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THE WINEED MESSENGER;

01*.RISKING ALL FOR. A HEART.
BY 11125. MARYREED CROWE'LL.

CHAPTER I.
THROWING DOWN THE GAUNTLET. ’
THE brilliant winter afternoon was dramng
near its sunsetting. All day the sun had shone

 

PUBLISHED WEEKLY 13 l’ BEADLIC AND ADAMS,
No. 98 William Street, New York.

A  5w WW awful

Rub-rm! n! the l’wst (“live :It New York. N. Y.. 11x Sew-uni! ('IHS‘I Mini .‘hiiei. Feb. 31. lNr'v.

_Price.
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NO. 37.

 

yn

brightly on the white. freshly-fallen snow, that
lay in sloping piles in the streets. and now, as
the flaming: and ruhy tints of the eonling eve
lent their rieh glow, all the laiidsenpu seemed
glorified n: by a divinely fair presence.

It seemei a time, :1 phu-e. for sweet. restful
thoughts; for innoeent joyousness, and merry
guyety; the, oeeusionul penis of girlish laughter,
or the shouts of deeper Voiees, told, all along;r the
pretty village streets, that merriment reigned
somewhere, if not in all places.

 

2

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

 

And yet, while all Beechcrest was ha py and
gay, the fairest of them all, the belle o' the lit-
tle village whom the rirls all envied while they
could not but love, an the sterner sex admired
where they dared not adore was walking the
floor of 1 her room, with tashing eyes and
haughty, compressed lips; her proud little head
thrown back in indignant contempt, her white
fln ers rcstlessly lacing themselves in and out.

en, suddenly pausing by a little writing-
desk, she drew from a drawer paper and pen,
and rapidly wrote a line or so:

“Anon, dearest, pic/m tell me what I must do. Ho
has been here not ten minutes ago, and when I re
fused to see him, my mother bade me remain in my
room a]I7'/.\'0m-I', til I should consent to tell him I
would marry him. Arch, what shall I do? You

_know I hate Ellis Dorrance own more than I fear
him; you know I newer will be false to you.

“I send this by Lili our white-winged
senger. as usual. Arch, I await your advice.

“ As ever, FLORENCE."

Then, inclosing the note in an envelope, and
tying a ribbon securely, with manya tender
caress she fastened it around the neck of a
sweet-eyed bird, a snowy carrier dove, pure as
Florence’s own r'irlish heart.

“Now, my ', straight to him who awaits

oul’

y Then, raising the sash. she allowed the bird to
go on swift, graceful win vs, homeward bound.

But the sparkle had not eft her eyes, nor the
flush her cheeks, when she resumed her walk to
and fro.

“To be treated so—to be compelled—no, at-
tempted to be coerced—in these days, into a
marriage s0 distasteful as this proposed one!
Marry Ellis Dorrancc? Never, though 1 die in
this room, a starved prisoner! Arch (Jhessoui
has my heart, and I feel he will find some way
for me to escape.”

She seated herself in a pretty little chair
cushioned with some dainty material that we]
set of! her clear dark complexion, and large,
dark eyes.

Florence Arbuthnot was called a pretty girl;
and certainly she looked very beautiful that
afternoon in her elegantly simple house-dress
of dark green poplin, littmg so perfectly her
graceful figure, and trailing off in stylish folds
around her.

Her hair was very soft, and of a dark, bright
brown, with a \v:iVe running through it; and
her expert fingers Could arrange it in a variety
of styles that drove the other girls to envious
des ration.

0-day she had curled it, and then drawn it
back and fastened it with a large pearl and gold
comb, allowing little tendrils of curls to escape
wherever they chose.

A half-hour passed; then came a quick ste
along the hall, and then an authoritative knee
on the door brought back the scarlet bloom that
was fading from her face as she sat there, in the
now gathering twilight, thinking of Mr. Cher

mes-

om.
“It is 1, Florence. I am coming in.”
It was Mrs. Arbut hnot’s voice.

 

“ Very well. Only I see no need of announc-
ing the fact, seeing as the door was locked on
the outside.” ‘

There wasa quiet seem in her tones as the .

lady relocked the door on the inside, and then
sat down in a dusky corner by the fire.

“ I don’t like to do this, Florencc; I think you
can dislike it no more than your_father and I
do. Only, Florence, so long as it IS decnded you
are to marry Mr. Dorrance, and you are so ob-
stinate—J .

“I am obstinate, and I 'nm-cr Will marr '
himl Wh do you insist on what I declare
an impossibility?” .

She burst im )CtllOllSly forth, growmg angry
at the calm smile on the lady’s face.

“Because I have heard young ladies talk so
before, Florence, and have seen them marry
their especial aversions after all, just as I intend
you shall.” .

There was a horrible strength in the mild
assertion that chilled the girl’s heart, though
she was not alarmed.

“ Yes .” went on Mrs. Arbuthnot, “ I have ar-
ranged with Mr. Dorrance for the wedding—”

Florence sprung from her chair, her whole
frame quivering in excitement and indig-n
hation. ,

“Mother! if, indeed, you are—are you my.
bother?”

She asked the
harply, as she g
duly 5 face.

But now the twilight had become too deep to
her to see the white pallor that spread, as by
magic, over Mrs. Arbuthnot’s face, or to no
the sick, terrified gleam of her gray eyes.

Then a low lau h—a little forced—issue
from the thin, grayish white mouth.

“,ll'hat an absurd question! I think it (I
serves no answer. Rest assured no one bu
3 mother would have borne with you as I hav

one.

“Because,” went on Florence, ignoring th
latter clause, “ I never can remember the tim
when you treated me as a loving, unselfis
mother would. I’ve thought of it often an
often, and, as you said, thought how absuid \\ u
the idea. But likea revelation it has come t
me this moment—you are not my mother!”

“ Florence, I will not permit t is talk!”

“There! is that motherlikel would you n
laugh and kiss me, and think I was jo g,
you were m mother! Would Iyou tr! to se
me, body an soul, to a man I ate,‘ I we
your child? Before God, I declare my solen
belief that I do not belong to you!”

Mrs. Arbuthnot had gained complete contr
of herself now, and, as she struck a match an
lit the gas, she was the impersonation of woun
ed dignity.

“ I lorence, we will not discuss so ridiculous

uestion. I came up—stairs to tell you that M

orrance is in the parlor, and that our fat];
and I demand you to go to him, li e a dutif‘
dau htcr.”

“ ’11 oto him, cs,”flashed Florence; “an
I’ll rea him suc alesson as he never hear
before.”

She turned disdainfully away from the lad
but Mrs. Arbuthnot followed her, and laid h
finger on her arm.

‘ Remember what I have said, Florence A

You refuse Mr. Dorrance at yoi

uestion suddenly, almos
through the gloom on th

peril I",

 

  
     
    
  

:‘by

THE IVINGED MESSENGER. 8

 

Her voice was almost a hiss, as she whispered
in the girl’s ear, and Florence caught a momen-
' tary gretn gleam of the gray eyes, as she shock
of? the cold hand.

“I shall refuse him undoubtedly. I detest
him now, if I never did before, and he shall
know it.” ‘

Like an empress she swept down the stairs,
and into the parlor, and stopped full under the
blazing rlare of the chandelier.

“ Mr. orrance, what is it you want of me?”

Her cold, curt, yet perfectly polite tones,
made it very awkward for his proposed love-
V making. But Ellis Dorrance was a man of the

world, well versed in courteous usages; one
whom little things were not apt to annoy.

He Was certainly a very handsome man, at a
first, sweeping lance, with his tall, elegant fig-
ure, attired in t )8 most faultless style, the pale,
haughtily-cut features, and the startlingly black
hair, eyes, brows and heard. Any one would
have renounced him very fine-looking at first,
and t en, little by little, was revealed the keen,

I sinister li rht in his eyes, the cold, craft ex-
pression 0 his face, and the unprincipled, 'cen-
f tious curve of his mustached month.

With a faultless how, he rose from a chair he
_ had, been occupying during that interview
5 above-stairs.

3 “Be seated, please, Miss Florence.”

.. “ Thank you—no. I have but five minutes to
- devote to you, and I can stand that short time.”
She waved ‘ away the camp—chair he had
‘ brought.

“ But I fear, my dear Miss—”

“ You need fea'r nothing, sir, as I fear. noth-
E. ing. Avoid preliminaries, and let me know
_ what it is you wish.”

‘ Their e as met in a steady glance—Florence’s
fierce an defiant; his tender and besecehing,
‘ and‘she felt a thrill of disgust tremble over

her.

“ I will tell you what I came to say-“that I
- love you very truly, and beg to be honored by
‘ being accepted by you as our lover.”

Acontemptuous smile itted over Florence’s
face. Then she grew stern and dark again.

“ Is that all? because I can answer as readily
' “as you have asked; although I doubt if I have
:‘taken so, much trouble to prepare and learn it
rote.
; She paused a second, and Dorrance took in-
:stant advantage of it. ’,
‘ “Your rents have given me their cordial
— 8 roval; hope lam not distasteful to ‘ou.
'l at more can Iask than that you will ove
me?‘

“You need ask nothing, Mr. Dorrance: we

  
    
  

are both of us assuming a cordiality we neither i

feel. You know as well as I can tell you, that
I care nothing for you, that I never will. You
know 111 parents, as you term them, are de-
termine to bring about this marriage. But,
Mr. Dorrance, once and for all, I ivo you my
answer in words, as you have had it for months
in my conduct: I wi 1 not marry you.”

i

l is so cruel, so harsh of you, when you know 1
Iove ou, yes, Worship you so!”

A erisive little smile curled her red lips.

“I hardly think your heart is likely to break.
Butit'it did,I could not change my mind. I
dislike you exceedingly, and this pressing of a
distasteiul suitisnot likely to enhance my re-
gard for you.”

His brow rew ominously dark; and, although
Florence didg not look directly at him, she felt
the hot glare of his e es.

“ Florencel” and t ien by the altered tone of
his voice, she knew there was something coming '
so she straightened her head, and strengthene
her heart, resolved to fight to the very last.

“ As you said, we need not play at cress-pur-

is. I was as well aware of the condition

of your affections six months ago as 1 am this

moment. I knew you loved a young man,

whose pretty face has won what you suppose to

your love. I knew that you were engaged

to Archer Chessom, and yet this knowledge did
not, will not deter me from my lens.”

He paused, ssihly enrage by Florence’s
elaborately lite attention and sarcastic smile.

“Nor do intend relinquishing what I have
in view. I love you, Florence Arbuthnot, with
a fervor your lover or yourself can never com-
prehend. I have your parents’ consent to win
you, and make you my wife; more, I have their
sworn promise that you shall be my wife, and I
intend it shall so bel If you will be mine, well
and good: I offer you a loyal love, a good home,
and as happy a life as any one can give you.
Otherwise, you may learn experimentally what

on know now theoretically, that ‘all’s fair in
ove.’ ”

“ ‘Or war,’ please add, sir, to our precise
programme of arrangements, for can assure
you there will be ‘ war’ to the very knife if
this disgustin r farce goes on further. Mr. Dor-
rance, let melliid you good—night.”

“ Then you throw down the gauntlet?”

“ I have nothing to do with you at all, sir.”

“And you defy me—my power!”

8110 flashed a glance of su remest scorn at
, him, and Ellis Dorrance thou t she never had
{peen so peerlessly beautiful in all her life be-

ore.

! " You talk of your power in these davs; when,
. were I to raise my voice, 1 could cal a dozen
, men to my relief. Just bear in mind the year,
" 1670, the vicinity—twenty miles only from New
1 York—and then you can, perhaps, comprehend
3 how utterly silly such langua e sounds.’
TVithout a further word s e walked quietly
from the room and ascended the stairs .to her
; own apartment. - t

 Dorrance watched her a moment, then
{f1 smile, more terrible than a frown, lighted his
, 8C0.

“ How innocent she is, the darlingl I wonder
how sheld relish ‘ war to the knii'e!’ From all
up Jearances, that will be the only way!”

hen, his countenance growing gloomily
stern, and his eyes low wing in their intense

 

 

She bowed. as if to (.nd the matter then and blackness, he muttered, as Mr. and Mrs. Ar-
here, but Ellis Dorrance caught her hand, al- butlmot entered the door.

most rudely, as she turned to go.

'1‘ “ But I had no't expected this. Florence! This ,

“I’ll accomplish this thin or ma I die °
the attempt!” g’ y In
And the trio sat down together.

. “an

,.

0

,3,..,,.,...—_.......-__   : ‘:~'::

  

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

 

 

CHAPTER II. t
MOTHER AND son. ,
Cmrssou’s Pride was the finest old country]
seat for many a mile either side of Beechcrest ‘

village.

A arge stone mansion, with deep mullioned ‘
windows, of good old-fashioned style, a high;
flight of stone steps, that led to the grand circu- 
lar entrance, a square, low tower, and ivy-i
grown walls all lent a delightfully picturesque ;
aspect to the mansion, making it in reality what ‘
it was in name, Chessom’s Pride.

For a dozen generations it had been the home«
stead of the family. who loved it only second to
their name, of which they were foolishly, in-
ordinate] and yet pardonahl y vain.

Foolish vain, because, in their estimation,
none of tlle human family were so reat, so

‘and, so good as the Chessoms of C essom’s
I’ll-Me; because they vaunted this fact in every
action of their lives.

Pardonably proud, because really the Ches-
soms were a noble race; generous, benevolent,
thoughtful of the welfare of others.

An exce tion to this last consideration was
very rare in the family; yet, once in a while,
there would be a Chessom who was like other
people, selfish, prejudiced and heady.

Such a one, or rather such a pair, were the
present Mrs. Chessom, a. widow, and her only
daughter, Cora.

The heir, the darling of mother and sister,
was precisely opposite in every trait of char—
acter.

Archer Chessom was physically perfect: of
rarely beautiful face, with lllS clear fair, darkly-
golden hair, that swept over his forehead in a
graceful curve, his bright, merry, fathomless
eyes, of an indescribable violet shade, and
heavy, tawn mustache, ho was one whom no
woman coult see without instantly admiring, or
know at all intimately, without loving.

Proud, without haughtiness, bold, without a
vestige of resumption, Arch Chessom was the
man to W 10!“ Florence Arbuthnot had given
her young heart’s uholo affections; who in
return was beloved b y him with a strength and
fervor that few persons are capable of.

Arch Chessom was in the elegant dining room
that winter’s afternoon, when Florence was
writing to him from her room. Mrs. Chessom
and Com, each with some trifle of gay knitting,
and attired in full dinner costume, were with
him awaiting summons to dinner.

“ ou knew Gussio was coming out from
Beechcrest for a week, didn’t you, Arch?”

“ I btlieve I heard some one mention it.”

If Com. Chessom meant to create an en-
thusiasm on her brother’s part she was mis-
taken, for he just glanced up from the after-
noon paper he was reading.

“I meant to speak of it before, for I do want
you to help entertain her. Iknow she enjoys
your society Very much.”

Arch snnled behind his paper, and thought
what a, miserable diplomatist Cora was; also,
how thoroughly he disliked Gussie Palliser.

 

“And I’m sure Arch returns the compliment; .
we all love Gussie very dearly.”
Mrs. Chessom pronounced her words as r

 

though they Were the flat of some awful des-

tin .

‘yAnd she’d come over so much oftener if she
knew Archer wanted her here.”

Arch laughed outright as he threw down his

a ma

‘ You ladies are meditating some attack on
me, I judge by the skillful s ‘irmishing, while
I most cordial yavow I prefer an out and out
pitched battle.’

Cora laughed, and glanced at her mother.

“The truth is, my son, we’ve been hoping so
you would marry Gussie Palliser; she is so
suitable every way; so stylish and aristocratic
aAndlha’udsome; just your style of beauty, too,

re l.

110 made a low bow.

“ Thanks, mother dear, but I much prefer
dark young ladies."

A frown athercd on Cora. Chessom’s pretty
face, and er brother knew what she was
thinking of before the words left her lips.

“I suppose so; like the Arbuthnot girl, for
instance. ’

“ Exactly: only be so good as to remember
her name is Florence, or Miss, Arbuthnot, which-
ever you prefer.”

darkly ominous frown gathered on his
mother’s brow, and Cora, thus reproved, flushed
angrily.

“ Indeed, I shall never call her by either
name. The idea of you, a Chessom, to cen-
sure me became I will not afliliate with a no-
m1)y_,’

“ Coral”

Arch’s voice could contain that in its tones
calculated to awe any one to whom he address-
ed himself ; and his sister knew she had offended
him by his voice.

“ Perhaps I had best tell you now, that you
may set at rest forever, all hopes of my marr -
ing Miss Palliser. I made my choice montis
ago, and when I bring in wife to Chessom’s
Pride, Cora can call her rs. Chessom, or Flor-
ence, whichever she chooses.”

Then, with a resolute air, as if the subject
were dropped, he resumed his paper.

But his indignant mother was not to be thus
summarily disposed of, and she rose to her feet
in wrathful pride.

‘I‘ It IS a Shame. a disgracol and I regret that
I live to see the day when my son, my only son,
shall sully the proud name b takin in such a
creature! . Arch, what would, your gather sa if
he were alive to know this? and I your met or
ask you who is she, what is she, that she should
come here mistress of us all? But not of me!
never of me! I will Jeave the home that has
been mine these thirty years, and beg first!
You must choose between us, Archer, between
your own mother and this girl!”

Mrs. Chessom was thoroughly in earnest, and
the young man thought, as he glanced from her
flushed, angerful face to the cold, impassive one
of his sister, that the only path for him to pur-
sue was that of kind firmness; and, if at all os-
sible, reconcile them to the idea of his marriage
with Florence .‘rbutlmot, with the mental re-
servation that it could make no possible diaer-
ence to him it they did disapprove.

 

3", .

 

-\

 

 

 

 

.\

 

 

w

THE WINGED MESSENGER. 5

 

.- , . I
He was sole master of Chessom’s Pride: and

While he loved his mother, and was proud 0
his handsome sister, Florence was more dear
than both.

He thought of all this as Mrs. Chessom stood
before him, her very dress quivering among its
heavy silken folds with the partially revealed,
partially pent-up excitement she experienced.

“ Mother dear, I am very sorry this should
have occurred: and yet 1 had intended to make
known my purpose very shortly. You must be
aware, surelIy, that a man of twenty-seven
feels perfect iberty as to whom he shal marry;
and while I hope to honor and respect every
wish of yours, and gratify, to the best of my
ability Cora’s desires, still, in an affair of this
kind have chosen to be my own counselor.”

“llut to think we must be subject to her;
second to a workingman’s daughter! Arch, it
will crush me to the dust!”

“ I anticipate no such unfortunate catastrophe,
for two reasons: First, Florence has no am-
bition to assume the reins of government at
Chessom’s Pride, for a time, at least, although,
after a while I shall prefer that she should, and
shall insist upon it.”

Mother and daughter could not at be struck
with his quiet, gentlemanly air, his firm, de-
cisive tones; they could but feel the dignity of
his manner as he thus boldly, affectionately de-
fined his position.

