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“ THERE, SIR, 1S THE DOOR !’—See page 64,
THE BETRAYED BRIDE;
WEDDED, BUT NOT WON,
BY ELEANOR LEE* EDWARDS,
FRANK STARR & CO,, PUBLISHERS, 41 PLATT ST., N, Y,
H. K, Logan, cor, 2d & Buttonw’d Sts., Phila,
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‘SUAMVN UAMOTA TVIOLUILYVY AL
THE BETRAYED BRIDE;
OR, ‘i
WEDDED BUT NOT WON.
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it ae Lee Ae PS Oe Sat ce ny en at
BY ELEANOR LEE EDWARDS,
Author Dee. Rosemary Glen,” “The Prinoe of Men,” sto, ete, ste
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THE BETRAYED BRIDE:
oR, 2.
WEDDED, BUT NOT WON.
CHAPTER I.
THE ARTIFICIAL FLOWER MAKERS,
It was a bitterly cold day early in the win-
ler of °57-58. Two young girls were sitting
With their shawls wrapped about them—for
ey had no fire—in an upper room of a tene-
Nent-house in the lower part of the city, ona
Street lying back of Broadway. They spoke
°nly occasionally, and when one caught the
"Yes of the other fixed sadly on her face, she
Would look out of the window as if there
Were something to interest her in the icy
Street, orthe brick wall opposite. It was but
Sorrowful rusé to keep from betraying how
Very sorrowful they felt.
“Poor Sarah!” at length said the elder of
a the two, her thoughts taking speech almost
*Sainst her will, “I hear that she was no
Oner discharged than she went to her
nding-house and hung herself.”
It would be better for us if we had the
*ourage to do so too, Lucille.”
Oh, no! Tina, that is not true courage.”
Both sat silent for a time; then Lucille re-
Sumed ; *
te She expected to keep her place all win-
che Many others had been dismissed, but
© Wasa favorite, and had been with them
80 long, she hoped for the best.”
cites will be a sad winter for the poor, Lu-
i “Yes, yes, yes! The rich have been reck-
Ww: and the poor must suffer. It is always so.
hi € pay the penalty of the crimes of those
a walk over us. Poor little Tina, you
‘kale with cold; and you are hungry, I
for W. You are not so strong as I—1 do not
, #80 much,”
, Don’t mind me, Lucille, don’t.”
haf ome over and sit in my lap,
B le your hands ; they are purple
and I will
with cold.
oO
d
Y-and-by, when the men have gone from —
dinner, you shall go down to Mrs. Mackaye’s
and ask to sit by her fire a while.”
Poor children, orphans, whem the great
world, the rich city, the Christian fireside
should have adopted! they made a picture of
sweet forlornness as they sat there together.
Tina—given once by some fond mother the
romantic name of Clementina, but called al-
ways and appropriately by this pet abbrevia-
tion—so small and delicate, with her large
brown eyes ready to drop tears, sat in her
friend’s lap, who chafed and fondled her lit-
tle thin hands, imparting to them some of her
own superior vitality; for Lucille, though her
face was now rather worn and pale, had a
vigorous constitution; the fine dark skin,
the clear-cut features, full. bust, and tall and
rounded form, told of youth and strength.
“How beautiful you are! You look hand-
somer to me every day,” said the childon her
knee, caressing her smoothly-braided hair,
black, like her eyes.
“It’s a strange time to be thinking of
beauty,” responded Lucille, with a sad smile ;
‘by the time we are starved to death, it will
matter little how we once looked.”
“Do you think we really can starve to
death, and so many people all about us?”
queried Tina, with a shudder, clinging to her .
friend’s shoulder. ‘
“ People Have met with such a fate, you
know, even in this city. But, I didn’t wish
to frighten you. You must sit by Mrs. Mac-
kaye’s fire, while I go out again, and seek
work of some kind, From our own trade
we have nothing to expect, and, indeed, no-
thing from any other. One can only try and
try again, till she dies. However, 1 may find
somaalieg. I have energy, and the,thought
f you, waiting for good tidings, will’ be a
le incentive.” .
“T ought to go with you.” © fos
“No; the day is cold, and you are already
tink
,
10
chilled with hunger. I may walk many
miles before I return. Come! I have none
too much time; the days are short—I hear
the men going out from dinner.”
She took her hood and shawl, and the two
descended, pausing before a door on the
second floor, where Mrs. Mackaye kept an
Irish boarding-house.
“Give Tina a cup of tea and piece of
bread ; I will pay you when I come back,
Mrs. Mackaye.”
““Whist; now! don’t be spakin’ ov the pay.
The darlin’s welcome to a bit o’ bread an’ tay.
She luks as if she had the ague, shure. Sit
here by the stove, till I bring it to ye.”
With a smile of thanks to the warm-heart-
ed Irish woman, Lucille paused not to take
any of this comfort for herself, but went
forth with quick, elastic steps, from which
hardship and sorrow had not yet stolen the
grace of youth. In a few moments she
mingled with the crowd upon Broadway.
It was late in the afternoon, and she had
made the last of several applications to a
house far up town, when, turning wearily to
_ face the stream of people going up the great
thoroughfare at that hour, she met a young
man who affected not to see her as she pass-
ed; but she, staring full at him, knew that he
did recognize her, by the slight contraction of
his eyelids.
She turned, and, following him, pressed
close to his side.
_“ You make a very good show, Branthope,
upon money which does not belong to you.
ou may feast; but I’m starving.”
“Are you out of work?” he asked un-
easily.
“Yes, lam; and do not expect any more
this winter. Our employers are sure to take
care of themselyes—as for us, it is no mat-
ter.
“ Please don’t talk to me now, Lucille, I’m
afraid we shall be observed. I am going to
be married next week to arich girl. I expect
every moment that her carriage will ‘pass.
She has driven down to Wall street to bring
her father home from business. Give me your
_ address. I promise you I wlll see youas soon
as I have time.”
“ Perhaps when you have gained another
fortune by means of one which does not be-
long to you, es will be willing to make some
restitution. I do not know where my address
will be a fortnight from now—maybe Potter's
Field.”
The young gentleman’s hand was upon his
urse, but at that moment a carriage passed,
i which was sitting a portly and pompous
middle-aged man, and a stylish, beautiful
young lady, who blushed and smiled as she
bowed, and he hurried savagely from the girl
by his side.
is
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oy
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
The gas was lighted long before Lucille re-
turned to the little friend, who was pressing
her pale cheek against the cold glass, watch-
ing for her.
“Nothing—I have made out nething at
all,” was her reply to the eager look she met —
as she entered their apartment ; “ but we will
have a fire and something to eat. I have
pawned my ring, and have bought some
coals and supper. You know it was a real
emerald which was set in the ritig; I raised
enough money on it to fend off starvation for
some time, Tina.” man
“T thought you said you would never part
With it.” aia
“T hardly think I ever would have doneit |
to save myself. Buti thought of your pale
cheeks and trembling fingers, little girl
There! don’t feel so badly. It’s only pawn-
ed; I have a strong faith that I shall redeem
it some day.”
“ Sit down, while I light the fire,’ entreat-
ed Tina, noticing the weary air with which
the other placed upon the floor the basket —
which she had tugged up two flights of stairs. |
All the time that Tina was making the fire, |
putting the tea to steep, and toasting the —
bread, her companion sate, staring at the
grate, lost in moody reflections. Her black —
eyes gleamed beneath their knitted brows, cold —
and self-absorbed, and sometimes the hungry ©
teeth would gnaw at the crimson under-lip. —
Her room-mate stole troubled glances at her, —
not daring to intrude upon her thoughts. She |
inferred, child as she was, that Lucille, so :
handsome, so intelligent, so superior in all
things to herself, had a secret history. That
she had been brought up to the trade of mak- , J
ing artifical flowers, as Tina herself had been, —
she did not think credible. It was true thab
no girl in the shop—not French Terise even —
—made more exquisite flowers; but this did —
not shake her belief that the art had been —
recently acquired. F |
Out of.a hundred companions, Lucille had
singled Tina for a friend—her, so quiet, so shy,
so patient at her work; they had roomed to-
gether to lessen expense; and Tina, the or-
phan, had never before felt so happy an
protected, so much as if her apartment was —
home, as since this partnership. ,
For Lucille was courageous and kind; pa- —
tronizing and caring for her little friend 1B
the most delightful way; a sort of mother —
sister, though in reality only two years older.
The dark moods which sometimes came upon -
Lucille, during which she seemed to feel
harshly toward the whole world, and to keep —
herself in a chilling silence, awed poor Tin#,
but did not lessen her love. Such a mood
was upon her to-night; the young girl mov
softly xbout her pleasant work of preparing —
their evening meal, not speaking until the te
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WEDDED BUT NOT WON, 11
Was On the unpainted board, which they dig-
Rified by the name of table.
If there had been any to observe and ap-
reciate, they would have fonnd that Tina
erself was not unlovely, when the heat of
the fire had driven the paleness from her face ;
er cheeks were delicate as the petals of the
Wild-rose, and her soft brown eyes were such
“8 only belong to loving, clinging natures.
he taste constantly cultivated in the work
of making flowers, showed itself in the color
of her plain dress and the arrangement of her
“Ossy, light-brown hair.
ut there was not one in all the world who
‘red whether Tina was pretty or ugly, ex-
ept, perhaps, Lucille, and she cared less for
€ orphan girl’s looks than she did for her
Qhocence and timidity, which made her a
Welcome companion.
“Come, darling Lucille, the tea is waiting,
“nd I’m sure you need it,” ventured the friend,
alter waiting vainly for her to come out of her
4bsent-minded mood.
_‘\ Yes, I do; I have eaten nothing since last
Right,” responded Lucille, shaking off her ab-
tion, and drawing a chair to the table
most eagerly, for, however pressing may be
°ur mental wants, those of the body are most
Telentless and terrible, and Lucille was more
Nearly famished than our philanthropists
Ould like to believe.
t
CHAPTER II.
AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
One day, 4 fortnight later, Lucille came
back from that never-ending, never-successful
‘Quest for work, on which she set forth every
ing, to return each evening disappointed.
“We have work at last!” she cried, as Tina,
her lap full of flowers, which she had manu-
tured in the hope that she might dispose
°f them to charitable ladies, flew to open the
door. “No more freezing, no more starving !
but plenty of fire, plenty of food, soft beds,
fee ae every thing luxurious, my dar-
" What can you mean ?”
“ Not to deceive, I assure you. Don’t look
&t me as if you suspected me of being insane.
I just simply mean that-I have secured us
Places as servants; you, a8 lady’s-maid to a
Young, pretty, and wealthy bride, who is
about to go to housekeeping; myself, as
‘child’s nurse to a good-natured baby in an-
‘ther well-to-do family. It is better than
ng flowers, Tina, even if we had them
to make. Your service will be light, and you
Will share in thesrich crumbs which fall from
our lady’s table. We American girls are
lish, to give up all wese excellent places to
, 4
ee -
foreigners, because it goes against the in
of our independent natures to serve. hat
are we shop-girls but the servants of most
exacting masters, toiling out our lives in close
rooms, when we might have comfort, plenty,
and comparative ease and liberty? Itell you
the house-servants of New York city are about
the most favored class. They pay no bills;
they do not dread rent-day ; they feast upon
their master’s substance, without care as to
how it came or how it is going. No wonder
they grow insolent. Go you, too, my dear,
and take all the advantage of your situation
possible. Work as little and live as well as
you can!” ,
“You are not in earnest about that last ad-
vice; I know, Lucille, for no one is more strict
to do right than yourself. You often make
me ashamed. But do you think I shall give
satisfaction ?—the work will be so new to
me.
“You already dress hair beautifully ; and
hands which can fashion such dainty flowers
ought to be swift and tasteful in the service
of lady’s-maid. Mrs. Maxwell will have
great patience with your ignorance, sustained
by the delightful prospect of a neat and con- _
scientious servant. Besides, she is only a
girl herself—married last week, eighteen ; in-
experienced and probably very indulgent. It
is one place in a thousand, and I feel that I
may congratulate you.”
“* Fortunately, women-servants don’t have
to don a livery,” laughed Tina. “ Fancy me
in a cape and buttons!”
“I do fancy you in a white apron and
French cap.”
“Absurd. But, indeed, I like it, after all.
Why didn’t you get a place in the same family,
darling Lucille? and you gave me the best
one, as usual.”
“T have reasons for not wishing to go in
the family where I found you a situation, or I
might also have hada place there. However,
we shall not be far apart. The houses are in
the same square; and I was very particular
to secure your Thursdays'and Sundays out,
so that you could come to see me.”
Both the girls laughed. It was ridiculous
—and yet, in one sense, it was sublime—it -
saved them from starvation !
“ You have such a head, Lucille, to man-
age things! When are we to go?”
“To-morrow. Your mistress, Mrs. Max-
well, returns to-day from Philadelphia, and
takes possession of the elegant house, which
was her father’s bridai present, to-morrow.”
“T wonder if I shall like her ?” mused
Tina.
“Tf you don’t you can dismiss her,” re:
plied Lucille, Sea “But I think
there is no danger o e
She seems amiable—a very happy bride—
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even 4 little romantic! As romantic as Fifth
avenue ever gets to be. She has made a mis-
take, but she does not know it, yet.” Lucille
was slipping into one of her day-dreams, and
Tina was regarding her with wide-open eyes,
ready to devour every word which dropped
from lips that often spoke in a strain quite
above the level of her class. “It was my
duty to have warned her; had I not sup-
sed her a mere creature of fashion like
ranthope himself, I should have stepped be-
tween them. Now, for Aer sake I ought to
be silent. Hark!’ starting suddenly from her
soliloquy ; ‘what voice is that? Tina, lam
lost! hide me in this closet! Be silent, oh,
be still! Don’t appear to be med; and
when that person asks fur me, do you say
there is no such person here. Say that [I’ve
one out—that you don’t expect me back to-
ay—any thing to get him away—there! shut
the door and don’t look so pale.”
She looked pale herself, though ; and poor
little Tina trembled all over as a wary step
came to the door, followed by a cautious
knock.
“Come in,” she said, striving to look un-
concerned.
_ The door opened, admitting a roughly-
dressed man, heavy-browed, with cunning,
restless eyes, reddish-black beard, and a face
flushed with brandy. The first glance at him
made Tina’s blood curdle, timid little thing
as she was; but she looked at him as bravely
as if her heart were not almost fluttering out
of itscage.
“T say, miss,” he began, with asmile which
increased her dislike, “ where's that other
young lady that boards with you?”
“ She’s gone out,” gusped poor Tina; gone
tn would have been the exact truth, but the
young girl was certain some frightful emerg-
ency demanded from her this deviation. “‘ Can
I give her your message ?”
_“ No, Miss, you can’t—not very well. I’ve
ot business of importance, and I reckon Pd
st wait here till she comes;” so saying he
helped himself to a chair.
“I don’t expect her back very soon.”
“ Well, I guess I can wait. She'll be in by
_ dark, I s’pose; and you look as if you’d be
good company.” ;
The girl was in agony; he saw that she
was frightened, and leered at her maliciously ;
but she-was alarmed at other matters than
the thought of harm from him. The closet
into which she had shut and locked her friend,
turning the key more by flurry than inten-
tion, was very small—so small that she could
hardly close the door with Lucille inside.
To be shut there for hours was death. Yet
the concealed girl had appeared so agitated,
80 filled with dread, and the man so desperate
a character, that she dared not, upon her ow
*
ie j 2 > ,
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
responsibility, betray Lucille—at least not un-
til the very last moment.
Fiiteen minutes—half an hour passed slow-
lyon. The intruder sat and stared at her, en-
joying her distress ; the silence was such that
she feared some inadvertent movement, or
even the stifled breath of the prisoner, would
betray her. She began, nervously, to talk
about the weather and the hard times, getting
up and looking out of the window ane won-
ed why Lucille did not return. She
would have gone out and summoned help to
remove the man; but she feared to leave her
friend alone; she was sure, if she did, that
he would go to rummaging the room ; or, be-
ing alone in it, he might detect.even « breath.
Each moment grew more unendurably long;
she gasped in sympathy with her stifling
friend ; the man began to whistle, in an under-
tone, to pass away the time, when suddenly
the crash of a falling Gish in the fatal closet
made her heart stand still.
The stranger looked at the closet and at her
suspiciously. -
“Those troublesome rats!” she exclaimed,
and seeing that he sat in such a position as
would prevent his looking inside, she went to
thescloset and partially unclosed the door,
crying out, “ husht!” to the imaginary pests,
while she looked at Lucille to question her if
she would be released. The wild, imploring
look, the gesture commanding her to close the
door, caused her to-do so despite her fears, and
the expression of suffering on the white face.
Again she sat down. She arose and again
looked out the window, A couple of police
officers were standing on the opposite pave-
ment.
‘Perhaps Lucille has stepped into Mrs.
Mackaye’s on her way up-stairs,” she said;
“Twill go see,” and passing out, she flew—
flew with her utmost speed down the many
stairs and out of the main entrance.
“Come, come,” she cried, beckoning to the
policemen, “ quick! There isa bad man up-
stairs; he will do harm!” ~
Startled more by her look than words, they
followed her back, reaching the room just as
its occupant, tired of inaction, was exploring
the premises for himself.
“Oh, it’s you, is it!” exclaimed one of the
officers; and the two, knowing by former ex-
perience that he was as powerful as he was
reckless, sprung upon him at once.
Tina shrunk into a corner, while a short,
fierce struggle took place, during which the
man was overpowered and dragged from the
room, Then she sprung to the close. As
she opened it, Lucille, whose face was resting
against the door, fell forward against her.
“She is dead!” shrieked Tina, sinking to
the floor with her burden, unable to make an
effort.to recover her; but the change of posi-
*
eae
eenernneen nn wn
WEDDED BUT NOT WON.
tion sent the blood back to the brain of the
unconscious girl, who soon unclosed lier eyes
with a struggle for breath.
“ Dear, darling Lucille, I thought you were
suffocated,” sobbed Tina, laying her friend’s
head from ber lap, and bringing water as
soon as the thrill of terror was off her limbs,
“Tt was close,” was the. shivering answer,
“hot and close ! but it was not that/) When
I heard that terrible man’s oaths and his
struggles, I fainted from fright. There is no-
thing on earth that can terrify me like that
person. Have you locked the door?”
“ They have
will place him in prison,” said her little com-
panion soothingly, though herself trembling.
“ He will get away from them, as he has
done before. He will get away, and come
back here! Oh, I am so glad that we are to
leave this spot in the morning. We will
keep the door locked every moment until we
o. I shall not feel safe until 1 am far from
ere. Isupposed him to be in another part
of the a and to think he was so near!”
with a prolonged shudder.
Mrs. Mackaye came up to see what the of-
ficers had been after, and finding the girls so
nervous and alarmed, made them come down
and stay with her until, bedtime. When
they returned to their room they fastened the
door, dr. ged the furniture before it, and
crept treiblingly to bed, and into each other’s
arms. Their sleep was broken. If the eld-
er one sunk into slumber she would awake
with a start, or a terrfied scream, while the
younger, alarmed by sympathy, puzzled her
head in wonder as to what connection that
hard-looking man could have with the for-
tunes of Lucille—Lucille, so self-possessed,
usually so courageous—Lucille, so proud and
ght—so far above others in her station—
Lucille, in whose hidden history she began to
take the deepest interest.
In the morning the two girls prepared
themselves for the novel step they were about
to take; very little preparation, indeed, was
necessary, as they had no means of adding to
their wardrobes, and the furniture of their
room was rented with it. Lucille filled a
large paper-box with the flowers they had on
hand, and the remaining material,
“Take this with you, Tina; Mrs, Maxwell
will perhaps purchase the flowers, which will,
enable you to provide yourself with stuff for
those white aprons; and you can amuse
yourself, ir your leisure hours, in manufactur-
ng more. Don’t be so saving of coal this
morning ; put on all there is, and let us be
thoroughly warmed before we set out.”
There was a glowing fire, and the bread-and-
butter was unstinted, Tina wished to run to
the corner-grocer’s for coffee and milk, of
which she knew her roem-mate was fond, but
¥
1im ; you need not fear; they’
13
Lucille would not hear to her leaving her
alone a moment. Her eyes glittered, and the
red spot so indicative of intense excitement,
burned on either check ; her movements were
nervously hurried, although she knew the
would not be expected for several hours, ih
the houses to which they were to go. She
ate very little, and spoke less; until, noticing
that her own mood was depressing Tina,
whom she wished to keep in good spirits, she
suddenly dashed into the opposite extreme of
gay and audacious conversation.
“You can play lady, little one, to your .
heart’s content. When your mistress is away
you can assume her character—borrow her
silken robes, sparkling jewels, et cetera, and
break the of the footman and butler.”
“TE it were po now, Lucille, you would
not have to play Jady. You always are a
lady, and I believe you have been as rich as
any of them, some time. You aren’t angry
with me for saying so ?”
“ No, Tina; you cannot help your opinions.
And you always persist in having very flat- |
tering opinions of me. I suppose you are full
of curiosity to know how I could have any
acquaintance with that man who came here
yesterday—how he could have power over
me to terrify me so. It is natural that you
should wish to understand it; but I can not
explain now. Some time, Tina, when I have
broken my chain—when I am free, you shall
know all.. Now, you must take me on trust.”
“On trust! echoed the younger girl, re-
proachfully. She would as soon have thought
of taking a queen on trust, as Lucille, whom
she respected almost as much as she adored.
“You are a loving little creature, and you
will have your reward,” said Lucille, looking
into the brown eyes until something of the
hardness of her own glittering glance was
melted. “I constitute myself your nd-
mother, little one, and some day I shall come
to you in your cinders of servitude, and bring
you the glass slippers and the coach-and-four.
“And the Prince?” laughed Tina.
If you promise me to wait for the Prince,
and not to flirt with any of lower rank in the
mean time, I will bring him, too,
Tina, let us be generous, and make Mrs. Mac-
kaye a present of every thing for which we
have no use—the tea-pot and spoons, plates,
and milk-pitcher. Thank heaven! it is nine
o'clock, and we can set forth upon our adven-
ture.’ ; +3,
Mrs. Mackaye wept with true Irish prodi-
gality when the ‘beautiful childer” stopped
at her door to say good-by; but no sooner
were they down the stairs than she wiped her
eyes on her apron, and went up to console
herself with the treasures they h
“To think of Miss Lucille a-turnin’ nursery-
maid,” she remarked, as she gathered up the
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But come, |
abandoned.
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14
spoils ; “she'll frighten the poor babby with
her grand airs, quite out of its appetite, I’m
afeard. [Pd sooner ask Queen Victory to
make pap for me than Miss Lucille. She
ought to go on the Bowery boards, that’s what
she ought. She’d mak’ her fortune, shure.
How sweet she'd be, now, in the Lady of
Lions, or the Buccaneer’s Bride.”
This opinion of Mrs. Mackaye’s was shared
by another—Lucille herself, who was well
aware that she had talents for the stage, and
Who, often; in hours of desperation and fierce
striving with poverty, had resolved to under-
take her legitimate occupation; and who had
only been withheld—not by doubts of its pro-
priety, for she had high respect for the genius
of the world’s great players, to whom she felt
ske might add her own name—by that same
great fear and terror which she had mani-
iested yesterday—the fear of being recognized
and hunted down by one whom it was the set
task of, her life to avoid.
CHAPTER III.
ONE PART OF A MYSTERY.
Mrs. BRANTHOPE MAXWELL was going out
to a New Year’s Eve festival held in her own
father’s house.
“We must hurry, Tina,’ she said, as she
sat berore her mirror, watching the effect of
the manipulation to which her beautiful hair
was being subjected ; “ mamma wishes me to
assist in receiving the guests, and I ought to
be home by eight.o’clock. How natural it
comes to say ‘home’—as i ‘iis was not my
home! What.a happy girl I am, to have two
lomes!”.and she laughed with that. joyous-
ness which proved her as happy as some care-
less child.
The bride of a month, married to the man
of her choice, surrounded by luxury, and pet-
_ted by a circle of friends, she had no excuse
for being otherwise than very content. Even
if not vain—and she was no more so than
circumstances justified—she must have been
satisfied with the reflected beauty upon which
she gazed. She belonged to one of the most
__ charming types of pretty American women—
a slight, elegant figure, fair complexion, deli-
cate features, a refined expression mingled
of good breeding and intellectual cultivation ;
to this addAhe grace of stylish and exquisite
costume,, (in which, despite the pert remarks
of letter-writers, it is evident that our coun-
irywomen excel,) and you may believe that
‘s. Maxwell made an agreeable picture in-
~ of that elaborate gilt frame. She was
alight shawl over her shoulders, while Tina
put the finishing touches to her hair. Her
ready dressed for the festival, and sat with .
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; UR,
pink silk dress was trimmed with white lace,
and embellished with jewels of diamonds and
emeralds.
“Why, where did that come from? Itis per
fect!” she cried,as Tina placed amid her golden-
brown locks, just above her smooth, low fore-
head, a small diadem of moss-rose buds, which
she fastened with one of the jeweled pins.
“ Are they real ?”
““No, madam; I made them after I saw
your dress. - 1vu know it is my business to
make flowers.”
“Yes; but I never saw any so life-like. -
How delicatc the moss is! and the buds just
match my dress. Tina, you are a treasure!
I thank you for your pretty New Year’s gift.
Branthope will fall in love with me anew
when he sees me !”
The young bride called her husband “ Bran-
thope”’ to her dressing-maid, which lapse of
dignity was partly owing to her great happi-
ness, that overflowed, in confidence, to all
about her, and partly to Tina’s own gentle,
unassuming ways, that drew forth this confi-
dence, as naturally as light draws open the
hearts of roses.
“Tam so glad you fancy it, Mrs. Maxwell.”
“Did not some one knock ?”
Tina opeved the door, and saw her friend,
Lucille, who drew back when she perceived
the lady of the house was still in her cham-
ber, saying that she would return to the kitch-
en, and wait until Tina was at leisure; but
Mrs. Maxwell, who recognized her as the girl
who had recommended her maid to her, asked
her to come in, saying wat she was about to
go, and Tina wouid soon be at liberty.
Locking her jewel casket, and Ar up her
fan and handkerchief, the young wife lingered
for another glance in the mirror, when her
husband, not waiting for an answer to his tap
on the door, entered, saying :
“Jam afraid we shall be late, Violet—the
carriage is at the door. Why, darling, how
beautiful you are to-night. You never looked
better—not even in your wedding-dress.”
“You see things couleur de rose,” langhed
the bride. ¢
“T could not see them otherwise to-night.
Rose is a favorite color of mine. I used to
fancy it with dark hair and eyes; but I find
now, that it harmonizes with blue eyes and
golden hair,” and stepping forward gayly, he
was about to place himself by his wife’s side,
when his glance fell upon Lucille, who had
ae to the far end of a a was
standing quite ae ig ut pale, hoping to
escape his observation, » m
The sudden change in his demeanor caused
Mrs. Maxwell to say, carelessly :
“It is only a friend of Tina’s.’ They are
to have the evening to themselves after we
go out.” .
«
and
len
Ore.
lich
ins,
sa
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ike. *
ust.
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ift.
ew
in-
of
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gn
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. * 15
“TI don’t like it,” muttered Mr. Maxwell;
Sut the glance of defiance he shot at the in-
truder was met by one as unswerving. He
fidgeted a moment about the dressing-bureau,
appeared to look for something, tore a leaf
out of his note-book, and wrote a few words
upon it, saying to his wife, as he did so:
“{ forgot to write out that order for Brown.
Come, now I am ready, if you are, Mrs. Max-
well,” and he contrived, skillfully, to drop the
paper in Lucille’s hand, before he left the
room. After he had been sometime gone, she
read it, while Tina’s attention was diverted
to other matters :
_ “If yon want money, you shall have it—freely.
But don’t begin to make trouble at this late hour of
the we If you do, 1 have a way of Ree my-
self. G. N.is in town—do you know it ?—and I will
ra him on your track if you interfere with my af-
rs.”
‘ ry red blood flushed up to the girl’s fore-
ead.
“True to his nature,” she thought, while
her lip curled with anger and contempt—“ al-
ways cowardly, always ready to sacrifice me.
It is like him to threaten, after I have prom-
ised him immunity for his base deeds. If it
were not for the innocence of that bride's
soving face, I would ruin him to-morrow. Yes,
I would dare all the consequences—I would
break the bonds of this fear which have held
me back from doing that which L ought to
have done for myself. I will appeai tu the
public for protection from them all. The
whole three shall not have power to silence
me. Branthope threaten me, indeed, when he
quakes with a miserable terror, day and night,
lest I should expose him! It will be far bet-
ter for him to conciliate and to protect, than
to urge me on to the last extremity. He de-
pends too much upon the influence of the
past. He ought to know,” sneeringly, “how
all that weighs against him, instead of in his
fayor, with me. Good heavens! what. does
he sup I am made of, that I-should be so
different from other women? I have been a
fool to allow him to seein what dread I stood
of that other man.” —
“ What ails you this evening, Lucille? You
are growing tired, I know, of work to which
you are not accustomed. Oh,Iwish you had
taken my place, Which is 80 easy and pleas-
ant,” and Tina, sitting on the carpet at Lu-
cille’s feet, rested her head on her knee, look-
ing up with affectionate eyes.
“ You are a good id. loving little friend,
Tina; but, don’t fret yourself about. having
the easiest situation. I told you there were
reasons for my not wishing it. Why, Tina,
if you knew them, you would laugh at the
ridiculousness of the idea! It would make
you merry a whole evening,” smiling bitterly.
“It always has appeared ridiculous to me
to see you doing things which are plainly not
+
ad
v
habitual with you,” answered the other, grave-
ly. “As for me, I have always made flowers
—always been poor; but with you it is other-
wise.”
“ How do you know ?”
“ By the evidence of my senses. I wish I
knew more about you, dear Lucille, for I love
you; yetI feel so far from you. Mrs. Griggs
told me once there was a romantic mystery
about you.” ‘
“Dear Mrs. Griggs,” said Lucille, softly,
the tears springing to her eyes, ‘“ how good
she was, in spite of her ignorance and: com-
ical sentimentality. I wish I could go to/her
now. It would be a comfort.” ibs
“Can’t I comfort you the least little bit,
darling Lucille ?”
Lucille looked down at her earnestly a few
moments. -
“Tina, I know you love me, but have you
discretion to receive a weighty secret and
keep it carefully? You might do much harm
to the happiness of an innocent person, if you
”
were to clo or say any thing unwise—
“T know I’m not, wise; but I shall try not
to harm you.”
“Nor one other, who is destined to bé a
good friend of yours. Mr. Maxwell is a cou-
sin of mine; we spent years under the same
roof; every dollar of the property of which
he has possession—over a hundred. thousand
dollars—is mine; mine, legally, and so cer-
tainly, that I have at any moment only to
avow myself, and the law will place it at once
in my hands. He is as fully aware of it as I
am. It is natural that he should not like to
have meabeut. But, circumstances may arise
which will render it necessary for me to do
some unexpected things; and I have taken
you thus far into my confidence, in order, dear
Tina, that you may not put a false construc-
tion upon evidences, which you will hardly
fail to detect, of a previous acquaintance be-
tween Mr. Maxwell and myself. I do not
wish his wife to observe this, since no expla-
nations can be made to her which will not
damage her husband in her eyes.”
“How strange it all seems, Lucille, and you
absolutely wanting bread !”
“That was an accident. Yet, for all my
cousin really cares, 1 might starve, and wel-
come.
something which I dread more than hunger,
loneliness, or death itself.”
“What is that, dear Lucille?”
“Don’t ask me. I can not put my unhap-
piness into words. As to my future, I was
not designed, as — say, for a nursery-maid.
A design which I have long entertained, I in-
tend now to carry out. I shall soon go to
ran and study for the stage, But, listen,
and do not forget, Tina! Where I go must
4
»
He knows that I will not harm him— _
unless driven to it to preserye myself from
rg :
new sphere, I can, support
fs urnished, t: a
16
be known to nobody except yourself. Mr.
Maxwell, of ali men, must not dream of it.
It is of vital importance that I get off with-
out my destination being suspected. After I
reach London,I shall send my address to you
under a fictitious name, so that if there should
arise the necessity of any communication on
my part, or on yours, some one in this wide
world will know where I am. I am under
the necessity of going abroad, to avoid recog-
nition in my new calling. I am now going
to write a note to Mr. Maxwell, to demand of
‘hima a sum’ sufficient to pay the expenses of
~ the eee and my way in a strange city,
until Iam able to earn my living as an actress.
But he is not to know for what purpose I use
the money. He must believe that I am in
this country—at the West, giving lessons as
a music-teacher, or something of that kind.
I am educated, Tina—accomplished, as the
phrase goes—in music and the modern Jan-
guages, which will be « great assistance to
mein my new career. I have a good voice
and talent.
“As for you, pretty one, I would advise
you to stay where you are, even if your own
trade prospers again, so long as Mrs, Max-
well likes you and favors you. You will
have a good home, and will be protected
from the unpleasant surroundings of an _or-
phan girl who has to pay for her board in
those cheap places. Now, if you will give
me a scrap of paper I will write my note,
and you must contrive to deliver it to him
without his perceiving that you know any
thing of our matters. He will naturally sus-
pect you of being my confidant, and will wish
to get rid of you; you must allow him to
perceive that you know nothing whatever of
the relations between him and myself. I
wish you to remain here, Tina, not only on
yo own account, but in order that you may
e able to correspond with me, when I desire
~ to learn what happens this side of the water.”
“ But I shall see you again? You are not
going 80 very soon ?”
“Just as quickly as Ican bring it about.
If I could go this night, it would best suit me.
But I dare say it will be some time before I
really am ready. The paper, please, child,
or I shall be reprimanded for late hours,” and
Lucille laughed in spite of her anxieties.
The paper was brought, and she wrote:
“T do know that G,N.is in town. I had a visit
from him. I also know that he is in prison, so that
he can not harm me for the present. Before he is let
Joose, I wish to emigrate. I may go to St. Lonis,
where I hear there is work for music-teachers. Such
a course on my part will doubtless be a relief to your
pied—thourh I had no intention of troubling Mrs.
*s happiness at present—and you will be glad to
et for me the money promised. A tbousand dollars
ds what I want to support me, unti), by efforts in a
myself, The sooner that
at fi he sooner your mind will be at
%
“
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
This she left for Tina to deliver, by leaving
it on his Gressing-table, where he could not
fail to see it when he came home, or when he
dressed in the morning; and then, with an
ardent embrace of her little friend, who let
her out at the hall-door, she ran down the
steps in the dim lamp-light, and was soon in
front of the house in which she was serving.
As she was about to go down the area, some
one grasped her by the arm.
“Got you this time,” said a well-known
voice, at which she gave a faint scream.
“Didn't have the pleasure of findin’ you to
hum, when I called t’other day.”
“1T—I thought you were in—”
“The Tombs? Oh, sol was, till I come
to trial and abe couldn’t prove nothing, asI
knew they couldn’t all the time. Then, of
course, I was free to pay my compliments to
my lady ag’in. I’ve had great news for you.
‘You hadn’t ought to keep out o’ my way.
Upon. my word you hadn’t; youre doin’
yourself an injury.”
“Please let go my arm. I have nothing
to say to you.”
“Truly, now? But jist let me tell you that
I’ve been down South, and I seen Adm, and
had a good long talk with him.”
Lucille trembled from head to foot; ‘he
could feel it, as he grasped her arm, and he
smiled maliciously.
“ You see it was getting warm weather,” he
went on, in a mocking tone, “an’ I had to
take a tower for my health. Circumstances
made it advisable for me to leave town fora
time—one o’ my passengers lost his pocket-
book in an unaccountable manner, an’ I
understood the police was a-going to hold
me responsible—a niost unkind proceeding, I
must say—for the gentleman’s loss; so I
thought ’twould save trouble all ’round, and
be the fashionable thing, tuo, to take a tower.
Now, if a ee can mix business and
leasure, to the same time, he’s a-killing two
yirds with one stone. When I had to decide
in what direction, I says, ‘South America,
why not? and I ships in a sailing vessel,
pays my way likea first-class passenger, an’
a nice time I had of it, goin’ down. When
we arrived at. Maracaibo, I lost no time,
missus, in findin’ out the house to which the
Senor belonged. f
“I was a little disappointed to find that he
had gone to Panama on some railroad
business, and wouldn’t be back for some
weeks; but, as I’d nothing to do, I waited.
Mighty sight easier a-layin’ aro*ad chere
loose in the summer weather, thn ddvin’ a
hack in New York. Wal, the Senor cme
back, an’ I met him by chance, an’ I had a
little talk with him, an’ I excited his curiosity
to that pitch he was ready to come down
handsome with almost any amount. Fact is,
wy
Pex
WEDDED BUT NOT WON.
he paid me a cool two thousand before my
story was all told, he was so,surprised and
interested.”
“Oh, how could you do it?” moaned
Lucille, her voice husky as if her throat was
parched. ‘ Where is he now?”
“Shall I write an’ tell him you was so
kind as to inquire after him?”
“ZT don’t care what you do. Let me pass,
I wish to go in.”
“ And go in you shall, my lady, now that
we know in what nest the bird is.”
“ We?” cried Lucille, involuntarily casting
a glance about her, as she broke from the
man’s hold and hurried down the steps.
Hasty as was her glance, she was positive
that she saw a figure, wrapped in a cloak,
standing in the shadow of the tall brown-
stone houses across the way. His figure!
It seemed to her as if she were an hour
descending the urea steps and ringing the
bell, and as if it were an age before the sleepy
servant admitted her. She pushed wildly
past the girl, when the door was opened,
cried to her to bolt it fast, and sunk upon a
chair, her heart palpitating as if it would
leap trom her breast.
“T have had a fright! A rough fellow
spoke to me,” she said in explanation, as soon
as she could command her voice; then, with-
out waiting for more words with her com-
panion, she hurried up to her own little room,
fastened her door, and flung herself on the
bed, mopieye
‘““My refuge invaded so soon. It was he!
He has returned, and for me! In three days
more I should have been away—safe on the
wide ocean. Now, oh, now, where shall I hide
myself?”
But, in order that the reader may under-
stand something of this beautiful woman’s
distress and despair, we must go back a little
in time, and bring forward other characters.
ee
CHAPTER IV.
BRANTHOPE VILLA.
Tue sole occupants of Branthope Villa,
besides the servants, were old Uncle Peter
Maxwell, and his niece Margaret. The place
was such an one as may be often found in the
Eastern States, and lay along the banks of
the Connecticut river, not a hundred miles
trom New York. Originally, the house had
been only a large old-fashioned stone dwell-
ing; but when Uncle Peter took it in hand,
he transformed the structure into a wing,
added the main part, two stories in
hight, with a |, hall and picturesque roof
and tower, and dubbed what had been the
plain farm-house of the family, Branthope
17
Villa, at first to the great mirth and contempt
of the country people, who were not used to
hearing their dwellings called mansions and
villas. But as the ivy grew over the tower
and the roses Clambered to the dormer-
windows, and all the city people, who in
summer thronged their lovely valley, talked
of and admired Branthope Villa, they
gradually ceased to ridicule and in turn grew
proud of their neighbor.
Peter Maxwell was, like so many other
adopted Americans, of English birth. His
parents had belonged to a branch of the
aristocracy, his mother having been a Bran-
thope, but this twig of the Maxwell tree
having become too impoverished, his fortunes
not matching with his pride, he brought his
little orphan sister to America, bought a farm
in the Connecticut valley, and strove to make
himself at home in his adopted country.
But his life was one of disappointment and
deprivation ; his beautiful sister, against his
will, married a poor, plain young farmer,
and entered upon all the hardships of such a
life. He remained alone in the old stone
house, never once entrapped by the pretty
and intelligent girls who gave him bright
glances in church and on the road---girls who
could make butter and read Latin, milk the
cows and translate Telemachus, ride on horse-
back and sing in “ meeting” — girls a
thousand times too sensible and handsome
and good for the crabbed old bachelor, grow-
ing yearly more sour and withered.
is farm deteriorated instead of improving ;
he had no means of lightening the cares and
labors of the sister whom he still loved and
pitied, though he never did any thing but
quarrel with her; the neighbors began to
call him old Uncle Peter; and his life seemed
to fall into ruin, like his fences and farm and
buildings—when, one day; he hada letter from
a London attorney, which caused hig, to
lace a tenant on the farm, and to sail’ for
ngland by the next steamer. He was gone
two years, during which rumor proclaimed
to his friends on this side, that he had come
into possession of a large amount of money
willed to him by an uncle who had come
home from the East to die.
For once, rumor was founded upon truth.
Peter Maxwell returned with a considerable
inheritance, though not half what it was
reported to be; but the evil genius of his
life again met him as he set foot on our shores,
with the news of his sister's death, to lighten
whose heavy burdens had been the chief
ae in his hurrying back.
es, Margaret, the beautiful Margaret, was
dead,-~-a crushed and faded flower, who could
not ae eieuTy her wintry life, Her eldest
child; a boy, had been drowned, while skating,
the previous winter; and her only other
eee
18
child, a daughter, four years of age, was alone
left to perpetuate her mother’s name and
beauty. To this second Margaret, Peter Max-
well turned with a sort of passion of love—
the hoarded fondness of half a life—at once
taking her in place of the sister he had lost,
and seeming to see in her childish beauty and
pretty ways, the little one live again, of whom
he had been so tender when she was a little
orphan girl like this. But he didnot like her
father, nor the family to which she was taken
by him; and he made it a condition of his
adopting her as his heir, that she should as-
- sume his name, and that he should have the
_. entire guardianship. Her father, knowing
that her uncle could promise her a brighter
career than he, and already on the point of
marrying again, willingly consented; little
Maggie Dyer became Margaret Branthope
Maxwell, adopted daughter of Peter Max-
well; and as soon as Branthope Villa was
ready for her reception, the child came to her
new home, to reign queen of every thing
there, including Uncle Peter’s heart.
Mr. Maxwell was not so blind to the virtues
of New England women that he could not
see the advantage of having one for a house-
keeper ; his judgment was never more tri-
umphant than in the selection of the neat, in-
telligent, and competent widow whom he
elected to manage his domestic affairs, and to
look after the bodily welfare of tiny Miss Mar-
garet. Soon a governess was added to the
menage ; a grand piano came out to the villa ;
the little fairy in white frocks and pink sashes,
who ruled there, was popularly credited with
an unlimited command of foreign tongues,
and every accomplishment required to fit her
for the most polished society. Probably it
was the dream of Uncle Peter’slife to take her
to England when she was of a suitable age,
and marry her to some titled gentleman, wor-
thy of the honor of being married toa Bran-
th Maxwell. Meanwhile he could not
- lose‘her from his sight a single day. When
free from the restriction of study hours, she
was always by his side, walking, riding, driv-
ing, or perched on his knee, as they sat, in
summer, on the vine-shadowed piazza. He
had abundance of reason to be proud of her.
