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SHE GAZED IVUKG AND EARNESTLY UPON THE SLYMISERXNG GIRL.

A   . and tnuching picture presented itself in a.
, room of one of the best hotels in Buffalo.

Seated in an afitiltude of the deepiest degection

4 was a young ant andsnme man 0 gent eman—

Or’ M A I) P O. R L O V E' 1y upmarance. Near him stood a girl in the
3y GEORGIANA DICKENS, first bloom of womanhood. She was of medium

—— hight, of fair hair and complexion, and had a

CHAPTER 1. simple. gvntle look upon her that spoke of

A DEATH-BED PROMISE. nobility of person and tenderness of heart.

11‘ was on a summer’s evening that a strange She had very regular features, and, although

 

A. PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

not bewildering in her beauty, it was impossible,
in gazing at her, not to feel an attraction begot-
ten of deep sympathy and admiration. She
was weeping bitterly, and vainly strove to re-
press “the sobs which seemed to convulse her
whole being.

Not a word was spoken between the two, and
whatever the bond of grief may have been, it
was apparently, at the moment, too deep for
words. The entrance into the room of a mo-
therly-looking woman attracted the eager at-
tention of both, and although no question arose
upon either of their lips, the almost painful in-
terrogation of their eyes was eloquent of ex-
cited interest. ' .

“ Oh, my dear Miss Maynard,” said the new-
comer, thh a sympathetic sort of garrulity,
“ whata night have we not passed! I have not
closed an eye; not thatI think of that, but our
dear patient!”

The young man looked up on hearing the
earnest tones of the speaker, appeared to have
recovered partially from his stupor and found
words which relieved his surcharged feelings.

“ Poor Mary 1" he exclaimed--“ my poor
eousinl The doctor has given us no hope. 80

oungl so beautiful! What shall we do? Ought
{not to inform my uncle of her sad state? He
little thinks of the suifering we now undergo—
of the peril of our poor darlingl I am almost
mad when I reflect upon the probable endl
Have you no good news, Mrs. Harmondi”

The woman thus addressed, who was the
nurse engaged at the doctor’s suggestion, shook
her head sadly in reply.

Alice, mastering her emotion as best she
could, then spoke: “What dees the doctor say
this morning?”

“Not a word. miss; but he looked very sad as
he went out, as though he had lost all he ; and
for the last few hours, you know, he as not
given us any encouragement.”

“Oh, it is really dreadful to lose her thus, at
the very moment of her returning home!” And
the speaker again sunk into his former state of
reverie.

“ Cannot we go into the room, nurse? It will
not excite her, am sure. We shall both be as
quiet and composed as we can be." ,

“ Well, miss, I will go and see how she is
first. It would bevery wron to prevent the

or young lady from seeing 9th of you, but
’ll go at once and see.”

Mrs. Harmond stole softly from the room
into the one adjoining; nor was she long ab-

sent.

“Poor Miss Taylor is very quiet new,” said
she, in slow voice. “ and she has asked to see
you, Miss Maynard and her cousin also.”

“Let us gol” said the young man, as, sup-
porting Alice, he and she followad the nurse,
who remained in the ante-room.

 

The invalid, whose state of health so serious
ly and justly alarmed the fears of the persons
who have been named, was the onl daughter
ofa rich and much-respected New ork mer-
chant, Mr. James Taylor, senior member of the

‘ arm Taylor, Jewetson, and 00., wholesale

linen dulers. ______

 

Mary Taylor, who had lost her mother many
years ago, had been brought up, owing to her
delicate health, with which the Eastern climate
did not agree, by an uncle residing on the Cali-
fornia coast.

 

The gentleman had been at one time a junior
member of her father’s firm, and managed the
San Francisco branch of the business- in which
city for one or two years after the loss of his
wife, Mary’s father resided, and where he met
and married his second wife, a lady of great
personal attractions, put with a despotic will.

Mr. Taylor’s life, after his second marriage, '

proved anything but happy; and he determined,
in order to give Mary a chance to grow stron-
ger, and to savs her the unhappiness of being,
like himself, subject to the tyranny of the mis-
tress of his house, to leave her to be brought up
and educated in the West by his brother.

This trust the younger Mr. Taylor, a bache-
lor, exacuted to the best of his ability. His
housekeeper, Mrs. Jerdon, was as kind as a
mother to her: and the child, well nourished
and well looked after, gave promise of out-
growing all her youthfu ailments and weak-
ness of constitution, and becoming a. strong,
healthy woman.

The sudden death of Mrs. Jerdon,‘ followed by
the equallysudden death of her uncle, destroyed
these hopes with fearful rapidity, and the shock
laid Mary upon a bed of sickness, undoing the
careful work of years, and replacing the once
rosy hue of health by the false and deceitful
hectic g10w of consumption.

Her uncle’s friends, too surely foreseeing the
sad end, hastened her departure from Califor-
nia, under charge of her cousin, who had gone
there on business. and accompanied by her
dearest friend, Alice Maynard, an orphan,
forced to seek her own livelihood.

Miss Maynard, happy to be of service to her
friend, and without ties to bind her to the West,
gladly accepted the responsibility, knowing
that the East and West were alike to one forced
to labor for her living. The trip across the
continent had proved a particular enjoyable
one, and the hopes of Alice and her friend’s
cousin revived so much that they did not deem
it necessary to inform Mr. Taylor of the state
of Mary’s health, since their departure from
San Francisco had been so hurried that nothing
more than a telegraphic message had been
sent, announcing his brother’s death and Mary’s
speedy return. -

All had gone successfully until they reached
Chicago, when owing to having to make a
change of cars in the night, during aviolent
storm, Mary took a severe cold which Settlcd
on her lungs, and grew worse so rapidly that
when they reached Buffalo they were com-
pelled to forego the remainder ol’ the journey
and remove her 10 a hotel until she should re-
cover sufficiently to resume her travels.

In the mean time, in order that her father
should not be alarmed they telegraphed him
that they had decided to stop over for a few
days to get rested and take a trip to the falls.

Mr; Taylor, not having seen Mary for so
many years was naturally anxious to clasp her
in his arms. but. town the wife's reception or

    

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i,

a.- i

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. .8

 

her, was very glad to hear that they would not
reach home as soon as he had expected, as it
would give him time to prepare her step-mother
for Mary’s coming, and insure for her, if os-
sible a cordial, or at any rate, a polite greeting.

Each day the little party had hoped that
Mary would be sufliciently recovered to resume
her journey, and it was therefore with inex-
pressible alarm that her cousin saw her sinking
condition, and heard the doctor‘s sad words of
misgiving. As he had forborne to send a let—
ter which he had written When Mary was so
evidently worse, he now saw himself placed in
a terrible position of responsibility.

He was the son of Mr. Taylor’s second sister,
and had been educated for a mercantile career
for the avowed purpose of ultimately becoming
a partner in his uncle’s house. ‘

With a strong sense of duty, Phillip Rosston
(such was his name) had a sincere regard for his
uncle, whose kindness had been unvarying, and
to this feeling was added an attachment toward
Mary. Pity, more than love, was the real feel-
ing be entertained toward her. although he
believed that the more powerful passion was
paramount.

It is no uncommon thing to entertain such a
delusion. Ou'r sympathies are enlisted for the
suffering, especially when borne with uncom-
plaining courage and resignation, and the object
not unfrequently appears to be the sole one
which responds to love, whereas it is the mind,
and not the heart, which is enthralled.

Firm, however, in the belief that be loved
Mary. and was in turn beloved by her, he had
confessed it to her; and she, too grateful for
kind commiseration, and weak in body, yet
calm in intellect, had permitted, if not encour-
aged, his respectful homage, fearful by any
word or act of causing him unhappiness,
although perfectly aware how vain his hopes
would prove. Perhaps with the prescience of
one whose steps were’ turned from earth, the
devotion of a strong and healthy being was not
devmd of consolation and peace. ,

 

In a large easy chair, which had been turned
toward the window, through which the rays of
the setting sun fell with a rare and beauteous
glow, the poor invalid reclined. i' .

She seemed, sitting, thus, almost rosy in

health. .Itwas, however, the redness of that
insidious disease, which, having laid its clammy
hand upon its victim, sent a false hectic beacon
flashing o'er the sunken cheek, the more cruelly
to mask its fell progress. , , -
_ Mary’s lips were parted as if ‘she were speak-
ing, although she uttered no word; while her
eyes, bright and sparkling by the same false-
hood of disease, seemed lookin into the future,
not sadly, 'but hopefully: not espairingly, but
with the calm, bright courage of a noble nature.
What visions she saw, how far the portals of an
unknown world were opened to her gaze, none
can tell. 7 .

Nothing, however, seemed to pain the breast
of this gentle girl, for a smile of radiant hap i-
ness wreathed itself upon her lips, and she
nodded her head softly, as if to confirm . a.
thought, or answer some question that ,had
arisen in her mind. , .

 

Alice and Phillip, entering on tip-toe, stood
spol'bound at the sight. A gentle pressure of
Phillip’s hand restrained his companion from
advancing. The caution was, however, need:
less: for the invalid, with that preternatural
delicacy of sense peculiar to the sick, had heard
their entrance, and with a motion of her thin
hand summoned them to her side.

Phillip quietly and noiselessl fell upon his
knees before her, while Alice, p acing her hand
very gently On Mary’s bead, smoothed her hair
and kissed her forehead. For some moments
the grouping was unchanged, and a strange
thought would have passed through the mind of
any casual locker-on, had the picture command.
ed, as it could scarcely fail to have done, his earn
est attention. -

This was the remarkable resemblance which
appeared between the two girls. They were,
apart, most unlike each other; and yet together,
and inseparable through' affection, a. similarity
of expression and general character became
astonishingly evident.

No reason could be assigned for this, for in-
deedi none but that of a physiological nature ex-
iste .

Both girls were fair, both had blue eyes, and
they were of almost the same age; beyond this
the likeness did not go, yet they were alike
when near each other, although Alice was taller
than Mary.

, Phillip, mastering his agitation, spoke in a
tolerahly flrm voice.

“ You appear much stron er, Mary, than
when I saw you yesterday. on will soon re-
gain your health.’

“ Oh, yes "answered Mary, in a low sweet
voice, tinged with deepest melancholy, “i sufi‘er
less than did, and—very soon I shall be free
from all suffering.” ‘ ~

“ You say that very sadly, dear Mary,” re-
'plied Alice. “ We shall be very glad when you
are free from pain”, 4

“ Alice l—oh, pray believe me, darlingl—it in
for you that I suffer now.” '

“ For me?” exclaimed her friend in astonish-
ment—“for me? If you were well I should be
free ,from all care, and as happy as the day is

on . I

“Thanks, oh, thanks!” And the invalid drew
her friend toward her bosom, and pressed her
thin and wasted arms around her neck. ,

For a short time that position was unchanged,
and it was Mary now who, with' entlelrind-
ness, smoothed the hair over Alice s brow and
kis5ed her cheeks. Then, as if fatigued even
with this slight exertion, she ceased, and Alice
crouched on a low footstool at her side, and put
her head on Mary’s bosom.

“ Alas!” thought the invalid: “she dose not
understand me! But, perhaps, all is for the
best.” Then, in a vows, which was almost
firm, she addressed her friend:—“ Poor Alice,
what will you do, alone in the world, in a new

‘part of the country, without relations or friends?”

“ Are you not more to me than either?"

“But :you must not reckon upon me," mur-
mured Mary. with a gentle sigh.

“How cruel of you, darlin , to talk in that
way I” said Alice, scarcely a le to command
her voice or to restrain her tears.

 

G A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

“ And do not forget, Mary that I am to be
counted on; nor you either, Alice. You must
not overlook my existence.”

There was a gentle insistence in Phillip’s
voica, which seemed very grateful to the in-
valid, for she smiled and pressed his hand when
he had spoken. ,

“ Oh, yes,” she said; “ we must not forget
Phillip. Remember, cousin, what on have
just said. Promise that you will be er guar-
dian, her cousin, her brother, and that you will
never—never abandon her 1”

Her appeal was earnest and touching, and
Phillip, moved deeply by it, exclaimed:

“ Dear Mary, I give you my word. I swear
never to desert Alice, come weal, come woe l”

The poor girl smiled sweetly at her cousin’s
warmth of reply.

“Now, tell me, cousin,” continued Mary,
“ have you written to papa?” And two large
tears rose to her eyes as she pressed her hand
upon her heart.

“ I wrote a few hurried lines the day we
reached here, and then I received his letter tell-
ing us not to hurry our trip on his account."

“In your letter did you say anything about
Alice?"

“No; I wrote so hastily that I gave him no
news, not deeming it wise to alarm him about
Kou. It is welll did not tell him how ill you

ad been, now that you are so much better. ”

A tremor shook Mary’s frame at her cousin’s
words, and she was glad of the entrance of the
name, Mrs. Harmond. who quietly and thought-
fiull‘y handed her a glass of some reviving cor-

ia .

She drank a little, and then telling her that
She wanted to speak to her cousin and Alice,
Mrs. Harmond left the room as noiselessly as
she had entered it.

“ Well, cousin,” said Mary, “ what about the
second letter?”

“ I have just finished it, but delayed sending
it until I had seen the doctor. Uncle would
naturally be anxious to hear how you were get-
3ng 0:1, and when we intend to start for New

ork. ’

“ Show me that letter, cousin.”

Alice whispered to him:

“ No, no; do not let her see it.”

But the quick hearing of the invalid caught
the words.

“Ah, you cruel girl! Don’t you know that I
have sharp ears?” _

“ I assure you, Mary, that it is not necessary
for you to see the letter. It might upset you,
and in your weak state we must have no undue
excitement. Believe me, it is for the best.”

But he spoke vainly, as, gently taking it from
his hand—for be had instinctively drawn it out
of his pocket—Mary_by an effort raised herself
slightly from her pillows, opened the missive
with trembling fingers. and gently putting
aside her cousin’s hand, in a low voice read the
following:

“'Our dear Mary is in great danger.”‘ (" Poor
fellow. what it must have cost him to write thutl")
“ ‘ I dare not tell you yet to hope.’ " ( “ No; that
must not be.”) “ ‘ But we are happy in the posses-
sion of a dear, kind, com sionate friend, whose
soodness and whose atten 've solicitude have com-

 

forted us very reatl . Dear M is stron 'l at-
tached to her—E; " y My g y

She suddenly ceased reading, and paused a
few seconds, as if in thought, then hastily scan-
ning the rest of the letter, quietly tore it into
fininute fragments which she threw upon the

cor.

Phillip and Alice who had watched her with
intense interest, were powerless to arrest the
destruction of the letter, so quickly and decided-
]y had it been accomplished.

“ Mary, what have you done?” asked her cou-
sin, when he could fiud words to express his as
tonishment.

“ I have torn up one letter, but I will dictate
another, which I wish you to send.”

“What can on mean?” a suspicion crossing
his mind that ary’s bodily ailments had at-
fected her intellect.

“Besides. dear,” said Alice, “ remember that
the doctor imposed perfect quiet upon you. To
attempt to dictate a letter in your present weak
state might be attended with very grave conse-

uences.”

“ It would give me so much pleasure. Do not
deny me, if you love me!”

Her voice trembled, and she looked so implor-
ingly at her cousin and at Alice, that they had
not the heart to refuse her.

So Phillip rose from the feet of the invalid,
where till now he had been kneeling. and whis-

.red to Alice as he drew near the table where

ary’s desk lay: 7

“It is the passing fancy of the sick: let us not

.deny her.”

After he had seated himself, and had prepared
the writing materials, he turned with affected
gayety, saying:

‘ The scribe is ready: let him hear and per-
etiiate the words of wisdom falling from your
1 s.
pMary ressed her hand upon her forehead as
if to col set her thoughts and then, in a low,
distinct voice, dictated to hillip,who faithfully
wrote what she said:

“ Dun. UNCLE—Having finished our sight-seeing,
we are about prepared to resume our journey—“

Alice uttered an exclamation of surprise.
which Phillip checked by a motion of his hand
as his cousin continued:

“ In another week, I trust you will hold your
daughter in your arms."

“This is indeed a joyful surprise,” said her
cousin.

“Go on, dear Phillip; do not stop until the
letter is finished.”

Her voice grew suddenly faint, and it was
some minutes before the spasm of pain which
oppressed her had passed. Phillip and Alice
were much alarmed, but at length she seemed
to collect her force, and motioning to her cousin
to resume his Seat, she continued, in a low
voice, her dictation: .

“I need not say how glad I know you will be to
see her—"

But again she paused, and turning piteously
to her cousin, made a sign for him to come
quickly to her side and to bring Alice near her
also: and they 10: no time in obeying her.

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 5

 

When on either side, they bent over with anx-
ious solicitude. She grasped Phillip’s right
hand within her own, and taking Alice’s placed
it in that of her cousin and held both with hers,
While her voice, now ver weak, could only be
heard by the two anxxous listeners bending
closely toward her.

“Listen, Phillip; the moments are precious‘
already my voice fails me. Phillip, 1 wish—
wish—I insist—I implore that Alice shall as-
sume my place within your heart, and take my
place in our family!”

“ Mary, Mary, say no more!” tearfully ejacu-
lated Alice.

The almost speechless girl continued in a
whis er:

“ isten, both of you. I give her my fortune
and my name. I bequeath both to her. It is
my last wish upon earthl" She paused in ex
haustion, but resolute to accomplish her pur-
pose, mustered her forces to conclude her
strange desire. “ [ wish my dear father tolook
upon and receive Alice as his own child. She
must hear my name—be my other self. Swear,
Phillip, to do this—respect my dying wish i”

“Dyingl” he groaned, as in agony. He
gazed upon his cousin. An imploring look in
her eyes could not be resisted, for after an in-
stant’s pause, he added: “Mary, I swear to
fulfill your wish!”

“ And you, Alice—oh, my darling Alice, hold
me to your heart! I am cold—my evesight
foils me——give me your hand, and yours, Phillip.
Alice, sister,"—and the poor, weary head sunk
heavily upon the terrified girl‘s shoulder—“ you
cannot refuse me—you cannot pain the heart
which loves you so dearly at the very moment
it has almost c ased to beat!"

