Bey w LoUr,

Vol. VI

Published Every
Two Weeks.

Kivereu at tue Post Uilice at New York, N. Y.,at Second Ciass Mail Rates.

Copyrighted 1880, by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

December 2, 1880.

 

 

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

No. 98 Wiii1aAM Street, New Yoru.

 

The Black Riddle;
Girlish Charms nso Golden Dowers.

A STORY OF MORLEY BEECHES,

BY CORINNE CUSHMAN,
AUTHOR OF “LITTLE CLAIPE, THE OPERA-SING-
ER,” ‘“PERYL WARD, THE BELLE OF CHI-
CAGO,” “MADCAP, THE LITTLE QUAKER-
Ess,” ‘‘A WILD GIRL,” ETC., ETO.

CHAPTER I.
NASTURTIUM BLOSSOMS,

For the flower of life is red.
—Brownina’s ‘Gop Harr.”

Ladies, quaintly dight,
In its pink blossom took delight.
Long have been dead those ladies gay—
And their old portraits, prim and tal
Are moldering in the moldering hall.
The terrace and the balustrade
Lie broken, weedy and decayed,

ORIOLE DaRIEN had plenty to think of as she
strolled along ths grass-grown garden paths in
the July sunlight, more aimless than the blue-
and-yellow butterflies flickering about her.
Her father, Zophiel Darien, steward of Morley
Beeches, had that morning received a letter

“ Come home,” he said; “ and, Mr, Morley, if you ever 8

 

Complete in this Number.
Price, Ten Cents.

 

 

from its young master, announcing his return
from abroad, after an absence of four years,
and his intended speedy home-coming. This
news was very exciting to the young girl, who
had been a hoyden of twelve when the heir
went away, and was now between sixteen and
seventeen. She had lived in the pretty vine-
covered Lodge by the gate all these years al-
most without other companionship than her fa-
tbher’s, who worshiped his little girl, though his
stern manners allowed little show of his feel-
ing. The Lodge had several rooms; and the
steward, whose salary was liberal, kept a
kitchen-maid, and had a charming little parlor,
with a piano, for his daughter. Too proud to
permit the association with common people, yet
too humble to win the attention of the rich
‘‘sentry of the neighborhood, he had made
the mistake of allowing the girl to come up
without society. She was very fond of him,
and she did not miss what she had never en-
joyed.

However, this sunny afternoon she was in a
state of anticipation so eager that she could not
explain it to herself. The great house would be
open—there would be fine company !—she looked.
forward with burning impatience to the great
event. She longed to see Morley Beeches alive
with beautiful ladies and courtly gentlemen—to
catch glimpses of rich toilets, to hear snatches

of sweet music, to inhale the odors of sumptuous |

dinners, to see carriages rolling along the fine

=
ao

 

lightful images.

he garden through which Oriole wandered
was large, wild and neglected. There were
masses of self-sown asters; gorgeous poppies,
sweet-williams, larkspurs, white and tiger lilies,
sweet alyssum, mignonette; her dress caught on
the thorns of untrimmed rose-bushes; the arbor
was roofed and matted with honeysuckle; the
marble basin of the fountain was green with
moss—suddenly she stooped to where some nas-
turtiums were climbing over a bed of clove
pinks, and breaking off a spray of the blossoms,
twined them in her black hate with instinctive
knowledge that the burning he and red of
the flowers would become her. They lighted
up her vivid Gipsy beauty as by magic, bring-
ing out the purple tints in her dusky locks, the
glory of her great dark eyes, the rich veining
of her olive cheeks—for this young creature
ignorant of herself, had a dower of personal
charms greater than any lady in the land. Her
black brows might be a shade too heavy, but
they gave character to a face full of expression,
while the curves of the scarlet mouth redeemed
them by their delicious softness. Her complex-
ion was very dark but smooth and rich as vel-;
vet; her figure slim and supple. Crimson roses, |!
blazing tiger-lilies, burning nasturtiums, what-
ever was brilliant and blooming in that old
garden might claim sisterhood with Oriole Da-

WN. ORS

° much as speak to my daughter again, I will kill you as I would that rabbit there!”

 
 
  

2

 

A young man, who—not being able to enter
by the locked gates—had clambered over a bro-
ken place in the wall and sauntered leisurely
through the grounds, chanced upon the neglect-
ed garden, just as Oriole twined the flowers in
her black hair.

“ Mystery of mysteries! Who is this?” thought
the owner of Morley Beeches, who, if ever cog-
nizant of the fact, had entirely forgotten that
his steward hada daughter—a little girl when
he went away—and who, if he had remembered
it, would hardly have associated a thought of
her with this blooming, exquisite young lady.
pene his hat he stepped forward witha low

Ww,

‘Is this a charming sprite haunting my de-
serted house, or a veritable creature of flesh and
blood who honors my poor garden?” 3

Oriole, whirling about, stared a moment in
mute astonishment; then an eager smile lit up
her lovely face, and she cried joyfully;

“TIsit Mr. Eugene Morley? Oh, I amso glad
you are coming back! It is so lonesome here
without any one. Iam neither a sprite nor a
young lady, sir—only little Oriole Darien.”

“Only little Oriole,” repeated the young gen-
tleman, coming closer to her and holding out
his hand with a sudden change of expression
and a flattering smile. “I left a little Gipsy
elf, and find in her place—an angel! You kiss-
ed me when I went away, Oriole—will you kiss
me now?” ’

She lifted her face as innocently as the child
of twelve had done; his sparkling, dark-gray
eyes ran over the lovely curves of the rounded
oval cheeks, the delicious lips, the smooth neck,
before he kissed her—there was something in
the ardor of his salute which made her blush,
she knew not why.

‘““So you are really glad to see me?” still hold-
ing her hand and smiling down at her with a
kind of wonder.

“Yes, lam delighted, I have dreamed, over
and over, how it would be when the great house
was full of company and there were dinners or
balls every week! I shall enjoy seeing the
ladies, in. their splendid toilets, the gentlemen
riding off to the hunt—lights at the windows of
nights, carriages coming and going, Iam wild
with anticipation! But, how came you here to-
day, and alone?”

“T thought it would only be prudent to pay a
flying visit in advance to ascertain the condi-
tion of the place before bringing my friends
here; so I left my party at the Clarendon and
came out to take an observation. Whereshall I
find your father?”

‘‘He has gone to the village for supplies, and
a letter of instructions from you which he ex-
pects; you will have to wait an hour or two, I
am afraid, Mr. Morley.”

“Then I shall not be able to return to the city
this afternoon,” remarked the young gentle-
man, resignedly. ‘‘I dare ay your father will
give me some supper; and I can sleep in my
own house.”

“T should think so,” was the laughing an-
swer. ‘‘I suppose the housekeeper and butler,
with a whole retinue of servants, will be out,
to-morrow?”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling into the excited,
lowing eyes, ‘Crabb, the butler, and Mrs.
apple, the housekeeper, with all the necessary

underlings, will make a raid on Morley Beeches
in the morning. Ishall keep my friends in town
for three or four days until my cook has time
to fill up his pantries. Where did you get these
yellow flowers? Who taught you what colors
are Pacers 00 you?”

“T found the nasturtiums over there; I have
never been taught anything much, I expect,”
with a passing shadow on the radiant face.
“ Would. you like to walk about the gar-
den, sir?—-you can scarcely imagine what a
tangle it has grown during more than four
years of neglect. But, I love it, all the same.”

“T shall be glad to see it—if you will show it
to me, Oriole,

Zophiel Darien was detained in the village
until deep dusk; yet the returning master of
Morley Beeches forgot that he had come to
learn the condition of the house; the gardenhad
afascination for him, it would seem. He had
roamed over the world for years only to find at
home something more exquisitely beautiful than
he had seen in all his journeyings. The admir-
ing glances he stole at the artless cicerone of
the flowers were filled with increasing surprise
and pleasure; he could scarcely credit the re-
ality of this unexpected adventure of an after-
noon. She took him to the weed-choked foun-
tains, the dark pool of water under the pines
beyond the fernery, the mossy statue of Psyche,
and finally to the honeysuckle arbor, where he
complained of being tired and asked her to sit
and rest,

“« Won’t your gardener be discouraged at the
look of things?’ asked Oriole, merrily, looking
out on the tangled thickets of bloom.

“Tt will give him something to do.”

“Are you going to bring a large party to
Morley Beeches?” she continued, with keen in-
terest.

“A dozen people, more or less,” he answered,
smiling at the eager curiosity flashing in those
great eyes; and studying the effect of a single

 

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

gold beam of the declining sunlight ate
through the lattice against the red cheek an
dusky hair.

“Do you think you will give a fancy-dress
ball?” clasping the little brown hands.

“Tf you will come to it, Oriole, I will,” he
half-whispered.

Eugene Morley did not mean tobe a bad man.
If any one had told him then, that evening, that
he was acting like a heartless scoundrel, he
would have been honestly an ee yet it was
true—for he was an engaged man, who had
chosen a patrician bride; yet he was doing his
very best to fascinate the innocent child by his
side. The only thing to be said in his defense is
that the wonder and glory of her saege tropi-
cal beauty had dazzled him and_ blinded him to
consequences, for the time being. What his
afterthought would be remained to be proved.

e was infatuated with this fresh type of girl-
hood; he could not, or would not, think of her
peril and let her alone.

The two hours in that dreamy old garden
which the penne master of Morley Beeches
spent with Oriole made the crisis of her fate.
she gave him her heart—gave it to him as Eve
gave hers to Adam, without a question, without
a thought that it could be otherwise. No dic-
tates of prudence troubled her—no scruples of
propriety—no dread of their inequality. She
just simply fell in love with him.

He knew, while he lingered, whispering his
gallant flatteries, and kissed her again, on the
plea of childish friendship—

“ With lips that left their meaning in her blood—”

that there was danger to her of this; but the
temptation, he said to himself, was irresistible;
and with a man’s selfishness he yielded to it,

CHAPTER II.
THE BLACK RIDDLE.

For a raven ever croaks at my side,
“Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward,
Or thou wilt prove their tool.”

 

—TENNYSON.

ANOTHER stranger arrived at Morley Beeches
on the following day, after its young master
had returned to the city to stay with his party
at the Brunswick until the house should be in
order; and while Crabb, the butler, and Mrs.
Dapple, the housekeeper, with all their train,
had: seized upon the goodly mansion to get it
ready for occupation.

This visitor was also a young man, about the
same age as Eugene Morley, and he, too, had
walked from the railroad station in the village
three miles away. He came slowly up the
magnificent beech avenue, carrying his own
traveling-bag, and looking earnestly about him
as if recalling familiar memories of the old
Oe Se the approach as well as the

ouse itself, spacious, picturesque, with a square
brick tower, rope wings, a flagged pavement
in front edged with neglected roses and leadin,
to a broad flight of stone steps; wide, pillare
piazzas, casemented and oriole windows, clasp-
ed about with ivy and honeysuckle,

Twenty-five years ago this had been alto-
gether the finest structure in that part of the
country; now there were modern villas, set in
fanciful grounds, on every side, yet Morley
Beeches held its own for steadfast stateliness
and surroundings of manorial extent.

The young traveler came leisurely onward
until he reached the great front door where
Crabb chanced to be giving orders to some one of
his underlings. The supercilious eye of the but-
ler ran over the person who had arrived on foot,
carrying his bag, and whose clothes were dusty
and of ordinary cut; but Crabb had waited on
gout company, and it was his boast that he

new a gentleman when he saw one:—there was
something in the bearing of the one before him
which caused him to assume a respectful air.

“T should infer that Mr. Morley had not ar-
rived?” said the stranger, glancing at the débris
of unpacking in the hall. “Iam his brother, and
had a letter from him a fortnight ago invitin
me to join him at Morley Beeches. It name
to-day for my arrival.”

“ Ah, yes, sir, jus’ so, sir! You are Mr. Felix
Gathorne,” and Crabb smiled graciously. “ Mr.
Morley told me if you came, sir, to make his
apologies, an’ he was very sorry, but the steam-
er did not arrive as soon as hexpected, which
put us back a day or two. He will be hout day
after to-morrow, Mr. Gathorne: meanwhile we
are to make you as comfortable as circum-
stances allows. I'll speak to Mrs. Dapple at
onest about getting a room ready, sir.”

“Do not hurry her. I can spend the day
very pleasantly in wandering over the place.
Thad a biscuit and a glass of ale at the village;
a simple meal will answer my wants in the way
of dinner, this evening. If you will dispose of
my bag, I will amuse myself going over the
house and grounds. This is my first visit to
Morley Beeches in several years.”

“A “fine old place it. is, sir; quite hequal to
the hold country ; but in sad need of being done
hover. Well, I was to be particular to say to
make yourself at ’ome, Mr. Gathorne.”

“Thanks; I shall do so,” and turnin;
the respectful servant, the visitor walk

from
to the

end of the long piazza and sat down onthe

 

 

rene

coping of the carved stone balustrade which
closed it in.

“If Thad my rights I should make myself at
home with a vengeance,” he muttered, looking
gloomily out at the grand old trees, the ne-
glected shrubberies, the long grass of the lawn,
all steeped in the liquid gold of a summer mid-
day. ‘‘This place is mine—if I could only
prove it! ‘Ay, there’s the rub!’ I have brooded
over it until my whole youth lies in the shadow
of that brooding. I studied law, that I might
be better fitted to cope with the legal difficulties
which might arise. And now, the time is ripe
for me to put forth some culminating effort.
What will the fruit be? Hither victory or
death, for I will not drag on this humble life of
poverty-and “longing; it will kill as surely as
chains and a dungeon!” and the pallor that
came to*his face showed the intensity of his
feeling and purpose.

‘dWhat a strange creature is that old colored
woman I went to see, yesterday! I must pay
her another visit; yet there is very little hope
of getting information from old Diana. She is
very old, now, stone-blind—has been called in-
sane since that dreadful night. Dreadful night,
indeed, for the lightning struck the wing of
Gathorne Towers, set it on fire and consumed
my poor dead mother’s body! Nurse Diana
was there—my dear mother’s faithful servant
and friend, She it was who saved the lives of
two children atthe peril of her own. It was
thought that she, too, had perished in the
flames, until she was found wandering in the
woods, terribly burned, with a broken ankle,
and mad as.a March hare. It is the firm belief
of all my friends that Diana had possession of
and concealed—at my mother’s request—her
last and legal will; but where? Continually she
mutters to herself what her people call, the
Black Riddle. She crooned it over to me yes-
terday. It seems simple enough; yet no one
has ever found the spot indicated ;

“Three times one hundred and three
From the tower-bell to the red rose tree;
Diana’s riddle is riddled there—
She that is dead will name the heir.”
‘From the tower-bell to the red-rose tree,’” re-
peated Felix, swinging himself over the balus-
trade to the pavement below, and standing off
in the thick tall grass of the lawn until he had
a good view of the square brick tower at the
right-hand corner of the old house.
rs. Dapple came to Crabb before the long
afternoon was half over to confide her sus-
icions as to the sanity of the master’s brother;
or that young gentleman had been up in the
bell-tower twenty times if he had once, coming
down at a measured pace, counting his steps,
and going onward out of doorsa certain dis-
tance in every direction. To her surprise her
fellow-worker burst into a laugh.
**T don’t see nothink to me your sides about,”

she remarked, with offended dignity.
‘‘Tt’s the hidea of it, Mrs. ee Bless
your soul, I knows what he’s about. Ibean’t an

old family servant, I acknowledge, that might
know all the secrets of the ’ouse, but J’ve ’eard
of the Black Riddle, for all that! I’ve’eard my
young master say it over to the ladies an’ gen-
tlemen at dinner, many a time, till I could say
it quite by ’eart if I hadn’t’a’ forgotten it. It’s
somethink about ‘three hundred and three’—
steps, most people think it means—though many
says feet, and some says rods—an’ you'll come
to the buried will of master’s father’s second
wife. That half-brother of Mr. Morley’s is a-
trying of it on, like many another before him.
They do say—in a whisper—if the will was
found, he would be the true an’ lawful owner of
everythink. But, it’s my hopinion_ there'll
never be another master in young Mr. Morley’s
place till he is dead an’ gone; an’ I hope there
mayn’t; fora better, freer master we don’t need
to crave for, Mrs. Dapple.” fi

Oriole Darien came out of the great drawing-
room, where she had been busy much of the
day, just in time to hear the butler’s eulogium
of bis master, and she gave him a lustrous
smile as she went by. :

‘“My heyes! what a high-stepping beauty!”
BS remarked, when she had passed on out-of-

oors.

“Yes, far too pretty for a steward’s daugh-
ter, Mr. Crabb. There won’t no good come of
her beauty, I’m afraid, with so many flighty
young geneaine about the place. If I was her
father I’d send her away to school; he’s able,
an’ such as she oughtn’t to be here with no mo-
ther to look after her.”

“Don’t you believe but what Zophiel Darien
will look close after her. That man is as proud
as a duke. They do say his father was
king of the Gipsies. An’ he’s got a temper as’!l
kill somebody some day, mark my words!
It'll be dangerous business flirting with his
daughter.”

‘ “y hope Mr. Morley hisself won’t undertake
it, then. He’s that gay and thoughtless; though

he ought to sober down now he’s engaged to be.

married this fall—”

But here Felix Gathorne again approached,
moving his lips at every m step, and
a them with the abstracted air of a sleep-
walker.

‘What folly, this is!” muttered Felix to him-

 

 

7-

 

 
v

 

 

omy

a

THE BLACK ‘RIDDLE.

 

self, as his twentieth trial brought him to the
statue of Psyche in the wilderness of flower-gar-
den. ‘‘Eugene would resent it if T went dig-
ging over his grounds in hopes of finding that
which would put me in his place; very proper-
ly, too! This doubt, this suspense is the curse
of my life! But for it, I might settle down to
my profession and work hard to make some-
thing of myself. As it is, the haunting phan-
tom of my mother—my poor young mother, so
beautiful and so deeply wronged—is ever urg-
ing me to seek my rights. I try not to envy
Eugene } I try to be contented with playing the

art of ‘poor relation,’ but, by Heaven, it is not
in the Gathorne blood to do it! To be tricked
out of what is mine by inheritance—to have an-
other name in place of my own—to know Ga-
thorne Towers changed to Morley Beeches—to
receive favorsfrom the one whoshould be the de-
pendent—these are things bitter as death itself!”

He leaned against the pedestal of the statue,
lost in discontented musings. It was falling to-
ward sunset. The features of the marble
Psyche gleaming near him were not more beau-
tiful than hisown. His pale, clear complexion
fiery, dark eyes, haughty, refined features and
melancholy expression made him a man to ex-
cite admiring interest.

“Eugene writes me that he is engaged to a
Miss St. Mark. He quite raves over her style,
her beauty, her lineage. As for me, I_have
never yet met the woman I could love. Fortu-
nate for me, since I need not hope to marry!”

And so thinking he raised his brooding eyes
to behold before him, Oriole Darien.

She had come into the garden for a basket of
flowers and stood near him, cutting lilies for a
bouquet, not having observed him he had re-
mained so utterly still. She wore a white frock
that day; her broad garden-hat shaded a face
of as vivid flower-like beauty as ever bloomed’
in this world—a wonderful face of the most
splendid type of brune loveliness—deliciously
rich in coloring, maddeningly sweet in the
curves of brow, cheek and chin. Felix caught
his breath like a drowning man, while he did
not stir so much asa finger. Ske severed the
regal flowers from their stalks, all unconscious
of the glowing surprise in a pair of eyes so near
her.

“T have never yet met the woman I could
love.”

The thought was not gone from the young
man’s mind before he had met her!—before he
was irrevocably in love with her.

A feeling ha sprung to life in his breast as
different from Eugene’s idle admiration as the
soundless sea is deeper than the froth which
sparkles on its crested wave!

The steward’s daughter had made her con-
quest before she glanced up, starting to meet so
fixed and fiery a gaze.

“1 beg your pardon,” he stammered, blushing
—which was a rare thing for him to do.

“ Are you Mr. Morley’s brother?’ she asked,
without embarrassment. ‘‘ Mrs. Dapple wish-
ed me to cut some flowers for your room.”

“Yes, lam Felix Gathorne. And you?”

“Oh, Tam only Oriole Darien,” she answer-
ed, carelessly.

“ A strange, sweet, tropical name! A strange,
sweet, tropical creature! I did not dream there
was a living thing so beautiful! And the flow-
ers are for my room!” murmured Felix, under
his breath.

Just then a lad in buttons came to summon
Mr. Gathorne to the tea-dinner the housekeeper
had ordered prepared for the guest.

“Shall I see you again? Are you a visitor at
Morley Beeches?’ he asked, before obeying the
untimely summons,

“T dare say you will see me often enough,”
answered the girl, scarcely glancing’ up from
the lilies. ‘Iam only the steward’s daughter,”
and she smiled with bright indifference,

‘* Not above me, then, poor as I am,” thought
Felix, forgetting, for a moment, that Gathorne
pride that was so unbending.

He went away reluctantly to his solitary
meal, Oriole passed on, singing softly to her-
self, cutting tall green ferns and tall white
lilies, till her little brown hands were full,
thinking that Mr. Felix Gathorne was a hand-
some gentleman, but nothing to be compared to
the master of Morley Beeches. As she turned
away from the clump of ferns her foot struck
something so hard and sharp that it hurt her.
Glancing down, and parting the ferns with the
aching foot, a single ray of the redly-setting
sun struck through and glimmered on what ap-
peared to be the corner of a brass-bound box,
protruding from ‘the wet, black soil.

Full of eager curiosity Oriole ran for a spade
from the tool-house at one side of the garden.
ina few moments slie had freed the box from
its long durance; but it required all of her
young strength to lift it from its place. It
proved to be of dark, solid wood—about ten
inches by twelve, and eight in depth. There
was a brass plate on top engraved with a name
which was so corroded by the elements as to be
undecipherable; the brass bands and nails were
dull and mn with rust.

“ Ttis full of gold—I know it is!” panted Ori-
ole. ‘I have read of such things—people bury-
ing their money and forgetting where! Or dy-

 

ing without telling! I wonderif I shall have to

give itup? I found it, and it ought to be mine.
’m going to take it home and see what is in it,

before make up my mind. I must hurry

away with it before Mr. Gathorne comes back
ere.

Oriole Darien with the strain of Gipsy blood
in her veins had a taint of Gipsy cunning. She
returned the spade to its place, obliterated the
traces of her work by dragging the ferns over
the cavity which she had refilled, threw the
flowers out of her basket, labored to get the box
in their place, covered it with her apron, and
tugging at her heavy load, took the most ob-
scure path to the Lodge by the great gates.

Betty, the little maid, was busy in the kitchen
with the supper; her father had not come in;
she hurried to get her treasure-trove up to her
own room—a large, low-ceiled ‘‘ bower-cham-
ber” under the eaves, with a casement-window
curtained with ivy and running roses. Panting
with the labor and excitement she locked her-
self in and proceeded at once to explore the
mysterious box. The key was gone from the
lock, but the rusty bolt soon yielded to her ef-
forts; sinking on her knees under the western
window, in at which the sunset still flamed,
though twilight was deepening over the still,
sweet summer world, she raised the cover with
trembling hands. Her eyes shone, her bosom
heaved—what was she about to find?

The contents of the box exceeded her wildest
expectations.

es, there was gold—handfuls of dull gold
coins—English guineas of no recent date—but
these were the least interesting of the valu-
ables.

There was an exquisite miniature on ivory of
a lovely lady; the setting rich with diamonds
and pearls; a casket crowded with jewels—
bracelets, necklaces, earrings, finger-rings, an
aigrette, flashing and gleaming gloriously in
the fading light; then a package of Yellow pa-

rs—‘* most valuable of all, perhaps,” thought

riole, who sat there, pale, dazzled, blinded by
the shimmering diamonds poured into her lap,
thinking strange thoughts, dreaming strange
dreams, miserably, horribly tempted to burn
those time-stained papers without looking at
them, and thus never inform herself who right-
ly had claims to these things she longed to make
her own,

CHAPTER III.
THE HEIR AT HOME,

There were ladies as fair as fair might be,
But not one of them all was as fair as she.
—OWEN MEREDITH.

Ir was on Monday the young master had paid
Morley Beeches that flying visit; on Thursday
he arrived, with a small party of friends, in
more formal style.

Up in her ‘‘ bower-chamber” Oriole Darien,
flushed with expectancy, watched the approach
of the three carriages which had been sent in
the middle of the golden summer afternoon to
the village station. Her dark eyes were parr
ing from behind their leafy screen when little
Betty flung wide the Breat gates, and she saw
him on the box-seat of the first barouche, hand-
ling the ribbons over a pair of mettlesome
horses, yet finding time to glance back, speak
and smilo to the ladies lolling among the cush-
ions.

A glitter of wheels, a flash of harness, a flut-
ter of vails and plumes, a low burst of sweet
laughter floating backward on the sunny air;
then the turn of the winding drive under the
tall beeches hid the little procession from her
view. There wasa joyous, childlike smile play-
ing about her mouth as she turned from the
window.

Oriole had not yet learned the terrible secret
of a master passion—the fion of jealous
which runs and burns like liquid fire along suc!
wap as those which dyed her cheeks that Gipsy
re

An hour later Eugen Morley, fair, pleasant,
quite at his ease—a handsome young gentleman
in dinner toilet—stoodin the great front draw-
ing-room to receive his guests when they should
descend from their several dressing-rooms,

The furniture of the long, lofty room was
rich, somber and old-fashioned. Some tasteful
hand had been at work arranging the draperies
of the heavy satin curtains, and filling the
quaint vases before the chineey Ripon with
scarlet roses and tiger-lilies which lighted up
the wholeroom. Eugene, noticing this without
knowing that he did so, recalled the image of
the steward’s daughter with the nasturtiums in
her black hair, and his fair face flushed at the
memory.

He might have thought longer of her had not
someone entered the room who called for his
entire consideration—a slight, tall, graceful
girl in. a dress of clinging, shimmering sea-blue,

“ With a stately figure and foot
And that faint pink smile so sweet and cold,”
a string of pearls on a bosom white as milk, and
abunch of marguerites at her belt—to whom
he advanced, clasped the satin soft hand, looked
eagerly in the sea-blue eyes.

AOE,

 

8

‘*Trene, I trust you will like Morley Beeches,”
was his greeting.

“It is more neglected than I thought to find
it, Eugene. Still, it impresses me pleasantly.

| It can be made a fine place, I dare say,” with

critical coolness.

**You shall change it to suit yourself, Irene;
you shall make it as magnificent as you please.
There is plenty of money for the purpose;
pearty the whole income of my estates has ac-
cumulated during the five years I have spent
abroad.”

A faint sparkle showed under the languid
lashes of Irene St. Mark. She was not of an
affectionate disposition: yet there was one thing
she dearly loved—and that was—MONEY.

Money was the talismanic word which caused
her cheeks to flush as some girls flush at the
name of Love. To her it meant power, supre-
macy, right to reign and rule. hat was love
to it? A shadow—a perfume—a fancy!

Eugene had met Mrs. St. Mark and her
daugnter in Venice where Hed were staying
for aseason. It was reputed that the mother
was wealthy and the young lady a great heiress;
but Irene knew only too well that she sailed
under false colors—that the reputation of the
fortune which her father, at dying, had left her,
wasa bubble which must soon burst, for he had
lost all—all—in splendid ventures, and died of
the disappointment of it; and she could only
hope to keep up appearances long enough to
make ‘ta good match.” The two ladies had
gone abroad to hide thetrue state of affairs; and
in Venice they had met the rich young Ameri-
can traveler whom they had in their mind’s
eye as the parti to restore their threatened pres-
tige.

“Eugene Morley was even a more satisfactory
‘catch than they had hoped for, since he had not
only money, but a good birth and a blonde
beauty which had won him a perfect surfeit of
irls’ hearts. By a play of utter indifference
rene had led him on until she had him at her
feet. They had been engaged three months;
the wedding was to take place in the autumn;
the St. Marks had returned to prepare the
trousseau—Mr. Morley to occup is long-
neglected home and get it in order for his bride.
owever, before admitting the mechanics and
artists to the house to begin their labor of reno-
vation, it had been proposed that a party should
be made up to spend a month or six weeks of
the summer heats at Morley Beeches. They
had planned to have a gay time, in an informal
fashion, in the great mansion. Lawn-parties,
lawn-tennis, excursions, afternoon teas and a
real masque-ball, if the fashionables of the
neighborhood came forward to claim acquain-
tance in time to participate in such festivities.

**T shall be spoiled, you allow me to have my
own way so much,” trene answered to her lov-
er’s liberal proposal, reaching up her pink mouth
to kiss the smiling lips half-hidden under the
fair mustache; then the blue eyes went guard-
edly around the room whose somber elegance,
she decided, was quite ‘‘the thing” in the
present rage for old-fashioned furnishing, once,
it was effectively brightened by all sorts of
modern touches, screens, plaques, Kensington
needlework, costly bric-a-brac and cabinets.

Eugene, slipping his arm about the supple
waist, drew her to one of the long windows to
point out the fine sweep of the grounds,

He did not dream that a pair of bright eyes
were fixed upon them through an opening in a
rose trellisnear at hand—eyes devouring with a
longin a the haughty e of his fiancée—
the zold air, the cold, proud blue eyes, the won-
derful dress so unlike thechild’s own plain frock:
—eyes flashing with — adoration as they
turned to the man beside her, but clouded and
wistful as they returned to the lady.

The other guests came, by detachments, into
the drawing-room—Mrs. St. Mark, fair and fad-
ed, with a worldly air; elaborately dressed,
with an eye to pleasing General Carlington, a
widower of fifty-five, who was there with two
oe daughters, twins, Pansy and Violet—

arry Launcelot, a young Englishman with
whom Eugene had made friends abroad—Cadet
De Witt, a dashing youth of twenty, ‘‘in love”
with Pansy, and adistant relative of the Mor-
leys, whom Eugene keptin plenty of spending
money at West Point, and who was now enjoy-
ing a leave of absence—Felix Gathorne—and a
spinster aunt of Eugene’s, Miss Wormly, whom
he had bribed with unlimited black satin dresses
and pin-money, to play propriety, as mistress,
pro tem., of the establishment.

The company isall down; tea is brought in;

iss Wormely pours it; the young gentlemen
pass it; they laugh and chatter; try the piano,
explore the library and breakfast-rooms, pace
upand down the wide hal] and broad piazzas
where light breezes, sweet with odors of honey-
suckle, new-mown bay and.roses, are fluttering
about; some of them wander as far as the

uaint garden; until birds twitter sleepily in
the twilight, wax-candles begin to glimmer in
the dining-room, and the pleasant summons to
dinner calls together these butterflies of the
summer. ‘

As they sit about the table, in some one,
from the dark outside, looks in at the animated
scene—the pyramid of flowers, the soft lights,
£

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

 

the burnished silver, the ae ladies in sheen

of silks and sparkle of jewels, the handsome,
happy young Lost at the head of his table.

tis ail quite as gay and splendid as Oriole

had anticipated; but, it does not give her the

leasure she expected. There is bitterness in

fx heart. The scarlet lips tremble, the dark

eyes swim in tears, Why?

She could not tell youif you asked her. All
unexplainably to herself she wants to be one of
them—not standing out here in the dewy night
—a thingapart from the merry world—a soul
slat out from the gates of Paradise.

For the first time in her life this child-woman
compares herself with others. For thefirst time
in her lite she is sadly discontented. Her gaze
dwells longest on the fair face of the lady sit-
ting at the right hand of the master of Morley
Beeches. Her white, delicate, high-bred beauty
is a marvel to the steward’s daughter The
aoe glitter of the light hair, the heavenly

jue of the proud eyes, the snowy gleam of
shoulders and jewel-laden hands awaken her
envy as well as her admiration.

“Tlow ugly I must have seemed to him,” she
thinks, with my hands as brown as berries and
my faco so tanned and dark! I wonder he took
notice of me the other day. He has quite for-
gotten me before this, I know. I was a little
fool, this afternoon, to imagine he would be
looking in the garden for me!”

After what seems to her a long, long time the

_ ladies riso, a young gentleman in military
dress springs up to =— the door for them,
and they pass out of the room. Still she
lingers, peering through the trellis at the man
who has charmed her. Eugene lights a cigar,
leaves the table, strolls to the open window,
stands thero 2 moment.

‘Ah! he exclaims, under his breath, and
throwing away the lighted Havana, leaps out-
side and clasps in his arms the glowing, happy,
frightened, palpitating girl. ‘‘What are you
doing, my bright bird, Oriole?” he asks, laugh-
ingly, as he draws her behind the trellis, gives
her o light kiss and lets her go; ‘‘eav p-

ing?
P ‘No; just looking at you, Mr. Morley,” she
answers bim, smiling.

‘You flatter me, pretty one!” he says, high-
ly pleased.

“ Dow’t call me paw It seems as if you
were mocking me; for I know I am not beauti-
ful like those ladies at your table,” in a low,
grave voice.

j ‘*You are a hundred times more beautiful

‘than any of them,” very earnestly, for her evi-

{dent liking flatters his vanity, while his airy
fancy bubbles over with delight at finding the
child even lovelier than he remembered her,
‘“‘Not one of them compares with my_ bird
Oriole—not even Miss St. Mark, the belle of
belles,” and he looked into her face with de-
lighted eyes. ‘

‘* Don’t tell her I said so, little one, it would
bo rank treason. Now I must return to my
gentlemen friends or they will be seeking for
me; and I am so jealous I don’t want one of
them to discover my little treasure. Run home
now, Oriole, and dream of me. If I can get
away from the others I will call at the ge
to-morrow.”

He raises the small brown fingers to his lips
as if they belonged to a duchess, his laughing
eyes shoot a dazzling glance into hers and he is

one,

‘ Oriole is no longer discontented with herself.
She strays slowly back to the Lodge—her little
feet damp with the dew, the sweet night fra-
ance of heliotrope and clover clinging to the
olds of her damp white dress—lost in foolish,
happy dreams—‘“ footless fancies” whose wings
cannot long sustain them. She kisses her stern-
browed, dark-faced father fondly, as she passes
_ through the neat parlor where he sits with his
accounts spread out on a table—and goes on up

to her ‘* bower-chamber,” but not to sleep.

She recalls every look and word of Mr. Mor-
ley; then, in the restless excitement of her
mood, she remembers the faded hments in
the mysterious box, which she has not read.
Shall she read them? She has hidden her trea-
sure-trove nor breathed a word of her discovery
even to her father—the first secret she has ever
kept from him, Now she unlocks a cupboard
in which she has placed the box, looks linger-
ly at the glorious diamonds and the sad, lovely
face of the miniature, takes out the papers and
seats herself by the Jamp.

She hears the distant village bells strike
twelve before she refolds the documents and
replaces them in their depository. She comes
back to the table and stands there staring

houghtfully into the flame of the lamp, a new
expression on her young face. She has learned
something strange and important. The knowl-
edge which has come to hcr makes her more of
a woman,

“Hoisin my power,”she murmurs, ‘‘utter-
ly in my power! I can do him a fearful injury
it I choose! Ah, Mr. Morley, it is well your
‘bird Oriole’ likes youso much! It makes me
happy to think I shall always be your friend.”

be is no prophet, and does not dream that
= ane love may turn to a hate as pas-
ona

 

CHAPTER IV.

‘““THE GATHERED ROSE AND THE STOLEN
HEART.”
Was it well of him if he
Felt not love, to speak of love so?
If_he still unmoved must be
Was it nobly done to move so?—
Pluck the flower and yet not wear it—
Spurn, despise, and yet not spare it?
—BULWER,

FEeLrx GATHORNE was wandering about the
grounds of Morley Beeches, the second day af-
ter the arrival of the master and his guests; it
was the hour after luncheon when the ladies
were indulging in siestas in their rooms, and
the gentlemen either were doing the same on
the piazzas, or languidly knocking about the
balls in the billiard-room; profound stillness—
the stillness of a hot, bright summer afternoon
—reigned, as he rambled on; not a leaf quiver-
ed down the avenue of beeches: the flowers in
the garden basked in the drowsy heat.

Beyond the garden and the shrubberies, shut
in by a thick grove of pines, wasa little lake
or pool, the memory of which came to Felix as
he wandered in that direction, his feet making
no sound on the slippery pine needles as he
neared the spot.

As he approached the evergreen-hidden water
he wassurprised to hear the murmur of voices,
for he a himself the only one roving
away from the house. The deeper of the two
voices sounded like Eugene’s; yet he was quite
certain. he had left Eugene nodding over a novel
inthelibrary. The lower tones were those of a

irl, Hesmiled at the idea of his brother and

iss St. Mark growing romantic—they were so
little given toit! Parting the branches which
obstructed his view, he peered through, mean-
ing to havea jest at the lovers, but what he saw
held him silent, in angry surprise. .

Under the deep shade of the pines—which
gave out aspicy odor under the burning sun—
with her small, ehoperes feet nearly touching
the cool dark water, sat a girl; beside ber
aoe ene. But, the girl was not Irene
St. . He knew that dazzling, tropical, fas-
cinating face at a glance—ah, too keenly he re-
membered every soft outline, every charm of
color! This was Oriole Darien, the steward’s
daughter’s. She had on a white frock; there
were scarlet flowers in her | peg, sen hair.
Eugene held one of her slender brown hands;
she was smiling at him—a splendid, glowing
smile from under half-drooped lashes dark as
night; Eugene’s eyes were answering hers; he
was murmuring some poet’s fancy—

“Our seamen are fledged loves,

Our masts are bills of doves,
Our decks, fine gold;

Our stores are love-shafts fair
And manifold—

Where shall we land you, sweet?

On fields of strange men’s feet,
Or nearer home?

Or where the fire-flowers blow,

Or where the flowers of snow,
Or flowers of foam?”

A flush of indignation mantled Felix’s brow.
He knew his half-brother’s quick, imperious
temper—he knew his own; he felt how despica-
ble, under ordinary circumstances, were both
spying and interfering: but, to turn away now,
seemed to him to be leaving an innocent crea-
ture to fall into the cruel snare.

Love for the girl as well as anger at the tri-
fler stirred his grave, earnest nature. He step-
ped quickly out from his shelter and stood

cae at them. Eugene colored high as he
arose from his elbow toa sitting posture; the
girl did not blush at all.

“How do you do, Mr. Gathorne?” she said,
pleasantly.

Felix read her utter ignorance in the untrou-
bled depths of her beautiful eyes. The more
he saw how unconscious of all wrong she was
the more indignant he grew at his brother. —

“T am quite well, thank you, Miss Darien.
You have a pleasant retreat here for sultry af-
ternoons. y I join your party?’ and he
seated himself on the bank.

‘He means to see it out. Meddlesome prig!”
ba Eugene.

Felix began a desultory conversation about
the scenery.

‘He intends to cut me out, perhaps,” reflect-
ed the brother. ‘‘How came he to know her
name?” He fidgeted and soon got up, with a
clouded brow. sae

“T must keep my promise to play billiards
with the general. Good-by, Miss Darien, until
this time to-morrow,” with a smile at Felix to
assure him he meant 1o have his own way. The
latter did not offer to go with him, as he ex-

pected.

“Confound him! I do believe he means to
warn her against my attractions,” he mused, as
he moved away.

‘aioe was just what the other man did in-

nd.

And when Oriole, somewhat embarrassed by
his grave scrutiny, and not caring to stay now
that Mr. Morley was gone, made a movement
to rise, he begged her to remain a few moments,
After he had done so, it was a struggle for him
to say what he dared not leave unsaid; he
knew, by love’s subtle intuition, that to find

 

fault with Eugene was to make himself dis-
liked by her—and this was a bitter sacrifice.

‘Did you meet my brother here by appoint-
ment, Miss Darien?’

seis yes,” she answered him, with a joyous
smile. ‘‘Wasit not good of him to remember
me when there are so many ladies at his house?’

‘“‘T hardly know how to answer that ques-
tion, Miss Darien. wae tell your father you
were coming to meet Mr. Morley?”

She shook her beautiful head; the glorious
eyes fell.

‘Tt was sweeter for no one to know,” she an-
swered, smiling dreamily.

An ignorant child, indeed! Felix endured
the keenest pain in going on with his resolve.
Ah! if only she could be safely left to her hap-
py unconsciousness of the evil there was, and is,
and shall be

‘*T hope you will not learn to think too much
of my rother,” he continued, after a pause.
‘He has the name of being a great flirt.”

“ A great flirt?’ echoed Oriole, with a look of
eee curiosity.

‘Yes; a gentleman who makes himself agree-
able to all the ladies. When he is married he
will not have so much time for trifling. I dare
say he has told you that he is to be married in
the autumn?—to Miss St. Mark, a very lovely
and high-bred young lady, now visiting Morley
Beeches with her mother.”

She looked up at him with meeet eyes into
which a shadow of.wonder and terror came,

‘*But he loves me/ He has told me so!” with
quivering lips.

‘ Already? Yet he has not known you a
week! He likes you as his little friend, per-
hasegeee as he loves the lady who is to be his
wife.

“The lady who is to be his wife,” she repeat-
ed, drearily. ‘‘Do you think he loves her bet-
ter than he does me?”

“Tam quite sure of it. A man should love
his wife far beyond any other person. It
would be wrong if he did not. Ask your father
and he will tell you the same. Take the advice
of a friend and refuse to meet my brother
alone, any more.”

one gave a sort of dry sob and cried, passion-
ately:
$f Taon't care to live without seeing him!”

‘*Poor little Oriole! No one can be more
sorry for you than I am. You will have to
learn to control your feelings; a hard lesson,
rae child, but there are many things in this

ife that are hard and harsh.”

Ah, how he yearned to take the drooped
head to his bosom, to smooth the dark hair, to
comfort the poor, proud, pe girl-heart!
He loved her, too; and his was a love which
would not taint or blast—but she, sweet soul,
could not know the difference.

Eugene, as ever, had come in first and won
what should have been his!

She sat quite still a little while, staring at the
deep dark waters of the pool, on which the
broad lily-pads lay motionless, and over which
a single bird was flying high up in heaven; her
cheeks were blanched, her eyes swimming in
tears, her bosom heaving under its white bodice;
then she said:

‘‘T wonder what has come to me? I feel as if
I should never be the same again. I have al-
ways been such a happy child,” and she rose to

go.
‘May I walk home with you, Miss Darien?”
She nodded, and they went along a y
ath which took them to the door of the Lodge.
idding her good-afternoon as respectfully as if
she were a duchess, Felix turned away and had
not proceeded far before meeting Zophiel Da-
rien.

“Tt is a mean thing to do,” he thought, com-
ingioastop. ‘I have never before played the
role of informer—yet, not to do it would be
cruel as death,” and as Zophiel passed him he
turned and walked by his side.

“Darien,” he began, very earnestly, ‘‘ forgive
me if I seem sepeeanene You may not ize
that your daughter is no longer a little girl.
She is wonderfully, gloriously beautiful! There
are those at our house who realize this. She has
no mother—she is as innocent as the angels—
3 must be mother, as well as father to her, in

his crisis of her life.”

Zophiel Darien stopped dead still in his path
and looked in the clear eyes of the gentleman
with his own intense ones. There was that
about his powerful face and form, and in bis
gleaming gaze, which would make one hesitate
to be at enmity with him,

“Mr. Gathorne, you may be right. TI have
not realized that my Oriole is nearly seventeen.
Do oe mean any one in particular?” .

‘‘T am no spy, Darien; ‘A word to the wise is
sufficient.’ I would not speak idly on such a sub-
ject. I respect your daughter as I respect all
that is most pure and lovely.”

The steward seized his hand and wrung it:

“T shall not forget your warning, Mr. Ga-
thorne. Sometime, perhaps, I may find it in
my way todo youaservice. Let him beware
who would harm one hair of my child’s head!
re would not be wide enough to hold
us 7

Gathorne fully believed it as he noted the

 
THE BLACK RIDDLE,

5

 

 

fiery eyes, deep-set under heavy brows; Zophiel
Darien was a man of whom wrong-doers stood
in awe—before whom his foes quailed.

‘‘T hopo Eugene bascarried this folly as far as
he intends, ’ mused Felix, as he walked onward
to the house. ‘‘I shall be honest with him, and
tell him that I have warned the father—and
there my duty ends.”

Light draperies were fluttering on the piazzas;
Rey voices camo through the open windows—

orley Beeches was awake again after its
drowsy summer-day siesta—its visitors on the

ui vive to enjoy tho pleasantafter-part. Irene

3t. Mark was promenading on the arm of her
fiancé in too elaborate a toilet for the games of
lawn-tennis or archery. Mrs. St. Mark, estab-
lished in a rocking-chair, was talking volubly at
the general, whose two fair daughters were ri-
valing the cadet and young Launcelot in the
ease with which their arrows sought the white
center of the target, which had been set up on
the terrace.

‘Here comes the moody one,” whispered
Pansy to her sister, asgl'elix drew near.

“Tdon’tthink so. He makes himself extreme-
ly pleasant when he is near one, though he is
not exactly a ladies’ man.”

In fact, Violet bad already conceived an ad-
miration for the half-brother of the young mas-
ter of Morley Beeches. His fine eyes, his dark,
grave poem the rare quality of his low, clear
er even his indifference to her sex, charmed

er.

She smilingly challenged him to take part in
the game.

‘There must be an object, then,” he respond-
ed, pleasantly. ‘* Will you wager that bunch
of white roses at your belt against this charm
on my watch-chain?” designating an exquisite
pearl hand, with a gauntlet of gold anda ring
on tho third finger, set with a tiny diamond.

Sbe gayly assented; and, in a trial of six
shots on either side, his arrow struck the bull’s-
eye four times—and he won the roses. Having
won them, he was polite enough to seem pleased,
and engaged to take his fair foe in to dinner, and
to try a new waltz with her in the evening.

By this time the perfumed summer dusk was
falling; the tennis players could no longer see
the wires; Irene had slipped up to her room to
give her hair a touch before dinner; Eugene
went tothecxtreme end of the piazza, and stood
there alone. This was the opportunity that
Felix wanted. Excusing himself for a few mo-
ments to Miss Carlington, he went and stood by
his brother, who turned and stared at him ina
haughty, half-insolent way, that expressed his
displeasure at the afternoon’s adventure.

“It’s no use your being offended, Eugene. It
was wicked of you to get that innocent child in
love with you. You know she will not be one
to take it lightly. Is there any real pleasure in
breaking a girl’s heart?”

‘Js there any real pleasure in being a busy-
body, Felix? I wish you would let me and my
affairs alone.” . :

‘* Well, [came to confess to you that I have
placed the father on guard.”

Even through the darkness he could see the
flash of color that sprung up and burned in the
fair face of his handsome brother. Eugene’s
eyes darted lightning; but he restrained him-
self, and after ee his lip a moment, to the
other’s surprise, he said:

“T don’t blame you, Felix. I wish I could be
as‘ goody’as youare, I don’t wish to wron
the girl. If her heart will be broken, so will
mine! If she loves me, I love her a million
times more! I can’t help it! Did you notice
how beautiful she is?—and innocent—and be-
witching? By Heaven, were I ten times en-
gaged, I could not have prevented what has
happened. She took me so by surprise.”

“Then—have an explanation with Miss St.
Mark, and marry the one you really love.”

‘““What! tell Irene I have changed my mind,
after bringing her here from Italy to make
ready the wedding trousseau? I would deserve
to be shot for an act like that! I’m not such a
—. as all that comes to, Felix. And little

riole, glorious as she is, is ar cultivated
up to the point of making a fitting lady of Mor-
ley Beeches. I must bear my lot, I suppose—
and give her up.”

