lists: ' 

«a
\

. grew:
A ') ‘4'

 

 

 

Jmm ~29, N».

32.50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, p - '
VOL. IX. a Year. No.98 William Street. New York. F iverlégnts- NO- 109-

 

 

 

 

‘5- L v .
/ \ “(I 5C ‘ . lflv . x
“ I soou CAUSED m FELLOW T0 MEASURE ms LENGTH ON THE GROUND.”

’ . heavy old-fashioned furniture, faded crimson
  curtains, closMy drawn because the evening
was chilly although the season was spring, and
or, The Bargain Between Them_ a bright fire burning on the hearth. beside
which were seated an elderly man pale, ema-
By LILLIAN LOVEJox ciated, evidently an invalid, and a. beautiful
——-—- girl of eighteen, his only daughter.
CHAPTER I. Perhaps no greater contrasts in appearance
AN UNWELCOME smon. ever held so near a relationship as Joshua
A SPACIOUS, plainly-furnished room, with Thornton and the fair Beatrice. He, small

 

    

 

2 PASSION’S REPRISAL.

 

and awkward in figure, sharp-featured, red-
haired, with prominent blue eyes glancing
quickly from under his scant eyelashes; she,
tall and finely molded, with brown hair artisy
tically coiled round her well-shaped head, and
dreamy, dark orbs capable of flushing with
pleasure, enthusiasm, or even anger, according
to the mood of the moment.

Beatrice inherited her beauty and impulsive
temperament from her mother, the daughter of
an Italian refugee, who, driven from his native
land, had settled many years before in Madison.

Poor Signor Cannaro, in his struggle with
poverty, was glad to give his black eyed Giulia
in marriage to the ill-favored; cross-grained
attorney, at thatltime the principal legal lumi-
nary of the quiet country town.

And if the Southern flower faded and died
within the first year of her wedded life, such
misfortunes will occur to dissolve the happiest
unions.

“ The evenings seem colder than ever, though
it is nearly the end of April,” grumbled Mr.
Thornton, holding his hands over the Welcome
blaze. “ Yet it is wanton extravagance to have
a fire.”

“You are only just recovering from a severe
illness,” returned his daughter. “The doctor
advises you to keep in a warm room for fear
of a relapse.”

“Will he pay the coal bill or for the wine
which he orders me to take’l—I, who have
never tasted wine for the last ten years, ex-
cepting of course when I dined with a client.
But doctors are a selfish race, thinking of noth-
ing but their fees. Are you not of my opinion,
Beatrice?”

The girl, bending over her work, murmured
a careless aflirmative.

“ How dull and listless you are l” he pursued,
in the same complaining tone. “My clerk,
Jerome Maxwell, has my interest at heart
more than my own child.”

- “ I am so tired of these sordid cares,” sighed
Beatrice. “ Besides, I could never understand
why poverty stole so suddenly upon’ us, and all
your best clients tell away altogether.”

“ The chances of fortune, my dear; just the
persistent ill-luck that sometimes defeats all a
man’s efforts to succeed in life.”

Mr. Thornton, however, did not consider it
expedient to give full details of the circum-

stances which had occasioned his descent from’

the once respectable rank he held in his pro-
tession.

His chief patron had been the Hon. Claude
Carew, owner of. Fairview and its adjoining
estate; but there was an ugly story of discredit-
able proceedings on the lawyer’s part in some
business negotiations which he was transacting
on his client’s behalf and ostensibly in his in-
terest. .

 

From that hour Joshua’s fortune steadily do.
clined. Though no specific charge had been
made against him, people would not employ
a man upon whom suspicion affixed a brand.

There was a short silence after the last re~
mark, then Beatrice said, with another sigh:
“ I wish I were an heiress like Miss Merriton.
She rides past sometimes on her bay mare,
looking so bright and happy.”

“The girl is well enough; and if she were as
ugly as sin, I should still say he is a lucky fel-
low who wins her. Old Merriton is a millions
aire, and she will inherit his wealth.”

“No doubt he expects her to marry a for-
tune, but there is many a poor man who would
gladly lay his heart at her feet, for she is beau-
tiful and accomplished in addition to her
Wealth.”

“They say Claude Carew is looking after
her as a suitable wife for his eldest son; but I
doubt whether there is truth in the report."

“ Tell me what you have heardl" cried
Beatrice, eagerly, fixing her bright eyes upon
her father; “not in that vague manner, but
word for word 1”

“Why, bless me, how interested you have
grown concerning the Carews and Merritonsl”
said Mr. Thornton. “Let them marry as they
please, it can make no difference to us.”

“ Of course not,” she replied, with rather a
nervous laugh; “ but women are always curious
upon subjects relating to love and matrimony,
and I am no exception to the rule. Miss Mer-
riton will make a handsome bride, father.”

“That is according to people’s taste. There
are other girls far prettier than she.”

A knowing glance gave point to the obser-
vation; then Mr. Thornton, with the satisfied
air of one who believes he is making a remark
highly acceptable to the bearer, added, “Je-
rome Maxwell says you are the beauty of
Madison.”

“ I knew he admired me,” returned Beatrice,
quite unimpressed by the compliment; “ but,
unluckily, Mr. Maxwell’s opinion is of no great
value.”

“ You are so hard to please,” said her father,
frettuliy; “ you might have married before
now if you had not been so fanciful. I really
do not see any reasonable objection you can
entertain toward Jerome. He has been my
head clerk for many years, and it shows ex)
cellent feeling in the young man, that although
he has lately come into a good deal of property
under the will of a deceased uncle, he still per-
forms his accustomed duties in the office.”

“He is a very estimable man, I believe,”
she answered, coldly.

“ Yes, and not bad—looking. Men do not
criticise often one another’s personal appear-
ance, but he strikes me as being a. fine fellow—
eh, Beatricel”

  

 

.1

PASSION’S REPle 8

 

“Probably some folks might call him hand-
some.”

“I thought you would say so. After all,
you are a sensible girl, and not blind to your
own interests.” -

“ I do not expect to derive any material ad-
vantage from my appreciation of Mr. Maxwell’s
endowments.”

Joshua Thornton looked earnestly at his
'daughter, vainly trying to read whether her
indiflerence was assumed or real.

“Perhaps you will not treat the matter so
lightly,” he said at length, in some displeasure,
“ when you hear thatl am anxious you should
marry Jerome. Thines are going with me
worse than ever, but if I could persuade him
to become my partner, and put his money in
the firm, we might start afresh, as it were, and
extend the connection.”

He paused, but she remained silent, still ply-
ing her needle industriously.

“Jerome is a careful lad,” he continued-—
“a thorough man of business. It is doubtful
if I could persnade him to risk his recently ac-
quired inheritance without your influence. He
admires you greatly; I think he loves you, or
would, if he saw a chance of winning recipro-
cal regard. Give him encouragement, Bea-
trice; he would make you a good husband,
and the marriage would bind together our in-
terests.”

“ But I do not love him, father.”

“Marry him first, and love him afterward:
that is the proper course of procedure for a
modest young woman to adopt. I have no
patience with the mawkish sentimentality of a
school-girl who fancies her heart is irrevocably
given to the first fool that pays her a compli-
ment.” ,

“I have not the slightest intention of marry~
ing at present,” observed Beatrice, in a tone of
decision.

“ Grant me patience with this self-willed
girl i” exclaimed Mr. Thornton, twisting his
fingers in his thin hair, as it' intending to pull
it out by the roots. “ When I tell her she
might render me a service, and settle herself
advantageously in life by becoming the wife of
a sensible, agreeable, good-looking young man,
she refuses with as little hesitation as if such
chances were met with every hour in the day."

After thus apostrophizing an invisible audi-
ence. Joshua flung himself back in his chair,
meditating on the rebellious conduct of daugh-
ters in general, and his own in particular.

Suddenly he started into an upright position,
and seemed to listen intently.

At the same instant a slight flush arose upon
Beatrice’s delicate cheek.

“Do you not hear a footstep on the gravel
path below!” he whispered—“ the footstep of a
man slowly pacing past the bonsai”

1

 

“It is but fancy," she answered, quietly,
though the blush deepened.

“ I am growing weak and nervous since my
illness. The house stands in such an isolated
position, with no other inmates save ourselves
and Bridget, and there are so many bad char-
acters about, that I live in constant dread of
burglarsl”

“We have lived here for years in safety.”

“But I have always taken proper precau-
tions. For instance, every night a loaded
pistol is placed near my bedside, though now I
doubt if my nerveless hand could pull the trig-
ger. I must teach you how to fire a pistol,
Beatrice.” ’

“ Father, we should frighten Bridget out of
her senses,” smiled the girl.

“Never mind that, child. Here is the key
of the old oaken bureau; open the second
drawer and—”

“Mr. Maxwell has called, sir, and wishes to
see you,” interrupted a pleasant voice, as an
elderly woman’s round, good-tempered visage
peeped in at the door—“if so be you’re not
too ill to receive company.”

“I am well enough to receive a. friend,” an-
swered Joshua. “And, Beatrice, mind you
give him a cordial welcome,” he continued, as
the old domestic took her way down-stairs,
soon returning to usher in her visitor. -

Jerome Maxwell’s appearance would have
prepossessed many persons in his favor.

He was tall, stoutly built, but not ungraoe-
ful, fresh-complexioned, with gleaming white
teeth constantly displayed, sleek black hair,
and carefully-trimmed mustache. His eyes
were of a reddish-brown, bright and restless.
He dressed with gentlemanly taste, his move-
ments were quiet, his manners unobtrusive,
and the hand which clasped Beatrice’s fingers
with tender presure was white and well-
shaped. ,

“ We did not expect so late a visitor,” said
Joshua, when the first salutations Were over.
“ I heard you approaching the house, and
mistook you for a burglar.”

“Young Barton drove me here in his dog:
cart,” returned Jerome, lightly; “it was on
his way home. We came up the lane, and as
Bridget happened to be standing at the back
entrance she let me in that way. So I did not
startle you, Mr. Thornton.” .

“Well, anyway, you are welcome. I like
to hear the day’s news, and it cheers my little
girl to see a friendly face after enduring all
day the society of her peevish old father.”

“I should indeed be happy if my company
afforded Miss Beatrice pleasure,” said the young
man, with an ardent glance at the beautiful
girl, who neither flushed nor paled beneath his
gaze; “but I fear you overrate my influ-
enoa.”

 

 

4 PASSION’S REPRISAL.

 

He seated himself nearly opposite the object
of his admiration, whose countenance be
scanned as it seeking some token that his pres-
ence was more than tolerated; while Joshua,
though not generally famed for hospitality,
pressed him to partake of some refreshment.

Jerome declined.

“No, thanks. I dined late to-day, and now
want a little private conversation with you
and Miss Beatrice.”

No one could have guessed from her calm
exterior how quickly her heart was beating as
he significantly uttered these words.

“ Why should I attempt to conceal the rea-
son of my visit?" he continued after a moment’s
pause. “There is nothing like honesty and
candor among friends. Do you not think, Mr.
Thornton, that if an honorable man intends be-
coming a lady’s suitor, he should be equally
anxious to obtain the approval of her lawful
guardian as well as that of the lady herself?”

“ Certainly; nothing could show higher prin-
ciple.” agreed his friend.

“Then, Mr. Thornton, I solicit your permis-
sion to tell your daughter of the love with
which she has inspired me.”

“That permission is gladly given.”

“Thanks; I had ventured to reckon upon
your approbation. And now, Miss Thornton
—Beatrice, will you accept the hand and heart
I offer?”

“I do not admire your fashion of wooing
before witnesses,” she replied, her ripe lips cu r1-
ing rather scornfully. “ However, I am grate-
ful for the honor you do me, and—”

“ She accepts your proposal,” broke in
Joshua, fearing a rejection. “Henceiorth we
are one family, to sink or swim together. You
understand me, Maxwell?”

“Perfectly, Mr. Thornton.” And Beatrice,
noticing the lock of intelligence exchanged be-
tween the two, felt that the matter had been
previously discussed more freely than her
father had led her to suppose. “0n the day
when this door girl becomes my wife,” be con-
tinued enthusiastically, “ you and I will enter
into another kind of partnership, and the wed-
ding guests who drink the health of bride and
bridegroom shall do honor to the toast of ‘Suc-
cess to the firm of Thornton and Maxwell.’ ”

“ But you, are mistaken,” cried Beatrice,
summoning up her courage. though her father’s
fiery glance sought to awe her into silence. “ I
have not given my consent.”

“ But you will, dearest, when I tell you that
all my hopes are centered in our union.”

“ It cannot be,” she murmured. “ Pray
urge me no more.”

“Perhaps Miss Thornton has set her aflec-
tions on another,” observed Jerome, with a
gloomy brow. “ In that case, I have no chance
of success.”

“Nonsense, man; you are faint-hearted.” re-

 

turned the father. “It is my whim to lead a
secluded life and see little or no society. Bea-
trice, like a dutiful daughter, stays at home,
and has no opportunity of forming attach-
ments. You need fear no rival, Maxwell."

“Is that so?” cried Jerome, his brown eyes
seeming to emit sparks of fire. “ Are your at-
fections unwon?”

She bowed her head in acquiescence, not
trusting her lips to speak.

“ Then let me hope that in time you will re-
gard my pretensions with more fnvor. It
shall be my triumph to overcome this calm
indifi’erence, and win you for my own.”

“ From this hour I regard Beatrice as your
aflianced witel" whispered Joshua Thornton,
encouragingly. '

 

CHAPTER II.
A CLANDESTINE MEETING.

THE gorgeous sunset of a. lovely midsummer
evening covered the west in vivid tints of
crimson and gold, as two young men paced up
and down the long terrace fronting the noble
pile of buildings belonging to Fairview; both
smoking their cigars meditatively, and each
seeming to find his own thoughts more interest-
ing than conversation.

Much alike in feature and figure, nearly the
same hight, and only differing a year in age,
Everard and Kenneth Carew were often taken
for twin brothers; but though resembling one
another in personal appearance, their charac-
ters were dissimilar. Everard was thought-
less, impulsive, and. extravagant, disliking all
Serious pursuits, and never looking beyond the
pleasure of the hour; while Kenneth was
somewhat grave, and, like his father, tenacious
of the family honor and proud of the Carew
name.

The one passed the greater portion of his
time in the stables, where he was on familiar
terms with every groom and helper; the other
might be described as his father’s prime minis-
ter, who was consulted on all business con-
nected with the estate, which, however, he
was unlikely ever to inherit, as Mr. Carew,
with true old English ideas derived from his
ancestors, had willed Fairview and all the sur-
rounding property to his oldest son, with the
proviso that he should do the same if he had
children—it not, it would revert to Kenneth
or his heirs.

The silence at length became oppressive to
the vivacious heir. He threw away the end of
his cigar, yawned repeatedly, and then re-
marked, “Really, ]iie seems dull and mono-
tonous in this quiet country town, and makes
me regret our merry college days, which were
too soon over. Do you not find the atmosphere
of Fairview more aristocratic than pleasant,
Kenneth?”

“I manage to make myself tobnbly com-

of“)

PASSIONS REPRISAL. I

 

fortuble,” replied his brother; “but, then, I
run not so thorough a Bohemian at heart as
you are. However, if you were dull, why did
you not accompany father to Newark, where
the races are held, to-morrow? I know he was
Vexed at your refusal.”

“I had a particular reason for wishing to
remain at home. There is a certain fair lady
I must see this evening.”

“ You mean Lilian Merriton?” observed Ken-
neth, with embarrassment.

“Not I; the millionaire’s heiress may be a
very pretty girl, but she is not to my taste.
I like fire and spirit, not mild insipidity."

“There is nothing insipid about the beauty
of Lilian Merriton," returned the other, flush-
ing with anger. “ Hers is a pure and delicate
loveliness, which steals upon the heart instead
of taking it by storm. Ber golden hair is like
a. saiut’s aureole; her eyes reflect the sweet
serenity of the soul within."

Everard burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“How poetical we arel Why, Kenneth,
you are evidently deeply smitten."

“There is no shame in loving a woman like
Lilian, though I have tried to conquer my af-
fection, believing she was destined one day to
be your wife.”

“ You may feel at ease as regards my rival-
ry; so go in and win.”

“You forget, Everard, that Mr. Merriton is
likely to regard every suitor of less wealth
than himself in the light of a fortune-hunter;
and Lilian herself might misconstrue my mo-
tives.”

“ And think you admired her handsome
dowry and great expectations even more than
her pretty self, oh, my boy?”

“It might be so; yet I scarcely think that
she would so misjudga me.”

“ A clear case of kindred hearts and secret
sympathies,” laughed Everard. “Well, Ken-
neth, rest quite Secure that I shall not damage
your cause, for, in truth, I am desperately in
love with another fair maiden.”

“I am glad it is so, for I know our father is
anxious you should marry early, and, perhaps,
then you may grow more contented with the
quiet life which we lead. Can I guess the
name of the lady of your choice? Is it Ms-
rion Howe, or one of the Misses Delaverei”

Everard was in his turn slightly confused.

“ Your suspicions have fallen quite wide of
the mark. Indeed, I suppOse your prejudices
will be shocked when I tell you that my
choice has fallen on Lawyer Thornton’s daugh-
tor.”

“Impossible!” cried Kenneth.

“Why impossible? She seems to me just
the sort of filly to reconcile a man to the idea
of running in double harness.”

"But her father is a rogue—a swindlerl”
“What hard names you are giving the

 

venerable old gentleman! But as I have no
intention of marrying him, it does not mat-
ter.”

“You know the very sound of his name
sends father into a fury."

“ Beatrice will change her name when she
marries me, so the governor‘s cars will not be
molested by the obnoxious cognomen."

“ He would never consent to such a degrad-
ing alliance.”

“Most likely not, if his consent were asked.
We must marry privately. When the knot
was tied and could not be unfastened, he would
forgive us.”

" You would not break our father’s heartl”

“It is not quite I0 brittle as you imagine.
Besides, if his favorite son can win a wealthy
heiress, it will afford him ample consolation
for my shortcomings.”

“Does Thornton know of this?” asked Kon-
neth, suspiciously. “Has he assisted his
daughter in drawing you into the net?”

