na
eT iN
ee a a ca a
aa
i
Copyrighted 1877, by BEADLE AND ADAMS.
Single
Vol. Il. Number.
BEADLE AND* ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
No, 98 Wiuui1am Street, New York.
PRICE
10 CENTS.
No. 32.
The Lily of St. Erne.
BY MRS. L. CROW.
CHAPTER I.
WHEREIN A TRAVELER MAKES HIS FIRST APPEARANCE
IN LONDON AND TO THE, READER.
‘* Wuere to, sir?’ asked the cabman, whose Han-
som had just been engaged by one of the passengers
pouring out of a crowded train from Liverpool.
“Where to, sir?”
The gentleman, who had. the bronzed features,
well-developed muscles, and lithe, easy movements
of a man accustomed.to an out-door life, did not an-
swer the question till it was repeated, He was lean-
ing forward Ee surveying the huge glass-
roofed terminus, and the motley throngs of people
hurrying to and fro, with the amused and interested
air of one to whom such a scene has the charm of
novelty. When he did reply, it was with a smile at
his own ignorance.
“Where to? ‘Pon my word, I don’t know. Take
meé to some hotel; —_ can find a decent one, I sup-
-pose?, And be quick about it, for I am half starved.”
The cabman, who had been furtively surveying his
fare,:and drawing his own conclusions from the
strangér’s rather unconventional attire, touched his
hat; ‘and ventured another query.
“West End or city, sir? Some gents like one,
some the tiother. You’re a stranger in London, I
s’pose?”’
a nod checkéd his disposition to be too fa-
r,
miliar.
“My good fellow, I must leave to you the choice of
locality; only take me where I am most likely to get
a glimpse of the sky, and a breath of air. Does the
sun never shine on this murky metropolis?”
‘Lor’ bless ye, sir, there ain't a healthier place in
. the world than this ere London!” he was emphati-
cally told; but gaining no other response than an
incredulous shrug, cabby clambered to his seat, and
made at a brisk pace for one of the palatial hoteis to
be found in the aristocratic purlieus of Belgravia.
He had decided in his own mind that he had got hold
of one of those fortunate men who occasionally find
their: way back from the ‘‘ golden Americas,”’ with
pockets well-lined with the rich ore they have toiled
to gain, Acting on this belief, and the reputed read-
iness of the so-called ducky fellows to submit to be
fleeced, he asked, when his fare ‘alighted, nearly
treble the sum to which he was entitled for the jour-
ney.
But he fell into a strange error when he imagined
that the frank good-humor on which he traded
evinced the weakness of a nature easily duped, The
dark brows of the stranger contracted, the curiously
bright eyes subjected his surly face to a keen scru-
tiny, and he was sharply catechised.
Hit seems a large sum to demand for so short a
vide! Ifit is justly your due, you shall haveit, but I
AN INOPPORTUNE ARRIVAL,
should like to be satisfied on that point before I pay |
you,”
by to make a saucy retort.
“Do you think I wish to cheat you?”
“How can I tell?” he was quietly asked.
“It’s what my Lord Miffington always gives me for
bringing him here,” said the man, in testy tones;
“‘and no real gentleman as knows hisself would think
of offering me less.”
“Then I am nota gentleman, according to your
definition of the word,” was the prompt reply; “for
I never submit to imposition, if I know it.’
“No gentleman?—of course you’re not, or you |
wouldn’t try to wrong a poor chap like me out of his |
hard earnings,” said the cabby, who was beginning
to lose his temper, now he saw no advantages to be
reaped by civility. |
A dark flush dyed the snnaae # cheeks, and his
hands clenched ominously; buf still he restrained |
himself, and, turning from the driver, he appealed
to the bystanders. }
The stranger’s temperate manner encouraged cab- |
“ Will any one kindly tell me how much I ought to
pay this man?”’
A young officer, who was leisurely strolling by, on
his way home from a parade, paused as the appeal
fell on hisear. He had heard the greater part of the
colloquy, and sympathized with the stranger: yet,
with an Englishman’s national unwillingness to in-
terfere in other folks’ affairs, he was still hesitating.
when.a waiter from the hotel came forward an
gave the required information.
‘You are sure of this?’ he was pointedly asked.
“Quite sure that the sum you name is the correct
one?”
As soon’as he had received the required assurance,
the traveler counted out theprecise number of coins
of the’realm, and offered them to cabby, by whom
they were pocketed after some grumbling, and an
attempt to play the bully, that was checked by some-
thing in the air and attitude his fare was taking.
As he turned to clamber to his perch, he was seized
by the collar and swung sharply round; and now
there was a look in the stranger’s face that told how
he had played with fire, when he sought to dupe the
eae young fellow in whose grasp he was
writhing.
« Stay, my man! You have not had all I owe you!
Scoundrel! do you think I shall let he attempt to
rob me go unpunished? ve me his whip, some
one, and T’ll teach him how we serve roguish drivers
at Frisco!” (San Francisco.)
A fracas was now impending, but the officer was
too generous not to make an effort to prevent it; and.
throwing
Someti like a iceiene spasm shot Oe
Charlie Renton’s heart. The beautiful Eleanor, for
whose sake he was ready to leave London at the
commencement of the season, was rarely kind, and
always coy. Sometimes he could have sworn. that
she loved him; but more frequently she held him at
eee a haughty reserve that maddened him,
What if this handsome, dashing Californian found
that favor in her eyes that he could never obtain?
Too proud, however, to let Max see that he feared
a rival, he answered, '‘ Come, if you feel any desire
to see beautiful scenery or oni, deep-sea fishing.
You can have both in the neighborhood of Ruan
Abbey; and if I cannot promise you a welcome from
its owners, I can get you the best of quarters at Jen-
ifer Madron’s, in the village; so I’ll not say good-
by, but au revoir.”
“T wish I had asked him where this Abbey is lo-
cated,” mused Max, as he sat enjoying. his wine,
when, the cloth had been - ‘
sounds so familiar that I must have seen it in my
ce ict aa Tl Bane it ee "iho taded
ccordin, ro e r page of the fade
and almos iMegible peuner! t the Californian
pored, till he found the passage he sought. It was
a brief account of a tour along the coast, made in
the writer’s boyhood, and contained these words:
“Rode with my cousin, John Penruan, as far as the
Abbey, from which he takes his name. He was half
offended because I said it was a pity that such a fine
building should be falling to decay, and quite fiercely
asked me what a man could do who had no money. He
is a strange, unsociable fellow, and I have been warned
to avoid him.”
Beneath these lines, arid evidently written some
years afterward was the following note:
“John Peruan is rich enough now. to rebuild the
old Abbey, for news has Re alee me that he is married
to the widow of a millionaire.”
“Tt’s the same!” said Max, sagely nodding his
head; ‘‘and I must contrive to time my visit to Ru-
an Abbey so that I may meet this pleasant, gentle-
manly, new acquaintance of mine. I wonder what
he meant by saying that his presence is only toler-
ated at the Abbey? Perhaps wealth has not im.
The name’
proved Mr. Penruan; but.if he is not, a genial host,
why does Captain Renton insist-on visiting him? It
es me that I am just turning over the first page
of a romance, of which the Fe nt in is the
hero; but I shall know more about it I honor
Mr. Penruan with a call... if cae
Fresh from the ungepstiontngs good-fellowship of
Californian life, and imbued with @-notion that every
one whoyhad: known and loved his excellent father
would, for his sake, rejoice to see ee ax Hav-
ig maade no further delay in: was in-
volved in a visit to Poole’s ere, went down into
Cornwall. But a lapse of thiby or f years had
effected...great...alterations,...The.-lovely. scenes de-
scribed in the journal of the elder eryng were
there, just clothed in the first soft tints of early
spring, but the friends of his boyhood were@ispersed
or dead. His name was ;almost “sargriien, and
though eee to whom Max. led_it were
civilly mS to see him, no one testified that cor-
diality he had anticipated. It was, therefore, witha
feeling of unwonted depression that_he found him-
self one evening ing the huge bell in the poreh
of Ruan Abbey, and speculating, the..while,whether
it would not have been wiser to give up all ho;
1 being welcomed by a kinsman, and return to
ondon,
CHAPTER II.
SHOWING THAT THE TRAVELER WAS NEITHER LODGED
AT RUAN ABBEY, NOR AT JENIFER MADRON’S.
By the brisk little woman who answered his sum-
mons, Max was informed.that the,family was from
home, ‘The master had gone to Penzance,to attend
a meeting of an areheological soci and had
taken the mistress with him and Miss “leanor, and
fey would be away for a week certain, if not
longer.
On the whole, Max was more relieved than sorry
that his interview must be postponed with the re-
doubtable gentleman, whose name had never been
mentioned in his hearing without a shrug or an ex-
clamation, the precise meaning of which he had
not been able to learn. People are chary.of spread-
ing eyil reports when the object of them is. im-
mensely wealthy and revengeful; and it was well
understood that it was an unwise act to offend Squire
Penruan,
“No, I'll not leave my name,”’ Max said, when the
woman left in charge of the Abbey suggested it,
“T am a stranger here, and prefer to introduce my-
self to Mr. Penruan when he returns home. I am
told that the neighborhood is very Pees so
T'll amuse myself with exploring it. I suppose I can
get a bed in the village? By the by, where is it? I
ave not seen any signs of it yet.”
The housekeeper, who was attracted by Max’s
handsome face and lively manner, would dearly have
liked to offer him the hospitality of the Abbey till
her master came back, but she dared not do this,
and was obliged to content herself with explaining
that there were not any houses nearer than the few
cottages une on and around a rugged promon-
tory, about half a mile away, called St. Erne’s
Point. Just beyond the 5 pons jowever, there lived
a decent widow named Madron, who sometimes ac-
commodated artists or invalids, and the gentleman
might be able to get a bed at her house.
“Of course I shall,” said Max, cheerfully; ‘for it
is to this identical old lady I am recommended. I
am sorry I have kept you out in the cold solong. If
you will tell me how to find my way to St. Erne, I'll
not detain you any longer.” =
The housekeeper looked out into the misty twilight
and cogitated.
“I’m afraid, sir, you’ll have to follow the road,
though it’s more than a mile round, for, you see, it’s
growing duskish; and, even in broad dayi ht, the
path down the cliffs is steep and awkwa’ ‘or any-
wii ae patie cota pt 4 the a were
at home they co e you, but. they’re awa,
to the fair at” Mi 7 r.
“Tell me where this path is to be found,” said
Max, ‘“‘and I'll go and have a look at it. I’ve walked
so many miles to-day, that I’m not in the humor to
add another to the number, if I can help it,”
The woman gave him the necessary directions,
ore with them the assurance that he would find
the longest route the safest; then, shive: in the
raw air of the cold a evening, she went to
her cosy room; while Max, whistling a lively air,
shouldered his little traveling-bag, and strode to the
edge of the tall cliffs, on whose summit the Abbey
was built.
A ee! track, scarcely discernible by the fadin,
light, sloped downward betwixt two huge masses o:
serpentine rock; and, after descending cautiously
for some fifty paces, a sudden turn in the path en-
abled him to obtain a v! pretty view of the beach
far below him, He could hear the measured beat of
the waves as they rolled in upon the shingle, and the
voices of a dozen fishermen, who, as they strolled
home together, were lustily chanting an o] sea-song
with excellent effect. alf unconsciously, Max
Haveryng hummed the chorus, as, mellowed by the
distance, it came floating toward him, not a thought
of danger troubling his hardy spirit as he pursued
his way, and never doubting that every. top was
carrying him nearer and nearer to the lights that
were beginning to twinkle in the fishers’ dwellings.
But presently, to his great vexation, he found all
further progress barred by a steep descent, so-pre-
cipitous that it was impossible to obtain good hold.
e had evidently dondueree to diverge from. the
regular track, and must retrace his way to the spot
where he had left it—no ve: peas peaeee toa
weary man, wholly ‘fmacquatn with the locality,
and still further bewildered by the deepening gloom.
Yet, unhesitatingly, Max plodded on, sometimes
stumbling over the sharp crags, sometimes ascend-
, Sometimes descending, once more he stood
on a eae from which the beach and the sea
were distinctly visible.
With an impatient sigh, he leaned his back against
the cliff, and rested awhile. In spite of his dogged
Paneranare he could not flatter himself that he
ad regained the track, and the question now was
whether it would be easier to go down or up before
it acgene ae dark oe sh either. It ae ie
cided for more n 7] e
stepped forward to eta the face of t nights
that. towered above :him;.a stone, on-which:he had
too incautiously stepped, rolled from under his foot,
i
THE: LILY OF ST. ERNE. 3
and Max lost his.equilibrium. He tried hard to re-
ain it, but so narrow was the ledge on which he
ed been standing, that it wasimpossible. Still he
did not lose his presence of mind, but, as he rolled
over and over, arappes at whatever might assist in
breaking his fa’ ll, and. finally contrived to clutch a
mass of, rock, to which he ung, bruised and pant-
ing, uttering hoarse eries for ‘help, which no one
heard but the wild birds his voice startled from their
eep. :
fp made ;désperate efforts to raise himself onto
the rock, but his arms had lost their power, and one
of his ankles gave him exquisite pain. He could not
hold on much, longer, unless some one came to his
aid, and who would—nay, who could? Even if it had
been light enough for any one on the beach to aad
him, it would have been impossible to render any ef-
ficient help, for his wanderings had carried him to
one of the most inaccessible parts of the cliffs.
And yet he was so near one of the cottages, a
quaint little structure, perched on a small, three-cor-
nered bit of level ground, and approached from the
beach by some rudely-cut steps, that he could hear
a female voice singing ‘ The Sands of Dee.” Strange
thoughts were evo. ed by the plaintive pong. Would
any one seek for him, as they sought for the golden-
haired Mary? Would his final res ing-place be those
hungry waters, whose. ceaseless lapping now sound-
ed so near, or would his mangled remains molder
in some cleft of these darkly-veined cliffs, and no
one ever learn his aaaPy, fate?
A sob burst from his laboring chest, and he made
one more mighty effort to raise himself, Once on
the summit of this projection, he would be in com-
parative safety until the morning dawned, when his
shouts or signals would surely bring some one to the
rescue; but the effort was in vain, and he felt that he
was rapidly growing exhausted. [
And yet, oh, heavens! he was so young to die—
and to die thus! He glanced upward; the stars were
beginning et the vail of night, and look down
upon him, as it in mockery, or to teach him resig-
nation? He knew not, for, his relaxing hands were
slowly, surely slipping from their hold; he felt that
he was falling—not as before, from crag to crag, but
down, down in .one swift rush; and then he remem-
bered no more, but lost himself in a troubled vision.
wherein he. wandered in the primeval forests of
America, pursued by Indians, whose arrows were be-
ing launched at his quivering flesh.
t last his tormentors vanished, and he awoke
from the long trance of insensibility, But still those
torturing pains were in his head and limbs, forcing
from him a moan of agony, :
It was, echoed by a feminine voice, to which an-
other, in sharper tones, murmured a rebuke; and
then Max heard some one say, in low, thrilling ac-
cents, ‘‘I could not help it! He suffers so frightfully,
it rends my heart to see him!”
“Take the child away,” said some one else, “‘ ’tis
no fit sight for her.”
“But I'll not be taken away, Uncle Dan!” replied
the sweet, girlish voice, which was surely the same
that Max had heard singing the plaintive ballad.
“How can I be content to leave him till he is easier?
Don’t sit by so calmly! Surely you can do. some-
thing more for him?”
“Nay, nay, child; but I.cannot,” said the old man.
“And ‘twouldn’t be o’ no use if I could. T’ain’t in
natur’ that he should live after falling from Ruan
cliffs, ashe must ha’ done. I ha’ set his broken leg—
and let old Dannel Calynack alone for doing that as
well as a town surgeon—-and we can’t do no more,”
“Only stand here and see him writhe with suffer-
ing} h! but it is_too terrible!” sighed the girl.
““Why did you not let me send for Doctor Treloar?
It is not too late to do that now. .Dear Uncle Dan,
pray go and seek some one who will do my errand,
and I will pay them handsomely!”
“‘Nay,’’. said the other female; ‘“Doctor Treloar
must not come here; you are mad to propose it! Let
the stranger be carried hence if. he must have fur-
ther advice.”
““ What!” cried the girl, indignantly; ‘‘ jolted over
miles of rough road in a cart, to die, RereaDe, on the
way; or else consigned to the stifling hovel and rude
hands of one of the fishwives! I will not hear of
such barbarity. It was I who saw the stranger fall,
as I ran to meet Uncle Dan; but for this, he might
have lain helpless and untended till the morning;
and having found him, it is plainly our duty to take
care of him till he recovers, or—”
She could not bring herself to name the alterna-
tive; but her reasoning was not conyincing to her |:
ea who answered with great aigewicenee,
“In ordinary cases I should agree with you, but
there are your own risks to be considered. Do you
quite forget these?”
“T cannot always be thinking of myself!’’ was the
hasty reply; “ nor will I let any personal considera-
tion teach me to be unfeeling.”
The elder female. commenced a tart response; but
ere she had uttered half a dozen. reproachful words,
the old fisherman, who had designated himself) as
Daniel Calynack, gravely interfered.
“Do ’ee be quiet, Esther, wench; there’s no harm
done by letting the child have her way, for the poor
lad’s a’most at. his last. Let ’un die in peace, my
soas—let ’un die in peace!”
Max heard the girlish voice breathe an inarticulate
murmur, half sigh, half sob; and, in spite of his
aches aad pains, he ‘longed to be able to relieve her of
her generous anxiety on his account. If he eould but
shake off the numbing faintness that pervaded every
sense, how gladly would he reassure I
“Poor youth!” said the elder female, approaching
his prostrate form, and speaking with more pity
than she had hitherto,evineed. ‘‘Dan is right; he
will not trouble us much longer; he is dying,”
y eee I am not!” Max feebly ejaculated, the
ollow,
him. “Ihave had a nasty tumble, but I'm going to
get over it.” - : aiaee
There must haye been something ludicrous in this
assertion, or olse in the effect it had upon the watch-
fo Burtt to Aoplag aster eke ti Bless
or » Tip; p ? 8 Si
that followed. aol
Tt was, however, instantly repressed; there was
some, whispering between the inmates of. the cot-
tage, and then, as Max an to dreamily gaze
around, the elder female returned to the low pallet
on which he had been laid, and: firmly but gently
\pressed down the lids of his aching eyes,
1, at-away sound of his own voice startling |
“Not. to-night,” she said. ‘‘Carry the light into
the other room, Uncle Dan, and then‘come and make | of the form stretched on Dan’s
vate patient understand that he will grow feverish if
e attempts to talk,” .
“But just let him tell us where his friends are to be
found,” Max heard the girl interpose. “‘He may
have a mother with whom we ought to communicate
immediately. You are a stranger here, are you not,
sir?’’ she added, ete herself to the sufferer.
“Will you give us the address of your relatives,
that we may send for them? Where are they to be
found?’’ she queried again, on receiving no answer.
“In heaven!” said Max, confusedly. ‘‘ Address
did you say? Aquas Dolces, valley of the Sacramen-
“He is delirious, my dearest child; do come away!”
whispered the elder female; but Max distinctly felt
a warm tear fallupon his cheek before her wishes
were complied with, and he was left to the care of
Daniel Calynack, whoever that worthy individual
‘ht be.
a time sped on for the following week or two he
scarcely knew, for the injuries he had received in his
fall were such serious ones that he was too ill to raise
himself from his pillow. But, he was conscious that
a gray-haired, weather-beaten old man in the rough
garb of a fisherman, rarely left his side; and that
once or twice a face, so fair and sweet as to be al-
most angelic, had bent over him as he lay. But when
the feverish ae disappeared, and though
weak and helpless as a child, he was clear-headed
and capable of conversing rationally once more, the |
cottage appeared to have no other inmate than the |
fisherman, who sat on a low stool at the foot of the
t deal of |
bed, repairing one of his nets.
“Tam afraid I have given you a
trouble,” said Max, the first time he felt equal to an
open conversation with the silent but pleasant-look-
ing old Cornishman.
‘Nay, nay; not hafe so much. as them dog-fish, rot
‘em!’ was the reply. ‘‘Look’ee here, at the rents
they ha’ made in these meshes—more nor I shall fill
up in another hour, I knows.”
“Tl buy you a new net, if you'll only put that
down, and talk tome. I have so much to ask you,”
cried Max, eagerly.
“Talk away, lad, if it don’thurt’ee; andkeep your
money. in your pocket.. I don’t want to be paid for
istening.’
“Tellme, then, how long have I been here?”
Dan. put his thumb against his teeth, and mused.
“River sin’ last Friday was a week,
““And how and where did you discover me?”
“ How?—why, doubled up. Where?—not a hun-
dred yards from my owndoor, Ishould haye passed
ye, though, for I’d my oars and my nets on my shoul-
SOE Se Sapne: up, I was, fro’ the boat—if she hadn’t
*a’ said—”’
“Who is she?” interrupted Max.
“Tf she hadn’t ’a’ said,” the old man repeated.
‘note that a-lying there, Uncle Dan?’ An
en—”’
“And then,” his impatient hearer went on, “‘you
brought me here, and have nursed me most kindl
ever since. God bless you for it! But who was it
that first saw me?”’
Dan threaded his huge needle with coarse twine
very deliberately before he replied.
‘*'Well, if Pig ha’ answe! the question yoursen,
why need /? "Tain’t my grandmer nor my great
aunts that calls me uncle!”
“Then it was your niece to whom I am indebted.
I should like to her, Where is she?”
““Gone back to where she came from.”
“Then she does not live with you?” said the disap-
pointed Max.
““Nows and thens she do,’’ was the brief answer.
“Is it because I am here that she has left you?”
* Ain't you. a-tal more nor’s good for you?”
queried Dan, instead o: replying to the question,
“Tf you think so, why don’t. you answer me more
sentir Is it.on my_ account that your niece has
quitted the cottage? If I rm in the way—if Iam
trespassing too long on your hospitality—pray tell
me so at once!”
“Nay, lad,” said Dan, comi to his bedside.
“You're as welcome as a fair wind; and I’d be loath
to let ge go till ’'ve cured ye out and out! The child
went, because Esther said it was best for her; and
now ve maunt ask me no more questions about her,
for I sha’n’t answer them! It’s time ye had some-
oe to eat, and I mun go and cook it.”
“T dare say old Dan is quite right to keep his
retty niece out of the way,”’ Max concluded; “for
if she is as charming as she seemed to me when I
was half delirious, I should certainly not be able to
resist falling in love with her, Still I should like to
see her once again, if only: to ascertain whether my
eyes played me false when they pictured her so
beautiful,”
That she had not removed to any it distance
he felt convinced, for every evening he heard the
rustle of feminine earenentty and the whispering of
voices in the little kitchen adjoining his chamber;
and dainty dishes were served up to him, as his ap-
petite improved, which certainly surpassed old Dan’s
eulin skill to concoct. Yet neither the female
called Esther, nor the gentle girl who had so gener-
ously compassionated his ee came near him;
and, having nothing else to do, he gave way more
and more to the curiosity that tormented him.
Sometimes he felt indignant that his honor should
be suspected by the relatives of this fair young crea-
ture; sometimes, in more rational mood, he com-
mended their prudence in secluding her. But, in
each and every mood, he longed to behold her; and
at last; chance gave him the opportunity he sought.
L one evening in the moonlight, listening to
the sounds that proclaimed her presence in the ad-
joining room, he heard Dan quit the cottage on some
errand. Had his niece accompanied him? No. He
could hear a light footfall occasionally, and the fire-
Hae that gleamed through a crack in the door was
obscured, ever and anon, as she flitted to and fro.
Should he call her? Should he entreat her to
come and speak to him? Nay, the sound of his
‘veice-would probably be a signal for he: ight,
Me tathesd theGik Bubtncetiti tone
ea. But he could not be centent
without an effort to break down the barrier raised
between them; and seizing a hi herbal, the onl
book Dan had been able to find for his amusement,
he dropped it heavily upon the floor.
As he had ee ene door flew open, and the
girl peered doubtfully into the room; but it wasso
»
dark that she.could but just Sistine ish the outlines
She spoke; but receiving no answer, she Alenped
er
| nearer and nearer to the invalid, murmuring to
self the while, ‘‘ He is worse; he has fainted! What
shall I do to revive him?”
Though half ashamed of the ruse he was Brae
ticing, Max lay pete still, until her trembling
ers touched hi ist, and then he ventured to
relieve her fears.
“Thanks!” he whispered; ‘‘Iam better. But pray
do not go away!” for already she was retreating.
“You cannot know how I have pro to see you,
and thank qo. for your sympathy! , do not leave
me yet!’ If you could imagine how miserably de-
pressing it is to lie here, day after day, seeing no
one, speaking with no one but old Dan, you would
take pity on me!’
The face, which the hood of a waterproof wrapper
partially eoncealed, was turned toward him while he
spoke, and Max mentally anathematized the dark-
ne yok hindered him from bebolding it more
clearly.
“You must be lonely, indeed!’ she said, in com-
miserating accents. ‘ ly not apprise your friends
where you are?” :
‘*Beeause I have none in England. I_am a Cali-
fornian, traveling here for my own amusement. .I
do a ow a creature who would.care to come. to
me!” :
“Then you were not raving when you talked of
the Sacramento and San Francisco?” and she insen-
sibly lessened the distance she had been so carefully
preserving. ‘And you will be returning to your
own country, I suppose, as soon as_you are well
proper
“Most certainly I shall.”’
Before he could say another wovd, Dan Calynack
put his head in at the door, growling out something
etween a reproach and an.inpuiry; but, with an
imperative gesture, he was silenced.
“I -choose to talk to your patient, uncle Dan; and I
shall come to see him to-morrow, and bring him
a books, He is a stranger—an American; and—
and—"’
She finished her sentence in a whisper, intended
for the ears of the fisherman alone; but Max felt
certain that he caught the words, “ Zhere is nothing
to be feared from him.”
Dan gave a dissatisfied cough, for which he was
summarily dismissed.
“Go pat and light your lamp, uncle. I will
come and talk to you directly.”
As the old man, with. evident reluctance, obeyed,
his reputed niece turned once more;to Max.
“Can you give me some proof that you are what
you represent yourself?”’
“My pocket-book contains papers that will attest
my veracity,” he answered, ‘I had. it in my pos-
session before I fell.”’
“Uncle Dan found it. at the foot of the cliffs, to-
gether with a traveling-bag, which must be your
property. You shall show me the proofs I require,
and te me your name, to-morrow. Till. then,
adieu.
She was gone, but she had left one token of her
presence, which Max contrived to secure, and exam-
ined at his leisure. It was a handkerchief alghity
scented with a fashionable extract, and marked with
a floral monograph, which he was not sufficiently
versed in ladies’ work to decipher. Was it custom-
ary for the nieces of Cornish fishermen to carry such
dainty articles as this little mouchoir ?
Max Haveryng was one of the most practical of
men, andapt_ to find very. matter-of-fact reasons for
everything that perplexed him. But he had heard
words spoken that. implied a mystery, and he could
not help dwelling on them more persistently than
before, now that, this Ait, of pentarped cambric
was lying beneath his pillow, and the refined accents
of the young girl haunting his memory.
Would she come, as she had promised, and should
he learn her true history from her own lips?
He would have questioned Dan, but the old man
was more silent than ever, though Max contrived to
startle him out of his stolidity by one suggestion he
hazarded.
‘Dan, Iverily believe that the young lady you call
your niece is the much vaunted beauty of the Abbey
—the belle of whom I heard long before I reached
this part of Cornwall, Eleanor Penruan.”
The old fisherman stared at him in amazement, but
ed his broad shoulders when Max had finished
sp and answered, quietly enough: ‘ My lad,
e haven't got the craze out of your brain yet. Miss
eanor is no more like my little lassie than you are.
and she’s too proud to cross the thrastile ” (threshold)
‘of Dan pas cottage.”
“Tell me, then—”
But Dan was gone before his guest could get any
further; and Max went to sleep that night with the
word “to-morrow” upon the lips that impatience
had fevered.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH. MAX HAVERYING HEARS AND SEES MUCH
THAT PERPLEXES HIM,
Tue sun shone pleasantly through the queer little
latticed casement of Max Haveryng’s chamber on
the following morning, and the day was so warm'as
to warrant insisting thatthe door, opening into
the adjoining room, should be kept ajar, that he
might watch for the ‘arrival his ineipaiond visitor.
Never had the weariness of lying helplessly there
seemed greater than on this forenoon, when, having
performed the toilet of a sick man, with a precision
which made the deep-set beady eyes of old Dan
twinkle comically, he lay awaiting the arrival of the
a girl, whose charms—imagined rather than be-
éld—had taken such a hold on his excited brain.
Would she come alone, or would the person she
had called: Esther preside at the interview? These
were some of the questions with which he tormented
himself as hour after hour passed away, and still no
one entered the cottage but a fisherman who.came
a-borrowing, and some children who liked te hever
about its: good-natured owner. Even the ordinary
sounds on the beach died away as the.god of day be-
gan to draw toward'the west, and nothing broke the
silence but the steady wash of the rising tide, to
which Max listened till lulled by it into a doze,
When he awoke, the last rays of the sun were
glinting through the open door, and falling upon a,
|
}
'
|
|
|
|
|
\
$$$
figure seated upon the roughly-made three-legged
Soom aah formed the customary resting-place of
° an,
Max, regarded this figure doubtfully, drew his
hands ‘across his eyes, then looked again, yet. still
found it difficult to believe that he saw aright, Cer-
tainly he beheld the same sweet face, of which he
ad ‘caught a transient glimpse on the preceding
evening, but it was framed in the somber cap of a |:
‘you, or them?
widow...
At the feet of’ his visitor lay the hooded wrapper
she had heen wearing, and a slight girlish form was |:
revealed, garbed in the deepest but. simplest. mourn-
ing. No attempt at ornament reliev , not even
the folds and puffs with which the ladies of the pres-
ent day contrive to embellish even the tokens of
bereavement;'and the very simplicity of the high
body and long, loose sleeves lent additional youthful-
ness'to her appearance,
Involuntarily Max glanced at the little hands fold-
ed in her lap, and looking purely white as Parian
marble against thé sable dress. Yes, there shone
the golden circlet, the emblem of matrimony; and
once’ more his eyes eee her face, as if to learn
there how it could be that this delicate young crea-
ture was not only a wife, but a widow.
We have already said that she was pale, but that
Voter Oho denotes the tint of a complexion, so
healthy, although so colorless, that the crimson of
her lips gained in intensity by the contrast. There
was ‘something absolutely childlike in her blue orbs,
with their native but dreamy expression, as though
the womanly instincts of her ee were not awak-
ened; yet the pose of her small head was so dignifi-
ed, that Max was, ana enough, reminded of a pic-
ture he had once beheld of a captive queen enduring
the taunts of her conquerors.
‘She bore the long scrutiny the young man bestow-
ed upon her with tolerable composure; but at last
the steady set of her rosy mouth seemed to be on the
int of relaxing into an amused smile, and, becom-
ng conscious of his rudeness, he stammered an em-
barrassed, “I beg your pardon.”
“Do not’ mention it,’ she answered, demurely, yet
with just such.a dash of hauteur or independence of
his good opinions, as a princess might have testified
when con lescending to visit one of her subjects.
“T saw that you were scarcely awake, and confused
me with Uncle Dan; so I thought it only kind to sit
still, and wait till your faculties became clearer.”
Confuse her graceful figure and delicate features
with thosé of the weather-beaten fisherman! Noth-
ing could be more impossible; but Max had the good
sense to keep his convictions to himself.
Producing knitting-pins and a huge ball of worsted,
the widow began to work rapidly at one of the blue
Jerseys the Cornishmen ordinarily wear, talking the
w to the invalid with an equable manner and
voice, comically at variance with the disturbed looks
and short, agitated sentences of the invalid.
“Are — sure you are better, Mr. Haveryng?”’ she
said, at last. “Are you quite certain that you can
bear the presence of a visitor, because—”
She made a movement as if to rise, but Max,
aroused by the dread of losing her, eagerly entreat-
ed ler to keep her seat. He was almost well, he
declared; it was only his broken leg that kept him a
prisoner, and nothing would do him so much good
as a little cheerful conversation,
She smiled slightly at his impetuosity; but neither
that, nor the passionate admiration his looks be-
trayed, stirred her from her composure. Lither
this girl-widow was accustomed to such homage, or
too indifferent to be more than amused by it.
“T will stay, then, she Se made answer,
“until fen begin to feel tired; only I must warn you
that I listen better than I talk; therefore you will
not find me a very enlivening companion.”
Max could have replied that he should be quite
content to lie still and gaze at her; but her’ digni-
fied, quiet repose, which he thought so lovely; for-
bade: anything like flattery or Pelt catnae It is
true that either the one or the other would have
glanced off harmless, for she betrayed none of that
consciousness of her own fascinations which fre-
quently mars the beauty of the fairest; and Max,
accustomed to the coquetries of the Spanish Ameri-
ean belles, perceived in a moment that she was of a
different order of beings to the Donnas Elvira and
Clara of his native land,
She had warned him that he must make the con-
versation; but it was some time before he could do
more than blurt out a trite hope that he had not
been the cause of her absence from the cottage.
“Not entirely,” was the frank reply. ‘I do not
like strangers; nor should I be here now if I did not
com jonate your dullness.”’ :
“But Dan must miss you dreadfully!” the! young
man hazarded. :
“Why? Has he ever said sapling te that effect?
Unele Dan might have told yow that he‘is too bts
to miss ‘any one. | Besides, I never have resided wit.
him constantly.” hors
“Then your home is in the neighborhood?” was |
OT
the eager comment upon her words. guessed as
much, I felt convinced that you were here fre-
ently, though you have never approached me.
But you will not avoid me any longer—I shall see
you often, shal) I not?” 2 itr rT
She flashed ai him a reproof for the curiosity his
last-words had betrayed.
“T shall not care to come at all if it be solely to
hear myself catechised.
He apologized, and tried to e
xplain.
“ Pray forgive me if I have seemed too inquisitive. :
You must acknowledge that, under the cireum-
stances, my questions were excusable, for how can I
help wishing to know more of a person to whom I
= ri the kindness I have received since my acci-
ent?”
But she would not accept the thanks he hastened
to tender.
sf , Mr. Haveryng, it is not to me you owe
all this.gratitude. It was Uncle Dan who brought
you here, and who has neglected his fishing to nurse
‘ou,?”
a “Butit was you,” he persisted, ‘who prevailed
upon him to do this—who refused to hear of my be-
ing carried clsewhere. Can I ever forget how gen-
erously you pleaded in my behalf?”
A trausient fash: crossed her face, but she did not
raise her eyes from her knitting.
“Do not praise me, for Iwas neither so generous
nor sympathetic as you imagine, but merely excited
THE“FIRESIDE "LIBRARY.
by—by eyents.to which your accident ‘was the cli-
max; and inclined to think my friends unfeeling,
when, in reality, they were only prudent.”
“Shall I lay myself open again to the charge of
undue curiosity,” said Max, rather resentfully, ‘if
Tinquire what imprudence there could be in. shelter-
ing'an inoffensive and wounded stranger?. Surely
year friends didnot imagine that I could ever be
ase enough to do or say anything that would injure
But the fcey uestion was evaded. :
“Perhaps Uncle Dan was studying the interests of
the community at large,” said the young widow, -de-
murely, her fingers moving faster than ever. “There
was a gentleman..staying at_Jenifer. Madron’s last
summer, who forgot to pay his bill before he left.
Besides, our Cornish lassies ‘are pretty and vain; and
Unclé Dan may have concluded that handsome stran-
ers, like Mr. Haveryng, are dangerous guests at St.
me. noe
Max laughed and reddened.
“T have ceased to believe in my Fora looks, since
Dan permitted me a peep at myself this morning in
his shaving-glass. By’ no’ stretch of fancy ‘can’ I
ae the ‘gaunt, haggard Max Haveryng, who
lies here, dangerous to the hearts of A mermaid-
ens. By the by, they never appear
are they?”
“Just now, do you mean? On the little pier, bare-
footed, fetching coals from the a of Newcastle,
in baskets slung on their backs. But they will be
smart enough o’ Sundays, when they have donned
their best gowns and bonnets,” _
‘““And till I ¢an limp to the quay of which you
speak, I suppose I must be content to wait for a
4 se of these charming lassies,’’ said Max, trying
to bring the conversation closer to themselves; “for
Dan has so few visitors that I could fancy myself
prisoner rather than.a fest ,
He saw her start and bite her rosy lip, but went on
still more boldly.
“Even you—his relative—have come and gone
again and again without permitting me to see you.”
“How do’ you know that?” she asked, abruptly.
her cheeks ‘no longer emulating the white rose, bu’
its brighter rival. :
“ An adventurous life’ has sharpened my sense of
hearing,” was thé smiling reply; “‘and lying here in
my solitude, I have learned to distinguish your step
from any other. You must not imagine that you
can ever come here —— without my knowing it.”
The knitting-was flung on the floor, and she start-|
ed to her feet, half angry, half frightened.
eT il not come here at allif you set so closea
watch upon me! Why have you done this?”
Alarmed at the consequence of his avowal, Max
raised himself on his elbow, and implored her to re-
sume her seat,
“T will not do anything to displease you—on my
honor, I will not! shall consider iat very un-
fortunate if a eagee to see a friendly face occasion-
ally, coupled with my regrets that you avoided me,
have Jed me to say or do anything that annoys you!’
She stood for a few seconds, her eyés cast down,
her features working as if she were communing with
herself; then, returning to her seat, she picked up
her work.
“Tam not as I tie that you are
ill, and that invalids are privileged to have strange
whims and fancies. No doubt you have mistaken
for me old _ fy ewe who een called here
to bring some dainty of her own cooking for your su;
i "You are equally in erro when you hint fiat
nele Dan. has kept his neighbors aloof since you
Have ‘been here, ey never do intrude upon him.
There is not one of them who would venture to cross
his threshold uninvited. . They fear him toomuch.”
Max looked surprised. What had the quiet, good-
aa old Triton done to-inspire such a feeling as
is i :
“Uncle Dan is the wise man’ of St, Erne,’ she
gravely explained. “‘He sets broken bones, cures
Sprains fevers, foretells storms, arbitrates dis-
putes, and relieves ill-wished persons from the effects
of the evil eye, with a skill that no one here has ever
ventured to dispute.) .19'
Was she jesting? “The stalwart Californian looked
so unmistakably bewildered, that just such a merry
laugh floated through the room as he remembered
to have heard on the night) of his accident.
‘“Have youno wisé men in your own country, eet
Oo me. Where
you gaze at me so doubtfully?” she demanded.
am) not ere Uncle Dan’s powers, nor the
faith of his neighbors. 'They would sooner trust him,
when sickness or trouble overtake them; than call in
a doctor or lawyer.” , BRIT
“Perhaps they know. that he has a ete at
his elbow?” su d Max, rather saucily.
But she shook her head and made no’answer,
“St. Erne must be a very primitive village,” he
said, after another pause, ‘I long to be able to see
| more of it and of its inhabitants.”
“You will find:the people as) interesting as the
scenery,” she answéred;o!‘and it is out of the regu-
lar track, so that few touristscome here. Your best
plan, as soon as you can bear removal, will be to
re a boat, and sail into Mount’s Bay. At New-
Wyn, or Penzance, you will find excellent accommoda-
mn,” ) { )
‘ Are you in a hurry to get rid of me, that you so
readily arrange this plan for my departure?’ the |
tly asked
Californian blun vi
aay good sir, you forget yourself!) What can it
signify to me whether you go or stay?’ she queried,
‘in her turn, with ‘doch a stately air, that Max first
winced and then grew I ne
“What does it: signify to you?” he »repeated.
“Why, mostiing of course. he ki ‘
soon grow tired of compassionating a helpless man.
Besides, you have your secrets, and you have no
faith in my honor or m, gratitude. You are in
constant dread that I shi iscover something you
eben to hide from me, and make a bad use of my
”
ow! 3
Once again he had startled her out of her equa-
nimity, and she glanced f around,
- Bow do you know this, . Haveryng?”’ she
ee inan agitated w! . “Why do ‘you
this
0 do I know it?”—and in his excitement he
raised himself into a sitting posture. ‘Have I not
been eee daily ever since I have been here?
and do you think that I would have stayed where I
am suspected of such treachery, if my poor limbs
_the garden, till ‘he
had given her.
she
“Dan does not admit’ you
‘makes up a syrup for ‘@ cough, or writes a charm
if he is as prejudiced and ignorant as he
indest-hearted ‘
would have carried me away? Why have you hid
from me so carefully, and why has Dan equivocated
with me, but because you think I am some poor
pitiful scoundrel, who must be hoodwinked and kept
at bay, or he will do you a mischief?” nen
He’sunk back on his pillows, uty exhausted with
his own vehemence; and, att ing her srupring: she
hastened to his assistance. thout knowing it, he
had dissipated‘the alarm his first passionate speech
_eyoked, and she was.once more cool, and even pa-
tronizing, in her demeanor. Compelling him to
swallow a simple restorative that was among Daniel
nack’s nostrums, she bathed his face and hands
with. a: fragrant water, distilled from the herbs in
w calm again, and very peni-\
contrition for the trouble he
vay, what _a petulant
id, as she stood looking down upon him.
“And so you are hurt Spe angry because dear old
to: counsels when he
tently expressed
you are, after all!”
for a sick cow?
“T have not murmured at Dan. I can forgive him
natured; but you—yes, you—might have known me
better!”
“Of course,” was the halflaughing rejoinder. ‘I
might have perceived that instead of being a grave,
experienced, traveled man, you are a hot-headed,
impulsive youth, in haste uarrel with those who
have shelt you, because they have quietly gone
on their own way, and neither contradic nor en-
couraged youin your fancies. Really, Mr. Hav 5
you have been making yourself very ridiculous!
“Tiaugh at me as much as you choose,” he an-
swered, rather ee “but understand that you
will not alter my opinions, nor blind me to the truth!’
Again, the flush of anger mounted to her fair fore-
head, and she said, with a stamp of her foot, “ You
shall not pry into my affairs!”
“T would not if I could,” Max replied, with equal
heat, ‘Ido but tell you that you would have treat-
ed me more generously if you had said at first, ‘We
have our secrets—respect them.’ ”
“Would you have done so?’ she queried, with a
keen glance.
“Am I a serpent, that I should turn and sting the
hands that saved me from death?” he retorted; and
her looks grew softer as she listened to the ring of
wounded feeling in his deep-toned voice.
“Tf we have done you any injustice, Mr. Haveryng,
Iam sorry for it. I will frankly tell you that we be-
lieved you to be a person whom we had some reason
to fear. That we no longer think this, my being here
must convince you.” :
- “ And from henceforth you will trust me?’’ he ex-
claimed.
But she drew back a step, and regarded him
thoughtfully.
* at do you mean by trusting you? If we have
secrets, as aan imagine, we cannot reveal them to
orn, casual acquaintance.”
‘Certainly not; but you can rely on my good feel-
ing; and you can prove that you do so by coming
and going freely, without harboring a fear that I
shall ever see or comment upon anything your
friends may wish to conceal.”
“ Agreed !’’ she said, a little mischief lurking in her
eyes. ‘I will have reliance on you, and s0, sir, Ino
longer hesitate to introduce myself as Mrs. Letitia
Rayne, from Howth, the relict of Daniel Calynack’s
eee cousin, now visiting St. Erne for change of
ear 78 7 3
*“ But you are not—you cannot really be a widow!”
Max commented, incredulously.
She pointed to her ring; yet still he was uncon-
vineed.
“Ah, yes, I noticed that; but—but—” :
But” Mr. Haveryng controls his curiosity, and
keeps his promises admirably!” was the satirical re-
tort. ‘He does not comment upon anything we say
or do; he will net into what we wish to con-
ceal; nor does he ne questions, or ex-
press doubts of our veracity!”
“T am Ww! ,” he said, penitently; “but it is al-
ways so diffie it to reconcile oneself to mystery or
disguises.
“Have nothing to do with either,” she promptly
recommended. ‘“ Hire a boat, asI advised you, and
leave us. You may be in danger here. Perhaps we
are leagued with smugglers, or engaged in some con-
spiracy against the Government, or aay, expecting
to be taken up and sent to penal servitude for prac-
ticing sorcery; and you might be as an ac-
contpice, Beiter 1cave St. Ene while you can do so
w fety.”” ‘ :
“How absurd!” said Max, lau in the midss
of his vexation. “Is it not more likely that you are
m erading to amuse yourself at the expense of
the blundering Californian before you?”
She drew herself up eee 5
“You make yourself of too much consequence,
Mr. Haveryng. Pray understand, at once, that no
motive but the pu compassion for your sufferings
has led m@ here?’
“TP told bhi I was a blunderer, and I have proved
it by ma ae te angry with me,” he exc ’
with a rueful air. ‘‘Be merciful once again, and for-
igive my silly speeches!”
? “ey
do s0 on condition that you promise—” and
Ee per 8 gabe — if oe his ee de
< Ww. rom: an hing—ev
camel ST; 7ERNE. 5
ing or reading to me,’ I should feel much more in-
clined to oblige you.”’
Another palpable hint that Max must not attempt
flatteries or lover-like attentions; but, eager to see
her under any restrictions, he obediently repeated
the formula.
“‘Then I will try to come to-morrow;”’ and as she
spoke, she laid a —— of books on the bed, and
bade him farewell. t ere she could prevent it,
Max had imprisoned her hand—not the one that wore
the odious ring—and kissed it.
For a moment she stood looking down upon the
fingers his lips had touched, asif the audacity of
the act had stupefied her; then, with her face gain-
ing additional uty from the soft blush that stole
er it, she snatched up her wrapper, and quitted
the co .
As soon as her slim form was no longer visible,
Max seized one of the books she had left, and ex-
amined the title-page, in the hope that it bore the
name of the owner, But no; the volumes were fresh
from the shop of a Penzance bookseller, with the
leaves uncut; and once ‘more he was so completely
baffled, that he lay back and closed his eyes, breath-
ing a sigh of mortification. 5
sound caught the ear of old Dan, who had
just entered the room, bringing with him the briny
smell of the ocean; and he drew near the bed, and
rather anxiously felt the hightened pulse of his pa-
tient
“How is it with ye, my son? How are ye feel-
f Mystified!” said Max, curtly.
“Ts that another name for the headache?” asked
the fisherman. ‘I maunt leave ye so long again.
if I’m to find ye all the worse for the change of
nurses.”
“Nay Nonsense; I’m much better for it, much
better!” cried the invalid catching hold of him as he
was moving away. ‘But, Dan, tell me—that is, if
you can without breaking confidence—” ~~
He stopped suddenly. What question could he
ask about the arenas widow without breaking
the pledge he had given her?
Dan waited with i patience, till satisfied that
Max did not intend to pursue his inquiries; then,
with quaint gravity he made reply: ‘‘I'll tell ye one
thing, lad, and that is, that the sooner ye get away
from here, the better ’twill be for you and all of us.”
“But why, Dan—why do you say this?” he was
asked, with an urgency that would bear no refusal.
“Oh, because, when I see a chance of doubtful
weather, I warns my neighbors that there’s storms
ahead, and so gives them the chance of escaping
*em.””
“Speak more peel. Is it for me you fear, or
for Mrs.—’’—the hateful name would not be spoken
—‘‘ or the young lady you eall your niece?”
“For she!”—and Dan’s strong hands were sud-
denly clenched, and the veins in his forehead began
to swell. “‘Do you think I'd let any hurt come to
her under my roof? It was for yourself I spoke, lad
—for yourself. I’d be main sorry to see ye come to
any trouble.”
| nd away he went, leaving Max—to use his own
ees one hopelessly mystified than ever.
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH A CHARGE IS BROUGHT AGAINST MAX, AND
THE NET DRAWN ROUND HIM.
Tue fisherman’s counsels, in spite of the unpleas-
ant impression they made at the time, were wholly
forgotten when the beautiful unknown ax
another visit. By common consent all doubtful sub-
ects were avoided, and the Californian was careful
talk only of the wildly beautiful country he had
just e
He could not have chosen a more fascinating topic.
While he described the ees of California and the
loining States, or recalled hunting adventures or
hair-breadth escapes from the savage jaguar, or the
wily and treacherous Indian, she sat like one en-
tranced. The conversation rarely ged, for she
never seemed to weary of listening, and who would
not wane Play to such a Desdemona?
ae e took a more friendly tone with the
gratified , who was careful not disturb these
ie, pore aura undue curiosity. She could not
insensible to ties of one who was
always respectful in demeanor; and if she still
treated him en princesse, it was more because the
manner was natural to her than from any desire to
hold him aloof.
That she was accustomed to command who could
doubt, for was not old Dan her willing slave, and one
who evidently felt himself repaid by the caressin,
touch of her hand on his shoulder, or the smile wit
which she ted his approach?
And so time sped on, and Max knew no more about
Mrs. Letitia Rayne than she had ee ee to
tell him; but that she was no poorly-born
daughter he could have sworn, despite that simpli-
city of attire, which she néver varied. Never, since
the days of mediseval romance, had a more perplex-
ing ao of femininity existed than Mistress Letty;
so shrewd in some matters, so childlike and ignorant
in others. She ke French fluently, and could
draw tolerably well yet she admitted on one oéca-
sion that she never received any r teach-
ing at home or abroad. It often Max to
find how much, and yet how little, she knew.. All
her knowledge had been gathered from books. She
had read many, and possessed a retentive memory;
yet, just as she had astonished her hearer by a aie.
play of profound erudition, she would put to him
some question concerning everyday Tite, which
proved that she had no more acquaintance with the
world that lay beyond the Cornish fishing village
than her studies had given her.
He could not telling her so one day when
she had been asking for a description of London,
and he had failed to make her comprehend the mag-
nitude and bustle of the greet city.
Much to his vexation, she immediately gathered up
her work and flitted away.
“‘ Why did you leave me so suddenly?’ he demand-
ed the next she came. ‘You ought to know me
well enough now to know that I had po intention of
offending you!”
“T was not offended,” said the widow, blandly;
“but your conversation ceases to be interesting when
it turns wu my own ignorance.”
“T will be more careful for the future,” she was
assured,
“Pray do, for I have promised to discontinue these
visitsas soon you show symptoms of forgetting our
eee
ax pondered over this speech long after she had
left him. By whom had this promise been extorted?
By the woman Esther, who had so vehemently op-
osed his remaining at the cottage? And where was
his unseen guardian of the beautiful Letty? Duri
the visits of the latter to the invalid, old Dan was al-
ways within hearing, whether mending his nets or
drying herbs for his infallible medicines; and not
unfrequently he testified as much interest in the nar-
ratives of Max as his fairer auditor; but the female
whose voice he had heard on the night of his acci-
dent never appeared, nor was her name spoken in
his hearing. And yet Max felt pretty sure that she
was at no at distance, and that it was a signal
from her that sometimes caused Mistress ey to
start up and hurry away, with that curious look, half
anger and half terror, in her eyes that he had seen
there on their first meeting.
While sometimes striving to get a clew to the mys-
‘tery Surrounding her, but more frequently forget-
ting all else in the charm of intercourse with one so
lovely, Max was gradually regaining health and
strength. With the help of Dan he contrived to limp
first to a rude settee by the window, and presently,
as the weather grew warmer, to a sheltered nook in
the garden, from: which he could view the beach and
watch the tide come beating in paging’ the huge
bowlders, with which the shore was bestrewn.
Here, too, he made acquaintance with Dan’s mates,
and learned with surprise what a shrewd, thought-
ful race of men are these Cornish fishers of the deep.
Their wives and children would also pause to drop a
curtsey and ae .a “how dy’e do?” with the
frank, oo. gentleman, whose terrible fall from
the cliffs they were never tired of dilating upon; and
many a simple Pony delicacy was brought and
pressed upon Dan for the table of his guest.
Max had long gossips with the fishermen, not onl:
about the perils of the sea, but the village, its inhabi-
tants, and the neighboring gentry. Here, as else-
where, Squire Penruan was never named without
such an ominous shake of the head, that he feltin no
at haste to proclaim his kinship. The doctor was
scussed and the cle an ditto, till Max was tol-
erably well versed in the affairs of the locality,
but of the widow or her home heard he never a word;
and he was too’ honorable to put to strangers the
quéstions he was onetug té ask,
Could she really be what she had represented her-
self, and nothing more? and, if so, why did she never
join Max in the garden, but seclude herself from all
observers? It was not because her bereavement
preyed on her spirits, for her musical laugh was
eard more and more frequently as her intimacy
with Max Haveryng progressed; and the riddle was
as far from solution when he discarded his crutch as
it had been when he first beheld her.
sf you would teach me to knit,” he said, jest-
ingly, one day, when she sat with him in the eep
porch of the cottage. ‘‘Such work as that is too
coarse for your little fingers, and I get so tired of see-
ing fan eternally pba over it.”
‘Tam afraid you would be such an inapt pupil,”
was the smiling retort, ‘‘ that the stitches would soon
be wrought into a tangle and Uncle Dan disappoint-
ed of his new garment.”
‘Is it for Dan? Nay, give it to me to carry with
me to Aquas Dolces, and keep in remembrance of
the Lily of St. Erne!”
‘ a ie poeucel nee eee me, or ae it
solely apply to my cap 0, no, Mr. Have: she
aaded more seriously; ‘you will not focnilee sushi a
cumbrous reminiscence of your stay in Cornwall.
Uncle Dan prophesies that you will carry a scar just
above your ee for the remainder of your days;
will not that ice for a memento of the tall cliffs?’
“I begin to think that I shall carry away with
me a wound in my heart as well as my head!” said
Max, so gravely, that the widow looked up, and
meeting his eye, blushed a little, and began winding
up the ball of worsted that had fallen from her lap,
as if meditating another flight.
He put out his hand to prevent her departure.
“Do not £0. Why should you be displeased to hear
me acknow: e that it will grieve me very much to
ae dats e have spent so many pleasant hours
ether!’
vf Not pleasanter than you will spend with the Don-
na Elvira of whom you raved so often when you
were feverish!” he was reminded.
“Did I speak of my little cousin Elvira when I was
delirious? queried Max, not a whit. abashed. “If
ever you come to Aquas Dolees, and I have the pleas-
ure of introducing you to my maternal relatives, you
will understand why I have found it easy to forget
all other faces since I have seen yours!’ -
The unknown rose, and would not be detained any
longer.