Alice, in an agony of terror, whispered in
Mary’s ear:

“No, no. darling; whatever you wish shall
be done. 0h, Heaven! why cannot I give up
In life to save yours?”

. ary, by some strange effort, seemed, on
Alice’s promise. to recover a little pewer, for
her voice, though still low, was not broken or
faltering. .

“ That is very good of you—so good! I am
happy now—so happy! Thus. your dear faces
near mohunired by me, nevar to he parted! I
bless you both! Remember, Phillip, what I have
said; and, Alice, do not forget! Bless you—
hless—"

And with a praver of hlesaing on her lips,
Mary laid her head more closely to the bosom
of her friend, and, still clasping Phillip’s hand,
passed away from this world, to be forever at
rest.

 

CHAPTER II.
A MODERN COUPLE.

MR. TAYLOR'S residence in New York was
neither on Fifth avenue or any of the adjoining
fashionable avenues, but on Twenty-third
street, in a locality which, while it had once

been the hight of aristocracy to own a house in |

“Lond0n Terrace,” had long since been aban-
doned to boarding-houses and residences of the
non-fashionables, to whom comfort was the

' chief consideration.

To this class belonged Mr. Taylor, and if his
wife had a grievance—and she did have many
—the pcrtinacity of her husband in continuing
to reside in this no longer fashionable locality
was the greatest.

The precise merchant very frequently yield-
ed to his wife’s remonstrances or commands
(they were very much alike, by the way), but
‘ when a change of domicile was canvassed by
her, as very frequently happened, be positively
refused to listen, and pertinaciously declined to
give any reason for his unalterable aflection for
the house in which he had passed the greater,
and also the happiest, portion of his life with
Mary's mother.

Mrs. Taylor, prompted by visits of ultra-
fashionable friends, had periodic attacks of do»
testation for her residence, and, as she was al-
ways met on this particular matter by her hus-
band’s resolute demeanor, her anger attained a
hight utterly disproportioned to the question.

It was just at the time of his daughter’s ex-
pected arrival from California that Mrs. Tay-
lor, for perhaps the twentieth time, was expos-
tulating with her husband on the folly, the ob-
stinacv, of continuing to reside in so undignifled
a locui‘ity.

The much-vexed merchant, determined never
to give way to his wife’s wishes on this point,
appreciated the difficulty he would encounter if
he spoke of his daughter’s advent in New York,
and like a weak man, as he was in many
things, put ofl.’ the announcement and the arri-
val, hoping that Mrs. Taylor would soon re-
cover her equanimity.

Hence the word he sent to his nephew at
Buffalo, little conscious of the possihlv sad ter-
mination of a journey he had followed, in
imagination, with great interest and much im-
patience.

He had no knowledge of how his daughter
looked. as he had not seen her since she was a
little child just able to walk and talk: but his
heart was full of projects for her happiness.

He had no knowledge either of her friends
or acquaintances, nor did he, indeed, know
much about his deceased brother.

They had been attached to each other whet.
boys, and later, when both were young men,
the same good brotherly feelin existed.

The cares and anxieties of a %usiness life are,
however, very apt to blunt such kindly feeling,
and almost certainly preclude its utterance: so
that beyond the usual cold commercial cor-
respondence, very few letters passad between
the brothers.

Mr. Taylor, through a. pardcnable weak-
ness, originating in a deem to live at peace,
forbore to do more than mention to his wife
his brother’s death. with a passing remark that
the prOper place for Mary now would be her
father’s house.

The response to this communication was so
exceedingly cold that Mr. Taylor did not renew
the conversation.

He now perCeived, however, thatifhis daugh-
l ter was to become a resultant in his house, he

must take a decisive stand—ignorant, poor man,
, of the tragic'end of the watched—for journe .

l After turning the matter over in his min . he

 

 

 

‘o “A rERILous PLEDGE.

 

determined to write to Phillip to tell him to
bring Mary home, and in the mean time sug-
csted, and finally persuaded his wife not to al-
ow the season to terminate without givinga
dinner-party, with a ball to follow.

This ingenious but expensive idea fell upon
Mrs. Taylor’s ears with wonder; hut asit grati-
fied a wish she had alread formed, she adopted
it. but was careful not to stray the fact that it
was according to her desires.

Mr. Taylor, pleased to find that he had gained
his wife‘s good-will, set about the preparation
for the festivities, very greatly aided by his
partner, Mr. Jewetson, a middle-aged fop,
whose on! interest in the firm consisted in what
he annually drew from the concern where he

had invested his small capital, which, by the
' judicious management of Mr. Taylor. yielded
enough to enable this obscure memberof society
tolead an easy club life, and to talk largely
about affairs in the city, as if he Were a veri-
table Rothschild. ‘

The father, under the dominion of a second
wife, was thus seen preparing festivities for the
return of a daughter who not long before had
been laid in her grave, away from home, yet
mourned sincerely by a cousin and a friend._

CHAPTER III.
ALICE MAYNARD’S PAST.

PHILLIP ROSSTON was half-crazed with appre
hension when he realized the promise he had
made to the dying girl, and would have shrunk
from its fulfillment had not her solemn adjura.-
tion constantly haunted him. He seemed al~
ways to hear her sad entreaty; be repeated his
own oath to obey her wish us an excuse when-
ever he thought of what he had promised to do.
and of its accomplishment. His was a firm and
steadfast nature, hOWeVer, and he would not
even to himself admit the possibility of evading
his obligation to the dead. Moreover, he argued
within himself that, in fulfilling his oath, he in-
jured no one, but signally served a woman
whom he regarded as second only to his lest

Mar .

Thyis feeling of admiration for Alice, and the
sophistical reasoning that he would be servmg
her worldly interests, grew stronger as he felt
that she possessed every day a greater hold up—
on his imagination. He argued also that his
uncle, to whom Mary was so little_ known,
could not fail to be deeply interested in Alice,
and, believing her to be his daughter, would

lavish on her all the affectionate tenderness

which Mary, had she lived, would have re-
ceived. .

And, in addition to all this, was the fact—-
which. it he realized, he did not admit—that he
was already in love with Alice Maynard.

Yes, the gentle spirit of Mary seemed to have
brought about this feeling, and Alice herself
had fallen under the same benign influence, for
Phillip Rnsston was in her ages the man of all
men whom she could. and w om she did. love.

The decisive moment at length arrived. Mix
Ta 101‘ having gained, or rather secured, his
wi e’s silence. wrote to Phillip to hurry home.

Poor Alice suffered the severest agony_upon
the arrival of this letter, and very seriously
alarmed Phillip by her sudden indisposrtion.

 

She had passed through so many exciting scenes
since her departure from Chicago, that she was
but ill prepared to commence a. difficult and ar-
duous assumption like that which her (lead friend
had imposed upon her.

Hers was a peculiar and romantic life. From
childhood she, had known none but strangers.
After the War of the Rebellion she had lived
with an old farmer and his wife in the northern
part of Missouri. They were very homely.
simple folk, but kind and charitable in every
way. For some years Alice almost ran wild in
this western home of hers. She could ride a
bridleless horse without a saddle, could fire a
rifle and paddle a dug-out.

It was lucky for Alice that when she was still
young she attracted the attention of a traveling
naturalist, who was then compiling a book con-
cerning the Fauna and Flora of Missouri.

His introduction to the maiden was accom-
plished in rather a startling manner.

Intent upon examining a beautiful specimen
of one of the wild flowers so abundant in the
forest, he had stretched himself at full length
among the ferns, when he was startled from
his scientific pursuits by the whizzing of a bul-
let close to the rim of his spectacles, and by the
leap into the air of a rabbit in its death‘throes
close to his shoulder.‘ This dramatic incident
in the professor’s life was accentuated by hear-
ing a merry laugh at the result of the shot, and
by perCrziving on the bank immediately above
a childlike creature, grasping a small rifle, the
barrel of which still emitted smoke.

If he was thunderstruck the girl seemed para-
lyzed on perceiving him. The laugh instantly
ceased, the large blue eyes became distended in

amazement, and the mouth, in a. sympathy of

surprise, opened and revealed a set of pearly
teeth.

The situation was entirely changed when the
child began to laugh with the most joyous
hilarity, provoked by the professor’s expression
of countenance; and so contagious was this
burst of merriment, that the savant sat up,
and joined in it with all his heart.

Then, rising, he presented the victor with her
spoils, in the shape of the rabbit, and after man
questionings, discovered her name, her resi-
deuce, and just as much of her life as aided him
very quickly to fill up all the blanks with
tolerable accuracy.

This professor, of German origin, as his name
——Van Oppen—iudicuted, was not only a clever
scientist and a lover of his chosen pursuits, but
he was a man with a full and expansive heart,
who loved his own species, so that Miss Alice
Maynard’s ingenuous air and manner won his
heart, and he resolved to adopt her. He deemed
itashame that such a beautiful specimen of
N ature’s handiwork, with such a quick, bright

intelligence should grow up so like one of the

wild flowers by the wayside.

At his request, Alice took the professor to her
home, and there introduced him to the worthy
farmer and ms wife; and it may be Very much
questioned whether the learned man regarded
the child with more wonderment than she, who
knew no more of the world than the prairie
showed her, regarded him.

The intuitive bonds of union. those of protec-

 

s{ all

-»..4

A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

  

 

tinn by him and gratitude by her, soon con-
Vim-ed Alice that she had made a happy ex-
change- from the guardianship of the kindly
rough farmer to the pleasant, highlycultured
man of science.

Professor Van Oppen, having duly obtained
the consent of heronly friends, took her without
delay to St. Louis, placed her in the best school
in the city, and commanded that no expense or
trouble might be spared in her education—all of
which instructions were implicitly followed by
Mrs. Silsbee, the bright Yankee schoolmistress
domiciled in that ultra-Southern city on the
Mississippi.

Alice did not take to mental exercises and
educational calisthenics With the same ardor
that she had followed tho chase or her meander-
ings amid Nature’s haunts; but she was too
bright, too honest, to neglect any means by
which she might make up for the lost yLars in
an educational sense.

In nine years from the date of her entrance
into the St. Louis Scholastic Institute it would
have been impossible to recognize in the hand-
some, selfi-possessed and graceful Alice May-
nard, the wild, bonny child who had shot the
rabbit over the professor’s spectacles on the
Missouri prairie. But her heart was the same
—0pen, generous and true—and she had made
friends with every one.

At this time a sad eVent occurred, which cast
a gloom over her hitherto joyous spirits.

Worthy Professor Van Uppén, in the too ar-
duous study of certain lichens, took cold. He
neglected his physician’s advice to lay up, but
went wandering off. exposed to fresh dangers
of the same kind. Truth to say, the society of
Mrs. Vun Oppen was not so genial to the
worthy pl'L‘fCSSOI‘ as was a new fungi, or a par-
ticularly fine specimen of the rattlesnake; for
the one might be edible and the other might be
annihilated; but with Mrs. Van Oppen nothing
of either kind could be accomplished. This lady,
very much the professor’s junior, was a Cana-
dian by birth, who lived for pleasure alone, and
was in reality jealous of Alice. Being so, she
tried, but in vain, to make the professor alter
his decision about her, so nothing remained but
to utterly ignore the girl’s existence.

When, however, the professor was laid u in
his last iilness, Alice. headless of the jea ous
conduct of Mrs. Van Oppen, insisted upon see-
ing her kind protector. It was a great happi-
ness to her that she had been thus persistent, or
her visit appeared to have gratified the last
earthly wish of the dying sen-ant, who, unseen
by the nurse or his wife, pressed into the
girl’s hand, a little packet containing five hun-
dred dollars.

The next day he died, rd a few days
after, Mrs. Van Oppen notified Mrs. Silsbee
that all responsibility for Miss Maynard, hith-
erto chargeable to Mr. Van Oppen, must thence-
forth cease. -

Alice, with her very little fortune of five hun-
dred dollars, was left alone in the world.

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV.
mu COMING HOME.

THE library of Mr. Taylor’s house was the
scene of an anxious interview.

Miss Maynard and Phillip Rosston had not
arrived. It was late in the afternoon when t ey
aligbted from the hack, and they had been in-
formed that Mr. Taylor would soon be home
from his business.

“ Come, Mary,” said Phillip, when the servant
bad quilted the apartment. ‘do not be so ner-
vous. Remember, Mary-3’

But the poor girl cowered down where she
sat near him, and putting her hands to her ears,
cried out:

“No, no: do not call me by that name!”

Phillip looked at her pityingly, but with
a cprtain sternness of voice, not of manner,
San :

“It is absolutely necessary that the step we
have taken should be maintained. To draw
back now woulrl he cruel to my uncle, and
most fatal to ourselves. Heaven is my wit-
ness how gladly I would disclose all and ask
forgiveness; but it would entail misery where
now there is happiness, and I cannot do it.
alloy-over, remember cur solemn promise to the

ea 1

Alice patiently listened to all that Phillip
had to say, but was little comforted. To an
honest nature, a falsehood is ever repugnant;
and even when policy or kindness prom t
the concealment of a fact, the deceit is to
regretted

She answered:

“ 1 have thought of all that must be endured
and I shudder with apprehension. It will,l
fear, be beyond my power to sustain the decep-
tion.’~ And she betrayed Very plainly the ex-
citement under which she labored.

.lt was with difficulty that Philli , who was
himself nervous and anxious, coul quiet the
alarm of the young girl.

“ I feel, Alica. as you do, that we haveunder-
taken a fearful task. Let us, however, think of
my dear cousin, and go through with it. Her -
last prayer and her last imploring look is ever
before me.”

“But how can I reconcile myself to deceivin
your uncle. The discovery of our falsehoo
Will be a sad blow to him. Of mysalf 1 do not
grimly-all my sympathy, all my thought is for

im. \

“With such feelings,” replied Phillip, “I be-
lieve that when my uncle knows you, under
whatever name you may bear, on will so fa-
vorably impress him that he wrll forgive In
deception—especially this, which, after a ,
hurts no one.’

“ You say that to reassure me, and I thank
vou from my heart, but still I dread the ordeal.

ow wiltMrs. Taylor receive me?”

“ That is a question I have repeatedly asked
myself, but cannot find an answar. My aunt—
by marriage on] , you know—is of a. strange
nature; not real y unkind, but very im rious;
not at all the'kind of a woman my one o ought
to have married. He does not know how to ex-
ercise any influence over her. for she is one

 

  

   

 

8 A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

whom "the slightest contradiction provokes to
an er.

‘ Is she a New Yorker?”

“ I believe not. She lived when young in the
West somewhere; it was there my uncle met
and married her. But I am glad to see that you
are better now—more compased; so again I
say, Mary, be of good courage. All is for the
hestl’

A tremor passed through the irl’s frame as
she heard this name, and it cost er a powerful
effort to appear calm. _ _

With many encouraging assurances, Phillip
strove to reconcile Miss Maynard to her task,
and in the end he succeeded in giving her suffi-
cient courage to meet his uncle.

Shortl after this conversation, Mr. Taylor
reached ome.

His reception of his supposed daughter was
marked by the utmost feeling and tenderness,
and helped very greatly to cover Miss May-
nard’s confusion, for her embarrassment had
the appearance of natural emotion at the meet-

in .
fi’ery fortunately, too, for her, Mr. Taylor
was deeply anxious to know every particular of
his brother’s illness and demise, and plied his
nephew with innumerable questions thereonz

Phillip eagerly seized the chance of sparing
Miss Maynard’s feelings, and very circumstan-
tially narrated all the incidents of the deceased
gentleman’s later life, adroitly givmg many
turns to the conversation, more especially such
as related to the business of the San Francisco
branch of the house.

His panegyrics upon the character of the dead
merchant were truthfully given, for he had
felt a sincere affection for his many estimable
and noble qualities. .

In a short time after this strange meeting a
material change in the position of affairs had
been effected. Miss Maynard recovered her
self-possession; Phillip lost much of the fear

which had possessed him, and Mr. Taylor was,

charmed by the unassuming, excellent qualities
so apparent in her whom he looked upon as
his daughter, and felt assured that they would
win the regard of his wife.

A servant having announced that Mrs. Tay-
lor was in the drawmg-room, all three rose and
proceeded to dress for dinner in obedience to
the summons. Before their arrival, the lady of
the house had been entertaining Mr. Jewetson
and a couple of his aristocratic friends, who
were that day to dine with the family. Mrs.
Taylor, very elegantly dressed, sat in an easy-
chair near the fire-place, in which, to counter-

'act the chilly atmosphere. a cheerful fire was
burning. She was a handsome woman, some-
what ast the grand climacteric, hut excaeding-
ly wel preserved. She was rather above the
average hight of women, had finely-chiseled
features, an elegant iournure, and a command~
in presence. Her voice was exceedingly musi-
ca -, and the only remarkable characteristic ap-
parent to a casual observer was acertain do-
flance of look, begotten, as it seemed, of a. dread
of bein taken at a disadvantage.

Mr. ewetson, an excellent specimen of an
old-youn man or a young-old 1gp, was very
pleasius a manner and speech. a had acer-

 

tain air of refinement, much show of dignity
through vanity, mingled with an airiness al-
most amounting to frivolity.

His friends, Mr. Wildermoss and the Honor-
able Cecil Hewitt, were men of position and
breeding, without the slightest trace of that
blemish of the age among aristocratic flaneurs
—slang or persiflage in conversation; added to
which, both were very good looking.

“Iassure you, Mrs. Taylor,” said Mr. Jewet-
son, “nothing could have been more delightful
than Mrs. Earle’s reception. The selection of
the company was marked by her usual good
sense.”

“She has excellent taste and judgment,” re-
marked Mrs. Taylor.

“ And not a particle of jealousy, which in a
pretty woman is charming and not a little re-
markable,” added Mr. Wildermoss.

“She would be pleased if she could hear such
praises from you,” said Mr. Hewitt.

“Yes; that I .am sure she would be.” con-
tinued Mr. Jewetson, “for she is a reciative
of all raise from the right quarter. ou know,
Mrs. aylor, how small her Lexington avenue
house is, and yet so clever is she in all she does
that it seemed spacious enough to accommodate
the very large number that came. It was a most
delightful reunion.”