Her beauty attracted the most careless eye;
and, while ardently, passionately attached to
her dear father (as she always called him),
there was just enough of his own pride in
her character to prevent her too easily forming
friendships. Her large black eyes, while they
melted with love as they beamed upon him,
would flash resentment at the too familiar ap-
proach of those less fayored. She wasa bru-
nette, with the mingled fire and ice of that
‘ype. Indeed, her uncle, who had the gene-
gy of the family at his eran per-
ceiyed in her a startling resemblance to the
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
portrait of his grandmother, a Burmese lad
of fabulous wealth and beauty, whom his
grandfather had married in her native land.
His own mother had been fair, short, and
mildly pretty. Margaret promised to be tall,
dark, and brilliant. The red veins in her
cheeks showed through the brown but deli-
cate skin; her hair, long, heavy, and shining,
was perfectly straight.
A miser never gloated over his gold more
enraptured thar this otherwise solitary man
used to dwell upon the perfections of the
child whom he had made his own.
When Margaret was about fourteen an un-
expected visitor arrived at Branthope Villa—
a young gentleman, just of age, who had for-
saken his poor relations in England, and
came over the seas to fasten himself on his
prosperous uncle, like a parasite, as he was.
Peter Maxwell was no nearer than great-uncle
to him, and Margaret was his third or fourth
cousin, but his name was John Branthope
Maxwell, and this aloue was « stout claim
upon the old man. He had no desire to turn
away one who bore this name, and made the
youth warmly welcome ; but Uncle Peter was
shrewd, a sharp observer of character, and
soon decided that young Branthope (as they
called him) lacked in industry, energy, and
some good purpose in living, even if not ab-
solutely lacking in principle... He quietly re-
linquished the plan which he had secretly
formed, of uniting the two children in mar-
riage, when Margaret should be old enough,
and set his wits to work to prevent, instead of
making, such a match.
Margaret, just at the most romantic period
of life—when slipping out of childhood into
girlhood—and totally unfitted to judge of her
cousin by comparison with others, never hay-
ing seen any society except that of her native
place—was very deeply impressed with the
graces and gallantries of one who had made
it his study to please her. For Branthope,
too, was observing, and judged, by the almost
idolatrous fondness of the old man for his
protege, that to conquer her was to conquer
him. His task was not a difficult one, so far
as fascinating the inexperien girl went;
he had not been three months,at the villa be-
fore the red would spring to her cheek and
the light to her eye at his t_ careless smile
or word. But the effect upon Uncle Peter
was not what he had desired. There may
have been a twinge of jealousy in the disap-
proval with which her guardian marked these
signs. At all events, there was sufficient rea-
son in the character of the young man him-
self, why he should break up an a
which might be regretted when too late. It
was but fair to the child to give her an op-
portunity of knowing the world, and her.
own heart, before she entangled herself with
WEDDED BUT NOT WON.
= first young gentleman thrown in her
wi
~Unele Peter’s decision wassoon made. He
sent Branthope to the city to study law, with
a liberal allowance for every expense necessary
to a young man in his station; and with Mar-
garet and her governess started on a trip to
the old world. After more than a year spent
in Italy and France, the little party returned ;
the governess, no longer required, was foun
another home, and Margaret, still not much
more than a child, but very womanly for her
age, took her place as mistress of Branthope
illa—a position not hard to fill, seeing that
all the real duties devolved upon the faithful
housekeeper.
The travelers called upon Branthope in
New York, and brought him home with them
to een the summer holiday. The most
careful inquiries of Uncle Peter resulted in
nothing to his nephew’s disadvantage ; he
had been tolerably studious, and though gay,
and a trifle extravagant, had no bad habits.
Therefore he was made more fully at home
than he had been on his former visit. The
old man almost repented of the resolution he
had made, to prevent an alliance between the
two. “Blood is stronger than water ;” and
this young fellow, so handsome, high-spirited,
and fond of the good things of life, was his
own kin and bore the family name. It was
unreasonable to turn the cold shoulder to
him, who had no positive faults, except that
he was not as careful of his word, as Peter,
roud and honorable, had always been of his.
eter’s word, in all the country about, was as
good as his bond—but young Branthope’s
stories and promises were always taken with
a reservation. So quickly does the difference
make itself felt in the innate integrity of
character.
Still, as we have said, there were no bad
habits to be charged to Branthope ; his gay-
ety and desire for constant amusement made
him all the more a favorite in that quiet
country neighborhood into whose stillness he
flashed like a gold-fish into a trout-brook.
When he returned to the city, after his six
weeks" yacation, he had told Margaret that
he loved her, and had won a similar confes-
sion from her. '
“But do not say any oe about it to
Uncle Peter, just yet, sweet Margaret. You
are so very young, and I not yet admitted to
ractice. I am afraid he will think we have
bad rash. Keep our dear secret until I see
ou again,”—and she, too shy to own willing-
y even to him how she adored him, was glad
not to have to open this sacred page of her
experience to her adopted father.
At Christmas-time there was a hurried
visit from Branthope, and ee wept and
wept, after he went away, until her guardian”
19
could not but notice the paleness of her
cheeks and the sadness of her yvoice—Bran-
thope had appeared so indifferent, and had
never once alluded to thelr engagement, but
talked incessantly about the brilliant so-
ciety into which he was going, and how
much a young man’s future depended upon
his beginning the world aright; ¢. 6, obtain-
ing a footing in fashionable circles and spend-
ing more money than belonged to him to
maintain it.
His principal errand appeared to have been
to beg his uncle for a more liberal allowance,
which was refused until the young man was
obliged to confess to some debts, when his
uncle, deeply annoyed, gave him the money
to pay them, but warned him about presum-
ing too far on his eee
ow that Branthope had said nothing of
the understanding between them, and that her
guardian was so incensed against his extrava-
gance, the young lady could not confide her
unhappiness to her dearest and truest friend.
Young and confiding as she was, Margaret
yet had a great deal of strength of character,
and could detect and despise the weakness of
the man from whom still she could not tear
her affections, She saw that hismame andcon- .
nections, and the freedom with which he
spent money, had secured him the flattering
attentions of those whom he was inclined to
set before her—though, certainly, Margaret
Maxwell could have held her own against all
the beauties of New York combined.
If, at that time, she had enjoyed other so-
ciety suitable to her years, she might have
conquered her love for Branthope, and made
it a thing of the past—one of those fleeting
fancies to which very young and enthusiastic
girls are given.
But in the loneliness of her life at Bran-
thope Villa, he filled her thoughts and imag-
ination ; the more indifferent he became, the
more deeply she suffered. All winter she
brooded over his neglect, while her pale
cheeks and the absence of that bright, aerial
gayety which had been so charming in her,
pained her fond uncle’s heart.
In the spring, a long-slumbering disease
awoke to fatal activity in the frame of Peter
Maxwell. His physicians gave but little hope
of prolonging his life beyond a counle ur
years, and this short lease was only to be ob-
tained by a change of climate. hen Bran-
thope received, by letter from Margaret, the
bad news, he hastened home to express his
sympathy and to offer to resign the practice
upon which he had just entered, and attend
upon the invalid during a protracted sojourn
in a southern island. i),
The warmth, ‘the filial tenderness with |
which the offer was made, touched Uncle
Peter sensibly; but he had grown wily with
~
a
}
a
pee eee 7 eT
increasing years, and could not but suspect
that a large part of this show of affection
was owing to the hope and desire of his
speedy death, and the expectation that the
nephew would be co-heir with Margaret, to
his estates. He declined the proffered service,
saying that, as he should be obliged to keep
a hired nurse, his dear daughter would be all
tbe. company he should require.
Young Branthope knew well that there
was danger of his uncle’s dying while away,
in which case he was not certain how he
should stand with regard to his property, as
he had never been promised any portion of
it. The expectation of ingratiating himself
with his rich relative had induced him to of-
fer, much against his taste, to be his compagnon
du voyage ; this offer being declined, he saw
that he had been rash in so soon slighting
Margaret.
During the interval which elapsed before
uncle and niece sailed for Cuba, he devoted
himself to both, with an ardor which result-
ed in the one’s leaving him a most generous
present, and the other’s forgiving him the
past and allowing him to kiss her lips and
clasp her hand on that last night at home, as
her affianced husband.
Brightly the moonlight shone in the tower-
window, whither the two had gone to whis-
per the last sweet but bitter farewell. Mar-
garet never forgot that hour. And Branthope
never afterward saw a more beautiful face
than the young, impassioned one, with its
dark eyes rinking in the moonlight, its soft,
trembling mouth and forehead pale as pearl
in that radiant night. But there are other
things which some men worship more than
beauty—more than beauty, love, and inno-
cence. Wordly success is the idol of most—
and to the vain, ambitious aspirations of
Branthope Maxwell, no other shrine was
half so devoutly attended, half so worthy of
i ce. F r
CHAPTER V.
A FELLOW-PASSENGER.
Anp now begins one of the strangest of
chapters yet written in the history of a young
girl's life.
After a sojourn of a little over a year in
Cuba, old Uncle Peter er very homesick,
declaring that, as he had to die, whether or
no, he preferred to die in his own house; be-
sides, he had a presentiment that both him-
self and Margaret would be swept off by the
yellow fever, if they remained again through
the sickly season; 80 his niece wrote to the
housekeeper to have the villa prepared for
their return. Margaret herself was half wild
With joy at her uncle’s decision, for she had
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; Oh
:
been lonely. in that strange country, despite,
the attentions which money brought them ;,
and she longed, oh, how. earnestly! to. ses
Branthope—to hear him say, “I love you!”,
—which was so much sweeter than to read it,
on the written page. Her devotion to the in-
valid had prevented her ever betraying her
desire to go home, and she still would have
urged him to remain where he was, had she.
not been sensible that this warm climate was
really of no benefit to him.
Daring all of their delightful voyage over
the blue and sunny ocean, in the calm sum-
mer weather, she anticipated the moment
when she should place her foot on the dock
and meet the glance and touch the hand of
Branthope. This thought brought the rose —
to her face, and kept heft so sine and
bright, as she sat patiently on deck by the
sick man’s side, that the passengers could do ,
little but watch and admire the American
girl; and she had a hundred lovers among
the men, women and children of the ship,
long before it steamed into New York bay.
Among these passengers was a man whose
nationality it would be difficult to decide at
once. He spoke the Spanish and English
equally well; appeared to have plenty of
money ; was showily, but elegantly dressed,
his velvet vest and cap giving somethin,
of a foreign air to his attire ; the money whic
he spent was all Spanish gold; and it was
generally understood on board, that, if not a
gambler by profession, he was greatly addict-
ed to cards as an amusement.
This person, whose name she had even
never heard, made himself very annoying to
Margaret Maxwell, by the persistence will
which, during those pleasant hours when. 1
was indispensable to her uncle’s health that
he should be on deck, he also placed himself
near and passed the time in staring at her.
There was nothing disrespectful in his glance, _
nothing of which she could complain, to the
officers of the vessel; it just seemed as if the
man was fascinated, and looked when he
knew that he ought not, because the attrac-—
tion was irresistible. As soon as he met the
young lady’s eye, he would drop his own, or
affect to be gazing off on the water, but she
felt his burning gaze return to her face the |
moment she ceased to notice him. |
This would not have been so disagreeable
—being, as it was, the spontaneous evidence
of his admiration for her youth and beauty,
and graceful devotion to. her invalid relative
—had the stranger himself made a less un-
pleasant impression upon her. As it was, she
felt as if she had nearly as soon have fasci-
nated one of the poisonous serpents of the
South, the consciousness that he was near
causing a cold thrill of repulsion to run
through her veins. This was the only ac- ,
re
companiment of the voyage not entirely de-
btful ; and as she never heard the stranger's
name, nor exchanged words with him, it was
singular that she should feel impressed with
a painfal expectation that she should meet
and know him in the future. Yet she did
feel such a presentiment. It was as if he
held some power over her to make her unhap-
py—a feeling for which there seemed not the
. slightest foundation. For how could he,
this unknown foreigner, moving in a dif-
ferent sphere of life from hers, ever injure
her? '
It was remarked by shrewd observers that
this particular passenger, of whom they felt a
certain distrust, kept himself quietly in his
state-room at the approach of the steamer to
her dock, and that he had changed his rich
attire, in which he seemed to take pride, in
spite of the warm weather, for a more suit-
able costume of linen, with a Panama. hat.
“ Afraid of the detectives,’ remarked one
to another, with a smile,
Margaret Maxweéll thought little of him af-
ter the ship entered the bay; her soul was
concentrated on the one thought that she was
80 soon to meet her lover, after this long ab-
sence. And when the great steamer ap-
proached the dock, the eager passengers
crowding the deck, her flashing glance sought
out Azs form amid the impatient throng await-
ing friends ; and when—gayer, more graceful,
handsomer than ever—he sprung lightly upon
a projecting timber, and waved his handker-
chief, and the young girl, smiling and_ blush-
ing, returned the signal, the whole ship’s
company seemed to comprehend the happy
situation, and burst out in a loud cheer, sig-
nificant of sympathy with two lovers ap-.
parently so well mated. It was one of those
.-moments of enthusiasm when. the emotions
of a single individual become universal,
through sympathy ; and glad tears ran down
Margaret’s beautiful face, and she felt not the
least embarrassed as the friendly strangers
about her fluttered their handkerchiefs, and
shouted with delight.
Such an auspicious welcome home ought
to have insured a happy future; but a little
rottenness in the
sometimes makes the fairest of structures to
fall into ruins, and Branthope Maxwell was
not sound atheart.
That evening, as he and Margaret sat side
by side in the private parlor of the hotel
where the Maxwells were to stop fora day be-
fore proceeding homeward, and the old man
dozed in his easy-chair, waiting for bedtime,
a sadness fell upon her for which she could
hardly account. She missed something which
she had expected—Branthope was attentive,
galent, tried to be pagtally tender; but she
t, through all, that. his actions were con-
x
(ita: i)
art of one of its pillars, .
7
WEDDED BUT NOT WON: a1
strained, his tenderness affected, to please:
her.
“ Branthope,” she said, taking his face be-
tween her two soft hands, and looking full
into his eyes, which wavered under her soul-
look,‘ you donotlove me! Oh, tell me so at
once! It is better than this acting a part
which, sooner or later, must come to an end,
like a scenein a play. I shall not blame you.
You have met some other girl whom you
love. Is it not so? Yes, 1 feel it, without
your saying one word.”
‘No, no, cdusin, don’t love any one bet-
ter than you! There is not another woman
living as beautiful—in my eyes. I knew you
had a fiery temperament, my sweet Madge,
but I did not suppose you could be so jeal-
ous,
“Indeed, I am not jealous, Branthope.
You do not understand me. I only feel that
you do not love me as—as I love you. . There
is something in your voice, your looks, which
betrays indifference. I can not bear it. I
would rather you would tell me at once.”
“Did I not say you were jealous ?—those .
bright eyes are sharper than 1 thought. | Per-
haps it 7 only cousinly affection which we
feel for each other. We. are both so young,
and fell in love when we were so romantic—
it is not impossible we have mistaken our own
feelings. What then, cousin ?”
““Tt is never too late to mend,’ says the
proverb.” The young lady laughed lightly,
as if it were the pleasantest kind of wisdom;
her pride was up in arms, and since Bran-
thope said “we have made a mistake,” she
was eager to let it go so,
“But mind you, Madge, I don’t think it—
at least, I’m not certain of it. Iam not only
willing, but anxious, that our relations should
remain undisturbed. Unless I am wanna
oe
‘
Margaret, it will not be long before you wil
need another protector. Uncle Peter is not.
many months or weeks for this world. Then, _
dearest, you will be able to prove whether
love you or not. Why, darling cousin, if I
didn’t Jove you the least bit, I should be will-
ing to marry you in order that I might haye
the privilege of caring for you in your deso-
late state. Don’t think I’m so heartless as to
desert you under such circumstances.”
This was a curious kind of lover's talk;
the young girl shrunk more and more away
from one who. wounded her the most deeply,
when trying to be most soothing ; the allusion
to her adopted father’s danger made her shud
der; only the fear of disturbing his rest»en-
abled her to keep back her sobs.
“T want you to intercede for me with ‘the. :
old man,” went on Branthope, coaxingly, >
poses ng himself of her hand, and looking
nto her eyes with that smile which it was so
hard for her to resist. “ Lam in debt avlittle:
¥e
% 1
es a oe eee ees a ariel ee paint censnetha einen gtd eee! a aos
29 THE BETRAYED BRIDE: OR,
and he must give me the means of squarin
my accounts. If thereis any thing I hate an
detest, it’s the consciousness of being in
debt ”"—looking virtuous indignation at the
bare idea,
“ Then ve did you get in so unpleasant a
predicament ?”
“T declare, ae you can be as sharp as
Uncle Peter himself, whom everybody knows
to be too close with me, He’s proud as Luci-
fer, and so am I—blessed with the real Bran-
ae pride; and he turns me into the best
society of a gay, expensive city, upon an al-
lowance only fit for aschool-boy. Of course,
thus far, I have not made much out of my
profession. It takes years fora young law-
= to get into a profitable practice. I’m a
avorite with the young ladies, and their pa-
pas and mammas, too. I must keep up ap-
rances. There is nothing wrong about
that; Uncle Peter himself can not accuse me
of a bad habit. ButI have had to borrow
money ; and now, uncle has returned, those
fellows will pester me for their amounts. It’s
only a little over two thousand dollars in all
—gone for flowers, kid gloves, carriages,
opera tickets, and _trifles eee, He al-
lowed me twenty-five hundred, besides what
I might make in my profession; but no
oung man can live upon that in the city.
Uncle measures my expenses by his own on
a farm, when he was young. Times have
_ changed since then.”
“Tam afraid the income from all his es-
tates will hardly support you, without taking
a wife into the question. Father is not so
very wealthy, and his sickness entails heay
expenses. I don’t think his estates will
amount to over a hundred thousand dollars,
including Branthope Villa.”
“Ts that so?’ repeated the young man,
much vexed. “ Why, Madge, that’s only a
mean fifty thousand apiece for us! I thought
i
Dee
it at least twice that.”
“ Since the estate will not have to be
divided,” began Margaret, and then she
paused and blushed—she had been about to
say, “it can be managed to the best advan-
tage;” but she already felt so dubious about
her marriage to this selfish lover, that she
could not refer to the subject, and. left the
thought unexpressed.
_ Branthope appeared a little cross after that.
He was evidently greatly disappointed in his
uncle’s fortune ; he regarded himself as a de-
ceived and unfortunate ———- fellow, and
his betrothed could not but perceive some-
oh this.
did not forget that he had come to this
country to hang upon his uncle’s bounty ; and
that he should have been grateful for assist-
ance received and pro ; she, in the
depths of her loving heart,
&
ured every.
kind deed her guardian did in her belialf
and would have clung to him and tend
him—worked for him and supported him—
had he not possesseda dollar. RING!
With grief, and « little shadow creepin
over the great sun of her love, she perceive
her cousin’s faults ; still she did love him none
the less passionately that she was aware of
his failings. She sat silently in her corner of the
sofa, inventing excuses for him, and wonder-
ing if her “ father” would be very much dis-
pleased if she should tell him how much
Branthope needed i
“Don’t disturb poor Uncle Peter by speak-
ing of the money until he is home, and well
rested from his journey. It will be time
enough then. And forgive me for making
you my special pleader; you are more
eloquent than I; no one can withstand your
arguments, beautiful Madge—certainly not
Uncle Peter. And now I will steal away, so
that he may be at liberty to go to rest. Good-
night, sweet, sweetest cousin.”
“He is not entirely selfish,’ murmured
Margaret, when’ he was gone. “ He is ver
considerate of my dear father, after all. Oh,
I wish he was a little more practical. Yet,
if he were cool, and prudent, and sedate, he
would not be Branthope—my Branthope—
brilliant, and idle, and unreflecting—but not
bad! His gay disposition makes him so
much of a favorite that he has more tempta-
tions to spend money than others have. Ina
few years he will be wiser,” etc., etc.—her
thoughts running fondly on, until Uncle
Peter opened his eyes, and groaned, and
ae her to call his servant to put him to
b
The next morning, descending slowly the
broad staircase of the hotel, suiting her move-
ments to those of Uncle Peter, who hobbleq .
down, assisted by his servant and nephew,
Margaret was somewhat startled by encount-
ering again those detested eyes of the strange:
who had watched her through the voyave,
He stood against the wall, to allow ther, to
pass, with so much politeness, that she could
but acknowledge it with a sligi.t bow;
Uncle Peter bowed, too, and spoke out
heartily: Pi
“ Good-morning, fellow“trayeter.”
“Who was it?’ asked her cousin, when
they were in the carriage, and on their way
to the railway station. —
“A passenger on our steamer; I did not
learn his name,” answered Margaret, and_
thought no more about it. -
But the stranger did not sosoon forget. ° Al-
ready in possession of the names and resi-
dence of the little roe he made up his
mind to ingratiate himself into the acquaint-
ance, possibly friendship, of the young gen-
further in- -
tleman, whom he learned, upon
me
a2
UP...
ast
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 28
quiry, was a resident of the city, and an in-
mate of a fashionable boarding-house. To
engage a room in this same house was the
first step which he took in the direction of
his wishes. To know the young man would
perhaps be the means, some time, of intro-
ducing him to the young man’s cousin.
Why did he wish to become acquainted
with Margaret Maxwell? Because she was
the most beautiful woman he ever had beheld,
and he was like one infatuated or intoxicated,
under the lustrous glow of her dark eyes.
Perhaps he thought that money alone—of
which he had, at present, abundance—would
enavle him to cultivate the friendship of
those with whom his manners or education —
did not fit him to associate.
Money f
‘rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And earth below, and—’’
not “heaven above,” certainly, but every
other imaginable spot in the known universe ;
so that this man was not too aspiring in sup-
posing that his wealth gave him a certain as-
surance of success in whatever he might un-
dertake.
Ay! it was not impossible that the hand
of this young and guileless woman might yet
be sold to him.
Hands as fair and hearts as girlish have
been purchased, are, and ever will be pur-
chased, while Mammon reigns.
Money is power.
prudence, but to live quietty and plainly un-
til she could lend him a helping hand.
“ My love for her,’repeated Branthope, mock-
ingly, as he strode away from the house, with
the warmth of her kiss still upon his lips!
“Madge is pretty enough, goodness knows;
but if that dragonish old uncle is worth no
more than she says, J can do better. She's
glorious, Madge is, but not particularly styl-
ish—not like some young ladies I baow:
whose fathers could make them a wedding
present. of as much as her whole fortune.
She’s a country girl, after all !”
Ah, Margaret, is it for this shallow cousin
that you run up to the tower, and wipe the
tears from your om that they may be clear
to follow him as long as possible—that you
throw unseen kisses after him from the tips
of your taper fingers—that you stand and
watch, until the last curl of vapor has melted
in the blue air over the train that bears him
away ?
CHAPTER VIL
“WILL YOU, WILL YOU, WALK IN, MR. FLY?”
A MAN shallow and selfish, from the begin-
ning, was Branthope Maxwell; a man who
swiftly grew to.be heartless and cruel; not
intentionally, at first, designing to injure the
girl who loved him so devotedly, but gradual-
We do not affirm that the strangerthought ly drawn on to it by the fierce, strong grasp:
as far as this on that morning when Marg:
of another, whom he had permitted to get
ret, in her proud beauty, passed him on the fast hold of him. For, when he returned to:
staircase ; but he resolved, under the excite-
ment of his interest in her, to know the young
gentleman who waited upon her—and he was
one of those men of iron will, with whom to
resolve is to accomplish.
In the mean time, the Maxwells sped on to
ranthope Villa. The excitement and fa-
tigue of the return prostrated the old man
still more; so that his nephew was obliged to
linger, day after day, until he recovered
sufficiently for Margaret to broach to him the
unpleasant subject of debts and money.
Comparatively small as the amount was, and
cunningly as his ward, actuated by love for
him in whose interest she spoke, approached
him, Uncle Peter flew into a rage, which re-
sulted in his again becoming worse, anda in
his ordering Branthope to return at once to
his law-office, and not show himself again un-
til sent for. 8
This was not the most judicious way of re-
forming one whose temptations had already
proved too strong for him; Margaret felt it,
as, weeping, she clung to Branthope’s neck,
asshe-bade him good-by, assuring him that
she would bring her “father” to see the mat-
ter more favorably, and begging him, dy his
love for her, not to be rash, or rush into im.
the city, the stranger of the steamer had.
taken the room next to his own in the board-
ing-house, and was already wielding, over
those around him, the power conferred by
money.
The boarders were all deferential to John:
Lopez Martinique, partly because he was a
foreigner—partly because he threw his gold
about so freely, and partly because they all
suspected him of something mysteriously and
fascinatingly bad. It does frequently appear’
asif aman could have no greater charm than
the reputation of wickedness.
However, no one knew any thing ill of Mr.
Martinique, or Senor, as some of the ladies
called him. He was richly dressed, affable
and gay, if not particularly refined. Toward
the young and handsome
teok every opportunity of being agreeable ;:
invited him to his private parlor, and when
7 had him there, was careful to entertain:
im.
It was not a month before Branthope, com-
municative and confiding, as was natural to
his years, had betrayed, little by little, his
whole family history—and, what was worse
had expressed the bitterness he felt toward:
. JF
ee
‘axwell,the favorite
of the house, he seemed greatly attracted ;.
Pe.
his uncle for denying him money, and the
mortification it was to him not to be enabled
tolive up to the extravagant habits of those
about them... Mr. Martinique was very sooth-
ing in his appreciation of the young gentle-
man’s difficulties.
It was dashed hard to keep up style on an-
empty pocket. His uncle should not have
put him to the law. Genteel enough—but
dashed slow! If he had been put into the
mercantile business, he might have had some
chance of getting rich, for himself, in a very
short time. Indeed, he, the Senor himself;
could have told him of a speculation in Ha-
Vana sugars, Which would have made him in-
dependent in one season.
not the capital to: embark, and since it took
that provoking uncle so long to die, his friend
Maxwell need not suffer, in the mean time, for
wantof funds. Hehad money to spare. He
had no relatives, and felt toward the young
man as toward a younger brother. Heshould
have all the money he wanted, without in-
terest ; all he asked in return were notes pay-
able when he came into possession of his
share of his uncle’s estates.
Alas! Branthope was as weak as he was
- vain. He walked straight into the trap, and
began a life of careless enjoyment, without
much reflection as to future results.
He did sometimes foresee, as the notes ac-
~ eumulated, that he should have but little left,
fifty thousand,” as he was pleased to call
naar acn pane nna teerrnenanieneeaeaneees
But, since he had-
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
loved Miss Maxwell with his whole nature,
such as that nature was; and that if he wish-
ed and resolved to marry her, it was with no
design to make her unhappy. He did not
think of that side of the picture. Selflove,
so strong in all, whispered to him, that, could
he once make her his wife, she would after-
ward learn to be happy with him. He
would be proud of her, as well as fond, show
her off, give her plenty of spending money
and the finery so dear to the female heart.
How to make her his wife?
There was where the badness of the man
came to the surface. He knew, by those let-
ters which Branthope, if delicate and honor-
able in his feelings, would never have per-
mitted him to read, how all her girlish faney
and affection was twined about her cousin.
He had. reason, too, to infer, from the expres-
sion of her face, when her eyes met his, du-
ring that summer voyage, that her preposes-
sions would not be in his favor.
In spite of all these disadvantages, he re-
solved to attempt to gain the hand which
Branthope; he saw, would not be slow to re-
linquish. Why he should have thus fixed his
regards upon Margaret it would be difficult
to determine; itrappeared one of those acci-
dents, or freaks of fancy, not to be accounted
for. There were dark-eyed beauties enough
in his own Jand; so that one would suppose
were he to choose a northern maiden, he
air, and timid soft blue eyes, not this tall
if he kept on at. this rate, out.of the “ al yt, select, by contrast, one with golden
which alone he had reason to expect; but he
kept.“ laying the flattering unction to his
soul,” that the law would soon begin to bring
him in a pretty income. By this time, too,
he had almost entirely concluded to give
Margaret the go-by, and look out for a wife
among those wealthy families to whom his
own pleasant manners, as well as the good
blood of the family, gave him an entree. He
had grown tired of Margaret. As often hap-
pens, when one.of the parties grows weary
of a bond like this, the devotion of the other
causes a feeling of dislike. Every sweet,sad
letter of hers tretted him; and, by awaken-
Oe
3 the pure, soul-cloquent letters of the beautiful
ing remorse, perhaps, and making him unhap-
py for the moment, was the more disliked and
dreaded. Senor Martinique was the confidant
of this engagement, too; was allowed to read
girl whom he secretly, madly loved—and to
that they were not appreciated. Bran-
thope would not have written half as. fre-
quently to his betrothed as he did, had he not
been a by the Senor, who prompted him
to this duty, urged by his own desire to hear
trom one with whom he was wholly infatu-
ated. ‘ ;
» Todo him the justice which should be ac-
corded even to bad men, we must say that he
; se
brunette, so like a southern girl. Like, and
yet unlike ! for while Margaret was proud, al-
most to haughtiness, and her black eyes could
flash lightnings, yet there was a softness jn
the luster of her glance, and a sweetness in
her smile, like a child’s. This was the oyer-
owering charm which had mastered him, .
The ladies of the tropics were ardent, but
fickle—passionate in anger as well as loye—
while here was one who could true as
well as warm, and too highly trained to give
way to those gusts of temper which disfi
at times, the charms of the Senoritas of his
acquaintance. e
Those weeks of the latesummer and early
fall—passed payly by Branthope in a life of
indulgence of every extravagant taste—were
very weary ones to Margaret. Old Uncle
Peter now was confined entirely to his room,
and so capricious and exacting as to accept
of no nursing but hers; even to her he was
irritable and unreasonable; but she forgave
it all, as the consequence of his nervous suf-
fering, and tended him sweetly and patiently,
with scarcely an hour to herself to watch the
flowers fade, and the forest-leaves brighten
into the “ gorgeous livery” of autumn. Her
letters to her cousin were written in the sick-
room. Unele Peter could tell, by the light
He
&
4
‘ il
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 25
rae “* ,
in her lovely countenance, when she was told him of her, to call upon her that ¢ve-
writing to jim, and it exasperated him, despite ning?”
of his efforts to remain quiet. He always ~ Margaret did not think of refusing; but as
had a sarcastic remark to Jevel at the object any other girl would have done who wished
of her attachment. So that, really, the poor to please her lover and his friend, donned her
child had little comfort. most becoming dress, and made herself very
The peculiarities of his temper increasing -beautiful and smiling to give them welcome.
with his disease, he became very perverse. - The color: receded from her face when
Once he railed and stormed at Branthope’s Branthope introduced Mr. Martinique. . Her
ingratitude in not coming to stay with him, utmost efforts. were scarcely sufficient to
although he knew, very well, that he had or- cover her chagrin. Why? she kept asking
. dered his nephew never to appear until he herself. She knew nothing ill of the man;
was sent for. Taking this as permission for her prejudice had no foundation except in
him to come, Margaret joyfully wrote a note those inexplicable feelings, which are so apt, —
informing Branthope that his uncle oo after all, to be prophetic. Branthope whis-
to see him; but when the young man arrived pered to her “that if she cared for Aim, he
by the afternoon train of the next day, the ir- hoped she would prove it, by being polite to
ritable invalid refused to allow him to enter his most particular friend.”
his room. To prove that she cared for him, she would ~
Margaret did not feel so badly about thisas have done even more difficult things than try- :
} she would have done had she not supposed ing to make herself agreeable to a person she —
that it would be in her power to prevent her disliked; she smothered her real aversion,
cousin from being wronged out of his portion conversed, sung, was-witty, Charming, spirit-
of the estate; it gave her an opportunity for ed—all to satisly Branthope.
seeing her lover, for having one long, de- — Before they left for the evening, her cousin
licious evening with him, during which, just had won her promise to accompany them up-
to watch his graceful ways, and listen to his on a fishing excursion, the next afternoon, — os
gay voice, was happiness enough. Itwasnot fora couple of hours, if her uncle was well
until afler he had returned to the city that enough to be left to the care of others. ,
she recalled how little he had saidof their re- |§ The next morning, Margaret thought with
lation to each other, and to feela return of reluctance of her promise. Two hours with
the-old, vague dissatisfaction. Branthope, alone, in the soft, bright afternoon,
Uncle Peter, perverse-as usual, was m« walking among the rustling leaves of the
angry for his nephew’s going away, after brilliant woods, sitting by the still, deep
ing sent for, than he was for his comin t. pools, made here and there by the noisy, run- —
He sent for his lawyer, destroyed his old will, ning brook, would have been paradise; but
and made a new one entirely in his niece’s with this disagreeable stranger, would be only
favor. This afforded him some comfort, and a vexation.
after it, he grew better for a few weeks. | Her cousin had promised to invite one of
- Margaret did not inform Branthope of the ‘the young ladies of the vicinity to meet them
/>. .snew-will. Now that her uncle did not seem at the stile and accompany them, and to ‘her
in any present danger of dying, she was con- Margaret resolved to leave the entertainment
fident that the will would again be remodel- of Mr. Martinique. It might be that she
ed, under the first impulse which seized the and Branthope would have some quiet, hap-
fretful invalid. Besides, what mattered it? py moments together, after all. Comforted a
—her property was Branthope’s, also. by this hope, when Uncle Peter had turned
Some meddling friend, who heard of it, over for his afternoon doze, she stole outof =
wrote to the young gentleman, and informed the sick-room, and was soon in the welcome =
_ him of what had occurred, which brought out-door air, 30 much pleasanter than the at-
him out again to Branthope Villa—this time mosphere of that dull house, that her eyes At
very quietly, to see Margaret only, desiring and cheeks brightened unconsciously, as she ’
ner to keep his visit from the old man. He hastened to the stile to find the other three
brought with him a friend, Mf. Martinique, parts of the quartette impatiently awaiting
who boarded in the same house with him, in her. i ; Silda 2
the city, and who had expressed a great de- —_ Branthope acted very little like a lover th
sire to see the lovely scenery of the river val- afternoon. Instead of seeking excuses to lin-
Jey: They were intending to spend a few ger by her side, he rather made them to leave
days in trout-fishing in the neighboring her with his friend. Once, as they’all sat
atreams; but should stop at the hotel, so as in wih their lines dropped in the stream, great
no way to infringe upon her time, or intrude tr casting their shadows. over, the gay
on her uncle’s hospitality. “Mighthe be per- group and the calm water, Branthope’ pre-
‘ mitted oy yc, pe friend, who was a gentle- tended that he saw a rare flower on the bank
vin what had been further up the stream, and rose to go after it,
: (i
i ’ : . ¥ a ;
etd
wan, and m
wa
calling the other young lady to aid him in se-
curing the treasure. Margaret sat sjlent as the
two rambled away, as she sup , for a mo-
ment only ; she could think of nothing to say
to the gentleman by her side, and affected to
be busy with her line.
“ Let me disentangle it for you, Miss Max-
well,” he said, in a moment, speaking very
soft and low, at the same time with a firm,
ntle grasp removing the fishing-rod from
er hand and proceeding to free the line from
the root on which it was caught. “See, how
easily I have freed the imprisoned line!
Would that I might as swiftly and easily dis-
entangle your life, dear lady, from its con-
nection with one who can only break your
heart. Forgive me! I know you look upon
me as a stranger; but I have adored you
- from the first instant my eyes rested on your
face. You must have observed this while we
were aboard the steamer. Love is not a cen-
tury-plant. It grows, buds and blossoms in
one magical instant, like those seeds which
__ the magicians of India place: under a glass
- and cause to expand into a flower while the
beholder gazes. This is love—true love; the
passion which I feel for you. How unlike
‘the cold, cousinly affection of him to whom
' youare engaged, who likes, who respects, but
who never loved and never can love you, as
_ Llove. He sees it now. But he is too hon-
_ orable to be the first to break the line. Oh,
Se
aaa me ~
>
we
a im
thus, say that I may disentangle the line—
a hai tail i
tion, offspring of duty and association, and
accept this sudden, vivid flower which has
burst into flame in one sweet hour, to bloom
forever!” His voice was like the lapsing mu-
sic of the stream ; he did not attempt to take
her hand, nor to approach any nearer; but
when she raised her eyes, his, blazing glance
thrilled her with conviction that this man did
indeed love her, in his fiery, southern way,
and that he had willed that she should not re-
ect him. She could not remove her gaze,
xed by his, burning, melting into her inmost
being—not, however, with the warm, de-
_ licious power of welcome love, but inflicting
pain and terror. She could not remove her
own earnest gaze from that magnetic look,
but she had full control of her voice.
» “Has Mr. Maxwell said to you that he was
‘tired of the bond between us?” she asked,
¢ aly, yet still eagerly. 4
“He has. Do not be offended with me,
| dear Miss Maxwell. It is with his permission
that I address you. Iam rich; I will assist
your cousin to wealth. My station, family
- Yelations, income, business, shall all be ex-
_ plained to your satisfaction. I know I am
in all so soon; but I have been
: to see you-—for nioment-—ey ce
THE. BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
the day we parted on the hotel staircase. I
have known you through your cousin many
weeks; heard daily of you, read your letters
—so we are notreally so much strangers as it
would seem. Don’t refuse me, Miss Maxwell
—you will never be so loved by another |”
“Read my letters,’ murmured Margaret,
‘mechanically.
“TJ should not have mentioned that. Your
cousin allowed me to see them, knowing how
deeply interested I was in you.”
“Then you must have learned from. those -
letters that I loved the man to whom they
were written. I am not one of those who
change, even with the change of those I love.
' Once, with me, means forever. You must see
that your suit is vain.” | paHt.
Impossible to depict the dignity with
which these words were spoken; she had
grown pale, and her lip trembled a little; it
was easy to see that she was wounded to the
heart; but he could not, as he had hoped,
spur on her pride to revenge herself upon her
cousin by accepting him. 4
Rising to her feet she wound her line and
turned to go away. He, too, arose and fol-
lowed her. In her agitation she forgot to
make any delay for the tworemaining behind ;
but if she expected to out-walk Mr. Martinique
she was disappointed. He kept by her side,
apd when she arrived home walked into the
parlor with her. She did not ask him to be
beautiful, peerless Margaret, if Ldare call you seated; but sinking into the nearest chair,
- looked up at him, as if asking why he lin-
that you will turn from his lukewarm affec- gered.
“I do not ask you to love me—not at first
—only to accept me—to permit me to love
ou.”
She waved her hand for him to leave the
room.
“ You must—you shall!” he went on more.
savagely, aroused by the slight curl of scorn
on her lip; “‘ otherwise Maxwell isruined, J]
have been generous with him—have paid his
debts, loaned him money. I desire still to
be his friend. It depends upon you /”
“T shall do nothing,” she said, coldly. “If
he bas been imprudent, surely he can not ask
that I shall immolate insolt on the altar for
his benefit. If I thought he could, I should
despise him.” Aero
“Despise him, then,” said Martinique,
eagerly. ‘‘ He does expect that you are to
pay his debts for him by becoming my wife.
e has based his actions upon this expecta-
tion. As for me,I do not wish to take ‘ad-
vantage of your interest in him; I love yon
—loved you from the first; and it is natural
that I should hope for a chance of winnin
you. Don’t go, Maxwell. You can’t af-
ford to throw away what I have to offer.”
The tears were swelling in Margaret’s eyes
ro teare of pride even more than grief; he
aM
n
_
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 27
should not see them; Branthope should not.
see them, nor ever guess how he had hu-
miliated her. All she desired, at that mo-
ment, was to get away—to flee to the shelter
of that dull sick-chamber, where she could
crabbed and irascible from sickness, sti
no mother, sisters—no society but that of the
staid housekeeper and the irritable invalid.
Hitherto love had upheld the girl in the ‘dis-
charge of her duties; she waited upon her
guardian cheerfully ; and no spot could be
_ was to come again. ow, all was changed.
hide her mortification, and where one, sill gloomy where Branthope had once been and
= loved her.
Mr. Martinique obeyed her imperious ges-
ture, stepped aside, and she walked away,
heedless of gay voices which called her, as
the two ramblers came upon the porch.
“Miss Maxwell grew uneasy about her
uncle,” said the southerner, in apology for
her desertion.
Branthope understood him, and did not
conceal his yexation as much as politeness
suggested, as he avowed -his readiness to es-
cort the other young lady home.
“A poor afternoon’s fishing,” he remarked,
pettishly.
“Yes,” replied his companion, innocently,
“the bait was not good.”
During the three days of their stay in the
neighborhood, the two gentlemen saw no
more Of Margaret. Branthope called twice,
but she refused to come down, on the plea
that she did not wish to leave the invalid.
She knew that her white cheeks and dim eyes
would tell the story of too mauy tears shed;
the Maxwell pride was fighting it out with
love, and held bravely out until Branthope
had gone, who, probably, would always
thenceforth represent the Maxwell meanness.
One of the most ridiculous pose of human
nature is this. tendency of families to plume
themselves on noble characteristics, inherent
in “ the blood.” Why, one action, as mean
as that.of young Branthope Maxwell, ought
_to weigh for a century against all the glory
of the family name. But one never hears of
the scapegraces, or the prison-birds, or the
pamre enone who depend from the genea-
ogical tree; and thus it is that the Smiths
are always proud of belonging to tle Smiths.
*
CHAPTER VIL.
FLUTTERING TO THE FLAME,
Tue bright leaves of autumn dropping,
dropping to fade and mingle with the dull
earth, were like the hopes of Margaret’s life,
dropping into decay. r Branthope’s re-
turn to the city, a loneliness, an ennui, amount-
ing almost to despair, took possession of her.
She grew weary of.tending the fretful old
man, weary of remaining always at home,
weary of Branthope Villa itself, and the land-
scape upon which she Jooked from her pleasant
window. This was but natural. The house
- A gray monotony settled over all things.
. Branthope did not love her,—was tired of her,
—probably would come'no more to this place.
Oh, how sick she felt of life and the world,
often wishing that it were she who was doomed
to be taken instead of old Uncle Peter. The
cool fall weather agreed with Uncle Peter,
who, though still confined to his room, re-
quired far less attention than formerly, pass-
ing much of his time in his arm-chair, looking
over accounts, transacting such business as
accumulated, and reading the newspapers of
the day. This only gave Margaret the more
leisure for indulging her melancholy.
