ANA

 

W.SKRK-Co-

$2.5u a Year. July 15, 1880.

Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.,as Second Class Mail Rates. Copyrighted 1880, by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

Published Every BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, Complete in this Number,

Vol. VI.

Two Weeks,

No. 98 Wriiiam Street, New Yorr.

: No. 68

Price, Ten Cents.

 

Lady Helen's Vow;

THE MOTHER’S SECRET.

A Romance of Love and Honor.

BY THE LATE MRS. E. F. ELLET,
AUTHOR OF “LOVE IN A MAZE,” ‘‘A ROMANCE OF A
POOR YOUNG GIRL,” ETC., ETC.

CHAPTER I.

THE BARON’S DAUGHTER.

Between St. Orme’s Head and the little hamlet
of Eymouth in Scotland, stands an irregular stone
mansion, many times larger than the houses of the
ees scattered thinly about the neighbor-

‘ood,

_ The walls are half-eovered with ivy; the situation
is sequestered; the rear overhangs a rocky declivity.
Some upper windows are closed and overgrown with
creepers. The landscape surrounding it is shut in
by barren hills, with a distant view of the purple-
eray summits of the western Highlands.

‘he mansion for ages belonged to the Barons of
Swinton, once proprietors of vast estates in the
north and west of Scotland. But their ancient pos-
sessions melted away, and only this bleak place and
a castle on the seaside remain to the last baron of
the name. He made this his home, with his only
daughter.

_Even his right to hold this ee undivided was
disputed by a distant cousin, who had claims on
part of the lands, founded on an ancient. mortgage,

ALICIA CLUNG 16 MAT’S ARM

 

This cousin took possession of the castle—more than
half-ruined—by the sea, several miles westward, and
there lived with his household, including retainers
who served his fortunes. He maintained his occu-

ancy more by might than right, paid no rent to his

insman, the inheritor of the title, and was regarded
through the whole country as a sort of outlaw, liv-
ing by practices which the law punished when
proven.

Early on a lovely morning in the beginning of
June, two figures came out of the stone mansion
already mentioned, for a walk on the terrace. The
crisp, cool air was coven and laden with the
fragrance of flowers that bloomed luxuriantly in the
little garden on one side of the house. It was the
baron’s daughter who took charge of this patch, and
the space was ‘always blooming. She herself looked
like the moving spirit of the flowers,

She had thrown a plaid over her head, but under
it her soft brown. ringlets, ruddy with a dash of
golden tint, were blown about her face. That face
was fresh and charming as the spring. The cheeks
had the hue of the wild rose; the features were cast
in delicate, aristocratic mold—but a spirit leaped
from the blue eyes and asserted itself in the firm
rosy lips, which betokened ene’ equal to that of
the hardiest lassie who ever mingled in country toil
or sports.

Alicia Maur, indeed, was used to open air and
exercise, and to equestrian exploits, and shrunk not
from the chase and from wild rides that might have
fatigued a peasant maiden, Just now she was bent
on one discouraged by her father, and had come out
to look at the aspect of the weather.

‘It is sure to be clear all day, Margaret,’’ she
said, to her companion, a young woman older than
herself, and with the hard outline of features

 

 

peculiar to women of the middle class in that part
of Scotland; ‘‘and what is to prevent my visit to
Lady Vaughan?”

“Your father objected that he cannot go with
you; and you know I could not ride so far,” was the

reply.

R But Donald can go. He often attends me alone.”

“That is in rides about the moor, or skirting the
hills, Alicia. Sir George Vaughan’s house is over
twenty miles distant.”

‘“*A matter of two hours’ ride! Ob, I must go! I
long for a breath from the sea!”’

‘Suppose you should meet that wild young Her-
rick ur?”

‘*My cousin Herrick! He would do me no harm!
Tam not afraid of him!” ¥

“You might well be, Alicia. Did he not intercept
you once?”

‘*Oh, yes!” returned the merry girl, her face
dimpling with smiles. ‘‘He behaved rudely then.
He swore he was in love with me, and would have
carried me off to his old battered castle, I verily be-
lieve, if he had not been compelled to release me.”

‘“‘ By a gentler cavalier. I have heard about it.”

The maiden shot ashy glance at her friend.

“Do you know him?’ she asked, while a lovely
color suffused her cheeks. ;

‘Lord Cressy? You know I have seenhim several
times; and I know that he is the son and heir ofa
wealthy English marquis, who owns a shooting-box
—as they call it—among yonder mountains.” ;

‘* Yes; he chanced to be riding by, and he rescued |
me from Master Herrick.” 8

And brought you safely home; and has visited
‘Stone Crag’ how many times since?’’ demanded
Margaret, archly. Z ;

“Stone Crag” was the name given to the baron’s

WENT WITH HIM THE DOG BOUNDING ON BEFORE THEM.

 
“is

urn,
of Penrhyn’s, and talk with him about that bit of

2

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

 

seat; so called for a wild and ee picturesque
rock uplifting itself just behind the but ae

“Nay, not very often,” replied the girl, demurely,
blushing yet more deeply. ‘It was but seemly that
my father should thank him for the services ren-
dered to his daughter.”

“ And it was but natural that the young earl, hav-
ing eyes, should fall in love with the fair maiden he
had rescued.”

“Now, Margaret,” said Alicia, somewhat haughti-
ly, ‘‘you presume too far, indeed!”

‘Pardon me, sweet Alicia!” cried the Highland
girl, catching her hand impetuously. _‘‘ You cannot
be angry with your foster-sister for but repeating
what all the gude wives say.” :

“Ts it so?” asked the baron’s daughter. “They
have no ground for such gossip.””

‘© Not when the English lord stays so long in his
Highland retreat? ot when he rides with the
Baron of Swinton, furnishing hounds and horses for
the chase? Not when he comes late to sup with him
after a day’s hunt, and drinks to the health of the
bonniest lassie in all Scotland?”

“Oh, fie, Margaret! Scores of gentlemen have
done that!”

“But not one of them has gained the lassie’s ear,
and led her to walks by the Roman well, and’ sent
her flowers day after day—such flowers! raised in
hot-houses! gorgeous in bloom, when snow lies on
the moor! Ah, my leddy Alicia! well saith the
eats s There is aye some water where the stirkie

wns!

* Peace, lass, you talk idly! You know well that
the father of Lord Cressy would never consent that
he should come asa wooer to the daughter of an
im overished baron who can give no dower to his
child!’

“T know naught so well as that beauty and bravery
are aye fitly mated.” P

“JT bade you hush, girl! Iwill hear no more.
Reginald, Lord Cressy, is nothing tome. See, what

onder?”

Joming up the hill toward the gate was a youn:
lad of the order called barnmen—the hedgers an
ditchers of the country. He carried something in

one hand, shading his eyes with the other from the

light, as he looked up.

‘He brings somewhat for you, leddy,” observed
Margaret.

The young fellow indeed turned when he saw the
two figures, and came forward, doffing his cap with
an awkward scrape, and presenting what he carried.
deprived of the covering of a green bough that had
shaded it,

Alicia started when she saw the offering—a basket
of the freshest and choicest flowers, far more beau-
tiful than any that grew in the gardens. On the top
her own name was —. in tiny starlike blos-
soms, breathing exquisite fragrance.

“For my leddy,” said the lad, again bowing.
“Frae his lordship,” he added, with another scrape.

Margaret laughed, and Alicia blushed crimson.as
she took the gift. Bidding her companion give
money to the lad, she turned away, and walked to a
rustic seat in a little arbor at the end of the terrace.

As she bent her head to inhale the fragrance of
the flowers, a tiny, three-cornered note nestlin;
among the snowy petals caught hereye. She glance
timidly round her before she took it up.

It was the first note she had ever received from
Lord Cressy. He wrote in haste to say that he had
just been summoned to England by news of his fa-
ther’s illness. He was forced to go without the
adieu his heart craved from the noble baron and
lovely lady to whose kindness he owed so much of
the enjoyment of the last few weeks. But he hoped
ina short time to return, ete.

There was something in the half-formed language
of the note, of meaning that — to the young

l’s heart; for her eyes were full of tears, and her

reast heaved as she read it. Again she glanced

around and hid the missive in her bosom, as Marga-
ret er $

“Did the lad say his lordship had set out already
on his journey?’ asked Alicia. _

“Nay, he said nothing,” replied Margaret. ‘‘He
went back like an arrow from the ‘bow. But here is
your father, Alicia.” .

Alicia rose in some confusion, as_a noble-looking
man, past middle age, came toward her.

He took no note of the flowers, though she held
up the basket; but he observed that something un-
common must have occurred to give that flush to
the maiden’s cheek, and that air of disecomposure.

““ What is it, my daughter?” he asked.
. Margaret stepped back, for she ht not take her

Jace as an equalin the presence of the father of
Fass oung foster-sister.

- these lovely flowers, my dear father! Here
is my name on the top, and _how prettily it is set in
the clustering rose-buds and pink blooms! It beats
m garden, quite; especially these fragrant ex-
otics.””
The baron looked at the flowers. Very indifferent
was he to such trifles.

“They are from Lord Cressy?” he asked. ‘Wh;
came he not to pring them? Ihave given him muc
time of late. a

“He is called suddenly to England, His father, the
Marquis of Estonbury, is very ill,” answered the

7S Fs

! sent he that message? By whom?”

With an instant’s eS drew forth the
er.

- note, and handed it to her fat

He opened and read it.

& Husipil the Marquis of are is ill!” he
muttered. “Ifhe dies Reginald will inherit the title
and estates. Has the young man set forth?”

“T cannot tell you, papa. The lad who brought
this went back . He was a barnman, and
Net abtnge ticled ieee tha lady

ee range messenger to a lady!” |

“ Perhaps the earl had sent away his servants, and
was in haste,” suggested Alicia.

‘J will ride over and see about it.”

“Oh, dear father, os It would be but cour-

” added the gir! ping her eyes meekly.
“ And I will ride round, as I ret by the Laird

d. Do not expect me home before di Alicia.’
einen, dear a, T may go and Syemaitine day

with Lady Vaughan?
= Child! itis a long ride for you to take without
me,” y

 

“Donald will attend me. He is sufficient escort;
and you know I have been kept a prisoner by the
storms so long!’’ pleaded the girl. e clasped both
hands on the baron’s arm and looked beseechingly
in his face. ,

He gazed fondly upon her.

“Tam afraid. of some danger for you on such a
lonely road—”’ he began.

“Oh, father! what danger could there be?”

“You were molested once.”’

“But Herrick promised never to offend me so
again; and he will keep his word. He is our kins-
man, you know.”
we Yes, I know that. I have tried to tutor him.
I have yearnings toward the lad. He is next heir to
the barony, failing myself, for his father will never
take my place. I should like to see more of Herrick,
a break loose from those lawless clansmen
of his.”

“You know, father, he has had no training in
gentle manners.”’

“T know it well, and I would fain bring him to my
own house, and let him see company that better
suits his birth and blood than the reckless outlaws
he has now for associates. I think there is good in
the boy, if he had help to bring it out.”

“Tam sure there is, father, much good. He would
never have been so rude, but—”

“But he was a lover,” put in the baron, laughing;
“and love with savages is barbarous as the rest of
their usages.”’

“He Bippees never to molest me again,’* mur-
mured Alicia.

‘*He had best not! Ishould punish such unseem-
ly conduct! Let him come as a man and submit his
suit to me! Though I think I would rather see my
child the wife of 4n English nobleman.”

“That is not likely, father,” interrupted the girl,
averting her face, ‘‘No such will come to woo a
ee country girl.”

“The days have been,” muttered her father,
‘‘when the daughter of a Baron of Swinton might
have had earls—ay, dukes at her feet!’

“Time and fortunes are changed.”

“The ancient blood is pure, and the nature true
as ever!’’ cried the Scot. By St. Hierome! if any
man could look upon my girl, and not vow her
worth the proudest coronet in Britain, with her
ie face and her unstained lineage, he must be a

‘00.
_‘‘Dear papa, I have a better prospect than the
richest coronet! to stay with you all my life!”

“‘T would I were as my forefathers were—for your
sake, child.”

: 2B meng not have my own dear papa other than
e is

Two white arms were clasped around his neck,
and a soft kiss was pressed on his bronzed cheek.

ie must go now, my girl,” he said, releasing him-
self.
“And may I go too?” she entreated.

At a nod from her father, Alicia called joyously to
Margaret to bid Donald get ready her horse, and pre-
pare himself to accompany her,

She walked back to the house with her father,
who gave orders for his own horse to be saddled.

In five minutes Alicia had donned her riding-dress,
and her hat with its pretty heron plume, and stood
on the — waiting for Donald to bring up the
spirited horse she was used to manage with such ad-
mirable skill,

 

CHAPTER Il.
KENNETH’S MISFORTUNE.

* Haut to, or we shall fire upon you!”

“Fire away!” with a stentorian oath.

This sententious dialogue passed between a reve-
nue cutter manned with brisk-looking chaps in the
royal uniform, and the captain of a schooner at-
tempting to run out of the little bay flanked by steep
and PSE mad rocks.

As the defiant answer came, the cutter shot direct-
ly athwart the schooner’s bows.

There was a — of fire as she ran, severing a
rope or two of the schooner; and another that hit
the mainmast, scattering a shower of splinters.
But the véssel’s course was altered too quickly to
permit the revenue men to board her and attack the

smugglers.

There was more disorderly firing on both
sides, with loud shouts and execrations; and the
ieee men seemed to have the worst of it.

schooner had already landed her cargo; and
when she was able to free herself from her assailants,
she stood out boldly to sea.

A small boat, pulled by a stout pair of hands,
rushed out from the shelter of the rocks as the
schooner passed the entrance of the little harbor.
A single muffled figure sat in the boat, pl the
oars with dexterity. As the small craft came along-
side the schooner, it was hailed, and a shrill voice in-

stantly replied.

A man rose upon the bulwarks just as a porting
shot from the cutter pealed over the water. He was
hit; he reeled and swayed on one side as if unable to
—— or stay ; presently falling over the

e.

He grasped a loose rope as he fell, and slid down

into the water. e a

The little boat was close beside him in an instant.
Two strong arms grasped him by the shoulders, and

drew him on dipping so much water as this
a done that the little craft was near being swamp-

But the occupant, now seen to be a woman, as
her mantle was flung off, held the form she had
rescued with one arm, while she quickly bailed out
the boat. Then placing her burden upon the only
seat, she ap, dexterously to stanchin;
the blood from a slight wound in the shoulder, an
bathing his temples with cold water.

Consciousness returned in a few moments, When
the woman had ee her task by binding a
strip of her plaid shawl over the wound, the man sat
up, toe himself ce e

“T believe I ll be all right shortly,” he said.
“Thanks to you, Hilda. I was going at first to ask
‘ou to hide me somewhere, that

ese words were intermingled with curses on the
er you chil i Sir Kenneth, to punish

“You ve. nneth, your
enemies,” answered the woman, eagerly.

ie boat 3 but at this juncture
she clutched the oars again, and pulled vigorously
wei >

herse

die in peace.”

 

sn the rock projecting from the mouth of the
intet.

The man sunk back on the bench wearily.

“I suppose you haven’t the brandy flask with
you?” he asked.

His companion shook her head.

‘But we’ll soon be at the cave,” she added.

“T feel strangely weak, for such a scratch. Is the
bullet in yet?”

“It passed through. I heard it fall in the water.”

“Then all I want is the stimulant. Make all the
haste you can, Hilda.”

The woman needed no urging. Her arms were
stout and sinewy; she was well used to the labor.
In the waning light she could now be seen; a tall,
muscular figure, with a face that belonged to forty-
five years 0: e, though the wear of toil and ex-

osure made her seem older than she was. Her
eatures were strongly lined, and the complexion,
though healthy, was tanned to the loss of whatever
beauty it might once have possessed. One feature
could not be changed; the eyes, large, fulland black,
shaded by dark lashes, and overhung by eyebrows
as,.thick and bushy as aman’s. Her Jong black locks
had escaped from their teacmings, and streamed
wildly over her shoulders, shaken back every minute
or two as she plied the oars.

Her ae was an elderly man, with enough
of the marks of years and a hard life about him to
show that his was no lot of luxury, notwithstanding
the title the woman had given in speaking to him.

It was only in courtesy that it was bestewed on
him; for Kenneth Maur, though affecting to call
himself the head of an ancient house, had no right
todoso. Hehad been an outlaw from his youth,
indulging in predatory excursions, yet never being
brought under the punishment the law denounced
against such offenses. For years past he had aided
acompany of smugglers, engaged in bringing car-
oes, Ck tea, tobacco and spirits from the French
coast.

Their confederates had equipped and manned the
schooner, while Kenneth took charge of the stores
landed and concealed in the cave mentioned, and
ae for their transport to market. It was only

y chance that he had been aboard the schooner;
and Hilda knowing that he wished to land, had gone
out to fetch him'in the boat, before the scuffle with
the revenue-cutter.

Passing a dark mass of rock that jutted frowning-
ly into the water, the boat ran into a little nook, and
passed under the projection of a bowlder into a
med sheltered from outside view, Here was a
shelf for landing. When she had helped out her
companion, Hilda secured the boat, shoving it be-
hind a pile of rocks where no one could have sus-
pected it lay hidden. Then she turned to Ken-

neth.

“T had best bring you something from the cave,”
she said. ‘‘ You are too weak to climb, methinks.”

“Lead on, wench, and I will follow,” was the an-
swer.

She parted the screen of bushes, and went up-
ward by a winding path. Kenneth came close be-
hind her, but was compelled now and then to stop

and regain his breath, cursing more vehemently
the foe whose shot had weakened him, every time
he lingered.

About midway up, on the face of the cliff, was the
entrance to the cave. “

This was the resort of the smugglers, and it was
there the stores brought over were deposited, till
they could be removed by the landsmen in the em-
ploy of ‘‘ the company.”

enneth seated himself on a stone at the mouth,
and leaned against a tree, while Hilda went in;
soon returning with a brandy-flask and some food,
The wounded man refreshed himself, while she
again dressed and bandaged his wound.

efore Sei rose, very much ‘strengthened, and
motioned to her to lead the way up to the summit of

the rocks.

Hilda begged him to repose in the cave for a few
hours at least; but he sternly silenced her.

‘*T will know what these government hounds are
after next,” he said, growling execrations.

“They know naught of the cave?”

“By good oo no Lae ten Me one if they do not
go searching the castle for s, .

“Let then search, then; they will have their labor
for their pains.”

He uttered a fierce oath.

“Think you, wench, they shall be at liberty to poke
their noses into the fox’s lair—an’ they please? No;
we must call the men, and make ready for them.”

When they had nearly reached the summit, Ken-
neth met two of his retainers, whom he dispatched
to + oo the others, bidding them join him at the

le.

The sun had set when they emerged from the low

oe oe, the top of the cliff. Kenneth turned
look sea’ ;

Diminishing to a speck, the schooner could be seen
far off against the red and gold of the west. It was
a sight that made the gazer chuckle, for it signaled
the present defeat of his foes.

Another and nearer object ere long caught the
‘sight of the chief. The of a revenue-officer
stood on the Say toe the = with his telescope to his
eyes, watching the vessel 3 .

*Xenneth thought of the cave, in the direct range
.— He Figo ag PAM eg =e
ced around him, noticing le
fim. He glided swiftly toward the cliff through the
ushes,

A few moments after Hilda was upon a knoll back

of the bluff, where she could see the turrets of Castle

ur.

She turned, and was in full view also of the peak
on the cliff, where still stood the government officer, _
She saw Kenneth coming out of the bushes behind

Swift tel h toward th es:
as an an pee Fa ihe spo en.

fined againge the red Sky.

e :

The cry ee to Hilda’s lips; but she

dared not utter it. pers ee. of such

a precipice, with the odds of a e in full

stre: against a man wounded—even though ~
en —it must result in Kenneth’s or cap-

~
OP

 
 

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

3

 

ns

He was but a step behind his victim. His face
was flushed and angry. The telescope was still ab-
sorbing the officer’s attention.

Hilda glided through the coppice, She was afraid
to call out, or even let the rustle of her ane be
heard. She ran with breathless speed, hoping she
might be in time to catch the rash man’s arm, and
— him from the consequences of his meditated

eed!

She was too late! *

Even as she sprung into full view, with noiseless
oid Kenneth had seized the man’s arm, prenting
to drag him back and capture him before he coul
recover from his surprise. The man paige as he
was jerked back; clutched at his foe, but missed
him; shook off his hold as he sprung forward; stag-
gered and fell headlong from the cliff.

Kenneth started backward at the same instant,
and Hilda caught his arm. She did not speak, but
— glaring forward, her white face rigid with

orror,

“Let go, wench!” the man broke forth, wrench-
ing loose his arm. ‘You had no business here,
Come you with me!”

Hilda was on her knees, peering over the verge.

“He is not dead!’ she cried. ‘He has lodged ina
tree rooted between the rocks! I may save him
yet!

“Where go you, Hilda?” questioned the chief, as
she rushed past him,

“To save the manifIcan! Tosave you from de-
struction!” was her exclamation, as she flung her
arms up, and plunged into the thicket.

CHAPTER III.
THE CAPTURE.

AntctA had her pleasant day with Lady Vaughan;
but the gentlemen were not at home, and she ha
the prospect of returning with only Donald’s escort.
This she did not heed, having perfect confidence in
her own horsemanship, and Donald’s knowledge of
the road homeward. They started long before sun-
set; but thick clouds on the mountain before them
warned them of the approach of a storm; and the
young lady decided on turning back for shelter, not
caring to encounter the seething rain.

Then Lady Vaughan besought her fair guest to re-
main for the night. But the girl laughed at the idea
of peril, and resisted all entreaties. Her father
might be home by ten, and would be uneasy at her
stay. And see—the moon was rising, broad, clear,

‘and bright, scattering the clouds. The road was
like aribbon. She made her adieux, leaped into her
saddle and was off, even while the remonstrances of
her friend were ringing in her ears.

The rain had passed over, but the wind was high,
and bowed the tops of the trees as they rode through
the copse on a hillside. Donald rode a little in ad-
vance. His oe mistress heard him call out
“Steady!” as he wheeled round a sudden turn in the
road; and then fancied she heard other horse-hoofs
that seemed approaching. The moonlight did not
penetrate the thick screen of foliage.

Alicia checked her horse, and ied to her servant

again.

Gadiieniy the animal she rode gave a quick snort,
reared, and then plunged forward. The girl pre-
served her presence of mind; but she felt the bridle
violently jerked from her hand. Her noble horse
shied, shivered all over, and then sunk to his knees.
His rider was flung from the saddle.

Alicia felt herself in the firm grasp of a pair of
arms, but could see nothing save a mass of some-
thing dark. She uttered a loud shriek; she called
her horse by name, and shouted to Donald. .

“Dinna scream again!” growled a harsh voice,
“or I maun gag ye! Your steed canna help ye!”

“You have ed him, wretch!’’ cried the girl;
mindful, even in that moment of terror, of the noble
brute. ‘‘ You have killed my brave horse!”

“Nae, he’s no slain; he’ll do weel enough an ye
hauld your tongue. Ive dune nae wrang.. Should
Tha’e tet ye fall when the beast reared?”

“Tf you mean well, help me to get Donald here,
and help my horse to rise,”

“No—the lad has fled hame; I saw him galloping

‘ound the hill.
“Donald! Help! Donald!’ the girl shouted.
‘ea a dune wi’ that! The boy is clean gane, I
e
- Fao not believe he would leave me in this man-

r

ner. You may have murdered him!’

* An’ I did naething, but just hit the beast a blow
or twa, as he fled past with eyes like a scared owl!”
orled the girl’s captor, laughing hoarsely.

Alicia wrung her hands in despair,

Agroan at a little distance behind her, and the
noise of hoofs beating the ground, showed that her
wounded horse was striving to rise.

Breaking from the man’s hold, she rushed to the
spot where the animal, wounded by a knife-thrust
in the aaah aud weakened os of blood, was
trying 0 raise himself upon his *

‘Oh, Merlin! my brave Merlin!” the girl exclaim-
ed, throwing her arms round his neck; “you are
struck; youare hurt! Why did you this wickedness?
Merlin had not harmed you!”

“T was fain to gist him, ma’am. He, would
have tram pled you, if I had not saved you frae his

oofs.

The man evidently wished her to suppose that he
had rescued her from danger.

“Tt is false!” she cried, in ation overpowering
her — “You ed an ‘ard a ber ! aor ae tee
my jewels—eve! ing; bu' lp my poor horse
ve Et do Srecl ence Ye Rath Coie with me,

”
cia knew not what to do. She was not yet half-
way home; she could not go on foot, Her servant
had disa peared. She turned to her sare
oe will; give you more than you can find of booty
phous, me, if’ you will take me to Sir George

ai n’s.”

The man stiook his ‘head. ‘

“Or to my father’s, the Baron of Swinton. He
a Por Oyen ok Denon is too far. Icould
walk to Sir George Vaughan’s.””

“The leddy canna walk, and the road is See

ned the Parege “But I will take you to a
Se as ‘ar frae this, and he will male ye
e dawn.”
“Where?” demanded the bewildered maiden.
«Woe to the noble Sir Kenneth’s castle.”
“Sir Kenneth?”

, dering.

 

‘* He is called so,” said the man. ‘‘ A noble gentle-
man is he, and a kinsman of your ain, leddy, if you
be the Baron of Swinton’s daughter.”

‘How far is it to the castle?”

“ Just three miles and a bittock.”

Alicia reflected. _

“Ts Master Herrick at home?” she asked.

** Ay, surely is he.”

Her resolution was taken. She would claim the
succor of her kinsman. She bade the man take her
thither, and then return without delay to care for
her wounded steed, Merlin. This he ae glibly.
Then he caught his own horse, which had been
browsing the green leaves contentedly during the
aged scene, and lifted the young girl to the

le.

“Tecan ride alone,” she said, haughtily. ‘Lead
the way.”

But her captor leaped with anes to the haunches
of the animal, holding the girl fast, and gave the
horse a blow in the side that caused him to spring
away on a furious gallop.

CHAPTER IV.
AT THE CASTLE.

Hinpa made her way to the spot, two-thirds down
the rocks, where the revenue-officer had fallen:
Standing on a broad ledge, she dise: his dress
from the boughs, and lifted up his head. He was
quite insensible, ‘

With all her prodigious atest, she could barely
manage to drag him along the ledge to the bushes
where the path leading upward began; a blind, zig-
zag way, perilous to tread even in roe toy aes and
much more so in darkness, burdene: with the
body of a wounded or dying man. She could not
carry him up, but she made a soft bed of leaves;and
laid him down, covering him with her shaw], and
bathing his head and face with water that trickled
from a crevice at hand.

Presently a faint moan came from the sufferer,
and he moved his arm slightly,

With another effort he raised himself on his elbow,
opening his eyes.

‘Where am I?’’ he asked.

Hilda explained that he had fallen from the top of
the cliff, and was sorely bruised; but would be bet-
oe he would only remain quiet and not attempt

0 rise.

“Who are you? It is a woman’s voice. How
came you here to help me?”

‘“‘ITsaw you fall, and ran down the path. You
might have been killed, but the branches of a tree
broke your fall on the ledge yonder.”

“T know; I remember now. A mancame up be-
hind and grappled me, and pushed me off.”

“You nee ae ser a — the — oeing

our foot s while you were loo!
through the telescope.’ ’

“Not so; some one clutched me to throw me
down. Isaw the man—”

“You saw him?” shrieked Hilda, a cold sweat of

 

| terror starting out on her face. ‘‘ For mercy’s sake,

man, speak! Who could do such a deed?”

“Nay, I know not his name; but I should know
him again if I saw him,”

“You would know him again?”

“T would surely know him. If you saw me fall,
woman, you must have seen him too!”

““No—no—no!”? yehemently; exclaimed she. “I
charge no man wi’ such a crime. It would ha’e
been murder.”

Hilda’s motive in sueeoring the officer was to save
her master. It would be believed he meant to kill
the man; Kenneth would be sent to ere in case
oe See mer man’s death, it might bring him to the
scaffo!

“Don’t trouble yourself wi’ such ee
she went on, earnestly. ‘‘ Lie you there, while I go
for some one to help carry ye er.””

“And a-cup of liquor, dame, an you please. I
feel very faint,” or

Hilda muttered to herself as she ran up the ascent.
But for the nacouitr: of ‘shielding her chief, she
would fain have left the injured man to his fate.

“Tf he can be got to the hawthorns—the hollow in
the rock wi’ a stane like a blue whin-stane, he’ll be
hid frae them that seek him.”

She shuddered. again.

“They say there’s a bluid-stain there, though the
water rins o’er it, and has done the same for years
bygane. Eugh! but it’s cauld, and the north wind
whistles amang the brackens.”’

The barking, of a dog was heard; Hilda stopped
and whistled.

The next moment a huge animal bounded toward
a leaped up, and greeted her with demonstrations
of joy.

ay thousand welcomes, Snath!”’ she exclaimed;
“for T know thy master is near, and I want him
sorely.””

‘““Who wants me!”’ repeated a — voice, and
the form of a tall man was dimly eeoried; coming
oer On, Matlin is it you? Speak!”

i it you

“ Who alse should it be—and whoare you? Itisa
woman’svoice,”’ :
“T am ‘Hilda, the housekeeper.”

‘Hilda! And what do you here?”

“Know you not, Matlin, seer as youare?_ What
else brought you, just at the moment succor is most
ete ?. Ar i ril, D Hilda?”

“ Succor e you in ame

“Notme! S Sodeuoes

“TI know nothing; I am blind to-night. Or my
sense is stunned!”

As he came near, the woman his arm,

** Come with me, on the instant.”

She led the way down by the winding path among
ne Wher * demanded th

ere are you going?” dei e man,

“That I should = ae to tell a seer like you, Mat!
Knew ye a of the chief in deadly "

“The chief~Kenneth? Why, I spoke with him
going toward the castle.”

“My ae be palsied for what I was about to
say! Is it for me to betray him?” muttered the wo-
man. ‘‘Nae—nae! It’s not the chief, but one of the
men that sought him. He fell frae the cliff, and
pene help! could not carry him up to the hol-

Thus answering Matlin’s questionings, she led the
way to the spot where a hurt stranger lay, He
gave a faint moan as he heard them, but answered

 

them not in words. He had been trying to get
ag his feet, and the effort had utterly exhaus
im.

Matlin lifted him as easily as if he had been an in-
fant, and prepared to reascend the rocks, The dog
sniffed and growled; but the bidding of his master
silenced him; and the woman urged the necessity of
allowing none to know what had happened, lest sus-
picion should be drawn upon themselves.

They reached the dell; but there was no shelter
for the wounded man, and Matlin said he must be
taken to his hut by the larches. This would take
time. With repeated injunctions to silence, Hilda
took her leave, to return to the castle,

 

The castle, meanwhile, was the scene of merri-
ee mingled with fierce defiance and blustering

reats.

Kenneth Maur, a powerfully-built, stern-looking
man, with shaggy beard and bushy gray hair, sat at
the head of the table after the evening meal had
been dispatched, with a huge flagon of wine before
him. Several of his kinsmen and retainers still oc-
cupied their seats, and many were drinking while
they talked.

Contradictory rumors had come in, concerning
the. movements or intentions of the government
men. Some said they had departed quietly; some
that the cutter was dying in the cove, ready on the
morrow to reconnoiter the coast. Others said that
they had sent for a reinforcement of soldiers, and
— going to search the castle for the smugglers’
stores,

At every suggestion Kenneth would laugh hoarse-
ly, and say the varlets had better present themselves
at his gates; he would give them a welcome from
his guns, etc, He lifted the flagon to his lips and
took a hty draught after every speech; and
while the latter was applauded, the first was imi-
tated by his followers,

The door was pushed open and a young man came
in. He was about twenty-two years of age, though
his broad and stout frame might have made him ap-
yore much older, but for his youthful face and

resh complexion. He had bushy yellow hair and
blue eyes; and a Jong, tawny mustache partly con-
cealed his mouth. He would have been called
handsome even in refined society. He was attired
in a full suit of dark green cloth with leather
breeches and heavy boots, and wore a slouched hat,
which he lifted, or rather swept from his head.
7 od came in, dragging a heavy carbine in his left

and.

“So, you are here at last, Herrick, my son,” was
his greeting from the chief. ‘Make room, there!
A seat for you at my right hand; your place, boy!
More wine!”

But Herrick declined both the wine and the place
at table. He stood his carbine in a corner, looked
around gloomily upon the rest, and then sunk into a
leathern chair by the huge chimney, in which n
fragrant bushes occupied the place of logs that in
bs ere made the great baronial hall warm for the
revelers.

curred, and demands for his aid in maintaining their
eee the young man said, with a slight
provincial accent:

““T have heard of all this, Will ye have my coun-
sel, or do ye contemn it, father?”

= Sad freely, boy; Ibid ye.”

“Then aa is—that you throw open the
castle to their search,”

“What! admit the government men under this
roof in peace on such an errand?”

“Why not? You have no war with the govern-
ment, and they will find nothing here.”

“But they shall not come here—to put shame
“Reonneth's words evoked e muttered assent fro

enne words evo) a muttered assen' m2,
his followers around the table.

“It is not cowardly to avoid needless blood-shed-
ding, or even strife,” said the young man, ;

“And where learned ye submission?” wled
Kenneth, scowling at his son. ‘Ye Srodii capioe
loyal slaves of us all. Belike. this comes of your
visits to our comely cousin, the Baron of Swinton!”

“T am not favored there!’ muttered Herrick,
‘** And I care not.”

“Show yourself a man, then!” shouted the chief;
“loyal to your clan and your ain house! Who
counsels submission is a traitor!”

Young Herrick started to his feet.

“Who calls me traitor?” he flercely demanded,

“None here,” answered one of his cousins,
brusquely. “The chief but said he who would take
a ae ene th at bi pas oe our foes is so;
an is . € spies 5! not enter the castle,
Me AF Be Mga Nang” a

n at any bid !” cried Her-
rick, advancing to the table’ and glaring at the
gee who drew back as if in scorn as he approach-

The burst of laughter and mutteri of “ craven,”
violently irrita‘ the yo maa. He Selned a
— P tare was oe ae it ti one of the
arm was regory,
firstspeaker. Saeetee con
At the same instant one of the trusted retainers of
Kenneth entered hastily, and whispered in the ear
ars ig well Be °K lied. ‘Go
* well, Bertram,” Kenneth re’ . “Goan
call Hilda; she will receive our visitor.” .
Ere rea oreaid. the ‘chi f to his
own, Fr = ie chief to son,
“Let me hear nae matr of this unseemly violence.
Since you have refused to aid us with the strength
of your arm, will ye marry to better the fortunes of
your house?”
“T know not what you mean,” grumbled the

youth.
am not dark of speech! I say, will
fair bride to the altar at Day. bidding?” nee

“That depends on whether she pleaseth me or
please| — me ea me the eee response. :
nen ola eet on wed your fair cousin,

A deep flush swept over Herrick’s face, and he
tie acorns women!” cried Gregéry, deriatvely

en!” ‘

The others laughed, ee

ferrick the mirth in bitter mockery. Then

In answer to his father’s history of what had oc- |

- i ech
he turned to his father.

“You have more pluck than power!” he said.
aallerreter

Seeks

5

garnets Geta

ta ghana tenet a

_. Imay prate of his false visions

  

 

4

s That fair cousin would laugh to scorn your suit or
mine!’

“Suppose I was sure of her consent?”

“ But that canna be.. Think ye the proud baron—
her father—with his English associates, would listen
to a loon like Herrick Maur?”’

1 “* Are you not next heir to the title, failing son of
his?””

“What of that? It is an empty title; or carries
little land wi’ it.”

“Little land, but muckle state! A baron of Swin-
ton may hold his ain wi’ England’s proudest peers!
And his daughter is fairest among the fair!’’

““We a’ ken that!’’ cried Gregory. ‘‘Here’s to her
health!” A dozen cups were lifted to drain the
wine.

“ Be silent!’ exclaimed Herrick, impatiently. ‘I
ask again, what means all this?’

“Tt means, boy, that 1can bestow your cousin, if
ye are minded to wed her; ay, this very night!”

“Nay—'tis ill jesting, when the speech is of a fair
maiden.”

“Tt is nae jest. Ye shall wed her within the hour,
if ye,will.”

‘Tf she wills, I am willing enough,” said the young
man. ‘ But—”

“‘Let the minister be called—” began the chief.

He was interrupted.

The great bell of the castle—the bell that was
never heard unless. danger threatened, or a chief of
the oe was dead—swung out its slow and solemn
peal

 

CHAPTER V.
THE SEER’S WARNING,

Att the men started to their feet.

“What does this mean?” exclaimed Kenneth.

The front door was thrown open, and a figure of
aspect familiar to all passed over the threshold. It
was that of a tall, stalwart-looking man, wrapped in
a dark mantle, with flowing white beard aa abun-
dant white locks rolling down over his neck. His
eyebrows were jet-black, and under them were deep-
set, dusky eyes, now fixed, as if gazing on vacancy.
There was a rapt expression in the face, and its pal-
lor was more than natural. One hand clutched the
meee the right was extended, and lifted up-
ward.

“Tt is Matlin, the seer!’ ran in a hoarse whisper
from man to man among the revelers.

“Tt is the seer, and the vision is upon him!” ex-
claimed Gregory.

Our readers need hardly be informed that the old
Scottish superstition of second-sight yet lingered
py the clans in the mountains. The seer, gifted
from his birth with the faculty of seeing events be-
fore they came to pass, especially those that con-
cerned his own people, was still listened to with
reverence. His prophecies often determined the
counsels of the chiefs, and he was regarded by the
common ae as a mysterious being to whom the
secrets of nature were open, and whose eyes, en-
lightened supernaturally, could discern what was
hidden from all other sight.

It will be remembered that Hilda, when she met
the seer among the rocks, deemed that he had been
supernaturally informed of the occurrence, and that
he had come pupposely to give aid to the injured
revenue-officer. Hence her surprise at learning that
he knew nothing.

The great bell still boomed out its sullen alarm,

“Listen!” said the seer, taking a step forward.
“Tt is the goott peal of more than one among you
who have drained the cup of feasting.”

“Matlin!” exclaimed Kenneth, in a tone of grave
displeasure.

jut Matlin paid no heed.

“Tha’e seen your wild doings,” again said the
seer, “and now the doomis revealed—the vengeance
that is coming! The foe is at hand! Your castle
will be attacked this night!”

“Silence!” shouted the chief. “How dare you
come among us with your bodings of evil? Sit you
os and speak like a true man, or begone this in-
stant!

The seer turned to face him. ee

“Kenneth Maur!” he said, in a slow and measured
speech. ‘‘Is there not blood upon your hands?”

The chief burst into coarse laughter.

“*An ye list to spin nursery tales,” he cried, “let
it be in the women’s hearing! Away with him to the
kitchen, or the housekeeper’s still-room.”

No one stirred. Matlin heeded not the anger his
words had provoked.

“The man you fought with on the cliff,” he con-
tinued, “lies peril of death; and his blood that
stains your footsteps will lure on the hounds in pur-
suit. wise, and turn them away before their
— are in your throat!”

ere was a confused murmur among the guests,
and Herrick strode up to the seer, but did not at-
= to interrupt him.

‘Take the warning given,” his solemn speech went
on. ‘“‘ Leave the castle to the soldiers who are
marching on it, and will soon be here. My hut by
the larches is a shelter large enough, and to-morrow
you may return hither in ae

**'Who dares counsel flight to Kenneth Maur?” de-
manded the chief, threateningly. ‘By the bones of
my father, if he were other than the seer, I would
hew him in pieces here in our hall!” And he clutch-
ed his heavy sword, half-drawing it. ‘‘ Before he
provokes me beyond bearing, away with him! He
ide the kitchen-

Gey logs, Begone with him! Gregory, do ye not obey
ie

7

Gregory laid hold of the seer, but ily released
him. The dog, Snath, had followed-his master and
had lain crouched at his feet while he was speaking.
At the touch of violence: laid» upon ‘him he 5;
up fiercely, and rushed upon Gregory, who tell back
with an execration. —

Herrick stepped between them.

‘oe dog will not harm me,” he said, as he laid

caressingly on the animal’s head. Snath
welcomed the caress by waggi:
back to crouch at his master’s feet.

his tail, and went |

 

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

.
occupancy till the search could be made next day,
and arrest all who opposed them! $

The sound of. the great bell had summoned all
who would defend the chief from their dwellings in
the neighborhood; but they could not outnumber the
soldiers. The troop was on the march, and the storm
that was rising would make them more fierce to ob-
tain shelter, ‘as it to be peace or a struggle?”

‘The seer, Matlin, had sunk upon _aseat, buryin;
his face in his hands. The vision had passed.
had left him, as_ usual, with trembling frame and
collapsed strength. Herrick noticed his condition.
He filled a me with wine, and put it to his =
ve drained it, and thanked him with a grateful
00

_With loud execrations, Kenneth vowed he would
give the assailants the reception they deserved. He
ordered Matlin taken away.

‘““Put him in one of the east store-rooms,” he
cried; ‘‘and since he came to bring news of disaster,
and counsel submission, let him share the danger
he predicted. Out with him, Gregory, and leave
him a prisoner. In the largest room! There is not
a window for his escape, but he can hear all that
passes within.”

Conca took the old man’s arm, and led him to
one of the side doors, followed by the dog.

“Nay, this violence shall not be!’’ cried young
Herrick. . ‘‘ Matlin is a faithful friend. He came
when the vision was on him, to warn you, father,
and by my sword, his counsel was wise and good!
¥ou shall not harm a hair of his head!”

““Who wants to harm him—foolish boy?” shouted
his father. ‘“ He shall but abide his own prophecy.
If the castle falls, we fall with it! Anyedare med-
dle with my orders, I'll gi’e ye work todo. Gregory,

ones. me|’’*

e strode to the side door, out of which Gregory
led his prisoner, and whispered to him as_he ae
out. en he resumed his directions to his follow-

ers.

“Place the cannon on the ramparts, and dispose
the men at the windows to fling down the ladders if
they raise any. Have the guns and crowbars out of
the armory!’

His men hastened ie ry different directions in
seeming readiness to obey. But the utmost con-
fusion prevailed... The bell was silent, but the storm
was raging without, and the dash of sea-waves
aeripat the rocks below was like the roar of distant
artillery.

Once more Herrick, ignorant of his father’s reason
for dreading arrest—and that he was willing to risk
all their lives rather than be captured, when death
by the hangman might be his doom—interfered to
prevent this mad resistance to the civil authorities.

““T said ye should have other work than meddlin’
with us, craven boy!” cried his father, tauntingly.
** And so you shall! Look there!”

He pointed to the open side door.

There stood Alicia ur, With white, scared face,
iogee at them.
Beside her stood Hilda, the housekeeper, and on

os pod side Gregory, who had led the maiden into
e hall,

She wore her riding-habit of dark-green velvet,
trimmed with gold lace, and _a green hat with its
drooping heron’s feather. White leathern gloves
covered her hands. Just as Bertram had received
her from her captor’s hands, her dress disordered
and her — pulled over her cheeks and neck,
she stood there, a radiant vision of beauty—all
terrified and bewildered as she was—beholding the

ile ho stood petnifion with eutpsise, Hikia sided
while he stoo ied wi g!
to the chief, and grasped his arm.

“Where is Matlin?’ she whispered, eagerly.

“ Away, woman! I want not your help!”

“He had charge of the officer! the man who fell
frae the cliff!’ she gasped, ‘convulsively pressi:
eee arm. “The man will die for lack o:

“Ts he not dead already?” demanded the chief.
“He was saved by a miracle; but he is sorel
hurt. Send Matlin to him; he hath a leech’s skill
Oh, Sir Kenneth! if the man dies—woe to you! woe

us .

“This way!’ said Kenneth, crossing the hall with
her. His belief in the death of the officer, and that
he was in danger of arrest, had made him so reckless
in resolving to defend the castle. The news brought
by Hilda put a new face on the matter. c ' ,

The brief dialogue and movement Loi but a
ee ere they went out followed by several
others.

Herrick approached the young girl, and ordered
Gregory to leave them. The man scowled wrath-
7 but he obeyed. yi

e scared look had not left Alicia’s face. The
young aan gently led her to a chair.

“T know —s. of this,” he muttered. ‘‘ When
you are recovered, lady, you will tell me how you
came here.”

The frightened

_strange scene.

1 looked wildly around her; then
piteously at Herrick, clasping her hands. ~

“Oh, Herrick!” she sobbed. ‘You are our kins-
man! You willsave me! You will save mel!”

CHAPTER VI.
THE PRICE OF LIBERTY.

Kewvyerta and the housekeeper, with two of his fol-
lowers, proceeded at once to the room to which Mat-
lin had been taken as a prisoner.

It was a large apartment, used for lumber and
household stores, and bare of furniture. The win-
dows were narrow slits, high up in the stone wall;
there was but one door, and that had been securely
locked by the chief’s orders.

The ponderous key was produced, and the door
wasthrown open. Kenneth snatched the torch from
one of his men and went in,

He flashed the light to and fro, till every portion
of the room was brought into view.

It_was eotizely: empty!

“He was not brought here,’’ said the chief, an-

a was brought here; I can swear to it,” said
one of the men; “to this very room.”

 

“T saw him put in,” added Hilda, “and the door
fast locked outside.” : :
“But, woman, you see for yourself he’s not here,”
testily growled the chief,

stood irresolute and agitated

on one
‘over a trap-door. Herrick stooped and

 

“ And he could not have gotten forth,” added the
dame, embarrassed what to think.

“Search the other rooms,” thundered Kenneth, in
a rage at the disappearance of the prisoner he came
to liberate.

Not a trace of the seer could be found in any of
the rooms. The wonder was great, and several
avowed their belief that Mat was a wizard.

“*How else could he go forth?” suggested Hilda,
“*w*? ne’er a window to put his head through!”

The confusion in the castle and around it left no
time for conjecture or eae The soldiers
were outside; and they had demanded admittance in
the king’s name.

Gregory, who was spokesman in the absence of
Kenneth, responded by requiring to know what had
brought them at that hour to invade the dwelling of
aman who had given no cause for a show of vio-
lence against him.

The leading officer of the troops rode within speech
of Gregory, who stood upon one of the balconies. He
said he and his men had been summoned and sent
to the assistance of the revenue men, who had re-

orted the capture of their commander. He had

een missing since before dusk, and was supposed to
be held a prisoner in the castle. He must be in-
stantly released, or the. attack would be made to
force an entrance and deliver the captive.

Kenneth came forward at this jo and loudly
declared that no prisoner was held within the castle;
and that no enemy should be admitted to search.

There was a stunning clamor of voices at this; the
soldiers shouting that they did not believe him, and
calling their comrades to the rescue; the adherents
of Kenneth giving orders, and running to and froin
wild disorder. The chief’s orders to bolt and barri-
cade the entrances were obeyed, and preparations
were hurriedly made to resist the attack. In vain
some of the men urged that the soldiers be per-
mitted to make the search and then retire; it was
answered that they claimed the right also to quarter
themselves all night, and make a search for smug-
gled stores on the morrow, perhaps to arrest the
whole household as suspected participants. There
was no limit to the freedom claimed by a body of
soldiers in possession; and a man’s own house was
his stronghold.

In the midst of the wild disorder Hilda made her
way to Kenneth, and laid hold of hisarm. He turn-
ed quickly; the woman’s face was white as death,
and her lips trembled; she had some evil news to
communicate. She gasped, almost breathless, in her
master’s ear:

“He is dying; he will be dead ere dawn; save
yourself !”’ ;

“Speak plainly, woman, or else stand aside!” was
the hasty response.

“The lad, Malcolm—he came from Mat, the

s

“What of him? Has the devil carried him off?
Why canna ye speak out?”

“The man who fell frae the cliff; Mat took him
home. He is hurt to the death. ‘Twill sune be
known, if ’tis not a’ready! Master, master, save
yourself! Leave the castle! the storm is ‘bating; I
will pull the boat round, and fetch ye wi’ the dawn;
ye can hide in the cave! There is a vessel nigh the
coast at anchor.”

She poured forth her entreaties with frenzied earn-
estness; and Kenneth saw at once the danger in
which he stood. His stubborn will, however, forbade
him to yield.

we not fly, nor hide, this night!” he cried,
Tati “J will hold the castle tilldawn, and then
baffle them! Where is Herrick?”

Hilda wrung her hands in terror and anguish. Bet-
ter than life she loved_her master, and to find him
so foolhardy tortured her.

“*Herrick! I will find him! He may persuade ye,
Sir semen) Wae is me, he heeds not words of
mine

Turning, she sped from the place in search of
help, but staggered against the wall in horror at the
next sound that met her ears.

With his own hands Kenneth lighted the fusee of
the cannon on his ramparts. The roar shook the
castle, and though no harm resulted among the be-
siegers, the formidable sound created a panic, show-
oe their purpose would not be accomplished

ithout bloodshed and loss of life. The silence that
ensued was speedily followed by greater activity and
a ether uproar than ever among both the hostile

ies.
: Return we to the terrified Alicia. She heard the
clamor, the shouting, and the dire confusion, wilder
than the storm and the roar of the sea. It seemed
as if the old castle were tumbling about her ears.
She had sunk on her knees, and held her clasped
hands toward Herrick in agonized supplication. He
Fa emo-
tions. He knew his duty called to share the la-
bor and # pg of his father and kinsmen, rash and
misguided as he deemed them. Yet how could he
leave the fair girl thus imploring his help? Had not
his father, too, committed her to his charge?
“You will save me, Herrick?’ entreated the

maiden.

“What can I do?” stammered the youth.

“Take me home! Oh, take me to my father!
I was mad to leave home! Iwas headstrong. Oh,
en take me back, and I will bless your name

orever!””

Turning abruptly, the yo man went to the
door. ‘He found it fastened on the outside. He beat
violently upon it, and shouted the names of several
retainers. af

A voice answered him without: _.

“The castle is attacked by soldiers. Every man
is wanted on the ramparts!’

“Undo the door! ch of you dared bolt me in?
Call Hilda. Send Hilda hither/” he shouted,

“Oh, Herrick, take me away! I shall die if I stay
here!” shrieked the poor girl, more and more
arose See end sts tod 3 to the extreme

er er
end of the hall, There stood a massive cask full of
liquor; from which at meals_the men were accus-

tomed to draw full fegons. ie & peot’s Senet
the young man hurled this larger aud heavier
tba side. Ley atom

iron a narrow flight of

disclosing
‘stone steps. A rush of cold damp air came from the

opening.

directly -
an

== > =

 

 

ee

 

 
 

 

 

- and he will come with men to their or jy

’

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

5

 

 

e,” he said. ‘“‘It leads

that opens outside the
walls. You can go that way: e this torch to
guide your steps. You will find the outer door un-
barred; it is always kept so. When you are outside
nothing will hinder your flight.”

He put the torch into Alicia’s hand; he led her to
the steps down which she was to go. Alicia looked
up at him. He was struggling violently with emo-
tion; his right hand was clenched; his teeth were
set as in terrible determination.

; “And you—what will you do?” asked the girl.

“1? Oh, I will shut the trap-door, and replace the

cask to conceal your flight. Then I will batter down
‘ yon door, and go out to help my kinsmen, and die in
defense of the castle.”

Alicia’s feet were already on the grimy steps of
the passage. She shivered violent]
- cannot go alone!” she said.

me!’

aes — can I leave the castle when foes are besieg-
ing it?’

Sour father put me in your care, and locked the
door upon us. e does not want you. He would
send, if he did. I dare not go alone! Come, Herrick
= Se era

“What can harm you, alone? The storm is over
the country is quiet. All the fighting-men are here!”

“T should not know the way to my home, and it is
far!” moaned the girl, sobbing in terror.

“ At the nearest
rest, and a guide and horse when you list to pursue
the journey. Here is money; all the boors are
easily bribed.”

He offered a purse, which the girl refused to take.

“Tf you will not go with me,” she murmured, ‘T
shall die in this underground passage! It frightens
me but to look at it! I shall never come forth alive!
And you will perish, too, Herrick!
with me!” +

She stood on the topmost step and clasped his arm
= her white hand looking beseechingly in his

‘ace.

“Do you care for me Alicia?” he asked arnt

“Surely I do,” she answered. ‘You are my only
friend, Herrick!”

“ What will you do for me, Alicia, if for your sake
I desert my father in his hour of need?”

“Take me to my father, and he will send you help.
He wil serve you in all things.”

“What will yow do for me?”’

“T will bless you, Oh, Herrick! I will call you my
deliverer!””

** Will you love me, Alicia?”

“T do love you, cousin.”

“But not as Ilove you! You have long known—
Ne; must have: known—how madly I worship you!

would give the world, my life—my honor even—to
call you mine! Do not start; my father sent to cap-
ture you for the purpose of making you my wife—
ay, this night! But I would have no constraint; you
shall be free to choose. I might compel you to wed
me, but I love you too well for that, Alicia!”

“Oh, Herrick! you have a noble soul!’’

“Hear me now,” cried the a man, impetu-
ously. “I am ready to go with you, to forsake all;
to brand myself_as a traitor; to take you to your
father’s house! But you must promise to be my
wife! Will you promise that, Alicia?’

“Herrick, you have too grand a soul to profit by
my sore strait! Be generous—I implore you!”

— Po love me not! You scorn my suit,
proud girl! :

“TI do not scorn—I honor you. I am lost unless
you save me! Lap to your mercy.”

‘* Shall I save you for another suitor?”

His eyes glared; his lips were drawn; his face was
white as death.”

“You must answer me before I stir, girl,” he
gasped, releas' his arm from her feeble hold.

“You want me to save you—that you may wed an-
other!”

“Oh, no, no, no! Herrick!”

“Will you swear to marry me?”

“Oh, 1 cannot!”’

“will you swear to m

“ Mercy, mercy, Herrick!”

“By my ancestors, you shall swear, or I leave you
to perish! Hark to those wild shouts! Our men
have triumphed! They will be in here presently!
What will become of you?”

“Save me! Save me!”

“Will you swear to marry no man unless I give
you leave?”

“Twill! Iwill!”