These sentiments were echoed by his friends
and by Mrs. Taylor, although the lady had not
the advantage of knowing Mrs. Earle, except by
sight, and knew no more how the Lexington
avenue house looked than she did about the in-
terior of the great pyramid; but she was equal
to all society’s calls for assumed knowledge.

The conversation proceeded much in the same

manner for some time, and nearly all the on

dits, a few of the milder scandals, and the sev-
eral events of the season now drawing toa
close, were discussed by Mrs. Taylor with ap-
parently absorbing interest, and by the gentle-
men With the usual languor with which fash-
ionable conversation is carried on, in which the
listener is principally occupied, not so much on
what the speaker is saying, as upon the words
which shall constitute the reply.

Mr. Taylor came into the door at the very
moment when Mr. Hewitt was describing an en-
tertainment which some of the very creme de
la creme of fashion had organized and carried
out for the benevolent purpose of securing a
home for lost and strayed—dogs.

“ I assure you, Mrs. Taylor," said the calmly-
excited s eaker, “it was a perfect marvel to
see Miss omeroy take the part of Tilly Slow-
boy in one of the tableaux, and to see the hand-
some Jack Pinkthorn as a. cowboy from the
Western Wilds was a sight to be remembered.
Ah! how d’ye do, Taylor?” he remarked, as the
merchant approached; and then rattled on
about this, that, and everybody with any sort
of name not beneath remembrance, until he
had exhausted the subject after his usual feeble
fashion.

Mr. Taylor was delighted to observe that his
wife looked pleased with her present company,
and he inwardly confessed an admiration for
her admirable aplomb of manner toward her
three aristocratic guests. A few minutes after-
ward, Phillip entered the room: and after due

  

   

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 9

 

presentation to the visitors, and a rather cordial
greeting by Mrs. Taylor, sat down by her side
at her express invitation.

“I suppose, before leaving St. Louis, Mr.
Rosston, you had traVeled up the Mississippi
from New Orleans?”

The lady’s voice was gently modulated, so as
to he unheard except by the person whom she
addressed.

“ I only stopped at a. few places—at Vicksburg
—at Nashville.”

“ How long were you at Vicksburg?"

“A week. It was from there that I was
summoned by telegram to San Francisco to
settle up my uncle‘s affairs.”

“How sad !” murmured Mrs. Taylor. Then
added, “ Do you know any of the residents—J
mean, at Vicksburg?”

“A few. I have generally been there on
business only.”

“I think, when I was a child, I must have
visited the place ” said the lady, in a half-mus-
ing manner. ‘ Is it not a straggling city,
standing on a high bluff?”

“Yes; and covering a
ground.”

“Indeed! Do you remember the names of
any of the leading families there?”

“ Oh, yes- there were the Clarkes, the Rou~
silliers, t e .iohnstones.”

“1 seem to recall that name,” remarked Mrs.
Taylor, looking earnestly at Phillip’s face as he
spoke. “ Are they old residents?”

“ Yes: the belong in reality to the city—one
of the old no lesse, or the Eli’s—first families,
you know.” a

“Yes; of course. I remember now. They
were considered very rich, were they not?”

“Not exactly rich; but very well off. They
did not all, however, do credit to their name.”

“ Indeed 1”

And again the lady’s eyes seemed fain to
pierce the speaker’s inmost mind.

Phillip, utterly unconscious of the scrutiny,
proceeded: “ In large families, you know, there
are always black sheep; but I knew so little of
the Johnstones that I cannot now even retail
the Vicksburg 0ssip about them.”

“Oh, pray 0 not tax your memory, Mr.
Rosgton. Imally take no interest in the peo-

9.

And with a sigh, whether of weariness or re-
lief it was impossible to say, the speaker turned
to converse with Mr. Wildermoss at the very
moment of the entrance into the room of Alice
Maynard.

Mrs. Taylor instinctively arose as the young
lady ap roached her under the escort of her
suppose father, and for an instant seemed to
put her very soul into her eyes in scrutiny of
her face, figure, dress and deportment, al of
which was unknown by Alice. whose eyes
{ere downcast, and who felt almost ready to
aint.

The examination proved eminently satisfac-
tory, for taking Miss Maynard’s hands in her
own, Mrs. Taylor drew her toward herself,
:nddimprinted a motherly kiss upon her fore-
ea .
This act. very simply I ad naturally Perform-

large area of

ed, was an immense relief to Miss Maynard,
while Mr. Ta lor, scarcely crediting his senses,
was delights beyond measure.

Dinner was at this juncture announced, upon
which Mr. Wildermoss offered his arm to the
hostess; Mr. Hewitt conducted Alice; Mr. Tay-
lor and Mr. J ewetson went down together, and.
Phillip went down alone.

He was not the least pleased one of the fam-
ily to think that, so far, the serious step had
been successfull taken, and the distressing
mental strain 0 the two conspirators thereby
somewhat relaxed.

CHAPTER V-
a NEW LIFE.

WHAT was Mr. Taylor‘s surprise to discover,
in a few days, that his wife and Alice had be-
come inseparable and fast friends! All his
alarms had been needless, and the many delays
he had himself interposed to their meeting had
been futile.

Futile, alas! in the one sense that the real
Mary had never been clasped in her dear father’s
arms, nor had known, are she died, a. father’s
kiss. But of that he was ha )pily ignorant and
it was a mercy that the nowledge did not
reach him then, or his heart would have been
broken by vain regret and just indignation at
the deceit practiced.

Time, which softens all griefs, has also the
power to create new joys and sympathies. In
the interest of the merchant and of Alice, time
was a blessed comforter, for it caused the kind
man to regard her with tender affection, while
it made the girl very happy in his love, alloyed
her remorse, and awoke the tenderest feelings of
her really noble heart.

To Phillip Rosston there was comfort in the
calm progress of events, and he was daily more
and more fascinated by the amiable character-
istics of his so-called cousin.

Mrs. Taylor, too, found in Alice a gentle com-
panion. in whom she constantly discovered new
charms, and for many weeks the little family
circle was truly happy.

The grand dinner party and ball with which
the season concluded came off in due course,
and was a great success. Never had the Tay-
lo'rhmansion held so many really aristocratic
Visitors, while more millions, in the shape of
rotnnd and stately magnates, Were present than
upon any occasion, since Mrs. Taylor had on-
tered society as one of its leaders.

A few days after these festivities the whole
family left town to enjoy a visit to the seaside,
and as the weather happened to be rather chilly,
lAstsmdry, from its sheltered position, was se-

ec e . .
A well-appointed cottage had been hired for
the season. servants were sent down in advance,
Enddeverything looked auspicious for a pleasant

01 ay.

A day or two suficed to settle the new-comers
in their marine residence, and Alice, to whom
such a life was entirely now, was deli hted
, with all she saw. Mrs. Taylor preferre the
j usual formal bathings, promenades, and home
; receptions. to the numerous excursions. picnics.

 

 

   

10

 

A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

  

 

and impromptu festivities planned and carried
out by the younger members of their friends
and acquaintances.

Neither Mr. Taylor nor Phillip permanently
remained in Ashury, the exigencies of a large
mercantile house necessitating the frequent
presence in the city of both uncle and nephew.

hey managed, however, to spend two or three
days each week at the seaside, and enjoyed to
the full even this limited relief from the cares
of commerce. In a very short time Miss May-
nard, finding that she was left very much to
her own deviCes, began to take long walks into
the surrounding country and upon the sea-
shore.

These lonely excursions were gradually in-
creased in distance until she had very nearly
explored the whole district within a radius of
ten or twalve miles. So strong, too, is early
habit, that with this indulgence in wandering,
some of her old Missouri habits returntd.
Nothin delighted her more than to wander
along t e sea-shore, far from the town and re-
moved from all contact with human beings.
There, throwing her hat down on the sand,
she would, taking off shoes and hose, delight to
walk into the sea, watching its coming and re-
ceding waves, and, with little screams of de-
light, running away from the ever-recurring
larger billow—a race hetween her and mighty
ocean. If, miscalculating her distance, the
wave, with its quick-sliding movement, threat-
ened to dash itself over her dainty dress, tucked
up though it were, she would laugh, would
scream with pretended fear, and then clap her
hands in childish glee at her narrow escape from
complete submersion.

This little natural comedy was played with-
out witness or audience, and, therefore, it made
her happy beyond measure to think that she,
who had entered society, with all its established
rules of propriety so absolutely laid down, could
yet, by her own free will, shake them all off
whenever she pleased to take a healthy walk,
and then find one corner in the world where
she could be alone with nature.

Many a. time had she enjoyed these excur-
sions, and she often laughed to herself at
the thought of them when at the stately
dinner-table, she found herself, listening to fash-
ionable talk or dull platitudes—very much alike.
Not that her home was anything but cheerful,
but life has so many tedious conventional rules
that her escapades were keenly reli~hed by her
both in action and remembrance, and she alwavs
looked forward to her escape from sxifl formali-
ties with eager anxiety.

At this period she was really happy. If for a
brief moment the recollection of the part she
was playing crossed her mind. the thought was
readily appraised when she reflected how truly
she loved both the merchant and his wife.

' Of Phillip. too she often thought. After her
wild outbursts of merriment, with old Neptune
as her coadjutor, she often found herself tired
with the sport, and she would then select some
sheltered spot and, throwing herself down upon
:he kl‘ieach, would gaze into sea and sky, and

hin

Visions of the past at such times would fly
across her brain. far more quickly than the

 

traveling clouds traversed her visual senses.
She would weary and perplex herself about the
past no less than the future. Much of what had
transpired in her childhood was clouded and
obscure. She knew that the honest old Missouri
farmer, Jake Maynard, and his wife were not
her parents, although she bore their name, and
she remembered that she could never get the
otherwise kindly old fellow to give her any
information about either her father or her
mother.

“Don’t ask no questions, my dear,” was his
invariable answer, “and you won’t be told no
lies. As long as there’s a ’tatur in the fields or
an ear of corn in the cob, on this old ranch, you
sha’n’t want. No, nor when both on ’em fail
you shall have enough and to spare, if old Jake
Maynard has strength enough left to pull a trig-
ger. There’s deer and fish, darling, in this free
land of ours, to give you food enough and to
spare, and you shall have it. So don’t ask no
questions, but eat and ax a blessing on the food
afore you eat it; that’s all you have to think
on.”
Old Mrs. Maynard was equally reticent and
equally clever in putting aside all her childish
questionings, therefore she was Content to love
them dearly and troubie them no further.

But when, launched into life at Mrs. Silsbee’s
school in St. Louis, she met girls belonging to
all the best Southern families, this ignorance of
her parentage caused her much distress, and she
was obliged to use all her mother wit to avoid
exposing her want of knowledge upon so mate-
rial a point as her birth, well aware that the
feelin about such matters in all‘ classes was
sensitive and often unjust in the extreme. How-
ever, with rare tact she escaped this and other
diflculties which her wild bringing up might
have exposed her to. Mr. Van Oppen’s protec-
tion greatly helped her, and her sudden de art-
ure from the school spared her any possib e in-
sult and degradation which might have been
inflicted by indiscretion, not unkindness, on the
part of her late school-fellows.

From the past, her thoughts in these day-
dreams by the sea-shore were directed to the
present, but she did not long entertain their
troublesome presence; events "Jere too recsnt,
her fears too vivid, for her to find anything but
painful alarm in their contemplation—so she
shut the door of that cabinet in memory’s store-
closet with fear akin to that with which the
door of Bluebeard‘s closet would have been
closed had its horrid contents been known in
time by his inquisitive spouse.

Of Phillip she thought; and what wonder if,
when her thoughts turned to him, as they often
did, the sky put on a roseate hue, the murmur-
ing ocean seemed to lap her into a semi-sleep of
contentment, and all nature appeared to attune
itself to her tender thoughts. She did not de-
ny to herself, although neither by word nor
look did she betray it to him, that she loved

1m.

She watched eagerly for his coming, and it
was to him alone that she confided the secret of
her wanderings, where often they paced up and
down, or sat pretending to read, but uttering
no word of love, nor daring to trust the lan-
guage of the eye. '

 

 

     
  
   
 

      

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. ' ll.

 

They returned as they went, calmly happy,
conscious of their affection for each other, but
never breaking the promise they had inwardly
made to themselves not to betray their se-
crers.

One name was never spoken. though it lay
upon their hearts wiih is softened, gentle influ-
ence. Mary was dead to the world, except
under the the guise of Alice, and nothing could
tempt them now to breathe her name between
themselves. They deemed the grave had sanc-
tified her memory, and within their own hearts
her monument had been erected never more to
be disturbed, but to remain forever perfect and
beautiful.

Thus the lives of thase two young people sped
on. They Were, when together, happy; but
when separated they were nervous and anxious
lest some mischaiice might betray their com-
mon secret and involve [lieu] both in ruin.

CHAPTER VI.
AN UNFOltTUNATE ENCOUNTER.

ONE lovely day Alice llild wandered along the
ocean road for a long distance, and had finally
dercended to the beach, ju<t where a little inlet
formed a cosey sort of harbor, shut out from all
sight from the public path and looking out only
upon the ever-moving sea.

The girl was very tired. for it was late when
she had left the house, and she had walked rap-
idly in order to have as long a time in her soli-
tude as osslble before the return to dinner, at
which r. VVilde-rnioss was expected. Mr.
Taylor and Phillip were also coming down for
a couple of days, and were to arrive at the
same hour.

Rather flushed with the unusual exercise her
walk had imposed upon her, she threw off her
hat, let loose her fair hair, and sat upon her
favorite pouch, allowing the cool sea-breeze to
play through her tresses in a very luxury of en-
joyment.

A drowsy feeling soon came over her, the far-
ofl horizon grew softly dim, the light clouds
seemed to fall gently down upon the ocean’s
bosom. the wind Seemed lulled, and she slept.

How long she slumbered she knew not at the
moment she was awaked: but it was with a start
of alarm that she heard a voice, and became
conscious of a presence. An instant showed
her who it was, and lhe danger in which she
was placed by the spcaker, although the speech
was very common-place.

“Dear me, if it ain’t Miss Maynard 1"

Such were the words uttered by Mrs. Har-
mond, the Bufialo nurse, as she stood open-
mouthed in wonder at her discovery.

.“Dear me, it is Miss Maynard!” was her sec-
ond exclamation. '

Terror held Alice speechless.

This worthy person, utterly unconscious of
the alarm her appearance inspireu, and prompt-

 

ed by naturally kindly feelings, came down the ‘

declivityleacing to theshore, and very com-
fortably disposed herself upon the sand to rest
and have a chat.

To Alice, the whole scene seemed to darken;
amist'rose up, if not from the ocean, at any
rate before her eyes; the sea, till now gently
murmuring, appeared to roar with myriad

 

voices in her ears, and the very word they _ut-
tered thrilled her with alarm, for it sounded like
“ l mpostor I”

Yes; she who had but now deemed her secret
safe from discovery—who had put back all
thoughts of the past, with a certain assurance
of present success—now saw all her foolish
hopes shattered by one blow, and the innocent
destroyer of the carefully built—up fabric, the
inevitable cause of future agony and grief un-
told, sat complacently smiling, as if awaiting
the cordial recognition of an old acquaintance.

What fools she and Phillip had been not to
think of this person! How mad, how blind,
they had been to enter upon such a task as they
had ventured on without taking cognizance of
this Mrs Harmond, who held their fate Within
her hand!

Where were now.the roseate dreams of love
and confidence?

The future looked, as did the present, to her
blurred sight black as night, behind which
stalked disaster to her and Phillip, and heart-
breaking to the poor father.

Again, she thought how mad, how blind they
had both been not to have thought of all this,
and, if thinking of it, not to have planned some
way out of the terrible dilemma her very ex-
istence involved. A way out of it? That
thought rose up simultaneously With the fear
which Mrs. Harmond’s presence caused. But,
think as she might about any way of escape,
her mind was so tempest-tossed that she could
not concentrate her thoughts, nor even know
how to address her unwelcome intruder. All she
Eould do was to gaze at her as before, in amazed

I‘l‘l'Ol'.

Mrs. Harmond, thinking pride of station held
Alice silent, hastened to apologize for appear-
ing so glad to see her; but her very attempt at
excuse lacerated the girl’s feelings more and
more deeply.

“I’m sure I must apologize, Miss Maynard,
for addressing you,” said the good creature, ig-
norant of the agony the other endured: “but
the sight of you recalled the memory of that
poor dear soul, Miss Mary Taylor, now in
heaven. Ah, I shall never—never forget her
patient endurance during her illiiessl She was
a sweet-tempered angel, if ever there was one
in this world, and many a time I think of her
now she's gone. And I have thought a deal
about you and Mr. Rosston. How is he—a nice,
pleasant-spoken a gentleman as ever lived?”

Fortunately for Alice, the woman did not
wait for any reply, but continued the conversa-
tion.

“Just before I left Buffalo, miss, I went out
to the cemetery to look at Miss Ta lor‘s grave.
The flowers you and Mr. Rosston p anted looked
fresh and pretty, for all the world as if they
had only just been put there. Ahl it is a com-
fort, when we are gone, to think that there are
loving folks who will remember us. That’s
what I always sa. to myself when I’m in
trouble, and don’t know where to look for con-
solation.”

SiilI,Allce sat spellbound while Mrs. Har-
mond talked. Her words were heard and some
of their meaning understood, but all in a. vague
and confused manner. for the listener’s thoughts

 

   

  

12

A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

were filled with matters so fraught with terror
that she could not realize that the gossiping
nurse sat before her any more than she could
silence the awful word that rung in her ears,
borne on the now turbulent waves—“Impos-
tor!”

“But I’ve left Buffalo now, and come with a
patient to Asbury; a very kind lady she is. but
a little light in the head, you know. Not ex—
actly mad, but with fits of violence, miss. that
need constant watching. This is the first time
I’ve had an hour to myself since I came here,
and to think that I should come upon you so
sudden-like, not knowing that you were herel”

Why did not the sea rise up and swallow the
speaker, who by every word she uttered inflict-
ed agony upon the listener?