On hazy Indian-summer afternoons she
would climb to the tower, where, with her head
drooped to the casement of the open window,
her eyes would wander toward the South,
where the city lay in which he dwelt, and her
fingers would twine together in a fierce strug-
gle to resist the inclination to fling herself to
the ground, or to flee away and be seen no
more. She envied the careless country-girls
who went by in wagons, or on horseback,
looking up with a respect amounting to awe
at the spacious villa, and doubtless, in their
turn envious of the beautiful and elegant young
lady, sole heir to old Uncle Peter’s property.
She envied girls who had mothers, or sisters,
or true lovers; she felt miserably desolate;
and there, in the high tower, like Marianne in
the Moated Grange, she sat,
“ And rising, from her bosom drew
Old letters, breathing of her worth,
‘For love,’ hep said, ‘ must needs be true
To what is loveliest upon earth.’
“An image seemed to pass the door,
To look at her with slight and say,
* But now thy beauty flows away,
To be alone forevermore.’
‘«* Oh, crnel heart,” she changed her tone,
‘And cruel love, whose end is scorn,
7
7
Is this the end, to be left alone, oe
To live forgotten and die forlorn?” me
Yes, in the pride of her youth and beauty, as
deserted, as “ forlorn,” as-though she not
a charm to win her love and eae
A dozen times a day, as the various
whistled in stopping at or passing the little
station, her color would change, ane vee
catch her breath, only to remember how vain
it was to bea him, and to grow more rest-
lt than before.
his restlessness sergroeel into a slow fever;
any physician noting the unnatural luster of
her eye and the quickness of her pulse, would
ie Py cee
was lonesome and gloomy—no young people, havesaid that something was wrong, and
i
3 >
«
a
Se ee
wo
she wasin great dangerof serious illness. The
old doctor who attended her uncle did remark
the excitement of her nervous system, which
he attributed to over-exertion in her care of
the invalid, strongly advising change of air
and scene. She longed for it as the thirsty
long for cool water; but her uncle did not
favor the project, and there seemed no place
to which she could go without escort. So the
advice of the physician was slighted, and the
fever of impatient desire of change burned ia
her veins.
Some time early in December, before the first
snow fell, while the weather was still settled
and bright, though cold, she'received a letter
from Branthope, the first since his visit made
six weeks before. She had long ago decided
that her love for him had turned to scorn—
that it was a happy escape that she had not
been permitted to marry a man whom she
could not thoroughly respect, and upon whom
she could not lean for support in every emer-
gency; she had said to herself that he was
egotistical, weak in his feelings as he was in his
resolves, easily led astray, incapable of heroic
self-denial, or any great ambition or achieve-
meni—an easy, pleasant, self-indulgent, hand-
some person, Whom she admired and despised
in equal proportions. ;
She would candidly have affirmed that this
was the state of her feeling toward Branthope ;
but when the letter came, the old thrill ran
from her heart to her finger-ends, her cheeks
flushed, her hands trembled; she could not
bring herself to break the seal inthe presence
of her uncle, but stole away, girl-fashion, to
her chamber, that she might be alone while she
read, She had no reason to expect the epistle
contained anything but formal inquiries after
the welfare of those at the Villa,—perhaps she
expected nothing more; but the mere sight of
the familiar handwriting set her pulses to flut-
tering. Glancing eagerly down the page, she
read :
““ Cousin MARGARET :
‘“‘ Since I can not cometo you, why can not you come
to me? A simple question, requiring a simple an-
swer. Don't think, now, that I am about to propose
something preposterous or infeasible. I know that
you are hired out with playing the part of sick-nurse ;
also that your wardrobe needs replenishing, (this, of
course,—ladies’ wardrobes are always in that condi-
tion ; and I noticed, while at the Villa, that your
dresses. were getting out of date-—n frightful state of
affaire to the female SpprTenension }) and that achange
could be nothing but beveficial. Therefore, I beg of
Ms = sweet cousin, to entreat that crabbed and miser-
yoid nardian of yonrs)to fill rent pretty Jittle-porte-
monnaie with the neeessary funds, and allow you a
few days in which to visit the city, do your shopping,
brighten yourself ap, etc. I promise to take good care
of yon, be very attentive, escort you to the opera of
evenings, and even follow you about Jike a fashionable
footman, while you do your shopping. There is no
sin against the-proprieties in this arrangement, as I
can, secure you a room in the highly respectable and
ous honse where J board, with the company, of
7
the landlady’s danghter, tyoare _Icanalao secure
the 's Own guardian
p during your stay ; she is
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
delighted with the idea ef having you coma, and sa tt
is known here that you are. a bona fae cousin, it has
neen a matter of wnt Reiea that you have not heretofore
visited the city. I have excused yon on the plea of
my uncle's illness; but now the ladies areall begging
for you, all anxious to assist in showing you the lions,
a8 Well as the best places to make your feminine pur-
chases, I have promised them that you will be here
Saturday evening, and shall be at ihe depot at the
arrival of the five o’clock train, to eavort. you to this
house, where you will be warmly welcomed, (it being
understood that you are a beauty and an heiress).
“If Uncle Peter won’t consent, come without his
permission, You are not a baby, and have been tied
up to his bed-post long enough. If he will not give
ou a handsome supply of funds, never mind; 1 can
end you, And, believe me, Lam dying to see yon, and
ask why you refused to say farewell when I wag last
at Branthope Vilia. Some misunderstanding, I sup-
pose, as usual. All will be explained when you come
to see, Ever faithfully yours,
“ BRANTHOPE.”’
Margaret instantly resolved to accept the
invitation, She was in that state of unutterable
weariness of mind and body when any change
is welcome ; she would go with or without her
“ father’s” approbation ; the life she was liy-
ing was no longer endurable ; after a brief ex-
perience in entirely different scenes, she might
return more contented; at all events, she
should go.
She received the letter on Thursday evening,
so that she had only Friday in which to win
her guardian’s consent and to make prepara-
tions. She went first to thehousekeeper, who
advised her to go, by all means, and bring
home all the pretty things and new fashions
possible. ‘She didn’t believe in cooping up
young girls like chickens in winter ; Margaret
needed a change, and must have it,—and who
was more fit to take care of her, during her
visit to the city, than her own cousin, to whom
she was to be married, and who had lived in
New York long enough to know just where
she wanted to go and what she wanted to
see?”
Emboldened by this support, Margaret
sought Uncle Peter, who shook his head, and
coughed, and declared she should not stir a
step, unless she could find’ a more suitable
chaperon than Branthope. “If the house-
keeper would accompany his niece, and prom-
ise never to let eyes off her, she might go, and
he wouldn’t begrudge her sufficient money for
her shopping.”
But the housekeeper, unfortunately, was in-
dispensable at home, during the absence of
the young mistress, as Uncle Peter could not
deny, seeing that himself required so many
services.
Margaret laughed gayly at the idea of her
needing some one to tend her, as if she were a
baby learning to walk ; Branthope would wait
upon her where she required the attendance
of a gentleman, and for the rest, she could
take care of herself, with a little of her hostess’
assistance. e's 1408
“J shall go, father dear,” shesaid, in a very
»
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 29
determined way, and began her preparations
the next morning, as if he had given his con-
sent, That evening when she went to him he
seve her two hundred dollars, warning her not
lose her purse, nor permit it to be stolen,
nor to lend money to “ his rascally nephew,
and come home without having bought what
she needed. ;
“Td give you more, Margaret, but I know,
if I do, you will allow him to coax it away
from you, and he shan’t have a red cent of
mine, if 1 can help it,”
Margaret was secretly afraid that if she had
more money she should give it to her cousin ;
and as her own wants were modest, she was
satisfied with the amount in her purse.
Saturday, at noon, in her neat traveling-
dress and hat, she came to her guardian’s room
to kiss him good-by for a short week. As she
pressed her lips to his wrinkled cheek, did no
presentiment assure her that it was for the last
time? No,—or if such a shadow crossed her
sunshine, she would not allow herself to feel
its chill. She was in one of those imperious
moods, which so well became her, during
which she resolved and acted defiant of pre-
sentiment or the opinions of others. Her
beautiful face sparkled with excitement; the
expression of weariness was all gone, her
light, tall figure lifted itself with inherent grace
and spirit, every movement was full of anima-
tion—she was so lovely, so triumphant, that
the old inan sighed when. the door closed upon
her, as one sighs at the close of a strain of
exquisite music. Closed, indeed, forever, to
hisear! Lost, alas, forever, to his eye!
Branthope Maxwell waited impatiently the
arrival of the expected train on that Saturday
afternoon. Having received no answer to his
"letter, he was not certain of his cousin’s accept-
ance; still, he knew her so well, had played
go often upon her love for him, that he felt
quite certain she would come...
The brightness of excitement was still upon
her face w. ep: Netware stepped from the cars
and was led to the carriage which he had pro-
vided. Indifferent as he was to her charms;
cruel as was the plan to which he had consent-
ed to insnare her by the very instrumentality
of her faith in him, he could bunt realize how
very graceful and lovely she was, and be proud
of her, as he ushered her into the house, the
lady of which immediately took her kindly in
charge. Sy
sen. the summons to tea came, Branthope
paused at his cousin’s door to conduct her
down.
“Oh, Branthope,” she whispered as. she
came out, “I never thought of it before, but I
suppose that disagreeable friend of yours
stays here, does he not? That will be enough
wo ee my visit.” 3
“ Rest easy, pretty one, then ; he does board
a
~
here ; but is away on business. I believe he
is not expected back until a fortnight hence.
Was it not considerate in me to time your
visit so oppetanelp ? By the way, you re-
fused him!” with one of his careless, airy
laughs, as ifit were merely a most amusing in-
cident.
“Oh, Branthope,” was all she could say;
no place there to. demand explanations, to
utter reproaches. >
“More of this, anon,” he said lightly, draw-
ing her hand upon his arm and conducting her
down the staircase.
There were not two cpa at the table as
to the beauty of young Maxwell's cousin.. He
was something of a boaster, but it was evident
that here he had not exaggerated. Margaret
felt quite at her ease ; and if not entirely happy,
with one matter so little understood between
herself and Branthope, she was in that eager
mood of anticipation and present animation
which looks very much like happiness. That
evening they attended the opera. Her cousin
had. been so meng biaas as to provide her
with a handsome white cloak, which she wore
over.a salmon-colored silk; oom and bouquet
were also in readiness, and the young pro-
vincial beauty was conscious of as much ele-
gance as was displayed by any of the ladies
surrounding her in the showy seats which
had been secured.
Soon all her attention was riveted upon the
stage. Herself a fine musician, with a splen-
did voice, the tragic part of her nature; which
had slumbered, in her quiet country home,
took fire, as she watched eagerly, with quicken-
ing breath, the powerful exhibition of ambi-
tion, jealousy, and love, in the character of
the heroine of the play. This was Ufe, in-
deed! this was living to some purpose! She
felt as if she could spring upon the stage,
without study, without preparation, and there
give voice and expression to those fierce pas-
sions and energies, even more fully than the
successful prima donna was now doing,
New ideas and aspirations crowded her
kindling brain. Many, attracted by her fresh
beauty, watched her with only less interest
than she watched the stage, smiling at her
evident entire abandonment to the fascination
of the play, while they admired her as some-
thing far more novel and interesting than the
leading actress. To possess: the inherited
beauty of generations of refined blood—a
beauty proud and delicate—yet with it the
charming air of a country girl, intelligent and
naive, was to command a double guerdon of
admiration. mS
Margaret remained innocent: of any con-
sciousness of the sensation she
attention fixed upon the stage. She did not
even feel, by magnetic attraction or repulsion,
the steady gaze of a pair of keen black eyes,
—
ar a rn go
ai ti pict
30
which looked at her from behind a pillar in a smile of contempt.
the ery.
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
“ He hasn't enough,
ad she met those eyes she Madge, to tempt me to take a wife against my
would have recognized them at once, and tastes or inclinations. Only
tell me, sweet
been astonished to learn thus that Mr. cousin, if you are willing. All shall be proper
Martinique, if absent on business, could not and decorous, though secret.
¥
be _ faraway. But he took care that she
should have no opportunity of recognizing
him. ' :
. CHAPTER VIL.
IN THE MESHES OF THE NET.
On the afternoon of Sabbath-day, Branthope
took his cousin out for a drive,—along the
palace-lined Fifth Avenue, through what was
then just beginning to be the Central Park,
over the Bloomingdale road a few miles, and
back. The air was only cold enough to be
bracing; it accounted for the rich, red glow
upon her cheek when she returned—the vivid
light of her glancing smile, which won still
more securely the hearts of her new friends ;
but as soon as tea was over, she went to her
room, there to reflect for a few moments in
solitude upon the promise she had made
during that short drive.
Every word spoken by her companion came
back to her, sounding sweeter, more per-
suasive, as she recalled them:
“Darling Madge, I’m going to ask some-
thing very strange of you, and yet,'to me,
what seems very natural, under the circum-
stances. We have been engaged a long time;
why not be married now, without any further
waiting, any ‘fuss’ or preparation not really
necessary? Your uncle will not allow me to
come to his house, thus I am entirely banished
from your society ; but if you were my wife,
you could come to see me wheneyer you
could be spared from Branthope Villa. When
Uncle Peter: dies, you will have some one to
depend upon who has the right to come for-
ward and protect you. If we were to marry
openly, you know he would be angry, and in
a fit of malicious rage, will his property to
- some school or church, and we should both
be left penniless; but by a private marriage,
we can each be made very happy, and no
harm done. We are old enough to decide
these matters for ourselves. If you will con-
sent, Madge, we will have the ceremony per-
formed this very evening.”
He had pressed her hand—had bent and
looked into her surprised and blushing face,
and she had stammered :
“But I thought—I was certain—was told
that you did not love me. Oh, Branthope! are
you truly in earnest? and do you love me as
you should to choose me for your wife? or is it,
With you, only a marriage of convenience, for
the sake of Uncle Peter’s money ?”
“Uncle Peter’s money !” he had eohoed, with
&
I will take Miss
la, our hostess’ daughter, into our confi-
dence ; she shall acccompany us to the church,
both as witness and to give yowcourage, little
one.” ;
Then she had sat silent many minutes, and
he had urged her to consent, witha hundred
arguments—all of no real value; for the one
argument which alone had force, and which
finally prevailed over the dictates of fear and
prudence, was her love for the one who per-
suaded her. ™
_ Now, as she sat in her chamber, she was
like one in a happy dream, conscious of
dreaming and expecting to awake. Was it
wise in her to have consented _to this secret
and hasty marriage? But she iad consented.
Branthope was gone, at this moment, to seek
Miss Ella, and obtain her promise to act as
bridesmaid. Afterall, there could be nothing
a imprudent about it.
er ia had once favored the match,
and only forbade it now from the querulous
obstinacy of a nervous invalid. Doubtless, in
his heart, he desired and expected the union of
his two wards, only he must fret about some-
thing, and so he fretted about poor Branthope.
Branthope ! he did love her, then, after all his
silence and apparent indifference. Perhaps
she had wounded his pride, and thus kept him
from making any demonstration, while she
had been grieving herself to death over his
supposed carelessness of her a Now, he
really, ardently wished her to become his
wife, so soon; ah! how strange it all grew,
and how happy she was, even while trem-
bling, and essaying in vain, with her cold,
quivering fingers, to tie her hat-strings, and
draw on her gloves. §
She had promised to be ready at eight
o'clock. It was a quarter to that time now.
Miss Ella knocked at her door, came in,
kissed her, tied the rebellious bonnet-strings,
fastened her shaw] for her, laughed at her for
being so nervous; then|Branthope himself
stood at the door, waiting for her to come
forth. ee
The look of love, of adoration, she gave
him before he Jed her down the stairs, ought
to have turned a worse man than this one
from his purpose; but the selfishness of a
frivolous, careless pleasure-seeker like young
Maxwell is something more appalling than
the set crimes of t villains. He thought
not of the welfare of the girl who thus con-
fided in him ; he thought only of the results to
himself of the deception he was about to prac-
tice.
“We are going to church, mother,” said
2
Sy
oe
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 31
Miss Ella, pausing a moment at the parlor-
door; “ we shall not be out late.”
There by the curb-stone stood the closed car-
riage in waiting. Branthope was never more
gracefully easy and self*possessed than as he
helped the ladies in, and chatted to them dur-
ing the brief drive. He was almost too gay to
satisfy Margaret, who felt the deep solemnity
of the occasion overpowering even her joy.
The carriage stopped in front of a large church,
which loomed up dimly in the star-light.
Margaret never learned the name of the:
church, nor on what street it stood, but it ap-
peared to be somewhere in the suburbs, as
there were vacant lots about it, and the gas-
lights were few and far between.
“They do not have evening service here,
but the ee me promised to be on hand; and a
friend of mine, a gentleman, is to assist me in
getting through with this dreadfully embar-
rassing matter,’ said Branthope, speakin
quickly, as: if, after all, he was more excite
than he cared toshow. Taking the cold hand
of the doomed girl on his arm, he drew her
forward. into the dimly-lighted building; the
sexton was there, and the pastor, as he had.
promised, was waiting, with a gentleman in a
cloak standing near. There was only one
lamp lighted near the altar; the place was
cold; a tremor ran through the bride’s frame,
but too many conflicting emotions were throb-
bing at her heart to enable her to view calmly
her surroundings. She did not have time to
conjecture as to who her lover's friend
might be ; indeed, she did not throw back her
gauze vail until she stood before the altar,
and the clergyman began the solemn words
of the marriage service. She did, indeed, no-
» tice,—for she recalled it vividly afterward,
that the pastor said, she following him, “ I.
take thee, John,” etc., instead of the more
familiar Branthope—but as John was. her
cousin’s first name, she recognized .the appro-
priateness of its use, at the instant.
How soon it was all over! the ring upon
her finger, the benediction pronounced, and.
she, turning, agitated and trembling, to meet
Branthope’s eyes and smile.
“it is ay well,’ he remarked, “since this
is a quiet a,“‘air, to have it properly attested.
Let us all sign our names to the church.
record.” (
The sexton brought the book, and the bride
subscribed her name where she was told,
never noticing, in her bewilderment, who
signed first or last, and not yet having had a
glimpse of Branthope’s friend’s face; she
heard the clergyman expressing his thanks
for the handsome doucewr he had received ; a
gold piece: glittered in the sexton’s hand for
is trouble in opening the church ; then Bran-
thope again gave her his arm, to which she
now clung heavily, almost overpowered by the
consciousness of the important step she had so
hastily taken, and again they stood on the
cold pavement beneath the silver glint of
‘winter stars. There were now two carriages
before the church.
“ Good-by, for the present,” said Miss Ella,
kissing the bride, laughingly; “we will ride
home by ourselves. I wish you both every
imaginable joy!” and almost before she could
collect her thoughts to wonder why they need
drive back by themselves, the bridegroom
had lifted her into his carriage, sprung in
after her, gave the word to the driver, and
they were being rapidly whirled along the
Ov street.
argaret was thankful that her husband did
not too soon break the silence. The events
of the last few hours had culminated so rapid-
ly that now she desired a few moments of
rest. Silently he sat by her side, as if to
allow her this needed rest. They two were
alone in the world together. The darkness of
night shut them in, save when, every other
moment, the light of a street lamp flashed in
and was gone; the driver in his seat outside,
attended only to the order which had been
given him, to drive as fast as the law allowed,
“ the place which had been designated to
im.
Presently the man by her side took her
hand and kissed the wedding-ring upon it.
“ Sweet Margaret !”
She started, tore her hand wildly from him,
and stared at him through the darkness, un-
til passing the next lamp, its gleams rested
for one brief instant full upon his face. Then
the bride shrunk into the corner of the car-
riage, holding up both hands, and would have
screamed, had not her voice failed her, her
throat, dry as if filled with ashes, refusing to
give forth a sound.
“ What is it, my dear wife ?” questioned the
same calm, soft voice, whose first accent had
thrilled her with dread and amazement,
‘‘ Your wife | your wife!” she gasped, at last.
‘Where is Branthope ?”
‘Escorting your bridesmaid home, darling, —
without doubt.”
“Mr. Martinique, let me out of this car-
riage.”
“Mrs. Martinique, I have taken too much
trouble to secure you, to let you go thus
sar
“1 do not know what you mean! I don’t
care What you mean or say. I must get out,
Driver, stop!” she cried, frantically.
But the loud wheels rattled over the stones,
and the driver either did not hear or did not
care to seem to.
“‘ Sweet wife, it is too late Pare now.
What can’t be cured must be endured. How
much happier for you to be married to one
who worships you, than to an indifferent
+
on + re ihn cincetinees anes
sg
ee
geet
Pe ee sowie raee
= A '
' %
*
scapegrace like your cousin. He never cared
for you, while 1”
“T-am not married to you! don’t say it!
We are married—Branthope and I—oh, where
is he, that he does not come ?”
“Here is the marriage certificate,—can you
read it by this uncertain light? Take it, and
keep it carefully. Such documents are some-
times important.”
She snatched it from his hand, and strained
her eyes to read it in the varying light. Yes!
there was the blasting fact— their names
linked together in an eternal bond—Margaret
Branthope Maxwell, and John Lopez Martin-
ique.
mG Ican not understand it!” she cried, in de-
spair.
“It is very simple,” he said, calmly as ever.
“T+ took your cousin’s place when we ap-
proached the altar, as we had previously ar-
ranged. The clergyman was notin our con-
fidence. He was. told that you expected to
marry me, but that your friends ame on
account of my being a foreigner. ing as-
sured of my respectability, ability to support
a wife, that I was at liberty to marry, etc.,
and seeing no reason why we, who desired it,
should not be united, he made no great opposi-
tion to the privacy of the ceremony. Miss
Ella was not in the plot, either; so that you
can- not blame her. Your cousin did all the
talking, I presume, when he announced the
programme to her. He was to represent that
you had come to New York on purpose to
a me, your uncle not being willing that
ou should wed a resident of ancther country,
ut that you were to affect an interest in him,
the more perfectly to conceal your true pur-
Miss Ella doubtless thought that you
acted admirably. We depended for the suc-
cess of our plot, simply upon your excitement
and embarrassment preventing your noticing,
in the dim light, who stood beside you at the
important moment.”
“But why plot against me?” asked poor
y! there’s the rub! I wanted you,
sweet wife; wasn’t that reason enough? and
Maxwell wanted money! What more natural ?
I gave him a swinging donus, over and above
what he would have received had he married
you. Firstly, I canceled all his obligations to
me, which were not small; thenI gave him
funds on which to keep up appearances this
winter, and lastly, I abandoned all your claims
to the Maxwell estates, as I intend to take you
far from this country, and to provide for
you so generously that you will not require
any of your uncle’s property. It is your noble
cousin’s plan to visit Branthope Villa, and
there represent to your doting relative that
ia voluntarily abandoned him to follow my
rtunes ’round the world. Of course he will
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
again reverse the will, young Maxwell will
have the property and the reputation of being
his uncle's favorite, and can, doubtless, sooner
or later, win the pesuy: young lady with whom
he is at present infatuated.”
Margaret moaned—a gasping, dry sound,
which oughtto have awakened pity in a clod.
Perhaps it did move the heart of this curious
man, who, professing to love her as he did,
was willing to peril her happiness to secure
himself a doubtful bliss ;—he attempted again
to take her hand, saying, soothingly :
“Why regret that unworthy cousin? He
had neither the tastenor the heart to appre-
ciate you, while I have thought of nothing,
dreamed of nothing, lived for nothing but you,
since I first felt the faintest assurance that 1
should some time win you. I will be a good
husband to you—will not demand nor expect
too much from you, until you have time to
adjust your feelings to ee circumstances.
For you to rebel against fate is vain. Submis-
sion and a degree of contentment will best se-
cure your happiness.”
“ Where are we going ?” she asked, as he
paused.
*To the dock, where we will take @ boat
and be rowed to the ship's side, which to-mor-
row morning sets sail for South America.” .
Margaret leaned her head against the
cushioned seat; her brain whirled for a few
seconds; she thought herself about to faint,
and only saved herself by the strength of
resolute will.
A bride! oh, miserable reality! A short
time before she had stepped into that carriage,
happy, blessed, her heart throbbing with the
purest, warmest love for one whom she had
chosen in her earliest girlhood,—her first love, .
~—him to whom she had been so true and
tender, even while having his faults of char-
acter cruelly revealed to her—her face rosy,
her eyes lustrous with the tender glow of the
marriage benediction. ,
Now she sat beside her husband, hand and
heart turned into ice. This man, a stranger,
with whom she had never conversed but twice
—whose habits, business, nationality were un-
known to her—a stranger, in every sense of
the word, since there are those to whom we
feel drawn at once as by ties of sympathy or
kinship, while this person had ever been to her
only repellent—this man, sitting there in the
place of him for whom she had prepared her
soul, shocked her into brief despair.
But the very shoek aroused the sleepin
tiger of her will. He had proven the strength
ot his resolution in the boldness of the attempt,
which, thus far, had so perfectly succeeded.
- Now the warfare was open. No longer the
victim of intrigue, she comprehended her
danger and confronted it. This man, regally,
might be her husband. There was the docu-
a on
WEDDED BUT
ment, Poor Margaret, only a. child, really,
and without experience, did not at that mo-
ment think of relief through legal channels, by
avowing her marriage a fraud ; all she thought
of was present danger,—all she resolyed was
that she would never be forced on board that
vessel, to be taken from home and friends to
some land of exile with this man. She would
not submit to this cruel plot. She would escape,
if only through death’s door, which stood open
to her in the chilly waters of that river which
they were rapidly approaching.
She remained perfectly silent and motion-
less, fixed in a terrible resolution, This silence
seemed to trouble her companion more than
the wildest reproaches would have done. He
began to talk to her soothingly, as he would
to a frightened child, picturing to her the
beautiful and happy life she should lead, in. a
tropical country, on ene of his vast estates,
where mountains of snow cast their cool
shadows over a land stately with palms, gor-
geous with flowers, pleasant with fruits—
where the seas lapsed upon. the sand in softest
music—where slaves should obey her slightest
wish—and he, her lover—husband, should de-
vote himself to her every caprice. The per-
suasive, passion-inspired promises fell upon her
ears without meaning—they were filled with
the ominous murmur of a rising tide, which
was to drown out.all the sweetness of her life.
Yes ! her bridal-chamber should be the grave,
—and suchagrave! The slimy, slippery un-
der walls and timbers of those hideous piers,
among Which her body would wash to and
fro, be bruised, and swollen, and blackened—
oh God! horrible—horrible !_ but not so horri-
ble as that ship, bound southward, lying out
there blackly upon the black river, awaiting
the bridegroom and his bride.
The carriage stopped, the driver sprung
down and opened the door; she leaned for-
ward quickly, before Mr. Martinique could
step out, and asked :
“ Driver, will you not help me? have pity
on a friendless girl ?”
“T was told as it was all right, and I’ve a
double-eagle here in my pocket, not to take
no notice of your wimmin-nonsense,” was the
cool reply. .
She said no more; but, as her companion
assisted her to alight, she darted an eager
lance about her. Only onelamp burned on the
ong wharf, and that was at some distance ; it
was Sabbath evening; not a policeman was
in sight,—no human being, save him by her
side ; the coachman now driving hurriedly off,
and two sailors lounging in an open boat,
which she dimly made out, as her husband
her to the edge of the dock, to be
wait ng alongside. Even in heaven there
seemed no pity ; the silver stars twinkled with
a cold and distant brightness; her whole life
NOT WON. 83
rushed through her mind ; tears sprung to her
eyes as the image of Uncle Peter, turning his
aze to the door, ina vain expectation) of see-
ing her enter, arose before her,—Branthope,
whom she had so loved, and who had: been so
murderously cruel to -her—
“Look alive there, men! and be very. care-
ful of the lady! Do not let go of her, until
Lam in the boat,” called Martinique, in a low,
but sharp, authoritative voice.
Did he then suspect what was passing in
her thoughts ?
He lifted her, gently enough, and lowered
her down into the strong arms which received
her from below. | The tide wasrising, and the
boat rocked and bumped against the timbers
of the pier; the water moaned,and. groaned,
as it rushed, white and seething, into, every
opening ; the wind was beginning to rise,too,
as it will on winter nights, and whistled dis-
mally as it flew by.
“Steady, men, steady !” cried the firm voice
of the gentleman, as he resigned-his wife into
their arms, Bia
“Ay, ay, sir!’ But it.was,not “ay, ay.”
Margaret, before the men could place, her
steadily on her feet, purposely set them on the
edge of the boat, bore with her whole weight
on that side, and making a sudden movement,
as the sailors lost their balance, not. only isuc-
ceeded in throwing herself into, the water,
but in dragging one of the men overboard.
There was a great splashing inthe, dark
river, loud cries and choking oaths; but Mar-
garet heard nothing, after the first moment,
but a thunderous beating in her, ears; the
chilling, cramping water closed about her, and
she went down, down, struggling and clutch:
ing at the treacherous element--down until
the thunder melted into music, and her eyes
closed over the fire which flashed and played
aes them, and she floated on clouds of eider-
own.
eee
CHAPTER IX
THE PRICE OF BLOOD.
GREAT was the consternation of Branthope
Maxwell, as he sat at his Jate breakfast, care-
' lessly jesting with Miss Ella upon the “ run-
away match,” with searcely a shadow of re-
morse over his sunshine—certainly not enough
to spoil his appetite, for the chicken fricassee
had disappeared from his plate, and he was
deep in his second cup of strong coffee—great
was his consternation, we repeat, when a
note was handed to him, marked “in haste,’
which he recognized as the handwriting of
Jotin Lopez Martinique, and tearing it open,
he read: ae
‘Come to the St. Nicholas at once. A terrible ac-
cident has happened. Say nothing to any one, but
come quickly. Iam half mad, : Loren.”
34
Branthope turned perfectly white as he
gead this scrawl.
- “What has happened? Any one ill?” in-
quired Miss Ella, startled by the change in
his countenance.
“A co oop tit uncle—nothing serious,
yperhaps ; let you know on my return,” he re-
‘plied, as he went hastily out. In the midst
-of his alarm and remorse, there came upon
‘him the a that there might be results
-of his late infamous transaction, which would
make it necessary, for his own good repute, to
a concealed.
ot knowing in what shape to look for
‘the impending disaster, he reached the hotel
‘in a state which would have been pitiable,
chad he been deserving of pity, and on inquir-
ing for Mr. Martinique, was shown to the pri-
‘vate parlor of that gentleman, whom he
found pacing the floor, his hands locked be-
hind him, his face almost as sallow and rigid
as the dead, his eyes dull and shrunken, look-
ing old and shockingly changed.
Heaven and earth, Martinique, what isthe
matter?” His trembling aaa could hardly
frame the question, so powerful was the work-
ing of fear and conscience combined.
* Shut the door, Maxwell; lock it. She is
“Dead ?”
“Yes, you infernal villain, dead/ She
drowned herself. If it had not been for you,
it would not have happened !”
Branthope sunk into a chair, trembling
from head to feot. He was not so inhuman
as to hear of his cousin’s sudden and violent
death without great distress of mind, en-
hanced by the knowledge that he was, in one
- pense, a murderer; but the words of his ac-
cuser stung him into a resistance which en-
abled him to bear the shock better than he
‘would have done had he not been made an-
After an absolute silence of several mo-
ments, he suppressed the trembling of his
ae and asked, huskily:
“When, and how? You should have
graces against such accidents, Martinique.
warned you that she had a will of steel, did
I not?”
“Yes! yes! I loved her the better for that.
But, my God, I did not think that young
creature had the courage to rush into such a
death. I did order the men not to let go
their hold of her. She purposely flung her-
self over, dragging one of the men with her.
I was not in the boat, but I jumped into the
‘water to endeavor to save her. Iam not a
very good swimmer; I should have lost my
life had I not been assisted = the police, who
came at our outcry. Yes, Heaven knows, I
did all I could to rescue her;” this more to
himself than his hearer, as if endeavoring
y 2
*
-
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
to at the aching burden of remorse and
uilt.
“What did the police think of the acci-
dent ?” inquired Branthope, now, as ever, self-
ish, and shrinking from the dread of ex-
posure of his own unmanly conduct, even
while cold with the shock of her fate who
had been so near to him so many years.
“They suspected nothing wrong. I ex-
plained to them that the lady was my wife,
and that we were about to embark on the
ship Golden Shore for South America. No
one is in our secret but our two selves, Max-
well; there is Oa be apprehended in
that direction. Miss Ella, the minister who
united us, all who hear of my sad affliction,
will attribute it entirely to accident.”
“The driver of the coach ?”
“Ha! there may be something in that.
She did appeal to him for aid, showing that
she was being abducted. But no one will
heed his story, when I have you and Miss
Ella, and all the other parties, for witnesses
that we were married, she of her own free
will. The two sailors who were in the boat
sailed this morning; they were in doubt, last
night, whether or no the lady went overboard
on purpose. I purchased their opinion that
she did not. Noone can doubt my grief, who
sees me. I loved that woman, Maxwell, as
you know, and I hate you, you cowardly, be-
Swe rascal, who brought her to such a
ate.
Branthope smiled sardonically, through his
ashen pallor.
“The less said about that the better,” he
sneered; then, as the reality of his cousin’s
loss forced itself upon him, he burst into
t ,
than me,” he sobbed. “ You were rich; you
loved her better than I; poor Margaret! [|
believed she would get over her disappoint-
ment in a few days, and find a brilliant life be-
fore her. I did, indeed. I never imagined
she would be so desperate.” ©
Martinique walked back and forth in a
gloomy silence. ‘ ciaaia
“ Did they find the—the—body ?” shudder-
ed Branthope, afteratime.
“No; but I ‘have offered a reward for its
recovery. If it is found, I shall take the
body of my wife with me, and cause it to be
buried on my estates, I shall take the next
steamer for home. Whether I shall ever
again come to this country, remains to be
seen: As for you, after the search for her—
her corpse—is over, 1 never wish to see your
face again. You have all the reward I prom-
ised you; there is nothing now to prevent
Mea standing first in your uncle’s will. I
e you are satisfied.”
ranthope remained silent under the re-
b> Ney
«
a
ieee meno
ears. Me
“TI thought she would be happier with you
; *
4
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. P 85
proaches of a man equally guilty with him-
self. The other rung the bell, and ordered a
(cup of strong coffee.
We must go down there together,” he
said; “and my nerves are too unstrung to
bear it: The coffee will tone me up.”
When it was brought, he swallowed it,
black and hot, pressed his hat down over his
eyes, and went out with his companion, both
so pale and haggard as to attract many in-
quisitive eyes as they entered a carriage and
were driven off to the right, through a side-
street, until they came to the river at one of
the piers above Canal street, off which, in
the river, the vessel had been anchored by
Martinique’s order.
With a strange feeling of mingled disap-
pointment and relief they heard that, as yet,
there was no news. Mr. Martinique doubled
his offers of reward for the recovery of the
a of Mrs. Martinique.
here was no news that day, nor the next,
nor the third—nor for a week; but on the
morning preceding the noon on which the
steamer, in which he had engaged passage,
was to sail, Mr. Martinique was summoned to
ook upon an object, which lay at the nearest
ee from that pier, which the of-
cers thought must be the body of his wife.
Together they looked, those two men! up-
on the appalling sight. That might be what
was left of the beautiful Margaret. They
could not be entirely certain. The fingers of
the left hand, upon which the ring should have
been—an emerald ring encircled by diamonds,
which Mr. Martinique had taken from his own
hand to place on that of his bride—were
gnawed away by river vermin; but the hair,
dripping and tangled,was long, and black, and
glossy, like her’, and the teeth were even and
white, like those of a beautiful young girl: as
to the rest, they could but shudder and turn
away. ,
In hight, the figure corresponded with Mar-
gas so the two most interested testified
efore the coroner’s jury that the body was
that of Mrs. Martinique, and Mr. Martinique,
hastily paying his rewards, and leaving
money with Branthope for the funeral ex-
penses, hurried to the steamer, whose hour of
departure drew nigh, obliged to abandon his
intention of having his wife buried in his
own country.
While the vessel was steaming out of the
harbor, that afternoon, his eyes, resting on
the slopes of Greenwood inclining to the bay,
might have seen, or imagined they saw, the
hearse which rolled along the streets of that
city of the dead, followed by a solitary
mourner, too glad to hear the earth rattle up-
on the desolate coffin, and to shake off, as far
as possible, with the dust of that grave, the
sorrow and guilt which he already felt too
s -
-
great a load for his gay and pleasure-loving
temperament.
hen Branthope Maxwell returned from
that most miserable journey to Greenwood
Cemetery he found letters from the Villa, of
too Brae a character to be longer neglected.
The old man was on the verge of being
brought down on his bed to the city to learn
what had become of Margaret, and why she
did not return at the appointed time.
Miss Ella cried, and all the ladies and gen-
tlemen of the house said how sad it was, and
how shocking, when informed that the body
of the beautiful young bride had been re-
covered and immediately committed to the
grave, on account of its condition—that the
inconsolable husband was already on his way
to the south, and that upon young Maxwell
now devolved the painful duty of announcing
ae a of his niece to Uncle Peter Max-
well.
It was a painful duty—one from which, as
the hour of its performance drew nigh, Bran-
thope would fain have been excused. But
even as the inexorable wheels bore him for-
ward to the well-known little station, so fate
bore him to the end of that which he had at-
tempted.
There were exciting scenes in Branthope
Villa that night. The answer which Uncle
Peter received, when he frantically demanded
his niece, struck home to his heart the death-
blow so Jong ready to fall. His nephew
softened the blow all that he could by artand
delay, first beginning with a story .of Mar-
garet’s attachment to a gentleman, whose ac-
quaintance she bad formed on board the ship
during their last summer’s voyage—how she
had gone down to the city to fulfill a secret
promise she had made him of becoming his
wife—how they were married in church, him-
self being one of the witnesses—and how, in
the act of stepping into a small boat, which
was to convey them to the vessel waiting to
bear them to their tropical home, the boat had
partially upset, the whole party thrown into
the water, and Margaret drowned.
“ Margaret dead!” exclaimed the old man,
rising from his bed, and advancing, without
assistance, to the center of the room, with up-
raised arm, as if to strike the bearer of the
news.
“ And buried?” he added, a moment later,
gazing at Branthope, who could only nod an
affirmative reply.
“There has been foul play !” cried the old
man, in a high, sharp key; “ foul play, I say!
Dead—and buried, without m g her,
without my being summoned? You are a
rascal, Branthope Maxwell! You have had
a hand in this!—a murderer—a—I know not
what. Call the housekeeper! Call some one,
Isay! I will send for the sheriff—I will put
36
the case in his hands! we my little
girl! oh, where are you? hy don’t you
come to poor old Uncle Peter? It is dark,
and you—do—not—come. Margaret !”—oh,
what a fond, passionate, yearning cry !—but
even as he gave it, the old man swayed and
tottered, and Branthope sprung forward only
in time to prevent his fall upon the floor.
Before he dared lay' down his burden to
ring the bell, Uncle Peter had expired in his
arms.
The wailing of the servants, that night, was
not so much for the master, dead in the
house, as for the young mistress, whom they
were never more to sec. The story flew
abroad, early in the morning, and the whole
neighborhood came with sympathy and aid.
he account of Margaret's runaway mar-
riage with a foreigner went with that of her
accidental death; altogether the tragic in-
terest which gathered about Branthope Villa,
was powerful enough to keep the community
in a state of excitement; and many there
were, who, looking upon young Maxwell with
curious and pitying eyes,saw so much trouble
and‘unhappiness in his face as to conclude
that his cousin had jilted him, and broken
his heart by doing so, and by her early death.
For he would have been more calloused in
feeling and experienced in wrong-doing than
he was, had he not felt the consequences of
his selfish conduct intolerable. Two deaths
within a fortnight, both as truly to be laid at
his door, as if he had planned and executed
them!
He was, indeed, wretched enough. He fell
away in flesh, his eyes had the look of eyes
which do not sleep; he was moody, rest-
less, pallid—everybody said how deeply he
took to heart his double loss—he felt it even
more than was to be expected, seeing that
he had now become, by Margaret’s death,
and his being next of kin, sole heir to Bran-
thope Villa, and all Uncle Peter's moneys and
estates. ©
He, who had done so much to bring about
such a result, would have given up all, and
have gone baek under the yoke of unpaid
debts, could he have replaced his young cou-
sin in her home, as hie had won her from it,
and have seen his uncle back in. that weari-
some sick-chamber, out of which he had
startled him forever. He was not a murderer
at heart—not even a robber, or dishonest
man; he had been led away, by the tempta-
tions of an easy life, and the els promptings
of a selfish, luxurious nature, to corsent to a
wrong which he persuaded himself was not
so mean and wicked asit really was. Vow he
saw it in its true light—too late for repentance
to avail. j- +48
Business kept him for some weeksthe most
of the time at the Villa, and when he finally
ienameecsall ep aS SE
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
left it, for the winter, in care of the house-
keeper, it was as its undisputed master.
Uncle Peter’s property was found to be more
instead of less, as is generally the case, than
was currently reported. His prudent opera-
tions had been successful, and there was
plenty of money in bank, as well as much in-
vested in profitable ways which brought in a
handsome income.
Branthope, with his pleasure-loving tem-
perament, had nothing to do but to lay the
ghosts which haunted him. He was obliged
to do it, in self-defense, he was so miserable
—obliged to become almost recklessly gay, to
keep constantly in society, to be always in the
company of good fellows or bright ladies, in
order to shut out the pictures which arose be-
fore him in solitude. He was quite success-
ful in his attempts to forget and be happy.
After atime he became really what at first he
had only affected, gay and care-free ; only, at
intervals, he would have visions, and at
night, frequently, startling and unpleasant
dreams.
x
CHAPTER X.
THE CREW OF THE SALLY ANN.
IN the mean time, what of Margaret ?
Not drowned, not found, as our readers
must hayeforeseen. She was awakened from
that sleepy floating upon clouds of eider-
down, by a rude (iinmp against some massive
piece of timber. inuvolintarily she reached
out her hand. The struggle for the life she
had resigned began over again. She was
choking and cramping—she was sinking. As
she stretched out her arm, she felt and clasp-
ed a wooden beam. She clung to it, got her
other arm over it, and held on, with her head
above the foul and freezing water which
moaned and seethed and still rose higher
about her—for the tide was setting in. Pres-
ently she had recovered sufficient breath to en-
able her to crawl, with a arin oe
effort, upon the beam, ne to cling With cold,
numb fingers, to another cross-piece above.
