WEEK AFTER NEXT—A GRAND NEW Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1899, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington. D. C. DETECTIVE STORY. Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Vol. 54, OFFICE: 238 William St.. New York New York, October 7, 1899. By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of ‘‘ Winifred’s Sacrifice,’’ ‘‘The CHAPTER I. A PERFECT BEAUTY. ‘‘Hazelmere, June 30, 18—. “Dear Phil—I promised when we were all at home that I would send for you. We are a gay party I can tell you—five constitute our number, and we need only your own jolly self to complete tae sextet. There is pretty Arley Wentworth,. my sister’s especial friend and chum; Fred Vane, Annie’s fiancee, and last but not least, aside from your humble servant, my father’s charming ward, the Lady Elaine Warburton. What shall I say of her?—how give you an idea of her surpassing loveli- ness? I will say nothing. I can only quote from our poet laureate: ‘Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable! Elaine the lily-maid,’ not of As- tolat, but of the house of Mordaunt, and the daughter not ‘of a hundred earls’ like the ‘Lady Clare,’ but of the Duke of Mordaunt, who died abroad about five years ago, having first committed his only child to the care of my respected paternal, who was his dearest and most trusted friend. She has been at a convent in France most of the time since her father’s death, and I have scarcely seen her since she was a little maid in short clothes; consequently I was wholly unprepared for the vision of loveliness which burst upon my sight, when, on my return from Oxford, I was pre- sented to the peerless Elaine. “You perceive, old fellow, how it is with me; I have ‘gone clean daft.’ I see nothing, think of nothing, save a fair, creamy face, with the faintest flush, like that of a sea-shell, on its rounded cheeks, while shining bands of gold span the pure, white brow, beneath which eyes of purple-blue seem to be looking at one through a golden mist. Then those dainty lips! so sweet, so red that they never part with smile or word but they set my heart on fire. She has a form of faultless symmetry, a hand like a piece of fairest sculptured marble, and a foot which a fairy might envy. “T said I would not say anything about her, but I’ve written all this nonsense almost be- fore I knew it. I’m getting decidedly spooney, Magic Cameo,”’ *‘Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘Stella Rosevelt,’’ ‘‘Queen Bess,’ Etc., Ete. \ i uy Py . We fl i” a ‘\ a ANS f y —_ La : — jee sii THE LILY OF MORDAUNT. I’ll own, but you will not wonder when you see | my ‘lily-maid.” Come-down right away and we will have gay times for the next month, You} will like Arley Wentworth, who, by the way, is quite an heiress, and just your style—dark, | brilliant, bewitching. ‘“*You shall be her cavalier on all occasions. You perceive that I have done the pairing-off; for I warn you beforehand that I shall brook no rival for the affections of my peerless Lady of Mordaunt. I can imagine the curl of amuse- ment, perhaps mingled with something of scorn, on your handsome lips as you read this, mon ami. You will remember how indifferent I have always been to the charms of the gen- tle sex—you will recall my rank skepticism re- garding my ever losing my heart to any wom- an, however lovely; but I can’t help it—it’s all up with me now, though I doubt if’the rack would ever have made me confess as much to any one else. Telegraph when you will be here and I will meet you at the station, “Yours ever, WV. Eka. Philip Paxton, Esq., a young and rising bar- rister, ~1t in his chamber, in Grey’s Inn, one hot, dusty day, when all London seemed gasp- ing for breath, so to speak, and read the above effusion; while his lips did indeed curl, but with decided ‘‘scorn” rather than with ‘‘amuse- ment.’’ “T should say he was ‘clean daft,’ ”’ he mut- tered, “‘poor, foolish Wil!’’ “And he will ‘brook no rival for the affec- tions of the fair Elaine!’’ he added, a flash of something like defiance for a moment light- ing up his dark eyes. *“Bah!’’ he continued, ‘‘the name for me—I never could endure that love-sick tale, where that poor little fool, Elaine, died for love of Lancelot, and the very sound of it isa synonym to me ofa sort of milk-and-water beauty, and a weak-minded, silly little girl. Now Arley Wentworth,” he went on, referring to his friend’s letter again, ‘“‘sounds something like—there is character in it, and, at all events, originality. Let me see, this is Wednesday; I imagine that I can arrange matters and things is enough PNY SE eg Faas in 4 Three Dollars Two Copies Five Dollars. Per Year. », MU i \ Wy W iN y atl \ AN ee so that I ean run down to Hazelmere on Sat- urday. I think I’ve earned a rest,’’ he con- cluded, with a sigh, while his eyes roved with something of pride over the piles of papers and documents filed so neatly away in the pigeon- hole of his great desk, and telling of long days of hard work and well-earned gold. He took up his pen, and, drawing a sheet of paper toward him, at once wrote a letter of acceptance to the invitation of his friend, and mentioned Saturday afternoon as the time set for his arrival at Hazelmere, the magnificent country-seat of Sir Anthony Hamilton, a wealthy baronet, who owned half the township of Horsham, Sussex County, England. * ca * ok aE * * Saturday afternoon when the 4.30 express from London stopped for a moment at the sta- tion of Horsham, a tall, well-proportioned young man of about twenty-five, sprang upon the platform and looked about him as if ex- | pecting to see some one whom he knew await- | ing him. There was a stately air about him which at once attracted attention, a certain poise of the handsome head, a-look of character and decision about his attractive face, a certain gravity and dignity of manner, and a fire in his dark blue eye which impressed the be- holder at once with an idea of superiority and power. And yet, a closer scrutiny of that face by those who were skillful in reading human na- ture, always engendered a feeling of distrust, as if underneath all that ability, power and culture there was an element which was lia- ble, under certain circumstances, to work mis- chief for both himself and others. His clothing was of finest texture and most fashionable make, yet there was not the least suspicion of the dandy about him; everything was immaculate, yet in perfect taste. “Aha! here you are, old boy, and now I am happy,’’ cried a genial voice near by, and the next moment his hand was eagerly taken and heartily shaken by a young man about his own height, but of slighter build, with a frank, laughing face, clear, honest blue eyes, waving auburn hair, and a voice whose heartiness and | cordiality rang out like a rich strain of music on the summer air. This was Wilton, or, as he was more famil- iarly called, Wil Hamilton, only son of Sir Anthony and heir to his title and large estates. “If you had disappointed me,’’ he ran on, in a gay tone, and still shaking the hand that he held, ‘‘I should have given you the ‘cut direct’ the next time we met. We are all here after you—the three graces, attended by Fred and myself. Come this way and I’ll introduce you; but, beware!’’—with a mock tragic air—‘‘don’t you dare to lift covetous eyes to the fair Elaine, or I shall throw my gauntlet at your feet on the spot. Arley Wentworth, by the way, is on tiptoe to see you; thinks you must be something extra; rather above the common run, you Know; for I’ve rung your praises un- ceasingly in her ears—of course I had an ob- ject in view—during the last few days.”’ “Thank you,’’ returned Philip Paxton, in a slightly sarcastic tone, which caused his light- hearted friend to laugh outright. “There! none of your grandiloquent airs, Phil, if you please. You know they never did disturb me in the least, so they will do no good now. We are all bound for a good time, and if your backbone gets too stiff, it will be un- comfortable, not only for yourself, but for the rest of us.’’ “Here we are,’ he added, as they came around to one end of the station, where there stood a handsome pair of bays attached to a wagonette, in which two ladies and a gentle- man were seated. “‘Annie,’’ he said, leading his friend toward them and addressing a pretty girl, with a fair complexion and hazel eyes, ‘‘you do not need to be introduced to Phil, but y6u shall give him a grip of welcome before I present others. Mr. Vane, this is my friend, Mr, Pax- ; Miss Wentworth, Mr. Paxton.’’ Paxton, after greeting Annie Hamilton, shook hands with Mr. Vane and lifted his hat to Miss Wentworth and pressed that she was a ‘‘mighty pretty girl.’ Then he glanced about him with some curi- osity, wondering where the ‘fair Elaine’’ could be. Wil Hamilton noticed it, and colored slightly. “Come this way a moment, Phil, and I'll finish all the introductions at once,’’ he said; and slipping his arm within that of his friend, he turned him about and led him toward an elegant phaeton, to which two pretty, gray ponies were attached, and in which a Slight, graceful girl was seated. “T could not drive any nearer, for the ponies are a trifle skittish,’’ Wil explained, as he led him forward. ‘Good heavens! how beautiful she the young man said to himself when at last they stood beside the phaeton; and he never could remember afterward how he conducted him- self during the ceremony of introduction. “The Lily of Mordaunt,’’ he repeated to him- self, as he gazed upon her exquisite loveliness, and, for the moment, was oblivious of every- thing else. He was conscious only of looking into eyes of liquid blue—eyes which seemed to him to have fathomless depths, and through which some sweet spirit was gazing up at him, thrilling his very soul with a strange delight. He saw a fair, low brow, over which rings of sunny hair lay in careless grace; a delicate mouth, proud, yet sweet, sensitive, yet strong. He noticed the dainty fairness of her skin, upon which there was not the slightest blem- ish; the small ears, which seemed like molded wax, and the rich, heavy coils of golden hair, which shone like bands of smoothed satin. He saw, too, the slight, perfect, yet stately figure, with its beautifully fitting dress of russet brown; the small hand so daintily gloved; the St pA HEAVENS! HOW BEAUTIFUL SHE IS!” THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO HIMSELF. } mon | ing. the | was instantly im-| soft ruching encircling her white throat, and which was fastened beneath her faultlessly rounded chin with some costly and-curiously carved stone. He took in every detail of her toilet—all her exquisite loveliness in those few brief mo- ments, during which he stood bowing before her, and exchanged polite greetings. ‘‘She is like the matchless Calla lily,’’ he said to himself, ‘‘as pure, as stately, as perfect. I do not wonder now at Wil’s rhapsodies, or that he lost his heart when he saw her. But [I wish her name was not Elaine—I never liked it; though if this lily-maid of Astolat was one- half so fair, I doubt if Queen Guinevere, even though she were called the ‘pearl of beauty,’ could ‘hold a candle to her’—to quote a com- phrase; and Lancelot, that flower of bravery, made the greatest mistake of his life when he turned the cold shoulder to her plead- Who could look upon such beauty un- moved? It is not in human nature,’’ “Mr. Paxton will make our circle complete,”’ Lady Elaine said, turning with a smile, and a slight blush, from his admiring eyes to speak to Wil. That smile disclosed small, white, even; and the sweet, scarlet lips. Philip Paxton bowed his appreciation of this compliment, and a deeper color tinged his own cheek. “Yes,’”’ Wil Hamilton answered, ‘‘we shall make a capital party, and now Phil, if you'll take a seat in the wagonette with Miss Went- worth, I’ll swing your portmanteau in forward under the driver’s seat, and then we'll be off for Hazelmere, where we shall doubtless find dinner waiting.”’ Philip lifted turned away quest. But he was loth to go; and his eye lingered enviously upon the vacant seat by her side. How like a poem it would have been to be able to drive those spirited ponies over the two miles to Hazelmere, with that peerless face so near, and that sweet voice making music in his ears! But he was, of course, obliged to submit to the arrangements already made; and, spring- ing to his post by Miss Wentworth’s side, they were soon trotting along at a spanking rate over the beautiful moors, while, before they had accomplished half the distance to Hazel- mere, his admiration was turned into a new channel, and he was compelled to confess that Wil had certainly given him no ‘‘milk-and- water’ beauty for a companion, for Miss Arley Wentworth proved herself to be both brilliant and interesting. . : s Half an hour’s drive brought them to Hazel- mere’s hospitable doors, where a cordial recep- tion was accorded to the new-comers by Sir Anthony Hamilton and his genial, motherly wife, and the gay party separated to dress for dinner, which would soon be served. teeth— to the in piettiest vivid contrast and re- Elaine, friend’s to Lady with his his hat to comply “T will give you just twenty minutes, young ladies, so bestir yourselves,’’ Lady Hamilton said, playfully, as the three girls came troop- ing into the hall; ‘if you cannot make your- selves pretty enough in that time, you will have to suffer the consequences.”’ “What do you think of my ‘Lily of Mor- daunt?’’’ Wil asked of Philip as he went to show him the room which had been prepared for him. “Your Lily of Mordaunt!’’ he repeated, with a keen glance into the young man’s face; ‘‘do you claim possession already?’’ Wil flushed. ; “Well,’ he said, with a laugh, ‘‘I suppose I have ng right to do that, but, between you and me, I hope it will come to that before long. Is she not lovely?”’ ‘‘Very; and your name for her is very ap- propriate; but Miss Wentworth is exceedingly beautiful, too,’’ Philip answered. “Yes, Arley is very brilliant, and a fascinat- ing little thing; besides, she has twenty thou- sand pounds in her own right.’’ “That is a snug little sum, to be sure; but, I suppose, Lady Elaine is very wealthy, also,”’ Philip remarked, with a side glance at his friend. ‘Yes; the Duke of Mordaunt left an immense property—the income, I believe, is about as much as Arley’s whole fortune.’’ ‘“Indeed!’? Mr. Paxton said, with a peculiar emphasis... ‘‘You will be a lucky fellow, Wul, if you succeed in winning her peerless lady- ship and her immense fortune also.’’ “T have scarcely thought of the money,’ Wil Hamilton replied, eagerly, and flushing -hotly. “She would. be just the same to me if she hadn’t a penny.’’ ‘‘Nevertheless, a plethoric purse is a very convenient thing to possess in the long run,’’ quoth Philip Paxton, dryly. “Twenty thousand pounds. a year!” he re- peated meditatively to himself, after Wil had gone below. ‘‘How would a man feel, I won- der, to have the handling of that amount, to say nothing of the privilege of sitting vis-a-vis .three or four times a day with such a beauty as Lady Elaine Warburton.’’ CHAPTER II. “WHICH IS THE MORE LOVELY?” A few words more of introduction are neces- sary in order to make the reader understand more thoroughly what the main characters of our story are like. Arley Wentworth, like the Lady Elaine, was an orphan. Her father had been a gallant captain in her majesty’s army, her mother the daughter of a wealthy London physician. Both had died in the far East, the captain from a bullet wound received with his face to the enemy, his gentle, idolizing wife from grief over her husband’s untimely and tragic death. The little Arley, then not quite two years old, was thus left desolate, save for the native nurse who had had the care of her ever since her birth—and the officers of her father’s com- pany, not knowing what else to do, sent her home to England to her grandfather. The nurse, who loved her little charge most fondly, and could not endure the thought of separa-~ tion, was only too glad to be commissioned to take care of her. But the poor, little. waif nearly lost her life also, for the vessel was wrecked during the voyage, the nurse was drowned, and the child was picked up, more dead than alive, by a kind-hearted sailor, who saw her drifting help- lessly about, and could not leave her to the mercy of the cruel waves, even though his own chances for being rescued were small. When he, with the few others who were saved, were transferred from the sinking wreck to another homeward-bound steamer, a good woman took the poor child and cared for her with all the tenderness of a mother until she saw her safe in the care of her grandfather, Dr. Hugh McAllister, of London. He was nearly heart-broken over the sad tid- ings brought to him with his grandchild, but as she grew and developed she gradually came to take the place of his lost daughter, and he bestowed the greatest care upon her education and training. She was a great comfort to him as long as he lived, and at his death he left her all his property, and confided her to the guardian- ship of his sister, a maiden lady a number of years younger than himself. So she was quite an heiress in her own right, besides having. expectations of more, since Miss McAllister was also quite wealthy. he was vivacious and beautiful, as well as ; ice nsenvronths cho wac mush Vere aren a SSecame the life of the com- a pany wherever she went. Her name, Arley, was simply a contraction of Arletta, which everybody seemed to dislike to .speak, and wondered that her parents should have chosen such a strange cognomen for her. Her features were regular, with a sort of rounded symmetry that made one long to kiss the smooth, bright cheeks and the full, ripe lips. Her eyes were large, very dark, almost black, and exceedingly expressive. Her hair, of glossy nut-brown, was always arranged in some becoming style, and her smile, so bright and witching, made others smile in sympathy. She was not so tall or symmetrical in figure as the Lady Elaine, but it was a pretty form, nevertheless, and always clad in the most jaunty and tasteful of costumes. Her voice was rich and full; and her laugh! who can describe it? Clear and sweet as a bell and musical as the carol of a bird. At least so thought Philip Paxton—in spite of his remembrance of the Lady Elaine’s—as he sat by her side during the drive from Hor- sham Station to Hazelmere, and heard it ring out over the purple moors; and when at length they reached Sir Anthony Hamilton’s elegant residence, and he assisted his charming com- panion to alight from the wagonette, he hardly knew whether he preferred the stately and more delicate loveliness of Elaine, or the bright, bewitching beauty of Arley Wentworth. But when he came to learn of the difference in their fortunes, it was quite evident which way his preference turned. Annie Hamilton was a sweet, gentle girl, very quiet and somewhat retiring, with no pre- tentions to beauty, but with a latent some- thing about her—a certain charm which made everybody love her. She was two years younger than her brother, who was twenty-one, and whom she loved with almost idolatrous affection. She appeared rather mature for her years, but this was ow- ing to her quiet demeanor, and to the fact, perhaps, that she had been brought up almost alone, there being no companions of her own age in the neighborhood. Fred Vane, her betrothed, had, like Philip, been educated for the bar, but having a hand- some fortune in prospect, and being the only child of his parents, he had, at their request, remained at home to assist in the management of their large estate. He, like Annie, was very quiet in his tastes, and they were a couple of very matter-of-fact lovers, who bade fair to enjoy a life full of peace and comfort. Wil Hamilton was a noble son of a noble father. His clear, honest blue eyes never fal- tered before the gaze of any one; his face was as frank and open as the day; his manner possessed a heartiness which went straight to everybody’s heart, while his own was as ten- der and generous as that of a woman. He was one to win everywhere. ‘‘Truth and honor’ were the watchwords of his life, and every one who knew him respected and loved him, while at Hazelmere he was the idol of the house- hold. When the company were all assembled around the hospitable board of Sir Anthony, it would have been hard to find a more charm- ing group in all England, and the genial face of the baronet fairly shone with pleasure and content as he looked around. upon his guests.