight from
school, which she had doubtless learned from
Madame Belleville; but, as if in answer to her
uneasy reflections, at that moment her self-
constituted guardian calmly inquired why she
was not wearing mourning for the rector’s
widow, whose death from bronchitis he had
seen announced in the newspaper some weeks
ago.

“I was very ill myself, child, then, and it
grieved me more than I can tell to learn that
you had lost your protectress and relative,
while I was unable to be of‘any use. The news
made me worse, and I had a kind of relapse,
that left me quite prostrated for a time. But
now I am strong again—at least, as strong as a
man of seventy five can expect to be; and it
shall be my care that your new home shall not
make you regret having left Sunnymead.”

It was fortunate for Enid that Lionel Eller-
ton’s intense satisfactionmade him so excited
and garrulous that he scarcely seemed to ex-
pect her to take much part in the conversa-
tion.

When she briefly stated that being unhappy
at the school, she left it without her aunt’s per-
mission, and placed beI‘SHlf under the care of a
lady who brought her to Pniladelphia. an in-
vention prompled by Penelope, the old man
rubbed his hands and chuckled, applauding her
spirit, and launched forth into reminiscences of
his own school life and its exploits.

Enid was grateful that he asked no particu-
lars, not even the lady’s name, but at once took
it for granted that she was only guilty of a
girlish escapade, and was now returning to her
friends at Dalehury.

So the Rubicon was passed, and from hence-
forth her short married life must be a folded
page, never to be reopened to mortal eyes.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.

NEARLY a year had gone rapidly by since
the meeting in the railway train. Summer
was in its prime. 0n the outskirts of Newport
the glorious sunshine (which perhaps played
somewhat too warmly on narrow city streets

 

or dusty country roads) was tempered by fresh
breezes, which blew steadily landward. There,
over the glittering waves, white winged gulls
were skimming; an occasional pleasure yacht
or fishing-smack, gliding over the broad ex-
panse of waters, {rive life and variety to the
scene, while the intense blue of the sea was
equaled only by the cloudless azure above.

Two girls were walking down a narrow
pathway leading from the cliffs to the” beach.
They were talking and laughing gayly, for the
weather and scene were both exhilarating, and
youth is quick to feel all outward influences.
Besides, why should they not be happy—being
young, pretty, beloved and loving?

The taller and darker of the two was attired
in partial mourning; but the younger looked
charming in a dainty conume of white serge,
with a sailor hat resting on luxuriant braids of
golden hair. The sea-breeze tinged her cheeks
with unwonted color, and her eyes were lumi-
nous with hope and happiness.

In the atmosphere of love, Enid had ripened
into beauty far surpassing the promise of her
girlhood.

“ Was I not right, Jessica, in persuading
gunrdy to take Seaview Cottage? It is such a
dear, romantic place, and I am never so happy
as when looking out upon the sea.”

“You are a fortunate girl to have every
whim gratified. Mr. Ellerton seems never so
happy as when ministering to your wishes. I
wonier you can bring your mind to leave such
aguardian even to marry Mr. Clifford.”

“1 am not going to be married foralong
time yet.”

“But in your case there is no reason for de—
lay, and he tells me he is growing impatient. I
do not care much for a. long engagement; al-
though as regards Charlie Denham and myself,
it is far more prudent to wait until his uncle
takes him into partnership.”

Charles Denham was a. nephew of the prin-
cipal banker in Dalebury, and the accepted
suitor of Jessica St. Aubyn, who had long
overcome her girlish predilection for Basil
Clifford.

“ After all, Jess, we may be married on the
same day. I do not think Basil will disregard
my desire to defer our wedding at least some
months longer.” '

She was not smiling now, and her voice bore
traces of sadness. She was thinking how little
her friend Jessica suspected she was urging on
the second nuptials of a. ten months’ widow.

There would have been no happier woman in
the world than Enid could she have forgotten
the past. The rich old gentleman who had
adopted her as his daughter esteemed no lux-
ury as being too rare, no dress or ornament as
being too expensive, if they could only afford
her pleasure. By his request Jessica had been
invited to reside with them as Enid’s friend

A BITTER MISTAKE. 2‘»

 

and companion, adesire which she was nothing
loth to gratify, for owing to her mother’s ex-
travagance she had been left in rather strait-
ened circumstances, and was very glad to find
a home until Charlie was ready to begin house-
keeping. The two girls, rid of Mrs. Orines-
by’s interference, lived harmoniously together,
and were fast friends.