“The house where we live, miss, is just at the
top of that road there. The family has taken
it for the season, and I’m very comfortable—
that is, as comfortable as a person can be having
a violent patient to look after constantly. But
you seem rather poorly, miss: you’re as pale as a
ghost. What has been the matter? Isuppose
the shock of poor Miss Taylor’s death was too
much for you. I thought you’d lay yourself
up, attending so close to her as you did. But
she was so good and patient that no one could
grudge her anything.’ 7

At length the torture of this woman’s talk
could no longer be borne by Alice Maynard.
She saw that the woman must be silenced, and
she braced herself to the task. It cost her a
mighty efl’ort, however, to converse, even in
ordinary tones; but she accomplished it.

“ I am much obliged to you, Mrs. Harmond,
for the very great kindness to—to our dear
friend. We—that is, Mr. Rosston and myself—
are very sensible of it, at d—” here she paused,
not knowing in what way to enlist the woman’s
interest— “but the fact is, we did not know
how to recompense you for your—”

“ Recompense, miss? Who was talking of
that? Not 1! There’s nothing I want, thank
goodness, that I can’t get by workirg for it.
You paid me—leastways Mr. Rosston did—very
liberally for what I did, and I was grateful for
it; but don’t Want to be recompensed beyond

being paid my Wages for doing my duty. But,

I’m not an unfeeling woman, miss, and I did
take a deep interest in that poor. dear young
lady, but that’s no reason why there should be
any talk of recompense—”

How much longer Mrs. Harmond’s anger
would have prompted her to resent in speech
the unfortunate remark which so offended her
it is impossible to surmise; but Alice luckily ar-
rested her in the full tide of her eloquence by
gently laying her hand upon her arm, looking
up at her face, and simply saying:

“ Oh, forgive me! .[ did not intend to wound
your feelings.”

“ There’s no harm done, miss, so long as none
was meant: but we poor people, although we do
take wages and are servants, have our feelings.
But there! sa no more. Miss Maynard. l was,
maybe. a litt e too quick myself to take offense,
and tending a lunatic patient isn’t apt to sweet-
en one’s temper, you must confess.”

Alice had now regained enough courage to see
that she ran the risk of exciting Mrs. Harmond’s

 

  

animosity if she did not bring back her wander~
ing thoughts. and listen to, or appear to heed,
what the nurse was saying. It was. therefore,
with great gentleness that she replied:

“Yes, it must be a sore trial to he always
near any one with perverted reason. 1 ity the
friends and those who take care for t em far
more than I do the patients, for they are, let us
hope. unconscious of their own infirmity.”

“ My very sentiments, miss, but most beauti-
fully expressed. Ah! we nurses see many things
in thisllfe that don’t hear to be spoken of too
loud l”

“ I have no doubt of it.”

“Yes. miss, there are romances in many
families that if they were printed and published
wouldn’t he believed. But are you all alone
here, Miss Maynard i”

“ No,” stammered Alice; “ we—that is, I am
here with friends.”

“Ah,” sighed Mrs. Harmond, “ that must be
very nice. I used to have friends and relations
myself here in this very place. I must hunt
them up, and hear all the news, for, you know,
miss, these sea-bathing places are rare spots for
go.=s1p.

Yes, Alice knew that—had,indeed,fonnd it out
very shortly after her arrival, for, stranger as
she was to the ways and manners of fashionable
life, she knew that she herself was the olject
of much comment by their neighbors. Indeed,
one morning when standing at the window of
the breakfast-room she overheard the servants
of the adjoining house canvassing not onlv the
affairs of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor and Mr. Ross-

' ton, but very freely debating about herself, her

looks, expectations, and her possible marriage.
At the time she smiled at the idle curiosity
which prompted such doings:l but now it flashed
upon her that here was a new and most alarm-
ing danger to be guarded against—more alarm-
ing because Mrs. Harmond was sure to dis-
cover the whereabouts of her relations, to hear
from them all the news of the latest comers,
and add to‘ them her own share of adventures
since she had last seen them. Her life at Buf-
falo would be certain to furnish material for
narrative, and there the greatest danger lay.
Should her relatives be in possession of any in-
formation, however slight, of Mr. Taylor and
his family, any casual allusion to the name and
to Mr. Rosston before Mrs. Harmond would

- lead to comment, questioning, and to exposure.

Dangerous as the presence of the nurse in
Asbury was, it was still greater if she was al<
lowed to pass out of sight and knowledge.
Safety, or, at any rate, vigilant watchfulness
could only be secured by a perfect knowledge of
where Mrs. Harmond could be found.

With her mind now clear upon this point, she
continued the convarsation:

“Well, Mrs. Harmond. I am very glad to
have met you. I do not know how long I may
remain here; but I should very much like to
have your address, so that I might see you again
before I leave, if I have the opportunity.”

“Certainly, miss; and I shall be pleased to
see you, and anything that I can do for your
own sake and for the sake of that dear dead
young lad —”

“ Yes. know how you feel: but. oh. spare

 

 

 

  

  

 

     

me! Icannot bear to speak of her. Give me
your address.”

“ Here’s the card of the gentleman where I’m
living now. You can put my name on the back
of it when you get home. But might I ask for
your address. miss, it not too bold?”

“Yes, I will send it. I have not a card with
me, and have no means of writing it down. I
will send it.”

“ 9h, thanks, miss! I hope you won’t for-

1

And the good woman after courtesying deep-
ly, slowly mounted the beach. When she made
a movement to leave the spot Alice felt re-
lieved, and watch her departure with alightened
heart.

After reaching the top of the roadway she
turned to courtesy once more, and, as if prompt.
ed by some evil genius, again spoke.

“ You’ll not forget to send me your address,
will you, Miss Maynard?”

And then turning round for the last time, al- 

most ran into the arms of a gentleman, to whom
she offered an apology, and then disappeared in
the turn of the road.

Alice, who had watched her every movement.
beheld with dismay that the gentlnnan whom
the nurse encountered, who must have over-
heard her last speech, and who stood smiling
and bowing to the terror-stricken girl, was
none other than Mr. Wildermoss.

How she reached home she never knew, but
she was conscious that she had not refused to
accept the arm of the gentleman who had so
strangely witnessed Mrs. Harmond’s departure,
and who she felt sure must have overheard the
voluble woman’s last remark. But here again
she was at fault, for neither by word nor look
did he betray that he had heard or seen the
nurse.

He chatted pleasantly and lightly on the road
home: that she remembered, although she was
equally sure that her replies must have been
strangely mis laced, for, indeed, her thoughts
were not wit what he said or what she an-
swered.

She reached home in a most unhappy mood
whereas she had started out with a. light and
cheerful heart.

Her reception of Phillip, who had arrived be-
fore she got home. was embarrassed; While his
greeting to her became cold and restrained
when he saw her coming toward the house lean-
ing upon the arm of Mr. Wildermoss, who was
in the best of spirits, and declared that he had
never enjoyed a walk so much as the one which
had been honored by Miss Taylor’s company.

Was there an accentuated pause when he said
“Miss Taylor?” Surely not; and yet her ear
was delicately sensitive for any slight, or any.
evidence of suspicion.

If, on the contrary, he had overheard Mrs.
Harmond’s last speech, why had he not quas-

 

tioned. her? The circumstance of her being
called by any one by a name diflerent to that
by which she was known would have been war- l
rant for inquiry. |
She thought this over all the way as they ‘
walked homeward, but he made no sign of hav-
ing any doubt upon his mind and she was
forced to put the dread that he ad heard and

A PERII.OUS PLEDGE. 18

! noted the nurse’s speech aside, and tried to us-

> sure herself that she had nothing to four upon

- that score. But even while she was comforting

I herself with this, all her doubts recurred with

5 increased force when she remembered the glit-
ter of his eye as it fell upon her when Mrs.
Harmond was lost to sight in the bend of the
road. It was, however, useless to endeavor to
arrive ,with certainty at a knowledge of how
much or how little Mr. Wildermoss knew, and
tho gong warned her she had not more than
sufficient time to dress for dinner.

The truth is, that Arthur Wildermoss was a
marvel to not a few clever people who thought
they knew him well; and to no one was he a
greater puzzle than to his own father, the pomp‘
ous, but very clever Banker Wildermoss. This
worthy gentleman was much troubled at not
being able to read the character of his own son

- after the fashion with which he read a printed

ook.
In the first place, the banker was a perfectly
honorable man, who hated all manner of deceit;

, and if he was somewhat pr0sy in the house, he

was exceedingly quick-witted in all dealings in
affairs of business. He liked to know all about
fivegything, and he detested mystery of any

in .

His son, Arthur, was perfectly obedient in
everything proper for a son to be obedient in;
he was not a. horse-racing or a gambling man;
he observed all the rules of decorum laid down
for due observance, and transgressed none of
those obligations which fashionable society has
imposed for its own protection.

He was very good-looking, dressed faultlessly,
and never gavo vent to any but the most ele-
vated sentiments.

What, then, was it that annoyed his father?
What was it that made most men salute him
gravely and politely, and then turn from him,
glad to be relieved of his presence? Why did
his equals, to whom he was invariably courteous,
dislike him? And why did dependants, to
whom he gave freely largusse, despise and
sneer at him even when accepting his. bounties?
The mystery Was not deep, nor was it difficult
of solution, although it was never solved by the
worthy banker, his father.

The fact is, that Arthur Wildermoss was ut-
terly devoid of feeling—in other words, he had
no heart. His equals felt it without knowing it,
and his inferiors knew it without feeling lits
want. All the coneenances of life were rigidly
observed by him as far as outward show de-
manded, but his life had been, and still promised
to be, an utter failure, owmg to the want of
that single attribute of human sympathy which
makes the whole world kin.

Such was the man into whose hands Alice
Maynard bed so unfortunately fallen, for she
felt that she had lost liberty, and had to endure
the thralldom of mind which a dangerous secret
imposed upon her when its power was held by
such a man.

Woman-like, she had a delicate appreciation
of the finer lights and shadows of character,
and she knew she could not be mistaken in the
estimate of this cool, collected, but heartless

entleman. Had she needed assurance of the
fact. the recollection of the one baleful look he

 

    

 

14 A I’ERITDUS PLEDGE.

 

fiavgtlier would have convinced her beyond all
on .

The dinner was but a dull one, after all. Mr.
Taylor had been much worried in business be-
fore leaving the city, and was too tired to talk.
Phillip was taciturn and sad; and Mrs. Taylor
seemed worried, and was little inclined for con-
versation. The only person who a neared
thoroughly at ease was Mr. Arthur ilder-
moss. He seomed not only pleased with every
one, but was evidently happy with some odd
fancy, known only to himself.

However, even dull dinners must terminate
sooner or later; and it was with a sigh of relief
that Alice obeyed Mrs. Taylor’s hint to rise.

When she reached the drawing-room she
sought out a secluded corner, and. hiding her
face from Mrs. Taylor, shed a few comforting
tears after the excitement of the last few hours.

When the gentlemen came up stairs—for they
did not linger over their wine—Phillip took a
seat near by, and, idly turning over the leaves
of a book of travel, addressed her in a low tone,
while Mr. Taylor and Arthur sat down to a
game of chess.

'f What has happened?" almost whispered
Phillip. “You appear to be very unhappy l”

“No, not unhappy; but I am tired. I must
have walked too far. The sun was really hot,
you know, and the sea air seems always to
fatigue one. Don’t you think so?”

“ 1 think that something has happened which
you do not wish me to know. But tell me,” he
added, almost sternly, “ has that man anything
to do with your unhappiness?” And his eyes
fell upon Mr. Wildermoss with no very great
admiration as he spoke.

That apparently unobservant man chancing
to look up at the momont encountered that
look, which he returned with a gracious smile
and a slight inclination of the head, which
might beread either as a warning that he was
Vigilant. even of looks, or that he accepted the
unfriendliness in the same manner in which it
was offered. Phillip vainly strove to draw
from Alice the cause of her sadness, and failing
in his attempts, he turned at last regretfully
away. She seized the opportunity of gliding
from the' apartment and retiring to her own
room.

The game of chess between Mr. Wildermoss
and Mr. Taylor did not exhibit any marked
strategic skill;'so, the guest, perceiving that his
host’s mind was more upon affairs of commerce
than upon the safety of his queen or the dignified
security of his king, quietly made a “ draw ” of
the game, and then arose and took his depar-
ture. Carefully lighting a cigar, he strolled
ve leisurely in the direction of the hotel, and
evi ently found much matter for deep thought.

Arriving at his temporary home, he drew a
chair into the deep bay-window, and sat smok-
ing till long after midnight. His eyes were di-
rected seaward, but his thoughts" were else-
where, for he did not seem to notice the strange-
ly beautiful sight the ocean presented, dazzling
and sparkling under a rich, tull, bright moon.
He did not heed the passage of the ships, the
progress of the steamers as they crossed the

orizon, any more than he heard the creaking
of the timber: and cordaze of the fishing-boats

 

as they were gently swayed to and fro by the
waves. ~

His thoughts must have been very Worldly,
for his taco betrayed iio softness in its expres
sion but seemed to harden as he pondered.

Whatever may have been the subject of Us
meditations, he atlength arrived at a conclusion
apparently satisfactory to himself, for with a
gratified air he got up irom his seat and sought
his bed, there doubtless to take up the thread of
his reverie.

 

CHAPTER VII.
FRIEND on FOE.

MRS. HARMOND was seen no more by Alice
Maynard, and the alarm she had caused was
passing away when a fresh source of annoyance,
very Serious in its character, assailed her.

She had resolved to take no more solitary
walks, being fearful of meeting the garrulous
nurse, and therefore reduced her exercise to a
daily visit to the pier in company with Mrs.
Tavlor.

That lady chose the spot as most convenient
for the meeting of friends and acquaintances,
for, as everybody made a point of promenading
there daily at the fashionable hour in the after-
noon, the interchange of greetings, was easily
effected.

Whenever she found Mrs. Taylor deeply on-
gaced in gosdp with some of her aristocratic
friends, Alice quietly excused herself and sought
a more retired spot, where, between readitg
and thinking, she spent her time. As Mrs. Tay-
lor allowed her prrfect liberty of action, she
only expected her when the. hour for returning
home arrived. When, offering the elder lady
her arm, the two went back to the house.
Mrs. Taylor relailed just as much of the news
she had heard as she thought would interest her
companion. ~ -

Two weeks after Alice’s meeting with Mrs.
Harmond, and when the event itself was fading
away from her memory, she left Mrs. Taylor
one afternoon upon the pier, according to cus-
tom, and crept to her favorite seat in a booth
near by. Resolved to finish the book she had
commenced two days previously, and being
really much interested in its contents, she en-
tirely abstracted her thoughts from anything
but the open age before her. So absorbed was
she in what sEe read that she did not notice the
approach of the person whom of all others she
least desired to see, and it was not until he be-
gan to speak that she was aware of his pre-
sence. ‘

“I resume your book is very entertaining.
May ask its name's”

She raised ler eyes, and perceived that the
speaker was Mr. Wildermoss, who again ad-
dressed her as he politely and with a courteous
bow took the book from her listless hand and
looked at its title.

“One of George Sand’s works, I perceive,” he
said, smiling. '

Alice had by that time recovered from her
surprise. and noting the eXemplary politeness of
the speaker, answered cheerfully:

“She isa favorite author of mine. Do you
like her writinzsi" I

 

  

  

l
i
t
..

M’. A

  

“I think they are delightful. There is always
such a vein 0 deep thought and studious in-
quiry into motive in all her works. Her char-
acters are never commonplace, even when
drawn from the lower classes. They have indi-
viduality, and that is always charming.”

“Those,” said Alice, “ are the Very qualities
which I admire. Have you read her ‘ Consuelo,’
and its sequel?”

“ Yes, twice. Some of her comedies are
grand—too grand for the American stage. We
have no actors now.”

“ Indeed!”

He sat down by her side as he handed back
her book, and then, with a very deliberate but
perfectly polite air, replied:

“No, we have no great artists on the stage
who can interpret the higher class of comedy.
Our best actors and actresses are to be found,
not on, but oh‘f, the stage."

“What can you mean? Surely you do not
allude to amateurs? They are generally con-
sidered very poor artists."

“ I do not allude to amateurs. I point my re-
mark to people in our every-day world, who,
without the delusive glamour of the theater, act
a part with arealism of effect which is astound-
ingl’

“I presume such people were intended by na-
ture for the stage, but somehow missed their
vocation?”

“ Well, not exactly.”

“ Then I am at a loss to understand you.”

And Alice reopened her book to read, anxious,
without knowing why, to close the conversa-
tion. .

“ Your pardon, Miss—Taylor; but may I
claim a. few moments of your valuable time!”

“Oh, certainly, if you desire it!”

“I do. It is for your own sake, Miss—Tay-
lor, that I ask it.”

“ For my sake? I am really quite at a loss to
comprehend you.”

“Let me hasten to explain. I said just now,
in the course of an idle chat, that some of our
best artists were those who played their parts
not upon the stage, but in private life."

“\Velli”

The word was uttered proudly enough, but
the terrified girl was nearly fainting With ap-
prehension.

“It has been my exceeding good fortune to
meet one of the cleverest in the person of Miss
Taylor.”

“ Mr. Wildermoss, you forget yourself. I
can no longer listen to you.”

“Excuse me, my dear young lady. Nothing
could be further from my thoughts than to offer
an insult to you. I respect your talents so
much that I would fain be enrolled as one of the
humblest and most devoted of your admirers.”

Alice’s indignation conquered her fear, and
rising from the seat on which her persecutor
had placed himself, she was about to seek Mrs.
Taylor, when Mr. Wildermoss, speaking very
quietly, but very distinctlv. said: ‘ Wh
should you suspect me, Miss Maynard of desir-
infito injure you?”

e had, then, heard the name spoken by Mrs.
Harmond. Did he know all or_was it onlv a.
ruse to entrap her into confesstoni Why had

 

 

   

 

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. ll

he been silent for more than two Weeks! These
questions flashed across her brain with fearful
ragidity.

he had been so long expecting just such a
blow, that now, when it fel , it was not so hard
to bear as she had feared.