“To do the fellow justice, he is in perfect
ignorance of the love-vows exchanged between
us. If there is blame in the matter, it rests
on no one save myself. I saw Beatrice first at
church, was bewitched by her loveliness, after-
ward managed to meet her pretty regularly
in her morning rambles, until, one thrice-happy
day, I was fortunate enough to relieve her
from the persecution of a half-drunken tramp,
who, not satisfied with the aims already be-
st0wed, was proceeding to extort more by
sundry alarming menaces. I soon caused the
follow to measure his length on the ground;
and the lady, struck by the prowess of her
knight, though at first prettily coy, rewarded
him with her gratitude, her friendship, and
eventually her level"

“I fear all this will end hadlyl” observed
Kenneth, thoughtfully. “I wish I had not
heard your secretl”

“If you cannot approve, at least you will
not betray me?” said Everard, hastily. “ By
your own love for Lilian Merriton I ask you
to respect my confidence.”

“You need not fear; but if your word be
not yet pledged, I would entreat you to recon-
ider—”

“It is too lstel” rejoined his brother, almost
fiercely. “The girl has wound herself around
my very heart-strings! I would die a thousand
deaths sooner than losel her!"

“May she be worthy of such love!” sighed
Kenneth, dejectedly.

“I count her more than worthyi-sheisa
pearl of prioel And, hark ye, Kenneth, dis-
miss at once from your mind the notion that I
have been inveigled into this engagement] On
the contrary, Beatrice needed much wooing

lbeforo she owned her aflection; while, as to
i her father, I hear he is persistently urging her

to marry his head-clerk, Maxwell, who would

 

 

6 PASSION’S REPRISAL.

 

be useful to him in matters of business. If you
condemn my choice, at least do justice to the
girl 1 love.”

Soon after, Kenneth re-entered the house;
and Everard, after looking at his watch,
walked briskly dqwn the avenue, finding him-
self are long in the dusty country road which
led to Lawyer Thornton’s ugly red-brick resi-
deuce.

The moon was slowly rising in the cloudless
sky, the stately trees rustled in the soft even-
lug breeze, as he stopped at the well-known
wicket-gate, and glanced at the window of
Beatrice’s apartment.

A light was shining through the curtain,
signaling that she would be able to leave the
house without fear of discovery; and as he
stood a moment gazing on the welcome beacon,
old Bridget emerged from the shadows.

“ Oh, there you are at last, Mr. Everard!”
cried the old woman, who was a devoted ad-
herent of the lovers. “She has been weary-
ing for your coming, poor lamb! Her heart
is heavy to—night; maybe you’ll be able to
cheer it I”

“Is Miss Thornton ill or in trouble?” in-
quired the young man, eagerly, struck by the
dolorous expression of the woman’s counte-
nance, and tearing he knew not what.

“She will tell you herself. But don’t stay
so near the house; master has sharp ears, and
might hear us talking.”

“ I will await her coming at the usual spot.
Good~by, Bridget! Tell your young mistress I
am impatient to see her!”

' He strolled to the end of the lane, and took
his station under the canopy formed by the
leafy branches of a fine maple tree.

There he sat down to rest, until he saw the
young girl gliding through the darkness, and
sprung forward to meet her.

“I have been more cautious this evening,
darling!” he whispered, smiling, as he pressed
her to his heart, and put aside the waving
curls that fell over her smooth, low forehead.
“You will not have to scold me again for
rousing your father’s suspicions. But what is
this? Your cheek is wet with tears! Dearest,
why are you weeping?”

She disengaged herself from his embrace.

The moonbeams showed him that she was
very pale, and that her lips were quivering, as
if with pain.

Her voice was strangely hollow and broken
as she said:

“Everard, this must be our last meeting,
unless your love is strong enough to triumph
over all difficulties for my sake!” ,

“What mean you, Beatrice? What would
you have me do!”

“I dare not tell you! You would deem me
bold—unmaidenlyl I must fulfill my fate, and
marry Jerome Maxwell to—morrow!”

 

“Have I been deceived in you? Are you a
flirt, a jilt,” he cried, angrily, “instead of the
gentle, affectionate girl whose promises I be-
lieved would never be broken?”

“I shall never cease to love you," she au-
swered, weeping; “ though soon such love will
be my misery and shame.”

“But this Maxwell?” he persisted. “Why
does he dare continue his persecution, and
force you into marriage against your inclina-
tion?”

“I have not ventured to confess my aver-
sion to the prospect,” she faltered; “and my
pleadings for delay are treated as childish
folly."

“Surely you can assert your right to be
consulted on such a subject. If you cared for
me, you would successfully resist a coercion
which parts us forever.”

“But my duty as a. daughter appears to
demand the sacrifice,” sighed Beatrice. “It
seems that my father has incurred responsibili-
ties he cannot meet, and Mr. Maxwell promises
to settle all demands when I become his wife.
He will then be papa’s partner, you know,”
she added.

“You belong to me,” be affirmed, energetic-
ally, “and have no right to dispose of yourself
without my conscnt. Do you remember the
evening when we exchanged rings, and I gave
you half the gold~piece which the blacksmith
had broken, telling you to wear it round your
neck as a lovertuken until death divided us?
Have you forgotten all the vows you whispered
in return? Surely there is nothing so thor-
oughly weak and vacillating as a woman’s
fancy!”

Beatrice was stung by his reproaches.

“Instead of blaming me,” she said, impetu-
ously, “why do you not rescue me from a fate
which I abhor? Come with me now to my
father, confess our engagement, promise to aid
him in his difficulties-you are a richer man
than Jerome Maxwell—and afterward you
can ask Mr. Carew’s consent to our union.”

“My dear girl, I have told you before of
my father’s prejudices."

“They may be overcome. I have too long
supported the iguominy attending these secret
meetings, and now your reproaches wound me
to the quick. I/ love you, Everard, faithfully
as ever; no happiness the world could give
would be comparable to that of being your
wife. But in thus frankly owning my devo-
tion, I expect a corresponding unselfishness on
your side. For my sake you must endure your
father’s anger, and yourself bid Jerome Max-
well withdraw his pretensions to the hand of
your aflianced wife.”

Very beautiful she looked, standing erect
before him.

The Southern blood of her Italian mother
was coursing through her veins in passionate

0‘»,

'5»,

PASSION‘S REPRISAL.

    

7

 

warmth, her dark eyes flashed, her closely-
('illlcllei] hand was held against her beating
heart. Never had Everard seen her so deeply
moved.

“Be calm, darling,” he murmured, with all
31 man’s horror of a scene, “While I explain to
you how erroneous is your opinion of the
position which I hold. In the first place,
Beatrice, I am not a rich man, but entirely
dependent on my father during his lifetime;
secondly, I must tell you that he has made me
the heir of Fairview on the condition that I
marry to suit him, and if I seriously offend
him now, I may be a considerable loser at his
death. Therefore, common-sense and prudence
compel me to be cautious.”

“Everard, you have said enough: bid me
farewell, and let me go.”

Her privle was fired.

As for Everard Carew, he was almost mad-
dened by love and jealousy.

“ Darling, I cannot lose youl” he cried, im-
petuously. “You must leave this house to-
night, with Bridget for your companion, and I
will take you both to New York, where we can
be married quietly as soon as possible. Father
is luckily from home, so will not remark my
absence. We must start by the night express;
the journey will only take a couple of hours.
and I know a lady, an old friend of my dead
mother, who will gladly receive you and keep
a still tongue.”

In his excitement, he thought of no obstacle
to his plan; he would have liked to carry her
off that very moment, and laugh at Maxwell’s
disconifiture when he found his bride was miss-
ing. Beatrice, however, shook her head with
an air of calm decision.

“Iconld not leave my father to certain
ruin. A heavy bill falls due to morrow, which
Maxwell has promised to meet. Of course, he
would be furious at my disappearance, and
Withdraw his pledge of assistance.”

“What sum of money is required to meet
the bill?”

“I scarcely know.
thousand dollars.”

“ Nothing very ruinous,” smiled young
Carew, who had been reared in a different
school to the lawyer’s daughter. “ Well, my
dearest, make your simple preparations, and
bribe Bridget with sweet words and expecta-
tion of substantial reward to be the companion
of your flight. I will hasten home and shortly
return with bank-notes for the amount, which
you can inclose in an envelope directed to your
father as a gift from his unknown son in-law
elect. That will at least stave ofl present dis-

I fancy it is over a

agreeables; and when we are married, it Will
be hard if a Carew cannot give as much aid to
his wife’s nearest relative as a beggarly fellow
like Jerome MaxwelL”

 

If Everard indulged a pleasing belief that a
few thousands judiciously bestowed might in-
duce his prespeciive father-in-law to emigrate
to some happy land where lawyers are cordial-
ly welcomed, he did not breathe a word of his
secret aspirations to Beatrice; and she, poor
girl, overwhelmed by his magnanimity and
the prospect of avoiding a dreaded bridal, al-
lowed herself to listen to tender pleadings,
which found an echo in her own heart.

Nor let us judge her too harshly. Mother-
less from her birth, neither precept nor example
had been given by her remaining parent to fit
her for treading unscathed the thorny path of
temptation. So, though, at first, she protested
against the proposed elopement, Everard’s per-
suasion finally prevailed, and he left her with
the understanding that she would be ready to
meet him at the same place shortly before
midnight.

 

CHAPTER III.
FATHER AND SON.

A WILD and reckless, worse than foolish,
scheme was maturing in EVerard’s brain as he
hurried homeward. He had promised Bea-
trice a certain sum of money; but it was not
in his present possession, nor could he find
means of raising it in the short time left at his
disposal.

He was aware that his 'father had received
that afternoon a considerable amount from his
agent for the rent of city prcperty, and this
he had seen him deposit in his desk. He would
borrow (so he phrased it) these bills for a few
hours. To-morrow, after leaving Beatrice com-
fortably established with his friend in New
York, he could resort to his old acquaintance,
Mr. Aaron, the money-lender. who had removed
recently to town, and would be happy to ac-
commodate him with a loan for the trifling
consideration of sixty per cent. By the time
his father returned from Newark, where he
was certain to stay at least a couple of days,
the money would be replaced, and no harm
done. He knew his father had omitted to
take the number of the notes in his hurry to
catch the train, so detection was almost impos-
sible; yet he could not stifle the upbraiding
voice of conscience which whispered that he
purposed acting in a dishonorable, nay crimi-
nal, manner.

He reached home at last. Kenneth he be-
lieved to be at the Merritons’ musical party,
which was to take place that evening; but, to
make assurance doubly sure, be asked the foot-
man who admitted him whether his brother
was out, and received an answer in the mir-
motive.

When he was sure of being unobserved, he
stole into the library. A shaded lamp was
burning on the table, leaving the rest of the

 

 

  

 

8 PASSION’S REPRISAL.

 

room in shadow; but be well knew where the
desk stood, and could see its silvsr mountings
gleaming in the distance.

The key was kept in a drawer of the writing-
table, Mr. Carew being culpably carom in
such matters.

Everard easily found and fitted it in the
lock. As he did so, a sense of the enormity of
his fault came over him.

Were it not for the remembrance that Bea-
trice was even then preparing to quit her home
and trust her future happiness to his care, he
would have retreated, leaving the deed un-
done. But love conquered his scruples, the
voice of his good angel was disregarded, and
ina moment he was a man degraded in his
own eyes, and already conscious that he would
reap a bitter harvest from that night’s work.

A heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder.

He turned, and confronted his father, tall,
stern, and terrible.

“Have I the misery of finding my eldest
son a thief?"

“ Fatherl” stammered Everard.

“Dare you call me by that name when, by
dishonoring me you have broken the tie be-
tween us?”

“ I did not expect to find you here.”

“So I presume,” said Mr. Carew, grimly.
“But I suddenly remembered an important
business engagement for to-morrow morning,
which I did not feel justified in neglecting;
therefore, instead of proceeding on' my jour-
ney, I got out at the first station, and took a
return train home. I was asleep in yonder
arm-chair when your entrance awoke me, and
I watched your movements.”

“ I meant to replace the money before your
return.”

“A poor excuse. Everard Carew, has your
love of horses and betting brought you so
low? Nor have I deserved this at your hands,
for, though I blame my weakness in minister-
ing to your extravagance, twice have I paid
your debts without asking too many ques—
tions.”

“You have not treated me unhandsomely, I
own," agreed Everard, gloomily. '

“But now all is over between us,” con-
tinued Mr. Carew; “ I must beg you to leave
the house as soon as possible, taking with you
your ill-gotten gains. You cannot remain here
longer; your brother and myself are accus-
tomed to consort only with gentlemen.”

“Father, you are cruel!” came with a sharp
cry of pain from Everard’s lips. “A word
of forgiveness from you might have saved
me; now I am reckless, and care not whether
I take headlong the course that leads to de-
struction. You need not fear that I will dis-
grace you, or force you to endure my loathed
society. I shall leave New York by the first
vessel that sails from the docks. no matter

 

whither bound. Farewelll Your favorite son
will console you for my loss.”

He flung the notes upon the ground, and
strode to the door, but turned upon the thresh-
old to give one more glance at that familiar
room, and at his father, whose haggard counte-
nance was convulsed with grief.

“ Think of me as kindly as you can,” he said,
more gently. .

The midnight chimes had sounded. Beatrice
Thornton, leaning upon Bridget’s arm, stood
under the maple tree waiting for her lover.
Both women were equipped for traveling, and
Bridget carried a small black valise, into
which she had crammed every available article
that she fancied her mistress was like to re-
quire until the wedding outfit could be pre-
pared.

Beatrice, before leaving her room, had
placed upon the dressing—table a letter contain-
ing a. few lines, breathing affectionate regret
and asking pardon for her flight. It had been
arranged that the hank-notes in their envelope
were to be laid beside this epistle, Bridget re-
turning to the house for that purpose. The
knowledge Beatrice possessed of her father’s

character assured her that relief from pecu-
niary troubles would be the surest compensa-
tion for her loss, and she had a vague hope
that, once married, she might persuade Eve-
rard to let him know—of course, under pledge
of profound secrecy—that his runaway daugh-
ter was the wife of a Carew, and as such en-
titled to consider herself on an equality with
the proudest matron in the State.

The drooping boughs are pushed suddenly
aside, and Everard stands before them. But
what a change that single hour has wrought
in his appearance! He looks a hunted, des-
perate man.

“Beatrice,” he says, “for love of you I
have lost all that men hold most dear-friends,
country, home, and my own self-respect.
There are many convicted felons less guilty
than I; they have outraged the laws of society
for bread; I, at the dictates of a fatal passion,
have degraded the name I bear, and broken,
it may be. my father’s heart!"

“Oh, Everard! Everardl” she wailed. “Tell
me what all this meansl"

“ For you I have sinned,” he continued, un-
heeding her request. “Now will you give me
my reward, or, like many another temptress,
desert the wretch whose ruin you have
wrought? In aword, Beatrice, to-morrow I
shall be an exile from home. Will you cast in
your lot with mine and be my wife, or return
to your father’s house and forget that I have
BVer lived!”

Frightened at his almost frantic appeal, and
the violence of his demeanor, the young girl
scarcely knew what answer to make, but

,J‘W

0‘1;

a“:

PASSION’S REPRISAL. 9

 

the indignant Bridget threw herself into the
fray.

“ My poor, dear lady shall not go over the
seas with a madmanl" she cried, decisively,
taking the trembling Beatrice to her bosom.
“ You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Carew, so you
ought, to come here using such language and
rolling your eyes like the clown at the circus,
when this innocent lamb has done no harm
either to you or yours. She would make too
good a. wife for the like of you. And, oh! I
repent the day I ever let myself be talked
over to help you in your courting; but it was
all for the sake of my dear young mistress.”

“Give me my answer, Beatrice,” persisted
the young man.

“ If already I have injured you so deeply,”
she murmured, “it might be better that our
fates should not be linked together.”

“You have made a wise choice,” he said,
with sullen calmness. “ Go home, Beatrice,
and to-niorrow stand at the altar by Jerome
Maxwell‘ side; he will never guess how near-
ly he had lost his bride.”

As he turned and left her without another
word, Beatrice gave a faint cry, and would
have fallen senseless to the ground had not
Bridget caught her in her arms, and supported
her to the rustic seat.

Just then the tramping of a horse’s hoofs
became audible in the road, and Jerome Max-
well, mounted on his stout gray mare appeared
in sight, having been spending a convivial
evening with his friend Barton. Hiseagle eye
soon fell upon the pair.

“What do I see?” he cried, hurriedly dis-
mounting and coming toward them. “Why
are you here at this hour, Bridget, with Miss
Thornton? Is she ill? Has she met with an
accidenti”

“Oh, please go away, Mr. Maxwell, with-
out asking questions,” pleaded Bridget, still in
tears. “ She is coming to herself, and the
very sight of you will make her worse.”

“Womanl you forget that in a few hours
your young mistress will be my wife. I have
a. right to ask for an explanation of this scene,
and if both you and she refuse to give it, I
shall expect her father to inform me why he
suflered his daughter to be abroad at midnight
without his protection.”

Thus brought to bay, Bridget considered for
a moment whether she would appeal to his
generosity or tell a falsehood sufficiently
plausible to allay his suspicions. Reluctantly
she resolved to confess at least a portion of the
truth.

“I am going to tell you a secret, Mr. Max-
well,” she began, coaxingly, “though she
would never forgive me if she knew. She came
here to-night to say good-by toe young gentle-
man who has been courting her on the sly for
some time past, and it is only natural that she

 

should boa little overcome. Now don’t you
be angry; far there’s few folks, they say, that
marries their first, love, yet they make none
the less good husbands and wives when their
turn comes. Just take my advice, and ride
quietly on, for it would Worry the poor dear
out of her senses again if she found you here
when she recovars. See, she moves; she will
soon be as well as ever. I will take her home
presently, and when you are once her young
man, I’ll engage she‘ll never waste another
thought upon young Carew.”

Jerome stood silent, seemingly undecided
what to say or do. He almost shuddered as
Beatrice slowly unclosed her eyes and the
name of his rival escaped her lips. But
Bridget impatiently waved him away in token
of dismissal, and he may have-felt that it
would be impolite to provoke an open rupture
with a girl whose indifference he had from the
first more than suspected.