“T must be going. I have staid too long; and,
Mr. Haveryng, in case we do not meet again, you
have my best wishes for your speedy and safe return
to your home and friends.”
spite of his lameness, Max rose, and limped af-
ter her, as, with stately air,she moved away and re-
entered the cottage, 4
“Do not speak as if my too hasty avowal had dri-
ven you from me! Surely, we may be friends, if you
will not permit me to hope—”
She would not let him finish his sentence.
“Don’t romance, Mr. Haveryng; and don’t con-
nect _— oe with my civilitiés to you! In a few
days, at furthest, you will leave Cornwall, and we
are not likely to meet 3 So we will part as ac-
quaintances, who have liked each other well enough,
oie ont ae a a tat
‘o you it ma: ,”’ he answe earnestly; * bu
I easton so badly forget the feelings ree a in-
8 red.” 7
** Arvetez!’”” she exclaimed. |“ I will not listen to
what you Americaus call tall talk! It means nothing
—nothing at all!” -
“Then: you Ee yee what I do not feel?”
the invalid exclaimed. “* You believe I am insensible
to the beauty, to the goodness—”
But’ here Miss Letty covered her ears with her
hands, and would hear no more, :
‘Pray be silent! I must not, I dare not listen! If
ry say these things merely to flatter me, it is folly;
f you have any rane feeling, it is: madness! i
like you very well, Mr. Haveryng. You are
natured, and have told me many things I Wished |
to know; but—I hope you will never come back to St.
Eines and that you will forget me as quickly as you
can!”
“Set me an easier task if you really wish me to
obey_you!” was the sorrowful reply,
“When do you propose leaving England?” she
queried, refusing to take notice of his last words. -
“T do not know. I have not thought of it. Ishall
most probably remain in this neighborhood for some
oe to come. .I shall go from hére to Penruan
Abbey.”
* Mistress Letty’s blue eyes dilated.
“It is nota show-house. The Squire has an aver.
sion to artists and tourists, and never admits
strangers within his domains, if he can help it. Why
should you go there?”
“Is he equally churlish to his relatives?—because I
ae oubtful—honor of being connected with
im.”
The widow recoiled, and the crimson tint of her lips
paled_ strangely.
* You, Mr. Have: ! You related to Mr. Penruan!
‘Then aoe have been basely aot oa us! Dan!
Uncle Dan! come, oh, come to me! at have we
done? We have fostered a reptile, who has crept
into our confidence, to ruin us!’
Petrified by the wild outburst, Max neither moved
nor spoke, till the old fisherman, aroused from a rev-
erie by her voice, had hurried to her side, and with
his arms folded about her was sternly surveying the
sup. sed culprit.
at have I done?’ Max demanded at last. “It
is true that I have not mentioned my reasons for
coming to St. Erne.”
But ere he could say more, Mistress Letty had dis-
engaged herself from Dan’s embrace, whispered
something in his ear, flashed one glance of sorrowful
reproach at the young man and disap, . ;
e would have followed her, and insisted on being
permitted to exculpate himself, but the fisherman
stood in the way, and prevented it.
“Nay, EA nay! Seems ye have done mischief
enough, Ill not have my poor little lassie troubled
no more just yet.”
“But do you not see that I want to explain?”
cried Max, struggling with him geryite his lameness;
“to make her understand that she is mistaken if she
believed that I would do anything dishonorable?
Why should my kinship with Penruan make me a
villain? I have never seen him. I do but seek him
because he and my father were friends in their
youth, Call her back! Let me assure her by i
hing I hold dear or sacred that I am not what s
termed me!”
But Dan was impenetrable, and Max could not
move him in the least, either by entreaties or threats.
“J don’t wish to think any harm of ’ee, my lad;
nay, not I; but there’s no trusting no one; ‘and so
we mun let it go.”
“And you persist in suspecting me in spite of
what I tell you?”
“Nay, then, nay, I’d rather think well of ’ee, my
son; but we mun ‘et it go,”
“Let what go?” cried the incensed Max. ‘‘Do you
mean that I must be content to let your niece be-
lieve that all the while I have been here, fed, nursed,
and treated with unvarying kindness, I have been
harboring some treacherous intention? Why does
she fear this Squire Penruan?”
“T never d she feared him,” was the cautious
reply:
EWnat, then, should make her fly from me, and
distrust me, when she learns that I am related to
this man?”
“T am bad at answering too many oetee
said Dan; ‘‘and, after all, what do it sinnify, lad?
ye’re true-hearted, why ye are; and if oF i ain’t, why
ye ain't; and yemay look out for squalls if I catches
ye at any mischief. I’m old, but I'm strong in the
are and can throw my man.a good fall even
now!”
Max burst into a laugh, in spite of his vexation.
“JT shall begin to think I am stark staring mad
if this § on much longer. Why the deuce don’t
you tell me what I am suspected of doing or say-
‘Eh, but, lad, if ye have done it, what’s the use?
And if ye have not, why then there’s the more reason
for we to hold our tongues.”
“Pshaw! whoever heard such reasoning as this?
Answer me but one question candidly, and I will be
satisfied. What makes your niece dread or dislike
Mr. Penruan?”
Dan scratched his head. :
“Truth is, lad, if Imun speak, and I’m loath, too,
to sa} ene that might get me into trouble—”
“You have nothing to fear from me,” he
earnestly assured. “I swear not to repeat aught
you tell me!”’
“Well then, lad, I’ll own that I never knew e’er
a body yet that didn’t dislike the Squire more or
“But Mistress aay ey is of her I spoke—has he
been dastard enough to do her any injury?”
“He's a man as allays keeps the right side of the
law—allays:” said Dan, evasively.
‘““Why don’t you say at. once that you're deter-
mined to keep me in ignorance?” stormed los-
ing his temper entirely. ‘One word, and I have
done. Will you let me see your niece, as you call
her, and convince her of my truth—yes or no?”
“Nay, but I can’t if I would, for she’ve gone, and
she'll not come here no more till you’ve left.”
“But she cannot be far off, and I will not rest till
ee Thok ite o’ that, Jad,”’ said D;
“‘Think twite o’ that, my lad," a a
cantly. “T more send ye off on a wild gooke d
somewhere; and if I don’t, it’s because I can’t help
thinking ye’re sound at the core, after all. Yesee,
it’s hard to doubt the lad that ye’ve watched by so
man. oe and prayed for, when he wer’ past
Drang for hse? a tra |d friend!”
: Tam honest an ie, my dear o! end!’
Se ip ee erty ere uF
rove ig gu ‘ou in eve .
11 me what you wish me 48 ag. and I'll do it!”
“will now? That’s good. Then take a berth
in the Siflide ” (Sylphide)—“ she’s 1 off the qua’
‘at this momént—-and oy tiga hed London, and
luck be with ye!”
But Max began to re!
tract.
““Leave Cornwall, and see Mistress Letty no more?
Go away without one kind farewell, or the chance of
exonerating myself? Impossible, Dan; I cannot quit
ae
converted the
6
St. Erne till I have been to Penruan, What would
the Squire himself think if he ever learns that I have
been. the neighborhood all the weeks of his ab-
sence, and then skulked off as soon _as he returned
home? It would look as if I were really the seamp I
have been called!”
‘Ha’ your way, Jad—ha’ your way,” said Dan,
crustily; ‘‘and don’t hinder me no longer, for I ha
the any kc to make for Marg’ry Gwennap’s sick child,
and she’ll be here afore it’s ready!”
“Tl write to her—to Mistress Letty,’’ concluded
Max, still detaining the old man, ‘ You will not re-
fuse to deliver my letter?”
“Stick it up behind the almanac, lad, and she shall
have it, if ever she comes here again!”
“But you speak as if months may elapse before
this happens! Come, Dan, be generous, and promise
that my letter shall be forwarded at once?”
“Stick it up, and I'll think it over. I wun’t say no
more nor that, if ye bodgers me all day!”
Still, this was a concession; and Max, on the only
scrap of paper he could find in the fore poured
out his heart to the mysterious widow. 6 was far
from satisfied with his composition when it was fin-
ished; but as it was impossible to make a fairer
copy, without weolting until a messenger could be
found and dispatched to the village shop, he was
forced to let it go, and hope that his fervent assur-
ances of his honorable conduct would carry convic-
tion to the reader.
It was some comfort to find that his epistle soon
disappeared from the place where Dan bade him
leave it, and that he might fairly conclude it was on
its way to Mistress Letty. But no answer reached
him, and very ey he prepared to quit the
cottage, where he could not but see that he was no
longer welcome.
“But don’t think you are altogether rid of me!”
he said to the old fisherman, as he was Pe ae
farewell. ‘As long as I remain at Penruan Abbey,
I shall come frequently to St. Erne; and you may
tell your niece that een shall induce me to re-
turn to my own country till I have heard from her
own lips that she acquits me of the charge—what-
ever it may be—that is Peers against me}”’
“Til never remember all that, but I'll do my best,”
said Dan, who was diving into one of his capacious
kets. “Stop a minute, lad; there’s something
ere I was to give ye afore ye went; so, if I haven’t
lost it, now’s time to let you have it—eh?”’
For a long while, however, the fisherman’s search
seemed useless, and Max was in agony, though re-
proved for his excitement with a testy “ What's the
need o’ such a fussing? "Tis only a bit o’ stone when
‘tis found, that’s not worth a groat to e’er 0’ us,”
But just as the Californian despaired of receivi:
this parting git, Dan gave an exulting whistle, an:
held toward a horny palm, in which lay an un-
set cameo—a youthful head of the God of Silence,
with one finger firmly pressed on the closed mouth.
Was this emblematical of Letty herself, or a warn-
ing to Max to be cautious how he named her at the
Abbey? He knew not; but slipping into Dan’s hand
notes to an amount that would fairly reimburse the
kind old man for all his trouble, he slowly climbed
the cliff-path, and turned his face toward Penruan,
where he did not despair of finding a key to all that
was now tormenting him,
Dan Calynack watched him as 108K as he was in
sight, and then, ruefully shaking his head, went
back to his village. Did he divine what his depart-
ing guest never suspected—that the perplexities of
the present were but the forerunners of something
darker and deeper—the first meshes of a net, from
which it would not be easy to extricate the unwary
foot of Max Haverying!
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH MAX HAVERYNG MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE
OF HIS KINSMAN,
Wuen Max walked up the avenue leading to Pen-
ruan Abbey, he saw that smoke was curling up from
some of the chimneys, while here and there a win-
dow was set open—sure tokens that the owner of the
mansion had returned home at last. Squire Pen-
ruan’s stay at Penzance had been prolonged from
day to day and from week to week, in consequence
of his inability to come to terms with the seller of
some land he coveted, Over the few pounds in dis-
te he had haggled and argued, throwing up the
Bargain and returning to the charge again and again,
until he had succeeded in buying at his own price.
Yet, after all, he had come back to his own house in
an evil humor, declaring that he had been shame-
fully overreached in the affair, and that the property
‘was not worth the sum he had given for it.
The economical ter of Penruan had long since
land for horses and
park
cattle, the fences coming close up to the c:
e
‘drive leading to the house. In one of these paddocks
a, young girl, in a linen riding-skirt, and broad-leaved
hat, was engaged in such equestrian feats, that
Max auPet to look on; admiration of her courage
ae with alarm lest she should meet with some
acciden
The horse on which she was mounted was a great
coarse brute, evincing such signs of ill temper, that
he was wholly unfit for feminine management. Sidling
shying, then darting forward, and as suddenly stop-
in, ort the vicious creature was evidently doing
its to throw its rider. _More than once her dan-
ger_was so imminent, that the excited Max was
ready to spring forward to her assistance; but she
contrived, somehow or other, to retain her seat, even
when her steed dashed round and round the paddock
at a mad lop, as trying to the nerves of the be-
must have been to the strength of the
holder as
‘om sheer exhaustion, the horse subsided pres-
pes into a ere, Peek his pase ae Pee
time, Then it was n ro’ in, searc
ob ihe whip that Had fallge tren her Hand during
one of the struggles for the eee Max had been
witnessing, she ured the young man leaning over the
low fence, and, x bestowing upon him a long,
critical stare, beckoned him to approach,
As , not without difficulty and pain, was climb-
ing the bars in sg ‘im sod to her summons, he re-
membered, for the first time, that his tourist’s suit
was none the better for its Cornish experiences. It
is true that Dan had repaired sundry rents it had re-
ceived in his fall from the cliffs, but these darns
were certainly not improyements to the smartly cut
si sateen tae iltianaaeirainnitie seepioenrinin leitch teeta itis
THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.
vestments with which Captain Renton’s hint had in-
duced him to provide himself. Sundry dents, also
received in the fall, had given a disrespectful air to
his hat, and the dust gathered in climbing the rude
track from St. Erne was an additional disadvantage.
“Tm a pretty object for a lady’s eye to light
upon,” he muttered, as he surveyed himself distaste-
fully. ‘No doubt she takes me for one of the neigh-
poring clowns;” and her first words confirmed the
aaa dpe
‘ome here, my ees fellow, will you, and find
my whip for me? lies somewhere on the grass;
but don’t get too near my horse’s heels, for he is as
treacherous as he is ugly. Be quick, please.”
After some searching, Max found the useless ivory-
handled toy. But as he courteously doffed his hat
while presenting it, and the searching dark orbs of
the young lady took in every detail of his face and
figure, her manner became a trifle less imperious.
‘Thanks! I might have spoken to you more civilly,
but, at the first. glance, Iset_ you down for a tramp.
Tt was a silly mistake!” she added, hastily, as she
saw him bite his lip. ‘‘Are you one of the Pen-
ruan tenants? And what is your name?”
“ Haveryng!”’
“Haveryng!” she repeated. “It sounds familiar,
and yet I do not know Fou and I thought I knew
every one on or near he estate. Where do you
live?
But Max was too much engaged, inspecting her
horse to reply more fully to these sharply-pu' aA
ries, He walked round the animal, with upraised
eyebrows and compressed ips and finally gave his
head such a grave shake, t i, tapping her saddle
impatiently. with her whip, the young lady ex-
claimed: ‘* Well, sir, do you ‘intend favor me with
the result of your investigations?”
“Certainly, if you wish it; but I have nothing
more to tell you than might have been learned from
any one who has the smallest acquaintance with
horseflesh. This brute will never be worth the
trouble of training.”
“T admit that he is nely, ” said the lady.
“ And ill-tempered!” ded Max,
* Cela va sans dire!” she retorted. ‘The one and
the other are synonymous. A good-humored per-
son cannot be ugly, and so you condemn my poor
steed in toto.” _
‘He never will be fit for a lady either to ride or
drive. Itis tempting Providence to put yourself at
the mercy of such a vicious beast!”
“He is vicious, but he may—nay, he shall—be
broken of his tricks! Do you not see that I have
come off with flying colors from the contest we have
just had?
4 “No!” said Max, bluntly; “for I_am_ tolerably
sure that the animal is gettin, ready for another
trial of strength, and that he will have the best of it
eventually.” ij
“The rene is soft, and I fall lightly,’’ said the
ung lady, with great philosophy; ‘and more than
That, 1 have a vast amount of perseverance. If Ursa
Minor throws me to-day, Pll mount him again as
soon. ot have got over my bruises. He will have
to give in!”
“Unless he contrives to break your neck first!”
said Max, provoked at her obstinacy, ‘‘I wish you
would be persuaded to dismount. You really are
risking your life—you are, indeed!’’ he added, so
earnestly that she left off flicking the flies that
puzzed round her steed’s ears, and turned in her sad-
dle to look at him.
“May Iask where you gained your knowledge of
horseflesh? You speak like an authority; your only
excuse,” she added, in lower tones, not meant for
his ear, “for interfering in what does not concern
yu,
“Tlearned what little I know on the pampas of
South America, whither I have often gone with the
Guachos, who make it their business to capture the
wild horses that herd there. I have shared with
these men the delight of taming some fiery creature
till it would come at my call, and bend its proud
neck to invite my caress. But that brute is not.to
be named with such horses as I allude to,”
As he spoke, the amiable Ursa Minor, with a jerk
at the reins, began backing and kicking more violent-
n before.
Max longed to interfere, but the lady’s imperious
‘Keep back, sir!” was so decided, that he was slow-
ly walbing toward the fence, when the horse shot
past him, to play the same tricks at the other side of
the field, where he succeeded in ridding himself of his
er.
Max could feel his heart beat fast when he first
caught sight of the empty saddle and the prostrate
form that lay upon the sward. quickly as
lameness permitted he hastened to the spot, ut, ere
he reached it, the young ny had ra herself,
first to a sitting position, and then to her feet.
“Tam not hurt,” she said, reassuringly, as she
met the anxious looks of the convalescent,‘ I slid
off when J found that I must be unseated.”
“You look pale,” oe Te . is Will you allow me
to give you my arm e house?’
fis drew borself up, as if amazed at the audacity
of such a proposal,
“Tm guite capable of walking,” she_answered,
coldly, “Ifyou have business fh Mr. Penruan, I
should advise you not to loiter here, for he is going
out presently.’
“As my visit is_one of pleasure rather than busi-
ness,”’ answered Max, secretly amused her of-
fended air, “I do not, feel at all inclined to hurry
myself. You honored me a few minutes ago by in-
wiring my name; may I be permitted to put a
Similar inquiry to you Te
“I suppose so,” said the lady, gathering up her
skirt, and walking away. ‘There is no law in this
land to punish those who ask impertinent questions.
Yonder lies your way to the house. If you ring the
Say bell es one will come to take your
message to the Squire.
Max bowed, and reclimbing. the fence, took the
path she had indicated. If this flery little creature
was Eleanor Penruan, report had not enagreratod
her charms, She was’ not fair; her complexion had
none of the exquisite red and white chast
each other on the cheeks of Mistress Letty; neither
was she a brunette, like the Spanish donnas of his
Hat howe or ih Se uo wg was ho er
wer or tro) SO V! was "
ing, so deeply crintson the tints that glowed upon
her cheeks and lips, He had some faint conception
that her features were irregular, and her mouth too
large for beauty; but those who gazed at Eleanor
Penruan forgot to. criticise as soon as they came
under the spell of her arch smiles and bewildering
eyes,
Max had barely reached, the front of the house,
when the young lady, who had availed herself of a
eee cut, stood before him, her face flushed. with
“T have just remembered that you must be a
stranger, and that it is ungenerous to let you go any’
further without a warning. If you have any boon to
ask of Mr. Penruan, defer it for a day or two; he is
not in the best of moods for granting favors to-day.”
She disappeared before he could reply, and the
only consequence of her warning was that, with
frowning brows, Max rung such a peal on the visi-
he bell, that the clang was heard all over the
ouse,
The servant who opened the door bowed. low to
the guest, as he stepped boldly in and demanded to
be shown to Mr, Penruan. Who was this Cornish
squire, that every one must cringe to him, and seek
or avoid him. apenas the humor he was in? All
the hot blood of the alifornian was in tumult at the
hint that had been given him; and for the sake of
the family honor, he was eager to prove his father’s
relative less churlish than rumor implied.
He was not kept waiting long, and certainly Mr.
Penruan’s appearance was in his fayor. Almost: as
ll as Max himself, though thin and spare as if
with constant anxieties, his features, when lit up
with a smile, were dsome.. He came for-
ward, prepared to do the honors to the “gentile-
man,’’ whom the servant informed him was waiting;
but when his eye fell upon the dusty suit of Max,
the whole expression of his face altered, His lips
closed so resolutely that his mouth looked hard and
cruel; his brows contracted and twitched oddly; and
he stood with one hand on his vest like the first
Napoleon, while with the other he stroked_his long
Dundreary whiskers, heavily streaked with gray,
repared to refuse any request that might be prof-
‘ered to him. <
Unadaunted by his discouraging manner, Max
ae ci step forward, and unhesitatingly introduced
msel.
‘““Mr. Penruan, I believe? Then. we are relatives.
I am the only son of Edward Haveryng, who left
his native country some thirty years ago, and_set-
tled in California. My desire to behold my father’s
birthplace brought me to this neighborhood, and I did
not care to leave it without seeing the gentleman
so frequently mentioned in his diary as one of his
intimate friends.” J
The Squire’s brow clouded, and instead of notic-
ing the hand Max extended, he answered sharply
enough, “‘I have heard of you. I am told that
some weeks since, you took advantage of my ab-
sence to come wandering about the Abbey, ques-
tioning my servants, and prying into my affairs,”
Max reddened with indignation,
“Asking questions I may have been, for I have
been anxious to make the acquaintance of any per-
son or persons who knew my father in his. boyhood;
but when you accuse me of prying into your affairs
or tampering with your servants, you go out of
your way, Mr. Penruan, to insult me,”
The Squire hastily laid his hand on the bell-rope.
“Do you want to fasten a quarrel upon me.
young man? Because, at the first appearance of
violence, I shall summon my servants and have you
conveyed to the nearest jail!’
Max Haveryng smiled scornfully at his absurd
fears.
“Don’t alarm yourself, sir. I came here hopin,
that, for the sake of my dead father, you would
give mea welcome, As you aré not inclined to do
80, it is only for your own sake I shall regret it.”
‘Where do you come from?” asked the Squire,
atruney.
“This morning do you mean? .From the village
on the beach, where I have been lying for some
weeks at a fisherman’s cot having broken my
leg in a fall from the cliffs the night I arrived at
Penruan, My home is in California.”
“Why,. if you were Aang papely, well, did you
leave that country?” demanded Mr. Penruan, testily,
with An NEM contraction of his brows, “Ht is no
use comi. me for assistance. I am not a pub-
lic man, 1 have no interest with Government, and
what is more, I cannot have poor relations loung-
ing show my house, living on bey
'y do you give me this information, Mr. Pen-
ruan?”’ demanded Max, haughtily, “Would it not
have been as well to wait until you learned whether
I came to you as a beggar?”
“How do lL know that you are not an impostor?”
retorted Penruan, wincing beneath the contemptuous
look that Max bestowed upon him,
“Tf you have me watched off your premises, so
that I cannot carry away your silver spoons, what
will it signify to you whether I am or not?”
The two men ‘hood laring at each other for a few
seconds; the Squire half-ashamed of his), churlish-
ness, and wroth at the treatment he was re-
ceiving. ;
a een are redily the son of Edward Haveryng,
and let me know, at what inn you pu stay-
ing, L shall be happy to do you any Aitt service
that lies in my power,” Mr. Penruan said, at last.
“ Tf 1am the son of your kinsman!” Max replied.
“T am not accustomed to hear my word doubted;
and I'll tell you the only way in which I will take
the trouble to prove my identity. Come to Aquas
Dolees, the home my father’s everance and in-
dustry secured to me, and I’) show you his por-
trait! Ay, and I'll put in practice for your benefit
some of the ‘old Cornish customs he. taught
me fine of those, Mr. Penruan, is good-will to the
anger!” ft
Bowing slightly, and turning on his heel, Max left
the Tae, aa the wide hall,
out, began leisurely retracing steps along the
avenue. . :
“That mafia -Aaaazon, was right,” he said to him-
self, smiling spite of his. yexation. ‘It. would
have been wiser defer my visit, Yet ng I
ed myself, that this John
have paid it, and: satisfi
Penruan is t the same unsociable. fellow my
father desc! him. By the by, I wonder whether
recollection of the several memorandums in m
ather’s pocket-book of sums lent to this ‘amiablo
cousin of his made him so eager to be rid of me}
and, letting himself _
ee ig
4
=A
f Made hint overlook the fact.
vill cultivate a taste for water-drinki
THE. LILY OF ST. ERNE. 7
He might be afraid that I came to recall them to his
mémory.”’
A hasty step behind him made the young man
lance over his shoulder, A servant from the house
had followed him, to say that. the Squire desired him
to return.
Max shrugged his broad shoulders. 3
“Tell your master from me that our intercourse
‘was not so ‘pleasant as to give me any desire to re-
sume it.’?
“The Squire will be awful angry if ye don’t come
back, sir!” said the man, so nervously, that Max
burst into a aneh and tossed him a shilling.
“Get yourself a cordial, my lad, to give you some
rage, As forme, I can bear the thought of Mr.
Poutuans displeasure. If he wants me, he’ll find
me at eer a at St. anions ek that is ores I
ropose taking up my quarters for the present.”’ -
x But before Max could turn away, the Squire him-
self made his appearance. He had been eeeees
*he conference from the‘door, and had comprehend-
ed that the young man did not intend to return. He
had, therefore, come to urge his request in person,
and, in compliance with his deprecating es,
Max stood still in the pathway till Mr. Penruan
came up. é
"There was still the same unpleasant contraction
‘of the brows that gave'such an ominous glare to his
deeply-set eyes; but there was once more a smile
apoa Wis lips, and he began. to apologize for his con-
duct in han Saaeka re the annoyance of the
easily a x me away.
of ain quite ashamed when I remember how
rudely Ihave behaved to you, Mr. Haveryng. The
fact is, I have just been very much worried) over
some busiriess matters, and my memory is so bad
that your father’s name had quite escaped me.
And so Edward ee dead, and you are his
only son? He must have been very proud of you!”
‘He was very fond of me,” said sig. a
little. To his rise, the sigh’ was echoed.
“T don’t doubt it. ‘To have an heir of one’s own—
ah! I have been denied that blessing, and it has
eved me ve' Ee it is no use dwelli ve
ese things. me, . Have , you must le
‘me have ‘the pleasure of intrdauelng you to my
wife.”
Max looked doubtfully at his clothes.
** Pooh!” said the Squire; *‘ we are too far from the
metropolis here to be so precise, and you can send
to Penzance for nae you want. I shall insist
that you make the Abbey your quarters as long as
you stay in Cornwall.” j
“Tf you really wish it,” said the en man, not
able to reconcile these civilities with the rudeness and
distrust he had just encountered.
“Of course IT wish it.. Now that you have con-
vinced me that you are the son of my old friend”
—(* How have I done so?” queried Max, mentally)—
“T cannot think of letting you leave us. Come,
come; I am quite impatient to take you to Mrs.
Penruan. She is an-invalid, but she always exerts
herself to receive my friends, and she be de-
lighted to question you about California.”
And sowill he, nill he—the Squire slipped his arm
through that of Max, and led him back in triumph,
CHAPTER VI.
FIRST HOURS AT; PENRUAN ABBEY.
LuvcHron was spread on a table drawn into one of
the broad bay windows of the handsome drawing-
room to which Mr. Penruan ushered his guest. The
furniture of the apartment was not only faded and
old-fashioned, but so worn and ‘'thread-bare with
‘constant use as to be fitter forthe lumber-closet than
tne salon of a wealthy gentleman. The only modern
articles visible were a Ree little cottage iano and
an invalid’s couch of Parisian make, fi with ev-
ery appliance for ease that the skill of the present
day can devise. Still, few ‘would have paused to
note these discrepancies, for Sots on eriter-
ing the room the eye was entranced by the glorious
view the windows conimanded. In one direction,
far and wide spread the Atlantic, bounded solely by
the horizon; in the other, the noble curves of
Mount’s Bay, with St. Michael’s Mount in the fore-
round, and, far away in the blue distance, the bold
uffs of the Lizard. re
At first, that intense admiration for Nature, which
had grown upon Max’ Have his growth.
the room was n
untenanted. The young lady’ he had seen in t!
addock had exchanged her skirt for a morning
ress, and was sitting at the table, whiling away the
time with a novel till Mr. Penruan appeared. It was
not till the Squire pronounced her name that she
looked up, and then her — of comical surprise
at his companion was amusing.
‘Nelly, Thave a you a visitor. This is Mr.
Haveryng, a cousin of mine, from America. You
must help me to make his stay at the Abbey a
leasant one. Mr, Haveryng, my daughter, Miss
eanor Penruan!”’ :
As she was demurely acknowledging the stranger’s
bow, the Squire glanced toward the couch, and ab-
ruptly, ser ‘“Where is your mother? Is she not
so we: ¥
“Tan-fan has undergone another operation,” was
the grave reply; ‘and though the dear creature bore
it with. great fortitude, mamma feels that her own
nerves have been so severely tried, that she must not
“attempt any exertion for/an hour or two.”
“Ts she hysterical?” :
“T don’t know, sir. I ou hungry to Ha fel
, Ihave’ repea' my message. Wo or
so this time, without day little additions of
my own.”
tte, Penruan frowned, coughed, commenced cut-
ting the pate before him; recommended to Max some
of the thin, sour, light wine, that was the only bev-
erage placed on the table; and at last, tising al t-
We toe pine on pe. plea ‘of anxiety! on
y’s account, a @ room.
“T hope Mrs! Penruan ig not seriously indisposed,”’
said Max, to the young lady, who was placidly eating
‘her lunch an excellent appetite. j
»©°"“Oh, no! Don’t make re ana, If
mamma were really ill, I should _be too anxious to
stay here, If I may advise you, Mr. Haveryng, you
for Mr.
n-
n’s wine has but one point in/its favor-+it’s ex-
tremely cheap.” ASOT f
o« Thanks for the advice,” said Max, filling his glass
from a caraffe of the a pura before him, and
using the opportunity to steal a glance at his beauti-
ful vis-a-vis. She detected it, however, and smiled
so saucily, that he was somewhat disconcerted.
“Why dia you not tell me who you were when we
met this morning?” she demanded, ‘‘ Was it in or-
der to have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Haveryng?”’
“ Certainly not, Miss Penruan. You forget that it
would not have been very complimentary to say ‘I
am your cousin,’ just as you mistaken me for a
vagrant,” yr
“But you are not my cousin, sir; and it is high
time that I introduced myself to you under my right
name. Iam Eleanor Haydon; and Mr, Penruan, al-
though he persists in having me regarded as his own
child, is only my sean: ONCE: .
5 What, then, am I to call you?”
‘Tf you wish to please me, give me my real appel-
lation; if you prefer flattering the Squire’s whims,
you will know how to do it,”
‘‘Isn’t this placing me in rather an awkward posi-
tion?’ asked Haveryng. ‘‘ My friends call. me sim-
ply Max; if you would agree to do the same, I could
extricate myself from my difficulties by saying
the nial looked t him sharp! if a
e young lady looked up a sharply, as e
suspected an impertinence in the proposal, but her
scrutiny was met with such an unembarrassed mien,
thateshe said curtly, ‘‘ Well, I don’t mind; anythi
is (preferable to hearing that hateful Miss Penruan
dinned into my ears continually, And-now,I sup-
pose, Lought to apologize for giving you a warping
that appears to have been wholly unnecessary, I di
not know that you were so sure of a welcome.”
“Indeed, I appreciated gant kind intentions,” he
answered, earnestly; “and the welcome of which
Se speak was such a tardy one, that it was only
r, Penruan’s evident, regret for his rudeness that
induced me to remain,
“You rise me!” said Eleanor. ‘*May I ask
what induced the eae to—to—”
“Treat me so coldly?” demanded
finding
that she hesitated for a word, ‘He did but follow
suit. His step-daughter took me for a tramp, and
he for an impostor.”
*“T am really very sorry you should have met with
such a reception!” cried Eleanor, who detected the
wounded feeling with which he spoke; “but I must
ask ene why you gave us the opportunity to be so
uncivil?”
“In the country I come from,” was the proud re-
tort, ““we do not require from the stranger who
craves our hospitality a full and particular account
of his ancestors before we permit him to come under
our roof, or eat our bread.”
“My dear Mr. Haveryng, the land of which you
a must be in a very uncivilized condition!”
leanor demurely retorted; *‘and though such in-
discriminate hospitality sounds very romantic, you
must not expect tomakea convert of Mr. Penruan.
ea sober reality, and keeping the key of his
larder in his own pocket.”
“Thad no desire to force myself upon him,” said
Max, still bitter and indignant.
“Of course you hadnot; and I am still at a loss to
es by what spell you have tamed the
ragon.”
“Tam Mr. Penruan’s kinsman—the son of an old
friend to whom, in times past, he has lain under obli-
gal ons. Is not this reason sufficient:-why he should
nvite me to be his guest while I remain in the neigh-
borhood?”
“No, no, no!” cried the young lady, vehemently.
“You have named the’ very last motive that would
influence Squire Penruan. ow ll say I’m very fond
of offering my advice, but I cannot resist giving you
a little more—keep your eyes open while you stay at
the Abbey, Mr. Hav :
‘“T-don’t think the warning will be of much use,
unless you kindly ta Ww. — is given.”
“But, flushing a little, she tily replied, “I can-
not do that! have said too much already; but
you are a stranger, and I could not resist—”
She broke off in some confusion, and rushed into
another subject. '
_, ‘We must contrive to mount you, Mr. Haveryng,
if you will promise not to look too contemptuously
on our sorry nags, and then you can be my cavalier
when I ride Ursa Minor,”’
“T trust T:shall never see you onthe back of that
vicious beast again!” cried Max. “Let me train some
other horse for a while I am staying here. I shall
be delighted with the task.”
‘““Thanks} but there is a pretty little chestnut mare
I ride when I am in a peexivaapiions or venture into
those parts of the neighborhood where one must be-
have decorously. For the park, and for peace of
mind, commend me to Ursa Minor.”
“Is not this an extraordinary caprice for a young
lady to indulge in?” asked very ely.
a ae Mr. or . Penruan be aware of the risks you
run ;
“Mr. Penruan wouldn’t fret if I broke my neck to-
morrow!” she answered, with a careless toss of her
head; ‘‘and: mamma is rather obtuse to things of the
kind,» Ifyou were to give her—as you seem inclined
to do—an agonizing description of the perils I en-
counter, you would send her into a fit of hysteri
so violent. that, by the time she recovered, she would
have forgotten what occasioned them.”
‘The beautiful Eleanor’s manner of alludi
invalid mother grated w
his looks betrayed what he thought; for, with an im-
tient movement, she exclaimed, ‘4 Oh, yes, Mr.
everyne it’s very shocking and undutiful; I know
itis; and Tam a very wicked young woman, or, as
Mr. Penruan frequently tells me, a most h
and unnatural creature, to talk in such an unfee
strain of the sufferings of my acek mote, You
won't offend me by agreéing with him; I always do
that myself; it saves one'so pate discussions, And
don’t look as if you pitied me for my insensibility.
Hearts are such troublesome ee? that, the
stonier they are, the better for their owners,’
“ Curious philoso bh,
Pe ie siaehr pane nae aes than a d.
A ” ants you a day
or two at Penruan A! bey, you wil have to reooneile
yourself to more conflicting t than my r
to her
the nerves of and
speeches. But a a — = if you have
seen our trav‘ ore lovély than the
Saswr food bhoec jadaws ts BOL OM ay t
Max followed the:young lady to:a broad and eush-
ioned-seat beneath the casement, and listened and
this, isn’t it? queried the.
looked with interest while she named the spots visible
on that sunny morning from Penruan Abbey.
He was just about to avail himself-of a pause;in
the conversation to name Captain Renton, when a
little bustle was heard at the door. | It opened, and
Mr, Penruan entered, with a lady on his’ arm, in the
very becoming deshabille of an invalid. Her robe, en
princesse, was of the palest pink cashmere, a color
that. harmonized admirably with her fair skin; and
the blonde hair, over which some lace, looped with
pink, was carelessly but effectively arranged. ::
She was plump, and would have been very pretty
but for the air of languor. that drew down the cor-
ners of her mouth, and gave.an expression of suffer-
ing to a pair of still fine eyes, as dark and sparkling
as her daughter’s,
The maid who followed was loaded with shawls,
pillows, and eider-down quilts, and some minutes
elapsed before the lady was comfortably deposited
on the couch prepared for her.
Mr. Penruan showed himself the most attentive of
spouses, settling her cushions, and hovering about
her with such tender assiduity, that: Max began,to
feel ashamed of the feeling of repulsion which, in
spite of his civilities, this gentleman contrived to
inspire.
At last, with a sigh and a smile, she pronounced
herself tolerably comfortable, and her husband
pe to Max to approach. |,
eanor had lounged on the window seat, and con-
templated the sea, without testifying the smallest in-
terest in what was passing in the room; but now she
raised herself, and, with a little malicious pleasure,
watched the introduction,
‘A relation of yours, dear John,” murmured Mrs.
Penruan, holding out her hand to Max, ‘How
leased I am to know him! Ah! if I had but my
ealth, how delighted I should be to drive him about
the estate, and show him the improvements you
have made!”
‘“‘Where are they?” asked Eleanor; but no one an-
swered, thongs her mother held her vigalaatto to
her nose, and shuddered a little, and Mr, Penruan
cleared his throat.
“Thisis asad house to come to, Mr. Haveryng,”
the invalid went on, in the soft, monotonous tones
that never varied. ‘‘Iam always the poor, helpless
creature you now see. ° In fact, I should not be alive
= it were not for the devotion of the best of hus-
“My dearest Lina, you promised to try and.swal-
low a little jelly,” said Mr. Penruan, modestly ig-
noring his own praises.
“To please you; solely to please you. I have no
appetite, Mr. Haveryng.”
S aerey ate a tolerable breakfast, mamma,”’ in-
terposed Eleanor, “and I think met Carson.on the
stairs with a mutton-chop not an hour ago,”
“Yes, I made an effort,”” Mrs. Penruan sighed. “It
is our duty to preserve life as long as we can; is it
not, Mr. Haveryng?”’
“On mutton-chop, mamma?” ea her daugh-
ter, undaunted by the look Mr. Penruan’ bent. w
her; but the lady’s equanimity was not disturbed.
“Don’t tease me, Nelly; there’s a dear child; you
ought to be thankful thatI contrived to keep m:
strength up when you know, what I went throug’!
this morning. Poor Fan-fan!” f
“You need not look so serious, Mr. Haveryng,”
cried the irrepressible Eleanor. ‘‘ Fan-fan is only an
ugly little Skye-terrier, and a great pet of mamma's.
The creature’s teeth are decayed in consequence of
being crammed with sweet cakes, and two of, them
have been extracted. Having nothing else to do,
mamma has made herself very unhappy about her
darling’s sufferings.”
“My nerves are so weak,”’ Mrs. Penruan exclaimed,
“that they are easily upset. Are you fond of dogs,
Mr. Have e”
“‘Of some kinds, extremely so,’’ he replied,
“Then you shall nurse Fan-fan.:. Carson, give her
to Mr. Haveryng. Is she not a beauty?”
“T am no judge of lap-dogs,” said Max, eying
contemptuously the fat, wheezy, hairy ball that was
laid on his knees.
“Give her to me, Mr. Haveryng,’’ said Eleanor;
but . Penruan. started up and snatched the dog
away. ‘No, no, Nelly, you shall not have her; you
are so intolerably awkward. Fan-fan always comes
to grief when you take her.” r
er daughter jaaraneee mischievously; but ere she
could make any reply, Mr. Penruah interposed with
an offer to show his guest over the Abbey. £
“Say no, Mr. ae for I am sure you'll not
find any pleasure in. beholding dust and decay,” said
Eleanor, in tones she 'y took the trouble to
lower, But for once, Max did not a; with her.
He felt really desirous of seeing the house, and ac-
cepted Mr. Penruan’s offer with a readiness that
ae that gentleman, and made his perverse step-
shrug her pretty shoulders. —
ter all, Eleanor was right; It was a depressing
spectacle, for the decay that is made venerable a.
reverent care to arrest it was not visible here.
had been made where absolutely n “
ut only in the roughest, cheapest manner: Mr.
Penruan may have loved the dwelling of his fore-
fathers, but he evidently loved his money still more,
and grudged spending it in renovating the Aber,
The Aon td gallery pleased Max and
his entertainer thoroughly unbent, and related le-
gends connected with the portraits, till the clanging
of the dinner-bell disturbed them, and he led the
‘man toa tolerably comfortable bedchamber
aid Urceettke-room close by.
The evening was enlivened by the presence of a
chatty little lieutenant in the navy, who had retired
from the service some years previo on half-pay
and a wooden leg, and was one of the few neighbors
whose visits Squire Penruan tolerated, Lieutena:t
Hapsley sympathized with the invalid, joked preity
Eleanor onher roses and her pouting looks, reca!!:d
old scenes and adventures to amuse Max, and played
backgammon with the Squire, till the, cloek strixck
ten—a signal always for the breaking up ,of ihc
rty.
Pinot at all inclined to sleep, Max had no sooner
locked himself in his chamber than he resolved to
write another letter to Mistress Letty, entreating her
to end this mysterious reserve, and give him the
opportunity for personally exculpating himself that
he had already vainly entreated, Bue, somehow, to-
night, he ould, not satisfy himself with his epistola-
vy attempts, His pleadings werenot urgent en ugh;
THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.
they did not do sufficient justice to his anxiety to be-
hold her once more; and sheet after sheet of paper
was torn up in despair.
As he sat nibbling the top of his pen and gazing
sometimes at the curiously-carved ceiling, some-
times at the floor, his wandering glances fell on
the great old-fashioned toilet-glass close by. It re-
flected some of the old pictures—queer little oval
miniatures of een dames of the Penruan
family; one, the largest if not the handsomest, re-
present ng a shepherdess seated on a grassy bank.
Something—was it the wind?—gave a tremulous
motion to this portrait; and Max was just amusing
_ himself with the notion that it was nodding to him
in the glass, when he distinctly saw the panel on
which it hung pushed forward from the wall, and
some one peer at him through the opening.
In an instant, he was up and striding toward the
— but when he reached it, the panel was firmly
closed. Not asound of retreating footsteps reached
his ear, though he listened long and intently; not a
voice made answer to his repeated inquiry, who was
there? And he might have believed that some in-
equality in the surface of the mirror had deceived
him but for one circumstance; the miniature had
ae shaken from its nail, and lay on the floor at his
eet,
CHAPTER VII.
MAX BEGINS TO COMPREHEND THAT HIS PERPLEXITIES
ARE ONLY JUST COMMENCED,
TuerReE could not be a braver man than Max Hav-
eryng had proved himself in many a wild adventure;
and he had spent more than one night with his finger
on the trigger of his rifle, listening for the stealthy
footfalls of the Indians, while his comrades slept
around their camp-fire. Yet it was with very un-
pleasant sensations that he now seized the lamp to
make the tour of his chamber and the adjoinin,
dressing-room; and finally came back to the pane
from whence the picture had fallen, But it gave
back no hollow sound when he tapped it, and was to
”“ ec as solid a piece of the wainscoting as
the rest. A
Still the conviction was not to be shaken off that
some one had moved it, and looked at him through
the aperture. Certainly it might be only a servant,
whose curiosity led to the act, or who was not aware
that the apartment was occupied; and, as this was
the most matter-of-fact and probable explanation of
the circumstance, Max resolved to adopt it.
However, he could not determine to go to bed.
Penruan Abbey was but half furnished and ill-se-
cured, for some portion of the building was closed
and almost in ruins. It was not at a impossible
that burglars, tempted by a report of Mr. Penruan’s
wealth and miserly habits, entered this part of
the house, and were awaiting their opportunity to
rob it. So Max, putting his watch and purse under
his pillow, lowered the lamp till the room was in
semi-obscurity, and laid down in his clothes, ready
to leap wp and render efficient assistance on the
slightest alarm.
owever, not a sound occurred to disturb him,
and he sunk at last into a profound sleep, which
lasted so long, that Eleanor opened her eyes in pre-
tended astonishment, and threatened him with cold
coffee and hard-boiled eggs when he did appear at
the breakfast-table.
“Did not you sleep well, Mr. Haveryng?” she de-
manded; for the Squire was poring, with knitted
prows, over some accounts, too much absorbed in
the difficulty of deciphering a carpenter’s hiero-
glyphics to do more than nod tohis guest. “ Did
not you sleep well?” 7
“Not very; and the slight hesitation in the
ker’s manner was imm. itely detected.
“Perhaps the ghosts of the Abbey visited you and
kept youawake? Are th re any? What a question!
Of course there are! Did you ever hear of an old
house that is not haunted? But I forgot—there are
no ancient buildings in your country. Yes, Mr.
Haveryng, we are as well endowed as our ne! hbors,
for there are more spectral legends attached to Pen-
ruan than I care to repeat, and there is not a ser-
vant in the place who does not believe them.”
“Are you equally credulous?” asked her auditor,
“Not in the daylight!” was the laughing reply.
** As long’as the sun shines, I can make merry over
the wild, weird tales I hear, and marvel at the folly
that has handed them down from generation to gen-
eration; but aftér nightfall, Iam afraid I could not
muster courage enough to visit some parts of the
Abbey alone!’
“ Have you ever heard, or ever seen, anything to
awaken your fears?” the young man inquired.
“No! It’s rather mortifying to be obliged to make
such an avowal, isn’t it? haven’t seen the shadow
of Saar worse than—Mr. Penruan since I have
lived here. Some of the old people aver that this. is
because I am not actually a member of the family.
So, perhaps, you will be more favored|”’
¢ suppose ” said Max, speaking as carelessly as he
could, * the Abbey contains some vestiges of a more
romantic era: a secret passage, for instance—some
sliding panels—and so on?”
But Eleanor answered with a very decided ‘‘ No.
The interior of the house was modernized and re-
fitted about a hundred and twenty years ago; you
can see that I am right in my chronology by the
style of the old hangings; and I fancy all such ves-
tiges, as you call them, were then sweptaway. Tam
sorry that it should be so,” she added, with a smiie,
“as you are so anxious to be introduced to some-
thing of the kind.”
“Then there are no mysteries nor secrets connect-
ed with the Penruan Abbey?’ Max observed.
“T did not eke. Bleanor began, then checked
herself, and looked down; nor was the conversation
resumed till the Squire closed his accounts with a
rowl.
aN B-r-d-s—one shilling! What ‘does the fellow mean
by that? Oh, brads, I sup ! He never: used a shil-
ling’s worth! It’s impossible! the scamps don’t ham-
mera single nail in a board but there’s a shilling
Soe down for it!” ;
“T thought some of them were tenpenny ones!”
observed Mleanor, very innocently.
“Have the goodness to keep your thoughts for
ce yes can understand!” was the snappish re-
tort. “T must a0 and have some of these items
amended; if would not do to submit to such extor-
tions! Never invest in house property, Mr. Have;
ryng! It’s the worst return for money imaginable,’
“Do your tenants get into arrears?” the young
man civilly inquired, and Mr. Penraun looked dis-
concerted...
“Well, no—not exactly; but—”
“How can they,” interrupted Eleanor, speaking
with bitter emphasis, ‘‘when they are turned out to
die—to starve—who cares how, if sickness or trouble
overtakes them?”
“Repairs, Mr, Haveryng—repairs mount up enor-
mously!”’ said the Squire, talking very loud to silence
his irreverent step-daughter; “‘and the tradesmen
are rogues, one and ail! Why, I should be swindled
hourly, if { did not attend ‘to my affairs myself!
Ring the bell, Eleanor, that my horse may be sad-
dled. I must see this carpenter fellow at once, and
threaten him with a visit from my lawyer. I know
you'll excuse me. Business must be attended to!”
“Why not ask Mr. Haveryng to ride with you, sir,
and let him learn a lesson from your example in the
noble art of defending the pocket! df
“Condemn him to a dull ride over a dusty road,
that he may play third in ‘an interview with a saucy
workman?” cried the Squire in sprightly tones. ‘‘ No,
no, my dear; I will not tax his patience so unkindly.
He will enjoy himself much better here!”
_ The young lady glanced around the room, made a
little movement of disgust, and audibly wondered in
sow — Mr. Haveryng would find the predicted en-
oyment.
tO not trouble about me,” said Max hastily. ‘‘I
can amuse myself in the libr. , or explore the
grounds, or—”
“Nay, nay,” interposed the smiling Squire; ‘‘ we
will not be so discourteous to our guest as to leave
him quite alone. I give my young kinsman into
your charge, Nelly. You will find him an agreeable
companion, I am sure; and he will be delighted to
walk or drive with you to some of the beautiful spots
in the vicinity.”
Eleanor raised her head, and gave her step-father
a look inexplicable to Max; for it conveyed inquiry,
defiance, and eS, very much like contempt.
But Mr. Penruan would not appear to see it, and,
with a friendly adieu to both, went away, in order to
inquire how Mrs. Penruan found herself before he
started on his journey.
‘Did you ever feel a longing to bite any one, Mr.
Haveryng?’”’ demanded Eleanor, when the door had
closed upon him.» ‘‘ Because if do; and I must go
and have a battle with Ursa Minor before I will
better. I always get rid of my ill-humors when I
have done my best to aggravate the lesser of my
bugbears.””
“Transfer your spleen to my shoulders,” entreated
Max. ‘‘I’d rather endure your sharpest speeches
than be left alone, or know that you were running
those frightful Ss! Perha) rs. Penruan is not
so well, and you wish to devote the morning to her?”
“Don’t play the hypocrite, Mr. Haveryng!” cried
Eleanor, so crossly that he stared at her in amaze-
ment.
“Pray do not bring the charge of hypocrisy against
me; for if there is anythin Tdetest tt is that!”
“Then why do you make such a silly speech?”
—_ the young lady. ‘‘ Cannot you see as well as
do that mamma’s ailments are only imaginary
on ‘
es?”
“J thought she looked extremely plump and ri
for an invalid!” Max rather reluctantly confessed.
“But then I remembered. to have heard that in heart
disease or consumption the looks are deceptive.”
“Of course they are, but you may also have heard
of people who be; by, fancying that they are out
of health, and, if they can find a doctor civil enough
to humor them, end by believing that they are
dreadful sufferers. Mamma will tell you that she is
a martyr to her nerves, but she can listen with com-
posure to what excites me almost to madness. She
eats well, drinks well, sleeps soundly, and spends
more time at her toilette than I do, and yet she
wastes her days on that couch, which i would set on
fire if I were not afraid of being found out!”
“Mr. Penruan seems to attach more importance
to his wife’s ailments than you do,” Max could not
resist telling her.
“He does,” Eleanor admitted. ‘‘He is in a fidget
if she complains, in a fright if she looks pale, and in
agonies every time she has hysterics, lest. she should
never recover.”
‘And do you find fault with him for being such a
devoted husband?’ she was asked, rather indig-
nantly.
She smiled a queer little smile.
“Oh, no; I dare say that if I were Mr. Penruan I
should do as Mr. Penruan does, but I may be permit-
ted to wish that he had sufficient common sense to
second me in convincing mamma that there is noth-
ing the matter with her.”
‘Mr. Penruan gives me the impression of being a
very shrewd man,” said Max.
leanor assented.
‘So shrewd that he sometimes overreaches him-
self. But I ogg 8 would not tempt me to talk to
youso frankly, Mr. Haveryng. You must be a very
sympathetic sort of person, or my tongue would not
have run with such freedom on this short acquain-
ahiaeht?
ce.
“It is the first time I ever received such a doubtful
no ” he answered, with a smile.
“ Doubtful” Hleanor echoed.
“Yes; to be sympathetic is not a masculine quality
is it? I oe es it anne to the confidantes, in
white muslin, of tragic ee or the dear female
friends young ladies are so fond of telling their se-
crets to.”
“T have no female friends—I might say, no friends
at all!” she replied, quickly; ‘‘and so your sarcasm
does not apply tome. Butif lam to entertain you,
Mr. Haveryng, I must find some better way than
‘plaining my own lot.’) Put on your hat, and let us
go into my garden, As it is only one tiny plot, saved
with difficulty. from the Goths and Vandals, it will
not tire you to walk round it.”
“T fancied the Abbey gardens were extensive when
I peeped at them from my bedroom window,” Max
remarked, as he obeyed her.
ae. ‘so they are; but fruit and vegetables sell
so well that Mr. Penruan has turned the flower-
borders into asparagus-beds, and grows — brocoli
where I used to cultivate lilies of the valley. Can
ou ae Haveryng? Then you shall help me to
ransplant some roses, for my revered step-father
i ot allow a gardener to waste his time in attend-
0,
nate
Eleanor’s garden was a charming little nook, and
Max spent an hour or two very pleasantly in prun-
ing her rose-trees, and making some alterations she
had planned, but could not accomplish without the
aid of stronger arms. Indeed, he worked so hard
that, when the sun grew high, she insisted that he —
should ay core his Is.
“You shall not call me a thankless task-mistress,”’
she sportively said, ‘for I will reward your services
by bringing your lunch to my own favorite retreat,
if you have courage enough to accompany me to it.’
eanor ran back to the house, while her com-
ee was laving his hands at the spring that bub-
led up into a rocky basin; and when her clear voice
was again heard, calling him by name, he saw that
she had quitted the garden by a little gate in the
wall, and was standing on the edge of the cliffs,
awaiting his approach. As he drew near she clam-
bered to the top of a huge bowlder, and lightly leaped
down on the other side; but when Max reached the
spot she had disappeared, and there was nothing to
be seen but a deep chasm, dark, and overgrown with
ferns, like the mouth of some long.aiee well, ¢
A merry laugh from the vanishing maiden an-
swered his anxious exclamation. :
“Have you the courage to dive into the recesses
of the earth, Mr. Haveryng? Then, swing yourself
down by both hands; the fairies of the cavern will
take care that you come to no harm.”
, Ashamed to hesitate, Max obeyed, and dropped
into the chasm, which, after all, was of no depth.
Then, stooping his tall head and turning to the right
in obedience to the directions he received, he foun:
himself in one of the most fantastic and exquisite of
the caverns with which the rocky coast of the coun-
try isso liberally pierced. There was nothing rug-
ged or repellent here; the mouth of the cavern was
a lofty arch, looking seaward, and ferns in endless
variety fringed the opening, and threw out their
delicate fronds from every crevice on the rocky
walls and roof. Acrossthe mouth of the cave, and
rendering it inaccessible from that point, fell. the
same stream that filled the basin in Kleanor’s gar-
den. This brook went leaping from ledge to ledge, a
mere thread in the heats of summer, but a torrent.
after the snows of winter. Just now it might have
been likened to some tricksy sprite, as it flung its
light spray over the fairy clusters of the maiden’s
hair, and the towering Oswmunda Regalis, and
bathed them into a fresher, brighter verdure,
Sitting here, watching the white sails of a distant
vessel, and discussing the sandwiches Eleanor pro-
duced from her little basket, the young man ven-
tured to ask a question to which his whole soul was
hungering for an answer. i ‘
“Of course you are well uainted with the
neighborhood of St. Erne, cousin Eleanor?”’
“Not very. In hot weather the walk is a fatiguing
one, and there is so much distress in’ these fishing
villages whenever it is too cold and stormy for the
boats to go out, that I cannot bear to confront it, un-
less my purse is tolerably full.”
This was discouraging, but still Max persevered.
“These poor fishers were very kind to me while T
lay ill. I suppose you know most of them?’
‘By sights yes. They are fine, sturdy, warm-
hearted fellows! I cannot sleep when the wind is
rough, for thinking of those who are toiling on the
deep, and the anxiety of the wives and mothers who
watch and weep for them at home.”
“Are you acquainted with Daniel. Calynack, the
old man who nursed me in his little cottage?”