Her courage was great enough to look into
her enemy’s eyes, and read the triumph which
gleamed and sparkled there. If nothing else
encouraged her to meet such cruel! y by her own
art, that look would have given her strength
for the contest. It was with acalm voice, as
she stood looking down upon him, that she an-
swered, “ You have possemed yourself of a name
addressed to me by a woman whom I met by the
seaside, and it would be folly in me to attempt
to deny that I was so addressed. But why you
revive the occurrence by uttering that name I
have yet to learn.”

“Excuse me, Miss Maynard—I mean Miss
Tiylor—it was only from a desire to serve you
that I recalled the incident. Pray listen to me,”
he added, as she was about to interrupt him.
“ When a young lady, known in society by one
name, is addressen out of society by another
name, there must be good reason for her per-
mitting such a thing to be done unchallenged.
The act is an insult, and where such an offense
is perpretrated without punishment, there must
be a mystery.”

“ well, sir,” she said, as he looked up, as if
expecting her to speak, "I await the close of
your remarks.”

“I was about to add, if there 150a mystery "
—and his tone was impressive—“if there is a
mystery, there is also danger; and it is to guard
against or avert danger that I offer my serv-
lces. Will you accept them!”

She looked at him long and earnestly, not
boldly, but with the keen. searching look of a
pure woman trying to read the inmost thoughts
of a man that she felt was dangerous, and whom
she now knew to be treacherous.

Look as she might, she could not fathom his
thoughts, far less divine his motives, although
her woman’s instinct told her both were bad;
nor could she tell by her scrutiny of his face
how much or how little he knew about this
in story. .

is was a face which betrayed few emotions,
since he never felt a generous impulse, and his
eyes were as cold and shallow as his feelings, so
that looking into them was like gazing into a
clear but shallow pool' which did not even re-
flect surrounding objects. .

She resolved, however, not to yield, and wnth
quick intuitive skill she settled er plan of ac-
tion' hence her reply: I

“ i am very greatly obliged Mr. Wildermoss
for your offer, and I gladly accept it. What I
require to aid me in in present diflculty, as
the onlfv means of avoxdlng that danger you
speak 0 . is your word, as a gentleman, neverto
repeat to a living soul the remark you ovorheard
addressad to me. Hava I your promioi” ,

He saw he was caught in his own trap, but,
like a clever tactician, he accepted defeat with
a smiling countenance, resolved to lay his anger
aside, and allow it to increase until the moment
of revenge should come.

“ Of course. my dear Miss May—I mean Miss

   

    

  

16

A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

Taylor, Igive you my word of honor not to
mention it to a living soul.”

“0h, thanks, I am very much indebted to
you for your promise.”

“ I may, then, hope that your gratitude~”

“Will be very constant, I assure you,” said
the clever girl, well knowing to what he would
fain lead the conversation, “But I see my
step-mother is looking for me, and I must not
keep her waiting. Good-day; so much obliged!
No—pray do not trouble; I can find my way
alone;” and she was gone.

He sunk back into his seat with what sounded
very like a muttered path; and his friends who
encountered him that day noticed kow particu-
larly out of temper he appeared.

Alice was nearly giving way, and had she not
escaped from Mr. Wildermoss’s presence she
must have swooned, but she arrived by the side
of Mrs. Taylor without attracting the notice of
that lady.

So far, the victory was with Miss Maynard.
How long would it remain so?

CHAPTER VIII.
DREAMS.

A STRANGE drama revealed itself that night
in adream to Mrs. Taylor. A thick forest in
the Southern States. Time—autumn. The
leaves of the maple, which here ahounded, turn-
ing from a delicate crimson into blood-red, ty-
picalot the daily eVents passing inacountry
where a fratricidal war was raging, and where
hundreds of thousands of men were imbruing
their hands in blood; where the fiercest passions
found vent in slaughter; where homes were laid
waste, and helpless women and babes were
driven forth, not sure of a crust of bread, or a
root to shelter them.

The tide of war swept over field and forest,
down mighty rivers, across once smiling home-
steads, on through prosperous cities, across
I prairies, past hamlets, into bright little country
towns and villages, up into bayous and moss-
lined creeks, scouring through ship-lined har-
bors, devastating, destroy ing, and maddening
the human race in its progress,

Fathers, sons, friends. brothers—all fiercely
contending against each other in blind fury,
and immolating, on the shrine of war, those
whom they had once dearly loved. There was
neither pause nor pity in the acts of men mad—
dened by war‘s passion. Destruction of life, of
property, of hope, of sentiment—of all that
should be cherished and preserved—was the one
only idea which war fostered, and those who
had learned its lesson grew emulous of distinc-
tion in the horrid purpose. From north to south,
from east and west to south. thousands rushed,
eager to take part in the dreadful work, while
the wails of deserted women, the screams of the
maimed and wounded, and the cries of little
children, Were drowned in the rattle of mus»
ketry, the beat of drums, and the roar of can.
non.

Old men were driven from spots where they
had dwelt from childhood, and feebly endeav-
ored to lead forth with them delicate women
and infants, seeking to find homes where homes
there were none, and many finally lying down
to rest never more to rise. while past and around

 

 

them, still increasing in numbers and in furv,
swept the warlike hosts, intent upon the one
great act of destruction of all things that could
be ‘destroyed which possessed their frenzied
son 5.

The crops grew, and ripened and rotted be-
cause there were none to gather them, while, all
around, misery and gaunt starvation increased,
and finally went to swell the great number of
the dead with which war was fed and nourished
into dread roportion.

In this . outhern forest, where the din and
roar of battle had but lately resounded, a group
of badly uniformed, gaunt and savage—looking
men surrounded one wretched creature, who
searched in vain among the fierce faces for a
trace of pity or a show of human interest. He
saw none, and groaned aloud in his agony as he
heard the short sharp sentence which was, a few
moments later, to rob him of life.

It was no uncommon picture which this
group presented, for at any hour, almost any
moment, similar scenes might have been wit-
nessed throughout the length and breadth of
this once fair Southern country, while war held
high revel, and death and agony had ceased to
terrify all, save their victims.

A guerrilla band of patriots (so called) held in
their circling midst one whom they deemed a
spy. Of what use were the poor wretch’s pray-
ers for mercy, oaths of innocence, and shrieks
for a. hearing? Nonel The word had been
spoken, the sentence had been passed.

Clutching the miserable creature by the
throat, two of the more burly of the troop
dragged him across the open space and planted
him against a hemlock tree, while five others,
with coarse jests upon their lips, loaded their
rifles and sauntered ofl a little to the other

51 e.
The two had dragged their victim from the
circle, finding that he could not stand erect,
pulled oi! his blue blanket coat, tore it into rib-
bons, and slipping one around his body close
beneath his arms, passed it around the tree.
Another bandage they placed across his fore-
head, also around the tree, so that his head, sup-
ported by these, gave a horribly grotesque show
of courageously facing his murderers, while the
sweat-dro s on his pale brow betrayed his
agony. be two executioners then retired.

The five, who had looked to their arms, then
advanced, and taking cool, deliberate aim, amid
jokes and bets between themselves, pulled their
triggers, and a man was dead, riddled with
balls and saturated with blood.

The five, looking neither to right nor left, nor
at the corpse, wheeled awkwardly, and soon re-
joined their company along with the two sub-
ordinate murderers, and all, with yells of laugh-
ter and with brutal jests, marched stragglingly
out of the forest across the clearing on to the
high-road, and there and then joined another
cohort bound upon the same bloody errand of
glorifying war and all itsvattributes.

With a shriek of more than mortal agony,
Mrs. Taylor awoke from her sleep in which this
dream of ruthless murder had been enacted.
She sohbed convulsively, and looked around as
if to assure herself that what she had so vividly
seen was not reality.

   

a... T)
l
\

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. l7

 

No: the room, dimly lighted hv a candelabra
with colored globes, nnsluxuriously appointed.
Easy-chairs and ottoninns and all the elegant
furnishings of a wealthy home were around her,
and the lull, rich moon shone through the open
window, and “as reflected in myriad ripples by
the restless sea, the h: pping of V\ hose waves upon
the bench came murmuringly and faintly on
her ears. '

She arose, and hurriedly putting on a wrap-
per, crossed to the casement and gazed out
upon the ocean, fearful for n time of evm look-
ing back into the room where these horrors
of her dream seemed to have been more than
pictured.

The scream nlnrmed Alice, who slept in the
adjoining room, and as Mr. Taylor was not ex-
pected at Ashury for several days, he feared
that sudden illness or some dire catastrophe had
alarmed the elder lady, and hastily entered the
apartment.

“Ah. Mary ” said Mrs. Tnylor, “thank you
for coming! was so terrified that] must have
alarmed you with my scream. But how is it,
dear, that you are up and dressed at this late
hour?"

“ I was not sleepy, and the night is so henuti-
ful that I sat by the window looking out upon
the sea, and I really did not know the hour.
But what alarmed you?"

“Nothing but a dream. Pray to Heaven,
child, thut you may never have such a one, for
it was so dreadfulthat even now I shudder when
I think of it.”

“Then I will stay with you if you will allow
me. Iussure you I am not tired, and if you
will let me lie here upon this couch I may
even sleep for an hour or two "W‘ you will feel
more confident. You will let mefdo so, will you
not?”

“Certainly, child; and I thank you for propos-
ing it. I am better now, but not quite myself.
Dreams have a strange power over us, have
tLey not?"

“I never dream.”

“You never dream? Are you sure of that?"

“ Not in my sleep, I mean.”

 

“ When, then, do you dream, my dear? I am
curious to know.”

“When I am awake. That is what they call 1:
day-dreams. I Often have those.”

“ Indeed! You must tell me all about them.” 7

“Oh, I have not much to tell!" answered the
girl, as she leaned her head upon the arm of the l
chair where Mrs. Taylor sat. “Yet I have one
day-dream which is not all a dream, but seems
rather the revivifying of some old memory of
an event that may or may not have happened, i
of which I have no knowledge except when my
day—dream comes upon me.”

“ And what is this old memory or more than
half-forgotten fact?" asked Mrs. Taylor. 3

“ It is about some great trouble. There ‘
seems to be mixed up in my recollection the
movement of vast numbers of men—angry ,
men. Then there is a. noise not unlike thun-i
der, only sharper, clearer—perhaps like artil-
lery; but I have never heard that Then I seem
to have been wandering across fields, to have
slept under trees, and then more strange
laces—”

“Well, child, what then?” '

And Mrs. Taylor gazed eagerly at the girl by
her side.

“ Well, then it all seems to occur again,
and again; and then I lose myself. and become
confused in trying to follow out this story,which
is no story, or, rather, this day-dream, which is
more like u fading memory."

“ Vtht you tell me is strange—very strangel"
said Mrs. Taylor, more as it to herself than to

me.

So strange was it to her thinking, that she
could not, although she tried, dismiss it from
her mind, but sat gazing at her Companion,
who, having recovm-ed from the temporary
fright which Mrs. Taylor’s scream had caused,
gradually yielded to the influence of sleep,
being-Without, perhaps, knowing it—really
fatigued.

She had extended herself upon the couch with
her right arm beneath her head and her face
turned partly toward the elder lady.

As she lay thus. Mrs. Taylor flung a rich,
warm mantle over her limbs, and smoothed her
luxuriant tresses, which, truth to say, were
sadly disordered, and streamed over the sofa-
cushion in rich profusion.

Then returning to her seat after wrapping a
cloak around her own shoulder, the merchant’s
wife sat for some time in silence.

The strangeness of Alice’s day-dreams she
could not dismiss from her mind; and ever and
anon she turned her headin the direction of the
sofa, only to see the large eyes of the girl

adually disappearing beneath their richly-

ringed lids in the very luxury 0! languor and
coming sleep.

Only once did she disturb the quiet, by say-

in :

%‘Is that all you ever see—I mean in your
day-dreams?”

“ Yes,” answered Alice, softly; “that is
near] all, yet it is sometimes more full of
data: . _Lot me think! Oh, yes; I seem to see a
house With a wide, long veranda, with climbing
vines running up its columns and arching across
the opening. and upon this wide porch there are
sometimes figures—two or three old eople and
some young ones; I do not mean chil ren. Yes.
and near this house there are large trees, and

5 beyond them a great field, and—that’s all, that .

is all 1”

And, with a gentle sigh, the girl fell asleep.

When her low. quiet breathing indicated that
she slumbered, Mrs. Taylor softly rose, crossed
the room, took a lighted lamp from the dress-
ing-table, and noiselessly returned to the side of
the sofa.

Then, holding the light above Alice’s head,
she gazled long and earnestly upon the slumber-
ing air .

When her scrutiny was ended, she as softly
replaced the lamp, and resumed her Seat near
the open Window.

The gray ashen hues of morning had streaked
the distant horizon, and the golden light of Gov
seemed Just ready to burst into brilliancy as the
watcher crept softly from the window and
sought her couch, the while the girl slept on in
a. calm and happy sleep.

Phillip, when he came down to Asbury two

 

    

18 '

A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

‘days later at his uncle’s request, determined to
take the first opportunin or speaking seriously
to Miss Maynard about Arthur \Vilderniusg her

seeming intimacy with whom he consideied
most detrimental to her. Not that he knew or
had heard anything against him, for, from all
whom he met that knew Arthur \t ildvrmoss, he
had received just such a high character as a
gentleman moving in good society should
possess.

Of course, Mr. Rosston not being a member
'of any New York club, did not bear the opinion

of clubinen who knew Arthur. This was a pity,
for a true clubman is always able to sum up a
fellow clubite in the briefest and most analytic
manner. He does it apparently without utter-
ing half a. dozen words, but they are conclusive;
:and woe betide the man, socially, whom his
fellow members do not lil:e,,for he shall lead a
life of torture almost too great to bear, without
the smallest chance of remonstrance or even ex-
planation.

This test of character among gentlemen is a
very valuable one, for it draws the line so
sharply and definitely that he must either be a
fool, or a. good deal of a knave, that can fly in
the face of a judgment from which there is lit-
erally no appeal.

Among those who knew Arthur only as Ar-
thur Wildermoss was known, there was nothing
valuable to be gained, for unless they were his
equals they feared to say anything against him,
while any detraction would fall to the ground
for want of circumstantial proof. They might
say, “Yes, he’s a very nice fellow, but there
are many who do not like him;” or, “ Well, I
don’t like him, but so many speak highly of him
that I would rather not express an opinion;”
and so on, indefinitely.

Mr. Cecil Hewitt, l‘owever, happening to
travel in the same smokingcur with Mr. Ross-
ton from the city, the conversation oddly, or
naturally enough, it is hard to say which,
turned, after many subjects had been discussed,
upon Mr. Wildermoss.

“He’s a very nice fellow, indeed, is Arthur,”
said his friend; “ a very nice fellow. Only he’s
sucha puzzle to most people; even I don’t un-
derstand him!”

As Mr. Wildermoss’s mental caliber was very
greatly superior to Mr. Hewitt’s, that gentle-
man’s ignorance on the subject was not to be
wondered at.

“ You see,” continued Mr. Hewitt, as he
puffed contemplativo rings of cigar smoke, and
watched their ascension into nothingness, “ Ar-
thur is so close about some things, and so very
open about others. Among women he doesnt
make much headway, although he is very par-
ticular in desiring to impress them with his un-
doubted respect for the sex.”

“ I think there can be no doubt about thatl"
remarked Phillip. «

“ Not the slightest! Nobody ever doubted it,
except the ladies themselves; that’s the singular
part. The old gentleman, his father, doesn’t
doubt it, although he doubts n great deal about
Arthur: but then, you see, he doesn’t under-
stand him, and never will. As I told you, even
I do not comprehend him 1”

 

“ What aré his weaknesses? Does he bet! Is
he fond of Whlst, or—”

“ Hasn't a vice—not even a petty one; that’s
another of the strange things about him.
don’t believe he would take or lay the odds on
a dead certainty, or touch a cnrd if a penny
was the stakel He’s the very picture of good-
ness, as far as those things go. He’s not close-
fisted, either. I know a good many men he
has helped with money—men he did not like—
that’s the marvel: and yet he never speaks of
What he has done, nor, for the matter of that,
of what he has not done. I do believe that he
doesn't allow himself to know anything about
himself.”

At this conceit of his own about his friend,
Mr. Cecil Hewitt laughed heartily, and then
puffed his cigar-smoke in such thick cloud:
that. the air soon became half filled with it.

Had it not been for this semi-obscurity, he
would have seen how eagerly and impatiently
Phillip Rosston leaned forward and listened to
eyerything about Arthur Wildermoss.

The good—tempered gentleman did not, how-
ever, See this, but rattled along very agreeably
about men and things after hi~ own fashion all
the way to Asbury, neither requiring nor ex-
pecting any answer or comment from his now
silent companion.

The first person they encountered upon the
platform as they alighted from the carriage
was his friend himself, not in the most agree-
able of moods, and evidently not much pleased
with himself or mankind. '

He was articularly displeased with Miss
Maynard. he had outwitted him, and placed
him in a false position, and the slight she had
inflicted upon him caused a wound which not
all his wealth or his philosophy could heal.

If he could but tame her haughty spirit! If
he could only cause her to fear him enough to
acknowledge his superiority! If he could do
more than that, and make her love him! Ah,
that would a. noble revenge! But it seemed
hopeless.

And yet not, perhaps, quite hopeless. More
extraordinary things had happened than that
of a woman who began by hating a man—and
he knew she hated him—ending by loving him.
It had been told in poem and story, and he had
Eead it often. Why should it not happen to

er?

But then, again, why should he so torment
himsrll.I about this girl? A mere nobody—only
a merchant’s daughter, if all was true. Nothing
but an adventuress, if all was false.

What did she mean by having two names!

Why did she go about with an alias to worry
him and to torment his soul?

Why should he be worried about herf Why
not let her practice her deception, and do what
she pleased without let or hindrance from him!

Why? Because—and when he answered all
these questions to himself, he felt how weak
and insignificant he became in his own estima-
tion—because he loved her.

