ll

 

mv a You.

Vol. V

Published Every
Two Weeks,

An American Queen;
oR,
THE HEART OF GOLD.
BY GRACE MORTIMER.

CHAPTER I.
TOO LATE.

NFORMATION WANTED—Of Ada Derwent, maid-
en name Rivers, native place Addiscombe, State
of New York, who married Otto Montacute Derwent
in the year 1850, June 19th—or of her child, issue o:
said marriage. If she, or said child, will communi-
cate with Messrs. Korner & Price, Room 9, No. —
Warren street, New York City, they will hear of a
long-unclaimed right now com pletely at their dispo-
sal, and greatly to their advantage.

Monica Derwent, only child of the above-mention-
ed Ada Rivers Derwent, sat by her mother’s corpse,
reading this announcement in the ‘ personals” of
the New York Herald.

She was nineteen. years old; her mother had been
a widow all that time; they had lived a toilsome and
penurious life, and Mrs. Derwent had died yesterday
of the ‘‘hard times,” and now Monica had diseov-
ered this promise. of progpenity: in an old paper,
which she had untwisted from the stems of a great
sheaf of white flowers sent her by the clergyman’s
daughter, to lay.about her dead, r .

It was an humbly-furnished little parlor in a tiny
frame cottage, very clean and dainty, and garnished
delicately with many a graceful fancy, costing noth-
ing but natural taste,

l
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R\\\WRN
oM\)

suivered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.,as Second Ciass Mail Matter.

 

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

No. 98 Wrii1aM Street, New York.

Copyrighted 1880, by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

WSR Co.
April 8, 1880.

Complete in this Number.
Price, Ten Cents,

 

The body, which lay across the two white-draped
windows, was that of a woman of thirty-seven, in
whose features could be traced the remains of great

beauty and refinement; but the slender hands which |

lay across her, bosom were almost transparent, her
face was frightfully emaciated, and broad streaks of
gray gleamed among her thick, wavy black hair; it
was painfully evident that not ony: sorrow of heart,
but actual privation, had brought her to this prema-
ture bier.

Monica Derwent was utterly unlike her mother—
her features wanted the graceful harmony of hers;
also the expression indelibly engraved upon the de:
visage, of soft dependence and habitual melancholy.
was replaced on the daughter’s by one of spirite

| power and haughty es pale, famine-pinched and
she wa:

poorly clad though she would have attract-
ed a second glance anywhere, through the mere
ower of her sonra air, and the dark dignity of
er presence. One rare beauty she possessed. Large,
finely-shaped lustrous eyes, black and expressive;
her hair, too, had it been artistically dressed, woul

have won praise for its ebony hue and silken gloss.

In truth, what with her tall, slim figure, which
only wanted filling out—poor hungered body that it
was—and her proud, innocent, significant face, all
she lacked was food, dress, and a fortunate expres-
sion to make her pass as a more than usually fine
woman,

For more than an hour she had sat poring over the
advertisement addressed to her mother, motionless,
blind, and deaf; she was looking back over those
nineteen years which her mother and she had trod-
den hand in hand, illumined as they now were by
the light of this most unexpected announcement,

The paper was two months old.

Two months ago her mother’s strength had been,
though ebbing, at full enough tide for Dr. Seymour,

 

the village physician, to say to her in his offhand
way:

“You're all right, madani—sound at the core
Nothing to be afraid of, if you take a rest and feed
up. Your trouble comes from nothing but debility.
You don’t eat enough, and you work too much. Get
off to the seaside, and drink cream and eat chickens.
That’s my prescription.”’

Timidly informed that she could not take time to
rest, nor afford such expensive luxuries as seasides,
cream and chickens, he had shrugged his muscular
shoulders in its fine broadcloth coat, pouted out his
full red mouth portentously, and dashed off an iron
and quinine mixture, ‘to be taken three times a day,
for six weeks;’’ and then, accepting her two dollars
with all the graceful unconsciousness with which he
would have accepted the five-dollar fee from the
wealthy Mrs, Million, relict of the late cracker-mer-
chant of that name, had bowed her smilingly out of
his richly-furnished consulting-room, and bowed in
the next in line from his elegant waiting-room,

And this foolish woman had crushed up. the pre-
scription in her thin, hot nervous hand, as she slowly
wended her feeble way home through the driving
sleet, for she had _ no weekly seventy-five cents to
spare, the sum which the strengthening mixture
would call for, so why should she distress poor Moni-
ca with the sight of the prescription? And she sat
down to her work again, trying to see the exquisite
stitches through the red motes that were dancing
before her eyes, and to hide the creeping chills whic!
ran through her shadowy frame, in spite of th:
sparkling, well-swept fire, which Monica had just lit
in time for her return, having furtively let it go out,
to save the fuel, in her absence. So she told the sat-
isfactory news that Dr. Seymour said she had no or-
génic disease, and was only weary.

“So, darling,” she said, cheerfully, ‘‘I won’t stick

“HUSH, DEAR BOY, HUSH!” AND THERE WAS MALIGNITY-GERM ENOUGH IN HER TONES FOR BOTH,

 
2

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

 

 

so constantly at the lace-making, but relax the strain
be i doing the housework turn about with you, instead
of letting you do it all; but, dear, you will have to
learn to sew lace more quickly, or else get a new in-
spiration, and invent a design more popular than
any you have invented yet, make your fortune, and
retire with your poor, broken-down mammy, Ih,
dearie?”’

And while the doomed mother was talking thus,
trying to smother under these playful speeches the
dark conviction that death had marked her, and
whilo faithful Monica was listening and looking wist-
fully at the fading victim of poverty, this advertise-
ment, which seemed to promise prosperity, or, at
least, relief, was already in print, calling—calling
them to come and be helped, and they had never
seen it!

Too late—oh, anguished thought—too late!

“Merciless Creator!’ murmured Monica, raising
her black eyes bitterly to the wintry heavens; “‘ your
succor comes only to fill higher my cup of despair.
My mother has starved to death!”’

4 seems terrible to own that such a thing is possi-
ble in a Christian community like that in which they
lived—Loangeric, not a hundred miles distant from
that nucleus of splendidly organized charities.
Philadelphia; but it was true. rs. Derwent an
her daughter could afford nothing more costly than
the coarsest and simplest food, and the invalid had
died for want of better. Her wasted system had de-
manded just such rich and dainty fare as the com-
fortable Dr. Seymour had prescribed; she had not
the means to pers such, and so, surrounded by
ee and kind-hearted people, all of whom respected

er highly and looked up to her as a superior char-
acter—receiving just as much lace-work from a
wealthy merchant in the village as she could do, and
a handsome price for it, besides the modest but
really helpful salary which Monica received in her

sition of district school-mistress—in spite of all
hese facts, Mrs. Derwent had died of want.

How had it been? How could it have been?

Was that what Monica was asking herself, ag she
sat there beside her dead mother, holding the paper
that spoke of better days for her?

Was that what brought the lines of painful thought
upon her smooth young brow, and lit the moody fire
in her eyes? f , is >

Yes; Monica was once again groping blindly in the
sinister darkness of a secret which her mother had
held inviolate during ber whole life, and which she
had carried to the land of spirits with her.

Mrs. Derwent had always earned a comfortable
income from her lace-hoop, more especially since
Monica had developed a talent for designing new
and exquisite patterns, which in their graceful origi-
nality were eagerly a by connoisseurs; and
Monica had received, as we have said, enough to
maintain herself ever since she was twelve years
old, and tall enough to see her scholars’ heads over
the tall teacher’s desk; the neighbors loved and hon-
ored the widow and child, and would have been glad
to help them, had they been able under these cir-
cumstances to dream that they needed help; yet
Mrs. Derwent had died the death of helpless desti-
tution.

Where did she put their money?

Monica had grown ~~ under the shadow of this
mystery; it had been her one insufferable annoy-
ance, suggesting the only hideous thoughts that ever
had entered into her pure and lofty mind; it had
eaten and eaten into her reverential love for her
mother, until one day, a ago, she had burst out
with a passionate demand for some, for any explan-
ation, confessing with grief, that a host of terrible
suspicions had crowded her thoughts; so that Mrs,
Derwent, at first startled and remonstrant, then cut
to the heart, had folded _her gentle arms about the
trembling girl, pillowed her head upon her own
swelling bosom, and spoken as follows:

“My child, I had hoped that you noticed nothing
that could disturb or perplex you; I see now that
my poor little diplomacy is too transparent to blind
you. This matter that you have distressed yourself
g0 much about, is the one secret 1 must keep from
all the world—even from you, dear girl. It is a ve
bitter secret, it has crushed my spirit to the eart:
for all the years of my widowhood. If it would only
please God to remove it, I shouldbe at peace, con-
tented and happy with you, my darling good child.
If I were to tellitto you, your dear young life would
be. overshadowed with a curse which would im-
bitter oe hour. And yet it is not for this reason
alone that I keep you in ignorance of it, nor is it for
my own sake, for I am utterly guiltless in the mat-
ter; but there is a person alive for whose sake I
keep it, ay, and must sep it as long as I live, and
carry it to my grave with me. Now, my darling

1, you must dismiss the matter from your

oughts. You trust in your mother’s integrity, do
you not? Yes, you do, ry 2 sweet; you never really
doubted me, Iam sure; those ideas which distressed

ou were only the natural efforts of filial affection
‘© fathom a mystery which obviously clouded your
mother’s life. All I can say in explanation, dear, is,
that as long as I live I am bound to put aside, an
secretly to forward to—some one—somewhere—half of
whatever income I may get; even if it were but one
dollar a year I must part with fifty cents of tt.”

And then she had glided away, witha very pained
and roused look on her usually meek face, and a
sudden haughtiness of mien that struck cold to
Monica’s heart, suggesting, as it did, certain hidden
depths in her mother’s character, and events in her
past, that came like iron hands pushing them a little

apart. 3

And, although the high-minded daughter had ne-
ver again whispered another inquiry, or looked
curiosity; but had put entire faith in her mother’s
integrity, according to her gentle request, and
driven the secret from her mind, as far as that lay
in her power, still, we say, there had not passed one
day since, that she had not been visited by the con-
sciousness of a something sinister and disastrous
brooding over her home.

Half of all she could earn—handed over to a name-
less being, as long as she lived!

That was the gist of her mother’s secret.

But Monica thanked God rey day, with passion-
ate titude, that she could believe her mother
= less, and clung tothe belief with a desperate

old, heaping only the more love upon her, serous
to her the more assiduously fond and unweari
services; fronting fate for her with the loftier cour-

 

age; for Monica Derwent held reserves of pride and
heroism in her warm, deep heart, that even she her-
self could not fathom as yet, and often marveled
much at her own pee tey, impulses, so unlike the
soft, passive resignation of her sweet mother.

The night before Mrs. Derwent died, she had beck-
oned her child to her pillow, and with a pale and
thankful smile had murmured in her ear:

“Fear nothing from that old sorrow of mine, my
darling; with my death the price is fully paid—there
is nothing more to give. It dies with me; henceforth
you walk free.”

As Monica muses with the newspaper in her lap.
and her gaze fastens bitterly upon the dead face of
her idolized mdther, strange thoughts are busy in
her brain. She is trying to trace the connection be-
tween her mother’s secret and this expression in the
advertisement, ‘‘ A long-unclaimed right.”

From her knowledge of her mother’s self-sacri-
ficing, dependent and timorous nature, Monica rea-
soned that if any sacrifice had been made, any for-
tunate right allowed to lie unclaimed, it must have
beenshe who had made it—she who had refrained
from claiming that right; therefore, (and Monica’s
heart swelled with hot and acrid regret) circum-
stances had at last so transpired that the fortune,
if fortune it was, had sought her through the col-
umns of the everywhere-read New York Herald,
since she would not seek it.

And it had come too late—too late.

That was always the heartrendering refrain of all
Monica’s thoughts; here was help for her mother,
and it was too late.

By what perversity of destiny had it chanced that
not one of the half-a-dozen subscribers to the New
York Herald in Loangerie had noticed this announce-
ment, and told her mother of it?

As Monica asked herself this she recalled, with a
throe of fierce rebellion and disdain, the evil repute
in which this very column of anonymous communi-
cations was held by all Christian people, and as the

eople of Loangerie were par excellence a most
levout and rigid set of Christians, who would as
soon own to dancing the can-can as to poring over
that disreputable column, it was easy enough to
ess that those six deacons who took the paper in
angerie never ees the advertising sheet or
permitted it to fall into the hands of their families;
and that so the paragraph which would have saved.
her mother's life had never been here.

Was it running still? Or had some spurious claim-
ant, more wide-awake than the doomed widow,
snatched at the chance to reap what benefit there
was, and was this all that Monica would ever see or
hear of the matter?

The girl’s pauper face suddenly fired crimson,
her eyes sparkled.

She rose and went to her mother’s bier, and
standing over it, she gazed long at the sweet, cold
marble face there, as if she would photograph it, in
all its pathetic attenuation and purity, upon her
memory.

Yes, she had faithfully believed in her mother, in
her goodness, worth, her sweet, proud, pure life,
and in her hard ill-usage _ an adamant Providence.

There had been something that could not be told,
Yes—but it was not shame to her mother. No, no!
She had certainly been the dupe of an invisible and
sinister power, a vampire which had sucked the life-
blood out of her veins until here she lay dead.
pane now Geliverance had come, and it was too

te!

“Let me avenge her—that is allI shall live for!”

ee Monica Derwent, and stooping, she sealed
er vow by a long, anguished kiss on her mother’s
dead lips.

 

The funeral was over.

Its expenses, humble as they were, had drained
Monica’s slender purse toa lowebb. She had seen
the latest Herald, and the advertisement was run-
ning in it still. She was resolved to answer it—to
hear what these strangers had to tell her about the
“unclaimed right,’’ which she believed to be con-
nected with her mother’s secret.

But she was so penniless, that, while the kind-
hearted neighbors were cheerin, 6 her by the re-
minder that she would at least be little the worse
ee by her invalid mother’s decease, since

er salary as the village teacher was quite adequate
to the supply of her own wants, she was casting
about in her mind how she should tig dd a.
enough not — to journey to New York, but possi-
bly to remain there for some time to come.

he gathered together all her resources; set her
cottage in order for an absence, et or short, she
knew not which; and without explaining anythi
to anyone, except to tell the Rector that she was
going | to New York on business, she left Loangerie
he day after the funeral.

And so calm and self-possessed was she when she
went from among them, that all Loangerie looked to
see her back at her desk in the little frame school-
house in a few days, as before; and gladly accorded
her the few days’ holiday and change, since her be-
reavement had been sore, and the poor young thing
though she had made little outward moan, seem
to be stricken for death herself.

But busy was the soupy of rumor when the

Monday came—Tuesday, Wednesday—a week, two
weeks—a month—a year—years—and she never
came to Loangerie!

CHAPTER I.

“My FATHER! I WILL NEVER OWN HIM FOR MY FaA-

Monica found in room No. 9, Warren street,
Messrs. Korner & Price, two driving and thrivin;
lawyers, not so long in practice as to pass by indif-
ferently any chance of emolument, crooked or
straight, and thirsting to manage this matter with
benefit to themselves.

They received the young lady from the country,
who introduced herself as the only child of Mrs,
Ada Derwent, nee Rivers, of Addiscombe, with due
caution and reserve, until satisfied with the proofs
of her identity; and, although they were at first_bit-
terly disappointed to learn of the decease of Mrs,
Derwent herself, they soon accommodated them-
selves to the inevitable, and set about manipulating
the survivor to the best of their ability.

Having gleaned from her a distinct account of her
mother’s and her own history during the past nine-
teen years, they coolly desired her to come to them

lacey se”

 

that day week, when they hoped to have something
definite to tell her about “the important matter in
connection with which they had been advertisin;
at immense expense,” as they carefully reminde:
her, for over four months,

As they were resolute, Monica had perforce to
Obey, and retired to her boarding-house to wait, feel-
ing a growing interest and excitement, as she noted
the portentous manner of the lawyers, and vainly
tried to guess at the news they had to tell.

Of course she could guess pretty correctly the use ,
they made of that week; that they were sifting her
story and ene its truth; but so judiciously did
they conduct their inquiries, sending an agent to:
Loangerie to investigate, sub rosa, that not a soul in*
the straight-laced little townlet dreamed of what
was being done.

Having returned on the specified day, Miss Der-
went found herself greeted with fervor, placed in
the seat of honor, and both the lawyers bustled
about her, vying with each other in showing her how
they honored her.

This servility angered and disgusted the proud-
spirited girl.

Of course, she knew this was a money-matter;
guessed at some fine legacy or inheritance, an
measured the courtesy of the astute men of affairs
by the probable bulk of the fortune.

“Be good enough to come to the point without
ceremony,’ she said, peu , ‘as you see I am
too humbly born and bred to appreciate or expect
meaningless compliments. And since this matter
did not chance until my mother was gone, it can
seem of very little moment to me, in my present
state of mind. What care I now what befalls?” she
said, bitterly, her low stern tones sounding in strange
contrast to the fluttered jubilation and gratulation
of theirs,

“Ahem! The family spirit!” chuckled Mr. Kor-
ner, surreptitiously nudging his partner, Mr. Price,
as if her lofty tone pleased him, and reddening un-
ecmfortably when he saw that her bright eyes had
detected him. ‘The fact is,my dear young lady.
that by the merest accident we have discovered
something of importance—of great importance to the
wife or children of Mr. Otto Derwent.”

He paused with an impressive smile, waiting for
the tremendous announcement to overawe his lis-
tener; but she answered, with a gloomy look, utter-
ly regardless of the piquant news he had hinted at:

“As there is only one thing which men in your

rofession think of enough importance to expend

ime and and talent on, I can easily guess what you
are about to tell me. Some relative of my long-dead
father has thought of mother, and wishes to assist
her pecuniarily. And it is too late.”

“Wrong—altogether wrong!’ said Mr. Price, with

enjoyment, and a gallant bow; ‘‘ Miss Derwent
is too unworldly to come vear the truth,”

“What is the trutb, then?” asked she, noting with
a od wonder the repressed excitement of each

sage,

Tt weand, perhaps, be well to state that this mat-
ter is entirely in our hands,” said Mr. Korner, very
earnestly fixing his eyes on_her, and hitching his,
chair a little nearer hers. ‘‘ Not a soul but we two}
can assist you to gain your rights, The facts came
to our knowledge some months since, and we have

already gone to considerable expense and labor
a information and advertising. You under-
stand?”

“Perfectly,” replied she, promptly, with some
disdain. ‘You wish to impress upon me that your
services are valuable, and that you will not con-
tinue them unless I can pay for them, and am will-
ing to place myself in your hands. Tcan only say
that Iam penniless, and will not pledge myself to
any course in the dark.”

“Very good; we sha’n’t ask ear to do anything
but what is perfectly just and right,” Mr. Korner
hastened to assure her; ‘“‘and as to your present
poverty, the whole business is to relieve you of it,
and to put it in your power to recompense our ser-
vices in the future. Which, of course, a lady of
your strict sense of justice would wish to do when-
ever she had a chance,” added he, insinuativgly.

She bowed, with a slight smile; somehow the
longer they talked of this mysterious business the
more she doubted the wisdom of confiding too much
in the aed a

“Just tell her distinctly what it is,” put in Mr.
Price in an anxious aside; ‘‘she can’t possibly real-
ize the position until she sees it.”

So Mr. Korner settled himself in his chair, and
with a bland face and congratulatory tone of voice,
spoke as follows:

“In the course of a lawyer’s practice many se-
crets leak out, which those concerned thereby never
supposed would come to mortal ears. is an
instance; a secret which has been yn for nineteen
years has come to our ears, and affects money
your future, my dear qoune lady. I may begin the
disclosure by saying that this secret is connected
with that habit of the late Mrs. Derwent, of hand-
ing over to an unknown party the half of her earn-

ings.”

Stop!" exclaimed Monica, suddenly; her cheek
had flushed scarlet, and her eyes were sparkling
warningly. ‘‘ My mother deliberately kept this mat-
ter from me; even on her death-bed, she said it was
best for me not to know what her secret was; so I
will not hear it from you. If you cannot explain
this business without betraying my mother’s secret,
I shall go away as ignorant as I came.”

“Hem—ahem—a streak of the blood, eh?” mut-
tered Mr. Korner to his colleague; “no use insisting
here; might as well try to move the Palisades, eh?”
and with a complacent chuckle he resumed. ‘“ Very
good, Miss Derwent, we can easily avoid trenching
on the forbidden subject. For nineteen years you
have supposed your father was dead; for nineteen

ears your mother knew he woe alive, and residing at

English estate, Dornoch-Weald—”

‘“Wuat!” apeved Monica, springing to her feet,
‘““my father alive!—oh, impossible!” She gazed from
one to the other wildly; their faces inexorably re-
peated the assertion; she suddenly wheeled and
walked to one of the windows, where, with her face
hidden, and her hands tremblingly clasped over her
breast, she remained still as a stone.

But a storm was raging through her soul; the very
depths of her nature were stirred. The ideaof a
father had ever been but an abstract one to her, the
theme had never been dwelt upon by her mother—

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she had always seemed to shrink from it with never |

blunted pain, and Monica had settled it in her mind |
that he had been so passionately beloved, and so
tragically lost in the first year of marriage, that her
mother would carry the wound raw and bleeding to
her grave. ;

Yet he had been alive all the while, and, what was
it they had said about an estate? He was thena
rich man, living in wealth and ease, and her mother
—had died—of want.

As the girl’s thoughts reached this climax she
stifled a sharp cry as of one stung, and went back to
face the whispering lawyers.

“Go on, what else?”’ she demanded peremptorily. |
« Mr. mr aee took up the narration where he had |

ropped it.

“Your father is alive to this day: and had your
mother lived to answer our advertisement in person |
we would have reinstated her in her rights without |
the slightest delay. She being unfortunately de- |
ceased, we transfer our good offices to you; and |
whenever you choose to put yourself in our hands |
we shall present you to Mr. Otto Derwent, and claim |
for you your legal rights as his daughter.” |

“ But—but—why were they separated?’ faltered |
Monica, still too stunned to admit a thought of her
own eon

“That is part of the secret your mother reserved
from you,” answered the lawyer; ‘ this much I can
tell you however, they separated through no fault of

rour mother’s, She was utterly blameless, the vic-
im of a slander, and of the bitter pride of Derwent. |
Your father comes of an ancient, proud race, and |
nothwithstanding that he really seems to have loved
his young wife (who was extremely pretty and
elegant, they tell me, although only the daughter of
& country schoolmaster), he was quite able to desert
her at a moment’s notice seven months after the
marriage, and to go home to his fine estates, and
never see her face again. Todo him justice 1 will
mention that he intended to have sent her all the
money she could desire, and began by doing so: but
she had her pride too, poor soul, and, besides, was
also misled as to something she supposed him to be
guilty of, and she fled from the home he had left her

, and hid herself in the little out-of-the-way hole
— came from; so that for nineteen years they

ave not communicated with each other, and he
does not know whether she is dead or alive. Andhe
is stone enough never to trouble his head about the
matter; but lives the life of a country gentleman, on
one of the finest estates in ——shire, while she, poor |
soul, was starving herself to satisfy the rapacity of a |
swindling villain who took advantage of her—”’

“Take care—that’s the forbidden subject,” inter-

sed Mr. Price, who was reading the expressive
‘ace of the daughter with breathless interest, al-
most fascinated by its vivid changes.

‘Will you now be good enough to inform me what
your intentions, with regard to my mother were,
when you advertised for her?’’ demanded she, be-
tween her teeth.

aaa can easily guess them,” said Mr. Korner,
cheerfully. ‘We sawa chance to render justice to
two people who had been parted by a mistake, to
set the wife in her own place and to clear her re-
poeeure in the eyes of her husband, We proposed

ut each party in possession of some facts which
had come to our knowledge, to effect a recon-
ciliation, and to have had this pleasure (and profit)
of making two lives happy. e now propose, the
wife being gone, to introduce you, the daughter, with
all the proofs of your identity in ee hands, to your
father, who as yet is ignorant of your existence—
when you will, without the med doubt, receive
due recognition as the only child of a very wealthy
man.

Monica sat still as death for a few minutes, eying
her counselers with slowly gathering scorn. he’
her heart was full to bursting, her small teeth set in
her lip, and her glance flashing with pent-up feeling,
she burst out passionately:

“And this is my oo mother’s history, is it?
Scorned—betrayed—abandoned—perishing in want
—because he believed a slander! Oh, God! what a
demon!”

She we her hands in a gust of grief; it was
easy tosee how ar the proud fine soul of the
Gans hter had loved and believed in her hapless
mother.

““ And do you wish me to go to the man who did
this, and to fawn at his feet for my rights?” she
cried, flashing from grief to the most scathing fury
and contempt. ‘‘You expect me to go straight
from the grave of my mother, with the memory of
her skeleton form and unhappy eyes, and my only
reminiscences of her, toil-worn and sad—to that no-
ble estate where ef father lives luxuriously and
thinks scorningly of his poor young wife! Why,

entlemen, are you human, that you think I could do
%? Ishould curse him, and call on God to avenge
my mother’s blood on his head, instead of kneeling
in humble duty for his paternal greeting! Ha! ha!
ha! My father, forsooth.”

She was rapidly walking from end to end of the
ofiice now, panting with excitement and emotion,
and flinging glances of the utmost derision and dis-
dain at her would-be counselors,

Mr, Price, whose softer manners made him uaueUy
successful with the lady-clients, approached her wit
deep solicitude, delicately tempered with deference,
and ad her, for her own sake, to calm herself,
and look practically upon the matter.

“Just think of it, dear Miss Derwent,” he plain-
tively urged. ‘ How few in this world of hard work
and crowding competition can, like you, ep. from
dire poverty and friendlessness into a wealthy and
refined home? Be a rich man’s only danghter—
with every chance in life of being his sole heiress—
heiress to a fortune worth twenty thousand pounds
@ year.

*You have said enough,” she cried, sternly. ‘I
eee perfectly. Because he is a wealthy
man, you oe trouble yourselves to effect an
acknowledgment of his child, as you would have ef-
fected a reconciliation with his wife—simply with a
view to your own future reward, Had he been a
poor man, the knowledge which you had accident-
ally obtained, and which you could use to remove
the obstacles between two mistaken people--would
have remained forever locked in your own breasts.
Oh, yes, I clearly comprehend the position as far as
you are concerned. But1am a free agent, you can-
not oblige me to present myself to Mr. Otto Derwent

 

 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN. 3

 

in the character of long-lost daughter and heir-ex-
ectant. Let his money go where it will—I shall
touch none of it. I should choke upon his bread—
thinking how my mother died for want of it; I
should writhe under his caressiug hand, remem-
bering how it flung aside my mother with a broken
heart.”

‘But, oh, come now,’’ remonstrated Mr. Korner,
with growing anxiety, for neither of them had ever
dreamed of any op osition from their client—who
in their senses would reject a fortune? ‘Consider
the case, my dear lady; consider it calmly, and
don’t rush to conclusions in this irrational way;
there is so much to be told yet, and after all, he is
your father.”

“Don’t call him my father,” cried Monica, pas-
sionately; “I cannot and will not consider him my
father. He who cast off my mother with insulting
suspicions, expressed so cruelly that she scorned to
oe to him again. Never, were I starving—shall

own—”’

“Wait! not so rash, for Heaven’s sake,” inter-
posed Mr. Korner, aghast. ‘‘Pray, pray, be seated
again, and let us ee this thing; you are rushing
on at a mad pace. our father—”

“Do you persist in the term?” cried she, im-
pan y. Then I shall not stay to be insulted by
t.??

She hurried, with burning cheeks, to the door; the
pair sprung with one accord to arrest her, and she
turned, between them, clasped her hands, and look-
ing Heavenward, said solemnly;

*So help me God, I repudiate Mr. Otto Derwent
as my father, even as he repudiated Ada Rivers as
his wife.”

“But you are terribly mistaken—when we reveal
all—if you would but promise to place yourself in
our hands, we could disclose enough of the truth in
three words to secure your consent to our scheme.”

“Keep your secret, thave learned enough to show
me what I ought to do,” said she.
I might make the terrible mistake you so dread, I
shall ask: you afew questions; so, gentlemen, I be;
you will please to answer plainly what I ask,” sai

* However, lest |

she, reseating herself with a gloomy derision in her |

manner.

; Did Mr. Derwent authorize you to search for his
wife?”

After a hurried consultation by glances, the senior
lawyer answered, “ No.”

“Does he know anything whatever about your
movements?”

“ No,”

** And this action is undertaken solely upon your
own authority, and merely in hopes of future busi-

ness?”
juite so bad as that,’’ re-

“Oh, come, come—not qui » ba
monstrated the man of affairs, wineing; ‘surely no

one, with the chances accidentally placed in_ his |

power to see justice done the innocent and helpless,
could fail to do otherwise than we propose to do by
you.

“You say that Mr. Derwent separated from my
mother because some one slandered her, Did he
give her any chance to vindicate herself, or did he
abandon her without explanation?”

“* N-n-no—that is to say, yes. I fear he must plead
guilty to this charge; still, when you hear—”

“Now, this is the last BE ear saag said she, with a
faint, bittar smile. ‘‘Has Mr. Derwent ever, to
your knowledge, expressed either contrition at his
early conduct, or indicated a wish to find my mother,
to reinstate her in her rights?”

“* Well—not exactly.”

“Tell me the truth!” cried she, sternly. ‘‘Do not
dare to deceive me!”
And, for once in his life, singularly awed by the

dark menace of a woman’s eye, the lawyer blurted

nm | out the awkward truth, and spoiled all his pretty

scheme.

** No, never.”

She rose, folding her poor little crape mantle
about her shoulders, as an empress might have
folded the royal purple.

“Then, gentlemen,” said she, passing a resolute
and disdainful look from one disconcerted face to
the other, ‘‘I beg leave to retire from this field at
once, an porreencatly. For nineteen years I have
lived without the aid of a father; I can live the rest
as well. For nineteen years my mother has suffered
from the selfishness of my father, and I have toiled
for my bread, and eaten it sweetly, because it was
clean, and did not come from his sullied hands, I
shall not forget her sufferings, or abase myself for
the rest of my years. Your scheme is defeated; I
will have nothing to do with it. Good-day.”

And before the astounded practitioners could
open their frozen mouths to protest she had gone.

CHAPTER III.
OUT ON THE QUEST.

Monto went back to her private boarding-house,
locked herself into her cheerless, thread-bare fourth-
story bedroom, and ene

This day a cruel revelation had been made to her;
the first shock was not yet over; she felt sick an
benumbed, like one who has had a terrible fall; she
knew not as yet what of her bones were broken and
what remained to her sound. —

She had been taught to believe her father dead,

| dead in the first year of her mother’s married life,

and so seldom talked of, and then so vaguely, that
he had ever been but a faint, poetical, and abstract
idea, floating in tender shades in which her girlish
fancy reveled. And instead of these reverent and
dreamy thoughts, she ought to have been cursing
him at every fresh pang inflicted by a hard and bit-
ter life upon her mother.

For while she was suffering cold, hunger, loneli-
ness, heart-break and hopelessness, he was lapped

in wealth and ease, thinking wicked evil of her, and |

in no want of her.

Monica laughed to herself, with mockery sour as
verjuice. ~ recollection of the lawyer’s scheme
—that she should present herself to her patrician
sire in the character of a fond and favoring daugh-
ter, she of whose very existence he was ignorant,
she, the issue of that brief and luckless union, the
inheritrix of her mother’s wrongs—the self-imposed
avenger, Oh, what a comedy!

She laughed, sitting there by herself, so loudly
and wil that footsteps came hurriedly to her door
through the long strange passage, and ears listened

 

in affright, marveling whether the new boarder was
going mad,

So she muffled her hysteria, laid her head down
on the meager little marble-top table, beside the
frowsy map of New York, bound in ill-smelling
leather, her head that was so hot, while her feet
were like ice, and she tried to soften her heart, and
to pray to God, with whom her dear martyred
mother was; but she could not do that; no, no, no!
not with the live coal of vengeance glowing in her
thoughts.

For Monica was thinking of revenge—revenge on
her father.

or. she never called him ‘father,’ in her
thoughts, never permitted herself to picture him
with his arms about her mother, when that mother
was a beautiful young village darling, with her dia-
mond bright eyes resting sweetly on his, and her
velvet scarlet lips drinking in his breath, in Love's
Young Dream! No, rather she thought of those
eyes dimmed and caverned by the flow of many
tears, and the wasting of much hunger and pain; of
those scarlet lips, pale and compressed by the re-
pressing of many sobs and the enduring of nights
and days of humiliating thoughts.

And Monica registered a vow in her hot youn
heart, that Mr. Otto Montacute Derwent, the selfis
English aristocrat, should yet quail before the
Sp of the pure-souled young wife whom he had
deserted nineteen years ago, because he could be-
lieve evil of her.

She had so far resolved, that she would follow the
lawyer's wishes in that she would go to England and
confront Mr. Derwent, but not in the character of
his heiress expectant. Not that.

As her mother’s avenger.

By-and-by as the whirl of her excitement abated,
she could recall practical details,

And among the first she remembered, with a great
pong. of disappointment, that she had not even al-
owed them to give her Mr. Derwert’s address, and

how was she to find him? Not for worlds would she

| again present herself to the pair who had plotted to
| reinstate her in her rights at the expense of her self-

respect.

‘ortunately they had no clew to her present
whereabouts, and could not, were they ever so anx-
ious, trace her; and one of her instant resolutions
had been to elude them altogether, and make her
way, uususpected by living soul, to Mr. Derwent’s
mansion, enter it in disguise, and after reconnoiter-
ing, she would be better able to cope with the cruel
nature which had sacrificed her mother.

Suddenly she recalled the name they had men-
tioned—Dornoch Weald, in ——shire.

She sat up with sparkling eyes; she had found the
clew; it would be easy to trace the country seat of a
wealthy county family, once she was in that county.

Before she rose from that fateful reverie, Monica
Derwent had determined upon her course—a course
which was to lead her, all unwitting of its tremen-
dous possibilities, through as strange and terrible an
experience as ever madman dreamed, or the King of
Evil ever Dory, before unwary foot.

She said:

“T will go and see this Otto Montacute Derwent,
who has spoiled my mother’s life, and what heart-
less cruelty he has dealt her, will I render to him

again.

Sut the sinister shade of another influence stood
behind her, gibbering of the awful future, and she
saw it not.

Well, she must go at once to Britain, if she would
elude the probable search of the New York lawyers,
who had set their oped upon her as a valueble
client. She knew that it was not likely that they
had gone to the expense and trouble of advertisin;
for her mother unless they saw a good chance o
reimbursing themselves; also, that they would
leave no stone unturned to trace her again, in
the expectation of overruling her objections, and
molding her to their own purposes. So she dared
not return to Loangerie, even t a she possessed
not ten dollars in the world, until she went back to
her school to earn it.

_But Monica was brave in this, the outset of her

no bay career,

She felt ready to face anything. her burning in-
dignation inst the living and her holy love for the
dead upholding her untried courage.

The time was not yet come when she could realize,
through terrible experience, the true horror of fear;
she knew not its haunting visage as yet, for how can
one imagine that which has not yet a shape in the

mind?

By dint of calm and vigilant search, she found a
way to cross the ocean three days after her arrival
in New York. She read in her old friend the Herald,
an advertisement for a child's bonne, to travel with a
lady and her infant to England. , She answered in

erson, found the lady at a fashionable hotel, very

, very languid, and not at all too shrewd in her in-
quiries, Apparently taken at once by the quiet,

ave and refined demeanor of the oe, Mrs,

rothingham beckoned her to approach close to the

sofa upon which she reclined in her crimson shawl,

and fixing her lustrous, hollow eyes upon her face,

poured out her trials, her helplessness, her require-

ments, and her anticipated sufferings, in low, pur-

ring accents flavored strongly of the Southern plan-
n.

tio:

“So thankful to see anybody as presentable as
you, my dear, at last,” she sighed, having gazed her-
self satisfied and spoken herself fatigued. “Sucha
dreadful lot came at first. Oh, mercy! I should
have died! But you—why you are quite, gui/e pretty,
my dear; and, yes, you are really lady-like, You

be charmed with my Dottie, I know; such a
Puccolina. 1am so wretchedly ill on the ocean I can
do nothing. Celeste, my maid, will nurse me, and
= will have Dottie altogether under your charge.

ere, that’s all, isn’t it? You accompany me to
London, and if you suit, and by that time I shall
know it, you will remain with me. I am ordered to
England to be under the care of Sir Fretwell Malade,
the eminent ladies’ physician; I may be there a
year; perhaps not so long; it depends upon my
recovery; and if you suit you will stay, you know.

What do you say?”’
had gently arrested her in the even flow of
by putting up her slender,

shape nd, at which the lady stared sharply, re-

eon ts bo 5 Perhaps through the cheap black glove the
unusual delicacy of the supposed plebeian member,

Monica

her id prattlin
     

  

4

“T amsorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Frothing-
ham,”’ said Monica, calmly, ‘‘ but I can stay no lon-
ger with you than to cross the ocean in charge of the
child; instantly upon my arrival I shall have to
leave. Iam extremely disappointed if this will not
suit you, forI am obliged to go to England, and 1
have no money to pay the passage, and so must go
in this or some similar way.”

The Southern lady, accustomed to have no re-
sponsibility whatever upon her delicate shoulders,
looked blank enough at this announcement, and
piteously bewailed her hard fate.

* T thought it was too good to be true that I should
get such a capable, wise, superior person to go with
me,” she bemoaned; ‘* and Celeste is such a fool!
However, of course you can’t help it, and itis ex-
tremely honorable of you to tell me at once, and not
make a tool of me as you could so easily have done.
You, see, my dear, I am utterly unaccustomed to
rough it by myself, as these dreadful, independent,
self-reliant Northern ladies do. My husband is not
dead six months, and he used to do everything—he
and the blacks; I never had to even purchase a ribbon.
for myself, he did it all, or to pick up my own hand-
kerchief, they were always on hand, a score of them.
But now, oh, dear!” and she dissolved in weak-self-
pitying tears. ‘But you will cross with me. That

is enough for the present,” she resumed in a minute.
“Tam overcome with fatigue of examining appli-
cants, and will put off the evil day, now I have got
you, until we are settled in London, Come with me
at once, for we start to-morrow at noon, By the
way, whatisyourname?” _ .
onica was iy pan for this question.
““My name is Monica Rivers,” she answered ad-
di er mother’s surname to her own. She had
decided not to enter Mr. Derwent’s house bearing
her patronymic; she wished not to excite his atten-
tion until she had studied him well. And as she ex-
— to gain access to his patrician mansion only
n some menial character, she had no object now in
assuming any name that she did not intend to use
throughout the whole season of her retributive visit
in England.

And that was how she crossed the Atlantic and
overcame the first obstacle presented to her.

“ A good omen,” she told herself as she hurried
to her boarding-house for her slender belongings,
reflecting on the special Providence which had sent
her in the way of a lymphatic and heedless char-
acter like Mrs. Frothingham; any one else would
have been sure to demand references, ask definite
cee ry into her concerns, and generally make
it impossible for her to retain her own secrets with-
out suspicion and eventual rupture. But Mrs. Froth-
ingham was possessed of as little worldly wisdom as
a girl of ten; given to fancies, too thankful to lean
on anything that offered calm enduring strength.
and pleased with Monica’s refined face, respectful
manners, and simple honesty. >

The little party went amicably off together; and
Monica, standing on the crowded deck of the mam-
moth steamer, under the drearily falling winter rain
the next day at noon, and watching the wedge-
shaped city lessening in the distance, till the pale
gray of Castle Garden was all that was visible, felt
one anguished heart-wrench, as if she had done
something irrevocable; and then, looking down at
the wee rkling face of her tiny charge, smiled
away her forebodings, and thanked. Heaven for her
traveling companions.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MASTER OF DORNOCH-WEALD,

Tr hamlet of Dornoch, among the hills and fast-
nesses of ——shire, presented a picturesque eee:
a en to the weary eyes of the young woman who
entered it one gusty evening in the end of March, on
the top of the country stage-coach, which carries
the mails and passengers from the railway station,
Linnhe, twenty miles off. d

She had been traveling all day, in steamer, rail-
car, and coach; she was not yet com letely re-
covered from the enervating effects of her rough
and sea-sick passage across the Atlantic, and the
tiresome swimming of the head consequent on the
sea voyage, had not yet left her.

But Monica Derwent possessed a prompt and de-
termined vei not to be delayed or discouraged by
anything short of impossibility.

aving left the quiet nest of her sheltered girl-
hood, she found her wings both broad and strong,
— a now swooping on swift pinion, like an eagle
on rey.

Areived in a Sor it had not taken her long to
discover where to find the information she required,
that is, the address of Otto Derwent. The peerage
was handed her by the shopman; leafing it rapidly
over she soon had her small tapered finger-tip upon
this passage, under the illustrious heading:

‘ELTRIE, FAMILY NAME DERWENT.

“Otto Montacute Derwent, Master of Feltrie,
Hoarshire, oy seat, Dornoch-Weald, ——shire.
Born July 10, 1827, Only son of Copeland Moray
Derwent, Master of Feltrie, Hoarshire. Appointed
chief secretary to the Government of , 1854;

ed 1860, Created lord lieutenant of ——shire,
1860, and still serves. Never married. Next to kin
and heir expectant, Geoffry Kilmyre, eldest son of
Marina Derwent, sister to Otto Montacute, married
to Salter Kilmyre, raanufacturer, Cornlea.’

Monica flushed so vividly over the words, “never
married,” as she bent her graceful little head over
the page, that the ar cockney bookseller tried
to peep over her shoulder to see what on earth the
yo woman was reading that excited her so; but
she closed the book, quietly thanked him for his
civility in letting her see it, and gees out. And
two hours afterward she was aboard a coast steamer,
borne over the chopping, sicken: coast waves,
No ennai and weary beyond words, but in-
exorably resolved to continue on her way until she
stood face to face with Otto Montacute Derwent,

All night ache wine ee ind sak

si roar and grind and tremor
through the ewachi Sea; at gray dawn whirling
in a cold, contrac rail-car through flat n
meads and wet black earth-furrows, where the ridged
snow still lies; up, up, further and further North,
at midday standing. and faint on the platform
of the station at the. market town of Linnhe, the
nearest to Dornoch village; then set high in air by
the side of the brown, parchment-skinned,’ hairy

 

 

 

 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

 

 

coach-driver, whose gnarled hands grasp the ‘‘rib-
bons” of his four enormous spankers scientifically,
and whose conversation consists in sulphurous oaths
delivered to his steeds, and now, at last she is rolling
through the roughly-macadamized principal street
of Dornoch, her glittering eyes straining away
over the heads of the quaintly-dressed villagers at
me lordly turrets and shining windows of her father’s
ome,

It lies, perhaps a mile beyond the last thatch-roof-
ed cot of Dornoch; it is set proudly upon a gentle
eminence, not so steep or embowered in trees as to
conceal from these questioning eyes the velvet ex-
panses of its rollin, ‘ks and broad garden-acres;
the grand house of Dornoch-Weald,.with its encir-
cling pleasure-grounds, occupies a circular tract of
some two hundred acres in the heart of a forest, in
which may be seen some of the finest and oldest
timber in England. —

This forest, with its preserves, its charcoal fields,
and its stretching wealth of wood, as well as the
whole village of Dornoch, are described in the title-
deeds of the estate of Dornoch-Weald; Feltrie, the
other estate, and the older, from which he derives
his distinctive title of ‘ Master,” lies in another
county, not only far removed from Derwent’s resi-
dence here, but left to decay, ever since one of the
pay Derwents of the last century filled the sacred

alls with rout and lasciviousness, and was finally
murdered in the banqueting hall by one of his vile
companions.

The stage-coach sweeps up to the broad front of
an inn, over the wide-set door of which a vast shield-
shaped sign is swinging, displaying on its gilded sur-
face the escutcheon of Derwent, some mythological
monster ramping amid hieroglyphic signs, with the
legend underneath,

“Dare Not DERWENT.”

Mine host emerges, pipe in mouth, and cap askew;
helpers run from the stables; lights twinkle in the
windows of the inn; uncouth men and boys in mole-
skins and corduroys, loiter into the yard from the
street; and Ser oes, gazes with all his eyes as the
taciturn coach-driver helps down his only fassonger
from the box-seat, and hands her a slim little trav-
eling sachel, which, with a small box, comprises all
her belongings.

She stands silent a moment, looking attentively
about her; she has thought to find quiet lodgings in
the village for a few days, until she can effect her
purpose beri he but by the appearance of
the rude, half-civilize huts she has passed, and the
surly or stolid villagers, she begins to realize that
she may find this impossible.

“For the Weald, miss?” inquired a voice at her
elbow; the landlord was scrutinizing her with all the

ry curiosity of one whose glimpses of the outer
world are few.

“No, I expected to be able to find some sort of lodg-
ings in the village,” she replied, in her quiet, yet
crisp and sufficiently independent tone, her accent
sufficiently un-English to mark her alien extraction;
“can you direct me to a suitable house?’

The man stepped back a pace in order to havea
look at her, from the crown of her plain little black
silk hat to the tip of her slender shoe; then he
passed his vacant globular orbs slowly around the
circle of onlookers, as if for inspiration.

“A furriner!” muttered one voice in the quickly
gathering crowd.

_ A Ses like one 0’ they nun-women,” suggested a
second.

“Where can she come from, for to look to Dor-
noch for hotels and the like?” grumbled a third.

‘“‘Let me step inside, please; I shall take supper
here,” said the object of remark, anxious to ee me
from these candid expressions of the people’s opin-
ions;, and thus set in a path mine host mechanically
lumbered onin it; with a dumb-struck air he led her
into the inn parlor, and set her by the hearth upon
which a grand fire of — was roaring and crack-
ling, and sending its glimmering reflections all w
and down the wainscoted walls and the burnishe
brazen ornaments on the rude shelves.

1 eee poe the broad oe feine ee a

long sigh; she was so weary that everything she saw
in this strange new world looked dream-like and un-
real, and she herself was beginning to seem another
being, with nothing left of the original Monica Der-
went save a wound which quivered in pain when she
remembered her mother.

She was left alone while the landlord strolled out
to ee his senses and to find his spouse. She
tried to stagger to the window for another gaze at
the turrets of Dornoch-Weald, but her limbs refused
to bear her, and she curled down again in the cor-
ner of the cushioned dais, and soon succumbed to
the resistless influence of slumber’s three handmaid-
ens, Weakness, Weariness, and Warmth.

Dim and distant came the tramp and bustle of the
noisy inhabitants of the ‘“‘Dornoch Arms;” mine
host lumbered in with his wife at his heels, a tall
stalwart female like a grenadier, who approached to
shake her guest roughly awake, but was arrested
by the mute refinement of the small pale face and
the long silken lashes, and who then busied herself
clatteringly. about the supper-table; two chamber-
maids slip) in under cover of asking for orders
from their imperious mistress, but with the real in-
tention of slaking their curiosity about the “ youn;

wench” who talked “ half furren,” and ordered round }

her like a duchess; the bay of dogs came on the light
evening breeze, and sent mine host, his wife, and the
maids scattering in all directions in mad haste; the
clang of horses rte hoofs sounded galloping
nearer and nearer; the court-yard filled with noise
and clamor, voices shouting, joud laughter, the oc--
casional Sn 9 th a favorite steed or the whimper
of a wounded hound; then heavy footsteps came,

with the jangle of spurs and slash of hunting ratan,

Slooping aici lying on the gettie; in tive Bright tars

lee i ing on the settle, in the brig Ze
of firelighit.

“*Pon my life—see here, Rufus!” exclaimed a
Sees voice, ‘ what d’ye su; Bee this means?”
_ “Means the advent of something spicy to our
hunting dinner, by Jove—a snow-drop—but
— replied another voice in a cautious under-

‘one, ‘

Another step (Monica thought she was dreaming
all this) another step came slowly and majestically
across the oak floor as it isin dreams; it seemed to
be a long, long time in coming; so long indeed that

 

she waited for it with gradually intensifying curiosi-
ty; at last it seemed to halt between the two speak-
ers, and in a deep silence (she went on dreaming) a
pair of burning eyes were fastened upon her face,

And she awoke to lift up her own eyes and to find
this true.

It was with a singular shock that Monica first met
those orbs. They were large, the pupils dilated and
intensely black, with a surrounding iris like a ring of
fire; well cut, widely-open eyes, and sheltered by
eyebrows of jetty black, drawn straight across a
brow as white and cold as monumental marble, and |
deeply depressed half-way between the eyebrow
and the hair. At the moment that Monica fixed her |
upon these eratee eyes, she caught a look, inde-
scribably wild, and accompanied by a sudden pale-
ness of all the features; fascinated, horrified, she
did not move; she felt a ghastly constriction of the
heart, and ,her breath coming in painful gasps, as if
from under a mountain.

A smothered laugh broke the weird spell; the eyes
released hers; their owner bowed with majestic
dignity and turned away.

One of the young men in tarnished scarlet hunt-
ing-coats had touched his comrade’s elbow, and was
endeavoring to stifle his merriment.

They were both glancing from her, as she sat up
with flaming cheek and but half-aroused faculties,
in her corner, to the owner of the eyes. She, too, in
all her embarrassment, gazed earnestly after this
person as he strode to the window and leaned his
arm on the sash, and his head on his arm,

He was tall, portly; his fine jet-black hair waved
in careless locks over his broad gs forehead and
fell about his coat-collar; his hands as they gleamed
in the fire-light, seemed white as a woman’s, and
broad and muscular as an athlete’s; his costume
was a well-worn hunting one, richly appointed, but
utterly devoid of ornament other than the necessary
items of handsome hunting-gear.

The two younger men, having decorously banished
their chuckling amusement at the episode of the
young lady’s spellbound stare into the elder man’s
eyes, strolled outside to cross-question the landlord;
and Monica recovered her composure, resettled her-
self in her corner, and turned a quiet look upon the

fire.

Suddenly the stranger wheeled, saw her sitting
calmly there, and strode with a firm, quick tread to
the ee side of the wide hearth-stone; where.
with his elbow resting on the tall mantle-shelf, and
his gaze also turned quietly on the fire, he stood
motionless as a statue, and not unlike one of the

and old Knights Paladin, with frame worthy of
the Herculean achievements of those rude days of
glory. ; ‘

ithout looking again at him, Monica mutely
made up her mind that this was one of the lords or
landholders of the neighborhood, and wondered
whether Mr. Otto Derwent had been at the hunt, and
whether he also would come into the inn parlor,

‘“*T shall know him when he comes,” she mused
with a swelling heart. ‘‘He must be about forty-
three now, a stout, middle-aged man, with mixed
hair, and a hard or sinister expression.”

On and on went her thoughts; her fine face con-
tracted, her soft red mouth compressed. Fire shot
from her frowning eyes; she was looking alon
vengeful future, lit up by the torch of her mother’s
wrongs. She forgot the stranger standing opposite
her: she forgot the quaint old English inn; she saw
nothing, felt nothing, but the baleful flicker of her
chosen mission.

The sudden scratching and ae ae of dog-feet
across the slippery floor roused her; she started
violently and half rose—for the stranger’s face was
within three feet of hers, and his strange eyes were
riveted upon her in breathless, wondering scrutiny.

“Stop. Excuse me, young lady, but—who are
you ?” said he. R

There was something in the low iron voice, as in
a wide, vivid eye, which overawed and mastered

er. é
_ Asif in a dream she sunk back again, never feel-
ing the cold, sharp nose of the hound as it traveled
over her hands in suspicious examination, nor
realizing the eccentricity of the question; and said:

“Monica Rivers.”

_She saw the eager expectancy of his gaze quench
like a blown out, a moment of blank vacancy,
then a shrinking of the dilated pupil, and a sudden
glare of pet Boo rs succeeded by a scowl of
curiosity, which remained.

“ Rivers? May I trouble you to explain what
Rivers? You speak like an American.”

How did he know that so instantly? Her accent
was pure enough, and fortunately unmarred by

any pene or dialectism whatever. How
aa e guessed? A dark thought shot into her
mind.

“T am an American,” she replied, meeting his
frowning inquisition with a sudden flash of_repul-
sion, “and aa family is entirely unknown. I am a
Rivers—that is all I know.”

“Be explicit,” said he, in a lower and yet some-
how, @ more iron and domineering tone.’ “ Who is

our a in father? From what part of the

nited States have you come? Answer me, child.
Ihave, perhaps you may find, some right to demand
information on these points from you.”

Monica started to her feet, See agitated.
For a moment she thought, wildly: “Yes, this is he,
and _ he has, in his unearthly ¢’ ‘oyance, discov-
ered me,”

But a second thought resolved her to force the
recognition from him, rather than herself avyow it;
so she answered, proudly: :

‘My parents are gone; my father ’’—this she said
with a passing malice, waiting to see him wince—
oat father was only a village schoolmaster, my
mother a lace-maker, and I was brought up in pov-
erty and sorrow, to be a village schoolmistress, as
= hight of my ambition; New York was my birth-

ta

She was describing, as closely as she dared, the
very circumstances of her mother, as Otto Derwent
had come upon her twenty years ago; and she had
the satisfaction of seeing him wince and pale, and
gnaw his lip with a fierce elt senpee

“The name of the village, girl?” he demanded.

And she named her mother’s village, reckless, in
the sinister glee of her first triumph over him.

** Addiscombe.” ' "

The hunter drew up, gazed at her for a few mo-

her '

Se

 

 

 
sy

 

ments with a stricken, astonished air; then, with
a mechanical bend of the head, he strode from the
room. 3

As he went out, the hostess came in, giving him
wide room to pass, and an old-fashioned courtesy
down to the floor. e

‘* Who is that man?”’ cried the young girl, with a
voice as high and clear as silver bells.

“That,” answered the woman, reverently—‘ oh
that is our squire, the Master of Dornoch-Weald, rill
warrant you never saw a kinglier gentleman where-
soever you come from.”

And Monica, heedless of the implied invitation to
confide her nationality to the mistress of the ‘ Dor-
noch Arms,” turned away with a very peculiar
smile, “that kind of made me creep like,”’ as Dame
Hicks said afterward, when these SDB STE nth trivial
events were talked of over the length and breadth
of the British Isles. Re

CHAPTER V.
WAITING AND SEEING.

Anp that was Otto Derwent, her father !

With blazing cheeks the girl sat and thought of
him, scanning again, with mental gaze, the tall,
stalwart figure, the proud, picturesque countenance,
the dominant manner, the dashing, courageous, bon-
camerade style of the man who had let his wife per-
ish alone in Loangerie.

How lightly his sorrow sat upon him! Why, her
ao had looked at least ten years older when she

ied

As Monica played with the fried ham _and eggs
and weak tea served to her by Dame Hicks, she
plied that personage with questions that set her
voluble tongue wagging continuously, and rendered
the ees lady so much more interesting a guest
than the dozen of hungry hunters who reveled in the
big hall, that she passed over these magnates to her
aes and devoted herself to the one lone little
girl. s
And Monica, with her white hand upholding her

cheek, and her dark glimmering eyes fastened full
upon the dame’s raw-boned face, lured her_on and
on, till she had told all she knew about Dornoch-
Weald and its noble master.

According to Mrs. Hicks, “the master,” as she
delighted to call him, was so obstinate in_his celi-
bacy, and withal so brilliant, fascinating and popular
among the ladies, that the highest in the land had as

‘ood as offered herself to him, while all the county
fadies, belles and heiresses, as well as peeresses in
their own right, were breaking their necks after him,
without the smallest reward,

“Wor a gay man, an’ a jovial liver,” said the old
woman, “ he’s that queer about marryin’, the Lord
only knows what he means for to do for an heir;
him that hates his nephew, Geoffrey Kilmyre, fit to
shoot him—him as used for to fairly worship the lad!
And in my opinion, as well as the whole country-
side’s, a properer man, and a gallanter, never step-
ped across Dornoch-Weald threshold; a bit harum-
secarum maybe, but, Lord! that’s better than foxin’
:d wigglin’ like snakes around the master’s heels,

ke the next after him again—I mean them two
ogues as were here a minute ago with him, Rufus
’ Gavaine Marshall. Geoffrey, ye see,’s a right
lown Derwent, as why shouldn’t he, bein’ the mas-
cer’s own sister’s child; whereas them scum aren’t
nothin’ but distant relatives, ever so far removed,
sons of—would ye beiieve it, nothin’ but a tailor!
and with neither the souls nor the bodies of owr Der-
wents, God bless the race!” ;.

“And he—Mr. Derwent, I mean—is he kind to peo-
pe good man?’’ demanded the listener, disdain-

‘ully.

«Humph |! I dunno what may your ideas of good
be! He suits us—lets us a-be, and that’s what a
nage man should,” retorted the innkeeper’s wife.
“If the young woman as has been hanging on these
ten year at the Weald would only keep her nose out
of our consarns, like the master does, she’d suit us
better too, I'll wager,”

‘‘ Who is she?”?