Then, to complete Enid's felicity, she re«
ceived from Basil, soon after her return to
Dnlebury, an assurance that his heart was hers
solely, and as be had never contemplated mar-
rying any other woman, she alone could make
him happy.

Mr. Ellertou approved the match; Enid her-
self was more than willing. It Was only that
grim secret which upreared its shadowy form
across the course of “true love "—sometimcs
presenting the appearance of an insurmount-
able barrier, sometimes receding almost out of
view in the golden mists of present happiness.

.“ There is Mr. Clifford on the lower ridge of
rocks," said Jessica, suddenly. “ I dare say he
is hunting for the rare specimens of sea-weed
you were wishing for yesterday. He sees us
and waves his hand. N0 doubt.”smiling arch-
ly, “it will not be long before he joins us.”

Already was the young man leaping over
the rocks toward them.

He too was staying at this fashionable wa<
tering-pluce, the attraction Leing in his case
the society of -his fair betrothed.

The young people walked and chatted to-
gether until they remembered dinner hour, and
discovered that Mr. Ellerton would have rea-
son to complain of their want of punctuality
if they did not make great haste.

“'hile theywere returning up the path by
which they had descended—a path so narrow
that it allowed only two to walk abreast-—
Jessica, who knew from experience that a
third party is not conducive to the happiness
of lovers, tripped on lightly before them, and
made her disappearance under the plea of dis-
liking to be hurried while performing the im-
portant duties of the toilet.

Thus left alone togethvr (Enid’s small hand
resting on his arm, her blue eyes upturned to
his, and beaming with love and trust), Basil
svized the opportunity of alluding to the sub-
ject he had so much at heart.

“Darling, when are we to take the vows_
which will bind us to tread life‘s path side by
side?”

“Not yet, Basil—not yet.”

“But why are you so obduratc, since you
confess that you love me? Oh, Enid, it is sweet
to know that I am the first you everloved, and
that when you are my wife I need not fear
that the memories of some unfortunate rival
will share your heart with Incl”

A pallor crept over her face. It was true
she never loved Bertrand Heathcote, yet she

pr

 

had been his wife; the ring he had placed on
her finger was even now reposing in a secret
drawer of her writingoesk, where she depos-
ited it on the morning of. her departure from
Camden. It Basil knew all this, how his con-
fidence would be shaken! Never could be for-
give her, or take her to his heart again.

“We are very happy now,” she faltered.
“Why should we desire a change?”

“Because until the knot is tied that shall
unite us forever we never can feel certain that
some cruel blast of fate may not drive us far
asunder. I cannot forget what I suffered when
you were at school in New York. I fancied
you would be carried off by some one, and be
lost to me.” -

“But you See that your presentiment was
unreasonable. I came back to you again.”

“ Ah, yesl'if you had not I should have be-
come a misanthrope, hating the whole human
race, and envying th05e lovers who were more
fortunate than I.”

“Then it is fortunate I saved you from such
a. fate?"

She was trying to speak playfully, though
every word he uttered gave a fresh sting to
her already sorrow-punctured heart.

“ It was indeed fortunatel” he answered, in
a grave tone. “ Nothing can he more sad than
to see a man’s whole life wrecked through a
disappointment in love. He may battle against
his trouble, perhaps succeed in hiding every
outward token of regret, and mingle in scenes
of pleasure, apparently the gayest of the gay.
He may at times pose as a. cynic and an unin-
terested spectator of the varied scenes which
make or mar our lives. He may boast of his
bachelor freedom, and nifeot to scoff at his
much-married comrades. Yet, Enid, how
deeply ought We to pity one who lives and dies
yearning for, yet unknowing, the sweetness of
domestic ties —whu has never clasped to his
heart as a wife the one fair creature who alone
in all the world was endowed with the power
to make him happy.

“Well, dearest," he continued, after a short
pause, “let us be grateful for the knowledge
that our love will haven fortunate termination
in matrimony. By the way, dearest, do you
ever correspond with the lady who befriended
you when—poor little waifl—you‘ so sadly
wanted afriend? You should write and tell
her of your approaching marriage. Where is
she living now? What is her name?"

Enid, with a hasty movement, withdrew her
hand from his arm and walked on a little in ad-
vance.

“Do not let us speak of that time, Basil.
The recollection of it is hatefull I suffered so
much!”

“I have noticed, and so has Mr. Ellerton,
how strongly you‘dislike talking upon the sub-
ject. After all. it is only very natural; still,

 

  

 

 

A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

’ if possible, I should have liked to be able to

show my gratitude to this Mrs.—~"

She perceived that he paused, as if to afford
her an opportuniry to supply the name.