Yes, there was no doubt about it. He knew
it— had known it—but never confessed it to
himself. From the moment he first saw her he
loved her.

    

 

;, I‘r

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 19

 

When he thought of that, and of her triumph
over him at the moment he thought he had her
at his very feet, he “as ready to curse the love
he felt for her, to curse her, and to lay violent
hands upon himself, and end it all.

This coldeheartcd, calculutirc nmn had prcvcd
false to his own teachirgs. Iiis ultcrindifi‘er-
ence to the vrolld’s griefs or sympathies, of
which he was secretly proud, was upset, and he
knew that it was an inposture upon himself.

He resented this, in his mind, upon the one
who had universally upset the c_\ nicism of his
life, and had utterly demolished all his sophisti-
cal arguments that the world did not contain a

thought or a sentiment which a clevn‘ men
need respect or do more homage to than such
lip—service as society locked for and (xpecxed.

He felt that he could not endure that she
should enjoy the trium h eyer him; but he
could see no way rut of t e bonds in which she
had placed him. She had tied his torgne so se-
curely, that he almost feared by accident to
betray her secret; for although he had no inner
respr-ct for his promise when his angry love for
her flashed across his mind. and made him feel
hot, and cold, and angry all at the some I110-
ment, yet he had lived so much the life of a
gentleman, and had been so schooled, and had
so schor led himself into the prtprieties and
their observance, that” it never once suggested
itself, even in his angriest mood with her, to
break his word.

Thus far she had read his character aright,
and had secured her own safety from lim by
that reading. If she had been leSs observant,
or less quick, he would have held her at his
mere —and she knew what that meant, and
shud ered at the thought—whereas it was he
was bound to obey her orders, and to guard
her secret with perfect faith and loyalty.

All that she knew of this wasalso known to
him. and again he was cut to the quick by the
reflection.

It was by pure accident that he had strolled
to the railway station. and it was w ith no great
friendliness that he bowed to Phillip while he
shook the hand of his friend, Mr. Cecil Hewitt,
whom he was glad to see, if for no other reason
than he knew that gentleman could talk with
out expecting answers, and he was disinclined
to do anything just now but listen. Be there-
fore, with another and more distant bow to
Phillip, drew his friend away from that gentle-
man, and jumping into his T cart wilh him,
gave the horse a fierce cut. and drovs ata ter-
gflc pace away, not in the direction of the

wn.

Phillip walked slowly toward the sea, torhav-
ing arrived by an early train, he did not care just
then to go straight to the house; besides which,
be half hoped to find Alice either on the sands
or at her favorite seat near the pier.

He did not find her on the beach, which was
covered by housemaids and their charges, oc-
cupied with the usual Seaside amusements, of
which gossip and sand-digging were the prin—
cipal. Not a few invalids, in their chairs, had
been moored in sheltered spots, to gaze with
lackluster eyes out upon the sea. _ There the
white caps, very plentiful this morning, danced
and sparkled as they chased each other in very

 

wantonness of movement, while the gulls flying
overhead now and again darted nto their
midst, to seize some specially attractive morsel
of food, which, once secured, they with arrow-
like swift ness bore away.

Resisting the pressing requests presented by
the half slmregoing mariners to “ Have a sail
this mornin‘? Beautiful mornin’ for a. sriill"
and headless of the many appeals to buy the
thousand and one useless things always upon
sale at seaside resnrts, and even declining to
have his “photo took ” by an artist unfamiliar
with soap, and deeply dyed in nitrate of silver
as regards his fingel 5, Phillip quitted the beach,
and sought Alice upon the pier.

She was not, however, there, although in his
search for her he attracted a. good deal of at-
tention, and bad to run the gantlet of greeting
from several friends and acquaintances, to al
of whom he was bound to show some courtesy.

At last he reached the shore again, having
gone out. to the extremest point, and returned
without encountering her. He felt disinclined
to seek her at the house at that time, so he
turned his back upon the rapidly-filling pier,
and adeaf ear to the band, which had just be—
gun operations with selections from Tannnauser,
and wandered along the sea'road.

By some strange perversit of fate, he pur-
sued in his walk the Very pat which Alice had
traversed, and paused to rest, as she had done,
at the little inlet, even reclining in the very
little nook, where she had fallen asleep, lulled
by the busy waves.

How was it that Mrs. Harmond, who had
been away from Ashury ever since the day
after Alice had seen her, traveling with her
mad patient, had only returned on the very
day selected by Phillip for his wanderings?
By what evil chance had she selected the very
hour that Phillip had chosen for his visit, and
having so chosen, why had Arthur Wildermoss,
in his ’1‘ cart, with his friend, Mr. Hewitt,
dreadfully alarmed by his friend’s furious driv-

ing, dashed past at the very moment of her
recognition by Mr. Rosston’!

Rapidly as the horse was traveling, Mr.
Wildermoss’s quick eye bad recognized her as
well as Phillip. and noted, too, the start the
latter gave at the meeting.

Here was food for bitter thought. Both,
then, knew the woman. She and Phillip had a
secret in cmnmon, which his folly in making
that promise did not allow him to discover.
How he hated that Phillip Rosston, and hating
him, how cruelly he lashed the noble horse he
was driving, as1f he had made the cut across
that gentleman’s face—as he would dearly like
to (lo—and thus set his disapproving mark
thereon.

When Mr. Hewitt entreated him to spare the
cor horse, he held his hand foratime and
aughed a. bitter laugh: meanwhile the T cart

dashed on. and was soon far from the spot
where Mrs. Harmond and Phillip stood watching-
the retreating vehicle.

Along and interesting conversation passed
between the two who had thus strangely met;
and Philli , without betrayal of his motive,
very clear y showed the nurse how any allusion-
to the events at Buffalo. at that particular time._

 

 

20 A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

would be the cause of great trouble to Alice and
himself. In the course of this conversation he
learned, very much to his relief, that the very
day Alice had encountered Mrs. Hurmond was
the one on the evening of which he had noted
Miss Maynard’s abstracted manner. His sus-
picions that Arthur’s attendance upon the
young lady in her walk home had been the
cause of her apparent coldness to him were. re-
moved, and he reproached himself for enter-
taining them.

Mrs. Harmond, although possessed ot a. full
share of iiiquisitiveness, had too much respect
for the young people not to assure him that

‘ she would be guarded in all she said; and Phil-
lip left her with greater peace of mind than the
first sight of her seemed to promise, and turned
his steps back to the town, eager to see Alice,
and offer apologies for his doubts, and acquaint
her with all that had passed.

While he was proceeding thither by one
road, Mr. Wildermoss was approaching the
same b another, having made a complete cir-
cuit at reakneck pace, much to the alarm and
discomfort of Mr. Hewitt. That gentleman no
sooner saw himself near the more thickly-popu-
la’ed part, than he entreated his friend to allow
him to alight, which request was at last sullen] y
acceded to.

Mr. Hewitt resisted a pressing invitation to
dine with his excited friend, and jumpinginto a
passing carriage made straight for his own
lodgings, vowing never again, under any cir-
cumstances, to ride in a T cart of which Arthur
Wildermoss was charioteer.

This defection of his friend, whom he would
fain have kept near him for that evening at
least, annoyed him very much. coming as it did
so closely upon his other adventures; and he
had nothing else to do than to driveto his ho-
tel, and there, after finding fault With'every-
thing and every one, sit himself down in soli-
tary grandeur to nurse his wrath.

——

CHAPTER IX.
AN INQUISITIVE srmenn.

“ Iris an immense relief to me, Alice, to have
.discovared our meeting with the nurse .that
day. You now how vexed I was about your
walking with Arthur Wildermoss.”

“ It would be as well, perhaps, to say no more
on that subject.” '

“ But you forgive me, do you not?”

“ It isnot for me either to judge or to for-

ive.’
g They were upon the pier; the night was
beautifully calm, but there was no moon, and
the place was, where they stood, almost
deserted. _ '

Phillip spoke next, and his voice was. very
low and earnest. He took her hand in his, but
her eyes were downcast, and she did not turn
her head in his direction.

“ I have been thinking,” said be, "how tate-
fully we have been brought together! Till a
few short months ago we were utter strangers,

et think how inextricably our lives have been
inked together. That dear girl, whose parting
breath joined us in word and thought. must

 

surely have realized how strong the bond must
prove, cemented, as it has been, by her death.”

“ Oh, do not speak of her! It wrings my
heart to reflect upon what I am, and how haser
I have stolen into a home to which I have no
claim.”

“I think, Alice, that everything that Mary
ordered must be right. She had an insight
into much that to us seems dark and unfathom-
able. In the supreme agony of fast-approach-
ing death, I believe it is given to the sufferer to
s eak with judgment almost more than mortal.

h, listen to me, Alice! I have so longed to say
to you how much I love you 1”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, say no more! Such
words from you are terrible!”

“ Terrible! And wherefore? You must have
known long. ere this how deeply, how de-
votedly—”

“ Mr. Rosston,” said the girl, in a voice
broken with emotion, “I must ask you to be
silent.”

“ You cannot be so cruell What harm do we
do in speaking of a love like mine—like ours?
Oh, let me say like ours!”

“ It were madness even to think of it. But
stay, Phillip; I do owe you some explanation,
because I would not have you think me either
cold or false. Were circumstances diiferent, I
could say, ‘ I love you ;’ but I should be wanting
in candor and truth if I said those words now.”

“ But you can say them—believe me, you
can 1”

He was very eloquent in his pleading; but she
was not to be swayed by his entreaties then.

“You must listen to me. It is for honor’s
sake. You know me as Alice Maynard. Others
know me, alasl by the name of that dear dead
girl. I have no claim to either.”

“ What do you mean?"

“ That I do not know my name; that I never
knew my parents, and that I am an impostor
under a false name, no matter what I may call
my self, because I know nothing of who or What

am. :

“_The dearest girl in the whole world!" be ex-
claimed, as he attempted to pass his arm around
her waist—a. movement from which he at once
desisted upon a look from her.

“ No; there must be no weakness on in part.
If I indulged in the hope that some day might
be happy in the love of an honest man, that
hope is denied me. for I am without that which
the world demands from all who would enter
the sacred domestic circle—a family and a name.
I have feared this meeting, because—”

“Because what? Speak, Alicel”

“Because I loved you, Phillip. No. no: do
not heed that nowl I have looked into my
heart. You are there enshrined as the only
one I can eVer love; but I know that I can
never wed you.”

“ Alice, this is to be over-sensitive. Your
love sanctifies all. What does it matter to me
whence you spring? How does your parentage
affect me? As for the world, I despise it!”

“ I do not, Phillip, because I must live or
perish b its judgment. You, as a man, may
almost earlessly despise many worldly jud -
meats; we poor women must respect them £15,
or we are lost.”

4

\r‘,

L

 

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. £1

 

“But I would wed you as Mary Taylor—the
name bequeathed to you by one] loved.”

“ That would be crime upon crime. Oh, no,
Phillip! do not rob me of my courage. We can
never wed!”

“ Will you not listen to my entreattiesi”

“To what end? That they may change my
resolution? You cannot ask me to do that.
knowing what I think~remenibering what I
have said. Let us now go home.” 4

Without another word, she passed her arm
through his; and he, scarce knowing what he
did, turned and led her away.

He knew that all she had said was true. He
knew that her noble womanly instincts were
correct and could not be denied, and he also
knew that he was an unhappy man.

About this time, the out—of—dcor population of
Asbury became very much interested in the do-
ings of an individual who daily frtquented all
the public resorts of that fashionable and rather
prim watering-place.

He was first noticed by the hoatmen, with
whom he soon made friends, by his perfect free-
and—ensy bearing, and by the amusing charac-
ter of his conversation. They vselttmed his
coming after his second stroll among them with
every mark of pleasure;and althcugh his yarns
were sometimes of the toughest. they were
narrated with such apparent simplicity that it
was impossible to throw any doubt upon their
veracity. One or two of the hardier beachmen
ventured to demur to a few of his narrations,
lut they were so overwhelmed with other and
more marvelous tales, that they acknowledged
their defeat, and became converts to the power
of in Vtztltiuu possessed by the stranger.

The men and women belonging to the public
both—houses, with whom he also conversed very
freely, Were equally pleased with him, and it
was curious to notice how they abandoned their
peculiar industries in the clothes—drying line
when they saw him very leisurely strolling to-
ward them. with a huge cigar at an angle of
thirty degrees in his mouth, and his bards
buried meditatively in his trowsers pocket. The
individual in question was of such a peculiar
type that he might have been put down of any
age and of any occupation, or none; he might
have been a journalist, a farmer, an engineer,
anI advertisement agent, a detective or a mere
id er.

He was tall and thin, and had a loose, sham-
bling gait, a sallow complexion, with rather
prominent cheek-bones, a pair of small, piercin
gray eye, a pleasant mouth, and neither bear
nor mustache. He spoke in a clear, rapid man-
ner. and seemed to have visited every quarter
of the globe, and was quite at home wherever
he found himself. He understood several foreign
languages, but never spoke any other than
English, and that apparently without any pecul-
iarity of speech which mig to identify h m with
any particular locality.

He was very cosmopolitan, and had plenty of
'assurance, but was not lacking in courtesy of
manner or speech.

Two days after Mr. Rosston’s interview with
Alice, the individual described sauntered on the
pier. and when near the sea-end appeared to

ecome deeply interested in the piscatorial pur-

 

suits of some excursionists who were trying to
insnare the wary finny tribe with fine whaling
lines and small shark-hooks. Oddly enough. a
like interest in the fishing was evinced by Mr.
Hewitt as he sat smoking his cigar and inhaling
the ozone.

“ A very artful game that, isn’t it!” said the
stranger, edging up close to the smoker.

Mr. Hewitt looked up, took the measure of
the speaker with his eye, and perceiving that he
was neither a deadbeat nor a peddler, ventured
to sav:

“Yes, very.”

“ Thev ought to read up their sea-fishing a
mite. Those lines are big enough to hold a
whale or at least a. blue-fish, which I consider
the finest species of the tinny tribe, to be had
in perfection only at Newport, Rhode Island.
Better than most any other kind, and only ex-
celled in quality by the New Orleans Pomponeau,
and that IS a morsel fit for the gods.”

“You appear to be a bit of a gourmand.”

“ I am a gourmet, sir,’ and am not ashamed
to own it. A gourmand would eat a whole
turkey, stuifed With oysters, at one sitting,wbila
a gourmet would linger over a reed bird as long
as the limpid lusciousness held out.”

“ Pardon my mistake. I see the diflerence,
thanks to your way of putting it.”

“ Don’t mention it; the error is a. very com-
mon one“ I have observed it even in buffalo-
llgumpfatmg and in dining otl? roasted mon-

e s.
‘ Roasted monkeys?”

“That surprises on. So it did me, but I
soon got used to it. am not quite so particular
smce Isubsisted four days on the cover of a
French dictionary. It saved my life, but did
not give me a Parisian accent.”

“ You have been a traveler?” inquired Mr.
Hewitt, much amused and interested.

“I have traveled a ‘ few.’ Yes, I am consider-
able of a traveler; but I have not yet visited
either of the poles.” '

“ The poles?”

“Arctic and Antarctic. Very interesting, I
am informed, but rather cold and sloppy. I
incline more to the tropics. A roam over
the pampas with Guachos—abominable feed-
ers those butchering fellows are l—or a trip
up the Amazon are much more agreeable
than whaling in Greenland. I tried that once,
but i’nflnitely preferred turtle-hunting at Ascen-
sion.

“You must have seen a great deal of the
wo‘r 11%?” id hi (1 I h

‘ es, cons era a; an o to see more of
it before I pass in my checks.”pe

“ Pass in vour checks?"

“A Californian mode of alluding to death.
It is not censtd'ered polite to speak of it
in any other way in that awfully healthy coun-

try.’
:: findeedl tfilnd why!”
ecause ey say that when eo le etve
old there, and won’t die, they nfizkgthgm erg

grate. It is the only way to insure elbow-
room for the young ones. Ever been on the
Pacifici”

“Never!”

“Take my advice—don’t :0. It is such a

 

 

22 A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

magnificent country, that if you do not admire
earth, sky, sea, and the gold-mines, and nature
and art at every turn, the inhabitants dislike
you. Icouldn’t keep my rapture up to Fr’isco
mark, and they asked me to ‘ go East.”

“ How very odd!” exclaimed Mr. Hewitt,
staring in great amazement at the speaker, un-
certain which to admire the more, his mendac—
ity or his fluency; for all was said withouta
smile upon his face, and with a simplicity of
manner perfectly marvelous.

“ Ever been in the West, sir?” asked the
stranger.

‘ Never: I intend to go some day. I am told
them is good shooting. I am fond of game.”

“They have plenty of that, from a giizzly
to a ’possum, and no end of prairie chicken,
and, in fact, every kind of animal down to a
’skeeter.”

“ A ’skeeter?”

“A mosquito. I should have said. It is one oi!
the creatures, sir, in this world that blows its
own horn, very much to the annoyance of other
people. Are you staying at a hotel?”

“ No; I have rooms in town.”

“ Ah, 9. deal more comfortable and much
more expensive. Curious peo 1e seaside
lodging-house keepers are—very ike octopi.
Once getwithin their deadly grasp, and they
won’t leave you as long as you are worth hold-
ing- on to.”

“ Have they ever fl=eced you?”

“No; but they have tried. I’m a. mere bird
—odd bird, you think, I dare say—a mere bird
of assage, here to day, gone to-morrow—gen—
era ly gone to-morrow, though. If ever I Stay—
ed long enough in a place to care where I lived,
l’il hire a house.” .

“Just what a friend of mine has done. He’s
a New York man, and an uncommonly nice
fellow. He took a. cottage and lives very com-
fortably that way.”

“City man! Perhaps I know him—know
most city men worth knowing. Let’s see;
there’s Smith, and Brown, and Rothschild, and
Taylor, and—”

“ That is the gentleman’s name.”

“What, Rothschild?"

“ No, Taylor. He lives over there.”

The stranger followed with his eyes the direc—

’ tion of Mr. Hewitt’s index finger, and smiled as
, he answered:

“ Ah, that’s it, is it? The Taylor I know is
something in the dry-goods business—linen, I
believe.”