Felix turned away in scorn of such selfish
weakness.

** At least, Jef Darien’s daughter alone, then.
He is not a man to be trifled with, if he is your
steward. As he says, ‘the world will not be
wide enough to hold the one who willfully in-
jures one hair of her head.’”

‘“‘T suppose I must,” muttered Eugene, with
an injured air, as if he had been cheated out of
something. ‘‘ Yes, I will give her up”—a pro-
mise maqs to himself with the sincere iatention
of being kept. :

And kept—for a day or two—with all the
resolution the young master of Morley Beeches
could possibly muster.

Then, quite by accident—truly by accident—
he met her in one of the shadowy shrubbery
paths, and having to pass her, and seeing her
pale, drooping, changed, he cried out on a sud-
den impulse: .

‘‘Don’t let them slander me to you, my bird!
Tlove you better than anything in the world!

 

It is true that Iam engaged, but I had not met
you, my bright bird Oriole, when I asked an-
other to be my wife. Never mind what others
do or say; trust me, little Oriole! What have
you done to this face to make it so pale?’ and
he kissed the rich roses back into either cheek,

A flood of rhe ary poured into the longing,
lonesome little heart; she looked up into the
fair face of the young aristocrat with a confid-
ing smile; she allowed her small hand to re-
main in his clasp, when, suddenly, the heavy
hand of Zophiel Darien fell on her shoulder and
she started back with a little cry. As she

lanced at her father she saw a wrath in his
‘ace she had never before seen—a wrath that
made her tremble, though she did not compre-
hend it.

‘“‘Come home,” he said; ‘‘and, Mr. Morley, if
you ever so much as speak to my daughter
again, I will kill you as I would that rabbit
there!” He dragged Oriole along by the hand,
taking great strides in the direction of the

odge.

“Little fool!” he cried, with bitter scorn,
‘you have made me ashamed of you!”

Oriole had been as white as death; at these
words her cheeks flamed and lightning leaped
out of her eyes.

‘*Tf you are ashamed of me, father, I will go
away. Ihave heard you say that no Darien
ever brought disgrace on the name. I did not
know it was shameful to like Mr. Morley. Mr.
Gathorne thinks it wrong, too—he told me so.
Mr. Morley is fond of me, father; does that
make you ashamed? I wish I were dead!”

‘*Come home, and let me talk with you,” and
Darien spoke less angrily.

He was sorry he had so alarmed his child: he
saw that she was sinless as the babe in its cra-
dle. All the more his soul burned with wrath
against him who was trifling with her happi-
ness.

 

CHAPTER V.
A COTTAGE IN MORLEY WOODS.
‘She has nothing in common with others,”

ZOPHIEL DARIEN was very kind to his daugh-
ter when he had led her home to the shady,
rose-scented little parlor, where her cottage
piano stood, Jaden with choicest music; and
where pictures and tasteful furniture attested
his affection for the girl who presided there.
In truth, bis heart ached for her; and being
wise, too, he felt that to be harsh with her
would be to drive her to some high-spirited
step—perhaps to run away from him and his
care.

He sat down in his great chair and took her
on his knee, pressing her soft cheek to his
shoulder, while he told her, very gently, that
she was only a steward’s daughter, and, al-
though the young beir might admire her and
be very fond of her for the moment—seeing her
so pretty and bright—he did not respect her as
he did the fine ladies who moved in his own
world of fashion; and that he, her fathsr re-
sented it as an insult, that Mr. Morley should be
so friendly with her in private when he would
not treat her as an equal before his aristocratic
agin bt d too deeply, he yet str

ing not to wound too deeply, he yet strove
to arouse her pride, of which, is knew, she had
a full share; and he held her, and rocked her
and petted her until she sobbed herself asleep in
his arms.

“Sho is my own ae yet,” he sighed, as he
looked down at the lovely face, so perfect in its
rich beauty, the long curling eyelashes, heav
with tears, bedewing the velvet cheeks. ‘* This
is no death-wound she has received; she is a
child; she will outgrow it.”

He did not know. One week ago Oriole had
been a child, a butterfly with the butterflies, a
rose with the roses—this wretched afternoon
had made a woman of her. When she awoke
from that troubled sleep of exhaustion, she put
ona smile which, for the first time in her brief
life, was a false one. Very merrily she made the
tea, and urged her father to have his third cup
—for she was proud—too proud to show him
that she suffered.

Early in the evening she kissed him good-
night, and ran up lightly, to her pretty ‘‘ bower-
chamber,” there to lock her door and fling her-
self down on her bed to weep wild, hot tears,
- bth to choke with dry sobs, to wish herself

ead.

Zophiel Darien, assoon as she retired, changed
his linen coat for a cloth one, slipped out the
front door, locked it behind him, and took his
way across the lawn, through the gardens, on
into the fields which lay between the house and
the woods. The great mansion was all alight
as he went by; the music of the piano and
Eugene Morlev’s pathetic tenor voice singing,
fioated out on the perfumed air.

“Curse him!” muttered Darien; “I liked
him so much; itis ten to one, now, if Ido not
murder him son.e day.” f

His long strides took him easily over the

ound ; a crescent moon hung high in the dee

ue arch; an Gw) hooted solemnly in the w

| he was approaching; soon he plunged into their

somber shadow, knowing his path so weli as
scarcely to slacken bis speed; a faint odor of

 

sweet crushed violets and of leaf-mold sprung
up after hissteps. Going on for over a mile he
came out on the opposite side of Morley woods
near a cottage mc ead beside a brook,
rippling in the moonlight. A light shone
through the muslin curtains of a couple of win-
dows} a dog growled inside the door as ho went
up and knocked.

“Who is it?” asked a woman’s voice.

** Zophiel Darien.”

The bolt was drawn, the door opened, and the
visitor stepped into a neat sitting-room, occu- |
pied by a mild-looking woman of nearly his
own age, who placed a chair for him, and re-
suming her own seat took up the sewing on
which she had been engaged.

“You have come for Miss Oriole’s dress; it is
not quite finished.”

‘‘Never mind the dress, for this evening, Es-
ther.”

There was a new tone in the familiar voice
which made her look up suddenly ; but she jook-
ed down again without asking any questions;
like most people who knew him, she stood slight-
ly in awe of Zophiel Darien, though be had been
kindness itself to her, and she admired more
than she feared him.

‘Esther, Ihave come to ask you an impor-
tant question.”

She looked up again, this time in real sur-
prise, silently asking his meaning with her
eyes. He hesitated for some time; then, with
an abruptness which betrayed his embarrass-
ment, he plunged into the subject which had
brought him there:

‘1 wonder if I could induce you to marry
me, Esther!” i

A oe pink flush made the woman’s face like
a girl’s.

What a strange idea, Zophiel!”

“T know it is strange: and I shall not bo
wounded if you resent it, Esther. You are not
a marrying woman, I daresay. But, you have
a taken an interest in my little girl, and,
oh, shesadly needs a mother. I feel so helpless
in dealing with her! ‘You are far above me,
Mrs. Chaldecott, in refinement and education—
you are a perfect lady, whatever misfortune
may have reduced you to lead this obscure,
ee life; Ido not pretend to be your equal,
but Ihave some money laid aside, I live com-
fortably, and to-day, when I found that Mr,
Morley was already trying to break my little
girl’s heart, I thought of you, Esther! You
were once a girl, and you would know how to
guard her—how to talk to her. I need you—

terribly.” :
There was passionate appeal in the dark,
strong face. Esther Chaldecott was lonely and

sad: for one instant she thought of yielding to
this man’s wish, and ro gaining a home and
companionship; yet only for a moment. Her
destiny ran not in the same orbit with Zophiel
Darien’s, greatly as she respected and admired

him.

‘*¢ Zophiel,” she answered him, in those low,
flute-like tones which made her voice so sweet,
**T would not marry an archangel should one
flutter to my feet. Do not feel hurtif I refuse
your offer. Which Mr. Morley do you mean?
—Eugene?”

**Yes—the young master, of course. The
other one is too poor for fooleries like that, I

sup 2? a
¢ itpeus Morley has been home at the Beech-
es but a few days.”

“He has been there long encugh to get m
daughter in love with him! He has done it
willfully, too. And he, engaged to marry, this
very autumn, a haughty young heiress who is
now at Morley Beeches! [ tell you, Esther, I
am inclined to wring his neck.”

He was walking up and down the room in
deep agitation. Esther followed him with
thoughtful eyes; her own face was troubled ; she
liked Oriole as much as she honored her father,
and she was indignant at the young heir for
flirting with such a child. e had deeper
oat of her own, too—mighty interests at
which Darien could not even guess, shrewd as
he was: her very soul had been stirred to its
depths in the last few days.

inally shespoke:

“T will tell you what I will do, if you like,
Zophiel: I will come to your house as your
daughter’s companion—governess—whatever it
is most convenient tocall me, I have always
been her music-teacher, and wecan make the ar-
rangement appear desirable—that is, if Oriole
likes to have me.”

“She must have yous and a thousand thanks
Esse hitee will liiah phe aeeaeee One
great house ugh at the steward’s daugh-
ter setting up with a governess! What do
we care for their laughter or their sneers?
My little girl is very fond of you; I am
certain she will like to have you, I need not
tell you that my child is more to me than the
apple of my eye. When will you come?”

“To-morrow. There is no need of delay.”

“God bless you, Esther! I would have liked
you to come as my wife; but, if you will be a
mother to Oriole, my gratitude shall be just as

Pp. Fas
“Tf the child needs me, that is h; my
duty is plain.” : ee

 
 

7

 

 

 

would never think of marrying Oriole Darien—
et she worshiped him. To himself, who would
ave deemed it the crowning glory of his des-

tiny to win her for his wife, she was simply in-

different. -

Restless with the weight of these thoughts
Felix roamed over the deserted house. Sweet
breaths of summer air came in the open win-
dows; the library looked cool, dim and inviting;
but his mood once more urged him to try to
make out the mystic measure of the old black
woman’s riddle:

~ Three times one hundred and three

From the tower-bell to the red rose tree.”
Twice he pestered the absurd journey, mea-
suring and counting his steps; the third time,
struck with its folly, he left off suddenly, in an
upper hall, where an open door anda soft glint
of sunshine beyond wooed him forward into the
picture-gallery, a place he had only once visit-
ed since his return to Morley Beeches; and that,
the day before yesterday, when his brother ask-
ed his advice about using the long, empty room
for a dancing salon the night of the ball. The gal-
lery was in a wing and was lighted from above,
with the exception of two long, narrow win-
dows at the further end. These windows were
now open, by order of the master of the house,
to air the somewhat musty place; and through
them came a glimmer of summer sunsetting
and a twittering of birds in the old flower-gar-
den.

There were not half a dozen pictures of value
on the walls, except the family portraits—of
which there were two long lines, The Morleys
on one side, frowning or smirking at the Ga-
thorneson the other. Only one of these painted
images had any interest for Felix—the portrait
of his own mother, that fair young wife of
Mathew Morley, who was said to have died too
soon after her second marriage, of a broken
heart. He gazed a long time at the fair, sad
face as if he could wrest from those dark, mel-
ancholy eyes the secret of which he was in

west.

Outside, the sun sunk below the horizon, in a
bed of gold and scarlet. The birds twittered

more sleepily ; the bar of light faded from the ,

oak floor; the frames of the pictures glim-
mered faintly in the glowing twilight; still he
stood staring into the soft ayes of the portrait,
lost in gloomy musing. All at once, through
the intense silence, broke a long, low, quivering
sigh, which was followed by a ghostly whisper
on the shadowy air:
“Three times one hundred and three,

From the tower-bell to the red-rose tree,

Diana’s riddle is riddJed there—

She that is dead will name the heir.”

He started, looking sharply about him in the
deepening twilight. No one was to be seen in
tha long, empty, vibrating room. While he
stared into the semi-darkness, a whispering voice

said:

“Felix Gathorne, despair of nothing you have
aright to hope for. You have an unknown,

werful friend workingin yourinterest. Mor-
Beeches shall again be Gathorne Beeches.”

This time, it seemed to him, the voice came
from one of the two open windows at the end
of the gallery. He hastened to one and then
to the other; there were small balconies attach-
ed to each, but these were empty; nor could
any one have escaped from them without the
aid of aludder. As forthe gallery itself, it was
absolutely vacant of any mortal besides himself.

He heard the wheels of the carriages return-
ing to the stables, gay voices sounding in the
lower ball and on the staircase; the dressing-
bell had rung some moments earlier; a luxuri-
ous breath of heliotrope and mignonettecame up
from beneath the balconies; he put his hand on
his heart, and found it throbbing hard and fast.
No man living was more free from superstition
than he; yet he had not been able, entirely, to
resist the feeling of awe which had quickened
his pulse.

And that mysterious assurance that he hada
powerful friend. What could that mean? Who
was his friend? A crowd of sycophantic ad-
mirers surrounded his half-brother, but, what
“powerful” ally had he? Verily, the assurance
was puzzling news to him!

He heard Pansy Carlington’s voice in the cor-
ridor, wondering what had become of that mis-
anthropic Mr. Gathorne.

‘*T tremble when he does not ‘come up to
time,’” laughed the girlish voice, ‘‘ for fear he
may have committed suicide, and that we may
have to drag the pond. He is quite too awfully
handsome to look as glum as he does—not that
I do not admire him the more for it!”

‘* Any one can see, with half an eye, that you
admire him, Miss Pansy, quite as much as he
deserves,” grumbled the gaJlant cadet.

The two passed on down the now-lighted
staircase, continuing their badinage, while Fe-
lix came out of the gallery and hastened to his
room to freshen his toilet for dinner.

‘*So, Llook like a woulf-be suicide, do I?” he
said to himself. ‘‘Iought to be ashamed of
that! Iought to be more of aman. Eugene
has my patrimony, but ‘a man’s a man for a’
that;’ with youth, health talent, it is a disgrace
to go, around mooning like ‘the melancholy
Dany. sad

 

 

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

 

He got down to the drawing-room in time to
take Miss Pansy out to dinner; he made himself
very gay and social—in fact, for once, was the
life oF the party, for Eugene and Miss St. Mark
behaved toward each other exactly like polite
people who have quarreled, and this cast a
shadow over the dining-table.

‘She has heard something about Oriole Dari-
en,” was Felix’s not unnatural conjecture, as
he noted the icy civility of the beautiful Irene
to her fiancé.

Mrs. St. Mark also observed, with a degree of
uneasiness which interfered sadly with her ef-
fusive attentions to General Carlington.

‘Irene, for Heaven’s sake don’t sulk,” whis-
pered the wise mother to her daughter, as soon
as she could get to her after their return to the
drawing-room. ‘If Mr. Morley discovers what
atemper you have—too soon—it may be dan-
gerous to you.”

Irene burst into a bitter, curious little ree

‘*T shall take care, mother, to be securely his
wife before I give him a piece of my mind; but
he will hear what I think of him, then, mother.
His flirtations will come to an end, then, I feel
quite certain,”—and there was a sparkle under
her eyelashes which threatened ill for the fu-
ture peace of the young master of Morley.

“Oh, you are jealous, are you?” smiled the
wily parent. ‘‘{ did not know but vou had
quae with Eugene. A man will always

orgive a little jealousy; it flatters him. But
don’t betray your temper, Irene, my darling!
And as to whom you can find about here to be
jealous of, I don’t understand,” and the mother
looked complacently at the beautiful, stately
irl, so immensely superior to the Misses Car-
ngton, or to any of the young ladies of the
Beernersgon who had ‘called at Morley
ches.

Irene’s white teeth were ped into her
trembling lower lip, but she said nothing.
“Mother has not seen her!” was her thought
while the image of that dark, rich, tropical
beauty of the girl in the window arose in her
memory to half madden her.

The gentlemen, having finished their cigars,
came in—all but Eugene, who was missing
when Miss Wormely graciously volunteered to

per e set of waltzes if the young people cared |
to

nce.

Irene gave one or two turns about the room
to Harry Launcelot, who was in raptures at
having her to himself, and looked inexpressible
things into her blue eyes; but she soon com-
plained of her head aching and asked kim to
excuse her. Ho offered to take her out on_the
terrace; but no, she would go alone; and he
was forced to content himself with Miss Violet
for a partner. :

Trene had thrown a muslin scarf over her
head and shoulders; her hands were burning
with fever, her face white; she started down
the terrace with the one idea of going straight
to the Lodge; but she had not gone three steps
along the drive before she was met by Eugene,
who was slowly promenading before the house,
and who, throwing away his tented cigar, put
out his arms and caught her in them, with a
low laugh.

“By Jove, Irene, you are a stunner when
you are out of temper!” he began, good-na-
turedly. ‘How hot these little white hands
are! So! you are jealous of a pretty face at
the Tee You may well be! e world
does not hold a more glorious beauty than the
little girl down there! Buta man don’t marry
for penne, alone! One wants a lady at the
head of Morley House. And my steward don’t
allow his pretty daughter to flirt; so you need
not be so savage, ma belle, after this, if you do
catch me making eyes at Oriole’s window, It
means nothing—nothing at all. Those ‘Kiss
Waltzes’ are rather fascinating; come in, and
let us try them.”

She was Fg pala a Vp Sa ah An intense
desire to be lady of Morley Beeches kept her si-
lent. She called up her dazzling smiles, her
languorous glances; she floated his arms
light as thistledown; she said sweet things with
her head on his shoulder, while poe ee
around the long drawing-room to the beating
music; yet there was a demon in her breast,
wide awake and willing to do mischief, if she
but prompted it. ;

How her blue eyes would have blazed with
scorn and delight had she known that outside.
in the soft summer darkness, crouched the i
from the Lodge, hiding behind the jessamines
and honeysuckles at the window, in hopes of
getting one stolen glimpse into that paradise
from which she was debarred.

Poor little bird Oriole} creature of impulse,
of impetuous longings, of intensest feeling!
How she started, and
in her cheeks like fire; when a gentle hand was
laid on her shoulder, and Mrs. Chaldecott drew
her away from the window—through which the
golden illumination, the sweet music, poured
out—saying in tenderest tones:

“Oriole, my dear, you are no longer a child.
You must have more dignity than to come
here, in this way, even to see the Jadies danc-
ing. Itmakesa pretty picture, I know; I like
myself to watch them; but a father is proud
—he would not lile it; and. in teed, you are get-

»

ow the red blood burned |

 

ting too much of a young lady to run about,
unchaperoned, as you did when the great house
was closed. Promise not to come here again
without me, my darling.”

“Why cannot I be a lady, too, and live
among them?” sobbed the girl.

Esther Chaldecott put one arm about her
waist and kissed her hot cheek, answering her
almost like an oracle:

“Perhaps you may, and before ee years,

Oriole; but not by listening to the false flat-
teries of Eugene Morley.”
CHAPTER VIII.

A DISCOVERY,
“Ts, then, oo love so deep?’
o deep? "It is twined with my life—
Tt 2s my life—my food—
The natural element wherein I breathe—
My madness—my heart’s madness!
—PRroctor,

Fr.rx had been asleep about two hours when
he suddenly awoke and began to repeat to him-
self—‘‘ Morley Beeches shall again be Gathorne
Beeches.” 1t was the night following his visit
to the picture gallery where he had heard that
mysterious prophecy. He lay quietly musing
upon the occurrence, trying to explain it to
himself‘as a piece of self-deception—a freak of
his imagination, the consequence of his brain
being so constantly busy with thoughts of his
wrongs, and ponderings as to whether or not
his mother had made a different will from that
will produced by Mathew Morley.

Finally, he as restless—too restless to re-
mainin bed. The night was warm; to him his
nervous excitement made it seem sultry. He
slipped out to the floor, drew on slippers and
dressing-gown, and went and sat in the open
window, which overlooked the old, quaint ne-

lected flower-garden, where he had first seen

riole Darien.

When he went to bed it had been quite dark
out of doors; now a wan, melancholy, yellow
light shone over the dewy, sleeping earth, for
the late moon had risen at midnight and hung
in the eastern ap Borate gistening on the white
marble Psyche shi ing in the garden through a
mantle of clematis and fuchsias. Deepest dark-
ness hid under the trees; white lilies and roses
gleamed here and there in the open spaces;

werful fragrance came up from dew-wet

lossoms; the world was protopndly. still; the
golden half-moon looked old and haggard—ah!
was there not some one moving down there in
the shadow of the larches?

“There is some one up and about, though it —
is past one o’clock, A woman, too! She will
bear watching! What crime or secret romance
am I about to become a party to? Probably a
servant, lingering too late at the gate with her
clownish follower! Not much romance about
that! No, her movements are those of a well-
bred gee What can she be about? By all
that is strange, the black riddle!

“Yes, there she goes, counting her steps!—she
has a de in her hand. She pauses by the
statue where J came out,

‘ e aoe upon my word, this grows interest-
n,
idden by lace draperies and climbing honey-

suckle Felix watched the woman’s movements

for a quarter of an hour—saw her strike the
spade well into the soft, rich ground and throw
up spadeful after spadeful, not without toil
ang peas to rest.
ould she find anything?
‘Who was she? as this the ‘‘powerful

No, she had not gained the object of her labor.
He, quite as keenly interested as the mysterious
laborer herself, watched and waited:

‘friend ” promised him?

\—saw her
iiWaon rte begin to refill the hollow she —
ug.

( ickly dressing himself, Felix atipoed down-
airs, noiselessly drew the bolts of a French
window in the breakfast-room, swung it open
and prepped out on the sheltered piazza, from
which, by keeping in the shadow of a row of
larc’ ie managed to draw quite near the wo-
man without himself coming into sight.

Scarcely had he gained the vantage of a group
of rhododendrons near the Psyche, than the in-
truder passed him, walking gucey and lightly.
She was partially disguised in a plain black
dress and e hat drawn down over her face, ©

‘He noticed that her dress was of silk, and that

a heavy gold ring shone on the fourth finger of

a delicate hand; but who the person was he

could not make out. It was not Miss Wormely

—it was not Mrs. St. Mark—nor any of the

young ladies visiting at the house—nor was it
iole Darien.

Determined to find out more about her he fol-
lowed her at a discreet distance. In and out
among the winding paths, further and further
from the mansion, toward the gates:—was it
some outsider thus strangely interested in the
riddle of his destiny? : : ;

The woman was just about to emerge on the
carriagé-drive directly opposite the lodge, when
she suddenly shrunk back with a faint cry,
scarcely h aloud; then she stood quite still,

and Felix, not far behind her, crept wan gh bese
ieela lining

the pink-flowering hedge of we
path, and stooping low, crept along on the oppe-

 
  
 

 
 
  
  

 
  

    

6

 

He wrung her slim hand so hard that she

winced, and went away.

After he had gone Esther Chaldecott remain-
ed in profound thought.

‘Tt will be better for me there than here,”
she murmured, aloud. ‘‘It is nearer to the
house; I shall have far better opportunities for
observation and watchfulness. Altogether it is
just what I desire. Yes, it suits my need very
well. So! Eugene is going to turn out a scamp
like his father, Mathew Morley! I am sorry—
sorry !—yet, I shall regret less any misfortune
that may happen to him! If he prove unworthy
I shall have less reason to pity him. Poor little
Oriole, beautiful child! You were born for a
brighter fate than to fall crushed under the
Juggernaut of a Morley’s selfishness!”

 

CHAPTER VI
SOWING DRAGONS TEETH,
‘*Love, only Love, is lord of all.”

THERE were gay times at Morley Beeches.
The jeweled cup of pleasure overflowed. The
golden days and half the short, sweet nights
were crowded with sparkling excitements of
the social kind. The residents in the surround-
ing villas and country-seats hastened to wel-
come the heir home to his inheritance; there
were kettle-drums, croquet-parties, dinners of
the stately order, evening dances and musicales
—a constant coming and going of elegant equi-
paces, fluttering of silken fineries, murmur of
aughters, music of stringed instruments, dainty

' teas, flower-déecked dinner-tables, glimmer of
white dresses on green lawns, promenading of
outhful pairs along garden walks, glimpses of

nigh-bred beauties on spirited horses, with liv-
eried grooms in attendance:—in short, a super-
abundance of that. fashionable dissipation pos-
sible to a merry company in a grand old place
where unlimited means enabled the young host
to do everything for the amusement of his
guests.

Even the weather condescended to flatter
youth and pret wearing its most amiable
aspect, week in and week out.

rene St. Mark was ‘‘in her element.” She
flourished best in an atmosphere of idle luxury.
As the bride-elect—the future mistress of Mor-
ley Beeches—she received that meed of atten-
tion which courtiers pay to their queens. That
her lover had grown less devoted since they
came to his home—had been distrait at times—
almost indifferent about pleasing her, she had
not even noticed. Having no doubt of his in-
tentions—no doubt that she wasto gain the rich
party for which she and her mother had
schemed, and having plenty of flattery from
others, she remained blind to the growing care-
lessness of Eugene; who, on his part, had not
the least shadow of an idea of giving up his
aristocratic fiancée, but who was in an ill-hu-
mor, like some spoiled boy, at being thwarted
in his flirtation with his steward’s beautiful
daughter. Oriole was kept away from him,
and that roused his stubbornness and angered
him. The more difficulty there was in seeing
her, the more resolved he was to have his own
way. Hehad made adiscovery,too. Jealousy
had made him sharp-sighted, and he had found
out that his brother Felix was even more des-
perately enamored of the dark Gipsy beauty
than he was.

‘‘He means to marry her, too,” he muttered
to himself. “ He can afford it, confound him!
He does not haye to keep up the Morley estate
and the family honor, as I do! Happy seg!
His poverty is his blessing, in this case. It
drives me wild to think of his winning my
bright bird! She loves me. She shall not be
won over to him—I swear it!”—and so he fret-
ted and fumed inwardly, cherishing bad
thoughts which he might far better have
strangled in their birth.

It was all vee well to call Felix’s poverty a
blessing; but Eugene would have fought des-
Beraely to hold on to that estate, which he had

ee had there been danger of his los-
ing it. Perhaps there was danger—a new and

secret danger; but, if so, he did not dream of it,
plunging into a life of pleasure at high speed,
oo quite looking down on his poor haltf-bro-
ther.

While Eugene enjoyed himself Felix grew
daily and hourly more restless. To add to his
ever-dissatisfied moods came this strange, sud-
ee unreasoning love for a young, ignorant

rl.
e Why should he love Oriole Darien? Why is
the sky blue—the rose lovely?) He went openly
to the steward’s dwelling two or three times a
week, generally of an evening when Darien was
at home, with whom he would chat a féw min-
utes and then ask Oriole, very humbly and ear-
nestly, for a song or two. 3

The girl had a voice like her beauty, rich,
smooth, fresh, passionate; it had been well
trained; to sit in some shadowy corner of the
Lodge parlor and watch her while she sung was
the only happiness Felix had. And, while he
listened, his soul in his eyes, often another
watched him with a gaze as intense as his own
—Esther Chaldecott, the woman who had yield-
ed to Zophiel’s appeal and come here to guard
his daughter.

 

RIDDLE.

Tu PEACE

She was. a sweet, lady-like
low, tender voice, that won Felix’s liking the
first time he heard it. Darien had explained to
the young man that he had engaged Mrs, Chal-
decott as companion and governess for Oriole
and Felix had approved.

Did the governess Snare of Felix? Not of
his passion for Oriole Darien. She read him
more truly than he read himself, She knew his
intense pride—the real Gathorne petite pride
tinged with the keen bitterness of poverty, but
all the more powerful for it; his reserve, hi
finement, cultivation, sensitive tastes.

‘There are not ten girlsin the United States
good enough for Felix Gathorne,” she said to
herself, studying his fine, clear face. ‘‘I am
sorry for this infatuation, and te that he may
outgrow it; otherwise I must do all that in me
lies to bring Oriole up to his standard. What
does the child lack? She has a charm, a grace,
a manner all her own; can limprove it? She
has a genius for music, I.can add to her
book-knowledge; beyond that, ‘one may as
well try to ‘paint the lily.’ In beauty she
is simply her own peerless self. It is true
that she is a steward’s daughter. Yet, may not
that strain of rich Gipsy blood, which flows re-
motely in her veins, be as pure and proud as the
blood of princes? Her grandfather was the
real king of the true Andalusian Gipsies; and
certainly, she is the queen rose of all beauty.”

If, indeed, Mrs, Chaldecott had ever so warm-
ly disapproved, there would have been nothing
for her to say in remonstrance, for Oriole was
as utterly indifferent to the nonnage of this dark,
grave young gentleman as to the stare of a
carven image. He came and went without
causing one ripple on the still pool of her soul—
a soul in whose depths was reflected one burn-
ing, dazzling God of Day, one brilliant, brood-
ing heaven of love.

hat the girl’s thoughts wer3 during those
long, languorous summer days, even her friendly
companion might only guess. She gave no one
a glimpse into her. heart after that rebuke of
her father’s. Before that, the whole world might
have read her secret; after that, no sensitive-
plant ever sbrunk more silently from human

re-

touch.

Only, that in her singing, the passionate grief,
the sionate rapture betrayed itself. Felix
could tell, by the thrill of the glorious mezzo-
soprano voice, on what days she had met Eu-
gene and had a smile or stolen word from him,
or on what days she had hoped and waited in
vain.

Meantime, up at the great house, a little bird
had whispered something in the ear of Miss St.
Mark. It was harmless little Violet Carling-
ton who first—with a spice of girlish malice, no
doubt, pleasant little phiee though she might be
—asked Irene if she had seen the steward’s
sens at the Lodge?

‘‘They say she is far prettier than any of us,”
remarked Violet, carelessly, ‘‘and that all the
gentlemen have found it out.”

“Any of us!” repeated Miss St. Mark, with
a satirical smile, glancing from the unstylish

rettiness of the little gossip to her own superb
image in the mirror before which she was stand-

ing.

f Well, handsomer even than you, then,” re-
torted Miss Violet. ‘‘And I have been told
that Mr. Morley is her particular admirer. I
should not have credited that, however—know-
ing his unlimited devotion to his Siancée—had I
not met them walking together in the rose-tree
alley, and seen, with my own eyes, him talking
to her very earnestly, and she blushing and look-
ing down.”

* Nonsense! Eugene is always flattering the
good-looking chambermaids and dairy-maids
whom he meets, _ It’s his way.”

Irene spoke with studied indifference, but a
faint color, seldom seen under her white skin,
was coming up into her cheeks, as she pinned a
bunch of dark-red carnationsin her yellow hair.

“Dairy-maid! This girl looked as much the
lady as you or I,” pursued Violet. ‘And she
really was wonderfully beautiful.”

us Quite romantic, upon my word!” sneered
Trene, calmly fastening a pearl necklace about
her fair throat; and, shaking out the folds of
her pale-blue satin train, she sailed out of her
dressing-room, through the broad, upper corri-
dor, down the staircase of carved oak, to meet
Eugene waiting for her at its foot.

There had been a light shower a couple of
hours earlier, and he was to take her for a drive
before dinner—a téte-d-téte drive in his dog-cart,
while such of the rest of the party as desired,
went out in the barouche or on horseback,

Trene’s face looked very lovely and very cold
under the shadow of her elegant driving-hat.
Eugene remarked that as he gallantly folded a
light wrap around her stately figure and led her
out to the carriage, _

‘‘ By George, how different she is from—the
other one,” he thought to himself,

It was a perfect afternoon, The light warm
rain had Jaid the dust and brought out the
sweetness of leaves and grass glistening freshly
as they whirled along the drive on their way to
the public road,

Irene’s blue eyes were on the alert as they
passed the Lodge. Yes! up there under the

ersonage, with a |

 

eaves, at a casemented window framed in roses
and eglantine, sat a young girl. Her head was
drooped on a dimpled hand, thick masses of
purple-black hair fell around the warm soft
arm, her lovely eyes were raised to the summer
heaven with a dreamy smile—she saw nothing
of earth, did not know that she was being
scrutinized by cold, cruel, envious looks. Beau-
tiful! Tene St. Mark could not deny to herself
that she had never even imagined such beauty
as this! Oh, blooming, tender mouth! oh, shin-
ing eyes so deep and dark! Oh, melting curve
of cheek and chin! oh, rich, tropical flowerin:
of girlish charms, no wonder you struck a chill
of jealous dread to the mind of the adventurous
blonde who had the promise of becoming mis-
tress of Morley Beeches!

While Irene gazed the light-whirling wheels
struck a stone sharply, and the girl in the win-
dow looked down and saw who was passing.
Quickly she drew back from the window, but
not until Irene had observed the color spring to
her cheeks. Instantly Eugene’s fiancée stole a
covert look at him—syrprised him, with his
passion written on his face—and knew as thor-
oughly as if he had confessed it in words that
the girl at the Lodge had become her rival.

There is a jealousy quite different from the
fierce, unreasoning jealousy of love—a meaner
feeling, base and envious, cold and pitiless, un-
redeemed by the noble fire of the first—and this
hateful passion raged silently in Irene’s bosom,
as the spirited horse flew along the spicy lanes,
dragging the light cart after him where long
lines of pale sunset struck under the shadows of
tall trees, and the hedge-rows sparkled with the
million jewels left in the track of the passing
shower.

It was rather a silent drive. Eugene was
content to have it so; he was dreaming of
that face at the window, unsuspicious of the
cruel jealousy tearing at the heart-strings of
the proud, imperious girl be had asked to be his
wife. It was wrong—all wrong—the course he
was pursuing. He was sowing dragons’ teeth
to spring up as armed men to slay him. He
would not think of the future; willful and self-
ish and unreflecting he took no thought of con-
sequences.

** Trene will never break her heart for me, let
me do what I will,” he thought, with a side look
at the cold fair face.

No, she will not break her heart, Eugene; but
there are other passions than love, to fear ina
nature like Irene St. Mark’s.

 

CHAPTER VII.
THE PICTURE GALLERY VOICE.

A Peri, at the gate
Of Eden stood, disconsolate, —Moorz.

Tux whole bevy of guests had gone out riding
or driving on that delicious afternoon. Even
Miss Wormely had asked Mrs. St. Mark to
share the pony-phaéton with her while she
drove to the village to see if there was anything
to be found in the dry-goods shops in the way
of fresh ribbons and gloves, and to inquire at the
railroad station for a package from New York
which should have arrived, per express, that
morning—a package of the greatest possible
importance to the fair denizens of Morley
Beeches, as it was to contain sundry masks,
dominoes and costumes for the ball, invitations
for which Eugene had already sent out.

The only one left behind at the Beeches was
Felix Gathorne. He had not cared to accept
Violet Carlington’s invitation to join the merry
young people in a canter over the hills; he had
just come from an hour’s visit in the little

odge parlor, and his soul was full of the
strange beauty, the bewitching charm of Zo-
phiel Darien’s dark-eyed daughter, whose im-
age made the fair faces of Pansy and Violet
seem insipid to him. Then, too, he was in one
of his restless moods; an inward voice was
whispering to him that he was out of place—
that he was weak and indifferent—that he was
allowing his birthright to slip into his half-bro-
ther’s hands without a struggle to reclaim it.
Eugene Morley lorded it over the old Gathorne
patrimony. Eugene Morley ruled in the house
of his progenitors. Eugene Morley was spend-
ing with Javish grace money which had once
glittered in Gathorne coffers, How had this
come about? Had that lovely young mother—
whom he faintly remembered as an angel bend-
ing over his bed in earliest childbood—sinned
thus cruelly against her own son? It did not
seem natural! There must be fraud and treach-
ery somewhere! Otherwise, she must have sold
the rights of her own flesh and blood to that ra-

acious old wolf, his step-father, Mathew Mor-

ey.

‘How often had he tormented himself with
such thoughts! Was not the time come in
which to do something more than brood and
dream and fret in silence?

Yet, if Oriole Darien had only loved him in-
stead of Eugene, how sweet it would be to give
up everything and, mating with her, forget his
wordly ambitions, and live a peaceful, idyllic
life on his small income.

It was bitter to realize that even this girl’s
love fell naturally to Eugene. All the good
things of earth gravitated to him, Eugene

  

 
_. than nothing to her!

. him with sudden conviction.

    

8

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

 

site side until he discovered what it was that
had startled the lady and held her motionless,

Oriole Darien was leaning out of the casement
window of her ‘‘bower-chamber.” The wan
moonlight shone on her whito dress and dark
hair—her lovely face—her round bare arms,
On the greensward below stood Eugene Morley.
He was apparently talking to her in earnest
whispers, so guarded that even they, who were
only across the carriage-drive, could hear noth-
ing. Oriole’s face was flushed and troubled,
eager, glowing, as she listened to the impassion-
ed words breathed, like the sweet breath of the
roses, on the dewy night air. Eugene had come
out without his hat, his fair features and golden
hair curling up at the touch of the damp fingers
of Night, looked very winsome in the yellow
moonlight.

Presently a word or two of what he was say-
ing reached Felix—enough to tell him that his
brother was repeating those exquisite lines of
Shelley’s:

***T arise from dreams of thee,
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright;
Iarise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me—who knows how?—
To thy chamber-window, sweet,’

Dreams—dreams—dreams maddening-sweet, of
ou, bird Oriole!” murmured Eugene, under hi
reath; and then he threw her a dozen kisses

from the tips of his fingers, and went slowly

away, back toward the house, ignorant that this
little scene had been witnessed by two persons
each of whom was deeply pained by it.

‘Fickle and selfish!” muttered Felix; ‘‘ will-
ing to break her heart rather than deny himself
the pleasure of having her love him! Engaged
to one girl and playing Romeo to another! Ah
Eugene, it is hard for me to forgive you this! I
know you thoughtless, impulsive, good-temper-
ed—but, it is wicked, cruel, for you to follow up
this affair as you seem determined on, despite
all warnings. And I, who love her so, am less

She suffers my silent
homage as a young princess suffers the worth-
less offering of some r subject. Oriole,
would to beaven it bad chanced we had met be-
fore my brother—curled Sere oe are
pope pa infatuated you with his careless

eauty.

Ser Feudal Mrs. Chaldecott favors the feeling
she sees that I have for her Oriole. She is
strangely kind to me; and Iam Srowing curi-
ously attached to her. What shall I do? Tell
her that Eugene peys midnight visits to her pu-
pil’s window? Bring down on my head the
wrath of her I love? Alas, I am so situated
that were I again to warn Oriole—as I once did
eee set down my interference to envy
—jealous

. How beautiful she looks in this weird light.

There, she has gone, and the earth seems dark-

er! Now, what has become of the mysterious

_ lady who searches for the hidden treasure?”

Felix, as he asked himself this question, was
startled to observe the midnight wanderer
cross the drive and ascend the cottage steps.

‘*Mrs, Chaldecott!” the thought shed over

‘I wonder I did
not sooner recognize her step and fi ! Yes,
she is going in. Now this is strange! What in-
terest can Esther Chaldecott amg have in
my affairs? What does she know about the
black riddle? As they say in novels, ‘the plot
thickens.’ Well, I am glad of one thing—that
she has been a witness to Eugene’s stolen at-
tempts at flirtation with Miss Darien. I shall
not have to act the distasteful part of in-
former.”

He walked about ina restless mood until he
had given Eugene time to return to those
“dreams” out of which he had wakened to
take this midnight ramble; then himself return-
ed to his bed.

Meantime, Mrs. Chaldecott, having silently
reéntered the Lodge and removed her hat and
cape, instead of going to her own little bedroom
crept up to the “‘ bower-chamber” of Oriole, an
going straight to where the girl was lying,
wide-eyed, on her sleepless pillow, sat down be-
side her and po herself of one soft, trem-
bling hand, that shrunk in her own as with a
sense of naughtiness.

re My dear, I happened to be up, and I saw
Mr. Morley under your window. Your father
has said to me, and to you as well, that he
wished you to have not whatever to do
with that person.”

The girl remained silent; the light was too
dim for Esther to see the sullen look that came
over the lovely face.

“Do you not believe, Oriole, that your fa-
ther has some good reason for wishing to pre-
vent an intimacy between youand Mr. Morley?”

‘“My father thinks he has a good reason, but
he is mistaken, Mrs. Chaldecott. Mr. Morley
loves me, and I love him. Neither of us can
help it—and it can’t be wrong,” she added, pas-
sionately.

“He fancies you, my poor little Oriole—fan-
cies you as he does every new and prey toy
he sees. He amuses himself with you. He can
guly really love one woman, and that should be

 

the young lady he issoon to marry. I do not
hear that the — for his wedding have
been discontinued.”

‘*T know all about that,” answered the girl,
quickly. ‘‘He has explained it. If he were
not too honorable to do so base a thing, he
would have broken off his engagement with
Miss St. Mark long ago. Of course, when he
asked her to marry him, he had not seen me
and he thought he was very fond of her; an
she let him see she was fond of him; and so
they became engaged. Now, knowing how she
loves him, he cannot make up his mind to tell
her the truth. I agree with him that he ought
not to—that he and I must be the sufferers.
Poor, poor martyr! eae Eugene! He is very
unhappy, Mrs. Chaldecott.”

“ He is a very great sinner!” thought Esther,
very bitterly; yet, in that, she did somewhat
wrong Eugene. His case was truly much as
Oriole had painted it, in as far as he was des-
perately in love with her, and would—at least,
at times he fully believed he would—have been
ged and eager to make her his wife, had it not

en too late to break with Miss St. Mark with-
out causing her painful mortification and dis-

tress.

Where Eugene did wrong was, knowing he
was not free to marry Oriole, in still seeking
her society secretly, undoing her peace of mind,
indulging his foolish infatuationat her expense.
Perhaps it was too much to look for self denial
from such a pleasure-lover, such a self-indulgent
young fellow, who had only looked on the world
as a place made for his amusement. While Eu-
gene was no vainer than others of his age and
pee it seemed to him only proper that all

the good things of life should fall to his share;
he looked at his half-brother as a poor devil just
fitted to be tied down to a couple of thousand
dollars a year.

“He may

be unhappy, my darling,” said
Esther, patiently ; ‘‘ but he has no right to make
you more so—perhaps to compromise you in the
eyes of others, should his admiration chance to
become known. Look at the matter squarely,
Oriole—how is it to end? Since he is not free
to marry you, he should let you alone.”

“T tell you he lovesme! Is he to blame for
loving me? He did not mean to be untrue to—
to Miss St. Mark. We just met—and all the
rest came! We could not prevent it. Mrs.
Chaldecott, Iam very fond of you; butif you
find fault with Mr. Morley, you will make me
hate you—there !”

“Do you hate your father?”

“No, no, no! I love him a thousand times
more than ever!—but father cannot under-
stand.”

‘*He understands only too well. He knows
the world, my poor little birdling. And he
loves his only child too well to like the man who
is doing his best to break her heart.”

‘Are you going to tell him that I have dis-
obeyed him?”

. Chaldecott hesitated. Zophiel Darien
had brought her there to guard his daughter.
She had noright to keep from him the fact that
young Morley was still pursuing Oriole with his
protestations; yet she recoiled from the idea of
playing spy, as Felix had recoiled.

Whatever I do, Oriole, will be most sincere-

ly for your good—not Mr, Morley’s—not my
Senso even your father’s—only yours. Oh,
my darling, promise me that you will never
again speak to Mr. Morley except in the pres-
ence of others!”

“Promise you that!” cried Oriole, sitting up,
with flashing eyes. ‘‘Never! Why should I?
Why should I be so cruel to him? Nothing on
eart Sz. eects 2 cruel to my ‘ Eu-

ne ves him pleasure to spea me.
tae and a while—to cate a look, a word, I will
not deny him that poor pleasure. I love him
too well.”

“Have you no worpenly pride, Oriole?”

‘*T don’t know; I only know I love him.”

“What will you do when he is married?”

“Just the same, I suppose—smile on him
when we meet and try not to distress him by
letting him see my heart is broken.”

“Are you not jealous of Miss St. Mark?”
Esther asked, in despair, not knowing what
else to say to disturb this serene self-abnega-
tion. “ Most girls would be jealous, under your
circumstances.”

“TI suppose I am,” was the musing reply.
“When t'see his bride, so fair and elegant, so
happy and proud, I know that I often wish she
were dead. But, that is wicked! and I struggle
against it. I can’t blame her for loving Bagepe:
no one could help that! but, yes, I am horri Ly,
omany evilly aenlooe sometimes! I confess it.’

by ell, lie down and try to sleep, my poor
child. I promise you this—that I will say noth-
ing to your father until you and I have talked

in.

a

She kissed the hot forehead of the wayward
girl and went away.

“She asks me if I am jealous!” murmured
Oriole, slipping her little bare feet out upon the
floor. ‘She does not dream of the wicked pas-
sionsthatriseinmyheart. Jealous! If I could
only be sure that Miss St. Mark—as some have
told me—is selfish and calculating, and is about
to marry him for his great estates—ha! there is

 

—

a trick Icould play her! 1 do not forget the
papers in the box! I brood over them, some-
times, until my brain is on fire.”

She went to the little cupboard in the chim-
ney, where she kept her treasure-trove, unlocked
the door, touched the box with her hand, as if
to assure herself of its reality, refastened the
door, and crept back to bed with curious half-
schemes rising in her illy governed mind.
is {ff she had loved Felix as she loved Eugene!—

ut:
“The course of true love never did run smooth,”

and Oriole’s troubled passion is fated to bear its
freight of misery.

CHAPTER IX.
HE MEANS NO HARM.
* do I treat thee thus? It should not be—
And yet I cannot—cannot one thee up!
I neither take nor yet will let thee go.”

For a good-natured young gentleman, who
habitually looked upon himself as one of the
most amiable of his sex, Eugene Morley had a
hard morning of it, after that little midnight
romance when a “spirit in his feet” had led
him where he ought not to have gone.

Miss St. Mark was disagreeable at breakfast;
and, immediately after that meal, his steward
sent word he would like to see him in the office
—a little room off the servants’ dining-room,
where business was occasionally transacted.
A blush dyed Eugene’s handsome face as he en-
tered the office and met the unsmiling greetin
of Zophiel Darien. He had said to himsel
until he thought he believed it, that he meant
no harm whatever, and had a perfect right to
have a nice time with Oriole when the oppor-
tunity offered; yet, somehow, he could not meet
those stern dark eyes without a sense of guilt.

It was not so pleasant to face the father as to
make love to the daughter.

“‘Good-morning, Darien. Anything new on
hand?” he asked, striving to recover his usual
graceful sang froid.

“T have come, sir, to resign the stewardship
of Morley Beeches.”

“Ts it possible? You oe take away
my breath, Darien! And, I must say, you
choose an inconvenient time to put me to the
trouble of Jooking up a new man to take your
place. What has gone wrong?”

“T have made up my mind that it is time for
me to leave. The change will not cause you
much trouble; the accounts are in perfect order,
the estates have been well taken care of, an
are bringing in as good an income as could be
asked.”

‘‘T don’t like to part with you, Darien. You
have been here ever since I was a boy; I have
left everything in your hands—have perfect
confidence in you; and now, particularly, I
was Speeding you to keep a sharp eye on the
house while the repairs went on this fall. I
have looked upon you, not so much as my
steward, as my elder friend and adviser.”

‘*Has your conduct to me and mine been that
of a friend?” asked Zophiel, with repressed pas-
sion, ‘‘I have been very fond of you, Air.
Eugene; but it is time we part.”

‘““Where are you going? What are you ex-
pecting to do?”

‘No matter about my plans. I shall manage
to take care of those I love.”