She knew, very well, where she was. Under
the dock / dark waters underneath, slimy walls
about her, heavy wooden planks above. Ah,
what a coffin! She shuddered with the
thought, and with the bitter cold.
When she was a trifle more composed, less
water in her ears and mouth, she heard the
trampling of feet above her, saw the gleam of
a lantern through a crack in her prison-ceil-
ing, knew that they were looking for her, that
by crying out ee yet be saved. She
pressed lier tr ng lips more firmly to-
her, and was dumb.
She crouched in that awful place until
voices and lights were gone. A long time!
ey
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. $7
They had given her up at last, thank God!
Now for courage to meet a lingering death.
Oh, why had she not sunk at once ?—then, all
would have been over. The water rose, and
almost washed her from her slippery hold.
She was so wet, so chilled. Time wore on.
The tide was still rising. It came over her,
where she clung. She wondered if she
might not struggle up to the cross-piece to
which she was holding on with her hands.
She cautiously made the effort and succeeded.
No sooner was she established in this new
hold on life, than she saw stars twinkling
above her—a piece of the blue sky. Before,
all had been dark—dark as the grave. After
a moment’s study she made out, with a sud-
den leap of the heart, that part of a plank
was missing from the flooring of the pier. If
she could but reach to crawl out through
that, she might yet be saved—might fly from
the man who called her his wife, might creep
and crawl by night back to Branthope Villa,
and there be hidden and protected.
With the hope came a renewal of her eb-
bing strength. Very carefully, slipping and
clinging, she got upon her feet, put her head
through the opening, which was on a level,
‘now, with her waist, and looked about her.
There was no one to assist—or betray. Using
an elbow for a lever, she lifted herself; her
knee was upon the flooring—one more effort,
and she stood upon the pier. Saved!
She had not. felt the wind in that terrible
shelter below there. Now it blew about her,
flapping her wet garments, which almost
froze to her limbs. She realized that a few
moments of such exposure would render her
helpless, unless she greatly exerted herself.
High clouds were hurrying across the sky,
obscuring the stars one moment, to pass from
them the next. The light was faint and un-
certain, but she groped her way off the pier,
until she came into a street which she sup-
posed to be West street. She began to run,
to keep from freezing; but whenever she
came near a lamp, she hurried by with cau-
tion, and when, rarely, she saw a policeman
approaching on his beat, she hid in areas, or
behind sheds or lumber-piles, until he had
passed. To seek assistance of one of these,
was, probably, to be given back into the
power of that man. She had no set project
of escape—only a dim idea that if she could
struggle on she might reach the open country
before daybreak, and ask for warmth and
food at some humble house, where her iden-
- would not be suspected.
he had far greater powers of endurance
than most girls of the t day, her free
country life and her inherite lish con-
stitution having insured her that; but the
wind numbed her, and her wet clothes were
heavy . if made of iron.
Still she struggled and stumbled on, until,
at last, upon the approach of an officer down
the street with a bu aot open in his hand,
she fled out upon the pier into a huge lum-
ber-yard, where she lost herself amid high
piles of boards, and when she attempted to
come out on the street again, found herself on
the river-side, with gaunt skeletons of masts
standing against the sky, and quiet fleets of
vessels crowded side by side, locked up there,
as if they were at their winter moorings.
Her eyes were dim, by this time, and her
brain numb as her feet and hands, Her very
heart was deathly cold, and when sbe went
to turn she became confused. Presently she
was conscious that a light, like that of a lamp,
was shining somewhere, and she stumbled to-
ward it; but before she quite reached it, she
fell, and after that she knew no more for
some hours. :
When Margaret again unclosed her eyes,
the daylight came dimly into the place where
she was, it was a queer place; she could not
make it out, and she lay aay in her be-.
wilderment, wondering, and, by degrees, re-
ee She lay on a sort of shelf on
one side of a room about eight fect wide by
twelve long; there was another shelf above
and one beneath her, in which she heard a
little child tossing and talking and teasing to
be taken up. There was a very tiny stove in
one corner, upon which stood a tin coffee-pot ;
a small table in another corner, spread with
the necessaries of a very modest breakfast; a
cradle was crowded close upon the table, and,
indeed, the whole little apartment had a
sadly crowded a containing, as it did,
the furniture and equipments of an, entire
~
family of four, inclusive of sleeping arrange-_
ments—which crowded aspect was still fare
ther increased by the ridiculously unnecessary
largeness and fatness of the woman, who, sit-
ting on a deck-stool, with a fretful baby in
her lap, seemed to fill and overflow the space,
and take up so much more room than she
was entitled to. Yet she did it in that good-
natured manner that no one, surely, could be-
grudge itto her. Margaret, thrqugh her half-
open lids, saw the woman’s dimpled, comely
face, and almost felt at home. Her wandering
glance went up to the windows, to find if the
scene outside might betray her whereabouts :
the windows, like every thing else, were
queer—only a pane of glass in hight, but
broad enough, and very near the low ceiling.
Through them she saw the sky and the out-
lines of two or three masts of vessels—the last
things she had seen as she stumbled on, uncon-
scious, the previous night.
om.
The sight Gage ack every thing, and.
she prenes alou “4
“ Lord-a-mercy !” cried the Rroinke, jump-
ing up so suddenly as to have forgotten her
-
ea.
aes AP
sae
own baby, which would have fallen upon the
floor had not the kindly cradle caught and
held it—so, you’ve come to, haye you, miss?
an’ Ezekiel sayin’ you was clean gone. Sar-
iin, now, haw do you feel ?”
ay hardly know,” said Margaret, fuintly,
but trying to smile, for the woman’s hearty
voice had a cheerful sound.
“Don’t speak ag’iri till you’ve drunk this—
every drop on it;—I’ve tried to get it down
you when you was as good as dead, but I
couldn’t get you to swaller much,’—and she
brought a tumbler of hot spiced whisky-
punch, which had been kept covered on the
stove-hearth, lifted her patient’s head, and
forced the draught upon her by the power of
her superior will, all the time rattling on, as
fast as she could comfortably speak, being a
little short-breathed.
“Wasn't it a mussy the baby was sick last
night, an’ I got up and struck a a to see
what was the matter with the poor little thing
—she’s a-cuttin’ her first teeth, miss—an’ kep’
‘the fire to make her some catnip tea, an’
was a-Settin’ an’ a-rockin’ her, an’ Zeke snor-
in’, for it don’t keep him awake to have the
young ones cry—an’ a blessin’, too, he bein’
out to work all day—an’ I hearn somethin’
tumble ag’in the door, like a big dog, or what
not, and scart me so, 1 hollerd. to Zeke, an’
made him get up to open it to drive the dog
away—an’ there, law suz, it wasn’t no cof
but you, miss, that wet, and that cold, actual-
ly friz to death! I reckon Zeke was glad ‘he
turned out, when he seen what was up, But
we give you up for dead more’n once. La!
Thad a night of it, with my sick baby, and
with you; but she’s better now, and Tm right
acd she was took so bad just at that time, for
if. ?'d been sound asleep 1 shouldn't a-heard
you fall, and you'd ’a’ friz solid afore morn-
in
““ Perhaps that would have been the best
thing which could have happened,” murmur-
ed Margaret. — .
*“ Oh, don’t say that now! It’s your bounden
duty to live as long as God lets ye, and you
mus’n’ be too impatient. Laws! you've just
begun life. Nota day over eighteen, Pll be
bound. How come you in that fix, now, if
you've no objections to tell? Of course we
know you was'in the river, but how come
you there? Accident or—sooicide?” The
merry blue eyes shut up into a twinkling line
in the excess of the good woman’s curiosity.
The poor girl could hardly help smiling, even
in her misery, at the intense inquisitiveness of
the Yankee face, so good-natured and beney-
olent at the same time. wae
“If it were suicide would I have tried so
lard to save myself?” asked Margaret, pru-
dently—already the fear, destined to be the
lion ig her path, had sprung up and faced
THE BETRAYED BRIDE;.OR,
her—the fear that Mr. Martinique would hear
of her safety and claim her.
“So! that’s so. We thought—Zeke an’
me—p’r’aps it mought be. You was dressed
so nice, an’ so young ‘an’ handsome. We
said, to onec’t—there’s a romantical mystery
here, Of course, if it ain’t sooicide, you'd
like us to let your friends know, the sooner
the better ?”
“ Alas! Ihave no friends !”
“There !” exclaimed the woman, exulting-
ly, turning to a rough little man, as thin and
small as she was large and dimpled, who at
that moment slipped in the door. “TI told you
so! There’s a romantical mystery here, as
you live, Zeke.”
“Bear a hand, Sally—don’t you see, she’s
slippin’ her anchor ag’in? Where’s the
grog?”
argaret had again become unconscious.
It was some time before she revived. When
she codii be left a little while to herself, the
hostess comforted her screaming baby, and
her husband, having dressed the other child,
put the coffee and a plate of buckwheat,
on on the table, and the family ate break-
ast.
When they had finished the meal, of which
they must have stood in need, after their
night’s exertions, the woman brought a cup
of coffee and a soaked cracker to her patient,
who ate and drank quite eagerly, and was
refreshed, Ky
“Where am I?” she asked, looking again
about the queer place.
“On board the Sally Ann,” answered the
man, laughing a little, and with an air as if
proud of the fact.
~“ Where bound ?” gasped Margaret, faintly,
“not to—oh, not to South America?”
The little man shook with laughter, and |
i ean spouse shook, too, a8 he re-
plied : '
“To South America? Lor’ bless you, no!
the Sally Ann confines herself mostly to
the raging canawl, except w’en she comes
down in tow of some snorter, to visit the
city. She’s bound, now, to stay where she is,
till ‘navigation opens, an’ that’s all she’s
bound for. South America, 1 swow! to
tee pe the Sally Ann attempting that, mo-
ther!"
“Mother” laughed, and then she squinted
up her eyes again into that twinkling line, as
she turned to the strange visitor? “ What un-
der the sun put that into your head? Was
yer a-calculatin’ to go there, or was yer afraid
you might be obliged to ?”
“T don’t wish to go there,” cried Le, To
faintly. “Oh, no, not for the world. I i tell
_ you some time—this afternoon, perhaps, when
*m well enough to sit up.” ¥
“Yes, yes—all right. Don’t you go to tirin’
a
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 3
yerself out, talkin’. DPve got yer wet things
a-dryin’, an’ Pi ree "em off by’m-by, an’ yer
can fix yourself quite decent before your
friends comes after you. Now, I jest tell
ou, the best thing fer you is to take a good
ong nap. Ill try and git baby to sleep ’t
same time, 80’s we ken hev it quiet.”
“Oh,” said Margaret, “I don’t wish to go
to sleep—I’m afraid to.”
“ Afraid of ws?” asked the little man, crim-
soning with indignation. ‘“ Do you s’pose the
owners 0’ the Sally Ann would ’a left us to
take keer of her—in full charge of her, with-
out payin’ a cent o’ rent for our accommoda-
tions, if we Was that kind o’ folks? If you had
the hull Bank o’ Boston in yer pocket, we
shouldn’t tech it!”
“I beg your pardon, a thousand times, I
didn’t mean that, oh no! I would trust you
with the Bank of Boston, if I had it—which
I have not!” smiling sadly. “But I’m so
afraid I shall be found—discovered—by those
who, doubtless, are looking for me. They
will search everywhere; the police will
know it, and oh, 1 would rather die this hour
than fall again into their hands. It was to
get away from them that I sprung into the
river. hey, probably, believe that I am
drowned. Bat they will try to be certain of
it. They are rich—they will buy the assist-
ance of others—the police will be on the
watch. If any one hears of my being here, I
shall be taken away. Oh,” clasphtig her
hands, “*if there were any cellar dark enough
to hide me! No,I dare not sleep. I must
keep on the watch ; for if I hear or see them
coming, I shall kill myself. They never—
never—never shall take me alive!” She sunk
back on her pillow, exhausted, looking pit-
ously at, her new friends with those beauti-
ful eyes, whose pleadings they had not hearts
hard enough to withstand.
“ Nobody shall tech ye ag’in your will
while J’m master o’ the Sally Ann,” said the
man, throwing back his shoulders, and glow-
ing with an expression like that of a com-
modore on deck, and about to engage with
the enemy. €*:
“Oh, thank you, sir !”
“ An’ look-a-here, my beauty. You jest go
to sleep as sound as you like. Nota body
shall set foot on this craft this day, ’ceptin’
them already here. J’]l stand watch all day,
if ye say so—though, Lord knows, we ain't
net be troubled with visitors, are we,
ally ? mas
Sally dimpled all over, as she usually did
when addressed, saying, “ We ain’t ‘tied up
but a fortnight, and we don’t know a soul
about us yit.. You kin sleep as peaceful here
as if you was in the moon. If enny
comes inquirin’ round, I’m sharp enough to
turn ’em off No need, Zeke, o’ your givin’
<>
up yer day’s work to stan’ watch. I'll take
keer o’ the Sally Ann, and all on board.”
“Tf it’s safe to leave me here,” spoke Mar-
garet, a little anxiously, “I wish you would
go out. You will probably hear what is said
about the accident; and, please bring me a
paper, if there’s any thing about a lady’s
being drowned, in them, to-day.”
“ Jes’ as the wimmen decides. That's my
rule o’ conduct. And, Sally, keep a sharp
eye out, and if yer sees the enemy bearin’
down, clear the decks for action. Keep the
door of the cabin locked; and, law, miss, if
you'd feel easier, pull down them little cur-
tains, and there you are; shet up like a bago’
gold in a chest. Nobody’d never guess you
was there, if they come right in. Motherll
put yer clo’es out 0’ sight as soon as they’re
dry, an’ you kin lie as snug as a kernel in a
nut.”
When he was ready to go forth for the day
his wife followed him out, and as she tower-
ed beside him on. the deck of the canal-boat,
her whole face was illuminated, in all its
folds and dimples, as she whispered, em-
phatically :
“There’s some romantical mystery, I tell
you, Zeke, about that young lady. Nothin’
common, nuther. To think o’ her bein’ led to
the Sally Ann, an’ I so fond of ’em !” ee
“Fond o’ what?’ asked her partner, per-
plexed. Teo
‘“ Romantical mysteries, Why, it’s as good
as a noyel, an’ a good deal more real, a-hay-
in’ her here in our very cabin. I shan’t be-
grudge her a little trouble, it’s so. nice to have
it happen here—but I’m dyin’ to know the
climax.”
‘““ Well, don’t you bother her with too many
questions. As soon as she sees you're real
friendly, she'll let it all out, no doubt, I'll
come home early—like as not I shall learn
all about her, in the papers, or from the
p'lice.”
“But you won't betray her, Zeke ?”
% Not I! The master o’ the Sally Ann
don’t betray one o’ the softer sect who has
confided in him, Sally, you know that !”
“Yes, Ido. An’ bring a chicken, Zeke, to
make her some broth. Between you an’ Lan’
the sign-post, I don’t reckon on her leavin’
us to-day. I see a fever comin’ on.”
“That's pesky bad for her, poor young
thing. But you're a purty good nurse, mo-
ther. _ Doctor her up as well as you ken, an’
T'll not forget the chicken.”
He went away, and Mrs. Sally, returning
to the cabin, heroically suppressed. her. in-
clination to talk, and drawing the curtain be-
fore the berth in which the stranger lay, took
eep_to
body her baby in her lap, and sung it tos
the music of the “Bay o' Barbary.” Her
other child played quietly about her feet, but
a ae
“passionately ; “it is mine, I sup
she sung two children to sleep with the same
touching ditty ; for Margaret, whose brain al-
ready began to wander a little, dreamed that
“she was a babe and was being rocked to sleep
on her mother’s breast, and thus dreaming,
vert into a heavy, but not a healthy slum-
r.
She slept until late in the afternoon.
When, finally, she unclosed her languid eyes,
the Jong strips of windows, the low ceiling,
the little stove and the large woman, were all
as if she had never seen them before, and af-
ter that, for several days, her memory only
came to her at intervals, during which she
would so piteously implore her humble
friends not to summon a phyiscian, not to let
any one see hier, that they, albeit much alarmed
at her condition, unwillingly consented, Mrs.
Sally bringing to bear all her New England
knowledge of herb-teas and bitters, and much
weighed down by a sense of responsibility,
as well as an intense desire to know the “ cli-
max.”
At about the tenth day Margaret broke the
fever-chain, cleared the cobwebs of delirium
from her brain, and Was once more herself.
Her young and vigorous constitution now as-
serted itself in her rapid recovery.
“The papers—all the daily papers, since
- came here,” were the first things she asked
or.
‘Zekiel brought her a pile of them; but
the letters swam before her eyes, and she had
to take a day or two’s regimen of chicken-
broth and egg-nog before she could perform
the task of going through with them.
“It is allright,” she said to Mrs. Sally, who
sat, baby in lap, watching her with her
twinkling eyes drawn up in aline; “they be-
lieve me dead—they believe that they have
buried me. That is what I most desire.
Henceforth I am dead—to myself, to them, to
the past. 1 must begin like one just born—a
new name, a new life!” then she burst into
tears, not at thought of this, but because she
had learned, through those papers, of her
dear uncle’s sudden death.
She sobbed so violently, in her weak state,
that Mrs. Sally put down the baby and brought
the “ camfire-bottle.”
“It don’t hurt me to cry, Mrs. Griggs; I
feel better now.”
“ But you shouldn’t overdo yourself, Mrs.
_ Martinique,” responded the good woman, halt
shutting her eyes.
Margaret sat straight up in bed ; a hot flush
rushed over her pale face, and her eyes flash-
ed lightnings.
“Don’t call me by that name,” she said,
, but it
was fastened on me by fraud, and I refuse it.
You know, of course, all that the papers can
am
reveal, Mrs. Griggs. "I am Mrs. ue—
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
drowned, buried, my husband sailed for his
southern home, my uncle killed by the news
of my death, my cousin left sole heir to the és-
tate—thus the papers have it, and thus @ ¢.
Mind you, # zs, and must ever be. That T am
not dead and buried is no one’s affair but my
own. I choose to have it thought that I am
thus disposed of.
“Mrs.Griggs, circumstances have placed me
in your power. You have been like a. sister
to me, and your husband has been like a bro-
ther. In return, [ will explain to you why I
did not choose to go to South America with
Mr. Martinique!” The twinkling eyes shone
brightly through the half-shut lids; little Hi-
ram was boxed on the ear for attempting to
blow his penny whistle, and the baby’s mouth
was stopped with its natural stopper, while
Mrs. Griggs listened to as much as Margaret
thought necessary to explain.
When the sad story was ended, tears were
dripping from the twinkling eyes, and drop-
ping on the dimpled cheeks—tears of com-
passion for the young lady, and of indigna-
tion at those who had plotted against her
happiness—but through all her intense syin-
pathy there broke a ray of triumph, as she ex-
claimed :
“That’s a climax, now, a-worth a-comin’
to! T’ve always felt ’twould be my lot to
be mixed up with a reg’lar tradegy yet, as
I’ve often said to Zeke—an’ here it is, sure
enough !”
Mrs. Griggs during that portion of her life
spent peace ally on the calm bosom of the
eat canal, had been mistress of many quict
ours which otherwise might haye been, to
say the least, monotonous, had she not filled
them and thrilled them with the perusal of
“Many exciting works of fiction, from the
“Mysteries of Udolpho,” down to the “ Qun-
maker of Moscow,” and being naturally, de-
spite of her large size and her excess of dim-
ples, as sentimental as the thinnest old maid
you could bring to match her, was always on
the look-out for romantical mysteries jn real
life. She was really happy in having, at last,
one laid at her very door—brought there, as
she herself felt certain, by a “ circumstantial
Providence.”
“Wild horses shall never tear it from me,”
she assured the girl, who, again pale and trem-
bling, had sunk back on her pillow, after the
conclusion of the brief account of herself;
and the good woman, stooping to kiss the
white cheek, saw, in her mind’s eye, herself
converted into an immense barge, laden with
this weighty and important secret, which the
wild horses of the tow-path in vain endeayor-
ed to drag from her. ~~ :
“Tf Senor Martinique was to come, him-
self, with his hands chock full of Brazilian di’-
monds, I couldn’t be tempted to open my
in
o.
iin creer nae
WEDDED BUT NOT WON.
mouth—neither could ’Zekie]. Laws, no!
don’t think we could lend ourselves to sech a
downright conspiracy. We'll keep your se-
cret, an’ do all we kin to help you. But, la,
aang my dear, what on earth be you going to
oO ?
Margaret did not know—she had not had
time to think. Mrs. Griggs interrupted her
to tell her to take plenty of time—the Sally
Ann was her home till she could provide her-
self with a better. Then she advised her to
“turn-up,” and take back her uncle's pro-
rty from her cousin, who had no right to it ;
ut this, to Margaret, was the most impos-
sible of things. She would rather resign all,
earning her own living, henceforth, than to
allow her cousin to know. of ler existence,
since his first step would be to recall Mr.
Martinique.
norant that she might appeal to the law
for protection from a husband whose right to
her was consummated through fraud,her lium-
ble friends were equally ignorant: that she
mah safely take steps for her own release—
and into such a fever, almost spasin of terror,
did the mere thought of encountering either
of these two men again, throw her, that they
dared not advise her to openly brave the con-
sequences. Her only idea was to hide her ex-
istence from these two; and her friend’s only
idea, by force of sympathy, became the same,
CHAPTER XI.
OUT OF THE WORLD, YET IN IT.
As she rapidly recovered, life, in that close
and crowded little cabin, became a wearisome
thing to Margaret. Often she regretted that
she lad been so cowardly as to flee from
death when it waited, so close at hand, to re-
lease her. It were easier to sleep under those
sheets of ice in that moaning and tossing bed,
be to face the new experience which awaited
er.
No human beings could be kinder than the
master of the Sally Ann and his buxom mate;
the little boy was fascinated with the young
lady and her charming stories ; even’ the bab
cried to go to her; they shared with her their
fire and food,—but it can be imagined that her
surroundings, to a delicately-bred girl, would
be almost intolerable. Still worse, she was
partaking of their hospitality, without the
means of rewarding them ; for when Margaret
hastily changed her dress, on that Sabbath
evening, to go to the church with Branthope,
she had lett her purse in the pocket of her
travelingcloak. She had her watch—which,
being securely fastened in her belt, had re-
mained safe during her struggles in the water
—a plain gold brooch, und one or two inex-
41
nsive rings, besides her wedding-ring. That,
sachs as sfie loathed the sight of it, she was
resolved to keep. Since it might be possible
that some day, that man would have her in
his power, she was resolved to preserve the
proofs of their legal marriage. She knew
there was the record in the church where
they ‘were married; she had, also, the certifi-
eate which he had ‘thrust into her hand,
and which, mechanically, she had placed in
her pocket before alighting from the car-
riage. Mrs. Sally had found it and dried: it,
and pressed it carefully between the leaves of
the Bible, where it still lay, discolored, but
—
argaret might have spared the watch, and
would have done so willin sly, notwithstand-
ing that it was a gift from Uncle Peter, and
now her only keepsake from him; but her
dread of diseovery made her afraid to have it
offered for sale. It) was: marked with her
monogram, and might, very possibly, lead to
inquiries and detection. Her rings und pin
Mrs. Griggs sold for her, and bought, with the
money, materials for embroidery, and as soon
as she was able to sit up, the forlorn, but re-
solute girl, in this curious prison in’ which she
voluntarily immured herself, began. to do ex-
quisite needlework, which her hostess dis+
posed of at the fancy-stores: The sum she
was enabled to earn by cunstant application —
was very small, but it enabled her tw pay for
board all that it was really worth, and to buy
herself a pair of shoes, and a plain delaine
Mrs, Sally was not at all expert with the
needle, and it was a great comfort to her to
have this “romantical” young lady finish up
the set of*summer shirts: she had begun for °
*Zekiel, and make the baby's frocks so prettily,
while she devoted herself to the unlimited
perusal of all the “ mysteries” she could: lay
her hands upon. :
It was a weary, dreary life to Margaret—
relieved only by the absolute good-humor and
even affection of her humble friends; she
knew they liked to have her there; indeed,
Mrs. Sally ceclared it was like a constant play
at the Bowery to have her before their very
eyes, and that she was paying for her accom-
modations; but it could not be denied that she
still further crowded the tiny cabin, whose
chief characteristic was that of being crowded,
and which continually ran over at the door,
and seemed about to bulge out at the sides,
like a picnic basket that is bursting its lid
with overpacking. omit 1
’Zekiel always declared there was room to
spare, an innocent fiction on his part, forgiv-
able, under the circumstances; while, as for
Mrs. Sally, she often dropped her bookin the
midst of its most thrilling passages, to os
upon the young, noble, agd beautiful
eet
42
bent over that delicate embroidery, which
was there, ever, like a picture before her,
transforming the dingy cabin of the laid-up
canal-boat into a salon of splendor and mag-
nificence to her admiring eyes.
Poor Margaret! her only relief was some-
times to stand at the little windows, overlook-
ing the near line of “ baby’s duds,” which
were in a chronic state of wetness and flappi-
ness, ever the first thing to meet her view on
the deck outside—to look beyond these, and
the silent vessels moored about, a little ways
up the river, to the wooded hights on the
opposite side, which looked a little like home,
and to watch the masses of broken ice come
sailing down on their adventurous voyage to
the ocean.
But whenever she thought about going out
into the world again, she shrunk enifenivored,
She was foolishly and needlessly afraid; but
the sudden shock and terror of that) first
dreadful night had unstrung her nerves, and
made her constantly on the look-out for sur-
prises and snares. Like a person, who has,
in a moment of peaceful enjoyment, seen the
earth open about him, or had his house fall
at pay she could never again feel perfect-
ly sa
owever, she could not always remain
absolutely a prisoner.. As she recovered ‘her
full strength, she grew also in ae com-
ing, after a few weeks, to slip out in the after-
noon, in her plain dress, with a vail over her
face, to carry her work to the stores. The
walk was necessary to her ‘health, and she
enjoyed it keenly. wi
he only person she had to avoid was her
cousin+-excepting chance meeting with her
country acquaintances—since Mr: Martinique,
she knew, had sailed for a farcountry. That
he might return before many months, was a
question of the future; at present, he was
away, and she felt less desperately beset; but,
from her experience of her cousin’s kindness,
she felt that for him to become aware of her
existence, was to have the senor informed of
it. To give up his possession of her estate,
would not be possible to one of his selfish
character ; she had reason to dread the steps
he might take to prevent such a consequence,
should he learn of her being alive.
The dislike which Margaret felt for Mr,
Martinique must have been elt, instinct-
ive, strong as life itself, to have upheld her in
her present resolution. Duily, and uncomplain-
ingly, like the rest seamstress, she toiled,
and meekly took the miserable rewards of her
taste and skill, to pay for a seatat the table in
the cabin of the Sally Ann, while Branthope
Villa--all her own—stood desolate and empty,
sadly shrining the eed the luxuri-
ous” ture, the silver table-service, the rich
wardrobe, in the midst of which she should
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
have reigned, lovely and happy. Not only
that, but vast estates, smiling under tropic
skies, awaited her coming as their mistress, and
mines and warehouses there were in which she
_had her right of dower as the wife of their
owner; but she preferred, to all these, soul-
freedom, and the little cabin which assured it
to her.
Once, some time in February, as Margaret
came out of a fancy store in Canal street, it
being almost twilight, and her vail as usual
drawn over her face, she met her cousin
Branthope. He passed her by, without a
glance at the modest sewing-girl, jauntily and
airily, and handsomely dressed, with an in-
creased air of fashion and wealth about him,
and only the narrow band of crape on his hat,
to hint of tragedies so recently enacted. She
did not know, until she reached the shelter of
the Sally Ann, toward which she almost flew,
how much the sight of that man, whom she
had once so fondly loved, had shaken her.
Once safe within the cabin, she sunk upon
a chair with trembling limbs, buried her pale
face in her hands, and sat there more than an
hour, without moving or speaking, except to
say, at first, in answer to Mrs. Sally’s anxious
inquiries :
f i met my cousin; but he did not recognize
me. 9 eo ole - /
To see that handsome, audacious, selfish
face, was to be transported back into the past.
Her life at Branthope Villa, where she had
loved, worshiped, with a young girl’s idola-
try, her unworthy cousin, returned upon her
with its sweetness, freshness, and safety ; so
did that Sabbath evening when she, tremblin
and fearing, and yet unspeakably happy, h
gone with this persuasive lover to the solemn
altar, and had promised there to be his wife
with a willing joy, of which he had made
such a terrible mockery. As she thought of
it now, and recalled how careless and haughty
and self-assured he had been, this evening, as
he passed her by, all that had been sweet in
ler nature grew bitter—that which had been
love, the fondest and most yielding, turned
into. hate, the sternest and most implacable.
She did more now than despise Branthope—
she hated him !—hated the sight of his gayety
and his good fortune, and jaunty vanity.
Never, after that, for one moment, did any re-
turn of her old affection for him soften the
hardness of her heart toward him. She had
loved him, asnot one woman in ten thousand
is capable of loving ; and she hated him with
an equal power.
Hers was not an ordinary character. It
was no tame voice and purposeless glance,
with which she said, when, after an hovr’s
silence, she raised her head from her hands,
—* rising to her feet and lifting her
and—
—
pect a
ai ayo
"IAT dO SONICORIUOS
i ae
i
i age
8 ee
” +
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. | 45
“T hate my cousin, Mrs. Griggs.”
“Good Lordy my dear,” responded Mrs. Sal-
ly, “now I never did see the beat of that! If
you was a rigler Lady Macbeth, you couldn’t
make my blood-run_ no colder, You'd make a
drefful fine actress, Miss Margaret, an’ no mis-
take. Why don’t you offer yourself to. the
managers? They'd snap you up ina minute.
Why, doyou know, I b’lieve I'd 'a’ been an ac-
tress myself, if my figger didn’t stand in the
way. I’m too fat forthe tradegy parts,
which is what I naturally take to. But you!
Look at her, Zeke !” to her husband, who had
just come in to tea. “ Ain’t she well adapted to
the stage ?”
The young lady did present a striking effect,
with her bonnet dangling down her shoulders,
her superb black. hair tollowing the bonnet,
her face like marble, her eyes blazing, her
expression full of the passion her words had
breathed.
“ Ah, yes!” she murmured, coming down
from her high tragedy, with a mournful smile ;
“T have thought of it myself, Mrs. Griggs.
But I am cut off from that, as from everything
else, by the danger of discovery.”
Margaret had thought a good deal: of the
drama, as a means of earning @ living, for her
vivid impressions of her first night at the opera
still remained ; but the fact that certain betray-
al must follow her appearance in New York,
had held her desire in check. More than
once she had resolved to endeavor to sell ‘her
watch for enough to pay her expenses to Lon-
don, where she would feel more secure in be-
inning a new career; and this night, as she
ly long awake, she pondered the plan in ail
its aspects, and resolved to carry it into effect
very soon.
“It was a week before Margaret again ventur-
ed from the shelter of the Sally:Ann. But
Mrs. Griggs was not very well. The work was
promised, and she set out to deliver it herself,
purposely delaying her walk until as near
dark as was prudent. It was not pleasant to —
be out late when her homeward way lay amid
such purlieus as surrounded: the canal-boat,
lying as it did, moored to its dock, ina partof |
the city frequented by sailors, longshoremen,
_ workers in coal and lumber-yards, and by a
very rough working-class generally, as well as
ree 3 by occasional hard characters.
he street lamps had been some time lighted,
when she, having been delayed a little while
at the store, and by making some purchases
for Mrs. Sally, hurrying along with as business-
like an air as she could assume, carrying
her basket with its parcels of tea and sugar,
turned into the lumber-yard which lay between
the street and the Sally Ann: The regular
employees of the yard knew:her as an inmate
of the canal-boat, although they had never
seen her unyailed face; Mar
’
#
guret was ‘not
afraid of them, and did not think seriously of
it, a8 a Man came round from behind a pile ot
boards, and advanced so that they must meet
im the path. There was.a lamp not far away,
but they were not in sight from the street, as
the fellow walked slowly past, whistling, and
eying her so sharply that she, in turn, re-
garded him. Her vail was up. now, as she
could not see without, and as they passed each
other, the ulpone of the lamp fell directly upon
her face. Itimmediately affected her, though
she really did not think of it, as it she had seen
the man betfore,—how or where was as
shadowy as the impression itself. He was
a disagreeable-looking person, with reddish,
ay beard, an ugly mouth, and malicious
eyes. arcely had she passed when she felt
herself — about the waist, and a rough
hand turned her face to the light of the lamp.
She attempted to scream, but her voice died
in her dry throat. - : é'
“ By hokey ! here's a sell! So you ain’t dead
and drownded, afterall, my pretty Mrs. Mar-
tin, or whatever it is!” '
She recognized him. then—the driver to
whom she had appealed on the dock, on the
nightof her marriage. .The sword, suspended
by a hair had fallen—and so soon! but she
made a brave effort for her salvation, and
looked him in the face with affected surprise.
* Let me go!” she said, as soon as she could
commund her voice; “‘ I’m Mrs. Griggs’s girl,
and she wants me home with these things. Pll
call the police if you don’t let me go.”
“ The same voice, too,” he replied, eens
“a scart voice, as before, and one not to be
mistaken. Oh yes! I'll let you go,” releasing
his hold on her; “I wouldn’t hurt a lady like
om for the world. All I want is to let you go
ome.”
“That you may follow me !” she exclaimed,
setting down her basket in despair.
“Precisely,” was the hateful answer ;
“ there’s no law against it.”
Then I will keep walking all night,” she
said, desperately.
‘““All right. I:can keep that up as long as
ou can. But, good Lord! what's the sense?
ow I’ve got my eye on you once, you needn't
think but what I’m equal to keeping it there.
lve played sharp on older and wiser ones ’an
you. Bless you, I’ve been in all kinds 0’ little
games, and generally win.”
“ But what do you want of me?” asked she,
trying to appear indifferent,
“Oh, I read the papers! I ain’tiguorant of
the fact that the pretty bride of the rich gen-
tleman went overboard and was drownded.
The papers said, ‘by accident, but I knew
better. I saw through it in the twinkling of an
eye. * 8uicide!’ says I, and I did feel a livtle
sorry. Jn fact, I’ve been quite grieved about
it,—oan't tell you how relieved I feel to find it
46
all. a mistake, and she alive and handsome as
ever. She's Griggs girl, is she—ah, ha!
Well, 1 don’t pretend I’m quite at the bottom
of this yet; but it won’t take long to get there.
That rich senor, now, who gave me a double-
eagle to drive fast and keep my mouth shut,
would pay a pretty sum, now, to any one as
would give him the news that he wasn’t a
Ps sons !—a cool five thousand, if I stuck for
“ Oh,” cried Margaret, “if I had as much, I
would willingly give it to you to hold your
peace, and let me alone,” and she burst into
tears.
_“Ex-actly. And he’d give as much to find
= as you would to keep away from him, I’ll
bound. He adored you, ma’am, I could
see that with half aneye. How happy I shall
make him!” :
“ He is. gone—far away! _ He will not come
back. No word or letter of yours can reach
him. You do not know where to address him !”
“ There’s anice young man from whom I can
get his address—the one who stood up with
you. I know him.”
‘“‘ Have you no mercy?” cried Margaret, in
agony. f
‘*T hain’t no money,” said the man, dogged-
ly; ‘‘and I want some, desperate bad. Be-
sides, in my judgment, there wouldn’t be no
harm in taking a lady away from a place like
this, and turnin’ her over to her lawful hus-
band, who loves her, and will cover her with
velvet and jewels. J’d like to be hurt in that
way.”
“ Allow me to be the judge. I was married
to that man by fraud—I supposed I was being
wedded to somebody else—a man I was en-
gaged to, and who took me to the church. It
was cruel—wicked. I am not, in heart or
truth, his wife. Oh, do not betray me to him!
If L had money, I would give it allto you.”
“Ha!” rubbing his whiskers reflectively ;
“thought you was getting married to t’other
one, hey? really,a very good joke. Quitea
little farce for such nice gentlemen to be ‘en-
gaged in! The other one will be willing to
pay, too, then, to keep the affair quiet. Soe.
my honor, I’ve hit on quite a lead.”
‘I did not say it was the other one whom I
expected to marry,” stammered poor Marga-
ret, shrinking from this dreaded person, while
feeling the net closing about her.
“Certainly not,” with a wink; “ I guessed it,
for who wouldn’t ?” £1.20"
“You need not trouble yourself to give in-
formation,” said the on then, haughty, even
under the pressure of sickening fear; “I carn
do what I attempted once before. I can kill
myself, and I assuredly will, before I will fall
xato his power.” b a
“Perhaps you can buy me off,” suggested
the other,
were after him, and he was obliged
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
“J have property.. But I can not claim it
without betraying myself. All I have to spare
now, is a very costly watch.”
“Bah! Property, hey ?—in the other’s
hands, of course,” again reflecting, but his re-
flections were cut short by the appearance of
two of the police, stealing cautiously out of
the shadow, down one of the aisles formed by
the lumber, at the sight of whom, her unwel-
come companion made a tremendous bound
in, the upposite direction, darted into obscuri-
ty, and was gone, with the officers in pursuit.
It was evident that he had been skulking in
the lumber-yard, to hide from them.
_ “T hope they will find him, and keep him,”
murmured Margaret, as, sick at heart, utterly
miserable and despondent, she took up her
best and went down on board the Sally
nn.
“La, suz! don’t tell me! suthin’s happen-
ed,” remarked Mrs. Griggs, as her boarder, .
afler laying aside her bonnet, sat down tothe
table, and pretended to eat, while unable to
swallow even the cup of warm tea which she
so much needed. “1 hope you hain’t heard
no news, Miss Mar—Lucille.”
Margaret had changed her name, some time
ago, and both she and her friends were at-
tempting to become accustomed to the new
one.
* He ain’t back, is he?” whispered the mas-
ter of the Sally Ann, putting the back of his
hand up to his mouth, and speaking as myste-
riously as if he might be somewhere in the
cabin, and in danger of overhearing the con-
versation,
“Oh my! what a climax that would be!”
cried his wife.
““ Not quite so bad as that,” and the young
lady began to ery in that quiet, repressed way
so sad to see; “ but. I have been discovered by
the driver of the hack who took us from the
church that night, and he threatens to inform
Mr. Martinique and my cousin. He will do it,
because he can extort money from them. I see
very plainly, my dear friends, that I shall
have to leave your kind protection. Oh,
where shall I go next?”
‘““] can’t bear to listen to your talk of going,
‘Miss Lucille,—I can’t, indeed. We love you,
and we’re proud of you—proud to have a ro-
mantical mystery on board the Sally Ann.
’Twon’t happen to us twice’t in a lifetime, I
know. Where’s that bad man, a-comin’ in,
like a bandit in a play, a-makin’ trouble?
Does he know you're here, in this cabin ?”
“Ym not certain. It appears the officers
to run off.
But he will find out everything which he does
noe eee know, Oh, I hope they arrested
im!’ . ; Sa " i} 4 k i "ie? ;
“Well, you keep as quiet as you can,” said
Zeke, earnestly desiring to comfort her. You
.
oo
WEDDED BUT NOT WOW. 4?
keep clost aboard rie an’ to-morrow I'll find
— about that feller. I'll question the po-
- Margaret, or Lucille, as we shall hereafter
call her, while it suited her to bear that name,
passed a wakeful, wretched night. Her peace _
of mind was completely unsettled; never
, for a moment, could she feel safe. The
next day she bent, pale and nervous, steadily
over her needle, but every sound made her
‘start. To please her, Mrs. Griggs kept the
cabin-door bolted and formed herself into a
a At evening, when Zeke returned from
is work on the docks, he was enabled to give
Lucille the name of her tormenter, and to an-
nounce that, at present, he was ‘in prison,
and would probably be sent up for a few
weeks for assault and battery on a fellow
hackman. Gus Nichols, although driving a
carriage, as the ostensible means of making a
living, was suspected, by the police, to. be a
n of bad habits, whose ways ought to be
ept under surveillance. Indeeu, he had once
been arrested for robbing a passenger, but the
charge was not proved, and he was acquitted.
That he was quarrelsome and brutal, he had
proved often enough; in fact, he had been
skulking og to escape the conse-
quences of nearly killing a man with whom
he had quarreled. Be 4 <
Lucille breathed somewhat freer when she
heard that he was certainly under arrest ; and
the inmates of the cabin waited with even a
sharper interest than the prisoner himself, to
learn, by the daily papers, if he were convicted
of the offense c against him. When
it was ascertained that he was sent to Black-
well’s for two months, Lucille accepted it as
the doomed accept a respite. For two months
she might veo & partial security. It was
evident that Nichols did not know the address
of Senor Martinique, and it was unlikely that
he would obtain it while in prison.
She did not know the persistent nature of
the fellow.
CHAPTER XII. .
SHADOW AND SUBSTANCE.
One bright day, about the first of March, as
Mr. Branthope Maxweil loitered on the steps
of the Astor House, whither he had gone, from
his office in Park Row, to take his daily lunch,
a rough-looking fellow nudged him, and as he
sitet angrily to inquire into the cause of the
freedom, winked at him and said:
“I was told 7“ would be willin’ to tip a
five to git hold of this,” and he held up a
ece of brown paper, folded like a letter, and
Ireceibed, in a most original hand, to J. B.
“Who sent it? ond whit is iene s :
‘ sa OF
: { + Ste aad
If Branthope had kept a eotly clear
conscience, he doubtless would have turned
on his heel and-left the fellow; but never,
since that dark night on which he had com-
mitted himself to a wicked fraud u his
confiding and helpless cousin, had he been
quite at ease. He was sure that she rested,
where her fading lips would tell no tales, yet
he started, often, with a sense of insecurity,
as if she were behind him, and about to up-
braid him with his falsehood. Now, he saw
no possible connection between this ill-look-
ing fellow, holding the yellow scrawl, and
that event which had culminated so tragical-
ly, yet he thought of Margaret—still more,
perhaps, of Senor Martinique, and he paused
to hear what communication the man might
have to make.
“A friend o’ mine, Gus Nichols by name,
sent it. Fact. is, to mention his present ad-
dress, 1t’s Blackwell’s Island, where cor-
respondence ain’t easy to maintain; but as I
was goin’ out'as he was comin’ in, he aa
me this, at dinner, and told me you'd willin’-
ly tip me a five to deliver it safely to you,
sir,
“T don’t know any Gus Nichols, and have
not the pleasure of an acquaintance with any
of the visitors at the Island, that'I am aware
of,” said Branthope, with ironical politeness ;
but even while he was speaking, there was an
See sensation in his throat, and his
pulse quickened.