“Oh, another far-off relation; at least she Says So,
an’has been a-tryin’ for to ketch the master ever
since she got out of short clothes—for a scheming
viper! But he don’t see it, he! he! he!—an’ so they
say up at the hall that of late she’s set her cap for
young Master Geoffrey, an’ that she’s in a fair way
of hookin’ him, too. ‘But it'll be a sad day for Dor-
noch when Godiva Montacute gets to be mistress
of the Weald.”

“Young, you say?”

“Jest of age, miss, twenty-one, and as sly a
serpent as ever crawled. It’s my opinion, an’ I don’t
care who hears me sey, so, that she’s that mad at
the master for never lookin’ her way, that she’d
stick her bodkin in his heart, any day, if she had a
chance; an’ if ever anything amiss do happen to
him, I'll know who done it,”

And the giantess nodded her great héad gloomily,
gazing with a disgusted frown into vacancy.

Monica felt a singular stir at the heart, anda quick
breathless craving to see this woman face to face.
Yet, although she was spoked of as the enemy of the
Master of Dornoch-Weald, it was not kindred feeling
that animated the American girl, who had come
here in the character of an avenger,

“Go on! tell me more,” said she, settling herself
with yet deeper attention, to the dame’s great grati-
fication, for she loved to declaim on the affairs of
het betters. “Where is Geoffrey Kilmyre, and
what?

“Oh, he’s a rovin’ blade. He don’t trouble the
Weald much, especially since the master turned him

out of Dornoch for wanting to marry a poor gal as
Was governess in the parson’s family.”
j,,"Ab! cried Monica, derisively, “‘the Master of
\Dornoch-Weald does not like poor girls, does he?”
jo% Well, this ’un weren’t much, anyhow, an’ who
but a mad devil like Master Geoffrey would think 0’
settin’ the like, with nayther blood nor beauty, at
the head of the table where princesses wanst sat?”

“Well, did the young man assert his independ-
ence, and marry her in spite of his uncle, or did he
prove a craven and abandon her for the sake of his
uncle’s wealth?” 7

“Land! how your eyes do shine, miss! Did he
marry Nell Wyvern, say out No, for, as good luck
ud have it, she showe herself up in time, for
the bold, brazen hussy she was, an’ run off with
parson’s eldest son, a captain in the guards, when-

ery? she found out that her vich lover *ud loge every: |

 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN,

thing if he married her; an’ she not even expectin’
to marry Tom Grindon, Ugh! Master Geoffrey may
thank his stars for his escape. It broke the heart of
parson’s wife, as sweet a lady as ever trod in Dor-
noch’s; she died in a month; an’ parson hisself, he
have never held up his poor head since; for the lad
was a good son till she come to blacken his soul.
She’s in Lunnon this very day, a-ridin’ in her ker-
ridge among all the other brazen wenches, an’ Tom
Grindon’s forgot ages ago, and gone tothe dogs.
Well, Master Geoffrey wor well rid of her; but for
all that he never forgave his uncle for standing
atween them on account of the gal’s low birth; so
he’s very seldom at the Weald now, but keeps
hisself to his own big, lonesome house in Cornlea,
an’ meanwhile them. reptiles, the Marshalls, keep
close by the master’s ear, an’ Satan only knows
what lies they tell about. our young master; and
that other fox, Godiva Montacute, keeps a-writin’
constant to Master Geoffrey, drawin’ him, fine as a
wire, into her net, though how she means to get the
propert for him ag’in’ two such imps as them

arshalls, is past me. Well, well, thank God, the
master’s as hale an’ hearty as any one of ’em yet,
an’ can ride to hounds with the foremost; it may be
@ many years afore anybody ’ll get into his shoes,
an’ the good Lord grant it will.”

And with this devout aspiration the landlady de-
awn in response to acall from the dining-room,
rom whence came the jolly racket and turbulence
of a hunt dinner,

And Monica once more sunk deep into reverie,
with wondering heart questioning the near future.

She was soon afterward conducted to her bed-
room, situated in a distant part of the wide-spread
rambling cottage, but for all that, not quite out of
hearing of the noisy party in the dinin “room; and
she passed the long, cold, gusty night between
waking visions of sinister foreboding, and slumber-
ing trances of nameless terror, till the dim breaking
of day, when all grew death-still and she slept pro-
foundly. With her waking came perplexities.

Unless she applied, under some good pretext, at
the parsonage for lodgings, there was not a house
in Dornoch open to her; for the most part the in-
habitants were pect oor, Leasing small
egg of land upon which. they raised green stuffs

or the Linnhe market, and crammed into infini-
tesimal cottages, eight or twelve of a family; ignor-
ance, vice, and brutal suspicion of strangers seemed
to be their ruling characteristics.

“ Like people, like master,” thought the intelligent
American girl, poameine ri she was fresh from her
own trim, thriving little village, where every soul
could at least read, and where the poorest cotter
could mingle with his fellows, a rational being.

What curse was hanging over this people, that
they were so imbruted?

othing but an unhappy and reckless lord, whose
bitter conservatism and Bolling pride of race had
taught him to look upon his tenants as naught but
miserable serfs to till his lands and to crouch at his
foot as their natural lord and master!

For the Master of Dornoch-Weald was'said through
all the country to be the proudest man within the
Riding; owe by far of his ancient aan than
many a high peer, more newly ennobled; his pri-
vate character was a strange mixture of princel
bonhomie toward his ne ome and icy impenetrabil-
ity toward all, high or low, who ventured to tread
too close to his real nature.

Monica was obliged to hire a room at the inn; she
shrunk from the task of dissimulation with all the
repulsion of a high-toned nature, and felt it impos-
sible to intrude under false pretenses upon the
stricken man at the pone it was only her
father whom she could contemplate deceiving with-
out one pang of compunction. r

She took a room at the ‘Dornoch Arms” for a
few weeks, and bestirred herself to obtain entrance
under some plausible excuse, into the Weald. She
gave out to the inn people that she had come to
heir village among the woods for change of air,
her pale and emaciated appearance suggesting in-
stantly recent illness among the ruddy and robust
Northern peasants; and she took care to make it
known that if the air agreed with her, she would be
thankful to get some post at the Mansion House, be-

too poor to live idle upon her money.

ut the days passed, and not! came of her
stay, except that she made_herself thoroughly fa-
miliar with the grounds of Dornoch-Weald, as well
as for miles around among the forests.

And then fate gave her her will; a door opened
where she least looked for it, and the way was clear.

 

She had not caught another glimpse of Mr. Der-
went; neither had she seen the woman who now di-
vided her thoughts with him—Godiva Montacute,
the wily connection, The brothers Marshall she
often saw and eluded; they made a habit of riding
past the inn every day, and of a to call for a
stirrup-cup of mine host's nut-brown ale, in the
hope of snatching another glimpse of the pale and
lustrous-eyed stranger lady, whom they had discov-
ered oieep on the wooden settle.

She had successfully avoided not only them, but
all the cavaliers at the Mansion; she was cautious
as to when and where she took her walks, and con-
fined herself to her room as long as they loitered
about the inn.

This reserve piqued their curiosity; they vowed
to “have her out of*her hole,” as they put it, and
haunted her,

At this time the great house was thronged with a
merry company. Not only sportsmen filled its spa-
cious walls and vaulted chambers, but ladies from
the beaw monde, bright, beautiful, young and_illus-
trious ladies, might be seen sauntering in dainty
guise through the budding garden-beds, and the
mossy paths of the home-woods,

Sometimes they flashed by on horseback, attended
by the youngest and gayest of the cavaliers; some-
times they drove, a merry cavalcade, in the master’s
open carriages, through the quaint little village, to
some point of interest in the neighborhood, gazing
curiously about them as they passed the wretch
hutches with their squalid, beast-like inhabitants;
but Godiva Montacute was never among these; she
seemed to confine herself within the walls of Dor-
noch-Weald, as one with some watch to keep.

Monica came to think of this unseen woman who
hated the Mastey of Dornoch-Weald, eating his

 

’

 

bread the while, with superstitious dread; she was
always straining to catch a glimpse of her.

One morning she reached, in the course of her
ramble in the forest facing the Weald, a eee
little dingle, where the gray rocks peeped throu,
velvet mosses, and the fresh young curls of the
bracken interlaced, with the shooting grasses, the

narled roots of the giant oaks; silver-stemmed

irches, dusky thorn, and tasseled poplars, stretched
away like solemn cathedral columus into the dim re-
cesses of the wood; and a fair bud-fringed gap re-
vealed the Mansion straight fronting the girl, as she
leaned among the young spring verdure against a
granite bowlder, halt-lost amid_ the shadows and the
intricate tracery of naked boughs.

As usual, Monica had brought a book with her; it
was not one calculated to enchain her interest
much, itis true, for, in default of any books what-
ever in her present abode, she had obtained per-
mission from the sexton of the little Chapel to use
the library of theological works which moldered
in the vestry, and these volumes chanced to be of
the est and most dogmatic type: so she had also
provided herself with a piece of lace-work, which
she made almost as exquisitely as her mother, and
with more originality of design, and on which she
now built some hopes of making a subsistence.

She was weary with a long walk, and sat in a half
dream, her abstract:d gaze fixed upon those distant
turrets; when the quiet rustle of some light trailing
rate) over last year’s fallen leaves attracted her at-

ntion,

She turned in every direction, seeking the cause,
but nothing was visible coming through that mist o:
crossing twigs, with its slight vailing of just peeping
green; then the rustling stopped, and she heard a

uick, firm step, and a clear merry whistle, comi:
shrilling up from the valley below. It was answere
from the point where the rustling had ceased, by
the warbling of a bird, so very cleverly and deftly
executed that Monica had not the slightest sus-
os that it could be anything else, until the rust-
ing began aoa and standing up, she saw, coming
apparently toward her nook, a tall woman in a
vapory sort of pale gray gown, that scarcely showed
through the silvery grayness of the trees, only that
it moved, and that something copper-red shone on
the head of it, and something roseate white where
the face might be.

As she looked, not doubting but that the lady had
seen her and was coming to speak to her, the firm
step all the while comin springing up and up from
the valley, the lady stood still, behind the enormous
— of a centenarian oak, and a gentleman sprung
eside her.

As the two met, Monica, who saw them in profile,
though the ae tree hid them completely from the
windows of the Mansion, perceived the tall, slim
lady put out two long white hands with an impulsive
grace, which the gentleman, when he was up to her,
gathered quickly in one of his, shook them gayly,
and ne throwing himself back then against
the trunk, while he gazed at her in silence for per-
a a minute, his riding-cap in his hand, and his
shining brow lit by the clear morning beams,

And Monica, who could see his face distinctly, be-
ing iecaet ak of unusually long sight, breathed a
mechanical sigh of pleasure; for it was so beautiful,
not only in tion pure contour, rich and manl

coloring, and grace of outline, but in the heartfelt
sincerity and ingenuousness of the soul that looked
forth from the clever, searching eyes, that her very
heart was satisfied for once, and ere ever he had
uttered one word in her hearing, her soul assented
to all that was in his nature, fiber to fiber answer-

ing.

S Rare and fair as ever, Godiva! Anxiety onl
makes you lovelier, I protest, my brave champion,”
were the first words spoken,

“Oh, Geoffrey ! Grorrrey! GEOFFREY!” were her
words in answer.

Monica felt her heart stand still; these were the
two who ought to be of the utmost importance in
the world, to her, after Otto Derwent, for they were
the candidates for heirship of his wealth—herrivals,

Godiva Montacute and Geoffrey Kilmyre stood at
last before her—before ner, the unknown daughter
of their patron and uncle.

CHAPTER VI.
THE SIREN OF THE WOOD,

Miss Montacuts had uttered her greeting in a low
impassioned tone, and with a movement as if she
would have drawn the young man most impetuously
to her bosom, a movement which he did not respond
to, as he leaned in an attitude of perfect indolent
ey against the old black tree-trunk; then she fell

ck a step, crossing her pare hands on her breast
with her bare head drooping, and the Peon gold
of her waving hair glittering under the sun, for her
broad-brimmed country hat was slung over one arm
by im floating ribbons of palest azure.

She looked very, very lovely and stately as she
drooped so; her hight was majestic, her figure lithe
and wae with an easy ean grace, like the
eth Be ations of a bending blade of grass, or
a twi Recon her face was purely oval, and
creamy white, where it was not roseate of the purest
carmine tint; in her tiny ivory ear beamed a star-
shaped azure periwinkle-blossom, in porcelain, or
some pretty ware, a spray of the same fasteni
the transparent illusion scarf that softly muffle
her throat, as white as it; oh! she was delicacy,
deinureness, modesty and tenderness personified
she who might, by right of her ie ioee stature an
noble beauty, have lifted herself toweringly above
any man’s insulting indifference, a very C ete)

“You are glad to see me, then?” said offrey
Kilmyre, curiously regarding her. “In the name of
Heaven, why, I should like to know?” f

She stole a strange look at him; it was as if her
eyes, concealed till then under the longest, richest
red lashes Monica had ever seen, had emitted a
white flash, xe lightning in daylight; then they
were hid again.

“Pardon me, Mr. Kilmyre, I have no right to pre-
sume to be either glad or sorry about you,” she
replied in a humble, innocent voice. ‘But if I was
—I really couldn’t help it—at least—oh, what a
shame to put me on the witness stand this way!”
she broke iad in pre ee and half oe
away, poutin, et smiling, like a very sweet unso-
phisticated chila> - :

Monica had listened and looked thug far, too

 
    
 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

 

 

utterly carried out of herself by the suddenness of
the double arrival to recollect the impropriety, of so
doing; she would now, having come a little to her-
self, inevitably have either called their attention to
her proximity by some sound, or walked away, had
not something in this last maneuver of the beautiful
Godiva struck cold conviction of treachery to her
soul. Conscious of this intuition, and of not
else, she suddenly sat down again in her shadowe
nook, and, completely sheltered by intervening
rocks and branches from the most searching looks,
pee to overhear all that this woman had come
here to say to Geoffrey Kilmyre. And now she
a see neither of them; but the better could she
isten.

‘Do you know, blushes are vastly becoming to
you, Lily-Maid,” she heard the gay, yet rather
mocking voice of the ion man say next,

It was clear that whatever he might be to this
lovely dependent on his uncle’s bounty, she was no-
thing to him, nothing at least beyond the pleasant
moment of her luring presence,

“Do you think so? Thank you!’ murmured she
eons and {Monica could see mentally the mock-
maiden side glance and the evil shrewdness of the
hidden heart of her as she said it.

“Well, you are a good little thing—I beg peaene
pardon—litt/e is scarcely the term to describe a
woman of your majesty; but somehow you always
seem to me babyish enough for the endearment, in
spite of your six feet of statuesque perfection.”

“Anything you say by way of endearment, Geof-
frey, is precious—is, I should rather say, u elcome to
me; as you know, I have had little love in my life,”

‘Poor child! That’s the way with most of us, I
dare swear. However, I need not keep you out in
this wilderness talking sentiment. _Lets to busi-
_— You wrote for me, and here Iam. What is
ite?

‘‘Oh, me! How sternly you can look atme! Did
Ido wrong to write you, Geoffrey? Indeed, it was
out of the parest—”

‘“There—there—don’t cry, dear soul. What under
heaven have I said now, to_stir up the pathetics in
your foolish little heart? For a large woman, and
a rather sensible one, you are vhe veriest_ baby!
There, that’s right; you look more practical now.
You were right enough in summoning me to Dor-
noch-Weald, if my uncle was in any trouble which I
could avert. Little cause as he has shown me to
waste filial duty upon him, I can’t hear of his worries
without at least wanting to ofe my help. What is
the matter?” »

“Let me collect my reasoning faculties a moment,
Mr. Kilmyre. I must not waste your time or for-
bearance getting out the matter in my own poor
womanish way; wait one minute.”’

It was clear that the ‘‘ Lily-Maid” required some
time to crush down the rage and mortification his
car less words had roused inher; any woman would
have recognized the anger which burned in those
quivering, half-suppressed tones, and in the quick
swish of her robe over the dead leaves as she passed
to and fro.

Geoffrey Kilm: mayeS evidently did not read these
signs aright. ter uttering a pene laugh at her
closing words, the snap of a match and the curls of
blue smoke rising over the spot where he stood be-
tokened the serenity with which he had lit his cigar,
and the careless nonchalance with which he meant
to await the revelation his kinswoman had summon-
ed him to hear.

Soon her promenade ended, and her voice sound-
ed, low and delicate, through the ancient forest.

“Did you know that Rufus and Gavaine Marshall
were here on a six weeks’ visit?”

“By Jove! no/ The Marshalls? What can the
poor old fellow mean? How does his majesty get
along with the sneaking curs? J’m bad enough—the
son of a Cornlea cotton prince. But they, ye gods!
scions cf a ¢ai/or/ Ha! ha! ha!”

Geoffrey’s laugh, the laugh of an honest man,
rung out merrily; its sarcasm could not make it even
malicious.

“Hush, dear boy, hush!’ came the suppressed
voice of Godiva, and there was malignity-germ
enough in her tones for both. “If any one should
discover m2 under these circumstances—oh, I shud-
der at the consequences!” A pause. No one asked
what consequences, Bee

The delicate voice went on, with a metallic clink

it:

“Well, let me suffer if I must; I had rather
suffer for you than curry favor with them for
my own sake, I don’t know how they contrived
to be invited this time along with our other dis-
tinguished guests; certainly they were invited b;
Mr. Derwent, in due form, and are treated wit!
as much consideration and respect as my Lord
Drogheda himself; not a hint of their extraction,
only that they are distant connections; and as they
have been well, even showily educated, and appear
to have mixed in good society, they make a good
appearance, and no one would take’ them for any-
thing else than gentlemen. They have been here
three weeks now, and in that time they have con-
trived to become so necessary to Mr. Derwent, that
he is never seen without one or the other of them at
his heels. Of course in one way there is nothin;
wonderful in that, for ever since he resurrec
them from obscurity on the occasion of your ex-
pulsion two years ago, he has ig up a correspond-
ence with them, as well as visiting them now and

ain at their own homes. But now they are really
his principal guests. Does he moot an excursion,
there they are, ready with hand and head to take
everythi but the enjoyment off him; does he
speak of ball or masque, who so nious and so
adroit to bring it about, not only with success, but
with a unique fancy and originality that flatters and
charms him; does he wish for sentiment, call for
Rufus and Gavaine; the muses, Rufus and Gavaine;
the arts, Rufus and Gavaine; or, best of all, does he
crave seclusion, no reason in the world why he should
not indulge so intellectual a wish; are not R
and Gavaine here to conduct everything so cleverly,
and yet so modestly, that not the most captious 0
the guests can miss their host? Ah, Heaven! when
I watch these terrible men basking under his pleased
and musing glance, and think of you thrust out,
thought of with freezing coldness, never mentioned
at all, and your very portrait turned to the wall, my
heart turns in my bosom. I have dared to keep
your memory alive, notwithstanding his frowns and

oe ene

 

angry, goading taunts—I dare no more—if you only
essed what he tortures me by saying—I, who
ow so little about money that I never can distin-
guish between pounds and shillings, who would
serve you the same if you were really penniless as
he seems to wish you were.”

The narrator broke off with thick crowding sobs;
they were so very naturally done, so convulsive, so
eloquent of long and bravely-repressed sorrow and
distress, that, by the low murmuring that next came
through the wood, Monica guessed that the deluded
Geoffrey was caressing her in some kind way, and
whispering thanks and praises in her ear.

With all the scornful curiosity of a proudly genu-
ine nature, that observes the full iniquity of a false
and wicked one, she rose and looked...

For all her hard work, Godiva had only won the
small triumph of Geoffrey’s hand on her drooping
eee he was patting and stroking ab-
sently.

“ And so, fearing that they were on the high-road
to supplant me in my uncle’s will, you wrote for me
to appear on the scene,’’ said he, presently raising
his comforting tones and returning to his place, the
moment she had so far repressed her emotion as to
return her handkerchief to her pocket. ‘* And what
did you expect me todo in self-defense, my dear?”
he added, obviously more from curiosity to hear
her idea than to obtain information on the impor-
tant_point.

“ Do!’ echoed she, almost sharply; “ why, Geof-
frey, is it you, who have so much at stake, who asks
me, the humblest person in the house, and the least
interested, what you should do?”

“My dear girl, do youknow that you made rather
a pertinent insinuation that lest remark?”

‘Eh? what can you mean?” muttered she, insome
confusion.

“Oh, you didn’t mean it at all, of course, you little
‘oose; but it is just confoundedly true that you are
he least interested party connected with this beast-

ly business, kecause whoever of u , the tailor peo-
ple or I, eventually turn out master of yonder man-
sion, you won't suffer; I don’t forget Rufus Mar-
shall’s old penchant toward you; you see, you’re

e.

“Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey ! how little do you know
poor, friendless Godiva Montacute!” sighed she, with
great feeling. Monica had reseated herself, too
much disgusted with her last sight of the lady to
remain looking. “I shall never turn from your
cause, dear, never desert your standard for theirs,
were you to be disinherited to-morrow.”

“Thanks, little girl; therein you show your
warmth of heart and utter folly in charming unison.
Indeed I don’t think I ought to encourage you to
revolt from the ruling powers, especially since it is
really a matter that does not touch you in the least.
Imean my well or ill fare. Drop me, little one; I
sha’n’t feel aggrieved. You've no right to turn your
back upon a young, devoted and thriving suitor, for
the sake of a poor unlucky devil who isn’t even in
love with you!”

How did she take that? Involuntarily Monica rose
up to see; her foot os oer among the dry twigs and
leaves with a faint and rustling noise, and the face of
the young lady, which had been bowed on her bosom
in her favorite attitude of infantile submission and
sadness, flashed up with the remains of a fierce
white scowl upon it, to listen, with dilated eyes and
a sinister keenness in every strained feature. She
did not see Monica, she looked ae past her,
into the depths of the forest; and after a moment’s
breathless suspense, as the sound was not repeated,
she turned eagerly to her companion.

“Some one may come; I dare not be seen by hu-
man eye qomenuning with you, not only because of
the proprieties, but for sake of your welfare. Should
they hear—your uncle, I mean, or they too—that I
was on such terms with you, they would conceal
everything from me as from a SPY; and I could not
assist youatall, This is what I think you should
do. Come boldly on a visit to your uncle; make
some excuse; here is the list of guests at the man-
sion; if there’s a soul among them you know, say
you were encouraged to venture to your old home
—put it so—to see him or her; once regain a footing,
and gentleness and submission to his will in every-
thing will soon bring you back all his good-will. He
can’t forget that you are of the blood, a true Der-
wears while they—but, I must go, Geoffrey, in-

eed.’

“And shall I stoop to these accursed dissimula-
tions, do ae think, girl?’ demanded the young
maz, with biting contempt. ‘‘Not I! Let Derwent
do as he likes with his wealth; I sha’n’t defile m;
fingers groping in the mire after it! If the old fel-
low was in trouble, or ill, | might swallow my pride
and come to him, but not for this reason. My good
girl, Thave always thought that your moral percep-
ions were rather blunt, but this—”

‘*Oh, don’t rebuke me—don’t!”” sobbed the lady,
in the most afflicted manner. “I have not had h
time to present the case as it really is; I have
thought only of your interests, and forgetting his al-
toge er. You must come, and instantly, Geoffrey.”

Don’t ask me again to sneak into my uncle’s
ood graces, Godiva, or I shall never look on your
‘ace more,” he burst forth haughtily.

‘““Wait—hear what I do ask,” she retorted, in a
tone that suggested clinched teeth and a raging
heart. ‘‘ Your uncle és in trouble, is ill, or I shoul
never have dared to send for you, knowing that you
would not come for self-interest alone; nor could I
have asked you to come for self-interest alone.
He is in trouble—for I don’t trust these men—do you
hear? J don’t trust them near him, night and day, as
long as self-interest actuates them.”

“My God! is there—”

“Hush! hush!” panted she, in startling agitation:
I would have given much not to have been obliged
to tell you this; I know nothing, only that so very
much depends upon Mr. Derwent’s will, and after
his will is made— on his death—that I tremble at the
wonderful influence which these brothers have al-
ready seined over him, and the patient coer
with which they haunt him. Come, come and wate
inert ae Geoffrey, if you ever loved your poor kind
uncle

Tears and sobs, quivering accents, pauses, hurry—
no wonder if the young man gazed at his companion
in utter shocked and unquestioning credence.

“You said, ‘in trouble, and ill’—is he i/, Godiva?’
asked he, urgently,

ret oa bey z Re ee

 

 

“He does his best to cheat us all,’’ was tho wily
answer; ‘‘he goes as usual about all his usual pur-
suits; but 7 can see—who am watching with anguish
—how changed he really is; how death-pale at times,
what fluctuating spirits, no pega unnatural pe-
riods of frozen reverie, all watched with the horrid
intensity of fate, by the brothers! And when his
weary eyes light on the back of your portrait—such
a wistful, yearning, grieved look-—”

“Let me go; why did you not say all this at first?”
cried Geoffrey, impetuously. ‘*Good God, girl, you
should have sent for me at the very beginning. My
Poor lonely old fellow! Heavens! what a brute I’ve

een, to abandon him to any vile pack of fortune-
hunters!”

““Go—go at once then—quick! I hear some one!”
hissed Godiva, abruptly laying her hands on his
shoulders, and fairly pushing him a few steps down
the incline. He submitted to the motive power, and
— off under its impetus down the hill to the

eald.

Monica, still standing, with lynx eyes glued to the
schemer, was debating with herself whether she
should reveal her presence, curious to see the effect
of such an unexpected occurrence upon Miss Monta-
cute; when she perceived, by the lady’s attitude of
intent listening, as well as by her anxious consulta-
tion of the watch at her girdle, that some other per-
son was expected.

By the wily craft on that fresh blush-rose f;
and the care with which she took a long survey o!
her surroundings, Monica received an emphatic im-
pression of the importance of witnessing the forth-
coming interview as she had witnessed the last, and
further concealed herself by creeping off to the
dusky hollow of an enormous decayed tree, half a
dozen paces from her bowlder, where, comfortably
propped in a sitting posture, with a mossy barricade
of upheaved roots in front, she could both see and
hear without the smallest danger of discovery.

She had scarcely composed herself, when the gray
shadowy figure of the lovely Godiva passed into her
line of vision, not half a dozen feet from her, and
stopped dead still.

y the excitement on her smiling face, and the
ee outstretched arms, Monica saw that this
interview was of a more interesting nature even than
the last, and waited in breathless suspense for the
arrival of the other party to it.

She had not half a minute to wait; still standing in
an attitude of perfect grace and elegance, exqul-
sitely hightened in effect by the gracious smiles of
welcome that wreathed the lovely scarlet lips, Go-
diva was joined by another young pone who,
however, did not content himse y a cool hand-
shake, but took the lissom form boldly in his arms,
and poured a shower of kisses on her ripe and an-
swering lips. 4

Then he held her off at arm’s length to look at
her with fond admiration, and Monica beheld tho
features of the man whose laugh had awakened her
as she slept on the wooden settle in the inn parlor—
Rufus Marshall! ea

CHAPTER VII.
SATAN’S IMPS.

“My Sweet!” were the first delighted words that
broke the enraptured spell, uttered by the young
man as he drew Godiva Montacute again to hig
breast, and pillowing her burnished head there,
patted and smoothed it with trembling hand. ‘You
are, after all, fond of me; don’t deny it after this.”

“I'm afraid I am, Rufus,” breathed the siren,
faintly, nestling up still closer with a fascinating lit-
tle movement of shy love. “ But, ch, dear! what
gocd is it going to do either of us? You know | dare
never marry you, dear, under existing circum-
stances!”’

Rufus Marshall was a colorless, undersized young
man of some twenty-nine years; his eyes were pale
and small, the iris curiously flecked with orange
flakes, which in moments of excitement, blendin
with the faint green of the ground-color, roduoed
in them a green phosphorescence. His mustache
was long, waxed at the tips and ivory white; his
lips under it, thin, and sharp-drawn, wearing an ex-
pression of anxiety and avarice; his hair was almost
as tintless as his mustache, and fell over a bony,
contracted forchead in limp fine drifts like mist; he
possessed high shoulders, was angular, ungainly,
and, though fashionably dressed and carrying him-
self with trained propriety, reminded one constantly
of his low extraction. : :

Beside him the aristocratic woman towered as
some princess in disguise, before whom he might
decently have bowed the knee in abject subjection,
and doubtless would have done so, had he not ob-
tained over her—the more shame to her superior or-
ganization—an ascendency threygh the basest im-

_pulses.

“T had some trouble finding our trysting-tree,”
eaid Rufus, prseen aly, when he was tired of the re-
freshment of kissing those luring lips, and he waved
his chort square hand toward Monica’s tree. ‘I’m
not so used to wildweods as you, Loveliest; though,
please God, I shall one day be lord of all we two look
upon this moment, with you by my side as queen.”
And the wretch caught her to him again in a burst
of undignified chuckling, for it could scarce be
called, as he expressed it, triumph.

Monica could see the shiver of repulsion that pass-

ed through Gcdiva, who, however, teck exc lent
ne not to display it to him, replying with sweet
softness:
. “May it be so, dear Rufus, for what is to become
of your poor Godiva if that dissolute half-demon,
Kilmyre, rules as master? I shall be thrust out,
adrift, penniless, friendless.”” She-turned aside her
head to weep.

“The deuce! We'll see about that!” snarled her
lover, an elf-like malignity clouding his ignoble fea-
tures, ‘‘So, Pretty, don’t cry to spoil those darling
eyes; there’s two of us between ycu and such a fate.

appily, if I am all head, Gavaine is all hands;
whatever I set him to do, backed by ae pretty
coaxings, whatever it is, d’ye see? he'll do it, and no
trouble after.”

Monica felt the hair on her head slowly prickle
= rise, the blood recede to her heart in an awful

roe.

What was this that was being spoken?

Had he not put a strange emphasis on the word
“ whatever ?”

The sweep of her arm as she carried her hand to

 

Seqaen

eum

pt ee FP CR ee ln ee

 
her face, to dash the mist from her vision and the
oozing sweat from her brow, startled the pair; they
turned with one accord their faces toward her, and
she read in these two blenched and contracted vis-
ages—DEATH,

They did not see her; who knows what would have
befallon Monica Derwent if they had?

“ Nothing but an owl rustling in the hollow truuk,”
muttered Godiva mechanically; “goon. You were
saying that Gavaine would do whatever we planned;
yes, dear, I think he would, but fortunately we won’
require his 8o7t of service just yet; we shall try a little
more of yours first.’

“ My girl, I’m at the end of ay, rope, I assure you,”
sail Rufus, with an impatient shrug; ‘I thought
you knew that, and that we were meeting here to
concoct Gavaine’s work.”

“ Oh, not yet—not quite yet ’—shuddered Godiva,
looking frightfully pale and craven; ‘give the old
man one more chance.” ns

Rufus Marshall stared inquisitively at his accom-
plice; evidently her mood puzzled him.

“*Pon my life, Godiva, you sometimes mystify
me completely,” mumbled he, resentfully. “ What’s
come over you now? The last word was to ‘get out
of this suspense at any cost!’ And now. when I
coms to discuss how to obey you, you show the
whito feather and re quarter! What's in the wind,
girl? Come, out with it!”

The insignificant little atomy snatched at the no-
ble-looking woman by the arm, and twisted her
round in a ery, ullying manner that would
justly have set her blood Loiling, but so abasing is
conscious guilt that she did not even dare to shake
his rudo clutch off, although every instinct in her
delicately-bred nature shuddered ‘in disgusted re-
volt, and she gnawed her rose-red lips almost black,

“There's nothing new ‘in the wind,’ as you call
it, Rufus,” she muttered, ‘and you need not be so
harsh and cruel to mc! I suppose I can’t help it, but
t would rather try anything, everything else first,
before I let you proceed to—extremities, I have
eaten his bread so long—”

“That io have,” interrupted he, rudely, “and I
only wonder what in thunder could have come be-
tween you that you could ever turn against the old
fool. Certainly very few men in his position would
have bothered about a poor relation like you, as he
has done, What did he ever do, that turned you
against him?”

Godiva crimsoned violently, over her very neck
and ears, and the scowl of an evil apie darkened
over her face, Monica remembered the insinuation
of the innkeeper’s wifc, that she had tried her arts
on her benefactor to climb into the supreme place at
the Weald as his wife, and had been Lge rejected;
the furious mortification and _ galling bitterness o
Godiva’s present expression showed her that here
rumor had not lied, But Godiva’s answer was far
different in import.

“*T suppose I must tell you,” she meekly said;
**but you have no real right to ask me any home
questions, yet.”

, ‘Goon; no Penne ie observed Rufus, an in-
voluntary smirk of gratification softening his inso-
lent stare.

“Well, if I must I must. He—he was so cruel
about wanting to marry me offto aman I have
always abhorred,” she raised her face here to the
erystal mornin; light with a strange quivering an-
guish upon it, a blending of pain, deadly vengeance,
and grief, ‘to his nephew, you know—’

“What! Geotfre’ ilmyre?’”’ roared Rufus, ret-
ting blood-red with fury and jealousy; “did that
dog ever dare to look at you?”

“Hush! What does it matter? I would never
have married him, even to save my life; I had seen
you first,” said the traitress.

“But, say, did he ever make love to you?” mut-
tered Rufus, doggedly. Godiva cast a keen glance
upon ape lowering murderous face and boldly an-
swered:

“To tell the truth, no. I believe ‘he was just as
anxious to get rid of measIwasof him. You’ve
heard and said enough about that affair with the
-clergyman’s governess, Nellie Wyvern, to guess the
reasons for that. But Mr. Derwent’s h less per-
sistence in this matter turned my very soul. He
could have so willingly sacrificed’ me to save his
favorite from ruin he was bringing upon himself, no
matter what I might feel! of course when I
resisted, he never forgave me. I have lived here on
sufferance ever since, I who used to queen it as if I
had been his own daughter!”

‘Or wife,” grinned Rufus with a leer that
disciosed_the madde: fact that he knew more
than sho had bargained for of the true reasons for
her hate against her patron; and had merely been
foading her to action by the reference; ‘t why didn’t

‘2 marry you himself and done with it?”

For one moment the young lady faced him with
that white flash of fury like a blaze of li bining. by
paylignts then she crushed back her feelings with a
baleful strength and resolution which boded ill for
any unhappy soul who might have earned her ha-

red.

“Why indeed!” she murmured, carelessly; ‘I
supeee’ if he had cared to do it he could nae won
my affection, as he had the charge of me ever since
I was ten years old. But it did not occur to him,
and certainly not.to me. However, that’s nothing to
our Purpose, is it? No, Rufus, I don’t want you to
proceed to extremities quite yet; for one Treason,
how can an hing be done while the house jis full?’

“Tush! that’s our best chance,” returned he,
dropping his odious leer for a gloomier expression;
“we are asked here for six weeks—three of ’em are
gone and our work is not yet half done. We must
hasten borough with it, under cover of these thirteen
nae of whom will share in the suspicion of
foul play with us two, if there is any, which I'll go
hail there won't be, if my head does not fail me.
irust me for clean-cut se’ eming!””

“What do you Proposer” muttered Godiva, her
re Pp the aroun S é iat teva

* Noth: yet; 1 want you to help me levise a
yan. Youre been harp asa Ses and quick asa
rat thus far, and I’m sure you can help now if you
want to, The will is madé, Rufus and Gavaiue Mar-
shall are named co-heirs, with a large peguess to his
beloved relative, Godiva Montacute. is nephew
ie never in such vile repute as he is now.
thanks to my constant prayers on his behalf. Hat
ha! ha! which give me such an excelient opportuui-

 

ty to enumerate his incredible speruition and insolent
revilings of his uncle; Derwent will never again be
worked up to sucha pitch of anes against
Kilmyre, who may turn compunctious and come
back any day, to the utter ruin of allour schemes;
for all we can do is but a passing influence, which
one sight of him will dispel; don’t you see, my girl,
that we must strike while the iron is hot?”

“ But your acquaintanceship with him is such a

new thin,

“All the better for us. Who would believe that
we could gain an ascendancy over such aman as
Derwent in such a short time? Come, help me.”

“How can I?” muttered she, turning paler,

“You hav’n’t lived for ten years in his daily pres-
ence without knowing all about his habits, con-
stitution, his little mental traits, and so on. Through
these you can suggest some safe idea.”’

“Iscarcely see how; put any questions; I shall
answer what I can.”

“Well, about his habits. Has he any out-of-the-
way habit that might be twisted to our advantage,
should we wish him to—to be suddenly found—”’

“Yes—I know—. He does not walk in his aa
he does not drink to excess. He has no extraordi-
Hare Hebe whatever that I know of.”

“Hem, Let me see. Never wanders about re-
mote parts of the domains at queer hours, eh? Nor
sits up nights in that library of his with the windows
faping on the lawn? No? Well, let’s examine his

pes Always has been as we see him, hale and
strong?”
“ Always. His life is so intelligently arranged,

just enough physical exercise, just enough mental—
that he has not an ailment that Ihave ever heard of,
He isa calm man, no consuming ons, temper-
ate in everything, tranquil; content, I should say, if
ever man was so. No, there is no suggestion to be
got out of his health.”

Monica, the unknown daughter of the man so de-
scribed, in spite of the crawling pity and horror
with which she heard him discussed by these two
embryo murderers, felt here a sudden uprising of
the heart against him; remembering the hard and
piteous life of his abandoned wife, was it not nat-
oe she should wince from the serene picture
of his

Meantime Rufus was smothering execrations on
the wise Master of Dornoch-Weald.

“Tf it mattered to nobody he'd be drinking him-

self dead,” he snarled, “or walking on the roof
every parey night, Well, let’s hear about his men-
tal peculiarities.”

‘*He has none.”

**Con—found it! He must have some, girl.”

‘*Perhaps—I know of none. Suggest Y

“Has he no superstition—no belief in some old
family wraith?”

“Hal ha! ha! How little you know that lucid,
powerful mind! No, certainly not.”

“No antipathy—to fruit—flower—state of weather
—peculiar character? Think, Godiva, think hard!
Out of any one of these I might weave “ purpose.”

“No, no, no. Yet—stay—has he not imagination
—a most vivid and original imagination? Yes! And,
added to it, a peculiar susceptibility of organization.
Yes, he has that.”

“*T scarcely understand. Instance.”

“Well, he is one of those ultra sensitive peopl
that if one got him to believe himself ill of a fatal
disease—or poisoned—or infected with a plague—I
think he would actually die, not of fear, but of the
vividness of his realization.”

“Don’t say any more--let me think,” muttered
Rufus in breathless excitement; and he Pieed his
hands deep iuto his pockets, eee iS narrow
head upon his sunken chest, and-went round and
round under the trees in a circle, kicking the dry
leaves up with his ill-shaped feet, anything but a
dignified figure to be watched by the lowering eyes
of accomplice,

Monica, in her hiding-place, was biting her lips
and clinching her hands to keep from screaming or
fainting in her horror; and yet how strangely peace-
ful seemed the silvery shimmer of this mornin;

under the lace-work of boughs, with the turrets o
Weald peering through the vista!

How fatally fair woman—how impishly crafty
this man!

Could any mortal stop their intended crime more
than a might mar the inexorable beauty of the
morn

Monica writhed in sickening agony. She had
come here, she too, with vengeance in her heart
against Otto Derwent. Heavens! was she in the
same boat with these demons ?

He who had been clasped in her mother’s arms—
her father—foully murdered.

“Oh, God—let_me save him /” went up from the
daughter’s soul in a mute cry, and then a great calm
fell upon her, and she cleared the mist from her
fainting eyes, and looked again,

The guilty ones were facing each other
she white, quivering, the very picture of terrified
evil—he corpse-like and conto’ with a fearful
wizard-like exultation on his ugly, colorless visage.
Poth ae at each other like wolves.

“ Well ?”” groaned Godiva, hollowly.

“* Tknow what I’m going to do.”

CHAPTER VIII.
WOMAN AGAINST WOMAN.
A vertiao seized Monica!

once more;

 

When that awful sensation was the con-
spirators were in the act of pi . They were
anding exactly upon the spot beside the great

bowlder, where Monica been sitting during the
interview between Godiva and Geoffrey . At their
feet they suddenly beheld a white, y thing,
fluttering in the light breeze; it was the piece of lace
upon which she had been at work.

uppers they should see it, pick it up, look around
for the owner and discover her?

She remained terribly still and composed. If the
worst came, she was ready to fight like a tigress for
her life, as now she saw the worst must come, if they
found her so near their murderous conference.

They did not embrace at Lge as they had at
meeting; their eyes avoided each other; their hands,
mechanically moving toward each other, shrunk
back without: touching. Already the crime the two
had planned was edging between them, so that each
os look on the other only through its loathsome

ACO,

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

 

=

And with this a adieu they parted. He
walked away into the dusky shadows, leaving her
standing as if rooted, her eyes on the ground at a
point only a few inches from that fatal bit of lace.

Godiva Montague stood so a long time.

at passed in her mind then?

Can any human being, born with moral perception,
receive from helpless ae _ to proud youth’s
prime the unwearied benefactions of a generous
patron, and then meditate his destruction for no
more potent reason than the sake of self, without

enguls ?

erhaps. But the soul must be long enslaved to
the most imbruting of vices, the heart withered to
naught, the stake immense, to produce such vileness.
Godiva was not so imbruted. Had she not been as
carefully hid from vice as any cloistered nun? Ran
there not in her veins ancient blood, which had in-
spired chivalry and fed the hearts of heroes? Where
had she seen ,vice and consorted with cruelty, that
she could now face them, all unmasked, without
sickening and shrinking!

“Oh, mae God!” moaned she, in hoarse tones,
“what is this I am letting them push me into? Is
this !, Godiva?”

Another long, long pause, her stricken face grow-
ing white yet, her lips twitching, pale, and dry,
Then she moved her hands as if to wring them, and
the action set the stone of a little ring on one of
them shimmering, and the shimmer caught her lack-
luster eye. She lifted that hand and gazed upon
the little ring—a slim, chased band of gold, with one
tiny poe of diamond fastening it, in the device of a
buckle. The gradual change on her face was hor-
rible to see; the change in her voice, when she
spoke, horrible to hear. She might have been the
awful Geraldine, as she changed from lady bright to
loathsome witch, with serpent’s eye, in the baron's
a before the terror-stricken Christmaiden, Christ-
abe :

“Ay, let me remember that/ Let me keep that
before my mind, and I shall not go back,” she mut-
tered. ‘‘On my knees!—at his—unis feet, Otto Der-
went’s. My pride in the dust—forced tears flow
—heart writhing with fury and self-disgust—and a
my reward his sarcastic laugh and icy command to
‘Rise and resume your maidenhood for the sake of
the old blood in your base, unworthy heart,’ ‘You
cannot have thought to blind me. Godiva,’ he said,
heaping upon me humiliation upon humiliation, ‘Do

ou think I have not seen all your strivings to win
he title of mistress of Dornoch Weald? That Ihave
not laughed in derision, and writhed in shame, thata
woman of my house could 8o unsex ees. I tell ee
on my oath, Godiva, that, of all your foul-souled sex
and I have tried them well), you are the most piti-
ly despicable and the last { should have married,
if I ever married any of ou. Now, go and study up
hypocrisy; it is your only safeguard | in the world of
men, who are not all blind, and need ‘hat screen be-
tween them and your real self, if you would ever
capture a husband.’ He said this—he, who had
lavished so much wealth and kindness upon me, his
poor, trembling, friendless kiuswoman, that I was
really, really ing to be his wife! No, they are
not pushing me to anything that I would not rush
to do of my own accord. Vo, No.”

She ended her snarling soliloquy with an outburst
of passion that shook her from head to foot, and
sent a pang as of the doomed to the heart of the
listener, whose generous soul had been urging her in
the beginning of the soliloquy to reveal herself, on
her knees, at the tempted woman’s feet, as a sup-
pliant for her father’s lite.

By these fierce memories, doubly galling, now thus
overheard by her, her interference would but haster

on the tragedy, beginning with herself.
Godiva had snatched the little ring off her finger
long ago, and she now held it up, a fatal smile of re-

venge carved upon her mouth.

“And so,” she resumed laughing, “he put upon
my finger the betrothal-ring that was slipped on the
patrician’s finger a hundred years ago of my ances:
tress, Godiva Derwent, by the hand who had curried
her horses—gave it with the taunt, ‘‘ihe base gift to
the base soul. As long as the ‘buckle-ring ’ shines
upen your hand, symbol of the first donor’s trade
among straps and stables, you will recall the ugly
fate of the first Godiva, who crawled back to the de
graded home when her stabler abandoned her, and
was mercitully slain by her haughty brother Otho,
who thus wiped out the stain with which she
blotted the escutcheon of Derwent. Were; it pos-
sible, J, too, should thus wipe out the stain of your un-
womantiness—you, mest of ali women, undesveds Lut
as Teannet, live you hencesorth and foi ever wnu ed, for-
ever despised, at Der: och- Weald.’ A fair reminiscence,
truly! And I shall never escape from its hauntin
memory, nor elude his withering late, until one o
us two lies under this old earth,’’

She stamped her foot upon the mossy ground; her

| flashing eyes caught sight of the snowy Lit of wel

| stuck

flutte close to her heart. The gir) stooyed an
rose, with Monica’s pattern of lace, the needle still
in one of the meshes; she slipped the ring

| back on her finger, and with a whispered exclama-

tion turned the exquisite trifle over and over, her

| practiced eye taking in all the delicacy and costli-

ness of such workmanship.

“Who has been here? Good Heavens! Who in-

_ trudes in these woods but myself?”

, Weald
Monica

She drew herself up, panting and startled, and
carefully scrutinized her surroundings, listening
with bated breath between each long, keen stare,

But she missed the hollow cak, stiangely enough;
though Monica understood the marvel better when
she afterward saw how narrow the apeiture must
have looked from Godiva's position, and who, being
a good head taller, and proportionately stouter,
than herself, would naturally imagine that nothing
human could have squeezed in there.

So, not seeing any one, and hearing nothing, she
shrugged her shoulder, replaced her hat upon her
glowing hair, and with a look of Satanie determina-
tion not good to see upon such lovely young fea-
tures, she softly took her way down the hill to the
rustling as she went.
went home to the inn, shut herself into
her chamber, and suave her soul up to the contem-
plation of this most terrible revelation.

The position—we know what the position was, as
much as thanks to the yossip of
Dame Hicks and the two assienations of M

iss
tacute, One or two puuils 4
,

ey Leo placed

on:
eee

 
  

 

QO
oO

AN, AMERICAN QUEEN.

 

clearly, as Monica elucidated them for herself by the
course of reasoning.

Why had Godiva summoned her cousin Geoffre
to the Weald, and put him in possession of so muc
of the brothers Marshalls’ doings?

The reason was not far to seek. She loved him—in
her own fierce self-centered way; a love that was
ready to embrace or betray according as it was re-
warded. He shad plainly shown her, that even
though he loved no one else, he did not, and would
not, love her,

She had thus given him his chance, and he had
thus forfeited it.

She was now bound to the enemy, and Geoffrey
might hope for no more of her championship.

Had she not betrayed rather too much of the in- |
tentions of her accomplice, for the safety of their |
schemes? In her urgent endeavors to wring grati-
tude from Geoffrey, to arouse his watchfulness so |
as to insure his presence at the Weald, and to retain
his respect, had she not disclosed, with perilous dis-
tinctness, the conspirators’ chosen path?

It seemed like it, and yet, a she was confi-
dent of her ability to oust the nephew, who was in
disgrace, from his uncle’s roof, the instant he began
to meddle with existing arrangements; perhaps she
had the secret power to have him turned from the
Weald before he had the chance—however impetu-
ous—of warning his uncle of his peril.

From Monica’s brief study of Godiva’s wily mind,

 

she could not hope that she had ruined her own

cause thus; doubtless Geoffrey would either be sent |
from Dornoch the moment he was discovered there, |
or his mouth would be closed for the time by some |
crafty sophistry of the Jezebel’s.

The future lay unrolled before her without one
obstacle to its success—except what she, Monica, |
could place in the path.

And now to the task of arranging her plans.

We know why this hot-hearted, high-spirited,
American village girl has come to England—to
avenge in some always undefined way the injury
her father put upon her mother, in deserting her
nineteen years ago.

Before she had laid one stone upon another, in the ©
building of her retribution, she had discovered other,
and more devilish enemies, already far advanced in |
the work of destruction, she forced to stand by—the |
only witness of her father’s mortal peril.

She had come for vengeance. her thirst for
this devil’s draught is insatiable, she has only to fold
her hands, and the cup will be held anon to her lips,
brimming over with a vengeance bitterer far than
any her woman-heart has dreamed of.

nd she finds to-day that her thirst has fled—that
one drop of such a cup of vengeance would choke
her; her woman-heart has turned traitor to the fell
purpose which has driven her across the seas; it
only sighs “save! save!” forgetting its first bitter
ory, “retribution !””

With the first whisper of wrong to the man, Otto
Derwent, who has broken her mother’s heart and
doomed her to toil and obscurity, a passion of filial
care has sprung up—not tenderness—not one gleam
of that—only the burning wish to fly to his aid, to |
save him from the mercenary brood of vipers he is |
cherishing in his bosom.

She sat down by the little thick-paned, mullioned
window in the English inn, trembling, bewildered,
ae and. praying for strength and wisdom; she
rose calm, resolved, with a plain duty before her. |
She unlocked the little trunk which held her modest
outfit, kindly furnished by good, silly Mrs, Frothing- |
ham; along with the precious papers which proved
her identity. She took these, placed them in her
sachel, her mother’s photograph with them, by the
Loangerie photographer, in rather a primitive style
get furnishing a pathetically accurate rtrait of
that wan, worn face, a few months before death,
with the dear familiar figure, from which all the
ae scd of its cares and the emaciation of a hard life

ad not been able to rob the natural grace.

She dressed herself carefully in her one black suit,
a little soft ruffle of black crepe lisse at the delicate |
milk-white throat and arched wrists; and her rich
jet hair smoothed in satin folds back from temples,
be oe the polished marble surface of which a tracery
of veins as blue and slender as sapphire thread, ex-
quisitely indicated the feminine tenderness and
weakness of the young creature’s organization.

Then she donned her dainty black cashmere dol-
man, embroidered richly by her own clever hands
with a running vine in black silk, an ornamentation |
that served to render her simple costume as elegant,
and in point of faet, as costly, as that of a Fifth '
avenue belle; then her hat, a black felt one, with a
broad, plush-lined brim, turned up at one side, and
heavily —— (by Mrs. Frothingham’s own hands
and kind gift) with rich black ostrich feathers; jew-
elry suitable to her morning attire, she owned none,
so she stuck one fringed white winter chrysanthe-
mum with its dark serrated leaf at her throat (a pot
or two of blossoming plants stood in her wide-silled |
window); and then Monica Derwent was ready to |
enter her father’s house. k

For she meant to go boldly thither, demand an in-
terview with Mr. Derwent, and reveal all she had
overheard. :

She passed out into the public parlor in search of
the dame; she wished to tell her where she had gone
—in’ case, by some unforeseen chance, Derwent’s
enemies might discover the approach of his rescuer,
and do her harm. ps

The grating, guttural voice of the innkeeper’s
wife proclaimed her presence in the parlor, before
Monic¢a entered the door, and she found herself un-
expectedly confronting Geoffrey Kilmyre. She could
not repress an involuntary start and hesitation as

) she recognized him, and he, looking up at the grace-
' ful figure at the door, gave an unmistakable move- |

ment of surprise also, and with raised eyebrows and
checked speech, gazed full at her. She, of course,
was the first to recover herself; she might have
known that he would be sure to come to the “Dor- |
noch Arms” for rest and refreshment, before he |
ventured to the Weald; she therefore entered with |
a quiet apology for intruding, and asked the dame
to step aside ‘for one moment.”

Geoffrey, who,could not account for such an ap-

ition at the obscure and vulgar little inn as readi-

— she could for his, sauntered to a distant win-
dow, but sent more than one furtive glance her way
as she spoke in low, well-bred tones to the dame.

“T am going to Dornoch-Weald, Mrs, Hicks,” said

| sistance, muc

 

 

she; “I are to get back here in the course of an
hour; but if Idon’t—something may have happened!
May—the fact is, I don’t feel quite myself, Mrs.
Hicks, and if I should happen to get ill on the road I
shouldn’t like to be left lying helpless there, so—”’

‘Lordy! What's a-goin’ for to happen ye, wench?”
cried the dame, with the instant fluster and fuss of
her caste. “If xc feels sickish, why doan’t We stop
i’ the house, ’stid o’ trapezing ’way off to the Weald?”

“T wish to go, that’s enough,” said Monica, with
unruffled decision; whereat Geoffrey, who was hear-
ing distinctly every syllable uttered by the pair, hers
through its Sent i purity of tone, and the
dame’s through its hard loudness, greatly marveled,
saying to himself:

‘No Englishwoman are you! Not.a girl in the
realm, bred as our girls are, could carry herself
with such dignified self-reliance, and you're scarcely
more than a child yet!’

“ But, Lawk! at a plague can ye want at
Master’s, that ye canna wait until yo’re well, to go?
Yo’re phiz looks that queerish too, jést as white as
my smock—”

“Madam, I must go!” interposed Monica, haugh-
tily, then, glancing at the tall clock which stood like
a moon-faced eee ina shadowy corner: ‘It is
now two o’clock; if I am not back at three, send one
of your men for me.”

1s. Hicks stood dumb-struck at the awful state-
liness of the “furrin wench’s ” address (‘‘ Madam to
her, save the mark! For all as if she were My Lady!)
and ventured not another remonstrance; but Geof-
frey could restrain his astonishment and curiosity
no longer, and arrested the young lady’s retreat b
wheeling upon her with a courtly bend of the head,
and motion of the hand.

“Madam, I too am going to the Weald,” he said,
hastily joining her; “if you feel at all in need of as-
i or little,” he added, with a frank
smile, ‘I am entirely at your service. And our
friend Mrs. Hicks here, can attest to my respect-
ability. Come, wake, Mrs. Hicks, and introduce me
to your boarder.”

His air, so open-hearted, so bright and sprightly,
without a shade of anything either forward or su-
percilious in it, went straight to Monica’s heart, al-
ready inclined toward him during the revelations of
his nature in the forest; and as the good woman

ronounced their names in her own rough dialect,

er fine pres rested upon his with a singularly beam-
ing, gentle expression, fascinating enough to him,
who held no key to that significant look.

“T thank you for your offer,” she said, blushing
faintly as he grasped her hand in English fashion
and shook it heartily; “‘ and I accept it.”

CHAPTER IX.
ENTERING THE PORTALS,

As the two walked side by side through the village
street, gaped at by every rustic eye that could rush
in time to window or door—the rich man’s unknown
daughter and the rich man’s disinherited nephew—
she was cea

“Why should I not confide all to Geoffrey Kil-
myre?’

And he was musing:

“* And this is an American lady! This is the typi-
cal Independent Female! A fairer, sweeter result
never flowed from republicanism, than this pure,
brave vestal—this princess in her own right!’’

“ And yet, I may be fatally one in doing so,”
Monica’s thoughts went on—*“‘ how do I know what
mental qualities this man may possess? Shall I not
be _ too impulsive, rashly impetuous, in throwi
wide this fatal matter to him? And if I speak at all,
how much shall I reveal? Anything about myself?’

‘What can her station be?” Geoffrey’s thoughts

roceeded. “I believe that in their land all women
ess in a costly way, indeed that the cook can copy
her mistress’s fashions if she chooses; no, I need not
try to judge by her dress; but her face—in what so-
cial niche is such a page as this to be placed? What
shining innocence—radiant goodness—refinement—
poetry—a face for Zimmermann to expend his
choicest praises upon!”

‘*Let me not ruin all by recklessness,”’ continued
she; “let me study him calmly and closely first—has
he not led a sad wild life -and how am I to know
what may be the distorting influence of such a life
on his character? Caution, caution! No, I shall
keep my own counsel. Besides, I must beware of
entering that house in such unpopular company, if
I would not be treated as an ally of his. Indeed, I
am very rash to speak with him at all in public;
suppose any of the conspirators should see us in con-
ference? Suppose Mr. Derwent should meet us?”’

‘““What quiet force is in her beautiful eye!’ con-
tinued Geoffrey, going on with his reverie quite as
absorbedly as she with hers; “what proud com-
mand in her straightly-leveled gaze, her beautiful
closely-fitting lips, and the poise of the head, with
the face slightly lifted toward the heavens! Why
this is a very noble woman, surely! And for all her
stateliness and power she cannot be more than
seventeen!”