“Swear then! by this sword! No, by your hopes
of heaven!” - : ae

“TI swear!’’ repeated the affrighted girl, falling on
her knees. he

“T-have your oath!” cried Herrick, exultingly.
‘You shall wed me, or no man! Now come!” s

He threw one arm around her waist. The cries
without were redoubled; but unheeding them, he
lifted her down the steps, closed the trap-door after
them and bolted it on the lower side,

Carry: the torch in one hand, and clasping the
almost-fainting maiden firmly with the other, he
—— the passage, and sped on swiftly, till the

oor beyond was reached. This he flung open with
some exertion of strength, and they stood in the
open air, outside.

A terrible scene burst on Herrick’s sight, amid the
clamor and shouting. Flames were rushing from
the upper windows of the castle.

CHAPTER VIL.
FATHER OBEYING SON.

Wrrs an exclamation of bitter self-reproach, Her-
rick struck his forehead. He had abandoned his
tather and his kinsmen to such a fate!

“Behold the secret Peon
by a winding way to a door

Come you with

You must come

no one else?”

 

“T must go!” he cried, hoarsely. ‘IT must go—to

die with them!” ;

“Herrick!” the girl shrieked, in terror.

“Look yonder!” he exclaimed. “The castle is on
— My boa has rushed on destruction—but I
m rish with him! ,

% You shall not go, to perish!” replied Alicia.
“Your kinsmen will escape. Take me tomy father,

“T must leave you at once, Alicia. I have been a

: traitor for love ou!” ‘

_ “The soldiers capture or kill ou!” .
“ Lou will not care, girl. You will be safe!”

‘arm-house you will find shelter, |

“How canI be, without your help? I dare not
take a step forward, in this darkness! Herrick, you
will not be so cruel as to leave me?”

Voices were heard at that moment, and approach-
ing steps. There was the gleam of a torch. Alicia
a ge a scream, and clung to her cousin.

en there was a swift rustling among bushes
near, and a dog sprung on the young man with a
whine of recognition. *

“Down, Snath! Where is your master?”

“T am here, lad!’ answered the deep voice of
poe the seer, and, torch in hand, he came close

0 them.

‘We may as wellinform the reader how the seer
made his escape from the strong room where he had
been imprisoned by the chief’s orders.

The windows were too narrow for egress; but the
wide chimney was open; and Mat was used to climb-
ing; and the dog too with his aid, Once on the to;
and outside the chimney, their descent was effecte
by means of the tall poplars. It needed but a leap

 

to clutch their branches. Matlin was safe and in
freedom while the master was searching for him.
_ Herrick knew nothing of this. But he was over- |
joyed to behold the seer. He bade him take charge
of his lady cousin, while he went back to the castle.
‘Nay, boy, ye may see for yoursel’ the danger is
past. The fire is nearly put out.”
He pointed to the windows, now utterly dark, from |
clouds of rolling smoke.
““ An’ hear ye na the music of the soldiers on the
| return?”
| ‘But my father—” }
| “If he is wise, he will leave the castle. Isent him |
| warning. he linger till daylight, ’twill be waur |
| for him.” |
“How is that?”
‘*The officer he wounded is like to die.”
“He wounded an officer?”
“Ay, of the revenue men, Sir Kenneth sought to
| capture him, and he fell frae the cliff. If he dies,
there will be murder to be answered for.”
Herrick stood a moment in a stupor of horror.
| “T must go to him at once!” he cried.
“Na—ye will hardly find ‘him. Hilda has warned
| him to flee.”
“But he will not; he is foolhardy. Here, take
| you the girl, and I willspeed tohim. You shall hear
from me anon.” 1
oe Come to my hut by the road, Ye’ll find us
ere.”
uss Go, Alicia; you are safe with Mat. I will re-
eo

He placed her beside the seer, and in a moment |
was lost to sight among the trees.

“*Come, lady,” said the old man, ‘‘Snath and I
will guard you safely!’

Alicia was weeping softly.

“Oh, my father!” she sobbed. ‘‘ How he will suf-
fer this night.” ;

She clung to Mat’s arm and went with him, the
dog bounding on before them.

 

 

Even as the two fugitives bolted the trap-door be-
hind them, the other door was thrown open, and
Hilda rushed in. She wasin search of Herrick, to |
help her in persuading his father to instant flight.

A single glance sufficed to show her the way of |
escape they had taken.

With a shriek of discovery she ran to her master.
and drew him into the hall. But no entreaties could
avail to induce him to take to the secret passage.
| He denounced Herrick as a traitor; he upbraided
him for cowardly flight when the foe was upon them;

 

he swore that he would die at the head of his house-
hold before he would surrender or escape.
Hilda ran to and fro in her despair. Then the |

flames burst out above; and ina new alarm, all the |
men were called to uish them and prevent the
entrance of the besiegers in the confusion.

The fire was subdued. The besiegers were order- |

ed to draw back, anda number retired toward the |
| village. The main force still commanded the gates,
so that none could issue without being intercepted.

It was determined to wait till dawn before prose-
cuting their search. Gregory, second in command
of Kenneth’s men, had a parley with the leader, and
' pledged his word that no opposition should be made
' at daylight to a peaceable search.

Thus some Segre of quiet was restored before
Herrick found his way back. Finding he could not
fie by the et gone eee besa of emrae.

e soldiers, he took the underground passage
| unbolted the trap, and got into the great hall, to
find it dark and silent, He rushed through the dif-
ferent rooms in search of his father.

The first he met was Sree ony, who demanded an
explanation of his absence. To him the youth re-
fused to oe it. But when Kenneth reproached
him, he told him of the yo girl he had placed in
| his charge, and his imperative dut;
| safety before returning, as he now did, to share the
fate of his kindred. 7

“And where is_ the girl?’ demanded Kenneth.
You have let her slip through your fingers, after all

m 2

% he is safe; cared for by the seer.”

‘Matlin! Hath the devil brought him back? How
got he forth from the castle?”

“ON know not. I met him near the copse,

 

 

*| and I bade him take care of the girl.”

|, “Youare a fool! She will escape ye! Ye should
| have wedded her the night.”
| ‘Nay, we are troth-plighted!”
“Say yeso? Then gi’e us your hand, boy. Such
a bride will bring ye dower to gild the barony, when
her father dies.
; 1 know nothing of that; nor do I care. I love
| the girl and mean to her. But, my father,
' you cannot stay here to abide the search that will
be made the morn.”
* Nae, that he canna; I ha’e told him so,” put in
Hilda, rn A She had just joined the group.
“ And why not?” asked the chief. :
“Because,” whispered Herrick, leaning to his ear,
. “because it will then be known that the officer they
deem a captive is not here, but lies dead at the hut
_ of Matlin the seer.” :
| “Lies dead!”” Kenneth’s pale lips echoed.
oe ;.and you must be far from this coast; for
it will be known that he met his death at your

 

| beneath it,

| way hee he other room before she answered,

 

Hilda and G joined their entreaties.
iso t coast; you can be on board |

   
 

before the dawn. It is your only means of escape.
If they arrest you—” pleaded Herrick.

“And you, boy? and you?” the chief questioned—
glancing from his son to Gregory.

“*T will "bide in the castle,”’ answered the latter.

“You will go—with your betrothed—to the Baron
of Swinton?” asked Kenneth of his son,

** Aye, or anywhere,’’ he answered, “risa 5

“Ye maun gae there!” cried Hilda. ‘‘ Wi’ the
fair damsel to speak for ye—”

“T want no one to speak for me!” was the young
man’s rejoinder.

““Weel—weel—I'll_ be content, so ye are wi’ the
maiden, and I’ll wish ye sy 0 your wedding when I
come back!’ laughed the chief,

He then prepared for flight. Hilda had already
prepared the necessaries of ‘food and clothing, and
two of the men were waiting to carry them. Gre-
gory promised to fulfill every command to the let-
ter; to keep the men at the castle, and to communi-
cate with the chief from time to time at the sea-
coast town_in France where he was _ to fix his
residence. Herrick took leave of his father, who
would not hear of his going with him, and promised
to return to his fair cousin, the instant he departed,

No one but Hilda and the two servants, Kenneth
said, should go with him to the beach, for fear of
exciting the suspicions of prowling soldiers.

They went by the secret passage, and Herrick,
with Gregory’s help, replaced the cask. No one
would have suspected the existence of an opening

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE NEW GUEST.
Herrick found a way out of the castle by a door
in the rear, and eluded the vigilance of the party of

| soldiers on the watch. The moon was set, and the
| night was very

dark. He went round to reconnoiter

the force, before leaving the vicinity of the castle.
At the road leading to the dell he met Hilda return-

ing; and from her he learned that his father had

| already embarked. He questioned her closely re-

specting the occurrence on the cliff, and cautioned
her against speaking of the matter; a caution quite
unnecessary. It was through Matlin’s revelations
in ‘‘the vision”’ that anything had become known to
Kenneth’s friends.

Then the young man turned his steps to the woody
ravine where stood the seer’s dwelling,

There was ae glimmering from the windows
of the hut; but was silent. Not even the dog was
to be heard, keen as he was to note the approach of
a ae Herrick lifted the latch softly and en-
tered.

The outer room, or kitchen, was untenanted. He
passed on to an interior room, the door of which
stood open,

Alicia sat beside a couch, on which lay the form
ofaman. She was bending over the white face and
wiping the forehead with a cloth. Hearing foot-
steps, she hastily turned, sprung up, and gave a
little cry of surprise.

“ Alicia!” said the young man, “how is it that
you are alone here? here is Matlin?”

She glanced at the man on the bed, and led the

is gone to Sir George Vaughan’s. I en-

treated him. I must not stay here, you know, Sir |

an or Lady eee will send for me,”
“Why send there for aid?”

“Tt is too far to Stone Crag.”

“Did I not promise you to return, and take you
thither?”

“But I knew not when, Herrick, and the time
seems long; oh, very long.”

‘“Who is on room?’

‘A man sick—wounded—nigh unto death.”

“ His name, girl?”

“IT do not know it. Matlin said he had brought
him hither for nursing and medicines. He is too ill
to know any one; and I have been doing what I could
to soothe his ys

Herrick went back into the room and bent over
the sleeper, examining his clothes.

“Tt is the same, I verily believe,” he muttered.
“The man who was bruised by—the fall from the
cliff—as Hilda said.” :

“Yes, it is the same,” replied the girl, who had
followed her cousin.

i uttered an exclamation of intense thank-

ess.

“He is not dead.”

“No, surely not.” ‘

“They said he was lying dead. The knaves! Will
helive? Will he recover?”

“ How canI tell? I have sat by him an hour, and
still he slumbers.” j

The young man felt the pulse, and placed his hand
on the chest. Tho beats were feeble, but regular,
and often laboreu, Beads of sweat stood on the
marble forehead, and Alicia again wiped them off.

‘He has had an opiate?” said Herrick.

“The seer gave him a draught to ease his pain.
When he wakes, I am to give him a teaspoonful of

this,” and she took a vial from the table.

‘*He must have another leech. I will go for one.”
He must not die.”

There was a sound of voices without, the barking
of a dog, and the tramping of horses.

Alicia started up in wild affright.

“Oh, Herrick, if those should be enemies!
has had no time to reach Sir George’s house!
me! Shield me!”

She clung to her cousin in mortal fear.
‘ ™ a Snath’s bark!’ he answered. ‘ Matlin is

ere

The seer’s ae voice was indeed heard mingled
with others, as the outsiders came nearer. One
voice more impatient than the others struck on the
maiden’s ear. "

“My father!” she shrieked, rushing forward into
the arms of the foremost of the new-comers.

“My child! My own Alicia!” cried the Baron of
Swinton, clasping his recovered daughter to his
breast, with tears of joy.

Matlin, and two or three men who had come with
the baron, entered at the same moment.

“How came you hither so soon, dear papa?”
asked Alicia, trembling with emotion, and clasping
A aes and in both her own. ‘How did you

me ’

Mat
Hide

“Donald came home in wretched case, and
frightened well-nigh to death, my child, with news

:

”

SS ES rel
  
 

FOO ne eet hay a eee etn

nc eg ahi od

Sl gee eee

_ hot leave ye, girl; trust to me for that.

6

 

LADY HELENS VOW.

 

of your capture, and the slaying of your horse, by
an armed soldier at the head of a force.”

“Oh, father! there was but one; he wounded my
brave Merlin, and carried me off.”

“Donald was a cowardly slave, to let you be cap-
tured, and seek his own safety. He lies in the dun-
geon for it! It took not many minutes, as you'may
guess, to mount and scour the country in search of
you. We thought, from the craven’s talk of armed
men, that a oo, of lawless soldiers had taken my
daughter, e rode on to Vaughan’s, and he has a
party in search also. We have scoured the coast
and were making for the castle, to see if aught ha
been heard by Kenneth’s people, when ‘we fell in
with this worthy man, who brought such news as
gave new life to my old heart! It would have died
within me if I had lost ye, my daughter.”

The girl’s white arms went round her father’s
neck, while she briefly narrated her adventure, and
reception at the castle. She made no mention of
aught but kindness. The castle was besieged by
soldiers, and she had been wofully terrified; but her
cousin Herrick had saved her; had brought her
forth in safety; and given her in charge to the seer,
who brought her to his hut, and had gone for ie
at his entreaty. The baron acknowledged the kind-
ness of both Matlin and Herrick, by grasping the
hand of each, and thanking them.

“And you have no chiding for your wayward
daughter,” she murmured, ‘whose obstinate self-
will brought this trouble upon you, dear papa?”’

“‘T shall not trust her from my sight in future!”
the father exclaimed.

Then he gave orders to his attendants to see to
their horses.

““My brave Merlin!” eried Alicia. “No one has
seen to him! He was wounded by the ruffian who
seized me.” .

She described the road as well as she could re-
member, and begged that the men might be sent to
care for her favorite,

“No horse was in mo as we passed over the
ground,”’ answered her father. ‘‘ Merlin has recov-
ered his legs and gone home at the best of his speed.
We must follow him now.”

“Ye go not hence to-night!’’ cried Matlin. “Send
on your followers, an ye list, but the leddyis tired
enough. Here is a couch,” and he threw open a
door at the end of the kitchen. ‘“ Let her rest, while
we wait for the dawn by the fire. Nay—I crave your
help, Sir Baron, for one that needs it sair; the
wounded officer yonder.”

The baron was pleased with the suggestion, and
bade his daughter take the needed repose. “I will
James and
Warnock may ride home with news of your safety;
for Margaret is well-nigh frantic; and Alleck may
fetch a surgeon for our host’s sick friend. Away
with ye, lads. Herrick and I will keep watch by the

While he examined his weapons, the men dispers-
ed to do his bidding; and Matlin brought out skins,
which he threw over a wooden settle and signed to
his elder guest to use it as a bed. But Swinton chose
to watch. Herrick walked restlessly to and fro;
sometimes going out into the night air and recon-
noitering the neighborhood; sometimes stooping
over the bed on which the officer lay, and ste otie
to hear his breathing. Many times he questione:
Mat to know what he thought of his chance for life,
but received no satisfactory answer.

It was dawn before the messengers returned; and
the sun was flooding the east with crimson and gold,
when the surgeon arrived. He made aclose exami-
nation of the injured man, who by this time had
awakened, and was able to speak.

“He has had a narrow escape,” was his answer to
young Herrick, who questioned him eagerly.’ ‘I
canna say yet if he will win throughit. His ribs
were broken in the accidental fall, and his strength
is sair spent.”

“Tt was nae accident,” moaned the sufferer, with
all the energy he could command. “The man
meant to slay me.”

‘What man, d’ye say?”

“The auld man, with the white hair, and flowi
beard. He was like yon lad ”—pointing to Herrick
—‘‘but he was aulder.”’

‘Sir Kenneth?’’ muttered the su: n.

“Kenneth Maur!” echoed the ‘on.
dreaming, man. He is no assassin!”

Herrick gave his noble cousin a grateful look.
ate man continued to moan: “ He did it! he

it!’

The pe rd interfered with an order for him to
be quiet. He bandaged the man’s side, then admin-
istered a sedative, with some light nourishment.

lin and one of the attendants had pre

breakfast. It was laid in the kitchen; of
savory venison with rashers of bacon, bread and
coffee. The men partook heartily of the good cheer.
The seer was lamenting that he had no woman to
wait on the bonnie leddy, when the door of the small
bedroom opened, and Alicia came forth, le but
much refreshed by her slumber and a partial bath
in the basin of water provided. She embraced her
father, wished a good-morning to Herrick and Mat-
lin, and caressed Snath, the dog, who had learned
already to fawn on her.

it was time to be moving. The horses were ready.
The baron gave Herrick a pressing invitation to re-

fire, here.”

“Ye’re

_ turn with them to Stone tana remain there.

“It should be your home, lad,” he said; “for you
are of my own blood, and must wear the title some
day. Ihave longed to doa kinsman’s part by you;
why not let it be now?”

“Come with us, Herrick,” the maiden added.
He looked earnestly in her face, and a flush rose
to his brow.

sees seer gave his counsel for the youth to accept
e offer.

“The castle is nae your place now,” said he,
‘when the chief is gane.”

“But I must go there first,” the young man said,
“They may want me yet.”

“Go, then, boy, and come to us the night,” added
the baron. ‘“‘ We will expect you ere sunset.”

It was thus settled. As the youth took his leave,
his lingering cts mes on the maiden’s face. Her

gral regard

 

lng Seti cote oe can eae
walkin Wi e castle en the
rour tod on oo of the men’s ho was iting
Lomeward by her father’s side.

 

luau.z, having received a liberal fee for his hospi-

i

’

 

 

tality, busied himself with the sick man, and soon
had the hut to himself.

It was like returning after a victory to the youth-
ful maiden to be welcomed so warmly. Margaret
had come up from her mother’s cottage to receive
her, and. wept tears of joy at her safety, and of sym-
pathy at the story of her adventures.

Merlin was found at his stables, much the worse
for his loss of blood, but well cared for by the host-
tler. The first visit his mistress paid was to her pet
steed, and his eyes brightened at sight of her, and
at the touch of her caressing hand. ;

The baron gave orders for the best:horse to be sad-
dled and sent to the castle for his kinsman’s use in
Condit and for one of the best rooms to be pre-

ared for his occupancy. An attendant was agen

ispatched, on another steed to seek Herrick, and
attend him to his new home.

“For he must not leave us again,”’ he said to his
daughter. ‘‘That battered old den by the sea-
coast, half-ruined as it is, is uninhabitable for civi-
lized creatures. And after what has happened,
Kenneth will have to stay beyond seas.”

“Do you really believe he was guilty of violence
to that poor officer?” asked the girl.

““Who knows? Aslike as not. Kenneth was aye
too ready with his fist and his sword. aney a
scuffle, it islikely. They say ‘the chief,’ as they call
him, had a bullet-wound in his shoulder; *tis not like
him to let his enemy escape. If the man dies he
wate hanged for his murder, an he ventures

ack.

Alicia gave a shudder of horror.

“The lad is best off here. I have tried to give him
better training, years ago; now he must_do my bid-

i This smuggler’s life is not for kinsman of
mine. I want a young fellow of my own blood to
be in place of my steward; and you would like a
brother, eh, Alicia?” .

“But Herrick has wild ways, papa.”

“ As any other savage! e must learn to curb his
headstrong will and unruly spirit. I will tame, and
you must refine him, my sweet daughter.”

Alicia sighed as she thought how hopeless a task
that was like to be. :

The baron’s orders were executed while his daugh-
ter retired to her own apartments for change of
dress and the refreshment of sleep to make up what
she had lost during the night. argaret was with
her when she awoke, The housekeeper and servants
had put in order two other suits of rooms for ex-
pected guests,

“Come and see them,” said Margaret. “‘ They are
curiously alike, and they communicate through the
dressing-rooms, The nearest the rear is for your
cousin, Herrick Maur. Ah, dear friend and sister,
who knows what views your father has for that for-
tunate young man!”

Alicia looked at her in piringly.

“He is to be the heir; he is the adopted son and
brother. Is it not so?”

“Ay, Margaret. It has been my father’s wish
since I was a child. He wanted to take Herrick un-
der his care when but a boy, running wild through
the ay: robbing seabirds’ nests, and risking his
life in rough ventures. But his father would never
Pe Be has tip earth g, and kn Lt of th

e has no , aly ows naught of the arts
of civilized life.”

“Not much. My father would have sent him to
the best university in England,”

“Too late now.’

“But he is skilled in sports of the field; and papa
has a passion for those, you know.’

inet dear, your father will enjoy the youngster’s
society.

“Therefore he is welcome.”

“And in time, the baron may look upon him, the
last of his line, as a fitting mate for his daughter.”

“Nay, Margaret, you go too far. Scarce two days
since you were predicting a different fortune for
me,”’ said Alicia. ing to her mirror to let down
her beautiful hair.

““What is the proverb about the wooer on the spot
faring better than the one who is not—meaning not
at hand?” asked Margaret.

“Spare me your proverbs, [implore you.”

“And sit ye down, while I your rebellious
locks, sweet foster-sister! You know there is naught
unlikely in my fancy

“You shall talk thus of no young man who is to
be_our guest, Margaret!” cried the girl, offended.
“Herrick saved my life yesterday; rescued me
when I had no chance of succor; left his kinsmen to
lead me to safety! I will receive him as an own
brother! You shall not set me against him with
your silly gossip.”

“Oh, pardon me, Alicia.” :

“Know you, girl, for what guest the other suit of
rooms is prepared?”

“For a visitor from London.” -

The maiden started and let fall her handkerchief,
As she stooped to yg it, her face was crimson to
her sunny brown curls.

Margaret smiled as she noted this, but forbore to
tease her.

“I think you have never seen Sir Victor Wilder,”
she said, demurely, while she brushed her friend's
hair, and wound the ringlets round her er.

Alicia repeated the name and shook her head.

** A letter came last evening from him, and the
baron gave orders for the front apartments to be

made ready,
“Ts he a hun baronet?” asked Alicia.
“T cannot tell; but I think not. There was no talk

of hounds, Perhaps the comes to hunt hearts, fair

lady?”

The young girl held up her finger reprovingly.

“ Your mind is aye running on wooers and suitors,
Margaret. Pray talk of something else.”

“What is there of such interest to a couple of
lassies, to whom the sight of a young gentleman is a
rare treat? Fie, Alicia, your indifference is affected!
You—a beautiful young maiden, the only child of a
doting father, the only hope of an ancient house,
with blue blood in your v and muckle siller to
your dower—”

“Have done, foolish wench.” *

“That you should scorn the very mention of new
suitors! ty life upon it, the two gallants who are
to occupy your lordly chambers, will be dra’
swords for your favor before the moon has waned
to a crescent.” : et

“They will have more wit, be sure, and I will have

3

 

| more sense than to be won by the victor ina bloody

contest! But I am curious about this Sir Victor.
1, 38 it that my father has never mentioned

im?

“Out of sight out of mind! He was in London.
His Mpeg so far north must have an object, and
what can that be but to woo the lovely heipess? ‘Hast
ever been in London, sweetheart?”

‘Never. My father half-promised to take me there
this season.”

“You should be presented at court! Such a sen-
sation as your beauty would create! When you go,
love, let me be your tirewoman and your secretary,
to answer the love-billets that will be sure to come
like a cloud.”’

“Tush, girl!” Alicia started up and ran to the
window.

““Who has come?”’ she asked, eagerly.

“One of the knights! Hark!”

The noise and trampling of horses came up like a
tempest from the court below. Voices: of servants
running hither and thither; the voice of the baron
giving orders, the clanging of the gates, the opening
and shutting of doors, and the general confusion be-
tokened an arrival of unusual consequence.

CHAPTER. IX.
THE YOUNG MARQUIS OF ESTONBURY.

BrroreE the town-house of the Marquis of Eston-
bury, in Piccadilly, along array of mourning car-
riages was drawn up.

e exterior of the noble mansion, half-shrouded
with ivy, bore the usual tokens of mourning for the
great in the realm; and within, solemn funereal state
prevailed. The spacious apartments. were hung
with black, and the servants wore badges of crape.
It was the day appointed forthe removal of the
remains of the distinguished peer to the family
vault at Estonbury Court.

The body had lain in state several days, and was
still in its casket in the room where it awaited the
last removal. Near it, looking upon the attendants
busy here and there, but absorbed in painful thought,
stood a young man of fine figure and_ strikingly
handsome Saxon features. Several of the servants
addressed him as ‘‘my lord;’? and he wore the

epest mourning. He was the only son of the de-
ceased peer, and was now invested with his title and
pogegestane: Universal deference was shown him;

ut he seemed unconscious of everything but his
own grief, and unable to tear himself away from the
vicinity of the inanimate body of his father.

A young gentleman at last came in, took him by
the arm and led him into the hall. But even the
whispered consolations of his most intimate friend
had no effect in soothing the bitter sorrow of the
bereaved son. ®

We will not linger over the solemn preparations
for the conveyance of the body to the ancestral seat
of the marquis, where lay the ancestors of a long
line of ‘nobles. These last preparations had been
delayed by the temporary illmess of the marchion-
ess.

As soon as she was able, she expressed her desire
to set forth for the performance of the last duties to
the departed. The entire household. was to accom-
pany her; for it was her ladyship’s intention to re-
main at ‘‘ Estonbury Court” during the summer.

When the carriage waited, in which Lady Eston-
bury was to. take the journey, the RONG makanls
— up to her apartments to offer her his escort

own.

It was a magnificent boudoir, hung with costly
paintings and draperies of damask satin. The oaken
paneling was time-stained, but the window curtains
and upholstery were modern in luxurious splendor.
It was the lady’s fancy to surround herself ;with all
that could please the eye. Carpet, cushioned sofas
and seats covered with damask satin wrought in rare
patterns of embroidery, were to match with the
ae folds of the window ee Tables of
the finest {marble held vases of fresh flowers and
articles of vertu. This boudoir opened into a dress-
ing-room furnished as superbly; and the bedcham-

ber was beyond it. 2 :
Lady Easton! sat at an Indian pr iinesdesk,
having just finished writing aletter. She was
and slender in form, middle-aged, and bore the
traces of great beauty; though her strongly-marked
and haughty features could not now be pronounced
attractive. There was a steely hardness in her eyes,
and a coldness about her fir -chiseled mouth that
gare the impression of intellectual force rather
eeling. 7

She was dressed for the journey,,in widow's
mourning, and held a smelling-bottle in one hand,
which she frequently ee to her nostrils. A

On the other side of the room sata young gir
looking at a miniature which she had just fasten
to a gold chain depending from her belt. She was
slight in form, and might be thought plain in fea-
tur®, but had expressive gray eyes, soft with tender
feeling, and the color came into her pale cheeks
whenever she was moved, Her brown hair was
arted and gathered behind in a knot, and fastened
Pip, golden comb of the style worn by wealthy
Englis

 

maidens. She too wore the deepest mourn- .

ing.
"She looked up as the door opened, and rose from
her seat as the young marquis entered, putting the
miniature in her bosom.

The young man did not speak to her, though his
lance met hers for an instant. He crossed the room
© his mother.

Lady Estonbury looked up, and frowned.

Re Inala took her hand, and stooped to kiss her
chee! ‘ but she repelled him with something like
aversion.

It was no new thing for the yo man tobe cold-
ly treated, and even repulsed, by_the bapebiy, lady.

‘e could not remember that she had ever towed,
a warm caress upon him, except on one occasion.
That was when he had plunged into the river, and at
the risk of his own life saved a little girl from
drowning. That little girl was the one who now stood
in the room.

Coldness, therefore did not surprise the yo
marquis. He attributed it to the wasting grief o!
the bereaved wife.‘ He soothed her with words of
tender affection, and protestations of his devotion to
her, as both his duty and his heart prompted.

The mother interrupted his fond words with man-
ifest impatience. She declined his escort down-
stairs, and bade him “ take Helen;” while her maid

 

 

aN

 

 

 

  
 

bie tet ca

 

 

 

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

f

 

=e

 

wrapped her India shawl around her, and put on
her mourning bonnet with its long crape vail.

Obedient to her wish, Reginald turned to the
young lady, bowed to her courteously, but with re-
serve, and gave her hisarm, She blushed crimson
as she took it to go out.

Lady Estonbury having descended, stepped into
her carriage but waved back her son, when he was
about to follow her.

“Helen, I want you,” she called to her compan-

_ ion; and Reginald, in some displeasure, drew. back

| to allow the girl to enter, and take her place beside
his mother. Her ladyship bade him take another
carriage, and with a silent bow he obeyed her.

“She might have overcome her unnatural dislike
of me for once, on an occasion like this,” he
thought. ‘‘ Little kindness has she ever shown me!’

Again he gave way to his feelings, and wept the
bitter tears that manhood weeps, for the loss of the

arent who had ever made him the idol of his affec-
ions.

Frank Ralston, his most favored friend, was with
him, having accepted his urgent invitation to stay
some days at Estonbury Court. Frank was the son
of a Scottish laird, and had spent much time with
Reginald during his visit to the Highlands. He
Row put forth his best efforts to soothe and console

‘im.

After their arrival at the Court the funeral cere-
monies took place. As before, Frank endeavored to
console his friend,

The usual commonplaces of the duty of a young
nobleman to imitate his father’s virtues, to honor
his memory by great deeds rather than waste his
health and energies in grieving for him, etc., were
exhausted. Suddenly the marquis said:

“T am sensible, mk, that my indulgence of
grief appears selfish; but—”

“Oh, no, Reginald! I did not say that!’’

**But I feel that it does. Still, if you knew what I
have lost you would not blame me.”

“How can you think I blame you?”

“T ought to _ if you knew how little I have
left. You will say I havea mother. Do not mothers
love their children, Frank?”

“Certainly, There is no love like a mother’s!”

**Mine has never loved me. That is why I feel so
bitterly the loss of a father who adored me.”

‘Lady Estonbury is not different from other wo-
men. She does love you; but she is not demonstra-
tive in her feelings.” _

“She has no affection for me. She never had.
She has always repelled me, when I sought for some
tokens of love.”

“Many aristocratic dames are too proud to show
their feelings, Reginald. Calmness, even to stoicism
is the fashion, you know.”

“Tt is not that. She loves the young girl whom
she has taken for a companion, I have seen her
proud eyes fill with tears when she looked at her;
and she makes her her constant companion.”’

“Who is that young girl?”

“*The daughter of my father’s under steward.”

“Thave noticed that her ladyship seems fond of
her,’’ said Frank, ‘‘ Ladies often take such fancies
to a hired companion.”

“She bas been roe aa favorite since she was
a child. You see that she is made quite a member
of the family.”

“She has a very ladylike appearance and man-
ner.”

“Yes. Sheis well enough; but I think it a weak-
ness of my mother to take the child of a servant for
a pet. She has adopted her for her daughter, I un-
derstand.”

“Ts it ee :

** So Chisholm, her father, told me, with his dia-
bolical grin, At least, he declared his lady meant
to do so formally. The wretch knew he could gall
me by telling me of it.” °
“It is singular, certainly. But you must not al-
low your mind to be disturbed, Reginald. I have
h of such things before.”

“Tf the girl were a lady by birth it would not be
so strange.”

**You are not jealous, surely!”

“No, not jealous; but I wish my lady mother had
better taste. I could bring her a righ young crea-
ture she might be proud to call daughter.”

“Ah, you wrote me, old fellow, of your beauty of
the Scottish mountains. How fared you with her?”
cried Ralston, glad: to change the subject of his
friend’s discontent. a

“Thad to come aoe without leave-taking,” an-
swered the young lord with a sigh. He went on:
**When do you return, Frank? Excuse an inhospit-
able question.”

“Tam ‘due’ in a week.”

“Then you must accept my company.”

“With all my heart.”

“Tshall go madif I stay here! And I must see
again the girl who has charmed me! With that an-
fel by my side, Frank, I could meet the sorrows of

‘e with true courage!” :

“Never despond! What have you to do with sor-
Lie Soe rich and noble? Have you ‘told your

ove?’

“Not xe But I go on that errand. Wish me
good luck, Frank!”

“T do, heartily. It will be a day of rejoicing when
you bring home a fair wife to Estonbury Court!”

“Nay, she has not accepted me. Your good wishes
may be et ed

“You have not to fear, Pll warrant me! You
have much to offer, Reginald.”

“T would not seek the love of a young girl who
could think of wealth and rank as an inducement to
accept me.” ‘

“T was not thinking of them. Your personal
qualities—your noble character—are what might win
any maiden’s heart.”

hey were in the library at the Court, the day
Peo oe funeral, when the foregoing conversation
too Ce.

Before Reginald could answer, the steward, Chis-
holm, came with some papers to solicit his attention.
Ralston could not but notice his insolence of manner
tohis lord. This was habitual to him; but hitherto
the marquis had been too absorbed to pay any
heed to it. Now, he looked ee in surprise at the
man’s audacity, and calmly ordered him out of his

ee I shall discharge him to-morrow,” he said, quiet-

er

c

 

** And I fear he meditates some trick to vex you
more than ever!” was Frank’s response.

CHAPTER X.
A DOWAGER’S PROTEGEE.

REGINALD did as he had resulved. He gave orders
for the steward to attend him in his morning-room
next day, and there informed him that he should
dispense with his services, at the end of the month.

“T need not give my reasons,”’ he added.

‘You need not, my lord,’’ answered the man, with
the sardonic grin that had so often displeased his
master, and an indescribable insolence of tone. “TI
have expected this whenever you should come into
power. My wife goes with me, I suppose?”

“She will do so, naturally.”

“But your lordship ’—with alow bow that strong-
ly savored of mockery, and his accustomed leer—
“will not take it upon yourself to dismiss your lady
mother’s confidential attendant?”

_ “Tshall dismiss whom I please, without consult-
ing you; be assured of. that,” answered the youn
nobleman, chafed more than he cared to acknowl-
edge by the man’s cool vag cay “Tt is not my in-
tention to make changes in the household; but I will
not tolerate any want of respect.”

“So long as your lordship has a right to command
it, you ought to exact your due,” the man said, his
dark, wrinkled face distorted with an evil sneer.

There was an ominous emphasis in his words,
which moved themarquis to demand what he meant;
but on reflection he only waved his hand, in token
that the steward should leave him.

Chisholm was a middle-aged man, tall, bony, and
thin in form, with a face on which the evil passions
of greed, envy and malice had left their ineffaceable
stamp. His complexion was swarthy, and his black
hair, slightly grizzled, hung over his forehead in
bushy masses, while his beard, of growth.as thick,
almost concealed his chin. His eyes were deep-set,
piercing, and intensely black, with a furtive glance
that betrayed a mind never altogether at ease. The
deep wrinkles in his foreh and cheeks gave
him the appearance of being older than he was in
reality; yet he could certainly be pronounced forty-
five at least. :

There had always been something strange in his
demeanor toward the young heir of the house, re-
strained, however, by fear in some degree, so Yong
as the old marquis lived. : Since his death no sympa-
& or kindness had caused the suppression of the
rebellious or hostile feeling that seemed to exist to-
ward his young master.

He had received all orders either with impertinent
indifference or with a sneering affectation of hu-
mility, annoying to his lord, even while he gave no
thought to its possible cause, or to ridding
of a servant so obnoxious. Now that he had spoken
his mind for once, Reginald wished to think no more
of the subject.

‘“*T have but a word to say,” added the man, as he
shuffled toward the door.

“*Tt is your lordship’s will that I go at the end of
the current month. It is my will that I do it at the
end of this week.”

inald answered:
as henever you please. Now you will leave the

room,

Chisholm glared at him, and an angry fire leaped
from his eyes.

“The young viper,” he muttered under his
breath; but he quailed before the firm command in
the eyes of his master, and hurried from the room.

The young man felt more disturbed than he quite
understood. There seemed a mystery in the evi-
dent malignity of the man, which it pained his gen-
erous heart to see in of his dependents, It was
his wish to be kind and indulgent to all his house-
hold. He could easily provide himself with another
steward; indeed Chisholm was but a subordinate to
the general steward of the estate, whose business it
would be to fill his Sa But how would it be with
Lady Estonbury, who might resent having her fa-
vorite maid taken from her at her husband’s de-

 

| parture?

It was a relief to take two hours’ gallop with
Frank Ralston. They returned in time for lunch,

Reginald could see that his mother had been in-
formed of the steward’s issal. She met him
with looks colder and haughtier than ever. But
she did not allude in words to what had passed.

The young peer a the afternoon in writing let-
ters, and in a quiet ramble with his friend. ey
talked of Scotland and the intended journey thither.
In the discourse concerning the wondrous scener:
of the Highlands, Reginald’s heart expanded. Their

lans were formed. After the young lover’s visit to

tone Crag, they would have an equestrian tour
through the wildest of the mountain passes, nee
ing beside the lochs so famed in ballad_minstrelsy.
The summer would close with a trip in Estonbury’s
a among the islands off the northern coast. In

he autumn, if fortune crowned his love-suit with

rosperity, Reginald would take his friend to Stone

rag, bear er ted lovely bride for a lengthen-
ed tour on the Continent. A winter in Italy, and the
happiness he anticipated with some tremulous fear
of failure, would restore his spirits and courage to
enter on the duties, social and political, which his
exalted rank imposed.

Alas that the purest aspirations of the noble heart
should be at the mercy of the wicked to crush and
mar them! That the resolutions of the brave, the
upright, and the true, should be thwarted by cruel
fate, which no energy could have power to change!

The evening of the day previous to that fixed for
the departure of the es men arrived.

They were to go t to London, for the transac-
tion of necessary business with Lord Estonbury’s
solicitors, and a farewell visit of young Ralston
with some of his college friends. That would detain
them but two or three days from the projected ex-
cursion, anticipated with the eagerness of ardent
youth, and the anxiety of hopeful love.

Chisholm had taken his departure. — had
offered to give him a reference as to his ability and
fidelity to business, which would be useful in pro-
curing another situation. But the man declined it
with his usual sneer. He could easily find employ-
ment; he was not, in fact, dependent on his wits or
his labor; he had those who had an interest in look-
ing after him, as his lordship might learn some time;
it was not all of the noble family he had served so
long who were ungrateful, etc.

 

Reginald assured him he was rejoiced to hear that
his prospects were so good. He would be glad to
remember his past services, and do aught in his
power for him should he need it hereafter.

“Oh, as to that,”’ the man replied, ‘‘it is not likely
I shall ever be beholden to your lordship. It may be
the other way. And, while I think of it, here is the
card of my. address in London. If your lordship
should ever be in trouble that I can relieve, you may
apply to me!” And he shot a glance of malicious
significance into his master’s eyes.

‘Thanks,’ replied the peer. ‘‘ One knows not what
may happen in the future; and good-will is always a
valuable aid.”

“Very true, your lordship.”

Reginald felt as though a load were lifted from his
heart when the man left his presence. ;

That last evening Lady Estonbury spent in the
drawing-room, and ‘was more gracious than usual to
the guest—the young laird’s son. Her companion,
Helen, was there too, and by her ladyship’s desire,
sung and played several times. Once the marchion-
— requested her son to sing a duet with the
girl.

Helen walked to the piano, and selected the music”
herself. She placed it on the desk and waited for
the first notes; but Reginald hesitated. His pride
was stirred. Was he ever thus to have this girl
thrust on his notice?

Lady Estonbury gave him a look of stern displeas-
ure jhe was pale, and her lips quivered.. The
young man glanced from her to Helen; a misgiving
stirred within. him that the girl was in the conspira-
cy. But the imploring expression of her soft eyes
disarmed him. He took his place beside her; com-
menced and went through the duet; and even
complimented the girl at its close upon her ad-
mirable culture in music and her superb voice.
Frank was enthusiastic in his applause.

Reginald was surprised by the change in his mo-
ther at this trifling incident. She smiled; her whole
face was transfigured; she held out her white hand
with a warm expression of approbation, and called
him “‘my son.” The young man lifted the hand to
his lips, and kissed it fervently.

The conversation became general, and was pleas-
antly kept up till bedtime, when the tray of candles
was brought in by the footman. The two young
men were to leave the Court early the next morning,
on their journey. They bade adieu for many weeks,
as they said good-night.

Lady Estonbury shook hands with both, making
no difference between them in her manner, and only
suffering her son to touch her cheek with his lips,
without giving him an answering caress.

Her attention seemed fixed on Helen, whom she
called quickly to her side. The girl arose from her
seat by a table at a little distance, and came*with
evident reluctance. The lady was holding her son’s
pene, She caught that of the young girl, and placed

n his. 4

“Take leave of her, Reginald,’’ she said, and he
noticed that her voice trembled with suppressed
excitement.

He bowed over the fair girl’s hand, respectfully,
and murmured some commonplaces of farewe
then moved away.

He saw the crimson that suffused her whole face,
and the sroms of her lashes on her cheek, indi-
cating her painful embarrassment.

He saw, too, that his lady mother watched him
with an eager flash in her eyes, and with more emo-
tion than he had ever seen her manifest,

He bowed again to her, and walked quickly out
of the room. He and Frank ascended the stairs
together, and stopped a moment by the door of .
Ralston’s chamber. Their whispered conference
lasted but a few minutes, and then Reginald passed
on to his own room.

What was the

He threw himself into a chair.
meaning of his mother’s conduct? He could not
fathom it! She evidently wished to establish friend-
ly and intimate relations between him and her young
protegee ; but to what end?

Then ‘he thought of her lonely widowhood, and
the necessary seclusion she would have to undergo
during his absence; during the time when he hoped
to win the crowning happiness of his life. The
society and love of that young girl was a solace to
her. Ought he not to rejoice that she had found an
object of love? He thought of the timid, tender
looks of the shy maiden, and in his heart acquitted
her of the least presumption, Low born she might
be; but she was a lady in heart and manner; a
sweet, affectionate creature, to whom he felt grate-
ful for the devotion of her lite to the dowager whom
he knew to be unhappy amid the splendors of wealth
and rank. He forgave both for the coldness shown
him by his mother, and mentally prayed that she
might be blessed in her own way.

ere was a tap at his door, so light he did not at
first heed it, till it was repeated. e answered by
an invitation to come in. ,

The door opened softly, and a woman about forty
years of age, dressed in a black silk, plainly made,
and with high corsage, with her hair smoothly fold-
ed under a cap, entered. The young man knew her
for Mrs. Chisholm, the wife of the discharged stew-
ard, and his mother’s favorite maid. :

He started up at sight of her. He had not inquired
whether or not she had accompanied her husband;
and his impression now was, that she had come to
eee or his restoration to his place on the es-

The woman seemed to divine his thoughts, She
spoke quickly:

“I see you are surprised, my lord, at my deing
here still," I did not go with my husband; but Iam
to follow him soon.”

““Tndeed !””

“T had to attend to selling off our furniture and
shutting up the house we have been living in; the
house at the end of the park, your lordship knows;
and my lady—”’ .

“No matter, good Mrs. Chisholm; let everything
be as you please,” said her young master, leaning
with one hand on the table, and still standing. He was
anxious to be relieved of her unaccountable pres-

ence.

She looked at him wistfully, as if she wanted to
say something, yet dared not. Suddenly she came
up to the table, bent her clasped hands upon it, and
a eagerly and imploringly in the young peer’s

ce.
1
br
}
t

 

ih avant ene
re

'« She did not remove the hand

_ su her usual hauteur ; ‘it is
With al fh

- asked, quickly, a flush

 

ie

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

 

 

Oh, pardon me, my lord!” she wailed; “ pardon
me, whatever happens!”

“Why, what can happen?’

“Forgive me, as you hope to be forgiven! It was
not my fault! Oh, believe that, and forgive!”

The tears were now streaming down her white

face; she sunk on her knees, stretching forth her
clasped hands, like a criminal condemned, suing for
mercy.
& Pochan: I do not understand you,” answered
Reginald, rather sternly. ‘If you have been guilty
of a fault, you should appeal to your mistress, not to
me!” ’

“No—no. It is you—it is your Jordship I look to
for mercy,”’ she gasped, through a passion of tears.

“Rise from that unbecoming posture. If you
Si to ask me to receive Chisholm again I cannot

0 it.”

“No, no, my lord, not that!’

“Yor any other request you must go to your mis-
tress. Itis a disrespect to her to come to me.”

“My lady sent me to your lordship,” said the wo-
raan, in a voice scarcely audible for her sobs.

“Sent you? For what purpose?”

He saw that the dame shivered from head to foot.
She hesitated, struggling to calm herself.

“For what, I ask ou? Have you offended your
lady, and want me to intercede for you?”

“My lady wishes to see your lordship,’ was the
stammering reply.

“To see me, to-night?”

“Immediately, my lord. She is in the drawing-
room.”

“Very well; I will go to her.”

Tie waved his hand, The woman, her features
still convulsed, her face white with evident appre-
hension, obeyed his commands. At the door she
tarned quickly, and sobbed, faintly, as in despair:

“Whatever happens, it was not my fault.”

CHAPTER XI.
: LADY ESTONBURY’S COMMAND,

Lavy Estonsury was still in the drawing-room.
She was standing with one arm upon the richly-
sculptured marble mantlepiece, her head uplifted;
her eyes fixed on vacancy; her complexion blanched
to a sickly pallor. Her very lips were colorless,
Her sweeping black dress, and the thin tissue that
shaded her neck and arms, were in accordance with
her woe-worn aspect. The tissue had fallen from
the arm that rested on the marble, and showed it to
be white and exquisitely rounded.

She did not move when Reginald entered, but he

 

"went hee her instantly, and took her hand.

“Mot!
well!”

She drew her hand away.

“Tam quite well, Reginald,” she said. ‘I wished
to peek with you alone.”

Me ae maid told me so. Has anything hap-

ned?”

“Things are always happening. Every day there
are changes,”

““T mean—to distress you?”

“T cannot say. All things distress me. It is no
new thing for me to be wretched!”

“‘ Mother, dearest mother!” cried the young man,
impetuousl; , ‘Tentreat you to [ me your confi-
dence. Tell me all your grief.
be, more devoted to you than your own son.”

“if I tell you my wishes you respect—will you
obey them?”

“So farasmy power extends, you may be sure
that I will.”

“Tf I were only sure of it—”

“Believe in my affection, in my dutiful obedience!

Oh, mother, I have longed for your love! I have
tried to deserve it. Tellme what I can do for your
“ee Ma,
_ “Sit down, there,” said the aa pointing to a seat
on one side of a table inlaid with marquetry, and
loaded with books and rare and elegant trifles,
Mei ei she sunk into a cushioned chair on the nearer
side.

She was silent for a few moments, till her son
again besought her to tell him how he could remove
any cause of unhappiness that oP, essed her,

at partly conceal-
ed her face, her elbow resting on the table, as she
responded: ‘

“You can make me happy, Reginald.”

“Tell me how; only tell me!”’ besought he, in tones
that showed earnestness. ‘What sacrifice
would not seem light to me, if borne for your sake!
if it secured your of mind!”

“Ttis easy to of sacrifices,” said the lady, re-
tomake them,

l_ your smooth professions, my lord, I fear
you would shrink from one I could name as a test of
your sincerity.”

“Surely, mother, this is unjust to me—this tone
end conclusion.”

“True, the test has not been applied.”

vs iat ou, do not — decly

y nbury’s manner suddenly changed.
acne a you ever thought of marrying?”
marrying’

“Certainly. Toa young nobleman rhe hes ee
come into re te of vast eae an ancient
title, the idea is most natural. It is your nearest
any Your inheritance demands it of you.

er ladyship spoke in the light, ost trifling
manner in which any worldly mother might recom-
mend matrimony. But it was easy to see that she
suppressed intense excitement. Reginald could not
understand her, but he resolved to be frank,

“T acknowledge the truth of what you say, mo-
ther,” he repli “And more than all, my own

er, what is it? Dear mother, you are not

wishes prompt me to the early fulfillment of what

you term my duty.”

‘‘ Your wishes prompt you to marriage?” the lady

© her a cheeks.

“They do, indeed. A lovely wife is the crow:
happiness and glory of man’s life.”

“ One who loves you, and who is worthy of love,”
cried the mother.

“T mean that.”

“You are beloved, by a pure and noble

_ irl; one worthy of a coronet, or a crown—one

» hose whole heart is your own, and who will be to
. 1¢ the sweetest of daughters.”’
The thought flashed upon Reginald that his moth-
<v knew the maiden of his love. Of whom else could
ae thus speak?

0 one is, or should |

“Tt will make me happy beyond the power of
words to utter, my dear mother, if you approve my
love and my suit. I have not yet spoken to her;
but she knows—she must know—my feelings—”’

“She knows nothing bape suspects nothing!’’ in-
terrupted Lady Estonbury, impetuously. ‘No ten-
der, drooping flower has more shrinking delicacy;
she would die with shame if she knew I was pleading
for her! She has never disclosed to me the passion
that long ago took possession of her whole being!
She dreams not thatI have read her soul in its
depths! You may lose no time in speaking to her,
Reginald; or you may commission me! Shall I tell
her she is to be your bride?

A terrible misgiving rushed upon the young man’s
heart, chilling and griping it as with a hand of iron.
He rose from his seat.

“Mother! Ifear there is some awful mistake be-
tween us! With my heart full of one object, I un-
derstood you to be speaking of her. Where is—the
—the maiden to whom you allude? Notin England?’’

“In England; and in this house. Have you not
understood me to speak of my beloved Helen?”’

“* Of Helen Chisholm?”

“Of the maiden Ihave adopted. She shall bear
that name no ‘longer! It will be a glad day for me
when she changes it for yours.”

“Mother, can it be possible?”

** Possible, what?”

“That you would have your son marry one so far
beneath him—however worthy of respect in her own

erson—in birth and blood! The daughter of my

ather’s steward, and of your waiting-ma@id!”’

“Take care what you say, rebellious boy!’ cried
Lady Estonbury, growing deadly pale. ‘‘ Ha! me-
thought you esteemed any sacrifice light, to please
your mother!” — i

“But this—this mesalliance—it would not only be a
sacrifice but a degradation!”

“Silence! you insult me!”

“My honored mother! what fitness would there be
in the Marquis of Estonbury wedding the daughter
of his household servants?”

“Tsay, I have taken her for my own! I have
adopted and educated her. How dare you say she
is not your equal, ungrateful boy?”

“You cannot change her lineage; her blood.
Mother, the very idea is preposterous!”’

“Reginald, do not dare deceive me. You have
fixed _your affections upon another!”

“T have, irrevocably. I mean to marry her, and
none but her. I love her with my whole heart and
soul, and the happiness of my life depends on a
union with her.” .

Lady Estonbury stood grasping the top of her
chair, Her face was ghastly pale, her eyes blazed
defiance and Says

* And who is this paragon?” she gasped.

**T will reveal her name when I have seen her, and
learned my fate from her lips. Itis to her I shall
journey, after we leave London.”

The dy fairly ground her teeth with rage. *

“*Some base adventuress!” she hissed,

*“No, mother; the lady of my love belongs to the
proudest blood in the realm! Her family is more
ancient than our own. Her father wears a title
established in the Norman Conqueror’s reign; and
though he is now impoverished. and shorn of his
grea estate, he can yet command respect among

e grandest of our peerage. Do not fear your son
will ever degrade his name—the name I took un-
blemished from my princely father.”

The lady brought her clenched hand down forcibly
upon the table.

“And I say, degenerate boy, that you shall never
marry her!—never! I have chosen for you, and I
will be obeyed, or you must take the consequences!”’

The young marquis looked at her in speechless
amazement.

“Tsay Ae shall marry none but the one I have
chosen! I will receive no other!”

In a moment Reginald’s calmness returned.

“Tt will be a inatter of regret, certainly,” he said,
somewhat coldly, “that you are opposed to my
choice. Iwill speak with you further, or communicate
with you, hereafter.”

“You shall not go!” cried his mother, passionate-
ly, “ without a pledge—a promise that you will sub-
mit to my wishes.”

“Surely that is too much to ask, Lady Estonbury!
I owe my mother all respect and deference; but you
must be aware that you cannot, with propriety, in-
terfere in a matter of this kind!”

“T can and I will!” she answered, imperiously.
“T will have it as I choose, or you shall reap such
punishment as you never thought could descend on

yu!

“She must have lost her reason!” was the inward
comment of the young man’s thoughts. He was
silent a few moments.

you promise to do as emande:

“Will ise to d I wish?” di ded
the lady.

“T will make no promises,’ returned her son.
“ We will talk of this when I return.”

‘Will you then be disposed to obey me?”

“To marry asyou bid me? No, madam, I cannot
leave you to cherish such a hope. I may be disap-
pointed in my own hopes. I may lose the prize I
covet; but never will I stoop to an alliance ae
my birth and station, and with one whom I coul
never love!”

“Ungrateful boy, it is you who are unworthy!”
gasped the Jady, in a voice nearly choked by her
emotions. Suddenly changing her tone, she flung
aside the chair she held, and sunk to her knees.

"See, Reginald,” she said, ‘‘your mother kneels
to you! I am the most wretched of women! the
prey of demons that tear my soul to atoms! Isup-
plicate you for mercy! You alone can save me, can
give me peace! Pity me! pity me! Iimplore you!”

He rushed to raise her from the floor; he sup-

rted her to a seat, and endeavored to soothe her.
Ke terrible conviction took possession of him that
she was labo under delirium.

“You are ill, dear mother; 72 are feverish. Let
ne summon assistance! Indeed, you must have
He was about to ring the bell; but she rushed
after him, and caught arm.

“What do youmean? Do you think I have lost
my, senses?”’ cae "

‘I think—I am sure—you need medical aid!”

 

 

*“Pshaw; foolish boy! Do not drive me to say
what I shall wish unsaid. Iam as clear in my mind

as you are; as fully in possession of my reason—of
all my mental faculties! Irepeat it, Iam wretched
beyond the power of language to describe! You
can banish my grief—and you alone!” :

“T cannot understand you!”

““No—you cannot; but you would understand if I
should tear the vail from my bleeding, broken heart,
and show you the dreadful anguish you doom me

o!”

“There is a strange mystery in your words, my
mother!”

“Be it so—a mystery; but no lack of reason!
Some day it may be explained, All I have to say
now is, will you save your mother from misery un-
speakable?’

““T would give my life to save you from such dis-
tress, if I knew—”’

“Always an ‘if’! Nothing but submission will
content me!”

“Nothing but sealing the misery of my own life by
a marriage that would be deemed disgraceful, and
with one repulsive to me?”’

“‘And you refuse to wed her, even though I have
asked you on,my knees, as for the boon of life?”

2 CARNE Bordane myself by false vows! Do you
know, mother, what would happen, if you could
re to compliance?”

“Tcould never endure the sight or companionship
of such a bride! no—not for an hour! I would be-
come a fugitive from England! Iwould live and die
in some,far distant foreign land!”