“Besi es, Hi dear mother, Florence is not
the daug ter 0 a workingman, as you suppose.
Were she the child of the humblest chore-wo-
man, and stillFlorencc, with all herlsweet, arch
walys and winning grace, I should love her as
we 1 Yet to gratify you and Cora, I will tell
on that the Arbut nots are comfortably off;

‘lorence has received as good an education as
Cora, and in style, dress and deportment, is
fully her equal.”

A contemptuous smile curled Miss Chessom’s
léfis at the disagreeable comparison; and Mrs.

essom drew along breath.

“It is only natural that you should talk so.
Of course, if you are in love with her, you will

, admit no faults. Well, as I said before, I say

again: choose between us.”

Arch was vexed at the remark, and as he
dashed his paper on the floor, his eyes glistened,
and that look of stubborn baughtiness that was
on his mother’s brow, that seldom disfigured his
own roelaimed his resolve.

“ e will allow the subject to rest. Cora,
just ring for Hurst to bring in dinner.”

It was not a cheerful meal; Mrs. Chessom sat
fifidl upright in her gothie-backed chair, and
si ent y ate a. scanty morsel of food, while Cora
assumed an attitude of indifference that was so
unreal, it would have been ludicrous had Arch
observed it.

As it was, he hastily swallowed a few mouth-
fuls of St. J ulien soup; then, before the next
course was brought, excused himself and left
the room, cressing the hall to the library, his
customary sitting apartment when at home.

It was a long, high-ceiled room, with several
green satin draped windows, a green and white
velvet carpeting on the floor; a pleasant, cheery

lace, where one would have loved to linger for
hours among the hundreds of books that lined

 

the walls; among the statues, bronzes and paint-

mgs.

At one of the side windows, just outside, on a
sunny veranda a gorgeouslv-gilded cage was
swaying in the light breeze that had sprung up

at sundown, and Arch went directly to this

cage as he entered the room. '

His countenance brightened joyously as he
saw it was occupied.

“ Lili, you have brought me a treasure 1”

He smoothed down the pure white f< athers on
the beautiful bird’s back, and Lili cooed and
nestled as though she understood his commenda-
tion.

\Vith caressing hands he untied the tiny billet,
then lifted the cage inside, where the air was
genial and the last rays of the delicious sun
slanted athwart it.

As he read, his cheeks grew flushed: and he
compressed his lips tightly, as if to hold back

some bitterly sharp words that had leaped to

his tongue’s end.
Then, hastily drawing paper and pencil to his
side, he dashed off an answer:

“ My own darling, I am glad you have told me. I
can help you; I will help you: and this is what you
must do: Make whatever )reparations you need,
and leave your home in t 1e most secret manner,
lest discovery should thwart us and make you don-
bly unhappy. I will be at the corner of Prince and
Church streets with the carriage, any hour you may
name to-morrowl we will go direct to Dr. Baldwin’s,
1ygour own astor, be married and return to your

ouse at hessom‘s Pride. Remember, my con-
scientious little darling, I am proposing no runaway
match: Iam only goin to place you beyond the
power of Ellis Dorranco s annoyance. You will of in—
sent, my dearest Florence? and send our faithful
Lili back at once with your arrangements. Of course
it can not be to-night, as it is now near to five
o‘clock, and Lili takes an hour or more for her
return to Beechcrest, by the hand of Esau, who will
carry this note and the )ird to you. Be courageous.
my darling, and trust me ever to be your own

“ARCHIE.”

Then he run the bell, and delivered the seal-
ed note and ' ', the faithful Cupid’s messenger,
whom Mr. Chessom had trained pu sely to
convey letters from Florence to himse f, know-
ing the ho lessness of urging his suit personally
at the Ar uthnots’ house, and fearin lest the
wickedness of Ellis Dorrance woul wayla
letters sent b ' ordinary methods of transmitta .

Thus was t 0 beautiful carrier-dove employ-
ed, tho emblem of peace and happiness, but
used, alas, in these sad. days, when OVer the
water, fond hearts wait with hope deferred for
the coming of the little winged messenger;
dreading tolearn the messa e under its wmg,
fearful lest some loved one as written for the
last time, while, high up on seats of national
power, the great ones of earth reso to the
trusty feathered servant to convey’ mportant
news toand from the doomed cit , once the
gayest of the gay—now, ah, pitiful y shorn of

ladsomeness, and with a million deaths knock-
ing at its gates! And within, while the carrier-
dove soars aloft in the pure, free air, bearing
its precious burden, there crouch the mother
and the daughter, the children and the babes,
weeiing and fearing, wondering why the
tug tness has gone out from earth, the light
from the sun. ‘

....-..A-.~_

  

6

 

 

THE \VINGED MESSENGER.

 

And yet. in all unhappy Paris, hemmed in by
piiiless lmsiegcrs, there was no truer a prisoner
than Florence Arbuthnot, in her own house, un-
der her own reof, that winter’s night.

And to none of France’s daughters did ever
carrier-(love bring more welcome news than
that to her, after the darkness had set in; when
trusty Esau, cautiously tapping the window

from the little balcony he was accustomed tO‘

uso, handed her the precious letter and white-
winged Lili.

 

CHAPTER III.
snow IIIM our!

WHEN Florence Arbutlmot had left Mr. Ellis
Dorrauce standing so unceremonhaisly in the
Parlor, after her positive refusal of him and
IIS offers, the girls parents had enteied, hav-
ing heard every word that passed, from an
ad oining room.

t needed but a glance from either party to
rg‘yeal the angry vexatiou that existed on both
an cs.

“ She’s the most obstinately imprudent girl I
ever saw in all my life. She doesn’t care that
for your authority or my threats.” Dorrance
snap red his fingers lightly.

.“ int she must be n:ade to care, Dorrance.
I tel] '011 you shall have her, in spite of the very
Evil he himself.”

A black frown was gathering on Mr. Arbuth-
not‘s brows, and his wife sought to avert the
coming storm.

“Girls are all alike; she will consent soon, I
am confident. You must be patient, Mr. Dor-
rance.”

‘iPatient! did on hear her unqualified 1e
fusal of me? and t It‘ll tell me to be patient! I’d
rather have a chance at young Chessom; it’s he
that’s causing all this trouble.”

“ “'hat need you care for young Chessom, I’d
like to know? Don’t I say you shall have her?"

“ And don’t I say you ve nothing to say
about it?”

The two men were fast verging on to a quar-
rel, when Mrs. Arbuthnot’s sol't. smooth voice
came‘ m.

“ There is no use talking this way. If we are
ourselves divided, how can we ex wet to accom-
plish our long-anticipated ends? r. Dorrance,
you know as well as I
must marry you; the secret is yours as well as
ours.”

Ahoarse laugh esca ed Dorrance’s lips.

“ And if the young adv does not suspect part
of the mystery, at least, I’m no judge.’

A cold, gray shade gathered on Mrs. Arbuth~
net’s face, and she averted her eyes from her
husband’s, darting an appealing glance to Dor-
rance, that only brought a sneer to his lips.

“Suspect! she suspect? By heaven’s, how
should she? Woman, does she know a syllable
through your intervention?”

Mr. Arbuthnot grasped his wife’s arm rough-
ly, and glared fiercely down in her terrified
m, .

e.

“ No, no!” she gasped. “ I have never dared
to say a. word; and when she told me her con~
Victlons, I laughed at her and did the very best
I could to disarm her suspicions.”

the reason why Florence .

Her husband never let go his hold while she
thus hurriedly explained.
i “Then she has spoken! 'What did she say?
Tell me truly, and remember the sword so long
; suspended may drop very soon, if there is
, treachery between you and I.”
“ It was but a word; she declared I never had
‘, seemed like her mother, and she believed we
were not her parents.”

A fierce, almost insane wrath gathered in Mr.
Arbuthnot’s eyes; then be tightened his hold of
his wife’s arm.

“ It will be ill with you if she does not change
her mind! Mark that!”

Then striding away he paced to and fro in
restless agitation.

“ I suppose I may as well go, as I always go,
unsuccessful, and no nearer any results than
when I be an. B Jove, if it wasn’t for the
way I love er, am the way I hate those Ches-
soms, I’d give it up.”

Dorrance threw himself moodily back in the
chair, an ugl t'rown cont ractiug his forehead.

But Mrs. A rbuthnot turned upon him like a.
tigress.

“Don’t you give it up! Just go on, say a
mouth longer, and I swear to you she shall be
your wife.”

A red! luminous light glowed in her eyes,
and her husband glanced approvineg toward
her.

“ A month, is it? that is, granting she does
not elope with young (Jhessom.”

“ She’ll not do that. She can not leave her
room.” -

Dorrance listened, then took up his hat.

“ D’ye know where I am going? As straight
to Chessom‘s Pride as I can go.”

“And tell young Archer for me that if he
dare as much as look at Florence again, he’ll
rue the day.”

Ellis Dorrance went out. and called a carriage
to take him to Chessom’s Pride.

It was just after Arch had dispatched the
carrier-dove and letter to Florence that Mr.
Dorrance’s card.was handed to him by the foot-
man.

A hot flame rushed to his face as he read, then
he grew calm and cold as he walked to the little
reception-room to see this man to whom he
owed so much dislike.

He had met him frequently before, so they
were no strangers, although it was the first oc-
casion of Dorrance’s visit at Chessom’s Pride.

Arch bowed slightly, and Dorrance rose to
his feet as the host entered.

“Mr. Dorranee, I believe.” ‘

“Yes, I wish to have a short conversation
with you, sir, it convenient.”

It was plainly evident that it would not re-

uire many words from either to burst into
ilames the smoldering tire of mutual dislike be-
tween them; and while Dorrance was wonder-
ing how to begin to speak, Chessom was calcu~
lating whether his strength was uivalent to

the task of collaring the man and 'cking him
down the steps.

“ Perhaps you are not aware that the object
of my call is of a very delicate nature; so much
so, in fact, that I feel almost at a loss to tell you

 

what I wish you to understand.”

 

 

THE WiNGED MESSENGER. 7

 

It might have been that he was warming
with his subject, or the sight of Arch Chessom’s
haughty, repellent face Vexed him; but Certain
it is that Dorrance’s voice took on a different
tone as he finished his sentence.

Mr. Chessom’s lips parted in a derisiVe smile.
“ Pra inform me, sir, on this important sub-
ject. lzy time is limited, and I beg you will be
as explicit as 'ble.”

The wrathful light rose to Dorrance’s eyes
that had chilled Florence Arbuthnot’s heart.

“Then, in as few words as possible, since I
desire to leave your presence uite as ardently
as you wish me to do, I will as you if you are
aware that the attentions you are paying Miss
Florence Arbuthnot are extremer odious to
thug”young lady’s parents, as wel as to my-
self
' If he had expected to work upon Arch Ches-
som’s passions, he was mistaken, for there was
not aquiver of the nostril, or a wink of the eye
to indicate the insult he had inted.

“ To you, sir? And may ask who or what
you are to interfere between any lady and my-
self?”

His cool, scornful tone told upon the excit-
able Dorrance.

“I will tell you who and what I am. I am
Florence Arbuthnot’s future husband in spite of
you, and I demand that you cease your atten-
tions to her; both on my authority and her
father’s I say it.”

He had arisen from his chair in the heat of
his wrath, and Chessom slowly rose, too, with
an elaborate bow.

“Since you are to be the fortunate man, why
come here and play this childish farce? John,
show Mr. Dorrance the door, and do not bring
me his card again.”

He held Open the door, with graceful, ironical
courtesy, to permit Dorrance to pass thro rh.

Just at that moment Esau passed in the nail,
and not observing the presence of a guest, dotted
his hat.

“ I delivered the letter and the bird, sir, and
Miss Florence -sa.id—” .

“That is all right, Esau. Mr. Dorrance
good-evening.”

He walked out of the library, leaving Ellis
alone Wlth the polite footman; the chance words
of Esau ringing over and over in his astonished
ears as he took his de ture.

“ A bird, and a letter! what could that letter
contain that made it necessary that the Chessom
carrier-dove a well-known curiosity in the vil-
lage, needs he sent to Florence Arbuthnot to
convey an answer?” .

Then, as he was driven rapidly home-
ward, a sudden idea seized him; be fairly
sprung to his feet in delight at the thought;
t en, as the carriage whir ed past the Arbuth—
not house, and he saw a bright light shining in
the windows of Florence’s room, a fiendish smile
spread over his sinister face, and he shook his
head in villainous delight. .

“Read your love-letter, pretty girl, and ca-
ress your‘white dovel We’l see to-morrow who
holds the trump card i”

_

 

CHAIfTER IV.
THE MAID OF LAKE Vlllw.

STANDING at a distance of two miles from
Chessom's Pride, and situated in the prettiest
part of the village of Beechcrest, was it tiny
cottage, ornec, whose elegant grounds, laid out
in such delightful walks, arbors, dolls and glens,
where fountains played, and white statues
gleamed amid the vivid green of summer foli-
age, was the admiration and pride of the Beech-
crestians; while it possessed no less attractions
in the wintry season, when the snow lay in
vast, traekless sheets on the lawn, or piled up
in fantastic heaps on summer-houses, fqmtain-
beds and pedestals.

It was a gem of a )lace, and the house was
no less erfect, with its marble-floored corri-
dors an beautifully furnished rooms, where
all the elegant luxuries that money could buy,
or taste devise, had found places.

About the estate, as well as the lovely, soli-
taia; mistress of it, had ever hungr a mystery.

ho had bought Lakeview or who had uilt -
it, was not known to an inhabitant of Beech-
crest: all the facts that were known at all,
were patent to every one; and the only known
facts were these:

That Mr. and Mrs. Edward Grayson, the gen-
tleman and wife who lived at Lakeview 1n a
secluded sort of way for a dozen or so of years,
had died on a Euro wan tour: and that the
present proprictress, ruutiful Gussie Palliser,
was heiress and mistress.

Who she was, or from whence she had come,
no one knew; =ople only knew how beauti-
ful and gay am fashionable she was; and Law-
yer Alden pored for days over a pile of musty

pa rs.

'lzhen the fact went forth that Miss Gussie
Palliser was heiress of Lukeview and all the ac—
Companying colossal fortune.

It was no hard task for the young girl to
gather about her the rlifn of Beechcrest. Lake- ‘
view was thorourhly remodeled and fashiona—
bly refumished; Iiss Palliser established her
elegant little two-horse phaeton and dressed
her little colored _room in blue and silver livery;
gave a large, Sp endid party—and then knew
she was a success; second to none, even the
Chessoms of Chessom’s Pride, with whom she
was at once on terms of cordial intimacy.

But with all her shrewdness, Gussie Palliser
had made a grand mistake at the very outset of
her career; and yet she could not help it, for
the Fates had so ordained it.

She had fallen in love—hopelessly, irretrieva-
bly in love.

At first it had been a delightful flirtation;
then, when the affair began to assume serious
pro rtions, pretty, willful Gussie Palliser
mm e u ) her mind that life, even with all the
extraor inary inducements it offered her, would
be a waste, unless she was blessed with the love
of Ellis Dorrance. Possessed of a peculiar dis-

position, Gussie Palliser was a girl who would
not love easily, and as readily forget; with
her it was uecessaril y an affection of a lifetime;
an attachment formed never to be broken but
by some fearfully severe blow. \

Well. she had never heard of Florence Arbuth-

 

  

 

8

 

THE ‘WINGED MESSENGER.

 

not, so she gave herself up to the full‘enjoy-
ment of her dream, undisturbed by Vlsmns 0f
Dorrance’s disloyalty, feeling herself blessed
amen women because he had told her how he
loved er. He had sworn to her how precious
she was to him; and then, feeling secure be-
cause their stations in life lay so far apart, had
one direct to Florence Arbuthnot and sued for
er hand! ' '

He loved—if such selfish and unprinmpled
men can experience the emotion—I say he loved
sweet Florence far the best. To be sure, lllS
vanity was delicious] flattered by the prefer-
ence.shown him by ussie Palliser; and, Flor-
ence failing him, he was not adverse to marry
ing the other.

As far as the money was concerned, Florence
was, on that score, less acceptable in her lack of
riches than Gussie with her snug fortune.

And he loved Florence a thousand-fold the
best, he said, even as he walked up the circu
lar path that led to Lakeview, whose dozens of
lighted windows gave evidence of. Gussie’s own
bright presence. He went to her With lies on
his lips, while she wore a ring he had given her;
he kissed her for a welcome, wonderlng what
she would sa if she knew; and then like a reve-
lation it flas ed across him that he had been a
consummate fool to have gone to Chessom’s Pride
as he did, avowing his interest in Florence Ar-
buthnot, and Gussie going there so soon. when
she surely would learn all. But he consoled
himself with the thought that all might be de-
cided before Gussie went to Chessom’s l’ride. if
his plans worked, as he hoped they would work,
Florence would be his own before Arch Chessom
could tell Gussie of his perfldy.

And so intent were his thoughts, that more
than once Gussic tapped his check with her fan,
and offered a penny for his meditations.

CHAPTER V.
THE BEGINNING or WRATH.

Gnssm PALLISER never looked more regally
than she did that night; and Mr. Dorrancc, as
he noted the short, b'Oyish curls of sunny brown
hair that clustered around her shapely head, and
saw the dusky splendor of her black eyes as the
fairly scintillated with merrinu-nt, wondered i ,
beneath that gay, joyous exterior, was a heart
whose vengeance he would dread to encounter
when he proved false to her; and then he wished
he had never seen her, or else had never known
Florence Arbuthnot.

He bade her adieu early, and at the gate held
a hurried consultation with a rust y-looking man
awaiting him.

“ \Vell, Palmer, did she get the letter? Did
you see the man leave it?”

“With my own eyes; and if you want the
answer to it, the sooner you are on the grounds
the better.”

“ Then you hasten back, and if I am not there
in time, attend to it yourself.” "

Dorrance sauntered slowly along, not desiring
to attract even chance attention by undue haste

l
l
l

l
l

 

in leaving the grounds of Lakeview; so he'

lighted a cigar, and walked leisurely alon , all
unconscious of the presence of Gu>sie Pal iser,
as she followed him, ra idly walking to keep
pace with his longer stri es.

  

It had happened curiously, and yet the finger
of Fate Could be plainly discerned.

After Ellis Dorrance had bade her might
and had got as far as the fountain ussie sud-
denly remembered a message she had particu-
larly desired to tell him.

Snatchin a shawl from the hat-rack in the
corridor, s e had flown after him; there, just
where a large evergreen tree had inte osed be-
tween them she had heard the myste ous salu-
tations exchanged between Dorrance and the
stranger.

What was more natural than that her love
and jealousy should be outraged and inflamed
when she heard her betrothed husband discuss-
ing the subject of another lady’s receiving a
letter from him, and he awaiting the answer?