Monica was not quite nineteen, and the extreme
fragility of her appearance, together with the
American characteristics of piccola figure, fairy
hands and feet, and unaffected manners, always
~~ her amore youthful look than of right belonged

er.

As her companion came to the last conclusion she
turned her calm eyes upon him.

“Sir,” said she, “pardon my apparent fickleness
of purpose in changing my mind about accepting
your escort to Dornoch-Weald. I have a_ better rea-
son, I find upon consideration, for declining your
courtesy than for accepting it.”

“How wise—how perfectly lady-like, and how
roy expressed!” thought Geoffrey, with a little

ational sting of eee ea nents “The loss is
mine,” he said gallantly, “I was in hopes that I
should have the pleasure of a talk about the United
States, which I have never visited.”

“T have not live. in Mrs, Peter Hicks’s society for
three weeks without learning who Mr. Geoffrey
Kilmyre is” she observed quietly, “‘and probably.
not only a great deal of truth about you, but a grea’
deal of rustic fiction too. Iam ina humble station
sir, and cannot with propriety appear at the Weal
in eer company.”

e made on impatient gesture. Something in the
admission filied him for the moment with a sudden
rage, as irrational as the former disappointment.

 

 

“Pshaw! Please don’t punish the ‘hated aris
tocracy’ in my person, Mademoiselle American; ‘
do assure you I am untainted by that insular virus
You are a lady in manner and education; I feel hon
ored to be permitted to walk with you.”

“TI thank you, and believe ees said Monica,
sweetly grave, at which he could have kissed her,
‘but all the same, for my own sake, I must bid you
leave me.”

He looked imploringly at her. Py

“May I be presumptuous and ask what position you
are anxious to secure at the Weald?” he ventured,
with some modest hesitation, which sat very grace-
ao. upon the handsome fellow. ‘

She started, for the moment looking strangely at
him, under the impression that there was a miue of
significance under his question; then she recollected
herself, he meant to ask whether she was applying
for service at the great house. She could not re.
strain from a faint smile, so curiously compounded
of a mischievous national inclination to put hersel!
down at the lowest round of the ladder, and a som.
ber pride at the realization of who she was, and
what right she had to mount the highest; then she
replied very civilly, ‘‘I had no thought of asking for
any position there, sir; but if I could secure one it
would be indeed a great boon to me; a mighty boon,
oh, yes, if I only could!” she exclaimed, petting sud-
denly agitated as she perceived a faint chance of as-
sistance from this unexpected ally. Surely he had
not lived all the years of his boyhood among these
old family servants without winning enough influ.
ence over them to help her a little now!

“T am avery poor girl,’ she said, her clear, deli-
cate tones ringing fearlessly out the admission, in
singular contrast to its humility; ‘I am a stranger
in this country, absolutely friendless, and I am
obliged to live in Dornoch for a time, and during
that time I can’t afford to be idle.”

“Stay; I think I can help you here, Miss Rivers,”’
interrupted OS eagerly. “TI am in black
enough disgrace with the head of the house, as you
have doubtless heard, ad nauseam; but I may say
that Geoffrey Kilmyre wields more power over the
subordinates than their master does. I can count on
getting you a situation, I know, from good old Mrs.
Aberfield, the ‘housekeeper, the apple of whose
grim, gray eye I have ever been. She’s Scotch; the
widow of a wonderful naturalist, whose name ap-
pears among the savans of the realm with honor,
though he was only a gardener in the Duke of Car-
negie’s employ. For twenty years has Elspeth Aber-
feld reigned as queen of the domestic force in Dorn-
och Weald. If ae elects to receive you, your future
is provided for; for she is firmly rooted as the Bass
Rock, and unchanging as the sun.”

“Thank you, thank you,” murmured Monica,
gratefully. “It was all she could say, but her heart

was full.

She could have knelt down on the road and
thanked God for opening this despaired-of door.
No wonder her spirituelle face shone so with intelli,
gence and emotion that the young patrician gazed
quite dazzled, with a fierce rebellion xiaing up in his
soul against England’s cruel conservatism, which
would blasphemously aver that he stooped to admire
a girl in this one’s position,

‘If she were a beggar,” mused the well-born and
handsome man, for whom many a titled lady fair
had sighed, “she would honor me by giving me that
dainty hand. Nota peeress of them all can equal
her in grace and wisdom.”

For one si arity of Geoffrey’s attraction toward
Monica was that she had no particular beauty to be-
dazzle him—no voluptuousness of physique or soul
to appeal to the senses. Hers was an enchantment
that flowed from the noblest in woman, and awoke
what was noblest in man; her spell was innocence,
clothed with intellect. :

By this time they had got out of the village, and
were walking ae the winding road, which led
through deep, dark groves, over grass-sown pla-
teaux, and through brown stretches of plowed land,
to the Weald, ;

‘* Since you are so kind as to offer your help,” said
Monica, halting suddenly under a clump of glossy
live oaks, ‘‘I shall ask gon to precede me, talk to the
housekeeper on my behalf, and then come here and
notify me of her answer.”

After a few more pleasant words, they parted.

with this understanding; and seating hersé out of
sight of the road, Monica patiently awaited his re-
turn.
He did not follow the public track, but as soon as
he had entered the limits of the Derwent grounds
chose lonely and unfrequented paths, by which pre-
caution he succeeded in reaching the house without
encountering any of his uncle’s guests.

Monica, well concealed among the furze, saw a
brilliant cavalcade of mounted ladies and gentlemen
eantering past her, conspicuous among them_ the
master himself, with his pair of satellites, the Mar-
shall brothers; and well she read the sinister pallor
of Rufus, who rode, Judas-like in his fawning affec-
tion and docility, at Derwent’s right hand, while Ga-
vaine, the bully, a heavily-built man of twenty-six,
with high cheek-bones, coarse, ruddy complexion,
bristling, sandy mustache, and small bullet head,
rode, resplendent in a foppish equestrian costume,
as close at Derwent’s left hand.

And for once the traitress herself was there,
Godiva Montacute, riding a milk-white nonpareil in
horse-flesh—a baronet on one side and a viscount on
the other, both gazing admiringly upon her proud
lily face, the red rust of her lustrous plaits, and her
undulating svelée figure in its habit of Lincoln

n

@) :
ols, halt a hour Geoffrey Kilmyre was back at
onica’s side.

“It’s all arranged, Miss Rivers; I told Aberfeld all
I knew about you. She had already heard no end of
gossip about the ‘beautiful foreigner’ at the inn,
and you are to walk straight into the pleasant situa-
tion of assistant housekeeper.”

With her eyes on the ground she heard his joyous
announcement; her thoughts had left a peculiar
significance and ig ae of expression hovering
upon her. It seemed to Geoffrey that a brilliant
burst of sunshine dazzled him as she lifted those
solemn orbs to his, and that an electrical current
thrilled from her hand to his as she clasped it, say-
ing proudly:

‘You have befriended an unknown woman, as a
knight of Arthur’s table would have done. The

 

 
time may be when your reward will come—in pro-
portion to the goodness of this act.”

And then he saw her walking down the road to the
Weald, her black, shining robes waving around her
delicate figure, and her beautiful head up like a
princess.

“In disguise—surely in disguise,’’ muttered Geof-
frey, staring spell-bound.

Monica Derwent approached the home of her
father—the home wit ich should have been her
mother’s.

She passed through the “‘ Home Park *’—a spacious
inclosure of softest sward, level as a lake some-
wheres, and rolling in delicious curves otherwheres;
clumps of magnificent old oaks studded the
emerald expanse, and herds of lovely little red deer
skurried across the open and vanished in the distant
copses; a high stone wall, richly clothed in honey-
suckle and ivy, ran completely around this outer en-
viron; then came the odge, a picturesque cottage
of weather-stained stone, beside a pair of huge iron
fates of fantastic open scroll-work, set in a massive
socket of white stone, with tall, fluted pillars and a
mighty arch, the latter surmounted by a shield and
supporters, and the Derwent bearings, with their
legend in tarnished gold letters:

“Dare Nor Derwent.”

Passing through the side gate, Monica walked up |
the mile-long avenue, which wound gracefully be- |
tween somber files of trees, through the hoary
trunks of which came glimpses of garden plats, and
sweeps of budding shrubberies; now and again came
the glister of crystal domes, and the plumy silver |
sprays of playing fountains; sometimes a section of |
carved terrace balustrades, or the velvet moss bank
of some tangle-nook, where nature had been left to |
work in all her unrestrained fantasy; and at last
came the widening out of the avenue where the old |
tree-trunks receded in a wide semicircle, like cathe-
dral pillars, and the full width of the mansion block-
ed the way and closed the vista nobly. |

It was a fine ancient house, built of white Caen
stone, and presenting, with its keep and Martello |
towers, more the appearance of a fortalice, or
fortified castle, than that of a private dwelling. It
covered an immense area spreading out in a hollow |
square, with a court inside, open to the sky, and
reached through an imposing archway in the rear.
The front was exceedingly distinguished, with its |
rich and florid carving, its clustering pillars, palatial
portal; its charming rose-window blazii like a sun
over the door; its rows of tall Gothic windows, some
of them restored in single sheets of glass, some left |
in all the glory of their massive iron styles, tiny |
mullioned panes, and stained glass bordering; its
balustraded summit, and the crumbling turrets of
the two round towers. The whole pile was richly |
mantled in robes of century-old ivy; and, supported
by deep embowering trees which leaned their top- |
most branches over the back of the roof, touching |
the great chimneys and rustling among the circling
clouds of swallows.

A narrow girth of black earth ran round the base
of the house, and in this earth flowers of radiant
hues and spley perfume grew; here and there a
mighty stone flower-stand, or porphyry jardiniere
lifted its graceful shape; the broad ow front
steps of gleaming white marble, were supported on

‘either side by couching figures in stone of the iy. i- |
cal monsters of the Derwent arms, and _ the richly-
carved frieze above the grand portal bore the |
armorial crest in red gold, which gleamed copper- |
colored in the sun.

This was the home of Otto Derwent; here had he
been living in yesee, allunremorseful, while his wife |
was dying in the cold, starved, wooden cottage in |
Loangerie. |

“Oh, just God! Art Thou avenging her?” mut- |
tered the unknown daughter of these strangely |
sundered parents, as her flashing eyes swept over
ea ale splendor, and her hot heart grew big and

However, this was, of all times, the least reason-
on which to nurse feelings of revenge against
Mr. Derwent; she had come there to watch over, and
guard him from his foes; should she carry into the
gracious mission a heart bitterer than theirs?

She resolutely closed all her senses against the
\mpressions which surrounded her. She saw, set
‘leep-socketed in the stone curtain between one of
the towers and the main building, a little iron-
eee wicket; it stood open, and she passed

The hoarse baying of dogs assailed her; two large

kennels occupied the little triangular grassy yard

she had entered; two mastiffs sprung the length of

their. chains at her, then stood, iat ng with their
noses at her, an

if satisted, ; » a y down again, as

A wide glass door swung open at her elbow, and a
tall, portly, exceedingly dignified old lady stood in
the aperture. Her face was very fair, clearly rosy
all over, and criss-crossed by innumerable fine lines;
her by were of the palest hue of stocking-gray, set
high in her face, and almost blank in their utter ex-
pressionlessness; she wore a cap of snowy lisse,
which almost concealed the thin locks of eee hair,
streaked with gray, that lay sparsely on each sunk-
en temple, broad vapory streamers floating majesti-

; cally. down her back; her dress was of the stiffest
dead-black silk, and on her white, plump, wrinkled
hand shone a superb amethyst ring, the stone of the
size LS a a doot ye'ndtalie vineat

-mornin e, nae ye're the lassie

Maister Geoffrey waste send me,”’ said she in delib-

erate a Seoteh, and with the pompous air of
ary.

“You are Mrs. Aberfeld? Yes, madam, you have

correctly, I am Monica Rlvers; what can
you give me to do for a living?” said Monica.

,‘Hech! That's aboot as wise-like a Seri as
T’ve ever heard 0°,” exclaimed the housekeeper in
Eas approbation, as she beckoned the stranger

to the house, ‘For a bit girlie like you, ye hae a
maist wunnerfu’ comman’ o’ yersel’ an’ yer tongue;
an’ that, I take it, is aboot the best sign I keno’,
that ye’re the recht sort to succeed in this. warl’.
Come awa’, lassie; I bid ye welcome wi’ a’ my

And glowing. under this auspicious greeting, and

murmuring to her fluttering heart:

P “A rood, omen—a good omen!’ Monica Derwent
en the portals,
‘ys

 

 

| torment,

| mantic fancy, shoul

CHAPTER X.
FOR FATHER’S SAKE,

Tus was how the daughter gained entrance to her
father’s home.

Assistant housekeeper!

Mrs. Aberfeld was no Mrs. ee to ac-
cept the pretty stranger on the strength of her face.

She asked for her past history.

“My roe were school-teachers,” said Monica,
truthfully, but she was talking of her grandparents.
“Tlost my father nineteen years ago, and my mo-
ther died a few months since. I was teaching the
district school until she died.”

Mrs. Aberfeld asked for references.

“Thave a letter from the rector of the church of
which I was a member,” said Monica, presenting a
most kind and fatherly one given her cheerfully the
evening of her departure from Loangerie.

Mrs. Aberfeld asked her intentions in coming thus
alone and friendless to a strange country.

“Thad nothing left to live for, there, and thought
I might gird myself up anew for the rest of my hard
life, by taking a change,’’ explained Monica.

Mrs: Aberfeld was satisfied.

‘“And now, what can you do?” she demanded.

Monica exhibited her skill in account-keeping.
The old lady’s eyes glistened; accounts were her
Monica enumerated her capabilitles for
linen-keeping, plate-cleaning, drawing-room attend-
ance; the housekeeper thought of the long, long
flights of velvet-covered stairs, and inwardly thank-
ed Providen e. Monica brought out a piece of lace.

“Gracious! Why, lassie, ye’ve got a fortune at
your finger-ends! The leddies "Il gie ye a guineaa
yard for that, as sure’s deeth, woman!” cried the
Scotchwoman, in raptures.

Monica was accepted and installed in her office, in-
stanter.

iN ee eee

9

“rag, hasten, this very night—if I can, J must warn
im /*
She went back to the housekeeper’s room, and
spent the afternoon with her lace in her hands, and
rs. Aberfeld’s pompous voice sounding in uninter-
rupted ales as she gave a stately autobiogra-
hed of her past life. Such a listener was perfectly
ascinating to the good lady, not one question, nor
yawn, nor fidget of boredom.
“Tcouldna hae dune better than tak’ the lassie,

an’ weel young maister seems to hae kenned it!”’ she ;

chuckled.
The cavalcade was heard returning, and the firm,

* almost martial tread of the Master of Dornoch, pass-

She mentioned her little box at the inn; a man

was sent in the servants’ spring cart for it, and
with him went Monica’s last pound to pay her board
to Dame Hicks.

She was taken to view her bedroom.

It was on the inner side of the house, its one nar-

row mullioned window overlooking the inclosed |

court, two stories from the ground. Had the sun
not’ been streaming into the deep, well-like place,

| and lighting into a sheaf of silver the mighty foun-

tain that flung high its plumy jets in the center of
the green patch, and flashing like a ri

from the sky-lights of the picture-gallery, which

of crystal |

girdled round the court the story beneath, Monica |

would have found something weird and lonely in
her outlook, especially as she had been conducted
through about a quarter of a mile of ancient corri-

| dor, and quite away from the modern and inhabited

part of the mansion, to get there.
“The maister’s sic’ a fidget aboot new faces,” ex-
lained Mrs. Aberfield, ‘‘ we dinna lat him see oor

ing on his way to his dressing-room.

‘An’ thae Marshalls at his heels as usual,” sneer-
ed Mrs. Aberfeld. ‘It’s my belief they tak’ turns
to watch be him, ilka nicht.’

Monica had marked the significant juxtaposition
of these brothers to her father; their dressing-
rooms, among the handsomest in the house, were
next door to his; their suit of parlors opened into
his; and not only this, but this group seemed to be
in a measure separated from the rest of the guests
by a short corridor, which led from the mdin house
through an arch.

Dinner passed, with sounds of ar floating
from the dining-room after the ladies had sailed in
a long and shining train into the drawing-room;
presently the strains of an orchestra came from
the ae ¢-room, and an extemporized ball closed the
evening.

Long before ten o’clock Mrs. Aberfeld was saying,
in her motherly way:

“Ye'll be wearied, my bairn; awa wi’ ye till yere
bed; ‘early tae bed,’ ye ken?”

And Monica had dutifully retired to her little
room, where, with the lamp turned low and her face
pressed to the window- anes, she had watched the
reflections from the l-room, as they were flung
through open casements onto the opposite wall;
and listening to the long-drawn clangor of the brass
and the vibrating twanging of the stringed instru-
ments,

And at midnight the lights went out, the shadows
vanished, the music was mute; not a sound stirred
in all the mighty mansion.

Now was her time to see the master alone; risking
all on the one throw, Monica went forth,

She expected to find the Marshall brothers in her
way; to received at first with insulting amaze-
ment and incredulity; but she hoped that with the
truth written in her face, and by dint of her fiery
sincerity and urgency, she would overcome them,

‘they not yet suspecting her advent upon their

resh han’s, ’till they’ve been here awhile; then he |

lats them be, after we can say they’re weel tried.
Keep oot 0’ his way, bonnie lassie; he'll notice your
face as sure’s he sees it; an’ there’s a hautle wild

eneuch young chaps here that wadna think twice 0’ |

leavin’ a’ thir grand dames for a sicht 0’ you. ButI
can see that ye’re a douce an’ modest bairn, an’
want nae man’s light loves.”

The room was, with the exception of nary: Neverp
sparklingly fresh and clean, rete it had been a
hundred years ago; not a stick of the antique furni-
ture had been removed, nor even the arras torn
down. Monica was deeply, read; she looked about
her with sparkling se ere was food for her ro-

she see or hear no human soul
for months.

“T am fortunate,” she said, heartily; ‘I ought to
be of some use here, since I am so kindly treated.”

Mrs. Aberfield listened to this becoming senti-
ment with keen appreciation.

‘“Ye'’re a good bairn, an a weel favored ane, tae

T’'ll see that ye hae a’ your rights aman;
in’ stranger hussies,” she said, with Celtic defiance.
She was evidently recalling some skirmish she re
have got the worst of, with the many ore mai
who had come with their mistresses to the Weald.
' “ And now, please show me all over the house,”
said Monica, addressing herself with her usual
prompt decision to her work; ‘‘and whenever you
are weary, send somebody else to finish. I need not
fatigue you unnece: bc

And this consideration was so very grateful to the
stiff old bones of the statel
principal foible it was to affect an inexhaustible
young frame, that she redoubled her good bo
of her new assistant, and handed her over to Dodge.

thae feer- |

housekeeper, whose |

the head “ ne of the chambers,” with a special '
au

recommen
everywhere.

So then behold the unsus
after the tall fine-figured functionary in Lincoln-
green livery, with the Dornoch crest on his git but-
tons, his thumbs a ouek into his arm-holes,
te his little bedazzled eyes blinking furtively at

er.

Through majestic p: wide as an ordinary
dining-room; into grand hails wonderful pictures
of medieval days; peeps into cant looking lit-
tle ante-chambers, with sudden secret doors behind
arras of tapestry; stairs built in the ten-feet of
unsuspected thickness of the walls; in and out of

tion to take care of her, and show her |
cted daughter gliding

ateee.
Straight through the wide lonely halls she went, .

chilled, this raw spring oo to the bone, by the
vault-like breath, and startled in spite of he by
the mysterious noises that echoed through the un-
familiar regions, which were dimly lit at intervals
by old-fashioned lamps with moon-like sconces. At
last she eee the suit occupied by her father.

As she had expected, voices warned her that he
was not alone; she came in sight of his | emp door;
it was flung open to admit the warmth from a mod-
ern Tage errors in the hall just outside, and as
she paused in the sheltering shadow of a bronze
Roman Youth that stood on a green porphyry pedes-
tal at the angle between the two meeting passages,
she saw the interior of the room. f

Her father was reclining in an elegant attitude of
ease and comfort in a huge chair of ancient needle-
work, a dressing-robe of steel-colored silk, lined with
delicate lavender and flung oyen at his firm white
throat, imbued him with something of the air of roy-
alty on the throne. He held a cigar of choice brand
in his graceful ea and with his proud head
thrown back, and his dark, sparkling eyes smiling
into vacancy, he was listening to the words of wis-
on which flowed from the mouth of Gavaine Mar-
shall,

Both brothers were present. Gavaine strolling
round the beautiful stately chamber, big and hulking,
like some vulgar horse-jockey; and Rufus, vei
peaked and pallid with an uneasy down look in
white-lashed eyes, seated in another chair of the
same shape as his host's, and doing his poor best to
emulate the grace and ease of his attitude.

“Tell ye w. at, if it was me,” Mr. Gavaine was ob-
nomads joudly—“‘ if it was me I'd set. the dawgs on
Lee whenever he come nigh hand the place—dash

im.

“T dare say you would, my brave Gavaine,”’ re-
turned the Master of Dornoch-Weald, slowly and
gently, but with a small thread of biting derision
running through the gates tones—(to Monica’s utter
surprise, for Dame Hicks had told her that Mr. Der-
went was infatuated by these men)—‘‘ but your ways
are not g/l my ways. Had you been placed in cir-

cumstances similar to mine, it would not have been

the next-of-kin to the Master of Dornoch, with the
old Derwent blood in him, that your ‘dawg’ (a mon-
fre of course) would bite, but_a person plebeian
ike yourself. Noblesse oblige ! Gentlemen use gen-

| tlemen’s weapons, sirs!’

crooked, shadowy corridors; up, up winding flights |

of stairs, black as jet, and slippery as ice; in ata
velvet-colored pair of folding doors, to traverse the
ever curving picture-gallery, which ran clear round
the inrer court, with sh ylights all the way, and out
at another similar door, just across the court, thus
reaching the exact opposite side of the mansion.
“And this here door, miss,” explained the foot-
man with his best air, “‘ that we always keeps locked
(because of the family ghost, miss, he! he!), this
here door leads into the old
ing you too, miss, only that it ain't never used, and
consequently ain't worth troublin’ you with,”
So i of turning
left the low-browed oak door behind them, con-
tinued on up-stairs. ‘ j
But Monica had seen something in the picture gal:
esr wich had paled her cheek, and
‘ Heaps dot ction here— sh uring
f ape detection here—never!"’ she was ass
herself with sinking heart, as she left behind her the
portrait of a certain beauty of Derwent blood, who
was vues 3 like he » and might have sat
for her easi

; “ah, well, I take it asa sign that I

f, which I’d be show- |

into the ruined portion, they —

her mind |

Then Geoffrey’s arrival was known. Had he at-
mene to speak to his uncle yet? ‘

““Whatever he has come here for,” said Rufus,
putting in his oar with an impatient glare at his vul-
gar brother, “it can bees hears: ut distress to
you, honored sir, It is a difficult th pe. for me to say
—only my confidence in your knowledge of a na-
ture, sir, could induce me to venture so far—but I
must implore you not to grant Geoffrey Kilmyre an
interview.”

Ha! With these wretches at both his ears, what
mene ree there for friends to whisper one word of
warnin

“Tt e well for you that I do know what you are,"
said Mr. Derwent, turning his brillian
ment on the craven visage of his distant relative.
“Te I were suspicious of you, how extremely ugly it
would look for you to warn me against let m
nephew, disinherited for your ae see me, when it
might be just possible that he come to confess
SSP EE only had sight ut, withtandig th

% y us, W: e
obvious irony of Derwens's me with miraculous
density; ‘‘but alas! no such good news.
come for more money.”

“Ah! And how came that item to your know-
\ ?” asked Mr. Derwent, slightly stirring his easy
position; and Monica thought she saw one delicate

,

t eyes a mo- ©

He has —
  
 

!

|
\
|
fie

A

 

 

hand clutch at his side for a moment, but the next
it was idly toying with his lavender silk tassel.

“Td rather you wouldn’t ask me,” said Rufus,
with affected reluctance; ‘‘I hate to carry tales of
that man. Still, I will speak. Am I to be coward
enough to see my dear benefactor cheated of his
love, cozened of his money, and derided afterward
by a heartless profligate? Not for all the wealth in
England. I happen to be in a position to know all
‘that Mr. Geoffrey Kilmyre does, and have been so
for the pass six months. By pure accident I dis-
covered that my valet, Joe, hada brother Jack who
is valet to Kilmyre. Jack sees his master living at
the fashionable pace, tells Joe, and Joe tells his mas-
ter. So it is that murder will out.”

Mr. Derwent had troubled himself to sit upright
during this explanation, and to fix upon the speaker
those fire-ringed eyes, whose strange and vivid gaze
had dragged Monica out of her sleep the first time
they had rested upon her. Uunder that gaze Rufus
Marshall writhed and paled, but stubbornly kept his
sneaking glance averted and maintained his point.

“Do you know what J should do with such a valet
as your Joe?” said the Master of the Weald, in a low

tone.

“No, What? There’s one thing I have done al-
rena doubled his wages in reward for his vigi-
ance.

“ [should kick him out of my employ,” said Mr.
Derwent, as gently as ever, ‘‘and hire a navvy to
horsewhip the vile life out of him.”

Rufus and his brother stole a cowed look toward
each other. They were so very far from being gen-
tlemen that the habits of thought and feeling of
those who were continually came upon them unex-
pectedly as a moon at nee

“Oh, would you?” was all the craven could stam-
mor, fumbling his hands in his pockets in an agony
of discomfiture; ‘still, don’t you know, we’d never
have known what Kilmyre was up to if it was not
for poor Joe?”

“Spare me the foul theme,” interrupted Mr. Der-
went, with a gesture of disgust.

“How he throws his Cornlea income,” persisted
Rufus, doggedly, ‘among all the ballet-girls and va-
riety actresses he can get to go to Thames water
ss with him, with champagne of the costliest

rands to be had for money, and peaches at a guinea
apiece.” ne

“Very good, my young friends,” again interposed
the master, contemptuously; “I do not exact the
filthy service of tale-bearer from you. I prefer to
guess at my precious nephew’s amusements to hav-
ing them detailed, however eloquently.”

“Twas only wishing to explain,’’ proceeded Rufus,
obstinately bent on forcing the uncle to hear some
damning folly of his nephew, ‘‘ that that’s where his
own handsome income has gone, so now that he has
run himself into a corner by the purchase of the late
Duke of Malthraver’s toy villa for that unnatural
beast, the prize-fighter’s sister, ‘ Bess Bounce,’ he, of
course, has no option but to come back here—”’

“will you be good enough to hold your peace?”
cried Derwent, in sudden fury, starting up from his
chair and towering over the cowering dastard as if
he would have hurled him under his feet and ground
his carcass into dust. ‘‘Do I need your crafty dis-
closures to keep in my memory the degradation of
my house and name through the mad profligacy of
this foolish lad? Dare not to take his name upon
your lips again, or, I swear it, I shall drive you from
me, never to benefit by the wealth you crouch so low
poy id so much as one shilling. Now, sirs, you both
at know my mind.” _ And he walked to'a distant
window, and dashing aside the silken curtain, sent
his blazing eyes in a wide, unseeing sweep over the
noble scene, where the timber of three centuries still
studded the meads that his fathers had won by deeds
of high renown. ‘i

In her dark niche, his daughter smiled; the noble
wrath of the patrician went with every proud pulse-
beat of her body, and then she thrilled to note how
her father’s spirit had been born again in her; then
sighed in bitter anger that, for all his spirit was lofty
in some things, it was so base and cowardly in the
long-forgotten matter of his village wife.

, CHAPTER XI.
4 PROUD MAN’S SCORN, AND A FATAL CONSPIRACY.

Ir was the suppressed voice of Derwent that broke
the silence,
“Good night, my kinsmen,” he said, without turn-

ing toward the , who were hulking together
awkwardly enough. ‘I shall not detain you longer;
it gue Good-night.”

a glanced uneasily at each other, Gavaine arch-
ing red eyebrows for orders, and Rufus shrug-
ing his lean shoulder with an evil grimace; then
hey muttered their adieux and retired through a
door in the parlor. ;

Derwent waited until the sound of their steps had
ceased, then went to the door which they had left
unfastened, shut it smartly, and was starting to shut
the door upon the corridor, when Monica stood be-
fore him on the threshold,

So pale she seemed, with her small black head and

1 black eyes, muffled up to the chin in sable
garments, too, and her little slim hands clasped im-
ploringly, that he did not in the least recognize her
at first, but stood apparently dumb smitten, an ex-
pression of utter astonishment upon his haughty

She took advantage of his surprise to step into the
room, shut the door, and run up to him.

“Forgive me for coming here—but—but—let me

to you,”’ she gasped.

He knew her now; his amazement passed, and a
sarcastic disdain curled his delicate lip. "

“ By what grotesque freak has nature given the
features of a Derwent to an American villager?”
said he, with a low laugh of scorn. ‘ Twice have
you startled me by a resemblance which is utterly

unaccountable. But I think I Osea the use you
wish to make of it. Ha! ha! ha! trust a River's to
make the most of accident!”’

His manner was intolerable to the proud _girlin
whose veins ran his own haughty blood. at he
meant was incomprehensible, but she understood
that ne was heapin, 0
and for the momen: her pu; ose in seeking him was

contempt and insult upon her,

 

 

|

in her,

“What do you know about the Rivers’?”’ she de-
manded, in her high, clear, ringing voice, like silver
bells, and her magnificent eyes glittering.

“Quite enough,” retorted the Master of Dornoch,
“to avoid fortune-hunters.”

““What do you mean?” she cried, wildly; ‘‘ who
wants your fortune?”

His manner changed; the scathing jeer on his lips
faded; a spasm—a sort of white scorn and anguish
convulsed his paling face; he laid his strong, firm
hand upon her shoulder, and with one twist turned
her to the full blaze of the large astral lamp which
stood on a curiously carved Pompeian table, with
its three leopard legs in gleaming black-marble, and
dead-gold scroll-work round the rim. She met his
fierce, inquisitorial gaze eye to eye, all the pride and
wrath in her nature uppermost.

Asif satisfied, he pushed her from him, turning
with a smothered oath from the small, white, venge-
ful face, that could look sweet and tender as a beau-
sel angel’s had he but possessed the key to her

heart.

“Girl,” said the. Master of Dornoch, frigidly, ‘‘ go
back to Addiscombe as fast as steam and machinery
can carry you, and say to the idiots who sent you
here, Otto Derwent is not to be swindled out of one
pound. Heis ready armed_against all your arts, and
has been any time during these nineteen years. Now,

”

He waved her toward the door.

Monica’s cheeks flamed, her eyes gushed full; he
had torn her very heart.

‘* You were never so mistaken in—”

“Go!” reiterated he, in a terrible voice.

She started; such a tone had never fallen on her
ears before. She looked up at him in her incred-
ulous, feminine way, and the unearthly glare of his
eyes struck horror to her soul.

She put up her clasped hands, wailing: _

“Oh, sir, lets me speak—let me warn—indeed, I
am not here on my own behalf—”

‘“‘ Will you beard me thus, miserable adventuress?”’
cried he, furiously advancing upon her.

She eluded his grasp by falling on her trembling
knees to him.

“Hear me—hear me—I have come to save you!”
she cried, in passionate entreaty ; but his cruel hands
were on her; he dragged her to the door, and flung
her violently from him into the dark passage. He
never heeded her quick, urgent words, she pouring
out as much of her meaning as she could render co-
herent, poor little soul, with the sobs and tremors of
outraged feeling, ay, and of physical fear, too, al-
most suffocating her.

“T know not who has dared to give you entrance
here,” spoke the bitter voice of the master, as he
closed the door; “‘but I warn you that if I find you
under ay roof to-morrow, I shall thrust you out Erb:
licly, and dismiss your foolish dupe as well. It is
late; Ipermit you to stay here until daylight; but
then you must be gone.”

He closed and locked his parlor door, and the
young girl crept to the mat outside, and knelt down
quivering and gasping, and prayed God to give her
patience, and wisdom, and strength to rescue her
cruel father,

And long after the last sound had died in the echo-
ing corridors, the devoted daughter still cowered
there, listening for the muffled tread of assassins in
her father’s room.

How bitterly she ppreaice herself for the fatal
susceptibility to insult, by means of which she had
spoiled her opportunity. What demon was it, she
passiousiey asked herself, that had possessed her
to resent his suspicions, instead of using every mo-
ment of her chance to call his attention to his own
peril? Why had she not said, the instant he saw her
on the threshold, ‘* Think of nothing except uhat Iam
here to warn you of. I have overheard a conspiracy
against your life,” and so on, would he not have been
startled into hearing all she needed to say?

‘Well, well, she had failed in her first trial, but she
should not be beaten out of the field for all that.

“He threatened to thrust me out before all his
guests,” she thought, quivering cven now with the
shame and resentment roused by his harshness; ‘I
must gain his ear before the guests rise in the morn-
ing. Oh, how can I make him listen to me?”

All the long, cold night she cowered there; then,
when the dawn was stealing through the wide stain-
ed window at her side, she crept away to her own
little room, bathed her burning head in cold water,
re-arranged her poor little black silk dress that she
had taken such care with the preceding night, and
crept back to his door.

Poor child!
had pictured herself lying in wait for the man who
slept within.

ow little she had known her own sweet, loving
heart when she set herself the vole of Nemesis.

The sourds of early morning began to awake in
in the castle; the domestic force issuing from their
rooms to their daily duties; doors banging, windows
thrown wide for the crisp spring breezes, the bayin:
of hungry hounds from the kennels, the loud, tri-
umphant crowing of a vainglorious cock in the hen-
nery, the mewing squall of a per of peacocks strut-
ting on the terrace wall, shrill voices in uncouth re-
monstrance or laughter, steps hurrying everywhere
—all the bruit of castle life awaking, and all filtering
in a confused jangle to the ears of the solita
watcher through the jealously closed doors whic
separated the Master of Dornoch and his two favor-
ite guests from the rest of the household.

But no sound came from within; the three slept
on quietly, as if murder had never been committed
on earth,

Monica waited until a distant clock rung out the
hour of five, v which time the stained window was
shedding its full prism of blended colors over her
spectral face and weary form; then she gently—oh,
so gently—tapped at her father’s door.

Instantly some one moved within, a door was
flung open, and steps crossed the parlor and stopped
close re the door upon the outside of which she was

neeling.

She tapped again. x :

The door opened, her father’s face looked out;
seeing her, it gave forth that white flash-like light-
ae ee she had learned to dread with quailing
spirit, ‘ ‘ “4
Before she could utter aloud what she had alveady

*
o

N AMERICAN QUEEN.

|
obscured by the vehement resentment he stirred up |

With what different intentions she

 

enunciated twice voicelessly, he had shut the door
again, and she heard him striding across the recom
again, and then the long shrill clangor of a bell furi-
ously rung.

He was summoning his servants to cast her out
as an adventuress—he would not hear one syllable
from her,

“ Father!’ she shrieked in her anguish,

No reply,

_ She tottered to her feet, and moaning and weep-
ing, fled from the private corridor to her own room.

As she went she heard the arrival of the master’s
valet, and the stern, freezing accents of the master’s
voice; and she hid herself behind the towe ring wal-
nut armoire that stood in a corner of her bedroom,
praying God to keep her hid, so that they should not
force her away until she had saved ham.

And after she had trembled and wept there for
many hours, as it seemed to her, some one did tap
at her door, and receiving no answer, came in; and
she heard a man’s step strutting heavily about, and
a man’s voice calling imperiously:

“Any one here? Come out, if there be or else
you'll be prosecuted for a thief!”

She breathed not till the man had gone, locking
the door after him; but then she burst into sucha
paroxysm of cries and tears (having been wound uj)
to a perilous pitch of excitement for over sevcn
hours), that any one within sound of her voice mu: t
have thought they heard the ravings of a manizc;
but no one heard, and she screamed herself ex-
hausted, and then lay down on her bed, smiling
weakly at herself for a poor silly helpless baby, who
was not to be permitted to save her unsuspiciovs
father’s life, because God was angry with her for
coming to England with the wicked purpose of re-
venge.

Then she fell, in spite of herself, into a horrid
depth of sleep; during which she thought she was
dead and dreamed those terrible things that can
never afterward he expressed in any language, and
it was dim dusk when she rose to her elbow and
looked about her; and she was faint with hunger.

At first she did not know that a sound had awaken-
ed her, thinking she had slept herself out; but before
she had fully collected her thoughts, a voice at her
very ear shocked her almost into a swoon,

It was Rufus Marshall speaking; she recognized
the voice instantly.

How long that sneaking voice had been muttering
she knew not. The first words she caught seemed
to be the tail end of a lengthy harangue.

“Don’t be a fool,” were the gracious words she
first heard. “They would never be closeted so long
together unless an infernal reconciliation was going
on. He has defied us, in seeing the fellow at ell.
You remember how tetchy he was last night abcut
it. Oh, the devil! everything’s going wrong.”

“Serves ye right, for a mealy-mouthed muff,”
growled the husky voice of the bully, Gavaine. ‘Jf

e’d let me end it whenever the will was made, wc'd

ave been all tooralooral by this time.” And le
evinced his emotion by a volley of curses, of a vul-
garity and blasphemy that would have given Monica
the jaundice had she comprehended half of them,
which she fortunately did not,

So Geoffrey was closeted with his uncle! In sp‘ie
of all their arts and falsehoods, Mr. Derwent hid
chosen to please himself!

Monica’s heart beat high with hope; if Geoffrey
was forgiven, her father was safe, and Godiva hid
simply cut the ground from under the conspiratois’
beet by that little by-play in the forest with Gec f-

rey.

A hand placed on the old-fashioned latch of what
she had supposed to be a closet. door in_her room,
suddenly froze her blood with horror. Were they
coming in here?

“Where are ye going, ye booby?” snapped Ruft's,
testily; “‘can’t ye wait like a sensible being 1/lI
Godiva comes? Anyhow, that ain’t the door we
come in by, that’s it.”

“Oh, shut ns yer mouth!’’ growled the bully,
roughly, still clumsily clicking at the latch, “‘if I
choose for to look in here, who's agoin’ to stop me?”

With one bound Monica was out of her bed and
cowering behind the armoire again; just in time to
avoid the blinking, half-stupid eyes of Gavaine as he
peered curiously into the room.

“Be darned if somebody ain’t been in that bed,”
muttered he, glaring at it; then he looked back over
his shoulder toward his brother, with several nods
and winks of tipsy significance. s

In an agony of terror Monica heard the quick step
of Rufus, and quick as thought took the eeronannn y,
when Gavaine gave place for him to enter her rocin,
to part a slit she had ruffled up in the arras behird
the armoire, and to slipinside.

To her mingled terror and relief, as she pressed
herself against what she supposed to be the wall
trying to stand as flat as possible, it gave wa; behind
her, and she only prevented herself from f ig with
violence backward by catching with the tips of ler
fingers at the edges of the mysterious aperti re.
There she hung, breathless, motionless, while ihe
sinister ee clamped into her late b om, and,
though she could not see them, she knew that tl ey
were standing over her bed, and listened with suffo-
cating terror for the impending discovery that it vas
still warm.

But before this fatal fact was revealed, another
sound broke the stillness—the distant opening of a
door and the swish of long garments across bare
floors. Then Godiva's voice calling impatiently:

“* Rufus—where are you, Rufus?

“Here, Come in here,” he answered, not moving
from the bed, and she came in, and with a little cry
of amazement joined the worthies.

“Who sleeps ere?” asked Rufus.

“Nobody,” she answered, wonderingly. « ‘How
did you happen in here?”

“Oh, Gavaine was fussing at the lock, and it gave.
But look at the bedclothes; some one has certainly
slept here lately.”’

momentary silence. Then Godivaspoke ly:

“The sheets are cold enough now to have so
since Montacute Derwent was carried a corner out
of them fifty years ago,” she said, contemptuou: ly.
Evidently her delicate hand had run through th 1m,

and thanks to the slight dela; in the inn eg well {

as to the accident of Monica’s: ha’ down

without undressing, the warmth had

 

cool. ‘However, | believe I see it. Yes, it must

“ \

ad time to.
have been Aberfeld’s new employee, who slept here |

 

 
 

last night. You shall hear of her anon. Meantime.
attend to me,’ she said, decisively; then dismissed
the subject, and walked away toa window, followed
by her accomplices. ee

‘Tf you ever win this battle,” she said, impressive-
ly, “you'll have me to thank for it. | For all your wit.

us, and your valor, Gavaine, neither of you could
prevent Geoffrey Kilmyre gaining a private inter-
view with his uncle, during which he could have
made mince-meat of your plots in three minutes.
But J was ready for him. I don’t pay old Yorick at
the inn to spy for me without sometimes getting the
worth of my money. He brought me word this
morning that Kilmyre had offered to speak to Aber-
feld on behalf of the stranger girl who has been
there for some weeks. It appears she is willing to
take a subordinate position anywhere she can get it.
Well, she came here yesterday, and, through his in-
fluence with Aberfeld, was Sectena as assistant
housekeeper, and slept in the house last night.
Here, as it seems. Of course, she has nothing in
this world to do with our matters, only that she ar-
rived on the scene at the ts rp moment when
we are at our wits’ end for some new —— to
father on Kilmyre, who, else, would be reinstated, to
oa ruin and misery. Well, baving discovered that
lr. Derwent had seen the giv] in the house, and had
been angry with Aberfeld for admitting a stranger,
also had sent her off this a one knows
where, but, anyway, she’s out of the district), I ven-
tured to write a little bil/et-douw in her own name
(Monica Rivers—a very pretty name, too), address-
ed to ‘My own love—my_ Geoffrey,’ begging him to
do her justice,’ or she ‘ would disclose all to his uncle’ —
the arch plotter paused here to laugh maliciously,
and the wretches who listened joined in the laugh
with admiring unction—* and just about one minute
after Master Geoffrey had got into the library with
his uncle all to himse’ f, I sent in Sykes, the purblind
footman, ne know, with this redoubtable missive in
hand, and the significant little message that ‘the
young woman herself had left it for Master Geoffrey's
own hand, and if he did not attend to it she'd come
herself to his uncle.’ Thad taken the precaution to
hide in the old oak credence (behind the library door,
you remember), and, with the slide a hairbreadth
ajar, I could both see and hear comfortably, with
the trivial drawbacks of cramped limbs and an in-
definite time to wait for release. However, as the
game is for life or death, Z7isk all towin all. You
may imagine the blank amazement with which Geof-
frey opened and began to read the letter; and Mr.
Derwent’s abrupt demand to see it did not tend to
culm him any. e handed it over, however, saying
with tolerable firmness that he knew nothing what-
ever about this matter. He had seen the lady once
—yesterday at the inn—and had begged Mrs. Aber-
feld to give her a situation in the house, as she
seemed to want one, and was an American and
friendless, etc., etc.—all gospel. truth, of course.
But Mr. Derwent read every word of the letter care-
fully, getting whiter and whiter over it,-and then he
daiieed. it on the floor, and putting his foot on it
round it into fragments. He stopped poor Geof-
rey’s assertions with a sudden storm of fury such
as I have never seen yet—I declare I expected to see
him drop down di of rage (which would have in-
finitely simplified matters)—Geoffrey stood his
ground, and called upon Heaven to show forth not
only his innocence, but the perfect innocence of the
girl herself, who was incapable of a wrong thought
or act, he swore. (There’s more than you in love
with the fair American, Gavaine—ha! ha! ha!)”’ |

“The —!? muttered. the gentleman thus rallied,
with several of his usual execrations. ‘‘ He’d better
ware hawk; it won’t be good for him if I catch him
wee my game.”’

% on, dear,” urged Rufus, nervously. “How
did it end?”

“In our favor; the extraordinary, the unearthly
violence of the master’s anger, seemed in time to
paralyze Geoffrey, and he was reduced to perfect
silence, which of course looked like guilt. e end
of it was that Mr. Derwent talked so wildly and
Jooked so strangely, that Geoffrey actually ‘ot
alarmed for his reason, and went away wit! is
head on his breast and a heart-broken look, only
saying before he left, that as sure as there was a
God in Heaven he would clear Miss Rivers from the
‘foul aspersions’ in this ‘forged letter,’ and that
Mr. Derwent should be the first to nee the
wicked wrong he was doing her in believing it one
instant. When he was gone, Mr. Derwent went
round and round the library, moaning and wringing
his hands like one going mad. I never saw anything
like it; have you been tampering with him, eh?”

“Not yet; but it’s a good time to begin, and I
will,” said Rufus, wickedly. “But go on—how did
you get away?”

‘Oh, he circled round and round until I suppose
eae giddy, and then he fell down in a swoon (I
had no idea he was the man to let mental agitation
overwhelm him so, did you?) and then I ran up here.”

“Leaving him so?” ask ufus, unable to con-
ceal a little natural ak

“Certainly. Wouldn't it be the best thing for all
of us if he should naaues to die in such a way?” an-
swered the woman, coldly.

“God! when you’re my wife I'll have to look after
you ment. sharp!’ exclaimed Rufus, with an audi-

ie shudder.

The wicked woman only laughed low and jeering-
ly. She had long done with woman’s heart and
woman's tenderness; she had been unsexed, from
the moment when she bartered her womanhood
kneeling in unwomanly suppliance at the feet of
Otto Derwent to sue for wealth and position as his
wife, to the treacherous moment when she had
sought to worm from Geoffrey Kilmyre his love.
She was now naught but a brain to conceive crime,
a a female shape to tempt men to achieve it for

er.
In her dark, stifling concealment, Monica Derwent
felt the burning blush of shame tingle over her whole
body, that this demon should be counted in with the
Od hacthcond njust as Otto D t had been
and unjust as Otto Derwen

to her mother and.to her, she wept bitterly to think
of him lying unhelped and forlorn, on the floor of
his beautiful library, and that all his wealth had not
been foe to buy him one lovi heart.

He had thrust Geoffrey from him, poor Geoffrey,
50 belied—who was now to warn and save him.

But hark! What is this they are saying now?

 

CHAPTER XI.
“Ir IS TO BEGIN TO-NIGHT.”
“Mysterious being ’’—it is Godiva who speaks, in

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

+4

| She was sinking from hunger and protracted agita-

a sprightly tone of raillery, ghastly to hear under |

the circumstances—‘‘ when are we common mortals
to know your scheme?”

“Don’t talk of it quite yet,” mumbles Rufus, hur-
riedly; ‘‘it makes me sick.”

BS Lord !’ (this is Gavaine’s contribution) ‘“ what a
chicken I’ve got for a brother! While he’s puling
over the notion, I’d have the old chap stuck an’
buried.”

“Ay, ay, what you would do,” snarls Rufus, sav-
agely, ‘but you're all body, andI’m allhead. You
don’t feel, because you've no brains to make a
I’ve got the brains to plot, but unfortunately they
make me feel, too, Godiva,” he seems to be appealing
almost mournfully to her, ‘‘ob, sweet, lovely girl, is
there no way for us todo this thing except through

“No way,” she answers, coldly.

“Dear, you don’t realize—how should you?” he
moans. ‘What can your little heart know of the
horrible fear and remorse of murder ?”

“Don’t say that word!” she suddenly shrieks, and

by the sound, she has made some fierce movement |

that has startled thetwo men. ‘ He has insulted—
goaded—trampled upon me till J long sor his veath
as avight. I will have it—it’s no murder—it’s my
right—oh—o—h!” and with a prolonged cry, more
like that of a wounded beast than of a human being,
she walks pantingly to and fro, while in dead silence
the brothers look after her,

And Monica, in her hiding-place, feels herself slow-
ly freezing into stone, but still struggles wildly
against her faintness, lest she lose one syllable.

“Well, have it so,” groans Rufus, after a pause.
“ After all, it’s the only way to be safe. Qnce more
we have vontrived to part him and his nephew with-
out a reccneiliation, but the nephew is desperate
this tlme, because that strange woman is implicated,
and he won’t rest until he has cleared her. ‘And
with her, of course, himself.” k

“ That's the talk,” grins the brutal Gavaine. ‘I
thought for all the world you was a-goin’ to show
the white feather. The will is made in our favor;
we've seen it with our own eyes; that’s all we want
of the old fellow, and now, off with him!”

‘*Hush, you brute,”’ shudders Rufus; ‘‘ don’t shout
so; you’re half drunk, I believe.”

* And now, the means,” softly and calmly inter-
oe the peace-maker, Godiva; ‘‘you have found

em ?”?

“Yes, all is a we can begin this very night,”
mutters Rufus. onica’s gasp almost betrays her;
there is a sudden movement among the conspirators,
and a long deathly pause.

**Pooh! rats in the wall or the wind among the
ivy!’ flouts the lady. ‘‘We must not be nervous;
ha! ha! ha! why should we? We are not the first
who have played a desperate game nobly and well,
ay, and won it, too. What pale faces! Ha! ha!
even Gavaine has mounted the ‘pale ees of
fear. Must a woman show you fortitude? hh!”
She ends with the same prolonged cry like a yell
which shocked her hearers before; there is some-
thing indescribably devilish in its gnashing rage and
impatience.

ufus speaks, but hoarsely, as if awaking from a
fever dream. ‘‘ You will have it, then. Well, if
I must—listen. There is already a man in the house
who will do this for us, leaving no trace behind. It
is his trade.”

“ Already here? Come, that is better! Who, what
is he?” asks Godiva, without any emotion, save con-
gratulation.

‘*He’s an Italian—one of those ‘confidential doc-
tors,’ you understand. He does é¢ scientifically, is
never detected, defies all the doctors in the three
kingdoms to trace anything. Never failed once.”

i — is his name?” asks Godiva, with gentle in-
erest.

“Vulpino—Andrea Vulpino. I’d heard of him
long ago; sol thought of him when we decided on
a, reer: I telegraphed to him, and he came
without one question by the night train. I met him
at the station at Linnhe, and drove him here in the
dead of night, while this ass, Gavaine, was snoring
at his ease. He never even heard me open the win-
dow going out or returning. And Vulpino walked
tighadinemat our rooms, and into the ruined half of
the little blue room door. I put him in the Muni-
ment Room; I’ve been with him off and on all day.
He’s given me enough instructions to get along
without him after—after to-night, if i¢ is to begin to-

n my
aM is to to begin to-night,” remarked Godiva.
“He must stay several days here, though, to
watch the symptoms,”’ resumes Rufus, in a quaver-
ing voice, whic vainly tries to steady itself. ‘‘ Con-

tion; her limbs trembled as she dragged herself
along the eerie passages, now smitten on the face by
some trailing oS of spider’s web, or fluttering
rag of the moth-eaten banners which drooped from
the steel gauntlets of the tall suits of armor which
stood at intervals along the corridor; sometimes a
gray streak would glide across the black and white
of the moonlit floor, and with squeak and skurry
vanish into a rat-hole; sometimes an apparition,
palely greenish, would beckon and wave its ghostly
garments from a distant hall casement, and only re-
solve itself into a wind-blown a, eee when her
heart was in her throat and her blocd had turned to
ice; yet she dragged herself resolutely on and on, !
determined to obtain admission to her father’s room
at any risk—determined never to leave him until he
had heard all that she had to tell him.

Gone were all her pride and anger; she did not
care, now, whether he insulted or caressed her, so as
he would only listen; she was ready to rivet his at-
tention at any cost, ay, even if she had to tell him
that she was his daughter, and witness the shame
and disgust with which he perceived this relic of his
buried misalliance drifted up at his feet by the re-
lentless waves of Time; she was ready for any cruel-
ty, any disdain, any unjust and goading suspicions—
if only she could warn him in time against his mur-
derers!””

And as she went she wept to think that her mother

| had loved this unhappy man for naught, and that

 

|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|

|
|

stitutions differ so much, you know; and we are |

‘oing to, do just enough to give Derwent the idea

at he has typhoid; imagination will do the rest so

naturally—so oer d that we shall be quite safe.
he is to begin the doses to-night?”

|

So, |
Monica hears no more; her senses have been |

slowly leaving her for some time; she feels herself
falling, and puts out her hands to help herself down
without noise; her body slips heavily down two or
three oor steps, her
tact with the moist, icy stone, and then she faints.

When she recovered sense enough to raise her
head the shock of the blind darkness and the reeking
wet and mustiness of her prison almost frightened
her into another swoon; but then she remembered
where she was, and sternly composed herself.

There was no sound to be heard; she listened long
and anxiously, her ear pressed to the crack of the
secret door; nothing moved or breathed; so at last
she ventured to open the secret panel and steal out
into her bedroom. She would have only stepped
into continued darkness had it not been for.the
broad white sheet of moonlight which streamed in
at the window, silvering the antique furniture and
casting strange, startling shadows beside the tall
shapes which stood about the walls, for it was night

ead coming roughly in con- |
| the stuff that scorns to forsake the helpless, what-

|

now. Step by step she crept to the door of communi- |

cation between her room and the room in which the
brothers had begun their conference. It was empty,
and the corridor gleamed beyond, through the Halt:
open door, silent as the grave,

It might be midnight for all Monica could guess;
no sound came from the inhabited portion of the
house, nor one solitary bark from the dogs without.

1

she could never now thank and bless her faithful
child for saving him from death; and she sighed
in her bursting heart, to God:

“Oh, that he would love me by and by!”

On and on crept Monica through the ghostly cas-
tle, on, on, on; waxing fainter and weaker, and
marveling dully why she was never reaching the
little low-browed, iron-studded door that separated
the uninhabited half of the mansion from the mod-
ernized portion; she rested, kneeling on the cold
flags, for she feared to open any of the creaking
doors along her route, to seek a seat within; then
she set out again and as before crept onward.

She came to a door that stoo ae a sheet of
moonlight streamed through it; she ooked and lis-
tened long, then crept in.

And then she uttered a shocked cry; for she had
come back to her own bedroom; all her wanderin;
had been for naught, she had merely wearied herse
vainly among the labyrinthine passages,

Her strength was gone, she staggered to the bed
and just reached it before her senses left her for the
second time.

How the night passed she never exactly knew, but
at last gray dawn shone in upon her eyelids, which
were quivering in an agony of nervousness; and with
it came the sudden musical winding of a distant
hunting horn.

The hunt was to meet at the Weald that morning.

She now recollected that Mrs, Aberfeld had told
her; a dozen or more of the neighboring gentry
would ride to the Meet, accompanied by the bolder
of their ladies; ar the distant signal was an-
swered from the Weald, as Derwent’s huntsman
arrived from his home in the forest to the kennels
behind the mansion; where were kept three or four
~~ of the finest hounds, stag and fox hunters, in

he country.

Monica sprung to the window; the aurora beams
of the brilliant spring morning were apnoea over
the sky in fan-shaped effulgence, but the court-yard
beneath seemed dark as a well yet, filled as it was
with shadow; she soon, however, distinguished the
hurrying figures of the domestics*passing and re-
passing in all the bustle of preparations for the
1untsmen’s breakfast; presently the immense two-
leaved doors of the rear archway were swung widé.
and the red light which morning diffused on the still
atmosphere, gushed in, in a broad ruby lane, in the
glory of which came a gay host of scarlet-coated
and dark-habited hunters of both sexes, mounted on
noble animals, the latter capering and pawing in
their lusty freshness. Up rung the silver peals of
gay ladies’ laughter, and the deep musical tones of
the men; grooms in various liveries obsequiously
sprung to assist the delicate long-robed figures to

ight, cavaliers doffed their caps to invisible ladies
at the upper windows, and the remote baying of
eager dogs a with the clash and bruit; a mer-
ry scene, at which the unknown daughter of the
house gazed with sick eyes, strained to see her father,

But she knew that last night the murderers had
begun their hellish work, and she scarcely expected -
to see him.

She was wrong; a sudden accession of the merry
voices indicated the appearance of some more dis-
tinguished personage, and into the broad lane of
red light strode the Master of Dornoch-Weald, clad
for the field, and looking exactly as usual. And, as
ever, at either elbow slunk the curs, Rufus and
Gavaine Marshall.

He was going out for the day in their compen
who could say what might happen to him during the

day?

Toa nobody to avert peril! Nobody to whisper
warning! He was left to his fate!

“Oh, Geoffrey Kilmyre, where are you?” wept
Monica, wringing her hands in despair.

For she knew that Geoffrey Kilmyre was made of

ever the patmponinoee And he had been warned by
Godiva; he knew that these low-born curs were not
to be trusted; where, where was he?

Then a thrill, half anguish half a sudden, sweet,
passionate titude, a through the pure heart
of Monica, for she suddenly knew where Geoffrey was.
He was searching for her, that he might prove her
innocence of the vile forgery which had blasted her
fair fame in the eyes of his uncle,

So that his uncle was left unprotected, unsuspi- *

cious, already the work of death begun upon him—
not a soul to save him!
, #or a few minutes the young girl lost all courage,
all faculty to plan, and raved madly to the heavens
to perform a miracle on Otto Derwent’s behalf, not
to abandon him to his murderers; confessing how
wicked her intentions had been in coming here, but
cry. for mercy! mercy! And oh, 1 of to
punish her in this horrible, irrevocable way!