“ P’r’aps you ain’t the same Mr. Maxwell.
P’r’aps I'd better advertise in the papers,” re-
marked the other, dryly, turning away with
the message in his hand.
“Stop !” said Branthope, flushing. “ I will
read the communication, whatever it is, and
if it is worth the sum you charge for deliver-
ing it I will pay you the five dollars,”
aking the letier and turning into the hall,
to escape notice, he unfolded the crude mis-
sive, trembling with excitement. —
Written, as it was, with a pencil, on dark
paper, he had difficulty in deciphering the
brief note, which ran thus :
“Mr. Maxwell,
“Sir—I drove the bride an groom to the bote that
night. AsI felt real sorry to heer of her bein drowndr
ed, wich I nu wus sooiside, you may guess I was re-
leved to meet her, alive an well, an hansem as ever,
not ten days ago, in asertin part of thecitty. Ishood
a writ to the Sennor, but, unfortnitly, I was sent ont
here to bord chepe about that time an now if you see
fit to akwire use en you may come out an git an
intervoo, or wate till Ime out wich will be too
munths ; wich will not be proodent on akount of her
taking herself of agin, Pay, the man who brung this
five dollars, as Tpromissed an come out as soon as
ou can mak it konvinyant. No more, and under dif
ultis not hevin chice.of paper. ichols,*’
When young Maxwell had deciphered this
communication he thrust the paper in an in-
ner pocket, went out, paid the man the
money, dismissing him with a nod,
Sa SASS AST
=
ee
ce eae
RE
43
over to his office, and was glad; upon enter-
ing, to find himself alone. Every thing about
him looked differently from what it had when
he went out to lunch; the, handsome office
furniture seemed changed from green to blue;
he locked his door, threw himself upon. the
sofa, and again went through with that very
unpleasant and unexpected epistle, An. im-
1aense Obstruction had suddenly arisen in that
road. of prosperity, along which he had been
smoothly flying at two-forty speed. He,must
pull up, to avoid a ruinous collision—but
there was the obstacle !—how to get.it,out of
his path, was the question. Good heavens!
if Margaret was alive and in the city, he was
penniless. His uncle’s will bequeathed every
dollar to her; and the agreement he had en-
tered into with Senor Martinique to.abandon
that fortune to him, with the supposition that
his, uncle would alter his, will, after, the ap-
parent desertion of his adopted daughter,
would, of course, avail, him nothing, Not
only was he penniless, but in danger of blast-
ing exposures from his cousin’s lips. The se-
nor was fur away ; it would take time to com-
municate with him. Branthope knew, al-
though pour Margaret was too timid and inex-
perienced to act, upon it, that shecould appeal
«0 the law, for protection from so fraudulent a
transaction, as. her, marriage, Any court
would give her a legal release, The whole
success of the plot against her, as devised by
himself and ‘Martinique, depended upon her
being taken immediately to a foreign country,
where she would have no courage to nor
means of appeal, or where, as the wife of the
Jatter, compelled to live with him, she would
Jearn, by degrees, to be reconciled to her hus-
band. This had been the plan upon which
they had so boldly acted.
e will not say that, fora few moments, the
young man had not felt relief, and pleasure at
the announcement that his cousin lived ; for
her death had. weighed as. heavily upon his
conscience as.any thing could on that mer-
curial and selfish temperament of his—a tem-
perament so fond of ease and pleasure as to
get rid.of remorse as, soon as might be, as a
companion too gloomy for the society in
Which it found itself. :
Ue Aad felt some thrill of joy in the midst
of his trepidation—but now, as he thought
apon the results, all that was lost in vexation
and dread of the consequences. To think
now many sad moments he had had on heruc-
count! of the crape on his hat, worn asmuch
for-her as. for his uncle! of the tear he. had
wasted on her supposed grave that day of the
~ lonely. burial! truly, it was annoying to have
the dead coming back in this style. While,
as for allowing a young gent to.
himeclf heir to anirome estate, and fo tee
ulate his expenscs and expectations accord-
man to suppose pl
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
ingly, and then,come hack and snatch it from
him, leaving him dependent on his own exer-
tions, was il not. simply unbearable?..He had
no intention of bearing such a catastrophe if
he could avertit; his present great uneasiness
was caused by the fear that steps might already
have been taken by Margaret to render futile
ANY SHO US of his own,
Mr. Maxwell was engaged to attend, that
evening, a party at the house of a banker, who
had a lovely and every-way desirable daugh-
ter, to. whom he had been paying a devoted
attention, which he intended should culmin-
ate, that. very night, occasion offering, in a
proposal of marriage. He had little rea-
- to anticipate a refusal, from child or pa-
Ls,
He went to the gay reunion, danced the
lanciers—which was the newest fashionable
dance, just coming in that season—delight-
fully, was as brilliant and handsome as usual,
set the young heart of Violet to dancing as
lightly as her feet, made her blush and smile
at his will, but he did not. propose. He felt
too much as if standing upon the thinnest
ice, which might, at any instant, break and
ingulf him. It. would be. more prudent at
least,to wail until he could see this unknown
prisoner who had given him such disagrec-
able information. ©
The next day he went up to the Island, told
the officers that he wished to see Gus Nichols,
to make some inquiries with regard to a pas-
senger whom he had once driven to a vessel
about to sail for the south. To-such a well-
dressed. and well-looking young Gothamite
the officials. were pleased to make themselves
useful, and he was allowed a few moments
conversation with the hack-driver.
The way in which these two—the rough
and the genuUeman—played against each other
in the little game on. hand, would, haye been
amusing, to a third person. Gus Nichols had
information to sell, and Maxwell was willing
to buy, as soon as convinced that the other
really had any facts in his possession. Gus
refused from the first to say any thing, unless
well paid, affirming that when he got out of
that jug he should have no difficulty in
making the senor pay twice as much as
his. friend,, which Branthope, thought was
quite. likely. Maxwell, finally wrote and
signed a note for five hundred dollars, to. be
paid the 20th of April, the day the prisoner
would be at liberty to claim it. .When this
was in his. possession, the hack-driver told
about recognizing the lady, disguised in the
plan dress of aseaistress, and seemingly liv-
g somewhere not very far from the. pier
at which the supposed pytasrapye had taken
ace, It was his theory that she lad,been
picked up by some, of the sailors, or others,
who live along the river, and that she was
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. ; 49
staying in a canal-boat, called the Sally Ann,
laid up at a certain dock, for the winter, and
inhabited by the family of a canal-boatman.
She remained there, doubtless, for purposes
of concealment, while perfecting some plan
for ultimately claiming her property and pro-
tecting herself from her persecutors. This
last conjecture was Branthope’s, who knew, |
in the guilty depths of his soul, that his cou-
sin had power to ruin him, even as he had in-
jured her. But was the man certain of the
identity of this disguised lady ? Yes, he had
“ grabbed her,” pulled her vail off, accused
her, and made her confess. He would have
followed her on board the boat, but—hem !—
unfortunately, at that moment, he was pr
MS tet by circumstances beyond his cone
trol.
Branthope returned to the city in a mental
state of the deepest gloom. He felt very
much injured by the present state of affairs.
However, it would not do to sit down end
pity himself. He must ascertain, first of all,
if that fellow’s story had a grain of truth in
it. He almost hoped it had not. Gus had
given him the street and the lumber-yard as
the guide to the Sally Ann. That evening,
the pretty Violet, receiving so many other
calls, looked in vain for the one which alone
she longed for. Something stronger than even
the claims of society called Mr. Maxwell to a
place very different from the illuminated par-
lors of the banker. Slightly disguised by his
thickest overcoat, and a muffler wrapped
about the lower part of his face, the elegant
Mr. Maxwell hovered about the Inmber-yard
in‘a manner well calculated to excite the no-
tice of the police. If any stray blue-coat had
taken him to task he would probably have
been much embarrassed in attempting to give
a lucid explanation of his errand to the yard.
However, be was successful in avoiding no-
tice, and gradually, as twilight deepened into
a starless evening, he found himself very
close to that curious domicil of a thriving
family, the Sally Ann. The darkness was
such as to make the wanderings of a stranger
to the locality rather dangerous to limb and
life; but there was a faint light shining
from the cabin of the boat, and after a time
Branthope worked his way along upon its
deck, and with beating heart crawled to a
little window across which the curtain
claamemners vy drawn. Very cautious-
ly he ventured a first glance. »d-na-
tured little man and a good-natured large wo-
man sat by atiny stove, each of them with a
baby on their knee, which they petted and
played with as they talked about their family
airs. They sat with their faces toward the
stove, and away from the window, so that, af-
terthe first careful glance, he ventured to
press his own face closer to the glass seeing
i
a *
-
ee
cou
- Presently she made some slight movement
2% ce
that they were not likely to detect him until
they had changed their position. “That
Nichols is a fool,” said the young man to him-
self: “there’s nobody here but that vulgar
lot. As if ea anyhow, could stop in
ae a hole! She couldn’t stand it three
ays.”
ut what was that?—a shadow. Some
one whom he could not ‘see must be sitting
on this side the room, by the little table, sew-
ing. The regular movement of the arm, as
the thread was drawn out after every slitch,
appeared in shadow against the opposite side,
falling on a curtain which hung before a tier
of berths. Pressing still closer to the glass,
he oe as farin as possible. In vain. He
d see nothing of the invisible seamstress.
which brought the shadow of her head and
bust also upon the curtain. There was some-
thing in the outline of the head and neck, al-
beit the shadow was not well defined, which
reminded him of Margaret. His pulse beat in
his ears; he began to tremble, unnerved by a
shadow. ;'
He waited some time, hoping the shadow
would give place to the substance, and he
should be certain of what he now supposed.
But the patient movement of the arm went
on, until the pleasant little man arose with a
yawn, saying in a loud, hearty tone—‘ Wal,
good woman, I reckon [ll go outside, and
give Lucille a chance to turn in.”
Then there was a low murmur of another
voice, which he could not make out, the more
particularly as he had been obliged to with-
draw from too close proximity to the glass;
but the tones of the boatman again broke in,
as hearty as ever—“ Wal, wal; not sleepy,
hey? No, I suppose not. Hain’t been out in
the open air as much as I have. Wal, Sally,
we'll let Lucille take a little promenade on
deck while we bunk, then.”
Lucille! Lucille was not Margaret! He
had little time to hope, fear, or consider. The
baby was tucked in its cradle, the boy in the
lower berth, the motion of the needle and
thread was suspended; the unseen woman
who had plied it was rising and laying aside
her work to come outside for a few moments
while the gentleman of the house retired.
To such humble devices to preserve ‘her del-
icacy Margaret had come !—it was both sad
and ludicrous. He came very near bursting
into nervous paroxysms of Jaughter; but he
controlled himself in time, thanking his stars
that they were clouded, as he stooped behind
a barrel of garbage which had stood by his
side, and some one opened the cabin-door and
closed it again. Lucille, of course—they had
called her so,
The woman, whoever she was, began to
walk slowly back and forth along the deck.
eae
.
i
q
50
It was very dark, but she, doubtless, was, well
accustomed to this evening promenade.
Branthope; peering from behind his barrel,
could scurcely make out the ‘outline of the
figure, but he was able to decide. that it was
tall and slender—her form, her gliding, grace-
ful walk. ‘Never before in his life had he ex-
perienced such a fullness of conflicting emo-
tions, crowding his breast to suffocation, as
while crouching there, watching the silent
shape pass to and fro, all unconscious. of his
proximity. The ghost of murder which had
haunted him passed away; but in its place
remained the knowledge of the danger which
ne his own hopes. The relief of find-
ing Margaret alive was certainly great; the
dread of losing the fortune which he had
usurped was greater. A more hardened
wrong-doer might have OMEN of putting
her out of the way, even yet; Branthope was
not so bad as that, but he was mean enough
and selfish enough to keep what he had, if
‘possible, no matter what the consequences of
want or poverty to his cousin. a
Presently she stopped quite near him,
lifted her fuce to the starless heavens, and
sighed—
“What a life for me to lead!” she murmur-
ed—her voice !
With the courage of a coward, Branthope
took a sudden resolution. “ Margaret!” he
whispered, rising and laying his hand on her
arm. It must be that she recognized that soft
whisper, which once had such power to move
her, for she did not scream, although she
started, and shaking off his touch, turned up-
on him quickly. It was too dark for him. to
read the expression of scorn, if not hatred, on
her face.
“Tam alone. Don’t be afraid,” he contin-
ued, soothingly. “‘ My dear cousin, you can’t
tell how glad I am to know that you are
alive—that you—did not—escaped drown-
ing,” stammering a little over the unpleasant
subject. roe
“Leaye me, sir! don’t touch me—don’t
ek tome! Itis just like you, Branthope
axwell, to be playing the spy. What other
meanness will come next?” speaking fiercely,
‘but in repressed tones, which did not reach the
inmates of the cabin.
“Listen to me just a moment, Margaret.
I must explain ny part in that trick we play:
ed you. Indeed, I never dreamed you would
take it so seriously. I did it half out of pity
for poor Martinique—I sincerely believed the
man would be disappointed for life, if he did
not succeed in inning you. _ He was, so des-
perately in ve with you, I felt that your
ly greater than with me who had_ for you a
cous regard, but who did not love you as
ae
remind you of my ri
chances fe. being happy with him were real-
.to himself; “she is easier. man
‘thought... Evidently her great dislike
7c 6 Was, & pity there had not..man _overbears,.every , other, . consideration.
THE BETRAYED BRIDE;.OR,
been a good light on Margaret’s face that the
speaker might have had the benefit of its ex-
pression at that instant. “It is true that I ex-
pected to supplant you in Uncle Peter's favor,
and to obtain the whole of a fortune which
would amount to nothing worth having, for
either of us, being halved ; but 1 knew at the
same time, that you were becoming partner
in greater wealth—that you received ten
times what I took away. I was in debt, har-
assed, desperate ! artinique made the
proposition, and I was forced to consent, for
f owed him a great deal of money. He
swore to always be kind to you, and to sur-
round you with luxuries. I did not dream
that you would be so—so obstinate about it.
If I had realized, as I did after your rash act,
how much you loved me, dear cousin, I
would not have—’
“Never mind, Branthope. Allow me to
say that whatever my feelings may have been
for you once, they are now simply those of
dislike and contempt. You have no longer
power to wound them. I despise you more
ardently than I ever loved you. All I want
of you, now, is to know your object in in-
truding upon me. I did not think even
your insolence equal to any thing so unrea-
sonable.”
“You are harsh, Mrs. Martinique,”—he
used the term purposely, and if there had
been light he would have seen that it told, in
the sudden shrinking of her attitude. “If
you desire it to be open war, let it be open
war. That suits me as well.”
“And me much better. I can believe in
your enmity, but not in your friendship.”
“ Well, then, what steps do you propose to
take to recover the Maxwell estates, at pre-
sent in my possession ?”
“T will abandon them to you, for a consid-
eration.”
‘““ What?” he eagerly asked.
“That you take it upon yourself to see
that Mr. Martinique never becomes aware of
my existence, That you not only do not betray
the fact of my being rescued to him, but that
you take every means to prevent his discover-
ing it. That, should he ever return to New
York, you immediately give me warning,
that 1 may take care to keep out of his way.
That you take care of the hack-driyver who
revealed my hiding-place to you, seeing that
his mouth is stopped, and guarding against
his communicating with Mr. Martinique.
Upon your taking an oath to do this, I am |
ready to promise to change my name, con-
ceal my identity, and ots to unpleasantly
ts.
“The little fool,” thought the young lawyer .
. ed than I
of that .
«
WEDDED BUT NOT WON.
She does not know that she has only open-
ly to complain against us; and ayow the
fraud, to be able to protect herself. Fear has
dulled my cousin’s usually keen perceptions.
Very well—nothing, under thecircumstances,
could suit me better.” Aloud, he said, “ But
what will you do, cousin? You have no
means. hy do you. persist in refusing
wealth and protection, if not romantic hap-
piness ?”
“Leave the choice with me. I shall never
live with that man as his wife. You ought
to know that by thistime, AllI askis peace.
Do not persecute me. Let me alone. I can
earn. a living, I dare say.” '
‘ Bee uh such a life for a lady like you,
argaret.”’ F
“If I had the wealth of a Rothschild. I
could not enjoy it now. . What is life for me,
under any aspect, but endurance?”
There was a sad, almost wild dreariness
and hopelessness in her yoice, which touched
him deeply, alarmed. as he was for his own
welfare.
“When I have a home of my own, Marga-
ret, which 1 expect to have before many
months, why not share it with us? There
are few or none in the city, who will recog-
nize you, and I can better protect you from
the claims of your husband,’—this he said,
because he could not say less, but he telt re-
lieved at her peremptory answer, albeit it was
not flattering.
“You are incapable of insult, Branthope,
for you do not know when you are guilty of
it—but don’t make me too angry. Take the
Maxwell estate, name, power, and honor—I
give it to you—I am done with it. But I
warn you, if you allow that man to reach me,
something more desperate will occur than
has yet happened—and I shall have my affairs
in such shape that the story will not. fail to
reach the world. I threaten you with ex-
posure and disgrace because I know the fear
of it will alone hold you in check. Now go
are way—I will go mine. When we meet
y chance it will be as strangers. If there
‘comes an absolute necessity for your com-
municating with me, my name will be Lucille
Meriden. When that fellow comes out of
prison, silence him as you best know how.”
“But, ee ae are in want. of some
money, Mar—Lucille?” _
“No alms from you, sir, If I should be
obliged to call upon you as my banker, you
will, doubtless, honor my drafts. Any sum
mecessary
furnish. That is in the contract. And now,
take the oath.” .
She sumed over.the.conditions of bis-ze-
maining in on of the estate, and he
swore te fuldil them. vil bas
“The best way to silence Gus Nichols will Y
to quiet that hack-driver you must.
61
be to convince him that he was mistaken in
the lady,’ continued Branthope, as Lucille
turned to goin. “At all events, I don’t be
lieve he can obtain Martinique’s address. On
the principle that a bird.in the hand is worth
two in the bush, he will be satisfied with
plucking me. I shall be sharp enough to”
manage him. But, Lweille, 1 would advise
you to change your residence before he) is
loose again. He will prowl about. here, of
course. Why not go to some other gity ?”
“Perhaps I shall. One thing is certain—
the Sally Ann will not be here in April. As
soon as the ice breaks up she is off.”
) ney I come to see you again ?”
“ 0.”
“ Well—good-night.”
SS fomtie cea. ain”
-Branthope felt very small and mean as he
turned away from the motionless figure, so
slender, yet so full of power, whieh. even
ve. the dim night, made its majesty
elt.”
“Deuced fine girl! got the Branthope
pride ! expect I ought to have married her,”
he soliloquized, as, after getting clear of the
boat, and the lumber-yard, he walked rapidly
away.
And now the reader may return to the first
chapters of our story.
CHAPTER XIII.
CLOSING IN.
THE day after New Years, Mr. Maxwell
went down town to his office, for a few hours.
He had no intention of working very hard,
but there were some papers he wished to ex-
amine—and he thought, also, when he was in
that part of the city, he would draw the thou-
sand dollars which Lucille had demanded of
him, and keep it in his pocket-book ready for
her, when she might call or send for it, as she
had not directed him where or how to inclose
it to her:
“ Really, the young lady is growing extraya-
ant. Why didn’t she ask me for Branthope
illa at once, and all the money I had in
bank,” he thought, discontentedly, as, after
drawing out the sum in hundred-dollar bills,
he placed it in his wallet. It was the first time
the true owner of his fortune had made a de-
mand upon him; and he, from use aud habit,
had so long considered it his own,that Lucille’s
exaction appeared to him like a robbery.
Nevertheless, he had no idea of denying her
—in fact, he did not feel easy or happy, this
fresh winter day, although every acquaint-
ance, meeting him, would have envied him,
as happiest and handsomest man in New
or. ,
52
“Why the deuce can’t a fellow have his
gold without the alloy?” he muttered, as he
sat himself down in his office easy-chair, toast-
— toes at a aitahcy bea €.
en not he, indeed? Mr. Maxwell
appeared in every way prosperous—young,
good-looking, gay-tempered, chk with arich-
er father-in-law, and a beautiful wife—and yet
the ‘alloy in his gold was that never quite
easy fear that some day the one mean, wicked
action of his life, would be exposed, and he
upheld to the scandal of the public and the
--reproaches of his confiding little Violet. It
made his blood run cold only to think of it.
“Why can’t a fellow get along without
these drawbacks ?” he repeated still more dis-
contentedly, jerking his toes back from the
fire, which was growing too hot for them.
At that moment there was a hesitating
knock at the door—one of those apologetic
knocks which places the knocker at once at
the mercy of the knockee—that is, it says, “I
hope I don’t intrude,’ so meekly that the
tener is sure to consider that he does.
- “Come in,” cried the lawyer, without rising
his office-boy had gone for the afternoon
mail—and he was not disposed to make a ser-
vant of himself.
A little, modest, dry man, in sailor-rig, with
twinkling eyes that looked brightly around
him, opened the door, .and sidled in.
Where had Mr. Maxwell seen that counte-
nance? He could not recall when or where,
yet he thought he had met the man.
“Mr. Maxwell?” asked the intruder. The
other bowed assent,
“JT wasn't to dump my cargo till I was
dead sure to who I consigned it,” said the lit-
tle man.
“Tam J. B. Maxwell, of this firm,” said
Branthope, a vague reminiscence of the Sall
Ann stealing over him, like a breath of salt
air blown inland, and making him flush to the
forehead, he knew not why.
“Then here’s the note, and ’'m to wait for
an answer.”
He ineld out a sealed envelope, which the
lawyer had only to glance at in order to re-
cognize the writing of the address. The note
it contained was brief and to the point:
“* Send the sum for which I asked you, a bearer.
UOILLE.”
“What’s up now?” thought Branthope ;
“its a a good deal by such a messenger.
If it’s lost, I trust she will hold herself respon-
sible, and not me.”
He did not dare refuse the pear. re-
quest, and folding the ten bills carefully in an
envelope, he sealed it, and gave it to the man.
tf zon you know what this envelope con-
es Money.” i *
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
“Well, be careful of it. There is too much
there to lose.”
_ “A thousand dollars.”
“Yes,” said Maxwell, looking at him sus-
piciously. “I suppose Miss Lucille knows
what she’s about.’
“ Ay, ay, sir, She’s reason to think me as
honest as some who wear better clothes.”
Branthope reddened.
“T don’t care what becomes of the money,
after it leaves my hand,” he said, angrily ;
“ you can lose it, if you like.”
“T shan’t like,” and tucking the envelope
safely in the inside pocket of his faded blue
jacket, the man bowed, and went out, with as
beaming a smile as if he had been treated
with the utmost courtesy; little the boatman
cared how the ney lawyer received or
dismissed him, so that the young lady’s mes-
sage met the reception she desired.
he man had been gone perhaps half an
hour ; the boy had brought in his mail; Bran-
thope had read his half-dozen letters, and
was looking over a magazine, whose leaves
he was leisurely cutting, being again entirely
alone, having sent the boy with a message to
Wall street, when there was another knock—-
not deprecatory this time, but imperative.
Not waiting for an answer, the door imme-
diately opened wide, and Maxwell sprung to
his feet in astonishment, as Senor Martinique
stood before him.
“ Why, senor, is it possible? how do you
do?” he exclaimed in some embarrassment,
but affecting a cordial air as he went forward
with extended hand.
“ T will not touch your hand until you have
explained yourself, sir,” said the visitor, clos-
ing the door behind him, and turning the key.
ff ‘Tell me, where is my wife?”
“She is at home in the same block with
ours, I believe,” said Branthope, forgetful of
his oath to Margaret, in the excitement ot the
moment, and almost blanching before the
fierce air of the intruder.
“She is not there, and you know where:she
is! Do not attempt to deceive me. I will
bear nothing from you, nothing.”
“ If she is not there, I donot know anything
of her whereabouts.”
“You assisted her to evade me, knowing
that I was about to claim my rights as her
husband.”
“You are mistaken, Senor Martinique. I
never dreamed of your being within a thou-
sand miles.”
“ And doubtless hoped that I never would
come any nearer,” sneered the senor, his black
eyes emitting very unpleasant lightning, as he
began to walk up and down the floor. “ You
have known, for nearly a year, that the woman
I married, and whom I supposed dead, was
alive, and living in concealment to oid me,
#
WEDDED BUT NOT WON.
yet yor have taken no see to inform. me of
the fact. This is neither the spirit nor the let-
ter of the contract between us. I advanced
you large sums of money, Mr, Maxwell, for
which Pi still hold your Lo. U. They were
to be canceled by your doing every thing in
your power to make your cousin my wife.”
Truly, the way of the transgressor is hard ;
there was more alloy than he had looked for
in Branthope’s gold. The tone of his visitor
was threatening; he could not doubt but
that the papers the other held would be used
against him.
“You ought to know that Iam not a gentle-
man to be trifled with,” continued Martinique,
in a voice not raised in the least from its usual
low cadence, yet there was a click in it like
the click of a revolver, and his smile, as
he turned upon his whilom friend, was the
smile of a tiger. “When I entered into a
compact with you, I expected you to fulfill it
to the letter.”
“*T tried to do so.”
“You did not—begging your pardon; else
when you learned of your cousin’s existence,
hn would have informed me as soon as possi-
le. I shall hold you responsible.”
Branthope was in a dilemma, There was
no amount of duplicity which would avail him
any better than the truth, so he concluded to
give his true reasons.
“Well, the fact is, senor, the girl had me—
completely. You remember it was the most
important part of our bargain that I was to
be allowed to come into possession of my
uncle’s property. Well, Uncle Peter died
under the shock of Margaret’s loss, and the
will remained in her favor; but I, being next
of kin, and she being dead and buried, accord-
ing to all belief, there was nothing to prevent
the consummation of my purpose. Now,
when it turned out that my cousin was not
dead, of course Ishook in my shoes. She was
sharp enough to know that she had me in her
power, and the willful girl actually threat-
ened me with exposure, and to reduce me to
a penniless condition, just as I was about to
make proposals to my present wife. The only
condition upon which she would let me off
was that I should promise not to inform you
that she lived. I was forced to promise.
could not have done otherwise, in my place,
senor. Every thing was at stake with me. -
You must see that I would have far rather
had it otherwise. If I could have placed
her in your hands, where she belongs, even
after giving my promise the other way, I
sue have done it. You must see that it
would be inuch more agreeable to me. It’s
= pleasant to have her in this city, playing
the:
tender.
and the Lord knows what. | It worri
me, I
sincerely hope you may secure her
ou
part of flower-maker, seamstress, baby-
63
this time, and force her to enjoy her good for-
tune as the wife of a rich, as well as adorin
husband,” and aie ke attempted a la
“You knew that she had left that house?”
repeated the senor. oe
“Upon my word and honor, I did not.”
ae the sneer on the southerner’s face.
“
ell, can not you make a guess as to
where she has fled? Knowing her former
haunts as well as you did, can not you give me
some clue?”
Branthope remembered the boatman who
had brought the note from Lucille not an hour
before. For a moment he hesitated; but just
then he was more afraid of the senor than of
his cousin. ‘See here,” he said, pulling the
note from his pocket, “ your presence in the
city explains something. She must have sus-
pected it,” and he handed the missive to his
companion.
“You sent her money ?”
““ Y-yes.”
“She asked for quite a sum. I understand
it. She wishes to flee to some other country.
I'll cage my beautiful bird yet, no matter how
swiftly she flies, nor whither she wings her
way. Why, Maxwell, it’s the spirit of the
creature that fascinates me. If she had been
like the rest of her sex I should have given her
up long ago. But such will—such fire! and
then, she hates me so. Why, all my life long,
the women have been after me. It’s novel,
it’s charming, to have onerun away. Only, le
diable, 1 wish she wouldn't keep it up so Jong.
Sewing, ha! making artificial flowers! How
desperately she must hate me. Is angry at the
litle artifice I used to gain her, nosdoubt.
When she is once safely caged, I will coax her
to pardon me.” He was ber up and
down again, talking more to himself than to
Branthope, who gazed at him as much sur-
prised at the strange mixture of tenderness
and vindictiveness in his visitor’s words, and
at the strength of his continued passion for
Margaret, as he had been at the stern deter-
mination of his cousin never to yield herself
to the love of this man. In his own shallow
nature there was no quality which would sus-
tain a part in such a drama.
Suddenly Martinique came out of his rhap-
sody, and inquired how long since the note
came, who brought it, etc.
“The same person with whom she stopped
last year, doubtless,” he remarked, after ob-
taining an answer. “ Nichols told me about
them. There is the place, in all the world, to
look for her, quickly, too, before she uses her
meuns to get out of the city. She will sf
a passage-ticket for some steamer,” he .
musingly. eatle
“T don’t know about that ; she wrote tome
two or three days ago that she t t some
of going West—to St. Louis.”
oo ah,
of. her.
54
“A blind. You are easily deceived, Max-
“well. But about this confounded canal-boat.
It’s not where it was last winter ; in fact, that
boat was destroyed this summer by fire; but
that boatman must have a situation on some
other similar affair. What plain sailing we
should have had if you had sent some one to
follow him, Maxwell.”
“I did not then realize the necessity. I sup-
posed I knew my cousin’s residence.”
“‘ Ay, that fool, Nichols, spoiled every thing.
I told him to show me the house, but in his
impudence he spoke to her. Iwas across the
way in the shadow, but her sharp eyes must
have suspected my vicinity. When 1 called at
that house, at eight the next morning, and
asked for Lucille Meriden, I was told that she
had left, in a very unsatisfactory manner, be-
fore daybreak that morning, while none but
the servants were astir.. I should have known
better than to have allowed her one instant
from my sight, after the experience I have had
But I had no idea that she saw me ;
nor that she would leave that place before
eight o'clock of a winter’s morning. If it
wasn’t that I want to punish her, I'd let the
vixen go., She certainly is not worth the trou-
ble she makes me, But it’s not my nature to
give up; difficulties inspirit me, and—and
there’s not. another woman in the world like
my wife Margaret.” .
Maxwell silently wished that Senor Martin-
ique, were more easily dispirited; but when
the other asked him to don his. overcoat, and
agoompany. him on an excursion along West
street, ad nothing to do but comply, al-
tho he knew Violet was already opening
her blue eyes in wonder at his tardiness.
There was no Sally Ann lying with nose to
the dock that winter ; the canal-boat which had
- been the pride of Ezekiel’s heart was no more
and when she was lost, the crowded little
cabin contained the small household store of
the family,—including a baby’s cradle, who
was now too big for it, and all the small store
of romantical novels belonging to Mrs. Sally.
Zeke had, found work on another boat, but
Mrs. Griggs’ delightful life—pleasant to her,
as to the tourist and poet are the gliding gon-
dolas of Venice—had to be exchanged for one
less genial. ;
_The family had “ rooms” now, on the third
floor of ashabby tenement, with whisky-shops
below them, and all sorts of rough people and
wicked children in the halls. ’Zeke and his
wife were Yankees, who did not take kindly to
the tenement-house system ; still they made
_ the best of
' kept themselves as quiet as
le, and put up some home-made bed-
ateads)in.the form of berths, to make believe
stil floated in the bosom of the Sally
The first thing they had done after getting
like any t
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
settled in their winter-quarters was to drop a
a little note in the post directed to Lucille
eriden, giving her their address, and invit-
ing her to come and see them, ‘‘ whenever and
howsomever it suited.” Mrs.’Zeke was proba-
bly the composer of the epistle, as it referred
touchingly to the romantical chapters of their
last season’s experience, and vowed that
they should ever Welcome with open arms one
who had honored the humble cabin of the
Sally Ann by making it the theater of her
first attempts in the embroidery line, as well
as the resource to which she fled, when the
world was dark, and the heavens clouded, and
her own clothes dripping wet from. what
might have been sooijcide had a providential
power not purvented.
Lucille’s eye had moistened as well as her
lips smiled over this letter ; she was deeply at-
tached to her lowly friends, and the message
came in one of those despondent hours when
all things wore their gloomiest aspect—when
work was scarce, “‘ the crisis” at its hight, the
winter cold, and many helpless work-women
were being dismissed every day. She felt it
a comfort to have even these people to occa-
sionally visit, but she never took Tina with
her, for obvious reasons, on these occasions,
as she knew not when or at what hour she
might be compelled to flee to them with ut-
most secrecy,
That hour had come, swiftly, unexpectedly
—though always looked for, by night and
day.
Barty one morning, before ’Zekiel had kin-
died the fire in the stove, and while his. wife
was pulling on her stockings, there was a
knock at their door, and when ’Zeke opened
it, expecting to see a little girl pegging “ for
a match to light mither’s fire,” there stood
Lucille, pale, trembling, with a wild look as
pss sleeplessness and fear upon her beautiful
ace.
“T have come back,” she said, with a sad
smile—‘ the dogs are after the hare. Oh, let
me in! and lock the door !”
The next moment she was crying upon Mrs.
Griggs’ broad bosom.
“J am not positive. but I believe Mr. Mar-
tinique has returned,” she said.
“Zeke,” said the good woman, stoutly,
“what d’you do with that double-barrel gun
you had last fall?” _
‘“‘Lent it to the pawnbroker the time you
got your new dress, mother. But I'll go after
it, a8 soon’s his shop’s open.”
“ Don't eon cry, m ; Zeke can shoot
ing, an’ he’s bound to purtect you
wench ii not help laughin id
ucille could not 4 g, ROW; an
the laugh and the cry did her overwrought
feelings much baby ;
We are afraid Mrs, Griggs, in her love of
o¥
WEDDED, BUT NOT WON.
«
the romantical enjo ed the situation full as
much as she piti iss Lucille. If she did,
she would not acknow! it even to her-
self; these were good friends to the otherwise
friendless girl ; and the three, as they gathered
about the breakfast, which was soon prepared,
discussed the manner in which Lucille could
most safely and swiftly leave the country, since
it was her determination to take this step in
the hope of avoiding future persecution.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE MYSTERIOUS PASSENGER.
THERE was a good deal of pleasant excite-
ment among the first-cabin passengers of one
of the regular mail steamers plying between
New York and Liverpool, when four or five
days out on her passage to England, in the
month of January, 1858. There were more
of these, too, than might have been expected
at that season of the year, which was partly
accounted for in the fact of there being a
theatrical company on board. Some other
circumstances combined to make the steamer
nearly as crowded as during her summer trips,
The occasion of the pleasant excitement was
the proposal of the troupe above mentioned
to get up a play, for one or two evenings, for
the benefit of a poor gentleman in the second
cabin who was dying of consumption, watched
atiently by his faded and care-worn wife.
hey had taken this sea-voyage by advice
of his physician ; but their poverty was so ap-
parent, and it seemed so probable that the
man would die, leaving his wife a widow in
a foreign land, that some kindly-feeling in-
dividual proposed to the star actor to ar-
range a performance, charge a good round
price, and bestow the proceeds on the in-
valid. The proposition met with favor on
all sides. The passengers were on the qui
vive for something new, and the actors were
well disposed.
We will call the star performer Kemble
Kellogg. His real name has become historical,
but this answers our purpose here. He was
already known on both continents, although
then not twenty-seven years of age. Added
to pre-eminent intellectual gifts he had that
of great personal beauty. His features were
like those of some marble god, his complex-
ion pale, yet glowing, seldom flushing, and
then hightening the effect of the moment be-
yond describing—eyes that were really, when
seen in sunlight, very dark blue, but which
were generally believed to be black—beautiful
ining & ea; that is,¢ es Which seemed to give
forth light from within, not reflect it. He was,
of course, the lion of the boat ; but he bore him-
self more modestly than is common with his
55
‘ 4
profession, spending the most. of his. time
quietly reading, and when solicited to do. the
good deed, yielding from motives. of pure
benevolence. It really was a condescension.
in him, who never played except to crowded”
houses, and at extravagant prices; but hay-
ing consented, he entered into it as heartily
~ if he had all New York or London to flatter
im.
On the after-dinner hour, when the affair
had been decided upon, there arose a discus-
sion as to ways and means. The manager
was willing to get out some of his properties
if his baggage could be reached; all was
animation and gay excitement, which is en-
joyed to perfection only on a sea-voyage when
something occurs to vary the monotony.
Mr. Kellogg was allowed the choice of a
play ; being the principal actor, he must. be
allowed to choose his vole. Hamlet, Othello,
The Lady of Lyons, Romeo and Juliet, were
all discussed.
“If I had a Juliet, I would play Romeo,”
said the young actor, at last, when the discus- .
sion had reached its hight..
The leading lady pouted and put.on a co-
quettish air; but as she was over forty, and a
miserable Juliet, as he had occasion to know,
he paid no attention to her injured feelings.
“ Some enthusiastic amateur might offer her
services in so good a cause,” he continued,
smilingly, and with that, he walked straight
up to a young lady who sat quietly listening,
bowed, and said :
“I do not even know your name, mademoi-
selle, and as you have no friends with you,
I can not get an introdnction, except from the
captain ; but, waiving ceremony, I know, from
the very expression of your face at. this mo-
ment, that you are the lady we want. Will
you take the part of Juliet ?”
“T have never taken a part, even in private
theatricals,” answered the lady; “but if I
thought I could sustain the character allotted
to me, nothing would give me more pleasure.”
She spoke very low, but eagerly, and her
cheeks, which had been pale, became rose-
red,
“Oh, thank you, sincerely... You will have
to study hard, mademoiselle, if we take but
two days to get up the play.”
“ Call me Miss Ovington, if you please,”—
(poor Margaret! still another change. .of
name!) . “I know every word of the: play,
Mr. Kellogg.” . ePoaten
“ Ts it possible !” regarding her with mingled
admiration and astonishment, ‘‘ yet you have,
never taken the part? You must be a good
student of our Shakspeare. But I knew you
were an enthusiast, the moment I 1 at
you—days ago.” , in golub gaivtoa
Their eyes met in a glance which lingered,
even while it, should not, since. so many eyes,’
ee ee
7
55
were upon them; but in that instant they be-
came friends, far better acquainted with one
another than many whose acquaintance ex-
tends over months.
He had noticed the beautiful, melancholy,
and soli girl, from the hour of their depar-
ture from the docks. Indeed, his curiosity had
been excited by her in that hour. No sooner
was the ship under full headway than she had
come on deck, and leaning on the railing, as he
supposed, to shed a few tears at the sight of
the retreating shore, had said, instead, in a low
voice, to herself: ‘“‘ Thank God! oh, thank
God !” and when he had, by stratagem, caught
a glimpse of her face, he had seen it illumined
by a rapture of joy.
It was not the strangeness of this, nor the
fact of her being unattended, nor that that first
feeling of safety settled down into a quiet that
was like deep sadness, which had so greatly
attracted him toward her. It was partly these,
and partly that he suspected some romance in
her case, and, more than all, her youth and
beauty, and a certain expression of controlled
excitement and energy, which gave character
to her faultless face, which fascinated him.
Many a time when he appeared absorded in
his book, he had been locking over the top of
it at the lonely girl-passenger. She had been
equally fascinated by him. Evidently modest
and retiring to the last degree, still his eyes
had often met her earnest gaze. He, who had
for years been an object of attention, where-
ever he moved, was not surprised at this,
though he was certain there was something
in her gaze beyond mere curiosity.
He could not make it out—it was a yearn-
ing, questioning, eager look, but turned from
him so suddenly when his own met it, that he
had not time to fathom it.
It did seem to Margaret, as if fate had guided
her steps into the very path she sought, when
she heard, shortly after the ship had passed
the Narrows, that there was a theatrical com-
pany on board. The strange joy with which
she had listened to the splashing of the mighty
wheel and the puffing of the laboring engine,
every stroke of which sent her further trom
what she feared and hated, calming down, at
length, into a sense of her perilous and lonely
position, going, as she was, without friends or
protectors, toa strange city, to adopt a dubious
calling, had almost crushed her with a weight
of apprehension. But she had suffered too
much not to have something of the strength
which comes of endurance. And she had far
too much at stake to allow of her falterin
now. No, she would vere, and woul
win success by force of will. She would
‘! In the ab-
be f , yes, and happy
sor’ duties and delights of the profession
she had chosen, she would find a
iron from
Since sbe was bound by an
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
love, she would at least be famous. Yot,
what if she really had no talent for the stage?
—this was a dreary question, which always
left her despondent.
Every day, since the voyage began, she had
resolved upon making advances to the ladies of
the company, ee to them that she was
going abroad to study for the stage, and ask-
ing their advice and direction, perhaps offer-
ing to pay for instruction and protection. She
knew that the leading lady was the wife of
the manager, and that, probably, she would be
the very person, to consult;. but timidity, as
well as the fear of some crushing disappoint-
ment, had held her back, until the scheme of
a play on ship-board was proposed, and Mr.
Kellogg offered her a leading part.
Was there not fate in it?
It would be strange if Margaret did not
think so.
The manager’s wife was not bad-hearted,
though a little envious at first; as soon as she
had conquered this ugly fveling, she gave
Margaret afl the assistance in her power,
and that, in a sisterly way. Juliet’s costumes
were brought forth from her own trunks, and
as much Instruction in the technicalities of
the stage crowded into the next twenty-four
hours as could be comfortably accomplished.
Never had teacher before so eager and quick
a pupil.
Margaret had discreetly resolved to say no-
thing of her plans for going on the stage, un-
til she saw how she succeeded in this first
attempt, so providentially thrown in her way.
There was much laughter and enjoyment
while arranging the details of the perfor-
mance. It would seem as if they had attempt-
ed too much, when the balcony scene was con-
sidered with regard to the hight of the cabin
ceiling, but as no one expected the accompani-
ments to be perfect, and as the chief desire of
the expected audience was to hear the cele-
brated Kemble Kellogg,all minor matters were
charitably ignored.
It was but a play, truly, to all the others en-
gagea—to all on board the ship, except the
poor couple for whose benefit it was, and for
Margaret. To her it was life, hope, all, every
thing! Kellogg watched her secretly with won-
der, and with a growing belief in her powers ;
but even he little suspected the fever of ex-
citement which beat in her veins, so that she
scarcely ate or slept.
The eventful evening arrived.
* You'll do nicely, dear, for an amatchure,”
said the ae lady, condescendingly, as
she helped to.attire the trembling girl, with a
twist of the word “amateur” peculiar to the
profession. Margaret expected todo more
than “ nicely,” but she was not certain of it.