Gussie Palliser was a person of strong pas-
sions; one who could love as few women do, and
hate, despise, as well. ,

At first, as she heard the words that struck a
sickening chill to her heart, she had ex rienced
a pang of ony, because she loved [is Dor-
rance so we 1, and the thought of losing him
was death to her.

Then, as his cool, cautious tones continued,
she wondered who it was that had won him
from her.

So, when Dorrance walked on, her first im-
pulse was to stop him, and demand what she

new was her just right to know. But a sec-
ond’s thought told her to find out for herself,
and so she walked noiselessl y on, twenty yards
behind him, with wild fires surging in her
veins.

For a moment, as she gazed after his tall,
handsome figure, she verily behaved she want-
ed to kill him for his falseness; a keen desire to
punish him to the fullest extent of her power-
and her dark, clouded face wore a strange smile
as she thought how little he, or any one, knew
her power, the power a passionate, reckless,
jealous temper gives into its possessor’s hands.

It was a long walk from Lakeview to the end
of the village where Florence Arbuthnot lived;
and the snow was cold under her feet. ’

But Gussie kept on, never regarding the time,

or the distance—on] y wondering how Ellis Dor-
rance could be so treacherous; he, whom she
had exalted to a god among men; and com res-
sing her red li s as she thought how dear y he
should suffer 1' he had dared trifle with her.

At the corner Dorrance uickened his steps;
and then, when he had reac ed the sidewalk di-
rectly opposite the residence of the Arbuthnots,
he paused and steadily regarded the light win-
dows of Florence’s room. '

The moon was going down, but it was light;
per-bags on account of the snow; so that Gussie,

rom er post of jealous observation—a. tree-
box. just around the corner where she might
have stood in the broad sunlight and never have
been observed—could watch every lay of Dor-
rance’s features, as he gazed at t e learning
windows. Directly the gas was turn on; an
then Gussie saw a young girl come to the win-
dow, raise the sash and look out. Dorrance was
earnestl watching her, a half-audible exclama-
tion on as lips; and Gussie, her heart throbng

5 wildly, made up her mind that this fair-fa

'rl was the one who had robbed her of all she
old dear.

 

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER. 9

a

With as flashing like those of an enrafged
Begpardg, she suddenly stepped directlybe ore

rrance.

Anoath sprung to his lips; less from fear than
surprise to see her, face to face, her white trail-
ingalelvet dress lying whiter than the snow be-
nea t.

Her flaming eyes seemed almost as lurid] red
as the shawl she had flung around her; an her
face was pale as the ghostly moonlight.

“ Well, Ellis Dorrance?”

Her commonplace words cut him like a sword,
so‘fiéllmvgiere theyr of stingliing wrath.dbo t1

e, on nyours p an nne es,
so far from home? Why—Rem,

“ Don’t be fretting about me; don’t assume
what you do not feel. I ask you what doesthis
all mean?”

She raised her hand—and Ellis saw the flash
of the diamond ring he had sworn was his troth-
plight to her—toward Florence Arbuthnot’s
windows. For a moment Dorrance stood busily
searching for a plausible excuse; then, before
he could frame a sentence, Gussie spoke:

“Why need I desire you to explain! It is
enough that I am outraged, insu ted by the
affair; that {you are a rogue, a villain! Ellis
Dorrance, w at shall I do to you!”

Her passionateh angert 1aroused his own is;
angelic temper; e saw e game was up'
time had come of its own accord when dussie
must learn his perfidy; he would battle with an
adverse fate no longer.

“ Gussie Palliser, you count without our
host when you dare threaten me. Remem ra
man has a right to love whom he chooses; and
such fiery women as you do not often keep a
man’s heart after they have won it.”

“I have kept your heart till she won it; but
now, if a free gift I’d not accept it. Ellis Dor-
rance, I believe you are one of Satan’s
your way; when you least e ct it, you may
re t the treachery ou have s own me.”

he turned away rom him and retraced her
‘ , weary, chillin walk to her elegant home
wh e Dorrance, wit a half-curse that she had
detained him so long, hastened after Palmer.

The two watched from a distance until
Florence closed the sash a sin, then, while
Palmer went to his home, Elfis walked over to
the hotel op ite the Arbuthnots’ residence.

He secu a front room, and there he resolved
to await the gomg forth of the carrier-dove.

Early next morning, Palmer came, g
to revious ment: then he set forth on a
w toward hessom’s Lodge, where, at a con-
venient spot he was to capture the little memen-

r.
ge'l'here was not 10 to wait. The sun had just
arisen, when from h wmdow, peering through
the curtains, Ellis saw Florence send the dove
forth, with a little folded billet around its neck.
His face denoted the evil gladness of his heart
as he leisurely made exit from the side entrance
and walked along to his own rooms, where he
was to await Palmer.
An hour later Palmer returned, the dove safe
in an unsuspicious basket he carried and
Emnce’s daintily-worded note still attached to

 

“ Anon, dearest, I consent to your proposals. Let
it be to-morrow evening, between nine and ten,
when I will leave my room by means of some
strategy, even if I have to consent to promise my-
self to hat despicablewretch."

Dorrance felt a glow of wrath flush his dark
cheeks as be read.

“Now, Palmer, ou attend to the errands I
spoke of. Go to sabel first, remember; then
return to Norman street.”

The man Palmer obeyed; a look of im -
turbable stoniness on his hea , stolid face; t en
after he was out of sight of orrance he laugh-
ed coarsely.

“ I’m etting well paid for this job, but I
reckon e boss don’t suspect what’s at the bot-

tom of all m devotion. Polic , my gay Mr.-
almer

Dorrance—p0 'cy’s the word; or Jim
dolifi’g work as hard as this for anybody but him-
se .

He walked along, a self-satisfied in on his
ugly lips he glanced up at the dar 'ened win-
dows of Florence’s room.

“ My pretty little lady, it’s lucky you can
slee to-nigh ; for, if I am a judge, you’ll be
bro e of your rest to-morrow night, on two ac-
counts, seeing that I know the contents of your
love-letter as well as Dorrance dees.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE CAGED BIRD.

Tm: next day was one of uliar excitement
to Florence Arbuthnot. S e had sent her note
of acceptance to Arch Chessom, never of course
doubting but that he had received it; then,
after a restless night, she awoke, resolutely de-
Eermined to break the bonds that were fettering

er.

Florence’s childhood had not been made up
of those delightfully sacred confidences between
herself and mother; Mrs. Arbuthnot, though
proud of the girl’s beauty and style, had not
satisfied the young, craving heart With tender
demons tions of affection, and man were the
times orence had cried herself to s cc in her
younger days that she had no one to issher
good-night, or tuck her 11 in her crib.

Lattorly, when she be learned to depend on
other resources for her tliatyipiness she had very
natural] grown aliena from her parents in
heart, not in manner.

Often she had seriously wondered why her life
wasso barren of the sweet tenderness she saw
in other families; then, little by little ina mat-
ter-of-fact way, she had accustomed herself to
think she was not the child of Mr. and Mrs.
Arbuthnot.

Whose, then, was she?

Perhaps another person would have imagined
most romantic improbabiliti but Florence
su she was a charit c d, very likely:
an while she gave the rbuthnots rateful
thanks for their benevolence she inward y wish
ed she had been less favored in a worldly point
of view, and not so starved in her heart.

But, all in all, mother father, lover was
Arch Chessom to her; W 10111 the Arbuthnots
seemed to hate with a most venomous hatred,
while with unseemly determination, they

 

forced upon her the attentions of Ellis Dorrance'
which very asiduity, against her oft exp

I

 

  

 

10

wishes, was the latest, strongest proof to her !

that they were not her own parents, who would
care for her happiness above all things.

So it. had come to happen that there were few 3
of compunction or regret in Flor- l

feeling
ence’s eart that day, as she made her prepara~
tions for the evening.

She had her breakfast brought to her room:
and then, by

THE WIN ‘rED MESSENGER.

the maid, sent word to Mrs. Ar- ,

buthnot she would be down to lunch, according l

to the arrangement of the previous day, which
meant she was ready to comply with her de‘
mand to give Mr. Dorrance a satisfactory an~
swer.

With beaming face, Mrs. Arbnthnot hastened
to the room.

“I knew you would think better of it, Flor-
ence. Just remember his money, and the ele-
gant mansion he is building on Park Walk.
And he is so handsome. too, my dear!”

Florence had made ulp her mind to listen to
no eulogies on the gent eman’s behalf, and she
told the lady so.

“ I don’t want to hear a word about him, if
you please. I will see him at ten this evening;
not sooner.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot arched her brows in lady-
like amazement.

“ Ten o’clock! isn’t that very late?”

“Then or not at all, whichever you prefer,”
returned Florence, stitfly.

To which the lady assented, only too gladly,
through fear of the alternative.

“Let it be ten then, in the library. Your
father and I will be home till nine or there-
abouts, and then we’ve arranged to sta all
night With Mrs. Orman’s boy that‘s ill wit) the
scarlet fever. I would have been grieved to
have left you in your own room, Florence; as it
is, I am perfect y content that Ellis Dorrance
shall help you to pass an hour or two away.
Ann will be in the kitchen you know.”

Florence’s heart throble glad] . The house
to be deserted by her parents, an she left to go
out as she chose! She knew Mr. and Mrs. Ar-
buthnot would remain until they knew that
Dorrance had come.

Mrs. Arbuthnot left the room, to write a sum
mons to Dorrance to come at ten, as Florence
had relented, and would see him.

At his room, where he was lodging while the
house in Park Walk was bein erected, Dor-
rance’s letter was left by the vi] age carrier.

He came in, 'ust toward noon, after a round
of visits, to fln the letter; but not before Jim
Palmer had acquainted himself with the con-
tents.

Dorrance smiled, and tossed Mrs. Arbuthnot’s
note in the grate.

It was nearin the hour of eight o’clock, and
Florence, from er room up-stairs, heard Ellis
Dorrance’s voice in the parlor.

“ I came early on a business call, Mr. Arbuth-
not, and will retire in a half-hour, to return at
ten, to see Miss Florence—”

Then the door closed, and Florence, half vexed
that he should be under the same roof. half we
ultant as she thought how she would out tri-
um had him, want on with her dressing.

9 was very pretty with her pink-flushed
cheeks, and red, arching lips: very lovable with

 

 

the tender love—gl0w in her bright eyes as she
adjusted her dress before the toilet-glass, and
thought it was her wedding-dress.

To be sure it was all very different from the
dreams she had conjured u in earlier days
such dreams as all young gir s enjoy, yisions o
a trailing sheeny silken dress, with rich, creamy
lace learning mistly over it; the white, flowing
vail and by the inevitable orange blooms; the
white gloves, etc. And et arrayed in the
customary bridal attire, F orence would have
failed to look lovelier than she did in a silver
grey Irish poplin,trimmed with crescent folds
of arker satin. Her hair was flowing over her
shoulders and a narrow band of cherry velvet
held it off her face.

Lace cuffs and a collar, her watch and chain
completed her elegant attire, and then she sat
down and waited for Ellis Dorrance to go
away.

It was only a very few minutes before she
Seard his clear ringing voice at the parlor

oor.

“ Don’t trouble yourself to come to the front
door, it’s bitterly cold, Mrs. Arbuthnot. I think
I klrlioyy the way, I’ll be back by ten. Good-
ni t. .

9 went out alone, Florence knew by the
footsteps on the carpet. Then the front door
clOsed with a nick jerk.

She drew a reath of relief. “ I can scarcely
breathe when that man is in the house!” She
glanced impatiently at her watch that an-
nounced the timeto be half ast eight, and
then Mrs. Arbuthnot came in er room, bon-
neted cloaked and furred.

“ alter Orman is worse and we must not
lose a moment. Florence,” and she stepped
closely to the young girl’s chair, speaking in a
low, intense voxce, “Ellis Dorrance will be here
at ten, possibly earlier. I trust you to treat
him the same as if 1 were here. Ann will take
care to report. remember.”

A flush of anger reddened Florence’s face.

“I do not needa servant to sp me. When
I see Mr. Dorrance this evening, think Ishall
satisfy both you and him.”

The lady failed to notice the accented
“ when,” and the covert sneer in Florence’s tone
escaped her.

Yet her eyes shone with a steely gray glance
as she bade “ might.”

“I shall look for the ring on your finger in
the morning. when I return.”

“ You shall see the ring when you return.”

And a glad little flutter was in Florence’s
heart as she thought whose ring Mrs. Arbuth—
not would see.

But that lady marched away, wondering
whether Domnce had selected a solitaire or a
cluster.

The house was deathly still after Mr. and Mrs.
Arbuthnot had grzne; broken at intervals by the
{oily melody of Irish Ann and her bean in the

'itchen as they sung their old Erin songs, or
laughed at their own wit.

It was arriving near half-past nine, and in a.
fever of impatience, Florence began her final
pre tions. Her sacque, furs and dai

white felt jockey .were %ui(i:l‘ygu;:$s
cc .

the sound of carriage-w

Us

 

\

 

 

A. a;

,—‘-_.x. .. N- .....M ,

row ,

‘W _\

 

She ran to the windows, but too late to recog-
nize what she knew was the Chessom coach.
She drew on her kids, and then sat down for a

second before the grate to warm her feet. A1

feeling of strange, restful peace came OVcr her
as she realized how near the end was of all her
troubles- a sweet, almost solemn light came
floating into her eyes, and a smile was hovering
on her pretty lips at her own thoughts.

Then, she arose and turned to the door to go
out, down away from persecution to love and
ha ) iness forevermore.

1E lis Dorrance, smiling in malignant triumph,
was standing just inside, with the door shut and
locked, and the key in his hand.

A low, bitter cry came from her lips: a pallid
agony swept the light and joy off her face. She
involuntarily recoiled as her affrighted e es
rested upon him; then hot indignation quie 'ly
chased every other emotion before it.

“ What do you mean, sir? are you aware this
is in room?” Dorrance laughed lightly.

“ ’erfectly well. Are you aware I am an in-
vited guest?”

“ Not to this apartment. If you please we
will adjourn to the parlor.”

h She stepped to the door, but he intercepted

r

e .

"Thank you, no. Besides 'ou can not ct
through, for the door is lac ed. See!” le
sWung the key lightly before her.

A little shiver of fear ran through her frame.

“It is very like you; all rascals and villains
do the same! But in my home, I presume I am
mistress: either unlock that door or permit me
to. Otherwise I shall sound an alarm from the
Window.”

Her face was pale now, and she saw the fiend-
ish smile on Dorrance’s face that always sicken-
ed her so, as he stepped closely to her.

“ Do not attempt tomake a disturbance, or—”
and he drew the gold—mounted pistol from his
vest ket.

“ orence, I am in earnest. I am adesperate
man as you will learn. Now, Florence Arbuth-
not,’I came here to-night because you are all
ready to meet Archer Chessom on the corner of
Church street; you intend to bemarried at your
own pastor’s. ut—”

He paused to enjoy the blank amazement on
her face. How had he learned it?

“ But, Florence, I have said I loved you: I
have sworn an oath to make you mine; mine,
hark you, by fair means or foul. I have offer-
ed you the fair, and now I shall make you we-
ce t the alternative.”

is flashing eyes were burning into her face;
his words came slowly, forcibly, sternly; the
elegantlittle weapon he held with awful grace
in his hand. ,

And Florence, in a whirl of contending emo—
tions, terrified, an ered, wonder-stricken, stood
there face to face, ardl daring to breathe.

What should she do? Vhere was Archer, that
he was not there to help her? Would Ellis
Dorrance really shoot her if she screamed?

Then, while she was striving to decide what
plans to pursue, he stepped su dealy forward,
so near her she felt the flame of 1118 breath on
her cheek; she saw in a sin le second of horror,
that he took from a 5111 1 box a sponge; she

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER. 11

v

smelled the chloroform, she knew it Would ren-
der her insensible and she threw out her hands
to fight him off. It touched her Iips: she felt the
sickening sensation that pervades total insensi-
bility, and then—

POor Florencel

Ellis Dorrance was holdin her in his arms,
all unconscious, so beautifu, so fair, and his
pa3sionate eyes devoured her face in its rfect
contour, the shapely form, the daint ands
{1321's high BICth foot, in the small buttoned

 

(311 AFTER VII.
A WOMAN’S VENGEANCE.

“'ITH all his bad traits of character. no
molly. r could have been more gentle than Ellis
Dorrance was, as he placed the unconscious
form of Florence in the large easy rocking-chair,
and drew a hassock for her feet to rest upon.
Then he 0 ned her writing-desk and left there-
on anote 10 took from his pocket.

“I have gone with Arch Chessom. Escape
was the only alternative left me.”

It was n guarfect ae—simile of Florence’s chi-
rography, hat ha taken him hours to accom-
plish 'that day, with the interCepted letter tn
Chessom lying before him. To the note was
subscribed her name and Arch Chessom’s, writ-
ten in a large, bold hand, that the keen-headed,
cunning—handed plotter had practiced on as
well; his copy, a blue silken ribbon, he had
taken from the carrier-dove’a neck: that bore
the name of the owner in his own hand—writing,
written in a. golden bronze, indelible fluid.

This note Dorrance left on the desk where it
would be observed the moment one entered the

room.

Then he took Florence, and drew her vail
over her face; carried her gently, silently down
the stairs; at the door, fearful lest the cool night
air might revive her, he placed the sponge
closely to her month, while, with but one or
two steps he lifted her into the carriage that
Palmer had driven to the door—the earri e
Florence had heard While she was dressing. (fie
lifted her gt ntly in, and then followed.

“ Now, Palmer, in good fellow, to the
Haunted House as fee as the horses can carry

on.

y Palmer touched up the horses, that had been
impatiently pawing the crumbling snow-heaps-
down through the village streets they 
along, then out on the country road, past C es-
som’s Pride, where Arch sat in the lighted
library, wondering why Florence had been so
tardy in answering his letter: and giving him-
ielf as a. reason that she knew best when to write
1m.

He heard the rattle of the carriage as it dash-
ed by, and he glanced carelessly out at it, then
resumed his reading. If he had but known! Ah!
it we all but knew sometimes of the invisible
dan er or sorrows so near, yet so far!

E ' Dorrance’s dark face 1i hted with sar-
donic pride as he peered out at t e elegant man-
sion, and faintly discerned the form or Archby
the center-table, where the drop gas was burn-

m .
film Palmer’s sinister face wore a smile, too,
as he snccrcd to himself;

' a 

v.

. «cg,  I _
-—-‘-._‘~‘.

 

    

12

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

 

“I hate them both! I wonder which the
worst! And as I hate them, so do I love her.
Jim Palmer, body-servant to Mr. Ellis Dor-
rance, in love with Florence Arbuthnot, heiress
of— There, that secret shall not leave my lips,
even to the winds.”

He lashed the horses into a still madder gal-
lop, as if the Wild speed cooled his heated brain.

“Yes, I know the secret! and I’ll use it too!
But I’d love her none the less were she a milk-
maid. I Wonder who’ll win this race? that
blackguard inside this carriage, or dandiflod
youpg Chessom, back yonder? Or Jim Pulm-
eri"

His reverie was broken by Dorrance’s voice:

“ As quick as you can, Palmer; for I fear the
effects of the drug are wearing ofl’.”