Eleanor nodded assent.
“Dangerous quarters for you, wasn’t it, Mr. Hav-
eryng? Old Dan is supposed to have dealings with
the Piskies”’ (fairies), ‘‘ and is regarded altogether as
an uncanny sort of person. He did not cast his spells
over you, did he?”
“Not that I am aware of,” said. Max, annoyed at
feeling a ruddy hue overspreading his face. “Do
you know Dan’s niece?” z a
“Has he one? Is it some twinge of conscience
connected with the poor girl that has caused ee to
redden so guiltily? Oh, Mr. Haveryng, it will an
ungenerous return for the kindness of which you
speak if you have made some simple child unhap-
99 *
1
ai Daniel Calynack’s niece is a widow,’’ she was
urtly told. -
“beg your pardon. Ihope my blunt Regence
have not offended you,” Eleanor exclaimed.
is this widow’s name? Is there any way in which
| you wish me to serve her?”’
warmth of her manner induced Max
to unbosom himself a little further.
“She calls herself Mrs. Letitia Rayne, and is so
superior in manners and appearance to the old fish-
erman, that I have some. curiosity to know more
about her than she was willing to tell. I thought
you might have been able to gratify me, but if the
name is not familiar—” j ‘i
He paused, and looked inquiringly at his fair com-
panion, who mused awhile before replying.
“Tf T remember rightly, I have heard mention
made of a reckless, dissolute fellow called Tom
Rayne, who came to St. e occasionally, and was
a great trouble to old Dan. He must have been the
use of your widow, for there are no families of
that name resident in this neighborhood.”
“Yes, it is the same, I suppose,” Max replied; but
even as he did so he was asking himself if could be
poreibie that this pure, white lily, so delicate, so re-
ned, was ever the wedded wife of a drunken, reck-
less fisherman? 4
“It is impossible! I will never believe it! he ex-
claimed, unconsciously speaking aloud. Then, see-
ing Eleanor’s surprise, he stammered, confusedly,
Bo ‘ou know how long he has been dead?
“Who? Rayne? Let me think. Ah, yes, I recol-
lect now hearing some one say that Dan Calynack’s
cousin, or nephew—whichever it might was
killed in a brawl at a, low public-house at Plymouth.
‘ How loi ince?’
“T believe antes be three pate At least since he
was at St; Erne, and his death happened soon after
his last visit.’ ahh ; 5
Why, then, here was confirmation strong that Max
The kindl.
h ded rightly, for Mistress Letty must-have
Eee ‘ana child at that time; and ie
donned for some one very different to ‘Tom
Rayne of Eleanor Haydon’s story.
weeds of widowhood were either a
Are you very much iitcrentodt in this bereaved
| matron, Mr, Haveryng?”’ was the inquiry with which
THE LILYIOR SST iE RNE. 9
his fair companion presently aroused him from the
reverie into which he had fallen.
His answering “T am, indeed!” wa8 spoken so em-
phatically as to silence the teasing speeches hovering
on _Eleanor’s lips. She looked as if her feminine
curiosity would be on the gvi vive till she learned
more, but Max was evidently in no humor to be
questioned. With his head on his hand, he was
‘azing out at sea, mentally recalling every look and |
ne.of the mysterious Letty; and still more vividly
arose before him the aaa she had betrayed
when he acknowledged self to bea relative of
Mr. Penruan.
In what way she was connected with the Squire re-
mained to be learned, and it appeared as if the in-
formation was only to be had from that gentleman
himself. Miss Haydon, from whom Max had been
hoping to glean so much, could tell him nothing; she
was either in ignorance of Miss Letty’s very exist-
ence, or baffled by her assumption of the name and
character she had chosen to adopt; and it seemed
useless questioning her any further.
““When you are sufficiently rested,” Eleanor ob-
served at last, “it may be as well to return to the
upper regions. . Once there, you may regain your
os
senses, and the faculty of saying a civil thing or |
two. I can put up with half an hour of utter silence,
but more than that tries my patience dreadfully.”
“Pray forgive my rudeness,” said Max, “and do
not go till yeu have given me some information |
about a mutual friend whom I hoped to have met at
Penruan. I mean Captain Renton.”
Eleanor, who had been esate eee on a
rude bench, arranging the ferns she had plucked
started up with glowing cheeks and dilated eyes, an
began to look at and question Haveryng distrustfully.
“Do you know him? What has he told you?
What has he said about me? Why have you con-
cealed this from me till now?”
“Don’t begin to bring accusations against me till 1
have some conception as to what I have done amiss,”
CHAPTER VIII.
A CHASE, AND HOW IT BEGAN.
Mr. PEnrvuAN did not return home tillafter his lady
and Eleanor had joined Max in the drawing-room,
and the cook had grown uneasy about her dishes.
‘When he did make his appearance, a chill fell upon
the trio awaiting him, for the first_ glance revealed
that his bumor had changed since the morning.
The carpenter had manfully defended himself
against the charge of extortion, and by his bold
bearing so incensed his accuser, that Mr. Penruan
had ridden off to his lawyer. Here another vexa-
tion awaited him. The only person on his estate in
whom he placed any confidence had taken advantage
of that confidence to outwit him in some bargain,
| and the discovery rendered the avaricious Squire
| more furious than before.
Mr. Penruan’s was not the wrath that expends it-
self in oaths and an exclamations. It smoldered
like some undetect ire, and was, therefore, all the
more dangerous, for it fed upon itself, and none knew
when nor where it would burst forth.
At its present stage, it was evinced by an ominous
sullenness, which not even the Reece of a guest
induced him to throw off; an certainly Mr. Pen-
ruan in the sulks was one of the ugliest specimens
of an ill-tempered man that could be witnessed.
To Max, the Squire’s lowering looks and gruff
monosyllables mattered little, for the Californian
was too good-humored to take offense at the peevish-
ness of a man so many years his senior; and his half-
civilized life had one t him to bear and forbear,
except when his hot blood was fairly roused by in-
| sult or ill-usage.
retorted Max, not at all sorry to have turned the |
tables upon her. “I'll answer your questions, if you
please, in the order you put them.”
She reseated herself, and bent over her ferns, so as
to conceal her crimson face, but did not speak, and
Max proceeded:
“Do I know Captain Renton? Yes. I met with
him in London, and liked -him so well, that when, he
spoke of visiting Cornwall, IT insisted on having the
address of the friends with whom he talked of :stay-
ing, that I might renew our acquaintance. Singular-
1 oe I found that his destination was Penruan,
econdly, what has Captain Renton said about Miss
Bleanor Haydon? I answer, nothing,” :
“That will do; you need go no further; Iam quite
satisfied. It is pleasanter sometimes to know one’s
self forgotten than remembered.”
“T should not think it was easy to forget you,
cousin Eleanor,” said Max, softly.
“Why? because I have a hot temper and a sharp
tongue? No, don’t answer with a ahaa to my
retty face, because I shall not thank you for it.
ut tell me what you want to know about Captain
Renton.”
Ee Only whether I'am likely to see him while I am
re.
“Thope not. Imean he will not come if he has
sense enough to take the advice I gave him when he
followed us to Penruan a few weeks since.”
“Has Captain Renton béen so unfortunate as to of-
fend you?” Max ventured to ask; and her counten-
ance softened to a re eta te while something
very much like a tear glisténed in eyes.
“Offended me? No, no. I would be the most
faithful of his friends if he would let me! Poor
Charlie! He is one of the best fellows in the world,
Mr. Haveryng. I wish you could persuade him to
accompany you when you go back to California. He
could get leave of absence, and the thorough change
of scene would make a stronger, wiser man of him.”
‘Before Task him to do this, I ought to ascertain
how far it would be palatable. He may have cogent
reasons for preferring to stay in England.”
But Eleanor was leading the way back to the en-
trance of the cave,'and did not choose to continue
the conversation. ax assisted her to climb some
rough steps in the side of the chasm, that made the
ascent easier, and then walked beside her tojthe
house, where she led the way to the library.
“Here I shall leave you, Mr. Haveryng, if you
think you can amuse yourself with such a poor col-
lection of books as these shelves contain.”
“ Thanks; I can make myself very comfortable in
that fine oriel, with the dai y Paper and my pipe, if
smoking here is not forbidden. Isaw Mr. Penruan’s
pouch and meerschaum lying’on yonder table, or
should not have ventured to propose it.”
Eleanor eae gave her permission, and was
tripping away when Max observed: “I must not
forget my way back to the other rooms. At present
Tam not quite up to the latitude and longitude of the
Abbey. here would yonder door lead me?”
There was a little hesitation perceptible in her
manner as she replied, “‘ That one is locked. It leads
to a part of the house we do not use. If you should
lose yourself, you must cry out for help, and T’ll be
good-natured enough to come to your assistance.”
She left him, and Max, lying fill length on a curi-
rae Bere erg placed beneath the oriel window,
smoked at his ease, and ene the while of Letty,
or laid wild schemes for watching the cottage of Dan
Calynack, and ae the old fisherman to her
abode. Noone broke in upon his meditations for
the first hour or so; but just as he was deba
whether he should re-fill his meerschaum, or go an
finish his work in Eleanor’s garden, one of the fe-
male servants entered the library.” She did not per-
ceive the recumbent figure on the settee, but crossed
the room to the locked door, at which she eee
three times. At the third tap it was opened. The
girl interchanged a few words in whispers with some
one on the other side; the door,was reclosed, a key
grating in the lock, ‘and the Servant quittéd the
brary, still unconscious of the presence of Max,
A trivial circumstance this to record, but he could
not banish it from his memory, for had not
Eleanor Haydon—the proud and apparently truth-
loving Eleanor—assured , not two hours earlier,
that this door communicated with a portion of the
Abbey that was not used? How was he to reconcile
her statement with that: he had just seen?—and if
Eleanor knew what it was a falsé one, why did she
palm it upon him?
He chatted, therefore, and laughed as freely as be-
fore the Squire returned; but he was the only one
present who could behave with such careless uncon-
cern. The servants were nervous, and evidently
afraid to move; and Mrs. Penruan, at other times the
a ig invalid, now shrunk into herself, cast scared
looks at her tyrant, and did not venture to draw his
attention upon her by the utterance of any of the
eae little murmurs in which she generally in-
ulged.
Eleanor, on the contrary, sat erect and defiant;
the rich crimson on her cheek deepening, and her
nostrils dilating with indignation, every time the
Squire’s rudeness becanie offensive. To her it was
marked; he did not condescend to pay her the com-
monest courtesies due to a lady at the dinner-table;
and had she not chosen to partake of aside dish near
at hand, her plate would have remained empty.
At last, some trifling mistake, made by the foot-
man in waiting, resulted in the plate he had nearly
a being flung at his head with such savage
violence, that the man staggered and turned pale.
Involuntarily, Max rose, and Eleanor did the same,
and drew nearer to her mother, who had stifled a
eed shriek in her pocket handkerchief, and closed
er eyes. =
*“Will you give your arm to mamma, Mr. Have-
ryng?” asked the aoe lady, her clear, incisive
tones ringing with the scorn she did not care to con-
ceal.’ ‘‘She cannot accustom herself to Mr. Pen-
ruan’s gentlemanly treatment of his servants!”
“Yes, I had better go tomy room,” gasped the
oor. , With an entreating glance at her daugh-
er. “I’m not very well; the—the draughts from
the door affect me. Dear Eleanor,” she added, in a
whisper, ‘‘ pray say no more,”
The young girl bit her lip, and signed to Max to
lead her mother away; but before Mrs. Penruan’s
shawl could be arranged to her liking, or her other
wraps and cushions collected, there was a little stir
under the table, and Mr, Penruan starting up, ex-
ree “ Here is adog'in the room! Whose og is
Eleanor sprung forward. There was only one crea-
ture of the canine species tolerated at the Abbey
besides the fierce yard dog and her mother’s spotted
favorite—an old retriever that had attached itself to
her, and always lay on the mat at her door at night.
To this do r. Penruan had frequently testified a
dislike, and it was therefore kept as much as possible
out of his way; but Rufe, catching a glimpse of his
young mistress, had crept after her into the dining-
room, and might have lain there undiscovered if he
had not emerged from his hiding-place to follow
her when she quitted her seat.
‘“‘Rufe has not done any harm; Mr. Penruan,” she
said, interposing herself between her frowning ste’
father and the dog. “I will take him away with
me.
Vouchsafing no notice of her interference, the
Squire still moved toward the animal, “on vicious
purposes intent,’ and again Eleanor would have
shielded her favorite; but grasping her by the arm,
Mr. Penruan held her back, while he bestowed on
Rufe a savage kick, that sent the poor creature
howling from the room.
The yelps of the dog were supplemented by the
shrill screams of Mrs. Penruan, who, sinking from
the supporting arms of Max, lay back in her chair,
beating the air with her hands in violent hysterics.
The confusion was now extreme; the Squire cer-
tainly hurried to his lady’s assistance, but at the
same time so loudly abused the servants whom his
shouts and 1 at the bell brought into the roo
that the restoratives for which they were dispatch:
roved ineffectual; and the scene would have been
judicrous if it had not verged on the disgusting.
““Come away,” said Eleanor, touching Max on the
arm. “Wecan be of no use here, and do but ex-
pose ourselves to insult by remaining.”
““But your mother?” asked Max, with a glance at
the distorted features of the strugglin lady.
Eleanor’s look followed the ipection of his, and
she aa but. answered: “‘Mamma will do well
enough. She will scream till she is exhausted, and
by that time Mr. Penruan will be alarmed and peni-
tent. Cold water and astern remonstrance are the
only remedies that would be really effectual in these
attacks, and it is. no use suggesting them; so let us
go into the garden.”
But though Mr. Penruan’s step-daughter talked
with such calm and bitter significance, Max found
that the hand resting on his sleeve was trembling;
and there were hot tears glistening on her eyelashes,
as they strolled along the grass-grown terrace. _
“Penruan Abbey isn’t the pleasantest of houses to
visit at,” she said, presently. “You must not go
back to America imagining that what you seo and
hear here are fair einen of the manners and
customs of the English gentry. We are an excep-
tional family, Mr. Haveryng; you will not care to
stay long with us.”
“T shall be sorry to go away,” Max answered,
frankly; ‘‘andI suppose storms will ruffle the calm-
est seas. sometimes.”
“ Ay, but such gales as we have had to-day ruffle
our domestic atmosphere too often! If Mr. Penruan
would but control himself in the presence of
strangers, I could better bear it,’ she added, pas-
sionately. ‘‘I am ashamed that you should have
witnessed such conduct.”
“Pooh!”’ said Max, anxious to make light of what
had occurred. ‘‘ You forget that I am a relative, and
ought to feel flattered that Mr. Penruan refuses to
treat meas a stranger.” , Tee
“You must be very proud of such kinship,”
cried Eleanor, scornfully. “‘ If you knew—if I could
bring myself to tell you—”
Here the young man gently interrupted her.
“My dear cousin, why dwell on such unpleasant
topics?—they do but excite we and make us both
uncomfortable. If you could but resolve to turn a
deaf ear to the snappish speeches of an ill-tempered
old man—”’
But now, Eleanor could be silent no longer.
““ What! bend my neck to his yoke—suffer myself
to be wronged and trampled on in every way? Can
you bid me do this after what you saw just now?
Can you expect me to be forbearing to the unfeeling
man who ill-treated the poor dog that loves me, and
uses me thus, when I interfere in its behalf?”
‘As she spoke she held up her round white arm, and
Max saw that Squire Penruan, in grasping it, had
dug his nails into the soft fiesh with a force that had
left the purple and bleeding imprints of his violence.
An indignant exclamation burst from the lips of
the young man, and he turned sharply round to re-
turn to the dining-room,
But Eleanor detained him.
“What are you going to do?”
“What should I do, but seek Mr. Penruan, and tell
him what I think of such dastardly conduct!”
“And Set his wrath upon your own head?”
Max drew himself up.
“Caramba! what signifies that? Who is John
Penruan, that I should hesitate to speak my mind
in his hearing? He can but bid me leave his house
when I have done!”
But still Eleanor, half-laughing, half-tearful, clung
to his arm.
“And you would be content to leave the Abbey,
and see me nomore? Forshame, sir! how t!
No, no, Mr. Haveryng; I positively forbid you to re-
monstrate with my step-father. am grateful for
your sy ae but I cannot accept your champion-
ship. In fact—and now I a to your sober sense
—it would do more harm than good, and possibly
might compel me to quit the Abbey.”
“The very step I should advise you to take. Surely
you have friends; who would give you a ——
10me than you can enjoy under the roof of Mr. -
ruan?”’
Eleanor shook her head.
“T cannot leave the Abbey; it is not to be thought
of. If you really wish to my friend, Mr. Haver-
yng, you will help me to forget what has happened
this evening, and to ese some of that forbear-
ance you advocate. © you know that your friend,
nalts Renton, is threatening to pay us a flying
visi
She was evidently desirous of changing the sub-
ject, and Max could but follow her lead, so the evii
moods of the Squire were not alluded to in during
their s roll, which was prolonged till the moon rose;
and when they re-entered the house, Eleanor pleaded.
fatigue, and went to her own rooms, an example
Max thought it would be prudent to follow. There
he secured himself from another nocturnal visit by
dragging an old-fashioned wardrobe across the panei
from which he still believed that some one
peered at him on the previous night. i
On the morrow, Mr. Penruan no sooner entered the
breakfast-parlor than he made a confused apology
¢ his guest for the unpleasantness of the preceding
ay.
“Tam afraid we made you uncomfortable among
us, Mr. Haverying, and perhaps I was in some
measure the cause; but my e’s delicate health
preys upon my spirits, and when to that is added the
anxieties that always attend property, the stupidity
of the servants, and the obstinate— But, come,
kinsman, we'll not wait for the ladies. I want you
to taste these mackerel, caught on our coast not
more than two hours ago, and boiled directly; it is
the only way of eating the fish at its prime.”
Max looked bewildered at the sudden change in his
host’s manner, till he Pe ceived that Eleanor had en-
tered the room while Mr. Penruan was speaking. To
her that gentleman did not seem to think any apol-
ogy necessary; but as soon as the meal was over, he
carried Max away to show him, and have his opinion
on, some improvements on the farm attached to the
Abbey. :
AS Restor was invisible when Max made his es-
cape, and Mrs. Penruan was not well enough to leave
her chamber, he resolved to avail himself of the op-
a for strolling as far as the cottage of Dan
Jalynack. But the old fisherman was out, and the
cottage, where he had spent so many happy hours
—— ee Ma i ie bye qos
isappointed in the hope of recei at message.
ora = to his , which he still believed that
she would intrust to Dan for him, Max re-climbed
the cliffs, and strolled across the fields on the sum-
mit toward the primitive little town, that lay some
five miles.on the other side of the Abbey. As he
neared it, he remembered to have heard Eleanor ex-
ress a wish that she had some fine wire for mount-
some feather flowers she was making, and he
turned into the High street, and sought for a shop
where the article could be procured.
i » CHAPTER IX,
HOW THE CHASE IN WHICH MAX ENGAGED PROGRESSED
AND ENDED.
Wen Max entered the low-ceilinged, poe
ed emporium, a woman was already at the counter,
purchasing some stationery. She started, and moved
aside, draw down her vail as he approached, and
bending over the she was sel in such a
manner as to wholly conceal her face from his view.
If it had not been for these movements, he might
not have noticed her at all; but he came from a
country where the eye and ear are tutored to be
‘ .
THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.
constantly on theralert, and her desire to avoid him
was quickly detected.
Max took a close survey of her. She was neatl.
and simply clothed; a dark stuff dress, a black shawl,
and an old-fashioned bonnet—the attire, in every re-
spect, of a decent, homely farmer’s wife. That she
was not young the squat, set figure revealed, as well
as the hand she»had ungloved while inspecting some
envelopes; and, rather amused at her evident desire
to avoid:observation, he turned from her and began
inquiring for the article he wished to procure.
inishing Her purchases in haste, the woman paid
for them, and: still with her face carefully averted,
took up her parceland left the shop. The proprietor
was at the door arranging some packages, and civilly
bade her’good-morning as,she passed him,
The [words»were hurriedly responded, to in full,
deep, and rather harsh tones, which no sooner reach-
ed the ears lof! Max, than he forgot what he was say-
oe: the shopman, rv
here had he heard those strangely familiar
tones? Ah! now he knew, now he remembered well
enough, and guessed why she had striven to avoid
him. The voice to which he had been listening was
the voice of Esther, that mysterious friend and com-
panion of Mistress pens 0 whose influence he at-
tributed the young w dow’s refusal to see him.
From her everything was to be‘learned, if he could
but convince her that no dishonorable motives dic-
tated his curiosity. From her might be gleaned a
clew to Letty’s present abode, her reasons for hiding
herself and for assuming the name and disguise
which she wore; and telling himself this, Max hur-
ried from the shop, determined to follow her.
One glance up and then down the street. Had she
already evaded him? Nay, surely that was her
chocolate skirt disappearing round the corner of a
house some fifty yards off. Yes, it was she; and
with reckless haste he dashed across the road, and
up the village in hot pursuit.
‘Her impetuous Max had not gone many steps be-
fore the curious looks cast at him by the women
standing at their doors, as well as the few persons he
met, reminded him that it would be wise to moder-
ate his pace, and act’ with more circumspection. He,
therefore, resolved to content himself with keeping
the woman im sight, and this was easily done when
she quitted the narrow alley into. which she had
turned; for a path across the fields, leading toward
the coast. ;
But as she climbed the heap of stones that take
the place of a stile in some parts of the county, she
glanced over her shoulder, and discovered that she
was pursued. That this discovery was a very un-
pleasant one her actions speedily evinced, for after
pausing for a few seconds in evident incertitude and
distress, she changed her course, and began to make
for some tangled coppices that formed the bound-
ariesof at estate lying between the town and Pen-
ruan Abbey. Onee there, she doubtless thought
that by plunging into the depths of the woodland, it
would be easy enough to evade a person so thorough-
ly unacquainted with the locality as Max must be;
and sometimes walking, but more frequently run-
ning, she pursued her way, not venturing to look
back, lest it should delay her,
But nearly a mile of rough road lay between the
flying woman and the copse in which she thought to
hides and the long, steady strides of the Californian
still brought him nearer and nearer, in spite of her
exertions.
At last the bank surrounding the trees was reach-
ed, but, as she climbed it, Max ascended also, and
was by her side,
Still, after one sharp glance at him, she walked on,
more leisurely, poe than before, and waited for
him to accost her; but he contented himself with
keeping pace with her, turning when she turned; or
when the path was too narrow for them to walk
abreast, following in her footsteps.
Again she turned her eyes upon him, as if longing
to penetrate his motives for this silent pertinacity:
and Max met her gaze without flinching. But still
he remained mute; and, muttering something to
herself, she began to wander at random, up one path
and then down another, frequently returning to the
spot from whence she started, as if thus hoping to
weary him into quitting her; a vain hope, as she
presently discovered.
At last tired, hot, and angry she set her back
a a tree, threw up her vail, and sharply expos-
uu
‘* What do you mean by this strange behavior, sir?
Why. do you follow me?’
“Because I am anxious to know where you reside,
and have no other way of discovering your abode.’
“And. so you are going to force me into showing
you? Would it not be more gentlemanly to put the
question to me, and let me have the option of telling
or periasings as I think proper?”
“It wou dd,” was frankly admitted; “and if I had
seen any reason to believe that you would tell me
the truth, I would have done so. But you are not
my friend—you never have been. Your anxiety to
avoid me is a sufficient proof that you will show me
no. favor; and as I am determined to see Mistress
Letty, Iam obliged to have recourse to the measures
of which you complain.”
“Why do you wish to see her?’ the woman de-
manded, suspiciously.
‘Because I value her good opinion too highly to be
satisfied till I have convinced her that I am not the
dishonorable fellow she seemed inclined to think
me.”’
“She has had your letter,” he was curtly informed.
“But the answer? I have received no answer to
it. Why cannot I hear it from her own lips?» Why
does she so obstinately refuse me an interview?
While she continues to do this, how can I hope that
Iam forgiven?’
“Letty has granted you too many interviews, Mr.
Haveryng,” the woman retorted. ‘‘I was opposed
to it from the pectiey, It was a foolish piece of
business altogether, and if you have a spark of gen-
erosity or good feeling in you, why you will neither
torment her nor me any longer.” ‘
“Tt is ag I told you,” said Max, brusquely. ‘‘ You
prejudiced yourself against me, even when I lay be-
‘ore you helpless, and apparently dying. What of-
fense have I given that you treat me with such gall-
ing , dak ue, and strive to imbue others with your
“Well, sir, and if we come to that,” she answered
looking ‘intently at him, “what reason have | to
think well of you? You meet with an accident, and
are kindly taken care of by a poor old man; and you
repay him by talking nonsense to his niece, and
striving to pry into her affairs. At the same time.
you take care to keep Philos own secret. It isn’t till
you are on the point of leaving the cottage that the
truth leaks out, and you confess that you are a rela-
tive of Squire Penruan!”
“Ts it a crime to be related to him?”
“No, sir; but it’s very certain that one who can
call himself cousin to such a rich gentleman as the
Squire, wouldn’t look for a wife in a fisherman’s cot-
tage; and it would do Letty no good to be seen talk-
ing too often to visitors at the Abbey.”
‘Is Letty your daughter?”
“ Not by birth, . Iwish she were. I am_her aunt
Esther; and now, sir, I'll trouble! you to let me go
my, way.. I’ve answered quite questions enough
that mean nothing!’
But Max did not move even when she emphatically
repeated her request. There was so.much justice in
what she said, that it was difficult, indeed, to press
his desire to. see Mistress_Letty....And yet, to forego
that pleasure—to quit. England without beholding
her—ah! the thought made him. grasp the woman’s
hand impetuously.
“Tt is mo use. I must and will see her, even if it
be but to hear her say one word of farewell. Inever
intentionally vexed her. So far from prying into
her secrets, I strove to subdue my curiosity, and
obey her lightest injunctions. Remind her of this,
Assure her from me that I had no hidden motive for
my silence Eee Mr, Penruan; in fact, that I
scarcely thought of him while I was at Dan Caly-
nack’s cottage.”
“Well, sir; and when I have told her all this, what
then?” asked the woman, dryly.
“Then entreat her to.see me, If you. consent to
the interview, I cannot think that she will refuse it.”
“Tt would do no good. It would only make her
more—”’
But. here she paused, and mused awhile, Max wait-
ing almost breathlessly for her decision. It was as
he feared it would be—an adverse one.
“No, sir; I can’t consent to any more meetings,
for [fail to see the use of them. My poor Letty’s
very awkardly situated—I don’t, mind telling you
that much; and there’s danger in—in her coming
here, that she ought not to incur without a better
reason for it than an idle young fenuemets wishes.”
“What are her own?’ asked Max. ‘ Are not they
to be consulted? Is it, solely by her own desire that
she avoids me?”
The woman hesitated, as she replied, ‘‘ Letty has
said more than once that she cannot put any trust in
the honor or good feeling of a Penruan.”’
“What has Mr. Penruan done to make her speak
and think so bitterly of ovary one connected with
him? For goodness sake, tell me; for I am sick of
this tormenting mystery |’
“Nay, sir,” she answered, retreating, from him;
“it’s not my pinea to find fault: with the Squire; and
even if I do think my Letty has cause for what she
says, ii would not be wise to make a confidant of
one of his nearest relations, would it?”
“T have no desire to learn anything to Mr. Pen-
ruan’s prejudice,” said Max, haughtily; “though I
protest against evil motives or doings being imputed
to me, because his father and mine claimed kinship.
Once again, I ask sy ot if you will permit Mistress
Letty to see me?. You can be present at our meet-
ing; I care not who hears what Ihave to say. But
Lam so fully convinced by what you have admitted
that it is your influence koe us apart, that [ll not
rest till Ihave found her. If you will not assist me
© Ag, so, I must try what my own efforts will ef-
ect.
** And you don’t care what mischief you do so that
ou carry out your own willful intentions!” said
ther, bitterly. ‘‘ Sir, this poor child has suffered
enough without your bringing more troubles upon
her head!” ‘
“T will do nothing to.injure. her—I swear it)’ he
answered, with all the fervor of truth, ‘‘ Make what
conditions you please, and I will abide by them; I
will await your time for the interview, and it shall
be as brief as you please. Only give me the oppor-
tunity of exculpating myself—of hearing her say
that she will not distrust me. I ask no more.”
“And for the selfish pleasure of hearing a simple
girlsay that she believes you to be aman of honor
ou persist in seeing her, in spite of my warning that
t may do her harm. Oh, sir, your own willful wish-
es must be dearer to you than Letty’s comfort or
safety, or you would not keep urging me todo what I
feel to be so unwise.”
“Tf you can say, with truth, that Mistress Letty
will run any risk by granting me this interview,” said
the perplexed Max, coming terribly, disappointed, ‘‘ I
must renounce my wish. But it is indeed hard to do
so—very hard!”
“Nay, sir; you'll not regret it by-and-by,” said Es-
ther, her face bri hhening: as his grew sad. ‘And
Letty’s prayers will be with you wherever you go!”
“Stay! said Max. “ You hint at troubles that
menace her. She herself has spoken in a similar
manner; and itis plain that you think so meanly of
me as to imagine that I shall go away from Cornwall
leaving her to overcome her difficulties unaided. Bu
in this you are mistaken, I will not press her to see
me while you forbid it; ‘but, on the other hand, I re-
fuse to quit the neighborhood till Mistress Letty can
herself convince me that she has nothing to fear.”’
“You are playing false with me, Mr, Haveryng!”
cried the vexed woman, ‘‘ At one moment, you pro-
fess to give up your own inclinations; at the next,
you ineiat aoe aunting the poor id! I suppose
ee will end in making her more miserable than she
already!’
“Be just to me, if you can!” was the yds |
have promised to wait Mistress Letty’s own time for
the renewal of our acquaintance, and also that I will
do nothing that she forbids, nor seek to discover her
secrets; but I should be dishonored in my own opin-
ion, if I went away knowing that I leave her, to use
our own words, in difficulty and danger. | By stay-
ng quietly here, I cannot harm her; by going, I rob
self of the chance of serving her hereafter.
‘I suppose, sir, you’ll please yourself, let me sa:
what I will?” the woman tartly Jomarked. “So Th
bid you good-day!”
Max would have pressed a sovereign into her hand
for a new ribbon, but the gift was proudly rejected.
“Tam in a good situation, sir, and earn enough to
rey a I want, without accepting presents from any
one!’
She walked on, but still Max kept beside her; and
when by a look she protested against this, he once
more laid his hand upon her arm.
“You leave me even more perplexed than I was
before I saw you; but of that I will not complain.
If you are conscientiously doing your duty by Mis-
tress Letty, I must respect your conduct, much as it
grieves me!”
She curtsied, and looked gratified by the frank ad-
mission.
“But still,” he went on, ‘I think that you ht
haye shown some consideration for my perplexities.
It is but little that I ask now; a few lines from Letty\
herself, in reply to my letters.”
“And then, sir, you’d write again, and—”
“T will do nothing of the kind if Letty forbids it,”
he hastened to say.
Esther furtively glanced at the handsome, earnest
face of the Californian, and her own visibly softened.
Surely there was no treachery lurking in those hon-
est blue-eyes, and against her will she yielded. :
‘When I see her, I'll tell her that she can write if
she likes.”
“When you see her!’’ he repeated. ‘‘ Why, then,
she is not at St. Erne?”
“No, Mr. Haveryng.”
“Nor residing with you?” ,
“T hold a confidential situation, sir, in the family
of a ems in this neighborhood.”
“Then why do you object to my knowing your ad
dress?’ he demanded, gusniciously.
The woman reddened.
‘“Tisn’t that, sir. I dare say you can know where
I live soon neh if you take any further trouble
about me; but I didn’t wish to give you an pp
nity of asking me any more questions about Letty.
That was my reason for trying to avoid you.”
‘‘ And she is not with you, and I must submit to a
longer delay!” Max exclaimed. “ But you will de-
ie oe message at the earliest moment? Promise
ae, ”
“Yes,” said Esther; ‘‘ and the answer you ask for
shall be at Daniel Calynack’s in three days from the
present.”’ Then, as if instantly repenting her pledge,
she raised her clasped hands, and with features
working. convulsively, ejaculated, ‘I pray forgive-
ness if I have done wrong; and may ey hour of
your future life be turned into a curse, if by look,
pene AF deed, you wrong those that trust in your
onor ;
She darted away among the trees—ashamed, per-
pape, of this outbreak of excited feeling—and Max
walked slowly back to the Abbey, rejoicing over the
one ray of light that pierced the clouds—the pros
pect of a letter from Mistress Letty at last!
CHAPTER X.
HOW MAX WAS VIEWED AND JUDGED BY JAUNDICED EYES..
As if eager to banish all recollections of his churl-
ish behavior, Mr, Penruan had become more gracious:
than ever to his young guest, and even included
Eleanor Haydon in his courtesies. Under the influ--
ence of his good-humor, Mrs. Penruan gained cour-
e to susrge from her chamber, and resume her’
‘ace on her invalid couch in the drawing-room, and
to casual observers all was sunshine once more.
“We must try and prevail with Max ’’—he had
even reached the le of calling his kinsman by
his Christian name—'‘we must prevail with him,,
Nelly, to stay with us all the summer.” ?
“Why, sir?” asked Eleanor, looking up from her’
work, and trying to attract his attention,
But Mr. aa ee ae ee aoe
together, without appearing ai isconce 3
Wh e indeed? Need I fell you that I wish it be-
cause he is a great acquisition to our small f .
and your mother unites with me in hoping that he
will nh oan too greata hurry to leave us. Do you
not, Matilda?”
“Yes.” said Mrs. Penruan, languidly. “ My suffer-
ings make me a poor companion for young people,
but I like to see them enjoy themselves; and if you
think, John, that there is ee I can do to make
Mr. averyng’s visit an agreeable one, I shall be
most happy.’
Max so warmly thanked her for her kind speech, :
that she was aroused to make another.
“We have never associated much with our neigh-
bors, on account of my health, and ’’—she glanced at
her husband, and colored ‘htly—‘“‘and for other
reasons; but if we could gather enough people to-
gether for a ene or croquet party, I would try and
nerve myself to receive the eee Or Eleanor
might do that,” she added, wi
ness, ‘and I could appear afterward, and be car-
ried in a palanquin round the grounds. I could have
the cushions I recline upon covered with some pretty
Oriental-looking mate: and my maid could make
W that Ben al silk—it is just the, tint for my com-
lation: ae
But here Mr. Penruan broke in with a very de-
cided, “My dear Matilda, it is not to be thought of.
T cannot let you risk your precious life by such exer-
tions!” .
The lady put her handkerchief to her eyes; she
was just out that the rele of an invalid is not
always @ pleasant one, and there was an awkward
use. ;
peut Mr ETE TO will stay, will he not?” she
asked, presently. ‘I should like to have the mourn-
Bit tas Mtl keto
to my grave. ni 0. ear, 01
buried at Torquay, because the air of that place al-
ways suited me so well.” ri
“Mamma,” cried Eleanor, jumping. up, itis too
ridiculous when you rush from a picnic to an elabo-
rate funeral; and the same ob jection Mire to
both, doesn’t it, Mr. Penruan?—the eapense. tain
Renton. will be here shortly, and he and Mr. Have-
ryng must contrive to amuse each other while they
consent to vegetate at this dull hole. -
“Renton going to honor us with a visit?” com-
me plandly.
mented the “Indeed, you surprise
me!”
tt all, sir!” his step-daughter retorted.
x Wort happen to know that it ie with your sanction
that he is coming.’ wie
Sab) Zemanta, tows, ait ay fone
about it,” answered Mr. Penruan, in F
ner, You will have two guests to entertain, Nelly,
}
f
}
~
who
+
joanna
baa
+
_ Haveryng, you'll find me in the forcing-house.’
quite an onerous task for Zou, my child; but you are
a young lady of great tact and resources—great tact.
If-you should feel inclined to join me presently, Mr,
So saying, he went away, leaving _Hleanor, frown-
ing, biting her lip, and musing angrily over the sneer
his words conveyed. Max, who had been trying to
lend a patient hearing while Mrs. Penruan detailed
some of her symptoms, released himself as soon as
she turned from him to caress Fan-fan, and joined
her daughter. ;
“Your grave looks are_not very complimentary to
Captain Renton, Cousin Eleanor! One would almost
think that. you regret his coming.”
“Do you believe in the doctrine of transmigra-
tion?” she asked, so abruptly that he stared and
laughed.
‘NotI! Does any one nowadays?”
‘““Yes,”’ she replied; ‘‘I do... It is one of my great-
est comforts to think that the mean, grin ng de-
testably wicked spirit of John Penruan may be look-
ing at me through the medium of the horse I call
Ursa Minor. It is but a foolish fancy, perhaps, but
the quadruped and the human animal are so much
alike—each so ores ae their ee, to
wound me to the death, that I cannot help cherishing
it”?
E Max drew her arm through his, and led her onto
the terrace, to which the long, French casements
opened.
ut My dear coz, I don’t like to hear you talk in this
strain; it will end in making you hard and unwo-
manly.” J :
“Do not years of wrong-doing and oppression
make all of us so?” she retorted. :
“I think not; at least, not always. And you, with
your youth and beauty, your quick appreciation of
all that is good and lovely, must not degenerate into
anything unfeminine!” .
leaner's lips began to relax, but she sighed impa-
tiently.
E This so easy for outsiders to talk; and Idare say
in years to come, if you hear of meas a shrewish,
disagreeable, strong-minded woman, you will shake |
your head with the rest, and that it is the natural
result of giving way to my ill-humors in my youth,
No one will take the trouble to lift the curtain and
ascertain what made me thus!” ¥
‘But, Eleanor, the capricious moods of Mr. Pen-
ruan must not be allowed to affect the whole course
of your life,” Max remonstrated. ‘You take too
much heed of them; you let them harass you, when
they really are not worth notice.” :
“Are they not? Yet do you think he is a pleasant
person to live with?” she asked with a glance at the
arm on which the marks of his violence were still
visible.
“By no means!’ Max answered. ‘‘On the con-
trary, I feel that, under any circumstances, I should
not agree with him long; for which reason I have
hesitated about accepting his invitation. Still, if
compelled to be an inmate of his house, I would do
my beat to avoid clashing with him.”
‘For instance, you would not make bitter retorts,
nor sting him with puny sarcasms every time he
plays the hypocrite,” said Eleanor, sighing again.
** And you are right; Ido but aggravate my annoy-
ances te, taking this course; but_my_ spirit rises
ainst the man! I cannot like—I cannot respect
him; and, of late, the patience I used to exert has
failed me—quite failed me.” ,
“1 wish I could a or advise you to some pur-
pose,” said Max, kindly.
48 Thanks; but unless you knew all, it would be im-
ossible; and although we have drifted somehow
nto very confidential intimacy, I don’t feel justified
y telling you a long story, to “the prejudice of your
ost.”
“Neither should I like to hear it,” was the candid
reply; ‘for reviving old grievances is not the way to
get rid of the present ones. I'd rather help you to
make light of Pour troubles, and comfort yourself
with the recollection that every cloud has a silver
lining.”
Pr oy; but we don’t see that nine till the storm has
burst, and the lightning has scathed us!” she re-
minded him,
“How hopelessly you talk!” Max exclaimed; and
Eleanor burst into a laugh, as she glanced at his
grave face.
“And how romantically, eh? You will be; to
think that my trials must be terrible indeed, if they
compel me to talk so like a tragedy veer Sup-
I take your advice for awhile, and banish them
rom my thoughts. I ought to be very happy, for am
I not, as you just told me, young and—what. else
was itr—oh, beautiful; the word is yours, Mr. M.
not mine, remember; and am I not to be dower
with forty thousand pounds if I marry with the con-
sent of my guardians? Did not Mr. Penruan give
you this last little morsel of information as soon as
you arrived at the Abbey?”
She looked at Max so keenly that he was s rather
confused, but he answered readily enough, ‘‘ Mr.
Penruan said someth about your being hand-
somely dowered the first day I dined here. I notic-
ed it use he added that to the man who was so
fortunate as to win your affections, you would bea
treasure in yourself. Iwas pleased to hear him do
you such justice.”
“ A treasure in myself!” Eleanor repeated. “‘ Oh,
if I were!’ and when next he glanced at her, he
found that she was weeping. Without appearing to
notice these signs of an emotion he could not com-
prehend, he drew her on, and began expatiating on
the scenery; either com ng it with that of Ameri-
ca, or talking of the splendid tropical flowers that
grew around his dwelling there, until she had regain-
ed_ her composure.
By this ne they had wandered as far as the cliffs,
and Max pointed out the spot from whence he must
have fallen.
“This reminds me,’’ cried Eleanor, as she seated
herself on a mound of wild thyme, “‘ that I mestion-
ed one of my servants, a woman from St. Erne,
about your widow, and she says that Mrs. Rayne was
merely ataying, her uncle's for the benefit of her
health, which been affected by family troubles,
and was not likely to come here again.”
Max thanked her for the information, but made no
comment upon it, although Eleanor looked as if she
would have liked to know why he had testified such
extraordinary interest in the relict of the dissolute
Tom Rayne. So the conversation turned somehow
“ore EE
Abbey, the
upon Charles Renton, whose arrival would probably
take place on the morrow.
“We have known Charlie ever since he and I were
children together, romping about the knees of my
own dear father,” said Eleanor. “ But we lost sight
of each other after papa’s health obliged him to live
in a warmer climate; and when we came back to
England, it was difficult to recognize in the tall,
soldierly young man, my old playmate.” :
“T was very favorably impressed with Captain
Renton,”’ Max observed. ;
“He is a general favorite, unfortunately for him-
self,” was the reply, ‘‘ for his social qualities induced
him to enter the army—the worst of all professions
for a young man who has nothing but his pay.”’
“Ts he so poor?”’ exclaimed her auditor.
“Yes. His father was extravagant, and the son
pays the vera What property remained at the
death of Mr. Renton, Charlie gave up to the credi-
tors, and left himself nothing but his commission.”
“He did right,” said Max promptly.
“Yes,” said Eleanor—“ quite right; but there
was such a sorrowful inflection in her voice, that
| Max began to seek for the reason.
“You commend him, and yet you speak as if you
regretted what he has done!”
Dol? Perhaps I was thinking of something else.
You_have not seen the Logan, or Rocking Stone,
yet, Mr. Haveryng. What say you to riding with
me to view it this afternoon?”
“T shall be delighted, on condition that you do not
ride Ursa Minor.” j
“Then we must be content to jog along on the
steady old ponies that draw mamma’s phaeton when
she exerts herself sufficiently to go out; for Mr.
Penruan oh no one to bestride his own horse,
and he will not keep one for me.”’
“Let us have the ponies, by all means,” said Max.
“Then I can enjoy the landscape, without being in
mortal terror for your safety.”
Eleanor laughed,. and went away, to put on her
habit, and ask the housekeeper to pack some lunch-
eon in the haversack, with which she invested her
companion. The ride proved a delightful one; for as
soon as Shey ee emerged from the grounds of the
autiful and vivacious girl cast care to
the winds, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of
the hour. Nor was it until they were walking their
tired steeds up the avenue, at the close of the ex-
cursion, that the shadow began to settle down upon
her brows once more.
“Tt has been_a most enjoyable day,” said Max.
“T shall offen look back upon it when I am once
more quietly domiciled at Aquas Dolces.”
“Do not speak of it, lest I learn to envy you the
power of running away from Penruan whenever you
please.’
“Tf I do possess the power, I am in no hurry to
exercise it,’’ was the smiling retort. ‘‘It will be a
black day in ny calendar when I am obliged to say
a long farewell to the Belle of Penruan, the kind coz
who has made my stay here such a pleasant one.”
“Shall you remain with us for the summer, as
Mr. Penruan proposes?” asked Eleanor, leaning over
her Rays neck to pat his head.
“What does la belle say about it?” Max payly,
queried, inhis turn, ‘Shall Ibe in the way if Ido?”
“T don’t understand you,” she replied, so coldly,
that, fearing to offend her by a more pointed allu-
sion to Captain Renton, he explained away his un-
mse speech.
“T should have said, ‘Am I likely to prove a bore
to you? Mr, Penruan has inflicted on you the office
of entertaining me, and I can fancy how fatiguing
such a task must sometimes prove.”
Eleanor did not immediately reply and finding
this, Max added, ‘‘ You may be quite frank with me,
my dear cousin. You will not offend me by saying
that such a lengthened visit will be too great a tri
of your good nature.”
till Eleanor did not speak till Max Haveryng had
leaped from his horse, and was holding up his arms
to assist her in dismounting. Then looking steadily
into his face, although hers was hot with blushes,
she said, ‘“‘I should like you to stay, Max, if you
would swan be tome what you are now—a, friend,
a brother; but, for both our sakes, don’t be per-
suaded or lured into falling in love with me!”
“Tm afraid,” he answered, his bronzed cheek
flushing, too, ‘‘that the caution would have been a
useless one, if I hadn’t given my heart away before I
saw you,
“Is it so?” and Eleanor smiled again as if a load
were taken off her spirits. “‘ Ah, cousin Max, I shall
not rest content with such a half confidence as this!
You will have no peace now till you have told me
more,”
“ Agreed,” said Maxy “if you promise to give me
secret for secret,”
But, blushing more vividly than before, the young
lady page up her habit and ran away.
“She is a charming girl, Mr. Paver yes said
Eleanor’s step-father, as the gentlemen sat together
after dinner, ‘and so far have her own way as
to marry only where she loves!”
“Why does he tell me this?” his companion men-
tally inquired. ‘“‘Does he think that I have been
epithe pao to find the young lady’s cassette? and
is this repare me to find her and Renton enga;
lovers? He might have ee himself the trouble.
Iam no fortune-hunter. If I had never seen Letty, I
should not risk a rejection by entering the lists.”
‘When he looked up, it was rather annoying to find
that Mr. Penruan was stealthily watching him, as if
trying to glean his thoughts from the expression of
his features.
‘“*T suppose, then, that if my cousin Eleanor likes
her old friend Captain Renton well enough to give
him her hand, her guardians will not enone it?”
Mr. Penruan rose, and, putting his hands on the
table, leaned over it to whisper his reply.
will you sit idly by, and suffer Renton to bear off
so rich a prey Is not your own fair home in Cali-
fornia without a mistress? Could it have a more
beautiful one than Eleanor Haydon?”
“Hang him!” mentally ejaculated the astonished
Max, startled by a speech that tallied so oddly with
the warning Eleanor had given. ‘Would he throw
-| his step-daughter at my head—mine! a stranger, of
whom, save for the fact that we are of the same
blood, he. knows nothing?. I may be a gambler, a
ndthrift—a mere im r, a8 he once hinted!
e has made _no effort to convince himself to the
contrary. And yet he invites me to carry away pret-
ERNE. 44
ty Eleanor and_her forty thousand pounds! Bah!
there lies something under this which I cannot com-
prehend! Iam not idiot enough to think that it is
for the love of Max Haveryng of Aquas Dolces, that
he does this. He has some sinister motive for such
apparent kindness!”
“You are putting strange thoughts into my head,
Mr. Penruan,” he said, aloud. ‘‘Do you really ad-
vise me to propose myself as a suitor for the hand
of Miss Haydon?”
““Advise? No, no!” was the hasty ee “You
mistake me. Eleanor, with all her excellent quali-
ties, is so self-willed, that I have long ceased to in-
terfere with her. I do not advise you, my dear Max.
I only bid you act as your heart dictates. You have
a comfortable competence, I ror’.
The kinsman assented; and after a harangue.
which lasted for some minutes, on the troubles an
anxieties that attended property, especially house
property, in England, Mr. Penruan proposed that
they should join the ladies.
eanor was at the piano when they entered the
drawing-room, and she sung at the request of Max,
till Mrs. Penruan fancied that one of the notes was
out of tune, and caused her to experience a nervous
tremor every time it was touched. So the instru-
ment was closed, and chess substituted; but Eleanor
was too pensive and absorbed to play a good game;
and the running accompaniment of her mother’s
fretful Soman was so depressing, that no one
was sorry when the regular hour arrived for retiring.
Not feeling at all sleepy, Max resolved to go to
the library, and select a book to carry with him to
his own room; but when he reached the door it re-
fused to open, and oe that the servants had
closed it for the night, he was quietly turning away,
when some one approached it from within, an
asked: ‘‘Is that you, Mr. Penruan?”
“No, it is I—Max Haveryng,” he answered,
promptly, and explained his errand. But a dead
silence followed. e door was not unclosed, nor
was any notice of his speech vouchsafed; and bewil-
dered y such strange proceedings, after waiting
awhile, he walked away.
As he went back to his chamber, he heard Mr.
Penruan rating the men-servants for some act of
neglect, and saw Eleanor and Mrs. Penruan’s maid
assisting that lady’s languid movements, as she
ascended the stairs. It was, therefore, neither of
the members of the family, whom he had just left
locked in the library; neither was it an intruder—as
witness the question that was asked as soon as his
efforts to open the door became audible to the per-
son within.
Coupling this circumstance with what he had seen
and heard on a previous day, Max was forced to the
conclusion that there were inmates of the Abbey
whom he was not to be permitted to know; and, by
a natural sequence of ideas, he also concluded that
it was one of these unknown residents in the house
who had opened the panel in the wainscoting of his
chamber,
Although not more curious than other men, he
could not keep his thoughts from dwelling on these
things, and he even pushed aside the wardrobe he
had drawn across that part of the room, in order to
make another examination of the wainstcot. Still,
the panel defied his efforts to open it, and he was
beginning to ask himself whether his eyes had not
deceived him after all, when he saw something glis-
ten in one corner of it. It was a nail driven through
from the other side by some one’ not aihuee, n.
the use of the hammer; and Max veered K to his
former opinion.
“Now do I know that I was not mistaken.
This panel did open; and fearful lest I should dis-
cover how, and detect the person who madé use of
it, advantage has been taken of my absence to make
all safe. I will ask Eleanor to-morrow if the spec-
ters of the Abbey are addicted to spirit-rapping in
such a material form as hammering nails into my
chamber walls.” + Abe,
Disappointed in pees a book, Max opened
his window, and, leaning his arms on the broad
ledge, smoked and watched the moon float Soria
through the clear sky, till a distant clock, striking
one, told him that another day had stolen upon him
while he mused,
Only one more ere the precious missive from Let-
ty would be in his possession !—and he was are
conjecture how she would address him, and whether
he should be able to find any food for hope within
her letter, when a light puff of wind chilled him, and
he closed his casement. :
The same breeze had extinguished his candle; but
Max, whose toilet was always of the simplest, did
not take the trouble to search for matches. He
could undress very well in the dark; and he was pre-
paring to doso, when the handle of his door was
touched by some one outside.
He listened, and was about to ask who was there;
but the hand that had been laid upon it was with:
drawn, and sounds followed, as if rs were
trailed along the wall, while slow steps accom-
panied the movement.
After the first few moments Max fancied he com-
prehended what this meant and smiled to himself.
“T suppose one of Mr. John Penruan’s servants
has been exceeding a little, and is troubled to find
his way to his dormitory. I hope, for his sake, poo»
wretch, he has not been imbibing his master’;
wine.”
Onward went the shuffling footsteps, then haltc?
irresolutely; and, still with the same trailing, guic-
ing movement of the hand, as if the person were
compelled to feel his way along the passage, the
steps an to return. Nearer and nearer they
came, and now were accompanied by low moans, as
if whoever uttered them wi in such great agony
or terror that he had lost all self-restraint.
ae Max could ates the ee of Le! up-
own personage, a voice, in a clear, sharp w! r,
breathed the word, “Come, oh, come!” Whether
the ap) was intended for him or not, he no longer
pa to think; but, crossing his room with as lit-
le noise as possible, he cautiously opened the door
and looked out.
*
CHAPTER XI.
WHEREIN MAX FINDS HIMSELF IN ANOTHER DILEMMA,
FROM WHICH NO ONE APPEARS ABLE TO RESCUY
Hm.
TaE apartments Max occupied in Penruan Abbe
be
42
THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. ws
opened on a large square landing, and were situated
on the first story of the house, above, or nearly
above, the library. At his right hand lay the wide
staircase, leading to the entrance-hall below; on the
left was a large window, filled with stained glass,
through which the moon shone faintly, and covere
the oaken Roaring with fantastic shadows. On the
opposite side of the landing, a door, similar in posi-
tion to his own, led to a corridor, containing several
other suites of rooms, of which few were now fur-
nished, save those occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Penruan
and Eleanor. At the further end of the corridor an-
other flight of stairs led to the sleeping-chambers of
the servants.
Max had learned’ these details when his host led
him through the Abbey, and he had since then care-
fully examined the landing for himself, with a view
to ascertaining what lay on the other side of the
panel he had seen opened. But all he had gleaned
was this; that there was space enough between his
bedroom and the outer wall for an apartment of
equal size, but the entrance to it must be from some
other part of the house.
It was, as we have already said, with some caution
that he emerged from this apartment, for unac-
countable noises, when heard at the small hours of
the night, will naturally put their auditor on the de-
fensive. He had scarcely taken a couple of steps
forward, when he recoiled, for, to his inexpressible
SUIRTIRC, he found that Mr, Penruan was at his el-
Ww,
It was he, in dressing-gown and slippers, who was
feeling his way along the walls, and moaning so
strangely; and, concludi directly that he was ill,
his guest was about to address him, and offer assist-
ance, when a ray of moonlight fell on his. upturned
visage, and Max perceived, by the fixed glassy eye,
that he was walking in his sleep.
There is always something unearthly in the ap-
pearance of asomnambulist. His utter unconscious-
ness of all around him; the fearless gravity with
which he passes alon dangerous places; and that
peculiar something in his state which seems to sepa-
rate him for the time from both the waking and the
sleeping world, inspires the beholder with a senti-
ment akin to awe.. It is also certain that somnam-
bulism never took a more painful shape than it did
on this occasion; for so perturbed were the visions
that had drawn Mr, Penruan from his couch, that
Max longed to arouse him from them, and was only
deterred by remembering to have heard that the act
is often attended with bad consequences to the
a
ithout appearing so see him, Mr. Penruan moved
on, still giving vent to low, moaning expressions of
suffering, whether mental or bodily it was difficult
to say. ‘To Max he was an object for the sincerest
pity; to a psychologist he would have been a curious
study, for his whole bearing was that of a man who,
by some mysterious and invisible power, is being in-
fluenced against his will. As if impelled by this
power, which he vainly sought to resist, he walked
onward, but stopped again and again to wring his
hands and extend them imploringly, and repeat
those mute prayers to be released.