“ That is the very gentleman I allude to.
But I have never met you there—I mean at his
town-house."

“Have you not! Well, that is odd, because
it I had been there you ought to have met me.
But the fact is, I never was at his house.”

“Ah, indeedl” replied Mr. Hewitt, all 'at
once withdrawing every show of cordiality
which had been gradually developing itself in
him. “ Does not visit the house,’ he thought.
“Then he’s not up to much ”-—a, conclusion
often arrived at, but not always correctly.

The talkative stranger perceived the change
of manner in Mr. Hewitt, and as quickly un-
derstpod the reason. He was not long in an-
swerinz;

 

“No, we met abroad—have never had the
time to look him up in New York. Met him in
Paris—that’s no place to meet a. friend in—
there’s so much gadding about that one never
gets rest, and rest is what I like.”

No one would have thought so to look at him,
for he seemed strung upon wires, so excitedly ,
did he move about while talking.

Mr. Hewitt recovered a. little of his suavity
of manner after this explanation, and deigned
to ask the stranger if he was going to remain
long in Ashury.

“(really don’t know. I wanted to run over
to Norway for some fishing or take a tour round
the Diamond Fields at the Cape, but perhaps I
shall only go up the Nile, and have another peep
at the Pyramids, or hunt up Stanley on the
00mm.”

The listener to such a discursive programme
opened his eyes very wide indeed as he looked
at this modern Wandering Jew, and he puzzled
himself to think what nnd who he was. The
stronger seemed gratified that he had excited
Mr. Hewitt’s curiosity, for he continued:

“ I see you think me a little erratic. Perhaps
I am, but I cannot help it. Allow me to pre-
sent you with my cardl’ And with these words
he gave M . Hewitt a neat piece of paste-
board, on w ich was engraved in German text
characters: “ Ezra L. Peckham.”

“ Thanks!" he said, after reading it; and,then
dralwiug his own card, he offered it with a.
sun e.

“‘Cecil Hewittl’ I used to im0w a Hewitt
once—met him at Melbourne or Singapore, I
really forget which. A most agreeable man—
I know he was agreeable, for be saved my life
from—yes, from a. tiger—therefore it must have
been at Singapore. Tigers are very abundant
out there. And how is Mr. Tayloril—I hope he
is well?"

“ Quite well, when I last saw him. He comes
down here Occasionally. Only his wife and Miss
Taylor live here, you know.”

“ To be surel His wife and daughter, did you
say? I did not know he hada. daughter—that
is, I didn’t remember her.”

“Oh, yes, he had a daughter. She came not
very long ago" from a part of the country you
know very well—California.”

“ Indeed! Oh, yes, of course, now I do re-
member—she came from Fr’isco, didn’t she?”

“Yes, I think she did—that is to say, I’m
sure she did.” '

“Let me see; a dark girl, isn’t she?”

“ 0,;1 the contrary, she has fair hair and blue
e es.

" To be surel I was thinking of the daughter
of the Monte Video Taylor, a. banker. Ever
been to Monte Video?”

“Never.”

“ It is not worth going so far to see. I stayed
a month there before I went to Madagascar;
but I didn’t like the place.”

“ What part of the known world, my dear sir,
have you not visited?"

“ The poles! I mentioned just now I had
never been to either. And how does Miss Tay-
lor like New York?”

J“Sl;,e says very little about it, or any other
D 8.08.

A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

“Reserved, eh? How singular! Most people I on

who have lived in the West are communicative.
i almost caught the habit myself; but I checked
it in time. It does not do to say too much.
How glad Mrs. Taylor must be to have her
daughter back again !”

“But she is not Mrs. Taylor’s daughter; she is
only her stepdaughter.” .

‘ To be surel
me not to remember that. Her step-daughter
to be sure, for Mr. Taylor has been twice mar-
ried. That would make Amanda Mrs. Taylor’s
stepdaughter.” ‘

“ Amanda? Her name is Mary!”

“Mary, I mean. Are you sure it is Mary?”
h “395; at any rate that is what they call

er.

“And of course they know. It is a wise
father that knows his daughter’s name, is it
not? And so Mary, having returned from Cali-
fornia, lives here with her step-mother. How
disagreeable that must be for bothl”

“ On the contrary, they love each other
dearly."

“ Before company, you mean? Women al-
ways do that.”

“ NO' they have a sincere affection for each
othle£, f assure you, and Mary is a most lovable

1r .

“ Ah, is that the way the wind sits! Excust
me, but a handsome man like yourself cannot
help admiring a beautiful woman.”

he flatter was not very delicately adminis-
tered, but r. Hewitt accepted it graciously,
although, with a si h, he replied:

“ Oh, dear, no! am not a marrying man:
in fact, I shall never marry; but a friend of
mine is very much smitten with Miss Taylor,
and would be only too glad to marry her if she
would havs him."

“ Why will she not accept him?”

“ I do not think—in fact, I know that he has
not asked her.”

“ Is he so bashful?”

“N 0; Arthur Wildermoss is not nfiiicted that
way; but he is cynical."

‘ In other words, he’s so proud of himself
that he despises every one else?” ,

“If you put it in that way, yes; but there’s
itinotlaer reason in the shape of one she pre-
ers.

“ This is really interesting. I have such a re-
spect for Mr. Taylor, that anything concerning
his household interests me deeply. Whom does
she prefer?” .

As he said this, Mr. Peckham looked sinuous-
ly at Mr. Hewitt, awaiting a reply.

“ There’s a cousin. you know—Mr. Rosston.
He traveled with her from San Francisco, and I
suppose the journey developed a sort of attach—
ment to each other.”

“ And I was forgetting Mr. Rosston all this
time; I am sure my memory is failing me.
emu ,really. ashamed of being so stupid and
du .

He looked neither dull not stupid as he said
this, but rather sharp and clever. He had not,
however, quite done With Mr. Hewitt, and he
continued: .

“ Well, there’s no great harm in cousins lov-

ing each other. is there? But it is rather hard,

:

 

your friend, Mr. Wildermoss. It must be
confess-rd he has not much chance”.

“ No; that trouble-s me.”

“ Troubles you? You are not his brother, or
his sister, or his aunt. Why should 'his disap-
pointment trouble you?"

“Bl-cause his lenprr is so flerce, although
few pmple know it. If he and Rosslon were

My memorv must be failing 3. ever to quarrel over the girl, it would he a seri-

ous matter.”

Mr. Peckham was silent for a moment, as if
in thought, and then said:

“If your fricnd- has such a had temper as
that, he’d beitcr take a leaf out of my book, and
20 upon a little excursion—say to Teneriflie,‘or
to Calm], or—anywlicre!"

“ I wish he would, for Idn not like the chance
of their meeting when Arthur’s temper is
roused.”

“ As his friend, my dear sir, I think it is your
duty to whisk him (if to someplace far enough
to prevent their mectin . But] Eeei getting
on for lunclmorntime. g hope 1 slanl have the
pleasure of meeting you again. Good-morn-
ing.” .

“ Good-morning. Glad to have met yon l”

When Mr. Peckham turned away, Mr. Hewitt
thought him an idle chatterer to allow his pri-
vate bu~incss to be laid bare so easily, and he
drew a mental comparison between such lcqua-
city and his (Hewitt’s) own well-governed taci—
turnity.

 

CHAPTER X.
MAD FOR LOVE.

AS Mr. Peckham walked lmiurd the hotel he‘
laughed quietly to himself at the successful re~~
sult of his pumping experiment upon Mr. Cecil'
Hewitt, who had literally stocked him with in-v
formation without receiving anything but a
name upon a card in return.

If Mr. Hewitt was not a marrying man, his
sister Adelaide was a marrying woman. She
was his junior by several years, and was an al-
tractive girl of the modern type, very fond of
dress, of admiration, and very desirous of hav-
ing an establishment of her Own, with a bus-
band on whom she could place her affections,
and who would Tl fleet credit upon her choice.

She met her brother on his return to his hoard-
ing-place after his interview with the talkative
stranger. having secured apartments in the
same house.

She was certainly handsome: and as she rose
to meet Cecil, and with calm dignity gave him

sisterly kiss, even he was impressed with her

cant .

Sheywas a brunette. with well-marked fea-
tures, graceful carriage, and a reposet‘ul man-
ncr, quite in accordance With the rigorous de-
mauds for represswu of all emotion, which high
life impases.

“My dear Cecil, I am so glad to see you. I
feared thatIshoulxi haw been leftall alone in this

lace until dinner-time. How have you been?
glammn sends her love. and is so sorry she can-
not come, but you know papa’s gout has forced
them to go to the mount ‘ins. I cannot hear he-
ing home alone, so]. ran down to spend a few
days with you.”

‘I am delimited to see yon. Adelaideibut

 

 

M A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

was it only sisterly affection that brought you
here?”

“What can on mean?” she asked, slightly
blushing under is glance.

“I thought you might have had some other
attraction to allure you.”

“ You must really explain yourself, for I am
quite unable to guess your meaning.”

“ Arthur Wildermoss is here. I suppose
J ewetson told you; he generally tells you all the
news.”

“He certainly did tell me Arthur was here,
butnl do not know that his movements interest
me.

“ Well, well, I suppose not; but Iam glad you
have come, for you may be able to direct his
somewhat erratic course. I really think he
does Spay some deference to your opinions.”

“ on may lay claim to that discovery, for
indeed I was not aware of it.”

This swch of her brother's afforded her, how-
ever, very great satisfaction, for she had long
looked upon Mr. Wildermoss as a very desir-
able person to assume the mastership of that
house of hers, which she was so anxious to
possess.

She did not love hi m—that would be too com-
monplace—but she liked him, and she and her
family could not but approve of him, for his
social position was undoubted.

The inforced trip of her father and mother
gave her the very chance she had Seized of
quietly looking up Mr. Wildermoss, and she
relied upon her brother’s assistance in the
pleasant task.

Adelaide’s visit was not altogether an agreeable
one for Mr. Hewitt at this juncture, as he was
very much troubled about Arthur’s conduct,
which did not seem to hold out any immediate
prospect of success for his sister’s matrimonial
projects.

It may seem somewhat unmaidenly on the
part of Miss Hewitt to appear to run after any
one; but the beau monde is very lenient in such
cases, and rather approves a little enterprise in
affairs of the sort, provided always that they
are undertaken and carried out strictly en reglc.

Miss Hewitt’s prospects did not, however,
look very bright, although she and Mr. Wilder-
moss met on the following day upon the pier
and exchanged greetings apparently of a very
cordial character.

The girl’s quick preception saw at a glance
how distrait his manner was, and she could not
deny to hersell’ that he had evidently no thought
of continuing a flirtation from which she had
he ed till now an offer would result.

is was a cruel blow to her 'vanity, and she at
once concluded, woman-like, that a rival had
attracted his thoughts.

The intuitive perceptions of the female
mind in this and kindred subjects is truly mar-
velous.

She determined, however, not to yield her
purpose without a struggle, and conse uently
employed her brother, who was really and of
her, to bring Arthur very often into their com-
pany. She planned, and Cecil arranged several
picnics, drives, excursions and dinners, at
which their friend duly attended, although
his mind constantly wandered to matters other

 

than those in which he was supposed to be in-
terested.

But Adelaide Hewitt finally realized that
her chance was hopeless, and she began ser-
iously to speak of joining her parents at the
Catskills.

Cecil encouraged her views, for he was rapid-
ly becoming fatigued with Arthur’s strange be-
havior.

If anything delayed Miss Hewitt’s departure,
it was the strong desire she had of becoming
acquainted with the unknown rival who had
foiled her schemes.

Chance aided her in this wish.

Afew days after her preparatory notes of
flight from Asbury had been sounded, she
arid her brother were invited to dine at the
Taylors’, the head of that house having made
arrangements for a few days’ continued resi-
dence at his sea-side home, and having also
provided for Mr; Rosston’s absence from the city.

Mr. J ewetson had preceded them, after
assuring such of his club friends as he could
find in deserted New York, that the Banks,
the Stock Exchange, and the centers of trade
and finance would have to get on without
him for a brief period, and hinting that any
hard-up foreign country would have to sus-
peug their monetary negotiations until he got
bac .

These warnings uttered, the old dandy prepar-
ed himself for conquest and enjoyment.

The dinner was eminentl’iy successful, if re-
garded only as a feast. he chef from the
New York mansion was fully equal to the
occasion, and the viands were of the rarest,
while the wines were remarkable for variety
and value.

Mrs. Taylor was a charming hostess, Mr.
Taylor a genial host, and Alice and Phillip aid-
ed them in every way to give eclat to the en-
tertainment.

In addition to Mr. Wildermoss, Cecil, his sis-
ter, and Mr. Jewetson, there were several of the
most distinguished personages, then resident in
Asbury.

The meeting between Adelaide and Alice was
unmarked by any outward show of dislike
upon the part; of the former; while Miss May-
nard,anxious to please the sister of Mr. Hewitt,
whom she liked, was cordial and sincere in her
greeting.

The disappointed girl could not find it in her
heart to repulse Alice’s friendly overtures, so
much was she struck by the open honesty of her
manner; and before long they found themselves
conversing very afiably together.

The fact is, that Adelaide quickly perceived
that it was Arthur who loved, or who thought
he loved, Miss Maynard; while she seemed
totally indifferent to his attentions, which were
very marked throughout the owning.

After dinner, the company, encouraged by
the fineness of the Weather, determined u on an
exoursion to the shore; so, after the usua cere-
monies of cloaking, shawling, and putting on of
wraps by the ladies, and the lighting of cigars
and cigarettes by the gentlemen, had been com-
pleted, they left the house.

Mr. Wildermoss was still constant in his at-
tendance upon Alice. but was much annoyed to

,.
«I

,l
V“

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. £5

 

find that Adelaide Hewitt pertinaciously re-
mained by her side, and that, moreover, she ,
managed to retain Phillip near them both. i

It may be readily imagined that thisarranpe- E
mcnt was particularly disagreeable to him, \\ ho ‘
had counted on having an opportunity of es- ‘
corting Miss Maynard, and who had in reality i
determined to make a serious offer of his hand 
that very right, having, indeed, only accepted i
the invitation to dinner with that object inI
view.

He could not get over the mortification he suf-
fered at having been so completely subjugaled
by the girl's ready tact; and turn the matter in
his mind as he might; be felt- himseli’ dominated
by an unconquerable passion, which, knowing
its hopeless character, nearly drove him mad.

The more he struggled against this feeling,
the greater hold it appeared to take of him, un-
til at last he felt that to possess her no sacrifice
would be too great. Thus loving her, almost
to the point of hatred for her greater power of
mind, be determined, rather than lose her, to
make her Mrs. VVild‘ermoss.

The secret which enVeloped her, instead of
causing him to hesitate or draw back, seemed
to urge him forward.

Once his wife, he would compel her to dis-
close her history—force her to love him by an
adoration on his part almost servile.

What mattered it to him what she was called
—whence she came—who she was! If he loved g
her—if he raised her to the position of Mrs.
Wildermoss, would not all be atoned-all for-
gotten?

The thnuzht of his father. proud old man, ob-
truded itself: but in his mad love he thrust that
aside. Of what account was family pride com-
pared to the possession of Inch a woman? What
cared be if the blood of all the Wildermosses
flo ‘ ed in his veins? If it did, that blue blood
was stirred now—and to madness—for love of
this adventuress; and as he thought of it, he set
his teeth and clinched his hands, almost cursing
her for her power over him, exdniming: “She
must he minel”

Such feelings—so near akin to insanity-made
him no very attractive companion to the two
young girls, while to Phillip the presence of

 

Arthur wasfparticularly irksome.

The rest 0 the company who lingered behind
Alice and her companions soon after retraced
their steps to the house, the night having be-
come Very dark by heavy clouds which arose
se ward. and soon obsoured the moon.

Miss Maynard then perCeiVed that they had
gone very far indeed away from the house, and
she immediately proposed to return. as she was
apprehensive that Mrs. Taylor would be anxious
about them.

To the relief of Adelaide, Alice and Phillip,
Arthur, no longer hoping for a chance to speak
to Alice alone, announced his intention of con- i
tinuing his walk under some. shallow excuse, and ‘
constrainedly taking his leave, he walked hastily l
away, and was soon lost in the darkness.

The others at once retraced their steps, Ade- l
laide leaving Miss Maynard at the door, and
going home with her brother, who was waiting
ior Lcr.

As she and he walked side by side not a. word .

i was exchanged, Miss Hewitt being too busitd

with her reflections regarding the destruction of
her hopes, and in her heart absolving Alice
from any willful share in her disappointment.
Cecil was tired, having been much bored by Mr.
Jewetson’s city talk. which compared unfavor-
ably to the conversation of Mr. Taylor, who
never by any chance alluded tobusmess, and
he decided that the old dandy was, like many
men, most disposed to speak of what he knew
least about.

Phillip was not encouraged by Alice’s manner
to say one a 0rd about what was always upper-
most in his thoughts, but was inwardly at peace,
for he felt that his patience had every hope of
being rewarded.

He left her, therefore, after rather a formal
good-night, and turned toward the pier, with
the intention of taking a walk before going to

e .

He strolled up and down the deserted prom—
enade, wondering much what the future would
bring forth, and just as he was upon the point
of quitting the lace, he found his passage barred
by Arthur Wi dermoss, whom he believed far
cfl.’ at the lime upon the beach.

“One moment, Mr. Rosston, if you please; I
want to say a few words to you.”

“I am nite at your service.”

“May ask you, Mr. Rosston, if you have
known Miss Taylor for any len th of time?”

“ You may ask that question r. Wildermoss,
and there is no reason why I should not answer
it; but before doing so will on permit me, in
return, to ask you why you esire to know?”

Phillip’s voice was not raised, nor did his
manner betray anything except slight annoy-
ance; yet his interrogator eagerly seized upon
such a trifling retext to reply sharply. and
almost rudely, “ do not recognize our right
to ask that, but I may say that it s for Miss
Taylor’s benefit that I should be informed.”