Eugene turned a little oe and tears sprun
to his eyes. He looked down at the floor an
drummed on the desk with his fingers in an em-
barrassed manner,

“Don’t go away, Darien,” he pleaded, pre-
ey: “It is not necessary. In ten days you
will have the place all to yourself ; we
shall be off to the city for the winter; a little
after the New Year Miss St. Mark and myself
will be married, and go to Florida for a time;
we do not expect to see Morley Beeches again
until it is in its spring glory. main, at least,
until then. I—Iam willing to promise, if you
like, on my word of honor, not to speak to—to
Miss Darien while we remain here, except in
the presence of others,”

“The word of honor of Eugene Morley ought
to be sufficient,” answered Zophiel, hesita-

tingly.

Tp shall be,” cried Eugene, looking earnestly
at his steward with those blue, frank-looking
eyes. ‘‘I suppose I have done wrong, Darien;
but, —- my soul, if I had met your daughter
while [ was a free man, I should have been onl
too glad and too oe to make her my wif e
and the lady of Morley Beeches. I am very
unhappy—I am, indeed. You must have some
mercy on me.”

Darien’s stern anger softened as he regarded
the culprit, entreating humbly for forgiveness.
No man or woman could withstand the charm
of Eugene’s winsome looks and ways; and thus
it was his selfishness had been fostered.

“* You will not abandon me to some stranger,
will you?” the young employer added. ‘‘I de-
pend on you to oversee the repairs.”

“Tf you are really going to get off so
and remember your
not refuse to stay on
Morley.”

“There! I am awfully glad vou have con-
sented to think twi I am grateful

 

e place this winter, Mr.

ce of it.

; soon,
romise meantime, I will:

 

 

;
F
|
|

 
THE BLACK’ RIDDLE.

9

 

 

to you, Darien. And, oh, by the way, I made
a promise, when I first returned, to Miss
Oriole, that she should be invited if I. gave
agrand ball. The ball comes off a week from
to-night. Will you say to her and to Mrs.
Chaldecott that 1

them among my guests, and shall be disap-
pointed if they refuse to do me that honor?”

“Tshall give them your message, since you
send it by me; but, I warn you I shall advise
them not to make fools of themselves by accept-
ing.’

** Miss Darien has a young girl’s eager curi-
osity to see the gay world; Brey, do not refuse
her this one glimpse,” said Kugene, laughing.

““One glimpse—to make her discontented
with her own lot in life! Worse than foolish!
worse than foolish!” muttered Zophiel. ‘‘ Bet-

ter say nothing to the child about your grand |

ball, Mr. Morley.”

He went out, and Eugene drew a long breath.

““Why cannot they let my little darling and
me alone!” he murmured. ‘‘ Weare scolded on
every side. I warn you, lady Irene, it will not
take many snubs from you to make my bright
little girl seem so much more lovable by con-
trast that I shall break off with you in very
desperation! Fancy bird Oriole. putting on
grand airs to her lover! One kiss of hers would
be worth ten thousand of my haughty lady’s,”

Dangerous thoughts, if yo only knew of
them, Miss St. Mark! A dangerous experi-
ment to allow your future husband to find out,
too soon, that you have a temper.

A good many things are ‘‘at sixes and
sevens” at Morley Beeches that dry, bright
August day—not on the surface, oh, no! All is
smooth on the surface. The ladies chatter in-
cessantly about the ball—discuss their costumes
—the invited guests—the decorations. They
have been generously féted by the aristocrats
of the neighborhood; a very handsome ball will
not be too much to offer in return.

This ball is to be a combination of several
sorts of amusement—a summer féte as well as a
dance; with illuminated grounds, banners and
tents, a military band, and a dancing-floor laid
down on the lawn. It will be the ‘‘dark of the
moon,” so that the colored lamps and lanterns
will have their prettiest effect. Then the pic-
ture-gallery is to be fitted ay, as_an indoor ball-
room, with its own smaller band of stringed in-
struments. Before the opening of the. fes-
tivities—which will not be until ten o’clock, for
the hour previous, one of the most delightful
features of the entertainment will be enjoyed—
aseries of tableaux vivants is also to be given
in the gallery, along one end of which a stage,
with curtain and other appointments, is to
arranged.

Two or three of the most brilliant young
ladies of the neighborhood, with several gentle-
men, have been chosen to take part in these
tableaux. They are at Morley Beeches to
luncheon, discussing scenes and characters.
Altogether a soft, well-bred excitement pre-
vails in drawing and dining-room, Irene con-
cludes to be amiable. She is to be in three of
the four ‘‘ pictures”—as Marie Antoinette for
one—in short, in the characters of the hand-
somest heroines with the most elaborate toilets.
Her vanity is more than satisfied. ;

One thought keeps firmly in Eugene's mind:

“Tf I could only show these high-bred
beauties my bird Oriole! By Venus and all the
Graces! what a joke it would be to introduce
her unexpectedly, and confound them by her
glorious loveliness!”

Felix took very little interest in the one en-
grossing topic of the day. He brooded silently
over t.
night. The wonder grew upon him—what did
Esther Chaldecott know about the hidden will?
What interest could she possibly have in it?

Then, too, he was miserable at remembering
the love-light on the girlish face at the window
—a face that never beamed on him with such
a look,

How lightly his brother must prize that smile
which would have been so priceless to him!
Here was Eugene, frivolous, contented, giving
his whole mind to the balli—knowin thato
Darien was breaking her heart for him. Why
should Eugene have eyverything?—those gold
locks, those laughing eyes, that charming way
—this princely domain—and the heart of Oriole
Darien?

He felt angry and bitter.
to himself that, even if certain of success, he
would hardly trouble to fight Eugene’s right to
the inheritance—that Eugene was made to be
rich and fortunate and did more credit to the

 

e double adventure of the previous!

riole |

Often he had said |

Beeches, as master, than he, sober, reserved and |

somber-minded would doin his place. To-day
he felt differently ; to-day he felt that he could
contest it with
to the bitter end.

Shortly after luncheon he left the
chatterers and strayed down to the Lodge. He
wanted to see Mrs. Chaldecott—to study her
under this new aspect. Little Betty was out-
side, waiting to open the gate for the ingress
and egress of frequent carriages.

‘Ts Mrs. Chaldecott in the house?”

im, inch by inch—fight it out |
party. of |

The spot indicated was hidden from the drive
by intervening shrubberies, but Felix knew it
well and soon reached it—a bit of cool, delicious

| shade, with a bench or two, under the spread-
| Ing
shall be most happy to see

branches of a mighty chestnut. Esther
Chaldecott sat on one of these rustic seats with
her basket of needlework beside her; Oriole
ee crouched in the soft short grass at her
evt.

Esther welcomed the intruder with a smile
and words of friendly een g the girl gave
him a careless nod and her dark eyes went
back to the book she wasreading. Felix seated
himself on the other bench and began a desul-
tory conversation with the elder lady.

ow that his observation was quickened by
an intense curiosity, he noted the remains of
extreme and patrician beauty in the delicate,
faded face; also that her small white hands
trembled so that she could hardly set a stitch,
though she appeared calmness itself; and pres-
ently, that he more than once detected her in
stolen, earnest glances at$ himself —strange
glances that thrilled bim with some sympa-
thetic power, when he chanced to meet them.

Oriole was absorbed in her book, so Felix,
speaking low, asked Mrs. Chaldecott how long

e had lived in the vicinity.

‘*T was born at Gathorne Beeches,” she an-
swered him, in a tone as low.

“How sizange it sounds to hear you call the
place by its old name, Mrs. Chaldecott!”

“Té was Gathorne Beeches when I was a
girl, Mr. Gathorne; and so it always remains in
my thoughts,”

‘Do you mean that you were actually born
in the mansion?” he asked her.

“T was,” after an instant’s hesitation and a
giance at the girl on the grass at her feet. ‘I
was myself a Gathorne,”

‘Then, perhaps, you knew my mother!”

She looked up at the eager face lighted with a
tender hope.

“YT did know her quite intimately at one
time,” she slowly responded, her lips quiver-
ing, but a soft smile in her still-lovely hazel
eyes.
we Oh, Mrs. Chaldecott, why did you never
tell me this before?” He had darted to her side,
seized her hand, and was looking as if he woul
like to take her in his very arms,

She laughed and looked down, in some con-
fusion.

“T wanted to get better acquainted with you,
first. We have met but a few times. es,
Mrs. Morley and I have been warm friends—
before she married that second time—and died
—of a broken heart. I know, if she could speak
and tell me so, she would ask me to be her dear
son’s friend—his true friend—as I long to be.”

‘My dear Mrs. Chaldecott, I shall be fond of
pos from this moment!” raising thethin wasted
hand to his lips with almost a son’s tenderness.
‘To think you knew my ill-fated mother! She
bi ill-fated, was she not?’ he asked, earn-
estly.

Esther was about to make some reply, when
Eugene came upon the scene, and prevented.
How handsome—how charming he was!—not
Felix’s eyes even could deny that. Oriole
sprung to her feet and sat down by her gover-
ness, with downcast looks and changing color.
“What a glorious couple they would make!”
thought Felix, with a pang. ‘“‘If I were Eu-
gene I would throw over that cold, calculatin
creature of the world to whom he is plighted,
and wed this one, whose every pulse beats only
for him!”

And so Eugene thought, more than once, but
he had plenty of worldly pride and wanted a
fashionable woman as queen of Morley Beeches;
besides which, he did not understand Irene—he
thought her sincerely in love with himself, and
felt that he had no right to wound and crush
her by asking for his freedom.

‘Mrs. Chaldecott,” he began, in his eas:
way, after saluting the ladies, ‘1 want to tal
to you about the ball lam to give next week.
LI wish you and Miss Darien to honor the occa-
sion with your presence. Promise me that you
will come!”

Oriole flashed an eager look at her governess.
Oh, the lovely glow rising under the velvet
softness of those cheeks—the liquid glory shin-
ing in the great dark eyes!

“I need not ask Oriole if she would like to
accept,” said Mrs, Chaldecott, with rather a sad
smile, ‘Her eyes speak for her; but, after all,
it remains,for her father to decide.”

“T have asked Darien. He hardl
pie but did not utterly refuse.
tease him into consent, Miss Oriole. I want
bi to take ae in a tableau—to oblige me. I

ave planned a little surprise for my guests.
There are already four iohiaaitee arranged. I
desire to introduce another, for which they will
not be prepared—a pleasant surprise you see.
Say that you will oblige me!”
riole’s heart. beat high. Here was the op-
ee to prove to those haughty ladies who
ad passed her with the insolent, calm stare of
high-breeding lookin
rove her beauty as Heaven-given as their own.
ould she perform her part without discompo-

seemed
ou must

‘No, sir; she be over there under the big | sure or ignominious failure? Yes: she would

chestnut, with her sewing, sir.”

doit—would triumph—would show them all her

at what is inferior—to |

power over the young master of Morley Beech-
es!’ Though it should be her last, as well as her
first, she would have her one hour of triumph!

“Tf you will allow me to choose the tableau,
I consent,” she said, a splendid smile iJluminat-
ing the vivid beauty of her face.

CHAPTER X.
THE GHOST AND THE LADY.
* We'll float and float and glide and glide
Adown the pictured hall,
While the merry masquers walk aside
Where the rose and lily call,”

Tue great day of the ball arrived in due time
a favorable day, of moderate temperature and
cloudless skies. Morley Beeches buzzed softly,
like a bee-hive full of industrious honey-makers,
Tents were springing up, banners being raised,
lanterns arranged out of doors; inside, fancy
five or six ladies preparing for tableaux, and
paint the picture for yourself!

Mrs. St. Mark and Mrs. St. Mark’s maid had
had a tiresome time of it for a week, subject to
the tyranny of Miss Irene, who, delighted at the
conspicuous parts assigned her, had yet little
control over those fits of vexation which over-
came her when the various dresses failed in
the fitting, or the draping to suit her exacting
requirements. But, the mother would have en-
dured even more in the assurance that her
daughter had won the great matrimonial prize
—won it none too soon, considering the scanty
resources left to them. She could illy afford
the rich fabrics Irene ordered for her costumes
with such utter recklessness of expense; but,
asthe younger lady said—if their means gave
out, they could run up bills and pay them after
she became Mrs. Morley.

‘“We are to be married in the first week of the
New Year, mamma; and Eugene will be the
last person in the world to grumble at my dress-
making bills. He is the soul of generosity,”

The Misses Carlington had their pretty little
minor parts to play; even the: old general ap-

ared once as Marshal of France, with Mrs.
St. Mark as Madame, his wife, in the scene with
Marie Antoinette; while the cadet and the
young Englishman had enough to do to satisfy
their ambition,

Meantime, while the hum of preparation
sounded at the great mansion, Oriole Darien
was shut up in her ‘ bower-chamber,” with
bolted door, putting the finishing touches to her
costume. hat her dress was to be was a se-
cret, even from Mrs. Chaldecott. She had or-
dered the materials from the city, by express,
and had herself cut and fashioned them.

Darien had opposed his daughter’s going to
the ball as muchas he could without actually
forbidding it; but Oriole was in a state of in-
tense excitement and expectation.

“T would not give it up, now, for an
in the wide world, father—unless it were to save
a life. Ianticipate so much, dear father; it
would be cruel of you to forbid me,” and, look-
ing in her lovely, eager, shining eyes, the doting
parent had not the heart to do it, though wis-
dom urged him to say ‘‘no!” peremptorily.

Eugene had kept strictly to the letter of his
promise to Darien; he had not spoken to Oriole
except in Mrs. Chaldecott’s presence; yet, in
that second interview in which the tableau had
been arranged, their conversation had been car=
ried on in an undertone.

‘* We beg your pardon a thousand. times over,
Mrs. Chaldecott,” he had said, smilingly, ‘‘ but
Miss Darien wants our tableau to be a surprise.”

He did not speak one word of love or flattery,
but his tender tones and ardent looks were as
eloquent as ever.

The entertainment opened, between five and
six, with an out-of-door kettle-drum—tea, coffee,
light refreshments, promenade, music, dancing
on the lawn, wandering about the grounds,
flirtation under the gay-colored lamps in per-
fumed alleys. ;

From seven to eight supper was served in the
dining-room—an immense room, usually rather
gloomy, but ae decorated for the occa-
sion—a supper, the choicest that city caterers
could — y and enlivened by the exquisite
playing of the stringed orchestra.

e number of eo was not very great—
only about one hundred; and the picture-gallery
ave them all seats, if rather crowded, during
the performance of the tableaux following the

supper.
Brioie had told Mr. Morley that she should
not come to the kettle-drum or supper; she
would first appear in the tableau; after that, she
would stay for the ball, perhaps, if she liked it.
Mrs. Chaldecott was only too glad to escape
spent’ earlier with her young prot(gée;
gladly, indeed, would she have remained away
entirely could she have chosen. There were as-
sociations connected with that old mansion
which stirred too deep emotion; but, Mathew
Morley lay in his grave, and all those she had
known had vanished from the scene, except the
two young gentlemen, grown up from fine-look-
ing little lads to finer-looking men. That grand

| old house would be full of unseen ghosts for her
—unseen to the pleasure-seekers but very pal-
| a to her. She had seen those lofty rooms:

 

hing

 

rilliant with aristocratic revelers many and
many a timo—before the brooding penuriousness

 
40

—_

THE. BLACK RIDDLE.

 

of old Mathew Morley spun_over it the spider-
webs of silence and decay. When her slender
feet were light with the spirit of youth she had
footed it to tuneful measures in that long gal-
lery on many a gala night. It would, indeed,
be sad and painful, to sit there to-night, a
shadow with shadows, in the stronger light of
the gayety of others; but Oriole Darien needed
a woman’s watchful eye and wise counsel, and
she must have it—all the more because of her
utter innocence, her utter ignorance of danger.

‘* Wayward, headstrong, passionate,” mused
Esther, as she sat in the little parlor, plainly
dressed in gray silk, with a bitof point-lace over
her still abundant dark hair, waiting for Oriole
to come dowu from her chamber—‘‘ but pure as
a lily and true as steel! A very interesting girl
—a strangely beautiful girl—yet hardly the wife
for Felix Gathorne, even if he could win her. I
regret his infatuation and pray that he may
outgrow it.”

The delicious supper had been duly appreci-
ated, and now the happy’ guests were ered
by graceful young gentlemen into the gallery
and seated to await the rising of the curtain
which hung across the lower end of the room.
Without any more delay than must be e: ted
on such occasions the interposing screen finally
arose on the first picture: “ Home THEY
BROUGHT HER WARRIOR, DEAD.”

Certainly, care nor money had been spared
in the preparation of the tableau. The stage
represented a chamber of a castle in the days of
Queen Bess; the furniture was true to the his-
tory of the time, even to the tapestry on the
walls, the rushes on the floor, the fashioning of
the candlesticks holding the wax tapers.

A lovely lady had just arisen from her carved
oaken chair and stood looking down at a bier
which four cavaliers had placed before her, and
beside which, at head and foot, they still si ;
with bowed heads and plumed hats in hand.
On the bier the slain warrior reposed, beautiful
in heroic death, his sword by his side, his lady’s
favor on his arm: he looked as if he might have
died, after singing:

-“* My love has golden hair,
And eyes so blue,
And heart so true
That none with her compare,
Then what care I
Though death be nigh?
For Love I’ve lived—for Love I’ll die!”

The stricken expression, the pallor of “ews
and horror, on the lady’s face were well as-
sumed. The black velvet robe, the Elizabethan
ruff set off the fair beauty of Irene St. Mark,
even as the warrior’s bier enhanced the perfect,
sculptured grace of Eugene Morley’s handsome
head and features. In the background was
huddled a startled group of attendant ladies,
and in their midst the wrinkled “nurse of
ninety years” bearing the noble babe, the sight
of whom was to set free the mother’s frozen
tears.

The scene was so well acted that it was al-
most terrible in its silent power; a long sigh
broke from the lips of the spectators as the cur-
tain fell; it was a full minute before they re-
membered to applaud.

To give a description of the three following
tableaux might weary; but, in two of them
Irene was the heroine, and, of course, lovely in
face, finished in dress, perfect in acting. As
Marie Antoinette she was marvelously beauti-
ful; as Elaine, being rowed under the shadow
of palaces, to the king’s, by her ancient servitor
—Elaine, dead of a hopeless love, meekly bear-
ing a letter in her icy hand as she lay in the
boat, and being gazed at by wandering knights,
she was pathetically lovely.

The amount of applause she received satisfied
even her greedy love of — queen of acting,

ueen of hearts, soon be queen of Morley

eeches, it seemed to Irene that she had reach-
ed the culmination of her ambition that happy
res st h d ta:

‘Dearest, you have assed my expecta-
tions,” murmured eae eines her hand as
the curtain came down the fourth time amid a
rain of plaudits and bouquets; ‘‘I am prouder
of you than ever. And now, I uest you,
with these other ladies, to take seats theau-
ditorium for a few moments. I have arranged
a little tableau as a surprise for you fair work-
ers who have labored so faithfully. You de-
serve some reward for your exertions; and now
you shall have it.”

‘¢ Another tableau!” cried Irene, a flush risin;
inher face. ‘I fear your audience is weary al-
ready. What could you have arranged with-
out my advice and assistance?”

“You will soon see,” he answered, good-na-
turedly. ‘‘ Please find yourself a seat. Mean-
time, I will explain to my guests that I wish
them to remain seated five minutes longer.”

Trene left the stage very reluctantly; a fierce
jealousy of she knew not what had taken
session of her. A at ec of that beautiful,
low-born creature at the ge flashed over her
—could it be?

mee rar in every limb with fear and anger,
she hastened to find a place to view the tableau,
while Eugene went before the curtain and ask-
ed his friends to wait for another scene, which
would be presented without delay, and was

 

called—* The Phantom Lady of Morley Beech-
es

Felix, through all the scenes; had sat quietly
beside Mrs, Chaldecott. He took no part in a
single tableau. He had not even circulated
among the chairs between the acts, as Mr. Mor-
ley’s brother might be expected to do—taking
his part in entertaining the guests, as a mem-
ber of the family. The gentlewoman by whose
side he sat noticed this with regret.

‘He is too sad and grave for his tents she
thought. ‘ But, it shall not always be so.”

“The er lady of Morley Beeches,’’ re-
peated Felix; ‘why, what a singular title to

ve his tableau!—don’t you think so, Mrs.

haldecott? Of course, this is the one in which
Miss Darienistoappear. I havenoidea of what
it is going to be—have you?”

‘Not the least. Oriole has allowed no one to
see her costume.”

‘* Ah!’ breathed Felix, as the curtain went
slowly up.

“ Ah!” echoed Esther, almost with a cry,
pressing her hand €o her heart as she half-rose
in her chair and peered eagerly.

A ghostly figure occupied the center of the
stage—the figure of a woman, wrap) from
head to foot in clouds on clouds of diaphanous
drapery till it appeared some misty, impalpable
phantom. A few feet from it, shrinking from
it, with uplifted hands and a look of awe on his
pale features, stood Eugene Morley. Cloud
after cloud, the translucent ghostly wrappings
faded away, without touch of mortal hands, ap-
parently, while he —_— in breathless fear and
wonder, until the gleam of dark hair, the glim-
mer of jewels, the charming outlines of a youth-

figure, came dimly into view.

Fold by fold, layer by, layer, the ga dra-
pery melted away, until the phantom he had so

eared as a visitor from another world, stood
before him—an arch smile on her lovely, bloom-
ing lips—a beautiful young woman!
young girl, strangely, deliciously beauti-
ful, with a vivid, dark, foreign beauty, which
reminded the rapt spectators of houris by
“the gleaming Guadalquivir.”

Save those two who had given that suppressed
cry, and Irene St. Mark, whose cheeks were liv-
id with sudden anger, none knew or dreamed
from whence the glorious beauty came—so

oung, so bright, a germ 8o very, very love-
te that the fascina’ aze could not turn from
the smiling face—so like some vivid flower in
its bloom—with the dark, delicious meltin
eyes, the full, sweet, tender little mouth; coul
not turn from gazing at the dusky, rippling
hair, the cheeks with a color “like oleander
buds that break,” the velvety neck and arms,
the pliant waist.

She was dressed in some rich and rare bro-
cade, made in the fashion of a quarter of a cen-
tury earlier—a heavy, white silk ground, with
flowers of pink and silver, blue an gold, work-
ed in the heavy fabric. The belt about her slim
waist was fastened with a buckle set with rich-
est brilliants. About her round throat and per-
fect arms were clasped a necklace and bracelets
of marvelous value—large, liquid diamonds,
held together by almost invisible links of gold.
Similar jewels glittered like stars in her small
ears. An aigrette of diamonds in her dusky
hair held in P asingle nasturtium blossom,
that burned like gold against its dark masses.

‘‘ Beautiful! beautiful!” murmured Felix.

He was filled with wonder as to how Oriole
could ee this splendid costume; yet
he marveled more at the effect it seemed to
have on Mrs. Chaldecott. She had sunk back
in her chair, after half rising from it with that
little cry, and sat there with clasped hands
working together, and with blanched cheeks.

She had recognized them—the Gathorne jew-
els!—those priceless jewels which the steward’s
daughter had found in the worm-eaten, brass-
bound box which had at last reached the light
the very afternoon the young master of Morley
Beeches had come to take possession.

“How es it happen that — Darien ae
wearing the magnificent gems so long sup’
to have been lost?” she asked herself,

There could be but one explanation: Eugene
ae had loaned them to her for the occa-
sion

Then, if Eugene Morley had found the hidden
jewels, he had also found the hidden will—for
they were together—and if he had discovered
it, he must have destroyed it, or he would have
made restitution to his brother before this!
i. heart sunk in her bosom at this

ow.

CHAPTER XI.
IN THE BALL-ROOM.

Ionly know
That were I in your place to-night,
I would not grieve your spirit so
For all God’s worlds of life and light.
—Mrs. D.

Tue look of awe on Eugene’s face, changin
to ae! gies and rapture as the white shrou
melted away from about the fair phantom, was

a good piece of ing—yet ha: acting, for
the delight and eietlaneds woreveah ere

 

had been no rehearsal of this little tableau and
Oriole had not confided to him what she in-
tended wearing. That superb toilet was as
much a revelation to him as to his guests. He
was too surprised to even conjecture from what
source the girl had borrowed those splendid
jewels: he only saw her, supremely beautiful,
dressed like a duchess.

The curtain went down only to rise again at
the demand of the guests, who were allowed
another glimpse of the handsome pair. By this
time, Irene was furious—biting her lips as she
— an evil look at the smiling beauty on the
stage.

‘FWho can it be?”

‘¢ Where is she from?”
“Some ale beaut
Mr. Morley made abroad?”

These, and a dozen similar questions were
asked by those surrounding Mrs. St. Mark and
her daughter; the elder lady shook her head
helplessly—she had not the remotest idea who
the young lady might be, but fancied, with
others, that she must be some distinguished ac-
quaintance of her future son-in-law.

“T will tell you who this young lady is,”
spoke up Irene, with a sneer. “‘ You may all
of you feel complimented to know that she is
the daughter of Mr. Morley’s steward !—a vain,
ignorant little ing, running wild on the
P ace, whose pretty face has tempted Mr. Mor-

ey to show her off in this fashion. I[t is a
foolish trick of his—none too agreeable to his
ests.

“‘T never saw her before—where does she
keep herself?” gasped Mrs. St. Mark.

“She lives at the Lodge—opens and closes the
gate, for all I know!” continued Irene, mali-
ae ‘But this I do know, mamma,” low-
ering her voice, while two burning spots came
out in her creamy cheeks, ‘‘ those must be Eu-
gene’s diamonds—inherited—and he has never
even shown them to me, their future owner! I
regard it as a deliberate insult that he should
have allowed another girl to wear them!”

“Hush, for heaven’s sake, Irene! You are
too sensitive! You must not show him how
displeased you are,” whispered the mother.
“What do you care? As you say, the diamonds
will be your very own, before long—you can
afford to overlook this freak of your lover. It
is only a freak—Eugene is so full of frolic—
quite like a boy!”

‘Mother, are you blind? Cannot you see he
is madly in love with her pretty face?—per-
fectly, shamlessly infatuated! have been
warned of this before. If wehave proper pride
we will take our baggage and leave Morley
Beeches in the morning.”

“Leave Morley Beeches in anger—leave it
forever! Irene, itis you who are foolish! We
have plotted and planned for a year to catch
this rich Morley—wasted what little means we
had left, like water, to keep up the appearance
of our own wealth—and now, when the prize is
in our hand, we are to open it and let the bird
go free! Come, my love, your temper has got
the better of your judgment again! One would
think you were really in love with your future
husband you show so much jealousy! Come,
are you to wear this dress the rest of the even-
ing? I hope so, for it is immensely becom-
ing. We are to amuse ourselves‘in the draw-
ing-room a few minutes while the gallery is
being cleared for dancing. Come, the company
is moving out: there are ices being served in
the breakfast-room, and I would like one—it is
so warm here.”

whose acquaintance

As they arose to quit the room, Eugene came

hurriedly up to them:

‘Remember, Irene, the first dance! You and
I are to lead off. Excuse me a few moments
while this place is got in order,” and he dashed
away again, apparently oblivious of the frown
on her brow, the cold, glittering anger in the
proud blue eyes.

“Control yourself, Irene, and do not run the
risk of losing all,” her mother still pleaded with
her as they went down the broad stairs between
banks of lovely flowers.

‘*Lose all!” The worldly beauty had not the
faintest idea of risking the fair fortune she had
secured; but she could not quite control that
haughty temper.

In a quarter of an hour the strains of the
band called back to the gallery the young peo-
ple who preferred dancing to a promenade in
the garden, or a flirtation in the room below.

Eugene came Sey. for his fiancée, and
they took the head of the room. Felix, who
beg taken charge of Oriole ‘after the curtain
fell, took a side in the same quadrille. Here
was Miss St. Mark’s opportunity.

*““Mr. Morley,” she said, in a low, distinct
voice, which she meant should reach Oriole’s
ear, and which did not fail of it, “Ican only
infer what your views are on some points of
social life; but I, for my eke object to dancing
in the same set with the daughter of your stew-
ard. Am TI too particular?’

Eugene glanced at Miss Darien and saw, by
the sudden — of her bright face, that the
envenomed dart had gone home to the proud
heart—he saw the long, dark lashes fall, the
sweet lips tremble—and rage filled his mind
against the cold malice of the lady at his side,
 

   

 

———_#P-______ —______--—- thine teat eateries

The look he gave her made her own imperious
gaze flinch, as he answered:

“Very well, mademoiselle; in that case we
will sit out this dance.”

He made a motion to lead her away; but Ori-
ole * ver a eC

“No, Mr. Morley, Mr. Gathorne and I will
sit it out,” and before Eugene could remonstrate
she had taken Felix’s arm and walked away.

“‘Mrs, Chaldecott, let us go home! This is no
piece for us,” she whispered, her breast throb-

ing with wounded feeling against its silken
bodice, ‘‘T am only the steward’s daughter, and
so ladies will not dance in my company.”

Esther’s quiet eyes for once flashed fire.

“You shall not go home just yet, my love,”
she said; ‘‘you havea better right here than
Miss St. Mark. Surely, Mr. Gathorne, you will
not suffer a slight to be offered to a young lady
who was asked to come here as a favor?”

‘Trust me to defend Miss Darien,’’ answered
Felix, with his rare, bright smile. ‘‘Here isa
vacancy, Miss Darien, and he urged her intoa
quadrille which was forming.

He had barely seated her after the dance by
Mrs. Chaldecott, when Eugene hastened up to
secure her for a round dance, which came
second on the programme. From that time
Oriole did not lack for partners. It was true,
the ladies ignored her; not one of those fair,
fashionable, amiable feminine creatures seem-
ed to see her—the eee had crept round that
she was only a little brown sparrow in bor-
rowed plumage—but the gentlemen were only
too glad of an opportunity to dance with so glo-
rious and budding a young beauty; she was be-
sieged for her hand, courted, flattered, until
vanity could ask no more—Oriole Darien, in her
rich brocade, her flashing diamonds, with her
ae growing more brightly splendid, and her
cheeks more like velvety rare roses, and her
young mouth curving in fayer smiles, was the
undeniable belle of the ball.

lrene saw it all with helpless resentment.
Had she loved the young master of Morley
Beeches, she might justly have resented his too
evident admiration of this intruder. Being af-
ter a rich parti—a fine settlement—what was
she to do? If she broke with Eugene Morley,
it would be the ruin of her worldly hopes.
What! give up this stately home? those _price-
less diamonds, glowing on the arms and bosom
of that impertinent, bold creature? Rage as
she might, she had to bear it, or lose it all. She
studied what to do to have her revenge.

In the course of a couple of hours, chance
once more drifted her near Oriole, who was
standing on the little balcony outside of one of
the two long windows, — herself—left
there alone for a little time by Felix, while he
went to get heranice. Miss St. Mark also step-
ping out for a breath of air, they came face to
face. Here again was Irene’s opportunity.

‘*Miss Darien,” she began, ‘I have been
wanting to speak with you.”

‘‘T did not suppose you would condescend to
speak with me—there seems to be a social edict
which forbids it,” and Oriole’s dazzling eyes had
a mocking laugh in them.

‘*Only to warn you,” went on Irene, haugh-
tily. ‘* You are very young and very ignorant
—or seem so! Do youknow what is being said
about you in the ball-room to-night?”

‘¢ Perhaps that I am very pretty,” said Oriole,

lightly.

‘““No doubt you have been admired; but a
modest a would hardly care to have all the
fellows ling after her, when not a lady in
the room will acknowledge her acquaintance.
They say that Mr. Morley admires you too
much for your good.”

“That is true—too much for my happiness.
He loves me, but he is engaged to you—a great
pity for all of us!”

“ Loves you,” echoed Irene, with a bitter
laugh. ‘‘ Yes, as the spider loves the fly! You
are bolder and wickeder than I thought.”

“T do not mean to be bold or wicked. I loved
Mr. Morley the first time I saw him—I did not

m it was wrong; though now, even my
own father says it is—because he has promised
to marry ‘are I never expect to be his wife; I
know that it would not be right for him to
break with you: I expect to be unhappy. al-
ways ”—tears coming into the dark eyes—* but
I would rather be Shap, and love him, than
love any one else and be his wife. It just hap-
pened—there was no help for it. “You need not
try to crush me, Miss St. Mark, for I have it in
my — to do you a very great injury.”

‘Ha, ha! because you are certain of his

love!” -

“Not atall. It has nothing to do with Mr.
Morley’s feelings; it has much to do with his
property.”

‘Oh! your father is his steward: I see. Is it
ble the estate is incumbered, or less valu-
able than has been reported?” asked the fiancée,
quickly dropping her imperious manner and
condescending to eee anxiously on the answer

‘of the girl she despise

‘¢Tt is not incumbered nor less valuable than
has been thought. On the contrary, it increases
in revenue constantly; but I know something
relating to it which you would give all — bt
sess to have the same knowledge of.

5

ek ve

 

Le

THE BUACK ‘RIDDLES °° 2

St. Mark, Ihave heard it said that you will
marry Mr. Morley for his money—not because
you adore him as the one man in the world for
you. Do youthink, were you to learn that he
had lost every dollar and every acre, it would
make a difference in your desire to be his
wife?”

Oriole watched the fair face before her—noted
the quiver of the eyelashes, the faint whitening
of the lips.

“No difference, of course—not the slightest,”
answered the fortune-huntress, with well-simu-
lated indifference. ‘‘Whata curious question!
Ha 2 age any motive for asking it?”

**No matter. I am glad that such an acci-
dent would make no difference with you. Here
comes Mr. Gathorne with an ice for me.
Thanks. How refreshing it is,” and not Irene
herself could have turned from the steward’s
daughter with more indifference than the stew-
ard’s daughter now turned from her.

Oriole still stood on the balcony eating the
ice, with Felix by her side, when Eugene came
out for a moment:

‘Oriole, I promised your father I would not
speak to you except in the presence of a third
pereons so I must say my good-by before my

rother here. We close the house day after to-
morrow, and I shall be very busy. Once away
from here, I do not expect to return before
May, and then I shall—”

“Bring your wife home,” added Oriole, for
him, trembling and white.

“Tsu pose so. Well, God bless you, my dear
little friend—my bird Oriole. I would we had
met sooner, but it was not to be. Good-by.”

He held her tiny hand, that grew icy-cold in
his clasp, an instant, wrung it distractedly, and
went back into the merry ball-room.

“T think, if you will find Mrs, Chaldecott, I
will go home now,” gasped the poor child, turn-
ing her white, suffering face to Felix.

‘Yes, I will find her, Miss Darien. Ah, if I
could bear your heart-ache for you, how gladly
would I do it!” he whispered.
ie dark eyes were turned to the calm

ars.
“Not to see him again for more than half a

ear! I shall be dead before then. I cannot
ive—I shall die without him. And, if he ever
comes, she will be his wife! Oh, father, father,
why did you ever have a daughter, so wretch-
ed, so worthless as I?”

CHAPTER XII.
A FATHER’S WRATH.
Had we never loved so kind! |
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met, or never parted,
‘We had ne’er been broken-hearted,
—Burns,

Lats inthe afternoon of the day following
the ball Oriole found herself on the brink of
that deep, still pool, set about with whispering
pines, which was dignified at Morley Beeches
by the name of ‘‘the Lake.” How she came
there she hardly knew. She had been very
miserable all day—so pale, so hollow-eyed, that
her father had watched her with furtive anxie-
ty: the womanly excuse, ‘‘ a headache,” did not

eceive him as to the true cause of the change
in his child. :

“Fool—fool—and _ blind! That I could not
have foreseen something like this and sent her
away to school—or gone away from here with
her myself, ere ever he came home!” was his
self-accusation.

As he left the Lodge after the mid-day meal,
he said to Mrs. Chaldecott:

‘Esther, guard her as the apple of your eye
until the people go away from the great house.
Thank Heaven, it will be but one wf more!—
and Mr. Morley bas given me his word of honor
not to speak to her except in the presence of
others.’

- **Yes, Mr. Darien, he bade her good-by last
ene excuses her white cheeks, and we
will seem to notice them as little as possible.”

‘*Yet you will keep her with you?”

“T will. I am going now to advise her to
try to sleep off her headache in the quiet of her
own chamber.”

Zophiel strode oe about his business, and
Mrs. Chaldecott, gently smoothing Oriole’s hair
and kissing her forehead, urged her to lie down
and try what rest would do for her—‘‘ head-
ache” she called it—meaning ‘ heartache.”
Very obediently the girl went up to her room,
where she tossed about on her pillow for an
hour or two, while Esther sat sewing in the lit-
tle parlor into which the stairs opened by a
closed staircase.

‘‘She must have fallen asleep,” thought the
lady, asshe stitched patiently away until sun-

But Oriole had crept to her window, where a
cool, moist air had fanned her hot forehead,
and a wild desire to be out under the free blue
sky had come upon her—she was stifling in that
bower-chamber. Esther would wish to go with
her, if she kmew of her going out, and Oriole
wanted to be alone—as ering creatures often
do. She stole into the littlemaid Betty’s room.
and down a steep narrow back stairs which let
into the kitchen; Betty was out, and she es-
caped into the thicket of evergreens behind the

‘

| Felix ha

 

ri ; ai

Lodge without being observed by any one, On
and on she strayed, taking care to keep out of
sight of the drives and walks leading up to the
mansion; it would have been dreadful to her to
meet any of those insolent ladies who had treat-
ed her so at the ball; while, asfor Mr. Morley,
he had bidden her good-by forever—or the same
as forever to her!—and ahe neither planned nor
paved to cross his path. No, she only wanted
to be out with Nature, so soothing to those who
bring their troubles to her. .
She scarcely noticed in what direction she
was going until she stood by the pool, whose |
dark surface rippled ever so lightly under the
touch of the September breeze. With bent head
and clasped hands linked and falling languidly
before her, she stood looking at the water and
perce over those passionate love-lines EHu-
ene had once in that very spot murmured in
er ear,

‘*Was it not Fate—whose name is also Sorrow—”

that brought Eugene there, and fixed his wan-
dering footsteps in pain and gladness, to behold
who stood there dreaming?

He had left the indolent ladies of Morley
Beeches taking their afternoon nap after the
late hours of the ball, and dressing for dinner;
he and Felix had had a two hours’ chat since
luncheon, arranging their plans for the winter;

d decided, with his brother’s approval,
toremain at the Beeches, keeping his room—
which would be little disturbed by the improve-
ments to go on—and a couple of the servants to
attend upon his wants and look after the house.
He had laid out a course of reading, he said,
which he could follow more quietly there than
in the city; while it would be for the interest of
the owner to have an interested person on the

remises, while so many workmen would be
ving the run of it. \

“T suppose there is no one at the Lodge who,
has influenced you in coming to this decision,”
ayAe had remarked, with some jealousy.

‘If you mean Miss Darien, Eugene, I don’t
mind owning that I would like to win her for
as wife; but the chances are against me, I

ear.

“Upon my soul, Felix, I heartily wish you
had met her first,” Eugene had said, flingin,
his arm over his brother's shoulder. ‘I know L
have done wrens and when I get away from
here I am going a to try to act right by
Irene. I leave the field to you; when I return
here, a married man, 1 hope to be able to freel
congratulate you on having won Miss Darien.’

Shortly after that, finding General Carling-
ton asleep in the library and not caring encugh
about a game of billiards with the younger gen- .
tlemen to oe them, Eugene went out for
a walk over his domains. It was truly by ac-
cident that Fate led him to the lake at the same

Ve

We

4

£

1 ee

time with Oriole. via

He saw her some seconds before she w:
aware of his vicinity. ' : i

‘Poor child! She looks heart-broken, And |
it is I who have done the mischief!
bird Oriole, if phe) could know how bitterly I
regret having trifled with that innocent heart _
of yours! Itis sweet to be loved, as you love.

\

me; but I would forswear the sweetness, could

I give you back ro gay girl-heart,
knows I don’t want you to suffer! It is hard
for me, too!—I never before in all my life was
equal to so much self-denial, ty
“‘Self-denial! I ought not to be standing
here—I ought to turn and steal away before
she is aware that I have been here, I will ne i
my promise to her father. Yes, I will keep it. |
Itis cruel to have to turn away without one
word—but I gave my pledge as a man of honor.
I must—I wi Be: : bse
‘How beautiful she is! Never has she been
quite so lovely as to-day, when I am not to see
her again for months. That droop at the dim-

pling corners of her mouth—those ‘woeful sha-
lows ’ under the tear-dimmed eyes—they make _

my heart ache.

‘But I will go—I will not speak to her—will
not tell her that my heart aches, too—yes, this’
moment, while I can, I will go!”

He was making a great, an
keep his word; was tearing himself from the
ro which had such a fatally sweet attraction

or him; he had been careless, thoughtless, self- —

ish, but now he was endeavoring to do what was
best for this beautiful, innocent girl—best for
the young lady whom he had asked to be his
wife. He was going away without speaking—
going to let alone the young girl who was irre-
vocably in love with him. i

Like most of Eugene’s st resolutions, it
was made rather late; yet ‘‘better late than —
never.” Let him have credit, poor fellow, for
what he was trying to do! '

As he turned to fly from temptation a twi
snapped under his foot, and Oriole, looking that —
ray, saw him and gave a little sobbing, heart-
broken cry. He paused, and stood, answering
her loving look with one as fond. <

“Go, go,” she said; ‘I know you promised
father not to have anything tosay tome, Ido °
not blame you. Good-by—good-by!” and two —
piteous tears gathered and ran over down the
velvet cheeks, e

God |

4

¥

 

 

Poor little

honest effort to

Pas

| *

~

Ob, those tears! It was hard not to beable,
42°

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

to say one kind word in farewell; but—he had

_ given his word, and, as a gentleman, he strug-

gled to keep it. His heart was in his eyes—he
could not help that; his lips quivered but kept
silence. ‘
‘*Good-by,” she repeated, drawing nearer to
him, while he remained as if rooted to the
ground. ‘“‘When you come back here with
your bride I shall not be here,” and she turned
a wild look upon the dark rippling water b
on they aoe 4 “so a re oon
ope you wi appy, Mr. Morley, though you
have killed m he getneal dead. “She dea not
love you—she loves your money—but I am only
your steward’s daughter, as she says, and you
can break my heart awd she will think none the

_ worse of you. She is cold and ambitious—but,

you have chosen—and so, good-by.”

She was only telling him the truth, yet it was
hard to listen and make no defense. e press-
ed his teeth into his lips and made no answer.
She had come quite near him; her beautiful
face was flushed now, that had been so pale, and
lovely with wet cheeks and flashing eyes—be
had not promised that he would not touch her,
though that was in the spirit if not in the letter
of his vow; and suddenly he seized the soft lit-
tle brown dimpled hand and pressed on it half
a dozen kisses in passionate farewell.

t was in that unfortunate moment that
Zophiel Darien, on his way home from an ex-
cursion over the farm-land came out of a thicket
of ever; ms near by and saw the young mas-
ed of orley Beeches kissing his daughter’s

and,
Red lightning leaped out of his black eyes.

“Traitor and liar!” he said to himself, in a
whisper,

The next moment something flashed in the
rosy sunset air that was not the flash of angry

_ eyes, and something whistled on the breeze that

was not the whistle of the blackbird or throstle.
“And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke”’

over the calm deep pool and resounded from

the bills and woods, while Eugene Morley, in

all the princely plory of his youth and beauty,

a like a log of wood, and lay there at Oriole’s
eet. —

She looked up in that sort of helpless stupor
which follows a shock, but it was not until she
saw her father, black and scowling—the smok-
ing gun in his hand—that the faintest revelation

of the awful truth came upon her.

“Father!”

That low recoiling cry of unspeakable re-
proach and horror seemed to set a vast dis-
tance between Zophiel Darien and the child of

his idolatry.

 

 

was
- must

- went down sheer for fort

atthe ball, did we not?

 

shaken voice.

Be he Se fs} +

“Do not look at me like that,” he said, in a
“*f warned him—twice, I would
do more and worse than that to save you, Ori-
ole. He wasa liar anda dastard. Hegave me
his pledge of honor that he would not speak to
you except in the presence of a third person, I
ing away—until he promised me. He
ve known that I was not a person to be
trifled with. He deserved his fate, and, by
Heaven, I am glad he met it! Come away
home, girl—this is no place for you.”

He did not tremble because he had murdered

his young employer—the handsome heir of Mor-
ley Beec

es; but he trembled at that strange
shrinking horror of himself in his child’s face.

_ He scarcely dared stretch out his hand to take

hold of her to draw her away; when he did at-
tempt it, she leaped from him like a deer, and
flung herself headlong into the lake, which there
feet—the dark rip-
wee water closed over her dusky hair and
white garments till only a few bubbles showed

 

_ the spot where she had sunk from sight.

' .CHAPTER XIII.
“HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR, DEAD.”
Look you here!
_ Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors.
; —SHAKSPEARE,
“T wonDER what Mr. Morley has done with
himself?’ remarked Violet Carlington, as she
ced up and down the long drawing-room on
the arm of the youngcadet. ‘“‘ Miss St. Mark is
ens: out of humor—just take a sly look at
, Mr. De Witt.”
‘“‘T think her handsomer when she scowls a
little, Miss Violet. She isa trifle too calm or-

_dinarily—don’t you say so?”

“Tf you mean—expressionless—yes. ”
. “Oh, that is too strong a word! But you

_ ladies use strong words when you speak of each

other, I have observed.’
“Oh, you wicked fellow! You are not old
enough to be a good observer, so keep your im-
ressions to yourself until you grow wiser.
ies never slander each other!”
‘Of course not. You only insinuate—which
is worse still. There, somebody else is frown-
now! Well, we had a lovely time last night
I only wish there were
going to be another to-night ’
_ “Oh; so do I! Wasn’t it just too awfully
‘charming for anything?”

“Tt was asuccess. And, by the way, wasn’t

that glorious creature—that Gardener’s Daugh-
‘ter, or whoever she was—a stunner? By Jawv,

_ she was quite the handsomest girl—of her class

 

—lI ever saw.
self!”

‘“Then be warned in time. She has a father
who will take your head off—to say nothing of
Mr. Morley’s ee of precedence.”

** Aw, well, I don’t mind. Blue eyes and
flaxen hair are my style, anyway,” with a kill-
ing look into the azure orbs turned up to his
own. "Tis rather strange Morley don’t come in!
—perhaps he’s flirting with the gardener’s pret-
ty daughter!”

“That is what Miss St. Mark imagines—
don’t you see? Oh, it is good to see the haughty
Irene jealous! She has such a splendid opinion
of her own charms she rarely condescends to be
jealous.”

The dressing-bell had sounded long before; it
was nearly time for the summons to dinner. A
soft, rich emis slowly deepened in the som-
ber but magnificent room, when the sleepers of
the afternoon, revived by their siestas and
dressed for the evening, had nearly all assem-
bled. Expecting numerous calls from persons
who had attended the ball, the ladies were
handsomely attired; the Misses Carlington in
sae renadines over a deeper shade of
satin; Miss Wormely in a thick lustrous black
silk heavy with jet; Irene in a cream-colored
India mull over pale yellow satin with Jac-
quiminot roses in her hair and belt, and a neck-
lace of garnets.