His ghastly and contorted features, and his strange
paeerces dimly visible in the shadowy light, ended
im impressing Max so ce leseany that the young
man felt very much inclined to retreat, and, locking
himself in his chamber, leave his host to his own
resources... But_then the que arose, how far
would it be right to do this? It was quite possible
that such scenes were of nightly occurrence, and
that the somnambulist always regained his couch in
safety; but, on the other hand, who could say that
he would not incur some ei which might be pre-
vented by heedf watching him?
No one else in the Abbey gave token of having
been disturbed by Mr. Penruan’s nocturnal ramble;
and to traverse the whole length of the corridor, and
awaken some of the servants, would be to risk
arousing his lady and Eleanor, and creating no end
of alarm. So, as the task of watching over him
seemed to have devolved on Max Haveryng, the lat-
ter rather a accepted it, and continued to
move slowly after his dreamy kinsman,
In a little while Mr. Penruan grew calmer, and
drawing his hand across his brow with the air of
one exhausted by a long struggle, he began walkin,
toward the door leading toward his bedroom, an
Max to congratulate himself upon the same.
But ere he reached it, a voice, low, yet distinct, ar-
rested him. :
The same whispered words, the same imperious
“Come! come!’ which Max had heard before he
quitted his chamber, were now repeated, and the un-
happy man, writhing, groaning, like a creature pos-
, Staggered once more toward the stairs.
Max was now fairly startled. It was plain that he
was not—as he had been supposing—the only watch-
ful creature in the Abbey, or the only person cog-
nizant of Mr. Penruan’s somnambulism. More than
“this, he felt tolerably certain that the voice which so
violently affected this gentleman was not raised to
induce him to go quietly back to rest. On the con-
trary, advantage was being taken of his somnolent
state to lead him elsewhere. Some chord, cleverly
struck, was influencing the dreamer, whose ear,
dulled to all other sounds, had still been keenly sen-
sitive to that imperious summons.
And now the question arose for what purpose was
some one or other practicing By the excited brain
of the dreamer, and who was this person? Eleanor
Haydon—could she, with all her aversion to her step-
father, stoop to such acts as these?
An; how, ax was too practical to attribute the
sounds he heard to Staerpattcat agency, and he was
also too honorable in all his own. dealings not to re-
sent anyt! in the shape of trickery, whether at-
tempted on himself or kinsman. And, satisfied
that the voice had proceeded from the direction of
the rene he pea aanaried Roan nts
uncel steps, for the twofol ose of pouncing
“pon the concealed speaker, an Aahouncthe, in the
strongest terms, such unworthy conduct.
Kee carefully in the shadow himself, he was
soon able to see that about half-way down the flight
of wide, oaken steps, there was a recess, originally
intended for a statue. Within this it was quite pos-
sible for any person of average size to hide; and
Max, whose sight was unusually keen, felt almost
vositive that he could detect the outlines of a figure,
re a flowing garments, standing motionless
within
|
While he gazed, Mr. Penruan began to descend the | dreadful state of nervous debility? If I make the ex-
Stairs, still moving as if drawn thither against his
will; and now Max was no longer in doubt, for he
distinctly saw the dusky, feminine figure flit down
from the niche, and glide on before the sleep-walker,
ponent the imperious summons. Too impetuous
to keep back any longer, the young man sprung past
Mr. Penruan, who was clinging to the balustrades
and, with outstretched arms, went leaping toward
the. intruder, who was slowly retreating across the
all.
But as soon as his tall form came fully in sight,
|
}
| delicate white hand of the invalid lady.
this ghostly visitant gave proof of being accessible |
to mortal terrors; for, ann, with alarm, she im-
mediately began to rush down the nearest passage,
at a speed which Max, though agile enough, found it
no easy task to emulate,
His angry command to her to stop only seemed to
quicken her movements; and ere he could prevent
if, she had a ee the bolts of a door, and darted |
through, with him, in hot pursuit.
The rush of cold air told him, ere he reached this
Petes it gave access to the court-yard behind |
he offices; and here he thought he should surely
bring the unknown to bay, for Mr, Penruan’s fears
lest his grooms should secretly help themselves to
anything from the stable at night, induced him to
have the keys of all the outer gates deliver’ into his
own care.
But Max forgot that the pursued had here the im-
mense advantage over the pursuer of knowing the lo-
cality; and by the time he had stumbled over a stable
poe and discovered that the tall object toward which |
6 hastened was not a female, but a pump, he had the
mortification of seeing the unknown Be back into ;
the house, having successfully evade
ing back into a dark corner.
he door elosed behind her with a dull thud, and.
for a moment, Max believed that she had _ retort
upon him by locking him out; but it yielded to his
touch, and, with some difficulty, he made his way
back to the principal staircase. Mr. Penruan wasno
longer there. Released of the presence of his tor-
mentress, he had returned to his chamber; and his
est, very much puzzled and dissatisfied, threw
imself on his bed, and snatched a few hours’ repose.
While he dressed himself on the morrow, he en-
deayvored to come to some decision as to the course
he should himself take respecting this night’s work.
The most straightforward way would certainly be to
go to the Squire, and tell him all that had come un-
er his notice.
But then, Mr. Penruan was a peculiar man, and
might act upon the information with a virulence that
Max would scarcely care to evoke.
Would it not be wiser, and even kinder, to satisfy
himself first whether Eleanor was the culprit, and
ascertain from the young lady her reasons for work-
ing upon the excited brain of her step-father. If
sheer mischief dictated the act, surely a quiet but
earnest remonstrance would make her aware of the
actual cruelty of such conduct.
Then a doubt arose as to whether any interference
on nee of a comparative stranger ought to be
attemp' in this most extraordinary household—
whether it would not be more prudent to be blind
and deaf to all that transpired at Penruan Abbey,
while enjoying the hospitality of its owner and the
goodwill of the rest of the inmates,
Finally, SerehEe: unable to arrive at ay, deci-
sion, went down to breakfast, half-inclined to let cir-
cumstances shape his course for him.
As he descended the stairs he glanced into the
recess, and descried a scrap of something black
clinging to a nail that had. once supported a bracket,
This scrap Max took the trouble to pause and secure.
It was a morsel of black lace, torn from a woman’s
dress; and the suspicions he had been entertaining of
fe Lae 883 were greatly strengthened by this circum-
stance.
‘When he entered the breakfast-parlor, the Squire,
whose visage looked strangely wan and pinched,
uttered a curt good-morrow, and buried himself in
the money article of a local paper. But Mrs. Pen-
ruan, who had made the unusual exertion of rising
early, beckoned Max to her side. She was still harp-
ing on the croquet party. The romantic idea of
being borne in a litter or palanquin, through a
crowd of admiring and commiserating visitors, had
taken hold of her imagination; and, with childish
pertinacity, she continued to dwell upon it, ane
‘wistfully at her husband while she talked, although
‘his stern, unsympathizing face proved that, if he
heard, he had not the smallest intention of comply-
ing with her wishes. Max found it difficult to recon-
cile Mr. Penruan’s overweening anxiety about his
lady’s health with this unwillingness to oblige her.
““T have been looking at m: erie silk,” she mur-
mured; “and it really Would make up into the love-
liest costume imaginable! It would be a very tryin;
ordeal for me, I know; and Mr. Penruan says he w:
not hear of my making such very great exertions. Is
not that what you said; John, déar? But I feel that
Tought to nerve myself to it, for Eleanor’s sake,
dear child; she sees ‘no society. My health makes
complete prisoners of both of us. Mr, Penruan and
T often regret that it should be so—don’t we, John?”
“Yes,” said Eleanor, speaking with provoking de-
liberation; ‘Mr. Penruan once proved his regret for
my secluded life by reminding me, when I complained
of it, that Iam permitted to go to church whenever
I feel disposed to walk there!’
The Squire glanced at the speaker over his news-
paper, but gave no other token of having heard her
sarcastic speech; and Mrs. Penruan went on: “TI
think my maid shall write to my medical man, tell
him what, I propose doing, and ask him if he cannot
send me a draught that will compose and sustain me.
Nothing nauseous, of course; he knows how I detest
unpeeant medicines. Then I could lie quite still in
a darkened room till the last moment, and need not
disturb myself, except to have the dress tried on.
Why don‘t you speak, Eleanor? You might sa;
whether you can suggest any better arrai ement?
“Cui bono? Whats the use?” muttered her daugh-
ter, below her breath. ‘I was waiting to hear the
rest of yourplans, mamma. You have not said who
is to issue the invitations, decorate the rooms,
arrange the dessert, help to make the jeutes, and re-
ceive the guests? T sup these items must be
taken into consideration?”
“Don’t be unfeeling, child!” sighed Mrs. Penruan, | :
Bh | would not be guilty of such unfeminine, such ungen:
looking for her smelling-bottie. ‘ How can I be ex-
pected to aitend to things of this deseription in my
him by draw- |
|
ertion of appearing at all, it will certainly prostrate
me for days!”
“ Of course it would,” growled the Squire, irritably ;
“and you must not attempt it! Only a madwoman
would think of such folly!” =
Mrs. Penruan sunk back on her cushions with her
handkerchief to her eyes, whimpering something
about “for Eleanor’s sake;”’ but she dared not say
more while her spouse looked so irascible.
“Poor mamma!’’ said her daughter, caressing the
‘How
grievous that all your heroic resolutions should be
made in vain! And 'Mr. Haveryng, too! What a
deappomenens for him, that he is not to see the elite
of the country gathered at our cheerful and hospit-
able dwelling!”
“T shall survive it,” said Max, coolly, as the Squire
snatched up his papers and went away, slammin
the door behind hlm,. ‘I’m not sure that I shoul
shine at such an affair; and if Mr. Penruan took it
into his head to introduce me to his lady guests in
the same style.as he did to his friend, the lieutenant
—that is, as ay kinsman from the eae
should long to hide myself; for I find that the notion
here is that there are but two classes of people in
een the miners, and those who prey upon
em.”
“Your courage will not be put to the test,” Elea-
nor answered; “for croquet parties entail expenses
that would make Mr, Penruan tear his hair.”
“Tf you have been putting that idea into his head,”
cried her mother, crossly, ‘‘I do not wonder at his
reluctance to give one. I wish you would curb that
shrewish tongue of yours, Eleanor! I thought it
was your fault in some way.”
“Then your thought was an unjust one,”’ was the
calm reply. ‘‘I should have been only too glad,
mamma, to further any scheme that would give you
something more pleasant to dwell upon than your
own ailments. In self-defense, I must also tell you, Mr.
Haveryng, that Mr. Penruan never wasted his money
in entertaining his neighbors; neither does he give a
seat at his table to a relative without a motive for the
civility!’
She ae with so much significance, that Max
followed her to the window to which she ‘now re-
treated.
“Are you sure that you are justified in what you
have been saying?” he asked. “‘ What motive but a
‘ood-natured one can my kinsman have for his
indness to me?’
“T do not know, although I have my suspicions,”
was all Eleanor could be induced to say; and the
Squire just then re-entering the room, all further
discussion of the topic became impossible.
Mr. Penruan complained of headache and lassi-
tude, the results, though he knew it not, of his.som-
nambulism; and after fidgeting about for some
time, and peevishly rejecting all the remedies that
were suggested, he went away to vent his spleen on
his workmen, His lady was not sorry to be rid of
him, for she wanted to examine some fashion plates,
and while she debated with her maid whether the
new azuline would harmonize well with her gay
Bengalese robe de soir, Eleanor and Max quitted the
house, and sauntered to their favorite haunt—the
rose-garden.
The opportunity was too co to be lost, and Max
pe Fad out a bold sally directly they found themselves
lone.
os Did you sleep soundly last night, cousin Elea-
nor?
“Yes,” she answered carelessly, as she stooped
over a budding crimson ‘gacqueminot. eat do you
ath pid you think TI should be too tired to rest
well?
Was this a deliberate falsehood that she uttered so
gin Ere Max could utter another query, she
ooked up, surprised at his silence.
“ Your own eyes are as heavy, Mr. Haveryng, as if
‘our slumbers had not been peaceful ones. Were
hey broken by dreams, or what ails you?”
“Are you really ignorant that I watched, during a
considerable portion of the night, or are you playing
upon my credulity, Miss Haydon?”
eanor dropped the bud she had just gathered,
and began to survey the speaker curiously.
“Cousin Max, I calculate, as they say in your coun-
try, that you must have seen something !”
*T am not going to contradict you,” he answered,
dryly. :
hho young lady stifled a langh.
“Then I was ght you have been honored with a
visit from one of the specters of the Abbey. In what
shape? Do tell me! ‘as it a feminine one—white
or gray? Wore ita head on its shoulders, or tucked
under its arm? Now, don’t disappoint me by saying
that you saw nothing more than a spectral face, or a
shadow hand, or the tilting of a table; or I shall be
quite provoked, Ihave so longed to know some one
who has really and rh beheld a bona fide ghost!”
“Perhaps I cannot tell you more than you already
know,”-said Max, with a keen look at
face,
“But I know nothing; how should I? Are you
only joking? Was it but a dream, after all?”
“Certainly not; and it would tax all your ingenuity,
lady fair, to make me think it one.” ‘
“T shall not try; at all events, till you have given
me the fullest particulars,” Eleanor’ replied. “ Let
us sit down here, and pray tell me everything you
saw, thought, or imagined, I am rather ske rtical,
but still I promise not to laugh, if I can help it.
“You speak as if you real ly are in ee of
woe tng Max told her; ‘and yet 1 think you
laye' © specter yourself.
R Eleanor aah at him, laughed heartily, and then
grew very serious.
“Now I feel sure you must have been in earnest,
or you would not ‘look at me so oddly! she ex-
claimed. “Pray tell me why you bring such an ab-
surd accusation’ against me? On my honor, I never
quitted my chamber after I bade mamma eC as
at the door, until I was aroused this morning by the
Toe ve you—”’ Max began.
mus ie ven 6
“Te! Is it ible that you doubt my word?’ ae
retorted, so indignantly, that he hastened to apolo-
‘ize
er amused
gize. + sin. I
“T have done you injustice, my dear cousin.
ought to have known from the peginning that you
D
erous conduct |’
THE LILY OF ST. ERNE. 18
‘Never mind me,” cried Eleanor, with impatience,
“but tell me all.” a :
‘Ts Mr. Penruan in the habit of walking in his
sleep?’’ Max queried. ,
“T don’t know,” she answered, astonished at the
abruptness of the question. ‘‘ What signifies if he is?
Surely you do not mean to imply that he is your
ghost? I thought you said it was of my own
sex.””
“To the best of, my belief,” Max assented. It was
while watching Mr. Penruan, for fear he should
wander away, or unconsciously do himself some in-
jury, that I saw the apparition of which I spoke.”
An ineredulous smile began to play around Elea-
nor’s mouth. 5
“The shadows .of night are deceptive, Monsieur
Max. Are you quite, guile sure that it was not the
ortrait of one of your ancestresses that you mis-
took for a spiritual visitant?”
“You forget,’ he retorted, ‘that I do not deal
in. spiritualism; but if I did, I should still inquire
whether our ancestresses leave such traces of their
presence as this?”
He drew from his ypooket bose the scrap of lace,
and laid it in her han
“Tt is not mine!” she answered, after carefully ex-
amining it. ‘‘I have none of that pattern. ere
did you find it? Pray tell me all the particulars!”
Max now related his nocturnal adventure from be-
ginning to end, Eleanor listening with the greatest
attention,
“Tt is very strange!’’ she said, when he paused,
“T cannot understand it at all. There is but one
person in the Abbey whom I can sus , and she
would not dare—No, no; it cannot be! I will ques-
tion her; but I feel positive what her answer willbe;
unless,” she added, with an air of relief, ‘she, too,
was watching over Mr. Penruan’s safety.”
“Tn that case, why fly me?”
a Saaeiee at your unexpected appearance might
have induced her to do that,” was the reply.
“But why was this woman endeavoring to lead Mr.
Penruan to the lower part of the house, instead of
simply guiding him back to his own room?”
As Eleanor could not answer this query, he put to
her another.
ett pee is the person on whom your suspicions have
len?” ;
“An old and attached servant, who has been, with
us SO Many years, and: served us so faithfully, that I
feel ashamed to doubt, her good intentions, even if
appearances are against her. However, I will speak
to her about this extraordinary, affair, and you shall
know the result.”
‘What is this woman’s name?” asked Max, sud-
denly.
“Morison. She is a widow, who, losing her own
child in its infancy, came to nurse me in mine, and
pei lived with us ever since, in one capacity or an-
other.
“T should like to see her,” said Max. “I fancy I
could identify my shost by her hight and figure.”
“You shall see her,” said Eleanor; ‘ but there is
something so ludicrous in the idea of our reserved,
staid old nurse playing such pranks as er describe,
that I cannot help laughing when I think of it. Have
you said anything to Mr, Penruan about his midnight
ramble?”
“Not yet,” was the answer. ‘Shall 1?”
“Just as you please. It may be as well to warn
him that he walks in his sleep, et were the
case mine, I should prefer to be left in ignorance.
Only imagine the horror of waking and finding one-
self on the roof of the Abbey, or pacing the edge of
the cliffs! Do you know the opera of ‘La Sonnam-
b > my cousin?”
“T saw it once at San Francisco, and shall never
forget the thrill of horror that seized me when
Amina appeared!”
“T am not surprised,” Eleanor replied. “Of all
the tricks our brain ass us, sleep-walking is cer-
tainly the worst!” and she shuddered as she spoke.
Eleanor had nothing to conceal. Of that Max now
felt so convinced that he wondered at himself for
having suspected her at all. His remorse for the in-
justice he had done this young girl made him more
eager than ever to please her, and gave an additional
gentleness to his manner, that was always tender
and chivalrous to her sex.
Instead of sauntering away that afternoon to
smoke beneath the trees, and dream of Mistress Let-
ty, he devoted himself to the amusement of his fair
cousin. She could not help feeling gratified by his
attentions, and their intimac insansibly took a more
confidential tone than it had hitherto worn, for how
could she resist the frank, sunny good-humor of her
chivalrous companion, or be while he was so
gay?
That day the formal Mr. Haveryng was entirely
dropped, never to be resumed, and when heavy rains
drove the young people into the house, they brought
with them such light hearts, and such a fund of mirth
and ee that Mrs. Penruan forgot her nerves,
and was seduced into laughing with them.
“Tf I had but a guitar,” said Max, when Eleanor
had been saucily questioning him about the Spanish
ladies of South America, “I would teach you to
dance a bolero, and rattle the castanets, like the
dark-skinned donzell as you presume to quiz.”
“Could not we make shift with a banjo?” the
young lady demanded.
maaan but where could we get one?” queried
eanor.
“T used to play the guitar a little,” said Mrs. Pen-
_ruan. ‘‘I nearly learned all my notes when I was
oung.”
oBome er Sperone elicited that the instru-
ment on which the lady had made her musical essays
was still in existence, and, after a good deal of
searching, it was disinterred. _
Max mended the broken strings, tuned it, thrum-
med an accompaniment to the Spanish songs he
taught his pretty Poet and then persuaded her to
learn the steps of the graceful national dances in
which he was himself an adept. :
Her bright es glittering with excitement, her
glowing face a pcs crimson than us she was
coquettishly walt round and round , when.
the Hoge opened, and the Squire and a stranger ap-
a one was disturbed by their entrance, for Mrs,
Penruan was amused by vee the dancers, while
they were absorbed in their performance, for Max
had just struck a fuller chord on his guitar, and sunk
on one knee at the feet of the lady, rapidly giving her
directions the while.
“Now you must avert your face and look coy,
Eleanor. Stay; your attitude is too stiff. Ah! that’s
better! Now you yield me your hand; no, no, not so
coldly; give it'to me asif you loved me. ‘And now I
Gey to slow music, in token that we are recon-
ciled,
“Oh, Max! what an un-English proceeding!” ex-
claimed his aa ee
“Not at all,” was the merry retort. ‘It’s only the
old, old story set with variations. Now rise, and we
express our mutual ree, in a valse movement.
One, two, three; one, two, three.”
But as they were eorene round the room to. the
music of their own voices, Eleanor canes a glimpse
of the figures at the doorway, and hastily disen-
gaged herself from the embrace of her partner.
“ Charlie!’ she murmured, in overwhelming con-
fusion.
“Captain Renton, by Jove!” exclaimed Max.
CHAPTER XIL.
THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER,
AurHoveH neither of the waltzers felt conscious of
having done aught of which they had reason to be
ashamed, Captain Renton’s appearance at such a
critical moment. was certainly embarrassing. But
Eleanor caught the malicious smile on Mr. Penruan’s
thin lips, and recovered her composure directly. It
was she who was the first to advance, and, with ex-
tended hand, greet the new-comer.
“You. are very welcome, Captain Renton. We
heard that you, were on your way, but feared that
the weather would prevent. your joining us until to-
morrow, Mamma, here is your old friend, Charles
Renton!” f
Max looked wonderingly at the speaker. She had
gore very pale, and all her animation had vanished.
he was no longer the wayward, impetuous creature
who had alternately vexed and pleased him, but the
graceful, stately young lady of polished society giv-
ing the tips of her fingers to the guest, and blending
with her courtesy a degree of reserve he had never
seen her assume before.
With eo frigidity, Captain Renton bowed over
the hand he just touched with his own, and, then
dropping it, crossed the room to Mrs. Penruan,
whom he accosted with all the cordiality of friend-
ship.
& I am so glad to see you looking better, my dear
madam.”
Mrs. Penruan shook her head dolefully.
“You are very kind to say so, but I don’t think I
am. any better, Charlie—Captain Renton, I should
have said, but it is so difficult to forget that I knew
ou when you were a little curly-headed boy, romp-
ing gayly with my own children in our bungalow at
Benares.”’
“Don’t try to forget it,” he..answered. ‘It. is
leasant to find that some one retains a kindly recol-
ection of those pleasant old times.’’
“Tndeed we often talk about you, Eleanor and
I—”’ the lady began; but her daughter frowned and
interposed.
“Mamma, you have neglected to introduce our
cousin, Max. Captain Renton, Mr. Bar era:
The OnE officer moved a step from Ss. Pen-
ruan’s couch, and drew himself up. There was a
resentful look in his eyes as he bowed to Max, but he
was too connie the gentleman to let his annoy-
ance be visible in his manner.
“T believe I have had the honor of meeting Mr.
Haveryng before, although I was not then made ac-
quainted with the relationship of which Miss Haydon
speaks. A cousin, I t you said?”
evra is Mr. Penruan’s cousin,” the young lady ex-
plained.
“Max?” Captain Renton repeated, inquiringly.
“Oh! I beg your pardon. I did not quite ander
stand. You mean Mr. Haveryng?”
“Eleanor and this young kinsman of mine are
such very good friends, that they have done away
with all such formalities,” said the Squire in his ear;
and Charles Renton set his teeth firmly together, but
made no realy
“Tam so glad you have come,” Mrs. Penruan ob-
served. “You are a in time for the croquet party
we were thinking of giving. It’s asort of thi I'm
scarcely equal to, but for Eleanor’s sake and Mr.
See oe you speak, dear John?”
The Squire had muttered something so very like an
oath that he did not care to repeat it; but, seating
himself in an easy-chair, he turned to eanor:
“Pray don’t let us interrupt your dancing. I dare
ant aptain Renton will be as pleased to see it as I
shall.”
“You are very kind!’? she answered, ironically.
“T am quite ready to practice that last step again.
What does Max say?”
“Max says that he shall be very glad if Captain
Renton will take his place,” the Californian gayly re-
lied. ‘‘I cannot do justice to my partner when I
ave to play as well as waltz.” LY
“ After all, I believe I am too tired,” said Eleanor.
leaning back on her seat and fanning herself. “I
am sorry, though, to disappoint you of your antici-
pated amusement, Mr. Penruan—very sorry!”
Captain Renton took the fan ouf of the young
lear s hand, and as he cooled her burning cheeks
a =, he contrived to.say a few words eard by
e rest.
“TI thought you never waltzed, Miss Haydon?”
“Did you?” she answered, coldly.
“The last time—I’m afraid I must say the only
time, we met at a ball in this nelebbouneas. yeu re-
Soe eae your hand for a round dance on that very
plea,’
“You have an excellent memory, Captain Renton,
for aoe but—a friend’s advice.’
“T understand the taunt,” he replied, making an
effort to curb his ai emotion. ‘You are alluding
to your having counseled me not to come to Penruan
again. Had you told me why you said this—had you
frankly admitted that it was because the heart I
sought to win was given to another—I should have
obeyed you. | As it is—”
“As it is,” she repeated, “ you come here to pain
ourself, and misunderstand me, as you have often
one before, Is it wise to do this? is it generous?”
Arn Al; then, positively hateful to you?’ he de-
manded. “Time was, Mien that you liked me
well enough—that you always had a ‘smile for me
when I came, and a tear when I left you.”
“Yes, when we were foolish children,’ she an-
swered, with forced gayety. ‘“ But, my dear Captain
Renton, you must be ridiculously sentimental to .re-
call such nonsense! If I felt inclined, I could repeat
to you scores of such reminiscences. . Don’t you re-
member the halcyon hours when we ate bon-bons
together, and I cried because you had tke largest
orange? Charming recollections!”
“Of course they are not so entertaining as it must
be to dance boleros with Mr. Haveryng, and listen
to his wonderful adventures, or the, music of his
guitar!”
“Max is a very agreeable companion,”’ said Elean-
or, aggravating! y:
“Who dares doubt. that, if he has sueceeded in
making Miss Haydon forget the modest dignity of an
English lady, and suffer herself to be posed in atti-
tudes by his audacious hands?”
Eleanor rose, haughtily exclaiming, ‘Sir! Who
ives you the right to censure my conduct? You are
00 Officious, Captain Renton.”
She swept. away with the air of an_offended.em-
ress, and the young officer, with difficulty retain-
ing his self-command, turned to converse with Mr.
Penruan till the hour for retiring. :
“Don’t let my early habits influence. you
men, if you would prefer to stay.up a little longer
and have a smoke,” the, Squire said, with unusual
urbanity. ‘‘ You have your own pigats, of course,
and the butler can brew you some whisky-toddy, if
you wish it.” . . ;
Much to his satisfaction, the latter offer was de-
clined, and, bidding them pera ea he went away,
leaving Max and Charles Renton together.
It was by no means an amicable face that the lat-
ter turned toward his companion when the Squire
had closed the door, but Max,was picking up some
vesuvians he had let fall, and did not perceive it.
“Mr. Haveryng, I have such an insuperable objec-
tion to being duped,” were the words that made hi
look up, wonderingly, ‘‘such a decided aversion to
hypocrisy in any form, that we had better come to
an understanding at once.”’
“By all means,” said. Max, readily, ‘‘for, at the
present moment, T don’t comprehend what you are
aiming at.”
“TH scon sae myself. When I met you in
town, you pretended. ignorance of the Penruan
family. You did your best to draw me on, and learn
my position with regard to my friends, and it is plain
that you have paaped ‘our Own course accordingly.
These may be Californian tactics, sir; these may be
among the clever dodges on which your countrymen
pride themselves; but. permit me to tell you that
they don’t recommend themselves to English gentle-
men.”
“Tf I did_not tell you that Iam related to John
Penruan—” Max began, but Captain Renton imme-
iately stopped him.
“You need not trouble yourself to make any half
explanations. I have seen quite enough to know
that you have contrived to ingratiate yourself both
with the Squire and Miss Haydon. You have gained
your ends, never mind how dishonorably; that’s no
one’s affair but your own, as I dare say you'll tell
me; and it is not worth while to go through the
a of ymaking lame apologies to me that mean
nothing.’ *
ie re indeed!” cried Max, irately. “Why
should I make any to you for what.I do?”
“Why, indeed! I should as soon think of asking
your pardon for calling you a hypocritical black-
guard, and regretting that I cannot very well thrash
you as long as you are under this roof.’
“Thrash me/”? and the lithe, broad-shouldered
Californian flung back his head, and surveyed his
ere defiantly. But his good-humor soon re-
rm
“This is rather tall talk, isn’t it, Captain Renton?
I'm not answerable to you, I believe, for anything I
do; but if I had really men you_ cause to feel ag-
grieved, I should not hesitate to acknowledge it.”
“Tam very well aware,” the captain stiffly inter-
posed, ‘‘ that you have the advantage, and I have no
doubt you intend to keep it. After so much diplo-
ei as you must have exercised, I expect nothing
else.”
“Is it because Miss Haydon and I are on friendly
terms that you find such fault with me?” queried
Max; and Charles Renton leaped toward him, an-
grily, exclaiming:
““How dare you take her name on your lips? How
dare you boast to me of the favor she shows you?”
But the hand that was extended to clutch Max by
~ eee was seized in a grasp of iron, and firmly
pu : :
“Enough, Captain Renton, enough! I’m not going
to disgrace myself by brawling with my kinsman’s
guest in my kinsman’s house; neither am I going to
expose myself to further insult by offering to you
‘ain the explanations you have already refused.
I'll wish you good-night.”
And Max stalked away, very much annoyed at the
change that had come over the pleasant gentlemanly
young fellow, whom he had been so eager to know
more intimately.
“He is a conceited fool,” was his first decision,
“who begrudges me one of pretty Eleanor’s kind
looks. Yet no; I judge him too harshly. If he loves
her, how can I wonder that he feels maddened by
the coldness of the reception she gave him? Does
she return his affection? There was nota sign of it
in her manner; on the contrary, she treated him as
if he were an unwelcome intruder. Is it eaprice
that actuates her, or is she really as indifferent to
him as she appears?”
Then Max recollected the advice Mr. Penruan had
gives him with regard to his step-daughter, and red-
ened rather consciously. Was it eee that
Eleanor was ready to be won, and by him?
But this thought was banished as soon as it arcse.
She was too frank, too sisterly in her regard, to en-
tertain deeper er ee declaring to himself that
she was an enigma, went to sie
On the morrow he and Captain Renton treated
each other with a politeness so elaborate thet Mr.
Penruan chuckled to himself and rubbed his hands
pleasantly, while Eleanor glanced under her long
eyelashes, first at one, and then at the other, and
bit her full, red lip. As soon as breakfast was over,
she mentioned her own intention of spending the
morning in the fairy cave, but neither of the gentle-
men offered to accompany her thither. Captain
| Renton had already made arrangements for a ay’s
Fe RR Sete eae eae eee
oa eee
err e
i ageerer ay eer nrrremear ne tore Ree ee ee
——————SS
Set Se ee eS ee ee eS
THE. FIRESIDE:, LIBRARY. /
a A a a a
fishing, and Max said something about keeping an
engagement with the old lieutenant, who had offered
to introduce him to fsome of the caverns on the
coast, that could only be entered from a boat,
And so the party separated, Max carrying the
lightest heart of them all, for was hé not to have
Letty’s note this evening—that little missive on
which he built such extravagant hopes?
The lieutenant proved a most éntertaining
companion, and the vigorous arm of the young
Californian pulled the light skiff into. some
of the fairest caves that lay upon that wild
and rocky. shore. But as the evening drew_on
he grew so abstracted, so restless, that at last
the old man cried, good-humoredly, ‘There, go
along with you, Mr. Haveryng; my stories are
wasted on you to-night. The next time you come,
bring the dee of Penruan with you, and, my life
on’t, I shall get a more patient ee,
But Max had no desire to return to the Abbey un-
til he had been to Dan Calynack’s cottage, and, ex-
cusing himself to his host on the plea that he had a
headache, he strolled away to St. Erne, and lingered
on the most secluded part of the beach, till the sun
went down, and the hour arrived at which Esther
bade him seek the letter.
he passed round the end of the cottage, some
one within ff a handful of dry wood on the fire.
It blazed up brightly, and in that brief moment he
caught a glimpse of a figure in deep mourning stand-
ing, on the hearth.
t was Letty herself, and, half wild with joy, he
bounded toward the porch. Here the shadows were
so deep that he did not perceive that a man was
crouching within it in a listening attitude, until he
came in violent contact with him.
Before he could apologize, this man had picked
himself up, and silently walked away; but as he
went, Max recognized the stooping figure, the
stealthy, hesitating step, and knew that it was Mr.
Penruan.
CHAPTER XII.
IN WHICH MAX HAVERYNG IS MADE BOTH VERY GLAD
AND VERY SORRY.
ScARCELY pausing to think how strange it was that
the Lord of Pearuga should be crouching like a spy
at the door of a poor fisherman’s cottage, Max lifted
the latch and hastily entered. Letty had heard the
approaching: footsteps, and retreated toward the
inner room, as if intending to conceal herself; but
he was too quick for her. Ere she could carry out
her intention, he was by. her side—her hands seized
in his own, and carried to his lips. Then in his sunn;
eyes there shone such delight at the renconter, that,
after one vain endeavor to meet his look steadily
and coldly, her face flushed and drooped, and she
no longer attempted to withdraw her Huttering
fingers.
ne did not hope for this!” Max exclaimed, when
he recovered speech. ‘‘I was more than half afraid
that I should not even find the promised letter here!
How good you were to come! How shall I thank
you for it?” ;
“Do not thank me at all!” she answered, trying to
speak with chilly reserve. “I did not intend to see
you, Mr. Haveryng. In fact, if Thad been sure that
you would come here to-night, I should have delayed
my visit.’”
Yhon't say if!” Max interposed. ‘You ought to
know me better than to imply a doubt of my coming.
You might have been certain that I should be too
anxious to hear from you to stay away.”
“ And yet what could be more probable than that
you had other and ge engagements?’’ she
murmured, with a little bitterneSs audible in her ac-
cents.
“Nothing could have been half so delightful as
seeing you; no engagement would have kept me
from coming here to-night,” said Max, with such
CRATE at Ene et ied with pleasure, but. still
ersisted in s ing frigidly.
# “Tf I had been sure of See should not oe
sto to see Dan, althoug' ave a message for
ep ree my aunt ‘Esther, who has hurt her ankle,
and cannot make the ee
“Then you were yourself the
ised letter. Pray give it to me!’
“Nay, itis not necessary! I can repeat to you the
few words it contained.”
But Max made a dissenting prriteohy “Pray do
not if they are harsh ones. But if they are destined
to pain me, when I read them presently, let me be
able to recall some look you have given me, some
kind speech you have made, and so take heart of
race again. ;
“But, indeed, I must not say more than that I am
grieved if Ihave misjudged you!” Letty sorrowfully
replied. ‘‘ You will find as much in the note—it lies
on yonder table; and now I have only to bid you
good-night, and repeat my sincere wishes for your
welfare.”
** And you are going already?”
“ Qertainly!” she answered. ‘ Farewells are near-
ly always oo Mr. Haveryng. Why, then, pro-
long them?”
“And you mean me to understand that I am not
‘ain?’
She nodd
bearer of the prom-
assent, and busied herself in arranging
the folds of the large dark shawl that had been
wrapped around her. oe
oa Bat why have you come to such a decision? Why
do you refuse me another interview?”
‘Because’ and now Letty tried to — with her
old playfulness—“‘it is wasted time, Mr. Haveryng.
As long as you were ill, and appeared to have no
friends near you, my good nature prompted me to
y youa few eivilities. But now Uncle Dan’s pa-
ient has dismissed both doctor and nurse, I have
lost my voeation.”’ Pie
“Tt was not for that reason you left me so ab-
ruptly,” he reminded her. ‘Nor have you given me
an opportunity—frequently as T have entreated it—
to convince you that I had no sinister motive in con-
cealing—nay, that is not the proper word, for I had
no thought of concealment—for not mentioning that
Tam distantly connected with the head of the Pen-
ruan family !”’
Letty shuddered.
“Do not speak of it. Iwas too hasty; I confess it.
Pray forget anything I may have said in my ill-hu-
mor. Thope you are enjoying yourself at the Ab-
y
mete are very kind to me,” said Max, pore
“But [have not.been able to appreciate their good-
ness always. While you were displeased with me
how could I be at ease anywhere?”
Letty put up her hand with one of her imperious
gestures.
“Hush, Mr. Haveryng; I will not listen if you say
such things as these! You. and I are, and always
must be, strangers to each other, Fate threw us
together, and now separates us; it is no use embit-
tering parting moments, either by regrets or idle
flatteries. Treat me as you would one of your own
sex, with whom you have spent a few pleasant
hours: now and then: wish me a ‘Good-by’ and a
‘God-speed,’ as I shall you, and then let us do our
best to forget that we have ever met!”
‘Impossible!’ exclaimed the sore-hearted, deeply-
mortified Max—‘' impossible!’
__ ‘But, sir, I tell you it must be so!” she answered,
impetuously, “TP forbid you to annoy me with atten-
tions which I will not rates You are ungénerous
—as Esther has already told you—to dog the foot-
steps of my friends, and force yourself into my pres-
ence! When I withdrew myself from the cottage
you were given to understand, plainly enough, that 1
neither could nor would renew the acquaintance,
Itis ungentlemanly to compel me to repeat this to
you mnyself!” , ,
“Tf you have arrived at this decision solely be-
cause your friends dictate it, I loveant eet their
interference!” said Max, with dignity. ‘* But if your
own personal dislike to me is so strong that you real-
ly wish to see me no more—” y
He’ paused, for the: swift rush of color to her
cheek was a delightful token that’ that was not the
ease: and once again he ventured to take her hand
and plead his cause in low, tender words.
“Why should you be angry with me for longing to
behold you, or for being ready to avail myself of
any pretext to be near you? How ean T help wish-
ing to see you, or craving to speak with: you, even
though you scorn and frail at me?’
“Tmust not listen to you any longer!” cried Let-
ty, in_ distress. ‘‘Let me go, Mr. Haveryng. If we
talked for another hour it would only be repeat
what we have already said.’ We cannot be friends;
there are sad and sober reasons why we should
never meet again. Neither must co detain mé, for
T ought-not to have staid here so long.”
“But you told me you were waiting to give a mes-
sage to old Dan.” it
“True; but that was when I did not expect tec to
share my vigil,’ she honestly confessed.‘ ou
will kindly leave me, T shall be glad to rest awhile;
if you persist in remaining, I must de; 12
“Nay, I will not be the means of driving you
hence again,” said Max, with a vexed air. “But I
shall remain on the beach till Dan comes home, lest
you should be exposed to intrusion.
He had suddenly remembered the Squire when he
said this, and the Lily grew pale as the flower from
which he named her, and cast a startled glance to-
ward the uncurtained window.
“What do-you mean, Mr. Haveryng? Is there any
one in St. Erne who would venture to come here
without Uncle Dan’s permission?”
“There certai was a Pe in the porch when
Iarrived,” he told her. ‘If I have alarmed you by
mentioning it, I am sorry I did so; but I will not
leave you while there is any danger of your being
annoyed by his return.”
“Then he went away,” Letty commented. “I
heard no one. Did he not speak to you?”
“No. Istumbled against him in the porch, and he
quitted it without a word.”
Her face resumed its placid expression.
“Ah! I dare say it was some poor fellow who
seeks from Uncle Dan a cure for his rheumatism, or
perhaps fancies himself ill-wished by a quarrelsome
neighbor. But you look at me strangely!” she ex-
claimed, as their eyes met. ‘Was it not so? Did
you know Uncle Dan’s visitor?”
“Yes,” Max answered, with some reluctance, for
he comprehended intuitively that the CS had
wished to avoid recognition, and@he scarcely consid-
ered himself. justified in pot hee et how
could he prevyaricate to co en he asked,
“Who was this man?” he felt compelled to reply,
“Tt was Mr. Penruan!” .
But he was not prepared for the burst of passion-
ate reproach with which the tidings were received.
“ And you brought him here!’ You have kept me
in conversation, while he stood without and listened!
Coward—traitor! Was it you who should have be-
trayed me? You/ whom I persisted in thinking so
honorable and good! Call in your kinsman, sir! I
am at your merey and his! I will no longer struggle
with my destiny. He may do with me as he pleases!
I cannot be more miserable than the know. e of
your treachery has made me!”’
Thunderstruck by these accusations, Max made no
attempt to interrupt her; but when she sunk on the
nearest seat, and covered her face with her hands
he bent over her, and entreated her to look up and
listen to i.
“ As He Who made us both hears and judges me, I
swear to you that I am no traitor !—that I know no
more of Mr. Penruan’s actions and history than of
your own.” .
“But he is here!’’ she gasped; “and I am lost!”
“He will not dare to injure or annoy you while I
am by your side. Why do'you fear him?
“Ah! why, indeed?” she murmured. “Do not
question me, for I dare not answer. Only tell me if
he is still lurking near, and let me nerve myself, if I
ean, to meet him bravely.”
Max went and opened the door of the cottage; the
moon had now risen, and the porch was no longer in
darkness.
“Mr. Penruan has gone,” he assured the trembling
J. ‘There is not a creature visible.”
“ But he was there—you have yourself told me so
—listening—watching! Oh, heaven! and I so de-
fenseless! Esther away, and Dan, too! No one at
hand to protect me from him!”’
Cc beyond himself by the agony of terror in
her sobbing tones, Max flung his strong arm about
her, and drew her tenderly toward him.
“Na ; you are not without a defender, Letty,
while Tam near you. He must be a bold man who
shall dare say a rude word to you while I am within
hea’
But she abruptly withdrew herself from his em
brace, and waved from her, She was almost be-
side herself with fright, and broke into passionate
reproaches.
* You. protect —you defend me! -No; no, T should
loathe myself if I ps aught from one in whose
yeins runs the blood of the Penruans. You are of
the ‘same heartless, avaricious, unscrupulous race;
one of those who, J udas-like, smile upon and earess
whoever they are plotting to destroy. I should be
mad, indeed, to trust myself toa Penruan! Silence,
sir! It is useless attempting to exonerate yourself.
I will no‘longer be deceived by your false and deceit-
Papeete Leave me, sir! Leave me, I say!”
_ Hispulses tingling with her taunts—hot, angry as
herself, Max needed: no second bidding, but strode
toward the door. There, however, with his hand on
the latch, he paused to address her for the last time.
“You seé Tam about to obey you, and I shall do
so to the letter, Never from this hour shall your
name cross my lips, nor will I try directly or indi-
rectly to have further communication with the wo-
man who holds me unworthy her trust.”
A low sob broke from Letty; but she did not speak,
and he went on:
‘A traitor, amI? _ Then it is to my own self-re-
t! Where was that when I stooped to plead for
the loye of one who refuses to do me justice—who
loads me with’ accusations IT never merited? A
coward, too, you called me! Ay, and I am one, and
it is you who have made me so; but it is not what
man can do to me that [have dreaded. It is for you
I have been anxious and fearful; for your sake that
I have ered over my want of wealth and ower,
and felt no a light-hearted and careless of what
might be in re for me. Yes, for you, who have
Roses and stung me till T hate myself for having
orne it so long! pai did you sayée me from death,
if ne but to make me a miserable, hopeless
man?’
Choking with emotion, he Jeft her. It was the bit-
terest moment Max Haveryng had ever known, and
he felt as if death would have been preferable to the
anguish of such a ne It was not only her posi-
tive refusal to confide in him that maddened him;
this he could have borne with till he had proved him-
self worthy of her confidence; but also the galling
knowledge that it was to some tyrannous or unjust
act of his kinsman’s he owed the treatment he had
owe received; and, for the nonce, he was at war with
he whole world, and ready to think that there was no
truth or goodness left in it. ao
He put out his hand to guide himself by the wood-
work of the porch, for so violent was his emotion
that he seemed to have suddenly lost the power of
controlling his limbs. One step.forward, and then,
blind and dizzy, he dropped on the rude seat that
Lily fees sometimes shared with him on happier
even: eS
But he was not alone with his grief and resent-
ment, as he had ee ret shame-stricken
and penitent already, had swiftly followed him, and,
sinking on her knees, she laid her little hands on his
arm. '
He shivered beneath the touch, light though it was,
and averted his face; he could not bear that any one
should see’ how ghastly it had become; but he could
ae close his ears to the plaintive murmurs of her
voice.
“Forgive me, Mr. Haveryng; sorrow and trouble
have made meas unfeeling and unjust as those I
blame.. Iwas mad to doubt you! I did not in my
eerie could I? If you are not good and true,
who is?”
He made no reply. Perhaps he was still struggling
with an an sense of the injustice dealt to him, or
it may have been that her words were now so sweet
that he hungered for more.
“Will you not pardon me?” she softly pleaded.
“T know that I can never—never forgive myself;
that the memory of the bitter, cruel thin; have
been saying will always haunt me; but I should not
be quite so unhappy if I could hear you promise to
try and in them, Will you, Mr. Haveryng? If
I could—if I did but know how, t would atone for all
my unkiridness!. Ah, speak to me! Say that, you
do not hate’ me for it!” .
“T could not hate you if I tried!” he answered,
a: 5
“And you will endeavor to forgive me?’’ she
leaded.
%- Nay, Letty; if these thoughts of me were on
our mind, why should I blame you for avowing
hem?”
“But they were not!—they were not!’ she cried,
vehemently. “I have been taught by sad experience
to be distrustful, and in my haste I said what I shall
always regret—always! ill you not believe this?”
“T believe that you are too gentle and wom:
by nature not to feel sorry when you have wounded
the oa even of a Penruan; but, when you have
left me, will you not think me again what you called
me just now?” :
“7 never think any but kind thoughts of you when
Tam away,” she confessed, in tones that would have
been inaudible to any one else. .
“Then you contrive sometimes to ignore the fact
that I am of a race so vile, that the mere misfortune
of my birth makes you shrink from me as soon as
we meet?”
ae clasp of Letty’s hands on his arm tightened a
ittle.
“J do not shrink from you. If at one moment I
have doubted you, the next has found me remorse-
ful for my injustice. Ah! why cannot I recall my
cruel speeches? Cannot you bring yourself to grant
the on Iam entreating? What shall 1 do—what
shall I say to win it?”
Max looked at her now, as she knelt in the moon-
light. The widow's cap, that he. so detested, had
slipped off, and masses of golden hair fell about her
pure, sweet face, and lay loosely on her shoulders.
“Letty,” he said, as he looked down into her be-
seeching eyes, “T have been a stranger to my own
kin till within these last few weeks; and though Tam
one of the Judas family, whom you think it a virtue
to detest—nay, hear me out—it is very hard that
their sins should be visited on my head, and by you.
“Oh, do not upbraid me any more!” she said,
bursting into tears. ‘My heart is heavy enough al-
ready! Only tell me how I shall atone!’ 1
7 ene ey he tee his oo stole
round her s' ‘orm; “evenas I love you
“i = no, no! aig not—I dare not!” Letty be-
gan to remonstrate,
But. her head rested on the breast of Max, and his
soon ~
THE LILY OF ST, ERNE. 15
lips were_kissing away the tears upon her flushed
icon. What uiah ten: that, for some few bliss-
ful moments, they both forgot everything but their
own happiness? z
A cheery whistle was heard, and Letty, in great
confusion, would have struggled out of her lover’s
embrace, é
“Tt is Uncle Dan. What will he say if he finds me
here with you?” t
“Nothing but what I can answer in half a dozen
words,’ was the manly reply. iid
“And he will declare t this is what he has
feared all along, and that we must never meet again.”
“Has he any right to lay such an embargo on
you?” Max asked, with a resentful air.
“Yes; the right that being almost my only friend
for years has given him. Let me go; I cannot en-
-counter his chidings to-night.”
“Why should he chide you for loving me? _ Be-
cause of this unfortunate relationship? Yes; I see
itis! But you, ee Es will rise superior to such
Sr ee not be taught. to doubt me
again?”
‘“‘ Never!’ she answered, emphatically; and he was
better satisfied. But she repeated her “ Let me gol’
with more qupeney: than before; for Dan, with his
fishing-tackle on, shoulder, was drawing near the
cottage,
= oe ean I consent to part with you fill I know
when I am to see you again?” he asked, as, with re-
luctance, he permitted her to disengage herself from
his embrace.
“Tt shall be soon—very soon. I cannot promise
more,” she said, retreating into the cottage, and
snatching up the shawl in which she had been muf-
It was aggravating to be obliged to know that even
now she was leaving him in utter ignorance of
her real name, and whither she was going; but Max
saw that she was greatly agitated, and forbore to
question her on these points. Still he could not help
murmuring a little.
“Tt is hard_to let you leave me thus. How do,I
know but what all the old suspicions will be. re-
awakened by those about you, and our next meeting
indefinitely, postponed?”
“No one prevent amy seeing you. once, more,
althougts I warn you that it may only be to say
jew!
But Max was not to be discouraged now by sucli' a
erate and he said so. 5
a le you have faith in me, Letty, I will not fear
any such separation.” : ;
ut she sighed, and, hurriedly bidding him adieu,
. would have flitted away if he had not held her.
“Ts that all you say to me? Will you not give me
' some kind words to Supec upon?”
She hesitated; but Dan’s foot was already at the
gate of the little garden. There was no time. to lose,
and she let her head fall once more on her lover’s
shoulder,
“Promise, then, not to think lightly of me if I tell
‘ou something. You are quite sure you will not?
en bend down that tall head that I may whisper
;it.. Dear, kind Max, let what may come to pass, you
| will always be dearer to me than life itself!”
i Ere he could thank her for the confession—ere he
could pe the lips that uttered it—she was gone.
and old Dan was at the door, disincumbering himself
of his burden.
“What, ’s that thee, now, Master Haveryng, all
alone, and a’most in the dark? Ha’ ye been waiting
long?
ihe letter! Give me my letter, Dan, there’s a
good fellow; and let me go!”” urged Max, who would
not stoop to falsehoods, and was, therefore, anxious
to avoid any era te
The old man fetched ty’s note, dusting it with
the cuff of his Jersey, and gazing at it admi ly, as
if his love for the writer embraced everything her
fingers had touched.
““There ‘tis, my soa! Will ye have a scrap rd
per to eer ee in? Take care on ’ee, Master Havy-
veryng; for I’m bound to tell ’ee ’tis first and last—
first and last!”
“Why should you try tolay an embargo on Letty’s
: SORES DORCIES with me?” the young man angrily de-
manded.
“*Bargo here or *bargo there, my lad, ’tis no use
your running foulo’ me,” said the old fisherman.
sturdily. “I ha’ said my say, and done my dooty. i
-never did see the sense o’ writin’ letters. It’s only
puttin’ on paper what’s safest said in words, and car-
ried ,no further; and so I'll ha’ no hand in it after
“But you will not let me see Letty,” Max remon-
‘strated; “‘so what can I do but write to her?”
“T'll tell ’ee, lad. You can go away, and let her
eo Tis about the best thing you can do for all
of us.”
“Thanks for the advice! When I’m content to be
treated as a child, V’ll follow it! And the affronted
Max stalked away, without further adieu, leaving the
old fisherman in the porch, watching his recedin
re, with many grave sighs, and much shaking o;
hoary head.
CHAPTER XIV.
CONCERNING A FAIR PLEADER, AND WHAT SHE URGED.
As soon as Max was descried crossing the grounds,
Eleanor, who must have been watching for him on
the terrace, threw her shawl over her head, gipsy
fashion, and glided forward to meet him.
“How long you have been!” she exclaimed re-
prosahssy ; ‘and I am dying for some music. I
ave gree ae anne eee a a4 peace mice and was
ettin; out of pat our delay.”
a “Could you not find a substitute for me?” asked
Max, good-humoredly. ‘‘ Whereis Captain Renton?”
“Tam here!” said that gentleman, rising from a
rustic seat half hidden by some shrubs; “and at
Miss Haydon’s service. But I decidedly object to be
recognized as Mr. Haveryng’s deputy, either for a
song or a flirtation.”
. will have some glees!” cried Eleanor, hur-
riedly. “‘It will be quite a treat to try over some of
the old favorites, ear. FoR forgotten Bishop’s
i Mazarin cei Captain Renton?”
‘
not parody it, and say, ‘‘ Go, prithee, go?’ ”
he retorted nt Scat be more appropriate. Don’t
t so hd
FC Certainly it would!” she made answer. “So,
gentlemen, Linvite both of you to ‘go, prithee, go,’
to the piano, and not keep me waiting any longer.”
Although Max would have preferred a quiet peru-
sal of his letter in his own chamber, and Captain
Renton was evidently in no mood for singing, it was
impossible to avoid compliance; and Eleanor kept
them both at the instrument till she herself became
so hoarse that Mrs, Penruan’s maternal anxiety was
aroused.
“My dear child, I forbid you to sing another note!
Charlie, do take her music away. She wi!l have an
affection of the chest, or bronchitis, or something
else horrible, and my poor, weak constitution woul
ite sink under such a shock as her death would be.
‘m sure I could not survive it.”
Mr. Penruan looked round anxiously; but Eleanor
answered with a smile: “Don’t jump at such a ter-
rible climax_in so few words, please, mamma,. I
don’t think IT am in imminent danger at present.
However, for your peace sake, I'll be mute for the
rest of the evening, and play the looker-on, while
Captain Renton initiates Mr. Haveryng into the
mysteries. of zetema,”
he brought forward the cards and markers; but
Charlie Renton, with cold politeness, begsed to be
excused. He could not boast of any skill at cards,
and, doubtless, Mr.. Haveryng was more than a
match for him.
“Then, my cousin, yo must be content with me
as an adversary,” said Eleanor, gery.
“More than content,” replied Max, who was stun;
by the contempt of the young officer's voice an
manner... “I shall be decidedly the gainer by the
exchange.”
So.Captain Renton lounged on a sofa, apparently
dividing his interest between a periodical and the
game at backgammon Mrs. Penruan was languidly
playing with her husband; but really within earshot
f he couple at the card-table, and listening sharply
to every word they exchanged.
They were, however, silent and abstracted, Max
lending but little attention to Eleanor’s explana-
tions, and: she nee herself and falling into
reveries so often, that at last, with a laugh at each
other’s blunders, they threw down their remaining
cards, and rose,
“T worked too long in my garden this morning,”
the young lady observed, ‘‘and gave myself a head-
ache; so, with your age pete mamma, Dll say
goodnight, and ‘try what sleep. will do toward rée-
movi <
Bute ere she left the room, Eleanor contrived to
draw near to Max.on pretense of restoring some
books to their place; and whispered rapidly: ‘TI
must speak to you alone. I shall be in the library
in five minutes.”
This was a room that every one but Mr. Penruan
appeared to avoid, and it pear bake been for this
reason that Miss Haydon had chosen it for the inter-
view. »Perhaps Captain..Renton heard her whis-
pored speech, for, as she moved away, his eyes fol-
lowed her reproachfully; and when she had quitted
the room, he started up as if overcome with emotion
or annoyance, and disappeared, bareheaded, through
a casement that led to the garden, “
Disturbed by the little bustle attending his rapid
movements, Mrs, Penruan was seized with a fear
that the rush of cold air into the room might lower
the temperature too much for her delicate frame.