“ l’ve only a quarter mile, sir; it’s all right.”

Up a dreary, stony road, where the snow had
dril'tcd off, the carriage was dragged through a
bleak lawn, and to the door of an immensely
large, dilapidated house.

With the same jealous care, Dorrance lifted
Florence from tho pillowed seat, and supported
her slight figure to the inner hall.

“ \Vaitamoment. Palmer, come to the fire,
and warm yourself. I’ll go back with you.”

Then he touched a bell that sat on the table.

A repulsive-faced black woman answered the
summons.

h “ Iiid your mistress come hither. At once, tell
er.

It was hardly a second when the door 0 n-
ed and a woman onto,de and came up to or-
rance: her bright, fiercely-handsome eyes stead-
ily regardin Florence.

“Isabel, t iis is she. Will you attendto her
as we arranged, at once?”

The woman was still intensely regarding Flor-
ence, whose faint, fluttering breath was coming
in little gas ing sobs; then, after a searching
glance at Pa mer. who was si ping hot rum be-
side the blazing flre, stolidly indifferent, appar-
ently. to whatever passed between the two, she
raised her eyes to Dorrance’s face.

“Tell me truly, Ellis, before I touch her: is
the story you told me true, that she is an heir-
ess you want to get rid of for a friend? or—”
and here the low, clear, ringing voice took in a
defiant intenseness that fairly challenged him
for the answer—“or, is it another one whom
vou think you love? Remember. Ellis, though
I’ve sworn toscrve you, and stand by you, 1
can not brook this.”

She laid her nervous, brunette hand on his
sleeve; he met her glance bravely, while a reas-
éuring smile broke over his handsome, wicked

ace.

“ I told you the truth, Isabel. This girl must
be kept hidden, for a while at least, as I ex-
plained last night. 'She is nothing to me, nor
ever can be. How could she be, when my peer-
less Isabel lives?”

How tenderly he caressed her; how enchant-
ingly her dark face lighted up under his
smile!

“ But, Isabel, I fancy she will tell You strange
things you will not believe them, i know, be-
cause Ideny them beforehand. Besides, I am
sure the tal'and I administered has turned her

 

l again 1”

brain somewhat. See to her, Isabel. and I will
return to-morrow at the same hour.”

Then, just as Florence opened her e es in a.
frightened, dazed sort of way, and Pa mer set
down his rum—glass, Ellis Dorrance clasped Isa-
bel about the waist, and kissed her.

Palmer chuckled, and Florence gave a little
pitiful cry, as the door closed on the men.

Isabel reached out her hand, in a winning,
tender way.

“ What is it? You are not afraid of me?”

“ No, but of him! Where am I? where has he
brought me? Oh Arch! Arch! will no one
come to me? Won’t you please let me go
home?”

She gras d Isabel’s two hands with her own
daintily-ki ded ones; her eyes, wild and wide-
opened, pleading more forcibly than her lips.
11““,7hy should you desire to go home, Miss

( a— ’

“ Ida 1’ My name is not Idal it is Florence——
Florence Arbuthnot I”

Isabel smiled indulgently.

“I fear you are mi>taken, my dear; Mr. Don-

rance distinctly told me you were a Miss Ida ,

Glenville.”

Florence felt the net tightening around her; a
horrible apprehension of danger came sweeping
over her.

“ It is false—false as his own black sou]! In-
deed, on my solemnest, sacredest word, I am
Florence Arbuthnot; I was to marry Mr. Ches-
som this very night; and Ellis Dorranoe, the
vile monster, came to my bedroom, and swore I
should be his. Then—yes, I have been under
the influence of some spell, I know—I awoke to
find myself here.”

She gazed around her with pitiful, saddened

gaze.

“ Well, for the present, you are safe and well.
Let me show you your room; it is newly
eleven.”

“I do not wish to retire. I will remain

here.”
“ No Mary!” called Isabel, just raising her
voice. “ Assist Miss Ida to her room.”

There was a tone of stem, decisive resolve in
that smooth, ladylike order: and Florence felt
how utterly helpless she was. The negress re-
spectfully opened the door, and Isabel wished
her a good-night.

There was no choice left; and with heavy
ste , and aching heart, she trod the echoing
ha s, guiltless of covering; the creaking, trem-
bling stairs, up flight after flight, till it seemed
she was mounting the clouds.

Mary stopfied before a door that she un.
locked, and t en preceded her in.

“ It ain’t as nice as it mi ht be, Miss Idy—”

But Florence sunk on er knees the tears
streaming from her eyes, as she clutched the
gown of the. ugly woman.

“ h don’t call me that; it’s not my name—
please believe mel Let me go out, and see
what I’ll give you!”

She piled her rings, her watch and chain, her
bracelets and portemonnaie, in Mary’s hands,
in a fever of eagerness.

“ There! there! now show me the wav down-
stairs! Come, before that Dorrance me

,-._p.—.._- 5_

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THE WINGED MESSENGER. 1?}

She caught the negress by the arm, to drag
her to the door.

Then, seeing her hesitate, and concluding the
temptation was not strong enough, Florence
matched off her elegant furs.

“ Take these too, if you will I and Pi] exchange
dresses with ou. Take all I’ve got, only let
me get away ”

Just then the dark, brilliant face of the Itali-
enne looked over Mary’s shoulder.

“ Ca’rry Miss Glenville’s trinkets to my room,

ary.

Then, when Florence had turned away in hit-
ter disappointment, Isabel went up to her, and
laid herlittle hand on her shoulder.

“ Miss Ida, you may as well be content to re‘
main where you are. Here Mr. Dorrance
brought you, for reasons best known to himself,
and here you will remain until he sees fit to re-
move you.”

Tben she, too, followed Mary, and poor Flor-
ence heard the key grate as it turned in the
rust lock.

“ erciful Heaven! what shall I do?”

Then as thought crowded on thought, her
strength gave way again, and she slid softly
down on the carpeted floor, in a deep fainting
condition.

Down the four-flights of stairs, in the large,
gloomy well-warmed but dimly-lighted dining-
room, sabel Lefevre sat besxde the fire, her
hands idly crossed on her knees, her black eyes
gazing dreamin in the fire. Around her hand-
some, full-cut lips a. peculiar expression was
creeping: one of thoughtfulness mingled with
distrust, jealousy and uncertainty.

Her face seldom proved an index of the
thoughts within, but to—ni rht, when she knew
that no human eye was on 1er, she suffered full

lay to the boldly handsome, expressive fea-

ures; and her tiny brown hands folded and un-
folded as she sat there.

“Am I to believe him, or not? Does he care
for her? I would murder her in her sleep if I
thought he did!”

Then the eyes flashed and flamed like those of
Gussie Palliser.

A rap at the door; a loud, peremptory sum-
mons startled her; and Mary, nappin over the
kitchen fire, sprung to her feet in sud! en alarm,
for a knock at the door of the Haunted House
was an occurrence as rare as snow in May. And
at that hour, tool

Isabel bnde Mary answer; they had no cause
for fear. and so the negress opened the door.

A clear, high, girlish voice it was, who in-
quired for the mistress of the house.

Mary stood dumbfounded, but. the midnight
caller, whose horses s impatiently waiting
at the gate, walked t her into the room,
where sat Isabel, stern y indignant. .

“ I beg a thousand pardons for this untimely
intrusion, but you will overlook it when you
learn the cause. I am Miss Palliser; Gussie, if
you choose.”

She smiled frankly, and extended her hand;
then a rigid frown, dark as the midnight shad-

_ ows chased it away.

“ I saw Ellis Dorranee bring her here; I fol-
lowed them from the very door; I haye watch—
ed him ever since I discovered his pei'hdy to me,

 

 

i and I know he and his pretty Florence Arbuth-

not left her home together. Where is she?”

Isabel Lefevre stood like a statue, her hands
clenched in a silent desperateness.

“ What has Ellis Dormnce to do with you?”

A shudder ere t over Gussie’s frame.

“ He never w 1 be more to me againl
his betrothed wife a week ago.”

“ WHAT?”

Isabel grasped her arm in a sudden impulse of
wrath.

“ What do you tell me? you engaged to marry
Ellis Dorrance; this girl, they called her lda,
gda’. Glenville, one of his loves-what then am

‘9

I was

She raised her voice to a pitch almost of
frenzy: and Gussie’s face saddened as she gazed
at the storm of passion on the beautiful dark
face.

“ Are you a victim of his treachery, too?
Then let us be friends.”

But Isabel never moved a finger; she stood
gazing into Gussie’s itying face.

“ You do not love im as 1 do, or you’d never
pear it so indifferently,” she said, after a si-

ence.

“ You forget it is two days since I learned his
falsity.”

“Two days!” she repeated, contemptuously,
“as if two a es can ever lessen this blow to me.
Falsel Ellis orrance false to me, ME!”

She paced to and fro, her breath coming in
quick jerks; then she ured out a wine-glass of
strong rum, and dran it.

“Don’t be frightened, Miss Palliser; the only
effect will be to strengthen m nerves.”

For a few moments she wal 'ed slowly to and
fro; then used directly before Gussie.

“ Miss alliser, I have decided to unish this
man for the wrongs he has done. hate him
now more than I loved him an hour ago. More
than that, I hate that girl of his upstairs.”

“So do I: and that is why I came here. Not
that I dreamed of your existence. but because I
11013?de see her, and tell her all I am burning
to o

“ And I am this moment started on my track
of vengeance. I shall strike him first through
her, because he loves her.”

She shivered as she said it.

“ I am with on; tell me what I can do, and I
will do it. I ave money, and you may need

“All I ask at resent is rfect cautiousness
and Secrecy. V hen I nee you, I will send for
you. .

“At Lakeview, in Beechcrest.”

With no further adieu, this strange inter-
view ended, and the strange women parted;
Gussie to return triumphantly home, Isabel
Lefevre to seek the high nest where Florence
Arbuthnot was confined.

_.....

CHAPTER VIII.
DIAMOND cur DIAMOND.

FLORENCE had not moved since she had fallen
in the fainting swoon; and Isabel Lefevre, as
she stooped over the unConscious gr], could not
but admire the air of ueenly grace about her,
as, divested of all the e egant trifles that so on-

 

  

’

 

14 THE WINGED

hance a woman’s beauty, she lay there, pale,
fair as some Parian slctnetm.

“And he loves her! Ellis, my own Ellis,
loves this girl! Ah! my fingers burn to destroy

the life he loves sol To think those lips have re— ‘

ceived his kisses, and given them in returnl
these eyes lanced into his love-lit ones—girl!
girl! I coul murder you where you 1a l”

She laid her quivering fingers on I‘lorence’s
white throat, then withdrew them as though
the touch poisoned her.

“ And you came here with a lie on your false
lips—you learned your lesson well from so skill-
ful a master—you came, thinking to blind me
by our consummate acting; but the vail of de-
ccp ion has been rent in twain; the mask has
fallen from a face I never would have believed
was so black; and in the fall yours has been dis-
pla 'ed. You love him, ou know you do;
an}, you can’t help it; but ow I hate you for
it!

She lifted the long, shining hair, half-jealous-
ly, half—savagely.

“ Ah! to spoil your beauty, to rob him of you
--—therel what demon suggested the thought?”

Her face suddenly lighted up; she flew down
the stairs with flushin cheeks and starry eyes.

“I have itl I have it! Now, Ellis Dorrance,
you shall feel the weight of my hand.”

Swiftly and silently she returned; locked the
door after her, and sat down on the floor beside
Florence.

First she cautiously applied a sponge well sat-
urated with ether to Florence‘s face.

“ She may revive otherwise. Now, an hour
will effect wondrous changes.”

Deftly her fingers unrobed the unconscious
form: then, from a bottle, she applied a dark
stain to Florence’s skin; transforming her from
a. lily white lo a bright dark—brown.

Instead of replacing her own clothes, Isabel
clad her in a. shabby cotton suit of underwear,
and a flimsy morning calico dress.

The finger-nails Were dyed and out very close-
ly; her brows and lashes stained to a jetty
black; and the glorious hair, that Archer Ches-
som so loved, was cut short to her head, colored
inky-black, and curled, by some liquid prepara—
tion, into tight kinks.

Still she lay, like a broken reed, all uncon-
scious of the fatality in store. for her. while the
jealous woman gloatcd over her double revenge;

MESSEN ’rER;

 

It was so terribly sug estive of the fate Ellis
, Dorrance had prophesie to her if, she refused to
marry him.

And still it was so vague.

What was his object in this metamorphosis?
1 What would he gain by it?

And then, of a sudden, she missed her hair.

She raised her hands to her head, and felt the
short, crispy curls.

The hot blood boiled madly in her veins; grief
and terror struggled for the ascendancy neither
gained.

She strove to gain egress from the apartment
but in vain; and it was high noon when Isabel
came to her, her dinner on a plate.

Florence almost dragged her to the floor in
her passionate attempts to take hold of her
hands, and her tears streamed over her strange,
wild eyes, that, only co izant of the madness
in her own breast, iaile to notice the stern pal-
lor on her jailer’s features, or the cold, steely
gleam of the bright, pitiless eyes.

“ Idal what does this mean 5”

“ Idal” cried Florence, passionately. “I am
not ‘Ida.’ Who has done this thing, this ac-
cursed thing? Who dared do it?”

A low, unmusical laugh issued from Isabel’s
mouth.

“Do what, child? besides, I am in a hurry
for you to eat; I shall discharge Mary, and
take '01: on my tour to England in her place,
as la '25 maid.”

“ ‘England I’ ‘lady’s maid!’ surely I am in
some horrid nightmare! Wake mel wake me!
or I shall die from fri ht!”

“ Nonsense, Ida. Eat your dinner.”

fl “ I ,will not eat! I will starve myself to death
rstl’

“ No ou won’t. Listen, while I tell you what
I shall o—what you shall do. ”

Isabel sat down on the side of the bed; her
face still wearing that merciless look it had
taken when Gussie Palliser had revealed Ellis
Dorrance’s treachery.

“1 shall not call you Ida during this inter-
view, because no one knows better than I that
you are really Florence Arbuthnot. There—
sit quietly down while I finish my story.

“A week or less a o, Dorrance came to me
and arranged for da Glenville, an heiress,
who was to be ‘put out of the way,’ to (some

 

on poor innocent Florence, for loving Ellis Dor-
rance; on Dorrance, for loving Florence: for
Isabel had never, even in thought, admitted the
idea of any one’s being loved by Ellis Dorrance, :
and not loving in return.

It was just midnight when she had entered ,
Florence’s room: the gray tints of a winter’s
dawn were streaking the blue-black, star-sprin-
kled east when she departed.

Florence slept long and heavily, and the sun
at nine o’clock found her just awakening from
her unnatural exhausting slumber.

The moment she opened her eyes she observed
the change of garments.

She sprung to her feet in a sudden passion of ‘
alarm; and then she saw the hue of hands and :
arms. . '

A shriek burst from her lips; and another, 1
followed by a series of low, wailing moans. 1

here, and be closely guarded b me, the only
one, besides Jim Palmer, his vafet, who knows
the secret.

“ Trusting‘him as I ever had done, I believed
his story; never dreaming he loved you, too,
until I saw how very prett you were, and
then I suspected at once. e denied any re-

ard for you, as you have done for him: but he
ied, for another of his sweethearts came to me,
urged b her Jealous cspiona re, and laid bare
his treb e-dye blackness of mint. You may
think I was wild to believe her, a perfect
stranger, but, mind you, I had been led to doubt
him the moment 1 saw on.

“Well, Florence Ar uthnot, you shall not
im ose upon me. You have endeavored to
ma 0 me think you don’t care for him: you

retend—and I know by his instructions—you

ear him; and I am going to do just the very

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Worst thing I can do. I am going to take you
at your word.

“You were asbeautiful a girl as ever I saw ,

when you entered the Haunted House last
night; ut Ellis Dorrance will not be so proud
of you when he sees you again. I have sworn
to reVenge myself on him, and because I hate
you on his account, I shall use you to accom-
plish my ends. See there!”

She suddenly thrust a hand-mirror before
Florence’s e es. A wild peal of terror fell from
her li s as t e reflection met her gaze.

“ ave pity on me! I will swear by all that
is sacred on earth and in heaven that I despise
Ellis Dorrance more than you do! I swear to
you on mv knees that I am engaged to marry
another— r. Arch Chessom, who lives near
Beechcrest. Send to him; oh, let Mary go bring
him, and he will give you all the money ou
warit for me! Believe me—pray, pray, believe
me

Isabel smiled grimly.

" Believe you! well, perhaps I do, b at it’s all
the same. 9 is false to me, and I am resolved
to strike a blow home to him, while I have the
opportunity. ”

‘ Think now you loved him, and remember I
love Mr. Chessom 'ust as well! Please send for
him, and he can tel you how I fear and hate
Mr. Dorrance.”

“ I am not acquainted with this Mr. Chessom;
why should I be, when I have only been a week
in this locality? I only came when he tele—

aphed me that he wanted me; the Haun d

ouse is only occupied a few weeks in t e
shooting season, when he brings his friends out.
If it Will gratify you to knew where we are,
yonder lS Beechcrest, three miles distant. The
nearest house is a very elegant one they call
some one’s Pride.”

Florence sprung to the window; truly the
tower of Chessom s Pride was not a mile off.

“And it is Arch’s home! I must go from
here. I will go!”

“ I shall be so to use force to subdue you.
The whole story ’es in a word, namely: that
I know you never a ain as Florence; from this
moment you are da, my quadroon servant
girl. To-morrow we leave this house, b car-
riage to New York, to take the first nglish
steamer. Attempt to disobey my instructions,
and, believe me, will not hesitate to kill you—
not to bring trouble to myself, mind you—but
there are poisons, and poisonous inhalations,
and we jealous Italians often use them, acc1~
dentally, you know. They leave no trace
behind. ’ .

Florence shuddered at the low, homble tone,
so musical in its fearful earnestness. ‘

What could she do? a prisoner and threatened
with death if she dared disobey.

There was no possible choice; life was very
precious and there remained a chance of escape
in New York, where she would tell her story to
the very first man she saw on the streets—it
mi ht be Arch.

bel seemed to fathom her very thoughts,
for she said:

“ Telling your story will be useless, for I shall
take good care to spread the report wherever I
go, that you are an intelligent, harmless luna-

 

THE IVINGED MESSENGER. 15

 

tic, whose vagaries alter: the present being
that ou are a certain Miss Ai'buthnot; and, re-
mem 1', even your own mother would not
know you.

Poor Florence! the darkness was very dense
around her.

 

CHAPTER IX.
THE ALARM.

Mn. and Mrs. Arbutlmot had returned from
their friendly vigil several hours earlier than
they expected; and, anxious as was the lady to
congratulate Florence on her engagement With
Ellis Dorrance, she did not disturb that young
lady’s slumbers; deciding that undue haste
mi ht strengthen the suspicious already strong
as (gleath.