“ Mrs. John Smith,” she answered, quickly.
“I have lost her address. It was somewhere
in West Philadelphia. You must not be vexed
with me, Basil. I know it was stupid, but I
was so flurried at the time we parted.”

“Poor child!" he said, compassionately.

It was lucky he could not obtain a glimpse
of her face at this moment.

They reached the cottage—a handsome,
roomy residence, surrounded by gardens and
pleasure-grounds, part of which extendel to
the beach. Mr. Eilerton‘ only rented this place
for the summer, while its owner was abroad.
His permanent place of abode was to be at
.Cliflord Hall. It would have seemed cruel to
Basil to separate the old gentleman from his
adopted child.

At dinner and during the evening Enid was
feverishly gay. A red spot burned on either
cheek, and her laughter rippled forth so mer-
rily that none guessed the uneasiness she really
felt. To love, and yet to deceive—to be trust-
ed, and yet to repay that trust with treachery,
are actions alike repulsive and contemptible to
all. ‘

So thought Enid, who began to perceive that
to frankly confess her error and its conse-
quent punishment, and not to betray the confi-
dence of her lover, would have been a much
wiser course to pursue.

All this time Mr. Ellerton, who was not
gitted ‘with much power of penetration, was
rejoiced over her apparently high spirits.

“ Why, child,” he said, laying his feeble
hand upon her golden 'head as she knelt beside
him, “your gayety is quite infectious! I shall
give you the name ,0! ‘Little Sunbeam,’ for
you shed light and cheerfulness everywhere
around you!”

It was late when Basil rose to go. He was
staying at one of the hotels, for he did not care
to take up his quarters for an indefinite period
with Mr. Ellerton.

The night was beautifully warm and fine.
Only a passing cloud obscured the silver morm.
The rich odor of, many roses made the air heavy
with perfume. The waves rippled on the sands
with a. soothing murfnur.

Enid could see the liquid undulations gleaming
in the moonlight as she stepped with her lover
through one of the long French windows out
upon the garden-path.

They lingered alittle on their way, as lovers
are apt to do; then the gate was reached, the
last good-byes were said, and Enid, after watch-
ing the beloved and retreating form until it
was long lost in the darkness, turned back to-
ward the house.

 

“So I have found you at last, Mrs. Bertrand
Heatheotei I hope it will be a pleasant sur-
prise’ to you to discover that you are not a
widow, after all."

The harsh, mocking, yet familiar voice issued
from the shadows cast by a large elm tree,
under which, upon a rustic garden-seat, a
slouching, ill»clad figure half reclined in the in-
dolent fashion she remembered so well in con-
nection with the man she believed to be dead
and buried.

It was not the fear of a ghostly visitant or
haunting specter that made her heart sink and
her limbs tremble. She knew at once that her
husband still lived, and that he had now come
to claim her.

“ The pleasure of finding me again seems al-
most too much for you, sweet Enid. Come
and sit beside me; let us talk quietly over our
affairs.”

He put his arm around her waist, and drew
her down upon the seat. Perhaps it was as
well that he did so, as otherwise she might
have fallen to the ground.

“She told me you were’ dead,” moaned the
unhappy girl.

“Who ? My sister Penelope l Then she
made a great mistake. You should not have
believed her. In truth, my dear, after our
little quarrel, I thought it wiser to keep out of
the way for awhile, untilall unpleasantness had
blown over. When I returned, you had gone;
and it is only lately that I discovered your
good fortune in being the adopted child and
the heiress of the wealthy Mr. Ellerton.”

“ That knowledge has brought you here to-
night,” she said, bitterly. “ You deserted me
because I was poor and friendless.”

“My sweet girl, do not be hard upon your
wedded lord, who desires a. reconciliation, and
will even forgive your unfaithfulness to his
memory, as so recently evinced by the tender
parting with Mr. Basil at the garden-gate.”

“ I know you now as you really are—the
most bass and contemptible of men l” she cried.
“ Penelope doubted whether I was legally your
wife, and if I am not, any attempt to fetter me
again will be useless.”

“Be under no uneasiness upon that score.
We were lawfully united in the bonds of mat-
rimony. The certificate is in my possession, to
be produced for instant inspection it any one

dares to cast suspicion on the fact. I was care— -

ful to provide myself with the document, think-
ing that Mr. Ellerton and Basil Clifford would
Wish to ace it before my claims were ad-
mitted.”