Atall events, oe will reconcile the
audience to all deficiencies,” thought Kellogg,
|
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 37
Such of the second-class passengers as were
willing to purchase tickets were invited to at-
tend; 80 that, considering the space in the
cabin reserved for the stage, there was a fear-
ful state of suffocation, and the crowd over-
flowed the doors, and paid for the privilege
of looking in at the windows, and all were
merry, and in the best of humors with them-
selves, and the players. Indeed, it seemed as
if they enjoyed the discomforts and absurdi-
ties of the occasion far more than they would
the most elegant surroundings. The weather
was calm as summer, mild and pleasant; all
things propitious.
There was a passenger on board the ship
who had not yet made his appearance in the
cabin. But few were aware of such a person
being on board—no one but the officers of
the ship and the servants who attended upon
him. The gentleman appeared to remain ill,
despite the fair weather, and the fact that
even the worst cases of sea-sickness had con-
valesced, by this, the eighth day out. Occa-
sionally he had straggled out‘on deck, wrapped
to the eyes; but even this was generally in
the evening, when he would sometimes lean
by a window of the cabin, looking in’ on his
fellow-voyagers, to none of whom he had yet
spoken. “His eyes, on such occasions, never
failed to rest longest on the pale, fair face of
the young lady passenger. The last two
nights he staid longer than usual, watching
her as she read from the same book as young
Kellogg, or looked into his eyes, while at-
tending to the minute instructions he gave
her. On the evening of the performance, he
declined a seat in the cabin, which the cap-
tain kindly on upon him, believing him
to be an invalid, saying that the close air
would be sure to make him ill, but he bought
a dozen tickets for the privilege of a window
near the stage. Thrvfagh that window, for
the next two hours, Wis keen eyes ‘kept con-
stant watch on what transpired.
As the play progressed, the enthusiasm of
the audience kindled-beyond all expectation.
They knew that they should like Romeo—he
was great, the world acknowledged it, and in
beholding his power they only enjoyed what
they had anticipated. But this young Juliet
—this lovely, embling, impassioned child of
nature and of love, who seemed so like the
very Juliet of the Capulets, that even Romeo
himsélf forgot the illusion, and pereads if he,
in truth, were Romeo, and she his love—she
took them by surprise, she won them, charm-
ed them, deluded them aguin and again, so
that when some change of scene broke the:
spell, they drew deep breaths, and began such
a roar of upplause'that it was as if. astorm had
arisen. Ay, Juliet, for you are those sweet
rounds of encouragement! As she realized it,
her own enthusissm ; she no more
thought of fear or timidity—she became the
heroine’so really, that, at times, the audience
and the world were as if they were sw
away—there was nothing existing outside
herself and Romeo, and the actors who played
their little parts about them. No grand
theater in the world ever saw that tragedy
better acted than it was on that night, in the
cabin of that ship.
Whien all was over, Margaret felt as if she
had awakened out of a dream of some far
Paradise. All about her appeared unfamiliar.
She was faint and worn out, now that the
great thought which had upheld her no
longer supported her. She had been before
the curtain three times, bowing before a tem-
pest of applause. Now the captain was call-
ing, in his deep sea-tones, for the trumpery to
be cleared away, that he might finish the
grand success of thenight with asupper. In
the midst of the confusion, Mr. Kellogg came
to her and took her cold hands a moment in
his own.
“T must add my meed of praise to the
others,” he said; “the whole world ought to
have witnessed your acting, insteud of this
handful of people, Miss Ovington. And you
call yourself an amateur. You were born for
the stage !” :
“Do you think so? do you truly say so ?”
she asked, tears beginning to trickle down her
face. “Oh, I’m so glad! I must tell you,
now, Mr. Kellogg, before my courage forsakes
me, that I this was the case. Indeed, 1
am going to London for the sole purpose of
studying for the stage.”
“Is this possible? ‘Then let me assuré you
of certain success. This night has determined
it. Iam a judge, you will permit me to say.
You have genius, Miss Ovington,and that,with
your energy and your beauty includes all. I
must speak with you further about this.”
“Oh, thunk you. I consider myself very
fortunate in having taken passage with you -
and Mrs. Matthews. It has not only given
me this opportunity of trying my powers, but
of asking advice ali@ gaining needed informa-
tion: I feel that Iimust secure Mrs. Matthews
for a friend.”
“Do try to secure me, too,” he said, gayly,
with one of his brightest smiles; then, after
a moment’s silence, he whispered :
“I have no right to say it, Miss Ovington,
knowing as little about you as I do, but you
will always be Juliet to me, after this night—
always. I can not forget it—it was not act-
ing on my part. And I can not separate oe ,
now, from the character, Juliet-—my Ju iet |
Don’t think this the extravagance of an actor
accustomed to light avowals. I — as Ro-
ul
meo, and yet as myself. Whi,
jet, —
word that I said to you there on the
cony—”
58
“Hush! Iam sure you forget. yourself,
and what is due to me,” she whispered, fright-
ened at his earnestness, and fighting down
the rising agitation of her own heart. ‘Do
not speak to me again to-night, Mr. Kellogg.
To-morrow I will tell you something of my
history.. If we are to, become friends, you
ought to know. it at once,” with a gad smile.
“Friends! I shall not be satisfied—”
She put her finger on her lips and turned
away. . Mrs. Matthews was re y to take her
under her sisterly wing.
During the feasting and gayety, which
was kept up until, twelve o'clock, argaret
wore her dress as Juliet, but there was a
bright rose on either cheek which showed she
had risen from the tomb of the Capulets with
new life in her veins.
CHAPTER XV.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
Tue crisis of our life always comes upon
us suddenly. If we expected it, prepared for
it, perhaps it would not come. The Marga-
ret who lay, late the, next morning, in her
berth, looking out upon the gliding cold blue
waves which ran on past the little round
window of her state-room, was not the Mar-
garet of yesterday. A great change had
come over the whole world, as far as her
part in it was concerned. The success of the
previous evening, the more than encouraging
words of the actors, especially Mr. Kellogg’s,
had given her the assurance that. she had
rightly interpreted her own gills when she
made up her mind to go on the stage. Not
only did this fill her with delight, but she no
longer felt friendless and helpless. Instead
of having to seek what she wanted, a stranger
in a vast city, at great risk of being imposed
upon, overcharged, and discouraged, she
would enter London along with powerful
triends, who would not only give her the as-
sistance of their advice, but would see that.
she was placed in the way which would lead
most quickly to the wished-for goal. As she
lay there, resting after the excitement of the
previous days, it was. difficult to believe, too
suddenly, in this prosperity.
Yet it.-was not even of this she thought
most. Romeo’s last words to his Juliet ; how
could she recall those without burning cheeks
and a high-beating heart? Rash, hasty words,
which, were, by this time, perhaps, repented
of... But..he_had felt. them when. he said
them! she ,was certain of.that.. What did
her,own heart say in reply? As. well try to
yze each separate rose of a June, month
of roses as,to analyze the feelings which made
_yp the sweetness, warmth, perfume, enchant-
THE. BETRAYED. BRIDE; OR,
ment, which bloomed into sudden summer in
her breast. In vain.she. clouded over the
buds of a new passion, with the memory that
it was—that it must. be, all. in vain. hen
the summer sun shines, the flowers will open ;
beneath the warmth of Romeo’s eyes, all the
sweetness of her nature unclosed into vivid
life. We have said that, long before, her girl
ish love for Branthope had changed into con-
tempt—sometimes, when she thought how
wretched he had made her, into hate. Now,
as she reviewed her cousin’s character, con-
trasting it with that of Mr. Kellogg, it show-
ed so shallow, so uncultivated, as to arouse
her wonder how she could ever, even in the
freshest days of inexperienced girlhood, have
admired and looked up to him. She need
not have wondered at that—neither that she
had outgrown him.. He was the only gentle-
man with whom she. had ever associated, ex-
cepting queer, dear old Uncle Peter; he was
handsome, gay, and gallant, and it would
have been strange if she had not admired and
adored him. Now her own nature had deep-
ened and strengthened with trials and know-
ledge of the world, she. knew something of
her own intellectual powers, of what she was
and would like to be, and a man like Bran-
thope could have been no more to her a com-
panion, than a wax doll is to the little beauty
in her teens, who casts it by.
But this actor—a man of dreams and fan-
cies, yet a man of the world—a poet, yet a
man with a purpose—refined,. delicate, yet
“all things to all men”-—wise, yet at times
child-like—her intellectual mate—a man hon-
ored by men—why, Ae was the only man on
the face of the earth who was all fancy or
soul could picture!. To love him—to be
loved by him! ah, why did her miserable
destiny so blight. her life in the beginning.
“Was it not Fate, whgse name is also Sor-
row,” who had brougliw them together only
to show one what life might be? Hot tears
welled to her eyes; and yet, as we have said,
a sudden sweetness bloomed and would not
be repressed.
Before she left her state-room she had re-
solved to tell Mr, Kellogg every particular of
her past life, that there might be no misunder-
standing about their relations. If her story
made him her friend, that was much—a great
gain to her—he and she would both under-
stand there could never be any thing /more
than friendship. This resolye gave her a dig-
nity, which almost awed the glowing, auda-
cious delight. in the actor’s eyes, as they met
hers over the breakfast-table.. He was accus-
tomed. to success in all his undertakings ; flat-
tered always, he fully expected to be as happy
and prosperous:in his love as all else. Meet-.
ing throngs. of womensin every class of so~’
ciety, who praised and petted him, he had
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 59
been astonished at himself for allowing his
heart and fancy to be taken captive by this
quiet, unknown girl.
“‘ Never mind,” he had mused, on his _
“ after what we saw of her powers last night.
I shall have reason to be proud of her. She
will be as tin her way as Iam in mine.
She is a lady, and well educated, and that she
is innocence itself, I could swear. She has
romised me 2 history of her life. Very well.
P will be discretion itself until after I have
heard it.”
The tenor of his musings ran thus; but
then these musings were overrun by a
thousand others, not to. be put in words—a
jungle of tropical richness, full of birds that
would sing and flowers that would burst into
beauty, until he had gone to breakfast with
his thoughts and feelings in a perfect chaos,
over which happiness sung triumphant, and
those elegant eyes had flashed their joy into
the serious ones of Juliet.
After breakfast they walked together on
the hurricane-deck for a long time; other
couples were promenading also, fur the day
was delightfully calm and warm for the sea-
son; Margaret, realizing that, as an unprotect-
ed woman, she ought to be doubly careful as
to her conduct, would not have made herself
conspicuous by walking alone with him.
Surrounded by a dozen others, she still found
opportunity to give him the little story she
had promised; he listening to it eagerly,
breathing to himself certain stage impreca-
tions, when she came tothe marriage. After
that he remained absolutely silent to the end,
giving no token of approval or disapproval,
as she went on, in faltering tones, with the
history of her sad and desperate struggle to
avoid the man who had a Jegal right to her as
his wife.
When she came to the end, both paused in
their slow walk; she, looking up hastily into
his face, feeling as if the ocean wind had sud-
denly grown chilly, and the sun set at noon;
for his silence, and the fixedness of his fea-
tures, as she read them in that hasty glance,
condemned her.
“So this execrable cousin of yours is your
true Romeo?’ was the first remark with
which he favored her. ;
“ Was—not is. That is, I, in my seclusion
and inexperience, being thrown always in his
society, fancied that I loved him. But he,
fortunately, in one sense, put his foot upon
the fancy—crushed thespring-blossom. I de-
test him far more heartily than I ever loved
him. Were I now compelled: to choose be-
tween him and the man to whom he betrayed
me, I scarcely know which would be most in-
tolerable. \ He is) married to a loving wife
whom he does not deserve; and is flourishing
upon my property.”
Her companion’s brow clouded; he laugh-
ed a little, as he said:
‘“My poor child, you have been making a
little goose of yourself all this time. If, ie.
stead of this desperate hiding and secrecy,
you had at once taken the matter into court,
you would have been free long ago, your es-
tates returned to you, and you, wealthy and
happy, besieged in your Anglo-American villa
by armies of suitors, warring for your hand
and fortune.”
“Ts it true the law would have annulled the
marriage ?””
“Without doubt. You would not have
had the least trouble. I am astonished that
no one has so advised you.”
“* Alas ! I never consulted any one but poor,
ignorant ’Zekiel Griggs. I was so afraid of
being kidnapped that I never, for a moment,
drew a free breath. Ah, what a life I have
led these weary months!” drawing a breath,
as if resolved, now, at length, to inspire free-
dom with the sea-breeze.
He looked into her face with gentle compas-
sion, mingled with that sort of scorn which
men feel for the ignorance and helplessness of
women; she had suffered, he did not doubt
that, when, at any time, she could so easily
ro righteously have shaken off her bur-
en. ;
“ There is but one thing to do now,” he ad-
ded, presently.
“ What is that ?”
“Return to New York by the next steamer,
testify to the fraud practiced upon you at the
hour of the marriage, and obtain the annul-
ment of the unholy contract.”
“Are you certain that I should have no dif-
ficulty ?
“None at all. Any judge in the land will
decide in your favor at once. Claim your es-
states from that rascally cousin.”
“I shall be so sorry for his innocent wife,”
said Margaret, Send! beyinisitig to roll down
her face, so that she had to turn from the
other promenaders to conceal them.
“Js that all that makes you cry ?”
“No, not all: Iwas beginning to feel so
safe—and happy. 1 was congratulating my-
self upon having made a friend like Mrs.
Matthews, who would aid. me at: the’ begin-
ning of the new career I have chosen. My
old terror comes back when I only think of
returning to New York. I don’t eare for the
fortune—indeed, I would rather pene §
should have it. Don’t ‘you think'T shall
able to make my living, by the time my few
hundreds of dollars are exhausted ?—then, I
need not io back to America, and Bran-
wets wife will never know he has deceived
eros Isle yuE 4 é;
““A playful and tender smile met her ‘she
looked up,
60
“ Are you quite certain that you shall never
wish to marry?”
“IL had not thought.so far as that,” she re-
plied, blushing.
“ Just like a. woman, again.”
“But there will be time, if the necessity
should ever arise—”
“No—the best time is now. | Besides, I
should think you would joyfully do or suffer
any temporary thing to procure a final release
from this haunting possibility which has so
troubled you.”
“Oh, 1 would! I would walk round the
earth, barefoot. But, my hopes have been so
raised, since last night, that—it seems—very
hard to abandon the prospect—of such as-
sistance.”
Still he smiled, more and more brightly.
He appeared so perfectly unconcerned, while
she felt so disappointed and miserable; she
tried to conquer the agitation which increased
under his observation, She knew that she
ought to be glad at this unlooked-for prospect
of release—a release which would not only
relieye her of a horrible dread, but would be
greatly to her advantage in her future career,
as leaving her free to go wherever the de-
mands of the profession called her, without
the expectation of being at any moment con-
fronted by one who had power to tear her
away. She was glad and thankful to Mr.
Kellogg that he had pointed out the way, yet
her present disappointment was keen. ith
him, she had felt bold, and able to meet any
fate—left again alone, she knew what tremors
of dread and despondency would beset her.
“ You do not abandon it, dear child. This
trip, which I propose, will scarcely consnme
six weeks of your time, and then you will
have returned to London, a free woman, with
means to command respect and attention, and
with all your friends eagerly waiting to take
you by the hand. We-shall not lose sight of
you; we shall write and keep you informed
of our doings and whereabouts; and when
you come, we will give you a welcome which
shall, on a small scale, represent that which
awaits you from London and the world.
Why, my dear Juliet, I am impatient for the
time to arrive when we shall appear together.
Imagine the sensation! fancy the reports in
the Rea papers! Do you still weep, Ju-
liet? Well, then I shall say more than I in-
tended to-day. . I had determined to be cool
and cautious, and what the world calls‘ pra-
dent.’ But who can think of prudence in
connection with you, Juliet? I shall always
call.you Juliet, I must tell you that I shall,
in t efionns interval, always be living over
our last. night’s experience. I shall never
play Romeo n with any other lady, no
matter how loudly the people call for it, , That
play is heneeforth sacred to you and me.
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
There is not a word in it too impassioned to
express ne—it is not half what 1 would say,
if there were more or better words to say it
in! What is it, after all, but what may be
resolved in the little sentence—I love you?
I do love you, Margaret or Juliet, and when
you come back to me from America, with
that little document attesting your release, [
mean to marry you off-hand—thatis, if I read
your eyes aright last night.”
“T don’t know what my eyessaid, Mr. Kel-
logg,” spoke Margaret, looking up firmly,‘ but
this | know—we must not ‘even whisper of
such wanes while I am bound to another.
Wait until I am free—then—oh—”
“ What, my Juliet ?”
The sudden, light and splendor over her
countenance answered him.
“ Not.a word more now,” she said. “ But
this I will tell you—how much it will strength-
en me for the task before me, to know that,
when it is over, some one waits to—”
“ Be blessed beyond all men.”
“ And now, Mr. Kellogg, how much of this
had | better confide to i Matthews ?”
“ Leave that to me, if you will. I will
speak with her this day, I will tell her, plain-
ly, that you and I are engaged.”
‘No, Mr. Kellogg... Lam in earnest in what
Isaid. We must wait until I am no longer
another man’s wife in name.”
“Very well.. But I shall begin to think
you Catharine the Shrew instead of my loving
Juliet. LI-will tell her, then, that you are to
join our_ profession, but that important busi-
ness calls you back to New York fora few
weeks; that she must be very kind to you,
for my sake, as L have taken an immense fan-
cy to you, and intend to patronize you to my
heart’s content when you come among us.”
Margaret smiled happily; troubled as she
was by the venture yet before her, ere her feet
could plant themselves on the golden shores
of the future which lay in sight, she felt
strong and brave in the consciousness that
some one,loved her and stood ready to defend
her in case of danger. The dreadful loneli-
ness Of her life, since Uncle Peter’s death,
loomed up more gloomy than ever in the
light of this new society; she was like an-
other creature, now that she had friends and
something to hope for, apart from that sweet-
est promise of all, which, of itself, would
have been enough to fill life with bliss.
“ Let.us call te Matthews now, and be-
gin our confidence,” she said, more prudent
than he in anticipating remarks which might
be made upon their prolonged interview. So
the two approached the “ leading lady,” who,
at this moment, was discussing with her hus-
band the pros and cons of the case before
them—which was a request, preferred by a
committee, in the name of the whole, that
~
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 61
last evening’s entertainment be repeated this
night; for the’ edification of the company, and
the further benefit of the ee ae invalid.
ie man was inclined to think he had
exerted himself sufficiently; but his luke-
warmness was gradually overcome by the ar-
dor of the others, and it was soon arranged
that the programme should be re-enacted.
This gave all parties enough to do for the re-
mainder of the day. Margaret shut her eyes
to the dreary journey before her, allowing
herself only to remember that she had three
days yet of happiness in the society of him who
had so soon become of so much importance
to her, and that this night she was to enjoy,
for two brief hours (but in an hour a lifetime
may be compressed) the enthusiasm, the
strange pleasure and exaltation of soul and
sense, which had accompanied her perform-
ance the previous evening—a state like that of
a person etherealized by hasheesh into a
heaven for which, in waking hours, there is
no earthly counterpart. .
Again the small audience sat and stood en-
chanted, overpowered by the acting of the
loversJovers now in et and speaking
from their hearts words which impressed. each
listener with a sense of truthfulness. Again
slow tears dropped down even weather-
bronzed cheeks when Romeo mourned over
the corpse of Juliet, lying pale and breathless
in its tomb. And age the unknown passen-
ger, stationed at his window, watched the
scene with furtive eyes, muttering ‘at the
death-scene, between his teeth, some words
which, if the actors had heard, would have
“roused even the dead Juliet from her un-
timely tomb,
Cee tee
CHAPTER XVI.
_ (THE SICK PASSENGER.
Goop-MORNING, Miss Ovington,” said the
captain, as Margaret took the seat reserved
for her, next to his own, at the table, the morn-
aes the last performance. “I see that
Juliet has arisen from her grave more bloom-
ing than before that melancholy catastrophe.
Really, you look bright as the morning—and
that is very bright indeed. J think an ocean
voyage is doing you good; I noticed, when
we first set out, that you were rather Be
but look at her now, Matthews, and tell
me what you think of the sea air for bringing
OMG ING ROK 6h tes om ircst vain
“ Very efficacious, mee Taa splendid ton-
ic, captain,” answe the manuger’s
with a good-natured smile.at the
whose faci i om marvelo ch
from that desolate and haunted-| ig coun-
tenance which she had brought on board the
vessel. The elder lady suspected, in her own
\
heart, that salt spray and sea ait were not the
only tonics in this, case of speedy improve-
ment, but did not see fit to say so, for two réa-
sons—she felt kindly toward the girl, andishe
stood in awe of Kemble Kellogg. -
“Thave seldom made a more prosperous yoy-
age,” continued the captain, as he waited on
Margaret to some at which he thought
fittest for her plate. “In about two days
and six hours more, ladies and gentlemen,
no ill wind blows, T shall land you at the Liy-
erpool dock.”
“Tm sorry,” said Margaret, smiling; “I
like the ocean so much I would rather keep
on sailing forever.”
“You had better go back with me, then,”
he said, gallantly. , 7
“ Perhaps I shall, captain, if ’'m_ not com-
pelled to return even sooner, Ihave had dis-
patches which induce mé to return sooner to
America than I proposed.”
‘Dispatches? from where? the moon?”
laughingly. ‘a
“As well the moon as anywhere. I mean
that Ihave seen the necessity, since com
aboard ship, of revisiting the United States
immediately.”
“Wait, by all means, and go back with me,
then, Iwill take good care of you. As I
was saying, friends, we’ve been favored with
an uncommonly pleasant voyage, Except
the poor invalid forwhom some of you have
done sv much, there is now no case of sick-
ness on board. Even that bilious passeng
with the yellow skin, who has insisted on
thinking himself ill when he was as well as
any of us, if he would only believe it, comes
out of his retreat to-day. He told. me, last
evening, he should try and breakfast with us.”
“What ?” cried the lively leading lady ; “is
there a passenger amongst us?—an wn-
known ?”
“Yes; didn’t you know of the sea-sick
southern gentlemen who has Kept his berth
from the hour of coming on board? those
aundiced tropical chaps are apt to suffer.
f a had a liver like theirs, ’'d commit sui-
cide.”
Margaret half raised her eyes, and glancing
across the table, saw an empty late and a
chair turned down directly opposite her own.
She did not know what was the matter with
her, but she shivered as if a breeze from some
near iceberg had struck her.
“ Trritable, too, these higl-peppered gentle-
men are,” continued the bluff captain. “But,
hush! talk about you know who, and he is
sure to appear. Here comes the invalid
Ww.
Hy t had a touch of the timidity nat-
ural to the circumstances which beset her ;
and she did not immediately raise her eyes,
as she heard the waiter bustling to seat the
a e
Sp
a tee
eR
a
62.
stranger ; she had a piece of buttered toast on
her fork at the moment when she heard the
captain say, in his hospitable manner:
‘Have a bit of fried chicken, Mr. Martin-
ique ?”
It may be taken as a proof of the stern
self-control which her last year of endurance
had taught her, that she did not visibly start,
nor even turn pale very suddenly. “She
raised her fork and ate her toast, feeling as if
turning into stone, and conscious that the
color was gradually ebbing from. her face, de-
spite of her superhuman effort to control
it.
But there might be more than one Martin-
ique inthe world! Then, why did she not im-
mediately raise her eyes, and put an end to
this suspense? Her lids were like lids of ice,
immovable. No need of looking, to make cer-
tain of her calamity.
“Thank you, captain—a small piece,”—/is
voice, calm, pleasant, low, with nothing in it
to attract the notice of others, except it might
be its richness, but to her, ringing with a fine
undertone of devilish exultation in her agony
and his triumph. The waiter brought hot
toast.
“ Will Miss Ovington have some?” asked
the a senor.
She declined, still without raising her ore
Presently, when the little bustle attending
his getting settled to his breakfast had sub-
sided, she knew that he was looking at her
with the purpose of making her look at him ;
slowly she lifted her face, and her gaze for an
instant confronted his. Absolute despair must
have been the only expression in her eyes;
his were coo], guarded, with just the shadow
of a terrible smile lying threateningly in the
background. He did not attempt to claim
her acquaintance, made no advances; but
when her glance had slunk away from his,
went on, chatting to the captain about life in
the tropics, in an airy, easy way, which charm-
ed all at that end of the table, and left Mar-
garet leisure to realize her position.
One glance she had given to Mr. Kellogg,
who sat at the other end of the table, he hav-
ing had the good sense not te pay too much
attention to the young lady in public; he
smiled and bowed as he met her eye, content-
ed almost to carelessness, with his happiness.
After that, it may be that she continued to
feast on the ashes before her ; what she did or
did not do, she could. never thereafter recall.
She grew cold, limbs, and pulse, and heart;
the ship seemed to spin round and round
down a vortex ; she heard Kellogg’s gay voice,
far, far away, as if from another world; it
was dim as evening, all about her; and when
Mrs., Matthews and the captain laughed aloud
at something said by the senor, thunder could
not have sounded more startling. Asin some
THE BETRAYED BRIDE;.OR,
of the opium-dreams of De Quincey, in which
he lived. through imagined centuries, she
seemed always to have been sitting at that
table, listening to the far murmur of her
loyer’s voice, and to the nearer murmur of his
tones, musical, carefully modulated, sharp
only to her ear, with a sting of malice and
triumph. Must she sit thus for centuries more,
to be tortured ? Would he never cease talk-
ing, breakfasting, laughing ?—go away, and
leave her power to move ?
““Why, where are the roses of which we
were boasting?” cried the captain, when, al-
ter a lengthy chat with the Southerner, his
wandering attention came back to the lady at
his right hand.
“You must have been mistaken about there
ever being any,”. she answered him, with a
pitiful attempt to smile, and feeling as if
the speaker wére encompassed with shadows,
and hearing her own. yoice like that of a
stranger ringing in her ears.
“She has been over-exerting nerself these
last two evenings,” said the quiet senor.
“She puts too much of herself in her acting.
Such lavish individuality is exhausting.”
Ah! she knew all that he meant. by that;
the ship spun faster down the slippery green
walls of the vortex,.the air grew dimmer
aud colder—she slid from her chair to the
oor,
“She has fainted!” cried good Mrs. Mat-
thews, in alarm.
The stranger folded his napkin and put it
in his ket ; and, as the ladies gathered
about the unconscious girl, he walked ont
om deck to take a survey of the surround-
What is it ?” asked Kellogg, quite flushed
with anxiety, trying to do something for Mar-
garet, but the ladies put him aside.
“Go out on’ deck a few moments, my
child,” said Mrs. Matthews, who always adopt-
ed a, maternal manner toward her pet and
hero; “the less about her, the better. She’ll
be’quite herself in a short time, I dare say.
Doubtless she has over-exerted herself.”
The actor obeyed, pacing back and forth
in a restless style, quite different from the
placid indifference with which the new pas-
senger leaned on the railing, looking up at
the few light clouds which trailed along the
northern horizon. ‘ Presently he turned from
a contemplation of the clouds to that of the
face of the restless young man, who passed
him so nearly in the narrow space.
“You play Romeo splentea he observed,
catching the other’s glance, and bowing slight-
ly, with mock deference.
“You think so ?” politely, but too absorbed
in thoughts of Margaret to heed either the
speaker or the compliment particularly.
“Tt’s a role that suits you exactly,” contin-
-WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 63
ued: the -stranger. ©“ The lady, too, seemed
quite up to her part. “But allow me to sug-
gest that in playing with another man’s wife,
you play with a little less cim: It might
please the lady better than her lord.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kellogg,
turning short upon the speaker. _ His first im-
pulse was to knock him overboard into the
sea; his eyes flamed, and his hand shut up
with the desire to strike. ‘Something“in the
Southerner’s dark face reminded him of an un-
looked-for possibility ; he saw the truth, as by
a lightning-flash, and his hand sunk to his
side. Astonished, for the moment horrified,
he ‘was undaunted. Face to face with the
enemy—ha! All the better, perhaps. Only,
he must have time to reflect upon the new
position. i van
« : .
_“ You must translate for yourself, sir,” said
the haughty Southron.
“T understand you—perfectly,” answered
the actor, still more haughtily. He would
say or do nothing more now ; but in his heart
was the determination to protect and rescue
the woman he loved, though a life should
have to pay the price of her liberty,
“Death is too good for him,” he muttered,
as he went back to the cabin, where he found
Margaret insisting that she was well enough
to-sit up, while-all the ladies were urging her
to lié down. The wan, dreary smile with
which she greeted him, fixed his purpose
more firmly than before. As soon as he
could whisper it without attracting too much
observation, he said ‘in her ear:
“J know all. I shayeseen him. But you
are still my Juliet, and shall be, despite of a
dozen men like’ him. Don’t tremble so, m
child, Remember that Iam keeping watc
over you unceasingly. If he dares to speak
of his unrighteous claims on board this ship,
I will summon a jury of the ship’s officers,
elect the captain judge, plead fat cause be-
fore them, and he sha}l be made to suffer any
penalty their indignation awards him—per-
haps they will feed him to the sharks. T tell
you, do not fear him. He really has no pow-
er over you. Fight your cause in public, now,
and it is won. The whole ship, passengers
and crew, will feel bound to protect you, if
not to inflict condign punishment on him.
Why, the case is most outrageous. You will
find that he does not dare to k a word of
his rights, on this vessel. He expects to
frighten you, as he has always frightened you.
Coward! He would not have shown his
face at all, if jealousy had not drawn him out.
He could not endure our fri , Swee
and believes his presence will nip it in the
bud. I’m glad he stands revealed. You
might, indeed, bly have fallen into his
hands, ‘had he followed: you into’a strange
city, and pounced upon you in some solitary
t, not #0 ea r get away from an
hour. But now that we see the wolf we are
not afraid of him. Don’t look so wild, and
‘wan, and frightened!’ Remember that I am
your protector. ‘You are as safe as if we two
were alone in the world.”
Sweet words of comfort, which might well
have tranquilized her. But one who has long
suffered from a haunting fear grows nervous,
beyond control. It was this nervousness, per-
haps, that kept cold chills continually creep-
ing along her veins and made her heurt pal-
pitate every time the cabin-door opened or
closed, and when she shut her eyes made her
afraid to open them, lest she should meet a
hated smile. '
Again and again she thanked God for en-
compassing her with friends before the’ dead-
ly peril which environed her steps became
known to her. She saw, at a glance, the sit-
uation, and had no reason to be tian
prised. Swift, cautious, and, as she deemed,
secure, as had been all her movements, in ob-
taining passage, under a new name, on board
the steamer, it was now evident that Martin-
ique had been equally swift, and more cun-
ning. Having discovered her purpose, in-
stead of seeking to restrain her by an injunc-
tion which might bring his private history too
broadly before the public, he had quietly
taken’ passage on the same boat, only ei
careful: not to betray his presence on boar
until it was far too late for Margaret to retreat.
It is probable that he had intended remainin
undiscovered by the woman he persecute
until after she had settled herself in London,
to which city he knew her passage was paid,
when he could unexpectedly confront her and
demand her obedience as his wife, without
danger of interference from the high-spirited
‘“ Americanos,” who might, on board theves-
sel, constitute themselves her defenders. But
his jealousy had been kindled to a raging
flame by the events of the last three days;
and his burning desire for revenge could
gratify itself in no other Fa 0 exquisitely
as by his ee himself before the mis-
taken girl who had vainly allowed herself to
dream a dream which should never be realiz-
ed. ‘“ Never!” he was saying to himself now,
as he still leaned on the guards; “ doubtless
he has told her that she can procure a divorce
—that is their game I suppose! The poor
little fool will no longer be so timid, now that
she has a man of the world to advise her.
But Iam equal to both of them. My i
Margaret has taken the a step which will
throw her into my arms. In eat it is
oring hus-
all take care that she stays
band; an
to cure her of any desire
there long enou
to quarrel with her fate—while that strutting
of the stage will be glad enough to
get her. If he is not very prudent, mean-
A ne
64
time, he will find his passion doctored in the
old-fashioned medical style—a little blood-
letting will cool the fever,” fingering the re-
volver inside his breast-pocket with an im-
patience which might reasonably have star-
tled the brave young actor, had he seen -the
threat implied. Such a sight, however,
would have incensed Kellogg to a bolder pro-
tection of the beautiful woman he now felt
puppet bound to shield, both by honor and
ove.
“Vm half sorry I came out,” he continued
to reflect. “ She’s a defiant creature, as ve
reason to know, and if she should throw her-
self on the protection of these ‘ gallant, Amer-
ican tars’ ”—sneeringly—‘ they'd make the
ship too hot toholdme. Iwill do nothing of
which she can complain—do nothing to dis
turb her—and, in the mean time, I can quietly
enjoy her consternation. I need a little oom-
fort, after the race that girl has led me.”
Here he sauntered to a window of the cabin
which allowed him a look at the face he so
mercilessly admired.
An interesting face ! beautiful beyond mere
charm of features and complexion, or it
never could so svon have fascinated the criti-
cal ye of the young actor, no more than it
could haye held the quick-tempered Senor to
look and Jong, when he could have chosen
any one of a hundred faces as fair, whose
owner would have been glad to become the
bride of the wealthy merchant-planter. _Mar-
ret sat, resting her head on the broad shoul-
er of the “leading lady,” her eyes, closed,
their dark lashes contrasting with the pallor
of her face. Presently Mr. Kellogg approach-
ed, offering her a book to read. Martinique
would haye given the best of his Maracaibo
plantations to have the power of calling a
smile and blush to her cheek like that which
came at the other man’s slightest word.
Loving her as he did, with an intense, if sel-
fish ardor, itis not strange that the sight made
him furious.
“To my wife! my wife!” he repeated,
gnawing his lip in his rage, for so long had
he accustomed himself to think of Margaret
as his wife, that he ignored the fact that the
name had. been forced upon her by an infa-
mous fraud, and that she had never done any
thing but repudiate the title. “ She dares to
blush, to lift her eyes to him, as if he—by
heaven they shall repent it! they shall repent
it!” and stalking into the cabin, his features
set and almost green, so dark did his yellow
face grow with suppressed fury, he drew a
chair almost in front of the two ladies, and
there he sat for the next two hours, with only
a two weeks’ old newspaper as a pretense for
occupation.
“Good gracious! Whataman! Imglad
he remained in his state-room, if he’s that
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
savage and unsociable,” whispered Mrs, Mat-
thews in her young friend’s ear—" handsome,
though, and real diamonds, as large as peas,
in his shirt-buttons. Ican’t make out whether
he’s really reading that stupid paper, or only
making it an excuse to stare at you, my dear.
Heigho! at your age I used to be stared at,
too—but that’s come and gone. It’s your
turn now, and I’m not going to be envious.”
“You would not be, indeed, if you knew
all,” thought the young lady.
‘‘ Another conquest, ’m quite positive,”
continued the manager’s wife, after another
quarter-hour had passed; “he stares at you
over the top of the journal constantly—do
ou know it, my love? His eyes perfectly
laze! Why, my child, you’ve just upset the
boat, with your coming out as Juliet. There
isn’t a man on board whose brains are not up-
side down.”
Margaret could endure no more; she felt
as. if she could not live another moment un-
der that devilish eye, and drooped in her
seat like a terrified bird. Aroused at this,
ae: Matthews sprung to her feet, exclaim-
ng:
“Sir, by what right do you torment. us
here? There, sir, is the door!”
So imperious, as well as unexpected was
her gesture, that Martinique arose, as if order-
ed by a queen, and retreated upon deck.
CHAPTER XVIL
FIRE !
The Senor was then more uneasy than
before. . That startling feat of Margaret's,
in leaping into a swift river, on a dark. and
wintry night, choosing death rather than him,
had made him cautious about approaching
her too rudely. She would make the same
choice again, in the same dilemma. It was
not pleasant to anticipate that she, if too
closely pressed, would seek refuge in the green
and chilly waves, through which the mon-
strous steamship plowed her toilsome way.
He felt not at all inclined to have her commit
suicide—though he would have preferred that
to an escape with that detested actor.
‘“A little while ago I wished the voyage
might Jast forever,” remarked Margaret, as
she clang to Mrs. Matthews’ arm; “now, I
care not how soon it is ended. I am more
eager for it to end than I was for it to con-
tinue,”
“Tt will end soon enough—too soon,” said
Mr. Kellogg, who had come up to them; and,
taking a hand of each, he said, in a low tone:
“The ship is on fire !”
t could hardly have been whiter
than she was before; she trembled more, and,
WEDDED BUT NOT. WON. 65
clinging to the hand he had given her,
rou will let me die with you, will you
not?
Both looked into the glassy, foaming ocean,
and shuddered; they were young, and life
was sweet, if only they could have it as they
wished it; but Mrs. Matthews, moaning, and
about to rush about frantically, to spread a
dangerous alarm, had to be held in eheck by
Mr. Kellogg, who said :
“Your husband will be here in a moment,
madam. There is nodmmediate danger. The
fire is inthe hold, and the captain does not
entirely despair of keeping it under until we
can make land. Should this calm weather
continue, there will be less danger ; and, mean-
time, should the worst be unavvidable, we
ny fall in with a vessel, we are so near the
end of our yoyage. There are many ayenues
of hope open, and the officers have abund-
ance of time to man and provision the boats,
which are in good order, an] enough of them
for the rescue of all. The wintry weather is
against us, if obliged to take to open boats ;
buteven then wecan hardly fail of being soon
picked up, lying off the coast of Ireland as
we do. It will atleast be several hours before
the fire can master the ship.”
The manager of the theatrical troupe now "
came up, and joined the group. Other gentle-
men began to whisper the terrible story to
white-faced lady-passengers. There was no
great outcry, afler a few first screams of terror
or surprise. All the ladies went quietly to
their state-rooms, and provided themselves
With the warmest clothing they had, putting
on two pairs of stockings, and bringing back
With them hoods and shawls, such stores of
money and jewelry as they bad being secured
within their garments. Fortunately, there
were no steerage passengers ; and the captain,
appearing Soon in the cabin, assured~ his
breathless listeners that the boats would be
ample for their accommodation — that they
were being provided with food and water,
and that when the moment came that the
vessel must be abandoned, if come it did,
which’ they were laboring hard to. avert, all
should have due notice in time to thoroughly
prepare themselves for the hardships before
them. In the meantime, dinner would be
served as usual, and he advised them to eat,
as it might be some time before they again
enjoyed a warm and well-cooked dinner. He
smiled as he said this last, but he could not
revent a certain solemnity of tone, which
mpressed upon them, in spite of his assumed
4 cheerfulness, that a voyage in open boats in
the month of January was not a desirable
thing. Old tales of shipwrecks, of starving
crews in open oceans, long days and nights
of hope which changed to despair, and
you. You shall be safe with me.
courage which melted {nto insanity and
death, came, spectral and gaunt, béfore
memories. They looked in each other’
shuddered, and sighed. But when they h
the steady clanging of pumps, and thought of
the hell. of fire that smoldered under them,
ever spreading, creeping, deepening, seeking,
with tongues of flame, for every smallest
stream of air; when they thought of this,
conquering the steady fight of the faithful
crew, and gaining on them, hour by hour, the
bouts took on a friendly and home-like guise.
Mr. Kellogg had conducted Margaret to
her state-room, and stood outside while she
gathered together such effects as she wished
to take with her, in case they took to the
boats. But the stranger was there, also, in the
narrow, dim passage, and as the young lady
Pe ay ny r
“Take good care o our marriage-
certificate, Mrs. Martinique” =
She did not reply—handing her shaw] to
Mr. Kellogg.
Then, as if the catastrophe impending
over them drove out all malice and peveee,
leaving only his great love to speak for itself,
he grasped her hand, crying out:
“Margaret, don’t leave me! I will save
I am the
one to care for you in an hour like this.”
But she drew her hand away, placing it on
the actor’s arm.
“Come, I say. You shall be safe with me,
whatever liappens.”
“Mr, Martinique, I will remain on this
vessel when every other soul has deserted
her, rather than go with you. I don’t wish
to be rescued, if it must be by you. Don't
persecute me at this time. If you do as I
say, I shall remain on the ship.”
“But, Margaret, dearest, darling wife, if we
are separated now it may be forever. One
may perish, the other live. Or we may be
taken up by ships sailing to ports on opposite
sides of the world—”
“Pray heaven we may.”
“T did not mean that,” quickly correcting
himself, seeing the mistake he had made.
“ Of course we shall both take the same boat ;
that lam resolved on. But why not, Margaret,
in this awful hour, forgive the deception I
was guilty of,in view of the love which
prompted it? Why longer fly from. me,
whose wife you are, who am kept miserable
by your conduct? I will make you happy.
All that you ask shall be yours. We will ive
where you say, do what you wish, Come,
put an end to this farce; acknowledge your-
self my wife, and all that man can do to save
you shall be done; and if you, must perish, I
shall share your fate. You will at ie
in your husband’s arms—not in those of an
adventurer, who is amusing himself with your
ee
a6 THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
orance of ‘the ,world,” and with a con-
emptuous glance at the actor he again seized
_ Ber hand, attempting to draw her along to
his side, to the upper cabin, where dinner
was being placed upon the table.
“Mr. Martinique, you ought to know my
temper by this time. I don’t dread fire itself
asIdo you. The waters of the ocean are no
colder or more frightful than those of the
river into which you once pursued me. As I
say, even this bed of fire beneath us is less
hateful than to be forced into companionship
with aman like you. I never will submit to
the chain you so meanly forged. I know,
now, what my rights are, and i am no longer
afraid of you, as { have been heretofore. If
you wish to escape exposure, and the scorn
of allwho know you and me, let me alone.
Never speak to me again. Of all things, in
this solemn hour, do not bring forward your
hated personalities to annoy and discompose
me. If wemust die, let us be as calm as our
human natures will permit. In view of
death, I forgive you; but, living or dying, I
will not blend my fate with yours.”
Wrenching her hand from his fierce grasp,
she motioned Kellogg to go first to the stair-
way. She would not trust him to go up with
that other man pressing on from _ behind.
She knew that Martinique went always armed.
‘As the three came into the cabin, no one
noticed their excitement, as each had enough
to do to think of his own affairs, or of those
dearest to them. Kellogg had said nothing,
but his resolve had been made from the first.
He now led Margaret to her usual seat at the
table. The captain was already there, and
very grave and somewhat pale he looked, as
he glanced anxiously down the rows of
blanched faces, which had been at breakfast
so smiling. ,
“Tt is clouding up, and the wind is rising.
I was hoping we should have a moonlight
night. ut I feel a storm coming.
friends, I see you have no appetites, but I beg
of you eat—while you may.’