At that moment a thought came to her like a flash
of inspiration. It went prickling through her hair,
over all her tingling body, darting through her heart
—it was electrical.
 
  
 

I
|
1
|

a) cap,

genio’ uzzling
Sa ata key in her

12

“Some of the ladies are vailed thickly—why not I?
1 wILL Go WITH MY FATHER.”

This was her thought. t

And she had never in her life been on a horse’s
hack, and it was a stag-hunt upon which the caval-
vade was bound; did she know at all what that was
‘ike? Yes, well she knew it, for Monica was an om-
niverous reader, and had devoured many a spirited
account of the mad swing over moor and fen and
*hrough the thick black tree-trunks after the flying
monarch of the woods.

ia is the only way—it must, must be done,” she

CHAPTER XU.
“My LIFE BEFORE HIs!”

From the instant when the brave girl resolved upon
this desperate scheme, all things seemed to smooth
before her, every obstacle to melt away, and, in-
stead of inanimate objects getting in her way after
their perverse wont, they seemed to lend themselves
—everything she came in contact with—to her pur-

ose.
iver had a mad undertaking been so easy of
achievement as this of the devoted daughter to save
ter father’s life.

Things happened something thus:

While the bedazzlement of her purpose was still

upon her, she looked down and saw the dainty, slim |

form of Godiva, clad bewitchingly in an opal-tinted
mnorning-robe, with her roseate arms gleaming bare
to the flowing lace at the elbow. She was moving in
and out among the stiffer and more masculine fig-
ures of the huntresses, m lovely contrast; evidently
she was not going with the hunt, and yet was co-
yuette enough to present her floral beauty, enhanced
yy the stiff toilets of the other ladies, to some fa-
rored eye, even at the risk of dragging her indolent,
sase-loving limbs forth from her couch at three
’clock of the morning.

Monica had been through all the house, we know;
she knew the inhabited portion of it much better
than tho other, and, once she had escaped from
“hese mysterious labyrinths, could find her way to
any room.

Whenever she saw Godiva, she told herself:

“Now is your chance to get a riding-habit;” and
once more trusting herself to the corridors, which
had been the scene of her half-delirious wander-
4ngs, she sped straight to the low-browed door, and
from thence, swift and unerringly, to Godiva’s
apartments. F

‘earful that the lady’s maid might be there, she
was cautious in her entrance. But Florice was dee
‘n flirtation below with Lord Glenfillan’s valet, an
‘he lone, dim, sumptuous suit was left to itself, with
n’) better guard against intrusion than the key
virned in the antechamber lock. ‘

Monica flitted in, her black silk skirts gathered
“ight about her in case of rust! , and her black
syes gleaming with a resolution that would have
Aaunted the fair mistress of the dainty splendor she
‘ooked upon had she met her then, face to face,

Godiva, the distant relative of proud Derwent,
lodged well under the roof of him she had plotted to
murder; her taste was obviously and determinately
modern, and not one stick of the magnificent old
turniture that so ravished connoisseurs been
permitted to remain within her regions.

Frescoing, satin-and-silver hangings, velvet car-
pets, mirrors of crystal-and-silver in true Venetian
oo silver chairs and divans, gorgeously framed
pictures, the subjects of which were forgotten in the
overpowering frames which surrounded them;
showy bric-a-brac, shimmering cages, with brilliant-
ly-plumaged but mute birds; heaps upon heaps of
gayly-bound books, the leaves uncut; of lustrous
garments, lovingly displayed where their owner’s
eyes would fall upon them the first thing on awak-
ng in the morning; the blue-and-lace bed, with sil-
ver-tissue hangings and et-counte: e—all

- that = could see loudly proclaimed the secret na-

ture of Godiva Montacute—her love, nay, her crav-
ing greed of costliness and ease, luxurious lavish-
ment and sensuous oa for she had none of
that purer, more elevating love of beauty for
beauty’s own noble sake, nor the instinct, God-
given, which sees a loveliness in the commonest
wayside flower far yo hae the flaunting glory of the
scentless exotic, and in all beauty that Heaven and
goodness symbolized.

In oe through the three intervening chambers
whic! es into one another, @ Ja Indian cabinet,
before reached the final one, the cea
Monica Derwent unconsciously perceived all this—
unconsciously, I say, for at the time her whole heart
and mind were bent on her present purpose, and she
was not aware that she had had time to receive any
impressions until afterward,

till favored by capricious accident, she went un-
erringly on until she found herself before an ex-
quisi inlaid Japanese wardrobe, the majestic
hight of which seemed to indicate that it was used
for hanging dresses pom long trains required more

than usual . it was ajar, Monica was in-
ak se. her clever, deft hands over the vari-
ous folds of and rich material which filled the

dark interior. She came anon to the heavy, smooth
folds of a cloth garment, took it off its hook, and
saw what she sought—an elegantly-made riding-
habit of invisible green. A cap of the same color
was attached to the costume, and a pair of delicate
white riding-gauntlets in the pockets of it; she look-
ed for the accompanying whip in the bottom of the
wardrobe, and found it also, With these things in
her arms she glided from the dangerous locality,
oF ae herself into the first room she came t
in the uninhabited haif of the house, had the satis-
faction of soon seeing herself reflectedin a dim,
cobwe mirror—an equestrian figure of as
much elegance and fashion as any rage oe them all.
She finished her toilet by winding thickly and se-
curely a long black tissue vail round and round her
after which she might have defied the
eyes of her own mother to e her.
- “Then she hid her own costume in one of the curi-
ous old cabinets that were there, locked up the in-
recess in which she had placed it,
et.

And now to obtain a horse, and ride into the forest

ron the party were safely out of the way at break- |
‘ast.

Here, too, fate befriended her.
She walked quietly throngh the most private pas-

I

t

 

 

sages which she knew would eventually lead her to
the court-yard, meeting one or two servants on the
way, who, however, only stared at her, not ventur-
ing to address what they supposed to be one of the
stranger ladies lounging through the corridors for
curiosity; and soon she was standing, with an air of
languid indifference, on the ladies’ mounting-block,
looking about her, }

A footman in the Derwent livery edged near her,
cap in hand, ready for orders. She abruptly turn
to him, saying, in a petulant voice:

*‘Have you happened to see any one waiting here?
I mean Lord—but no matter; sha’n’t wait for him.
eS a horse brought round for me—instantly, you

ear?

She tossed him a sovereign which she had just
found in the tiny silver-net poche at Godiva’s girdle,
and he, very properly impressed by her imperious
air, bowed obsequiously, and ran to give the order
to the head groom.

Inthree minutes a helper came trotting along into
the court, holding loosely by the bridle a superb
hunting mare, whose steel-gray coat, satin of sheen,
small lean head, taper ears, quivering muscles, and
large, soft, brilliant eyes, spoke unequivocally of
blood—of race, ali over her; and sent a shiver of
nameless excitement through the very heart-fibers
of the untried rider.

Many people have watched the approach of a wild
beast with less sickening apprehension than did poor
Monica that of her father’s queen of the stud.

But she was committed to this course, however
desperate—she, like the beautiful animal now pranc-
ing before the mounting-block in the exuberance of
her spirits, felt the proud blood of an ancient race
tingling through her delicate body; she set her teeth
to keep them from chattering, gathered her flowing
skirts in one hand, placing the other daintily on the
obsequious groom’s offered shoulder, and sprung
into the saddle.

As she settled in her lofty seat, and saw the proud
neck of the impatient animal arching itself before
her, her courage came back, her heart swelled high,
and in & sort of reckless aieh in her danger she
patted that glossy, neck with her little firm hand,
then tightening the reins as she had seen other
riders do, off sprung the mare with a snort of plea-
sure, through the archway and away.

After the first giddy feeling, and convulsive effort
to accommodate herself to the poise and motion,
Monica settled in her saddle with the fearless grace
of a born equestrienne. How could she be awkward
here, with her straight, well-poised form, her brave
soul, her inborn presence of mind, and her exube-
rance of young spirit, which laughed at bodily peril
and enjoyed the rush and the costar. of ferings

Hearing the sound of hoofs behind her, she looked
back, to see the same groom in Derwent livery in
attendance. This reassured her more than ever,
for she saw that she had got off under the very best
of ees would inevitably be mistaken by all
for one of the mansion’s guests, gone off by herself
in pique, which mood would also account for her
thick vail and jealously conceale1 features.

She allowed her mount to cai her down the
avenue out of sight of the mansion, then, having
somewhat familiarized herself to her position, she
Fae ore in the docile beauty and waited for the groom

0 ride up.

“ Conduct me to a point which the hunt is sure to
pass,”? she commanded the man, “and let us ride
slowl: , So that you shall give me a few instructions,
for I have never been on horseback before,” and she
a op as if it was a good joke.

The man’s eyes opened wide in amazement and
concern; he looked as closely as he dared into the
pac face, dying to see which of the ladies was so

aring.

_“* And don’t you go and tell it, either,” she con-
tinued, petulantly; “I’m not going to be laughed at
for a madcap, and lectured and hectored by all the
old fogies and prudes—and I mean to enjoy one
deer-hunt if I nevergo home alive,” and she shrug-
ged her shoulders and laughed mockingly, doing the
character of a spoiled beauty so successfully that
Giles made up his mind on the spot that he had the
luck to be the sole protector and riding-master pro
tem. of the lovely romp, Lady Madge Devlin, whose
pranks kept the Weald alive; and he grinned to him-
self as he anticipated the holy horror of her
straight-laced chaperone, ye on Lythwicke, and
the terror of her adorer, Lord Francis Traine, when
they discovered this maddest of all her freaks.

But she was as celebrated for her boundless lib-
erality in the matter of sovereigns as for her mirth-
ful follies, and Giles was well content to earn her
gratitude; so, as he touched his hat he vowed that

‘ne’er a soul should hear from him a word o’ the
matter,” and that ‘“‘he’d take right good care of her,
only she must folly his instructions, my , for
that ‘ Silky rt. thar, wor a rare ‘un togo, onc’t
she took inter her pretty head that them as rode her
didn’t know their business.”

Having thus shown the grave necessity of his ser-
vices, the pair went ambling side by side over the
lon; mn stretches of the home park, while Monica
took her first lesson, hanging on the words of the
old fellow with all her mind and brain, and really
learning more in that half-hour than any one not
paar by a matter of life and death could have

earned in a week. :

So that when the ct eee bugle-call run:
through the wood, and the distant thunder show
that the hunters were sweeping forth from the
gatesin grand cavalcade, she, sitting at rest on a
eee d eminence, screened from observation by a

azel copse, felt so secure that she sent her attend-
ant on a wild-goose chase to fetch her a branch
of silky catkins from a poplar half down the hill;
and then, lifting her vail, she coolly took the field-
glass from its case on her saddle, and watched the
one of the{Master of Dornoch.and his ton as
they came merrily forth, with their array of beaters,
dogs, huntsmen, and other supernumeraries requisite
to ahunt of such distinction, 2

! there they come, the scarlet coats burning
red among the tender green leaves, the riding-habits
floating fully, bridles glancing, noble horses
&P ie ay ing turf as they breast the hill,
oe in leash by twos, by sixes, by dozens, running
swiftly, mute and attentive to their keepers’ whips;
a gallant sight it is.
ut as Monica sees the ominous figure of Rufus
Marshall slued to her father’s side, Gavaine tracking
°

AN AMERICAN QUEEN,

 

 

him in the rear, the involuntary pleasure dies out of
i flushed face, and the gloom of death overspreai

“Now for it!” she mutters, as she returns thé
glass i. its place and drops her vail; ‘‘ My life be-
ore Y

 

CHAPTER XIV,
BETWEEN TWO*FOES, .

SHE let the train meee past ler, then slipped
from her covert and joined the rear-guard, so deftly
that not an eye noted the fresh arrival.

Now, I am not going to describe a hunt, which has
so often and so gloriously been described before
that my amateurish efforts would only sound like a
travesty; suffice it tosay that as long as the beaters
reported naught, the hounds kept mute, and the
riders held together, the vailed huntress rode among
the rest, turning neither to the right hand nor to the
left, and so grandly ignoring the cavaliers who came
in turn to woo her from her incognita, that half the
men were wild to find her out, and all the women
were staring with uplifted noses at the graceful puz-
zle who thus dared to attract all the eyes their own
loveliness was wont to hold enchained. And yet, 1o
one guessed that she was a stranger, not only to the
Weald, but to the gentry who had come to join in
the hunt from the neighborhood.

As for Derwent and his two sleuth-hounds the
Sane ee they were well onin front, and did not ste

rer at all. .

But when the view-holla at last came, and the
hounds broke into full cry, and the cavalcade spread
in a wide fan after the streaming hounds, and every
face was alight with excitement, ‘hen the vailed lady
shot to the front and edging resolutely between the
Master of Dornoch and Rufus Marshall, rode by her
father bridle by bridle, mute, thrilling, and her eyes

leaming at him through her vail, like twin stars,

hat shot the strangest feeling through him.

“And who is this bold Diana?” laughed Mr, Der-
went in graceful playfulness.

“One who has a boon to crave of the Master of
Dornoch-Weald,”’ she replied in the same vein, andin
carefully-disguised accents.

“Ah? And what is that?” asked he, curiously try-
ing to recognize her, for the voice was as unfamiliar
as the figure.

_ ‘Let me be your sole companion for one hour!
No, it is no jest—I mean it,” she cried, laughing.
s More hangs upon this interview than you can im-
agine.

He could do nothing else than bow gracious con-
sent. She was, he supposed, if not one of his own
visitors, one of the neighbors. Some mad-cap young
girl, bent on some mischievous freak which she
wanted his assistance or consent to bring about.
Without a single suspicion he nodded his sleuth-
hounds to drop back, and rode on with no one by his
side save the mysteriously vailed lady.

She let him lead her in a swift canter across lots
which brought them well up with the chase, and
then they came to a pause on the crown of a bil-
lock, and breathed their chargers, while the hunt
swept on in merry train; and when scarlet, Lincu!n-
green, glancing metal and streaming hounds were
all out of sight, and the dark, questioning eyes of
Mr. Derwent were turned upon his silent companion,
she said gravely, still hiding her identity:

“This is no hoax, sir, nor any attempt at comedy
atall. Be good enough to alight with me, and wlile
we rest on that mossy log, I shall speak.”

For a moment he gazed suspiciously at her, 3

assing shoes of his nephew suggesting a possible

tercessor; but she continued mute, and with a
slight shrug of the shoulder he obeyed her,

They sat side by side on the mossy log, the sounds
of horses and riders fading far away, and nothing
heard but the ruffling of the young leaves and tl ¢
plash of the runlet at their feet from its rocky

source.

She began to speak, softly, solemnly, her hands
ae
“T have a terrible thing to tell you, Mr. Derwent;
I don’t expeet you to be able to believe it at first, for
it is almost incredible, but for your own sake you
must promise to sift my statements at once, and al-
low yourself to believe such proofs as you will then
inevitably find. Will you promise this?”

The proud Derwent gazed in astonishment at his
nt doubting her sincerity.

“This is a most extraordinary address!” he ex-
claimed. rm

** Are you not jesting

** As God lives, I am not,” she answered, firmly.
Then she rapidly proceeded, her fear of interrup-
tion peeing her on with breathless haste and insist-
ence, and he listening and looking at her in grow ing
amazement.

“The day before yesterday I chanced to be walk-
ing in the forest over there—you see the knoll?
There, by the hollow oak tree’”’—she pointed with
her whip, and Mr. Derwent glanced at the familiar
spot eee and back again at her with a feel-
ing of reality unknown before. “I sat down to rest
ee there,’’ she continued, anxiously trying to raed all
in as few words as she might, and a with that
dread upon her of interruption, ‘‘ and Miss Godiva

Montacute came up the ;.it was between eleven
and twelve in the mec | Can you recollect where
you were at the time? The day before yesterday,
you know!”

“Yes! yes! Irecollect; proceed,” muttered he in
his bewilderment.

‘Geoffrey Kilmyre joined her, and she talked a
long while with him, g him to come and be
reconciled to you; she told him that your life
was in danger from the schemes of your two hins-
men, Rufus and Gavaine Ma’ who were here
merely to plot for a place in your will, taking advan-
tage rs your nephew’s present disgrace—”’

op, mee ™m} Pecans car cee Mi Toomer
peremptorily. ‘ rm stranger mi
with Thy family mai aa

“Pardon me— onme,” sheimplored. “I mst
speak, let me finish before I unvail—” ;
“Madam, I believe I know you,” he said, abrupt-
ly, rising from her side. “I will not hear another

word

““You shal hear, all!” she exclaimed, eet?
rising too, and b: g his way to the horses; ‘itis
for your life’s sake that I and you do nwt
know me—you could never dream who I am!” This
told, he stopped in wonder; her tone had carried
conviction with it; whoever she was (and he had be-

 

 
w = ra

 

in to suspect that Monica Rivers once more ad-
ressed him), she spoke the truth, and he felt a spell
upon him to stand and hear.

“Geoffrey Kilmyre proudly refused to fawn upon
you for favor, or fo seek you merely as a matter of
self-interest, as Miss Montacute at first urged him;
but whenever she hinted at personal danger for

you, he vowed to go at once and warn you, and

iete her on that errfind. Miss Montacute was then
joined by Rufus Marshall, with whom she plotted
your death.” 7

The vailed lady’s voice had sunk and sunk as the
horror of her tale dee ened, until now she was al-
most whispering the dreadful words in the ear of
the staring and shocked Derwent; she here sudden-
ly broke off in her narrative and wrung her hands
hysterically moaning out: ‘‘And oh God! how
have tried to save you since, and you would not lis-
ten—and last night again when I lay hidden in the
ruined wing of your house, the three conspirators
came there to confer--Rufus, Gavaine and Godiva—
and they spoke of your death! The brothers said
that ‘now the will was made in their favor it was
time to get rid” of you—and they have an accom-

lice hidden in the Muniment Room—a poisoning

octor—and—” here the excitement of the girl pass-
ed beyond her control, and she clutched the arm of
her father with one convulsive hand while with the
other she tore off her vail, exposing the death-pale
face and quivering, imploring lips and eyes ofthe
stranger American, whom erwent believed to
be the accomplice of Geoffrey Kilmyre. 7

He gave an involuntary start, and tried to wrest
himself from her grasp, then waited to collect him-
self, regardiug her fixedly the while, as if he would
read her very soul.

What memories passed over him as they thus
stood, face to face, shuddering under the shadow of
Foul Play; what distrusts, long thrust. aside—intui-
tions stifled—natural repulsions sternly quelled in
the angered pain and revenge of his quarrel with his
nephew Geoffrey; what vivid perceptions of the dis-
gusting contrast between these new favorites he had
inserted in his will, and his old well-beloved nephew
and heir—how all these passed and repassed before
his awakened consciousness, it is unnecessary to
say; a window seemed suddenly to have s rung
open in his brain, and he looked forth on a hideous
reality that shocked and sickened him, And yet,
such were his secret sensations in connection with
this name of Rivers, borne _by this girl of America,
combining, cs he believed, the disgrace and shame of
his life, that in spite of all his horrified convictions
that she spoke but the awful truth, he could not re-
ceive it from her, but actually kept on associating
her in his mind with that composite image of mer-
conary-adventuress and frail female which had been
presented to him first, Yet, as he examined the del-
icate countenance of her, so eloquent now with
truthful urgency, he found it impossible to treat her
rudely, impossible to shake her off unceremoniously,
as he had done when she came to him at the dead of
night with—he now saw—the same warning; and it
w28 with a strange mingling of deference and in-
credulity that he last spoke.

“Young lady, by what aneeas fate have you thus
come from the ends of the earth, with a name that I
s>hor, and from a family that sent a traitress into
tay life to blight it forever, to mix yourself with my
afzairs? What do you expect to gain ?”

“Spare me these insults—think only of what I
havo. revealod to you!” she exclaimed, with flashing
scorn andurgency. “I swear it to you that I hope
to gain nothing from you, however true you find my
story, however much you may be indebted to me
for escaping a pair of intended murderers, hounded
on by a Jezebel, who has sworn to be revenged upon
the man who refused her proffered love (you see I
know all)—”

“You do indeed, and far too much to have come
to you by fair means!” he cried, enraged. ‘“ How
epee you been spying on me and my house-

old

“Why will you think of me? Oh, God! Think of
yourself!” she implored. ‘TI tell you ee said that
they would begin under the poisoner’s orders—to do
{2—(meaning your murder) last night! What did
they Five you to eat last night?—or to drink? Have
they tampered with you yet? Are you well to-day?
Are you quite, quite as usual?”

As she poured forth these horror-ins na ques-
Hons. in burning earnest he could not But shudder
uader a sharp conviction of her truth; and indeed,
how could mortal be such a finished actress as to
banish every particle of blood from the cheek, to
dilate the eyes b'ack and glaring, to imbue the slight
soft hands of a slim girl like this with the convuised
strength of those two that clung to his arm, and
shook it in the intensity of her prayers?

“Come, sit again, and tell mé this matter all over,
calmly, lease, And remember,
be sifted afterward,” said he.

She could scarce believe that heaven had become
so kind; she was to be allowed to save him after all,

He caught the swift flash of her thankful eyes
rising heavenward, and the trembling smile of Joy
that stirred the beauty of cher delicate mouth; and
azain his heart said loudly, “The girl speaks true;
listen to her.”

Side by side once more, and Monica detailed word
for word all that she had heard in the forest, then in
the ruined chamber. He questioned and cross-ques-
Uoned her keenly; she made not one misstatement,
uot one blunder.

“This is all very dramatic and sensational,” he re-
marked, with cool cynicism, which, however, his
deadly pallor belied; “and eminently calculated to
make you an object of interest, and perhaps of
cratitude, if I find your revelations to be the truth,
T think T'see your game, my shrewd lady-Yankee;
but, oh, heavén! how intolerable that, one so youn,
and lovely should so unsex herself.’” The Bppes
seemed to escape him in spite of himself; his clear,
searching eyes were striving to probe her very soul,
wrath and scorn fighting for supremacy.

Monica was dragged back to herself in ae of her
resolutions by the tacit insult. It was impossible
~ for her to let it pass.

“How dare you judgeme! What can you know of
my nature?” she demanded, in low, ree tones,
“voluntarily steppt close to him! and meeting his
scornful eye with a of noble rebellion,

He looked at her, She was so close that he could
seo the panting rise and fall of her bosom, the play

 

every syllable will

 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

of the delicate muscles about the mouth, the ex-
amet’ satin of her skin, and the raven silk of her
hair,

“How came you by the face and form of my an-
cestress, Mistress Ethelgiva Derwent?”’ he cried, per-
plexedly. ‘You are a Derwent, hair for hair,”

Monica forgot all but that this was her father.
She suddenly put out her two trembling hands, and
clasped him.

“Am Iso like one of your race?” she whispered, a
flame of excitement’ appearing in each cheek.
“Well, then, since you think so, you will the more
readily receive the truth; for the truth I will now
tell you, in spite of the injury you have inflicted upon
your innocent, true-hearted wife, Ada Rivers.”

The fatal words were checked on her lips, A
horseman had ridden up, and, with a low ejaculation
of amazement, drew up and leaped to the ground
with hands outstretched.

The stranger was Mr. Joaquin Price, the junior
partner of Korner & Price, the New York lawyers
who had ferreted out the rights of Otto Derwent’s
quarrel with his wife.

“Aha! Thought you too sensible to throw away
such a fortune,” chuckled the young man, convinced
that all was explained between father and daughter,
and that it would be his safe and simple duty to re-
veal the truth of the mistake which had parted man
and wife.

Standing there with the slight hand of the stunned
Monica in his, and the frigid apparition of her father
behind her, Mr. Price suddenly, and with that native
Sate, which has since made him such a success-
ful lawyer, saw in a glance that father and daughter
were as yet not united; nay, that there was sus-
pion, scorn, and bitter misconstruction between
them,

He drew in his horns instanter, and became limp
and passive, waiting for more light.

Meantime, Monica had recalled her wits, and was
debating in her mind the question whether she
should now reveal herself, accepting unavoidably the
assistance of Mr. Price, now that he was here, and
since he only could disclose the real facts of the mis-
take which had separated husband and wife.

No; it would look too like a mercenary plot gotten
up between the daughter and the sharp young law-
yer. No, Monica could not now reveal herself.

She disengaged her hand from the lawyer's con-
gratulating ora and said coldly:

“You are mistaken, sir. Iam as much a stranger
here as yourself,” and she enforced her meaning by
a seers glance.

“All right, if you must have it so,” muttered the
young man, in visible chagrin. “I suppose you know
your own business best.”

Mr. Derwent, glancing from one to the other with
a sneer, here made a slight obeisance to Monica, and
strode away, leading his horse.

CHAPTER XV.
AT LAST.

Mr. Price, brimming over with importance, turned
eagerly to Monica, She was looking after her father
with an expression of utter despair.

“You could not have chosen a more fatal moment
to interrupt my interview with Mr. Derwent,” said
she distractedly.

“Eh? What? I hope, madam,I haven’t been so
infernally unlucky as to spoil the game?” returned
tay lawyer, his mind full of the monetary aspect of

e case.

She made an impatient gesture, and turned rey,
What had she in common with this man? But he
had not expended his hundred dollars to cross the
ocean, to be ignored in this manner,

“ By the signs, I perceive that as yet you have not
been able to prove to your father your relationship,”
he blandly began. She flashed upon him with sud-
den wild anger.

““Wretch!’’ she cried, ‘is there nothing in the
world for you but money? Go away, you enrage
me with your Heard plots and counter-plots; while
—oh, good God! he is doomed !” She broke off here.
What was the use of telling this base grub the ter-
ror that was upon her? ,

Mr. Price stared hard at her; of course he was all
abroad with regard to the actual state of matters;
he thought that this por leg nar gn young lady
was writhing under the affronts put upon her by her
own father, who would not receive her as his child;
“and no wonder,”’ thought Mr. Price, ‘the infatuat-
ed girl has not the facts to show, which would bring
the peas Derwent on his knees tothe child of his
martyred Ada.” He gently placed himself in her
path, when she would have escaped him, and took
oe RS case where it had been eee by her in the
office in New York, scarcely a month ago.

“We Nt as bia are aware, hold a secret which
will inevitably clear away all obstacles between Mr,
Derwent and yourself,’” said he impressively, and
she in her heart-broken perplexity could not do any-
thing but stand and listen, *‘ We only can so positively
vindicate the character of the late Mrs. Derwent
that her long-estranged husband will receive (with
every wish to repair past injuries,) her daughter.
Command me, Miss Derwent; say the word, and you
are received by the proprietor of all this grand es-
tate 9s daughter and heiress,””

Cold as a stone she heard him out; his appeals to
her self-interest she only dimly comprehended and
resented with a fierce passing scorn, but his remind-
er that he knew that secret which would clear her
mother’s character in the eyes of her father, flashed
with a sudden and dazzling allurement before her.

Oh, to show forth the purity of her poor dead mo-
ther—to be received as her daughter with honor—
and then have the right to cling to her father, and
to save his life—because then he would listen to her.

Fired by this burning hope, she said: ‘

“Sir, I came here with no intention to profit by my
father’s wealth, but tk to see for myself what
manner of man he was. 1 ave not revealed myself
to him, and have no wish to do so, unless my
mother’s memory is vindicated, and he is wishf
for her sake to Wwledge me, You say you have
learned a secret that will do all this;—I am now as
anxious to hear it as I was before resolute not to
hear it. It is needless to defend my motives from
ee suspicions. 1 know they are not mercenary,

hat js enough for me, Now, sir, tell me this mys-

tery.
repress his delight.

 

. Price could with difficul
He had crossed the Atlantic with the expectation of

-

13

 

are to go through no end of finessing in order to
sell the secret advantageously to Mr. Derwent; and
here was the contumacious heiress herself se for
it—who in the world would be so willing to pay dear-
ly for the knowledge as she, who would receive such.
rich benefit cpenre

“Good—I thought you would see the sense of our
advice,” said he as coolly as he could;—"*‘ the pecu-
niary side of the question out of sight altogether,
how pleasant to prove the undeviating virtue o!
foes deceased mother, so cruelly and unjustly be-

ed for nineteen years! I confess I had expected to
have to apply to Mr. Derwent himself, but since you
have seen the matter in its true light, you are the
best one to negotiate the matter with. And now, to
business. Already we, that is, my partner and my-
self, have — our valuable time and talent to this
matter, besides disbursing a considerable sum in our
investigations. It only remains now forme to name
the sum at which we value our services, past and
future; we are entirely prepared to trust to your
honor to repay us whenever ~ are instated in
a. proper position as the daughter of Mr, Otto

erwent. You understand?”

She did, and once more her very soul rose up in
revolt at the whole transaction the mercenary as-
pect of which revolted her,

“What? and am I to count beforehand upon my
father’s generosity, to promise ycu so much of the
spoil before you do my dead mother justice?” she
exclaimed with passionate contempt; ‘70, let me
never be known as his daughter—let my sweet mother
lie in her grave undisturbed—I will make no league
with a man of your character. These base calcula-
tions revolt me. I can have nothing to do with such.
Let me alone; God will clear my mother’s name in
his own good time. She need never be beholden to
you, who will guly sell the secret of her goodness
tor money which it degrades me to count upon,”

“You are mad,” retorted Mr. Price in high wrath
at her scorn. ‘ You can do nothing without us, and
you flout our way of doing business! I tell you, you
are laughably obstinate. You_may prove your re-
lationship to the deceased Mrs. Derwent, but we only
can prove your relationship to Mr. Otto Derwent,
That secret is ours, and we mean to sell it to the
highest bidder. If you will not treat with us for it
a ee Derwent will. Do you fully comprehend

at?’

With a glance of utter disdain, Monica turned
from him and walked away further into the wood.

“ There goes a fool!” laughed the young sharper,
bitterly. “ Did lunatic ever deserve ‘a strait-jacket
more? Very good; since she won't let me espouse
her causel shall espouse my own. And now to dis-
cover who will pay most for this secret of ours, the
father himself, or his expectant heirs, the two Mar-
shalls. Humph! I fancy I can manipulate them to
some solid advantage. Meantime, let her look out!
No use for her to claim relationship now/ Iam
ready to prove her an impostor. a! ha! ha! I
as can be even with you yet, Miss Monica Der-
went!” j

Monica hurried to nepota her father; her fears for
him ever rising above thoughts of self, and driv-
ing her —- to watch by him; she was stunned
by the fresh complications of her lot, and as yet
knew not how to arrange her future course; all she
‘could do at present was to hasten back to guard him
‘by her presence, if he would not take her warnings
and guard himself.

As she passed through the glancing lights and
darkening shadows of the budding glades, she heard
a distant Sa and pattering; one of the dogs,
she thought, had lost the scent and was whimpering
by himself as he strove to rejoin his fellows.

She found Mr. Derwent very near the spot where
he had left her, no one by him but Gavaine Marshall,
As the two men saw her approach, hap aap expres-
sion crossed each face, Gavaine looking unaccounta-
bly startled by her appearance on the scene, and

anger, perplexity, contempt, all blending in the
somthing planes. Mel Derwent flung toward her;
which he pointed ruthlessly by assuming an osten-

tatious air of confidence toward the young man.
Yet Monica advanced fearlessly; very pale and ear-
nest she looked, and so dignified in her mien that for
all his distrust he could not ignore her as he would
have ignored at other intruder,

“You have still added wonders to disclose?” cried
he, disdainfully, f

She stepped in front of him, and her truthful eyes
looked straight into his. ,

i aor ssake, believe what I have told you,”
she said.

“T will, when you have explained who and what
"be a and your motive in coming here,” he re-

orted,

She was silent; an iron hand seemed to be crush-
ing her heart.

she had dared to pre to him her relationship
to him, would he not listen to her then?

And she dared not do it, until she could explain
away the miserable secret’ which had estranged
him from her mother,

Had she done well in refusing to buy this secret of
the lawyer at any price? This secret which would
have given her the power to save her father?

Ani woekes she ever have expected a proud
nature like his to receive with honor or respect one
oe ran presumed to count upon his wealth before-

an

As she stood there, racked by these conflicting
eee her eyes fixed in sorrowful anguish upon
her doomed father’s, and her hands unconsciously
hes aching heart, the a and whim-
e e had heard before came close; a great

wny deerhound ran into the middle of the group,
his eyes and gleaming, his tongue hanging
smoking from his slavering jaws, and white foam-
flecks spattered over his sinewy chest.

There was something so unusual about the appear-
ance of the animal to the practiced eye of Mr. Der-
went that he uttered a low shocked er
untarily seizing Monica by the arm, wh her be-
hind . At the same’ moment a wild yell came
from the copse, and with the agility of an ape Ga-
vaine Marshall swung himself into the branches of the
tree under which ae. had. been standing; and was
seareely settled six feet from the und when he
unsheathed his hunting-knife, aimed, and hurled it
at the dog, .

 

It pierced one of his ears and stuck there, the davir
' blood dying his delicate fawn-color in an inste.c,

and invol-

 

 
     

ae

 

 

and a howl and frantic bound in the air attesting to
his pain and terror,

The event of the next few seconds passed like a
flash; Monica at the time did not even comprehend
it; it took her anxious piecing together of the vari-
ous features of the scene after all was past to give
her the whole matter coherently.

This is what happened in the space of, say, six
seconds: 3 fi

As the wounded brute leaped in the air in his sur-
prise—for he had not seen Marshall’s flight into the

{ tree—Rufus appeared at the edge of the copse, and
with every appearance of consternation worked his
features and gesticulated like a madman, no sound
issuing from his lips; the hound reached the ground
and leaped up at Mr. Derwent’s throat, seeming]
with the one convulsed effort. He swerved, quic
as thought, and the animal landed with its two fore

ws on his shoulder, its glaring eyes and snapping
Jaws close to the face of Monica, who was behind,

tween him and the trunk of the tree; Gavaine
stretched down his hand from th3 branch exactly
above their heads, where he was lying at full length,
and Monica distinctly saw him seize the knife in
the dog’s ear, tear it out and make a blind sort of
desperate stab straight down into Mr. Derwent’s
brewst / Simultaneously Rufus fired his gun into the
middle of the group, the bullet whizzing past Mr.
Derwent’s ear, grazing Monica’s hair as it passed
through her vail, and lodged in the tree an inch be-
hind her; and, too, she saw at that same instant the
long flashin, fangs of the dog fasten with a click in
the side of Mr. Derwent’s neck.

Then a strange strength entered into her, and a
sense of superhuman pore of the one thing to
do, and power to do it; and she saw—for she could
not feel—her own two hands grasping the grisly
windpipe of the dog, clutching tight as a vise the
elastic baggy skin and muscular bones and sinews
beneath it—dragging the convulsed and strugeling
bulk down—down, while her father’s two hands tore
at the kicking and contorting body and struck at it
in a frenzy,

sickening tearing and gashingz of his flesh between
those iron jaws; then came another report, another
whizzing bullet, more blind flashing stabs of the
knife wielded from above, downward always, not
into the dog’s body, but always into her father’s ; and
then at last (and oh, it seemed as if a long hour must

have passed!) Monica felt the brawny throat grow
flaccid in her gripe, the struggling ceased abruptly,
and the dog dropped heavily to the ground, his red

eyes bulging from their sockets, and his tongue
_ lolling out between ee jowls.
She lifted her eyes and looked into her father’s.
And she read in their dim and swimming deeps
that he believed her now —tht he knew what these trai-
tors had done to him.. ‘i
And, ah, the piteous appeal in those proud, domi-
nant eyes; the wild dismay, horror, sorrow, and
prayer. j
As he reeled back against the tree she caught him
1 in her arms, and sunk beneath his swooning weight
; to her knees—-his head upon her panting breast, the
jbig tears from her swelling heart dropping on his
ghastly face; then Rufus ran up, his smoking gun
in hand, and Gavaine dropped from his perch, the
gory knife in his clasp. And they stood together
ove, the father and daughter, the rigid heap of dead
dog-flesh beside them; they pan and wiped the
sweat from their reeking brows, and glanced va-
cantly at each other, and for a while seemed as if
they dared not look anywhere else. Then Rufus
kicked the carcass of the hound over, and pointing
with the toe of his foot, said:

“One of my shots did for him; look here.”’

He muttered so quaveringly that Monica could not
have understood him had he not been so close; and
Gavaine stammered in answer as falteringly:

‘What the.deuce does it all mean?”

Then they both looked with one accord down at
Mr. Derwent, and meeting his half-open eyes resting
solemnly _— them, with the film of unconscious-
ness fast drawing over them, Rufusspoke up with
sudden distinctness: ws

“Mean? Why, don’t you see, man, the devilish
brute was mad ?”

and while he reeled and staggered about |
under the furious scratching of the paws, and the |

 

And Monica felt a fierce convulsion pass over the |

frame she clasped, and his hand going to the gaping
wound in his neck, and then he uttered a terrible
, and was senseless.

And she in turn fastened upon the craven faces of
the murderers a look so strange, so flashing with
comprehension and dark with vengeance, that they
grew white, and edged away together, to a little dis-
tance, where neo a stood muttering to each other,
and so see ly struck stupid that they never
thought of hastening for assistance till she cried in
a voice that startled them like the clang of a bell:

“Go for help, or I will say you tried to shoot, and
you to stab him!”

And asthey slunk away before her pointed finger,
she herself uttered a series of piercing cries that
rung through the glades and thickets far and wide;
then, suddenly desisting, she bent over her father,

ing wildly at that frightful wound in his neck, at

livid gashes in the white skin, and the few drops
of dark, gelid-looking gore which trickled reluctaut-
ly from them; and then, though the beads of sweat
oozed out on her dead-white face, and her eyes
glared in her head with horror and disgust, she
stooped her velvet sweet. mouth to the hideous
wound, and began to suck it.

And thus she was employed when Geoffrey Kil-
myre came through the underwood, calling

a
$ “Who is in trouble? Where are you?” /
And seeing the strange tableau, he came to a dead
stand over it, gazing in unutterable amazement, as
if he could never gaze his fill.

 

CHAPTER XVI.
THE PRISON IN THE FEN.

S#x suddenly looked up and knew him. ’

“The mes has happened him,” she said, in a
hoarse, changed voice. “Oh, sir, why did you leave
him for a moment?”

“Do not ri
swerved he, in:petuously, as he threw himselt on his

reproach me, you of all the world,” an- |

 

 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

knees on the other side of the body and ran his
hands deftly under the bloody shirt-bosom of his
uncle, to find the hidden wounds which made all these
stains. ‘Foul lies were told him about the innocent

and I went to find the victim and to prove her inno- |

cence.”

“T know all that,’’ said Monica, whose lips had
gone back to their dread task while he spoke, and
who looked up at him to rey with eyes shining
maniacally; ‘‘ but what mattered my good name be-
side his fife? Oh, Geoffrey! Geoffrey !’’ she burst
out wildly, sitting up and wringing her hands, ‘it’s
all over tor him, I fear—J/ear—oh, Geoffrey!” and
her horror and anguish overcame her quite for the
moment. : :

“Hush! Hush! Poor little girl! Sweet, kind lit-
tle soul!”’

The young man comforted her mechanically, for
he had torn apart the snowy linen and was examin-
ing with shocked distress a formidable knife-gash
in the fleshy part of his uncle’s fore-shoulder, and
trying in vain to gripe the gaping edges of the

wound together that the blood might not flow so |
“ This is dreadful for you to see, is it |

drenchingly. I
not, poor child? Yet, quick, help me here; you are
as brave as you are good; not another woman

among them would dare look on at this sight. Your |
handkerchief—tear it in strips. Stay—hold this for |
me—so—the lips .of the wound close, while I get |

some water to stanch the blood, from the runlet yon-
der.”” And he ran, Monica obediently griping the
red raw gash with her shaking fingers, and bending
again her foam-flecked mouth to the dog-bite, which
now looked pale and. bluish, and bled no pnger,
while the heart-sickening flavor of the virus she had
sucked from it sent throes of revulsion through her,
Presently, Geoffrey was back, pouring the water out
of his felt hat upon the cut, in hopes that the icy
cold would stay the flow of blood; then he noticed
the girl’s strange employment. '

‘* What is this?’ cried he, stopping short with sud-
den panic; then he saw the dea ” t
ery burst from him—‘‘ Explain, Miss Rivers—what
has happened?” he faltered.

“ They set a mad-dog upon him, Gavaine goading |

it till it bit him—here—’

The words were cut off in the midst, for a fierce
hand clutched her, twisted her off her knees, and
thrust her violently aside; and Rufus Marshall's
demoniac eyes glared close into hers, while he hissed
through clinched teeth and white, quivering lips:

“Ye witch, ye Jezebel, who in the fiend’s name
are io that knows so much? Take care what you
babble, or I swear P’1l—I’ll—take you care—”’

He sputtered with unutterable fury and menace,
and then he thrust her yet further aside, and she
found herself in the gripe of two Jang, wrinkled,

ellow claws, and a terrible, gaunt, wicked, foreign

ace leering close into hers; and somehow her heart
sunk on the instant like lead, her blood froze, and she
could neither resist nor scream out her terror, but was
hurried away deeper into the woods, half-dragged
and half-carried by the lithe, bony, griping arms of
the unknown man, She had a vague consciousness of
many people clustering about her father, and of loud
cries and confused voices and actions; also of the
deep, stern voice of Geoffrey rising above the din,
and a sudden dead silence following, broken by the
high, thin, furious tones of Rufus Marshall and the
coarse bullying ones of Gavaine; then she turned

her dazed and swimming eyes up to see who he was |

who hurried her away with such brutal violence;
and seeing a pair of gleaming, hollow black eyes
peering back at her, a large, pale, lipless mouth,
urned down, at the corners, skin harsh and yes.
as ancient parchment, and withered into multitudi-
nous, grim wrinkles about the bony brow and flabby
eyelids; a nose long, crooked, an poe horribly
toward the sharp and pointed ch ith its one
long, glossy, goat-like lock of dyed hair worn ala
imperial, and the whole ugly mask surmounted b
a grotesque faded black velvet skull-cap—a recol-
lection of the poisoner, Vulpino, burst upon her
ailing senses, and so completely overcame her
that she sunk at his ugly splay feet, unconscious.

Alas, poor soul, she only awoke from that trance
of horror to find herself caged; helpless to guard her
father or rescue herself from the unknown dangers
which beset her.

She was lying, still Rang. Miss Montacute’s rid-
ing-habit, upon a bed in a low-ceiled, whitewashed
room; by the sand on the floor, and the unpainted
woodwork, the tiny windows and the white deal-
chairs, as well as the blue, rough homespun coverlet
on the chintz curtained bed, and the monstrous
stucco cat and dog on the wooden shelf over the
open fire-place, she perceived that she had been con-
veyed to some humble cottage, and left to recover
herself as she might, unassisted.

For a time she could only look about her with a
faint, half-dazed sense of fear and weakness; the
terrible scene through which she had passed seemed
to have given her a nervous shock which both stun-
ned her faculties and drained the strength out of
her vigorous young frame; the humble features of
her surroundings were swimming vaguely before her
heavy eyes, and the very sky, which she could catch
one ey ging glimpse of through a crack at the side
of the dingy cotton shade which was drawn down
over the window at her side, seemed strangely unfa-
miliar in its deep amethystine hue, for it was bril-
liant sunny blue when she had last seen it, and it
could not possibly, she thought, be evening yet.

Presently, having collec: her thoughts, and_re-
called the last act of the awful drama of the dog,
with the curtain falling on the senseless body of her
father, surrounded by his bewildered. guests, and
Geoffrey Kilmyre denouncing the Marshall brothers
upon her accusation, they fiercely defending them-
selves, and she being dragged away by the uncanny
foreigner who could be none but vue 0, the Italian
poisoner, she raised herself, not without a sti
racking in all her bones, upon her elbow, and rest-
ing her giddy head against the worm-eaten board
at the head of her » looked anxiously around her
chamber. ns

A shabby little spinmlen leaned, table stood beside
her, and upon it she perceived some empty dishes
of coarse blue-willow pattern, such as are used in
the cottages of the very poor; a vial or two holding
the dark remains of some strong-smelling medicine,
and—strange accompaniment to these—a short,
stumpy clay pipe, filled with coal-black ashes.

She sat up still further, peering with loudly-beat-

hound, and a great

 

 

ing heart narrowly around for some human presence
and listening with bated breath for some sound, but
she was entirely alone, and the only sound she heard

| was the loud, slow ticking of a clock outside her
door; not another breath whispered to assure her
that life was near.

rene, strangely apathetic, and as if, having
scaled the topmost hights 9f personal terror, she
could never fear again, she soon dragged herself
out of bed, and crawled, on trembling limbs and
with feeble hands holding on to chairs and table by
the way, to the near window; she rolled up the cot-
ton shade, which was unfurnished with roller or cord,
| and looked out.

The scene was entirely new to her; in all her ram-
bles about Dornoch, (and she had _ pretty well inves-
tigated that locality within ten miles of the hamlet,
| on every side,) she had never seen a Jandscape o:
this character.

A waste of flat barren seemed to spread _ its
dark turf as far as the eye could reach on every side,
unbroken save by waving wildernesses of ferns grow-
ing rank, and tall, and black, lifeless pools between,
a sheeted silvery mist rising like ghostly smoke
from the unwholesome fen-lands, and stealing about
the cottage with a dank, death odor, that penetrated
through the chinks of the ill-fitting sash and min-
gled with the thick, medicinal, ether-like atmosphere
of the room, <A high stone wall, in tolerable repair,
and carefully garnished with broken glass on the
wedge-shaped top, ran round the house as far asshe
could see, its top reaching almost to a level with the
window-sill at which she stood, and in the ten-foot
| space of rough straggling grass between its base and

the house wall, she could see, in spite of the dark
| shadows which filled the inclosure, a somethin

black and serpentine, trailing its sinuous way ou

and in on the ground, and disappearing round th)

| near corner. She knew it for a ponderous chain; i

was neither rusty nor the paint wore off, and the

| grass was scarcely trodden upon which it straggled;

t gave her a cold thrill of vague fear, although she

essed it must be only a watch-dog’s chain, and,
that the kennel must be round the corner.

Having made all these discoveries, Monica next
| examined her prison. She tried to raise either of
| the two small fly-blown window-sashes, tut found
| them rudely yet securely nailed down; no patent

lock or catch was there that clever fingers might
| pick, but strong uncompromising spikes, driven

ome to the very heads by some brutal fist, and not
to be drawn except by force as great, aided by the
appropriate tools; the door, a rudely fashioned
| pure affair of tough oak, was locked, and the
<ey left sticking in it outside, and obstructing her

view of the meen beyond; her scrutiny of the
walls revealed nothing but solid lath and plaster un-
broken by panel or secret door; the ceiling sloped
| like that of any cottage attic, the eaves cutiing
| aslant the head room of an otherwise spacious
| enough apartment.
| _ She found no closet, no press-room, nothing availa-

ble for concealment or wacene out of those four in-
exorable walls; the bed she discovered to be clamped
dcwn to the floor by a curious arrangement of iron
braces and stout screws, and when she had swept
Soar the thick white sand which almost obliterated
all the cracks between the boards, she found to her
amazement, and unutterable dismay, that the square
xpos which the bed stood was an Daepeaaenn piece
of boarding, raised a quarter of an inch higher than
| the rest of the floor; and whether the main floor ran
under this sinister eerie dlettom or not, she could
not see; but with a drea: iver runnin through all
her bones she whispered to herself, ‘‘ What stories I
have read of beds being lowered into horrible pits,
and sleepers being cast out of them to appear no
more above the face of the earth! And the me-
chanism of the Pan was always like this!”

_ Stripping back the faded and musty chintz hang-
ings of the bed, she examined the tall posts as close-
ly as she could in the waning light, but all looked in-
nocent enough to outward eyes, and whether any
machinery was concealed in these sturdy colun ns
she could not discover, But she did discover, with
unutterable loathing and fear, a tiny crystal stopper,
as of the very smallest of vials, which smelled o
chloroform ere and which had evidently
been dropped into the hollow made by her shoulders
as che lay on the outside of the coverlet, and, rollin
under the pillow, had been lost by those who ha
been using the horrid drug upon her.

Next, she examined the vials on tl e table; but she
could not recognize tlese drugs, the empty basin
had contained warm milk, she saw by the boiled
scum, and the porringer, beef-tea and port wine.

She sat on the edge of the bed trembling and flush-
ed, her wonder and terror too big for the delicate
frame and keen imagination to bear without an-
guish both of mind and body.,

How long had she been cooped up here?

Had they been keeping her unconscious with ether
and chloroform, and feeding her with liquids for a
day, or a week

ho was her jailer?

And—most harrowing thought of all—what was
Rene, to her father?

“Oh, uhy was I not brave enough to keep my
senses about me, and to cling to him, whatever they
said or did?” she moaned, wringing her hands, and
discovering in the action how unfamiliar they were
to her own touch, in their slenderness and thinness

“Good God!’ she gasped pushing up the cloth
sleeve of Miss Montacute’s habit, which had fitted
close as a French glove on herarm the day she drew
it on, and which now hung loose upon ee atten-
uated and softened flesh, ‘‘the Italian poisoner has
been trying his arts upon me. I have been kept un-
conscious with opiates long enough for my body to
lose flesh and my strength to coze away, and in
that time what may not have befallen Tay Poor
father? It cannot be Chance that has aroused me
at last; they have ceased to drug me, and let me
wake to consciousness again, why? Because all is
over, and they need fear me no longer? Oh, God!
spare him—spare him!” she cried, Falling on her
knees in a supplication.

The last of day faded out of the sky, and
Monica knelt in the eerie darkness, sometimes wee:
ing, sometimes praying, but oftenest unconsciously
straining her ears to catch the first faintest sound of
human life, her heart beating thick and fast when
ever the wind moaned over the drear waste, rattlin
the shrunken sashes, and unutterable coldness an

 

“a

 

 
desolation stealing over her when nothing broke the
dead stillness that proved her safe from the intru-
sion she both feared and longed for.

She had ample time to harden herself to these
miserable alternations of feeling; hour by hour was
ticked out loudly and slowly by the invisible clock at
the landing outside her door, which, by some refine-
ment of cruelty, had been tampered with so that it
did not strike the time, probably lest it should awake
her prematurely, When cold and hunger proved to
her that the night was waning without bringing her
any visitor whatever, she crept away from the sin-
ister-looking square upon which the bed was screw-
ed, and arranging the bed-clothes upon three chairs,
lay down again and tried to lose consciousness in
slumber; but she had slept too long already, and
now her brain whirled in agonizing sentience, refus-
ing to cease for a single moment its keen and daz-
zling reasonings and realizations; so that she was
obliged at length to spring to her feet, and pacing to
and fro in the stifling darkness, to wait the dawn in
the full anguished consciousness of her situation.

Once or twice during the course of the night she
heard beneath her windows the heavy soft fall of
feet trotting over deep grass, and a muffled snort and
inarticulate yawning sounds. It was her invisible
guardian, the watch-dog, stretching his legs; and as
she heard no clink of the chain, she guessed that he
was loose,

Alas! nothing could have more cruelly indicated
the security of her prison and the inhuman brutality
of her jailers. They must be fiends indeed who
could ruthlessly leave a young girl alone in the
depth of this waste, with ‘a ferocious blood-hound
(most probably) ready to tear her in pieces should
she succeed in escaping from the cottage.

The night passed at last—at last!

So weary was she of the hideous vigil, that when
the first beams of dawn reddened the white walls of
her prison, she ran to the window, and stretched out
her arms to the flushing portals of day in weeping
adoration; and wailed for God to be kind—to be
percitl, and let her rejoin her father ere night fell
again.

And then, as hour by hour crept on, all through as
fair a spring day as England could ever hope to see;
as dawn merged into the broad daylight, daylight
warmed into noon—noon lengthened into the crys-
talline afternoon—evening—dusk—and then came
light again, cold, dark and desolate—ah, what ter-
rific alternations of doubt and despair rent her soul!
How she trusted in God, waited patiently, chid her-
self for her unbelief, and called on the Omnipotent
to grant her more faith—chilled into wild conviction
of treachery and death—raved madly against the
unnatural monsters into whose hands she and her
poor father had fallen—shrieked (in accents shrill
and piercing enough to set the bloodhound racing
and howdiur in frantic excitement round and roun
the house) against God’s ruthless cruelty—against
man’s demoniac inhumanity—against the unprece-
dented malignancy which had penned her here!
Then how she lay in semi-lethargy, staring with
blood-filled eyes for long hours at nothing; pictur-
ing the ghastly paroxysms of her father as he died
of hydrophobia, and of herself lying in this dusty
hovel dying of star ation, all her bones stickin;
through her bleached and glistening skin! An
sometimes—strange thought at such a time surel
—of Geoffrey Kilmyre’s musical voice, shaken wit
grief and tenderness as he named her, “brave as she
was good,” and “poor little girl! sweet, kind little
soul!”

When midnight came—a cold, rainy midnight,
without a star in the sky, or one gleam of the
shrouded moon—crouching by the window, from
which she had, in her frenzy, dashed out several

nes, that she might at least breathe the air of

eaven, she heard the ae. fall of a horse’s hoofs
on the springy turf; presently the scroop of rusty
hinges as some gateway creaked open; the bellow-
ing barks of recognition and welcome of the hound,
and the sound of his clumsy jumpings and gambol-
ings; some one was in the narrow court beneath
her windows, sitting quite still on a tall white horse,
and the faint outline of his upturned face faintly
visible in the gloom.

Her jailer come at last, either to dispatch or
succor her.

For a moment a wild thanksgiving rose in her soul.
Anything rather than be left to perish alone! But,
this over, she could not but quail and freeze with a
nameless dread, as she gradually recognized-through
me gloom the sinister form and face of Vulpino the
poisoner,

What merey was it likely he would show her, the
professional murderer, the monster in human sha;
who had Hany, a helpless soul into eternity for
vold, and who had made it his boast that he was
“ always successful,” and ‘ never detected?”

So, instead of calling him wildly to come and let
her out, or at least to tell her about her father, or
mercifully to throw her the smallest, stalest crust, to
ease the excruciating cravings of her famished
stomach, she cowered back from the sash, and wait-
ed in breathless apprehension for him to enter and
come to her room, |

She heard him dismount from his horse so softly
as scarce to jingle the see then a sound of
snuffing and capering among the grass, the watch-
dog welcoming him joyfully; then he seemed to be
patting the dog’s brawny body, and to be mutterin;
some guttural foreign endearments; then a noise o
snapping jaws and snarling.

He was feeding the dog; and at that portion of
the ceremonies the famished captive crept back to
the broken window, and peered wistfully down, al-
most ey to implore her captor for one mouthful,
yet shrunk back out of sight again when the ill-
omened bony visage turned warily upward, and the
ugly Italian listened for her movements; then she
heard the mingled sounds of his and his horse’s steps
Dussing round the cottage—to the door, she hoped
and also feared; and then, while she was gather-
ing all the . ae and courage of her still dauntless
soul to confront the villain worthily of her breed
and his deserts, once more came the seroop of
rusty hinges, the clang of a gate, the stealthy fall
of horse’s feet over springy heath—Vulpino was

‘one!
- As this terrible fact broke upon the pervhiy crea-
Her gasping’ heart, andthe rider ‘set of ata. mad
er ler set o
gallon to escape that fearful ery, ”

AN AMERICAN

QUEEN

CHAPTER XVII.
A FIEND AT THE COUCH,

Tue twenty-four hours which we have described
indicate the history of forty-eight more; during
which the hapless Monica was abandoned in the un-
known wilderness,

Her sufferings, mental and puyeiows are beyond
narration; they would only harrow the reader’s
heart for naught; suffice it to say that three days
after her recovery from unconsciousness, she lay at
dusk on the bare floor in that corner of the room
which was furthest from the bed. She had never
laid upon it since that night she had discovered the
diabolical mystery connected with it. She had pass-
ed through all the various stages of slow starvation,
the giddiness, the raving hunger, the sick torment,
the unendurable gnawings of nee vitals, the gradual
consuming of all strength, and one by one of all her
faculties; and now she lay in a stupor, her sharpen-
ed face turned up and her blackened,
excoriated lips open, and gasping for breath, while
her hollow eyes glared through the glazing of com-
ing dissolution, sightless and senseless.

the watch-dog had been visited twice in that time,
and fed, and Monica had called and entreated the
Italian, receiving no reply, not even the turning of
his eyes in her direction. She had long known that
it was intended that she should never emerge alive
from her lonely prison, and argued from this (as lon:
as she had sense to reason, poor soul, or to think o
anything outside of her own cruel pangs,) that her
father’s life was by this time taken, and that his
murderers dared not now set her free, since she sus-
pected their guilt.