“You might,” was the reply, “if you so lightly
ee tee the blessing you had won as to forsake
her!’

“And knowing this, would you still urge me to the
sacrifice?”

“I would still urge you, though it cost your life!”
the lady muttered, compressing her lips firmly.

“Enough!” What strange infatuation binds you
to that girl, I know not! I only know that your com-
mands ought not to force me to part forever with
honor, honesty, manhood! You yourself would de-
ae me for such abject prostration of my better
self,

“Have a care, Reginald! I can punish disobedi-
ence; ay, most fearfully !’””

“How can you pone me for refusing to take
false vows, and make myself a wretch unworthy to
crawl at the feet of honest men?”

“You laugh to scorn my threats! You esteem
yourself a great nobleman, invested with the dignity
of your father’s title and wealth, and think nothing
of disappointing me! You spurn me when I abase
myself to kneel to you! to er for what I
could command! Have a care,isay! I can strip
you of all your possessions! I can tear the coronet
trom your head! can reduce you lower than the girl
you despise! Beware how you tempt, how you force
me to do it!”

Again Reginald gazed on the erin utter sur-
prise. He could not reconcile her words ,with the
sup osition of her absolute sanity. ;

e continued to glare upon him with set teeth
and flashing eyes. As she seemed to expect an
answer, he gave it quietly:

“Mother, you speak riddles! But if it were
true that the consequences of my refusal would be
the loss of fortune and title, I would be firm in it! I
would not stain my soul with falsehood!”

He hoped that her next words would be a fulfill-
ment of her threat. But her mood had changed.

“Begone!” she exclaimed, in the hoarse tone of
Cee “T will say no more now!”’ i

“Will you not relent—my mother? Will you not
give me your blessing?”

He approached her, knelt on one _ knee, and tried
to take her hand. But she snatched it away with a
muttered execration, and again bade him leave her.

‘Begone, ere I lose all self-command! My ven-
geance shall follow you!”

“Nay, mother, you will relent, on reflection, and
acknowledge that Iam right! You will justify me,
when the coils of that serpent fascination are loos-
ened? May that time come speedily!”

And, fearful of another outbreak, he retired from
the room, marveling at the strange influence that
seemed to have taken possession of her. Could the
mere stubbornness of woman’s will, crossed in some
cherished plan, have worked her up to such a
paroxysm?

 

CHAPTER XII.
A STRANGE DISCLOSURE.

Lorp Estonsury and Frank Ralston were settled at
a hotel at the West End of London. Some days had
been spent in the business with his solicitors that had
brought the young marquis to town.

He did not delay another visit on which he had re-.
solved: to the physician who had always attended
the family when in town, and who knew every mem-
ber of it almost as well as his own children.

To this faithful friend and skillful adviser the
young man confided his misgi s and fears for his
mother’s reason. He related what had occurred,
and gave his own impressions.

No; the Marchioness of Estonbury had never
shown the slightest symptom of aberration of mind.
Her family, asfar it could be traced, had no such
taint; had no taint of any disease. She cameof pure
and vigorous stock. Her health had always been ro-
bust; she had scarcely known what sickness was.
Dr. Harcourt decidedly was of opinion that her mind
was perfectly sound, and that her e con-
duct must be due to some other cause. She al-
ways shown an imperious and determined temper;
ok when her heart was set upon on object, she
would move heaven and earth to accomplish it.

He had known several instances in which mothers
seemed devoid of affection for their offspring; an
alienation which amounted to positive aversion in
one or two whom he could name. he
known ladies who surrendered their whole hearts to
a misguided affection for some alien to their own
blood. It must be so in this case. Lady Estonbury
had taken an unaccountable fancy to the young git
born under her protection; she had found the object
of her deserving, and had, unwittingly at
first, nourished in the girl an attachment for her
son. She felt herself responsible for the ee of
this passion; the girl was a dependent on
and she was resolved to marry her to the
She fancied she would thus secure the happiness of
both, while she gratified the love that had wound it-

 

 

r care: —

 

 

 

fern

 
 

 

a

Lsntsenieetstadininneneserss

7

 

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

9

 

self round her heartstrings. That kind of fascina-
tion was not uncommon, Lady Estonbury’s iron
will made her firm as a rock in resolving to carry out
her wishes.

Lord Estonbury was constrained to accept this ex-
planation; but he was not satisfied. He induced

r. Harcourt to promise that he would pay a visit
at Estonbury Court, and observe her ladyship close-
ly, while ta king with her as a friend. He would
communicate the opinion resulting from his inter-
view at once to the marquis.

Reginald was in his chamber one afternoon, of the
day before the time fixed for his departure for Scot-
land with Ralston.
yacht was under orders to meet the young men, as
300n as their tour in the mountains was finished at a
certain point on the coast; the prospect seemed fair
for a pplenrne trip, and the young man’s heart
bounded as his fancy roved to the spot which was
his first destination. He had written twice to the
Baron of Swinton: once, soon after his father’s
burial; a second time, after their arrival in London,
to say he hoped soon again to claim his hospitality.
There was a warmth in the tone of the letter, which
he intended to convey something of the feelings of
his heart. His chivalrous homage, too, was breathed
in the message sent to the baron’s fair daughter. If
i could, he would thus have told the story of his
love.

He was seated in his chamber at the hotel. The
windows and bed were curtained with embroidered
white muslin. Flowers and glossy-leaved evergreens
stood in vases on either side of an oval swing dress-
ing-glass, on the marble top of a bureau. The walls
were hung with four pictures in black walnut frames
leaving much of the space bare. The carpet was
light, of a neat pattern, with clusters of flowers in
the center of squares. The furniture was of the
modern style, different from the massive antique of
former days.

The door was open leading into the peter belong-
ing to the suit. It, too, was tastefully furnished,
and was the handsomest the hotel affo

“Come in!’ the young peer called out, in answer
to alight tap at the door of his parlor. ‘“‘Comein,
Frank! Why do you use the ceremony of knock-
Sno 9”?

e door opened slowly and softly. The rustle of
@ woman’s dress was heard,

Reginald rose, threw aside the “ Traveler’s Guide ”
he had been consulting, to make himself familiar
with the projected route through the Highlands and
walked into the outer room,

He wondered that the servant had not announced
a strange visitor, By this time the woman had en-
tered. She made a formal courtesy, and drew aside
her vail.

“Mrs. Chisholm!” he exclaimed, in utter astonish-
ment. “Tell me at once, has anything happened to
my mother?”

‘Lady Estonbury is quite well,’ was the reply;
the words being jerked out, as it were, each with a

spasmodic effort.

“T am glad, indeed, to hear it. Why, then, did
her ladyship send you to me?’

“My lady did not send me; leastwise she did not

tell me to come, though she knew I would come, and

she approved of it,” the woman answered, faltering
ly in her embarrassment. 5

“Then you have left service at the court?”

“Thave, my lord. It was my duty to come with
husband.”

* And what can I do for you, Mrs. Chisholm?”

He had not offered her a seat, though she looked

as if one would be welcome; nor had he taken one

himself. He telt annoyed at her coming to him in

this unceremonious way.

“T have an engagement this afternoon, and am on
the eve of a journey. Please to be brief, therefore,
in saying what you wish me to do for you.”’

The woman shuffled from one foot to the other,
glanced about her, and seemed at a loss how to be-
gin, Then she retreated toward the door, which was
still open, and beckoned to some one outside,

Aman advanced fromthe head of the stairway,
came to the door, and boldly entering, stood beside
the trembling woman.

“A strange Gueae this!” said Reginald.
** How is it, Mr. Chisholm, that’ you venture into my
presence in this way?”

“To support the courage of my wife,” the man re-
plied, with a touch of his former defiant imsolence.

A a can never get through with what she under-
took.’

“She comes with news, then?”

* Ay, news of importance to all of us,”

** But she said her lady was well.”

“Tt isnot that. We are here to disclose to you,
sir, the secret which your lady mother—as you call
her—shrunk from telling you.”

“You deal in enigmas which I do not care to
study. If there be any secret concerning your late
mistress and myself, 1 prefer to hear it from her.”

“She—my lady—tried to tell you; but she could
not. Proud lady though she is, there are some
things that humble her, and ought to crush her to
the very dust.”

“This is no language to use in my presence, and I
shall hold no discourse with you—with either of you
—on a subject in which my mother is involved.”

“Oh, my lord!” cried the woman, wringing her
hands, “let him speak! My lady bade him! You
had better hear it from him than from others who
do not care for you!”

“And the secret will soon be public property!”
odes gale, then, 89 brief ible!”

“S) , then, as briefly as possible!

s ithe greatest of misfortunes,” the man went on
tosay, ‘‘may be averted if a will only listen to
her ladyship, and fulfill her dearest wishes. If you
would do as she desires, marry the young girl she
loves so tenderly, all may yet be well.”

“Silence!” exclaimed the young nobleman, in a
rage. ‘Do not dare intrude yourselves on me here,
to urge me to disgrace my name and lineage? Lady
Estonbury could not have sent you for this!”

“She did, my lord!” passionately wailed Mrs.

. “Itis her last hope, as it is her dearest
wish in life!” :

“Preposterous! This is your scheme, from begin-
ning to end! I ee sieeve it; aut I only wander
how you ever 0 ed an ascendency so great over

, ar lady's min‘ as to lead her to think of such for-
for your daughter.”

m

His business was concluded; his |

 

“You refuse to marry her, then?” asked Chisholm.

“Sir, your insolence passes bearing! Leave the
room instantly, or I will ring for the servants to put
you out,””

“ Oh, listen to him a moment—only one moment!”
pleaded the woman, with streaming tears.

“Have done with all these aap ications,” storm-
ed her husband. .Then, addressing Reginald, who
had walked to the bell and had his hand on the rope,
he added:

**You must hear the truth, then, for the first time
in your life. Lady Estonb wishes you to marry
no daughter of ours. Helen is not our child, but her
ladyship’s own daughter!”

*“Are you mad, fellow?” cried the young man,
contemptuously.

“T speak the solemn truth, as you will find from
the proofs I shall produce.”

“Helen my mother’s child? my sister!”

“Not your sister! You are not the son of the
marchioness, nor of her late husband!”

Another exclamat on of scornful incredulity.

It seemed a dark conspiracy to wring from him
ve Soren to the wild scheme his mother had nur-

ured,

“Tt is true—too true!” sobbed the woman, lifting
her clasped hands upward. ‘ We have kept the se-
cret. faithfully till now, for my lady’s sake! She
knew my lord—her late husband—was longing for
an heir—for a boy to inherit his title. He raved
continually of a boy; he told her ladyship he would
live with her no longer if the child she was to bring
him did not prove a boy! He tormented her night
and day; she knew he would die of the disappoint-
ment, if it was not as he wished! She had lived
many years childless, and now her very life depend-
ed on this one thing!”

**Yes,”” added Chisholm; ‘‘for my lord would have
sent her away—in disgrace, as it were—if the ex-
pected birth disappointed his hopes.””

“And you expect me to believe this folly of my
father!’’ cried Reginald.

“Do not interrupt me. My late lord was from
ee \ ie my lady’s hour came. She gave birth to
@ girl!”

hisholm’s wife here took the word.

“They thought my lady would have died—even
the nurse and the doctor—when she knew it. I was
just recovering from my own confinement the night
she sent for me, to our house; and my husband took
me in hisarms to the carriage, and carried me up
the grand stairs to my lady’s apartments. The
nurse met me at the door, and whispered: ‘Do
everything she bids you—and save her life if possi-
ble!’ The doctor said he had little hope of her.”

‘““ And my father was absent?”

“He was not expected fora week. He had gone
to London,”

““Well—go on.”

“ My lady was in a high fever, and I saw in a mo-
ment her danger. Contradiction would have killed
her, She drew my head down close to her lips and
whispered that not a soul but the nurse aad the doc-
tor knew the sex of her child. She implored me as
for life itself, to grant her prayer: to let the infants
be SSSR EEA

Reginald, white as death, dropped into a chair
and covered his face with one hand. The woman
went on:

“T could not refuse to save her life. I meant to
confess all to my lord when she died. The boy, my
own child, was rougut from our house just after
midnight, by my husband, who told the servants that
I was to stay all night with my lady, and must
suckle him, You know we lived in the cottage at
the end of the park, and none of the servants, nor
any of the neighbors, had been to see me since the
birth of my boy, Hewas brought into my lady’s
er he was dressed in her child’s clothes, and

laid beside her. I took the little new-born girl into
my bosom.”
‘Did the doctor—was it Dr. Harcourt—counte-

nance this fraud?” demanded the young man.

“Dr, Harcourt did not come for three days after-
ward. You see, the birth had been ten days before
it was expected. Another doctor had been called in
pee from a village in the neighborbood—ten miles

stant.’

“ Did he support the trick?”

“He never knew of it. As soon as my lady recov-
ered, she made my lord take her away for change of
air, They went abroad that summer, and more than
a yearand a half passed before they came home.
The village doctor was told that her little girl had
died, and the boy had been born later.”

She continued:

“He had been ordered to say ae 3 the child

to any one, because it was Weer er e to die;
and m, lady wished it believed t her first-born
was a boy.

“He assented to this falsehood?”

“T paid him a heavy sum, myself, to keep the
secret,” said Chisholm. ‘But he really believed the
eed ge died before my lord and lady went
abroad.”

“And the register of the birth?”

“That was made at the time I speak of, and of the
baptism, four weeks afterward.”

“The date of the registered birth was of the time
Min as you say, the children were exchanged?”

“ Ss. ”

Saante there is no registration of any subsequent

“None; for there was no other. Lady Estonbury
never had another child.”

After a pause, Reginald resumed:

“You are aware that I cannot take all this as fact,
upon your word only?”

“TI am prepared for disbelief,” answered the ex-

steward. He took a paper from the breast-pocket
of his coat, and handed it to the young man, *‘ Here
is a letter fro ee

m her ladyship.
Reginald took the Tecaar. He saw that it was a
long one, and refolded it. He was not then in a
state of mind to examine the proofs. Chisholm gave
him three ovher letters, on paper yellow with age.
They were from the maid to her absent mistress,
giving accounts of the health of the little girl, once
or twice named as ‘Your ladyship’s dear child.”
These were laid with the other.

ae may leave ae ae me as will look
a ese papers, an en they must go to my solici-
tors, Leave your address anak be Taaty to give your
testimony when they send for you.” :

 

A gone was exchanged between the ex-steward
and his wife.

“I have another message to give you,” the man
added. ‘It would be Lady Estonbury’s wish that
the matter should rest here, aud the secret never be
eae If you, sir, will submit to her will, it may

2 SO.

Reginald started to his feet. The flush of indigna-
tion swept in a crimson flood over his face,

“What!” he exclaimed, “if I will join in the con-
spiracy, I may be allowed to keep the stolen title and
estates! Leave me, before I lose my self-control
altogether!”

“You may be angry,” retorted the man, “‘ but you
cannot deny that you still owe respect. and duty to
her ladyship. She bade me say, that if you still re-
fused to do her bidding, and thus drove her to the
confession of the secret she has kept so long, she
would immediately send for Mr. Maurice Howard.
He is the heir, gen know, failing issue of the late
marquis—and she will marry her daughter to him.
She is resolved that Helen shall reign at the court.”

“T have requested you both to go, now,” replied
Reginald taking no heed of the man’s last words.

“Oh, Reginald—my son!” cried the weeping wo-
man, “be obedient to my lady! Spare us all—spare -

ourseif—-this terrible sorrow! Think what it would

e to lose every thing!”

Sternly the young man motioned to them both to
quit the room. Cuwisholm placed a card on the table
with his address, and whispered to his wife, as heled
her to the door:

“Let it work, and say no more!
down anon.”

The two passed out without a word. Only the wo-
man turned an imploring glance backward, But
Reginald saw it not, His arms were thrown on the
table; his face was,buried in his hands,

CHAPTER XII.
FOR SCOTLAND,

Arter twilight had come on, Frank Ralston turned
from his long walk, and found Reginald in the same
attitude of despair. He was alarmed seriously
when the young man lifted a white and haggard
face, with eyes suffused as if bloodshot, and seemed
scarcely to hear his friend’s repeated entreaties to
know what was the matter. ‘Then he wiped the
great drops from his forehead, and pressed it with
both hands, before he was able to give any clear ac-
count of what had happened.

Reginald had no idea of concealment. If the fear-
ful tale to which he had listened were true, there
was but one course for him. But the shock had
thrown him off his balance for the time.

He gave Frank a full recital of the story told him
by Chisholm and his wife. He placed the ee
they had brought as evidence in his hands. He
wanted the help of his clear judgment, not to deter-
mine his course if the truth had been disclosed, but
to ascertain if it were the truth,

The letter of Lady Estonbury contained her own
narration, which fully sustained that of her maid
and the steward. She confessed the fraud practiced,
by the imposition of a boy not hers on her husbard
as his heir, leaving his own daughter to be brought
up as the child of Mr. and Mrs. Chisholm. She add-

her solemn oath to confirm this statement, and
excused her conduct by dwelling on the cruel usage
received from her husband, and his threats of some
terrible calamity and disgrace hanging over her if
she could not gratify his wish for an heir to his title
and estates.

He_ had once said that if her child should not be a
boy, he would know where to find an heir, of his
own. blood, too; and Lady Estonbury had been ter-
rifled by apprehensions of a previous marriage. She
hac known there was some mystery in his life, she
sad, and dreaded its revelation. ardly any wo-
man in her case, she thought, would have scrupled
to act as she did.

She added, that she naturally shrunk from a pub-
lic disclosure of these facts, and the blame that
would be heaped on her, If Reginald would become
the husband of her daughter, all should be buried in
oblivion forever. If he refused, she would at once
communicate with Maurice Howard, a distant cousin
of the late marquis. He had seen Helen and great-
ly admired her, She would make her the wife of the
true heir.

An exclamation of scorn escaped Reginald more
than once during the reading of this letter. ‘‘In
any case,’ he said, ‘ought I not to be th
Frank, that such a woman never gave me birth?” i

“T should think so, indeed,” returned young Ral-

ston.
“But am I much better off,” his friend murmured,
with a groan of anguish, ‘ to be the son of Chisholm

and his wife?”
I cannot believe it!’ cried

He will come

 

aa do a, believe ae rages
the Scot, springing up and pac e room.

“T now i Geary tosty things that have always
seemed mysteries tc me! The man, Chisholm,
seemed to have secret power, of some sort, over
Lady Estoubury. I have noted it on several occa-
sions. She bore everything from him, and that
nourished his native insolence till it beeame unbear-
able. _Then, her infatuation for the girl, Helen.
And she—she was too refined, pure and gentle for
aap pacreae It always seemed so to me.”

“What do you mean to do, my boy?” asked
Frank, after a long silence. ‘‘ It seems to me trans-

ortation would be too good for these pliant tools of

my lady. ‘

“If they are Berroa she must be! Iknow not
how the law would deal with them.”

“Apparently, fear of punishment leads her Jady-
ship to propose the alternative: marriage with her
daughter, and undisturbed possession of the title
and estates.”

“It would seem so; else why should she be will-
ing to wed her Par to one of low birth—the
child of menials in her employ?” said Reginald,
with a moan he could not suppress.

“She counts on your unwillingness to relinquish
all!. And the girl is pence! bears the impress of her
noble birth! ould grace a title! Reginald, have
you weighed the matter?”

neelapa looked him in the face, his noble soul
flashing in his eyes.

““Weighed the proposal, do you mean? Ralston,
do you think I would ave one thought, for one in-
stant, to such a proposition?” :

“Tt would be a temptation to mogt men,”

eee eae
  

'

‘a
i

\

 

 

 

 

~ dearly. Sometimes her guest would be;

’ The housekeeper said he had declined to wait for
break:

40

 

‘LADY HELEN'S VOW_

 

 

“Tf Iam not the rightful heir to the marquisate
do you think I would wear the title another hour?
If Maurice Howard is the realand lawful Marquis
of Estonbury, could 1 be bribed to defraud him of
his rights?”

Frank grasped his friend’s hand, and pressed it
warmly between both his own.”

“You shall go with me. to Scotland, and we will
consult my father. All this may be a falsehood; a
trap; a conspiracy.”

“Tt may be; and I must have other advice. I
must see my solicitors at once. They will examine
those people; will see Lady Estonbury; will hunt
up such evidence as can be found. They have my
interest at heart, and they will cleave to meas long
as there is Pope on which to stand.”

“T should let the affair go to the courts for deci-

ion.

“Perhaps there will be no need of that. Iwould
avoid unnecessary publicity. I would spare the

ilty woman; ay, and her tools. Icannot bear the

ought—but, Frank—they may be my parents!”

“Never! A nature so noble, so high and pure as
yours, never was inherited from such people!”

“T confess my mind revolts against the idea. The
loss of title and estates would be a less calamity, in
my, estimation.” -

‘See your solicitors, my boy, in the morning, and
leave the affair in their hands. You must go with
me to Scotland.”

“How can I go?” groaned Reginald again cover-
ing his face. ‘“ Ah, there is the bitterness of worse
than death!”

“T understand you. aor nothing to the lady of
your love till all is decided.”

“But, how can I see her, and wear for a moment
honors that may not be rightfully my own? And
how canI breathe the same air and not hasten to
throw myself at her feet?” .

“Tf she really cares for you the loss of fortune
ought to make no difference.”

ae you talk like a school-boy.. Do you
imagine that the Baron of Swinton would tolerate
the suit, or even the presence, of one in my strait?
Ah! I wasso proud! Iwas glad my love was of
ancient and high lineage, for it matched my own. I-
despised poor Helen, thinking her born of such base
bl as mine may prove to be!”

The agony with which these words were uttered
touched Ralston’s heart. He renewed his importu-
nities, and obtained at last a bags from Reginald
that he would go with him to his northern home.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE OUTLAWED KNIGHT.

Tse ancient mansion of Stone Crag was enlivened
with unusual gayety, The hospitality of its lord was
claimed by Sir Victor Wilder, who was suspected in
= the neighborhood of having matrimonial inten-
tions.

The baron was not senprant of his admiration for
the beautiful Alicia; though as yet not a word had

, been spoken to him on the subject. The gentleman’s
* father had been an old friend, and on that score the
young man was always welcome.

Yet, Sir Victor was not a companion at all to
Swinton’s taste. He cared nothi for hunting,
which was the elder man’s passion; he abhorred the
hounds, and was not fond of riding. Rather effemi-
nate was he, and careful to a degree of his perfumed
and well-dressed person. Tall and finely formed,
with delicate features and a complexion white as
milk, with tawny curling hair and beard, he was
wont to bestow much time every day, with his valet's
assistance, on an elaborate toilet. He breakfasted
often in his room; and rarely joined the early morn-
Pe meat of the baron and his daughter. |

yout noon he would enter the drawing-room or

library, with the grace of one used to society, and

d hours toying with the silks and worsteds in

the embroidery basket of his fair hostess, or in

poring over newspapers that had come by the last
t.

post.
Or he would walk on the terrace, if he saw Alicia:
there, shiver in the crisp breeze, or praise the de-
lightful coolness of the weather, and sometimes en-
tice her to an arbor, where, throwing himself on the
grass at her feet, he would read aloud, from a book
of new poems, selections which he gave with really

fine elocution.
This was ever agreeable to Alicia, who loved oety.
er to

 

duets with him. He had a splendid tenor
voice, and had cultivated it with assiduous care.
Such accomplishments had always secured to Sir
Victor Wilder the especial favor of the fair sex.

A strong contrast with this courtly gallant was the
rude, uncultured, y-t really handsome young pee:
Herrick Maur. He had arrived that same night,
rte and anxious; had refused to sup with the
fai and had retired to the suit of rooms pre-
pared for his occupancy. These were ex, similar

those of Sir Victor, but on the opposite side of the
corridor; they were furnished, too, in the same man-
ner; for the baron had determined to treat the young
man with the respect due to his heir, and if possible

to win his affection.
' Early as Swinton had descended to the morning
repast, Herrick had already left the house. The
m said he had come himself to the stables, sad-

 

ed his horse and rode away, leaving no message.

ast.

The baron ordered his own horse early, announc-
ing his intention to ride over and see what bad been
the result of the contest between Kenneth’s retain-
ers and the government men.

 

, He went first to the hut in the hawthorn dell
{among the larches. Matlin was there, with the
‘ surgeon, who had just pronounced an un-
favorable opinion in the case of the wounded officer.

He was fast; but retained his faculties
His description of the man who he persisted in |
saying had caused his fall from the cliff led to the |

recognition of the so-called chief, Kenneth Maur, as |
the assailant. Two or three official persons from the |
nearest village had come to take the dying man’s ;
testimony, and the magistrate, Sir George Vaughan, |
had issued a warrant for his spurekepaicn. |
The old castle was full of soldiers, but Sir Kenneth |
and his two body servants were missing. Even the
housekeeper had disappeared, Search was made for

them by mounted. constables, who . scoured. the
country.

The castle was thoroughly searched. The fire that
had broken out, and the stormy riot of that night of
confusion, had left a portion of the walls a black-
ened and shattered ruin; without repairing, it was
hardly a fit habitation even for the rough men to
whom it had been a home.

The soldiers in possession had spent hours in
drunken carousals, and had stripped the best rooms
of many modern articles of furniture, leaving the
massive and grimy cabinets and tables, the tattered
tapestry, and the pewter flagons and dishes, as not
worth plunder.

When the baron arrived, he consulted with
Vaughan, and orders were given to dispossess these
vagrants, and to secure the doors and windows
against ingress; as the few of the household who
were left refused to remain there, unprovided for
and unpaid. They were not long in scattering in dif-
ferent directions.

No trace of the srg lens goods was found; but
the cave was discovered and ransacked; without any
result, as the goods had been carried off. There was
no danger, however, of a renewal of the illegal im-
ports for a long time to come.

The baron came upon Herrick, wandering, like
a lost spirit, about his former home, and mourn-
ful of countenance, as one who had been bereaved

of all.

His father had left a letter for him with one of his
retainers. He bade his son accept the protection of
his kinsman, the baron, and live henceforth with
him. Heir of the dignities of that ancient house, he
had a just claim to the future provision he needed,
Swinton had made offers, which he would now ful-
fill. Kenneth forbade his son to follow him abroad,
or attempt to discover his retreat. He should stay
away for the present; and in case of the death of
the revenue officer, he could never return. Herrick
would hear from him at intervals through Mat the
seer, and he was earnestly counseled to leave his
former associates and ways, and fit himself, under
his kinsman’s guidance, for such society as befitted
his future rank, etc.

Herrick showed this letter to the baron, who add-
ed his own advice to follow its counsel, and gave the
youth the warmest assurances of his affection and a
son’s welcome to his house and heart,

“ You are my nearest of kin; and must come into
all I have when I am gone,” he added, “Ihave had
an interest in you, boy, from your birth; you well
know that. I shall eae you asason, Alicia will
be a sister to you, and I iook to you to be her guard-
ian and protector when she loses me!”’

A deep flush swept over the young man’s face, at
the allusion to the maiden he loved with an untamed
ssion. But he did not turn from her father’s
ndly seeiens grasping his hand in token of his
gratitude in accepting them.

That night and the ohorane Herrick was quarter-
ed at the castle, where he had an interview with
Matlin. The wounded revenue officer was dead.

The constables were still in search of Kenneth,
whose fate was sealed in the event of his capture.

“Be counseled, my lad,’’ said the faithful friend,
‘and leave this neighborhood, The baron’s house
is your home. Go to England, if he sends youtoa
university, and set foot no more in Scotland, The
people murmur since this lawless deed, and may
visit it upon you.” 4

But the young man persisted in being present at
the coroner’s inquest, held in the inn of the seacoast
village. Sir George Vaughan, as magistrate, pre-
sided, and several of the neighbors were called as
witnesses.

One man had seen the deceased. walking toward
the cliff, with a telescope in his hand; another had
met Sir Kenneth coming home and had noticed that
he was pale and excited. He had passed the man
without a word, and quickened his pace_as he went
on. Others testified to Matlin’s strange language in
the vision; but hearsay evidence availed nothing.
The seer himself was sworn, He was unconscious
of his words when the second sight came to over-
power his senses; and if he had remembered the
vision, it could hardly have been taken by the magis-
trate. Matlin deposed to having heard Hilda call
for assistance, and, on descending the rocks, to have
found her with the injured man. She craved his aid
to carry him up, and he had taken him to his own
dwelling. His best skill was taxed to help him and
bind up his bruises. He added a full account of
what had been done for him,

The village doctor gave his testimony that, the
man had come to his death by the breaking of his
ribs in the fall, and consequent pressure on the
lungs, and impeded action of the heart. The dying
deposition was read, and other corroborative testi-
mony taken. The flight of Kenneth, Gregory and
Hilda was convincing proof crowning all the rest, of
the chief’s guilt.

Herrick, to whom suspicion had attached, was
cleared Wy the testimony of persons who had seen
him, at that very hour, ata distance of two miles
from the sce The presence and srnpors of the
baron stood him in good stead. No father could
have more cordially sustained his own son in circum-
stances of peril. Swinton had feared it would be
necessary for Alicia to give her testimony, but the
young man was completely cleared without it.

Calm, stern and haughty, careless of aught that
might happen to himself, stood Herrick during the
examination, Whenit was over, he strode out of
the inn, and walked briskly away. But he returned
before the verdict of the jury was rendered.

The guilt of ‘‘ willful murder’ was fixed on Ken-
neth Maur, and orders were issued for his arrest and
committal to prison whenever he could be found.
Tt was now certain that he had left the country; but
noone knew whither the vessel had sailed. One
conjecture pointed to France as the refuge of the
criminal.

The people dispersed, murmuring and divided in
their opinions and feelin

Herrick was led away by the baron, who entreated
him to ride home to Stone Crag without delay, while
he lingered to transact some business with Sir
George Vaughan. :

 

CHAPTER XV.
A YOUNG SAVAGE’S ANGER,
TwiLicut had crept over the heavens when Her-
rick dismounted at Stone Crag, and led his steed

-**Hand me my smelling-bottle. Do you

 

the stables, . He was accustcmed. to attend himself
to the animal’s wants; and he shook out the bundle
of hay, fed him with handfuls of oats, and gave him
drink at the trough, which the groom had filled with
fresh water. Then he went in at the gates, and en-
tering at the front door, which stood hospitably open,
eat through the hall and ascended the grand
stairway.

He entered the room on the first floor to the right,
supposing it to be his own; though in reality it was
that of the English baronet.

The Sporanente, as we have said, were furnished
alike. errick crossed the parlor toward the inte-
rior room, the door of which was ajar. He was
buried in thought and did not notice that some one
was speaking within. He was in his road-stained
riding-gear, and in haste to change it for more seem-
ly attire, before seeking his fair cousin.

A light was Ruri in the dressing-room he enter-
ed. silver lamp of antique fashion stood on the
table, and near a black oak carved chest of drawers
surmounted by a swing-glass, reclined in an easy-
chair a figure wrapped in a luxurious silk dressing-
gown. e elegant baronet, seated so that he could
see himself in the mirror, was having his hair per-
fumed and brushed carefully by his valet.

“The curls on this side—a little more on the tem-
ple,” he drawled, languidly, indicating a different
course for the brush. “‘ Ha, who is this?”

He turned to encounter the petrified gaze of Her-
rick, who had never seen him before. He had ad-
vanced some paces, and stood perfectly still. The
valet, brush in hand, faced him as he turned.

“Oh, one of the servants! What arough set these
fellows are!” again drawled the baronet, looking at
Herrick. “‘No ceremony in coming in upon one!
Has your master returned, my good fellow, and sent
you with a message?”

Herrick made noreply.

‘“‘It must be the groom, for he smells horridly of
the stables!” continued the dainty gentleman.
now, my
man, my horse and I donot room together? Has he

one lame of asudden? Faugh!’’ And he applied

he salts with vigor to his nostrils.

““Who are you?” demanded the young man, “and
what are you doing in my room?”
ake “a your room? Are these the servants’ quar-

rs?”

“They are mine, and I will have nothing of this
trumpery stuff about!” cried the savage, as he
strode to the table, and was about to sweep off it the
entire paraphernalia of glasses, gallipots,
brushes and other implements of the toilet. But the
valet interfered, and rudely bade him begone; that
room was his master’s—Sir Victor Wilder’s, and
me baron should be informed of this unseemly in-

rusion.

_ Herrick had a riding-whip in his hand, and had
lifted it to chastise the fellow’s insolence, when it
suddenly flashed upon him that the apartment was
not his own. He remembered having turned to
the right instead of the left, at the h of the stair-

way.
of have made a mistake,” he muttered. ‘My
rooms are opposite.”

“* No offense—no offense at all!’ said the baronet,
who had risen at the new-comer’s first hostile de-
monstration. “Only better manners in future!
Such boors abound in this country, I suppose!”

Herrick glared at him in increasing disgust.

“You may go; you need not apologize. I shall
not complain to your master. Here!’ and taking a
half-guinea piece from his vest pocket, he threw it
oe oe table, on the corner near which the stranger
stood. .

Herrick’s eyes flashed fire. He picked up the
money, and flung it with all his force in the baro-
net’s face; then turned with a fierce execration, and
strode out of the room.

‘‘In the name of all that’s wonderful!” exclaimed
the dandy, rubbing his cheek, on which the coin had
inflicted a sharp blow, “‘ what does this mean? Who
is the fellow?”

The valet, who had peeped after the stranger, as
he entered the room across the corridor, came step-
ping softly back. )

“I think you have made a mistake, too, master.
‘Yonder man is not a servant.”’

“No? and what does he here, in coarse fustian,
and smelling so? Faugh! Raise the window, Coe-
lebs. Who is he?”

“‘T have heard the servants talk of a young rustic,
a cousin of my Jord of Swinton, come to stay here,”
replied the valet. ‘‘There was a great riot three or
four days agone, at the sea-coast, and a murder
done, and my lord of Swinton was to sit wlth the
magistrates in judgment on the rioters.”

‘““And this is one of them? Belike it is; for he has
the snarl of a surly bulldog.”

4 pay, Sir Victor, this is the young cousin they ex-
pected.’ . :

‘A cousin of the baron’s? And I gave him half a

eal’ exclaimed the young Englishman. ‘But
twas well meant; and he was a boor and a sava
to fling it at mein such arage! Bathe my cheek

 

cold water, Ceelebs, or I shall have an unbecoming

flush all the evening, Where is the man gone?”

“Tnto his own quarters,”

‘‘Finish me directly, that I may explain this
blunder to the fair Alicia. There; my hair will do.
Have you biushed the velvet of my coat?”

* It is ready, Sir Victor.”’

“Help me on with it. Very awkward, this; but
the young lady will excuse a mistake. Ha! ha! ha!
it was laughable, though. How was I to recognize a
See in such clothes, and with such an odor?

‘augh!’
toilet was by this time made. He fan sa a
creamy silken handkerchief across his forehead,
adjusted the cluster diamond ring on his er,
glanced once more in the mirror, and went out. The
corridor was deserted, and only uenses td the lamp
that swung in the great hall below e baronet
descended the stairs with his usual ecmposed grace,
and went into the great drawning-room, where
Alicia was practicing the harpsichord.
While the valet picked up the half-guinea and
oe the dressing-room in order for his master’s

isrobing, Herrick, in the opposite room, was giving
vent to his ferocious temper, chafed to uy the
indignity of being treated as a servant in . ae
man’s house, by the fop of an Englishman he al:

to | ready detested.

Fees in nrpmenee

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

44

 

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

He now recollected that a young baronet from the
South was the guest of Swinton, and also the sur-
rise that he had come to pay court to the you
lady of the mansion. This was the point that gall
him sorely. What scenes of anguish he had passed
through, with suddenly ruptured ties; a father
hounded by minions of the law, and self-exiled; a
home made desolate! And while he groaned under
this bitter experience, here was a dainty, roseate
gelant, who had to have a valet to curl and perfume

is hair, paying court to the girl he loved! ay, the
girl who had sworu to love none but himself!

By all the Druids of the groves, it should not be!
He would spoil this miscreant’s game! He would
speak at once with Alicia!

With impetuous haste, he threw off his soiled gar-
ments, performed the necessary abulutions, and
donned the suit he ,called his best. But he never
once looked in the mirror; for it was not his habit to
indulge in such contemplation. His thoughts ran
upon his dainty, fresh-cheeked rival, who had dared
talk of his “smelling of the stables,’’ and he won-
dered if it were possible a silly maid could be pleased
with such foppery. He clenched his hand; he could
then and there have torn the exquisite to atoms. He
strode to the head of the stairway.

Sounds of music came up from the drawing-room,
and presently the mingled voices of two, singing a
duet. The notes rose and fell, and the feminine
trills were lost in a clear, manly tone. Then a light
laugh was heard; Alicia’s eaeN The drawlin;
tones of the Englishman, with his stronzly-marke
Southern accent, could be heard, too; and then the
laugh was mutual.

Herrick could bear no more. He dashed down the
stairs at a breakneck pace; rushed to the front door,
and out into the air. The night was clear,
soft and balmy, and the moon, like a silver boat,
rode the clear hyaline. As the young man hurled

down the stone steps upon the terrace, the
tramp of a horse approached, and the baron, leap-
ing to the ground, flung his rein to the groom, who

d gone out to watch for him,

~ 0 is this?” he called out, as he saw his young
kinsman’s figure dimly defined in the uncertain
light. ‘‘ Herrick! is it you, my boy? Have you but
now arrived? What ails thee, lad?’ as he came near
enough to Brasp his arm, and saw him turn aside
with a scowl, and felt that he was trembling with
strong emotion.

“Nothing!” answered the young man to the ques-
tion, after it had been twice repeated.

“Pell me not that, boy!” cried his kinsman; “and
hide naught trom me. Have you not seen my
daughter?”

“No, Ihave not! She wants none of my sort,”
was the sullen answer.

“‘Some one has chafed you, and sorely, too! Yet
Alicia is not in fault; she knows not of your com-
ing! Take my arm; we will go to find her.”

No, I cannot!” returned the young man, draw-
ing away hisarm. “I will not go in. I will away

to-night.”
oe Whither, I pray?”

“Home; to the sea; to the ruined castle my friends
have deserted! If I find no shelter there—there is
the sea; and the rocks! I can hide in their caves
ee whither my father has fled, and then go

“You shall not leave my house,” cried the baron,
again seizing his arm. ‘You are half frenzied, boy,
and I wonder not; but what has chanced here to
os Hath any of my boors been saucy? If
he . he shall reap a heavy chastisement!’’

“No, no!” answered the young man, endeavoring
to release himself.

“They had better not chafe you! Art you not my
own blood? Come, come; this is some misunder-

“I cannot go in,” muttered Herrick, ‘to be meas-
ured with yon fop of an Englishman, and despised
because I am not one of his sort.”

“Despised? Who dares despise thee ?”’

“He does, and his minion of a valet. I chanced
but now to enter his room by mistake, while the cub
was perfuming his master’s hair, and scenting his
kerchief with rose-water; and he—your guest, baron
—railed at me as a boor to a servant; said I smelt
of the stables; put a bottle to his nose, and then
flung a piece of gold at me, as if I were one of the
varlets born to wait on such as he!”

“Tush; ‘twas a blunder of his! He would never
dare maltreat one of my kinsmen, or a guest. He
is strange to our customs. Come in, and he shall
apologize.”

. “Nay, it was matter of jest afterward between
the fop and your lady daughter. I heard them laugh-

But not at you, cousin! That is impossible.
Alicia Maur could never be guilty of a rudeness.
Come; you slander her by such a thought; and
wound me—sericusly too! You must make repara-
tion. Come with me.”

He drew the young man on to the stone steps.

“ Nay, I think the lady wauts none of my company
while yon sweet-smelling gatlant—”

“Art jealous? That is unworthy of a Maur. Sir
Victor Wilder is nothing to her; but she is bound to
show him courtesy as my guest.”

fe Be they wrong her by the talk in the village.”

“Fie, cousin! Wouldst listen to boors and gossips,
that aye speer into the ways of their betters? Come;
I will teach you better!”

They were in the house by this time.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE COUSIN’S WOOING.

Tue light and elegance of the drawing-room—a
refreshment to the baron after his long ride—acted
een irritant to the wild, uncultivated youth at his

6.

Alicia and Sir Victor were still Playing; but the
music ceased on the instant; the girl ran to embrace
ier father, and gave her hand in cordial greeting to
Herrick. He barely touched her fingers; then turn-
ed away, with a sullen scowl on his brow.

Baron Swinton took his kinsman by the hand and
pe introduced him to Sir Victor Wilder as
his cousin, the heir of his name and the estate, and
his favored friend.

did not even bend his head in acknowledg-

Herrick
but faultl -attired gentleman he s
Yisdadned ead eee with the grace onky to

 

 

quired by familiarity with the best society, offered
his hand frankly, and expressed his pleasure in
making the acquaintance of a relation of their noble
host; one, too, of whose courage and gallant. bear-
ing he had heard so much. There was a charm in
his perfect good-breeding, and the apparent sin-
cerity of his compliments, which deprived Herrick
of the Rae to repel his advances. He felt and
succumbed to the spell; but in the depth of his heart
he was conscious of a new fountain of jealous bit-
terness,

The young baronet added that he felt himself con-
strained to offer an humble apology, for the stupid
blunder he had been betrayed into, some little time
agone. In the dim twilight, seeing a stranger enter
his room in riding gear, he had absurdly mistaken
him for one of the baron’s attendants, and had been
guilty of the rudeness of addressing him as such,
‘Would Master Herrick Maur pardon him? He could
not pardon himself!

Herrick was taken by surprise. The humility of
the address, the self-reproach it implied, the appeal
to his generous forgiveness, quite disarmed him. He
was new to the ways of society-bred people, and did
not understand how so much self-abasement might
yet consist with arrogance.

Then, too, it was plain Alicia had heard nothing of
the occurrence. She came forward with questions
and showed genuine surprise. He had wronged Sir
Victor, by supposing he had been made an object of
ridicule between the two.

Herrick answered frankly that he was quite satis-
fied, and that there was no cause of offense. His
brow cleared, and he smiled good-humoredly when
the baron le him lead in his fair cousin to sup-
per.

The evening passed very agreeably; and Herrick
was forced to acknowledge to himself, though re-
luctantly, that the fluent conversation and graceful
ease of the English gentleman contributed vastly to
the pleasure of the circle.

The baron conversed almost exclusively with him
on subjects they understood in common; but Alicia
was inevitably engrossed by the accomplished gal-
lant who had so much power to arouse them all b,
his piquant stories and sallies of wit. Even his
drawling manner, so offensive at times, added point
to his playful satire, or his graphic sketches.

Then he went to the harpischord with the young
lady, and they pare and sung in concert, Sir Vic-
tor had a rich and cultivated voice, and a superior
knowledge of music.

Herrick relapsed into his moody abstraction, pay ts

ing no heed to the discourse of his host. He wate:
ed the pair furtively. He had naught else to do; for
he knew none of the parlor games then in fashion;
had no gift for music, and could not join in the con-
versation. The consciousness of his own deficien-
cies stung him to the heart. He rose and paced the
room uneasily, stopping now and then at the win-
dows, to look out upon the moonlighted lawn.

Presently Margaret came in. She always mingled
as an equal with the visitors of her young foster-
sister, and was entirely capable of joining in the
general conversation, though not accomplished in
any special way.

he was introduced to the young stranger—Her-

rick—and essayed to draw him into discourse; but
found it impracticable. Alicia at length perceived
his discomposure, and went to him. But even her
gentle wiles tailed to restore him to good-humor,

They stood by a window, which opened from the
floor on a narrow balcony. Without asking leave,
Herrick drew aside the fastenings and threw it wide

open.

“Come out here!” he said, brusquely. ‘ The air is
insufferably close.’’

He drew Alicia out on the balcony and closed the
window. The air was chill, and the girl shivered
from head to foot.

“*T must go in,” she said, ‘ or get a shawl.”

“You shall not go in,” exclaimed her impetuous
kinsman. ‘Let me put my coat over you, if you
are cold. I will keep you here; I have had no chance
of speaking to you.” ;

icia laughed as she declined the heavy coat he

would have put on her; and tapped lightly at the

Pando: Margaret came, and she made a sign to
er.

In a few minutes Margaret came and opened the
window, giving Alicia a warm cloak, which she threw
over her shoulders.

“Now, cousin, I am at your service,’’ she said,
pleasantly,

‘*Come down, then,’’ said the young man, and he
led her to the steps at the end of the balcony, de-
scending to the terrace.

She took his arm confidingly, and they walked on
till et came to the cluster of acacias. There was
a rustic seat, sheltered by the drooping blossoms.
The et threw herself upon it,

“Tt is pleasant in the open air,” she remarked,
“with the smell of the flowers, and the moon so
bright. We will stop a few minutes.”

“Stay with me as long as you can, Alicia,” return-
ed Herrick, “ for 1 cannot go back.’

“Why not?”

“I suifer too much.”

“Ah, truly, my poor cousin! You cannot feel
gay, after such sad things have happened, and we
are too ras to forget them in our enjoyment. Believe
me, I feel truly for you.”

**- You do not feel; you do not care for me, Alicia!”’
cried the young man, bitterly. ‘* You have eyes and
hearing only for yon sleek coxcomb!”

“Cousin Herrick!"

“T must speak as I feel! andI am miserable! I

r cannot bear it! Why was I brought here to meet

him?

“You are unreasonable. He is my father’s visi-
tor. He came unexpectedly; at least; my father
had short notice of his coming.”

‘1s this the first time?”

“That he has been here? Yes; but papa has
pee? Shia. entertained at his father’s, in Eng-

“Comes he not as a suitor?”

‘*A suitor—for what?”

“You need not pretend not to know what I mean.
A suitor for your hand?’

The girl burst out laughing.

“What a strange notion! He has no such idea, I
assure you!” :

“Tassure you he has; and he expeeta to win you

‘

 

as his bride!’ exclaimed the young man, with a
burst of jealous anger.

“Herrick! you are discourteous! I will not hear
such language!” replied the maiden, rising from her

seat,

“Ts it not plain enough? I have seen his eyes fol-
low you with admiring looks; I have seen you hang
upon his words, as if delighted. I tell you, he has
come to woo you, Alicia: and I tell you, too, there
is danger in him for you! A maiden’s love is soon
won by such arts as he can practice!”

With grave displeasure, the girl turned to retrace
her steps to the house.

Herrick caught her arm,

“You shall not leave me, Alicia, chafed and tor-
tured asIam! Have you no pity?’

anh are rude and ill-mannered; nay, Jet me

Herrick threw his arms round her; she struggled
to release herself, and stood free, save. that he still
clutched her dress.

“Oh, Ajicia, drive me not to madness! I love you
—you know I love you!”

‘You are too wild and fierce, sir. Do not prevent
me from going! You have no right to speak tome
in this manner!”’

“Alicia, do you not remember a few nights since
—at.the castle—”

““Yes, Herrick; and it is my recollection of the
service you rendered me that makes me bear with
younow. You saved my life, and I am gratefull! oh,
so grateful! I was indeed in a terrible strait!”

“My father’s bidding then was that you and) I
should be wed that night.”

The girl gave a gasp of horror,

“Yes, the priest was ready; but I would not have
itso; because, girl, I would not take advantage.of
your helplessness and fears; I would not take. an
unwilling bride.”

“You acted nobly, Herrick., You have a noble
heart!”

She put out her hand, and it was clasped passion-

ara
ae? you remember the promise you made, Ali-

a

‘The promise!’’

“Yes, the promise; you cannot have forgotten it.
You swore solemnly to fulfill it.” i

The girl grew pale as death.

‘Every word.is burned in upon her heart!’’ cried
Herrick. “If I would come with you, you swore to
wed no other man.”

“Cousin Herrick! would you hold me to words ut-
tered in such a strait?”

“Yes, I would! 1 do! You knew what you were
saying! You must be mine, Alicia, or be forsworn!”

me I made no promise to wed you a
one,” faitered the girl, trying to release her
from his turning clasp.

“But to wed none other without my leave! Ishall
hold you to that. You are fast bound!"

“T do not expect to be married.”

“*Ts there no,man in the world you prefer to me?”

The maid gould not prevaricate,

“You Arm Aalicing nonsense. Let us quit the sub-
ject. Come.into the house.”

“To see, yon smooth, creamy-faced gallant make
love to you! Never !”’

“How can I convince you that he has no such
thought? That I have not?”

“ Would you accept him, Alicia?”

“ Most: ainly not. He is not the man whom I
could ever,love.”’

“Or encourage him?”

“Surely not; that would be unmaidenly, unjust,
dishonorable!”

“Alicia, I will be satisfied, if you will here and
now declare that you will marry me.”

** But I cannot.

“*T will not_be in haste; you shall have months,
Jest of freedom. I will educate myself in the arte

hat please you; I will cast off the savage and be-
come as courtly and refined as you wish; I will
transform my wild nature! Only, Alicia, give me
your love in return for the love I lay at your feet!”

“Herrick, you ask what I cannot do. You are
our kinsman, dear to my father and to me; you are
as a brother.”

‘““T will not be your brother. You shall be my
wife, Alicia.”

“T will be no man’s wife whom I cannot love as a
husband,”

“And you have never seen one you love better
than me? Your heart is untouched? I will win it
by such devotion, such deep love as never yet was
scorned by maiden fair! You cannot help loving
me! Only give me time. Have naught to say to
this Eng fop!”

“You are foolish, Herrick, to be jealous of Sir
Victor! Were there no other man in the world, I
Men pee take him for a bridegroom,”

“Yonbowill swear that?”

“There is no need_of swe ; he could never
win favor from me, Yet I must be civil to him as
my father’s guest.”

* And when he lays his title and fortune at Tur
oer you will tell him you are’betrothed to yo
cousin

“Not quite that; but indeed he has no such intent.
Be reasonable, Herrick, and believe me.”

“Tf you will not say that you are my betrothed,
Alicia, I will watch the young man; and if T see in
him the air of a favored suitor—the worse for him!”

“You then question my word?’’ ;

“No, I cling to it; your promise to be the wife of
no other man,” :

““ Will you come to the house?”

She was shivering, less from cold than fear of the
rashness and impetuous passion of this wild kins-
man. She leaned on his arm, and thus drew him to
the steps, entering at the front door,

CHAPTER XVIL
THE MEETING BY THE ROMAN WELL

Auicra was mistaken about the disposition of Sir
Victor Wilder. :

His proposal was made in due form to the baron a
few days after the Occurrences described.

The pani was sent for to the library, where
the suitor had conferred with her father. Swinton
left the decision entirely to the young lady,

She at once, and unhesitatingly, declined the

 

honor proffered. She had no love for the a

baronet, she could never love him, He w

ee

i
  

 

 

Papa has missed
' haste—”

 

  

 

—

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

we eg ee

 

 

too kind, too. noble, to pursue her with claims or
solicitations, after such a revelation of her mind.

Victor had noidea of doing so. He accepted
her decision asfinal. He spoke gracefully. of Herrick
Maur, whom he supposed his fortunate rival. He
offered important services for the benefit of that
young man. His father could exert influence to get
him into thearm y There, thrown into contact with
men of distinction in society, high breeding, and
solid acquirements, he would soon lose his rough
manner, and become refined and educated. Should
he write at once to his father?

Both the baron and his daughter were affected by
this generosity. But Miss Maur hastened to explain
that Sir Victor was in error in fancying the young
man destined to be her husband. e was. their
kinsman; the heir of the house; that was all.

“'Tben you inust permit me to do him service as
your kinsman, if he will accept it at my hands?”

This offer was thankfully accepted; and the re-
jected lover went to his own room to write his let-
ters. Alicia retreated before her father could enter
ai any discussion of the subject. The prospect
of having Herrick sent away to the army, where he
might learn the’ accomplishments of a gentleman,
was tifying to both. ‘

Ta her scarf and bonnet, with a book in her
hand, Alicia went out to walk alone. She carefully
avoided passing where her cousin might see her, and
shunned even Ma: et’s company. She wanted
solitude to aes thoughts she would confide to no
friendly sympathy.

About a mile from the mansion was the ancient
Roman well of which mention has been made. These
relics of the Roman conquest in Scotland were curi-
osities tourists often came to see. The well had a
rounded mouth built of solid stone, and was in depth
from thirty to forty feet. There was a narrow stair
from the mouth to the bottom, where the water was
dipped up; and bronze statues in the niches were
seen as one descended. The statue of Me "4
nearest the water, was still entire, and not even the
element that bathed the feet of the god power
to crumble them.

Alicia seated herself in a grove where the short,

thick grew luxuriantly under the shade. The
rocks in the vicinity showed it the ancient resort of
Druid worshipers.

The girl leaned her head upon her hand, and gave
herself up to thought.
Steps were approaching, but she heard them not.
They came through the grove. A man step-
out from the shelter of the wild vines that clus-
red among the branches, and swung at the bidding
of the winds.
Suddenly the aes. started, and almost recoiled.
He had not e: to find the girl there.
He stood still a moment, gazing eagerly at her.
er book had fallen from her hand; her head droo}
ed so that herface was concealed. But Regi
the young lover, recognized her at the first glance.
He had not intended to seek her preseace: A guest
at Laird Ralston’s house, not many miles;distant, he
had walked over to be in the neighbo.thood of Stone
Cx98. not meaning to present himself ‘as a visitor to
the m. Should the EOE occur, he would
have informed him of sad change of fortune.
Alicia he thought of as a star that had beamed on
his aos now quenched forever in the gloom that had

ie could not see her face, but the outline of her
form showed dejection. She was sorrowing; could
it be amemory of him that had caused her pain?
With a deep sigh he turned away, and prepared to
retrace his steps. Some Bent movement, perhaps
the breaking of a twig, startled her. She sprung up,
and as the young man turned once more, they were
Lord Cresey !” the girl exclaimed, calling him b
” the girl exclaim 4 y
the ae tle belonging to the eldest son of the
eee of Estonbury—by which she had known

A lovely rose-color suffused her face. She came
forward and put out her hand.

He took it and lifted it to his lips. For his life he
could not have avoided doing that; and she did not
oan, her hand away, though she blushed yet more

leeply.
“You are glad to see me again, Alicia?’’ he asked;
and a tenderness in his tone went to her heart.