She was beginning to gain some measure of
her self-possession. To plead for mercy from
this man would be to plead in vain, but
she might appeal successfully to his self-in-
terest. , ,

 
  
   
  
  
  
   
  
    
   
  
   
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
   
   
   
  
   
 
  
   
  
  
  
   
  
   
  
  
  
 
 
   
   
  
  
   
  
 
      

-"

A BITTER MISTAKE. 27

 

“ If you wit: me to be turned penniless from
Mr. Ellerton's door, without a chance 'of inher-
iting,r the least share of his wealth, you will ab-
ruptly proclaim our marriage,” she said, ironic-
ally. “I do not know whether it would suit
your finances to maintain a wife whose con<
tempt for and hatred of her husband will be
her only dowry.”

He was about to speak when she silenced him
with a gesture.

“ You think, perhaps, that my guardian
would accept you as the husband of his heiress
—that under judicious management he might;
be induch to receive you into his favor. You
are deceived, Bertrand Heathcotel Mr. Eller~
ton overheard, in the parlor at Budd street, a.
conversation between you and your sister which
was never intended for his ears. He learned
your designs against him, and was able to judge
correctly of your charanter. No money of his
will ever, with his sanction, benefit you; and it?
he should discover the deception which, to my
shame, I have practiced upon him, he will rte-
stroy the will which he has made in my favor,
and leave me to the misery and want which I
deserve.” -

Bertrand thoughtfully stroked his mustache.

It was possible her views might be correct.

“Perhaps he would pay me a handsome sum
if I consent to keep out of the way,” he said,

meditatively. “ You ought to have an immense ’

influence over such a weak-minded old simple-
ton as he is, and be able to mold him to your
pleasure, although he was sharp enough to
‘ spoil my little game,’ " he added, recollecting
himself.

“ You overrate my influence,” observed
Enid, coldly, gaining courage from his per-
plexity.

“ Look here, Enid,” he recommenced, after a
long pause, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the
ground. “ I am going to make a. rational pro-
posal. Sentiment and romance are not in my
line, as you are aware. Now, I am regularly
down upon my luck—never was worse ctr—so,
on one condition, I will leave .you in peace.
Give me a written promise that three months
hence you will pay me the sum oi! ten thousand
dollars if I keep our mutual secret. With that
paper in my pocket, and a few dollars for pres-
ent necessities, I will set of! for New York be-
fore this time to-morrow.”

“Where am I to get the money, supposing I
agree to your proposal?”

“ From your guardian, I should think, or "—
here he lifted his eyes to her for a brief scru-
tiny of her face—“from Mr. Clifford. Why
should you not marry him, when I am out or
the way, and, of course, be happy all your life
after? As his wife, you will have plenty of
money at your disposal, and then it would be
worth your while to bestow a portion on me."

Enid had believed it impossible for Bertrand

 

to descend to a lower depth in her estimation;
yet now, when he made this shameless pro-
posal, she fult that she had only imperfectly
gauged the depravity of his vile nature.

“Thank you,” she said, coolly. “ I have no
taste for committing bigamy; still less would
I cause an honorable man to sink into the de-
graded condition of your slave and victim
through my sin. I understand your aim clear-
ly, and how skillfully you would work upon
Basil’s love for me and his regard for the
honor of his rame. Had you waited alittle
longer, we perhaps might have been in your
power, but it is now my privilege and duty to
save the man I loye from sharing my can
wretchedness and disgrace. Act as you please,
Bertrand Heathcote; Mr. Clifford shall not be
drawn into your toils through my wickedness.
’l‘u-morrow I shall make him understand I
cannot be his wife, and shall bid him farewell
forever!”

He ground his teeth vindictively as he gazed
at her, and saw that she meant every word
that she uttered.

“I will break your spirit yet, my ladyl” he
muttercd. “As )ou center's you are my
uite,” he continued, after a moment’s [ause,
“I will assert a. husband’s authority. You
must either return to my protecthn, or make
it worth my while to leave you here. If you
have no money, tetch me the. diamonds which
the old dolt that calls himself your guardian
has given you."

“ i would freely render up to you the mines
of Golconda weze they in my possession, it
that would (‘aure my being rid of you,” she
cried, paSsionatcly. “But you are wrong; I
have no diamonds."

“ Old Ellerton told me that his heiress should
wear jewels which a duchess might envy. You
are trifling with me, Enid. Beware! I am a.
desperate man, and will make you repent!”