Be sure she had not tamely succumbed to her pre-
mature fate; rich in personal courage, as well as
possessing great natural ingenuity and resource,
with boundless ne and industry, she had tried
every device which the cleverest captive could im-
agine to escape from her captivity, but her enemies
had foreseen everything, and had prepared for
everything that was in her power to do, so that in
whichever direction she bent her efforts, she found
them frustrated, The framework of the windows
being slight, and worm-eaten, she had been able to
drive out one of the sashes, and she could have easily

the bedclothes, had not the horrible apparition of
the blood-hound, crouching beneath, been ever be-
fore her, its blood-shot eyes watching her, its red
jaws dripping in expectation, and its continual
oarse baying chilling her blood; in vain had she
endeavored to propitiate the brute by kind words
and vere ge nA estures; famine had made him savage.
and some diabolical art of the Italian had imprinted
on his canine brain the indelible conviction that the
captive was his worst enemy.
hen she had tried to stun him with the only heavy
articles in the room, namely the great rusty andirons

had dodged one after the other, successfully, in spite
of the unhappy girl's hours of anxious watching for
‘an opportunity, and breathless dexterity in seizin;
it when it came; and, seemingly quite aware of wha'
she had tried todo, a spirit of vengeance tenfold
more malignant than the first had en possession
of the dog, and he was content to crouch ae the
hour motionless under the shelter of the wall, his
red orbs, which glittered with a metallic glare, fasten-
ed in horrible fixity upon her,

Rotten as the door was, the lock was new and
sound, and no force that she could use, minus iron
tools, availed to break it open; the chimney was too
narrow to permit of her exit through it, even could
she have climbed it as a man would have done; and
lastly, the walls defied her soft hands to beat them
down, and the floor resisted her every effort to tear
a a a or loosen anail. Had she had any means
0. ligt ting a fire, she would have burned her way
out, but her jailers had been far,too cunning to leave
her so much as one match, knife, spoon, or article
possible to be converted into a tool which would
serve her pi se.

And now all was over; her life was ebbing fast
away, the chill of death was on her; she suffered no
more pain or fear, forshe was mercifully wrapped
in the stupor which comes before death from inani-
tion. But on this, the evening of the third day
came an event,

She never heard the stealthy fall of horse’s hoofs
eee ie over the heath, nor the savage yell of
delight uttered by the famished hound as he heard
and recognized the coming of his feeder; not a thrill

of joy or fear ad ough her death-struck
face though (the dog facie been thrown his
meal of raw flesh, as his howl of rapture and then
wild-beast growlings and snarlings attested,) the
cottage door was unlocked at last, and stealthy feet
mounted the creaking narrow stairs, stopping often
for a minute at a time; came nearer—nearer—
paused outside her door, and in the dim little pas-
sage an ear was placed to the keyhole; but still
poor Monica took no heed, for she was dying.

Tt was Vulpino, who, having satisfied himself that
his victim either’ could not. or would not give any
sign, boldly unlocked and entered her prison. He
saw her at once, and glanced from the still figure on
the-floor to the unoccupied bed in surprise, asking
himself why she had chosen between them thus;
then perceiving that she had brushed away the
sand from the ay rt raised edges of the square
upon which the bedstead stood, he shrug; his
shoulders in grim comprehension, smiling darkly,
and his wicked eyes twinkling, as if in anticipation
of some interesting episode; and then he -stalked
over to her, knelt, and saw that she breathed yet.

At first he merely made a —— grimace of
disapprobation, muttering in his own language:

“Bah! you might have spared me this disagreea-
ble duty, Piccolina. My word! but you must have
as many lives as a cat, not to have succumbed yet.
Hbbene! to work, Giacomo Vulpino; and now for a
pretty bit of surgery.”

The low muttering tone in which he spoke seemed.
Sette cart a to rouse the slightest slumberer;
but perhaps it sounded in the long-silent room with
unnatural loudness, or perhaps her ae made
one more desperate effort to save itself, ae by
the human voice; at all events, Monica’s dim eyes
opened suddenly, and she lifted them slowly and

up to his, and gazed,
6 Italian had taken from his pocket a case of
medical instruments, and was in the act of selecting
a tiny erystal tube, fine as a darning-needle, but see-

 

.

|
|

arched, and |

15

 

 

| ing her eyes he stayed his hands and returned her
| look, an expression of intense wonder gradually

overspreading his harsh and sinister features.

Monica had one incomparable beauty, her eyes.

Lit by health, happiness and love, they had haunt-
ed the dreams of many a beauty-lover; and even
now, though they were sunken, dimmed, and encir-
cled with inky circles, they shot their spell straight
to the heart of the Italian, who was like all his na-
tion a born devotee at Beauty’s shrine, so that for
the moment he forgot everything else in the rare
pleasure of drinking in the loveliness thus unex-
pectedly revealed.

This retarded Monica's fate for full five minutes.

The ae assassin did not say a word or attempt to
make her speak, he simply looked his fill, narrowly,
critically, and with a series of strange smirks of per-
fect approval, as if he was gazing at a notable pic-
ture in a gallery; but at last he drew a long breath
and muttered in his own tongue, which Monica had
studied enough to gather the meaning of:

“By Santa Maria, ’tis a pity to bp Seog such
fires, and carry their charming memory forever, as-
sociated only with an ugly death. But I see—I see!
1 get a peep of your game, Fratelli Marshall; the
signorina és a Derwent, whether she knows it or not!
By the eR eyes here reproduced to perfection
of Dame Ethelgiva Derwent, whose venerable por-
trait hangs in the picthne salary. of the Weald, this
unknown Monica Rivers from across the Atlantic is
a true Derwent, whose life stands between these
hungry money-hunters and their eo and therefore
it is that she must die. Ah, well! ’tis no concern of

' mine; they pay me well, and I love to be paid well;

lowered herself to the grass beneath by the aid of |

|
|
|
|

that stood in the empty fireplace; these the animal |

 

 

so you must go, pretty lady, and lie till the day of
doom in the mysterious vault to which yonder couch
will softly bear you.”

Once more turning to his instruments he lifted
her arm delicately, between one bony finger and
thumb, and traced upon its cold and shrunken sur-
face one big blue vein, with the blunt end of the min-
ute glass syringe, and when he had selected the spot
he was looking for, he took from the case a little vial
containing a white fluid, and unscre a the top of
the syringe, adroitly charged it with a drop or two
and screwed it on again,

But Monica had been gradually regaining her con-
sciousness as he knelt there, and not only had heard
and translated all he said,but wes now slowly
and feebly fitting meaning to his words; slowly com-
Drebending ihe accompanying actions.

As he lifted her arm once more, having previous|;
mounted on his high sharp nose a pair of heavy gold-
rimmed spectacles, she made a supreme eflort to
move her blue lips to speak.

He perceived the attempt, and, curiosity over-
coming the professional unconcern with Which he
had been about to win his tet he relinquished
her arm, laid down the deadly litt
fully, on the bare floor at his side, and de iberately
ee a flask of pe wet her mouth witha

ew drops, and chafed her temples with his great
clammy palms, until she felt a thrill of life pass
through her veins,

Again she moved her poor pale lips, which had
almost forgotten how to do anything but gasp and
quiver in pain, but she was far too weak to utter a
sound as yet, and could only look up piteously at
the man whom she fully recognized as her appointed
murderer,

With what unnatural apathy she told herself this!
But she had already suffered pangs worse than any
death—nothing could affright one so miserable.

The Italian patiently went on restoring her; he
had long been so inured to the extremity of crime,
and with impunity—that his conscience was stone
dead—(he never had had much)—his heart—(always
asmall one)—obtruded no more on his chosen! course;
it was not remorse, and it was not pity w.
stayed his hand trom taking away t
life fora paltry thousand pounds; it was simply
that he would like to hear her version of the Der-
went-Marshall affair, which, for all he knew, held
far richer awards in its secrets than he had been
promised.

At last she could speak, though she was so sadly
reduced that the effort to articulate a few syllables
seemed like the squeezing out of the last drops of
her heart’s blood, and sent the last arid tear of ex-
haustion rolling scantily down her skeleton cheek.

“T—know—you—’’ she ited, so faintly and
huskily that Vulpino had to bend his disgusting
great ear close to her mouth before he could dis-
tinguish the words; ‘I-heard—them—Vulpino—
Mr. Derwent--poison—oh! Tell--is he dead ?”” The
last three words she cried out together in a sudden

ich now
is sweet young

throe of agonized suspense, while her shaking hands |

strove to clasp themselves and rise toward himin
supplication; but the Italian never heeded the ap-
peal, he was too intent on his plans.

‘““Ma pretta mees,” said he, in his broken English,
calling up a would-be benevolent smile to his hideous
Vina, : w’at you want’of the reesh man Der-
went-e?’

- “Ts--he--dead?” reiterated Monica, piteously,

‘‘Dat I tell ven you tell me de oder-a, ee, mees!”’
said he, nodding his head protean , and picking
up the tiny tube for a plaything, to twist in
dirty-nailed claws,

‘at you?—-eh? queek, tell-a me,”

Monica saw that it was only wicked curiosity that
had restored her, and turned her poor face away in
bitter disappointment, :

“Know you dat I hold de leetle life in my hands?”

rinned he, lightly tracing the selected vein on her
er arm with the sharp point of the ye e. “Now
you answer-a me, pronto—pronto—or I—ahi! and de
leetle Riviera lie dead, essa stessa; o—he! an’ den I
weep-a!’? and he made a playful little prod at her
pm mee the point of the syringe, and pretended to
wipe his eyes.

onica had resigned herself to die some twelve

hours since, and had not hoped fordeliverance since,
but she now felt a sudden enraged reluctance to
meet death at ‘hese vile hands.

-She found strength enough yet to drag herself to
her knees, and to plead for her young life

of agonizing prayer.
“What have I done

8 long,

“Oh, save me!” she moaned.
to you—to any one, tHat I should be murdered?”

“You see thees delicata leetle machina?” he re-
torted, putting it close to her eyes and sinking his
voice to hoarse menace, while his fiendish glare
rested upon her derisively; “see thees nice-a,

\

le weapon care-

ina burst

 

 

 
   
 
 
  
  

 
  

ae

riringa, veesh is full-a of «virus deadly as the poison
«f de serpent vat you call-a ‘ Dame Blanche,’ small—-
deadly beyond all oders? Thees sharp end, look—
. opetta—I pierce de nice-a pretty flesh of young
}29es veeth it, in de vein, here, gardare? Just
preeck—no more-a! Bote ven I press on dees-a ex-
tvemita—aha! I shoot into de vein dat wheesh lays
Piccolina Riviera at my feet una corpa morta—a
i corpse—in one—t’ree minute; eh?’

! Monica perfectly followed this horrid explanation,
HM

|

 
 

ihe great tears, which she had supposed all shed
long ago, coursing once more down her convulsed
it face. He wanted her to gratify his wicked curiosity

| regarding her connection with her father, and she

|

hor hands still piteously supplicating for mercy, and | thrown into a caldron of boiling oil, or strung =
od!

} knew there was no use in her complying, even had |

) she possessed the strength to utter the explanations,
for she knew that she must die, and that he had been
1) appointed to assassinate her,

|

Only say that my—that Mr. Derwent still lives,” |

i
i she implored, with a last expiring effort, crawling to
| him and clasping his knees; ‘and then dispatch me
| quickly,”’ she eried out, in thrilling tones.
| ‘“Ha! misera! sce’erat:/ leetle s¢amp-a!’’ he hiss-
ed, angrily, reading her determination not to betray
! anything she Ine wv, and then he stood silent, gloom-
| ing darkly down at her, as he cast about in his crafty
mind whether he could possibly wring the withheld
information out of her, or whether hé had after all
missed anything of PEP Ss but presently he
made up his mind that she was too far gone now for
him to maneuver, and that he might as well proceed
with the business in hand while he felt angry with
i her, as he could then shift the blame of the deed
upon her own head.

-“Verra vell, foolish sciocca—idiota; I vood-a
spared-a you, per il Grand Iddi>; bote—mind-a—you
} vood not spik, s»—’ He suddenly bent down and
snatched her arm, she uttering an involuntary cry
] | of despair, a cry that was little more than a whisper,
HY) so faint and feeble was it, yet it was heard by one
! who long had overlooked the interview.

| Just as the Italian poisoner brought the sharp
point of the derth-charged tube to the artery in the
i satin inside of Monica’s arm, she faintly struggling,

} and averting her poor blinded eyes that she might
not see her murder, a stalwart form darted through
the open doorway, a hand of iron seized Vulpino’s

tion, Monica found herself caught up to a broad

 

breast, and a voice which she had dreamed she heard |

{ many times speaking most sweetly through her de-
| lirium, said now in the same full-hearted tones:

“ Dear little girl! Poor little girl! Have I found
you at last?” :

And she, raising her half-senseless eyes, with a
smile of ineffable joy and peace, beheld the pale,
tender face of Geoffrey Kilmyre close to hers.

 

i| CHAPTER XVII.
FOLDED IN TENDER ARMS,

} . He seemed to be almost beside himself as he held
the terribly altered girl in hisarms; he forgot every-
thing but her, and the sufferings she had gone

i through, and the anxiety he had endured in his long,

j feverish search for her, and the thoughts he ha
! had about her; and she was not so far gone as to be

uncunscious that he was straining her against his

I loudly-beating heart, and showering kisses upon her

Hy poor, sharpened face, and whispering sweetest,

i | warmest words of pity and love to her; and, some-

| how, she did not think of shrinking from him, nor

i of feeling astonishment, or embarrassment, or any-

thing but rest and safety—oh, such dear, delicious

Ly rest, and such peaceful, satisfied safety.

i . For indeed they had thought so much about each

; other, these two impulsive, generous, honest hearts,

} that it was the most natural thing in the world that

i they should meet just so, without one shadow be-

tween. ‘

! But, presently, things faded from poor Monica’s

| eyes, aud she felt his dear hands and kisses no

 

; longer
i sassin had waked her.

Geoffrey stood with the limp and lifeless body in
i] his arms, gazing at it wildly.

fi He thought Monica was dead.

; He could not breathe, he grew blind, he reeled

} ‘iddily.

a - He Wishievedt that he had come too late, after all,
i and that this, the sweetest woman in tie whole
| world, would never lift her brave, proud eyes in gen-
tle kindness to his again.

How long did he stand there holding her thus? He
took no note of time; he was in a trance.

But Vulpino, the wretch who had done this foul
deed, moved in his corner where he lay in a dis-
} torted heap, just as he had fallen. He was recover-
Hi ing his senses. :

Hi! Geoffrey started, and looked round at him with
a blocdshot eyes. P
| A fearful smile crossed his bitten and bleeding
i lips. He carried his burden to the bed, and softly
laid it down; he kissed each sweet eyelid down over
{ the dark, dim eyes; he straightened the beautiful
i) limbs with reverent hand, and placed the two little
: hands upon the still bosom; then he bent to lay his
B death-pale cheek against hers, his caressing hand
stroking (oh, so tenderly—so tenderly!) her long, un-
bound black hair; and a groan tore its way from his
very soul.

“Oh, my r darling!’ he muttered, chokingly—
eave littlé, brave, good darling, I came too late to
save you, but, dear, not too late to avenge you—not
t too late for that! And Heaven, I know, will not hold
ji me fuilty, though you, sweet, if you were alive,

would plead for your murderer, so gentle and so
Iind you were!”’

He heard another movement in the corner, and he
strode across the room in time to seize the throat of
the Italian, who was in the act of stealthily gliding
eg, toward the door.
i ““Would you like to hear the programme of the

next few minutes, murderer?” id he, through his
gritting teeth, while he forced the trembling wretch
to meet his flaming eyes.

Vulpino burst into a torrent of Italian, as well as
he could articulate it with those iron fingers griping

buummary sicy lo (ue tide of protestations and ex-

; she sunk into the stupor from which the as-

his gullet; but Geoffrey was too excited to compre-
hy him, although, in his calmer moments, he was |
not a speaker of the language; and he put a

| a tw9, and tossed it at his well-flogge

 

. Vu

planations by giving him a shake that almost dislo-
cated his neck.
“Come down-stairs out of the sacred presence of
your victim,”” he ground out, suiting his actions to
is words, and forcing the Italian before him. “Come
outside and bear your punishment, and after it your

execution—which two duties I take upon myself |
giving him |

with joy—with joy, hound, do you hear?”

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

another fierce shake that turned the strangling |
wretch black in the face, ‘‘and I only wish we were |
;and sunk down again with a low shuddering moan, | back in the middle ages, when you would have been

by
the hair for the rooks to peck at. Oh, m i
think that all your miserable carcass coul
all the tortures of the Inquisition were at my com-
mand, could not bring to lite again that lovely, sweet
girl! How could you—how could you do it, man?”

| beside the carcass of his slaughtere

suffer if |

And for a moment his anguish of grief overtopped |

the vengeful fury that was lashing him on to ruin
by taking upon himself the miserable Vulpino’s
punishment; and Vulpino took advantage of the

momentary loosening of his hold’ to wrench himself |

free with one sudden jerk and dart; but ere he had
reached the door, deeply socketed in the wall which

 

- ods ze
Geoffrey took the end of the chain from him, and
ordered him to hold up his hands; which, when he
obeyed, were securely bourd together, after which
Geoffrey proceeded to bind his ankles after the same
pattern; disposing of the balance of the chain by
assing it several times round his waist; so that, the
job finished, Vulpino found himself trussed up firm-
yas a hare, and weighted to boot with no less than
a hundred pounds of rusty iron.
Thus garnished he was fain to sink upon the grass
q accomplice,
the hound: while Geoffrey walked off cheerfully
and bounded up-stairs to feed his glad eyes and ex-
ulting heart on the dear and despaired-of sight of
Monica alive and conscious, and even able to give
him a pale, tremulous little smile as he came toward
her, and to pierce hissoul with the solemn fervor of
her grateful eyes. ;

Joy at the prospect of deliverance, more especial-
ly at_his hands, added to the few drops of brandy
which the polsgnes had poured down her throat in
the hope of hearing from her some important secret

| lefore she died, had given her a fleeting strength so

| that, recovering consciousness.

surrounded the cottage, Geoffrey’s pistol covered |

him, and he rhea perforce, his teeth chattering
and his knees doubling up under him.

Since he could not stand, he made the best of
necessity —he knelt, clasped his great bony hands, and
gathered enough English to make his defense.

“It ees a mistake-a, Grand Iddio! Vood you
keel-a me, veethout to hear von esplain? Ze donna,
see ees note yet dead, no, not at all—see leevs! Come
back-a, oond see. Corpo di Dio! I notting do to
hare. No, I deed note ze injection of ze poison; no,
I not begun, ven-a you come; see leevs, | tell-a you;
veramente, oond you keel-a me, destroy you self,
all for notseeng, vic: te! bah!”

Geoffrey had only let him run on so long because
he was ee aa keeping his pistol leveled at
the wretch’s heart—to pick up his riding-whip,
which lay on the ground beside the horse he had
ridden. aving now secured it, he strode quickly
back to the culprit,and without another word brought
down the good new thong across his parchment
face with an accuracy of aim and a nervous vigor
that lefta mark like a narrow red ribbon straight

from the a bony temple down to the left side of |
} 1 | the long po.
| collar, and while he was sent reeling in one direc- |

ing chin, and wrung a yell of pain and
rage from the astonished sufferer.

fore he could jump to his feet, nimble as his
motions now were, another cut had crossed its pre-
decessor, slanting exactly the opposite way, so that
the hideous visage was now marked with a blood-
red X, from the clean lines of which little round
drops of the same color were starting, to trickle in
tiny rivulets down among the wrinkles; and then
ino was ordered to keep his knees, if he would
not have a bullet through his brain without further
parley, and reminded that he had better occupy his
mind in saying his prayers while his penance was
progressing, as its duration was all the time he
would have on this earth, which henceforth would
furnish nothing but a grave for a wretch such as he.

And then the blows rained down on his quivering
body, each lash stinging like a flame, and the doom-
ed man dared scarcely writhe in his tortures, but
glared at the death-dealing weapon which glittered
in his executioner’s left hand, while the right was
employed with his flagellation. However, despere-
tion soon came to Vulpino’s aid, and in spite of his
physical sufferings, he contrived at last to make a
coherent appeal, with such an air of sincerity that
Geoffrey deigned to listen, although he did not pause
in his labor a moment for that.

“Ref you veel-a let me to esplain,’’ whined the
Italian as well as he could with his agonies making
his teeth jerk into his tongue, ‘‘I veel-a say moche
dat you veel be best-a to know about ze Fratelli
Marshall; I veel-a show you how to save ze old signor;
as for ze mees, see is onl
toche her as yet. See, here ees ze sivinga, wis ze
veleno, vat ees re tutta in it—vedere, behold!’’
And he held up the tiny tube, through the crystal of
which Geoffrey could see the fiuid glittering, quite
full. “‘Oond eef you take avay ze life-a, who veel
show to save ze signore? None can
avvelenator—ze professed poisoner, gardaie |”

When Geoffrey was out of breath, he enaeRs his

enemy;
and he did not at once hlow his brains out as he hac
romised to do; perhaps he had worked off some of

 

 

do dat bote ze |

and finding herself
once more alone, she feared that all she had lately
seen had been only one of her delirious visions, and
had dragged herself painfully inch by inch to the
window, to see whether any one was below.

But now she had an attendant ready to do any-
thing or everything for her; ob, such a tender,
patient, loving, beaming nurse! How carefully he

| fed the famished creature, a crumb at a time, with

faint wis ze famine, I no |

fale fury, and his better nature was coming to the |

surface again—perhaps the villain’s remonstrances
had reminded him of the possibility of ameliorating
the case, and of the fatal indiscretion of gratifying
his vengeance without due investigation o:

templatively down at_the writhing form and craven
face of the Italian, listening to the torrent of en-
treaties, confessions, promises and bewailings which
he poured out so volubly, until a faint sound from
above sent his sfartled eyes up to the window over-
, and he saw the blessed vision of Monica’s
white face and large, dark eyes, and her little weak
hand tapping at the pane.
So then he uttered as a shout and wasrunning
like the wind for the house, but stopped at the door
with a grunt of grim resolution; wheeled and went

back to his trembling victim, whose swarthy face
had lit up with a relief and joy almost equal to his
own,

“ Get up,”’ said Geoffrey.

Vulpino obeyed with abject Soot

‘*March!’’ said Geoffrey, waving his hand toward
the other side of the cottage.

And Vulpino strode with alacrity round the

corner, and came in sight of the dog’s kennel, and of
the dog’s carcase lying across its shold with its

throat cut.

“Take the chain off your sleuth-hound, demon,”
Geoffrey commanded; ‘it is well for you that your
villainous scrag neck has not made the like acquain-
tance with my hunting-knife as res dog’s. A fine
sentinel to set over a tender helpless woman, isn’t
a Oh, you scoundrel! if you don’t smart for this

et.”

To the tune of these remarks Vulpino unlocked
thé massive chain with which he had secured his
bloodhound while he went up-stairs—in his absence
he always had left him loose, to scour around the
house, so that his prisoner dared not issue from any
window, even had she succeeded in escaping from
the room in which she was locked,

facts; at |
all events he folded his arms, and stood looking con- |

 

tiniest sips of sparkling water just flavored with
wine, between, s0 wise and prudent that although it
cut him to the heart to refuse her anything, he
would not let her have a crumb too many &@ moment
too soon, lest she might die yet, poor suffering dar-
ling, for even the bulk of an egg of the delicate wine-
biscuits, which he had Pipreentially chanced to
have in his pocket, would have been a surfeit for
her shrunken and debilitated stomach, which had
eaten on itself only for three excruciating days.

And when she drooped against him, her grateful
eyes closing in spite of her, with the weakness of
one out of a long fever, how gently he laid her on the
hed—how patiently he sat by her; then when she
awoke anon, hungrier than ever, how joyously he
went through the whole critical process again!

So that, in about four hours, she was strong
enough to let him carry her down-stairs in his arms,
and to lie on his bosom, tied to him Hy his own soft
fleecy muffler, on his gallant horse’s back; and so,
walking as gently as possible, they made the jour-
ney from that border county into the next back to
Dornoch-Weald; arriving there at eight o’clock of
the evening, after dark.

‘““And now—Mr. Derwent!’’ muttered Monica,
feverishly, when her speech had come back to her.

“Dear, two days ago he was yet alive,” said Geof-
frey, turning paler; “but I was got cut of the
Weald by a despicable stratagem and have ever
since been searching for you. Their chance whis-
pers warned me of your danger.”

“Oh, not me—tell about him /” moaned the girl.
Geoffrey could not but are Eorplexeaay at her, for
how was he to account for her devotion toward one
who had treated her so cruelly,

“T have every hope of his safety, yet,” said he,
stoutly; “the eyes of the county are upon the
Weald; and even bydrophotia must run its course.
Cheer up, sweet Monica; I think we shall be able to
save him yet. ee and I,”

Then he tol her where she was.

The conspirators had recognized in the stranger
American at first only an accidental meddler in their
affairs; but since then their eyes had been opened to
the electrifying truth that she was Mr. Derwent’s law-
ful and only child; a mere whisper in Mr. Derwent’s
ear was the only thing wanted to set him prompt-
ly revoking that unnatural will, the unjust terms of
which the two brothers knew too well; and naming
the interloper as his heiress, to the exclusion of
every other candidate. Her doom, up to that re-
yelation, having hung in the balance, for circum-
stantial evidence had eventually pointed her out as
the owner of the scrap of lace found by Godiva in
the forest, that day of the double conferences, it
needed but this culminating stroke of fate, reveal-
ing her relationship to Derwent, to seal it, That was
why they had at first given her food and kept her in
blessed unconsciousness of her sufferings, after-
ward abandoning her to starvation.

The delicate young creature whom Geoffrey had
been wont to call his “lily-maid *—Godiva Monta-
cute, had been the mcst inexorable of the trio, in
passing the death-sentence upon Monica, The inno-
cent prattle of good Mrs, ALerfeld revealing Master
Geofirey’s kindness to the “ bonny stranger lasrie,”
added to the long, fierce scrutiny the yellow-haired
adventuress gave her dark-haired spirituelle riva
that first day of Vulpino’s custody ot her in one o
the uninhabited rooms of the Weald, had hardencd
Godiva’s heart against her, until it seemed as if she
could not rest quietly until Vulpino could say.
‘* The heiress is dead.” Geoffrey, who had presumed
to overlook her almost proffered love, had becn_en-
thusiastic in his praises of her; the cruelly cold Der-
went, whom she had one day wooed with half-mad
candor, would hold this stranger in bis arms, thank -

God she was purer and better than she!

‘Take her to Feltrie,” spake the cold, lowering
beauty; ‘‘it is sufficiently removed from us here to
render it impossible for her to escape hither and
spoil our schemes. She has ouly to pour her fatal
revelations into her father’s ear, and we are ruined.
Feltrie is even more secluded than Dornoch, as there
is no hamlet there, nor a railway within thirty
miles; it stands in the very fastnesses of Scottish
mountains; and the dialect of the people will he a
foreign la e to an American. Also, there
chances to stand on the estate, three or four miles
distant from the castle, a curious little hunting-
lodge, built a hundred years ago by one of our an-
cestors to accommodate his sporting friends, and
afterward diverted to the grim duty o rene
a certain suspected Lady Derwent, said to be selling
the honor of her house to foreign invaders, and too
popular among the common ple to be openly —

unished. Once, as a chili r. Derwent took me
see the old shooting-box; it was a prosaic
enough sooking, portage, until I saw the high sto o
wall that surrounded it; there were bars across the
miserable little windows; and in one up-stairs room
an infernal machine for secret murder, and the very

 

 
 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

Ream ak ae?

|
trap, arranged under the great ghostly bed to slide | the quantity of blood they had shed, and his real | called it, with the little governess; and she, possess-

away in the dead of night and drop the sleeper into |

2 well forty feet deep.” re

And that was where Vulpino had spirited his
Crugged and unconscious captive the night after
iat fateful hunt, and where Geoffrey had at last
‘aced him as he went to feed his grim canine senti-
1 ‘l, which, like himself, was more a beast of prey
i sana domesticated animal.

CHAPTER XIX.
LOYAL HEARTS,

_ Axzour half a mile from the great house, and buried
in the deepest of the Dornoch forests, stood a game-
keeper’s hut, a trim, flower-starred oasis in the
tangled wild. In past days, Geoffrey Kilmyre had
been a weill-beloved visitor to its old bachelor occu-
pant, honest Toby Hurlbutt, and now that the old
fellow had lately brought home the prettiest girl in
the village, to brighten his fireside and bloom amon;

his flowers, herself the sweetest blossom there, it
was the very place of places to which he thought he
could safely and most welcomely bear the rescued
Monica, to he tenderly nursed by his warm-hearted
Cicely, while he poured out the whole affair to Toby.

Toby Hurlbutt was a tali, dark, taciturn peasant
curiously accomplished in all that pertained to wood
and game craft, but contentedly, nay haughtily ig-
norant ef everything else.

The great folks might eat each other up about
their sacks of gold and fine houses for all him. He
did not understand the rights or wrongs of such
cases. He ‘s’posed they knew what they was about,
but for him, he’d enough ado, to ‘tend to the dashed
poachers and the game under his charge, wi’ little
Ciccly, his woman, to do for him inside.”

T.1e master had never troubled himself to get under;
the crust of the silent old gamekeeper’s reserve, so
that there was no personal sympathy or compre-
hension between them, and the master’s guests were
“naught but a crowd o’ bedizined, chattering zanies,
who didn’t know a pine from a fir, and would ride
straight into the FOR if their horses hadn’t
more sense than them, and wouldn’t go.”

But Geoffrey was different.

From _ his very infancy Geoffrey had been up to
everything in ee line; never so happy as when
he rode his rough, neat, pony oneh the
woods, with Toby by its bridle; eager to shoot with
Toby’s own sacred old gun, which, when he had sur-
reptitiously succeeded in doing, kicked the tiny fel-
low off his pony’s back, from which unexpected re-

 

danger lay in the possible effects of the bite.

Geoffrey had gone home with his uncle from the
scene of the catastrophe, and had resolutely re-
mained beside him until his enemies got rid of him
by an ap Swng: stratagem, All the guests of course
left the Weald as soon as possible, not liking to in-
trude ee such terrible misfortune; then Miss
Montacute had daringly dismissed every soul of the
old domestic force—in spite of their amazement
and rebellious remonstrances—for some of them had
been born in the house, and their parents before
them; indeed, there were those there whose ances-
tors had always served the house of Derwent, and
who knew that the master would as soon think of
tearing down the cherished anciquities of his castle
as of sending them out into the world.

But Godiva was resolute, and won her point, back-
ed by the two Marshalls, who were of course well
known to be Mr. Derwent’s favorites, and who had
Pees the place of Geoffrey Kilmyre, they =P.

osed, in the master’s heart as well as in his will;

acked by them, with their lying assurances that it
was Mr. Derwent’s own order, and that he meant to
send for them againif ever he recovered from the
fearful malady which threatened his life,

So the whcele army were scattered to the four
winds of heaven, ay, even to the good old lady,
Mrs. Aberfeld, whose six feet of green sod was al-
ready picked out in the family burying-rround of
the Derwents in Dornoch; and the Weald was left
in possession of these three unloved, and bitterly
suspected aliens,

To be sure, they had concocted a tolerably plau-
sible excuse for their high-handed act; they gave out
that if Mr, Derwent’s symptoms eventually hinted
at hydrophobia, they meant to take him to an emi-
nent physician in Paris, by easy stages, There was
something in that, and although Otto Derwent’s
servants could never bow the neck gracefully to the
detested successors he had set over them, they at
least felt that they had no power to stand up against
them, and so perforce they went, each his separate

way.

For the first few days after the accident, Geoffrey
stuck like a leech to his uncle’s bedside, resolved
that no hand should minister to him in his helpless-

 

|

verse he bounced up again without one whimper, al- |

though he was black and blue all over, Ah, yes!
young “ Maister Geoffrey’ was a rare good hunter,
gad a venerating disciple of Toby’s from his baby-
hood even until now, when he brought home to his

|

trusted old Toby the strangest game he had ever |

bagged, and asked his advice what to do now, So,
while Monica lay white and panting in the high four-
post bed, the rose-chintz curtains drawn so as to
shade her eyes from the candle-light,
«lose beside her, holding in her plum brown hand

, the cold, snow-white and utterly fleshless one of the

\; oor sufferer; Geoffrey and his old chum, enveloped
‘ta the same cloud of tobacco-smoke, sat one on each
: ‘de of the freshly-whitened hearth-stone, concoct-
jug a plan to rescue the Master of Dornoch from his
fiendish relatives—to catch them red-handed so as to
insure their punishment, and to reinstate the old
peace and security at the Weald, with the old love
and faith between uncle and nephew.

Next morning Monica craved so earnestly to hear
how matters stood at the Weald, and to know what
next was to be done, that her little hostess arrayed
lier in her own pink and white cambric dress,

smoothed the rich black hair back from her snowy |

tomples in a é
raving helped the trembling form to the deep chintz
Ledroom chair with the high hassock under feet,
thrown open the window to let the sweet scents of
the flowers steal in on the sunny morning breeze,
feud made up the stately bed like a great white snow-
«rift, she then let the young master in.

The oneer step, the outstretched hands, the bright-
ness in his eyes, and the spontaneous smile like a
ray of light, all told how gladly her rescuer came to
her side, and how little needed were the earnest
thanks she hastened to offer him for his great ser-
vice; her face, too, pale and haggard though it was,
lit up with an expression that seemed to bring back
ull its lost beauty, and thrilled the young man anew,
tightening his clasp of her little frankly given hands,
ond making him bend over her with a yearning
luunger in his heart, till his caressing breath stirre
the ny, tendril-like rings on her forehead,

And cel, looking on with wide blue eyes, smiled
and blushed with See, knowing all about this
sort of thing, and crept to the kitchen, softly closing
the door Spon the pair; and then, running over to
her own tall, grim, dark-faced lover-husband, threw
her pretty self on his broad breast with a cooing
little ery of pleasure, and whispered:

“Young Maister’s fond 0’ t’ poor, pretty lady, an’
she iv him, an’ oh, Toby, it’s just beautiful fo see
‘em!’

And Toby, considering what a hard old fellow he
was, and how difficult it was for him to express his
private feelings in words, acquitted himself on this
Pecasion to admiration, by simply giving his little
lass a hearty hug, and leaving a good, well-relished
kiss on her cherry mouth,

And then he lit his pipe, and smoked all sorts of
kind and pleasant thoughts up the chimney, while
iis little wife tripped about her mornin work, feel-
ing as proud and important as if she and Toby were
entirely responsible for the love-idyl that was hap-

; pening so beautifully in there.

. Meanwhile, Geoffrey having at last relinquished
{ donica’s hands, but only to kneel on one knee on

‘ .er footstool, with one arm half-encircling her,
vhair and all, she was asking questions and he was
answering them animatedly; and the tragedy at the
Weald was somehow losing half its horror, discussed
by lips so manly, and the future was shaping itself
more desirably every moment longer that they look-
ed upon each other,

Geoffrey told her that Mr. Derwent had had his
wounds dressed by Sir Maxwell Froberton, a baronet-
physician, who had chanced to be with the hunt
that day, but who had returned to London’the next;
he had cauterized the dog’s bite and sewed up the
imfe-wounds. The latter he assured Mr. Derwent
were only trifling flesh cuts, dangerous only from

reat classic knot low on her neck, and |

 

and Cicely |

 

|

ness save his own. But so rigidly were his move-
ments watched that he could not catch a glimpse of
one of these faithful old servitors, so that, much as
he wanted the assistance of some loyal messenger
to communicate with outside friends, he found no
chance of communication with them, And although
Geoffrey sat by his uncle’s pillow, permitting no one
but himself té attend him, after this notable depar-
ture the accomplices became more unguarded, dis-
tinctly giving him to understand that they would
stick at nothing to oust him from that place, so that
he dared not leave the sick-room for a moment, but
sat there in a state of siege, wondering why none of
the servants dared join him by stratagem, knowing
nothing about their dismissal until he found it out
by the deathlike silence in the house,

Having achieved this riddance of inconvenient
honesty, their next move was to get rid of Geoffrey.

Vulpino did this for them,

He slid into the room one midnight, when Geof-
frey, overcome by his sleepless vigil, had succumbed
to exhaustion, and leaned in deep sleep with his
head on the same pillow with his uncle’s, and his
hand holding his, in the keen dread of treachery,

Geoffrey was soon disposed of. Caused to inhale
the fumes of ether, he only opened his eyes for a
moment when on the verge of falling over into uncon-
sciousness, and saw the hideous Italian bending over
him with wicked exultation, while he held the satu-
rated sponge to his nostrils. Geoffrey knew per-
fectly well what had been done, and made a frantic
effort to shake off the numbness, and to see what
was being done to his uncle; but, all in vain; his
half-blind nag at, Mr, Derwent showed him fast
asleep, probably under the influence of the ether
also, and then he fell down senseless,

And when he came to himself he was lying alone
in the woods, about half a mile from Dornoch-
Weald.

He went at once to the village—it was dawn by
this time~and roused the pastor, asking his advice,

This seemed the most natural and indeed inevita-
ble thing to do; Mr. Grindon was the only person of
any public influence or are within a score of
miles, Mr, Derwent being himself the justice of the
district; and nes did not know how fiendishly
he had been maligned to the reverend gentleman,

Well, the Rev. Mr, Grindon listened to the wild tale
of the brothers Marshall’s conspiracy with cold in-
credulity, and flatly refused to stir a step in the mat-
ter, unless Geoffrey could bring some ‘more trust-
worthy ” witness to corroborate his statements,

; In vain Geoffrey pleaded; the old man was reso-
lute,

He had so long known Geoffrey Kilmyre only as a
daring, reckless scapegrace, that he now did him the
injustice of believing that he was only trying to
injure his uncle’s new favorites, in the hope of being
reinstated himself again,

Do not blame the poor old man; his house had
been left unto him desolate two years ago, indirectly
through this young pleasure-seeker’s conduct; how
was he to guess at the deeper villainy of these two
hypocrites, who pulled such reverential and devout
faces whenever they met him, who attended his
chapel with such Cae regularity, and who
sometimes dropped into the parsonage (at least Ru-
fus did; in all cases of verbal hypocrisy he kept the
clumsy Gavaine in the background) to talk charity,
to fiddle over plans and specifications for new cot-
tages, schools, and other such improvements, to be
made in that millennial season when he should be the
master of Dornoch?

Two years ago, Geoffrey, a wild enough young fel-
low then, although he had never put one stain upon
his manliness and honor, and got credit for doing
many a wild thing which he was incapable of—well,
he had been home ou one of his flying visits to his
uncle, At that time there was in ‘the clergyman’s
family a young and extremely pretty girl named
Nellie he Aca governess to his two youngest chil-
dren. His eldest was a young man of twenty-one or
two, a dashing and rather cmei pated captain in the
Guards, who would have far outstripped Geofirey in
mad pranks any day, eae it was little that his
father and mother suspected it

Geoffrey, saw, and fell madly in love, as he then °

ed of nothing except an exceedingly lovely little

"face and figure, with vanity corresponding, was well
eer to be made love to, especially by the young
heir of the proud Dornoch estates,

Probably this affair would have drifted along to
the usual end, leaving him disenchanted and palled,
and shaking her off 3 and her wrecked ere she was
well launched on the ocean of life, had not her lover
been that rare thing, a gentleman of honor, to
whom the meanest maiden in the land was sacred.
He walked and talked with pretty Nellie, all under
the rose, of course, for her sake as well as his own,
he not resolving upon or indeed realizing anything
except the hour's fascination.

Some busybody told Mr. Derwent, however; and
tee and nephew came to controversy on the sub-

ect.

Taxed with wronging a poor, unsophisticated lit-
tle girl, Geoffrey hotly denied any such intention.
His uncle coldly said that now the gossips had got
hold of it, facts mattered little; the girl’s name was
gone. In bitter dismay, and generously penitent, at
the mischief he had unwittingly wrought his darling
little love, the fine fellow swore he would marry
Nellie then, but he would never have her ruin laid at
his door, Mr. Derwent’s secret wound was here
touched on the raw. He remembered his own mis-
match; he burst into ungovernable fury, and dared
his heir to marry a little nohody like Nellie Wyvern.
Geoffrey, astounded and bitterly hurt at this un-
wonted violence, vowed he would please himself.
Then his uncle passionately threatened him with
disinheritance, and that clinched the matter. Geof:
frey strode straight off and asked Nellie to marry
him, Enchanted, she consented. Then, in his
— truthfulness, he told her what he had lost for

ove of her. Nellie was stunned; she had no idea of
marrying anybody who could not make her a lady.
Still she ha a enough not to tell her generous
lover that to his face. She pretended to cling to
him, and they acted engaged long enough for Mr.
Derwent to publicly close his doors against his ne-
phew, and to write to the Marshall brothers (the one
a silk-mercer, Rufus, and the other a stock-raiser)
asking them to Dornoch. Geoffrey took rooms at
the village inn, and hastened his marriage with Nel-
lie, proudly resolving to make a thriving artist of
himself, as his amateur attempts had won high
praise from all who knew that the painter was next
of kin to the Master of Dornoch. ellie was at her
wits’ end how to get out of the engagement without
exposing her meanness. In this dilemma youn
Captain Grindon, the clergyman’s only son foam
her when he came for his flying visit home. e was
more to her taste than Geoffrey; there was nothing
to awe her in Tom; Nellie fell in love, really, this
time, with the flippant, flattering, easy captain; and
showed it.

Tom Grindon then offered to rescue her from her
distasteful marriage; offered to save her from hon-
or, and bestow upon her the generous boon of dis-
honor.

And the soulless, ephemeral creature, scarce
worthy of the name of woman, accepted the deliv-
erance! ;

They ea together; and the country-side rung
with the shameful occurrence.

The good parson and his wife had been so proud of
their son, so certain of his integrity and worth, that
now they could not comprehend his fall; so that
when supposing of course that the young pair had
gone to get married, Mr. Grindon rushed after them
and discovered their hiding-place. The deeper

.Shame in which he found his boy almost erushed
him; and Tom, base at heart as Nellie herself, tried
to excuse his guilt by insinuating that he had heen
tempted to it by Geoffrey, who wanted to get out of
his entanglement with the girl, for the sake of his
fortune,

And Mr. Grindon believed this, it was so naturel,
so plausible; and yitee it did not in the least ex-
cuse Tom, it ruined Geoffrey in the eyes of the stern
old man; so that wken he returned to Dornoch,
humbled and heart-broken at Tom’s impenitence, he
took a bitter consolation in disclosing the full in-
famy of Geoffrey’s stratagem to his uncle, resolved
that he should never reap the benefit of it,

And to this day he loathed and abhorred Geoffrey
Kilmyre, tracing to him the death of his wife, (who
had not survived Tom’s disgrace a month), aud con-
ee ee capable of any wickedness,

And this was why he refused to credit anything
such a character would say about the doings at Dor-
noch-Weald,

Geoffrey left the parsonage at his wits’ end where
to turn for counsel or assistance,

CHAPTER XX.
‘“ WHEN THIEVES FALL OvT.”’

Besipgs, all this time he had felt an ever-inereas
ing uneasiness about Monica; his last glimpse of
her had been as she cried out in denunciation of
the Marshalls over the insensible form of Mr. Der-
wi

 

ent.

He had a hulf-consciousness of Vulpino’s leading
her away; but he could never be sure about that;
Vulpino was a stranger to him at that time, and al-
though he knew him too well now, from seeing his
ill-omened face peering into Mr. Derwent's sick-
ees he was not quite sure of the identity of the
wo,

But where could she be?

It seemed to Geoffrey now the best, and indeed
the only thing he could do, to find Miss Rivers, the
stranger American lady, who had shown such an
unaccountable and be interest in his uncle’s
well-being; and to consult with her what was now
to be done,

It was worse than folly for him to appeal for help
or counsel to any one in the village; rude and un-
thinking as these peasants were, what strength or
wisdom had they to help him in this matter?

He had his dreadful suspicions, nay, convictions,
that foul play was at work with his uncle, but how
was he to prove or prevent it?

Every one knew that he had been turned adrift,
disinherited and disgraced; anything he might ac-
cuse his successful rivals of would only rebound
on his own head, as the jealous slander of disap-
pointment,

Having searched, then, through the village, for

 

Miss Rivers, and discovered not the smallest clew
concerning her, suddenly he awoke to the horrible

 

|

 

 
 

ene

 

 
  
 

\

 

conviction that she had been foully dealt with; she
had been last seen by him at the mercy of—was it
not Vulpino, that sinister foreigner who haunted the
Weald, and who was forever muttering and whis-
pering with the conspirators?

S> he had neither eaten nor slept, until, by dint of
ineredibly kept vigils, he had surprised the Italian
riding off on one of Mr. Derwent’s best steeds across
the shire, up—up further and further north, to
Hoarshire, where Feltrie stood, grand and deso-
pe with its little ruined, haunted lodge rotting in
the fens.

 

AN AMERICAN

And now that they were together, Geoffrey asked

Moniea, what next?

‘“‘How long is it since you were put out of the
house?” she asked, her vivid perceptions of her
father’s desperate situation inspiring her with the
superhuman strength of excitement; for she knew
‘ar better than Geoffrey how imminent was the peril
in which he had left his uncle,

“Tt is now about thirty hours,” he replied.

She clasped her hands and flashed a wild glance
heavenward.

“ Anything may have happened in thirty hours,”
faltered she; ‘‘oh, Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, you
should never have left the threshold of my fa—of
taeir victim’s house, but have warned the neighbor-
hood, and made the country ring with shouts for
admittance.

She was not thinking of anything personal now;
she was utterly unconscious of the form of her ad-
dress to the young man. He saw this, and was

thrilled through the heart with a passing rapture, |

that she should have him in her mind with such a
kind sentiment, and in spite of the grief and dismay
which her moan sent over him he could scarcely re-

frain from touching her caressingly and soothingly. |
“Don’t anticipate the worst, dear Miss Rivers,” he |

said, gently. ‘‘They would not dare, you know, to
make too quick an end of him; they will wait for

either his wounds to kill him, or—or” (in spite of ,

himself his lips whitened as he surmised this)—*‘ or
1 ww hydrophobia!”

“Oh, no! no!” gasped she. ‘Tell me, Geoffrey, a
strange thought strikes me—tell me, dear—while you
watched by him did you see any of the symptoms—
the spasms—the delirium—the convulsions at the
sight of water?’’

‘Not one,” he answered.

**The dog was not mad!”’ she cried out, flashingly.
“T recollect now what Rufus Marshall said—that he

from his encircling arms; faint, feeble and agitated
as she was, and natural as it had been to cling to
this her a friend and protector through these
terrible troubles, she could not now rest on his heart
while he poured out so unconsciously its full tumul-
tuous torrent of love. i

If he knew that long dim history of Otto Der-
went’s marriage with poor Ada Rivers, the daughter
of a country schoolmaster, and his after desertion of
her, caused by some calumny, which to this day the
daughter could not prove talse—if Geoffrey Kil-
aay the proud, high-born Geoffrey Kilmyre, knew
all this—would he see Monica Derwent as fair and
lovable then? piling

So, with this doubt lying like Aladdin’s sword be-
tween them, she slipped out of his arms, and spoke
next across the wall of convention.

“We must not waste time talking thus,’’ she said,
reseating herself, and waving him to a chair at her
side; “ how little it matters about anything now, ex-
cept his safety.”

‘True! True! What a selfish beast I am, to
sonny off to my own affairs ’’ (Monica’s resemblance
to Mistress Ethelgiva Derwent was one of “his own
affairs,” was it?) ‘‘until we have my poor uncle
safely with our two selves and getting well again!
But, dear Miss Rivers, I pray you, don’t resent my
admiration and gratitude toward you; I cannot help
it, indeed I cannot help it! These strange events, in
which we have met together, seem to have thrown
our hearts together, too, as no years of conventional
intimacy could have done; it seems as if, all that
having happened to you and me, the whole world
had fallen away from about us, leaving us two
standing free together. Whoever you are, brave
Monica, you are the one woman for—”’

“Oh, hush!’ she murmured, her face suffused
with carmine blushes, and her sweet eyes shining;
“you are too noble, too unworldly— wait, only wait,
until all this wild time is over, and you can prove
-~ sift me well; never speak of this again till

en!

Her manner was so proudly decisive, despite all

| its grateful fervor, that Geoffrey could only accept

had a = to work on Mr. Derwent’s imagination, |

that is it; he almost shouted in Mr. Derwent’s ear, as
he lay there in the forest, that the dog was mad—
but he had managed somehow to goad the brute to
temporary ferocity. That was his part of the plot,
Gavaine’s was to stab the dog so that it would
never be discovered that it was not mad, and his
murderous impulse seized the opporimalty and he
stabbed Mr. Derwent, too, though I believe that was
notin the programme. i x

did not happen exactly as they thought; they did
not expect me to arrive on the scene, and when I

t was all mixed up, and |

did, and fought with the dog, I suppose Gavaine lost |

his head a little, or thought the dog had not bitten

their victim, so he tried to end the matter with his |

own knife, not expecting me to be able to observe;
but I think I saw everything all at once. Somehow,
without even looking, J knew all they did, and wanted
todo. Rufus tried his best to shoot Mr. Derwent,
just as Gavaine tried to stab him, both making the
dog an excuse to commit the blunder, as they would
afterward callit, and then, fearful that, after all,
they had not butchered him quite dead, Rufus took
pains to make him understand that the dog was
mad, trusting te his imagination, which that trait-
ress, Miss Montacute, told them was abnormally
vivid, to kill him with the apprehension of hydro-
phobia. But again an unexpected check came in—
you persistently sticking by him; they had got rid
of me—and, oh, how it proves their guilt that they
considered it necessary to murder me lest I should

ainst them—they had got rid of me, but
they could not at first get rid of you, and your
presence lengthened out their victim’s life until, as
you say, the physician could come and see for him-
self that he was not mortally injured by the stab-
wounds, and cauterize the dog-bite, and see that
there were no symptoms of hydrophobia so they
had to make another plan, and affect to take him
away to Paris as soon as he could be moved; and
then, alas! they got you away, and now?”

In her rapi re of the events, Monica had
unconsciously and was oe white and

‘hostlike, but with electrically inspired face, on the
Back of her chair, gazing into Geoffrey’s fascinated
eyes. But with the last shuddering—* and now?”—
all her heart-anguish surged back upon her, and
swayed and bowed her poor little attenuated form so
that she would have sunk to the floor, crushed down
completely, had not Geoffrey snatched her to him,
holding her passionately close to his loudly-beating
breast, and trembling in every limb at the dear con-
tact of this, to him, the lovelies; and bravest woman
in the world. ,

“ Sweet little girl!’ he breathed in her ear, in tones
vibrant with feeling, ‘“‘ who are you then, who have
come from the ends of the earth to dare all this and
to suffer all this for my poor, lonelyguncle?”

She started violently. In her natural reliance on,
and confidence in, this fine, true-hearted young
Englishman, she had long forgotten her own sevret,
that she was his uncle’s daughter —Ais cousin, the
true heir of all this proud estate that was bei
fought for with such bloody ty; how woul
1e look upon her if she were to announce this most

¢nexpected and long- hidden fact?

Would it make any difference in this—this gener-
ous and noble kindness, which he was showing to a

r, unknown stranger?

“Tell me dear, dear,” he pleaded, his warm hand
ae with tender stroke over and over her silky

ir, and his clear eyes full of manly admiration and
faith in her, “is there anything in your wonderful
resemblance to that old portrait of Mistress. Ethel-
“iva Derwent, in my uncle’s gallery? You might
fave walked out of its frame; eee eyes—do you
vuess what glories they are, dear yo thick, heavy
black hair—your Pe poise, and these patrician
hands and feet—they are all fair Ethelgiva’s very
git dear Monfog’—toh let me Menion)

0} you
Withan aorunt movement Menica ralcuned heracit

 

her verdict, and place her the higher in his heart for
its womanly dignity.

And how hotly she in her heart was recalling the
abominable slanders uttered of this noble-hearted

entleman, by the dastard Rufus Marshall to Mr.

erwent, that evening when she waited in the cor-
ridor outside his door for the two parasites to de-
part, that she might warn him of them! This man
‘a profligate, a spendthrift, an associate of ballet-
dancers and the demi-monae !” ‘‘The purchaser of
the Duke of Malthraver’s toy villa for his mistress,
the sister of that beast the prize-fighter,”’ etc., etc.
etc. How accurately she remembered all that had
been said!

In the burning, indignation with which she con-
trasted the reality with Marshall’s representations,
Monica very nearly came throwing aside all her
newly-donned propriety, and holding out her hand
to him in a close clasp, that would assure him how
truly she believed in him, and how gladly she bade
him to hope for the very best in that future to
which she referred him; and he, almost dazzled b;
the intense expression on her radiant face, had all
he could do to refrain from disobeying her, and
there and then snaking. Wes flatly to be his pro.uised
wife, let what would happen in the future!

And so they bent toward each other, poring over
each other’s eloquently-discoursing eyes, fascinated
by each other, and breathless with delicious emo-
tion; until a shadow darkened the little window by
which Monica’s chair was set; and, both looking up,
beheld Mr. Price, the New York lawyer, passing
round the cottage, with his gaze fastened inquisi-
tively upon them

‘*Now, who is this? Ido not know him at all, do
you?’’ cried Geoffrey, much startled by the sudden
exclamation and look of deep resentment which
overspread Monica’s countenance.

“T know him—a mercenary traitor!” she replied,
and she turned toward the door with flashing eyes,
listening to the peremptory knocking at the outer
door. Geoffrey saw how strongly moved she was,
and refrained from any more questions,

They heard the stranger demand to see ‘“ the young
lady ’’—he was wily enough even in the midst of his
pay perturbation to utter no name, lest he might

prématurely disclosing facts unknown as yet,
facts which he had spent many a dollar in reservin;
to himself and partner, in the hope of making capi-
tal out of them.

Cicely’s voice was then heard stoutly refusing any
admittance whatever to the presence of ‘‘ the youn
lady;” and then Mr. Price’s reiterated demand, an
asound of his entrance by force; then the gruff
tones of Toby and his heavy stride across the floor
to eject the intruder.

¥ him come,”’ said Monica to Geoffrey, scorn
fully; ‘‘ he has something to tell that has complete-
ly taken him out of himself; otherwise he would
never wish for another interview withme. Our last
hing but an amicable one.”’

Geoftre; ushed open the bedroom door, and
checked Toby in the act of hustling out the gentle-
manly and indignantly-resisting Mr. Price.

“You may see her,” he said, a shadow of the
pore he had caught on Monica’s face reflected in

is OW.

Toby released him with a grunt, and the spruce
young lawyer almost sprung across the kitchen into
he presence of the young lady, whose obstinacy had
led him such a dance. ‘

For a moment he stood transfixed, scanning with
shocked amazement the signs of her late sufferings,
the vehement words he had meant to utter frozen
on his lips.

‘“ T have been ill,” she said, quietly, a chill feeling
passing over her as she no ow pale he had been
even before he saw her, and the appearance of re-
cent agitation which that shock was changing into
wondering compassion, What had he to say that
should have so discomposed him? Was his expect-
ted prey, Mr. Derwent, beyond his reach?

a

“Never mind me,” she cried, breathlessly; ‘‘ what
do you want of me?” ,
ae 7 PORYAD moe aa sald. ‘winin ne
on from his forehead, an iD,
his hat on the table with a visibly-trembling hand:
“ what fatal influence is at_work among the Der.
wents? You are dying! And vourfather—”

was an

Va

 

 

A strange cry rung through the room, drownin;
the end of his speech. It was the mingled shout o
astonishment from Geoffrey, and the scream of ter-
ror from Monica.

‘SHER FaTHer!!!"’ |

““ What? Is he—oh, is he—gone ?”” she moaned, for-
getting everything but her anxiety, not even feeling
Geoffrey’s greedily-grasping hands, as he drew her
rapturously to his breast, in his turn oblivious of all
save that she was a Derwent, his uncle’s daughter—
highborn as he himself, and free to be won for his
wite, as any lady in England.

““Yes—he is gone!” hoarsely muttered Mr, Price,
grown reckless under the conviction that more un-
scrupulous rascals than himself had been runnin
this conspiracy, and that foul play had been use
op both father and daughter. ‘God knows, Miss
Derwent, if I had dreamed that these relatives, these
Marshall brothers, intended harm to you, T never
should have revealed who you were to them!”’

Ay? He had gone with his precious secret to
them, had revealed that this stranger was Otto Der-
went’s daughter—that explained their ruthless at-
tempt upon her life!