But she answered lightly: ‘‘You_know we are!
you so! and you left us in such

She sto , for her eyes fell on his mourning
garb. Serene eoucatteret that she had heard he
was Lord Estonbury. 3

He led her back to the moss-covered seat she had

tted.
“But you will go home with me? You were on |’

your way. a will be so glad to welcome his com-
panion in the chase.” ™

“T cannot go with you, Miss Maur. You must
make my es Wan 7 aee ‘ather.” 2 iy
go , have you not come
to make papa a vinit? He told me he vad ‘heard

“T expected to visit him when I wrote; it was my
dearest hope to see you again. But so much has
pappened since—”

5 sot have heard of it? Our kinsman, Ken-
neth Maur, has fled from the country; his castle is
desolate, and his son Herrick—my father’s old

favorite, you know—is here, living with us. You
N T heard nothing f it. Is that th ung
“No, noi of it. ie yo
cousin whose hands I cnce rescued you from, Micia?
He was something of a boor.”
“The same; and heis not greatly changed,” she
replied, laughing. “ After his father’s de, re, he

”

“The changes in my life, Alicia, are greater than

ese.
“Thave heard of your father's death,” the eet
said, looking grave as she saw the sudden gloom that
read the face of her companion. 3

he tis not all. When I saw you last, Alicia—
suffer me to call you so yet, till my story is told—I
had everything to hope; now [have no but de-
spair!’ a
The Se that convulsed his features moved

ne Dechert she repeated, growing pale.
Reginald ‘struggled with overpowering emotion

had no other home and papa wishes him to live with

2, ’

for a moment.. When he spoke his voice was al-
tered and husky.

“T must tell you all! Idid not mean it; but fate
has brought us together, and it is for the last time!
Oh, Alicia, you see me stripped of fortune, title.
everything, to which I thought my birth entitle
ie J am not the son and heir of Lord Eston-

“Not his son!” echoed the girl in amazement,

‘Lady Estonbury says so. She commanded me
tomarry her adopted daughter, Helen—the child,
as I supposed, of her maid and the house-steward.
Irefused. After my departure, she sent the two
servants to London, to inform me that Helen and I
had been exchanged in infancy; that I was the son
of Chisholm and the maid—”’

Lady Estonbury put from her her own child?”
“She pleads that ber husband was so anxious for

the expected child were not a boy; that she was
afraid of ‘his revenge; and thoughtit better to de-
ceive ‘him than to suffer the alternative he had
threatened. She has declared in writing—under the
seal of an oath—thatI am not her son, and that
Helen is her own daughter!’’

An exclamation of sympathy escaped the girl,
and involuntarily she laid her hand upon Reginald’s.
It was infinitely grateful to him to note that her
first impulse was one of kindness. He had feared
that she would recoil from him with aversion.

“My friend Ralston,” he continued, “suggested
that there was still room for doubt of the truth of

dislike of me, and a fondness for the girl which
seemned unaccountable, In her disappointment at
the failure of her attempt to make a match between
us, Frank thought she might have invented the tale
to mortify and injure me. “ my solicitors

Fought,”
“Tt must be so!” eagerly cried the maiden.

“Alas, no! I directed immediate search to be
made, to substantiate Lady Estonbury’s statements,
in case they really had foundation. The steward
and maid were carefully examined; also the doctor
who had been called in at the birth of the child,
whom he remembered to have been a girj. Other
testimony was brought to light; till no doubt re-
mains of the truth of what has been toid me,”

Alicia averted her face to wipe away tears that
stole down her white cheeks.

“You suffer for me! you weep for me, generous
pit cried Reginald, impetuously. ‘“‘ What mis-
ortune is not easily borne if your sympathy is mine!
if you feel for me?’

“I do indeed!” said Alicia, with deep emotion.
“You deserved all the good that fortune seemed to
haye showered upon you.”

“Tho I was not unworthy of it. And I will not
be crushed. I have already taken steps to resign
the wealth and state to which I have no claim. I
have a few friends to stand by me, and their regard
is true and steadfast. Already, Lhear, the heir-at-
law of the marquisate has gone to Estonbury Court;
and if the proofs are complete of the imposture
practiced so long, I shall offer no opposition to his

‘*Does my father know?”

“He does_not; nothing is known as yet, beyond
the ms I have mentioned.”

“Tell him, Reginald. He will advise you. He
will act for you. Come to him at once.”

** Alicia, I cannot appeal to him!”

“* Why not?’’

‘“Because—he knew the hope I had cherished—the
hope dearer than all else—he would fear that I—
Alicia, forgive me! I meant to have kept the secret
of my love, but I cannot hide it from you! I loved
you—I love you still. It was the cherished dream
of my life to call you mine! It is the darkest_of all
the calamities that have overtaken me, that I must
lose that hope; that I must resign you forever!”

Alicia’s face was crimson now. She covered it
with both hands before she murmured the next

words:

“ Reginald, I knew you loved me!”

He looked at her; she lifted those frank, innocent
eyes to his, and continued:

“T knew it—by my own feelings.”

The you
tide of passion was too stro:

“Your own, Alicia? You
gave me yours in return?”

e drew her hand from his’clasp; but it was to
dash away the falling tears.

““Why should I_deny it? Why should I stoop to
coquettish art? Yes—your love is returned, and
wit! whole heart!”’

He clasped her closely in his arms. In that mo-
mént all was forgotten except the rush of ecstasy
that swept over is .

He made her sit down and threw himself at her
feet—holding her hand and Kise it again and

ain. Like a torrent long repressed the eloquence
of ardent passion overswept sorrow, reason and all
aot The gir] listened, smiling even while her tears

flowed.
Suddenly the reaction came.
“T am a villain!” the young man exclaimed, start-
ing up. ‘How dare I proffer love, and cosees that
‘ou are so far above me! What would the baron of
Swinton think of such presumption in a penniless
outcast?” .
He struck his forehead with his hand and groaned
in bitterness of spits,
w id!” cried the girl, “‘It is not your for-
tune and title that won me!”
“But you, are lest to uF, nevertheless. ig ne
ou down to n
wic. painiees! that 1-the egeae ie eo of such

parents—should have dared my eyes to you! to

to be checked.
ew my love, and you

to!”

“Not so!” cried Alicia, rising, a noble spirit flash-
ing in hereyes. “It is no degradation to. be beloved
by you, Reginald, and to love you! _ My father will
not think so!”

“He would not--he could not—sanction my suit!
Bestow his Senet on a landless vagrant! On one
of menial birth!”

“You are not answerable for birth or fortune!”
she replied. ‘‘ You have been bred a gentleman;
you are the same man as when my father welcom:
and loved you. You shall be his guest again?!’

 

““Impossible!” exclaimed Alicia. ‘‘ Why should |

a son; that he held over her mysterious threats, if |

the story. Lady Estonbury has always shown a |

man caught ‘oth her hands in his. The |

reveal the love it is a degradation to you to listen |

| ‘*'He will spurn me when he knows—”

“Tf he should,” cried Alicia, ‘‘ J will be true to you
in spite of fortune, in spits of all the world!”

Again the impetuous lover folded the brave girl to
his wildly-beating heart.

“Oh, if I dared cherish this generous assurance!
If I could look forward toa blest future!” he ex-
claimed. ‘“‘ Auge! that you are, why may I not cling
to ths hand that raises me from despair to happi-
ness?”

“T am no angel, but a loving woman; and I
will be true to you!” repeated Alicia.

Reginald went on rapidly:

““T may wring success from the world; I have
talents, education, friends, and a field of labor! I
| must succeed, with such a reward awaiting me!’’

“You will, I dare pledge my life!’

“T will not bear the name of Chisholm! I will
never acknowledge the parents whose first act to-
ward me was one of fraud and falsehood! But I
will win a name—and a respected one; no great
wealth, perhaps—but at least an honored name.”

“And when you claim me, Reginald, I will share
it Mey you, and bear the want of fortune with con-
tent!’

Alas! she had forgotten entirely her pledge to
Herrick Maur. : oe

At this moment the remembrance of that extorted
promise flashed phen her; and pale as death, she re-
coiled, and would have fallen but for her lover's sup-
porting arms.

“*T have tasked your strength too far, dearest,” he
said, tenderly.

She shook her head but could not speak for some
minutes,

be Reginaly, she resumed, at length, ‘‘ I have given
you my whole heart, and death itself could not make
me retract my word. But how is it with another
sort of promise—one made under different circeum-
stances—peril to life—or something more terrible—
would a promise, extorted from one at such a time,
be always binding?”

“IT do not quite understand, dearest. A promise—
of your love—do you mean?”

“No, not that! I could not promise what was not
my. own to give!” :

he went on to narrate all that had occurred; her
capture and forcible detention at the castle; her
cousin’s interference and release of her; her terror,
and the dread of suffering imprisonment or ou
among the rough and savage retainers of Kenneth;
her supplication for aid, and her final yielding to
Herrick’s condition—that she should swear to wed
none without his acquiescence.

Reginald heard her to the end.

., “And this man, you say, is now an inmate of your

‘ather’s house?”’

“He is, and recognized as my father’s heir.”

“He must be worse than a savage! He must have
theinstincts of a brute!”

“*Has he a right to exact the fulfillment of such a
promise?”

“Not the least in the world! If he had manly
feeling he would never have asked it.””

“But it was given—to save myself, and he has re-
minded me of it—and will hold me bound.”

“Set yourself free at once! Tell him you repudiate
such a pledge! Does he expect you to marry him?’
“*T told him I would not; I could not love him.”

“Yet he asserts a claim upon you?”

“Yes he insists upon the fulfillment of my promise;
and, oh, Reginald, he isso fierce and violent, I dare
not retract it!”

‘This is weakness, dear Alicia. You must assert

our freedom. What a churl—to know you vannot

ove him, yet so to ampons on your goodness? If I

were in a position to ask this dear hand of the baron,
I would soon set him aaah

Alicia’s eyes sparkled.

“*T will make an appeal to him,”’ shesaid. *‘I will
convince him how hopeless is his suit. He has some-
thing generous in his nature.”

“‘ And if he refuse to quit his absurd claim?”

 

 

“Then I will tell him Iam free. No pledge so ex-
torted can be jpstly exacted.”
The lovers lingered yet awhile, and before they

Rance, Alicia received from Reginald the promise
hat he would see her father that evening.

“Tell him all,” she implored. ‘I cannot bear to
have secrets from him.”

This was agreed. Re ld, too, would conceal
; nothing. He placed a rich antique ring on the giil’s

finger, and begged her to wear it for his sake.

““T dare not ask your troth-plight, my beloved, till
I am worthy of your father’s approval.”

“‘T have given it,” she answered, ‘‘ and shall never
retract it nor fail you, Reginald.” : ;

CHAPTER XVIII.
' 4 ROUGH WOOER.

HERRICK was absent that evening when Reginald
came to visit the Baron of Swinton.
|. His whole story was laid before him in the library
| before evening set in.
| Swinton entirely approved of what he had resolved
| on, in case no more doubt remained of the truth of
| Lady Estonb
|
|
}

 

*s statement; and referred him to a
legal firm in nburgh, whose jud, mt in such
matters was celebrated. They could put in com-

munication with the solicitors of the young man, to
discuss all points of the question.

The baron offered all the aid he could command

for the future course of his young friend. The law
was open to him; it was a study worth the attention
of any gentleman.
s oe had already provided, with the help of
| the of Ralston, for commencing his law studies.
| He would take chambers at once, and place himself
| under proper instruction,

Then the young man made a full confession of his
love for the baron’s daughter.

This point was a sensitive one for the father. He
_ had perceived the affection ri between the
| youthful pair, and, as long as could offer
| a spleni title and almost fabulous wealth he was

inclined to foster that affection, But now it was
| different. He could not consent to his daughter's
| union with one poor and unknown; one, too, whose
| birth was unsuitable. He was ambitious; his child
| must in her own station. It grieved him to

be severe; but he could sanction no engagement nor
co) mdence, ~ ee Penkeh=
id had not a word to say. How could he
tt d to eee

'
|

present any claim? He submi the requisition

i

 

 

—— +

Se

Senter

a

See

 

Ye

 

 
 

ea rree a

Ss

Looe

Se

 

Ye

 

ara eel ee erenerem

LADY. HELEN'S. VOW.

 

 

tantly promised to refrain from writing toher. The
father asked no more; for he trusted: to time and

absence to efface any dangerous impression.

He gave his young friend a cor invitation to
remain for the night; to stay until he could hear
from his lawyers in London. But Reginald could
not stay—even to sup and pass the evening.

His meeting with Alicia in the drawing-room in
the presence of others was painful and embarrass-
ing, and he was glad to take leave early. More than
once, however, the eyes of the young girl gave him
assurance that she would remember, and be stead-
fast to the vows they had exchanged.

Would he ever return? was the question pressing
7 the mind of more than one when he had left the
10use.

The baron in his heart hoped he would not. Deep- |
ly as he commiserated his misfortunes, he was de-
termined not to permit his only child to sacrifice
herself to any romantic ideas: of love. He would
take care of that. She should go to London; she
should see the world; she should have distinguished
suitors. Perbaps she might listen to the suit of her |
cousin Herrick, when society had polished, his man- |
ners, and he had become a man of the world. He |
would not object to that. The barony ought to be |
continued in the family; he had no son, and Herrick |
would represent his dignities. He would be satisfied. |
to see his daughter the Baroness of Swinton.

In the young girl’s heart “hope told a flattering
tale;’’ and, confident of her lover’s ability to triumph
over evil fortune, she anticipated. his early return.
Her father loved her too much, she thought, to op-
pose her in that on which her happiness depended,
and she resolved patiently to ‘“ bide her time.”

Reginald was not.so hopeful, for he saw the diffi-
culties awaiting him;.but he could not. despair,
rien the sunshine of that bright smile was in his

eart. : $

: ve :
that he should not seek to bind the girl; and reluc-
‘
|
|

 

In the afternoon of the next day Alicia,was pre-
poring for her walk, as usual. She had not asked |
argaxet to accompany her, but that young lady,
coming from her home in the village, met her as she |

left the gate.
Margaret linked her arm with Alicia’s and begged
her not to walk toward the ravine or the Roman

well.

“That is just where I was going, lassie,’’ said. the
love-lorn maiden. “‘ You know why that spot is so |
dear to me.”

She made a confidante of her foster-sister, disclos-
ing to her all that had passed between herself and |
Reginald, under an injunction of meee.

“But scarce an hour since,’”’ said Margaret, ‘I |
met Master Herrick in the dell. He was ina rage of
passion. Some lad inthe village had told him he
saw you yesterday beside the well with a gentleman,
and described his English dress. The lad) saw him
kiss your hand many times, and reported the same
to Master Herrick.’

Alicia stood still, crimson with indignation.

“And my cousin listened to the boor?’’ she ex-

ed, amazed.
“He did; he was wrought to fierce passion. He
has <—¥ to wait for you. Heset upon me when I
met him, railing at me for what he called my encour

agement of your folly; for he will have it that the
favored gallant was Sir Victor Wilder.”
“Now Iam not my father’s daughter,” cried the

indignant girl, “if ldo not put an end, at once and
forever, to this impertinence!”’

“ Best let it pass, dear. The young man’s passion
will abate.” |

“And suffer him: to hold me in a leash like a dog, |
to be obedient only to his bidding? No; I will not |
endure such unseemly behavior!”

“Stay, dear Alicia—”

“Stay me not! What will the neighbors think?
That I have a master! That he should dare question |
a village lad concerning my movements!”
He may do oa harm, if youencounter him while
his e is seething!’’ pleaded Margaret. ASI

“I shall know how to manage him.” And Alicia |
broke from her friend’s hold. |

“Let me go with you!” |

““No; I will see him alone. Do not be afraid, Mar- |
garet, and say nothing. In the dell, said you? 1 |
will go there directly.” }

“Twill follow you, darling. He shall not see me;
but I will guard a from his savage violence, if he |
dares speak roughly.” |

Alicia walked rapid'y away, and Margaret follow- |
ed, closely enough to Keep her in sight. |

‘The shade of the tall forest trees fell sweetly over }
the green sward by the well. The song of birds was
the only sound heard, save the rippling of a tiny \
stream trickling down the rocks.

But there strode the irritated young man, chafing
with his undisciplined temper, and furious jealousy.

He stopped when he saw the fair girl coming to-
ward him. She, too, stopped, and rested her hand
on the tall hewn stone at the well’s mouth.
. a moment of silence, the young man burst
into mocking laughter. i

“Ye did not bargain for my company here, at this
hour of tryst!’ he said, bitterly. “I know well
whom you are looking for!” a‘ ie

“T came to meet yourself, Master Herrick Maur,
answered Alicia, defiantly. 3

“Ye speak falsely!” he cried, with the Scottish
accent-into which his speech glided under excite-
ment. ‘ Ye would ha’ none o’ me here, but another;
and it is me ye ha’ to reckon with!” a

“It is like the churl you are,” eried the angry girl. |
“to give me the lie; but shall call you to account |
for worse insults.’ 2

She threw her shawl over a mossy bowlder, and |
took her seat with the air of a young queen about |
to = judgement.

errick came a few paces nearer. His face was
aflame with passion, and his eyes glared savagely. |
The girl gave him no time tos y |

“How ‘ou, sir, hold talk with a village boor |
about me, and fisten to his spying? Is it thus you
hold the name of your kinswoman, and a maiden of
high birth?”

“And how dared this fair kinswoman of mine,
and this high-born maiden, meet in secret the cow-
ardly fop of an English baronet, and suffer his un-
seemly advances, after the assurances given to
me?” was the savage retort.

‘*T will meet whom I please!”

} hand for him to step back.

| was not Sir Victor with whom I spoke here yester-

| stant in the hall, then ascended the stairs, and turn-

| seen; pale, distorted, altered almost beyond recog-
| nition. He staggered in his walk; his eyes were

 

“Nay, that ye shall not!”

“To none but my father do I owe obedience. Not
to you, sir! It is nothing to you whom I choose to
see, here or elsewhere!”’ c

“Is’t not?” gasped the young man, in &@ voice
choked by rage, and striding up to her, he clutched
her arm. “ Ye forget your bonds to me, mistress!”

“T reject and cast them off, utterly!” cried Alicia,
starting to her feet, and flinging off his grasp.
“You have gone too far, sir! I am nothing to you
and never will be—never!”’

‘* You swore to me you would not wed another
man! Yet you are toying and dallying with my ri-
vai when I am absent, and meeting him in secret!”

“Listen to me,’ said the girl, with the dignity of
authority, again seating herself, and waving her
‘The oath you extorted
from me when I was in deadly peril and scarce
knew what I said, has no binding force, and: I shall
never acknowledge any; nor shall it be kept. And
you know I would never wed you; so that you need
not claim the right of an affianced husband to watch
meand storm at me. Lama free maiden and you
have no right over me.”

Herrick began. to feel that he had indeed gone too
far. He struck his breast with his clenched hand.

“You will not keep that solemn oath?’ he ex-
claimed. j

“You had no might to prescribe it. It was.a das-
tardly and cruel thing to take advantage ofa r
girl’s desperate strait. No; that promise had )
force; and I am not bound to keep it.”

“You are sistent to marry another man, then?’’
muttered Herrick, his eyes gleaming like coals of
fire. ‘Beware, madam, I will kill the Englishman,
before he shall have you!”

“Your insane fury has led you into an error. «It

da: wr) |

“Tt was!’ rudely interrupted young Maur.

“T have said it was not, and I shall not ——- my
denial. You have no right to find fault with me in
any case. Now, let me hear no more of this; and,
moreover, I bid you cease your persecution of me.
If you do not, I shall entreat my father to take me
away from home.”

“To London, mayhap?”’

“Very lik He has often promised that.”

Alicia rose and moved to leave the dell. But the
miserable victim of his own passion prevented her.

“Stay, Alicia! hear me! but one word! I have of-
fended you; but you see how wretched Iam. | It is
because I love you so madly!”

“Let me pass if you please!’’

“Cruel girl! Can you not at least pardon me?”

She turned back, softened.

“T pardon you freely, Herrick. We may befriends,
if you will but cease to persecute me.”’

‘ And it will be with us as before?.. You are mine?”

“No; Iam hot, and never will be!”

“At least, youare pledged to favor no rival?”

“T will not grant even that; I am free.”

Herrick looked as if he would have broken out
into a tempest of execrations; but the girl’s firmness
forced him to some measure of self-control. Yet he
strove to detain her by seizing her hand. i

A scarf fluttered among the trees ata little dis-
tance. Alicia called ‘“‘Margaret!’? and her friend
came hurriedly toward them. The two girls walked
quickly out of the dell, leaving Herrick to himself.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE AVERTED CRIME.

It was late at night, and the household at Stone
Crag had retired to rest. It was the custom in sum-
mer to leave a side door unfastened for the con-
venience of any inmate who might return to the
house after ‘the usual hour of going to bed.

At the dead hour when all was at the stillest, a
manly figure approached this door, opened it an
entered, lea it wide open. He stood for an in-

 

ed into Herrick’s apartment.
A ens was burning in the outer room on one of
the tables. By this the young man’s face could be

bloodshot; his motions seemed not under the control
of his will. Now he stood still, gazing on een
with the set glare of a sleep-walker; now he’ stru
at the air with his clenched hand } now muttered
ne to himself. eee in the frantic passion
of jealousy had brought the young man to the verge
of madness.

He had lost all hope of Alicia’s favor. Her resolute
repudiation of the pledge given him at the castle
convinced him that she would allow him to retain no
hold upon her whatever. What then was he to do?
Resign her to his smooth, dainty rival? Never! She
might fling off her allegiance, due to him; but she
should never be the baronet’s bride!

He strode to the folding windows, and tore ‘away
the silken hangings. The moon had arisen, and
poured a flood of silver light on the steep declivity
of broken granite outside, and the upper stones
covered with moss and luxuriant creepers. Far be-
low a the lawn sprinkled with shade trees and bor-
dered by dark eve ens.

Herrick grasp his cumbrous carbine, which
stood in the corner of the room. With the strength
of iron nerves he poised it by the barrel in his hand.

“One blow, and the reed is crushed,” he muttered;
and the gleam of his white teeth through the bushy
dark beard gave him a ferocious expression, as of a
tiger stealing from his lair to crush an enemy.

Carrying the carbine, he passed out of the door,
and crossed the corridor.

The door of Sir Victor’s a;
site side was slightly ajar.
and entered.

The outer room was vacant, but the door beyond
was open, leading into the sleeping chamber. To
this the half-crazed young man, intent on murder-
— thoughts, advanced without an instant’s hesita-
tion.

The moon's rays flooded the chamber, and showed
Sir Victor lying on the bed in a profound slumber.

His shapely form was well defined with no cover-
ing but the sheet. His head rested on the pillow:
on which his tawny locks lay like clusters of gol
thread. The white temples, the delicate features,
were fully defined in the pale light. » His breathing
was soft and regular as an infant’s.

No thought of mercy had the assassin, | He noted

ent on the oppo-
errick pushed it open

 

N \

the fair and smooth cheek and brow, but with an in-
ward execration. While he stood at some distance
from the bed, the sleeper stirred restlessly, and flung
out one arm, muttering the words: “’Pon my life,

Alicia—”
That name ran like lightning through the brain of
the desperate man. Swiftly he raised the carbine in

both his strong hands, and leveled it at the:slumber-
ing man. His finger was on the trigger; the fate of
Sir Victor Wilder hung upon a hair.

Suddenly a consciousness of the dastardly mean-
ness of the deed he contemplated flashed om Her-
rick, and he swung down the ponderous weapon.

“*T will not kill him sleeping!’’ he cried. |

He raised his voice to a shout. “Awake! Awake!”

Sir Victor awoke at once, and started up.

Effeminate as he was, he was brave enough; and
was not lacking in presence of mind. At a single
glance he comprehended everything, and saw his
own danger.

To upon his enemy and disarm him, or to
shout for help, would be to set in full force his in-
stincts of violence; to provoke a hand-to-hand en-
counter, in which he must fall. Hisstrength was as
nothing in comparison with Herrick’s, and the lat-
ter was armed. But the power of reason over maal-
ness remained to him.

Perfectly calm, as he stood facing the intruder, he
demanded:

““Who are you? What would you have?”

“Tam come to kill you!’’ answered the assailant,
as he again lifted the carbine.

Sir Victor’s eyes were fixed upon the young man’s,
and did not quail for an instant.

“At least,” said the baronet, “‘you will tell me
what Ihave done to provoke you to murderme?
How have I wronged you?”

“You know well how!”

“TL assure you Ido not know. I shall esteem it a
favor if you will inform me. You are laboring un-
der some terrible mistake!”

“No mistake! have you not stolen from me my
betrothed bride?”

. Most surely not! Is it your cousin to whom you
refer?”

“You know it is. You have come between me
and her, and you shall die this night.”

“You. will thank me, Iam sure, for saving you
from the guilt of murdering an innocent man. So
far from even a thought of interfering with your in-
tentions, it is but a day or two since I consulted with
her father, how to do you a service by pr —
a commission in the army. My letter to my’ father
entreating him to use influence in your favor has al-
ready reached its destination.”

“Did you not meet Alicia secretly at the well in
the ravine yesterday?’ demanded the young man,
with set teeth and flashing eyes.

‘*T have not spoken w: e young lady in three
days out of the house.” w

“It’s a lie!” shouted Herrick; “there were love
passages atween you yesterday in the dell.”

“1 never met her there,” said the baronet, firmly,
his clear, truthful eyes still fixed on those of b
formidable foe. ‘It must have been the young
English stranger, who was here in the evening!”

““Who was he?” demanded Herrick. t

““They called him Reginald; I did not hear the
other name. Nay—I remember now; the baron
said, afterward, he was the son of Lord Estonbury.”

Down fell the carbine from the relaxing hand of
the intruder.

“* He here?’ he gasped.

sped.

‘He was here with the baron yesterday.” :

The truth in a moment.flashed on Herrick’s mind.
x was not Sir Victor Wilder whose rivalry he had to

‘ear.

He struck his clenched hand against his forehead.

. “Can you Boao me?” he cried. “It is 7 who
have wronged you / I am a wretch not fit to live!”

Sir Victor snatched a silk dressing-gown from @
chair by the bed, and hastily put it on.

“You are ill, Master Herrick,” he said, kindly; °
“ Allow me to assist you.”

The young man had staggered back, and ie So
to and fro, as if some mortal malady had stricken
him. As the baronet ee ae extending his
arms to keep him from falling, he recoiled, turned
and dashed through the outer room, across the cor-
ridor, and into his own apartment. .

At the same instant sounded a loud voice at the
front door. Some one was beating it violently with
a a and shouting for admission in a stentorian
voice. i

The roused servants ran in confusion through the

assages. The cries were redoubled, till the porter

any. shuffling along in a half-dressed state, un-
bolted and flung open the door.

By the light in his hand he saw a wild-looking man,
bie rn ron A stick in his ne any with ~

ja eyes like one in a paroxysm of insanity.
othe porter tried to close the door upon the in-
truder; but he pushed past the lackey, and made for

the stairway. @ man threw himself in his way,
now convinced that the intruder was either le
himself or intent on some mischief. He called loud-

ly for assistance to turn him out.

The baron himself, in his dressing-gown, Sheet ;
at the head of the stairs; and not far behind him
= Sir Victor, and his valet, newly roused from

leep.

Swinton knew the untimely visitor at @ glance.

“Tt is Matlin, the seer!” he exclaimed. “Let him
pass! Let him come hither! He is ‘in the vision!’ ”

The others fell back. A degreé of superstitious
veneration, in the minds of the common people,’ in-"*
vested those gifted with the second-sight with super-
human dignity.

Matlin passed up the stairs. His fixed, wide-open
eyes took no note of es one, and they all as way.

e made straight for the apartment of Sir Victor
Wilder, and the host followed him in, with the young '

met.

‘I saw him here!’’ moaned the seer, as he stopped’
by the bed so italy, occupied. “T saw him with °
uplifted carbine. It was leveled at the’ sleeping
man in yonder bed. ‘Have I come too late to save

He turned to the baron in an agony of apprehen-

ion.
““Of whom do you speak?” demanded the baron.
“Oh, say, is it too late? Hath he done the deed?

If he hath done it—I am accursed!” And the seer

struck his forehead thrice with his open palm. *

4

/
  

 

 

414-

i

LADY HELEN'S VOW.

 

 
 

“ What is he talking of?” asked Swinton.

The baronet answered:

“He is a seer, you say? He must then have fore-
seen, or known by some occult means, a scene that
took place in this chamber, not many minutes ago.”

* What mean you, for mercy’s sake?”

“J was startled from sleep by a voice calling,
‘Awake!’ and I saw your kinsman, Master Herrick
Maur, standing just there, with a carbine leveled at
my head.”

on serge late!’ ed th wrin;

“Too !” groans e seer, i
his hands wildly. 3 ri

**No! all is well!” cried Sir Victor, shaking Matlin’s

‘It is not

shoulder to arouse him from the trance.
too late!”

“Where is he? Where isthe unhappy or: ques-
tioned the seer, turning his gaze piteously round
him, and repeatedly clasping his forehead with both
hands. The baron, almost as confused, was eagerly
questioning his guest.

“Herrick in your chamber, with intent to kill you?
You must have been dreaming!”

“He came to murder me; he confessed it. His
jealousy had wrought him to madness.”

Rapidly he gave an account of what had hap-

mn

“Darkness! Darkness!” wailed Mat, in: his an-
— and bewilderment. “I see him not for the
larkness!’’

The baron ordered the servants to retire.
a took Sir Victor’s arm to goin search of Her-
c!

‘AS they crossed the corridor, the seer, who follow-
ed them, uttered a low cry:

“Ha! the rocks! He lies bruised and bleeding on |

the rocks!’

They had all now entered Herrick’s room. The

lamp was still burning; but the dressing-room and
chamber were both empty.

Matlin had rushed at once to the window.

It was wide open. The moonlight, blending with
the-faint gleam of dawn—so early at that season—
fell upon the broken rocks on which the casement
looked. There was a narrow strip of pathway,
ed with shrubbery, above them just under the
iow. Below, a jumbled mass of bowlders, gray
and moss-covered, made a rough and perilous de-
scent of thirty feet.

“How dreadful!” cried the English baronet, as

they, looked out, shudderingly. ‘‘Can he have
thrown himself down?”
The baron stepped out, peered over the verge, and

P)

called out loudly; but there was no answer.

The vision hi assed from Matlin and he stood
white and trembli In another moment he had

_ sunk upon the floor, overcome with weakness.

“ ee nee renee ae said he
was g upon the rocks. Tell us where we ma;
find bone” f

But Matlin was insensible.

; the baron’s voice rung out, calling the ser-
_ vants of his household. As they came he bade
, them take torches and make search instantly. His
‘ ros kinsman—he explained hurriedly to. them—
made a misstep, and fallen upon the bowlders
below. If not killed by the fall, he may have crawl-

ed away somewhere to obtain help.

CHAPTER XX.
A RASH DEED.
Tsar baron and Sir Victor were foremost, as the
ded to the h.

 

search.

had been awakened by the unwonted noise

and confusion, and hurried! sing, came out to

ask what was the matter. Margaret, by chance, had

sta; all night; she, too, was. aroused and
gathered the facts from the alarmed servants.

_ The alarm, they said, had been given by Matlin

‘the seer, coming ‘‘in the vision’ to seek and save

young Master Herrick, whom he had seen in deadly
= of some sort. On going to Herrick’s room.

found he had strangely disappeared; and

it was supposed he had somehow lost his footing,

and fallen down the rocks beneath his bedroom win- |

dows.
- Alicia threw herself weeping into Margaret’s arms.
_ “Tt was no accident,” she sobbed... ‘‘ He has leaped
down to kill himself, and 1 am the cause!”
“Be calm, dear friend,” said Margaret, soothingly.
“You have naught wherewith to reproach your-
self, Stay ,you here, and I will go out after the

“No, aret; I will go with you.”

The two went forth together.

ome e the first flush of morning appeared
in theeast, The party were searching with torches,
but had as yet discovered no one. The Tome man
was not upon the rocks beneath his window.

t was first to hear the whine of a dog, a
short ce below, and to the left.

“Tt is Mat’s dog!” she exclaimed.

“Then he has found him!”

The girl whistled to the dog. He bounded a few
steps toward them; but hearing the unfamiliar
voice, went back.

But his master now called; and with a joyous bark,
he obeyed the summons. Acry from the gentlemen
in search told that they were now on the trace.

“Let us go to them!” said Alicia.

They hurried forward, and soon saw what had

human form lay in the hollow between two
bowlders; one arm bent under him, and per-

fe motionless. After precipitating himself from
ny into which the window opened, the

‘hey lifted. tim Alicia ale, leaned
u w pale, lean

heavily on her friend’s ats and onal about to
faint. t threw both arms around her, and

drew her away toward the house. She saw it was

no scene for either of them.
in,” she said, ‘‘and make ready the

chamber. They wa Sains Pie. presently.”

quite insensible; but after being carried a few paces,
gave ea life by faint moans.
“ rest here,”’ said the baron. ‘‘ Take great

Let
care in n him... Bide here a bit; I will go on, '|
- h Donaid for the n.”? o i

and dispate
He walked rapidly toward the *
' Matlin was chafing the young man’s forehead and

 

hands, tears falling from his own eves. Herrick
opened his, and looked intelligently in his face.

“Oh, my boy!” cried the seer, clasping his hands
_ eo his own, ‘‘ why hast thou committed this

But the young man had swooned again. They lift-
ed. him and conveyed him into the house.

A’ bed had been hastily prepared in the morning-
room; some called it Alicia’s boudoir, for it was
sacred to feminine occupation. Here stood her
spinet, her embroidery frame, and her writing-desk
and drawing-table. ases of flowers bloomed in the
corners. The fresh, fragrant air of early morning
came in at the open windows, like a spirit diffusing
blessings brought from heaven.

It was here Herrick was laid and tenderly cared
for by the ladies; Margaret assuming the direction
of matters. It was here the surgeon found him,
already in the grasp of the fever consequent upon
his late unnatural excitement, and the terrible shock
to his system occasioned by his fall.

The medical man shook his head when he had ex-
amined his patient. Then he whispered directions
to Margaret, whom his practiced eye at once singled
out as the presiding genius of the invalid’s quarters.

The other inmates of the room were ordered out.
No one was to enter at all except Margaret and Mat-
lin. “He-would watch the following night, and as
long as the course of the fever continued.

as the young man to be removed to his own
chamber?

No; it was better he should remain where he was.
There-was risk in removal; for he had sustained in-
ternal injuries, that caused inflammation.

The baron followed the surgeon out,

“Will the poor laddie live?” he asked, apprehen-

ively. i

“T think he will; but it will be a tough tussle be-
tween life and death. Only be sure to have him
kept quiet. His brain is in a state I do not like; his
nerves have had some shock previous to fall.
Do you know what drove him to this act?”

“To what act?”

“Ts it possible, Lord Swinton, you do not know he
did this violence to himself?”

“What do you mean?”

“His fall was no accident. He must have leaped
from the window or the balcony.”

“Nay; he has had sorrow, but not to make him a
lunatic! He may have been walking in his sleep.”

“T tell you, no; he made that leap to end his life;
for that very purpose.”’

“ Ay tao ee os {Had ‘ht befall dri

“ Ay, Task you, why! aug! ‘allen to drive
him into lunacy?”

‘Surely not.’

“Something hath chanced, then, more than you
know of. I will come this evening. Let no one but
the young woman I spoke with stay in the room.”

He rode away, and the baron turned back to lead
away his daughter.

She was kneeling b
pressed upon one of the sufferer’s hands that was
resting on the silken coverlet.

Margaret stood over her, calm but sorrowful,

 

one else was present.

Alicia made no resistance when her father lifted
her up, and half-carried, half-led her from the room,
He took her into his library, which was nearly o oie
site, the door opening into the hall. He place
= . leathern couch and drew her fondly to his

reast.

“You must not be cast down, child.” he said,
soothin; iy; “‘The surgeon thinks he will live.”

The at leaned her head on her father’s shoulder,
and sobbed piteously. her again and

 

He gave

had | again the assurance that they had everything to

hope:
ar did not know = loved him, my sweet child!”
| he murmured. ‘ Now that I know it, his life is pre-
; clous as my own son’s.”’
“Oh, father!’ wailed the maiden, ‘it was my

\ fault! If he should die, it is I who am his mur-

| derer!””

“ Alicia|”’

“Do not be an; with me! ay me, dear
ee not to be harsh, but I drove him to
\ frenzy.!*

“i vac not understand you, my daughter. Is it
not true that you love Herrick; that you were be-
trothed?”’

yy **Oh, nol”

‘“At least that you loved each other? Be calm,

my child, and tell me all!”

‘u
Se her entreaties that she would rise. No | y e
| faithful friend came to renew his attentive nursing.

|

 

'

er | intelligence into the fair, mil

 

Alicia lifted up her head. Her pale cheeks were |

wet with tears; but her eyes, frank and truthful, —
é oan ” Thorpe, the now acknowledged ee of the late
5)

“TY told you, |

did not quail. -

““My cousin loved me,” she said.
papa, how he saved me at the castle, that night,
an forced me to swear I would wed no other

‘* You promised him?’
|. “J was forced into it; that promise should never
| have been extorted. It was cruel to fetter me
| so!
' “ Hal’ exclaimed the baron. Something of the

“a ‘an to break on his perceptions.

, peace. And peney we hada q
| “*& quarrel?”
| “Hereproached me so bitterly! He claimed me
| S. belonging to him. He threatened to kill any
| suitor—
) ‘* And you?”

“T was very angry. I spoke cruelly tohim. Ide-
| claved that 1 would never listen to his love, nor hold

}

| “But now, my daughter, you repent of having

, been cruel to him?”

| ‘Oh, father, how could I foresee what has ae

med? He must have wn himself from the

| balcony, in despair! If he should die—I shall die,
too, of remorse!”’

“We will nottalk of dying, my child. Herrick
will live! He is young, and his youthful strength
| will triumph over the fever. And when we have him
| xeucet strong again, you will make him happy,

ci
“What mean you, papa?”
“You know, aad

_ , the
: poms man had evidently crawled some distance | myself bound by any promise! That drove him |
(i

 

 

my daughter returns his affection.

ck was jealous of me; he ete me no eee

|

 

|
|

|
|

** Oh, no, no, no, father!”

“What else am Ito understand? You said you
would die too, if he should die.”

“With remorse, I said, father! Because I was
harsh to him. I do not love him, but as a kinsman,
and as your friend!”

“ Art sure, girl?”

“Sure, indeed, father. I could not marry him!
Oh, never! never!”

he baron arose and paced the room, while
Alicia wiped away the tears that would continue to

flow.
‘ . last her father stopped, regarding her stead-
ly.
“Let us settle this matter,” he said. ‘‘I have
thought it might come to a match between the man
who should wear my name and title, and my child.
= Fetes please me well, girl, to see you Herrick’s
ride.’

“Tt cannot be, father! Never! Never!”

* Alicia, let me tell B pe I can _ never give you to
the young man Reginald, after what has happened.
He was imprudent to come hither, landless and pen-
were t weave snares for a maiden of honorable

‘Oh, father, he never tried to insnare me!”

‘“*You listened to him; I can see it all. He is a
courtly gallant, and poor Herrick has no chance be-
side him. But we will send our young cousin to
the army, and he will become courtly and polished
too. He is the better man of the twain; and that
you will acknowledge.”

“* Dear father—”’

“We will ape no more of this now. Go to your
room, my child.”

Long after the girl went, her father mused on the
unpromising aspect of affairs. Herrick’s illness
might be long; and when recovered, he must join

| the army, in which Sir Victor had promised him a

commission. It might be a year or more before he
and Alicia would again meet; and meanwhile she
must not be allowed to cherish recollections of the
Founs Englishman who had so indiscreetly betrayed
is love on his last hurried visit. /
The baron decided on taking his daughter to Lon-
don. There she would mingle in the society to
which her birth entitled her. She would forget her
foolish romance for Reginald’, and either make a
brilliant marriage or turn with loving remembrance
to her cousin when he should be fitted by his social
experiences to woo and win a bride.
tlin, the seer, devoted himself to his ‘ht-
watches by the hedside of his young friend. But
after two or three days it was nece: to finda
substitute, and he returned to his hut for a day.
There he was found and arrested by a party of sol-
diers, under the authority of a constable, on the
charge of being one of the outlaws and abettors of
the suuealets onthe coast. The same party came
to execute another warrant for the arrest of Her-

| rick Maur. But the baron received them, and his
the bed, her white brow |

testimony was sufficient to satisfy the magistrates
that Herrick had not been one of the rioters. Evi-

‘dence was also furnished of Matlin’s innocence, and

he was liberated.
Herrick was at the crisis of his fever when his

Youth and the strength of a rugged constitution car-
ried him safely through.
One morving he unclosed his eyes and looked with

face of Margaret
Heyburn bending over him.
‘* Where am I?” he feebly asked.
A soft hand was laid on the patient’s foreh
and a soft voice bade him ask no questions, bul

sleep.

When the oa was able to listen, Margaret told
him of the illness he had suffered, and of the dangers
he had passed. Also, that the baron and his
daughter, as soon as they were assured that his life
was safe, had set out for London with the young
English baronet, eee to the care of the phy-
sician and his faithful Matlin.

 

CHAPTER XXI.

THE UNWILLING BRIDE.

Ir was a holiday in the little hamlet near Eston-
bury Court. The joy-bells rung at intervals; the
village maidens were arraying themselves in their
best finery, and the children, dressed in white and
carrying garlands of fresh flowers, were forming in
procession to march to the church when the appoint-
ed hour was near.

They were to strew with flowers the pathway of a
youthful bride. The little church was decorated
with flowers, in honor of the festal occasion.

It was the wedding-day of — Helen Vane

marquis and the widowed bury. She
was to marry Maurice Howard, the Marquis of Es-
tonbury, who had succeeded to the title and estates
pe the discovery of Reginald’s birth being made
ublic.
3 Reginald had relinquished the honors he had won
so nobly as soon as he was fully satisfied of the truth
of the statements of the woman he had believed to
be his mother. After a dispassionate examination
by his solicitors and the high counsel they had sum-
moned to aid their researches, no doubt remained
e of infants had really taken place
at the time c

Corroborative proof was furnished by details ap-
parently trifling, and the evidence of one or two per
sons which supplied missing links, till no er
questions could be raised. 5

Once admitted the exchange and the imposition
on the late oe of a supposititious heir, there
was no need of further inquiry. No attempt was
made to follow the noble pair—Lord and Es-
tonbury—in their travels and prolonaie® sojourn on
the continent, subsequently the birth of Lady
Estonbury’s child.

The matter was not suffered to poner the courts.
Reginald only waited to be sure he had no claim to

the title, to abandon it quietly. He himself wrote to

the heir-at-law.

While Reginald p: himself for the study of
the profession on which he expected to rely fora
win , the new marquis traveled in state, surrounded

by his dependents, to the splendid home he was to

; possess.
¢ you love our kinsman. He asked to see the widowed marchioness, and .

We will-nurse him back to health, and then I will tell,, was shown to the drawing-room, where she received

him -" | him in all the magnificence of her beauty and rank,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
8
A

 

.

 

 

 

 

’

x ’

LADY HELEN'S Vow.

15

 

 

PE
Her toilet was as rich as could be consistent with a
widow’s first mourning. She pone the marquis
formally to her daughter, the Lady Helen Vane
Thorpe, and welcomed him to Estonbury Court.

Ladgiedon vary had heard it said of the heir-at-
law that he was a man who was extremely tena-
cious of what belonged to himself, He knew his
own rights, and would never bate a jot of them. He
was not young, and had had a struggle with the
hard world for means to live in comfort before the
astounding news came to lift him to the summit of
earthly prosperity. Now he was ready ‘to take the
goods the gods provide,” and to enjoy it to the ut-
most.

Some dowagers might have been Sete of
what should happen to themselves at the advent of an
heir unknown to them. There were several points
to be settled, in which the separate interests might
conflict, and the man in power might be supposed to
be sure of victory. y Estonbury had no fears
whatever. She was not even disturbed by the least
suspicion that her favorite scheme—the marriage of
her child with the heir—might be baffled.

At the first glance she read the character of the
mean with whom she had to deal. The narrow and
receding forehead, the full but not firm lips, the
eyes that often were fixed on the ground while
speaking, and seldom met the looks fastened on the
face, were expressive features, The new lord was a
finely-proportioned man, of goodly breadth and
length of limb, and both graceful and self-possess-
ed; but his countenance gave the impression of a
character weak, reticent, and governed by self-
interest in preference to any loftier | ripen: A
want of generous sympathy, a sordid regard for
selfish considerations, and a degree of obstinacy in
the pursuit of cherished aims, were decidedly ap-
parent, in spite of the veneering of polished society
manners. fi

Helen was painfully affected by the first sight of
thisman. A shiverran through her whole frame.
She knew her mother’s purpose; she knew also her
unscrupulous determination to carry it out. It was
as vain for her to attempt resistance, as for the
captive bird to beat its wings against the iron bars
of its cage. ‘

The hand she gave the stranger was like ice, and
her eyes drooped before him. He looked in her face
for a moment, and one might have read in his that
he thought her plain and unattractive.

, Lady Estonbury still assumed the vole of mistress
of the establishment, and treated the marquis asa
welcome guest. He was invited to remain, like any
other stranger, and shown to his apartment, whither
his servants had already conveyed his baggage and
the various belongings brought with him.

As he threw himself into a Jange easy-chair and
submitted to the operations of his valet in prepar-
ing his toilet for dinner, his thoughts ran on the cool
self-possession of the lady he had just quitted, and
the evident intention she had of bringing about the
alliance with her oer :

‘“Hum—I can see it very well,’ he mused, witha
gentle sub-titter. ‘‘ Would like to hook me—um—
um. I don’t wonder young Reginald would have
nothing to do with her!—um—always thought it was
that Rete brought her ladyship’s con-
science to the surface! Um—a piece of good luck
for me! Wants to hook me now—um—but it’s no
fe my lady! no, no, no! The Marquis of Estonbury!

! I shall marry—in time—um—but I shall have a
bride that will do credit to my taste—um, Radiant
beauty—bright black eyes—gait like a Juno—the
hand of an empress—um—the majesty of a Cleopa-
tra—the spirit of a Joan— Ah!” c

And he smacked his lips—for he knew a realiza-
tion of all this schedule of female charms—one, too,
whom he had failed to make sensible of his own
claims to homage or admiration. ;

We will not dwell upon his new dreams, bright and

olden as they were. Days passed, and he took no

‘ther steps toward assuming the mastership of his
domain. mehow or other, her dadysnip: was still
the ela pee power. But he meant to have a set-
tlement shortly. Finally, after conference with his
steward and his valet, he resolved on spending a few
weeks in London at the season’s close, and visiting
the Continent before disturbing Lady Estonbury in
her occupancy of the Court.

He gave orders for the neces: packing, sum-
moned his confidential man of business and placed
him in charge, and graciously announced to the lady
he honored as his guest, though she still treated
him as hers, his intention to absent, | Parnas
many months, and his wish that she would regard
Estonbury Court as her own residence as long as it
should please her to do so.

That evening the lady summoned the marquis to
an interview in her private parlor, in her suit of
apartments, sacred to herself.

The conference lasted several hours. When Lord
Estonbury went to his own chamber bis valet noticed
that he looked ard and worn, as if ten years had

in one hour over his head, leaving the traces

of time and decay, His sallow complexion wore a
sickly or; his lips trembled; his eyes glanced
furtively about him; his whole aspect was strangely

different from the assured, bold and easy manner
that had marked his demeanor.

He dismissed the attendant with a curt reproof
for wating 195 him; he had no business to take note
how late his master chose to remain up, nor how he
looked. The man heard his lord bolt his dressing-
room door, and went away muttering, as he yawned

te. 7

“What's in the wind, now? Never did such a

thing before, as lock me out! Him and the dow-

\ 'shada que I’m thinking!”

aay Estonbury had forbidden her maid to come

to

seen that she was unusually

traces of great agitation. But her proud

iron will, as ever, triumphed over the least
weakness.

She went to the door of her daughter’s sleeping-
room, listened, and tried to turn the knob. It would
not yield; the door was fastened. Not a sound was
to be heard within. The lady sighed; and if her
haughty soul ever bowed itself in prayer it was
nearest tha’ me when she mentally invoked bless-

oO

What

room, As she undressed herself, it could be
pale, and bore the
irit and
ndency

t fram)
ne n the head of the only being she loved on earth
or in heaven!

’ Those of worl rank, station
snd wealth, Mile seats of & poorend; ths wealth of a

Sa

‘| answer such an aupes.

 

preecee Did paren go with it? Nay—she
fhought not of that. Could those gifts satisfy. the
loving heart of the girl? She troubled not herself to
answer the question. 3

The next morning the girl was sent for to attend
her mother in her dressing-room, Lady Estonbury
was calm and reserved. She touched Helen’s fore-
head with her lips, and. bade her be seated.

“Lord Estonbury,’’ she said, quietly, aftera pause,
“proposed for you, Helen, last evening.”

the girl started, and looked in the lady's face with
wild, affrighted eyes.

“Did you not hear me, child? The marquis wishes
to make you his wife!’

Helen rose and stood before her mother.

“Tt eannot be that he wishes it!’ she cried. ‘He
has shown me no attention; he does not care for
me!"

‘‘How can you judge of that? What does a girl
know of a man’s heart? .He has proposed for you;
it is the best proof of his love.”

“Love!” echoed Helen, faintly, yet with a tone of

mockery.

“And if he were not romantic enovgh to fallin
love at first sight, has a man of rank no other
thought, or purpose, or duty, than how to indulge
his fancy? A peer must choose a wife who can grace
his station.”

“Tam not such a one!” murmured the er.

“TL have told you, Helen, what his Jordship said; I
shall expect you to be obedient to my will, and pre-
pare to receive him as your affianced husband,”*

“Oh, Lady Estonbury—!” she began.

The lady frowned.

“Ts it thus you address me?”

“Mamma, then! Spare me, I entreat you! Do
not force me to marry this man!”

“ Helen!”

“He does not loveme! He does not want to marry
mel You have made him do this!”

“Foolish girl! How could I compel the man to
offer himself to you?”

“‘T know not: but you have power to do anything!
Oh, mother! leave me free.”

“ Ungrateful girl!”

“Tam not ungrateful for all your kindness; but I
cannot, oh, T cannot wed a man who is averse to me,
and whom I—almost hate!"

“Wretched child! you love that base-born churl,
Reginald Chisholm!’

The girl sunk at her mother’s feet, hiding her face
7 the nee of her dress, and struggling to repress

er sobs.

“Do you dare confess it?” the lady cried. ‘‘That
“ daughter of mine should stoop to such degrada-

ion!

Then Helen lifted up her tear-stained face; though
she did not rise.

“Tt was yourself who taught me to love Reginald,”’
she said, in trembling yet passionate tones. ‘ You
knew him, to be just what he is; yet you wished
to be my—husband.”

“And he cone rejected you! He threw up
title and fortune, rather than wed you! You, who
have the blood of the Estonburys in your veins—
while he—_ Out on you, girl! Have you no touch of
proper pride?”

The girl covered her face with both her hands.

“Ay, you may well hide your face! To love a
man who has spurned you! Will you oe still, at
his feet? Show that you have the spirit of your race!
Become the Marchioness of Estonbury! Let him see
you are not crushed by his contempt!”

Alas! there was no pride in the maiden’s nature to
She loved, and loved hope-
lessly. She would have laid down life for the ob-
ject of her love; she had no spirit to rise in resent-
ment against him for having despised her}

The conference was prolonged more than an hour.
Lady eee was accustomed to rule with ab-
solute sway. er will was despotic; her daughter's

never before been arrayed in opposition. The
stronger nature came off victorious,

Helen left the drawing-room drooping like a
stricken lily, and subdued to full submission.

She begged permission to spend the day in her
own room. This was granted till evening,
After dinner the young lady appeared
ing-room to receive her accepted suitor. They could
not be trusted alone; and the marchioness spent the
evening in their comapany, and bade her daughter
play and sing. . Before be: time it was oneness that
the marquis should take a short trip to London,
while the, trousseau of his bride was preparing; re-

turning at an early day for the wedding,

the draw-

CH. aR, XXII,
THE SOLEMN vow.

‘Tne bride sat in her dressing-room before the
mirror, ‘The splendid room was filled with the para-
phernalia of wedding finery. The snowy silk, with
its rich, velvety folds, lay upon a divan; the ex-
quisite vail of Mechlin lace and orange-flower wreath
were at hand, The table was covered with essence:

e _ : porn and all the various appendages 0:

e toilet.

Helen would let no hairdresser approach her silken
brown tresses., Only her own maid was permitted
to brush them, as usual; and she was ordered to
plait and coil them in the style worn every day. Not
an_ornament was added to their glossy Geamdance:

When the maid had,finished her duty, she was dis-
missed, as her young mistress desired to be alone.

The bride was deathly pale. Her eyes were sunk-*
en; but/a strange, wild light occas one leaped
from them. Then she would close them with a ee
ed shudder, as if shutting in thoughts she could not
bear to reveal.

Once she glanced at her reflection in the full-
length mirror. Itwas not that of a beauty, but a
suffering, woman, She turned away with a sigh,
quickly repressed,, ,

Then she held up her left hand. On the fore-
finger sparkled .a ‘solitaire diamond of enormous
value. It was her engagement ring. She looked at
it steadily, and smiled a wan smile; but not in ad-
mivation of its gorgeous brilliance.

Aijenth i icey tat tonaees onletakioaeieemient
reath. “ Key that may ye'i oc! on gates!

I will bear one for the oan of the other!” ee
The door opened ‘softly, and Mrs..Chisholm, the

 

former lady’s-maid of the marchioness—her favor-
ite still, - called to nerservice on'specialoccasions
—came in. :

soul, Lady Helen!” she exclaimed;
‘*not dressed yet! Where is your ladyship’s tire-
woman? She quite neglected her duty! ShallI
call her and the other maids?”

“Stop!” cried the girl, authoritatively.

“Or will you let me dress you? I have great skill,
my lady thinks; for she would have no hands about
her but mine, on this oceasion. MayI put on your
dress? Isee your bair is done; but J wish you would
permit me to crimp it under the wreath!”

* Leave me,”’ said Helen.