Breakfast was just over, and still Florence
had not come down, when Ellis Dorranoe was
announced.

He was very stern, almost angry, in his de-
meanor.

“ Mr. Arbuthnot, madame, I have intruded
thus early to demand the reason of m fruitless
waitin last night. I spent an hour in the par-
lor wit iout seeing your daughter. May I beg
an interview this morning?”

Mrs. Arbuthnot rose from her chair in speech-
less wonder.

“Not see her!” echoed her husband, in a be-
wildered way. “ Why didn’t you see her?”

“That is the question I came to have an-
swered.”

“Not {06 her!” repeated Mrs. Arbuthnot.
“That is stran e! I will summon her down at
once. No I wil go myself to her room.”

She walked uickly u the stairs, and tapped
on the door of ‘loreuee s apartment. Only per—
fect silence answered her; she rapped more
loudl , and a little impatiently; then called:

“ lorence, never mmd if you’re not dressed.
I wish to come in.” '

She waited a second, then opened the door,

partly vexed, partly surprised at the long de—
a .
a; cry burst from her lips as she saw the bed
had been unused: the square, ruffled illows
where they had lain in smooth state all t e pre-
ceding da .

Then she glanced alfrightcdly around the
room, and saw the note.

She clutched it eagerly, and read it through,
a red, intense flame seeming to come from her
eyes, and a gray, deathly paleness creeping
around her lips.

With no audible word she turned and went
down-stairs, and silently laid the paper before
the two men.

Arbuthnot snatched it, and read it aloud.

“The deuce! the—the—what does it mean,
anyhow? Dorrance, look at that!”

Ellis took it, and then laid it down again, as
he snoke:

“ This is what I have feared, expected—”

“Heavens, man! how can you stand still
there, knowing she has gone with that rascal
I hate above ground? How can on coolly say
you ‘feared’ and ‘expected?’ \ hy don’t you
start off, post-haste, and find ’em? If I catch
him. the villain!”

 

  

Mrs. Arbuthnot stood, still pallid and trem- ,
blin , by the hastily-vacated breakfast-table.

“ rsuit will be useless, I fear,” she said, at ‘
length. “But, Mr. Arbuthnot, go at once to?
Chessom’s Pride, and acquaint the family.
Possibly they may have heard him mention
Where he was goin .”

Her eyes glittered coldly as she gave her di-
rections.

“What will be the good?” asked Dorrance,
gloomily. “They are married doubtless, ere
his, and he can protect his w' e. If they are
not—well, I’m sure I shouldn’t care to—”

“Hold on!" shouted Arbuthnot,hotl . “Look
out what you say about that girl! ghe is as
good and pure as the falling snow, whatever
she does.”

“I’ll remember, sir. Also, allow me to jog
your memory regarding the fact of your sworn
oath that she should be mine. How am I to
look upon that now i”

There was coming a dangerous light in Dor-
rance’s eyes, a certain expression that Mr.
Arbuthnot never liked; and he aled under it.

“ How could I keep it, Ellis? aven’t I work-
ed for you to the best of my ability? and now,
when she has fooled you as well as me, am I to
blame?"

“ I think so; a father should have taken bet-
ter care of his only daughter. ”

Arbuthnot reddened angrily.

“Be careful, Ellis, how you speak. Remem-
ber it is not too late yet to—you know what.
Besides, ou can’t afford to give her u yet. If
you lose or after all these years, it’ll a more
serious loss than if we never had undertaken the

me.”

“ Mr. Arbuthnot we will not discuss that

int; it was settled when she was a child that

was to have her, to end the little difficulty I
got into. We will still adhere to that opinion.

shall go on a tour of discovery myself—by the
by, she is under age.”

Mr. Arbuthnot’s face lightened as he replied:

“ I had forgotten that. Yes, she can be
brought home: and, Ellis, the ve best thing
you can do is to start right off. on’t forget

he interest you have at stake.”

He spoke in a confidential, meaning voice.

“ I’m off, then.”

Dorrance bowed to the two, and hastened oft,
a smile of utter triumph on his face as he went
throu h the streets. Mr. Arbuthnot went out
imme iatel after, direct to Chessem’s Pride.

Beautiful y fair it was in the early morning
sunshine, its inmates all unconscious of the
storm about to break upon their heads.

Arch was preparing to ride to the village, to
learn why Florence had not written to him; he
had fully resolved to o to her home and de-
mand an interview, w en Mr. Arbuthnot was
shown into the morning breakfast-room, where
the family had not as yet assembled. Arch was
astonished, yet extended his hand with easy
cerdiality.

“ Mr. Arbuthnot I am glad to see you. Will ,

you take a chair? Ilave ou breakfasted‘i"
But the man refused he oifered hand, with
hot anger in his face.
“ Don’t insult me!

I demand to know where :

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

she is; where have you left her, since I am as«
tonished at seeing you here?”

“ Where is who—you can mean but one, and
that is your daughter. Do you not know your-
self, sir?”

Consternation and alarm were visible on
Chessom’s face, and he searchineg scanned the
man’s countenance.

“ Do I know?” be repeated, bitterly. “ I wish
to Heaven I did know! And on have the
impudenee to ask me such a qu on. Answer

me, at once; where have you taken my 'rl?”
‘ I have not seen her for a fortnight. don’t
know what you mean, uni forbid 1—-

danger has come to her through that buck-
hearted scoundrel, Dorrancel”

Arbuthnot reddened.

“ A scoundrel, eh? Not half so much as your-
self I But all [ want to know is, where’s Flo-
rence? I will have an answer, or you shall be
arrested within an hour!”

Arch paled; it was a stingin insult; but his
alarm for Florence overpowe all other feel-

in .

g‘shir. Arbuthnot, I wish I knew. Until this
moment I su posed she was at home.”

Mr. Arbut not handed him the forged letter.

“Look at that, will you?”

1_ An exclamation of surprise burst from Arch’s
IDS-

“ I am mystified! Florence never wrote
that! and certain it is I never signed it. Depend
upon it. sir, there’s foul play somewhere.
suspect Dorrance.”

‘ And I know it’s you. Dorrance left my
house not an hour ago, as thoroughly crushed
and heart-broken as a man can be And you,
here, in your fine house, can dare tell me on
don’t know where you have taken my dang ter
to! Sir, the law shall com lyou to tell! and
I’ll have a policeman here fore the noon."

Arch hit his lip to keep back the angry

words.

“ I am as trul wounded and enraged as you
can be, sir for love Florence dearl . But all
Icansayihave said; allIcando lbedone
to find her.”

There was excitement in Arch Chessom’s
handsome face that only the more convinced
Mr. Arbuthnot of his guilt; and then when
Arch bade him good-mornin and beg to be
excused, so keen was his a arm on orence’s
Ext, Mr. Arbuthnot’s wrath was greater than

ore.

“ You refuse to tell me, sir; you reqth me
to go home; but all of this can’t convince me
you are not the greatest rogue out of jail.”

And he went out, trembling in his ventious-
ness.

CHAPTER X.
men mm T0 HAWK.

Amn Isabel Lefevre had so cruel! and.

known her intentions to Florence, she eft her »

alone to comgl‘ete the preparation for her has-
tilé decided 'p for England.
ad it been ible, Babel would not have

gene that do. , or two reasons. One of which
was. she d

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THE WINGED MESSENGER.

err-

other, a burning disposition to hurl Ellis Dor-
rance’s rudeness in his face. .

So she packed her trunks, sent Mary With a
message to Lakeview for Gussie Palliser to call
next noon, and then waited for the mtemew
with Don ance.

Once before dusk she went up to Florence,
and left a light, with her su per. .

Slowly the evenin pa awa to the tem-
fled girl, and when t e distant c ock at Beech-
crest struck out nine slow distinct strokes, it
seemed to her a very death- nell.

She dared not slee ; she dared not partake of
the food Isabel had left her; so she sat by the
high window, looking down on the far-off twink-
ling lights of Beec crest, wondering whether
all hope and joy and happiness was over for
her forever.

Utter mise was in possession of her heart,
‘3 “he 813 , shivering] , over the re ulsive
disguise Isabel had wroug t, and thoug t how
her wayowas hedged closely up. Yet she re-
solved proclaim the truth in New York city,
let the consequences be what they might.

Suddenly a slight noise smote er ear. Then
a low, can ious rap on her door was followed by
the pronouncing of her name, in a strange,
kind voice.

“ ' Arbuthnot! Miss Florence 1”

She sprung tqher feet in a sudden delirium

° 3:...

“ in. I am unable to open the door.
But come in and save me, I pra .’

“ I have come to save on, Florence. I
am your friend, and  Chessom’s. He dis-
covered your whereabouts and sent me to res
one you. The carriage waits just below the
house.”

“Godbless you! I am all ready—but how
can I come out? Can’t you break the door?”

“ I can, but the noise will reach Miss Lefevre’s
ears. Is there no way to come out? No win-
dow opening on a balcony?”

Florence eagerly examined the windows.
There was none, and in returning despair, she
felt the tears springing to her eyes.

“I see no way,” s c said, presently, plaintive-
ly; “and if you saw me, you might not know
me for I am dressed in most horrid clothes,
and the Italian woman has colored my skin
brown.”

'An indignant cry fell from the stranger’s

laPillow dare she! Never fear, Miss Florence,
but that I’ll know you; your voice is natural, at
least.”

Then, after a moment’s silence, he suddenly
exclaimed:

“The ventilator, over the door! You can
climb up by the table—have you onel—or the
bureau or a washstand; you can creep through,
and I will catch you.”

Alive only to he one absorbing hope of es-
mpe Florence eagerly drag ed the light pine
chest of draWers underneath he door, and lifted
the one chair upon it.

There was room for her to climb to the wide
dusty open space, and with her eager, wistful
eyes she looked down upon her rescuer.
 be.frightened, Mi- Flomnoe, you’ll

 

17

In a second she had dropped down in Jim
Palmer’s outstretched arms.

“ Oh thank you! thank you! let us hurry out
as quickly as we can. Do you know the way!
Donavon t ink any one hears us?”

ey were silently descendin the stairs.

“ No,” was his Whispered rep y. “ I will ex-
plain after we get clear of the house.”

At the lower ball he nervously opened the
door, and they walked out into the fresh night
air, and Florence thought never was life so
sweet before.

Jim Palmer lifted her into the carriage and
wra the blankets carefully around her.

“ r. Chessom would never forgive me if you
can ht a cold.”

“ arling Archer.”

And her eyes lighted up in a fond, aflection-
ate low.

“ e’s a fine young man, sure enough, Miss
Florence, and very nearly wild at your disap—
pearance. It was only to—day he learned of
your whereabouts.”

“How, Mr. Palmer, how?” she asked, ea-

gerly.
Palmer shook his head.
“ That is more than I know, you see. I sup-
he’ll tell you all about it when you get to
hessom’s Pride.”
go to Chessom’s Pride?”

A delicious little smile played on her lips.

“ So he said, b the back road, for fear they’d
miss you at the unted House, and be sure to
follow on the main turnpike. It’s a little fur-
ther and lonelier, but that don’t signify. ”

“ Chessom’s Pride l” repeated Florence half«
caressingly, as the carriage dashed on; then to
Mr. Palmer: -

“If I onl could
m facean hairbe oreIseehi .

l1:.lmle13rlcfiid pgifli answelr for a second; then he
s e, a -a ogetica y:

p?‘ I s’pose my old aunt’s house on the lank
road’d be too far for you to go? You mig t (it
up there a little, and borrow a dress of my
cousin Kate.”

“ I wish I could! Would it take very long?”

Her eyes were piercing thou h the keen dark-
ness, but she could not see his ace.

“ An hour, about; but I wouldn’t mind that
if you think Mr. Chessom Wouldn’t. On] I
don’t quite like to take a lady like you to sue a
poor place.”

Florence laughed' the first merriment that
she had indulged in in all those awful hours.

“As if I cared! Besides, Mr. Palmer, your
kindness entirely overbalances their poverty.
wish {Ion would drive around that We .”

right! it’s just as you say, 'ss Flor-

t this disfiguring dye from
m

H
mm.”
He urged the horses into a faster trot, and the
ca ' dashed along, bearing Florence every
secon nearer and nearer to a yawning pit.
And Jim Palmer, smiling under his rou h fur
fir), cleirruped to the horses and chuck ed to
mse

“ M lucky star is in the ascendantl Poor in-
nocen child, to believe m trumped-up story!
Aunt and cousin Kate! all, I’ve got her, at
any rate!” ,

 

M,.~ ,

Jl

 

 

CHAPTER XI.
V THE EMPTY ROOM.

TRUE to his word, Ellis Dorrance came to the
lHaunted House that evening at the appointed
iour.

Mary admitted him to Isabel’s resence at
once, who aWaitcd him with a know edge in her

heart illy calculated to render his call as delight~ ,

ful as he had anticipated.

He had been congratulating himself the past
few hours on the bold coup d stat he had con-
summated; Florence Arbuthnot a prisoner un~
der the surveillance of her fiery-hearted rival,
Isabel Lefevre. Perhaps the only drawback
to the wicked leasure he enjoyed was the
knowledge that ussie Palliser and he were en-
emies.

In the very depths of his soul he was sorry it
was so; for, try as he might to persuade himself
to the contrary, and pretend he cared nothing
for it, it was a disagreeable disappointment to
Ellis Dorrance to be so suddenly deprived of
Gussie’s charming sociei. , espeCially when he
realized the manner in w iich she had become
possessed of his secret, that he had guarded so
carefully from her, and still intended to pre-
serve until it suited him to divulge it.

So, all that day. he had chided himself for his
cluinsiness in permitting Gussie to learn of her
rival, and of his foolishness in not healing the
breach immediately it was made; and he went
to Isabel Lefcvre, fully determined after an in-
terview with her risoner, to seek Gussie and
effect a reconciliation. The moment he entered
Isabel’s presence, he experienced a sensation
that told him there was evil brewing; a second
glance at her dark, gloomy face and eyes,
where a hidden iire smoldered, assured him of
it: he thought Florence had prevailed upon her
to believe what was the truth.

“Isabel, you have no word of welcome? It
is the first time you ever withheld a kiss and a
caress.”

Her lip curled contemptuously.

“ And it is the last. Miss Arbuthnot can pos-
sibly accommodate you.”

She looked him steadily in the face, smiling
when she saw the look of amazement oversprea
his features.

“ ‘Miss Arbuthnotl’ Who is she?”

Then lsahel laughed' a low, musical sound,
that somehow made fiox‘ranoe feel that the
ground under his feet was sliding.

“ There is no need of any more childish mas-

uerading. I certainly know, as well as you,
t at the young lady up-stairs is Florence Ar-
buthnot, whom you abducted from her room an
hour or so before you brought her here.”

A tense line gathered around Dorrance’s lips,
but he never flinched under the smiling, sardon-
ic, defiantly-triumphant eyes that were piercing
him through and t rough.

“ It is a lie,” he said, slowly.

“ Granted that you sometimes indulge in the
little preVarications yourself, Ellis, we will
leave the disputed question. Su I were
to tell you you have been darkly digit) me?”

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

“ Ah! but you would not darel Look at me,
i and see if I am in earnest.”

And her flashing, scornful eyes were lurid in
their gleaming wrath.

She sudden y sprung from her chair, where
she had been indolently reclining, as one might
imagine a leopardess crouching for a sudden,
violent attack.

. “I am in earnest; you have dared whisper
love words to other women—this pretty Flor-
} ence, and another, a dark-faced beaut , whose
iname I kn0w. You dared do thisw en you
i thought 1 would not know it; and, because for
l months you have succeeded, you have grown
, foolhardy in your triumphs, and was childish
l enough to bring her here, thinking to blind my
[ eyes’because I have erst~time trusted and loved
you.
i Dorrance was dismayed at this outburst, and
‘ he was wondering how he could best refute
what she said; but she began again, more
wrathful than before.

“ I tell you on have awakened a very devil
in my heart! on have trifled with one who
will not brook such an outragel I shall mete
out to you your own reward, Ellis Dorrance.
You are in my hands, this very moment, to be
used as I see fit.”

A contemptuous laugh—he regretted the next
moment—issued from his lips. .

“You are beside yourself, Isabel! I know
not what ideas you have in that pretty little
head of yours; I only know you are talking
sheerest nonsense. Call Mary to show me to
Ida’s room.”

“ No, sir. ‘Ida ’ is no less a myth than ‘ Flo-
rence.’ The beautiful, graceful girl you left
here twent ~four hours ago is no more.’

He whee ed sharply around.

“What do you mean? Have you dared to
kill her? Isabel! answer me before I strike you
down!”

He was deathly pale, and his eyes were in-
tensely black in their anger.

She waved him off.

“Have you never heard of we hot-hearted
Italiennes killing our rivals .l”

“If you have, by -—-«, I’ll murder you, you
woman!”

He strode fiercely to the hall door, but her
little firm hand arrested him.

“ Hark, Ellis Dorrancel Last night, when I
learned of your treble perfidy, I voWed a vow
before high Heaven, to be avenged. This gir
gen think you love; his girl was in my power.

0, Ellis Dorrance, throng her I have touched
1/014. I have made of her a mulatto girl, whom
her own mother, or even you, would not recog-
nize. I shall take her on a foreign tour—whore
iyou need not know—as my maid. I havo told

er I would shoot her, or poison her, if she at-
, tempts to escape: she is mine, and you dare not
i prove who she is!”

l The ringing triumph in her voice was ma’d—

 

i dening to the man who stood listening to her ,

i defiant tones. .
His complexion grew more deathly pale; his

The suppressed rage in her stormy face, under eyes were hisuifernbly brilliant in their concen-

her low, even tones, was disagreeable even to
Ellis Dorrance, so bold in his badness.
“I should answer as I answered before.”

trated glare; his hands were .trem bling from
the horrible rage that was in his son]; when he
spoke, his voice was low and husky.


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“Isabel! lead me to her at once; and, as sure
as there is a God in the Heavens above us, you
shall suffer for this—if it be true! I doubt every
word you say.”

“ As ou p ease. Perhaps, when you see, you
will be ievef” .

She led the Way up the stairs her fingers
clasping a tiny stiletto in her pocket; she was
on her uard.

But His was only thinking of Florence; Isa—
bel would dare the deed, he'knew, despite what
he had said. If she had, how could he regain
her without exposin himself !

He ound his teet in a paroxysm of rage,
as Isa I turned the key and opened the door.

It pushed heavily, as if something was stand
ing against it. _

A second effort, and they stood within—an
em ty room!-

metliing like a howl of supremest wrath
came from Dorrance’s lips. _

“ You have done this, you fiendl you lying
traitress l”

But Isabel, with whitened cheeks and parted
lips, was standing in blank amaze at the Signs
of confusion in the room,

“As I hope for niezcy, I did not know she
was gonel” And when Dorrance saw her face
he was constrained to believe her.

He pushed roughly past her; ran down the
stairs and intc the room for his hat and gloves,
then dashed out into the dark night, with un-
Epeakable thoughts flying madly through his

rain.

