$2.50 a Year. a

"Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.,as Second Class Mail Matter. Copyrighted 1879, by Baapum aD ADAMS.

January 1, 1880,

 

Published Every
Two Weeks,

 

BEADLE AND, ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

No. 98 Witi1amM Street, New York.

Complete in this Number.
Price, Ten Cents.

No. 54.

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES;

The Mystery of the Wishing Well.

BY QMARGARET. BLOUNT.

CHAPTER IT.
HAIL TO THE PRINCE,

Ir was a holiday in

England!

at morning a
Prince had been born
at Windsor—the guns
of the Tower had an-
nounced the welcome
news; and all over the
land, bells were ring-
ing, flags were flying,
cannons were booming.
All over the land were
smiling faces, gay
dresses, happy hearts,
and blooming flowers;
for it was the firsé of
reat very month,
and very day of all
others, on which a
Prince should be born.
In fact, the rejoicings
with the throne,though
quite as sincere, would
not have been one-half
so public, but for the
glorious sunny morn-
ing, which tempted
every one who could do
so to throw aside their
usual tasks, and play
the boy or girl again,
in thé green lanes and
grassy fields of the
country—nay, even in
the dusty streets of
London itself.

So, from hearth and
home, from counting-
house and office, from
workshop and furrow-
ed field, they came—
that ‘great people”
without whom ~ no
throne could long re-
joice; ‘that ‘‘ people”
whose loyalty is a part of their very being, and
who are so easily satisfied, even by a glance, or
a smile,or a word of kindly courtesy, from
those who rule them.

Of all the country shows and merry-makings,
few equaled, and none excelled, that of the lit-
tle village of Downe, in Surrey. It was a quiet
nook enough; reminding one, in its every-day
aspect, of that: pretty picture called ‘* A place
where the Railroad has not Come.” Inshrined
in the bosom of the Surrey hills it lay, a strag-
gling street of white cottages, with red-tiled
roofs and old-fashioned gardens, where the
flowers which our great-grandmothers knew
and loved still grew. The old stone church was
built upon the top of a hill at the further end of
the village; and the rectory, and the rectory
garden, sheltered modestly beneath its shade.
This church, with its rough hewn walls, its low-
roofed Poreh, and its ancient graves, was the
boast of the village. Other towns might pos-
sess a handsomer edifice, but theirs had a veri-

 

 

AT THE WISHING WELL.

table ‘‘leych-gate,” where the coffins rested
safe from the rain in the olden times. Woe to
the audacious ‘“‘improver” who should attempt
to lay a sacrilegious finger upon that lumbering,
awkward structure! The inhabitants looked
upon it much as a nobleman looks on his family
tree, or his armorial device, It was the sign-
patent of their superiority over neighboring
villages—it was the proof that whatever claims
to the beauty of antiquity other places might
possess, their claim. was better and stronger
still.

Downe was a very old-fashioned place. The
leych-gate seemed to have stayed the hand of
modern improvement—almost to have checked
the stealthy step of Time. It was a common
saying throughout the country, thatif any one
wished to live for ever they must live in Downe.
The inhabitants certainly attained toa very ad-
vanced age, and looked almost as hale and hear-
ty at seventy as at forty-five. The early hours,
the healthful habits, the simple meals of their

 

ancestors, still served
their turn; and with
the exception of some
changes in dress, the
Downe of 185- was al-
most exactly similar
to the Downe of 175-.
The actors changed
from century to cen-
tury—but the play,
with all its accessories,
was much the same.
That generation had
huzzae for Kin
George—this cheere
for Queen Victoria and
her infant son; but
there was little differ-
ence between the two,
either in the loyalty
they felt or the man-
ner in which they dis-
played it.
owne was very
faithful to all its old
traditions. The games
and sports which once
belonged to the whole
of “merry England,”
though driven out
from more enlightened
laces by mechanics’
institutes and reading-
rooms for the working
classes, still found an
honored refuge there;
and at certain periods
of the year, certain old
festivals were strictly
kept; and rustics grin-
ned through horse-col-
lars, and milkmaids
ran races in sacks, and
the harvest home was
held, and the Yule
log brought in, with
its merry-makers all
around, . May Day, therefore, being the festi-
val of nature as well as of the village, was sure
to be observed with due honor at Downe,

In fact, the preparations for the festival had
been chiefly made, when the welcome news
came of the birth of the young Prince. The
streets were already gay with flags and gar-
lands; it was a labor of love to set the bells a
ringing, and to gainer in front of the “‘ Crown
and Sceptre,” and cheer heartily in honor of the
happy event. But from that instant, the partial
hohaay became a general one. All shops were
shut, most of the houses closed, and every man
or woman who was able to get away, set off at
once to swell the procession which was to escort
the sweet May Queen to her temporary throne.

_As a matter of course, the prettiest girl in the
village had been selected by a rage committee
of the opposite sex to wear the floral crown.
There was no discussion among t.‘em upon the
subject. Every one knew nd acknowledged
that Rose Martin bore away the palm for loveli-

 
  

 

ma aon a

* ness from all the rustie belles. Nay, the
aforesaid b:lles themselves acquiesced without
@ murmur in this decision. She was a humble
cottage girl, it is true; but her beauty was so
marked, so marvelous, and so unusual, that the
most jealous eye could not have failed to pay it

homage by a passing glance of admiration. But’

luckily there were no jealous eyes to gaze upon
her that day. However stupid women may
sometimes appear in other matters, it is utterly
impossible to deceive them where -the.-heart is
concerned: and the instinctive acuteness of
those simple village girls taught them that;
though every swain in the steiguletod looked
upon that lovely face with the most intense ad=
miration, not one among the number dreamed
for an instant of playing the traitor to a plainer
lady-love for its aweet sake. Rose Martin, to
the young men of the village (with”one solitary
exception), was a sort of rustic goddess, to be
approached rather with bended knee and un.
covered head than offered hand. To the young
girls, she was no dangerous rival, but adear and
sympathetic friend. She had been the favorite
playmate of their early years, and when they
grew up together, and her childish prettiness
ripened into the beauty that attracted every
eye, the kindly tie between them all was neither
slackened nor broken by that evident fact. She

hada smile for every joy, and a tear for every
sorrow of those whom she was always glad to
call her friends ; and even the smallest child in
the village.took refuge by her side, in trouble
or in pain, as readily as at his own dear moth-
er’s knee. In one word, the wonderful beauty
of Rose was her least recommendation. She
was gentle, affectionate, sincere, and perfectly
unselfish. To please others, to make others
happy, was her constant end and aim; and
when a woman makes that the study of her life,
she may be as ugly as one of the witches of
Macbeth, and yet people love and respect her.
Rose, therefore, being beautiful, happy, kind
and good, was the most popular person in
Downe; and if the wreath of the May Queen
had been offered to any other woman, by those
whose pleasant task it was to confer the honor,
there would have been a riot in the village, in
which the belles of the place would have borne
the most conspicuous part.

At an early hour of the eventful morning,
that crown had been laid humbly at her feet by.
the committee, and afterward placed, by her
own fair hands, upon a brow which would have
graced the diadem of a far more mighty queen.
So the procession, which issued from the village
streets with a beautiful white pony walking
bert at the head, had only to escort their

iege lady to the tent erected for her especial
accommodation upon the common, where the
sports of the day were to take place.

The white horse, eayly caparisoned, and hay-
ing his bridle and headstal] deeked with flowérs,
led by his master, the young village blacksmith,
who ever and anon eyed him from head to foot,
and patted his dainty head with an air of fond
satisfaction. White Surrey himself seemed
conscious of the prominent part he wag playing
in the pageant, as he received those frequent
caresses with a whinny of delight. From head
to foot he was as white as the driven snow, and
his arching neck, and slender limbs, and proud,
impatient air, seemed more akin to the wide
desert and the Bedouin tent, than the sober and
decorous streets of Downe. His beautiful dark
eyes were full of life and intelligence, as he sur-
veyed the crowd who pressed around to admire
his silky mane and flowing tail ; his glogsy coat,
his floral decorations, and his small foofe: Hikex-
ed and polished till théy shone again in the
bright spring sun. Never had queen a more
elegant and graceful steed; never had steed a
fairer rider than the maiden who would sit upon
that gilded saddle, and hold the flower-wreathed
bridle in her gentle hand.

The procession turned down a little green
lane, which led them to the May Queen’s home.

She, too, had heard the welcome news, for
over the door of the cottage was suspended a
most tasteful device, in honor of the day. An
engraving of the Queen with the infant Prince
sf Wales in her arms was shrined by the olus-
tering ivy of the porch; around the plain gilt
frame was twined a wreath of fresh spring flow-
. ers, with the one word “ Welcome !” just beneath,
At sight of this, the erowd, who halted just out-
side the gate, cheered loudly. But when the
door opened, and the May Queen stood alone
within the porch, benéath the picture, they
cheered more loudly still. :

Well might they call Rose Martin the “ Pride
of the Downes”. She was only the child of a
day laborer, it is true; but many a nobleman’s

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

daughter would have given her éyes—and cars,
too—to possess such a face and form. She was
very tall and very slender ; and her figure, in its

| bending grace, resembled the willows that droop
; their green branches over the still surface of
| some quiet inland Jake. Her hands and feet

 

would appear upon the common to watch the

grounds at the right-hand side of the graveled

were exquisitely small; her arms beautifully
rounded, ond as white as snow; while her bust,
half vailed, half hidden by the transparent ker-
chief she wore above her velvet bodice, might
have served a painter or sculptor for a model of |
the beautiful Psyche. Her complexion was. of
that clear yet delicate hue one sees so often in
these northern isies ; fair as a lily, with a faint
touch like the tint of a rose-leaf on either cheek,
and a deeper crimson on the small half-parted
lips, that revealed, when they smiled, teeth as
small and white as fine seed pearls. The out-
line of her face was of the most delicate oval ;
the corners of her mouth drooped slightly ; so
did the arching eyebrows, the better to harmon-
ize with the large, melancholy dark blue eyes.
The golden hair fell down upon her shoulders
in a mass of glittering seal and she wore a
wreath similar to that with which she had doco-
rated the portrait of her Queen. Between those
pale spring flowers and her own delicate, pa-
thetic beauty, there was a strange and signifi-
cant resemblance, which struck the hearts of
the rudest spectators there with a feeling al-
most akin to pity and awe.

For a moment shestood alone, till the loud
shouts of welcome died away. Then a hand-
some young man of twenty-two, wearing a dress
of Lincoln green, and a bow and at at his
side, came up the path and took hor by the hand.
It was Hugh Dennet, the young blacksmith, anc
the owner of “‘ White Surrey”, her acknowl-
edged lover and chosen escort for the day.
With all his heart in his eyes, he looked at her,
she smiied faintly upon him, and let him lead
her down to the gate. White Surrey neighed
his welcome ; she mounted ; and the procession
moved away toward the wide common whicn
gave the village its peculiar name.

CHAPTER II.’
AT THE PLEASAUNCE.

While “the people” were thus celebrating the
coronation of the fair May Queen, the “ aristoc-
racy” of Downe looked on at the pageant with
half patronizing, half contemptuons smiles.
There were eager faces, it ia true, at every door
and window, as the gay procession passed
through the town, sas some of the ladies
actually waved their embroidered handkerchiefa
in token of their gracious approval of the pro-
ceedings. Later in the day, the same ladies, es-
corted by their husbands, fathers, or brothers,

daneing round the May-pole; but it would be
the extent of their participation in the festivi-
ties. They would drink the health of the Queen
and the new-born Prince at dinner that day ; but
the revels going on around them were too vul-
gar for them to share, except as distant specta-
tors; because the gardeners, and blacksmiths,
and farm-laborers of the village took an active
part therein.

As the procession turned down the broad
road that led straight from the village out upon
the common, or “Down”, the May Queen look-
ed up, with an expression of eager interest and
expectation, at a square, old-fashioned, cream-
colored howse, with porch and portico, and
green Venetian blinds, that stood in its own

footpath. It was one cf those sturdy, comforta-
ble, respectable-looking places, that suggest the
idea of wealth, and ease, and snugness, the mo-
ment the eye rests uponthem. Standing a little
way back from the road, beneath the shadow of
its immediate elms; with a flower-garden to

 

the right, and a grassy lawn and paddock on the
left; while far behind it lay the open common
and the smiling Surrey hills—it seemed a home
where the most restless spirit might be content
to fold its wings, secure of peace and happiness,
not for a time, but for ever.

But the May Queen was too yourg and too
happy to care much for the outward aspect of a
house. It is only when we are old and gray, and
searred with many wounds, that we begin to
study the appliances for comfort with which the
world is so replete, provided we have the where-
with to purchase them. In our young days it is
the inhabitants that make the house, not the
house that makes the inhabitants, by its pleas-
ures and its ease. So Rose Martin, gazing up at
the cream-colored walls and swaying trees of
the Pleasaunce, was thinking much more of
some one who dwelt there than of the place it-
self.

 

= = =

The windows of the house were all open. Up
in the atties, the servant-girls belonging to the es-
tablishment were nodding and smiling to their
friends in the procession. From the drawing.
room, three handsome ladies, whose ages rang-
ed from twenty to ve looked out and
waved their handkerchiefs, and bowed gracious-
ly to White Surrey’s gentle rider. Yet she
looked disappointed as she returned their salu-
tations. The face she had hoped to see was not
there. i

Farther on, however, by the postern gate that
led into tne grounds, she recognized the object
of her search, and her face brightened visibly.
It was not a young gentl- man, as might have
been supposed, from the glad smile and quick
blush—it was simply a young lady, who stood
with the gate half open, and leaned out to take
a better look, as the well known faces and forms
passed by.

The rustics knew her well; and the young
men made awkward bows, and the girls dropped
shy courtesies, as they passed. She acknowledged
their greetings with a graceful bend of the head ;
but her eyes were fixed upon the May Queen,
who now rode in the rear, with Hugh Dennett
in close attendance at her bridle rein. White
Surrey neighed as he reached the postern-gato ;
and the lady, stepping forward, patted his arch-
ing neck, as she looked up into his rider’s face.

Never was there a greater contrast between
two of the same bright age. The lady of the
Pleasaunce was quite as tall as the fair May
Queen, and her figure had the same slight and
willowy build. Her hands and feet were also
small and delicately made; but there all resem-
blance between the two ceased. One had blue
eyes, and golden‘hair, and perfect features, and
a complexion like blended roses and lilies; the
othe: had a round, girlish face, where every
feature seemed out of proportion to an artistic
o The forehead was very high and broad ;
the eyebrows were slight and irregularly arched ;
the nose was decidedly retroussée, the mouth
large, and, even in repose, marred by a slight-
ly sarcastic expression ; and the lower pert of
the face was too square to give promise of 1nuch
beauty of outline when the bloom of youth had

gone. ‘To contract, in a measure, these defects,
the lady had abundant braids of soft brown}
hair ; dark-gray eyes that changed their ex-

pressicn with her every changing mood ; white
teeth, and a good-tempered smile that displayed
them often enough in the course of the day.
But, with her indifferent features and indifferent
complexion, she was anything but « beauty ; and
she knew it very well.

She was by no means contented with this
knowledge. She adored beauty in every shape
and form ; and to feel that she herself was posi-
tively and undeniably ugly, was, at times, the
bitterest of mortifications. In after-years, when
beauty would have been more valuable than
pearls or precious stones to her, she felt its want
more keenly still. But even at this early age,
she gazed into the lovely face of the May Queen
with a jealous, envious, aching at her heart that
she could not or, rather, would not have put
into words.

Rose Martin was quite unconscious of the
feeling her beauty provoked. That plain face
was fairer than any other in the world to her.
Marian Moyell, the orphan cousin and despised
protégée of the ladies of the Pleasaunce, wag
still many degrees in life above the village belle.
It seemed a species of presumption in Rose te
pity or to love her; and yet she did both.

very Sunday she looked toward the Pleasuance
pew, and was rewarded by finding those dark.
gray eyes fixed steadily upon her face; each
time she passed the Pleasuance gates, she gazed
at the house, and wondered where Miss Marian
was, and what she was doing; and now, on the
day of her simple triumph, its glory would
have been tarnished, its happiness quite dimmed
and overshadowed, if Marian bad not been there
to see. Why this should be, neither she nor
the lady of the Pleasuance could very well
Bay.

“ And so,” said Marian, speaking in a low,
soft tone, “you are Queen of the May, once
more. You are Queen every year—are you
not ?”

“Yes,” said Rose, blushing and smiling at
the thought of all that her admission implied,

“They will go on crowning you, I suppose,

: z 7 »
till you are old and uely, if such a thing can.
ever be! Well, it is a fine thing to be young
and happy, and beautiful, and beloved, ag you
are! ‘To see every eye grow brighter for your

coming; to hear every voice take a lower and
gentler tone for your ear; to know that no one
ean look at or listen to you without longing to

 
é

SEE eee

look and listen again ; what a happy life Tt miuet
be to live!”

“ Fam very happy,” said Rose, looking down
into the serious uplifted face, with a doubting,
puzzled expression.

“ All the better,” answered Marian, with a
smile. “And so, fair May Queen, good-bye ;
but wear this for the sake of one of your sub-
jects, who is very loyal to your beauty, though
she may not follow in your train,”

She placed asmall morocco case in the you

| girl’s hand, opened the little postern gate, an

| was gone,

| When Rose recovered from her astonishment,
she opened the case and found a small brooch,
made in the shape of a forget-me-not, with a
twisted gold stem, and blue enameled leaves.

“How kind of Miss Marian! How generous!
How good! She is a lady, every inch of her!
She's not too proud to remember that it is Ma
TT and that we have a beautiful Queen !”

uch were some of the exclamations that re-
sounded on every side, as the pretty gift, was
displayed. Rose said nothing ; but there was a
tear in her eye when Hugh Bennett, assuming
the privilege of his position, fastened the orna-
ment upon the front of the velvet bodice which
she wore.

The procession went gayly on toward the
tents, where drums were beating, and flags were
flying to welcome the young Queen to her
floral throne. While she assumed it, triumph-
ant in her youthful loveliness, and blushing at
the praises which met her on every side, what

did ian Moyell do?

‘Lhe posteru-ygate admitted her into the pad-
dock. Crossing it by a side path, and passing
the offices, she ascended a flight of worm-eaten,
dangerous-looking, wooden steps, that led from
the court-yard up into an old store-room, long
since given over to solitude and decay by the
owners of the mansion. It was a large loft,
full of boxes, barrels, and the forgotten lumber
of many years. There was no communication
between it and the house, except by those rick-
ety steps, and the long passages, or the offices,
and no one ever cared to come near the place
except Marian ; and she, for this very reason,
often sought refuge there from the many annoy-
ances heaped upon her by her cousins. Suub-
bed, neglected, and despised though she might
be within those stately walls, she, had a place
of refuge in this old, deserted loft, which no
one ever dreamed of invading—whose very ex-
istence was unsuspected by her tormentors,
And here, in reading, in writing, in rebearsing
aloud many a scene irom her favorite, plays she
had spent hours so happy, that she looked
back upon the green old place, throughout her
after life, with yearnings of the, deepest, and
tenderest regret.

With her own hands she, had cleared away
the lumber from the centre, of the.room, and
arranged it ina most orderly fashion around
the walls. . The one window of the loft looked
out over the green paddock and. the distant
hills ; and: beside this window stood a small
round table; anda low easy:chair, betraying
the student’s favorite haunt. On one side of
he recess thus formed .were some roughly-
—— shelves, filled with books that, lad evi-
entiy seen ' very hard. service; on the otber,
hung'a picture inva tarnished gilt frame—the
ta of a young man of twenty-two, with a

ce so beautiful that it seemed a shame to hide
even the senseless canvas there. Between this
picture and: the living face of Rose Martin a
strange ‘resemblance existed. There was the
same glorious complexion—the same bright
golden hair—the features were alike, and so
were the eyes in colorind in form; though
the bold, laughing gianee of the portrait was
the exact opposite of the May Queen’s timid
look

‘Before this picture Marian paused, with a look
in which admiration and scorn were strangely
blended. ‘

“ Always the same,” she said, aloud. “ Noth-
ing but sickness, old age, or death, can take
away charms like those. Ob, why was not I
born beuutiful, that I might win every heart and
eye, a8 that. man must have done throughout

his life—as Rose Martin is doing at this very |

moment, upon her throne?”
Why, indeed ?
beautiful, the whole world would be in a flame,
and that great pivot of “business” on which it
moves would be at an utter and final stand-still.
Marian turned away with a heavy sigh.
faded robe of brocaded silk huvg over the back
of the easy-chair She threw off her bat and
acarf, and donned the once splendid garb, whose

Except that, if all were so—

pale flowers looked paler still thus displayed in
the bright glare of the sunshine. Searching in
an old chest of camphor-wood, which held many
of her trexsures, Marian found a gilt diadem and
a tinseled sceptre. She putthe crown upon her
brow, she took the sceptre in her hand, and
folding the brocaded robe around her, began to
walk up and down the loft with stately steps.
She had left the world of reality behind her.
She had gone out into the fairyland of romance,
where, for the time, she was as beautiful and as
graceful as the young May Queen herself. Ab-
sure and ridiculous enough the fancy was, I
know; but when a plain young girl can enjoy
in a reverie the happiness of a petted belle
really known, who can blame her if, for a mo-
ment, she encourages the dream ?

Alas, for poor Marian! Her lovely visions
were scared away by the most unlooked for,
the most cruel of interruptions. Just as she
saw herself, in imagination, the eynosure and
delight of every eye, she heard an unmistak-
able titter at the door, and a high, shrill voice
exclaimed : .

“Capital! capital! Oh, girls, do come here,
and look at the second May Queen! She beats
Rose Martin quite out of tle field—does she
not ?”

Crimson with rage and shame, Marian turned
round, and saw her three cousins standing in
the doorway. The titter ended in a loud, in-
sulting laugh, as she tore off her robes and
crown, and flung them, with the sceptre, pas-
sionately upon the ground,

CHAPTER III.

DREAM-LAND.
“The night is in her hair,
And giveth shade to shades
And the pale moonlight
On ber forehead white
Like a spirit’s hand is laid {
Her lips part with a smile,
Instead of speaking done j=
I ween she thinketh of a voice
Albeit uttering none !”
—E. B. Browmra.

Cervainly, it was a most embarrassing position
for poor Marian, No one likes to appear ridic-
ulous in. the eyes of others, and she was far more
sensitive to the ill-natured raillery of her cousins
than they ever dreamed. It was a species of
martyrdom to bear their stinging jokes and keen
sarcasms without flying into a rage, and de-
lighting them by showing how deeply they
pained and wounded her.

They entered the old loft with many jests and
loud laughter—three young and handsome girls,
who ought to have had more kindly consideration
for their lonely young cousin, had they paused
vo conirast her lot in life with theirs. They had
lost their, parents, it is true, but they had in-
herited the Pleasaunce, and with it fine fortunes
and a fine place in the world’s regard. The
had their stately and luxurious home, their well-
trained servants, their carriages and saddle-
horses, their beautiful dresses and magnificent
jewels; and last, but not least, their familiar
young lady friends and their devoted partners
at balls.and parties, who only wanted one word
or look of encouragement to become their part-
ners for life. On the other band, Marian was a
poor little dependant—an orphan, the seoret of
whose birth was alluded. to with a significant re-
serve—a young girl, without beauty, or. grace,
or accomplishments, whose present was not too’
bliseful, and whose future promisedia very doubt-
ful happiness, at the most. She had neither
money, friends, nor lovers. She had,but one
solace—her hour of romantic. dreaming in that
lonely room—and, now, tuey had come. to take
even that poor consolation trom her. She stood,
looking at them, with.the bitterest, hatred in her
heart,.as they flitted round the loft, examining
its old Jumber, with bursts of joyous laughter.

“ A pretty place to.stay in, upon my word |”
said Miss Moyell at last

She was a tall, dark, brilliant. beauty, whose
slightest glance looked sarcasm—whose lightest
word. spoke dislike to the lonely orphan, who
had been left’ by the strict, charge of her dying
father to her care. As she spoke, her younger
sisters, Julia and Caroline, who were twins, with
brown eyes, brown hair, and rosy cheeks, came
and leaned over the back of her. chair. | The
eyes of the three turned upon the unfortunate

arian, with the same expression of covert mirth
under which she had so often writhed before.

we retty place, upon my word !” repeated
Miss Me

 

 

oyell, slowly. “Pray, what. possesses

you to choose this dirty loft for your favorite |
retreat, when the drawing-room is ag free to |
1 You as it is to us ?”

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES, 3

“T choose this place because I like it, Nora,”
was the girl's reply.

“Indeed’ Well, you may unlike it as soon
as youcar. I shall have all this lumber stowed
away, and the place will be shut up,” said Miss
Moyell, haughtily.

Marian made a gesture of despair.

“Tt is like you,” she said, bitterly. ‘ You are
eruel and unjust in everything to me; you are
never happier than when you are making me
miserable.” 4

“How can you say euch a thing?” cried Miss
6
“ Because it is the truth, and you know it as
well as I,” said Marian, passionately. ‘ You all
hate me—every one of you. You and Caroline
are quite as bad as Nora. You never were kid
or affectionate to me in your lives, and of late
you make a mock and a jest of everything I say
or do.”

‘“Beeause you say and do such very ridiou-
lous things,” suggested Caroline.

‘For instance,” added Miss Moyell, “you
dress:yourself up in an old brocaded dressing-
gown, and strut over the floor, with a crown on

our head and a sceptre in your hand, after a

ashion that would justify any oue who cared
less for your welfare than Ido, in sending you
to Hanwell or Colney Hatch. Do you know
what other people would say if they saw such

ranks ? hy, that you were mad! And I

on’t think they would be very far wrong,
either.”

Marian sighed deeply. As ‘she listened to
this description of her appearance, the sweet
dream that had enthralled her for the moment
vanished, and she saw herself in a new light—a
_ absurd fool, who was only fit to make sport

‘or those who were wiser and better suited to
the every-day world than sbe.

_“Tssuppose you are right, Nora,” she said,
kicking aside the robe, and sceptre, and crown.
“I daresay [ am mad, if the truth were known ;
and the best thing you can do is, to buy'a cap
and bells forme at once!”

* How odd you are! Iwish yow would not
make such queer speeches, people stare so!
But I am glad 1 have made some impression on
you at last. I shall shut up this old owl's nest ;
and then, if you will only atay in the drawing-
room, and: walk out at proper times and seasous
with our maid, or the footman, behind you, and
do» crochet work, and draw, and practice your
songs—in a word, if you will behave as a re-
spectable young lady ought to do you will find
nothing to complain.of in your home. Of
course, you eannot expectius to feel for you ax-
actly as we do for each other, because you are
not a sister—you are only @ cousin; ind don’t
be burt, but you must know that the myster
about your birth makes some difference in one’s
thoughts of you.”

“Can I help that?” asked Marian, her whole
face turning crimson.

‘‘No; mo one said you could. i only men-
tioned it, because, now that we are upon che
subject, I may as well name everything. I
want to make you understand that we do not
dislike you erga as you seem to think.
If you could be more like other people, we
should get on very well together—should we
not, girls ?”

The twins assented.

“It is your, oddities that, we object to, and
that we laugh at. Now, look at the case fairly,
Marian. Tf you came into the drawing-room,
and found me masquerading in euch a dress as
that, what would you think? That I was as
mad as March hare. You could not help it.”

fs Perhaps not,”, said Marian, feeling that it
was in vain to defend herself or the visions that
had led her astray.

“ Well, then, why should you be so angry at
our laughing at you? df you could oniy see
= in one of these strange moods, Ma-
riau |”

“ Well, let. it pass, Nora! Say that I am
dull, and stupid, and odd, and mad, if you like!
But don’t shut up this old loft! My happiest
hours are spent here!”

The twins looked. at.each other.

“Such a dirty, dusty, dingy place, Lucy!”

“My dear Caroline, you know that there is
no accounting for tastes.”

Marian did not heed them, She was looking
almost in an agony of entreaty at Miss Moyell.
That young lady held in her hands a power and
a privilege which wags all the world to her cou-
sin. She could shut up the loft, and no one
could gainsay her will in so doing, if she chose
to exercise it. Marian, proud as she was, would

| almost have gone down upon her knees, to pre-

~—
&

4 ee, ka ae THE DOWNES.

vent such a catastrophe. But, happily, no Tar-
ther abasement was needed.

_* The loft shall remain as it is, sinee you de-
sire it so much,” said Miss Moyell, at last, with
the air of one who was conferring the greatest
of favors. ‘“ But only, on certain conditions—
remember that.”

_ “Oh, I will do anything, so that I may some-
times see this dear old room!’ replied Marian,
eagerly.

“ You are certainly mad; but this is neither
here nor there. So you may keep the room,
provided you only come to it when we do not
want you in the drawing-room, or elsewhere.”

ery well, Nora.”

“But we shall want you oftener than ever,
now. We are going to have a houseful of
guests. Lord and Lady Revere are coming
down to superintend the repairs at the Priory,
and they will remain with us till their own
house is ready to receive them. ‘Their nephew,
Lord Mountchayne, will also accompany them ;
and as we shall have to.ask half the county to
meet them, you will see that you must do your
best. to entertain the minor. guests, while we
amuse the Priory family, and their own, intimate
eivele of friends.”

“I will do my. best, Nora.’

“Very well. They will be here. in about ten
days. In the meantime, you must look over
your wardrobe, practice your music, and see
that the cook and housekeeper make ample
provision for the company.’ And when they are
here, you must not put on any Cindere:la airs
at home; or run. wild about the fields and
lanes, as you have done of late. In spite of the
misfortune of your birth, which .we lament. as
much as you can do, you are a Moyell; and if
you play your cards well, you may manage to
secure a rich or a titled. husband among our
many guests.”

Marian’s lip curled slightly, but she did not
answer. :

“That means, I suppose,’ said Miss Moyell,
rising, “ that you do not think it worth your
while to make the trial. “You can please your-
self as to that; but remeniber that you have
acceded to my conditions, if I leave this den of
yours untouched.”

“Twill keep my promise, Nora, never fear.”

“ We,will not trouble you with our presence
any longer. Are you going to the Common
this afternoon ?” ;

“ No.”

“What? Not to see the real Queen ?”” asked
Caroline, with a malicious smile.”

“ No.’ k 4

““ Why should she go to see a real Queen,
when she can transform: herself into an ideal
one, by the aid of a little tinsel, gold foil, anda
few yards of soiled brocade ?” asked Miss, Mo-
yell, scornfully.

“Why, indeed ?” added Lucy.

And then, witha chorus of ringing laughte:,
they swept gracefully away.

Marian gathered up the despised robes; and
hid them from her sight in the eamphor-wood
chest. Her heart. was sore: she felt wounded,
at and humiliated to the last degree. She

new well that no kindly feeling toward her—
no wish to make her happy—had prompted
that interview. The young ladies of the Pleas-

aunce did not choose to have it said that their

orphan cousin was treated unkindly by them ;
and so, before their guests arrived, the role
which she was to play was prepared for her.
Well, she would play it, and be thankful that it
was no worse! She locked the chest, and, go-
ing to the door, looked out for an instant into
the sunlit court-yard. Her face cleared and
brightened suddenly.

“Thank Heaven!” she exclaimed, “there is
one place where neither they nor any other in-
habitant of this house or village dare intrude.
And I will go there at once. While the sun is
shining. and the little birds are singing, I will
be brave enough to go to Downe Reserve !””

CHAPTER IV.
DOWNE RESERVE.
“J plant a tree whose leaf
The yew-tree leaf will suit;
t when its shade is o’er you laid,
Turn round and pluck the fruit !
Now reach my harp from off the wall
Where shines the sun aslant ;
The sun may shine, and we be cold ;
Oh, hearken, loving hearts and bold
“nto my wild romaunt— ,
Marg’ret, Marg’ret !” :
. —E. B. BRrownine.
Silence, and peace;and rest were around the
young girl, as she. went on her ‘lonely -way.
From the distant common, the sbouts of the

 

 

 

merry-makers came softened to the ear. The
| air was ealin and mild; the yellow sunlight fell
upon the trees, and shrubs, and flowers; and

eye. The blessed influence of the hour and the
place could not be lost upon a heart lire Ma-
rian’s. Unconsciously even to herself, a better
mood came over her ; her brow cleared, her eye
brightened, and she drew a long, deep breath
of exquisite enjoyment, as she gazed around.
After all, the world was very beautiful and very
peaceful ; it was not worth her while to be an-
gry, or hurt, or sad, beneath so sweet a sky and
so bright a sun as that.

lane, shadowed by old trees at its entrance, and
leading out abruptly to the brow of a steep
hill, from whenee a view of the fertile and
smiling country could be had for miles around,
Marian paused there, as she always did, to gaze
and admire. The valley immediately beneath
was a mass of luxuriant and neglected verdure.
It had once been a beautiful park, and the old
stone mansion at its furthest extremity had been
the seat of a stately aie ae home of
sweet domestic joys. Now, all was changed.
The house was in ruins—the grounds neglected
and deserted—the estate itself laid out in fields
and farms that stretched away to the right and
the left, to the north and south, as far as the eye
could reach. These fields, lying in brown fur-
rows, and dotted here and there with modest
homesteads, and groups of barns, contrasted
strangely with the gloomy waste from which
they took their name. They were the “‘ home
farms” of Downe Reserve — pleasant, prosper-
ous, and happy dwelling-places enough. But
Downe Reserve itself was a place to be spoken
of in whispers — to be avoided by every one —
to be passed at nightfall with quick footsteps
and bated breath, as one might pass a lonely
churchyard, where strange sights had been seen,
and strange sounds heard, by many a belated
traveler. ;

Sights and sounds enough had been seen and
heard at Downe Reserve, if one might credit
the tales that were rife among the village people.
It was scarcely to be wondered at, for the place
had borne an evil name for many a year. The
hamlet of Downe (so called from the wide com-
mons or downs which stretched away on every
side) had sprung into existence in the time of
Henry the Eighth. The bluff monarch had
hunted many a time in'the adjacent forests ; and
condescending to accept the hospitality of a sub-
ject, when weary of the chase, had reposed at
a little hunting-lodge, just beyond the com-
mons, the property of Sir Francis Beaufort, lord
of the manor, and (I had almost said) lord of
the people as well.

The house which had been honored by a mon-
arch’s visit was, in due course of time, enlarged
and embellished till it became a stately man-
sion, fit for the seat of the noble family to whom
it belonged. In after years, Queen Bess was
welcomed there by another Sir Francis Beau-
fort ; and the royal lady, pleased with the mag-
nificence of her entertainment, and struck by
“the seclusion and quiet of the place, suggested
to her handsome host, as they paced the moon-
light terrace together, that, as he had rescued
the place from the waste lands of the common
on one side, and from the increasing hamlets on
the other, if should be called ‘The Lodge” no
longer, but rather ‘‘ Downe Reserve”. To hear
was to obey, when such lips pronounced a wish
or a command ; and the estate was re-christened
at once by its quaint and novel name.

Year after year passed away. The gallant
cavalier’ who paced that terrace, hat in hand,
beside his queen, was dead and gone — the
Queen herself was but dust— and Downe Re-
serve entertained no more guests of royal blood
Within its hospitable halls. There was feasting
and gayety enough there, however, and ladies

the terrace, with more than one handsome ecav-
alier in attendance.

were bridals in the old church, christenings injthe
great hall, coffins carried down the long avenue

of life, of love, and of death, that is played,
day after day, in the highest, as in the lowest,
homes of the land. But through all these
changes, one thing unchanged was noticed.
Many a bride came to Downe Reserve; yet
from each marriage sprung only a son and heir.
There was always a Sir Francis Beaufort to
succeed his father—but never ason or daughter
| more. And an old village tradition, which every
' Beaufort, as well as every cotter’s child knew
by heart, ran thus ;

 

|

the sky above was as blue and as mild asa baby’s |

« When Downe Reserve shall lack its heir,
Shime and remorse will linger there!
With flower on tomb, and moss on stone,
Many a year will have come and gone!
Then the dark clouds will clear away,
And a fairer hand will take up the sway !
Fair hand ! steel glove ! not long they reign !
Clouds and storms will gather again !
* * * -.

*
Then comes the fairest ! Who would not serve?
All hail to the Ladye of Dewne Reserve '

It was a mysterious prophecy ; but it con-

*

| cerned none of the Beauforts for many a gener-

 

to the family vault—the same drama, ina word, |

in farms.

ation, so they could afford to jest and make
merry with its grim predictions. It was a pe-

i : : : : | euliar subject. of mirth to the Sir Francis
PEER NC hie ent | Beaufort who lived at Downe Reserve during

the reign of George the Fourth. Tall, fair,
blue-eyed, and golden-haired, like all his race,
he possessed so much of the traditional beauty
of the house, that he was known at the Court
by the nick-name of “Handsome Sir Frank”,
and petted and made much of by those fair
dames, some of whom, if we may credit histori-
cal traditions, were not very much better than
they should have been. Handsome Sir Frank
was also gay Sir Frank—gambling, drinking,
betting Sir Frank; and if all the tales weretrue,
the life of his lady could not have been a very
happy one. Poor thing! she was neither beau-
tiful, wise, witty, nor agreeable. She was only
rich, and for her money the dissipated baronet
had married her! She staid quietly at Downe
Reserve while Sir Francis was amusing himself
in London — a. pale-faced sad-looking lady,
whose whole existence seemed wrapt up in that
of her son and heir—a boy of about six years of
age.

ON ever was there a child more carefully watch-
ed and tended ; never a child that better repaid
such excessive care. He was as beautiful as a
dream, and as pure as an angel—fit rather for
heaven than for earth, his poor mother used to
think, as she watched over him with her trem-
bling love. And to heaven he went For lean-
ing over the lake within the grounds, one day,
to watcb the sailing of his little boat, he sud-
denly lost his balance and fell in. His agoniz-
ed mother sprang to the spot—her screams soon
brought assistance ; but it was too late! When
they laid him upon the bank, with his little ship
in his hand, he was dead. Lady Beaufort was
borne senseless to the house. She never recov-
ered from that stupor ; andthe next day mother
and child were lying in state together, and Sir
Francis, summoned from his revels in London,
was weeping and wailing at their feet.

The first part of the prophecy was thus ful-
filled. Downe Reserve at last “lacked its
heir” ; and the simple villagers were all on the
qui vive, to know what dire catastrophe was to
follow. They had not long to wait. The place
of Lady Beaufort was soon filled by a tall,
stately woman of thirty, who bore her title, and
occupied her rooms—but who was not to be
visited! The country magnates gave this de-
cision with looks of shocked propriety, speak-
ing of her not as Lady Beaufort but as “ that
creature”. And so Downe Reserve had, for the
first time, a mystery within its walls.

Four years passed away. “ Lady Beaufort”
never ventured beyond her own wide domain,
and her existence was almost forgotten. Sud-
denly the village was startled by a most unex-
pected and mysterious event. A stranger ar-
rived late one evening at the “ Beaufort Arms”,
He was a dark, handsome man, apparently about
forty years of age, very silent and reserved,
perhaps a little baughty in his manner. He
alighted from his horse, desired that it might be
cared for, asked the way to Downe Reserve, and
set off for that place on foot. He never return-
ed. And when the landlord, after the lapse of
three days, went, with some fear and trembling,
to ask his pleasure concerning his horse, and
the portmanteau left with it, he found the Hall

far fairer than Queen Bess walked up and down | nat py andoaiieee ann Sam ecevents

gone. Nota living thing was to be seen upon

| the i
Hearts were lost and hands | eer

were won within those leafy bowers. There _

The next week, the family solicitor came down
and made arrangements for selling the estate,
Sir Francis, he said, was about to
take up his residence abroad. slereupon, the
landlord began to tell his tale. The solicitor
heard him through, turned a little pale, took
snuff, and mused a little while.

‘Lady Beaufort’s brother, no doubt,” he said,
at last. “He went abroad with them.. They
are all eccentric—and you may as well keep the
horse, landlord, but give the portmanteau te
me, and I will send it to him, and mention the
animal at the sanre time ”

The untouched portmanteau was given up;
and the lawyer went back to town. In a few

 

 

 
 

 

 

.

weeks he wrote to say that the landlord might
keep the horse for his trouble ; and that the
former owner was with his sister in Italy. The
estate was parceled out into farms—tenants |
were speedily found—and the house was left |
alone, to go to rack and ruin as it might.

Over all these strange doings the villagers
wondered and pondered with puzzled heads.
By and by came a fresh report from the desert-
ed house. ‘ Downe Reserve” was haunted !
Cries and moans were heard there at nightfall
— lights were seen in the windows, and at mid-
night a woman sometimes stood at the great
hall-door, wringing her hands and beckoning to
the passers-by. Of course, on seeing her, they
took to their heels as fast as possible. No ove
was found courageous enough to face the ghost,
and solve the mystery of its appearance, and
by degrees the place was shunned by young and
oid alike. In all the village no one would have
been found brave enough to go there alone,
even by daylight, except Marian Moyell. And
I doubt if her courage would have stood the
test of the lone midnight hour, and the weep-
ing woman at the door.

She was not thinking of the ghost as she
stood looking down upon the quiet valley that
pleasant May morning.” A verse of an old
hymn was in ber mind. By and by she sang it
in a low, sweet voice, that suited the quaint air
better than a more powerful one would have
done:

“* Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood,
Stand dressed in liying green—

So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between.”

“Wo rolling flood here, however, unless. the
Jake where that poor little child was drowned,
may stand in its piace,” she said, an instant
after. ‘But how fair and calm it is! Iwill go
down and drink at the Wishing Well.” _

She went down the steep hill. At its foot,
rose the park-wall of Downe Reserve. From
that wall a stone arch projected—sheltering and
covering a small spring that filled a rocky basin
beneath, and then trickled away in a silver
rivulet to the lake within the grounds. Above
the arch was carved, in quaint old letters, the
legend : p

‘*.Wishe, ladye, before thatte ye drinke:

* itt shalle be yours, the thynge thatte ye thinke.”

A broken rusty chain dangled from the wall,
but the cup it had once supported was gone:
Marian paused a moment, and wished her wish
aloud.

“If that portrait in my study would but come
to life, and love me!”

She took some water in the hollow of her
hand and drank three times. Then flinging the
last drops in the air, she left the well, and walk-
ed round to the great gates of Downe Reserve.

CHAPTER V.

AN APPARITION.
® Sittecn the fair lady
Close to the river side,
Which runneth on with a merry tone,
Her merry thoughts to guide.
Tt runneth through the trees,
It runneth by the hill,
Nathless the lady’s thoughts have found
A way more pleasant still,
Marg’ret, Marg’ret.”
—E. D. Brownina.

The gates were closed—the locks were rusty,
and had not been unfastened for many a year.
But Marian knew well enough how to find the
entrance. Lower down, the park wall, with its
jagged iron spikes, gave place to a quickset
hedge, through whose tangled intricacies she
had crept many a time before. She made her
way through now, at the expense of a scratch
on her face, and a rent in her dress, for both
which mishaps she cared so little that she never
gave them a second thought. The passage was
iorced, the refuge gained, and all else was for-
gotten,

The simple denizens of the village, seeing her
within those grounds, would have set her down
as a maniac, if nothing worse, because of the
undeniable ghost which was known to inhabit
the premises. So would her cousins, the fash-
ionable owners of the Pleasaunce. They, how-
ever, professed a disbelief in such vulgar things

‘as ghosts They would have classed Marian |
among the race of lunatics, not because of the |
apr ehh but because she chose to spend her ,
holiday—that universal holiday—in a melan-_

choly old park, where she could see or be seen
by no one, rather than repose on the gay,
bright common, where the games were going
on, and where scores of gentlemen and ladies
in fine dresses were walking up and down,
looking at each other, and at the villagers as |
they played.

 

| from an old well behind the house.
| seared you to death by my abrupt appearance,

THE, PRIDE, OF THE, DOWNES.

!

Tt was, perhaps, a singular taste that led the
young girlto prefer the delicious stillness of |
the solitary lanes, and the mournful quiet of |
the neglected park, on sucha day as that; but
those who with her had learned to look upon, |
the face of nature in her most secret and most
lovely haunts, will sympathize with and under- |
stand that feeling.

She was unhappy enough already to be
soothed by the quiet of those secluded shades.
Her nature was full of minor chords that thril!-
ed often and again to the coarse and careless
touches of those with whom her daily life was
passed. She was an orphan over whose birth
lingered a mystery that was of itself almost a
suspicion of guilt and shame—a dependent |
without hope of future independence—a butt
and laughing-stock to her more fortunate cous-
ins—an oddity to the guests at the Pleasaunce
—and a plain, if not an ugly, young lady to
the world at large. The consciousness of all
these things gave her pain, made her shy, awi-
ward, and apparently cold—made her happier
in the companionship of trees, and flowers, and
dumb animals, than in that of human beings
who watched her with wondering eyes, and of-
ten with smiles of intense amusement, that
made her long to rush away and hide herself
from their scrutiny forever. And this was the
reason why she was “ odd”, “foolish, and crazy
enough”, as her cousins expressed it, to prefer,
on this gala-day, to the merry-making on the
common, the deep gloom, the haunted precincts
of Downe Reserve.

She passed up the wide avenue, laying her
hand now and then caressingly upon an old
tree, or stooping to examine and praise a wild
flower aloud, as if they had been living oe tke
eapable of feeling and understanding what she
did and said. The house stood just before her
—a melaucholy-looking square stone mansion,
with its long flight of steps overgrown with
moss and weeds—its shuttered windows looking
like blank, closed eyes, and its stacks of orna-
mental chimneys falling into ruin brick by
brick. The lawn was covered with rank grass
and nettles ; the flower-garden was one unsight-
ly mass of weeds ; the walks and terraces were
overrun with underbrush, which formed a young
plantation of itself.

While Marian stood gazing at the desolate
spot, and wishing she could find an entrance
into the barred and bolted house, she suddenly
spied a square black book lying half open up-
on the lawn, With her head full of all sorts of
legends of ghostly MSS. discovered in haunted
houses by such adventurous wayfarers as her-
self, she ventured to take it up and examine its
contents. As she did so, she gave a start of
unaffected surprise. It was no mysterious MS.,
but a commonplace sketch-book, and the first
thing that met her eye was a hasty but well-ex-
ecuted drawing of herself, standing at the
Wishing Well, and throwing the water over her
shoulder, while beneath were traced the words
which she had uttered at the time about the
picture that hung in the old loft at the Pleas-
aunce, She dropped the book as if it had
burnt her fingers What could this mean?
Who had seen her at the Wishing Well ?
Above ali, who had heard those foolish words,
and preserved them there, to her utter confu-
sion and dismay ?

“t was inaeeis q aestion to Le asked very se
riously, but with small prospects of a satisfac-
tory answer. However, as she stood musing
over the problem, a light step sounded ow the
lawn behind her, and a gay voice said: “ Well,
young lady, you come just in time to give me a
sitting, which is a greater piece of good fortune
than I deserve.”

Marian turned abruptly, Her first impulse,
on recognizing the artist, was to run away.
One look at him, however, left no feeling but
mute surprise in her mind ; and clasping her
hands, she gazed at him so earnestly that he
could not refrain from answering her look with
a saucy smile.

“What is it, lady fair?” he asked, putting
down the cup of water which he had just brought
“ Have I

or turned you into stone?

“The picture!” said Marian, in a low voice,
without removing her eyes from his fac
_ “What picture?” The one I had the audac-
ity to sketch half an hour ago ?”

‘No, the picture in the study,” she said, in
the same low tone, turning half away from him
as she spoke. :

“ And about which you wished ?” he said, with
& quick bright smile.

 

“ Yes.”

“ What of if-?”

“ You are like—oh, so like!”

The young artist sprang forward, and took
her by the hand, with a profound obeisance.

“You wished a wish about that picture fair
lady. What if it has been granted?”

His light, langh and mocking tone dispelled

| the strange fancy that had been lingering an

instant in Marian’s mind.
“No,” she said quietly, “you are not the

‘picture; you are only very like it. It is

strange.”
“Ts the picture handsome ?” :
“The most beautiful thing I ever saw in the

' whole world,” she answered earnestly.

The young man colored like a girl—laughed,
and shook back his beautiful golden hair.. The
compliment was not undeserved, for he really
was like the portrait. He was tall and slender,
with a natural ease and grace of manner that
suggested patrician birth and gentle breeding
to the most careless observer. His forehead
was dazzlingly white and fair, and shaded by
golden curls as soft and fine as floss silk. His
eyes were large and blue, laughing and spark-
ling in their liquid light, with his every passing
thought. His cheeks were tinted with a deli-
cate peach-like bloom, his mouth was small and
beautifully formed, his teeth like pearls, and
nis chin rounded and dimpled like that of ‘the
God of Love himself. The dark blue shooting-
jacket and straw hat which he wore gave
no clue to his nank or circumstances; but
the blue silk handkerchief knotted under his
collar was fastened with an oriental pearl. of
great size and purity, and a diamond of the first
water blazed upon his small white hand.
Wherever he might go, whatever he might do,
it was impossible to mistake the gentleman.
Even in his free-and-easy address to Marian,
there was a natural courtesy of manner that
prevented her from feeling alarmed or taking
offence. Noticing all these little things, and
looking at his beautiful face with most admir-
ing eyes, she felt a strong curiosity to know
who he was, what he was doing there, and
above all, how he came to have her picture in
that sketch-book of his.

Perhaps her thoughts were written upon hes
expressive face—perhaps he guessed ees by
intuition. At all events, he. said . frankly;
“Come, though we have met as strangers in
this ont-of-the way place, let us part as friends.
Tam but an idle young dog of an artist, it is
true, but I hope I know how to behave proper-
ly to a lady when by chance she favors me
with her pleasant company. If you are. in na
great hurry to go, pray give me a sitting of ten
minutes, that J may. finish this picture more
carefully, and I shall feel eternally obliged to
you.”

As he spoke, he offered her his hand, with a
low _bow, and led her toward the stone steps.
Marian hesitated but a moment. A thought of
what her cousins, as, well.as Mrs. Grundy would
say, certainly did flash, through her mind, but
it was banished the next instant. After all, it
was.@ very simple and. innocent request, and
there could not be the smallest harm in grant-
ing it, perseietiy since no one would ever know
that she had done so, unless. she was stupid
enough to. tell them. So she. sat down, took
the attitude which he desired, and amused her-
self by watching the passing clouds, the shad-
ows upon the park, and the face of the painter,
while, with the most praiseworthy diligence,

oP os up his pencil and went on with the

CHAPTER, VI.
THE DAWN OF LOVE.

“ The lady’s shadow lies
Upon the running river ;
It lieth no less in its quietness
For that which resteth—never,
Most like a trusting heart
Upon a passing faith ;
Or as, upon the course of life,
The steadfast doom of death,
Marg’ret, Marg’ret !”
—E. B. Brownina.
It did not take very long to finish the picture.
The young artist worked with a will, and laid
down, his pencil, at last, with an air of satisfac-
ion.
* Really, it looks very well,” he said, and held
up the book for Marian's inspection, ol
She looked at it with a shy smile. All the
accessories to the scene were portrayed faithful-
ly enough—the green lane, the overhanging
trees, and the arched stove. well, with its broken
— : But ne came the grace and ewe
in the-form and face of the girl who paused to
drink? Was it possible other eyes aaw her like
6

 

 

this? while her own descried nothing but ugli-
ness, and awkwardness, and other defects equal-
ly eae

“Well, do you like it?” asked the artist,
looking a little disappointed at her long silence.

“Very much, indeed. It is wonderfully well
done. But I think you have idealized tue fig-
ure a little.”

“No,” he said, with perfect seriousness, as he
gave some last touches to the sketch; “I am
thoroughly honest ; I never flatter, either with
my pencil or my lips. I have drawn you as
you are.”

“But I am so ugly; and that picture is al-
most good-looking!” blurted out poor Marian,
turning scarlet the next instant at the speech.
She had thought aloud without meaning it, and
was ready to run away and hide herself, when
those beautiful blue eyes turned upon her with
a glance of grave surprise.

The young man did not laugh, however, as
she had feared he would. Beautiful people
sometimes seem possessed with the most kindly
feelings toward others not so fortunate as them-
selves ; and the artist understood the hopeless,
timid speech, almost better than Marian, if such
a thing were possible. ,

“You are not ugly,” he said. ‘Who has
told you so?”

“My cousins, very often.”

“Dont you believe them in future. An art-
ist’s word ought to be good for ae and
I give you mine, that your face, though by no
means handsome, is at least striking, express-
sive, and pleasing: A painter would choose

ou for his subject before a regiment of pink
and white dolls, with set smiles and unmeaning
eyes. But I suppose that does not content you.

ou would rather have been a pink and white
doll, I dare say ?”

“That I should!” said Marian, so frank!
that he burst out laughing. “Yes; it is all
very well for you to laugh,” she went on, with a
sigh. “Nothing can take from you, or from
Rose Martin your blue eyes, your golden hair,
and your delicate complexions—nothing except
sickness or death. And nothing ean give these
things to me—not even sickness or death. Ah!
beauty is beautiful all the world over, and I
woth rather have Rose Martin’s faee than Queen
Victoria's crown, any day !”

“Who is this Rose Martin, pray ?” asked the
— shutting up ‘his book and looking inter-
ested,

“The most lovely girl in the village—in the
world, I wis going to say. She is the May
Queen; and if you want'a pleasing picture for
your book, you had’ better tear that thing out,
and go and sketeh her upon White Surrey, as
she rides home this evening.”

“ And what if I prefer keeping ‘that thing’,
as you are kind enough to call it, to wie
every May Queen in the kingdom? What if
would rather stay here with you, than to go off
in the hot sun to see White Surrey and his rider ?”

Marian sighed, and smiled, and turned away
her head. :

“ You may think so now; but after you have
seen Rose Martin it will be quite different.”

“ Miss: Rose Martin may go to Jericho, crown,
sceptre, White Surrey, and all, for aught I care,
so you are kind enough to. bear me company
here,” was the decisive reply. “I know one
thing—I am tremendously hungry. There goes
twelve o’clock. Are you ravenous too?”

“Not very. But I ought to be going home.
Every one is out.”

“Let them stay out then, with my hearty
blessing!” said the young man, springing to his
feet. “ You must not go till you’ have shared
my harmless fare. I am too much of an Eng-
lishman to take a long walk without providing
for my creature comforts at its end, I can prom-
ise you. Sit where you are for an instant, lad
fair, and you'shall see what you shall see.”

He darted around the corner again, and re-
turned in a few minutes, bearing a smal) leather
satchel, which he deposited upon the ground at
her feet.

“A true beggar’s wallet—a bag like old Edie-
Ochiltree’s,” he said, opening it, and displaying
some very tempting-looking sandwiches, the
half of a cold fowl, a knife and fork, a drinking-
eup, and a wieker-cased bottle. “Here is no
plate; my dear lady, but at least we need not
eat with our fingers, thanks to the knife and
fork. What shall I have the pleasure of help
ing you to?”

my will take a sandwich.”

“And a fragment of ehicken, [hope. There,
now, you look comfortable.”

 

“ Oh, even an artist cares little for romance,
when his dinner is in question. There is some
fine old sherry ; will you have a glass?”

“T should prefer water.”

“ You have only to command, and J obey.”

He took the drinking-cup, and brought it
back in an instant, filled to the brim.

“Pray, have you a storehouse behind these
old ruins?” asked Marian, laughing. « Each
time I have seen you disappear around the cor-
ner, you have returned with your hands full.”

“There is a well at the back, and I hid my

provisions there out of sight, so that they might | c
_ the thing, merely as an adventure, that she felt

not make me hungry before the proper time. I
little thought then that I should have so fair a
guest at the banquet. Let me give you a little
more chicken.”

He made a plate of a sandwich, carved a slice
from the breast of the fowl, and offered it with
playful gallantry upon bended knee.

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

 

7 =

some wax tapers in my pocket; they will give
light enough for our purpose, and we shall have
the satisfaction of knowing that we have done
what no one else in Downe has dared to do.

, Will you come ?”

Marian hesitated a moment: a dim notion of
the impropriety of the proceeding shocked her,
while its romance was the strongest of tempta-
tions. If Francis Beaufort had been older in

| appearance or in manner, she might have re-

fused ; but he was such a boy—so free from ev-
ery thought of wrong or harm—so intent upon

angry with herself for looking upon it in any
other light. Add to this, that the first fond
fancy of the girl was working at her heart, mak-

| ing everything he did or said seem right in her

:
“Tf my cousin Leonora were to see you now !”

said Marian.

“‘Leonora—what a pretty name!
she?”

‘* Miss Moyell, of the Pleasaunce.”

The artist rose to his feet with a look of gen-
uine surprise,

“Indeed! And may I ask your name?”

“T am Marian Moyell.”

“Of the Pleasaunce also ?”

“ Yes.” .

“Thanks! I suppose I ought to return eon-
fidence for confidenee. My name is Francis—
Francis Beaufort.”

Marian started.

“ Why, that is the family-name of the owners
of Downe Reserve !”

“ Yes.”

; ‘a And the old legend—have you ever heard
t Md

“Often. But I am not the missing heir; I
wish I was. I am only a distant relation of the
old Beauforts—a descendant of one of the fami-
lies into which they married ; so that unless I
am lucky enough to find the fair lady spoken of
in the last part of the legend—and luckier still
in inducing her to love me—I shall never reign
at Downe Reserve.”

“There are two ladies spoken of in the le-
gend,” said Marian, musingly.

“I know. Am to choose between them?
Then I will take the last, because, if I remem-
ber rightly, she is to be the fairest,”

Marian ceased to smile.

‘« Always the same,” she said, bitterly. “A
fair face before everything else. It is the way
with the world, and with you.”

“Good gracious! how sensitive you are, if
even my light jesting about a lady who may be
born centuries after I am in my grave, can pain

ou! How foolish of you, Marian !”

“Tt is foolish, I know; and yet the mere
thought makes me sad,” she said, looking up
into his face, wiih eyes that told far more than
she knew. Men are made up in equal parts
of vanity and self-coneeit, and the artist was not
proof against the unconscious flattery of her
words and glance.

“You need not make yourself uneasy,” he
said, in a tone that brought the warm blood to
her cheeks, ‘You havea prior claim to my
regard, by reason of the words we spoke an
hour or two ago, at the Wishing Well.”

Marian did not answer. All her life long her
dream had been of one true heart to love her.
Was that dream about to be made real? Would
this bright and beautiful creature ever be hers,
to have and to hold at her own will and pleasure,
till death came to part them ?

She sat pondering over her new-born wishes
and hopes, while her companion, having finish-
ed his meal, threw away the fragments upon the
grass, and placed his satchel beside his sketch-
book. Having thus disposed of all encum-

Who is

brances, he turned to her with a look of boyish |

fun in his sparklin
“©Maid Marian,
“ What is. it?”
“Were you ever inside this old house ?”
“ Oh, no!”

eyes.
have such an idea!”

“Then you shall be to-day; that is, if you

choose.”

“ What do you mean?”

“*T ain sure that some of these bolts and bars
must be as weak as a willow twig. I will try
them, at all events. If we eau get in through a
window—”

“The house is as empty, and dark, and silent
as a tomb,” said Marian, looking half-frighten-
ed and half-pleased at the proposal.

“We shall be able to fill it, I think, and could

“And romantio,” said Marian, slyly, as she’ ‘make noise enough to scare away a hundred

eat her sandwieb.

ghoste, if hey were there. For the rest, I have

 

| eyes, and it will be understood that it was not

long before her consent was given to the esca-
ade.
“What a capital girl you arei not a bit of

| nonsense or affectation about you !” said Francis,

joyfully. ‘*Come along, and we will soon find
our way into the old shell.”

They sought in vain for an entrance in front :
every door and window was still securely closed.
But at the back, the shutters of a small window
were hanging so loosely, that two or three vig-
orous, united pulls brought them down in a
hundred pieces on their heads.

“Are you hurt, Marian ?” asked the artist,
anxiously, when the first shock of the accident
was over.

“No,” she answered, stoutly, wiping the dust
and dirt from her face.

“ All right, then ; it will be much easier tham
I thought. Can you climb?”

“Like a eat.” .

“Bravo! You ought to have been a boy,
and we would have gone to sea together, some
fine day. Let me go first.”

He climbed up the rough stones, and shook
the rotten frame of the window, till it fell inward
with a crash. Then leaping lightly in, he held
out his hand to Marian, who had begun the as-
cent alone.

“What lark! Take care how you step!
Now, in you come; and don’t tread on the
broken glass.”

There was a short pause—a sharp scrateh,
that made Marian start in the darkness, though
she knew very well what it was; then the wav-
ering flame of a match, kindled into the steadier
flame of a small wax taper, and they were safe
within the walls of the haunted house. -

CHAPTER VII.
MY LaDY’S CHAMBER.
«Face to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw

her—
olen she, and Ionly! There I sate down to draw

Soul through the clefts of confession !
Speak! I am holding thee fast,
As the angels of resurrection
Shall do it at the last!
“My cap is blood-red
With my sin,’ she said ;
‘ And I pour it out to the bitter lees,
As if the angels of judgment
Stood over me strong at the
Or as thou wert as these”
—E. B, Brownine.
The peculiar situation in which the young ar-
tist and his companion found themselves would
have proved a more difficult and embarrassing
one had either felt nervous or afraid. Marian’s
heart beat a little quicker, and the blue eyes of
Francis glanced sharply on every side. Neither
of them thought for a moment of retreating.
‘Lhe window through which they had forced
an entrance admitted them only into a dark and
narrow passage, with an oaken door at the far-
ther end. The fastenings of this door, resisted
their united strength fora long time. At last,
with a desperate tug, the iron latch gave way,
the door fell back with a heavy clang, and a
rush of cold, damp air came full in their faces,
a extinguished the taper which Francis car-
ried.
“Adventure No. 1,” said Marian, quietly.
“ Have you any matches ?” :
“ Plenty. hat a trump you are, Marian!

Bins

| Any other girl would have screamed the roof of

| the house off,” he said, lighting the taper again,

and looking at her with a glance of unmistakable
admiration.

A lovely color suffused her cheeks. It was
go sweet to be praised by him, that if a whole
regiment of ghosts had Jaid hands upon her then
and there, she would secareely have uttered a
ery. Thus, even among the rooms of that de-
serted home, the flower of young love was bleom,
ing, and the gardener kuew it net

e

 
&.

a

 

 

The taper lit, they looked around. They
stood in the great banqueting-ball, where King
Harry and Queen Bess had feasted in their time.
‘he’ tapestry that huog upon the walls was tat-
tered and faded, and the family portraits ranged
on high were covered with spiders’ webs, and
damp green mould, so that not a single face
could be seen. A few gilded chairs were ranged
at the lower end of the board, and a silver flag-
on, black with age, was lying on the floor. The
lips that touched it last had been mouldering
in the grave for many a year.

“ Let us go,” said Francis, with a slight shud-
der. “I hate your banqueting-halls, where the
guests are only shadows or ghosts. What #
great, melancholy, dreary place it is! Ido not
wonder that my namesake found it unendura-
ble.”

“I wonder why he went so suddenly away,”
said Marian, lingering in the hall.

“‘ How can I tell? Come, let us go up the
stairs.”

They were many in number, very broad and
wide, but so close together that it was quite an
exertion to ascend them.

“Tt puts me in mind of my entrance into the
great Pyramid,” said Francis, pausing half-way
up. “O Marian! how I should like to take
you up there! Only two ladies ventured in,
and I think they were glad enough to get out
again. Imagine yourself in a dusty, dark, nar-
row stone passage on a broiling day, with two
Bedouins pulling you by the arms; two more
pushing you from behind, two more holding
wretched little candles not half so large as this,
anda body-guard of a baker’s dozen shouting
in your ear, ‘Wallah! Wallah! Backsheesh
very good! English backsheesh very good!’
or some such horrible doggerel, till you feel as
if you were going mad. Imagine yourself now
pushed down a slippery step; then dragged up
an inclined plane, by steps cut in the rock;
then iepahdene sideways through perilous passa-
ges, where you hear; or fancy you hear, the
dripping of water two or three hundred feet be-
low you; then bent double, and pushed, and
hauled, and screamed at for about five minutes,
till you emerge dusty, heated, torn, perspiring,

j deafened, and bewildered, in a great square
chamber, where something like a stone wine-
cooler is standing—the chamber of the Pyra-
mid! By George, it makes me hot to think of
it even now; and of those raseally Bedouins,
Hamet and Abdallah, who stuck to me like

_ leeches, for more backsheesh, till the sheikh of
the village took compassion on me and came to
my aid. Yet, after all, it was worth the trouble
and the vexation to see that wide desert, those
solemn Pyramids, the Bedouin tents, the graz-
ing camels and buffaloes, the beautiful Nile, and
the blue Egyptian sky !’’

Marian, leaning against the oaken balustrade,
gazed eagerly in his face as he spok. Her vivid
fancy pictured the scene as he described it; it
was almost like being on the spot in person, to
hear him talk. A sigh broke from her lips, and
recalled him from the reverie into waich he had
unconsciously fallen. He could not help smil-
ing as he looked at her rapt face, and then
glanced around the place where they stood.

_ “We did not come here to talk of Egypt, I
think,” be said dryly.

“Oh, tell me more! All my life long I have
had a dream of the East—the land of the Arab-
ian Nights!” f

“Yes, I read them again in Cairo and Alex-
andria, and only had to look out of my window
to see all the people in the book, walking up
and down the streets. But never mind them
to-day. I will tell you more of Egypt another
time ; but now we must look farther into the
mysteries of Downe Reserve,”

As he spoke, a soft, sigh sounded audibly
enough beside him. He looked at Marian, and
saw that she had heard it too.

“The wird,” she said. And again the sigh
was repeated, but louder than before. Some
sudden impulse made them grasp each other
firmly by the hand.

“« We will go on?” said Francis, interrogative-
ly, and Marian answered very practically, by

‘ascending another step.

At the top of the stairs were the saloons and

the withdrawing rooms—untouched, as to their |

costly decorations, save by the hand of Time.
But that had been busy enough. The polished
wax floors were dull and black ; the great mir-
rors were cracked, and dim with dust ; the gilt
cornices were tarnished ; the bright colors of
the velvet chairs and sofas had faded to a dull
brown hue; and the toy French clocks, that
Were scattered up and down the room in great

THE

PRIDE OF THE

 

profusion, had all stopped at one hour, exactly
apon the stroke of twelve.
This arrested Marian’s attention.

French clocks were wound up together, set at
the same hour, and left standing side by side,
they would all get wrong again within thirty
minutes. Now, here are one, two, three—eight
clocks in all, and every one points to the same
hour.”

“So did the great clock on the stairs,” re-
plied Francis. ‘TI noticed as I passed, that it
was upon the stroke of twelve.”

It was a simple remark, and yet Marian turn-
ed pale, and he felt a cold thrill run through his
veins at seeing it. Why had those clocks all
stopped to an instant ?

They left the grand saloons, and went up the
next flight of stairs. Here they found the sleep-
ing-rooms of the house opening out of a long
gallery, and all furnished ‘alike, with hangings
of dark green moreen, that now looked ‘black, as
if the undertakers had been there. ©The: doors
all stood wide open, so that)they: could» see
them faintly by the taper’s light as they passed:
But the last door, atthe end of the gallery, was
closed.

‘We will go in here,” said Francis.