“But do you know how late it is?) The bridemaids
are ready, and waiting! My lord is dressed, and in
his room; the valet told me; and my lady was fin-
ished balf an hour since. She will be here for you
directly,”

% a you not hear me, Chisholm? Leave this
room|!’’

The woman stared. It was the first time the girl
had ever spoken/in that tone, in her hearing.

“I beg pardon,” she whimpered, with a courtesy
so low as to savor of irony. As she went out, she
muttered: ‘‘The young lady feels her rank! To
speak so to me, who was her mother so long!”

A few minutes later, and Lady Estonbury herself,
in her sweeping robes, dressed for the ceremony,
passed into the room where her daughter still sat,
absorbed in thought, She was vexed at the report
of her maid, and spoke severely.

‘Helen, what is this? Not dressed? Alone, too?
Where are your maids?”

“Tt is time enough,” the girl answered.

“There is no time for dallying. The carriages
wait and the guests are ready. Iwillcall in the tire-
women.”

“Stay a moment,” said Helen, as her mother
touched the bell-cord.

“Why? Have you anything tosay? What is the
matter, child?”

“Yes, I must say something. I have been only an
obedient slave so far--”

‘“How strangely you talk! Surely you are not
going to turn rebel now?”

“No fear of that. I have submitted to my fate. I
will try to do my duty. I will be a gentle and obedi-
ent wife, even if I cannot love him.”

“An excellent resolution. You will be happy, too;
I doubt it not.”

“T do not know—I do not care. But I want to tell
you one thing, mother. I was in the alcove of the
room where you and Mrs. Chisholm were i
last evening.’

The lady started, and grew pale. ;

“You were in the alcove?” she asked. ‘You hid
yourself there to listen to our conversation?”

_ “No, madam, I did not; it was an accident my be-
ing there. WhenI heard you I was coming out; but
3 uttered a name that arrested my attention, and

lingered. Yes, Iconfess it, I was determined to hear
what you had to say, concerning him/” The lady
closed her teeth and set her lips, repressing her
emotion.

‘“‘A singular curiosity,’ she said, with sarcastic
emphasis, ‘‘ in a bride on the eve of marriage.”

“T was anxious to know,’ continued the girl, ‘if
yee had fulfilled the stipulation you made. You

ow what it was?”

“Oh, yes! tooffer your young hero an annuity!*
It was respectfully tendered, according to the agree-
ment between us,”

“And accepted by him?”

“You are a silly girl; pte of the ways of men,
to ask such aquestion. Of course the young man de- .

“He declined it?”

“There was no reason why he should receive the
bounty of one to whom he has ever been a torment
and ashame!” said the lady,bitterly. ‘ With his ideas
of independence, he could have but one answer to
such a proposition.”

‘‘And he suffers all the evils of poverty?”

“He found friends who set him up in the study of
a profession. He will do well enough. Helen, you
make me blush for you. At sucha time as t to
occupy your mind with the concerns of another than
your husband; one, too, who slighted and scorned
you! Shame upon you!”

tee: mother; I have more to say. I
discovered something from your conversation which
Idid not suspect.”

“‘Indeed! And what, pray?”

ry: t you are still practicing some terrible wrong,
or fraud, toward Reginald.” ’

‘‘Helen! How dare you?”

“Bless m:

“T heard enough to convince me. There is some:

what behind your confession that he was not your
son. You have done something more to him.”

“Wicked girl, what mean you?”’

With clenched hand the lady strode up to the
dressing-table. Helen rose and faced her, defiance
flashing in her eyes.

‘He is not the son of the Chisholms, and there is
some mystery you are hiding, of vital consequence
to him; a mystery even Chisholm does not know.”

The lady’s very lips were livid with passion or fear.
They moved convulsively, but uttered no audible

sound.

“‘Theard her plead with you, madam, to know
‘the secret.’ I heard her say: ‘ he was not her son;
that the birth-mark was not on hisarm.’ The ‘birth-
mark’ was her son’s, as I understood.”

Lady Estonbury clutched the girl’s arm with a
grasp like iron.

“You serpent!’’? she hissed in her ear. ‘You un-
natural viper! You would sting me to death!”

“IT would do you good. Not harm. I would ease
your conscience of a crime that will crush you, slay
you, if you do not repent. ure you, solemnly,
mother, if you have wronged Reginald, make him
restitution. If you do not, I swear that J will!” é

Thelady smote her forehead with her open palm.

“Am I pea, she exclaimed, ‘or is it my

ya child that has risen against me to drag me down
‘Mother! mother!” cried Helen. “ Listen to me!
Whatever stands in the way of doing right, have
cow to do it! Iwill stand by you!” And she
flung her arms round the lady’s neck.
But the lady tore her clasped hands apart and flung

er off.

“* Away, unnatural girl!” she cried. ‘Base child
that would sueboy aman mother! Perjured bride.
that would sin against your husband for the sake
a stranger!"

x

tan ieee

eee
 

 

 

ae

rn

=

——_
=

  

16

 

LADY HELEN’S Vow.

 

Helen answered not; but her bosom’s heaving and
her quivering features told of the excitement under
which she labored.

“ Can you deny—shameless girl! that you love the
man yet?”

“*T do not deny it,” replied the sad bride. ‘It was
the first confession made to Lord Estonbury, when
you forced me to receive him as —, betrothed. I
thought he would have leftme, when I told him; but
he said he would not give me up.”

“You are not worthy his love, ungrateful girl!’’

“T know it well. Iam not worthy the love of any
man. Callhim hither,madam. Tell him I am res-
olutely bent on one thing; to discover what is the
conspiracy against Reginald and to foil it! Yes—
mother! J swear to doit! Iwill find it out yet! I
warn you now, that you may save yourself the loss
and shame hereafter; that you may save me the
agony of knowing that I have brought exposure on
you!”

Lady Estonbury ed the room with irregular
steps, struggling vith t the passion that threatened
to overmaster her.

At last she stop)
ter, glaring at
blanched to the hue of marble.

‘* Are you done?” she growled.

“Yes. Ihave said all, now. Let me repeat it. I

ledge myself—so help me Heaven—to discover and
cae to light the wrong under which he—Reginald—
suffers! to do him right, even if it costs my life; if it
costs the ruin of allmy house! This I have sworn,
mother. Now, will you call my lord, and let him
know my resolution?”

“There is no need!”

“Ts he aware of the ‘ secret?’ ”’

“Whatever there is—or has been—is_known to
him, as much as to me. What a fool I am, to let
such an outbreak move me!”

The lady wiped her damp forehead with her cost-
ly lace-bordered handkerchief.”

“‘Now, you are coming to your senses, I hope!
Your melodrama is finished!”

Helen looked in her face unblenching.

“‘T cannot compass your secret,” she said, mourn-

directly in front of her daugh-

fully, ‘‘I cannot foil the conspiracy, till I know |

more. But I willknowmore. Be sure of that.”

There was a tap at the door and a mingling of
sweet and shrill voices came to the ear.

“*Ts the bride ready?”

Lady Estonbury flung the door open, and called
the maids. They came hurriedly in. The bride
— rigid and pale as a ghost, her eyes fixed on her
mother.

“Do your work, and do it quickly,”’ said her lady-
ship, authoritatively.

It was soentty done. Helen made no resistance.
She was arrayed in the bridal dress, and the bridal
vail was fastened in her hair. The flowers were duly
placed, and the bouquet was placed in her hand.

She said not one word. Only once her imploring
os sought her mother’s. The mute appeal was un-

erstood, and sco. ismissed.

The clock had struck eleven some time since. The

J eee had formed; the bridal train was waiting.
‘ Helen was led out by ber mother from her chamber,
and down the grand stairway.

The bridemaids, attendants and guests joined
them in the hall. They took their places in the car-

On the n fronting the church, the wedding-
party alighted, and formed for entrance, while the
village girls strewed flowers in the way, and the
merry bells rung, and the hum of holiday rejoicing
was hushed as the long-expected train took its way
into the ivy-covered church. There, the marquis
received his bride at the altar. t OS .

Lady Estonbury watched her anxiously till the
ceremony was over.

Then she uttered an inaudible “Thank Heaven,”
and turned to depart with the rest.

The signing of names in the — the adjourn-
ment of a ——— to thé great house, the
wedding- ast, and the departure of the mar-
ried on their wedding tour, followed in due
order.

A NEW LOVE.

By the window of an upper room at “Stone Crag”
mansion, the invalid, Herrick Maur, reclined; look-
ing out on the picturesque landscape, and inhaling
the cool breeze that crept in, laden with the fragrance
of new-mown hay from the meadow.

His strength had returned very slowly. In many
respects he was changed. The wild outbreaks of

ion he had been wont to indulge in, were sub-
lued; he bore with exemplary patience the draw-
backs of weakness and depression of spirits.
ret Heyburn, his kind nurse, and the super-
intendent of the household, had pressed on_his at-
tention, from time to time, books out of the library,
and had spent many evenings in reading aloud to
him. The taste for reading once awakened, it be-
came a passion with him; and thus many lonely
hours were beguiled.

He a listened attentively when the girl
brought in letters from the baron or Alicia, to read
them aloud. The baron frequently wrote to him.
He would read these missives again and again, as he
lay on the couch; but never sent message or word
in return; nor had he ever once alluded to Alicia.

He began to long, as he gained strength, for free-
dom to go out; to ride, or to walk. But he submitted
to the physi *s orders, contenting himself with
Matlin’s visits for news of the outer world. The in-

_ ternal injuries - had —— mayank — + tone
was necessary to recover, or they ave
some fatal disorder of the chest.

On this morning he felt unusually well. A few
embers burned in the chimney, for the sharp, brac-
ing air had begun to be felt in the early morning;
but the window was open. Herrick had laid aside
his book, and was watching the workmen and bum-
ae — soeeral tacts ed the omens f ane

, he saw two horses passing along the
line bordering the co; a quarter of a mile distant.
He started up quickly, and touching the bell-cord,

for his attendant.
man appeared at the door in a moment.

“*T see Matlin’s steed yonder,” his master said;
“but he hath some companion. By the sweep of
her garments, I trow, itisa woman. Call Margaret

er with wolfish eyes, her face |

4

| M: ret was already near the door; and she
| came in as the man left the room. To her the in-
valid repeated his question.

} ‘Do not excite yourself,” she said, rote
} Se his hand, and noting that it trembled, while
| @ flush mounted to his pale forehead. ‘‘ Who could
| it Desshas would come hither under Matlin’s guid-
) ance?’?

‘““Nay—I dreamed not it was—my fair cousin!”
the yours man answered. “I am not so weak as
you think, Margaret. The fever left me many weeks
since.”

“And your—your kinsfolk are in London,” added
Margaret.

“Ay, and likely to stay there; at least not to re-

turn hither. Perhaps never—one, at least. Said
you not the fair ly was @ worshiped belle in the
gay world?”

‘I did not say so; but—”

“But she must be; and no marvel; her —— is
rarer than a crown. You see, I can speak of her
; calmly now, Margaret.”

“Ay, and Iam glad, Master Herrick.”

“T have more to say, anon; but now, girl, go
ete this stranger. Bring both hither di-
rectly.”’

Margaret left the room, and presently returned,
ushering in the seer in his usual Scottish clansman’s
| dress, and a lady in traveling coat and a hat such as
| was worn in the lowlands. A vail of gray gauze
| fluttered from it, but was not thick enough to con-
| ceal the features of the wearer.

Herrick started to his feet, exclaiming:

Sagan . J -

e woman gave a short, gasping cry, sprung for-
ward, flung her arms about the oun “wraa; clasped
a to her breast, and then sunk on the floor at his

eet. Wi
“Hilda! What news bring you? My father! Is
he dead?” i

“The heavens forbid, Master Herrick!’’ cried the
| woman, rising as he ew her up, and taking the
| seat on the couch to which he waved her. ‘Sir Ken-
| neth fares well! He is anxious but for his son—of
| whose illness the seer wrote to him.”
| Matlin explained that he had given the father
| ean: as was necessary, without alarm-
| ing him.
| **And I came over to see to the household stuff,
| and various matters to be sold, and the money con-
| veyed to Sir Kenneth,” added Hilda.
| “My father is well?”
|. “* Ay, and in excellent oe save for missing the
| face of hisson. He hath but a lonely life.”

“* And Gregory ?”’

‘*Gregory, and the rest, joined a company on the
return to England.”

“Gregory in England?"

“They were on the coast of Wales a month since.”’
rt put their heads into the lion’s mouth,” said

a

tlin.
‘““Nay—they have quit the smuggling concern.
They were on a French trading weep”

“My father hath need of moneys, then?”

“Not yet; but he wants his goods disposed of, as
he cannot return hither.”

Herrick beckoned oat on to him, and whis-
pered to her. She nodded and left the room, pre-
sently returning with a small ebony box, which she
placed in the invalid’s hands.

“T have a store of gold here,” said Herrick,
“meaning to send it tomy father. Take it, Hilda,
| and give it into his hands.”
| She took the box, and the key, suspended ona
| ribbon, which she hung about her neck.

“You must not part wi’ all you have,” put in Mat-
lin. “I ha’e summat to send, too.”

“And I, too,” said Margaret, her brown eyes fill-
ing with tears.

‘Let her take what T send,” replied Herrick. “TI
will bring more when I come.”

“And will ye come, Master Herrick? Eh! but it
will be jo: news I shall take wi’ me to dear Sir
Kenneth!’

**T will come as soon as Iam strong again.”

ded Matlin.
Margaret

 

* And I will bear the lad ein

The woman clasped her hands with joy.
alone looked grave.

Herrick again whispered her; she rung the bell,
and gave an order to the attendant.
| ‘You have taken no dinner,” the invalid said, ad-
| dressing the seer. ‘‘Go down and refresh your-

selves; drink my health in a stoup of wine, and then
; come back to talk over what we are to do.”
| At the invitation of Margaret, the two visitors
| went to the dining-room, where an excellent lunch
was served. She herself did not sta; , but returned
to Herrick as soon as she had ord the horses to
be cared for at the stables.

She found the mae the room; but
when he saw her, he resumed his seat on the sofa,
bidding her close the door, and then sit beside him.

“You did not read me the last letter that came
from London, lassie!”

“Tt was from—Alicia. I did not know if you
would care to hear it.”

“Full of woman’s gossip, I ween!”’

AN and such is ever folly in men’s eyes.”

 

“Tell me, is my fair cousin to soon?”
“To marry? No; not to my knowledge.”
“ But she is affianced, I know!”

‘I never said so.””

‘“‘She weds the dandy baronet, after all!”

“Who said that of her?” demanded the girl.

“Ts it not true?”

“Tt is false. She would be a maiden all her
days ere she would look at Sir Victor Wilder as a
husband.”

“Indeed! But he loves her; and a woman learns
to love a persevering suitor.”

‘She will never learn to love him /”

“Then she must have conned the lesson with
another. I know the heart of a wench.”

—_ was silent.

. - tis true, then? Alicia is a betrothed mai-
en

The girl was troubled. Was the heart of the young
man returning to its madness? She knew not what
to say, between her anxiety to save him, and her
fidelity to her young foster-sister.

Herrick repeated the question. e
i te not betrothed. Her father would not

7e it. “

‘* She loves—then?”’ _

 

 

Again silence!

“ Margaret, you are afraid of me. I was a fool
once; but Iam so no longer. I was cured in heart
by the bruises that so sorely wounded my body. I
am no whining, pining lover. Alicia is my cousin;
she can never be more to me. I can bear to hear of
her becoming the bride of any worthy man, save
only that fop of a baronet.”

“He is your friend. Did he not bestir himself to
obtain a commission for you?”

““ Useless to a man crippled of his strength. And
the leech says it may be a year more before I can
hunt, or ride a day’s journey,” wailed Herrick. “TI
shall carve out my own fortune, when I can wield
a ene Now, tell me, girl, who is Alicia to
ma: 2

‘““Noman. The baron will never consent.”

“ But she loves some one. Ha!” as a sudden re-
collection struck him, “* who was the stranger I saw
with her the day before I played the fool, and sought
the life of the baronet coxcomb, and was idiot
enough to throw myself from the balcony ?’’

“ The stranger was—young Reginald Lord Cressy
—at least he was called so, before it was made
known that he was not the son of the noble Marquis
v7 Estonbury,” answered Margaret, with hesita-

100.

“Ha! the young man who gave up the title and
estates as soon as he found he was not the heir?”

“The same!”’

“By George! he is a noble fellow! Where is he
now?”

“JT do not know. He went to studying law, I
nee from the laird’s people—the Laird of Ral-
ston,

“*T would consent that my cousin should marry
such a man.”

‘* Ber father will never consent.”

“Not if I entreat him?”

** Alas, no!’

“ And it is he whom Alicia loves?”

Margaret bowed her head. She would have arisen,
to leave the room; but Herrick stayed her.

“T have summat to say, girl. You see Iam cured
of my folly.”

The girl lifted her eyes and met those of Herrick
fastened on her face. She blushed and looked down
again without answer.

‘Shall I prove it to you? Shall I show you that
Alicia is no longer loved by me? I love another,
Margaret!”

Her face grew suddenly pale; but she moved not,
nor looked up.

“Wouldst know whom? Yourself, dear Marga-

He took her hand; but she drew i¢ away with a
shiver.

“Nay—turn not from me, girl.
dozen like Alicia.”

“Oh, Master Herrick, do not mock me!” the girl
cried, with a convulsive sob.

““Mock ne Margaret? 1 am serious. I know
Sheed worth. While sickness held me ‘a prisoner, I

ave been faithfully nursed and tended by one gen-
tle, tender girl, to whom_I have yielded my heart.

o shall gainsay me? I love you, lass, and I will

make you my wife, and mistress of all here when it
comes to me.”

“Master Herrick!’’ the
now returning his gaze with earnest, anxious look.
we You must not speak in this way!’’

You are worth a

“Tam but a dependent. My parents were servants
of the baron. 1am not fit to be the wife of his kins-

an.

‘*Who is to say so? I will fight any man who dares
even think it! I will have none but you, girl; and the
baron may go hang! What is it to 7s

‘“The lords of Swinton have aye wedded ladies of
blood and birth.” 2

“And you shall queen it with the best of them,
Margaret, if I ever live to be Baron of Swinton.
Come, come; there is but one thing can turn me
from my purpose; and that is, to hear you say you
love me not.’

“Nay, Master Herrick—”

Zz captured her hand again, and drew her to his

le.

“Look at me, Margaret; in mine eyes—girl; so.
Now, tell me if you do not love me!”

The swiftly-varying color, the bashful droop of the
eyelids, made confession before the tongue could
utter sound.

“*Answer me, Margaret.’

opin ot me too far, I pray you. I am but a

or girl.
ee And what am I but a dependent? But I will be
more! So soon as I have my strength I shall leave
this place—I shall leave this country. Must I go
alone, Margaret?”

“But why do you go?”

“Tt is my pleasure. I will not live in silken fetters,
waiting for my fortune to come to me, I will carve
out my own way. Iwill join the army; but the soft
baronet shall buy no commission forme! Ha, Mar-
garet, you are pale as death! Now do I know that I
am beloved!”

He took her in his arms, and the girl did not re ~

ea his embrace. But she disengaged herself pres-

ently.

sx Timow not what to bas *» she answered, when he

pressed the question. “Tf

to the baron’s trust. He bade me stay and nurse

oe kinsman, and he dreamed not of danger.”
errick stopped her words with kisses and rapta-

rous protestations.

‘*Write to the baron!” cried Margaret.

“Not L He has naught to do with my love.”

“Will he give his consent? I fear not.”

“Tush, Ieare not! 1 shall not ask him! Think
you, the accident of birth, that made me heir to the
title and land, which my father will never claim, put
me in bondage to the baron or any of his race?
While my father lives, I owe cbedience only to him;
and he will welcome the girl I love as his daughter.”

“Yet he wished to marry you to Alicia.”

“He has ae over such foolishn as I have.
Alicia is not for me. Mar; t is—and I swear by
Saint Andrew I will have $1?

ain he clas) her in a fierce embrace.

“Let me go,” she pleaded, too jealous of her Dew
ei to i i i?
* Not till you promise to be mine.” eee
“If I may—without angering the noble baron—*

irl said, resolutely, and - }

ear I have been a traitor —

 

}

——g-

 
 

 

 

“Tush! you willanger me, talking thus!”

“Or grieving my dear sister Alicia—”’

“Tell her all! She will, not withstand me! She
will be too glad to have me out of her way!” laugh-
ed the happy lover. ;

It was so arranged. Margaret was to write to the
baron’s daughter, and abide by her counsel. . Her
love for young Reginald, dispossessed of all save his
honor, was a pledge to ‘Herrick that she would fa-
vor his cause. And so it proved.

A long and loving letter came from the fair girl;
or rather two letters; for she wrote to both. She
was rejoiced that Herrick had given his heart to
one so worthy. Margaret’s good fortune delighted
her. She would undertake to plead for them with
her father, and win his consent. The letter was ac-
companied by_a pretty bracelet, her gift to Mar-
garet, sent by Frank Ralston.

Meanwhile Hilda had accomplished her mission,
and returned to her master’s place of refuge on the
Continent, bearing the contributions of Matlin, Her-
rick and Margaret. Matlin was to remain only till
Herrick’s strength returned so far as to enable him
to travel. The wedding was to take place before he
deft Scotland.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MEETING AT THE OPERA.

PARLIAMENT had commenced its session in London;
though as yet some of the fashionables had not left
their homes in the country to endure the discomforts
of a March in the metropolis. There was no lack,
however, of gavety in high circles.

Alicia and her father had their lodgings at a pri-
vate family hotel in Berkeley square, almost exclu-
sively patronized by the nobility.

ramen had fairly entered society, having been
presen! at court by a noble kinswoman, and
ee everywhere by Lady Northampton.

The world of fashion had its charms for her; and
many suitors were at her feet. The baron felt sure
of effacing the image of Reginald, in the splendid
Loom that at her consent would open before

er.

The Marquis and Marchioness of Estonbury, with
the dowager marchioness, were in their magnificent
town-house in Piccadilly. The dowager did not as
yet allow herself to be seen at balls or routs; but
she accompanied her daughter in drives almost
every day, and made one of the home circle in the
drawing-room.

She continually urged the young wife into gay so-
ciety; and Helen passively obeyed, little as she
seemed to enjoy scenes of the kind. She wore the
honors her marriage had won with more dignity
than ae her mother or her husband had anti-
ci .

onbury had never loved her, and made no pre-
tense of doing so. So long as she did not mortify
his pride, so long as she appeared at the head of his
table and in public with grace and majesty sufficient
to do him credit, he was content. e rarely went
out with her. € was courteous to her at all times;
and that surely was as much as she could expect.

‘ without any manifestation of the affection he could

not feel!

Her submission to his slightest wish was the same
at all times. Obedience she had promised; and she
kept her vow implicitly.. So gentle and complying
was she in evcrything that he felt the yoke an easy
one, and in turn was pleased to indulge her wishes
whenever he learned them. This he did through the
domager. Nooceasion of difference had ever yet

isen, .

The mother-in-law had her full swing in the exer-
cise of power, and in social supremacy. Her daugh-
ter was subject to her; yet she kept the depths of
her nature hidden even from maternal eyes.
Georgiana, Lady Estonbury, could not fail to per-
ceive that the young wife had a purpose which,
should circumstances ever develop it into action,
she would be powerless to shake.

They were together at the opera. Twoor three
gentlemen friends had joined them in their box, an
were assiduous in their court to the dowager. Helen
was taciturn: and seldom encouraged the attentions
of their fashionable acquaintances. She satin front,
her eyes fixed on the stage, absorbed _ in the singing
and acting of the great barytone, whose voice en-
tranced the audience whenever it was heard.

Helen was very fond of music. It was her solace
in melancholy hours, her resource in solitude. Noth-
ing could give half the pleasure she took at the
opera; and their box was always occupied when
great artists appeared. ; 2

She did not notice the different visitors entering
and departing, after brief conversations with her
mother; till, at some interval in the music, she
heard the dowager arene rallying one. of the

entlemen on his admiration for a new star in fash-
ionable circles. i

‘She does, indeed, look lovely to-night! I heard

of her Roy at the time she was presented. She is
the r. a certain set.” 8,

‘“*She should not be a belle,” was the rejoinder.
“Her nature is too fresh. The air of the drawing-
room does not agree with her; she is most at home
on her own Scottish hills.’’

“You are poetical, my lord,” said the lady, laugh-

With such a theme, who could wonder?” ex-
claimed the gentleman.

“Look at her now, receiving that ee? from
one of her worshipers,” said another, who had lifted
a — to his eye.

elen noticed the direction in which he looked,
anak ata er nee for a eee She saw in -

x nearly opposite a very autii oung girl,
whose air, dress and whole demeanor os so dif-
ferent from the general run of young ladies she had
seen that her attention was irresistibly attracted.

“Who is that lady?” she whispered, leaning back
and speaking to a gentleman near her.
nc nee Le tatty Vara eee

OW: e 5 name. e is the

‘hter of Lord Swinton, a Scottish baron.”

“T have never met her!’

“Indeed! She has been out but a short time; yet
she has created a marked sensation in society. I
hear her toasted at the clubs.” 1) oa
“A protegee of Lady Northampton remarked
the dowager, ‘‘could not fail of crea @ sensa-

LADY HELEN'S

 

Vow.

a ee

“But this is owing to herself. She is so young,
and unspoiled by flattery; she has no wish tor ad-
miration, though it follows her the more, perbaps,
for her indifference.”

“Ts she an heiress?”

“The barony is a poor one; ancient, but shorn of
its former possessions. Her father has barely
enough to maintain his standing, living at the ex-
tent of his income.”

“Then she has no fortune?”

“None but her wild grace and sweetness, flowers
so unused to this soil, that they charm every one,”
said the poetical lord who bad before spoken.

“Ts she a guest of Lady Northampton?” asked the
dowager.

“No; but she goes everywhere with her. She is
with her father; and he has no house in town.”

“ How T should like to call upon her!” thought the
young marchioness.

Then the star of the evening again appeared, and
she was absorbed in the music.

As they came out, at the conclusion of the opera,
their course was stopped by several acquaintances.
Some little delay occurred near the door; and quite
unexpectedly and suddenly young Lady Estonbury
fourid herself close enough to the young girl she had
observed in the box to have a good view of her face.
She felt at once its ‘‘ wild-rose sweetness.””

Alicia was surrounded by attendant gentlemen;

' but never did girl seem more unconscious of the ad-

miration she excited. She was leaning on the arm
of Sir Victor Wilder, and onthe oiher side of her
stood a majestic-looking lady, a peeress well known
in the highest circles, who was attended by Lord
Swinton.

For one instant the eyes of young Lady Estonbury
met those of the fair girl, and each seemed to find in
the other some attraction of the kind not expressed
in ordinary acquaintanceship. _ Alicia’s rosy lips

arted in a half-smile and Helen bowed slightly, and

elt the warm color rush to her face. Neither could
imagine the influence one of the two was to exercise
over the destinies of the other!

The dowager hurried her daughter forward, and
the Crys of “Lady Estonbury’s carriage ’’ was pre-
sently heard.

As the ladies ascended the stairs to their slodging
apartments, the young marchioness saw Mrs. Chis-
holm coming out of her mother’s dressing-room.
The dame turned back into the room and remained
there. Helen wondered what it could mean. Chis-
holm was no longer one of the household, and not a
frequent visitor. :

elen had not forgotten her resolution, nor the
solemn vow she had taken on the eve of her mar-
riage, though she never since, to her mother, men-
tioned the name of Reginald. | i

She resolved tolose no time in learning what news
the discharged maid had brought; for she was con-
vinced her errand had something to do with him.

She came into the dowager’s dressing-room the
next MORTIDG, and asked at once the question she
longed to ask; frankly avowing, when taxed by

Estonbury, that her interest in Reginald
prompted her to ask it.

“You ought to be ashamed, Helen,” her mother
added, ‘‘to care for another man than your husband
to whom your love belongs.””

‘‘ Mother, listen to me,” said the young marchion-
ess, em: eee: “You are mistaken in supposing
I love Reginald Holmes.”

He went by that name, and Helen had learned the

fact.

“Indeed, I feared it,” said her mother. ‘You
PouTiene me by the assurance that you have forgot-

en him.”’

“ Nor have I forgotten him, mamma. ButI know
that to love him asI once did would be a sin; and I
have schooled my heart. If I were free at this mo-
pene and you gave consent, I would not marry

im.”

“Tam glad to hear you speak so, Helen.” _

“But Lam still interested in his fortunes—in his
future. Iam pledged to watch over it asif he were
my own brother.” ;

‘That is but natural, child, since you were brought
up together. You will be glad, then, to hear of his
success.”

“Tell me of it, mamma.”

‘Chisholm has been to see him.”

“He is in London, then?”

“ Yes, studying law; he has a great talent for the
law, I understand.”

“ Well—go on!””

“Mr. Chisholm heard that he was aided by some
Scottish friends, and naturally he wished to share in
his good prospects, f

“ By what right?” asked Helen, quickly.

“Helen, you forget that the Chisholms are Re-
ginald’s parents.”

““T know enough to convince me that they are not
his parenite,'! was the prompt answer.

The dowager grew very pale and grasped her
dapehteria arm,

‘‘Helen, have you ever communicated to Reginald
your doubts on this subject?”

“JT, mother! I have never seen nor spoken to
Reginald since we parted at the Court.”

“Nor written—nor sent message to him?”

“ Neither.”’

“Beware how you do s0, girl! But somehow, he
has the same notion. When Chisholm claimed from
him a sum of money for his and his wife’s support,
he was coldly refused. When his wife~my maid
that was—went to him to crave help on the score of
relationship, he disowned her! He refused to believe
she was his mother.”

“On what ground?”

‘His own teelings—his inward conviction.”

“ He is right!” cried Lady Estonbury, clasping her

hands.

“ Silly girl! you defend such unnatural conduct?”

“You know why I do not think he is their son.
He had not the ‘strawberry birth-mark,’ you know,”

“Helen!’’ cried her mother, white with rage, ‘if
you ever dare allude to that again, you will offend
me past Lope eel

x t _ olm I heard mention it.as belonging
to her boy.”

“Silence! or I shall tell you no more.”

“T will be silent. So he disowned the Chisholms?”

ss Entirely; they could only get one promise from

him.
“What was that?”

 

ty

 

“That they might take and enjoy whatever it
might please Lord Estonbury to’bestow on him,”
‘Nay, mother, I know Reginald never so worded

it.
ieee my Lady Incredulous, how do you know
at?

“Because Reginald promptly declined your offer,
and my lord’s, of an independence. He would not,
after that, make any claim.”

‘Chisholm, the woman I mean, spoke of your hus-
band’s willingness to assist him and he spurned it,
as before.”

“That is likely.”

“Then she.asked if he were willing ‘hey should re-}
ceive my lord’s bounty, as they neededit!”

““What said he?”

“That he had no claim to anything, nor would he
accept anything. If they received aid from my lord
it must be independent of all claims on his part, and
not founded on any supposed relationship to him.”

“He was right.”

The dowager flashed a glance of anger on her
daughter. :

“ He sent Chisholm away, bidding her—the unnat-
ura} monster !—never come into his presence again.
“But she‘will ask my lord for the provision the mis-
guided young man refused.”’

Helen made no a

“Have you any objection to that?”

“1 do not know—” she answered, musingly.

“ At least, if Chisholm obtains money from Lord
Estonbury, you will not oppose his liberality.”

“No—I will not; Ido not care what he gives the
man or his wife.”

“Tt was scandalous in Reginald to refuse them as-
sistance. He is already making money by his labors;
and then he is known to be intimate with the rich —
merchant—the India man—”

““Who?” asked the young lady.

“His name is Wallrade, I understand, though I
have never seen him. He is rich and does not bear
a good character.”

‘And Reginald is intimate with him?”

“Thavé heard so. His money will cover a multi-
tude of sins, in the eyes of a needy young man.”

Helen had risen to leave the room, but turned back
at this; her face aflame with anger.

“If you mean, mother, that Reginald will be the
friend of a bad man because he is rich,” she said,
“you say what is not the truth. It is not his nature.
Nor would he have cast off the Chisholms, had he

not been firmly convinced they had imposed on him °

a lie anda fiaud. You know, mother, as well asI
do, that he is not their son.”

She left the room without another look at the dow-
ager, who sunk into her chair, faint and trembling;
her lips articulating the words:

“Can she suspect? Impossible! She knows noth-
ing! otf she did, would she drag ruin upon her own

ead?’

 

CHAPTER XXYV.
A NEW FRIEND.

In the room next to that_occupied by Reginald at
the Temple, a strange elderly man passed many
hours of every day. It was a sort of office in which
he kept his papers and occasionally received a visit:
sometimes, In bad weather, lodging there.

Reginald had often met him on the stairs, and
had several times rendered trifling services, such as
supplying him with matches, inviting him to warm
himself by his fire; lending him paper, pen and ink
when he appened to have none; offering the morn-
ing Times, etc. He saw the traces of suffering in
the shrunken and slightly bent form, the deeply-
lined features and sallow complexion; these were
sufficient to interest him; for his compassion was
oe drawn out by the evidence of sorrow or
trouble of any kind.

The stranger had once or twice seemed on the
verge of confidence; of communication beyond the
cold commonplaces of mere recognition; and the
young man was roan to make his acquaintance.
Then he had suddenly and unaccountably drawn
back into silence,

nald, who had been interested in his intelli-
gent countenance and the manner, so eager and im-
pulsive that it betrayed -his foreign birth, thought
this strange, but he made no effort to overcome the
reserve. One day, seeing the man going down-stairs
before him, he had pointed him out to his friend,

Frank Ralston. On asubsequent visit young Ralston _

remarked, carelessly:. .
“T heard something that surprised me concerning

our neighbor. The old man is very rich.”
ver Indeed?"

“You would not think so from his plain dress,and *

his having a home here.”

‘His attire, though not costly, is always neat,”
returned Reginald. ‘‘And he has the air of aman
burdened with cares. Your poor man is free from
them, you know.”

“He made his fortune in India, | understand.”

“He is not an Englishman?”

“No; a German by birth; a thrifty person, like
many of his nation.”

“Tt is strange that he remains in London.”

“He may be looking for an heir to his money, I
heard something of that sort.”

“Looking for an heir?”

“ Or rather an heiress.”

“ Wanting to adopt a daughter, or to marry?”

“Hardly the last, with such a face and figure. But
I heard nothing definite. You had best cultivaie
him,” added Frank, laughing.

‘“Thank you; the business of heritage-hunting has
no attractions for me. What you say, however, ex-
plains the reasons of his deportment toward me.”

“ How so?” { 7

““We have interchanged | neigh hicrly offices; but
when on the point of becoming better acquainted, he
has always drawn back.”

“Why? How account for that?”

“Tf he be rich, he vans ge avoids the poor, who
might become troublesome. He shrinks from a pen-
niless young man, situated as I am.”

“The greater fool if he does! Your friendship _
my boy, would do honor to a prince.”

‘You have a princely soul, Frank, to think so;
but others will judge me according to my circum-
stances. To change the subject, I have an invitation
te 7h Here.”

ey had entered the office, and Reginald took a
dainty rose-colored card from a pile of papers.

entire ee nerensipertieroste

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- as I told you; it was soon

1 ecnangennnick

‘To Lady Brandon’s—for Thursday.”

“T owe this to you, old fellow!” cried Frank.

“Her ladyship is one of the few whose kindness
has followed me in spite of my fall,” said Reginald,
gratefully. “If I went into any society I would at-
tend her You shall bear my excuse.”

“But you must go.”

Reginald shook his head, with a grave smile.
“Let me tell you where I saw her ladyship’s car-
riage on Saturday. At T—— Hotelin Berkeley square.
You know who lodges there?”

“T do not know,” replied Reginald.

“Baron Swinton and his daughter. I heard her
a footman inquire for them.”

A fh overswept the young law-student’s face.

“T knew they were in London,” he said.

“They are lodging at that hotel; and Lady Bran-
isits them. They will be—at least the young
lady will be—at her house on Thursday.”

“The more-reason I should not go. I have re-
solved not to claim the acquaintance of—of—the
baron till lam in a position to meet him—them—on
a footing of equality.”

“You are so now, Reginald. Do genius, industry,
mental power of the highest kind—noble integrity
of character, constitute no claim? That reminds me
—here is a letter from my father; he has again
placed a sum at his banker’s to your credit.”

Frank drew a paper from his pocket, and handed
it to Reginald, who put it back, declining to receive

it.

“No, Frank; I have too long trespassed on your
father’s generosity. My best thanks for this new
proof of his kindness; but lam earning money now;
quite enough for aJl my expenses.”

“Reginald! you will not mortify my father and
me by refusing his help!”

“Tf I needed it—I would not; but, you see, thanks

- to the Laird’s liberality, I am not only independent,

but have excellent prospects. Do not ask me to re-
ceive aid when I can stand alone!”

Frank put back the paper with reluctance.

“You have been injuring your health by writing
o’ nights,” he said, reproachtully.

“Do a recognize my style in the article?” asked

d, touching the Times on the table. ‘‘ Well
—it is as Bo and then. They don’t employ my
re 3
Pe ae well not. Your health would not stand the
strain. Promise me you will not do it again.”
“It was not for money. I did not need that, But
I wanted to air my opinions. Don’t be uneasy,
Frank. When I need funds again I will apply to
ou.”
After a little more friendly talk the friends sepa-

Not half an hour afterward, Reginald heard a ta
at his door. He went and opened it. ‘The shrivel
elderly man who had been the subject of their con-

-versation stood there.
“ Have you a few moments’ leisure, Mr. Holmes?”
he asked.
ginald courteously bowed, and asked him to
walk in, He placed a chair for him, wondering what
\had caused this first visit.

The visitor took the seat, laid his hat on the table,

and rubbed his hands, while looking at the young

lawyer.
yon are surprised to see me,”’ he remarked,
speaking slowly; ** but you will be moreso when you
eeeoginald inal Toned. inquiring].
looked up inquiringly.

“IT have often tncateht. young gentleman, that
our acquaintance would be a most desirable one
or me, lonely as I am, and well able as you are to

lend a charm to companionship and to give counsel
lade. an eg bowed. Th
e yo man bowed. ere was some-
of fascination to him in the deference of this
in} nt sti er, and he murm an ac-
knowledgment of the pleasure it promise’ him,

“T have heard your history lately,” the elderly

man continued; ‘‘ and the story of your reverses has
interested me. Yours is no common charac-

| ter, iv honorable man might feel proud of your
tance.

“You are kind to say so,” replied the student, feel-
embai though flattered.

__“T must now state my errand. I come, not to ask

the honor of knowing you and being numbered

- among your friends, but to warn you, on no account,

to receive me as an acquaintance.”
id looked his astonishment,
ou have shown me kindness. Beware how you
g0 on, how hp allow me to presume upon it. Imay
not always be able to resist the ardent desire I feel
_ to seek your friendship.”

“You speak in riddles, sir.’’

“T will explain; that is my object in coming. You
are young, generous, and ready of access. It would
be easy for a man who knows the world, like my-
self, to entice you into an intimacy, which would be
a solace and a delight to myself. e should almost
inevitably glide into something like it, being near
et I did not caution you against it.’

“and why should you do so?”

“* Because—because—I am unworthy to be an asso-
ciate or a friend of yours.”

“*T cannot believe that, Mr.—”

“ Wallrade is my name.”

“Mr. Wallrade, I have wished to know you for
some time.”

7 You will wish it no longer, when you know what

am.

“T have heard of you; and have heard nothing to
your disadvantage.’

, “Few know any thing of my antecedents. I re-
.Yeal them to you for asafeguard, 1am aman—who
“has been tried for theft—and convicted.”

stared as if he thought the oe
looking elderly man had suddenly gone mad.
** Perhaps no more than one or two in Great Brit-
ain know the fact. It is nevertheless true.”
“You astonish me, Mr. Wallrade.”
“Tf you have time, I will tell you something of
my past life. ;
signified his desire to hear it.
“Tt is some thirty-five years ago that I was tried,
after I came to live in
London. I was in need of money, on an
emergency that admitted of no delay. I called upon
.afriend who belonged to my regiment—for I

_ enlisted as a soldier—to borrow a few — He
absent. In haste and desperation I opened his

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

 

escritoir and took out ten pounds, leaving a note to
say I had borrowed it and would soon pay it back. I
was gone some days, and when I returned, I found
the regiment ina ferment. The robbery had been
discovered, and the servant of my friend was in
prison, charged with the theft.”

* But your note—”’

“That had been lost, unfortunately. As T left it
in the desk, I always thought the man suspected had
afterward opened the desk for nefarious purposes;
and had got the papers into confusion. was
stunned by this turn of affairs. The prisoner had
insisted that he saw me leaving the escritoir; and
before I could see how to make matters straight,

was summoned for examination. My confession |

availed nothing; I was remanded for trial; tried and
convicted, as I told you.”
m your own confession?”

“oO
“Chiefly that; but most of the bank-notes, the ,

numbers of which were marked, were identified and
traced tome. I was sentenced to: the punishment of
theft, but my friend, who had all along been confi-
dent of the truth of my statement, and had suffered
terribly from the proceedings he had no power to
stop, was indefatigable in my behalf. He obtained
a pardon for me.”

‘A pardon! a poor compensation for the brand of
crime!”

“So I thought; and I resolved to leave the coun- |
try. I could not live in England with a sullied repu- |
tience had deserved |
vrocured me a clerk- |

tation; and my reckless im
some punishment, My frienc
ship in a mercantile house and I went to India.”’

“And this was all!” exclaimed Reginald.
were not guilty of crime. There is no reason why
you should shun the association of honorable men,
on account of that early indiscretion.”

He grasped Wallrade’s hand with a cordial pres- |

sure, The old man gave him a grateful look, as he
proceeded: 3

“T will finish my outline; and then you can judge.
In the midst of my trouble, one lovely lady, who
learned my misfortune, took pity on me. It was
owing to her intercession that my friend was able to
procure the pardon; and her gute influence raised
up those who cared for me. She wasa lady of rank;
she bore an honored name; she was far above me;
but IT vowed a vow in my inmost heart, that for her
sake I would devote myself to a life of useful labor.”

“Tt was a noble resolve.”

“She gave me her miniature before Ileft England;
see, I have it here, fastened to my watch.”

“He drew out a small locket of fine wrought gold,
depending ona slender gold chain. :

t opened with a spring. The face disclosed was
that of a beautiful and very young girl. Reginald
examined it with much interest; for the features
were btransely familiar to him.

“T see what you are thinking of; you are mistak-
en. There was no love in the case. The lady—she
was very young—almost a child—pitied me as the
angels pity the doomed; I worshiped her as a pa-
tron saint. Years afterward I heard of her mar-
riage to a noble lord; and I ventured to send from
India a rich shawl, manufactured for a princess—of
which I begged her acceptance.

“T served my employers well; Iwas_ made a part-
ner; i became rich. blight was unknown; 1 was
esteemed among all who knew me. I formed the
acquaintance of one wees Englishman of noble
feat” who was an officer in the army; but com-
pelled to leave it on account of failing health. I
nursed him through a severe illness; and he per-
suaded me to accompany him to England, when he
was ordered home.”

“Who was he?”

“His name was Egbert Vane. We made the voy-
age joneeter’ at least part of it; for the ship was
wrecked, and most of those on board perished.”

“ How ul! You both escaped!”

“Tt was upon a hidden reef that We had been
driven. Iwas sweptinto the sea when the ship went
to pieces; but I managed to grasp a few loose Se
and tied them together with some cordage I go’
from the wreck. I had just shoved the raft clear
from the reef, when a drowning man was swept
within reach of my hands; andT clutched him by the
hair, I dragged him upon the raft; he was insensi-
ble, but I brought him to with a tew drops of bran-
dy, and a little chafing.

“Then I bade him secure himself to the raft. Not
till morning dawned, did I know whom I had saved.
It was Egbert Vane.” ‘

‘** Providential, indeed.”

“T will attempt no description of our experience,
driven by wind and wave far from the sight of men.
and without provisions, on a frail raft. We looke
only for death; but we were destined to. live. On
the fourth day a vessel picked us up, in a state of ex-
haustion nigh to death.

‘* Again providential!” exclaimed Reginald, deep-
ly interested.

“Tt was a German vessel, bound toa German port.
We were landed, but r Egbert was too ill to
travel far. I was again nurse, and when he was
well enough, we went into the mountains for the
benefit of his health.”

“* Who would dare to call ot heartless?”

“We were like brothers; but my companion goon
found one whom he could love with a deeper and
warmer love. She was very beautiful, but of hum-

ble birth.

“When I saw that Egbert was becoming attached
to her, I remonstrated with him. I showed him
that he could not honorably court a girl in her sta-
tion. But he would not regard my warnings. The
intimacy grew and continued, though the meetings
of the two were concealed from me.”

““Imprudent, certainly.”

“At last Iwent tosee the young girl, who lived
with her mother at Kaiserswerth on the Rhine. I
warned her against the danger; I felt for her un-

rotected situation; and I remembered how the
oveliest of her sex succored me.”

“ How did she receive your caution?”

“With haughty co sy; thanking me for a

‘ood intentions, but 6g that she was able

take care of herself. Egbert discovered what I
had done, and we had a quarrel.”

“Such interference seldom avails much.”
roached him, and he did not deny eee

“Tre
meant Seem to give up the maiden. He attribu

 

“You |

| ‘* What did he do?”

“‘T never learned, Inever cared to inquire. I went
to another part of Germany, and thence came to
England. Once, since, I have revisited the place
where we en so many months, happy in each
other’s friendship; and where that ill-starred love-
affair ran its course. I could not help inquiring
after her.”

‘* What had become of her?” —,

‘* Both she and Egbert were dead. She had died
first. His constitution, undermined in India, and

| shattered by the shock and exposure of the ship-
| wreck, gave way gradually. was taken to the
spot where he had been buried.”

“A sad termination to his romance! Was he not
brought to his friends in this country?”

“ Strange, it supeerd to me, that he was not.
They told me his brother had come over and was
with him at the last. It may have been his prefer-
| ence to be buried near the girl he had so madly
| loved. Inever knew. I heard, after I came to Eng-
| land, that both he and I—with all those in the ship
| on beard of which we sailed from India—had been

reported drowned. Three or four of the sailors
| had escaped in the long-boat, and brought the
| news.””

| ‘Thus you could begin life afresh.”

“T could have changed my name; but I did not.
Very few remembered me after so many years. © M
fault was forgotten. I had my ample fortune,
in the bank that held the deposits of my mercantile
house. Only one amusement! suffered to become a
| pastime, and that has procured me the reprobation

of the censorious. I have played now and then.”
| - Played—at cards?”

‘*'You are shocked? Well—I deserve blame. I
| used to play in Germany; and the excitement was a
solace to me. I never risk large sums, however;

2

|

| and all I win is given to the poor.
| tis a dangerous practice.”

‘* With a young man; hardly with me. What can
I do, without an object of interest in life?’

“ Make one for yourself. You may find abundant
material.”

‘Poo late! too late! Only one hope remains.”

“ What is that?”

““The beauteous you lady who once gave me
hope when most in despair; who gave me energy to
| commence a new life; nted to do something for
| her. She is dead. But she has lefta child; adaugh-
ter; lovely as herself, and as full, no doubt, of ten-
der compassion. Her father, I hear, has lost a large
or sae the fortune his ancestors enjoyed; and what

e has 1s strictly entailed on the male heir. He has
pe son. His daughter, therefore, will"be unprovided
or.

“Ha! there is an object for your energies, for
your gratitude.”

“Ts it so easy to goto this young and lovely crea-
ture, lay my fortune at her feet, and have it ac-
cepted? She would reject it with wonder that a

stranger—who has no repute among men—should
dare approach her. Her father has the pride of
high rank, He might reject my acquaintance.”

*ShallI give you my advice? off any hab-
its that, as you say, may render scrupulous persons
shy of you. Bein seeming what you are in nature;
then seek the friendship of this noble, im overished
man of rank. He will not hesitate to welcome you
to his home and his heart.”

“Think you so, young man? And you, are you
willing to be my rete now that you know all?”

“T oe your friendshi
proud of it.’

The German drew one hand across his eyes.
pe, had grasped the other in the warm im-
pulse of his emotion. t;

‘““As Heaven blesses me with reason, I will take
our counsel, P sera friend. You have saved me
rom myself. But are you sure you will be firm,

when you hear me reproached as a man who has
frequented gambling-houses; whose good character
no one can vouch for?’’

“T have no fear. Evil rumor may follow you,
even after you have won the right to a spotless
name. But you will conquer at last.”

“Will you help me?”

“Wha ver Ican do, in that you may command

“A thousand thanks! You give me ho again.
May Heaven bless you for it!” e os

 

A MAN’S HONOR,

In a of his stern resolve, nald accepted the
invitation to Lady Brandon’s ball.

He could not resist the temptation of seeing once
more the object of his love, even though he must
look upon her as a star meving ina sphere far above
him. Once more to see her, and then he would be
resigned to his destiny.

So he thought as he came in late, into the throng-
ed drawing-rooms, sumptuous with the splendor
wealth and taste can create, and brilliant with the
hundred of wax-lights gleaming on gorgeous attire
and smiling fair faces.

It was a bewildering scene, though the young man
had been used to the gayeties of social life, and saw
fen familiar faces, heard many voices of old

ends.

He had lost no social standing by the ch in his
rospects. Had he chosen to avail himself of the at-
ntions proffered he would even have been a lion in
society; but he shrunk from distinction of that kind.
He was welcomed with frank cordiality by the
hostess, and soon found himself in the grasp of Lord
Estonbury, who insist m to the

7 ted on taking hi
dowager and his young wife.

“Itis your own fault, Reginald,” he said, with a
patronizing air, not a little repulsive, ‘that we see
nothing of you. No friend would be more welcome.”

The dower repeated the assurance with elabor-
ommend Estonb rely bowed in sflence,

‘oun; nm me! Ww
and held out lor: hand, it_ she watched him with
deep interest. It seemed to her that he had grown
handsomer and more distinguished-lookin

| ever.

The marquis intimated that he had so! of
iompoetiies to say, and to santa ios
young friend against forming ana —_

oni

 

to Jealousy alll Sone Thus a parted

a suspicious person, with whom he had
Gr cat as Waliees: ‘ : ar
“ His pame is Wallrade,” he centinued, “ and] am

é i
¢ oy

ip with thanks. I shall be

ee

Saggy

 
ices cae

es ayy SD SS pas

 

 

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

19

 

sure he is a gambler; for I have heard it of him. Be-
ware of being seen with him. The acquaintance
would ruin your prospects.” :

Reginald felt his resentment rise at this rebuke;
but he made _ no reply, only with cold thanks for a
repee invitation, moving hastily away.

elen gazed after him. Sho was looking well this
evening, in a silk of pale rose-color, with full over-
skirt of delicate point lace, looped with white rose-
buds. There were natural rose-buds in her hair and
pearls on her neck and arms. She was very pale,
and her eyes had that dark septs they showed when
she was under the influence of emotion.

The dowager Lady Estonbury was attired in a rich
purple corded silk with black lace flounces, bertha,
and flowing sleeves. She wore jet and diamond or-
naments, being in mourning.

Both ladies were beset with introductions, and
claimants for their attention. :

The young marchioness, eager to escape the watch-
ful eyes of her mother, took advantage of the offer-
ed escort of a young earl, and had a promenade
through the room. She was anxious not to lose
sight of Reginald.

e@ moved on, greeted by friends at every step
and smiled on by the fair. Only a few middle-aged
mothers looked coley on the young man whom they
had courted so assiduously scarcely a year since.
His handsome face and grand manners must not be-
witch their daughters. .

At one end of the last room stood a group. that in-
stantly attracted Reginald’s attention. Alicia Maur
was the central figure, and the object of general ad-
miration.

She was dressed entirely in white, a filmy, cloud-
like lace, that floated in ai uffs from the outline
of her slender and graceful form. She wore no
bracelets, nor any ornament save an old-fashioned
pearl brooch containing her mother’s hair. Her
own waving, light-brown locks, gleaming like gold
in the light, fell from the restraining ribbon gather-
ing them at the back of her head, to her neck, and
clustered in delicate rings around her temples. Her
blue eyes LU ecam and a faint rose-flush was in her
cheeks. The homage paid her on every side was ev-
idently gratifying to her pride.

Several gentlemen, among them the young Duke
of Montroy, whose devotion to the fair girl had been
the talk of gossips for weeks past, were in lively
conversation with the belle of the evening. The
duke held her bouquet, and waited to lead her to the
dance. His eyes were fixed on her lovely face with
an earnest admiration no one could mistake, for
young love makes its first language understood.

Alicia, thus lightly toying with the scepter of
Beauty's empire over hearts, was unconscious that
two persons were steadfastly regarding her with

different feelings from the devoted gallants in her |

immediate circle.
inald stood leaning against a pillar, pale as
death, his eyes a ee her face.

The intense craving of his soul was satisfied—he
saw her, in all her beauty, once again. But how?
As far removed fyom him as if she were enshrined
in some fair planet of the sky! She looked, in his
eyes, like an angel just touch the earth for the
poise of an instant. And he might as well expect to
capture the winged inhabitant of the empyrean, as
to claim her attention. Yet he could not take his
eyes from her face; though over his own crept an
expression of deep anguish, darkening into despair.

elen, still leaning on the arm of Lord Clair, look-
ed from Reginald’s face to the beaming one of
Alicia, and a conviction flashed upon her mind
that the two were known to each other, and
that here was the maiden who had won Reginald’s

love.

She felt irresistibly impelled to learn more. She
led the way be slow and interrupted movements
toward . id, and when near enough, touched
his arm with her fan.

“Will you do me a favor, Reginald?”

“Lady Estonbury!” he exclaimed, starting ner-
vously. Then bowed courteously, and added: “ Pray
command me, in any way I can serve you!”

“Tt is to introduce me to yonder lady! I saw her
at the opera; Iam anxious to make her acquaint-
ance.”

She had dropped Lord Clair’s arm, and was now
close to Regina: He hesitated, and she went on

impetuously:
Pthe Sonia girl in white, standing by the Duke of

Montroy, and talking to so many. There! she has
= a seat. It is only opportunity, Take me
to her.

“You must excuse me, Lady Estonbury,” replied
the young man, drawing back as Helen was about to
take his arm.