“ It is ’Jhessom’s doings! curses eternal light
on him!“

 

CHAPTER XII.
on, now NEAR.

Ir. Ellis Dorranee and Isabel Lefevre were
stupcfled and stunned by finding the room
vacant Florence Arbntlinot was no less so
when she alighted from the carriage and entered
the roadside cabin.

There was but one room, and it was desolate
of human presence, almost of any signs of there
ever having been a resident in it.

She turned to Jim Palmer With atroubled,
inquiring gaze.

‘ I thought you Said we should find your re-
latives here?”

“ Did I? Really I don’t remember what I did
say; only I know I haven’t a relative in the
world.”

He shut and barred the floor as he spoke.

\Vith a sick apprehension rushing over her soul,
Florence turned to him.

“ Why then did you bring me here, Mr.
Palmer ” ‘

But the wild, hunted look in her eyes told she
had suspected the truth.

“ Because I think you are just the prettiest,
finest girl ashore, and I pitied you in that fourth-
story room.”

“ And I am entrapped! Oh, God help me
and save me!”

“No use praying so lon as you can touch
bottom, you know iss orence. You don’t
think I’m going to kill you now, do out”

MESSENGER. 19

 

where the rays of the lantern Palmer had set on
a rude table, Ix-nelraicd the most.

Her lips were quivering, her heart frozen
with despair and terror.

Palmer leaned nonchalantly against the door,
locking satisfiedly at her.

“ It’s not so snug a place as I have seen to be
sure, but there’s the advantage of the lonely
road, where a traveler dosen’t pass once a fort-
night.”

She trembled at the illvconcealed triumph in
his tone.

“ But, Mr. Palmer, why should you detain
me? I’m sure I never harmed you, by word or
deed to make you my enemy; and your friend,
Mr. Chessom, will never forgive this of you.”

“ ‘ My friend, Mr. Chessom !‘ that is rich! Why,
my pretty Flo’, I never haVe spoken a word to
the young aristocrat of Chessom’s Pride in my
life. That was all gammon, you know, manu-
factured expressly for the occasion.”

Florence grew deathly sick and horrified, and
barelv murmured the question:

“Who are you, then? why did you take me
from there?”

“ Because, when I drove you up from your
house in Mr. Dorrance’s carriage. I made in.
my mind you were too good for him, or Ches-
som, either; just about suited to ine, in in“.
So I followed that lllllUk‘OyCd witch lip-stairs to
your room; came down when I saw where she

at you, and removed one of the front door
e s from the ring, so I might let myself in.”
Vith dilating eves Florence listened.

“ But Flo’, my beauty, you didn’t know I had
known you these years back? You didn’t know
I entered Ellis Dorrancc‘s service only because
I knew he was going to try for you, and I there-
by would have a better chance? Bless on, my
girl, I have been looking forward to his hour

or ten years. Then, above all, I love you;
more than Dorrancc can or Cliessmn does.”

A furtive glanco at him thrilled Florence with
awful dread.

What was she to do? alone with this man, at
midnight, with a heavy oaken liar keeping her
from liberty? She lowered her head and pray-
ed; only such a prayer as one in dircst peril
could frame.

Palmer came over the rude, uncarpeted floor
to her side.

“ Florence, will you love me? I am not rich,
I am not good, I know. But I am good enough
to love you.”

She rose from her chair, the tears falling from
her eyes as she laid her two hands on his arm.

“Oh, ltlr. Palmer! think again of it! Just
place your sister, if over you had one, or Your
own dead mother in my place! And then izivc
pity on me, and take me to my friends. Your
conscience surely tells you what you ought to
do.”

“It does, my sweet, graceful pleaderl it tells
me to take you for my own foreVer!”

A itiful cry came from her lips, as she. buried
her ace in her hands, her wild sobs bursting
from her agonizcd licai-t. _

Palmer gazed at her in silent admiration a.

 

She had retreated to the far end 0 the room.

moment. ' x
“ I will tell you what I’ll do, Florence. I Will

 

 

  

20

 

come on the morrow evening; provided you
will give me a kiss before I go.” i

He laid his hand on her shoulder; she shrunk ,
awa from the touch.

“ ust as you say, Florence. Give me a kiss, I
and I’ll go. Refuse, and—”

She sprung almost wildly to her feet.

“You’ll go right away? You’ll promise it?”

“ Right away; I romiso it.”

She raised her ace, and touched his cheek
llghtl with her lips; then pointed to the door.

“ ow, lease go.”

“That delicious kiss tempts me to stay, but
I’ll keep in word to so fair 0. girl. Au rmroirl”

He van ted through a wmdow, and then
pushed a. heavy shutter against it, locking it
with a huge bolt on the outside.

Florence heard the noise of the carriage as
the wheels crunched on the snow, and then she
crouched down in a. corner near the fire that
blazed on the hearth.

A plentiful supply of fuel lay piled in the
chimney-corner; a loaf of bread, a late of but-
tor and a pitcher of milk stood on t 1e table; and
she saw she was secured from physical discom-
fort at least.

A sensation of relief came to her as she
thought she might yet escape before the mor-
row night; she ate heartily of the bread and
butter and drank of the sweet, rich milk, and a.
feeling almost of buoyancy came over her when
she had finished, for it was the first mouthful
that had passed her lips since the eventful night.

Then, tired yet strengthened, she fell asleep;
never waking until the broad daylight was
streaming through the circular loopholes of the
hu 9 wooden shutters.

breakfast like the supper, and then, a tour
of investigation. '

Hopef ly she set about her work, almost con-
fident she u ould somehow succeed in escaping;
trving the shutters, doors, and sounding the
solid wooden walls.

Then, when fatigued, but not discouraged,
she climbed up on t 0 table to peek out through
the little round window.

It did look lonesome, the little patch of land-
sca she could see; the road, piled u with un-
trogden snow, where the one track to (1 her how
truly Palmer had ‘said travel was very untre-
quent; his tracks were the on] ones on the
broad white expanse glistening in the morning
sunlight.

A eeling of utter desolation stole over her as
she looked out, wondering why all this trouble
was sent upon her; wondering what Arch must
think; wondering where he was.

A sound of merril tinkling bells came of a
sudden upon her ears, me by acurrent of wind;
a wild, new hope sprung up in her heart; she
felt the blood dancing through her veins as the
iovous noise came nearer and nearer.

Oh! if she could but scream, could but attract
the attention of that Heaven sent passer-by!

Nearer came the sleigh; slower asit approach.
ed the huge drifts before the door of the cabin,
and Florence could see it now.

A shrill scream burst from her li .

The occupant was Arch Chess-om

leave you here to—night, safely guarded, and

 

He glanced up at the house as he caught the

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

 

faint sound, then, apparently regarding it a

Wind-moan, turned away.

Florence with her heart beating to an agoniz-
ing furv, her eyes almost starting from her
head called hoarsely to him; her voice deadened
by t 1e thick walls, until it was a mere articu-
late moan when it reached him.

He was going on; what could she do? what
ghould she do, with salvation so near and yet so

ar?

Frantically she thrust out her hand and waved
it; and then when Arch sprung from the sleigh
Ehle grew giddy from the excitement, reeled an

e 1.

Ever alive to the idea that she whom he
sought was somewhere near him, Archer when
he caught a momentary glimpse of a hand
thrust from the hole, fe t a wild thrill of hope
that it, perchance, might be Florence; and yet
as he plunged through the snow, he could not
but think ow foolish was such a thought, for,
of course, Dorrance would find a gilded prison
for his bird.

He was on his wa then to the city, and it
being a better read or sleighing, and desiring
to bring back several parcels for his mothen, he
had gone in the sleigh instead of the train. He
had ample time, however, to ate a moment
and indulge the wild curiosity in his soul.

The door was moveless; but, all of the shut-
ters being fastened on the outside with huge iron
bolts, ingress was a matter of comparative case.

He leaped through one of the windows, and
approached the prostrate figure; a pang of dis-

pointment, at which he was vexed, thrilled
his breast when he saw the dirty room, the shab-
bily-attired negro girl, with unkempt kinky
hair, lying on the floor.

He touched her, spoke to her, looked at her,
and was about to turn away, when his better
nature told him the person was sufferin , in
some way or other, else why the signal evi ent«
ly of distress—and this deep, death-like faint?

Then, with acourage and nobility few men
possess, be determined to take her in his sleigh
to the nearest house, wherever it might be, or
whosesoever it was, for attention.

With Arch Chessom to will was to do.

He lifted the figure in his arms, and laid her
on the floor of the sleigh, with a who ever and
under her.

If he had known if he had but heard her
voice as Palmer had done! but Fate was not to
be appeased just then; the wicked was “ to
flourish as a green ha tree ” yet longer before
the inevitable downfa 1 came.

So he drove on, watching for a house.

It was not twent minutes’ gallo , before the
forbidding walls 0 the Haunted ouse loomed

up.

He turned his horses’ heads up the avenue,
and drove round to the side entrance.

Mary came to the door.

“It is a half-frozen colored girl I picked up.
You can warm her and feed her, can’t you i”

He gave her a bill, and Mary turned dowu the
buffalo-robe.

“ Brass my stars! of it ain’t dat Ida l”

“ 1 am lad you know her. Take her in with
you; an give Mr, Chessom’s compliment»: to

 

 

 

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THE WINGED MESSENGER.

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the master or the house, whOm Ihave not the
pleasure of knowing.

He drove 01!, w 19 Mary, her wrinkled red
face all smiles carried poor, unconscious or-
ence m, and laid her down on the kitchen
lounge.

“It’s a pity missus hab gone! but 1’“ keep
her anyhowl Maybe de boss giv me sumthin’. ’

CHAPTER XIII.
THE LOST BIRD.

FIRED with rage, Ellis Dorrance had re-7
turned to Beechcrest, bewailin his luck, and
cursing the hour he had left F orence’s pretty
face lead him on.

‘ What if it had been lanned years ago, when
Blorenoe was a child, that he was to be her hus-
band? 'What if it was true, that unless she be-
came his Wlfe if certain affairs became known,
he was liable to imprisonment?

He had been goaded into it first by selfish-
net-3s;5 then when 1e began to admire orence’s

ret face, and had seen her evident dislike
or b In. his pride and willfulness had led him
on and on—to this!

Away down in his heart he disliked Isabel
Letevre; and on] to his own thoughts did he
Whisper he truly oved Gussie Palliser, bright,
Winsome Gussie Palliser, whom he loved now
better than before.

He had plenty of time to think of all these
things as he walked rapidly toward the vil-
lage; a among them was the resolve to
se a r oncfliation with Gussie. He knew

 

she was of a jealous, passionate 'tion,
and that he must be wary if he wan to suc-

How to effect this was a question -of doubt;
only a clean confession, and a humble apology
would serve her. .

Would she see him? He doubted it, and the
as he entered his room, he bethought him tha
Gussm must be on her visit to the Chessoms
about now; there she would learn that Archer
Chessom really loved Florence, and so she might
be inclined to forgive him what he intended to

_ e lain plausibly.

.ut how communicate with her? Chessom’s
Pride was not open to him; a personal inter-
VIew, even 1f granted, would be too hasty, too
fiery. He would write, then; there was the
beautiful white carrier-pigeon in the cage he
had placed it.

Its wing was nearly healed: it would fly
straight to Chessom’s Pride; there was a ro—
mance about such a messenger that Gussie
could not withstand.

He rung the bell for Palmer to ascertain
Whether or not Gussie had gone to Chessom’s
Pnde; but Palmer was not within call, and not
until an hour and a half later did he return,

from a visit to his aunt.”

He was strangely jubilant, but Dorrance did
not observe it.

“Jim, that Chessom’s been too much for

 Usl he’s spirited her away from the Haunted

HOW.”

Palmer opened his eyes in the most amazed
manner.

“ No! Mr. Dorrance, I can’t believe it.”

“ And that Italienne is as bad as he is.” went

 

21

on Dorrance. “She ri ged her up a la mu-
latta, so she as. s, never reaming that Chessom
was going to 1i rate her! so if you come across
anfi such—” '

e paused significantly.

“I understand: onl , Mr. Dorrance, I am
about to change In gusiness. I am so to
leave your employ, ut I think it best to leave
America, and join n1 relatiVes in England.”

A look of dismay s ladowed Dorrance’s face.

“I don’t see how I can spare you, Palmer.
You’ve been faithful—~”

“ And I‘ll ever keep secret what I know. De-
pend on that, Mr. Dorrance.”

“ If you could do me one more favor, J im?”

“ Anything in m power that can be done be-
fore to-morrow, a six. I shall leave Beech-
crest then, forever. ”

Dorrance unfolded a roll of notes.

“Here is what is due you. New Jim, find
out whether Miss Palliser is at Lakeview or
Chessoni’s Pride.”

When Palmer had said good-ni ht, or ood-
morning, rather, for it was near t iree o’c ock
Dorrance wrote a letter to GUSSie, a letter that
such a man knew so well how to write, one that
in the fervor of its earnestness, intensity of pas-
sion, tenderly regsfiul apologies, was well cal‘
culated to appea the heart, however estrang-
ed of the woman who had once loved him.

'i‘he gray shades of daydawn were looming
up amon the faint shining stars. when Dor-
rance se ed and directed the envelope to Miss
Gussie Palliser, Chessom’s Pride.

Early that forenoon, Palmer brought the de-
sired information that Gussie had gone to Ches-
som’s Pride that mornin and that Arch Ches-

som had one to New ork for a day or so,
probably onger, to seek additional aid in find-
ing gloorenoe.

on see Mr. Chessom is as ignorant of her
,whereaiouts as you are, Mr. Dorrance.”

Ellis was surprised beyond measure, and he
frowned darkly.

“Then it is the work of that Jezebel! I’ll
dispatch this at once, and go to the Haunted
House. If there is anythin in my p0wer to
do toward extorting a con ession, it shall be
done.”

The_rays of the sun were streaming athwart
the Window, when Ellis threw it open to admit
the fresh, ure air.

Onthe s11] still in its cage, perched the car-
rier dove, whiter than the snow itself, its gentle
eyes beaming brightly among the ure lumage.

The same blue ribbon Florence rbu hnot had
tied to its slender neck still hung there, and to
it Ellis Dorrance attached the letter.

He softly care$ed the downy white feathers,
us he held it in his hand, the missivo on \. nich
so much depended swin 'ng from its throat.

“Amazing stupidity?” if the fact of this
dove returning to Chessom’s Pride, bearing a
letter from me, will not at once reveal m

agency in the Arbuthnot affair! Fool that
am! Ah, furies and—”
Well might be exclaim in that s tone, for

the bird had flown from hisgrasp, an was soar-
in up into the clear, cold air.

expression of im tent ove
his face. and he reachedpg'anticlallg after 1

read

 

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2‘2 THE \VIN GED MESSENGER.

 

“ Curses alight on my doltish foolishness!
The Fates or the Furies are in league with that
bird, and it is a sign I am to be thwarted in the
end.”

Then, after a moment’s gaze at the white
speck floating up, off and away,'he dashed the
window down and struck his clenched fist on the
table.

“Thwarted! no! not if I wade through blood
to victory. And now, for Isabel l"

 

CHAPTER XIV.
LOST.

FOR several hours Florence Arbuthnot lay in
a succession of faintingspells, and it was not
until toward noon that she became aware of
her condition and whereabouts. She remem-
bered how she had hailed Arch as he passed by;
she reeollected the dizziness and illness she had
experienced; after that all was a blank until
she saw Mary’s face bending over her.

She essnyed to rise, but discovered she was
very much prostrated.

“ Where’s Mr. Chessom? where is the gentle—
man who got out of the sleigh at that cabin?"
Her sharp, eager voice, her face all aglow with
feverish earnestness, met a decided cooling from
Marv. /

“()h, he’s gone long ago. He left him com-
reliiments fur do mas‘er, and gi’ me a ten-dollar
greenback to fetch ye around all s uar’, honey.”

“ He brought me here, then? am left me with
you? h-lrh-h; I comprehend! he didn’t know
me in this disguise! O 1, Mary! Mary! you are
a woman! you have a woman 3 heart! Do help
me get this off, and show me the way homel
The gentleman will give you ten times that
money, if you will.”

Mary folded and unfolded the precious money
thoughtfully.

“ Dunno what Miss Isabel say to dat! Ye see
she’s gone down into do village to see a pusson,
and, jest like’s not she’ll take a notion to trabbel
to Eur-ape afore I see hide or hare 0’ her again.
She’s so cur‘us, Miss Isabel is, no countin’ on
her at all.”

“But you know I’m white don’t on? for
you saw me; you believe I am Miss Ar uthnot,
don’t you?"

Mary laughed, not ill-naturedly, at Flor-
ence’s nervous quostion.

“To be sure I does: ’cause, you see, Miss
Is’bel she tells me just afore she went.”

Florence caught her arm tightly.

“Give me water, then, to wash this nasty
stuff off. ct me my clothes again, Mary, and
you shall eep the jewelry. Mr. Chessom will
reward you, besides.”

“ Ef I thought M im Is’bel ’d stay away—”

“She will I know. Besides, Mary, if she
should come m, I’ll hide anywhere you tell me!
Please, dear, kind Moray!”

“ S‘pose new, first 0 , you know, you tell me
who tooked you off last night?”

There was a little gleam in the nerress’s eyes.

“Indeed, I‘ll tell you an thing! It was that

, wicked Mr. Palmer, that rives Mr. Dorrance’s

(ax-rings; he said he had come from Mr. Ches-
sinu, the gentleman who brought me here, so I
was glad enough to escape. But be deceived

 

me; and oh, Mary! you never can know all I
have endured in one little week! If Mr. Ches-
som, in the oodness of his heart had not res-
cued me, I on’t know what would have hap-
penedl Now you’ll wash me off, and let me have
my dress, won't you?”

She smiled brightly into the old woman’s
face, that relaxed at its sweet winsomeness de-
spite the homel brown skin.

“ Well. well, dunno as it ken hurt anybody.
Only, it Miss Is’bel comes—”

“Yes, yes; I know! Newforsoap and hot
water.”

A long, hard hour’s work was necesary be-
fore Florence was herself again; then she attired
herself in a gray dress, with its lace ruilles, her
own, pretty graceful self; prettier, if possible.
with her short hair curling in loose tendrils all
over her head and on her white forehead.

She sat dewn in Isabel’s cushioned arm-chair,
Wondering how to get home. To walk was sim-
ply impomible; the unshoveled snow lay knee-
dee a ong the road, and the day was windy
an intensely cold. She fully recognized the
folly of attempting it.

Carriages seldom passed that way: but she
determined that the very first should be sig-
naled; unless she could prevail upon Mary to go
to the village and procure aid.

This however, she found utterly impossible
to d0' Mar would not stir from the house until
Miss lsabe came or sent; besides, knowing as
she did, with her natural shrewdness, Dor-
rance’s affair with Florence, she was resolved
to retain the irl there until he or Isabel came.