So her maid was summoned, and leaning on her
aR she, too, said her ‘“ good-nights,” and van-
ished.
Ere the Squire followed her example, he laid his
hand on the shoulder of Max. 3
..“T hope, my dear boy, that this naughty spoiled
irl of ours is not trifling with either you or poor
nton, Icansee that there is something amiss;
but I won’t ask what. it is: I don’t like meddlin:
with young people. You know my thoughts al-
ready. Were I in your place I would not lose such
a prize.’
‘Miss Haydon has only a sisterly liking for me
Mr. Penruan,’’ Max interposed, but he was hear
with smiling incredulity. ;
“You are very humble, my dear boy; too much
so. I think you might reasonably have more confi-
dence in your ability to command something more
than a mere gay, liking. When I think what a
wife Eleanor would be for you—what a bright orna-
ment to your distant home—how thoroughly she
would enter into all your pursuits—how delighted
she would be to share them, I cannot help wonder-
ing to see you so calmly dallying with your oppor-
tunities!’ ‘
“ And would you be willing to give Eleanor Hay-
don to a man, who has so little to recommend him as
I?” exclaimed Max, dubiously.
Mr, Penruan smiled again,
“You are unusually scrupulous for a young lover.
If you contrive to win my step-daughter’s heart, do
you think she will care whether 1 am or am not
willing to sanction her bestowing her hand with it?”
Max did not answer directly. He did not choose
to tell the Squire that he never intended to rank him-
self among the beautiful Eleanor’s suitors, until he
could comprehend why that gentleman so insidious-
ly tempted him to do so.
“T have not thought much of marrying at pres-
ent,” he said at last. ‘‘ And I have no notion of sub-
jecting myself to a refusal. Will you excuse me? I
ave a letter to answer before I go to bed.”
As soon as he had thus released himself from his
crafty kinsman, Max went to the library. As he had
anticipated, Eleanor was there before him, impa-
ener awaiting his coming.
“How long you have been!” she exclaimed.
“Why have you loitered, when you might have
known that I should be torturing myself with all
ere of doubts and fears? Where is Charlie Ren-
n?”?
“Thank you for giving me the key to the first
ie of your speech, which certainly puzzled me,”
ax retorted. “Your doubts and fears are not on
my account, Miss Haydon. How grateful I ought to
feel for such an avowal!”
“Don’t taunt me,” she said, coming nearer, and
laying her hand on his arm, “Tam unhappy
aaCuEe, without your turning upon me too.”
“My dear Eleanor, pray don’t speak in that
strain!’’ he answered, sympathetical ly. “I would
not vex you for the world! What’s ‘amiss? How
soget serve a eres ‘
me one open © door as he ke, and the:
started asunder; but not quickly enough to revert
the intruder seeing the affectionate attitude they
had assumed. It was. Captain Renton, and for a
moment. he gnawed his lip savagely; then, with a
studiously polite, ‘‘ Pray don’t let me disturb you—
Imerely came in search of a book,’’ he. took one off
the nearest table, and withdrew. |
Eleanor waited a few seconds, and then returned
to her young companion, with troubled looks.
“You-have been quarreling with him—with Charlie
Renton. Don’t put me off with a.denial, for I am
certain of it.”
“Very well,” said Max; ‘‘then I'll merely say, in
my own defense, that the dispute was forced upon
me.”?
“What. was it about?” she queried, in her most ve-
hement manner. ‘Tell me; I insist on knowing.”
“Then you. must SPREE Bt Captain. Renton. e
can best tell you. why he attacked me.”’
“T cannot do that; you know I cannot. He would
think—ah!"’"—and she concealed her burning face—
“Tam afraid to surmise what he would think. It is
you.who must answer me.”
“Impossible!” said Max, his anger rising, as he
remembered all the injurious speeches Ca: tain Ren-
ton had hurled at him, ‘I may guess why he flew
at me like a wounded tiger; but 1 know that I did
not deserve the reproaches he leveled at me.”
. “He was hurt—mortified. Forgive, him—promise
me that you will forgive him.”
“And permit him to give me the thrashing, of
which he talked so eaves venturing a word
or look in return? If Captain Renton leaves me
alone, I promise to be eqi y forbearing; but how
Tong T shall be able to submit to such covert insolence
as his manner betrayed to-night, I can’t say. There
must be a spell upon this place, for I have been pro-
voked and misrepresented ever since I set foot in
it.”
Again Eleanor put her hand on the arm of the in-
censed Californian.
“You have been very good—you have behaved ad-
mirably. Cannot you exercise the same discretion
for another day or two? He will not stay longer.”
Max gazed steadily at Eleanor until her counte-
nance betrayed that the cause of her anxiety was no
longer her own secret.
“Dear little cousin, ’'d do as much and more for
your sake, for pen have been very kind to me. But
don’t you see that you are not rR generously by
either Captain, Renton or myself? In fact, you are
pre usin a false position, and making us enemies,
y your own injudicious p: dings,??
** But I wish you to be at with each other,”
she answered, earnestly, ‘‘I want you to be Charlie
Renton’s friend. Poor fellow, he ‘needs one more
than he imagines! And you might have so much in-
fluence over him if you would but exert it!”’
“You wish us to be friends, and you began by
a. Captain Renton_horribly jealous of me!’?
At the recollection, Eleanor burst into a fit of
laughter, ‘‘ How could I know that he would arrive
at an awkw: moment? It was such a situation,
such a picture—you at my feet, with me in a theatri-
cal pose, all unconscious of such a critical tator ;
Pope Charlie horror-stricken; and my step-father, in
e Character of Mephistopheles, grinning over his
shoulder! But what did it signify?”—and checking
her mirth she drew herself up haughtily— Captain
Renton has no right to evince any displeasure at
what I do!”’
“Tush, Eleanor! don’t take refuge in your rights,”
said Max, boldly. ‘“‘ He loves you, and you know it
—you have long known it—and you are not using
him well. Nay; don’t be offended at my plain speak-
ing, You gave me leave to be frank with you, and
at the risk of vexing you still more, I must add that
I cannot play the part ‘ou assign to me.”
‘What part? What do you mean?” she demanded
excitedly, struggling with her annoyance.
“Imean that Captain Renton mistakenly looks
upon me as your |favored lover, and that I cannot
consent for him to be kept in this error.”
““Undeceive him, then,” said Eleanor, eagerly.
“Do anything—say anything—only spare me the
misery of knowing that I have contrived to set you
at variance. All this long, wretched day have I
been wandering to and fro, terrifying myself with
the NERS that you would meet somewhere and re-
new the dispute.’ Meret tas
“And this was why you met me on the terrace.
But were these fears for me, pretty coz? Not a bit
of it. What a self-denying, pone ar fellow I
must be to know this, and endure the mortification
patiently.”
“Indeed, Ilike you very much, Max. I would be
extremely sorry if anything befell you.”
aed for that much consolation, You like me
very well, but you like some one else much better.”
“T have not given you leave to make such free
and ae comments on what I say,” Eleanor re-
nded, with a frown. Then her mood ch ing,
ie extended her clasped hands, ‘‘ But I do throw
myself on your mercy, cousin Max. Act for me as
you would if you were my brother. Endure with
ee Charlie’s irritability, and try to win him into.a
‘tter mood. Make him understand that he has not
apes as hardly dealt with as he imagines; and—
and—”
“Whisper to him that the lady of his love is still
fond _ and faithful—eh?”
“No, no,” she replied with asob. ‘Tell him noth-
ing of this, for Ican never—never be his wife. Per-
suade him to relinquish a vain pursuit—to go abroad
—to marry another; to do anyt! but hope to win
me!”
‘Eleanor! has he offended you past all forgive-
ness?”
“ He!’ and a sob choked her utterance. ‘ Poor
Charlie! No, no! I had rather not tell you why I say
this, but it is not connected with him. “Captain Ren-
ton is a good honorable young fellow, and I shall
never cease to pray for his happiness.”
But Max scarcely heard her last words. His eyes had
accidentally fallen on that same small side door, which
had once before attracted his attention—the door
that, if Eleanor spoke truly, led to the most ruinous
part of the Abbey. Ashe gazad, he heard the key
gently turned, and the door was cautiously opened
a couple of inches or so. Some one was eavesdrop-
ng; and, provoked at the impertinence of the act,
e suddenly Sprung across the room to drag forth
the spy, and denounce such conduct.
But quickly as he moved, Eleanor was beside him
ere he reached the door, and she seized the arm ex+
eee a aS
tended to push it open, thus giving the person on the
other side time to close and secure it.
“What were you about to do?” she exclaimed,
breathlessly.
‘“Need you ask? Did you not see that some one
was watching us? Must we submit to this sort of
espionage?”
“Yes,” she answered, significantly. ‘‘Tn Penruan
Abbey, we learn to close our eyes, and hold our
tongues, You are not very shrewd, Monsieur Max,
or you would have discovered this already.’*
' But, Max was too angry to be appeased by the
int.
“{ know that Iam not going to have my actions
fo into either by Captain Renton or Mr. Penruan
himself; and I wish you had not interfered to pre-
vent my saying so to whoever the person was that
has been attempting it. How dare they act so dis-
honorably ?””
‘Hush, you impetuous boy!’ cried Eleanor. “You
are laboring under a grave mistake. It could be no
one but our old servant, who, hearing voices here at
this unusual hour, came to learn for herself who it
could be disturbing her.”
‘Call the woman out, and let me satisfy myself
that you are right,” said Max, who had reasons of
his own for doubting the correctness of this asser-
tion. He could not forget what he had been told on
a former occasion.
“Ts not my word sufficient?” asked Hleanor,
Np
“Not quite,” was the reply. “You think this
avowal rude; but you must bear in mind that you
told me once that this door led to the uninhabited
part of the Abbey. How, then, comes this woman
to be so close to it, while we are engaged in conver-
sation? Why does she hide in the ruins?”
The young lady hesitated a moment; then, in a
low, thrilling whisper, made answer:
“Tf I did not tell you precisely the truth, blame me
not. That door must never be passed by you. Be-
‘ond it lies a terrible secret—the crowning shame of
r. Penruan’s evil life—the curse that clings to him,
and makes even the gold for which he sinned a bur-
den to him!”
Max recoiled a step, doubting his own hearing, and
mechanically echoing those strange words: “A ter-
rible_secret! The crowning shame of Penrucws evil
life!” ’ But when he looked to Eleanor for some ex-
planations, she shook her head mournfully, and
glided away.
At the same minute, the lamp that stood on the table
flickered and went out, and the young man hastily
rare his warn the ill-omened door, which he
ad been so impressively told that he must never
pass.
The mysteries were deepening, and Max went to
his chamber thoughtful and perplexed.
CHAPTER XV.
HOW MAX PROPITIATED THE CAPTAIN.
Srrottine into the stables on the following morn-
ing, Max Haveryng heard what might account for
Squire Penruan’s secret visit to the cottage of old
Dan Calynack. One of the grooms had nm sus-
ted of stealing some old harness; and though
really innocent, the lad had been so frightened by his
master’s threats of imprisonment, that he had fled,
and persuaded. his friends to conceal him till the
missing articles were found, or the relentless squire’s
fur iba, meg
ere had been a rumor that the poor groom—a
native of St. Erne—had gone to old Dan for counsel,
and was in hiding at his cottage; and_hearing this
from one of the lad’s fellow-servants, Max resolved
to write to Letty, in spite of the restrictions laid
upon such attempts to draw her into a correspond-
ence. He argued to himself that such a communica-
tion was not only excusable but necessary, and it
would answer a twofold purpose—relieve her of the
fears she had been entertaining, and enable Dan to
warn the concealed and suspected youth that the
Squire was searching for him.
Aor aey, he wrote a long, ardent epistle—hot,
impetuous, like himself—yet so honest, so chivalrous
in its devotion, that no woman could have perused it
unmoved; and, as soon as breakfast was over, he
descended the cliffs, and sought old Dan, to whom,
if he would have it delivered, it must be intrusted.
But the white sails of the fisherman’s lugger were
just visible in the distance, and the door—a most un-
common oceurrence—was locked. The little window,
however, was easily unhasped, and Max dexterously
tossed his letter on a table, where it was sure to be
seen by Dan on his return.
“ He may grumble and mutter, but he will scarcely
venture to withhold it from my Letty,’ the youn,
man concluded. ‘“ Perhaps before the day is over i
will be in those dear little hands of hers; and it may
incline her to hasten the moment for that interview
she has promised me. I wish she would consent to
be mine at once, and let me bear her to Aquas Dolces
—away from these masqueradings and mysterious
en which are becoming more and more in-
Olerable to me.”
The note—the first and last he was ever to receive,
according to old Dan—had been couched in terms
that positively forbade any such Lege as Max was
now cherishing. But he comforted himself with the
recollection that it was penned before he and Letty
came to an understanding—before she had confessed
that he would always be dear to her, and vowed
never more to doubt him.
Dwelling on these thoughts, he had re-ascended
the cliffs, and was strolling along the top on his
way to the ae when he came upon Captain Ren-
ton, seated moodily ona jetting crag. he young
officer’s brows lowered till he looked black as a
thunder-cloud when Max appeared in sight; but un-
heeding this ill-humor his quondam friend took no
pains to conceal, the young Californian quietly
seated himself at no great distance.
“Will you rcs me a light?” he asked, taking out
his pipe. ‘I thmk I can enjoy a whiff after my
climb up those rocks. It is a fine coast!”
Captain Renton gave him some vesuvians, and
coldly assented to the remark; then rose, shook
himself, and began moving away, as if he was in-
er determined not to accept such companion-
ship.
Don’t go yet, Renton; you owe me an apology—”
“A what * and the captain came back with
clenched fists,
THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. ?
But Max went on coolly enough, ‘‘ An apology, and
I owe you in return an éxplanation.”’
“The one you will never have!” he was angrily
told; “and the other comes too late.”
“Nonsense!” cried sturdy Max. ‘You are no
Englishman if you refuse to listen to the truth; and
you are no gentleman, Captain Renton, if you deny
me an opportunity for exonerating myself from the
charges you made against me the other night.”
“Was this speech connedin the library last even-
ing?” he was sarcastically asked. ‘ Has your ex-
culpation been arranged for you?”
ax smiled.
“On the ei ie if [had been troubled with an
excess of vanity, the interview of which you were a
witness would have terribly mortified me, for I
learned before it was half over, what, by-the-by, I
have long suspected, that you are a luckier fellow
than you deserve to be.”
“Explain yourself, Mr. Haveryng; or is this in-
tended as a fresh insult?’ demanded the indignant
Renton.
“T mean that if you had not permitted yourself to
be casily deceived by appearances, you would have
eomprehended all along that Miss Haydon and I are
merely friends—cousins—nothing more.”’
Captain Renton dashed his cigar over the cliffs,
and laughed bitterly.
“ Friends, who whisper together, who hold secret
meetings, who have no eyes, no ears, no thoughts
for any one but, each other? Thanks for the infor-
mation. Did Miss. Haydon bid you bring it to me?
Am I to congratulate her on the friendship of such
an honorable miu as yourself?”
“T hope that you will do so when you know me
better,” said Max, composedly. ‘‘ Until I am con-
scious of having degraded myself by some mean or
base act, I do not think that Eleanor will withdraw
her kindly regard for me.”
“Tf you do not wish me to strike you to the earth,”
exclaimed his exasperated auditor, “do not breathe
that name again in een
“Pshaw!”’ retorted Max, good-humoredly; ‘what
is the use of all this tall talk? I neither intend to
quarrel with nor to fight you. In fact, after this
morning, I am quite ready to promise that I will not
intrude myself upon you, but go to St. Erne, and re-
peo there as long as you choose to stay at the
ey.’
“Was this arrangement planned also?” he was
asked, with a distrustful glance.
“No; itis my own idea entirely. Only sit down,
and let me tell my story in ay, own way, and then,
if you still choose to find fault with me, why, so be
it. Ishall have done my best to undeceive you; and
if you persist in being obstinate and wrong- eaded, I
cannot help it!”
Ashamed of the violence that had so little effect
on the imperturbable Californian, Captain Renton
resuméd his seat, and lit another cigar. If he must
hear what his successful rival had to say, why, bet-
ter to get it over and have done with it.
Much to his surprise, Max took up his narrative
from the moment in which they parted at the West
End hotel. He told how the name of Penruan
Abbey, when mentioned by Renton himself, had
awakened some vague reminiscences, and he pro-
duced the old pocket-book of his father, which he
had searched till he found the entries in which John
Penruan was mentioned.
Passing rapidly over his early rambles in Cornwall,
and endeavors to find the friends of his father’s boy-
hood, he proceeded to relate his first visit to the
Abbey, his fall from the cliffs, and discovery, as he
lay es the foot insensible, by Letty and Dan Caly-
nack.
Then his tale was no longer hurried over. With all
a lover’s tenderness he dwelt upon the beauty and
goodness of the Lily of St. Erne; and though he said
nothing of the mystery surrounding her, but left his
hearer to infer that she was actually the young
widow she represented herself, he did not hesitate to
avow that he had given his heart away to this fair
flower, before he beheld Eleanor of Penruan:
But such a match would be beneath you!” ex-
claimed Charlie Renton, who had become intensely
interested.
““Why?—because she calls herself a fisherman’s
niece? Let me tell you that there is a rugged
honesty and nobility about Dan Pe kare that makes
one proud to take him by the hand. Letty is a lady
by nature; what care Lif she cannot boast of a long
pedigree? And once back at Aquas Dolces, who
would know whether my pretty English bride were
peeress or peasant?”
“Tt seems, however, that since you transferred
ourself from the cottage to Penruan Abbey, you
ave wavered in your allegiance,” said Renton, re-
membering his jealous suspicions.
“On my soul, I have not; nor would Miss Haydon
have accepted my suit if I had been so hypocritical
as to proffer it. Bah, man! where are your eyes?
Does a woman who loves admit a man into such
familiar intimacy as she permits to me? never blush-
ing when he touches her hand, nor hesitating to talk
to him precisely as she would to her father or her
brother? When she confessed to me last evening
that she had been in agonies all day lest we were
ee were her fears for me? No,no! If you
had knocked all the breath out of my body, as you
threatened to do, she would have been too thank-
ful for your escape, and too proud of your prowess,
to have much pity to spare for my bruises.””
“But she met you in the library. I heard the
whisper that carried you there,” retorted Charlie,
but half convinced.
“Yes; that she might lay her royal commands on
me not to offend her hero. What is there amiss be-
twixt you and Eleanor? Don’t take offense at the
question, there’s a good fellow, nor fancy that I wish
to interfere with what does not concern me; but, if
you love each other as I believe you do, what keeps
you apart?” A
“What, indeed?” sighed the captain, now wholly
unbending, “I cannot tell. In my boyhood, her
father encouraged us to like each other; and,
though I lost sight of the family for some years after
they left India, and Mr. Haydon died, yet, when I re-
turned to England with my regiment, Eleanor gave
me the warmest of welcomes. Neither does Mr.
Penruan look coldly on me, though I am free to con-
fess that I have nothing to live on but my pay, and,
therefore, am no match for an heiress.”
“Mr, Penruan does not seem to care who takes his
step-daughter off his hands,” muttered Max. “ Heis
a most incomprehensible sort of an old gentleman.”
“You are not doing him justice,” he was vehe-
mently assured, “Mr. Penruan may love money;
Ido not deny that; but under his harsh exterior #
hides kind and generous emotions.”’
“Very glad to hear you say so,’’ Max commented.
“T began to have some doubts about it myself.”
“Then let me give you an instance of his good
feeling,” cried Renton any: “ When I first came
down to the Abbey, I did not consider myself justi-
fied in acknowledging my affection for Eleanor until I
had frankly acquainted her step-father with the
state of my heart. Instead of sneering at my pre-
sumption and forbidding me to see her again, he not
only heard me with patience, but confessed that if
he were in my place, he should not let her fortune
frighten me away. He said that in my wandering
life, it Would of course be quite a blessing to have
such a creature as Hleanor beside me, and plainly
intimated that if she chose to become my wife, I
need not fear any opposition from him.”
“Very good of my excellent kinsman, really!”
said Max, sarcastically. “The only thing that de-
‘tracts from my admiration of his generosity is the
fact that he has said much the same to me!” ;
“Then it must be as I suspected,” the captain
moodily replied. ‘‘She has transferred her affec-
tions to you, and has won him over to her way of
thinking.’
“T do not believe it. Nay, Iam positive that you
are wrong. Eleanor Haydon warned me in the
frankest manner that I must not be persuaded into
making love to her, and I never have. Mr. Pen-
ruan’s motives for what he does and says are mys-
teries to me; but I’m ready to stake my life on the
good faith and honest dealing of the young lady.”
“But you saw how she received me. Can you as-
sure me that her manner was only assumed to con-
ceal some pique, and that she may be persuaded to
become mine?”
The eager face of Max began to cloud. No; he
could not give the sae assurance, for had not
Eleanor Herself tearfully declared that she could
never, never give her hand to Charlie Renton?
“By San Jago!” he exclaimed, vexedly; “it is
ill meddling with what does nct concern one in this
country, for every affair that I have been mixed up
with has proved a tangled coil that defied me to un-
ravel. When I have said that I am certain Eleanor
loves you I must pause, for I am as much in the
dark as to the cause of her coldness as you can be.
er to her boldly, man, and learn it from her own
ips.
4 pe Renton did not rise from his desponding atti-
ude :
“Tt is useless. I have done so more than once,
but to no purpose. I came here to seek to win the
old kind looks from her eyes—to hear her speak my
name as she’ used to do, but in vain. Always the
same chilling reception, always the same regrets
that I persist in wasting my time in these visits; till
at last, maddened and peepaifing. I resolve to de-
art, and vow that I will do my best to forget her.
ut some relenting whisper when we are parting,
some mournful yet tender glance, always revives the
belief that she still loves me, and this belief strength-
ens instead of fading with absence. And sol come
here again, and yet again, to endure the same alter-
nation of hopes and fears; to think her at one mo-
ment the most heartless of coquettes, yet at the next
to ask myself if there is not some reason for her con-
duct, which I ought to learn before I condemn her.”
“Tt must be a very miserable way of going on,”
said Max. sympathetically; ‘‘and were Tin your
ee T should not rest till I had searched to the
ottom of the matter,” r
“You speak as if that were easy to do; as if I had
but to remonstrate with a capricious girl, and pre-
vail upon her to tell me her secret thoughts, But it
is notso. When I press Eleanor on the subject, she
either bursts into tears, and flies my presence, or
else haughtily reminds me that she has dy de-
clared we can never be united, and insists that I
shall cease to persecute her.”
“And you throw yourself into a jealous rage,
there is a tableau, and the curtain falls! Ay, de mi,
and I know not how to advise you, except that, were
Lin your place, I would persevere.”
“Have you any reason for saying this?” asked
Charlie, catching like a drowning man at a straw.
“Has Eleanor said anything that induces you to give
me this encouragement?”
Max shook his head.
“This is a house of secrets, and Iam in no one’s;
neither am I the wisest of counselors for a lover
hot-headed enough already to run a tilt with every
one who gets in his way.” -
Captain Renton held out his hand.
“Thave not used you well by my suspicions, Mr.
Haveryng, but you must forgive me; for such
anxiety as I have been enduring during the last few
months makes a fellow ill-natured and distrustful
against his will.”
Max took the hand extended to him, and griped
it cordially.
“Eleanor bade me to Poeroe you to accompany
me to California when I return.” What say you to
appearing as if you acquiesced in the plan? Perhaps
the thought that you are leaving her forever may
throw se off her guard, and give you the advantage
ou seek.
? The advice was considered good. Captain Renton
had suffered so much through Eleanor Haydon’s in-
explicable conduct, that he would not be sorry to
turn the tables upon her, if it were possible.
“Nay,” he exclaimed, firmly, ‘I will not only say
that Iintend leaving England, but 1 will positively be
the companion of your voyage, if you will put up
with me. Itis degrading myself to come here, urg-
ing a suit to which I obtain naught but denials.
Eleanor shall either consent to be mine, or T will try
whether, in change of scene, I cannot forget her.
Max applauded the resolution; and Renton was
striding away to earry it into effect, when the sound
was heard of horse’s hoofs, and Eleanor came can-
tering along the cliffs on the back of the restive
brute she denominated Ursa Minor.
With much difficulty, she reined him in as she
drew near the gentlemen; and Captain Renton, aid
ing how troublesome the horse appeared re id
hore gone to its head, but she sharply bad: cep
ack
CK, ls
“Thanks for your good intentions, sir; but my
le
THE LILY .OF ST. ERNE.
aoe
steed is like his mistress—he will not brook any in-
terference,”’ she cried, saucily. .
“And his mistress must be mad to ride him along
these dangerous hights!” retorted the blunt Max.
“ Merci, monsieur/” was the gay reply. “That
speech of yours implies a confession that Iam not
without brains, although they may not be as thor-
oughly under control as they ought. And now Dll
tell you, in my own defense, that Ursa Minor is
more afraid of ne over the cliffs than lam. You
shall see how, when I urge him to the brink of them,
he shudders and retreats.” a
“For goodness’ sake, Eleanor!” ejaculated Cap-
tain Renton, growing white with asthe darling
girl rode to the very edge of the rocks.
“There is no danger,” she said, smiling and bend-
ing toward him, as he sprung forward, and grasped
her reins. “This ill-conditioned palfrey of mine
will be manageable for an hour when I have thor-
oughly frightened him.”
“And me! Have you no ay for the alarm you
are inflicting on me?” ask enton, so tenderly,
that, with a blush, she raised herself to her former
erect posture, and turned her head toward Max.
“Cousin mine, the first civility you paid me was
searching for my whip. Will you repeat the’ kind
act? I must have dropped it at no great distance.”
Max went aun eiiintely Hs seek for it, and as he
came back she rode to meet him, whispering, with
suppressed eagerness, as. Soon as she was near
enough. “Well, you_are friends, ain’t you? Oh,
good Max, I cannot. thank you sufficiently’! And he
—what did he say? You have quite disabused him
of his foolish notions?’
“Certainly, I have hinted my conviction that
Miss Haydon’s heart was given away before she had
the felicity of beholding me.”’ S
“How absurd—how wrong to tell him this!’’ cried
the young lady, coloring and smiling: ‘Did you
obey my injunctions? Did you invite him to goaway
with you?”
“T did; but were I in his place, I should not do so,
until I knew why my affections were so wantonly
played with by the lady of my love!”
“Played with—wantonly!” Eleanor repeated, her
eyes flashing with resentment. But the next minute
they were streaming with tears, and ere Max could
apologize for the offense he had given, she had
smartly whipped her horse, and was dashing along
the road at a pace that left the young men in terror
for her safety.
CHAPTER XVI.
DOWN THE CHIMNEY OR THROUGH THE KEYHOLE.
Sue met them at dinner, radiant with smiles, and
looking so hen ia her demi-toilet, that Max was
not surprised at e infatuation Charlie Renton
evinced for this lovely but inscrutable girl; a girl far
more difficult to understand than even Letty, for,
unlike the latter, she appeared to be endowed with
all that should have made her life a happy one.
She had had a delightful ride, she told them, and
brought Ursa Minor back to his stable so tired, and
in COTA CA ERNE so tractable, that the grooms scarce-
ly knew him.
“He will break your neck some day, and then
theré will be an end to your wild freaks!” the Squire
ae coarsely, as he helped his lady to some
fish.
“T hope not, sir, for your sake!’’ Eleanor sarcasti-
cally replied, “I know how dee ly you would mourn
my loss, and what an expense it would be to you to
put the servants in black!”
Mrs. Penruan dropped her fork, and evinced hyster-
ical symptoms.
“Tf you two will persist in saying such horrid
things to each other,” she sobbed, ‘“‘f know I shall
be seized with spasms or convulsions! It’s ve
cruel of you, Eleanor, when you know how fond
am of turbot, and that I shall not be able to touch a
bit, and all through your dreadful speeches!”
“Pray go on with your dinner, mamma,” said the
young fe “T would not spoil your enjoyment of
the turbot on any account. forgot that you were
here when I spoke.”
“You are very considerate all at once!” muttered
Mr. Penruan, spitefully. “It isn’t often that you
rofess to care who is annoyed by your ill-bred at-
eS to be witty at my expense!”
“Yes,” was the reply; “I must admit that I am
not an apt scholar, or you, sir, would have taught
me long since not to say what I think so readily!’
After this little s ng match, there was an awk-
ward silence, till a melon was placed on the table
with the dessert, which drew from Max some remark
relative to the fruits of his native soil.
“Splendid country, America!’ said the Squire,
senteutiously. ‘‘ Plenty of money to be made there!
That’s the place for young men of enterprise and
energy!” f
“T hope you are right, sir, though 1 have heard the
remark contested,” Charlie Renton exclaimed; “for
L have serious thoughts of pons a friend’s invi-
tation, and trying my own fortune there.”
“Dear me, Charlie! do you mean this?’’ cried Mrs.
Penruan, with dilated eyes. ‘“ et, America.
pe yon Beas what he says, Eleanor? hy, I always
thought—”
“You are spilling your wine, mamma. Shall I
peel an apricot for you?” her daughter hastily inter-
posed, with a glance which, though the obtuse lady
could not understand, told her that she had made wu
mistake, and must be silent. She, therefore, said no
more, but relieved her mind by sighing and groaning
every time there was @ break in the conversation.
Mr, Penruan seemed greatly interested in ep ane
of his guest, questioning him upon them till the
young man, who had not formed any, grew quite
confused, in spite of the prompting of , who sat
opposite,
PK last the Squire turned suddenly to his step-
daughter. ‘Eleanor, we have not heard your
opinions on this new scheme! What do you say
adit it?”
For a moment her voice failed her, but she quick-
ly regained composure, ‘What can I say, except
at it is an excellent one? I have always thought
that Captain Renton was capable of better things
than sauntering ates the ee of é garrison town,
or drilling raw recruits, or p at mimic war as
haye beet our soldiers doing aye Biorshott,”
“ Would you prefer to see me in real war-
fare?—doing my best to get rid of an arm or a leg?”
asked Charlie, with affected jocularity,
Sation, and, finally, resi
‘No, indeed; but I always fancy that a soldier’s
life in times of peace must be monotonous and un-
satisfactory. The new States of America will surely
t afford better opportunities for employing your abili-
ties.
“Yes,” said the young officer, stung into bitterness
by the indifference with which she spoke, “I may
renounce every hope I once cherished, and bid my
native country an eternal farewell, to become in an-
other land a soured, moody, discontented man. But
what matters that if I amass money, keep out of the
way of every one who considers me a bore, and don’t
trouble my acquaintances in England with too many
letters?”
“Your friends at Penruan will always rejoice to
hear of your welfare,” Eleanor gently told him; and
the young man bowed low.
“Thanks, Miss Haydon, for this unexpected token
of interest in ot future. I SUS you mean that
if I neither get killed by an Indian on the way, nor
leave my bones to bleach on the prairie, [ may be
permitted to drop you a line Seon Perhaps
you think it will amuse us both to recall old times,
when the Atlantic lies between us? Such reminis-
cences will not affect yor ater they?”
“T wish you would’ send me some nice ostrich
feathers,” Mrs, Penruan languidly interposed. “T
should like pale blue best, if you could get hold of a
bird of that color.”
Max nearly exploded into a laugh at the notion of
blue ostriches, but Eleanor and the captain were too
much in earnest to heed the interruption. i
“Yes,” said the former, with a forced smile; ‘it
will, as you say, be very amusing, when we have
both grown older and wiser, to recall some of
our youthful follies. Of course you will go to Aquas
Dolces, and my cousin will introduce you to all the
dark-eyed donnas of his acquaintance; and you will
learn to dance boleros and fandangos, Captain Ren-
ton; and then you will remember, with no little
amusement, how horror-stricken you were when you
found me practicing those dances.”
“T am afraid I shall remember too many events
that it would be more prudent to forget,” said Ren-
ton, witha om so profound that, in spite of herself,
aoe Haydon changed color, and her voice began
alter.
“You think so just now,” she told him; “ but
presently, when you have overcome feelings that.
although they do’ you honor, must not be cherished
—then—yes, then—you will be glad—you will agree
with me that—that——
She suddenly broke down, and, rising from the
table, hurried from the room.
Captain Renton caught a glimpse of her troubled
face; and sprung a to follow, but, with an impe-
rious gesture, she forbade it; and when he would
have persisted, Eleanor swiftly passed through the
nearest door and turned the key, thus preventing
any further pursuit. se
“‘ How thoughtless the child is!” complained Mrs.
Penruan, whose grapes had been upset by her
daughter’s hasty movements; ‘‘ and so oy
contrary! Only verte when Iwas saying how
like old times it seems have Charlie here, she
ee me up so sharply that I had the headache
for hours, and now she is in tears at the idea of his
going away!”
The distress Eleanor had not been able to conceal,
was balm to the wounded spirits of her lover, who,
while he would fain have assuaged her grief, could
not but rejoice that it was for him. But Max, who,
as a looker-on, saw_more of the game, was less
struck by the young. lady’s emotion, than the effect
it produced on Mr. Penruan.
‘he keen, deeply-set eyes of the silent Squire had
watched both the young people during their conver-
on Eleanor, as she sped
away, with ill-concealed exultation. No pity for her
tears moved his cold heart; on the contrary, it was
as if he rejoiced to see her in such straits that she
must either submit to see Captain Renton expatriate
himself on her account, or consent to be his.
Could it be because he felt a real liking for the
ree officer? And, if so, why had he urged
ax to endeavor to win his fair step-daughter? The
questiou was a ee one.
Presently, Mrs. Penruan accepted Captain Ren-
ton’s arm, and went back to her invalid couch in the
drawing-room, leaving the Squire and his young
kinsman together. It was a propitious moment for
testing the ‘true state of his host’s feeling on the sub-
ao that engrossed him; and Max, therefore, made
he following observation:
“ Miss Haydon left us abruptly, and was evidently
in distress. Can she be fretting over Renton’s deter-
mination?”
“Are you jealous?’ he was asked in return.
“Pooh! Nell and the lad have known each other
ever since they were babies; such intimacies rarely
end in matrimony. At the same time if you are
wise, you will look after your own interests. Charles
Renton is a handsome young fellow, and an officer;
and ladies think as much of the red coat as of the
wearer!”
“True; and, therefore, I should have no chance
against him.” a
““T don’t know that,” the Squire promptly replied;
‘girls are whimsical, and Eleanor has liked you
from the first.”
“But, roe, my cousin, would you consent to
give your beaw iful ‘ste -daughter to either of us,
seeing that we have our fortunes to make, and are in
no way her equals in worldly advantages?”
a a! my dear boy, how you harp upon these
seruples of yours! Do you really think that this
spoiled child will permit any one to bias her choice,
or eine her marrying when and whom she
pleases
% But she is not of age; she has guardians, has she
not?’
“Yes,” was the slow replys “Tam one of Eleanor
Haydon’s guardians, and her mother is the other.”
‘“‘Am I, then, to understand that neither you nor
Mrs, Penruan would oppose her union with Captain
-
Renton or myself?” lainly asked,
The Squire laughed softly, and rubbed his hands
together.
re e Eleanor! Are you dreaming? Would
pos
she listen if we did? Ought we not to be very thank-
ful if she sets her affections on some hdnorabie well-
born young man, who will be a good husband to her?
And, now I have answered all your questions, sup-
pose you answer mine, What do you intend doing?
Giving up the field to Renton! Your chances are
equal—yes, your chances are equal.”
‘But which of us do you incline to favor, Mr. Pen-
ruan?”’ his companion demanded.
But the Squire only shook his head, laughed more
odiously than before, and declaring that he never
interfered in such delicate matters, went away to
his study, leaving Max to cogitate over his queer
sayings.
‘T cannot understand him at all,” the young’man
said, after long deliberation. ‘This much is evident
—that he is eager to get Eleanor off his hands; but
why? If he wishes her to marry, why does he not
carry her to London, where she would have a fair
chance of doing so? it is neither for my sake nor
Renton’s that he so insidiously urges us to woo her.
And we are two simpletons, who are no match for
this crafty gentleman: Charlie, because love blinds
him; and T, because I never served an apprentice-
ship at trickery and deceit. If a man cheated or
rob me, I gave him a thrashing, kicked him out
of my way, and thought no more about it; but one
must deal differently with clever, evil-smiling John
Penruan!”’
As Max was sauntering from the drawing-room, an-
other thought struck him. — }
Eleanor—what did-she know respecting Mr. Pen-
ruan’s maneuvers? Was she equally in ignorance of
his motives in seeking a husband for her? Had not
her contemptuous allusions. to him, her openly ex-
ressed scorn of his flattering civilities to his young
insman, often contained hints that he was a double-
dealer? and, though these hints had been enigmati-
cal at the time, Max felt that their explanation might
be easy enough if he could induce the ‘young lady to
be frank with him.
He went in search of her as soon as this idea en-
tered his head; but, with every trace of tears care-
fully effaced, she was at the piano, singing sprightly
French chansons to her mother. Captain Renton,
angry at her levity, had ensconced himself in a dif-
ferent corner, with some maps of the Southern States
of North America, and chose to appear as indifferent
as his capricious mistress.
As soon as Max appeared, she insisted that he
should give her another lesson on the guitar, and
laughed with forced gayety at her own mistakes,
which were so many t at last her teacher laid his
hand on the strings.
“You are not in the cue for music to-night,” he
told her. ‘Come out on the terrace for a stroll. I
want, half-an-hour’s serious. conversation with
ou.
“But Iam not in aaperious mood to-night,” she re-
plied, with a pout: You must propose something
more amusing than watching the moon, and pacing
ee beneath it like two ghosts.”
“‘ But I must speak with you. | I have something of
consequence to say to you,” he insisted, and she
drew herself up haughtily.
“Mr. Haveryng, when I asked you to be the
friend of Captain Renton, Idid not think you would
so far forget yourself as to abet him in this folly.”
“Tam not aware that Iam doing so. If you think
I wish to plead his cause, you are mistaken. What
would be the use of it? If you will not listen to the
man who loves you, lam sure you will not hear me.”’
= men are very cruel!” she exclaimed, with quiver-
ing lip.
g For what? For counseling Renton to take you at
your word, and leave you?”’
“No,” said Eleanor, stifling a sob. “If you have
done this, I thank you; only bid him be prompt in his
departure. This miserable period of suspense com-
bines with his reproaching looks to madden me!”
“Let us talk it over where we are not so likely to
be observed,” urged Max; but she drew away the
hand he would have placed on his arm.
“No, no; it is, as you have just observed, useless
—quite useless. You ought to know by this time
that there are subjects on which I cannot listen to
you. Unless you wish to offend me, you will never
speak in this strain again.”
“ But you will grant me the half-hour’s quiet con-
versation Iask? It is of myself I wish to speak, not
of Renton.”
“To-morrow, then,” she said, turning from him.
“ But why not to-night?” he pleaded. “TI have
questions to ask which you alone can answer, and I
am impatient for explanations which only you can
ve.”
: a looked surprised, but shook her head dissent-
ingly.
R Yoonta not give a a patient hearing to-night.
I am tired to death! Go and play chess with that
forlorn friend of ours; you can have nothing to say but
— may be postponed until I am in a brighter
mood.”
Murmuring a little at the caprices of woman, Max
obeyed, and between the chess-board and confiden-
tial chat, he and Charlie Renton contrived to wile the
ae away. Eleanor had disappeared as soon as
she had laid aside the guitar, to return no more.
At the customary early hour, Mr. Penruan lighted
his candle, and his guests retired to their chambers;
Charlie Renton to pass the hours till daylight dis-
tracting himself with conjectures as to the cause of
Eleanor’s inexplicable behavior; and Max, equally
sleepless but far a to lie thinking of Letty,
and recall those sweet moments when she knelt be-
side him, eee up in his face, an ee that
she had wro' m, and pleading with such tender,
gracious words for his forgiveness. _
A slight creaking noise became audible presently
—a noise that e itself heard at no great distance
from the head of the huge four-post bed in which
the young man was Wing. Accustomed to hear the
rats ena along ind the wainscot, Max took
no account of the sound, although it continued to be
heard at intervals until it was followed by a slight
rustling, like that produced by the movements of a
woman clad insilk.
Raising himself upon his elbow, he cautiously
opened the curtains of his couch, but the night was
so dark that he could discern nothing but the dim
outlines of a table beneath the window,’ at which he
was accustomed to write or read when in the humor
for a little solitary amusement.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes, and then looked again.
Was it fancy that a shadow had fallen betwixt him
and the table? and, if he were not mistaken, what
could have occasioned it?
The shadow moved, and he held his breath as he
watched it; ahd now it rose higher, and threw upon
a a a
ceded, and was seen no more.
It-wasno longer an illusion of his own brain. Some |
one was in the room with him; and Max loudly.
shouted the inquiry, ‘‘ Who is there?”
Receiving no answer, he leaped from the bed,
lighted his lamp, and searched the apartment care-
fully put only to satisfy himself that he was its sole
enant,
The reflection might have been. cast on the blind
from without, he told himself; and, ppening the case-
ment, he peered down into the broad court-yard be-
low. But.all there was still as the grave; and, mys-
tified. by the occurrence—trivial though it. was—he
went back to bed.
But lying there, unable to obtain any repose, with
his. senses so morbidly alive to every sound that, even
the ticking of his own watch became painfully dis-
tinct, became so intolerable, that at last Max rose
and dressed himself.
Californian home from memory for Eleanor, and it
would amuse him to finish the drawing while wait-
ing for day: ight t
Accordingly, he seated himself at the table, be-
neath the window, and opened the portfolio that lay
upon it. The first thing that met his eye was a
spray of the maiden’s-hair fern, that had most cer-
tainly not been there the preceding evening. Be-
neath it lay a tiny note, directed to himself.
He tore it open.
handwriting. A couple of lines—no more
eyes sparkled joyfully as he-read them—
ut. his
“The bearer of this only permits me to say that to-
morrow evening; beside the spring in Trevor
may find L. R. awaiting you.”
When the note had been kissed, read, and re-read,
and finally put carefully away in the small pocket-
book that Max always carried about him, other sen-
sations began to awaken.
How came this note in his folio? It was not there
when he went to bed; therefore it must have been
Letty’s messenger whose shadow he saw. But how
came she there?
His door was locked, precisely as he had left it;
and a wild fancy that she might*have crept through
the panel he had once seen opened, was dispelled
directly by the impossibility of any full-grown per-
son wore through so narrow an 0 MESS
Still, the facts were incontrovertible. T!
had been intrusted to human hands. It must have
found its way hither by human agency, and now he
was resolve
bearer penetrated to his chamber.
As soon as day had fully d,the young man
commenced his researches, goittg round and round
the wainscoted walls, rapping them, searching for
ood, you
secret springs, and always returning discomfited to ,
the panel on which hung the miniature.
ere, at last, the mystery was solved. There was
no hinged door, as he had imagined, but a chance
touch Tisghones’ that, from floor to ceiling, the square,
of which it formed a part, slid aside sufficiently to
enable him to through, and unhesitatingly Max
sprung through the long-sought opening.
CHAPTER XVIL
WHAT MAX SAW IN THE RUINS.
As soon as the young Californian quitted his room,
he found himself in darkness so profound that he
was obliged to return for his lamp. With this in his
hand, he was able to perceive that the opening ad-
mitted him into a long, narrow passage, extending |
on either hand, and that there were bolts to secure
the wainscot in its place, which bolts Letty’s mes- |
senger must have neglected to fasten when his loud
call Acid es and induced her to beat a hasty re-
treat.
But for this omission, her secret would have been
safe; and Max debated within himself whether he
was justified in taking advantage of it. But curiosit;
eventually predominated, and, turning to the right,
he proceeded to explore the passage.
e end of it was soon reached, and he saw before
him a slidin; panel: similarly secured to his own.
Whither would this lead him? Was he, a hospitably-
treated guest at Penruan, justified in prowling about
‘his kinsman’s dwelling at daybreak, making explor-
ations that had not received the sanction of its
owner? Would it not be more honorable to wait till
the Squire arose, and, acquainting him with the dis-
covery of the sliding panel, leave the further prose-
cution of the search to him?
But, no; this might be to injure the bearer of the
note; to cut off all further communication with
Letty, who might have excellent reasons for what
she had done; and this suggestion, therefore, was
ieee
et, as he stepped softly onward, he was haunted
with an unpleasant recollection of the terrible
earnestnéss with which Eleanor Haydon had_ad-
dressed
with evident sincerity, that there were shameful se-
erets in the life of Mr. Penruan—secrets which he, of |
course, had no ent to make any attempt to unvail.
Was it not possible that he was now on
See to that part of the house which he had
been warned that he must not enter?
But, on the other hand, he was not endeavoring,
or, indeed, wishing to learn anything if did not con-
cern him to know, He was but gratifying a very
natural desire to discover in what way his chamber
‘was approached by some person who was not, as far
as he knew, connected with the Penruan family;
and, after a little hésitation, he pushed back the
bolts, and slid the wainscot aside.
It moved slowly, as though it had not been stirred |
for years; but as if gradually gave to the powerful
shoulder of Max, he caught the glimpse of a human
foot, cased in leather, ag if some person had de-
tected his approach, and was standing ready to
grapple with him as soon as the opening was wide
enough.
Tt was, therefore, in a defensive attitude that he
advanced a step, then retreated again in some con-
fusion. The foot he had discerned was only one of
the high boots the Squire donned when he went out
riding, and on a chair, close by, were tossed the
clothes that gentleman had worn at dinner. Through
a halt-opaned door floated the unmusical sounds of
papougee nasal snores—sufficient proofs, if there
been none del ike anaes Hag we
ents 0!
to. meditate any further dis-
ly
host
wenabch at to
He had been sketching his |
Yes; it was in Letty’s epecetil |
;
e letter |
to discover the route by which its |
im in the library. She had told him then, |
he brink of |
| toward his own room; but ere he reached it, he had
sage was still unexplored, and that it was by this
THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.
1 -
the white blind the profile of a human face, ere it re- | coveries, the half-laughing, half-vexed Max returned
reminded himself that the other portion of the pas- |
\
, route the female whose shadow he beheld must have |
de: y
ccordingly he proceeded to traverse the opening
that lay on his left, moving slowly and cautiously,
and carefully examining the walls as he went. But
all was blan
was locked on the other side. s
Max knelt down and eo his ear to the keyhole; not
asound could be heard. He ventured to tap for ad-
mittance, but no one came. Must his adventure end
here? Was he never to know more than this, and al-
ways be at the mercy of whoever chose to make use
bo ta passage for the purpose of visiting his cham-
er
| Taking out his pocket knife he attempted to push
back the lock, and; after a while, was successful.
| The door flew open, and he found himself in a small,
| square chamber, so peculiar in its arrangements that
he was completely mystfiied.
The boards were so richly carpeted, that the foot |
sunk into the velvet pile and,made no sound ; the |
| walls, which were unbroken by. window or fire-plac
| were covered from floor to ceiling with gayly-colored
| pictures; the fruit-pieces of Lance side by side with
groups of bright plumaged birds and flower paint-
ings. But neither landscape nor portrait were here,
save one exquisite little miniature of a delicate-look-
| ing, middle-aged man, which Max recognized as the
Jac-simile of a likeness of her first husband, which
| Mrs. Penruan sometimes wore in a locket.
There was no furniture in this room with the ex-
ception of a large pile of silken cushions that lay in
| disorder in the center of it. In one corner, broken
and dusty, there was a heap of children’s toys; in
another, Fant of ribbons of all hues, their
colors faded as if they had lain there for years.
hidden pans the cushions already mentioned, Max
discerned a huge folio, which he drew from its con-
cealment, and Pach machen It was an old edition of
“ Foxe’s Book of artyrs,’’ with illustrations of the
sunesines of those who died for their faith, so hide-
ous that he shuddered as he gazed!
Turning with horror from an engraving of a mother
on the rack, whose child a pagan governor was about
to dash on the stones at his feet, Max flung down the
book, marveling at the strange cireumstance that
this was the only volume in this strange room,
His next glance around it showed that it was light-
| ed from above by sashes filled with clouded glass.
Besides the door by which he entered, and which the
| pictures that hung over it concealed as soon asit was
closed, there was one other, half glass, as if it led to
a court or garden. But it was shuttered from with-
out, locked, and the key was gone; nor were his ef-
forts to open it as successful as they had been with
the first one. Here, then, his discoveries must end,
and what had he learned? Nothing more than the
existence of an oddly arranged apartment, commu-
nicating, by means of. a long passage, with his own.
Whether it was ever occupied, in what part of the
Abbey it was situated, andfor whom it had been hung
with pictures, and carpeted so carefully, he could not
even surmise. yf
Baffled and disappointed, he prepared to retrace
his steps, reminding himself that ere the day was
over he might learn more from the sweet lips of Let-
ty. She at least could tell him to whom she had in-
wee her letter, and why it was so secretly de-
ivered. ’ :
But as he was about to pass through the doorway,
an upward glance showed him that there was a
| small shelf above it. On this shelf there lay two
articles, which some inexplicable feeling impelled
him to take down and examine.
make, the handle plated with tarnished silver, heavily
leaded, and incrusted with dark stains, that made
Max shake his head gravely as he returned it to its
eee The other article was a mass of what looked
ke unspun silk, but which proved, on closer inspec-
tion, to be tresses of soft, fair hair, that appeared as
if they had been hastily shorn from the head of a
child, and knotted together with a piece of ribbon.
On these blonde tresses there were the same crimson
stains; and, with a chill creeping over him, he knew
not why, Max shook off a curl that had twined itself
round his fingers, and hastened back to his chamber
A long, brisk walk, during which he learned from a
laborer, that Trevor Wood was the identical coppice
into [which he had tracked the woman Esther, en-
abled him to shake off all the outward signs of the
wakeful night he had passed. Captain Renton went
away after breakfast, to pay farewell calls to some
acquaintances, for his resolution to leave England
had been strengthened by half a dozen words with
| Eleanor, whom he was beginning to sete as the
most heartless of women. The young lady herself
had been weeping when, a couple of hours after his
departure, she escended to the morni room to
give Max the interview he had requested; but it was
| only the dark rings around her eyes that betrayed
this. With a fortitude Max could not, but admire,
even while it provoked him, she smiled and chatted on
indifferent topics as readily as usual.
“* Now, sir,” she said, pny “tell me why you
wished to see me, in as few words as_ possible, for I
am in a tremendous hurry. I have neglected all m
cottage pensioners since you have been here, and it
is my intention to make them a round of visits this
| very morning.”
| “You can take me with you, and we will talk as
| we go,”’ answered Max, who did not feel inclined to
discuss Mr, Penruan under his own roof,
“And ere occasion for gossip to all the old wo-
men in this parish and the next. No, thank you, m
good cousin! I prefer to pay my charitable c:
alone,
“Then let us adjourn to your favorite cave,” he
urged. “The house is stifling, and we are so liable to
be interrupted here.”
To this Eleanor agreed, and very few words were
spoken until they were seated vis-a-vis in the cool
grotto. Then, eying her companion closely, she ob-
served, with a half laugh, “You are rowing quite
mysterious, cousin Max! How is that?”
“I might answer that the atmosphere of Penruan
has infected me; but indeed, I did not intend to be
odd, only to secure your attention where I feel that
I can speak freely, and without any fear of
The one was a gentleman’s riding-whip of antique
and bare until he reached a door that |
“Why should you fear this?” she inquired.
“Because I may be suspecting a person unjustly,
and therefore should regret to express these sus-
picions to any ears but yours.”
“Tt is Mr. Penruan to whom you allude, Are you
beginning to find him out?’ Eleanor demanded, with
cu ee eagerness.
do not know,” wasthe dubious reply, “It pains
me to be obliged to think ill of any one; especially
arelative, who has shown me some kindness,”*
Eleanor’s lip curled scornfully, but she did not
speak, and Max went on with increasing earnestness
and rece
“Tf, in my thoughts, I do him injustice, put aside
— own prejudices, and help me to know him bet-
r. You don’t know what. it is tocome to the land
of your fathers, to find any. one friendly hand ex-
tended in welcome; and then have your grateful
sense of this solitary kindness marred by a dread
that the person who offers it is not playing fair.”’
“Tt is the way of the world,” Eleanor said, with a
sigh. “Every one pursues their own course, careless
who suffers by it.’
“Tt is not my way!” Max sturdily retorted. “I
am growing quite confused by the led. threads
that. cross my path wherever I turn. e have our
faultsin California; we are hot and quarrelsome and
boorish; but we have no concealments, no cross-pur-
ses, in what we say and do, Even our women, if
ey coquette awhile, and will. not say, ‘I love you’
with their ee avow it with their eyes, and do not
drive a faithful heart to despair.”
Eleanor put up her finger warningly.
““You are transgressing, sir; you promised to speak
only of yourself,’
‘“And you,” Max added, ‘* Well, then, to my ques-
tions, and I pray you to give me straightforward
answers, or none at all,’ ‘4
“The subject—if it embraces the dealings of Mr.
Penruan—will be such a crooked one,’’ she com-
mented, “that I must not promise too much. But to
this I will pledge myself—to give no coloring of my
own to the acts of my step-father. You shall have
plain, hard truth, and nothing more.”’
CHAPTER XVIII.
PERSONAL TO MR. PENRUAN.
Tue. Californian looked earnestly at Eleanor. He
was in doubt what to think of her words, and some-
what indisposed to hear pay thing pre judicial to Mr.
Penruan’s character; but he said, ‘‘Tell me, then,
this: are you aware that Mr, Penruan appears—re-
collect, I only say appears—anxious that you should
marry ?—and forgive me for speaking as 1 should if
you really were a dear sister,”
Eleanor’s beautiful face flushed, and her boeeih
came in quick passionate gasps. But she quickly
composed he:
“For your friendly interest I am too grateful to
quarrel at, the way in which you evince it. Yes, I
have known for some time past that my marriage
would give pleasure to my step-father,” ;
“Charlie Renton believes that this is because the
Squire sympathizes with him, and would rather see
‘ou united to a poor man than unhappy,” Max
en took courage to tell her.
The young lady bit her lip, and, looking her com-
panion. sti ly in the face, queried, “And you—do
you think so too?”
“T scarcely know.. To me Mr. Penruan has spoken
as if he should not, oppose your wishes, let your choice
Fall on whom it may !