Again that quivering sigh sounded plainly in
their ears, as they lifted: the latch. © Marian
grew nervous, half expecting to see some hor-
rible thing within,

But they only found themselves in a lady’s
boudoir, farnished with softly-cushioned’ chairs
and sofas, and tables covered with delicate knick-
nacks, such as women love to see. ‘There were
small volumes bound in silk and gold; there
were crystal bottles with jeweled stoppers;
there were fans of carved ivory, boxes of sandal-
wood, caskets of pearl and ebony, and a thou-
sand other trifles that would serve to while away
an idle hour, The room had but one window ;
and within the recess formed by the velvet'eur-
tains, stood a low chair and a small table of
ebony and gold. Beside the chair, and upon a
silken cusion, lay a lute, a manuscript song,
and a bouquet of dead, dry flowers.

This, then, had been the boudoir ‘of’ the last
Lady Beaufort, and these were the objects upon
which her eyes had rested for many and many
aday. Marian looked round with great inter-
est. She took up one of the books; it was a
volume of poems ; and upon the title-page was
written : “ Hermann to M. Remember the days
of old, and be true, for they shall surely come
to us again.”

She showed it to Francis.

“Put it down,” he said, abruptly. “ Don’t
meddle with anything here. « I begin to feel very
nervous, and to wish we had not’come.”

“ But why?”

“Did you not hear that sigh upon the stairs ?”

“ Yes.”

“It came again outside this door.”

“T heard it.”

“Tt has been sounding in my ears ever since
I came in here, and be hanged to it! In five
minutes more, I give you fair warning, that I
shall take to my heels, and own that I am thor-
oughly frightened.” :

Marian laughed nervously.

“Ugh! don’t laugh here. How do you know
who may be listening to you? I should just
like to know the history of this room. There is
something wrong in it—I am'sure of that. The
whole house is dismal and dreary enough ; but
since I crossed that threshold, I have felt my
very blood grow cold. What can it be ?”

“ How can I say?” said Marian, rathér crogs-
ly, lest she also should have to own that she
began to feel afraid. “ Don’t talk about such
things. Now we are here, we may as well see all
that is to be seen.”

“ Very well, if you insist upon it, so let it be.
But before we leave this room for the next one,
just tell me if you see anything’ peculiar about
at.”

“Tt is a pretty room.” oe
| “Thatis not all; it is in remarkabiy good
| preservation, do,you not see?» Down stairs all
is rain and desolation, dirt and discomfort; but
| here everything is brighter, cleaner. The colors
' have searcely faded.” f

“ What can you mean ?” said Marian, turning

ale.

Pee I'll be shot if I don’t think that room is oc-
_cupied every day by the lady who sighed upon
the stairs.”

At this speech, and the ideas it conjured up,

 

Marian would certainly have fled, but that shé

fancied her companion was working on her fears,

ia order to laugh at her afterward for giving

one ee wy epee ~~

“TI have heard,” she said, “that if twenty |

 

DOWNES. q

 

way to them. So, in the place of going back
to the door’of the ante-room, she turned to that
which led into the next apartment, ool
‘‘ Pam not going to leave one corner unvisit-

ed,” she said, quietly, turning the handle ‘as she
spoke. ;

T Greneta followed her into the room, bearing
the light.

It was a large ‘and handsome’ chamber, fined
up With every appliance for ease and comfort.
The walls’ were stained’ a pale rose-culor; the
hangings of the bed, and the curtains at the
windows, were of the same delicate hue.

“ All is fresh here, too, you see,” said Francis,
significantly, as he gazed around.

“Be quiet—there’ is: no damp here,” was
Marian’s sole reply. y ,

She approached the bed ;. the silken coverlid
was gathered up in a heap, and the pillows were
thrown down at the foot, while a chair near the
bedside was overturned, and a writing-desk, ink-
stand, and taper lay on the floor beside it.

“Here the! blow was struck!’ said Francis,
in a tragic tone, as he stood behind her.

Marian started violently.

“What is that upon the counterpane—upon
the pillow ?” she asked.

“ Jron-rust—mould— dust!” said Francis,
leaning over with the light to examine it.

The next instant he, too, started ‘back, and
caught her’ by the hand.

“©OrMarian, it is blood !”

Marian turned white.

He! caught her in his arms,

“O my poor child, don’t give way Let
us get out of this terrible place, and then you
will*be better directly.”

Half-leading, half-carrying her, he turned tow-
ard the door; but in his confusion he opened
one’which led into a small bath-room, the last
apartment of the suite. It was empty, except
for‘a great iron chest that stood in the middle
of the floor’ Empty, did I say? As Marian
looked*in, she’ saw distinctly the figure of ‘a pale,
beautiful'woman sitting upon thatchest—a wom-
an dressed in black. with her dark hair falling
i» heavy masses Won heroshoulders, wringing
her hands and weeping, as she looked toward the
door.

An instant, and the vision faded. Nothing
was there but thesilent room and the great iroa
chest.

Marian uttered a gasping sigh, and fainted.

Half-frantic with fear and horror, the young
man‘caaght ‘her up in his'arms, seized ‘the burn-
ing taper, and hurried through the other rooms,
and down the stairs. As he gained the passage
leading from the hall;'the fresh air struck upon
her face, and she revived sufficiently to descend,
with his aid; fromthe broken window. Inia
moment more they stood together upon the
green turf of the lawn, safe and sound) with the
blue sky and the bright sun above them ‘once
again.

a”

CHAYTER VIIL
A LITTLE SONG,
——“ How sweet in flowings
The repeated cadence is .
Though you sang a hundred poems,
Still the best one would’ be this !
I can hear it
’Twixt my spirit
And the earth-noise intervene '”
B. BROWNING,

-“Good heavens!” said Marian, gazing back
at the house with a shudder; ‘* what could hava
possessed us to think of going into such ‘a hor-
rible place ? ;

“Tt was all my fault,” replied Francis, look-
ing penitent ;, ‘and. I must have been mad to
have proposed such a thing.”

“ Oh, that dréadful room !”

“ And that horrible bed!” ¢

“ Was it really blood, do you think ?”

“ What/else could it have: been? Nothing
else stains like that. It looked to meas if some
one had been murdered there!”

“ And the woman, Francis ?”

“ What woman ?”

“Tn the bath-room.”

“You must be dreaming now, surely. We
saw no bath-room.”

“ The little room where the iron chest stood.”

“ There was no woman there.”

“How can you say so? I saw her as plainly
as I now see you!”

“But, Marian—”

“T tell you I did!”

« What was she like ?”

“Tall and pale, with dark eyes and hair. Sha

+E.
$e

8 THE

 

eee —E_EL===_

was looking toward the door, and weeping and have said, frankly, * To Downe Reserve”. She

wringing her hands.”

The young man looked incredulous, and Mar-
ian looked angry.

“TI was not dreaming.
iron chest.”

“My dear child, I saw the chest myself, and
there was no one there.”

“ Are you sure ?”

“ Then how could I see her if you did not?”

“As I said before, you must have imagined
it all, You weregreatly excited, and your faint-
ing-fit may have bad something to do with it.”

“« How so, when it was the sight of the woman,
that made me faint ?”

Francis shook his head with a faint smile.

“I see you don’t believe me. Never mind.
I was once as incredulous upon the subject of
ghosts as you are now.”

“ Aud you are converted ?”

“ Perfectly.”

< te believe the place to be haunted?”

ois G2

“ And that the woman stands at the door at
midnight ?”

“T can only say that I should be very sorry
to come here at midnight in order to convince
myself of that fact.”

“I give you up. I thought you hada strong-
er head ”

“Seeing is believing, all the world over ”

“Well, at all events, I am very sorry that I
persuaded you into so mad a freak. Will you
ever forgive me for frightening you so?”

“There is nothing to forgive. . There is my
hand upon it. And now I must go home.”

“ Not yet ; it is not late.”

“It must be nearly two: it will be three be-
fore I reach the Pleasaunce. There is no help
for it; I must go.”

She held out her hand as she spoke. To say
the truth, she was anxious to go home from that
evil spot, even though in leaving it she left him
behind. But he held her hand closely, and
looked in her face with a saucy smile, as he
said: ‘* You are sure you have forgiven me ?’’

“Yes.”

“‘ Then I shall see you again.”

“When ?”

“Never mind; leave that to me.”

* Do you live in Downe ?”

“Nay, that is my secret. I will tell you no
more than this: that when, where, and how you
least expect it, you will see me again.”

“ Very well.”

“ How coolly you say that?
heart ?”

“ A very large one.” ,

“ And is there no corner in it—I care not how
small—that will welcome me again ?”

“T shall be glad to see you,” she replied,
evasively.

“Truly glad?”

“Yes.” :

“Then good-bye, and don’t dream of the ghost
of Downe Reserve to-night ; dream, rather, of
me.”

She laughed, and ran down the long avenue,
without turning back again to look athim. But
when she reached the park wall, she heard him
singing, and screened by the young trees, paused
to liste ‘e ¥

‘Oh, wilt thou ha ’
To lie along wane —_
As a little stone in a running stream,
It seems to lie and pine,

Now drop the poor, pale hand, dear,
Unfit to plight with thine !
“Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, dear,
Drawn closer to thine own ?
My cheek is white—my cheek is worn—
By many a tear run down!
Now leave a little space, dear,
Lest it should wet thine own!
“Oh, must thou have my soul, dear,
Commingled with thy soul ?
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand—
The part is in the whole!
Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate,
When soul is joined to soul !”

She had read the words often enough—they
were by her favorite poetess—but she never had
heard them set to music before. The quaint,
mournful melody rang in her ear all the way

She sat on the great

Have you any

‘home.

“ Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate,
When soul is joined to soul !”

she sang aloud as she entered the lattice-gate of
the Plessaunce, and found herself face to face
with her cousin Leonora,

That young lady looked at her with a far from
amiable expression.

“Pray, where have you been, Miss?” she
asked, sharply.

But for her strange adventure, Marian would

 

, would have enjoyed the horrified start her

cousin would have been sure to give at the men-
tion of that fatal name.
membrance of the day made her feel rather
guilty, and she merely answered that she had
been walking.

“Walking! . It strikes me you are always
doing that! Walking and reading, or repeating
sentimental trash !
singing just now?”

‘* One of Elizabeth Barrett's poems.”

RIDE OF THE DOWNES.

But just now the re- |

What was that you were |

“ Humph! ifyou would burn half your books, |

and throw the other half into the river, it woul
be the best thing for you to do.”

“ T happen to have been born with a taste for |

reading anda passion for music,” said Marian,
quietly. “It is my misfortune, not my fault ;
and you ought not. to blame me for it.”

Miss Moyell turned red. She had no ear for
music, and could hardly manage to get through
three consecutive pages of any author without
falling asleep in her chair. She knew that Mar-
ian was clever, while she was hopelessly dull,
and hated her accordingly. But when the girl
ventured to taunt her to the face with the disa-
greeable fact, her rage knew no bounds. If
Marian had been five years younger, she would
most certainly have been soundly whipped, and
sent to bed in disgrace. As it was, her cousin
was almost beside herself with anger, because
she had not brains enough to enable her to re-
sent the insult in the only way which was al-

“You are an ungrateful, impertinent hussy !”
she said, when she could command herself suffi-
ciently to speak. ‘‘ Don’t dare to answer me
in that manner again! I am sure I do not know
what you are thinking of. You are a poor,
nameless creature, quite dependent upon my
generosity in every way; and yet, to hear you
talk, one would imagine that you, not I, were
the Lady of the Pleasaunce! Take care that
you don’t go too far, some day! You would
starve, if Febst you off, and you may yet pro-
voke me to do it.”

Marian’s face grew dark with anger.

“Take care, on your part, that you do not
make me go without being sent,” she answered,
boldly. “ My life here is miserable, and through
you. The world could be no colder home than
the Pleasaunce has been to me.”

“« You had better try it.”

“I may yet.”

“ And pray where would you go?”

“To London.”

“ Yes, I understand.

The words were few, but the look said much.
Happily, Marian, did not understand the taunt
in its fuller and worst significance, yet she felt
hotter and angrier still.

“I could get my living there, though you
seem to doubt it.”

“TI don’t doubt it in the least,” said Miss
Moyell, with a slight smile. ‘“ But in the mean-
time, as the blessed haven of refuge is not yet
reached—as you are still the inmate of a respect-
able house and home—perhaps you will have
the goodness to hear what I have to say.”

“T am all attention.”

“So I perceive. I have had a letter to-day,
since you were out, from Lady Revere. They
are coming at once—they will be here to-mor-
row.”

“ Yes 2

“Of course, the rooms must be ready for
them. cannot attend to it.”

“ Therefore I must?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

“The state bedroom for them—the blue-room
for Lord Mountchayne.”

“They are both nearly ready.”

“ And the small room, with dormer-windows, |

for the lady’s-maid.”

“ Yea.”

“You need do nothing to the drawing-rooms
—the girls will see to them ; but the housekeep-
er wants you about the dinner to-morrow.”

“T will go to her at once.”

“They will be here to-morrow by four o’-
clock.” :

“All shall be ready.”

“ And, Marian?”

“ Yes.”

“ What dress have you ?”

“ Oh, anything will do for me.”

“Tknow that. Still, what dress have you?”

“My white muslin.”

“JT hate white. It is like the heroine of a
three-volume novel. There is a blue grenadine
dress in my room; it does not suit me—you

may have it.” FY,

d, I will not bear it!

————— <=

“ Thank you.”

“And try and behave a little less like a wild
savage when you have it on.”

There was no answer. Marian walked quick-
ly away. She could trust herself no longer.
She darted up a side-path that led to the offices,
and when she found herself hidden beneath the
friendly shade of lilac and laurel trees, she
stamped her feet and tore her hair with passion.

“ Always the same!” she shrieked. ‘Her
dog—her slave—her drudge—her maid-of-all-
work—to be ordered, and insulted, and brow-
beaten whenever anything goes wrong with her!
I hate her! I hate her! and

| I feef morally certain that I shall kill her some

 

day, when she stands looking at me with her
spitefil black eyes!”

With this hopeful and promising anticipation,
Marian did her best to compose herself, and took
her way to the housekeeper’s room, to share ip
the preparations that were going on most brisk-
ly there.

CHAPTER IX.
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST.
“QO heart!-O love! I fear
That love may be kept too near!
Hast heard, V heart, that tale,
How love may be false and frail,
To a heart once holden dear ?

“ But this true love of mine,
Clings fast as the clinging vine,
And mingles pure as the-gtapes in wine!
Heart, wilt thou go?

No, no!
Full hearts beat higher so!”
—K. B. Brownine.

Thanks to the exertion of Marian, and the
servants placed at her disposal, the Pleasaunce
was in order by noon on the following day, and
ready to receive its expected inmates. The
state apartments were beautiful with draperies,
rose-colored silk, and soft white muslin curtains.
Lord Mountchayne’s bed-room smelt like a flow-
er-garden fanned by the sweet south-wind, from
the bouquets of spring blossoms upon the table
and mantelpiece ; and the smaller domicile of
the lady’s-maid was so neat, and clean, and
pleasant, that it would have been hard, even for
a member of that scornful class of the world’s
people, to have found fault with its aecommo-
dations.

Marian gave a last glance at the rooms—saw
that the preparations for the early dinner, which
was to refresh the travelers after their journey
from town, were all in train—took a peep at the

drawing-rooms, and added one or two sugges- ‘

tive touches to certain folds and draperies that
greatly improved their appearance--and thep
made the best of her way to the dear old loft,
where she was sure of an hour or two of undis-
turbed solitude. Her cousins were safe in their
own rooms, discussing the finery to be worn
that evening, and directly after luncheon she
knew that they would begin to dress. So, tak-
ing some thin sandwiches, a couple of small jam
tarts, and a glass of milk, upon a tray, she shut
herself up in her owl's nest, to read and eat her
humble meal in peace. ,

This had been to her, ever since she could
remember, the happiest hour in the whole twen-
ty-four. Ensconced comfortably in her easy-
chair, with her plate and glass upon the table,
and an interesting novel in her hand, she had
been wont to lose herself in the author’s pages,
and forget the outer world, and the many disa-
greeable things it sometimes had in store for
her.

But on this day the favorite volume seemed
to have Jost its charms. She read idly and in-
attentively, and when her meal was finished, she
pushed away glass, plate, and book together,
with a heavy sigh.

What ailed her? How was it that she could
no longer live in the fortunes of her heroine,
rather than her own? She leaned back in her
chair, and clasped her hands behind her head.
The first glance at the portrait opposite answer-
ed her question plainly enough. The noontide
meal only recalled that other, shared with much
mirth and laughter, upon the steps of the haunt-
ed house; and where was the use of hanging
over the printed page of the novelist, while her
own heart was writing a novel, far more sweet,
and strange, and interesting ?

“ Love”, says a witty French writer—“ love
begins with the first sigh, and ends with the first
kiss !””

This may be true of the later loves of. one’s
life, which become rather fancies of che senses
than affections of the heart. But in the first
awakening of a true, pure nature, all things are
true and pure. When that new light dawns
upon us, how different we become, even in our

 
 

eben

 

er.

own eyes!
most trivial circumstances! How impossible
it seems ever to commit a mean action, ever to
do an unworthy deed! Alas!

“The light that never was on sea or shore,

The consecration, and the poet’s dream”,

fades away all too soon, and we do unworthy
deeds, without one blush of shame! But not
antil that light has gone!

How many phases that timid, trembling pas-
aion has! There is the first meeting, and the
first glance, from which you go away, to dream
of a pair of haunting eyes, or to contrive an-
other interview with their owner, There is the
first walk, when you discover that you both love
woods, and Janes, and fields, far better than the
busy streets ; the first song, when your voices
blend so harmoniously together, shat it seems a
shame even to think of separating them ; the
first sigh—mutual—and quickly followed, on
either side, by the first blush ; the first note,
which you write and re-write some thirty times,
lest it should seem too warm, or too cold, or
too—heaven knows what!—the first hesitating
pressure of the hand; the first kiss, light bué
burning upon that hand; the first lingering,
bewildering, half-frightened’ whirl of ecstasy,
when, by some mischievous accident or other,
not only hands, but lips are meeting ; the first
“ T-love- you,” and its low reply ; the first proud
thriil of wonder and delight, at finding yourself
engaged—bound, hand and foot, by a promise
to one who loves you tenderly, and is ioved in
return, in a way which no words in the English
language have the slightest power to express!
Then come the long, long walks and talks ; and
the ridiculous. little letters sent every other
hour of the gay, and ringing the changes upon
that eternal word, love, love, love! Then the
quarrels, the despairing farewells, and happ
reconciliations; perhaps, like that of David
Copperfield and his pretty Dora, “in a back
kitchen!” Then comes a parting in good earn-
est at last, brought about by circumstances,
rather than yourselves, and therefore inevitable.
Then come kisses, tears, and prayers—-vows
without end, and sighs without number—and
the hall-door shuts, and the romance is over.
Ten years later, the lady wakes up some fine
morning to find herself the Queen of Fashion,
and the wife of a millionaire old enough to. be
her grandfather; and the gentleman is a rising
doctor, merchant, or lawyer, with a wife and
four children, and a snug little sum in the Three
per Cents., for the benefit of the bairns. So
goes the world!

For Marian, the delicious trouble, the tor-
ment of that first love had begun. . She was
just entering into that state of sweet bewilder-
ment which no language and no pen can ever
justly describe. While we are young and poet-
leal, we call it “ finding heayen and aarth filled
only with one beloved object”—when we grow
old and prosaic, we describe it in. a more forci-
ble, if more homely way, by saying that we
“don’t know whether we are on our heads or on
our heels”. As fur Marian, she had taken. che
disease in its most dangerous form, and scarcely
knew if such important things as head or heels
belonged to her. She knew she had a heart—
and that was quite enough!

What folly it all is, to be sure, when one
somes to look back upon it with a calm heart,
and.sober eyes, and a wrinkle or two, or a few
gray hairs! Regular features, a pink and white
skin, smiling lips, curling hair, and bonny wells
of eyes-—thatis all that is needed tu set the heart
of man or woman in a blaze, and turn a whole
life topsy-turvy to itsend! If every 2ne was
born ugly. or if every handsome boy or girl
could be forced by law to have a sharp attack
of emall.pox—say inthe fourteenth year of their
lives—what a sensible, orderly place this world
would be! At present, we are all mad, till age
brings us sanity, and takes away the capacity
for enjoyment... My lord. professes to worship
Intellect in public ; and lies prostrate at Beauty's
slipper in private ; and my lady looks with eyes
of reverence at Demosthenes in “the House”, but
laysher lily white band in that of Adonis of the
Guards! ‘Intellect!. Genius! Talent! Place
them side by side in the height and glory of their
power, and then let Beauty enter the lists, and
where are they? It is useless to deny the truth
of the old French, song. It is indeed “ Love
that makes the world go round!” And the mo-
ther of Love is Beauty!

Marian. worshiper am though she was,

had heretofore confined that worship to herown |

sex. The young gentlemen belonging. to, the
county families of Downe might have come and
gone forever without attracting her attention,

THE PRIDE

How it ennobles and dignifies the |

OF

while:their pretty sisters absorbed it. She was
in that diffident stage of girlhood which pre-

 

sex. The lover of her dreams (of course she
had one) was formed partly after the dreary type
of Sir Charles Grandison (that prince of prigs
and bores, whose history she was. never weary
of reading), and partly upon the model of the
knights of old, who sighed some thirty. years in
secret before they thought. themselves worth

even to ask permission to kiss the tie of their
Jady-love’s “sandaled shoon”. That was the
wooing to which she looked forward. With a
soul of fire—a heart uncultured, impetuous,
and impulsive, and hasty to a. degree—she fap-
cied she could be satisfied and won by devoirs
paid as slowly as, these! It was only another
proof ofthe tremendous mistakes a young, undis-
ciplined heart may make in its estimate of itself.

This future idol was to be brave, and strong,
and merciful, and meek. Above all, be was to
be a genius, the soaring of whose mighty intel-
lect she was to watch from her own,obscurity—
whose labors she was to. lighten—whose faith
she was to brighten, ete., ete., ad infinitum.
There was never to be such a wonder known on
earth as her “ coming man”, He was to be poor
and unknown at first; then the nation was. to
get into some horrible plight or other, and give
him the chance of rising to eminence, for: which
he_ had so Jong, panted in. secret. With:one
bound (how taken she did not say), he was to
spring to the pinnacle of power, grasp the helm
of state, and bring the good ship to the right-
about again. All wrongs were to be set. right—
all evils redressed ; the poor were to be made
comfortable—the rich were to be made beneyo-
lent; in short, the millennium was to come
about several hundred aro before its time,
through the ‘exertions of this fearless lover of
hers, whose, name; many a future. generation
would unite to bless.

Of his age, his looks, his bearing, she never
had a thought. .He was to be all intellect—all
soul; but in her meditations, she dealt with the
beautiful essence of the perfect being —she.had
no fancies to waste upon its dull earthly cover-
ing.

And now she had gone and fallen head over
ears in love with some one hundred and. fifty
pounds of solid flesh and blood—with a,pair
of pink cheeks. and rosy lips —with a wealth of
golden curls—with two flashing, laughing blue
eyes—with a tall and graceful figure, a bewild.
ering smile, and a musical voice. There waa
no use in denying it, even to herself. The
handsome young artist might have all the genius
and goodness of his ideal predecessor, but she
could only trust that it might be. so, and own,
with a warm blush, that it was not intellect, but
mere outward beauty of form and coloring that
had scattered all her philosophy to the winds,
and left her unable to read, to work, to think,
with any kind of composure, till she had looked
upon that face and form again.

It seemed to her almost wrong—almost, in-
delicate that it should be so. She had never
had any scruples about looking at the beautiful
picture in her study. “She had often gazed at it
with the purest pleasure for an hour at a time ;
nay, she had pressed her lips to that smiling
mouth and invoked blessings on, those laughing
eyes a score of times. But to have the picture,
animated and breathing, walking, talking, and
laughing at her side, was quite a different thing.
She might invoke blessings upon the eyes. still,
and perhaps with greater warmth than ever.
As to the lips! she blushed furiously as she
glanced at them, and rising, began to walk hast-
ily up and down the room.

“Marian!” called a high voice in the court-
ard.

She went to the door of the loft, and looked
down. Miss’ Moyell stood’ there, elegantly
dressed, and looking very handsome.

“You tiresome thing !” she exclaimed ; “ why,
you are not dressed, and tara be here very
soon, and then dinner must served directly.
I thought how it would be, and came to look for
you.” ,

“I will come at once,” said Marian, shutting
| the door, and running down the stairs. “ Ev-
-erything is ready for them, Leonora.”

“ What a color you have got, child, and how

your eyes sparkle! If you always looked like
| that, you would be quite handsome.”
“ You are beautiful enough for us all, Leono-
| Ta,” replied the girl, delighted with the first
compliment she had ever received from her
» cousin

“Do you think so ?”

“Indeed I do; and I hope Lord Mount-
' chayne may think so, too.”

 

THE DOWNES.

cludes any save ideal thoughts of the opposite |

work.

 

9

i “Silly thing! Go and dress, or you will be
late.”

Marian darted away to her own room. She
locked the door, and then looked in the glass.
Yes, Leonora was right: there was color in her
cheeks, and her eyes beamed, and she was not

uite a fright, after all, She was so happy at
the thought, that she scarcely knew what she
was about. Singing before the glass, she ar-
ranged her luxuriant hair most carefully, and
then donned the blue dress, which was lying,
ready on the bed. It fell in soft, clinging,
graceful folds around her tall figure, and placing
a knot of May- flowers on ber breast, and another
in her hair, she went down to the drawing-
room,

“Bless me, Marian, how nice you look!’ said
one. of the twins, glancing up fnom her crotchet-

 

 

The other one turned round. — It was Caro-
line, and she smiled.

“Ts it for the peer ?” she asked.

“Ts what?” replied Marian.

“This?” and she touched the blue dress ;
“and these ?” designating the flowers whith the
young girl wore.

“Tg it likely »”

“How oan | say ?”

“ Your good sense ought to prevent you from
making such a remark.” .

“Good sense’ § never had any in my life.
I was born without any.”

Marian’s face expressed such entire acquies-
cence in this speech that her cousin burst ont
laughing. ;

“Never mind, Why did you put that thing
on?”

“ Leonora gave it me.”

“T hate a blue dress.”

*Do you?”

“ Tntolerably.”

Marian looked out of the window, and yawned.

“You don’t ask me why ?”

“Tt is a mere matter of taste, I suppose.”

“ Not at all.”

“ What then ?”

“T fell in love once.”

She made the announcement go seriously, that
her sister dropped her crochet work and stared
at ber with the greatest surprise.

“My dear Caroline, what are you saying ae

“Simply that I fell in love once. here is
the harm ?” ,

“ You never told me that before.”

“Very likely, I was ashamed of it at the
time, I think, and kept it quite to myself. Now
she wound is healed, and the sear cured ; and as
I happen to be in a talking humor, I intend
giving you two novices the benefit of my expe-
rience. Of course you are novices, You have
never been in love, have you, Lucy ?”

“What a question!” And the young lady
looked intensely shocked,

“Nor you. fair coz ?”

Marian would have given the world not to
blush, but in spite of herself the blood flew to
her cheek and brow, and her eyes dropped be-
fore the saucy glance Caroline gave her. ;

“Ha! I see you are a fellow sufferer. So
much. the better! Now listen to what scattered
all my dream of felicity. Nothing more or less
than a blue dress!”

“How ean you talk such nonsense?” said
Marian, half indignantly.

“Tt is a fact. I won't tell you who the gen-
tleman, was, because he is married now, and I
should never hear the Inet of it if you knew his
name. But I was very fond of him—quite ro-
mantic, in fact; and [ think he was very well
disposed toward me, when a horrible girl—an
old school-friend of mine—stepped in between
us,, and bore off the prize. She was a fair
blonde, with golden hair. I persuaded her to
dress like me, in pink, for a long time. She
wag innocent enough to-do so, till her married
sister came to stay at the same house, and saw
through my little artifice at once. That even-
ing my friend appeared iu blue, and my admir-
er deserted me instantly. I lost my companion
and my lover together through a trumpery
blue dress. Can you wonder | bave hated the
sight of one ever since ?”

Marian smiled.

“At least, mine can do you no harm,” re-
marked.

“Tam not sure of that!”

“Why not?”

“TI believe the color is fatal to me.”

“Granted. But there is no lover in the case
this time.”

“No—that is, not just yet.”

“Do you expect one, then?”

“T expect Lord Mountchayne.”

~——
4.0 TH

/
“Obl said Marianpgravely. And Lucy be-
gan ) aug

* Marian quite'thinks you'are in eartest, Car-
oline.”

“So T am; my dear.”

“You don’t men "to say that’ you really in-
tend to captivate Lord Mountchayne?”

‘if T ‘enh; and’ if*Marian’s wretched blue

dress does tiot stand in’ the way.”

* But P'thought Leonora”

“ Leonora, indeed! Why he is a mére child
ered It is you that talk‘Ronsehsé now,
wey 1?

“Hush? hush! ‘Here she comes!”

fn fret, Miss Moyell was ‘alréady in the room,
and had heard both speeches. There was an
avkward silénee.°'THen she said, stiffly : “ You
a very complimentary this evening, Caro-
Inet

* Baby !—we will tot pull caps over him, No-
ra! said her sister, briskly. ‘““ Of eotitsé, we
shal] all make #@ dead set ‘at Wind that is “under-
stood from the first:’* Lady Révere understands
it too%or lie would never domesticate him
anron est ti8}\as' she igtbout ‘to do. °Sé we start
fair, and the best one must win ‘him, that‘is ‘all.
He must have some voice in the matter, you
know—not much—yet still—” eee

OU What ia he REY? eked Marin; looking up
with some interest... 7 7%
«Ave "Vou *goitih tb’ “enter the” Tists, * too ?”
queried Miss Moyell, with’a séornfal¢url ofthe
lip.” ae

“Perhaps 80.” ; :

“Oh, what fun!” said_Luey, clappivg her
Hands?“ The" poor yoting man‘ Will find him-
self inevitably married, before he has been heré’a
week. I really think béeought tobe ‘forewarn-
ec re 1) i |

“Forewarned is forearmed, Lucy? / And ac-
cording to Madam Rumor, he is easéd’in triple
atedl® alrédity.” Lally" Revere would gladly see
him less invulnerable, I fancy.” .

“78nd a wonlanhater, then ?” ‘asked Marian.

“He is not old enough for that. But he al-
ways has his head ina book—and writes poe-
try, and gazes at the stars, and ‘seems to forget
tritively that “wotsen “are the fairest ‘and “best
part of the “Wholeeredtion. He is not’ a#'Tadies’
man, in one word.”

«<7 hate lidies’ mén {” remarked Miss Moyell.

“Tastes differ, my dear sister, I confess. I
like them—they are sneb fools!”

“ A sensiblé reason, certainly, for’ your ref-
erence,” said’ Matian, “laughing: 4 Is" Lord
Mountchayne handsome ?”

°* “# Who is’ curious now, I wonder?’ My dear
creature, hé is so’ beautiful that the women
atand ih rows and rave about him!”

‘Matian’s eyés kindled!

“ And in return for all their worship he calls

‘them painted dolls!” said Lucey, demurely,

“Ah, poor fellow! he ‘can’t help ‘being sar-
castic—it is his nature. But, Marian, the best
‘of the whole story ia that this paragon vows
that he Will never fall in love, and'that he would
far rather be hung than married, any day!

_ What 18 to bé dotie with such a'savage ?

« How can I say ?” :

“Don’t bother yourselves to decide,” said
Miss Moyell, quietly. “ You will see him down
in the dust, like his fellows, at a lady’s féet, be-
fore many months go by.”

“ At yours or mine ?” asked Caroline, archly.

At that instant a servant opened the door.
“Tf you please, Miss Marian, Rose Martin is

*“Hefe, and wishes to speak to you.”

* Oh, ask her in!” said the twins together.
“eT ‘will pass the time away.”
"®~Abd as Miss Moyell made no objection to the
“Sroposal, Marian went out into the hall, and
“fea her young visitor into the presence of the
_ ladies.

°

7

 

CHAPTER XI.
THE SHADOW OF AZRAEL’S WING.

The May. Queer looked pale and ill, and
Sreatly troubled. She dropped @ humble eourt-
esy at the door, and stood waiting to be a
dressed, it is true, but her manner was absor!«
and anxious, and she did not even look at th.
magnificent furniture of the room, or the ele-
caut dresses of the ladies befdre her. Marian’s
face, also, wore a puzzled look, as if, in the brief
interval of her absendé, she had heard something
which had_ perplexed her greatly. 1 4

« Well,” Rose,” said’ Miss Moya looking at

Yer with ‘a’glane? of condescending admiration ;
“you seem fatigued and a little indisposed.

Were the bonors, of the throne too much for you

yesterday ? ,HHas the erown left a headache, be-
hind it? If s0, you are lucky in ‘being able te

‘PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

lay it aside at your own good pleasure. Many a
queen, Idaresay, would be very glad to be like
you in that respect.”

| Rose tried) to smile, as in duty bound, when
the great lady condescended to jest with ber.
But the effort ‘was a painful and a vain one.
Her lip quivered, and she suddenly burst into
tears:

« Bless me! what is the matter?” ejaculated
| Miss Moyell, sitting upright. “ What ails you,
my girl? why do you ery ?”

‘“«I¢—it is my father!” s-bbed Rose.
“ Your father—what ails him?”

night, after I got'home, he was taken very bad.
I don’t rightly know what ails him, But the
Doctor was there just now, and he says he can’t
live through another day.”

“ Poor girl!” What can we do for him ?—or
for you? Anything that the Doctor recom-

once.”

“You are very kind, Miss, but I am afraid
he will never want anything again.
has been véry bad all through the winter ; and

last "night, when ‘he ‘tried to speak, the blood
flew out of’his mouth, and he fainted in my
arms, before I knew that anything ailed him.
He jooks' so ‘white to-day, and he can’t speak
loud.”

Her voice faltered, and she began to weep
bitterly again. ‘‘The'sisters exchanged glances.
Old John Martin had’ long been pronounced
consumptive ; but no one had supposed the end
to be'so near.” And to die in May—in the very
flush ‘and beauty of the opening year! It seem-
ed hard, indeed, to those who were young, and
fall of ‘life, and health, and of hope as to what
that year might’ ‘possibly bring them on its

wings.

While the twins consoled poor Rose with gen-
tle words of kindness, and even with little
'@aresses, and entreaties not to weep, Marian
turned to her cousin, Leonora, and said, in a
low voice :

“Do you know why she came?”

“She is a favorite of yours—a sort of pro-
tégée—is she not ?”

“That is not the°reason.”

“ What, then ?”’

“Her father sent for me.”

“John Martin sent for you?”

“ So she says ”

“ How very strange !”

“Ts it not? TI never spoke to him in my life,
that I know of. What can he want to see me
for ?”

“Oh m
ee? it.
else, Rose !”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Are you quite sure that it was Miss Marian
you were sent for?”

“ Quite sure, Miss. My father said he could
not die without seeing her.”

“But he scarcely knows her by sight.”

“T thought not, Miss.”

“He must be wandering in his mind.”

“The Doctor did not think so, Miss.”

“Did he tell you to come, as well as your
father ?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Then there must be something in it. But
how very odd!”

% Father couldn’t speak to say what he want-
ed, Miss; but the Doctor saw that he was un-
easy, and asked what ailed him. He made signs
for a pencil and a piece of paper, and. wrote
‘Miss Marian’: And the Doctor told me to
bring her as soon as I could.”

“Well, Marian, get your things on,” said

dear, it is some mistake, depend
e must have mentioned some one

not far to the cottage, and if you go at onee,

you may be able to get back before Lady Re-

vere comes.”

~ Marian left the room, and returned in, five
“minutes, wearing her hat and shawl, and having
her blue dress carefully gathered up around her
‘waist. Rose, somewhat comforted by the kind-

ness of the young ladies, bade them a grateful

good-bye, and they set off together down the
avenue, while the sisters watched them from the
window.

_ “How much those girls are alike in figure,
and height, and walk!” observed Miss Moyell, as
they disappeared through the gate.

__ “So they are,” replied Caroline; “ though. it
| never struck me before. And there is some-
“thing in Marian’s face, too, when you come,.to
| thiak of it.” :

_ “Now, don’t be; absurd, Caroline. . You can’t
‘eompare poor Marian’s round, childish face to
that lovely creature’s.”

 

 

————

“No; IT don’t mean that. Features, and
complexion, and expression are all different;
and yet there is something—an indefinable
something that makes that resemble each other,
after all.”

“An indefinable something, indeed!” said
Miss Moyell, jaughing. “ But what on earth
can that old man wanf to see Marian for, when
he is dying?”

“ Perhaps he is a miser, and is going to make

| her his heir,” suggested Lucy.

“He was not’ very well yesterday ; and last |

mends for him shall be sent to the cottage at |

Caroline laughed, and said that it was very
likely. ;

«The only thiag I can think of is, that mys-
tery about her parents,” said Miss Moyell, mus-
ingly. The twins looked up, in hopes of hear-
ing the story, which as yet had only been ‘sug-
gested to them.

“Though how he should know anything
about it or them, I cannot possibly conceive,”
she went on after a slight pause.

“ And do you know all about that mystery,

| Leonora?” asked Caroline.

His cough |

“Humph! Young ladies should not, ask

| questions about matters they ought not to un-

derstand,” was the reply. And then she went

\ off into a study of the brownest kind, which
; neither of them ventured to interrupt.

Miss Moyell, looking greatly interested...‘ It is |

 

CHAPTER XI.
UNEXPLAINED MYSTERIES.

“ Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale,
And then it left me free!

* Since then, at-an uncertain hour,
That agony returns ;
And till my ghostly tale is told,
This heart within me burns !”
—ConERran.

Meanwhile Rose and her companion hurried
on through the fragrant green lanes together.
Neither spoke on the way. Their thoughts
went on before them to the darkened room
where John Martin was lying, waiting for them
and for death at one and the same time. Rose
sobbed now and then at the thought of her cer-
tain loss, and the memory of many a little act
of disobedience and unkindness that came back
to make those last hours more painful in their)
passing. Marian’s mind was busy with specula-)
tions that were most heathenish in their nature.
She looked ‘upon the desite of the dying man
for her presence merely as a fancy which she
could gratify. She did not waste any time
in wondering, as Leonora was doing, what
strange mysteries he might have to unfold to
her. But she did think about his present and
future condition in a way that would have
shocked Rose infinitely, could she have guessed
what was passing in her companion’s mind. It
was well that she was unable to do so.

As they turned down the little green walk that
led to the cottage, Hugh Dennett came forward
to meet them.

“Is my father worse?” asked Rose, turning
very pale. ;

“T think not, dear; but he was so uneasy that
I came out to watch for you. Iam so glad you
have come, Miss Marian,” he added, turning to
her, and taking off his cap with rustic courtesy.
Something’ seems’ to weigh heavy upon his
mind, and it concerns you.”

For the first time Marian thought’ of the se-
eret of her birth. Could this old man have
anything to reveal concerning her dead mother
cher long-lost father? What else could make
| him go anxious for her presence. “She ‘hurried
| through the little garden and into the neat par-
| lor of the cottage. ; ;

“Go, tell him Tam here,” she said.

Rose obeyed, and returned in a few minutes
with “a slip of paper in hand. The word
| Alone” was written on it in trembling charao

 

rs. : e

“Tam to be in the next room, with Hugh,"
said Rose, in eer “But you are to go
in qui ourself.

with acta heart, Marian ascended the
stairs and entered the sick-room.” The blinds
were down, and the bed was in a dark corner,
so that, as she glanced at the figure lying there, |
she fancied it must be a ¢o so white and
still it looked. Sbe waited at the door nervous-
ly. Jobn Martin seemed to have gained new
strength at the sight of her.“ He could not
speak aloud, or raise himself in bed, but his
sharp, clear whisper fell distinetly on her ear.

“Are you Marian Moyell?”

T am.”

*¢Come nearer.”

She went up to the side of the bed.

“ Draw up the blind,”

&

“.

 
 

 

 

—

She obeyed without a word. He looked ¢a-
gerly in her face.

shawl,” he whispered.

She did so.

“ And turn to the light. There ; tha will do.
It is the same face over again — feature for fea-
ture. Will you sit down here Be

He pointed to\a chair beside the bed.

Marian dropped into it, feeling nervous and
awkward to a degree; and he lay,a long while

, in silence, with his eyes fixed steadily on her

face.

« Did you ever go to Downe Reserve he

The sudden, sharp whisper, and the ideas it
conjured up, frightened her so that she bounded
in her chair. What could have put that place,
of all others, into the sick man’s head ? }

“ Did you ever go, to Downe Reserve?” he
repeated, so earnestly that.she was forced to an-
swer.

“Yes; very often.”

“ Did you ever enter the house?”

“ Once.”

“ What did you see there ?”

“Dust and dirt.”

“ Nothing more?”

“ What more is there to see ?”

“Nothing more.?”

“What do you mean ?” i

“ Answer. my question. Downe Reserve is
eaid to be haunted.”

“T know it; is.”

“ Do you believe the report?”

a“ Yes.”

“Then you saw something. Tell me what it
was.”

“A mere fanoy.
woman there—”

“In a little room!” he broke in, excitedly.
“She sat upon a great iron chest, and wrung her
hands and wept?”

“Yes; but how did you know that?”

He groaned and shu idered.

“She has been with me many a day, and
night. I could see her now, if I chose to shut
my eyes. ButJIwon't! I'll keep my promise
to her, and then, perhaps, she will let me rest in
peace !”

“Your promise to her? Do you know what
yet are saying ?” asked Marian, who began to
eel alarmed at his wild looks and wilder words.

“ Too well! too well! But listen to me, for
my time is short. Are you happy in your
present home?”

“No!” r

¢ Are they kind to you? Tell me truly.”

«Not very.”

“Would you like to go away 2?”

* T have/no place to go to.”’

“ And Rose,” he said, suddenly. .,“ There, is

”

I imagined I saw a tall, pale

“ What of her ?” ;

“You mustisee that justice is done to her!”

“Decidedly his mind is, wandering,” thought
Marian, glancing uneasily at the door.“ [think
I had better call her.”

“ Will you promise ?” he asked.

“ Promise what?”

“To see that, Rose has ber rights. I can’t die
and leave her unprotected, you know.”

‘Of course not.”

“She has been a goodgirl to me. Never fa-
ther had a, better daughter than Rose.”

“Tam sure of tbat.”

“ And 80 young and beautiful”

“Yes,” said Marian, sighing.

“ Then you promise ?”

“12 Ob yes!” she, answered, thinking to
pacify him by assenting to every proposal he
made.

“ You will not see her hurt or wronged in any
way, however great the temptation, may be. to
do so ?” ;

“T will not.”

“Then God bless you both, and make you as
happy as you deserve to be! She is not to
marry Hugh, Dennett—remember that, Lady
Marian!”

, He closed hig eyes, and seemed sinking into a
oze. Ca

Marian. watched him for a few minutes, and
then stealing softly to the door, called Rose and
her, lover. .As they entered, however, the old
man started up in bed, and looked wildly around
the room,

THE PRID

| with a grateful glanee.
“T. cannot, see you. Take off the hat and | + S

 

“ Where is she? where is she?” be whispered
sharply. “ Has she gone? 1 have not told her |
yet!” |

“Tf you mean ‘Miss Marian, she is here, fa-

. ther,” said Ruse, bending over him with a lov-
: . 5 ten?

ing kiss.

spl N=

nes

 

 

“Good girl!” he said, looking up in her face
“God will reward you -
for it all when Tam gone! Lady Marian!”

Marian came nearer. He took her hand and
put it in that of his daughter.

“ Remember your promise,” he said, feebly.

Twill.”

“The papers are in London.
son has them.”

Rose looked bewildered.

“ And his name—his name is’—ke began to
cough violently —“ don’t forget—Philip Vere!”

They were the last words he ever spoke on
earth. He sank back exhausted upon the piliows
when the paroxysm of pain was over, and held
out his hand to Marian with a feeble smile.
She took it in both hers, uttered a kind good-
bye, and left the room, Hugh Dennett attend-
ed her till she reached the gates of the Pleas-
aunce again.

Her cousins greeted her gladly for once in
their lives. Lord and Lady Revere had not ar-
rived, and the young ladies were on the qui vive
to know the result of Marian’s interview with
the dying man.

“T cannot tell you much,” ‘she said. “I
hardly know what he did want, or if he was in
his right senses or not. He talked about some
papers in London, and told me not to forget
Philip Vere.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Lucy; and
Marian, looking up, saw the three ladies change
countenance so strangely that she stopped short.
Miss Moyell had turned very pale.

“How dare you mention that name in this
house ?” she said, haughtily.

As she spoke, the sound of wheels upon the
graveled drive sent every one into the hall, to
welcome the coming party. Marian stood be-
hind ber cousins, and looked shyly at the Earl
and Countess as they entered. They did not
appear very formidable. Butwhen Lord Mount-
chayne came after them, gay and smiling, the
new-found color left her cheeks, and after one
startled glance, she turned and fled away to her
own,room. For Lord Mountchayne was no
other than the young artist. who had tempted
her into that mad exploring expedition, the day
before, at Downe Reserve.

CHAPTER XII.
PUZZLING QUESTIONS.

Here was ‘a situation”! Marian’s first im-
pulse, as I liave already said, was to run away
as fast as possible. But when the door of the
room was safely bolted behind her, she began
to feel sorry that she had yielded to that impulse

What must Lord and Lady Revere have
thought of her? What reason could her cousins
have yiven for her sudden flight? How angry
Leonora would be, and what a lecture’ on eti-
quette she would have to receive when she made
her appearance below again! And all the
while perhaps Lord Mountehayne would be
looking on with his blue eyes, and enjoying her
embarrassment and confusion.

Oh, it was not to be’ borne!’ ‘Come what
might, she could not face Lord Mountchayne
again till she had grown quite calm and ¢om-
ne And'thé only way to escape him was to
eave the house. .? ‘ f

It was'a ‘bold step to take, ‘and ‘one ‘well cal-.
culated to draw down upon her head the’ sover-
eign displedsure of her‘cousin Leonora. But
she did not care tu stop to caloulate’ its’ conse-
quences just then. She stole softly down from
the chamber, with her hat and shawl in ‘her
hand, and peeped in at the open kitehen-door,
The cook, with a face like a fall moon, was bend-
ing over her pots and pans }° the two housemaids
were mysteriously busy in one corner with ‘the
dinner-seryice’; ‘thé tnan-service was giving a
last polish to the plate; and the housekeeper
stood by the window, satisfying herself by one
final glance around the place that all was right
before she retired to don her black silk dress
and her best lace cap in honor of the occasion.
She uttered a little sigh of satisfaction as sbe
_ Marian standing on the threshold of the

oor.

“ All going on right, Mrs. Pryor ?" said Mari-
an, going up to her with a smile. She had been
petted and indulged by the kind-hearted woman
ever since she could run alone, and glie had’ for
her an odd sort of attachment, suchas a moth-
erless child often displays toward the woman
who rears it. :

“Allright, Iam glad to say, my dear Mari-
an,” she replied, smoothing down’ her apron

The lawyer’s

 

‘DOWNES.

 

with a radiant face. “Though I say it, that
ought not to, I will trouble my Lord’s French |
cook to give him a better dinner than he will |

’ have at the Pleasaunce this evening.”

ero sae ae ae 14 va

“T am glad to hear it. And the dessert?”

“Ts a perfect picture, Miss Marian.”

“ And the table ?”

“Just as you left it a couple of hours ago,
my dear.”

“Then you dont want me any more just now ?”

“ Bless you, no, my chlild! Run away, and
look beautiful in the drawing-room when the
young lord comes down. That is all you have
to do at present.”

Marian laughed.

“ Little use in that, I fear, Mrs. Pryor.
you seen my cousins ?”

“Yes; and beautiful they look, if that is
what you-mean. But there is not one among
them so pretty as my own Miss Marian.”

“QO Mrs. Pryor, where do you exiect to go
to if you tell such dreadful fibs? Why, you
might as well compare me to the greatesy seau-
ty that ever lived, and have done with it!”

“ Well, Rose Martin is the greatest beauty I
ever saw in my life; and do you know, Miss
Marian, that you have a look of her in your face
now and then ?”

“ Ah, poor Rose ! she is in great trouble!”

“T saw her to-day, Miss Marian, and cook
told me that she said her father was very ill.”

“Dying! and the strangest thing of all.was,
that he sent for me.”

“What for?” asked the housekeeper, looking
up suddenly, with a curious expression on her
good-humored face.

“Poor man! I don’t think he knew himself.”

“But he surely said something to you when
you got there ?”

“ Yes, of all things in the world, he asked me
if I had ever been at Downe Reserve !”

The housekeeper uttered an exclamation of
surprise.

“Go on—go on!” she said, breathlessly.

“Why, how eager and excited you look!”
said Marian, gazing at her Saad obs =] Do you

i

know anything about that place? you ever
o there ?” 4
“Hush, child! Never ‘mind me. Don’t

speak so loud, and go on with your story.”

“T have none to tell,” replied Marian, think-
ing it best, for many reasons, to keep back the
tale of the apparition, and its strong corrobora-
tion by old Martin’s wandering remarks. “I

think the poor old man must have been out of |
his mind, for after that he began to talk about |

Rose.”

« His daughter ?”

Yee” es

“ Well, what did he say Of her?”

“He made me promise solemnly that I would
never wrong her, and he called me * Lady Mar.
ian’ all the while. Do you know, I think he
mistook me for some one else—perhaps for one
of the Beauforts, Am I at all like the last Lady
Beaufort, Mrs. Pryor?”

“You—I—good gracious me! how should [
know?” stammered the housekeeper, looking
throughly frightened at the question, much to
Marian’s surprise. ‘“ What put that into your
head, child 2”

“Why, he might have seen Lady Beaufort,
you know.”

* Who—old Martin ?”

~,* Yes. He was born and brought up on the

estate.” :
. “Well, what. of that?” ,

“He is as ‘old as Methuselah, almost. He
might have known Lady Beaufort; and I may
have reminded him of her in some unaccounta-
ble way in his dying moments. Was not her
name Marian, by the way rv

“ Who told you that”
~ “1 don’t know. © T think T must have dreamed
it. But I have an odd inipression that it was
her, name !”

“T believe it was,” said the housekeeper slow-
ly. “But, my dear, did old Martin mention no
other name to you "

“Only one.
“ Aud that ?”
“ Was Philip Vere.”

“O Lord!” said Mrs. Pryor, claspiog her
hands and turniog pale.
Marian’s curiosity was roused to the highest

pitch. =
“ Who is Philip Vere ?” she asked.

“ Ob, gracious! how should I kuow, you silly

ehild ?”

“Then why did you start aud exclaim in that
way when I mentioned him? You do know
him, Mrs. Pryor, and my cousins know him too.
When ! tvid them what old Martin said, they
iook at me as you did just uow. And Leonora
asked how I dared to mention that name in this
house. Come, what is the mystery about Philip
Vere, my dear old friend ?”

Have
  

 

he esata

PRIDE, OF. THE DOWNES.

 

“ Mystery !” said the hous:keeper, pettishly.
“What nonsense you do talk, child! © That
comes of reading so many novels. If a body
happens to be nervous and easily startled, and
you see them look a little out of sorts, you run
off with the notion directly that there 18 some-
thing wonderful behind it all.”

“Mrs. Pryor, you may as well tell me first as
last,” said Marian, quietly. “Because you have
made me curious about this Philip Vere, and I
mean to know all about him before I rest.”

‘Bless the child!” said Mrs.Pryor, looking
round nervously ; “is there any need of shout-
ing that name out so loud that Miss Moyell can
hear you!”

“There it is again! My cousin Leonora has
something to do with it. A romance in her
life! [ll wager my old hat against your best
bonnet! Now, my dear soul, open your budget!”

“Tean't. I must go and dress.”

“ Let me go with you.”

“No. You'll worry my life out, and there is
really nothing to tell.”

“Very well,” said Marian, putting on her hat
and shawl ; “ I'll go where I can find out.”

“ Where is that, pray ?”

“To John Martin’s.”

“ And dinner on the table?”

“Impossible to eat, my dear creature, till my
curiosity is satisfied.”

“Oh my goodness!
8a Yr’ ‘
“Tell her I have a raging headache, and
was obliged to take a walk in order to get
rid of it,” said Marian, marching’ toward’ the
door.

“Tt is wrong, very wrong, to go and disturb
that poor old man, when he is positively dy-
ing,” said Mrs. Pryor, scarcely knowing, in her
agitation, what she was talking about.

“Tt was his own wish ; he wanted to tell me
more. If he is too ill to talk, I will not force
myself upon him ; but so much has been said,
that I am determined not to rest till I under-
stand it all.”

“ Just like her father — just for all the world
like her father!” muttered the housekeeper,
looking the picture of dismay. “ Headstrong
and willful! And now it will allcome out ages
before the proper time —and a pretty kettle of
fish it will be !”

Marian listened eagerly.

“What do you know about my father?” she
asked.

“Lord, have merey! Who has been talking
of him ?”

“Why, you, tobesure. Iheard you just now
saying that I was like him.”

“‘ What ears!” muttered the old lady, looking
a little seared. ‘‘ My dear, I cannot stay talking
any longer. Dinner is nearly ready, and 1 must
dress. Go you, like a good child, and take off
your things, and after dinner, maybe, I'll tell
you all you want to know.” :

“No maybes for me, thank you!” said Ma-
rian, “Iam going to see John Martin.”

With that she danced away down through
the garden, and out at the little wicket-gate.

The housekeeper looked after her with a kind
of impatient groan.

“ What a set-out it will be if he knows every-
thing, and tells it to her! And Philip Vere,
too! Deary me! My poor old head will go
cracked soon, between them all, to a dead cer-
tainty !”

She hurried off to her room, muttering and
nurmuring to herself ail the way. But she had
an ally at the cottage, upon whose powerful as-
sistance she had never counted.

When Marian, her cheeks flaming, and her
eyes burning with impatience, burst out into
the little green lane that ‘led’to Rose’ Martin’s
home, she stopped short in her eager run, and
looked doubtfully up at the house. No one was
in sight; and the front door beneath the rustic

orch (that usually stood wide open, as if to
bid the wayfarer welcome) was closed. Strange
how much of desolation and.dreariness was ex-
pressed by that one simple cireumstance !

The perfect stillness of the place struck to
her heart with a kind of prophetic chill. She
walked slowly up the garden path. As she
neared the house, a hand at the upper window
drew down the blind softly. The next moment,
Rose, her lovely face stained and disfigured with
tears, opened the door.

‘* Your father ?” said Marian, timidly.
“ He is dead!”
The two girls stood looking at each other an

What will Miss Moyell

instant. Then, moved by some strange impulse
_;jWhieh she could neither understand nor resist,

Marian opened her arms, and Rose fell weeping

on her breast.

 

CHAPTER XIII.
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

“ Hang up my harp again,
I have no voice for song.
Not song, but wail,
And mcurners pale,
Not bards to love belong !
O failing human love!
O light by darkness known !
Oh, false, the while thou treadest earth !
Oh, deaf, beneath the stone !”
—E. B. Brownina.

“You know he said you were to be kind t
me,” were the first words that Rose spoke when
she had in a measure recovered her composure.

“And so I will be, dear,” replied Marian,
smoothing the golden curls back from her cheek
with a loving touch. “But how sudden this
must have been! When I left you this after-
noon I thought he was better.”

“And so did I for a time ; out he soon grew
worse. He never spoke again after you went.”

“So that, in fact, his last words were to me?”

“Yes.”

Both were silent for a time. Then Rose said :

“ Would you like to see him?”

“Tf I may.”

They went up-stairs together. Hugh Den-
nett was keeping watch beside the corpse. At
their entrance he rose, and laid down the little
pocket Bible which he had been reading.

Searcely an hour had passed since they stood
beside the bed of the old man, and no hand had
disturbed him fram the easy attitude in which
he lay at the last moment. His head rested
upon his hand, and the thin white curling hair
fell over his brow and cheek, and upon the pil-
low. Rose bent down, ‘burst into tears, and
brushed it away with a caressing touch. A
placid smile lingered round the lips, the sunken
eyes were closed with a look of rest and peace ;
and the worn face seemed younger, fairer, and
brighter than it had done for many a year.
There he lay—a poor unlettered peasant, yet
wiser than any whom he had left in the busy
world behind him—since he had lifted the vail
which still hung thickly before their eyes.
Where was he now? hat was he doing?
While the senseless clay that had once been his

rison-house lay still and quiet on its humble
bed, free for ever from the cares and pain that
had so often racked it—where was the escaped
soul? How did it look upon the wondrous
change from death to life, from fetters to liberty,
from pain and sorrow, it may be to bliss and
love eternal? Marian stood looking upon the
placid dead face, with awe and wonder. That
the last hour had been a peaceful one, that lin-
gering smile was evidence. Going out from this
weary world with that happy look on his face,
was it possible that the being with whom she
had so lately conversed—whose hand she had
so lately held—was lost in misery, for ever?
Her own heart revolted from the thought. John
Martin had been a good and a harmless man ail
the days of his life. Poor, and humble, and
ae though he was, he had been faithful to
the light, vouchsafed him, and she felt sure that
his reward had not been withheld. The tears
rose to her eyes at the thought of his happy
lot. From ignorance and darkness, to life, and
light, and joy ; from poverty and pain, to the
bliss of heaven, the friendship of angels, and
the smile of God!

“ Peace be with him! Peace is with him!”
she said softly ; and sinking on one knee, she
kissed his hardened hand, as reverently as if it
had been that of a dead monarch. In her eyes
he was more than a monarch then! He wore a
crown—he carried a sceptre before which those
of earthly kings were as golden toye—as broken
reeds!

“O Miss Marian!” sobbed Rose, as she saw
the act of homage paid, not to the dead man
upon earth, but to the saint in heaven—*“ Oh,

 

ee

smile: “Jet him sing to-morrow, Rose, like a
good girl. Don't teach that happy buneh of
feathers that there is such a thing as sorrow in
the ‘orld he inhabits, or that it can touch him
even in the remotest way.”

“ He shall sing all day to-morrow, if he likes.

| To-night, my heart is too sad.”

|

my poor father! do you think he is happy |

now?”
“ No human eve can look beyond the grave!”
said Marian, solemnly. “ But I wish I was as

 

sure of getting to heaven myself, some day, as |

I am that your father is there now!”

‘Amen !” said Hugh Dennett, in a low voice.

There was a knock at the door.
ers had come to lay out the corpse, and Rose
and her companions went below. A_ yellow
canary hanging in the window stopped in his
preparations for going to bed, and as his yqung
mistress eatered, gave a chirrup, cocked his
head on one side, and burst into a flood of song.

“Oh, don’t, Dicky! How can you sing so at
such a time?” said Rose, reproachfully ; and
she covered the caye with a silk handkerchief,
hushing the melody in an instant

“Poor little wretch!” said Marian, with a

wate ety rag

The watch- '

She glanced at Hugh as she spoke, and he
turned crimson.
“May I speak to Miss Marian, Rose?” he

| asked '

She assented.

“Rose fancies, Miss Marian, from some things
her father said a little while ago, that he did
not wish her to marry me. She knows how I
love her”—his voice trembled as he spoke ;
“and she is unhappy at having to give me
pain. I think, perhaps, you may be able to set
matters right between us. Her father was poor,
as you well know. There will be nothing left
for her—positively nothing; and she is too
young, too delicate, and too beautiful to go out
to service. Some harm would certainly come
to ber, and T should never forgive myselt for
having allowed it. 1f she would only marry me,
she should never have to soil her hands with
work again. I have a good trade, and a nice
little cottage to take her to. I would work day
and night for her, and be pleased and prond to
do it, too. She should never regret the day that
made her my wife—never!”

“TI believe that!” said Marian. But she
looked ill at ease as she listened to him. “[
believe that you would be very kind to her.”

“Then pray speak a good word for me to her;
and I will bless you all my life long!”

“Nay, Hugh ; I hardly think you need any
good word of mine. Iam sure that Rose is very
fond of you. All the village knows that well.”

“Yes,” said Rose, looking up, and speaking
with the most perfect frankness ; “I am very
fond of Hugh.”

“Humph! I doubt it!” thought Marian, as
she marked the calm, sad face that did not
change, and the quiet, even tone in which she
spoke. “No blush, no sigh, no softening of
the voice! She says it much as she might say
it of her bird; and yet, poor fool! he does not
see it!”

No, Hugh was in raptures at hearing this{
corfession.

to You see, Miss Marian,” he said, with a’de-
lighted face, “sie owns, before you, that she
loves me. And yet she will not marry me.”

“ How can I go against my poor father’s last
wishes?” said Rose, with the tears standing in
her eyes. .

“But I thought your father knew and ap-
proved of this attachment, Rose ?”

“He did know of it, and he always liked
Hugh—he liked him to the last. But when he
was taken ill he seemed to change. That very
May Day evening when we got home from the
common, he said to me, ‘ Rose, you must never
marry Hugh. He can never be more to you
than a brother: remember that.’ He said, t at,
perhaps, he had been to blame in encouraging
his visits, but that he thought it was only a boy-
and-girl faney, that would die away of itself.
And then he was taken so ill, and I never had a
chance to speak to him about it again.”

*‘ Well?” said Marian, seeing the eyes of
Hugh fixed upon her with unmistakable earnest-
ness.

“ He sent for you. He could not die without
seeing you.”

“ Well 2”

“ What did he say to you?”

Rose looked frightened as soon as the ques-
tion had left her lips, for Marian’s face darkened
over instantly.

“Pray forgive me,” she added, earnestly ;
“T do not wish to By into anything which con-
cerns you alone. But poor Hugh is so unhap,
Py: and he thought that my father might possi;

'y have mentioned this to you.”

“He did!”

“ And what did he say ?”

Marian hesitated. It seemed to her that she
held the future of those two lives in her hand
at that instant. And so she did! Nay, more
—her own happiness ne trembling in the!
balance with theirs, and she knew it not! Could
she have looked forward, if but for a few months,
I fear that her answer would have been very
different. As it was, she pitied the young mau
who stood before her, waiting to hear his doom,
and was half tempted to suppress the truth, if
only for his sake.

“Oh, tell me what he said?” pleaded Rose.

“T do not liketodoso. Still, if you insist—”

“Well, yes ; I do insist, if you will pardon
me for saying so, Miss Marian.’

 

a

»
;
ft

 

 
 

 

> sss
———

“T cannot tell if your father knew perfectly
what he was saying, or not. I incline to think
that he was wandering, from some communica-
tion which he made to me. But he told me
distinetly that you were not to marry Hugh
Dennett—though he did not give any reason
why.”

here was a dead silence. Rose turned pale ;
but after a moment’s pause, she walked up to
‘the young man, who stood looking on the
yround as if he was turned to stone.

“ You hear, dear Hugh,” she said, with a lit-
tle sob. “I cannot go against my father’s dy-
ing words, and so good-bye!”

She put her arms around his neck—kissed
him—and then, turning away, hid her face in
her hands. The young man still continued to
look at her as if he was stupefied.

“Good-bye!” he said at. last.
ood-bye! And to me!
oved me!”

Before she could answer him, he flung open
the door, and darted up the garden-path like a
madman. Rose gazed after him till he was out
of sight ; then, wiping her eyes, she said :

“Poor fellow! It is very hard for us both,
but it cannot be helped!” and began to make
preparations for the tea which she knew must
soon be offered to the watchers up-stairs.

Marian, nervous and worn out with the excite-
ment of the day, had much ado to keep herself
from a violent burst of laughter as she witness-
ed this little scene and its unromantic ending.
She escaped from the cottage as soon as possi-
ble, leaving Rose slightly consoled by the. hos-
pitable cares with which she was forced to oc-
cupy herself. Once safe in the green lanes, she
yielded to the horrible impulse which had seized
upon her, and laughed till she cried. The dead
man in the cottage-chamber ; the banished lover
—fiying, perhaps, to the ale-house to drown his
sorrow; the lonely orphan, busy with her
household cares—each thought of them seemed
only to bring back some ludicrous image in its
trsin, and though she was shocked at, and dis-
gusted with herself, she still laughed on.

At last the paroxysm passed. She little
dreamed—she who had always ridiculed the
doctrine of “ nerves”—how narrowly she had
escaped a fit of strong hysterics, or from what
pain and suffering, in the shape of intense head-
ache, and utter exhaustion, and prostration,
both mental and physical, that apparently in-
sane and unseemly fit of merriment had saved
her.

“She says
Rose—Rose, you never

 

CHAPTER XIV.
A TALE OF OTHER DAYS.

“The lady did not heed
That the far stars did fail ;
Still calm her smile,
Albeit the while
Nay, but she is not pale?

“T have a more than friend
Across the mountains dim ;
No other voice is soft to me,
Unless it nameth him!
Marg’ret—Marg’ret |”
—E. B. Brownina.

Dinner had long been over when Marian reach-
ed the Pleasaunce. She felt a little faint; and
going round by way of the kitchen, secured a
glass of milk and a slice of bread and butter for
her supper. Any refreshment more solid in its
nature would have been wasted upon her. Her
heart was too full; she could not eat.

Mrs. Pryor was not visible; neither was she
in the housekeeper’s room; but when Marian
reached her own chamber she found her there,
awaiting her coming. The hurry and agitation
whieh she had betrayed before were entirely

one. She sat by the open window, looking

own into the flower-garden with a face that was
quite calm, and very grave. When Marian en:
tered, sxe greeted her with a smile, and took no
notice of her exclamation of surprise and de-
light.

a Foolish child ? where ave you been ?” she
said, kindly. “Miss Moyell is so angry 5 and
you have had no dinner. You will be ill if you
go on in this way.”

 

; “That would be a great misfortune, indeed !”
said Marian, sitting down beside her, and leaning |
‘her head upon the back of the easy-chair. “ Who, |
in this great house, would miss me if I were ill,
or even if I were dead?”

Mrs. Pryor looked hurt and grieved. :

“I should,” she answered, softly ; and Mari-
an’s eyes brightened.

“Yes, I think you would. And you would
shed one tear, just one, over my grave—would
you not, Mrs. tryor?”

“My dear, why do you talk in that dismal |
way

 

 

 

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

“Don't let them bury me in the vault of the
Moyells,”’ she went on, in the same dreary tone.
“ T should never rest there. Ishould haunt you
all till you put me inthe sunshine and under
the green turf, where, like poor Keats, I could
feel the daisies growing over me.”

Mrs. Pryor looked at her rather anxiously.
Her hands were hot, her cheeks were flushed,
and her eyes shone almost tvo brightly for one
in perfect health.

“Do you feel ill?” she asked.

“Nota bit. There is a strange sort of light-
ness—a kind of exaltation about me, which I
eannot comprehend. I feel as ethereal as a piece

of thistle-down, and I think one good, strong |

puff of wind would blow me quite away and out
of yaur sight forever.”

The housekeeper rose from her seat, left the
room, and returned in a few minutes with a
wine-glass half full of some colorless liquid. in
her hand.

“ Drink this, my dear,” she said.

“ What is it ?”

“ Only a little dose of Valerian. You have
had too much excitement lately. Your nerves
are quite unstrung; but this will do you a deal
of good.”

“Nerves! I have no such things about me;
I leave them to my cousins,” said Marian, laugh-

ing. ‘‘However, I will take the potion for your
sake. And if it is poison, 80 much the worse far
ou.”