"I have told the truth. The diamonds have
not yet been through the jewelers bands;
they were intended by Mr. Ellerton as his
gift when—”

“You married Basil Cliflord I suppose?” in-
terrupted Bertrand, as she paused. “ As that
ceremony is not likely ever to take place, I
may as well have them myself.”

“They are not mine to give away. Mr.
Ellerton keeps them, with other valuables, in
the turret-chamber and he alone has the key.”

“Enid! Enid l" cried Jessica’s voice, issuing
from the direction of the house, “where are
you? Mr. Ellerton says you will take cold it
you loirer any longer in the night-air.”

“I must go,” murmured Enid, starting from
the seat. “ What would she think it she saw
me here?”

“You must meet me here again at the same
time tomorrow, or I will force my way into
the house.”

 

 

    

 

28

A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

She broke away from his grasp, and hurried.
into the house, where her guardian received
her with mild expostulations on her impru¥
deuce. Jessica was more energetic in her re-
preaches.

“ I expect, Enid, you will awaken with an
influenza. to-morrow. It was thoughtless of
Basil to detain you when you were wearing
such a. thin dress, and you had no shawl.
You are shivering, too, and your lips look
quite blue. It cannot be so warm out of doors
as I fancied.”

Enid made no attempt ntself-defense, though
she thought Jessica looked at her rather sus-
picionsly.

 

CHAPTER IX.
ms LAST VENTURE.

IT was yet early on the following day when
Enid sat alone on the beach gazing listlessly
upon the foam-crested waves that advanced
and receded with a soothing murmur, and scat-
tered gayly-tinted seaweed or glistening pab-
bles. How could she best break the news to
Basil? What would he say? Above all, how
would he bear this terrible downfall of his
hopes—this cruel blow dealt by the hand he
loved? These questions occupied her mind, and
evoked no satisfactory answer.

But she must try to put aside, for that day
at least, such depressing thoughts, and, like
many others of her sex, Wear a sunny smile
to hide an aching heart. For it was Mr. Eller-
ton’s birthday, and, at her own desire, a din-
ner, followed by tableaux Mounts, was to cele-
brate the event.

How light-hearted she had been while the
preparations were in progress; helping Jessica
and the others to choose the scenes and plan
the dresses; laughing sometimes at Basil’s
awkwardness as stage-manager and general
superintendent of rehearsals. Surety the thun-
dercloud which burst yesterday effaced that
bright, happy Enid from the face of crea-
tion, leaving a dull listless shadow hearing her
name.

“Enid, my darling,” cried Basil, who un-
noticed had made down to the beach and now
stood beside her, “Jessica told me I should
find you here. Are you not rather cruel to
wander away alone, when every one at Sea.-
view Cottage is in the highest state of excite-
ment, and your opinion is required on many
points connected with to-night’s arrangements?
Are you already tired out, love, that you look
so grave?”

His light tone jarred upon her nerves. A
lump rose in her throat which would not dis-
perse. Then hot tears gushed forth.

“ Dearest, are you ill? What has happened?
Has any one vexed you?” he cried, in alarm
and perplexity, as he took his seat beside her.

 

There Would be no better opportunity for
speaking without fear of interruption, and the
impulse came over her to postpone no longer
her confession.

“ Basil, I am very miserable, for I must say
that which you will find hard to forgive.
Remember, dear, whatever pain may be in-
flicted by my words, it will recoil with tenfold
power upon my own heart.”

“ I could forgive you anything—everything!”
he replied, wonderingly. “But, darling, you
have never wronged me; you are the personi-
fication of goodness and womanly sweetness.
It cannot be "—struck by a sudden thought,
while his face grew grave and anxious—“ that
you have ceased to love me?”

“I never loved you so dearly as at this mo
ment, when I am about to say that I can never
be your wife.”

“You do not mean to say that you will
break your promise?”

“I dare not keep it.
been made.”

“ Euidi” _

“ 0h, do not look at me so reproachfullyi It
is not through caprice or unkindness that I tell
you we must part, but because my mad folly in
the past has placed a gulf between us.”

" You must be dreaming, Enid, or laboring
under some strange delusion. I have known
you from childhood. Your life has ever been
pure and spotless.”

He stopped abruptly, remembering Enid’s
flight from the school, which had always ap-
peared rather a mysterious proceeding to her
friends at Dalebury. The letter in which
Madame Belleville announced the news arrived
at Sunnyniead on the day of Mrs. Orinesby’s
unexpected decease, and was subsequently
burned with other useless papers before being
read. Yet, although it was supposed that only
a short time elapsed between her disappear-
ance from that select establishment and her
arrival at Dalebury accompanied by Mr. Eller-
ton, some spiteful rumors had been circulated,

Then, Basil Clifiord scornfully rejected
them as venomous calumnies unworthy the
trouble of a refutation; now, they recurred to
his memory.