_ “How about the fire ?” inquired Matthews,
_ endeavoring to speak firmly.
“Tt gains,” was the abrupt reply; then, as
a spell seemed to settle on the motionless
company, he added, almost angrily, “ But
there is plenty of time in which to do justice
to your dinners, and I repeat that you had
better prepare yourselves for what may come.
And now, excuse me,” and taking a piece of
bread and meat in his hand, he returned to
econ .
hat was a solemn feast—a banquet, in
truth, after the old Egyptian fashion, with a
skeleton to preside—a hideous skeleton stared
each one in the face, ven the company went
pr the eating and drinking as if no one
To a person sufficiently composed in his
own mind to think of philosophizing in such
an hour, there was food for observation, and
even amusement in the vividness with which
the peculiar traits of individuals came out.
Kemble Kellogg was never more self-
possessed than then; he put on no careless
air of affected indifference, but, through a
solemnity which he did not seek to hide,
shone a genial pleasantness and kindness very
comforting to the timid, silent souls of some
about him. “If one must die, it is well to
die in such company,” was the feeling he
inspired. Two or three men laughed aloud,
and jested freely, but there was a hollow ring
in the sound of ther mirth. A few obeyed
the captain’s injunction to prepare for hard
times, nd quietly and systematically stowing
away all within their reach, as if they had as
many stomachs as camels, and could ruminate
at their Jeisure. Unselfish husbands pressed
upon their trembling wives the necessity of
taking food, while forgetful of what was on
their own plate, and vice versa. Some
positively could not swallow, but watched,
with eager eyes, every movement of others,
expecting to be summoned at any instant.
_ Mr. Martinique ate little and drank a good
deal. Margaret, a little pale and_neryous,
obeyed the injunctions of Mr. Kellogg, and
ate what she could, also coaxing Mrs.
Matthews to eat, and not to be so discouraged,
saying that, as for herself, she felt very
hopeful and courageous indeed. She did not
think people who were healthy, and able to
endure some hardships, should be cast down ;
remember the poor consumptive, who must
suffer so much in the trial beforethem. Thus
she conversed, cheerfully, speaking sweetly
to all the mothers, and the three or four
children about her.
As the captain had predicted, a storm was
coming on. Soon all realized the fact in the
increased roughness of the motion, and the
suddenness with which twilight came down,
almost before they had left the table. Many
went out, to strain their eyes looking for
vessels which might cross their B ives but the
look-out could give them no tidings of any ;
and the wind rose higher, the clouds grew
thicker, and night—oh, what a night !—closed
in about the doomed ship.
ae
CHAPTER XVI.
DRIFTING WHO KNOWS WHERE ?
The long hours of suspense and_mental
anguish wore on until midnight. By that
time the crisis of horror had arrived. The
throbbing of the engine had ceased—the fire
haying eaten its way around the machinery,
Sats
—
.
|
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 6?
until the men were obliged to abandon it.
The dull noise of the pumps still continued,
although the wearied and hopeless crew no
longer worked with energy. There should
have been a moon, but the clouds were so
dense that her light was dim indeed; the
wind blew and shrieked about the helpless
ship, as if in demoniac exultation at the
dilemma ; fortunately no rain fell.
-The passengers were now all huddled on
the decks in the after-part of the boat, for
thin curls and jets of flame began to play
about the forward-part, and to burst out
around the smoke-stack. The women and
children were wrapped in warm garments,
and hot coffee had been handed about an
hour or two previous.
_“ Now, my friends,” said the captain, ap-
pearing in their midst, as a fiery column
suddenly darted up high above the pipes,
“God save us all! We must abandon the
ship. No confusion now! Obey orders, and
I believe you all may be saved.”
There was nota shriek—scarcely a murmur.
He placed the boats under the command of
the different officers, and the difficult task of
getting the passengers into them commenced
difficult on account of the high-running
sea. The consumptive was first carefully
“ For God’s sake, lose no time!’ cried the
captain, as a blast of wind shook and tossed
the frail boat, and the flames, as if in revenge
for being so long suppressed, leaped and
roared, and a hot breath from them nearly
suffocated those still on the ship. —
“Go !’ commanded Margaret; and Kellogg. -
seeing that delay was dangerous, climbed
swiftly down, and stood, Halden himself,
ready to receive her, as she was now handed
down by strong arms. There had been an
expression on the Senor’s face, which warned
her to be sure of the actor’s safety before she
secured her own; and for this reason she had
insisted on Kellogg’s descending first. The
Senor, standing by the captain’s side, his
dark, unquiet face lit up by the glaring flames,
watching every movement of his rival, had a
stealthy and dangerous expression, which
Margaret did not like. Now, as Kellogg
obeyed her—going first into the boat—he was
evidently frustrated in some hastily-laid plan.
“ Now,” said the captain to his last remain-
ing passenger, turning himself to see that all
the crew and officers were in their places.
The last men were in the boats, only those
two on board. Martinique fastened the rope
about his waist. At that moment a furious
gust of wind swept down, as if from over-
lowered, and safely placed, with as many head, whirling the smoke and sparks about
blankets as it was possible to allow him; his
wife followed; the children and ladies who
seemed most delicate, as it was proposed not
to load this boat to excess, since there would
be room for all; and the doctor, with
medicine in his pockets, ae brandy-flasks
also, was to complete the complement.
Something between a groan and a shout
burst from the little crowd on board the
burning ship, as the first boat pushed off.
Where, oh where, would these and those,
made friends by companionship in danger,
meet again? Certainly, some of them, never
in this world. A
after boat was filled, without an
accident, and put away from the vessel—pale
ae ens ck, and oeeh pal the
red light, which now crimsoned the waves;
and. still one little group about the captain
remained unbroken—Margaret and her two.
lovers. Mr. and Mrs. Matthews were lowered
into the captain’s boat; Margaret was the
last woman on the ship.
“Now, my brave girl,” said the captain,
“comes your turn.”
She gave her hand to Kellogg, but as he
was about to lift her in his arms, with the
rope about her waist, she held back, bidding
him fs first into the boat.
“Let me see you safely in,” he said.
“No, no, I will not leave you behind.
Something may happen. Go first, and re-
ceive me as I am handed down.”
_ these two, so as, fora moment, to blind and
strangle them. When it cleared up a little,
they saw that the same gust had driven the
captain’s boat 3 dozen yards away; but one
of the other boats was holding to close
alongside—her officer shouting to them to
_ drop aboard her. Martinique lowered himself
by his rope, but whether the smoke confused
-him, rendering him partly unconscious, or
what happened in that moment of excitement,
no one thereafter could correctly state; but
he missed the arms which were reached for
him, let go his rope too soon, and was swept
off on a long, foam-crested wave, which
heaved and tossed the egg-shell boat, so that
the captain also, more fortunate in having
his rope better secured, swung five minutes
over the threatening water, before he could
be reached. ms :
“Will you let the man drown ?” heshouted, |
as soon as his feet touched the boat; and
instantly he had an oar in his hand, and the
men rowed after the long-running wave,
from which the dark face had now dis-
appeared.
fetes Or hope to save the unfortunate
passenger. The boats were scarcely under
control; the best that could be done was to
keep them from swamping,—as the captain
found when he attempted to come alongsid
his own boat, which was without an officer.
To effect an exchange now was simply im-
possible; he must remain where he was.
pe
ER RE =
*
* *
. Swept off on the cruel wave.
The bright glare of the fire had revealed
the whole frightful scene to Margaret, who
clasped her hands and pressed her lips more
tightly together, as she saw the man who so
long persecuted her, and blasted her life,
She would
have endangered her own life to save him,
had there m any thing she could do;
‘but she could only strain her eyes to watch,
while the boats beat about the ship in a
fruitless effort to rescue him; and, when the
captain came near enough to answer the cry,
which Kellogg raised to know if the
passenger had drowned, with that hoarse
“Yes!” the long strain upon her sensibilities
loosened; she felt something break in her
rea like the snapping of 4 harp-string,
and quietly slid into unconsciousness. _
When she revived, the leading lady was
ne bottle of smelling-salts to her nos-
trils ; sat up, and looked about her, with
a shudder.
“He may be the most fortunate of any of
us,” said Kellogg; who was rubbing her cold
hands, as he met her wandering glance.
“His death was sudden, at least, and without
much suffering. Who knows what we may
have to endure before death relieves us?”
As he spoke, her glance took in the
situation.
crews to keep their boats as close to the ship
as ble, at least for the night, as her light
‘ight attract some vessel to the spot, which
would rescue them from the open boats; but
of the three other boats, not one was in sight
—and their own was half a mile from the
flaming mass of fire, whose lurid
Beacon burned in vain, since there were no
friendly eyes of other more fortunate ships
to see the red banner of distress. -
The wind now blew steadily, but heavily,
forcing the little boat before it in spite of all
efforts to keep her in sight of the ship. It
was not bitterly cold, though quite sufficiently
80, especially asthe wind cut off the crest of
foam from the wayes and drove it over their
garments and into their faces like fine rain.
“TI am not sure but Mr. Martinique was
really the most fortunate, as you say,” re-
arked Margaret, as the sullen dawn came
late, revealing to anxious eyes only a waste
of Ey rolling waters, up whose mountains
and down whose valleys the small boat pitched
and struggled and slipped. :
“You are chilled, and tired, and hungry,
my darling. Would to heaven I could bear
rout hardships as well as my own,” returned
gg, against whose shoulder she had been
more endurance than you will
endure you wi
aye
ieve,” she said, forcing a smile. “ This is
nothing. If only we come in sight of a sail
to-day all will be well” — | e
- . Sty ,
he captain had advised all the —
them, Kellogg and others
' were driving on tow
e
68 THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
“« All’s well that ends well,’” quoted. the
leading Jady, “even a shipwreck, I sup
But I do wish we had a hot brick at. which
to toast.our toes. When willit be time toserve
out rations?”
“At seven o'clock,” said Kellogg, looking
at bis watch; “it is now half-past six.”
In the absence of any of the ship's officers,
Kellogg, at the solicitation of. the others,
had taken command of the life-boat. His
was one of those leading spirits which men
will obey to the death. !
At seven o’clock he gave out the breakfast,
consisting of biscuit, a piece of corned beef,
and a drink of brandy and water; for a short
time after it had been eaten, the. crew was
disposed to pe hopeful, even cheerful ; but as
the bours wore on, the cold, more than, any
thing else, made them silent and despondent.
Margaret fell asleep, resting against her lover,
who would gladly have kept her thus until
the sad voyage came to an end, in rescue or
death; but her sleep was disturbed, and of
no great length, she starting out of it with the
cry, “Save him! save him !”
After the noon rations, Kellogg proposed
that they should while away the time by re-
peating parts of some play. The weary,
eary voyagers begged them to do so, and
e tired girl roused herself to a new energy,
s she went. through the “Merchant of
Venice” with Kellogg, Mr, and Mrs. Matthews,
and three other actors who were of the
company. The part of Portia she had com-
mitted to memory as she had that of Juliet,
and, under the inspiration of the part, she
“almost forgot, for an hour, the curious circum-
funces which surrounded them, the frowning
sky, the lonely ocean.
.
“T fear this will be ‘ our last appearance n >
on any stage, ” she said, with « wan smile,
when the little diversion had ended, pointing
to the sun, already dipping in the sea, visible
for the first. time that day, only to remind
them that he was going to leave them to
another Jong night of peril and pune
Coldand fatigue were already telling fright-
fully on the small band.
“I will give them freely of what there is,”
Kellogg resolved, as he dealt out the supper,
with a liberal supply of brandy; “we cap
not long endure the exposure. If we are not
picked up soon, we shall die of cold. The
liquor'may save us, until we fall in with some
ship, Otherwise, the sooner the better,
grimly.
There was no compass to guide them, and —
now that the sun was down, the clouds hid
the stars, as if purposely to confuse and. fill
them with despair; but upon a calculation of
the direction in which the wind was blowing
eved that the
the shores of Ireland.
eee
But the wind might veer at any moment,
and they have no means of euceeee © until
the sun rose again. It was clear that they
were at the mercy of the elements, and that
their salvation depended upon the slender
chance of their being picked up; yet they
had gone one whole day without sight of a
sail—and if one day, how many more as
fruitiess might follow! :
For three hours Kellogg took his turn at
the oar; then, instead of endeavoring to
snatch what rest he could, he drew Margaret
close, close to his breast, chafing her cold
hands, and making a shield of his body to
keep the wind from her.
“Tf we could only fall asleep thus, and
awake in heaven, without further suffering, I
should be quite willing to go,” she whispered.
“TJ shall fight for your life and mine,” he
4 answered; “fight, inch by inch, the cruel
destroyer. We are so young, and so full of
love, my darling, and so ambitious. It is not
the season to talk of death. We have so
much to accomplish; our work is hardly
begun. And so much to enjoy, sweetest
Margaret—think of that. Remember that he
who has so tormented you will trouble you
now, to be loved,to be happy. Rememb
j what I look forward to, soon—to calling yo
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. ,
dried long ago; even the fhther, who had
given her to Old Uncle Peter, had passed
away, and no relative mourned her earl
doom. There had been a great deal of
whispering at the time the news of Margaret's
death was brought to the village by her
cousin. It was an awful thing thatshe should
have run away from her rich uncle—elo
with a man and a stranger (to them.)
accidental death might have been a punish-
ment inflicted on her by an angry Providence ;
at least, it might be said that oe almost de-
served it—deserting her fond uncle, as she
did, and killing him with the shock. People
were very severe in their judgment, as they
are apt to bein small neighborhoods; and
though some remembered with affection how
beautiful, and how gay and harmless she had
been, it was generally believed that she had
been very imprudent, selfish, and willful,
Young Maxwell was looked upon. with
more favor than he used to be; he was mar-
ried now, and of course hé would “seitle
down.” They heard he had done splendidly
in getting himself a wife, and it would be an
advantage to the neighborhood to have the
long-neglected villa inherited by such fashion-
no more—that you have the blessed right, able summer dwellers.
It was a hot day in the middle of July.
Irs. Maxwell, very languid and very fair, sat
my wife—and let it make you strong and on the broad portico, a book in her lap, and
resolved not to give up until help comes.”
“I am happy, whether I live or die,” she
murmured ; but the next moment she started,
and he felt a shiver run through her frame.
“Tf I die,’ she said, when he asked h
what was the matter, “I hope I shall no
meet Aim. Do you know, I feel as if he had
cursed me, in his dying moments; as if,
living or dead, he had power to thwart ever
plan I may make for happiness! Oh, will
he never give over this hold which he has
upon me? I can’t feel that he is really dead.
Perhaps they rescued him.”
CHAPTER XIX.
‘THE VILLA’S NEW MASTER.
Curpenters, painters, house-decorators, gar-_
eners, had been busy all the spring in and
bout Branthope Villa. New upholstery had
come out from the city, and the neighbors
were “ of curiosity” to see the new
Were “dyin
ler and the beautiful young wife of Mr.
Maxwell, Junior, who was to spend the
ca
oe er in this Jovely inherited home of her -
Unele Pete er Maxwell slept well in his grave, fore he had been tossing and turning it, and
Tina, hovering about
girl, who “through her drooping lashes, which appeared
re and all the tears destined to be shed at the fate
of the handsome and high-spirited
used to queen it over that realm, had been
8
her favorite servant—-her dressing-maid, Tina
—bathing her forehead with some cooling,
fragrant water, and fanning her.
As Tina ormed these light duties, her
thoughts fled” far away into the past. Hers
as not an ambitious nature. She was as
perfectly satisfied to serve this fair young lady
as she could have been with any possible em-
ployment, unless it might be, taking care of a
tiny little home in the country, of her own.
For, during their six weeks’ residence at the
villa, she had discovered that she was very
fond of the country, and that her liking in-
cluded the handsome, intelligent young.
Yankee who attended to the flower-garden
and lawns.
Tina had no desire to return to the manu-
facture of artificial flowers, nor to a life ina
tenement-house. She preferred to see Tim
cultivating the real article, and to stroll, during
her leisure hours, in the spacious and perfumed
rdens, which, to her, were like vistas of
airy-land, twining garlands for her indulgent
mistress, of living rose-buds and pansjes.
Tim had been cutiing the grass on the lawns
that morning, and it lay now in little fragrant
heaps, making the air sweet with the delicious
ors of new-mown hay. A little while be-
irs. Maxwell, saw
50 sh ly cast down, how graceful the vigorous
2
~
a;
+
RE ag ee
‘tressed about
as; THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
* * :
movements of the gardener were, and how threads of the story which had fallen into her
often he glancéd that way, under his broad- hands, but could make nothing satisfactory
brimmed hat.. But now Tim’s work called out of them. A step on the gravel-walk,
him in some other direction, and she, build- which she took to be Tim’s, approached her,
ing her air-castles—which with her were and out. of that coquetry, which comes
only cottages, but just as eee natural to such pretty young things, she
thought of many things in the last half-hour, affected not to hear it—not even betraying by
until, by some subtle association, all of a the quiver of a lash, as she slowly drew out
sudden she recalled the image of her friend her floss, that. she was aware of its having
Lucille so vividly that she started and looked drawn near, and paused in front of her.
around half expecting to see her. She started violently enough, however,
She had not received one word from her when, after a full minute’s silence,a voice,
since that New Year’s eve, seven months be- which was not Tim’s, said, in a low but coarse
fore,when they had parted, with nointimation ‘and heavy tone:
that the parting was to be a permanent one. “My eye! I didn’t know you was a-makin’
For many adie tan had continued much dis- your home here, my purty.” ;
J ucille— fearful that some Asshe looked up she saw a rough-looking
calamity, which her friend seemed always fellow, with ugly eyes and a red beard,
apprehending, had befallen her. She had whom she was conscious of having met before,
nearly resolved a dozen times to ask Mr. but where or when, she could not recall.
Maxwell if he knew whathad become of her, ‘‘ You’re a smart little girl, an’ you played
but she dared not approach. the haughty mea nice trick as slick as ever I see. But I
master of the house as she did her indulgent don’t owe you no grudge, my purty, seein’ I
mistress, andj also, she had been told by got off in less’n a week. Hain’t seen nothin’ ©
Lucille not to betray to him that she hadany of your friend Lucille around lately, Pll be
knowledge of the relationship existing be- bound?” — ;
tween them. So she had kept silence,though — “Oh, do you know anything of- her ?” cried
sorely tempted many times. to break it, so Tina, flinging down her work and rising to
unhappy did she feel about the sudden disap-, her feet. ‘
suupee of one whom she loved quite ag) She remembered the man now; that
early as an elder sister. ~~. hideous visitor who had caused Lucille such
She had never ceased to wonder and grieve, terror and suffering ; she turned quite pale as
until, since coming to the villa, her dawning she looked at him, although she knew that
love for Tim, with change of scene and new Mr. and Mrs. Maxavell were near at hand,
interests, Lucille’s image had faded somewhat and Tim, the — not very far away.
into the background. But on,this summer But her fear and dislike of him on that one
afternoon, with nothing seemingly to sugg emorable occasion returned in all their force ;
it, it came back with a vividness which en- she had an impression that he had come for
rossed Tina, so that she forgot Tim in the some purpose of revenge upon her for calling
ower-garden, and the fan in herown hand, in the officers on that oy, and she began’ to
and she stood idly lost in reverie. tremble, and to wonder if Tim really was
“Violet! Violetta!’ called Mr. Branthope within call. Still, she so desired to hear
Maxwell, from the dim recess of the parlor, from Lucille, that as he stood smiling at her,
“don’t you know that the light reflected enjoying her discomposure, she said again :
under the piazza is bad for yourcomplexion? ‘Oh, do please tell me if you know what
_. Itis cooler in here by ten degrees, Come in has become of her.”
and read me the last pages of this stupid ‘“ Wal, I reckon I-do know considerable
novel. Iam too lazy to finish it for myself.” about her; but I don’t pay railroad fare out
‘The young wife, smiling and well pleased here a hundred miles to inform you of what
to be called to administer to the luxurious I know. I usually does such little jobs as
ease of her precious tyrant, aroseand wentin. pays. That girl’s quite a mint 0’ money to
Tina had nothing to do, so she sat down ona me, she is, that’s a fact. I don’t care how
shaded step of the piazza, pulled twoorthree long she keeps up her little game of hidin’
roses to pieces, and then took abit of em- herself and runnin’ away, so long as I knows
broidery from her pocket, which she was at least two gentlemen as is always willin’ to
working for Mrs. Maxwell, and as shestitched y liberally for havin’ of her brought to
away, thought still more of Lucille—that t. Is J. B. Maxwell, Esq., at home?” —
beautiful, mysterious girl,who had been so “Yes,” ee
good to her, and whom she had detected from “Iknewthat, or I shouldn’t’a’ wasted time
the first-of her coming among them there at comin’ out. Tell him a gentleman would like
the manufactory, to be a princess in disguise. to speak to him on business, if he ain’t too
_. As she had done a thousand times much occupied,” sardonically. .
she puazled her brain to put together the. * Perbaps you had better send in your
® hes ¥ “ar ee al me 5
ez 4 . + — pee
*
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. ae | ak
card,” said Tina, spitefully ; “he'll be better
able to decide whether he’s en, of not,”
“T reckon he'll sée ma, "most any time.
But if you'd like to take in my name, just
mention that Gus Nichols is waitin’ on the
stoop.”
She picked up her work and went in, leav-
ing him sitting on the steps, W1 ing his face
on 3 soiled handkerchief. She did not men-
tion the name he had given her to Mr. Max-
well, for some instinct warned’ her that it
would not be agreeable to him to hear it, but
sony told him that a man wished to speak
with him on business.
“ What sort of a man?” queried Branthope,
indolently. “Does any reasonable being
suppose I’m going to attend to business on a
summer afternoon, with the thermometer at
‘butter melts’ ?”
“ Well, a man,” answered Tina; “not a
gentleman.”
‘‘Some of these farmers about here want to
— or sell something, I suppose. Tell him to
again—this story has just reached the
culminating point, Mrs. Maxwell, and I want
to know how it comes out,” and he resumed
his lounging condition. |
“T believe the man came out from the cit
to see you,” continued Tina; “and that his
name is Nichols.” +a
“Nichols? I don’t know any Nichols; and
don’t want to know any Nichols,” answered
the master of the house, with -humored
impatience; butjust then a recollection of the
name dawned upon him, and, rising to a sit-
ting ure, he asked, hastily :
“What Saat nae mee " %
“ Disagreeable, ina di r
“ with a red beard.” a; ecidedly a «
“That altersthe case,” said Maxwell, look-
ing very much disturbed. “ I suppose I must
see him, if he has a red beard,” adding, sotto
voce, “ confound that rascal; what’s in the
wind now?” F
“ Shall I show him in?"
“No, indeed. I can transact all the
business I have with him out of doors. I
fies ones we oA cau ”
“Too i nterrupt us our readin i?
murmured Mrs. Maxwell, looking after him
with admiration, forshe still continued to ad-
mire her husband in all his moods.
“Will you have any thing, madame?”
asked Tina.
“No, child. I shall not dress until just be- sir.
fore tea. Go on with your embroidery, if
you've nothing else to do."
_ — coma the —o where she stood
a lit tating. A burning curiosit
possessed her to overitear what’ was Helng
said on the steps, feeling certain, as she did,
that it concerned Lucille. But she could not
very well play the ea , even if so
. . a
disposed, and she finally retreated to her
chamber, ina restless state, which caused her
to set many wrong stitches.
In the mean time, Maxwell conversed, in
guarded tones, with his unexpected visitor.
Pain’t deers ou hain’t noticed it?”
continued Nichols, petting from’ his pocket a
large poster, and pointing to a name which
a there among others—“ read that !—
‘Mrs. Martinique as Juliet’ — an’ it’s her,
cause I seen‘her. I went to thatthere theater
las’ night, you may bet your life,an’ I seen
her, an’ I must say, I neverseen nothin’ better
than her actin’. I could swear she was in
love with that fellow who plays Romeo—
twasn’t all purtense, if I’m a judge of human
natur’—which is one of my strong p’ints—an’
he’s just as sweet on her. Now, what do you
make of it?—comin’ out boldly with his
name? Mebbe he’s dead, an’ she a rich
widder. I hain’t got to this affair; but I
thought I'd comeoutan’ let youknow. It’ud
pay as well as lyin’ around doin’ nothin’.”
“ Yes” said Branthope, rather reluctant!
taking a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. “
suppose you did not come out here for noth-
ing, but you need never come again on that
errand. 1 should havediscovered this for my-
self in a day or two. And then, ’'m quite
- indifferent'to what Mrs. Martinique does. If
it’s all right between: her and her husband—
or if it’s all wrong—TI don’t care,”
“Didn’t know but it might’ disturb you a
little, seein’ she owns this‘nice bitof property,
an’? a good deal more ie our
th a disp
- name,” remarked Nichols,
lance.
ee Oh, wé’ve settled all that,” rejoined Bran-
thope, with a careless air. “I’ve paid her
her portion months'ago: So you’re out there!
You've milked’ this: cow dry now, Nichols;
and need give yourself no further trouble
about my a
wae ar Rateat et ger
sta edbage you 10" delend we Thats
a cof of thy Teapect for you as a sharp "un,
“Yes, thank you,” answered the young
MTYVell goody. “Shall T take any message
50H,
“No, I'm obl ged to you. Good-
“Train: goes down in an hour,” called back
Nichols, with one of his meaning smiles,
when he had gone a dozen paces toward the
gateway. |
“ He knows'Tll be on it,” muttered’ Bran-
thope, as he returned into the house 'to inform
his wife that hehad been called to the'city on
some business which must be transacted next
vv"
baie
So ee
Se
*
eS
oe —
‘ .
row afternoon. 15) 5
“And why mot take me with, you?” asked
the retty, pouting lips—“‘ there is time for me
to dress.”
“ Oh, the city is any thing but healthy now,
my love. I would not advise you to go down.
Then, too, I shall be busy all the evening,
consulting with persons whom-I shall be
obliged to see. main at home and keep
yourself comfortable. I shall be gone but
twenty-four hours, my pet.”
Branthope kept himself “ busy all the eve-
ning, consulting persons whom it was neces-
sary he should see,” by going to the Winter
Garden and becoming an astonished and.ab-
sorbed spectator of the part played there by
a certain. relative of his, in whose doings
he had reason to feel, interested. It was not
a season of the year. most profitable to
theatrical, managers,’ still.there. were many
southerners in the city to compensate for the
absence of her own denizens, and the theater
was crowded with a spell-bound; audience,
which had throaged there to give welcome to
its favorite tragedienne, Kemble Kellogg, and
ad received, a double delight in finding him
so well supported, by the “ young, gifted, and
beautiful” new candidate for favor, who play-
ed Juliet to his Romeo... |
“ Young, gifted, and beautiful” this Juliet
was, beyond what is usually expected from
this hackneyed announcement; a girl not
more than twenty, impassioned and lovely as
Shakspeare’s own heroine, fresh, graceful, ex-
quisitc — playing the character with an
originaiity’ only excelled by its truth to
nature, apr
“ Married, yet so young.” “ Who was this
Mrs. Martinique?” |‘ Where did she, come
from?” . “ How long had she been playing ?”
Her admircrs were eager to have these ques-
tions answered about one whose history was
so completely unknownto them. But noone
was possessed by a more ardent desire to be
enlightened than Branthope Maxwell, who
sat there in a sort. of stupor, wondering, if
this could be really the cousin who had once
been so fond of him, and whom he had half
despised for her very artlessness/and tender-
ness,
“T never dreamed she would make so fine a
woman,” he thought to himself, stroking his
silken moustache and wondering if she did
not yet cherish a lingering fondness for him,
smiling at the pleasant knowledge that this
superb creature might have been all, his
ared: dull and faded. beside this brilliant
woman, and. if Margaret had wished for s0
mean a revenge, she might have had it in the
fact that in that hour he regretted the trick he
had played her when he gave her to another.
+
amet
sae.
. THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
morning, but that he would return: on,to-mor-
‘
5
“By George, it makes a fellow feel proud
of her,’ he thought, as the building run
with kong con tanned applause, mingled wit
such. exulting shouts of the heroine's name
that she was obliged to appear the third time
before.the curtain. . “ But, afler all; a wife of
mine should never be an actress.. What
would Violet’s father say to Aer appearing in
public?’ and the memory of the dull dignity
with which brokers’ and . bankers’ families
must sit in state, cooled his enthusiasm, pre-
sently, down to a very faint spark.
Branthope was one of those men born to
marry into a good family, and to fulfill his
destiny in the act. Ah, if we could always
see how the darkness leads to the dawn, we
should have more patience with our troubles.
Margaret scarcely thanked God less for eseap-
ing trom Martinique thau from her cousin.
Branthope wearied his indolent brain, as he
Jay in bed the remainder of the night, in at-
tempting to account for the position.in which
he found Margaret. ;The next morning, hay-
ing ascertained at what hotel she stopped, he
sent up his card, with a note requesting a pri-
vate interview at the earliest hour at which
he, supposed she would have breakfusted.
His request was not denied ; and being shown
to a private parlor, his cousin, received him
there with a politeness and self-possession
which almost overthrew his own. Hehardly
knew in what form to put his queries,.finally
blundering into one as abrupt as possible—
“IT see you acknowledge the name of Mar-
tinique. Have you and Martinique become
reconciled, thau ?”
‘“‘ By death,” was the quiet answer, “Since
the name really is mine, I will not disown it,
for I intend, henceforth, that all shall be legal-
ly correct in my proceedings as well as all the
actions of my life open to observation.” .
“ Martinique dead ?” stammered Branthope.
“ And did he leave you his property ?”
“That question is the first which might be
expected from you,” she said, scornfully. “I
suppose I have a right to a third of his estates,
but I have not investigated that mutter yet. I
am glad you have called upon me, Branthope,
because ae nbout to visit Branthope Villa,
a it is more agreeable to have seen you
rst.
Her listener winced—she was coming then
to claim her fortune, upon which he had been
so success{ully luxuriating. 5
“Margaret is actually growing parsimoni-
ous,” he said to himseli—"* as if Martinique's
sopenty was not enough for her!: but he
orced himself to smile, and. to’ say haw, de
lighted Mrs. Maxwell. and, himself’ would: be
to receive so illustrious a,guest.” shi
“T shall not.come asa guest. I shall come
to take ion of my homestead and sgt
up my own household gods there, - You turn
‘ * ! a ee f ah
gee! ;
2 QA? ots ¥ : -—-
ieee
A
é, Branthope, so I suppose I had better
asten to assure you that] do not intend to
ruin you, although, probably, to reduee your
expectations a good deal. How «much did
Uncle Peter leave, when his: estates were
settled 2?) >) une esoibanoe Lied eid
“ About a hundred and ten thousand dol-
lars.”
“Very well. Itscems to have been decided .
by the voice of the people that Tam capable of
making a fortune for myself—I suppose I can
earn money by my profession a great deal
faster than you can by yours. I have not the
heart, cruelly as you have treated me, cousin,
to take from you all that for which you paid
the dear price of your integrity. You ought
to enjoy that for which yowhave sacrificed so
much! Then, too, being nephew, as Iam
niece, of the man who left it, | consider you
entitled to share with myself, though your
name is not mentioned in the will. ln short
I want the old homestead, for L love it, and
Uncle Peter’s memory makes it) sacred to
me. I want, also, five thousand dollars to
buy my wedding outfit.) The remainder you
shall have. Iwill make out the papers as soon
as convenient after I come home.’
‘You are generous, as ene Margaret,”
stammered her cousin, much relieved, yet.sen-
sible of a pang at having to resign the Villa
and its surroundings, so convenient as a sum-
mer resort. “ Did you say you wanted to buy
a wedding outfit?” putting on a gay air,
while conscious of a second pang of wounded
vanity to think his desertion had not blighted
all fancies of that kind.
“ Yes, I said so. Iam engaged to be mar-
ried; and [ tell you this, not because I expect
to borrow respectability from you or your con-
nections, but because you are a relative, bear-
ing the family name, and I prefer to be in my
own home, 2nd witha relative—even such a
one as you-for the few weeks previous to
my mea ae The genlleman to whom I am
ne Patlogg: V'll be bound.”
“ Yes—Mr. Kellogg is proud, and hasa high
position to sustain. He has taken me upon
trust—absolutely with no knowledge of me or
mine, except what he has gained fronmmy own
lips. Though a man of the world and neces-
sarily, by his profession, thrown into the socie-
ty of women more or less. of adventurers, he
has believed me, respected me, done me the
high honor of offering me his heart and name.
He asks nothing in return -but mesand. my
love; but I, too, am proud. I take: pleasure
in the thought that I shall be married:in) my
own house, with a splendor worthy of bim
and his fame. Every circumstance of my
other marri shall rest, without shadow,
under his full observation, You, sir, will
have to come to ee een before him ;
;
. WEDDED BUT NOT WON. *. Se
it is the only atonement I demand for the ine
jury you did me. As to your wife, I could
not, for her sake, mortify you before her, nor
shake her contidence in you. Lam quite will-
ing that she should believe you really thought
me dead, if, indeed, she knows anything about
me. But fromthe day 1 come to the Villa she
must be my guest, not L hers.”
* But she saw you, two or three times, play-
ing the part of servant-girl! She will be sure
to recognize you.”
“I think not. Dress makes a world of dif- ‘
ference. If she sees a resemblance she will
persuade herself that it is only a fancy of her
own.
A Then that confounded—excuse me, cousin,
—dressing-maid,—she will recognize you, I
think!”
“Oh, is Tina with youstill ?) Lam‘so'glad.
That child will do as I tell her ; she will never
make trouble.”
‘* How did you hear of Martinique’s death ?”
asked Branthope, clearing his throat, for he
found his voice husky, despite of his efforts to
appear quite at his ease, vy
“I saw him die,”"—she shuddered as she
said) it,—even the memory of that man al-
ways set her nerves quivering, so long had he
haunted and tortured her.
Branthope fidgeted in his chair, got up,
looked out of the window, pulled down the
blind, drew itup: .. rit
“T did not know you were living together,”
—that was his way of asking the question.
“Tlow did he die ?” .
“ By accident.” :
“Margaret, you are not—you did not—”
“No, I did not kill him., Tam glad, now,
that I was never tempted to. With the thou-
sand dollars you sent me I took passage for
London, very secretly, 1 thought, for Thad
become aware that Mr. Martinique was in the
city. When the steamer was only about forty-
eight hours from Liverpool, he suddenly ap-
peared in the cabin, having tracked, me on
board the boat, taken passage in it also, and
remained in his state-room long enough to —
highten my misery and his triumph when he
revealed his presence. God’s ways ure not
our ways, Branthope. At that very liour the
ship was on fire, among the freight in the hold,
The fire was kept down all day, but that night
we were vent to take to the boats.) Mr.
Martinique fell into the sea and was drowned,
I, with others in our boat, suffered many per-
ils and great hardships, on account of the
winter ‘weather, drifiing for two days and a
night, bat at the close of ihe ast day we
were taken up ‘by a’ sailing vessel, which, to
double’ our good fortune, was bound for the
same port for which we had started, and we
arrived in Liverpool, only six days late. I
heard of the safe arrival of two of the other
three boats—-the fourth was never heard from,
I believe. I went directly to London with
some theatrical friends, whose acquaintance I
had made on board the steamer—Mr. Kellogg
among them—and began to study for my new
career. At the end of three months 1 ven-
tured to obey their solicitations, and appear
upon the stage, in London, in a fashionable
theater, at the hight of the season. I was
successful, partly through my own merits, and
more, perhaps, from being so nobly sustained.
I played a brief engagement, which is re-
newed for next winter; then hastened home to
make preparations for a marriage, which Mr.
Kellogg urges, with truth, ought to be con-
summated speedily, in view of our profession,
and the fact that we have so many engage-
ments to play together.”
She smiled here, more to herself than upon
her listener, knowing as she did, so well, that
her lover would have been equally ready with
other arguments in favor of an early wedding,
had not these specious ones been at hand.
“Now you know,” she added, “all that is
necessary of my history since I left this city.
In two weeks my coqngunens al the Winter
Garden ends. I shall then cometo Branthope
Villa for a few weeks of repose, and to o
pare for the event which is fixed for the first
any of September. Good-morning.”
. Maxwell went down the staircase with
be air of a man who has got in the wrong
OUBE.
CHAPTER XX.
* A BIT OF TROPICAL LIFE.
That long rolling wave which washed Se-
nor Martinique away from the burning ship,
away from the waiting boat, away from the
shuddering gaze of the woman he had so per-
secuted, was not so fatal as those witnessing
his disappearance believed. Night and the
storm swallowed him up, but the energies of
life were fierce in his thin, muscular frame and
fiery heart—he was not the man tosink with-
out a stubborn fight with theelements. Many
moments he sustained himself, although con-
scious that he was being carried further from
bone of aid; and, when nearly exhausted and
f insensible, was rewarded for his energy
by feeling his arm come in contact with some
hard substance, after which he immediately
grasped, and found it to be one of the chairs
or stoola belonging to the ship, and which
was provided with an air-tight compartment,
wakin g it sufficiently perms to enable him
to rest himself upon it. pe revived with
this temporary aid; all night the Senor clung
to his life-preserver, numb, cold, and drowsy,
sometimes actually asleep, but ever tightly
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
clasping this “ straw” which was destined to
be his salvation.
For with the gray lightof dawn there came
a faintshout, sounding far away and dreamy
in his half-conscious ear, but which, in reality,
was close athand. The second boat, manned
by the second mate, had driven about aimless-
ly enough, at the mercy of the wind and
waves, yet Fate had so decreed that her wild,
erratic path should cross that of the floating
chair and its clinging freight, just when the
light was strong enough tomake the situation
evident. With great difficulty, and not with-
out risk to those already crowded in the boat,
the Senor was dragged in, and revived by the
attentions of those about him, who divided
with him their dryer garments, and shared
with him their bread and brandy.
This was only the beginning of his good
fortune. Before three o’clock of that first day
they hailed a large and handsome clipper-
ship, which hove to and took them up, giving
them hospitable welcome. One of the first
questions asked by the “forlorn and shi
wrecked brothers” was, where was the ship
bound? They were answered that she was
bound for Havana, with a cargo of cotton
cloth and iron, to return with sugars. This
was certainly not the direction they would
have chosen ; but life is too sweet for people to
stand on trifies, and gratitude was the upper-
most feeling with the rescued ; they had, too,
a lively hope that they should fall in with
some Havana vessel, England-bound, when
they could retrace their course. The cap-
tain assured them there was every prospect
of this, as such meetings were vent.
Whatever. interests the other rescued pas-
sengers may have had of bysiness or family
ties, no one was quite so eager as the Senorin
the sharp watch for the expected vesse]. He
would walk the decks all day long, gnawing
his lips with restlessness, feeling that she
whom he had tried so long to secure to him-
self was safe and happy with that audacious
actor whom he hated as only the jealous can
hate. He had nothing to do but make pictures
of the state of affairs between Margaret and
Mr. Kellogg. Once he burst out into a wick-
ed laugh: “She played a pretty successful
trick on me when she disappeared in the
river, and I went to the expense of a funeral
for another woman. A Roland for your
Oliver, Lady Martinique! I am as hard to
drown as you are! hat a welcome you'll
give me, sweet wife, when next I present my-
self to you. . I shall bring that little flirtation
of is to a speedy end.”
ut they.did not fall in with a homeward-
bound vessel; and as the Senor began to
realize how long it must be before he could
hope to reach London, and how exceedingly
doubtful it was if Margaret herself would
“
astride a streak 0’ greased Hentai”
hi
WEDDED BUT NOT WON.
ever reach there, his exulting changed to the
most gnawing impatience. One thing made
him wretched: the fact that those two had
_ escaped in company. Had they taken sepa-
rate boats, he t have been reconciled ;
but as it was, should they be taken to China
or Australia, they would siill be together, be
free from him, and be Happy. This bitter cer-
tainty made the lagging days any thing but
enviable. .
Six weeks passed before he set his foot on the
wharf at Havana. He proposed an immedi-
ate return to England, by steamer; but so
much time having already elapsed, and he
was so near his own home, prudence demand-
ed that he should pay a visit to Maracaibo be-
fore leaving again for an indefinite time.
Necessity, too, had something to_ do with his
‘decision ; for, although he had afew hundred
dollars in English bank-notes,well-soaked and
dried, but not destroyed, in his purse, he had
left his money, chiefly in gold, with other val-
uables, in his trunk, on the burned steamer.
Upon inquiry made of an acquaintance whos
warehouse was near at hand, he learned tha
a vessel from New York was then on the point
of proceeding on to Maracaibo, and in less
than an hour he was on his homeward way.
“« What’s the name of the passenger ?” ‘ask-
ed one sailor of another, as the Senor, the
next day, came on deck, and beginning his
promenade, looked at the rigging, the sky,
and the water, as if he longed to command
them to double duty, “ He’samighty uneasy
sort of traveler; looks as if he’d like to get
“ His name is Martinique, I heard him say.
He belongs in Maracaibo. Was on_his way
to Liverpool in the steamer burned up; he
was picked up by a vessél and brought to
Cuba, Put him out, some,I reckon. I don’t
blame him for lookin’ squally.”
“< Martinique, hey—lives at Maracaibo.
Jerusha! Td like to tell this to my Sally. I
romised her, fore I shipped, when I got there
Pa fix my eye on that i chap.”
“*Quaintance 0’ yourn?” —
. wt exactly. - Intimate friend of a young
ow.” :
ay Bg. She’}l be tickled to learn he was
burnt up.” : 14 ‘
“T's my pray opinion she wouldn’t
care how quick he began his nateral course
of life,” murmured “Zekiel Griggs to himself,
but he did-not confide this belief to his com-
panion. ‘
His interest in the passenger was greatly in-
creased after learning his name, and from
that time forward, a8 oe they were bound
in the same direction, he kept a sharp eye on
the unconscious Senor. - ?
*Zekiel Griggs, late canal-boatman, in the
absence of steady winter employment, and
75
under the magic persuasion of extra pay, had
been induced - to part from his Sally, and the
two little ones, and enter upon an enlar
sphere of observation and action, having left
his family comfortably settled in the tene-
‘ment-hcuse, and shipped for oné trip to Mara-
caibo and back.
The vessel in which he sailed was not one —
of the stanchest; but haying been favored —
with good weather, they reached port in safe-
ty; not, however, without becoming con-
vinced that important repairs would be
necessary before attempting the return trip.