“You know her certain!
seen you looking at her.
me

?
“T knew the lady—formerly,” was the proud an-
swer; “but T ena not now e the liberty of pre-
senting a friend to her.”

“Who is she?”

“Miss Alicia Maur, the daughter of Lord Swinton,

of Sco 5
“Itis unkind of you, Reginald! Iam so anxious
know her. I am charmed with her ena E
“T regret that I cannot oblige your ship,
said the young man, coldly. “It would pre-
eee inme. A hundred persons here can have
the honor. There is Sir Victor Wilder. Shall I

’ cried she. “I have
y will you not present

e
bring him to you?”

a No. no—tis no matter,” replied Helen, as she
saw Maur rise and take the duke’s arm. The

music had struck up for a dance, and the partners
were taking their places. The circle of courtly
young men looked disappointed, as the fair girl

through.
Helen janced at Reginald. He had averted his
face; and before she could speak to him, he had
moved away. She watched him ean ce

uest. She knew that she n ave no
ditlonity in being introduced to the young lady im

’ the dance was over; but, somehow, her desire

Bee ood by a French window, draped with em-
roider , over rich folds of damask silk. The
music had a lulling effect, and Helen took a seat on
the cushioned lounge and drew the drapery before
. It wasa to escape for a time the neces-
in the social drama, artificial

of laying. @ part
Sone rit to be. She gave herself up to thinking,

o

 

 

your image from its throne in my

and presently lost the hearing of sounds within the
room.

The window was in a recess, and opened on a nar-
row balcony leading to the splendid conservatories,
now in the first opening bloom that precedes the
burst of spring. ie atmosphere was so heated that

the young marchioness felt a gern relief when |

she could open one of the sides of the window
and let in the fresh air. She had not noted the ces-
sation of the music, and the regular steps of the
promenaders. ‘

She saw two figures glide slowly past outsides, and
instantly started to her féet.

They were Alicia Maur and Reginald. The look
she caught on his face almost frightened Helen.
She quickly pushed the glass door open, passed out
and followed them. _

CHAPTER XXVIL.
LOVE’S OWN SWEET WAY.

TuE two figures descended the marble steps at the
end of the balcony. These led into a spacious court,
refreshed by a fountain, with clear basin in which
aquatic plants were growing, and set out with
orange, lemon and ornamental trees.

Helen saw the flutter of a:white dress at the fur-
ther end, at the entrance of the long conservatory,
and without giving herself time for thought, hasten-
ed after the pair.

The warm air of the hot-house, loaded with fra-
grance, made her pant for breath; but she did not

ause till she saw the persons she was pursuing, stop
n a nook sheltered by an oriental tree with drooping
boughs in full leaf.

Helen was concealed behind the tall vases that
held flowering shrubs not yet in bloom.

She did not once think of the strangeness of her
chase, and of her listening to the conversation of
those who thought themselves alone. Her early
training under the Chisholms’ care, had never taught
her that such conduct was unbecoming a lady; and
oa to know everything had its root in a good
motive.

“Reginald!” she heard Alicia say, ‘‘why have you
brought me here in this hurried manner? We can
speak together in the drawing-rooms—”

“T cannot speak to you there!” exclaimed the
young man, in a tone that betrayed the bitter agony
that he was suffering. ‘Oh, Alicia! Ishould not
dare to speak to you at all.”

“But it would_have grieved me if you had not,
dear be er I was so delighted to see you!”

“T will ask only five minutes! It will do me good,
Alicia, to hear from ro lips, what I have read in
your looks to-night, that you have cast off all re-
membrance of me!”

“That I have cast off remembrance of you—Regi-

, nald! And it will do you good to know it

“Tt will crush presumptuous hope forever. I
thought I could resign you calmly, but I know by
what I have suffered to-night, that the task is one in
which you must aid me. Chide my presumption,
Alicia!” Tell me that the beggar who yet litt
bis eyes to you, merits your scorn!”

“ Reginald! did T not promise to be true to you?”

“That was before you could see how deep and
hopeless is my fall! Before you knew your own
power! What haveIseen? Yon enjoy the homage
that waits on every step of yours! You receive
messages of love from a suitor’s eyes, and do not
repel them |”

‘You are unjust tome! Indeed you are! I have
received no love messages!”

“Ha! is not_the young Duke of Montroy your
slave? Alicia, I have given you up, but I cannot tear

heart, till you bid
me doit / Do not deceive me! It is cruel to the con-
demned man to allow him to hope!”’

“Tt is you who are cruel tome! Why doyou look
at me, as if I were about to stab you to the heart?”

‘Tf you did that, it would be a merciful blow.”

* Reginald, I have not deserved this! I have done
nothing to justify you in saying that I am false to
my vows.””

* Are you not, in heart and wish?”

“No, indeed! If you would give me opportunity,
I would convince you beyond a doubt. But you
never came near us. You knew I was in London;
why have you kept aloof?”

“A welcome visitor I should have been!”

“* Always welcome; always, to me, Reginald!”

“Pardon me, Alicia; I have no right reproach
you. Iam worse than presumptuous to expect kind
remembrance from you!”

“Reginald, you have rights over me which no
other man has, or could ever gain.””

He put out his hand in deprecation,

“Do not, do not madden me by net Rather
crush out <e love—as you must despise it!”

_“ Reginald, have you not cast me off? Are you not
false to = you plighted?”
cia

“T have thought so at times, I have been sorely
tried, in believing that you had ceased to love
me.

“ You could believe it?”

“ How could I help it? when you never came near
oe you seemed not to care if I lived or
no

‘* Was it for me to aspire to your favor, when the

‘hest nobles in the land were at your feet?”

‘If they were—what were they to me in compar-
ison with you?”

“ Have a care, Alicia! I could not bear again to
fall from such a pinnacle of bliss as you would raise
me to, by the assurance of your love.”

The girl arose from her seat, and with a simple
action of exquisite grace, pl her hand in his.

cS Besinels, never again doubt that I love you! and

ou aione .

y He clasped her in bis arms.

They understood each other at last. Then Alicia
told him how deeply she had been wounded by his
seeming neglect, and had attributed it to the de-
crease of affection. The pride he had stung had
been soothed by the homage of others. She dis-
claimed, passionately, having ever wandered, even
in thought, for an instant, from her heart’s al-

nee to her chosen lord,

‘ Hear me now, Reginald!” she concluded. “ For
a time I must be guided by my father’s es.
But he shall never compel me to break my faith
pledged once, and pledged forever, to you, I can

;

\

 

 

love no other; I will wed no other. Go on, in your
upward path, my own beloved! Trust my inviolate
truth, and be patient, even if we wait years for our
happiness!”

he young man was kneeling beside her, his arms
clasped round her waist, as he poured out the over-
flowing joy that had taken the place of despair.

Helen, embarrassed and afraid, was thinking how
she could escape to the drawing-rooms.

Suddenly Alicia lifted her head from her lover's
shoulder.

“We must part now, my beloved. But you shall
come and visit me, will you not?”

“Will your father—” i

“Twill answer for him. He will not condemn
his child to misery. If he should be unkind, we will
meet elsewhere, my Reginald.”

Another fond embrace, and Alicia disengaged
herself quickly.

“Leave me now. They will send to look for me.
For my sake—go! Ihear footsteps!”

Reginald was gone.

The footsteps passed on, The girl sunk back, over-
come with the agitation she had undergone.

Helen thought she had fainted, and sprung to her
assistance. Her head lay back on the settee; her
eyes were closed, and she was pale as marble.

The young marchioness drew her close to_herself,
supported her in her arms, and placed her head on
her own shoulder, chafing one of her cold hands be-
tween her own.

Presently Alicia revived, and regained full con-
sciousness. She started at perceiving who held her
so tenderly. She drew herself up, with a murmured
apology for causing so much trouble,

“Say nothing,” replied Helen, “Are you quite
restored? or shall I get you a cup of water from that
fountain?”

“Thank you; I am better.
here?”

“T have been close to yeu for some time.
behind those vases.”

The girl started, and the crimson rushed to her

face,

“Yes. Iheard you and Reginald. I know that
you Jove each other; and I know that he deserves

ou.”

“You know him!” cried Alicia, starting up.

“T am his—sister.”

“ His sister? Inever heard that he had a sister.”

“Not his sister in blood; but — but — we were
brought a together. I have loved him as a brother
from childhood; and—I love you—because you are

Alicia drooped her head. She could not quite un-
derstand what she heard.

“Will you not be my friend?” asked Helen, softly.
“* At least for his sake?”

“T thank you, lady,” answered the girl, with a
grateful look.

“May Icallyou friend? Will you let me kiss you!”

With a sudden impulse Alicia flung her arms round
ae neck, and burst into a passion of sobbing
an ;
The marchioness soothed her with loving tender-
ness. She told her how she had been attracted to
her at the opera, and how she had asked Reginald ,
to introduce her, in the drawing-room,

“But he was gloomy and sepeting then,” she
added. “You have made him happy now; and I
love you for it.”

How bright was the smile Alicia cast on the kind
young stranger.

i ow where you live!” Helen went on. “I
will come to see you. I have so much tosay. Regi-
nald has enemies; and they are wronging ; but
you and I together will foil them.”

Theré were hurrying footsteps, and this time com-

rapidly tow: them.
young Earl of Clair came upon the pair.

o eel at I have been looking every-
where for you! Your mother is anxious, and sent
me to find you!”

Both the ladies rose. Alicia with extreme surprise
in her face, and drawing back from Helen a pace or

two,

“Ts this Lady Estonbury?” she exclaimed,

““A singular question!” replied the young man,
laughing, “‘ when I find you arm-in-arm, sitting like
a pair of turtle-doves! Lady Estonbury, will you
honor me?”

He offered his arm. Helen replied:

“Tf Miss Maur will accept our escort back! Some
of her friends will have missed her.”

With thanks Alicia took the arm of the young
marchioness, and the three passed out.

CHAPTER XXVIIL
ANOTHER DISCOVERY.

At three in the afternoon of the succeeding day,
young Lady Estonbury was alone in the library.

She was occupied turning over the leaves of
an illustrated folio upon the long table; but her
thoughts were elsewhere. The scene she had wit-
nessed the evening before was vivid before her.
The fair young girl in her cloud-like white dress,
her glowing face like the face of an angel; the young
lover, with the change from despair to rapture in
his countenance! She felt an ardent wish to make
those two happy.

No feeling of jealousy nor sense of rivalry marred
her desire remove the obstacles to their union.
She loved Reginald as a sister; and her knowledge
that some fraud was practiced against him, which
- could not penetrate, gained strength as she re-

After a while she closed the folio and sauntered to
the windows, draped ee with dark green satin,
the folds of which lay in rich masses on the carpet ;
She parted these, and looked out.

The last slant rays of sunset were gilding the trees
in the park opposite. The contrast of tints was
a to an artistic eye. The wind stirred the

and brushed the twigs inst the windows;
but the spacious room, warmed by a large sea-coal
uxurious temperature. The
e cushioned leathern
one of the alcoves to

get a boo

tins Spd. woe Tattece Ie tas eager eee
style, an rather large for -
cate of alady, They were so tightly set. to-
pee Helen found difficulty in moving them,

How —came you

I was

 

 
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Speen

= =

 

eighteens

chair, and confronting her daug

my father; did it not?”

_ any of the family!

nizingly at her

20

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

 

 

But the title in letters of gold on the back inspired
curiosity to examine their contents. After several
efforts she loosened one volume, and took it out.

When she went to replace it, she was obliged to
move the next volume. As she pulled it forward,
something fell behind it, and resisted attempts to
push back the book. She drew it out to see what

he obstacle was.

It was a case about six inches square of morocco,
discolored by age and covered with dust. Helen
wiped away the dust, and looked for the fastening.
Opening it, she started in surprise; then took it to
the window to examine more. carefully.

It disclosed a fine painting; a miniature; the face
of a beautiful young woman. The hair and the dress
had a foreign and antiquated look; but the features
were eee defined, and the complexion fresh
as the hue of life.

Helen gazed at it in profound astonishment; for
the features were familiar to her. But for the dif-
ference in sex, she would have been certain it was
the face of Reginald Holmes!

The regular and noble outline, the broad, placid
forehead, the rounded chin, were the very same.
The eyes—those wonderful eyes—dark gray, with
their penetrative power, were so like his own, that
hers ree involuntarily. Yes, it was Reginald’s
face; and beyond a doubt, painted for some relative
of his. Who -could it be?

In the left hand corner was faintly traced a name.
Helen could not make out that of the painter; but
“Dusseldorf ’’ was perfectly plain. On the back of
the picture, which was ina light frame of polished
wood, was an inscription in writing—ve old-fashion-
ed writing: “‘ Almeria to Egbert,” with the date—

Strange enough! The portrait had evidently been
inted in Germany, and twenty-four years ago!
om could it represent?

It had lain many years forgotten, where the young
lady had found it. It looked like none of the an-
cestral portraits in the stately gallery of the town
mansion, or in the picture-room at Estonbury Court.

It resembled only one person Helen had ever seen;
andit was solike him as to preclude the idea of a
mere chance resemblance.

Her first impulse was to show it to her mother
and ask information; but as a new idea occurred to
her, she resolved to conceal her discovery. _ She hid
the picture in the folds of her dress as she heard
couse wae without, and the voices of servant:
a token that the dowager marchioness had return
from her drive.

_ Her ladyship complained of the cold as she came

in.
Helen heard her ask for herself, and heard the an-
swer given that she wasinthe library. Present]
the door was thrown open, and her mother entered.
“Bless me, Helen, what are you doing here? Por-
ing over these books, as usual! It is'very cold; give
me that chair!”
And she sunk into the luxurious cushions, and
i out her hands to feel the warmth of the glowing
e.
After ten minutes or so of desultory conversation,
Helen felt the desire to learn something that might
throw light on her discovery, too strong to be re-

sisted.

“Mamma,” she. said, after a fit of musing, ‘is
there an ‘ Egbert’ in our a

odie do you mean, child?” cried her ladyship,

“Ts there any one of the name of Egbert? or was
it one of papa’s names?” .
“What a strange question! Of course not. Why
do you ask?”
“J —I—have seen the name.”
_“ Where?” demanded the lady, rising out of her
ter, who hesitated

reply.
gn WHERE have you seen that name?”’ she repeat-

“T cannot tell, exactly, where; but I think I have
seen it,’ answered Helen.

Her reluctance to answer, her excitement, inspir-
ed her mother with suspicion. She fixed her eyes
severely on her face, and laid her hand on her arm.

“Helen—you are prevaricating! Tell me at once
where you saw that name, or who has been
of him to you?”

“Of him? Then there was such a person?”

The young lady determined to confess nothing.
She felt that a clew was in her hands.

“Indeed, mamma, I cannot tell you. whether I
ed if papa had

heard or saw the name. I merel.
sides the one you

it, as I know he had other names
called him by every day?”

“Tt never was his—such a name.”

“Did it belong to = of his relatives?”

The dowager glan around the room. Her eyes
fell on a quaintly-carved oaken cabinet, clamped
with iron at the corners, and black with time, that
ed in = Nee corner of the UPrSs3

ou have nm poring over o! a , I sup-
poe she said. ‘“‘I wonder if that ae is 1 2
°°

Going to it, she found that the door of the cabinet
was loc! e turn elen.

locked, She turned to Hel

* Have you been searching in this?’’ she asked.

The young lady laughed a forced laugh.

“No, indeed, a t on aoe so fond x rum-
maging among dusty, molidering papers. iO not
even ee what is there! I eve it belonged to—

Yes; and it should have been cl
since. But something must have put th
ur head!”
“Tt is of no con:

gut. long
name in

uence, since it did not belong to
only wanted to know if there
was such a person, and—whom he married—if he
nthe dowae pale as she looked scruti
wager w very as e 100: scruti-
a r daughter at lenge she me i
ou seem aiways tryin: up some :
Helen. I wish you woukt Pan gta attention .
matters of prac life. Have you answered those
invitations to dinner at Lady Roscog}s}”’
“ No, mamma.” t "1
“They must be written before dark. Come with

‘Ine and write them in my dressing-room.

Helen mechanically followed her mother up the
grand staircase.

herself for a moment, she hurried on to

her own ber, and consigned the picture she had

a

 

 

|
|
'

|
|
\

found to her private ebony desk. For greater secur-
ity, she put it between the false bottom of the es-
critoir and the woodwork. _Then she locked the
desk, and tying the key to a ribbon, put it in her bo-
som.

“There is something behind all this,” she murmur-
ed to herself, recalling her mother’s strange disturb-
ance. ‘I will find it all out. [ will see the contents
of that cabinet.”

She went then into her mother’s room, and wrote
notes for her till it was time to dress for dinner.

His lordship came in rather late, and joined them
at dinner. It was not his invariable custom to be
present at that sociable repast. He was unusually
communicative this evening.

“IT met that young fellow again in the Park with
Wallrade,” he observed, as he pared a hot-house
peach atthe dessert. “ He pays no heed to my ad-
vice.” 3

“The young fellow,” Helen knew, was. no other
than Reginald. Her eyes were cast down, but she
listened with the more earnest attention.

“And I have been thinking,” the marquis pro-
ceeded, “that I do_not like his studying law. He
has decided talent, Iam told; and as a barrister his
antecedents will be perpetually dragged up. That
story of the birth-chamber were better let drop.”

“Can you not. help him into some other line?”
asked the dowager. aes

“T might. I have influence with the minister. He

ight be provided for in the diplomatic line.”

_ “If you were to offer a large annuity, on condi-
tion _he accepted some office—’

“There’s the peSenty | he will take nothing! I
have offered to settle a handsome income on him; I
did it at first. I can only manage the matter
through the minister, or some nobleman who
can be got to use interest for him. Confound his
pride!”

“What beggars have to do with Pitas said
=~ on Aaee, spitefully, “is more than [ can under-
stand.’

Helen flashed a glance at her mother, but did not
dare trust herself to utter the thought in her mind—
that the pride of manly worth and independence was
far above the pride of birth or fortune. .

“He will not come here,” nee his lordship,
“though I have lowered myself to invite him. He
declined the invitation to dinner last week.”

“T wish he would leave the country,” said the
lady, fretfully. ‘“‘I shall decline society, if he is to
be an eye-sore wherever I go.”’

“Oh, mamma!”’ exclaimed Helen, “we have never
met him in company, except that one night at Lady
Brandon’s ball.’

Her mother gave her a severe look, but made no
answer; and 2 page the party rose from table,
and adjourned to the drawing-room.

Helen took her place at the piano; but soon quit-
ted it for the hi She was a proficient at the lat-
ter instrument. She drewit near the fire, on the
side opposite to that where sat the dowager and his
lordship. While her fingers wandered over the
strings, bringing them to perfect tune, her ear
ane’ t much of the low-toned conversation near

er.

Her mother had been telling Lord Estonbury of
her singular cEneenORs concerning the name of ‘* Hg-
bert,” and both appeared to attach significance to
it, far beyond what such a trifle deserved.

Lady Estonbury whiepared something Helen could
not hear; and then said:

“The old papers my husband left ought to be de-
stroyed, if they are not important enough to be pre-
served. I know he never kept there any deeds or
money documents; his solicitors had charge of
those. There were only old letters, and such rub-
bish, of no use to any one.” 5

“T will see to it,” replied the marquis.

“And without delay! I should not want those
popes overhauled by any curious stranger.”

he son-in-law answered, musingly:

“JT have to go into Devonshire to-morrow; at
least—” 2

“Pray do not leave the business to me!” cried his
mother-in-law. “I cannot bear to touch maley
parchments and such like! It would give mea chill.
And if J came across avything about that Euro-
pean—’ .

““Hush!’’ whispered the marquis. “I will look
rs to-night. I not probably find

over the pape
anything of value,”

‘He never kept such here; nor at the Court. He
had a safe at his solicitors’ for business papers.”

“Very well; I shall soon make clean work.”

His lordship rose, stretched his limbs, and walked
once or twice across the vast and sumptuous suit of
drawing-rooms. Then he rung the bell, and ordered

extra lights for the library.
It was common for him to do writing or ex-
amine a book in the eveniug. He left the drawing-

room, after another whispered direction from the
dowager,

In. a few minutes Helen let her harp lean back,
and then arose from her seat.

She was uneasy, but dared not suffer her distur-
bance to be visible.

She asked whither my lord bad gone. y

Her mother replied that she had heard him say
he had something to do in the library. It surely
could not be matter of surprise that he should leave
her alone. He rarely spent an evening with them.

The excuse for leaving the room which Helen was
longing for came at last with her maid at the door,
asking some direction, which she hastened out, to

ve.
e Then she flew down the stairs. She opened the
library door softly, and glided in.

Lord Estonbury was at the cabinet, which he had
just opened, as there had been some difficulty in

nding the ay He was taking out package after
package of old papers, apparently letters, and laying
them on a table near. ,

He looked up, and saw his wife, as she stood by
the fire, looking into the glowing bed of coals.

“You here, Helen!” he said, surprised.

“T wanted.to ask you, Maurice,’’ she returned,
“if you will not go with me to Lady Roscoe’s din-
ner! Ihave written an acceptance for you.” —

“That you need not have done; for J shall not be
in London.”

“Shall you leave town before Wednesday?”

‘““T may—to-morrow; certainly the next day.”

“Tam so sorry!” she murmured, in a tone of

 

chagrin.
gether.”

“My absence does not seem to stand much in the
way of your enjoyment, usually,” his lordship ob-
served, with a sneer. ;

“More than you think, Maurice. I do not like to
be nepected: when it is my first season in London.”

“Oh, you will get used to it. Why do you notso-
lace yourself in the manner of Mrs. Brittan, or Lady
Craiglethorne?”’

“Would you have your wife a flirt?” she asked, in
genuine astonishment.

“As well as not. You would never carry matters
to the point of danger. You are not pretty enough.”

“And I a Ihave too much principle, or_pride,
at least. ou shall never complain that I have
brought discredit on ,aetae name, my lord.”

‘Tam not afraid of it—in that way.”

“Tn that, or any other!”

**Some day I may read you a lesson on the neces-
sity of controlling your impulses, keeping down your
curiosity, or bridjiug your tongue.”

“You have nothing to fear, Lam sure. You never
ee me with any secrets; so how could I betray
them!”’

“Tf I had any, I should guard them carefully from
you.”

“And as to my curiosity, I have not even asked
you.what you are doing there now?”

“You can see for yourself. I am sparing the rats
and worms some trouble. These things would not
interest you.” f

“Tdo not know. Will you let me help you sort
them?”

“*No; Ishall find. that easy enough.”’

He took up anarmful of the musty documents,
came to the fire, and laid them ae the coals. The
fire leaped up and seized them. The marquis ce
ed them down with the Bowens and watched till the
last scrap was consumed,

‘“What records of the heart, or of the busy, schem-
ing brain you have ruthlessly consigned to oblivion!”
observed Helen, with a light laugh.

The a noted the ring of duplicity in her
words; and sneered « gain, as he answered:

“* Have you been here before me, Helen, that. you
look on so coolly?”

‘Certainly not. Ihave no fondness for such musty
researches. Why do you think I have?”

“Only that I think your early training may have
nourished a prying disposition.’

It was not the first time her lord had taunted_his

“Tt is long since we were at. dinner to-

young wife with her breeding as the child of menials,
and she usually resented it. But now she merely
answered:

“My early. training taught me submision, or I
should not be silent under ustice.. And you will
not let me assist you? Then { might as well relieve
you of my presence.”

She sauntered slowly toward the corner where her
lord was still busily engaged. The doors of the cab-
inet were still wide open, and she could see that its
contents were all removed.

Drawer after drawer, reopened, was seen to be
empty. The work of disinterring the records was
= A is gathered hi f

n the marquis gathered up a heap of papers,
and threw them on the fire, witha aoubedeeee
sigh of relief. When they were consumed, he flung
himself into the easy-chair, and wiped his hands
with his cambric handkerchief.

Helen came near the fire ogain.

““T suppose, now,” she said playfully, ‘‘ you mean
to give me that old desk for my voluminous cor-
respondence,”’

“No, it is too black and antiquated. A lady should
ert letters in polished rosewood, ebony, or an
Indian cabinet, perfumed daiutily. I will find some
sort of use for yon relic.”

There was a knock at the door, and the footman
entered;-with two cards upon a silver chased tray,
which he presented to his master.

“ Ay, [had forgotten that these gentlemen were
to , the marquis observed. ‘‘ Show them into
the drawing-room. I must wash my hands before
joining them.”

He walked to the cabinet and closed it; then with
the poker made sure that nothing remained of what
he had consigned to the blaze.

Then he quitted the room with a single glance at
Helen as he went, and asmile that seemed to say
how completely he had baffled her.

No sooner did she hear his steps ascending the
stairs, than the young marchioness was at the

cabinet.
: The rusty key was yet ip the lock; it was not even

urned.

She opened the doors, but the space within was
vacant. Only a thick atmosphere of dust—the dust
of more than a score of years, that irritated her deli-
cate nostrils and caused her to draw back more than
once. ;

She pulled open one drawer after another, and_in-
spected the pigeon-holes, thrusting in her hand to
feel if there was nothing behind them.

In one of them she felt a shi prick, and snatch-
ing out her hand, saw that the skin was broken and
a drop of blood fell from the wound. She wrapped
her handkerchief round it, and ee felt round the
back of the receptacle. It was the center one.

Her fingers came in contact with what seemed the
broad head of a nail not driven fast into the wood-
work. She pressed upon it with all her force.
Something flew out and struck her face with such
violence that she recoiled in spite of her resolution.

It was a secret drawer, and contained some
folded papers, These had evidently escaped the ob-
servation of the marquis. »

Helen gathered them up quickly, and crammed
them into her pocket, with a guilty glance around
the room.

No one had seen her, and she breathed freely.

She finished her survey of the empty cabinet, then
closed the doors, leaving the key in the lock. After
a few minutes spent in trying to her agitated
nerves, she left the room, and went up to her own
apartments.

There was noone there. She passed through the
boudoir and sitting-room into the bed-chamber,.
where a light was burning on the marble table. She
locked and bolted both doors before she sat down,
goa w.th a beating heart drew out the treasures she

They were two letters written in a delicate lady's

snes aR aE

pencaanen_ninlibuceneatin
ine

ie nse 988

setannctonan, pen theme

 

 

 

hand, and in pale ink, on paper yellow with age.

She could make out no more than the date, which

a twenty-three years back. The letters were in
rman,

There was a folded piece of tissue paper, contain- |
ing two curls of hair—one long and golden, as if cut |

from a woman’s head, one lighter and shorter,
evidently an infant’s.

There was another paper, which she unfolded, and
started as she read it: >

“The attested certificate of the marriage of Eg-
bert Vane with Almeria Stenhaus.”

 

CHAPTER XXIXx.
FOLLOWING THE CLEW.

Aticta Maur was alone in the drawing-room be-
longing to their suit of apartments at the hotel in
Berkeley Square. She was finishing a drawing from
memory; the pretty bit of landscape about the

Roman well near her Scottish home. The spot was |

endeared to her by thoughts of her love.

That ae Lord Swinton had laid before her |

the proposal o}

It would be a grand match, he assured her, and
he did not conceal the fact that his
dearest wishes for her would be gratified by her ac-
ceptance.

the young Duke of Montroy.

He told her of the impoverishment of the once |

magnificent estates of his own ancient house, and
his cherished hopes that she would by a brilliant
marviage, regain the social elevation and worldly
grandeurs which he could not secure for her.

The property pertaining to his barony, limited as
it was, was entailed onthe male heir, and he had
never been able to save from his income anything to
make a suitable provision for his child.

“Tt is my deep anxiety for your future, dearest
girl,” he added, ‘‘ that makes me a special advocate
in the cause of his grace.”’

Alicia laid one arm across her father’s neck as he |

sat in the easy-chair, and stooped to touch his cheek
with her lips.

“ Darling papa, she pleaded, ‘I know you think
more of my happiness than aught else.”

“ Happiness for a young lady in your position, my |

daughter, depends very much on external circum-
stances, High rank and wealth are powerful ad-
juncts.”

“* But not essentials, papa.”

“They are, to one bred as you have been. You |

cannot know what you would be, or how you would
feel, if suddenly deprived of your present share of
these advantages.”

““TIndeed—”

“Tn the event of my death, child—you having no
fortune—you would be friendless and destitute.’

“1 hope I shall not live to see that event,” cried
Alicia, clasping his neck with both arms.

* In the course of nature you will; and it is my
duty to look possibilities in the face.’

“Do not, dearest papa. Think of something more
agreeable,}? 4 :

“I must think for pias child. I have nothing to
leava you. You would be a dependent on the bounty
of a distant relative—”

flushing. “I know it, papa.”

“Here is an Pee to repair the evils we |

have dreaded. The duke will make liberal settle-
ments; and his wealth is prodigious.”

The girl shuddered.

“*Oh, papa, I cannot marry a fortune.” :

“You wi have all a woman’s heart can desire; an
ancient title—lofty rank—the love of a noble
heart—”

“A love I can never return—never! never!’’ ex-
claimed Alicia.

“Are you sure? The duke is handsome, full of
manly grace: of a frank and noble nature, hight!
cultivated, devoted to you! Alicia, I dare not tell
you how ardently I desire this match,” r

The girl sunk on her knees, bursting into a stoy
Oh as ina ! Do “ot

i ! have some mercy upon me
cite rots! child to certain misery!”

“Alicia! Ihad no idea of this! you have such
an aversion to the duke, I will not urge you.”

She clasped his arms and thanked him in the
midst of her ecg. He lifted her up and placed
her on a seat beside himself. _ c

“T own that I feel Ree ae disap-
pointed. My heart was set upon this. But I can-
not see you wretched, Perhaps on reflection you
will decide differently.”

“No, dear father; Ican never accept the duke, I
can never love him. Pray give him my answer. It
can never be changed.” ‘

The baron groaned inwardly. He thought of the
sad probability that his daughter’s heart might be
fe to a man he wished she had never seen. But

e knew that it was dangerous to recall his image
by expressing his fears.

nea Alicia pleaded with tears that her answer
might be conveyed to the duke without loss of time.
She was miserable till she knew herself free from

pursuit.
Disappointed as he felt at this failure of his hopes,,

the ee had something consolatory in the back-
ground.

“{ want to ee ou for another visitor,
Alicia,” he said. “He will be here this morning.”

“Tt is settled, then, about the Duke of Montroy?”
she asked, eagerly,

or ag ard so. I shall never force your inclina-
La er father returned, a heavy cloud upon his

row.

“Then who is it you wish me to receive? Not an-
other suitor?”

“No; an elderly gentleman; a native of Germanys
He has lately been introduced to me by Sir Victor
Wilder, who speaks very highly of him. He is anx-
ious to make your acquaintance,”

“But, dear papa—’

“T anticipate your ae my dear; but you
may make an exception in this case. The gentle-
man knew your mother—before she was married—

ears before—when she was very young. She then

elped him in some terrible emergency; it is to her
he owes ail the prosperity of his after life. I have
promised that you will see him.”’ ;

“Certainly, dear papa; I shall be charmed,” cried
the girl, her violet eyes sparkling. “Any friend of

ee

’ Se Tie

ride and his |

* And one turned against me, too,” added the girl,

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

a1

 

 

| mamma/’s will always be welcome! What is his
name?”
|, Oscar Wallrade. _ He is not English, you know.”
| “Y remember: a German, you said. I shall re-
main at home to see him.”
| The baron did not add the information he had re-
| ceived from Sir Victor; that the foreigner was a
| man of large fortune, and so eager to find the child
| of his former benefactress that not a doubt could
| exist as to his intention to make her his heiress.
| Tt was this which had rendered the prudent fa-
| ther more yielding in the matter of the young duke’s
| propesel.
is really unselfish desire was to see his daughter
happy. With an independent fortune in her own
| right, it was of less consequence that she should
make a splendid marriage; though he still felt deep-
| ly chagrined at her refusal of the ducal coronet.

Thus it was with agreeable expectation, blended
with curiosity, that Alicia waited for her visitor. An
engagement had called the baron out, and the elder-
ly lady friend who usually accompanied his daugh-
| ter out, or received company with her at home, was
a prisoner in her own room with indisposition.

Alicia was alone.

She was dressed in a pale violet silk, with high
corsage and long sleeves, with a linen cambric over-
dress, trimmed with Valenciennes lace. The rich
material had a subdued effect, proper for a young
girl’s attire, in the plainness with which it was
made. It fitted her slender form perfectly, and was
not set off by a single ornament. A small bow cov-
ered the fastening at the throat. The sunny brown
| curls were fastened by a ribbon at the back of her
head. The color called up by recent emotion yet
Hi ae on her cheek. She was looking very

lovely.

There was a tap at the door, and the servant en-
tered with a card on a silver salver.

Alicia took it up and read:

“The Marchioness of Estonbury.”

Her thoughts flew back to the evening of Lady

Brandon’s ball,
The man said her ladyship had not yet alighted
iss Maur see her \y-

| from her carriage. Would
| ship?

Of course she would see her. She bade the servant
| ne her up. Then she put aside her drawing ma-
| terials.

Sa the announcement—* Lady Estonbury ”
| —followed the opening of the door.

Alicia received her visitor with warm cordiality:
| the more so as she noticed a timid and embarrassed
air, as if the marchioness were afraid of intruding.

he was dressed in a style rather elaborate and
showy for the young lady’s taste—a relic, perhaps,
| of what the marquis would have called her “ early
training;” but not too gorgeous for a young married
woman. To them custom allowed more of display
in the toilet than to an unmarried gir
“T have something to show you, Miss Maur,” she
said, after the exchange of salutations and a little
| talk about the weather. ‘“‘ I am in need of your ad-
| .Yice.””
| “Helen took from her reticule the antique morocco
| case, opened it, and held it out for inspection.
| “Alicia started at the first sight of the miniature,
** Will you tell me whom it resembles?” asked the
| marchioness.
“Tt looks like—a friend—’’ was the hesitating re-

oly.
| PX I should like to know if the same idea struck you
as myself.”

“The friend is—a gentleman; this may have been
taken for a sister, or relative of his.”

“ Or—his mother. Look at the date.”

Alicia read it. Still she pondered. The color rose
to her cheeks.

“Does it not resemble some one with whom I
have seen you?” asked Helen.

The girl’s blush deepened as she answered:

“Mr. Reginald Holmes? ‘Yes; it is very like him.
Did he give it you?” :

“No, indeed; there is a strange mystery attached
to the picture.”

“A mystery?”

“YT found it behind some books in our library,
where it had lain neglected a long time; perhaps a
score of years. I have not dared to ask any expla-
nation, or even to show it to mamma, or to my hus-
band, You arethe only one who can help me to find
out the secret—if there is one.”

¥j . how is ee ee .

am sure—the surer since you have recognized
the likeness—that it_is the picture of some lady re-
lated to Reginald. I have thought it might be his
mother.”

“His mother? I thought—”

** You know the story—do you not? It is general-
ly known—how my husband came into the title?”

“T know that it came out—from Lady Estonbury’s
own statement—that Reginald was not the son of
the late marquis—that he was not the rightful heir.
It was sad enough—and a great change for him. But
he gave up all—as soon as he found he had no right
to the inheritance. He was too honorable to dispute
Lord £stonbury’s claim.”

She spoke deprecatingly, as if anxious to shield
her lover from blame; and Lady Estonbury hasten-
ed to assure her that no one knew Reginald’s integ-
rity better than herself, who had known him inti-
mately from childhood.

“Thave no one to consult but ou. Miss Maur,”
she went on. ‘You may think it strange that I
shold omg to you; but, as I know your interest in

nald—

She waited for encouragement, but Alicia said
nothing. Her interest, however, was visible in her

eyes.
‘Helen proceeded:
“T must confide in you. I know you will forgive
me if I am wrong; but I feel as if I were bound to
prevent a fraud that may injure—”

“A fraud?” |
“Yes. Reginald is not the son of those people
whose child he was said to be. That much f knew

before.”
Alicia changed color, though she did not r
“Ai nts were said to be Mr. and Chis-
holm, the steward and my mother’s maid. But he
is not their son.”
“How do you know?”
| “TY heard the woman—Chisholm—say so, a night
or two before my marriage. She was talking with

 

 

her lady—my mother, and asking her what had be-
come of her boy. Her ladyship wanted her to think
Reginald was her son; but she answered that she
sy he was not ; he had not ‘the strawberry birth-
mark.’”’

“This is strange!” cried Alicia, breathlessly. i

“T asked my mother about it; and she was ver
angry. It was plain that she was determined
should not know the secret. Then I told her—/
swore to her—that I would never rest till I found out
the mystery; and if it involved wrong to Reginald,
that I would do him right.’’

Alicia threw her arms around the young mar-
chioness, and kissed her fervently.

‘“*T told the same thing to my husband. He laugh-
ed at me; but I could see he was disturbed. I have
never given up this resolution.”

“It is most generous of you, Lady Estonbury.”

“Not generous; but just. Iam sure Reginald has
been wronged.”

“Do on think he was the son of the marquis,
after all?”

“T do not know. Iam satisfied that he is not the
son of the dowager—my mother.”

“She has always disliked him. A mother could
not hate her own child, you know.”

“T should think not.”

“Then, she wanted him to marry me,” the mar-
chioness said, with a flushing cheek. “It was be-
cause he refused, that the matter of his not being
the rea] marquis came out.”

“Indeed! I knew nothing of that.”

“He told mamma that he loved another lady, and
would be true to her. He would never marry
another.”

Alicia blushed deeply, and a tender smile parted
her beautiful lips.

“Yes—it was you-whom he loved, I do not won-
der at it.”

**But—but—he never told me he loved me, till
after he had lost the title,” the girl murmured.

* Still, he loved you, and vowed to be faithful to
you, He would give up fortune and rank—but he
would not give you up.’

> “ Dear Reginald!” Alicia breathed, with a gentle
sigh.

% Had my mother been his, she could not have de-
prived him of these possessions. She could not have
thought of wedding him to his sister!’

“Very true; she could not!”

“Then whose son was he? I thought he might
have been stolen in infancy from noble parents; for
none but noble parents could have such a son!”

Alicia’s Sed sparkled; and again she threw her
arm around Helen’s neck.

“T have learned nothing more; at least, till I
found this picture. Itlooks so like him I am sure it
was taken for his mother.”

Both ladies again examined the miniature.

“You see, by the date, it was painted at least
| twenty-five years ago. That was before Reginald
was born.” ;
“Indeed!”

“ He is only twenty-three.”
“Who, then, could be his father? Lord Eston-

bury?”

wy am sure he was not. Lord Estonbury was then |
married. And can you look in this beautiful face,
Miss Maur, and believe, fora moment, that the origi-
nal was not an honorable woman?”

as No ; Icannot. She must have been pure and

“Then, 160k at the inscription on the back. ‘ Al-
wan to Egbert.’ My father’s name was not Hg-

“Tt is strange, then, how the infant came into the
marquis’s family. Can you imagine?”

“T remember hearing that after the children had
been changed—as you have heard—that Lord and
Lady Estonbury went abroad, and fies nearly
two years. I was left with the Chisholms, to be
brought up as their child.”

“Yes—Reginald told me of that.”

“Suppose that whilé’Lord and Lady Estonbury
were living abroad something had hepPenre to the
boy Lady Estonbury took with her! Or suppose
she had grown tired of it! If she founda child more
attractive, might she not have changed the children

ain?
e ao could she without Lord Estonbury’s knowl-

“Very young children look very much alike.”

‘Then a English traveling and residing
ere are man ngs: rave. and re:

on the Continent. ty Tad —? f we

Helen often fell into the Chisholm fashion in speak-

ing of the mother who had so recently claimed her.

a lady might have seen a baby so beautiful
that she longed to have it for her own; and might
have somehow procured the exchange, Or it might
have been stolen and brought to her,”

““ And imposed on his lordship?"

“Why not, as well as at first? The boy born of
the Chisholm blood could not have been like the child
of aristocratic parents.”

“Your theory is possible, at least. But then
would not her ladyship have given back Mrs. Chis-
holm’s son?”

‘““There would have been risk in that. The maid
would have been angry and might have betrayed
the secret. So she was allowed to think the Roy
was her own, till she discovered to the contrary by
noticing that it had not the birth-mark.”’

d Fie = en make a oe na,

“Not immediately. Lady onbu: rsuaded
her it had been iiowed, or outerown. of had dis-
appeared somehow. 1 gathered this from what I
heard hersay. She—Chisholm, I mean—was slow to
think she had been deceived all these ye ars.”?

“She is satisfied now that she was?’

- ane speed to be sure Reginald was not her
child. How could he be? Children always inherit
some traits of their parents; do they not?”

“T have always understood so.””

“Well; we have established that fact, then. The
next step is, to inquire who Reginald really is. That
is bead { have bound myself by a solemn oath to

“Your ladyship is—”

“Call me Helen, please! Well—I have gotten
the first link. This portrait I feel sui it is bis mo-

“You found itin Lord Estonbury’s library?”
ee

 

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Fi
ie
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i.

hh
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_ and not only that, but my establishment

22 a

‘LADY HELEN’S: VOW.

 

 

“ Yes—hidden there, Demhape, for a score of years. |
ere!"

And that is not all.

She took from a Russian leather pocket-book the
folded yellow papers she had taken out of the secret
drawer and unfolded them.

“Look; here is the marriage-certificate—the mar-
riage between Almeria Stenhaus and Egbert Vane.
The writing is clear, though faded. The date is 18—.”

Alicia examined it carefully.

“This is wonderful!” she exclaimed.

“ And here are two letters, both signed ‘ Almeria’
—as well as I can make out the writing. See—it is
the delicate writing of a lady—one of culture, too.
But I cannot read the letters; they arein a foreign

Se,
“Tt is German!” cried Alicia, after looking at the
manuscript.

“Can you read it?”

“No—I cannot; though I have seen the written
characters, as well as the printed text.”

At that moment there was a tap at the door. Helen
threw her handkerchief over the picture and papers,
to conceal them, and moved her seat to prevent any
person gaining a sight of them.

Alicia went to the door and opened it. A servant
handed a salver on which lay a card. She took it up
and uttered an exclamation.

“Oscar Wallirade.”

““You may bring him up,” she said to the servant,
who bowed and disapveared.

Helen folded up the papers, and returned them
er pocket-book, putting the picture in her reti-
cule.

“He comes just in time!” cried Alicia. ‘Mr.
Walirade is a German; he will be able to translate
the letter for us!”

 

CHAPTER Xxx.
SATISFACTORY PROGRESS.

“ Axp who is Mr. Wallrade?” asked Helen.

“A friend of papa’s. A friend of my mother's,
too. She hel, him in some way, when he was
very young, and he is grateful for the benefit.”

‘Can we depend on him? You know it would not
sefo put the secret into a stranger’s hands,”

“T thi
him to translate the letters, telling him nothing.
Then we can judge what further is to be done!”

The door was thrown open and Mr. Wallrade was
announced.

Alicia rose and advanced, saying:

“*T am Miss Maur,” and gave him her hand.

Then she presented him to Lady Estonbury.

The visitor looked earnestly at his fair young
hostess. His features worked with profound emo-
tion, and once he passed his hand across his eyes.
At last he said:

nk we can trust him. At least we can ask |

|

 

“You are your mother’s own child, Miss Maur, ,

and I think Ishould have recognized you as such,
even if I had not known your name.”

“Do you remember her so well?”

“Could lever forget her? It was her fair hand
that was extended to lift me out of the depths of
aa and disgrace.” ‘

“T was condemned for a crime I had not commit-
ted—in intent, at least; for an indiscreet and impa-
tient act was — me—and would have ruined me
but for her. Her influence procured m ere
a -
tion of trust and emolument in another land, where
my anid was og ot gil enid.

‘ou were in Many years, pa i

“A lifetime for many persons. find another
generation on my return to England.”

Some pues conversation followed. Wallrade
descri) his life in .. For the first time, he
felt. too much ashamed of his reckless association
with gamesters, and made a firm resolution to avoid
them in future.

rt 4 may be admitted to such society as this,” he

‘ht, “I will have no soil on my garments,”

At h Alicia timidly asked if he would do them
the favor to translate something written in the Ger-
man

Lady Estonbury explained that she had found the
letters in the drawer of an old cabinet, unoccupied
since her father’s death. She placed them in his

He took them with a pleasant smile, and remarked
care how time-stained was the paper; and, if
they were love-letters, what a lesson they afforded
to of the sad destiny of all records of the

heart.

He read the first and longest aloud. It was, in-
deed, a picture of a ine ose heart. She
complained of her lover’s absence, and onately
eg him with having grown cold to her.
was simple, but earnest and forci-
ble. She entreated the beloved of her soul to write
at least, and tell her he was unchanged.

“Egbert!” repeated the reader, as he lighted on
the name of the person addressed. !

“How strange! how very strange!”

ure.

Then he glanced at the s .
“ Almeria!” He almost dropped the paper in ut-

ter surprise. ,
“Could it be Almeria Stenhaus?” he exclaimed.
“ No—no—im: ble!”

“Thesame! The same!” answered both the young

ladies, rising, by a common impulse from their
seats. “It tenhaus! That is the neme on the
eertificate.””

Helen qu unfolded the yellow marriage-certi-

fleate, and exhibited it, pointing to the name.
Wallrad nea

ie glanced at it, then looked upward with a
rapt ex n.
Heaven! Thank Heaven!” he exclaimed.
His listeners were too much awed to a
_ Lady Estonbury broke the silence it; for her
heart was beating fast.
“Did you know her?” she asked. 3
_ “The portrait! let him see the portrait!” cried

With Sen bling hands Helen drew it out, opened
it, and held it before Wallrad

Wallrade recovered himself in a few moments.
Wiping his eyes, he murmured an apology for his
strange emotion.

‘Nay, sir,” said Alicia, “‘it is we who ought to
apologize, for thus agitating you with painful
memories."’.

“Not painful!” exclaimed the gentleman, again
wiping his eyes. ‘No, dear pa fe pon have given
me comfort. You have lifted a cloud, which I
never hoped to see removed.”

The young ladies looked at each other, neither
vent ig to ee:

Wallrade extended his hand for the portrait. He
contemplated it long and er

“ How like!” be murmured—*‘ how very like! It
is as I saw her last! And she was really married!
1 ae glad of that! Egbert did her justice, after

Helen was about to speak; but Alicia stayed her.
gee will explain directly. Has he seen the other

rr?

Helen produced it, and held it toward the visitor.

“This,” she said, “‘ was found with the other; in
the same drawer.”

Wallrade took it and read. Surprise was now de-
picted in his face.

‘*T never knew this!” he exclaimed.

Then he remembered that the ladies did not un-
derstand him, and that they had aright to a full ex-
planation.

The language of the letter was incoherent and de-
spairing. The writer, complaining still of neglect
when she she had a right toexpect a husband’s de-
votion, informed him that she was hourly expecting
the birth of her child; and that she felt a certainty
of not surviving its birth. She bade her husband an
affectionate farewell. She implored him to care for
the infant, and not leave it to be a burden on the la-
bors of her poor mother,

The last words were a prayer that God would bless
him; would reward him for the love he had shown
one who was not high enough to be _ his equal; and
would forgive him for wearying of her, if he ever
had wearied of her, etc.

The postscript was in a cramped hand; that of an
aged person. Almeria was very ill, it said; if her
husband wished to see her living, he jhad not’ a mo-
ment to lose. The child was a boy, and likely to
live, Whatever happened, Egbert would remember
that he was his own. Almeria would not live to be
ashame to him who had stooped to wed a poor girl;
but the boy had noble blood in his veins, and was
not to be cast off; under the penalty of retribution
upon him who should wrong him.

Again the reader was agitated by deep emotion,
and he sat long, with his bh fixed upon the paper—

perusing it again and a; .
Then he recollected himself, and gave it back to
the marchioness with thanks.

He rose, and paced the room slowly, sometimes
uttering articulate sounds, asif talking to himself—

| in his native tongue.

 

Helen and Alicia sat clasping each other’s hands;
— eyes following him, while they preserved si-
lence.

Nearly fifteen minutes thus passed. Then Wall-
rade resumed his seat.

“T trust you will pardon me,” he said, addressing
Alicia, ‘‘ The page oflife you have opened, by the
sight of these relics, was a painful one; and this is
the first gleam of light thrown on its gloom. Will
you permit me to ask afew questions? I will an-
swer you in turn.”

Both ladies expressed their readiness to reply, in
the confidence that what information they could
give would be sacred with him.

He assured them it would be so.

‘‘ Where were these found?”

Rey se picture and letters that Jay on

e table.

Helen gave a brief account of the manner in
we gs Siar ts “ti > oeaba f the late

¢ ow came they in the on of the
Lord Estonbury ?”

She could not tell,

“Was he related in any way to the girl who was
called Almeria Stenhaus? Or had hea relative of
the name of Egbert Vane?”

Helen did not know. She had tried to learn from
her ees or her husband; but neither would sat-

er,

Wttere is some strange mystery in the affair.”

Lady Estonbury was sure of it. It was the mys-
7 e had been striving to penetrate; but it baf-

r.
5 mi t was the age of the late Marquis of Eston-

She gave his age at the time of his death.

‘“* And the date of his death?”

That was given.

Wallrade shook his head.

“He was too young,” he murmured.
not have been!”

After a pause:

“You say he had no relative of that_name; at
least you never heard of any. What is the family
name of his lordship?”

“The name is Vane Thorpe,” replied Helen.

The German had resumed his walk to and fro in
the room.

“Have you a copy of the British Peerage?” he

asked.
“There is one in the hotel, I am sure!” replied

cia.

She rung the bell and directed the servant who an-
swered the summons to bring the book.

Her visitor opened it, looked over the list of the
Estonbury marquisite; then placed the open volume
on the table, his finger on the line,

“ Here it is,” he said.

The two young women came to look, eager ex-
pectation spar: in their eyes.

“<Eegbert, eldest nephew of the late Marquis of
Estonbury ’—I am sure it is the same.”

“That was not ae name!” remarked Helen.

“‘ No—but it was his elder brother’s.”

‘He had no brother—when he succeeded to the
title on his uncle’s death. At least I have heard
mamma say so, many times. He was the only

“Tt could

nephew.’
Look for yourselves. ‘ es Vane Thorpe, eld-
est nephew of the Marquis 2 Estonbury; born July

. Lost at Sza—
“ He was drowned!” exclaimed Alicia,

“‘ Lost in the Esmeralda—on his return from India
—September, 18—.’”

Wallrade’s tone indicated suppressed emotion so
deep that the young listeners gazed at him in as-
tonishment.

“Ttishe! It was my Egbert Vane!” he cried, ex-
ultingly. “For a caprice, or to enjoy more perfect
freedom, he dropped the latter part of the family
name. e told me he wasof a noble family; but he
did Bet ,8ay be was heir presumptive to a mar-
quisite !’

“You knew him, then?” both ladies asked in a
breath.

‘*Knew him! we were like brothers in India.
Many and many a hunt had we together! I loved
him as if we had been of the same blood! But he
never told me he was so high in rank at home!”

ound had been examining the record. She now
spoke:

“ He was lost at sea in September, 18—. Then he
could not have been the Eg ert Vane who was mar-
ried to Almeria Stenhaus.’

““He was vot lost at sea!” cried Wallrade. ‘‘The
Esmeralda was lost. We both wereon board of her;
we were both saved.”

An exclamation of astonishment from the fair
listeners.

“T was enabled to save Egbert, as he was going
| down. Isecured him to the raft. We were afloat
| four days. We were then picked up by a German

vessel.’

Both ladies gazed at him with breathless interest.

“We went to Germany. We lived there more
than two years. Egbert was in feeble health; his
constitution had suffered a shock from which he
never recovered It was there he saw and loved
Almeria Stenhaus. I was afraid of the intimacy; for
I doubted the steadiness of his principles, I never
knew till now that he had married her.”

“Why did he not let his friends know he was liv-
ing?” asked Helen. 4

‘That I cennot tell. He was always reserved
about his family. WhenI reproached him for his
love for a girl beneath him in birth and station, he
answered angrily. We parted thus in misapprehen-
pad When I returned to Dusseldorf he had ceased
to live.”

“* How strange that his family should be suffered
to mourn for him, when he had escaped the ship-
wreck!” said Alicia.

“T cannot account for his conduct, except that he
See, his marriage would displease his high rela-

ions.”

“Tt must have been so,”

“He loved Miss Stenhaus, though it is evident that
he strove at last to bring himself to the point of
parting with her.”

“The first letter shows that.”

“Then his own failing health left him little en-
ergy. Still, I cannot understand why he failed to
let his nearest relatives know of his existence.”

“If he had lived,” Helen remarked, in a low
musing tone, “‘he would have been the Marquis o
Estonbury long before papa.”

“At what time did the late Lord Estonbury come
into the title?”

They referred again to the Peerage.

“That was soon after the news of the loss of the
‘Esmeralda’ reached England,” said Wallrade.

“And the younger brother succeeded, the elder
being supposed drowned!”’ added Alicia.

o ile he lived,” said Helen, ‘‘ my father had no
right to the title or estates.”

‘If Egbert knew his brother had succeeded,” ob-
served Wallrade, *‘I can hardly wonder at his not
caring to claim his rights. is health was rapidly
decli . He had married.-in an impulse of pas-
sionate love—a young girl whom he would not intro-
duce to his aristocratic family.”

‘Was she of such low birth?” Alicia asked.

“Her family was respectable, though poor. The
mother kept lodgers at Kaiserswerth.. We lodged in
the neighborhood. Almeria was beautiful and re-
fined looking.”

“You may know that from her picture,” said

Maur, pointing to it.

“She had much native grace, but little education.
Her brother was an artist; he traveled much
and sent home the proceeds he received from the

sale of his pictures. These hel, them_ to live.
After Egbert fell in love with the girl, he otten
sent presents of game and fruit to the mother.

But they would not accept assistance in money.
Almeria was proud, though so ee iF ore That
is why I grieved so much at the probable result of
her intimacy with Egbert. I feared lest he might
deceive her, and degrade himself. Iremonstrated
with him, and urged his return to England. He re-
sented Ree and so we aaa

While Wallrade was s —still pacing the
room--Lady Petepbusy had returned the picture to
her reticule, and put the folded papers in her pocket-
| book. She looked nervous and disturbed, till sud-
| senly her face lighted up, as she turned to Alicia.

“T shall leave these in your charge,” she said,

miyiag hee the bag and pocketbook.