Rosston mastered his anger at the tone the
other had adopted, and very quietly responded,
“I have known Miss Taylor for rather more
than four months. I met her first at San Fran-
cisco, traVeled with her from there to Buffalo,
and from Buflalo to this place. Have you any
other questions to ask?”

“ I have i” was the fierce, abrupt answer. “ Do
you love her?” .

“Mr. Wildermoss, you forget yourself!”

“You think so, do you? Not at all; I do not
forget myself, and if ever I should do so, it will
be when I remember you i”

His lorks. voice, and manner were so offen-
sive that Phillip forhore to reply fearful of say-
ing anything to compromise lice, or to still
further irritate Arthur, whom be supposed, in-
correctly, of Course, to be intoxicated.

“You seem to_ have lost your voice, Mr.
Rosston,” the_excited man remarked. “Or is
it only your mobility to answer my question
that keeps you silent?”

Phillip, disdaining toanswer,madeo move-
ment to return by the way he had come, but
Arthur again barred his passage by standing
exactly in front of him: seeing which, Mr.
Rosston came also to a stand, yet resolved to
$23. silence it his patience would endure the '

 

    

    

28 A PERILOUS PLEDGE.

 

He had not long to wait before it was severely
tried by Arthur, who volubly poured forth his
reproach and invective.

“I asked you if you loved Miss Taylor, but
you have either not sufficient courage to declare
your love, or you are cunnimzly trying to
evade my question. But I will have an answer.
Do you hear? I will have an answer! Why
man,“ she despised you, scorned you, heeded
you no more than the dust beneath her feet,
you might, if you loved her,be proud to pro-
claim that love aloud to the whole world i"

“ I pray you let me pass,” said Phillip, seeing
hovlvK wildly Arthur looked, and how madly he
spo e.

“No;you shall not leave me in doubt as to
your sentiments for the lady! Do you think
that I will allow you to love her, and—what
is ten million times worse—permit her to love
you? Why, you would do nothing to prove

our love; you would not value the priceless

non of such al,ve as hers! .No, don’t speak,
for I know what it is to love. Look at me; she
hates—despises me, looks on me with contempt,
and—oh, dreadful thoughtl—she pities me!
Well, I love herl—I love her, 1 tell youl
' Knowing how she loathes the sight of me and
the sound of my voice, I love her! I would for
her sake, and to win one such smile as she be
stows on you, do anything that man dare do!
I would sacrifice duty, honor, and life for her!
And yet you—you, cold and calculating as you
are, dare not tell me that you love her! It is
water, not blood. that flows in your veins!”

And he paused for sheer exhaustion.

Again Pilllllp, making a movement to pass,
spoke, although it 005i; him a mighty effort not
to_ break out into anger with the man who faced
him, and wh0se eyes gleumed in the half-dark-
ness with a demoniac glance upon him.

“ I have told you, Mr. Wildermoss. that I
will not allow myself to enter into a discussion
of any question which, in my opinion, does not
become a. gentleman to speak of. Good-night.”

“I tell you,” thundered the other, “ that you
must listen to me, and you shall!”

“ And I say to you,” exdaimed Rosston, now
thoroughly enraged at the other’s periinacity
and insolence. “that I will not heir another
wordi You shall not drag me into an unseem-
ly quarrel, n)r cast a doubt by such a proceed-
ing upon the noblest and best of women!
Stand aside, and let me pass!”

Aloud derisive laugh was the only answer
he received. and as he attempted to move away,
Arthur Wildermoss sprung upon and seized
him by the throat.

In an instant the dreadful truth flashed upon
Phillip that it was a madman whom he had to
contend with. If any doubt of this for an in-
stant oppressed him it was resolved by the sav-
age clutch with which the insane man held him.

The dark clouds which had been traveling
across the moon seemed to Phillip’s senses now
to be literally racing—all grew black before his
gaze, and he became insensible.

Meanwhile the maniac, for such he was, at-
tempted to drag the man whom he held in his
unrelaxin grasp toward the railing of the pier

with the all purpose of casting him into the

 

Ocean, which, with the rising winds, beat and
dashed and broke in spray with furious might.

He had succeeded in putting the unresistiug
form close to the edge, when. slipping upon the
saturated planks, he himself fell over the rail,
and, with an awful yell of foiled revenge and
maddened agony, fell into the boiling waves
and disappeared.

CHAPTER XI.
THE END OF i'r ALL.

HOW long Phillip was insensible he knew not:
but he awoke from a heavy sleep to find himself
upon a sofa before a blazing fire, with Mr. Ezra
Peckoam, in his shirt sleeues, looking anxiously
at him.

“ Where am I?" said Phillip, staring in amaz-
ed semi—consciousness around him, and particu-
larly at Mr. Peckhzim, who, the moment he
heard Rosston’s voice, laughed heartily, rubbed
his bands in glee, and then began furiously to
poke the fire.

“ Where are you?” he at length said, when he
had completed these performances. “ Why
you’re there—right there—upon the sofa in
front of a good fire—that’s where you are!”

“How did I come here? Where did I come
from?”

“Almost out of the jaws of death, young
man, that’s where you came froml But first,
before we get interested in any talking, take a
long drink of this!”

“ This,” which was in a huge tumbler, was a
spiced drink of very grateful flavor and of very
potent strength; and Phillip, supported by the
thoughtful Ezra, after taking a generous draught
acknowledged its virtue by immediately declar-
ing that he felt much better.

" That’s egg-uogg. a very pretty kind of bev-
erage, and good for almost any complaint.
Does it brace you up, and put life into you ?”

“ It is wonderfully restorative. But tell me—
how is it that I am here?”

“ Well. I took you ofl’ the pier last night, sent
for a doctor, and he and I have brought you
round—thanks to his iving you nothing but
attention, and to my eeping you warm and
quiet; those are the best medicines for almOst
an complaint.”

hillip lay quite still while Mr. Peckham was
speaking, and as he thus lay, all that happened
came back to his memory. The “ good-night "
to Anlice, the meeting with Wildermoss—he knew
it a .

Whenxhe had mastered the whole detail in his
mind, he turned his eyes upon Mr. Peckham,
and that gentleman, rightly guessing the nature
of the unspoken question, answered, briefly,
“De-ad! Fell over the side of the pier trying
to throw you into the sea. The body was found
the first tide this morning. His friends know
all about it; but there’ll be no inquest, on ac-
count or the family.”

Another look of Phillip’s was answered with
equal promptitude, “Mad ,as a March hare-—
mad through love! That’s always the worst
kind of insanity.”

Eur a long time no word was spoken between
Phillipand his friend—the one lost in thought
and grief at the untimely end of a man whom

A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 2T

 

he knew must leave many sorrowing friends
behind him, and who, though he had attempted
murder, was saved even from reproach by mad-
ness. Then he thought with generous kindness
of the poor fellow who had gone mad through
love for one he loved so deni‘ly.

Mr. Peckham, at last broke the silence by
saying, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“ I have been. looking at you, and it seems to
me we have met before?”

“ Where?”

“ In Illinois—at the town of Cairo, where the
Missi sippi and Ohio l‘lVl‘I'S commingle.”

“At a trial concerning some goods lost on
their way to San Francisco—”

“ Consigned to Taylor Brothers of that city.
You’ve guessed right this time, too.”

“ You were on our side.”

“I was, and I am happy to say I won the
case. How do you do?”

And Mr. Peckham rose and formally shook
hands with Phillip.

“ I‘Vell, it is a lucky chance that I am here at
Ashury this very minute—that is, lucky for you.”

“ What do you mean?"

“ Are you strong enouczh to heara little news?
Take another sip of egg-nogg. N0? That’s all
right. Then listen!”

“ I am strong enough to hear anything now
—I am almost well. ”

“ That’s heartyl Well,the old lady knows all 1”

Phillip sat bolt upright on the sofa, and stared
at Mr. Peckham to see if he had also gone
mad; but that gentleman having resumed his
whittling, continued, without noticing Rosston’s
astonishment, “The old lady knows all, This
is how it is. I have been up to Mr. Taylor’s
house, have seen Mrs. Taylor, told herabout the
property in TennesSue left by her late husband
—shot as a spy, although he wasn’t one—and
she’s well fixed as regards cash for the rest of
her days.” .

“But I nevsr knew that Mrs. Taylor had a
first husband.”

“No more did your uncle. It was 9. mar-
riage Contracted hastily when she was on a visit
from New York State to a sister living in Nash-
ville. The man she murried was a weall by
planter, who fell hea'l-over-heels in love with
her at first sight. They were as happy as man
and wife could be until the Rebellion broke out,
and he went on the Union side of the question.
Well, that r’iled his relations, who were all high-
toned Southerners, and when he was shot by a
lot of blackguard guerrillas they swore he was a
traitor, and that his profierlyhad been confis-
cated to the Federals, to cap her from getting
It.

“You amaze me!”

“Not more than I amazed Mrs. Taylor, I
reckon: but we both agreed to say nothing
about Mr. Destouches—that was her first hus-
band’s mime—for that and, other reasons.”

“ Other reasons?”

“ Yes; one of them concerns Miss Mary.”

Phillip started, and was on the point of say-
ing something to divert the conversation until
he could recover his presmce of mind; but Mr.
Pstglaam, in the most business-like way, pro—
cec s :

 

“When I say Miss Mary, of course I mean
Miss Alice Maynard, I know all about it—
pumped the old nurse after I had pumped Mr.
Cecil Hewitt, and it wasn’t five minutes before
1 scented out the whole plot. It was an inno-
cent kind of one, after all; but it might have
turned out an awkward affair it‘ I hadn’t found
out who Alice Maynard really was.”

Phillip lay back in speechless wonderment
listening to this Mr. Peckham, the Illinois law-
yer, laying bare the secrets of a New York
home at a. New York fireside.

It was aniazingl But when he spoke of Alice
Maynard in the way he did, Phillip felt hot and
cold by turns, and could scarcely whisper,
“ For heaven’s sake, tell me all I”

“Just what I am about to do; but keep quiet, .
or I shall have to telephone for the doctor.
Well, the long and short of it is, that when you
brought Alice Maynard, as you thought her, to
your uncle’s house to be loved by him as his
daughter,vyou were bringing Annette Destou-
ches right straight into her mother’sarms. That
was another plot of her father’s precious rela-
tives. They stole her child, ut her under
charge of old Jake Maynard, a issouri farmer,
and pretended to Mrs Destouches that she had
been lost during the war. They did that so that
neither mother nor daughter should eVer claim
the property. Artful, wasn’t it? But I reckon
they’ll have to own up now, for we’ve ot a
clear record of the nefarious scheme, than 's to
some inquiries which that good old soul, Pro-
fessor Van Oppen, started before he died, and
which we coaxed out of his widow‘s hands and
completed up to date. What d’ye think of it all?”

Phillip didn’t just then know what to think,
so he said nothing; but sat looking at Mr. Peck-
ham, who went on:

“I needn’t tell you that was good news for
Annette, alias Alice, alias Mary. She was the
happiest girl I ever saw, and she fairly laughed
and hunted and cried for happiness when Mr&
Taylor had her in her arms, all right now.”

“ And this all occurred—”

“Not two hours ago, while you were lying
there in a sort of uneasy sleep, with the doctor
holding on to your pulse so that you shouldn’t
slip through his fingers. I had to hurry up the
news to the old lady, for fear you might take
the wrong turning betwaen life and death.”

“ You are indeed a kind friend l”

“Wait until you see to bill of costs before
you say that; but there! know. I’m all right
upon the dollars and cents question; but I’ve not
told you all.”

" Every word you utter is full of wonder.”

“That 5 very complimentary; but, mind, this
is all in the way cf husmess, for I and my part-
ner are the agents for the Dcstouches Estate,
and we shall make a good thing out of all this.
But now for the sentimental art of my brief.
After Mrs. Taylor and Miss nnette had kissed
and hugged each other as only a. mother and a
daughter can do, and after they had shed lots
of tears of joy, as only women-folks can do,
they both thought that t would be cruel to un-
deceive Mr. Taylor about her not being Mary
after all, since the old gentleman had got tolove
her so much. So they are not going to tell him

 

 

28

anything, exce t that I found a fortune for his
wife; that won t displense him. We are to say
nothing about that first husband, and we are
not going to make Miss Annette out to he a
Destouches, but leave her for your old uncle to
love and caress as Mary Taylor, provided—”

“ What?” —

“That you consent!” said a pretty, gentle
voice; and in another moment Annette Des-
touches was clasped in Phillip’s arms, while Mrs.
Taylor, radiant with happiness, stood contem-
plating them.

And it was so Settled.

For many months old Mr. Taylor enjoyed the
society of the good, amiable girl whom he be-
lieved to be his Mary; and even when she left
him to become Mrs. Phillip Rosston, his heart
was not broken, for he often had her and her
husband’s society.

Mrs. Taylor seemed, when the trouble and
suspense oi the past had been lifted, to gather
new life, and her existence was doubly blessed
in' the secret love of a daughter, and the thor-
ough esteem of a husband, whom she now right
ly appreciated.

Miss Adelaide Hewitt did eventually secure a
i-ich and aristocratic husband: and the house
she had pictured so often to herself was establish—
ed. and there the Taylors and Mr. and Mrs.
Rosston were always welcome visitors.

Cecil Hewitt still declares that he is not a
marrying man; but a certain Miss Blanche
Underwood is very much in his thoughts.

Mr. Ezra L. Peckham left New York highly
~plighted with what he had accomplished, and
we promised faithfully to return soon, if his Illi-
10iS partner would permit him, to witness the
climax of his good work: and as he is literally
the moving spirit of the firm, he will most like-
ly keep his promise.

THEEND

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The .Esthete Cured. For two ladies and three gen—
tlemen.

Jim Broderick’s Lesson. For two boys.

The Other Side of the Story. For five females.

The Test that Told. For five males

Wooing by Proxy. For two ladies and three gentle-
Ill/2D.

Learning from Evil.

The Teacher‘s Ruse. For ten,boys and three girls.

Colloquy of Nari: ms. For eleven persouatoxs.

Additional Pei-sonations for “ Goddess of Liberty.”
A scenic piece in Dialogues No. 24.

For five boys.

Dime Dialogues. No 31.

Barr’s Boarders. For various characters.

A Iivel Afternoon. For six males.

A. New other Hubbard. For six little girls.

Bi soul on the Waters. For four females.

Forth the Scientists. For two males.

Sloman’s Angel. For two males and one female.

What Each Would Do. For six little girlie.

Twentv Dollars a Lesson. For eleven males.

AuntI etsey’s Ruse. For three female; and one
ma 5.

The Disconcerted Supernaturallst. For one male
and audience “ voices.” '

Grandma—Grumbleton’s Protest. For a. “grandma "
and several girl grandchildren,

Nothing Like Training. For a number of males. ‘

The Bubble. For two little gi ls.

lll'nlicine for Rheumatiz. For two “ cullud pussons.”

Thar. Book Agent! For three males and one female.

The Well Taught Lesson. For five little boys.

A Turn of. the Tide. For three male and three fe-
male characters.

A True Carpet-Beggar. For three females.

evpphed Metaphysics. For six males.
hati Humphrey Did. For five males and three fe-
131905- ‘

 

Dime Dialogues. No 32.

A Persecuted Man. For various characters.

Too Curious for Comfort. For two males and 17m

' females.

Under False Guise.
ill-cu.

A Sure Guide. For seven males.

The Eight‘Liitle Bovs from Nonsense Land.

How They See the World. For five little girls.

The Doctor‘s Office. For several characters m‘e
and female.

Too Much Side Show. For a number of boys.

Hiuv Mrs. Ponderous Was Paid. For four young
adios.

Poly wag Versus Wclypog. For numerous citizens.

Tongue and Temp 1'. For two ladies.

The Flour of the Family. For three ladies and one
gentleman.

Middleton’s Mistake. For five males.

A Valuable Neighbor. For one lady and one boy.

The Man of Cheek. For two males.

Mr. and Mrs. Blizzard at Home. For men and wife.

Morgan’s Money. For five males.

The lCourtship of Miles Standish. For School Festi-
va .

For several females and uni!

Dime Dialogues, No. 83.

The Wron Trunk. For several male characters
and one emale.

Saucy Jack Lee. For four males and four females.

The Pretty Preacher. For two young ladies.

A Contrast. For two little girls.

Only J 00. For five ladies and one gentleman.

The Tables Turned. F or several males.

Why Did You Do It? For a school of little children.

She Had Him There. For 1 lady and 1 gentleman.

A Report of the Affair. For two gentlemen.

Mrs. Arnold’s Misconception For two gentlemen
and. three ladies.

The Year ’Round.

Defending the Castle.

A Perfectly Veracious Man.
female.

Sympathetic Sympathy. For 3 males and 2 females.

Ananias at Home. For one male and three females.

The Man from Bangor. For one gentlemen and
three ladies.

Casahianca‘ in Two Versions.

For twelve impersonators.
For 2 males and 2 females.
For one male and one

For two boys.

Dramas and Readings. 20 cents.

DRAMAS.

For five characters.
For fifteen characters.

The Hypochondriac.
The Retrieved Name.
A Moonlight Mas uerade. For fourteen ladies.
Matches Made in ttics. For five characters.
Daiidelions. For. seven characters.
Lottie's Leap Year Victoxiy. For four characters.
The Friend in Disguise. or six leading characters
and several subsidiaries.

READINGS AND RECITATION S.

Parrhasius and the Cap— The Last of Little Nell.
ive The Raven.

How to Practice Medi- Ma ’s Lamb.

cine. William Brown I Ore on
Ramon, the Hr-ro of El Larry O‘Lear hos .
Refugio Mine. Which Shall t B ?
The Bridge of Sighs. Go Feel What I Hav 4
A Lecture on Matrimony. Felt.
A Ramble in the Wood. Hamlet and 0 helia.
Grandmother’s Notions. Scene in a Ma -House.
Naming the Baby. The New Baby.
Address to the Comet. Red Riding Hood. .

For sale by all newsdealrrs, or will be sent, post;
paid, to any address. on receipt of price, ten cents.

BEADLE AND ADAMS. Pneusnnns,
98 William Street, New York.