Irene stood at one of the long windows
through which the last dull gold of the fading
sunset fell over her tall figure; she did not
think of the sharp eyes of the other young
ladies when she turned away with such a frown
on her handsome face. Where was Eugene?
She had been dressed and down a full hour,
ee for a little visit with him before the
others thronged into the drawing-room. She
had searched the ee the gallery, the bil-
liard-room—gone out on the piazzas—all in vain;
her lover had not troubled to seek her out. It
was true he had told her at luncheon he should
be busy through the afternoon; this did not pre-
vent her suspicion that he was with Miss Da-
rien.

Felix had come in very shortly after the
dressing-bell rung; had sat and chatted awhile
with Miss Wormely; then, as if he, too, were
uneasy about his brother, he had left the room
and the house.

And now Crabb appeared in one of the doors
of the drawing-room with his usual pompous
announcement of dinner.

“Put it back, Crabb, a few minutes,” said
Miss Wormely; ‘‘ your master is not in; nor Mr.
Gathorne, to take his place.”

“Tt sp’iles it completely to put it back ever
so little,” muttered the butler to himself.
“Only to think of canvas-backs a-waitin’!—an’
the omelette-sufflay for the third course! I
must speak to cook before she gets the sufflay
in the oven.” ,

“Unconsidered trifles” these, in the light of
the sad tragedy which was keeping the young
master from his place at the head of the table.
But no one guessed what was impending. Gen.
Carlington—to whom dinner was a matter of
the gravest importance, grumbled a little to
Mrs. St. Mark about the desultory habits of

oung men, who thought nothing of being a
lf-hour late.

And then Irene, fair and elegant despite the
gnawing jealousy in her breast, turning again
to the rose-flushed window, saw two or three
men running quickly across the lawn and
through the old-fashioned flower-garden. When
she saw them running she felt a vague alarm.
There seemed to her in their movements more
than the haste of an ordinary errand—some-
— wild and full of the imperious hurry of

anger. ?

She lingered and looked to see if she could
make out what was happening. The men had
disappeared and all was quiet for several mo-
ments. She had thrown up the sash and a
breath of honeysuckle came to her from a spray
near by; a bird twittered sleepily—then a whip-
powil in a field beyond the garden set upa
mournful cry—she was about to turn from the
window when there, in the further side of the
flower-garden, she saw a dark group, coming
slowly, seeming to bear a burden among them.
: She stood and watched them come toward the

ouse. é

Yes, some one had been hurt! She saw plain-
ly now that the burden was a human figure
prone and motionless in the arms of those who
carried it. Her heart gave a great throb of
fear and sunk down, down, chilled by a sudden
conviction that harm must have come to Eu-
gene, the reason he had not returned.

Mr. Gathorne was absent, too—it might be he
who was being brought in this helpless fashion
tohishome! Pray Heaven, it might be!

Yes, in that moment of terror and suspense
Irene almost felt that she passionately loved
Eugene—Eugene the handsome, the debonair—
as well as passionately coveted his fortune and
position.

Surely, no gayer, more charming, more gal-
lant gentleman had ever done homage to her
beauty. The world would look very dull and
dark and lonesome without Eugene Morley!
She realized it, with a shudder, as the sad little

Pve a mind to flirt with her my-

; ‘a
ues

“choked with blood, It is asad case.

 

procession came slowly on. She lost sight of
them as they went on to the front entrance;
then she turned and walked quickly to meet
them when they should enter the hall. Her
white face was noticed by the company,
though she said not a word; a general alarm
thrilled the others, who followed her rapid foot-
steps, and so were there in the now-lighted hall,
when the broad doors were flung open and the

oung master brought in by his servants and
hia down at his lady’s feet.

How like it was to that idle play of the even-
ing previous—

““Home they brought her warrior, dead.”

This was no play, however, but a terrible
reality. There was no acting in the way Irene
wrung her hands, starting back with livid brows
and eyes of horror, from the sight of the set fea-
tures, the blood-stained bosom, where diamonds
glittered mockingly through the red defilement.

“He is not dead; his heart still beats.” :

It was Felix who spoke, with a stern attempt
at calmness and to control the shuddering
screaming women; he held his brother’s cold
hand, and had directed the movements of the
men.

‘What has happened? Who did it?” asked
Gen. Carlington.

“T cannot tell you. I found him lying down
by the lake. There was no one in sight. How
long he had lain there [do not know. He is
shot in the breast, whether by accident or foul
intent, who can say?—unless he lives to tell us.”

‘* Have you sent for a doctor?”

“*T told Patrick to mount the fleetest horse in
the stable and ride for Dr. Sinclair; he is but
two milesaway. We will do nothing with my
poor brother until he is here to direct us, for we
may do more harm than good.”

‘or nearly an hour they waited, listening
with strained senses for the first sound of ap-
proaching wheels. It was terrible to wait and
remain idle—yet that seemed best. Eugene lay
on the floor under the hall lamp; Felix had ten-
derly arranged his own coat under the motion-
less head; he seemed already dead, and oh, how
beautiful in the pale perfection of his young
manhood!—the short curls clustering over the
handsome head, the girlish lashes almost touch-
ing his cheeks; a pleasant look on his features,
such as those have who die of gun-shot wounds.

Felix had drooped to the floor beside him, sit-
ting there with bent head, his fingers on the fail-
ing, at times imperceptible, pulse.

rene, too, had flung herself down beside her
lover and sat with tearless eyes fixed upon his
lips as if in expectation that they would open
and say something to soothe her distress.

The first thing Dr. Sinclair did on his arrival
was to send her and the other ladies away.

‘*You shall know whether there is hope—or

not—as soon as I do myself,” he said, kindly. |

“ And now, we will convey the patient to his
bed before we seek to arouse him, or examine
his wound,” and so the young master of Morley
Beeches was borne to his airy, pleasant cham-
ber, and laid on the bed from which he had
sprung that morning full of buoyant life and
hap iness.

e result of the physician’s examination was
—that the wound had pierced the lower part of
the right lung, and was probably mortal; there
was just the shadow of a hope that the patient
ee survive it, because of his perfect health
and pure blood.

‘* Wounds in the lungs have healed, and the
sufferers been but little the worse for them af-
terward. There must be absolute quiet—the
fever must be kept down—of course we cannot
tell—at all events, telegraph for Dr. H., of New
York, to meet me here after the 10 A. M. train
is in to-morrow. How did this bape, Mr. Ga-
thorne?” the doctor suddenly asked. :

“T wish I could tell you. I went out, about
six, for my usual afternoon stroll, and took,
ave by chance, the path leading to the lake.

here I came upon my brother, lying across the
path, apparently dead; blood on his bosom—but
not much, for he lay face upward, and had
probably bled internally.

“Yes, that is the worst of it; his lungs are

Had Mr.
Morley any enemy hereabouts?”

“T hardly think so,” responded Felix, mus-
ingly, and then a faint color came into his pale
face as he recalled the threat of Zophiel Darien.
Dr. Sinclair was watching him closely, and
noted the slight flush.

‘*He would not commit suicide?”

‘“‘He? my brother Eugene? He was ne of
the happiest persons [ ever saw—a joyous, easy
temperament—and had everything the world
accounts best and most fortunate! I had not
even thought of suicide.”

“The spot where he was found should be
carefully searched. Ido not myself think ita
case of attempted suicide; a man might give
himself such a wound, but it is not probable.”

“No, itis not probable—not of my brother.” -

The keen eyes of the physician studied the
countenance of this Felix Gathorne—this young
gentleman who would be the heir of Morley
Beeches, in event of the death of his brother—
brother so-called, though there was no blood

relationship! studied that grave, anxious face

 

 

 
eee

iinensnien as aeniiaieael
intittnenasntomenteengiiettiammeranginmsen

s

 

== = —

for some evidence of guilt! It had already oc-
curred to the doctor’s mind that no other hu-
man being could have so mutch to gain from the
death of young Morley, as this man who seemed
so sorry for what had happened! ‘

Felix himseif undertook to convey to Irene
the news that Dr. Sinclair held out a hope—a
frail hope, indeed, yet better than sudden, ut-
ter despair to Eugene’s friends.

He found her walking up and down the corri-
dor, outside her lover’schamber, He had never
liked Miss St. Mark—had thought her cold, de-
signing, and more in love with the Morley money
than the Morley heir; but he pitied her, then,
for she appeared in real distress, and he took
her hand, almost tenderly, as she stood still,
turning her pale face to hear the tidings he
brought.

‘** While there is life there is hope,’ dear Miss
St. Mark. The doctor says our loved one may
live—not that he much expects it!—yet, he does
not deny us the possibility.”

She drew her hand out of his, as if she dis-
liked his sympathy.

‘*T do not understand who could have wished
to harm Eugene,” she said.

‘“No one understands that. It is a wretched
mystery. But, it will be fathomed! His assas-
sin shall not escape.”

‘Tt is strange that you found him,” she went
on, in a constrained voice.

“Hardly strange. I often walk by the lake.”

““Tf Eugene dies you will be the heir,” she
said, and looked up at him, suddenly.

Felix shrunk back from that look as if she
had struck him in the face,

‘Tf that is what_you, and even Dr. Sinclair,
think, then I pray God Eugene may live at least
long enough to name his enemy.”

 

CHAPTER XIV.
UNDER A CLOUD.

And what if pride had duped him into guilt?
—COLERIDGE.

A WEEK of suspense dragged its slow length
through the house which had been so gay, and
at its close Eugene was still living. It began to
look as if his case was to be the one out of a
thousand which recovered from such a wound.
He had not yet spoken one word, since the
slight delirium of fever had subsided, for he
had been strictly ordered not to: but he was
conscious and observant, smiling faintly when
Irene hung over his pillow for five moments
twice a day.

Felix came to see him, too, every little while;
i took no part in nursing him. He had a

ired attendant, besides Mrs. Dapple, who was

ood in her way. Miss Wormely was devoted.

t would have struck the patient as curious—
had he exercised his brain enough to think—
that Felix, who was an efficient nurse, did so
little for him.

Unhappy Felix! He wasunderacloud. Too
proud and too angry to notice it by denial, he
was yet aware that that cruel. suspicion hinted
by Irene St. Mark to him had been hinted to

others and that it had grown and strengthened |

day byday. With bitter indignation he beheld
its secret workings. He had determined to kee
away from attendance on Eugene, though his
heart yearned to be doing for him.

“They may accuse me of putting poison in
his food or medicine!” he said grimly to himself,

At the same time, his solicitude for his bro-
ther was made more acute by the fear—the
horrible fear—that if Eugene died without ex-
plaining who shot him, that damning suspicion
might rest on him for the remainder of his

days!

a Doctor,” spoke Miss St. Mark, on the eighth
day, when the physician was about leaving the
sick-chamber, *‘ will it hurt Mr. Morley to tell
us who fired at him? If we are to take steps to
arrest the would-be assassin, we ought to be
about it.”

Felix was sitting beside the bed. The blood
flamed up into his white forehead when every
eye in the room turned on him except his bro-
ther’s. The doctor hesitated, then turned back
to the bedside and leaning over his patient,

said:

‘Mr. Morley, you are only to whisper in an-
swer to my question—speak only the name—no
more: your friends are anxious to arrest the
dastard who shot you down—do you know who

did it?”

There was quite a pause; then Eugene, too,
turned his feverish glance to Felix before re-
plying in a distinct whisper:

‘JT will not tell.” y

A spasm of pain passed over his countenance,
but he added:

“*T am not certain.”

Dr. Sinclair and Irene exchanged glances
which said: '

“Generous sufferer! Too noble to denounce
the traitor by his own hearthstone! This makes
‘assurance doubly sure ’!””

‘Very well; do not disturb yourself. The
matter shall rest until you are better. Miss St.
Mark naturally felt anxious to have the guilty
srrested—” i :
' Eugene feebly shook his head.

’ Set 4 ¥

es pat cay GN a ath

7

‘

“Very well, very well. It shall be exactly
as you wish. Only keep very quiet and be
very patient, my dear Mr. Morley, and you
will soon be able to attend to the matter your-
self,” and the physician bowed himself out, fol-
lowed by Irene, who asked him in the hall:

“Ts he really out of danger? Can you assure

| me of that, doctor?”

““By no means, my dear young lady! There
is plenty of danger yet—but there is more hope.
We hope for the best. Strange affair, is it not?”

“Not so very strange, doctor, when we think
what human nature is. Mr. Gathorne has al-
ways had the idea that he was wronged out of
the estates—that his mother willed them to her
son instead of her husband—and that he ought
to be in possession here. All a chimera of his
mind, of course; yet who can say how morbidly
he may have brooded over it? . He has always
been somber and—and peculiar, they tell me.
However, all this is only conjecture, Dr. Sin-
clair. We must be very cautious what we say.”

“Certainly ; one would not like to be sued for
slander, for instance,” laughing. ‘I treat it as

and he went on his way.

Miss St. Mark walked up and down the cor-
ridor awhile, pongenae several matters in her
mind. She should feel very sadly if Eugene
died—she was sure of that. Why, she looked
five years older already for the shocks and anxi-
eties of the past week!—her glass told her that.
She should feel intensely. grieved and disap-
pointed; yet—need she therefore look on the
world as a howling wilderness and take no hope
for the future? Need she lose Morley Beeches?
If Eugenedied, Felix Gathorne took his place—
“The king is dead: Long live the king.” Felix
was very handsome, with a dark, grave beauty
not so charming as his brother’s, but, with a

ower of itsown. So far as she could guess or
earn, he had never paid tribute of love to any
woman. Why be so hasty in sowing abroad
rumors of his connection with the accident?
She might come to desire his friendship. Ais
might yet be the hand to make her lady of this
grand old home! While these subtle thoughts
crowded into her mind Felix came out of the
! sick-chamber and went slowly, with bowed
head, down the broad flight of stairs. He did
not see her, as she stood in the shadow, but sigh-
ed heavily as he passed her.

There is an Oriental proverb almost brutal in
its truth: ‘‘A live dog is better than a dead
lion.” Irene, elegant and lady-like, would have
shrunk from the coarse application; yet her
faintly throbbing fancies, as she looked after
the dark brother, were no whit more delicate.

‘‘T must make amends to him for past slights,”
she thought, as she slipped down the stairs after
him, to flatter him into folly, as she had many
another of his sex. However, Felix was not to
be found.

The house had become intolerable to him,
The air seemed to him too thick to breathe
wlth foul unwholesome suspicion. What! did
Eugene, too, suspect him? Eugene, one hair of
whose head he would not have harmed. The
very Fates were against him! He had expect-
ed, if his brother recovered, to be justified in
theeyes of all by having the aul Derpes de-
nounced, Now, it seemed more than possible
that Eugene was himself in ignorance of the as-
sassin—even that he imagined Felix to be the
offender!

“Itwas Darien,” Felix said to himself, as he
plunged out of doors like one half.suffocated
panting for air. ‘‘He is the only man who has
cause of quarrel with Eugene!—good cause, too!
Darien is not a man to allow me, or any other,
to suffer for his actions. I have but to state to
him that Iam the victim of suspicion and he
will come to my rescue by owning the deed.
And then—his daughter’s name will be mixed
up in the miserable scandal! Poor Oriole, inno-
cent as the birds in the blue heaven above her,
will be gossiped about—disgraced! Better for
me to be under a cloud than for the girl I love!
I will say nothing—at present. But I will call
at the Lodge to see how they fare. The gentle
face of Mrs. Chaldecott I know will not frown
upon me. I long for her sympathy.”

It was one of September’s most perfect days.
As Felix walked along under the stately beeches
it seemed to him impossible that Eugene should
die—should become dust in the midst of this life
and splendor of the external world. He ponyeas

lifting his face to heaven, that his brother
might be spared to enjoy the things which were
his in such lavish degree. Little Betty was out

by the gates, which stood wide open, admitting
an almost constant procession of carriages which
drove slowly up to the front of the mansion and
| stood there a minute or two while the occupants
inquired after Mr. Morley; then drove as softly
away in. Felix encountered two or three in
his walk to the Lodge; surely, those faces were
cold, or full of suspicion, that looked at him
with such slight recognition. Anger and pain
burned hot in his bosom; he had not yet con-
sidered that he had also cause for fear, _
“Come in,” responded Darien’s voice, ee
sponse to his knock. He entered the fam

 

arlor, which, somehow, wore an unfamiliar
Toole; Zophiel was at his desk, busy with ac-
counts; there wasa feverish glitter in his dark,

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

one of the professional secrets that come to me,”

 

"Cael ARABS haa ig sc See
a, Writs dk per tae cement

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
   
  
    
  
   
   
  
   
   
  
   
  
  
   
  
  
  
   
  
   
  
   
 
  
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
  
    
   
   
 
   
 
 
 
 
    
      
    
    
    
       
      
   
  
    

ae

sunken eyes, but he was as calm as a rock to
outward appearance, A

“How is Mr. Morley this afternoon?” he ask- ie
ed, as soon as he saw who his visitor was. “I
see the doctor has made his visit.”

‘* Dr. Sinclair holds out a very faint hope that
he may recover; so faint that we dare not al-
low ourselves to build upon it.”

Darien sat staring out of a window saying
nothing more. : :

“Are the ladies at home?” Felix presently
ventured,

“No,” was the answer, made with scant
courtesy. ‘‘ My daughter needed a change and
has Rone away in Mrs. Chaldecott’s care,

“‘Gone away!”

“Yes, Is tnere anything surprising in that?”

“T beg your pardon.” ;

Felix sat a few moments pondering—should —
he tell this man the suspicions which had fallen — ;
2 himself? Finally he decided to waitalit-
tle while; if Eugene got well there would be no ©
trouble, probably—Eugene would himself desire
to drop the subject, rather than have Oriole im-
picnied If he died—well, then, no man could ;

ll what would be the consequences tohim— =|
Felix Gathorne. , ;

He arose to go, more keenly disappointed at
not seeing the two ladies than he liked to ac-—
knowledge. ;

“Wait a moment,” said Zophiel, in a hoarse
voice, rising also. ‘‘I suppose you infer, Mr.
Gathore, that I shot your brother; Idid. And
I am willing to swing for it, if he dies He
broke his word of honor to me and made an ap- ee
potniingat to meet her secretly. I found them

ogether. I had taken my revolver with me,
and I used it. Iam not sorry.” of eae

“I hardly think Eugene would break his =
word. He is thoughtless—selfish, if ia will—
but not a liar. You have been too ty, Da-
rien; and you have brought scandal on your
daughter, if this thing becomes public. It will
be horrible to have her name mixed up in this
business.”

‘“*T did not think ahead so far as that. I saw
him kiss her hand and I shot him. He was en-
gaged to Miss St. Mark—he had no business to
make love to my daughter.”

“Tt is but a common_piece of polite flattery —
to kiss'a lady’s hand. You should have waited —
and talked with him—given him a chance to
defend himself.”

“‘T had warned him.” i

“We both know that Eugene loved your
daughter far more than the young lady to
whom he was engaged; that he would have —
married Oriole had he been free to do so. He
was a in a hard dilemma—by his own folly
in allowing himself to admire your daughter in
the first place—but still he was to be pitied, or, |
at least, made allowance for.” ae

Darien groaned. ties S

“Don’t convince me that I did wrong,” he |
cried, vehemently. ‘‘I am more than punished |
already. Do you know what I have done? I
have turned my child’s affection for me into a
horror of me, She shudders if she hears my —
voice—trembles if I look toward her. Ay, she
jumped into the water, after he fell at her feet. aN
rather than have me lay a finger onher! Ihad. —
a time to rescue her! Did you ever notice a —
fresh, bright flower laughing in the sun—and the
same flower the next morning after frost had |
touched it? Iam the frost which has blighted —
my darling! You never saw such a change!
Do you know, if he dies, I_am certain she will -
commit suicide? And so, I have to pray that
he may live—I, who hate him!” x

‘‘T pray that he may live, for his own sake—
and also a little for yours, Darien—for you will
not care to bear always the weight I see you
now suffer from. It is a terrible thing, this that _
you have done!” : Ae ee

“Ay, don’t tell me that! Wait until yon
have a daughter—motherless—the light of | :
eyes, the glory of your life—like mine—” he

opped, and burning tears rolled out of those
sunken eyes. ee
“T would it had been I who met her first
Who knows?—she might have fancied me!
I—I would have asked no sweeter wife! Darien,
I still have a hope, when these dark days are a
dream of the past—when Eugene is well and
wedded to.his waiting bride—that I may win
Oriole to look on me with kinder eyes, Master of
Morley Beeches by right of heritage from my
mother’s family, and_my mother’s will, I know >
I ought to be; but I will not murmur at my
ae oe so long a b an aS that in
some future ear she will have forgotten

earned sfove T

 

 

 

Waa

     

 
 

      
 
        
      
  
       

    
   
   
      
  

Eugene and | to love me for the
bear her.” ‘
Darien’s only answer was a heavy sigh.

CHAPTER XV.
GLAMOUR,
And all d t
‘And ail iny nights are dreams
Of where thy dark eye glances rons
And where thy footstep gleams. Pon. &
“Tr is very wrong for you to feel as you do”
toward your father, Oriole.” i a
It was the mild voice of Mrs. Chaldecott
speaking. The girl, to whom she addressed her- _ hy

 

 

           

 

       
 

f

‘THE BLACK RIDDLE. |

 

14

self, sat. on the hearth, her chin in her hand,
staring into ths heart of a wood-fire, which the
frosty September evening made desirable; the
lace was the little woodland cottage which
sther had deserted to take charge of this
young creature, whose stronger, more passion-
ate nature threatened to break all bonds she

might strive to bind it with. :
Well might Zophiel Darien tell Felix his
daughter was changed. The blanched cheeks,
the dark hollows about the unnaturally lustrous
eyes, the desperate look—half wild, half heart-
broken—of the whole lovely countenance, were
very different from the soft, dimpled, flower-
like charm of Oriole’s face a fortnight ago.
Yet, more beautiful—for it was more womanly.
It would take years of such suffering to destroy
the exquisite outlines—the velvet of the cheeks,

the glory of the eyes.

“He had not broken his word, Mrs. Chalde-
cott. He was going away without speaking.
He loved me so. And my father knew that
loved him better than the world—and he
shot him! He fell at my feet; I thought him

d ' dead—dead! My father tried to kill him be-
fore my eyes.” A shudder ran through her
from head to foot. ‘‘Do you think I can ever
forget that horrible hour?’

‘At least you ought not to dwell on it, dear
child. Your father was terribly angry. ou
are too young to understand fully why he felt

c ashedid. It was his love for you—his pride in
_ you—that made him feel like killing the man
‘ who would persist in wantonly trifling with
gia happiness. Mr. Morley had ac’ very
; adly; even though hedid not speak to you that
time, he made love to you all the same. There
must trouble come from such conduct. Either
in he must disappoint a young lady, whose con-
fidence in his promises was such that she and
her mother were visitors at his house, with their
engagement openly declared—or, he must leave
“you, my poor child, not only wretched and
without hope, but an object evi on
of men’s laughter and derision. If I had been

- your father I should have done what he did!”

‘*My own father tried to kill him, with my
hand in his,” reiterated Oriole, in the same

| | strange, low, monotonous tone. ‘‘I thought he

ee was dead. He may be dead,” she went onina
slightly raised voice. ‘‘He was very low, to-
- day; there was a change for the worse. He
_ may be dead—or dying—now, Mrs. Chaldecott
—and Iam not with him. He would like me to
be with him, yet you keep me here. Oh, cruel,

Ey, to be separated even in death,”

| _“ Miss St. Mark is by his side—it is her place

| * ‘ther right. Ah, Oriole, in your willfulness

-__- you will not see things as they are.”

one “Am I willful? I dare say I am, since you

_ gsayso. I can’t help wanting to be with hi
when I know he is pining forme. I can’t help
pts wanting to be with him when I love him so.

a, Oh, if my father had not so wickedly shot him

we might have been happy together. For, do
you know, Mr. Morley is as poor as I am.
could have proved that, and then that proud.
selfish woman would have given him up, and
he would have been free to come to me.”
“What do you mean by that, Oriole? Mr,

 
  

Morley as poor as you?”
7 oe relapsed into silence, and stared into
@ fire.

“Tf you could have proved it, why didn’t
ou?” Esther asked again.

_ “YT was not quite certain that he loved me

_wellenough. I wanted him to be happy wheth-

er I wasornot. But, at the last, he seemed to

7

ons

ro

i be so sorry to say good-by. I am quite certain,
Bree now, he would have forgiven me I told all
that I knew.”
. ** Why, what do you know?”
But the girl was silent i

That reminds me,” ait Esther, after wait-
ing a moment, ‘will rg tell me who lent you
_._. the jewels you wore the ay of the ball? and

‘how you got that copy of . Morley’s dress?”
og Oriole only stared into the dropping
coa

 

Ss.
**Did Eugene lend you the diamonds and the
dress?” urged Esther.
Suddenly Oriole started out of her brown
study and turned her great dark eyes on her
uestioner with a sparkle of cunning showing
‘for a single instant under their long lashes.
om wing do you press these questions?” she re-
rte

“Tt would be a matter of keen curiosity to
| any one under the circumstances, I am deeply
_ interested—more deeply than you think.”

ey ‘*T know that Felix Gathorne is your favor-
a ite, Mrs. Chaldecott.” 3

iy “No matter who is my favorite, Oriole.
4 Would you not right a great wrong if. you had

it in your power, even if you suffered by it?”

BN “No, no, not if Eugene suffered by it—no, in-
be: deed! Eugene—Eugene! haps there is no.
o Eugene! perhaps he is dead!” she ged to her
feet and walked about and about the fire-lit

bs room.
| ss * My darling, I wish you would calm your-
self, Come, will you not go to bed? I will sit
by you until you sleep—read—talk—pray for
you—only I cannot bear to see you so restless
_ and unhappy.”
_ Oriole burst into a frantic laugh. Ea

hey

 

 

 

“Go to bed! go to sleep! Mrs. Chaldecott, I
shall not close my eyes—I shall not lie down—
until I hear how he is,”

“Well, my dear child, if you will promise me
to remain here quietly, I will go now over to
the house and get the very latest tidings. It is
only ten o’clock; I can be there by half-past.”

“Twill go with you. I can wait outside in
the garden. Let me go with you. I shall lose
my senses if I have to wait here alone.”

ae then,” assented her companion, with
a sigh.
ou think I am willful,” said Oriole, look-
ing at her with miserable eyes, ‘‘ but I am onl
d rate. If he should die—should be dead!
And my own father shot him down before me!”

“You do not think how lonely and wretched
your father must be.”

“Tcannot. I cannot,” shuddering. “T can-
not forget—so soon!”

They started forth on their long walk. The
great Newfoundland, that was Mrs. Chalde-
cott’s protector when she dwelt alone at the cot-
tage, wanted to go with them, but was left in
charge of the house. It was starlight, and the
elder lady knew the path through the woods
very well; but to Oriole’s burning impatience
they seemed to make slow ale until they
emerged into the open fields, when she flew
along the narrow trodden way so rapidly that
she was obliged to wait several moments for her
Sa at the last stile, which led into the
tangled flower-garden,

‘Wait here, my darling,” said Esther, seat-
ing Oriole in the summer-house. ‘‘I will not be
— more than twenty minutes, probably.

ay Heaven, the news may be better than we
anticipate.”

There were a few on, Ean — of blos-
soms still on the honeysuckle which wreathed the

little summer-house. The girl could not see the
blossoms but their perfume was palpable.
It was here they had sat that first afternoon

for a full hour, while the sun set and the place
was full of sweet odors, and Mr. Morley, so plea-
sant, so beautiful, chatted to her about his com-
ing home.

‘ears rushed to her eyes—the first tears which
had moistened their burning heat since that
horrible shock by the lakeside. So kind, so
charming, so wonderful in his easy grace and
beauty, so condescending to her poor little self,
had she not adored him from that hour?

But Oriole’s thoughts were suddenly "drawn
away from this picture of memory to some-
thing which was happening close at hand. She
heard low voices, drawing nearer as they talk-
ed; and through the lattice-work saw, in the
dim starlight, two ladies, with white wraps
about their heads and shoulders, who came to a
full pause on the gravel-walk not four feet from
where she was sitting. She knew them—Mrs.
St. Mark and her daughter. The cold, clear
starlight fell on the pale, handsome features of
Irene revealing them distinctly to one who had
been out as long in the darkness as Oriole.
There was a frown on her fair forehead; she
spoke impatiently, though in suppressed tones:

“T tell you, the doctor has almost given w
hope. ere is an increase of fever, whic
means more inflammation, and this may be fol-
lowed by the worst co: uences. He told me
himself he hardly thought his patient would live
twenty-four hours.”

“ tt do you propose to do? Can you save
him, Irene?”

‘“‘T thought I had made my meaning suf-
ficiently plain, mother: I propose to marry him
—at eae We :

arry a dying man!
widow at twenty!”

“Marry him, of course. You are very dull,
mother. Are we to lose all at this late hour?
As you have often pointed out to me, we have
spent a year and much money ee affairs
to their present condition. It is known that we
were to be married so soon, that I will have to
go into mourning and spend almost as much
time in black as if I were his widow instead of
weer eer poe And what will I gain?—
nothing! Yet our affairs, as you say, are in a
desperate strait. As Eugene Morley’s wife—
ay, though only his wife one single hour—I

have one-third of this great estate, and his
mal property, and those lovely jewels, if he
chooses to will them to me.”,

“Tsee. You are right, Irene—sharper than
your mother, for once! But, how will you bring

Make yourself a

| about this ‘consummation, devoutly to be wish-

ed? Your motive—will it not be suspected?”
“T have = to deal with Eugene. Others
can say or do what they choose. He is unaware
of his danger—thinks he is recovering. I can
go to him, shedding a few tears, and whisper to
im how much happier I should bs, as his wife,
free to nurse him, to be with him all the time.
I can tell him howlittle I eare fora ceremonious
wedding, a few weeks later—how I long to
know myself his. wife. He is generous and un-
suspicious—more so than one in ten thousand—
and Ican easily make him believeall that I wish.
Mother, you know the Rev. Harvey Hermitage
is at Morley Beeches to-night; he is having his
supper, along with the doctor, in the a t
room this moment, and intends remaining un
he sees how this illness terminates. There is no
’ t. 7

Re eee

 

reason why I should not be mistress of Morle
Beeches before the clock strikes twelve this
night!” ; a

‘If that is your idea, Irene, there is no time
to lose.”

‘“No time to lose. You say right, mother !—
there is no time to lose!”

‘What are you Roing to do?”

“Tam going to Eugene’s bedside to ask him

to mi me.’
“ And if you fail?”
“Tf I fail! In my vocabulary ‘there’s no

such word as fail.’ Yet, if I should fail—or it
should be too late—I shall not even then be in
despair, mother—Mr. Gathorne is the heir in
that case; and Mr. Gathorne is young, unmar-
ried, and wnengaged. I have been alread
making myself agreeable to him. Not that
could ever fancy him as I do Eugene! He is
quite too somber for me. Poor Eugene! He
was all sunshine,” with a sigh. ‘I was sere
very fond of him, after a fashion, mamma. If
he will only get well, Ishall be more than satis-
fied,” andshe brushed away asingle tear. ‘‘ Yes,
mamma, I shall be very sorry it Eugene dies.
He is really my beau ideal. Yet—one cannot
afford to have too much sentiment in this great,
grasping world where some one forever stands
ready to crowd you out if you will allow them!
Eugene, if possible, mamma!—If not, that dark-
browed brother! Do you know, I believe Felix
shot Eugene? He isaware that I suspect him—
that is one of my strong holds upon him, in case
—but, time flies, and I must be about my night’s
work. I had dreamed of a splendid wedding
ceremony—of a brilliant season in society; now,
I care only to secure what I have so long consid-
ered my own. Come, mother, as you say, there
is no time to lose! A wife to-night—a widow
to-morrow, perhaps!—this is a strange world,
ma mere |”

With a low, bitter laugh that sounded much
like a strangled sob, Irene took her mother’s
arm and hurried her along the path in the di-
rection of the house.

Oriole sprung to her feet, rushed out upon the
path and looked after them. There was a burn-
ing mist over her eyes, a dreadful pain in her
heart, the solid earth seemed to reel under her
feet. Eugene was thought to be dying! This
heartless, calculating woman of the world was
about to make a reckless, shameless effort to
secure what she prized more than her young
gold-haired lover—his property !

It was not that! Oriole could have laughed
at that! Oh, what a sweet, what a perfect re-
venge she could enjoy in that case! But—if
Eugene lived—as oh, pray God, he might !—if
he got well, this girl would be his wife! She,
who could coolly plot to marry another, in the
very hour her lover lay in mortal peril, would
be Eugene’s wife.

“Never!” cried Oriole, in de ation. ‘No,
I will call her back—I will tell her the truth—
and then we will see if she still longs to be
Eugene Moriey’s widow!”

 

CHAPTER XVI.
THE WILL OF THE LATE MRS. MORLEY.

Llighted my lamp at the dying flame

And creptup the stairs that creaked from fright,
Till into the chamber of death I came,

Where she lay, all in white.

—OwEN MEREprrH.
Mrpnicut darkness over the world and over
Gathorne Court.

A lovely lady, dead, shrouded and in her cof-

: A black woman, still as a statue, sitting at its
oot.

‘

'

The great house was full of people who had °

come to attend the funeral—which was to take
place on the next day but one—all in their beds
and sleeping; since the dead lady’s maid and
lifelong personal attendant, the faithful crea-
ture who had closed the dying eyes, had insisted
in holding, unaided, the nig! t-watches by the

corpse. A desolate autumn wind moaned about '

the open windows of the large chamber like
some wailing spirit calling on the soul of the
dead to come forth and join it in its wander-

ings.

The watcher did not mind this; but she raised
her bowed head and fixed her great glowing
eyes on the door when she heard some one out-
side of it in the hall, and so saw the master
when he came in, lamp in hand, stealthily clos-
ing the door after him.

e room was dimly lighted, but the flare of
the lamp he carried revealed his face distinctly ;
the dark frown upon it would have struck ter-
ror to any heart less courageous than that of
the colored woman whose gaze steadily con-
fronted him as he came to the side of the cof-

in. ;

‘Diana,’ he began, with only a glance at the
beautiful los face of his dead wife, ‘‘ where are
Mrs. Morley’s jewels, her miniature on ivory
and the deeds of her properties in New Orleans
and St. Louis?”

“Are they not in your safe, master, where
you placed them after she was taken ill?”

‘*Some one has the key 0:

the ~~
and removed them without my lo
an:

f
consent. Do you know, Diana, that

 

:
;
'
:

 

 

 

 

 

  

 
THE BLACK RIDDLE,

15

 

act is robbery? Everything is mine now, and
whoever has done this shall be sent to prison.”

“Very well, master; Ican prove I have not
hee in the room where the safe is since mistress

led,

“T know that ete well,” with a savage
smile; ‘it was before her death. Do not seek
to cope with me. I want those things—also
the copy of her will which she gave you for
safe-keeping.”

He stood close to her, holding the lamp to her
face—for the life of her she could not control
the slightest possible start and wincing of the
eyes; how had he discovered that a copy of the
will had been made and given to her?

‘““Why don’t you speak?’ he hissed, after a
moment’s silence.

“J have nothing to say, master. If my dear
mistress gave me anything to keep for her, be
sure I shall obey her.”

He stared at her as if such defiance on her
part were incredible. His hand began to shake
with the passion which grew on him until he
was compelled to go and set down the lamp be-
fore the vailed mirror of the dressing-bureau;
then he returned and confronted Diana, who
had arisenand stood tall and erect to meet him.

‘The things are mine; give them to me,”

‘‘ Whatever she put in my hands was for her
son, and I shall keep it for him until he is of
age.

‘“ Which son?” sneered the master.

‘Not yours, Mr, Mathew Morley—her own
little Felix, the proper heir of his mother’s for-
tune, You married my poor darling for her
money—you broke her heart—but you shall not
rob her little boy of the Gathorne estates if I
can prevent it.”

“* You prevent it, insolent slave!” His arm
was raised to fell her to the floor, yet she did
not flinch; superb in her courage the black wo-
man stood motionless, like a Juno carved out of
ebony. Something looked out of her eyes which
baffled him. He didnot strike her; he swallow-
ed the curses which rose to his lips; but there
was a sneer of infernal malice on his hard,
handsome features as he turned away—a sneer
which filled Diana with far more terror than
his threats or his rage had done. He walked up
and down the floor a few times, never turning
a glance on the lovely dead as he passed the
coffin, then again approached the faithful
watcher.

“Look you, Diana, Mrs. Morley was not in
her right mind when she made the will of which
you have a copy; therefore, that will isso much
waste paper. Before she was taken ill, while
yet she was perfectly sane, she made a different
will, which must remain the legal one; that will
left everything to me—her husband—with the
request that, at my death, it be equally divided
between the two boys, provided both were liv-
ing, or to the remaining one, if the other should
have died. Such a disposition of her property
is sensible—just what her affection forme would
lead her to make. I explain this to you that
you may see how useless it will be for you to
gossip or make talk about the matter—how
worse than useless to produce that later will,
made after sickness had destroyed her mind.
As to the jewels, they are among the finest in
America—worth a prest deal pf money; you
surely have too much good sense to imagine that
you have a right to withhold them. I shall ex-

t you to produce them before the will is read.
am master here. One breath of scandal from
pou lips—one whisper against me or my inten-
jions—and it will be the worse for you. I take
it for granted you wish to remain with little
Felix—you cannot do so as the enemy of the
master of the house. You must be friendly to
me if you wish to remain here. Do you under-
ee d her head; h t
e nodded her head; her great eyes sna)
like live coals; once or twice she had o aed js
mouth as if to speak, but had closed it with
firm repression; her bosom heaved, but she
said nothing in acceptance or rejection of his

eee

e took up his lamp and crept away as
stealthily as he had come; still with never a
look at the beautiful dead face of his young
wife.

When he was gone the black nurse smote her
breast, moaned, rocked to and fro—

“ He will get me out of the way,” she plained ;
“there will be no one to befriend my darling’s
child! His own boy will get all there is—ay,
and little Felix will have some accident happen
to him to get him out of the way. Oh, [am
frightened to my very soul!—not for myself,
but for the child. Iswore to her I would pro-
tect him—but I shall not be allowed to doit. I
saw it in hislook! What cana poor black ser-
vant do against the power of Mathew Morley?”

A dry wind sobbed and moaned about the
house; black clouds scudded before a ghostly
half-moon; an owl, out in the garden, hooted
solemnly; Diana, taking a candle, went into an
adjoining room, where two lovely children, one
five, the other four years of age, and both
boys, slept as sweetly as if their fair mother
did not lie, white and shrouded, in her coffin,
near by. She stood by the cot of the younger

sleeper a long time, gazing fondly on the rosy
face; then returned to her watch by the dead.

 

The following day was long and dreary at
Morley Beeches. The funeral had to be delayed
on account of friends arriving from a distance;
but it was expected to take place on the morrow.

Meantime, the wind which had begun the pre-
vious night, was rising and bringing up a storm.
All day the dull, leaden clouds were thickening;
but the rain did not begin to fall until after
dark. By that the wind was blowing tem-
pestuously. The slim young beeches along the
drive were tossed wildly up and down; there
was a loud roaring of hail and rain, accom-
panied Wf vivid, incessant lightning. Diana
still holding her faithful watch, not proof
against the superstitions of her race, became
frightened about eleven o’clock, and went for
one of the maids to come and sit with her.
While she was absent, in the attic story, trying
to arouse the sleepy girl she desired to have
with her, there came a thunderbolt which
seemed to play around and about her, while a
deafening crash filled her ears. For several mo-
ments she was too paralyzed to stir.

The first thing she heard, on coming to her
senses, was some one crying, in the lower hall:

‘‘The house has been struck by lightning!”
and this was followed by the screams of terri-
fied ladies rushing from their bed-chambers into
the corridors,

Diana rushed down from the attic to the se-
cond floor, in the south-western corner of which
were situated the apartments of her mistress.
The air was full of sulphurous fumes. As she
oo the door leading into the death-chamber
she discovered that the lightning had set the
room ablaze, The children were in a smaller
chamber, adjoining. Crying: ‘‘ Fire! fire!” she
rushed through the smoke and flames into this
chamber, which had no egress except through
the larger one which was on fire.

The floor of this room being covered with
India matting and the draperies of embroidered
Indian mull, the six or eight minutes since the
lightning entered it had been sufficient to make
the attempt to carry the children through it
most dangerous. Diana immediately closed the
door between the two rooms, flung open a win-
dow which opened on a small balcony, tore the
bedding into strips and lowered the little ones
safely to the soft turf of the lawn underneath.

It was thought, for years, that she must then
have ventured into the burning apartment,
either to attempt to remove Mrs. Morley’s body,
or for some other important purpose, since she
never reappeared. That wing of Morley
Beeches was burned to the ground; but, the
heavy rain, combined with the desperate exer-
tions of the servants and visitors, saved the
main part of the grand old mansion. No in-
jury which a few days’ labor would not repair
was done to the other apartments; but the fu-
neral for which so many had come together did
not take place—God’s awful visitation upon
the living and the dead had rendered that im-
possible.

Before they separated, however, the family
lawyer read the will of the late Mrs, Morley,
which left her whole great Pe ae to her hus-
band, Mathew Morley, with the desire that, at
his death, it should be divided equally between
her son and his son.

For, Mrs. Ne had been a wealthy young
widow, with one little child, two years of age,
when Mr. Morley married her; and he had been
a widower, also with a son aged three.

There was a great deal of surprise and resent-
ment—not to say suspicion—among the Ga-
thornes, when her will was read; but it could
not be disproved, and they had to submit.

Mathew Morley became the richest man of
his county ; the wing was rebuilt on the mansion
—once thorne Court, but renamed Morley
Beeches; the two boys were brought up toge-
ther. Years rolled away; one day, when Eugene
Morley was of age and Felix Gathorne twenty,
the head of the house died. Again a ‘last will
and testament” was read in the old oak library:
Mathew Morley had ignored the request of her
who had left him all that he had, and passed the

reat estate down to his own son, undivided
Coie Felix only an annuity of two thousand
dollars a year!

CHAPTER XVII.
TWO GIRLS.
*“* The ruby is not more full of fire
Nor the sun more full of light
Than my soul is full of the wildest love
For you—for you—to-night!”

Wirn a desperate effort Oriole steadied her
reeling brain. Her feet trembled as she ran,
but she must pursue those two figures a.
pearing along the garden alley, on either side
of which arose tall stalks of tube-roses sending
out a sumptuous sweetness to meet them as
they passed. When she overtook them they
were quite near the house. Two long windows
of the drawing-room were oo on the terrace
from which broad bars of light streamed out
over the walk beneath. Irene was exactly in
the center of one of these golden gleams when
the steward’s daughter reached out a little hot
hand and touched hers.

“Miss St. Mark, stop a moment! I have
something to tell you.”

 

Irene paused in surprise. When she saw who
it was a slight flush went over her proud face
and she recoiled as if the burning touch of those
small fingers was distasteful to her.

“Something to tell me?” she repeated,
ot

The white fleecy wrap had fallen from her
fair and stately shoulders; in the oy lamp-
light she looked coldly perfect—delicately beau-
tiful—as Oriole felt, with a sort of despair.

“How can he refuse her?” she thought, paus-
ing and hesitating in her singular mission,
shrinking from so much freezing es
trembling to think of its effect on him she
loved. ‘‘He never can refuse to make her his
wife, if she asks him,” she felt, with a sudden
despair. ‘‘But she does not love him—I will
try to save him.”

‘* What can you possibly have to say to my
daughter?” queried Mrs. St. Mark, seeing the
girl stammer and shrink.

“T am in haste—in great haste,” added Irene.

“Yes, I know,” began Oriole, and now the
fire leaped up in her great dark eyes and the
color came like a flame to her white cheeks.
‘You are in haste to reach the death-chamber,
to persuade Mr. Morley to marry you before he
dies; so that you may, as his widow, inherit a
fortune.”

‘* Impertinent—and an eavesdropper!”

“T know—I know. I was in the summer-house
waiting to hear—how he was to-night. It hap-
ere I wonder—would it be a kindness to you,

fore you carry out your provident plan, Miss
St. Mark, to inform you that the will of the late
Mrs. Morley has been found—the missing will—
in which she, naturally, leaves her own prop
erty to her own child, Felix Gathorne!—that
Eugene Morley does not own one acre of this

‘oodly estate, one stone in this great house, one
share in any mine, one dollar in any bank, ex-
cept his brother—no brother by blood—chooses
to give him something out of charity? Mrs.
Gathorne owned everything before she became
Mrs. Morley, and left it to her son, a Gathorne,
as all knew she must have done; although her
villainous second husband forged a will which
has passed in place of the true. Now, the true,
the legal will has come to light.”

‘*Tt is strange that you should be the person
to bring me this news! You must excuse me if
I fail to believe it;” but Irene, affecting to
scorn the unexpected communication, yet turn-
ed very pale and her voice was not firm.

‘* Believe it or not, you will be compelled to
believe it before _~ Eugene Morley is but a;

oor dependent on his adopted brother’s bounty.

‘he jewels, and the miniature from which my
dress was modeled, the night of the ball, came
from the same source as the missing will. I
have positive knowledge of what Iam talking
about. I houeet I would tell you—that you—
that you—might know what you were doing be-
fore the words were spoken which make you
Mr. Morley’s wife. Of course, if you love him
asa wife should, this will make no difference
with your plans. If he—lives, Mr. Gathorne
will doubtless be generous; if he—dies—” oh
how the soft young voice fluttered over tha’
cruel word!—* he ware more generous still.
I only tell you what I know.”

Irene, pale and frowning, pulled to pieces a
rose she held in her hand.

“T give not the slightest credit to anything
you tell me,” she said, after a moment or two.

‘I do not understand your motive—and I can-
not think you are honest. The whole house is
aware of Phage scandalous, indelicate encourage-
ment of Mr. Morley’s idle flirtation with you—
his gardener’s daughter. I might have quarrel-
ed with him about it, only I did not consider
the subject worth a quarrel, Of course, he is a
young man, and will flirt if invited. When we
are married I shall havesomething to say about
such matters. I tell you now I think you are
trying deliberately to deceive me to peereen my
marrying him to-night. Come, mother, we are
wasting precious time,” and she walked on
quickly, ascended the stone steps and had
packet the hall door when Oriole overtook

er.

“Tt may be a sin for me to love him,” panted
the steward’s daughter, ‘‘ but my love is pure
and true. I would die for him—ah, Heaven!
how gladly would I die for him this night if I
could take his place! Oh, that God would let
me my life for his! Why cannot it be?
Yes, I love him too well to wish to see you cold-
ly, inhumanly plotting to be bis wife that, as
his widow, you may luxuriate in his fortune!
Oh, I thank Heaven, he is poor—as poor as I
am !—since that will prevent your caring to se-
cure him. Yes, Miss St. Mark, Mr. Gathorne is
the heir—will have the money—try your arts on
him! Win Aim and his wealth, and let my poor
Eugene alone! Oh, he loves me as he never
loved you! Iam going tohim. If he dies to-
night I will die, also; I will kill myself, that I
may go with him!” Her eyes glittered, a
strange smile dimpled the sweetest mouth that
ever breathed; the thought that she was so near
Eugene and that he might bedying was making
her almost mad.

‘¢ Little fool!” muttered Irene, angrily. ‘‘ How
she raves! Serves himrightfor paying her any
attention. These low-bred women never know

 
  

 

 

16

 

/

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

their places. She must be prevented from en-

tering his room; the excitement would be dan-

ere I must call a servant to take
er away. Dapple! Where is Dapple?”