**Go on,” cried Eleanor, ‘But I know the rest; I
know that what Mr. John Penruan has said to Cap-
tain Renton he has also said to you and others.. That
he has advised you, if not in plain terms, yet by hints
and inuendoes, to woo me; and when you, in your
honesty, reminded him thst I am an heiress, he
pooh-poohed the scruples that made you hesitate.”
This was so true that Max could only ask, “‘ How
did you learn this?”
“| have learned yet more,’’ she answered. “I
know that it, was to play you off against r Charlie
that he invited you to remain at the Abbey. You
were to be domesticated with me; to be the com-
anion of my walks and drives; not because he was
Pospiiaihiy esirous of making your stay here a
pleasant one, but to further his own schemes,”
“Stay !’’ Max exclaimed. “ You promised that you
would not let your own dislike of Mr, Penruan color
your explanations!” ‘
“Very well,” she replied; ‘‘then solve the riddle
yourself, Here am I—‘the heiress of forty thousand
pounds and some contingencies—penned up in an
obscure corner of England, enjoying none of those
advantages the possession of such a fortune should
secure one; never visiting London; rarely entering,
into the society of my country neighbors; in fact,
positively vegetating at a ruined abbey, during what,
should be the gayest, if not the happiest, years of
my life. Why is this? Answer me if you can.”
‘Mrs. Penruan’s delicate health may be the cause,”
Max dubiously suggested. Ps
“Mamma never fancied herself ill until she was
secluded here, and had nothing else todo. Change
of air and scene would make her a different crea-
ture.” :
“But even. you must allow that Mr. Penruan is @
devoted husband; that his anxiety on his lady’s ac;
count is very great, and exceedingly praiseworthy?
“Yes,” said Eleanor dryly, Been J am quite
ready to admit that my step-father’s fears lest his
wife should die are excessive; but praiseworthy, did
you add? Shalli tell you why mamma’s life is so
precious to her husband?” 4
a = Max, “if you are sure that you are
not mistaken in your judgment.
“Oh, stubborn Améticano ! she exclaimed with a
smile. “Will you have nothing but bare facts?
Here they are, then, and you shall draw your own
conclusions, If my mother’s death was to take
punce under present circumstances, Mr. Penruan would
lose re} interess in her property.
“He has this estate!” i
“Yes.” said Eleanor; ‘but at the time he married
it was so heavily mortgaged, that, despite his care-
ful economy, he has not rs paid off all these in-
cumbrances, and my mother’s income is wholly in
ene a as sed for a few minutes
ax sat and mu: y
“Then you would have me think that it is solely
for the sake of the hateful money that TE tee ia
watches so assiduously over his wife? The idea is
too degrading! I had rather not entertain it!
419
“You prefer to regard him as the most uxorious
of husbands! Very well; I have no objection, I
have often wished that I Ms do so myself.”
“And TON exclaimed the young man, reverting
to the topic from which they had strayed—‘ why
should we doubt Mr. Penruan’s good intentions to-
ward you?” ‘ :
“And yet that rane doubt them this question is
a sufficient proof!” she retorted significantly,
“Oannot you be generous, then, and set those
doubts at rest?” said Max. “At present you are
but increasing the distrust T am so anxious to fling
off. Surely oH must have the key to Mr. Penru-
an’s motive for gi encouragement both to Cap-
tain Renton and myself!”
“Nay,” she answered, looking down; “his reasons
for doing this must be patent to yourself. He would
be rid of me; he cares not who takes me off his hands;
and thinks that I may be compelled, by Charles
Renton’s jealous urgency, into the decisive step of
becoming his wife or—yours.” *
“And you, Eleanor, is it solely to plague, I may
say to spite your unloving step-father, that you
make the warm-hearted yo! fellow who loves you
so miserable? Is this kind? Is this right?”
She locked her hands together, and burst into
passionate tears.
“Tt is because Ilove him too well to be a clog to
him that I drive him from me! Spare me these cruel
reproaches, Mr, Pavey ! Do I not suffer, think
you, when I renounce the hopes that—that—’
She buried her face in her handkerchief, and could
say no more; Max sitting and watching her in pity-
ing yet perplexed silence, till she grew calmer.
: tg our conference at an end?”’ she asked, with an
attempt to smile: ‘‘ or have you more confessions to
extort? Recollect that you will not be justified in re-
peating anything I have admitted.”
“T am stillin the dark,” he replied.
you be a burden to Charles Renton?” :
“Tn this way, You think that I should bring him
a fortune, and 7 know that I should bring him noth-
ing. He has his pay as a junior captain in the army,
and; by a prudence admirable in a young man so
much esteemed and sought after, he contrives to
keep out of debt, But to marry—and marry a girl
whose tastes are expensive—who has been reared in
luxury, and knows economy only to detest it in the
sordid shape of John Penruan, would be ness. I
refuse to drag Captain Renton down to abject pov-
erty, I will never, never give him reason to rue the
day he first beheld me, as many a wretched wife has
done.”
“But your own lips assured me, not long since,
that you are richly dowered!” 3 :
“Ay, but they neglected to add that your kins-
man is my guardian |” e
“T have already heard this from the Squire him-
self,” Max interposed. ‘‘He did not appear to have
any wish to conceal it.”
“Did he volunteer the information?’ Eleanor de-
manded; and, after a little reflection, the young man
was compelled to reply in the negative. “Or did he
tell you at the same time,”’ she went on, ‘that I can-
not marry without his consent; that by my. father’s
will Iam so wholly at the mercy of the man he be-
lieved to be his friend, that if I wed without a for-
mal permission, signed by Mr. John Penruan, I for-
feit all claim to my dowry, which lapses to my
mother, who is passive in the hands of her wily hus-
band.”
“But'my kinsman assured me that he would not
oppose your wishes.” .
“Tacitly he might not; but would he give that for-
bie consent without which I should be a penniless
bride?”
‘How could he withhold it?”
“asily enough; and the world would commend
him for refusing to let his ward unite herself to one
who was not her equal in wealth. Would he confess,
think you, how he threw us together, and indirectly
furthered our wishes until we had gone too far to re-
treat? On the contrary, he would declare that we
nad misunderstood him; that my self-will and obsti-
nacy had prevented his interference, and that he
was only doing his duty in refusing, etc., etc.”
“Tmpossible!’? exclaimed the indignant auditor.
“This is but a conjecture on your part. He could
not be guilty of such meanness—such unpardonable
treachery!”
“Do you think not?” she asked, dryly. ‘‘On the
one side there are forty thousand pounds; on the
other, the happiness two foolish young people.
Will John Penruan study the latter when the former
is at stake? You do not know him, cousin Max. He
would cut off his right hand for half the amount of
my dowry!”
Bat still Max, agitated and uncomfortable, per-
sisted in saying, “I know not how to credit it!
Think of the consequences to himself! ae he
would be disgraced in the eyes of all who knew
him!”
“And he would be rich enough to defy public
opinion. Besides, my dear coz, you in your simpli-
city, or inexperience, forget that the mass always
side with the strongest. Who will care how Mr.
Penruan re his riches together so long as he
has them? hat am I, that any one but a preux
chevalier like yourself should care what becomes of
me?” ,
“But he would lose his own self-respect!” cried
Max, still harping on the Squire.
“Tf he has any,” interposed Eleanor, who was half
inclined to be amused at such sturdy championship
of a most unworthy man. _
“ At least he has a conscience,” the xo Califor-
nian retorted, ‘“‘and that would warn im that such
an act would be a fraud on the orphan intrusted to
his guardianship. He is avaricious, I dare say; but
when his better feelings are appealed to, he will
surely prove more honorable than you imagine.”
But at this speech the youkg girl laughed mock-
ingly.
ee bia Mr. Penruan’s conscience trouble him when,
in the depth of last winter, he thrust a helpless
widow and her little ones from their cottage, be-
cause, in one of the storms that visited the coast, the
brave husband and father lost his life, and the
uire’s rent was not forthcoming?” ‘
‘Could he do this?” murmured her disgusted
hearer.
Ay and before the destitute family could find
il the ine
“How could
shelter, of those children died, an
neighborhood cried shame on him for his unfee:
conduct. But John Penruan let the dwelling to a
better tenant, and laughed at those who boldly re-
minded him that he would yet have to give an ac-
count of his treatment of these unhappy creatures.”
“You may have heard an exaggerated account of
this affair,” said Max.
“But I tell you that Ihave seen the widow—that I
know I am only telling you what actually occurred.
Mr, Penruan has no conscience. Where was it when
a shrieking child fled before his upraised arm, or
knelt to him, pitifully praying for mercy? But no,
no, no! I dare not s of that;’ and Eleanor
started from the rude bench on which she had been
sitting, with her hands pressed to her heaving bosom,
and every feature convulsed. ‘‘When I retall that
scene—when I remember how it_ended—I hate my-
self. for living beneath the roof of one so vile, so
heartless!”
For a few minutes no sound was heard in the cay-
ern but her sobs; and when she looked up it was to
Say. “Pray, leave me, I cannot return.to the house
till I am calmer, and I shall recover myself more
quickly alone.”
“T cannot bear to quit you thus,” Max urged; but
as she persisted in wishing it, he was forced to obey.
CHAPTER XIX.
IN TREVOR WOOD WITH LETTY RAYNE.
™ PENRUAN ABBEY. was not an agreeable abode that
day, for;Mrs. Penruan’s dog had paid the pene. of
over-feeding and pampering, and expired at her feet.
Asa matter of course, the lady’s grief was exces-
sive; and after blaming every one as the cause.of
dear Fan-fan’s sudden demise, she declared that the
shock ‘had nearly killed her, and proceeded to give
proof of it by a series of hysterical attacks of the
most alarming and noisy character.
Mr. Penruan’s uneasiness was almost ludicrous, for
he was vibrating between a longing to scold her
heartily for makmg such a ridiculous fuss about a
little brute he had always detested, and a dread that
if the violent fits in which she lay screaming and gasp-
ing were not alleviated, they would end in her be-
coming peraney ill,
As soon as Max made his appearance he was en-
treated to ride off to the next town, and hasten the
coming of the doctor, for whom two of the men, one
after the other, had been already dispatched.
Eleanor hastened to her mother when she returned
to the house, and learned what was amiss; but sick-
ened by the childishness of Mrs. Penruan’s com-
plaints, she was not sorry when she was angrily dis-
missed as a heartless creature, who had never known
what it was to lose an affectionate pet under such
distressing circumstances.
“Oh, mamma,’’”’ she could not resist saying, ‘‘ there
are those about you who really need the love and
sympathy you have wasted upon a dog! When will
you remember this, and not me heartless for re-
fusing to think that your daysshould be ® spent in pet-
oe, an animal, and nursing imaginary ailments.”
hysterical wail followed her as she made her
escape, and shut herself in her own room, where she
was only too glad to remain the rest of the day.
The dinner was a mere form, for Captain ‘ton
was still absent; the Squire was out of humor, and
revenged himself for his lady’s freaks by harrying the
servants; and Max sat looking at the clock, the hands
e which were nearing the hour appointed tor the ren-
lezvous.
As soon as the cloth was withdrawn he excused
himself, and hastened to the quiet dell, in whose cen-
ter rose the clear spring, beside which Letty had
promised to meet him.
It was a On. half-hour before she appeared, and
while he paced to and fro, or sat musing on thé edge
of the ice basin, that received the water,
his thoughts were as much of Eleanor Haydon, as of
the beautiful girl for whom he waited.
Some things that she had said were still dwelling
inhis mind painfully, and would not be forgotten.
What was that scene of which she declared that she
could not trust herself to speak—and who was the
child who had been the object of Mr. Penruan’s fury?
Involuntarily his thoughts connected what he had
heard with those tresses of fair hair that he found in
the chamber to which he had penetrated only a few
hours earlier. Still it was mystery upon mystery—
coil within coil; for, whether from a dread of John
Penruan’s vengeance, or a doubt of the policy of
blackening his character to a kinsman, no one was
willing to give those explanations Max was so anxi-
ous to obtain. ~~
In what had his interview with Eleanor resulted—
that interview from which he had hoped to learn so
much? Inthe conviction that the Squire was either
the vilest or the most cruelly traduced of men; and
though very Eee very reluctantly, Max was
oe to incline to the former conviction.
e heard Eleanor’s tale, and was racking his
brain for ways and means of making her and Charlie
Renton happy but there was something still to be
learned, of far greater importance to himself, and
that was the history of Letty. She was his Letty
now—the dear one to whom his troth was plighted—
to whom—if possible—he intended to devote the re-
mainder of his life. In confessing that she loved
him she had given him a right to know who she was,
and what were her reasons for fearing and avoiding
John Penruan.
But just as he came to this conclusion, a little
figure in black, glided from behind the silver birch
that grew, in solitary pride, above the fountain, and
Letty, her ordinarily pale face aglow with soft
blushes, stood before him.
She looked so pure, so unearthly, as she emerged
from the gathering shadows of the twilight, that in-
voluntarily Max sunk on his knee, and pressed his
lips to her trembling hand.
“Pray rise,”’ she faltered. “It was not wise of me
to come; do not make me regret it still more by
such acts of homage as these.”
““Why reprove me for what I have done?” he
asked, as he drew her to a seat upon the mossy roots
of the tree. “I felt, for the moment, as if you were
more angel than woman, and behaved accordingly.”
“Tam no angel,” said Letty, hastily.
“But you are a true,and loving woman! Is not
that what you would add? Why, then, I shall like
you best in that character, till my own is perfected.”
His arm stole around her as he spoke, But she di
engaged herself with gentle firmness from the would-
“Mr. Haveryng, this must not be!,., I do not.come
to listen to such words as these, but rather to assure
you that you must forget me!” ™
He smiled incredulously.
“And to teach me how to do so? Begin, then!
‘When you have succeeded in making me forget what
you confessed to me the other night, the rest may be
easy to both of us! But while I remember that you
have acknowledged that Iam dear to you, my place
is by your side, and you are as surely mine as if our
vows had been plighted at the altar!”
“You are too rash, sir! You do not know what
you are saying! Words spoken in haste, and in the
regret of havi i ane condemned you, were not
intended to imply all you seem to think.”
“Indeed !"* said Max, his face darkening with dis-
leasure. “‘ Were you, then, playing with me—amus-
mg yourself by driving me almost to desperation,
and then luring me back with a pretense of affection
that, after all, you do not feel?”
But Letty’s eyes did not droop before his reproach-
ful gaze; on the contrary, she gave him glance for
glance, and there was sorrowful bitterness in her
tones as she retorted:
“Oh, sit, you need not be so ready to accuse me!
Even if I were the coquette you es heart
would acquit me of haying cost: you much unhappi-
ness. It is on every lip how Mr. Max Haveryng
won the belle of Penruan. It is not. with Captain
Renton that she pines dances, rides, and lingers by
moonlight on the terrace; and already the Squire’s
Se are anticipating all the festivities of a gay
wi aed
“And you have heard that Iam playing the suitor
to Eleanor Haydon?” Max demanded, as he got pos-
session of her ds. ‘Ido not. doubt it; there are
plenty of gossips, even in this out-of-the-wa;
who would not be able to see us together without im
agining the rest. Let them say what they please;
but you, Letty, do ie believe that I, whom you saw
only the other night half maddened by your cold-
ness, went from your side to whisper loving words in
the ear of another?’
She was silent. But this only added fuel to the
fire her speech had provoked.
“Letty, you shall answer me! Am I, in your
sight, this dishonorable wretch—this mean reptile—
or do you say it only to. vex me?’’*
“No one would blame you for forgetting
Widow Rayne, while you sun yourself in the sm:
of beautiful, queenly Eleanor.”
“Am I answered? Have you really thought this
of me? Thought that while [ wooed you in secret, I
openly sought the love of another? Then you do
well in saying that we should meet no more! We are
mistaken in eat Seno iid i
" ’ she ec! , regarding his hot,
look doubtfully. _——
“Yes! Icould have staked my life that you loved
me—that, in spite of the efforts your friends, as you
them, have made to keep us apart, you had given
our heart as freely to m: ‘ping, as I gave mine
o you, .I have never said, ‘On whom do you smile
when I am al t, Letty—for whom are your kisses
when I am not near?’ ”
“You dared not suspect me!” she panted.
“And yet you have su: sted me!” he reminded
her. ‘But no, I never said these things, because I
never Fong them; I gauged your peckngs by_my
own, and fancied that we had unbounded faith in
each other. But it is not so, and, therefore, you can-
not love me!” —
“Think this if you will,” she murmured, with a
3
the
ies
sigh. “I did but come to say adieu forever; and it © =
will make our pa: easier.
_* To you, perhaps; but to me it is torture! Why
did you send me from you the other night, half de-
lirious wlth joy; repeating to myself, as I went, ‘She
is mine—she loves me!’ if it were but to deceive me?”
“Tt is not I who have wavered in my affections,
but ae she retorted, accusingly.
“Tt is false, even though it is you who say it!” was
the vehement reply.
“Are not you protesting too loudly, sir?’ Letty
demanded, as she curved her white throat, with the
haughty air that gave dignity to her figure. ‘‘ When
a gentleman whispers soft words to one who pro-
fesses to be nothing better than the adopted child of
a Cornish fisherman, no one will wonder if he does
not mean all he says.”
“Where did you learn those despicable lessons?”
he sternly demanded. ‘And what have I done that
gives you reason to class me with such scoundrels as
you describe? Iam no gentleman, according to your
meaning of the word, for though an idler here, I do
my. best at home to improve my small patrimony,
and follow in the steps of the father who neathed
it tome. No man can say that he wro human
creature, and it shall be his son’s boast to deserve
the same!”
“Have I not already said that no one will blame
ie if,in_ the bright orbs and plowing: cheeks of
leanor Haydon, you discover charms that I have
never possessed ?”’ Letty e answer. ‘And now,
Mr. Haveryng, we will not prolong this interview. It
was folly to meet at all, seeing that no good purpose
could be served y it; and I have only displ you
with my candor.’
But Max was now too deeply moved for speech,
With arms folded on his chest, he stood intently gaz-
ing on her, and beneath that steady look her own
sunk, and her color began to come and go.
“Farewell, Mr. Haveryng!”’
There was a Re, of trouble, almost of ae
tion, in her voice, but he made no sign of having
heard it. She moved away a step or two, then
paused, and glanced over her shoulder. His eyes
were still fix See her receding form, but he made
no effort to r her. There was a fund of firmness
or obstinacy—call it what you will—in the Califor-
nian, that would not let him stoop to protest any
longer; nor strive by unmanly supplications to regain
her confidence. :
Wavering between love and pride, she made an-
other uncertain ee. toward the trees, then
her hands, and, with a sob, fled back to
that instantly opened to receive her. But pain and
displeasure still sat on the Californian’s brow, and he
did not attempt to conceal it. f
“What am Ito understand by this, Letty? I take
you to my heart spite of all you have said, because I
must always love you—I cannot help it; but my hon-
or must. be cated, gf Hows She Sue wey at
proving to you, beyond all doubt, that Iam not the
villain you have, for the second time, called me, be-
fore I can ‘say to you: ‘ Letty, will you be my wife?’”’
“Scold me as much as’ you aaa she sighed, as
she nestled closer to him, | ‘I deserve the angriest
speeches you can make, for I have been mad—mad
iecni eect.
ee 0 has been slandering me in your hearing?”
“No one;‘élse had I been without’ éxcuse? But
only this morning, from an ¢6yrie in. the cliffs, I
watched to catch a glimpse of you, Max, as—as I
ave often done before—
“ y love! and I knew not that you were so near.”’
* At last you came—but not alone. She was with
you.’ She’ leaned upon your arm, smiled in your
face, and let you lead her to the'cave, which, I have
heard them say, she rarely permits any one to enter.
T counted the minutes that you spent there together
—still together—while I was forgotten.”
“No, Letty, not forgotten.”
“Well, then, unseen. | Minutes, did Isay?—an hour
had nearly elapsed, and, wild with my own chafing.
fretting fears, I stole’to-a cleft in the rocks, an
looked through. Eleanor was sitting in the cave,
and you were bending over her so lovingly, that—oh,
con ee wicked creature that I am—I wished her
ead!”
““My foolish darling! though appearances were
ainst me, there was not a word uttered by. either
of us that you might not have heard. My cousin
Eleanor is unhappy; and Charles Renton, who loves
her dearly, is my friend. I would help them both, if
I knew how; and it was to try and learn some way
of doing this that I talked with her this morning.”
Letty raised her head, and began to look gravely
curious.
“The bright, lively Eleanor Haydon unhappy?
How is this?”
“T may not tell her secrets without her leave—even
to you, my lily-flower,” said Max; and her face was
sinking down upon his breast again, when a long,
laintive cry, like the call of the screech-owl, echoe
rough the wood. .
“T have outstayed my time,” she mournfully ob-
served. f
‘‘Nay, you must not go yet! I have so much to
ask and say!’ exclaimed her dismayed lover.
“And Thave wasted the precious moments in re-
roaches!”’ sighed Letty. “‘But I entreat you not
detain me!
She spoke so beseechingly, that he could not but
comply.
“At least 1 may see’ you safely through the wood?”
She hesitated; then answered, *‘ We will walk to-
gether to the boundary of the Penruan estate. There
our paths divide; and oh! Max, if you love me, make
no attempt to follow my footsteps.”
“Ts this woman you call your aunt cruel to you?
Ts it because you fear her harshness you say this?”
“No; she’is very, very good to me. A littie preju-
diced, perhaps; but when she knows you better, she
will overcome this. Only yield to my entreaties, and
all may yet be well.”
They were now rapidly threading the intricacies of
the coppice, with which Letty appeared so’ familiar
that she never hesitated whic: va to take, although
beneath the trees it was so dark that no path could
be discerned.
And now they stood on a patch of open ground
beneath a bank that surrounded the Abbey planta-
tions, and with a sigh, she paused to say farewell.
But ere the word could pass her lips, or Max could
extract a promise that she would soon see him again,
a@ man scrambled over the bank, and sliding down it,
stood before them so suddenly that Letty’s cry 0:
dismay was natural enough. But was it her alarm
that evoked it, or the explanation of Max, to whose
lips had involuntary risen the words, ‘Tt is Mr, Pen-
ruan!
CHAPTER XX.
MAX GROWS ANGRY AS WELL AS PERPLEXED.
Max could feel that the clasp of Letty’s hands
tightened on his arm, and that she was quivering
from head to foot, while the Squire peered suspi-
ciously first at one and then the other of the youn
couple he had contrived to startle. But it relieve
him to find that she quickly recovered herself, and
checked that impulse to fly which had seized her,on
Mr. Penruan’s first appearance.
Did this gentleman give any sign that he recognized
the young widow, who had testified such a dread of
encountering him?
No. But then the fast fading light was uncertain;
and Letty, before leaving the wood, had drawn for-
ward the hood of her cloak, so as to partially con-
ceal her face. The eyes must have been very keen,
or very well acquainted with her form and features,
that could have discerned who she was under such
circumstances; and perhaps it was a consciousness
of this that gave her courage to quickly return to
her place beside her lover. ut whatever Mr. Pen-
ruan may have thought or suspected with regard to
his kinsman’s muffled and silent companion, he soon
made it pee that his curiosity was thoroughly
awakened.
ee” pores pardon if I came upon you too sud-
denly,” he said, in fawning tones. ‘‘I had no idea,
my, Boot Max, that you were here, or else—”
“Well, sir?’ queried Max, who was irritated by
the determined manner in which the Squire had
planted himself on the path, thus rendering it im-
possible for Letity to pass. “Tam told that this wood
is free to all comers.”
“Oh, yes; that is, the people about here claim a
right of way, which, if it were my property, I should
soon set about contesting. I’ve no notion of stran-
gers wandering at will over another man’s estates!”
“Will you walk on, Mr. Penruan?’—we are in
haste!” said Max, abruptly.
Tho Squire wheeled round.
“You're going back to the Abbey? Then we'll
walk together, for I cannot remount that bank.”
“Tt’s a pity you ever got over it,’”’ was the not very
politely spoken comment of his annoyed kinsman.
“Tt was; but I heard voices, and fancied I recog-
nized Eleanor’s. This is not Eleanor, though, is it?”
And he made another attempt to get a fuller view of
Letty’s half averted face.
ae Max prevented it by pushing himself betwixt
em,
“T left Miss Haydon in the house, where I dare say
we hall find her on our return.”
“i heard voices,” the Squire resumed, “and it
struck ime as being so unusual at such an hour, that
_ THE FIRESIDE “LIBRARY.
I really felt myself justified in coming to see whether
poachers, or other bad characters, were lurking so
close to my own land. . I: must repeat, however, that
: So oe sorry if I have frightened the—the
au
But Letty was gone. Just,-as he began to speak,
she withdrew her hand from Max’s arm, slid her
fingers into his for a mute pressure, and, breathing
a warning “ Hush!” glided aay morte the trees.
Her sudden departure afforded fresh food for Mr.
Penruan’s curiosity; but there was a certain some-
thing in the tones of the Californian’s voice that
‘warned him not to,ask too many questions.
ae am very sorry I intruded upon you,
ax.
““So am I, sir!’ was the curt reply.
“But then you must remember that you had not
taken me into your confidence; that I was not aware
ou ever indulged in flirtations with our Cornish
lasses.”” z
Max was feigning an indignant disclaimer, when
the recollection that Letty wished to avoid recogni-
tion checked him, He would not saya word that
might give the Squire a‘clew to her identity, and his
avoid it.
“Few men are ina hurry to reveal their love-af-
fairs to their relatives, and I shouldn’t think of
troubling you with mine.”
“T did not recognize your fair companion,” said
Mr. Penruan, suggestively.
“Indeed!” was all the answer he received; and he
started on a fresh tack.
“What would Eleanor say if she knew that you
play the gallant, gay Lothario in the twilight to
some pretty lass from St. Erne?”
“Now you speak of Miss Haydon,” cried Max,
swallowing his indignation at the remark, ‘perhaps
ou will answer a question or two that I should like
0 put to you?”
“My dear boy, I have already told you that if good
wishes are of any service to you in your suit, you
have mine.”
“But, Mr. Penruan, you have said Reet the same
words to Charles Renton! Your good wishes cannot
be with both of us!”
“Why not?” said the imperturbable Squire. ‘I
am very well aware that you cannot both wed my
saucy step-daughter, but I may and do like both of
you well enough to rejoice in aught that makes
either of you happy.”
Max pondered awhile, and then bluntly_ said:
“This may be an impartial, but it is also rather an
enigmatical speech, Tell me in plain words, Mr.
Penruan, whether, in the event of Miss Haydon’s
choice falling on Captain Renton or myself, you will
give that written sanction to the marriage, without
which I am assured that the young lady would be. a
portionless bride?”
“My dear Max,” the Squire replied, importantly,
“T shall most certainly endeavor to do my duty.
This is an affair in which my own feelings and incl! >
nations may have to be entirely set aside, and my
functions, as Eleanor Haydon’s guardian, strictly ex-
ercised; but when the moment arrives, I shall be
ready for it. In the meantime, I repeat that my
wishes are with you. Renton is an amiable young
fellow, but you, ax—you are of my own blood.”
“T scarcely catch your meaning, sir. What shall
you consider it your duty to do under such circum-
stances?”
Mr. Penruan coughed dubiously.
“Has Eleanor sent you to me?” he asked.
you authorized by her to put these questions?”
Max was obliged to answer in the negative, al-
though a suspicion of the triumphant smile the
avowal brought to his auditor’s thin lips provoked
him Rose
“She did not send you to me? Then, my dear
young friend, I really think these inquiries are a.
mature. From any person but yourself I should be
inclined to resent them; Ishould, indeed. Of course,
I know you too well to suspect you of harboring ava-
ricious sentiments, or a greater interest in Eleanor’s
fortune than her own pretty self; but, really—”
“T think you had better stop there, Mr. Penruan,”
Max sternly exclaimed. “As long as I am your
guest, Iam bound in honor to avoid quarreling with
you, which I certainly shall be foreed to do if you
Say any more.”
‘Pooh! nonsense, you hot-headed boy!’ Mr.
Penruan ey retorted. ‘You must rid
ourself of thisCalifornian habit of looking knives and
alking daggers every time one contrivés to affront
you. And seriously, Max, we must not part in ill-
will, You are the only relative I have in the world.
Lam getting an old man, with nerves shaken by—by
many anxieties. If any great trouble were to over-
take me, I should want some one to stand by me;
and who so strong, so capable of doing this, as you?’
“Jn everything that is just and right you may
count on my assistance, sir,” said Max, touched a
little by this appeal. ‘But what troubles can you
dread?”
Mr. Penruan sighed a atis
“T don’t know. A foreboding comes over me
sometimes—I ree most men are eee
plagued with such fancies—and, mine always attac
me after I have dreamed one peculiar dream, about
groping my way through some dark cavern, tor-
mented and mocked by the evil spirits that have
dragged me there. Oh! it is a hideous vision, and I
ae it bathed in sweat, and shivering with
fear
“Do you walk in your sleep when you dream
this?” asked Max, eagerly.
“Surely no,” Mr. Penruan responded, evincing
more uneasiness at the question than it seem-
ed to merit. ‘‘If I did, how_terrible—how danger-
ous! I mean what dangers I might incur! at
made you think of this?”
“ Merely a passing idea, I thought it not at all un-
likely—that is all,” was the evasive answer.
Max had hesitated for a moment whether to relate
what he had seen, or still keep silence respecting the
Squire’s somnambulism. It was his porenoe dis-
trust of his kinsman that inclined him to the latter
course, and Mr. Penruan remained in ignorance
that, as far as the mocking spirit was concerned, his
dream was not all a dream.
By this time they had reached the Abbey, and the
Squire went indoors; but Max remained on the terrace
to smoke and meditate. The more he did so, the
“Are
hotter grew his dissatisfaction with his kinsman
answer therefore was carefully framed so as to |
“Bleanor was right, and he is as mean, as crafty,
as unreliable as she described him, How cunningly,
how cautiously he fenced with my questions; ad-
mitting just as much_as left him a loophole for
escape, and no more, I can no longer doubt that he
makes her home detestable in order to drive
her into matrimony, and will then sanctimoniously
declare that it would not be doing his duty to con-
sent to her union with any one whose position is in-
ferior to her own, Is there no matching him with
his own weapons? Must this young couple, who
love each other so warmly, either separate alto-
gether, or consent to endure with the poverty which
would press sharply on both? Surely there must be
some way of preventing either of these sorrowful
terminations to their wooing?”
Then Max reminded himself: that he had another
cause for complaint anent the Squire, anu one that
touched him more closely. By those spying propen-
sities, which made Mr, Penruan a terror to his de-
pendants, who never knew whe or how he would
Rerese upon them, he had driven Letty away before
er lover could exact a promise of another meeting,
and coax. her to fix the time and place for the same.
Dan Calynack might be persuaded to convey to her
anothe: billet. douwx, but this was so doubtful that
Max predicted a stern refusal, even while he resolved
to leave nothing untried that might prevail with the
ol fisherman to oblige him.
As’ he sauntered to. and fro, nursing his wrath,
Captain Renton came out, and joined him.
“Have you any nows for ne, Haveryng?_ I dare-
say I bore you with my somber looks and selfish
anxieties; but you have made me believe you my
friend, and you will have to put up with the inevita-
ble consequences.”
Max put his arm thrcugh the young officer’s, and,
risking Eleanor’s reproof for divulging her secrets,
Patated all he had learned from her during their in-
terview in the fairy grot.
“er step-father will wi hhold her fortune; well,
what signifies that?” was the impetuous con ment.
“Tt is for herself I love her. How could she let the
paltry dross com _ between us?”
_ “Gently,” said Max. “I thought I was the most
inconsiderate of men, but before I marry I shall cer-
tainly ask myself whether I can make a home for my
spouse.”
Captain Renton’s delight received a check.
““You are right. In the joy of learning that Elea-
nor still loves me, I forge all else. hy did my
friends persuade me to adopt this expensive pro-
fession? But my darling shall find that I am not to
be daunted by any difficulties while her heart re-
mains true tome. Ah, Haveryng, you don’t know
half EHleanor’s good qualities; you see her under a
cloud now, for somehow. she never does get on with
Mr. Penruan, but :he is the most generous and noble
of women.”
“Only one degree removed from perfection!”’ ex-
claimed the laughing Max. ‘How fortunate it is
for my own comfort that I do not see my pretty
cousin with your eyes! You knew her in the life-
time of her father. What kind of man was Mr.
Haydon?”
“An excellent one. Rather too easily swayed, I
fancy, but dotingly fond of his wife and children.”
“And yet he made a will that savors of injustice,
by putting too much power in the hands of Mr. Pen-
ruan! How do you account for this?”
“T cannot tell,” replied Renton, cautiously lower-
ing his voice. ‘‘ You must remember that when Mr.
Haydon gave up his appointment at Madras, and
came to England for his health, I lost sight of the
family for some years. When we met again, Elea-
nor had sprung from a mer y child into a beautiful,
high-spirited woman, and her mother i ad re-mar-
ried with Mr. Penruan.”
“How came such a marriage about?’ mused
Max.
“On this point I can only tell you what I have
heard from gossiping acquaintances, for Eleanor has
always carefully avoided the subject. Mr. Haydon
was recommended by his 12 ge reer to take up his
residence on the south-west coast. He came to
Mount’s Bay, and somehow contrived to strike up a
friendship with John Penruan, who became s0 use-
ful o him aut. his illness, that, as a proof of his
confidence, Mr. Haydon made him one of the trus-
tees of his bequests; and, in gratitude, I suppose, for
his attentions to her departed husband, the widow
nee him about six months after her bereave-
ment.”
“ And this gave him unlimited power over the fu-
ture of her daughter.”
“Say of her fortune, not of her future!” Renton
retorted, a glow of enthusiastic devotion pervading
both “tone and look, ‘‘ With Heaven’s blessing on
my endeavors, she shall never know a sorrow again
(hat I can shield her from.”
“But, my dear fellow, you surely are not going to
be =a ; imprudent as to urge her to marry you xt all
risks?”
“Certainly not: but I shall ask Eleanor to give me
time to prove my sa a yon, or (wo, if, she in-
sists upon it. Then I will sell my commission, and
with the few hundreds I shall have, and an energetic
determination to get on, what may not @ man
achieve?”
At first, Max was strongly inclined to answer,
“Perhaps nothing,” but he was oo good-natured to
willingly damp the lover’s ardor, or remind Charles
Ren on that life ina dashing regiment was very dif-
ferent to the hardships that must be endured by one
who resolutely sets himself + make afortune. :
“Better act on Hleanor’s own suggestion,” he
said, “and go with n e to Aquas Dolces. My life on
it she will be true to you, though your one years ab-
sence will, in all probability, spin itself out to six or
seven.” ‘
“ Six or seven !” the young officer repeated, in dis-
may. “T could not expect her—so young and beau-
tiful as she is—to wait for me all that time.
“Tf she loves you as well as I think she does, her
patience will stand the test!” cried Max, hope ‘ully ;
‘and though you oe a pey, i ourself ae ee
share of roughing and knocking about, you '
one friend bs your side, old fellow, who will do his
utmos help you!”
The ‘ tan Tien cordially clasped hands,
eal shall thankfully accept your offer,” said ane
toh. “unless the propitious fates give me something
to doin my own country. There are men in aa
who profess to be my friends, and who have the
<5
THE ‘LILY (OF °ST. ERNE. 24
wer, if the will be not wanting, to procure mea
Berth under Government. With a settled income—
however small—in my possession, I should be justi-
fied in marrying at once. Do you not think so?
“ Ay; but will Miss Haydon consent to take a step
that will compel her to resign all pe of enjoying
the dower that should have been hers
peneeaeion is no lover of money!” Max was proudly
told.
“Very true; but, were I in her plage, it would cost
me a pang to throw into the hands of such aman as
Mr. Penruan the large sum my own father had care-
fully, and:perhaps fondly, gathered together for his
child.”
““Whatever you may think, don’t use these argu-
ments to Eleanor!’ Captain Renton exclaimed, anxi-
ously. ‘Perish the money! I have not the slight-
est atin to be beholden to my wife for the luxuries
on my table. Such a dowry would have smoothed
away many difficulties, but others have been happy
without forty thousand pounds, and why not my
love and I?” i
He bade Max poodniasts and went away to his
own room in better spirits than he had been able to
muster since he came to Penruan. His jealous
doubts had vanished; and when Eleanor had been
persuaded to lay aside all reserves, all scruples, and
pledge herself to be his as soon as he was in a po-
sition to claim her, what further incentive would be
needed to make him go _ boldly forth and do his ut-
most to win wealth, or at least a competence, for her
to share?
CHAPTER XXtI.
IN WHICH THE CAPTAIN AND ELEANOR COME TO AN UN-
DERSTANDING.
Ir appeared, however, by what took place, that
Max interpreted Eleanor’s sentiments more correct-
ly than her lover had done. During the long con-
versation Captain Renton contrived to have with
her, she was induced to confess that it was her dread
of becoming a burden upon him, and, still worse, a
blight to his prospects, that had led her to hide her
own emotions, and endeavor to repel him by a pre-
tence of capricious indifference. e
“JT should not have avowed this,’ she added, “‘if
my cousin Max not taken upon himself to make
such revelations to you that it would be toy to
deny the truth; for indeed, Charlie, I have felt all
along that it would be better to let you go away be-
lieving me a heartless coquette, than to do or say
anything that will lead you to indulge in hopes that
are never likely to be realized.” ;
But nothing would make the happy lover think
with her. ;
“My dearest Eleanor, why take that desponding
view of our difficulties? Is it because you doubt my
perseverance? Do you think I shall grow weary. of
working to make a home for my bright, brave dar-
ling?”
TE will be quite excusable if you do,’’ she answer-
ed, with one of. her merry laughs; “‘for another
half-a-dozen years spent in constant warfare with
my step-father will have converted me into a spite-
fu, miserable vixen, with a red nose and an unbear-
able temper. I am no dove now; so what I shall be
by that time I shudder to imagine; and I should ad-
vise you to be warned in time, and not dare the
danger.”
‘“You will always be the. dear, dear Eleanor I have
loved from my boyhood,” he fondly told her.
‘And who, in those happy days, used to give you
smart slaps whenever you offended her! Ah, Char-
lie, Charlie! take a lesson from the reminiscences,
and don’t run away with the idea that I shall ever be
a submissive wife!”
“Tl risk that, or anything else, so that [have your
promise to be mine!”
“Twenty or thirty years hence, do you mean?
No, no, dear friend; there shall not be the shadow of
anengagement to fetter you. I knew you would
wish this, but it must not be! I have done a very
foolish thing in owning that I like—well, love you;
but I'll not do a worse one!” Dot
“And why not, Eleanor? If you have faith in me,
as yousay you have, why not give me the inexpres-
sible consolation of knowing that, as soon as I suc-
ceed in procuring a regular income—even though it
be but a small one—you will make me happy 3
“And poor!” she added. “ A troubled, dispirited
man, condemned to Sruner: at adesk all your days,
fora pittance that would hardly suffice, when earned,
to pay the butcher and the baker, and the endless
items of domestic expenditure.”
“T never knew that you attached so much import-
ance to wealth,”’ he said, vexedly.
“Neither do I, for myself; but for you, Charlie—
oh! can’t you ppaousand, that it wonis me apt pride,
my joy to give you anything, every! ig, i inmy
ven tp. SK ? and That (shrink from the thought
That if Lyielded to your prayers now, you might on
some future day murmur in my hearing, ‘It is
through my foolish love for you that Iam so needy
and harassed!”
“Could I ever be so ungenerous? Do me more
justice, Eleanor; or if your predictions are to b
realized, and, in spite of my struggles, I never attain
wealth or fame, are there not possessions far dearer
to a man’s heart than those? I have a friend in the
regiment who has had many and severe trials; who
is even now economizing in every way to pay off a
debt incurred for a thoughtless’ brother; and my
friend’s wife is in such delicate health that she can
rarely quit her sofa. Yet I have seen such looks of
tender love and confidence pass between this couple.
I know so well that, in spite of sickness and poverty,
they are happy in each other, that—”
“That you. will end in converting me,” cried
Eleanor, hing away a tear. ‘But I must not let
you do this, for I should most assuredly repent it as
soon as it was too late to retract.
“My love!” he exclaimed, reproachfully; but she
put her hand over his lips. 5
“Now, Charlie, have done with protestations for
awhile, and be contented to know that if I do not
marryjyou, I will never marry any one else. Hush,
sir; no thanks. The concession is not worth much,
as you will acknowl when you have heard me
out, for I ss thoroughly determined not to come to
‘ou. dowerless.”” ,
vee Then you have hopes of prevailing with Mr. Pen-
ruan to sanction our union?”
“Not a hope,” she retorted. ‘On the contrary, I
feel convinced that my much-coveted forty thousand
pounds will never quit his coffers, if by art and sub-
terfuge he can keep it in them.” r é
eC ett why do you make a resolution that posi-
tively separates us?’’ the captain demanded.
* Because that Pees rightly, justly mine—the
dying gift of one of the best of parents, although the
man who pretended to be his friend seeks to with-
hold it from me by a fraud that my dearest father
never dreamed of; and I will never, by act of my
own, enable John Penruan to wrest it from me!”
7
Eleanor looked rather astonished at the impetuos-
ity with which he was speaking, and her eyes sunk
par eee! when he paused. ai ae
‘For my share in your es sorry,”
she said; Mut if 1 hie nee oe ken more freely on
some subjects, it is because they are too painful to
be dwelt upon. Iam also.bound by a sort of prom-
ise to my mother not to be the first to speak of
family troubles to any one; a promise, however,”
she added, speaking more to herself than to Max,
“which was only extracted for Mr, Penruan’s sake;
and therefore I shall not hesitate to break it if
does not keep faith with me.”
a
SE TS
THE FIRESIDEY LIBRARY.
Recollecting herself as she encountered the inquir-
ing look her companion was bestowing upon her,
she averted her own eyes, and stepped out on the
terrace to meet the old postman. hen she came
pack with the bag, it was to extract from it sundry
business missives for’ the Squire; one directed to
herself, which, with a rosy blush, she slipped into
her pocket; and one which she held out to her com-
panion.
“Here, monsieur,” she said, with a saucy smile,
“for the first time since you have been at Penruan.
I give you a veritable billet doum, if delicately tinted
paper, and the prettiest chirography in the world
are to be trusted.”
Max began a laughing protest that the so-called
love-letter must be a tailor’s bill, but stopped and
stammered as he read the address. The writing was
Letty’s; and when Eleanor turned from him to read
her Own welcome epistle in the privacy of her cham-
ber, Max tore open the envelope of his. |
There was very little to reward his pains, only the
words, ‘The fairy grot this evening,” and the
figure seven. But he was content.
ether by chance or on purpose he knew not,
the hour his mistress named was the one at which
Mr. Penruan dined. However, he would easily make
indisposition a plea for absenting himself from table,
and thuskeep his appointment without arousing any
curiosity on the part of the Squire.
How slowly the time lagged that day! But at last
the long-looked-for evening came, and leaving his
excuses with one of the servants, Max sallied forth
to ae appointment.
Heedful to give no one a clew to his destination,
the young man sauntered along the front of the
house in a direction quite contrary to the spot where
he ho to be met by Letty, and ere long found
himself under the decaying walls of a part of the
building that was rapidly becoming a ruin. . Not far
from here a path crossed the gardens toward the
cliffs; and Max was turning into it when the piteous
whining of a dog arrested his oe
Although impatient to reach the grot before Let-
ty, he was too humane not to pause and listen to
the sounds. It was surely the poor old hound Rufus
—the object of Eleanor’s affection and Mr. Penruan’s
dislike—that was yelping so pitifully for assistance.
Max called to him, but was only answered by a moan,
He clambered through an aperture in the wall, and
found himself in a small square court, half filled
with rubbish and stones.
Rufus was not to be seen, but his yelping came
from the direction of a door at the opposite corner
of the court; and, concluding that the poor brute
had met with an accident while prowling about this
part of the Abbey, he made his way thither. As
soon as he opened the door, the dog bounded out,
evidently rejoicing to beset free; and after licking
the hands of his deliverer petal he disap-
eared, leaving Max half-laughing, half-vexed, that
e should have suffered himself to be detained for
no other reason than the hound’s dislike to being
shut in a narrow Peete ;
But as he was carelessly turni
him as odd, after all, that Rufus
here; and. peering down the p: ‘6 from which he
had liberated the dog, he perceived a faint glimmer
of light at the further end, and felt curious to know
from whence it proceeded.
Stepping forward to reconnoiter the spot more
closely, he saw that the subdued light shone through
a sash-door, and it flashed across him directly that
it must proceed from the curiously-fitted chamber to
which he had once made his way; and he could not
resist availing himself of the opportunity for taki)
a peep once more at an apartment that -had cause
him much speculation as to the uses to‘which it was
ut; and a nearer still, he boldly looked
hrough the sash, but only to recoil with a start and
a ap ressed exclamation, and vail the eyes that had
beheld a sight within that room that chilled him
with horror.
away, it struck
ould have been
CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. PENRUAN’S SECRET.
Iv was some time before the young man could
muster sufficient courage to approach that sash-
door again, and satisfy himself that his first glance
had not been a mistaken one. Brave as he was by
nature, his blood was chilled now, and he could not
overcome the sensations of awe and horror that as-
sailed him. He stood in absolute darkness, for the
one was roe closing in; and the few gleams of
ight that had penetrated the passage when he en-
tered it could not reach to where he stood. All
around him, therefore, the sie gloom and silence
was so profound, that he could hear the loud throb-
bing of his own perturbed heart. With the disap-
earance of the dog Rufus, every connection betwixt
mself and the outer world seemed to have van-
ished. What lay on the other side of the door at
which he was gazing—whether it were living thin
or statue—he could not tell) It was a mystery tha’
chilled him by its ghastly nature.
Already he saw that this portal gave access to
that strangely fitted-up room to which he had ob-
tained ittance by means of the sliding panel in
his chamber. Again he beheld the gayly-painted
walls, where fruits and flowers were mingled.
Again he could perceive the small shelf on which lay
the tresses of en hair, and that heavy-handled
whip to which Eleanor must ie have been refer-
ring on the previous morning, when her taunting
question had roused Mr. Penruan to i m his
post of observation, he could also see distinctly the
pile of silken cushions in the center of the room. It
was over these that the lamp hung, whose tempered
light enabled him to obtain so full a view of the
apartment. It was in much the same state as when
he first beheld it—the pile of toys in one corner,
the heap of gay ribbons in the other. Only in one
= was there a difference. The pile of silken cush-
was no longer unoccupied.
Upon them reclined a female figure. Over her
lower limbs a velvet cowvre-pied was thrown, so as to
entirely conceal them. A loose, ungraceful robe was
drawn up to her throat, but from the sleeves gleamed
forth a pair of exquisitel white and well-rounded
arms; and as she lay on her side, her chin was sup-
ported on the palms of her shapely hands. Her face
was turned toward the sash-door, through which
Max was ae with a sickening incapability to
withdraw himself from the sight; for, oh, heavens!
what a hideous face it was that he beheld!
Tt was rigid, colorless as the features of the dead
with the stare of vacancy in the eyes that glitter
so wildly. Masses of fair hair fell like a vail round
it, but these abundant tresses were disheveled, and
matted, and lusterless; and on the slightly parted
lips there was a mocking smile, as if the lady di-
vined the emotions with which she had inspired
Max, and felt no womanly regret that she was loath-
some in his sight.
Who was this strangely secluded creature? The
sister of Eleanor—the victim of one of Mr. Pen-’
ruan’s fits of passion? As the question presented
itself, he fancied that she moved, as if about to rise
and approach him; but Max had not fortitude en-
ough to sustain such an interview. Shrinking back,
he groped his way down the passage, and into the
open air, looking over his shoulder more than once
as he went, lest the owner of that white, rigid vis-
age should be following, to spring upon him una-
wares.
It was not until he had reached the fountain in
Eleanor’s garden, and dashed the cool water on his
head and face, that: he regained his ordinary com-
Geuts and could withdraw his thoughts from what
e had just beheld; and even then, as he hurried
toward the fairy cave, he stopped suddenly, to bat-
tle with a hideous fancy that had crept upon him.
He could not but remember that the room that he
had stumbled upon communicated with his own.
Could it be its ghostly occupant who had looked in
upon him from the sliding panel on that first night
of his arrival at the Abbey? And might she not do
ee The bare idea of awaking in the stillness
of night, and finding that visage gazing down upon
him, was too unpleasant to entertain, and Max re-
solved that nothing should tempt him to occupy any
longer a chamber in which he must risk an intru-
sion so startling and so horrible.
And now he had reached the cliffs, and found the
entrance of the cave to which Eleanor aaa re-
treated when the peevish complaints of her mother,
or the ill-humors of Mr. Penruan, became intolera-
ble. Had Letty preceded him? No; as his eyes be-
came accustomed to the semi-obscurity of the grot,
he saw that the rock-hewn seat was pe
“Would she fail to keep her appointment?” he
now began to ask himself anxiously, when the glim-
mer of something white lying at his feet made him
stoop to ascertain what it could be.
Tt was 9, scarf—a little scarf of la€e and muslin,
such as Letty had tied round her throat the last
time he saw her, and he uttered an exclamation of
the bitterest disappointment. She had been punc-
tual to the moment, and not finding him there to
receive her, had departed—perhaps displeased at his
apparent neglect.
eeling that his good nature had for once cost
him very dear, Max was putting the scarf in his
bosom, when a little hand fell on his shoulder, and
the next minute Letty was in his arms.
“This is indeed a great joy! he exclaimed, fer-
vently. ‘I feared that you had gone away sorrow-
ful, if not angry.” t
“Then you acknowledge that you owe me an Bpol
ogy?” she murmured. “It was scarcely kind to
keep me waitin; so long!”
“T believe, after all,” said Max, ‘‘ that I am not
three minutes behind my time, dear love. Hark!
The clock of the little church at St. Erne is even now
striking the hour at which you promised to be here!’
“ And so, faltered Letty, letras to release herself
from his embrace, “I daresay you will think me
over-bold for tee ra — ae, to oe here, and for
rowing impatient at your tarrying?’
. “T could not associate the idea of boldness with
you, my ‘pure, fair lily!” was the enthusiastic re-
sponse; “and it has a very pleasant, sound in my
ears when Letty confesses that she was impatient
for my coming.”
She began to dispute this. ‘Don’t misunderstand
me, Mr. Haveryng: I merely meant to say that it
was lonely here, and—and—that when one has de-
fied one’s best friends by stealing secretly from their
guardianship to meet a—a—” ;
* Lover,” Max suggested, rather slyly.
“T—a comparative stranger,” Let went on,
“every instant of time is pregnant with doubts of
the wisdom, as well as the propriety, of the step.”
“Tl not deny that meeting in secret, whether it
bein a wood or a cavern, is repugnant to my own
notions of what is right,” began Max; and Letty
withdrew herself from him with a hasty gesture.
“Then you are ashamed of me! You think I have
eae ES the bounds of propriety. I feared as
much! hy—why did I come here?’
“Stay, love, stay!” he exclaimed, as he got pos-
session of the hands she was wringing so piteously,
and with gentle force compelled her to lay her tear-
stained face on his shoulder. “Not a shadow of
blame do I cast upon you! Onthe contrary, I should
nave deemed Pa unkind if you had not sought an
opportunity of seeing me, Am I not your promised
husband?”
“No, no!” she faintly answered,
dare not, say that!”
“But 1 say, yes, yes! We love each other; I am
both willing and able to protect my darling; and I
have a modest home ready for her in a fairer coun-
try than this, to which I will bear her as soon as she
consents to be mine.”
Letty sighed, and murmured that it could never
be; yet she nestled closer to him, as if the prospects
he held out were very delightful ones.
“T thank you fondly, gratefully, my lily,” he pro-
ceeded to say, “for the proofs of your confidence you
give me in coming here; but I also protest against
e injustice of Mrs. Morison, who, for no other rea-
son that I can divine than an unfounded prejudice,
so unkindly strives to keep us apart.’
“Aunt Esther thinks that she is right, and some-
are T am forced to agree with her,” said Letty,
8 9
“But why? She would prevent our intimacy; but
is it because she thinks tIam not worthy to be
your suitor?”
“No, no—you must not fancy that!” was the
earnest reply. “She has acknowledged that if you
were not a Penruan, she should like you very much.
“Then she objects to your marrying atall? But
this is absurd! So young, so beautiful as you are,
does oe believe that she can keep you secluded al-
ways?’ d
“Certainly not; and yet the clouds seem to thick-
en around my fortunes instead of dispersing, and I
“T must not, I
sometimes ask myself if it would not have been
kinder’if Aunt Esther had let me perish in my in-
fancy, than to save me for a life so full of sorrow,
ae and perplexity, as mine seems fated to
e
Max drew her tenderly toward him.
“Letty, there is no fate menacing you that you
need fear while I am near you! Only give me the
right to be your protector, and who shall dare to
harm my darling?
_“And would you take me away from England—
right away to some far country, where I never need
hear the name of my ownland again? Oh, Mr, Haver-
ee ae bliss it would be if I could fly my anxie-
‘ies in this way?”
“ Agree, éhen, to my wishes,” he cried, ardently.
“T have no ties to bind me here. I shall: leave Corn-
wall without regret, except on account of Eleanor.
Yes, I shall be sorry to say good-by to Eleanor Hay-
don, especially just now that she needs all the frien
she can gather about her.”
“Why do you say this?” Letty interposed, with a
(ae ang audible in her accents. ‘She has a
cee of er Own, and cannot need your aid or sym-
pathy.
“On the contrary, both she and Captain Renton
have more reason to be sad and sorry than you or I:
and, therefore, I sympathize with both. ley are
too poor to marry, without Mr. Penruan pays down
the young lady’s dower, and there is cau’ reason to
fear that he will positively refuse to do this.’ But
who knows, dear cope Fortune may so smile upon
us when we are united, that we may be able to devise
some rey of assisting our friends.’
“Oh, Mr. Penruan is base, cruel!’’ exclaimed Letty,
so absorbed in the information respecting Eleanor
which he had just given her, that she scarcely heard
the latter part of his speech. ‘Is it not enough to
have blighted the very existence of’ One of Mr. Hay-
don’s unfortunate daughters, that he thus interferes
to eee the happiness of the other? How will it
end? Are there no limits to the terrible greed and
selfishness that this man testifies?”
“Why should Mr. Penruan’s faults move you so
strongly, dear Letty? This is not the first time that
you have spoken as if you have grave reasons for
disliking, and even fearing him. Tell me, then, why?
Surely, my devoted love gives me a claim to your
confidence!”