- Between Arley Wentworth and Lady Elaine a strong and almost unaccountable attachment had seemed to spring up during their short acquainance of only two weeks. . Both were extremely beautiful, yet neither, as is often the case, appeared to have the slightest feeling of*jealousy toward the other. Their style was entirely different, and they were excellent foils for each other; yet their hearts seemed to be in perfect harmony, and to-day, as they sat side by side, it was a joy to look upon them; Lady Elaine, in her robe of delicate blue silk, with its rich and dainty laces, a bunch of blush roses in her belt, and a single lovely bud nestling in the coils of her shining hair, seemed almost too perfect a piece of humanity for this world; while Arley, with her charming color, her bright, gleaming eyes and coral lips, her dress of pale rose under black Spanish net, and a cluster of snow-balls on her bosom, was absolutely radiant. “T declare! I do not know which is the more lovely,’ exclaimed Philip Paxton, men- tally, as he sat opposite and compared the two, “Little Miss Wentworth is positively charming; she ripples, and sparkles, and fairly dazzles me; while Lady Elaine’’—the name seemed to grow sweeter to him every time he uttered it, partaking, no doubt, of the nature of its own- er—‘‘is like some beautiful saint; and‘'—a gleam that was not altogether pleasant shot into his eyes as they rested upon the object of his thoughts—‘‘and, with her title and for- THE NEW “YOoRnR Ween. ! tune, is, of course, the most tempting bait; I rather think the scales will tip in her favor.” Now Philip Paxton was not, naturally, a bad man, nor a mercenary one. He had been brought up well, taught to be honorable in all his dealings, to reverence truth, and to despise all meanness. But he had reached a stage on life’s journey, as almost every one does, where his future career was balanced on a pivot, as it were, when it would take but very little to turn it either way—toward honor and fidelity on the one hand, or toward dishonor, selfishness and perhaps crime, on the other. It was the stage of temptation. Would he stand or fall? Would he ruin his life for a woman and her gold, or would he prove true to a Christian mother’s. teaching, and—himself? Had he met Arley Wentworth alone, had there been no other temptation near, doubtless he would have loved her, married her, and con- tinued to adore her all his life, making her the tenderest and best of husbands; for there was something about her bright ways, her ready wit and repartee, which fascinated him, and stirred his heart with a warmer, deeper senti- ment than the more calm and stately manner of Lady Elaine seemed to do, But here was the daughter of a duke, with her long line of noted ancestors, with her im- mense fortune, the handling of which a prince might delight in, not to mention her exceeding beauty and grace. It was a test, and no light one, either, espe- cially as, until this hour, he had been ‘“‘heart whole and fancy free;’’ while at the same time a spirit of antagonism had been aroused with- in him by Wil’s letter, which had told him that he must not so much as lift his eyes to her; that she was to be appropriated by him, and he would tolerate no trespassing upon his ground. : This of itself was suificient to touch his pride and hurt his vanity, and as he sat there oppo- site the lovely girl and thought of it, he said within himself: “We will see if Wil’s influence is all pow- erful; it might do him good to have a little of the conceit taken out of him.’’ So, half in a spirit of mischief, half in ear- nest, Philip Paxton resolved to ‘‘cut him out’ if he could. When dinner was over and the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies, Lady Hamilton called her son aside to arrange for the next day’s amusement, and Philip, seizing the opportu- nity, sought Lady Elaine and engaged her in conversation. He was an entertaining talker, and soon suc- ceeded in fastening her attention wholly upon himself, and when at length Wil returned to the drawing-room he found that his. friend had coaxed his ‘‘lady fair’’ out through one of the long windows, and there the handsome couple were pacing back and forth on the ivy- covered porch, which ran along the end of tne drawing-room and the library, and were ap- parently oblivious to everything and everybody save themselves and the subject they were aiscussing. A quick, hot flush’ mounted to the young man’s brow, and a pained, anxious look stole into his eyes, for he had surrendered himself entirely and with a devotion rarely equaled to his father’s young and beautiful ward, and he had begun:sto hope, from several little signs, that she was not indifferent to him. ‘‘My peerless lily, I do not like this sudden monopoly at all,’”’ he murmured, with unsteady lips. ‘I love you—how I love you! and unless I win you my whole life will be ruined.’ Fred Vane and his sister were sitting in a deep window having a cozy after-dinner chat, and had not even heeded his entrance. Sir Anthony was. reading his newspaper, and Arley was nowhere visible. Wil thought he would look her up, and stole softly out af the room, feeling very wretched, and with the first bitterness which he had ever experienced for his old chum. rising in his heart. He found Arley in the library writing a let- ter, and sitting just where she could see that distinguished looking couple outside, pacing up and down in the shadow of the ivy-vines. Her eyes were unusually bright and her color censiderably heightened, but she looked up with her own charming smile as Wil entered. He begged pardon for intruding when he saw that she was writing, but she said: “Come in. do; I am only just scribbling a little note to auntie. I am all through except writing the address; and then, if you are agreeable, we’ll take a stroll down to the Jak’, r 7 at my favd0rite resort, = Sere arr ak found myself decidedly de trop in the drawing-room. ~Perhaps, however, the others will like to come with us, if they are not too deeply engaged,’’ she concluded with a slight shrug of her pretty shoulders and an inclination of her bright head toward the porch. Wil assented to her proposal, and, having waited for her to address and seal her letter, they sauntered out. As they passed through the hall Arley caught up a filmy white scarf and twisted it care- lessly about her head, and the contrast with her bright complexion and her rich dress made the loveliest picture imaginable. “Come, Annie,’’ she sang out, gayly, peep- ing in at the drawing-room door; “‘we are go- ing down to the lake for a row.’”’ Then, with a glance at her companion, she added: ‘Will you ask Mr. Paxton and Lady Elaine to come with us?’’ Wil started and flushed hotly at the ques- tion, and she read his heart in an instant. “He loves her, as I suspected, and he afraid of losing her,’’ she thought. os She bent her head in reflection a moment, then lifting it with a haughty, resolute ges- ture, she said: : “T’ll ask them,’’ and darted away to suit the action to the word. “JT don’t care what Mr. Paxton thinks of me,’’ she murmured as she went; ‘he shall not spoil Wil’s life with his arts; he loves Lady Elaine, and he shall win her if I can help him to do it, for they were just made for each other,’’ She stole softly up the steps of the porch, which at that end was beautifully arched above with massive, carved pillars on each side. Philip Paxton and his companion were pac- ing the other-way, and their backs were to- ward her—they were not even conscious of the approach of any one. “The Lily of Mordaunt is wanted,”’ she called out, gayly. ‘‘Come, Mr. Paxton—we are all going for a row on the lake, and if you have never seen that charming sheet of water, you do not Know what a treat is in store for you.” They turned at the sound of her voice, and Philip caught his breath as he looked down the length of the porch and saw the lovely vision standing in the arch; it was as if the young girl had been painted there by some master hand and then framed within that mas- sive carving. ‘Heavens! I never saw any one so beauti- ful,’? he thought; and the fairer beauty of the girl at his side seemed to pale before the bright vision before him. Lady Elaine came forward at Arley’s call, as if glad to be released from her tete-a-tete. ‘*Please do not call me by that sentimental name, Arley,’’ she said, with a smile, but with a rising flush. ‘Why not, dear? Wil gave you the name, and it just suits you,’’ she replied, linking her arm in hers and drawing her down the steps. “You always make me think of a lily whenever I look at you.”’ ‘But you make me feel foolish, you bright Rose of Wentworth,’ Lady Elaine returned, with an arch smile. Arley’s laugh pealed out rich and clear. “Now that is just delightful of you, my lady; nobody ever called me anything so pretty before. Do I make you think of a rose?” “Indeed you do—the brightest rose that ever grew; isn’t it true, Mr. Paxton?’ Lady Blaine inquired, appealing to him. “Yes, indeed; it was a happy inspiration, and I think we must adopt it in the future,” he replied, with a look in his handsome eyes that made Arley’s heart beat quickly in spite of her previous irritation, and the little piece of treachery which she had been plotting to thwart his plans regarding.the great heiress and her fortune. When they came up with the others, Wil ap- peared thoughtful, and his usually frank eyes were clouded with a look of pain. *“‘We have found a new name for Miss Went- worth,” Philip said, pretending not to notice the change in his friend, although his con- science gave him a twinge; ‘“‘we are going to eall her the ‘Wentworth Rose.’ What do you think of it?’ “That it is very appropriate,’’ Wil tried to say with his usual hearty manner. “Then henceforth we will fight for the Went- worth Rose; her champions we will be,” Philip said, gayly, and making a low obeisance be- fore Arley. “Thank you, Mr. Paxton; but I am afraid I shall: be spoiled, for I have not been in the habit of having such pretty things said to me,’ she returned, demurely, but with very mischievous eyes. ‘‘However,’’ she added, ‘‘if you take such rash vows upon yourself, you must abide by the consequences; I shall require you to wear my colors.”’ is is ee Sree She plucked a crimson rose from a bush near which they were standing, and held it out to him, ae, “A serious requirement, indeed,’ he an- swered, smiling; ‘‘but I shall be most ‘happy to accede to it, if your own fair fingers will place it where it ought to go,’ and he touched the ieft lapel of his coat. ; Arley began to look for a pin; then, as if suddenly remembering the object of their stroll she shot a quick glance over her shoulder at Wil, saying: “T guppose I must comply with Mr. Pax- ton’s request; go on, Wil, and get the boat ready, and we will be there by the time you want to start.’’ Wil Hamilton’s eyes lighted, for he under- stood the maneuver of the bright girl, and stepping to Lady Elaine’s side, they all passed on, somewhat to Philip Paxton’s chagrin, for he had intended to monopolize the heiress of Mordaunt during the remainder of the evening. But there was no help for it, since he had bound his own hands, so to speak, and he was obliged to stand there and allow Miss Went- worth to amuse herself at his expense. She appeared to be in no hurry either, and it took some time to settle that rose to suit her capri- cious fancy. “T trust you have a generous supply of pa- tience, Mr. Paxton,’’ she said, with provoking coolness, as, for the fourth time, she removed the refractory pin, to ‘‘try again.’’ “There!’”? she added, ‘‘I think that will do this time; and now I’m afraid that we have kept the others waiting. But I always like to have everything just right,’’ she concluded, with a double meaning to her words, but look- ing so sweetly innocent that he never sus- pected how she had contrived to* spoil his little game, although he inwardly rebelled against being separated from Lady Elaine. When they arrived at the lake, they found the rest of the party seated in the boat, wait- ing for them. Annie Hamilton was sitting in the prow, Wil and Lady Elaine in the next seat, looking as contented as possible with each other’s society, while Fred Vane was in the middle of the boat with an oar in each hand; thus the two seats at the stern were reserved for the loiterers. “T am going to row, Paxton, and you will oblige me if you will take the tiller,’’ Fred Vane said, and Philip, after assisting Arley to her seat, could only comply ‘with his request. But he did not have a very unsocial time of it, in spite of his disappointment,- for the ‘‘Wentworth Rose’’ was in the best of spirits, for some reason, and kept his attention so per- fectly occupied with her mirth and chatter, that he almost forgot that he had been balked in any of his designs, while Wil was as grate- ful to the quick-witted girl as ever a forlorn lover could be. CHAPTER A FRIEND IN i233 NEED. A week slipped by on magical wings. Some delightful excursion, drive or enter- tainment was planned for every day, and the guests of Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton were indeed a ‘‘gay party,’’ as Wil had proph- esied they would be. Had it not been for the two that were play- ing at cross purposes, there would have been nothing to mar the delight of any one. If Arley Wentworth had only been Lady Elaine, with her title and twenty thousand a year, or if her position and fortune had been equal to hers, Philip Paxton would have bowed on worshipping knees at her shrine before that week was over. : He was bewitched and fascinated by her— she acquired a power over him such as no one had ever won before; he never heard her voice without a thrill—she never came near him without his pulses leaped; the very sound of her light laugh and step—the rustle even of her dress was music to him. But, alas! he had decreed that it would be folly for him to pass by the greater prize for the sake of a little love; he was ambitious for a brilliant future, which fortune and position would at once secure for him, and he could not afford to sacrifice it for the sake of a foolish sentiment, which, at the most, could only give him a little more domestic happiness; and per- haps, after all, he might learn to love Lady Elaine just as well if he should marry her; and he had made up his mind to accomplish this if possible, notwithstanding the cqonfiden- tial confession of his,friend, and the wrong that he would thus dqjpim. “iis cértain t6 bea rich man any way— he will inherit all his father’s large property, and it would not be fair for him to have two such fortunes, while it is only by my wits and the hardest work that I am making my way along in the world.’’ Thus he reasoned the matter with himself, shutting his eyes to the fact that he was be- traying the confidence of his friend, using him dishonorably, and doing violence to the nobler feelings of his own nature. But he did not progress very rapidly in his undertaking, for, just as he would succeed in getting Lady Elaine nicely to himself, and perhaps right in the middle of a fine speech, something would be sure to interrupt them and break up their tete-a-tete, But he never suspected that there was any ‘‘malice. prepense’’ about it, or that Arley Wentworth was thwarting him in every possi- ble. way—that she was employing all her arts, and making herself so delightfully agreeable to him whenever the opportunity offered, just for the sake of keeping him from poaching on forbidden ground, and thus giving Wil the desire of his heart. But it was so, nevertheless; she watched them unceasingly, and if she saw Philip about to seek Lady Elaine, she would instantly dart up to him, in her bright, bewitching way, upon some pretense or other, claim his attention, and draw him into. conversation or some play- ful controversy, until Wil could capture his lady-love; then, laughing in her sleeve over her success, yet with a strange pain gradually creeping into her heart, she would suddenly remember some engagement, work, or errand, and slip away again, leaving him to his own devices. But sometimes she was not quick enough to accomplish her object, and then Wil’s pained face and depressed appearance would haunt her for hours, while she believed she could detect a shade of annoyance on Lady Elaine’s sweet countenance, and a wistful look in her eyes. “What is your opinion of Mr. Paxton?’ she asked her one day, when, having dressed ear- lier than usual, she ran into Lady Elaine’s room to have a half-hour’s chat before dinner. “T think he is very agreeable and intelli- gent,’’ Lady Elaine quietly replied. . ‘““Yes—a trifle superior—a little above the gen- erality of young men, isn’t he?’’ Arley asked, with peculiar emphasis, and a covert glance at the fair face opposite her. A delicate flush rose to the creamy cheek, and the lovely blue eyes were hidden beneath their white lids. “Ts he?’’ queried Lady Elaine, with an as- sumption of cool indifference that amused Arley exceedingly. “T asked you to pass judgment upon: him; but if you want my opinion of him I suppose I can give it, and of the other young gentle- men of our party, too,’ she retorted, with a wicked gleam in her dark eyes. ‘I think he is very handsome. You seldom see such magnifi- cent eyes in anybody; and he has such a finely shaped head, so square and well-developed. Then look at the life and energy in his every movement. Why, if Fred Vane had one-half as much, what a man he would make with his opportunities. Then he—Mr. Paxton, I mean— is so cultivated and entertaining, he must have improved his time well while at Oxford; while as for Wil co ; She hesitated purposely, and the sly puss got just the reward she had been seeking. “Tm sure, Arley, you are very: unfair in your criticisms, especially when you are a guest in the home of Wil Hamilton. You should not draw odious comparisons,’ Lady Elaine said, with a sudden flash of spirit, her eyes gleaming and darkening, until they looked like two purple, starry-hearted pansies, while a vivid spot of red burned on each cheek. *“*Odious comparisons!”’ Arley repeated, drooping her lids to hide the dancing sprite in her own eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ve said any- thing very bad. I was merely expressing my admiration for the recent addition to our party, and—don’t you know? I was expected to ad- mire him; for, if you remember, Wil took special pains to impress his superiority upon me long before his arrival, and I’m sure I do not wish to be unappreciative or to disappoint anybody——’”’ “But you need not depreciate others for the sake of lauding him. Wil Hamilton, of all others, least deserves it,’’ interrupted Lady Elaine, with a heightened color. “T depreciate Wil Hamilton!’ chievous Arley, ment. ‘‘My dear Elaine, you misunderstand me entirely—indeed, you did not even allow me to finish what I was going to say about him.’’ “What were you going to say?’ the fair girl asked. with a searching look at her friend’s dimpling face, and then dropping her. telltale eyes. ¢ 4 cried mis- with well-assumed astonish- “TI was going to remark that, as for Wil, there was no use drawing any comparisons, for—he is without-a peer in my estimation.’’ A little smile of pléasure flitted over Lady Elaine’s* sweet lips, the waxen lids fluttered over her downcast eyes, while a ‘vivid blush suffused her fair face, burning up into the waves of golden hair above her forehead, and creeping down among the folds of snowy lace about her white throat. Arley, observing it, laughed outright and clapped her dimpled hands with glee at these signs of the state of her friend’s heart. Then, leaning suddenly forward, she kissed her on the forehead. “My. beautiful ‘Lily of Mordaunt,’ you are a darling,’’ she said. ‘‘You are pure and true to your heart’s core; you are loyal and brave, and if I am ever in need of a friend, I know that you will not fail me.’’ = How vividly she recalled that assertion two years later! : (To be continued.) > @~ Lover or Husband? OR THE MADNESS OF JACKY HAMILTON. ; By ADELAIDE STIRLING, Author of Tie Wolf’s Mouth,” “Nérine’s Second Choice,”’ “The Purple Mask,” ‘‘Saved From Herself,” Etc. (‘LOVER OR HUSBAND?” was commenced in No. 88, Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.) CHAPTER XXX Tt. THE MERCY OF THE MERCILESS. A heavy hand over her mouth, an arm. of steel round her young body, so tight she could not draw breath, a sudden agony in her back that sickened her, and Jacky Hamilton lay in Lesard’s arms like a dead thing, her head hanging lifelessly from his shoulder. It had been a piece of devil’s work, the bru- tality of a sayage, too quickly done to let the girl even cry out, far less struggle. As Le- sard seized her he had raised his knee and it caught her at the back of her waist as his hand on her face swayed her resistlessly back- ward toward him. x That he might have crippled her for life he cared not one whit; it was no time for deli- cate scruple. This girl or Gillian had seen him take those diamonds, had also, for all he knew, seen Marchmont die. He feared no one on earth but these two sisters, and soon he would fear them no longer. For one he had, and the other——”’ He laughed to himself as he shifted his bur- den and turned down a dark alley. The other was Gillian! There would be little trouble in ee Gillian to his house of her own free will. “The luck’s mine to-night!’’ he thought, tri- umphantly. ‘‘Those dicky checks have been worth thousands, bless them! And bless the luck, too, that there wasn’t a policeman mous- ing round here when this little fool came out!” But for all he blessed his luck he was care- ful not to presume on it, and pursued his way through a devious maze of dark alleys and short cuts till he reached his own abode. It was in a dingy street, quasi-respectable. To have chosen too rough a neighborhood would have been dangerous, for a saying that is no- et untrue is that “tiger does not eat iger.’’ The house went for an empty one. The front door was never opened, the blinds never raised in its dirty windows. Its tenant kept up the tradition by flitting in and out of a back window after dark, like a bat. He went that way now, through a disused mews that was a great convenience to him, for opening the front door might have betrayed ce house contained a tenant who paid no rent. He fastened his window behind him saftey hist unostentatious entrance, and carried his bur- den to a room originally meant for boxes, It had no windows, and the gas was turned off, naturally, from an ostensibly unoccupied house. Lesard lit two candles that were stuck in bottles and regarded his bedroom cynically. An old sofa and a-broken legged table made up its luxurious furnishing. But it was a safe retreat as long as he was careful, and that he always was, for it had been part of his plan for years to have no address, camping calmly in empty houses, often changed, so that there was but one Lesard in the directory. ; The girl had moaned as he laid her down on the sofa. A mocking devil in his eyes, he sat down and regarded her. There was only Gillian now! He yawned suddenly and stretched himself. She had been a good lump to carry all that devious way. He tried’ to remember if he had met any one, and felt satisfied that only a few rags of humanity had seen him—waifs who mattered no more than starving cats. “By George!’ he said to himself, laughing, “TI feel virtuously sleepy. Now 1 come to think of it, I’ve been up all night. I'll go and sleep somewhere, for it won’t do my young friend any harm to wake and scream herself hoarse, since nobody can hear her. 0° Wintired’s Sacrifice. — ~\ By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, Author of “The Magie Cameo,” ‘Little Miss Whirlwind,” “Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘‘Stella Rosevelt,” “Queen Bess,’ “The Golden Key,” “A Girl in a Thousand, Ete. (““WINIFRED's SACRIFICE”? was commenced in No. 32. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers), CHAPTER XXXIX. A SOMNAMBULISTIC REVELATION, WHICH PROVES TO A JEALOUS HUSBAND THAT HIS WIFE IS PURITY AND HONOR -PER- SONIFIED. . d Winifred advanced straight toward her hus- band, who remained motionless and spellbound, watching her singular movements, with a pe- culiar, gliding step that appeared to impart no motion to her body. Her face looked frozen and there was no expression of recognition in her eyes—in fact, she did not seem to see anything. She paused directly in front of Martin Metcalf and a long, long sigh broke from her pale lips. “Yes, Roger, I do love you,” she began, but in a tone that was monotonous and unnatural, and which sent a keen electrical shock through the man before her. He realized now that she was in a.state of somnambulism, and although he knew that she was not accountable-for anything which she might say and that it was cowardly and unmanly in him to stand there and allow her to unveil the most sacred recesses of her heart before him, yet something held him speechless and prompted him to refrain from disturbing her, but allow the illusion under which she was laboring to remain unbroken to the end. “T have come to tell you all about it,’’ she continued in the same lifeless tone, ~‘‘I have always loved you, ever since that day we met on Sunset Hill. Ah! those few weeks were lovely, dear, and I was so happy until you went away. Oh, Roger! if only yéu had not gone I would never have been sold as I was; yes, sold,’’ she whispered shrilly and with a hopeless look that made her listener shiver, “for papa was in debt, Crescent Lodge was mortgaged, and he must have a lot of money, and so I was like a piece of merchandise to be bartered for it. At first I told him I would not obey him. I belonged to you, you know. 1 had given you my promise and I never could break it. How could I give my hand to an- other when it no longer belonged to me? I was yours, all yours, for as long as we both should live. Ah!’’ She broke off with a gasp at this point, put- ting her hand to her head as if she had expe- rienced some shock in uttering those last words, and Martin Metcalf thought she was about to awake. His own face was white as chalk and drawn with pajn, for it was torture—worse than that of the rack—to stand there and have her thus lay bare the secrets and the sufferings of her outraged heart. But he was fascinated by what he had heard and by the irony of fate which had brought him into such a situation, and curiosity prompted him to remain where he was and see what the end would be. “Ah, yes—for as long as we both should live,” she repeated, with another long-drawn sigh that’-ended in a sob. ‘“‘Then came that dread- ful message. We were at—at the—Club Tour- nament. I was outside the house on the piazza when Major Woodman went into the parlor and read the telegram to Marguerite—how the Indians had shot you. Something seemed to strike me a terrible blow just here’’—laying her hand upon her breast—‘‘and everything, the pain and fear, all slipped away from me, and when I awoke again we were back at Crescent Lodge. I thought, at first, it was a dreadful dream, but it was all true; they told me that you were dead, and then I didn’t care whether life was to go on for me or not. But it did, and when I got well papa came to me one day and said that I must—must do as he wanted me to. He showed me a pair of revolvers and said if I refused he would shoot himself.” Martin Metcalf fell back a pace or two with a shock of horror as those last terrible words fell upon his ears, and he learned for the first time just how the poor, persecuted girl had been driven into the marriage with him. But Winifred came nearer to him and laid one white hand upon his breast to stay him. The touch thrilled him through and through, even though he knew that she was unconscious of what she was doing—even though he knew that she would have shrunk away from him if she had been awake, or should come to her- self while standing thus. ~ “Don’t go yet, Roger,’’ she said, appealingly. “T want you to know all about it, and then, perhaps, you-will not blame me. You know I thougtt you were dead and it wouldn’t matter much what became of me, if I must live with- out you. I could live in one place as well asin another. It was evident that papa did not care much for me—that he loved money bet- ter than. his child, and I knew I could never feel the same toward him again after his hav- ing been so cruel to me. So I told him I would obey him. But I never would—truly, I never would, Roger, if I had even dreamed that you were living, for it would have been sacrilege. “But—papa Knew,’’ she went on in a horrible whisper, and leaning nearer her companion; “he knew that you were not dead. He saw the report contradicted in the papers and kept them from me, and he took away from nurse the letter you wrote me telling me how you had been saved, and made her swear that she would never breathe a word of the truth to me or he would send Jim—her son—to prison for forgery, which he could prove against him. So the poor creature was crushed into obedience and I only found it out after you came back; I never dreamed but that you were lying in some lonely grave in, Arizona until I saw you that night at the opera, and the sight nearly killed me again. Ah! if I only could have slipped out of life then it would have been so much easier—so much easier for both of us.”’ She caught her breath again, and Mr. Met- calf held his, fearing that she was about to come to herself, and° wondering how he could explain her presence there at that hour. But she presently resumed, and with her hand still resting upon his breast. “Yes, I love you, Roger; I can no more help it than I can help breathing—with all my heart and soul I love you; but I can only tell you so in my dreams, you Know, and you must never ask me about it, for we must never grow to respect each other less than we do now, as we would be sure to do if we were disloyal to principle. Love isn’t all there is in life, and that is not true love which would do aught to bring reproach upon its object. But you are true and good—you will bear it nobly, and I shall try to do my duty. We must never have any more talks together, for Mr. Metcalf doesn’t like them. Oh! but it is hard—hard; isn’t it, dear?’’ Martin Metcalf could bear no more, for there was a ring of hopeless despair in those sweet, girlish tones which stabbed him to his very soul, while his own heart felt as if it were being ground between two millstones. He slipped away from that small white hand, which had grown to feel like a ton’s weight there on his breast, passed from the room, mounted the stairs with all possible speed, and aroused Nurse Williams. She came to the door in response to his rap and looking greatly alarmed. 8 “Go down stairs to Mrs. Metcalf,’ he com- manded. ‘She is in the library in a somnam- bulistic state. Get her back to bed without waking her if you can, and then watch her ae. she does not leave her rooms again.’’ he startled woman hastened below, but be- fore she could reach the library she saw Wini- fred coming out. - She was still asleep and still muttering to herself. Mrs, Williams stepped one side to allow her to pass, and hoping that she would go on up- stairs by herself, which she did, and finally entered her chamber, when she threw herself, with a weary sigh, upon her bed, where she slept heavily until the breakfast bell rang at eight o’clock. Meantime Martin Metcalf had sought his own room, but there was little sleep for him during the remaining hours of the night, for he was beset with many conflicting emotions. He was enraged beyond measure to learn how Homer Beresford had deceived him—to learn that the man had known at the time of his marriage that Roger Woodman was living, and yet had persisted in sacrificing his daugh- ter to satisfy his greed for gold. It was no wonder, he argued, that Winifred had seemed cold and distant toward her father since her return from California. He had been somewhat disturbed over the fact, but now he understood it and could not blame her, while, too, he was no longer puzzled to com- prehend Mr. Beresford’s sudden change of mind after having once accepted his invitation to make his house his home for the remainder of their stay in New York. “The wretch! the knave! the treacherous, in- human villain!’’ he muttered in supreme con- tempt. Martin Metcalf’s chief aim in life had also been to amass a gigantic fortune for himself, and he was well aware that some of his meéeth- ods might not have borne the closest investi- gation with impunity; but he told himself, with a shrug of loathing, that he never could have bartered his only child and all her future happiness for filthy lucre. He could see how Roger Woodman and Win- ifred had both been foully wronged—what rank deception had been practiced upon them; at the same time, he felt himself to have been the most deeply injured of all. Furthermore, he was convinced, in spite of the jealous suspicions from which he had suf- fered, that both lovers were struggling to maintain not only~their own self-respect, but also a lofty standard regarding what was right and honorable, the revelation to which he had just listened when his beautiful girl-bride had unconsciously laid bare the most secret and sacred recesses of her heart, had proved this to him beyond a doubt. Nevertheless, so selfish and unreasonable is human nature, these convictions did not serve to soften him or mitigate his rage one whit; they served, rather, to increase it, as far as his animosity toward Roger was concerned, and a bitter hatred and a desire to be re- venged in some way upon him took possession of him, . That the young soldier shotld be the con- scious possessor of his wife’s affections was an offense which could only be wiped out by the ruin of the man himself. If he could, by any means, cause some com- plication whereby Roger’s honor would become involved, and disgrace follow, so that Winifred would lose confidence in and respect for him, he believed that, in the reaction, he would be able to win her to regard himself with some- thing of affection, and forthwith he began to lay plots to achieve this result. He did not once close his eyes in sleep dur- ing the remainder of the night, and he looked at least ten years older when he appeared at the breakfast table at the usual hour; so true it is that malice, envy and hate entertained within the heart, never fail to leave their im- press upon-the countenance of the individual. Winifred, on the contrary, was fresh and lovely when she joined her husband in the dining-room for the morning meal. She wore a beautiful morning robe of pale rose cash- mere that was exceedingly becoming, and she appeared to be wholly unconscious of her wan- derings during the night or of the secrets she had revealed. She had manifested a little sur- prise on waking to find that she still had on the pretty cambric wrapper which she had donned the night previous, after removing her evening dress, so that Mrs. Williams could brush out her hair before she retired. When the woman was through her operatioxs she had dismissed her, saying that she wanted to toast her feet before the fire for awhile, and that was the last she.remembered. She imagined she must have become sleepy and crept into bed without realizing that she was not fully undressed; and her faithful maid did not undeceive her. She met Mr. Metcalf as if nothing unpleas- ant had occurred, although she observed that he was far from being himself, chatted cheer- fully while pouring out his coffee, read ex- tracts from the papers to him as usual, and bade him a pleasant ‘‘good morning’ when he went away to his office, He did not come home to lunch that day; but, after dinner, while they were lingering over their dessert, the man suddenly inquired: ‘What do you say to a trip to Europe, Win- ifred? Say about the first of May, or as soon as the weather becomes settled.’’ Winifred’s heart leaped into her throat at this unexpected suggestion. A trip to Hurope would mean another sepa- ration from Roger, was her first thought. But she resolutely crushed it back, almost before it had taken form, for she was con- scious that Roger’s path and hers must hence- forth diverge if each were to maintain a rigid adherence to duty; and the more widely they diverged the better, perhaps, for then there would be no temptation to be met and over- come. Accordingly she replied, with a frankness that amazed her companion: ; “T have no doubt it woul@ be very enjoyable. I have always wanted to go to Europe, and if you desire to make the trip I am sure there is nothing to hinder, as far as I am coneerned, our going by the first of May.” : Mr. Metcalf regarded her searchingly while she was speaking; but, although she was.a trifle white about the mouth, there was not a quiver or a flutter to betray that she was not perfectly sincere in what she had said. “Very well, then, we will make our prepara- tions accordingly,’ he observed, then added: “and before we go I would like to give our friends and acquaintances in New York a grand farewell reception or ‘blow-out,’ as they put it at the club.” Winifred heaved an inaudible sigh of regret at this. She was becoming very weary of so- ciety, even though she had-been “‘in the swim’”’ but a little while—weary of its hollowness, gossip and conventionalities, etc. She shrank, sensitively, from the display and ostentation, from having so much money lavished upon her “THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 2. person in silks, satins, laces and jewels, just to parade her husband’s wealth before the pub- lic and to be gazed at and admired by his many acquaintances. “T am afraid I am hardly experienced enough to manage an affair of such magnitude,” she observed in a tone of apprehension. “You will not be obliged to manage it, Wini- fred,’’ Mr. Metcalf replied; ‘‘you are not to have any care or worry in connection with the function. The only thing I shall ask of you will be to give a little assistance in making out the list of those whom we wish to invite, and, if you please, we will go about it directly after dinner.’’ CHAPTER XL. WINIFRED’S PORTRAIT IS FINALLY FINISHED AND PLACED ON EXHIBTION, DURING WHICH AN ACCIDENT OCCURS WHICH THREATENS THE LIFE OF THE FAIR ORIGINAL. Winifred cheerfully signified her willingness to assist in making out the list for the forth- coming festivities, which, Mr. Metcalf had de- cided, should be a character party, or mas- querade, the participants to remain incognito and sustain their parts during the earlier por- tion of the evening, and give themselves up to dancing and sociability after supper should have been served. He had recently purchased a house adjoining the one he occupied and in which extensive repairs were already in process—some of the partitions having been removed in order to make desirable changes, and, since his own dwelling would not comfortably accommodate the large company which he proposed to bid to his feast, he determined to have the whole lower floor of the other house arranged for dancing and the apartments upstairs used as supper-rooms, This, he thought, might be done with various decorations, draperies, potted plants, cut flow- ers, etc., thus turning the place into an ideal temple of pleasure for the occasion, while he would have a door cut through the wall from his mansion to afford egress and ingress for the company. As he unfolded these plans to her, Winifred gradually caught something of his own spirit, and, becoming interested in the proposed prep- arations, made some suggestions which he eagerly adopted and complimented her for her inventive genius. These matters arranged they set about mak- ing out their list. They wrote for more than two hours, during which Mr. Metcalf ques- tioned Winifred with considerable curiosity re- garding the friends whom she wished to ask; but there were less than a score of names written at her suggestion, and these were mostly of young people with whom she had become acquainted since making her debut in New York society, and their list was finally completed without the name of Woodman hav- ing once been mentioned. Winifred, of course, did not fail to notice the omission on her husband’s part, but she said nothing and had purposely refrained from speaking of the family and of her father also. She doubted that Roger would come, even if a card were sent him, and she was rather glad, on the whole, that the Woodmans had been omitted, for she felt that she would be