‘oRre, ma’am,” responded that person,
promptly, from the chair in the hall where he
was comfortably aes

‘See to this girl, will you?—take her home.
She insists on seeing your master, against the
physician’s orders.”

“Miss Oriole, I wouldn’t, if I was you,” ex-
es Dapple, hesitating to lay a detaining

and on Zophiel Darien’s daughter. ‘‘ They sa;
master is very critical to-night; you wouldn’t
do anythink as would ’arm ’im, would you, my
dear?”

But Oriole had fled past him swifter than a
summer tempest and had rushed up the great
staircase so blindly that, with a shock, she came
in contact with some one on the landing, who
put out a hand, firm but kind, and held her,
panting. :

“Mr. Gathorne, let me go! They say he is
dying. 1 must be with him—I know he will
want me and I must be with him. Oh, if you
love me, as you have often said, be pitiful and
let me see him! Think! is this an hour to keep
us apart?” ‘

‘Poor child! Listen. I speak to you as a
brother would. Tae doctor is in Eugene’s room
—and Mr, Hermitage. You must not make
yourself an object of wonder and curiosity to
others. Besides, I have good news for you, m:
poor child—Eugene is better! His fever is
down a degree in the last hour. He is sleeping
restfully; and the doctor now feels quite sure
that he has nothing to do but get weil. Is not
this arog to send you home quite happy,
Oriole?” He still held the hand he had caught
to detain her, looking wistfully into her face,
thinking if only it had been their fate that she
should have loved him as she loved Eugene,
how fair their lot might have been; he felt the
thrill which ran through her to her finger-tips,
and the next moment she sunk into his arms,
her head on his shoulder—the sudden change
from despair had been too much for her already
overwrought mood and she had fainted.

Of all things Felix desired to avoid attracting
attention to the wayward girl, so he carried her
into his own room, dashed some water over her
face and called Miss Wormely’s maid.

Mrs. Chaldecott waited a full hour in the
summer-house, in great anxiety as to her im-
pulsive charge, before Oriole returned there,
pale and weak, leaning on Mr. Gathorne’s

arm.

'“T have been ill,” she said, in an animated
voice, ‘‘ill from too much joy! Heis better—
he is going to live! And now, promise me, Mr.
Gathorne, that he shall not be worried by a
_ visit from Miss St. Mark to-night. I have a

reason for asking it—a good reason.”

‘*She shall not see him. As I said, he is
sleeping; and I sha)] insist on the ladies at once
retiring and the house being kept very quiet.
So now, good-night. Are you sure you are
able to walk so far, Miss Darien?” anxiously.

“T am able to do anything, now,” she an-
swered, exultingly—he felt how her eyes were
glowing in the dark. ‘‘Come, Mrs. Chaldecott,
Tam ready.” |

*“Good-night, Mr. Gathorne,” said Esther,
and there was an under-thrill of tenderness in
the way she spoke the formal phrase. ‘‘Ilam
as glad as you are that Mr. Morley is going to
live. You are a noble friend to him—I must
say it. Some young men, situated as you are
would have been disappointed at this good
news.

“My dear madam, can you imagine me so
covetous—so wicked—as to have looked forward

- to my own gain through this terrible trouble?”

““No, no. I know you too well. Happily, so

stern a minister as Death will not be needed to
secure you the rights of which you were basely
defrauded. A few days—a few weeks, at most

—and there will be a great change at Morley

Beeches.”

_ “TIT donot understand you, madam.”

“Of course not. My words are but the dim

. shadow of coming events. Again, good-night,
my dear boy.”

“Her voice trembled. She seems really very
fond of me—I dare say because she was my
_ mother’s friend. It must be that she believes
she has some clew to my mother’s wishes—per-
haps her will—which she can make serviceable
tome. Very well; so be it. It has been very
hard and bitter for me to see a Morley in my

lace; and I would be more than human not to

eager to get back my own; though I love
are as a brother, and have tried not toenvy

im. .

Full of wonder at what might be in store for
himself—happy at thought of Eugene’s pros-
pect of recovery—he walked quickly back to
the house, after seeing the two ladies as far as
the stile. ;

It was midnight by this time; the lights were
nearly all out in the lower of the house;

every one had-retired but the watchers in the
_ sick-room—no, not every oné, for there was the
tall, slim figure of Miss St. Mark pacing up and
down the piazza. She stopped and waited for
him as he came up the steps; then she laid her

‘

:

| tears in those blue eyes, and that the faltering

 

hand lightly on his arm, saying, in her lowest,
sweetest tones: |

“I cannot sleep to-night. Will you walk |
with me a little while?”

“You know that Eugene is out of danger?” |
he asked. |

“Yes. Mr. Hermitage was kind enough to |
come to me with the good news. Of courseI |
am very glad and nappy |

The odor of violets floated out of her light |
draperies as she walked; her face wasstrangely
fair in the clear starlight; she clung to his arm |
more closely than was necessary, keeping silent |
for a time; then she began, very softly and
tremulously: -

‘“‘T want to ask your pardon, Felix, for the
cruel, unjustifiable suspicions I entertained
when Eugene was brought home, wounded. I
wonder you do not hate me—do not refuse to
have anything to do with me; if I werein your
place I never could forgive or forget. But, you
are made of finer clay thanIam. In your in-
nocence of evil intent, in your manliness and
uprightness, you can afford to overlook the pass-
ing accusations of a half-maddened girl—mad-
dened with fright and grief, as I was when I
thought that dark thing of you. Say that you
forgive me, Felix! I could not go to at iow
until I had striven to gain from your lips the
assurance that I was pardoned.”

This, from the proud Irene, was a great deal!
Her perfumed handkerchief was pressed to her
eyes—how could a man know there were no

of the low voice was purest art?

Felix had never much liked ‘Miss St. Mark;
had thought her selfish and worldly, a keen
huntress after a brilliant parti, a young lady
who prized fashion above feeling; he had won-
dered if Eugene had no more heart than his fair
fiancée, and if they could be happy together.
Now he felt remorse for these fears; believed
that he had done injustice to Irene; thatshe had
more sensibility than he had given her credit
for. She looked up at him so humbly, her slim
hand trembled on his arm, she was so very,
very fair and charming!

“T easily forgive you,” he answered her.
“Suspicion had to fall somewhere—why not on
the party seemingly having most to gain? Do
not speak of it again, Irene!—let the ‘ dead past
bury its dead.’”

_‘*You are so generous!” she smiled. ‘TI be-
lieve I am only just beginning to understand
you, Felix. I have always been a little afraid
of you, you seemed so serious, so much more in-
tellectual—to look down on our little follies.
We must be better friends, hereafter—shall we
not? Good-night, friend Felix, and pleasant
dreams! Jam sure mine will be bright,” and
the little hand oa away from his arm, and
Irene, like some fair vision, vanished into night
—having spun the first threads of the new web
for the new fly she might wish to entangle.

CHAPTER XVIII.
WILL SHE PLAY HIM FALSE?
And the same wind sung and the same waves whiten-

Or ever the garden’s last petals were shed.

In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had
lightened,

Love was dead. ; —SWINBURNE.

Ir was a somber afternoon early in October;
not raining, or neta rain, but with some
cold clouds piled up around the horizon, and the
crisp air just chilly enough to make the great
fra t fire of maple wood on the hearth o:
the library at Morley Beeches delightful. The
room looked twice as inviting with that gener-
ous fire. The light played gayly over the gilt
lettering of the bed s, over th> dark, old-fash-
ioned round mahogany table, over the marble
busts, the fine engravings, the rich crimson of
the velvet curtains looped far back to let in
what sunlight was abroad, An easy-chair was
wheeled up in front of the hearth, and in it—a
trifle languid, a trifle pale, but ten times hand-
somer, if possible, than eyer—lounged Eugene.

This was his first visit down-stairs since his
accident—as he had persisted in calling it ever
since he had spoken on the subject at all. Miss
Wormely, Felix, Mrs. St. Mark and the prin-
cipal servants had assisted on the important
occasion; and now having seen. the interesting
invalid most comfortably and satisfactorily es-
a had vanished about their separate af-

airs.

Irene, dressed for dinner, was walking up and
down the room, a little impatiently, with some-
ee like a frown on her proud face,

“This is tiresome for you, I know, Irene,”
said Eugene, looking up at her leasantly as she
passed and repassed him. ‘‘I don’t see what all
my friends took themselves off for, when they
were most needed.”

“Tt would have been intrusive for them to
have remained, when you were so ill. The

Carlington are having a fine time at
home now.” }

‘* Fifth avenue certainly is more brilliant at
this season than Morley Beeches. I am sorry
you find it dull, dear.”

‘Tt is not the dulness I was thinking of so
much, Eugene. I was ee o the propri-
eties. Now that you are able to be about and

 

 

Ph nti og -.

‘not talk!

all your other guests have flown it would look
better for mother and I to follow. I have told
her so; the maid is now packing our trunks; we
shall get off to-morrow. Howsoondo you think
you will come to the city?”

She did not look at him as she asked the ques-
tion but stopped by one of the windows and
kept her face turned as if interested in the soft
down-fluttering of yellow leaves on the lawn
outside. ;

“In a fortnight, I hope. Is it quite kind of
you, Irene, to leave me here with only my aunt
and Felix?”

“And the gardener’s daughter,” she added, -

with alow laugh.

ete bit his lips and his pale face flushed.

‘*You do well to remind me of her,” he said,
rather haughtily. ‘‘I may be compelled to
seek her society out of pure loneliness. Not my
gardener’s daughter, however, as you must
know. Zophiel Darien is as proud a man as
there is going; and that little beauty, his daugh-
ter, is a princess of the blood royal; her grand-
father was King of the Gipsies, and their blood
is as pure as that of most of our aristocracies.
She has education and accomplishments. Did
you ever hear her sing?”

‘*T have not had that honor,” and Irene burst
into a s ee laugh, not at all ill-natured.
“Tam glad to learn that the mésalliance will
not be so striking, after all!”

“Trene, what is the matter with you, nowa-
days? You are curiously changed.”

‘Perhaps you think I am ignorant of how
your accident occurred?” she answered him,
still watching the falling leavesoutside. ‘‘ There
are a good many girls who would be ‘ curiously
changed’ by learning that the man they were
engaged to marry had been the hero of such
an adventure.”

For a moment the handsome Eugene looked
disconcerted; this’ proud girl at the window.
with her face turned from him, certainly had
cause of complaint against him. He liked her
better for feeling his misconduct.

“T have been guilty of a little foolish side-
flirtation,” he said, with a blush, “I acknow]l-
ed ge it. Nothing serious—nothing wicked—”

Only one her heart and mine,” inter-
posed Irene, calmly.
‘Good Heaven! How er te take it!
I am awfully sorry—awfully! hen you are
my wife, dearest, there will be no fear of such
delinquencies on my part. Iwill try to be a
model husband. I will—truly!” he added, ear-
nestly, feeling in bis soul that he had beena
scamp without meaning to be.

‘*¢ When I am your wife!” ire Irene,
turning slowly and fixing her calm blue eyes
on his at last. ‘‘ When do you think that
will be?” :

‘* Why do you wish to break with me?” falter-
ed Eugene.

“T should be justified in such a step, Eu-
gene,” she said, after a pause. ‘

And then she began to walk up and down
again with quickened steps.

‘““You pain me inexpressibly,” he said.
“You agitate me. I did not dream—”

“Then say no more. You are not yet strong
enough to bear agitation. I did not mean to
bring up this subject just yet. Hush! you must

The doctor will scold me. Iam go-
ing up-stairs, and then you will have only the
fire to talk to,” and she ran out of the room.

She had succeeded in ee affairs to the
very point she desired. She had thrown all the
blame on her lover. She appeared as the in-
jured party. Should she desire to break the
engagement he would set down her motive
injured feeling—wounded love! r

‘o utterly break with him—or not—was the
uzzle which had occupied her mind for the last
wo weeks. Before the time came to decide she

had e ted to gain some positive confirmation
of Oriole’s statement about the property. Im-
pressed with the belief that the girl spoke truth
she had been playing her cards to interest and
enchant the grave dark young man she had
once treated with almost contempt.

If she could find out for hersel{—before either
of the brothers knew—or suspected she knew
—which was the sure inheritor, then she would
know how to end the PRY; To confess to Felix
that Eugene’s conduct had destroyed her love;
to allow him to perceive that she was conscious
of having made a mistake—that, after all, it
was the poor Felix and not the rich heir she
loved—to work out all this before Felix learned
the change in his prospects—this was her inten-
tion, the aim of her conduct since that night
when Oriole declared to her, in the garden,
truth about the missing will.

But the day had nearly come when she must
depart from Morley Beeches and the doubt yet
remained. Once away, where would be the op-
portunity for making discoveries?

“Tf I could see that girl again!” she thought,
as she left the library. Looking up at the tall
clock slowly ticking away the hours in its niche
in the hall she saw that it was but four o’clock.
“Plenty of time for a stroll,” she said, and
throwing over her head a fleecy scarlet ‘‘ cloud ”

which lay at hand, she slipped out and went —

into the shrubberies, from whence by devious

paths, not observable from the windows of the

 

 

 

 

 
-and his fiancée.

his acquaintance with

 

mansion, she made her way to the Lodge. She
found it closed and little Betty sitting forlorn-
vy, on the steps watching the gate. She sat
down beside her, saying that she was tired, and
ee out her purse gave the child a gold dol-
ar.

“For a keepsake, Betty. I am going away
to-morrow.”

‘*Be you?” queried the little maid, grasping
the coin eagerly. ‘‘I won’t have no gates to
open no more to the fine carriages. I'will be
dre’dful lonesome here all winter, I s’pect.”

“Ts Miss Darien at home, Betty?”

** She don’t live here now, ma’am.”

“Why, how long has she been away?”

** A good while—weeks, She an’ Miss Chalde-
cott they went away. I guess it was about the
time young master got shotted.”

** Where is Mr. Darien?”

“Oh, he’s gone, too—just for to-day. He’s
pone to some other place. I don’t ’spect him

ack till after the ten train.”

‘And you are here all alone, little Betty?”

“Yes’m, I don’t mind it. But I’spect I’
be dre’dful frightened when it gets night. He
said, if I was afraid, to lock up an’ go an’ stay
to the big house, in the kitchen, till he came.”

Irene looked musingly off over the velvety
lawn between the larches and weeping-elms; a
slight flush rose in her face.

“You had better go to the house, as Darien
suggested, little Betty. You are too small to
remain here alone after dark. You must be
careful to lock up the Lodge, though; so things
will be safe.”

‘Oh, yes’m. I fasten the kitchen door on the
inside; then I come out this door and lock it
with the big brass key, and then I hide the ke
here, under this stone,” added the child, wit:
the important air of a housekeeper, ‘‘ He allers
knows where to look for it. This has been the
place to hide it from times immoral, Miss Oriole
says. It’s a snug place, ain’t it, Miss?”

‘It is, indeed,” said Irene, and even before
the innocent eyes of the child her own fell, at
the wicked resolve which came in her mind.
“Well, Betty,” she said, after a moment,
‘promise me to go up to the house to-night, or
I shall feel uneasy about you. The cook will
give you some of the dessert—I will ask her to.
And be a good girl this winter and when I re-
turn here next spring I will bring you a white
frock and a little gold locket.”

After that she arose from the step of the
Lodge where she had sat beside Betty, and
turning asshe walked away, said, smilingly:

‘Be sure to put the key under the stone and
to ask cook for a piece of the iced-pudding ”»—
leaving the little girl looking after her with
big delighted eyes.

rene could not return to the house immedi-
ately—her heart beat too loudly and it seemed
to her that her face must betray the thoughts
that crowded into her mind. She had never
committed a crime. She had told white lies,
had used all sorts of worldly artifice, been
guilty of the little peccadilloes of a selfish, art-
ul girl—now, the temptation to search that va-
cant Lodge for some trace of the truth of what
Miss Darien had told her, assailed her.

Was it not probable the girl’s father—long
the steward of Morley Beeches—had_possession
j hat harm

ot the will?—perhaps of the Serres}
would there be in just looking? She strayed
about the grounds, dallying with eR
until the sun set behind battlements of eetling
clouds that promised a very dark night.
Meantime, Eugene, left to the firelit, sleepy,
warm solitude of the library, leaned back in his
easy-chair—his blonde curls shining against the
rich red velvet—and mused upon the little
scene which had just transpired between him
e was surprised at the feel-
ing she had shown—and touched. Somehow
he had felt that Irene was very worldly, an
that she would hardly break her heart over his
little love affairs, provided she was lady of
Morley Beeches, with a host of visitors, a
retinue of servants, horses and carriages at
command, and money for unlimited extrava-
gance in dress. He had thought of her as a
wife to be proud of—to uphold the dignity of
the house—to wear his diamonds and preside at
his table. He had admired her exceedingly;
for Eugene, too, was worldly and fond of dis-

lay.

" The altogether novel and unexpected senti-
ment which'had sprung up in his breast after
riole had been a great
oe tohim. At first he had only meant to
make himself agreeable to a very, very pron
little rustic. Against his wish, against his will,
he had been swept off his feet by the rush of a
passion, new, sweet, strange, infatuating. Ori-
ole’s love had been a revelation to him. Its in-
nocence, its abandonment had bewitched him—
its depth, its fire had stirred his better and
deeper nature. He had struggled against this
charm not only because he was engaged to Miss
St. Mark—a good deal, too, because Oriole,
with all her wonderful beauty and spirit, was
only his steward’s daughter. enever he met
her, her power over him was irresistible; when
away from her, Irene was still to him the
proud, high-bred lady whose loveliness best
suited him.

}

4
‘

Na } ae 4

 

THE: BLACK “RIDGE.
Eugene Morley was not the first man thus
dallying between two loves, and moderately.
eerie least not willfully deceitful—wit
oth,

Leaning back in his invalid’s chair this som-
ber afternoon, quite perturbed by Irene’s ques-
tion—‘‘ Why should I not break off with you?”
—a sudden delicious throb of joy such as he had
never before felt stirred his heart. He, too, had
asked himself a question:

“Supposing my lady breaks with me, will I
not then be utterly free to ask Oriole to be my
wife? Oh, my bird Oriole! What divine hap-

iness—what sweetness of delight! To take you
in my arms and tell you that you are to be all
my own! If Irene discards me what is there to
hinder? Only my own pride. I shall not be
such a fool as to cast away that fond love of
my little girl’s because she brings me no dower
but her own glorious beauty and truth. I have
no stern father—no haughty lady-mother to
chill her with their cold criticism. We can be
happy as angels here. Why not?”

t was with an impatient sigh that he came
back to reality from the bright dreams he had
painted in the glowing coals—came back, at the
sound of Mrs. St. Mark’s voice asking him how
he felt, to remember that Irene had not yet
given him his freedom—perhaps did not mean
to. He shivered a little as he heard madame’s
voice, and answered that he was tired—if Felix
and Dapple would lend him their arms he would
go back to his own room.

‘““ Why cannot we do what we like best, Fe-
lix, in this free world?” he asked, fretfully, as
his brother assisted him up the stairs.

CHAPTER XIX,
THWARTED, YET SUCCESSFUL.
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood
With reverent eyes, mock-loyal, shaken voice
And fluttered adoration, and at last
With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more
Than who should prize him most. —TENNYSON.

Tue little maid Betty was stuffing herself
with iced pudding in the great kitchen of the
mansion, and listening, with awe and delight,
to the gossip of half a dozen servants, who, now
that dinner had been served, all but the coffee,
had leisure to breathe—consequently, to pass
remarks upon their ‘‘betters” up-stairs. It
was very nice to be there instead of shiverin
alone in the little kitchen of the Lodge; she ha
performed her duties for the day, and her con-
science was light as she thought of the bolted
Suen and thé key lying snugly in its hiding-
place.

The dinner had been rather a dull affair—
not a guest to enliven it. Miss Wormely was
seldom brilliant, though always good; Mrs. St.
Mark was tired with the labor of superintend-
ing the packing; Mr. Gathorne appeared lost in
his own reflections; Irene, however, looked un-
usually handsome, with a pink spot in either
cheek, and the fire of suppressed excitement
glowing under her eyelashes; she was the only
one who talked much, chattering away about
“airy nothings,” as if challenging the admira-
tion of Felix. Nevertheless, she ate little, and
excused herself abruptly from dessert.

“Don’t expect me in the drawing-room for
some little time, Miss Wormely,” she said, as
she left the table. ‘‘I have one or two matters
to look after, if we leave to-morrow.” __ :

“JT wonder what!” observed Mrs. St. Mark,
as her daughter disappeared. ‘‘ Everything is
done. I do believeit is only an excuse to go and
sit with Eugene awhile. She is so devoted to
him—and, I dare say, a fortnight seems an age
of se aration to them.”

So Felix, believing Irene to be with the con-
valescent, did not go to his brother’s sitting-
room, as usual, after dinner; but went into the
library and solaced himself with the new maga-
zines, leaving the two ladies to their own chit-
chat in the drawing-room.

Trene, as we may guess, was not devoting her-
self to the invalid, for anywhere in the great
house. She had thrown a dark mantle over her
light evening dress, taken a handful of matches
from a box on the billiard-room chimney-piece,
and stolen out into the cloudy night on an er-
rand she was ashamed to think of, yet none the
less determined on.

Down the carriage-drive she ran, hardly able
to see a step before her, and soon the white
hand, glistening with its solitaire engagement-
ring, groped under the stone for the key little
Betty had so artlessly betrayed to the lady; the
front door of the Lodge opened at its touch;

and then, with fast-beating, guilty heart, struck
a match and looked about for the lamp, which
she knew she would find on the table of the
modest parlor.

The closed shutters would keep in the light;
she drew down the inside blinds and felt quite
safe. She cast a curious glance about the hum-
ble nest of the Oriole—at the cottage-piano cov-
ered with classic music, and French and Italian
songs.

Oon my word! As Eugene says, she is no
barbarian! My own task is not more severe.
These furnishings are good in their way, too.
How sweet the room is with roses! Well, if be
is not the heir, I don’t see how he can do better

 

she crept in, closed and locked it behind her,

 

a

than to try love in a cottage with that beaut’-
ful creature! {[t would be intensely romantic,
no doubt. Only it would not suit me! How-
ever, there is no time to lose. I must about my —
search.”

Zophiel Darien’s desk stood in a corner, Ii
was not locked.

“Nothing important here,” she said, as the
cover yielded to her hand,
under lock and key.” She spent se twen-
ty minutes taking out and glancing at the care-
fully arranged papers in the eee
counts, nearly all of them, of his stewardship.

“ Nothing—nothing at all!” she exclaimed, in
deep disgust. ‘‘Come! we must see her room!
It was the front chamber. I remember that
day we passed it when she leaned in the win-
dow, making a picture of herself. So artless!
so innocent!”

She took up the lamp and found her way up
the closed staircase to that pretty ‘ bower-
chamber,” where so many hours of Oriole’s
pure young life had been passed. Hanging the
thick mantle from her shoulders over the win-
dow, she looked eagerly about. Every drawer ‘
of the bureau, every box on the ar tables,
were swiftly opened and examined,

Then the cupboard in the chimney caught her —
eye. At last here was something that was
fastened! She had brought with her a large
bunch of keys of her own trunks, boxes, and so
forth, which she now hastily tried, one after an-
other. \

 

“Good luck!” she cried, as one of these turn- |

ed the lock. ‘* Now, let us: see whether or not
we have come on a fool’s errand! Ah! What
is this rusty, worm-eaten, mysterious box?
Can it be?”

In a moment the lamp and the box were on
the floor and Irene St. Mark, the proud, the
high-bred, the stainless, was down on her knees
beside them, How her blue — glittered, how
her cheeks burned, how her breath panted, as
the jewels Oriole had worn the night of the ball,
were revealed to her eager search. There was
the lovely miniature, with the dress of rare bro-
cade which the girl had copied. And here were
papers!—papers yellow with age, rustling with
strange importance like the footsteps of ghosts
that bring messages from the dead.

Trene was pale with intense expectation as she
opened the first document her fingers touched:

‘tan WILL or Atice GATHORNE MORLEY.”

It was brief, covering but a single page of
foolscap; but it was clear and explicit, and the
date was the day of the lady’s death, as stated
by the two witnesses whose signatures were at-
tached—that of the lawyer who drew up tho

will and of Diana Randolph, her maid.

Trene’s eyes swiftly devoured the words which

gave to Felix Gathorne the whole large estate
of Gathorne Court, with moneys in » moin-
ing and railroad stock, and numberless lots of
land in St. Louis and Chicago—property that
seemed of even greater value than she had an-
ticipated, the enumeration of which aroused in
hoe avaricious mind a keen greed. As soon as
her gaze had drank in those golden words, she
deliberately conveyed the paper to a safe hid-
ing-place over her own thro bing heart, She
was now anxious to get away. ithout delay-
ing to read them she placed the other papers

her pocket, tumbled the glowing diamonds and
emeralds back into the box, with the guineas
and the miniature, closed it, returned it to the

cupboard, locked the door and removed the ~

ey. y

Not for worlds would she have abstracted one
of those jewels, saocgs she found it hard to tear
her eyes from their fascinations.

“Tam no thief,” she said’ to herself.
right for me to take these pa
to their owner. Certainly I have a better right
to them than that girl can have! How did she
come by them? Is this ‘honest Darien’ in league
with Eugene to defraud his brother? Or, rather,
was he in league with old Mathew Morley an

i

did he bind himself to keep the secret from both _

the young men? Thisseems more probable; I
hardly believe E
another of his fortune. He is thoughtless—a
little selfish—but not base. Oh, no wonder, this
pars on of innocence, this artless steward’s
aughter would like tocatch Mr. bpp They
would keep things in the family, strictly! She
would wear these diamonds with an air! If I
have the good luck which has so far been mine,
I will thwart their little ea It was
a happy thought, my com
Little Betty, you sball have your gold locket
for the innocent way in which you taught me
where to look for the key!”

In five minutes more thelamp wasextinguish- _

ed, the Lodge empty and the house-key back in
its place under thestone. Zophiel Darien would
find it when he came; and, as we know he was

ignorant of the treasure-trove his daughter had —

concealed in her own room, he would also re-
main ignorant of the robbery.

Trene crept back through the darkness to the
great house. She was pale and agitated with
triumph—not with a sense of guilt. ;

The silk curtains were heavy over the win-
dows of the drawing-room but those of the li-
brary were still undrawn, and a stream of light

“Else it would bo —

SEtig: ;
rs torestore them —

me would knowingly rob —

g here to-night! ©

  
   
   
    
    
   
  
    
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
 
    
     
  
    
 
    
    
   
  
   
   
  
     
  
   
  
  
  
   
  
  
   
     
   
   
   
  
    
  
    
  
   
  
  
    
  
   
      
   
  
   
    
   
  
  
  
  
    
   
  
 
 
  
    
  
    

eee a
came out of them. Irene stole up close and

looked in.
“The fire in the library
Dies out; through the open doors
The red, empty room you may see.”

Empty, but for the one still, drooping figure b:
the Ponili-table from whose han the ok ihe
ea and who is staring into the fading fire.

‘*Our dark Felix looks melancholy,” thought
the beautiful girl who observed him from the
dim, dewy lawn outside. ‘‘He is too apt to be
melancholy. I wonder it my charmshave power
to cure him of that ‘infirmity of noble minds.’
Would those dark eyes shine with sudden smiles
did he know what Irene carries in her bosom
for him? Ah, what a tricksy Puck is fortune!
It was the golden-haired Eugene a few hours
ago—now, itis the dusky Felix. Come, Felix,
. itis written that youare to bemy master! You

do not dream of it, do you, sitting there, brood-
ing over your poverty? Now, then, ‘bubble,
bubble’ spells of the sorceress! See if you can
blind those too-searching eyes—convince that
too-skeptic mind that Irene loves him for him-
self alone!” and laughing at her own view of
the matter, armed with her sweetest looks,
Irene stole over the porch, through the hall,
into the library, and laid her white hand lightly
over the dark eyes of Felix, crying gayly:

‘Look no more into the coals, somber dream-
er! Here isa lady who demands the service of
those vs There is not a soul in this great dull
house speak to one!” Then, dropping her
mock-merry air, and assuming a look of pa-
thetic sadness, she murmured, as she sunk intoa
chair opposite to Felix’s at the table, and droop-
ed her graceful head in her hand: ‘‘If I only
dared to make you my confidant, Felix!—to
tell a how unhappy I am!”

‘a a unhappy, now that Eugene is so nearly
we :

; ae eyes fell and she heaved a long, tremuldus

si

gh. ;

“What is the matter? Have you had bad
news?”

The poor relation was no adept in the art of
flirting; he could not guess that the haughty
Misa St. Mark was condescending to make a
“dead set” at him—how could he, being un-
aware of her leading motive? He looked at her
with innocent concern as he questioned her.

“How stupid you are,” she cried, frowning,
but flashing at him a charming smile. ‘I have
Hise no “ a my eee ee of oo

agination! Supposing a girl, not thorough]
knowing her own heart should engage herself
to a young gentleman, dazzled by his wealth
and position and his bright looks and sunny
temper, knowing that she did not love him as a
woman loves but once, but believing she could
live meoray with him, nevertheless—supposing
such a gir afterward discovers that she has
made a dreadful mistake, for she meets the
man who should be her other better higher self
—meets him and loves him to distraction,”
murmured Irene, in a low, passionate voice,
on toward her companion, with sudden
tears the blue eyes, and then allowing the
lashes to droop, the cheeks to pale, the breath
to quicken.

ho could longer misunderstand her? :

Not even Felix, guiltless as he was of any in-
tricate ee of woman’s subtlety.

His first feeling was that of astonishment.
Irene St. Mark in love with him—the poor re-
lation! Why, she had scarcely treated him
with common civility. He gazed at her in sur-

rise as she sat with lowered lids and oie

ig breath so near him that he could hear the
beating of her heart. She was very fair, fault-
lessly fair, with all the fascination of a beauti-
ful woman who flatters a man with the half-
told story that he is dear to her. The helio-
trope in her golden hair was no sweeter than
her breath, as she sighed softly. It may be
that if Felix had not already given his heart
away he might have been blinded ay this daz-
zling flattery ; and have made warm love in re-
_ turn. For an instant his pulse bounded and

the color rose in his face; the next he laughed
mt merrily, as if the whole Fie’ scene were

a farce, and quoted wickedly from ‘Lady
Clara Vere de Vere:”

oe OR: poet sweet eyes, your low replies!

A great enchantress you may be.’

You know the rest, Irene! Don’t seek to en-
tangle the ‘foolish yeoman’ to his ruin! Iam
averse to committing suicide! I suppose you
like to keep your hand in at flirtation; you do
. it ee cote unfortunately, I am not
ees owever, I will promise not to
tell Eugene.”
_ _ How handsome the grave, dark young face
looked, lighted up by the flash of mischief in
the eyes! Irene was foiled. She bit her lips
with mortification; but she, too, made an effort
to laugh off her failure. She clapped her white
hands together.

“Thad a wager with somebody—I won’t tell
you who!—that I could strike the vein of ro-
mance in your gloomy nature, Sir Felix, but I
have lost the gloves. I own up that you are
adamant.” j

‘“‘T will pay for the gloves,” answered Felix,
good-bumoredly. ‘TI thought it was too g
to be true, mademoiselle.

 

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

‘‘Oh, you condescend toa compliment! In-
credible! I did not believe we could bring you
toone. Well, shall we have a game of chess to
decide who pays for the gloves? It is stupid
enough here to drive one even to chess.”

They played a single game; and so well did
Irene carry out the suggestion that her little
drama had been intended for comedy that even
her companion was in doubt.

‘There, checkmate to your king! I will send
you the bill, Mr. Gathorne. And now, I must
finish my gg for departure from this
Castle of Dullness, where you propose to im-
maure yourself for the winter, I believe?”

“Yes, Ilike it here well enough to remain
for some time.”

‘Ah, I understand! And I wish you every
success, Felix! If you can beguile the garden-
er’s daughter to forget my Eugene I shall be
much obliged to you, I am sure! Good-night
and good luck.”

With a ravishing smile, kissing the tips of her
fingers at him, as he politely came to the library
door, Irene ran lightly up the stairs; when she
was out of hearing she said, ‘‘ Fool!” with a
good deal of energy ; when she had shut herself
in in own room and locked the door she re-

eated:

‘Fool! You have spoiled your only chance!
Why did I not think of this at first? Of the
two Eugene is far more to my mind! Hugene
it shall be—and Eugene shall still be the heir of
Morley!”

So saying, she took the stolen papers from
ber bosom, and burned them, one by one, in the
flame of the lamp.

‘There is no clew,” she said to herself, with
alaugh. ‘‘She will never know who did it.”

 

CHAPTER XX.
PANDORA’S BOX.
“Play me no tricks,”’ said Lord Ronald,
“For I am yours in word and deed.
Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,
“Your riddle is hard to read.””—TENNYSON.

“You have been terribly cruel to me, Mr.
Morley.”

‘‘Don’t say that, Oriole! It is hard enough
to part without that!”

“Why did you tel! me about love—make me
believe you loved me? You knew that you were
going on to marry Miss St. Mark—that I was
no suitable mate for you, even if you had not
been engaged—knew all the time, that I was
never to be your wife—that I was only to
amuse you for a few idle bours, when all Mor-
ley Beeches, with its proud ladies and its plans of

leasure, were tedious to you. You made me
ove you. You looked into my eyes—you drew
my soul out through them; you bound me to
you your very slave—your idolater! You
ew what Mh were doing. Yow sinned de-
liberately. was but a child, an ignorant
innocent child, who trusted you as she trusted
her father and her God.”

“A divine child, Oriole!—the sweetest, the
dearest, that ever charmed and ae a
man out of all prudence—all cold, worldly cal-
culation.”

“Tt seems you calculate still with quite the
old worldliness,” interrupted the girl, bitterly.
‘‘Oriole Darien is good enough to afford you
amusement—she is not good enough to be your
wife—that is the whole matter.”

They were seated in the old summer-house.
It was a warm, hazy Indian summer afternoon,
when the blue sky is changed to a soft opaline
hue by the perfumed smoke that hangs in the
air. The scarlet glory of the Virginia creeper
that eS ne covered an old and crabbed
thorn-apple tree not far pray had dropped
leaf by leaf, like flakes of fire; but the honey-
suckle was still green over the little summer-
house and the garden was bright in places with
artemisias. It was the last day of October; to-
morrow Eugene Morley,quite recovered from
his frightful accident, was to quit the Beeches
for the gay city life which awaited him; two
months of pleasant sojourning near his fiancée ;
then a brilliant wedding, a trip and a stay of
several weeks down South; a leisurely return,
and a home-coming latein thespring. __

The sound of hammers and of men whistling
at their work came from the great house, where
repairs had alread Me Su the day after the de-
parture of the St. Marks. To-morrow the
young master would be off. The news had
reached the two ladies in their woodland cot-
tage; though, indeed, they had known it all
along.

There had been a change at the Lodge, too.
Zophiel-Darien had given warning to Mr. Mor-
ley to look for another steward; and Felix Ga-
thorne had applied for the situation.

“*Tt will add another thousand to my poor
two thousand,” he had said, laughingly, ‘‘and
I shall like the work better than being a law-

er. Let me try ita year, at all events!” and

ugene, secretly glad to be saved the worry of
taking a stranger, after some little remon-
strance, yielded to his brother’s urgent request.
Darien was not to give up the Lodge until the
tenth, when the fifteenth year of his faithful
service expired; but he was away of the
time looking for a place which would suit him.

1 eh ¥R¢? os

 

 

His daughter, he had resolved, should go to
school for two years.

‘*Tt will give her time to get over the shock,
and learn to forgive me,” he had said to him-
self.; ‘‘It will be best for all of us,” and he had
sighed heavily—he and his little girl had been
very, very happy all those yearsin the Lodge
until the master had come home and spoiled a
their peace of mind.

Oriole had come from the cottage and passed
through the garden, hoping for a glimpse of
Mr. Morley. Her father was away: had he not
been it would have made no difference; she
must say good-by to her lover—must indulge in
the dear wretchedness—the bitter, stolen bliss
of a few moments in his society. Mrs. Chalde-
cott had talked with her so often about Eugene
—had explained to her ie her father had felt
so angry with him—that Oriole was not quite
the ignorant, trusting child she had been at
their last meeting. She loved Eugene as wholly
as ever; but down inher passionate heart stirred
a womanly feeling of resentment at his inex-
cusable selfishness in deliberately winning her
love, knowing that it could only end in sorrow
for her.

‘*She is good enough to afford you amuse-
ment; she is not good enough to be your
wife.”

The words sounded bitter falling from those
flower-soft lips. Were they not true? Eugene
knew that they were. Yet—he had not meant
it! The temptation had, every time, been equal-
ly sudden and powerful. Away from Oriole he
could not calmly resolve to quarrel with the
proud girl he had asked to marry him; it would
be a dastardly thing to throw Miss St. Mark
“overboard,” as the expression goes.

The only really manly thing to have done
would have been to have always let Oriole
alone—never won her with those soft, eae
looks, those words spoken in tender tones whic
gave them double power—never sought her out
in the garden, or by the lake, with his gracious
attentions—never told her of his admiration.
He had proven too weak to resist so fascinating
an inclination.

And—whenever he did come where the girl
was—he fell instantly madly in love with her—
swore to himself that the world and his fiancée
were well lost for such a prize—that this was
love, pure and glorious—a passion he should be
proud to feel—a happiness that made ever:
other ompption tame and dull. And so—while
he was with her, he yielded to the delight, the
witchery of her beauty, the sweet madness of a

fascination which sprung from real sympathy

of two young, fond hearts looking out of young,
fond eyes.

He never meant to harm a hair of that
glorious head—to bring sorrow to that glad, in-
nocent nature; he only gave way to the in-
stinct of happiness in her company, shared
with the sky aud trees, the flowers an bees and
birds. They had been divinely happy in those
brief meetings. Alas, that he should have been
so thoughtless of her as to allow it! He was
ashamed and sorry. More, he was miserable.
He loved Oriole with a better love than he could
ever give another woman. He would be proud
of his wife, but—oh, the sweetness of a com-
panionship like this, could it last forever! His
fancy pictured Oriole, richly dressed in the
satins and brocades and jewels he should give
her, flitting about his grand home, a lady and
yet a sweet, fond child, who adored him—who
clung to him—who lived but in his smile!—a
creature, beautiful as a dream of houries, con-
fiding, fond—his own dear little bride}!

“It is hard to have you say such things to

‘me,” he said, humbly; then, with a groan:
“ ‘ ab I free, I

I tell you, Oriole, truly, we
would have you for my own sweet wife to-
morrow. Butit would bea disgrace to me to
break with Miss St. Mark now. You and I
must be wretched all our lives, I suppose.”

‘She does not love you. Why shculd we be
wretched when she is only after your money?
Were Felix Gathorne master of this place—
could he suddenly become the heir—do you
think Miss St. Mark would marry you?”

‘‘T have never thought of it_in that light,”
answered Eugene, coloring. ‘I think she cares
for me as much as she can for any one except
her own fair self. I am notof a jealous tem-
perament.”

Oriole laughed in his face.

“You do not care enough for her to be
jealous. Suppose I were to encourage Mr. Ga-
thorne? You know he stands ready to marry
me at the first word of encouragement I rive
him. It may be the best thing Icando. He is
noble and true—he is not a double lover; his
pride does not lead him to break her heart
whom he vows he loves! Perhaps I shall be a
bride before Irene St. Mark is. after all!

“T can do Mr. Gathorne still a greater favor
than to marry him! Ay, for your sake, Mr.
Morley, who will make no sacrifice for me, I
have done a wrong and unjust thing. Ihave
kept Mr. Gathorne from his own. . I have it in
my power—mine, Eugene!—to try the love of
your betrothed, if it be of the right mettle—to
ruin you—to hurl you down to poverty—to
place your brother where you now are, and to be-
come his wife, and mistress of Morley Beeches!”

.

eo ! ak

 

 

 

 
 

 

———

\

nS

 

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

Sho had risen to her feet and stood before him,
her lithe young figure drawn up to its full
hight, her eyes flashing, her voice ringing—all
the pride and passion of the Darien blood shin-
ing n her lovely face.

“What do you mean?”—his voice trembled

» slightly.

~

“What Ihavesaid. Mr. Morley, itisstrange
you have never asked me where I got the jew-
els I wore the night of your ball.”

“ Hardly strange, if you remember how our
only interview since then terminated. I had
meant to ask you then—only I had promised
not to sperk with you alone, Why, how did
you come by them?’

eee she laughed, almost with a cruel tri-
umph; her heart was very full of bitterness
against the man she would yet have died to
serve—so contradictory are love’s moods.

‘*T havesolved the mysterious ‘ Black Riddle’
—long ago—the very day after you came home
—quite by accident. I have Mrs, Morley’s dia-
monds, her portraits, her letter of advice to her
little son—and her true and only will, written
and witnessed the day before she died—a will
which leaves everything to Felix Gathorne—
everything! You are a beggar, Mr. Morley!
But I loved you, and I concealed what I had
discovered—said no word to any human being.
It made me almost hate Felix, to know that he
was the heir, and that I ought to give him these
things. I could not make up my mind to do
it.

‘You have not given them to him, then?”

“Not yet. Listen. The night they thought
you dying—the night of your relapse—I was
here, on this very spot, waiting for Mrs. Chal-
decott to bring me news of you, when Irene
and her mother approached and stood in the
walk and talked together. Irene told her mo-
ther that she was going to ask you to marry her
that night, in order that she might be left a rich
widow—those were her words—yes! she coolly
plotted for her own welfare when she believed
youdying! I was so indignant that I followed
and told her you were not the heir. She affect-
ed not to believe me—but she did not propose to

ou to leave her your widow! Go, marry her.
if you choose, Mr. Morley! Do you think, if i
should place your brother in possession of the
will, on your marriage morning, your proud
bride would lead you a happy life in the fu-
ture?

“Oriole, if this is true which you tell me, do
you think I will marry the lady, allowing her
to be deceived? Do you think I will keep from
Felix Gathorne what is proven to be his? Nay,
[am selfish, fond of pleasure, thoughtless, wick-
ed, anything you please!—but Iam not a rob-
ber of other men! I have some honor, I hope.
Prove to me that this place belongs to my bro-
ther, and I shall not keep him out of it one da
—one hour! Oriole, what are you crying for?”

For she had burst into passionate weeping and
was wringing her hands; now that, in a sudden
passion of jealousy, she had told him, she was
sorry and frightened, and would have given
much to take back what she had said.

“T don’t want you to be poor, Mr. Morley!
I can’t bear to have it so! shall not be so!
Mr. Gathorne is used to it—as Iam; but you—
what could you do without Morley Beeches and
your great income and grand Serre

hey suit you—you were born ‘to wear the
purple.’ Ah, forget what I have said! I was
angry and—and jealous; I made up a story to
vex you.”

“Oriole,” and Eugene spoke with a sternness
she did not before know he wascapableof. ‘‘ You
have told me; I am no longer in ignorance;
ot repentance comes too late. I know that

elix has always secretly believed himself the
heir; I thought him a monomaniac on that sub-
ject. If heis right, and I am wrong, it is high
time we should come to an understanding. You
say that you have the will—showit to me—now;
to-morrow I am to leave Morley Beeches; this

hase of affairs may alter all my plans in life.
ring me the papers you tell me of.”

“Do not ask me for them, Mr. Morley. I
shaJl kill myself if I am the means of ruining
your hopes! Oh, why did I not keep silent?”

‘¢ Hush, little one! ‘You should have told me
long ago.” ,

- That my hand should be the hand to wound

ou!

-o You are only doing — now. It was all
wrong for-you to keep this important secret
from those most interested.

ling, this is a business that must be settled this

afternoon.”

‘*You will hate me,” she said, half-wildly.
‘*T have proved your curse, Oh, Tam a thou-
sand times worse than Irene! Why did I
speak?

He took her hot little hand in one of his and
with the other smoothed ber dusky hair.

“Never mind, I know that you love me much
more than I deserve. The nas ums are

ippne ae you remember, you wore. them the

t time I saw you. How well they became
my bright Oricle! Come! time flies. Where
are these mysterious papers? at the Lodge?”

Se ill you come there with me? Fa-
ther is away but Betty is there; and if father
were tosce you walking in with we Le would

f

 

Zz

Come, my dar-*

 

hardly try to kill you again,” she added, with a
melancholy smile,

“Does he know about the will?”

** No one knows, Mr. Morley—except what I
told Miss St. Mark. You have only to keep to
yourself what you may learn, and things will
go on as they have always done.”

‘Do not tempt me, little traitor,” he answer-
ed, as they went on toward the Lodge, and
he sighed heavily.

She looked a anxiously in his face; he was
pale, his sunny look had given place to one of
care; it was a crushing trouble she had dragged
down on the light spirits of the young aristo-
erat who had never known what it was to ex-
ercise self-denial. She could not picture Eu-
gene Morley, the gay, the debonair, brought

own to pinching economy, robbed of his sur-
rounding magnificence; her tears flowed afresh.

Little Betty, sunning herself on the doorstep,
ae to admit them into the little parlor.

Se dre’dful glad to see you again, Miss
Oriole,” said the child.

“ Poor Betty! You are lonely here, I know.
Mr. Morley, I have not set foot in my father’s
house since that—day by the lake. But the box
is here, and you say I must produce it. Sit:
down a few moments while I go for it; it isin
& locked closet of my sleeping-room.”

In a little while Oriole came down drooping
under the weight of the worm-eaten, brass-
bound box she had dug up from its sleep of
years in the garden; Eugene sprung to aid her,
eying the box with deep curiosity as he placed
it on the desk near Li fe

‘Oh, oh!” ejaculated Oriole, sitting down as
if her trembling limbs refused to support her.
‘The papers are gone!”

‘*Gone!”

‘Gone! Everything else is in the box as I left
it. Mca ng has been taken but the papers.
Who could have done it?”

“Oriole, Ifear this isa ruse of yours! You
have repented of telling me, and now nig wish
to make it appear the will is lost,” he spoke
gravely, with a searching look in his eyes.

‘*You are misatken, I swear to you, Mr.
Morley, I left the will, with other papers, along
with these diamonds, this gold, this miniature—
taking the two keys of the box and of the cup-
board with me when I went with Mrs. Chalde-
cott—and that it is now gone. I cannot even
imagine who the robber can be. Not my fa-
ther, I know! Not little Betty—she would have.
chosen the gold and trinkets.”

She leaned back in her chair white and faint
with the shock,

“It looks as if the thief must have some
knowledge of the existence of such papers,” re-
marked Eugene, thoughtfully. ‘Jt must be
Felix.”

That was the most natural—seemingly the
only—conclusion to which they could come.
Had not Felix always been hoping to find the
will? Had he not everything to gain by such a
discovery?

“Mr. Gathorne was quite familiar with the
Lodge,” said Oriole, ‘‘He may have observed
where we kept the door-key. He has had
abundant leisure to prosecute his search in fa-
ther’s absence.”

“Tt must be Felix,” repeated Eugene, his
face as pale as the girl’s. ‘‘ Well,” he added,
with an attempt to rally from his consterna-
tion, ‘‘itis all right. It saves me the trouble
of telling him.”