She drained the glass, and leaned her head
back again, with a weary sigh.

i. You can’t think how tired { am, Mrs. Pry-
or.”

“No doubt, my dear. You ought to take
more care of yourself. You are not strong
enough to bear so much excitement, and one
way or another it will be the death of you.”

“ But if excitement comes, it must be borne ;
one cannot help that.”

“You trouble yourself needlessly, my dear, at
times. Now, this afternoon, look how you rap
away in a rage, because I would not stop, when
dinner was just ready, to tell you a@ lot of old
world stories.”

“I was not in a rage.”

“Tn a pet, then, which was next door to it.
However, it was partly my fault, so we will say
no more about it. And now tell me, my dear,
did you see John Martin again ?”

“ Yes.”

“ Did he tell you anything ?”

“He could not; be was dead.”

A look of satisfaction certainly shone in: Mrs.’

Pryor’s eyes. She was not rejoicing on account
of the old man’s death ; she was only glad that
Marian had lost the chance of hearing what, for
certain reasons, she did not wish her to hear
just then, -

“Poor man!” she said, composing her fea-
tures into a decent gravity oo occa-
sion, “And what will that pretty e do, for
I suppose he has left nothing ?”

“ Absolutely nothing.”

“ With a face like hers, it would be madness
to think of going out t. service.
Hugh Dennett. I had forgotten him. Whata
lucky thing for her that so respectable and steady
a young man is ready to offer her a home when
ever she chooses to accept it !”

“But Rose will not marry him now, Mrs. Pry:
or.’

“Not marry him?
mad—”

“Her father forbade it on his death-bed.
And he told me distinctly that she was not to
marry Hugh Dennett. I witnessed their part-
ing, not half sn hour ago. The poor fellow
takes it sadly to heart ; but I fancy Rose is not
half so much grieved as he. I fear, in spite of
her beauty, she has little feeling !”

_ Mrs. Pryor did not answer. She seemed lost
in a reverie.

“Not marry Hugh Dennett?” she said, at
last. ‘There can be but one reason for such a
change ; and yet it scarcely seems possible—”

She looked up, and seeing Marian’s eyes fixed
intently upon her, she broke off abruptly.

“Ts it not strange, Mrs. Pryor?”

“Very strange—very strange indeed, my
dear! It seems to me that everything is getting
to be strange in this world. I have lived almost
too long in it. One duty more to perform, one
prose to keep, and then I shall be quite ready

go.”

“Now, it is you who are talking of graves,
and who need a dose of valerian to eure you of
the horrors,” said Marian, smiling.

“ Yes, my dear. Are you going down. into
the drawing-room this evening ?”

“T think so. Is Leonora very angry @

Why, she must be

But there is)

“TJ am afraid she is.”

“ Well, there’s one comfort, she wil] not dare

| to lecture me before the company. Besides, I
want to ask her a question about Philip Vere.”

Mrs. Pryor‘keld up her hands with a look of

horror.
| - Miss Marian, don’t you ask her that!”
| “I told you before I set out for the cottage
| that I meant to get at the bottom of the mys-

tery. You kuow I am as’ obstinate as a mule,

when I'set my heart upon anything: Well, I
| have set my heart upon knowing who Philip
Vere is ; and if there is no other way of doing
so, my cousin Leonora ‘must be asked.”

She rose‘as she spoke, and began to smooth
| her hair and adjust her dress before the looking~
glass. The old housekeeper watched her with
an uneasy look. She» knew well that she was
quite capable of fulfilling the threat; and when
she saw her move toward the door, she held out
her hand and said, coaxingly, “Miss Marian,
come back to me, and I'll answer your questions.
But don’t on any account go to Miss Moyell with
them.”

Marian returned, careless and smiling, feeling
that she had gained the victory at last.

“Well, begin,” she said, as she took her
seat. ‘ Who and what is Philip Vere?”

“ He is a London gentleman.”

“That is not’ definite enough.”

‘He is a lawyer, Miss Marian’

«Young or old ?””

“ About thirty, I should say.”

“A most delightful age. Is he good-look-
ing 2”

“Ladies generally think so, I believe.”

“Dark or fair?”

“Dark—with “beautiful features, and large
eyes, bright and soft like a deer’s—and a smile
like a flash of ‘sunshine on a rainy day.”

“ Why; you are growing quite ‘poetical, I de-
clare! Pray tell me more about this delightful
creature who ‘can set. you raving. You ought
to’ be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Pryor, to lose
your heart so readily.”

“Ah, child! I should never lose my heart to
him, if there’ was: never’ another man in the
world! I don’t like him!”

“ Why not ?”

* Because heis'a bad man!” |

‘«« But what has he done ?”

The color rose in the old lady’s cheeks, and
her black eyes sparkled.

“Done? He has compromised the honor of
a noble old house; he has made a lady the
laughing-stock of all his low London acquaint-
ances; he has behaved in'a way that makes me
long to horsewhip bim myself, old as Iam, every
time I think of it!”

“Qh, ‘tell’ me ‘all about’ it!” eried Marian,
eagerly.

“Then promise solemnly never to breathe ‘a
word to any human’ being, for it is a secret here
in Downe Reserve.”

“T promise.”

«Your cousin,’ Leonora, when she was first
left alone—the mistress of this handsome estate
—did many 4 foolish thing. She’ was but a
child. She was not fit to have the power over
herself and others’ that my poor dear master
left in her hands.» No wonder her head was
turned, poor thing! ‘She went to London for
the season, and there she was quite a belle. Her
fine fortune and her handsome face brought
many a lover to her feet—yet she seemed to care
for noone. At last she met Philip Vere!”

“And fell in love with him?” said Marian,
looking greatly interested.

“ No one ever knew; at least she refused him
along with the rest.

“Then she did not care for him ?”

“Perhaps not, then. But he would not take
no for an answer. He followed her about, and
flattered, besieged: her, till at last she accepted
him!"

“My cousin engaged ?”

’“ Poor thing, it did not last long! The prep-
arations for the wedding were hurried on. All
was ready; and the day came, She went to
church, Miss Marian— positively to chure
and he was not there !” :

“ But where was he, then ?” t

“On the Continent, traveling with a party of
friends. A letter reached her that very day,
saying that, as she had rejected him once, he
took the liberty ‘of rejecting her in his turn.
And so the wedding ended. Did you ever hear
of anything 80 shameful?” : ;

“But what did she do ?”

“Nothing. _ The matter was hushed up as
soon as ‘possible, and she has lived here ever
j since.”

“But I would have followed him all over the

 

 
  

 

2

 

 

world, and killed him!” said Marian, flushing
erimson and clasping her hands.

Mrs. Pryor did not answer, except to say that
it certainly was a great shame. Marian linger-
ed for a minute or two in silence, and then an-
nounced her intention of going into the draw-
ing-room. Her cousin Nora was,suddenly in-

vested with a new and strange interest in her |

' eyes, and she felt.as much euriosity to look \at
her as if she had been a stranger, whose story
she had thus heard for the first time, Rut Mrs.
Pryor held her fast.

“ You’ll never breathe a word of it. to her
when she makes you angry ?”

“I? How ean you dream of such a thing?
Certainly not! I would not allude to it before
her for the world!”

“ Good night, then, dear!”

And the worthy Jady left the room, blessing
her stars that she had escaped another explana-
tion, which she was by no means desirous of
making. She had drawn Philip Vere as a sort
of “red herring” across Marian’s path, and the
ruse had answered well. She was already
eareering away on a different scent, leaving the
secret in which she was most deeply interested
quite undisturbed behind her.

CHAPTER XV.
DEAD HOPES aND WITHERED FLOWERS.
“ The heart doth recognize thee,
Alone—alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet—
Doth view thee fair—doth judge thee most complete,
Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee !
“ Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose, than to any roses bold
Which Julia wears at dances, smiling cold !
Lie still upon this heart,
Which breaks below thee !”

 

—E. B. Brownine,

The party in the drawing-room .was a most
eozy and home-like one. Although the days
were full of sunshine the evenings were still
chilly, and the bright fire that burned upon the
hearth was very acceptable. A crimson-velvet
sofa was drawn up at @ little distance from it,
and in the light and heat basked Lady Revere,
in a violet satin dress, aud a head-dress of black
lace interspersed with clusters of morning vio-
Jets. She bad a small sereen in her hand, and
spoke now and then to Caroline, who was. her
companion, but she was more than’ half asleep
all the while. At the ‘eard-table sat Lucy and
Lord Revere, playing. game of chess., The
old Earl seemed delighted. with his pretty,
sparkling partner, although, ber tongue, moved
much faster than her. fingers, and ber blunders
with knights and pawns were ee quite
beyond belief. . At,the, piano sat Miss Moyell.
She had been singing, but, now, she was touch.
ing the keys slightly with the'soft pedal down,
and listening witha smile to Lord. Mountchayne,
who was leaning over her chair and talking in a,
low voice. Certainly she did not, look like a
love-lorn lady grieving for the loss of her) rec-
reant knight. Philip Vere was, apparently,
forgotten—at least for a time. Marian stole
sofily across the room, and .stood ‘beside Caro-
line. That young lady, making , a virtue, of
necessity, presented her to the peeress, who
bowed formally, and then blinked two or three
times at her like a sleepy ow]. Lucy, having
finished her game of chess, beckoned)to her., »

“ Lord Revere is tired of me and my, pranks,”
she said, archly ; “and he thinks you will play
a game better than I.”

“Hum—ha! Delighted, if the young lady
will do me the honor,” said the courteous old
gentleman, rising and making a profound bow.
“ But you do very well, Miss Lucy—very well,
indeed |!” :

“Then I will sit beside you and watch your
game, and help you to beat my cousin,” she
said, perching herself like a bird, on the chair
at his right hand.

Marian sat down. Her fingers moved me-
ebanically, and she saw the room and its occu-
pants as if in a dream. The warm and per-

fumed atmosphere—the elegant furniture—the’

beautiful dresses—the subdued voices—the air
of gentle, refined enjoyment that characterized
the scene, made her feel peculiarly out of place.
Sitting in a drawing-room, and playing, chess
with a belted Earl, she felt entirely out. of her
element. In her old loft, among the dust, the
lumber, and the tarnished books, she would have
been quite at home.

“Decidedly I ought not to be here,” she
thought, to herself, as the game went on. “1:
is all very well for Nora, and Luey, and Caro
line: they like it—they breathe their native air
in such places. Ido not, The only thing I am
fit for is to marry a day-laborer, who earns
twelve shillings a week. could keep his eot-

 

tage clean, and make and mend his eloches, and
cook his bit of diner of a Sunday very well.
But I have no business to be sitting here, dress-

| ed in'a blue grenadine, and playing chess with

this very respectable old nobleman, who never
ate off anything» more’ vulgar -than ‘silver ‘or
china ‘in his life! ' Dear me! ‘how siiff and awk-
ward I feel! and how white his hands are !”

Her eyes wandered ‘from the snowy’ ruffles,
and the flashing diamond ring, to the two who
still lingered beside the piano, apparently obliv-
ious of her presence.

“How -bandsome Leonora looks, and how
happy! © Who’ would think, to see her now,
that Philip Vere ‘had used her so shamefully!
Has she forgotten has'she forgiven him? If I
had been in her place, I could never have heid
up my head or looked inthe face of any human
being again!”

At that moment) Lord Mountebayne laughed
aloud. What a laugh it was !—so joyous, clear,
and sweet, like a peal .of silver bells!
Lucy looked up with a smile of pleasure as she
heard it: But the ‘old Earl puckered up his
eyebrows and forehead into a tremendous frown.

“Tut—tut! Whatia noise that boy makes!”
he said, testily. ‘One can hardly get leave to
think, while he is in the room.”

“Miss Moyell, I protest’ against my father’s
harsh judgment!” said the’ young man, who
seemed to have wonderfully quick ears. ** Come
with me and convince him of his error ; assure
him that his only son isa pattern and ‘a model,
in every respect, for the rising generation ; and
that no human ‘being, all things considered,
could make less noise in the world than your
humbie servant.”

They approached the table together ‘as he
spoke. His eyes lit up as he saw Marian. He
smiled saucily, but said nothing.

“You ask too much of me, my lord,” replied
Miss Moyell, turning away, with a laugh. “You
must mike your peace as you best can. I can-
not give such a wholesale recommendation to
one of whom I. know’so little. I sball go and
ask Lady Revere if Iam) not in’ the right in re-
fusing it.”

“ Deserted by my all¥ in my*sorest need,”
said Lord Mountehayne, turning to Lucy as if
for sympathy.‘ Fair lady, will you follow her
example ?”

“Not I,” said: Lucy,ofrankly. | “Sit down
here, beside me, my Jord, and no one shall find
fault wit . you.” i :

“ Here, take my seat,” said the: Earl, rising.
“Tam, going to \ask) Miss:Moyell to give me a
song.”

Lord Mountchayne ‘accepted the offer with
alacrity. . Being thus brought face to face with
Marian;) Lucy was!oobliged>:to present him.
Marian bit her lips as she met his roguish eyes.
He seemed toi delight in the embarrassing posi-
tion»in ~whieh she 'wasy placed. He looked a
handsome»embodiment of miselief as he pro-
ceeded to talk about that peculiarly English
subject—the weather. ~

* Weemust always’ begin with that remark,
you ‘know,” he said, gravely, ©“ When I had
the honor of making my first bow to you, Miss

Lucy, I said: at: the; same moment that it was a |

heavenly day.”

“Yes, my lord ;'and I answered that yester-
day was finer.”

“So you did.
discriminating —powers of mind; for yesterday
was finer.” Bu:

He laid a peculiar’ emphasis on the words.
Marian. did, not. look up»or joimin the conver-
sation, but played with the chessmen before her.

“A day to put one in mind of Paradise,” he
went on. “ And J spent it in an Eden —only it
was a ruined one ; and a remarkably large ser-

ent had been there before me.”

“And Eve ?” said Lucy, arehly.

“Oh, she had gone ages and ages ago.
you out yesterday ?”

“ Yes.” :

“ May [ask where ?”

“I went to the common, to see the May
Queen.” :

“ And was she so very beautiful ?”

“Rose Martin? Oh yes; she is the love-
liest creature you ever saw in all your life !”

‘And yet they say that one pretty woman
will never acknowledge that another is possess-
ed of good looks!” said Lord Mountehayne, in a
very audible aside.

Lucy }sughed, and blushed at the implied
compliment to herself.

“There would be no use in denying Rose
Martin’s beauty ; it is visible to every beholder.
Aud you would have bees much betier employ-

Were

Even |
| mere thought of such a thing!”

 

And the remark showed your |

| the group beside the fireplace.

 

THE, PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

ed yesterday in looking at her than in wahder-
ing about your ruined Eden, wherever it may
ze.”

“Do you think so?”

«Yes. You'say you are an artist. Now you
might have sketehed our Queen—erown, scep-
tre, and all.”

“On, I found employment for’ my pencil in
my Eden. I had an Egeria to sketeh—a ruined
fountain, 4nd a grotto into the bargain !”

Lucy looked rather puzzled. Marian turn-
ed crimson, but still kept her eyes upon her
chessmen.

“J will show you the picture some day: You
will at least recognize the place, if the nymph

} is unknown.”

“Ts it near here ?”

“ Within half mile of your gates.”

“ An Eden ; and I never knew it!”

“An Eden with a very bad name, I am sorry
to say. You would never venture to go there;
you would be frightened out of your wits at the

Lucy gave a little start and shudder.

“ You ean’t mean that dreadful Downe Re-
serve ?”

“You have guessed it!”

“ Whi, there is a ghost there!”

“T know it.”

“The ghost of a woman!”

“ Exactly. ©1t must have been her that I
sketelied yesterday. She was standing beside a
ruined well.”

“Ugh! ©The Wishing Well. I would not
drink the water there for all the world!”

* She seemed to have no such scruples. She
drank! and she wished a wish.”

“Did you hear her speak ?”

“ Distinetly.”

«And what was her wish ?”

“ Perhaps I will ‘tell you some day. I really

think, myself, that it may come teue. Stranger
things have happened before now.”
Again Marian blushed deeply. | Lucy went

across the room to tell her sister of Lord Mount-
chayne’s adventure.

The moment had come for which he had
watched and waited all day long. ' He leaned
over the table, and took a ehessman from Mar-
ian’s trembling hand.

“Why did you ran away ?” he asked, in a low
voice. “You told me when we parted, that
you would be glad to see me again.”

“And so] was,” said Marian, shyly. “But—”

« But what ?”

“ Why did you tell me your name was Fran-
cis Beaufort ?” 4

“ Because it is Francis Beaufort Maurice—
Lord Mountchayne, of Castle Maurice, at your
service. Now, are you satisfied ?”

“Hardly. You might have told me then who
you really were, and that you were coming
here.”

“T could not resist the desire to surprise you.
You are not offended with me?”

* No.”

“And you will not forget that we two are to
be the best of friends always, whatever may hap-

en?”

She did not answer.

“When ate you going to Downe Reserve

| again ?” he asked.

“T cannot say. Perhape never.”

“Nonsense! { want to make some more
sketclies there. I will get the young’ ladies to
have a pichie at the Wishing Well.”

“T doubt if you can.”

“ Wait and see.”

There was a little pause. Then he said:

« When will you show me that picture in the
study ?”

Marian twisted the head off an unfortunate
bishop as she heard the question. He leaned
over the table, and took it from her hand, while
at the same time he gave that hand a warm
pressure.

“ Because, you know, the wish is to be fulfill-
ed. A little bird told me so after you had left
me at Downe Reserve the other day.”

He dropped her hand, and sauntered away to
They greeted
him with a hundred questions about the haunt-
ed house and its ghostly occupant

“T saw no ghost,” he answered, quietly ; “ but
if there is one, we will hunt it out’very soon.
Because I am going to ask a favor of Miss Moy-
ell, which, sooner or later, I know that she will

rant. I am going to ask her to make a picnic
arty within the grounds of Downe Reserve.”

A, chorus of horrified exelamations greeted the
rash proposal, under cover of which Marian stvle
noiselessly from the room. Mer head ached—

 

 

 

 
‘

 

*

 

her heart ached, too, though she knew not why
—and she longed to be alone.

She went to her chamber, and having bathed
her temples in cold water, sat down beside the
open window, and looked out. The moon wus
up; and the flower-garden beneath, and the thick
grove of trees beyond, were bathed in a flood of
silvery light.

) So calm, so peaceful itseemed! Marian lean-
ed her aching head ‘upon her hand, and mused
upon the many strange and unexpected events
of the last two days. By and by everything
grew dreamy and indistiiiet—her head sank down
onthe window-sill, and she slept soundly and
quietly as‘a little child.

She awoke witha start two hours later. The
house was still, and the night-air blew in so cold
and chill upon her that she shivered from head
to foot.

“T shall have an influenza to-morrow, which
will be exceedingly romantic,” she said to her-
self; and, rising, she was about to close the win-
dow, when she caught a glimpse of some one
walking in the flower-garden beneath. A wom-
an, who passed rapidly up and down, wringing
her‘ hands, and weeping a8 she went.

Marian remembered the apparition at Downe
Resérve, aud her heart beat so fast for an in-
Stant that she thought she must faint. Buta
Second cautious glance showed her that this was
no ghost. It'was something stranger still—her
Cousin Leonora!

She could not ‘help watching her movements
from behind the curtains. Bat what was her
surprise at seeing Miss Moyell take something
from her breast, weep over'it, kiss it passion-
ately, and then dig up a little patch of garden-
mold, and bury it out of sight! The moon
shone full upon the spot, and Marian saw plain-
ly'that it was a faded rose which Leonora was
hiding so carefully from every eye.

A-moment after, the hall-door shut, and cau-
tious ‘steps came up the stairs. Her cousin’s
door was softly opened, closed’ again, and lock-
$d; then‘all was still.

But it was almost morning before Marian could
forget that strange scene, or cease to think of
him with whom she felt'sure it was in some way
connected — the’ absent and faithless Philip
Vere.

CHAPTER XVI.
A ROMANCE OF THE DERBY-DAY.

The arrival of Lordand Lady Revere and their
sonand heir caused, as'might have been expect-
ed, the greatest sensation in the neighborhood.
Carriages were dtiving up the green lanes by
scores’ on tlie’ afternoon of the following day ;
and before forty-eight hours had elapsed, every-
body in the county worth visiting had left their
ecards at the lodge-gate, or, in some particular
eases, had driven up to the house-door, and ex-
changed a few evil words with the great lady
and her pretty hostess.

Certainly Miss Moyell had played ber cards
very well. It was a great trouble and expense
to entertain the Priory fiimily for so long a time ;
but she thought herself most amply repaid by
the'entrée into the best society which their pres-
ence gave to her and to her sisters, No one
could evér venture to fling the little mishap with
Philip Vere in her face again, after she had re-
ceived, not only the Karl and

 

 

nowadays. Mountchayne cannot makeup his
mind to murry ; and he says he does: not like
oor Theodosia ; he declares she is an ‘affected;
stuck-up little thing. Now, Lhope, if I get them
together, in a quiet country-house like this; that
she will be more herself, and that he will take
a fancy to her—don’t you see?”
| . “ Yes,I see,” said Miss Moyell, feeling inward-
that she was anything but obliged to the

]
| Connon for selecting the Pleasaunce’ ‘as’ the |

scene of her experiment. f

“IfL could but induce him to settle down)”
sighed her ladyship.. ‘+ I wish they-would only
marry from here—how delightful it:would be!”

“Very, said Miss Moyell; but her assent was
very faint, and the Countess gave her a keen,
sidelong glance.

“You see, my dear, it would be a ‘conve-
nienee to us, while the Priory is all-at sixes and
sevens. I tell you so: candidly, and I think it is
very kind of you to take us all in, whileyas*one
mayo say, we have ndt @ roof over our heads.
But, on the other hand, I think our presence
here will be a benefit to you. You know, how
stupid most English people) are about. anything
like that sort of business of yours’ with Philip
Vere?” ! i

“Yes, know,” said Leonora, turmiig o¢rim-
son. ‘To my eost—to my’ bitter cost!”

“It was very shocking, and very humiliating,
it must be owned,”’*said the Countess; bastening
to heal the wound she had made.‘ But now
that we are with you, I am sure‘ all,old stories
will quickly die away, and if Mountehayne’ and
Theodosia would only marry from this house,
who is there'in the county that would refuse to
visit the Pleasaunce then ?” %

“ Your ladyship is qe right. And» I will
use my best efforts to bring about the result ‘we
both desire. Shall I write to Lady Theodosii ?”

“A little note of invitation, if you please, and
I will inclose it in my letter to-day.”

The note was: written, and the invitation ac!
cepted in person by Lady Theodosia, who came
down from town the very next day, not thinking
it necessary to stand upon any great ecremony
with a lady who lacked a title. : Lord and/Lady
Revere greeted “her affectionately ;) but’ Lord
Mountchayne’s face, when he heard of her arriv:
al, was:good to see.

“That affected little minx here!) What on
earth can she want at the Pleasaunce ?” he mut-
tered, when Lady Revere brought him the joy-
ful tidings.

“You!” her ladyship might have answered;
with strict regard to truth. But she was too
wise for that, and her pathetic exclamation,
“Do you want to break my heart; Francis ?”
induced her son to go to the house and greet
his cousin much more graciously than he had
intended to do. He 'was annoyed ‘and vexed at
her coming, it is true, but, he ,consoied himself
with the thought, that for every evil there is a

 

 

i
|

the’ proudest families for miles around, as her |

welcome and honoréd guests.

If, however, she had entertained any hopes
of winning the heart and hand of the Priory’s
heir while he sojourned within her gates, those
hopes were speedily dashed to the ground. In
the first ‘place, he was’ courteous and attentive
to her, but nothing more.
Countess herself, on the very evening after her
arrival, sought a private interview with Leono-
ra in’ her own apartment, and gave her to un-
derstand that if she could possibly make room
for another titled guest, she should fee), greatly
obliged by her doing so. Seeing her look of
alarni, her Jadyship hastened to explain.

* “*T¢ is only my niece—my poor sister’s child,
Lady Theodosia Monmouth. I dare say you
may have heard of her.”

“No,” said Miss Moyell, “she was not out, I

‘ think, when I was in London.”

* To be sure not! “How stupid I am getting!
Well, my dear, she is the quietest, plainest lady
in the world, and she would give her ears to
cone and stop in the same house with Mount-

ee ai
‘Miss Moyell blushed slightly.
_ “ Am IJ to understand, then—”
‘“My dear, it has been talked of ever since
they were babies! But youug men are so queer

In the second, the |

good; and made up his,mind also as to the:di-
rection in which he should look for his eounter-
balancing comfort.

Meanwhile, another event took place in
Downe, which excited the villagers as much as
the arrival of Lord Mountchayne had excited
the young ladies in the matrimonial market
amoug the more aristocratic circles of the place.
This event was, the encampment of a tribe of

Countess. but all | giPsies, upom some waste lands that bordered the

common, nearly a mile beyond the walls of
Downe Reserve.

Never before had the aark-skinned gentry
honored Downe with a visit... They had often
encamped in or near the neighboring villages,
and all the servant-girls had trud beth off with
their sweethearts to visit them and have 'their
fortunes told. But to have them close at hand,
ready to be consulted, morning, noon; and
night, as the case might be, was @ piece of ‘good
luck quite unexpected, yet; at: the same timi
thoroughly appreciated.” The whole Village was
in a ferment, and young and: old, maids, wives,
and widows, talked and thought of nothing but
the queer-tooking tents and their vagrant occu:
pants: The servants at the Pleasaunce: were
a with the mania as) well as the rest, and
great was the wrath of Mrs Pryor at the dread:
ful blunders. they made in the progress of the
day's work, while ‘their, hearis,;and,, thoughts
were far away. , Marian, hearing her scolding
vehemently one morning as she) passed the
kitchen. door, stopped to inquire the cause, and
thereby heard of the wonderful people, and the
place where they were encamped. a her heart
she registered a vow to, visit them, before their

' sojourn was oyer, though at the same moment

she agreed with Mrs. Pryor in her severe repre:
hension of .Phoebe, the under-housemaid,, wha
had broken six chiua plates and a porcelais

THE PRIDE OF THE | DOWNES.

 

$5

cake-basket, whilé she ‘was* dreaming ofthe
handsome’ ‘young nobleman allotted to herby
the spae- wife—and ‘whom’'slie had jtst began te
think’ might “possibly! be* Lords Mountehayne
himself: -

The davs'wore'6n';° and Marian; engrossed in
a néW and strange deligzlit, forx6e all about Whe
#ipsies' and their camp.’ “She faridied that ‘she
could téll he own“ fortune far better then ‘any
spae-wife’ Of then’ “alk There “was''d’ presetice
hatititing her by addy and by ‘night, tliere’ was ¢
step that Often Kept pace bereath the’ Pleasauee
treés with her own ?* there Was 'a'voiee thufinude
the’sweetest Mtsie On earth! in her eat} thér¢
Was & Hand Wwh6se “lightest totich’ aét the “le0d
léaping Tike Wquid fire through hér veins; there
were “ tia blue*eén™ that played “the Mischidf
With her @reaitis*of the ideal ; ° titre’ Was) it
fact) a blind arid "bewildered? féol; whose ‘name
was Marian’ Moyell ae

Tt nivde’ Her sinile With a*surntize wortder’ at
hersélf in after years‘ to thitk where ‘nde how
that first ford" fuiiey Ted “her? To study ‘his
fide, t6 ‘listen for His ‘step atid *voige by "auf, to
pace'ujy and down the gatden-tertuee by night,
and watch’ the window’ where’ his ight burned
Wiké astarj ‘and’ where, T’suppose, he wis tran-
quilly storiig) without & thought” ordredm /of
her—these* were! Wer déarest, her sweetest “de-
lights.°" Shé"was his‘ slave, his blind andmfati-
ated’ Worshipér! “Tfhe had “held up His finver
and betkvned her from thé end of the earth)
she would have flown to do' his biddiie ! “Ife
hadcilled tohex lfrom the ‘depths of Vesuvius,
she’ would ‘have’plunged down thie’erater'to fiid)
Beek, and join hire!“ Tfhe had beaten her, she
would have eroutched meekly beneath his blows ;
if he had’sptrnéd her from hith, she wdtild have
erawled Hunibly’ batk And ‘fhade' herself his
footstool. All things she “would'' havé’ borie
from’ hit, save one} and that wasinfidelity !
When a Woman loves’ in this ‘way, neithér ‘ut-
kindness} "nor seorn; nor desertion, nor ‘ervelty
dan shake her allegiance. Only a favored and
Him phant? riveP can do! that. So? Tone” as’a
hopé ‘remains, she ‘will ‘cling t6 it; so long ds
she can bélieve that, if spite of all, some linger-
ing” tendérness ‘is given to Her, she > will take
comfort'and' support from the knowledge. But
one Cotivitiee her that'nod regard is left—onee
let her'see that ‘another is preferred, before her
“and though’ she’ mity ‘still’ be faithful ‘to the
memory’ of ‘the ‘past—though she may still
cherish tenderly her vanished dream—her ab-
ject, unquestioning, dolatrous Worship is dead,
and will nevér ‘revive ‘agdin! “Considering tlic
depth, the earnestness, andthe inténsity of this
kind’ of love; it seems'a blessing indéed to reflect
that it néver ‘comes ‘twice in a lifetitie, “Hun:
dreds’ of women’ go down to their graves in hap-
py ignorance of its nature. Thousands’ fee) it
“outlive it “and maké'the best of life for éver
after. But their’ hearts area heap of ashes, and
the flowers that A Sica to grow there are
but’ pale ‘and puny blossdtisicompared with the
beauty of’ the rich, réd roses of the summer:
time. ” :

While’ Mariati'was' taking her first-lessons in
the sdience'of' “self-knowledge, which in the
fature could'give'a store of bitter experien dé for
her guidanées ‘and’ whilé’ the ‘villdcéysiris, BY
two and threes; ‘were rining to thé aipsy-detti})
to learn the’ trath or ‘filsehiood ‘of théir Fesped-
tive’swains, there dwélt' within that ‘camp itself
a young” and ‘beautiful’ gitl, who Would gINdly
have ‘sought, ‘at the’ ‘hands’ of her own peoplé,
some'insight: into the’ coming’ years, Had “they
really been able to give it. She was the daugh-
ter of ‘one of" thé prin¢ipal women ‘of the tribe ;
and ‘having lost ‘her parents at'an darly age; ale
was, in every sense of the word, the! child of
the whole~encampmient,” Petted and indulged
by all from Wer éarliéstinfaney, she hid grow!
up’ a’ beautiful, frée, ‘and ciireléss ‘eredttires "tb
whom the vey name of sorrow’ was utknown.
Tlie lightest ‘tasks, “thé pleksantest duties, were
dssighed'to' Cara‘ by her protectors} and liad dny
one ventured to breathe a ward of insult inher
bar, a hundred stout! atts’ would have’ been
lifted inher ‘deférice upon the instant. | So ehre:
fal were they of ‘het, that when'the tribe moved
from’ place’to place, she was hidden from every
roving eye itt the covered van ; and when ‘they
Visited ‘the’ races ‘and other public‘resdrtk, ‘she
was left athome tindér the guardianship Of thie
old woman' wlio had received her from het dy-
ing mother's! arms, ° .

ut this restraint suited the pirl so little that
she grew thin, and’ pale;'and fretful, and seemed
to'pine away day aftér day, tilishe wa’ but ffie
shadow of her former self. To bring’ back Het
gayety and good looks! her adopted parents re-

 
 
  
 

 

Hi

Hy

46 THE

laxed the strictness. of their rule a little, and
permitted her to accompany them now and then
when they went abroad on their expeditions. of
eombined pleasure and profit. At last, at her
earnest and often-repeated request, they took
her to witness the races, on the famous Derby
Day. Alas! it was not only thousands of pounds
that were lost and won upon the course that
afternoon! There went with the golden sover-
eigns a human heart, a human life, and perhaps
—but who shall solve that problem ?—a human
soul? Standing among the carriages, and lis-
tening to her companion as she told fortunes
right and left, with the glibbest of tongues,
poor Cara met her fate. It came to her in the
shape of a handsome dark gentleman of thirty,
who leaned over the box of his barouche, and
aid her some unmeaning compliment on the

auty of her eyes. They were light words,
and lightly spoken, and she bad heard a hun,
dred such that day with a careless nod and
smile. But something in the speaker’s voice
and face attracted her, and she stood at a little
distance, after he had turned away, watching
him as he talked to the ladies in the carriage,
or joked with his friends upon the box.

At last the great race of the day was run.
Every eye except Cara's was upon the course,
She thought nothing of the horses, except ag
they concerned the stranger. There was a wild
cheer, as the signal-number of the winner
flashed out, The color flew back into the pale
face she was watching.

“T have won two thousand pounds!” he cried
out, turning to his friends. A chorus of con-
gratulations greeted his success. Ashe listened
to them, his eyes fell by chance upon the gipsy-
girl, whose face was radiant—whose eyes were
fixed upon him with a look he knew only too
well how to interpret.

“Two birds with.one stone,” he muttered,
with a curious smile; and, making an excuse to
his friends, he dropped quietly down among the
crowd, and was soon standing by Cara's side.
He did not speak, but thrust a card into her
hand, and was gone. It contained only a name
and address, but that was. quite enough for
Cara. “ At ten, a. M., to-morrow,” was peneil-
ed beneath the address. She was at the place
appointed by half-past nine the next morning,
It was a lonely little inn, on the high road to
London. The stranger met her there, persuad-
ed her to elope with him, and, in order. to re-
move her scruples, went through a form of mar-
riage, where a college-friend of his. officiated as
clergyman. He established himself with his
“bride” in a pretty eottage, about six miles
from London, where she passed three months in
a dream of happiness, scarcely thinking of the
home, the friends, and relatives she had left
behind.

At the end of that time, the young husband
was suddenly summoned to the Coutinent, to
attend to some business-transactions, which in-
volved the loss or gain of large sums of money ;
and the wife was left alone. He neverreturned;
nor did aay letter come to tell of his success or
failure. Bewildered and unhappy, Cara waited
on in her suburban cottage for six months more.
Then she returned to her people, and told her
tale. She was received with open arms; but
the young men of her tribe, unknown to her,
kept a watchful and incessant look-out for the
stranger who had evidently deceived and desert-
ed ber. It was all in vain, however; and when
they came to Downe Reserve, more than two
years had elapsed since his strange disappear-
ance.

This peculiar event, which had saddened and
darkened ber whole life, could not so easily be
forgotten by the girl as by her associates. She
never heard the stranger mentioned—ithe name
of ‘ Ricbard Verton”’, by which she had known
him, was unspoken, save in the depths of her
own heart. Yet, still she remembered bim—
still she yearned after him—still she was ready
to forgive him—if he would but return to her
omce morc!

She wandered from the encampment one

leasant evening, and walked up the lane toward

owne Reserve, thinking of her brief wedded
life, and of the face she should see no more.
The sound of horse's feet startled her. A gen-
tleman was riding leisurely down the lane, tow-
ard the camp. Seeing her, he paused, as if to
ask a question. She looked at him through her
tears, with a wild unbelief in her great happi-
ness. It was her husband !

“OQ Heaven! am I dreaming ?—am I mad ?”
she cried. “Richard! Is it you? After all
these weary, weary years?”

“It is really me!” said the rider, looking
moved at her tearful joy. ‘“ AndI have come

 

| back to make you happy, and to tell -you-all!

I have been tracing your tribe in every direc:
tion, and at last I found they were here. So I
came at once—hoping to gain tidings of you—
but, never dreaming that your sweet face would
be the first to. weleome me, my forest-beauty !””

“O Richard, I ‘should like to die now !’’ she
sobbed ; and, bending down her head ‘she kiss-
ed the foot that rested in the stirrup. It was
the only way in ‘which she could express and
relieve the pain of love and submission that was
thrilling at her heart.

PRIDE OF THE|DOWNES.

“« Nay,” said the gentleman, bending down and |
drawing her closer to his side ; “that is not the |
welcome you should give me, my pretty one! |

Kiss my Jips—not my foot! Why, you are
handsomer than ever, you dark-eyed little
witch !”

She smiled and blushed.

“ And you never ask me why I have stayed
away so long!’

“How can I, when I see that you are still
faithful—that your heart is still my own?” she
said, simply.

He made an odd grimace.

“Of course. But it is my duty to explain.
I went to France—and then my business took
me to Australia... There I fell ill, and then I
lost my property, and. was too far to come back.
I would not write till I had made a fortune
again; and I have made it, and I am faithful, as
you see, and have come baek to ask you to share
it with me, Cara!”

“ Oh, my love—my love!”

“Will they take mein at the tents, do you
think ?” he asked, after.a slight pause.

“Gladly. They will welcome you with heart
and hand!”

* Well, let us go.”

And, Riebard!”’

“Yes, my beauty.”

“Would you. mind—do you mind going
through our own ceremony here? It would
satisfy and please them so!”

“Ob, I'll go through any ceremony you like
—so it gives me an undisputed right to your
pretty self,” he replied, with a smile.

“Then come! Oh, I fear my heart will
break with joy!”

She took his horse’s bridle-rein in her hand,
and like the old ballad—

“‘Lord John he rode,
Burd Helen ran,”
if not “the livelang simmer-day”, at least till
they reached the first tents of the gipsy-camp

CHAPTER XVII.
“THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT GIPSYING.”
“But they felt not the sweetness that smiled from the

ea,
And they, knew not the way of the wind through the

tree ;
And they ‘saw not the sea, when they looked at the |
'

sea
“The wood-dove tapped note of the storm, the shy
ren

Ww
Twittered fearful, and low hung the mist o’er the fen,
But all that they thought of was three little men!

“ The wind rose, the clouds gathered, mass upon mass;
The sun drew his long lines of light from the grass—
Alas! for the three little women, alas !”

—ALIcE Carey.
Lord Mountchayne, like every other petted
and indulged young nobleman, was full of whims
and eaprices, which he followed to the end with
all the eager gayety of a boy. |The picnic to

Downe Reserve was one of these fancies, and

having once got itinto his head, he gave no

one any rest or pence-till they had entered into
his plan. Mrs. Pryor held up her hands in horor
at first hearing of the proposed excursion, and
said that it was a rash tempting of Providence;
but for all that, at the request of his lordship,
she made loaf after loaf of {delicate cake,
and roasted chickens, and prepared tongues,
with her own bands; giviog as a reason after-
ward, to ‘Marian, that “really, my Lori was so
handsome, there! was no refusing him anything.”

Marian assented to this doctrine with al] her |
heart ; so did Lady ‘Theodosia, and Miss Caro- |
So, apparently . did all |

line, and Miss Moyell.
the young ladies of the neixhboring fa nilies ;
for one and all accepted their invitations, and

| chayne went out to receive them,

 

assembled at the Pleasaunce on the morn ing ap. |

pointed, with just enough of nervous flutter and
timidity in their manner to make it quite evi-
dent that it was only to oblige Lord Mount-
chayne that they ventured to go to such a dread-
ful place. For the sake of his lordship, or
rather for the sake of the eoronet and fortune
he would eventually have it in his power to be-
stow, the fair creavures would have encountered
all the ghosts ir Christendom ; and no one knew
it better than he. Among the whole party

SSS eee
there were but two exceptions to this general
rule. One was Lucey Moyell, who did not care
two pins for him, thought him a spoiled cox-
comb, and told him so, frankly to his face; and
the other was poor Marian, who loved him with
her whole heart and soul, regardless of his rank
and future wealth, and only conscious that he
was more bright, and beautiful, and perfect,
than any, created being ; and that from his high
position he had deigned to stoop and. cast a
glance of sincere regard upon her—unworthy
of his notice, still more of his friendship, though
she might be. Poor Marian!

She was not, happy from the moment when
the guests began to arrive, and Lord Mount-
She watched
the scene with a dismay that would. have been
ludicrous if it had not been so gennine.

In the first place, she had selected from her
not too extensive wardrobe a dress which she
thought most suitable for the occasion. It was
a pale pink ginghim, trimmed lavishly with
white braid ; substantial enough to. resist intru-
sive briars and brambles, yet sufficiently pretty,
as she innocently imagined, to attract the only
eyes she cared to please. She wore a pair of
strong, solid kid boots, a black silk scarf, and a
plain straw gipsy hat, with a green ribbon twist-
ed round the crown.

Lady Theodosia, between whom and Marian
there was constant. and almost open war, looked
up as she came down into the hall, and said
something to her cousin, with a sneering smile.
He turned and looked. Oh, that glance of sur-
prise! She almost sank beneath it, though he
did not speak. And then turning to Lady The-
odosia and Miss Moyell, she saw that they were
arrayed like the lilies of the field; that is to
say, they wore gossamer floating robes, that
were miracles of, lightness and. beauty—the
daintiest of boots, the freshest of gloves, and
hats, and parasols, calculated to make the cows
they met, ruminate with placid wonder, or take
their heels in pure dismay :

Nor were they alone in their elegance. As
carriage after carriage drove up, and one young
lady after another ascended the ateps, each “is-
played the same airy and graceful attire. Nor
was this the worst of it. Onthem Lord Mount
chayne bent no disapproving glance. He met
them with an air of courteous devotion, that
wrung the poor girl’s heart with jealous pain.
He had never bowed his beautiful head so be«
fore her—never talked to her with that smile,
that voice—neyer bent in that respectful way to
hear what she was saying. What did it all
mean, except that he a not like her, as he
could like those beautiful creatures—that her
place was in the kitchen rather than in the all,
and that she wished she was dead?

She reached this climax of her misery just as
the carriages ranged themselves in a line before
the door. Lord Mountchayne was busy hand-
ing the young ladies to tneir places, and did
not look toward her. She would gladly have
stayed at home, but Lucy, who sometimes took
it into her head to be rather fond of her, pull-
ed her along to the family-chaise, and drove off
having first the felicity of seeing Lord Mount-
chayne seating himself beside Lady Theodosia,
and opposite two of the prettiest girls the eoun-
ty could boast.

It was better when they reached the grounds
of Downe Reserve, because dinner is the first
consideration with every one who attends a pic-
nic party.

Marian knew more about the unpacking of
baskets and the arrangement of the table. than

| any one else; and even Lady Theodosia was

subject to her orders, and obliged to behave
civilly to her for more than half an hour. Feel-
ing herself of use, she brightened up wonder-
fully, and consoled herself during dinner b
thinking that Lord Mountchayne was, after al
really obliged to pay attention to his guests,
and that he meant no more in so doing than the
gallant Guardsmen, who had been invited to fill
up the ranks of gentlemen, meant by the ten-
der things they were saying to their respective
partners under the cover of sharing with them
their cold chicken and champagne.

The meal was finished at last—the dishes
and fragments cleared away ; and as no one de-
sired to explore the house, or venture very far
out of sight of the main party, they got up a
dance upon the lawn, with the help of an oblig-
ing young gentleman, who had brought a clari-
net 1n his pocket, and who blew away at waltz-
and polkas, till he grew quite black in the
ace.

Here, again, Marian began to suffer the tor-
ments of jealousy. A young Cornet of the

 

 

i g ee

— .—_——

 
—_

 

Guards, who had taken a faney to Lady Theo-
dosia, only to be dreadfully snubbed by that
haughty damsel for his presumption, came and
asked her to dance; but she was too shy to ex-
hibit her rustic airs and graces before so many
unmereiful judges, and though she really waltz-
ed very well, sie preferred to sit upon the grass
and watch Lord Mouatchayne as be whirled his
pretty partners round and round in that. de-
lightful dance. How pretty they were dressed,
aud how much he seemed to admire them! Was
it possibie that he could clasp a slender waist,
and look down into a lovely blushing face, and
and hold a warm and trembling hand—and still
remember her=poor, ugly, awkward, friendless
ereature that she was! No, no! a thousand
times, no!—her aching heart eried out. And if
she had but seen him first-as she saw him then,
what hours and days, “and years of anguish
might have been spared her! To the pleasant,
quiet inmate of a simple country-house she had
given ker Jove—ber idolatry—herself; but to
this bright stax of fashion, this petted darling
of society she would never have dreamed of
lifting her eyes!

However, the mischief was done. She had
seen and loved; and now she must suffer.
There was no use in entering the lists against
rivals like these; since, if by chance she van-
ished one, a thousand: fairer than she would
start up instantly in her place. She must ac-
cept her destiny, which evidently was, to love
without being loved again, and to lose a heart
before it had ever been fairly won or thorough-
ly possessed. It was by no means a pleasant
future to look forward to with eyes so young
and bright as hers. Yet she sat musing over
it, while the dancers whirled by, till the groups
broke up suddenly, and the young ladies came
hurryiug over to the trees where: she was sit-
ting.

“T do believe it is going to rain hard. I felt
a great drop on my face just now,” said Lady
Theodosia, with a languid lisp ; and looking up
at the sky, Marian saw that it was overcast, and
that black clouds were rolling up in heavy
masses from the west.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PROPHECY.

** Fast home ran the robin, fast home flew the wren;
The black snake Jed all his black sons to the fen,
That lay ’twixt the three little women and men.

“ The sky was all over one horrible frown!
The rain from the hill-tops in torrents dashed down,
The three little short-sighted women to drown.

“ Oh, their folly in trusting to see things alone,
Through the eyes of their three little men—not their
own!” —ALICE Carey.

In ten minutes more, their fate was decided.
The sky grew darker and heavier; the wind
moaned ominously through the trees; and,
afver one or two preparatory sprinkles, the rain
came down in heavy slanting lines, that promis-
ed no cessation fur minutes—perhaps for hours.
It was ove of those deceitful April showers that
sometimes fail to make an appearance in their
own proper month, and then take it upon them-
selves to render the sunshine of May an ancer-
tain andajransitory thing.

Alas, for the delicate muslin dresses—the
trensparent gauze bonnets—the hats of lace and
rice-straw that had been prepared to captivate
the wandering eyes of Lord Mountchayne!
That downright, searching, pitiless shower, had
mo respect for ranvk or beauty, and in a very
short time the gala dresses presented a most
pitiable spectacle. Lord Mounteh%yae could
scarcely keep from smiling ss he surveyed the
forlorn-looking damsels who stood in a line
beneath a group of old trees, looking first at
the clouded heavens, and then at their own
ruined finery, with faces of the most lugubrious
despair.

It was Marian’s hour of triumph. The pink
gingham dress and the plain straw hat had suf-
fered a woful eclipse in the earlier part of the
day, but: now they looked like the robes of a
qneen in comparison with the equipments of her
draggled and disconsolate neighbors. Perhaps
it was the consciousness of this fact that made
her so perfectly at her ease. More than one
gentleman turned with a sigh of relief from the
fretful lady at his side, to her round, cheerful,
energetic face, that was just then bright with a
thought of relief for them all.

“We shall catch our deaths, if we stand
here,” she remarked, and a chorus of assenting
Voices welcomed the axiom.

“ Then let us look for a place of shelter.”

“ Agreed,” said Lord Mountchayne, laughing.
‘“ But where is it to be ?”

 

«The village is too far away.”

“Oh, quite!” said Lady ‘theodosia, with a
little seream of horror. ‘ Besides, we ean never
exhibit ourselves in this plight. I remember
getting caught in a shower worse than this, in
Egypt; aud, I assure you, as we rode into
Cairo, dripping and miserable, on our donkeys,
every Aral) we met seemed delighted at our
misfortunes.”

“ How shocking! But then what can you ex-
pect of Arabs?” murmured the young ladies
around her.

“T don’t see what the Arabs have to do with
the matter,” said Marian, brusquely. ‘I sup-
pose the pecple of Downe have heard of such a
thing as one’s getting wet in a shower; and if
they should happen to laugh (for we are a very
sbubby-looking set, I confess), why, they are
only ‘ the canaille’, and your ladyship need not
mind them.”

Lord Mountchayne smiled covertly behind
his handkerchief. But Lady Theodosia shrug-
ged ler shoulders, and stared at Marian as if she
had been some novel and curious production
of nature submitted for the first time for her in-
spection.

“My dear!” she said, in a very audible tone
of voice, as she turned to Miss Moyell, ‘ what
very extraordinary notions your cousin seems to
have!”

“ Oh, den’t mind her,” said Leonora, looking
earving-knives and daggers at Marian for her
rudeness.

“Is she quite proper, do you think ?”

Marian hearing this, laughed aloud.

“ Well, my Lord,” she shid, “ how is it to be
settled ? Are we to stay and take our wetting,
or seek a refuge at once ?”

“Oh, the refuge, by all meansi Why zan’t
we all go into the old house together ?”

The ladies uttered little shrieks, and protest-
ed that they were ready to faint at, the mere
thought of such a thing: Lady Theodosia was
especially vehement, and declared that she
wouid rather catch a hundred colds than ven-
ture inside that dreadful place, which, she was
quite sure, was as full of ghosts, from top to
bottom. as it could hold. It took a great deal
of coaxing and soothing to recover her from the
effect of so horrible a proposal. Lord Mount-
chayne administered this soothing as in duty
bound, looking obliquely at Marian from be-
neath his long eyelasies as he did so. When
the commotion had subsided, that young lady
als» put her veto on the plan for invading the
solitude of Downe Reserve.

“I have not the slightest doubt that there. is
at least one ghost there,” she said, seriously.
“ And I should be very sorry to be the means
of alarming so delicate a person as Theodosia
unnecessarily. But there is a place near at
hand quite free from ghosts, and tenanted by
living beings, who will be only too happy to
assist us. We can warm ourselves by their
fires, and share their evening meal into the bar-
gain, if we like. { allude to the gipsy encamp-
ment, which lies about a quarter of a mile
beyond the Wishing Well.”

“Real gipeies!_ Oh, how delightful! Let us
go at once!” cried a chorus of damsels.. “ And
after we are warm and dry, perhaps we can get
our fortunes told.”

Lady Theodosia’s pale eyes kindled, and she
looked up fondly in the face of her cousin.

“ What do you think of it, Francis ?”

“The best plan imaginable. You are wet to
the skin, and I shall have a lecture a mile long;
to-night from my lady-mother if you come to
harm. You had better go, and we’ll have some
supper out of the gipsies’ kettle. What fun it
will be!”

“If you approve of it I will certainly go,
Francis. But mind you, keep close to my side
when we reach the encampment. I shall be
frightened to death of those rude men if you
are away ”

Lord Mountchayne bit his lip.

“My dear Theodosia, I will not leave you.
But you need have no fear while so large a party
are around you.”

“T shall fear nothing by your side, Francis,”
was the sentimental reply 3 and leaning fondly
on his arm, she allowed him to lead her in the
direction of the encampment.

The other gentemen foliowed, with their fair
artners. aman came at last, attended by
ornet Sautney, who was as sulky as a bear be-

cause Lady Theodosia had taken her cousin’s
arm instead of his. Some ungpoken sympathy
surely made him draw near Marian, since she,
too, was brooding over the same subject, though

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES 4

‘blaze.

 

~

with slightly different thoughts. She was wisn.
ing that she was rich and noble like Lady Theo-
dosia, so that Lord Mouatchayne might pay his
attentions openly where she felt persuaded his
heart was already interested.

She was not only envious, but a iittle angry.
She was too proud.to bear with patience even e
seeming slight; and the mere fact that the
young nobleman had ventured, now and then,
to seek her. presence uninvited, to whisper
words of friendship—nay, of positive tenderness
—in her ear, gave her, in her own mind, a claim
upon him, which he had no right, even in pub-
lic, to ignore or set aside. All the day iong
she had been chafing secretly at her position.
With her plain’ dress, her awkward embarrass-
ment, and her ignorance of all the common
topics of the day, it seemed to her that she was
looked upon by the ‘gay party more as a privil-
eged upper servant than as a guest at the pic-
nic, who had-been, invited, and, what was more,
implored, to come by its founder. While the
cloth was being laid, and the dinner was in
course of. preparation, she had been a very
active and important personage. Under her
direction Lady Theodosia had made a salad, and
Lord Mountchayne had dressed a lobster ; while
her cousins, and the gay Guardsmen, had con-
tinually called her to assist them in‘the disposal
of certain dishes, and knives and forks, that were
inclined to take up more room than was allot-
ted to them.

This, suited her very well. But when the
dinner was eaten, and the clothes and dishes
were packed safely in their baskets, her import-
auce ceased with her usefulness, and no one
seemed to give a thought to her. Her cousins
were rude, the others cold, Lady Theodosia im-
pertinent, and Lord Mountchayne neglectful, as
well as the other gentlemen. “his was the last
drop in the full cap....And-now, after having
come to their rescue in the hour of need, hav-
ing suggested the measure which no one else
had the sense to propose, they were all quietly
trudging off across the fields fo avail themselves
of it—while she was left behind with that idiotic
young soldier, whose only recommendation in
her eyes was, that he was apparently suffering
pangs, on his own account, much like those
which wrung her own breast.

Certainly it was with no very amiable feel-
ings that she thus reviewed the situation, and
reflected that a heavy purse, an ancient mansion,
and a golden coronet made all the difference
between her and the young patrician who lean-
ed with such insulting security upon the arm of
the man whom she had chosen for herself trom
all the world, and who had given her every rea-
son to think, that he approved of and confirmed
her choice.

With a heart thus swelling with anger under
her real and her fancied injuries, she entered the
Sipsy encampment, whose swarthy inmates. tio
the number of twenty or thirty, came crowding
cagerly around the party. Lord Mountchayne
constituted himself spokesman ; and, through
his exertions, they were provided with seats
around a blazing fire, that soon dried the satu-
rated garments of the ladies, aud restored the
cheerfulness of the gentlemen, A great eal-
dron, like that of the witeles of Macbeti, smoked
and babbled over the blaze, and sent farth a
most appetizing smell. The old crone who at-
tended as the presiding genius of the scene,
nodded a delightful assent to Lord Mount-
chayne’s proposal that they should share its
contents with the people of the tents.

“ But, Francis, it may be dogs and cats, for
aught you know,” said Lady Theodosia. ‘

The old woman heard her, and grinned sig-
nificantly, as she glanced toward the well-stock-
ed ‘preserves of a gentleman’s seat not far away.
It was no other than the Priory, and the young
nobleman lauglied as he caught her eye.

“ We shall sup at my father’s expense, Theo-
dosia,” he ‘said, good-humoredly, “And you
need not fear a stew made of kittens and puppy
dogs. The rabbits that breed in the Priovy
woods are most unexceptionable in point of size
and flavor.” oe ‘

“ How delightful this is!” said Lucey Muy-
ell, as she warmed her hands before the genial
“J wish I had been born inatent. I
would rather be a gipsy than anything else on
earth.”

Lady Theodosia looked shocked. F

“It must be such fun,” persisted the lively
girl. “No bother with houses then; no fuss
with servants; no being tied down for ever to
a stupid little village, because your estate hap-
pens to lie there. Nothing to do, when you tire
of your quarters, but to take your house on your

 
  
 

 

 

 

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

 

back, like a snail and be off to ‘ fresh fieldg and
pastures new’. .1t would suit you, Marian, even
better than it would me,”

Marian, who sata little apart. from the rest,
tensed patting the head of a dog, who had come
to make her acquaintance, and looked up with a
amile.

“Yes; I should like to be a gipsy.”

* The very thing you are fit for, I should
say,” remarked Lady Theodosia, staring her in
the face with her most helpless air.

“Thank you; 1 am glad to find that your
ladyship thinks me fit for anything,” replied
Marian, returning her gracious look with in-
terest.

“ How those two do fight with each other, to
be sure!’ drawled Captain Mortou to Miss
Movell, im an undertone.

She smiled.

“Can't you guess why ?”

“No?

“ hen women fight it is generally for some-
thing.”

«I dare say.”

“And the something generally happens to be
agentleman!” ©

* Ha. ha! You do us too much honor. But
who is the happy man in this particular case?”

“1 leave it to your penetration to decide.”

“‘Egad! I never had any,” said the gallant
Caprain, unconsciously telling the truth. Then
raising himself on his elbow, to take a survey of
the whole parcy, he spied Lord Mountchayne
bending Lis handsome head down to bis cousin’s
ear, while Murian’s dark eye watched him with
a glance not to be mistaken.

“The deuce!” he said, sinking back with a
ludicrous look of wonder. “ Is it him ?”

“It is.”

“Your little cousin flies high—I’ll be shot if
she don't!”

“She will eome down all the sooner,” said
Leonora, with bitter emphasis.

“ But a plain little thing like that—! Oh, I
beg your pardon 2

“You need not. My cousin and I waste no
love on each other!”

“Then, perhaps, you will excuse me for say-
ing that she is very foolish to dream of taking
Mountchayne away from Lady Theodosia. Why,
all the world kvows that they were selected for
each other in their cradles. And, though, be-
tween you and me,I believe Mountehayne hates
the sight of her—Lady Revere has decreed it,
and the thing must be.”

“So I have heard.”

Captain Morton eyed Marian a few minutes
in silence.

“It is almost a pity!” he remarked, at last.
“ She is not pretty, but she seems a Kind, sensi-
ble, bright little thing. I should say she had
brains!”

“ People are generally furnished with them, I
believe,” said Miss Moyell, dryly.

“Yes; but I mean she looks. as if she had a
little more than the usual allowance. She looks
like a clevergirl.. Don’t you see?”

“J dare say she does to you!”

“ And, between ourselves, Mountchayne has
not a second idea beyond his painting. You
night as well give her @ hint to that, effect.”

“1? What for?”

“ Why, she is your cousin, you know ; and it
would be only kind to save her from making an
idiot of herself about a man who can never
marry her, and who would not suit her even if
he could.”

“Tf you are so deeply interested in Marian’s
welfare, you had better tell her so yourself,”
replied Miss Moyell, looking huffed, and mov-
ing her seat to the other side of the fire.

“T’ve put my foot into it now !” said the Cap-
tain to himself, as be pulled ruefully at his tawny
moustaches. ‘It is very strange how wild it
always makes a woman if you say the least
word in praise of another. And as I can’t af:
ford to lose my chance of pocketing the renta
of the Pleasaunce, Miss Marian must ‘gang her
ain gate’ for me. |1 can’t befriend ber at the
expense of my own purse and pocket. I wish
I could give her a quiet little hint, though, all
the same.”

There was no need. Marian had overheard
every word of the brief conversation, and sat
diges ing her newly-acquired informed.as best
she might. The scornful way in which Leo-
nora had spoken of her, and the pity expressed
by the Captain, which, from. its very nature,
was half-insulting, in spite of its kindness, faded
into insigvifieance before the startling fact of
Lord Mountehayne’s tacit engagement to his
cousin, A thing which was so well known to

 

 

| all the world except herself, must have been in

contemplation for years. It was a family-ar-
rangement, in fact, of which he had been per-
fectly conscious whien he first met her at Downe
Reserve. He had known—as he talked to her
on that day—as he greeted her in her own
home—as he walked with her beneath the shade’ |
of the Pleasaunce trees—as he sat beside her |
in the dusty loft—that Lady Theodosia, and |
not Marian Moyell, was to be his bride! O°
fool that she had been! to take his smiling
looks, his tender words, for more than they |
could mean! He was the young prince upon
his own domain ; and she was the young beg-
gar-girl, who crossed his path, beguiled his at-
tention for an instant, and then was cast aside
and forgotten; and the princess came with
pomp and pageant, the ringing of bells and the
glad shouts of the people, to claim him for her
own!

She was humbled to the very dust at the
thought. She looked no more at him or Lady
Theodosia, but sat with her head bent down,
and her hand resting upon the’ neck of the
poor, faithful cur, who seemed to understand
and respect her grief, and only sought to show
his sympathy by erouching close to her side
with a mute caress.

Lost in that sad reverie, she scarcely knew
how time passed by, and had almost forgotten
the party round her, when she was startled by
a step, and a voice, that said softly in her ear:

“The supper is ready—are you not com-
ing?”

g. No, my Lord,” she replied, without looking
up.
Ri What is the matter?”

“ Nothing.”

“ Are you cold?”

“No.”

OLE

“<I¥0.”

“Unhappy”

“No,” she answered ; but something rose in
ber throat, and almost choked her as she
spoke.

“] wish you would come and eat supper,”
he snid, pleadingly.

“T cannot eat.”

“But come, if only to please me.”

“Don’t ask me.”

“You don’t care to please me, then ?”

“T ought not to care.”

“Ah! he said, eagerly, “I thought as much.
Some one has been telling you a quantity of
rubbish about Lady Theodosia.”

“J have heard that you are to marry her,”
said Marian, steadily.

“My dear child, that is my mother’s plan,
not mine. I can’t bear her, with her confound-
ed airs and graces. If any man had dared to
say the things she has said to you to-day, I
would have punched his head for him in five
minutes.”

Marian smiled sadly.

“My Lord, I am quite able to fight my own
battles.”

“That you are. You gave her shot and shell
together two or three times. J can’t think
what makes her hate you so.’

* Because I hate her, it may be.”

“Poor little Marian! If I had my own way,
no one should dare to be rude to you again.
Do you believe that?”

“1 must not.”

“ You must, I tell you. What is Lady Theo-
dosia to you? Why, you have more brains in
this little brown head than her whole family
ever had—the whole of them lumped together,
from the crusaders down to this present day.”

“She is looking at you; you must go.”

“I won't till you say you will be happy
again.”

“Tl try.”

“Where is your dear little hand? Put it out
under your cloak. What a mouse’s paw it is,
to be sure! There now, don’t fret any more.
It will all come right in the end, see if it
don’t.”

He gave the “mouse’s paw” a squeeze that
made it tingle again; and then went back to
Lady Theodosia, who was just looking round
for him with a brow as black as night. Marian

 

rosé, and wandered beyond the encampment,
attended by her four-footed friend. {

The rain had ceased, and the sun was just |
setting. Overhead, the skv was clear and blue,
but in the west a bed of dark-looking clouds
formed the couch on which the descending
monarch was to rest. There was a wild, fresh
sweetness in the air—a perfume of broom flow-
ers, of lilac blossoms, of apple, pear, and cherry

}
|

blooms, all mixed with the odor of the upturned
earth, and the smell of the privet and sweet-
brier, still wet with drops of rain. In the fields
the lark was still singing ; in the woods the deep
notes of the cuckoo could be distinctly heard ;
and the twittering of swallows, and the cawing
of home-flying rooks, formed the constant cho-
rus to the universal song.

Marian leaned upon a stile, and looked and
listened with a heart that, in spite of some ling-
ering doubts and fears, sat lightly on its throne.
Earth was fair again—the world was once more
a happy place wherein to dwell—because that
musical voice had breathed a dozen words of
undecided import in her ear. Yes, as he sai-l,
it would all come right in the end; and she
would wait, and have patience and hope; and,
above all, faith in his truth and honor !

“Dreams! dreams! We are all dreaming,
from our cradle to our graves!” said some oue
at her elbow.

She started and turned round.

There stood a gipsy woman, of unusual size
and stature, with a bright kerchief on her head,
which fastened beneath the ehin, and partly
covered her olive cheeks. Her fentures were
large, but beautifully formed ; her eyes, bright
and bold, with a eold smile lingering in their
depths ; her teeth, white as snow; and her
hand and foot, models in their shape, if not for
their size. Her voice was peculiarly deep, but
not unpleasiug ; and her whole appearance was
so striking that Marian gazed at her without
speaking for several minutes.

“Dreams are the greatest rubbish in the
world, young lady,” she said at last. “Come
down to the camp in five minutes’ time, and I'll
tell you what yours are worth?”

“ Who and what are you?” asked Marian.

‘Rosina the Gipsy, at your service,” she re-
plied, with an awkward courtesy; “aud I’m
going down yonder to the gentlefolks to tell
their fortunes.”

She leaped the stile, and went toward the
camp by a side-path that led to the back of the
tents. Marian followed more slowly. When
she reached the party, the gipsy had already
commenced her predictions.

They were of the usual stamp, beginning
with a dark and a fair man, and a handsome
present, and ending with a fine marriage, a
large fortune, seven or eight beautiful children,
health, happiness, and troops of loving friends.
Mueh laughing, and blushing, and jesting en-
sued upon her revelations. But when Miss
Moyell came forward, the gipsy sat silent for
an instant, and then looked searchingly into
the young lady’s face.

“And so you have come to have your for-
tune told, my pretty lady ?” she said.

Miss Moye}l started at hearing her voice, and
turned white. Bending forward, she looked at
the gipsy earnestly. The dark, bright eyes
never flinched before her gaze.

“ Bow absurd of me!” she muttered, as she
turned away. “But I will not have my for-
tune told: I know all about it already meself.”

The gipsy /aughed aloud, and turned to Lady
Theodosia.

“A piece of gold, my lady, for so white a
hand as yours,” she said ; and the young peer-
ess, with a smile of gratified vanity, put a sov-
ereign into her extended palm. Rosina bent
down and said something to her, too low for
the others to hear. The haughty lady drew
herself up, and colored excessively.

“You ought to be put into the atocks for

our impertinence,” as she marched away to
join her friend Leonora.

Again the gipsy laughed.

“Now, my Lord,” she said, “I'll not tell
your fortune, because it will make the rest too
envious. As for you, my wise lady, come
hither.”

Marian approached, and held out her hand.

* Crosses in plenty, and a few joys,” said the
gipsy, peering into it. ‘And two crowns —the
one a coronet, and the other a laurel wreath.
A heart unsatisfied, a life wasted, and at last the
repose of the tomb, before the tomb has opened
for you! How does that prophecy match with
your bright dreams in the sunset, my pretty
one ?”

Before Marian could answer, the gipsy was
gone. The pic-nic party grouped themselves

| around the fire once more. The fortune-telling

had not been a success, Three out of their

number were looking very solemn in conse-
quence thereof, And there was a fourh also,
of whom they took no notice, whose heart was
heavy as a human heart could be.

The sun was sinking rapidly. No time was
to be lost in regaining the 3

Jeasaunce ; and re-

 

 

—_%

 

 
 

 

 

warding their dark-skinned ‘hosts most Jiberal-
ly for the trouble they had given, ee set out
on their return. Lady Theodosia still leaned
upon her cousin’s: arm, but both were moody
and silent.

While Marian fairly deserted the party, and
made her way back alone, by by-roads, and
green lanes, and meadow-patks, known only to
herself,

 

CHAPTER XIX.
SLEEP NO MORE.

“ The cold in clime are cold in blood,
Their love can scarce deserve the name};
But mine was like the lava flood
That boils in Atna’s breast of flame.
I cannot prate in puling strain
Of lady-love, and beauty’s chain ;
If changing cheek and scorching vein,
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain ;
If bursting heart, and madd’ning brain,
And daring deed, and vengeful steel,
And all that I have felt, and feel,
Betoken love—that love was mine,
And shown by many a bitter sign.
’Tis true, [ could not whine nor sigh
I knew not but to obtain or die.
1 die—but first I have possess’d,
And come what may, I have been blest.”
—Byron.

Two or three years ago, 2 man committed sui-
eide in Londen! ‘

That, you will say, is no very novel or inter-
esting piece of news, since every week some un-
fortunate wretch in this great city grows tired
of the ills he knows not how to conquer, and
with his own rash hand opens the door into the
fathomless abyss, which he hopes may contain
some better and hapyier land and life for him.

I know it, dear reader, as well as you. But
the man of whom I write was pronounced in-
sane by the jury who sat in judgment over the
poor dead body, without the slightest conception
of the thinking soul and sensitive nature it had
inclosed. They said he was mad. Perhaps you
sail the same thing, as youread the tale before
your study-fire. Perhaps you will say it again,
as | recall the cireumstances of the case to your
minds. It made so deep an impression on my
own, that I shall never forget it to my dying
day.