It was not tor long; just as the sun was goin
down, Ellis Dorrance came up to the door, wit
a pa r in his hand.

“ flags from  Isabel, Mary; I was coming
to see her when the telegraph messenger gave
me this for ca. She will not condescend to
notify me of er comings and goings.”

It was a telegram telling Mary to stay at the
HeuntedHouse as long as she wished; after to
return to the old place; she (Isabel) would sail
for England the next day, per Albion, for an
indefinite time.

Isabel had not given her reasons for the sud-
den step: and, as it removes her from our story,
we will explain. She had gone to Lakeview to
tell Gussie Palliser of Florence’s sudden disap-
pearance; had learned that Gussievwas visiting,

or a time, at Chessom’s Pride.

Thus disappointed of communicating with
Gussie, although she left a. sealed note marked

“ private,” she had gone by train to New York; ‘

partly on business of her own, partly from a
conviction that Dormnce had _en Florence
secretly away, and that they might posszbly
pro se a tour to England.

S e resolved toexamine the lists of entered
passengers on several leading steamships; to her
anger and wrath, she found on one the name—
“ r. James Palmer and lad

1’
Knowing Palmer to be in the secret employ of .

Dorrance, she instantly sup Florence to be
the “lady,” and her own faithless lover the en-
tleman who had borrowed his valet de cham re’s
name. With exultant triumph she secured o.
state-room, registered an assumed name; made
a few necessarily hasty prepalzations, andwent

 

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.m .4. aw,” ‘ * ,,

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER. ' 23

 

aboard the Albion; determined to keep closely
to her state-room until they were fairly at sea;
and then confront him with the truth she knew
he feared and dreaded; the truth she had sworn
never to reveal, but which now, she justly de-
cided, was due herself to tell.

She telegraphed the last thing before she went
on board. It is needless to state her vexation,
disappointment, or chagrin, to learn, when
miles and miles away, that she was thwarted.

A fortnight later, and the news rung through
both continents: the Albion was burned at sea,
and not a soul left to tell the story.

Florence heard Dorrance’s voice in the other
room, which he had entered before Mary could
give the w arning she would have done, had not
the surprise of t e telegram driven all thoughts
of Florence from her mind.

Her first impulse was to fly anywhere—any-
where from he hated presence; she obeyed that
sudden intention, and, with wild eyes, s run
toward the door just as a large, white han wit
a costly ring gleaming on its finger, arrested
her flight.

“ Can it be ssible? Is it really true I am
vouchsafed this great pleasure? Florence, come
back!”

‘ S‘l‘)? turned on him a. proud, yet beseeching
00

“Mr. Dorrance, have I not been persecuted
enough?”

“ When I left you here, Florence, I solemnly
assure you I had no idea of what was to befall
you before we meta in. What intervened be—
tween that night an this I know nothing of,
except it was the work of a ealous woman.”

Florence had never seen him so thorou hly in
earnest; and yet she was afraid to trustiim.

“Where you have been I know not; will you
tell me?”

“I do not know myself ; I only know the name
of the man who took me in the carriage and lock-
ed me in thedreary, lonely cabin. I think you
know him, Mr. Dorrance, for ‘ birds of a feather
flock together.’ His name is Palmer.”

Dorrance s rung from the chair, an oath on
his li . “ T e rascal! the villainous liarl So
that is why he wished to leave my service to-
day, is it? Leaves Beechcrest for England at
six to-night, hey?”

He paced to and fro in the long room, with a

. countenance expressive of the rage in his

heart.

“ It Seems I am not the only one who admires
your pretty face. Florence, how did you es-
ca from the cabin l”

orence raised her head haughtily.

“I refer not to talk further on the subject,
Mr. orrance. I have only to ask that you
will take me home at once.”

A loud, incredulous laugh answered her.

“ That is an admirable piece of eifrontery!
Do on think I shall relinquish my prize assoon
as have re ained it?”

She le a little but her answer was firm

and un aunted.

“Then I shall go myself. Mr. Dorrance, I
tell you there will be no use of endeavorng to
persuade me to be your wife; an imprisonment
of twenty years would not change my mind.

 

To save. trouble, you may as well let me go first
as last.”

Dorrance gazed admirineg at her flushed,
eager face, with its red, Slal‘ted lips, and duskily
flashing eyes. He waitet seVeral minutes in re-
s .ctful silence, and Florence thought he was
a ml; to relent, when he said:

“ Upon my word, Florence, you are prettier
than ever with your hair short!”

Florence turned sadly away to the window,
her 1i 5 quivering. Dorrance followed her.

“ orence, 1 will tell you what I am going to
do. This house shall be 'our home; Mary shall
be your servant; I will he lord and slave: and
you will be mistress. But, Florence, it will.
necessarily be a prison-house because you will
not accede to my wishes. So content yourself,
Florence, as best you can. I will bring you
books and music, clothes and—”

She confronted him with her bright, flashing
e es.
y“How dare. you? How dare. you?” and she
stamped her foot, an ily. “ To injury you add
insult! Not an artic e will I touch from your
hands, unlem it be food to keep me in stren th
to defy you! A point me my prison-cell, E lis
Dorrance, and will go to it. I will live in it
and die in it, with the Sweet consciousness that
I will not be bought or coerced by such a villain
as you! These are my terms.”

A little, impertinent laugh came tantalizineg
from his lips.

“ Captives do not dictate terms, you know."

Then he called to Mary to spread supper n r
them, and Florence, fearing lest he might dru
her victuaJs, was glad to partake of the Sflnlt‘
food he ate.

Gradually the dusk drew on, and after lamps
had been lighted, Dorrance drew an easy-chair
and the light oval table nearer the fire.

He took the afternoon’s aper from his over-
coat-i ocket, and ensconced imself cosin in the
genial warmth and light to read.

Florence drew frigidly hack in the shadowy
corner, her proud, pale face gleaming in the
darkness like some rare marble statue; her
eyes, covered by the long, droopin lashes, filled
with the mud, indignant tears s e would not
sufler to all.

Mary was at work in her kitchen; the win-
dows and doors were fast closed and locked, and
Florence thought how inexprcssibly lonely and
still it was.

She wondered if Arch would go back home
by the same route, or had he already one, and
left her behind to grope about in t e awful
darkness that had come upon her?

Of Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot she scarce thought
at all, and yet she could not help wondering how
they regarded her absence; if they knew how
it had ha nod, and were seeking for her.

Dear rchl how disfigured she must have
teen that his loving eyes did not recognize her;
she knew her voice would have done what her
altered face could not. All the horrors of the
past night came vividly before her, and she
was forced to acknowledge that it was better
as it was; for there was creature comfort here,
at ' the Haunted House and a woman besides
herself.

.-

. . , » v . , . . ..

 

24

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

 

Then a sudden imperious summons made her
sprin from her chair, part in alarm, more in
wild ope that rescue had come.

Dorrance dashed down the paper, and wheel-
ed sharply around, his face pale with an awful
fear that Florence 3 friends were on his track.

Then, when Mary had opened the door, Jim
Palmer sprung in! And the door closed again.

 

CHAPTER XV.
SHOWING HIS mm.

11' was with feelings of inexpressible exulta-
tion that Jim Palmer made his preparations be
fore oing after Florence at the cabin.

He ad been paid up by Dorrance. and with
his monefy1 he had gone to New York, secured
passage the Albion, purchased an ele ant
outfit of clothing for Florence, and then ired
a coach and horses.

Himself attired in garments of the finest ma’
terial and best maker, he had gone alone to the
place in which he had left her.

Tying his horses, he had hurried to the door,
marveling at the want of light gleaming be-
tween the chinks.

He unbolted the Window nearest the back of y

the cabin not noticing the front one that Arch
Chessom had unfastened; jumped through, and
then struck a light.

T fire had burned out hours before, and a
chilly shiver seized him as he strode to the mid-
dle of the room.

A second’s surveillance betrayed the fact that
Florence had escaped

Chagrined and enraged, he sat down a. mo-
ment to collect his thoughts.

“It was not Dorrance’s work,” he reasoned,
“because Dorrance had been at home nearly
all da with him. It was Isabel’s, that black-
haire witch at the Haunted House!”

No sooner had he arrived at that conclusion
than he returned to the carriage, turned his
horses’ heads toward the Haunted House, and

gallo on.

W d thoughts were afloat in his brain as he
rattled along; he would compel Isabel to give
Florence up, under pain of revealing her crim-
inality in transforming Florence from white to

ac

He had arranged the mode of word attack,
and when he sprun from the carriage, a little
distance from the ouse, he concluded to act
strongly on the oflensive from the first.

Thus he strode to the door, and knocked de-

cidedly.

To his utter su rise, be confronted Ellis Dor-
rance, when he d so surely hoped to meet
Isabel Lefevre.

Fora moment he was confounded; then, re-
collecting that Dorrance did not know of his
escapade with Florence Arbuthnot, he resolved
to put a bold face on, and manufacture the
most plausible excuse he could, for his sudden,
evidently unwonted appearance.

On the other side, Dorrance, who was infinite-
ly relieved when he saw who the intruder was,
having feared so much more, determined at once
to make known to Palmer his acquaintance
with his actions.

Palmer did not observe Florence. who had

 

shrinkineg retired to the most dark, distant
corner. '

“ Well, you are not 03 for England, I see?”

Dorrance’s tone was full of cuttin irony,
that only a knowledge of the secret of a other
could give.

“ Not at; I forgot an im rtant bit of news
I heard t is afternoon, and ve up to tell you,‘
since I did not find you at our boardin -house.
Miss Palliser has returned om Chessom s Pride,
an — ’

A hot flush came to Dorrance’s cheeks; it was
not agreeable to him that Florence should hear
what was probably coming: so he interrupted
Palmer.

“ Yes, exactly. By the way, Jim where
were you last 11 ght about eleven o’clock! from
then on until after two?”

He stared wrathfully at Palmer, who return-
ed it with interest.

“ I do not know that I am in duty bound to
answer any such questions.”

“ When you take it upon yourseif to interfere
in m private arrangements, and turn traitor
to t e one you pretend to serve, I think I
have” the rig t to demand an answer from
on.

Palmer knew then that, by some mysterious
agency, Dorrance knew his villainy; and he in-
stantli resolved to fight for every inch of
groun

Dorrance’s face w darker and stormier,
then he burst forth n a torrent of 'on:

“ Wh did on assist Florence rbuthnot to
escape rem t is house? Why did on conve
her to that lonely cabin on the S n Roa ?
Whyydid you leave her there a guarded pris-
oner

His tones were intensely bitter.

Palmer looked coolly at him, his light gray
eyes almost white in their glare.

“For the same reason you took her from her
home several nights ago.’ .

hoarse, sarcastic laugh came from Dor-

rance.
“ Good! then you perhaps imagined the young
lady was in love with you ’
“ Perhaps so; at any rate, I was in love with
r

“You dare to aspire to her hand! Jim
Palmer—”

Palmer smiled with supreme indtflerence.

“Do you know who I am?" he asked, car‘-

lessl .

“lyought to, after being yourmasterforyears
and ears.”

“ ominally, yes; but, after all, Dorrance, it
is I whom am master. I could enlighten our
bewildered understandin on several sub ts
that have been tradnlgpith these last ten or
fifteen years; regar e—

A vague fear seized orranee; besides, there
was Florence sitting in that dusky corner, lis-
tenin to eve wo .

“ That will 0, Palmer. You may be excused
from the remises now.”

It was ardly the language to use to a man
like; Palmerédansg Dorrance. saw it too late,
for mer turn y on him.

“ You excuse me, :31 black-hearted knavo!
Don’t attempt to insult me. or it will be worse

 

 

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

a?

for you- besides, when ybu make a deale

enemy of the man who knows your secrets, a

about the secrets of those {Eu serve it is apt to
rove a bad move. 80 caref , Dorrance,
or your own sake.”

His tronizing air maddened Dorrance.

“I efy you and your secrets! Begone, or
I’ll assist you 1” .

He drew a pistol from his pocket, and pointed
it at Palmer, who sneered at it.

“I confess that’s not leasant. You’re a
capital shot, I know, and value my life uite
too much to stand for atarget. I’ll retire, llis
Dorrance, but mark these words. When you
least expect or desire it, I will confront you
with those secrets on sneer at; then, and not
till then, will you now who I am.”

CHAPTER XVI.
'rnwaarm).
As soon as Palmer had gone, Ellis Dorrance
turned to Florence. .
“ You are quite in demand, you perceive. I
hopenthe fact will not add to your stubborn-
ness.

She flushed at his rude address.

“Nothin can add to, or detract from, my re-
solution. repeat, that I will die as your pri-
soner rather than live as our wife.”

“Time will change a this,” he returned,
li htly.

file went from the room, locking, the door
after him; he was gone, probably twenty min-
utes then returned.

“l have secured the doors and windows on
the floor above, that Isabel used, that now is
yours. Mary, attend Miss Florence.”

Stepg‘ing as queenly as a rincess of the blood
ro a1, lorence went up to er prison, and dis-
missed the negress at the door.

' The suit of rooms was pleasantly lighted and
warmed. The accommodations plain, but good;
and at a glance she saw escape was imposs1ble.

As soon as she had retired from the dining-

room Dorrance left the house; his horse was in

the rickety old stable, and he led him out, for
his return to Beechcrest.

Several things were on his mind as he rode
slowly along.

First, was the momentarily increasing desire
to be friends a sin with lissome Gussie Palli-
ser; and now t at the letter must have ere this
been read by her, accidental as the sending had
been, he was in a state pf feverish anxiet .

Would she refuse his overtures? wo d she
acce t his apologies? or had be separated him-
self i’orever from her? .

Coequal with this wish on his. part was the
regret that he had implicated himself so with
Florence; to be sure, no one—except Chessom
and Palmer, the former by intiution, the latter
by absolute knowledge—knew of his complicity
in the affair; and while all Beechcrest was rin -
ing with the news of Florenco Arbuthnots
eloptement, it was universally whispered—not
spo en, for the Chessoms were too rich and
{brand to have anytbin positively told about

arm—that young Arch ew where she was.

Mr. Arbuthnot had not hesitated to spread
these re rts: and the two facts of Ellis Dor-
rance’s ins seen in the village every day,

 

while Arch, in his rapid detective tours about
the country, was never seen, helped the gossip.

Gussie Palliser alone knew the true state of
affairs; and, during her brief visit at Chessom’s
Pride—brief, because of her own unsettled state
of mind, as well as the peculiar situation in
which the family was placed—had ascertained,
to her entire satisfaction—which accounted for
her visit to the Haunted House, after her watch
of Dorrance the one preceding day and evening
from the window of the hotel directly opposite
the Arbuthnot’s mansion—that Florence had
gone with Dorrance.

Later, the next day or so, in a conversation
on the subject, Gussie had found out that Arch
reall ' loved Florence, and that Florence return-
ed t at love; thus partially exonerating Dor-
rance.

And only partially, for his sin was none the
less; indeed she concluded it was the greater,
1flair forcibly abducting one who did not love

m.

While t Chessom’s Pride, she received Ellis’s
letter an that same day, as Arch returned,
went back to Lakeview.

Of all this Dorrance was yet ignorant; but, as
he neared the village, he found himself resolved
to pa a call at the Arbuthnots’, and, if at all
possi 1e, rid himself of the affair.

He passed the night at his rooms. and the
next mornin , after a careful toilet—for he was
going to at m t an interview with Gussie

alliser for the house of the Arbuth-

ots.
It being ust the village dinner hour, he found
Mr. Arbut ot at home, who greeted him warm-

n

y.

“ We didn’t know that ou were ever coming
again. Where have you ept yourself?”

Dorrance began to feel it would require all his
moral courage to confess the affair: a glimpse
of Gussie’s sparkling eyes seemed to rise before
him, and he plainly saw Florence’s pale features,
so proud] contemptuous, so stubbornly re-
solved, an be plunged straight into the deepest
of the difficulty, with a sort of recklessness that
men feel, when they have an idea they are not
succeeding exactly as they would wish.

Dorrance had become possessed of that feel-
ing, somehow, since Palmer had shown a know-
ledge of his (Ellis’s) secrets; for it has been per-
ceived there were episodes in Dorrance’s life he
would well like to be kept still: and how Palm-
er, of all men, had learned—if he knew—was a
sort of mystery to him.

One of these t troubles was in his mind as
he looked at r. Arbuthnot’s face, so ugly in
its set, willful lines; but “nothing venture, no-
thingvhave,” be thought.

“ here have I been? You will be surprised
to learn I came from Florence last evening.”

The listeners sprung to their feet in a simul-
taneous gesture of amaze.

“'From Florence!” eched Mr. Arbuthnot.
“ Then how the deuce did you find out where
Chessom and she went?”

Dorrancetifelt the lady’s gra eyes coldly
fixed on his hot cheeks; but, wi h an assump-
tion of utter indifference he was far from feel-
ing. he replied: .

“ Chessom never went with her. It was I

\

 

 

 
 

\.
2".

who took her off, and I'm sick enough of the
bargain. You’re welcome to her.”

“ You?”

Mrs. Arbuthnot fairly hissed the words in his
ear. “ After all, it was you ?”

(4 Yes. ,7 .

The three sat silent, glaring at each other in
silent anger.

Then Dorrance burst forth, im tuously.

“ There’s no need to carry on t iis play longer.
The truth is, I don’t care for the girl, and I
do love Gussie Palliser. You needn’t argue, or
rave. it will do no good.”

“ But think how you have lived all these
years, Ellis, off her money—or a small portion
of it, at least. Remember, a marriage is the
only way to cover up this.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot’s voice was low and intense;
but Dorrance was imperturbable.

“ All you can say will not avail.”

“ Then on shall be exposed, sir.”

Mr. Ar uthnot thundered the words: but
Dorrance smiled calmly, turning to the lady.

“ How is that? do gentlemen. often deal
so with step-sons? Mother, you will side with
me at the last?”

“She dare not! I have borne with you long
enough; I have been an ally in this conspiracy;
and now, when your own selfishness is so ap-

arent, I seem to see what a blind fool I’ve

en to respect the secret Mrs. Dorrance told

me when it was too late for me to help it. We

have palmed off this trick of secrecy long

enough. You shall be known as my wife’s son;

and ’Florence shall be declared the true heiress
,

“Mr. Arbuthnot, you need not threaten me!
Perhaps you forget you should not mention a
certain fact, even before Ellis.”

Dorrance opened his eyes in su rise.

“ You have kept something bac then?”

“More than you know of, )erha ; among
which, is the fact that you needI not ollow your
attention to Gussie Palliser. You will not
marry her, rest assured.”

Dorrance sneered.

“ Pray, do you know the lovely young lady
also?" '

Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot exchanged glances,
then the lad replied: .

“ Better t an you do, E1118.”

A dark frown gathered on Dorrance’s face.

“I am disgusted with so much mystery; mo-
ther, Mr. Arbuthnot, good-afternoon.”

He departed silently, and while there was a
gloomy frown on his forehead, a smile of self-
gratulation was on his lip. . .