CHAPTER XXI.
GOOD-BY, FOREVER.
We must love, and unlove, and forget, dear.
—Buwer.
There’s not a flower, there’s not a tree
In this old garden where we sit,
But what some fragrant memory
Is folded up in it, —Isrp.
“Ts it not getting chilly for you to be out,
Eugene?”

e dressing-bell was ringing as ae Mor-
ley, after a few more words with Oriole, came
up the stately beech avenue to the house; it was
his brother, who had been walking up and down
the broad porch alone, who accosted him with
an air of affectionate solicitude—for, although
Felix Gathorne would have liked his own as
well as any man, it did not prevent his being
very fond of his a handsome, sunny-tem-
pered companion. And the danger so lately es-
caped had made every one tender of Eugene.

‘Perhaps—I had not thought of it,” respond-
ed the convalescent, coming up the low, road
stone steps rather slowly, for he was tired.
‘‘ [ have been quite excited, this afternoon, Fe-
lix, about something which nearly concerns both
of us,” and coming close to his brother, he
looked him full in the eyes, expecting the other’s
look to betray consciousness of the secret he
was Lae from him; but Felix ace him
with unfeigned surprise, waiting for him to say

more.

“T understand that you have recently come
into possession of important papers—papers,
which, if you really have them, you should in-
form me of before I leave here.” y

‘“‘Tmportant papers? I have no idea to wha
you refer, Eugere. I have come into possession
of no papers.” There was no doubting the w

= 1 '

4 ; 1
| + ‘ ‘ ‘

 

 

 

   
   
    
   
  
    
  
   
   
     
  
   
   
   
  
  
   
   
   
  
    
  
   
    
  
    
    
  
  
    
   
   
   
  
  
   
  
   
  
  
    
  
   
   
  
  
    
   
   
 
   
 
  
   
 
   
   
    
   
   
   
  
    
   
  
    
  
   
   
      

oo

 

ter sincerity of this declaration; the word cf
Felix Gathorne was above suspicion, always,
and now his frank eyes flashed with sudden in-
terest, ‘* What have you heard, old fellow, and
who did you hear it from?”

“Oh, never mind, now, Felix; I see I was
misinformed,” was answered with seeming care-
lessness. ‘Is that the dressing-bell? ell, 1
think my aunt will excuse an elaborate evening
toilet; I am too tired to climb the stairs beforo
dinner, I will rest on the lounge in the library
until it is ready.” ‘

“Do, There is a delightful fire there—just
the kind of fire, and just the hour for a lover

to dream by.”
: “Have you been trying it, Felix?’ with a
augh.
“Yes. Ihave been dreaming; but my visions i oe

were scarcely so rose-colored as yours will be,
Eugene. You are one of the blind goddess’s
favorites, while I am one she despises. You pI
know that I am not of a whining habit, old boy; ‘
but the question has occurred to me, why, since

my handsome brother had everything else, that i
little — irl at the Lodge could not have *
happened to fall inlove with me! There would

have been some compensation in that!”

“T believe I should knock you in the head if sho
had!” laughed Eugene. ‘There! don’t preach!
Iacknowledge the truth of all youcansay! Iam
doomed to act like a scoundrel when that girl — oy
is concerned!—and always without meaning it. peer
The fact is,” with sudden gravity, ‘‘I love ber ,
better than anybody in the world! I don’t
want to—don’t mean to—but can’t help it. I
know it will not do—t) at I must fight against
it. Once away from here, I hope to come to
my senses; but, oh, Felix, isn’t she maddening- ,
ly beautiful?—and so childlike! so Ce ’
every way captivating! so deliciously spirited, y
and yet—”

‘You have seen her this afternoon,” inter-
rupted Felix, ee ‘““Spare me the ae of
listening to what I know too well, already.”

“Forgive me, brother; I am always. forget-
nico Koeretaeas icone wliaihe tabelaees de

ow about that lounge in the library, drawn
up before the fire?” = 25

“Tam going,” muttered the lover, and, ashe &
went slowly through the darkening hall he said
to himself—‘‘ We have made a mistake. It was a
not Felix who took the will! He knows no- ee
thing,”—and, despite his heroic resolve to keep Sam
nothing proved to be another’s, Eugene Morley ;
drew a long breath of relief at this assurance.

It would be a sublime act of self-abnega-
tion to give up the See unless Felix’ | |
right was brought plainly before him. I. ; i
the will could not be found, might not Ori- Ce
ole be mistaken in her understanding of it?
Could it be his duty to go to his brother and say |
—‘* Here! I have heard there is in existence a
will in your favor!—take my place and give me
yours! You are the millionaire—I, the poor de- ;

endent.” He lay on the couch, staring at the

8, oasis himself questions like these, until
Dapple, who had twice summoned him to din-
ner, ventured in to ask if his young master were

» “Til? no, Dapple,” answered the young gen-
tleman, with one of his old merry laughs, ‘‘I nets
hope not, again. I am well enough—hungry, etal
too! I trust you have something appetizing
store for me,” and he went out to the lighted
dining-room, ate a good dinner, conversed
cheerfully with Miss Wormely and his brother \
—he had made up his mind to leave Morley
Beeches in the morning saying nothing to Felix
of what Miss Darien had told him: if the heir ae
knew os. of this precious will was it not 5
likely that it had fallen into the possession of a

m favorable to himself? So it seemed to

m; and with his customary dislike of care or

mental exertion, Eugene took the threatened ~
danger lightly.

hen they, came back to the library a ser- aN
vant told Mr. Morley that Miss Darien wisbed | oa
to speak with him a moment at the door; he lise
went and found Oriole there with the box.

 

Fc heah ia
oe ee

a

 

‘You forgot to take this away with you, Mr. +; ae
Morley. It is proven that it isnot safe at the | fa
Lodge. I sha

leave it for you to decide to ieee
whom the jewels belong. I should think Mr. ae
Gathorne would be glad of his mother’s minia-
ture. Are you going in the morning?”

“Yes, Oriole; I see no reason for changing
my plans,”

e pr bras servant stood in the back-
ground; there was nothing to be did or said; 4
these two, who loved each other, must he aa
loved her, but not well enough to do and dare {ekg
all things for her sake! The sneers of society a
were powerful; besides, there was his engage- oo
ment. He knew very well that Irene would
not hesitate to defend her claims, even to a suit
for damages, should he break with her now—he
knew the verdict of the world would be in her
favor—in short, there seemed no eae to
that sweeter path of puppies which Oriole and |
he might have trodden through life, had they
met earlier,

The girl forced the box into bis arms. ‘

‘‘Good-by, Mr. Morley, You know my fa-
ther is going to send me away to school.
shall have left here forever before your return.
So, it is good-by, forever,” end turnirg abrupt:

 

}

1
5 i

     
Se

20

 

ly she ran down the steps and fled in the direc-
on of the garden; for she was on her way back
to Mrs. Chaldecott’s cottage.

‘‘Here, Michael, take this to my room and set
it down there,” said Eugene, handing the ser-
vant the box, and, as the latter went up the
stairs with it, was off, like an arrow from the
eat into the rustling, dry, twilit flower-gar

len.

Had she escaped him er ee Was it true,
that bitter word she had spoken—parted for-
ever? He looked about in the shadowy place.
A pale bar of fading orange yet belted the
western sky; the weird, melancholy November
wind sighed in the moldering flower-stalks and
whispered in the evergreens; a great, yellow
moon just showed her golden hemisphere on
the eastern horizon. In this growing. illumina-
tion he saw a figure standing by the statue
of Psyche. He ae silently nearer and
nearer, until he could hear the suppressed
sobs, see the bowed head, the glory of dusky
hair falling disheveled about the lovely face,
the beautiful arm thrown up and clasping the
cold marble.

“ Hugene, Eugene,” she moaned, in a low, des-
olate voice, ‘you do not love me—never loved
me! It is the world—appearances, that you

‘prize! How calmly you let me go! Oh, I
would that I were dead—dead—dead!” He

“heard every word. The sight of her in her
abe and beauty would have melted a colder

art than his; it fired him to rash passion
which could only end in making them both
more unhappy.

Ina moment his arms were around her; she
was aves. on his breast, while he murmured
unreasonable words which to-morrow must be
repented of; fond, pening: foolish words that
would be laughed at if coldly set down for eyes
to scan; but which sounded sweet beyond any
other music on earth to the infatuated girl who
listened to them.

“You must not say that I do not love you,
Oriole. I love one smile of yours—one kiss—
vetter than the favors of all the women on
earth. I would rather have you for my wife
than any princess born. If it were not that I
am as firmly bound to Irene as if already mar-
ried—that nothing will excuse me from not
keeping my promise to her now—1 would allow
nothing to come between us, my darling. Oh,
do not think that I am less sensible of the
cruelty of our fate than you—that I feel it less
keenly! I seem to feel the very fibers of heart
and soul torn apart in leaving you this way,
Oriole. I would be willing to give up all an
be your father’s clerk for the sweet delight of
being with you. Oh, it is hard that we, who
love as we do, should be kept apart.”

And then she, womanlike, seeing him really
miserable, ceased to — and began to com-
fort him—to beg of him to take their cruel
separation as lightly as ,possible—not to fret
about her, she would try to be brave—and so,
with piteous tears and clinging kisses, and many,
many last words and last clinging of fond hands,
they parted; and she, shivering and cold with
despair, crept slowly homeward by the yellow
moonlight; and he—went up to his room and

ked away in one of his trunks the costly

jewels of the Gathornes, to be reset, in latest
fashion, as his wedding present to his bride.

“How glorious she looked in them the night
of the ;” he sighed to himself. ‘ Alas, she
will never wear them again!”

 

As to that—we shall see. ‘‘Man proposes—
God di on t

The fortunes of Eugene Morley, or his loves,
may not yet be declared.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
- BEFORE THE WEDDING.
I’m off with wit, and beauty will fade,
And blood alone is no worth a shilling;

But he that is rich his market is made,

For ilka charm about him is killing.
—ALLEN RAMSEY.

‘ HAVE the cards gone out to-day, Irene?”

“No, mamma—Tiffany has the list; but I
told bim not to send them out until I sent him
word.”

‘‘Tt should have been done to-day. Two
weeks should be given for a fashionable wed-
ding.

“A couple of days less willanswer. I confess.
mamma, to feeling a shade of superstition about
it. Eugene was telegraphed for by Felix to go
out to Ssoviey Beeches on business of import-
ance. Eugene will not return before to-mor-
row; suppose something should Seuges to break
off our marriage—it would be much less awk-
nare if the invitations had not been made pub-
‘ie.

“What on earth are you talking about, child!
You frighten me with your ‘superstitions’ and
your ‘suppositions’! Ww hat could possibly hap-
pen to break off the marriage?”

“There might be a collision on the railway

“and Eugene be killed,” answered the bride-elect,
with a little cold laugh.

“You make me shudder! How can you im-

i * such iiaeat They make — nervous.
For eaven’s sake, I pra; noe now oc-
cur to make trouble, rene, have drawn

j

 

| but—the excess in the income ought to balance

| gene’s return. Has it ever struck you, mam-

 

a ’

THE D

part of our last five thousand dollars. A suit
of rooms in a fashionable hotel for two months,
and your trousseau, have taken a large slice of
the pittance remaining to us. Remember, you
are in debt to me fourteen thousand dollars, my
dear: I hope Mr. Morley will not grumble at
having to 0 pay it.”

“Mr. Morley is generous, whatever other
faults he may have; he will pay it without a
murmur—provided he has the means!”

‘‘Has the means! I understood his income |
was not less than sixty thousand a year,”

“You understood quite right, mamma; only,
people sometimes lose their incomes, I am not
certain but I would do better to take up with
the rich West Indian who has admired me so
devotedly ever since we came to the Clarendon.
They say his income runs over a hundred
thousand a year! It is true he is over fifty, |
very small and very yellow, and has a temper,

matters!”

“How your tongue runs on to-day, Irene! I
suppose you are just talking to tease me. The
Sefior Rolando is desperately ‘ smitten,’ as any
one can see; but I don’t think the difference in
their wealth in his favor can compensate for
his not being of our own nation, nor young, nor
good-looking—though he certainly is very gentle-
manly ;—yet, what is the use discussing it,” con-
tinued the mother, flying about rather wildly in
the construction of her sentences, ‘‘ when you are

as good as married to Eugene, with your wed- |.

ding-dress spread out on the bed in the next
room, and his wedding-gift locked up in Tif-
fany’s safes/—a present. as magnificent as any
the Sefior would have given you, I think!—the
loveliest diamonds and emeralds I ever saw!
Oh, what a necklace! and that aigrette for the
hair! And that other set, with the sapphires!
I do think that sapphire butterfly ought to win
any girl’s heart! It is simply exquisite—fas-
cinating! I would not look at the Sefior beside
Eugene Morley—so handsome, so open-hearted,
so good-tempered !—I tell you, Irene, you have |
drawn the capital prize in the lottery of matri-
mony! If you were to have a thousand chances |
you could not better yourself! Thank goodness |
you are so well off my hands! There won’t be |
a finer wedding this winter. Eugene has or- |
dered the flowers for the church, as_ well as for |
the parlors at Delmonico’s, and they are to be
the choicest, most unique that_money can pay |
for. I wonder what on earth Felix telegraphed |
for him to come to Morley Beeches for just |
now! He must know it is no suitable time.”
‘“Remember, mamma, we are going South to |
be gone some time. It may have been neces- |

sary.”

Peg: but Felix was to be here to the wed-
ses, they could have had their conference
then.” ”

‘Dear me, it’s not such a journey to Morley
Beeches, mamma! What is a fifty-mile ride in
the cars?”

“Yet it was you first expressed uneasiness,”

“Not exactly uneasiness. I said I felt the
creeping of a superstitious shadow; owing, no |
doubt, to my having a slight headache. It was |
a whim of mine to leave the cards until Eu-

 

that Eugene is not a very devoted lover?”
Why, no!” answered Mrs. St. Mark, with
an alarmed look at her beautiful daughter,
leaning back languidly in an easy-chair, pulling
to pieces one of the jacquiminot roses her be-
trothed had given her before he went away,
and scattering the rich red petals over her dress
of cream-colored brocade over pale-blue satin.
“Why, no! that would be the last thing to
strike me. I have thought him most charming-
ly devoted—so graceful in his attentions} so
tasteful in his gifts! quite the model fiancé.

Irene was silent a moment, completing the
ruin of the rose. Her bodice heaved a little
more quickly than was natural, making the
diamonds in her corsage bouquet sparkle; ber
long golden eyelashes quivered, and her pink
lips trembled as she began speaking: ‘

“It is remorse, not love, that makes him so
gallant, mamma. He does not love me one par-
ticle !—all the love of which his light nature is
capable is centered on that little country beauty
—that black-eyed girl at the Lodge at Morley
Beeches. If he were free from me he would
marry her the next day!” ;

“Are you mad?’ murmured the nace
mamma, aghast. ‘Oh, this is too absurd!
thought you had too much pride for such jeal-
ousy, Irene!—that you had too good an opinion
of your own charms.”

“Tam not jealous—at least, not very jealous
—for I am not deeply enough infatuated to
make me so. Eugene is very agreeable; I ad-
mire him; I could live comfortably with him—
but his loss would not break my heart. I am
proud, mother—too proud to care to be the
ee aman madly in love with somebody

Irene, you fill me with terror! For pity’s
sake, don’t cherish such fancies! If Eugene de-
sired to marry that low creature he would have
done it long me Marry her, indeed! You do
not understand men, my dear. They have doz-
ens of fancies, the best of them; yet, when it
comes to the choice of a wife, you will find,

ee

 

BLACK RIDDLE.

light in front o

 

 

they are most circumspect—she must. be, like
Cesar’s wife, above suspicion, That girl was
desperately pretty, there’s no denying; and I
dare say she was flattered by the young mas-
ter’s admiration and flirted eee rks but J
would not condescend to be jealous of her, my
I declare, you gee me guite a shock,

shall not get over it all

dear.
eens as you did.
the evening.”

“Tt’s. your réle to be nervous, mamma.
Come, I will tell you what to do: send our
waiter to the Sefior with an invitation to join
us at dinner. Since Eugene is away we must
fill his place; it is triste dining alone in our lit-
tle parlor.”

he mother studied the fair, languid counte-
nance of her daughter to read what this might
mean; Irene returned her gaze with a cold
smile.

“Tt is only a bit of politeness, mamma, in re-
turn for his flowers and his opera tickets. He
will probably take us to the Academy to-night
—which will help us to ‘pass the weary time
till our lord’s return.’ Send Ambrose, at once,
please, before it is too late.” Y

Mrs. St. Mark seldom thought of disobeying
her imperious daughter; Ambrose was sum-
moned and dispatched to Sefior Felipe Rolan-
do’s apartments with the compliments of the
ladies, who would be delighted if he had no en-
gagement to prevent his dining with them in
their parlor. ;

The Sefior had no engagement—or was pleased
to consider that he had none—which would pre-
vent this great honor and pleasure; he car »
er to the moment, bringing an exquisi

uquet of white roses, lilies-of-the-valley and
maiden-hair ferns for Miss St. Mark, and opera
tickets for the three. There wasa very nice little
dinner, with as choice wines as New York afford-
ed, though Mrs. St. Mark wasin despair to think
how far beneath in quality they must be to the
genuine amontillado filling the cellars of Mon-

| sieur Rolando at his own home.

The Sefior was quite satisfied with the dinner,
including the wine. Never had Irene looked
handsomer or been more brilliant than she wes
thatevening. The languor and headache, which
had troubled her all day, disappeared as by
magic. A lovely light shone in her sap
eyes; a lovely pink bloomed in her delicate
cheeks; she was all smiles and little sallies of
wit, the more bewitching from one so haughty.

The dark West Indian raved inwardly over
her blonde beauty; to him, she was altogeth: r
the loveliest woman he had ever beheld. He
would have flung himself and his millions at
her feet, weeks ago, had it not been well under-
stood that Mr. Morley was shortly ‘‘to lead her
to the altar.” To-night he was fascinated out
of all prudence; he could not take his eyes from
her fair, fair face; he drank his wine and
thought it elixir vite ; so young and happy did
he feel with this beautiful creature smiling
across the table at him.

He wished there had been a thousand people,
instead of a dozen, to see him band her into the
carriage when they departed for the Academy
of Music, he was so proud of her, her grace, her
elegant toilet, her beauty. ‘

“Tf you were only tobe mine!” he went so
far as to whisper, prone her little gloved
hand as he sat beside
seat for the care of madame’s handsome velvet.
“What would I not sacrifice for that great fe-
licity? Happy Morley! the very gods might
envy him!”

Irene laughed her silver laugh, ‘low with
fashion, not with feeling,” as she murmured:

“What if he were unaware of his own good
fortune? ‘A prophet hath no honor in his own
c-untry,’—neither has a beauty. I dare say,
now, in the tropics, my blue eyes and gold hair
would be appreciated at their full value. Here
they are so commonplace that even Mr. Morley
is not enthusiastic over them.”

“Not? Not enthusiastic? He is very devoté.
If I had not observed that, I would have tried
much to—what you call it+—cut him out. Oh,
yes, I would enter the lists against him—I would
oe him hard--I would have him to fight for

is lady. Ah-h! if only I came not too late,
mademoiselle,” and he sighed vr

‘While there is life, there is hope, Sefior,”
responded Irene, gayly. :

e could see, as the carriage stopped, and

the footman en the door, by the glare of
the Academy, the ed stare

of astonishment, and fear, and delight with
which he was regarding her; and she laughed
again, a merry laugh which might mean en-
couragement or mockery, as he chose to take

it.

She kept up that dazzling, puzzling manner
all through the opera. ‘

A thrill of fiery hope ran through the warm
veins of the West Indian. :

“Tf she is Playing with me, she does it well,”
he thought. ‘‘It is curious, the way she treats
me to-night! Mr. Morley is for ta ee
have had a lover’s quarrel? If so, now is my
time to take the advantage of it. How beautiful
she is!_ They all turn their lorgnettes to this
box. Such an air as she has!—and dresses like
the empress!” _ 4

His passion and hope shone in the bright, black

1
,
\

role j
eS *

hire .

er, leaving the whole back _

 

 
 

 

fn ’ mT

THE, BLACK RIDDLE.

OA

 

 

eyes which lighted up his thin, dark face; he
was immensely impressive in his attentions; im-
mensely sorry when the long opera came to an
end, and the short drive to the hotel, and he
was obliged to say good-night to the ladies at
the door of their parlor, kissing their finger-
tips and asking permission to callin the morn-
‘ng to inquire after their health.

‘It is plainly to be seen you could have him
af your feet at a word,” complained the mo-
. 4er, as the door shut him out.

‘*Quite plainly ; and perhaps I shall speak the

word, mamma!”

“You are jesting, Irene! Don’t do it! Iam
very fond of Eugene; I am really attached to
him. Heseems like my own son. Something
*nust have happened—” beginning to wipe her
syes—‘* you must have quarreled before he went
off, to be talking like this, Irene.”

“How affectionate you have become, all of a
sudden, to poor Eugene,” said Irene, mockingly ;
and turning to remove the lace and flowers from
her hair, at the great mirror, she gave a sudden

ery.

Bathe one, who had been sitting on the sofa
three hours awaiting their return, who had not
before been perceived by either of them, rose
trom her place.

‘Pardon me, Miss St. Mark,” she stammer-
ed, “for intruding here. Ihave come to you,
unknown to them all, to do you a service.”

“You, to do me a service!”

“*T believe you wiil consider it so.”

** This is strange, Miss Darien.”

“Yes, it is strange.”

**You look very pale and tired. Will you
have anything?”

“Your maid brought me a cup of tea. I wish
nothing more. I—I would have liked to have

‘one back this evening—but it is too late now.
here will be no train; and I should be afraid.”

“You can sleep with my maid. Will you tell
me your errand now, Miss Darien, or, will you
wait until morning?”

“Twill tell it now. I must return early in
the morning. I do not care to have them know
that I came here.” 4

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WAY SHE MANAGED IT.
I haye strained the spider’s thread
*Gainst the ee of a maid;
Lhave weighed a grain of sand
*Gainst her plight of heart and hand.
—Scorr.

AT twelve the following morning General
Carlington’s carriage drew up before the Clar-
endon and his two pretty daughters descended
therefrom and went directly to Mrs. St. Mark’s
parle where they found the two ladies they

ad come to see. :

‘‘Trene, our dresses have come!” they cried
in one voice, after saluting madame. ‘‘They
arrived on the steamer yesterday—they are ex-
quisite! just the sweetest things! Oh, you
must get in the carriage and come right over
and see them!”

“Pale pink satin slips with over-dresses of
some soft, white crépy stuff with point-lace and
flowers of white lilac!” ran on Violet.

‘Of course yours came, too! May we see
it?” asked Pansy. ‘‘Oh, how delighted I am to
think you asked us to be bridemaids! We do
enjoy it so much! I suppose the cards were
sent out yesterday? Will not De Witt make a
handsome usher in his cadet’s uniform? What's
the matter with you, Irene? Did not your dress
arrive? You areso pale,and worried-looking—
it will be simply dreadful if you are kept in
anxiety about your things!”

‘Oh, yes, indeed, it will be awfully provok-
ing,” chimed in,Violet. ‘I hope nothing will
happen—no accident to the steamer. It would
be sad enough if she should encounter an ice-
berg, or take fire, and your lovely, lovely trous-
seau should go to the bottom!” f

“Do not borrow trouble, girls,” said the
bride-elect, with her cold smile. ‘If you will
allow me to slip ina word edgewise I will in-
form you that my things have arrived, all
right—in seven flat packing-cases which Rose
gee yesterday. The dress is now laid out on
the couch in our sleeping-room and Rose will
show you the others if you ask her. Ihave a
headache, and if you will excuse me, while you
look at them, I will keep quiet.”

“Certainly.” ‘‘Oh, thanks!” ‘Oh, you dar-
ling!”—they kissed her and rushed off into the
adjoining room, where their exclamations of
rapture were too much for Mrs. St. Mark to
hear without joining in the entertainment; she
arose and followed the bridemaids, leaving ber
daughter alone, lying on a sofa, pale and with
that slight frown drawing down her delicate
brows which betrayed her to be either ill or ill
at ease,

Yet, she had not neglected her looks, Her
morning toilet was of the daintiest, and there
were fresh roses in her belt and golden hair.
She looked more girlish and fair than even in

. her costly evening-dress at the opera. She was

not looking for Eugene until the afternoon; but
Sefior Rolando had asked permission to call
that morning, and she had not spared Rose
trouble in miakior her charming for the occa-
sion, :

 

Ah, here he came, the little dark gentleman,
with his elaborate civilities and the usual ten-
dollar bouquet of rare cut-flowers—so polite, so
impressive and so—tiresome. One of Eugene’s
frank smiles and unstudied sentences were
worth an hour of Sefior Felipe Rolando’s fine
efforts to please. Is it not said that ‘‘ blessings
brighten as they take their flight?” Never had
the image of her absent fiancé floated so fairly
in Irene’s mind—his laughing, deep-blue eyes,
his sunny expression, his blonde beauty of fair
hair and clear, lightly-flushing complexion.

“T never dreamed I thought so much of
him!” she had told herself more than once
during the sleepless hours of the precedin,
night. Fair, indeed, did“Hugene’s youth an
comeliness rise up in contrast to the dark, thin
features, the crisp, black curls, the sharp,
bright eyes, the ary years of the West Indian,
who lingered and lingered over his morning
call, very evidently loth to put an end to it.
There were seven tin-lined cases of finery to be
examined in the adjoining room; so it goes with-
out saying that the Misses Carlington tarried
there a goodly time.

‘When does Monsieur Morley return?” asked
Rolando, secretly noting a certain melancholy
in the fair face before him.

“Soon enough—this afternoon,” was the
languid reply.

“Soon enough! Yet mademoiselle’s cheek is
already pale!”

““Not at Mr. Morley’s absence,” she said, with
a sweet smile,

‘““No? What else can make her so triste ?”

“T found a very important message awaiting
me after we parted from you last night, sefior.”

Irene said this slowly, looking down at the
diamond engagement-ring on her white hand,
and sighing.

“Nothing bad—nothing to make you un-
happy, Miss St. Mark?”

‘Sefior, if I dared—to confide in you,” she
almost whispered.

“You would do me too much honor—make
me too happy!” he said, eagerly, his dark face
brightening

‘* Ah, but this is a serious matter. You would
have to be a true friend.”

The sefior made a movement as if he would
kneel at her feet, but she raised her hands en-
treatingly and he sunk back in his chair.

‘“T need some one to advise me,” she went on,
looking at him piteously out of her blue eyes.
** My mother is very good, of course; but she is
a woman, like myself; and I need the practical
advice of a brother—a friend—some one, who
would look at my trouble not with the romantic
ideas my mother has, but with masculine wis-
dom, I have thought of you, sefior—”

“Ah! You flatter me most immense!—you
make me very Happy; but, why not Mr. Mor-
ley?” he added, checking his CoAvagee” ex-
pressions of pleasure and regarding her with
suspicion. 7

“There it is, sefior! You may well ask that!
How can I consult Mr. Morley? He will not be
a disinterested adviser—far trom it !—while you,
sefior, surely would be entirely disinterested.”

“Certainly, oh, entirely, of course! If I can
advise you—if I can do you any favor, from
the least to the greatest, all that I haveis at.

our command, mademoiselle! You cannot but

@ aware of my keen desire to be your friend—
of my ardent admiration—my—”

“There, hush, Sefior Rolando! Your South-
ern fancy gets the better of your conscience,”
she interrupted him, with a merry laugh.
‘Really, I never knew that you admired me,

articularly,” and she looked at him with art-
ess naiveté, ** rae Southern gentlemen are
such flatterers! ell, it will not be necessary
for you to admire me—only to be my friend and
give me sincere advice. Oh, lam very unhappy
after all,” she cried out, with a sudden change
of mantier, the tears welling up into those at
mee springs of light, ‘‘very, very unhappy! |

had a brother to protect my rights 1 should
not be treated so! Look, sefior, on that table!—
that envelope—will you examine it?”

Half-bewildered, Rolando took up the thick,
creamy envelope, while Irene, rising from the
sofa, walked up and down the room, wringing
her white hands. :

“Why, these are the wedding-cards of Miss
St. Mark and Mr. Morley,” he said, looking agi-
tated and disappointed. ‘‘Do you show them
to me to disconcert—embarrass me, mademoi-
selle? Yet I knew it, of course! I understand
everything but your attitude this morning.
How can you need a brother—a friend—when
you have ahusband so close at hand?”

“Because it is he who wrongs me!”—as Irene
thus answered she paused before him, her eyes
flashing, her head thrown back.

‘By Heaven, then I will fight him!” exclaimed
the sefior, smiling for joy at the thought. ‘* You
make me too proud—too happy, Miss St. Mark.
Ask of me what you will—for you to command
is for me to obey.” ;

“T only want your friendly advice,” mur-
mured Irene. “TI have taken it into my head
that you area manof judgment. Listen, sefior.
I cannot say much now, for we may be inter-
rupted any moment, Mr, Morley hasbeen false

‘to me!”

 

+
‘

“Tam glad to hear it,” murmured the sefior
not knowing ereculy what he wassaying. ‘ Yet
itis incredible that any man so favored should
be false to you, mademoiselle,”

ser suspected it last summer—now I know it,”

“Tt is fortunate that you are convinced in
time,” was the significant answer.

“In time! Ah, sefior; all the world knows—”

“Pah, what matters what the world knows?
The vows have not been spoken at the altar—
that isenough. If you marry one of whom you
are jealous you will be miserable,”—he spoke
eagerly, rapidly, ‘‘ Mademoiselle, there is one
who loves you truly and only—who would be
as happy as he was proud, to win you away
from the poor creature who does not half appre-
ciate you—”

“Spare me,” murmured Irene, covering her
eyes with her hands, ‘‘ Remember that I loved
him—that I expected—”

‘* Ah, but let me teach you to forget him! He
is unworthy to bring one small tear into those
eyes that I adore. ou are right—I will not be
selfish—sit down, dear Miss St. Mark, and tell
me all.”

Trene sunk gracefully into the easy-chair near
her, drew her lace handkerchief across her dry
eyelids, and began, eer a

“She came here, last. night—was waiting for
me when I entered, after saying good-night to
you. On her knees she told me that I would:
make Mr. Morley wretched for life if I persist-
ed in marrying him, knowing that he loved her
to distraction! She avowed that a sentiment
of honor alone prevented his breaking the
engagement! Sefor, I might not have believed
her, had I not seen with my own eyes, heard
with my own ears, so much of this while we
were at Morley Beeches, his country-seat. His
conduct with her was the scandal of the whole
place. It even went so far that her father shot
him, and came within a hair’s-breadth of kill-
ing him, And who do you think she is who
thus rivals Irene St. Mark?—a rustic beauty—
the daughter of the keeper of the Lodge! on,
but it was an insult bitter to bear! However,
he confessed to a passing folly, begged my par-
don, implored forgiveness—we came away, and
once free from her vile influence, he seemed
again my true, manly love. The preparations
for our marriage have gone on, There were ex-

tensive alterations going on at the Beeches; and ,

when Mr. Morley went out there, now and then,
to see, as he said, how these were progressing,
I was too proud to feel or betray suspicion.
‘Yet, last night, I find this girl in my room,
come here to tell me that Mr. Morley is break-
ing his heart because he sees no honorable way
of breaking off our marriage. Sefior, I have
no father—no brother—or I should not have
been thus! I have passed a miserable night.
‘When you came in, a little while ago, and I saw
you, a gentleman and man of honor, so kind
and friendly, the temptation to ask your advice
was overwhelming.” i}
‘There is only one thing to be done—break
off your engagement with him. The dismissal
will come from you; it will be unpleasant, the
—what you call eNO Sey for a little time;
but you cannot be harmed. If there is an
censure, it must fall on him, And you will
find a thousand admirers ready to—champion,
is that it?—your cause, and one among them
who would give a world, had he so much to
give— ;
Again Irene held up her white hands, beseech-
ing silence,
“Remember what I am suffering,” she plead-

ed, ‘
“T forget; but I will have patience—I can
wait,” be said, eagerly.

“Bo not speak of this to a living soul until I

give you Ree Sefior.”

He Jaid his hand on his heart and bowed; she

ve him a faint, sad smile, eloquent of grati-
ude; then, Ambrose, knocking, asked he
should bring in luncheon; and the Misses
lington came in, radiant, while the Seiior
rose and made his adieus, and the door closed
on his happy face, leaving Irene unable, fora
moment, to look her visitors in the eyes for fear
they should detect the strange smile of triumph
in her own,

CHAPTER XXIV.
DIANA.

I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief.
—CAMPBELL.

But she is crazed! Believe not whatshe says! —
: —SHELLEY,

Freiix GatHORNE had been wandering, in a
restless mood, over the great, solitary house.
It was the week before Christmas, and the city
artisans, who had been decorating the drawing-
Pots pours a cine ae Sos, in lar ee
ovely frescoes, rich paneling, Japanese designs
in costly wall-papers, paint and gilding ebon-
ized dados and carved mantle-pieces, had gone
to their homes for the holidays. Himself and
Mrs, Rice, the housekeeper, were the only hu-
man creatures in the great mansion, Even the
a was fastened up and deserted; Zophiel
Darien had gone to New York to look out for
some occupation in ee could employ the
few thousand doliars of savings to advan-

tage; and as there was noneedof agate keep

/

 
    

22

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

 

er during the winter, little Betty had gone to
live with Mrs. Chaldecott. His brother had
been urging Felix, for the past ee to
leave his ‘‘den,” at Morle eeches, and come
down to the city for a little pleasuring before
the her which was to take place in the
first week of the New Year. He had felt no in-
clination to accept these invitations so far; but,
to-day, he was certainly lonely; his social in-
stincts had begun to assert themselves after
long repression; it was absolutely melancholy
toroam from room to room, from gallery to
gallery, with no semblance of humanity to wel-
come him but the portraits on the walls.

Outside, a soft, light, feathery snow was
coming lazily down—too lazily and too lightly
to give any promise of slei —_ for Christmas;
indeed, a bit of blue was an ly showing over
the trees at the west.

Pacing up and down in the picture-gallery,
pausing often by the double window at the end
to look at the bare, brown forest, the dun
clouds, the flying feathers of snow, the break of
blue in the horizon, Felix thought of many
things—among others, of rumors he had heard
of a certain sort of moral or mental insanity
which had seized upon Zophiel Darien—the in-
sanity of going into Wall street with his little
savings—not more than ten thousand dollars in
all—and there entering the lists against the
experienced speculators whose daily food was
just such morsels as this man’s hoard.

‘Of course they will gobble his poor little ten
thousand dollars in no time; and then, Oriole
will have to come out of that expensive school
where he has placed her. I thought Darien a
person of sounder ——— I wonder when I
shall see her again! It has been more lonely
here than as if she and Mrs, Chaldecott had re-
mained at the lodge, as I expected them to when
I made my plans for the winter. Better for me,
undoubtedly! She will never love me; and to
have gone on feeding my passion on her sweet
looks—listening to her divine singing—watch-
ing the development of her flower-like loveli-
ness, would have been folly—madness!—

“T believe I will go and call on Mrs. Chalde-
cott. It is more than a week since I have done
so. I am very fond of her. Poor, solitary,
friendless, as she seems to be, she is the most
perfect lady I have ever met. I wonder what
is the charm she has for me? Is it that she was
my mother’s friend?—that my mother loved
her? She seems to return the interest I feel in
her. It is evident that she believes me the heir
and longs to befriend me by proving it.

‘Yes, I must have a good run in the open
air, to shake off ‘the blues.’ What better direc-
tion than Mrs. Chaldecott’s cottage? Let me
see—it is three o’clock only—plenty of time for
a nice calland home again before dark”—and
he ran down-stairs, put on a light overcoat, a
seal-skin cap particularly becoming to his dark
eyes and regular features, seized a stout walk-
ing-stick, and set out on his ramble through
fields and woods.

‘By the by,” his thoughts went on, ‘I have
not made that second visit to old Diana yet! I
thought surely to have done it before this, I
would have gone there to-day had I remember-
ed about it earlier; it is only a five-mile jaunt
and back.”

As it was, it was rather late, and he continued
on in the path through the woods which would
take him out near the cottage.

A delightful surprise awaited him when
Esther eo the door to his knock, There, by
the bright fire, sat Oriole Darien: Oriole, love-
lier far than even his enthusiastic memory of
her! The journey, the excitement of oe
her friend, the glow of the fire on her splendi
colorings—it was not these things alone which
made her so beautiful; but a more womanly ex-
pression, and even—for fashion has a charm for
all of us—the style and finish of her toilet, quite

ual to that of the most aristocratic of Madame

irabeau’s young ladies.

And there, on the opposite side of the hearth
sat Zophiel Darien, regarding his lovely child
with a still, deep gaze of exultation, as if et.
aware of the growth of her perfections and tri-
umphing in the secret sense that his love and
his money had fostered them.

Mrs. Chaldecott’s pale, sweet face wore its
brightest expression. In the little kitchen be-
hind the sitting-room Betty’s voice could be
heard singing as she moved about making pre-

arations for the early tea-dinner which the
ostess intended for the travelers.

“Tam so glad you came,” said Esther. “I
was going to send Betty to ask you, the first
moment I could spare her.”

“‘T am very glad I came, too,” replied Felix,
as he shook hands with the Dariens. ‘‘ This is
an unexpected pleasure.”

‘It is the Christmas vacation,” said Oriole;
“T had to go somewhere, or spend my holidays
alone pacing the deserted school-room. Father
wanted to take me to the Fifth Avenue, so that
he could show me the theaters, opera, picture-
galleries, and, above all, the fashionable ladies
of the avenue”—and the girl shot a ee
yet half scornful glance at her parent; ‘‘ but
assured him I should die unless heallowed mea
few = of fresh air and free roving. You
know, there is a Gipsy strain in our blood; and

 

I’ve never been used to being shut up in a

boarding-school. Oh, it is frightful! Some

re felt as if suffocating. I am so glad to be
ere

She sunk down in her chair again with a sigh
of content.

“Yes, she would come,” murmured Darien.
‘Don’t you think her improved, Mr. Gathorne,
in spite of the terrible want of fresh air?”

Felix was no flatterer, but his smile told the
father what he thought of Miss Darien.

“‘T amonly to have her three days,” said Mrs.
Chaldecott. ‘‘ Mr, Darien thinks that her edu-
peony: requires to be carried on during the holi-

ys.

“Yes, I am to be finished,” added Oriole, and
again in her me laugh was that lurking
scorn. Felix felt at once that the old perfect
sympathy between her and her father was de-
stroyed. ‘‘ Having grown up a child of nature,
wild as the butterflies and the burdocks, I am
now to be made alady. I pity myself and my
teachers! Come, Mr. Gathorne, my toes and
my fingers are warm; will you go with me for
a scramble ‘through bush, through brier? I
can’t stay in the house another minute, aunt
Esther—so you must eee me.”

Taking a silk handkerchief from her jacket-
pocket, she tied it over her rich dark hair, say-
ing, with a laugh, ‘‘I can’t be bothered with a
hat; it would be as bad as Absalom’s hair,” and
then she declared herself a

And a wild race she led Felix through the
forest and over the hills and fields, At first she
avoided the house and the grounds immediately
about it; but, in the course of an hour, quite
suddenly she found herself in the old garden
walking its alleys, gazin, at the blackene
flower-stalks, the white Psyche glimmering
through the lightly-falling flakes of feather
snow; and in another minute she was in the
summer-house, down on her knees, her face
drooped on the wooden seat, sobbing as if her
heart would break. A,

She had forgotten all about Felix. Poor fel-
low! he would have given the world to raise
her from her knees, to smooth her flying hair,
to soothe her with the story of his own love;
but he knew that only a desperate repulse
awaited him should he attempt it; so he wan-
dered about by himself, discontented and won-
dering that Eugene should be so happy as to be
thus mourned by this glorious yous creature.

Presently a timid hand was laid on his arm,
and great, wet, shining eyes were lifted pite-
ously to his face.

‘*Come, I am ready to go back, Mr. Gathorne.
How selfish I have been! To ask you to come
with me and then to treat you so. There has
been a winter storm, you see; but the sun shall
set brightly for all that!” and she forced a ga
laugh as she pointed to where the “‘ orb of day”
was burning like gold below the clouds.

Just then Mrs. Rice, peering anxiously out
from under a huge hood, came into the garden.

‘*Oh, there you be, Mr. Gathorne. I’m des-
prit glad; for there’s been a colored boy here
waiting most an hour; here’s the note he gave
me to give you. Well, I declare, is that you,
Miss Darien? How do youdo? A-visiting Miss
Chaldecott? Well, ’'m right glad to see te
looking so well an’ handsome—ain’t she,
Gathorne?”

‘She is, indeed, Mrs. Rice,” responded Felix
heartily, as he opened a half-sheet of soile
note-paper, fastened by a piece of red wafer,
and glanced at its contents.

ve face changed as he read—flushed, then

led.

Pee Can you find your way back to the cottage
alone, Miss Darien? Iam afraid I must leave
you at once.”

“You know I can—or have, a hundred
times,” smiling. Then, as the thought came to
her that there might be bad tidings from Eu-

ene, she added, losing a shade of her bright

oom:

“T hope there is no bad news, Felix?”

“Not from my brother,” he said, reading her
thought. ‘If you will take this scrap of wae
to Mrs. Chaldecott you will oblige me, She
will be nearly as much interested in it as I am.
And now, Mrs. Rice, if you will make me a ar:
of tea while Michael saddles my horse, 1 will
get off as soon as possible, Good-night, Miss

arien, I will call over in the morning,’

Mrs. Rice made the tea and put some eatables
on a salver, greatly bore inted that the young
gentleman had not confided the contents of the
note; Felix hastily made a light meal, mounted
the horse which Michael brought to the door,
and rode away—not on the highway, but tak-
ing a bridle-path leading through lanes and
fields into the wood; it was five o’clock, the sun
was set, and he wanted to make five miles be-

fore it grew entirely dark,
The line which was scrawled feebly on the
folded paper was this:

** Come quickly, I am dying, but I am in my senses,

and must see the son of my dear, dead mistress,
*DrANA.”

The shadows lay deep in the thick forest as
Felix urged his animal along the narrow path.
His heart beat faster than usual; his brain was
pay, with many conjectures. The last mile he
had rather to see than feel his way. At length

 

he came out on a narrow, seldom-traveled road;
the large stars of winter were shining here and
there between the breaking clouds; he rode on
for a few rods and dismounted before a log-
hut which stood against a background of who:

et almost directly on the wild country road.

‘he red light of a fire and candles shining
through the white curtains told him here was
Diana’s home.

They must have heard his horse’s approach,
for the door opened, as, after tying the bridle
to a sapling, Felix approached the steps. A
middle-aged colored woman and her husband
ee iene same ones who had had the care
of old Diana for years and whom he had seen
when he visited the hut last summer—and
welcomed him,

““We is glad you is arrived, Massa Gathorne.
She is very bad; an’ she has fretted fer fe’ yo’
wouldn’ get her’, The minister is her’ befo’ yo’,
she wanted him fer a’liabul witness, she said.
Walk right in an’ warm yo’self to de fire.”

The i gentleman removed his cap and
stepped forward into the large, cleanly, not un-
cheerful room, with its great blazing fire and
its kitchen utensils glittering on the walls. He
glanced toward the bed, but the dying woman

was not there. She sat in a great splint-bot-
tom rocking-chair to one side of the fire, with
her feet on a stool wrapped in a quilt. She sat

quite erect, turning her face toward the aj
roaching visitor: and a remarkably fine-look-
ing and ere Porscuaa’ she appeared,
even yet. Tall, of splendid, stately figure, her
imposing head wrapped in a red silk turban,
every movement full of a natural majesty which
had always distinguished her, and had once
made her pretty young mistress declare that she
must be a Nubian princess—even now, blind for
twenty years, and dying—Diana held her own.

‘*Speak!” she said, holding out her hands
cold and damp with the dew of death, ‘‘let me
hear the voice of little Felix—my darling boy,
to save whom from the flames I lost my eyes.

‘Ts that so, dear nurse? I was never told,”
said Felix, kneeling beside her chair and press-
ing the cold hands in his warm ones.

‘Oh, Diana, can it be you are reall
—and I desire so to have you tell me of my mo-
ther. I know she was very fond of you—I
know you were devoted, heart and soul, to her.”

She passed her trembling hands over his
smooth young face.

“You are beautiful—you have the Gathorne
features. They tell me you came here last sum-
mer, but the cloud of fire was over my brain
then and I did not know my little boy had
come to see me, Now, it is all gone. I recall
the past, I remember, I recognize all Singe
proof enough that I am dying! Yes, dear
young master, your r mother trusted Diana
as she trusted no other human being. Poor,
poor darling, the pet, the idol of every one!—
the dearest dear of her first husband—they
were brought up together, elbow-cousins, as
you know—and she never had a trouble till he
died—died in the first year of her er
hs never saw your father, poor boy! d

jhen you were born and she lived on—a widow,

beautiful, young, rich—ay, she had her own
fortune and yours, too, my child, for he willed
her everything; and Mathew en Jearned of
it, and with all the arts of Lucifer he went af-
ter my darling, nor ple her one hour’s peace
until he had worried her into marrying him.
Then he set to work to break her heart, and he
made out. He shut her up—kept her friends
away—sneered, jeered at her—told her he had
married her for her money—kept her down—
crushed her by inches—oh, I have cursed him,
out of his hearing and to his face! I was her
only friend—her only protector. Where is Mr.
Newcome?” asked Diana, pausing in her low,
excited narration.

a whom Felix had not previously no-
ticed arose from a remote corner of the room
and came forward—a clerical-looking person,
who stated to Mr. Gathorne in.an undertone
that he was a minister of the Baptist persua-
sion, who had come at old Diana’s request, to be
a witness to what she might affirm, and to her
being of sound mind at the time of giving her
testimony.

‘*T am here, Diana.”

‘Listen to what I say and swear. Mrs. Mor-
ley made her will the day before she died, She
willed everything to her own son, Felix, At
her direction I put the will—with some of her
letters, and a a. written for Felix to read
when he should be older, and all her own fam-
ily jewels, and some money of my own which
was due me—in a certain box, and carriedit out
at midnight, after she died, and buried it in the
peer to keep it from Mathew Morley until

could place it in proper hands, The awful ac-
cident two nights later, which deprived me of
my reason and left me blind and crazy, has
kept me from ever taking the box from tke
earth where it lies hidden; and I am told that
Mathew Morley forged a will eres hig
wife’s fortune was left to himset ; and that he
had the wickedness—it was just like him!—to
leave my poor Felix’s money all to his own son,
Oh, if I had strength to be carried to that old
garden! But, have not, [ can only te)l you
to measure three hundred and three paces di-

dying?

 

|

>

 

 

 
 

 

x

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

 

rectly south in a line from the south face of the
tower and you will find the box. That will is
the only will Mrs. Morley ever made. The
other was a forgery. Everything belongs to
my boy here. And I thank God that he has
given me these few hours of reason in which to
right this wicked wrong. Oh, all comes back
as if it were yesterday! The cloud of fire by
day, the pillar by night, no longer scorches my
poor brain. I see my precious darling in her
coffin, and her little son sleeping in his white
bed—and the storm drives closer—the light-
ning flashes—the terrible thunder shakes the
house—and then, oh, mercy! there is a sea of
fire, and I struggle in it for those children’s
lives. They are safe and I leap from the win-
dow and run, in my agony, I know not where—
my clothes are dropping from me in shreds of
flame; but there is a brook somewhere in the
forest, and I seek it, and find it and fling myself
into it— Hark! What is that? Oh, glory be
to the good Father, my darling, my darling!”