Letty hesitated a moment, and then said: “Mr.
Penruan has wronged me of some money that was
my father’s, under circumstances so atrocious in
their wickedness that Aunt Esther has sworn to see
me righted. But she and I are only two weak wo-
men, with so small a chance of being able to carry
out this determination, that we are in constant
dread lest he should discover our intentions, swoop
down. upon us, and put it out of our power to expose
his villainy !’’ )
“Put your case into the hands of some intelligent
lawyer, dear Letty. This is not the sort of affair
that women ought to dream of managing them-
selves.”
“Ay; and the money to requite his services, and
the proofs that he would demand—where are they?
Alas! we have neither, and our only remedy at pre-
sent is patience!” ;
“But the patience that is born of so much waiting
is akin to despair. Is this money very precious in
your eyes, that you are so anxious to recover it?”
“Not for my own sake—oh, no!” she answered,
“It has been defiled—it has been fingered by evil
hands, and put to the bad purposes of usury and ex-
tortion. As far as I am concerned, I would rather
live in old Dan’s cottage all my days, and share his
frugal means, than be enriched at the. cost of such
trouble to some and disgrace to others as would be
involved in its restoration.”
“Then let it go, my own Letty,” he urged, lov-
ingly. “I ask nothing but this dear hand. You
would not be fairer in my eyes if you were as richly
dowered asa princess; and in the land I call my
home, our wants, beyond what our garden and our
fields can yield us, will be few; but were they many,
T should be proud to labor for my own sweet Eng-
lish wife.” a
Letty was quite overcome by his disinterestedness
and the fervor of his wooing.’ Her head sunk on his
breast, and for the first time she let him perceive
how thoroughly his affection was reciprocated.
“Ah, Max, dear Max, 1 knew—I felt sure that you
loved me for myself; and if I could forget how much
T owe to the generous friends who have watched over
me through many sorrowful years, I would say,
‘Take me, then, to this home of yours, and let me
try to make ten as happy, as I know that you will
make me.’ But Aunt Esther has been very good.
She has my interests at heart; and if she is harsh
and prejudiced, forgive her. It is only because she
does not know you, and is over-anxious on my ac-
count. Grant mea little more time, Max, to convince
her that you are the noblest, kindest, best of men,
and then—and then—”
Her voice became inaudible; but Max kissed her
passionately for the half romise so bashfully given,
“T cannot refuse anything you demand; only if
Mrs. Morison still proves obstinate, what then? Am
I to lose my Letty because her aunt refuses to have
any faith in my good intentions?”
* No, Max: I am yours, whether Icome to you rich
or poor, for I feel sure now that you will not care
which it is. But I cannot ask Aunt. Esther to relin-
quish her lon -formed purpose until every effort to
regain my Hig ts has been tried. I shall tell her this
very night, after I leave you, that I have promised to
be your wife, and she must either consent to admit
ou into our counsels, or agree for Mr. Penruan to
be left: in quiet possession of his ill-gotten gains.
“We need not envy him if he is,” Max observed,
impulsively, “With Bleanor Haydon’s upbraiding
face always before him, and such mysterious in-
bed beneath his roof fe the one I saw to-night, his
ife must be very wretched.”
“What do you mean?” asked Letty, testifying no
little excitement. ‘‘ What did you see?
“Excuse me, love; 1 spoke my er has-
tily. Not even to you ought Ito publish the secrets
of the man who is both my relative and my host.
“But suppose I know already every inmate of
Abbey, and can guess whom you beheld: hi
For a moment, Max was surprised; but then . re-
membered the confidential oat Mrs More ve in
the Penruan household, an er yt
“ Sail dear, I would rather not talc’ about what {
~~
a
THE LILY OF ST. ERNE.
25
saw. aoe bee te was too peontlies enc sepceia for
me to feel any ‘ar Curiosity respecting it. can-
not doubt that it involves much that I should be
pained to hear eee
“How did 'yow find your way into that part of the
Abbey?” Lett; rsisted. -‘‘The door from the li-
brary isikept Noches and Aunt Esther has the key.”
Max explained how the pitiful yelping of the og
Rufus induced him. to ereieye the ruins. |‘
step,” he added, ‘‘which I have. regretted. ever
since,”
“Ts it the first time you have ever seen Violet Hay-
don’s retreat? That she is Mrs, Penruan’s daughter
her name will tell you.”
Max shuddered. f
“Is the unhappy creature I beheld the sister of
Eleanor?”
“The twin sister,’ Lettie explained. .‘‘ The last
doctor who saw her pronounced her to be hopelessly
idiotic, and since his visit it_has been deemed wisest
be confine her entirely to the suite of rooms she oceu-
pies. 2 ‘
“ Her mother—her sister—do they not visit her?”
“Never. | Mrs.Penruan’s nerves would too
much affected by the sight—at, least, so says the
Squire—and therefore he has forbidden her to ap-
proach that part of the house. As for Miss Haydon,
she used to, return from her visits breathing such
bitter denunciations against the cause of her sister’s
sad condition that the Squire forbade them also.”
“‘T marvel that Eleanor, with her high spirit, per-
mitted herself to be fettered by such restrictions,”
Max observed, his own honest indignation rising as
he spoke.
“She did not submit to them willingly. I have
heard Aunt Esther tell how she boldly defied Mr.
Penruan to keep her from her afflicted sister; but he
swore a furious oath that the next time her foot
crossed the threshold of the chamber to which Violet
Haydon had been removed, the idiot girl should be
taken to.an asylum in France, with the proprietor of
which he was already in treaty. Eleanor held out
till’ she saw this cold, cruel man, and then her fear
of what those who were hel, lessly at his merey must
have to endure, made her give way.”
‘Poor Eleanor! this must. have been her hardest
trial. ‘Letty, I cannot stay much longer at the Abbey.
if I had not, pledged myself to await Captain Ren-
ton’s return, I would change my quarters at once.
To he obliged to sit at the same table, and live on
terms of apparent friendship with Squire Penruan, is
pai
nful tome. I would as soon clasp hands with a
criminal! Are you sure nothing can be done for the
afflicted being I saw to-night?”
“The doctors gave up her case as hopeless years
ago,” Letty answered. ‘‘ Have you never heard how
it came about?” 2
“T believe I have gathered the facts from Miss
Haydon’s angry s) hes to her step-father, but—”
“But you would rather not dwell on the subject?
Nevertheless, I should like to tell you what I know
concerning this sad affair, without any of those ex-
aggerations you might hear coupled with it if others
iol ‘ou the tale.” ; at tir
“Would. not Eleanor herself have narrated it, if
she wished me to become acquainted with this family
misfortune?” asked Max, vibrating between hissense
of honor, and a very natural desire to know pre-
cisely how far his kinsman was to blame in the’
Dinter
“Miss Eleanor Haydon was not at home at the
time it occurred. no her father’s illness proved
fatal, she and her sister were sent away till all was
over; nor were they suffered to return. to their mo-
ther until after she had become the wife of Mr, Pen-
ruan. Violet Haydon’ was the first to be restored by
her felony mee been injudiciously fostering the
dislike she taken to her step-father.
“Mr, Penruan saw that the little girl shrunk from
him, and watched him with mingled fear and aver-
sion, and he grew so morose and severe, that she
still further avoided his presence as much as possible.
But there was a deeper cause for this than a mere
childish caprice, so. he seems to have suspected,
for one day he popeced upon her in the turret-room,
which was her favorite retreat, and questioned an
threatened her, with no pity for her tears and terror.
‘Aunt Esther has said that Violet Haydon was al-
ways a more placable child than her sich Eleanor,
but difficult to subdue when once thoroughly aroused;
and Mr. Penruan was so unlucky as to awaken the
fiery spirit that lurked within her. But am I weary- ‘
ing’ ou with this long story?”
gt no means; I am deeply, sadly, interested in
it,’ Max answered; and she went on.
“The little girl was nursing a pet kitten when Mr.
Penruan invaded her retreat, and in his ill-temper at
what he termed Violet’s obstinate sullenness, he
caught hold of the little animal and flung it out of
the window. In her frenzy of grief and indignation,
the child\struck at him with her hands, tolling, him
he was a bad, deceitful man—papa had said so the
night before he died, when she was dying ns the bed
beside with her arms round his neck; and papa
told her that he had found Mr. Penruan out, and had
made another will, which was in his old rosewood
desk, ;
‘Her incensed auditor her by the arm,
and forbade her, ever to een Dut Violet was
in too great a ion now to be frightened, by his
threats, He shook her violently, and men her
with unheard-of pple nents, but the only. result
was to make her declare more loudly than before, ‘I
will—I will tell orery ane that yqu.are bad, bad! that
‘ou so
Pape Cae 7 rom his hold, she rushed from the
,oom, Bnd he—ouly to silence her, as I firmly be-
lieve, and perhaps to prevent her from repeating
this tale to the servan' hastily followed. He
had been out ri ; the peeve whi
stillin his hand; he lashed the fying ehild with. it
across her shoulders, but she only on the faster;
and then, in a moment of frontys madness—call it
will—he reversed the whip, and struck her
her insensible at, his
what you ee ed
with it across the head, lay: ng rate the =
the wound.
feet, with her fair hair dabb!
stream that issued
“He was the first to raise her, and to try every
remedy that her faithful and heartbroken nurse,
Esther, 1d propose.
cre Sa eas ah el a a
‘ eo ee child had stumbled. in running, and
struck her head against a projection; but, unfortu-
nately for him, one of the servants had seen the blow |
struck that prostrated the child, and it was from this
eye-witness that Eleanor Haydon learned the truth.”
Max no longer felt any surprise at the bitterness
of speech in which Miss Haydon indulged when she
and her step-father disagreed. Her inheritance
withheld, her, youth immured in the Jonely Abbey, —
and her, oy sister lingering out a life to which |
death would have been a positive blessing—how |
could she know all this, and refrain from taunting
Mr: Penruan when, ay some fresh display of his
mean. and tyrannical disposition, he arou: her in-
ation?”
me broke in upon his meditations by reminding
him of the length of time she had spent in the cave.
“T must not stay longer. Iam here without
aunt Esther’s consent or sanction, and she will lec-
ture me severely.”
“Let me take you home, and if she scolds I will
ut iY nay to this proposal.
“Prankly, dear 5 be Iam not prepared to tell
you all my secrets yet.. You. must let me flit away
even as I came, unquestioned.”
“Still bent on mystifying me!” he excl. imed, with
wounded feeling. ‘‘Is this kind?”
“Stay,” she said. | ‘“‘ Before you accuse me remem-
ber that I am not mien my own mistress. I would
open my heart to you freely: and more, I will do so
ere long. But I owe it to Aunt Esther to first ac-
quaint her with my determination.”
‘* And she will argue and expostulate, and tell you,
as she did before, that being a member of the Pen-
ruan family, never mind how distant, I must be a
good-for-naught: and you, Letty, will you be able |
to resist wavering when you listen to her?”
“Yes,”? was the low and decided answer; “for if
I were forced now to think that you deceived me I
should die, Oh, Max!’ she added, clinging to him
and sobbing, ‘‘I am a lonely, friendless creature, with
a horrible park hanging over me, hat even your love
might not be able to avert. Promise—swear that if
Mr. Penruan should come to you and whisper some-
thing fearful - concerning me—me, who never harmed
him—you will not believe it? Promise!”
‘“‘T do, Letty,’ he answered, soothing the agian
that convulsed her. ‘“ By our joint affection, I pledge
myself to believe no, slanderous whispers that any
one may utter. By your own actions I will judge
you ing off this shrouding mystery; trust in me
nd ew you from all adversaries, and T will be con-
ent.”
“Let me go,” she murmured, when his endear-
ments had tranquilized her. “Iam giving Aunt Es-
Pe cause to reproach me by lingering with you so
ong.”
‘‘But ere we part, tell me when I may hope to see
you agi »” he urged.
Let ¥ mused for a minute or two.
“Neither to-morrow nor the next day can I agree
to meet you; but on the third evening from this I
will be at the cottage of Dan Calynack, and then,
Max_Haveryng, ask me my history if you choose,
and-I will risk all, and tellit to you. But if, when
you have heard it, one feeling of repulsion toward
your unfortunate Letty—one fear that it would be
unwise to link your future with hers—should steal
into your heart, then turn from me at once, and let
us meet no more.”’
Max.would have clasped her in his arms, and _as-
sured her that n he could hear from her lips
would induce him to, do this; but she eluded his em-
brace, and disappeared in the darkness reigning at
the further end of the cave, leaving him to enope his
way back to mother earth the best way he could,
CHAPTER XXV.
THE SQUIRE GROWS SUSPICIOUS,
NSE slowly crossing the garden, and ponderi:
over Letty’s strange Bp CRORES, Max vainly combat
the uneasy feeling they had engendered. He had
reat faith in his betrothed’s sincerity and goodness; |
ut the cloud that enveloped her, troubled him, ...He
could not be brought to conceive why there should
be any cause for it. She had relations who loved.
her; and who, Though in humble circumstances, were
surely quite able defend her from. any acts of
oppression Squire Penruan might attempt. He |
could only conclude that her more vigorous mind |
was swayed by Mrs, Morison’s dread of offending her
employer; an act that was to be avoided, lest it re-
sult in the loss of a post which, no doubt, was toler-
ably lucrative.
en once Letty had revealed to him all her diffi-
culties, there should be an end of her terrors. He
would prove himself a match for the Squire, or else
carry his bride to Aquas Dolces, and there teach her
to smile at every trouble she borne with in her
own less-favored land.
This resolve set Max planning and contriving how
to make his hacienda most, comfortable for a fad ’s
abode. He satall the evening, either absorbed. in his
caleulations and endeavors to decide which room
Letty would like for her own, and whether the mag-
nificent cree; plants he had trained over the ve-
mela tore ateehy ana buntias utehe hesaer he sae
ig her and surprise at the beauty of the
scenery surrounding his dwelling, till at last nor
panes to rally him upon his abstraction. Her own
spirits had risen since the receipt of a hurried note
from Charles Renton, telling her that he had hopes
of obtaining a berth in one of the government offices;
for although she still adhered to her resolution not
to marry without her dower, that resolution was
wave} ; andshe was beginning to debate whether
it would any difficult to reconcile herself to pov-
erty, and tone down the wants of a, gallant captain
in a crack regiment to so small an.
hundred a
wonders; and Eleanor was
come as two
year. Love, like time, will often work
inclined to run the
risks she had go often de ted, and trust herself
to the nee of the little ae
» Still she knew that it, would cost her a struggle to
genie 40 this resolve. To leave her mother and the |
apless Violet, helplessly in the hands of Mr, Pen- '
ruan; to become a penniless wife, instead of bring- |
ing her husband the forty thousand pounds that her °
father had assigned as her portion; and, more tha |
Be ee rare, Al Mat Ditter tera aE |
e Squire, wel ard, r fact;
Bleanor Haydon’s high and Pee Ree
haughty t
beyond endurance. ughty spirit, almost |
‘ou have been a poor companion to-highs, coust
Max,” she remarked’ ag she bade him good wight, |
the thoughts in which you have been buried
“T ho}
have n pleasanter ones than those you left me to
dwell upon.”
“I am very sorry for my rudeness,’ he answered.
‘How shall I atone for it? By proving more atten-
tive to-morrow? What do you say to another sketch-
| ing excursion? I should like to carry away with me
some more reminiscences of the Cornish coast, and
the weather promises to be favorable for the trip.
Will you go?’
“If mamma has no objection.”’ And Mrs Penruan,
hearing her name mentioned, woke up from a doze,
to declare that she should be glad for Eleanor to
have a little practice. She drew so seldom now, and
tose how soon she might be a poor, delicate inva-
lid _ her mother, and unable to enjoy any amuse-
ment.
“Tf donkeys were fashionable for a lady to ride,”
she added, “and my ae permitted—and m:
health, of course—I should like to go with you. No
one seems to recollect how dull it is for me to be
shut up here day after day asI am, with no society
is my maid, and nothing to think of but my own
sufferings!’
Mr. Penruan looked up sharply, but did not.speak;
and Eleanor, putting her arm caressingly about her
mother, exclaimed, “Then why do you submit to be
shut up here, dear mamma? It is not good for you.
T have often told you so. Letus go to town for afew
weeks; and while you are there you can consult a
clever physician, whose prescriptions will soon
strengthen your nerves.”’
But Mrs. Penruan drew her shawl about her, and
sighed and_ shivered.
‘You take my breath away, Eleanor; you talk so
fast and so wildly! How could I, in my weak state,
endure the fatigue of such a Jong. sourney? By
rail, too! Not but what if y wu think, John, dear, that
Iought to make the effort, I will. it is just the sea-
son for visiting London, and my wardrobe wants re-
plenishing, and—”’
“Can't you stay fill to-morrow before you discuss
this delectable journey?” snarled the Squire. “Don’t
you see that Mr. Haveryng has been patiently
standing for the last quarter of an hour, waiting to
Peer ae Epon Bist
‘“He'll not let her go,” whispered Eleanor, as she
followed Max from the room. ‘‘The cat never lets
the mouse go beyond the. reach of its clutches.
Yet Iam sure the change would rouse mamma won-
derfully. If I could have her to myself for a few
days, I might even stir her into interceding on m:
behalf; but Mr, Penruan knows that, when not. bi-
ased by him, she is the most generous, the most
affectionate of mothers, and he schemes accord-
ingly.
Oe Xeverthaless, hope on!” cried Max, so cheering-
ly, that eee was beguiled into a smile, and thus
ey part
But. when Max had entered his chamber, all his
horror of receiving another nocturnal visit from the
tenant of the ruins returned in full force. Much as
he commiserated Violet Haya, he could not over-
come the repugnance her distorted visage had cre-
ated, and to lie down in his bed with the dread upon
him that she would steal in and be the first object
he beheld _in awakening, was too great to be con-
quered. On the morrow he would ask one of the
servants to cha: his apartment; and for to-
night he would ce his on one of the couches
in the drawing-room.
Stepping softly, to avoid disturbing any one, he
went back to the saloon he had _ so lately quitted,
and, with his rug and some cushions, prepared to
himself comfortable for the night; but either
from the change of seeping quaniers or the excite-
ie tae wil
ment occasioned by his
unusually wakeful, and liste! to the ticking
of a clock on a bracket just above head till the
f pal hones had arrived without weighing down his
ey. 4
But now a measured footste: along the
eo above, and Max raised hi Ribares iistent Mr.
‘enruan was wall in his sleep again, muttering
as he came slowly down the aeeene. fumbling
with the bunch of keys he held in his hands. He
passed the door of the dra‘ -room, then return
and, entering the room, walked toward a cabinet, an
stood before it for several minutes in apparent ir-
resolution,
The lamp he carried gleamed on his drawn fea-
tures and wildly-s , eyes, rendering him such
an unpleasant object to contemplate, the young
man hea! wi he had not seen him. Nor was
he sorry when, saying softly to himself, ‘Not safe
there—no, not safe there!” the Squire walked slowly
away. f
Max hoped that he would end his ramble by re-
turning to his Pe a he mentally breathed an
anathema when he saw,
his recedin, ‘ht, that
Mr. Penruan was descending to the joeee ee of the
house. Much as he disliked the idea of following the
somnambulist, he was deba the propriety of do-
ing so, when he heard a step following, and Toa
pace with the Squire’s; and. assuring himself
ae no circumsi nae foul his o eepcrciness
necessary now, he ro! mself uw
buried his head in ‘his pillows, an nae duckie
and, this time, more shpeeaatal attempt to go to
sleep.
Scarcely, however, had he settled to and a vi-
Hence ane a Priaae
uas Dolees , When a cry 0! ‘ear
ani ae made up in a e Cl
was repeated, accompanied by a seuffling noise, as if
a violent struggle was going on at no great distance;
and, as Max sprung from the couch, he heard a fem:
inine voice exclaim: “Help! help! would you kill
me?”
Guided by the lamp which Mr. Penruan had car-
ried_ and p on a table in the hall, Hav
sped thither, his progress quickened by the sound o
‘oors opening and voices asking one another: ‘“ What
is it?” Proofs, these, that the scream he had heard
had been sharp enough to penetrate to the ears of
those who slept in the’chambers above. ___
At the further end of the hall, a small door had
been unlocked with one of the keys Mr, Penruan car-
ried, and the brief glance Max had time to Cast that
way showed him that a narrow flight of steps within
Jed Gamatyrand rh ne c where his host
very Ss Si of wine he dispe sO
Close to this door, the Squire himself
was
a desperate wrestle with a female figure, w
eae
he
THE FIRESIDE \ LIBRARY.
had borne to the ground, using so much violence as
to extort once more the piercing cry for aid that had
disturbed the inmates of the house.
“Be merciful, Mr. Penruan!’’ Max exclaimed, as
he caught hold of the hands that were griping the
female’s throat, and rescued her from the choking
grasp. “It is a woman whom you are treating so
rou Mery: Do you forget that?”
He placed her on the nearest chair, and, as she
threw back the disheveled hair that had hitherto
concealed her face, he saw that it was Mrs. Morison
whom he had rescued. .
“How dare you interfere?” cried Mr. Penruan,
who was foaming with passion. “She is a mean,
sneaking wretch—a spy—a contemptible, vexatious
spy! if she were a man, I’d hang her like a dog—
like a dog, I would!”
_ Might Task what Mrs. Morison has done to pro-
voke such strong language?” asked a voice; and
Eleanor, wrapped in her crimson dressing-gown, her
white feet thrust into her slippers, looked over the
balustrades at the top of the stairs.
“Nothing very dreadful, I fancy,” Max took upon
himself to reply, though in his heart he believed
Mrs. ‘Morison merited in some degree the accusations
leveled at her. ‘Pray, go back to bed, Miss Hay-
don. Ido not think you will be disturbed again.”
The Squire cast a vicious glance at the hesitating
Eleanor.
“Do you hear?’ he snarled. ‘Do you think I
want ne | one in the house glowering at me? Can-
not I speak to an insolent servant without some one
standing by to carp at every word I utter? As for
you,”—and he turned geracky upon the silent wo-
man, By nore side Max thought it prudent to retain
his post—“I have found you out in your prowling.
deceitful ways! I have long suspected you, and
now—”
“Suspected me?” Mrs. Morison inte ed, with
an uneasy glance. ‘‘Of what, sir? I have served
Ae employers faithfully. Of what fault—of what
crime am I accused?”
ane seen ae ie be she ee 8) ly
commanded. ‘ou were ing my s Po r
into my actions. Is this no fault? Ts this e fide ity
of which you boast? Bah! I always thought you
were not to be trusted; and now Iknow it, and Ishall
take my measures accordingly.”
Max could see that Mrs. Morison trembled as she
listened to his harsh and angry sentences; but ere
she could make any reply, Eleanor, disregarding her
step-father’s injunctions, joined them.
“What are you disputing about?” she inquired.
“What evil deeds have you
son, at this unearthly hour?”
“Mr. Penruan must answer that question, Miss
Eleanor. He has been walking in his sleep, and—”’
“Tt’s false!’ roared her master, growing pale, and
blustering to hide his annoyance. “Tl not have
this tale set about. Do you hear? J won’t have it/
Who dares to say that I walk in my sleep?”
“T do,” said Max, coolly ignoring his threats, “I
have seen at pacing the gallery above in a fit of
somnambulism. You forget, sir, that xi have
foros ig een te Wo ee ee
‘or what else would br ou, long
to visit your wine-cellara’™ 4
But Mr. Penruan was strangely averse to this view
of the case being adopted, and though he smiled and
tried to appear at his ease, it was in a very flurried
manner that he made reply: “Very aptly put, and
cleverly urged, my dear Max; but’ what a pity to
waste your powers of reasoning on—nothing! eo
simple facts of the matter are these. I felt indis-
Bowes, and not wishing to disturb any one, came
lown-stairs myself to procure a glass of wine. This
woman must have dogged my steps very closely, for
Jupt as I was unlocking the door, [ found her at my
elbow.
“Tf you were only going into the cellars for wine,
Mr. Penruan, what signified whom you found at your
elbow?” asked Eleanor; and was_requited with a
look so terribly vindictive, that Max took a step
nearer to her, drawing Mrs. Morison with him. But
the latter was evidently anxious to stifle further dis-
cussion, and, in a very submissive manner, she inter-
ed:
Pa ray, Miss Haydon, don’t say any more. If I
have ees ape Mr. Penruan, I shall consider myself
very unfortunate, Indeed, sir,” she added, address-
ing herself to that gentleman, “I had the best of
motives for—what I did, If I have offended you by
it, pray forgive me.”
galt? you maintain that I was walking in my sleep,
e
“No, sir,’ she answered, still speaking with the
Peay that puzzled Max. :
“And you had no other motive for following me
than your fears thatI was not well, or that I might
meet with an accident?”
““No other reason,” Morison murmured, after a
momentary sti le with herself. ‘*I have no cause
to feel ashamed of anything I have done,” she added,
more firmly.
“ Ah!” and the Squire glanced at her cunningly
beneath his half-closed eyelids. ‘Then I have done
ou an injustice. Dear me! how very pouch tee
it! But we are all liable to make mistakes occasion-
ally. I hope you'll overlook my rough treatment of
you. ay go0 Morison,”
Oe ainly, sir, aioe RAN Sau eeos YORE te et
for it;” an , making’ a eurtsey to him, . Hoxton
was moving away, when her master’s voice recalled
er.
ey stay said Mr, Penruan. ‘I have not done with
ou yet. Ihave one more little remark to make be-
‘ore you I don’t allow my servants to be up,
Mrs. Morison, after I have myself retired for the
night, and I cannot have my rules infringed by either
of them, however faithful and necessary to me they
may consider themselves, As you have chosen todo
so, I dismiss you from my service. You have been
here too ip you will quit the Abbey to-morrow
morning. I find you on my premises after ten
o’clock, I will give you into custody as a trespasser.
Bemerbe that!—clever, plausible, innocent Mrs.
orison!””
The woman curtsied, and tried to preserve her air
en committing, Mori-
of composure, but, inv: Murm: , Then all
is lost! My poor Letty!” she sunk down on the floor
in an agony of tears and sobs that ended in hys-
terics.
: pated 6d in carrying her to the library, where
ni er to the care Of ileahor, and went" l back to
his couch in the drawing-room, to pass the remainder
of the night in vainly conjecturing why this woman's
dismissal was of such vital importance, both to her-
self and Letty.
CHAPTER XXVI.
NO LONGER WELCOME.
Tury were a very silent trio, Mr. Penruan, Eleanor
and Max, when they met at the breakfast table on
the morning which was to witness Esther Morison’s
departure. uire was grievously troubled at
the discovery that his perturbed dreams placed’ him
‘at the mercy of any member of his household who
chose to keep watch over’him; and he was unreason-
ably bitter against his wife for sleeping so soundly
that she never missed him from her side. i
Eleanor was as busily engaged in revolving some
perplexity as her step-father, and was less reticent
about it, for when the meal was'ended, and he arose,
gathering up the papers and letters he had scarcely
glanced at, she made a gesture to detain him.
“YT must ask you a question or two, Mr. Penruan.
No, don’t go away, cousin Max; your presence may
serve as a reminder that it is worse than folly to lose
one’s temper.”
“Tf you have anything to say to me, say it quickly
and civilly,” the Squire told her, . “The presence of
my young kinsman may vemind you, as your phrase
is, that to the husband of your mother you owe both
Tes} and obedience, and, therefore, are not justi-
fied in attempting to dispute any of ~~. commands.’
“Well, then, sir, as it is evident that you guess on
what subject I wish to speak to you, I will at once
quire whether you purpose carrying out the inten-
tions you expressed last night? her Morison
to leave the Abbey?”
Mr. Penruan raised his eyebrows.
“Most certainly! Did I not tell her solast night?
Am I given to saying one thing and meaning an-
other?’
“There are grave—very grave—reasons why Mori-
son should remain here,” Eleanor persisted. ‘‘Do
you forget that, sir?” ‘
“There were reasons why I put up with the pre-
sence of this woman in my house. But she has al-
nn displeased me; there has been covert insolence
in her looks—”
“Oh, sir, it will not do for you to watch the looks
of those about you too closely !’’ cried the impetuous
Eleanor, who could rarely restrain herself from ut-
tering a stinging retort.
“Covert insolence in her looks,” he repeated;
“and little less in her manner! She would-have
bearded me, if she dared; and I have borne with her
too long! eee any other remarks to make on
my ‘domestic affairs,’ Miss Eleanor Haydon?”’
“You spoke strangely just now,’’ she answered.
“You corrected my remark that there are reasons
why we should retain Morison’s services, and signi-
fied that they are no longer required. Am I right?”
Mr. Penruan nodded.
“What do you mean, sir? Is there not the same
sad cause for her vigilant and affectionate attentions
that there has been for years?”
And Eleanor’s eyes nh to. question his with
much anxiety in them. I OS
“You may think s ; I do not,” he coolly replied;
“for Iam of opinion that Mrs, Morison’s patient
might be in more. skillful hands than hers; and,
therefore, the said patient will be removed as soon
as the necessary arrangements have been made.”
hy
“You will not be so cruel!” Eleanor began, but he
Pins, pea her.
“You had better understand at once, young lady,
that nothing your spirit of contradiction, your deter-
mined and undutifi qopeeition, to all my plans, ma;
lad you to urge, will have any weight with me!
have resolved to do what J think best, and to do it in
such a manner that not even you will have any open-
ing for finding fault with ae Ree 11
Explain yourself, sir!” she exclaimed.
“To whom? Toyou? How long have I been un-
der the domination of my ward and step-daughter,
that she must be consulted beforeT lift a finger in
my own house? Take care, Miss Eleanor Haydon!
As you have insisted that our young friend shall be a
witness to + a unseemly conduct, I will tell him
what, in pity for you,I have hitherto concealed.
You have an idiot sister, whose condition you, and
one or two as evil-minded as yourself, have attributed
to an act of harshness committed by me—an accusa-
tion as absurd as it is false!”
Eleanor opened her lips to utter a vehement pro-
test, but checked herself,
“You have an idiot sister,’’ he repeated. signifi-
cantly; “and your own bursts of violence—your
wild freaks, soe that of riding a horse as evil-
tempered as yourself—must lead any thoughtful
rson_ to the conclusion that Violet Haydon is not
he only one in the family whose brain is affected.
Take care lest for my ianship a more stringent
one should be found advisable for you as well as your
sister!” a
ae ee mee oe before bes aoe aes any
reply; and Eleanor, pale, ‘or breath, caug!
Bae eae ot ttn aba Hoke elke tt him.
“No,” she said, recovering herself; ‘ his abomina-
ble insinuations have not had any effect upon you!
Tam sure you will not be so easily induced to believe
that a hereditary malady exists in my veins. But
others may be more credulous; and then—oh, then
what will become of me? Max Haveryng, I swear to
i by everything I hold sacred that what this man
just implied is as false as his own heart! No
taint of madness is in our family, and he knows it!”
“My dear little cousin, why do you let Mr. Pen-
1uan’s unfeeling observations pasa you in this
manner?’ Max remonstrated. “ assured that
he only talks in this strain to silence and annoy
you. e knows well enough that he could
not interfere with your ey He may be an auto-
crat in his own dwelling, but there his power begins
and ends. He would not be allowed to smuggle an
heiress out of. E, ray, one oe nade in iva
made as er of the young
intellects.” ,
“Thanks for that 8 h,”’ was the more
heerful reply. “I dare say I shall soon oyercome
the chill his menace sent through mie, and so ‘we will
say no more about it; only if ever you do hear that
bod aoe and eran iat ed os daughter wae!
ohn Penrua m: 0 82 E
Si etl Porn Rene OS TAC Ha arwer RaUND Ulkely ro
it by getting rid of me,” '
“Pray don’t dwell on such ‘a notion. You make
me feel quite uncomfortable,” said Max. ‘' At what
time will you be ready for the: sketching excursion
we promised ourselves?” !
But Eleanor answered, with a * At no time
to-day, good coz. I have other things to think of
t my own amusement. I suppose Mr. ‘Penruan
has taken it into his wise head that I have placed un-
limited confidence in you, and told you all his secrets,
as ‘weil as my own; and so, as he. has broached the
subject, I need not longer attempt to conceal that
my only sister is as much in need of my pity as my
affection. But, | abe you have heard e story
of this great fami ly affliction from other lips?”
“Not till last night. I could not help knowing
at some mystery was connected with apartments
that communicate with the library; but, on my
honor, I have not made any deliberate attempts to
discover what it was,”
“T quite believe yous and you must also believe
me when I declare that—let Mr. Penruan say what
he will—it was a deed of violence that made my
pretty loving little Violet what she is.”
‘“Thave heard this also; but pray judge Mr. Pen-
ruan as leniehtly as my informant di She as-
sured me he was carried away by rage when he
struck the poor child, and was most eager to alleviate
the suffering his rash act had occasioned.
“And yet he would send away the faithful creature
who has watched over her ever since the occurrence!’
Eleanor reminded the speaker. ‘‘ And worse—he
evidently meditates handing our poor Violet over to
the tender mercies of the cold, stern foreigner whom
he brought here once before. But this shall not be.
The helpless girl shall not be hurried away from her
native land, and immured in some private asylum,
where she may be treated with the greatest brutal-
ity! No, no! I say it shall not be! I will go to mam-
ma, and try to rouse her into ogee it.”
aX,
“Don’t be too hasty!’ erie ing her b
the dress, as she was flying’ past him. ‘Just as
ourself if it will be right to say anything that may
duce Mrs. Penruan embroil hy with her
husband?”
“Would it be right, think you, to keep silence, and
let my own and only sister be taken away from
us? Mamma has been too yielding asitis, for she has
permitted herself to be estranged from the unfortu-
nate child, for whom maternal love might have dona
so much, Is it not bad enough to know that although
she resides beneath the same roof, we never behold
her? ‘To know that those nearest and dearest to the
afflicted one are never permitted to minister to her
wants, nor make the smallest efforts to alleviate the
awful affliction that has fallen so heavily upon her.”
But Max, remembering the piety ae he had
beheld on the previous evening, shook his head,
“Nay, in this matter I must confess I think with Mr.
Penruan. Such interviews would be productive of
so much pain to on and your mother that he has
acted wisely in forbidding them.”
“Whenever was John Penruan actuated by such
motives as you are ascribing to him?’ was Eleanor’s
bitter comment on his speech. ‘Painful, did you
say? Yes, it will be anguish that no words can ex-
ae when the playfellow of my happy childhood
ooks at me with vacant eyes; but I must nerve my-
self to endure this. She shall not be left to the eare-
less hands of indifferent persons!
Max was a little puzzled, and Eleanor hastily add-
ed: ‘You do not understand me; and yet Iam only
going to do the same as you would, were you in th
ition. When Morison leaves the Abbey, I shi
ke her place, and charge myself with the
my sister!” -
‘Will Mr, Penruan object—” Max began.
“T shall not ask his permission, When he under-
stands that I am with Violet, he will also compre-
hend that if she is removed from here, Lintend to go
with her. For very shame’s sake he will not venture
to rid himself of both of us at once, or else I should
feel that I am playing into the hands of a gentleman
who will take advantage of every false step 1 make!
She slid her ge into the — of Max, who was
in great doubt what to say to her plans. ,
“Dear cousin, I shall look to’ you to give me
prompt warning, if anything happens that may affect
my future. Two short, sharp taps at the door in the
library will‘always bring me there.”
“But Captain Renton? What will he say to an
arrangement that will entail upon you so much
anxiety, and so many unpleasantnesses?”’
“He is a soldier!” she answered, proudly. ‘Tell
him that Iam ee duty, and he will—nay, he
must—be content. deed, dear cousin, I feel that
this may be a fortunate circumstance for both of us.
I might have been weak and selfish enough to bur-
den poor Charlie with a penniless wife, if I had not
had my home obligations brought so strongly before
me. ‘
But Eleanor’s lip quivered as she tried to say this
in her gayest tones, and Max still retained the hand
she had given him.
“T cannot feel sure that it is your duty to seclude
yourself with an unfortun te who is ree ng of ap-
ayy! See devotion or benefiting by it. Pray
e a few hours for consideratio.:,”
**Not an hour! not a moment! If I went to mam-
Bi a; lpr posed doing at first, she would only ery,
an
e.
care of
See that no one is so much to be pitied as
herself!’
“And is she not greatly to be pitied?” asked the
oung man.
1% es. Poor mamma! her case is all the more de-
lorable because she has not strength and will
elp herself or her children. What counsel would
she give me if I asked it? None. Her dread of of-
fending Mr. Penruan would prevent her Smecbenttic
in Violet’s behalf; and so she would grow hyste i
and scold me for upsetting her, until I should leave
her, half-angry, half-sorry, a8 I have often felt be-
| fore. So say no more, I have an innate conviction
M3 T shall tnstene repent devoting myself to my poor
Pee |
Certai Max had never thought her so: beauti-
ful as vai, her eyes glisteni y thir h mendeake
ran away to commence her self-iny task. ith
his hands thrust into his pocket, he was standing at
ohe''of the windows, wondering whether Eleanor
would be as ee] op en as he had been
with the appearance) 0 unfortunate tive,
when a servant caine in to that Mr. Penruan
wished tospeak to him, £0 ee eng ny i the
study,
DHE: LILY ‘OF "ST." ERNE. 27
As he crossed the hall, in obedience to this sum-
mons, Mrs. Morison came down the principal stair-
case, in her bonnet and shawl, with a Bon ee
in her hand. She stopped short at the sight of Max,
and seemed inclined to address, him; but when he
pensed, too, and civilly accosted her, she gave him
he curtest of replies, and preceded him to the
study, where Mr. Penruan evidently expected her.
No acknowledgment of her long and faithful ser-
vices was heard from the lips of the grim Squire.
He pushed across the table the little pile of money
that was due to her, showed her where to sign her
name on the receipt already wette Witt then, givy-
ing her a nod of dismissal, turned to Max so quickly,
that he did not perceive the look of contemptuous
dislike the woman bestowed on him ere she quitted
the room.
“Tf she was not his enemy before, he has made
one of her now,” thought the more observant Max,
and then he sighed regretfully; for, to his warmer
heart, there was something pitiful in the way this
wealthy man, endowed with so many blessings, con-
trived to alienate every creature who came near
Mr. Fenruan fidgeted awhile with some papers;
ee arene his young with some con-
straint:
“Am I trespassing on your time? There w
some talk, w Sat there, of z trip somewhere?” 2
“There was; but Miss Haydon is otherwise en-
oa 7?
¥ “Hem!’? And again Mr. Penruan’s hands moved
restlessly among papers. ‘As you have men-
tioned Eleanor’s name, my dear Max, I may as well
tell you that I am beginning to feel rather uneasy on
her account—and yours!”
“Speak plainly, Mr. Penruan,” said Max, in his
bluntest manner. ‘‘At present I do not understand
you at all,
“Tndeed! But you will give me credit, I hope, for
the kindest motives, in sa; what I feel it my boun-
oenit ‘ ain d t a,"* the quick re
4 ou are doing a duty, sir,” was the ~
wf ‘the last than ”
Ly, should be in existence to find
Fault with you for it,”
“Thanks. It is very pleasant to have to deal with
a young man who is so thoroughly s' tforward
as you are—very pleasant! I have no doubt that you
will see the just of my remarks—no dobbt what-
ever!”
As Max did not know what answer to make to this
speech, he merely bowed his head, and, after a little
pause, the Squire proceeded;
“You have never given me your confidence, my
young kinsman, Iam not going to complain of this,
nor express how much such reserve toward one who
was most willing, most anxious, to befriend you, has
me; we Will let that pass. As I sai before,
do not wish to speak of myself.”
To what was his harangue ten ? Resolved not
to speak till he knew, Max still remained mute; and.
finding him thus impenetrable, it was in more ac d
tones that Mr, Penruan went on;
“You have been domesticated here for some time,
Mr. Max Haveryng, and the world, always ready to
be censorious, is inning to interest itself in your
motives for remai so long at the Abbey.”
“Am Ito understand, sir, that I have outstay
my welcome?” the young man demanded haugh-
‘My good Max, did I not tell you that it was not
of myself I was talking? Have I not been delighted
Be re you here? aa a te es or Bayoge
e erally considered a ¢' young lady,
and ohn a gentleman takes up his residence be-
the same roof math her—shares her walks and
her rides—sings with her—seeks every 0] Pansy
of being in her society—the gossi SAthaeily ue
what are this gentleman’s intentions?”
“T am not at all inclined to sati the gossips,”
retorted Max; “‘but if you, sir, put t uestion to
me on your own account, I reply. without tation,
that I love Eleanor Haydon as if she were my sis-
TY, ”
“You will it difficult to make others believe
that your A ES attentions have been merely
brotherly ones,” said the Bante, with an unpleasant
; and his auditor began to feel hot and angry.
far as I am concerned, sir, it is of no conse-
quence what indifferent persons may think of my
conduct, and it will always be in your power to ex-
onerate me; for you know that it has been by aon
own pressing invitation that I haye remained so Jong
at the Abbey, and you are also aware that I have
never entel myself in the list of Miss, Haydon’s
suitors. ;
“Pray do not add to the awkwardness of my posi-
tion by giving me such difficult points, to answer as
those you have enumerated. I cannot enrol mnieelt
as your isan, my young friend, because if is in-
cumbent on me as Eleanor’s rdian to tell you
that if you mean oo utely nothing by your
attentions, you really t not to remain here. if
“Then you wish me to bring my visit to a close?
“Ti and Mr, Penruan put up his hands with a
helpless air. ‘‘ Havel Bae aie, told you that my own
wishes must bein abeyance? You Pepe how fladly
I should have received youas a son-in-law; but,
this is not to be, duty, py dept. Max, duty compels
me to say that Eleanor’s interests d your de-
parture.’
Max bit his lip; but he knew that the keen eyes of
the Squire were upon him, and he tried hard re-
ress any other,symptoms of annoyance. That Mr.
Pe b aaNe tO ae iin, was evident; and for
r y
Po nee he would not be sorry to bid adieu toa
house had so many d ble associations
connected with it, But he had
eran te
; to seek for hidden motiv every-
He i a ee Oa a
arose was: Wpys ay ‘ 3
am
3 :
fo drive me pence jn mpetuous Max acted with
iS ecioe
on,
HN pet. aula under your toot, Mr.
Fano eis my presence is likely to prove injurious
to
f lady I admire as muchas
fame o! a young lady fan the
I dg Miss Haydon; and I wo Abbey with-
eT at will fF very sudden,” interposed the Squire
‘before he could say another word; * but I honor you
’
’
f our eagerness to atone for your
so T shall not oppose it, Iwill myself carry your
hand, L
‘and if I leave this house, I shall
adieus to Mrs. Penruan, who is not well enough, I
fear, to see you, this morning.”
«? would quit the Abbey within the hour,” Max
repeated, “if I did not fee] that to do so before Cap-
tain Renton returns would look as if I were
guilty of some breach of good faith.”
“You may trust me to explain everything satisfac-
torily,” the Squire assured him. ‘‘ You ey co oy,
leave your character in my hands, my dear .
will take care that no one shall assail it.”
“Thank you,’ the young man answered coldly;
‘but I prefer to fight my own battles. Captain Ren-
ton will be here in a day or two, When he arrives, I
will remove to St, Erne; but quit the neighberhood I |
will not tillI feel sure that both Eleanor and the man
who hopes to make her his wife acquit me of any
pr ing of which I have reason to be ashamed.”
“You look at me, Mr. Max Haveryng, as if my
plain aonne had offended you,” the Squire ex-
claimed, with a frown, “If you wish to pick a quar-
rel with me for—”
But Max hastily interposed.
““Excuse me, Mr. Penruan; I can have no such in-
tention while I am enjoying your hospitality. I will
think over what you have said, and rid you of my
resence here as Poet as is compatible with cer-
n obligations I have entered into.” .
“ Shall I be considered too inquisitive if I ask what
you mean by certain obligations?’ Mr. Penruan in-
quired, puckering his brows.
“T merely alluded to a promise I gave Captain Ren-
ton,” said Max, who did not care to tell curious
host that the ardent lover had bound him to watch
over Eleanor, till he could return and do so himself.
“Then you leave us—when?” asked the Squire,
keeping to the point with a Dry. that was very
alling, and would have driven Max into answering.
‘This very moment!” if he had not been restrained
by the thought of Eleanor, To go away without
seeing her—to leave her without a friend here, and
therefore quite at the mery. of her unprincipled
step-father—would be as selfish as cruel; and there-
fore he once again made an effort, and controlled
his rising temper.,
oe on, me, Mr. Penruan, if I defer replying to
your question until to-morrow. Surely you are not
afraid that Miss Haydon’s happiness or prospects will
suffer by my tarrying here for another four-and-
twenty hours, are you?”
“Then to-morrow you bid farewell to Penruan;
but not forever! Of course, we shall see you when
you visit England So said the Squire, wisely aE;
noring the query Max had just puttohim, “We
shall miss you very much, my dear young friend—
vee, much, indeed!”
e was beginning to add some flattering remarks
the insincerity of which so disgustgd his auditor, that
he Sera brought them to a close by saying that
he would not hinder Mr, Penruan any longer, and
quitting the room.
CHAPTER XXVII.
REAL OR UNREAL,
Tue wounded pride that Max contrived to keep in
abeyance while he was with his churlish host, arose
in full foree when he was once more alone, and able
to think over his annoying hes. No, not even
for Eleanor’s sake, much as he liked her, could he
stay at the Apbey after having been so plainly told
to go; and with frowning brow and burning cheek,
he went to the library to warn her of his intentions.
His tap at the door tothe ruins was quickly
answered by Eleanor herself. She had been weep-
ing, and the air of one who had just received
some great shock. In fact, she did not at first seem
able to comprehend what Max was telling her, so
ony. had other events overwhelmed her.
“| will see you again presently,” she said. “To-
morrow we will over these things. Just now
my mind is so perturbed that I cannot.”
‘My dear little coz, you do not seem to have un-
derstood what I am sa. . Unless I can be of any
real assistance to you, I certainly quit the Ab-
bey at once.”
leanor put her hands to her forehead.
“Morison gone—you going—and Charlie away!
You make me tremble. when you remind me how
friendless Iam.”
“Shall I telegraph for Captain Renton? Although
I do not know what schemes Mr. Penruan aa an
feel with you that he is not to be trusted;
5 not go further than
St. Erne until you have some one near to whom you
can appeal for protection if you should need it.’
Eleanor stood looking at absently for some
minutes before she le any reply.
“T am bewildered,” she said at last, ‘somethin
has—has occurred that I cannot speak of yet; but
you will give me time—” She checked_ herself.
‘Nay, I forgot that Pi spoke of ong. hence at
once, Dear friend, ‘not leave the Abbey yet,”
she added, entreatingly. “Telegraph to lie.
Be quant ae be Pa ee pas go Prager.
until he arrives. pity for two very helpless crea-
mise tha’ will not.’ ae
tures, pro’ that you not.”
“It would. be hard to refuse a request couched in
terms,” said Max, hesitating; “but it is harder
to stay beneath the roof of the kinsman who bids
me begone in no measured terms,”’
“If that is your only objection, I can at a word
remove it. You are my guest—mine and my poor
sister’s. Mr, Penruan has no right to the property
he poe, He is an SP EOS, an ae knows it,”
4 ou so very sure of this, Kleanor? Remem-
ber, it, eae light. chatge tobring against the husband
of, Ree cay eee aes ip
ou mi not question me just yet,’ she ar-
swered, “Give me your ae and let me go.
You have much to learn, but_nct from me,”
“Letty—does it concern tare he demanded
eagerly fA she ily shook ie ead, and repeated
1 WO “Your ;,8lve me your promise.g
“T will remain bee till Captain Renton arrives, ®
he ;, and she stayed to hear no more, but, with
a hasty nod, retreat closing and barring the door
ee ai Me ees eae, rs t the pledge
not } repen' he had
giv n, but he found. his position more and more in-
lerable with creinunedig,bour, He was no longer
est; and to his fiery spirit this was
an Sige nt annoyance, not to be off by
of t pePeOUNIED A Land, a saidinians
i away a portion mo fishing,
aud’ carted ts the Bones basket so Well filed, that
|
she exclaimed in delight at such an addition to her
larder; and then, throwing off his coat, he worked
industriously in. Eleanor’s garden till the first, bell
for dinner, and he knew he could no longer
avoid the presence of his inhospitable kinsman.
But Max rose superior to vexations when he
found on his dressing-table a note, signed with the
, Magic name of Letty. It contained but these words:
“ At Uncle Dan’s this evening;” but they sufficed to
render him very happy. He ed all he wished
for them; for he knew that Letty would not have
summoned him to the promised interview at an ear-
lier date than she had. previously named, if it were
not with the fixed purpoee of fulfilling the assurances
she had given him at their last meeting. His proba-
tion was ended; the concealment and reticence that
had plagued him would be satisfactorily accounted
for; and if no cloud interposed betwixt him and the
felicity of which he dreamed, a few days more would
see him speeding back to America with his bride.
He went down to dinner in so cheerful a mood,
that the Squire surveyed him askance more than
once. Mrs. Penruan was unusually lachi ose; and
a chance allusion to the absent Eleanor made her
sigh and apply her handkerchief to her eyes. ;
‘I am a most unfortunate mother; and yet itis
not my fault that things are as they are, though
Eleanor talked to me this morning—”
‘* Like a fool!”’ snarlingly interposed her husband.
suit Leer you would eat your dinner, and hold your
ongue!’
“How can I eat, Mr. Penruan, when my heart—”’
“Will you help Mr, Haveryng to that dish beside
you?” he demanded, in tones that made her tremble
as she obeyed him. ‘‘Has Max told you that he
leaves us to-morrow morning?”
“T am so sorry to hear it!” Mrs, Penruan ex-
claimed. ‘It has been quite nice to have some one
in the house that I could talk to without being
afraid of saying something or other—”
But the r lady was fated not to finish her
hes, Mr. Penruan rudely breaking in with the
observation that ‘‘Women never did without
aoe, some remark that would have been better
Gheaid” t
After this, no one attempted to Figg again; and
when the cloth was removed, and . Penruan left
the gentlemen to their wine, Max, with the briefest
of apologies, quitted the table also, and took his
wey hg the cliffs to the cottage of the fisherman,
ynack,
Dan himself admitted him. The old man looked
very grave, but it was a kindly gravity; and when
Max held out his hand, it was taken in a hearty
grasp that betokened feelings of amity.
This was a good omen, and he hailed it as a token
that his wooing would meet with no more opposition
in this quarter.
Old Dan resided alone no longer. Esther Morison
sat beside his hearth, and she rose and curtsied as
Max greeted her; but, ere half a dozen words had been
exchanged, Letty, in the familiar hooded cloak,
lided from the inner room, and, putting her arm in
his, clung lovingly to his side.
“You see, Aunt Esther,” she said, in low yet firm
tones, “‘I have made my choice. If Max Haveryng,
when he has heard my history, is still willing to make
me his wife, I will consent to be his, and those are
no friends of mine who oppose it.”
“Tf I have objected, dear child,” said Mrs. Mori-
son, with a tenderness that wonderfully softened and
beautified her usual sternness, ‘‘it has been for good
and obvious reasons; but if you love Mr. Haveryng,
and think him worthy to be trusted, I will say no
more.” s ;
‘* Has he not proved himself deserving of my con-
fidence?’ Letty i enety, demanded.
“‘ Will he love and watch over you, toil for you,
plot for you, as I have done?” Mrs. Morison,
earn . “‘Never, never; and yet you love this
stranger, who may, after all, betray you, better, far
better, than you do me!”
“Tut, Esther!’ cried old Dan, laying his palm on
her shoulder, ‘‘ What art.’ee thinking about, wench?
Isn’t it ars ans young to the young, the old
to _ old? e lad’s a BOGr lad. What more would
*ee have?” i
“If I were sure of that!’ she answered, dubiously.
“T’m sure on’t,” returned the fisherman, sturdily.
“Dan Calynack’s ju ent mayn’t be o’ the bes'
like his eyesight, but if helps him to know an honest
man when he meets wi’ one.”
Letty rewarded him for his speech by running into
his arms and her golden head on his breast,
while she sobbed out her gratitude for his inter-
ference.
“ Bless ’ee, bless ‘ee, my dear!” the old man ex-
claimed, softly drawing his hand over her hair.
“There’s ae to thank me for. I ha’ said what I
think; now let Master Haveryng prove it. Tell him
all; he will keep your secrets, come what will.”
Letty turned once more to Max, and tremulously
questioned him. oo at
“ Are you ready, then, to listen to the story of my
life? It must not be told here, but in the dwelli
where its saddest scenes were enacted. Let me
you there.”
She moved toward a door that Max had often
noticed d his residence in the cot » but_al-
ways believed to open upon a closet in which old Dan
kept such spare ing-tackle, nets, etc., as he did
not happen ire. Now, however, he saw that
it led to a rude ht of steep steps, cut in the side
of the cliff. Up these, directed by Letty, and
closely followed BY Eanes Morison, Haveryng
now accom: ed ‘his guide, till the rock-hewn stair-
ease ended in a small plateau, about. halfway to the
summit of the cliffs. There a cavity, hidden by a
jutting org admitted them to a cayein of poi
able extent, and Letty paused for breath.
“The former tenant of Uncle Dan’s Collage she
explained, ‘‘was a smuggler, who found this cave
useful as a store-house for such articles as he feared
to keep in his dwelling. There is also a route from
the cavern to the Abbey above, formed, it is said,
in those days when gentlemen living on the coast
thought it no harm to buy their wine and brandy in
the dead of the night, and duty free.”
“And is it to the Abbey you are about to lead
mer Max inquired.
nodded assent; and, by the aid of the candle
Esther Morison had lighted, they pursued the wind-
ings of the cave till it brought them to au aperture,
through which they climbed, and followed a narrow
28
THE
FIRESIDE, LIBRARY.
track between two projecting crags, till they reached
the grounds surrounding Mr, Penruan’s mansion.
“Then you have been an inmate of the Abbey, as
well as your aunt?” said Max. ‘‘Was its owner
aware of this?”
““Yes and no,”’ was the enigmatical reply. ,
“And it was you who looked at me through the
sliding panel on the night of my arrival?”
Lathy biashad. and smiled.
“J did not startle you more than I was myself
startled. The room had been long unused, for guests
arerare at the Abbey, and I had been in the habit
of passing enronen it occasionally with Aunt Esther.
Neither she nor I knew of Da arrival till the gleam
of your lamp warned us
sons were in the chamber. I have never visited it
but once since, and that was when you were s0 ill and
delirious that I prevailed upon Esther to let me
share her watch beside you.”