““When—did—he die?” gasped Monica, her mis-
erable eyes fixed piteously upon the trembling
conre sharper, whose avarice had brought all this

orror upon him, as at present he was remorsefully
owning to himself,

For a moment he looked bewildered, then cried
hastily:

“Did I say he was dead? No, no, I did not mean
that; oh no, Miss Derwent, thank the Lord no one
says that; buthe has been spirited away to France
by these scoundrels; and by the look of you, I sus-
pect that they have been trying to put you out of
the world altogether; and if they would try that on
you—they will on him!”

He was interrupted by a tremulous ery from
Monica; she slipped out of Geoffrey’s supporting
arms to her knees, and there, between the men, she
uttered a prayer of voiceless thanksgiving to the
Good God for sparing her that anguish; and as they
watched her white lips moving, and the radiance of
meek and fervid gratitude gic her spectral face, a
rush of manly emotion filled both their eyes with
tears, through which they looked at her, seeing in
her an an angel.

 

CHAPTER XXI.
|| WISE MEN GET THEIR OWN.”

Tuts thrill of common humanity drew these natu-
ral antagonists closer to each other in sympathy
than it would have seemed possible, considering the
Poot figure which Mr, Price had ever cut in Miss

erwent’s eyes; but the young fellow was not bad
very far down, had a warm heart, and head enough
to let it speak sometimes ; and then, there are few
young men who can withstand the charm of a youn,
woman’s heroism. Mr, Gilbert Price contemplate
this brave girl, who had proudly rejected his aid to
get into her father’s goo: ior for the sake of his

ortune—and yet who could suffer such cruelties as
were here manifested on her pas ghastly face—for
that same father’s sake, resolutely maintaining her
incognita all the while; and every moment longer
that he contemplated her, he regretted the more his
dealings against her, and longed to make some sort
of restitution, if only he knew how.

Consequently, when next he spoke, it was to say:

“God forgive me for my part in this ugly busi-
ness, Miss Derwent; if ever man heartily repented
his misdeeds,.Z do at this moment, seeing you.
Bless my soul, what have they done to you?”

His earnestness convinced both Geoffrey and Mo-
nica that he was really sorry for the past; so Geof-
frey narrated Monica’s sufierings in a few words;
and then Monica struck in impetuously, demanding
Mr, Price’s news. '

‘‘Let me make a clean breast of it, Miss Derwent,”
said he, looking per and sick at the recital; “good
God! to think that I am the cause of all! Why
what devils these men are! But how was I to dream
Well, well, I can only range myself on your side
henceforth, and work my level best to undo the mis-
chief I have done, and win your forgiveness, And
now, madam, collect yourself; and you, sir, make
her comfortable. Ihave a long story to tell, which
must be narrated carefully, or she will not half-com-
prehend it, for it was the different natures of the
various actors, and their private feelings toward
each other, that made such a tragedy possible.”

Monica was tenderly propped up in Cicely’s big
‘easy-chair, her little thin hands clasped in her Jap in
eee interest, and her sweet eyes shining up in the

wyer’s face with a kind softness in hes that
stimulated his eloquence immcasurably, and helped
him to do himself justice at last.

Geoffrey retired behind his new-found cousin’s
chair, where he leaned with one hand resting warm
and appropriative on her shoulder, and a possibility
of bending over her and lookin Straight info her
eyes whenever the climaxes of the story gave him
an excuse. Mr. Price sat at a little distance from
the pair, humbly apart, but the more he said the
nearer they felt him coming to them in the spirit; so
that, by the end, he seemed to be almost a friend,
and one of themselves.

“TI shall first relieve your anxiety about your
father,” he began; “‘ then confess my dealings with
these men, the Messrs. Marshall; and afterward I
shall hand you, Miss Derwent, a document contain-
ing the history of the separation of your parents
nineteen years ago, and how the secret came into
my possession. And now I shall have the deserved
humiliation of speaking from my late standpoint of
scheming scamp; rather hard on a fellow, eh?

“Having once moro appealed to your cupidity in
vain—on the hunting field, you recollect, my resolu-
tion was taken to carry my precious secret to Mr.
Derwent; but then came his accident, as I, in com-
mon with everybody else, was taught to suppose it, «
by the wily Rufus, who went about disseminating
the version that best suited their plots. I made
several attempts to see Mr, Derwent for myself, so
as to judge of his state of health, whether he was as
dangerously ill as they said, in which case the sooner
I made capital out of the secret the better; or
whether he was recovering, when it would be worth
my while to wait. I soon saw that it was their in-
tention to allow no one to see him; so then Lenanned,
that they were the parties in power, and that it was
to them J should apply,

“T was amazed, Font at your disappearance, and

ce)

i
if
|

 
eo See.

re ew are

c=

ae Dm ew AY UN

 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

 

made be a everywhere, but was told at last (by

Rufus Marshall) that you had left the neighbor-

hood, having o: been visiting the place for change

of air. I knew better than that myself; and their
lame story made me suspect that they had found
out who you were, and that there was more behind.

With this idea on my mind I began to sound them;

naturally undervaluing the astuteness of an insignifi-

cant cad like the elder Marshall, but before I knew,
the crafty fox had it all out of me that you were

Mr. Derwent’s lawful and only child, to whom he
Jought to leave his money; I little suspected the
‘hypocrisy of their avowals of delight, and their fuss

to discover where you had gone. I believe that

imowledge sealed your doom; they had probably in-
tended to keep you out of the way until Mr, Derwent’s
death, lest you should betray what you had over-
heard of their conspiracy; but as soon as it was
proved that you were his daughter, they determined

to do away with you altogether. Heavens! had I

known the true nature of their plots, 1 should—

well, you’re safe in spite of them, the varlets, that’s

a consolation.

“And Vulpino, thank God, is getting a pretty
considerable taste of the same kind of treatment
which they gave you. Ha! ha! ha! I like to think
of the murderous knave lying yonder, yelling for—
beg pardon, Miss Derwent, I’m a brute to recall any-
th ng so painful to you.

“Well, to go on with my tale: I had already dis-
covered that Mr. Derwent had made a new will
within the last month, naming the two brothers
Marshall as his sole and joint heirs, with the excep-
tion of a small annuity to Mr. coffers Kilmyre,
whom it is evident he can never succeed in driving
completely from his heart, although so poisoned b:
the slanders which these rascals continually retail
about your private life, sir; yes, Mr. Derwent has
made his will in their favor, and only one step is
between them and the goal toward which they have
been pressing so successfully. Having disclosed to
them the fact of the existence of a Miss Derwent,
I waited for them to make me an offer for my si-
lence on the matter, but was astonished to see them
take the startling news eh they only passed a
significant glance and nodded at each other. I see
now, they had already got you in their own hands,
as a chance overhearer of their perilous schemes.
To find that hee were so much more important a
person than they had suspected, mattered nothing
to their plans—only it changed your temporary im-
prisonment into death by starvation. I had played
the game badly, very badly, or rather perhaps,
they had all the winning cards, and I did not guess
it. They made no offer to buy my silence; they
simply thanked me for my very extraordinary and
welcome news, promised to find their new relative.
Miss Derwent, and to present her to her father, and
aca showed me out.

‘I had made a mess of it, sure enough, after work-
ing so long, and spending so much hard cash in ad-
vertisements, traveling, etc. Here was I on the out-
side of Dornoch-Weald; Mr, Derwent, to whom my
news was so interesting, too ill to know or care about
anything; Miss Derwent, to whom they were so
important, obdurate in refusing to be set right with
her father by me, and the Marshall brothers, to
whom they were so ruinous, too indifferent to care
whether I published them or not.

“T thought it all over, and saw there must be some
strong motive for their unnatural stoicism, under
facts that would have utterly extinguished all their
expectations; and then I set myself to ferret out the

ruth.

“T watched events as well as I could from the out-
side; I saw all the old servants set adrift, and from
them I heard the state of siege in which you, Mr,
Kilmyre, sat by your uncle’s bed, and also learned
the interesting fact that Miss Montacute was in
league with the Marshalls.

“Then came Mr. aes ejectment; I don’t
know how; I can never believe that you abandoned
your uncle voluntarily, sir; ah, I thought you did
not. Well, at all events, there lay the rich man who
had made his will in favor of these two harpies, dying,
and not a soul by him but they. They had just
learned the existence of a daughter, and that I knew
facts concerning her that would cause her father to
receive her with favor, and consequently that it only
remained for Mr, Derwent to hear this and to alter
his will in his daughter’s favor. I began to see the
significance of things.

‘The old, faithful servants sent away, the nephew
whom Mr. Derwent had disinherited through their
lies, but whom he could not quite drive from his
heart, = rid of mysteriously, the incognita daugh-
ter vanished, the sick man alone with them, and the
countryside taught to think that he was in danger of
hydrophobia.

“I saw that there was only one more event to hap-
pen, and that they meant it to happen.

“4 e ee ay ——.

‘Tt took me uni very morning to piece all
this out, and then, all in a moment, T tet wild with
anxiety; I cursed my own double-de. that had

ut so much power in the hands of two who might
i villains of the blackest dye, for all I knew.

“T was sitting in my own room at the inn when I
suddenly saw the whole thing in a flash; I was at
my breakfast. I jumped up, Meo ore taking time to

find my hat, and ran every step of the way to the
Weald, As I entered the gates I met that foreign
doctor that they had had prowling about them, Vul-
yino. He was riding one of Mr. Derwent’s horses
going, as 1 know now, to Hoarshire to hide the bod:
of Miss Derwent, whom he supposed to be dead by
this time. He stopped me as I shot past him, b}
i out, ‘The house is closed, nobody there.’ ¥
did not believe him, but went back
yhad to say. He told me that Mr. Derwent had been
‘caken away by the Marshalls and Miss Montacute;
they had started very early this morning, and were
going by easy stages to Paris, where was a celebra-
ted doctor who could cure hydrophobia. It struck
like a knife to my heart that they were dragging the
sick man to some lonely place where they could mur-
der him and bury the body, without having to ex-
pose the corpse to all the country as they would have
to do if he died at the Weald. I asked as many ques-
tions as I could think of to trap him, but he was on
his guard and would not be tripped up. Then I
vowed I would follow the party, and then he dis-
sed of me by saying that the ‘party had arranged
7 go by water, as that was an easier mode of trav-

2

to hear what he

 

 

a

 

eling for an invalid than rail. Vulpino rode off, and
I went 7? to the house and reconnoitered. Kvery
window had the shutters up;_the very stables were
vacant, the horses all sent to Mr. Derwent’s stables
in town, so as to dispense with any servants who
might witness the condition of Mr. Derwent when
they took him away.

“So then I was at my wits’ end, but at last I
thought of coming here to consult with the game-
keeper, Toby Hurlbutt, who, I had heard, was faith-
fully attached to Mr. Kilmyre, and who, I thought
might be able to tell me where he was. And then i
saw you, Miss Derwent, thank God, alive a

“We must consult together what can done to
trace the party, which
will go out of England.”

Mr. Price had by this time so well redeemed him-
self in their respect, that, at the conclusion of his
narration, both thanked him heartily for his good-
ness of heart in feeling such anxiety on Mr. Der-
went’s account, and for his exertions on his behalf.
They then conferred together how best to institute
a search for the sick man and his brood of viper ate
tendants. _

Having discussed all probabilities, they determined
to start at once od a making such inquiries at
the station as would set them on the track of the
four travelers,

So Geoffrey put his new-found cousin Monica
under the protection of honest Toby and his pretty
wife, presenting her to them in her own proper per-
son, to their blank amazement firstly, aad soon their
exultant delight that master had got such a ‘‘ sweet
lady” fora daughter. Geoffrey also placed Vulpino
in Toby’s charge, directing him to keep him for the
present secured at the shooting-box; then there was
a quiet but very significant parting between Monica
and Geoffrey, a murmured ‘God speed you, and

ve you success!’’ from Monica, and ‘ Get well and

rave again, darling cousin!” from Geoffrey. Mr.
Price, before he went, handed a thick sealed packet
to Miss Derwent, saying:

“This is a precious document to you, Miss Der-
went. It contains the account of the cause of the
estrangement between your parents, and the vindi-
cation of your mother. Some six months ago I was
summoned by a prisoner, in the Tombs for Sas to
wreck a train, tv take up his case. Before it came
into court he fell mortally ill; and on his death-bed
made this confession, He was the Jonathan Brade
ae will read about here. It was this ene which

nduced Mr. Korner and myself to advertise for Ada

Rivers Derwent; in the hope of reinstating her in
her rights. Brade’s story set us to investigating Mr.
Derwent’s circumstances. We easily discovered his
residence and fortune by sending an agent to the
county named in Brade’s story. Brade, however,
maliciously concealed the address of Mrs. Derwent,
by which cause we were delayed full three months,
advertising, and then we only found her dead.
Read it; you will only love and admire your unfor-
tunate mother the more deeply. when you learn her
cruel sto: It will also soften your indignation
against Mr. Derwent, who _was_ equally deceived.
But read it for yourself. I shall narrate it to Mr.
Kilmyre as we go along.”

They were gone, leaving the packet in Monica’s
lap, her hollow eyes raised in loving grief and
tenderness toward the heavens, where now shone in
joy the pure sweet spirit which had suffered such
wrong and misery on earth.

CHAPTER XXII.
STORY OF A VULTURE AND A DOVE.

Tue following is the purport of the document:

Twenty years ago Mr. Otto Montacute Derwent, a
young Englishman of wealth and station, was travel-
gree the United States,

e came to a remote village, named Addiscombe,
in the State of Vermont, and eee there for a
few days’ fishing in the beautiful lake. One lovely
evening he sauntered down to the shore with a
rustic chum, and stepped into a boat which was
just pushing off, with one passenger in it in the shape
of a very young girl.

‘The girl made a vei lovely and unexpected

icture, ae there in her geuzy Swiss dress, and

leecy white Shetland shawl, with her hat in her lap,
and her rich black tresses waving down to her
waist, with one burning red poppy behind her small
ivory-white ear, She held the tiller in her littfe
brown shapely hands, and her dark eyes were
sparkling roguishly, her white teeth glittering be-
tween her arched, crimson lips, as she teased and rail-
ed at the tall, stalwart young man who directly faced
her, with his pair of oars touching her knee with
each pull; and his harsh-featured, resolute face
scarcely rip ling in the faintest response to her low-
toned, playful badinage. This was Ada Rivers on
her way home from a little pry. at the house of a
friend across the lake, and the tall swain was her
escort, Jonathan Brade, the best match in the little
town of Addiscombe, and her devoted admirer for
the past year. He owned quite a fine farm about a
mile out of town, and had been an industrious and
thrifty worker on it; his old-maid sister Patty kept
house for him, and he was well on in the thirties
himself, so that when he did fall in love, he fell much
deeper in than younger men would have done, and
wooed hotly and desperately, because there was no
reason why he should not marry his choice instantly,
everything being ready for her. But he was in some
respects an odd man, and little Ada Rivers, the flirt-
ing, flighty, gleeful village darling and belle, rather
fought shy of him, feeling a little secret dismay at
his moody, taciturn ways, and his quiet but indomi-
table persistence in the pursuit of anything he ever
chanced to set his heart on. She hid this evidence
of his power over her, however, under a mischievous
sauciness, bantering and teasing him as not a woman
in Addiscombe had ever dared to do before; and her
Spritish impudence seemed to charm him only the
te} and to draw him after her only the more con-

ntly.

This was the state of matters between them when
Otto Derwent saw her first, not yet engaged, but
with every roe that they would be, and not
a vee ded reason why they should not.

don’t in the least believe

 

nished and enchanted at the little saucy fairy.
Derwent asked his chum all about her, learned that
she was the schoolmaster’s daughter, and lived in
the rose-twined cottage across the road from the
schoolhouse; and then he made up his mind that he
would not leave this pleasant spot quite yet.

 

And so he got himself introduced to Ada, and in
spite of Jonathan's grim silence, and the askant
looks of the furtively-chuckling swains, he strolled
home between the pair, in apparent innocence of any
design, and ignorance of the situation,

And after that—of course.

Very soon Ada drew back decidedly from Jona-
than; and in spite of his black and moody scowl,
made him understand that she meant it.

Jonathan went home to his sister Patty, who
wrung the matter out of him, and secretly thanked
Heaven that the terror of her life, a usurper of her
domestic throne, was mercifully removed; also she
vowed in her soul that Ada Rivers should marry the
stranger, and so she would never be dethroned from
her place at the head of Jon’s house. :

Jonathan, however, had by no means given up his
intention of winning Ada; but he was not the man to
utter in mortal ear the rane that were wont to
pass through his slow, sullen brain, He brooded
over his rejection long after every one had taken it
for granted that all was over between them, and
while all the village was gossiping about the daring
little belle’s conquest of the proud British swell, and
wondering what it would all come to, Jonathan was
apparently plodding on in his usual rut, but in
reality with a very hell raging in his breast. ‘

And meanwhile Patty, the sour old-maid sister
was furtively pushing. matters between Ada and
Otto, smoothing true love’s path, as surely old-maid
never did before; making rash and hasty acts seem
all-wise and possible, and tempting the love-gla-
moured young things, until—

Well, when Mr. Derwent’s stay had been pro-
longed to eight months, one evening Patty sneered
at her brother, sitting moodily at the hearth mend-
ingan ox-whip—thus: ¥ 3

“Guess ’tain’t much use you makin’ a fool of
yourself after that little chit, brother; the English-
man’s to old_Rivers’s half the time, an’ I reckon he
wouldn’t be hangin’ on so long ef he wasn’t gittin’
the vally of his time. My advice is, go oncet for all
an’ see what ye kin make of her; ef she’ll pet ve
I’m agreed, for I’m tired an’ sick of your glum sulki-
ness—”’

And without a word Jonathan rose, donned his
Sunday coat, and hied him across the fields for a
last appeal.

Patty had just put her finger to the sione that had
hung so long on the balance, her tovch sent it rol!-
ing down the precipice ready now to crush what-
ever got in its way.

Patty knew that the old schoolmaster was off for
acouple of days tothe next town; and that Otto
would on that account be obliged, in the interests of
propriety, to omit his usual evening visit; for he was
guardin ‘this darling’s fair fame with all’ generosit
—Patty knew all this, for was she not their confl-
dante, and knew all about their happy secret?

So Jonathan found pretty Ada all alone, sitting in
the broad fireplace with the cat in her lap, and her
eyes fixed in a tender reverie on the ruby coals.

Poor child! She started up with a faint ery of
nervous terror when her dark-hearted_ visitor strode
in without even the ceremony of knocking; she was
only a timid, easily frightened little girl, and she was
so accustomed to Otto’s protection,

Jonathan saw her terror, and Satan took entire
possession of him. He forgot that he had come to
ask her to be his wife, he forgot ora except
that the tender lovely creature before him was
white with fear of him, an honest man in her own
station, and in love with Otto Derwent, who, of
course, was only amusing himself with her. He
burst into a furious tirade ae the Englishman;
he spoke many things that the trembling girl coulc
not comprehend—insolent, outrageous tl nes which
no one but a devil could have thought of in that
pure presence; and Ada only pone ended that he
was abusing and threatening Otto Derwent, the life of
her heart—and looking in his demoniac face, and
seeing the horrible excitement which swayed the
usually grimly-contained Brade, her senses reeled
she put out her arms with a faint cry, and then toll
forward in a swoon. The man received her in his
arms; and, baving got her there, his fury was ex-
tinguished in a fierce gust of joy. He stood gaping
at her—she had never been so close to him before;
he could verily feel the satin cheek against his neck,
and smell the faint perfume of her flowing tresses
Oh, she was beautiful beyond compare! And he
adored—he worshiped her!

san would he not do to possess this wildly-covet-
e e?

hat would he not suffer? Oh, tc snatch her up
and fly with her there and then!

A gentle tap at the window broke in upon his half-
crazy thoughts, then the sash was raised a few
inches, and a white hand flung ina knot of snowy
roses. :

bbe was the lover’s greeting—the lover whom she

joved.

Something flashed into Jonathan's slow brain;
he fairly laughed out as it occurred to him,

If he could only make appeaiances, seem black
enough, i ;

Derwent was standing outside the window, waiting
for his little love to acknowledge the sweet. greeting
he had flung her, and too honorable to lift the shade
and look into the room until she had given him per-
mission, p

Jonathan went to the sofa and sat down with his
broad back to the window. He drew Ada’s arms round
his neck; and he placed her head upon his shoulder,
with the face hidden, as if she nestled in his arms in
an abandon of love. He bent his own evil exulting
face upon her press head; and then he began to
speak aloud; telling how sweet she was, how dear—

A crash of glass behind him showed that Otto had
heard; Jonathan looked round to see the young En-
glishman leaning in out of the black night, con-
vulsed, whitened in a single moment.

He made a great show of catching Ada’s head
closer to his sheltering breast—of whieperins cour-
age in her ear, and then he turned and laughed into
Derwent’s eyes.

“Tt’s all up, is it?’ he sneered: ‘‘ye come at an
awkward time, my brave buck. Here, Ada, we may
as well show our hand, give the softy his answer.
What? frightened? I reckon I kin protect ye, dear,
don’t ye mind him,”

But Ada was unconscious, so of course she said
nothing; and Derwent supposed that the unexpected
denouement had made her taint,
 

   
    
 
 

     

20

 

He came round the house and strode into the
room.

He saw his darling Ada with both arms about the
grisly throat of the man she had always professed to
shrink from with instinctive fear—the man who had
been her lover before he ever saw her—he saw her
little head nestling on that man’s heart, exactly as
it had lain so often on his,

He had come unawares upon the pair; they had
not suspected his vicinity; he had caught them at
last in one of many such interviews, doubtless.

“Tool!” snarled Jonathan, with a bitter curse to
qualify the epithet, “did ye think ye could get her
from me, after all’s been atween us?”

Derwent seemed to be struck into stone. Fora
few minutes he did nothing but stand gazing at the
pair as if ho would never move his eyes again.

A last he said in a strange, heart-struck voice:

*““Man, do you not know then that that woman is
ee

o, Jonathan had not dreamed it, and the news
struck him dumb in his turn; and Derwent mistook
the flerce contortion of his features for a devilish
grin of derision, and, struck to the very heart of hi&
pride and his love, believed the very worst,

“Wor seven months that vile thing you hold to
your vile heart has been my lawfully-wedded wife.”

“And as good as mine,” put in Jonathan, inspired
by Satan.

“Tsee,’’ said the aristocrat, writhing as much
with humiliation as with grief—“tshe married me
for my money, but you were her heart’s choice be-
fore I came. regret as much as you do her deser-
tion of you; I regret it so much thet I freely give
her back to you. Ishall never look upon her face
again. Take her and may—” he finished that fatal

eech by a curse upon them both that made even
the hard bad man who alone heard it, quake,

That was the last that ever Ada saw of her young
husband; or anybody else in Addiscombe,

Jonathan could scarcely credit his success,

The high heart of the hated Englishman had re-
coiled from its love at the first breath of cuspicion—
Jonathan could have yelled with laughter at the ma-
niacal folly of the man.

Was that all he understood of Ada Rivers’s pure na-
ture yet, and she his wife too? Why, even Jona-
than, dull-witted, clod-hopper Jonathan, knew better
than that!

All right. Since the Englishman’s crazy pride
stood so much his friend, he would take advan-
tage of his opportunity; Derwent might come back
any moment, and examining details, discover his
own idiocy.

Let Jonathan put the capstone on helpless Ada’s

amy.

He snatched up the first wrap, wound the slight
form in it, and strode through the lonely lanes and
starless night to his own house.

Patty glared at the apparition with eyes starting
from their sockets. She pie Jonathan had mur-
dered Ada for rage, having discovered that she had
married Derwent.

Patty had known of this marriage; she it was who
had planned it and made it possible; she it was who
had tallied over the simplo-hearted old schoolmaster
to let the young folks come into their happiness first
2s well as last—and_made it seem only prudent to
keep it secret until Derwent dared announce his mar-
riage to the proud old father at home, to which end
he was improving little Ada’s education and man-
ners, so as to bese her a well-bred lady whose
beauty and modesty might commend her to the pa-
trician father,

And now, what was this?

In a few muttered sentences Jonathan told the
coy Patty fiercely asked him what ae was going
to do with the girl now? Then Jonathan, having
laid the unconscious girl down, turned on his sister
with an expression that well-nizh petrified her,

“What was he going to do with the girl?”

He was going to fix it so that Derwent would de-
sert her, and then he was going to marry her him-
solf. He guessed there were chances for getting a
divorce when he wanted it for her; meanwhile, Ict
Patty mind how she meddled, except to help. For
as sure as she did, and Derwent came back to Ada,
he, Jonathan, would shoot Derwent if all the world
was looking on,

Patty trembled and swore obedience. It was her
one terror that he would find out her part in the,
marriage. s

Jonathan carried Ada to an u per room, locked
the door, and-went out with the key in his pocket.
He was off to track Derwent; and he found him, as
he expected, back at the cottage, looking in vain
for Ada, and struck with yet deeper conviction of
her dy, since she was absent. Jonathan track-
ed Derwent in his half-crazed wanderings all that
night, and left him at dawn asleep from very ex-
haustion under the “frozen trees, with the winter
blast fast chilling his life-blood.

He went home to hear the panic-stricken screams
of Ada from her prison, and to find Patty crouched
against the door, shaking with horror and fear,
‘the cruel villain would allow no explanation what-
ever, and forced his sister to promise that she would
not utter one word to the captive, until he gave her
leave; and he listened and spied lest she should dis-
obey until the woman, timorous by nature as
she was sly and secret, did his hard bidding in very
terror, well-nigh maddening poor mystified Ada in
her prison by the monstrous cruelty of her unex-
plained situation, :

A week passed, and affairs stood thus,

Otto Derwent was off to England, convinced of his |
Mr, Rivers, with whom Otto had |

vife’s infidelity,

‘eld a terrible interview, was lying unconscious at
| Js home, struck down with paralysis at the terror
and shame of his accusations.

Jonathan waited for the ripening of his scheme,
concealing from sant soul the hiding-place of Ada
whom the townspeople believed now to have elove
with Derwent. “Patty was rising from the ashes
once more into her old crafty, determined self; and
considering ways and means of getting the unwel-
come captive out of Jonathan’s clutches.

And Ada, wearied with vain Spree. and crushed
with forebodings, cowed under fate, callous to any
fresh blow.

When Derwent was beyond recall, Jonathan dared
into his victim’s presence, and explained matters.

He told her that Derwent had come to her home
that night just as she fainted, and furiously order-

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

 

ed him out of the house; that he had answered
hotly; that there had ensued a fierce quarrel, dur-
ing which Derwent had tried to shoot him; that
they had then gone out some half a mile into the
woods to have the duel out; that at the moment
Derwent fired, a belated traveler was passing along
the invisible road in his sulky—a two-wheeled, one-
seated wagon; that the ball went through his head.
killing him instantly; that the quarrel was dropped
in the horror of the accident, and both men ran
down to the road and saw the man was a stranger;
that he, Jonathan, had counseled Derwent to carry
out an idea which would save him—namely, to turn
the horse’s head back on the way he had come, and
set him galloping off from instead of into Addiscombe
with his fatal burden.

And that Derwent, in his first agitation and de-
spair, had done so.

The rest of the tale might have been almost any-
thing, and Ada would have comprehended it as little
as she did what he made it.

She felt her heart die within her; she saw the
whole fabric of ker admiration and belief in her
young husband smitten to the very dust. He had
Ned a man—that would have been_ nothing
but a bitter, never-to-be-forgotten trouble, to be
rhared by his wife to the end, however dark that
end might be; but to turn coward, to stoop to a
base deception, to abandon the victim of his
ea ok aoe her hero lay slain before her, and

1ad_he approached her at that moment, soft and
tender as she had ever been, and passionately as she
had adored him, all the scorn in her nature would
have lashed out to taunt and sting him, and to drive
him from her sight forever.

After that it mattered little that he had fled, not
even taking time to return to his home to bid an
eternal farewell to the innocent wife who had loved
him so. She never heard Jonathan’s hypocritical
excuses for the absent murderer; his crawling ex-
cuses, such as—‘‘ Poor fellow, he could not help his
nature, which was not bold and rugged like my own:
doubtless the thought of his proud family in England
made him a little more of a coward than he would
otherwise have been; the suddenness and the first
impulse,” etc., etc., oh, miserable, abject cowardice.
how was it you could have lurked in Otto’s heart all
this time, unsuspected?

The young wife’s loving tears dried on_her burn-
ing cheeks; her torn heart throbbed high with dis-
dain; in that hour her nature so changed that she
was able to live the long, lonely life which lay be-
fore her, without one yearning effort to communi-
cate with her husband, although she knew his ad-
dress perfectly well.

Jonathan then Seplaite that he had carried her
that night home to his own house, fearing to leave
her a prey to anxiety on Derwent’s account, when
he did not appear the next day; and her inquiries
might have set the village people to looking after
him; he had also feared to let any explanation be
made to her until Derwent’s escape was secured, and
he was really on his way to Britain.

She listened no more; but with a strange, bitter
dignity thanked him for the trouble he had been at,
and asked him to leave her.

Jonathan did so, satisfied that the old love was
already cast out of her heart, and chuckling over
the luck he had had in his choice of falsehoods
which would keep these two separate. Let time
work a little now, he would yet win her,

But that night Ada, with the eager assistance of
Patty, fled from Addiscombe,

Patty had got her her few valuables, and all the
money Derwent had flung on the schoolmaster’s
Mey for his unfaithful wife; so Ada was independ-
ent.

Jonathan could not credit her departure, What!
would she abandon her old father?

His hurried visit to the schoolmaster’s home ex-
plained her unfilial conduct.

The old man lay dead; his withered hands clasped
exe his poor old broken heart: there were a
like diamonds glittering on his forehead. The
wretched daughter had left her last kisses and tears
on_the dead face of her only, her last, her ever true
and faithful friend; she had nothing to linger for.

So then a whole year passed, and Jonathan grown
blacker-hearted, weary of wandering, found her at
Loangerie, sewing lace.

She was known there as Mrs. Rivers, a widow, and
she had a little daughter six months old.

Jonathan boldly explained his wishes. He could
get her a divorce from her murderer-husband, a

erfectly satisfactory divorce, thanks to the flexible
laws of some of the States; and then he would be
willing to marry her, in spite of all that had been
said and done.

The pseudo-widow looked him in the face and
bade him go, leave her in peace. \

He retired for that time, disconcerted, but hope-
ful; and he hung about the little town and was al-
ways in her path. She got restive, and seeking-him
out one day, told him with scornful bitterness that
he was only wasting his time; she never would con-
sider herself free from Otto Derwent until she heard
of his death.

Then Jonathan’s patience fled; he first pleaded
and besought, lover-fashion; at last he threatened
and cursed, and she told him that she loathed him,
and always would. ‘

So then he saw that all was in vain, and his
| love turned on theinstant to Pence madness of
| hatred, as it is apt to do in a bad heart, and the
| malignance of his feelings soon showed him the way
to torture her, i
He found out that the secret terror of her life was
| that her husband would be arrested. Jonathan
grinned like a very demon‘ to himself as he saw a
|
|

 

way to avenge his fancied wrongs upon the helpless
woman; to avenge his wrongs, and to spread the
venzeance over all her life.
__ He assured her that he would himself dencunce
Derwent for the manslaughter unless she handed
| him the exact half of her little earnings, won
| through close hard work at her lace-pillow.
| Poor soft soul, she had never thought of investi-
| gating Jonathan's story; she had only shrunk too
| sensiti oe er the details of the pe beaee murder;
| whereas had she been shrewd enoug! seek for the
dead man she would have discovered the fraud and
| saved herself from all the tragedy of her nineteen
| years of separation,
' She had parted from Otto, despising his cowardice,

_ English

 

 

his callous abandonment of her without one fare
well, and bis base sacrifice of her whom he had
sworn to love and cherish through bad and good;
but she could not quite crush back her anguish at
the thought of having him dragged from his proud
ome, and foreed to expiate his terrible
blunder in per! ed life-long imprisonment.

She knew well that Jonathan was quite cruel
enough to do what he threatened, and she bent her
back only too eagerly under the crushing burden he
placed upon it, ¥

Jonathan returned to his dreary home in Addis-
combe, a moody, dark-humored man, who could not
look honest folk in the face, but repelled every soul
who ventured near him, until not a neighbor ever
stepped inside his gloomy door, and who abused his
infirm old sister Patty, until she was obliged to leave
him, and totter down her declining years in loneli-
ness and indigence, so that the time came when she
wept salt tears of vain regret that she had ever put
anything in the way of his marrying poor, preity,
good Ada Rivers, who would have made, oh, such a
difference in these brother and sister’s lives,

And in this utter isolation Jonathan was able to
receive the miserable wringings of Mrs. Derwent’s
very life, the half of her tiny, tiny winnings; he, the
rich farmer, with enough and tospare to support a
large family.

And so devilish was the man’s nature that he used
to gloat overthese few coins with explosions of half-
crazy laughter in the silence and desolation of
his empty home, so that the neighbors, hurrying by,
ee convinced each other that Jonathan Brade was
mad,

It seemed such a rich joke to him; oh, wasn’t he
serving the proud minx out for her insolence in re-
jecting him?

Wasn’t he fooling her?

And this was where the half of all that Monica and
her mother could earn, had gone all these years—as
hush-money to keep the husband who had abandoned
her safe out of as :

Ah, pure, faithful heart that could not condone
crime, and yet could die by inches in the unsus-

ected service of the criminal, was it not a bitter

ate that your sweetness and your youthful beauty
brought upon you?

But no man could live in such a pit of loathsome
baseness and remaina man. Jonathan Brade got
more and more wicked as the years went on, until
he committed a crime which the law clutched him
for, and so he eame in contact with Messrs. Korner
and Price, and then fell mortally ill in the Tombs,
New York; and so made his confession, and they
began to try to lift the ban off the long-oppressed
Mrs. Derwent.

The one thing Jonathan purposely, held back was
the whereabouts of his victim. He had no will, even
on his death-bed, that she should benefit by his en-
forced confession, and he died with the secret un-
broken, consequently the lawyers were obliged to
advertise as we have seen.

Yes, Jonathan Brade, the wicked marplot of Ada
Rivers’s life, died impenitent six months before his
ae died, and to the end she never learned the

ruth.

 

CHAPTER XXII. ,
A RAT IN THE TRAP.

On_the evening of that same day, Geoffrey and
Mr. Price were back at Toby’s cottage, telling Mo-
nica the details of their fruitless investigations.

“They did not go near the railway siation at
Linnhe,” said Geoffrey, ‘‘ but were seen on the Kamp
Road; atleast a close carriage drawn by two thor-
oughbreds which some peasants swear to belong to
my uncle’s stables, was seen at dawn this morning
slowly going along the Kamp Road, toward Millver-
ton, a railway station twenty miles south. I tele-
gepoce and received the answer that no such party

ad arrived there. I have come back to do what I
should have done at first, only I feared he would de-
ceive us—to erg the truth out of Vulpino.”’

“* Will he tell it?’ shuddered Monica.

“He must! He is in my power, at my mercy—he
must /”’ reiterated her cousin, grimly.

And he galloped off, attended by the stalwart
Toby, who had pa.d one visit already to the ill-favor-
ed captive, for the purpose of fetching him such
coarse food as he thought he deserved.

“An’ the devil himself couldn’t ramp an’ tear
more vicious,” recorded Toby, with an enjoyable
grin, as he tramped by the bridle of Master Geof-
trey’s palfrey; “he had most filed through that
there dog-chain on the bricks, an’ would ha’ bin off
in another hour. Lord! one ‘ud think he hed the

ank o’ England at his fingers’ ends, by his offers.”
And the stanch old fellow chuckled at the reminis-
cence of certain smart transactions of his with the
captive, in which he had ‘‘done”’ him rather brown
by aoe a handful of sovereigns with the utmost
suavity, and then loftily repudiating the insulting
idea that he ought to earn them by betraying his
trust; Tob; being of that popular opinion that it was
always right to “spoil the Philistines.”

Arriving at the scene of Monica’s sufferings, they
came apps the lank, tawny Italian, asleep in his
bonds, from sheer exhaustion, He was no pleasant
sight in his haggard sleep, his clothing torn and
dusty, where he had violently. rolled himself about
the bare floor, and the ugly distortion of pain and
rage still on his pale and sweat-glistening features.

As the two men stepped into the room, they had
time to observe this picture, before Vulpino started
up with a snarling cry, and sitting on the floor,
B pred at Geoffrey with far more of menace than en-

reaty. ‘

“ Hbbene—have ro a-come-a to mock me in dese
bonds?” he ground out.

“On the contrary,” said Geoffrey, ‘“‘I have come
to offer you freedom, and a chance to expiate the
injuries you have done my uncle and Miss Rivers,
Tt entirely mepands on yourself whether 7o% leave
this place with us, or are left to endure a half-starv-
ed solitude until I have the time to punish you. And
Iwarn you that your punishment will be as thor-
ough as your monstrous crime deserves.” '

The ev! epee probed Geoffrey’s inflexible face, and
a sickly lor overspread his own. He dropped his
head and meditated with himself for some moments:
in silence. At last he said: *

‘““Dere is no alternatif; I submit. W’at you ex-
pect-a of me,” ‘

“The truth,’ answered Geoffrey; ‘and after it,

\

 

 
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ae
tu co-operation in saving the life of my uncle, if

e be yet alive, Are you willing to purchase your
freedom on these terms?”

“Dere is no help; I must,” muttered the prisoner;
doggedly; ‘‘but w’at dese fools about dat dey do
not search-a fore me—rescue me?”’

“That doesn’t sound as if they were far off,”
whispered the keen young lawyer 1 Geoffrey’s ear.

“No,” said Geoffrey, ‘if he means the Marshalls.”
He turned on Vulpino with a threatening intensity.

“You must assist us to save Mr. Derwent from
the couspirators who want to take his life,” he said.
* And first, tell us, where have they taken him?”

Vulpino tossed his chin in the air with an irrepress-
ible grin of wily triumph:

“Und you suspect-a notsing? Ha! ha! ha! Vul-
pe plans well. Botebote—ze time have come-a

0 speak; dere isno help: Your signore, the Maes-
tro of Derwent-a Weald és now in his own custle; he
was never taken out of it.”

“What!” cried Geoffrey, astonished; ‘was that
coach only a blind?”

“Only a blind!” admitted Vulpino. ‘Ze signore
is at dis moment hidden in ze old tower of ze castle,
wis his three attendants, ze bloodthirsty brothers,
and ze beautiful leetle Jezebel, Signorina Godiva.
He no more sick dan I, bote dey makes him t’ink he
dying; an’ so he weel, vera, vera queek, ‘less I am
back dere to save-a him;”

“Price, off with you and verify this rogue’s state-
ment; it will be the worse for him if he has lied to
us, Vulpino, tell him how to obtain ingress.”

“Dat he cannot; not widout me,” maintained the
Italian, grimly. ‘* Nobody is expected bote Vulpino,
and nobody except Vulpino will enter. Take-a me
veeth, und den—’ f

“And then you will betray us into the hands of
your accomplices! No, thank you!” cried Price,
shrugging his shoulders. ‘‘Come, old chap, you
mustn’t take us for idiots; be merciful to your own
hide and play fair. Meantime, while you are mak-
ing up your mind to the unaccustomed agony of
telling the truth, I shall amuse myself going through
your pockets, hoping to come across a key or two
that may be useful.

Mr. Price was as good as his word, and in spite of
the crestfallen Italian's gnashings of teeth and bale-
ful glares, thrust his nimble hands into every pocket
about the captive, eee several of the large
brazen keys of the Weald for his trouble.

Vulpino saw that he was helpless, and made up his
mind to turn his coat.

““Dere is no use,” he said to Geoffrey, sullenly,
‘| go over on your side. Only you promise me dat
I go free venever your uncle be restored to you.”

“That I promise solemnly,” said Geoffrey; “ but
le must be restored, both in body and in health, else
Thold you responsible.’

“Ha! dat makes a deeferent story, muttered Vul-
pino, uneasily, “‘dey hev ze medicines, und are so—
50 impatient—und {haf note been dere—he may be
dead.” Geoffrey uttered a cry.—‘‘ Bote no,” Vul-
»ino went on, anxiously enough, now that his own
ife was imperiled; ‘‘dey must be waiting for me;
dey were’ afraid to leave traces; gentlemen, I must
go to ze Weald if you wants ge life save, Jmust go at
o.ce. Ipromise you fidelity, w’at else can I—? Come
weeth me, da®you may do; I swear fair play.”

There was no time to be lost, and no other way.
Geoffrey agreed to trust the Italian, who, indeed,
had no interest in betraying them since his accom-
ylices could no longer work in the dark, and certain-
fy dared not work in the light.

Relieving him of his weapons, then of his bonds,
and refreshing him with a hearty pull at Mr. Price’s
capacious Kket-flash, the three set off for the
Weald, which they reached about ten of the night.

Cautiously picketing the horse and gig out of
hearing, the trio went through one of the archways,
the gate of which Vulpino unlocked with one of the
keys, and then they stole into the inner court, and
he showed them a dim light glimmering far up in an
ancient round tower, whose ruined walls overtopped
the rest of the pile by a hundred feet.

“Dere lies ze signore,”” whispered the Italian, his
eyos lightning up strangely, “nursed by ze lovely
Mees Montacute. By ze secret stair, w’ich winds
like ze corkscrew round und round in ze interior of
ze fifteen-feet thick wall, we s’all mount ze ruined
tower und see ze master unsuspect. Come.”

They followed him into the pitch-dark aperture,
and up the giddy wind of broken and dust-choke
steps. Arrived at last on a tiny triangular landing,
he arrested them by a touch, and softly drew back
a shutter, revealing a narrow  slit-window, which
however, commanded a view of the interior instead
of the exterior.

The three were now looking down into a small,
oc'azonal chamber, whose occupants were the
master of Dornoch-Weald, lying white and motion-
less upon a bed, and Godiva Montacute, fair and
lovely, sitting by him, half shrouded by the faded
procade curtain, with her head down on the little
table, either asleep or enue

“Thank God,’’ whispered Geoffrey involuntarily,
“he is yet alive;” and he pored over the domestic
tableau, scarcely able to realize its sinister reality.
Pri And where may the two men be?’ whispered

ice,

““Oh, dey do not shut demselfes up in dis gloomy
lace-a, except to take turns in ze watch,” returned

ulpino; ‘dey leef in ze best rooms in ze house, an’
dey drinks ze wines for amusement. Ze pretty
signorina, she know notsing bote dat ze oncle must
be hid from strangers in his dog-madness.”’

Vulpino, however, was wrong here, as Geoffrey
took care to whisper to Price, whose admiring gaze
was fastened to that lovely false face with rather a
perilous ardor.

Godiva Montacute was just as guilty as the broth-
ers, and shared all their secrets. Monica had told him
of her interview with Jasper in the woods. The
three descended to the courtyard to hold counsel.
It had been Geoffrey’s first and natural intention to
rush openly to the rescue of his uncle and the pun-
ishment of his enemies, but another idea bad oc-
curred to him since Vulpino’s enforced alliance.

As yet the Cote had not actually dove
anything which would give him a hold on them; and
the closer he looked into their schemes the more
monstrous they showed, and the more worthy of a
fl and terrible expiation. Would it not be possible
to manage inatters so that he could leave them to
execute the full measure of their villainy, or to sup-

SS

| pose that they had done so, he meantime preserving
fis uncle’s life; and then, catching them red-handed,
punish them according to tneir intentions?

A very short discussion, into which the wily Ital-
| ian interjected some of his natural craft and intrigue,
decided Geoffrey to have recourse to stratagem,
to trap the conspirators into showfng their game in
its entirety. Vulpino proposed to disguise Geoffrey
so completely that he could brave the closest inspec-
tion; and making the excuse that the close of Mr,
Derwent’s illness (which was caused altogether by
the poison he had been giving him) would be too
painful to be watched by Miss Montacute or the bro-
thers, present him in the character of a nurse from
Kondon, one of his own confidential tools who would
eonduct the final tragedy.

hied him to one of the ancient armories which stood
in all its carven spinon in a forgotten gallery, and
shortly afterward emerged, clad in an eas suit
of olive green livery, padded and shaped to repre-
sent theform of an awkward, obese oid fellow, his
well-dyed face almost covered with terrier-like
whiskers and beard, and a pair of bristling pepper-
and-salt eyebrows shading the youthful flash of his
dark eyes.

What with this disguisement, a cleverly acted in-
firmity of gait, and a high, wheezing voice, Geoffrey
might have defied the recognition of his own mother
had she been alive to gaze at him.

cree looked him over sharply, grinned tacit ap-
proval, and casting aside all care and caution, boldly
clamped with him through the echoing corridors to
the luxurious suite of apartments in which the
brothers were wiling away the time of waiting fora
dead man’s shoes, by the aid of occasional billiards
and spirituous consolations unlimited.

Upon the Italian’s appearance there rose a cry of

' inquiry at his protracted absence, and of astonish:

ment at his companion.

“Tt is right—all a-right, signori,’’ declared Vulpi-
no, clapping his bony claw on Geoffrey’s shoulder as
he spoke; ‘‘thees is an assistant moche needed; I

quire. Ze end weel be—ah, you weel not want to
see it—but he—’tis notsing to Meester Barber, eh,
amico?” and he leered confidentially at his pretend-
ed assistant, who affected a taciturn habit, and
merely nodded, grunting in reply.

with lowered tones and uneasily shifting eyes, what
of the girl?

faint smile, convinced them that Vulpino had dis-
oe of Miss Rivers, alias Derwent, the new-found
daughter and heiress, according to agreement; they
both turned frightfully pale, and fell dead silent for
some time,

‘* Well, what’s done can’t be undone,’’ muttered
Rufus at last, as if in answer to some mental com-
punction; “ you're sure it is well concealed?’

una bella donna—pretty creature she was, too, ahi!
ahi!’’ lamented the Italian.

“And him—how long?” faltered Rufus, averting
his ghastly face, and vainly trying to clear the ner-
vous huskiness out of his craven tones.

“Vera queeck; bote Barber, he must be sole nurse
now,”’ said Vulpino; “as for ze sweet donna Godiva,
w’'at she doing in dat fearful presence? Pore cheeild,
w’y blast her memory wees such agonies?”’

*““You were so a we had to let her re-
lieve us,” mumbled Gavaine the burly, whose mus-
cular body represented all the strength and courage
he possessed, his soul quaking miserably at every
danger or painful sight.

.“ Barber weel now relieve her,’’ announced Vul-
pino, calmly; “he has his instructions. He and I
weel do all now. As fore you three, I say, go away
from zis place, hide you some-a-w’ere, dat you can
— alibi, eh, in case of t’ings onexpect happen-

ng?”

The craven pair eagerly leaped at this chance for
shirking the distressful phases of the crime they
were yet cruel enough to consummate; and at once
made preparations for running over to Paris, there
to go through the farce of nursing a bogus Mr. Der-
went, of having him die, and of taking the sealed re-
mains back to Dornoch,

To Geoffrey’s surprise and displeasure, Vulpino
decreed that Godiva should remain in the castle,
pouring forth a voluble list of wherefores, not one of
which could hold water when analyzed.

“What, in Heaven’s name, can he be at?” un-
easily wondered Geoffrey, when he went down to
the court-yard in the gray of dawn to report pro:

ress to young Price, who was his go-between to

onica.

“Don’t ye see?’ grinned the omniscient a
“he’s in love with the large, soft-furred, sharp-claw-
ed white cat, and can’t endure the agony of parting
from her.”

“Nonsense! Why, she shudders at him, I saw
her do it once to-night when he asked to feel her
pulse; fearing she had watched too long.”

“And that only whets his gy returned
Price, chuckling; ‘and he'll win her, too, in_ spite
of ali her shudderings and shakings of her dainty
paws; and yet, there are men who don't believe in
retributive justice!” = __

CHAPTER XXIV.
‘‘rHE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR IS HARD.”

Rorvs and Gavaine Marshall supposed themselves
to be murderers, and Vulpino the Italian to be their
accomplice and instrument. They believed that the
new-found daughter of Otto Derwent had eee
of starvation by their command; and that Otto Der-
went was dying by their command—their command
as executed by Vulpino.

 

The natural consequence was that at present Vul-
pino was master, and they his slaves; and what he

reseribed they perforce must do, be it obvious in
ts intention, like his ordering them off to Paris dur-
ing the death. ony of Derwent, that in case of the
worst they might be able to prove an alibi, or inscru-
table and vexatious, like his flat that Godiva should
remain at the Weald.

Rufus, hopelessly in love with her, despite the

somber guilt in which they both were wading neck
deep, felt the world doubly watchful and glari:

when thrust into it without her brave, clever fron
to disarm antagonism and dissipate suspicion; then

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

The result of these conferences was, that Geoffrey .

*av’ sent-a to ze London for him, because he was re- |

A few more explanations served to satisfy the ,
brothers that all was right, and theu they asked,

A quick shrug of the shoulder, a grimace, and a |

“Ze body, you mean? Si, si, w’at else! Ahime! |

 

 

again the man had kissed her lovely false mouth «:
f lover kisses, and the poison of her spell was in his
lood,

It was more terrible to him to part from her than
to contemplate the torturing death of Monica—aix)
this last contemplation sometimes well-nigh over-
whelmed him with terror, pity, and remorse.

But Vulpino, who knew all—who could bring de-
struction down about their ears with a whisper—he
had ordained that the lovers must part for the pres
ent; Rufus dared not disobey.

As for Gavaine, his coarse nature, which would
have earried him through any scene of brute vio-~
lence, quailed and cowered in abject fear and fore-
boding before the half-vailed tragedy which wes
being stealthily worked at the command of himse!t
and his brother; like most brainless colossals, he
was superstitious; and during this season of horvyi-
ble intentions and cautious workings of them out,
he never slept but to see strange visions, coarse y
ahecerne an depicted by his beast-imagination; « «
walked but to loll about the ruined chambers, eato:
= of peevish discontent and ennui, and nervous))
afraid of every sound or sight that obtruded upo:»
his miserable moods,

Of course he plunged into such comfort as seas of
wine and brandy could give him, stupefied bir
already clouded senses, and only wished he coul|
get dead drunk enough to sleep over the climax of
the dreadful plot which was to make his fortune,
only awaking to find the grass on those two graves

reen—all the buzz of rumor over, and a soft, silver-
fined nest waiting him to step therein.

Vulpino received a maudlin glance of gratitude
from Mr. Gavaine’s moist dull eyes as he issued his.
command—Gavaine would have journeyed cheer-
fully to Iceland to escape the grim vigils he and his
brother had been keeping over their victim, And
then, Ae was not in love with Godiva Montacute, on
the contrary, he sometimes almost hated her, sus-
Lm dimly, as dull men will, that she was ridi-
culing him, yet not quite able to credit such sacri-
lege, considering what a_ killing fellow he was, and
how strong of body, and handsome!

He never could have comprehended the fierce dis-
gust and disdain of that proud, erring heart, not
only at himself, as an animal too foul and bestial to
touch save with a long pole—but at his brother, the
wily Rufus, whom Gavaine firmly believed to be the
most invincible, cunning and talented rogue in the
three kingdoms.

Godiva, carried away by the whirlwind of passion
against Geoffrey. who had refused to do er the
homage of offering her his hand and heart—had
joined herself with his enemies—had pledged her-
self to reward their crimes by marrying Rufus; and
now her heart was sick, and her brain reeled in the
near view of her doom, She never heard the cau-
tious footstep of her lover climbing the winding
stairway of the ancient tower, to join her by the
sick man’s bed, without a dark, dark scowl; lis
clasping hands, md made her flesh creep out from
beneath their loathed touch; his eager eyes that
smiled love into her own even over the death-bed 1
his and her benefactor, whom they two had sworn
to doto the death; his burning eyes, that alwr)'s
looked their best when resting upon her—she shruiik
from, and snatched hers away from the compii-
ment of meeting them, and her heart would stand
still, and her body grow rigid, her veins ill with icv;
and dared he kiss her lips, as he had a riglit to: 0,
she not venturing to withstand him, a fierce bleze
would flash out from her whole being, as it were, ¢: d
she would tremble a little, growing very pale; aud
at such times, while the purblind lover was gloating
over all these maiden manifestations of his power,
and accounting for them of course by contraries,
her glance would flicker off to the knife glistening
on fe invalid’s tray, or to the poison vials on the
commode, and then she would wrench herself back
to the inevitable present, and enact the jlancee.

And when Vulpino came to her, announeing the
proposed departure of the brothers, and formeily
requesting her to remain as the hostess of hin eif
and his man Barber, her beautiful, oo eyes
flashed = one involuntary gleam of reliel, which
left the Italian panting and pale, and she sunk
deeper into the down-cushioned chair with a great
sigh of rest and peace,

Barber could not help turning long, sorrowful,
half-incredulous looks upon the young lady who had
developed such fearful qualities, For many of their
childish years these two had lived together; and, al-
though Geoffrey had never in the least cherished a
romantic affection for Godiva, he had warmly ad-
mired her beauty, spirit, and wit; believing, as all
true-hearted men do, that his girl comrade was far
beyond him in goodness and yee Of late years
he had not seen her often, and upon the occasion of
his recent meeting with her under the oaks of his
uncle’s Weald, she had puzzled and offended him;
first, by the sickly softness of her manner, which |e
little suspected to be a trap to catch his love; and
next, by a something hard and coarsely shrewd in
her counsel to him to outwit the new favorites of
his uncle for sake of that uncle’s wealth, Mcrica’s
horrible revelations of Godiva's complicity in the
brothers’ plots, had dashed his old-time comrace
forever from her Be et but yet, seeing ber again
in all her rich and flawless beauty, with power seat
ed on her noble forehead, genuine sensibility shining
from her eyes, and all grace and delicacy expressed
in attire and attitude, it seemed perfectly incredible
that she could scheme murder, and patiently worl:
the eee tragedy out,

What! Do women droop over the men they mea
to kill, with gentle hands ready to minister to their
comfort, and listening ear bent to catch the lal orect
breath, as Godiva is doing over Mr. Derwent at; this
ban moment? Could she actually sit hour by hour
by his pillow, readeriog him all the pitiful services
which proud man’s ex ar calls for from woman
the ministering angel since the world begany Could
she hear his faint, delirious babble about al) that
had gone to make up his life, his friends, his politi-
cal opinions, his houses, domains, and favorite
horses—ay, his loves, too, that long-lost and dead
Ada, who had exhausted the fountain of his lover-
love, and then oe false as Jezebel;—Geoffrey,

allant, merry Geoffrey, brave Geoffrey, who, of all
fhe world, was the only one worthy to wear the
name and own the lands of a cee gain hed and
even her Own name was murmured, wistfully, in-
quiringly, with sighs at the something incompre-

—————

en

_—e
  

hensible which warned him not to trust her—with
ae shamed blame of her unwomanly bold-
ness in declaring her love for himself unasked—yet
always with gentle, protecting care for her welfare;
—could Godiva Montacute sit by, hearing all this,
and still cherish the hope of his speedy death at the
hands of herself and her accomplices?

, a Geoffrey felt sick at the monstrous

hought.

He told himself that it would be the kindest, most
merciful thing a friend of this wretched girl’s could
do, to slay her as she sat, ere she had imbrued those
white girlish hands in the blood of her benefactor;
ere she had steeped her maiden soul in the red mur-
der-tide, which all the fires in hell might not burn
clean again.

All the night Godiva had not opened her mouth to
speak, after her first quiet greeting to the Italian,
and a slight bend of the head to his companion upon
his introduction. She had listened in sfence to the
commands of Vulpino concerning a change of drugs,
as he gathered up all the horrid paraphernalia of his
poisoning systems and replaced them with strong
antidotes and tonics; and she had looked her relief
and delight when she heard that the brothers were
to leave the Weald. But for the most part she kept
her head bent over the sick man’s pillow and her
great gloomy eyes fastened on his ghastly face,
scarcely seeming to breathe, and yet so intensely
alive to every faint breath of his, or quiver of the re-
laxed muscles, that when he suddenly opened his
eyes and fixed them solemnly upon hers, she uttered
a gasp, as one suddenly plunged into icy waters—
and made a strange, passionate movement toward
him as if she would embrace him—then drew back
trembling from head to foot, and casting a wil
glance of appeal toward the man whom Vulpino had
brought to conduct her victim through the last dread
stage of his death-journey.

Vulpino was absent; he was engaged in hurrying
the brothers off to France; he dared not trust the
love-sick Rufus out of his sight until he had him
aboard the morning train for Dover.

Geoffrey alias Barber, wai at once to the bed-
side, and anxiously gazed into his uncle’s dim and
glaring eyes.