This did not trouble the jolly sailors half as
much as it did the owners and masters; they
were quite equal to'a holiday, especially in
that tropical region, looking so beautiful to
their eyes in contrast with the ice and snow
they. had left behind.
__ Zeke, who, like somany honest, hard-work-
ing Yankees, had a spice of the richest poe
in his queer composition, was delighted; it
was his first experience away from home, and
s.he saw the orange groves, and the golden
atérs and deep-blue sky, and felt the kiss of
the balmy winds, he only longed that Sally
might be there, with the babies, to enjoy what
he enjoyed. Adres
“She would feel more romantical than
ever,” mused the good husband, thinking with
a sigh of the far-away and not over-pleasant
tenement-house, and without a reproachful
memory of neglected buttons and baker's
bread ; “ she.could squat in the sun, like one
of these here natives, an’ read novels from
mornin’ till night. No fires to build, an’ not
much clo’es to wear—and as for cookin’, a
few 0’ those penny flap-jacks, and plenty o’
juicy fruit, would be all natur’ requires.”
In fact, fora few days the languid effects
of the new climate were such on the hardy
sailor, that he had Tennyson in his heart if
not in his mind, and if he could have put his
feelings into words, would have said, with the
“ Lotus-eaters ” ;
s en slumber is more sweet than toil, the
shore
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and
oar i
Oh rest ye, brother-mariners, we will not wander
more,”’
But in the midst of this indolent enjoy-
ment, he did not forget the interest felt in
every movement of the Senor Martinique in-
to whose company he had been thrown by
such mere chance. ‘
“So that’s the feller that makes my dear
oung lady such trouble,” he would say to
imself, over and over, always after moe
the Senor, which he continued to do frequent-
ly for some days after the vessel came into
port; for the Senor had warehouses on the
dock, and was very busy looking into his af.
7%
fairs. “He's an eye like one o’ them ser-
own they says grow lively about here.
ndsome, but I don’t like the cut of his jib.
If he sets his foot down, I swow, it would
take a forty-horse power to make him take it
ap. I wonder if he’s come back to settle.”
__ It was soon evident that he had not come
_ back to settle; for in less than a week, the
_ Senor was off again for Havana, from whence
he was to take steamer to Liverpool.
“What's in the wind now?’ queried
- *Zekiel to himself, squinting his eye as if in
that way he could see more clearly into the
intentions of the restless traveler. “ He’s
- bound for England—Il lose mh if he
_ain’t on the track o’ my dear Miss Lucille.
If his ship hadn’t been lost, mebbe he’d ’a’
_ had her before now,”—he had not chanced to
learn that the vessel destroyed was the one
in which ee took passage, or he would
have been still more uneasy.
*Zekiel’s inquisitiveness came into full play,
as he lingered about the town, during the
hours when he was off duty, chatting with
such of the natives as could speak broken
English; he soon had almost the whole his-
tory of the rich Senor Martinique, as far as it
was known, in this his birthplace. The brown
old woman who washed his clothes for him
was a perfect mine of information, and two
or three small silver pieces opened her heart
and loosened her tongue like magic. “Berry
nice man—oh, berry; but an awful temper.”
She knew, for she used to be a servant in the
family, when he lived with his wife.
‘‘ Wife ? then the Senor was a widower, was
he?”
“Quien sabe? Tt might be—it might not.”
‘By degrees he got the whole story from
her; how the Senor had married a girl very
beautiful, but not rich, with no great relatives
to take her part; how he used to be fond of
her, aud very jealous. How sometimes he
would rave and rage, in a perfect fury, ac-
eusing her of a passion for some other gentle-
man who might have danced with her at a
ballj or spoken to her on the plaza. How
she, too, had a temper and willof her own—
and how, finally, either she left him,’ or ed
‘Was driven away by him, and went to live
in a small place back in the country, and to
work like a common woman, for he would
make her no allowance. ‘And how long
since she died?” asked ’Zekiel, with great in-
terest.
“Quien sabe?” the narrator had heard that
she perished of yellow fever two years ago
that summer. The Senor had had word sent
to him that she was dead; but he had not
even put a black band on his sombrero lit-
tle he cared—his bachelor life suited him bet-
ter. a ,
“ What name did the discarded wife goby ?”
yr
~~ =
$
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
= gun sabe?” She was not certain...
“
ration from her?”
“ Quien sabe?” shaking her head.
“Til find out all about
divorce—if the lady is dead, when she died
—all about it, I swow, if the Flying Oriole —
has to set sail without me,” mutte *Zekiel.
“Td do more’n that toserve Miss Lucille, and
who knows how important this informati
may prove to her?” '
CHAPTER XXI.
APPROACHING THE VERGE.
BRANTHOPE MAXWELL had a fortnight in
which to prepare a fable which should ac-
count for hig cousin’s return without exciting
too much gossip and astonishment in the
neighhorhood. All that his wife knew of
Margure: was that Branthope had had such
a relative, who would have been joint-heir
with him to his uncle’s estate, had she lived ;
but that she had been drowned while on her
bridal-tour. Branthope had only to inform
her that this supposed death was a mistake ;
that his cousin had been rescued, and that
now, her husband having died, she had
taken to the stage, for which she had always
evinced an extraordinary inclination; that
the Mrs. Martinique playing with such eciat,
in New York, was she; that she was a wo-
man to be proud ofthat he, in short, was
proud of her—that she must be immensely
wealthy, and playing simply from pure love
of the drama—and that she ‘was heir, with
him, to Uncle Peter's estate, but that she
would accept nothing of her property here,
except the Villa, which, being the home of
her childhood, she seemed to cherish a fancy
for. He added that Margaret was coming to
visit them, and to be married at the Villa, in
the course of a few weeks, to Mr. Kellogg, the
tragedian. He suggested that they resign the
place to her, since she had refused to take
more, but that, if urged by her, they should
finish the season there, as they first intend-
To all this. Violet listened with interest, not
loth to give up this pretty cotintry-seat, since
she was to gain such a beautiful, gifted, rich
kinswoman, and sa impatient for the day
of the cousin’s arrival. She was so glad that
her dear Branthope bad really found some
one of his own family for her to pet and love,
that she was quite like a child in her delight.
It relieved him to find her go ready to accept
the new state of affairs; her father, now,
might view thie change with more of a busi-
ness eye, but.even the puffy old. banker must
be conciliated by the picture of those South
American estates, coffee-plantations, and Ma-
%
ad'the Senor ever obtained a legal separ ‘
itif he had’ a.
.
« &
y
oe
- racaibo warehouses. So far, so good. But
_ .when any of Margaret's. old acquaintances,
bearing
questioned him about it, he was ob
the rumor of her ao
iged to be
"
aw little more explicit in his account of her res-
- . toration, after such stories as he:had told at
‘the time of her uncle’s death, of her body
having been recovered and buried. He now
stated that she had been carried under a
pier, had been rescued, when unconscious, by
strangers ; had lain a great many weeks ill of
brain fever ; that when she recovered, her hus-
band had been informed—that the two were
on their way to Europe at the time he was
lost by the burning of the steamer—and that
now she was a widow, with some thoughts of
marrying again.
The pe ané@ spaces so awkward to fill
were slurred over; no one thought but that
she had been a widow a year at least, and as
she had never had very intimate friends, it
was easy to keep unpleasant particulars from
being discussed. Nevertheless, there was a
g deal of excitement, especially when it
was understood that the lady by the name of
Martinique, on the theater-boards in New
York, was the same Margaret Maxwell whom
they had once known.
‘“Only what might have been expected
from a girl who ran away from her sick
uncle, with a fib in her mouth, to marry a for-
eigner,” remarked a good many, while two or
three who never had been invited to the villa,
firmly made up their minds that they should
not call upon a woman who had appeared in
public, on the stage—that is, if they did call,
it would be because curiosity overpowered
prudence, and then, the respectability of the
Maxwells, and the wealth of the young
widow, might lend them support in this try-
ing emergency.
Se eae thagnifieent summer day, the mid-
dle of July, when Margaret finally arrived at
Branthope ila. A night shower had wash-
ed the dust from the verdure, so that the
woods and fields and hills were in their fullest
beauty. As she entered the hall, graceful,
self=possessed, blooming with happiness, rich-
ly dressed, Mrs. Maxwell, greeting her with an
affectionate embrace, did receive an impres-
sion that she had met the lady before ; which
impression she finally set dowa to the credit of
a resemblance to her husband—never dream-
ing of associating this brilliant person with
the startled, care-worn, shabbily-dressed flow-
er-maker who had interceded with her for a
ition for Tina.
ye rage stood at the head of the stairs to
\ reeeive the lady’s hat aud shawl, and conduct
her toher room, scarcely repressed a faint cry
as she saw who it was; but Margaret’s influ-
ence was still so powerful over her that the
memory of her expressed wish gave her dis-
=
ag
a WEDDED BUT NOT WON.
7
cretion, so that even after the door had closed
upon the two, she did not speak, until the
visitor said : r 7
‘My dear little Tina! Iam so glad to see
you here, so well and comfortable. My cou-
sin, Mr. Maxwell; told me you were still with
them; for you may be sure that. I inquired af
ter you.. So, you are welland happy ?”
ina, laughing and crying before,. now
added blushing to the picture of her excite:
ment,
“Oh, yes; ’m happier than ever [ was in |
my life. I like it so much in the country!
And I'm so glad to see you, Mrs. Martinique,
and to know that nothing terrible happened |
to you, after all. I’ve fretted so much about —
true character !
to accuse you of being a princess in disguise ?
I knew it. But I never dreamed that you
were 2 married woman.”
“JT was married, but I fled from the man to
whom | was bound, within an hour after the
ceremony was performed. It was to avoid
him that I had so much trouble. But that is
all over now—he is dead. And I am to mar-
ry one whom I love, Tina!” As she uttered
this last sentence, a rapturous smile lighted
her beautiful face. . “ 1 wish never, never to
refer to what is past. Think of me now asa
happy girl, about.to wed the man I love!”
- Then, as she threw off her hat and light
mantle, and looked about the room, a sudden
cloud shadowed her bright face, tears rushed
to her eyes, and she exclaimed : b's
“This was Uncle Peter’s room. I bade
him good-by, here!”
She was silent for some little time. Tina saw
that she was weeping. “It brings all back
tome—my childhoud, my dear adopted father,
It seems but yesterday that I turned at this
door to bid him a gay farewell for four or five
brief days. Ah! how strange! Who of us
knows where our next step will bring us?
Tina, if there is time I should like to walk to
the church-yard before tea; I know the place
—it is but.half a mile from here.”
Tina said there would be time, and, at her
request, accompanied her. | Mrs. Maxwell
thought it quite natural that she should de-
sire to visit her uncle's grave, cheerfully de-
laying her own desire to make the acquaint-
ance of her new cousin until the tea-hour,
When Margaret appeared at table, one
might guess that she had been weeping; but
her face was like a rose after a shower, all the
brighter for the traces of past emotion. Mrs.
Maxwell was “ perfectly charmed” with her
so beautiful and good-tempered and intel-
lectual, she could not sufficiently admire her.
—“T feel as if I had gained a sister,” she said,
before tea was over. Then, that same even-
ing, when Margaret had sung something —
*
r ‘e
you! And now you have come out in your |
on’t you remember I used
hs
* %
_ + behold, what a mistake!
_ have met my real soul-partner, and Branthope
would have missed the sweet woman who is
78
fon. her at the piano, she burst out again
with : \
“Branthope, [can’t account for it !”
ps Why os een Teall
ou an t—may ou
80 ?-—did be makea match. I don’t see or
you have helped being desperately in love
with her. But perhaps neither of you believe
in cousins marrying.”
“That's just it,” answered Margaret,
ly; “even second cousins should not
‘marry together. If we, as children, had fan-
ied each other, and rashly united ourselves,
I should never
now engaged in spoiling him.”
“That would have been unfortunate—for
me,” smiled Violet, her hand creeping into
her husband’s, who was looking full at his
cousin with the bold glance of a vain man, to
see, if possible, if there was not some shade
x of nee on her handsome face. The con-
_ ceited puppy had half expected that the old
associations connected with her home, and
the sight of him there, devoted to his pretty
wife, would make the woman whom he had
once jilted unhappy. As if she read his
glance, her lip just curled the slightest ; but
enough to convince him that he need not ex-
periment with the past.
From that time he bore meekly the cold
half-contempt with which his cousin treated
him, except when, in Violet’s presence, she
endeavored to appear more cordial to him ; in
his heart he was secretly grateful affairs were
no worse, It appeared as if he. were. to es-
ome with very light punishment for his of-
enses.
“Tf you will keep house until the first of
September, it will oblige me,” said Margaret,
when, the next morning, Mrs. Maxwell offer-
ed to resign in her favor. ‘‘ Branthope says
that you intended making a short tour at that
time, and then returning to your city house.
If so, I will keep the villa open another
month, for, if Mr. Kellogg likes it, I know of
no place where I should so like to spend our
honeymoon. At present I need sest—abso-
lute re for I have been badly tossed
about the last few months.”
“You shall enjoy the fullness of peace,”
said Violet. “I’m tired of company, myself,
this warm weather, so, except such friends as
come of their own accord, I will invite no
visitors. I suppose Mr. Kellogg feels that he
has the freedom of the house ?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell, yes. I have
invited him to spend his Sabbaths here, Oh,
how pleasant it seems to be at home again !”
“ Six weeks is a short time for your prepar-
iio, I took six months. We must begi
ee ainmodistely, | mites” oe
: Pte :
se
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR, |
“No, my dear Mrs. Maxwell, Lintend toor- |
der every thing ready-made—trousseau, sw
per, decorations, all. My dresses are alr s
in the hands of the New York modiéstes ; *
monico has en. to send out the banquet —
and the waiters, and I have spoken for the
floral decorations—as I intend to turn this
villa into a bower of roses for the memorable
occasion. So you see, really, we have very
little todo, but rest and enjoy ourselves.”
‘“Qharming,” cried Violet, ‘and I am so
glad youcame here to be married! I’ve often
seen Mr. Kellogg on the stage. In truth, I
don’t know but I should have romantically
fallen in love with him, if I had not made
Branthope’s acquaintance at that time. Not
that I ever saw him off the stage.”
“ How fortunate that your fancy was di-
verted in season that he might be left for me.
You shall see this hero, in traveling costume
and ordinary mortal guise, to-morrow night.”
During the days and weeks which followed,
Margaret lived in an atmosphere of summer
splendor. No longer pursued by that restless
shadow of fear, she rested and bloomed, as the
flowers bloomed in the rich sunshine. She
would sit long afternoons in the high tower,
avolume of Shakspeare in her lap, now read-
ing, now dreaming, the lovely country about
her making pictures for her lingering glance.
When she expected Kellogg she would go
up there to watch for the first glimpse of the
coming train. The days which he spent at
the villa were golden days, rich with the hap-
piness of two hearts capable of more joy than
inferior natures.
Margaret, in her prosperity, had not forgot-
ten the humble friends to whom she owed pro-
tection, if not life itself. Before coming out
to the villa she had sought out the tenement-
house to which she had once made such an
early visit, and had been agreeably surprised
to find Mrs. Griggs still a resident therein.
That kind woman and inveterate novel-read-
er had been thrown almost into “ highsteer-
ics” at the sight of her, declaring it altogether
more romantical than any thing she ever
read, when her visitor briefly informed her as
to. the main points in her eventful career, since
’Zekiel had seen her on the steamer.
“ An’ that man was arter you all the time!
actilly took passage.on the same boat! That
duz beat all, an’ Sam Patch into the bargain.
I. don’t wonder the vessel took on fire.
But he’s drownded now, an’ [ll say no more.
If the devil should die, I s’pose we'd g° rak-
in’ up his good qualities. Where’s ’Zekiel ?
laws, you hain’t heerd, have you? why, he
shipped las’ February on a vessel to be gone
three months; but she was an’ old concern,
an’ I’ve a letter that she’ getting repairs,
which is what is keeping ’em. t I’m look-
‘i’ for him back, now, im a week or two.”
. oe pa oe
|
}
|
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 19
“T hope he will return in time for the wed-
ding,” said the visitor, blushing a little, but
smiling more. : ;
“Du tell! your’n, of course? goin’ to be
married in airnest, at last, as you deserve.
My! I can’t abide to wait till Zeke gits home
to take me to the theater, to see you an’ he a-
playin’ together! But as tothe wend my
dear, I couldn’t think of it, though I'd admire
to go. I hain’t no suitable dress. .
“What sort of dress would you prefer, if
you could suit ager fancy, to wear at the
wedding ?” asked Margaret, smiling.
“Law, now, I’m not goin’ to say a word
about it, for I don’t wantno one to be makin
me &@ present. A n an’ white gingham 8
the best I’ve got, an’ I’m not goin’ to shame
you by comin’ in that. When I was pickin
it out, Isaw such a sweet pretty cinnamon-
brown. silk, with a little satin figurein it, only
two dollars a yard, but it was awful narrow,
an’ I just felt of itand asked the price. The
hull store couldn’t ’a’ persuaded me to take it,
though, as the clerk said, it was becomin’ to
my complexion, for ’Zekiel, when he went
away, said as how I must be equinomical, an’
I mean to be.”
“ Well,” said the young lady, “T shall send
you cards, whether you come or not; and as
to seeing us play, I shall not forget to send
you tickets to the parquette, and I shall see
ou, too, when you are there, and pay all the
Detter for knowing that my best friends are
enjoying it.
“ La suz, how pretty of you to say so! I'll
look queer, in the parquette, with my green
ngham ; but Pll be sure tocome, if the hull
foster should laugh and whistle; an’ Zeke
shall bring bouquet, and throw it on the
stage, as big as that basket, if it costs ever so
»”
That very afternoon, not more than two
hours after her visitor had gone away, there
came a knock at her door, and a package was
handed in, tied up in brown paper, off which
she tore the wrappings with pleasant present-
iments, and unfolded to her delighted view a
cinnamon-brown silk of a much richer quali-
ty than the one she had coveted—also a neat
white shawl, and a pair of gloves.
It was plain that Miss Margaret would not
consider the wedding festivities complete
without her, and she began to hope that ’Ze-
kiel would return vis time to share in the tri-
f the occasion.
"t in dress was made up and laid awa,
in the bureau-“ draw” along with the shawl.
The ship in which ’Zekiel sailed returned, and
yet ’Zekiel himself came not. . Her anxious
inquiries were answered by the urser, that
4 Zeke hed come up missin’” at the last mo-
ment—whether he had deserted, or whether
some accident had befallen him, they did not
know, but were afraid of some mishap, as he
was the steadiest of all their hands, the last
One they should expect to play them a trick.
That evening, as Miss Sally sat crying, and
holding both her children in her lap, fretting
about her husband, a sailor called and left her
a note, which he said his comrade had con-
fided to him to be delivered secretly.
“ Zeke is all right, ma’m,” he said, with a
wink of the eye; “but he wasn’t just ready
to leave Maracaibo. There’ll be another ves-
sel from there in a couple o’ weeks, an’ he'll be
aboard her, if Yellow Jack don’t git hold of
him afore he’s off.”
Mrs. Griggs read the brief letter, which was
only satisfactory in proving that her husband
was alive, and had remained behind of his
own accord.
“ DEAR SALLY, don’t be scartaboutme. I would not
do any thing so bad as leave my messmates in the
lurch, only [’'m on the wake of a little craft as will
make somebuddy we both know very happy, if Ican
bring her to, which may seme pirattical, but must be
done fer the wellfare of her who has had so much
trouble. Jim will give you this. I expect to behome
in two Weeks. Kiss the babies, my deer Sally, and be
a good gir! till you see, 4. @.”
“He'll be back in time for the wedding, ar-
ter.all,” reflected Mrs. Sally, well pleased ;
“but what he means, or who he refers to, a
buddy could no more tell than they could
guess the riddle about Jonah an’ the whale.”
CHAPTER XXII.
IN THE SNARE AGAIN.
DRESSED in her wedding robes, Margaret
stood at the window of her room, listening
for the approach of the train which was bring-
ing the bridegroom, and numerous of his
friends. The sun had set, but it was not yet
dark, the rosy splendor of the west meeting
and mingling with the pearly luster of a ful
moon Juss rising in the east. The house was
full of gay sounds, music, laughter, singing,
jesting ; ladies were walking on the porticoes
and standing in groups on the lawn; the halls
resounded with mirthful voices and light foot-
steps; the air, within and without, was abso-
lutely burdened with the perfume of uncount-
ed flowers.
The larger number of the lady oo had
arrived by the earlier train, and having re-
freshed themselves and their toilettes, were
now enjoying the beautiful house, decorated
with exquisite taste for the occasion, and the
delightful grounds. These guests, of course,
were the friends of Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,
and many of them of Mr. Kelloge—the bride-
elect having, as we know, been so circum-
stanced through her young life as to have few
friends of her own. One Boos friend she had,
though, who had not failed her, but was there,
Se
~~ gome—white as the robe and vail and wreath
:
80
in the full glory of a new brown silk and
white shaw]; but Mrs. Sally had not brought
i S for ot oe eee looked up to
ast hour, yet been o to without
him after all. _ AB
Margaret, strange as had been many of the
influences of her life—little as she had mingled
with what is called society, and stranger as
she was to almost every fuce she could see
that night, felt no timidity at the ordeal before
her. lLustead, the hour to her was felt as one
of triumph. She was so proud of her lover
that she was proud of herself as his choice;
_ and to do honor to him, and to herself for his
sake, she had resolved that all should be lavish,
tasteful, befitting a queen of society.
The banquet was ordered from the city;
flowers filled the house, and the little villa
church, within which the ceremony was to
performed—for Margaret was of too im-
mediate English descent to be, married any-
where but in church, by the Church-of-Eng-
land service. Fae ae ,
. ee siese blle ey mS hes
le ate nad
What is the
Te
“
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. $1
“Why, Kemble, what is it?” she asked,
“half alarmed ; for he spoke with an excite-
ment quite different from the soft joy with
» which at first he had regarded her.
“ Oh, nothing, nothing,” he answered, drop-
ping her hand and beginning to walk up and
n the floor, while she stood silent until he
flung himself upon a sofa, sighing wearily. -
Kemble, you are fatigued to death. I
might know you would be, you have been 80
hurried lately. Have you had any supper?
“No, darling; but I am to have a cup of
tea directly. After that, Richard’s himself
again. Why, do I frighten you, Juliet? I
had an ugly thought—that was all. It cross-
es'ny mind at the most unexpected times. It
is the only shadow on the sunshine of my too
bright prospects.” . eit
Tell it tome; that will exorcise it,” she
said, sinking to a footstool before him, and
looking up at him, with expectant eyes.
* Nay, least of allto you. I tell you it is
ne—perhaps forever. It will not come
ack when you are actually mine. See! look
in my eyes !—don’t they show that I am a thou-
sand times happier than I deserve to be ?” smil-
ing and looking indeed exultant—“ but there
is the signal that my cup of tea is waiting—
and the sooner we part now, the sooner we
shall meet to part no more, Juliet, sweet, dar-
ling—wife.”
lushing at the word, with his kiss on her
hand, she stole back to her chamber to await
the summons which came within an hour,
calling her down to setout forthechurch. A
long train of carriages waited to take up the
company, the full moon lighted the bridal
cortege, and the lights of the church glimmer-
ed, in the distance, through the arched win-
dows. Margaret went in the carriage with Mr.
and Mrs. Maxwell, her cousin being the per-
s0n who was to give her away. Her heart
was too full of the solemn rapture, the intense
emotions of the hour, to allow her space for
much reflection, contrasting this with another
occasion when she had gone to a church With
the man who now sat opposite to her by the
wife of his choice. ;
The little edifice was so crowded, that it
was with difficulty a path could be cleared to
the altar; the bridal procession, obliged to
move slowly, was sustained by the or an’s an-
them ; the spectators rejoiced in the slight de-
lay, which gave them prolonged opportuni-
ties for noting the arrangement of the orange
wreath, the thickness of the lustrous silk, how
White the bride was, how red she was, and
whether, or not, she carried a bouquet. The
bridegroom, too, being 2 stranger, received an
unusual share of attention. — of
The. music. died. slowly out, the buzz
of whispering spectators subsided into silence,
as the clergyman advanced, and the ony
we 5 ae Le. digg gy
ce) Pale >
fa # ae
=v
£
¥ @®,
ae : ‘
Se ea ae RB.
began. When he came to the words—‘ If
any man can show just cause why they may
not lawfully be joined together, let him now
speak, or else hereafter forever hold his
peace” —there was a movement in onc of the
uare pews facing the altar on the scuth side
of the church. Some one sitting there in the
shadow of a pillar, stood up; Margaret was
conscious of a slight sensation in the assem-
bly, but her thoughts were too intent on the
solemn service to allow her eyes to wander.
In the brief pause left by the clergyman,
more from custom than because it was ever
expected any response would be made, some-
thing fell upon the consciousness of the
ple present, as the shadow of a cloud falls on
a landscape. They saw the person arise, and
felt sympathetic chill; but there was no
time to shape an idea, before a soft, clear, pe-
culiar voice—s voice sweet, for a man’s, and
yet with something stinging and cruel in it,
said— I know a good and sufficient reason.
The lady before the altar is my wife.” —
His voice! Margaret turned q startled and
shrinking glance that way, as if she expected
to behold a spirit arisen from its grave. He
stood there, half-smiling, calm, as ever, look-
ing at her with the old gaze of passion and
triumph !—no uneasy ghost, come back from
death itself, to assert its power over her, but
Senor Martinique, in the body, standing there,
calling her his wife, before all that assem-
bly, and the man she loved silent by her side!
“Ts this the truth?” asked the clergyman
of her, while, as yet, the crowd had not stir-
red, but seemed holding its breath, |
Her eyes, dull, now, and glazed, wandered
from the speaker to the Senor’s, and back
again; the earth seemed heaving under her
feet, a leaden weight pressed the breath from
her lungs; mechanically, in a heavy, cold
tone she answered :
“Tt is; but I thought him dead. He was
drowned before my eyes.” When,attemptin
to turn toward Kellogg, she groped. blindly
with her hands, and would have fallen, but
the strong arm of her lover closed about her
waist and she only felt that she rested upon
him, and all else waa a blank to her.
“ For God's sake, Kellogg, let me carry her
out, and let all explanations be made more
privately. The whole house is agape,” whis-
pered Branthope. ;
A universal sigh was breathed by the spec-
tators, when Margaret sunk insensible; they
began to stir, now, and a small tumult broke
out, where, for a moment, the pause of sur-
prise adhd curiosity had reigned.
“I want no private explanations,” burst
forth Mr. Kellogg, in a voice, of thunder.
“You are not dealing with a timid and igno-
rant girl, now, Mr, well, but with me,
This case is mine!”
4 eye
”"
82
“ For heaven’s sake, compose yourself,”
pleaded reales. a sickening dread of ex-
causing ‘him to turn very pale. ‘“ This
ieno place for such ascene. My wife is here
—our friends—relatives—”
“All the better for my purpose. You, and
Senor Martinique yonder, must know that I
am aman no one dares to trifle with. What!
keep my peace, and this woman whom I
love, lying here, half killed by your coward-
ly persecutions! The spirits of the dead
about us would rise up to reproach me for
such weakness. Do not go, good people. —
Sit you still in your seats, and you shall hear
a story which will make you wiser, as regards
the capability of meanness to be found in the
hearts of 7 men—honored members
of society, church-goers, and _ tithe-payers.
Til tell you all about this marriage between
Margaret Maxwell (a girl of seventeen at the
time it took place) and John Lopez Martin-
ique. I will show you the part her cousin
and natural protector, Branthope Maxwell,
took in it. I will bring before you a vivid
picture of what one man will do to gratify a
selfish desire, which he dignifies by the name
of love; and what another will do to secure
a fortune, without the exertion of earning it.
ied! ay, but no law in the land would
hold it valid one moment; a damned piece
of heartless fraud, from which my poor. dar-
ling here could at once have freed herself, had
she not been a child in all the ways of the
world—brought up in a_ seclusion which
aoe her the helpless victim of their plot-
esaid the words “ my poor darling, here,”
with an accent of such infinite tenderness,
cing down at the white face resting on
is shoulder, that half the women in the
house burst into tears, they knew not why,
_but hushed themselves again, for fear of los-
ing one word of what he was saying. It is
not to be supposed that if Kemble Kellogs
could move a critical audience to tears an
sobs in a cause which he made his own, only
through the power of an actor’s sympath
with the character he assumes, he would fail
to produce the effect he desired upon the
-bound people who heard him now—sim-
a countryfolk, some of them, and many of
them hisown warm personal friends from the
city, with the relatives and friends of Mrs.
Maxwell, who sat, with her hands clasped,
mene Peer beg and ee ered
m the g, he to argaret’s
story—in words ae as possible, tne ane:
ing and scathing with contempt Ee ae
touched upon Branthope or the Senor. He
poe her plunge into the river to escape
m her relentless abductor; her heroism in
resisting the alluremente of
*
s . * 4's.
? , ™%’
t tg
V é
z
his eal
when her heart could not 0 wih ber hand?
a ¢ “¢
i
+
‘THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
her life in the city as seamstress and flower-
maker, while her cousin was enjoying him-
self upon her money; ber final escape on the
steamer, where he (Rellogs) had seen and
loved her; the Senor’s appearance there, dog-
ging her to a strange country, in the hope of
yet securing her; the fire on the ship, the
supposed death of the Senor—Margaret’s
magnanimity in never having publicly be-
trayed her cousin, instead, allowing him to
retain the most of the property for which he
had been guilty of so much meanness.
“You all know,” he concluded, “that there
3not a court in the land that would not free
her from this persecution as soon as the papers
could be made out. It was only her inexperi-
ence which kept her so longin bondage. After
I told her that she could procure a legal re-
lease, she resolved to do so; but after the
death, as we thought, of Senor Martinique,
there was no occasion for such a proceeding.
Some men, we know, are not born to be
drowned ; it now appears that he is one of
them. I thank him for appearing here this
night. It has saved my intended wife some
mortification. She will now, of course, at once
proceed to obtain a release—I will not say
divorce, for she never lived with this man.
His kiss has never even stained her lips.
Mine she is and shall be, my virgin bride,
adoring me as I do her,’—pausing to kiss
Margaret’s forehead, at which a murmur of
sympathy arose, so loud that the ae
memory that they were in church, preven
it from bursting into a long, triumphant,
hearty shout—“ a woman who has not her
peer, and who will no longer find herself at
the mercy of two men,” darting contemptuous
glances at Branthope and Martinique. “ In
conclusion, friends and strangers, I invite you
to reassemble at this church, at-this hour, one
mouth from this date, and we will finish the
woe oe * which has been so unpleasantly in-
terrupted.” ; :
An enthusiastic clapping of hands, with
something which sounded very much like a
cheer, assured him of the anne of his
hearers; the tumult, sounding in Margaret's
dull ears like the roaring of the sea, recalled
her to some consciousness of what was tran-
spiring about her. She raised her head,
looked on the surrounding-faces, shivered’ as
if cold, and again closing her eyes:
“ Let me die, here and now, Remble. lam
so tired—so tired !”—piteously, like an over-
wearied child. &
“It is just time to begin tolive!” whispered
her lover. ;
“ Guard yourself!” shrieked Mrs, Maxwell.
She had no time to say , not even to indi-
cate to whom the w was given; but
Kellogg, burdened as he was with the weight
‘of whirled, by instinct, in time
{o see
nd 5
¥
»
Noel sel
y.
¥ —
Spe
4
WEDDED BUT NOT WON. 83
the Senor pressing through the crowd to his
side, his hand in his breast, with that peculiar
gesture which told what he was after. The
next instant the enraged and thwarted South-
erner had fired, before the persons who sprung
to restrain him could lay finger upon him.
_ But for once, the Fates directed the pistol-
ag with something like an approach to just-
ice; it whizzed past the man for whom it was
intended, lodging in Branthope’s arm, who
_ still stood close to Kellogg by the chancel-
rails. ig Jue
as,
CHAPTER XXIII.
FINALE IN D MAJOR.
Ix his excitement, Branthope did not know
that he was wounded; he felt the ball only by
anumbness above his elbow. There was time
for no. more mischief, before a dozen stout
-hands clutched at the assassin, tore his
weapon from him, and held him as in a vise,
while the sheriff of the county, who, with all
the rest of the community, was in the church,
pressed forward to make him prisoner for this
outrageous assault. :
’ iP he is a gentleman,” hissed the Senor,
“he will not refuse to meet me. I shall be
out on bail to-morrow, Mr. Kellogg, and my
second shall wait upon you.”
“T am a gentleman,” responded Kemble,
calmly, “and I do refuse to meet you—for that
reason. 1 only fight with honorable men.”
A buzz and a second cheer went up at this.
The audience by this time ignored their where-
abouts, and let human nature have play as
freely as if outside church-walls.
“Make way!” cried Kemble, who had a
touch of the actor in his ejaculation when
very much aroused ; “ my darling will die for
want of .air.”
“La! yes; do clear the decks,” cried Mrs.
Griggs, who, for once, had had her fill of ro-
mantical mysteries, and, all in tears, had urged
her way to the side of the young lady. “ Ah,
Miss Margaret, is your troubles never to be
over, I do wonder ;” and she waved an im-
moe palm-leaffan with such vigor that the
bride-elect gasped tor breath, and tnaly, after
two or three shuddering efforts, came back to
consciousness. ,
“Tl get you out of this, sweet,” murmured
Kemble in her ear. “I will takesyou away
from all these eyes and ears. I have friends.
-A cordon of them shall surround you every
moment until you are free to finish the cere-
mony. It is but a brief delay, after all, my
sweet, sweet, sweet.” j
He murmured to her, as if she were a‘baby
to be petted, he feltso much more vexed to
think she should be made to suffer so, than
he did even for his a Meappoinipentia ag
‘ Se et i &
Fe Ah ST nan
tye
bt see rd ee with a faint ames and,
sesing g' 8. Gri lying her fan, gave
her on of her arms, hie Kemble supported
the other, and the three began to move slowly
in the wake of the retiring crowd.
Just here a thin, loud nasal voice rung over
the heads of the multitude, and looking up,
they saw a bluff man, in sailor rig, standing on
the railing in front of the choir, and waving
his hat.
It seemed as if surprises were to have no end.
“Lord love us!” shrieked Mrs. Griggs, “ it’s
my ’Zekiel !”
“Why, yes; if I ain’t your’n, I ain’t any
woman’s,” answered the sailor, beaming down
on the lifted free like a lantern to the fore. “I
ain’t a polygamist, that’s so, like some I knows
on,” and he winked at Senor Martinique, who
stood, with clenched teeth, motionless under
the sheriff's hand. “Don’t be in a hurry,
friends! Heaye to and cast anchor, and listen
to a regl’r sailor’s yarn. I’ve been on a long
voyage, and if I’m fifteen minutes late, the
best-rigged ships will lose that, sometimes, in
a yun of several hundred miles. I’m real
pleased it wa’n’t half an hour, kase, if it
had been, I should have been too late to have
tied a true-lover’s knot between them two, to-
night. And I can tell you, parson, you'll be
wanted yit, to finish this little job, so you
needn’t be a-taking off that night-gown.
“You see, I been down to Maracaibo, where
the Senor hails from. We lay to, there, a
ood spell; and, as I hadn’t much else to do,
Teaced t I'd look up his character—for, you
must know, I’m the master of the Sally Ann,
as took Miss Margaret aboard, when she came
” near bein’ water-logged that night, in the
river—”’
“Oh, lud, yis; that wet through, and her
clothes friz to her, as you never saw—a most
romantical”—put in Mrs. Griggs’ oar, and
then suddenly ceased—in her excitement the
good woman had spoken right out in meetin’,
and was “whorongh iy frightened the moment
she realized it. :
“An me an’ wife, we took an igterest in
her,” went on the sailor, from his perch on the
gallery railing; “ we knew she wanted to Ber
shet. of that fellow that had just snared her
like a fish in a net, an’ I set about making
myself familiar with his—”
‘ ne te assisted Mrs, Griggs,
orgetting herself again.
PYis, Srith aiken oa Sally says. And what
was one o’ the first _ I stubbed my toe
in’? Can’t you ladies and gentlemen?
o? Well, Senor Martinique has had a wife
these fourteen years. It’s true, he’s younger
than she, and she’s got an awful. temper,
and they hain’t lived together these ten years.
s 'S.4
“ene ’
Tae. ©
_ Still, there hain’t been any | separation
ia the woman's alive tudo. soon her
3.
talked with her myself, and wasn’t she hop-
pin’ mad when I told her the Senor had mar-
ried a handsome yeung lady! You may bet
on that. 80 she didn’t makes many bones of
Jendin’ me her weddin’-certificate an’ all the
Writin’s, includin’ a settlement of plenty o’
money on her loving husband—and here’s the
documents, good friends, in this here envel-
ope. I’m in the nick o’ time. Hurrah!’ He
waved his hat with a sailors cheer, which was
heartily responded to by the people.
“So you see, parson, this young lady was
never truly married to that ar’ man, and there
in’t a straw in the way of your settin’ to work
d finishin’ the job. You'll pocket your pay
the sooner,” with another wink, “and all that
weddin’-cake won’t be wasted. The least
that can be done by Mr. Maxwell is to give
usa thunderin’ feast—while, as for the Senor,
I propose we tie him up to the main-
mast, and punish him by letting him look
on.
Some of the audience laughed ; and ’Zekiel,
scorning the stairs, came down a pillar, like a
Squirrel # tree, made his way to his wife, and
kissed her with a resounding emphasis.
‘““There’s a smack,” observed he to the per-
son nearest at hand, who chanced to be a
pretty and tittering young girl.
-. The gallant sailor marshaled the bridal party
“back before the altar; the minister and Mr.
Kellogg examined the yellow papers which
proved the previous marriage of Mr@Martin-
ique, and then, there being no longer reason
for delay, the ceremony was resumed, at the
point where it broke off,
In three moments more Romeo and Juliet
were man and wife.
After the benediction, loud murmurs of con-
gravaleeon arose ; all pressed forward to wish
the noble couple all the joy that earth has in
store for her most favored. *
At this juncture Branthope stood up before
the altar. He*was pale from emotion, as well
as loss of blood. His wifeéhad bound up his
arm as tightly as she could with his handkcr-
chief, for he had ¥efused to go away until he
had spoken. With more of manliness than
one would have expected from him, he ex-
pressed his shame and sorrow at the part he
had taken in his cousin’s persecutions, alleg-
ing, as some palliation of his selfishness, the
fact that he had been led astray in the city, in-
to expensive habits, and had contracted
debts which made the prey of the more
designing Senor. He then, personally, begged
Marguret’s forgiveness, which she, in. the
‘happiness of that hour, could not refuse him.
.
clude that she remained and
As a proof that she really did forgive, he |
P STO ,
THE BETRAYED BRIDE; OR,
asked that we would rast to the — ac-
cording to the original programme, and grace
the waiting widcilinigAaciceoet.
Generous as ever, the bride consented, and
the invited guests returned to the Villa, gayer
than usual, after the strange interruptions to
the regular order of things.
Mr. and Mrs. Griggs had a conspicuous seat
at table, and were much admired by the re-
fined guests—as curiosities. It will be a life-
long pleasure to Mrs. Sally to feel that, for
once in her existence, she mingled in as fine
and fashionable a “throng” as she had ever
read of in her best-loved novels.
Mr. Maxwell had to send for the doctor to
dress his arm ; but he kept up till the compa-
ny separated, —a midnight special train taking
the New York visitors home, and with them
Mr. and Mrs. Kellogg.
During the ride to town Kemble explained
to his wife the nervousness which he had
shown in the early part of evening. He told
her that for the last three days he had received,
through the post, each day, a mysterious inti-
mation that a disappointment wasin store for
him. He began to feel a subtle assurance
that Martinique was alive; yet, as such a
thing was so incredible, he tried to shake off
the impression, with more or less success, ac-
cording to his mood.
When the Senor paid his fine, for assault,
and was a free man, he immediately left the
country. The woman for whom he had played
so high a stake, was another’s; and, though
his fiery temper burned to aes itself on the
actor, there was about Kemble Kellogg a cool
air of courage and self-possession, which made
him wisely conclude to defer his revenge to
some indefinite future period.
To sweet,innocent Mrs. Maxwell the public _
story of her husband’s weakness was a sorry
blow. It was some time before she recovered
spirits to face even her friends. Shutting her-
self in the Villa, she nursed Branthope until
his arm was well, and seeing how ashamed
he was, did not reproach him. She loved him
Well enough to forgive him. And it was the
compe ng good in his general laxity of
principléahat he really did love and cherish
his pretty wife.
As for little Tiua, she was distracted be-
tween two desires—to go with Mrs. Kellogg,
as her ewones and have the pleasure
of dressing her for all those fine characters in
which she was to appear—or to remain and
marry the head-gardener of Branthope Villa,
To the credit of her womanliness let us con-
married the gar-
atnieneeetnamnassnsnemnmne- ~wasiemapeniain ie
& A Tale of True Love!
FRANK STARR’S ILLUSTRATED NOovELs, No. 3, which will issue FRIDAY, JANUARY
14th, is another pleasant surprise for the lovers of heart romance, viz.:;
BLANCHE RATCLIFF'S TRIALS;
The Broker’s Son.
A ROMANCE OF A LOST DIAMOND.
The ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’ are fully exemplified in this fine story,
The heroine—a young girl, left alone and friendless, finds in man her worst foe and her
truest eee. A tragic circumstance deprives her of her protector, and, at the same time,
gives the romance its leading incident—the loss of a precious jewel, in whose history
is involved the young girl's fate,
The characters of the Diamond Broker's Son; the old Broker; the Weaver and his de-
voted Wife; the escaped Convict and his Mother; the American Army Officer—all are
drawn with vigor, and give to each successive page a growing and glowing interest,
In FRANK STARR'S ILLUSTRATED NOVELS the readers of heart and society fiction will
find only works of a stirring, striking nature, each by a hand skilled in the work of an-
thorship. Each issue will contain the quantity of matter usually embraced ‘in fifty cent
: ‘volumes—thus making it indeed a Star series of popular romance.
| No, 1-THEATWIN SISTERS ; or, the Wronged Wife's Hate,
No, 2-THE BETRAYED BRIDE; or, Wedded, but not Won.
Other Novels have been secured for this series by MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING,
MARGARET BLOUNT, and other popular authors.
4a5~ For sale by all Newsdealers and Booksellers ; .or sent, post-paid, to any address, on
*
FRANK STARR & CO,, Publishers, eg
41 Platt Street, ew York.
|| receipt of price—FrrTEEN CENTS EACH. >