So it happened that when Beatrioe’s con-
sciousness fully returned, she found herself
alone with the simple but kindly domestic, who,
as she carefully supported her trembling steps
toward the house, was cautious not to. reveal
the fact that the expectant bridegroom of to-
morrow was cognizant of the lovers’ meeting
under the trysting tree.

 

CHAPTER IV.
In. WILLIAM sMI'm.

Nauru? a year had passed since Everard
Carew quitted Fairview, and during that
period no communication from him had been
received by his family or friends.

“Let him go,” Mr. Carew had said to Ken-
neth, his only confidant. “I never wish to see
him again. After my death he will soon re-
turn with pretended grief and real gladne, to
take possession of all that will be then his own.
I do not mean to be vindictive beyond the
grave, and shall not alter in will as I had at
first thought of doing. He 5 all have an elder
son’s portion; perhaps time and experience
may teach him wisdom and honorable feeling.
If he comes no more to Fairview during my
lifetime, you can give him my forgiveness and
blessing.”

Kenneth promised to comply with this re-
quest, but was hopeful that a reconciliation
might be eflected between father and son.

A small party assembled one evening in the
long drawing-room. It consisted of the rector
and his wife, Mrs. Blake (3. widowed sisterot
Mr. Carew), Mr. Merriton and his daughter
Lilian.

Lilian was a charming girl, fragile in hm,
aristocratic-looking, and refined in fem
witha profusion of pale golden hair curled over
her broad, white forehead, and twisted into
innumerable braids and coils behind her head.

 

 

PASSION’S REPRISAL.

 

She wore a perfectly-fitting dress of cream-
colored. cashmere and silk, trimmed with lace
of the same hue, relievsd by a cluster of deep
crimson flowers at the bosom. Pearls of great
size and value encircled both neck and arms,
harmonizing with the delicacy of her fair com-
plexion.

“ Your father looks worn and harassed
lately,” she said to Kenneth, with the freedom
of a friendship dating Irom childhood. “ Has
he been ill?”

“ Not quite so well as usual, although he
never likes to be pressed with questions on the
subject. I am rather uneasy about him.”

“I have noticed a change ever since your
brother went abroad. Why do you not write
and tell him to come home?”

Mr. Villars, the rector, who was standing
near, here joined in the conversation.

“You are speaking of Mr. Carew’s health,”
he observed, with the pompous solemnity he
considered suitable to his clerical dignity.

“ Mr. Kenneth, it is your duty to advise him
to have recourse to medical skill. The first
symptoms of disease should be checked, for
everyday we see around us instances of the
uncertainty of human life. Have you heard
that Thornton, the lawyer, died last week and
was buried yesterday i”

Kenneth professed a proper amount of inter-
est in this melancholy intelligence, and Lilian
cried eagerly: “ Oh, he was the father of that
beautiful girl of whom my maid told me such
a romantic story. I always pitied her so
much.”

“I know the story to which you allude.
She was seized with a fever on the very morn-
ing appointed for her marriage, and although
her bodily health is quite restored, she suffers
still from fits of deep depression, which show
her mental powers are impaired.”

“It was altogether sad,” observed Lilian,
turning from the pompous rector to her
younger companion. “ She was engaged to a
Mr. Maxwell, who afterward became her fa-
ther’s partner. All the bridal preparations
Were completed, and she was dressing for the
important ceremony, when, just as the wreath
of orange-blossom was being fastened in her
hair, she tottered and fell to the ground. It
soon became evident that she was alarmingly
ill, and a messenger was dispatched to the
church, where Mr. Maxwell awaited the com-
ing of his bride, to warn him that no wedding
could take place that day. You can imagine
his grief and disappointment.”

“Is the engagement broken ofl?” asked
Kenneth, with some curiosity.

“Oh. dear, no,” said Lilian, shaking her
sunny head. “ Mr. Maxwell, I am told, is de-
votedly attached to the lady, and is ready to
wait with patience until she is quite recovered.
It is not every woman who can inspire so deep

 

an affection. We must generally rest con-
tented with that light love which vanishes at
the first cloud of sickness or sorrow.”

“ You cannot seriously mean to utter such a.
libel on our sex!” returned the rector, while
Lilian blushed deeply at finding Kenneth’s
pale face fixed upon her in grave reproach.

They were talking when the butler entered,
wearing rather a perturbed air, as if his digni-
fied calmness had received a shock. He took
his way to Mr. Curew, who was sitting a little
apart from the rest, and whispered a few sen-
tenses.

“ Some one desires to see me at this hour,”
repeated his master, “ and will neither give his
name nor state his business! Tell him, Mor~
rison, that I am engaged, and he must call to«
morrow.”

Morrison departed to give the message, but
soon returned.

“I told him, Mr. Carew, that you had com-
pany, and he said that he brought news more
interesting than all their talk, and that if you
refused to see him now, he wou‘d take no fur-
ther trouble in the matter. I think—I think
it is something about Mr. Everard.”

“1 will speak to him in the study,” said Mr.
Carew, hastily.

With an apology to his guests, and a few
words of explanation to Kenneth, he left the
drawing-room, and descended the broad stair-
case to the library.

The visitor was standing on the hearth-rug,
twisting his felt hat nervously in his hands,
and staring about him at the unaccustomed
splendor of oak and. gold fittings, handsome
furniture and bookcases filled with splendidly-
bound volumes.

He was tall and lithe in figure, not bad-look-
ing, but with a. cunning expression. He was
ettired somewhat in nautical fashion, wearing
a thick pilot coat, a blue-checked shirt, anda
dark silk handkerchief carelessly knotted round
his throat.

“ What is your business with me, my man?”
asked Mr. Carew. “It should be something
important to excuse your urgent message.”

“ You needn’t be so sharp on a. cove who has
come miles out of his way to do you aservice,’
retorted the other, in an injured tone. “But
I had given my word, and Bill Smith “as
always a good-natured fool, ready to do his
utmost to oblige a friend.” '

“Well, Mr. Smith, why do yOu wish to see
me?”

“ Don’t you ever look for news of your
eldest son, Mr. Everard Carew?” answered the
stranger, with a keen glance from under his
beetling brows; “ the same who left home a.
twelvemonth come June, and went across the
sea to the diamond fields of BraziL”

, “ Do you bring news of him?” cried Mr.
Carew, with ill-concealed anxiety.

PASSION’S REPRISAL. 11

 

“We went out together in the good ship
Morning Star, and th« ugh he was a swell, and
I only a poor workingman, striving to better
my fortune, we somehow got familiar-like, and
I used to tell him all about He country, where
I passed a couple of years when quite a lad.
When we landed at Rio I lost sight (f him;
but we happened to meet again at the diggings,
and became close pals. Lor’, I could spin you
a long yarn, if it was worth my while, of all
the troubles and dangers we went through
together.”

“Conflue yourself to the chief points in your
story,” said Mr. Cnrew, attempting to speak
with calmness, although his voice slightly
trembled. “Where is my son now? is be
well?”

Mr. Smith shook his head dolefully.

“Poor fellow, he is dead! Some say the
climate is wonderfully healthy; but it didn’t
suit him, and what with the hard work, that
he hadn’t been used to, he kinder grew weaker
daily, and at last went off.”

“What proof have you of his death?” said
Mr. Carew, in a hoarse tone. “Perhaps you
are mistaken altogether. Your comrade may
not have been my son,” he added, With feverish
energy.

" Oh, don’t think there’s any mistake in the
matter! Just aforo he died, after Le had bet u
thanking me for all my little attentions, he
toltl me that his father was an Honorable,
living at aplace called Fairvicw, near Madi-
son. He said there had been a squabble about
money, and that was the reason he left the
State in a hurry. Ttven he asked me, if I went
back, according to my intention, would I go to
his father, the Hon. Claude Carew, and tell
him his eldest son, Madcap Everard, would
never trouble him again.”

“ And then, he died,” said Mr. Carew, slow-
ly. “Have you any certificate of his death?”

The man produced a slip of paper from his
pocket, and handed it to the other.

“I don’t know whether you will find it quite
a. formal dockyment,”be remarked. “They
are not too particular at the diggings. But,
anyway, it will be a satisfaction to your mind
to see it.”

“This is a certificate of the death of one
Joseph Smith," said Mr. Carew, sternly ey-
ing his strange visitor. “What interest can
it be to me?”

“Smith is a. mighty convenient alias fora.
gent to u e when he wants to drop, as it were,
into another spear,” remarked the other, with
a knowing wink. “We Smiths are such \a
large family that no one asks any orkard
questions. It was only just at the lact that
I knew that my pal's 1131 name was Everard
Carew, and being a secret, I was bound not to
make it common talk by mentioning it to the
doctor.”

 

“ Your story may be true,"snid Mr. Carew,
doulittully; “and yet—”

“If you doubt an honest man’s word, Mr.
Carew,” cried Mr. William Smith, with a
show of indignation, “ the soot.er we parts
company the better. But I ask you, as a gen-
tleman, why I should have traveled all these
miles, if it had not been to keep my promise to
a poor young chap, dying far from home and
friends?"

“I do not say that it is not so, but this
story may be fabricated through hope of a. re-
ward. The certificate dnes not hear my son’s
name, and there is no proof of his death save
your bare assertion.”

The man rattled out a volley of oaths, and
lashed himself intoa fury.

“You gentlefolks think no one else has any
proper feeling. As for your money, I’d throw
it in the gutter afore I‘d accept a penny! So
now I wish you a. very good‘evening, andI
reckon you won’t find William Smith such a
fool as to do a good-natured thing to serve a.
friend in a hurry, let him be living or deadl”

He cpened the library door. tramde heavily
through the vestibule, and Mr. Carew heard
the outer portal close ur on him. Then, for the
first time, his firmness gave way.

While he thus yielded to a. burst of natural
grief, his late visitor walked swiftly down the
avenue, his mouth widening into a grin.

Scarcely bad he passed through the lodge
gates, when Jerome Maxwell darted from the
shadow of the high hedge. and demanded:

“ Well, Smith, how have you prospered?”

“ Done the job neatly, I flatter myself, Mr.
Maxwell. It the old cove does not believe
his son has kicked the bucket it’s no fault of
mine.”

“ Did he ask many questions, or seem doubt-
ful about the certificate t”

“ Well, he was rather flabbergasted with the
change of names; but I put on a. bold front,
and argued out the matter, as you bade me.
It was lucky for you that my poor brotherJoe,
who died in Brazil, was about the same age as
young Curew, or we might not have got over
the difficulty so well.”

Mr. Maxwell smiled.

“It would have involved an extra amount
of trouble. There is nothing like judicious
forethought in matters of business.”

“ Forgery is always dangerous,” observed
Mr. ‘Smith, sententiously; “ but the best rege-
lated mind is apt to fall into a. mistake. If
Mr. Carew wete to come back next week,
nothing could be proved against us. We had
only been deluded by some cockvaud-bull story
told by a young chap now dead.” I

“Be pleased to remark,” hissed Jerome, his
brow darkening, “ that Ihave made no com-
munication to Mr. Claude Carew which may
one day be contradicted. At your own risk

 

 

12

PASSION ’S REPRISAL.

 

and responsibility you undertook the com-
mission with which I intrusted you, on terms
agreed upon between us. You have performed
your share of the transaction, and will receive
the reward stipulated—namely, silence respect-
ing certain antecedents not redounding to your
credit, and a sum of money that, if you are
prudent, will keep you from want until you
are able to obtain honest employment. This
agreement was made verbally and without
witness, therefore I advise you not to feel
tempted to mention my name should further
discussion arise concerning this evening’s inter-
view at Fairview.”

“ Don’t you fancy I want to split. ‘ A still
tongue makes a. wise head ’ is my motter.”

“If you did split, as you call it, you could
not injure me. I should positively deny our
acquaintance, and my character stands rather
higher than yours, considering you are an old
jail-bird.”

“ You have no call to throw it in my teeth
if I have been in trouble I never yet peached
upon a pal, nor shall I now; so make your
mind at ease.”

“I am not uneasy, William Smith. You
are too sensible a man to offend me willingly.
Why, the other evening, when we met by
chance in the square, and you offered to re-
lieve me of my watch and any superfluous cash
I might carry about me, you were too wise to
persist in your demand when youhad recog-
nized me. For my own part, I haven. good
memory, and immediately recollected my for-
mer client.”

“ Well, Mr. Maxwell, it is waste of time to
stand palavering here.”

“Perfectly correct. Besides, you under-
stand that I wish you to leave this neighbor-
hood. Mr. Carew can then take no further
steps to obtain from you such particulars of
his son’s death as you might find it difficult to
concoct.”

“All right, guv’nor; I am 03 by the next
train.”

Jerome took from his pocketbook a roll of
crisp bank-notes, which he counted into his
companion’s eager palm.

“Three tens—four fives—fifty in all. Good
pay, I think, Mr. Smith, for ’such a trifling
service.” '

The gentleman addressed gave a knowing
wink and started on his way to the nearest
railway station.

CHAPTER V.
JEROME PERSEVERES.

POOR and friendless as Beatrice was now,
broken in health and spirits, her beauty faded
until, in Bridget’s estimation (who loved
blooming cheeks and sparkling eyes), it was
scarcely more than a memory of the past, it is

 

no wonder that tho worthy domestic should be
anxious to see her well settled in life.

Everard Carew had vanished; why should
not Jerome Maxwell become his successor in
the affections of Beatrice, and the long post—
poned marriage take place at last?

So Bridget pondered Over the matter as she
employed her time in trimming her Sunday
bonnet black, of course to show respect to the
memory of the late Mr. Thornton, whom in
her heart she detested.

“I’m sure Miss Beatrice is enough to wear
one‘s patience out to see her sit moping there
day after day. I’d sooner she was deaf and
dumb, for then, I suppose, she would talk
with her fingers, and be a better companion.
Really, she wants a rousing up, and I shall
give her a. bit of my mind. Miss Beatrice,
dear,” she began, in a coaxing tone, “are you
not tired of sitting still, for all the world like
a statue? Why should you not go out and get
a. little fresh air, or else read the book that Mr.
Maxwell brought himself from the library, be-
cause he thought it might amuse you?"

“Thank you, Bridget; I know you mean
well, but I do not care for change of scene,
and hate reading.”

“Never was there uch a strange young
lady! Mr. Maxwell will scan pay you his
daily visit, and it you will not walk down the
road to meet him, you had best shake of! your
gloom, and seem a little glad to give him wel-
come.”

“ You are fast becoming a zealous partisan
of Mr. Maxwell’s, Bridget.”

“Small blame if I am. You want a. hus-
band and protector, Miss Beatrice.”

A spark of the old flre came into the girl’s
dark eyes as she answered: “My heart is
given to Everard Carew, and while he lives I
will never become the wife of another. I am
thankful that my illness saved me from com-
mitting a grievous sin; for I should have per-
jured mySelt at the altar had I stood before it
with Jerome Maxwell.”

“Miss Beatrice, your youth will slip away
while you are fretting over the loss of a lover
who gave you up too easily. Every year will
see some change, until you get old, and gray,
‘and wrinkled; that you will regret this folly.”

“I shall never regret escaping from the
shackles of a loveless marriage.”

“ If you were rich and independent, it would
be different,” argued Bridget. “ Somehow,
rich people can always find friends who flatter
and study to please them. But you will not
have a friend in the world if you send Mr.
Maxwell away. Indeed, dear child, it you
are wise, you will cease crying over spilt milk,
and make the best of things as they are.”

“ You give me had ndvicel” cried Beatrice,
impatiently. “ Why will you not suppose
that Everard may returp, faithful and toad as

PASSION’S

REPRISAL. 13

 

=ver, to claim me for his wife? Whatever
trouble may have made him speak and act so
strangely in our last interview I know not;
but when its shadow is dispersed, he will come
to me again.”

“ That can never be,” was the reply.

“Have you heard news of him?” asked Beat
trice. anxiously.

“ My dear, I know nothing for sure; but it is
the talk of the town that Mr. Carew’s eldest
son is dead.”

There was no violent burst of grief, no sud-
den exclamation. A gasp for breath, a short,
convulsive sob as Beatrice bowed her head upon
her clasped hands; then she said, almost calm-
ly, “ Ours from the first has been an ill-fated
love. I have struggled bravely against evil
forebodings, but never quite successfully; yet,
my love, it is hard to believe that you are lost
to me foreverl”

The tears rained down between her slender
fingers as her last hope died away.

An energetic grasp was on her shoulder, and
Bridget’s voice sounded warningly in her
ear.

“Mr. Maxwell is coming through the gar-
den-gate. Surely you would not give him
reason to suspect that you are crying out your
eyes because of young Carew’s death?"

Bridget’s zeal had outrun her discretion. She
forgot that Beatrice was unaware of Jerome’s
knowledge that the heir of Fairview had been
a favored suitor.

Luckily, however, Beatrice, in her agitation,
let the words pass unnoticed.

The tall, sprucely-dressed figure of the young
lawyer appeared on the threshold just as Miss
Thornton managed to gain an outward sem-
blance of composure.

He sunk into his usual seat beside her, asked
tender questions regarding her health, and
conducted himself altogether in a. manner so
perfectly accordant with Bridget’s notions of
an irresistible wooer, that the worthy matron,

after poislng the completed bonnet on her huge ;

fist, where it perched like some bird of evil
omen, took her way to the lower regions, with
a firm conviction that, sooner or later, the
matter would be settled agreeably to her de-
sires.

When she had gone, Jerome drew his chair
still nearer to the object of his love, and said,
in softly-modulated tones, “Beatrice, are you
wall enough to listen to me while I speak about
your future plans?”

She bowed her head assentingly.

“You know, my darling, that for some time
past your father's afl’airs had been growing
gradually more involved. For your sake I
made many efforts to save him; but he had a
mania for speculation, and his investments often
proved wretched failures. I am myself much

l impoverished through his imprudence, but I do
not mean to speak ( E that.”

“You have been generous, I know,” she
said, gently; “and he always esteemed your
kindness.”

“ Was it not natural that your father should
have the highest claim upon me? But, dearest,
how can I tell you? When all just debts are
paid, you will be left nearly penniless ”

“ I am not surprised,” she answered, calmly;
“and the prospect of poverty does not appall
me.”