She grew quite still, turning her head to listen.
. There was indeed, a sound at the door; it
opened, and into the log-hut, came Mrs. Chalde-
cott, white and wild, followed by the heavy
steps of Zophiel Darien.

 

CHAPTER XXV.
WHAT FELIX HEARD.

What, if her spirit
Reéntered her cold corpse? —CoLERIDGE.,

To stupefy a woman’s heart with anguish
Till she forgot she even was a mother.
—MATURIN.

ORIOLE had walked rapidly back to the cot-
tage, through the pale yellow light of the win-
ter sunsetting, while Felix was taking his hur-
ried tea and waiting for his horse to be brought

up.

She found Mrs. Chaldecott’s appetizing tea-
dinner waiting to be served, and that lady dis-
appointed because Mr. Gathorne had not re-
turned with her; for all excuse for him the
girl put in Esther’s hand the note Felix had re-
ceived and had asked to have given her:

“Come quickly. I am dying, but I am in my
senses and must see the son of my dear dead mis-
tress, Diana.”

When Mrs. Chaldecott read it she turned
very white and burst into tears—a most unex-
pected display of emotion in one so reserved
and self-controlled.

‘¢T must go, too,” she cried, placing the note
in Zophiel’s hand. ‘Oh, Mr. Darien, can you
find me a way to follow Felix? I must go! I
must go!” :

“T know where Diana lives:—perhaps I
might get a couple of horses from ough, the
farmer. Can you ride, Mrs. Chaldecott?’
ih res. I used to be quite at home in the sad-

e.

“T must go with you. It will be late and
dark. Come, let us at least have a cup of that
delicious coffee, for we will need it; there is
probably no such haste that a half-hour will
make much difference; then I will get the
horses and accompany you. Esther, you are
strangely excited,” he continued, watching her
trembling hands which spilled the coffee as she
poured it.

“T am—I am! Oriole, my dear, I am very
re, to treat you so inhospitably; at least you
need not hasten your dinner. ou will be
lonely; but you need have no fear, with Bett;
and the dog to watch with you. Do not wait
up for us; there is no telling when we will re-
turn.” Sho pressed everything upon Zophiel
but ate nothing herself; however, she drank a
cup of strong coffee, which braced her shaking
nerves.

Seeing her agitation and sone be off,
Darien made but a hasty meal and set out in
search of horses; as it would be several miles
further to attempt to go around by the car-
riage-road.

In less than half an hour he was back with
two tolerable animals; Mrs. Chaldecott, wait-
ing on the step, sprung onto the one assigned
her, and they galloped away in the pale after-
glow of the sunset, into the heart of the leafless
woods, the lady urging her horse to such speed
— Darien had hard work to keep up with

er.

“Ten to one but my long-cherished suspicions
about Esther will prove true,” he muttered to
himself, as he spurred his animal to keep with-
in sight of that flying figure, slender and erect
asagirl’s, ‘Stranger things have happened!
How she must have secretly scorned my pre-
sumption in asking her to be my wife!”

On and on, Se the twilight deepening
into night, fled Esther on the powerful horse
which carried her as if she were but a feather’s
weight; on and on, until she pulled bridle rein
before the hut by the roadside, when she flung
herself down before Zophiel could come to her

assistance, and stood outside that ,humble door,

pressing her hand to her palpitating heart,
while she struggled for composure.

" —e aoet ace hah spa bag
and with a strange joy g up her si!
comely face had cried out:

 

maiden who loves and
ward

“My darling! My darling!”

Then the door had opened and the two visit-
ors came in.

“Diana!”

The low, sweet cry thrilled through the room.
Mrs. Chaldecott had thrown aside her hat, and
was kneeling on the hearth by the chair of the
dying woman; she had the already cold hands
7 her own soft white ones, and was kissing
them.

“Do you know me, Diana? Do you know
my voice? If you do, testify before these who
fam, that it cannot be denied afterward. Do
you know me, Diana?”

‘“‘AmI dead? Am I in heaven, already, with
the blessed spirits, that her spirit should come
first to welcome her poor old black servant?”
asked the old nurse, in an awe-struck whisper,
stretching out a hand to feel the upturned face
near her.

“No, no, dear Diana, you are not with the
blessed dead; you still live, andsodoI. Speak
my name, Diana.”

“Tt is my own young mistress, Esyth Ga-
thorne—Esyth Morley, when she died—come
back to life! Oh, that I could have my sight
for one little minute, to behold the sweet face
of my young lady!”

“Young no longer—worn and faded, Diana,
with trouble and time. Yes, it is your Esyth
who speaks to you. I have beenhere a hundred
times before—as your good relatives can testify
—though they dreamed not of ‘my true name;
nor did my poor nurse recognize me.”

** Ah, Diana’s wits were all astray; the cloud
of fire was over me. I have always believed in
miracles—is this not one?—that my darling
should be dead, yet here speaking to me!”

‘*No miracle, in one sense, dear nurse; yet,
in another, surely one. Diana, when they
thought me dead—when they laid me out in
my coffin—I was only in a horrible trance!
The agony of those slow hours dragging on into
days, when I lay there see hearing every
word which was spoken, knowing eyery pre-

aration made for my burial—ah, Heaven! I
Healt it all over again, night after night. Ne-
ver were my senses more acutely wrought to
terrible keenness than when I lay there unable
to move a finger, to raise an eyelash. Let me
peor it to you, Diana! I knew when my hus-

and came into the room that second night and
demanded of
will. I hear
threats.”

“The Lord have mercy on my soul!” mur-
mured the old nurse.

‘‘T am certain I should have continued in my
trance-like fainting-fit, and would have been
buried alive the next day, as was arranged, had
not Providence, Diana, rescued me—not by
what you would call a miracle, perhaps, but
through the ‘eorere of natural laws. en.
that fearful thunderbolt struck the house, the
electric shock did what my own frantic will
could not do—set free the awful thrall that
bound me!—in a moment I was sitting up in
my coffin—the next, I had sprung from it, and
seeing the room in a blaze I rushed into my
dressing-room, caught a garment hanging there,
threw it about me, and went out into the corri-
dor. Others were there by that time; but I
passed unrecognized in the excitement; as the

arment I had taken by chance proved, happi-

y, to be a waterproof cloak, in which it ‘wrap-
ped myself completely. I fled down the stairs
out into the storm—and then—I thought of m,
little Felix, asleep, and my room a all
in a blaze. ’ I would have rushed back into that
sea of fire, but just then, pee , L saw. you,
‘ood Diana, lowering both my Felix and little
gene from the balcony. Alas, your dress
was in a blaze!—I wrung my hands, you leaped
over the balcony and fell heavily, but struggled
up and ran, your clothing dropping from you
in shreds, and I pursuing, trying overtake
and help you!”—here the ker’s voice melted
into tears—she paused to choke down the sob in
her throat.

“Then it was you, my child, who dragged me
out of the water and kissed my poor, scorched
face! Ah, I thought you was a spirit, and
eae that, and the pain, I went raving
mad.

“Tt was your poor Esyth, Diana, I led you
to some at your kin, who lived there in the
wood—led you to their door, and then I ran
away ; for a desperate resolve had taken posses-
sion of me never—never to let Mathew Morley
know or suspect that his ill-used wife was not
dead, and her very body consumed in the fire,
as he thought her. I had no money—no clothes
but my grave-clothes and that cloak, out of
which I fashioned a dress—no friends that I
dared appeal to, for fear they would betray the
fact of my existence--but I would not go back
to live with Mr. Morley—no, not even for the
dear boon of being with my boy!”

As she uttered those two magic words ‘‘my
boy,” a low cry broke from the very heart of
Felix Gathorne:

‘Mother !”

At the sound Mrs. Morley dropped Diana’s
hand and sprung to her feet; half shyly, like a
doubts, she looked to-
Felix, and her eyes shone like stars, but

ou to give up the jewels and the
every word—your refusal, his

,

 

oi
she did not rush to him—only stood and gazed,
faltering and smiling.

“Can you learn to think of me as your
mother?” she asked, ee

He took her in his arms, kissing her pale-fore-
head very tenderly.

‘*Tf you could dream how sweet it is for me
to gain a mother, you would not ask. Howis it
possible you could be near, with me, and yet
your heart not betray the secret in your voice
and eyes?”

os Tang years of sternest sorrows have given
me great self-control, Felix. Oh, I have pined
to clasp you in my arms—to call you my boy!”

“Yes, but—Eugene?” stammered be, hardly
knowing how to, or meaning to, put the ques-
tion of property; yet, feeling it sae that his
own parent—the undoubted owner of the whole

orley moneys and estates, should ‘have re-
mained by, the nearly four years since Mathew
Morley’s death and dishonest will, without put-
ting forth an effort to take her own, or to give
her son the benefit of it.

“‘T know, dear Felix, you will think me weak
and foolish. Ihave spent all this time in try-
ing nd my own*will—buried in the garden
ing to find ll—buried in the gard:
by Diana to keep it from the destroyer.”

“Ay, ay,” interrupted the dying old nurse,
half-wandering again, after that lucid interval,
“ay, ay, she knows—

‘ Three times one hundred and three *
From the tower bell to the red-rose tree;
Diana’s riddle is riddled there—

She that is dead shall name the heir,’—

not dead—not dead. She that lives shall name
her gon the heir.”

“T was afraid, my dear son,” went on Mrs.
Morley, again kneeling by Diana’s side and
chafing the death-cold hands—‘‘afraid that
Eugene and his lawyers would deny my iden-
tity—laugh my story to scorn—make me out an
impostor of the boldest type—and, what would
be worse, accuse you of criminal connivance.
They may do it yet; but I think not: I think
the testimony of this faithful creature, before
these witnesses, will aid in securing my reés-
tablishment. Diana recognized my voice as
soon as I spoke to her. Dear nurse and faithful
friend, have you any doubt of whoI am?” she
asked, gently, fondling the cold hands.

“No doubt. I felt you, my dear young mis-
watt before you came in the door. Iam blind,
but I know my Esyth. And have you not told
me what took place between Mr. Morley and
me, when there was no other soul present but —
you, lying there in your coffin?” and then her
tremulous voice, rich even in these its last ca-
dences, began to sing:

“ Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning Providence .

He hides a smiling face.”
One or two of her friends joined in the — ;
but before another verse was sung, the ving
woman, still sitting erect in her chair, call
out loudly—‘ Es !and groping about with
her hands, sunk back in her seat, dead.

“Oh, Diana,” sobbed her mistress, ‘‘intelli-
gent, noble, heroic, faithful, was there ever
another servant like unto you?”

Zophiel Darien aided in carrying Diana to
the bed, where Mrs. Morley closed her eyes and
folded her arms over her bosom. 3

“T have little money about me, Felix,” she
whispered to her son, ‘‘can you lend me some
to give them to insure a decent burial?’ f

hen all was done that they could do the
three mounted their horses, and, by the light of
a late-rising moon, went back over the tedious
five miles to the cottage.

Felix never forgot that weird ride through
the winter woods, with the black shadows of
the leafless branches lying thick over the bridle-

ath. He was dazed; almost he believed that

e dreamed. This lady behind whom he rode,
his mother! Mrs. Chaldecott, the gentle, the
reserved, who had always attracted him—this
dweller ina woodland cottage—the proud lady
of Gathorne Towers and Morley Beeches, wh
brief, unhappy. history had already become
legend! Me he must be in a dream! St

And he, Felix Gathorne, the proven heir o
all these broad acres over which they were rid-
ing! He—the “poor relation” whom young
Morley’s guests ce a thought—the pos-
sessor in prospect of unlimited splendor!

And Eugene!—what would he say and do?

And Miss St. Mark—what would she do? —

And Oriole—would it make a cifference with

er?

‘¢There is no time to be lost,” he thought, ‘if
this is not a dream, then Eugene must know—
and his bride-elect must know-—~the truth, be-
fore the marriage-day.” ;

 

CHAPTER XXVI.
AFTER MANY YEARS.
It must separate us!—Ta.FourD. vie
“She hath taken flight none know where.”

A GREAT fire was blazin; § and sputtering on
ote hall een of Mor! ey 7 beh A or
er was yosoaces n the en,
was four o’clock of the day after Diana’s death,

and nearly dark at thathour, for the days were

V

 
w

 

 

2A

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

 

 

 

at their very shortest. It still threatened snow
which had not fallen; the world and sky were
dun-colored; the thermometer was falling below
freezing-point.

Michael had gone to the station for Mr. Mor-
ley; as Felix had telegraphed, early that morn-
ing, asking him to come to the Beeches imme-
diately on important business. Felix was stand-
ing before the hall-fire, dreading to hear the
sound, soon to be expected, of approaching
wheels. He wasalone. His mother and Dari-
en, and the family lawyer, were to come to the
house at seven; but Felix had asked that his
brother might have his dinner and an hour’s
rest, before the business was broached—the
very unpleasant business, for Eugene, to hear
which he had been sent for.

“Tam actually miserable about it,” said the
Ao man to himself. ‘‘ Eugeneenjoys every-

hing so much—it is such a pleasure for him to
be rich—he spends money so magnificently—
that it seems little less than barbarous for me
to step in at this late hour and deprive him of
everything! Poor little mother! she ought to
have come forward the day Mathew Morley
died, and then Eugene would not have been so
cruelly disappointed. She did very wrong to
let us g° our separate ways without declaring
herself. There is plenty of truth in what she
says about the difficulty of establishing her
identity, the danger of being thwarted as an
impostor, and the other difficulties she brings
forward; yet, since she was conscious of the
truth, she ought not to have been so timid. It
only shows how she must have suffered to be-
come so unnerved—so afraid to confront such
obstacles as there were, poor, dear, unhappy
little lady! Well, I trust her trials are over, at
least; yet I cannot help feeling like a thief and
a robber, to meet my brother with such a story.
On the eve of his marriage, too! Ah! there
comes the wagon and—yes, Eugene. I never
felt so mean in all my life!”

The clear dark skin of Felix was suffused with
an actual blush as he hurried out on the piazza
to meet his brother. Eugene sprung out of the
wagon and came up the steps as happy, as care-

_ less, as handsome and brilliant, as a man could

' self, Eugene.

be.

‘Well, old boy, this is something of a nui-
sance,” he said, as he grasped the hand of his
welcomer, ‘ calling me out into the country at
this time of year, and only fourteen days to my
wedding, too! hat’s up? Isn’t the work go-
ing tosuit you? I know your taste is critical.”

‘You shall see the improvements for your-
I think there is still light enough
to fo over the drawing-rooms. After that we
will have a cosey little dinner—just we two;
then, business.”

“All right, Felix. Though I’m puzzled to
Imow what you are after. Seems to me you
are not looking entirely well,” he added, scru-
tinizing the dark beauty of his companion’s
face, where the troubled expression betrayed
mental anxiety. ‘‘ You are not going to tell
me that you arein love—or engaged—or ey
thing of that sort?” with asudden uncomfortab.
pang, as he thought of Oriole Darien—albeit, he
expected to wed another girl in two weeks’ time,

‘Thave no such good news as that of being
engaged ought to be,” responded the other; but
he made no explanations; and after Eugene
had divested himself of overcoat and gloves
and stood a moment before the cheerful fire,
they betook themselves to the drawing-room
to glance at the work which had been done there.

“Tt soon grew too dark for that, however,
and they strolled into the library, where every-
thing had been made as pleasant as possible.

“The old place is not so stupid in winter, af-
ter all,” remarked Eugene, settling comfortably
into a big easy-chair before the hearth and
ane about him. ‘This is as cosey as pos-
sible. If Irene had any domestic tastes I should
expect to spend a good deal of my time here,
evenin winter. I don’t mind saying to you,
old fellow, that I have a growing impression
my princess is marrying meformy money. I
discovered—quite accidentally—the other day,
that old St. Mark lost almost everything before
he died, and that it has taken their last dollar
to provide the wedding trousseau—not that I
care for the fact that my bride is dowerless!—
aes knows I have enough for both!—but I

on’t fancy the deceit about their means the
two ladies have practiced.”

Felix walked to the window and back again;
there was a lump in his throat which made him
hoarse when he spoke—which was not in an-
swer to his brother’s confidence, but on some
trivial subject.

‘*You are not very sympathetic,” said Eu-.
gene, a little hurt.

“Yes, l am—I am; but—you don’t know!—
wait until after dinner,” stammered Felix.

“*T do believe he is afraid I will fling mee
match, yet, and win my bird Oriole away from
him! I would to Heaven [ could—hounorably !”
and Eugene fell into a brown study before the
fire, while the early twilight Oecd the
branches of a rose bush, outside, rattled against
the pane, the great ruby coals dro with a
light click, and his companion walked slowly

 

up and down without priate Hy 3. his reverie;
until finally Mrs, Rice came in to drop the cur-

tains, renovate the fire and say that dinner was
on the table.

A very choice little dinner it was, brightened
by £ vase of roses which Felix had sent to the
village florist to obtain; Eugene’s idea about his
lady-love’s selfishness did not appear to have
spoiled his appetite; he ate well, chatting away
lightly about the opera, the new singers, the
last play, his trip to Florida, not noticing that
his vis-a-vis at the hospitable board scarcely
touched his food, or responded to his desultory
chit-chat. When they left the table the people
Felix was expecting had arrived and been
shown into the library.

Some-one else was there, too, whom he did
not expect—Oriole, who had refused to remain
with Betty at the cottage, saying that she had
some testimony of her own to add to theirs.

The shining of those great, dark eyes was the
first thing Eugene saw when he reéntered the
room; their light pierced his heart with a sweet,
sharp pain; a thousand memories of those bliss-
ful, stolen hours of the summer almost over-
came him, |

‘““Why did you not tell me Miss Darien was
to be here?” he whispered to Felix. ‘The sight
of her has set my pulses to flying at the rate of
a hundred a minute. She is lovelier than ever.”

‘*T did not know she was to be here this eve-
ning; although aware that she was visiting at
this lady’s cottage. Eugene, I have a greatand
painful surprise for you. Dear brother, I hope
you will believe me when I say that it makes
me unhappy to think that you must lose by my
gait: This lady, whom you have heard of as

. Chaldecott—”

“Ah!” cried Eugene, with a sudden, sharp
accent, like a cry—‘‘I know what you are go-
eget tell me!—the will has been found!” and
he looked over at Oriole almost with reproach;
aoe and agitated, sunk into a chair.

“Not the will, Mr. Morley,” spoke up his Ie-
gal adviser, ‘‘but the maker of the will! We
have an extraordinary announcement to make,
This lady, whom you have known under an as-
sumed name, asserts herself to be Mrs. Morley,
your father’s second wife, whom all believed
dead and buried twenty years ago.”

‘* Asserts herself—” murmured Eugene, glanc-
ing at her, suspiciously.

‘And has proved it, my dear boy. I am sor-
ry—-we are all sorry for you—but there is no
need of fighting the evidence—it is too strong
—there is nothing for it but for you to. resign
to their owner the moneys and estates your
father eo to have inherited from
Esyth Gathorne Morley. Mrs. Morley is here
to claim her own; Felix has found a mother,
and you have lost a fortune—that is the long
and short of it. It is rough upon you; but you
are no coward, Eugene, to shrink from bearing
disappointment; and your step-mother, I know,
will be more than just—she will be generous.”

““Yes, dear Eugene,” said Mrs. Morley, com-
ing up to him, and ta ing his limp, cold hand,
**Tloved you almost as fondly as my own boy
when you two were little together—I look upon
you as my son, still; my very own son, dear Eu-
gene; and, assuch, you shall fare as Felix fares;

our allowance shall be the same as his while I
ive, and at ay yee the property shall be
equally divided between you two; this house is
still your home, as it is my son’s home; and
your bride shall be as welcome to it as
make her.” d

His bride! Eugene started, as the vision of
Irene, haughty and hard to please, coming to
Morley Beeches, not as the mistress, but the
daughter and dependent—came before him; in-
voluntarily his glance sought Oriole’s, but she
was looking down.

There was a moment’s fierce sla pd with
his own pride and disappointment; then, his
careless but generous nature rose superior to
envy or bitter humiliation; he looked up into
the gentle, loving eyes of ‘Mrs. Morley, and a

can

smile came into his own blue ones as he answer-

ed her:

“You are very good to me, and I am ay
grateful. Felix deserves his good luck, and
shall try to be glad'that he has it;” then, after
amoment’shesitation: ‘‘ This is, indeed, a great
surprise and marvel. Iam quite ready to lis-
ten to an explanation ”"—after which there was
a long conversation, in which everything was
gone over, more fully than it had been so far
done even to Felix.

3 ay father seems to have been a scoundrel,”
remarked Eugene, rather bitterly; for, soften
the truth as she might before his son, the per-
secuted wife could not rightly explain herself
without revealing her own martyrdom to the
systematic cruelty of Mathew Morley.

“He was!” spoke up the old lawyer, sternly.
“T knew that always. Thank God, you are
not at all like him, body or mind, Eugene! So,
that is enough of him! There is no use in hurt-
ing your feelings any more by reference to his
misdeeds. I dare say we shall have great
amusement in organizing a grand hunt for
that box old Diana hid so over-securely! Eh,
my children?” :

en Eugene looked at Oriole, who, with
flushing cheeks and lowered lids, confessed to
having found the hidden treasure so long ago
aslastdune, Shesaid she had read the will, but

‘spoken of it before. I

 

could not make up her mind to avow her dis-
covery because—because—

‘Never mind the reason, Miss Darien,” said
Felix, pitying her embarrassment. ‘‘{ dare
say you thought affairs were better as they
stood,

“But I told Mr. Morley before he left here
last fall,” she went on,

“Yes, she told me,” admitted Eugene, color-
ing deeply under their looks of surprise. ‘‘ She
gave me the jewels; but the papers were miss-
ing—among them, the will. How did I know
there had been a will? Miss Darien said so,
and said she had it; but, when I besought her
to bring it to me that. I might show it to m
brother, she could not produce it. I admit
that I should have told Felix Miss Darien had
declared there was a will in his favor; I meant
to—some time. I did, indeed. You will admit
it was hard to give up everything on an uncer-
tainty!” .

“*Bome one stole the papers from the box,”
added Oriole, hastily, wishing to divert atten-
tion from poor Eugene’s fault. ‘‘ I never could
even guess who did it.”

“T think I can tell you,” spoke up Zophiel,
his deep-set eyes lighting up. “‘ Something oc-
curred a day or two before Mrs. St. Mark and
her daughter left Morley Beeches, which has
always been a are. to me. I have never

ad been away, and re-
turned home earlier than I expected—about
eight o’clock of the evening. y door was
locked—Betty evidently being away—but the
key was not in the ee where I had told her
always to leave it. I stood there, puzzled what
to do, when I heard the door being softly un-
locked from the inside. Ithought my daugh-
ter—who was then staying with Mrs. Chalde-
cott—had come home for some of her clothes;
but, as there was some—hard feeling—between
us at that time, I considered that it would be
leasanter for her not to see me, so I stepped
ack in the shadow of a rose-bush and remained
quiet. The door slowly and cautiously opened
and a woman came out. I could tell, at once,
that it was neither Oriole nor Mrs. Chaldecott.
I was very curious aboutit. She fastened the
door and placed the key under the stone,
glanced about her, and moved away in the di-
rection of the mansion. I followed, at a dis-
creet distance, Quite certain that I recognized
the tall, slender figure, I was desirous to be fuily
satisfied; and verily, when the lady came under
the light of the two Meet, on either side the
steps, I had a full look at her face, and it was—
Miss St. Mark’s,” :

Eugene sprung to his feet as if he would have
knocked the speaker down. But, at that, Oriole
gave a little cry. -

“JT understand it all,” she said. /‘‘I had told
Miss St. Mark about the will the night they
thought Mr. Morley was dying. I heard her
say to her mother that she would not marry
him except that he was rich—that she. was
going to his bedside to persuade him to leave

er a rich widow; I was so outraged by the
cool way she talked, that I followed and told
her my proofs that Mr, Morley was not the true
heir. Of course she went to the Lodge after-
ward to search for the will! It was she who
took it from the box—and destroyed it! Doubt-
less she felt quite safe to marry Mr. Morley
after she had destroyed the will!’

_A silence fell upon the little company who
pitied Kugene Morley from their hearts. Was
it not hard to lose fortune and faith in woman-
kind at one fell blow? Eugene sat quite pale
and still for a little while; then he looked up,
re something resolute shone in his handsome

ue eyes. ;

CTP it is true that Miss St. Mark has done .

this—and prizes me only for the fortune I no
longer possess—it will be happy for her that she
learns my lossin time. At least, it will prove
her—you will admit that! If she loves me, and
will marry me still, I shall keep my promise to
her; if she wishes to try her luck at a better
match, I shall gre her the opportunity. Until
she has decided for herself I prefer to hear no
one speak ill of her.”

As he said this his manly glance did not falter
—no, not even when it met those soft, dark,
slowing eyes fixed on him with such a look of
mingled hope and fear, despair and love, as be-
trayed the whole foolish, impulsive, passion-
ate heart of the girl who worshiped him.

“T should think even Miss St. Mark might be
satisfied with half of what eh believed your
fortune, my brother,” said
ly; ‘“‘and that much my mother’s promise as-
sures you. I have been going over everything,
to pass the time here, this winter; and I find the
Western property has more than doubled in
value; that, in fact, our possessions have reach-

ed a point where they cannot help growing,
even if left alone, hy need there be any
trouble?”

“At least,” answered the other, after a

pause, “T will test Irene’s love. Ihave doubt-
ed it—here is the opportunity to

‘Putit to the touch,
To win or lose it all.’ Z

I will tell her this marvelous story of our mo-

ther’s return to us, of her claim cn every dul-

Se

elix, affectionate- |

 

PR aes

ia!

i ons

 
THE BLACK RIDDLE.

25

 

 

lar—but I will nof tell her, dear mother, of your
generous offer—not at first. If she loves me as
a woman should love him she consents to mar-
ry, here will be her chance to come out as a
heroine o1 the first class”—with a melancholy
smile—‘‘ to avow her contempt for mere riches
—her undying devotion to her lover! If she
cares only for that wealth I shall seem to her to
have lost, then she will easily invent some way,
even yet, of slipping out of her pene: Ah,
how unfortunate!” he cried, suddenly, half-ris-
ing from his seat; ‘‘ the invitations were to go
out to-day! This will complicate matters most
awkwardly—provided Irene desires her free-
dom. I would it had come a little sooner—this
strange change.”

“Do not make yourself unhappy, Eugene,”
whispered Mrs. Morley, sitting by him and tak-
ing his hand. ‘‘ Miss St. Mark may prove all that
is noble—or, the cards may not have gone out
to-day; and you will see her to-morrow.” But
Eugene was, naturally, in a restless mood, with
the bewildering revelations made him and the
uncertainty of how Irene would receive the bad
tidings. et, through all his excitement he
felt a deep satisfaction in knowing that Oriole
Darien was in the same room; while occasion-
ally his heart gave a wild throb at a thought
that would intrude—the sweet, glad thought
thatif Irene proved false, he would be at lib-
erty to—woo and win some lovelier, softer,
sweeter, dearer child, who would love him for
himself alone.

 

CHAPTER XXVII.
A BIRD IN THE HAND.
I gave you up to go your way,
Sh ha =ean ored! n
Love hath no ties, but Destin:
Shall cut them with a sword,
—Sipnrey Morse.

Miss St. MARK had contrived to partake of a
delicious little luncheon in company with her
mother and the Misses Carlington, after that
call from Sefior Rolando, and was just compos-
ing herself for a siesta on the sofa, when, after
a hasty knock, Eugene Morley came in—unex-

ectedly, for Irene had not looked for him be-
ore that evening or the next morning.

He was looking ill and care worn, and there
was a perceptible tremble in his voice as he

reeted his fiancée. The kiss which Irene gave
im was warmer than she meant; for she could
not well help feeling sorry, in any case, to see
that bright, handsome face clouded; and—fora
few moments—she pitied him. Then she asked
herself—‘‘ Why do I feel regret for him? He
is still far better off than almost any other of
my acquaintance. Half of the Morley fortune
would satisfy most people. Poor, dear Eugene!
ou never appeared so fascinating to meas now!
Would the fabulous gold of that yellow West
Indian repay me for the sacrifice, should I give
you up!—No, no. That impertinent girl was
right, Now is the time to prove my devotion

to you.”
he drew him to a seat beside her on the sofa,

“What is the matter, Eugene? You look ill.”

“T am not ill, my love, but I amin trouble.
Not that I care for myself; but I dread the ef-
fect on you, Irene; I fear you will be deeply
disappointed; and I want to say now, before
enytaing else, that if my bad news makes you
feel a wish to be free from your promise to be
my wife ina few days, I admit that you have
a right to so decide.”

‘““Why, your news must be very bad news,
indeed,” remarked Irene, smiling.

Then, in a burst of excited feeling, he told
ber what it was, and was deeply surprised to find
how calmly, almost laughingly, she received it.
Had he mistaken her character? Done injus-
tice to her womanly nature? She was looking u
at him with those lovely blue eyes unclouded,
saying, cheerfully—not giving a hint that she
had been apprised of all this before:

“Ts this your terrible news? Well, Eu-
gene, if Mrs. Morley keeps her promise, and di-
vides equally between her own son and you, I
don’t see that we need tostarve. There haveal-
ways been rumors about the will, you know; it
is better to know the truth, now; I, for one,am
willing the melancholy Felix should have his
share. Quite romantic, and like a book, is it
not? Now,if Felix would only marry the gar-
dener’s daughter, we should be a happy family.”

“Never mind her,” said Eugene, flushin
slightly. ‘‘If you love me truly enough to al-
low this to make no difference with you, Irene,
I think our prospects of happiness are satisfac-
tory. Indeed, you take a heavy weight from
my mind, my darling; I am grateful to you
for the way you have borne this blow,”—and
then he, in his turn, felt remorse that he had
been conscious of a remote hope that Irene
would break the fetters which bound them to-
gether, and so leave him free to follow that other
toolish, fond inclination. E

This lurking consciousness made him a very
devoted lover that afternoon, There was plen-
ty to talk about, and the wedding-dress had to
be viewed; it was settled that the cards were
to go out the next morning; and Eugene, put-
tingall thoughts of Oriole iar away, resolved to
be a good and true husband te this noble girl

 

who had remained so devoted to him; while
the ‘‘noble girl” was secretly consoling herself
with two wise proverbs: I

‘‘A half a loaf is better than no bread,”
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

The Sefior had not actually proposed; so it
might be madness for her to jilt Mr. Morley on
a wee uncertainty.

f we could read the minds of many fair
brides would not thoughts and motives as self-
ish be found, where the lover fondly believes
that only pure affection has room to live?

Not thus was love tempered by prudence in
the passionate heart of Oriole Darien. With
her, poor child, love was all. When she had
sat there in the Morley library with the others,
and saw the shadow on Eugene Morley’s face
on learning that he was disinherited, her love
had risen to something better than the mad, un-
reasoning passion of a romantic girl. It sub-
limed to devotion. She despised herself for
having felt glad that his disappointment would
bring him nearer to her. She longed to serve
him—even if by so doing she sacrificed herself,
utterly. And so the foolish fancy came to her
that, perhaps, if she could see Miss St. Mark
first, she could persuade her to be true to her
lover in spite of his losses. And she had a
away from Morley Beeches, alone, and walked
to the distant station in time to catch the eight
o'clock train to the city; had gone to the
Clarendon and waited until the ladies came
from the opera; and then, alone with her
rival, she had told her how affairs were go-
ing at Morley Beeches, begging Irene not to
add to Mr. Morley’s bitter mortification, by re-
fusing to be his wife; painting the generosity
of Mrs. Morley in the most glowing colors,
and adding her conviction that whatever that
lady. promised she would more than fulfill.

When Irene mockingly asked her why she
had come on such an errand, she had meekly
adinitted that it was because she loved him so
well that she only wanted him to be happy;
that she had given up her own wild, foolish
thoughts and wishes, and only rayed for his
welfare; and she had believed that by coming
first, and persuading Miss St. Mark to see the
bright side of the picture she could reconcile
her to it before her lover spoke to her about it,
and so save him any further disappointment,

“He would not allow them to predict that it
would make any difference with you, Miss St.
Mark, so I choagnt I would tell you what faith
he had in you, that you might be proud toprove
yourself worthy of it.”

Irene had laughed in her sarcastic way.

‘““You are a very singular girl, Miss Darien,
as perhaps you are aware, Your unconven-
tional way of doing mene is amusing. More
than one young lady would not care to be told,
by a girl as pretty as you are, how much you
adore the gentleman she expects tomarry; but
in your case, one excuses you, on the ground of
your ignorance. It is too late for you to go
away trom the hotel to-night; you can share
my maid’s bed. I shall not care to see you
again in the morning—but, if it will content
7 to hear me say it, I may assure you that I

ave no present intention of changing my ar-
rangements,””

‘Tam very glad,” Oriole had answered her,
simply. ‘‘I can bear your contempt, and even
your amusement—they make no difference with
me—now that you know of his Joss and are still
trueto Mr. Morley. Ineed not be told that Iam
not like other girls. I have lived in a solitary
world of my own all my life. I know only a
few people, and those I love I love with all my '
heart, and those IhateI hate with all my heart.
I cannot be Mr. Morley’s wife, but I shall be
his friend. I would walk around the globe to
do him some small service. [donot forget that
he was nearly killed for a fault of which he was
innocent. Again, [say, Iam glad you are go-
ing to fulfill your word to him.”

‘ How those great dark eyes of hers glowed
when she asserted that she would walk around
the globe to do him some small service!” mused
Irene, after she had dismissed her strange vis-
itor by calling her maid to ‘‘share her room
with this young woman.” “TI don’t wonder Eu-
gene came near being infatuated! She’s quite
the prettiest young creature I ever saw. I
must marry him, if only to keep him from her.
Longin the elegant Mr. Morley, of Morley
Beeches, playing at love in a cottage with his
gardener’s daughter!”

And it was this hateful jealousy which be-
came a powerful motive to keep Irene from dis-
carding Eugene. Never was a scheming wo-
man in greater doubt what move to make next
than was the bride-elect on that day of Mr.
Morley’s return. We know the encouragement
she had contrived to give the Sefior; yet to Eu-
gene she appeared fond and true.

Meantime, Oriole, not once regretting her
visit, but lonely and very sad, had returned by
an early train, and getting off at the village
had seen Eugene stepping onto one going in the
opposite direction. She drew down her vail
that he might not recognize her. 4

‘“‘Good-by, my love, good-by!” she cried, si-
lently, in her heart, :

Zophiel Darien was standing on the platform.

 

He had come down to the station with Mr.
Morley and was to drive the wagon back.

Darien had had something to say privately to
his former employer—the man who had made
his ao so unhappy—the man he had once
nearly killed in a sudden fury—and he had said
ie as they came along; it was something like

is:

“Mr, Morley, I have a good deal of money,
and nothing would please me more than to
make it useful to you. You are going to be
married and goon a long journey. If youneed
funds, to almost any amount, I will consider it
a favor if you will only come to me.”

And Eugene had thanked him very cordially
and earnestly, not greatly surprised—for he
knew that Darien had saved money and put it
at interest; and thinking his ‘‘ funds, to almost
any amount,” meant the loan of a few hundred
dollars—and had said that Mrs. Morley had in-
sisted on his not changing his arrangements in
any way, but to call on his banker in his own
name for the present. Oriole had seen the two
men shake hands at parting, and the sight had
given her pleasure.

‘Father, can I ride back with you?”

“Child! Where do you come from? Mrs.
Chal—Morley would not tell me; 1 suppose it
is all right since she approved.”

“T think it is right enough, father; but I am
tired,” and she looked so, indeed, as he lifted
her into the wagon, though she smiled faintly.
‘*T don’t mind telling you I have been to see
Miss St. Mark, and that—they—will be mar-
ried—and how gladIam. You and I must be
friends again, father, as we used to be—dearer
friends than ever; and I do not think 1 shall
ever again give you so much anxiety. You are
all I have in the world, and I am all you have.
Let us find a little home somewhere—away
from here, father-—-and never again be separa-
ted foraday. Idon’t think I care to go back
to school.”

“‘T don’t care to have you, daughter,” an-
swered he, in a voice hoarse with emotion. ‘I
shall not want you away from me, now that I
have my little girl back again; yet, it 4 be
best for a few weeks or months, while I look
for a home that will please us. However, Mrs.
Morley is anxious to have you stay with her
at the Beeches. She is fond of you, and quite
willing to go on with your lessons for the sake
of your society.”

“Tt will be harder for us to begin to try to
forget—there,” murmured Oriole, very low and
faintly.

“Then my little girl must go away,” he said,
tenderly; and they were silent for some time,
as the horses flew along the frozen road.

Oriole got out at the Lodge, for somethin
she had left there, after which she walk
slowly and thoughtfully up to the great house,
for Mrs. Morley was there now instead of at
the cottage, and it was understood between
them that she was to come there on her return.
Dap le admitted her and told her she would
find Mrs. Morley in the library; so she hurried
on, and only lightly tapping at the door, open-
ed it and went in. ,

Mother and son were standing near the fire,
their faces toward it, talking so earnestly that
they remained unaware of her presence.

“God knows how gladI am to have a mo-
ther!” Felix was saying. ‘‘ But, as to the rest,
I tell you truly, mother mine, { would gladly
give back all to my brother, and be again ‘only
a poor relation,’ if by so doing I could win the
love of Oriole Darien.”

Oriole heard it and shrunk back.

The next minute a sudden light shone in her
great lustrous eyes; she was so lonely, and here
Se a mother and a lover if she would but have

em.

“Give me time—to forget,” she cried out, and
they turned and saw her standing there, so
beautiful, looking at them in piteous entreaty.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
“(4 GREAT ENCHANTRESS YOU MAY BE,”
eae, Zi —_ lo’ed me well and he sought me for his
e

’
But saving a crown he had naething else beside.
—Linpsay,

“It is easy enough to trace the resemblance
now,” said Felix, standing with his mother be-
fore her portrait, painted in her lovely youth.
“T have often puzzled over the something in
Mrs. Chaldecott’s face which drew me to her
and gained my affection and interest; but,
truly, [am honest enough to confess, Madame
Mor ey, that this black velvet dress and point-
lace give effect to your good looks! Which re-
minds me!—how about the Gathorne diamonds?
‘You know Eugene has had them reset and pre-
sented to his bride.”

‘* Ay, [have been thinking about it. Eugene’s
bride must not have those jewels; they belonged
to my mother—and my mother’s mother, some
of them—and to my own dear son they must
descend, when I am done with them. ‘hey
have far more than their money value to me;
and to vou belongs the privilege of gracing

our wife with them some day, I must write

Eugene about them immediately; for the
wedding comes off in three days, Zt will be a,

 
  

 

26

THE BLACK RIDDLE,

 

 

 

little awkward; but I shall send him a check
for the — of other handsome ones; and,
although Irene may be vexed, she must see the
— of the demand and yield them grace-
tully. i

‘“Don’t write, mother; since we are going to
town to-morrow to remain until after the wed-
ding, you can explain ‘by word of mouth’
more kindly, I think.”

“You are right, Felix. And I will ask Irene
to accept some one of the jewels as a bridal
present from me. Poor Oriole! I don’t like go-
ing off for several days and leaving her here
alone. She will do too much thinking; and she
is already much too melancholy.”

‘Mother, do you believe I can ever win her
love?”

‘Time. works wonders, Felix dear. I can
only repeat what she says—‘ give her time to
torget erences you time to forget! You
may be mistaken in the feeling you have for
her. She is exquisitely beautiful—I admit
that—and has many other charms; but I can-
not but feel she would be better mated with
some gay person like Eugene than with you,
my grave and earnest boy! No, I still hope to
see some nobler, grander woman my son’s
wife:

“**Some daughter of the gods divinely fair.’

Not that Iam not very fond of Oriole; she is
enchanting in her way; but—I confess it—I am
very ambitious for my boy!” and she half-
ey half-sighed, as she glanced up at him
proudly.

The next day Oriole found herself alone in
the t house with only the servants.

“Tt am.so sorry to leave you without com-
pany, my dear. there no friend of yours at
school for whom I can send to spend the time
of our absence with ycu?” Mrs. Morley had
asked before going away; and Oriole had de-
clared her preference for being left solitary.

“*My father will be out to see me once or
twice during the time,” she said.

Zophiel Darien aes to have important
business in the city, but not even his daughter
understood what it could be. He went in on
the same train with Mrs. Morley and her son;
after arriving in town they lost sight of him.
Rooms had been secured in the same hotel with
the St. Marks and there Felix and his mother
stopped, awaiting the wedding-day.

rene received Morley very sweetly. If
she married Eugene it behooved her to make
herself agreeable to his step-mother, who now
held the purse and had all the favors to confer.
The very evening of her arrival Esther Morley
took the bride-elect aside to explain to her as
kindly as possible that Eugene’s presents of
jewelry must be returned, as they were the
family jewels of the Gathornes and entirely
her a

‘Select some one of the pieces, Irene,” she
added, affectionately, “as a t from me.
You shall not be greatly the loser: Eugene shall
go to-morrow and select you some handsome
diamonds; but these are heirlooms from which
I cannot part.”

Irene listened in silent anger.

“Very well,” was her short reply. ‘Since
you claim them, Mrs. Morley, I shall of course
give them up. I dare say it will be so with
pares are now; thé Mer read we put in our
mouths will be yours. I confess, I hardly like
the situation,” and rising ee. she retired
from the private parlor where they were to her
own bedroom, where she walked hurriedly
about, her eyes burning blue fire, her pearly
teeth biting savagely at her trembling under

lip.

‘“‘What-is the matter?” asked her mother,
coming to see what kept her.

“Matter enough, mother! And quite too
much! I seemy ee plainly enough. Iam
tobe a beggar, fed by the bounty of that wo-
man! That is what ‘my splendid catch’ has
proved to be. I must ask for what I want, and
drop a courtesy when I get it and say, ‘Thank
you, madam, how kind you are!’ Tt is in-
tolerable—intolerable!”

“ Be calm, Irene. Do not work yourself into
such a passion. We must make the best of
things. It is too late now to do otherwise. We
are spending our last dollar. There is no time
to waste in looking for a better parti. And
think of the scandal of it!—breaking off, after
the wedding-cards are out! Come, come, don’t
be a fool, daughter! You need be no one’s
slave. You have tact and wit enough to twist
‘that woman’—as you call her—around your
finger. You can get all you want out of her, if
you flatter her a little. Of course, now I wish
to goodness you were going to marry Sefior Ro-
lando—a magnificent match that would be, in-
deed! However, there is no use or sense in
mauTeies over what might have been; it is too

te.

‘‘ Too late?” echoed Irene, coming to a pause
in her hurried walk about the room. ‘ Too
late? Mamma, itis not yet too late!”

Her mother stared at her in surprise. Irene
returned her look with oue full of subtle specu-
lente. gten hanes wane nent before her, a

spot began to burn in either cheek.

“Tcan marry the sefior to-morrow, if I so

will, mamma. It would make a sensation—
yet, what doI care for that? I should not be
here to be annoyed by it; he would take me
away ; [should be his queen—not a beggar ask-
ing alms of a step-mother! Why, the Sefior
counts his fortune by millions!—he adores the
ground my foot presses! Itis true he reminds
me of an ape—that he is repulsive tome many
times—that I adore my handsome, my bonny
Eugene.—Oh, mamma, I am very fond of
Eugene, after all!” and she sunk into a chair
and bowed her fair face in her hands,

“So am I,” murmured Mrs. St. Mark. ‘He
islikea son to me. Come, Irene, let us make
the best of things! Mrs. Morley will be good
to you.

“Do you know, mamma, Iam to give up all
those superb diamonds?”

““No? My poor child, is this possible?”

““Yes. It proves who is to be mistress now.
Do you think, with my temper and my ambi-
tion I can endure a second position?”

“This is trying, my poor dear! I know not
how to advise you.”

‘“Tf I were not such a fool as to really care

for him!” murmured the bride-elect. ‘ But, I
do—more thanI thought. I can’t bear the idea
that some other girl will win him, if I give him
up.
‘“ Well, you cannot remain here deliberating.
Since ae love him, Irene, I advise you to go
on with the programme, Come; hi will won-
der what is detaining us,” She drew her daugh-
ter up by the hand and led her back to their
friends.

The Sefior’s servant knocked at the door and
left a lovely bouquet of pink roses, fringed with
fern, and a small package, with the compli-
ments of his master. Irene opened the package
with eager fingers. In a rich casket—whic
was itself a work of art—lay a necklace of dia-
monds and pearls, as exquisite as it must have
been costly—a glorious bridal present indeed!
She gave a cry of delight; but no one saw what
was written on the card which lay, with the
gift, in the casket. Irene read that hastily and
thrust it in her pocket, saying, with assumed
carelessness:

‘From Sefior Rolando, as you might know.
None other of my acquaintances could afford
such a present.”

She seemed curiously restless and excited the
remainder of the evening; the usual faint pink
color in her fair cheeks had deepened to damask,
while her blue eyes glittered under their half-
closed lids. She chatted nervously, she laughed
frequently—was so unlike her cold, scornful self
that Mrs. Morley watched her with keen ob-
servation.

The following morning Eugene desired her to
go with him and his adopted mother to select
thediamonds which were to take the place of the
Gathorne gems. She surprised him by declining,

“T really do not feel equal to such a pleasure,
this morning,” she answered, sweetly. ‘‘I_ pre-
fer to leave the selection entirely to Mrs. or-

ey. And you will admit, dear Eugene, that it
Tebeeath sae ebay ae h tl

n Vi ey bot! ed her; she was gently
obstinate and did iat $4210,

By this means she secured a couple of hours
to herself, which she Paproved by writing to
the Sefior a dainty note asking him if she might
thank him Oat ae for the superb gift she
had received—she would be at home that morn-
ing to him—and him alone.

e came, eagerly. She was wearing his pink
roses, and looked beautiful as an angel, but very
sad; there were tears in her blue, blue eyes, as
she lifted them falteringly to his face.

‘*Oh, sefior,” she whispered, ‘‘I know now,
toa ene that he does not love me—that
he is only fulfilling his promise from a sense of
duty. t shall I—what can I do?”

‘* Let him go. Marry the one who loves you
most devo’ —who is distract of heart-trouble
almost to madness, to lose you. Ah! if it were
at the very steps of the holy altar, there is one
who would snatch you from him, if he might!
He is _stupid—knows not -a .pearl when it is
offered him; he is ungrateful! Let him go—and
take him who flings himself at your feet—be-
hold!” and the West Indian went down on one
knee, dramatically, seizing her white hand.

Irene looked down at him, critically—he was
evidently in earnest.

rf ee do much—to be revenged,” she mur-
mured.

“You would marry me?” he urged, kissing
her hand.

“Tt might make me very unhappy—but Tam
almost tempted—to punish them,” she answered,
slowly, but without hesitancy.

“Ah! charming angel! Yes, they must be
punished. It is a burning wrong not to adore
= Miss St. Mark. What man could help it?

ou will break with him?—you will marry me?
You shall not be unhappy !—I will be too much
devote. You have everything you like—
everything!”