“ y so?’

“T dare not trust myself.”

“T do not understand you.”

“Do you not see, Miss Maur,’’ she whispered,
“that if Se is the child of these parents, he is
the rightful Marquis of Estonbury?”

“But we have no proof that he is their son.”

“I want no proof. I feel it here.” And she
touched her breast. “This is the wrong that has
been done him. My mother and my husband both
know it. They knew it before my marriage.”

** And what will you do, dear Estonbury?”’

“You must never call me so again. Iam not the
marchioness. I am eee Mrs. Howard, the wife
of the man who wears the title unlawfully. What
| will I do? What did Reginald, when he thought he
| was in possession of the rights of another?"
| “You must not act hastily. The links are want-
| ing to prove this. Mr. Wallrade!—”
| e stopped in his walk and came near her.

‘“What has become of the child—the son of Eg-
bert Vane?”

“T was thinking of that,” he answered. “It must
be my duty to find him. No doubt he was xy
up ee Stenhaus, after the death of his
ni

parents. .
Alicia continued: ‘‘Lady Estonbury and T both

 

 

noticed a resemblance between the picture of the

 

wae abopeatimeite, pt

 
 

\
:
ye
Bh
By

 

_ dirth, and m:

mode oO:

 

ady—who married Egbert Vane—and a young gen-
tleman—” :

“Mr. Reginald Holmes,” Helen added. ‘

Wallrade repeated the name, evidently surprised.
“The young man who gave up the title and estates
so honorably a year ago, and is now devoting himself
tolaw! He is a noble fellow!”

“Do you know him?” [

“Thave that honor. I esteem it such. But
his birth! Iunderstood that he was the son of the
house-steward of the marquis.”

“He is not; I have learned that much,” Helen
said. She went on to state all she had gathered
from the conversation she had overheard.

Wallrade was inclined to adopt her views.

“ But several links are wanting,’’ he said.
must be supplied, if possible.”

“ How?”

““The matter must be investigated. Do you think
the dowager marchioness would give me any infor-
mation?”

“T think—I am sure—she would not,” was Helen’s
reply; and she looked deeply ashamed.

‘Then I must go to Germany.”
“You will?” asked Alicia, giving him a grateful

look,

“Tt is not best to say anything to young Holmes,
at present.”

“No; not to any one.”

“Be it so. To-morrow I will set out.
trust me with those proofs?”

“ Certainly, if it is necessary.”

On second thoughts, it may not be; and you had
better keep them, Miss Maur. If we can supply the
missing links, it is here, in England, that our friend’s
rights must be established, I will write and report
progress.”

cia, expressed her thanks,

It was agreed between the three, that nothing
should be said of the matter, in the meantime.

Heavy steps were heard outside, and presently
Baron Swinton entered. He greeted the German
visitor with marked cordiality.

The young marchioness rose to take leave.

She pressed Alicia’s hand, glancing at the picture
and pocket-book on the table, and the girl promised
tot ee care of them, ‘hen with an adieu to
both gentlemen, Helen passed out.

The servant in attendance waited on her to the
door, and her own footman helped her into the car-
riage, that bore the arms of the noble Marquis of
Estonbury. She sighed as she took her seat, and the
door was closed.

“Jt will end in our downfall,” she murmured to
herself. ‘‘ And I shall have brought it all on my
mother, my husband, and myself. itso. I must
oat have sworn to do. Justice before every-

“These

Will you

y

 

CHAPTER XXXI.
A LIFE SAVED.

Aw ancient-looking stone house, of spacious di-
mensions, with a row of poplars in front, and a
goodly siret h of uncultivated ground in the rear,
stood not far from the Rhine, in Kaiserswerth,

It had long been kept as a public-house, but was
now let in suits of apartments to permanent lod-

gers.

In one of these, on the first floor, looking on the
river, Kenneth Maur lay ill unto death.

His rooms were comfortably furnished. The floors
were bare, but scoured to perfect cleanliness, and
there were strips of carpet and matting in front of
the bed and sofas. The bed and window-curtains
were of muslin, delicately embroidered; the tables
were of carven oak, and covered with the ornamen-
tal glass and china so much in voguein Germany.
Paintings of Flemish and German artists—copies of
celebrated masters—hung on the walls; and flowers
in profusion showed the prevalence of feminine

taste.

It was Margaret Heyburn, now the happy wife of
Herrick Maur, who sup} lied fresh flowers every a:
She acre them onthe banks of the Rhine. She
and Herrick were living in the same stone house, in

- an apartment on the floor above.

Herrick had regained his health, or nearly so, and
looked back on his mad passion for Alicia as a fool-
ish dream. He could not imagine how he could ever
have loved any other woman than Margaret.

Kenneth was not pleased with the match, His
heart had been set on Herrick’s marriage with his
cousin. When his own life—on which a ban rested
—was over, his son was to return, as the recognized
heir of the barony; and he wished the new line that
should os from him to be of pure blood—the no-
blest in the land. ”

But when he learned that Alicia had refused the

roud destiny offered her, and Herrick had suffered
fi consequence, and had been nursed back to life by
the Scottish girl, he almost forgave her plebeian
e a virtue of necessity by consenting
to receive her as his daughter.

The lovers had been married before they left Scot-
land. The wife was devotedly attached to her hus-
band; and her presence in the foreign home made it
sunny and pleasant to both father and son.

She at once took upon herself the charge of house-
keeping, and with Hilda’s assistance the table and

f living were rendered so like home that Ken-
neth had ey ey to regret his expatriation. ad

Margare ept up a regular corresponden
with her foster-sister inDonilos; and man ee er the
presents of household stuff, and occasion money,
which Alicia had sent. She was thankful to hear of
her cousin’s happiness. She would bring her father
round to approve of the match, and to welcome
kinsman and his wife at Stone Crag.

Matlin and his dog had made two journeys to Scot-
ae since the flitting, and transacted business for

They were located near the stone house where
Keancth lodged, a little further from the river, in a
portion of the manufactory, which was in after years
converted into the “ Train School for Protestant
Deaconesses,”’ where Florence Nightingale acquired
her earliest Jessons in nursing. |

The little hamlet had been that day a scene of un-
usual excitement. A large party of wedding-guests
had enjoyed a festival in a public garden bordering
the The guests came in boats from various

ints up and down the river, and there had been
Roaae and , and a concert of musical per-

 formances by the band stationed in the summer-

 

23

 

_ LADY HELEN’S vow.

house elevated on a piatform under the trees. Many
of the revelers departed as twilight came on; but
some lingered; though the sounds of festivity had
died away. j

Hilda on the eee) cone and brought
his to ‘‘ Sir Kenneth;” but he had little appetite. He
liked the light wine of the country, and sipped the
cup sweetened for him,

is strength was sadly shaken; and it had been
many days since he had been able to sit up, or walk
round “the garden,” as they called the vacant
ground in the rear. .

On this evening he seemed disposed for conversa-
tion, and desired Herrick and Margaret to sit with
him. He had many directions to give concerning
matters at home in Scotland. The ruined castle he
seemed to look on as his own, and he received the
rents from_several huts on its domain. These be-
longed to the Swinton estate, as well as the castle it-
self}, but the baron had never interfered with his
cousin’s appropriation of them.

Only once had Kenyeth shown remorse for the
deed which had madewiim an exile for life. It was
in cautioning his son to have nothing to do with the
smugglers that infested the English coast. He had
been compelled to join them, he said, to eke out
his scanty revenues. But Herrick would be more
fortunate. ‘The baron ought to provide for him.
He would live at Stone Crag with his wife, while the
baron and his daughter resided in England. He
would be made a magistrate, and must be strict in
enforcing the laws, and aiding the government men.
Tt been unlucky for him that hard necessity
drove his father into collision with the authorities,
leading to the unhappy accident of the revenue-of-
ficer’s death, ete.

The evening wore on in talk like this; and Hilda
had pearerod the pep ee and had fastened
the doors, when the rush of feet outside upon the
stone stairs proclaimed a late visitor.

Margaret and Hilda had already risen to retire.

They opened the door, and Mat’s dog dashed in,
giving short, impatient barks, as if desirous of call-
ing their attention to his master. Herrick descend-
ed the stairs. . €

There stood the seer, just outside the door, his
hoary head bare in the moonlight; his right arm ex-
tended, and pointing in the direction of the garden
which had been so lately the scene of revelry. He
was again in “ the vision.”

“Hush!” whis Margaret, who had followed
her husband, and now laid her hand on his arm.

“The sullen guest!” muttered Matlin. *‘He lin-

ers in the garden; he watches for his prey! Ha,

e sees him! He springs upon him! He strangles
him as he lies on the ground!””

The young wife instinctively threw both arms
around Herrick, as if to shi him from some as-

sailant.
“He drags him to the river!’ shouted Mat, in a
jiercing voice. ‘‘He has plunged him in! The
y sinks! It rises! It is gone again! The mur-
derer steals away!”? 2

As he uttered the last words, the seer ered
back, trembling, and would have fallen, had not
Herrick supported him. His head fell back, and he
lay insensible.

“second sight”? paroxyisms often terminated
that way.

‘‘ Help me, Margaret,” said her husband, ‘‘ we must
take him in.”

She took hold of the unconscious man, and together
they carried him up the stairs.

* Now, some brandy!” as they laid him on a leath-
ern couch in the anteroom.

In a few minutes Matlin was able to sit up. Her-
rick questioned him as to what he had seen; but he
remembered nothing. He never did remember his
impressions while in the vision. But they knew him
well enough to rely on his words,

He only recoll having seen a sullen guest, who
stood apart from the revelers while at their banquet
in the garden. The seer had been a looker-on. He
had conceived a suspicion of this man; and when
told that he had accused him of a murder, he start-
ed vt declared he would go in search of the

“

t

must have floated down,’’ he said, in excite-
ment. ‘There is no time to call
Tee ie tov on ‘abe mand
e dog, alive for any service req |, Sprw
after his master, who halelveads started. raat
“Stay; I will go with youl” called out Herrick.
“Nay, my husband! You are notstrong—and the
night wind is chilly,” remonstrated Margaret, cling-
ing to his arm.
Stand off, wench! Know you not there may be a
life at stake? Let me go!”
He broke away, calling to her to go back, and not
suffer the old man to know aught.
She would have followed him, but he bade her go
into the house.
Hilda appeared at the door, to ask the cause of the
disturbance. Sir Kenneth, she said, was just going

tosleep. .

Margaret told ber in a whisper, and bade her watch
by the invalid till the men came back. She herself
would fetch her plaid and would walk under the

plars.
PoMiatlin, Herrick and the dog hastened to the river-
side. The current was not so rapid near the shore;
and a body flung into the water half a mile further
up might not have floated down in over an hour.

They had no hope of recovering the man alive, of
course. But the overy of a corpse would stimu-
late the authorities, and lead to justice on the mur-

derer.

Once Herrick spied something in the stream,
which he thought might be a human form. He took
a small boat tied to the pier of a rude dock, and pull-
ed out for it. Butit was only a log with the k
worn off.

“Better trust to Snath,” said the seer. “He will
ferret it out by his smell before our eyes can dis-
cover aught.’

They went up the river, conch examining every
marshy spot, and the boats lying idle in the stream
at anchor,

Suddenly the dee bowmied ahead.

Mat saw him, motioned his companion to si-
lence. They followed, but Snath was out of sigh

They had gone about half-way to the en, a
quarter of a mile from the nears opposite. the
stone mansion, A grove of low trees

assistance, Snath

1

 

grew in a |.

spot of ee ground, to the border of the Rhine,
and a thick sedgy space was the resort of wild fowl
in the season of their flight.

They heard the quick, sharp bark of the dog, and
heard his plunge into the marshy water.

In a few moments they caught a glimpse of him,
tugging at some dark object half submerged.

at gave a low whistle of encouragement, and
quickened his pace. Herrick strode after him.

The dog had not relinquished his hold of the object
he had seized. Both the men unhesitatingly entered
the water choked with rushes, Mat sounding it as he
went with his staff. He called to the dog again, and
was answered with a low whine.

A long piece of timber lay in the marsh. Herrick
raised this and let it fall toward the spot; it served
as a support as they plunged through the sedgy
grass, nearer to the spot they sought.

Snath by this time had the object afioat, and held
it fast in his teeth, as he tried to swim toward them,
still whining for assistance.

“It is a man’s body!” cried Herrick, :

‘Push the timber further!” cried Mat. ‘Steady,
Snath! Here, my fine fellow! Here!”

The water was up to his chest, and progress was
difficult through the tall rushes. But they were
both at arm’s length presently.

In another moment Herrick had laid hold of a dark
serge cloak. He pulled at it with a will.

Then the two lifted the body, each in an arm,
while they steadied themselves by the timber.

They reached the shore, panting from the weight
of the burden, dripping as it was, They laid it on
the grass. ‘

The drowned man was closely wrapped in the
mantle. As this was opened, the face came into
view. It was that of a middle-aged man, pale and
cold; but it had not been sunken with the rest of the
body, as was evident from the comparative dryness
of the cloak that enveloped it.

‘Let us make a litter,” said Herrick, tearing down
several of the boughs and tying them together with
strips of bark.

A rude but strong one was presently constructed,
ee laid the body upon it, bearing it home-
ward.

They consulted where to take their burden when
Sige came in front of the stone mansion.

argaret ran to meet them.

“You must not bring him here,” she said, decided-
ly. ‘There will be a crowd and an inquest, and
Sir Kenneth could not bear it.”

“She says well,” said Herrick. ‘Shall we take

No to lad to th fact ” replied

“No, to my lodging; e manufactory,” re
Matlin.

They carried him up in their arms. :

Margaret helped to lay him on Matlin’s couch, re-
moved the wet cloak, and unfastened his dress.

‘“The man is alive!’’ she suddenly cried.

“Impossible !’’ exclaimed Herrick.

“ His beats; and warmth is coming. Feel

CHAPTER XXXII. :
THE MURDERER TRACKED,

On the following morning, an inn on the road to-
ward Holland, was a scene of a rather unusual bus-

tle.

A pair of English travelers had arrived over night,
and were arranging for their departure in different
directions by carriage and on horseback.

There was a commotion in the courtyard, as the
horses were few, and the demand much greater
than the meals

An elderly gentleman who had just finished his
breakfast, was seated in the coffee-room. He did
not contend with the other travelers. He could
wait a couple of hours, he said; and if no horses
were then aitvhis service, he could walk to his destina-
tion. So he took up a newspaper. and seated him-
self by the window.

He was alone in the room, when the waiter ushered
in a new arrival, placed a seat at a round table in
the ee and took the stranger’s order for break-

for yourself.”

fas

The elderly stranger glanced at the new-comer
over his pane He was evidently a Prussian; his
dress showed it; and it was travel-stained, although
of fine cloth. As he removed his cap, his hair was
seen to be disordered, and his face was very pale.
He glanced nervously round bim every instant, and
started violently when he caught the glance of the
pi occupant of the room, shuffling uneasily in his
seat.

“Tf I might judge from re arances,’’ mentally
observed the elderly man, “‘ ould say yon stran-
ger had been perpetrating some crime, or had money
ey jewelry about hin, of which he feared being
ro

The waiter set out breakfast, which the man ate in
mats while he gave orders to have a horse saddled
at once j

“We have no horses,”’ replied the attendant.

“Nohorses!” the guest exclaimed. ‘“ But I must
have one; afresh one, too, to carry me to the next
station in two hours.”

“Tt is not possible, sir. Our horses are engaged.
Here is another gentleman who is waiting because
he cannot obtain a horse.”

Thereupon the elderly traveler again looked up;
and apparently saw something to fetter his atten-
tion; for he continued furtively to watch the man at
his breakfast, while he did not permit him to pereeive
the scrutiny.

“But I must have a horse!” the man cried, im-
patiently. ‘‘Go and procure me one in the hamlet
somewhere.” , ‘

The servant shook his head.

“T will give any sum; I am in haste,”

“Tt is not possible, sir. The horses are all taken.
In two or three hours some of our own may be re-.
turned. Then you can be accommodated.”

The man m a fierce oath. He swallowed
his breakfast in haste, and thrust two or three rolls
into his pocket. Then he rose to go.

The elderly gentleman rose too, and stood directly
in his way to the door.
tt Will you a the journey on foot?” he asked.
“Tsu pe aa ee the: ope “ for

urther at least. What is the n post-
station called?” :

He turned to the waiter as he asked the question,
 

ee

ee

mr

ee

 

 

e

24

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

 

 

 

The Engiish traveler made answer, speaking in |
the German language:

“That de, , Sir, on the direction in which
are going. hither are you bound?”

The stranger glanced at him angrily.

en not know how that concerns you,” he re-
plied.

“Not particularly; unless yoware going my way.
1am bound for the Rhine.” c “ y

The sudden pallor of the man’s face was startling.
He averted his eyes quickly. |

‘“*T say—I am for the Rhine.

“Tam not going that way,”
sullen growl.

* Perhaps—to Holland?” |

Again a look of terror, and avoidance of the pene- |
trating eyes. {

** Let me pass, if you please,”’ the man said.

“One moment. i have a favor to ask.”

“*A favor?”

“Yes. It is that you will allow me to examine the |
brooch you wear in your shirt-front.” }
This time the alarm of the stranger was so manifest
that even the attendant noticed it. He instinctively |
covered his bosom with his spread hand, recoiling a

step as he did so. His knees trembled; his white
lips were quivering. Ina moment, however, he re- ,
covered his self-possession.

“You—you are impertinent, sir!” he exclaimed,

angrily.

“Not at all. I recognize the crest on that brooch;
the crest wroughtinhair. I have neverseen another
like it. I wish to ascertain if it is the same.”

Without reply, the Prussian endeavored to get past
him to the door. But the sinewy arm of the stranger
prevented him.

* Sir, I asked as a favor what I intend to claim as
aright. Let mé®ee that brooch.”

“Sir, for whom or what do you take me?”’

*T should not like to say.. Your manner is strange,
and = re suspicion. I wish to examine the orna-
ment.”

“I wish to pass out, sir.”’

“That you shall not do, till lam satisfied.”

* Do you think I stole the trumpery thing?”

“It looks more like it that you are afraid to let it
be seen !”*

“ Afraid!”’ with a contemptuous laugh.

“T recognize the crest, I tell you. I sawit ina
brooch more than a score of years ago: I suspect
that it is the same; it belonged to a dear friend.”

“A score of years ago! And you expect to identi-
fy it now?”

“T can readily do so, if it is the same.” }

“How?”

“Tt has a secret spring; what that discloses will |
convince me.” f

Again the man’s face blanched; and again he tried
to pass, and found himself in the gripe of a force
stronger than his own.

**Now, you shall not leave this room till I am
obeyed. Give me the brooch! Or will you wait till
I call assistance, and have you taken before the
magistrate?”

e man’s fears would have taught him the wis-
dom of yielding. He was in the act of loosening the
ornament, intending no doubt to escape, leaving it
in the hands of his captor, when there was a sudden
interruption.

There had been a tramp!) of horses’ feet, voices
in conversation outside, and every indication of. a |
new arrival. Now a number of persons entered the |
inn, and a crowd was gathering before the door.

The man saw this, and turning, darted toward the
back door of the room, opening into the regions of .
the kitchen domain. But the elderly man, as before,
prevented his flight. |

He saw that it was an escaped criminal who show- |
ed so much fear of his fellow men. |

Then the door leading into the hall was thrown |
open, and several ente: Close behind them were |
two men in military dress.

They marched straight to the Prussian; and one

~ laid hand upon his shoulder.

“T arrest you,” he said.

“You are mistaken,” cried the prisoner, struggling
to release himself. :

‘Is not your name Johann Berg?”

you |

And you—”’
he muttered, in a

** No—no—it is not!” roared the man. ‘‘ You are
mistaken. Let me go!” {
But that officer held him fast. |

It was soon explained that a m rious murder
had been attempted or commi the night before
at Kaiserswerth. It had been in a garden where an
entertainment had been held in honor of a wedding,
The party of revelers had remained till after sunset.

One ——e them had been icularly noticed ;
his looks and bearing*were iar. is dress was |
that of a Prussian. He had n seen in the garden,
after the departure of the other guests, with one |
man belonging to the hamlet, but about to set forth
on a long journey; for he had a valuable packet of
jewels to take to Vienna.

By some means it had been discovered that this
man had been watched and attacked by the Prus-
sian, had been strangled, robbed of his jewels, and |
thrown into the river. The body, floating down to
a marshy spot: had been discovered by two Scotch- |
men, or rather by the dog belonging to one of them. |
They fished it out of the river, and carried it home.

e alarm was given; the magistrates had at once
dispatched officers to track the murderer. They
had spent the night in the search. There could be |
no doubt he would make for Hamburg or Amster-
dam, where he could sell the jewels.
The officers had no difficulty in recognizing the
' Prussian; they had both seen him at the festival in
the garden. : {
There could be no doubt of his guilt. The man |
, Stood like a statue, frozen with horror. His eyes
glared like those of a sleep-walker; his feat were |
rigid; his face white as death. Ali hope of escape |
had forsaken him.

He made no resistance when they searched his per- |

sop. The ae of jewels was found in a secret |
pocket of hisvest. It was taken out, while the offi- |
led to hi the prisoner.

cers : |
“And the dead body—whose was it?” demanded
the elderly traveler from England, his face working
“The man is not aati said one of the new-
comers. “He had fi down the river, and was
found by a dog, and drawn out by two Scotchmen.”
“Not dead!”

7 Mesa

| Ali

The words had a powerful effect on the Prussian.
His features relaxed from their rigidity; his eyes
gleamed with sudden joy.

** He is hurt Brstte bad, but likely to live,” said an-
other—one of the officers.

“They do say,’ observed his companion, ‘that
the old Scotchman is a wizard, and sees visions. He
saw this man throttle Albrecht Stenhaus, and pitch
him into the river just as he did it—though he was
inside his own lodgings.”

“*T did not kill him,” grumbled the prisoner, ‘by
your own account.”

** But you robbed him; and meant to killhim. You

' won't have the benefit of your failure.”

“Albrecht Stenhaus, you said was the victim’s
re said the English traveler.

“This.”

“Then I must beg the favor, gentlemen, of being

| allowed to examine that brooch, worn by the pris- |
oner.”
“The brooch?” ster

“Yes—that in his shirtifront. I knew Albrecht
Stenhaus as a young man.”

The prisoner made no resistance while the jewel
was detached; it was then handed to the stranger.

| He looked at the crest embroidered in hair; smiled

and nodded.

Then he pressed a spring at the back.

It flew open, disclosing a locket. . This contained
the exquisitely painted miniature of a young and

. handsome man. His fair om asa was bronzed;

but the blue eyes and curling brown hair betrayed
the ‘on. In enamel around the picture ran the
words, ‘“‘ Egbert to Almeria.”’

The traveler gazed at it long and earnestly, while
his breast heaved convulsively. Once he dashed his
hand across his eyes. é

“I was not mistaken,” he said. ‘This jewel,
which I knew at the first glance by. the crest in hair,
poe ak to the sister of Albreclit Stenhaus. It con-
tains the picture of my friend—the man who came

from India with me, and was called Egbert Vane.”

There was a murmur of curious sympathy.

** Will you allow me to restore this to Herr Sten-
haus? He will know me. My name is Oscar Wall-
rade, Ihave just come from England on business
that concerns the Stenhaus family.”

“ We will take it to Stenhaus,” replied the officer,
holding out his hand for the brooch.

ie gaveit up, taking down the officer’s name
and address. The party soon after set out on their
return to Kaiserswerth.

Wallrade succeeded in hiring a horse from one of
- — accompanying the officers, and rode with

e rest.

 

CHAPTER XXXIIT.
WALLRADE’S RESEARCHES.

THERE Was a crowd assembled in and about the
room at the inn where the examination of the pris-
oner was held. Stenhaus himself was able to be
present. He gave the story with straightforward

eae
e had been are with the conveying of a
— of jewelry to Vienna by two gentlemen in
usseldorf. He had lingered several hours in the
arden while the bridal. festival was going on. He
had been desired by the Prussian to wait and be his
traveling companion to the station for the night,
where they meant to procure fast horses.

When dusk came on, they ‘were alone. They
were about to leave the garden when the Prus-
sian had suddenly rushed upon him, flung him on
the ground and throttled him. till he lost conscious-
ness... This he first recovered after he was taken out
of the water.

Herrick Maur and Matlin testified to having
searched for the body, found it among the rushes,
and drawn it ashore. They had thought life ex-
tinct; but the shaking of its conveyance to the
village no doubt had revived the nearly drowned

man,
There was a profound sensation when Herrick re-
lated the conduct of Mat in ‘the vision,’ and his

wild oe for help in behalf of the murd is Vic-
tim. Even the oe oner was affected; and’ the su-
| perstitious looked at each other wonderingly. Who

, could dream of safety in committing crime, when it
was thus miraculously revealed?

The Prussian was sent to prison to stand his trial
a ret re and an eet as
s the people were ng, Wal e gras)

the hand of Albrecht feetbaus.

“Do you know me, comrade?” he asked.

A moment of hesitation, and then Albrecht one
recognized him, He flung his arms round the nech
of his old friend, according to the Continental habit
—and asked many questions about the past.

“You must come to my mother,” he said.

Before they went, the brooch was restored to its
owner, and by him placed in Wallrade’s eee
he said it would prove a link in the chain of evidence
in a legal case in which he was interested.

Stenhaus took his friend first to his preservers.

| Wallrade thanked Matlin and Herrick the more ear-

nestly, that he knew their association with the

| baron’s daughter, and their consequent interest in

his business. He thought it best to state at once
his acquaintance with Lord Swinton and the fair

cia.
Herrick seemed delighted to meet one who had so
recently parted from his kinsfolk, and insisted on
both the gentlemen going home to dine with him.
But Margaret met them at the outer door with the

| intelligence that Sir Kenneth was not so well; was
' restless and feverish, and could receive no guests.

Hilda was in close attendance upon him.

Herrick presented the new-comer to his wife.

“You know, belike,” he said, “‘ how crazed I was
for my cousin Alicia a time since?”

oy hoard nothing of that,” was the answer.

‘Fie, Herrick!” cried Margaret, * think you our
cousin betrays —— secrets?”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” bluntly said the young

man.

** She is a lovely young lady,”’ said the stranger.

is Y3 but Iha’ —s her better, say what you
will! ejaculated Herri g his arm round
Margaret’s waist. The wife flushed with pleasure,
and catching his hand, kissed it quickly and let it
Se . Her gratefn] look bespoke her pride and af-
‘ection.

Wallrade smiled; he was gratified to see the mu-
tual devotion of the wedded pair, for he knew

 

 

 

Alicia would be pleased. After some further con-
Seen: he accompanied Stenhaus to his mother’s
ouse.

The aged dame was busy at work; for, though
her circumstances had, improved since the days
when Wallrade had known her, her active habits
had not changed. She recognized her visitor, and
welcomed him cordially.

Theshocking story of the attempt on her son’s
life was discussed, and shuddered over by the dame.

“Heis alll have left,” she murmured, ‘‘and he
ought to be more careful. To risk his life in that
garden at a wedding feast, and that when he had
valuables about him! The boy was always rash!”

“The boy ” replied that no one knew of his carry-
ing jewels; and he had been at a loss to conjecture
how the Prussian knew it, till he remembered having
seen him in Dusseldorf the day he received the com-
mission from the two merchants.

The old woman shook her head.

“He will never learn caution,” she wailed.

“‘ Others are incautious, too!’ remarked Wallrade.
“This brooch, which Albrecht wore, was taken by
the robber and: placed in his own shirt-front.. It was
the sight of this that made me stop him; and ifI
had not, he would have been out of the inn, and on
his way before the arrival of the officers sent to ar-
rest him!” :

‘““Thanks tohan overruling Providence, who will
not suffer the guilty to escape!”

‘* Now, madame, look at the picture,” said Wall-
lade, ‘‘ and tell me if you remember who it is?”

He opened the locket and displayed the minia-

“Remember?” cried the dame. ‘‘ Why, I have
not lost my senses! That was Egbert Vane, my
daughter’s husband. Poor Almeria! she had but
little joy of him!”

a e was my friend, you know. We came to-
gether.”

“ Ay, I know. I have often wished Almeria had
wedded you!”

She had always fancied Oscar, asshe called him,
in love with her pretty daughter. She had insisted
it was jealousy and diemppaint ment that drove him
away, when he found Egbert his successful rival.

“Tf you and the girl had been married I might
have had her yet!”

‘* No one knows,” said Oscar, with a sigh. *‘‘ But
pardon me if 1 ask a few questions. They are not
idle ones.”

The dame had covered her face with her apron.

** Your daughter left a child?’’

She threw off her apron, wiping her eyes.

“ Ay, indeed; as lovely a boy as mother need wish
to gers What a comfort he would have been to her!

ch!””

** And he lived? What became of him?”

“ Ach, mein Herr! it went to my heart to part
with him! But what could I do? His own father
claimed him!”

“ His father—Egbert Vane?”

“* Ay, I took him myself to his father,” put in Al-
brecht. ‘It was a stormy night, and they thought
Mr. Vane would not live till morning. I should have
taken the boy again on his death.”

“He owned Almeria for his lawful wife to us all.
Else I would not have given him the child. But the
law gave it to the father.”

‘““T know it, dear Madame Stenhaus. But what
became of the boy? Egbert was in his mortal. ill-
ness.

Albrecht answered:

* He lived but a few weeks. But he had a grand
relation; an English milord, who came all the way
over here to see him.”

‘* His name?”

“T do not know his name. I think he did not give
out the name; He came in haste and on purpose
to see Herr Vane. I am told he did everything for
him that money could do.”

‘* And the boy was given up to him?”

“Yes; he had lost his own; and he promised Eg-
we to take care of him and to give him a for-

june.

“ Have you ever heard of him since?”

“Never; he went back to England; at least, he
did not stay here after Herr Vane’s death.”

“*Had you no wish to trace him, learn what
had become of your sister’s child?’

“It would have cost money, and I had it not to

nd,

“T heard that the English milor went to Italy,” re-
marked the dame.

“* How should I have known where to look for him?
After he had the best right. The father gave
him the boy.”

“Still it would have been satisfactory to know that
the boy was dealt by according to romise.”’

“We were very poor then,” said Madame Sten-
haus. . ‘* We could not have given the child an edu-
cation. If he lived, he would be better off with his
English relations.”

‘Was the ‘milor’ a brother of Egbert’s?”

“I never heard what relation. He lived very quiet-

| ly, and saw no one but the rich man.

** Had he a wife?”

“T heard so,” replied Albrecht, ‘‘but I never saw
her. Iheard the woman who took the boy say:
‘This child will be a comfort to my lady eee
her own.’ ”

“She called her ‘my lady,’ then?”

‘She did; and so did the people at tne inn where
she stayed. But she never went out; she was in
poor health.”

“You saw the gentleman; did he bear any resem-
blance to Egbert?”’

“ None; not the least.”

“But he was kind to him?”

“He was tender of him and spent all his time in
doing what he could for him. He would allow no
other nurse to have the charge of him.” __

“ Did he wear mourning at the funeral?”

‘* Bless you!” cried the dame; “ the funeral was as
private and quiet as if the man had died of the
plague! There were no mourners.”

% ere was Herr Vane buried?”

“Tn the little cemetery Gree the hill.”

““T remember now. ide Almeria.””

“Tt was his wish. He always said he had never
loved another woman.” }

“Now, Albrecht and Madame Stenhaus, let me tell
you the business that brought me here. ‘That noble

gentleman whom you call *milor ’"—as the Continent

 
 

PesAs adres aet

 

~—

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

 

 

als call every man of wealth and standing—was, I
am fully convinced, no other than the Marquis of
Estonbury.”

Both his auditors repeated the name—scarce pro-
nounceable by foreign tongues. .

“ He was traveling on the Continent with his wife
at that time. Ihave every reason to believe that he
had : lately lost, by death, the boy who passed as his
son,

“Who passed as his son?_ Was he not?”

“T will explain all that hereafter. Egbert Vane
was his brother. His real name was Egbert Vane
Thorpe. He was the ¢éder brother, and therefore
the rightful tae of Estonbury.”

The dame held up her hands; and her son looked
cstonished.

AS meee was in wretched health. He failed so
rapidly at the last that if he knew of the death of his
uncle, the marquis, and his own accession to the title
and estates, he did not care to claim them.”

Madame Stenhaus shook her head.

i Such things have little worth when death is
near.”

- —— was a@ marchioness, then!” said Al-
recht,

“Yes; for her husband was the marquis before
her death. You can prove the marriage?”

“Tt was performed by a Protestant clergyman,”
returned Albrecht. hwo others besides myself
were witnesses.”

‘Can these be found?”

= The witnesses can; the clergyman went to Vi-
enna,

“You could find him, if necessary?”

“T think so.”

“Have you a certificate? It is usual for the offici-
ae priest to make out two.”

‘3 — recht looked at his mother. She shook her

“Tcould never find tes marriage-lines,”’
she answered, sadly. ‘ But Egbert—‘ milor ’—owned
her as his wife; both while she lived, and after she
was gone.”’

She covered her face with her apron again—for
mournful recollections thronged upon her.

_“I have a certificate, which Egbert must have
given to his brother. It was found lately among his
papers,” said Wallrade.

“A certificate of the marriage?”

“Yes; itis plain enough for what purpose it was

ven. The boy, if he is living, is now Marquis of

{stonbury.”’

The dame clasped her hands.

““My grandson ?”’ she exclaimed.

a - on so; but he has been defrauded of his birth-
oe}

“Patience, mother,’”’ remonstrated Albrecht, en-
deavoring to check her ecstasies; ‘“we know not
even if the boy is living!”

“But I know,” said Wallrade—“ at least I am mor-
ally certain—that he is; and a nobler young man
i not exist. You will have cause to be proud of

m.

“He lives? Where?” exclaimed Stenhaus.

“In England; knowing naught as “hy of his rights.
But I am on the track to find out the truth. I will
explain; though I cannot the tell you all.

Lord Estonbury brought up the ee
child and Egbert’s—as his own son and heir; though
he himself usurped the title and estates belonging
of right to him as the elder brother’s direct suc-
cessor.

“ The marquis died, and the boy came into the in-
heritance.”

“He came into possession?”

“Then my lady—the marchioness—endeavored to
compel the young man to contract a marriage with
a girl she had adopted: the alleged child of her
maid. The So refused to wed one of menial
birth; or to wed t e girl at all; for he loved another.
In her rage at the disappointment, Lady Estonbury
disclosed the secret—that he was not her son. She
declared him the son of her maid and her house-
steward. The infants had been exchanged—she
said—soon after their birth, and the girl was her
own daughter.”

“Then he is not Almeria’s son.”

Wallrade made a gesture pe patience.

“The young man—Reginald—still refused to mar-
ry Lady Helen, though the loss of title and for-
tune was the alternative. As soon as he was con-
vinced that he was not the son of the late marquis,
he surrendered all: title, fortune, everything, to the
heir-at-law. That gentleman came, took possession,
and married the daughter of the house.”

Both listeners showed their disappointment.

“Lady Helen, on the eve of her marriage, over-
heard a conversation between the maid and her
mother, that convinced her Reginald was defrauded
insome way. She made a vow to discover the se-
cret, and do him right, if it i, in her power, even to
the loss of fortune for herself.” ' ;

“Tt was generous of her!” exclaimed Albrecht.

“She has kept that vow. Satisfied that Reginald
was not the son of the Chisholms, she has obtained
proof Se me to any moral sense, of his
ae e, though it may be insufficient to es-
tablish his rights in a court of law, when those are
keenly disputed. She found the marriage certificate
I told you of, with the portrait of Almeria, inscribed

to erat
a bad it painted,” interrupted Stenhaus, “in

“ Yes, that is the date; I recognized the picture at
once. There were two letters from her also.”

Madame Stenhaus wept at every allusion to her
daughter’s acts; and her tears flowed abundantly at
sight of copies of the letters.

“There is no doubt in my mind that Reginald is
the child of your anor And we can establish
the identity of Egbert Vane with the eldest nephew
of the former marquis, whose title descended to Eg-
bert’s younger brother, he being supposed dead.
He was reported ‘Lost at sea’—and no one in Eng-
land ever knew that he had been saved. But here
he must have been reco; ed. I am here to obtain
the evidence of that i entity. Only one link re-
mains to be discovered; that is: the proof that Re-
éinald is the boy he intrusted to the care of his

”

"uncle, and is his son

I could tell if I saw him!” said the dame.
“ And I—if he is like his mother,” said Albrecht,

“* He is her living image.”
“Then he is our own boy “

4

 

“T have no doubt of it; but it must be proved be-

ond cavil. Titles and estates are not transferred
te English courts without evidence that cannot be

ainsaid. I must consult eminent counsel in Lon-

on. ‘They may find a way to compel the dowager
marchioness to speak.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
HERRICK AND MARGARET IN LONDON.

A CARRIAGE drew up at the gate of the Estonbury
mansion in London. chs

Alicia Maur was seated in the carriage with her
chaperone. She gave her card to be presented by
the footman; to be taken to Lady Estonbury. The
knocker and bell were answered by a rter in the
livery of the house. The card was taken in, and
word came -back that Lady Estonbury was not at
home to visitors, on account of the illness of her
mother.

Miss Maur left no message; for she thought it sin-

lar that she received none. The card had in fact
een taken to the marquis in the library, who had
sent the answer.

The illness of the dowager had overtaken her sud-
denly. It was an attack of alysis, but not so vio-
lent as to place her life in danger. It had soon

ielded to remedies; and she might have regained

er usual health, but for the fever that set in after-
ward. This had run a course of of several days, and
had not yet abated. If not subdued speedily, the
medical attendant had expressed uneasiness as to
the result,

Lord Estonbury had a horror of sick-chambers,
and had not visited his mother-in-law since her seiz-
ure. He did not like his wife to be much with the
patient; he fancied all diseases infectious in some
degree; but he did not interfere with Helen’s doing
what she pleased. Only, she must not approach
him when she came from the invalid’s room.

He had only that day, from the latest report of
the physician, taken in the idea that there might be
danger. This gave a new turn to his ideas.

He would not have grieved at the death of his
mother-in-law, nor at that of his wife. The first
would have been a relief to him. But if the fever
increased, fever might induce delirium; and what
revelations might be the result?

He changed his conduct, affecting a deep anxiet;
for the sufferer. He enjoined it on Helen to permit
no servant or stranger to nurse her; or even to ap-
proach her if delirium supervened. He could con-
trol his wife in any event. And if there were dan-
ger of a death-bed confession, he had resolved to
risk his own health by ao goerd in person.

It was necess: to relieve Helen; and, refusing to
employ a nurse of tried skill, he had summoned Mrs.
Chisholm to wait on her mistress.

The dowager, for months past, had not allowed
her former maid to approach her presence, though
she had complied, from time to time, with the de-
mands of Mrs. Chisholm’s husband for money.
They were a habitual drain upon the liberality of the
marquis; though not to any great extent; for they
knew not the whole secret; and the aversion of their
mistress toward them, would, he thought, prevent
her placing herself further in their power. Even in
the event of an awkward discovery, he knew how to
silence them. 3

He gave orders that both ladies should be denied
to all visitors. Thus Helen was deprived of the
opportunity of seeing her friend, and learning what
would have been most interesting to her.

Alicia drove home, doing a little shopping on the
way, in Regent street, and arriving at her hotel
about dusk. : .

The drawing-room of her suit was already lighted
up; and the fact surprised her; for her father, in
her absence, usually occupied his own ‘den,’ fitted
up asastudy. But she was still more astonished, as
she oe to find spueeeey in the Pa of a
lady in deep mourning. e lady wore a deep cra}
vail over hee traveling bonnet; but Alicia knew the
voice of Margaret at once. is

The baron presented seed who received a warm

welcome. He, too, was attired inblack. Her father
explained that his kinsman, Kenneth Maur, was no
more

His death had been very peaceful, Margaret said;
and he had suffered little. Matlin and Hilda were
there to assist her in the care of the patient; and
they remained for the present,

Herrick was a little awkward at first; for the re-
membrance of his wild behavior at Stone Crag, while
under the sway of his savage passion for his cousin,
was mortifying to him. But for his wife’s entreati
he would not have stopped in London. He hi
yielded to her anxious desire to embrace her foster-
sister.

There were matters of business, too, to be arranged
with the baron. As heir to the barony and all the
estates appertaining, it was proper that some settled

rovision, should be made, and some place of resi-
Tonos assigned to Herrick. He shrunk from the
idea of ma ing his home at the ruined castle by the
see associated as it was wlth early painful recol-

ections.

Nor should he do so—Lord Swinton declared _posi-
tively. Was he not in the place of ason? No home
but Stone Crag was a fitting abode for him; it was
time he learned to do the honors of the mansion as
its future proprietor.

“But it is your own residence,’? remonstrated
young Maur. i

“ Alicia and I are not likely soon to return to Scot-
land. Are we, et girl?”

“And if we should, dear papa, we can be the
guests of our cousins.”

Margaret’s heart thrilled. It was so delightful
to her to be thus recognized and received as one
of the family. She caught Alicia’s hand, and kissed

it.

“T was afraid my lord ra 8 not be pleased,’’—
she we eae filling her eyes—*‘ with a lassie
of mean birth for his lordly young kinsman.”

The intense worship of her soul was posmenyod in
her eyes, as she glanced toward her handsome
yo husband. t

How could you fear?’ answered Alicia, in the
same low tone. “You are the best of wives for
him. And you know how dearly I love you, Marga-

”

“He chose me, though I was unworthy.”

. “Most worthy!’ cried Alicia, pres her hand.
“j will not let you disparage yourself. I cannot tell

 

I

you how rejoiced I was when you wrote me that
you were betrothed.”

The baron managed to convey to the ecu
his warm approval of their marriage; and con-
viction that they would be happy, and that a jolly
line of descendants would continue the succession.
He added some good advice to Herrick; and invited
him to meet him next day at his solicitor’s to arrange
such business as might come between them.

Alicia had made Margaret remove her bonnet and
outer wraps, and she now rung the bell to order the
evening meal.

A dainty one was presently ready in the dining-
room, at which the health of the visitors was drank

 

 

in good old wine, rivaling, the baron said, that in his.

cellar at Stone Crag.

By the time they adjourned to the drawing-room,
Margaret had given some account of events during
the last few weeks of their stay in Kaiserswerth,

She described the occurrence of the attempted
murder, discovered through the mysterious ‘‘ second
sight”. of the Scottish seer, and Herrick’s bravery
in going to render assistance.

It was a joy to her to speak of his good deeds; for’
never did a wife more idolize her husband. Happi-
ness had made Herrick modest; for he disclaimed
her praise, and declared the credit was owing to the

dog.

Riicia and the baron both started when they heard
the name of Walirade; and the baron wondered
what business had taken that eccentric individual to
Germany. Belike, to look up titles to lands upon the
Rhine; in which he wished him luck; and he men-
tally added, for his sweet daughter’s sake. He was.
now certain that Wallrade meant to leave his ample
fortune to Alicia.

The Herr Wallrade, Margaret said, had fallen in
with some old friends; the man whose life Herrick
had preserved—Herr Stenhaus—and his mother.

“Stenhaus, did you say?” repeated Alicia, with
quivering lips. She had never dared tell her father
of the business on which Wallrade had gone abroad.

“Yes; Albrecht Stenhaus. His mother was like
one distraught when she first learned the peril he
had escaped. She could have worshiped the ground
on which my Herrick stood. How well I remember
her white face when she came in and threw herself
ones knees by the couch on which lay the poor man
—her son.”

“Had she any—other—children?” asked Miss:

Maur.

“None; he was her only one; and he supported
her by his labor and commercial trips. He was
ae starting on one when the robber entrapped

im.

“Herr Wallrade is coming back to England,” re-
marked Herrick, carelessly. «

“Coming back?” Alicia repeated. He had written
to her that he was on the trace; and it was to carry
that news that she had called upon Lady Estonbury.
Was he coming back because he had succeeded, or
had he given up the cobeeperes

Her heart beat so that she was afraid its throbb:
would call attention to the emotion she could noi
quite conceal. It was evident that Wallrade had not
confided his undertaking to her cousins,

The visitors did not remain late. They were go-
ing on to Scotland as soon as pete, and had no
desire to linger in the metropolis where they were
utter strangers.

The baron, in shaking his kinsman’s hand at
ing, reminded him that he must not be late in his at-
tendance at his solictors’ the next day.

When they had departed, Lord Swinton threw
himself into an easy-chair before the fire, and com-
menced making calculations with a pencil ona piece
- pay ae He did not notice the abstraction of his

aughter. Ff

How she longed to throw herself on her father’s

breast, confess all her hopes and fears, and entreat.

him to send for Reginald! The happiness of her
whole life, she felt, hung upon the tidings Wallrade
would bring from Germany,

CHAPTER XXXV.
MRS, CHISHOLM PACIFIED.

Ir was about eleven at night when Young Lady
Estonbury arose from the luxurious lounge—fur-
nished with cushions like a bed—in the large ante-
chamber adjoining the rich chamber of the dowa-
ger.

For hours she had slept the deep sleep of ex-
haustion. The room was er ed by a small
silver lamp that stood on a marble table at one end,
The flowing silken draperies of the windows were
softly stirred by the breeze, one of them being open-
ed a little to admit the fresh air. \

Helen was very white, but arose refreshed by her
slumbers. At first she did not remember where she
was; and she passed her hand over her forehead
with a piteous expression of bewilderment Then
she recovered her full consciousness, and wondered
how long she had slept.

There was a quaint old Dutch clock on the mantle-
= and, looking at it, she started to see how late

was.

She passed noiselessly through the dressing-room
adjoi and opened the door of the sick-room.

ng,
A curtain of heavy silk, usu: loo} up, hun,
over the entrance’ As Be eee ter hand =

throw this aside she was stopped by the sound of

voices.

As perfect quiet had been enjoined by the physi-
cian, her first impulse was to silence o apenas
but, as she neat the first words, she stood perfect-
ly still. Then she softly raised the curtain on one
Side, so as to see within her mother’s chamber,

The stately bed, with its white curtains drawn
back to admit a free current of air, stood with the
head against the opposite wall. The dowager lay

ropped up by the lace-fringed and snowy pillows.

me of her arms was thrown over the blue silken
coverlet, and moved in the restlessness of febrile ex-
citement. The other supported her head. Her
cheeks wore a dangerous flush.

Chisholm, the maid, was kneeling beside the bed,
her face partly concealed, and sobbing voente
“Oh, my lady, my lady!’ she moaned. ‘I did
not think but ‘that you would have pity for me
now!’

‘You trouble me, Chisholm!” returned her mis-
tress, wearily. ‘‘ My head aches so that sometimes
I think my reason desert me!’

“And so it may, my lady; and the words ype
LADY HELEN’S Vow.

 

26

 

or heart! Oh!

spoken that may give rest to m
me, and give

as you value peace for yourself,
me peace!”
“ T have already told —
| “ But you know, and1 know, my lady, that it can
Hii not be so.”
i ** Who dares question my word?”
; “*T mean no offense! You know that! I have held
ft my tongue all these years! I have kept silence, to
{i obey you, when my heart has been well-nigh broken!
1 Oh, but it’s sore punishment on me for having been
too submissive and too loving to my mistress!”
“Woman, how dare you reproach me?’ cried
Lady Estonbury, growing more excited, and push-
ing against the woman’s head as it leaned on the

bed.
“ My lady, I have grown desperate. But I will be
. your slave, if you will but tell me the truth.”
; HP it at first; but you refused to believe
me!”

“Oh, my lady, not an angel from heaven could
have made me believe the boy my own son. Tell
me, where is the one you took from me?”’

“You will force me to call for assistance. You
be > Broagen oe of my helplessness!’ groaned the
invalid.

“ T have been struggling and striving not to speak;
but I can hold speech no longer. Only one word,
m y; whe i

y, lad. to say where I may find him!’

‘Do you accuse me of ae killed, or sent into

, concealment, your son?’ demanded the lady, fierce-

ly.

“ Alack! Iknow not what!” exclaimed the wo-
man, wringing her hands. “I only know that you
took away my blooming, beautiful boy, and I have
never seen him since! d now I pray you, on my
snewhy. ved $ thi ier part ith him?” asked

y should you think I parted wi as
Mast uerulously.
+ use ow the one you brought home was
not mine! He has grown more strange to me as he
Peed He disowns me, and my heart disowns
im.

 

“Why do you urge the matter now, when you have
kept silence so long?”

. husband would not let me speak. He said:
‘The boy will take care of us as his nts.’ But he
refused to acknowledge us. Then I was seized with
a longing to em my own. A mother cannot
forget her child, my lady. DidI not keep yours for
you, and cherish her, and'restore her fair and bloom-
ing to your arms? My lady, youare wicked to wrong

me so!”
3 “T have not wronged you.”
° ** AmT not rob! of my child?”
**Why do you su would give him up?”
*T cannot tell. like you saw the signs of better
blood in the one you put in my son’s place!”
The lady half-raisod herself in bed.

“Silence!”’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you think mea
fool, to place myself wholly in your power?”
* oh, my lady!’ went on the desperate eet
“ death may be very near! Your reason may no
be . A few hours may make it too late to do
‘me justice. As you would pass to judgment with-
out a mortal sin on your soul—I beseech you—”
The invalid threw off the coverlet
from her shoulder.
the words

“Death near?” she faltered, re
ofher attendant. “‘ Who says so? Am ee
better every day? Death! Doesany one thinkI am
going to die?”
from the bed, and

if ; in-her excitement she slip)
upon her feet. Her white nates fell
to the floor; her arms were outstretched, grasping
the air; her face was blanched with the horror 0}
- fear that had come upon her; her white lips quiver-
edconvulsively. Her form swayed toand fro.
Helen flew her assistance, and caught her in
her arms, as she would have fallen. She lifted her
in her arms and her on the bed; then seized
the bell-rope, and rung a violent peal.
Chisholm had risen and stood petrified under the
young lady’s indignant looks.
- ne!’ cried Helen. ‘You see she has faint-
ed; would you kill her outright?’
was a of feet outside, and several of
the servants presented themselves in answer to the
summons.
“Call his lordship, and send for the doctor,”
cried the marchioness, preserving her presence of

She stood with her arm around her mother, as if
to shield her. The attendants hurried along the
corridor to the apartments of the marquis. But he
had been aroused by the bell, and was coming, al-
read: his dressing-gown. He dispersed the af-

 

atin

Sg AE STS SRS 5

+. cape
+

N

ir Pale LIFE

dowager’s room.
She was still insensible, and Helen, pale as a corpse
herself, was chafing her hands and bathing her fore-
. head with cold water.
_. _ Chisholm still stood in the middle of the room,
like a statue of despair.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded his
lordship, as he went up to the bed.

Helen explained that she had lain down to sleep
for a few hours, leaving the maid with her mother.
‘When she came back, the two were in the midst of
a conversation which violently agitated the invalid.
She had rushed in, in time to save her from falling
to the floor, in the swoon that followed her excite-
ment.

“Can you eee your mother afew moments?”
asked his lo . “Or shall I send one of the

2 PT RES oe

PRIN FAR Ry aE TT

he to help you?”
a yes! do send some one!” she answered,
tena head to foot. “I have never seen
before! If she should never come out
of the fainting-fit!’’
**She will come out. her pulse is stronger—
she will revive soon. Stay her ten minutes, till
Ireturn. Now, woman, come you with me,” he said

 

re to Chisholm.

Le By the time they had reached the library the poor
i woman had recovered her self-possession, and braced

ri herself up for a determined assertion of her mater-

ir nal rights.

pai

The enforced silence she had kept so long, under

her jmusband’s constraint, and the influence of other
now ve additional strengt

solve. i her lady should die with the secret un-

ig She entered at once i-to a voluntary confession,

somes
x

Oren

y, in ing:
frighted throng, and strode on to the door of the’

 

 

She wished not to distress her lady; but if she were
to die, or lose her reason, what clew could she obtain
to the discovery of her child?

‘“And you have done —_ best to hasten that
event you pretend to dread!” said the marquis,
ee “Do you suppose your mistress will not
have her days—her hours, perhaps—shortened by
the shock you have made her suffer?”’

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the woman, clasping
her hands, and looking upward.

“The knowledge of her imminent danger has been
carefully kept from her. She always had a terror of
death. What you said may terminate her life with-
in a few hours.”

Chisholm sunk on her knees, and, amid sobs and
groans, besought pardon.

“Stand up, and listen to me,” ordered the mar-
quis. “If you had come to me, all this might have
been saved. I know all you wish to know.”

“You? your lordship?’ gasped the woman.

“You were right in what you said,as far as re-
gards the parentage of—the young man to whom
you alluded. He is not the son you gave your lady,
in exchange for her infant daughter.”

“T knew it! I knew it!”

“‘Your lady and the late Lord Estonbury were
abroad much more than a year, you remember.”’

*“T do, your lordship.”

“Your son—then a very young infant—died at
Antwerp.”

“ Die !

“Died after afew hours’ iliness. It was croup, I
think she told me.”

‘‘ And she never told me!” sobbed the mother.

“She had herreasons. The infant boy taken in
the place of the lost one was adopted by Lord Es-
tonbury, somewhere in Germany.”

“Oh, my lord, it cannot be! The late marquis
doated on little Reginald. He never could have
loved so much a stranger to his blood!”

‘** Who said he was so?”

“ Did not your lordship?”
“No—I did not. Your lady had imposed an heir
upon him: he forced one on her. She had good

reason to hate the boy!”

“Then he was—her husband’s son—but not her
own?”

The marquis nodded.

‘*My late lord never loved my lady. But it was
cruel of him to force her to own a base-born child,
even if he had the blood of an Estonbury in his
veins.

* Are you satisfied?”

* Oh, my lord, forgive me; but—”

“Would you have proof that your son died? I can
give it you! I will doso; and then the matter must
rest forever.”

He went to an Indian cabinet, which he unlocked.
From a drawer, that opened by a concealed spring,
he took out a folded paper, yellow with age. Un-
folding it, he held it before the woman.

It was the certificate of the burial of ‘‘ Reginald—
infant son of the Marquis of Estonbury;” and was
dated Antwerp, etc., etc.

Mrs. Chisholm read it slowly, then staggered back,
and clasped both her hands across her forehead,

“T hope you are satisfied, now,” said his lordship.