“Because you have never realized its worst
aspect. Beatrice, Iimnlore you to reconsider
your determination. You have told me that
our engagement must be broken, that its fulfill-
ment would entail upon you a life-long wretch-
edness, because you do not love me as a. wife
should love her husband. Oh, why should you
let a caprice, a fancy, interfere with your
father’s cherished plan and my happiness?
Place once more your hand in mine; let us
plight our troth anew.”

“Jerome, I cannot.”

“ Do you prefer a life of toil and poverty to
being my wife in a home where you would be
surrounded with every comfort? Am I so un-
endurable that you could not learn to love me?"

“That isalesson which should be laid to
heart before marriage.”

“I could be contented if you performed a
wife’s duty until my patient devotion had won
your heart.”

“Jerome, do not tempt me,” she cried, im-
patiently. “I was once nearly led into a
grievous mistake, but I feared to rebel openly
against my father.”

“You think it would have been a mistake to
marry me? Beatrice, have you no feeling for
the bitterness of my disappointment? Happi-
ness seemed just within my grasp

“ I am sorry,” she faltered.

“That is what you women say when your
indecision and caprice drive men to madness.
‘ But forgive me; I did not wish to wound or
, reproach you. If you cannot accept me as a.

lover, at least you will allow me a. brother’s
‘privilege of ofl‘ering such aid as may enable
you to remain in your old home, and miss none
of your accustomed comforts.”
“How good you are!” she said, gratefully,
‘ giving him her hand. “But I could not receive
such favors; my selfrespect would sufler. My
future plans are alrcady decided. A cousin of
Bridget’s rents a cottage at no great distance;
I intend to live with her, and work for my own
support.”
“ You will not even view me as your father's
friend?” he said reproachfully. “Are weto be
, entire strangers?”
“ For old friendship’s sake I shall always
welcome you.” i

 

 

 

14 PASSION ’S REPRISAL.

 

Jerome had succeeded in tracing young
Carcw from Madison to New York, from thence
to the deck of a provision-ship sailing to South
America. It was evidently his intention to
hide his identity under a. feigned name and
leave no clew by which relatives or friends
could gain knowledge of his subsequent move-
ments.

And if, in the course of years, he became
tired of masquerading, and returned to reclaim
his heritage, he might find Beatrice Thornton
had changed her name to Maxwell and all re-
grets would be ,too late.

As Jerome crossed the square he. came upon
a small riding-party, consisting of Mr. Carew
and Mr. Merriton well in front, discussing, if
he only could have known it, the feasibility of
certain schemes for obtaining more authentic
intelligence of Everard’s decease; while in the
rear Kenneth and Lilian rode slowly side by
side.

The girl looked her prettiest in her neatly-
fitting habit, with a delicate flush upon her
cheek, produced either by exercise in the open
air. or the softly-whispered words of her com-
panion, or by both combined, perhaps.

Jerome eyed them, and smiled sardonically.

“Now that Master Kenneth has reason to
hope that fortune has given him both his own
and his brother’s inheritance, he pays court to
the wealthy heiress; while she, I warrant,
would not receive his attentions quite so favor-
ably if she did not believe that William Smith’s

1 romance had some foundation in truth.”

 

CHAPTER VI.
rm: 'rnavntna‘s RETURN.

TEE busy streets of New York are compara-
tively quiet and desn‘ted, for the stores are
closed, and it is 'such a damp, dull, drinzling
evening that the ordinary mind appreciates the
advantages of a sheltering roof and cosey cup of
tea.

Either reckless or too deeply engrossed in
thought to be conscious of the bad weather,
Everard Carew walked slowly down Broad-
way.

Three years an exile from his native land,
he had only recently disembarked from the
clipper-ship Amazonia, which had brought him
back to the States and Beatrice after his long
wanderings. Yes, Beatrice was the magnet
that had drawn him with irresistible force
back from the land of his wanderings.

He cared not to revisit the home from which
he had been banished. to receive, perhaps, a
reluctant pardon for his fault, or even to be
reinstated in his old privileges as heir to Fair-
view; but he longed to know whether this girl,
whom he had loved even above honor and self-
respect; we still free, and faithful to the mem-
ory of that short, sweet dream, which had so
abruptly ended.

 

During his wanderings in South America he
had received no letters from home, nor had he
cared to read the newspapers, from which he
might have learned that his father was dead,
and that a large reward was offered for any
reliable testimony as to his own decease.

Everard had undergone many vicissitudes in
the three years’ absence from home, sometimts
brought face to face with want, then raised by
a sudden stroke of good fortune to a. generally
short-lived state of prosperity.

It was in San Francisco that his luck seemed
permanently to change for the better.

By a fortunate accident he was able to ren-
dera service to the owner of a rich tract of
mining-land in Nevada. The man was grate-
ful, and finding young Carew had no fixed em-
ployment, and was altogether in an impecu-
nious condition, offered him the situation of
overseer to the mine. His liberal terms were
accepted.

Everard worked hard, made money, and
would have been happier in di~tant California
than among the elite of society in his own
home if he could have forgotten Lawyer Thorn-
ton’s daughter.

She held a prominent place in his thoughts
this gloomy autumnal evening, when the star-
less sky, the wet pavement, the steady falling
rain, made a desolate picture had be chosen to
observe it, but the hopes and fears that agi-
tated his mind banished all sense of bodily dis-
comfort.

In fancy he was far away from the muddy
city streets, waiting under the trysting tree
for the sound of that light footstep, or listening
to the timid aCCents in which Beatrice had
owned reciprocal love.

Should he write, announcing his arrival in
New York, and making arrangements for a
meeting at the old spot? 0r had she been
coerced by her odious father into marrying
Jerome Maxwell?

These questions incessantly recurred, with-
out gaiuiug satisfactory answers. Yet hope
whispered that she would summon firmness to
resist all pressure that might be put upon her,
and remain constant to her first love.

He was crossing the end of a narrow street,
heedless in his present frame of mind of a
growing noise and confusion, the sound of
shouting voices, the tramp of many feet.
Suddenly a fire-engine dashed round the cor-
ner on its way to a conflagration at no great
distance.

Everard, by a hasty movement, was attempt—
ing to avoid it, when his foot slipped on the
muddy stones, and he would have fallen un-
der the horses’ hoofs had not two strong hands
dragged him from his perilous position.

. “A narrow escape, gov’nor," remarked his
preserver when they were both in safety on
the pavement. “ If your life’s of any value, I

DLX

{‘3

PASSION ‘S REPRISAL. 15

 

'spose you won’t grudge a poor devil who 15
down upon his luck some reward for saving
it?”

The speaker was not a very prepossessing
object. His tattered clothes hung loosely on
his tail, gaunt frame, his face had a pinched,
cadaverous look, his eyes were deeply sunken
in their sockets. There was a fawning smile
upon his thin lips, contrasting with the scowl
upon his brow, that would have prejudiced a
physiognomist against him at first sight. ’

But Everard Was no physiognomist, and saw
nothing beyond outward signs of want, which
moved his h-zart to pity.

“Certainly I will reward you,” he answered,
“for you well deserve to be recompensed for
your pluck and presence of mind. But I have
scarcely any money with me; you must come
to my hotel.”

“I'll come anywhere for a trifle of the need-
ful. You fine gents don’t know how hard it is
for a chap to earn an honest living, or some-
times even to get a bit of bread.”

“I know it, my man, only too well,” replied
Everard, recollecting his struggle for bare
subsistence scarcely two years before. “ I
have roughed it myself, not only in this coun-
try, but across the sea, and my experience has
taught me to feel for the trouble of others.”

“ Ah, if there were more gents in the world
like you,” returned his companion, in a. burst
of enthusiasm, “who would be ready to hold
out a helping hand to a poor cove floundering
in the mire, there would be less vice and mis-
ery in this great town.”

They were walking toward the hotel where
Everard had taken up his quarters for the
present, and on the way thither young Carew,

‘ unheeding the curious glances that were bent

upon them, beguiled the time with a. graphic
narration of sundry adventures he had met
with on the other side of the continent, in
requital of which confidence Mr. William Smith
(for the stranger who had rendered Everard
such timely assistance was no other than that
worthy) launched forth into certain descriptive
passages of his own career. that, far from be-
ing founded on fact, were lofty flights of imag‘
ination.

He was poor, he owned, but that was no
crime. His virtues, such as honesty, industry,
and sobriety, exposed him to the persecution
of the lawless crew among whom he was
forced to dwell. His sole yearning was to
lead a life of humble respectability, and if
kindly fate threw him across the path of any
one suflflciently kind-hearted and generous to
be willing to relieve unobtrusive merit in dis-
tress, his warmest gratitude would repay his
benefactor’s goodness

Everard was impulsive to a fault. Besides,
the remembrance that the man had in all pro-

 

bability saved his life pleaded irreistibly in
his favor.

“You have found the friend you need,” said
he heartily; “henceforth it will be your own
fault if you fall into this state of abject wretch- "
edness. Do not accompany me now to my
hotel; the people there might recognize you
when you appear before them in another char-
acter, but take this change to supply your im-
mediate wants, and give me your name and
address."

Mr“ Smith mentioned his plain cognomen,
and the filthy alley near the Five Points, where
he was at present located.

Everard carefully noted name and address
in his pocketbook, and the two separated, mu—
tually satisfied as to the result of their conver-
sation. The one rejoicing that he had found
an easy dupe, the other maturing in his brain
one of those wild schemes which had formerly
earned him the nick-name of Madcap Everard.

 

Before the week was over William Smith had
undergone a wonderful transformation.

His unkempt hair was closely cropped, his
face clean, and no longer disfigured by the
stubbly beard, a neat suit of clothes replaced
his tatters, and his whole appearance indicated
that a marked improvement in his condition
had taken place.

This was indeed the case, for taken from the
wretched home where dirt, famine, and disease
seemed almost to wear bodily form and dog
the footsteps of its denizen, he was ensconced
in comfortable rooms, Well clothed and fed as
the servant of Everard Carew.

No more purloining from shop or pocket,
whichever was most conveniently near; no
more dread of the policeman’s step, of stern
magistrate or prison fare.

After all, thieving is scarcely a paying vice,
as witness the miserable looks of many an area
sneak. William Smith began to think he
should thrive better in a more reputable st-
mosphere. He enjoyed the novel sensation of
living at another’s expense without fear of un-
pleasant consequences.

One thing he learned which invested his new
master with a. halo of interest. He was the
Everard Carew whose death he had announced
on that unforgetten evam’ng when, at the
lawyer’s instigation, he paid a visitto Fair-
VleW.

How well he remembered the handsome
library with its oak furniture and well-filled
bookshelves, and the tall, gray-haired old man,
who questioned him so eagerly, while he, well-
tutored in falsehood by his crafty employer,
recounted the story that carried its death-
wound to a proud but not unloving heart.

He began to wonder if it were possible to
betray Maxwell without damaging his own

 

 

16 PASSION’S REPRISAL.

 

cause, and decided that the instinct of self-
yireservation required him to keep silence.
The knowledge of a master’s secret is, however,
always useful. Between Mr. Carew and the
lawyer he might manage to make a little
money without compromising his safety.

While William Smith thus studied his own
interests, Everard Carew, in his careless fash-
ion, gave him such instructions as fitted him
for the situation of valet and butler to a single
gentleman, and was daily more pleased with
the man’s shrewdness and seeming gratitude.

He had removed from the hotel into'com-
fortable furnished apartments, and there he
still lingered, scarce knowing how best to
communicate with Beatrice in his ignorance of
all that might have occurred during his long
absence.

At length he concluded it would be the wisest
plan to write to her, giving a brief summary
of his career since they had parted, and en-
treating her, if she were still free and had not
ceased to love him, to be once again at the
trysting-tree on a. certain evening. He should
know then whether her afi‘ection had braved
the ordeal of time and trouble, and if she were
ready to fulfill her vows by linking her fate to his.
In short, the question should be at one decided
whether he might hope to enjoy a life blest by
domestic happiness or wander forth once more
an exile from her presence, relinquishing all
claims to his patrimony in favor of his brother
Kenneth.

The long epistle was completed. He read it
over with the well-pleased thought that her
eyes wonld soon rest upon the lines, and brighten
as they gazed on each term of endearment. He
could hardly realize the anguish of the mis~
giving that stole over him when he reflecled
that she might long since have given her hand
to his rival, and instead of a welcome harbin-
ger of happiness, his letter might only be re-
garded as the bearer of distressing tidings.

Never mind; he must put his fortune to the
test, trusting all would be well.

Before he consigned the paper to its envelope
he added a. few words:—

“I shall write by this post to my brother. He and
Iwere always good friends, so I mean to acquaint
him with my arrival in New York, and he may use
his own discretion as to whether he will keep the
matter secret from my father."

Then be fastened the letter in its receptacle,
and took up his pen to write to Kenneth.

 

“He was alive and well—he loved her still.
Her troubles were over; they were to be re-
united, and never part again.”

In her tumultuous joy Beatrice could hardly
believe the evidence of her senses. Over and
over she read the precious words. while 11079
and happiness lighted up her countenance and
restored its pristine beauty.

 

“Bridget, rejoice, rejoice!” she cried. as Hm
dame, more portly and rosy than ever, with
silver threads showing in greater abundance
amid her light-brown hair, came into the bum:-
ble room they called their own. “Mr. Carew
is in New York, he writes; and, oh, I cannot
tell you all he says, but everything that is kind
and loving!”

In the extremity of her surprise, Bridget
sunk down upon the nearest chair and began
to fan herself with a corner of her apron, as if
fearful that feverish symptoms had brought on
some hallucination of the brain.

“Mr. Carew is dead!” she ejaculated solemn-
ly. “They’ve worn mourning for him at
Fairview, and you will never have a cilored
ribbon or flowar to brighten up your dress,
because you made up your mind to wear black
all your life for love of him!”

“Bridget, you dear, silly old woman, can
you not see we were mistaken? Some false
rumor misled us all. But it does not matter
now. A living, loving hand traced these
words. And as for always wearing black,
why you shall make me look as gay and pretty
as you can this very day, for I am to meet
Everard at the old trysting placel I knew his
handwriting at once,” she continued. “The
letter was addressed to me at The Hermitage,
but the postman (knowing that I had removed
here when Mr. Maxwell took up his residence
at my old home) brought it on to me. Only
fancy, it my precious letter had been mislaid
or lost 1”

“I wonder what Mr. Kenneth will say to
this?” remarked Bridget, slowly.

“He ought to be delighted at his brother’s
return. But there is no telling; this is a
strange world.”

“ I’m thinking that he will not be best
pleased at the change. He is to be married to-
morrow to Miss Merriton, and I doubt if her
father would have consented to the match if
he had believed the heir of Fairview was still
alive.”

“By this time the news has reached Fair-
view,” said Beatrice. “Everard has written
to his brother, and, of course, it will be at
once made puUic that the family were de-
ceived when they supposed him dead.”

“It is hard upon the poor young man, for I
expect the marriage will be broken off, and I
hear he is devotedly attached to Miss Merriton.
But the old fellow—I mean her father—has
always looked so high for his daughter, that
you may depend, Miss Beatrice, he will not be
satisfied with seeing her the wife of even Mr.
Kenneth.”

Beatrice was wounded by Bridget’s speeches,
which more than implied a doubt as to the
general rejoicings for Everard’s return. She
began to distrust Kenneth, who might even
sorrow at what was to her a source of deepest

r»

PASSIONS REPRISAL. 17

 

joy, and could not help Owning that most men
would find it hard to relinquish land, wealth,
perhaps a lovely bride, in order to welcome a l
truant brother back once more.

A foreboding of evil seized her, though the
next moment she was angry with herself j
at allowing a single misgiviug to alloy her
happiness.

Beatrice stood before her mirror, wondering
if Everard would find her altered in appear- 1
ones through time and trouble, and fearing lest 1
she should read in his eyes a certain sense of ‘
disappointment at the sight of her faded beau- ,
ty. Yet she had no real reason for alarm on ‘
that score. i

There is no such rapid and successful beau-
tifler as happiness; already her cheeks were j
recovering their lost bloom, and dimpling into i
smileswalready her dark orbs sparkled under
their long lashes with the brightness of the
days when love had taught them to shine with i
new luster. '

She arranged her luxuriant hair in the ,
fashion he had been wont to praise, adjusted 1
her dress with the anxious care of a woman,"
who desires to appear at the zenith of her‘
attractions: then, as the hour appointed for the l
meeting was drawing near, quietly left the[
cottage, and took her way toward the road
leading to The Hermitage. One passing thought 1
disturbed her mind.

She might, possibly, meet Jerome Maxwell,
who would marvel at finding her walking alone ‘
at so late an hour, and detain her in couversa- 1,
tion while Everard was impatiently waiting;
her arrival. 

She liked Jerome well enough since he no;
longer wearied her with unwelcome protests» 5
tions, but contented himself with assuming the 1
position of brotherly friend. Yet, at such a I
crisis, he would be decidedly in the way. The l
evening was dark and chilly.

A rising wind blew showers of leaves from
the trees under which she passed, and as they
fluttered across her cheek or rustled beneath
her footstep, the air seemed peopled by mis-i
chievous sprites, who mocked at the instability i

 

 

feeling once more the pressure of his arms
around her, she might give herself up unre-
servedly to dreams oi! future happiness!

She had nearly reached the spot. Already

1 she fancied his figure might be descried in the

distance, and hurried forward with words of
welcome hovering on her lips.

Suddenly she stumbled and almost fell over
a large. dark, heavy object lying across her
path—the body of a man!

A horrible fear stole over her; the We of
life seemed receding from her heart, and a
dread of the discovery she might be fated to
make nearly drove her frantic.

Falling on her knees beside the insensible
form, her dress became stained by a crimson
flood that was saturating the short grass on
which she knelt.

The moonbeams, struggling from behind
gathering clouds, only revealed sufficient to in-
crease her terror and consternation.

The dead man’s features were indistinguish-
able. They had become defaced beyond re-
cognition. But on his left hand was a ring
that she had often noticed glittering on Ever-
ard’s finger, and the handkerchief peeping
from the breast~pocket of his coat bore the
familiar monogram of her lover.