“Tell me the worst (.1? once, Enid,” he said,
almost harshly. “ If you have deceived me
my faith in woman is lost.”

His stern demeanor gave her courage, for it
was easier to endure his anger than the sight of
a sorrow she could not soothe. With averted
face she told her pitiful story. Basil heard her
to the end in silence, though each broken sen-
tence rent his heart-strings.

“Then you are the wife of this man—this
Bertrand Heathcotei” he said, when she had
finished. “Yet you would have met me at the
altar with this secret in your soull”

“ I believed that he was dead. I often tried

It should never have

  

   

l
‘o‘1
1

0‘5

4.!

1-0‘

A BITTER MISTAKE.

80

 

to muster courage to enable me to confess to
you, but my heart failed me.” >

His s‘cru look changed now into profound
compassion.

“Enid, I love you .so dearly that I cannot
desert you. You will want a friend——a bro-
ther—to deal with this man, and to turn aside
as well in may be his weapons of attack. No
longer must I regard you as my betrothed, but
I m iy still protect you as a sister.”

He tried, though his efforts were not very
successful, to inspire her with some degree (if
hop: and cheerlulness, and they at last decided
that all further discussion on the topic should
be reserved until the day, with its long-antici-
pated festivities, was over.

Tney could neither bear to disappoint Mr.
Ellerton, as he had been looking forward
with almost childish pleasure to main; his dear
Enid the central and most-admired figure of
the brilliant entertainment.

“ Let us return to the house now," said
13.13“, at length. “To-day we must show the
courage of endurance for his. sake; to-morrow
mav show the necessity for action.”

He pressed her hand, not with the lingering,
PRI‘CSKlnL’,‘ touch of a, lover, but with the cordial
clasp of a friend. and a‘most in silunco they
walked up the path leading: to the mansion.

The drawingmoom, glittering with light and
guy with ladies’ bright attire, rung;r with plan-
dits as the curtain disclosed each sr1¢'c«)ssive
scene, mostly taken from Shake~p1are’s plays or
Sir Walter Scott‘s novels, interspersed with an
occasional tableau from some old fairy tale, to
give lightness and variety to the entertain-

'ment.

Everybody agreed that End had never
looked more lowly. Whether she wore the
rich dress of Amy Roi/sort, or the Venetian
costume of.Desdemonn, or the poor pcasant
dress of Cinderella waiting for her fairy-god-
mother, her beauty shone alike through each.
and Mr. Ellerton rubbed his hands in unfeigned
delight as his ears were greeted at every turn
by praises of his adopted daughter.

JeSsica made an attractive Beatrice, while

'Basil was a courtly Earl of Leicester; hut

though they had their share of admiration, the
chief honors were reserved for Enid.

There was a pensive shade upon her counte-
DEDCG, but which only served to enhance her
beauty, and it noticed at all by the spectators,
was imagined to be assumed for the more per-
feCt portrayal of the heroine she represented.

“Miss Lisle‘s ability is perfectly wonderful,”
said one lady to her friend. “ She reVeals none
of the self-consciousness and difficulty in keep-
ing a composed countenance which usually mar
attempts of this kind but thoroughly identifies
herself with the character.”

It was growing late, and the room was
crowded to excess, tor by Mr. Ellertou's orders

the servants were allowed to assemble behind
the seats upon which the guests were ranged,
so that they might see the final tableau of Oin-
dcrc/hr at the hull.

Enid, in an exquisite dress of some g'nuzy
white material, spangled with silver, took her
place in the front of the stage; and as the cur-
tains drew slowly at art, found her eyes fixed
upon a sea of faces.

Suddenly she saw, or thought she snw,
among them the scowling visage ol’ Bettrund
lleuthcote. It vanished immediately—so quick-
ly that the thought occurred to her that her
too vivid imagination hud conjured up the
person she most dreaded.

The momentary shock, however, caused her
to lose her presence of mind. Her countenance
changed, and the hand which had been so
gracetully outstretched was preswd to her
beating heart.

“She was over-tircd—perfectly (xhausted
with excitement!" tecple said. as the crimson
draperies closed hastily and hid her from their
View.