It was a steady, respectable, quiet, and, for
aught we know, God-fearing man that did the
deed. A honseholder, a shopkeeper, and, if I
remember rightly, a kusband and a father. The
evidence stated that he was a well-made and
good-looking, though not handsome man. But
the mental eyes with which he regarded his own
personality had received so curious a twist, that
he imagined himself to be the most repulsive
and ungainly of objects— a ridiculous guy”,
as the reporters phrased it, Now, call to your
mind what associations we all have with those
three words, “a ridiculous guy”. When that
byword was in every street-Arab’s mouth, who
did not shrink from its application? Nobody
was safe. If you had red hair, if you wore spac-

tacles, if you were blessed with freckles, if you |.

squinted, if you limped, if your coat was too
long or tov short, your bonnet too large or too
small, if you wore a hat with feathers or with-
out, if you appeared in steel hoops, or in the
most moderate of skirts—it did not matter.
Unless you were quite perfect, that ery would
ring in yourears. The most solemn army-swell,
the most dainty lady of Belgravia, might hear
itany.day. It was not pleasant. I think every
one must have been ana when it died away.
For my part, I honestly confess that it terrified
me more than an Indian war-whoop could have
done. Shut up alone ina forest but, with half
a dozen yelling savages round the door, a good
rifle in my hand, and a Colt’s revolver at. my
side, I think I might make a shift to defend
myself, if only from sheer desperation, while
bars, and bolts, and casings held, and the pow-
der was dry. Sut if L should walk down Fleet
street. some fine, sunshiny morning, and hear
myself saluted by that horrible phrase, I believe
that I should take to my heels in terror and
dismay, though the weapons were but words,
and the assailant a little dirty boy, whom I could
half. annihilate with a single blow of fan or par-
asol,

Some persons, I know, affect to Jaugh at this
peculiar weakness, and to say that it never ought
to exist. But I believe it does exist in every
heart, vnly that very few are honest enough to
acknowledge it. No one likes to appear ridicw
lous in the eyes of other peopie. Now, if a
street-Arab politely informs you that you are a
“guy” or a “cure”—say, close to Temple Bar—
in the presence of a stream of passengers, a few
score of omnibuses, and some twenty or thirty
cabs, you instantly see a smile—in some cases

THE PRIDE OF THE D

a grin—pass over the countenances that turn
your way. So long as he does not give them some
such information (it is ten chances to one if he
does not within the next moment), they rather
enjoy your shame and confusion; and their
amusement impresses you witli so deep a sense
eof humiliation, that you go on your way in a
most subdued frame of mind, thinking that,
after all, the boy was’ right—that you are a
“guy”, and that the best thing you can do is,
to hide your diminished head at home as soon
as possible, and keep it there.

Now, the poor man who died was continually
looking at himself in this unfavorable light,
Our vanity may get a hard knock now and then,
but his was forever crushed into the very dust!
Some woman had admired and loved him well
enough to become his wife; his children, we
will suppose, thought their father the best,
wisest, and handsomest of men; he must have
had a mother in whose eyes he was always per-
fection—and yet he killed himself beeause he
could not bear the burden of what he considered
an imperfect existence no longer !

He was mad! Yes, we are all mad about one
thing or another! It was simply diseased van-
ity that made him wretched ! Perhaps so ;. but
what a disease to suffer from! What pangs he
must have borne before he made up his mind
to that rash final act! The newspapers stated
that he faneied every customer who came into
his shop was smiling at his ugliness—that every
little boy in the neighborhood was pointing at
him as he walked the streets! And so, not dar-
ing to wear a silver vail, like Mokanna, or an
iron mask, like the unhappy prisoner of the
Bastile, he went of his own aceord into a world
where all things are beautiful, and where, I sin-
cerely hope, his anguish was understood and
pitied, and his impatience and despair forgiven.

Marian resembled this unfortunate man in her
humble opinion of her own personal advantages,
in her grief at her want of beauty, in her sensi-
tiveness to slight and ridicule, and her extreme
quickness in resenting insults—in nine eases out
of ten before they had been given. With an
ideal of almost impossible beauty in her mind,
she tortured herself forever with the thought
that she could never attain to it. She craved
that beauty for her own delight as well as for
that of others. It would have been happiness
beyond words if she could have looked in the
glass, and seen reflected there a form and face
on which she cared to gaze. As it was, sho
stood before the mirror tu see that her hair was
smooth, her collar straight, her brooch and rib-
bon accurately placed, and then turned away
with an impatient groan :

“Oh, why—why am I so ugly ?”

She could never learn to philosophize upon
this one point. She could not say :

“ Well, after all, my eyes do to see with, and
my mouth relishes a delicate dish quite as well
aa if it were small and rosy.”

She would almost have been content never
to open that mouth for a mutton-chup again if
it had taken the form of Cupid’s bow; and if
saying “primer and prism’ would have done
the business, I think she would have sat rooted
in her chair, and pronounced the magical words
for the remainder of her days.

I seem to be speaking strongly, but she felt
more strongly still. The desire for beauty,
which had always been her ruling passion, her
chief torment, became a positive mania after she
met Lord Mountchayne. He almost made her
fairest dream of the ideal real; and what was
she to him inreturn? A plain, awkward little
country-girl, with an indifferent complexion,
two great gray eyes, a wide mouth, and a snub-
nose! She had overcome her feelings of dejec-
tion at this thought, in a great measure ; she
had grown used to him; she had learned to be-
lieve that, in spite of her want of loveliness, she
had pleased and satisfied him; in one word, she
dreamed that he loved her, and she knew that
Love was blind!

But, like most very sensitive people, she
judged those around her more by small things
than by great ones. The least breath of air, the
mere approach of the human hand, will make
the sensitive plant shrink back within itself; so,
with a peculiarly refined nature, a trifle that
would pass unnoticed by another, may shake to
their Prnieioas its dearest and sweetest of
human ties.

A look it was that first touched Marian to the
heart, and made her cloud-built castles fade
slowly into unsubstential air. That one look of
surprise and disappointment with which Lord
ae had regarded her humble dress on

 

the day of the picnic party! After that instant

OWNES.

 

49

of pain and humiliation, no words, no prayers,
no tears of his, had he been inclined to offer
them, could have made her again believe that
she was in the slightest degree pleasing to his
eyes.

vas in the early part of the day, so at its close,
that one look was followed by others quite as
hard to bear—looks not at her, but at the fair
girls who graced the feast, and shared the merry
dance upon the lawn. Lingering looks that
dwelt admiringly (nay, even fondly, as she some-
times thought) upon the peach-like cheeks, the
ruby lips, the rounded forms, of those with
whom he walized. Marian was young, and shy,
and innocent. A girl’s first. admiration, like a
girl’s first love, has nothing impure about it,
No etir and tumult of the passions or senses
come to sully the brightness of that maiden-
dream. Consequently, she was at a loss, now
and then, to understand the expression of the
young nobleman’s face as he regarded the bud-
ding beauties who half reclined if his arms, and
smiled through their biushes at the ctose em-
brace permitted by the giddy whirl, and sane-
tioned by fashion, custom—everything the world
holds dear.. But this much she dimly under-
stood, that if ever, by any wild stretch of im-
possibility, she should become his wife, loving
him as she did, and he should glance at a
stranger—at any woman exvept herself—in that
manner, she should die of shame and grief at his
feet.

The next instant, she smiled scornfully at her-
self, and at the pure inatinct of dawning woman-
hood that prompted the thought. It was mad-
ness, indeed, to think that he would ever stoop
to raise her to his own high estate; but if, by
any chance, he did 80, how long could she hope
to hold him true? Her jealous memory re-
called the truth that, though he had often sought
her out in her chosen retreats—though he liked
to talk with or read to her—though he often
pictured a useful and famous future for himself,
which, he more than hinted, was to be her work
and her reward—yet he had never, by any
chance, sat and studied her face as he was study-
ing the faces of these comparative strangers ;
he listened to, but he did not look at her! It
was a mortifying but salutary reflection. If the
singlo young Jady-friend had no power to eapti-
vate of charm him, what could the wife do?
Would the face and form that pleased him so
little in the one instance, derive new graces and
beauty from the glittering coronet, and the splen-
did robes of a peeress? Or, as when they walk-
ed together now, would his ear be given to her,
and his eyes to over? emale figure that passed ;
a pretty milkmaid, a farmer’s daughter, a
lady in her own carriage, or a country belle in
hat and riding-habit, going across-country at the
rate of fourteen miles an hour.

Her own good sense answered the question so
effectually, that if, after that picuic party, Lord
Mountechayne had Jaid his heart, his hand, and
his coronet at her feet, he would have been re-
end. She suffered horribly, for she still loved.

ut the awakening had come: and not for the
wealth of the Indies would she have accepted a
future which must be forever clouded by doubt,
and jealousy, and despair. She would think of
him no more! In time, perhaps, she might find
some good, kind, quiet heart that would value
her for herself rather than for her outward form—
that. would be faithful to her in thought, word,
and deed forever; and with so much of happi-
ness, she felt she could be content.

Is was a very wise and praiseworthy resolu-
tion, But, unfortunately, the power to put it
into practice at once did not rest entirely with
her. The bequivered urchin, named Love, hax
ing once effected an eutrauce into any human
heart, is by no means in a hurry to leave his
comfortable quarters.

So Marian found to her cost. She tried hon-
estly to forget; but what had passed would not
be forgotten. AW day long that face was before
her eyes—that voice sounding in her ear. It
did not mend matters that many a real torment
was added to those of the imagination. Lord
Mountchayne was still in the house. She could
not help meeting him at lunch and dinner, how-
ever successfully she might avoid him for the
rest of the day ; and the changes in her expres-
sive face, when he was near, would have be-
trayed her secret to the most indifferent specta-
tors.

Lady Theodosia, being by no means blind to
anything which threatened the safety of her
future coronet, was not long in finding it out.
She rallied Lord Mountehayne upon it, and he
retorted suikily. She told Miss Moyell, and
Marian soon fand that her every look and
movement was being watched. Lastly, Lady
 

H}

se ee

aa

     

20 THE

PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

 

Theodosia enlightened the Earl and the Count-
ess, thereby causing the wig of the one and the
false curls of the other to quiver with anger
and horror. Ifshe had had her own way, she
would have informed every menial on the
establisliment, down to the stable-boy, in order
that Marian might be more severely punished
for her unheard of presumption. But the good
sense of Leonora prevented this. Much as she
hated Marian, she remembered that she was a
Moyell, and that the disgrace heaped upon her
would, after ail, recoil again upon the family
name. So she prevailed upon the young peer-
esss to bear reason, and to summon Lord Mount-
eliayne to a sort of domestic ‘* Star Chamber”,
where lis crime and its consequences migtt be
duly set in order before him, and where mea-
sures might be taken to bring him to his senses,
if he had any left.

To thig measure Lady Theodosia consented.
Lord Mountchayne obeyed his mother’s sum-
mons with a sort of shamefaced alacrity, that of
itself sealed poor Marian’s doom, before a word
had been uttered on either side. To tell the
truth, be had begun to weary of her. While
she was free, she had been daring, original, and
piquant; and the oddity of ber manners and
her couversation had interested Lim, in spite of
her want of beauty. But now that she was
eaught and tamed—now that her wings were
folded, and her haughty spirit subdued—she
had lost Ler power over him. He stood in a
measure committed to her by the course he had
pursued, and he was ready to do anything in
order to get out of the scrape as cleverly and
honorably as might be. He had said that she
was very dear to him, it is true—had said it a
hendred times or mort. But what of that? He
had not asked her to marry him, thank good-
ness! As for putting the Revere coronet upon
the head of a woman so odd and so ugly, he
shuddered at the thougat! Lady Theodosia
was not beautiful—but she was polished to
the last degree, and rich as a City heiress inzo
the bargain. Sbe had fashion, consequence,
wealth, and a noble name to give! Poor
Marian had nothing but herself—and her love!
Marian, in her garden-seat, waited the result of
that important interview wih a beating heart.
More than a week had passed since the day of
the pic-nie party, and in all that time Lord
Mountelayne and she had searcely exchanged a
dozeu words. She had seen and understood his
embarrassment—the whispered sneers and the
cruel looks of the women—tbe hesitating cold-
ness of the stately Earl. She knew well that
her fate was being decided by that solemn con-
clave ; she knew, too, what it must be—what it
ought to be.

Yet, when she saw Lord Mountchayne coming
toward her from the house, she lacked the cour-
age to stay and lear him. It was eruel—it was
merciless—she could not bear it!

She started up, and ran to ber only place of
refuge—the deserted loft! He followed her
there. Pale, and breathless, she flung herself
into the easy-chair, and turning upon him, ask-
ed, brusquely, what he wanted.

He stood looking at her with an amused
smile.

‘And so,” he said, in the softest of voices ;
“go you are very angry with me!”

Marian colored vividly. She was jealous,
vexed, irritated, pained, and hurt, at one and
the same moment, and he could find nothing
— to do than to stand there and laugh at

er.

“ Whether I am angry or not, can matter
very little to you, my lord,” she said, turning
to leave the loft.

But he placed himself between her and the
door instantly.

; re Why can’s it?” he asked, with a roguish
ook.

“T can give you only one reason—my old
reason as a child—because—”

“A most lucid, satisfactory one, certainly.”

“All you will get,” she answered, mildly, in
her turn.

Some lingering trace of feeling still remained
his heart.

He seized her hand.

_ “You impertinent, fascinating, bewildering
little thing—what do you mean by your con-
duct ?—what have you meant by it ever since
that confounded pie-nie party 2?”

' “Release my hand, my lord, and I will tell
you,” she said, sternly.

“Oh, very well!”

He dropped it sulkily.

“Tt means that you and I are no more to each
other in future than strangers.”

“Aw T permitted to ask why?”

 

|

“ Because it is best and right—most proper,
and most satisfactorv to me, as it ought to be to

ou.”

“The devil it is!” , |

Marian looked at him, and turned away with
a quiet air of dignity ae

“T beg your pardon—don’t go—I didn’t mean
to swear, and I would not offend you for the
world,” he said, hurriedly. “But my mother |
has been at me all the morning ; and, to tell |
the truth, my temper is none of the sweetest |
just at this present moment.”

“Did Lady Revere speak to you about me ?”
asked Marian, looking at him steadily

“That she did—with a vengeance
Lady Theodosia who set her on.”

“T am much obliged to her ladyship.”

“ And your cousin Leonora—”

“Did she say anything ?”

“You may well ask. I wish you could have
beard the hash of scandal I had served up
through my mother's lips from her !”’

Marian’s face grew dark.

“ Scandal—about me !”

“Well, not exactly that. But about your par-
ents—”

“ Oh, stop!” she said, with a burning blush ;
“you need not tell me. I knowall that she can
gay.”

“« How bitter she is against you!”

“Js she? Not more biter than I am against
her! I bate Leonora—I have always hated her
since I was a child !”

“So she said. But let that pass.
talk to you very seriously, Marian.”

“Go on,” she said, setting her lips firmly to-
gether.

““My mother says some one ought to do 60.
Now, if she is right, I prefer to undertake the
task myself. I know what women are to each
other, and the taste I had of their tongues this
morning made me anxious to spare you from
such a dose.”

He stopped short, and seemed scarcely io
know what to say next. Marian sat watching
him quietly. Her instinct told her what was
coming, but she could not utter a word to help
him out of his dilemma. While her own heart
was undergoing a slow torture, why should she
give hersesf the trouble to spare him one little
stinging pang? She rejoiced that he could ieel
it, and for her.

“You won’t be angry, Marian ?” he began.

“T? Oh no! What should make me
angry ?”’ she answered, with a serene smile.

“ What I have to say, it may be.”

“Out with it. Let us hear what it is.”

““My mother thinks that I have been wrong,”
he went on, with a vivid blush. “I have sought

ou out far oftener than any one else in the
Letiae, 1 bave walked and talked with you; I
have sat here for hours by your side, reading
the books we love so well.”

“Don’t!” she said, with an impatient stamp
of the foot. “I know all you have said and
done far better than any one else. There is no
need to go back over every hour since we first
met. Go on with your lesson !”

“ My task, you had better call it, Marian; for
it is one—the hardest and most painful task I
ever had to perform in my whole life!”

“Yes,” she answered, but her lip curled and
her eye lashed as she spoke.

“The fact is, the intercourse which has been
so pleasant, and which I thought so secret, has
been discovered. My father, my mother, Lady
Theodosia, Miss Moyell, all know that we have
met privately—that we have met here.”

oweell 2”

“T will not repeat their vile insinuations to
you—for they were vile !”

“You need not; I can understand them. Go
on!”

“Thave no right to compromise you in any
way!”

“ Certainly not!” ‘

“In cases like this there is generally one way
open by which a man may atone to a lady for
his impudence. That way is not open to me,
Marian.” .

“T don’t quite understand.”

“He may marry her!”

een

“ And I cannot marry you!”

She blushed, and hung her head,

“ You know why, Marian!”

“Can I help my birth ?”

“Tt is not that alone!”

She looked up at him; she would not spare
him one drop of the cup of humiliation that
was at his lips.

It was

I want to

 

“Tam not free to marry!” he said, ina low

=

voice. “JT ought to have owned it when you
asked me the other day.”

“Indeed !” was her cold reply.

“JT have wooed and won no lady openly for
my bride?”

“Not openly—no!” said Marian; and the
sarcastic speech made him wince as if she had
struck him.

“Never, in any way, till I met you,” he said,
earnestly. ‘I have been called too coid—too
indifferent. It was partly because I felt myself
bound ali the while. if I bave said anything—
nay, I know that I have said mary things that
might have led you to think otherwise—forget
and forgive*it, will you, Marian ?”

“Give me your reason for saying this to me!”
she demanded.

“{ must marry Lady Theodosia!” exclaimed
Lord Mountehayne.

“ Are you engaged to her?”

“ Tacitly—if not in actual words”

“Since when ?”

‘Since my birth.”

“ And you knew this when you first met me?”

“Yes,” he said, turning crimson, as he spoke ;
“ but you will forgive me ?”

“Can you doubt it?”

“And be my friend still 2”

“Your best and dearest, of course !”

“What a noble creature you are!’’ he ex-
claimed, rapturously. “I tell you candidly
that I detest my cousin. But I am poor, and
so is my father; and Iam in debt, an\sbe has
a fortune. Yousee it now?”

“Yes,” said Marian, quietly.
much does she pay for you?”

“ What?”

“What is the price at which you are to be
sold?” asked Marian.

“ You are laughing at me !”

“On the contrary. I admire your good
sense. A peer of the realm-out to fetch a good
price. And, after all, it is better than to mort-
gage the Priory, or pawn the family-plate, or
— lady’s diamonds. Don't you agree with
me ?’

“Do you think IJ will stay here, Madam, to be
sneered at by you?” ejaculated Lord Mount-
ehayne, furiously.

“Go or stay, as you like ; ‘tis a matter of the
most perfect indiffereuce to me!” she answer-
ed; and began to hum an opera tune.

A moment’s reflection showed Lord Mount-
chayne that he was making himself ridiculous,
and that any display of rage or mortification
on his part would only serve to delight Marian,
and compensate to her, in a measure, for the
humiliation she herself had undergone. So,
with a great effort, he controlled his temper,
and said, with asad smile:

“ You are right; and you have the privilegs
of laughing at me—if you will.”

“T feel much more like crying for you, my
Lord,” she said, with a serious air. “I believ-
ed you to be the noblest creature on earth ; and,
oh, ‘Lucifer—star of the morning! how art
thou fallen !”

He bung his head for an instant before her.

It showed some native nobleness of mind, after
all, that he couid feel her scornful rebuke so
keenly.
“ What am I to do!” he said, hesitatingly.
“T am over head and ears in debt—and my
mother almost begs me on her knees to marry
Lady Theodosia Iam sure 1f—”

“<< If? is a coward’s word,” said Marian, quiet-
ly.‘ You do well to use it.”

The indignant color rushed to the face of
Lord Mountebayne.

“ You call me a coward ?”

“T do.”

“ Well—you are a woman, and | must bear
it,” he cried. |

“For my own sake and for yours, 1 wish J
was a man!” she said, almost savagely. “TI
wish J were a man, and you had treated a young
sister of mine as you have treated me! For ig
that case, my Lord, only one of us two would
ever go out of this place alive !”

“Good heavens, Marian !” he cried, starting
back, half frightened at her white face and an-
gry dashing eyes.

“Oh, you thought I did not feel, because I
did not faint or shed tears! Rest easy, for you
have stung me tothe heart! I loved you with
my whole soul; and though I despise you now,
I love you still! I shall never love any human
being—never have faith in anything that lives
on earth—again! This is your work—your
amusement: I hope you like it! Now go and
marry Lady Theodosia as soon as soon as you
please. But remember this: the feeling that

“And how

i cieiidiisedatamenieed
 

PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

24

 

still lives at my heart bodes no good to you and
a It would be better if a hundred women

ated you, than that Marian Moyell should
curse you with her love!”

As she spoke, she caught his hand in both
hers, gave it one last, wild, despairing kiss, and
tushed from the place before he had time to
utter a single word in his own defence.

CHAPTER XX.
GETTING OVER IT,
“ Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!

Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,

That show’st the darkness thou canst not dispel,

How like art thou to joy remember’d well!

So gleams the past, the light of other days,

Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays.

A night beam sorrow watcheth to behold,

Distinct, but distant—clear—but oh, how cold !”

—Brron.

And so all was over! The dream had been
dreamed —the play was at an end—and Marian
had only to become sensible again as soon as
possible.

It was not an easy task. It is never an easy
task for any one to perform. When madpess
las made itself into a secret and familiar habit,
one hates to grow sane! And before you can
find yourself clothed and in your right mind,
there are certain things to go through which
cannot possibly be escaped.

Marian experienced them all. Day after day
she counted her pangs—night after night she
shed her tears! Her idol had been dashed
down from its high place, and proved to be but
a false god, after all! But what of that? She
saw Lord Mountchayne as he really wae, at last
—a handsome, idle coxeomb, who had nothing
better to do, and s0 won her heart by wav of
pastime, simply that the hours cf his visit might
not hang heavy on his hands.

But the heart was no less won. And she kept
the vigils, which only souls like her can .keep—
she wept—she groveled upon the rough floor
of ber retreat. She gnashed her teeth, and beat
her breast, and prayed to die! Any one look-
ing in upon her by chance, during such a par-
oxysm of useless grief and rage, would have
been justified in sending for a strait waist-
coat and keeper, as the remedies best suited to
her disease. Later on in life she, herself,
learned to laugh at the memory of all this
wasted energy and fire. But she was a better
and @ happier woman when she crouched upon
that dusty floor, and sobbed out her agony to
the unbeeding summer morn, tian when she
sat comfortably over her writing-desk, and
analyzed the tortuous workings of her nature
during that period of storm and shipwreck, in
order that her world of readers might igugh with
her at what she saw.

Different natures come out so differently from
the fiery farnace of this one universal trial.
Some are purified and chastened only by the
fiames ; some are made hard and reckless for
a time, but go back to their own better selves
once more, when the paroxysm has passed by ;
others—unhappily for themselves, and for all
with whom they have afterward to deal—can
never forget; and, in consequence of this ina-
bility, they grow into cold, callous mockers of
everything that is good and true, and sometimes
work such mischief on earth, that it would have
been better for them and for their victima if
they had never been born.

Marian belonged te this latter class. The
wrong that been done her was remembered light-
ly enough by Lord Mounw;hayne. What was
it, after all? He had said a few kind words,
made afew tender speeches, to a lonely girl,
which she had chosen to take in serious earnest ;
and here she was making a great piece of work
gbout it, and bidding him farewell in a mock-
tragedy speech, that would have been better
suited to the boards of a transpontine theatre
than that dusty, little room.

This was the great mistake he made. Marian
was not like the other women. Bind, helpless,
and despairing, she bowed to the deeree of fate,
and submitted to the surrow which she could
not avert. But with no meek resignation—
no gentle thought that it was but a part of the
earthly discipline which was to fit her in time
for her heavenly home. She felt crushed, hu-
miliated, and lowered, even in her own eyes.
She was a fool, an idiot, and only fit to be
Jaughed at by the man who had betrayed her
for having been simple enough to listen to and
believe him. Never mind! In future, she would
be wiser—in future she would trust and believe
in no one! No more tender human kindness or
sympathy for or from her! Her hand, like
Ishuiael’s, should be against every man, since
one man’s hand had been against her! Love,
faith, and hope died out for ever from her heart ;

and cold, and cruel, and self-contained, she
turned her face to the battie-field of life once
more! Well might she say, with the poet,
whose words wezé so otten on her lips:

“Within my breast there is no light,
Save the cold light of stars!
I give the first watch of the night q
S the red planet, Mare!”
since, in future, Mars, and not Venus, was to be
her guiding star !

There was, however, one consolation in her
misery, aud that to a woman so proud, was a
great one. She endured it all alone. There
waa no prying eye to mark her desperation ; no
soft, insinuating voice to whisper some word ef
apparent consolation, which should stab her
more deeply than the sharp stroke of a dagger's

oint! The lovely daughters of Fashion, un-

ergoing the same trial, have it made doubly
bitter by the life they lead. They are “in s0-
ciety”, and society does not recognize such vul-
gar things as broken hearts and disappointed
affections. So the poor wretches have to hide
their sufferings as best they may, and go through
their — exercise on the treadmill, riding,
walking, driving, eating, and dancing at the ap-
pointed hours, under the stony glare of a hun-
dred curious eyes—the eyes of people to whom
their agony would be subject for a clever bon
mot or a sprightly anecdote, and nothing more.

This suffering was spared Marian. Miss Moy-
ell and Lady Theodosia, having gained their
point, were kind enough to molest her no more;
and she might shut herself up to ery till her
eyes were as red as ferrets, if she liked—no one
noticed, ne one wondered—in fine, no one
eared !

CHAPTER XXI.
“ The seal Love’s dimpling finger hath impressed
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their pest,
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such ;
Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much
Uath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek,
Which glows yet smoother from his am’rous clutch !
Who round the North for paler dames would seek ?

How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and

weak !? —Brrox.

The summer days passed slowly by. It makes
no difference whether, in our mad impatience,
we long to compress years into months—or
whether, in our happiness, we desire to turn
days into years—the course of God’s great cre-
ation marches on, regardless of our petty joys
and woes. The mighty Mother Earth has much
regard for her children; if they dig for a for-
tune, or plant a violent root, or hollow outa
grave within her bosom, it is all the same to
her.

In her first agony, Marian was for having the
whole world stand still, that it might see her
grief! She grew wiver in a few days, aud ae-
knowleged that trees and flowers might grow,
and sun, and moon, and stars might shine,
though she, wretched woman that she was, lay
crushed and sorrowing the while. And so May
gave place to June, and June to July, and she
was calm again.

The Priory was finished, the Pleasaunce
guests were gone, and Miss Moyell and her ais-
ters were invited in their turn to become the
visitors of their noble friends. Marian was
quite alone at the Pleasaunce, the nominal mis-
tress of the house and owner of the grounds.
Sbe liked her solitude well. It was delicious,
after all the pain, the hurry, the bustle, and tu-
mult of the last few weeks, to feel that she was
responsible to no one for her actions, or looks,
or thoughts. She might get up, and go to bed,
and have ker meals as she liked; she might re-
sume her long walks unattended by a solemn
footman; she might linger for hours in the
mossy old garden—upon the wide common—
within the silent woods. Mrs. Pryor alone
crossed her path, and she was always tender and
kind. But if she knew through what a sea of
trouble the young girl had passed, she made no
sign. She was watchful for her comfort—con-
siderate and thoughtful in every action of the
day—and that was all,

For the first time in her life, Marian was thor-
oughly idle. All the superabundant life and
energy which generally kept her busy from
morning till night was gone. She did not fall
ill—she was rot particularly weak; but she
said herself that she was most undeniabiy lazy,
and that it was almost a pain to stir. All
| she wished to do was, to lounge about in the
| sunshine, sometimes with a novel in her hand,
and doze and dream the hours away. The first
sherp sting of surrow was over: she felt a
pleasant torpor creeping over her, and was con-
i tent. The world beyond the Pleasaunce gates

 

 

seemed cold and harsh; she had not the slight-
est desire to penetrate ita mysteries, And life
—what was that but a weary, never-ending bat-
tle? And men and women—what were tucy
but a set. of beings as selfish and idle as her-
self, with whom she wished to have nothing
more todo? If she could but go on living
alone, with Mrs. Pryor ready to give her some-
thing to eat if she asked for it—with the old
loft for a retreat, and a pleasant book for a com-
anion, and no tastes, no ties, no duties, how
eautiful it would be! The dream of the mild-
eyed, melancholy lotos eaters was fast becom-
ing hers.
“‘ Hateful is the dark blue sky,
Vaalted o’er the dark blue sea,
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labor be ?
Let usalone !”
® * * .
Let what is broken, 80 remain ;
The gods are hard to reconcile,
"Tis hard to settle order once again,
There ig confusion worse than death,
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long‘labor unto aged breath.
Sore tasks, to hearts worn out by many wars,
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot stars.”

She sat in the Pleasaunce garden one after-
noon, on the very seat where she had once
awaited Lord Mountchayne and her doom, A
book was in her hand, but she was nvt reading.
Her eyes had wandered far away to the distant
horison, and she was lost in a reverie, when an
approaching footstep made her start, aud look
up.

YA young and beautiful woman, with the
brown face and flashing dark eyes of a gipsy,
stood before her, But though the girl’s face
told tales of the race from which she sprung,
her dress was like that of a lady. She wore &
dark-blue silk trimmed with many flowers, a
silyer-gray mantle, and a bonnet, gloves, and

araso] of the same delicate hue. She looked
er than ever, from the contrast with these
delicate colors, and yet in some strange way
they suited her. Marian sat gazing at her in
silent wonder. Who could she be, and what
could she want with her?

“1 think you have made some mistake,” she
said, kindly. ‘Do you know what this place is
--whose is it?” :

“The Pleasaunce, is it not?” replied the
visitor, in a sweet, full voice.

‘Yes.’

“Owned by Miss Moyell ?”

“ Yes.” .

“ And you are Miss Marian ?”

“ I am.”

“T thought I was right. I thought I could
not be mistaken, though I have never seen you
before,” replied the strange visitor.

“ Did you wish to speak to me?” interrogated
Miss Marian.

“T was sent for you,” said tie.girl, quietly.

“By whom?” asked Marian, looking at her
with surprise.

“Tam not to tell.”

“ But you cannot expect me to go with you!”
exclaimed Miss Marian.

“Yes, you were to come.”

“What nonsense, my good girl! Why do
you mate such a profound mystery about noth-
ing | Are you a gipsy ?”

The girl hesitated.

““T—yes—I belong to the camp down there,”
and she pointed in the direction of Downe Re-
serve,

“Is it any one there who has sent for me?”
eagerly asked Marian.

“ Yes.”

“ Aay one who is ill?”

“No. It is some one who bas something
very important to tell you. The gipsy woman
who told your fortune when your party took
refuge in our camp. So much J may tell you.”

“ Am I to go with you?”

“Tf you piease.”

“And where?”

“ Near the camp—to Downe Reserve, in fact,”
said the girl, confidently.

Marian thought for a moment. She was bold
and adventurous enough to like the expedition
for its own sake, and perhaps she was to hear
something which would amply repay her for
any trouble she might take. As for any narm
that could be intended, she never gave that a
thoucht. She knew that sue wad nv cueuies—
she was too poor and insignificant for that. So
sho rose from her seat, put on her hat, and
told the messenger that she would accompany
her,

With a slight bow of acknowledgment, the

ipsy led the way toward the haunted house,

hen they arrived at the green lane, above the
 

22

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

 

 

Wishing Well, she stopped short and whistied
three times. A whistle behind the trees an-
ewered her, and in another moment the tall,
peculiar-looking gipsy who had told the for-
tures, appeared, and greeted them both with a
careless nod.

* You ean go home, Clara,” she said, turning
to the girl, and waving her hand.

But Clara lingered, and looked distrustfully
at Marian.

“Shall you be long away from the camp ?”
she asked.

The gipsy woman stamped her foot and frown-
ed slightly.

“Why do you plague me with questions
which I cannot answer?” she said, angrily.
‘“*Go, and I will come as soon as possible !””

With a Jow sigh, and another strange glance
et Marian, the girl went siowly away.

The gipsy woman waited till she was quite
out of sight.

“ Little fool!” she muttered ; and then, turn-
ing to Miss Marian, she looked at her sharply
from head to foot.

““Huve you forgotten what I said to you
some weeks ago?” she asked, abruptly.

“No,” replied Marian.

“ Did you believe in the truth of my predic-
tion ?”

“ Perhaps not then; but I do now.”

“Ea, ha!” laughed the gipsy woman.
it coming true?”

“That is my business, not yours!”

“To be sure, my dainty lady!”

“Why did you send for me to-day ?”

«“ Ah, why, indeed!” said the woman, with a
strange glance. ‘ Were you afraid to come ?”

Marian shook her head.

“You have a bold spirit! Good! you will
need it before you get through the world, I can
eafely promise you!”

‘* Well, never mind that! Tell me what you
want of me ?”

“ Not your watch and chain, not your purse,
not your ear-rings, but your ears !”

“ What do you mean?”

“T want to ask you some questions first, and
to tell you a story afterward.”

“Asa reward? Well, go on; and if I choose
So answer your questions, I will—if not, I shall
be silent,” said Marian. <

“Well, then, to begin with—are you hap-

?”

“ Do I look otherwise ?”

“Yes; your face is paler and thinuer than

when 1 saw you last ; and your eyes tell a story
of a hard battle fought, and a grees victory
woa.”

“ You are telling fortunes again.”

“On the contrary. It is you who are telling
mine now.”

Marian looked puzzled.

“ Who and what are you?” she asked.
gipsy—I am sure of that.”

“‘ How so?”

“ Your language—your voice—your mannet,
assure me of it.”

“ Well, what then?”

**«T should very much like to lift the vail,”
exclaimed Marian.

“You shall presently, never fear. But now
to go on with my catcheism. Are you as happy
now as you were three months ago ?”

“No i» .

“ Because, like all of Eve’s daughters, you
could not rest ¢asy till you had tasted of the

fruit ef the tree of knowiedge.”

“Exactly. And a precious bitter fruit it
proved! My teeth are all on edge still!”

“Never mind, better luek next time; and a
man who knows his own mind more fully than
you could expect that pink and white Lord
Mountchayne to do!” said the gipsy.

Marian started and turned crimson.

“ What do you know of him ?”

“Everything! He is a scented puppy, not
fit to tie up your shoestrings! I could almost
wonder at your folly, only I know that women
are quite as much the slaves of their eyes as
men, if they were honest enough to say so!
And he is handsome—even I can see that!
You might seek many days’ before you could
find a more perfect form or more beautiful
face !”"

“Too true” said Marian, with a sigh.

The gipsy laughed.

“ Favor 1s deceitful, and beauty is vain!” she
eaid ; “at least; we are taught so in infancy ;
and itis only when we get into our teens’ that
we discover our mistake. Beauty-vain, indeed !
Give me, like Archimedes, a support for tke
lever, and with it I would not only move, bat
overturn the world, and all the people in it!”

“ Is

“Ne

 

Again Marian sighed.

“ f suppose you would like to be beautiful!”
said the gipsy.

“ Yes.”

“ Weli, you are not, and you never will be;
but you are clever, aad, if you like, you can do
almost as much in the world with your talenta,
as you could with a pretty face! Mind, I say
almost—for when the pretty face comes along,
it is ten chances to one if you and your clever-
ness don’t go to the wall.”

“Ts that all you have to say?” asked
Marian.

“Not quite. It will be well worth your while
to stop and listen; and by and by I have sueh
a pretty sight to show you—a pair of turtle-
doves just fledged, and just discovered by me.”

“Bah! I don’t care for turtle-doves !”

“ You will admire these, I think. And now
tell me how Lord Mountehayne is amusing him-
self during these long, bright summer days!”

“I neither know nor care.”

“You do not visit the Priory ??

“Not I!”

“Yet your cousins are there !”

“That may be!”

“You know that he is to be married?”

“Well !”

“ Very soon too!”

“What do I care ?”

“Lady Theodosia is in town, and the lawyers
are as busy as bees with the settlements.”

“T can’t help it!”

“Settlements which will be all in vain, I
fear.” ;

Marian forget herself, and looked up with
eager interest.

“ What do you mean ?”

“Did you ever hear the old song—

“* Sigh no more, ladies—sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever ;

One foot on sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never?”

“ Of course.”

“You ought to go singing it to Lady Theo-
dosia, and give her a hint of what is going on.
Poor thing!”

“But what is going on?”

“Give me your hand. You won’t? Then
follow me over this wall, and I will soon show
you! Iam going to take you to the nest of the
turtle-doves I was describing just now,”

Without any hesitation, Marian followed her
over the wall, and down the hill, beneath a line
of popiar trees. By and by she halted, parted
the branches, and said, simply, “ Look there !”

Marian obeyed.

Beneath them lay Downe Reserve, and beside
the Wishing Well stood two figures, hand in
hand, One was Lord Mountchayne ; the other
—ah! it needed not the deep mourning dress
and her gobien curls to betray the young May
Queen to Mrrian’s jealous eyes.

“Rose Martin!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, I
never dreamed of this !”

“Nor of this!” said the gipsy, touching her
on the arm.

She turned, It was no longer a woman ; it
was a tall and handsome man, of about thirty
years of age, who stood beside her. “ You were
right in your guess you see,” he said, with a
slight smile. “Tam no gipsy, but I am Philip
Vere 1”

CHAPTER XXII.

ON THE CARDS.
“Duncan Gray cam’ here to woo,
a, ba, the wooing o’t!
One blithe yule-night when we were fea,
a, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh,
Look’d askant and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t!
* Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray’d3
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t!
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t!
Duncan sigh’d baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’,
Spak, o’ lowpin o’er a linn ;
' Ha, ha, the wooing o’t!” —Burya

The silence that enaued upon this startling
discovery and communication was broken by
Philip Vere, as he rolied his gipsy’s dress into
a neat bundle, laughing the while at Marian’s
unmistakable dismay.

“You look at me as if I was own cousin to
the gorilla,” he 1emarked. “ Now, I know that
Jam a very handsome man; but still, all things
considered, 1 don’t see why you should stare
sol”

=

“It is enough to make any one stare,” replied
Marian, dryly,
“Ha, ha! do you mean to say that you never
guessed my identity till I threw these rage off?”
| | * How should 1?”

“It was as good, nay, it was far better than
any play, to see you all that night atthe camp!
In the first place, there were you, iooking over
| the stile in the most romantic of attitudes,

dreaming of the handsome idiot yonder, who is
just now so agreeably employed in making
| fierce love to Miss Rose Martin.”

Marian moved impatiently as he spoke—
glanced once more at the offending pair, and
turned away.

“You don’t care to stay longer. You have
not a heart so unselfish that you can enjoy the
sight of a primitive aud innocent attachment
(oh, no! how innocent it is—quite in the bread-
and-butter style) like that!”

“ Don’t torture and laugh at me any longer,”
she exclaimed fiercely. “If you have anything
to say—say it, and let me go!”

“Oh, I have plenty to say to you, all in my
own good time. Do you think I should have
taken the trouble to masquerade about in these
confounded, petticoats so long, if [had no object
in view at the end of the farce?”

“Well, what is the object?”

“Patience, my desr! Patience is a very
good root indeed, and you should learn to cul-
tivate it. Patience and perseverance! they are
the two great watchwords of success. Only
wait long enough, and work hard enough, and

ou will always guin your end—whether it be
on ahole through the earth, or to revenge
yourself on a rival—say, like that pretty lady
at the well.”

“T am neither patient nor persevering,” said
Marian, coloring high beneath his searching
glance. “ And the lady at the well is no rival
of mine, as you seem to think; for I have no
elaim, not the slightest, on that gentleman.
Now will you come away ?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” he said cour-
teously. ‘‘I only live to oblige the ladies, Miss
Marian, and your word is law. I have to earry
these rags back to the camp, and the lanes that
way are green and quiet: do you mind walking
with me there?” ;

“ No,”

She turned as she spoke, and ascended the
hill so swiftly, that he could hardly keep pace
with her rapid steps. And yet the physical ex-
ertion couid not do away with the mental pang.
She saw each instant before her, the tableau at
the Wishing Well; and however far away her
steps might stray, her heart and soul remained
behind.

“You walk fast, but black Care follows,” said
Mr. Vere, when they reached the lanes. “ Are
you sorry that you went? The old proverb
says, you know, that ‘ what the eye does no$ see,
the heart does not grieve for. What do you
think of that doctrine?”

“‘¥ would rather see and suffer,” said Marian,
pausing beneath a great elm tree, “than to
remuin in that ignorance which I do not con-
sider bliss. And now, as I don’t care to visit
the camp to-day, will you tell me what you
want with me?”

“ What 1 want with you? Why, I wanta
number of things.”

“ Well, name them.”

“ Marian Moyell, to begin with.”

Marian stared, and he gave a delighted

shuckle.
No more did

* You don’t understand me!
any of the gay party who, like half-drowned
rats, sought shelter over yonder some weeks
i How comical they all did look, to be sure!

ou were the most respectable to the outward
eye, of the whole lot just then.”

“Pray, is that all you have to say?”

“TI think I puzzled them all pretty nicely,”
he went on, without heeding her. “1 gave that
affected little Lady Theodosia a dose for her
vanity which she will not forget in a hurry;
and as for Miss Moyell—O Lord, now! just to
think of uiss Moyell!”

He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks ;
and Marian remembered her cousin’s agitation
and refusal to listen to him.

“Do you think she recognized you?” she

 

“No; she was like you: she did not think of
hers truly being disguised like an old woman,

| for the sake of giving her dear little nerves a

atart! It was the voice that puzzled her; and
1 knew by her look that she had ugt forgotien
it. Do you know that woman loved me once ag
well as she was capable of loving anything »”
“1 know she did,” said Marian, dreamily,

 

|
—» —

 

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

    

oo

 

thinking of the strange scene which she had
witnessed in the Pleasaunce garden that very
spring.

“Know it! Why, all London knew it!” re-
plied Mr. Vere, with a smile. “She was
haughty enough at first, but, by George! I
brought her down into the dust to pay for it!
I think I can see her now as she looked when we
parted for the last time. It made amends for
all I had suffered at first, to see her crying over
a rose I had held five minutes in my hand, and
kissing it when she dared not kiss me, because
1 was behaving so like a brute to her! Confound
her and her roses, too! It did me a little good
to see that; but I have not done with her yet!
No, my Lady Leonora, J’1l serve you another
trick pe before I die, or my name is not Philip
Vere!”

He looked so wicked, so malicious, so unutter-
ably cruel as he spoke, that Marian felt some
sentiment of pity stirring at her heart for her
cousin Leonora.

“Can’t you let the poor thing alone?” she
asked. “Jam sure she haa suffered enough to
satisfy even you.”

“ Has she ?” he said, setting his teeth with a
vicious smile. “ That is the slight mistake you
make, my dear. She has not felt one tittle of
what I wish her'to feel—of what she shall fee),
if [have my way. By Heaven! when I think
of all she cost me, I wonder sometimes that I
don’t kill her outright!”

“Tt was years ago,” said Marian. “Why
can’t you forget and forgive it now ?”

“Ah, you know little of me if you ask me
that question! When a person injures me, I
never forget! Take care you don’t make me
your enemy, my lady! You had better have a
wild wolf on your track!”

Marian’s lip curled.

“JT do not fear you, nor am I very likely to
make an enemy of you, since after to-day we
shall never meet again !”

“Indeed!” he answered, with an amiable
smile. ‘ Who told you that ?”

“ Why should we meet ?”

“Trze! Why should any one meet? Be-
cause, #'y dear—-because we are fated to be
more 6 exch other, for good or for evil, than
you ¢ream of at this present moment!”

“jo P* paid Marian, shrugging her shoulders,
“yeaa a fatalist, it seems.”

“Tart What else, may I ask, can any man
or wo.van of sense be, in a world so topsy-tur-
vy us this?”

“* Your doetrine, I should say, would make it
« still more perplexiug place to live in.”

“ Not at all—quite the contrary. If I getup
in the works, mth a settled purpose of doing
one thing, and every event and circumstance of
the day goes directly against the accomplish-
ment of that purpmse, so that at nightfall it is
not accomplished, I naturally feel irritated and
annoyed, and blame eliyeolt and every one
around me for the failure. If I begin my life
in the same way, with a purpose and an end set
steadily in view, and make a mess of it, the
same sensation hangs round me for ever, and
hunts me fairly into my grave. I am misera-
ble, uneasy, restless, and dissatisfied all my life,
feeling sure that if I had done this, that, or
the other thing, all might have been well. And
80, till death comes, and seems to me as great
a mistake than all the rest. Can you conceive
of the torment of such an existence?”

“ Easily,” said Marian, with a deep sigh;
“ since I am living it myself.”

“T wish you joy of it,” said Mr. Vere, with a
slight grimaee. ‘“ But you will grow wiser, let
us hope. I was once like yon—I had the high-
est hopes, the brightest dreams, the purest
aims; and look at me now. A broken-down,
degraded, miserable wretch —a gambler, a
drunkard, a libertine, and a cheat!) You look
surprised at my frankness. Perhaps I should
not be so candid with every one. But there is
the truth for you, Marian. The life that was so
rich in promise has only ended here. I don’t
weep, or wail, or sigh over it. Why not? Be-
extse what cannot be helped, must be endured.
1 have tried to be good, and you see the resuit.
Se I philosophize over the pitiable spectacle I
present to the eyes of God and men, shrug my
shoulders over my own frailty aud that of my
neighbors, and let it go.”

The half-careless earnestness of bis manner
had a strange effect upon Marian. She herself,
conscious of many an imperfection, mourning
over many a fall, was struggling blindly over a
rough and thorny path toward a light that
seemed to shine hopefully and cheeringly far,

 

| she never forgot them for many a year.

traveler, whose steps had faltered on the self-
same road, and who looked back to smile at her
folly, and to tell her that the light was but an
igns fatuus, leading to nothing—shining from
no serene height of peace and happiness where
she could rest, and be at war no more. Yet
something in her heart whispered that he must
be in the wrong. She said, thoughtfully :

“ You say you have tried to be good. How
hard did you try, and how long ?”

Mr. Vere gave a low whistle.

“Well, that zs good! Just about the last
speech on earth that I should have expected to
hear from your lips. Don’t go to mistaking
your vocation, my dear. You were made to be

reached to, it may be, but never to preach!

ow hard and how long did I try? Why, for
years ; and with a blind, stupid obstinacy, that
makes me langh now when I think of it, I used
to read my Bible and say my prayers. and all
the rest of it, till I found that it did not keep
me from. slipping and sliding about in all man-
ner of strange ways and places, and then I gave
it up. You will remind me of my two watch.
words, patience and perseverance, now. I
thought of them myself many a time, but some-
how they did not seem applicable. I had an
odd sort of feeling that piety was not to be
worked for, like some earthly good or gain;
and thas prayer should be a spontaneous out-
burst from the full heart, rather than a pains-
taking utterance of the lips. But why am I
talking to you like this? One would think we
weve in a chapel, giving our religious experi-
ences for each other’s benefit.”

“Oh, go on!’ said Marian, earnestly. “ I too
have often felt and thought these things, and I
waut to know what you did ?”

“I went to the deuce, my dear!” was his
cheerful reply. “It was not in me to be a
saint, and I could not effect it. ‘I'm bad
enough, I know; but I'll be shot if I could
ever be a hypocrite in things like that. Besides,
if all is true, where is the use of such deceit?
It may blind a poor worm or two here below,
but it is of no avail up there !”—and he glanced,
with a jbalf-reverent look, toward the placid
sky.

UN !” said Marian, sighing.
turned a fatalist ?”

“Say rather I was turned into one, for I had
nothing to do with the change, it came of itself.
They preached to me, and prayed with, and at
me enough, Heaven knows, but it made no im-
pression on my mind. I was incapable of un-
derstanding them. Could I help that? I felt
blind in a world that was full of light to others
—deaf in a land that was musical with song.
Was [at fault? Do you punish the blind, the
deaf, the dumb when they fail to see, to hear,
or to speak to us? Why, then, punish me for
my imperfect being, which refused to obey to
the utmost the laws of a perfect creation? Are
you listening ?”

“Yes.”?

“This was my reasoning. It bas not shaped
my life, but it has reconciled me to it. I make
great mistakes, commit great crimes; I am
nothing that I ought, and everything which I
ought not to be. Iam bound in the bonds of
the flesh, and I cannot get free. And this
wasted, good-for-nothing, wicked, and wretched
tie would be a curse to rid myself of, if I did
not believe that when death comes I shall see
its meaning; and, what is more, be glad to
understand it to its deepest depths.”

He ceased to spenk, and stood looking up at
the calm sky with an expression that was full of
peace. There was no doubt of his sincerity.
The mocking sarcasm of his manner had entire-
ly disappeared ; and he had spoken as men only
speak when, in some unguarded moment, they
allow the eyes of others to penetrate the secrets
of their inner lives. Philip Vere bad never
spoken so to any human being before. It was
a relief to throw off the mask which he alwaye
wore—to show one person that beneath his
light-hearted, careless gayety, a deep and
thoughtful nature still remained. But, plas!
that he should have seleeted Marian Moyell for
his confidant. She drank in his words eagerly ;

‘Bue if
he had held acup of poison to her lips, and
forced her to drink it to the drega, he could not
have done her half so great an injury as he had
done by thet wild and rambling talk. It had
been better for him, in the words of Holy Writ,
‘*‘that a millstone had been hanged round his
neck, and that he had been drowned in the
depths of the sea”, rather than by his own bit-
ter experience he should have troubled, and for

“ And 80 you

far away. Now, here was a wayworn and weary , the time destroyed, the faint vestige of faith that

 

still remained within her heart. “He belonged,
unconsciously, to that class which even the
saints are commanded to fear—those who can
kill the soul! And the amount of mischief
which he had compressed into that sunny sum-
mer’s afternoon cannot be put into words.

He did not think of this. If any one had
pointed out to him the consequences which
might ensue from that confidential talk; if he
had been told, th.t in one short half-hour he
had planted seeds of infidelity and distrust in
Marian’s heart—seeds of whose bitter fruit she
must pluck and eat for many a weary year—he
would have laughed at theidea, He saw that
she was grave and pre-oceupied ; but he fancied
that she was rather grieving for his perversity
than feeling strengthened and encouraged in
her, own,

“ Well,” he said, with a light laugh, “I have
been to confession, and I really think I feel the
better for it. It is hard to go through the
world with such a weight upon your heart, never
daring to speak what you think, or to be what
you really are! Ifeel as if the sunlight and
fresh air bad shone into all the dark holes and
corners of my mind once more. Butsurely you
need not look so grave, my pretty saint, though
I shall prove myself, in your eyes, a thorough
villain, Shall £ tell you why £ have said all
this to you?”

“ Yes,”

“Tt is because your future is linked and
twined with mine, that it would be folly in me
to appear better to you than I really am. You
will know me thoroughly one day, Marian; you
will see me at my best and.at my worst; and
so I am only making a virtue of necessity by
all this candor beforehand.”

“ Before what ?” she asked. ‘I don’t at all un-
@erstand what you mean by some.of your speech-
es, Mr. Vere.”

“ Don’t you?”

“Explain them, if you please.”

“With the greatest pleasure. I tell you
everything, because you are bound to me by
the oien ties, You are to be my wife!”

“yo”

“ You need not look so aghast at the idea.”

“ You are exceedingly impertinent,”

“Perhaps so. Nevertheless I speak the
truth, as you will see soon,”

“ Are you mad ?”

“Cracked upon some points, perhaps, like
every one else in the world. But, just at present,
Tam speaking the words of truth and soberneso
alone.’

“Well, certainly,” she said, with a sligkt
smile, “you are as original a person as ever I
met in my life.”

“Thank you. You could not have paid me
agreater compliment, though you may not
know it. Original people don’t grow on every
bush, my dear, as you will see for yourself when

ou have lived a little longer in the world.

ivery one, now-a-days, is stamped in the com-

mon-place mint of fas\ion, and to be ‘ odd’ is
fatal. Nevertheless, I ean add—and with all
due deference be it spoken—so are you.”

Marian was listening with an expression of
prick amusement on her face, as if to see how

ar his absurdity would carry him.

“You wish to hear the rest, I suppose?” he
remarked.

“Ts there anything more ?”

“Oh, yes! It.is only in a three-volume novel
that the romance and interest of people's lives
end at the altar. The romance of yours and of
mino is yet to come—after the ring is on your
finger. Just at present we are iaving the
reality; and a nice thing it is!”

“And is it permitted me to ask when this
wonderful wedding is to take place?” said
Marian, demurely.

“Well, I have not exactly made up my mind
as to the time,” he said; “ but I will let you
know long enough beforehand to admit of your
getting your furbelows ready, if that is what
you are thinking of !”

“You are very kind.”

“ Dan’t mention it. It isa weak way I heve
with me.”

“Very kind,” she went on, a little hotly.
“ And the best way in which I can reward such
kindness, I think, will be by boxing your ears
soundly, Mr. Philip Vere |”

“ As you please,” he answered, bowing his
head meekly before her.

“Bah! You had better take care. I may

be tempted too far. And now, if you have
amused yourself sufficiently, I will go.”
“Stop a moment,” he said, languidly, “I
want to talk to you about Lord Mountchayie.”
The red blood dyed Murian’s face in an in-
 

 

RA

THE. PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

 

 

stant, and he eyéd her with a
emile,

“ He is still an interesting subject, I see, since
you can blush 80 quickly at the mere sonnd of
a eae Did you care so very much for him,
then ?”

“This impertinence is not to be berne!” said
Marian, owe her foot. “ Will you hold
your tongue, Sir?”

“NotI; I can’t—I never could! I'am as
bad as a woman about that.’ Tam happiest
when I talk. And you need not get angry with
me; it does no good. In fact, I think it makes
me still more impertinent. But do you know
what that young man is about?”

“Have you not just been kind enough to
show me? He is making love to Rose Mar-
tin.”

“How quickly you saw it! Your lip never
trembles, and yet your heart bleeds and your
brain is on fire at the mere thought!”

“You give me credit for much more feeling
than Tf possess.”

“NotI! Pshaw! Don’t I know all about it,
you silly child? Have I not staked my all of
life upon a look, a word, a smile? Have I not
made an idiot of myself for the sake of a false
woman, just as you are ready to do now for
the sake of a fickle, empty-headed man? I
have got over it, and so will you. But red-hot
plowshares have an unpleasint knaek of leav-
ing tueir mark upon your feet if you walk over
them, and you and I must both limp mentally,
if not physically, through the follies ‘of our
youth. What would you give, now, never to
have seen yonder pink and white face?”

Marian was silent, and her tormentor laughed
aloud.

“I thought as much! Lingering traces of
the disease still remain, and you would rather
suffer all you Lave suffered, and have yet to un-
dergo, than lose the memory of your folly, and
the dear delight of having once known him
hind. Now, 1am better off than you, I have
got past that stage, and I wish Leonora Moye!)
had been at the bottom of the Red Sea bofore
she came to apoil some of the best years of my
life as ehe did! The world is full of Leonoras,
every one of them as good as the other, to my
way of thinking; but where ean I find five years
to mateh those which I fooled away in thinking
of and pining after her! Confound the gipsy!
Be warned by me, my dear, and forget as soon
as possible!”

“So [ shall,” replied Marian, with a sigh.
“ But I sometimes think that possibility wiil
never come.”

‘Nonsense! Six months after his ‘marriage
you will have forgotten allabout him, because
you wiil be married yourself,”

“There is one eomfourt,” said Marian, medi-
tatingly. “ He will be quite as unhappy as any
bne ejse can be.”

“If he marries Lady Theodosia?”

ww Yes.”

“He don’t care much for her?”

“ Not a whit.”

“It does not niatter.””

“ Why nor?”

“ Because he will not marry her.”

“What nonsense you talk! The ring le
bought.”

“She will not wear it.”

“The guests invited.”

“ They will not come.”

“ The bridemaids appointed.”

“They will not serve.”

“ And the settlements made.”

“A fig for them all! I tell you he will not
marry her.”

“Have you any reason for saying 80?”

“ Most decidedly—yes.”

“Not a very good one, I should say.”

“IT think it good. He will not marry her, bee
cause he will not.”

Marian smiled bitterly.

vine dear gipsy, I don’t think much of your
skill.’

“And yet I told your fortune well enough the
other night,” she said, musingly.

“TI don’t know what you cail well enough.
You made a most dismat prediction about me.”

“ Which will come true !”

“Much you know about that!”

“I don’t say that I can read the stars for
every one. But I am gifted with the second
sight, Marian, where you are coneerned , and
for any one who is connected with you, as Lord
Mountchayne is, or bas been.”

Marian mused a moment, with her eyes fixed
upon his face. Something she saw there puz-
zied her, but at iast her brow cleared, -

provoking

 

“Do you know anything about me?” she
asked eagerly.

“Much !”

“ And about my parents?” she added, witha
timid glance.

He nodded his head.

“What is-it? Why don’t you tell me? How
cruel of you to keep it to yourself!”

“ Fair and softly wins tle day, my charmer.
oe the proper time comes, you’ shall hear
a ‘abe

“ But when will that time come?”

“When you are my wife,” he answered, with
a low bow.

She turned away with an angry exclamation.

“T know you are vexed wih me, but I ean-
not give you the information you desire just at
present. It is’ worth waiting for, believe me!
In the meantime, try and think that [ am anx-
ious for your weliare—that I am constantly
pa in my own way for your good! Will
you?’

She put up her lip by way of answer.

“ You make yourself look very ugly by doing
that, my dear. It isonly a pretty woman who
ean afford to make faces.”

“Good-bye!” she said, turning her back
upon him.

“ What a Tartar you aref What? You will

Raid

“ Yes; I have stayed here quite long enough.
I don’t understand you, Mr. Vere—I don’t un-
derstand why you are (to use your own words)
masquerading about the country in petticoats |
T don’t believe you know anything about me, or
that you would tell me if you did; and I don’t
want to have anything to do with you in any
way—there!”

Mr. Vere waited quietly till she had finished
speaking. Then he took up his bundle again,
and said, coolly:

“ All of which does not prevent my knowing’

two things. One is, that you will be my wife!”
“ Never!”
“Oh, yes, you will!
Lord Mountchayne—”
Marian was in full retreat; but he called after
her, and the echoes took up the baleful ery over
and over again:
“Lord Mountchayne will marry Rose Martin,
the sweet May Queen !”

And the other is, that

CHAPTER XXIII.
A FRIENDLY WARNING.

“Tf he came,
If he came again—
He my oldest friend—
He my only friend—

Oh, I would fly with bliss,
His dear mouth to kiss,
Though wolf’s blood it stained !
And I would seize hold

Uf his hand,
Though the fold
Of a viper that hand contained !”

Marian’s slumbers that night were not of the
soundest Cescription; and when the morning
dawned, a course of action suggested itself to
her which she tried hard to believe was the off-
spring of kindness and charity, rather than of
selfishness and jealousy. Rose Martin was
young, and beautiful, and thougtless. She had
no one to guide or restrain ber; and she had
been left by her dying father in Marian’s care.
It was as well, therefore, that she should go to
the cottage, and endeavor, by some kind words
of advice—of reproof, if need be—to prevent
the shame and seanda! that must necessarily fall
upon her, in time, if Lord Mountechayne’s visits
did not cease.

As soon as possible after breakfast she set out
vpon her errand. ‘The sun shoue brightly, the
flowers bloomed sweetly, the little birds san
loudly all along the way, but Marian heede
them not. There was a darkened sun, and a
blighted flower, and a bird whose song had died
away within her own heart, and her thoughts
were all of then.

The doors and windows of Rose Martin’s cot-

e stood wide open, and the house itself
seemed full of sunshine. The canary was sing-
ing loudly from his cage beneath the vine-cov-
ered poreci, and a gray cat sat beneath him,
blinking her eyes in the sunshine, »..1 apparent-
ly considering whetber it was worth her while
to make an attempt to catch and eat him or not.
The stones that paved the little garden-path
were white as snow, and there was a wreath of
old-fashioned blossoms in the round aud heart-
shaped plats, that filled the air with fragrance,
and the drowsy hum of bees. Marian paused a
moment on the threshold to look at the pretty
picture.

 

tered, with a slight frown, as she stroked the
eat and chirruped to the. bird, and entered the
little parlor in search of the mistress of the
house.

The room was vacant. The glittering fender
and the speckless ornaments and pictures testi-
fied to the careful band that had been busy
there. The carpet had been freshly swept, the

| japanned tea-tray and caddy upon the side-table

dusted, and in the window stood a great bouquet
of garden fluwers—a ‘* beau-pot” as the old
country people still call it—that perfumed the
whole room. Beside it lay a silver mounted
riding-whip, and a gentleman's glove. Marian
turned them over with the point of ber parasol.
The glove was of French make, and the head of
the whip was engraved with a wolf at bay, the
crest of the Reveres!

“* My Lord ioses his head as well as his heart,
and leaves half his movable property behind
him,” ehe said, with a contemptuous smile.
“‘ Where can this girl be ?”

She passed through into the kitchen. It was
as neat as the parlor, but still no Rose was visi-
ble. Marian ascended the stairs. The room
where John Martin had died was evidentiy kept
as a spare chamber; but the opposite door was
half open, and looking in, she saw Rose, sitting
at the toilet-table, arranging her hair. She was
trying the effect of some ornament upon the
golden curls. It was a spray of turquoise drops
which she held—first tiis way, and then that—
smiling the while at the lovely face that met
her eyes at every turn. And as she studied
that pleasing apparition, she began to sing ma
soft, low voice:

“ You remember, Ellen, our hamlet’s pride,
How meekly she blessed her humble lot,
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot!”

She pressed the turquoise spray to her lips,
and sat thinking for a minute or two; then.
again, she began to earol :

*** Now welcome, Ellen,’ exclaimed the youth,
‘ This castle is mine, and these broad lands all!’
She believed him craz’d, but he spoke the truth,
And Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!”

“Lady of Rosna Hall!” she murmured, hid-
ing het blnahing face in her hands. ‘“ Ah, me!
how like a fairy-tale it all seems! And how
happy Iam!”

“ And how foolish!” said a low voice, beside
her.

She started with a little scream of terror, and
looked up into Marian’s pale, grave face. She
— to hide the turquoise spray, but it was toc

te.

“‘ You here, Miss Marian !” she said, confused-
ly. “I did not hear you come in!”

“No! I found noone below except the eat
and eanary-bird, and as f did not come to visit
them, I searched the house for you ; and I found
you at last hanging over a trifle like that” (she
pointed to the little ornament), ‘ and fancying
yourself a new Lady of Burieigh, I have no
doubt! O my dear Rose, how can you be so
silly ?”

Rose did not answer.. She put the despised
ornament out of sigit.as quickly as possible, and
began to arrange her hair.

“Tam sorry you should find me in such con-
fusion, Miss Marian,” she said, depreeatingly.
“ But I bave been working hard ali the morn-
ing, and I did not think how late it was when I
came up to make myself tidy. Will you eome
down into the parior, and I will give you aglass
of new milk after your walk.” }

“Thank yu, I don’t want any milk just yet
I want to talk to you... Leame purposely to do
so; and this room is better than the parlor,
since no one can overhear or interruptus here.”

“ Yes, Miss Marian,” said Rose, very dutiful-
ly, looking fidgety and nervous all the while.

Marian waited till her toilet was completed,
and then said, kindly: ;

ff are know what I want to speak to you ~
about, Rose ?”

“About the little brooch, I suppose, Miss
Marian.”

“ Well, we will begin with that, if you like.
Where did you get it?’

“It was given to me.”

“By whom?”

“ By—by a friend,” said the girl, with a pain-
fal increase of color.

“Hugh Dennet?”

“Oh no!” she said, with a slight shudder;

' “poor Hugh could not afford to give me a inand-

some present like that,”

“But there is one young gentleman in the
neiguborhood who can afford to do so,” said
Marian, severely. “ And he lives at the Priory,

“ No wonder he likes to come here,” she mut- | and his name is Lord Mountchayne.”,
THE : PRIDE..OF., THE DOW

 

Rose bung her head, and blushed.

“Don’t be angry with me, Miss.”

“ But I am angry—I can’t help being angry,
when I see you so stupid. Do you know that
be is just going to he married, you little goose,
to a lady of Lis own rank ?”

Rose was silent.

“Have you never heard of this?”

“ Yes, Miss Marian, I knew that he was going.
to be married.” F

“Was! Oh, the wind sets that way, does it?
Since when has it been that he was going tu be
married, wy poor child ?”

“Lord Mountehayne will never marry Lady
Theodosia Monmouth,” said Rose, looking up,
and speaking with a quiet air of authority, that
rSninded Marian unpleasantly of Philip Vere’s
last words.

“How long have you known Lord Mount-
chayne ?”

Rose hesitated to answer.

“Don’t be afraid, child ; I don’t mean you or
him any harm. But your poor father left you
in my care, and told me to be kind to you.
Does not that dying charge of his give me a
right to ask these questions, Rose ?”

* Oh yes!” and the girl's blue eyes filled with
tears.

“Then answer them.
meet him ?”

** About a month ago.”

* And where ?”

“ At the Priory.”

“How came you there,‘ pray ?”

“Lady Theodosia gave a grand party, Miss
Marian ; and among other things to amuse the
gentlefolks, they had a lot of people dressed up,
and standing in frames, like pictures.”

“Tableaux. Yes; I heard of them.”

‘‘ Well, Miss, there was one called ‘ Rebecca
and Rowena’, that was taken ‘from some great
novel; and Lady Theodosia had no one for
Rowena, till the housekeeper remembered me.
So they sent for me, gave me the most splendid
dress I ever saw in my life, and made me stand
there before all the company, while Rebecca
looked straight in my face.”

« But who was Rebecca?”

“Lady Theodosia herself.”

Tam sorry to say that Marian was gifted with
a sixth sense, which often brings its possessor
into the most grievous trouble: a sense of the
ludicrous, which beset her at the most improper
times, and in the most inappropriate places,
making her Jaugh at dismal tragedies, atl ile
at funerals, and commit many other enormities
of the most shocking description. Now, though
every word uttered by Rose was a death-blow
to her own hopes, she could not refrain from a
mischievous laugh at the thougit of the Lady
Theodosia innocently playing Rebecca to that
lovely Rowena, while the real Ivanhoe stood
looking complacentiy on.

“You smile, Miss Marian,” said Rose, look-
ing anxious. ‘“ Was there anything wrong—
anything ridiculous in my taking this par} ?”

“Not atall.. And Wee say you made the

rettiest Row ei naginables What did Lord
ountchayne’ray y to?” :

Rose turned her blushing face away.
“He liked it,” she murmured, almost inaudibly.