She doubted no longer that it was upon him
she gazed.

He had been brutally slain at the moment
when years of trial and constancy were to re-
ceive their just recompense.

All aid was vain. She, who would have
risked her life to save him, had arrived too
late.

One thing alone remained by which to prove
her devotion to his memory.

She would live for revenge, and hunt down
Everard’s assassin.

Thus she vowed, kneeling beside the body,
dedicating her life to the completion of her
self-appointed task.

CHAPTER VII.
AN INTERRUPTED BRIDAL.
THE skies were propitious on Lilian Merri-

 

of ‘human love, and moaned forth 8- reqmem ton’s bridal morning; the sun shone forth from
over disappointed hopes. i a wide expanse of blue, as if autumn were anx-
By turns; She felt the GCStESY 0‘ OVGFWhelm' ‘ ions to assume the brightness of spring in
it‘8‘ joy and the deF'l‘t’ESSiOII 0f antleipated 501“  honor of the gentle girl’s approaching nuptials.
row. iVery fair and winning she looked in move:-
The moon, frequently obscured by heavy ‘ quisite dress sent from abroad by Worth, with
(Blonds; gave an uncertain light for a few "10‘ , orange-flowers and stephanotis half hidden in
ments, then suddenly disappeared again- _ i her clustering hair—a. fair-v-like vision sudden.
The cry of some night-bird from the neigh- ly appearing to the sight of her fond father,
boring W°°d “1113 out upon the Ellehcer and whom she disturbed from a hurried perusal of
made her heart throb with Strange alarm—"01' the morning paper in the seclusion of his study.
excitement had unstrung her nerves, and. every , u Papa, you mug“ really admire me in this
unaccustomed Sound made her tremble- beautiful dress—your own present, tool I fear
HOW She longed 101' the moment When Eve!“ you will find that Monsieur Worth has been
ard’s voice should dispel these idle tears, and rather extravagant in the matte;- of lug. bug

 

 

18 PASSION’S ItEPRlSAL.

 

as you ordered no expense to be spared to
make me presentable for this important event,
you cannot very well complain.”

“I am not apt to complain of anything con-
ducing to your pleasure. As to your dress,
you always look well in white, and to day 1
think it suits you better than usual.”

“Papa, that is scant praise; I shall expect
Kenneth to pay me a higher compliment.”

The old man played with her golden curls,
as, seated on a low stool at his feet, she glanced
smilingly at him,

“Kenneth Carew may consider himself a
lucky man, my child,” her father said, “for
this day he will win the fairest bride in the
whole State, who brings him not only youth
and beauty, but a loving heart. and wealth
such as many a, duke could not afford to give
his daughter.” '

“ I wish, papa, you had mt st cken of mcney
among my advantages,” said Lilian, nith a
vexed look; “I like to think that Kenneth
chooses me for myself alone.”

“Be sure that he lovrs you, pet, for morta.1
man could scarcely be indifferent to such at
tractions as you possess. Still, as a man of the
world, he must feel that the Carew crfiers
will be replenished with the Merriton gold,
and that knowledge can but add to his satis-
faction in making the alliance.”

“If I were an empress,” she said, very
softly, “and he one of my lonest subjects, I
would still select him for my lord and love.”

"A very pretty sentiment,” smiled her
father. “Rather too ]( mantic, perhaps, for a
plain man of business like myself, but suitable
to a. young lady on her wedding morning. It
is fortunate, since young ('urew is so irresisti-
ble, that. he has inherited the Carew property,
for I should have grieved to be obliged to
thwart my Lilian’s fancy.”

“If his brother; Everard, had lived it would
not have prevented our marriage,” she an-
swered, innocently. "You say, papa, that
my fortune is large; it would have sufiiced for
all our wants.”

“ You are not ambitious, Lilian, but I
should have taken upon myself the responsibil-
ity of deciding the question. I would not
barter my child for Wealth and position; many
a man might look for a son-inllttw higher in
the social scale than Kinneth Carew; but I
could not have permitted you to sacrifice your
prospects entirely to girlish romance, and
Kenneth well knows that had he simply in-
herited the few thousands his father originally
intended leaving him, it would have teen mad
presumption to aspire to your hand.”

Her countenance became overshadowed. It
seemed treason against love to suppose that
such mundane considerations should Separate
two kindred heat ts.

“I don’t know how we got upon this topic,”

 

observed Mr. Merriton. “Come, Lilian, our
guests will be soon arriving, and it will be
time to hurry off to church, if the knot is to
be tied this morning. So kiss me, my dear,
and take my fondest blessing and best wishes
before you leave me to complete your toilet.”

He laid his hand upon the bright curls as
she reverently bowed her head, and murmured
a few words that came from his inmost heart.

The wedding was to be quietly celebrated at
the church Lilian attended. Mr. Merritou
would have had all the pomp and parade
which the ceremonial permitted—a train of
gorgeous equipages, a crowd of (miners,
each hearing a huge bouquet in his button-
hole, white satin favors, and a perfect bevy of
el-egantly- attired bridcmaids; but Kenneth
and Lilian successfully resisted his desire, be-
ing simple in their tastes, and averse to mak-
ing the most solemn act in their lives a reason
for extravagant display or a spectacle to ex-
cite the curiosity of half the town. Yet the
populace had turned out in full force to see the
marriage; and as Kenneth, in defiance of
general usage, stood in the church porch await-
ing his bride, he felt himself to be “the ob-
served of all observers,” and was proportion-
ately embarrassed and uncomfortable.

Soon the eagerly-expected carriage drove up
to the gate. He could see the drooping, blush-
ing face, half-hidden by the veil, and was
more than repaid for the long period of proba-
tion during which he had suffered the anguish
of hopeless love. A few short sentences would
presently unite him for life to Lilian!

Down the narrow path she came, leaning
on her father’s arm, fair as the flower whose
name so nearly resembled her own, her trail-
ing garment rustling gently as she advanced
toward him.

At that moment a. general movement and
confusion became apparent in the rear of the
crowd; murmurs of admiration died away or
were lost in the hum of rising voices; every
eye was turned from Lilian to gaze on a bag-
gard, frenzied woman, with disheveled hair
and blood-stained hands and dress. _

Gesticulating wildly, she made her way
through the throng, and flung herself between
the bride and bridegroom.

“I am not, then, too late!” she shrieked, in
hoarse tones. “Lilian Merriton must not be
sacrificed by marrying this man! Kenneth
Carew, I denounce you as the assassin of your
brother!”

“ This woman Inuit be an escaped lunatic,”
cried Mr. Merriton, impatiently. “Take her
away!"

Half a dozen brawny hands seized Beatrice,
who struggled in their grasp.

“ I am not mad,” she cried, “ though to have
left him lying cold and still might well have
turned a loving woman’s brain. Yet strength

     

I’ASSION’S

 

 

R EPRISAL. 19

 

will be given me to avenge his death, and
then it matters little whc-Lher life or reason
leave me.”

" It is Miss Thornton,” said Kenneth, recog-
nizing her in some surprise so altered was she
in appearance and demeanor. “ Unloo=e your
hold, my men, and let her speak. What can
you mean by making this wild accusation?" he
demanded, turning to the half-maildened girl.
“ My brother Everard died long since in SJuth
America.”

“No, no,” she interrupted; “ he was alive
only a few hours ago. See, here is his pre-
cious letter, reccived but yes erduyl Cannot
you imagine the joy with which 1 set forth to
meet him? Yet ere I arrived at our tl‘ysting-
tree I found him stricken to the earth. It was
your hand that did the deed, for the sake of

that pale-faced girl, who must be your wife, '

even at the cost of a brother’s llfu‘l”

“This letter is certainly in Everard's hand-
writing,” said Kenneth, visibly agitated as he
glanced at the extended missive. "We must
inquire into the matter, and ascertain whether
Miss Thornton has any foundation for her ex-
traordinary assertions.”

“There can be no wedding to-day,” said Mr.
Merriton, with authority. “Lilian, my love,
let me take you to the carriage. We must
return home.”

But before yielding to her father’s request
she approached Kenneth, and whispered in his
ear, “Whatever trouble may be in store, I
shall always both love and trust you.”

Her words gave him comfor', though he
made no answer: indeed, in his mental confu—
sion all power of coherent speech had for the
time departed. Sadly he watched the car-
riage containing L.lian and her father drive
rapidly away.

Meanwhile, aparty of gentlemen prepared
to obey the directions of Beatrice by making
search for the body; others, dispersing into dif-
ferent groups, marveled at the strange event
which had prevented the marriage, and hinted
at the possibility of Kenneth’s guilt.

 

The inquest upon the body found at Haw-
thorn Lane was held at the Union House when
all kinds of conflicting evidence was given.
There Were doubts as to the identity of the
deceased; but the stature and general contour
of the figure, the color of the hair, the ring
upon his finger, and the name of “Everard
Carew ” marked on sundry articles of clothing,
were held to establish the fact, and it was con-
ceded by most people that the murdered mm
was no other than Claude Carew’s eldest son.
The evidence of Beatrice was heard with great
interest. Her love and despair moved. the
coldest heart. Many, too, looked suspiciously

0:: Kenneth, as, notwithstanding all warning,

 

she persisted in asserting that he only derived
benefit from his brother’s death.

“He denied having received a. litter,” she
said, “though Everard must have written;
and could offer no proof as to where he had
passed the hours on that eventful evening. If
he were roully walking in the grounds, smok-
ing a cigar, after dinner, it was strange that
none of the household should have seen him,
and bear witness in his favor.”

Madcap Everard had given no address in the
missive dispatched to Beatrice. The most ex-
perienced detectives failed to find a clew to his
New York lodgings, and the whole affair was
evidently enshrouded iu the deepest mystery.
Those cruel blows upon the face must have
been made by some blunt instrument—the
knob of a heavy stick, or the butt-end of a
pistol.

The work had been cflectually completed,
and even Beatrice could distinguish no trace
of the linoaments which were engraved on her
memory.

It was hard upon Kenneth Carew that this
impassioned and high-spirited girl implicitly
believed him to be guilty. Her thrilling words
carried conviction to many who would other-
wise never have harbored the least suspicion
that he Could be involved in such acrime.
Dark surmisrs were whispered, old scandals
long sunk into obscurity brought again to
light, and Eva rard u as represented as the life-
lung victim of a father’s unnatural aversion
and a brother’s greed.

On the day of the funeral, when Kenneth,
as chief mourner, attended the grand obsrquies
which marked the impor! ant fact that another
Carew was deposited in the family vault, black
looks were bent upon him, and several ill-
conilitioned townsmen audibly vented their
indignation. In short, popular feeling was not
in his favor; and though he bore himself pond-
ly, he was none the less conscious that by
many he was deemed a criminal who sooner or
= later would meet his ju~t deserts.

Still, no important evidence was forthcom-
ing to enuble the magistrates to issue a war-
rant for his apprehension: and, atter many
delays, the coroner returned his verdict—-
“ Willl'ul murder against some person or persons
unknown.” ,

The next morning Mr. Merriton paid a visit
to Fairview. The 0111 gentleman had kept
somewhat aloof since the day of the interrupt-
ed wedding, and now Kenneth noticed that
his greeting was stiif and constrained, While he
had the air of one about to perform an un-
pleasant duty. Too well the young men an-
ticipated the nature of the misfortune which
was about to befall him.

“I trust Lilian is better. Mr. Merriton,” he

 

remarked, when they were Seated. “I was
grieved to hear that she had been unwell.”

  

  

 

  

20

PASSION’S REPRISAL.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Carew. The doctor assures
me there is no cause for alarm. Her suflering
has been mental rather than bodily, nor can we
be surprised when we remember the shock
which her nerVes experienced on that fearful
morning." ~

“For her sake even more than my own I re
gretted that she should have been subjected to
such an ordeal. We have both been severely
tried; may we hope that the future will bring
compensation for the past?”

He uttered the words deprecatingly—almost
interrogatively. Though no coward, his heart
sunk before the determined aspect of Lilian’s
father.

“After what has happened, you can scarcely
expect my daughter to share that future!" he
observed, coldly. “A public disgrace has been
thrown upon us both; we have been made the
talk of the land; her name must no longer be
linked with yours!”

“ You would separate us, then, though we
love each other, and for no fault of mine?”

“The match never met with my entire ap-
proval,” said Mr. Merriton, evading the ques-
tion. “ Lilian is greatly admired, and if she
had not been willful and blind’to the duties
of her position, might have made a very differ-
ent match. She preferred to accept your pro-
posal. I would not thwart her wishes, for the
Carews bore an honorable name and were re-
spected throughout the State. It is very
dlflerent now.”

Kenneth’s bronzed cheek flushed to a crimson
hue.

“I understand you," he said; “but you
might have spared me that taunt. If the
ravings of a frantic girl have prejudiced me in
your esteem, and our long acquaintance has
given you no faith in my integrity, it is well
that the semblance of friendship should cease
between us, even if I sacrifice my hope of being
your daughter’s husband.”

“Do not take offense too hastily, Kenneth,”
stammered Mr. Merriton, somewhat abashed.
“Of course I know that Biatrice Thornton’s
accusation is not true.”

“You may be excused for feeling doubtful,”
was the bitter answer, “since there are many
who are ready to condemn me unheardl I
won d rather have been arrested and tried for
my ife, than hear the covert innuendoes
breathed by malicious tongues. But unless
the real assassin is discovered, it would be
difiicult to prove my entire innocence; and
every one will whisper a suspicion that my
hands are imbrued in a. brother’s blood.”

“ It is strange that the police make no dis.
covery. I hear you have ofiered a reward
for—”

“Five thousand dollars. If it were needfnl,
I would give my entire fortune to stand clear

 

     

in the sight of my fellow-men without this
shadow on my name."

There was a long silence. Kenneth was
struggling for composure, and Mr. Merriton
scarcely knew what to say.

"Do me the justice to believe,” began the
former after awhile, “that I had no intention
of asking Lilian to fulfill her promise while
these cruel rumors were afloat. I trusted she
would not misjudge me, but patiently wait
until some fortunate chance enabled me to re-
fute all calumny. Is she aware of this visit?"
be asked, suddenly.

Mr. Merriton confessed that he had not
mentioned his intention.

“She is so fragile and sensitive, it would
only have distressed her. But my duty is to
watch over her welfare, Kennet}, so that she
may never reproach me with a want of pater-
nal care.”

“ If she were my wife,” answered Kenneth,
dryly, “I would give her no reason to blame
you for having consented to our union. But I
do not vish to urge my claims upon you, or
speak of that love which would have striven
to make her happy. At your desire I release
your daughter from her engagement. It is
fortunate that Beatrice Thornton did not
arrive a. few minutes later; you might not
have found it so easy to separate us.”

Mr. Merriton mumbled a few words expres-
sive of his sorrow at being forced to act dis-
courteously toward the son of his old friend,
pleading in excuse his fatherly anxiety for an
only child.

Kenneth scarcely heard his apology; he was
striving to realize the bitter truth that his
bride, so nearly won, was lost, perhaps, for-
ever.

When his visitor had departed, he roved
restlessly about the house, sore at heart, you
striving bravely to hide his suflering even from
his own sight.

At last he entered the suite of rooms which
had been fitted up for the use of the expected
mistress of Fairview. Delicate draperies,
luxurious furniture, exquisite paintings and
statuettes were everywhere.

There was the low easy-chair, placed in
close juxtaposition to the satin-lined work-table,
the piano which had been so carefully selected,
the books and ornaments specially chosen to
suit Lilian’s taste.

He hurriedly quitted the apartments, locking
each room through which he passed, and retain-
ing possession of the keys.

“ N 0 one Shilll enter them but Lilian,” said
he, “ as my wife. If that she should never be,
they shall remain in silence and abandonment,
at least until I, the last of the Carews, am car-
ried forth to fill my niche in the family
vault.”

   

("é

"‘5.

(5

PASSION’S REPRISAL. 31

 

CHAPTER VIII.
um BARGAIN BETWEEN THEM.

“AND must he, then, escape all punishment!
Poor, weak woman that I am, who vowed to
avenge Everard’s death, and find myself pow-
erless to effect my most ardent desire! Oh, if
I were a maul”

The speaker was Beatrice Thornton, who
had just been made acquainted with the result
of the inquest by Jerome Maxwell. \

He watched her attentiVely, as she paced up
and down the small room like some creature
from the wilds that pants for freedom, and
answered her quietly, “ It is doubtful whether
man or woman could bring sufficient evidence
to convict Kenneth Carew of causing his
brother’s death. What reason have you for
assuming him to be guilty, Beatrice?”

“More than enough to satisfy my own
mind. Does he not deny having received
Evorard‘s letter? Was he not absent from
home at the hour when the crime was com-
mitted? For years he may have been Everard’s
foe, supplanting him in his father’s favor,
finally robbing him of life.”

“ Your suspicions. will not affect him,” said
Jerome, quietly and calmly. “ Besides, as you
truly say, a woman can do so little. It would
require an experienced man of the world, a
subtle lawyer, shrewd in penetrating the mys-
teries of crime, with the detective’s instinct for
finding and following the faintest clew, to bring
Kenneth Carew to trial.”

Beatrice Thornton’s eyes flashed brightly.

“ You believe him guilty," she cried; “your
tone and manner imply as much.”

“Even to you I would rather not give a
strong opinion on the subject. Something
might be done by one whose heart was in his
task to unravel this dark mystery. But it
would cost money, time, and trouble, and,
above all, could not be attempted by a wo-
man.”

“Oh, Jerome, let me try. You know not
how love sharpens a woman’s faculties, and
braces her to encounter storms from which her
nature well might shrink.”

“My dear Beatrice, I have the strongest
admiration for your quick-witted and devoted
sex. Still, there are intricacies of the law
with which no female mind could cope, and I
dare not take the responsibility of advising
you to involve yourself in its mazes.”

She ceased her rapid walking to and fro,
drew near him, and stood for a moment: pon-
dering deeply.

 

“A man of the world—a subtle lawyer,
shrewd, clever,” she murmured. “Why,
Jerome Maxwell, you have sketched yourself. 