At length all was over—the music, the com-
pliments, the glare, the heat. Enid had re-
ceived the congratulations and thanks of her
i 1': tends with forced smiles, inwardly rejoicing
when the lust carriage drove away. She was
; soon at liberty to retire to her own chamber,
l weary both in body and mind. th sht- cruld
not sleep, even when her maid had been dis-
niissed, and the profound silence reigning ovu-
the house hinted that all its other :nmates save
herself were sunk in slumber. She was lzuum-
ed by terril le thoughts, which she cruld not
banish. Some misfortune “as close at hand,
involving those she held dear. Bertrand, in
his fiendish malice, Wruld wreak vengeance not
only on her, but also on Basil or upon her
guardian. Had ‘she really :ecn him in the
l~ouse that night, or was it an illusion? Even
then a stealthy footstep seemed passing her
door—a footstep that sounded familiar. Was
that, too, only a fancy, or a strange reality?

Unable to banish these vague alarms, she
arose, hastily threw on her (kissing-gown, and
looked out. into the hall. The morn sheda
rate, ghastly light through the window opro.
site, but there were dark shadows which her
eight could not penetrate. She listened.

There was again the sound of some one mov-
ing about cautiously and deliberately, and her
eyes beaming accustomed to the partial dark-
ness, she discerned—

What was that? The figure of Bertrand
Heathcote was surely gliding toward the room
where Mr. Ellerton slept!

Then she had not been deceived when she
thong] t she recognized her husband among
the spectators of the last tableau.

She could not conceive forwhat purpose he
had come, or why he was now alert and wake-

 

 

  

 

 

30

 

A BITTER MISTAKE.

 

ful when others were sleeping; but as me
would instinctively distrust a viild and savage
animal, she felt certain he was a dangerous
man, and that he must be watched.

She dared not raise an alarm—not so much

‘from fear for her personal safety as from a de-

sire to avoid the degradation she must endure
if he claimed her before the assembled house-
hold as his wife, which he would doubtless do
if driven to extremity.

Quietly, therefore, she followed him. She
was afraid to venture too near him, lest he
should hear her steps and turn upon her.

At last she saw a faint streak of light issuing
through the crevice of the door, and she knew
he had entered Mr. 'Ellerton’s apartment.

She paused an instant, to nerve herself to
meet the worst that could pessibly happen.
She now recollected having told Bertrand lhat
the diamonds were kept in the turret-chamber,
and she much repented of her folly. It was
possible, she thought, he intended to secure the
keys, of which her guardian always retained
possession, and to rob him of the jewels. At
all risks she must prevent his purpose, or she
would be an accomplice in his guilt. Bertrand
had left the dénropen wide enough to admit
her slender figure She entered and stood at
the threshold. There was her husband, bend-
ing over the bed with a cushion upraised in his
hands, contemplating his unconscious victim

, ere he pressed it with stifling violence upon his

face.

“ Helpl help!” shrieked Enid, wildly.

The unexpected sound startled the would—be
assassin and awoke Mr. Ellerton.

The old man, who had passed a lifetime in
half-civilized countries, where it behoved him
to be incessantly on his guard against the at-
tacks of desperadues, had never once for fifty
years slept without a loaded revolver within
easy reach. Awakening suddenly, he snatched
up the weapon, and presented it full in the in-
truder’s face.

Bertrand was a coward, as most rogues are;
and the sight of a loaded revolver, even in the
feeble hand of Mr. Ellerton, and the cries for
help which continued to echo through the room
and corridor, struck terror to his soul.’

Ignominiously he turned, and pushing aside
his wife, while he uttered a fearful impreca—
tion, fled toward the staircase.

Basil Clifford who slept in the housq that
night, had, with Charles Deuham and several
of the servants, been awakened by Enid’s cries,
and they came hastening from all directions.

Bertrand had no time for reflection. He
might still have made his terms with those
who loved Enid. A murderer at heart, he
feared for his own paltry life, and his thoughts
became merged into a. wild desire to escape.
While flying with the swiftness that fear gives,

 

he missed his footing in the darkness and fell
headforemost down the long flight of marble
steps.

Lights were speedily brought, and he was
discovered lying insensiblo and motionless.
His skull was severely fractured, and his left
arm broken.

A surgeon was sent for, but long ere his ar-
rival Bertrand Heathcote had expired, and
Enid was indeed free!