When did you first

    
 
  

 

     

 

  

| “Indeed! And what happened afterward?”
' “ T came home.”
'« And then?” :

“The next day his lordsbip called, and
brought me this.” : :
And she took out the torquoise brooch again.
Marian glanced at i x
nf Wery pretty, and rather valuable.
dear, has his lordship ever been to see

yousince?” Lu
“Oh, yes!” oo
“Once?” _?
“ Oftener !” §

  
     

‘Miss Marian!” said the girl, in a sudden
burst of confidence, “ he comes every day!”
There was a short silence. Marian shook her
head, and looked very grave. At last she said :
“Where do you see him, Rose ?”
! « Here, in this cottage!” ied Vi
« Alone?” «Oh
se es |” ie ze;
- what does he do all the time?’
“He reads to me while I-sew!” said Rose,
with a bright blush.
“ How long does he stay ?”
“ Sometimes an hour—sometimes two.”
“Do you ever walk with him?”
“We went yesterday to the Wishing Well,
Downe Reserve.”

 

*¢ Yes, T heard you were there.”

Rose started.

“ Why, we did not see you, Miss Marian !”

“No! I caught a glimpse of you by chance,
and then kept out of the way. I need not say
how surprised [ was. i came as svon as possi-
ble this evening to talk with you, my dear
child. Where do you expect this will end ?”

The beautiful blue eyes of the May Queen
wandered toward the chureh spire that towered
far away above the village trees.
and understood the glance.

“TI thought so! Do you believe he will mar-

ou?”
a know he will!” said the girl, courageous-

“If he has told you so, he is a greater vil-
lain than I took him to be.”

“He is not a villain! You shall not eall him
so, Miss Marian!”

“Bah! I could tell you things that would
ehake your faith in him, I think. Why, Rose,
three months have not gone by since he was at
my side all day long, as he is now at yours.”

“Miss Marian!”

“Tt is true. When he was at the Pleasaunce,
he was continually with me. He said things
which, if I had believed them, [ could never
have forgotten. His looks, his words, his deeds,
all proclaimed that he cared for me; end now,
perhaps, he searcely remembers my name! I
tell you this to warn you in time. I amt poor
and friendless, it is true; but, for all that, I was
the member of an old family, and an inmate of
the house where he was a guest, and these two
things protected me in a myasure from him.
But you, Rose, are alone in the world—dwel-
ling in a cottage by yourself, and receiving hie
constant visits in the most imprudent manner,
It is not right—it is your duty to send him
away. You are too young and too beautiful te
have a friend like him!”

Rose drew herself up with a haughty air, and
scarcely waited for Marian to finish speaking
before she burst out in her own defence.

“It is cruel and unkind of you to say this to
me!” she exclaimed. ‘ You ought to know me
better than to suppose for one instant that I
could be led away—even if he should be base
enough to attempt it.”

“T don’t know, Rose. We are only flesh and
blood, after all; and the greatest saints have
had their temptations, which they found it very
difficult to surmount. You love this man dear-
ly! I can see it in your face, and hear in your
voice when you speak of him. You leve him
with all your heart and soul, as such men must
always be loved. You have no will’but his—

ou shape your very thoughts by his dirdetion.

ow, if he has this influence over you} and
chooses to make use of it fora bad purpose,
how are yon going to help yourself? If I were
in your place, I should doubt the strength of
my own self-control. if I were you—if I loved
him as you do, and he looked at me with those
wonderful blue eyes of his, and said, “ Rose,
come—’”

She stopped short.

“Go on!” said Rose, looking at her with a
strange, eager glance. “If he said that, what
would you do?”

“Tam very much afraid that I should go.”

“Then you, too, have loved him.”

The murder was out—the secret was reveal-
ed. In her anxiety to serve and save her
friend, Marian had spoken more fully than she
had intended to do, and so had betrayed ber-
self. She shrank guiltily away from Rose’s
glance, at first. Then she smiled sadly, and
said :

“Well, if I gat it, what then? You will
pay more heed to me, perhaps, if I own m
weakness, I did love him once, Rose, but it is
all over now.”

“Quite over?”

“ Quite.”

“ That is strange.
forget him.”

“ You must remember that our positions are
very different. He loves you, and tells you eo.
Now, he never said openly to me that he loved
me in so many words, and my pride came to my
aid, and helped me to conquer a passion as
foolish ag it was painful. You have won him—
I would gladly say, ‘ Wear him ;’ but I cannot,
because I don't believe in hjs good faith—be-
cause I think that he is trifling with you, and !
know the fascination of his grace and beauty se
well myself, that I dread its effect on you.”

“4 understand,” said Rose, nunnedly ; “and
T wish I could tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

The girl did not answer. She sat looking out

I don’t think I could ever

Marian saw |

 

25

NES.

 

of the open window, and playing with a little
silk watel-guard whieh she wore around her
neck. With her delicate, spiritual beauty, and
her de2zp mourning-dress, it seemed hard in-
deed to believe that any one could wish to im-
plant a needless pang within her gentle breast.

“‘Tet him that standeth take heed lest he
fall,’ ”’ said Marian, in a low voice. “ Rose, you
are but a woman, and other women quite as
good and as beautiful as you have trusted too
much before now. If such a thing should hap-
pen, what would become of you? You would
find no friends here; you would have no home
but the wide world—no refuge but the city
streets—no companions except the reckless and
wicked women you would meet there. Is it
worth while to lose so much for the sake of.a
handsome face and a few loving words? Come,
my dear, be strong and brave, aud tell this
young man to leave you in peace.”

“What you fear will never happen to me,”
aaid Rose, with a secure smile.

“Why not? Are you more or less than
mortal, that you can give your whole heart to a
man so far above you, and yet hope to escape
the disgrace which must surely follow?”

“Lord Mountchayne is kind, and good, and
noble. He will never wrong me.”

“You have more faith in him than I.”

“T have all faith in him.”

“T wish you joy of it. Are you, indeed, so
obstinate that you will not heed a word I say ?”

“ Not so obstinate, my dear Miss Marian, but
so hopeful!” said the girl, with a little willful
smile that was very charming.

“What folly! What do you think your
friends and neighbors will say to all this?”

“They do not know.”

“ But they mustknow in time. This cottage
is very lonely and secluded ; but if Lord Mount-
shayne comes here every day, some one will be
sure to see hii, and then, only think of the
scandal that must ensue.”

“Tle will take care of that,” said Rose, with
a fond smile. ‘He will never allow my honor
to be called into question.”

“Are you mad?” said Marian, rising impa-
tiently from her seat.

“No,” said Rose, witha loving look; “though,
no doubt, [appear so to you. Oh, if you would
only have a little patience with me, and a little
faith in him, I~”

“My child, I know only too well how such
handsome young gentlemen take care of the
reputation of pretiy cottage-girls like yout
However, if my warnings and entreaties have no
power to move you, I will say no more. Go
your own way, Rose, in future. I shall not in-
terfere with you again.”

“Now you are angry!” said, Rose, tearfully,

“Only sorry for you,” replied Marian, as she
turned to leave the room. ‘Ab, Rose, if the
poor old man who died on yonder bed was here,
what would he say to you?”

“He would not blame me; he would trust
me, and believe that, though some things look-
ed strange and wrong, there might be some-
thing behind that made them as pure and
bright as the light of the sun at bowtie.”

Marian searcely heard this speech, as she de-
scended the stairs, aud paid no attention Lo its
significance. They entered the little parlor to-
gether, and she pointed to the whip and glove
with a slight frown.

“Do you expect hit here to-day ?”

“ Yes.”

“ And you will persist in seeing him after all
that I have said ?”

“T must!” said Rose; and again her hand
played nervously with the chain sbe wore
around her neck.

‘ “Then I will say good-bye—a long good-
ye.”

“ Why, Miss Marian ?”

“Because I shall come here no more.”

“ Never again ?”

“Never again.”

“It is hard of you, Miss Marian, after what
my poor father said when he was dying.”

“T do not think so. I would gladly have
fulfilled his wish. I have tried honestly to do
so; but by will not allow it, and so, farewell.”

“One moment!” said Rose, detaining her.
“Ts it possible that you think me guilty ?”

“I think that you will be!” said Marian, sig-
nificantly, and then shrank from her as if she
had received a blow.

“O Francis, this is hard to bear!” she mur-
mured to herself; and Marian heard the words.

“Hard!” she exclaimed. “You need uot
bear it unless you like! It is not fo late to
turn back! But if you will go on in the path
you lave chosen. and pay no heed to those who

; 5
 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

26

THE PRIDE OF THE’ DOWNES.

 

warn you that it is fall of thorns, what can I
say to you? Only this—that I make a distine-
tion between sinners, which is this : If you were
really led away in some sudden moment of
weakness, of which you repented bitterly after-
ward, I would not refuse to counsel and aid you,
But here you are deliberately. preparing for
such a moment, by exposing yourself day after
day to temptation. In spite of entreaties and
expostulations, you choose your lot, and will
have no reason to complain of it. But I grieve
for you all the same, and I am very sorry that
we are to meet no more! Good-bye!”

“Oh, stop! I will tell you all!” cried Rose.
But Marian only shook her head, and went res-
olutely on, while Rose sat down in the easy-
chair, aud wept bitterly.

Marian walked up the green lane, indignant
with Rose, with Lord Mountchayne, with her-
self, with everybody! As she turned into the
high road, a biack ae. passed her at a rapid
trot. ‘The rider lifted his hat as he dashed by.
kt was Lord Mountchayne, and he was going in
the direction of the cottage which she had just
left.
A sudden impulse which she could not resist
made her turn back, and make her way through
the hedge, and by a short side-path to a mea-
dow which overlooked the quiet little home.
Conecealing herself beneath a friendly poplar
tree, she waited patiently for a glimpse of the
lovers.

They came, ere long, into the garden. The
sweet face of Rose was no longer stained with
tears. Lord Mountechayne’s arm was round her
waist, and she was looking up at him witha
faint smile and talking eagerly. As they paced
up and down the narrow walk Marian caught a
sentence gr two of their conversation

“ But did you ever love her, Francis?” Rose
was asking. “ Did you love ker as much as you
love ure ?”

“ You little goose,” said Lord Mountchayne,
with @ merry laugh, “if you ask such absurd
questions, you shall have those sweet lips stop-
ped with kisses!” ;

“No; but answer me!” she pleaded. “ Did
you ever really care for her ?”

“That ugly little thing!”

“She is not ugly ; she has a very nice face !”

“You may think so; but I confess, in my
eyes, she is just the plainest woman on earth!
Compare her face with this beautiful one that
blushes like a rose beneath my gaze; and then
ask me again, if you dare, whether I ever loved
her! Love her, indeed! 1 can’t help laughing
at the idea, my charming Rose!”

They waiked away, and Rose’s reply was un-
intelligible to the listener. But she had heard

uite enough; and wounded, heart-sick, and
espairing, she stole, unnoticed, away.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SHADOW OF A COMING EVENT.

“ My soul is dark—ch, quickly string
The harp 1 yet can brook to hear ;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear,
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in those eyes there lurk a tear,
*Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

“ But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
T tell thee, minsérel, I must weep,
Or else thiz heavy heart will burst:
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence long;
And now ’tis doomed vo know the worst,
And break at once—or yield to song.”
—Brnon.
It is not pleasant to be thought a fright, still
less to be called one in the presence of a rival,
by the man you love. Generally speaking, it
is quite as well to keep your thoughts to your-
self when in the company of a plain woman—
especially if you happen to belong to the oppo-
site sex. It is all very well to pet and praise a
beauty—it is a delightful occupation, but not
fraught with any very dangerous consequences,
either to the giver or receiver of the compli-
ment. She expects it—it is her due—and she
never dreams of feeling grateful to you for what
you cannot help. But address one compliment
to an ugly woman, and let it be so moderave
that she will not suspect you of laughing at
her, and she is your slave and your debtor for
life. Tell her tvat her eyes are fine, her teeth
good, her smile bewitching, or her features ex-
pressive, and she will rate you far above any
other man in her secret heart, But, at the
same time, beware of those stupid mistakes
which men so often make. Don’t praise that
one beauty at the expense of another which she
does not 28. Don’t pay your compliment

 

in such a fashion that she will ceqnslngs it thus:

“My dear Madam, your eyes are good, but you
have not another charm about you”; if you do,
she will neither forgive nor forget it to her dy-

ing day. Most men lack tact in those matters,
| and so offend their gentle companions mortally,
I once new a good tempered and moderately
good-looking heiress who dismissed lover after
lover for no other reason than that they were
| too eandid ; and in their eagerness to escape all
suspicion of flattering, told her the truth about
herself. At last, one came who was most suit-
able in every way. The offer was made, was
accepted, and all went merty as a marriage-bell,
till one unlucky evening the happy lover took
it into his head to utter a tirade against fair
faces and lovely forms.

“ Beauty !” he exclaimed ; ‘ what is beauty
after a man has outlived his teens? Who eares
for a pretty face, when he finds a we}l cultivat-
ed mind and a warm and loving heart in its
place ?”

He paused for a reply, but got none. His
lady-love looked as black as night, aud the very
next daz contrived to pick a quarrel with him,
through which the mateh was brokea off. The
next year she married her groom, and so ended
her romance and the hopes of her suitors.

One can quite understand this. It is a wom-
an’s vocation to be beautiful, and she does not
like to hear that she has missed it. Are youin
love, my reader, with a lady who does not ex-
actly resemble the Venue de Medicis? Take
good care never to tell her so. If you do, and
she wants a home or a position, she may marry,
but she will always detest you. Praise her
eyes, if she has but one; her teeth, though they
may all be false; her lovely hair, though you
know it is a wig; ber beautiful eolor, though
you pass the shop every day where she buys it.
Don’t find fault with the eut of her gown, the
color of her shawl, the shape of her bonnet, or
the size of her hoop—and all will be well. If
you can only conviuce her that, in your eyes,
she is perfect, she will try hard to remain so,
and be so grateful to you in your blindness, that
nothing can ever shake the allegiance of her
steadfast heart.

After all, this vanity is a gentle failing, and
we will deal gently with poor Marian, for pos-
sessing it in a somewhat inordinate degree. It
was not her fault—but it was her punishment ;
and when it got such a cruel wound from the
eareless words of Lord Mountchuayne, she felt as
if she wished the earth would open and hide
her from his sight. Since she was unpleas-
ant to his eyes, it was far better to die than to
live! It was the opinion of one human being—
one only, that is true—but that one represented
tie whole world to her just then!

Crushed snd despairing, she stole in at the
Pleasaunce gate, and sought her never-failing
refuge, the old loft, where he had once been
glad to sit and read to her for hours at a time.
She took down one of her favorite volumes, but
the book had lost its charm, ‘ That ugly little
thing!” seemed printed on every page in let-
ters of fire; and tiring of the ineffectual effort
to read, she rose at last, took the book in her
hand, and went into the house.

She met Mrs. Pryor in the hall. That worthy
lady held an open letter in her hand, and looked
the very picture of confusion,

“Ah, my dear! you are the very person I
wanted to see,” she exclaimed, as her eyes fell
upon Marian. “Here is a letter from Miss
Movell, and she says that she is coming home
next week.”

“ Ob-dear! thenall my pleasure is at an end.”

“The worst of it is, that she is going to bring
@ party with her”

“Not the Priory people, I hope?” said
Marian, hastilv, forgetting that they would not
be likely to pay a long visit again so soon.

“Ohno! some people from London. She
says there will be five besides herself and Miss
Caroline and Lucy—two ladies and three gen-
tiemen. That is what makes it so awkward. I
don’t know where to ut them all.”

“Come up-stairs, and we will soon settle that
question.”

They went, and in the course of the next ten
minutes all Mrs. Pryor’s troubles disappeared, |
and she began to think it was a pleasant thing,
after all, to have the house as full of guests as
1é could hold.

“ Besides, it makes it so much more ively for
you, my dear,” she added, as they came down

2

——}

| it ought ty be, you migh? hold your head as
| high as the proudest of them all.”
| “But nothing is as it ought to be in this
| world, I think, Mrs. Pryor.”
| “ Well, child, let us hope the next world will
| make tp for it.”
“ And, at all everts, it don’t matter much.”

said Marian, more cheerfully. “I have my

books, my garden, my old loft, and my walks
| through the green fields; and my cottage
friends in the village, who are always glad to
see my face, and I am well content with them.”

At the mention of her cottage friends Mrs.
Pryor’s face suddenly wore un anxious look.

“‘ Mey dear, you bad better not go much inte
the village just now,” she caren

“Why not?”

“There is a great deal of sickness amoug the
people !””

“ Of what kind ?”

“There are several fevers about; and diph-
theria is also prevalent,” said Mrs. Pryor, look-
ing away, and speaking in a constrained tone of
Voice.

“Oh, then, I will not go! I have no desire
to make the acquintance of either of those
maladies !”

“ Quite right, my dear; and I would not talk
to the people frum the village (if you should
nieet them in your walks), if I were you. It is
astonishing how easily these infectious disorders
are caught!”

* You have frightened me so thoroughly that
I don’t mean to stir beyond the garden for a
week,” said Marian, with a smile; and Mra,
Pryor’s brow cleared again.

“You are going there now,I think. Well, I
won't detain you, especially as I myself have a
great deal of work to do this afternoon.”

She trotted down the hall, her basket of keys
jingling musically in her hands, and Marian
went out and seated herself beneath her favorite
tilac tree, close to some bee-h' yes, whose busy
tenants knew her so well, and trusted her so
thoroughly, that they aliowed her to overlook
them at their work as long and as closely as she
hiked. Their busy hum soothed and tranquil-
ized her that afternoon, yet still she could not
fix her mind upon her book. © At Jast she gave
up the attempt in despair, and leaning back
upon the rustic bench, clasped her hands be-
hind her head, and looked up through the green
leaves into the clear blue sky.

How still, how intensely hot the air was!
Well might the pestilence rage at noonday in
such ar atmosphere as that! She liked the
intense heat herself—she basked in it as if she
had been a salamander! But to the parched
invalid, tossing and panting on a fevered
couch, how tormenting it must be!

What if Rose Martin should be lying on such
a couch ere long? What if Lord Mo»=tsiayne,
conscious of her danger, should refuse to leave
the cottage? What if Marian should be sum-
moned by the sick girl’s fancy, as her nearest
friend, to watch beside him there? What if
Rose, pale and dying, should join their hands
together, and bid her lover, with her last breath,
be faithful to the heart that was unconsciously
his own? As she thought that thought, the
latch of the garden gate rattled, and looking
up, she saw Philip Vere standing there, and re-
garding her with an air of extreme benignity.
She glanced up at the house, but saw no Mrs.
Pryor looking wonderingly out. So she went
down ina most ungracious mood to see what he
wanted. ; :

“Your royal highness does not lo ell
pleased,” was his first observation. “ the
most humble of your slaves venture to inquire
what has displeased you ?”

“The most humble of my slaves had better
tell me why he is here, of all places in the
world ?” was the sharp reply.

Mr. Vere laughed.

“T understand, You think me .acking in
delicacy of feeling, because I set my foot upon
the territory which I once beped to call my
own. But you will please to observe, that like
the Peri at the portal of Eden, I only stand at
the gate. I am sure I may add, with great
truth, that like that lovely spirit, 1 am utterly
disconsolate.”

“If Mrs. Pryor should see you?” said Marian,
in a voice of alarm. ;

“Do you mean the housekeeper ?”

“Yes!”

 

ain.
“er I’m not likely to get the lion’s share of the
festivities, Mrs. Pryor. I’m but a poor depen-
daut, and they all know it, and take good care
to show me that they do,”

 

“Humpi! As to that, perhaps if all was as

“Don’t be frightened; she is safe enough.
She has gone to carry some soup, and tracts,
and flannel, to the poor people who are ill in
the cottages on the common.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I am not so entirely destitute of

 
THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

 

the bump of caution as you seem to think; and |
because [ took precious good care to ascertain
how many watch-dogs there were on the prem-
ises, before I ventured here in search of you. I
met the worthy soul myself, as I came this way,
and remarkably hot and uncomfortable she
louked. Of all tedious occupations, commend
me to that of carrying hot soup and weak tracts
to the poor, on a day like this!”

“Jt is not much in your line, I should say,”
remarked Marian, dryly-

“Ob, thank goodness, I have not come to
that as yet! What I may take to when I get
into my dotage, no one can say.”

“Nothing worse, I hope! And now, at the
risk of seeming very rude, I must ask your
errand here 2”

“ You need not be afraid to stop and talk five
minutes toa wretch like me!” he said, with a
slight impatience visible in his manner. “If
you knew the society to which I am condemned
ail day long just now, you would not wonder
that I seek, in mere desperation, half a dozen
words with a civilized being like yourseli”

“Where are you staying ?”_

“At the gipsy camp.”

“Living with the gipsies?”

“Livivg with them, eating with them, talking
with them, and drinking with them. Bah! I’m
sick of it; and I’m going to cut the whole con
cern in a very little while.”

Marian’s face was full of wonder.

“ Well, what does that preternaturally solemn
look mean?”

“T think it strange that a gentleman should
choose such a life, and such companions.”

“So it is. So are many things strange in
this world.”

“ But why do you not leave them?”

“Have I not told you that I am going to?”

“Why did you ever come %”

His face darkened.

“ Ah, why, indeed! Supposing I should say
it was to see you?”

“That is very likely.”

“Jt is the truth. Now, I'll tell you candidly
the whole state of the case. For reasons of my
own, which I shall tell you some day, I have
kept an eye on you for years. I remembered

* that you were growing to be a woman, and that

~ women have a bad habit of falling in love. Mar-
riage naturally springs from love, it would not
have suited me at all to see you marry any one
else, since I have already selected you for my
owa wife.”

“You are very kind.”

“To myself? Perhaps so; perhaps I am .n
reality far kinder to you than you imagine.
Well, as I was saying, I came down to look af-
ter you.”

“Too late,” she murmured, with a sigh.

“In one sense of the word—not in another,
thank my lucky star! I found you in love—but
not married. ‘The honor of putting the ring on

our little hand is reserved for the humble
invidual who now addresses you!”
_ “What ridiculous nonsense !”

“Ts it? Wait a little, andsee! But you will
understand that, coming to woo a bride out of this
house, I could not make my intentions public.
I could not put boldly up at the ‘Revere Arms’,
and give out that I had come down to marry
Miss Marian Moyell; nor could I have quarter-
ed myself upon any of the good people whom
I know in this neighborhood. They would, one
and all, have wanted to know more about my
business with you than I should have cared to

them, So, on the whole, I thought it best to
look up my old friends the gipsies, and throw
myself upon their hospitality for a time, since
they happened to pitch their tents in the very
place I wished to visit ; and really, in the sum-
mer, it is not so bad a life, only one gets tired
of it, as one gets tired of everything in time.”

CHAPTER XXV.
MARIAN’S REVENGE.

“ The hand that mingled in the meal
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the heart's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality !
The friendly hearth which warm’d that hand,
At midnight armed it with a brand
That bade destruction’s flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.”
~MassACRE OF GLENUOE.

Marian was lost in a brown study, and
searcely heard the end of his speech. She
began to believe his story—began to believe that
he had really come to Downe Reserve for the ,
oo of meeting her, since he had sought

er out, and held himself certainly aloof from

 

any one in the neighborhood. But what could
he want of her? Above all, why had he got |
this ridiculous scheme of a marriage into his |
head. He was evidently quite in earnest about |
it, She had only to say the word, and she could |
be his wife, though he did not eare three straws |
for Ger. Some advantage would evidently acerue |
to him, which he could only gain as her hus-
band. What could that advantage be? She
was at an entire lose ; but she remembered Mrs.
Pryor’s mysterious hints, and the communica-
tion Rose Martin’s father had tried in vain to
make to her when he was dying. Both pointed
to this one end: there was a mystery about her,
and it concerned her worldly welfare and posi-
tion—she was sure of that. Again, the old man
had addressed her as “ Lady Marian”. Sbe had
searcely noticed it at the time, but now the title
came back with strange significance to her ear.
“Lady Marian!” If that was her rightful
name, how could she be Marian Moyell? Aud
if Marian Moyell was extinct, who would assume
her place?

A wild vision of future happiness rushed
through ner mind. She saw herself brilliant,
attractive, noble, and rich, if not beautiful.
She saw a throng of admirera pressing round,
to whom her wit atoned for her lack of love-
liness; and foremost among the group stood
Lord Mountchayne! Rose was forgotten; and
the high and titled heiress reigned in his heart
in her stead.

“ Did you ever read the old fable of the milk-
maid ?” asked Mr. Vere, quietly. ‘ Do you re-
member how that unlucky damsel, going from
the pasture with her pail upon ber head, thought
to herself how many eggs she could buy with
the innocent fluid, and how she could exchange
those eggs for a grass-green gown and pink
ribbons, wherewith to captivate Lubin at the
country fair; and then, poor wretch, as she
practiced some of her airs and graces which
were to be played off upon him on that eventful
day, she gave her head # toss, and down came
milk-pail and all, and there was an end of Lubin
and the grass-green gown? You put me very
riuch in mind of her a moment ago.”

“ How so ?”

“You are measuring your milk before you
have even made the acquaintance of the cow,
and counting the eggs many a day before they
are laid; a wild idea possessing you just at
this moment that you can touch the pinnacle of
your fortune without my help, and then bestow
it upon whom you will. Dismiss that idea as
soon as possible.”

“‘There is a forture, then?” said Marian, un-
der her breatn.

“To be won—yes! And I keepitskey! I
cannot gain it without your help; but, then,
neither can you without mine ; so there we are
equal.”

“ You deal in mysteries. Why don’t you tell
me frankly what you have been hinting at ever
since I first met you?”

“Thank you! I have lived a good many
years in the world, and I am not so verdant as
you think. You will know all about this inter-
esting secret when you are my wife; and, till
then, I beg leave, most respectfully, to observe
that wild horses cannot tear it from me!”

Marian turned away.

“In that case, Mr, Vere, I may as well say
‘good afternoon’ at once. I lefta very pleasant
book on yonder garden-seat; and you will ex-
cuse me if I say that I prefer the author's atyle
of conversation to yours?”

“Oh, don’t go yet! I wanted to ask you
something about Rose Martin.”

“ What ?”

“Have yuu seen her since I had the pleasure
of talking to you the other evening ?”

“ Once.”

“Was I not right about Lord Mountchayne ?*

“Perhaps so. How can I teli?”

Mr. Vere laughed.

“My dear Marian, allow me to tell you that
you do not know your real friends when you
see them.”

“ And let me tell you, Sir, that your behavior
to me is offensive in the extreme! What right
have you to call me ‘dear Marian’, I should like
to know? Don’t do it again!”

“ Well, perhaps you are right!” he replied
with an affable air, that made her long to box
his ears, ‘I have not the privilege just at pre-
sent; and therefore, great as the pleasure may
be, I resign it, and call you ‘ Miss Marian’ again J
Will that do 2”

She would not answer.

as ry, and with me! Now that is too ab-
surd! In the first place, I am am not worthy
getting angry with; and in the seeond, 7 am

 

a7

the very best friend, the very staunchest eup-
porter you ever had in your life, if you will but
accept me as such! By serving you I shall be
serving myself, and so you will be served well.
You see, [ make no propositions of disinterest-
edness or generosity. I’m not generous, and }
never go out of my way to do any one a service
unless at the game time I can benefit Philip
Vere, Esq. Now, then, having said so much,
why don’t you be candid with me?”

“ Because I don’t choose to be!”

“Tlow can I help you, then?”

“T don’t want your help!”

“Tt would be far more powerful than you
think. For instance, if you said frankly to me,
*My dear Philip, I hate that Rose Martin, and
she is horribly in my way!’ how do you know
that I could not do you a good turn by getting
her out of it?”

“ But I don’t hate her!”

“Tf you don’t now, you will before long. It
is coming —it is close at band!”

“« And she is not in my way!”

“Did you ever read Mrs. Opie’s books, my
dear young lady? There is one on white fibs
which I should recommend to your perusal, for
you told one then! A white one! I'll be shot
if I don’t think it was very near brown!”

Marian smiled.

“ You are quite mistaken. She is not in my
way, because I never occupied the position
which she now holds.”

“ And what position is that, I wonder?” said
Mr. Vere, with a comical glance.

“No very improper one, let us hape; 80 you
need not turn your eyes up in that absurd man-
ner at me!”

“T only know one thing.”

“What is that?”

“That whatever she may be now, she will be
Lady Mountchayne before long.”

Marian was silent.

“Jt is her beauty, you see, that has played
the mischief with him, He would not get
another face like that to put under his coronet,
‘f he searched all through the ranks of the aris-
tocracy. He knows that as well as any one
else. It is strange, by the way, how infatuated
handsome people are about beauty. I don’t
suppose he would trouble himself to look twice
at an ugly woman, do you?”

“ You had better go and ask him, if you are
so anxious about the matter!’ she said, tartly.

“ Ah, you are a little sore on that point! If
you were only reasonable now, if you would
only see that beauty is only skin Jeep—”

“Never mind that!” she cried, bitterly.
“Who looks beneath the skin? So that it be
fair and fresh, who cares for the heart that beats
beneath? So that the eyes are bright, and the
lips red, and the teeth like pearls, what more is
there to ask for?”

“ Ah, now you begin to talk!” said Mr. Vere,
leaning on the gate, and swinging it to and fro;
“now you begin to be honest! And I will be
honest, too. ‘That little cottager is very love-
ly, aud you are plain. You will hate me for
telling you that, I know, but it is the honest
truth. So far as looks go, you have not the
slightest shadow of a chance with her; and,
unfortunately, Lord Mountchayne is not very
intellectual, so that I cannot hoid out any hopes
of his appreciating the talents which you cer-
tainly possess. He must be caught by the eye,
if at all.”

“That being the case, we need say no more
about him,” said Marian, turning away with an
impatient sigh.

“Nor about the pretty Rose?”

“No.” e

“The pretty Rose, I suppose, she will still
remain to the end of her days. For, though
old, she will never be ugly—sae could not be if
she tried! Unless, indeed—”

He paused, as if struck with a sudden thought,
and looked toward the village.

“ Unless what?” asked Marian.

“ Unless disease spoils her good looks.”

“Tt can never do that. She would lie upon
a bed of death, and look as lovely as she does
now.”

“Do you think so? I doubt it. She might
be ill, it is true, and recover her beanty again ;
but there is one disease—yes, one—to whieh
even Rose Martin might fall a prey, and from
which she might escape only to remain a dis
gusting object for the rest of her life.”

Struck by something in his manner and tone,
oe looked him keenly in the face, and ask-

“What do you mean?”
“Have you never heard of euch a disease ?”
“Many leave their mark.”

 
     

ee

Sa

z.

EEE ET

 

 

 

ee

 

 

“ But none leave such a mark as this. It is
horrible to think of a face so fair, branded for
ever by its hideovs stigma.”

“To what do you refer ?”

“To the pestilence that is among us row.”

“The pestilence! Where?”

“In Downe.”

“Ts it cholera?”

“No. It is small-pox.”

Marian turned pale. Of all diseases, she
dreaded none like this. And to hear that it had
actually taken up its quarters in her quiet
country-home, sent a thrill of horror to her
very heart.

“Is there danger?” she asked faintly.

“Of course. But the means of safety are in
your own hands. Don't go near the village just
yet, and get vaccinated as speedily as possible.

hen, I hope, you will have no reason to feel
alarm.”

“Ts it at the camp ?”

“0,
“ Do you fear it?”
“Not at all I am a terrible fatalist, yor

know, and firmly hold to the wwilitary doctrine
of ‘ every bullet has its billet’. When my turn
comes, Ishall go; and whether it is by one way
or auother, watters little.”

“I wish I could feel that ; but I confess I am
afraid.”

“T assure you you need not be. And it is
always the cowards that run into the worst of
danger. By the way, does Rose Martin know
this?” ,

“T think not.”

“She ought to be told. It would be a pity,
as I said before, if she should lose all that beau-
ty through this scourge.”

He looked fixedly at Marian as he spoke, and
st the instant a thought entered her mind, at
which she shuddered, and yet she could not
drive away. If Rose should, indeed, be so un-
fortunate, would Lord Mountchayne’s love have
stood such a terrible test? And if Rose was
out of the way, was there not at least a chance
that he might remember the pleasant hours
spent in that sunny garden, and return to his
oh allegiance once more ?

For one giddy moment everything turned
round before her eyes. The next, she hated
herself for the thought. She hated Philip Vere
for suggesting it to her, and then standing with
that insulting smile upon his lips, to watch its
effects upon her mind.

“You are quite right,” she said, coldly. “It
would be a shame for ber to be exposed to any
danger, and I will take an early opportunity
myself of putting her on her guard.”

“Do,” he answered, with alow cough. “ Lord
Mountchayne will be so much obliged to you,
and so would she.” .

“Very well, then, that is settled. Have you
anything more to say ?”

“Not just at present. I shall look you up,
however, in a day or two, to see how the fair
Rose has profited by your warning. You do not
object to that?”

‘I certainly do. Ido notsee why youshould
follow me about like this, and expose me to the
unpleasant remarks that will surely be made, if
these interviews are discovered.”

“Trust me for that! I will never compro-
mise you. For the rest, you know, yn are the
light of my eyes and the desire of my heart,
and I can't exist without seeing you once in a
while.”

“ My cousin returns to the Pleasaunce next
week |”

“TI am perfectly willing.”

“ What if she shouid see you here ?”

“What a joke that would be! Do you think
she would faint, or go into a strong swooning fit
of hysterics?”

“ Not she.”

“No. She never wastes powder and shot to
no purpose. She is a practical young person,
that lovely Leonora of mine; and if she bad
only behaved herself as such, and seen on which
side her bread was buttered, I should have been
talking to you to-day from the other side of the
gate, and you would have seen a very different
man from the disappointed and good-for-nothing
vagabond who now intrudes on you.”

Ue lifted his hat with easy, well-bred grace,
and sauntered up the road. Marian watched
until he was out of sight, and then went back
to her book with a puzzled expression on her

face. ae
About balf-an-hour after Mr. Vere had taken
his departure, Marian, who had been wandering

up and down the garden-paths like an uneasy
spirit, saw Mrs. Pryor returning from the visit
to the village. She hastened to the gate to ad-

 

mit her. The good woman looked flushed and
tired, and her face was so full of sadness, that
the young girl was struck by it, and thought
that something terrible must have happened.

“ What is it?” ghe asked, anxiously. ‘Have
you heard any bad uews?” :

“That I have. Bad news for you, for me,
and for all of us,” said Mrs. Pryor, shaking
her head and sinking down upon the garden-
seat, as if she was unable to stand.

“ And what is it?”

“ There is a terrible pestilence in the village,
child. I meant to have kept it from you; but
perhaps it is as well that you should ke warned.
What will become of the place I cannot say,
and dare not think of.”

“And this pestilence ?”

“Js small-pox, in its worst and most virulent
form. You may wellshudder, If you saw the
sights I have seen to-day, your very heart would
be sick within you.”

“Do you mean to say you have actually been
with the people who are ill?”

“Yes; but don’t be frightened. I don’t thinkI
ean do you any harm; and I have had the disease
in its mildest form, so I am quite safe. But, O
Marian! to find, as I found to-day, a whole
family lying ill, and to know that nearly every
one of them must die! Itis a hard sight, and
yet I suppose that God knows best, or He would
not send such ascourge upon us. One needs
all their faith in a time like this.”

“ Do you think the disease will spread much ?”
asked Marin.

Spread !—it is spreading now in every diree-
rectiun. The people are terribly frightened,
and the doctors are busy by night and by day.
You have been vaccinated, my dear; but I
asked Dr. Henry to call here to-night on his
way home. Anounce of prevention is better than
a pound of cure any day, and especially at a
time like this.”

Marian gazed wistfully toward the village,
that looked so peaceful and pleasant in the light
of the setting sun.

“Who would think that disease and death
were lurking there ?’’ she said.

“O child! It is like many things in thie
world—fair enough outside, but full of all man-
ner of evil within.”

‘* But how did the disease come?”

“Who ean tell? It is raging in London with
even greater violence ; but a dozen people are
not missed there as they will be here. I am so
sorry for those poor Hydes.”

“Where do they live?”

“In yonder cottage—the ‘Moor Cottage’, as
it is called.”

* Oh, I know. I can see the house by walking
a little way up the road.”

“ Yes; but for Heaven’s sake don’t go too near
the place till you haveseen Vr. Henry. I would
not go in myself to-day, for fear of giving you
infection. I only put the things [ had brought
in at the window, and ran away ; but after Dr.
Haney has been here, [ must go down and see if I
ean do anything for the poor creatures. I am
sure I wish Miss Moyell were not coming home
with so many visitors, In the first place, there
is the danger to be considered; and in the
second, who can attend properly to the wants
of a party of gay young people, when so many
human beings are dying on every side?”

“T don't think Leonora will trouble herself
much about that,” remarked Marian.

“Perhaps not. Young people are very
thoughtless till their owu tarn comes. Besides,
if all I hear is truc. she has quite enough to
take away her thoughts from tue dead and dy-
ing.”

cs What do you mean ?”

“Tt is said she is going to be married.”

“Who to?”

“T don’t know the gentleman’s name; but he
is very rich, and a baronet.”

“ Oh, then she will take him, depend upon it.
Ts he coming with her?”

“ I suppose so!”

“Then I shall bave a look at him. I can
scarcely fancy Leonora a bride-elect ; but Isup-
pose she will play the part well Swi I
wonder if she has quite forgotten Phili
Vere.”

“O my dear child, have [ not begged you
never to mention his name here?”

“But she is away now, so it can’t hurt
her.”

“T feel as if the very walls had ears, when that
man’s name is in question ”

“Was he so terrible, then ?”

“A bad man—a very bad man!” said Mrs.
Pryor, as she turned to go into the house.

P {

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

\

 

| “1 sincerely trust you may never meet one like
him!”

Marian, left alone again, gazed out on the
dusty road, witha smile.

“ Dear old lady! I wonder what she would
say if she knew that her evil spirit in person
had been hanging over this very gate, and talk-
ing to me half the afternoon! Her gray wig
would stand on end with horror!”

She unfastened the gate, and strolled up the
road in the direction which Mr. Vere had taken.
The Moor Cottage, which was at that moment
the abode of pestilence, and misery, and death,
stood full in front of her, but more than a quar-
ter of a mile away. She gazed at its closed
doors and windows, with a morbid sense of curi-
osity.

“TfI could do it without any danger to my-
self,” she thought, “iow I should like to enter
that little home, and see how they are bearing
that awful trial! What a place it must be!
Ugh! I could not live in such a house to save
my own life—much less theirs !” -

A step came up the road behind her. She
turned, and saw Rose Martin with a letter-bask-
et on her arm,

At first she frowned and turned away, as if
she did not choose to speak. But the girl stop-
ped just in front of her, with a face so anxious,
and yet so full of tendervess, that she had not
the heart to preserve that rigid silence.

“ Well, Rose, what is it?”” she asked.

“TJ am go glad to meet you, Mise Marian! I

I wanted to speak to you so much.”

“ What about ?”

“ About Lord Mountchayne.”

And her soft cheek grew crimson, and her
eyes drooped and filled with tears.

“What have you to say of him that I can
hear ?”

“If you would only have a little pity for me,
and a little faith in him, I am sure tkat you
would say there was no harm in our meetings.”

“ Nonsense, Rose !”

“1 am speaking the truth, Miss Marian. Oh,
do trust me! Ido not care what other people
think or say of me; but I cannot bear to lose
your friendship.”

“Well, I will think of it,” said Marian, touched
by her simple earnestness. “Where are you
going with that basket ?”

“To see some of the poor people who are ill
with fever. I have called at one or two cottages
already, and left jelly, and fruit, and wine;
and now I am going to the Moore Cottage to
see the Hydes. Poor things! they are all dowa
together, and they have only one old woman
from the workhouse to wait upon them. It is
very sad—is it not ?”

Marian did not answer. Her evil genius
stood beside her, and her soul was trembling
in the balance between a hideous sin and a gen-
erous deed. A mocking whisper seemed to
ring in her ear: “That ugly little thing Pp
and “ the plainest woman I ever knew!” as she
gazed on the pale but perfect face of the girl
who stood peatte her.

“Good-bye, Miss Marian,” said the gentle
voice. “Iam so much happier now that I have
seen you.

And her hand was taken in a timid, yet lov-
ing clasp.

She wrenched it passionately away. Rose
flushed deeply, and sighed; then dropped a
humble courtesy, and passed on. A terrible
struggle was being waged in Marian’s heart
At one moment, pity urged her to speed after
the poor young creature, and rescue her from
her danger; the next, pride, and anger, and
jealousy held her back, and whispered that she
would take no harm. While she debated and
argued with herself, Rose had crossed the com-
mon, and knocked at the cottage door. It
opened; and Marian thought she heard a low
laugh, like Philip Vere’s, in the shrubbery be-
hind her.

“Come back! come back! Don’t go there!”
she shrieked, etarting off at full speed.

But it wastoo late. Rose had entered, and the
door was shut: and with it every ray of hope
was shut out from her guilty soul. She knew
then, better than words could teach her, how
@ murderer must feel.

 

CHAPTER XXVI.
A PLEASANT EVENING PARTY.
Oh, snatch’d away in beauty’s bloom,
Op thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
‘And the wild cypress wave in tender gioom’

 

looked for you wher I came by the Pleasaunee. ©

 
29

 

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

* Aid oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering, pouse, and lightly tread,
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb’d the dead !”
—Bynon,

Some days passed by. Lady Theodosia had
returned from town, blooming, and brilliant,
and happy; and the appointed time for the
marriage was close at hand. Miss Moyell did
not visit the Pleasaunce on the day appointed,
for there was a grand concert at the Priory,
with Italian singers from town, whom she was
anxious to hear. She had one or two other
veasons for remaining also, which were these.

In the first place, among the guests whom
she bad invited to the Pleasaunce, and who
were to return with her to the Priory to witness
the marriage, was one whom eonstant and
lover-like attention had made some impres-
sion upon ber ambitious heart. He was vld
enough to be her graudfather, and ugly and
disagreeable in the bargain, it is true; but he
was a rich baronet; and, if ehe married him,
she would walk in silk attire, and be “my
lady”, and that was a sufficient bait. Lucy,
being young and simple, regarded him with
horror; Caroline was wiser in her day and gen-
eration, and strongly urged her sister to accept
haa, should she kave an opportunity of doing
Bo.

“What if his teeth are yellow?” that saga-
cious young person asked, ‘“ Ile is as rich as a
Jew, and ean be twirled round your finger, #

ou care to take the pains to manage him.
taes him, by all means, dear Leonora, and
then ask us down to your place in Sussex, and
we shall all be as happy as the day is long.”

Leonora fully intended to follow this advice ;
and, in the meantime, she encouraged her anti-
quated lover with the sweetest of smiles and
looks, and wondered, drearily in her heart the
while, what Philip Vere would say when he
heard of it all.

She tittle thought how near he was to her, or
how great an influence he was silently 4
over the destinies of some of the people aroun
her. That something was wrong, she saw; and
she had womanly curiosity enough to try and
find out what it was. The bride-elect looked
merry enough, but the bridegroom seemed wo-
fully out of tune, and stalked about the house
with a face as dark and moody as if he had just
committed a murder, and was ata loss how to
dispose of the body. In addition to this, he
was absent sometimes for balfa day; and, on
one occasion, he was in town from Wednesday
till the following Monday, without giving the
slightest explanation of his movements when
he returned. Lord Revere looked worried, and
Lady Revere sad: and in the manner of both
toward their wayward son was visible a kind of
anxious, deprecatory tenderness that puzzled
the attentive watcher exceedingly. They seem-
ed to take pe thought for Mountchayne ; they
averted so carefully from lis path everything
that might, by any chance, cause an explosion
of any kin, that their very anxiety persuaded
Miss Moyell that the explosion would take place
at any moment.

Then, again, Lady Theodosia, though on the
most easy terms with all the rest of the party,
seemed constrained and stiff whenever her ati-
anced lover approached her. If he entered the
room suddenly, her eyes sought his face anx-
iously, as if she dreaded to hear bad tidings.
Ti he eat apart from the gay groups in the
evening, with a look of weariness and dissatis-
faction upon his face, her own reflected it in a
strange degree; and if by chance they were
forced into & éée-a téte, it proved anything but
a pleasant one, to judge from the look of cha-

rin and relief with which each escaped from it.

ouora remembered her owa stormy wooing,
and the days of doubt, and indceision, and anx-
iety that preceded that terrible one when she
found herself deceived, and deserted, and dis-
pe by the man she loved. Could it be that

dy Theodosia, who waa as proud as Lucifer
before his fall, was about to undergo a sjmilar
trial? She hugged herself at the thought, and
watched on, dy Theodosia bad never in-
curred ber special animosity—they were too
much alike for that; but still the misfortunes
of our friends are very dear to us and especial-
ly if they in any way resemble our own. It
Lady Theodosia were left alone at the altar, as
Leonora Moyell had been, the unpleasantness
of the thing would be quite taken away. It is
not exactly comfortable to stand in the pillory
to be pelted with rotten eggs; but if a coronet-
ed head is ducking beside yours, to escape the
unsavory greeting, it puta quite a different tace

apon the matter—that isin the easily-dazzled
eyes of ‘a true Briton.”

There really seemed some ground for Leono-
ra’s suspicions. She felt half inclined at one
time to seek Lady Theodosia’s confidence, and
give her a hint or two; but that young person
encouraged no such stretch of the preragatives
of friendship. She looked fidgety, and ner-
vous, and preoccupied, but still she would
make no confident, unless, it was her French
maid. And so the time went on; and Leonora
could only wait and watch for that dénowement
which she was persuaded must come ere long.

Tableaux were one of the favorite amuse-
ments of the guests at the Priory, and Lady
Theodosia generally took a very active part in
them. One evening, after an unusually dull
day, she proposed that the great hall should be
lit, and that they should all dress and adjourn
there to rehearse a grand historie picture, which
they were to represent before a select audience
of the neighboring gentry during the coming
week, Leonora, who was to represent Joan of
Are, and the Maid of Saragossa, and several
other intrepid damsels of other days, besides
giving the dying scene of Queen Bess upon
crimson-velvet cushions artistically arranged,
was delighted with the proposal, and hurried
away at once to her own room to prepare her
wardrobe. Coming back soon afterward through
a long, dim corridor, on her way to the hall, she
was startled by seeing two figures clasped in
each other’s arms at the extremity of the pas-
sage.

“ One of the housemaids keeping an appoint-
ment with John, the footman,” she thought,
and drew back into the obscurity till the inter-
view should end,

“ At eleven, precisely,” the man’s voice said ;
and his companion answered :

“T will not fail you. But, for Heaven’s sake,
be cautious, and don’t let any one suspect. us.”

“Trust me for that, my darling!” was the re-

ly.

Then there was the unmistakable sound of a
kiss, and the parties separated. The female
glided past Leonora with a noiseless step; aud
she almost uttered a ery of surprise, when she
caught a glimpse of her face. Itwas Lady The-
odosia Monmouth!

Who was her companion?

Leonora bent eagerly forward to see. It was
not Lord Mountchayne ; it was an older anda
taller man. But it was too dark for her to see
his face. She only noticed, as he passed down
the stairs, that he limped slightly with one foot.
Now, no one at the Priory was a cripple except
Lerd Revere, and he only when he had an ob-
stinate fit of the gout. But certainly he could
not be holding clandestine interviews, and kiss-
ing Lady Theodosia, in the back passage of his
own house.

With ber head full <* this strange incident,
Miss Moyell went down to the great hall.
Many of the actors, and a)l of the spectators,
were there. Presently Lady Theodosia ap-
peared, smiling and unrufiled, and the amuee-
ment of the evening commenced.

Divers were the blunders Miss Moyell made ia
her own parts. Joan of Are looked at the floor
when she should have been gazing at the sky.
The Maid of Saragossa forgot that she held a
lighted match, and blistered all her fingers
with it ; and Queen Bess, who should have been
writhing in anguish on her cushions, sat bolt
upright, with her eyes fixed on the hall-cloek,
which pointed to the five minutes before eleven.

“ What ails you?” cried several of the actors,
as the curtain fell. “You look as if you were
asleep and dreaming.”

“And Iam, I think; or, rather, I ought to
be,” said Miss Moyell, as Lady Theodosia en-
deren wearing the scarf and snood of a Scotch
assie,

“Oh, what a shame!” she cried, glancing
round the group. “ You are all in costume for
the wedding of Henry the Eighth, and I have
got myself up at vast trouble and expense,
tor the bride of young Lochinvar, and where
is he?”

“It is quite a mistake,” gaid several of the
gentlemen. — “ We thought this picture came
next. But Mountchayne isas on a Scotch dress,
I saw him just now; he was Rod Roy, or some-
thing of that sort, in the gathering of the
cians.”

“It was not Mountchayne who played Rob
Roy. It was Signor Florenti,” said a lady.

“Ah! who called me? [ have the great
' honor to present myself,” said a low voice ; and

a tall handsome Italian, wearing a Scotch dress,
came from the back of the stage. He limped
1 glightly as be walked.

 

A dozen voices explained to him what was
required. He smiled and bowed affably, took
his place, and the curtain rose. When it fell,
Lady Theodosia complained of thirst.

“Let me get you a glass of lemonade,” said
Lochinvar. She bowed, and he led her awa
toward the refreshment-room, while the last
group took their place upon the stagg.

Leonora saw it all, aud guessed the sequel.
Laughing inwardly at the terrible confusion
which must soon ensue, she was outwardly as
grave as a judge; and after going through her
part, she joined Lady Revere in the smal! draw-
ing-room that opened from the hall, and began
to give her an account of the party which she
intended to give at the Pleasaunce, wheu the
bride and bridegroom had returned from their
wedding-tour.

“Tt is really very kind of you, my dear,”
said her ladyship, waking up into sometning
like interest; “and between you and me, I wish
tae wedding were all over.”

“Yes; all this noise and confusion must tire
you sadly.”

“Oh, it is not that. Ishould not mind the
confusion, if—"

Leonora awaited the coming confidence most
discreetly. i

“Tf they cared more for each other, my aear!
I may as weJl own the truth. I am not pleased
with either of them. Francis is so absent and
so moody.”

“Is there any reason for it?”

“Ah! that is the very question I wished to
ask you.”

“Me?”

“ Yes; that dreadful cousin of yours!”

“ Marian ?”

“Do you really think he cared for her?”

“ Impossible !”

“He gave her up willingly enough ; but then
one never knows what a man really thinks or

feels. I sometimes fear that he visits her
still.”
“ Oh, impossible!” said Miss Moyell, again.
“Why so?”
“ Because Mrs. Pryor is there.”
“ Well ?”

“If anything of that kind was going on she
would lose no time in informing me.”

“You are quite sure of that?”

Quite.”

“hen, my dear, if he don’t visit the Plea-
saunce, where does he go ?”

“How canI say? But hush! Here he is!”

Lord Mountchayne, at this moment, entered
the room, with Sir Antony Rossiter, Leonora’s
ancient »dmirer, leaning on bis arm.

“You are responsible for this intrusion, my
dear Miss Moyell,” he said, courteously. “ Sir
Antony could not rest till he had inquired after
Queen Elizabeth.”

“Sir Antony is too good, for I know I acted
horribly !” said Miss Moyell, making room for
him beside her, with a smile. “ The truth is, [
was thinking of something else all the while.”

“ Of me, I hope?” said Sir Antony, gallantly.
“ These tableaux are really very pretty things.”

“The best we ever had was that of Rebecca
and Rowena,” gaid Miss Moyell, anxious to bring
the conversation round to Lady Theodosia. She
was rewarded for her ruse by seeing Lord Mount-
chayne start and color.

“Oh, poor Rose Martin!” said Lady Revere,
languidly. ‘She made a very pretty Rowena ;
but her day for that is over now!”

“What do you mean by that?” said her son,
looking up 80 eagerly that a new light flashed
tpon Leonora’s black eyes at once. Here, per-
haps, was the key to his absence and coldness.
How stupid she had been not to think of it be-
fore!

Lady Revere looked startled.

“Mean, Francis? Why, have you not heard
the newa?”

“No. What news? Tell er quick !”

“‘Lbe stuasi-pox is raging in the village.”

“T know it. = -

“And Rose Martin has taken it.”

“O my God!”

The young man sank into a chair, and clas:
ed his bands over his face. His mother sat looks
ing at him with consternation. Sir Antony
stared. Miss Moyell was the only one who re-
tained her presence of mind, and she went and
shut the door. Lady Revere thanked her with
a look, and then turned to ber son again,

“Is she very ill?” he murmured.

“Very ill, indeed. ‘he doctor thinks she
cannot survive,”

“ And [am bere, taking part in these cursed
tomfvoleries, while poor Rose lies on her death-
1 bed!” he cried, starting up.

 

¢

 
 

——

    

 

30

 

a

7

PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

 

 

Poor Rose !”” said Lady Revere, rising also,
“ What is she to yon, Francis ?”

He laughed wildly.

“ You may well ask that!”

“ Answer me !”

“She is everything to me!”

“This to your mother?”

“Why not?”

“ That wretched girl—”

“Stop!” he cried. “You don’t know what
you are saying!”

“ Alas, I know too well!”

“No one shail say a word against her in my
hearing !”

“« How can you prevent them from doing so.”

“ By telling the truth! She is my wife, moth-
er—my legal wife!"

Lady Revere screamed, and sank back upon
the sofa. Miss Moyell hastened to her side.

“Bear up!” she said. “ Don’t let any one
else hear this.”

“ You are a true friend, my dear! O you un-
happy bey, how can you stand there, and say
such a thing to me ?”’

“It is the truth!” persisted Moxntehayne.
“Twas married in London by a clergyman of
the Church of England, and [ can show you the
certificace this instant, if you like. Whatever

_ Rose’s birth may have been, she is Lady Mount-
_ ¢hayne now, as much as you are Lady Re-

”

vere

“Oh, where is Lord Revere ? Why don’t be
come to me?” cried ‘ter ladyship, helplessly.
“What shall we do? What wil eople say ?
And O Lady Theodosia! how ean Tavee look
her in the face again?”

There came a great knoeking at the door.
Leonora ran to open it, and admitted Lord Re-
vere, whose face was purple with anger and mor-
tification.

“A pretty business this is to happen in my
house!”’ he exclaimed. ‘“ We shall be the
laughing-stock of the country ; and it is all your
fault, Sir—entirely your fault. She says 80.”

“Who says so?” asked Lord Mountchayne,
looking bewildered.

“Lady Theodosia. Pray, have you seen her
to-night?” : :

“Yes—no—I don’t know! I believe Iam
going mad!” answered the young man, distract-
edly pressing his hands upon his forehead.

“It is about time, Sir, after disgracing your-
telfand meso publicly, By heavens! if you
were any other man than my own son, I’d call
you out defore morning !”

“But what have I done to make you so an-

qv

“Done? Everything! Read that letter, Sir,
and feel ashamed of yourself, if you can !”

Lord Mountchayne took the epistle from his
father’s hand. As he glanced over its contents,
he bit his lips, and smiled. In spite of all the
eonfusion and distress of the moment, he could
not help laughing at the contents.

The indignant father snatched it away, and
thrust it into his wife’s hand.

“He has the impertinence to stand and grin
ever it, graceless puppy that he is!’ he shout-
ed. “Read that, Madam, and see if you find
it as amusing as he does!”

It was a letter from Lady Theodosia, and ran
thus:

“Dear Uncix:—As Lord Mountchayne not only hates
me, but takes every opportunity of telling me so, by his
words in private and his actions in public, I think it
best to stop where [ am, before the farce ends with a
tragedy ; and soI have gone away with one who loves
me truly, and you will hear no more from me till I have
the right to sign myself

“‘ Your affectionate niece,
“‘ THEODOSIA FLORENTI.”

“The Italian!” gasped Lady Revere in a
faint voice. “He played Lochinvar with her
just now, and they have made a real elopement
of it. Ob, what will the world say ?”

And the fatal letter dropped from her hand,
and she went into a fit of hysterics, which
speedily brought every one in the hall around
her.

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE RUBICON.

*¢ For he through sin’s long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement where he did amiss ;
Had sighed to mauy, though he loved but one,
And that loved one, alas! could ne’er be his.
Ah! happy she to ’scape from him whose kiss
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ;
Who soon had left her charms for vuigar bliss
And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.”
—Brnon.

All was confusion at the Priory. Lady Re-
vere was ill ; Lord Revere had stcrmed hinself
into a frightful fit of the gout, on hearing of his

‘

 

son’s marriage ; the guests had departed, and
the whole country was wondering, talking, and
ne over the strange event.

Miss Moyell made her appearance unexpect-
edly at the Pleasaunce, with hor guests. It was |
not in human nature to refrain from discussing |
the mighty scandal; and. Marian, though she |
staid but a few minutes in the drawing-room
after their arrival, heard quite enough to terrify
her. She sought out the good housekeeper,
who was busy in the kitchen.

you heard this extraordinary tale they are all
8o full of ?”

“ About my Lord and Rose Martin? Yes.”

“And do you believe it?” =:

“Not I? it’s a great deal too romantic.
Those sort of things only happen in books ;
you never hear of them in real life. Depend
upen it, he was only joking with the people when
he told them 80?”

** Would he dare do that ?”

“One never knows what such flighty creatures
as young men may take it into their head to do.
It is a great shame, though. And there is that
poor thing dying! What she wanted to go into
tiiat cottage for, I cannot imagine? Any one
might have told her how dangerous it was.
Poor thing! she will never be May Queen
again. | am going to see her after dinner.
Will you go?”

“1? Not for the world!” said Marian,
shrinking back with a look of horror.

“Oh, | forgot; you are afraid of the disease.
Well, poor thing, she will never know who
comes to see her now; but still I want to know
that she is comfortable and well cared for. How
sad it seems!”

The good soul wiped her eyes, and Marian
slunk away. Taking her hat, she went out
tirough the garden-gate, and, skirting the vil-
lage, went in the Girection of the gipsy camp.
She was doing what she had never dreained any
earthly power could tempt her to do—she was
seeking, of her own accord, an interview with
Philip Vere.

Por more than an hour she waited in vain.
At last she spied him eoming leisurely up the
lane with a cigar in his mouth. He was alone;
and when he saw her he lifted his hat with a
mocking smile that sent the hot blood to her
cheek.

‘At last! I have watched and waited for you
each evening lately, and in vain. But I knew
that you would come, and I was very patient.”

“How did you know that?” she asked,
/ haughtily.

“ By putting two and two together, my dear.
If people get themselves of their own accord
into a deuce of a scrape, they gererally grasp
eagerly at the first hand that offers to extricate
them from it. Inthis ease the hand happens
to be mine.”

“1 am in no scrape, that Iam aware of,” said
Marian, indifferently.

Mr. Vere elevated his eyebrows.

“No! You must have a conscience made out
of gutta-pereha, then.

“ Perhaps I have.”

“ And are you satisfied with your work 9”

“ With what work ?”

“ You are over-modest, my dear. I refer to a
little interview which took place between you
and Rose Martin some time ago.”

“You saw that?” she said, with a look of
uiet desperation.

“TI did; I see everything that you do, my
angel. If ever you are tried for man—or rath-
er for womansiaughter, my evidence would be
invaluable to you. I don’t know that I should
stick at a little perjury, even, to serve you.”

“TJ don’t think you would.”

“But here, inthis lonely place, I may be
permitted to say that it was a most masterly
thorght.”

“ Suggested by you.”
He Jooked at her with an air of innocent sur-

rise.
Pe You must be dreaming. How could I sug-
gest it? If you had told me what you were

going to do, I could have informed you of the
uselessness of such a proceeding, since I knew
well that they were married !”

“You knew it?”

“Mrs. Pryor,” she said nervously, “have |

ways somebody or something that might have
prevented something else in those three-volume
absurdities. But as for this case, did I tell you
to send the poor girl into the pest-house ?”

Marian shuddered.

“Have you heard how she is ?”

“ Can’t live!” he said, coolly flecking the ash
from his cigar.

“ And I have killed her!”

“The state of the case, my fair friend !”

“ How can you talk of it like that?” she said,’
in an agony of despair. “Oh! if I might but
| go back to that dreadful day, 1 would gladly
expose myself to the danger, so that she might
be alive and well again.” :

“That is jast it! We are always repenting
of our misdeeds when it is too late!”

“You laugh at me! You would not—you
could not, if you only knew what a hell my
Kfe has been since I Jet her go inte that cote
tage!”

Mr. Vere blew a curl of smoke gracefully
from his lips. t

“Take things easy,” he suggested. “You'll
tear yourself to tatters, and turn into an old
aoman before your time, if you go on like that.”

“ Oh, how heartless you are !”

He laughed.

“ Are you just finding that out?”

“But what am Ito do? I can’t stay here;
[ sha!l go mad if I do!”

His eyes lit, but still he smoked on tran-
quilly.

4 5 Lord Mountchayne with her?” sho
asked.

“Not he! Do you think he would risk his
beanty there? He takes the physician’s ad-
vice, and avoids all danger, under pretence of
nursing his mother, who has never got over
Lady Theodosia’s flight. A plucky young wom-
an that! I laughed till I eried when I heard
of it!”

Marian did not answer. She stood looking
upon the ground with a hopeless, despairing
glance. He threw away his cigar, and spoke in
a different tone directly.

“Now, my dear, let us understand eack
other. Lady Theodosia has run away—Lord
Mountchayne is married—his wife is dying—
you have killed her—the whole neighborhood
is in an uproar, and there is the devil to pay,

enerally. I am going to town to-night. A
fast horse, harnessed toa light trap, waits for
about a mile away. If you like to go with me,
and escape all this mess, you have only to say
the word, and [ will take you with the greatest
pleasure. You need not be afraid to go. I
shall not run away with you for love, but for
interest. And as the sooner you are Mrs. Vere,
the sooner I begin to benefit by your sweet

resence , why, the ring sha)l be on your finger

yy ten o’clock to-morrow morning by the latest,
and then all your troubles about this cursed
place will be atan end! There is my offer—
you are only to give me your answer. A plain
yes or no is ali J ask.”

Alas, poor Marian! Like Cain, a mark was
set upon her, and she must be a wanderer and
an exiie upon the face of the earth for ever.
The past was dark and stormy; the future
looked darker and stormier still, yet she did
not hesitate long. With a heavy sigh, she
turned to Philip Vere.

“T will go with you,” she said.

He bent down and kissed her cheek. Then
placing her cold hand upon his arm, he led her
silently away.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

. “He takes the haud I give not, nor withhold—
Its pulse nor checked —nor quickened—calmly cold ,
And when resigned, it drops a lifeless weight
From one I never loved enough to hate.
No warmth these lips return by his imprest,
And chilled remembrance shudders o’er the rest.
Yes—had I ever proved that passion’s geal,
The change to hatred were at least to feel:
But stili he goes unmourned—returns unsought—
And oft when prasent, absent from my thought,
Or when reflection comes—and come it must—
I fear that henceforth ’twill but bring disgust ;
I am his slave—but, in despite of pride, i
*Twere worse than bondage to become his bride.” |
—Braor, —
It seemed to Marian, in her excited state, that
that walk of a quarter of a mile lasted for ages.
They reached the place at last. A horse and

 

“ Certainly I did.” ;
“It is as I thought,” she said, bitterly. |
* You tempted me to commit this crime; and
now that it is committed, you taunt me with
the very thing that would have saved me, had
{ known it in time.”
“Bah! you have been reading novels!” said —

 

Mr. Vere, with a slight smile. “There is al- |

gig were in readiness there, and a sharp-looking
man-servant was in attendance. He came for-
ward, and touched his hat when he saw his mas-
ter, but never glanced toward Marian, who stood
a jittle apart, pale, grave, and silent.

“ All right, Simmonds?” asked Mr. Vere.

“ All right, Sir.”

“ No one knows that I have Jeft the camp ?””

 

 
THE

 

“ Not as yet, Sir.” >

‘“* A precious row there will be when it is found
out, or [am mutch mistaken!” he muttered, with
a smile.

Then, turning to Marian with an air of the
greatest deference, he offered her his hand.

“Shall I help you in?”

“No, thank you,”

And she seated herself in the trap, without his
assistance.

“Please yourself, my dear, and you will al-
ways please me!” he answered, gravely, seating
himself beside her. “Now, Simmonds, give us
the reins, and mind you come up by the next
train ; for I shall want you as a witness.”

“T will take care to be there. Good night,

Se 7?

“Good night. Give her her head!”

The servant stepped aside, and they whirled
away. The horse was a strong black cob, who,
without any preliminary flourishes or capers,
laid back his ears, put down his head, and set
about doing his work in good earnest.

“ A good one to go—worth his weight in gold,
every bit of it,” said Mr. Vere, approvingly.
“ Are you a judge of horses, my dear ?”

eNOS”

“ But you like them, I hope?”

“Yeu

“That is right. If you only have a tender
feeling for the delightful animals, the rest is easy
enough to learn, and I shall have you fit to pass
an examination as a member of the turf in a lit-
tle while.”

She did not answer.

“Do you object to smoking ?” he asked, after
& moment’s silence. ‘‘ Have [ your permission
to light a cigar ?”

s Ybs,””

He availed himself\of it, struck a light, and
was soon puffing vigorously away. A horrible
inclination to laugh seized upon Marian, to which
she could not help yielding. Was ever such an
elopement heard of before ?”

The same thought seemed to strike Mr. Vere.
He took his cigar from his lips, and gave a quiet
little chuckle.

“ For two lovers, who are running away with
each other in thig most romantic fashion, it
strikes me that we are remarkably discreet,” he
observed.

“Very.”

“‘ What can be the reason of our good behav-
ior, I wonder?”

“TI can't say.”

“Tt is a lovely night. I begin to feel quite
poetical, I wonder, if I pct my arm around your
waist, what effect it would have!”

He tried the experiment as he spoke. He
might as well have embraced a log of wood.

“Humph! Is there no feeling in you?”

“ Not for you.”

The words escaped from her lips before she
thought what she was going to say; nor was she

sorry the next moment thatshe had uttered them.
After all, what did it matter if he knew she
hated him? One day he must Jearn it—as well
now as then!

He did not seem particularly grieved by the
blunder she had made. He was silent for & mo-
ment or two, then he began to laugh.

“ Well, no one ever knows what may happen
to him before he dies. I never expected to go
and get married in this fashion; but I suppose
it is all the same in the long run.”

And he began to sing :

“**Oh, who will o’er the downs so free,
Oh, who will with me ride?
Oh, who will up and follow me,
To win a biooming bride ?”
Your case and hers are not precisely alike, b
the way,” he remarked. “The lady in the bal-
lad could not have run away with 80 little fuss
and trouble as you have done:
“* Her father he bas locked the door,
Her mother keeps the key ;
But neither bolts nor bars shall hide
. My owy true love from me !’?

He really sang very well ; but Marian scarce-
ly seemed to listen to his song.

“A very enthusiastic young gentleman, that,
Tshould say. If he had lived to my ange, he
would have found out that it really makes very
little difference whether you marry a grandmo-
ther or her grand-daughter, except for the look
of the thing. Are you cold, my dear ?” ca

“Not at all.”

“Because I have an extra eoat at your serv-
ice, if you wish for it,”

“No, thank you.”

“A penny for your thoughts, Marian.”

“They ate not worth it.”

“None of the pleasantest, I suppose ?”

« No.”

 

“ Well, never mind. Everything comes to an
end in this world—that is the best thing one ean
say ofit. And there are the station-lights be-
fore us. Look as much like Mrs, Vere as you
possibly can, will you, my love?”