Will you earn my life-long gratitude by mak-
ing it clear from whom Everard Carow met
his death?”

“You ask too much," he returned, with an

air of gentle reproach. “Beatrice, you know
how tenderly [have loved you; can you not
guess my sorrow at finding, as I have done
lately, that your heart was occupied with one
image, to the exclusion of all others?"

“ We are friends, and friends only,” she
replied. “Long ago that bond was made be-
tween us."

“At your desire, yes. Yet it is diflicult to
believe that a deep affection will not in time
be reciprocated. if she who has inspired it is
heart-whole. I was content to wait with
patience, knowing not your pricsless love had
been already won.”

“But now, Jerome, you are no longer in
ignorance. Therefore, as all question of mar-
riage between us is over, you will surely keep
your promise, and serve me as a brother.”

The selfishness of love prompted the demand.
In truth, the girl was nearly frenzied by this
new sorrow, and hardly realized that Jerome
might well hesitate before undertaking the
cause of his deceased rival. They gazod on
one another for awhile in silence—she with the
pleading looks of a woman who sues for favor;
he with the cunning of a. man who sees that
his adversary in the game of fate is unwit-
tingly dealing him the best cards. Boldly, at
length, his resolve was taken.

“Beatrice,” he said, “I will do all you wish.
My energies shall be devoted to the task you
have at heart; but you must promise to give
me a reward.”

“How can I ever thank you? My esteem,
my heartfelt gratitude, shall be yours.”

“Dearly though they would be prized, I
cannot deem them fitting recompense for such
devotion as I shall show. Do you understand
me, Beatrice? You must promise to be my
wife."

“Your wife?” she repeated, incredulously.
“I, whose every thought of love is buried in
Everard’s grave?”

“A man cannot be jealous of the dead. He
will in time be forgotten, or remembered only
as a dream of your thoughtless youth. When
I have brought his assassin to justice, your
mind will grow calmer by degrees. A peace-

ful life by the domestic hearth would have its

sunny side, and the gratitude you have prom-
ised would ripen into wifely duty and aflec-
tion.”

“Never! neverl” she cried, energetically.
“ The marriage tie would be desecrated by our
union. My heart is crushed and broken: the
blossoms of its love cannot burst forth into
new life; and you would weary of my pallid
face that never brightened into smiles, but
bore the impress always of a. sorrow with
which you had no sympathy. In time you
might come to hate me.”

“Beatrice, that could not be. I have al-
ways been your devoted slave, thankful for

 

   

    

     

22

the slightest semblance of friendly regard,
feeling my heait throb higher at a word of
kindness. Such love is entwined with my
life; no coldness could chill or esti'ange it. To
know you were my own, that no living man
could come between us, to teach you that there
was consolation for past suffering in the dawn
of other hopes, would be felicity to me.”

“My hopes are perished. and I have both
ing left to live for,” she returned, “save the
one great desire for vengeance on Everard’s
assassin.”

“ He shall be brought to justice if you will
employ my skill and energy to work out your
desire. Inspired by the longing to deserve
your approval, undaunted by opposition, de-
termined to succmed at any 00st, you shall have
reason to confess that your husband has fule
filled his share of the compact.”

“Let us speak no more on the subject of a
marriage to which I could never consent," she
said, with a shudder; “ but tell me what must
now be done to attain our end.”

“You refuse to grant the terms on which
alone I can profl’er my aSSistance,” was the
cold reply. “I decline to give further counsel.”

“For pity’s sake, Jerome, do not leave me
in my misery. If you only knew how my
heart-strings have been wrung by a fatal pas-
sion frowned on by fortune from its earliest
dawn. you would have more compassion.”

Her slender fingers clasped his arm entreat-
ingly, and he could see heavy tears standing
on her long, dark lashes; yet his purpose never
faltered, or only gathered fresh resolution from
the sight of beauty which sorrow hightened
rather than decreased.

“ If you would have me believe in your
faith and love to him who has been taken from
you, accept my hand, and view me as his pos-
sible avenger. Reject me, and I leave your
presence; nor will I trouble you again.”

Beatrice sunk upon a couch. She knew that
further entreaties would be vain.

“ Shall I go?” he questioned.

‘5 Yes.”

“Farewell, then, Beatrice Thornton! I.

leave you to your Weak regrets and fruitless
schemes. One day you may repent the result
of this interview.”

He had already passed the threshold, when
she called him back. His crafty visage glowed
with exultation as be obeyed her summons.

“Have you anything more to say?” he
asked, uietly.

All traces of emotion had vanished from her
countenance, as, standing erect before him,
she answered: “ Mr. Maxwell, I have resolved
to devote myself to the furtherance of that
special purpose which has engrossed my every
thought! I expect to find in you an able coed-
jutor, theretore I accept your terms.”

PASSION’S REPRISAL.

“Then you will be my wife?”

‘.‘ Since you insist upon that condition, I
have no alternative but to agree.”

“You are very cruel. Beatrice, to grant the
been so unwillingly! Still, you have consented
to be mine, and tor that I am grateful.”

“Love is not in the bond. Remember, Je—
rome, it is a buigain betvet—n us; I give my
hand as the price of your services!”

"That is understood. And now, my fair
betrothed, we will seal the compact!”

A shudder passed through her frame as his
lips touched her cheek, and Bridget’s oppor-
tune entrance at the moment gave her a fair
excuse for escaping further unwelcome
caresses.

The good woman’s penetration enabled her
to perceive that she had interiuptrd no ordi-
nary COI’lfkl‘f‘l’lCP: and as she glanced inquiring-
ly from one to the other, Jerome cried, exult-
ingly: “Congratulate us. Bridget! The long«
deterred wedding is to take place at last! Miss
Thornton consents to recompense my con-
static-y!”

l-lis noisy triumph jarred on the sensitive
nerves of the reluctant hiide~elect, and as she
tottered rather than walked from the room
after bidding Jerome a brief adieu, it set med
to her that to have offered up her lite for
Everard’s sake would have been a compara-
tively light sacrifice to that which was now ex-
acted by his former iival.

Yr‘t she did not falter in her purpose;.in-
deed, not much time was afforded for reflec-
tion. Jerome urged a spsedy union, and she
promised it with a readiness he would have
considered flattering had she not openly
avowed the reason tor her compliance.

“It will be less difficult to tiace the links of
evidence if you commence your task without
delay,” she remaiked; “therefore I am quite
willing to keep my promise, trusting you will
then honorably fulfill your share of the com-
pact.”

Jerome was obliged to express his satisfac-
tion, though there was a gleam in his eyes
that hoded ill for the telicity of his future
wife.

There were few preparations for the wed-
ding, and these mainly owing to Bridget’s res
morstrances and personal exertions. Beatiice
would have gone to the altar in her plain black
dress and crape bonnet. without giving a
thought to the incongi'uity of the proceed-
ing, had not her humble friend zealously inter-
posed.

“Miss Beatrice, the likes was nevsr heard
of a bride wearing mourning on her wedding-
day! It would be quite a scandal; and I
have my doubts as to whether the ceremony
would be legal! You must wear a white

 

gown if it 15 only a common muslin; but as

MN

(3

1-;

t3

PASSION’S REPRISAL. 23

 

everything is to be plain and quiet, I have been
thinking if flowars in your hair would look out
of place; though really—”

“Dress me as you please,” cried Beatrice'
impatiently, " so long as I am not troubled by
hearing long arguments upon a subject so un-
interesting."

“ Uninterestingl”

Bridget could only hold up her hands in
amazement, then walk away, shaking her head
despondingly.

One dull November morning, when earth
and sky were shrouded in vapor, and winter
had already commenced, Jerome Maxwell and
Beatrice Thornton plighted their ill-omened
vows.

Never was a bridal more void of all sem-
blance of glndness. Even the bridegroom
looked abashed and ill at ease; while Bridget
(the only substitute for the usual attendants
upon the white-robed bride) sobbed audiny
throughout the ceremony, and indulged in
hysterical vehemence of grief when called up-
on to sign her name in the vestry, for with
the penetration given by affection she fore-
boded that such nuptials could never insure
happiness. As for Beatrice, her eyes were
gleaming with a fire that almost suggested the
fever of insanity; the hue of her cheeks alter-
nated from a hectic flush to deadly pallor; her
rigid lips seemed barely able to pronounce the
words dictated by the minister.

Yet all proceeded in due order; the irrevo-
cable pledges were taken; Jerome had gained
the prize so long vainly sought—Beatrice was
his wifel -

 

CHAPTER IX.
WHAT SHE DISCOVERED.

KENNETH Cnnuw walked through the leaf-
less wouds, his gun upon his shoulder, his dogs
following well at heel. The day was clear
and frosty, the sunshine fast dispersing the
icicles hanging from the long bare boughs
which sometimes almost formed a canopy above
his head as he pursued his way.

Suddenly he met her who was ever in his
thoughts; although, as he now shunned all
society, they had never met since the day when
their intended union was so abruptly stayed.

How pensive and fragile, yet surpasxingly
fair, Lilian Merriton looked in her becoming
dress of black velvet and sable!

Yet, though love surged tumultuously
through every fiber of his heart, pride forbade
its outward manifestation, and he would have
passed her with a mere formal recognition had
the not extended her hand, meanwhile raising
to his two soft blue eyes, with just one tear
standing in each of their limpid depths.

What lover’s displeasure or prudence could

,resist such influences? Kenneth forgot Mr.
Merriton’s unfriendly scruples and his own
sense of outraged dignity as he clvhped the
slender fingers of the fair girl before him.

He might—the spot being lonely—have
hissed away her rising tears; but the oppor-
tune remembrance that he no longer could
venture on the privileges of an aflhuced lover
lecurred in time to prevent that breach of
decorum. He attempted to incuse himself in
the armor of cool reserve.

“Miss Merriton, i did not expect to meet
you here.”

“I know, that Kenneth, or you would have
walked in another dil'vclion. Hitherto you
have studiously avoided mo, and now accident
has thrown us together, you treat me as a
stranger."

“I believed I was acting according to your
wishes," he stammcred.

“ My wishes?" she repeated, in genuine
astonishment.

“ Yes; or at least those of Mr. Martiwu.“

“There you mav be night. My father is
obstinm iv ti. p. «Judices. and I must consent
w as guided' by him, and trust to time and
persuasion. But though for awhile we must
submit to be separated, I am still your own
little Lilian.”

“My own! No; that cannot be! My name
is overshadowed; the honor of our house has
received a fearful blow. Dark rumors still
accuse me of causing my brother‘s death.
Until they are falsified I dare not claim your
love and trust.”

“Kenneth, you know how implicitly I
believe in your innocence—~how much I regret
that the breaking of! of our engagement has
given your slanderers another apparent justi-
fication of their calumuy.”

“People applaud your father’s wisdom in
not bestowing his daughter upon a suspected
man,” said Kenneth, bitterly. “ I do not doubt
that he has reaped golden opinions as to his
prudence and integrity throughout his circle
of friends.”

Lilian was silent fora. moment; then whis-
pered timidly, with dowucast eyes:

“I wish -—oh, how I wish that unhappy girl
had arrived but half an hour later with her
frantic accusation!”

“You cannot seriously mean, my darling,”
he cried, his gl )Only brow clearing, “ that you
would not have regretted to find your fate
linked with mine, or to share the shame which
has fallen upon me?"

“ 1 wish thati might have taken my right.
ful place by your side, to cheer you in the
.hours of depression produced by unmerited
? obloquy—to show by my devotion that I
! believed you lllCJp'tlile of crime —to help you

i to live dawn scandal, and win back confidence

 

 

 

2-1 PASSION’S REPRISAL.

 

and regardl Had I been your wife, my father
could not have sundered us; there could have
been no conflict between love and dutyl”

It is doubtful what rapturous answer Ken-
neth might have made to this sweet confeseion;
for, as the last words hovered on her lips, a cry
of wild alarm in a female voice rung out upon
the air, and startled both the lovers.

“ Hark! what is that?” cried Lilian, clinging
to the young man’s arm, as she looked around
apprehensively.

“Some one, I fear, who is in distress or dan-
ger. I must hasten in the direction whence
the sound proceeded.”

“And I will accompany you,” said Lilian.

Together they hurried down a secluded path
leading into the deeper recesses of the wood,
until they came to a small open space surround-
ed by ancient trees.

Kneeling on the cold earth, her arms out-
stretched as if to clasp some fast-receding form,
was Beatrice MaXWell.

Lilian, impelled by womanly sympathy, ad-
vanced toward her, after warning Kenneth to
keep out of sight, as his presence would only
irritate the unhappy girl, concerning whose
sanity she had grave doubts.

“ Did you see him?” inquired Beatrice, in the
low accents or suppressed emotion, as Miss

, Merriton bent over her. “But no,” she con-
tinued; “why do I question so vainly? It is
to me alone his spirit would appear to chide
the tardy fulfillment of my vow of vengeance.
And yet have I not sacrificed and suffered in
order to perform that solemn pledge? So,
Everard, why look so reproachfully on me? I
cannot hear that stern, unearthly gaze!”

“Your fancy has deceived you,” said Lilian,
soothingly. “ Everard is at rest; the sins and
sorrows of this world can trouble him no

. more.”

“You think so because they have laid his
body in the family vault with funeral pomp.
But his spirit wanders still. I saw his mortal
semblance standing there—just under the arch
formed by those knotted boughs. Terrible was
the reproach in his stony glance; and, oh, it is
well-deserved, for three long month.c have

‘ nearly passed away, and my WUI'K remains un-
done!”

She rose, and with trembling hands gathered
her mantle around her.

“You are ill, Mrs. Maxwell,” Lilian said.
“ Stay no longer here, but return home. Your
husband will be alarmed at your absence.”

“ Yes, I will go to Jerome and tell him of
my vision; he must help me now."

She glided away amid the trees, leaving
Lilian to rejoin Kenneth and exchange a few
more words breathing aflectionate confidence
before they separated, uncertain when kindly
fortune might once more reunite them.

 

The lamp was just lighted in the parlor a
The Hermitage when Beatrice entered, but the
old room, with its dark panels, heavy furniture,
and faded hangings, looked far from cheer-
ful.

Jerome sat beside a small table drawn near
the hearth, upon which were some cigarettes
and a bottle marked “ Eau-de-vie,” for even at
that comparatively early hour the lawyer had
been enjoying sundry strong potations.

Certainly those few short weeks of wedlock
did not appear to have conduced to the im-
provement of Jerome’s looks or serenity of
temper. His forehead was marked with lines
of care, his brows were knitted over his sunken
eyes, his voice was harsh and sharp as be ad-
dressed his young Wife.

“ Where have you been gadding this after-
noon? You are never at home. I have told
you before that I would not allow these soli-
tary strolls.”

“ I have been in the wood, Jerome,” she
said, almost humbly. “ My head ached so
badly I thought the air might do me good.
I did not think you would be home so early.”

“I am a fool for my pains, when I know
well enough my wife would rather I stayed
away. Most women have a smile of welcome
when a husband returns laden with busiress
cares and longing for a word of kindly affec-
tion. But you——”

“ I warned you, Jerome,” she returned, in
trembling tones, “ that you must not expect to
find me the same as happier wives whose
hearts have not been crushed and broken by
the troubles of their girlhood. Surely you
remember the bargain between us? You knew
my hopes were buried in the grave. I never
deceived you by one flattering falsehood, but
you were content to take me as I was.”

“Perhaps I overrated my powers of for-
bearance. Anyhow, your disobedience to my
express commands and indiflference to my in-
terests are suflicient motives for estrange-
ment.”

“Have patience with me,” she answered,
pressing her hands upon her throbbing heart;
“ perhaps in time I may more resemble what
you wish. At least, I will attempt to perform
my duty, if you do not neglect to keep your
promise.”

“ I do not understand to what you allude,”
he said, roughly, without turning his head.
“ You women love to speak in riddles.”

“ Jerome l” The man’s audacity almost
struck her dumb, but she struggled against the
tempest of passion which caused her every
vein to tingle, and replied in a tone of assumed
composure: “ You cannot have forgotten
your promise to endeavor to unravel the mys-
tery surrounding Everard Carew’s death. Oh,
Jerome,” she continued, more vehemently, “ I

M.

PASSION ’S REPRISAL. 25

 

saw him but an hour ago; his pleading look
seemed to ask for vengeance on his destroyer.
His unquiet spirit cannot. rest; it will haunt
me till justice has been done. And you, my
husband, will aid me to perform my vow.”

“I believe you have lost your senses,” he
cried, angrily, “to imagine I should play the
part of a private detective in order to gratify
your caprice. Young Carew is out of my way;
there let the matter rest. Even your simpli-
city can scarcely expect me to mourn his loss.”

“Then you have broken your word,” she
said slowly, asif not able yet to realize how
cruelly she had been duped. “ You have
broken your word, Jerome Maxwell. and I-
most miserable of women—have sacrificed my-
self in vain.”

“You are pleased to be complimentary,” he
sneered; “ though I. too, deserve some pity for.
having linked myself to a woman whose every
thought is for a dead lover. However, I vowed
that you should be mine in spite of all inter-
vening obstacles, and now that we thoroughly
understand each other, I warn you that I will
tame your proud spirit. If you cannot love,
you shall learn to fear me.”

He raised his hand with a menacing gesture
almost as if about to strike her. He was mad-
dened by the cool contempt expressed in every
lineament as, with the haughty mien of an
empress, she quitted the room.

Beatrice resolved that very hour to tell
Jerome she could no longer regard him as her
husband; he had himsslf broken the tie be-
tween them. If he refused to free her—and
she had vague ideas that he had legal power
over her—death would be welcomed rather
than his loathed society.

Wildly she thought of the cool, clear river by
whose banks she had wandered in childhood;
might she not rest beneath its rippling waves?
Or— She paused; it flashed across her mind
that the pistol which her father during his life.
time had kept close at hand in his dread of
burglars was probably still in the second
drawer of the oaken bureau.

The old piece of furniture had been banished
to the lumber-room when Jerome took posses.
sion of the house and slightly modernized its
arrangements. But Beatrice, in her restless
and despairing state of mind, resolved to satis-
fy herself without delay that she had the
means of deliverance should her husband" en-
force his claims or take measures to prevent
her quitting his protection.