“The intended wedding is so well known,
Sefior.”

‘Pah! that is a trifle! Let us scorn it! It
will be what you call a good joke—excellent!”

“Tf I were sure you would always be fond of
™me—and good to me—” .

 

* ~:

f

 

“Fond of you, my angel!”—he had risen to
his feet, and had his arms about her, his black
eyes glowing with triumph.

“There must be no scene—no fuss—no duel,
you know, Sefior, We must be very discreet—
no one must saa titan must arrange—”

“T understand. It shall be best so—as you
wish. Ah, leave that all to me, my adorable!
I can arrange,” he answered her, with a won-
derful smile, full of subtle promises of discre-
tion. ‘‘Ha! ha! Yes, he shall be punish for
not sufficiently adore such a pearl—such a lily!
1 shall not be sorry for him; it will be excellent
—he deserves it. We will surprise him—make
him freatly sorry; ha, ha!”

“What shall we do, Sefior? There must be
no scene, as I said.”

“Tt is very simple; we will go out, some time,
to the priest and be married. We will be mar-
ried, and then go away, very quiet. They may
make a scene when ae discover we are gone—
what matter?—we will be far away, laughing
in our sleeves—ah, what rapture!” and again
the tropical enthusiast half-devoured the lily
hand she allowed to remain in his own,

“They are coming,” cried Irene, hastily as-
suming a seat. ‘‘We can talk no more, now,
Sefior. I will think over what you have said,
and Five you a positive answer to-morrow.”

‘«To-morrow !—a year!”

‘‘Well,” with a fascinating smile, ‘‘ to-night,
then, Sefior.”

“TP shall be devour—mad—with jealousy all
day,” he had just time to sayin a burning
whisper, when the door opvned, and the shop-
pers came in.

The Sefior bowed himself out ina mood about
a rapturous and miserable. The suspense
of that day was difficult for ene of his ardent
temperament to endure. He walked the halls,
he paced the streets, he smoked many cigars,
he looked at his watch, incessantly.

“Tf she coquette with me,” he said to him-
self, fiercely, more than once, ‘if she play with
me, to amuse herself, I will kill her.”

Irene St. Mark hardly realized the terrible
earnestness of this new lover, as she Seren
with herself, coors and at her leisure—* Will
I, or will Inot? How shall I decide?’

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
ALONE, WITH HER DESPAIR.

First love will with the heart remain
When its hopes have all gone by.—CLargE,

And I shall be alone until I die.—Tunnyson.

‘* Iv is his wedding-day.”

Oriole Darien had tossed on her feverish pil-
low nearly all night; toward morning, with the
cheerful chanticleers calling to each other
through the frosty darkness, she had at last
fallen into uneasy slumbers. Out of this she
suddenly aroused and lay very quiet, looking
at the large silvery morning star which shone
into her window through the rosy flush of the
advancing sunlight.

“Tt is his wedding-day.”

She sprung out on the floor as she remembered
it, crept to the casement and stood there, in her
white ni a with the growing light on her
pale sad face.

‘My heart is broken—my heart is broken,”
she murmured, piteously. ‘‘I cannot bear it—I
cannot! I did not think it would be so hard to
bear! Oh, God help me!”

She sunk on her knees, with her eyes lifted to
the dark-blue heaven, and her hands clasped
and raised. ;

‘“‘Oh Christ, help me to bear it! I feel that
my heart is breaking. Help me to suffer, and
bless him and make him happy, whatever be-
comes of me.

It was a long hour before she arose, shivering
unconsciously with cold, and slowly and pain-
fully dressed herself, moaning often:

‘“How shall I ever endure the long, long,
lonesome, dreadful day?”

Cold as she was the house seemed to stifle her.
Winding a scarf about her head and shoulders
she stole down-stairs in the dim morning and
went out into the leafless, deserted garden.
The fountain was frozen; the flowers had van-
ished from their blackened stalks; the crisp
earth creaked under her light feet; the glisten-
ing lay over all, Past the statue of
Psyche, into the summer-house she went; but
she dared not linger there—it was too madden-
ingly full of haunting memories. So on and on
she fled, through the fields and woods for hours.
It seemed to her that she had been roving about
a whole endless day when she found herself
back in the mansion; yet it was hardly half-

past eight, and Dapple was just coming from
tapping at her dhantber door to tell her break-
fast was ready.

She went into the dining-room and took a cup
of coffee, for she was faint and thirsty; a burn-
ing fever ran in her throbbing veins.

that she found herself in the library,
sitting before the fire, ing at the face of the
black marble clock on the mantle,

“Tt is his wedd: Half-past nine—at

twelve she will be his wife, How swiftly the

 

 

‘

 

 

 

on

 

 
 

 

 

—

 

minutes fly! How intolerably long they are!
How terrible it.is to be. all alone on such a day,
yet I would fly from the sight of a human coun-

‘Ten o’clock! It will soon be twelve, She
will be his wife then!”

* Half-past ten! Will this day never come to
anend? I must find something to do, I will
go up-stairs and get my embroidery.”

Bleven o'clock! hat is the use of trying
to work? My eyes burn; I cannot see to set a
stitch; my fingers tremble, the silk is all in a
tangle, 1 am blind with tears. What am I cry-
ing for? I know this is his wedding-day; but I
ought to have been better prepared. In an hour
she will be his wife. His wife! And she hard-
ly cares for him! She does not half see or feel
that she is the one happiest woman in the
world. Why did I go and coax her to marry
him? What a fool I was! I wanted her to
—s his feelings. "Who is there to spare mine?

lh, how my head aches, and my heart! How
ill I feel! What shall I do with myself? I
shall go wild if I sit here staring at that
clock!’

She flung down the brilliant tangle of silks,
the velvet she was embroidering, and arose,
wandering restlessly from one magnificent room
to another. Poor child! all alone with her
trouble! The little brown hands were clenched
and burning; the sweet dark eyes were dim
with unspeakable grief; the beautiful blooming
face was no longer a child’s vivid face, lovely
only with innocence and charming coloring:—
it was pale with a woman’s passion and sorrow
Bee but perfect as ever in its sweet, strange
glory.
“His wedding-day !—and I love him so,” she
moaned to herself, over and over, as she wan-
dered about the darkened drawing-room.

Suddenly an exquisite clock somewhere in the
room began a soft, silvery chime—stroke after
stroke, until twelve were told.

She stood still to listen. When the delicate
echoes died aweys she gave a little strangling
cry, clutched at her bosom, and sunk down on
the thick ae She lay there a long time, un-
conscious. Mrs, Rice was about her duties;
there was no one to look after the poor, suffer-
ing child. Nature gradually reasserted her
forces; youth and health struggled with killing
grief; her pulse strengthened, the long dark
lashes were wearily lifted; the sad eyes looked
about in listless wonder; presently Oriole sat
up.and remembered where she was and what
had happened.

“She is his wife now,” she whispered to_her-
self. ‘‘I must be brave. Oh, how wicked I am
to feel as I do! But, my heart is broken, I
wonder if he thinks of me—if he pities me! Of
course he does not. This is his wedding-day ;
he is happy—and proud of her! She is so very
fair and lovely and ladylixe; while Iam a poor
dark little creature of whom he would always
have been ashamed. Ah! if I could be proud,
and not care, instead of loving him so!”

She raised herself wearily and the old restless
roving began again. Up and down-stairs, in
every room, the sad, white face showing a mo-
ment at every window, she. wandered; out of
doors, cae chilly piazzas; then in again,
unquiet as the wind that began to rise and moan
about the mansion.

““T can’t a-bear to see her a-going about like a

host,” remarked Dapple, confidentially, to

rs. Rice, as he ate cold beef and drank beer in
the kitchen, ‘‘It’s dre’dful lonesome for her,
Pook, pretty! I wish she had somebody with

eras was a friend. There’s a sort of desprit

look in her face, like she was thinking of some-
think rash.”

‘“ Not sooicide?” ejaculated the housekeeper.

He nodded his head.
fait That is it,” he said; ‘‘ but I’ll keep an eye on

T, :

And so he did—from a distance—quite unsus-
pected by the wretched child.

“T must not think about him—it is wicked!
This is his wedding-day ; she is his wife now; I
have only to remember that.”

So said Oriole to herself over and over again
that interminable afternoon.

What an afternoon it was! The sunrisin;
had been clear, but, as the morning advanced,
thick clouds had drifted up from the horizon; a
wild, wintry wind had begun to blow. At four
o'clock it was quite dark. Snow was falling
fast, and being whirled into drifts, Shutters
rattled the branches of trees creaked against
the house; Oriole grew more feverish and more
restless. ;

“ Phey will not mind the storm,” she whis-
pered to herself. ‘They have started on their
wedding journey. They are fregeling South as
fast as steam will carry them. It will be warm
and sunny down in Florida; they will be very
happy there! This fierce wind makes me shiver
to hear it. They will be where it is summer; it
is winter here,” and she shuddered. ‘Oh, fa-
ther, father, I wish you were here to take me in
your lap and rock me while I laid my tired
aching head on your shoulder! It is wicked of
me to be so wretched. I know that. Indeed, IT
am trying all I can not to mind it. 0 is
that?
make the

Gh, is it you, Dapple? ‘Yes, please,
dice burn’ as bright as possible: it will

 

THE BLACK RIDDLE.

seem less lonely. No, Ido not care for dinner.
I never could eat all alone, and I am not hun-
gry to-day! Yes, Mrs. Rice may bring me a
cup of tea and aslice of toast by and by, but
not just yet.”

Dapple retired from the room and remained
close by the door in the hall, for he felt anxious
about the pale-faced girl.

“T don’t fancy the look of her; it is desprit,”
he repeated to himself,

In a few minutes he made another excuse to
goinand light the lamps. It was hardly five
o’clock, but dark outside as deepest night. The
wind was still rising, the snow coming down
more thickly. He found Miss Darien standin;
before thecheerful fire he had lately replenished,
and which lighted the somber old library so
bravely, warming the crimson velvet hangings
and playing over the gilded backs of the books,
that she hardly noticed he had added to the
light. He saw that her eyes were tired and
heavy, her young face very white.

‘*Y will bring her the tea directly an’ hadvise
her to drink it,” he said to himself, as he slip-
ped out of the room unnoticed. But, as he
reached the hall, he was surprised to hear the
door-bell ring.

““Who can it be coming ’ere in such a storm?
They wasn’t to return before to-morrow after-
noon. Mebbe it’s Darien himself, come to visit
his daughter? Ill soon see,” and he unfastened
the double door which he had bolted for the

night.

Griole did not hear the bell, or the sound of
voices in the hall; she remained by the fire, her
slim figure, in its dark silk dress, distinctly out-
lined against the golden blaze. The red and
gold of nasturtium blossoms would scarcely
have accorded with her rich young beauty now,
as they did that first day on which Eugene Mor-
ley had gazed on herin admiring surprise. Her
vivid bloom had changed to a colorless pallor;
her attitude was listless; the long black lashes
almost touched her cheeks, as she gazed, with
heavy eyes, into the fire.

“His wedding-day—and T loved him so!” she
murmured once more.

And then an arm slipped about her soft
waist; a tender kiss fell on her forehead; she
was drawn close, close to some one’s warm
breast.

“Have on come back to your poor birdie,
father? Oh, father, my heart is broken; let me
die, ” she cried, with a sob.

“Oriole, my love, my bird, my darling, look
up! It is not your father!”

Who was this, speaking to her? That voice!
—was she in a dream, or was she going wild?
Swiftly the weary lids flew open; she raised
her suddenly-shining eyes and looked in the
face of him who held her,

‘* Bugene!”

‘Yes, my love, my little darling! Eugene,
come ts tell you how he loves you—how noth-
ing os ever again part him from his little
ove

**But—this is your wedding-day! Where is
—your wite?”

‘I have no wife,” he cried, with a joyous
laugh. ‘Thank Heaven, she cheated me—at the
very church door, as one might say! My dar-
ling! my darling! Of whom but yow did I
think the moment they told me she had fled
with her Southern admirer, whose millions had
proved more irresistible than my claims upon
her? She was false, dishonest, avaricious, and
she threw me overboard for a richer man.
They dreaded to tell me the evil news! The
pitied me! Oh, my bright bird, I could laug
to think of their pity! Why, darling, my heart
bounded at the thought of freedom othing
could restrain me from flying to you! They do
not know what has become of me; perhaps the
think I am roving about in the storm, distrac
ed; but, I am here, with you, my sweet one!
Tell me, are you as happy as I am? Oriole, I
did not know how I loved you, until her act
freed me and I was at liberty to think of you!
My darling, speak!—are you as happy as I am?”

his dazzling eyes insisted on their answer.
The wind howled around the mansion, shriekin
derisively down the chimney ; the snow whirle
down and sputtered on the golden fire; but,
what did these lovers know of the storm? The
girl’s glorious eyes drank in the passion and
adoration poured into them from her lover’s.

“And she is not your wife, Eugene?”

‘*No one will ever be my wife, now, sweet
one, until you consent to wear that name.
Oriole, you will be my wife, some day, not so
very far away? I ama poor man;/I cannot of-
fer a any bribe but my love.”

She laughed at the idea of a bribe.

‘You know how I love you; I never could
conceal it,” she said, simply. ‘‘ With me, my
love is my very life.”

Dapple waited—with extraordinary discre-
tion—more than an hour before tapping at the
library door. They did not hear him and he
knocked more loudly. ES.

“T thought as how Miss Darien would be
needing her tea, Mr. Morley; and you yourself,
sir, ’aving ’ad no supper; so Mrs. Rice an’ me
has got up a bit of a tea-dinner, if you'd please
to come out and have some, Miss Darien, and
you, sir.”

 

|

27

““You are very kind,” said Oriole; “I’m not
hungry, Dapple; but perhaps Mr. Morleyis. 1
will bring him out.”

There was a neat little hot supper on the ta-
ble for two. The lovers never could recall of
what it consisted, or tell why it was so strange-
ly delicious; but they lingered over it a long
time, while the butler, deftly attending upon
them, said to himself he had never believed a

entleman could be so ’andsome or a lady so
oe, as this pair were that evening.

“Young master is no longer the heir,” he
thought, ‘‘an’she is only Darien’s daughter; but
I’d rather wait on them than hany other couple
in the wide world! I must just get Mrs. Rice
to pee throug the pantry door an’ see how
’appy they look,” but on going to call ber he
found Mrs. Rice had been looking for herself,
some time, and quite agreed with him that no
beautifuller couple could be found.

“But, I’m dying of curiosity to know what
brought him ’ere to-night, ee

‘* Love it was,” e the butler, wisely; he
had listened at the library door after his mas-
ter’s arrival. ‘‘ Love it was! T’other one jilt-
ed him at the very haltar, an’ he come straight
’ere to the one he liked best,”

CHAPTER XXX.
WHAT THE JUNE ROSES BROUGHT.

Oh, the little birds sung east and the Jittle birds sung
west. ~—Mrs, BRownNING.

She is coming, my own, my sweet!—TENNYSON.

Ir was not without a ee that Irene had
given up youth, beauty, and delight, for the mag-
nificent triumph of being the bride of the dark
little W est Indian, and the sharer of his millions.
The more she was tempted to leave Eugene, the
more charming he seemed to her; but the pas-
sion for money and display, which was her lead-
ing motive, got the better of her romantic
dreams, and—the very night before the wedding
which was to have been—she went. out with the
Sefior, and returned to the hotel, his wife.

Her maid was the only one admitted to her
confidence. This girl had secretly packed Lrene’s
valuables; ‘and the trunks filled with her bridal
finery were to be sent on to Washington after
them; at nine o’clock that evening, the wedded
pair took the train for that city, leaving the
maid to break the news to Mrs. St. Mark.

Whether the Sefiora is happy with ber flery,
but alien husband, or not, no one can say; she
lives a life of extravagant splendor, a great por-
tion of her time being spent in Paris, where her
dresses and jewels rival those of the bonanza

queens.
As Eugene told Oriole, he was immensely
itied and condoled with when the news of her
hight came out; for five minutes he did feel
eved and indignant; but, when he fled from
his sympathetic friends, and was heard no more
from for that day, it was not to the river be had
rushed to drown his sorrows, but to the train
which would take him to her he had tried in
vain to ignore.

His friends were alarmed about him, until
Felix, who was the first to guess the truth, de-
clared his belief that Eugene had gone to Mor-
ley Beeches.

‘*So, mother,” said Felix, with a long sigh
‘you see how foolish it was of me to have had
any hope, Those two were made foreach other;

ving met, it was inevitable that they should
love. It will take me a long time to forget her;
yet, [am glad she is to be happy: Poor Eu-.
gene! he is the rich one, after all! He bas won
a pearl that will make him the envied of men,
I suppose I must be content with the Gathorne
fortune—and with you, my sweet mother,” bend-
ing to kiss her hand, that she = not see the
dew which suddenly clouded his melancholy

dark eyes.
“T am grieved for your grief. my son,” she
answered him, very tenderly. ‘‘I know, how-

ever, that it is not life-long. Oriole has be-
witched you with her strange, bright beauty
and with the:fascination of her innocence an
artlessness; but there isa pure and noble wife,
somewhere in this broad land of ours, waiting
for my Felix to claim her, ard bring ber to our
beautiful home at Morley Beeches,’—and she
smiled hopefully, even joyfully. ‘And now, if
you believe we shall tind Eugene at the Beeches,
we had better follow him thither.”
Which they did. d
Eugene had walked—in the face of the

howling storm—the three miles frcm the
station; these two, arriving by a later train,
were so fortunate as to secure the only convey-
ance the place afforded; and, while the lovers

et lingered over their supper—looking across

he table into each other’s eyes, in sucha fashion
that. they forgot the more serious duty of eating
—mother and son arrived, and Mrs. Rice had to
brew more coffee, and set forth more cold tur-
key and hot oysters; while Oriole, flying into
Mrs. Morley’s arms, and hiding her glowing face
in that kind bosom, begged’ to be forgiven for
not being able to help loving Eugene, and being
so happy,
28

THE BLACK RIDDLE,‘

 

 

~

The following day Zophiel Darien appeared
on the scene.

It was with “fear and trembling” young
Morley approached him on the subject of his
daughter— :

“You shot me once for just touching her hand
to say good-by; dare [ ask you, now that Iam
tree, to give her to me entirely?”

“She is a willful, obstinate piece—just like
her father,” answered Darien, something like a
smile glimmering in his deep-set eyes. ‘‘If she
is determined on having you, Mr. Morley, there
is no use of my setting up an opposition.”

‘You know I am poor,” added Eugene, hum-

bly.

“‘T don’t think Madame Morley will allow you
to suffer,” was the dry reply. ‘‘ And now, let
me say to you, my daughter must finish her
school-year, After that it will be time to talk
of other plans.”

“Go away from Morley Beeches!—back to
to that stupid school!”

“Certainly! My little girl is only seventeen.
If you care for her you will not forget her be-
fore next June,”

And so, Oriole returned to her school; for
Zophiel Darien was as wise as he was deter-
mined; and then, Eugene offered to be Mrs.
Morley’s steward, and really became industri-
ous, by spasms; though Felix had to go over his
work after him.

Poor Eugene! Itwasalonesomewinter! But
it passed in spite of its dullness, while his spring
days were brightened by the surreptitious dis-
covery that his dear step-mother was quietly
preparing any number of exquisite dresses, and
other articles of feminine apparel, which looked
to him like a wedding trousseau.

And then—June came and brought the roses
—and Oriole! Oh, sweetest month of all the
year! If sweet even to us rienced ones—
sweeter than words can describe, with its fresh
green leaferies, and breath of honeysuckle and
wild grape, clover and a world of red, red roses
—how sweet must it have been to those young
lovers, idling away in each other’s company,

the flying days which brought them to their
wedding-day.
Stop here, poor, prosy pen!—do not attempt

to paint the magic of the June weather, the
young loveliness of the bride, the glorious ha
piness of him who had won her! Silence
inost eloquent in such presence!

Eugene really believed he should be perfectly
content, all his days, to live in the ivy-clad
Lodge with Oriole. His friends had other views
for him, however. Among Oriole’s wedding-
presents were a few of the Gathorne jewels and
all her trousseau from Mrs. Morley; and, from
her father—one hundred thousand dollars in
bonds and money!

‘* You find your bride is not portionless, after
all,” said Zophiel Darien to Eugene, with an air
of indescribable pride.

“{ did not dream of this,” murmured the
proud young aristocrat.

‘I dare say not. When I left here I had
saved a few thousand dollars. I was resolved
that my child should be the equal, in fortune,
of the young ladies who scorned her. Perhaps
_ I hoped to purchase happiness for her, since
7 appeared to be the talisman to secure it!

speculated, very cautiously; it must be that
love for Oriole inspired me with extraordinary
prudence, for, where others lost, I won. Igno-
rant of Wallstreet, [became quite famous there,
for lucky ventures. In six months my ten thou-
sand had broadened into more than ten times
that sum. And now, Mr. Morley, it is an in-
tense pleasure to me to dower my daughter,
knowing that she is loved for herself alone.”

They are all wo happy at Morley Beeches.
Mrs. Morley is devoted to her son, who remains
a book-worm and dreamer ;—not discontented—
on the contrary quietly content —while his
gentle mother looks out for him, airong the
aang ladies of their acquaintance, a suitable
wife.

THE END.

 

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1 Latia Rooks. By Thomas Moore........... 10c.

 

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The Ignorant Confounded. For two boys. | A Bevy of I’s (Kyes). For eight or less little girls.
fis Tu at, ARES ll one ale |

e Year's Recko .. Twelve females, one male. | 2
The Village with One Gentleman. For eight females Dime Dialogues, No. 6.

and one male. |
| The Way They
The Poet under
| William Tell. For a whole school.
Woman’s Rights. For seven females and two males.
| Allis not Gold that Glitters. For male and females,
| The Generous Jew. For six males.

as Secret. For male and females.
Difficulties. For five males.

Dime Dialogues, No. 2.

The Genius of Liberty. Two males and one female.

Cinderella; or, the Little Glass Slipper. cs

Doing Good and Saying Bad. For several characters. | Shopping. For + srs ee and ‘egal

are an of e yy Sa eee tonelak | The Votaries of Folly. For a number of females,
Taken in and Done for. For two characters. Aunt Betsy’s Boaux. For fcur females and two

Country Aunt’s Visit to the City. Several characters.

es.
The Two Ro: For two males The Libel Suit, For two females and one male.

|
|
| Christmas Fairies. For several

the Characters. For three males. Santa Claus. For a number of poys. ‘hile.
The Happy Family. For several “‘ animals.” | oh ian
P lao For several characters. The Three Rings. For two males.

The Rain
How to write “Popular ” Stories. For two males.
The New and the Olc. For two males. |
A Sensation at Last. For two males.

The Greenhorn, For two males. |
The Three Men, of Science. For four males. |
The Old ’s Will. For four males.

The Little Philosophers. For two little girls.

Dime Dialogues, No. 7.

The Two eee For fourteen females.
The Earth-Child in ae For girls.

| Twenty Years Hence. 0 females, one male.

How to Find an Heir. For five males. dl hag Pinan. ee ar aces
the Eeosues” eS | The ’Ologies. A Golloquy, For two males. :
The Public M For five mal done female, | How to Get Rid.of a Bore. For several boys.
e eeting. r five les and one female, Snsoky Power Fewer femnal
The English Traveler, For two males. f Boarding-School. For two males and two females.
| Plea for the Pl For two males.

| The Ills of Dram-Drinking. For three eae
| True Pride. A Colloquy. For two females.
| The Two Lecturers. For numerous males.
Two Views of Life. A Colloquy. For two females.
The Rights of Music.» Fortwo females, i

r

A Hopeless Case. ea Verse. Two
The Would-be School-Teacher. For two males.

Dime Dialogues, No. 3.

The May Queen. For an entire school.
Dress Reform Convention. For ten females.

Keeping Bad Company. A Farce. For five males.

Courting Under Difficulties. Two males, one female.

National Representatives. A Burlesque. Four males. | Come to Life too Soon. For three males.
Escaping the Draft. For numerous males. Eight O'clock. For two little girls.

The Genteel Cook. For two males. True Dignity. A Collo: ‘or two boys.
Peay Hamlet and he Ghost per hiro erst
oe La eee oe eee Little Red Riding Hood. For two females.

The Same, Second Scene. For two males,
Showing the White Feather. Four males, onefemale: | New Application of an Old Rule. Boys and
The Battle Call. A Recitative. For one male. Onecare Cousins. A Colloquy. For two prt on

Dime Dialogues, No. 4.

The Frost King. For ten or more persons.

Starting in Life. Forthree males and two females.
Faith, Hope and Charity. For three little girls.
Darby and Joan. For two males,and.one female.
The May. A Floral Fancy. For six little girls.

The Enchanted Princess. 2 males, several females.
Honor to Whom Honor is Due. 7 males and 1 female.

Dime Dialogues, No. 8.

The Fairy School. Fora number of girls.

The Enrolling Officer. For three girls and two boys.
The Base-ball Enthusiast. For three boys.

The Girl of the Period. For three girls. .

The Fow! Rebellion. For two males and one female.
Slow but Sure. For several males.and two females,
Caudle’s Velocipede. For one male and one female.

!
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|
|

For two males and two females. |
\

The Gentle Client. Several males and.one female. The Figures, For several small children.
Phrenology. A Discussion’ For*twenty males. The of Peter Sloper, For seven boys.

The Stubbletown Volunteer. 2 males and 1 female. Getting a Photograph. For males and females.
A Scene from “ Paul Pry.’ For four males. The Society for General Improvement. For girls.

A Nobleman in Dis; . and six boys.
Great Ex tations. For two bone “
Pla; ool, For five femalessand four males. |

Charms. For three males and-one female.

The:
Bee, Clock and Broom. For three little girls.

The. way. AColloquy. For two boys.
What the Leder Says: For ‘two males. x
The Crimes of Dress. A Colloquy. For two boys. | male.

The Reward of Benevolence. Fer four males. A Hard Case. For three boys.

The Letter. For two males. Ghosts, For ten'females and ome male |

| Clothes for the Heathen. For one male and one fe-

|
|

Dime Dialogues, No. 9.

Advertising for Help. For a number of females.
America to ee , Greeting. For two boys.
The Old and the New. For four females and one

male.
Choice of Trades, For twelve little boys.

| The Lap-Dog. For two females.

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|
|
|
1
|

|
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}

|
|
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|

|

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|
|

| How to

| Curing Betsy.

The Victim. For four females and one male,
The Duelist. For two boys.

The True Philosophy. For females and males.
A Good Education. For two females.

The Law of Human Kindness. For two females.
Spoiled Children. For a mixed school,

Brutus and Cassius,

Coriolanus and Aufidius.

The New Scholar. For a number of girls.

The Self-made Man. For three males.

The May.Queen (No. 2).. For a school.

Mrs. Lackland’s Economy. For four boys and three

Is.
stout Women be Given the Ballot? For boys.

Dime Dialogues, No. 10.

| Mrs, Mark Twain’s Shoe. For one male and one

female.
The Old Flag. School Festival. For three boys.
The Court of Folly. For = rls.
Great Lives. For six boys and six girls.

Scandal. For numerous males and females.
The Light of Loye. Fortwo boys.

The Flower Children. For twelve girls,
The Deaf Uncle. For three boys.

A Discussion. For two boys.

The Rehearsal. For a, school,

The True Way. For three boys and one girl.
A Practical Life Lesson. For three girls.
‘he Monk and the Soldier. For two

1776-1876, School Festival. For two girls. —
Lord Dundreary’s Visit. For two males and two

females.
| Witches in the Cream, For 3 girls and 8 boys.

Frenchman. ade. Numerous characters,

Dime Dialogues, No. 11.

ES Lyre are very Deceitful. For six boys

e Conundrum Family. For male and female.

For three males and four females.

Jack and the Beanstalk. For five characters.

The ih Se Do it and Not to Doit. For three females.
ecome Healthy, etc. For one male and one

female
' The Only True Life: For Is.
Bollognien: Wo doteye }

| How to
_ The Vacation Escapade. For

|
{

Classic

I. Gustavus Vasa and Cristiern.

Il. Tamerlane and Bajazet.
Fashionable Dissipation. For two little girls.
A School Charade. For two boys and two girls.
Jean Ingeloy's “ Songs of Seven.” For seven girls,
A Debate. For four boys.
Ragged Dick’s Lesson, For three boys.
Se aaa i Forte be

ery. jionable . For two boys.

A Sell. Wetivee males e
The Real Gentleman. For two boys.

Dime Dialogues, No. 12.

Yankee Assurance. Yor several characters.
Boarders Wanted. For several characters.
When I was Young, For two girls.
The Most Precious Heritage. For two boys.
ae Routie Cure. For two nplee 3, tad a
e Flower-garden Fairies. For five little '
Jemima’s Novel. For three males and two females,

| Beware of the Widows. For three girls.

A Family not to Pattern After. . For ten characters, ;
an-age: An acting’ charade.” ,
four and teacher.

That Naughty Boy. For three fer and ons

male.
Ail ie nat Gold that Gliteers Acting proverb:

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi. Acting

 
q

 

 

 

THE STANDA

Dime Dialogues, No. 13. |
Two O'clock in the ane: For three males,
An Indignation Meeting. lor several females,

Before and Behind the Scenes. Several characters.
The Noblest Boy. A number of boys and teacher.
Blue Beard. A Dress Piece. For girls and boys.

Not so Bad. as it Seems. For several characters.

A Curbstone Moral. For two males and female,
Sense vs. Sentiment. For Parlor and Exhibition.
Worth, not Wealth. For four boys and a teacher.

No such Word as Fail. For several males. |
The Sleeping Beauty. For a school. |
An Innocent Intrigue. Two males and a female.
Old Nably, the Fortune-teller. For three girls, |
Boy-talk. or several little boys: |
Mother is Dead. For several little girls, j
A Practical Illustration.

  

For two boys and girl,

Dime Dialogues, No. 14.

Mrs. Jonas Jones. For three gents and two ladies.
The Born Genius. For four gents.
More than One Listener. For four ~ aes and lady.
Who on Airth is He? For three gir!

The Right not to be a Pauper. For.two boys.
Woman Nature Will Out. For a girls’ seleool.
Benedict and Bachelor. For two boys,

The Cost of a Dress. For five persons.

The Surprise Party. Yor six little girls,

A Practical Demonstration. For three boys.
Refinement. Acting charade. Several characters,
Conscience the Arbiter, For lady and gent.

How to Make Mothers Happy. For two. girls,

A Conclusive Argument. lor two boy speakers.

A Woman’s Blindness. For three girls.

Rum’s Work. (Temperance), For four gents,

The Fatal Mistake. For two young ladies,

Eyes and Nose. For one gent and one lady.
Retribution. Fora number of boys.

Dime Dia!ogues, No. 15.
The Fairies’ Escapade, Numerous characters.
A Poet's Perplexities. For six gentlemen.
A Home Cure. For two ladies.and one gent,
The Good there is in Hach. A number of boys.
Gentleman or Monkey. For two aoe
The Little Philosopher. For two little girls.
Aunt Polly’s Lesson. For four ladies.
A Wind-fall. Acting Charade. For a number.
Will it Pay? For two boys.
The Heir-at-law. For numerous males.
Don’t Believe What You Hear. Yor three ladies.
A Safety Rule. Tor three ladies,
The Chief’s' Resolve. Extract. For two males
Testing her Friends. For several characters,
The aS Troubles. For two ladies,
The Cat Without an Owner. Several characters.
Natural Selection. For three gentlemen,

Dime Dialogues, No. 16.

Polly Ann. For four ladies and one gentleman.
The Meeting of the Winds, For a school.

The Good They Did. For six ladies.

The Boy Who Wins. For six gentlemen.
Good-by. Day. A Colloquy. For three. girls.
The Sick Well Man. Yor three boys.

The Investigating Committee. Wor nine ladies,
A “Corner” in Rogues. For four boys.

The Imps of the Trunk Room. For five girls.
The Boasters. A Colloquy. Yor two little girls.
Kitty’s Funeral. For several little girls,  ~
Stratagem. Charade. For several characters.
eating Her Scholars. For numerous:scholars.
The World is What We Make It. For two girls,
The Old.and the New. For gentleman and lady.

Dime Dialogues, No. 17.

LITTLE FOLKS’ SPEECHES AND DIALOGUES,

To be eee You Must be Good. For two little girls
and one ori

Evanescent Glory. For a bevy of boys.

The Little Peacemaker. For two little girls.

What Parts Friends. For two little girls,

Martha Washington Tea Party. For five little.girls
in old-time costume.

The Evil There is in it. For two young boys.

Wise and Foolish Little Girl. For two girls.

A Child’s Inquiries, For small child and teacher.

The Dae Club. For two girls and others.

How to doit. For two boys.

A Hundred Years to Come. For boy and girl.

Don’t Trust-Faces. For several small boys.

Above the Skies. For two small girls.

The True Heroism. For three little boys.

Give Us Little Boys a Chance; The Story of the Plum
Pudding; Til e a Man; A Little Girl’s Rights
Speech; Johnny’s Opinions of Grandmother; The
Boasting Hen; He Knows der Rest; A Small Boy’s
View of Corns; Robby’s Sermon; Nobody’s Chila;
Nutting at Scancns, Gray’s; Little Boy's View ot
How Columbus Discovered America; Pittle Girl's
View; Little Boy’s Speech on Time: A Little |
Boy’s Pocket; The Mi ‘ht Murder; Robby Rob’s
Second Sermoa; How the Baby Came; A Boy’s |
Observations: The New Slate; A Mother's Love:
The Creownin’ Glory; Baby Lulu; Josh Billingson
the Bumble-bee, Wren, Alligator; Died Yesterday ;

 

| The New, Scholar.
| The Little Intercessor. For four

The Chicken’s Mistake; The Heir aes De-
liver Us from Evil; Don’t Want to be Good; Only a
Drunken Fellow; The Two Little Robins; Be Slow
to Condemn; A Nonsense Tale; Little Boy’s Decla-
mation; A Child’s Desire: Bogus; The Goblin Cat;
Rub-a-dub; Calumny; Little Chatterbox; Where
are They? A Boy’s View; The Twenty Frogs; Go-
ing to School; A Morning Bath; The Girl of Dun-
dee; A Fancy; In the Sunlight; The New-laid Egg;
at oar Musician; Idle Ben; Pottery-man; Then
and Now.

Dime Dialogues, No. 18.

Fairy Wishes, Several characters, male and female.

No Rose Without a Thorn. Two males, one female, |
| Too Greedy by Half. Forthree males.

One Good Turn Deserves Another. For six ladies.

Courting Melinda. For three boys and one lady.

For several boys,

ies.

Antecedents. For three gentlemen and three ladies,

Give a Dog a Bad Name. For four gentlemen.

Spring-Time Wishes. For six little girls,

Lost Charlie: or, the Gipsy’s Revenge. Fornumer-
ous characters,

A little Tramp. For three little boys.

Hard Times. For two gentlemen and four ladies,

The Lesson Well Worth Learning. For two males
and two females.

Dime Dialogues, No. 19.

An Awful Mystery. For two females and two males.

Contentment. Yor five little boys.

Who are the Saints? For three young girls.

California Uncle.
males,

Be Kind to the Poor. A little folks” play.

How People are Insured. A “duet.”

Mayor. Acting Charade. For four characters.

The Smoke Fiend. For four boys.

A Kindergarten Dialogue. For a Christmas Festival.

Personated by seven characters.

The Use of Study. For three girls.

The Refined Simpletons. For four ladies.

Remember Benson. For three males,

Modern Education, Three males and one female,

Mad With.Too Much Lore. For three males.

The Fairy’s Warning. Dress Piece. For two girls.

Aunt Eunice’s Experiment. For several.

the. aes erious G. G. For two females and one
male,

We'll Have to Mortgage the Farm. For one male

and two females.
An Old-Fashioned Duet.
The Auction, For numerous characters.

Dime Dialoguec, No. 20.

The Wrong Man. For three males and three females, |

Afternoon Calls. For two little girls.

Ned’s Present. For four boys.

Judge Not. For teacher and several scholars.
Telling Dreams. For four little folks.

Saved by Love, For two boys.

Mistaken Identity. For two males and three females.
Couldn't Read English. For three males, one female.
A Little Vesuvius. Yor sf little girls.

“Sold.” For three boys.

An Air Castle. For five males and three females.
City Manners and Country Hearts. For three girls

and ane boy.
The Silly Dispute. For two girls and teacher,
Not One There! For four male characters.
Foot-print. For numerons characters.
Keeping Boarders. For two females and three males.
A Curefor Good. For one lady and two gentlemen.
The Credulous Wise-Acre. For two males,

Dime Dialegues, No. 21.

A Successful: Donation Party. For several

Out of Debt Out of Danger. For three males and
three females,

Little Red Riding Hood. For two childrem,

How She Made Him Propose. A duet.

The House on the Hill. For four females,

Evidence enough. For two males,

Worth and Wealth. For four females.

Waterfall. For several. .

Mark Hastings’ Return. For four males,

Cinderella. For several children.

Too Much for Aunt Matilda. For three females.

Wit against Wile, For three females and one male.

A Sudden Recovery. For three males.

The Double Stratagem. For four females,

Counting Chickens Before They were Hatched. Yor
four males, ;

Dime Dialogues, No. 22.
wae Dark Cupid. For three Gentlemen and two

ies.

That Ne’er-do-Well. Two males and two females,
High Art. _ For two girls.

Strange Adventures. For two boys.

The ’s Supper. For four girls.

A Practical Exemplification. For two boys.
Titania’s Banquet. For a number of girls.
Yonsieur Thiers in America, For four beys.

RD DIRE DIALOGUES—Continued.

For three males and three fe- ,

 

| Doxy’s Diplomacy. For three cemases and a num
ber of *‘ incidentals.”

A Frenchman. Yor two ladies and one gentleman.

Boys Will Be Boys. For two boys and one girl.

A Rainy Day. For three oun x ladies

God Is Love. For a number of scholars,

‘The Way He Managed. For two males, two fentaies.

Fandango. For various characte.s, white and other-
wise.

The Little Doctor. For two tiny giris.

A Sweet Revenge. For four boys.

| A May Day. For three little es
From The Sublime to The Ridiculous.
males,

Heart Not‘Face. For five boys.

for rourteen

Dime Dialogues, No. v3.

Rhoda Hunt’s Remedy. For three femaies, one male,

Hans Schmidt’s Recommend. For two males,

Cheery and Grumble. lor two little boys.

The Phantom Doughnuts. For six females.

Does it Pay? For six males,

Company Manners and Home Impoliteness, tor twe
males, two females and two children.

The Glad Days, For two little boys.

Unfortunate Mr, Brown, Forone male, sts females.

The Real cost. For tivo girls.

A Bear Garden, For three males ano two females.

The Busy Bees. For four little girls.

Checkmate. For numerous characters.

School-Time. Fortwo little girls.

| Death Scene. Two principal characters ana adjuncts,

Dross and Gold, Several characters, male and female.

Confound Miller, For three wales and two females.

Ignorance 7's. Justice. For eleven males

Pedants All. For four males,

Dime Dialogues, No 24.

The Goddess of Liberty. For mne youny, sadies

The Three Graces. For three little girls.

The Musie Director. For seven males.

A Strange Secret. For three girls.

An Unjust Man. For four males.

The Shop Girl’s Victory. For 1 mate ana 4 females,
, Lhe Psychometiser. For 2 gentlemen and 2 ladies.
Mean I: No Word For It. For four ladies.
Whimsical. A number of characters of both sexes.
Blessed: Are the Peace-makers Seven young girls.
The Six Brave Men. For six boys.

' Have You Heard the News’ A gossip’s catastrophe.

 

| The True Queen. A colloquy in verse. 2 young girls.
| & Slight Mistake, 4 malee * female and several
auxiliaries,

Lazy and Busy. A dialoguein ROR 10 uttle tetlows,
The Old and the Young. 1 gentleman and 1litfle girl.
; That Postal Card. For 3 ladies and 1 gentleman,

| Mother Goose and Her Household. A whole schoo)
fancy dress dialogue and travestie.

Dime Dialogues, No. 45,

The Societies of the Delectables and Lex Miser bles,
For two ladies and two gentlemen.
| a ie Would Have. Yor six little boys and
| _ teacher.
| Sunshine Throvgh the Clouds. For four tadies,
| The Friend in Need. For four males.
The Hours. For twelve little girls,
| In Doors and Out. For five little boys.
| Dingbats. For one female and three males.
| The Pound of Flesh, For three bays.
| Beware of the Peddlers. Forseven mixed characters,
| Good Words, For a number of boys.
| A Friend. For a.number of little girls,
| The True Use of Wealth. For a whole school,
| Gamester. For numerous characters,
| Put Yourself In His Place. For two boys.
| Little Wise Heads. For four little girls.
| The Regenerators. For five boys.
| Crabtree’s Wooing. For several characters.
| Integrity the Basis of All Suecess. For two males,
| ACrooked Way Made Straight. Gentleman and lady.
| How to ‘Break In”’ Young Hearts. For two ladies
and one gentleman.
1
|
|

|

Dime Dialogues, No. 26.

Poor Cousins. For three et and two gentlemen,

Mountging and Mole-hills. For six ladies and several
spectators.

A Test That Did Not Fail. For six boys.

Two Ways of Seeing Things. For two little girls.

Don’t Count Your Chickens Before They Are
Hatched. For four ladies and a boy.

Allis Fair in Love and War. 3 ladies & 2 gentlemen.

How Uncle Josh Got Rid of the Legacy. For two
males, with several transformations.

| The Lesson of Mercy. For two very small girls,

Practice What You ach. For four ladies,

Politician. For numerous characters.

The Canvassing Agent. For 2 males and 2 females,

Grub. For two males.

A Slight Scare. For 3 females and 1 male.

Embodied Sunshine. Iorthree young ladies,

How Jim Peters Died, For two males.

S

 

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10c
10c

10c
By Rett Winwood......... 10¢
By Jennie D. Burton.. a

1
Mrs. E. F, Ellett.. 10c
Corinne Cushman.. 10¢
he Retribution of a

Mrs. Jennie D. Burton..... 10¢

 

& Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published. Each Issue Complete, Rates,

Library

1 The Masked Bride; or, Wit Soe Marry
Him. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
2 Was It Love? or, CoLLEGIANs AND SWEET-
HEARTS. Wm. Mason Turner, M. D
3 ‘The Girl Wife; or, THe TRUE AND THE
Fausz. By Bartley Tt. Campbell.
4 A Brave Heart; or, STarTLINGty STRANGE,
By Arabella Southworth.
5 Bessie ee the Work Girl. By
Wm. Mason Turner, M. D.
6 The Secret Martens’ or, A DucHEss IN
Spite or Herseir. By Sara Claxton.
7 A Daughter of Eve; or, Buryvep By Love,
By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
8 Heart to Heart; or, Farr Pxay.uis’ Love.
By Arabella Southworth.
9 Alone in the World; or, THz Younc Man’s
Warp. Bythe author of “Clifton.”
10 A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, Taz Emeratp
Neckuace. By Rose Kennedy.
11 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. By
Henrietta ey
12 His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, raz Curtp or
ApopTion. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens.
13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress, By
Corinne Cushman.
14 Why I Married Him: or, THe Woman iw
Gray. By Sara Claxton.
15 A Fair Face} or, Our In THE WorLD. By
Bartley T. Campbell.
16 Trust Her Not}; or, THe Trur Kyicur. By
Margaret Leicester.
17 A Loyal Lover} or, THe Last or THE
Griuspetus. By Arabella Southworth.
18 His Idol; or, Tae Int-Starrep Marriace. By
Mrs. Reed Crowell.
19 The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus
Hate. By Grace Halpine.
20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, THE
Witcues of New York. Agile Penne.
21 Now and Forever; or, Way Dip Suz Marry
Hm. By Hi

enrietta Thackeray.

22 bry eer ae ore. By the author
oO! one in the World,” etc., etc.
23 i Year; or, Way Suz Proposep. By Sara

axton.
24 od Face Was Her Fortune, By Eleanor

ne.

25 Only a Schoolmistress 3 or, Her UNTOLD
Secret. By Arabella Southworth.

26 Without a Heart: or, WALKING ON THE
Brink. By Prentiss Ingraham.

27 Was Shea Coquette ? or, A StRANGE Court-
SHIP. By Henrietta Thackeray. .

28 Sybil Chase: or, THe GamBLER’s Wire. By
Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens.

29 For Her Dear Sake: or, Savep From Him-
SELF. By Sara Claxton.

30 The Bouquet Girl: or, A MILIon or
Monry. By Agile Penne.

31 A Mad Marriage: or, Tae Iron Wi. By

/ Mrs. Mary A. Dennison.

32 Miriana, the Prima Donna: or, RosEs
anD Litres. By A. Southworth.

33 The Three Sisters: or, Tot MysTERy or
Lorp CHautront, By Alice Fleming.

34 A Marriage of Convenience: or, Was
He A Count? By Sara Claxton.

35 Sinned Against: or, THE WinTHROP PRIDE.
By Clara Augusta.

36 Sir Archer’s Bride: or, Tat QUEEN or His
Heart. By Arabella Southworth.

37 The Country Cousin; or, Aut 1s Not Gotp
Twat Guirters. By Rose Kennedy.

38 His Own Again; or, Trust Her Nor. By
Arabella Southworth.

39 Flirtation; or, A Youne Giru’s Goop Nameg.
By Ralph Royal.

40 Pledged to Marry; or, In Love’s Bonps,
By Sara Claxton.

41 Blind Devotion; or, Love AGAINST THE
Wor.tp. By Alice Fleming.

 

 

42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, H1s Seconp
Love. By A. Southworth. — ¥

43 The Baronet’s Secret: or, Tae Riva,
Haur-Sister. By Sara Claxton.

44 The Only Daughter: or, BRoTHER aGAINs?

VER. By Alice Fleming.

45 Her Hidden Foe; or, Love ar Aut Opps.
By Arabella Southworth.

46 The Little Heiress; or, Unprr a Croup.
5 Mrs, M. A. Denison.

47 Because She Loved Him; or, How Wu
ir Env. By Alice Fleming.

48 In Spite of Herself; or, Jennerre’s Rep
ARATION. By 8S. R. Sherwood.

49 His Heart’s Mistress ; or, Love at First
Stent. By Arabella Southworth.

50 The Cuban Heiress; or, THE Prisoner oF
LaVintresseE. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison,

51 Two Young Girls; or, THe Brive or an

52 The Ww Seon Reewees R

the nge essenger 3 or, RISKING ALL

For a Heart. By Mrs. js heed Crowell.

53 Agnes Hope, the Actress; or, THE Ro-
MANCE or A Rusy Rina. By W. M. Turner, M. D.

54 One Woman’s Heart; or, Savep From
THE Street. By George S. Kaime.

55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Stoopme to
Conquer. By Arabella Southworth.

56 Love-Madj3 or, BrrrorHep, Dr-
VORCED AND ——. By W. M. Turner. |

57 A Brave Girl; or, Sunsue ar Last. By
Alice Fleming. Ready December 14th,

58 The Ebon Mask; or, Tor Strance Guarpi-
aN. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Dec. 21st.

59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Brrrrr REpent-
ANCE. By Rachel Bernhardt. Dec. 281!

A new issue every week.

THe WaveERLEY Lisrary is for sale by all News-
dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on
receipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMS,
Publishers, 98 William street, New York.