If to look like Mrs, Vere was to present an aa-

ect of the most woebegone kind, she eertainly
obeyed him well. The station-master stared at
her inquisitively, as she alighted from the trap,
and allowed Mr. Vere to escort her into the la-
dies’ room. He knew her well, and fancied that
something strange must have happened to ac
count for her appearance there at such an hour
and in such company. But it was not his busi-
ness to ask questions; andso he held his tongve
wd did not go near the room, where she sat,
miserable and fearful, hoping against hone, that
something migh still happen that would pre-
vent the catastrophe which loomed blackly close
at hand.

Nothing happened. Nothing ever does hap-
en in those awful hours when a human soul
ange trembling in the balance between good and

evil

The train came, punctual to a minute. Mar-
ian was handed to a carriage by her attentive
escort, and they were soon on their way to Lon-
don. There was no escape for her now—she
must go on, no matter what horrors were before
her!

With a slight apology for his rudeness, Mr.
Vere composed himself in his corner, and went

lacidly to sleep. She sat by the other window,
foukiag out at the black night through which
they were whirling on. It was a fit type of the
life she was doomed to live with him.

I suppose every man or woman is nervous on
the night before their marriage. It is such a
breaking up of old ties, which are certain, for
new ones, which look, to say the least of it, ex-
ceedingly doubtful and precarious just at that
moment—that the lightest heart and giddiest
head must bow beneath the weight of thought,
and wonder vaguely what awaits them in the new
existence cpon which they are to enter.

Mr. Vere, as we have seen, slept placidly, in
spite of the approaching change. But he was
different from his fellows, in that he had no feel-
ing of any kind. He would have gone to be
hung with the same composure with which he
went tv be married; and would have looked up-
on the one act much as he looked upon the other
—as a thing which was to be, and which no weak
ssreples or misgivings of his own could alter.

But poor Marian, with her heart full of love
for Lord Mountchayne—of remorse for Rose, and
of abkorrence for himself—was really to be pit-
ied. The wildest thoughts shot through her
brain, as ehe sat watching him. What if she
sprung upon him as he slept, twisted that slight
handkerchief tightly round his throat, and hurl-
ed him from the window, or the door? Who
would know that it had not been an accident?
She smiled at her own madness for the next few
moments, and then she sighed. I[¢ was a horri-
ble dream, from which she vainly strove to
rouse herself. She must go on, and dream it
through to the end; which might—nay, which
must be, misery, and infamy, and shame! So
much the better, if that end came very speed-
ily!

“On, through the silent night, they sped. At
last the gray dawn broke, and showed the roofs
of city houses. They glided on more slowly ;
then the train began to jerk from side to side,
and Mr. Vere opened his eyes.

“1 thought I knew tliose confounded eurves |”
he exclaimed, aa they glided softly into e large
station, roofed overhead. ‘‘My dear Marian, §
beg # thousand pardons for having slept all the
wayup. But I shall bt wide awake enough now,
for here we are in London{”

CHAPTER XXIX,

“There is a war, a chaos of the mind,
When all its elements convulsed—combined—
Lie dark and jarring with perturbéd force,
And gnashing with impenitent remorse ;
That juggling flend—who never spake before
But cries, ‘I warned thee !’ when the deed is o’er.
Vain voice! the spirit burning, but unbent,
May writhe—rebei—the weak alone repent !
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,
And, to itself, all—all that self reveals,
No single passion, and no ruling thought
Tr «¢ leaves the rest at once unseen, unsought;
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews—
Ali rushing through their thousand avenues—
Ambition’s dreams expiring, love’s regret,
Endangered glory, life itself beset ;
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate
’Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate 3
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven,”

—Brrom.

They entered Mr. Vere’s lodgings through

an infinity of streets, stopping at last before a

 

 

 

VORREOIOREI DOWNES. ss

 

| harge and imposing looking house in one of the

western squares. It was some time before they
could obtain admittance; but at last a sleepy
servant-girl opened the door, rubbing her eyes,
wnd looking grievously injured at having had to
leave her bed. Her look of inquiry, however,
changed to one of open-mouthed astonishment
when she saw who had summoned her.

“Lor’, Mr. Vere!” she exclaimed, staring at
Marian, “ whateyer will the Missis say?”

“Go tell her 1 am here, there’s a good girl,”
said Mr. Vere, rather nervously. “ Ask her to
ee up, and come down to my room. Here,
cab!”

He threw the man half-a-crown, and offered
his hand to Marian, who stood on the stepa,
looking down the street with the strangest ex-
pression upon her face. She was debating in
her own mind whether it would not be better to
dash down that silent square, claim the protee-
tion of some friendly policeman, and so get free
for ever from this accursed slavery, that was
already beginning to eat to her very heart!
But she had no money. The thought came just
in time, and she followed Mr. Vere up the stairs
with a heavy sigh.

Ah me! that want of money, I have known
some of the finest schemes in the world utterly
blasted by the want of two pounds ten! And
here the jack of that same paltry sum foreed
Marian into a line of conduct which her very
soul abhorred !

The room into which she was ushered by Mr.
Vere did nut remove the dislike to the place
which bad taken root in her mind. It wasa
long, high apartment, with carved ceilings and
cornices, the showiest of furniture, and abund-
ance of gilding, wherever it was possible for it
to offend the eye. There was a gilded mirror
over the fireplace, and a gilded elock beneath
it; gilded pictures upon the walls, gilded rods
to the curtains, gibled backs to the chairs, and
gilded claws to the sofas. There were three or
four tables covered with knicknacks scattered up
and down the room, and as many easy-chairs be-
side them. There were three sofas, and a gild-
ed guitar, that repesed on its back in one cor-
ner, Great staring windows looked out upon
the street; a dirty ornament of cut paper filled
the grate. The dust had settled thickly on every-
thing, and the London blacks were fl ying all
about. It was all dreary, comfortless, and wretch-
ed, and far more like a private saloon at a flashy
music hall, than a quiet, respectable apartment,
which was to form the centre of a happy home.

Marian walked up and down the room, feel
ing strongly tempted to knock her head against
the wall, and so make an end of it. Mr. Vere
stuod upon the hearth rug with his handselasped
behind him, watching her with a sardonic smile.

E flow do you like your new home, Marian ?”

“ This place ?” she asked.

OY ea.”

“T never was in such a horrible room in my
life before.”

“How very odd! Most people admire the
apartments exceedingly ; onal ean tell you this
—they amount up toa pretty sum in the course
ofa year. Four guineas a week I pay for this
room, the dining-room, and the chamber over-
head.”

“If you paid me four guineas a week, I would
not live here!” said Marian, quickly.

“Why not, my love?”

* Do you suppose any one born and brought
up in the country could live in this stifling air?
Or that any one with the least love of neatuess
in their nature could endure this?” and she
traced a line upon the dirty table with the point
of her finger.

“Oh, that can soon be remedied! My land-
lady did not know I was coming.”

“That is no excuse for her. No woman, with
any respect for herself or her house, would let
it get into such a state.”

.“ Don’t be hard upon the poor soul. She will
be a great friend to you.”

“She need not take the trouble; I know I
shall hate her.”

Mr. Vere smiled serenely.

“You are a little perverse, my love. You
are tired with your journey, perhaps, and you
want your breakfast. SodoI. And as I hear
my landlady on the stairs, { will just step out,
and see what she can get for us.”

He suited the action to the word; and the
next instaut Marian heard a shrill “ Mon Dicu,
Mr. Philip, Tam so glad!” followed by a quick
“Hush!” and a whispered colloquy between
the two. It lasted a long while, and in the
meantime ¢he eat upon the sofa with fishing
eyes and burniug cuccas. Ou, how crushed,

how humiliated she felt just at that momenti

 
 

    

 

32

 

_THE PRI

 

7
DE OF THE DOWNES.

 

 

 

These horrible rooms, that disagreable man, and |“ Well, now, to end your suspense, I will tell | She was on the point of throwing open the

now this dreadful woman-—it was almost too
much to bear!

The door was thrown open, and Mr. Vere en-

tered, followed by the mistress of the house.

“ Here, mv love, is Madame Angelo,” he said.
“She will take care of you till it is time to go
to the clergyman.”

Marian raised her eyes. A stout, bold look-
ing woman of forty, wearing a filse frent and
rouge, even at that early hour, stood before her,
simpering and bowing, with her hands clasped
upon her heart. One look was quite enough
for the girl. She hated her, just as she said she
should do.

“Dear me, Miss, this is a pleasure!’ she
said, in a soft, wheedling voice. “I never
thought Mr. Vere would marry, and I am so
proud to think he has brought his bride to my
house the first thing! Shall I show you up-
stairs, Miss? You must be very tired !”

“ Yes,” said Marian, glad toeseape ; “Ishould
like to lie down a little while.”

“ And while you are resting my love, I will
see to your breakfast, and make all things ready
for the ceremeny,”’ said Mr. Vere.

She did not answer him, but followed the
woman up-stairs. Sie threw open the door of
a large bedroom, handsomeiy furnished, yet
wearing the same lowk of tawdry discomfort
which characterized the apartments down stairs,
aud bowed to Marian, with a significant smile.

“Mr. Vere’s own room, Miss. You will be
perfectly quiet here.”

“Is there no other?”

“No, Miss; we have other lodgers, and the
house is quite full. But no one will come here,
and you can lock the door, and be as quiet as a
mouse till breakfast is ready.”

“That will do, then.”

The woman withdrew, and Marian turned the
key in the lock with a little unnecessary em-
phasis.

“His room!” she said, with a shudder of dis-
gust; “and mine in future! Oh, how [ hate it
already !”

The mantelpiece was littered over with letters
and cards. She glanced at them with a con-
tem ptuous smile—jooked at the Venus Reposing
and the Diana Surprised, and some other eu-
gravings in the same style, which hung upon the
walls, and then sat down with an impatient groan
in achair before the toilet-table, and glaneed
at herself in the glass. How pale and ugly, and,
above all, how melancholy and despaizing she
looked! Well she might—well she might!
And with another groan, she dropped her head
upon her folded arms, and closed ier eyes. Ut-
terly exhausted in mind and bedy ag she waa,
five minutes had scarcely passed before she was
sound asleep. :

She was roused from her uneasy slumber by
the sound of voices in the next room. They
were low and cautious, but the walls were thin,
and she could not help hearing every word. It
was Madame Angelo who was speaking.

“ Well, live and learn,” she said, with a low
Igugh. “ Bat I should never have dreamed
that you, of an men on earth, would have gone
and done such a thing.” :

“No man knows what may happen to him
before he dies ” was the reply. Marian recog-
nized the voice—it was that of Mr. Vere.
“ When I said I would die a bachelor, i never
thought ta live to be married ; but, for ali that,
he:e is my — ;

® And your lovely bride,” sneered his com-
panion. ie

“ And my lovely bride, exactly. With your
usual penetration, you have discovered that she
is beautiful and bewitching.”

The woman laughed. .

“¥ believe you would go to the seaffold with
a joke on your lips, Philip.”

“ Well, why not? \

“Come now, tell me what all this means?”
she said, in @ caressing tone. “I know that
there is something behind the scenes. What is
it?” ;

“ My love for the beautiful and accomplished
ereature whom I soon hope to cali my wife,”
was his grave reply. :

“ Fiddle-de-deo?. Now, honor bright, Phil,
what is it?”

“JT have spoken. I can say no more.”

“TIssherich?” |

“ What do you think ebout it?”

“She don’t look like it.”

“Why not?” , ; Se ee

“Jn the first place, she is dressed shabbily.”

“ Remember that she ran away with me at &
paoment’s notice, right out of a wood.”

“ She looks as if she had.”

| you a secret, Poily. She is rich!”

| Very rich ?”

Marian bent forward eagerly, to listen for his
| gnewer.

“A great heiress, my dear !”

“ Does she know it ?” :

‘Yes, ina measure. But she does not know |
how to get at her property, or where it lies. I
keep the key ; and my lady must come to me
for any information she may want on that point.
Don’t you understand ?”

“ Oh, you are a deep one, Phil!”

“Slightly, I flatter myself.”

“And when will you touch the yellow
boys ?”

Again Marian listened breathlessly.

“ Not just at present. It is not. a straightfor-
ward up and down kind of a thing. f can’t
walk up to the estate, and take possession in her
aeme without any previous bother. I wish J
eould. ut tt all depends on her, and she ia ag
obstinate as a little mule just at present. I must
get her well in hand before I tell her what I
want her to do.”

“She looks as if she had got a spirit of her
own,” remarked the woman.

“That she has.”

“And I don’t think she took any great fancy
to me.”

“Perhaps not,” said Vere, laughing. “ At
all events, she would not if she knew ali that I
know about you.”

“ tg she jealous ?”

“T cannot teil yet.”

“She hates you, Phil, as bad as she hates
me.”

“Do you think so?”

“jt is plain enough to be seen. She shows
it in her face every time she looks at ycu.”

“ Ah! wait till she is my wife, and I’ll learn
her to sing another song. You know, some
people think it quite as well to begin with a lit-
tle aversion.”

“ Well, you have got more than a little in this
case. I wonder why she consented to run away
with you?”

« Ah, that is her secret; and it is not fair to
tell tales out of school, my pretty Polly. It
was well for me that there were a hundred rea-
sons for her coming. If they had only been
Sais dot I do believe she would have stay-
e ”

“Well, I suppose you know best. But if I
was a man, I wouldn’t marry a woman who did
not care for me—no, not if she was hung all
over with diamonds.”

“Oh, you put your feelings into the ques-
tion !””

“ And you have none ?”

“Well, I don’t quite say that,” he answered,
with a laugh. “ But when E see a prize within
my grasp, I don’t stop to bother myself with
asking whether it objects to me as its owner or
not. Yonder plain little girl is my stepping-
stone to wealth, and ease, and luxury; and do
you think I will hesitate to place my foot he
her, simply because she objects to it? You
ought to know me better.”

“ { don’t doubt that you will put your foot on
her, if that is all, my dear Phil,” replied the
woman. ‘And after all, I am glad you don’t
care much for her. I should be awfully jealous
if she was handsome, or if she seemed to cnre
more for you. I can tell you that, Sir!”

““Would you, Polly?” replied Vere, in a
kinder tone than he had ever used to Marian.

* You know I would, Phil.”

“Upon my word, { think sometimes you
really do care for me!”

«“Duink! Don’t you know it? Have ¥ not
given you proof enough of it? Ab, Philip!
you may go as far as you like, and love as many |
as you choose, and you won’t find one among
them all that will be a truer friend than I have
been to you.” ie,

“Perhaps not, Polly. In spite of all your
little fancies for one and another, I think you
are pretty true at heart to me.”

“Oh, I have a weakness for handsome men.
I can’t deny that,” said the woman, with an un-
pleasant laugh. “And when you are tearing
all over the country in search of some pretty
gipsy girl, or an heiress in a wood, or something |
of that kind, you ¢an’t expect me to stay here
twirling my ‘thumbs all day long alone—can

ou?” |
ac" No, no!” said Mr. Vere; end Marian's
eheek burnt hotly. To this woman, who was
quite as bad as himself, he had introduced her.
his future wife. This woman was to be one of
the witnesses of her marriage! No,never! She
would sooner die than submit to such an insult!

 

 

door, and annoucing her determination, when

‘the sound of Mr. Vere’s voice arrested her

movement.

“Speaking of gipsies, Poll,” he said, in a
hesi(ating way, “I must tell you that I have
met Cara again.” f

“ Good gracious! What did she say to you?
Did she try to tear your eyes out ?” i

“Ob no. <A very few words satisfied her.
I told her that I had been to Australia, and the
silly little goose believed me. In five minutes
she had forgiven me, and taken me to the camp.
I have lived there ever since I went out of
town.”

“Bless us ond save us! what next? To
think of you living in a tent, and eating out of
a black kettle, cheek by jowl with those great
hulking men!”

“Gh, I always took good care to give them a
wide berth, and to get Cara cn one side, and
the next prettiest girl in the camp on the other.
They have not a bad notion of cooking, I as-
sure you ; and life in a tent, with a beautiful
dark-eyed girl for your bride, is not so unpleas-
ant as you would imagine.”

“Weill, what was it all for?”

“ You remember Miss Moyell ?”

“Fe!he! I should think so—haughty, proud
ainx! She looked at me that day her party
stopped at the door to leave concert-tickets for

ou, asif Ihad been dirt at herfeet. How glad

was when you served her out !”

“And you were revengei at the same time,
since you went with me to France in her place.
Well, as women sometimes have a knack of re-
membeéxing such little kindnesses, I thougl she
might make the place tco hot to hold me, if
she knew I was there. So E took refuge with
my pretty Cara, and disguised myself as a
gipey woman half the time I actually met
Miss Moyell, and gave hersuch a shock, while
I was in my petticoats.”

«¢ Did she know you?”

““ No.” “ ‘ :

“But what were you after in that absurd
dress ?

“The little thing in the next room.”

“ Did she live there, too?”

“ She is Miss Moyell’s cousin.”

“The dickens! And the real owner of the
property ?”

“No, nothing half so romantic asthat. How-
ever, I will tell you all about that another time.
I have something to say about the gipsy lassie

”
me Yes.”

“ She does not know where I have gone.”

‘What! you have given her the slip a second
time ?”

“Yes; but she is as cunning as the very
deuce ; and she is older now than she was be-
fore. It is just possible that she may mistrust
something, get on my track, and follow me.”

“Whata lark that would be!”

“For you, perhaps ; but I should not see the
fun of the thing at all. No, if by any infernal
chance she should turn up here, will you get
her quietly out of the way ?”

“ Where to ?”

“She must be mad, vou know, or she would
never follow me about the country so.”

“T understand. But where could I find a

lace ?” '

“ Simmonds knows. I had a little talk with
him before I left the camp, and he will take
gare of her for you. Only let him know at
once if she comes, She may not make her ap-
pearance; but a gipsy on a track is very
much like a dog—he will follow you, if it is
only by the track of your footsteps; and if be

| finds you, your life is not long worth the hav-

ing, provided he had received any injury at
your hands.”

“ All right, my dear Phil! I'll take eare that
the young lady does not spoil your beauty, if
by any chance she comes.”

“What a friend you are tome, Polly! Whea
I come into my fortune, depend upon jt, I will
not forget yout.”

“Don’t, Phil. I want you to remember me
in more ways than one,” she answered, with a
light laugh.

“T shail, be sure to do that, my love. Do you
know, I think you grow handsomer every day

_ of your life.”

“ old your tongue, Phil, and let me go and
see about the breakfast.”

“Hark! What is that?”

Tie might well ask, A tremendous knoe%
came at the street door. and the moment it wag
opened there was a curivas confusion i ie lui
below.

 

 
 

==

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

“You mustn’t go flying up stairs in that | little thing that youare! but nowI think I shall

way,” said the servant, apparently struggling | punish you by a week of silence.”

with some one. “ Missus isn't at home to any-
tody.”

“ And Mr. Vere is not here—I assure you he
js not!” said another voice, which Marian, as
well as her neighbors, recognized as that of
Simmonds.

“Keep me at your peril!” was the repiy-
“Tle is Bos, I know it ; and I shall see him
before I leave the house.”

“Ten thousand devils!” cried Vere, sinking
into a chair; “it is Cara !””

“ You don’t mean it!” said his companion.

“JT do. And she will wake Marian in the
aext, room with her cursed howling! What
shall I do? Howcan we stop her mouth? I
wish Simmonds would knock her silly brains
out, and have done with it!”

“Bah! You are like all other men. The
minute a danger appears, you turn chicken-
heart-d, and don’t know bow to face it. I'll
get you out of the serape, as I have got you out
of many a. one before this.”

She unlocked the door, and went half way
down the stairs. Marian could not see what
passed —lut at least she could hear; and with-
put any compunetion she established herself in
an easy-chair that stood against the wall, and
leaned her hand against the paper. She heard
Vere groan, and then swear. But the tumult in
the hall was still again, and Madame Angelo
ras saying in a mild tone—

a What does the young woman want?” _

“O madam!” eried the poor gipsy, spring-
ing forward ; “I want to see Mr. Vere! I know
he is in this house! Oh, don’t refuse to take
me to him!”

“ Of course I will not, my child,” was the
quiet reply; and the girl burst into tears.
“ But first tell me your name?”

Car tamcenn”” ;

“Cara Vere!” said the woman, with an ac-
gent of the most profound respect. ‘‘ You see,
[know all! Mr. Vere was just this moment
talking to me about you!”

“Oh, let me see him!”

‘Come with me, my love!”

She led her up the stairs, and threw open the
door of the little sitting-room which she had
just left.

“Here, Mr. Vere,” she said, playfully ; “ your
poor little friend has come to find you, littie
thinking that it is on her account that you have
come to town !”

At this moment Marian discovered that the
wall against which she leaned was but a papered
partition. The two rvoms had onea been one;
and beneath her searehing hand gaped a wide
crevice in the shrunken planks, from which she
speedily tore the paper, thus forming an aper
ture to which she could place her eye. She
looked eagerly into the next room ; and saw, as
she had half expected, the gipsy girl who had
tome to summon her from the Pleasaunce to
Downe Reserve. Mr. Vere came forward to
meet her with a most natural look of astonish.
ment and alarm.

“My dear Cara, is anything the matter!
What can have brought you here?”

The girl was sobbing so that she could
searcely speak. The wild suspicions with
which she fad followed on his track were evi-
ped allayed, and she scarcely dared to meet

is eye.

“O Philip, don’t be angry!” she said at last.

“Angry for what?”

“ Because I followed you!”

“But why did you do so, my pretty one?”

“JT thought—I feared—you had left me
again!’ she stammered ; and Mr. Vere turned
from her with a frown.

“TIave you no morse faith in me than that
Cara? Then, indeed. we had better part!”

““O no, Philip, do: ‘ say that!” cried the
girl, flinging herself :: her knees before him,
“ Forgive me this once. and I will never offend
you again, Igaw you steal away last evening,
and when you did not return I could not rest,
[ went to the station, and found that you had
gone. I followed you alone, and when I got to
London, the porter remembered your cab, and
the driver told me where he had put you down.
{ came ut once; my heart was full of doubt, but
tow it is at rest again. Only say that you for-

give me, and Iwill go back to the camp thia |

very day, and wait for your return,”

“That will be your best plan, my love,” he
said, catching eagerly at her proposition. ‘1
came upon some law business, which will de-
tain me for several days, and I only stole awiy to
save myself and you the pain of parting. 1
should ‘have written to you to-day, naughty

 

“Oh no, Philip, you will not be so cruel,”
eried the girl, throwing her arma around his
neck ; “I will go nome to-day, and you shall
write to me to-morrow. Will your”

“Yes, my love; and now let me take you
down stairs, and give you some refreshment. 1
am obliged to go out for a few minutes, but I
will see you again before you set out for
Downe.”

Cara went away quietl
gelo. She was happy an
and Philip was true.
know.

Left. alone, Mr, Vere broke into a little low
laugh.

‘«‘ By heaven, what an escape! And if Marian
had been startled by that young monkey, what
a precious kettle of fish I should have made oi
it! There would have been nothing left for me
but the back woods of America, or the gold
mines of Australia, then,”

with Madame An-
beloved once more,
That was all she cared to

 

CHAPTER XXX.
AT THE ALTAR.

“ Deeds, thougnts, and words, perhaps remembered not
So keenly till that hour, but ne’er forgot ;
Things light or lovely in their acted time,
But now to stern reflection each acrime;
The withering sense of evil unrevealed,
Not cankering less because the more concealed—
Allin a word, from which all eyes must start,
That open sepulchre, the naked heart,
Bears with its buried woes, till Pride arvake,
To snatch the mirror from the soul—and brea¥
Ay—Pride can vail, and Courage brave it all,
Ah—all—before—beyoud—the deadliest fall.”

—Byrron.

Little did he think that Marian—close beside
him—was |watching every movement, listening
to every word that he had said. When he had
gone down stairs, she rose from her seat, pushed
her chair away from the wall, and stood for a
moment c> two in the middle of the room,
thinking deeply.

“T have seen this man now at his worst,” she
said to herself. ‘‘ He could not be more false,
and treacherous, and mean, than he has shown
himself now. I hated him before; but, now, I
look upon him with terror. Why God permits
such creatures to soil the face of this fair earth,
I cannot tell!

“ Now, since the vail has been lifted shall I

0 on?

“Shall I marry this man, whose crimes, if he
was judged justly, ought to earn him a gibbet ?

“ Why not?

“He has. the secret which I want to know.
Some one else may have it, too; but Ido not
snow where to look for them ; and I must work
with the instruments that are placed in my
ands.

“ Through this wretch I can gain wealth, ease,
and luxury,” as he phrased it.

Without him, Iam poor, friendless, and de-
spised ?

“ He will not sell me this secret. I knowhim
too well for that His price is the plain gold
ring, and all the rights and privileges that nar-
cow circlet of yellow dross embraces!

“ Well, be it so! He shall be my husband
—he shall share my dignity, my wealth, and
my home! Beyond that, let him attempt to go
if he dares!”

She smiled as she spoke the last words aloud.
[It would have been about as safe to trifle with
* young tigress as with her just then.

She went to the toilet-stand, bathed her face
and hands, and arranged her hair carefully.
She did not look much like a bride, with her
high blue muslin dress and plain little collar;
but she cared little for that. She shook the
dust out of her hat and mantle, and put them
neatly on. Then drawing on her gloves, she
sat down in the chair and waited.

By-and-ty, a tap came at the door. She
opened it. Madame Angelo stood there, with
asmall tray in her hands, containing a cup of
coffee and a plate of toast.

“Oh dear! If you have not slept and@
dressed already!” she said, looking greatly sur-
prise “J was coming up to help you, J

ope nothing disturbed your rest?” she added,
in an anxious tone.

“Nothing !” replied Marian, quietly. «« What
should disturb me ?”

“Very true; only I thought the noise of the
street might break your rest.”

“ No yr

“ That is so nice! Will you take this cup of
coffee? Mr. Vere poured it out with his own
hands for you.”

33

“Tle is very kind. Where is he?”

“Down stairs, taking his breakfast.”

“ With Cara, the gipsy, I suppose?” thought
Marian to herself, but she said nothing, but
| drank her coffee in silence, while Madame An-
gelo fidgeted about the room.

“One little morsel of toast?” she begged,
but Marian shook her head,

“Just to oblige me, my dear?”

“T cannot eat.”

“Al! You feel a little nervous, 1 suppose.
Well, itis no wonder! But there is one ¢om-
fort, the ceremony will be strictly private.
There will be no one ataring at. you in che
ehureh !””

“Is it far away ?”

“In the city, my dear. A old college-friend
of Mr. Vere’s is to marry you, and you will
have the breakfast bere. i} servants are get-
ting things ready down below now. And when
you come back, I shall drive down Regent
street, and buy you such a hos¢ of things! Mr
Vere would not wait, or I would have got you
such a beautiful wedding-dress |”

“T prefer this,” said Marian, looking down at
her plain muslin with a smile.

‘Well, I will go and get ready, if you are
sure you Will have nothing more.”

“ No more.”

Madame Angelo bustled away. In a few
minutes, a cab drove up to the house. Marian
peeped over the blind, and saw Simmonda
handing the gipsy-girl to her seat, with a pro-
found bow.

“Tt is good to be off with the old love before
you are on with the new!” thought Marian,
laughing as she watched them drive away,
ler heart was very hard just then. She felt at
war with all the world, and poor Cara’s sor-
rows were as nothing in comparison to her
own. She would not turn a step aside from her
chosen path though a hundred like her were
groveling at her feet.

Half an hour passed away, and then Mr. Vere
knocked at the door.

“My love, the carriage waits.” he sail,
blandly.

Marian came out, and took hisarm. She dif

not speak, but let him lead her down the stairs,
and put her into the carriage, without a sign

of disapproval. Madame Angelo placed ber-
self by Marian’s side; Mr. Vere sat opposite
them. Simmonds mounted the box, and they

drove away.

“We are to be married by special license,
my love; and an old friend of mine has kindly
consented to perform the ceremony,” said Mr.
Vere. Marian bent her head, but did not epeak,
She looked as if it was all a matter of indifference
to her, Madame Angelo smiled, and Mr. Vere
threw himself back in his corner and bit his
lip savagely. She could not have insulted him
more than by showing so plainly that she bated
and despised him, in the presence of a woman
whom he had already wooed and won, and de-
seried.

The clergyman was the same young man
who hal performed a mock ceremony between
Mr. Vere and the gipsy-girk He had taken
orders now, so that the marriage would be
quite Jegal. In spite of his long acquaintance
with Vere, he could not help staring with won-
der at the figure the young heiress cut when
she presented herself before the altar. So
plain, so pennants dressed, so gad, and looking
with such scornful eyes upon Vere and his com-
panion, and upon himself! What could it all
mean? He grew more and more nervous as
she watched him, Her lightning-glance made
him feel what he had never feit. before—that lie
was indeed unfit to deal with boly or sacred
things, and that by thus acting in his enered
profession he was committing the worst of
crimes, He bungled through the ceremony in
@ nervous, absent manner, that irritated Philip
Vere, and made him wonder mentally what was
the matter.

Mr. Vere made his own reaponses audibly
and clearly, Marian would not epeak for a mo-
ment; then she uttered the solemn words go
strangely that the clergyman shuddered. In
stead of a troth-plight, they sounded to hia
like a denunciation and a curse.

At last it was over; ts ring waa on, the
naines were sigzcd, and Marian wasa wife. Mr.
Vere led her to the carriage with an exulting
_ smile. His fortune was safe! He turned tv
| his friend, with his foot on the step

“Come up and take gome breakfast?” be
' said, in a friendly tone,

But the young man glanced at Marian, and
bowed his refusal; eo they returned as they

 

‘eame, only that now Marian M- yell ocerpied
  
 

t
'
1
:

 

side. ey
CHAPTER XXXI.
MATRIMONIAL BLISS.

The breakfast passed off stupidly enough:
No one except Madame Angelo seemed to have
the slightest appetite, but she ate and drank
with the greatest good-humor, and prattled
sheerfully all the while to her solemn-looking
companions. Mr. Vere said little, ate nothing,
bat drank a great deal. As for Marian, she sat
volt upright in her place, and was by no means
an enlivening spectacle to contemplate.

At Jast the dreary farce was over, and the
rose from the table. Mr. Vere turned to his
bride with a forced sm.Je, and said :

“ We shall have no honeymoon tour just at
present, my love. In a week or two, we may
be able to manage a trip to the Lakes, if you
would like it.”

“Thank you,” said Marian. “It really mat-
ters very little to me where I go or what [ do.”

“Flattering, upon my word! However, one
can’t still a woman’s ton,ue, so I must even
listen and bear it the best way possible. Now
for our plans to day. What do you intend to
do”

“Nothing,” she answer d, looking out of the
window, with a dreary sigh.

“ Well, for my part, I have a little business to
look after in the city ; and as Madame Angelo
has to go out to purchase some things for you,
I will crop her on my way. I shall be back by
three o’clock at the latest; and then, if you like
to visit avy of the lions, I shall be happy to ac-
company you.”

“Thank you, I prefer staying here,” was the
cold reply ; and after fidgeting about for a min-
ute or two, she left the room, and went up stairs,
without a word of farewell.

Mr Vere looked blankly at Madame Angelc.
who was smiling bebind her handkerchief, in
evident enjoyment of the scene.

“Did you ever see anything like that?”

““ Never!”

“What is to be done with her?”

“Tm sure I eannot say. I think, for once,
my dear Phil, you have met with your match.”

“ Ourse her! V’ll break her spirit yet, or I'll
break her neck!” he muttered, savagely. “It
will not be the first time I have tamed a haugh-
ty nature. Cara’s was quite as proud when I
first knew her, and see how humble she is now!”

“Yes,” said Madame Angelo, softly, “ but you
forget one thing!”

“ What is that?”

“ Cara loved you!”

“ Well?”

“And a woman will often obey the man she
loves, when she would rebel hotly against an-
other’s rule. Now, this fair wife of yours is far
from loving you. Hatred looks out at you at
every glance of her eye. It is to be hoped you
will gain some very solid advantages from this
marriage, my dear Phil; but as for anything so
unsubstantial as happiness, don’t look for it.”

“Well!” said Mr. Vere, with a slight smile.
“Tf she don’t love me, I know of others that
will. So, come along, Polly, and I'll drop yeu
in Regent street, where you can buy some fur-
belows for my lady. Whokuows? Tiey may
put her into positive good-humor with me!”

“Don’t believe it, my dear. She is one of
thase monsters—a woman who does not care for
dress. You can never win her heart with silk
dresses, and bracelets, and coronets, and rings.”

“ At all events. we will make the experiment ;
and if it fails, neither you nor I are to blame.”

Ten minutes afterward, they drove away to-
gether in a cab.

Marian watched them from the chamber-win-
dow. A civil servant-girl, whose round face ex-
pressed both pity and wonder at the strange-
ness of the whole proceeding, and the forlorn
look of the bride, came up to offer her services
as soon as the strect-door had closed behind
them. But Marian would not let her stay. She
was too wretched, too despairing, to let any hu-
man eyé witness the agony she endured. :

“My good girl, I want nothinz,” she said,
kindly. “Only see that I am not disturbed,
and | will try and sleep.”

“Do, Mam; and I will shake up these pil-
lows, and keep the house as stiil as death.”

Marian burst into tears. The servant threw
down the pillows—up went her apron to her eyes
in an instant.

“Lor’, Mum! don’t take on so!” she sobbed.

“Oh, go—leave me!” was all that Marian
could sty.

“Yea, Mum ; but don’t ery—don’t make your-

‘he back seat, and Mr. Vere was at Marian’: |

 

 

self unhappy ; it will all come right in the end
—-see if it don’t, Mum!” said the girl, retreat:

she closed the door.

“ All right in the end!” said Marian, throw-
ing herself upon ber hnees beside the bed. ’“ All
right inthe end! God help me! It is allwrong
now! TI wish that I was dead!” ,

Tow easy it is to se'y thuse words, and to wish
that wish! It takes fur more courage at times
to live than to die! In the one ease, there is a
brief moment of agony, and so far’ as the treu-
bles of this world go, all is at an end. In the
other, day after day, year after year, of weary
effort and unsuccessful toil stretch out in an aw-
ful perspective before the eyes of the tempted
and overburdened wretch, who ponders upon
suicide as the great cure-all for ‘every ill under
the sun. Leaving out of the question the nature
of the next existence into which they so madly
rush, who can wonder that the deed is sometimes
done !

The day passed drearily enough for Marian.
To the gray sunshine of mid-day sueceeded low-
ering clouds, and a heavy fall of rain. It mat-
tered little to her. . The gloomier the scene, the
better it seemed suited to her gloomy thoughts.

At 6 o’clock, the housemaid Bessie came again,
bringing with her a tray nicely. arranged, and
filled with tempting little dishes, which she had
made with her own hands. Marian had eaten
aothing since the previous evening, and she yas
sick with hunger and fatigue. At first, she
thought she could not touch a mouthful; but
Bessie’s persuasions, and the tempting smell of
the viands, were the strongest persuasives, and
by degrees her appetite came back, and she
made a hearty meal. When she had finished,
Bessie took away the tray, and returned in a
few minutes with a note.

““Master’s compliments, Mum, and he hopes
you are better,” she said, demurely.

* Has he returned ?”

“They have just come back, Mum, with two
great boxes for you.”

Marian tore open the note. It ran thus:

“My Lovz :—The servants will bring two boxes to your
room, which I hope you will condescend to open. Accept
their contents, and allow me to see you this evening in
one of the beautiful dresses which Madame Angelo has
been kind enough to select for you. Accept, also, the
purse which you will find in the tray of the largest box.
its contents will be useful should you wish to go shopping.
Ishall wait on you, with your permission, at half-past
7 o’clock, when I hope to find you quite recovered from
your slight indisposition, and ready to talk over matters
seriously with

‘*Your affectionate husband, Pup Very.”

Marian gazed at the signature with a bitter
smile. “ Her affectionate hushand !” “How he
must have’ laughed in his sleeve as he wrote
those words !

She tore the note into strips, threw them into
the empty grate,and turned to Bessie, who stood
looking on wonderingly.

“ My compliments to Mr. Vere. | Tell him T
am much better, and shall be ready to receive
him at the hour he names. And, Bessie, tell
them to bring up the boxes. You may come
with them. Tshall want you to act as my lady’s-
maid for once in a way.”

Bessie was very willing to play her part; and,
descending to the hall, she summoned Sim-
monds, and, with his help, soon deposited the
boxes in Marian’s room. They were strong and
handsome, plentifully studded with brass nails,
and supplied with strong canvas covers, that
suggested long Continental tours the moment
the eye fell upon them.

Marian unlocked the largest. A crimson silk
purse, filled with golden coins, lay conspieuous-
ly upon a pile of snowy linen. Sie put it upon
the table, and proceeded to examine her new
possessions.

They comprised every article of which she
could possibly stand in need. And, in addition
to the clothing, there was a dressing-case of
ebony and gold, 8o small that it could’ be pack-
ed in a moderately-sized carpet-bag, yet con-
taining every article necessary for the toilet.

dhe turned to the seeond box. It'was smaller
than the other, and was fitted up with tray over
tray for the reception of dresses, laces, BE wSAs.
ete. Bessie uttered rapturous exclamations at
the sight, and pounced upon a pink moire an-
tique, which lay on the top, as the dress for the
evening, but Marian put it aside with a smile.

to-night,” she said.
uiet dress for the present, and I ean wear that

pad another time.” ¥.AaoEY :
The quiet dress soon made. its appearance in

the shape of a Vlack silk, trimmed with eight

 

“No; I do not care to take all that trouble.
“We must find a very”

flounces. Mariai pat it on, and with her lace

OF THE DOWNES.

ing, and half-choking herself with her apron, ag

 

 

 

sleeves, and collar, and little knot of blue rib-
bon, looked’so well, that Bessie scireely regret-
ted the pink moire. ae

“Tt is not much like a bride ; but it is very
elegant and nice,” she remarked.

“Te will du,’ Bessie—especially sinee T feel
quite as little as I look like a bride,” replied
Marian. ‘And now you had better go down
stairs with mé, and tell Mr: Vere 1 am ready to
see him.” :

Bessie led the way to the drawing-room, where
the gas had been lighted,’and some attempts
had been made to give ‘the’ apartinent a-festal
appearance: Mr. Veré was’ not there ; but, five
minutes after Bessit’ had’ gone bo see him,
Marian heard a door open below, dud Madame
Angelo’s voice said, laughitighy®

“Good-bye, then, and luck go" with’ you! 1
suppose I shall not see you again to bight?”

“In an livtt’s time you will have me back
again,” réplied Mr. Vere.

Marian’s lip eurled.

“Tt is barely possible that you may get back
sooner than that,” she thought to herself, as she
took up a'book, and’ appeared to’ be absorbed
in its pages when he entered the room.

He made a low bow at the door, and advaneed
toward her with a gait so unsteady that it'in-
stantly betrayed his state. If anything had
been wanting to fill up the measure of her dis-
gust for him, he had added it then. She drop-
ped her book, pushed back her chair, and gazed
at him more as if he had been a disgusting rep-
tile, than a human being and her husband!

“Well; my lovely bride!” he said, ‘with
another profound bow; “ you have eondesceud-
ed to let the light of your countenance shine
upon me at last. I began to think I was
never going to sée you any more. “If any one
ever spent a queerer wedding-day than \I' have,
I should just like them to send°’and tell me so.
However, here you are, and really looking
quite charming, and we will soon make up: for
lost time. I had no idea you were such an ele-
gant Woman—upon my soul I had not! Come,
now, give me one kiss, and say you'll make up
your mind to like me a little.”

He took her hand, and bent down toward her.
His hot breath, redolent of cigars and wine,
came full upon her ¢ g2k. She turned her
head, and snatched awa) uer hand with a look
of abhorrence that did not eseape him.

“ What, on the high horse yet 2?” he’ exclaim-
ed, witha laugh.

“Don’t come near melt
she cried, emphatically.

“ Well, that is a good one! Hspécially wnen
you come to reniember that you married me of
your own free will at ten o’clock this morning.
Come, give mi a Naeen a good girl, and let
bygones be bygones

Me Never!” :

““What do you mean by never?”

Marian rose from her seat, and stood before
him, pale as death, but resolute and calni.

“T mean this! That if you ever attempt to
come any nearer to me than you are at this
moment—”

“Well, what?”

“Take care of yourself! That is all!”

He measured tlie distance between them, with
drunken gravity. ; ot

“Three feet exactly—may be, an inch or two
to spate! What will you do to me, my pretry
tigress, if I venture to trench upon that taboo:
ed place ?” ' ;

“You will find me a tigress indeed, if you
attempt it!” ;

“ A’ pleasant look-out, truly, for the begin-
ning of a honeymoon! Pray, Madam. may I
take the liberty of inquiring why you married
me?”

“You know as’ well as 1!”

“Vil be shot if 1 do!”

“There were several reasons!”

“T know that—ninety and nine to begin
with !—and then the hundredth, which made
me the happiest manin the world! But pray
fuvor me with one or two, if you have no objec-
tions ?”

“T have not! In the first place, life was not

on’t touch me!”

_ worth living, at. Downe !”

“Not while Lady Mountchayne was hovering
on the brink, of the grave, and my lord was at
his wit’s end about her! I understand all
that !” ¢ aire
“ Secondly, I hate my Cousin Leonora!”
“And you thought you could give her a stab
by marrying me?’ '

“You have, guessed it !”, mn sind
“ Amiable creatures you women are, and gen-

_ tle as doves to one another! Well, go oa! .

 

 
Was there no other reason?”

“ One—the most important!”

“ And that ?”

“Was the secret which you possess—and
which I could purchase only in this way.” And
she pointed to her wedding-ring.

“You are a young woman of great penetra:
tion,” he said, with a sneer. ‘I would not have
sold the seeret to you for Jess—nor will I!”

‘ Well, there it is! I wear the symbol of my
bondage. What more would you have?”

‘Pray, have you any idea what thai ring re-
presents ??’

“‘T may have?”

“ It means love, Mrs. Vere ; and respect, Mrs.
Vere; and obedience, Mrs. Vere! All of which
you promised to-day at the altar to.give me,
ru - trouble you to produce the article
now |”

“Bah!” said Marian, indifferently. “If I
promised, you may be sure I did not mean to
perform !”

“ That is honest, at any rate.”

“As for love—I have none to give you, or
any one else. Respect is certainly wanting so
far as you are concerned; and if you want a
slave to obey you, you will not find her in
Marian Moyell!”

Mr. Vere leaned on a chair, and whistled.

“There’s nothing like plain speaking, my
dear ; but sometimes it may be carried a little
too far. I recommend you to put a muzzle on
that saucy mouth of yours, keep a civil tongue
in your head, and remember that you are no
longer Marian Moyell, but Marian Vere !”

“You do well to remind me of it. I was
actually happy enough to forget it for an in-
stant ”

“Confound your impudence! Cut it! Stow
it! Do you know who you are talking to?”

“Yee!” said Marian, composedly. “To one
of the greatest rascals in existence!”

“Well, ifever I heard any one like you in all
my life! There’s not a man in all England
dares say as much to me as you have said just
now.”

“Tam not atall afraid of you, Mr. Vere. And
{ do not presume upon the privilege.of my sex,
because, if I was a man, [ would tell you so
still, and far more emphatically !”

“Cool! But before you go too far, how-
ever, allow me to remind you that you are my
wife.”

“T know it too well!”

“And that we are in England!”

“Yes.”

“Subject to English laws !”

“ What of that?”

“A great deal; Ma’am. The law of England
allows me to chastise my wife, as long and as
much as I like, provided I never use a stick
jJarger round than my thumb. (I'll take advan-
tage of that law, if you aggravate me any more
—remember that !”’

“ More shame to England—that is all! There
is not another country in the world where such
a relic of barbarity would be allowed to exist!
So far as Iam concerned, however, it does not
matter! For if you attempt to lay so much as

our little finger upon me, in way of violence,
will kill you!”

Mr. Vere looked at her pale face and flashing
eyes, and thought it was as well to keep the
peace. It was quite spermine that. she might
mean what she had said, and act upon it in case
he went teo far.

“Twas only joking, my love, of course,” he
yaid, eoothingly. “ But you take fire at the
wnaliest thing.” 4

She waved her hand disdaixfully.

“If you bave finished with that nonsense,
perhaps you will listen to me!”

With great pleasure.”

“I know more about you, Mr. Vere, than
you think.”

“ Indeed |”

“When the gipsy-girl came here this morn-
ings I, in the next room, heard every word she
said.” 1

“The devil you did!”

“Talso bone your conversation with Madame
Angelo.” d :

ir. Vere looked dismayed.

“You must be like Fine Ear, in the fairy
tale, then.”

“The walls were thin, and I listened.”

“Oh, you did!”

“All is fair in love or war, you know. My |

scruples are only for honorable people. When
I am dealing with men like you, and woman
like Madame Angelo, I must staop to the prae-
tices that you would make use of.’

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

“What did you hear ?” he asked, sullenly.

“Enough to open my eyes, be sure of that!
I know what the gipsy is, and what Madame
Angelo has been to you!”

other men, after the worst has been said of
me.”

“T don’t know that, I take leave to think
that most ‘ other men’ would have hesitated to
bring a young bride into a place like this.”

“What ails this place? . It is ail right, and
most respectable people live here.”

“They may, but I shall not!”

“ You will live, Madam, in any place.to whieh
I choose to take you!”

“J beg your pardon. I shall do nothing of
the kind, as you will see in the morning.”’

“ You rebel against my authority ?”

“No! because I do not for one moment ree-
ognize it !”

“ You'll have to, Ma’am, whether you like it
or not... ll break your spirit or your neck
before I have done—I promise you that!”

“You will have to, break my neck first, Mr.
Vere!”

“ Ah, you may laugh now; but my time will
soon come! Now, is it your pleasure to go
down stairs with me?”

“To Madame Augelo’s room ?””

“ Yes.”

“Certainly not.”

“ You refuse to be friends with us ?”

“y do.”’

“ At what time shall you retire ?”

“ What is that to you?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“ Understand me, Mr. Vere,” she said, coldly,
“ While you live your present life, and mix with
your present associates, there is nu tie between
us, except-that formed by the secret !”

“Ha!” And his face lit up with a look of
savage joy. “I'll serve you out there, my
lady! [won't tell you the secret!”

“ But it is for your own interest to do so.”

“My own interest may be hanged! I can
afford to lose something for the sake of being
revenged on you., No, Ma’am, you shall not
hear one word of the seoret till you ask my par-
don for your impertinenee, and promise to be
an obedient and dutiful wife to me. Now I
think I have you on the hip, my lady; and as

ou don’t look much like doing it at present,

"ll just go back to Madame Angelo again. It
is possible that she may allow me to share her
room, since you refuse so decidedly to admit
me to yours.”

So saying, he nodded slightly to his wife, and
went dewn. ert

CHAPTER XXXII.
A CHANGE OF AIR.
“ God shield us in our weakness! I had said
To meet the faggot or the blade—to die
for that accounted holy, for the truth,
Were but.a festal doom—a tribute paid
By the poor outward form, that it may lie
A slave, and not a master of the soul,
But harder far to bear a life-long test ;
To feel the weight of wrong in spring-time youth,
Crushed heavier down as lagging winters roll ;
Benumbing thought and feeling in the breast,
While selfishness and callous discontent
Blight all the aspect of God’s blessed earth,
And tear from out our soul that which He lent—
Its freshness, homage, freedomness of birth.”
—E. Oaxxs Sura,

There are some things a woman eannot and
will not bear.

This was one of them.

The mildest Griselda on’ earth might have
been excused for doing what Marian did.

Which was to go into a towering rage!

Rush up to her room!

Ring the bell furiously !

Hurl combs and brushes, hair-pins and curl-

apers, towels and table-cloths, in a confused

eap into the middle of the room, and execute
something very like a wardance gone mad,
upon the top of them! It was not a dignified
thing to do, and I am ashamed to have such a
thing to write about my heroine.

But she was a high-spirited, hot-tempered
woman, with much more of the devil than of the
angel in her composition ; and when her equi-
librium was disturbed, it was necessary to use
some violent physical exertion as a kind of
safety-valve.
down and cried. Marian threw the things
about, and danced, uttering exclamations quite

 

while. Bessie, entering the room in obedience
_ to her imperative summons, stood aghast at the
| spectacle which presi itself to her eyes,

“Lor, Mum Whatever is the matter!
i And whatever are you doing ?”

“Well, what of that? Iam no worse than |

A milder woman would have sat |

the reverse of gentle and forgiving, all the |

35
The ludicrous horror of the girl's face, an¢
, the tone of utter astonishinent, sent Marian ints
a violent fit of laughter. She flung herself into
| a chair, and wiped her eyes.

“Don’t be afraid, Bessie. I. have not gone
mad,” she said, as soon as she could find breath
) to speak.
| Thank goodness for that, Mum! I was
really afraid yorr brain was turued when I see
| you hopping about there, like a red Indian or a
| South Sea Islander.”
| “Did I look as bad as that?
| and shut the door.”

The girl obeyed.

“T want to ask you a few questions.
you answer them truly ?”

*“ Yes, Mum.”

“Do you think this is a respectable house ?”

Bessie stared widely.

“And do you think your mistress is a re-
spectable person ?”

Bessie twisted her apron.

“JTt’s hard to say, Mum.”

“What do you mean ?”

“ Nobody knows whether anybody ia respect-
able or not, now-a-days, Mum.”

“ Indeed i”

“ Especially in London,”

“T was not aware of that.”

“Oh, it’s a horrid place, Mum—a_ horrid
place! I often wonder the earth does not open
and swallow it.”

‘Perhaps it will some day.”

“Now is the time, if ever, Mum. But, as J
was saying about my missus. You see, she ie
very liberal and easy with me, and all that—”

“ Well—go on.”

“But Ihave my doubts about her.”

«So have I.”

“There are too many gentlemen coming and
going—quite late at night sometimes. I don’t
like the look of it, Mum.”

“JT should think not.”

“ And then Mr. Vere.”

“ Well, what of him ?”

The girl hesitated.

“Perhaps I ought not to say it, after. all.
You are married to him, and no one has any
business'to make mischief between you.”

‘The mischief is made, my good girl, and
most effvetually. So you may as well speak
out.”

“I don’t, think it looked well for her to be
going out with him to-day—his wedding-day,
Mum. And then, ever sinee they came home,
they have been sitting together in her parlor,
talking and Jaughing till one o’elock, while you
were up here ill. All the servants were talkin
about it, and cook says that it is only a very aa
story over again.”

Cook is quite right!” said Marian, quietly.
And she told her the oceurrence of the evening,
at which Bessie held up her hands, and uttered
a ery of horror,

‘Oh, the brute!

Well, come in,

Will

Oh, the wicked, wicked
woman! Ill go home to my poor mother to-
morrow! I won't stop another day in such a
terrible house ; and, if you'll take my, advice,
Mum, you will go away too. If he begins like
that, where will he stop? Desertiny his young
bride for that old wretch, who is fifty, if she is
aday! Oh, Ma’am, don’t you stand it, whatever
you do!” ,

“ Rest easy, Bessie.
to-night.”

*To-night, Mum! But you are a stranger
in London ?”

“ Yes.”

“ Where will you go?”

“{ don’t know. To some hotel, I would
rather sleep on a doorstep, if it came to that,
than beneath this roof!”

“ Quite right,Mum, I don’t blame you. But
you must not, set off so late without knowing
where you are going. That would never do,
Now, my poor wother has a house of her own,
and Jets out lodgings. I kuow she has a spure
bed room. It is very poor, but you will not
mind that, just for one night?”

Oh no.” :

“Then I willrun and write a note to her, aud
when I come home to-morrow, we will see what
ean be done. Don’t tell mother the wors',
though. She would, never forgive herself if
she knew she had let me- come to a place like
| this.” ms

* Bessie hurried away, and, soon, returned
with a neatly-folded letter, which she gave tu
Marian.

“There is a eab-stand about a quarter of a
wile from this door, in a straight line,” she said,
, “ You must walk there; and thea they caunut

I shall leave the house

 
  
  

 

er Se

==

a

|
)

 

swrace you to this house. Or, perhaps, you had
better uot take a cab from the rank. You will
see plenty plying for hire in the street. Drive
to this address, and my mother will be kind to
you for my sake. I will pack a few things for
you now in a carpet bag, and bring more with
me in my boxes, to-morrow.”

She was busily employed as she spoke. In
half an hour all was ready.

The house was still, except for the sound of
voices and laughter that still came from the
little parlor below.

suftly down the stairs together.

the bag into Marian’s hand—whispered a ** Good
night, God bless you!”’—and closing the door,
gained her own room again unobserved.

The daring deed was done, and Marian stood
outside that hated house, free and alone once
more.

Following the directions of her friend, the
house-maid, she went some distance on foot be-
fore she called a cab to take her to her place of
refuge. She was driven toa poor but neat-look-
ing house in the north end of London; but it was
nearly eleven o'clock before they got there, and
it took a great deal of knocking and ringing to
rouse the mistress of the establishment from
her first sound sleep.

At last she came: a sensible, kind-looking
woman of fifty, who looked somewhat doubt-
fally over her candle at Marian, as she stood
upon the steps, and asked what she was pleased
to want

“Are you Mrs. Jones?” asked Marian,
timidly.

“That is my name.”

“T have a letter for you from your daughter
square. She sent me here.”

“From my Bessy? Then don’t stand there,
my dear, catching cold, on the step. Have
you paid your coachman ?”

“ Yes ; he is just going.”

“Then come in at once, and give me the let-
ter. Poor Bessy! it is three weeks since I saw
ber good-tempered face in this room.”

She led the way as she spoke, into a tiny par-
lor on the ground-floor, whose shabby yet care-
fally-kept furniture bore testimony alike to her
poverty and to her neatness.

“ Sit down in the arm-chair, my dear. Ill
ee put the chain of the door up, and then read

essie’s letter.”

There was a great rattling outside for a
moment or two; then she came back, found her
spectacles, and proceeded to decipher the note.
Miss Bessy, being somewhat excited when she
wrote it, had evidently made use of pretty
strong language in describing her master’s con-
duet ; for her mother dropped the note as if it
bad burnt her fingers, and sat looking at Marian
with the eyes of kindest pity.

“Dear! dear! only to think of that, now!
And so young, too, as you are! But there!
aj] men are brutes; and that is the long and
short of it. Poor Mr. Jones died many a year
igo, and I don’t want to rake up old stories
against him ; but, my dear, I lived in purga-
tory while I lived with him! and that is the
woth.

Marian fel eminently relieved. She had
feared a cold reception when the strange story
was made known. But if thia woman's husband
had behaved badly to her, there was all the
more hope that she would not espouse the cause
of Mr. Vere.

“JT was so miserable,” she said, apologetical-
ly. “Indeed, I could never have lived with
that man!’

“T sbould think not, indeed! said Mrs. Jones,
brandishing the flat candlestick energetically.
“ Women put up with far too much, my dear.
If I had only had the pluck to run away from
poor Jones the night he married me, I should
not have been in this paltry place, and Bessy
out a servant now. I had had better offers b
far than his; but I fell in love with his han-
some face, and pleased my eye aud plagued my
heart, in consequence. Lord! what fouls we
women are, to be sure!”

Marian assented to this somewhat humiliating
doctrine most heartily.

“ And it seems that you were no better than
the rest of us, my dear,” the good woman went
on. “Now,itis none of my business, to be
sure; but what could have made you marry
that man yonder ?”

‘*J don’t know; or, yes, I do know.”

“Was be very much in love with you?”

“Not a whit.”

“To be sure, he could not have been, or he

in

 

Marian put on her hat |
and cloak ; Bessie took the bag, and they glided |
The bolts of |
the hall-door were softly drawn—Bessie thrust |

 

THE PRIDE Of Se DOWNES.

| would not have served you such a shameful

| trick, Were you in love with him ?”

“Oh no! The fact is, I married him for the

| most interested reasons, and Iam rightly pun-

| ished for it.”

| “ Well, never mind; I dare say you would

| just as lief I kept my questions to myself.
Only I want you to tell me one thing. Bessy
says he turned you out of the house, and then

| she gives a hint about that Madame Angelo she

| works for.

it whea she comes home.
mean? Is there anything wrong there? You
must tell me that; for if there is, Bessy shall
not stay there another day.”

“Your daughter has mistaken one thing,”
said Marian. ‘Mr. Vere did not turn me out
of the house ; I came of my own accord. You
must take Bessy away at once. It is not a fit
place for her.”

“That woman! I thought as much when I
saw her with her fine gold chains and her real
lace.”

“TJ won't say that she is no better than she
should be, because that comparison might ap-

ly with equal truth to every one in the world ;

ut she is almost as bad as she can be, Mrs.
Jones; and if Bessy were my daughter, she
should not stay in the house another day.”

“Tl send for her to-morrow,” said the
mother, looking terrified and indignant.
“ What a mercy it was that you came here to
enlighten me about it! And now, my dear, as
you must be tired and sleepy, I will show you
to a little room that you can have for your owa,
as long as you like. It is but a garret, for the
greater part of my house is let to an Italian
image-maker and his family. I only keep a
kitchen, this little parlor, and two attics. But
your room is clean, if it is humble ; and I shall
sleep next door; so you may rest as safely as if

you were in the Tower of London, with the
Lord Chamberlain keeping the key.”

She led the way as she spoke up two steep
and narrow flights of stairs, and into a small
garret-chamber, furnished with a bed, a chair,
a cheap yellow washstand, and a looking-

lass.

“Bessy sleeps here when she is at home, but
she can share my bed,” the good widow re-
marked. “ Will you take anything before you
go to sleep, my dear ?”

“ Nothing, thank you.”

“Then good night, and pleasant dreame to
you. Don’t fret about that vagabond husband
of yours. He can’t find you here. And if you
feel frightened or lonely in the night, just rap
on the wall, and I will be with you in the
twinkling of an eye.”

With this parting benediction, the worthy
lady trotted away ; and ia ten minutes more waa
tes ing the sleep of the juat on her little hard
pallet.

Marian, left to herself, bathed her throbbing
temples, and tried to steady her whirling head.
The strange events of the day kept coming up
before her till she was nearly ah

At last, she grew sleepy, and found herself
nodding, as she thought. She drank a glass
of cold water, extinguished the candle, threw
herself, dressed as she was, upon the bed, and
lost her care in the sound refreshing sleep of
youth and unbroken health.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
TWO FACES UNDER ONE HOOD.

“ Alone, yet not alone, the heart doth brood
With a sad fondness o’er its hidden grief ;
Broods with a miser joy, wherein relief
Comes with a semblance of its own quaint mood,
How many hearts this point of life have passed !
And some a train of light behind have cast,
To show us what hath been, and what may be;
That thus have suffered all the wise and good,
Thus wept and prayed, thus struggled and were free,
So doth the pilot, trackless through the deep,
Unswerving by the stars his reckoning keep:
He movesa highway not untried before,
And thence he courage gains, and joy doth reap,
Unfal aging lays his course, and leaves behind the

shore.

day when Marian woke from her sound slumber
with a sudden start. For a moment she could
not understind where she was, or how slie bap-
pened to be in so bumble a place. The un-
wonted flashing of the wedding-ring upon her
pi hand caught her eye, and recalled every-
ing.
= ee if I am safe here,” she thought ;
and, springing from the bed, she washed her
face and hands, smoothed her hair, and went
down iuto the little parl.r where she had been

 

She says she will tell me all about |
Now, what does that |

 

It was nearly twelve o’cleck on the following |

received on the previous night. The old lady |

 

 

was not there, but a younger and slighter wom-
an stood by the window, apparently absorbed
in the contents of a newspaper.

‘‘ Bessie!” said Marian, with a start of sur-
prise.

The young girl turned, and threw down the
paper.

“Oh, I am 80 glad you have come down!
Mother told me to wake you by one o'clock
Shall I get you some breakfast?”

“Tf you please.”

Beasie buatied about, and in'ten minutes bad
the table neatly spread with a clean white
cloth, and covered with all the con eomitants of
a comfortable meal. There ws a rasher of
bacon, nicely fried, an egg, fresh bread and but-
ter, and some strong tea, that soon relieved the
dull aching of Marian'’s head. When she had
finished her meal, she looked up at ber attend
ant, and said, with a smile:

“ Well, Bessie, you look full of news. What
have you to tell me?”

“Not much, Mum.”

“Begin at the beginning. When did you
leave the Square ?” 7

“ Ag soon as it was light enough to sce, this
morning, Mum.”

“Had they missed me?”

“No, Mum”

Marian sighed. It had come to that, then.
Go where she might, do what she would, still no
one missed her.

“I brought all your boxes, Mum,” Bessie
observed, with a good-tempered grin.

“Did you?”

“ Cook was for stopping them at first, till she
heard where you had gone to. But when I
told her about Mr. Vere—and—and that old
cat, she said it was'a great shame; and she
helped me to get the things down this morning
before a soul in the house was up.”

“She was very kind. Are the boxes here ?”

“No, Mum.”

“ Where, then?”

Bessie looked terribly embarrassed.

«“ You see, Mum, we are very poor folks.’

“ Well?”

“And it would not do to let it be known
everywhere that we had helped you to get away.
I'nglish laws are very queer things; and if Mr.
Vere should find you here, and make any dis-
turbance about it, it would prevent my getting
another place for ever so long.” ,

“Tgee. But does he know where you live ?”

“Madame Angelo does; and whatever he
wants to know, she will be pretty sure to tell
him.”

“J am afraid you are right,” said Marian.
“ And what do you think I had better do 2?”

“Tf you would not think it too great a liber-
ty, Mum—”

“ Nothing is a liberty, Bessie, that is meant
for my good.”

“ Then, there is a place close at hand where
they would never dream of looking—a friend
of my mother’s, and she has a little garret to
let, just like ours. Iam sure we should be de-
lighted to have you here for the rest of your
life, if that is all; but if you want to keep out
of their way, it is not safe for you.”

“You are quite right, Bessie. I had better
go to this place as soon as possible—that is, if
your friend will take me in.”

“There is ne fear of that,Mum. ‘Lhe boxes
are there already, and mother has just gone
over to make it more comfortable for you.”

“Then we will follow ber at once.”

“ But we took the lodgings for an old lady,
Mum,” said Bessie, twisting the corner of her
apron about, and looking very foolish.

« What do you mean?”

“I thought Madame Angelo might watch the
neighborhood, and ask a of all the
people. And so, as Mrs. Davis is a timid sort
of woman, I thought she had better know noth-
ing about you. If Madame was to get hold of
her, she would let the whole thing out at once ;
and 80, as you will want to get a walk now and
then to enjoy yourself a little, 1 thought—” —

She stopped, and turned alarmingly red in
the face. Marian’s look of utter bewilderment
perplexed her sorely; and it began to dawn
upon her novel-fed mind that the plan she was
about to propose might be, to say the least,
rather ludicrous in the lady’s eyes. Your ro-
mantie people dread being laughed at, above all
things; and, generally speaking, they happen
to be the very people, of all others,at whom it
is next to an impossibility not to laugh.

“But what is this wonderful plan of yours,
my child?” asked Marian.

“ They will look for a young lady, you know,

 

 
zHe

Mum. If you would but put on these, they
would never dream of its being you, and you
could go out as often as you liked.”

As she spoke, she drew out from a box be-
hind her a prim-looking dress of black bomba-
zine, a plain black lace ooh attached to a
“ front” of iron-gray hair, a black straw bon-
net and a crape vail, and a pair of steel-framed
spectacles. .

Marian, of course, went off into a fit of
laughter. Bessie looked terribly huffed, and
dropped the things as if they had burnt her.

“ Never mind, my dear child,” said Marian,
when she could speak properly again. ‘I
always laugh at anything new. But, really,
when I come to think of it, your plan is a very
good one, and I will put the dress on this min-
ute, if you will help me.”

Bessie brightened up, drew down the blinds;
and, amongst merry peals of girlish laughter,
the strange toilet began.

“Oh gracious, Mum! Who ever would be-
lieve it was you?” exclaimed Bessie, when the
spectacles, and bonnet, and vail were adjusted.
“Do come and look at yourself in the glass,
Mum!”

Marian stepped before the mirror, and start-
ed back in astonishment. There stood a wom-
an, apparently fifty years of age, with a face
that, in spite of its look of sadness, was almost
handsome. ‘The gray hair and look of age
atoned for the somewhat indifferent complex-
ion, and the whole countenance was utterly dif-
ferent from that which had excited her wrath
so many times during the progress of toilets
intended to be more becoming than this.

« Well,” she said, with a smile, “it is some-
thing, atleast, to know that I shall be quite
good-looking when I get to be an old woman.
Now, Bessie, let us get away as fast as possible.
I like my disguise so well, that I shall be very
sorry to have anything happen to render it
quite useless.”

Bessie ran to fetch her bonnet and shawl;
and, in ten minutes more, they stood within the
little attic room, which, for some time, at least,
was to be Marian’s home.

The mistress of the house, a nervous-looking
old lady, conducted them there, and evidently
seemed greatly relieved to find her new lodger
so near her own age. :

Marian felt, at the first glance at the frighten-
ed, hesitating face, that Bessie’s romance had
served her a good turn. If, indeed, Madame
Angelo should come that way, Mrs. Davis was
not fit to be intrusted with a secret, and the
steel spectacles and the iron-gray wig took a
higher value at once in her eyes.

rs. Jones, who was busy about the room,
could not help a little smile, as she saw her new
acquaintance made over so strangely into one
newer still; but her manner was just what it
ought to have been under the circumstances ;
hd good Mrs. Davis never suspected the ex-
istence of a mystery which would have worried
her to death had she been a party concerned.

The room was small—smaller than most serv-
ants’ attics, in fact; but Marian cared little
for that. The bed looked clean an2 eomfort-
able—the curtains and the counterpane were
marvelously white for a London apartment.
Moreover, there was an easy chair beside the
window, and a look out therefrom across a
countless range of roofs ; and a table for her
books and papers; and a window-ledge where
_ the bright-eyed sparrows might come for the
crumbs she scattered, and sit and watch her as
she wrote. Something in the place pleased her ;
and she felt, with a glad thrill at her breast, that
she was going to be very happy there!

The two widowed friends, having ascertained
that the lodger wished for nothing more, took
themselves off; Bessie remaining a moment
longer, her bright eyes sparkling with delight.

“It is a poor place, but f think you will be
comfortable,” she said ; “and certainly you will
be safe—and that is the great thing.”

- Yes ; just at present,” said Marign, thought-

Law, Mum! how odd you do look in that

 

 

dress, to be sure! Who would ever dream that
it was you? Why, your mother wef: pass
you in the street without knowing you! I got
that idea of the disguise from a story in the pa-
per, Mum.”

“Indeed !” said Marian, looking amused.

“Yes, Mum. When the young and lovely
beiress, a Phuomela, runs away from her
hard-hearted guardian, who locks her up, she
wears just such a dress as that. Law, um !
who ever thought I would be acting such @ |

PRID

story before I died? I only wish some one |

would write it out—it would beat the Lady
Philomela all to nothing. But I must go now.
I shall come in after dinner to see how you are
getting on. Good morning, Mum!”

“Good morning!” said Marian, absently ;
and as the door closed upon her visitor, the
sank into a fit of the deepest thought.

Bessie was right. She was living a romance :
why sheuld she not try to write it?

A chance word often produces the strangest
results.

That simple question of a romantic house-
maid gave the world of romance-readers one
author more.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN-DEEP.
“I dreamed last night that I myself did lay

Within the grave, and after stood and wept,

My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept!