In her madness, for it was little less, she
scarcely recollected the magnitude of the crime
of self-destruction, though a. natural feeling of }
horror made her shudder at the thought.

“ I will find the pistol, but use it only in the
last extremity,” she murmured, as she lighted ,
a small lamp that always stood on a table in K
her chamber ready for use, and prepared to :

 

mount the narrow, steep stairs leading to the
garret.

In a few seconds she had entered the room.
The oaken bureau stood in a dark corner. She
made her way toward it, and attempted to
open the drawer containing the weapon. It
was locked, but in her father’s time a. duplicate
key had been manufactured for her special use,
and to this she now resorted. At first the
drawer seemed empty, save for a few old pack-
ets of dusty papers, but plunging her hand into
its furthest recesses, she drew forth the object
of her search.

And not that only. A dark blue ribbon was
entangled round it, from which bung suspen-
led a portrait of herself, executed years ago
.Jy a traveling artist, and given to Everard;
also the half gold piece that had been their
first love-token.

She stood gazing on them, appalled at the
unexpected revelation. The ribbon was stif-
fened and stained by blood, and an examina-
tion showed that the butt-end of the pistol had
been put to a terrible use, of which it still bore
traces.

Thoughts or her lover as she saw him last,
defaced beyond the semblance of humanity, a
remembrance of his oft-repeated promise never
to part with her gifts while life remained, aid-
ed her to solve the mystery.

Not Kenneth Carew, but her husband, Je-
rome Maxwell, had committed that murder
near the trysting-tree.

 

CHAPTER X.
was: pm ALIVE.

BEATRICE was ill for weeks after her fatal
discovery; but at length strength came back
to her feeble limbs, [full consciousness to her be-
wildered brain, and once more she was towed
to take up the burden of existence.

Jerome she seldom saw, for she became so
perceptibly worse when, at the beginning of
her illness, he approached her bedside, that the
medical attendent advised him to discontinue
his visits to her room.

“It is a frequent phase in nervous disorders
that the patient becomes unduly excited by the
presence of one whose influence during ordi-
nary health would be most soothing and bene-
flcial,” remarked the polite practitioner. And
Jerome took the hint.

Did he suspect that his wife knew ought that
he was anxious to conceal? Was he at all
aware that his secret had been discovered on
that fatal evening? She had mechanically re-

laced the proofs of his guilt in their former
receptacle before falling into the swoon in

l which she had been found by Bridget. But
, the key had remainedin the lock of the ba-

reau, and when summoned to assist in convey-
mg her back to her own apartment, he had
guessed the reason of her sudden seizure.

 

 

26 PASSIONS REPRISAL.

 

Then, in her delirium, she uttered wild, inco-
herent sentences which appeared merely insane
ravings to those arouan her; but he found in
them a meaning that confirmed his suspicions.

Day by day he grew more morose and.
gloomy, drowning reflection in copious liba-
tions, haunted by the fear that his sin would
find him out; though, even at the worst, he
knew his wife‘s evidence could not be used
against him. Yet if justice once were set upon
the track, the hidden truth might be brought
to light, for Kenneth Carew would spare no
trouble or expense to vindicate himself from
all injurious doubts.

Jerome could not trust Beatrice. She had
never loved him; now she must hate him; and
he began to consider how her tongue might be
stopped before it began to work mischief. His
former passion was effectually quenched. He
was aman who felt proud of conquering dif-
ficulties, and had been fascinated by the ex-
citement of pursuing an objrct seemingly un~
attainable. At all hazards he had struggled
to gill] his prize; but, after all, had it been
worth the winning? A faded, melancholy
woman, who made no pretense of caring t)
preserve his aflection, and had committed the
unpardonable sin of finding him out. It was
necessary to sacrifice her in order to secure his
own safety, and an expedient soon occurred to
his mind which would remove her from his
path, and render her harmless, if, prompted by
malice she should utter a word in his dispar‘
agement.

One morning, when Beatrice was con‘
valescent, and lying on her couch beside the
window basking in the rays of the early spring
sunshine, Bridget entered the room, her face
crimson with indignation, and her whole dea
meanor betraying inward perturbation. Sud-
denly she burst into a. torrent of tears, and
falling on her knees beside the invalid, em-
braced her with transports of grief.

“Oh, Miss Beatrice, my poor dear girl,
whom I have loved and tended so many years,
it is cruel to think of taking you from mei
Oh, my darling, when they come, show them
that you are no loonatick, but have as much
right to enjoy your blessed freedom as the best
of them doctors, who make a good living out-
of other folks’ misfortunes.”

Beatrice started from her recumbent pos-
ture.

“What do you mean, Bridget? My only
real friend, say if any danger threatens me?"

“Miss Beatrice,”—it is to be remembered
that in times of strong emotion Bridget in-
variably forgot to address her mistress as
Mrs. Maxwell—“Miss Beatrice, my darling.
it was wrong and mean of me, I know, to lis-
ten at the door of master’s study. But when
them doctors came, I knew they had been
sent for to consult with about you, and Mr.

‘ Maxwell’s manner has been strange lately; so
i I could not resist the temptation, and I heard
them say— But no, no; I must not tell you;
it is a wicked falsehood!”

“ They said I was mad, and must be confined
in an asylum!” cried Beatrice. “Do not seek
to spare me, only tell the truth.”

Bridget, between her sobs, acknowledged
that “the wretches had dared to insinuate "
that for her own sake Mrs. Maxwell should be
placed under restraint.

“But it was yourhusband’s fault, my poor
child,” she continued. “ He told no end of
lies about you, though he pretended to bees
grieved as could be. What have you done,
Miss Beatrice, to turn him so against you? I’m
sure he loved you once.”

“He believes himself to be in my power,”
murmured the young wife. “ Perhaps he
fears that I may publicly denounce him. He
might have trusted—I do not say my affection,
but the tie that exists between us.”

“The doctors are coming to see you to-
morrow,” resumed Bridget.

“I will not stay here to await their visit.
Who knows what influence Jerome Maxwell
may bring to bear against me? We will go
forth together, Bridget, you and I. I am will-
ing to suffer privation or peril—anything,
rather than stay longer in this house.”

“ But you are only just recovering from ill-
ness; you have kept your room for weeks!” re-
monstrated the domestic.

“That matters nothing. This root can
shelter me no more. I must escape before I
am robbed of my liberty, and doomed to linger
out my days in solitude, or the society of the
mentally afflicted. You do not intend to for-
sake me, Bridget, in this crisis of my late!”

She had risen from her couch, and was
already eager to prepare for flight.

“Think what you are about to dol” Bridget
entreated. “ We cannot travel without
money, nor live without daily bread. My
little savings were spent long ago, and you,
Miss Bea:rice—”

She stopped, fearing to wound her favorite’s
pride; but well she knew that lavish generosity
toward his bride had not been one of Jerome
Mavaell’s foibles.

“I would rather starve than risk the loss of
freedom!” cried Beatrice, passionately. “There
is money enough in my purse to take us away
from Madison, and I have a few old trinkets
and my father’s gold repeater, which I must
part with to afford us the means of subsistence
until I am strong enough to work. But, Bridget,
I will not urge you to venture if your courage
fails.” .

“I only fear for you, Miss Beatrice. Often
and often in my early days I’ve been brought
face to face with want, yet managed somehow

 

to tide things over without being much the

'fi

PASSIONS

REPRISAL. 27

 

Worse; but you are different, and in your weak
health need every comfort. I fe e] as if it
would break my heart to see you suffer.”

“ Remember, dear old Bridget, how wretched
I should be immured in prison— for so would
an asylum appear to me—and separated from
you, my only friend. Do not attempt to com-
bat my resolution, but rather assist in making
preparations for my escape from such a.
doom.”

Throughout the remainder of the day Bridget
busied herself at intervals in packing a small
black valise with as many necessaries as she
could induce it to hold, while Beatrice sat near
the window, impatiently watching for even-
ing shadows to steal over the landscape.

She longed to bid a final farewell to the
scene of her brief and miserable wedded life.
Her vow must be broken, and Everard’s death
pass unavenged; tor the fetters she had volun-
tarily assumed forbade all hope of justice
being awarded to his destroyer. '

It wanted scarcely half an hour to midnight,
the servants were sitting over their supper in
the kitchen, Jerome was drinking brandy and
water, and smoking his choicest cigars in the
retirement of his study, when two women,
cloaked and vailed, left The Hermitage, and
took the nearest way toward the railway-
station.

Perhaps both remembered that night far
away in the vanished past when Beatrice had
quitted her father's house to unite her fate
with that of Everard Carew's, and had returned
oppressed with disappointment and shame,
abandoned by the lover to whom she had con-
fided her happiness.

In somber silence they proceeded, Bridget
supporting the often-failing steps of her com-
panion, until the welcome light gleaming
through the darkness revived their drooping
spirits, and told them that they had reached
the station.

The night train for New York Was momen-
tarily expected, and as it dashed into the sta-
tion her heart grew lighter, and escaping from
the bustle caused by running brakesmen and
belated passengers, she hurried into a car, fol-
lowed by her attendant, feeling that at present
all dimculties had been surmounted.

They were already gliding away from the
station when a tall man was seen hastening to
reach the departing train and roughly pushing
aside all obstacles that threatened to arrest his
progress.

With a thrill of terror, Beatrice recognized
her husband, and drew back to the further cor-
ner of the seat, scarcely daring to hope she
might escape his scrutiny. Her flight from
home was discovered, and he had followed
her, so she supposed, or perhaps mere
suspicion had directed his steps to the star
tion.

But now the engine puffed and panted as it
resumed its journey. No one had attempted to
molest her; and recalling the look of baffled
rage imprinted on Jerome’s face, she ventured
to hope that she had started unseen, and that
her husband might prosecute his search in
other quarters.

As the time wore away fatigue overpowered
her; her head drooped upon Bridget’s shoulder,
and she fell into a troubled sleep, haunted by
dreams that brought back the terrible scenes
through which she had lately passed.

She woke with a start, scarcely knowing
whers she was, so much the real was mingling
with the ideal of her visions; for Bridget’s
arms were thrown around her in an access of
alarm, the whistle of the engine emitted a.
series of shrieks, the car was swaying violently
from side to side.

Then came a crash and rapid descent, amid
the noise of breaking wood-work and the
screams of nfl’righted passengers. The engine
and several cars were off the track and rolling
down a steep embankment.

Stunned and bewildered, Beatrice lay amid
the wreck. She heard Bridget’s loud moans,
and felt the presence of her clinging arms; but
all was dark around them.

She was herself bruised and shaken, though
not otherwise injured, for a portion of the
broken carriage formed a. support for the rest
and prevented a crushing weight falling upon
her.

“ Are you hurt, Bridget?” she gasped at
length.

“ My arm is pinned down; I am afraid it’s
broken. What will become of us, my darling?
We shall never be got out alive!"

“ Be brave and patient, dear Bridget; some
one will come to our deliverance."

The minutes seemed lengthened into hours
as they waited for release, sometimes whisper-
ing a few words of mutual comfort; more
ofzen in the silence of keen expectancy. They
could hear the hum of voices, and knew that
efforts were being made to extricate them
from their perilous position.

At length the wood-work forming their liv-
ing tomb was partially removed, though with
extreme care and caution; and the gray light
of dawning day stealing in upon them, gave
token that their imprisonment would soon be
over.

“ Work with a. will, my men!” cried a clear,
manly voice, “ we shall soon release them
nowl”

Those tones penetrated to the ears of Bea;
tries, and caused her heart to thrill with
mingled ecstasy and awe.

“This must be all a dream,” she murmured,
“from which I shall awake presently. Only
in dreams shall I hear again the voice 01 Ever-
ard Carewl”

 

 

 

38 PASSION ’S REPRISAL.

 

A heavy beam was lifted from above, and a
face looked down upon her. Acry of inef-
fable joy issued from her parted Ii ps.

“Everard, have you come at last to take
me with you to the spirit-land? Oh, my love,
if this is death, it is Very sweet to die!”

“ Beatrice! Beatrice!”

His soul went out in the words. A giant’s
strength seemed given him; and he worked
with almost supernatural vigor.

The task was completed; and tenderly lift-
ing her in his arms, be here her away from
the wrecked carriage, leaving Bridget t0 the
care of a kindly brakesman, who had assisted
in her escape.

 

CHAPTER XI.
AT LAST.

IN the parlor of a vine~wreathed cottage,
near the spot where the accident had taken
place, Beatrice sat alone. The sunshine
streamed in upon her; the waving tendrils ot
the vine kissed her cheek, as she leaned against
the open casement; the birds caroled their
choicest lays, to welcome the warm spring
day.

Yet all the glow and brightness of nature
exerted no soothing influence over her mind.
Her thoughts were occupied with her own sor-
rows. She sIowly realized that he whom she
had mourned as dead was still alive, and, of
course, Jerome had been deeply wronged. At
the remembrance of her husband she shook as
with an ague.

What would Everard’s resurrection bring
her save life-long remorse? Her bewildered
brain suggested endless questions which it was
powerless to answer. Who was the murdered
man they had buried in the family vault of
the Carewsi How had Jerome obtained pos-
session of that blood-stained miniature and
love-token? What course must she now pur-
sue? Whom could she consult, with Bridget
lying in the room above, too ill and weak for
much speech, and no one else to guide her in
this difficult crisis?

Her only clearly-defined wish was that she
might be sundered from Everard, since it was
a sin to renew those vows of love which, in
heart, she had never broken.

The door opened; his footstep sounded on
the floor as he crossed the small room, and took
his station beside her. She did not turn her
head; and yet she knew his look was on her
with an intensity of aflection.

“Why have you come,” she cried, in impa-
tient agony, “ when you must know that your
presence tortures me? But perhaps you may
not guess my folly and weakness—how I was
tempted to behave you dead, and in that be-
lief—~”

 

“Became the wife of Jerome Maxwell!" he
interrupted. “My poor Beatrice, at first I
imagined you were false to me, or, at least,
had easily forgotten; but one glance at your
pale and altered countenance when I saw you
weeks ago in the woods convinced me yours
was no happy marriage.”

“ I took you for an apparition,” she faltered.
“The idea that you were dead was firmly
implanted in my mind.”

“ Yes; I have heard the whole story of my
supposed decease from several people, who,
firmly believing in ‘Madcap’ Everard’s un-
timely end, were far too dull to recognize that
scapegrace in the bronzed and sedate stranger.
There was a mystery which I can partially
solve; for I have reason to think that the sup-
posed Everard Carew was no other than my
servant, William Smith.”

“I cannot understand,” she murmured.
“The body was found near our trysting-place
on the very» evening that you had promised to
meet me. Your ring was on his hand!”

“I fear the rascal had very ill-defined no-
tions regarding the rights of property, and
took possession of many of my belongings to
which he had no claim. It was my own fault,
however, for taking into my service a vagrant
from the streets. But the man’s story touched
me. It was artfully concocted, and experience
had not yet taught me the wisdom of distrust
ing plausible tales. I sheltered, fed, clothed
him, and, like a fool, ventured to suppose I
had earned his gratitude. One evening I had
been writing to you, Beatrice, and was filled
with all sorts of blissful anticipations, when,
just as I returned from posting my letter, I
was taken suddenly ill. I fancy the fellow
had drugged my wine, and, either by accident
or design, more than half poisoned me. When
I partially recovered consciousness I found out
that he had decamped, taking with him, as it
afterward appeared, money, clothes, and such
articles of value as he could easily appropri-
ate. Among others—saddest loss of all—your
beloved miniature and the broken gold-piece,
with which I would not have parted for s
kingdom’s price!”

He paused. Old memories were crowding
across his mind of that passionate love which
had blighted his youth, and now, in his
mature manhood, revived with all its pristine
fire as he found himself again by the side of
Beatrice.

“I remained ill for several weeks,” be con-
tinued; “indeed, at one time, the kindly land-
lady, who nursed me through the attack, be-
lievad I should never rally. But at length my
health improved, my mind regained its accus.
tomed tone, and I was about to write to you
once more, when I read the announcement of
your marriage in one of the daily papers.”

4's

4R

r“

PASSION’S REPRIBAL. 29

 

“And I was mourning your loss,” she
sighed, “ while you were deeming me cruel
and inconstant. Strange as it may appear, it
was for your sake that I consented to marry
Jerome Maxwell.”

Then she told him of her vow, uttered in the
first impulse of grief, and the subsequent com—
pact entered into with the wily lawyer.

“You ruined, though unknowingly, the
happiness of both our lives,” he respbnded,
sadly. “At first I determined to leave Amer-
ica immediately, and become again a. wan-
derer. Then the wish came across me to see
you once more, although I believed you had
ceased to love me. I journeyed to Madison,
kept well out of the way of my brother and
former friends, and only indulged myself with
an occasional distant glance at you. 1 was re-
turning to New York quite unconscious that
you were a fellow-passenger when the accident
happened to the train.”

“Then you never informed Kenneth of
your arrival in New Yorkl" she inquired.
eagerly.

“ Never! I abandoned my intention of writ-
ing until I had had an interview with you, for
my future plans rested upon your decision."

Bitterly she repented her mistake and the
irrevocable wrong she had committed in accus-
ing Kenneth. Not even to Everard could she
at that moment confess her fault.

“We must part, Everard,” she faltered,
“for our love has been too deep to dwindle
into more friendship!”

“ You send me from you,” he said, re-
proachfully. “You will not permit me the
happiness of listening to your voice—of feeling
that I am in your presence! Beatrice, do you
think I would lure you from your duty!
Rather would I watch over you, and even at
the cost of many a bitter pang, see you con-
tented in your domestic lifel”

“That cannot be!” she interposed, hurried-
ly. “Of all wives I am most miserable.
You add to my troubles; for, while you are
near me, I can only remember that my im-
pulsive folly deprived this hour of the felicity
which it might have brought us.”

“Then I will say farewell,” he answered,
extending his hand to clasp her burning fingers.
“Heaven forbid I should increase the burden
you have to bearl”

“May you be happy 1” she murmured.

“ Is Mrs Maxwell here?” asked a. strange
voice at the doorway.

Both Everard and Beatrice started. They
had not perceived the man’s approach.