With what a pang of the true and tender heart
did he witness the quick flinching of those once
haughty eyes, now strained and blood-shot by the
ap Dn ew of ee agony through which the

elpless frame passed,

Derwent evidently knew too well the fate ordained
for him, and felt nothing but fresh dismay at the ap-
pearance of a stranger, permitted by that cold and
cruel woman, whose vengeance he had purchased
three years ago, when he rejected her love.

Geoffrey’s disguise was too complete for his uncle
to penctrate, and after a quiet examining glance over
the truculent-looking head and at the brown hands,
he turned his head away with a perceptible shudder,
and a faint disdaining smile.

Here was another executioner added to the quar-
teite—probably the one delegated to give him the
coup de grace—why degrade speech by using it to
a for mercy at such hands?

oor rae in his pity and anger, forgot every-
thing but that here was his dear, hot-hearted, proud
and imbittered kinsman lying a-dying through the
treachery of those for whose sakes he had cast them
off, and turning even now, with scorn and aversion
from him, who would with cheerfulness have laid
down his own gallant young life to save him; he ut-
tered a sort of dumb cry of grief and remonstrance,
and flung himself on the prostrate form, meaning to
clasp him up to_his breast, and to assure him in
language which he must believe that he could and
would rescue him from these wretches who had be-
trayed him, and that he had never done aay aang to
forfeit his love, and was worthy to serve him now
and always.

But Derwent, never dreaming of the presence of a
friend in this stranger, om the worst; and, en-
feebled though he was, all the proud blood of the
ancient race he came of boiled up at what he sup-

osed to be a dastardly attack; and, with a shout

ike a oe on the battlefield, he eee = to his
knees in the bed, and, his spectral face flashing
epee? wrath and contempt, his shriveled hands u
a a noble fencing attitude, he held his supposed ad-
versary at bay right gallantly.

Godiva, believing the end at hand, stood a mo-
ment, shrieking and shrinking, mad with fear that
her victim’s blood was to flow in her presence; then
she darted out at the door, and into her room—
chosen like the rest in the ruined part of the mau-
sion, for better concealment of her presence at the
Weald; and here she dropped on her knees beside
her bed cramming the antique, musk-smelling cover-
let of embroidered silk into her mouth to choke her
cries of ungovernable horror—yet steeling her
wicked heart—yes, in the ay midst of its natural
anguish steeling it against the clamorings of her
heart to go and save her benefactor even yet—or to
die with him.

Her cries brought Rufus, whose ear was ever open
to hear her voice--brought him running from the
room where he and Gavaine were eating a traveler’s
breakfast—to hammer urgently on her door, im-
ploring her “for God’s sake to say what was the
matter—was Derwent—had the new man—’’ ete.,
etc.; nothing but incoherencies coming from his
whitened lins, after all.

Godiva let him knock and let him implore, while
she fought down her terrible agitation, and reason-
ed that if Derwent really was—one, now there
would be no going away of the brothers, no respite
from this hideous love-making—nothing but riveted
chains henceforth; also, that if she gave no satis-
factory excuse for her cries, Rufus would obstinate-
ly stand there at her door until she went to him and
calmed his love-sick soul and rewarded his solici-
tuae with an amorous interview; so she swept up
ber wonderful tawny mane with one fierce clenched
haud, skewering it with a long sharp steel arrow
which she unconsciously thrust through the delicate
skin of her scalp, never feeling the wound in her wild
excitement; then, seeing in her mirror how hard her
face had grown, ard how glaring and evil her eyes,
she tossed a flossy white illusion scarf over her
head, drawing it about her paie haggard cheeks, so
as to soften their rigid lines; and so unlocked her
door, and keeping it so that her lover could uot
clasp her, peeped out at him with a faint, reassuring
smile,

 

_~ AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

“Yorgive me for startling you, dear,” she said,
kindly; ‘*I believe I’ve sat looking at him too long.
I feel all unstrung—nervous—hysterical. He woke
and looked at me, and—and—I could not bear it—”
she could not press back the convulsive sob here,
for oh, his eyes had looked into hers so solemnly, so
appeal ly; and—ok, God / was he dead now—dead ?

“Poor love!’ faltéFed Rufus, anguish in his heart.
for he truly loved this ill-fated woman who had
come to him through crime—and what man, howso-
ever wicked, can endure the sight of he?’ sweet hands,
soiled with guilt? ‘* Poor love, would to God I had
kept all this from you—would to God I had gone
through it alone, or—or never thought of it at all—”

“Don’t! Don’t say that!” she cried, with sudden
shrill despair, for was it not too late—eternally fixed
—no drawing back any more—and to whisper com-

unction now /—* if you want to kill me, or craze me,

alk of repentance now. Oh! QOh!’? She went back

into her room in a wild way, trying to check the
cries of agony which would burst from her betrayed
soul; for it is Nor true that men and women who
have head to reason and heart to feel can sin without
remorseful anguish; it must be a semi-idiot who
could; and especially to plot deliberate murder—a
double murder, as had been done; oh, poor, quiver-
ing, anguished soul of doomed Godiva, why were
your throes not enough to soften that adamant will
of hers, which even now could not bring itself to
accept defeat, express contrition, and welcome re-
tribution and expiation?

Rufus, carried out of himself by her vehemence,

 

her distress, and the near sorrow of separation for a
time, ventured in after her, and catching her in the
center of the room, encircled her writhing form with
his eager arms, and sought to press her head to his
breast; but she thrust him from her fiercely, cryin,

oe. words that pierced his very soul with grief an
error.

“Out of my sight, murderer /”’ she raved, prudence,
calculation, all forgotten save the flame which was
consuming her; “it matters nothing that I am as
guilty as you—do I not abhor myself?—ah! I could
tear my own vile heart out with these hands, and |
trample down its hateful throbbings! And you ex-
pect me to love you—you, the low hound, the cwr,
who could work upon a poor, proud-s irited girl’s
evil passions to win yourself wealth—who could—”

She stopped; Vulpino was on the threshold, his
black eyes glimmering green with jealousy and
daring exultation; he had heard her last bitter words;
and Rufus’s convulsed countenance corroborated the |
sincerity of her denunciation; but he quickly com- |
manded himself, ees up to Rufus, and whisper-
ed in his ear with a endly look:

“Foolish lover, do you not-a see dat yore donna |
amica is distract, dat you oppress her weeth love- |
makings now? Leave her weeth no addio; she weel
sigh fore you to-morrow, repenting of her cruelties
to-day. Away weeth you, brave amico.” And he
gently pulled the reluctant swain from the lady’s
room, softly closing the door upon her hysterical
sobs and moans,

Five minutes afterward she heard the ne of
wheels on the stones below, and hurrying to look
down, saw the brothers driving away with a couple
of valises strapped to the back of the fly.

“ And that’s the last of you,’’ she muttered, laugh- |
ing wildly. |

‘ CHAPTER XXVI.
AT Last!

MEANWHILE uncle and nephew had surmounted all
mystifications, and were holding each other tightly
by the hand, and ponring forth their pent-up hearts
as men so seldom do to each other, preferring the
soft sympathy of emotional womankind, which does
not criticise or smile at a man’s loving weakness,

But these two had always loved each other dearly,
noble heart responding to noble heart; and this rare
and perfect love it was which had so imbittered
them one against the other, when each suspected
treachery in the other—‘‘ What! have I been deceiv-
ed in him all along, and is his love of me of a baser
quality than mine? Ah! how he must have been
laughing at my foolish tenderness, the devil incar-
nate!’ For outraged love makes fiercest hate, and
the torn heart strives to see the traitor henceforth
in his blackest colors, as some bitter indemnity for
the precious treasure heretofore wasted upon ‘

“Uncle, look at me, your own miserable boy!” |
cried Geoffrey, tearing at his false outside in the
frantic endeavor to show his uncle the dear reality |
beneath. ‘‘I’m Geoffrey, your own poor, broken- |
hearted boy, come back to you, dear, hope—I ne i
in time to save you from these fiends!” And he
stopped in the middle of the work of destruction,
pee perforce, for the man who had driven him
forth in his vain and empty pride of race, to take to
his bosom in his stead a brood of loathsome reptiles
who had well-nigh stung him to death, had dropped
his warlike attitude, and, with a strange cry, had
fallen forward on his breast, arms clinging round
his neck, face pressed down close, close upon his
heart, sobbing and shaking like a loving girl; the
haughty Derwent all unmanned, cowering for shel-
ter, weeping for love and remorse, in the faithful
arms of his disinherited se

And the men were smitten dumb with great emo-
tion. Each forgot the outer hardness due his man-
hood, and let the other run deep into his long-yearn-
ing and bereaved heart. The old man had been
brought so low that this womanish fit—no fool could |
presume to hint that it disgraced him; while the |
young man was so strong and fearless in his will to |
rescue him, and so pitiful of his sufferings, that these
falling tears, and manly ie pressed to the thin
cheek of the sick man, and panting grief and fury,
only proved him nobler, braver, kinder and kinglier,
than any man had ever been before him, except,

rhaps, the knights like Sir Galahad of the Holy

raal, or King Arthur himself, blameless and brave.

But, after a long while, Derwent drew back from
his nephew, and sinking upon his pillows, fixed his |
eyes upon him with a mournful smile.

““My poor injured boy,” he said, so weak was his
voice that Geoffrey was terrified, and looked wildly
about for some restorative, ‘‘I need not ask your
noble heart if it can forgive my cruelty and folly,
for you have come to me in my desperate extremity,
and love that had never been outraged could do no
more, And, brave Geoffrey, if it can soften the
hard harshness of the past, let me solemnly assure
you that, black-hearted, false and evil-liver as I be- |

 

 

 

lieved you to be, I never succeeded in driving you
ao out of my love; I pined for you, Geoffrey,

eoffrey! There were hours of isolation and loneli:
ness when my whole soul cried out for you, whatev-
er you had done—when I was lashed with remorse-
ful forebodings that I had thrust you further alon
the road to destruction than your own vices hai
done—when life seemed heavy and aimless, hideous
to look back upon, maddening to look forward to—
and I could have welcomed death. And these de-
mons worked upon all that was bad or weak in me—
oh, fool! fool! to stifle the warnings of my instinct
and accept filth for the precious metal I had cast
away

“Oh, now, hang it all! what's the use of raking
things up?” exclaimed Geoffrey, getting in his oar
at last, and desperately hastin is uncle out of
these waters of humiliation and self-reproach; “I
never was the muff to harbor malice, and I dare sa:
was provoking enough about the little jade, Ne
Wyvern, who surely was never worth the trouble
she put between ou and me, dear old man. And
that reminds me to say that I never cared for her,
really, you know, though I thought it would be a
rascal's act to desert her at your bid, and not worthy
aparece of the old stock, for all she was a poor

ir

Geoffrey paused in the full flow of his confessions,
suddenl, coming aware, by the dark blood which
tinged his uncle’s pallid cheek that he was upon
awkward ground, and for a moment looked foolish
enough, pi his mustache and glowering at Der-
went deprecatingly.

He had quite forgotten Derwent’s early marriage
with the American ponege girl, and subsequent de-
sertion of her. As yet, he knew none of the partic-
ulars of the matter, not having seen Monica since
she had read Jonathan Brade’s confession; he only
knew that his uncle had deserted Monica’s mother,
although she was his lawful wife, and that Monica’s
mission to England had been to avenge her mother’s
wrongs.

Derwent waved his pale hand after a dead silence,
to bespeak Geoffrey’s attention.

“TI see, by your significant interruption of your
story, and your embarrassment, that you have be-
come acquainted with my marriage. Did Monica
tell you?” He faltered a little as he peaenaen
her name, and averted his face uneasily; he, too
was in the dark concerning his long-lost wife, and
knew not that she was innocent and dead, and that
mayen was all that was left him of her—his daugh-

er.

“Yes, uncle; Monica told me,” said Geoffrey, re-
covering himself in the welcome prospect of cham-
pionizing the lovely American, and instantly brim-
ming over with eager intelligence; “and if you only
knew all that sweet lady has braved, ay, and suffer-
ed, in her efforts to save you, you would take her
straight into your heart and worship her forever!”

“As my dear Geoffrey has done!’’ said Derwent,
looking at him wistfully; ‘yes, she is very attrac-
tive, and strangely courageous in her attempts to
make acquaintance with me; and I do think she in-

| terfered in my defense that dreadful day in the

wood, when Rufus sent the mad dog at me; but why
is she so interested? Who is she? My boy, I knew
one Rivers before, she—was unworthy—”

“No! no! that is impossible!’ Geoffrey broke in,
feeling it unendurable to hear Monica’s mother so
desc ; but his uncle, supposing him merely to
be echoing the statements of a mercenary relative of
his perfidious wife, only shook his head sadly and
continued:

“She was unworthy, Geoffrey; she wrecked my
life when it was at its ae prime; and she seemed as
softly innocent and radiantly good as this youn
gt, who is, of course, some relative of hers, sen

ere by—her—to make money out of the secret mar-
riage, which she probably supposes I have kept se-
cret from far different motives than the real ones,”

“Uncle! I can’t hear you speak of that angel so!”
almost shouted poctrey, springing to his feet, and
towering up in the mid le of the floor with clenched
fists and panting nostrils, so hot was he in his idol’s
defense; then, catching his uncle’s wan look of dis-
tress and perplexity, and recollecting how much
fuller and more perfect would the reunion be be-
tween father and daughter if he refrained from any
disclosures now, and brought his angelic Monica to
tell the tale herself, he crushed down his excitement,
lifted his uncle’s wasted hand to his lips with a
beautiful humble and loving grace, and said, gently:

“Dear old man, forgive my violence, I have only
this excuse, that, when, you know all that I know
about that sweet American queen, you will love me
better still for standing up for her thus. Many
things have happened, uncle, that you don’t know—
when you do, you never rest until—but, never
mind; I drop the subject for the present; and in-
deed I have most gulpanty. neglected your comfort
of mind and body, my ill-regulated zeal. Dear
Nune, don’t look at me with that heart-sick expres-
sion, as if you saw me in the horrid clutches of a
Yankee sorceress. Suspend all judgment until you
have heard this lady’s story. Will you not promise
fanans cious boy, what

‘Ah, my generous, unsuspicious boy, wha we
er have you to stand the lures and wiles of a schem-
ing woman?” sighed Derwent, almost revoking all
the kindly half-belief he had begun to cherish secret-
ly in the young girl who had hung over him with her
very soul standing in her eyes, and anguish clearly
written on her front, when he lay, struck down by
his heirs; for Derwent was a man born of, and nur-
tured by a race made proud by centuries of distine-
tion and honors conferred by the pighiy of the
land, in just award for its unblemished name and
gallant services rendered to the king and country.

CHAPTER XXVII.
TWISTING THE TOILS.

The blood of the Derwent was old before the Nor-
man Conquest, and from its remotest annals not a
generation had passed without producing at least
ene ni ot gitering roeus’ a aio enka
strung upon the g zg of valor and wo.
whtee eee its mee through scores of
mammoth tomes, written in rude Latin by the friars
of the house, centuries ago; and later, in Chaucer's
English; later still, in Johnson's sounding diction;
and now, in the smooth, flowing phraseology of the
present day, written by the vy ae young Etonian
who filled ‘the post of secretary to the master of

 

A+

eee. ae

ae

a Ne neg Ee

 
Dornoch-Weald, In this, the latest volume of the
History of the House of Derwent, two of the broad
leaves were sealed together, and jealously stamped
with the seal of the house, with the menacing motto:

“Dare Not DERWENT.”

These pages were written by the hand of Otto, the
only surviving Derwent of the line, and no eye had as
yet ever scanned them save his own. ;

They recounted the tragedy of his unwise and un-
worthy marriage. ‘ .

The rest of his career, as chronicled in the open
pages, was proud and brilliant as befitted the de-
scendant of such ancestors. He had fought with
signal gallantry and victory for his country; he had
served her nobly with his intellect in his chair among
the statesmen; he was a power in the land,

He had never stooped from his lofty pedestal of
honor and a pure life, and had done noble good with
his wealth; after all, hhad he not more rational cause
for self-esteem than have the common herd, who,
uninfluenced by the lives of more heroic natures as
exemplified in their ancestors, lives as they may, ac-
cording to their own dull capacities?

Granting this aspect of affairs as reasonable ex-
cuse for Derwent’s conservatism, what more natural,
nay, inevitable, than his shrinking reluctance to con-
demn himself in the eyes of his compeers by publi-
cation of his early mesalliance, after all that was
sweet belonging to it had vanished, leaving only the
blasting disgrace; or what more consistent than his
shocked repulsion of the idea of his beloved Geof-
frey’s entanglement with a nobody like pretty Nell
Wyvern; or an American siren, soiled by the blood
of the traitor Rivers—like Monica, the mercenary
agent of his vile wife Ada, whom he had always pic-
tured for these nineteen years of sullen, dumb fury,
in the home of his ignoble rival, Jonathan Brade,
growing further and further out of his toleration in
the conscious guilt of her situation?

So he maligned the strange, sweet American
maiden whom Geoffrey revered above all women by
the names of “siren” and “schemer,” and almost
forgot her devotion to himself in the bitter pain it
gave him to see how Geoffrey shrunk and flushed
from the scornful epithets,

But Geoffrey was wise; he resolutely changed the
theme of discourse, leaving that mighty question in
abeyance.

He quietly and quickly explained the present state
of matters; Vulpino had been bought over to undo
do the niischief he had done; the Marshalls were
hurrying away from the Weald in anticipation of
his speedy death; Godiva was being held, Geoffre
explained, most likely as a sort of hostage for their
return; and then he told of Monica’s sufferings.

‘Great heavens!’ gasped Derwent, who had hung
on Geoffrey’s words with breathless attention from
the moment when Monica’s name was introduced;
‘“‘and she went through all that for me! For me,
Geoffrey—I who have never spared her one kindly
word! Oh, wHo is she?”’ he almost shouted,

County. told of her lying helpless in Toby’s hut,
consumed with anxiety on her uncle’s account.

“ When—can—she—come?”’ gasped Derwent,clasp-
ing and unclasping his feeble hands in feverish im-

patience.

Pat Here? To see you?” said Geoffrey, secretly de-
lighted; ‘‘oh, I hope to-morrow or next day. She’s
dreadfully shaken, you know, and really ought to
be shut up in a quiet place for a week or two, but she
is so anxious about you that I suppose we shall have
to let her come whenever she is able.”

‘Geoffrey, oh, boy, is she genvine?” besought
Derwent, tears rolling down his haggard cheeks;
“why does she endure all this for me?”

** T believe in her, uncle,” said Geoffrey, solemnly ;
‘and she will tell you the truth herself.”

Presently Mr. Derwent was saying hopelessly that
deliverance had come too late, that he felt the hand
of death upon him, and that he would never live to
unravel this ee A

* And, indeed, it is a wonder that I have not felt
the effects of the mad dog’s bite before this,’’ he
said, with a shudder whlch convulsed his whole be-
ing, for his horror of this hideous peril which men-
aced him was morbid, and almost enough in itself to
kill an ordinary man,

Then Geoffrey told him what Monica_ believed,
that the dog had not been mad, and that Rufus had
only attempted to play upon his imagination.

Derwent was struck with instant conviction of the
truth, and inspired with new life, sprung up in his
sick bed almost well again,

“She is right. I feel it!’ he cried, eres =)
have not had the faintest approach of the symptoms
of hydrophobia, no pargaremns of nervous derange-
ment, no muscular convulsions at the sight of fluids
—nor mental excitation. Well, well, I need not
holloa too loud yet; I am by no means out of the
wood. How much am I poisoned? Shall I ever
throw off the effects and be a well man again? This
horrible stupor in which they have kept me almost
constantly seems to have sapped away my very
heart-blood! And it is pe oben me again, The
excitement of seeing you has kept it off for a little
while, but it is coming back! Oh, it drowns me in a
horrible oblivion!’

He moved about restlessly, trying to fight off the
exhausting drowsiness caused by the unknown
death-drugs which had been administered to him,
and Geoffrey, sharing his anxiety, hurried away to
find Vulpino, that he might instantly begin to undo
the mischief he had done. After some searching he
met him entering the ruined tower from the court,
where he had been seeing the Marshall brothers off,
and dragging him hastily up-stairs, the critical work
of counteracting the poison already consuming the
vital forces of Mr. Derwent began.

Vulpino worked his best and planned his wisest;
his own safety hung on the recovery of his patient;
and Geoffrey, securely hidden under the forbidding
exterior of Vulpino’s London factotum, Barber,
helped him and mounted guard over the patient;
while Godiva Montacute gradually banished from
the sick room, waited moodily in her own hidden
chamber for the fatal end—the fearful consumma-
tion which she had already lived through in agony
without repenting her of the crime she believed was
being pespetee? i

Geoffrey could scarcely bear to see Godiva. Her
very sex—her soft beauty—made her wickedness
seem the more revolting. Had she taken the slight-

est notice of him, he would have felt it impossible to

AN

 

AMERICAN QUEEN.

retain his incognito, but would have burst out on |

her in fierce, scathing denunciation,

As it was she never condescended to even glance
at Vulpino’s uncouth-looking assistant—dumbly at-
tending to his meals three times a day, and retiring
to her solitude between times.

Vulpino, however, made her talk to him during
the tete-a-tetes which he managed to secure with her,
several times each day; and Geoffrey soon foun
himself watching the progress of this ill-omened
love-making with a species of ugly fascination,

By what spell was it that the fillooking, grotesque
and ghost-like Italian gradually established a rule
over the bitter and reckless girl, who visibly paled
with aversion when his hand touched hers, and
shrunk back appalled when his keen black eyes,
sparkling with weird fire, probed hers? How strange
it was to note the gradual and stealthy removing of
conventional barriers, and the ihortenide of the dis-
tance between the ill-assorted pair!

Once Geoffrey came upon Vulpino and Godiva
standing together under the wall of the ruined
tower, the gay morning sun streaming full upon his
devilish head and her seraphic one, the black and the
gold drawn close to each other. They were gazin
silently into each other’s eyes. Vulpino held one o:
Godiva’s slender hands poised on his own finger-tips;
he had slipped upon the arched white wrist a flex-
ible golden Neapolitan bracelet, in the favorite de-
sign of a serpent with its tail in its mouth, and its
back-bone incrusted with emeralds and opals.

As Geoffrey walked past, looking fixedly upon the
strange pair, Godiva seemed to awake from a trance.
She slowly, and with a visible effort, removed her
eyes from Vulpino’s, and a sigh came deep and
tremulous up from the depths of her heart.

‘Keep your heirloom for your bride, then, Sig-
nore Vulpino; what have J to do with it?’ she mut-
tered, haughtily, and enanching the bracelet off her
wrist she forced it into his hand and rapidly vanish-
ed into the tower.

Vulpino turned a look fraught with cold triumph
upon Geoffrey.

“Struggle she may as she please,’”’ said he,
smoothly running the bracelet round and round in
his hard black finger, ‘‘she weel note escappa—her
destiny.”

“Do you expect to induce her to break with Rufus
Marshall?” asked Geoffrey, unable, in spite of her
wickedness, to subdue a pang of pity for the miser-
able alternatives which lay before the helplessly
bound adventuress.

“Rufus, ha! ha!’ laughed Vulpino, in his low, oily
voice, while his snaky black eyes gleamed green
fire. ‘Do you note understand thees about pretta
mees—dat she s’all bow down only to ze master
spirit—note ever to heem who comes second? As
long as Rufus, he was head, mees think, ‘ Yes I
s’all be queen;’ bote—Rufus, he ees heemselfs de-
ceive; 7am head; / know a great something weech
mees herself knows note; I say, ‘Come, proud
amica, marry Vulpino and he weel unbosom.’ And
she weel yet say, ‘Yes, great chief; I weel marry

ou.’ Rufus—ha! ha! ha!” and the diabolic laugh-
er slid out once more at the mere name of such an
insignificant rival. ;

Geoffrey hurried back to his uncle, He felt sick at
heart.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A STORY OF TRUE LOVE.

THANKS to Vulpino’s zeal, Geoffrey’s devotion, and
Derwent’s relief from anxiety, in the course of a
week the invalid was able to be dressed and to
move about his room leaning on his faithful
nephew’s shoulder. The wounds in his shoulder
were healing without fever; and the stupefying ef-
fects of the poison he had absorbed were graduall
disappearing under Vulpino’s skillful treatment.
The wound caused by the dog’s fangs had been
thoroughly cauterized half an hour after it was in-
flicted, and had ceased to cause the invalid any un-
easiness.

He saw distinctly that this wound had only been
inflicted that there might be a reason sufficiently

lausible to excuse the mysterious removal of Mr,

erwent from the public’s sight, and his speedy and
secluded death; of course if he died of hydrophobia
who would expect to be admitted to see the dread-
ful spectacle? And the false report that his co-
heirs had taken him to France as a last hope, was
well calculated to satisfy the most carping gous
that all had been done by his heirs to save the ric
man that could be done; and if, after all, he died
abroad and was brought home in’a sealed casket to
the family vault at Dornoch, his poor mutilated re-
mains tenderly concealed from every eye, what
more could his heirs have done?

Since Vulpino’s change of treatment, and the de-
parture of the Marshalls, Godiva had not entered
the sick room. She was once or twice solicited b
Vulpino, with much affected fervor, to share his
weary vigil, while Barber was off duty; but his

raphic description of the frightful change in the
abewed man, and of his haunting entreaties for
mercy, and his paroxysms of excruciating nervous
derangement were more than enough to keep Godi-
va far from the terrible place, And the truth was
that one glance at the invalid would have enlight-
ened her. Hope, returning strength, enue affec-
tion, and a nameless interest in the future, as con-
nected with the now never-mentioned American
girl, all these were assisting Mr. Derwent on his feet
again, and obliterating with magical rapidity the
signs of his past sufferings.

And every morning when Godiva eted Vulpino
she mutely asked with furtive, yet cruelly eager
glance, ‘‘Is he dead?”’ and Vulpino would sigh, shrug
one angular shoulder up to his skinny ear, and mum-
ble about certain leathern_ constitutions that took
long to kill, but surely such another night as last
must, etc., etc.

Monica took longer to recover from her ordeal,
though nursed with enthusiastic devotion by Mr.
Price, who moved heaven and earth to fetch her all
the delicacies her reduced condition demanded, and
was never so happy aS when he was half-carrying
the muffled form of his late adve: up and down
the strip of sward under the willows behind Toby’s
little cottage, and watching the ne cheek redden
faintly under the sunny breeze. ‘icely

| simple-hearted worshiper, — T

 

too, adored |

and served Monica, figuratively on her knees. Her |

romantic situation, her wonderful story, her awful
sufferings and her beauty, goodness and dignity, al]

Y2
AW

 

consyired to make service a joyous boon to this

‘oby, too, taciturn
though he was, and black-browed, fairly gave him-
self up to the gentle spell of the pure-natured girl;
his gnarled features relaxing into genial smiles, and
his deep-set eye softening with feeling whenever she
addressed him,

Every day Price met Geoffrey by appointment in
® hazel copse near the Weald, and brought back to
Monica the day’s bulletin, but Geoffrey and Monica
did not see each other again until Mr. Derwent was
pronounced by his physician capable of undergoing
a little physical exertion, and mental agitation,

The Weald was too gloomy a spot, and too inex-
tricably associated with miserable recollections to
be the right place for an invalid to brighten-up in, so
as soon as he was strong enough to ride the distance,
Geoffrey popes moving thescene of his conva-
lescence to Toby’s cottage, where Monica awaited
her father with Jonathan Brade's confession ready
to smooth away all obstacles between them,

It had been resolved that the master of Dornoch-
Weald should be concealed with the gamekeeper
while the final acts in the great tragedy of his sup-
posed death were being enacted by the three con-
spirators.

They were to be cheated into running the due
length of their chain, that their punishment might
be complete.

Godiva should suppose herself a double murderess,
guilty of the blood of Otto Derwent and his daughter
Monica; so that Vulpino could command her through
his knowledge of her crimes and the Marshall bro-
thers should believe themselves equally guilty and
successful in their schemes, that their downfall
might be the more overwhelming afterward,

Geoffrey had dutifully consulted his uncle as to
this course, and received his hearty approbation,
for it was not to be thought of that the traitors
should be allowed to escape unscathed, nor yet that
the honor of the haughty house of Derwent should
be humbled by publishing abroad the infamy of
these unworthy offshoots through the institution of
legal proceedings. To punish the guilty and yet
spare the innocent from the shame of a public ex-
posure, became the present aim of Geoffrey’s life,
and it was thought wisest to compass these ends by
following the course indicated.

On the tenth morning after the departure of Ru-
fus and Gavaine, Godiva’s sapphire-bright eyes read
in the narrow slits cut in the parchment face of Vul-
pino a more than usually Satanic significance, and
a horrible paleness instantly overspread her charm-
ing features, accompanied by a visible shiver, It
was exactly as if the door of an ice-filled vault had
opened upon Godiva, and a blast of wintry rigor had
swept over her, She seemed to shiver, to blanch, to
wither ip to half her size; she stood rooted to the
spot before Vulpino, cowering.

‘“Mees’s commands dey are obeyed,” smirked the
poisoner, not afraid to drive the cruel shaft home in
the quivering flesh; “de revere oncle, he. no more
Povretto zio!_ He could not take de wealth weet’
Ah, bah! ole ean ze man fore to bring pret
mees into her fortunes!—ole Vulpino he hand a)
glove weeth king Death; they always work in co
cert. Rufus win a fortune tor pretta mees? A
bah! nevave/ Rufus notsing bote a stupid cowar
Mees weel nevare marry heem/ Eh, donna divinat

Godiva comprehended not a word of this sly ha)
angue; she was face to face with murder, red and
reeking, and her very heart seemed to die within
her, It was done. er benefactor was dead, at Ae;
command! Ay, her injury was avenged now, sure
enough. He would never look upon her again, with
that maddening memory of her proffered love lurk-
ing in his eye, a gleam of mockery. But, oh, what a
little thing to take his life away for!

“Oh, Otto! Otto!” wailed Godiva Montdcute, with
a sudden, dreadful cry.

Vulpino first stared in quick amazement and curi-
osity. The woman’s eye was rolling, her hands were
in her hair, tearing it, she greedily enduring the
physical hurts she was inflicting upon herself; she
was almost frenzied.

He thought it was fear; he never dreamed it
could be love/ He flung out his long arms; he dared
to catch her to his hungry heart; it was a gruesome
embrace for the man was old, particularly misshap-
en, and had all the unwholesome grotesqueness and
uncleanness of the lower classes among foreigners:
but she was less a woman at that moment, with
dainty flesh and blood to lure and be lured, than a
lost soul, giddy and frantic from its first look into
the caverns of hell, So she did not repulse him; she
let him og her golden head against his rusty
bosom where the pulses beat hard and hurried un-
der her ear, and bend his bestial muzzle to her love-
ly mouth which quivered and gnashed under bis in-
solently, Na non belies bop kiss. She looked like
an Reet prisoned in the vile arms of some hateful
satyr,

She scarcely knew what he was doing, though, for
anguish of mind, And I think that even if she had
known, she so abhorred the fair, soft body which
held her murderous spirit, that she would have been
passive, taking a grim delight in heaping pain and
shame and dishonor upon a thing so infamous as
nethen Vulpi h ti h ist, and

en Vulpino put the serpent upon her wrist, anc
said loudly and distinetiy:

“Mees Montacute, I ‘av reesked my life fore to
obey you in the death of il signore; I now desire you
fore my_ wife, axing puree you weeth his
death, You cannot but obey; I ‘av your life in ey
hands, and a word can ruin, ‘ave love you instead;
carissima, be mine.”

Godiva mechanically released herself from_ his
grasp, and with the vacant, wandering look of an
diot, tottered off to her own room,

But she carried the serpent on her arm,

Duri this scene Geoffrey was leading Toby’s
shaggy little pony “Scamp ’’ carefully through the
forest toward Toby’s modest home. ' Otto Derwent
was on Scamp’s back, leaning somewhat feebly now
on the willing shoulder of Montague Price, and again
on the magnificent muscular shoulder of his nephew
Geoffrey, as they changed places in amicable relief
of each other.

Mr. Derwent knew he was going to see Monica
Rivers, and to hear her story of why she came to
Dornoch after him, :

He expected his feelings to be harrowed by the
unavoidable mention of his guilty wife Ada, and he

 
   
 

 

 

 

never dreamed of Monica Date anything more to
him than some connection of Ada Rivers, too good
for the unworthy mission she had undertaken.
Monica was awaiting this strange reunion in a
mood singularly tranquil and Joyous, considering
the very different feelings with which she had first

come to this place, and the wild hights and depths |

a | had oscillated betwixt since then.

The reason was simple. Jonathan Brade’s confes-
sion had exculpated Otto Derwent from all that bit-
ter blame which his daughter had heaped upon him
while she sat by the dead form of her deserted
moshen Also, had she not suffered much for his
sake?

|
|
|
|
|
|
|

And is not love best fostered by its own gen- |

erous sacrifices? Ah, yes, it is not the reception of |

benene which builds up love; it is the conferring of
hem,

For what we succor we graciously stoop down to
and so love; and what we injure we have to lift our
eyes i on its pedestal of innocence, and so we hate
it well.

Monica looked very, very sweet and tender, sitting
in the little window framed with white and golden
honeysuckle; her small pale face was delicate in
contour and fine in expression as any face ever car-
ried by a Derwent, and the lustrous splendor of her
dark, dreamy eyes compensated for every classic
want the critical might detect. Anxious to please
the fastidious taste of her father, she had laid aside
her somber black dress and wore, to-day, pure filmy
white, the transparent folds crossed over her ivory
neck and bust in noble lines, and caught at the fine-
ly-turned throat by a cluster of rich royal ree
pansies, gathered from Cicely’s garden by Mr. Price,
with the’ dew still glistening on them, and sweetly
accepted by Monica, whose gentle goodness of heart
had Jed her long ago to forgive the young lawyer all
past transgressions and to sympathize readily and
candidly with his modest attempts to be_the nice
fellow he saw she believed him to be. Gone was
Mr. Montague Price’s knowing swagger, his lazy
slang jargon, his ineffable wink, and his hard, unscru-
pulous Yankee spirit of self-interest. He had develop-
ed a genuine admiration of Monica’s noble soul and
set himself in earnest to make himself worthy the
coveted post of friend to her. It indicated the miracle
which pure goodness had wrought upon him that he
had not presumed to fallin love with h s guiding star,
and would have deprecated, shamedly enough, the
suspicion of so lowering her to his own level.

cely, in her picturesque short striped wincey
petticoat coming to the neat ankles of her stoutly-
shod little feet, her broad, white apron and Bay scar-
let shawl crossed over her swelling bust, stood mod-
estly behind the young lady’s chair, watching from
the window for the first sign of the approaching vis-
itors as eagerly as Monica herself, and Toby, seated
on a short wooden bench in the porch, where he
could command a view of the road out of one open
door and a view of the graceful white lady and her
Hebe-like attendant through another, industriously
employed his mee energies in ee | his rey
firelocks, whistling softly under his breath, and feel-
ing a queer softness about his heart as he thought
on the approaching disclosure of the daughter to
her father,

At last!

Geoffrey it was who brought Otto Derwent into
the presence of his daughter.

Somehow, as by a preconcerted Fara, every one
else had melted awa: , and when the first dimness of
emotion had passed from Monica’s eyes and she
could look up, the master of Dornoch-Weald was
seated before her in the chair of state, the only per-
son there.

For two or three moments both were silent; the
alteration in each startled and shocked the other
with unexpected force; besides, Monica was looking
consciously upon her father, and Derwent was in
the presence of the enigma who had lurked in his
thoughts ever since he had first seen her.

Hers was the strongest emotion; it urged her first

to as

“How terribly you have suffered!’ she said, faint-
ly, and sliding out of the great draped invalid-chair
in which Cicely had enthroned her, upon her knees,
she bent her lovely piteous face and kissed, with
lips that trembled, his pale hand,

erwent, deeply moved, gently caressed her glossy
little head with ‘his free hand murmuring in low
sweet tones that had not been heard in his voice for
nineteen years:

“And you, sweet child, why have you risked your
life for mine?”

Still on her knees, Monica took a paper from her
belt, and smoothed it open on his knee. He marvel-
ed at the rich blush which warmed her cold cheek,
at the quick swelling and panting of her bosom—at
the eloquent glance, blending See with pity,
love with tender reproach, which her dar brillian
eyes flashed upon him; then he looked at the paper,
and saw this heading:

* JONATHAN BRADE’S CONFESSION.”

The Master of Dornoch had neither heard nor
uttered this name for nineteen years; yet it had
lived in his memory like a flaw in a gem, robbing it
of all its value. It was a name synonymous with all
that was base, black and tormenting; it was the
devil’s pitchfork with which he could stir up the
deepest héll-fire of the man’s soul.

As he looked his sight was blasted; his whole face
changed dreadfully; his mouth twitched and curled
in a demoniac snarl.

He rose roughly, letting the fair woman drop apart
as she chanced, and a low, venomous curse hissed
upon her tingling ear.

Still kneeling in unconscious symbolism of the

leading and humble attitude of her spirit toward
Bini? with her angelic countenance raised imploring-
ly. = her sweet eyes raining tears, Monica said,
solemnly: |

“Only read it—oh, surely you will do my—do her
that justice! Have you not judged her unheard
long enough?” ,

He stooped over her; kis blazing eyes seemed seek-
ing to pierce her throuch. 7

“<*My ’—what ?” demanded he, suddenly growing

dead calm.

Monica had narrowly escaped saying ‘my mo-
ther.” That would Ie % begin at the wrong end of
‘the disclosure. She shrunk from couteestig the
elaira she had on him until, her mother’s innocence

_n oven, he would of himself crave her for his daugh-
ter. : ;

 

 

 

Eg

 

“

 

He read her reluctance, her fear and longing,
and all passion sunk like a fire quenched by a sea.
In another moment he was geeping and gropin
among the overwhelming tide of ideas which surg
over him.

He sunk back in his seat, grasping the young
girl with involuntary ardor and drawing her to-
ward hin, then pushing her away with a beseeching

ery:
Con, girl, whoever you are, keep eternal silence—
unless I bid you speak!”’

And he picked up the paper from the floor at his
feet, and began to read it.

Page after e he turned; those first scenes of
his love and folly; ay demi! how sweet poor Ada
was—how white-souled she had seemed—the noblest
woman he had ever seen; he had fondly believed
this then! Oh, fickle, bad heart, how was it you
could nurture such loathsome impulses in your gen-
tle bosom? Ah, here comes the confession of con-
fessions—the story of that night which exposed the
wife’s infidelity and parted them forever. What! she
never loved Jonathan? What! repulsed him?—ab-
horred him? Bah! a lying tale to extort money.

No, the man’s dying confession. Every trifle
faithfully reproduced—the whole dire scene painted
by an eye-witness—by the principal actor himself.

o forgery—no ruse; God’s truth, revealed at last.

Oh, the years! the years! How many? And
Ada, innocent Ada, injured Ada! Oh, God! could
you not have opened his eyes sooner? Dear, angel
Ada, abandoned without a chance of self-defense,
broken-hearted!

The man laid down the paper on the arm of his
chair, his face upon it, and his whole frame shud-
dered with grief.

So strong was his nature, so ardent his feelings
and so deeply rooted, that this sudden revelavion
well-nigh killed him. He forgot his surroundings—
Monica, late events, all; he was back at Addis-
combe, the passionately-loving young husband, with
the one love of his life lying pale and _ helpless in the
arms of her demon destroyer, and her duped hus-
band deserting her with a cruel haste.

Looking upon that crushed form, passion-con-
vulsed, and oblivious to all but Ada, the daughter
could no longer complain that her father’s love for
her mother had been shallow or fickle; no, here it
was still, a poor, blighted, tortured wraith of its
old radiant, burning self, but strong enough and
passionate enough to make the silent observer
tremble.

For Ada was dead; remorse had come too late.
Dead, without one whisper to console her for her
long agony Fone beyond the power of restitution.

Alas! why had he had so little faith in her?

That fierce soul-storm blowing by, Derwent went
on with the confession; and read, in the sullen peni-
tent’s broad, pret heavy writing, the piteous tale
of Ada’s fate. ow her eternal separation from
himself had been insured by that impudent false-
hood about the traveler, accidentally shot dead; and
here he looked through the waving honeysuckle
sprays into the blue deeps of the o’erarching heay-
ens, bitterly asking the omnipotent Creator of all
why He need frame woman’s head so weak when
He makes her heart so strong? Deceived by a tale
that could scarcely impose upon a child! recked
in smooth waters, with Love and Faith on board—
all for lack of a little worldly wisdom!

And then he read of the wicked Jonathan’s last
attempt to obtain possession of this frail, foolish
creature; and of his signal defeat and eternal dis-
comfiture, when the frail and foolish creature tow-
ered up into a goddess of all that was _ faithful,
proud and heroic; then of his revenge, his dastardly,
abject revenge, how he set himself, like a weasel in
a dove-cot, to suck the life-blood of the gentle,
brooding thing, a few drops at atime, as long as the
loyal blood lasted out—she submitting with mute re-
signation, in the fond, faithful Papp omnes that she
was ee her luckless Otto’s Sates
and when the haughty Derwent, grown imperial in
all his habits of thought and action, through the long
years of lonely prosperity and secret wound, pic-
tured to himself that soft-natured, nestling th ng.
that had been alllove and delicate joyousness, and.
clinging fragility in his bosom, racked by thoughts
of his peril, haunted by visions of blood spilt by the
hand she loved—meekly offering her silken breast
for the viperous bite of her loathsome enemy, en-
during without a moan the greedy, pitiless draining
of her poor heart’s blood, and dumbly smoothing
ber dimmed plumage over the ugly wound that no
soul might see how she suffered lest he might ask
why; and this in the belief that she was doing it
for him, and that he was living safe and prosperous.
through these her eagerly borne agonies—when
Derwent had taken allthis in, he softly laid the re-
cord down, and falling on his knees before high
heaven, pens out his broken heart in sighs and
throes of loving anguish,

And his daughter, not revealed to him as yet,
prayed with him, silently and apart. Not for worlds
would she have intruded upon the stricken man’s
hour of sorrow, every added moment of which re-
poe the great wrong he had done her mother, and
he miserable years he had given her, more fully
and generously,

Looking upon the desolate man, crouching there
before God in unutterable love and distress, how she
loved him! How her noble heart sunk at the bitter
blow yet in store for him—that this Ada was dead—
and would never hear one word cf all that was rag-
ing in his heart! How she trembled and sg at
the thought that soon he would read who s Wat,
and turn to her as the baly one thing left him o;
poor, martyred Ada, and lean upon her love, and
perbaps at last take comfort from it!

Well, at last Derwent roused himself, and with
sudden, vehement desire to know where his faithful
Nd was, snatched up the felon’s confession and
read on,

Read on to the end without pause; learning with a
great cry and a gree ett glance of wonder
and ecstasy that he a child, and that this was
she—the beautiful devoted creature with Ada’s loyal,
brave soul, and the k body of proud Dame Go-
diva Derwent of olden times; on greedily, of
Ada’s years of toil and privation in the obscure lit-
tle hamlet Loangerie; read of her wasting strength,
her waning means; of Monica’s unavailing strugg! &
in the district school and midnight lace-sewing; 0!
the mysterious drain on their resources that para-

 

ae the daughter and discouraged the mother, un-
n at a not three months ago—oh, God! she died
of wan

 

Into the icy vault of eternal and unalterable de-
ir, at last it seemed to poor Otto Derwent that a
clear, soft ray of heavenly light penetrated, and
that, lifting his heavy eyes, he beheld the angel of
Consolation bending lovingly over him, with a mcs
sage from pitying God for him.

It was Monica, his beautiful unknown child, Ada’
darling daughter; she had him in her tender arms,
his head pressed to her loving heart; and her tear:
of affection and sympathy made a message that only
God could send—saying to the lonely man:

“T am Ada’s love in daughter’s shape; live, ard
love me.”

And so he will; God be praised for His grand
Law of Compensation.

CHAPTER XXIX.
ALAS, BEAUTIFUL GODIVA!

Ir was rant ts hours since Vulpino had an
nounced to Godiva Montacute:

“Meées’s commands, dey are obey; dze oncle ee:
no more.”’

She was lying on her bed with her eyes closed;
her face, though alarmingly pallid, was placid a:
that of a sleeping child, and her beautiful bosom.
lightly shielded by the delicate creamy lace of hei
azure peignoir, rose and fell in regular and natura!
breathing.

There was a rude tumult at her locked door, some
one knocking furiously, and a high frantic voica
imploring her to speak—but one word, to show that
she lived,

Godiva had never been seen by Vulpino since he
had told her that the deed was done; he had respect-
ed her privacy during the first twelve hours, going
owe all the hideous sounds of conveying the
dead body secretly out of the house at the dead
of night, with the assistance of Barber—actually
burying a long box full of earth in a hole he had dug
in the forest, and then coming back and making
all the preparations for slipping away from the fata)
spot to join the Marshalls, according to agreement,

en he had for the first time disturbed Miss Mon-
tacute’s solitude, requesting her to come forth, as
all was finished here.

She had not answered, and after a few vain efforts
to obtain some recognition of Line Boag the Ital-
ian had retiréd, fearful of provoking the fair lady's
ire by too pertinacious intrusion on her mood, which
chanced to be a dumb one.

After some considerable time he had applied his
hard knuckles again to the panels of Miss Mouta-
cute’s door, with no better result; an| then he had
strode away in black jealous fury, believing that the
lady was quietly intimating to her tool that she had
no further use for him, and therefore considered
any subsequent intercourse unnecessary. Having
fumed about the grim and ghostly corridors for
some hours, back he comes again, knocking in
lently, calling loudly, explaining, entreating, threat-
ening, and finally standing dead still, struck to the
heart with the sudden suspicion of treachery.

The lady had fled?

He staggered against the opposite wall, glariny at
the sealed door while his great uncouth features
writhed and grinned in hideous contortions, and his
long grimy fingers clawed the air in a frenzy.

Then he went away, and soon returned with a
heavy log he had found in one of the sheds, and
using this as a battering-ram, at the third thunder.
ing thud the stout oaken door gave way with a
crash, and he came reeling into the middle of the
room, ram and all, and encountering a velvet foot:
cushion, sprawled his length on the floor with yreat
din and confusion,

As he gathered himself up, cursing like a brigand
in his own liquid tongue, but with the voigg of some
foul bird of rapine, he saw Godiva lyin ong her

illows, beautiful, tranquil, unawakened through al)

is deafening bruit. |

With a cry the passionate Italian was beside that
lovely waxen shape, his cavernous eyes devoured
her, his great bat-like ear bent to listen at ber pale
lips and her slowly-beating heart; his ugly, un-
trimmed finger-tip lightly and delicately lifted one
mncnole Det eyelid, while his burning eyes peered
at the half-seen pupil, which neither quivered nor
shrunk from the ray of light let in upon it; and then
the poisoner stood up white as death, and wiped the
great beads of sweat which agony had brought ou*
on his bony brow,

“Escaped me indeed, sweet lady!” he whispered,
mournfully, in his own tongue; “thou hast drank
thy last draught—from this.

He picked up a small vial from the table at the
bedside; it was aaa ge and the nature of the

ison still remaining in it, was to sink the victim
into a dreamless, painless sleep, from which there
was no awaking, unless the strongest measures were
adopted to rouse him and keep him awake,

But Godiva had already been asleep for twenty-
four hours, and her pulses were even now so feeble
that Vulpino despaired of saving her.

Why had sh» done this? Was it from remorse, or
was it fear of him?

“Carissima—my soul!” he eres bit-
terly as he hung over her; “1 love thee—I would
have been thy slave! And I am rich—oh, so rich
fair amica, and thou lovest gold and homage, Thou
shouldst have reigned in Valdemara, my palace on
the Adriatic, a palace coveted by many an archduke
and Turkish dignitary; thou shouldst have reigned,
my peo over all the beautiful houris of my
harem! Y. didst thou choose vile, worm-infested
ee to. the oa - bse sas

us he rav ‘or some time, despair aoalvaie
all efforts at restoration; and the wihsetabie wom,
would undoubtedly have died as she intended, had
not Geoffrey, struck by manly pity, come back to
the Weald to succor her if she were in need of his
aid, and really desired to escape Vulpino’s horrible

passion.

The first shock over, he, the of the
two, suggested that as che aa catenin ‘e there
was hope; and that surely the Italian, out of the
fullness of his knowledge of such matters, might
save her by his skill.

This was all that was needed to inspire the inflam-
mable Southerner; instantly he was immersed in

 

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the case, and. with Geoffrey as faithful executor of
all his commands, soon began to hope.

How they toiled with that oor, self-destroyed wo-
man, walking her between them to and fro in cold
places, incessantly bringing back sensation to her
skin by the use of strong stimulants, forcing other
stimulants down her reluctant throat, which me-
chanically refused to swallow of itself; always re-
opening her eyelids which would droop over the
fixed and senseless eyes—plying her anaes nos-
trils with sharp essences; and so on through all the

) ghasty and toilsome course of battling out a death-
dealing sleeping-potion !

And Godiva, tottering about on unfelt limbs, sleep-
ing on her feet, staring at the sun with blind eyes,
wincing not at the terrible touch of such desperate
agents as ice, fire, stinging essences and thrilling elec-
tricity, knew nothing of it for many, many hours;
until the two men, worn out but exultant, sat, one
on each side of her, in the rose-garden at dusk, and
she lifted her head suddenly and looked at them.

“ Geoffrey!’ she wailed, in feeble but passionate-
ly-entreating tones; and then hysteria overwhemed
her, and Vu pine carried her in, too exhausted to re-
oel the hateful contact, and the great tears coursing

own her white cheeks in rivers,

And Geoffrey’s honest heart ached for the mis-
uided woman whose falseness and self-seeking had
rought her to such a pass.

He made up his mind to follow her when she had
had time to recover her self-control, and in spite of
Vulpino’s oft-repeated entreaties that she should be
left under the subduing belief of Mr, Derwent’s
death, that ‘he would tell her the truth, give her
back nee peace of mind on that point, as also con-
cerning Monica’s safety, and afford her one more
chance to redeem her character by a life of peni-
tence and sincerity.

His merciful thoughts were interrupted by the
sound of wheels on the gravel in front of the house.
Curious to see who could be coming here when the
place was Fupposed to be shut up, he made his way

astily round the many angles of the mansion, and
came in sight of an unexpected tableau.

A closed coach was drawn up close in front of the
little sheltered door of the ruined tower; the coach-
man on the box, and the lackey who was handing up
a valise to him, wore both the same rather fantastic
livery of dark blue and scarlet, with gold cockades,
and were both dark, aquiline-nosed, and black-eyed;
evidently servants and count en of Vulpino’s.

Geoffrey was still perhaps fifty yards away, so as-
tonished that he had come to a halt, when, in spite
of the closeness of the door of the chariot to the
door of the tower, he saw Vulpino step into the
former, bearing a muffied female figure in his arms.

Ha! an abduction? No, no, poor Godiva, not
ar such an honest heart as Geoffrey’s beats near
you

He bounded forward; Vulpino’s lynx eyes detect-
ed him coming. Running like a hare, he shouted a
brief order; banged to the coach door; the lackey
was in the rumble; the coachman wheeled cleverly,

, and the coach and four spanking horses were spin-
ning down the avenue.

Geoffrey flashed out a revolver—he had carried
one since his inforced intercourse with the profes-
sional murderer—and cried:

“Halt! or I fire!”

And in spite of Vulpino’s yell to drive on, and the
unlovely apparition of his hobgoblin torso thrust out
of the window, in grim companionship with the twin
of Geoffrey’s weapon, the white-livered ‘Tuscan
actually did halt, and, with,all the odds in his
favor—namely, sixteen ee legs to carry
him out of shot at the rate of ten miles an hour,
two men beside himself, every man of the trio
armed to the teeth, and only one enemy walking
sturdily upon his own two legs—poor Leonata da
Vinci cowered down in the boot, dodging his sleek
black head and flapping ears down out of range, and
waited with a very scared and pacific visage for the
denouement,

In spite of Vulpino’s reiterated assertions, clinched
with oaths of the hottest Tuscan complexion, that he
would shoot dead as ‘‘uno cano,” if he ventured
a step nearer, and his sworn word that the lady was
with him of her own free will, and he would not per-
mit her to be agitated by another sight of Geoffrey,
that young hero marched straight up to the muzzle
of Vulpino’s leveled six-shooter, looked him sternly
in the eye while he wrenched the door from him,
and then, shoving him unceremoniously to one side,
looked in at Miss Montacute.

She was not muffled or bound in any way visible,
and she looked at him only wee no appeal.

Was Vulpino right then? as she capable of this
last most unwomanly act of all—to sell herself to
the man whom she knew to be a paid assassin, and
supposed to be the murderer of Monica Derwent and
her father—to purchase her own personal safety?
Oh, wretched Godiva, when ace. began your down-
ward course, in the undisciplined desires and ambi-
tions of a sé nature, could you have believed
that you would ever come to stoop so low as this?
Perhaps, r desperate soul, you know not what
this man is doing, or, in your halt-crazed dismay at
the success of your schemes, think it little matter
now what befalls you; you have played your last
card, in trying to fly life, and your wily opponent
has dash down the winning card after you, and in
saving your miserable life, snatched at it for his re-

ward,
*Co ” said Geoffrey, entreatingly, “where are

you going?”
“With bim,” replied Godiva.
‘: Of your own free will?”
Yes.” t a
“To be his wife?” :
Godiva answered not. Her slow, rigid smile made
‘ oa ’s heart stand still with a momentary thrill
of tore! .
“‘Godiva—poor girl—don’t destroy yourself, There
is really no cause why youshouldiun away. Godiva,
T pray you, don’t be frightened—but—you have
been deceived, Nobody has—has—died.”
He feared to kill her with the shock; he was doi
his best to soften it. She heard him distinctly, an
gave no sign whatever. He could not believe his

senses.

“T swear it, Godiva, nobody has been sacrificed—
Mr. Derwent and his daughter are both alive,’ he
repeated, with deep earnestness,

‘Lict Gs go,” said she to Vulpino, stonily,

 

“Do you not believe me?” cried Geoffrey, well-

nigh beside himself,
jhe answered nothing.

“She does, of course; indeed I have told her the
truth already,” muttered Vulpino in Italian and in
Geoffrey’s ear, a vicious smile of triumph on his evil
features; ‘‘ but it is natural that she should not care
to meet them again, and prefer even my love, anda
royally voluptuous life with me, to the contemptuous

ity and maddening forgiveness of those she has in-
jured. Now let us proceed, I have earned my

iberty according to contract, You have no right to
delay me another moment,”

“That is true, and since she will not let moe save
her, although I am her kinsman, I have no right to
detain her either. Go, then! Alas, Godiva, do you
indeed prefer the love and homage of such a mis-
creant to the heavenly kindness of that lovely soul
Monica Derwent, and the noble-hearted pardon o.
her eh For I can, without hesitation, promise

ou both.” -

. She suddenly bent toward him, her gem-blue eyes
glistening strangely.

“Geoffrey Kilmyre,” said she, in a low, breathless
voice, ‘‘you argue as a man argues—as a good,
brave man argues, who is not afraid to face any-
thing in heaven or earth, Let me tell you a woman's
arguments are different; and the arguments of a
woman like me—like me’’—she had spoken lower
and lower, her last word here was a groan, and was
followed by a. little wild silence—‘‘ oh, or are the
most unexpected of all,” she resumed, calmly again;
“you think me the wickedest woman in the world,
and you only speak to me out of the depths of your
horror and pity. I might suffer this from you—do
you know why? J never loved you! Perhaps you
sometimes imagined that I did: I own that I wished

ou to marry me-—that is, if aoe were sure to in-

erit your uncle’s fortune. at you passed me by
with indifference bitterly wounded my pride, but not
my love. I wished you ill because you presumed to
slight me, not because you did notlove me, But
with your uncleit was different. J did love him—I
did—oh, God!”

Her invocation was a tingling cry—such a shriek
of human woe might have issued from the torture-
chamber of some ancient inquisition, where some
poor soul, drenched with the bloody sweat of her
own agonies, was forced to lift her eyes and blast,
them with the sight of that she loved best endurin;
worse, in silence, for her sake! Geoffre: staggore
against the door of the coach, turning sick and faint;
even Vulpino, smitten through his love for the guilty
woman, covered his ears with his hands, and hung
his head between his knees in abject distress. No
one dared comfort her, She glanced at one and the
other and suddenly laughed.

Geoffrey could not bear it. With a choking sob
and his eyes hidden, he staggered back, and turned
away to the Weald—turned away forever.

That wild ee was still ringing silverly, when
the chariot rolled on its way, and only died out in
distance,

Ay, so you go, sinning woman, to drink your cup
of humiliation to the dregs—and no mortal can save

ou,
. Only God,

 

A few hours afterward Geoffrey slowly and
thoughtfully wended his way back to Toby’s cot-
tage.