’Twas a strange dream, and yet methinks it may

Prefigure that which is akin to truth,

How sorrow we o’er perished dreams of youth,
High hopes and aspirations doomed to be
Crushed and o’ermastered by earth’s destiny !
Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth ;
And that deluding faith so loth to part,
That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart !
Oh, ’tis the ashes of such things that wring
Tears from the eyes—hopes like to these depart,
And we bow down in dread o’ershadowed by death’s
wing!” —E, Oakes Suita,

Meanwhile, how were all the other personages
of our story, at Downe Reserve or elsewhere,
getting on?

We will give precedence to rank, as in duty
bound, and speak first of Lady Theodosia and
her foreign spouse.

It sometimes happens, that what looks upon
the surface to be the maddest of actions, turns
out, in reality, to be the very wisest thing we
could possibly do. In this case, those who
heard of Lady Theodosia’s elopement hinted
very strongly that she ought to be shut up in
Colney Hatch ; that if she had been in her right
senses she never could have dreamed of pais a
thing.

They forgot that the lady was not quite a
hundred years old, and that she had a spice of
romance in her composition, which even her
long term of servitude in the treadmill of fash-
ionable society had been unable totally to erad-
icate. She was vain, and frivolous, and haugh-
ty and selfish, it is true ; but, in spite of that,
she could fall in love after a fashion of her own,
and appreciate the love that was offered in re-
turn. I do not mean to say that she would
have gone to the scaffold for her husband, or
performed any very striking act of heroism in
his behalf; but she was fond enough of him to
be a faithful and affectionate wife—aud that is
saying a great deal for a woman brought up
and educated to make marriage the chief and
only end and aim of life, as she had been.
They went abroad together till the outery about
their elupement should haye ceased, and were

uite as happy together as any newly-married
fashionable couple could expect to be.

Miss Moyell follows next upon the list. She,
too, became a bride within a short time after
her cousin’s disappearance, and went down with
her old baronet to l:is country-seat—outwardly,
a happily successful, and inwardly, a wretched
end peep botatets woman. To the last, she had
hoped that Philip Vere, enraged at her faith-
lessness, would make his appearance, and forbid
the sacrifice she was about to make. She had
not seen or heard from him for a long time; yet
still some blind reliance upon his affection made
her trust that it would be roused by the knowl-
edge that she was about to bestow her hand,
and, for aught he could tell, her heart, upon
another.

But she was disappointed. Mr. Vere had too
much important business of his own upon his
hands, just then, to waste many thoughts upon
her ; and she went to the altar, and came away
from it “ my Lady”, without having once canght
a glimpse of a despairing and penitent lover
rushing to the rescue—not too late!

With all these wonderful events happening
so closely together, the villagers had littie time
to wonder over Marian’s sudden disappearance.
Miss Moyell, ever jealous for the honor of the
family, even in the person of one of its meanest
members, gave out that she had gone to Scot-
land to attend upon a dying aunt: and the tale
was immediately believed. Brt she herself was
convinced that the girl had fulfilled her oft-re-
peated threat of hurrying away to London,
and that the proper place to look for her would
be in the gaslit streets of that great city. Still
she instituted no search. Marian was gone—so
much the better! Ifshe had disgraced herself.

Le

E OF THE DOWNES.

37

no one in Downe could ever know it; and for
| the rest, it mattered very little. Mrs. Pryor,
| the housekeeper, was full of anxious thoughts
| and surmises, it is true; but she kept them to
herself. She was powerless to help the poor
| child, and at a loss to understand the reason of
| her flight. She could only wait and hope, and
| pray also, that the stray lamb might be guided
| by a loving hand, and that all might yet be well.
And Rose, the pride of the village, the sweet
| May Queen—where was she?
| Rot in a silent grave, nor yet on the bed ot
| sickness, which had so nearly froved a bed of
| death to her, Thanks to the ekill of her phy-
| sician, and the kind care of her neighbors and
| her nurse, she had recovered sufficiently to sit
| in an easy-chair, beside the little parlor-win-
| dow, and look upon the green lanes, and hear
| her little canary singing his heart out in the
| rustic porch once more.

‘The villagers wondered and speculated about
her much more then about Miss Moyell or Lady
Theodosia. That one should marry a man old
enough to be her grandfather, and the other
elope with a lame Italian, was exciting and in:
teresting enough. But here was one of their
own order—a girl who had grown up with and
among them—suddenly elevated, by the mere

ower of the beauty ne admired so much,
Ee above their heads. hatever she might be
to the proud family at the Priory, she could
never be the equal of her early friends again.

But would that family acknowledge her?

Would they sanction, by their own approval,
the rash act of their son?

The wildest rumors were rife upon this one

oint. Some said that Lady Revere had gone
into fresh hysterics at the tidings of Rose’s re-
covery, and that Lord Revere had threatened
to cut his son off with a shilling if he ever went
near her again. The estates were entailed, it is
true, but the revenue they produced was but
small; and it was known that the allowance
made to the young nobleman by his father
was, from sheer necessity, scarcely equal to that
of many a peer’s son while yet at Eton. If
this allowance were curtailed, the villagers rea
soned, and rightly, that the young man would
be in no position to introduce his young wife
to the circle to which, by right, she now belong:
ed. But would this threat induce him to for
sake her?

No one knew. But Rose had lost her beau-

ty.
Tae might regain it—it was a question of
time.

And till that question was decided, no one
felt justified in pronouncing an opinion upon
Lord Mountchayne’s future course of conduct.

But it showed plainly how much Rose was
beloved, when there was not a heart in the
humblest cottage that did not wish her a perfect
recovery, and a long and happy life with the
man who had won her.

No one envied her—every one rejoiced at the
good, and grieved at the bad, fortune which had
befallen her. And if Lord Mountehayne failec|
to do his dnty nobly at this trying time, thera
was not one amongst them all who would not
blame him for his cowardice, and hate him for
his cruelty, for ever.

There was one who blamed and hated him, as
it was ; one who would have laid ‘down his life
for the privilege which the young nobleman
valued so lightly ; one who, at the first warning
of danger, would have been at the young girl’s
side ; one who would have watclied over her by
day and night untiringly ~ caring little that the
once bright eyes were dim, so they turned to
him for pity—earing little that the beautiful
face was a hideous mask, so that its owner was
his wife!

Need I say that I am a of Hugh Den-
nett, the young blacksmith. The poor fellow
still lingered in the village, though its light
was gone. He worked no more, singing mer-
rily, at the forge. His ws ¢ was sold ; 80 was
the little cottage, where he had once hoped to
welcome Rose ; and he himself was only wait-
ing for her recovery or her death, before he
set out to seek his fortune in the gold mines of
California. His days were spent in the neigh-
borhood of the cottage; he was always at band
to go for the doctor, for medicine, or for any
luxury craved by the invalid. Many a night
he stretched himself upon the bench in the
a (where he had sat so often with her by

is side), and slumbered contentedly there, so
that he cis be near Rose—her servant and
her slave, if she needed one.

His chivalrous unselfish devotion contrasted
strongly with the absence and apparent indif:
ference of her noble husband. Yet no one

 

\

 
 

=

 

 
  

38

THE PRIDE ‘OF THE DOWNES.

 

Pos RARE Tor

ventured:to tell Rose of it when she recovered.
I doubt if she gave a thought to poor Hugh.
Her lopes and wishes all went forward to the
time when her beauty should come back, and
she should be restored to her dear Mount-
chayne’s arms. She would not send for him till
the marks of the fearful disease were quite
effaced. And thinking thus, she sat by the
window one pleasant afternoon, her poor scarred
and discolored face bent, over a cluster of fresh

gathered roses, when @ noise at the door, and a |

seream from the old nurse, made her start and
look round.
Lord Mountchayne stood before her !

CHAPTER XXXV,
THE LAST LINK IS BROKEN,

“ 1 gave thee tenderness too deep,
Too deep for aught but tears,
And thou wouldst teach the world’s cold rule,
: Which learned, the heart but sears.

“ IT gave thee all, the soul’s deep trust,
its truth by sorrow tried.
Nay, start not thou, What hast thou given ?
Alas! ’tis but thy pride.

“ Give back, give back the tenderness
That blest my simple love,
And call me, as in those dear days,
Thine own, thy gentle dove.”
—E. Oakes Sura.
She half.rose from her chair to meet. him, but
sank back again the next moment, half fainting.
Sne had seen the glance of horror and disgust
with which, he looked, upon her altered face ;
and though his manner was kind and gentle the
instant he recovered from. the first shock of
surprise, no words of .affection from his, lips
evuid possibly obliterate the impression that
one glance liad made upon her sensitive, heart.
She, who had once, been fairest. among the
daughters of women in his eyes, was now an un-
fortunate object, on, whom he could: scarcely
bear tu look! She could never forget that!
Somewhat ashamed.of haying betrayed him-
self so. plainly, Lord Mountehayne. advansed,
and took her passive hand.

“My poor Rose! he said, softly, “ What
mnst you have thought: of me all these weary
days ?”

“<T was too ill to think, my, Lord,” said Rose,
sadly. He felt: the meaning she meant to cone
vey by that formal use of his title; and though
it gave him ‘a momentary pang, it. made his
errand there all the easier of fulfillment.

“ Poor girld: You must: have suffered fear-
fully indeed! But, Rose, I would have come)to
you, let the danger be what is might, only for
my mother. .She begged me so earnestly to
remainwith her, and sive was so ill, that I dared
not refuse. Can youforgive’ me for’ my seem-
ing desertion.”

“ Yes,” was the indistinct reply.

* And now,” he said, after a slight pause, “I
have something to say to you.”

“Tam all attention,” said Rose, with a heavy
sigh. Her woman’s instinct gave her some
warniog of what was coming.

“You know, my darling, that when I found
you loved me, Idid not take any base advan-
tage of that love. Becanse you were a cottage-
irl, and I the heir to a noble name, I did not
think ‘myself justified im leading. you astray.
You can at least-give me ereditinyour memory
for having behaved as respectfully to you as if
you had been a lady in my own rank of life—
—can you not?”

She bent her head.

“You are my wife, Rose—my legal. wife!
As much Lady Mountchayne as my mother ia
Lady Revere. No one ean rob you of this title,
nor can I ever give it to another while you live.
Ycu understand this perfeetly ?”

“ Yes, my Lord.”

“My mother uuderstands it, too; so does my
father. And yet, Rose, this day I must choose
between you and them!”

He had already choseu. The very tone of his
voice betrayed ‘it to her jealous heart. His
love for ber had been but a fancy fora charm-
ing face ; and forthe possession of ‘so frail a toy,
be had bartered his future willingly.) The

dream was over—the charm was powerless now !»,

Even if she had sat before him, blooming and
-eautiful once again, heeould not have loved
her as at first.

Was he to blame? I think not! People ean
no more help being fickle tham they can help
breathing. It is'their nature, and ‘they are but
acting up to it when they are “off with the old
love bad on with the new” a dozen’ times in}
the course of a year. Itis rather mortifying to

the ‘loves, both old and new, I suppose ;’but {i

what ‘would -you*lave?: If in‘ the nronth! of
Fobruary you fall violently in love with a

oe

| pair of. soft, dark eyes, and move heayen and
|earth to make them smile upon .you—if in
| March they do smile: and if by the last, of
| April you discover that you have made a
mistake, and that blue eyes are much more
| beautiful—what then? . Are. you to be, brought
up for heavy damages if you are a man. or
| stigmatized asa jilt if you are a woman, in con~
| sequence? You ought. not to be! In Febru-
| ery, there was a chord somewhere in. your
nature, silent before from your earliest years,
| that suddenly thrilled into life beneath the
eapricious hand.of cireumstinee. In April, the
band was withdrawn, and the chord sHenced,
never, peraaps, to be awakened again this side
of the grave. What had; you to do with it?
What were you but the instrament upon which
those fleeting fingers chose to play?

Lord. Mouutechayne did not make these ex-
euses for himself. He was not old or wise
enough’; nvither was he sufficiently skilled in
tne amusing science of love, to think of them.

He wasashamed of himself for changing, and
iS he knew that’ he was’ changed. Rose had

ost her power over him. He sat by her, now,
as if she had. been an old woman.of seventy ;
he looked furtively at her disfigured face,’ and
thought that, if it was as fair as ever, it could
Win nothing more than quiet admiration of him.
Knowing this, he pitied her—knowing what he
had to say aud do, he feared for her. She was
his wife, and he about to behave like a villain :
she had given him an innocent and trusting
heart, and he, was. about to trample it in the
dust: her whole future depended upon him,
and he was about to blast it by a word. He
could not do these things with an easy con-
acience ; and he lingered and hesitated over it 8
long, that Rose took pity, and helped him out of
his dilemma by a plain, straightforward question.

“How are you to choose between me and
them, my Lord?

“Thaye acknowledged you. as my wife in
public. Every one in Downe knows that you
are Lady Mountchayne!”

“Yes; and I thank you for that!”

“Tt was but simple justice, Rose !”

“True; but simple justice is not always
done,”

“T have offended my parents deeply by this
marriage!”

“T can well understand that, my Lord! Oh,
wh .

She stopped short and clasped her hands.

“Why did I urge it?” he said, continuing
her sentence for her. “Ah, you knew how I
loved you! and— in short, it was to be, I sup-
pose! And there is no use in talking about it
now; the thing is done !”

“TI would die gladly, my Lord, if I could set
you free !” cried poor Rose, so sadly, that, the
tears came into his eyes. :

“No, no, Rose; I don’t want you to die—be
sure of that! But you must give them time to
recover from. this blow! You cannot expect
them to forgive either of us just yet!”

“« Will they ever forgive me?”

“Tam sureiof it... But my mother is heart:
broken just at present. She had set her heart
upon my marrying Lady Theodosia; and I, like
a coward, letiber believe, up to tlie last moment,
that was aboutito do so. Luckily, Lady Theo-
dosia did not suffer from my folly—she 1s more
happy with that black-eyed Italian than. she
would ever have been with me. But you, Rose,
how shall I tell you what my mother com-
manded me to doin your case ?”

{can guess,” faltered the poor girl, turn-
ing her head away from him. “She wishes you
to leave me!”

“Yes.”

“ Andwill you go ?”

‘¢Howeean I. disobe

 

her... If I refuse’ to

allow me to enter his doors again. It would
kiil my mother if we quar:cled.”

There was a Jong pause. He sat with his
eyes fixed upon the floor. She was looking at
the canary that warbled so blithely in the poreh,
and’striving hard to» keep down: her sobs-and
tears: At last she said :

“You are right. Your mother has more
claim upon you than me. You. must go with
her.” : }

He gave a long sigh of relief, and seized:her
cold hand.

“Rose, you-cannot tell what a weight you
have taken off my heart !” he exclaimed.

¢“T have laid tiat weight-on my own!” she
answered, with a mournful smile. 1i
o“$.Noy hear me! Iwill ‘come ‘back to nyous

 

one day. I swear it, Rose, and I will keep my
vow! My mother, too, will we'come you; and

accompany them abroad, my father will never ;

then we shall all be happy together. Only
have patience, Rose. Let, time dispel their pre)-
udices, and restore you to health, and all will
yet be well.”

“Tt is a great pity that I have recovered.”

“No; do not say that.”

“Tf they had Iaid me in the grave before you
had seen this altered face, my Lord, you would
have remembered me with affectionate regre\.
But now, this dreadful mask will rise before
your eyes whenever you thiak of me, and you
will hate me soon—if, indeed, you do not hate
me already.”

She burst into tears as she spoke; and his
naturally kind heart was touched at the sigh!
| of her distress.

“ Don’t let that faney trouble you, my dear,‘
| he said, gently. “I remember your face «0
| well as it_was, that I can easily forget th’s
ebhange. When I think of you, it will be only
as I knew you at first; and by the time Irs
turn, you, will haye regained all your beaut;
and I shall have the handsomest woman of b
year to present at St. James’s as my wife.”

Rose shook her head sadly.

“T ehall never get my good looks bask agak«
my Lord; and if I did, I should never see &.
James’s Palace,”

“But what do you fear?”

“TI cannot say. But something stands br-
tween you and me; I cannot tell what it is.”

“You are nervous and fanciful, my dea.
You will lose these notions as you get better.”

“Perhaps so.. But never mind me. ‘Tell me
of yourself. Where shall you go?”

“My mother wishes to travel on the Conti-
vent,”

“ How soon ?”

“T don’t know what you will say to it, but
she wants to go at once.”

“ Next week ?”

“ To-morrow.”

She turned very pale, and clasped her hand
sonvulsively over her heart.

“This is our Jast meeting, then?”

“Tfearso. I do not think Ican get over
from the Priory to-morrow, we start so early.’’

“No; do not come,” she said, faintly ; and
leaning back in the chair, she put her hand be-
fore her eyes.

“Where is your wedding-ring ?” asked Lord
Mountchayne, suddenly. :

“Here.”

She drew it from her breast. He took it frow
the silken cord, and placed it upon her hand.

“Wear it openly now,” he said. “The se
eret isa secret no longer. And now, Rose,
tisten while I tell you what provision I havi
made for you during my absence. My fathe"
allows me only five hundred pounds a year,
for he is a poor man, and {i!' his death I shall
have nothing more. I have plavecu wwo bundret
pounds at your disposal ia the bank of Downe
and by the time you have used that sum, I shall
return, Now where would you like to live \
At the Priory ?”

“Oh no!” she said, with a shudder.

“Shall T order my father’s steward to hire 1
villa for you in the neighborhood ?”

“Oh no! Let me stay here, where I was
born!” she said, glancing round the humble
room with yearuing affection. “I could, not
be happy in another home than this, alone !””

“Very well, if you wish it. But you must
have some one here to stay with you.”

“Must I?”

“Some nice, kind woman, who will be like a
mother to you. Do you know of any one?”

“ Mrs. Pryor.” :

“The housekeeper at the Pleasaunce ?”

“ Yes.”

“Will she come ?”

“She might for atime. She is going to leave
the Pleasaunce.” j

“Then ask her to stop with you.. There will
be room enough in the eottage for you both,”

“ Ol yes ” ;

“And you will try to be happy, or at least

!

 

 

; contented, while I am away?
“Twill try,” '
“T shall write to, you often, and shall expee

you to write to me at least oncea month, Wil

you do so 2?” ;
|. . Gladly.” , inchs
“And I will send you a box of books from
town, next week, and a gottaye-piano... You
must manage to make room for it somewhere,
and take lessons, .I should be glad to hear,you
play when I come back again.” iod-biad
‘Hose. lifted, up ,ber, heavy eyes, and jemiled.

There was something pajnful, and yet ludicrous,

to her in all these directions these preparations

for a life which was never to be lived. Ie had

 
 

tired of her; he was casting her off; it was
their last meeting, perhaps, on earth; and, by
way of consolation, he was advising her to
learn to play the piano!

“Why do you smile, Rose?” he asked impa-
tiently. ‘‘Do you not approve of the provis-
ions Tam making for your comfort and happi-
ness while I am gone?”

“You are very kind.
wish.”

“Then, pray, look more cheerful. I wish
you would go to the Priory. It scarcely seems
right to leave you in this little place.”

“T am best here—best suited to this place,”
was her only answer.

“Rose, I believe in your heart you have not
forgiven me,” he said, after watching her for a
moment. “ You think I ought to have come to

ou.”

“No; I assure you I did not expect it.”

“You would have come to me had I been ill ?”

“Yes. But then men are yery different from
women, an! they love differently.”

She was only uttering her simple convictions.
She did not mean to be sarcastic ; but he start-
ed up from his seat, with a frown, as she spoke.
Now that her beauty was gone, if became neces-
sary for her to pick and choose her words, if
she wished to avoid giving him offence.

* Well, we will not part unkindly,” he said.
“Tet the past go, since it is past, and trust to
the future. _ When I come back, Rose, you will
be well again, and my mother will soon be
reconciled. I cannot stay with you now, and
break her heart.. But remember one thing:
though she disowns you, you are her daughter
and my wife ; and as such, enittled to the re-
spectful attention of my people here. I shall
make that fully understood before I go; and
if any of them dare be rude to you, let me
know, and they shall be instantly discharged.
Will you promise me this?”

‘“ Yes,’ she said, faintly.

“ And you will write often?”

soa On,

“ Tell me everything about yourself, mind.”

“T will.”

He stood silent a moment, then said, with av

rt .

I will do all you

-{ must go. Good-bye, Rose—good-bye,
dear wife! and may, God Keep you 2afe and well
till we meet again!”

He did not kiss her. He shrank with fastidi-
ous disgust from those parched and swollen
lips ; and she saw it, and turned her face away,
with an added pang.

“Good-bye!” she faltered, and bowed her
head a moment upon his hand,

The next inriant, the door closed.

It was over, then! He had gone and left her.
Perhaps on earth those two would never meet

in.

“Oh! what have I done to deserve such
misery?” she murmured ; and fainted quietly
on her pillows, just as the good old nurse came
trottang in to look after her charge.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
ANOTHER KIND OF LOVE.
“Though thy voice may lose its sweetness,
And thine eye its brightness too;

Though thy step may lack its fleetness,
And thy buir its sunny hue;
“ Btill to me wilt thou be dearer
Than all the world can own;
T have loved thee for thy beauty,
But not for that alone!

“T have watched thy heart, my Mary,
And its goodness was the wile —
That has made me thine for ever,
Bonnie Mary of Argyll!”
: ; —OLp Sona.

As a matter of sourse, Rose had a relapse.
In fact, she nearly died! ;

The mere fsct of her illness only shows how
foolish it is to care too much for any one in this
world. I beg to state that this observation is
addreased solely to the womenkind who may
read it. I should never dream of doing euch an
absurd thing as to give advices to men in a mat
ter of the heart, when it is a well-established
fact that they are born without such ineonven-
ient appendages. No; a man, if he is liked too
little or too much, bears it, in either case, most
eee ete: If Phillis is unkind, he rushes

om her presence, swearing that he will shoot

 

or hang himself, and may, be, found within the
hour smoking a cheroot at his club, or strolling *
up and down Rotten row, with acritical eye tothe ©
pretty faces that are mustered there. If Phillis is

fond—say she is his wife, and somewhat ab-
surdly affectionate in hér manner—he yawns
mentally, listens to her prattle with an inatten-
tive ear, says yes and no in the wrong places,
and finally pleads a pressing engagement, which '

takes him to the pit of the opera-house, just as
the ballet is beginning.

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

 

But a woman loved over-much can rarely hide |

that she is bored. She yawns physically, rather
than mentally—she snaps and snarls at noth-
ing ; is given to wish herself dead, orin heaven ;
and generally contrives to make it manifest to
eyes that are not too blind to see, that her lot
‘g net exactly an enviable one. While, if she is
not loved—ah, me !—no cigar, no club-gossip,
no brilliant Rotten Row, can heal that wound!
She hides herself from every eye; she can

heart, and hope, and courage, altogether ; and

thinks, as Rose did, that death will end it best |

ofall! And all this, it may be, for the sake of
some man whose eyes are out of the right line,
whose nose is a snub, and whose h’s are nut al-
ways exactly where they should be! The game
may not be worth the powder and shot, it is
true.
go out of fashion is, the folly of a woman.

Rose, tossing again on her sick bed, and call-
ing wildly on the lover who would come no
more! Lord Mountchayne in Londc<n, the pet
of an aristocratic circle of friends, some of whom
were to travel with him! Which picture do
you like the best?

I know who had the most sense of the two.

The box of books came. So did the cottage
piano, which was a gem of its kind, and the
wonder and admiration of all the simple vil-
lagers, who came to see it unpacked. So came
the letter ; and it was kind, though somewhat
cold. It began, “My dear wife,” and ended,
“Your affectionate husband, Mountchayne ;”
and was very correct and proper, and very im-
portant in a Jegal point of view, since it acknowl-
edged the relation between them, in unmistak-
able black and white. As if Rose cared for le-
legal proofs! Dearer to her would have been the
fondest scrap of nonsense—the most absurd pet
name, to provethat she still held the first place in
her lover’s heart. But that assurance he could
not give! She was “Lady Mountchayne” now;
but she was no longer Rose! neither to him,
nor to any one else. She had gained a title,
but she had lost her old familiar friends, as well
as herlover. They seemed afraid to visit her—
they called her ‘“* Madam,” and looked shyly in-
to her changed face. They loved her still, but
no longer as one of themselves. If Lord Mount-
chayne had disowned her, every house in the
village would have been her home—every man
and woman in the village her brother or her
sister. But he had acknowledged her readily
enough. The servants at the Priory drank her
health, as their future mistress; and one day
she would reign supreme in the great house, and
goup to London, and be presented to the Queen !
How, then, could the simple village-maidens of-
fer themselves as her equals and companions
during her temporary seclusion and security ?

She sat apart in her dreary betray broken-
hearted beneath its weight: By slow degrees
shé recovered fror the shock of that cruel in-
terview, took her place beside the window once
more, and the marks of the disease had almost

assed away. She had lost her brilliant bloum,
it is true, and resembled a lily rather than a
rose. But her cheek was smooth again, though
very pale, and her eyes as bright and blue ee
ever; while the golden’hair, which had fallen al-
most entirely off during her illness, began to
grow again in soft tentril-like curls, like those so
often seenupon the head of a very young child.
Her smile was as sweet as ever, but far more
sad ; and her whole face had a look of patient
sorrow, much as a saint’s might wear. There
were many—and Hugh Dennett was one of the
number—who said that she was even more
beautiful than she had been before her: illness.

The young blacksmith ought to have been in
America by the last of August. In fact, his
passage had been already taken, but he gave it
up, and waited at Downe till Rose was quite re-
covered—waited till her husband had left her,
and she had, in a measure, reconciled herself to
the loss. Then, with a great pang tugging at
his heart, he made his arrangements once again,
and secured a berth on a fast-sailing steamer
bound straight for New York. He was to leave
by the mail-coach, which left Downe at nine in
the evening, in time to cateh the first train for
London.

Rose had been warned of his intention, and
was awaiting him with some impatience. Now
that another and a dearer love had failed her,

: there was some comfort in the thought that

here'at least was one heart that still was true.
She' was Lord Mountchayne’s des«rted wife—but
she was also Hugh Dennett's first love ; and her

39

wounded spirit and hurt vanity were somewhat

soothed by that certein knowledge

Pale, trembling, and with a sick remembrance
of other and happier days, Hugh Dennett en-
tered the little room where he had so often
been a welcome and honored guest.

The same old-fashioned chairs—the same
bright, polished fender—the same pictures up-
on the walls—the same little round table where
he had so often sat ou the long winter evenings,
hindering Rose in her work or teaching her

| how to play backgammon, checquers, and
not, because she will not, be cured ; she loses |

But, then, one of the last things that will |

 

chess

Nothing altered! Nothing, did I say? Nay
—there was the vacant seat of the old laborer ;
there was Rose, with the plain gold ring upon
her hand, which typified a future coronet upon
her head ; there was himself, no longer gay and
happy, but a broken-spirited and broken-heart-
ed man, on the point of exiling himself from his
native Jand for ever! Yes, within these four

| low walls, some things were changed.

He went up to Rose, who still occupied her
favorite seat beside the window, and took her
hand. He had meant to be coldly respectful,
as befitting in the presence of the future Count-
ess. But at the first touch of those slight fin-*
gers—at the first look into that dearly loved

et altered face, his pride and his resolution

roke down together. Let her be what she
might to others, to him she must remain for
ever Rose, the “Rose of the world !’—the
woman whom he loved so dearly, that to die for
her sake would be the happiest fate that could
befall him !—the woman for whose sake he had
hoped to live !—the woman whom he had hoped
to see the light of his happy home, his own
dear wife, and the mother of his children !

It was all over now—all over now! He had
no hope for the future connected with her; and
the memory of the past was the keenest anguish
he could feel. Yet, in the midst. of his life-.
wreck, it was sweet to sit beside her once again ;,
sweet, even though he had no longer a claim
upon her kindness!

They were both silent, He, because he was:
afraid to speak, lest he should burst into tears ;
she, because a atill small voice was whispering
in her ears, that it would have been better for her
if she had been satisfied with this love that had
proved itself so true! Ifshe had never gone to
the Priory—if she had never looked into Lord
Mountchayne’s beautiful eyes—if she had never
listened to his flattering words, how much
brighter life would have looked at that mo-
ment !

We all say “if it had not been”, you know,
when thé mischief is done—when the bird is un-
caged—when the ateedis stolen through the un-
locked stable-door. “If it had not been,” for-
tunes would have been made, that are lost for
ever now—reputations tarnished to-day would
have been left intact—friends would have been
true, and lovers not lost —exiles would not have
left their country, nor members of families their
homes—-you would have been happy, and I
should have been wise! But it was, and so all
was spoiled, and the whole world is at sixes aud
sevens With us for ever !

Poor Rose! Of what avail were her unspoken
regrets? She folt ashamed of them almost as
soon as they sprang into existence, and broke
the silence which was becoming so dangerous.

‘And so you are going away, Hugh?” she
raid, softly.

“Yes, Rosa—away from the old village—
waht from the old friends, and away from
you ”

She sighed, and dropped her eyes.

“ Does it grieve you to go?”

“ Not much—why should I stay here now?”

Although he tried to make it kind, his tone
was reprouchful, and her depreeating glance
showed that she felt it so.

“I dou’t mean to blame you, Rose,” he add.
ed, hastily, ‘I don’t want to say a single word
that can give you pain, But you must know
that any place on earth would be better for me
now than Downe... I sta) ed to see you well ouce
more. I have nothing else that can keep me in
the village for a single day.”

“You are right to go, and I understand you
perfectly. But, Hugh, if you suifer when you
think of me, remember this, I suffer too—and
be mereifal !”

“ Yes, you suffer through him!” said Hugh,
clenching his hands aud setung his teeth in-

stinctively.
“Hush!” said Rose. “He is my husband—
yor must not forget that! He means it all for
e best, no doubt, and I cannot expect him to
ve up his mother for me. It would not be

right for him to do so. Still, it is hard to bear;
es

   

Se

SS

ee

arts

patie see toe

    

#0

 

= na = x

and you ean forgive me the more readily,
Worth, since Iam not happy. I cannot afford
to juse even one of my friends now.”

“You have not lost me, Rose—yeu never
will lose me!” said the young man, with a
trembling voice. “To the day of my death I
will be your true friend, since I can be nothing
more. And if you are ever in need of me—if
you ever say, ‘ Hugh, I want your help,’ I will
come to you, though your letter may find me
at the other end of the world! ‘Will you re-
member this ?”

Much moved, she placed her hand in his,
Then some sudden impulse tempted her to ask
him if he found her much changed.

For some moments he looked at her with a
sad smile.

“ You can never change to me, Rose !”

“But I have grown so thin and pale!” she
said, sighing.

“You are almost lovelier than you used to be,
if that will content you! I never thought, six
weeks ago, that you would—”

He stopped short, for the surprised silence
she fixed upon him reminded him that he had
betrayed his secret.

“Six weeks ago!” she eried. ‘Why, I wae
then—oh, how horribly IT looked then! How
did you see me, Hugh ?”

There was nothing for it but to tell her the
whole truth.

“T watched here day and night, Rose. It was
I who brought all your medicines, your fruit,
ona flowers! No; don’t thank me! Good

eavens! if you could ouly know the pleasure
it gave me to serve you, you would never dream
of doing that! I would have fetched and car-
ried like a dog, by day and by night, if it could
have given you a moment’s rest from pain!”

Rose’s eyes filled with tears. How could she
aL contrasting this blind, unselfish devotion
with the indifference of her husband? How
could she help ‘remembering that tne one
caught glimpses of her now and then in the
very height of that loathzome disease, yet
loved her all the same; while the other's first
glance at her altered face showed her that it had
alienated bis heart, perhaps for ever?

“Hugh, I wish Phad known you better when
we were together,” she said, with a faltering
voise. “ was not’ worthy of you, and I had
the presumption to think that you were not
worthy of me. Forgive’ me for that, with all
the rest, and remember that I will never forget
this kindness of yours till the day i die—never
tease to hold you in my heart as my best and

dearest friend. Now let us talk of something
else. Let us talk of America—-that land of
promise where you are going.”’

He passe his hand across his eyes, and then
said, quietly: “It is a land of promise, indeed,
It is a land where the poor man can become
tich, and, what is more, a gentleman, if he sets
the right way about it.”

“And what are you going to do there ?” tim-
idly asked Rose.

“Tura farmer, in the first place, and go out
and settle upon Government land, There are
tare openings in the West for a man with a
strong arm anda bold heart ; and [hope I have
both,” he said, with animation.

“J know you have, my poor Hugh,” she re-
plied, sadly. ‘

“Tn ten years, Rose, I hope to be your rich
Hugh. I believe I can make my fortune there ;
and as the first step I take will be to become a
naturalized citizen of the Republic as soon as
possible, you may hear of me yet in the hall of
Congress—who knows ?” he exclaimed.

“T hope I may ”

“ Stranger things have happened there. Many
a legislator has driven a heard of cows to pas-
ture in his boyhood; many a President graspa
the reins of G-verument with a hand that haa
growp hara against the plowshare. It is a
great country, ose, that can afford to make ita
great men thus; and I shall try hard for the
prizes which are won by the most deserving,

artly because the struggle will give me an ob-
ject to live for; but, most of all, because I think
my success will please you, Rose.”

Tn conversation like this the time passed rap-
idly away. All his schemes for the future were
poured into her listening ear—all his bright
dreams and hopes received a stamp of approval
from her gentle lips; and when the time eame
for them to part, he felt strong enough to give
the whole world battle, and she confident of his
entire success. As he rose to say good-bye,
she took a flower from her beautiful hair and
gave it to bim. :

“Keep that to remind vou of England and of

THE, PRIDE OF THE: DOWNES.

me, and of al] that I expect you to do,” she

said, wilh a sad smile.
| “Tt shall be my talisman—it shall never leave
me while I live; and when I die, its ashes shall
| mingle with mine in my grave,” he answered,
| in a trembling voice. ‘“ Now, farewell, Rose.
| If my future boasts of any action that is good
| and pure, I shall owe it to this evening and to
you. God bless you—God keep you for ever,
Rose !’’

“Good-bye!” she sadly murmured through
her tears.

He kissed her hand—but could not speak.
With that little English flower upon bis breass,
he went away, and Rose was once more alone,

CHAPTER XXXVII.
IN THE LION’S DEN.

“ Steal softly in, for she who sitteth there,

Pale iu her watching, mindless of the night,

Alone with that faint taper’s gleaming light,

Thus findeth refage, from a world of care.

Oh! twine no chaplet for her brow ; no voice

That tells of fame can make her heart rejoice !

She giveth form to visions of delight,

That throng the simple hearth-stone, and the soul

Alive to genial promptiags, and would ask

Requitance of the same for her sweet task.

And should a cadence born of sorrow roll

Along a voice she may not/all control,

Yet not the less an angel lurketh nigh,

To feed life’s flickering lamp, and heavenward lift
the eye.” —E, Oakes Smita.

Our two heroines were, therefore, left entirely
alone ; the one, by her own act—the other, by
the will of those. who controlled her destiny,
rather than her own.

Of the two solitudes, Marian’s was by far the
most preferable. Inthe first place, the romance
and fun of her disguise compensated for the con-
straint it sometimes put. upon her movements.
She could not laugh, and dance, and sing, in
her own room, if a frisky fit seized upon her;
or go down the stairs three at a time, if she was
in a hurry to reach the street-door. But. then
she could go out at any hour of the day or night,
without exciting remarks; and many was the
strange place she visited—many were the strange
scenes she saw from behind the shelter of those
spectacles of hers.

Besides these amusements, she had an em-
ployment of whose dignity she entertained the
most absurd ideas. Acting upon Bessie’s hint,
she was trying her hand at authorship, and put-
ting down in black and white a narrative of all
shat she herself had undergone during the last
few months. It was a pleasant occupation. The
romance of her sorrow still remained, though
its keenest sting had gone; and it was a mourn-
ful yet sweet relief to recall all that she had
thought and felt during her brief season of de-
lusive joy—all that Mountchayne had said and
looked, before he had been won away from her
by the face of the young May Queen. I know
a lady writer who makes a point of falling in
love periodically, in order to supply herself
with subject-matter for her forthcoming novels.
And Marian was unconsciously doing the same
thing for the first time, when she finished her
story, and sat looking at the neat manuscript,
with something of the proud happiness.a yeung
co feels when she gazes upon her first-born
child.

Having written her story, the next thing was
to sell it. Never doubting for one instant. of
her success, she folded it up in a neat. parcel,
wrote on the outside: “The Sorrows of an Or-
phan. AnOwer True Tale, By Marian. Price
£100,” and set off to seek her fortune among

 

the publishers.

it was the most ludicrous of erranis. Don
Quixote tilting at the windmills was a miraele-o}
good sense compared to Marian with her one-
aundred-pound novel.

And se she began to fancy dimly before she
had gone very far.

Of course, she saw very few publishers in pro-
pria persona. The clerks in charge of the dif-
ferent establishments took her for a woman of
fifty, and indulged ia some pretty audible jokes
together as to the success of “the old party”
in the path of literature, before they conde-
scended to inform her that “ Mr. So-and-so re- |
gretted to decline, but their list was entirely |
filled up for some months to come”. Others |
would not even trouble themselves to look/at |
her MS. Others, still, reeommended her to ap-
ply to the periodicals who published “ that sort
of thing”.

Taking this advice, in sheer desperation, she
made her way into office after office, only to re-
ceive civil denials, wondering stares, and half-

 

concealed smiles, which she forgot to set down |

aa er

to the account of her disguise, as_she, ought to
have done. At last, heartsick and humiliated,
she ascended the steps of an office, where she
determined to make one final application, and
if it failed, go back into obseurity—perbaps re-
turn to Philip Vere.

A shock-headed boy met her at the door, and
in answer to her inquiry for the editor, said.
glibly, “ This way, Mum!” aad showed her int:
a large apartment, strewed with books and
papers, where a sharp-looking lad of fourives

sat at a high desk, apparently writing, bu‘

really listening to the conversation of two gen-
tlemen behind him. One of these, a tall, grace:

| ful foreigner, was explaining with many. ges-

tures, and much broken English, the plan of a
manuscript which he held in hig hand. The
other, a tall, thin young man, in glasses, with s
small face, remarkable for nothing save its ex-
pression of stolid gravity and complaceut con.
ceit, listened without moving a muscle of hit
countenance.

Both turned round when Marian eniared,
The thin young man stepped toward her, an”
asked in a voice of funereal gravity :

“Pray, what is your pleasure, Madam ?”

“Ts this the office of the ——?” shs asked,
half afraid that she had made some blunder,
and got into a judge-advocate’s room, or an un-
dertaker’s establishment.

“Tt is, Madam,” he replied with a most awful
bow.

“T wish to speak to the editor.”

“He stands before- you, Madam,” was the
stern reply. Then seeing her glance at the
French gentleman, he added, more impressively
than before :—“T am the editor, Madam. Ifyou
wil? take a chair, I will attend to you directly.”

Marian sat down.

The lad in the corner glanced at her inquisi
tively, and she dared not laugh. But the ineli
nation to do so became stronger and stronger
every moment.

The paper was a weekly periodical of the
usual kind—filled with engravings, love-stories,
historiettes, and merry anecdotes. There was
nothivg in its columns to justify the funereal
gravity of its editor. He had to read the
proofs of as many sensazion novels and comical
stories as the rest of his brethren, year by year;
yet from his marner one would have thought
nothing more mirthful than Young’s “ Night
Thoughts” or Fox's “ Book of Martyrs” had
ever been under his supervision.

The truth was, that he had but lately entered
on the duties of his post; and being somewhat
given to over-estimating himself, and under-
estimating his felluw-creatures, he had come
to think it the highest of all earthly posi-
tions. To sit in that. editorial chair, and
reign supreme over 8 host of contributions and
a “Balaam’s baskrt’’, was all be asked of for-
tune to bestow. When he went out in the
streets, he fancied that people said to each
other, ‘‘ There goes ——, the editor of the ——”,
and took airs upon himself accordingly. He
ate, drank, and slept as an editvr—never as
man! Whatever he said, did, or thought, had
some reference to that unhappy paper and his
connection with it; and his friends and ac-
quaintances fled in terror when they saw him
coming, 80 sure were they of the conversation
that must ensue, Your wife and children might
die—-your house might be burned to the ground
—your fortune might take to itself wi ‘your
friends cut you—and if you went to him with
the tale of sorrow, he would answer you with
the last account of the number of copies that
horrible paper bad sold.

Saturated, as he was, with the idea of his own
and his journal's importance, it was no wonder
that he “assumed the god” when in personal
conference with his would-be contributors. He
approached Marian with a look of supreme con-

_ descension ; took the peat little parce! from her
' outstretched hand, and deigned to say, “ Mann

script?”

“Yes,” she answered, biting her lip.

“For the ——?”

“Tf it is liked.”

“The Sorrows of an Orphan’, Hum—ho!
Prose, of course ?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Ever written before ?”

“Never.” ‘

“Oh dear me! Will you allow me to keep
it a few days? Iwill look it over. IfI do not

like it, you sliall have it again, If I do—hum!
—I'll give you five pounds for it, Madam!” ~
Five pounds ! and she had marked it a hun.
deed pounds!
The magnificent air with which he named

 

 
—

 

See

the sum, wae too much for her gravity. She

ok the manuscript, muttered timidly that she
would call again, and made her escape. Ne
doubt the worthy editor thought her mad. Ha
would have been sure of it had he seen her five
minutes later—laughing, a3 if she would choke
herself, in a quiet corner of the court.

“Now, I wish I knew what amuses you so,”
said a rich, mellow voice by her side.

She started and looked round. A sunny-
faced, white-haired old gentleman, whose mouth
Jooked as if it could do nothing but smile,
stood there, looking as if he would very much
like to laugh too.

Some lucky impulse made Marian give him a
description of her visit to the editor. He laugh-
ed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

“Capital!” he cried. “The man to the very
life! ive me your story, Madam, and I’ll see
justice done to it. Why, that is my paper,
and my editor. Come here the day after to-
morrow, and I hope we shall be able to give you
an engagement.”

Marian’s propensity to laugh had served her
a good turn at last. She was engaged, within
three days, upon the paper, at a salary of three
pounds a week. It seemed a fortune in her
eyes, and never were fairer castles built in the
air than those she constructed while she sat be
fore her desk.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

A STRANGE MEETING.

“« There breathe but few whose aspect might defy

The full cncounter of his searching cye ;

He had the skill, when Cunning’s gaze would seek

To probe his heart, and watch his changing cheek,

At once the observer’s purpose to espy,

And on himself roll back his scrutiny,

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray

Some secret thought, then drag that chiefs to-day.

There was a laughing devil in his sneer,

That raised emotions both of rage and fear;

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,

Hope withering fled—and Mercy sighed farewell !”
—Bynon.

For six mene all went on well with Marian.
She was employed regularity, paid regularly,
and found Seiten te in im, patie sens
and simple way of life, than any one could have
imagined she would do.

To her kind patron, the genial, merry-hearted
old publisher, she had communicated some-
thing of her own story ; and, by his adviee, she
had removed to other lodgings, and laid asida
her disguise.

“ Masquerading is all very wel! in books, m:
dear child,” he observed; ‘‘ but we are suc
very matter-of-fact people in England, that we
begin to suspect something is wrong the mo-
ment there is anything hidden, so throw off
your weeds, and let me see you as you really
are.’

She took his advice, losing somewhat in good
looks by the exchange, but gaining immensely
in hie opinion, which was a matter of far great-
er importance. Dressed neatly and beer
in apparel suited to her age and sex, she took a
pleasant lodging in Brompton, and was fairly
embarked upon the great sea of litcrature, ua-
der far more favorable auspices than inany more
worthy than herself could boast.

She was very happy in her quiet way. The
key-note of her character was a me ancholy
one, it is trae, but over and around the minor
chords played brilliant fantasias of joyous mel-
ody ; and she always impressed those who met
her with the notion that she was one of the gay-
est, happiest creatures on earth. Too philo-
sophical to mourn long over unattainable joys,
too busy to fret over departed ones; her days
were full of work, which was sufficiently en-
grossing to tire her, and her evenings were
spent at theatres, at concerts, wherever her
good-natured patron deemed it right and proper
that she should go. Having taken it into his
head that she was an_ill-used Pea, he
made an immense pet of her; and, as he had a
kind old wife, who was quite as fond of her as
himself, there was no danger of that ill-natured
scandal which too often spoils, and sometimes
utterly prevents, such friendly relations be-
tween publishers and the lady-writers whom
-— employ.

n one of the pleasant flowery suburbs of
London this kind old couple had their home;

and Marian was a most welcome visitor at

 

‘Lawn Mead” whenever it suited her to go |

there. Her Sundays were posers
them and with the guests who so often came to
enjoy their hospitality. The lawn was a favor-
ite resort with all students of character; for
Mr. and Mrs, Canton were most Catholic in
their recognition of talent. Artists, poets, au-

uors, reporters, inventors, orators, actors, sing- .

spent with —

OF

: ue
ers, and musicians —all knew the way to Lawn —

Mead, and took it so often that the cottage at

times could scarcely find room to accommodate |
its merry Visitors. “They did not mind a little |

inconvenience, however. There were im-

romptu gatherings on the lawn, and moon-
Fieht dances, and amateur theatricals, and gip-
sying parties, and strawberry feasts—every-
thing, in short, that was informal and delight-
ful, offhand and hearty. If any one came once
to that pleasant place, he or she was very apt
to wish to come again; and Marian considered
herself highly favored in being, in a measure,
the daughter of the house. Every one unbent
there, unless it was the stiff editor, who could
not forget his own importance, even while he
ate strawberry ices, and drank lemonade in the
garden porch, Everybody, with that one ex-
ception, seemed to be simply and naturally
happy—every one looked delighted with them-
selves and their Prat a state of beatitude
very seldom attained to by an Englishman in
company, or—low be it spoken—by an English
woman, either.

Ta thie strangely mixod, yet really select cir-
ele of guests, Marian, by degrees, grew to be
quite at home. At first she was shy and timid,
and fancied that whenever she spoke she made
herself ridiculous. But as the number of

uests increased, her self-distrust wore away.

he saw other plain women there besides herself
—nay, some who were downright ugly, and yet
they were liked and listened to by every one.
She took courage then, and ventured to open
her mouth. Finding that she could open it to
some purpose if she chose, one after another
out of the throng began to talk with her. She
had no sooner begun to converse than she for-
got herself entirely (a thing which often hap-
pens to very shy people), and made so agree-
able a companion, that no party was considered
a success unless she was there. Add to this so-
cial popularity among the most’ agreeable peo-
ple, the fact that little by little she was going
up the ladder of literary advancement—that
her stories (simple sketches of every-day life
though they were), were beginning to be read,
liked, and inquired for; and that she, like all
other beginners, thought this meant fame, which
was to endure to the end of the world, and you
will understand that her position was by no
means an unenviable one.

She changed greatly during those few short
months—for better, and for worse. ‘

_ For better, since her shyness and morbid sen-
sitiveness had gone, in a great measure, for
ever.

And because the kindness shown to her by
her benefactor and his wife had softened her
heart, and made her more disposed to look upon
the world at large with friendly eyes,

For worse, because, from being shy and hum-
ble, she had grown to be, in the secret depths
of her heart, both arrogant and proud.

Because she had also grown luxurious and
selfish. Her simple home—her quict dress, no
longer suited her. She pined for luxury—for
wealth. She longed for a handsome house,
where she, too, might entertain a host of friends ;
she wanted a carriage of her own, and some
thoroughbred horses to draw it; she would
have liked a dresses, and magnificent
jewels, and all the countless goods and pleasures
which nothing but round pieces of the yellow
metal known as gold can possibly procure.

Now, a carriage, and a coachman, and foot-
men, and two thoroughbred horses, together
with a saddle-horse for the Park, to say nothing
of fine dresses and costly jewels, cannot, by an
alchemy of which Iam cognizant, be conjure
out of five pounds per week. That sum was
Marian earning by her pen. Not one penny did
she save. At the week’s end her purse was al-
ways empty. It was not enough; and there
was danger of her growing envious of her
richer friends, and a little discontented with her
own position, promising as it was.

At this time, if she had been free, she would
have married a man for his wealit and position,
rather than for any affection she felt for him.
“ Love was the greatest nonsense iu the world,”
she averred, with a manifest sincerity that kept
any would-be suitor at bay, through dread of
making himeelf ridiculous, and getting well
laughed at. Mammon was by far the most re-
spectable power in her eyes! And then the
thought would flash across her mind, “ Did not
that horrible Philip Vere tell me that he held

: the key of my fortune in his hand? Why need

I fear him? I am no longer a stupid child.
Why should I not seek him out, and ask what
this wonderful seeret can be?”

THE DOWNES.

 

At

long, that, at last, it shaped itself inte a pur-

ose, She would not let a fortune slip through
bee grasp, from an absurd dislike to the person
who alone knew where it lay. And, according-
ly, she went one morning straight into the lion’s
eh In other words, she hired a cab, drove to
the house from which she had made a moonlight
flitting only eight months before, and asked to
see Mr. Vere.

But who ean answer for the change eight !ong
months may make in a Londonstreet and its in-
habitants. Eight months! why, in that time,
an English gentleman may take a trip “from
Coruhill to Cairo”, and discover the source of
the Nile, by way of amusement, before he re-
turns, if he likes. In eight months, you may
make a tour through America; you may make
a fortune or lose one ; you may get married or
brought up before Sir Cresswell Cresswell to
settle your domestic affairs; you may find
yourself at the top of the tree and low down
among the trees; you may be famous and infa-
mous ; beloved and hated ; a millionaire whom
all delight to honor, and a convict breaking
stones—all in that little space of time. If
countries can be ruined, and empires lost and
won, in so many weeks, surely a London street
may change all its inmates, without exciting a
single exclamation of surprise.

Yet Marian was surprised, when a strange
face appeared at the door, and a strange voice,
with a most unmistakable brogue, informed her
that nothing whatever was known there of any
Mr. Vere—still less of any Madame Angelo.
Marian drove back to her Brompton lodgings,
feeling somewhat bewildered, angry, and disap-
pointed. It was very vexatious, that when just
as she ventured to move one of the figures in
her game of life for the first time, it should
be suddenly whisked away out of her sight ard
reach—for aught she knew—for ever!

She did not know where to seek for the truant
pair. She fancied that they were together, and
that to find one would be to discover the other.
But Bessie, whose advice she asked, could give
no guess as to their whereabouts. Mr. Vere had
no business-address in London, and she did not
know the name of the club to which he belong-

ed, and Madame Angelo had no friends or ac-
quaintances in the city, so that to search for her,
was, the girl averred, like “ looking for a needle
ina bundle of hay”. She seemed to wonder why
any one could wish to do such a thing.

“If they’ve gone, Marian, joy go with them,
Isay. It’s the best thing that ever happened
to you, in my opinion, to get rid of a man like
that so easily.”

Marian did not choose to enlighten her too
far ; so she only smiled, said good-bye, and went
back to her room again. But often she laid
down the rapid pen, and leaned back in a chair,
while between her and the well-filled paper rose
the brightest visions of the future — visions
which might well make her forget the more so-
ber present in the fitful light of their splendid
glow. No longer poor, no longer toiling for
her daily bread, no longer chaining her truant
fancy to so many pages of ‘‘ copy” each week,
in order to supply those cormorants of printers,
and their ravenous machinery! In the future,
all was light, and bright, and beautiful. There
was to be no more drudgery, only that light
and pleasant labor which is one of love, and
which really does justice to the worker, There
was a stately home, filled with gay aud gallant
guests—and she the light and centre of then
all! Rich, famous, young, and full of health,
what would there then be left for her to desire ’

But, alas! the key to this paradise was lost,
unless she found the missing Philip Vere.

She never thought of him as her husband
He was something to be dreaded and feared at
firat ; something to be found now, since so muceli
depended upon his presence; something to be
made use of—never something to be loved!

How was he to be told that she needed him ?
She knew that he would come at her bidding,
since it was for his own interest to do so. But
how should she summon him?

She thought of the first column of the Times.
Laughed at the idea at first, yet gradually be-
gan to think it a feasible one. Some one must
surely see those appeals, and answer them, els«
why did people go on inserting them?

She wrote out a neat little form forthe paper
thus :—“ Downe Reserve.—Will P. V. inform
M. M. where he is now to be found ?” slipped it
in her pocket, and went down to the office, iu-
tending to take it to the Times herself that af-
ternoon.

hance ordained, however, that the sum

The thought lay dormant in her mind go ‘ Which she had set aside to pay for its insertion
See

ee

eee

4

s}.ould remain in her purse; for as she sat in
the editor’s room that morning, correcting the
prow of her story, while the editor himself
oomed imposingly over a review on the other
side of the table, she heard ber kind patron’s
voice outside, in a most animated key.

“ Nonsense, my dear Sir! I insist upon your
coming in! She will take it quite as a compli-
ment. I assure you!”

The door was flung open. Marian looked up, |
and the solemn editor elevaced his eyebrows to |

au angle of forty-five degrees, as Mr. Canton
entered, leading a tall, handsome gentleman by
the arm.

“ My dear child, this is my best friend — my
adopted son, I may say—just returned from a
tour of several years in the East. Shake hands,
as you two must be great friends!”

‘Thus the old man rattled on. :

And Marian sat, pale and silent, looking up
into the dark, laughiag eyes of Philip Vere.

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.
DARBY AND JOAN.

4 He knew himself a villain—but he deemed
The rest no better than the thing he seemed
And scorned the best as hypocrites who hid
Those deeds the bolder spitft plainly did.
He knew himself detested, but he knew
The hearts that loathed him, crouched, and dreaded

Oe

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exemps

From alli affection and from all contempt ;

His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ;

But they that feared him dared not to despise ;

Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake

The slumbering venom of the folded snake;

The first may turn—but not avenge the blow ;

The last expires—but leaves no living foe;

Fast to the doomed offender's form it clings,

And he may crush—not conquer—still it stings!”

—Brnon.

No doubt, you think I have chosen a most
seculiar piace for the meeting of my hero and
heroine. A dull city office! a printing-office to
boot! with a solemn owl of an editor, and a
small boy looking on! Well—I don’t know!
Romantic scenes have not always romantic sur-
roundings, except upon the stage. One of the
most horrible tragedies of modern life was per-
formed in a dusty office in the Strand, when two
men nearly hacked each other to pieces, for the
sake of a light-hearted woman, who probably
laughed at them both when she read the account
of their awful death in her next day's paper.
And I, who write these words, have witnessed
as pathetic a little drama as one would see at
the New Adelphi, within the four walls where
those heartless instruments of torture—thuse
zacks for luckless authors—known as “ Hoe’s
cylinder presses”, were grinding out their un-
wearying remorseless din. I have seen a part-
ing most heartrending, where, a foreman in

aper cap and white apron looked unconscious-
io have seen the anguish of a broken
spirit show itself in the eyes that were only
raised from the long strips of “ proof” for an
instant. I have seen, in fact,a woman and a
man who loved each other dearly, part from
amid that noisy din, conscious that it was tue
last word on earth, yet never daring to make
either tender, for the careless witnesses that
stood around. Cupid can get into a printing-
office as well as into a drawing-room, if need
be; and since one of the first novelists of the
fay introduces hia hero and heroine to each
pther in a three-penny boat, I have something
like precedent to guide me, in the peculiar
place which I choose.

Marian—poor child!—knew little and cared
hess just then, whether she was in an editor's
room, or the erypt of the British Museum.
The first sensation at the sight of that man was
one of aversion and horror. Her first thought
was, “ He holds my secret in his handa!”. Her
second, “* Now I shall be rich!”.

He locked at her with an amused smile, and
held out his band. :

“Weill, truth is stranger than fiction, to a
dead certainty!” he observed. ‘“ Who could
have expected, when I called to be presented to
the most promising authoress of the day, that I
should meet you?”

She said that his mission was genuine, though
not everpowering. He said that be had had no
idea of meeting her; but that he was glad at
having done so; and she determined, on the in-
stant, never to let him know how eagerly she
had looked for him. Accordingly, sie mur
mured an almost inaudible greeting, whicu he
was at liberty to translate in any way he ehose,
aod waited his further movements, with a per-
fectly-composed air. 3

The good publisher, by this time, was star-
ing from one to the other, in the utmost bewild-
erment,

gerpen tes

 

“You know Mr. Verner, then ?” he asked of
| Marien.
| “Oh, perfectly!” she answered, with a smile
| that made Mr. Vere atter a small mental oath,
and break in somewhat rudely, with: ‘ This is
| neither the time nor the place for explanation,
| much as you have to make, Marian. If you
will allow me to accompany you home, Mr.
Canton will, perhaps, look in upon us this even-
| ing, and hear all we have to tell him?”

‘As you please!”

And she gathered up her papers, locked her
desk, nodded a good-bye to her old friend, and
left the office, utterly overlooking the arm
which Mr. Vere profiered for her acceptance.

The worthy old publisher rubbed his hair
furiously the wrong way when they were gone.

“Her home! Call on them—they will ex-
plain! And he marches her off, without so
much as saying, ‘ By your leave’, And what is
stranger still, she goes! Why, it can’t be ; and
yet it must! Bless my soul, what a stupid old
donkey I was not to see it before |”

With these incoherent exclamations, the wor-
thy oli gentleman trotted off, leaving the
solemn editor much wondering, and the embryo
publisher on the qué vive to get at the bottom
of this wonderful mystery, in which his favor-
ite, Miss Marian, bore so prominent a share.

In the meantime, Marian took her silent com:
panion to her lodgings in Brompton. Admit-
ting herself by a latch-key, she led him inte a
small but beuutifully-furnished drawing-room,
motioned him to a sofa, tock off her bunnet and
elvak, unlocked a small chifivuier, and brought
him a glass of wine and a plate of biscuits with
the most immovable gravity.

He made a low bow, drank the wine, and
pushed the plate aside. .

“There is some sign of hope for me, since
you allow me to break bread beneath your
roof,” he remarked: ‘ And now sit down here
beside me, and let us hear all about it.”

“T have nothing to tell,” she said, quietly,
taking an easy-chair at a little distance from the
Bol

ae

“Nothing! Well, that is a good one! Astar
of the first magnitude in the literary firmament,
and yet not one word to say as to the cause of
your shining!”

“You are very kind; but you have given me
a brevet rank among the planets!”

“Modest! By the piper that played before
Moses! I have ‘ou a live authoress who
ranks herself not as London particular, but as
very small beer! Where’s Barnum?”

“In New York, most probably,” replied Mar-
ian, quite unmoved beneath his sneers,

“T ought to send for him; but I havea great
mind to take his business out of his hands and
turn showman myself, Do you really mean to
tell me, my dear, that you have no serious
thoughts of setting the Thames on fire ?”

“You can take a sail as far as Kew with per-
feet, impunity. The river is in no danger from
me.” -

“ Well, it is quite refreshing to see that you
have some common sense left. Now, what put
you up to this dodge, if I may ask the ques-
tion?”

“ What dodge ?””

“Pothooks and hangers, my love. Getting
your liviug by the aid of the goose, or by the
help of Gilott & Co.!”

‘* Perhaps it was the necessity of getting that
living,” she answered, quietly. “I should have
starved if I had not found out that I could write.
Unless, indeed, I had taken in washing or done
plain sewing.”

“ For the slop-shops, at the rate of sixpence
half-penny a week, out of which magnificent
sum you would have had to beard yourself, and
pay for lodging, fire, and lights. What a for-
tune you would have made there! I doubt
whether it would have been safe to trust you
with so much spare cash,”’

* Perhaps not.”

“But fo this business—for it seems tp be a
mere matter of bread and butter with you—I
should say you might do pretty well.”

“ Very well indeed.”

He looked round the room.

“That depends upon what your notion of |

doing eee well may be. Is this your only
room

“Ub, no!”

“Bedroom at the back, I suppose, to
match ?”

“ Yes.”

“Hum! let us see. Brussels earpet that has
seen its best days; horsehair chairs and sofas;
rose wood pianoforte, more than slightly ahab-

 

 

a

 

 

by ; sideboards, ditto ; tablecloth a shade light-
er than the curtains; hearthrug of quite a dif-
ferent color ; china shepherds and shepherdess-
es, and glass vases on the mantle-piece; the
‘Death of Nelson’, and the ‘*Curonation of
George the Fourth’ upon the walls—to say
nothing of those two landscapes whioh might
pass for views in New Zealand or in Devonshire.
And this is what you call doing very well in-

| deed 1’

Marian smiled.

* You have made the most of the room’s de-
fects. But I have a comfortable home among
kind and respectable people—enough to eat,
drink, and wear. What more can | ask for?’

“Oh, nothing! I was not aware that you
had been transformed into a female Diogenes.
The tub is admirably adapted for your purpose,
if such is the case. I was werely thinking that
there were some women inthe world who would
not object to a whole house in the place of two
rooms—to magnificent furniture in the place of
these worn-out chairs and tables—to brocades
and moirés in the place of that very neat black
silk you wear—to diamonds in the place of
those brown braids which are so becoming to
your peculiar style of beauty!”

Marian’s eyes sparkled, and her cheeks flush-
ed. In spite of the sueers and sarcasms which
he uttered, he was gradually approaching the
subject which she longed to hear discussed.

‘Perhaps I may have a taste for all the lux-
uries you name, as well as other women,” she
said, carelessly. ‘But cui bono? My taste
would only make me unhappy, if I stopped to
think about it, since it can never be gratified.”

“Humph! What fibs you do teil!”

“ 'Piank you for your evurtesy.”

“ When you kuow, aa well as I do, that all
these things may be yours for the mere ask-
ing!”

“Vell me how ?”

* L would have done so long ago, if you had
but had sense enough to know when you were
well off. But you had not. You choose tu
take a miff, and ran away just wheu you could
have grasped the treasure in your hand. If it
had not been for my own advantage as well as
yours, hang me if ever I would have taken a
step to find you.”

“Well, let that pass. You did take steps, I
presume ?”

“JT should rather imagine I did. I hunted
London through, and actually put the detectives
on your track. How you got away, or where
you hid yourself, puzzles me to imagine.”

Marian Jaughed.

“Never mind where I went, or what I did.
What did you do next?”

“Concluded you had gone to the Continent,
and dashed off after vou there; the search cost
me, I should say, on the whole, about six hun-
dred pounds, And all the while you were safe
and snug in London. I met our old friend in
the Strand this morning, and as I am rather a
protégé of his, he is wild on the subject of my
marriage, and introduces me, with that view, to
every pretty girl he comes across, I had not
seen him for a long time, and trumped up @
story about absence on the Continent and in the
East, as an excuse for not reporting myself
sooner. The amiable old boy peeeth my ex-
cuse immediately, and then went off into rap-
tures about you. He said you were the clever-
est and nicest woman he ever saw in hia Jife—
not a bit of nonsense about you—and so witty
that you made him almost die with laughing,
the first time he ever met you. Between you
and me, that is no great achievement; for the
dear old fellow is always shaking his sides over
something or other. But as I had never seen a
witty woman in my life, I thought I might as
well improve the opportunity—and lo! the re-
sult. ‘The very thing I had been scheming for
eight long months, which I had given up at
last in sheer disgust, as an utter failure, was
brought about in an instant, by a trivial fit of
idle curiosity, without any exertion on my own
part, which shows my dear, how much better it
Is after all, to trust implicitly to Providence,
than to attempt to paddle your own eanoe.”

Marian paid little attention to the moral tag
which his recital closed. She had little trust in
Providence, but greater trust in destiny; and
it seemed to her that that meeting so strange —
go unexpected, yet so exactly what they both
wished, was indeed the work of something about

That something she called, Fate! And for
the first time she felt that her whole future life _
must be POE y connected with the life and
fortunes of this man who was her husband, and
whem she hated!

_ and beyond themselves,
 

Well~be it so! At least she would secure
all the good possible from the unfortunate con-
netion.

“ And now that you have found me,” she said,
“what do you intend to do?”

“Make you a rich woman, my dear, if you
will but let me.”

“T assure you I have not the slightest objec-
tion.”

“Ah! I thought as much, notwithstanding
all your boasts about the tub, Well, then, shall
we let bygones be bygones, and etart fair once
more ?”

She was silent.

me Perhaps I behaved badly to you at Madame
Angelo’s ?”

“Only, perhaps!”

“Well, say I did, then; say Iam a scamp,
and a villain, if you like, and you won’t be far
from the truth! But].¢ that pass. I mean to
behave honorably and justly by you in thia
business. You can at least give me credit for

that!”

“Very well; I will!”

“Shake hands, then!”

She gave him her hand.

“That is something like. And now, listen to
my story ; I will make it as short and as plain
ae I possibly can!

CHAPTER XL.
THE MYSTERY REVEALED.

“« Poor was the girl, yet still to grief unknown,
Save when a jagged stone she careless pressed,

Or trod on humble-bee, withouten shoe,

Or thorn projecting pierced her sun-burnt breast

Or tore the ringlets from her brow away,

Which after lined the active robin’s nest,

Who sang for her a more melodious lay,

What though those tangled locks might half disguise

The speaking lustre of her soulful eyes!

What though were darkly stained her childish brow ;

No inward pang its form of grace had riven;

And though its hue be fairer, softer now,

Oh, doth it turn as innocent to Heaven!

Both it now bend in prayer as sure to be forgiven !”
—E, Oakes Suita.

“In the first place, it is necessary to go back
Jor many years,” said Mr. Vere; “and to speak
of a place whose name will sound most familiar
to you—-of Downe Reserve!”

Marian’s face flushed instantly. There was
then, after all, some connection between her and
that deserted place, toward which she bad al-
ways felt so strong and so mysterious an attrac-
tion.

“You know the old crow’s nest well enough,”
he went on. “I dare say you like it, tumble-
down old nook as it is. More than I do—but
that is a matter of taste. Do you happen to
know, by the way, how far that estate extends?”

“The fields and farm are large. They spread

to the right and left, as far as you can see,” re-
plied Marian. ‘Exactly north and south, east
and west, whichever way you choose to look,
there lie the lands of Downe Reserve. The wind
cannot stir a tree-top, or kiss a flower, within
two miles of the house, that does net belong to
it! Sweet winds they are, too. It is a pretty
part of the country—I must acknowledge that.
As the American poem speaks of another place,
equally favored :
“<It may blow north—it still is warm ;
Or south—it still is clear ;
Or east—it smells like a clover-farm ;
Or west—no thunder fear !’

“Like a clover-farm! I should like a clover
farm myself by the way. I wonder if some of
the spare land around the house could not be
turned into one. It would be worth trying the
experiment. Only fancy, three or four acre@
ef perfume arouud your home! Where would
Jean Maria Fariva be then?”

Marian folded ber hands, and leaned back in
her chair, with a look of patient endurance that
seemed to say she had given up the idea of fol-
lowing his meauing through this rambling rhap-
sody about ciover-farms. He laughed, and
begged her pardon. e

“T have been eo much eloue all my life long
that I have contracted a very bad habit of talk-
ing to myself,” he observed. “I will not stray
away from my subject any more to try experi-
ments in fancy. Time enough for that when the
land is under my foot, and the spade or hoe in
my hand. Now, grant me your attention once
more, You know that the estate of Downe Re-
serve is large; but have you any idea what the
reg is worth?”

« .

_ “Principal and interest have been accumulat-
ing together for the last ten years. There is @
wery snug little sum laid up in the Three-per-
Gents; and the whole of the farms, I should

bien fee Qt Ae

 

|

say, could not bring in less than five thousand
ayear. What do you think of that?”