No one ever exactly knew how the would-
be robber managed to conceal himself in the
house so as to elude observation. Doubtless he
had found it easy to obtain an entrance among
the crowd of visitors, many of whom were
strangers, who pa=sed to and fro in the house
that evening. His principal design was to
steal the diamonds, which he had always
craved, and to attain that end he had provided
himself with skeleton keys and other imple-
ments used by professional burglars. But he
was seized with a sudden temptation when he
discovered how easily he could gain access to
old Ellerton’s apartment.

At once he saw that he might gratify his
spite against the man who had deceived him,
and enrich himself for life. He would only
have to wait until Enid secured her inheri-
tance. when he should make himself its lawful
possessor.

So the cruel resolve was taken. The aged
sleeper was sure to prove an easy victim, and
the would-be murderer dared to hope his crime
might be ascribed to the visitation of apo-
plexy.

Who will regret that such hopes were
fallacious, or that Enid arrived just in time to
save that venerable life?

Some folks wondered why Enid‘s marriage
with Mr. Clifford was being deferred so long,
and some of them uttered all sorts of dismal
prophecies because a year had glided away
without any preparations being made for a
bridal festivity.

But whatever people chose to imagine, no
one save two persons knew the true reason. or
suspected that the death of the stranger who
slept in the quiet churchyard near the sea had
had anything to do with the puzzling mystery.

Only Mr. Ellerton and Basil knew the his-
tory of Enid’s error and bitter repentance; they
only were aware that the man whom she had
prevented from committing the crime of
murder was her husband.

She did not mourn him—who couldl—but
she forgave him, for no sensitive heart bears
enmity against the dead. And although her
Widowhood was unknown to the world, she de-
termined, with Basil’s concurrence, to take no
second _vows until the fitting tribute of respect
was paid, not to Bertrand, but to the promises
once made at the altar, promises which she

     
      
   
   
  
   
  
 
   
  
  
  
   
  
 
   
   
  
  
   
   
  
 
 
  
   
   
  
   
  
  
   
   
  
 
   
   
   
  
    

—'~

—’

4.

A BITTER MISTAKE. 31

 

now felt had been too lightly uttered and
never rightly fulfilled.

One lovely morning in early autumn, when
the fields were yellow with ripened grain,
and when nature wore the as; ect of a bounti-
ful mother lavishing good gitts upon man-
kind a gay procession drove up to the- 'ivy-
covered church, where there was solen-nized a
double marriage—Enid being at last united to
her faithful lover, and JtSSlCa and Charlie
Denhum forming the second happy puir.

Lionel Ellerton gave away the brides.

His wedding present to Enid wusa pnrure
of diamonds.

We must leave Mr. and Mrs. Clifford to
their domestic ielicity, and turn to a different
picture.

In the drcary garret of a tenement-house
sits a gaunt, faded woman, whose hair is white
as snow, although, judged by years, she is not
old. It is Penelope Heathcote.

The night is far sient, but she stitches pa-
tiently on, for she cannot expect to taste food
on the morrow unless that Work is finished and
carried to the theory, where her task will re-
ceive a scanty recompense. Weary and hope-
less, she plies her noodle, though her back aches
and her eyes are dim. ‘

Where is Walter Maxwell, that he comes
not to the aid of this forlorn creature, strug-
gling so leebly for a bare subsistan-c?

Alas for Penelope! her one friend has for-
saken hert After Enid’s departure from Budd

 

street frequent quarrels arose between the he-
trothed pair. Penelope could not forgive her
lover’s persistent inquiries alter Be tvand’s
young wife, or his almost ounly-expressed
disbelief in the disparaging tales by which she
tried to deceive him.

For the flush time, he discovered her violent
temper, and' understood her jealous, exacting
disposition.

The process of disenchantment once begun,
every meeting bionght a new revelation, and
almost before Penelope fully realized the dim-
ger which her own conduct had raised up,
Maxwell transferred his affections toa younger
and a. fairer rival, who eventually became his
wife.

As to Rosetta Marsdcn, through whose ro-
mantic folly Enid iurtly on ed her mister-
tunes, she has long since left school, and has
married.

It is noticeable with regard to this young
lady, that since the consummation of the latter
event site has lost all taste for match-making,
and refers to love and lovers as “delusions of
the youthful mind ;” from which we may infer
that her choice of a husband has not been un-v
exceptionath fortunate.

All is therefore now ,told: and it only re-
mains to be remarked, finally, that if Enid's
error was great, it is now almost forgotten in
the sunshine and happiness which illumines the
path of her who committed such an error—
Basil’s devoted wife—oldEllerton’s heiress.

THEE“

 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

 

 

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Waverley Library. /

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1
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