“You are taking me into the ruins!”’ said Max, sud-
denly. ‘‘ Why is this?”
“Hleanor Haydon awaits us there,” was the curt
and not very explanatory reply. ‘‘ Be patient. IfI
tell you all, it must be her presence, and in my
own way.”
Eleanor herself presi ere Letty had finished
speaking. She had been watching for them; and as
t a approached, she glided down the passage Max
had explored when in search of the dog.”
own? He glanced behind him, but not a creature
was visible; and though he could not wholly divest
himself of the idea that Mr. Penruan might be watch-
ing them, he forgot the circumstance ere long in his
deeper interest in Letty’s revelations.
Once again he stood in that chamber in the ruins
long since set apart for the unfortunate victim of
the Squire’s violence. As before, she lay on her
cushions, her sitter ing eyes staring at vacancy, her
expressionless face chilling him with its ghastly hue
and strange rigidity.
“Was there any need to bring me here?” he said,
pausing on the threshold. ‘‘I have already seen this
unfortunate, and heard the cause of her sad condi-
tion. Why pain me needlessly by bringing me into
her presence again?”
Even as he spoke, a strange conviction was creep-
ing over him, fhat made him glance hastily from the
figures of the cushions to the beautiful girl who
stood besid@him. Yes; he was compelled to see and
acknowledge that there was some faint resemblance
in the two faces: theugh one was hideous and sal-
low, and unearthly in its immobility, and the other
fresh and lovely, with the hues of life and health,
still he could trace: this likeness, and marvel at it.
Was some fiend taking the features of Letty to mock
him? Involuntarily he put his arms around his be-
trothed, and drew her toward him, exclaiming, “TI
entreat you not to torture me any longer!
does this mean?”
“Tt means that Violet Haydon, tne idiot, is no
more!”’ cried Eleanor.
And, springing forward, she struck the figure to
the round, where it lay a waxen wreck, while the
rue
lover.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
EXPLANATIONS.
THERE was a shadow on the brow of Max Have-
ryng as he stood gazing down at the broken image,
which had rolled to his feet. Why had this knavery
been practiced, and what good purpose has ever
been attained by so much trifling and deceit?
But ere he could ask these questions, Letty wiped
away her tears, and, disengaging herself from his
arms, moved nearer to Eleanor.
“My sister, stand by me while I tell Max why I
have taken a part in acts which are so abhorrent to
his franker nature, that already he begins to look
col Pay Letty?” h th; ed.
*Not on you, my Letty?” he promptly answered.
“T feel sure that i has not been of your own free
will that ybu have entered upon a course which
your conscience will not lét Ly approve.”
“You are right, sir. It is I who have been to
blame!” exclaimed Mrs. Morison; ‘‘ that is, if it can
be called wrong to meet cunning with cunning, and
oppose craft with craft. I mistrusted Mr. Penruan
from the hour in which he made the acquaintance
of my master and mistress, and wormed himself into
their good-will, and as I foreboded then, so events
have proved. He is a wicked and hypocritical
man!
“Need you dwell upon this?” asked Max, who felt
no Pleasure in hearing his kinsman abused.
“Yes, sir, I must, because it is necessary that you
should know my reasons for what I have done. I
was away, when my master, Mr. Haydon, died, for I
had been summoned to the death-bed of my own
mother; and though I learned afterward that the
poor gentleman often asked for me, Mr. Penruan—
who had already taken the management of every-
thing—would not permit any one to send for me.
When I did go back, the children had been sent away
and my mistress was fast falling mto the toils tha’
were being spread for her; indeed, 1 was so angry. at
the weakness with which she permitted herself to be
popes into marrying again before Mr, Haydon
lain in his grave a twelvemonth, that I would
have left her, o' y my heart’ yearned to the dear lit-
tle girls, whom I nursed from their birth. I felt
that I might be able to be of use to them, and so I
smothered my vexation and stayed on. It was owin
to ny, promp ings that, as Soon as we were settled a
the Abbey, Mr, Penruan sent for them home, Violet
came first, and she tells me met have heard from her
own lips how the aversion she testified for her ae
?
father angered him terribly. I scolded her for
and tried to convince her of the prudence of striving
to please him; but to no p . Her answer was
always the same; for though a good-humored child
in general, she could be very obstinate, and she would
say, ‘Nurse, he is a bad man; pane said so when he
was dying, and so I ought not to like him.’
“You know to what a brutal act. Mr. Penruan’s
wrath led him; and how the doctor hastily called in
asserted that my poor little nursling would never
thoroughly recover her senses. At my urgent re-
uest, & surgeon of more note was sent for, who con-
firmed the assertions of the former one; but seei)
my distress, he added, to console me, that, nitnougn
hat some person or per- |
cret?” asked Max.
sought her help in nursing my charge.
Tn silence he and his companions followed, but was | ae 5 Hea yy fle
it his fancy that another footfall mingled With their |
hat |
iolet sobbed on the shoulder of her astonished |
the brain had received a severe shock, it was just
possible, as the child was so young, that she ht
eventual recover; and he prescribed a course of
treatment, that I followed with a perseverance for
which I was ultimately rewarded. While other's |
| tle my ministrations were needed. And, in the midst
| of my joy at finding her so thoroughly recovered, I
were gradually losing their interest in the sufferer,
and avoiding more and more the remote chamber in
which she lay, I, who never left her, saw health, first | i .
po long ave precious companionship of such a sweet
sister
of body, then of mind, slowly but. surely returning.”
While she spoke, Letty glided from her sister’s side
to caress the faithful attendant to whom. she owed |
so much; and at this proof of her faithful affection.
Esther’s voice faltered, and after an ineffectual effor'
to recover herself, she was obliged to pause.
“But why did you keep this happy change a se-
“Mr. Penruan, if Iam right-
ly informed, had evinced the deepest remorse for his
violence.”
“Ay, but his was remorse that was too short-lived
to be depended on. Morning after morning he came
to me with the same question, ‘Is all over?’ till I
oe not help seeing what answer he longed to
ear.
“But Violet Haydon’s mother had a claim to your
consideration,”’ Max persisted. ‘She ought to have
been informed that her child was_recovering.”’
“True, sir; and if ay mistress had been a¥lady of
stronger mind, I should gladly have told ne aly ne
ut as i
was, I felt that my best course was silence. I ought
to warn you,”’ she added, seeing him still look doubt-
ful, ‘that Miss Violet did not get quite well all at
onee. It was the work of years, during which I
sometimes hoped, but oftener despaired; and by the
time she was thoroughly herself again, I had become
so convinced of her step-father’s baseness, that I
dared not risk his knowing the truth.”
“Why, what had you to dread?”
“Everything !’’ was the snip base reply; ‘‘for it is
undoubtedly true that in his last moments Mr. Hay-
don reyoked the will that gave too much power to his
false friend. When Miss Violet’s memory grew
clearer, she could remember the names of the per-
sons her father mentioned as witnesses to the docu-
ment. I sought them out; they were servants at the
hotel where he had been staying, and though igno-
rant of the contents of the paper they signed, they
would swear to the nature of it. While Mr, Penruan
believed my charge to be hapelesehy idiotic, he had
nothing to fear; but. Violet Haydon, restored to her-
self, would en er his position, and_her childish
admissions had told him as much. This is why I
have worked in the dark, Mr. Haveryng,”’ she said.
in conclusion. ‘‘This is why I have dreaded and
watched Mr. Penruan at eve) opportunity.”
“And with what results? Any?”
“Yog, sir, I have satisfled myself that. the will is
still in existence, and that Mr. Penruan hides it some-
where in the old-fashioned rosewood desk in which
Mr. Haydon deposited it.”
“You forget,” said Max, “that if your young mis-
tress was eas about this.will, and her step-father
has.obtained possession of it, his safest course would
have been to destroy it immediately.”
“Not so, sir; for there is no doubt that it provided
siaply, for are Penruan, who is now his wife; and
is too wisé to risk losing this bequest, if the other
will should ever be successfully disputed.”
Max shrugged his shoulders.
“T am no lawyer. I did not think of this; but
Pray gS on,”
“Well, sir, having satisfied myself that there real-
ly was another will in existence, I could understand
why Mr. Penruan was always suspicious, always
watching, and doubting every one about him, I saw
to what a nonentity he had reduced his second wife,
and the crooked policy he was pursuing toward Miss
Eleanor, doing his utmost to ene her into a hasty
marriage, that he might withhold her dower, and
have it for himself. Had I not therefore every rea-
son to dread what he would do if he learned that
Miss Violet was of sound intellect, and able to attest,
as far as her testimony would go, that the will he
had proved and acted upon was not the right one?”
“You had, indeed!’ Max was compelled to admit.
“Besides this,” Mrs. Morison went on, ‘I had dis-
covered that Mr. Penruan walked in his sleep every
time anything happened’ that ‘disturbed ‘his guilty
conscience; and I hoped, on one of these occasions,
to track him to the place where he had hidden the
desk, and get possession of its contents. So you }
persuaded my young |
must not be see that I
lady to think with me that it would be better to keep
our secret a little longer. She had no friends to
whose safe keeping I could confide her, and so I did
the best I could for her myself.”
“Tean scarcely comprehend how you succeeded
in concealing the truth so long, » Max observed.
me that was easy enough; for who felt any in-
terest in an idiot girl and her nurse?’ she replied,
with some bitterness. ‘‘ None of the’ servants came
near us, Mr, Penruan conside! me quite capable
of waiting on myself. He forbade the visits of his
wife and Miss Eleanor; and, to guard against the in-
trusion of strangers, I was ul to keep the door
communicating with the library always locked.
More than this, I procured the image, which, casual-
ly seen in this dimly-lighted room, might deceive
others even as it deceived you. ay atest fear has
always been lest Mr, Penruan should take it into his
head to bring some new doctor fo pronounce on the °
state of his step-daughter.”
“But it has na rae time!’ Letty broke in;
“and I thank heaven that it is over. At first, when
I was weak and languid, my terror of Mr. Penruan
made me give a willing assent to whatever my nurse
roposed; nay, as I grew stronger, and she permit-
dd me to descend the cliffs and visit the only person
in our confidence, Daniel Calynack, I
secrecy of these excursions, and even the disguise I
wore amused me. It was not till I knew you, Max,
that concealment became irksome; and when my
worthy, but mistaken, friends strove to make me
think With them, that Mr. Penruan had a aes
of the truth, and you were the emissary he employed
to search into it, 1 was wretched indeed!”
Now, Max coul
Morison had feared and avoided him, and striven to
make his betrothed do the same, With so onerous
a charge
wonder that she hesitated to admit any person to
such close intimacy with the young girl, especially
a relative of the very man who was scheming to de-
fraud her and her sleter of their father’s bequest?
upon her mind as Violét’s safety, who could ~
enjoyed the °
better understand why Esther -
_ ear, and he stopped more than once to
“ And, you,” he said, turning to Eleanor, .“‘ have
you been'in the plot?”
She answered in the negative.
“ Not until this morning, when I came here to de-
vote myself to an afflicted sister, did I know how lit-
cannot help grieving that I should have been denied
Letty kissed the speaker affectionately.
“Tt was for your own sake, dear. e knew how
much you had to endure, and that made us hesitate
to embroil you still further with Mr, Penruan; so do
not scold me. -You would not, if you knew how often
from some nook in the ruins, I have watched you
flitting about your garden, or riding down the avenue,
free to come and go where you pleased; while I was
a poor prisoner, whose only relaxation was a stolen
visit to the fisherman’s cott on the beach!”
“ Ay, well, it consoles me to know that I am not
fhe only one who has been mystified,” answered
Eleanor, with an arch smile. “Little did I dream
that the widow Rayne’ our cousin Max inquired
about so anxiously was a near relative of my own!”’
But Mrs. Morison, impatient of the lighter tone the
oung girls were taking, began to ask, ‘“‘ What ‘is to
be done?.. We are not here merely to talk, but to de-
cide upon some plan. You must recollect that Iam
forbidden to enter the Abbey; that Miss Eleanor can-
not keep every one at bay as I have done; and if she
and Miss Violet were to seclude themselves here ever
so carefully, the truth must creep out ere long.”
Violet—or Letty, the name for her that Max always
loved best—glanced wistfully at her lover, and with
a reassuring smile—for was he not her sworn cham-
pion and_protector?—he drew her arm through his
oO
wn.
“JT will not pretend to say that I could be a match
for Mr. Penruan, and therefore I eschew all schemes
for his defeat. But my Letty will be just as dear to
me without a fortune as with one, and the sooner she
gives me aright to take care of her, the better.”
“But, Eleanor?” whispered the blushing girl. “‘Can
we go hence, and leave her sorrowful and alone?”
“Do not think of me,” was the brave reply of
Eleanor, who overheard the whisper. “If, like you
dear Letty, I could content myself with bread an
cheese and kisses, I have the satisfaction of knowin,
that a faithful heart and that romantic fare are a
my service, but I cannot and will not. leave mamma
entirely at Mr. Penruan’s mercy. Neither am I so
generously ready as you Sot Peo le to present him
rai
with my dower. I'd muc er have the spending
of it myself.”
“But if we cannot make him, dear Nelly?’ her
sister queried. “If our quick-witted, indomitable
Esther has failed to do it, must we waste our youth
and aero in more of this weary waiting for
such a doubtful advantage as even success would
be? In any exposure of Mr. Penruan’s villainy, re-
collect that mamma would be the sufferer!”
“You, at all events, shall be set free,” cried
Eleanor, embracing’ her, ‘‘Take her away, dear
Max. In old Dan’s care she will be safe until you
can make her your own.” P
But Letty clung to her sister.
“Not Fel} not yet! Alas! we scarcely know each
other, and would pa} bid me leave you already?
Besides, Max must have time given him for con-
sideration. I will not be forced upon him. Neither
shall any one blame him if he hesitates to wed one
whose youth has been spent under such a cloud as
lowered over mine.”
Max gently drew her from Eleanor’s embrace to
his own.
“The cloud you speak of has passed away, and if
God gives me life and health, your future shall be
all sunshine. Spend this night with your sister, my
dear one, if you will. I shall be in the Abbey,
oth to protect or counsel you to the best of my
ability, if any unforeseen trouble arises. But to-
morrow I shall leave here, and arrange for our
ete to take place at the earliest Oppo ee
at the little church at St. Erne. Once mine, I can
defy_Mr, Penruan or his machinations, and you
and I will remain close at hand until Eleanor can
resolve upon some plan for her own future.
As no better arrangement could be made, and
Esther Morison was eager to see her young mistress
efficiently protected, Letty’s faint objections on the
score of haste, etc., were overruled; and, being
warned that, if he lingered much longer, Mr. Pen-
ruan would wonder what had become of him, Max
bade her a tender adieu, and quitted the ruins.
Again he fancied that-a stealthy’ step fell upon his
listen; but
no sound was to be heard, and when he entered
the hall, he was informed by a servant in attend-
ance there that the Squire had been engaged writ-
ing in his study all the evening.
CHAPTER XXIX.
ENTRAPPED,
As his host only put his head in at the door of
the drawing-room to say good-night, and Mrs. Pen-
ruan soon dozed over the game of chess Max
layed with her for her amusement, he also went
By his room at an early hour. Too much excited
to'feel sleepy, he lit his pipe, opened the window,
and, with arms folded on the sill, stood there, think-
ing oyer the strange o¢currences that had befallen
him since he came to Cornwall.
How many of them had been crowded into the
short space of ‘a few weeks! His fall from the cliff —
his interview with Letty—his odd reception at Pen-
ruan and first renconter with Eleanor—and then the
gradual unfolding of the evil character of the kins-
man by whose hands such intricate knots were tied
in the destiny of the two fair girls who‘had found
themselves so dependent upon him.
é@ more Max revolved the subject in his mind,
the more he revolted in spirit at the idea of letting
this man remain in full possession of the paeperty
that should pertain tothe orphan heiresses of Mr.
Haydon, We oneéould be less er than himself
about money; ‘but this was ‘such a flagrant case of
! -~wron t he lon to have @, tussle
g-doing, ee ae ged
from hini all of which he was
e usw iP;
unjustly in ssession. But how to effeet this was a
vei dimen question; and Max-though not gifted
with much worldly experience—was endowed with
enough to know that he would be easily outwitted by
YTHEARIDYSOF CSITIERNE. 29
one who had every trick ,and: turn of the law at his
fingers’ ends. eanth ot otted.|
Isuppose we must leave him to rin his course,”
‘was the conclusion he eventually arrived at. “He
is a prematurely aged and rable man, who, in
the course of a'few years at furthest; ‘will bé'obliged
to acknowledge that his ill-gotten saa are of very
little use to him: » My Letty and I will make ourselves
contented at Aquas Dolees... If we can coax Eleanor
and Mrs. Penruan to join, us. there, Charlie Renton
will follow: and then, if we are all poor, we shall be
happy segetne and, therefore, more blessed in our
poverty than Squire Péenruan in all his tichés.”
While Max mused his’ pipe went out, and‘ he’ was
leisurely re: it; when a low tap at:his:door made
him pause and/listen. , It was repeated, and this|time
so imperatively that, no longer in doubt, he asked
who was there. e |
“Tt is I—Eleanor! Tf you aré'still up, open quick-|
ly; if not, rise, and join us in the corridor as soon as
you can. f ATE
Taree or four of Max Haveryng’s »long «strides
brought him to the door, and, flinging it omens che,
uw that. Eleanor. stood,there, her yes ittering
with excitement; while Letty, and. Mrs. Tison, |
:auffled in dark shawls, were at. Ho BTR distance.
Before he could ask what had happened, ‘she:
pointed to the hall below. : iY
“Look who goes there! Mr; Penruan himself!
His evil genius has betrayed him: into our:hands! |
We have but to follow, and, perhaps the desk is
ours!
Max stepped forward and glanced over the balus- |
trade. Yes; there, lamp in hand, his eyés ‘wildly
staring, went the Squire, muttering to himself,as he}
slowly stumbled along. |
‘* How did:you discover his,condition?”’ the young |
man whispered to Eleanor, who had followed him,
trembling with the agitation that she could not over-
come,
“We sat talking after you left us,” she explained.
in ‘the same’ subdued tones, “till Morison insisted
that Letty and I should go to bed: But a restless
spirit was upon both of us; and, instead of obeying,
we persuaded her to accom) us to.the study, to!
examine an old cabinet w! belo; tomy father,
and in which Letty fancies the missing desk may be
hidden. It was she whom Mr. Penruan saw in his’
study one morning when she had véntured there at
avery early hour, to test her recollection of a secret
spring that opened the lower part of the’ cabinet.
‘ou know how my maid ‘was ‘falsely accused of be-
ing the culprit, and how my assertions of her inno-
cence were rudely scouted?” :
Max nodded, and Eleanor went on.
‘“We were on our way to the study, when Mr. Pen-
ruan appeared in the corridor above, walking in his
sleep, as you now see him.) Pray Heaven that heun-
consciously gives, us /this night the clew so long
eenehihse urgently needed !’” ; : :
“1 do not like dogging his steps while he is in this
state,’ murmured Letty, with a shiver. ‘‘Let us go
away, dear Nell. He might awaken suddenly, as he
cid when Morison was. at his elbow—and then what
should we do?”
‘“‘T will risk it, and alone, if no one else has courage
to ppcomapany me!” exclaimed, Eleanor. | ‘He is,
making for the cellars, in which Morison has con-
vinced herself and me that he conceals the proofs of
his, guilt. If he enters them, I will follow, let the
consequences be what they may!”
Before any one could hinder it, she boldly descend-
ed the stairs; but as she reached the foot of them,
Mr, Penruan, setting down his lamp and keys, came,
rapi oD RG. By |
a smothered shriek, Eleanor recoiled; and
fey Putting aelde the cling arinsof Letty, would
have med to inte: wixt the startled girl
and her step-father; but, with the vacant gaze of
somnambulism, the sleep-walker passed closely be-
side her, returned up-stairs, and: in another minute
had Aisappegned from, their view, i {
Almost before he was out of sight, Eleanor, her
courage returning, darted forward to seize the keys,
With the same impetuous haste, she hurried to
the door that had baffled Morison’s ‘curiosity, insert-
ed one after another, till the right one was found,
a ere her Siemiia' — oe ae i 7 meng
@ nRrrow ne with t I
Bebe her head. 1 3 helamp bel
orison, as as herself, slided after her; but
Max and Letty lingered ’on ‘the threshold, for the
young man recoiled from prying into the secrets
even‘of a villain; and his betrothed, affected by the
silence of the hour, the ghas visage of Mr. Pen-
ruan, and the importance of ‘the search in which
meen was engaging, could scarcely support her-
“Are we doing right, Max?’she faltered. “ Tell
hod tenes? are wiser than i—are we justified in
But while she hesitated ‘how to satisfy her seru-
pans his own, Eleanor’s voice summoned them
ot)
“‘Max—Letty—the desk is here! I have found it
hidden in an old chest. Come quickly, that we
aren it together, and possess ourselves of the
Unable to resist the summons, they both hastened
to join her. Within‘a small inner cellar, or vault,
aw = — in eect the renee n que
which was the only movable thing it.contained. From
this chest, which appeared to be filled with articles
of value, old plate, ets of papers, deeds, eétc.,
she had drawn the well-remem desk, and was
wrenching it open with Morison’s scissors,
just.as Letty crouched down be-
with Max looking over her shoulder; and
-ere long Eleanor, breathi thankful exclamations,
from the secret drawer @ paper which,
when unfolded, proved to be the one they sought.
Though very simply worded, it was not wani
in any forms to render legal; and
Fetal and olen ad eth whole GE i
‘ormer and ¢ ‘ of his
to Eleanor and Vi
y
on, Subject
be pald to their mother and his beloved wife,
overjoyed at this discovery; but
was fet at e i oice with them yet, He could not
help thinking of the disgrace that awaited his kins-
|| arhad caught the sourid of a bolt shooti:
man, the unhappy man who had periled his soul and
his good name—for what? An income that he was
too seen spend; the power of amassing mone:
which:he nosofi to inherit, and therefore hoard-
ed-with'no other ai than gloati over it, a
he was continually harassing ‘hirhself lest he’should
‘be defrauded:of some infinitesimal) part: by a needy
tenant or defaulting debtor. ) ' ?
“Are you sorry that the Widow Rayne has proved
an heiress, after all?” Letty whispe: to her lover,
as they were bosses it thevarlt,
‘© Almost !’? was | on ‘his’ lips, but ere the word was
spoken, the door of ‘the inner in which they
rwere standing! swung to witha hollow. sound, that
Startled them alli 9)! y
“Tt is the wind,” said Morison, who was shadin;
||-the lamp with her hand. ‘It was only the wind;”
_ ||4out.she looked very ‘white:and terrified as'she spoke.
veryng, and let us
ll, and replace the keys before they
Max'made no reply, but his face had grown as pal-
lid-as-her own;:for when the door close ; his qui
into its
socket. He set his back: against: the ‘po! and, as
he had anticipated, it resisted his every effort. They
\wene entrapped. The: true will was in their hands;
rbut they were in the power of Mr, Penruan:
Bitterly did Max rue the reluctance to 'suspect:any-
one, however faulty; which had made him neglect
those signs, which, to another, would have been so
ominous (0: a Now’ that it) was too late, he
could no longer doubt thatthe step he had heard in
the ruin was ‘the wily. Squire’s. mruan, al-
ways distrustful, always inquisitive, ‘had, doubtless,
been surprised: at the young man’s hasty retrea'
from the dinner-table, and must have been hovering
near when he entered the ruins that night with Letty
and Mrs. Merison, If hehad do;
overheard their explanations, he knew that his own
downfall was at hand, unless he could contrive to
secure hiriself. But was it by murder that he intend-
ed to do this? Had he simulated sleep.only to lure
them into:a trap from which theré was no escape?
Yes, yes—it must be so! And as this terrible con-
viction strengthened, Max groaned in an agony that
was akin to madness. For himself, death in such a
shape+the slow torture of starvation—was awful,
almost beyond description; but to see it shared by
the innocent girl he loved, and two other creatures
as helpless as herself, was horror unutterable.
“Don’t look at meso aapaiah ai gasped Letty,
who began to comprehend that something was
—— “You are frightening Eleanor, as well as
me!”’
‘* Nonsense!” cried Eleanor, who had been too busy
with the will to perceive their changed looks. ‘Of
what should I be frightened now I know that I am
able to set our tyrant at defiance?”
But she, too, or cold with dismay when Esther
Morison began wring her hands and wail, ‘Oh,
we were mad, mad, not to fae a better watch!
He has stolen upon us while we thought of nothing
but finding the desk; and who shall rescue us from
this dreadful place?”
‘We must be patient for a few hours, and then
shout for help,” said Max, speaking as cheerfully as
he could. ‘The servants will hear our cries, and
set us at liberty.” : ¥
But the woman shook her head déspairingly.
“They will never hear us! How could our voices
reach the hafl with both the doors of these vaults
closed, and every precaution taken to prevent it?
It is hopeless—hopeless!””
_ As the idea of her meaning entered Eleanor’s
mind, she’grew frantic with terror, and beat against
the walls of her cage, till her hands were bruised
and bleeding.
: “IZ will not die thus!’’ she raved. ‘Don’t touch
me\ Don't talk to me!” And she thrust away the
loving arms Letty twined_ about her. “TI. can-
not be resigned to such a death just as happiness
was in reach! Oh, Charlie, Charlie, if you were
but here to save me!” 138
But presently she grew calmer in her conscious-
ness that all prayers, all entreaties, were unavailing,
and came and knelt down beside her sister, whose
face, colorless as the pure flower to which Max
likened her, lay on his breast.
fey of all 1 Morison’s schem-
o“ Open the door, will you, Mr: Hay
(get back to the ha!
‘are missed?”
\nd this is the end
ing, and the eager hopes in which I was indulging?
But I will murmur no more. Your resignation,
dearest Letty, shames me.” [
“T am not resigned,” was the reply; ‘“‘for I am
still hopeful. We s) not be left to perish. Can
‘we forget that One greater than Mr. Penruan sees }
us in our Erion, and can save us if he so wills?”
“Letty is right,” said Max, rousing himself from
the stupor into which he had fallen. “We will emu-
late her childlike faith, and strive to be equally pa- ‘
tient and. Papotals -But first let us try whether we
cannot effect our own deliverance!’
Accordingly, the walls of the vault were explored,
to ascertain whether any other mode of egress coul
be discovered, but there was none; and when com-
ee to give up this hope, Max turned his attention
the door, to see whether it could be pried from
its es. But with no tools save ‘a ife and
Esther's scissors, what. impression could he make
spon solid oak and_rusty iron screws? After many
‘orts, he was obliged to confess himself worsted.
Then it was that the prisoners, praying silently,
sat down together on the hard f that
they could do no more, but must abide the issue of
events. To Max and Le was a certain com-
fort in sharing whatever fate was in store for them;
and when. a spasm contracted the young, man’s
features, the sweet voice of his betrothed murmured
Cc lation. ¢
isther Morison had bowed her head on her knees,
ae sort of Spat that sometimes renders persons
of her frame of mind capable of ‘enduring, with ap-
arent indifference, whatever befalls them. Per-
she grieved more for the fair girl over whom
she had watched. so long and tenderly than for her-
rin bal were sh hoped tod kar aaee
on , where t ‘wi
the OE cert at wen: 2
jeanor on was the one who 4
tensely. Her vivid imagination ated Operon
Renton’s astonishment when he learned that she had
disa at the same time with Max Haveryng,
PD}
and it added poignancy to the anguish of h.
separation to know that if she perished ‘in tails Bap:
ed'them then, and”
tivity; he might go to his own grave’ believing her to
have falsely fled with the Californian. Even sup-
posing suspicions of something wrong were y F
and a search for the missing’ ones instituted, ‘who
would: imagine that:they were: still in the: Abbey?
Who would reveal to rles Renton'thée terrible
. truth that after hours of such sufferings, both mental
and: bodily, as no pen could describe, Eleanor—his
Eleanor—had died. miserably in her‘own home?
As if to complicate the horror of their position,
the lamp; a’small chamber one, began to burn dimly.
When that went’ out they would ‘be left in total
darkness; and though it was carefully lowered to.a
mere ome they kmew that no very lengthened
perio} gue elapse before the moment they dreaded
arrived,
Before this occurred, Max looked at) his watch.
Slowly though the ‘hours: had: moved, morning must
have dawned in the blue sky on which their eyes
might never gaze again. ‘The few servants employed
in the house must beup and about their customary
e
| vocations, ‘and Max shouted ‘long and lustily, in th
hope that through some cranny or crevicé the sounds
might make their way, and bring succor. © But
though he repeated his calls till he was hoarse, no
answering voice was heard; and even Eleanor, the
last to’ acknowledge the uselessness of his efforts,
muttered: “It is in vain—man has forsaken us!”
And then ‘the lamp ‘suddenly flickered and went
out, and Max could no longer behold the dear‘eyes
that met his own ‘so lovingly; nor Eleanor gather
renewed patience from the sweet com that sat
on Letty’s pure, poe face. But the rebellious cry
on her lips was stifled by the sweet notes of Letty’s
voice, and though she could not join in the hymns
the young girl sung with such unfaltering tones, her
murmurings were stilled.
Letty sung on till she was overpowered With weari-
ness. Her eyes insensibly closed, and she sunk into
a slumber as profound and peaceful as she had ever
enjoyed. And Max, ashe tenderly sustained her and
listened to her quiet breathing, was almost ready to
pray that she might never again awaken to’ the
readful reality. e tried to speak consolation to
Eleanor, whose sobs distracted him, but the mean-
ingless words died on his tongue, and it was an un-
speakable relief when she, too, became so silent that
he had reason to believe she had succumbed to
the fatiguc and agitation of the last few hours as
well as her sister.
Without following the example of his weary com-
panions, Max had suffered his thoughts to wander
away to his distant home, and, half-dozing, half-
waking, was beholding once more the sun sink behind
the mountains that sheltered the beautiful valley in
which it lay, when, as if subjected to an electric
shock, he suddenly leaped to his feet.
Letty, who. was still clasped in his arms, awoke,
demanding fearfully what was the matter, but the
Peg eg elicited no reply. Shaking from ‘head to
‘oot, his heart throbbing madly, he uttered one sharp
“Hush!” and then stood listening—listening with an
pee 8 Faso that scarcely suffered to draw breath.
at had he heard? Anything? or had his excited
imagination ‘played ‘him some cruel trick? Just as
Letty had decided that the latter must be the true
explanation of his condition, a human voice, heard
faintly, yet not to be mistaken, fell upon the ears of
the captives.
“There is nothing here,” it said; ‘so let us go.”
Oh} the frantic ring of the wild, appealing cries
that these words evoked! Even Esther Morison was
aroused from her apathy, and 'shrieked for help as
loudly as the rest.
Were they heard? .Would the help they invoked
seo et or was it Mr. “Sateen himself, whe, —
eir ny, came bu epart again, leaving
them to redoubled. gloom and despair?
No, no! eager hands were at work at the bolts,
and keys were brought and fitted to the‘lock, till,
with a click, it opened, and Eleanor, hysterical in
her joy, rushed out into the light of day and the
embrace of Charlie Renton.
CHAPTER Xxx. . t
A HAPPY DELIVERANCE FROM ALL TROUBLES.
Like one stupefied ‘with astonishment, stood =
tain Renton, staring first at the sobbing _ in
arms, and then at Esther Morison and ; who,
half-blinded by the light, and burdened with the now
fainting Letty, came from the inner ‘vault, uttering
fervent and grateful thanks to him for coming to
their assistance.
“Do not give me praises which I have done noth-
en merit,” he answered, at length. ‘‘How could
I know that Eleanor you were shut in that dis-
mal hole? Good heavens! what does it mean?”
“More air—let us have fresher air’ before we stay
to explain!” cried Mrs. Morison, pointing out the
condition of Letty. “Let us leave these dungeons
before Mr. Penruan can learn that we are free.
Accordingly, they. ascended to the hall; but here
another pause was made, for the old lener, Who
had been Captain Renton’s ‘sole ‘companion, aston-
ished tliem by observing, “‘Mr. Penruan is not at
the Abbey; he left here before nine this morning.”
Max. ! at the clock; it was now noon, and as
his ‘companions were exhausted for want of food, he
fs of the servants to
would have summoned ‘sone
bring refreshments, but another a awaited
him. The domestics had been discharged, their
wi id that were due to them, and they had all
qui the Abbey before their eparted.
ve Ce eee amet mruan give for these ex-
i nm or.
The old man scratched his head.
“ ae nO offense, but he said it was on your
account he were going.
“On mine?” :
'“Yes, miss. The servants was up at day-
break, and told that you had gone off with Tn. Have-
that master r, rsuit without
, and must go in pw
delay? It was all bustle and hurry-scurry, and the
etree so [heard say, was almost in fits, she was
every one out of the house before he went out; ex-
cept me and my wife, that’s left in the house, you
see, miss and gentlemen, to take care of it till
further orders.’
His auditors glanced at each other, Had Mr. Pen-
'
30 THE -FIRESIDE YLIBRARY.
=
ruan deliberately left them there to die, and hurried
away from che scene of) his crime, lest remorse
should seizevyhim ere it was fully consummated?
‘Did he leave no message for any one? Was it b
his‘ commands you were searching the cellars?”
asked Eleanor.
tf Nay, miss; he wrote a letter just before he went,
which he bade me:post for the captain here; but he
come afore I could send it away.’
“Yes,” said Captain Renton; ‘‘I;left London im-
mediately on the receipt of your telegram, traveled
all night, and. arrived, at the Abbey about an hour
after its owner had so suddenly left it. My first im-
pulse, I will own.”’—and now he colored deeply—
‘was to follow Mr, Penruan, and aid him in discov-
ering whither the fugitives had flown.”
‘*Charlie!, Did ou, then, believe the shameful
story of my flight?’ Eleanor .reproachfully de-
manded.
‘My dear love, what was I to think?”
‘Think anything. but that your friends were
false, either to themselves or you! However, I will
for once be merciful, and let your own conscience
punish you. Violet, this gentleman, who. is so very
ready to suspect your sister and your affianced hus-
band, scarcely wants an introduction to you; but as
I have chosen to forgive him, I must beg you to be
equally indulgent.”
t cost some time, and a lengthened explanation,
to make Charles Renton comprehend that the beau-
tiful. young creature who gave him her hand with
such blushing grace, was the unfortunate whose
name. had been rarely spoken for so many years;
and_ Eleanor was, so impatient. to, question’ him
further, that. she would scarcely give’ him time to
utter his congratulations to her pretty sister,
“The letter that was to be forwarded to you—pray
show it-us! What could be Mr. Penruan’s motives
for making you his confidant?”
Captain Renton looked puzzled as he drew forth
the epistle.
“T ean searcely say that he did so, for his note—
it is cmap more—is so mysteriously worded, that,
had L received it in town, as he intended that t
should, I doubt very much whether it would have
brought me to Cornwall!” °
“Do not tell me that!” exclaimed Eleanor, with a
shudder. ‘Recollect that we must inevitably have
erished if you had not come! But what does Mr,
enruan say?” r
“Simply this: ‘Iam about to leave England, per-
haps forever; my motives for what I have done do
not concern you or any,one else; every man has a
right to take care of his own interests in whatever
way he thinks best. I have,I hope, secured mine;
and so I can afford to be more merciful than those
who have dogged and distrusted me deserve that I
should be, hen this reaches you, you can go to
Penruan, and ask the gardener for the packet I left
with him, directed to you Within it are some keys;
open the doors they fit; and do your worst, or best, L
care not!”
“Then, after all, he did not mean us to die!’’ cried
Max, with an air of relief. ‘‘ He evidently meditated
nothing more than to give us a good fright!”
‘But how if Charney believing that no one was left
in the Abbey, had neglected the injunction contained
in this een enigmatical letter?” asked Eleanor; and
every one looked grave and declined replying, for
how could they forget on what a seeming chance
their fate had depended? If Captain Renton, thirst-
ing for revenge, had followed his first impulse, and
rushed away in pursuit of the supposed fugitives
what would have become of the imprisoned party?
It was well for them: all that, conjecturing Mr. Pen-
ruan’s locked doorsto contain some papers or parch-
ments of importance to Eleanor, he had tried cabi-
nets, and escritoires, and_ closets, until, chancing to
discover that one of the keys fitted the half-hidden
door in the hall, he’ reminded himself that misers
sometimes choose strange hiding-places, and de-
scended with Jones to examine the cellars.
‘Let us be thankful our lives have been preserved!”
Letty was the first to say; ‘‘ and not inquire too curi-
ously into Mr. Penruan’s intentions. It seems to me
of far more consequence to ascertain whither he
purposes dragelog our poor mother, and how she
will fare at his hands when. he is compelled to give
up the property he had so basely appropriated,’
th Max and Captain Renton felt a little remorse
at their utter forgetfulness of Mrs, Penruan, who was
so helplessly in the poran of her unprincipled hus-
band; and, after a long consultation, it was. deter-
mined that the two young yeciag, Srepmpanied by
Esther Morison, should depart for London forthwith,
there to put themselves under the protection of a
matronly friend of Eleanor’s until Mr, Haydon’s last
will could be proved, and his daughters obtained pos-
session of their popantye
Max and Charlie Renton went to town by the same
train, and communicated immediateiy with a clever
lawyer. Through his agency, before another week
had elapsed, they learned that Mr. Penruan, after
turning everything he could lay his hands upon into
cash, raising money upon, valuable securities, and
even selling the costly jewelry of his wife, was on the
int of embarking for some far t country.
e had decided on this course as soon as he e
the glermning discovery that Violet pagan was not
the helpless idiot whom, he had_ regarded as a non-
entity; and he carried away with him,so large Sper
tion of his ill-gotten gains, that he would be wealthy
despite the necessity of relin what no cun-
ning would enable him to re longer.
Sull, those he had injured and d iled so shame-
lessly that the lawyers exclaimed In astonishment
at the audacity, of his proceedings Dene to put
the hounds of justice upon his track, For Mrs. Pen-
ruan’s sake, they sxcpees to let him go free, and
content themselves with knowing that he could never
molest or Wrong them again; and when the vessel
sailed in which he had taken a passage, it was agreed
by common consent that his name should never be
spoken more, .
‘But.even Max, the most clement of them all—the
one.w xi to
me ihe Benross ofl
et .P n. car to conve;
is wife’s luggage on board, he had been eq
careful to leave the wife herself, behind him, regard-
ing her, it is presumed, as an incumbrance he pre-
ferred to be without. .
Her anxious daughters found the poor lady in a
loveliness, was no fit abode for a gen’
squalid lodging at Wapping; her health réally:af-
fected by the atmosphere in which she was living,
and her terror of the drunken:dandlady, who was
robbing her of the very smallosum of money she
ossessed, Too inert to do anything but pity
erself, she thankfully hailed the appearance of
Eleanor; and soon learned to cling for comfort and
support to that other daughter; who now claimed a
share of her affection.
By very slow degrees,’Mrsi Pénruan was made to
believe that she was not the pane invalid she had
imagined herself; when this had been accomplished
she soon became stout and rosy} and, in the course
of years, developed intoa tolerably fair specimen of
a grandmamma to half a dozen noisy, merry chil-
dren. She wept so bitterly when an effort was made
to reveal to her the treacherous conduct of Mr. Pen-
ruan, that Charlie Renton, to whom the task was dé-
puted, was silenced; and itis doubtful whether ‘she
ever thoroughly understood how basely he had acted.
When he was drowned during a gale in sight of
the land to which he hadifled, his widow, the only
one who did not regard his fate as just retribu-
ion, insisted on erecting a’ handsome monument, to
his' memory in the church at St. Erne; and it was
noticed that though she never named him to Eleanor
or Letty, she spoke of him) to others with bated
breath, as a remarkable man, whose decease was a
pee loss to every one: who knew him, It was a
appy delusion, and her friends permitted her to:in- |!
dulge in it,
As soon as the co-heiressés had been put in pos-
session of. their property with all due legality
Eleanor and Charles Renton, Violet and her faithful
Max, were ers married at’ St. Erne, old. Dan
Calynack being one of the most interested specta-
tors of the ceremony; and Max bore his bride to his
home across the'sea. But Aquas Rihcal serie -
le i
tribe of hostile Indians had settled in the neighbor-
hood, and were constantly perpetrating such atro-
cious deeds, that the young couple finally returned
to England.
St. e and. its lovely scenery was. so dear to
them, that after a few weeks spent in London with
the gay Eleanor, who was soon fairly launched in
society, and promising to be one of its most. bril-
liant. ornaments, they hastened to the Abbey. But
the dwelling itself revived so many hateful reminis-
petace, that it was was finally determined to pull it
own,
Accordingly, this was done, and a handsome man-
sion erected in its stead. No traces) remain of the
chamber in the ruins where the faithful Esther
ee her fragile flower from the eyes of Mr.
enruan; and the memory of his ill deeds has been
almost effaced by the purer lives and generous acts
of those who now hold the estate.
Captain and Mrs. Renton often revisit the spot,
and make the new house gay with their lively do-
8; but better known and better loved in the little
fishing village, which is fast rising into a busy town
under the auspices of Max Haveryng, is the Califor-
nian’s fair wife—the gentle but quieenly Letty, whom
her adoring husband still, in moments of enthu-
siasm, calls by the name he first gave her—the Lily-
flower of St. Erne!
THE END,
Celebrated Weddings,
History and tradition have handed down to
us wonderful accounts of the magnificent, cere-
senalived th the Seen at byeone, ee ees
si the weddings 0 gone days, thoug!
some of the high-born dames of old have stood
at the altar simply attired. When Louis XIII
married Ann of Austria, her robe was white
satin, and her hair was staan dressed, without
crown or wreath. Isabella of Portugal, as the
bride of Burgundy, wore a dress of splendid
embroidery, a stomacher of ermine, tightsleeves,
a cloak bordered with ermine, falling from her
shoulders to the ground; but she had no orna-
ments, and her head-dress was white muslin.
When Ann of France, finding the Archduke
Maximilian tardy in his wooing, gave herself
and dominions to Charles VIII, she appeared. at
the imposing ceremonial of her marriage in a
robe of cloth of gold, with desi in raised
embroidery upon. it, and bordered with price-
less sable. James 1 nearly ruined himself in
order to celebrate the marriage of his daughter,
the Princess Elizabeth; and great and determin-
ed was the opposition. shown ea his subjects to
the marriage tax ho raised to defray the £53,294
it cost. The ceremony took place at Whitehall
with so much pomp that it has formed the pre-
cedent for all other royal weddings in England
which have followed. The train of the bride’s
dress, which was of silver cloth, cost’ £130. Her
lair floated on her shoulders intermingled with
pearls and diamonds, and a crown of gold was
eee th iage of Henry I
erhaps, however, the marriage of Henry I.
with Matilda of Scotland bears off the palm, so
far as outward splendor is concerned. Bishop
Anslem performed the ceremony in presence of
all the beauty and chivalry of the realm. The
marriage of Edward I in Canterbury Cathe-
dral was little less nt.
The Paris papers have recently been giving
some curious and interesting details respectin
costly articles of dress or ornament moceaeed
by. the royal and noble ladies of Europe.
The young Countess de San eae ee
sesses, it seems. pe wae, ee hich is
owned by no other lady in the world, Tsa-
bella alone excepted. Her Most Catholic Majes-
ty has, it would appear, a perfect passion for
lace, and possessés thereof a collection which is
valued at over’ $1,000,000, This collection is a
_tria possesses ti
perfect museum of lace'of all kinds, epochs and
nationalities. ' One. dress alone, composed en-
tirely of point d’Alencon, is valued at $20,000,
and, there, is a set of .flounces in antique
guipure which, is even - more Sealy Of
the Spanish» mantilla »\vails her’ Majest;
owns a large number, some of which are wort
from $5,000. to “$6,000 each. Queen Victoria’s
passion is for India shawls, and her collection
equals, in value the laces of Queen Isabella. Ti
includes,shawls, the art. of making which has
long been lost—besides. all the finest: and most
delicate’ marvels of the India looms of the pre-
sent day, including webs of golden thread and
embroidered with diamonds and pearls. In re-
spect to jewels, the Empress. Elizabeth of Aus-
he finest emeralds ever worn by
woman. They are mounted in the guise of a
diadem, nécklace and girdle of flowers, whereof
the leaves are formstof single emeralds, and
the blossoms are ‘composed of diamonds. The
Grand Duchess of Saxe Weimar owns the rich-
est and most perfect collection of jewels in the
world. The finest and largest turquoises and
ris that exist among the crown jewels of
ussia,; and the finest sapphires in the world
form a part of those of England. Bavaria pos-
sesses among her crown jewels a parure of pink
diamonds that is perfectly unique. .
THE MARRIAGE OF JAMES OF SCOTLAND. —
Margaret ‘Tudor, when married to Jamies of
Scotland, stood proudly at the altar, as her noble
lineage warranted, a crown on her head, her
hair hanging ‘beneath. it, covered only by a cap
of gold, and with 1s about her neck, The
ill-fated union of hilip and Mary was solem-
nized at Winchester Cathedral, as befitted the
sovereigns of two great countries. Charles’I
was married By BrOAy at Notre Dame. George
IIL signalized marriage with Queen Char-
lotte, which took place at St. James Chapel
Royal, by abolishing many of. the practices
which then held an but which were opp
to modern taste and ‘feeling, St. James Chapel
Royal has been the scene of more royal mar-
riages in modern days than perhaps any other
ifice, though it is small and inconvenient.
Queen Anne, also. William IV, were wedded
here; and here George IV was married, at ten
o'clock at night. Queen Victoria was married
at the same place on the 10th of February, 1840.
The value of the wedding gifts of Mdlle.
d’Albe, niece of the ex-Empress Eugenie, is
said to be worth $1,600,000. One of. these was a
cameo ring which belonged to Charles V.
Eleven necklaces of brilliants adorned the col-
lection.- The Duke d’Ossuna, whom she married,
is said to be one of the wealthiest persons in the
Peninsula.
Among the Earl of Dudley’s presents to Miss
Moncrieffe before she became his bride were
a diamond diadem which had been the envy and
admiration of all Paris, said to be worth $30,000;
.a bracelet of fifty precious stones of singular
purity, which Prince Albert had tried to bar-
gain for in vain; another bracelet, with a dia-
mond of “fabulous price” in the center, anda
collection 'of varied assortment additionally.
On the ae morning he presented her wii
anecklace of five rows of pearls of enormous
value, ‘and she, wore a. dress which contained
2,000 yards. of point d’Alencon. lace, and
employed 600 hands in the making, and
was so. costly that the is Eugenie, for
whom it was intended, was obliged to decline it.
The noble acquaintances of Miss Monerieffe, of
course, loaded her with presents, and the in-
habitants of Dudley begged her acceptance of
a bracelet worth guineas, The marriage of
the Prince of Chimay, the heir to one/or the
test houses in France, to Mdile. Lejeune, a
ately blonde, with a fortune of $5,000,000, left to
her by her grandfather, the young Michel, once
a famous banker, not long since elicited much
comment. The poner are full of details
of her trousseau. Her lingerie alone is valued at
100,000 franes, includin; irs of sheets, em-
broidered by hand wii ©. Caraman arms,
each costing from 4,000 to 5,000 francs; a fan in
Venice point, enriched with diamonds and bear-
ing in the center the arms of Caraman and
Chimay; and among her Peon. is a neek
consisting of one circle of forty-two, brilliants
with their inner circles, each consisting of thirty-
seven brilliants, with a m: dent emerald as
Sulecathent and three superb brilliants as pen-
A good anecdote is related of a lady ‘at a
party whose ‘dress and fori were faultless.
ust before dinner an t offered her a
flower from his buttonhole. The dress. bein,
fastened behind, the flower had to be adjust
with a pin. Just then Sher went down to: din-
ner, sant the gentleman thought he heard a
noise as though wind eee hie, froma bel-
lows. The lad soon ‘lost her fair T~
tions, and the tightly-fitting dress was alm
bagey. Itappears that the latesb fas d
thin dceee 08 air-tight lining blown
out to:tle proper size. The pin to keep»the
flower in nes had penetrated the «air-tight
lining and caused a grand Collapse.
|
cnn
“Many a~Gem of Purest Ray Serene!”
THE SUNNYSIDE LIBRARY.
To place before American Readers of all classes the choicest compositions of Celebrated Poets and
Writers, in attractive form, and.at prices unprecedented i in elegant literature, will be the special province of
this beautiful series. Not to popularize what is already of world-wide celebrity, but. to make, literally, a
Household Word of the great WOrks of great authors, hitherto attainable only in the expensive form of
bound volumes.
Each issue being devoted exclusively to the work or works of ‘one ‘author is, hence, Complete in
Itsel, forming the cheapest and most convenient edition of the author ever presented to the public.
The Library will issue rapidly and be sold by all booksellers and newsdealers at the astonishingly
cheap price of ten cents per single and twenty cents per double number.
No. 1. LALLA ROOKH. By Thomas Moore.
With Author’s Foot and Commentary Notes, Complete.
Of this celebrated Romance in Verse it is estimated that over one million copies have been sold since
its first publication in the year 1817. Tt is justly pronounced to be one of the most exquisite stories in
verse-in the whole range of modern literature. Its popularity demands. that it shall be the Initial issue of
this Library, and consequently it is given in its most perfect form. Price, 10 Cents.
No. 2..DON JUAN. By:Lord Byron.
This. masterpiece of Byron is here reproduced complete. Its dharacter as a poem was long ago fixed.
It is a work of astonishing brilliancy of itivention—power, precision and grace of expression—skill and charm
of story, and sustained strength of literary and personal. interest. It has been and will continue to be real
by all classes. Double Number. Price, 20 Cents.
No. 3. PARADISE LOST. By John Milton.
A kind of beacon light in poetic literature—one of the very few productions destined to immortal fame.
This, of course, is a pétiadt edition of the great poem. Price, 10 Cents.
No. 4. THE LADY OF THE LAKE. By Sir Walter Scott.
One of the finest narrative and descriptive poems in English longi It added greatly to -the
reputation of the “ Wizard of the North,’ whose fertility of genius marks him as a phenomenon in. literary
history. The poem affords a double delight ‘to the readér in its beauty of versified form and its déep,
touching, exciting interest of story. Price, 10 Cents.
No. 5. LUCILE. By Owen Meredith.
The author’s own edition of this beautiful ¢reation of combined poem, drama and ‘story. - It. well
deserves this popular presentation to American readers, for it certainly is one of the few works of this gen-
eration that is to become “ classic” in English and American Literature. Price, 10 Cents.
No.6. UNDINE; or, The Water Spirit. By Frederick de la Motte Fouque.
One of the most celebrated of all modern prose-poems, for such it is. The story is prose, but the
spirit of it is poetic in the fullest sense. Beauty, f. fancy, pathos and deep interest of narrative
pervade its every passage and page, and. have rendere it both famous as a composition, and a favorite with
all classes.of readers, _ Price, 10 Cents. ,
Succeeding issues will. comprise a Succession of masterpieces and favorite works by authors of |
perennial fame.
The SUNN YSIDE LIBRARY is aol by all booksellers and newsmen; or is sent, post-paid, to
any addregs, on receipt of price, by | i r
a ADAMS, VICTOR & CO., Publishers,
98 William Street, New York.
A LIBRARY FOR EVERY READER!
The Fireside Library,
Contains the very CREAM of English and American Fiction and
Romance Literature.
It is printed in attractive style on excellent paper, from clear and
readable type.
It is of very convenient form for reading and preservation.
It gives the most for the money, in mere quantity, ever offered to the
American reading public.
Each issue, or number, isa Complete Work, and is an exact reprint
of the best edition.
It presents, for ten or twenty cents, what has heretofore only been
obtainable at from fifty cents to two dollars.
The works thus far introduced to this Library prove its claim ,to
confidence and popularity—each issue being a new novel of striking merit,
or one already noted in literature.
Future issues will be chosen with the same taste and ecare—only the
Best Works of the Most Popular, Authors being admitted.
THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY is the series par excellence of all cheap
publications of the period. The list now comprises:
WAS SHE HIS WIFE? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell------------- 10c.
FLEEING FROM LOVE. By Harriet Irving------------------------ 10c.
DID HE LOVE HER? By Bartley T. Campbell-------------------- 10c.
A STRANGE WOMAN. By Rett Winwood.--.---.----+-------<---+- 10c.
NADIA, THE RUSSIAN SPY. By Capt. F. Wittaker-_-------------- 10c.
TWO GIRLS’ LIVES. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell---------------- 10c.
7-8. LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET. By Miss M. E. Braddon------------ 20c.
9. WAR OF HEARTS. By Corinne Cushman.-.----_---~2-------~--------- 10c.
10. LEIGHTON GRANGE. By Miss M. E. Braddon.---------------.---- 10c.
11. THE FALSE WIDOW. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton------------- 10c.
12-13.. LOST FOR LOVE. By Miss M. E. Braddon-------.--------------- 20c.
14-15. "TOILERS OF THE SEA. By Victor Hugo-.----~-----+------------ 20c.
16. THE OCTOROON. By Miss M. E. Braddon-------------- ORR ope tp. os. 10c.
17-18. UNCLE SILAS. By J. S. Le Fanu---.----.--.-- ames « Rbtitee pen 20c.
19-20. DEAD-SEA FRUIT. By Miss M. E. Braddon--------------------- 20c.
21-22. LITTLE KATE KIRBY. By F. W. Robinson------------------.- 20c.
23. SOWING THE WIND. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell--------------- 10c.
24-25. BIRDS OF PREY. By Miss M. E. Braddon-----------------.---- 20c.
26. THAT BOY OF NOROCOTT’S. By Charles Lever-------------------- 10c.
27-28. CHARLOTTE’S INHERITANCE. By Miss M. E. Braddon------ 20c.
29. A GIRL’S HEART. By Rett Winwood------------------------------ 10c.
30-81. RED AS A ROSE IS SHE. By Rhoda Broughton-----.--.... 20c.
82. THE LILY OF ST. ERNE. By Mrs. Crow-----------------------.. 10c.
33. STRANGELY WED. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton------...--.._- 10c.
34. THE GIPSY BRIDE. By M. BE. O. Malen---.-2---------+225-422--2- 10c.
385. ANNIE TEMPLE. By Rev. J. H. Ingraham.------------------------ 10c.
THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY is sold by newsdealers and booksellers
generally; or is sent, post paid, to any address on receipt of twelve cents
per single number, and twenty-four cents per double number. Tensingle
numbers or five double numbers sent to one address for One Dollar.
BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers,
98 William Street, New York,