“ A very nice income for its owner.” |

“And going a begging—positively begging
for that owner, my dear!”

“ How is that ?”*

“You have heard the old wives’ stories about
the house?”

“That it is haunted ?”

“ What nortsense!”

“Oh, butitis! Isaw something myself there
once |”

Mr. Vere burst into a loud laugh.

‘Is it possible that you believe in ghosts ?”

“What are they 2?”

“Ghosts, my dear! But ghost issuch a com-
mon word. Now, the term which the negroes
use, seems to me to have a certain grotesque
force in itself which is well suited to the sub-
ject. A ghost isa myth tome. Butwhen you
mention a ‘spook’, I can see the thing at once,
coming down a dark passage—a gruesome erea-
ture mufiled in a sheet, with a white face, and
horns, and a green eye in the middle of its fore-
head, or something of that sort. That is a
‘spook’, depend upon it!”

“Then it was no ‘ spook ’,” said Marian, smil-
ing. ‘It was a genuine, old-fashioned English
ghost !” s

“And in what form did it appear, if 1 may
ask such a question?”

“Tn the form of a lady, who sat on an iron
chest, and wrung her hands and wept.”

Mr. Vere whistled, and looked both surprised
and interested.

“A lady on an iron-chest! Where did you
gee her?”

“ At Downe Reserve.”

“Yes; but where? Inside the house ?”

“Yes.”

“You were plueky enough to gothere? In
what room did you see her?”

“In a small room at the top of the house. It
looks like a bath-room.”

Again Mr. Vere whistled.

“By Jove! There may be truth in such
things, after all. Did you ever hear the history
of that lady, Marian ?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“ But you surely know the legend of Downe
Reserve ?”

“ Oh, yes.”
‘ When Downe Reserve shall lose its helr=’
Is that what you mean ?” .

“Itis. Downe Reserve did lose its heir, yo
know.”

“But I never heard that ‘shame and re-
morse’ lingered there in consequence, aa the le-
gend said they would do?”

“No? Think again!”

“Oh, I know!” and she colored vividly.

“If one may trust to Madam Rumor, shame
came with the last ‘ Lady Beaufort’, as she was
called; and remorse was not long after his
brother, I fancy.”

“No. They were not very happy.”

“So rumor says again, But the true story is
far stranger than the fictitious one, Shall I tell
it to you?”

“Tf you please.”

“Lady Beaufort she was in reality. Sir Fran
cis married her,”

“How do you know that?”

“You will see presently. She was a hand-
some and elegant woman, and the sister of the
family solicitor, though that was never known.
She did not love the baronet. She was broken-
hearted at the loss of a former lover, who was
reported dead in the West Indies ; and she mar-
ried simply to please her brother, who thought
ita fon thing to be connected with so old a
family. Well, she came to Downe Reserve.
Sir Francis refused to make his marriage publi.
He gave no reason for his conduct; and when
she found what it entailed upon her, she refused
to leave the house or grounds, If ghe had
gone through the neighborhood, saying, ‘I am
really Lady Beaufort’, no one would have be-
lieved her, if he kept silence. She knew this
well, and submitted to her degradation, but it
did not make her love her husband the better.
If an heir had been born—or eyen an heiress—
he would have acknowleged her as his wife at
onee. I am afraid she was woman enough to
rejoice, as year after year went by, and there
was no child! While they were living this life,
@ mysterious stranger turned up, as you have

, DOWNES.

 

heard, at the village inn, Now, mysterious
strangers are invariably in the way; and this |
one was peculiarly so, fur he was no other than |
the first love, who ought to have been resting |
eomfortably in his grave in the West Indies,
“Be went te Downe Reserve, and by some

43

means or other contrived te gain access to the
private room of Lady Beaufort—oue of the very
rooms which you visited in your wild-goose
search into the mysteries of the place. A pret-
ty scene ensued, as you may well imagine ; and
while she was weeping in his arms, or something
of that kind, Sir Francis happened to walk in!

‘Now, the gay baronet had probably found
his way into many a fair lady's boudoir in his
time, without stopping to ask permission of her
husband. But when one comes to marry one’s
self, then little peceadilloes present themselves
in quite a different light. 1 should not like to
find a handsome young man in your private
study, my love. Sir Francis had serious objec-
tions to his wife’s receiving visitors also; and as
he was rather apt to act before he spoke, at
times, he made no more ado about the matter,
but quietly ran the stranger through before he
had time to draw in his own defence—in fact,
while Lady Beaufort’s arms were around him ;
so that he died upon her breast. I dare say that
repaid him for all the comfort of being sent into
the next world in such a violent hurry—don't

ou?”
: “Tam eure I cannot say,” replied Marian.
“ But how did Sir Francis manage to escape the
hangman ?”

“Very easily. You can do almost anything
in this world, provided you have plenty of mo-
ney, and brains enough to tell you how to use
it. Sir Francis took the matter very quietly.
Lady Beaufort, of course, went into hysterics.
It is a way some women have ; and it must be
confessed that it was rather an unpleasant scene
for the poor thing to witness.”

“TJ should think so,” said Marian, dryly.

“Well, it was the very best thing she could
have done, under all circumstances, It gave
Sir Francis time to act. lle locked the door,
put her ladyship comfortably on a sofa, and
employed that time t» such a good purpose,
that when she recovered, there was no trace of
her lover except the blood that stained the
floor.” 3

“‘ Where was he then ?”

‘Ah! where, indeed? You would never
guess. You must know that all this happeved
in the boudoir—the outer dhamber of the suite.
The next room was a bedroom.”

“T know.”

“When she found her lover had disappeared,
and that Sir Francis either could not or would
not tell what had become of him, the poor
woman rushed into her own room, snatched up
a little penknife from her writing-desk, and
stabbed herself, as she thought, to the beart.”

“Did she die, too?” asked Marian, turning
pale, as she remembered the disordered couch
and blood-stained pillow, which sbe herself had
geen,

“Not a bit of it. She only gave herself a
scratch just enough to draw blood, and frighten
her half to aeath, but not enough to scare Six
Francis. In spite of her illness, and her terror,
he lugged her away bodily the very next morn-
ing, and all the servants went with them.
Downe Reserve was left to the bats and the
owls, and, according to your account, to the
spooks also.”

“ But what became of Lady Beaufort ?” ask-
ed Marian, looking deeply interested,

Mr. Vere laughed significantly.

“She had her revenge, my dear. By hook
or by crook, sooner or later, a woman always
manages to get that, and she was like the rest of
her amiable sex. The greatest desire of her
husband's heart was for a child—an heir to hia
name and his estate. She knew that that desire
was about to be granted at last. She was about
to tell him the welcome news, when that un-
lucky lover turned up, and set every one by the
ears. After he was disposed of, she had a sulky
fit, as a matter of course, and held her tongue.
Her husband knew nothing of her secret. Only
two persons did know it ; one was Mrs Pryor—

our friend at the Pleasaunce ; the other, old
lartin, the laborer.”

Marian uttered an exclamation, She began
to see dimly what the end of this strange tale
must be.

“ You are anticipating my news,” said Mr.
Vere, with a smile. “ But never mind; hear
me to the end. Lady Beaufort, before ber
her forced flight, continued to see these two,
and made them promise, if any evil fortune be-
fell her, that they would watch, even at a dis-
tance, if needs be, over the welfare of her child.

| They did promise, and she went away. But in

one month from the day of her departure, she
managed togive Sir Francis tire slip ; aud thoayh
he searched the Continent ali over, be nvver
44

THE

saw her again, nor did he ever know of the
birth of bis child.”

“And that child?” said Marian, pale with
suspense.

“Is yourself, you think I am going to say!
And you are right, in a measure. But there
were two children, as it happens.”

“FBarol te

“ Twins, my dear!”

“A boy and a girl ?”

“On the contrary ; two girls.”

“1 bave a sister, then?” said Marian, prese
ing her hand upon her forehead.

* You have.”

* And I am the child of Lady Beaufort?”

* And of Sir Francis also.”

“Downe Reserve belongs to me?”

“To you and your sister; or, rather to your
sister and to you!”

“ What do you mean?”

* She is the eldest by some few minutea She
holde the position of an eldest son, therefore
aud you of @ younger one.”

Marian dropped her hand. and looked at him
steadily.

* Aod this sister —who is she? where is
she?” :

“Can’t you guess?” he asked, with a mali-
cious sinile.

“I do not wish to guess; tell me!”

“ First hear my story quite through. Sir
Francis lived for many a year, and enjoyed bim-
self greatly in the West Indies, I believe. But
poor Lady Beaufort took all she had seen and
suffered too much to heart, and six months after
her twin children were born, she was in her
grave. Not at rest, though, if all reports are
true. But that is neither here nor there. Her
brother, the solicitor, was summoned to her
death-bed. What passed between them no one
ever knew ; but when the funeral was over, hie
took the infants and their nurse to London, and
so all trace was speedily lost of them.

“] know where they went, however. To a
pretty little cottage on Hampstead Heath,
where the babies grew famously, and got plenty
of fresh air and new milk till they were two
years old. Then the solicitor put himself into
communication with Charles Moyell, Esq., of
the Pleasaunce, through his bousekeeper, Mrs.
Pryor, and the result was that the youngest of
the children was adopted by him, and brought
up in his family, in what manner you ean best
say. The elder—the more important heiress—
whose existence, by its dead mother’s last com-
mand, was to be even mure strictly concealed
from its father’s knowledge-—was bid as cun-
ningly as a needle ir abundleof hay. Can you
guess where, Lady Marian?”

Marian groaned.

* L see it—I see it all now.”

“ ardon me,” said Mr. Vere, politely. ‘I
think you are mistaken. At least, tell me what
it is that you see.”

“It is plain enough, I think,” said Marian,
iapatiently. “I am the younger daughter ;
but Rose Martin—my rival in this, as in every-
thing else—is the eldest child, and the heiress
of Downe Reserve.”

“ Exactly. With your usual acuteness you
have hit the right pail on the head. Rose
Beaufort, falsely ealled Rose Martin, is the le-
gitimate heiress of the estate. But no one
knows this —that is, no one can prove it except
your bumble servant.”

“ What do you mean?”

“The children were baptized, of course. I
have the ccrtificate of that baptism. I have
also Lady Beaufort’s marriage-certifieate in my
possession ; and, in short, all tiie papers neces-
sary to give either Marian Vere, or Rose Mar-
tin, immediate and undisputed possession of the
estate. It rests only with you to say for whose
good those papers shall be used.”

“ Hew can it rest with me, if Rose is the eld-
est?” was Marian’s moody reply.

“ Did you ever read the story of Jacob and
Esau, in the Bible?”

~ Of course.”

“ There is a precedent, if you waut one.”

“ T don’t see it.”

“ Well, perhaps the two cases are not exactly
alike. Because you are not robbing Rose ob
her father’s blessing—mueh good that would do
uer, by the way; you are simply stepping into
her shoes, and walking off with the lion’s sare
of the property, that is all.”

“ A just proceeding!”

“Oh! if you have scruples, that is quite an-
other thing, and I have no more to say,” he re-
plied, with a shrug of the shoulders,

Marian sat silent for some time, considering.
At last she said:

 

_PRIDE. OF THE..DOWNES..

“ How is it that you are mixed up in this
business? For that old man told me, when he
was dying, to seek out Philip Vere.”

* Did he tell you nothing else?”

“Stop—let me think. [have it now!
said you were the lawyer’s son.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Vere, while a dark flueh

He

crossed his brow ; ‘really his son, but not law- -

ful—though old Martin thought me so. I do
not bear bis name; and, in m early youth, I
ealled another man father. Yon will pardon
me if 1 do not enter into details, since | must
name and blame those who are dead. The
world knows nothing of my real parentage, nor
need it. It is cnough to say that when he was

| dying, 1 was with him, and that I received this
| secret and these papers as a sacred deposit-—the

only legacy he could leave me. But it was a
valuable one, since it also gave me my fair
wife,” he added, with a courteous bow.

“ But Leonora, my cousin—what of her?”
asked Marian, looking bewildered.

‘Ah! you will remind me of my little folly.
To tell the truth, Marian, if she had behaved
properly to me, I should now be looking after
your rights as your cousin, instead of your
husband. For her sweet sake I would have re-
nounced the prize on which I had fixed my eyes
for so many years. But it was not to be. The
lady jilted me. I took my revenge for the
slight, and then waited uiethy till you and Rose
grew up. She, as you know, was very beauti-
ful. I might have tried my luck with her, but
my Lord Mountchayne waa ahead of me. So I
turned my attention to the Pleasaunce, and
snared my bird even more easily than I had
hoped to do.”

“And now that the bird is caught, what good
will it do you?” asked Marian.

» ** Don’t you see ?”

“T do not.”

“My father was a lawyer, and as cautiou: aa
the rest of his tribe. He knew which was the
legal heiress, but he took very good care ta
keep that knowledge to himself. Mrs. Pryot
and old Martin caca believed you to be the eld-
est child. And so you were brought up at the
Pleasaunce, in order to fit you for the station
you were to oceupy—while Rose was transform-
ed into the simple cottage-girl, as best befitting
her humbler lot. Ha! ba! I can’t help laugh-
ing when I think how easily they were all bam-
boozled !”

“Happy Rose!” sighed Marian. ‘She has
everything by right. Beauty, grace, rank,
wealth, and hearts that love her. And what
have I?” F

“You may have a great deal, if you like,”
said Mr. Vere, composedly. ‘ The case lies in
a nutshell. If you say, ‘Downe Reserve shall
be mine’, yours it is. If you say, ‘Give it to
Rose’, I will obey. Only tell me what you wish
me todo. I am your most obedient Slave of
the Ring in this matter.”

‘““T must say, ‘Give it to Rose’, since it be-
longs to her,”’ was the answer.

‘“Humph! Idon’t see that, by any means.
Few people have all that belongs to them by
right. And of the two, I really think you need
it the most. Look at her! She has recovered
from the small-pox, and is prettier than ever, I
hear. Then, Lord Mountchayne has acknowl-
edged her openly; and although he has been
obliged to leave her for a time—”

*Leave‘her! They are not living together,
then?” said Marian, so eagerly, that Mr. Vere
laughed.

“What! you are not cured of that folly yet ?
Some wounds are slow to heal. Is that it, Mar-
ian? Well, set your heart at rest. He has left
her for a time, but only to attend upon his
mother, who is very ill, and who has been or-
dered to some foreign watering place. They
will soon return ; and, in the meantime, she has
every assurance of his love that the most ex-
acting woman could ask. The Priory is to be
ber home, if she will but accept it—the servants
are at her command—-the villagers do her hon-
or; and as for her husband, letters, books, pic-
tures. pianos, and goodness knows what else,
came pouring in upon her by every mail. He
makes no secret of his devotion, and the whole
country-side sings with his praise and hers. I
it were my misfortune to wear petticoats, I think
I should not mind being Rose Beaufort, Lady
Mountchayne.”

Marian’s face grew darker and darker as she
listened. When he stopped, she sat for a long
time with her head leaning on her clasped
hands.
his long eyelashes.

“Well,” he said at last, “what conclusien
have you arrived at?”

 

- concerned, was easy enough.

Mr. Vere watched her stealtbily under |

 

“ At none,” was her brief reply.

“Sooner or later you must give an answer.”

“T know.”

* Of course, so far as I am concerned, I would
rather see you at Downe Reserve than her. It
is a fine old house, in spite of the ghost.”

“Ah, that figure!” said Marian, starting.

“ You were going to tell me about it.”

“Nay! 1 don’t meddle with the supernatu-
ral; it is not in my line. But if you did see
anything, it is rather strange. For in a great
iron chest, in one of the upper rooms, Sir Fran-
cis Beaufort concealed the body of the man he
murdered.”

“ Was it ever found?” asked Marian, almost
in a whisper.

“Not that I know of.”

“Then how—”

“My dear child, my father was present at
your father’s death-bed, as well as at your moth-
er’s. Without betraying her secrets, he learned
his ; and that was one of them Sir Francis
confessed the deed; and when you mentioned
what you saw—or rather fancied that you saw
—at Downe Reserve, I could not help remem-
bering the story of the iron chest.”

“ But it is there now. Isaw it with my own
eyes,”

“Very well, my love. The first thing we de
at. Downe Reserve will be, to furce open the box,
and if anything is there, bury it.”

A thrill of horror ran through Marian’s yeins
at this careless speech. If anything is there!
Only one thing could be there, if this were true!
And what was that?

“John Martin must have known!” she said,
dreamily.

“ Known what ?”

« About the murder.”

“Impossible !”

“ How, then, could he, too, have seen what I
saw—a lady sitting there, weeping and wringing
her hands?”

“Did he tell you he had seen that?” asked
Mr. Vere, looking rather startled.

“Yes ; when he was dying.”

“ Then he must have entered the old house,
and there may be more in ghost-stories than 1
have ever believed. At all events, we will
see.’

Marian shook her head.

“ What do you mean by that nod? It is
quite a3 mysterious as Lord Burleigh’s.”

“Do not build too much upon the founda-
tions of Downe Reserve,” she said. ‘It may
be that neither you nor I will ever be there.”

“ That is as it will be,” he said, rising, an¢é
taking his hat. “You look tired and excited.
You shall sleep before you decide for yourself,
or for Rose—I mean Lady Mountchayne. May
I come to-morrow, to know what you have de-
termined upon ?”

“ Yes.”

“Then, good-night; sound slumbers and
pleasant dreams,” he said, with a slight smile,
as he bowed himself out of the room. He knew
well that she would have neither of the three
things he wished her, all the while.

CHAPTER XLL
THE DECISION.
“ Doubt, cypress-crowned, upon a ruined arch

Amid the shapely temple overthrown,
Exultant, stays at length her onward march.

Her victim, all with earthliness o’ergrown,
Hath sunk himself to earth to perish there ;

His thoughts are outward, all his love a blight,
Dying, deluding are his hopes, though fair—

And death, the spirit’s everlasting night.
Thus, midnight travelers, on some mountain steep,

Hear far above the avalanche boom down,
Starting the glacier echoes from their sleep,

And lost in glens to human foot unknown—
The death-plunge of the lost comes to their ear,
And silence claims again her region cold and drear.”

—E, Oakes Sura.

And so Marian was left alone, to accept or
reject the fortune, as she chose.

Left “alone”, in good truth, in one sense of
the word. For, though her guardian-angel
looked down sorrowfuily upon the eonflict in
that proud and worldly soul, she could not ap-
proach too near; her assistance was not asked
—was not even thought of. While, on the other

‘ hand, a hundred evil influences were at work,

searing the white-robed visitant away.

To look at the right and the wrong of the
question, so far as honor and generosity were
ut Marian ac-
knowlediged, or, at least, referred only to a
natural law ; she did not consider the divine one
just then.

To yield the estate, the fortune, the position
to her sister Rose, would be magnanimous and
noble.

Granted}

arma
THE PRIDE OF

 

But then Rose, though still living in her hum-
ble cottage, had only to speak the word to be
transferred to a home far more beautiful than
Downe Reserve. She had but a small income,
but Marian might easily make it larger in an un-
obtrusive way. And then she was ady Mount-
chayne, the wife of the only man Marian ever
loved, and “prettier tuan ever’. That one
phrase had so much to do with turning the
seale. If Philip Vere could but have told the
truth for once in his life, and said: “ She has not
lost all her good looks, but she has lost her hus-
band’s heart, and may never regain it.” Mar-
ian might have acted very differently. If Rose
had been marked and scarred, a repulsive and
pitiable object to the view, I am sure that she
would. But to hear that her loveliness was in-
creasing, and that she was her husband’s idol,
and was only left for a time, that she might
watch over a failing, perhaps a dying mother,
that was quite a different thing. Was it to be
expected that she could resign all the good of
this life to Rose, without a murmur ?

She paced up and down her lonely room that
evening, debating the question, with the sharpest
inward struggles ; she entered her little study.
There were her books—her dear familiar Manda
whose faces she was always glad to see. But
there also was the worn and battered writing-
desk, the stumpey pen, the sixpenny inkstand,
with which she performed her daily task. There
also were long, horrible strips of “ proof "—
black and white serpents that infested her daily
walk in life, and drove her half mad at times.
There also was a courteous but unmistakable
note from the printer’s department, dated
“ Tuesday, one, Pp. M.”, and stating, that as there
was a lack of “copy” for “ Part III.”’, perhaps
she would oblige with “fifty pages by nine,
4. M., on Wednesday”, or some request quite as
thoughtful and reasonable in its tone !

From all thesv types and tokens of her drudg-
ery she revolted more strongly than ever on
that night. It was all very well to obey those
thick-coming demands for ‘brick without
straw”, which it was necessary for her so to do.
She could solace herself the while by uttering
anathemas against the printers, which it was as
well the sons of type were too far off to hear.
But now there was a way of release opened.
She had but to say the word, and she was free!
Free to pass a printer’s devil without “ shying”
instinctively from the smutty face—free to read
@ newspaper without turning pale at its con-
tents, horribly familiar beforehand—free to
make fun of writers, and to laugh at their long-
winded stories, without a thin-skinned feeling
that perhaps they were shaking their sides at
the same moment over what she had intended
for the most pathetic passages. Can you won-
der that she grasped eagerly at her deliver-
ance ?

No writer, who, for his or her sins, has been
‘“‘dipped in printer’s ink’, week after week,
year after year, will wonder, I am sure. Ah,
me! the tired brains—the aching heads—the
weary fingers—the dazzled eyes—that belong
to the ee of the quill! It was Charlotte
Bronté, I think, who uttered a thanksgiving in
print because she had never put pen to paper,
except when she felt that she had something to
say. Those are not her exact words, but the
pith of the remark was, that no writer ought to
write, unless sure that he or she has something
to say for which the world will be the better.
A good doctrine that for literary stars, who oan
give out nothing but light, and from whose open
ips fall pearls and diamonds in a continuous
shower. But if you come down in the ranks,
and embrace magazinists and newspaper writers,
whose bread lies among the types, what then?
Wait till we have something to say for which
our readers will be very much better! Why,
we should all starve in a row, if we did that.

Few penny a-liners, I think, can afford to
write with “a purpose”, unless it be the pur-
pose of making money. — is now a
trade—and, oh! how tired some people get of it!

know one who was tired long, long ago—so
tired that the sight of pen, ink, and paper—
above all-of a printer’s imp ~is to her like a
saueer of cold water presented on @ raging Au-
gust day to a dog who feels the first sharp
twinge of hydrophobia coming on! ;

And Marian was getting tired, too. Tired
enough to detest constant drudging—yet willing
still to write, provided she might do it in her
own time and way.

was the oppeacisity she wished. And -

Here
@id she seize it? Woe shail see!

 

CHAPTER XLII.
THE SISTERS.
“ There are who from their cradles bear

The impress of a grief—
Deep, mystic eyes, and forehead fair,

And looks that ask relief ;
The shadows of a coming doom,

Of sorrow and of strife,
When Fates conflicting round the loom,

Wove the sad web of life.”

—E. Oaks Smira.

Marian decided in favor of herself.

Of course it was wrong. Of course she ought
to have gone to Downe, and installed her elder
sister in the place of honor, while she looked
meekly on, from @ much lower place! But it is
so easy to do wrong—so hard to do right. And
the good angel spread its wings badly, and the
tempter had it all his own way.

Of course there was great excitement in
Downe when the news reached the place. Peo-
ple could hardly believe their ears or their eyes,

so many strange things had ag (a of late. |

And now, to have Miss Marian back again, no
more the Cinderella of the Pleasaunce, but a
lady in her own right—the wife of a rich and
handsome man; the mistress of Downe Re
serve, and the sister of the young Lady Mount-
chayne. Well, surely after that, wonders would
never cease in Downe.

There was much speculation among the sim-

le villagers about two things. Would Mrs.

ere—or rather “ Lady Marian”, as they pro-
ferred to call her—actually live at the old
house, the haunted house, where she alone had
never feared to go? And would Rose reside
with her?

These questions were speedily solved when
the lady made her appearance ; for she took up
her quarters in one of her empty farm-houses—
and workmen, summoned from all parts of the
country, were to begin at once the work of
making Downe Reserve habitable once more.
Tt was plain that no ghost was dreaded by her;
and the qnick matter-of-fact way in which she
set about remodeling her home, went far to dis-

el the scruples of those who obeyed her or-

ers. When they saw her passing with an air
of perfect unconcern from one deserted room
to another—not shrinking from the darkest
closets of the most obscure passages, great
strong carpenters and masons could not for
very shame hang back, and refuse to go where
a young and feeble woman led the way. By
degrees they forgot’that a ghost inhabited those
rooms, and ceased to work with one eye over
their shoulder, ready to take flight upon the in-
stant, if any unearthly visitant made its appear-
ance,

As to the position which the deserted Lady
Mountehayne was to occupy in the home and
heart of her sister, there were many divided
opinions. Some said that Marian refused to no-
tice her; others, that her first visit in Downe
had been paid to the White Cottage. These
last-mentioned gossips were in the right; for
on the very evening of Marian’s arrival, she
left her husband sitting over his wine after din-
ner, and walked through the lanes and fields,
where she had onee lingered with the young ar-
tist to see his wife.

it was not a pleasant interview. On Marian’s
heart, the burden of two secrets lay heavily.
She could not forget that by her acts, Rose had
been sent into danger which had well-nigh
caused her death. Now that Rose ought to he
dwelling at the Manor farm, and giving orders
for the restoration of the old place, rather than
herself.

Rose, too, was uncomfortable. They had
both loved the same man, and she had sup-
planted her rival. But how long had her tri-
umph lasted? How much good has it done
her? When she last saw Marian, she was happy
in the consciousness of a pure and innocent
love, which was warily returned. Now she
stood deserted, despised, and almost hated
wife, mocked with barren titles, when her heart
cried for affection—offered empty state, where
she only asked for only one kind look or word,
like those of old.

Could her sister forget all this?

Could she fail to feel some little thrill of tri-
umph at ber rival’s humiliation? And oh! if
Lord Mountchayne was to see them now, and

| choose once more between them, which would
‘he take? The successful authoress, serene and

self-possessed, and almost handsome, with her
added sense of dignity and consequence, or the
or faded Rose, that seemed to drop toward
— earth, with longing sadness now that
ast support had been so rudely wrenched
away! Only one person witnossed that inter-

Ita
its

THE DOWNES.

    

45

view. It was Mrs Pryor, the chosen friend and
companion of Lady Mountchayne.
Radiant with happiness, the good lady wel-

| comed her former protege, as she crossed the

| humble threshold.

With meek thankfulness

| she called down a blessing on her head, and ex-
| pressed a wish that her days might be long and

happy in hor new home, and that the love of
her sister might be the sweetest drop in the eup
of pleasure, which was held to her lips. But as
she spoke, with a simple earnestness that moved
Rose to tears, Marian shrank away and frowned
darkly.

The worthy housekeeper was puzzled and
grieved. Something was wrong—she felt still
more of it, as she sat beside the window, and
listened to the sistera as they talked. What
could it be?

Was it the influence of Philip Vere already
at work for evil, as his influence always must
be?

Could Marian really love him, that dark, bad

man ?

And if she did not love, why had she married
him ?

Thinking these thoughts, Mrs. Pryor plied
her knitting-needles, and watched the face of
her former charge, in an unobtrusive kind of
way. She grew still more dissatisfied as she
looked. Where was the frank, open look—the
quick smile—the ready speech—the merry
laugh? Gone, all gone together. It was not
Marian whom she saw. It was a self-assured,
elegantly-dressed woman of the world, whose
subdued tones, and the irritating speech, served
rather to aid than to reveal their thoughts.
There were marks under the eyes that told of
anxious days and sleepless nights—there were
lines about the mouth, and a guarded, doubtful
glance of the eye which she did not like at all.

“ Philip Vere’s work, I am sure,” she thought
to herself, as Marian, after uttering common-

laces for half an hour, rose to go; then her
rank relation got the better of her, and she
took the languidly proffered hand in both hers,
gave it a warm pressure, and cried out:

“My dear, what ails ~ You are so
changed that I should hardly have known you
all this time.”

“ Changed !” said Marian, oe and glane
ing at Rose. “Do you think me changed ?”

“Very much, my dear. And, if I must add,\
the truth, for the worse !”

Marian laughed.

“You always told me the world was a dread-
ful place, Mrs. Pryor. Perhaps I have found
my portion of it even worse than you prophe-
sied. And that may have altered me.”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“Something more than that, I fear. But,
never mind, f shall know it all in time. And
now, tell me what are you two young things go-
ing to do?”

“Tam sureI don’t know,” said Marian, bit-
ing her lip.

“ I mean, where are you going tn reside ?”

“T shall live at Downe Reserve as soon as pos-
sible.”

“ And Rose with you?”

Marian was silent.

“Jt is her proper home, now,” urged Mrs.
Pryor. “The secret I have kept so long is a
secret no longer. Sir Francis is dead. No one
could either meddle or make with either of you.
Why, then, should you not live together?
ae sisters—let the same roof shelter you

”

Apparently this proposal was very distasteful
to Marian; but before she could negative it,
Rose cried out, with a sort of sob in her voice:

“No, no; let me stay here where he left me!
I may be the wife of Lord Mountchayne and the
sister of Lady Marian; but, after all, I am but
a simple cottage-girl, and this is my proper
home. Let me stay.”

“ You hear,” said Marian. “ She decides tne
uestion for us at once, and in the best way.
ood night, Rose. Good-bye, Mrs. Pryor, for

a time.”

And before the indignant housekeeper could’
utter a word of remonstrance, the door had
closed upon her.

OHAPTER XLII.
THE NEW HOME. ,

“Ah, mother, ’tis a fearful thing,
_ _ When human bonds unite
Unwedded hearts, and they are doomed
For ever, day and night,
Companionship to hold,
Yet feeling every hour,
A beauty fading from the earth,

 

Thought losing half its power

 
46 THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

Ser

Whea the summer came round again, Downe
Reserve was furnished, Marian and her hus-
band lived there, and the iong-deserted place
was all alive with gay visitors and their troops
of servants in livery. There was a grand ball

to begin with, and a succession of parties, which |

made every belle and beau within thirty miles
well-acquainted with the interior of the old man-
sion, and well-satisfied in their own minds that
if there ever had been a ghost there (which they
began to be inclined to doubt), the mirth,
and revelry, and feasting had scared it effectu-
ally away.

Every one came to Downe Reserve who was
asked, In the first place, there was a mystery
about the house; in the second, a romance
about its owner. . It. was a great boon to those
people who were bored to death, if they had but
kuowun it, with the commonplaces of their own

existence to find an heiress dropping down |

among them, as it were, from the skies, with s
story attached to ber name, tbat read exactl
like a three-volume novel in the days of old.
What. with the,dissipated father, and the mys-
terious mother, and the pretty sister, and the
leng seclusion in which both had been rcared—
to say nothing of the handsome fortune and the
grim old house, there was quite enough to feed
their curiosity, and wake them out of the stupid
round of decencies,in which they usually dwelt.
Then, too, there was the gay acd gallant hus-
band; who bad jilted Miss Leonora Moyell eo
shamefully, afew years before. Iam very much
afruid that some of the younger ladies came to
look at him, And certainly he appreciated the
attention; and did his best. to rewardit, Never
did a married.man,make himself so agreeable to
single damsels as he. There was no going any-
where—no doing anything without Mr. Vere ;
and he did his best to serve all his fair enslavers,
and worked likea negro during those hot sum-
mer days.

Did Marian resent these general courtesies ?
Not awhit. It was.a matter of perfect indif-
ference to her, where he went, or what he did.
She was happiest when he was furthest from
herside; so that while in company he paid
her ull those attentions which he would have
paid to any other lady by whom he happened
to sit or stand, she was quite satisfied.

Her indifference was far too evident to please
him. And yet he:had nothing tangible to eom-
plainof. Her manner to him was always courte-
ous, attentive, and kind. If he speke, she listen-
ed ;»if he asked her to rideor drive with him, she
went; if he led her to the piano, she sang his
favorite songs, and:seemed to try to please him
in every way possible.

Yet, in spite of all this, the foreed smile, the
absent glance, the! thoughtful, pre-oceupied air,
told tales too often, that made him. gnash his
teeth with jealous rage,

True, he did not love her. ‘But. he would
have liked her to love him, nevertheless ; for
there is much more glory for a vain man in de-
serting a woman who cries her eyes out in his
absence, than one who never cares two pins
whether he goes or stays. If ladies understood
this grand secret of indifference, I think we
should find fewer husbands “ obliged’? to dine at
clubs, or to have “ pressing business”. in town
upon the morning of the Derby Day. For a
wife to have her own friends and her own
amusements, is the surest way to charm a
would-be truant to her side. If he goes one
way, and finds out that she goes quietly anoth-
er, the moment the street-door closes upon him,
he will very soon discover that it is far better
that both their “ways” should be close to-
gether. -

Not that I could for a. moment hint at a rebel-
lion on the part of the “weaker sex”. Far be
it from-me! My dear sisters, don’t you know
that you .and I, and “all the rest of us”, are
weaker than that glorious creature, man, who is
lord of the creation and of us, even when he is
lying drunk under the table after dinner? Don’t
you know that the sole end and aim of our crea-
tion is, to minister to his pleasures, nurse him in
siekness, cherish him in health, sew on his but-
tons, mend his stockings, and never utter even
a wild expression of dissent if he, gallops past
the window with a pretty girl by his side, while
we are moping at home. If not, learn’ now
that the whole duty of woman is to follow hum-
bly the footsteps of man, whether he be father,
brother, lover, or husband, it is all the same.
He.has uo faults, no failings. Did you ever
kuow a man own himself in the wrong? Is he
not cleversr, strouger, braver, and better than
we? Admire him aud tremble! When’ he
boggles.at speHing “cloudy”, and substitutes
ther*sw’. for the “ u’. it shows that his mipd'i#

=

| too godlike,to.stoop to a,thing so trifling as the

proper arrangement of the letters in a word.
| When, with a little twinge of toothache which
| you would bear in silence, while you did your
| day’s work, he howls and bellows like a mad
bull, believe that so Jove did in Olympus, when
| he reigned triumphant there. When, at the
first stroke of worldly calamity, he sinks down
| helpless and overpowered, never fancy for one
| instant that it was me superior “ pluck” and

endurance that pulled him through the scrape,
| and set him. upon his feet again. Believe noth-
ing, in fact, but that he is above you in every-
thing, in every way. If by chance he deigns to
love you sufficiently to allow. you to dwell be-
| neath bis roof, wear a plain gold ring, and look |
after bis linen and his children; remember |
| that your whole life ought to express your
| gratitude for the boon, You must have no
thought, no wish, except for his welfare, and
happiness. Your whole existence must be
merged in his. I believe that is the proper
phrase, and I fancy it means that you are to
read the daily paper through your husband's
eyes; and never, on any account, to say that
the sun is shining till he has first certified that
it has not set.

This, ladies, is your duty. You, who are sin-
gle, must worship your big brothers, and un-
derstand that your only mission is, to sew the
buttens on their gloves. You who are so un-
fortunate (bless me! what dreadful blunders
those dreadful printers do make!)—I mean so
fortunate as to be married, must think, and
breathe, and live, and act for your husbanda
alone! Does he come at 8, a. m., with his hat
on one side, and the string of a pink bonnet (a
pink bonnet, Ma’am!) ticd in the button-hole
of his coat-—meet him at the door with a plea-
sant smile, aud say you hope he has enjoyed
himself at Cremorne! Dves he amuse himself
now and then by pommelling you till you are
black aud blue, and swearing till he raises the
neighborhood—remember that the law of your
country permits a little geutie correction, and
be patriotic enough to rejoice in your bruises,
Is he an educated idiot, learned in the vocabu-
lary of the turf, but totally unable to “ make
sense” of a page of history or a beautiful poem
—still he is your “ superior”, though you read
Greek like your mother-tongue, aud can write
those poems or that history yourself with the
greatest case!

Tuere! The above homily has been preach.
ed at the instigation of an impertinent friend at
my elbow, who has just sought refuge in my
study, from a quarre] with her better-half, in
which, if I may judge from her conduct, she
was uo means worsted. She actually accuses
me of having put independent notions into her
head, by some forgotten story of my own, In
deed, I investigate, or aid in a rebelliou agaias.
our “ natural sovereigns!” Banish the thought!
And lest any one else should also mistake my
meaning, or come to grief thereby, I hasten to
print these, my real sentiments, upon the vex-
ed question of woman and her rights. Woman’s
rights, indeed! don't we all know that she is
born without any ?

I only wish that my heroine, Marian, had
been persuaded of the truth of this doctrine as
fally as Tam myself!

But Marian held most heterodox opinions
«pon this as upon many other subjects. She
tad little reverence in her composition, none at
all, as she said, to waste upon that hybrid, man.
The follies, the vices, the weaknesses of the

 

sterner sex were mercilessly exposed by tongue
or pen, whenever they came beneath her no-
tice. And yet, although she despised, she did |
not hate them. Her very indifference gave her
& power over their wandering fancies that
younger, fairer, and prouder woman never at-
tained. Each flattered himself for a time, as he
bent before her, thathe was to be the favored
individual who was to waken her from her cold
trance of apathy, and make her retract her bit- |
ter sareasms and harsh judgments, by showing |
the world that she, too, must yield to the blin
god’s power, and believe that which she loved
perfect, because she loved it.

But each one fa:led. The fault was in her
alone. A beautiful face might charm her fora |
time, but it could not hold her captive long. If
ever she felt.a faint thrill of interestifor any of |
those who would gladly have called themselves
her lovers, it was gone again, almost. before
she knew that it had life.

She had loved onee—she could never love ©
again! Her heart was but a heap of ashes—cold
asher! where no fire could be kindled twice!

And so her very indifference proved her best

} safeguard against the temptations thate-began to

 

——_

cluster thickly round her path. Meantime,
what of the secret that had once made Downe
Reserve a place to be feared and shunned ?
There was—there had been a secret there!
On the evening after her arrival, Marian, in
company with Philip Vere and his valet (a sal-
low down-looking man, whom he had hired in
London), visited the deserted room at the top
of the house, where the iron chest still stood.
They forced open the lid of the chest, and as
they did so, Marian bent eagerly forward tv
look. Something like a human form met her
eyes for one instant—the next, it fell into a heap
of dust!
“T thought as much!” said Philip Vero,
uietly. And going into the next room, he
ought the blood-stained coverlet, and laid it

| earefully over the poor relies of what had once

been a living, breathing, and loving mac.

They buried the chest that night in a quiet
spot, near the Wishing Well. ‘Aad Marian, whe
wis, after all, a little superstitious, Laid a @: aoe
fix, which had been blessed at Rome, withia
the grave, before they closed it up. :

Tho deserted rooms, left as they were, were
locked and bolted from every curious eye. Ma
rian kept the keys

And so was hidden every trace of Sir Fran.
eis Beaufort’s crime! so was banished that gen-
tle and unhappy presence that had so lo
ene the scene of its early yet qkoinal

ove

CHAPTER XLIV
DEATH ATONES FOR Ali,

“TY dld your nuptial rites allow,
Though I was weeping near;
I had respect for his bridal yow—
Vows do not bind him here.
“Oh! if those colorless lips could speak—
Those long-loved eyes could see;
If the voice of love could his slumber brealky
Would he not smile on me?
“ Would he not plead that I long might stay
Where I am kneeling now ;
Fondling his clustering locks away—
Kissing his icy brow ?
“ Leave me—I’ll murmur beside his bed
Words to your heart unkrown—
Living—you pillowed his precious head ;
Dead—he is mine alone”!

While matters were going on thus gayly at the
Hall, the course of time brought with it events

far more important to the lonely inhabitants of

the cottage.

There came a startling rumor to the Priory,
one fine summer morning. It was said that
while traveling in the South of France, the party
had met with an accident, by which Lord Mount-
chayne had received a fatal injury. They (Lord
and Lady Revere) were even then on their wa
home, bringing the dead body of their son wi
them ; and poor Rose was a widow almost be
fore she was a wife!

Tll news travels apace. By mid-day “eve
one had heard the sad tale, and some of the vil-
lage gossips had even begun to speculate about
Rose's future marriage to her first love, Hugh
Dennett, in case he should ever return. The
next day, however, all such speculatious ceased ;
for the mournful party returned, only to. show
the villagers how great a mistake had been
made. It was the father, not the son, who had
been billed; and Rose Beaufort was Lady
Revere—enabled by that title to take preee-
dence, if she hked, of the proud woman who
re“used to acknowledge her in any way. She
did not attempt to use that privilege. Nor did
she go to the Priory. Land Mountchayne had
also been serioasly hurt, and between his in-

| juries and his grief for bis father, was in a dan-

gerous state. Poor Rose's heart bled for hin—

| yearned after him—but Mrs. Pryor kept: stern

watch and ward over her, and would not permit
her to fly to his side till she was summoned
there. The message came at last. Hven the
Dowager Countess's pride gave way in the face
of sickness, suffering, and death; and within

| three days after her arrival, a splendid earriaze

drew up before the cottage door, and a note was
iven to Rose, in which the repentant. woman
gged her humbly to come to the invalid, who
¢alled constantly in his delirium upor hername.
Within ten minutes after the receipt. of that
newspaper, Rose was seated in the carriage and
on her way to the Priory, wy
For the first time, then, Rose approached her
husband’s heme as its acknowledged mistress !
She gazed with a feeling of curiosity, not un-

_ mixed with sadness, out of the window of the

carriage at the stately house. )

_ Though the Priory had been rebuilt for so
short a time,.it still managed.to retain jan air of
antiquity that d its claims to eorsidera-
tion. The south front, which had stoo.. swoutly

anne manages

menconn
 

= =

enough since the days of Harry the Eighth,
had been left untouched, and was clothed with
clustering ivy as with a garment. The north
side sbéltared its stuecoed front a: modern
porch and portico beneath the frieniy shade of
a grove of oaks, and thus detracted nothing
from the general aspect of the place.

To that north ree they drove. The foot-
man alighted and opened the door; and then
Rose saw, with an inward sense of embarrass-
ment, that every servant in the establishment
had been drawn up in a line to receive her.

She need not have feared the greeting. The
moment she crossed the threshold, every face
wore a smile, and the stately housekeeper step-
ped forth in person to welcome her for all.

“Tam sure, my lady, this is a happy day for
us all!” she said. “We are glad enough to
see you here; and as for my lord—”

More she might have said; something Rose
might have answered; but at that moment, a
tall and stately lady descended the stairs.

“My lady!” whispered the servants, and
every one fell back instantly. Rose stood in
the middle of the hall alone—her morning dress
falling in graceful folds around her slight
figure, and her fair cheek burning with an un-
wonted flush.

Lady Revere looked narrowly at her as she
descended the last steps of the stairs. Even at
that moment her thoughts were of the world,
worldly ; and she was aiiiting the unconscious

of Rose’s attitude, and -the still striking
loveliness of her face, rather than thinking of
the goodness of heart which had made her for-
get and forgive the long slight and deep injury
which had been inflicted upon her, and come
there to forgive and console the sick—perhaps,
the dying man.

“ She will do to present at Court, after I have
had her under my tuition a little while!” was
all the lady thought, as she crossed the hall,
and took the sliy stranger by the hand.

“ & thousand thanks to you for coming, my
dear daughter!” she said aloud, and then em-
braced her warmly. A murmur of delight ran
through the ranks of servants at this greeting,
and Rose felt faint and giddy with surprise.
Was this the cold, proud woman who had step-
pe between her and love—between her and

appiness such 9 long and dreary while?

“Come up-stairs with me, my love!” said the
silver voice. “ Francis is asleep at this moment;
but he will wake soon, and then I will take you
to him!” And, putting her arm around ‘the
girl’s waist, she led her gently away.

The sick man’s slumber was of short dura-
tion, and as soon as he woke, Lady Revere led
her newly-found daughter to his bedside. He
gazed at her with heavy eyes, and tried to hold
out his feeble hand.

“It has been a sad thing for you, my poog
Rose, but I shall be out of your way in a little
while,” he murmured.

Rose burs! into tears, and fell upon her knees
beside him. She would bave given her life to have
saved his at that moment, but her first glance at
his pale, pinched face had told her that it was
in vain to hope. Lady Revere did not know
that he was dying No physician had had the
courage to break the fatal tidings to her. But
Rose took that duty upon herself, and perform-
ed it so kindly and so well, that balf the bitter-
ness of the sorrow wastaken away. And so they
who had loved so fondly—who had been sepa
rated so pergesanet once more, and only to part.
It was hard—but a fiat had gone forth frei
which there was no appeal. Lord Mountchayne
was young and beautiful; so was Rose. She
was at last in her rightful place and home, feel-
ing that she was necessary to his comfort—a
ie and support to his stricken mothe?~ the
real as well a8 nominal mistress of the house-
hold in which she dwelt. All this love, dignity,
honor, and affection had been tardily given her
at the eleventh hour, only to be snatehed awa
again almost before she had time to feel that it
was hers. Not for that did she abandon her
gentle ministrations. All through taat long

 

and painful illness, she was by her husband’s
side—his loving nurse—his faithful guide to the
unknown land where he was going. She sooth-
ed his pain, and calmed his fears; and when,
at last, the parting hour came—when the death-
film stole over those bright blue eyes, and the
death-rattle sounded in the throat, it was her |
hand that wiped the cold brow—her breast that —
eres the heavy head—her voice that soothed
he weeping mother, when she threw herself
upon the corpse, and uttered a wild prayer that
@ too ae die, rather than to be separated
from her on y and darling child. |
To Rose did the servants look for orders and

instructions ; upon Rose did all the arrange-
ments for the funeral fall; and when ali was

THE PRIDE OF THE DOWNES.

i

The servants noticed his lowering face and
impatient manner as he entered. Straight to

 

over, when the grave was closed, and the witi | his wife’s room he went; and soon after, high

read, and she would gladly have sought so.
solitary and tranquil spot, in which to indulge
her own grief, the widowed mother clung to her
with feeble, tearful entreaties, till she was forced
tostay. So inthe Priory, not in the humble
cottage, she made her home.

Who mourned Lord Mountchayne most bit- |

terly? Wasit his mother? Was it his widow ?
Was it any one of his numerous acquaintances
or friends?

I think not. They buried him, by his express
wish, in the village churchyard—not in the
family vault. The blazing sun, the silver moon,
shone upon the turf that covered him; and in
time, daisies, and violets, and the small sweet
flowers the wild wind sows, would spring and
bloom there.

In the meantime, this ground was watered by
tears as bitter and as unavailing as ever fell
from human eyes. Night after night, when the
villagers were all asleep, a tall, dark figure ling-
ered there, and cold lips kissed the sod, and an
aching heart was pressed against it, as it was
never pressed against that dead, still heart in
life.

Whose was that figure ?

It came and went always in the direction of
Downe Reserve, and the face was the face of
Marian Vere!

CHAPTER XLV.
THE ACCOUNT SETTLED.
“ What is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each lov’d one blotted from life’s page,
And be alone on earth as I am now.

Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,

O’er hearts divided, and o’er hopes destroyed:

Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,

Since Time hath reft whate’er my soul enjoy’d,

And with the ills of Eid my earlier years —

—Brnon.

Serenely unconscious of these nocturnal visits,
Mr. Vere ate, drank, and made merry with his

uests, as the pleasant summer months went by.

hen autumn came, however, it brought a
change over the spirit of his dream. For
autumn brought the gipsies to their former
haunt beside the Wishing Well! Years had
elapsed since they had visited Downe Reserve.
Their return boded him no good. He knew it
only too well, for all his treachery had been
discovered—the tribe had not forgotten it—and
Cara, the deserted Cara, was now their beloved
Queen. It must be confessed that he felt a
little thrill of fear when the smoke of the first
camp-fire rose above the woods of Downe Re-
serve. But days passed by, and he was un-
molested. His courage came back, and he
laughed to himself at his romantic notions: he
sneered in his thoughts at the idea of vengeance
taken hy a woman in these enlightened days,
for so common a crime as his.

The servants went to and fro to have their
fortunes told; the village belles sometimes
stole slyly through the lanes toward the camp;
and Queen Cara and her subjects seemed to
have no thought in their minds inimical te
the peace and comfort of the master of Downe
Reserve,

So all was well, and he returned to his usual
pursuits and amusements with renewed intereat
and zest. While he rested, however, in fancied
security, there were those who watched and
waited in his behalf,

Madame Angelo, after having helped her
fickle lover to deceive and laugh at many, had
been deceived and laughed at herself. She was
a woman who knew neither how to forget or
forgive ; and from the moment when she found
herself duped and fooled, her life had been one
long thought ofrevenge She sought out Cara
through hor tribe, and the two made common
cause together. The fiery gipsy ceased to
mourn her betrayer’s desertion when she heard
how systematic his deception had been, and
lent herself willingly to the wily Frenchwoman’s
plans. If Philip had but known that those
smoking camp-fires warmed and fed both those
women, I think his heart would scarcely have
been so light, or his slumbers, night after
night, so calm and sweet. The crisis came at

last, precisely as Madame Angelo had intended
_ that it shoul

do.

Philip Vere and his victim met.

The interview took place in the loneliest part
of the wood near the gipsy camp. Only one
person ever knew what passed, and she was far
enough away when justice made its strict and
stern inquiries. They parted.

Cara and her companion returned to the
camp. Philip Vere went home.

 

words and angry voices were heard there. The
servants listened fearfully in the hall. There
was a blow struck, then a door shut hastily, and
all was stils

Marian did not appear at the dinner table
that day. But Mr. Vere was there, gy and
smiling as usu.l. At half-past ten, he bade his
friends good-night, and retired to his own room,
which was in another wing from that occupied
by Marian. When the valet entered that room
the next morning, his master did not stir. He
called him—there was no answer. He drew the
curtains of the bed, and nearly fainted with
horror at the sight he saw. For there lay
Philip Vere—stone dead and cold—bathed in
blood, with a gash across his throat that could
never have been made by his own hand!

The whole country-side was wild with excite-
ment. He had been a bad man, a bad friend,
and a bad husband; but his life was sacred in
the eyes of the law, and justice demanded that
his murderer should be punished. Suspicion
pointed to his wife. She was the person with
whom he had been on indifferent terms. There

been a quarrel—a view; and those War
knew her best affirmed that she could never let
so deep an insult go unavenged.

She was arrested !

She made no resistance—offered no defenee
She was tired of life, and of everything it could
give. So far did this weary indifference influ-
ence her, that she was quite capable of suffering
the extremest penalty of the law, without even
saying a word in her defence. ‘There was
another reason for her silence. Her hand had
not struck the fatal blow—another had done
that! But well she knew that in her heart she
had been a murderer that day. And this
thought made her speechless when the question
“Guilty, or not guilty ?” was asked. If words,
and wishes, and thoughts were to be judged,
she was not innocent of that man’s blood!

Her summer friends deserted her. That she
had expected. But there were two who came
to her the instant they heard of her apperehen-
sion—and whose love and support never waver-
ed through all that dreadful time. Those two
were Mrs. Pryor and her sister Rose.

On the day before the trial, a neighboring
clergyman lax a peculiar statement before the
paper: which saved the prisoner’s life. He

been summoned, in his ministerial capacity,
to the bedside of a dying girl, in the next town,
who confessed that she had once thought her-
self the wife of Philip Vere. That he had mar-
ried her under a false name, and afterward de-
serted her. That he had again sought her out,
and again deserted her. That she had deter-
mined to revenge herself, and in company with
another woman who had also been wronged by
him, she had gone to Downe Reserve, and sought
and obtained an interview with him in his own
park. That he had only laughed at her re-
—- and her threats, and left her abruptly.

lefying her to do her worst. And that six

hours afterward, she, with the help of her ac-
compliee, entered the hall by stealth, sought
Mr. Vere’s chamber, and murdered him, Her
a a had fled to the Contiuent, aud she
was dying, but could not leave the world while —
Marian, who had never wronged her, was suffer-
ing for her crime.

his deposition, solemnly attested before the
clergyman and three witnesses, was quite suffi-
sient. Poor Cara was buried by her tribe in
the old encampment, while Marian was set free ;
and those who had deserted her in the hour of
need, came thronging round her to offer their
congratulations and good wishes. She listened
to them with a melancholy smile, but answered
little. The spring of her life seemed broken.
Her gratitude to Tose was the only feeling left
to warm that cold and weary heart.

Within twenty-four hours after her release,
she had left Downe Reserve for ever. Not one
of those who had once known her there ever
looked upon her face again. :

vein a week of Marian’s departum,
solicitor arrived, and by her own orders, c=
posed the fraud of which she had been guilt
(and for which she craved her sister's apie
and installed Rose—Lady Revere—as the true
and legal mistress of Downe Reserve. So one
more ae mansion opened wide its doors to
the beautiful cottage-girl; and amid joy and
feasting, and the ringing of bells, she entered
her new home, and the legend of the fated place
was brought to an end:

‘Fair hand—steel glove! not long the; !

Clouds and darkness a gether opal
Then comes the fairest! Who would not serve?

All hail to the Ladye of Downe Reserve!”
* * * * * +

Three years passed tranquilly away.

Tt seemed at last as if peace and prosperity,
uninterrupted and unalloyed, had come ‘to
Downe Reserve.

Under the gentle sway of Lady Rose all went
well, as it had been prophesied in the legend of
the place.

Marian, with her faults, her follies, her head-
strong pursuit of pleasure, was well-nigh for-
gotten. -

And Philip Vere! His guilty life, his violent
death, were only remembered. ‘“‘ to point a moral
or adorn a tale;” while over the grave of the
gipsy Cara, made by gipsy hands, in the site of
the old encampment, the pitying village girls
often strewed their wreaths of spring and sum-
mer flowers.

Madame Angelo was living in Paris the life
which suited her best, and the man who had
been her accomplice and tool was supposed to
be with her. Only ‘‘supposed;” for he took
very good care, wherever he might be, to keep
out of the reach of the strong arm of the law.

And Rose was happy? .

She ought to have been. She had a title and
a handsome estate; she was beautiful as ever,
and far more humble and good; she was the
idol of the poor, and the honored friend and
companion of the rich—what more could she
ask? Nothing, you would say, if she was a
wise and sensible woman!

Granted. But suppose she was not? ?

She pined and yearned for something which
she could not have; and that was, love. Her
heart.had been wounded; the half-healed hurts

ined her yet. For all that, she was not satis-

ed. Her thoughts turned sadly from her hus-
band’s grave to one who had been more kind and
true. hat was he? Would he evercome back
to her again? :

She asked herself this question one evening
as she walked up and down the terrace-path
before her drawing-room windows. A traveler
sprung lightly over the hedge at the bottom of
the park, and answered that question by the
action. It was Hugh Dennett—no longer the
stalwart and somewhat awkward blacksmith,
but a handsome and gentlemanly-looking man
in the very prime of life. |

Speechlessly she awaited his approach—eager-
iy he came up to her, with extended hands.

“* Rose—Lady Revere!” he said, eagerly.
‘* will you welcome me home?”

“Oh Hugh!” :

The words, the look, the warm pressure of his
hand were quite enough for him.

“T have been in a land where all men are

ual!” he went on, with a glad, exultant look.
“JT have studied; I have worked hard. All
these years I have been treated asaman! Not
as an English peasant, Rose, but as a man of
education, and I can’t forget it now! I am
rich; and, in a small way, beyond the sea, fa-
mous. Had I staid in England, your title
would have been a bar for ever between us; but,
now, Rose—now may I hope that one day you
will be mine?”

She did not answer; but, when he held out
his arms, she hid her face upon his breast. The
lost love might have been dearer and sweeter
than this calm, trusting affection; but there
was little question, at that moment, which
would bring iad es. to ia £2

Have you sufficient interest in Marian, my
dear readers, to care to know what became of
her, after every one had been made happy and
contented by her act of courageous honesty?
I will tell you. :

Two. years ago, while traveling _ through
North Wales, I went with some friends to visit
a Capuchin monastery, which had been erected
upon the outskirts of the town of Holywell, to
the no small horror of its inhabitants. Holy-
well owes its very existence, by the way, to
Catholics, and is more known to fame for the
virtues of ‘‘St. Winifred’s Well” than for any
peculiar virtues.of its own... Be that as it may,
the natives are now Fapecopeuans or Dis-
senters to the backbone, and I don’t know which
of the two sects looks with the test horror
at the cross-surmounted chapel + rises near
the well. a

When we proposed visiting St. Beano’s Mon-
astery, therefore, there were some murmurs of
dissent on the part of our guides. But we pre-
vailed, and crossed the mountain on a beautiful
summer day, a merry party of sixteen, not one
of whose well-remembered faces I shall ever see
again. We visited the monastery, paid our re-
ae to the solemn monks who were walking
about in their picturesque robes and sandals, |
and then returned to Holywell in time for din- |
ner. Passing a small lodging -honse in the High
Street, on our way to the hotel, I chanced to
look up at the parlor window, and here I saw
something which I shall never forget. |

A lady, still young, though not beautiful, and
wearing the dress of a nun, stood there, appar-
ently talking to a small yeliow canary, that sat

| and captivating in story, as the title ‘“ W.
i

 

upon her finger, looking up in her face, and
uivering in an ecstasy. of affectionate song: |
aly oh, that face into which , the warbler’s |

HE

bright eyes so unconsciously gazed! What are-
velationof grief, of suffering, of cold and calm
despair, was there!

he priest. came from the chapel-house just
then. We knew him well, and I asked him who
the nun was.

““She has just come from Paris, to form a
sisterhood here,” he said, with an air of reserve.
“Her nameis Sister Mary Francis, of the Sacred
Cross.”

I took him aside.

“| have a reason for asking this question,” I
said. ‘‘ ‘In the world,’ as Ye Catholics call it,
was not that lady’s name Marian Vere?”

“Tt was.”

And then I knew why, even beneath the vail
and wimple, that face was so paleand sad; why,
even upon her pet companion, that creature
whose life was but one long breath of joy, her
eyes, however kind, could only look with pain.
(THE END.]

Fireside Library

Of notable works by notable authors. Beautifully
printed in the popular folio form, from clear, open
type; each issue a complete novel and sold at the
uniform price of Ten Cents each. No double price on
double or extra size numbers... The cheapest library
over published; embraces only the choicest of recent
iction.

1 WAs SHE His WirE? Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
2 FLEEING FRoM Love. Harriet Irving.
3 Dip He LOvE HER? aes T. Campbell.
4 A STRANGE WomAN. Rett Winwood.
6 Two Girus’ Lives. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
7-8 Lapy AUDLEY’s SECRET. Miss M. E. Braddon,
9 Tue War OF HEARTS. Corinne Cushman.
10 LEIGHTON GRANGE. Miss M.E. Braddon. ,
11 THE Fatse WIDow. | Mrs. Jenny D. Burton.
12-13 Lost FoR LOVE. Miss M. E. Braddon.
14-15 TOILERS OF THE SEA. Victor Hugo.
16-THE QuaDROON. Catharine A. Warfield.
17-18 UnciE Smias. J. S. Le Fanu.
19-20 Deap-Sea Fruit. Miss M. E, Braddon.
21-22 LirvLe KATE Kirpy. F,. W. Robinson.
23 SOWING THE WIND. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
24-25 Brrps OF PREY. Miss M, E. Braddon.
26 THat Boy oF NorcotT’s. Charles Lever.
27-28 CHARLOTTE’S INHERITANCE. Miss Braddon.
29 AGtRL’s HEART. Rett Winwood.
30-31 Rep As A ROSE Is SHE. Rhoda Broughton.
32 Tue Lity or St. ERNE. Mrs. Crow.
33 STRANGELY WED. Mrs. Jenny Davis Burton.
34 Tue Gipsy BripE. M. E. O. Malen.
85 ANNIE TEMPLE. Rev. J. H. Ingraham.
36 WitHouT Mercy. Bartley T. Campbell.
37 BLACK EYEs AND BLuE. Corinne Cushman.
88 BRAVE BARBARA. rinne Cushman.
39 A DANGEROUS WOMAN, Margaret Blount.
40 Ourpa’s LovE. Henrietta E. De Conde.
41 Lost; A Wire. Corinne Cushman.
42 Wiynine Ways. Margaret Blount.
43 AWoMAN’s Heart. Mrs. M. V. Victor.
44 THe DeaD LETTER. Seeley Regester.
45 LorD LISLE’S DAUGHTER. C. M. Braeme.
46 A Woman’s Hanp. By the author of “Dead Letter.”
47 VIALS OF WRATH. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
48 A WiLD Girt. Corinne Cushman.
49 THE MADDEST MARRIAGE EVER W4s. Jennie D, Burton.
50 Love INA Maze. Mrs. E. F. Ellet.
51 CATHOLINA; Or, WALLED UP ALIVE. J. H. Robinson.
52 A ROMANCE OF A Poor Youne GIRL... Mrs, E. F. Ellet.
53 THE LocKED Hesrt. Corinne Cushman.
54 Tu PRIDE OF THE DownEs. Margaret Blount.
55 A STRANGE GirL. Albert W. Aiken. January 15th.

For sale by all Newsdealers, or sent, postage paid, on
receipt of twelve cents.

BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers
98 William street, N. Y

WAVERLEY LIBRARY.
A Fifty Cent Novel for Five Cents.
Each Tests Oba bitats and Unabridged

COVERING THE FIELD OF
' Love and Society Romance.

Each issue a complete novel by an author of és-
tablished reputation—Perfectly pure in tone, spirited
‘ WAVERLEY ”’

implies. Everything to please and nothing to avoid—
Wholesome, Vigorous and Fresh!

No long drawn out ‘serial ” of the popular weekly
that costs weeks of waiting and much money.

No inferior or exceptionable productions; no
tedious narrative or weak sentimentalism; nothing
but good strong stories of to-day.

FIRST ISSUES.

1 Tae Maskep Brive, By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

2 Was Iv Love? By Wm. Mason Turner.

3 THe GirL_ WIFE. By Bartley T. abel

4 A Brave Heart. Arabella Southworth.

5 Bessie Raynor, THE Work Giru. Wm. M. Turner.

6 Tue SeoreT Marrice._ By Sara Claxton.

? A DavuGuTer or Eve. Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

8 Heart to Hmart. By Arabella Southworth.
Ready January 6th.

9 ALONE IN THE WorLD. By the author of ‘ Clif-
ton,” ‘Pride and Passion,” ete. Ready
January 13th.

10 A vag oF en oe By Rose Kennedy. Ready

By Henrietta Thackeray. Ready
January 27th,
12 His Lawrut Wire, Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. Ready

February 3d.
18 MavcaPp, THE LaTTLe ‘AKERESS. By Corinne
‘ebruary 10th.

Cus) n.
14 Wuy I Marrrep Him. By Sara Claxton. Ready
February 17th. %, :
A new issue every week.
For sale by all Newsdealers. or sent, tage paid
on receipt of six cents. oan pela,
BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers,
98 William street, N. Y. ,

 

*

 

DOWNES.

BEADLE & ADAMS’
STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS,

Speakers.

BEADLE AND ADAMS have now on their lists the fol-
lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books.
prepared expressly for schools, families, etc. Eac!:
volume contains 100 large pages, printed from cles.
open type, comprising the best collection of Die
logues, Dramas and citations, (burlesque, comic
and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season
of 1879—as far as now issued—embrace twenty one
volumes, viz. :

1. American Speaker. | 12. Exhibition Speaker.
. National Speaker. 13. School Speaker.

Patriotic Speaker. 14, Ludicrous Speaker.

. Comic Speaker. | 15. Komikal Speaker
. Elocutionist. | 16. Youth’s Speaker.

Humorous Speaker. | 17. Eloquent Speaker.

. Standard Speaker. | 18. Hail Columbia Speak

Stump Speaker. | er.

. Juvenile Speaker. | 19. Serio-Comic Speaker.
. Spread-Eagle Speaker | 20. Select Speaker.

. Dime Debater. 21. Funny Speaker.

22. Jolly Speaker.

These books are rep’ete with choice pieces for the
School-rvom, the Exhibition, for Homes, etc. They
are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain some of
the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Declama-
tions and Recitations in each book.

Dialogues.

The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em-
brace twenty-three books, viz.:
Dialogues No. One. Dialogues No. Thirteen.
Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Fourteen.
Dialogues No, Three. Dialogues No. Fifteen.
Dialogues No. Four. Dialogues No. Sixteen.
Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No. Seventeen.
Dialogues No.-Six. Dialogues No, Highteen
Dialogues No. Seven. Dialogues No. Nineteen.
Dialogues No. Hight, Dialogues No. Twenty.
Dialogues No. Nine. Dialogues No. Twenty-one.
Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-two.
Dialogues No. Eleven. | Dialogues No. Twenty-three
Dialogues No, Twelve. | Dialogues No. Twenty-four.

Dialogues No. Twenty-five.
15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book.

These volumes have been prepared with especial
reference to their availability in all school-rooms.

AS OD AIM OT C929

ft et

| They are adapted to schools with or without the fur-

niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac-
ters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and
female. It is fair to assume that no volumes yet
offered to schools, at any price, contain so many
available and useful dialogues and dramas, serions
and comic.

Dramas and Readings.
164 12mo Pages. 2 Cents.

For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am-
ateur Stage, comprising Original Minor Dramas,

| Comedy, Farce, Dress Pieces, Humorous Dialogue
} and Burlesque, by noted writers; and Recitations
| and Readings, new and standard, of the

reatest

celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof. A. M. Russell.

DIME HAND-BOOKS.

Young People’s Series.

BEADLE’s Dimr HaAnp-Booxs ror YounG PErorie
cover a wide range of subjects, and are especially
adapted to their end. They constitute at once the
cheapest and most useful works yet put into the
market for popular circulation.

Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of Games.
Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortune-Teller.

Book of Etiquette. Lovers’ Casket.

Book of Verses. Ball-room Companion.
Book of Dreams. Book of Beauty.

Hand-Books of Games.

BrapDie’s Dime Hanv-Books or GAMES AND PoruLaR
Hanp-Books cover a variety of subjects, and are es-
cially adapted to their end.

k of Croquet. Yachting and Rowing.
Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving.
Cricket and Football. Book of Pedestrianism.
Guide to Swimming. Base-Ball Player.

Handbook of Winter Sports.

Manuals for Housewives.

Beavie’s Dime Famity Serres aims to supply a
class of text-books and manuals fitted for every per-
son’s use—the old and the young, the learned and
the unlearned. They are of cone value.

1, Cook Book. 4. Family >
2. Recipe Book. : 5. and Mil-
8. Housekeeper’s Guide. linery.

Lives of Great Americans.

Are presented complete and authentic bi hi
of many of the meet who have added juster to the

Republic by their lives and deeds.
braces:

I,—George Washington.
hn ae

ine nthony Wayne
IV.—Ethan ahead
V.—Marquis de Lafay-

ette c

VI.—Daniel Boone.

The series em-

VIl.—David Crockett.
VUI.—Israel Putnam.
ee Carson.

sees
xm pea Lincoln

SONG BOOKS.

BrApix’s Dime Sone Books, Nos. 1 to 33, containing

the only popular collection of rig! ‘

found a the. market. eres +e
eps

MISCELLANEOUS DIME BOOKS.
Robinson Crusoe. Jim Crow Joke Book.
Pocket Joke Book. Paddy Whack Joke Book.
ithe sbbve Benticaubis for sale by all newsdealers
a a deale
BEADLE & ADAMS, M6 Wiese Sree “oxar

-
j