“Heaven forgive me!” she wailed, and her head
sunk on her bosom. The marquis went on:

“The late Lord Estonbury—my cousin—had an in-
superable aversion to me, and was determined to
prevent my succeeding to his title. When they lost

our boy it was necessary to substitute another heir
n his place; and his lordship naturally preferred
his own offspring, even if the bar sinister interposed
between him and any right to inheritance.
‘ ow ~ Sr with a sneer, watching the woman's face
eenly.
“You can understand, now, your lady’s reluctance

. speak of the matter. It was sore humiliation for |
er.

“Oh, Fai me, my lord!” cried the dame. ‘If
T had only known it!”

“Well, you know now, that is sufficient. You
may remain in attendance upon your lady, if you
will make me a solemn promise never to speak to
her in on the subject.”

“‘ Bless you!—bless your lordship!” 2

“And if in her delirium she should say anything,
report it tome, and say naught to any one else.

ill you promise this?”

Wie Beat of your. gossipl tamil

ear of your gossiping concerning fami
po ma a I shall know how to punish you,” he edded,
s ly.

“‘ My lord, I have borne this grief so many years
without s g—” :

“That is security for your silence. Well, I will
trust you. You must answer for your husband.”

“Indeed I will, my lord,”

“You_had best not go near Lady Estonbury to-
night. I will sit with You may go to your
room,

The woman made a profound obeisance, and re-
newed her expressions of gratitude. She saw in his
lordship’s forgiveness and his continued trust in her
a pledge that both she and her husband might de-
pee - his bounty, as before. That set her mind
at rest.

Many a dispute had she had with the ex-steward,
who had hitherto restrained her from inquiries con-
cerning her child. He had always insisted that she
was mistaken, and that Reginald was their own.
When she repelled that conviction, and avowed her
belief that her child had been put away and was
living somewhere, his authority was overbearing,
and sufficient to compel her obedience.

Now she could be silent with an unmurmuring
spirit.

P After she had left the library, his lordship con-
tinued his walk to and fro, arrarging his plans in the
event of the death of his mother-in-law.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
HELEN TRUSTED,

Unper Helen’s gentle ministrations, consciousness
slowly returned to the dowager. Her eyes opened,
the color came back to her cheek; her breath came

ntingly and irregularly, as of one in the mrasy of
ever, and her eyes were glassy and wild. er
daughter soothed her, laying her cold hand on the
bi forehead, and moistening the parched lips

yurning
with the erties nat draught prepared.
Presently the ent partially Lned her head, to

|

er.

 

ise. |

| The drawer came out; it was fill

‘ she closed the drawer and the cabinet, unloc

!

| the ke,

 

see if any one else was in the room. Helen oes
and kissed her, while she bade her not tax her
strength.

“Ts no one here but you?” asked the invalid, faint-

ly.
‘““No one, dear mamma. But the doctor will come;
er sent for him when you fainted.”

The pale hand was stretched out, and grasped the
daughter’s arm, drawing her closer.

“Helen, tell me the truth! Am I going to die?”

“Oh, dearest mamma, how can you think of such
a oer We hope and expect that you will soon be
well.”

“* But Chisholm said so.”

“She was frantic. My lord has sent her away.”

“I want to know the truth, Helen. Do not de-
ceive me.”

“You have been made worse by the shock. But
the doctor will give a composing draught.”

“You do not answer me. Am I thought to be in
danger?”

“T have never heard any one say so, indeed, mam-
ma. Pray be calm; do not talk; lam sure it is not
good for you!”

Her tears were flowing fast; she threw her arm
over the patient, clasping her fevered hand, and laid
her face close to hers on the pillow. But she could
not stop her from speaking.

‘* Helen,” she faltered, in_a low, earnest tone, “I
can trust no one but you. If I am to die there is
something to be done. I cannot_leave this world
with that secret weighing on me. It would sink me
to perdition.”

“Oh, mamma, mamma! Speak and ease your
mind at once! Do not brood over such thoughts.”’

“Tell me, could I hope for salvation if I suffered a
wrong and fraud to go on?”

“Heaven forbid that any one should dare set
limits to the mercy of our heavenly Father; but, oh,
mamma, do not let wrong and fraud soil your soul,
in Jife or death!”

““The telling of the secret would plunge you into
poverty, my child.”

“Mother, mother, think not of me! The Right be-
fore all!”

“You are a saint in heart, Helen! I do believe
you would lay down your rank and title without a
murmur.”

“If I possessed them by fraud, they would be
worse than worthless!”

“Ay, the burning crown! You have read of it;
but I have felt it! It scorches my brain; it will
drain my life!”

“Pluck it off! oh, pluck it off!”

Helen sunk on her knees by the bed, on the very
spot where Chisholm had knelt, and clas er

arms round her mother’s neck in mute supplication.
There was silence for a few minutes. Then es
whic

nae motioned for the cooling
Helen held to her lips.

‘Helen,’ she said, ‘‘ will you promise me, if I put
myself wholly in your power, to say nothing—to re-
veal nothing while I live?”

“Oh, mamma, should we make conditions in
doing an act of justice? I trust you will live many

years.
“Tn that case, I will take my own way of disclos-
ing the secret. You must promise what I ask,
Helen. I feel that this fever may overpower my
reason; I feel that I may die without being able to
speak. Don’t weep, child, but promise me! I wi
not trust you unless you do! Will you? Say
quickly! My head will burst if I have to bear any

“Mother, I promise.” ‘ 7

“‘You will never betray me till I give you leave, or
till—I am no more?”

“T will not! You may trust me!”

The sufferer plucked at a ribbon round her neck.
It had a key attached to one end.

“Take this,” she said, ‘‘and open the walnut
cabinet in my dressing-room. The center drawer;
unlocks it. Stay—I forget—my mind wan-
ders—there is a drawer within, or—a false bottom;
press the spring at the back. You will find the
papers there.”

er intermittent tones showed that the fever was
doing its work with her brain.

Helen hastened to do her bidding. She locked the
dressing-room door before she opened the cabinet.

| he Estonb: dia eae ° a
great value; the Estonbury diamon ing kept
under his lordship’s charge.

The pressed spring disclosed the space between
the two wooden bottoms, The young marchioness
secured the papers, which were thick and heavy; then

the
door, and hurried back to her mother. =

“T will not even look at these,” she said, “till you
give me leave, mamma.” ‘ P

But her ladyship had fallen into a doze, and did
not reply. Helen again fastened the key to the rib-
bon round her neck, put the papers in her own
bosom, and resumed her watch. ~

In ten minutes there was a bustle in the hall be-
low, and steps were heard ascending the stairs.

The marquis entered, preceding the physician.
who had been summoned. He went to the bed, and
examined the unconscious patient.

His face suddenly darkened.

“There has been mischief done here,” he said,
“since my last visit.”

His lordship explained that the indiscretion of
the waiting-maid had caused her lady a great shock.

‘“« And thrown her into a condition I do not like!”
the physician added. ‘‘ Feel her head. My lord, I
must ask you to send in the morning for Sir James
Harcourt.” .

_This was the name of an eminent London physi-

cian,

The doctor went on to order ice applied to the

atient’s head, and other remedies to subdue the

ever. His anxiety could not be concealed.

He admitted to eo Estonbury, in the dressing-
room, that the shock might cost the patient’s life.
Enjoining perfect quiet, he took leave, promising to
return early in the morning, before the time ap-
pointed for the consultation. j

Helen still sat motionless by the bed. It was
already well on toward morning. :

“ Poor girl!” said her husband, compassionately.
“You better retire.”

i iO, A lord; I will stay here, I am not fa-
igued, “ :

 
een etante eeneaesnet SON
7 an

LADY HELEN’S VOW.

27

 

 

“Your mother will not come out of that stupor | Sn partook of the dainty meal in silence and

till the fever abates. You can stay till then, if you
will call me as soon as she wakes.’

“* Very well, my lord.” é 5

She was once more left alone with the sick.

 

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE WIFEY DEFIANCE.

Days passed on, and the condition of the dowager
raarchioness did not improve. The consultation
availed little. The triumph of medical skill over
disease has its limits, and these had been reached.
But little hope remained of her restoration to health.

The intervals of reason became fewer and shorter;
and while the re of fever continued, the pa-
tient muttered in low delirium or struggled with
ace ‘When the violence of the fever
abated, she lay usually in a stupor.

Never was bond-slave more faithful to a master
than Dame Chisholm to his lordship. She knew her
dependence on his bounty; and hoped for reinstate-
ment in one of his households at some future time.
Every word that fell from the unconscious sufferer
was reported to the marquis.

She often dropped strange expressions, which he
had some difficulty in explaining to the apprehen-
sion of his informant.

Sometimes the sufferer fancied herself in Ger-
many; talked of his lordship’s brother, and of little
Reginald as his son and heir.

“It was their plan, at first,””? remarked Lord Es-
tonbury, ‘‘to pass the boy as a nephew. But you
see, yourself, it could not be. ‘The elder son, Eg-
bert Vane ee? perished at sea more than a year
Lefore Reginald was born.”

“*Thave heard so, my lord.”

More and more, every day of this; till his lordship,
with anxieties. continually on the strain—most earn-
estly wished that the scene would close. Such wan-
derings were rarely heard in his presence; but He-
len, who seldom left her mother’s side was a witness
to them.

Late one afternoon Chisholm came into the li-
brary, where his lordship was reclining in a leathern-
cushioned chair. She closed the door, and approach-
ed with her usual stealthy tread.

“Well?” inquired the marquis; who saw that she
had something to communicate.

“ Her aie has been quiet this afternoon,” the
woman said. ‘The fever is not so high, and she oe
= sensible. I heard her aa tae to young Lady
Meroe roe whatI am sure your lordship ought to
now.

“What?” asked the marquis, affecting an indif-
ference he was far from SP ae

“T heard my lady say: ‘Helen, remember your
promise,’ and she answered, ‘I do remember it,
mamma,’ And my lady said then: ‘Not a word
while Llive. If it pleases God to restore me, I will
do it in my own way.’ And then my young lady
leaned her head down, sobbing ready to break her
heart. But she said ‘yes’ to all her mother whis-
pered in her ear.”’

1) “What do you make out from this?”

| “There is some understanding between them.
What it is, I cannot make out. But my young lady
has promised to do something in case of her mo-
ther’s death.”

“She would promise anything to soothe the
patient.”

“Ah, my lord, you do not know young Lady Es-
tonbury. She would never promise what she did not
mean to fulfill. And I saw it in her face, my lord,
that she had something weighty on her mind.’ %

in was your fancy, Chisholm,” said his lordship,
smiling.

“Not at all; craving your lordship’s pardon.
My. os lady is as firm as a rock, and as deep as a
well.”

 

“Did you get an idea of the matter between them?
Was there a word dropped that could lead you to a
conclusion ?””

“Theard my lady speak once the name of ‘ Regi-
nald,’ and I heard young Lady Estonbury whisper.
‘Wush, mamma,’ and try to soothe her, as if afraid
she would excite herself too much. But it may have
been to prevent my hearing anything.” :

The marquis rose; and paced the room uneasily.
Chisholm went on to report her reasons for thinking
Uelen should be watched.

“You are a good, faithful soul, Chisholm,” re-
marked his lordship, giving her a so¥ereign; “and I
shall remember your devotion to my interests. But
you perplex yourself without cause. There can be

‘nothing between your lady and my wife. If Helen
knew anything, or had promised to do anything, she
would come to me for aid.”

The woman meekly crossed her hands, and bowed
submissively. a ;

“You are right to report everything to me,” his
lordship continued, “as I alone can_judge what
is of importance. This is nothing. You may go
nena ,nd I will visit your lady in the course of an

our.”

Chisholm courtesied and left the room.

A Fepwe Romo came over his lordship. The most
profound disturbance was evident in his movements
und his countenance.

_* Helen son against me!” he muttered under
his breath. ‘‘It is just like her to undertake settin
matters right under the plea of justice. I shoul
not wonder if the doting fool had made her promise
to do it to save her soul from perdition! ‘Not a word
while I live.’ Ay, my lady; and when the breath is
out of your body, I will take care of my wife!”

He resumed his walk for some minutes.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ What could be done,
even if the mother did cram the daughter with a
story, to be repeated after her death? SWhat would
such testimony avail? The word of a crazed wo-
man in the last stage of typhoid fever! The courts
would laugh atit!”

He went into the dining-room, helped himself to a
glass of wine, and rung to order ig An

“Pell Lady Estonbury, my wife, that I would like
to have her company at supper,” he said, to the
footman.

The man went up, and returned with the answer

» that his lady begged his lordship to excuse her.

‘Fer mother was not so well, and she herself could
eat nothing.

e By Jove she avoids me!” muttered his lordship.
“i will see to this.”

* .

 

alone.

Then he rose and went up the stairs; knocking at
the door of the dowager’s dressing-room.

Helen herself came to the door. She smiled feebly
when she saw her husband, and went back to her
seat by her mother’s bed.

Lord Estonbury inquired how she was, how long
since the doctor’s last visit, and if he was coming
again that evening. Then he asked where Chisholm
was.

“Tt is not right, Helen,” he said, “ that you should
wear out your health and strength. Chisholm is an
excellent nurse. She is faithful, too. Call her in,
and let her stay with your mother, and come you
out on the terrace for a walk. You are suffering
from this confinement.”

Helen begged to be permitted to remain; but his
lordship was peremptory. He called Mrs. Chisholm,
who was in the sitting-room belonging to the suit.
Then he gave Helen his arm and led her down-
stairs.

The cool night air on the lawn refreshed her. They
walked there about half an hour.

Then Helen begged to go in, Her husband took
her into the library, and brought her a glass of wine,
saying it would do her good. She sipped it in obe-
dience to him. ;

When she rose to go up-stairs, he bade her sit still.
The lamps were lit, and burning brightly. He rose
and went to the door, turning the key. 7

“Do not be startled,” he said, observing his wife
closely. ‘‘ButI want a few minutes’ conversation
with you.”

“With me?”

“With you. Why do you look so frightened?”

“Tam not frightened.”

“You have avoided me of late, Helen; and now,
when I speak to you, you turn pale, as if I had a
knife at your throat.”

She tried to assure him she was calm and not at
all terrified; but she trembled violently, and could
hardly articulate a word.

His eyes were fixed on her face,

“Have you heard any thing, Helen, to make you
shrink from “me?”

“Oh, no! but—my mother is so ill! She needs me
all the time! Let me go to her!” she sobbed, almost
incoherently.

“Your mother isin good hands; better than yours,
ee if you encourage her to tall of exciting mat-

ers.”

“*T—encourage her?”

“Helen you are always truthful. Can you deny
that your mother, since she has been ill, has made
disclosures to you, touching family secrets?”

The marquis thought, by plunging at once into the
heart of the matter, to take his wife by surprise,
giving her no time for prevarication.

Oh, how thankful was Helen that she could utter
the denial with perfect truth!

“Sir—my lord—I assure you, my mother has
made no disclosures to me! She has revealed no
‘family secrets,’ ”’

“‘Are you sure? Has she told you nothing of
which you are not to speak ‘a word while she
lives’?

**She has told me nothing, my lord.”

The marquis drew a breath of relief. The face of
the young creature before him could notlie! Helen’s
soul went out in thankfulness that he had no sus-
picion of the pepe, These she had never opened.

“And if she had,” said the marquis, laughing,
“what could it amount to? The word of a dement-
ed patient, muttered in delirium?”

Quietly Helen was moving toward the door.

“Stay. Do not bein such a hurry, unless you are
afraid of me.”

The young wife retraced her steps.

“Tf your mother should say anything; should
make any fancied disclosure—as fever patients are
always the prey of imagination—will you promise,
Helen, to communicate it to me?”

“*T cannot promise, my lord.”

“Why not?”

“Because, if my mother wanted something done,
I should do it, even if forbidden by you.”

a pms would be disobedient to my commands,
en?’

“In that case, if I judged the command of my
mother to be important, I would.”

J you would set up your own judgment
against mine!’ grov7led the husband, stopping in
front of her, and fixing his glaring eyes upon her.

**T would try to do what is right,” she faltered.

He muttered a bitter oath.

“ Supposing what you were ordered to do should
involve ruin to me?”

“Tf it were right, and my bounden duty, I would
pray that I should not falter in doing it, for fear of
consequences !””

Another terrific curse, that made the poor wife
shudder. ,

“Tt is well Iam warned!” ejaculated the marquis,
between a sneer and an execration. ‘‘ My wife would
sacrifice me to her whim of proclaiming any lies a
raving lunatic might utter, if she knew shé would
ruin me by doing it! Very well, my lady! I will
take care of youl” ~

“ My lord—”

“You may £° now to your mother; but when she
breathes her last, and from that moment, you shall
have speech with no human being but myself!”

‘Do you think she will die?”

“Think! she cannot live more than a day or two!
Then—you are my prisoner! You shall have no
chance to ge about with your pretended disclosures!
I will teach you, madam, the dutya wife owes her
husband!”

The low, hoarse tone, the fierce glare of the eyes,
the twitching of the convulsed lips, the ghastly pallor
of the oe convinced Helen that he spoke in terrible
earnest.

She could have sunk into the earth in her terror,
He meant what he said. He penetrated the secret
she had so nearly discovered; and his revenge would
be gn should he detect her agency in bringing
it to .

Again she moved toward the door.

‘Remember,’ he said, with low, concentrated
tones of force, “I married you to escape a greater
evil! Ipaid a heavy price for what fnloys and
you sh You walk a

never deprive me of it.
straight path, Taadare, Let me see you deviate from |

 

=

it, and you have yet to know what revenge and
punishment mean!’

The white teeth gleamed through the bushy hair
on his lips. Helen could not spe a faint oF as
or — to the door, unlocked it, and escaped into
the hall.

She heard him laugh long and loudly; a laugh as
full of menace as his words,

Long Helen sat beside her mother’s bed, while
she strove to calm the tumult of her thoughts, and
bring her shaken nerves into subjection, She was
by nature timid and shrinking; though the spirit
within her rose to meet any emergency. What was
she now to do?

She had no doubt of her husband’s purpose; to
prevent her making any disclosure when the time
should come. As soon as her duty, and her mother’s
dying command should urge her to action, she
would find herself fettered as with a chain of iron.
Would that some power would direct her! :

She stooped over the Picea who ey in undis-
turbed sleep. She turned her face slightly, so that
her lips were close to her daughter’s ear, Then she
murmured distinctly the words:

“Remember, my child; remember.”

Helen started and looked up. Chisholm sat,
nearly asleep, on the other side of the room. She
could not have heard the words. They came
like the voice of a spirit—telling her what she must
do. Yes; and how to do it, flashed that instant in
her mind.

She would trust Alicia. She would find her that
very night. She would bind her by the same prom-
ise she had given. Then, in the event of her mother’s
pcos her own agency would be effectually con-
cealed.

She aroused Chisholm, and bade her sit by the
invalid, while she retired to her own room for an
hour or two. She requested not to be disturbed, as
she might obtain some rest. Chisholm promised to.
remain. .

Helen went to her room, and summoned her own
maid. To her she said that she wished to go out for
a while, and she was to guard the door, and admit
no one on any pretext.

The girl readily undertook to do so, Helen then
threw a dark serge cloak over her black silk dress,
put on a hood which completely covered her face,
and secured the important Eire safely about her

rson. They were in a se. packet, and the seal

ad never been broken.

She went out by a private door and staircase lead-
ing from her boudoir. The staircase led to a lower
one, descending into the garden. Thence a narrow
path, skirting the flower-beds, took her to a gate,
usually locked on the inside. "The key was in the

Helen passed out into a back street, narrower than
the one on which the mansion fronted.

It was late, but she gave herself no time to gather
fears or scruples. She ran to the corner of the next
street, and some distance along that, before she
dared to look fora cab. Then she saw an empty
one, hailed it, and bade the man drive her to T—
Hotel, in Berkeley square.

She alighted, and dismissed the cab. Drawing her
hood closely over her face, she ran up a flight of
stairs and stopped in the upper hi

The halls and corridors were a blaze of light. A
man in livery came toward her; and she timidly
asked for Miss Maur.

“Certainly, miss, this way,” said the servant—who
took her for some lady’s confidential maid. He
turned iuto a side passaze, went on some paces, and
knocked at the door before he threw it open.

The room—the dra of Lord Swinton’s suit,
was brilliantly lighted, and several voices were
heard. Helen shrunk back, afraid of meeting stran.
gers. The man who accompanied her, said, as he
opened the door:

“A woman with a message for Miss Maur.”

Alicia came to the door, and the servant retired.

Helen was hesitating what to say, when the girl
—— sight of her face between the sides of the

“Lady Estonbury!”’ she exclaimed in uttter sur-

rise; and grasping her arm, she tried to draw her

to the room.

But Helen resisted. She merely wished to speak
with Alicia one moment; she could not meet stran-
gers 6 retreal rom 6 door in 6

! She retreated f: the door into the hall,

Another ear had caught the name. The next mo-
ment Reginald Holmes came quickly out, grasped
both the visitor’s hands, and welcomed her warmly
ia his dear arene ne i s

‘ome in here!” sa cia, opening another
door, leading into an unoccupied apartment:
: “Your mother?”’ inquired Reginald. ‘Is she bet-
er

“Ah, no!” cried) Helen, seed vei uickly.
“I must go back to her. But dark mot Hus pe
messenger with these.”

And she put the packet into Reginald’s hands.

“‘Tknow I can trust you,” she §

“T gave a promise to my mother that I would say
nothing while she lived. ‘If her life is spared, she
will do you right, Reginald. If she is taken away, it
is my duty. But I might—be prevented. I have
thought it best to bring them while I am—at lib-

erty.

Both her auditors understood her. Alicia. pressed
her in her arms.
i ce you will spare my mother?” she fal-

ered,
“This is sacred with me,” he said, touching the
seal, “ till I have leave from you to open it,”
“Do not wait to hear from me!”
ee eee ear. Ob, thanks. Re
‘That is a , % S. inald, you
have taken a weight from my mind. Now Tiiust
Zo.’
Alicia entreated her to stay; but she refused.
“Tmustreturn. I may be missed.”
“T will go with you,” cried Reginald.
“No further than to place me in acab. It would
be known that I came to you.”
cia clung to her friend with thanks and bless-
ings; but she dared not detain her.
he returned to the drawing-room, where Wall-
rade and two lawyers, solicitors of the baron and
bate neo Bal ren But it rani pore
ew of the important t
their evidence, . ze ne

The cab deposited Helen at the garden gate .nd

 
  

Pe a ON GG" ME

°

ye re pane

 

oe eee

Again the li

   

28

 

she unlocked it with the key. She hurried up the
private stairway, and gained the upper hall before
the took off the cl Her maid opened the door
of the sitting-room.

‘** His lordship has been asking for you,” she said.
“*T told him you were asleep.”

Helen gave her the cloak and passed into the bed-
chamber. There was a knock at the door. She
opened it and the marquis stood facing her.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
A MONSTROUS WRONG.

Lonrp Estonsvury stood still for a moment at the
entrance; then, as his wife stepped back, he followed
her into the room.

“Your maid said you were asleep,” he remarked,
with a sneer. ‘‘You do not look like one just
awakened from slumber.”

Helen was silent.

“You have been out,” he added. Have you not?’

Still no answer.

“It is strange that your maid should have been
instructed to report a falsehood to me.”

ana — not instructed to report anything,” re-
plied Helen.

“Then she ventured on it of her own accord. And
you cannot persuade me to believe that she had not
some object.”

Helen was about to answer that she did not care
to persuade him to anything, but she checked the re-
tort, and merely observed, quietly:

“Ada had no idea of being disrespectful, my lord.
I merely charged her not to admit any one.”

“While you were absent, And where have you
been, if I may ask?”’

After some hesitation, the young lady replied:

“Pray excuse me from giving an account of my-
self. Idid not know I was a prisoner on parole.”

“You are a rebel to the authority of your lawful
master.”

“Will you permit me, now, to go to my mother?”

**When you tell me where you have been!”

“T cannot oes why your lordship should be
curious on the subject.”

‘“* Because you have been absent the best part of
an hour; and your maid tried to deceive me. Your
hightened color, your excited manner, the dampness
in your hair, the strange disorder in your looks, show
that something um has occurred. It is your
_ to be frank with me, as well as to obey me, at
all times.”

Helen’s eyes flashed; but she repressed the rejoin-
der that rose to her lips.

“Will you tell me where you have been, or whom
you have seen?”

“T do not think you would believe me, whatever I
eee t; but I might gath: lew to hunt

erhaps not; but I might gather aclew uni
adam, hro’

 

you, m: ugh the mazes of. deceit and
treachery.

“Your lordship makes accusations, expecting to
wring from me admissions of their truth. That is
not fair to as ted criminal.”

“Tell me one thing; whatis the promise you made
to your mother, of which she continually reminds
you, in her feverish talk?”

“Has your lordship heard her?”

“If I have not—it been reported to me.”

Helen s Then Chisholm was a spy, placed
to report all that —s

“You will see t I know many things, madam,
of which you deem me ignorant.”

“Ts it fair, or kind, my lord, to place a spy on
your wife, when watching by the death-bed of her

_ mother?”

“T shall protect myself at all hazards.”

“But what do you apprehend?”

“ That I shall not say.”

“ How can I do harm, supposing I had the wish?”
* You may stir up my enemies, and give me trou-

“Ie you are conscious of no wrong, my lord, no
one can injure you.”
in she attempted to leave the room.

_ As she did so, the peoee grasped her arm.

“You may now consider yourself a prisoner in
earnest,” he hissed in herear. “ Your lying maid
will be discharged to-morrow. You are under ob-
servation. Every look, every word shall be watched
and reported. And beware how art attempt to
leave the house. If you wish to walk in the garden
I will accom: ou.”

_ As he said these words with a fierce scowl, Helen -
bowed m

; passed him, going to the suffer-
er’s room, at the other end of the corridor.

She found Chisholm in the easy-chair as before;
the patient lying in an apparent stupor. Helen
asked when the med‘cines or nourishment had been
administered, and then took her place close beside
the bed, pressing her lips to her mother’s fevered
hand, that lay on the silken coverlet.

Once she looked up at the woman in the easy-
chair, who was aréused from her dozing, and sat up-
right, watching her.

Ifyou are tired, Mrs, Chisholm,” she said, gently,
“you may leave the room awhile. I shall stay here

to-night, :

“Your ladyship cannot watch all night again?”
“Tam strong to-night. Ido not feel she wat of

- The woman rose wearily.

“T will ask his lordship’s orders,” she muttered
as she went ete of the room,

Ay, “his loi *s orders!’ Those of her mis-
tress or the lady of the household, were nothing to
her, But, Helen's mind was nerved to action, guid-

d by the highest moral principle; and she did not
-are for humiliations,

“The word “Helen!” very faintly uttered, like an
expiring sigh, arrested her attention. c

She stoo] her ear close to the sufferer’s lips.

“ Helen—l am—going. You will do it?—the right
—the right.”

Helen dropped on her knees, and lifted her clasp-
ed hands solemnly upward.

_ “J will doit, mother!” ;
ble. But the ant a tehing them, fa setea they
it Tr, wa e: ancied they

the word = oe . *
have sworn it, mo oe oe sake of the right!

Tqgear Speen for you os e!
smil dh
The daughter hod Ai

2

Then there was a
flittec uver the dying face,

 

I will go into obscurity; I will

 

-LADY HELEN'S vow,

ed the burden of sin from the soul about to take its
final flight.

The door opened softly, and Chisholm came back.

“His lordship bids me stay with my lady,” she
said, as she resumed her seat.

No answer. Not a word was spoken for more than
an hour. Then Helen offered to the patient some of
the prcehly espera? nourishment Chisholm brought
to the bedside.

She could not take it. The lips and eyes were
firmly closed; though her hand clung with a faint
pressure, to her daughter’s.

Lord Estonbury came in and went up to the bed.
A glance was sufficient.

fter he had gone, a servant rode away froin the
door, to summon the physician.

He came in about an hour, looked at the dyin
woman, felt her pulse and forehead, then followe
the marquis out of the room.

“The pulse had ceased at the wrist,” he said.
“She will not see another sunrise.” cs

“She will never speak again?’ demanded his
lordship.

‘ Never, certainly.”

The doctor remained for the rest of the night. His
lordship did not go back into the sick-room. He
was sensible of a deep feeling of relief.

As the sun’s first beams struggled through the
curtained window, Helen was gently led from the
sick-room by her faithful maid.

Ada took her to her own chamber, arranged the
cushions of the couch for her, and brought her a
oe of tea and biscuits on a silver tray.

er young mistress could touch nothing.

But at the sound of a step in the hall, she sudden-
ly started up, hurried to her escritoir and took a
card from the drawer.

This she thrust into Ada’s hand.

“Ada,” she whispered, ‘if anything should hap-
| bee to me, take this card to the lady whose_name it

ears. See: ‘Miss Maur, Hotel ——, Berkeley

Square.’ ”
*I will, my lady,” replied the maid, putting the
card in her pocket, ‘Oh, my lady, I have wanted

to say something. My lord saysI must leave you.”
Helen lifted her white face, full of anguish and

despair.

* And at this time!” she murmured.

*“Hush, my lady!” And at the instant the door
opened to admit the marquis,

“What do you here?” he said, savagely, eying
the trembling girl. ‘‘I forbade you to wait on Lady
Estonbury.”’

‘** Pray, let her stay!” entreated Helen.

“ Begone!”’ he commanded, fiercely. ‘‘ You would
hatch a plot between you, under my very eyes!”

1 A Bee curse on the treachery of woman fol-
lowed.

“My lord,” pleaded Helen, “Ada is my maid,
and used to my ways! I implore you not to send
her on me om coeallalet a a lot ‘i

“ Begone!” he reiterated. ave the house this
instant! Chisholm shall send your things. Am I
to be obeyed?”

The menacing tone left no alternative. :

The maid came and knelt down before the mis-
tress she loved, took her hand and kissed it. In one
look Helen saw that she would do all her bidding.
Then Ada retired from the room.

“Now, madam,” growled the tyrant, ‘you shall
have an attendant proper for you, and faithful to
my interests. Chisholm shall take the girl’s place.”

*T do not want Chisholm,’’ wailed Helen.

* But I choose to place you in her charge.”

“Let me stay alone.”

“To steal out again, and meet some one in a con-
spiracy against your lawful lord.”

“How can you speak so to me, at such a time?”

“Oh, you would not let times, nor rules,of eti- |

quette, stand in your way! But I have ee your
pa lady; they will flutter against bars, here-
after

“Lord Estonbury!”

“Yes, madam, I do not care how soon you know
it. I hate you; I have always hated you!”

eae you marry me?”

y did
* Because tea Jorced into it! Your lady mother,

who lies dead now, had my title and fortune in her |

wer, and threatened to deprive me of them if I
id not wed her daughter.
could use this power; now I am free—free for
and revenge!”’
“T have never wronged you, my lord. I did not
want you to marry me.”

hate

“But you are the cause of much trouble to me; |

and for that I shall punish you! You shail no longer
enjoy the state and wealth I bought so dearly, and
of which you would deprive me. if you could! I will
be freed from your hateful presence—forever !”

“You will not live with me, you mean?”

“T will make my bed in the snake’s den, before I
will share a home with you! But I will not leave
you free, to hatch conspiracies. You shall have a
safe place.”

“You cannot imprison me, my lord!”

“T cannot? We will see.”

“You could not keep me a prisoner in your
house?”

*“T do not mean to.”

‘Whither would you send me?”

“Tdo not mind telitns, you. Do you remember
once, driving over —— Heath, the high walls of a
secure retreat, with spikes on the top, and the grim
old stone building above them? You asked what it
was!”

“The —— Heath Insane | Hospital!’
Helen, with a cry of horror.

“ Exactly; that is to be your home for life.”

“But lam not insane! Ihave never been mad!”

exclaimed

shrieked the terrified young creature, starting to es- |

cape from the room.
e tyrant intercepted her.

“A wife is insane who makes promises to a de-
mented mother, to work harm to her husband! who
steals out at night to meet some fellow-conspirator!
Oh, my Jady! your doom is sealed!”

“My lord! my lord! You will not do this cruel
wrong! I have never been mad; you know it!”

‘You may be driven so, shortly, by the sights and
fruta’a Yercs imalignent gleams of trlunaph showing

a m ant gleam of triump! Ow
his teeth through his dark mustache,

“My lord! if you are not prea least be human!

obey you by keeping
; : ;

4 ~
y op ae

s long as she bg! she ;

out of your sight, and living in poverty; but do not
condemn me to a fate so horrible!”
__ She sunk on her knees; her deathly face upturned
in frenzied supplication. But her tyrant had no
mercy; he peceees a laugh of fiendish malice.

‘‘Not a word you can say will move me from my
purpose!’’ he hissed in her ear. ‘‘I have already
spread the report that your mind has given way
from your vigils at your mother’s sick-bed. Chis-
holm will take charge of you—and her husband will
help her—till after the funeral. I suppose we
must carry the deceased to Estonbury Court; you
shall go, guarded, in a separate carriage, and with a
medical attendant! Every scream, every appeal for
help—remember—will tell against you! Immedi-
ately after the funeral, you will be removed to the
Hospital.”

“‘And it is your deliberate purpose to do this
wickedness?’ gasped the helpless prisoner.

“It is! You cannot escape your fate.”

His hand was on the knob of the door.

““'Then Heaven in mercy save me!”’ faltered Helen,
as she sunk to the floor ina swoon.

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE RIGHT SHALL BE!

Tur news of the death of the Dowager Marchion-
ess of Estonbury spread over London.

There was a meeting of Reginald Holmes, Lord
Swinton, Wallrade, and his solicitors, to examine
the evidence contained in the papers placed in his
hands by young Lady Estonbury.

The packet was sealed with the late marquis’s
own seal, and had evidently never been opened
since it was closed by his own hand. He had, it was
manifest, wished to provide, under any circum-
stances of opposition, for the establishment in his
rightful inheritance of his brother’s son.

hen the late marquis went on the Continent
with his wife, he had news of his elder brother’s
be from shipwreck, and his residence in Kaisers-
werth.

The news had come privately to him, in a letter
signed by Egbert, who was in failing health. He
wished to see his brother before his death. Egbert
had heard of his younger brother’s accession to the
| title, and did not intend to disturb him in the enjoy-

ment of the inheritance. His friends in England
| might continue to suppose him lost at sea.
| The boy the noble pair carried with them from
| England sickened and died suddenly at Antwerp.
Lord Estonbury had never doubted that this infant
was his own son,and his wife did not undeceive
him. His grief at the loss was the greater because
| he looked forward to_the accession of the detested
heir-at-law, Maurice Howard, whom he knew to be
é nee unworthy of a place in the peerage of Eng-
and.

His first visit_ to his brother was before the birth
of little Reginald. Four months later, Egbert wrote
for him. He was then near death, and anxious for
the future of his infant boy. He placed him sol-
emnly in the care of his brother.

| _ “Bring him up as your own,” he said. “‘ May God
deal by op as you deal by him.” i
Lo ‘stonbury received the trust, promising fidel-

ity. After his elder brother’s death he went to Italy
witHhis wife.

It was at the solicitation of Lady Estonbury that
the boy passed as their own son. She urged that
they might continue in the enjoyment of the magni-
ficent income and the ancient title. Both would
, fall to Reginald in due course of time.

His lordship consented to the fraud.

But he lavished a tenderness on the boy which few
but fathers could feel. He took possession of the
| marriage-certificate and such papers as might be
necessary to prove the legitimacy of Reginald’s
, birth, and drew up a full statement of his father’s
escape from shipwreck, his marriage with a poor
country girl, and residence on the Rhine; her death
followed by his, etc. <A certificate of the birth and
baptism of the child accompanied Egbert’s solemn
recognition of Almeria Stenhaus as his lawful wife
and the mother of his heir, with the declaration of
two witnesses of the marriage, and other necessary

 

apers.
| ? His lordship added his own declaration that he held
the title and estates in trust for his infant nephew,
and it was his purpose to surrender them to him
when he came of age, etc.

These papers had been intended to secure the in-
heritance to Reginald, in case of his rights being dis-
puted. Lady Estonbury had been compelled to ee
| mise that they should be carefully preserved. But
; She had persuaded her husband from time to time
| after Reginald came of age, to put off the important
| declaration and surrender.
| _ His lordship’s sudden death by apoplexy released
: her from his control.

She had long wished to make her daughter the
| marchioness; and we have seen how she tried to ac-
! complish her schemes.
| But she had religiously preserved the papers,
! placi them in a secret compartment of her cabi-
| net, Only the fear of death and the awful judg-

ment that must follow had led her to confide the se-
| cret to her daughter, enjoining it upon her to do jus-

tice when she should have passed from earth.
| The papers completed the links of evidence, leav-
| ing no doubt, or room for question, that Reginald
Vane Thorpe was the rightful Marquis of Estonbury.
It was decided to commence proceedings im-
| mediately after the funeral of the late dowager.
The papers were ready to be served on the man
who now held the title wrongfully through his Lon-
don solicitors.
| The entir household, it was ascertained, had set
out that morning for Estonbury Court, bearing ina
| hearse the body of the deceased dowager.
| On the evening of that day, Ada, the discarded
maid, came to the Hotel T—,, in Berkeley Square,
| and asked for Miss Maur.
| , She was at once received by Alicia, who was as-
tonished when she heard that his lordship had dis-
charged her, in his fury at her supposed_connivance
at Lady Estonbury’s last visit to her at the hotel.

‘“‘Do you think he had discovered where your lady
went?” she asked. .

“T cannot tell,” was the answer. “I think he only

I was on the watch, and I let no one in,

 

| That old cat, Chisholm, came peering round; but 1
sent her about hor business: and then my lord came,

x

 

 

pone game tr AEN

 
' ship’s reason had given wa;

 

_ Skylight, and destitute of furniture, except two or

  

 

{

LADY HELEN’S Vow.

 

x

with that Reig Se, and asked for my mistress,
which I told his lordship she was sleeping. She
came in directly after that.” s

‘‘He could not have discovered anything if none
of the servants saw her.” ‘

‘None of them did, Iam sure of that, miss. But
oh, miss, I was nearly dead with the fit of trembling
the next Saleen ey elev my lor
went in to my lady, and bade me begone, as I was
never to wait on her again! And I listened at the
door, miss, and heard him tell her she was a prisoner,
and the two Chisholms should be her jailers, and she
should never be set free; never at all.”

“ Did he threaten that?”

“Ay, miss, and worse! He said he was going to |

shut her in the —— Heath mad-house, after the
funeral! Her mother’s funeral—poor dear!”

“Did you hear him say that?”

“Indeed I did, miss; and when he went out of the
room calling for Chisholm, I peeped in, and saw my
poor, dear lady lying all in a heap on the floor, like a
snow-drift!”’

Alicia ran to the bell and rung it in_great excite-
ment, She ordered her father and Reginald sent
for; Wallrade too; and she began putting on her
traveling dress, while she gathered all the information
the weeping Ada could give her.

It was so touching to think that the poor creature |
had sent her bes friend to crave succor of her, in |

her terrible dread of the vergeance of a villain.

When the gentlemen came, a few words sufficed,
There was not one dissenting voice. _

That same night the party, including Alicia and
Ada, set off for Estonbury Court.

But it was after noon of’ the following day before
they arrived at the village near it.

The deceased dowager had lain in state during

that and the preceding day, and the funeral was to |

take place on the next.
What news of the young marchioness?

The story had been whispered about that herlady- °
under the strain of her ;

mother’s death. She had worn herself out with
a His lordship was in great distress about

er,
Borg eee seen by any of the servants.

a,

fusion to mingle with the other house-maids; but she
could learn nothing except that the two Chisholms
had charge of their young lady; that she had eaten
nothing, drank nothing, and had not been “ herself”
sinc her bereavement.

Th . husband’s purpose was manifest.

But her rescuers could do nothing till the funeral
procession had left the house.

That was late on the following morning.
It was a very handsome funeral; as mi
the deceased could have desired in her lifetime. The
plumed hearse; the train of mourners; the costumed
outriders; the religious solemnities of the procession ;
all were in keeping. In one of the long train of car-
riages, open sufficiently for the crowd to see, Lord

Estonbury was seated, in deep mourning, and with |

a@ countenance composed and sad. None of the car-
riages contained his wife.

As the procession left the gates, young Reginald
Vane Thorpe, with his companions, Wallrade and
Alicia, conducted by Ada, went up the marble steps
to the grand portico and colonnade.

Wallrade demanded to see Lady Estonbury.
Pa: ang man answered that she was too i

em.

to see

But Reginald thrust him aside, and strode on |

through the halls so familiar to him; so soon again
to own him as their master.

_ Ada led the way up-stairs, and a group of wonder-
ing, half-terrified servants followed.

These were her rooms,” she said, touching a |

door. 3

They were locked; but at the command of Regi-
nald, the housekeeper advanced, keys in hand.

“Where is your mistress?” Alicia asiced.

The woman answered defiantly that her mistress
would see no visitors. And she added that it was

very strange—this intrusion, at a time when there !

been a death in the family.

Wallrade took the dame, bristling in her stiff black ;

dress, aside.

“ My good woman,” he said, ‘‘ we may as well be
short with you. This gee pointing to Regi-
nald—* is the rightful Marquis of Estonbury; and
he is in his own house.”

The woman held up her spread hands, but was
staggered when she saw the look of authority on
Reginald’s handsome features.

“And we mean to see your lady,” added Walirade.
ico is foul play at work, and we mean to save

er.

The cowering housekeeper unlocked the door of
the suit of rooms belonging to young Lady Eston-
bury.” They were ets ;

= are = would like to see his lordship’s and
my lady the dowager’s?” she demanded, dryly, with
ey oon lips.

at = please,” was the calm reply.

a these were unlocked in turn. were unoccu-
i

pied.

“Now, whereis your lady?”

“How can I tell? If she was mad, and her
screams disturbed the house, it was right in his
ears toorder her conveyed toasafe place, was
it no

The gentlemen looked at each other. Was it possi-
ble that the victim had already been Gonstaned to
her living sepulcher?

Just then Ada, who had gone up another flight of
stairs, ran in and whispered that she had caught a

limpse of Mr. Chisholm peering downfover the stairs

rom the very topmost flight.
The y instantly ascended.
Wailrade was foremost and clutched Chisholm

as he endeavored to steal behind the balustrade, on
his way to a room, which, they were all convinced.
ev aime aprisoner, Moans were distinctly heard
in ib.
Chisholm struggled with his captor, and fin he
Could not escape, called to his wife to bolt the door

= the intruders.
and was confronted by Regina.
confron :
He thrust her aside and went in, followed by

a. ‘
It was.a large and lofty room, lighted o: by a

z ,

 

She had not been able to ieave her room; nor

er late maid, took advantage of the ¢on- |

ificent as |

three mattresses and some pillows heaped in one
corner.

There, on the floor, her face buried in the pillows,
lay the hapless Lady Estonbury.

At the sound of voices and footsteps, she gave a
wild shriek, and strove to conceal herself behind
the cushions, for she supposed they had come to re-
move her to the mad-house.

Alicia flew to her, and kneeling down, flung her
arms around her, crying and sobbing. Reginald
lifted her from the ground, and supported her, while
he exclaimed:

‘Helen, dear sister! Do not be alarmed! you are
safe now!” f

She looked from one to another, bewildered, while
Dame Chisholm wrung her hands, sobbing:

“Oh, my lady! my poor dear lady!”’

**'You are come to save me!” gasped Helen. ** You
will not let them take me to that dreadful prison?”

And, while both her friends assured her of safety,
she swooned in their arms,

“Take her with you in the carriage—to the inn!”
cried Wallrade. ‘*I will deal with these!”

While Reginald, assisted by Alicia and Ada, bore
the insensible form down-stairs, the gentleman was
informing the Chisholms of the change of proprie-
torship of the Estonbury estates.

Tt was the argument of all others to compel their
obedience. The dame, convinced that Reginald was
‘the true master of the mansion, volubly excused
| herself for her part of the business, and busied her-
| self in packing up her lady’s trunks, to be sent after

 

er.
| And she and her husband interfered to ke any
| Opposition from the rest of the household to the re-
+ moval of their lady. A

Helen was taken to the best chamber the inn af-
forded, and a medical man was sent for. She recov-
ered her senses Only to be seized with convulsions,
and the surgeon pronounced her threatened with
brain-fever,

Quiet and judicious treatment, he hoped, might
avert it; and that she was sure to have with such
friends around her.

Wallrade continued to walk the terrace in front
of the Estonbury mansion till the return of the car-
riages after the funeral obsequies.

e at once addressed the ete and requested
him tostep aside, and hear what he had to say.

In a few words he made him acquainted with the
| state of affairs on all sides. His lordship affected
infinite contempt for the ee of Reginald;
but was furious at his wife’s escape. He swore he
would pursue her with the officers of the law.

“Stop. One word, if you please,” said Wallrade.
TI see you do not remember me as well as I do you.
I had the pleasure once of knowing you under
another name.”

The ee started and grew pale.

‘Gilbert Breck, you cannot have forgotten a cer-
tain paper—a forgery—about which some noise was
made, twenty-five years since! That paper is in ex-
istence, though the firm forbore to prosecute a young
, man of such excellent family. It isin my possession.

Shall I produce it?”
| . The effect of the threat was instantaneous on the
detected villain. It was but one of the many crimes
; he had committed; yet it sufficed to bring him to
| to terms, so far as regarded his intended victim.
| . Wallrade joined his friends at the inn, armed with
, the assurance that they were in no danger of being
; molested,

Helen was able to travel in two days, and went by
easy stages to London. Her home was with Alicia
Maur, who declared she never would part with her.
Was she not Reginald’s own cousin, and the bene-
Parke ct p eh f Reginald’s right:

e suit for the recovery 0: ald’s Ss was
brought, and the marquis, as he called himself, in-
structed his solicitors and counsel to oppose it to the
utmost. But, as soon as they knew the evidence ar-
ranged against them, they saw the folly of opposi-
tion, and threw up the case. |
| Reginald was again Marquis of Estonbury.

Maurice Howard left England without attempting
to see his wronged wife. She heard, not a year
afterward, of his death on a steamer crossing the
Mediterranean.

Lady Helen Howard—for she kept her married
name—made her home with her beloved friends, the
Marquis and Marchioness of tk

How happy_were Reginald and Alicia in their
union, our readers may imagine; since they, like the
noble being to whom they owed their happiness, had

ever esteemed
‘ “The Right above all.””

THE END.

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DANBURY NEWS, REV. DR. HALL, LOWELL, DANA, HENRY CLAY,
DETROIT FREE PRESS, SCUDDER, BAYARD TAYLOR, JOHN NEAL, MARSHALL, |
HAWEEYE, DOANE, POE, OSGOOD, * HENRY, .
BUN ZEEN, BELLOWS, BE. HALE, SAXE, aovax. |
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Of Notable Works by Notable Authors, Beautifully printed in the popular folio form, from clear, ones type ; each
r issue a complete novel and sold at the uniform price of TEN CENTS EAC. No double price on double or extra
size numbers. THE CHEAPEST LIBRARY EVER PUBLISHED!

1 Was Sue His Wire? Mrs. Mary R. Crowell... 10c 44 Tue Dap Letter. By Seeley Regester. .. 10c

2 Fueerne From Love. By Harriet Irving...... 10¢ 45 Lorp Listz’s DAuGHTER. . B. (C: M, Braeme.. 10c

3 Dip He Love Her? Bartley T. Campbell..... 10c 46 A Woman’s Hann. Author of ‘‘ Dead Letter.” 10c

4 A Srrance Woman. By Rett Winwood. ..... 10c 47 Visits or Wratu. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. bi

6 Two Grrus’ Lives. By Mrs. Mary R. Crowell. 10¢ 48 A Witp Grru._ By Corinne Cushman..

7-8 Lapy AUDLEY’s Secret. Miss M. B. Braddon, 10c 49 Tae Mappest Marrtace Ever Was. Burton. joc

9 Tae War or Hearts, Corinne Gushman..... 10e 50 Love invA Mazu. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet.......... ee
10 Letauton Grancr. Miss M. E. Braddon. ..... 10¢ 51 Carnouina. By Dr. J... Robinson....... ...

11 Tae Faust Wipow. Mrs. J. D. Burton. 10¢ 52 A RoMANCE oF A Poor Younea Giru. Mrs. Ellet ioe
12-13 Lost ror Love. Miss M. E, Braddon....... Tur Lockep Hart, By Corinne Cushman... 10c
14-15 Torters or THE Sea. By Victor Hugo. .... Tue Privr or Taz Downes. Margaret Blount. 10¢
16 THe QvuapRoon. By Catharine A Warfield.... A STRANGE Girt. By Albert W. Aiken. 10e
17-18 Unctze Stuas. By J. S. Le Fanu ........... 1 Tue PRETTY PURITAN. By Parson’s Daughter.. 10c
19-20 Deap-Sea Frurr. Miss M. E. Braddon...... Dip SHE Sry? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell... 10¢
21-22 LirrLe Kare Kirpy. . F. W. Robinson....... Dovusty Divorcep. By Jenny Davis Burton.. 10c
23 SowInc THE Winp. Mrs. Mary R. Crowell..... 59 A WickED Woman. By Lillie Devereux Blake.. 10c
24-25 Brrps or Prey. Miss M. E. Braddon ...... : 60 BrInD BarBaRA’s SECRET. Mary G. Halpine.. 10c
26 THaT Boy or Norcort’s. Charles Lever. .... 61 AN AMERICAN QuEEN. By_Grace Mortimer... 10c¢
27-28 CHARLOTTE’3 INHERITANCE. Miss Braddon. 62. Maraoun, THE STRANGE. By Wm. M. Turner. 10c
29 A Grru’s Heart. By Rett Winwood .... 10e 63 Wire or Winow. By Rett Winwood......... 10c
30-31 Rep as A Rose ts Sue. Rhoda Broughton. 64 Tor CREOLE Coane, ay Elli. S. Warne... 10¢
32 THe Lity or St. Erne. By Mrs. Crow 10¢ 65 Pursven To THE ALTAR. By Cushman ; 10c
33 STRANGELY WrED. By Mrs. J. D. Burton....... 66 Tar Terrie Trurs. By Jenuie D. Burton. 10c
34 THE Gipsy BRIDE. M. E. O. Malen......... 67 E.zeant Eopert. By Philip.S. Warne. . 10c
35 ANNIE TEMPLE. By Rev. J. H. Ingraham..... 68 Lapy Heten’s Vow. By Mrs. B. F. Bllet...... 10c
386 WirHovr Mercy. By Bartley =, a 69 Bown, Tue KNIGHT or CHIVALRY; or, What A
37 Buack Eyes anp Brivur. Corinne Cushman.. Woman Will Do. By P.S8. Warne. ' July 29. 10c
38 BRAVE BARBARA. By Corinne Cushman ...... 70 Drirtinc To Rutn; or, The Mills of the Ss.
389 A DANGEROUS Woman. By Margaret es By Mary Reed Crowell. . Ready August 12th. 10c
pire | aioe FE a, DR SOUAR res For sale by al! newsdealers, or sent, postage paid,
42 Wraninc Ways. By Marghtet Rloant go ee on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS,
48 A Woman’s Heart. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.. Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y.

 

A cite CENT rasa ‘sto FIVE a

 

 

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The Masked Bride; or, Wm. Saez Marry Hm. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
Was It Love? or, CoLLmaians AND SwEETHEARTS. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D.
The Girl Wife; or, THz Truz anv THE Fase. By Bartley T. Campbell.

A Brave Heart; or, Srartiinety Stranar. By Arabella Southworth.
Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D.

The Secret Marriage; or, A Ducuess In Spite or Hersetr. By Sara Claxton.
A Daughter of Eve; or, Biiypep By Love, By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
Heart to Heart; or, Fam Puytuis’ Love. By Arabella Southworth.
Alone in the World}; or, THE YounG Man’s Warp. By the author of ‘ Clifton.”
A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, Taz Emeratp Necxiace. By Rose Kennedy.
Entangled; or, A DancERovus Game. By Henrietta Thackeray.

His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, THE Cumip or Aportion. By Mrs. Ann §S. Stephens.
Madcap, the Little Quakeress, By Corinne Cushman.

Why I Married Him: or, THz Woman In Gray. By Sara Claxton.

A Fair.Face 3; or, Our IN THE Wortp. By Bartley T. Campbell.

Trust Her Not; or, Tuz True Kyieur. By Margaret Leicester.

A Loyal Lover; or, Tue Last or THE Grimspetus. By Arabella Southworth.
His Idol; or, Tue ILt-Starrep Marriacr. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hatz. By Mary Grace Halpine.
Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, THz Wircues or New York. Agile Penne.
Now and Forever; or, Way Dm Sze Marry Hm. By Henrietta Thackeray.
The Bride of an Actor. By the author of “ Alone in the World,” etc., etc.
Leap Year; or, WHy Sae Proposgep. By Sara Claxton.

Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Eleanor Blaine.

Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Unrorp Secret. By Arabella Southworth.
Without a Heart: or, Watkine on THE Brink. By Prentiss Ingraham.
Was She a Coquette? or, A Srranar Courtsuir. By Henrietta Thackeray.
Sybil Chase: or, THE GamBier’s Wire. By Mrs. Ann §. Stephens.

For Her Dear Sake: or, Savep From Himsetr. By Sara Claxton.

The Bouquet Girl: or, A Mitiion or Money. By Agile Penne.

A Mad Marriage: or, Taz Iron Wi. By Mrs, Mary A. Dennison.

Miriana, the Prima Denna: or, Roszs anp Lives. By A. Southworth.
The Three Sisters: or, THe MysTery or Lorp CHatront. By Alice Fleming.
A Marriage of Convenience: or, Was Hr A Count. By Sara Claxton.
Sinimed Against: or, THE WINTHROP Pring. By Clara Augusta.

Sir Ar-her’s Bride: or, THE QuEEN or His Heart. By Arabella Southworth.
The Country Cousin; or, Att 1s Nor Gop Tuar Gurrrers. By Rose Kennedy
His Own Again; or, Trust Her Not. By Arabella Southworth. August 3d.
Flirtation; or, A Youne Gint’s Goop Name, \By Ralph Royal. Ready August 10,
Pledged to Marry 3; or, In Love’s Bonns, By Sara Claxton. Ready August 17th,

For sale by all Newsdealers, BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William St., N. Y.

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