Since the reunion of father and daughter he had
not seenthem. As he walked in the golden light un-
der the ancient oaks that had crowned the demesnes
of the Derwents for three centuries, he thought
of the everlasting foundations of truth, and of the
ephemeral reign of all that is false and evil, when it
comes to issue with that grand power,

For where is the murder that will not 00ze out, be
it laid deep as the bottomless pit, and Alp on Alp
piled over it? Where is the wrong done the inno-
cent, however unsuspecting, that does not creep out
of its long torpor, to flutter with tell-tale wing into
the faces of ome and injured, at last?

And he stepped across a little mountain brook,
stealing black and stealthy down the hill, broaden-
ing across the emerald meadow, and surging to the
blue sea line, a power in the land; and he thought

of the “‘ begin of evil,’ when the first bad im-
pulses of the young soul creep out black and
stealthy, and trickle their course down, downward

ever, and broaden with opportunity; across the fair
meads of specious seeming; and swell and
grow with indulgence, until banks of dissembling
will not hold them, nor brina water-course guide
them; and they seethe forth, a desolating flood on
every side, spreading ruin and dismay, until they
hurl themselves dizzy, desperate, helpless, into the
ocean of Retribution, where they are swallowed up
forever.
Alas, for beautiful Godiva!

CHAPTER XXX.
THE STAR OF LOVE.

Grorrrey came to the rustic gate of Cicely Car-
gill’s garden as the star of love rose golden above
the firmament. Every scented leaf bore its row of
dew-brilliants, and the sweet gilly-flower and triplet
clusters of small pink cinnamon roses swung incense
to the beloved star.

A murmur of voices mingled with the hushed
sounds of evening; with the low breathing of the
oaks on the hillside, and the creaking of the rd
branches far mid-forest; with the chirr of the birds
as they fluttered to their leafy perches, and the
husky whisper of a lonely whip-poor-Will; with the
subdued tinkle of ee pas china cups and sau-

ers, as she ereees ut her little kitchen putting
away her modest tea-service; with the luxurious
sno of Toby’s favorite aaa honest, ugly
Mop, who sprawled across the snow-w. ite door stone,
ragged and yellow. It was a time and scene to
make all that was artificial seem irrationally so, and
all that suggested fashion, worldly wisdom and con-
ventionality distasteful.

As a ee gently up the white sanded
garden walk between low borders of box, with knots
of rosemary and spikes of southern-wood announe-

ng the ves in odor-language of otto and nuts, he
os ie epee ~ ean Y REY CERBOS to

e genius of the hour, an * grea rush of soft, de-
licious longing brimmed full his heart. .

The voices which murmured in the dusk were Mo-
nica’s and her father’s; he could see the soft, white

“AN AMERICAN QUEEN:

 

25

shape of the pil as she sat on the rude bench under
the triumphal arch of an es are and scarlet fuch-
sias which Toby had Rene and trained over it from
the day when Cicely had promised to come and be
his garden’s mistress. Geoffrey could see that Mo-
nica’s head was on her father’s shoulder, her hand
clasped in his; also that the proud head of haught;
Derwent was bowed till his cheek rested on her soft
black tresses, and he would have stolen away again,
witha sudden, chilly feeling of being Grant, an alien,
and shut out in the cold—but that Monica’s bright
eyes caught sight of the tall, retiring figure, and she
whispered something hurriedly, her lips to her fa-
ther’s ear and her arms thrown round his neck,

“Geoffrey, come to us, my boy,” said Mr, Der-
went; and Geoffrey thought he had never before
observed the wonderful sweetness and expressive-
ness of his uncle’s voice, He went swiftly, gladly,
his heart leaping on before him,

And these two parted, and drew him down be-
tween them, and each held a hand.

Geoffrey said nothing; he looked in the grand face
of thaughty Derwent, transfigured with holy emo-
tions, purified in the furnace of the affections, and
into the dark, divine eyes of high-souled Monica,
glorified, too, with love and sympathy; he was
very pale, but he crested his handsome head, look-
ing at the ‘‘love star” in the firmament like a young

‘od,

Be Dear boy, you know it all—the bitter blunder of
the past,” said Mr. Derwent, sotely “and you see
how blessed I am to-night, My ¢ hild, Geoflrey, my
beloved Ada’s daughter—as noble a woman as. ever
breathed; no need to tell you that, boy; you saw it
first, God bless your honest heart! and you knew
what you were saying when you prophesied that I
would love you all the better for your defense of
her. Take her hands, Geoffrey, and tell her how
welcome she is to our hearts and her rights.”

And Geoffrey took both the sweet hands in his,
and bending, with a flashing glance into her eyes,
laid his lips softly on her white forehead, and said,
in a breathless way:

‘ “Welcome home, darling cousin, to uncle and
oO me.”’

And she grew burning red and her face quivered;
then grew rae, and she breathed quickly, and
his hands on hers seemed to shoot electricity straight
to her bounding heart, and hers in his seemed to do
the same to him; their eyes met, and each pair
emitted a flash of strange dazzling fire, and they
srw together—for five seconds as mortals measure

ime, for an aeon at least of rapture, as love’s sand-

lass counts it; then the am shivered and drew

ack, her long, jetty lashes falling over the brilliant
windows of her soul, and a final rich tide of crimson
sweeping from brow to chin and slowly dying out
again.

And Geoffrey turned to his acl: Pane a little
and smiling; such a dazzling face had never amazed
the haughty Derwent, who looked wistfully from
one to the other, with a pang of sharp reminiscence
at the heart.

“Do you know what my little girl has made me
promise?” said he, as soon as he saw that they were
capable of listening to the utterances of mundane
reality; ‘to make you co-heir with herself, because,
says my darling, ‘Of course I know enter is too
noble to be affected in the least by such a thing, but
Icannot consent to occupy_a position which so
thoroughly darkens his. I cannot consent to
be the cause of his worldly loss; I should always
be uneasily conscious that if I was not an un-
welcome intruder in his life, it was only because
he was too noble to look at the matter in that
light.’ So, as my Monica will be mapnias 80, and so
in trath will I, you two shall share alike when I am
dead—only the Weald shall be hers as direct lineal
descendant, and when she marries her husband
must take the name of Derwent. Eh, boy?”

For answer Geoffrey rose and stood before the
father and daughter, an exquisite humility and sup-
pliance in his attitude.

‘* Only on one condition shall I consent to such roy-
al generosity—and, oh, don’t tell me that your good-
ness has made me Sreeeneoes Uncle, give me
Monica for my wife!’

Who with human sentiment could have remained
unmoved by the quick, low, thrilling voice, the
humble fee suppressed passion and en-
treaty of the beautif youth? Not Otto Derwent,
whose passions had ever been tropical, and in spite
of that, lasting, and who had loved this boy from
his sn as David loved Absalom, and with far
more justice,

‘Dear boy—dear Geoffrey, oh, I am so, so glad of
this!’ he exclaimed, almost in his old, full round
tones. ‘‘ You loved her before you knew who she
was; I saw it all the time—and how little I guessed
the — on it was to bring me! Yes,
Geoffrey, I do, with all my heart, give my consent to
your winwing my. daughter’s hand if you can. And,
children—I do think love will ran smooth for once,’
This the master uttered ore as he wrung Geof-
frey’s hand, patted Monica’s bent head, and slowly
paced up the dusky walk.

There was a short silence while the lover pored
over the fascinating story of drooping attitude and
hurrying blushes of his adored. Then he bent his
proud head in true love’s royal humility. No anoint-
ed queen was ever more reverently wooed.

“T think I could win your love in time, Monica,”
murmured Geoffrey.

“Tam so far beneath you, sir—” :

“No, no, no—what blasphemy!” cried he, inter-
rupting the low, sad murmur vehemently.

So far beneath you and your compeers, sir,”
Monica resumed, with timid earnestness, “TI mean
in courtliness of training, in social culture, and in al!
the etiquette of the hly born. Would you not
blush for my lack of training?”

“As God hears me, Monica, the lack you speak of
is such a bubble compared with the treasures of
mind and heart which you possess, that 1 cannot
think even for a moment of it, What! Am 1 to
lose the lovely spirit which could make the rest of
my life a heaven on earth, because to-day you do
not know how to enter a drawing-room or how to
make a court bow? In a week you could learn it all,
Darling, let me teach you how to love me, Oh,
Monica, my one love!”

He bowed his head still lower, till his face was on
her clasped hands which lay in her lap, and he wa:
almost on his knees, He was so anxious to wit hei,

——

i
{

 

 

 

|

 
 

26

 

and so skeptical as to his own merits, that he readi-
ly dreaded above all things, that the proud Ameri-
can girl, accustomed to despise the comes fetters
of conservatism, and born to laugh at rank and
title—would calmly reject his proposal, and by
mere force of an independent character, force him
p accept his share of his uncle’s wealth in spite of
him.

He was not prepared to feel two soft hands flut-
tering tremulously round his neck, creeping nearer
and nearer, until they clasped in a close clasp, leav-
ing a chain of love about him, and a hot satin
cheek pressed to his.

“From the first—I loved you, dear—dear /” whis-
pered Monica.

Oh, the lovely hour of love, first love! Tender
and true be it ever—ever!

CHAPTER XXXI.
A TORTURING VICTORY.

Rurvs and Gavaine Marshall were about equally
unfitted to appreciate a holiday season spent in
Paris. To be sure, both were supposed to speak
French fluently, and to be well enough informed on
that and iG other similar matter, to know how to
get along without attracting more than usual share
of foreign attention to their British gaucheries ; at
Jeast that had been their own candid opinion,
backed up by the enyious admiration of their com-
pee traders, every man of them)—and the ever
quoted fact that Rufus had gone in at one end of a
university course, and out at the other, with quiet
success; and that Gavaine would doubtless have
kept neck and neck with him, had not his forte been
more in the prize-fighter’s line than in the scholar’s,
causing him to be ignominiously “ plucked” in the
third term of his martyrdom, when he retired upon
his laurels to the bosom of his particular circle, as
villainous a crew of harpies as could be found on
that prolific field, the English turf,

Both the sons of the tailor-millionaire, Jack
Marshall, had always had more of that idiotic man’s
money to spend than was at all good for them; but
while Rufus used his in a most ardent pursuit of
social distinction, counting all means fair that
would advance him one hair’s breadth up the steep
hill of exclusiveness which stretched its grim bar-
riers between the sons of tailors and the sons of
“ ventlemen ’—Gavaine ruffled it at his ease among
his kindred spirits, delighted to feel himself ‘ coc
o’ the walk,” as he loved to express it, and cheerfully
humored on that point by the sycophantic mob who
surrounded him, ready to fool him to the top of his
bent as long as he mounted the throne among
them with his fists full of gold and his spirit benign-
ly moved to limitless ‘‘ treating.”

Of course, after ten years the respective habits of
the brothers had made wide rents in the tailor’s
wealth; Rufus had a way of sinking money, mean
and selfish as he was, that had long appalled and
lately had infuriated his father almost to the verge
of disinheriting him; there was an incredible base-
ness, and a monstrous vice in his ea ge that
revolted even the roughs who did homage to Ga-

Yvaine; and then he was such an ingrained ‘cheat
and liar ’—to quote his father—that even when the
truth. would have been his best friend he chose
prevarication and mystification; in fact, no one, not
even himself, actually knew the ruinous results
pending his sen course, and it was sheer fright
und desperation which had set him on the dark

rvad to replenish his fortunes, which we have seen
him follow, at the Weald.

Gavaine’s extravaganzas were costly, too, no
doubt, and once or twice a quarter lipped up far
over his ears, which were ee, in debt, and
had to come before his exasperate ent; but
Gavaine had one great merit—he could not “tella
tie,” any more than could the first utterer of those
creat words. But there was this trifing difference

tween the English rake and tho immortal Ameri-
can: Washington ‘ could not” because he ‘‘ would
not ’—Gavaine could not simply because—he could
not. It requires imagination to make a lie; Gavaine
had no imagination. It requires fancy, some reas-
oning faculties, enough observation and knowl-
edge of human nature to impose on people pos-
sessed of these qualities; and Gavaine had none
ot these, Therefore, his debts were wont to come
before poor cowering Jack Marshall’s seam-bleared
eyes in all their hideous oon the items represent-
ing “value received ” unblus! ingly detailed in the
«trong black characters of Gavaine’s pet lawyer, a
“shyster”? and ‘“ blackleg,”’ very emphatically ig-
nored by his respectable brethren in the profession;
and Gavaine took care always to be on hand in all
his sullen insolence, ready to bully, storm and blas-
pheme his unhappy parent into the breach, and not
even having the grace to promise amendment for
the future.

The old story—ignorance, toil, saving, hoaehing,
for the father; indulgence, savage unrestraint, self-
ishness, extravagance and ingratitude for the sons,
Most money-grubs have at least the small consolation
of dying out of the way before their butterfly heirs
commence to scatter the golden shower out of their
rigidly-sealed up bags; but poor Marshall had the
anguish of seeing these beloved neas tossed away
by handfuls—guineas which he gathered by the
hard toil of a lifetime; no wonder if, at last,
crozed by the spectral apparition of ruin, he had re-
volted from the crushing yoke, and sworn in hys-
terical screams that they should henceforth earn
their own bread.

That was what set Rufus on the war-path as an
adventurer.

Vell, the guilty pair were now waiting in Paris for
ihe fatal bulletin from Vulpino. :

They had taken extraordinary precaution to carry
vit their part of the plot, although Rufus, with a

wking uneasiness, was always grumbling that he

id not exactly see Vulpino’s game_in sending them

T in such a burry, and keeping Godiva with him-

4f and his assistant, Barber.

Vulpino’s sudden care for their safety puzzled the
“« vapirater; he could never be got to believe insuch
consideration for other people,

And it was not a well-thought-out move, either.

“Rather a mixed-up affair, eh, Gav?’ he would
yiumble, raising his haggard face from between his
hands, where he was hanging over alitter of papers
spread on the little marble table which stood like an
islet in the middle of an ocean of polished floor in
the wide, barren svlon of his Parisian “ apurt-

 

  
 

 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

{
| ments;” “this shoving of us two off here while he

stops to oversee the death, with Godiva mewed uP
beside him, Allvery fair to a superficial glance,
dare say, but it don’t satisty me.” Rufus, you will
see, ha by this time so familiarized himself to the
thoughts of his kinsman’s murder that he could
name it without perceptible flinching; and enter-
tained as high an opinion of his own sagacity as
ever.

Gavaine, who turned over all matters requiring
thought to his brother, as being his peculiar pro-
vince, lazily lifted his bull-dog head and bloated red
face from the hard velvet and gilt roller that did
duty as a cushion in one end of the low flat sofa—he
was dozing off last night’s carouse, and felt not
averse to a little fraternal communion of soul.

‘“What’s up, old chap?” yawned he, closing his
mighty jaws with an audible snap, and wiping the
water from his eyes with his hand. Gavaine never
could be a gentleman.

Rufus pushed into a heap the papers on the little
table, maps of the great Dornoch estate, parch-
ments covered with specifications of the innumera-
ble sources of the Derwent income of thirty thou-
sand a eee eae toothsome enumerations of that
Promised Land for which he had sold his soul; and
springing to his feet, he moved nervously hither and
thither through the broad, echoing room, catching
unpleasant glimpses of his own insignificant person
and mean facein the mirrors which almost lined the
walls, according to French ideas of elegance.

“Let's see, now, what was Vulpino’s ostensible
pan said he, thrusting his hands elbow deep into

is trowsers pockets, and snatching them out again,
to clasp them behind him in more dignified pose,
when he caught the mirrored reflection of that un-
couth figure; ‘* Derwent bitten by mad dog on hunt-
ing fleld—further wounded by accident, by favorite
kinsman, Gavaine Marshall—named, with his brother
Rufus, co-heir in will. Wound cauterized with due

recaution; guests depart; nephew in disgrace in-

rudes; is ejected by stratagem by co-heirs; excel-
lent excuse in Derwent’s estrangement from him;
Derwent kept concealed from all eyes save those of
co-heirs and the physician they have summoned; ex-
cellent excusé again, in symptoms of hydrophobia;
and now comes in Vulpino’s last game!”’

Rufus had a habit of summing up cases in tae
above highly elliptical style, always to his own entire
satisfaction and eet nae, but Gavaine was
apt to feel bewildered and half frightened, as at the
inexplicable mutterings of an enchanter, and to
turn rusty on the head of it.

He turned more than usually rusty now, and hoist-
ing his mighty bulk on one giant elbow, his red-
streaked eyes bulging from their sockets, he bawled
in no loving manner:

“What the dogs are ye gibbering about, man?
Can’t ye speak out if ye’ve got anything to say?
Hang me if I couldn’t mash you to a jelly this
precious minute, ye sneaking varlet!”

Rufus, the superior spirit of these two deplorably
inferior spirits, thus unwarrantably assaulted when
he was doing the reasoning process on behalf of his
brother as well as himself, although he looked a little
white about the mouth from physical fear—which
was a morbid weakness he had always much ado to
conceal from the brute Gavaine, who would instant-
ly have rushed at him and gratified a life-long prudge
against his sulky, sneaking, superior ways, had he
suspected this terror—Rufus, I say, though quailing
as usual before Gavaine’s physical violence, was so
exasperated by his idiotic interruption and insolence
under such circumstances that he came to a dead
halt not far from the bully; his eyes glaring SO

eerily, his lips so pale and writhing, and his hands,
which, like a woman, he never clenched, ore
so strangely, that the great booby on the sofa actual-

ly thought Rufus had suddenly grown mad, and
oundered off the sofa and behind the gilded easel
in the corner with a howl of terror.

“What do you mean, Gavaine, by daring to tall
so to me?” panted Rufus, in that husky whisper that
always made his brother’s blood run cold, because it
was so unnatural to him, who in his furies yelled at
the top of his voice, to hear such suppressed ac-
cents coming from a fellow as angry as Rufus.
‘““What do you mean, I say? Dolt, fool, blundering
ass, if you can’t understand anything but how to
eat and sleep and get drunk, can’t you have the
decency to let me alone when I am bothering my
brains to see into your business as well as my own?
Take care, — fool; don’t rouse me; I warn you,
I’m not in the mood to let you off too easy if you go
too far—and if once I take you in hand—well—”
And with this vague menace, all the more appalling
to Gavaine from its mysterious indefiniteness, Ru-
fus, seeing him cowed, choked down the insane rage
which h possessed him, rather startled himself to
realize how excitable he had grown, and how wildly
murderous his impulses had been.

The natures of these men were changing strangely
under the course they were pursuing; crime can-
not be taken by the hand, welcomed to the hearth,
seated at the board, housed and consorted with as
an honored guest, without fearfullyjand swiftly re-
constructing the nature of its host. And Rufus had
head enough \to observe this hopeless deterioration,
and heart enough to pine and fret himself over it.

He would be a gentleman: was he only perfecting
himself into a ruffian?

As for Gavaine, he began as a brute, the charac-
ter was only developing.

After an awkward pause the younger brother
came out from behind his barricade, and scowling
sullenly, threw himself again on the sofa, and mut-
tered:

“Well, what were you saying, anyhow?”

Rufus made a desperate effort, and recovered his
politeness.

“Allright, old man; Ineedn’t have been so pep-
pear he said, a graceful apology which cowed his

brother far more than all the violence on
earth could have done, ‘Fact is I’m worn out
waiting on this infernal thing, and the thoughts of
it don’t seem too pleasant. I’m anxious—I’m_ un-
easy; I don’t half trust that foreign serpent, Vul-
pino—can’t quite make him out,”

‘Eh? eh?” shouted Gavaine, sprawling up again
to double his fists and square about the room;
“think old blackamoor’s playing it low on us? Shall
I sort of waltz over there and punch the truth out of
him?” and, completely subjugated by Rufus’s su-
periority in self-eonquest as well as in logical pow-

=>

| ers, he stood before the slim, sickly-looking schemer,
| ready to stride off on any mission at his nod.

| “No, not exactly, my poor fellow,” quoth Rufus,
| with amicable contempt; ‘that would not help us
| much. You big 4 thank the Powers that you have not
| got to reason this thing out. A pretty mess you'd
make of it! No, we can do nothing until he
communicates with us. His ostensible reason for
sending us here was—(now attend, and try to un-
derstand, for as long as you are in your present haze
about the scheme you are as dangerous as a con-
cealed torpedo; the merest hint of a question put b
keen patties eet set you off.) We agreed, Vulpi-
no, Godiva and I (as usual, you were drunk, and
heard nothing)—that the death could never be man-
aged safely at the Weald, right under the noses of all
the neighboring gentry, who would be the first people
to attack our position, hating us as they do for hav-
ing taken their confounded aristocratical ” (“ aristo-
cratical’’ was one of the test words which branded
Rufus as a plebeian) “Kilmyre’s place in the old
man’s favor. So we had to remove the invalid to
some place where it would be possible and natural
for him to die quickly, unseen by any one but our-
selves, so that we could safely aver that his remains
were disfigured and decomposed through the vio-
lence of his sufferings, and the poison of hydropho-
bia in his system; and for that cause fetch him home
to the family vault at Dornoch in a sealed casket.

“Paris was fixed upon, and one of the medical es-
tablishments for hydrophobia judiciously hinted at
without being named. ‘To outsiders it sounded well
that we two should spare no trouble and neglect no
means open to us, to save our kinsman’s life; it was
also quite plausible for us to remove him secretly,
permitting no eye to see the hideous sufferings of
the madman.

“But, although the world was to suppose him un-
der the treatment of the most skillful specialist;
and attended by his devoted connections, we dare
not let him out of our sole custody; we might be
tracked by Kilmyre, and our prize en from us; so
we hid him in the ruined tower, shut up the house,
and waited, tbe four of us, in one common prison for
his death.

‘Then comes Vulpino back from the hidden girl’s
tomb, with news of her sate removal—fetching alon,
one of his own creatures to watch Derwent ward
the last, with the excuse that the sight would be too
painful for us; and ro sooner is this stranger, whom
none of us ever saw or heard of before, set down by
our kinsman’s bedside, than Vulpino comes to coun-
sel us three, Godiva, you and I—to go off to Paris
oy the the jfinishing—the excuses for this bein,
that folks all believe us there, and it might leak ou
that we had never left the house; then again it
might leak out that Derwent died under suspicious
circumstances at his own house—and we gould thus
prove our residence in Paris at that precise time—
whilo Vulpino would be far beyond pursuit, and
easily could elude justice, even suppose they traced
the death to him.

“He was to telegraph when Derwent died, then
we were to come from Paris with our sealed coffin,
which would receive the remains when it reached
the Weald. All this seemed sensible enough, and
we agreed to fulfill his directions; and you remem-
ber how struck I was when at the last minute he de-
clared that Miss Montacute could not accompany us
for a reason he could not then give us. I saw her
alone for a moment, and she seemed half beside
herself with excitement. Then I thought Vulpino
had seen that it would be dangerous for her reason
should we take her away with us, where he could
not watch her,

“We have obeyed his instructions to the letter.
Instead of going to one of the big hotels here we
have mewed ourselves up for ten days in this slow
hole where no English people ever come. I have ar-
ranged matters so that should any trouble rise by
and by as to the cause of Derwent’s death, or that
he died in his own house, and not in Paris—witnesses
will come forward to prove that you and I lived here
by ourselves during the whole latter part of his ill-
ness, and never left Paris till all was over. But wh
do we hear nothing from Vulpino? Gavaine
sometimes turn sick with the thought that Vulpino
has turned his coat and is letting Derwent redeem
Se wa for a few more thousand than we promised

im!’

Gavaine, who had gradually fallen asleep under
his brother’s lengthy synopsis of the case, started
broad awake as he uttered the concluding sentence,
pareve roused by the sudden change of his voice

rom a thoughtful monotone to the quick, sharp
tones of keen apprehension.

* Let me overhaul him!’ shouted he, to prove how
wide awake he had been throughout. ‘“T’llargy the
case with him by law of fist. Lor’! I’d soon puta
head on him /”

Mr. Gavaine Marshall’s diction was always rather
highly spiced, both with blasphemies and with the
silliest and vulgarest slang of the day. Rendered fit
for dainty ears by the weeding out of all his oaths
and much of his slang his utterances look tame and
pointless on paper, ke some feeble musical theme
without its variations.

“Be quiet!” said Rufus, much as you would say
“be quiet!” to your dog; ‘* you know you are to do
exactly as I bid you and no more or less. On sec-
ond thoughts, I do not see how Vulpino dare betray
us; it would only ruin himself, after his share in the
removal of the American girl, eh? He was acting
agent there, d’ye see? and whatever happsned to us
as his employers, the actual murder would have to
be answered for by his own neck; and what would
he do with Godiva? Then again, what if she broke
down and refused to let him go on with Derwent? I
scarcely think that likely, recalling how splendidly
resolute and calm she was over it when we were
quaking in our shoes. But, bah! how intolerable
suspense is!”’

‘** Splendidly resolute ’ means cool as a butcher, I
suppose,” growled Gavaine, even his brutal nature
revolting from the recollection of the beautiful, mer-
ciless woman. “I wish ye joy of your wife, Rufe;
I'd rayther you nor me, you better b’lieve.””

‘‘Hush!” snarled Rufus, for the hard knuckles of
the concierge (the door-keeper) were rapping smartly
upon their door.

A telegram had come at last, which, ripped open
with feverish excitement by the long, trembling fin-
gers of Rufus as soon as the old man had withdrawn,
was found to contain this announcement;

 

—=eat ae A OU

>

—cCbweo esse o eee

K

 
' whom he loved—the boy who loved him, as Geoffre

' upon; and the old man’s heart waxed sore and _bit-

QUEEN.

 

AN AMERICAN

27

 

 

“V, to Ms.:

“Achieved, Return at convenience.”

“Done!” cried Gavaine, with a hoarse, half-heart-
ed atcempt at the note of Vicor

Rufus turned away, laughing idiotically. Soon he
turned round to his brother, still laughing loudly,
but with a fixed, painful distortion of the facial mus-
cles, and a distracted air,

“ Get—me—something—I’m going—to—to faint—”
sasped he, and suddenly stopped his hysterical
faughter, and fell heavily on the floor,

Gavaine stared stupidly at him; after some mo-
ments he bethought him to stoop and examine his
brother, and discovered that he was not dead, Me-
chanically he rummaged his pockets for his flask,
and not finding it, would have given up in despair,
had not the glittering wine-service on the sideboard
caught his eye; he poured out a large goblet full of
keen old whisky, swallowed about half of it himself
pom without winking, and returned with the rest to

ufus,

This young man soon rallied, gathered himself and
the fateful telegram up from the floor, and tottered
into his dressing-room, which he instantly locked.

Gavaine gaped stupidly at the closed door, flung a
nervous glance around, grew yellow pale, and then
rushed to that door, and hammered on it with fists
and feet, yelling out like a savage:

“Rufe! Rufe! let me in! let me in, Isay! Tl go
crazy out here by myself!”

A voice hissed through the crack of the door:

“Tf you don’t stop your noise and leave me alone,
(ll shoot you dead.”

And, after that there was awful silence, while the
brothers faced their bloody deed, each by himself
apart, ard the air seemed full of sighs, and groans,
and rustling wings of evil imps rejoicing.

Neither went to bed that night.

 

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE WAGES OF SIN.

THREE Gays afterward the brothers Marshall ar-
rived at Dornoch, bearing, in mournful cortege, the
presumed body of their deceased kinsman.

A telegram had come to the Reverend Mr. Grin-
don from Rufus, announcing the melancholy end of
the Master of Dornoch-Weald, who had died of hy-
drophobia, in spite of the utmost skill of the best
medical specialists in Paris; and naming the day
when tho remains would arrive at the railway sta-
tion, Linnhe, to be conveyed in solemn state to the
Derwent vault, on his own estate.

The whole country-side turned out to do honor to
the great man, Theprocession was longer than any
that had trodden these rugged mountain passes
since her majesty had passed by ten years before
on her way to Wales; the cathedral was sacked
with the flower of the country gentry, as well as by
hundreds of the tenantry, whose uncouth comments
let many a proud heart into strange and moving se-
crets of the late squire’s benevolence’and charity.
The clergyman did his best in eulogy of a life that
had always kept jealously aloof from ecclesiasti-
cal interference; and a death too terrible to dwell

ter as he noted the conspicuous absence of Geoffrey
Kilmyre, the only mortal whom Derwent had truly
loved; and then a oe pang of remorse convulsed
him when he recalled his part in the estrangement
between uncle and aes abs

After all, was it well to drive from his side the boy

certainly had always done, in spite of the wild fol- |
lies which had revolted and imbittered the soul of
the clergyman against him?

Ah! how easy it is to sow dissension and mistrust
between proud hearts; and how hard, how hard to
give them back to each other, with the old full, un-
questioning faith?

Alas! Is it worth while to point out the follies
and frailties of our oo passion-marred hearts—
since all are more or less short of perfection?

No, let us rather shut our eyes to the faults of our
friend; have not we, too, our miserable failings?

Only one ever lived on this fair earth, from dar-
ting babyhood to manly prime—and sinned never.
Only One! ,

 

The lid of the coffin was not removed. There
was heart-harrowing reason for this—the cimmey 8 of
which the master of Dornoch-Weald had died had
dtsfigured bis countenance too dreadfully to permit
mortal eye to look upon it, The lid was screwed
down, and although the people present filed round
the sumptuous casket as usual, they saw nothing
but black draperies and massive silver garnishings.

Nobody went home to the Weald with the heirs-
at-law, despite the servile entreaties of Rufus, ad-
dressed notably to the big people present, to the
utter exclusion of the nobodies—a trifling indication
of vulgarity which awoke all the scorn and derision
of high and low.

Mr. Rufus Marshall was in no mood to face new
disagreeables.

He was sick with anxiety and suspicion.

Where was Vulpino? Or Godiva? Or Barber, at
leust, with a message?

Mr. Derwent’s solicitor, Mr. Alleyne, a grave func- |
tionary who had never att racted vulgar attention in
all his genteel life, found himself the reluctant point
of interest, as he ste oes up te a soung zen as
they were quitting the place oF se ‘ure, and an-
nouneel hi Intention to read the late Mr. Berwent’s

!
|
|
will in the presence of his kinsmen, Messrs. Rufus |
and Gavaine Marshall. |

Everybody wanted to see what manner of man it
was who was going to read the infamous will which
was to disinherit one of the noblest scions of the old |
house, in favor of the base and vulgar sons of what |
retaoe Renctipes asa miserable, uneducated old miser
of a tailor,
Shocked and disgusted as the old lawyer was by |
the brusque crudity of Mr, Rufus’s manners, and |
the swinish lothanee of Mr, Gavaine’s, he was glad
to hide his head in the depths of the pravelng-coacn
into which the co-heirs thrust him and hurried them-
selves; and he shut his respectable old eyes as they
rolled rapidly toward the Weald, so as to escape the |
galling sight of the plebeian souls and bodies of the |
new lords of Dornoch,

Arrived at the Weald, Mr, Alleyne was shown into
the library, and bidden to wait a moment. |

Gavaine was dispatched by his brother to fetch |
from the cellar such wines as he might deem suifa- |

| wished.

| And considering the small sympath

 

ble, in which to drink the approaching victory of the
Marshalls; while Rufus flew to find his énamorata,
Miss Montacute, and his ally, Vulpino.

Through the winding corridors tramped Rufus,
searching—searching. He shouted, he stopped to
tremble: he hurried on to meet the echoes, but there
was nothing more palpable than they.

He came to the door of Godiva’s late quarters in
the ruined tower; the door which had been burst
open, youremember, The idea of abduction came
next, and sickened the lover; but then, he saw a
sealed letter lying on the dressing-table, ran for it,
saw that it was addressed to himself; and reading it,
di covered the true complexion of his love.

This is the letter, written by Miss Montacute du-
ring the process of getting off with the old love be-
fore you are on with the new:

“Mr. Rurus MarsHatu:—I have fallen forever
from my seat among good women. Henceforth I
must, perforce, consort with bad people, But there
are degrees in that sinister society, as in the other.
One may have their choice even in that ill-omened
company.

“Tam a Derwent; that is to say, supremacy is life
to me. I cannot accept a secondary station:—es-
pecially if a first is offered me. You wish me to be
your wife; I acknowledge the compliment_at the
same time that I am obliged to decline it. You are
as wicked as your know how to be; but your nature
is weak, and your intellect small; you could never be
anything but ew ishly wicked. ithere is not enough
manhood about you to subjugate a proud woman.

“T have discovered in your hideous ally, Vulpino,
a pepeniiiey: of evil that transcends anything the
world has seen since the day of Cagliostro, Prince of
Charlatans and Adventurers. His person, hideous
to fascination, is a true index of his nature, which is
equally hideous. Since I must be a wicked woman,
let me earn distinction in my chosen line; with you,
I should have been only a despicable wicked woman:
with him, I shall wring. unwilling applause from
every gallant, adventurous spirit, for my un-
paralleled iniquities. Adieu forever, Rufus Mar-
shall, son of Jack Marshall, the tailor; your presump-
tion in lifting your eyes to a Derwent is hereby just-
ly punished. Feeble of intellect, plebeian in mind
and body, how dared you expect to win me? My
Caliban is of noble blood; possesses a princely for-
tune, and appalls_me with the depth of his wicked-
ness. With you, I should have stifled; the atmos-
pare of trade in my drawingroom would have sti-
ied me. Faugh! Get you to your victory:—I pass
over my share in the spoil to you.

“Signed. Gopriva Monracourr.”

Vulpino had added a few lines at the bottom of
the sheet.

“Messrs. Marsnatu:—I tender my profound
thanks for your goodness in introducing me to the
bravest and most beautiful lady of the nineteenth
century, Be tranquil concerning the ten thousand
pee owning me for professional services on your

ehalf;—{ have paid myself quite satisfactorily in
the possession of the charming Signorina Montacute,

“Adieu, excellent friends; be happy, as I am.

“Ever yours, taithfully,
‘“ VULPINO.”

Rufus Marshall reeled under this most unexpect-
ed blow; for a time his distress was enough to have
won him pity from his bitterest foe. Among all his
forebodings this had never cast the faintest shadow;
he had never thought of Vulpino as a man, a man
actuated by masculine emotions and impulses; if he
had ever cherished jealousy, it was Geotfrey who
was in his thoughts. Never, oh, never indeed, could
he have guessed that Vulpino, the hideous Italian
poisoner, was dangerous in that way.

Yor a time his anguish overcame all bounds, and
he shut himself into his faithless lady’s room, and
wept and moaned like a stricken girl. And, vile as
he was, his love was genuine enough to give him the
cruelest pangs of apprehension on her behalf; it
frenzied him to imagine the delicate, exquisite Godi-
va at the mercy of that horrible man; in this one
matter Rufus was a man, and he would have laid
down his life to secure Godiva from misfortune,
even without the hope of any other reward than the
consciousness of her happiness,

His heart-broken reverie was interrupted anon by
the arrival of Gavaine, clamoring for him to come
and hear the will.

Without a word Rufus went; ten minutes after-
ward the brothers stood on the Byeer step of the
grand portal, bidding adieu to Mr. Alleyne, who had
read them into the possession of one of the finest es-
tates and incomes in the kingdom.

As they watched his modest gig rolling down the
oak avenue, they turned with one accord and looked
at each other,

The will had ordained that these two brothers were
to inherit Dornoch-Weald on condition of , living
there together for one year, after which they might,
if they chose, live in separate homes, drawing the
income, which of itself was stupendous enough to
enable them to live in splendor wherever they

Since the news had come of Mr. Derwent’s death,
these men had never dared to be alone, no, not for
amoment. Hither they must have some stranger
present, or they must be together. A weird feeling
of fright and loneliness was wont to overwhelm
them the instant they were alone; they must cower
away from the specters that pursued them, together!
0 that was be-
tween them, the utter antagonism of all their tastes,
ed Fate have sent a bitterer retribution upon

em

“Godiva has eloped with Vulpino,” said Rufus,
with a passing yearning for sympathy.

Gavaine cursed her, and then congratulated bim-
self and Rufus on her departure,

“A sly Jezebel,” he vowed. “Never mind, old
chap; there are lots of jolly gals that don’t know
what you’ve been about, and never will know; I'd
a have one of a

ufus scornfully rejected this really sensible sug-
gestion. Misery with Godiva would mae seemed fo
he love-sick swain delirious happiness, compared
with the tame contentment: to be enjoyed with any
other woman; the unfortunate man loved truly and
pois: and his heart was breaking at his cold, his
insulting rejection,
Her name on the coarse lips of Gayaine hurt him

 

like a wound; she had trodden his love and his self-
respect in the dust, but who was Gavaine, to dare
animadvert upon her conduct? He flercely rebuked
his brother, and so frightened away the blunt but
honest sympathy he would otherwise have enjoyed.

* All righ , old man,” said Gavaine, lazily; ‘it

ain’t my funeral, and if you're pleased, Iam. But
it don’t care to stop here; the place is haunt-

“Bah! don’t be a fool!” snarled Rufus; “ you'll
stop here just aslong as I want you. If yousuppose
I'm the softy to let you make ducks and drakes of
our well-fought victory, you’re mistaken. Here por
and I live, according to the will, for the specified
year, if all the ghosts in Purgatory haunted the
place,”

And Rufus longed to escape to some solitary noo!
where he could brood over miserable victory ; tod
dared not be alone for a moment, so cowed had
spirit become, under the terrible contemplation of
his late crimes. For it was not the least feature of
the retribution which had already begun, that these
brothers dreaded solitude as a man might dread
torture by fire or cord, and preferred. each other's
uncongenial society to it. ey felt themselves to
be branded with the mark of Cain; this horrible
comradeship in murder knit them together; and, in
fact, so awtul were the visions they saw whenever
they slept, that it was only each other’s proximity
that reassured them,

And all the while they distrusted and despised
each other,

All was settled at last; the wil] had been presented
for probate and duly passed; Geoffrey Kilmyre had
not come forward to dispute anything; all was ap-
parently secure.

At this juncture, one would have expected the
lucky heirs to be at the hight of felicity, and ab-
sorbed in merrymaking.

It was not so; had they lost the game, they could
not have sat in more hopeless.dust and ashes. Ru-
fus mourned his lost love with a devotion worthy of
a far better object; and Gavaine’s addled brains
were reeling with superstitious fancies, caused part-
ly by conscience, partly by the oppressive loneliness
of the mansion,

Rufus had done his best to get back the fam
servants, and to lure the family friends to the!
places at Otto Derwent’s fireside; but without the
slightest success in either direction.

The family servants refused to re-enter the Weald
as long as it was held by “the likes of them tailor
folks; and the “gentry” opened their eyes in
amazement at the presumption of * that sort of peo-
ple” in expecting them to associate with them ; also.
ugly stories were afloat, and all Dornoch Buzzed
with the whispers of the curious.

Meanwhile the refugees were daily an
strength and health in the shelter they had chosen;
carefully guarding against discovery for a time,
during which they watched with interest the doings
of the guilty pair.

The denovement came one day, unexpectedly."

In vain had the brothers searched for the grave ot
Mr. Derwent. Vulpino had left no clew to it.

This of itself was a source of keen anxiety; Rufus
wearied mind and body searchi for it; and Ga-
vaine imagined all sorts of absurd things, and nearly
died of fear at his own fancies.

As Rufus strolled over the domain, accompanied
by one of the new servants he had at length got
from London, he trembled lest they might stumble
over a rudely-made mound of earth any minute; and
Gavaine was apt to see strange glistening things
rising whitely out of the ground, and to utter crazed

eeches which brought the cold, inquisitive eyes of
the hirelings upon him with perilous interest, while
they set the heart of Rufus beating wildly.

Presently the new domestics were received into
the bosom of Dornoch’s society, and in return for
their sketches of the life lived by the brothers at the
Weald, were instructed in the whole history of the
disinheritance of Geoffrey Kilmyre, and the good
luck of the ‘common trash” now in power, for by
these terms were the fortunate heirs frequently de-
signated by Derwent’s people.

*I see, I see!” as Gavaine’s valet was heard to as-
sert; ‘it wa’n’t for nothing my boss is frightened
for to sleep alone—for a great baby! An’ makes me
sleep on the sofa in his room. An’ as for sleepin’ in
the dark, Lor’! he'd raise the house, you bet!’

“Ay? Humph! my boss ain't quite such a sof »
said Mr, Rufus’s valet, in his turn; ‘ but of all the
pining, sickly devils, he’s the biggest one I ever
come across. ‘Stead of takin’ pride in his
luck, an’ acting triumphant, he just sets and frets.
An’ it ain’t all along of the young ae what jilted
him, neither; mark my words, good folks, Mr. Ru-
Cus Marshall he has got something onto his mind
which is bound to come out, sooner? or later.”

Thus the authorities down-stairs; soon every eye
was riveted upon Dornoch-Weald and its new pos-
sessors. According to the provisions of the will
they had tacked the name of Derwent onto their
own, and now flourished in all documents written
by themselves as Rufus Marshall Derwent, and Ga-
vaine Marshall Derwent.

They stayed drearily alone at the great house,
hoping to live down the effects of the curse they
ok brought upon themselves; but never did time
pass so maddeningly slow; at that rate the year of
probation would never pass! ;

Rufus still held the mastery over Gavaine’s brute
nature; more than ever before, indeed, for Gavaine
was giving himself up more and more to habits of
intoxication; there were few moments of his day
and night that were not at least scented with the
odor of intoxicating liquors. His mind, never a
sound one, was rapi y giving way; sometimes Ru-
fus would come out. of his wretched reverie, struck
with the grisly suspicion that Gavaine was turning
imbecile.

If this were so, what might he not babble? Ay,
but if this were really so he would have to be re-
moved to an insane asylum, whose functionaries
would have to be blinded by gold, deafened by gold,
rid of all logical inference by gold; gold paid by

Rufus.

Rufus set himself to watch; set himself to guard
against the perils of Gavaine’s awakened conscience.
Once he caught himself speculating on Gavaine's
chances of living long; wondering whether it would
not be best for him to die instead of living to be a gib-

 

|

 
 
  
 

}
'
|
}

 

 

 

 

285

bering maniac, ready to make such revelations as
would ruin his brother. But when he had detected
the turn of his musings, Rufus uttered a cry, terrible
as the dismayed ow of the condemned soul, and he
tore his hair and beat his breast in self-abhorrence.

It had come to this, that he could speculate on his
brother’s death!

One evening Gavaine, rendered courageous for the
moment by deep libations with his dinner, strolled
out by himself into the moonlight. He was drunk;
yet so thoroughly well seasoned that he walked as
atraleus as any Pharisee, only foolishly beneficent of
mood, Some hours afterward he bounded into his
brother’s presence, as he sat crouching over his
everlasting Dagens in the library; he seemed to be
convulsed with terror, his eyes ‘bulged from their
sockets, his features worked, foam oozed from his
gaping, panting mouth, and his hands twitched, and
grasped the air.

He fell ina heap onthe carpet at his brother’s
feet, clutching his legs and clinging to them, like
any frightened child.

“In heayven’s name, man, what has happened?”
muttered Rufus, in a dying voice; he was always

repared for frightful fortunes. It was now the

abit of his mind to look for disaster.

“Tve seen them—seen tH~M—oh, God!” shivered
Gavaine; ‘“‘hand in hand—loving each other—but
the look—oh, the look fear gave me!” he moaned
and writhed, almost seized by a fit.

“Seen who?” demanded Rufus, sternly; he
thought Gavaine merely tipsy; ‘don’t be a fool,
Gavaine; go and get some soda. You’re drunk.”

““You won’t believe me?” cried Gavaine, looking up
in his brother’s eyes with his own blood-streaked orbs,
‘““why, man, I tell you on my oath that saw Mr. Der-
went and the young lady from America walking in the
forest just outside of oby Cargili’s patch; they held
each other’s hands, and they were smiling at each
other, And Geoffrey Kilmyre was walking by him-
self, behind them a little way, I tell youl saw them!
I wasn’t thinking on them. For a wonder I had for-
gotten the whole cursed crew. As they came to-
ward me through the trees I sows they were
some strangers who didn’t know they were tres-
passing; and I stopped to tell them so; but by-and-

y [knew them, and I very nearly died. They came
on closer—and closer, not speaking a word, but only
coming closer and closer—all three gazing at me, oh,
such. awful eyes! So at last I broke away from
the horrid spell, and ran the whole way home.
Sneer as you please, you will see them yourself
some day; don’t think to get off any better than
me; if they haunt me they will haunt you; and far
worse, I should say, if our deserts are taken into ac-
count. You were always twice as full of this here
ve as I was; oh, Lor’! if you had only let it alone!
f I see them again Iswear I'll go to Justice Fair-
bairn and confess the whole.”

‘*You needn’t take the trouble,” snarled Rufus,
whose contemptuous attention to Gavaine’s weak
maunderings had given place to sudden bitter hate
and dread; ‘if you want to kill yourself by hanging
I had rather-accommodate you myself. Hanging
ain’t the fashion in the Derwent family. If you die,
you die privately, like a gentleman.”

“ Hist]? sharply aspirated Gavaine, sitting up on
his knees with a scared face, ‘‘who’s that at the
window?”

The brothers turned their heads with one accord
toward the open French casement; and perceived
three people entering.

These were Mr, Derwent, Monica and Geoffrey.

A frightful sense of choking, of blindness—of help-
less, hopeless dismay, and Rutus slid to a kneeling
posture, and buried craven face in his hands.

Gavaine gave one yell, leaped into a corner, and
cowered there, a raving m c!

“We were come to you,” said the Master of
Dornoch-Weald. ‘It is time the farce should end,
We have given you time to enjoy your ae
won as you sup: through crime ‘and bloodshed
—have you enjoyed it? No! look at that mental
wreck! Look at your own emaciated frame, and re-
call the never-lulled gnawing of remorse which has
eaten into every one of the spoils, which you periled
so much to obtain. This shall be — punishment;
I desire no more poignant one overtake you.
Was it worth all the ri Fos have run, the anguish
of mind you have incurred, the scorn of each other,
and the self-contempt; was your supposed victory
worth all these? No, you wicked men; your will to
do evil was great, but, being enlightened 8s, you
could. not quite smother conscience. Fools! To
dream of enjoying a victory won through such enor-
mities! Go, wretches; I have no wish to retain you
for punishment. God has paten. your punishment
in own hands. Away! Let me never behold
your Judas faces again.”  .

Rufus Marshall staggered to his feet; and with
head on his breast, eyes half-closed, and his whole
frame shuddering with grief and trouble, drew the
passive arm of the idiot Gavaine into his, and in
dead silence these two went forth from the stately
Weald, defeated,

But the Master of Dornoch-Weald, and his idolized
daughter, and the ever-loved Geoffrey; these three
were happy together,

THE END,

 

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21 InpIGNANT PoLLy Woe and 59 other Songs.

22 Tue OLD ArM-Cuarr and 58 other Songs.

28 On Conny Isiuanp Beacu and 58 other Songs.

24 Op Simon, THE Hor-Corn Man and 60 others.

25 I’m in Love and 56 other Songs.

26 Parapr oF THE GuaRDs and 56 other Songs.

27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs.

28 "Twitt Never po To Gipir ue So and 60 other
Songs.

29 Biuz Bonnets Over THE BorDER and 4 other
Songs.

80 Tur Merry Lavenine Man and 56 other Songs.

81 Sweet Forart-Mz-Nor and 55 other Songs.

82 LeerLe Basy Mine and 53 other Songs.

83 Dz BanJo AM DE INSTRUMENT FoR Mz and 53 other
Songs.

84 Tarry and 50 other Songs.

85 Just To PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs.

86 SkaTING ON ONE IN THE GuTTER and 52 other
Songs.

87 KoLorep Kranks and 59 other Songs.

88 Nit DnspERANDUM and 53 other Songs.

89 Tux Girt I Lert Benrny Me and 50 other Songs,

40 "Tis put A LITTLE Fapep Fiower and 50 other
Songs.

41 Prerry WHILHELMINA and 60 other Songs.
42 DANCING IN THE BARN and 63 other Songs,
43 H. M.S. Prnarore, compiete, and 17 other Songs,

Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents
per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on re-
ceipt of Six cents per number,

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PusrisHers,
98 Wuatau Steuer, New Yorr.

 

 

AN AMERICAN QUEEN.

 

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BEADLE AND ADAMS have pow on their lists the fol:
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and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season
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Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No. Seventeen,
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Dialogues No. Eleven. | Dialogues No, Twenty-three
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Dialogues No, Twenty-five.
15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book.

These volumes have been prepared with especial
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Dramas and Readings.
164 12mo Pages. 20 Cents.

For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am-
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Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of Games.
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ook of Croquet. Yachting and Rowing.
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14, Tudicrous Speaker.
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. f . >
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eevee c by their lives and deeds. The series em-

races: ?
I.—George Washington. | VII.—David Crockett.
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X,—Tecumseh.

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V.—Marquis de Lafay-| XI.—Abraham Lincoln,
a, XII.—Pontiac,

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Brapin’s Dime Sone Booxs, Nos. 1 to 88, containing
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found in the market.

 

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BEADLE & ADAMS, 98 Wiiiram St., N.Y,

 

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DURYEA, Zach Speaker, 100 pages 12mo., containing from 50 to 75 pieces. THE CARYS,
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filed with ori apd special repared contributions from favorite and popular
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OLL COOMES, MATTIE DYER BRITTS, away,”)
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IN THE POPULAR LIBRARY FORM.

Fach alssne Af omplete anil A |nabridged.

>i COVERING>THE<FIELD>0R:<

LOVES AND SOCUBIX BROMANGA,

 

 

 

 

 

Eacu issue a complete novel by an author of established reputation—perfectly pure in tone,
spirited and captivating in story, as the title “\WaveRLEy” implies. Everything to please and nothing
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No inferior or exceptionable productions; no tedious narrative or weak sentimentalism ;
nothing but good strong stories of to-day!

FIRST ISSUES.

1 The Masked Bride} or, Wu Suz Marry Hm. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell,
author of ‘ Vials of Wrath,” “ Did She Sin,” etc.

2 Was It Love? or, Cotizaians anp SWEETHEARTS, By Wm, Mason Turner, M. D.,
author of “ Bessie Raynor,” etc.

8 The Girl Wife; or, Taz True anv roe Fatsz. By Bartley T. Campbell, author
of “Did He Love Her?” ‘‘ Without Mercy,”’ etc.

4 A Brave Heart; or, Srarriiaty Srrancr. By Arabella Southworth.

& Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl; or, Tam Quicksanps or Lirz. By Wm.
Mason Turner, M. D., author of ‘ Was it Love,” ete.

6 The Secret Marriage; or, A Ducuess In Sprtzor Herseir. By Sara Claxton,

7 A Daughter of Eve; or, Buvep sy Love. By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell, author
of ‘‘ The Masked Bride,” ‘‘ Vials of Wrath,” etc.

8 Heart to Heart; or, Fam Pays’ Love. By Arabella Southworth. Ready
January 6th.

9 Alone in the World} or, THe Younc Man's Warp. By the author of ‘ Clifton,”
“Pride and Passion,” etc, Ready January 13th.

10 A Pair of Grey Eyes; or, Taz Emmratp Necxtace. By Rose Kennedy.
Ready January 20th.

11 Entangled; or, A Dancrrovs Game. By Henrietta Thackeray. Ready Jan. 27th.

12 His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, Tat Camp os Apoption. By Mrs. Ann 8,
Stephens. Ready February 8d.

13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress; or, Taz Navan Caper’
. Corinne Cushina. Neaae February “deh: ms eT's Woora, By

14 Why I Married Him: or, Tat Woman m Gray. By Sara Claxton. Ready
February 17th,

 

Yor sale by all Newsdealers, BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William 8t., N.Y,

 
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1 Was Sur His Wirn? Mrs. Mary R. Crowell... 10c 40 Ovma’s Love. By Henrietta E. DeConde... .

2 Fuerinc From Love. By Harriet Irving. 10¢ 41 Lost: A Wire. By Corinne Cushman..

8 Dip He Love Her? Bartley 'T. Campbel 0c 42 Winnina Ways. By Margaret Bloant

4 A Stranee Woman. By Rett Winwood. .... 10c 43 A WomAn’s Heart... By Mrs. M. V. Victo

6 Two Girts’ Lives. By Mrs, Mary R. Crowell.. 10c 44 Tue Deap Lerrer. By Seeley Regester.

7-8 LADY AUDLEY’s SEcRET - Miss M. E. Braddon. 10c 45 Lorp Liste’s Davanter. By 0. M. Braeme.. 1

9 Tae War or Hearts. Corinne Cushman,.... 10c 46 A. Woman’s Hann, Author of ‘‘ Dead Letter.”

10 LeranTon GRANGE, Miss M. E. Braddon. ..... 47 ViaLs or WratH. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell..

11 Tue Fatse Wipow. Mrs. J. D. Burton. . 2 48 A Wixp Girt. By Corinne Cushman..... ...
12-13 Lost ror Love. Miss M. E. Braddon....... 49 Tar Mappest Marriage Ever Was. Burton.
14-15 Tommrs or THE Sra. By Victor Hugo...... 50 LovE 1v A Mazn. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet..........
16 THe QvuapROoon. By Catharine A Warfield.... 51 Catnorina. By Dr. J. H. Robinson....... ... 10
17-18 Unc Siuas. _By J. 8. Le Fanu........ “ 52 A RoMANCE or a Poor Youna Giru. Mrs. Ellet
19-20 Dmap-SEA Frurr. . Miss M. E. Braddon. 53 Tam Lockep Heart. By Corinne Cushman...
21-22 Lirrte Karr Kirsy. F. W. Robinson....... 1 54 Tue Prive or raz Downes. Margaret Blount.
23 SowIna THE WIND. Mrs. Mary R. Crowell..... 55 A StrRanGE Girt. By Albert W. Aiken. ahh
24-25 Brrps or Prey. Miss M. E. Braddon ...... 56 THe Pretry Puritan. By Parson’s Daughter..
26 Twat Boy of Norcort’s. Charles Lever. 57 Dip Sue Sin? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell...
27-28 CHaRLoTTr’s INHERITANCE, Miss Braddon. 58 Douvsiy Drvorcep. By Jenny Davis Burton. .
29 A Grru’s Heart. By Rett Winwood ......... 10 59 A Wickep Woman. By Lillie Devereux Blake...
30-31 Rep As A Rose 1s Sax. Rhoda Broughton. 60 BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET......--. 02-2000. - 00s 1
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34 THE Gipsy Bribe, ty M. E. O. Malen......... Ready April 22d.
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BRAVE BARBARA, By Corinne Cushman....... on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS,

39 A DANGEROUS WomAN. By Margaret Blount... Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Frrty CENT NoveEL For FIVE CENTS!

IN THE POPULAR LIBRARY FORM,

Hach Issue Complete and Unabridged.
ao

The Masked Bride; or, Wit Soe Marry Him. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

Was It Love? or, Cotteaians AND SWEETHEARTS. By Wm,Mason Turner, M. D.

The Girl Wife; or, Taz Trur anv THE Fatse. By Bartley T. Campbell, author

A Brave Hearty; or, Starriinety Srranar. By Arabella Southworth.

Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D.,

The Secret Marriage; or, A Ducnsss In Spite or Herseir. By Sara Claxton.

A Daughter of Eve; or, Burypep sy Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

Heart to Heart; or, Farr Paywius’ Love. By Arabella Southworth.

Alone in the World; or, THz Younac Man’s Warp. By the author of “Clifton.”

A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, THe Emeratp Necktace. By Rose Kennedy.

Entangled; or, A Dancrrovus Game. By Henrietta Thackeray.

His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, tax Carty or Aporrion. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

Madcap, the Little Quakeress. By Corinne Cushman.

Why I Married Him: or, Tae Woman In Gray. By Sara Claxton.

A Fair Face; or, Ovr iy THe Wort. By Bartley T. Campbell.

Trust Her Not; or, Taz True Knieur. By Margaret Leicester.

A Loyal Lover; or, Taz Last or THe Grimsperus. By Arabella Southworth..

Wiis Idol; or, Tae Int-Srarrep Marriage. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

The Broken Betrothals or, Love versus Hats. By Mary Grace Halpine.

Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, Taz Wircnes or New York. Agile Penne.

Now and. Forever3_or,,Wxy Dip Suz Marry Him. By Henrietta Thackeray.

The Bride of an Actor. By the author of ‘“ Alone in the World,” etc., etc.

Leap Year}; or, Way Saz Proposep. By Sara Claxton. Ready April 20th.

Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Eleanor Blaine. Ready April 27th.

Only a School Mistress; or, Her Untotp Srcret. By Arabella Southworth.
Ready May 4th.

Without a Heart: or, WALKING on THE BRINK. * By Prentiss Ingraham.
Ready May 11th.

For sale by all Newsdealers. BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William 8t., N. Y.

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