“ At any rate, one band is broken. I Will seek
my bonnie Gussie this very afternoon. She
must be mine; for I love her; and, besides, my
last speculation was remarkably unlucky; Lake-
view Would not come amiss to me.”

So, in his selfishness and wickedness, he hasten-
\d on to Lakeview. _ .

At the entrance, he gave the man a familiar
nod, and attemlpted to pass in, but was respect
full reventer . '

“)1, have orders not to admitlyou, Mr. Dor-
rance. Miss Palliser bade me give you this if
eVer you came.”

He handed Ellis a letter; the same he had

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

 

 

sent by the carrier-dove to Chessoni’s Pride, so
he knew she had recoived it.

on the last page was written, in Gussie’s hand-
writing:

“Go to Isabel Lnfnrre and show her this letter.
Never speak to, or of, me again. G. P."

He started in amazement; how did Gussie
know of his acquaintance with Isabel?

It was am 1e food for reflection, as, chagrined
and angerer , he ursued his way, on foot, to-
ward the Haunte House.

It lay directly past Chessom’s Pride, b the
main road; Florence Arbuthnot’s residence in g
at one end of the village, furthest from Ches-
som’s Pride: Lakeview at the end nearest, with
Chessom’s Pride lying about two-thirds of the
distance between Gussie’s residence and the
Haunted House.

A feeling of bitter enmity toward Florence’s
accepted lover was in his heart as he gazed at
the elegant mansion. its long and satin draped
windows; its statues standing in the snow.

He wondered if Chessom had ever seen the
note he had sent by the carrier-dove; wondered
if he had not suspected who had detained the
bird those days it was a prisoner in his own
room.

He glanced up at the sunny side of the house,
and caught sight of the gilded cage, reflecting
the bright sunlight as the light wind swung it to
and fro.

Lili was within, basking in the warm after-
noon sunshine, her white plumage smooth and
shining.

Had it been Gussie’s hand—now lost to him
forever—that had caressed it?

The thought sent an added balefulness to the
already ugly glitter of his eyes.

“ Gnssio lost! Isabel estranged! and Florence
unmanageable! By Jupiter, she shall be mine,
if only to s ite this haughty-headed Chessom,
who ordere me from his house! Yes, and mine
before the midnight bells shall ring, if not by
fair means, by foul!”

He still stood, screened by a snow-laden arbor
glancing jealously at the house, that lay still
and apparenth uninhabited, in the early gather-
ing shadows; for it was four o’clock or very near
of a Januarv day.

“ If I could but once gain Possession of that
carrier-pigeon! I’d like to iave the satisfac-
tion of wringing its neck! no—I’ve a better
‘deal by Jove, what a glorious revenge! I’ll
take it from its cage—the shutters are all closed,
md I see no one on that side of the house—
:arry it to the Haunted‘House, and from there
send a bulletin to my lord Chessom, stating
Florence’s condition and my determination;
after which I will adopt some feasible plan to
leave this part of the country with my unwill-
in bride.’

is black eyes gleamed with the anticipation
of evil triumph as he quickly entered the
snowy path that led to the library windows,
a. ainst one of which the dove was hanging.

e secured it without detection, thrust it in the
breast of his overcoat, and amid the darkenin .
gainset shadows, proceeded to the Haunted

ouse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-\‘ as. v

THE WINGED

MESSENGER. 97

 

 

CHAPTER XVII.
A PRETTY PLOT. l

ELLIS DORRANCE had hardly left the residence
of the Arbuthnots, when his step-father turned ‘
sharply to his wife. .

“A pretty trick this noble Son of yours has
played us! And I’ve insulted Mr. Chessom,
who I now see is a gentleman.”

“ You’ve changed your mind rather suddenly,”
remarked the lady, dryly. “So far as I amt
concerned, I never liked him, and never will.
I only regret Ellis’s stubbornness to marry Flor-
ence. ’

“What have I been telling you all these
years? didn’t I say he never would suceced?
didn’t I say it was a wicked shame to impose
on heras long as we did? But she shall have
her rightsyand that, too, as soon as I can ar-
range it.” I

“One would think you were her father, to
hear your disinterested kindness. I am w ieked
enough to confess I have alwa 's wanted her
and my son to make a match. f I haon’t de-
sired it, I certainly would not have schenied
andplotted when she was a babe in her cradle;
she and (iussie together.”

“Gussie shall be told as well as Florence of
the romantic drama in which she has all uncon-
scious] been acting; and then when Ellis finds
he has 0st all, perhaps he’ll be less independent.”

Mr. Arbuthnot was slowly pacing the room,
and his wife toyed with the spoons on the table.
“Ellis’s spirit can never be broken; and as for
the money he has used—Florence can well spare
it. Oh, if he had only married her and secured ‘
the rest.”

The impatient promenader did not answer
immediately; then suddenly paused before his
wife.

1 ;:’Have you heard from Gussie’s brother, late— i
v.

“Not for a six-month, at least. Why?”

“I desire him to be informed of the change
that will take place; he knew it would occur.
some time, though not when. I will just tele-:
graph to him to come to Beechcrest.”

Then the restless walk went on, broken as be- 1'
fore by a sudden stop.

“That rascal never told us where Florence
was! By Jove! 1 wish I had tracked him. It’s
only ten minutes since he went, and I’ll try. '
Get your shawl and hat and come with me.”

To will was to do, in the Arbuthnot house- i
hold, and in less than five minutes they were,
off, having been told by a boy. who was .skating
on the little pond near by, which direction Mr.
Dorrance had en.

Absorbed by his thoughts, Dorrance .had .
walked slowly; urged b far different motives,
the Arbuthnots hasten on. catching a Sight of
him as he entered the grounds of Lakeview; they
slackened their speed, and suffered him to do-

 

part.

As they passed the window, theysaw the
stony, vengeful face of Gussie peering after
him. “Suppose you ask for an niterView,
whilell keep on.”

And, in com lianee with her husband’s com-
mand. Mrs. Ar uthnot Went up to the elegant,

: “I saw him, dear. I
i at on! it has been so long since I saw you.

entrance. Gussie met lrcr in the hall, with an
affectionate kiss.

“ Come right in; it is so cold.
go away 'é”

The black eyes flashed direfully as the lips
framed the words.

Mrs. Arbuthnot caressed the small, shapely
hand in a tender, half-hungering sort of way.
But I’d so much rather look

You saw Ellis

This unnatural mode of livim; will soon be
over, though, my darling, and I’ll have you all
the time then.”

Gussie shrugged her shoulders prettily.

“I must admit I like all this elegance and
luxury, only of course I have taucht myself it
is not mine. Sn )pose my handsome, stern bro—
ther knew who irikeview belonged to, Ithink
he’d open his blackeyes wider.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot’s eves Were full of tenderest

. love as she gazed on Gussie’s piquant, sparkling

face

“ You’ve been a faithful daughter, my Gussie,
andlyou shall be rewarded for serving us so
wel .’

A little look of pain came into (lussie’s face.

“But, mother, dear, I fear I have lost my
heart in this during game. I had learned to
love Ellis better than I should have done.
Often I forgot he was only a ste )-bl‘0th(‘l‘; and
remember, I never saw him until we were both
grown up; you ke )t me at school so closely.”

“I know, dear, ecause I was so anxious he
should marry Florence, and secure her wealth.
lI threw them together constantly, with that
lope.

“Which was the very worst thing you could
have. done; besides, mother, did you not know
that Ellis was already—”

A knock at the door, followed by Mr. Arbuth-
not’s entranCe, interrupted Gussie’s remark.

lVith a fond kiss and a caress, her father
turned to his wife.

“He has stopped at Chessom’s Pride for some-
thing, and I‘ve got a man on the watch until he
brings up somewhere. Gussie, you can give us
a on of tea? it will probably be the last we take
at Jakeview, unless we are invited. which I
hardly think. I telegraphed for your brother
Will, Gussie, to come. He’ll be in by the 8:30
down train.”

“ Will!” repeated she, joyfully. “I’ve not
seen Will since I’ve been at Lakeview. I am so
anxious to see him!”

“ Then so soon as he comes, we are to go all
of us, to the place where Ellis has taken I310-
rence, and explain the affair to her, and bring
her home.”

Mingled with Gussie’s beauty that night, was
a sadness; a weary sort of way she had with
her that her mother and father could not under-
stand. They forbore asking questions however,
and at early evening left her, quietly as they
lclame, unseen as they always came. for their

omo‘

 

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
A GRAND TABLEAU.

ELLIS DORRANCE was not in the best of hu- f
mors when he arrived at the Haunted House.
Florence, from her window in the second?
story, saw him comin through the twilight
darkness, his steps rapi and firm. ?

A fluttering of some tiny white object at!
tracted her attention; she saw Dorrance
smooth the little spot of white; then a head
peered from beneath his hand.

With a scream of rapturous joy, Florence re-
cognized Lili. For the first time since her de-
parture from home, there came a genuine satis-

actor ray of hope to her,- for with Lili for
her al y, she asked no stronger friend. She was
too excited, too nervous to,question how or why
Dorrance had obtained possession of Lili; she
was content to simply accept the fact he had
possessxon.

Almost before Dorrance had entered the door,
Florence had decided upon her course. To
avoid being suspected by her captor, she re-
solved to go down to her meals as usual; care-
fully observe where the dove was placed, and
at her earliest possible convenience, obtain pos-
session, and send it home with a message she
should prepare in the meantime.

She knew that it would take not a half-hour
for Lili to reach Chessom’s Pride, and for Arch
to hurry back, if he Were home.

So, wild with inward nervousness, she went
down the stairs just in time to see Dorrance
shut down the cover of a basket, and thrust it
in the lower section of the large, old-fashioned
secretary.

Dorrance glanced suddenly at her, but her
gaze was into the blazing fire on the hearth.

“Bring in supper, Mary! Florence I want a
few moments’ conversation with you. ’

She turned her head away with a gesture of
disdain that did not improve his temper; and
he laid his hand heavily on her shoulder.

She sprung from under it, her eyes flashing

e.
“ Remove your hand, sir! and be careful not
to re at the offense!”

“ hat’s all very fine, you know, but such
acting is about ‘played’ with me. I am tired
of this ceaseless, senseless shilly-shallying—”

“Which argues less for your grammar than
itdoiv-s for your refinement,” she interpolated,

een y.

“ Refinement notwithstanding. Florence Ar-
buthnot. I am oing to put an end to all this.
To-night you 5 ll consent to be my Wife, or a

worse fate—”

.tShe held up her hand in quiet, wrathful dig-
m y.

“Do not s ak such words in my presence.

If your vile lips will speak them, say them to
yourself. I will not listen.”

She turned to go from the room, buthe ar-
rested her.

“Not yet! Just wait until I give Mary her
orders for locking up.”

He smiled sarcastically and stepped to the
next room.
quick

 

It was Florence’s olden op rtunit '
as a flash of lightnfii W Y’

2 she opened the basket.

and took the tiny pigeon therefrom, securing it
in her jacket.

Just as she had replaced the lid, and sunk
upon a chair, covering her conscious features
with her hands, Ellis returned.

“Pardon me for leaving you so lon , but I
had further to go for Mary than I t ought.
Allow me to escort you to your room-door.”

She silently submitted, lest an attempt to re-
sent his distasteful otter might lead to a discov-
ery of her precious treasure.

At her door he bade her good-night.”

“Pleasant dreams Florence, if you insist on
retiring. However, I’ll venture to say you’ll be

downstairs before long I am oing to break
another bottle of that reen Sea .” \
Florence saw he was alread slightly under

the influence of liquor, to whic she attributed
his willingness to permit her to seek her own
room.

Not a moment was to be lost; trembling with
fear lest Dorrance should discover the absence
of Lili, she lighted her lamp‘. and having neither
pencil or paper, pen or in , she tore a piece of
papering from the wall, and with the burnt end
of the match scrawled to Arch the fact of 'her
being a prisoner at a place near his house; with
high towers; the house where he left a. negress
the morning before; signed her name, with a

rayer for deliverance, and tied the paper to‘

ili’s wing with a thread drawn from her
dress. \

The window was Securely, fastened, but she
broke a pane in pieces; and ili was off, beyond
reach or recall!

Then, with true feminine natm‘e, she sat down
and cried.

It did her good, that hearty storm of nervous
grief, that was a relief to her feelings, that, de-
spite all her awful dangers, had never brought
a tear to her eyes. I .

How long she sat there she did not know; it
might have been five minutes or an hour, when
a subdued knock was heard on her door, follow-
ed b_ Mary’s voice.

“ h, MISS Florence, ef dere ain’t de awfunest
goin’s on down dem stairs! Massa Dorrance he
half tipsy, and a-boss‘in me roun’, an’ swearin’
you shall kim down! 0h, Miss Florence, ef you
on’y could cum afore he cums up! ’deed and
’deed ou’d better! an ef he comes far to go fur
to tec you, I’ll ker him, I will!”

“I will come own, Mary. I do not think he
will abuse me.”

So down she went, wondering if Arch would
be home; if he would come in time to save her.

Dorrance was walking to and fro in furious
an ,r. -

‘ Where is that bird, you-”

He could find no word that suitably expressed
what he wished to say, so he stopped abruptly.

She met his lurid aze as calmly as she could.

“What bird, Mr. orrance?” ,

“None of your evading the question! I ask
where is that cursed bird?

She was wondering what reply she could
ive consistent vvitii-‘ftrath, and at not enrage
im the more, when he burst fort again:

“ But I’ve got you safe enough now, my
beauty! and you shall pay for the trouble
you’ve given me. Sit down there and I’ll come

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‘while I

r feet if you lay a finger upon me!”

\hand never trembled with its dread engine of

- form just as Palmer pinioned Dorrunce in his

x

sit beside you. I haven’t had that pleasure in
some time. .

She seated herself on the edge of a chair near-
est the next room.

Her face was pale as death, and her eyes fur-
tivel watching his every movement. _

“ hat’s not the chair I mean, you little co-
quette you! Come here on the lounge where I
can at my arm around you and kiss you!”

“ %’ill you wait one moment, Mr. Dorrance,
in this room for a glass of water?”

A dea ly glitter in her eyes told she was not
to be trifled with. I

“ To moisten those Sweet lips? certainly, only
excuse my want of gallantry in not waiting
upon you. ’ .

She walked deliberately into the next room,
and he heard her pour out a glass of water and
swallow it; then she came out, paler than be-
fore. ,

“ NOW come! I’m impatient, you see!”

She stood perfectly still a moment, then
spoke in a low, terrible voice:

“ Ellis Dorrancel I shall never accede to your
infamous demands. Beyond where I stand I
shall not go one step.”
togig‘hen I can come to you! By Jove, I will,

He sprung from the lounge, and advanced to
meet her; his eyes glaring redly upon her, his
breath hot and wine-tainted.

He extended his arms to enclasp her in his
embrace; she drew back a pace and pointed a
loaded pistol full in his face.

“It is your own that I saw] ing there, which
I obtained under pretense o wanting water,
and before high Heaven I’ll lay you dead at my

Her voice was high and ringing: and her

death.

Dorrance was taken aback; then by a sud-
den, swift motion of his hands, he caught her
arms in his iron grasp; as cream issued from her

ps.

A hudden, thunderous, prolonged knockin
was heard at the door of the room; a powerfu
blow by more than one pair of hands. and Arch
Chessom dashed in clasping Florence’s fainting

strong grip.

Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthuot, followed by Gussie,
Occupied the center of the room in solemn pain-
ful silence. It was as if the shadow of heath
had fallen upon them, so awfully still it. was;
With Florence lyin pale and unconscious in her
lover’s arms, and ll)ormnce staring in speech-
eSS surprise at the unexpected intruders.

Then Mr. Arbuthnot broke the silence.

“Ellis, justice must be meted out, sooner or
later to every soul. It has come to you to-
night. We have found you to be a Villainhand
even if you are my wife’s son, I do not hesnate

unmask you. First, Gussie, what IS your
accusation?” .

She bent on Dorrance a glance of mingled
scorn and pity as she stepped forth.

“I would prefer that something be done for
bat poor girl first; bring water,” she said, to

THE WINGED MESSENGER.

 

I'y, who stood trembling in the doorway.
Then. when Florence had revived. and sat ,

29

with her lover tenderly supporting her, Gussle
produced a little note.

“ It is from Isabel Lafevre, and declares on
her oath she is Ellis Dorrance’s lawful wife.”

A gleam of rage shot from Dorrance’s eyes,
but he said nothing; he evidently knew he was
baffled.

“And I,” said Palmer, wish to inform this
gentleman that I am Gussie’s brother, Will°
who knowin the romantic game being played
by the Arbut nots, and desiring an equal share
in the Iprize, devoted my life to the winning of
Miss lorence, who, as heiress of Lakewew,
would be a very acceptable wife, notwithstand-
ing my worthy mother’s desire that her first-
born” by her first husband should be the favored
one.

Florence looked bewilderedly at them all;
while Arch, to whom the story iad been told on
the way, as the arties met near Cliessom’s Pride,
con ratulated er lovingly.

“ ou see, darling,” he explained, “ Lake-
view belonged to on always; your grand-
parents having died intestate: not knowing you
were living as Florence Arbutlmot; that family
having been hired to nurse you by your own
mother when you were a baby in Europe.

“The Arbuthnots kept track of the family:
and when they died. conceived the idea of pass-
ing their daughter Gussie as Miss Palliscr, and
keeping ou at home as their daughter, thereby
hoping r. Dori-ance would marr you, and
thus secure the propert legally to t em.”

Glad tears sprung to lorence’s bright eyes.

“ And now your family will receive me?”

Arch flushed a little in chagrin, but he whis-
pered, bravely:

“ I am ashamed to confess it, that I think so.”

_“And, dear Florence, I have vacated Lake-

view forever; the carriage is at the door and
on and Mr. Chessom are to go to your rightful
ome, and be married at once.”

“I have done wrong, Florence,” said Mrs.
Arbuthuot, “and to atone I have given up the
necessary papers to your future husband: Mr.
Chessom will see to t e proper settlements.”

Dorrance still sat in stolid silence, while Will
Arbuthuot, alias Palmer, stood behind him.

“Miss Palliser,” said Palmer, “for I will be
the first to call you by your true name, may I
everbe forgiven? I am ashamed and repent-
ant: I can say no more.”

Florence, safe in Arch’s arms, smiled bright-
ly at him. '

“ You did me one favor, at least, Mr. Arbuth-
not; I shall not forget that. Let us all be
friends and forget the past; all hut-—”

She hesitated, and flushed painfully as she
looked at Dorrance.

He gllanced an rily at her.

“ but me. suppose? Well, this is all the
friend I want—”

He snatched the pistol laid it against his
temple, fired, and fel den amon them; a bad
man, whom no one regretted butiis mother, to
whom the blow was severe.

Florence Palliser and Arch Chessom were
married at Lakeview that very night; and on
the morrow were received wit open arms at
Chessom’s Pride!

THE END.

 

  

 

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