He was a. rough-headed, apple-faced country
humpkin, having the appearance of a farmer’s
laborer.

“ What do you want with me?” asked Bea-
trice. perplexed and alarmed at his sudden in-

 

trusion, unable to imagine how her identity
had been discovered.

“ I don’t want ye; but missis, that is, Farm-
er Dashwood’s wife, up at Elmwood Farm,
said as how ye was to come up quickly if ye
wished to see your good man alive.”

Could Jerome'hnve been in the train! Im-
possible! Yet Beatrice remembered the glimpse
she had caught of him at the railway station,
and was forced to acknowledge that he might
have stepped into one of the cars at the further
end.

“Am I to go with youl” she asked, trem-
ulously.

“Yes; I will show ye the way. It’s not far
-just up the lane yonder.”

Beatrice withdrew to assume her walking
attire, and say a parting word to Bridget, of
whom the old dame who owned the cottage
which had hospitably given them shelter, took
good care.

When she entered the room below, Everard
called her aside.

“I have been questioning the man. There
seems no doubt that Mr. Maxwell was severely
injured in this morning’s catastrophe, and
was carried to the neighboring farm.- Have
you courage to see him, Beatrice! It will be a
painful sight.” '

“But one from which I must not shrink.
He is my husband, and has sent for me. If he
is dying, I shall take my place beside his pil-
low, and tend to him to the last.”

“ May I escort you to the farm?”

She made a gesture of refusal, and left the
cottage with her guide.

A short walk down the lane brought them
tothe farm-house, with its many gables and
lattice-easements wreathed with Virginia
creepers.

The farmer’s wife, a comely matron, hur-
ried forth to receive them.

“ He is wearying for you to come,” she said,
“and I feared you might be too late.”

“Then there is no hope?” inquired Beatrice.

“The doctors say he cannot live many
hours,” she replied simply. “ His chief in-
juries are internal. He may go off at any
moment, so you must expect the worst, my
dear lady.”

He lay in a. large upper chamber, comfor-
tably furnished with snowy coverlets and
draperies.

As Beatrice softly approached, “I hardly
expected you would come at my request,” he
said.

She took her seat by the bedside, inwardly
debating whether she should acquaint him with
the mistake into which she had fallen respect-
ing the fate of Everard Carew.

“ You were quitting your home clandestinely,
and 1' was following to reclaim and take you

 

 

80 PASSION’S REPRISAL.

 

back, when this wretched accident happenedl”
he said, in an irritated tone. “Why did you
leave me, Beatrice?" '

“Because I was warned of your plans for
my future welfare,” she answered, rather bit-
terly. “But, Jerome, this is no time for re-
crimination. We have mutually much to par-
don—let there be peace between us.”

“Oh, if you had only loved me,” he moaned,
tossing uneasily on his pillow, “ these torments
of conscience would not have been mine. In
order to win you for my wife, I was tempted,
first to treachery, and then to crime. Yet
what recompense have my sins brought me?—
only remorse, disappointment, and premature
death!”

He fell back exhausted, and she hastened to
give him a reviving draught, which had been
placed in readiness on the small table near the
bed.

Presently he spoke again:

“Beatrice, Beatrice, if all the world con-
demned me, you, at least, should have pity.
For you I steeped my soul in guilt—nay, do
not shrink, I did not kill your lover, only a
cast-0E tool of mine who had the audacity to
threaten to betray me i”

Then, in disjointed sentencas, be poured
forth his terrible recital.

“I met him just in the gathering twilight,
though I did not recognize him at first; he
looked so dilferent to the slouching vaga-
bond I had last seen. He said he was coming
to The Hermitage, and that he expected to be
well paid for having done me a service. Then
he told me Everard Carew had returned, and
might have been with you at that moment had
he not managed matters cleverly.

“ He showed me a ring upon his finger and
your portrait (both stolen from his master,)
and I was convinced, against my will, that he
spoke the truth. For his fidelity to my inter-
ests he claimed an exorbitant reward, and
menaced me with exposure it I hesitated to
comply with his demands.

“I temporized, expostulated, and finally con-
sented to fetch the money if he would wait at
the end of the lane, near the maple trees.

“I knew well enough I had not got it in
the house; but I wanted time for reflection.
Beatrice, how can I tell you the rest? I re-
membered there was a. pistol in the oaken
bureau, and I placed it in my pocket, intend-
ing to use it only to intimidate this William
Smith if he persisted in annoying me. But
the man was obstinate and insolent. Passion
overcame me, and, yielding to a sudden im-
pulse, I sprung upon him, and—you know the
rest.”

He passed his hand across his damp brow,
and stared into vacancy, asit in fancy he gazed
upon his fallen foe,

 

“I took your portrait and the broken coin
from about his neck,” he resumed, “hoping
by so doing to prevent any identification of
the body. In my agitation I forgot that the
fellow boasted he had robbed his master of
clothes and jewelry, which, being discovered
upon his person, led to the supposition that he
was Everard Carey. Afterward I did not re-
gret, the mistake, for suspicion pointed at his
brother Kenneth, and I was effectually shielded.
And now, Beatrice, can you not guess why I
have told you this?”

“You wished to ease your mind by confes-
sion,” she remarked. “It must be awful to lie
here with such a sin upon your soul!”

“ Yes; but that was not the only reason. I
knew what you had found in the old
bureau, and gathered from your delirious rav-
ings that you believed me to be the murderer
of your lover. I could not rest quietly in the
grave, knowing you detested and loathed my
memory. If Everard Carew be really dead, it
was not through my enmity, and I may even
have earned your gratitude by taking ven-
geance on the man who wronged him.”

“ I am sincerely repenting my error in hav-
ing persecuted the innocent while laboring un-
der an insane delusion." she replied. “ I speak
of Kenneth Carew. Had I not brooded over
revenge until I believed myself appointed t)
bring a. villain to justice, both he and Miss
Merriton would have escaped undeserved suffer-
ing. As for Everard Carew, he is still alive.”

Jerome started up, as if endowed with his
former vigor.

“ You have seen him, then?” he asked.

She assented.

“And have been plighting love-vows while
I am dyingl” he cried in a paroxysm of furious
jealousy. “In life or death that man is ever
to come between us!”

“ Do not condemn me. I did not forget
that I was a wife, not eVen in the joyful sur-
prise of our reunion. But, Jerome, these
things should not disturb you now.”

“I know, I know; yet it is hard to feel that
I am leaving you to be happy with another.
Promise, Beatrice—”

His voice died away; excitement had wreck-
ed the poor remnant of his strength, but the
man’s selfish and cruel nature was asserting it-
self to the last.

 

A glorious summer morning. The flower-
crowned earth and cloudless sky seem to re-
joice over the happiness of Kenneth Carew and
Lilian Merriton, who are being joined together
in matrimony. Mr. Merriton is genial, though
stately, and has made up his mind to feel sat-
isfied with his daughter’s choice; the bride is
all blushes and smiles; the bridegroom happy
as bridegroom should be. Everard is his bro-

)

PASSION’S REPRISAL. 31

 

that’s best man, and the first to offer his con-
gratulations. Yet he is somewhat quiet and
thoughtful, and it is whispered by those who
ought to know that he does not intend to re-
main in New York; but has serious thoughts of
transferring all his rights in the property to
his brother, and relinquishing all claims to
Fairview.

“He was always eccentric,” is the general
verdict. And this new phase of “Madcap”
Everard’s eccentricity elicits rather encomium
than blame, for Kenneth is popular, and Mr.
Merriton’s heiress would be a fitting mistress
for Fairview.

When the wedding breakfast is over, and
the young couple have started on their honey-
moon trip, Everard leaves Merriton House,
and takes his way toward a far different
dwelling—the cottage where Beatrice resided
before the marriage, and to which she has re-
turned.

She is standing near the garden gate, a
stately lily among the roses. and her heart be-
gins to flutter at his approach; while some-
thing resembling her girlhood’s brightness
lights up her features. They are soon pacing
the narrow paths together, with the birds
twittering in the leafy tree-tops above their
heads, and bright—hued butterflies dancing in
the sunshine before them. They are silent,
but happy, for hope points to the future, and
already old troubles are receding in the dis-
tance.

 

“ Darling, ” says Everard, “how much
longer are We to wait?”

Then she fro“ ns, blushes, and smiles, preach-
ing patience, as she has often done before; for
she has i'csclvrd not to marry again until a.
year has elapsed alter Jerome Maxwell’s
death.

“ Sometimes I fear I am selfish in not giving
you up altogether,” she says, deprecatingly.
“ You are sacrificing so much for my sake, and
your brother and his wife must always despise
me.”

“They have forgiven you long ago, dear
Beatrice, and regard your unjust thoughts of
Kenneth as the fantasy of a bewildered brain.
But we will leave him to retain his sovereignty
at Fairview, and make our home in some
foreign land, where no gossips shall prate over
the follies of our youth. Bridget, of course,
must not be left behind. That dear old wo-
man has been your truest friend amid all your
trials.

“It seems more bliss than I deserve,” she
says, humbly. “to look forward to such a
future. Oh, Everard, when we begin the new
life together, nay it be nnclouded by one re-
membrance of the past!”

So let us louve them, happy at last. They
had been wank and erring, 5m ng only in their
love for one another. If they committed
faults, they had paid the penalty. We will
not mete out stern justice, nor regret that love
victorious obtained its fit reward.

- . THE END.

 

A

 

 

PUBLISHED EVER Y T UESDA Y.

 

- Waverley Library. /

 

\

1 A Bride ofn Dav. By Mary Reed Crnwall.
2 The Girl Wli’c. Banrtley ’1‘. Campbell.
8 \VIII lt Lch! or, Collrflinlls and Sweethearts. By
Win. Muslin Turner \i D.
4 Married In Iluntx. By Rutt \Viuwoml.
5 \Vlll She Murry Ililnf or,The Masked Bride.
By Mrs. Mnry Rreil Crou’ell.
6 "is anfill “'li'e; 4ir,l\l}'i'n, the Child oi Adop-
tinn. Bv Mrs. Ann 5. Stephens.
7 A Fair Fnce. By Barney ‘1'. Campbell.
8 A Mad Murrin c. By Mnry A. henison.
9 A Dan liter 0 Buy or, Blinded by Love. By
Mu. .\ i. Reed Crnwell.
10 The Bro en lictrotiml; or, Love versus Hate.
By Mary Grim» Hnlpiiie.
11 The Bride of an Actor; nr, Driven frrvm Home.
llv the Author of“ Alniie iii the “’orld,” run, etc.
12 A Pnlr of Gray Eycn. By Ruse Kennedy.
13 “’ithout n Ilenrt. By Cnl. l’n-nlL-s Inurnlinni.
14 Alone in the “'urid; or. The Young Man’s Ward.
By the Author of “ The Bride nl'aii Artur," «to, etc.
15 Motherlens. By Col. Prentiss I. graham.
16 The flecret Mnrringe. By Snralflaxinn.
1’? Sister against Shin-r; or, The Rivalry of Hearts.
By Mn. Marv Reed Crnwell.
18 Heart to l eort. liy Ariihella Snutllworlh.
19 field for Gold. By Mrs. M. v. Viol-r.
20 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. By Henrietta
'I'haizkeriiy.
21 Sybil Chose; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs.
Aim S. Stephens.
’32 Trult Iler Not.
28 sinned A niunt.
24 A Lo 'ai lover. By Arabella Soulhworth.
25 The lonntry Cousin. By Rose Kennedy.
21; "is Idol. By Mrs. Marv Reeil Cruwell.
27 Flirtntion; or. A Yunng Girl‘s Lined Name. By
Jacob Almrlmiiell (Ralph Rnynl).
28 Now and Forever. By Heurieltn Tlmrkerny.
29 orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, the Lust lleir.
By Agile Penile.
80 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson.
81 The Little llcirens. llv Mrs. Mary A. Denisnn.
82 Leggy Year; or Way She Proposed. By Sara Clnxton.
88 In lte oi’ ] creeli‘; or, Jeanette’s Reparation.
By . R. Sharwnmi.
84 Her Foee“’ufl ller Fortune. Br Eleanor Blaine.
85 The Cuban Heiress. By Mrs. Mary A. Denirmn.
86 01in n Schoolmistrenn. By Arulielli ‘nnthwmih.
3? The “'inged Messenger; ur, Risking All lur a
Heart. By :lll‘N. Miir)~ Reed ('rnwell.
38 “Va! h‘he a Cu “etie. By l‘lr‘lli'it‘itn 'l'hiickeriiy.
89 One “'mnnn’s l cart. By George S. Kninie.
40 Love-Mad; or, Betrmhed, Married, Divorced and—
B 'm. Mason ‘i'iirner, M. D.
41 For llerDonr Rake. By Sara Claxton.
42 The liou uet Girl. Bi Agile Prime.
1:: Priinii Donna. liy Arnhellu Snuthwnrlh.
“Bi-k. B Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
45 Lucy Temple . Dung iler ol'Charlntta.
46 The Three Shite". By Alice Fleming.
4: The Creole Sifltcrn l3 ' ‘llrs. Anna ii. Pnrter.
48 A Marriage ofConv u . By SaraCluxton.
49 The \Vli’e’n Secret. ‘ . Juan Lewis.
51) Sir Archer’s Bride. Bv Arabella Soulliworth.
51 Led Antrny . By Octave Fenillet.
53 llomeleln; or, Two Orphan Girl: in New York. By
Albert \V. Aiken.
58 The Mnnlnc Bride. Bv Murgnret Blonnz.
5-1 Pied cd to Marry. Bv Sn?- Claxum.
55 Ceci 'll Deceit. Bv Mu. .innnie Davis Burton.
51} Beatrice, Ihe Beautiful; ar, His Secoud‘ Love.
By Arabella Snuthworih.
67 Without Mercy . By Bartley T. Campbell.

By Margaret Leicester.
By (‘lnrii Alllzlhltfl

 

THIRTY-TWO OCTA V0 PAGES.

l r

The Bnronct’n Fccrct. By Sara Claxton.
Agncn Ilope, the Actrcsn; or, the Runnince of a
ininy Ring. in; win. Mimi-n liirner, M. I).
0 A Vi idow'n “ lien. liy Rm-hel llrrnhnnlt.
Did llc LOH- llcri’ liy Bl llvr T. Caniph ll.
Almont in “in Power. By Lillian Lm'eJoy.
Hhe I’lll‘l )ot Lure Him. By Arabella South-
l\'0l'l. 1.
Bonnie Raynor. the “Vork Girl-
Miisoii Turner, M. D
A Bruve Girl.
Lord Iloth’n Sin. By Georgiana Dickens"
A “ icde Henri. liy Siini ('liixtun.
Ill! lic r MAiinlrcnn. ByArfllrl‘llilSOIlilllVOl'ill-
'llie Oan Dnughtcr. By Aliie Firming.
\\ by I .lurricd lilni? livSarn L‘lnxtun.
llonor Bound. lly Lillian l’mvejuy.
A Mnn’n Mn. lly Rm \\'inmmil.
Ill-10w" Agnln. Br Arnhelhi Srvnlhwnrih.
Adrin, the Ailoptc . llyJennie lhu'is Hui-ton.
A Brother": Mn. N)- Riahel Bernhardt.
Become Shc Lo"cd llim. By Alice iv'leniing
A Strnngc Llnrrinnc. By Lilian Ln“
Forthc “' oninn lle Loved. iy Agnes .\I
Forbidch Bum. liy Arulli-lla Swilllflvvi‘lll-
Two Young Girls. By Alice l‘lelillllu.
A Point oi' llouur. By Lillian Lou-jny.
A \\ oninn’n “ ilc . By Sara ('laxinn.
A Scnthlng 0rdcnl. ll} .lrs. Genrcimia Dickens,
Out“ ittcd by llcrucii’. By Arabella Snuthnmrih.
“ lint Jealousy Did. By Alice Fleming.
6 n lnneuvcr. liy Lillimi Luvejoy.
A Fntc ul l-nine. liy SnraClnxton.
A Milli-wring Angel. Iiv Georgiana Dickens.
Haunted Ilcnrln. li.\' Rarlirl Bernhardt.
Buving n "Curt. By Llllllln anvjny.
A lcnpcrnie (-‘uume. liy Arabella Southworth.
l nder in Cloud. liy Sam (‘llxtom
.93 The Coat oi’n folly. By Genrulrn Dickens.
9-} lie Loves Me But. By Lillian Lung.
95 “'hnt She Cont Ilim. By Arabella Southworth.
96 A Bitter .‘listnlie. By Agnes Mary Slieltm.
9‘? Ported by Treachery. By Harriet Irving.
98 Tcmptcd Through Love. By Lillian Lovejny.
99 The Iinnd oi'Fnte. By Arabella Sniuliworih.
100 "or Glmrdinn’u Sacrifice. By Sam Clslxtmi.
101 Put to a Test. By Georgiana Dickens.
102 A Sister’s Crime. liy Amen Mary Sliellnn.
103 I! Love n Mockcryt By Arabelln Southworth.
104 A “Villflll “'ii'e. lly Lllllfiin Lovejoy.
105 The Benutii'ul Dcnion. By France: Helen
Davenport.
106 A Young Girl‘u Ordeal. BySai-a Clinton.
i0’i~ "or Evil Geniun. lly Harriet Irving.
105 A Perilnni Pledge. ByGlOrglnnn chkena.
Read} Julie 15.
109 Pnanimi’: Reprisal.
Reliin June 9‘2.
110 A lint-LY Marriage.
Ready June ‘29.

111 Cherry: or, A Daughter of the South. By Arabella
Southworih. Reiiily July 6.

By “'11)
Iiy Alice Fleming.

ellon.

.
VEOI’Iv‘fiGYIPW'W‘cwl

mrfl’l'l*l’)'q>)>lrl'la

By Lillian Lovrjoy.

By Mn. M. L. Fordhiim.

The “'ln‘erley Librnry in for sale by all news.
denim, five cents per wpy, or sent by mail on receipt of
nix cents each.

@Beadle and Adams, Publishers,
No. 98 William street, New York.

N’WN

 

 

.:
‘i
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
4
1
1
1
4
4
1
1
4
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
4
4
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
4
4
1
4
1
1
4
'1
4
4
I