under perpetual surveillance throughout the evening if they were present, while, for her own part, she had no desire to receive Marguerite as her guest, after all that had passed between them, The date of the affair was set for the twen- ty-fifth of April, and it was now about the last of March, which would give nearly four weeks in which to make their preparations, The following morning Mr. Metcalf put the matter into the hands of competent parties, who were instructed to carry it out to the fin- ish and make it an affair to be long remem- bered. Winifred was bidden to consult her modiste regarding a suitable costume, with di- rections to spare nothing to make it both ef- fective and elegant. The following two or three weeks were very busy ones for our heroine, and, with her vari- ous visits to the dressmaker, her shopping and some last sittings, which she had to give Mr. Wadleigh, together with her social engage- ments, she did not have very much time to think. She was aware, however, that her husband was keeping a close watch upon all her move- ments, and that he was also very ill at ease, being nervous and irritable and. wearing an anxious expression most of the ‘time. Winifred knew well enough that it was all caused by excessive jealousy of Roger, and she was therefore very careful in her deport- ment whenever they were out together, and even when she met Rager, as she did upon one or two occasions, she took pains to greet him in the presence of her husband, and then gave him no opportunity afterward to speak .with her alone. But, even though he could find no word of fault with her, the man was wretched, and he seemed to ‘age rapidly. He never for an in- stant forgot that strange scene in his library, when, in her sleep, his wife had laid her whole heart bare before him, and- every word she had spoken that night still rankled like a poi- soned arrow in his soul, haunting him by day and driving sleep from his pillow by night. At last the wonderful portrait was com- pleted, and a rarely beautiful picture it was, toe It represented Winifred in an exquisite thea- tre costume of black velvet, made up with a delicate shade of pink brocaded satin. Mr. Wadleigh had wanted to paint her as he had seen her at the club tournament, when she had worn the white dress with scarlet ribbons and poppies; but Mr. Metcalf had insisted upon something more elaborate, hence the artist had been obliged to make her appear the grande dame, and he had certainly done his very best for her in this and every respect. The robe was exceedingly becoming to her and the position was one of unstudied grace. In one hand she held a beautiful fan of white ostrich feathers, while the other, lying care- lessly in her lap, clasped a few long-stemmed pink roses, and her only ornament was a mag- nificent diamond crescent, fastened in her rich, brown hair; she had absolutely refused to be loaded with jewels. So much for the dress, but the face was in- describable. It was absolutely perfect and seemed to refiect all that was highest and noblest in the fair girl’s character; it was a face to leve, as well as admire, and when the last touch was put upon it Arthur Wadleigh stepped back from the canvas to survey it, while a sigh of infinite content parted his lips. “T am satisfied,”’ he murmured, Then turn- ing to Winifred he inquired: “‘How do you like it, Mrs. Metcalf, now that it is finished?” She gazed thoughtfully at it for a few mo- ments without speaking. “Do I really look like that?” she questioned, at last. ‘“Why!’? exclaimed the artist, both amused and disconcerted; ‘‘do you not recognize your- self?’ Winifred flushed, shook her head. “T do and I don’t—if you can understand any- thing so paradoxical,’’ she replied, with a lit- tle musical laugh. “In what respect does it strike you as not resembling you?’ queried her companion, while he studied her curiously. “Well, of course the features are mine,”’ she said, regarding it critically; ‘‘the eyes and the hair are also very like; but I am afraid you have put something into the face, as a whole, that isn’t really in mine.”’ 4 : ese “Do you mean that I have idealized tc “T do not know if that expresses it exactly, or that I can explain just what I mean,” said Winifred, with a puzzled air; ‘“‘you have cer- tainly made it as—as I would like to look—you have made the face express what I sometimes feel, but which I am afraid I don’t live up to,’ she concluded with a deprecatory smile. Arthur Wadleigh’s eyes grew luminous, for she had paid him the highest tribute which she could possibly have uttered. He knew now that he had done just what he had wished to do; he had caught the beauty and purity of her character, of her soul, which he had studied faithfully, and tried to draw out during her sittings with him, and caused them to be reflected in every line and feature of her lovely face. “T thank you, Mrs. Metcalf,’’ he said, and there was a slight tremulousness in his tones; ‘Gf IT never receive another word of praise for my work I am well paid by what you have said. I am satisfied.” The next day it was hung in a conspicuous place in the exhibition rooms, and the morn- ing following Mr. Metcalf informed Winifred that Mr. Wadleigh had issued invitations for, and he also had invited a party of friends to be present at, a private inspection of the paint- ing before the rooms were open to the public, and-he wished her to accompany him to the Club. ‘Really, Mr. Metcalf,’ she observed, and flushing crimson, ‘‘I feel very silly to go to view. my own picture in the presence of. oth- ers; pray do not insist upon- my going with ou ” smiled, and then gently 7 But I do insist,’’ the man returned, with some show of irritation. “I want my friends to see for themselves that it is a perfect like- ness; so make yourself look just as attractive 3 as possible—that brown cloth gown with the sable trimmings suits you admirably—and be ready by half past two.”’ The idea was exceedingly repulsive to Wini- fred, but she did not feel at liberty to make any further objections, and accordingly dressed herself with unusual care, but feeling more as if she were merely a chattel or piece of bric-a-brac about to be put on exhibition than like a human being or a free moral agent. “TIT am not yet nineteen years old,’’ she sighed as she glanced at her reflection in the full length mirror before which she was making her toilet, ‘‘and if I should live to be sixty— oh’’—with a gasp of horror—‘‘let me see, the difference between nineteen and sixty is forty- one years; what an interminable bondage it will seem! But I shall not live it out,’’ she in- terposed, with a sudden burst of passion. ‘I could never endure it—I begin to feel old, life- less, even now, as if I had lived ten years in as many months, and I am so tired. I shall grow old, wrinkled, passe in a little while, and then, perhaps, he will become weary of dress- ing me up, like a senseless doll, and parading me before the public.” In spite of her plaint, however, she was a very stylish and distinguished looking young woman as, a few minutes later, she stepped into the railroad magnate’s elegant carriage, while there was a smirk of infinite satisfaction upon the face of the man which testified to his entire approval of her appearance, as he took his place beside her. Upon arriving at the club house they found quite a company of friends gathered there be- fore them, and, after greetings and introduc- tions had been exchanged, they proceeded at once to the gallery where the portrait had been hung, with several other paintings by the same artist. Here they found Mr. Wadleigh also Mr, Beresford and some other acquaint- ances. The former gentleman was most heartily commended for his rare productions, the por- trait being especially admired and pronounced to be not only a work of great artistic merit, but a wonderfully perfect likeness also. Mr. Beresford had not seen very much of Winifred since their tilt at the opera. He had made it a point to call occasionally, for the sake of appearances; but he had seldom found her at home, and when they had met in society she had avoided him as much as _ possible, without attracting attention to the fact. She was sometimes appalled in view of the grow- ing aversion which she experienced toward him and wondered if the cruel fate to which he had so remorselessly consigned her was not embittering her whole nature. He came to her side to-day and greeted her in a would-be conciliatory manner. ““Wadleigh has made a fine likeness of you,’’ he observed. : “Yes, everybody seems to think so,’’ Wini- fred indifferently replied, for she was weary of the stream of flattery to which she had been compelled to listen. “You look very like your mother in it. I never fully realized how like her you are until to-day; I think I shall have.to get Wadleigh to copy the picture for me,’’ said Mr, Beresford, with a pompous air. The speech stirred all the fire in Winifred’s nature. : He had sold his only child out of his home to gratify the greed of his soul, and now he was talking of purchasing a senseless square of eanvas to hang upon its walls as a sub- stitute. _ “The picture is not to be copied,’ she said, in a cold, but authoritative tone. He read her thoughts instantly and flushed hotly. “Ah! you object to my having it! as you please,’’ he returned in a bitter tone, and was about to turn away from her when he paused. “‘By the way,’’ he continued, and taking a wallet from his pocket, ‘‘I was look- ing over some old papers yesterday and I found among them a letter which you wrote to your mother when you were a mere child; I though perhaps you might like to have it.’’ Indeed I would,’’ cried Winifred, eagerly, and with more animation than she had yet manifested that day. Mr, Beresford opened the wallet, found the ae and eoeet te to her, and she smiled e recognize e crude : rritine a heuhiiahoos handwriting of “Thank you; this is indeed a relic,’’ she said, as she dropped it into her chatelaine bag, but wishing she might read it then and there. At that instant some one jostled Mr. Beres- ford’s elbow and sent the wallet spinning to the floor, while the papers it had contained were scattered at Winifred’s feet, While the offender was apologizing for his awkwardness and restoring the wallet, she stooped to recover the papers, and, in doing so, caught sight of a worn scrap that sent the blood coursing excitedly through her veins. It was the fatal check, made out to James Williams, the very one of which Nurse Will- iams had told her and which he had changed from fifty to one hundred and fifty dollars, thus committing a crime that would have doomed him ‘to a felon’s cell, had not his mother assumed the debt, saving the money, little by little, until it was paid, only to find her labor had been in vain. Winifred had intended to demand the check of her father long before this, and, of course, had expected to have something of a scene be- fore securing it; but no opportunity had of- fered, and now, without an effort on her part, an accident had wafted it safely into her pos- session. She hastily folded it and slipped it into her bag along with the letter, and then passed the remainder of the papers to Mr. Beresford, be- lieving that he had not observed her act. But she was mistaken. He carefully ar- ranged the contents of his wallet in their re- spective places, then turned to her with a wintry smile. “T will thank you for that other slip of paper, Winifred,’’ he observed, and holding out his hand for it. Her heart gave a startled leap. Then she flashed a defiant glance at him. “You eannot have it,’’ she said in a low but resolute tone. ‘‘Chance has unexpectedly put me in possession of what I was intending to ask you for. The paper rightly belongs to Nurse, and I am going to give it to her.’’ “Ha! has she dared ” the man began sharply and losing some of his color. “T compelled her to tell me the truth,’’ Wini- fred gravely interposed. ‘‘Certain things 0oc- curred to arouse my suspicions after Captain Woodman’s return, while Nurse acted so strangely I insisted upon an explanation; con- sequently I know about the letter which you took from Nurse and then compelled her to swear not to reveal to me the fact that Cap- tain Woodman was. living. I learned, too, how you have wronged the poor woman for years by preserving this check to hoJd over her head like a sword to serve your base purposes; but she will be your bond slave no longer.’’ “You will not give it back to me?’’ demanded Mr. Beresford, now white to his lips from baf- fled rage at being thus balked. “Assuredly not,’’ she returned steadfastly; ‘st does not belong to you. Nurse paid you every dollar that it calls for out of her hard earnings years ago.’’ The man looked at her a moment in silence. “You are a model daughter surely,’’ he said at last with a short, bitter laugh. Her beautiful lips curled scornfully. “There certainly is no moral kinship between us—whatever the tie of blood may be,’’ she coldly replied and then turned abruptly away from him. AS she did so she caught sight of Roger and a brother officer, both of whom had entered the room unobserved during her conversation with her father and were now conversing with Mr. Wadleigh. She bowed and smiled to them, and Martin Metcalf, whose glance was fastened upon her, swore to himself as he saw the wave of deli- cate color that swept into her cheek when her eyes met Roger’s. Presenuy she was joined by a couple of Mr, Metcalf’s friends—some ladies with whom she had become quite friendly—and together they moved about the room to examine some of the paintings, and finally paused almost beneath an archway that led into the main gallery be- yond, and which was artistically draped with handsome portieres. ; Directly over this arch there hung a large painting in a massive gilt frame—another piece of work by Mr. Wadleigh; a fine landscape, embodying some bits .of scenery which the artist had sketched the previous fall in the vicinity of Crescent Lodge, and which Winifred had admired exceedingly. All at once this pic- ture settled, the wire by which it hung had given way, from some defeet or careless ma- nipulation—one end came down with a thud upon the framework of the arch, where it paused an instant, then fell forward with a terrible crash into the room. Winifred’s companions had fled, one to the right, the other to the left, at the first sign of danger, but she had been so shocked—para- lyzed, in fact—by the threatened ruin of the beautiful painting, she did not once think of her own peril, and was only brought to her senses when her waist was suddenly encircled by a strong arm and she was swung out ol harm’s way almost simultaneously with the crash, but not an instant too soon, (To be continued.) Very well, | eda Bh eee ae / cr r y 4 y THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. VOL. 54—No. 51. NEW YORK, OCTOBER 7, 1899. 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By GERTRUDE WARDEN, Author of ‘‘Her Faithful Knight,” ‘The Haunted House at Kew.” “An Angel of Love,’’. Etc. (“A STaGE HEROINE’? was commenced in No, 45. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.) CHAPTER XII. “Just where you are sitting, sir, Mr. Shaks- pere must ha’ sat many’s the time, after he’d walked over from Stratford when he was a-courting Ann Hathaway.” “So I suppose.”’ “And his sweetheart, very like, the other side of the chimbley-corner.”’ “Very likely. Only, if he was courting her, he would probably not have the fireplace be- tween them.’’ The old guide and caretaker of Ann Hatha- way’s cottage looked at the visitor critically. He was not behaving as visitors usually did. He had allowed her to pilot him over the cottage, or, rather, cottages, sacred to the memory of Shakspere’s wife; he had been shown the usual relics, including the supposed original of the ‘‘second-best bed,’ which, with its ‘‘furniture’’ was the sole legacy be- queathed by the poet to the mother of his children; he had gazed a long time out of the diamond-paned casements across. the meadows, and had now asked permission to rest himself, after a long walk, in Ann Hath- away’s chimney-corner; but he had asked no questions, and expressed neither astonishment nor enthusiasm over the statements, carefully learned by rote, with which she had supplied him. ‘““Maybe you’re a foreigner, suggested. : If he was ‘‘a foreigner,’’ his languid manner of accepting her intelligence was of course accounted for. Foreigners, ‘‘except it was Americans,’’ as the 6ld woman put it, could hardly possess sufficient sense to appreciate the full value of the situation. It was even pos- sible that to some more remote foreigners, “savages and such,’ the name of Shakspere would not be one to conjure with. And in the soft, pleasant speech of this particular visitor her dull ear had half detected an un-English ring. “Foreigners,” she observed, with a note of condescension in her voice, as the young man neither assented nor dissented, ‘‘can’t be ex- pected to see as much as others in this here place. Why, bless you, sir, there’s folk come here I can’t leave them for a moment or they’d be tearing the bricks out of the walls to take ’em away as a memento—that’s what they call it. I call it thieving!”’ The stranger laughed. ; **You can leave me as long as you like, my dear madam. I shall not, I promise you, pick the bricks out of the walls.”’ % “Oh, I can see, sir, you are not that sort! observed the old woman politely. ‘‘Maybe, as you are tired and want a rest, you would like me to make you a cup of tea?’ : “But, yes—it is what I should enormously.”’ *T’ll see after it directly, sir. It’s nearly four o’clock, and I was thinking of making some tea for myself about now.” : “Is she tiresome, the old woman with her stories of Shakspere?’ the young man mur- mured to himself in French, as the caretakef bustled off and closed the door behind her. “Enfin! One can breathe in quiet and aream sir?” she now a little of the past—the past of three hundred L years ago.’”’ Sitting in the deep shadow of the chimney- corner in the low-ceilinged living-room of the old cottage, dimly illumined by the small case- ment through which gleamed the troubled saf- fron light offa thunderous sky, it was diffi- cult to judgé more of the young man’s ap- pearance than that he was of medium height, and light, even boyish; build, that his hair was dark, his oval face clean-shaved but for a very slight mustache, and that, under arched, strongly-marked, black eyebrows shone a pair of very beautiful and almond- shaped blue eyes. By the subdued light which grew momen- tarily less as the storm-rack gathered density in the sky, the young man appeared to be about twenty years of age, and when, a little later, as he waited, lost in reverie in the close atmosphere of the historical room, his long lashes drooped, and he slipped into a light, dream-laden slumber, he looked yet younger, By what remote process of association he could not divine, the story of Shakspere’s sweetheart, the scene of Shakspere’s wooing brought back to his semi-dormant fancy the figure of his own first love, the auburn-haired English child, nearly three years his junior, who, when little more than a baby, had lisped her troth to him sixteen years ago. It was five years now since ahe had written, at his mother’s request, to remind her of that prom- ise, and many, very many, things had hap- pened during those five years. His sweet- heart had married; she had answered his let- ter with the news that she was to be married on the following day. His beloved mother was dead; his father, rich before, had become infinitely wealthier, and he himself, having served his term in the French army, had come alone on a visit to his mother’s country before settling down as his father’s partner in Paris, Dreaming in Ann Hathaway’s cottage on that sultry August afternoon, the events of those intervening five years were forgotten. It seemed to Ernest Ferry that the two sweet- faced women, his mother and her bosom friend, Mrs. Wrayburn, were smiling upon him, and congratulating him and themselves in that the dearest wish of their hearts was about to be fulfilled by the marriage of their adored chil- dren, Ernest and Angela. Angela was coming, they assured him; she was, in fact, just outside the room. He could hear her voice in the passage. But as, in his eager anxiety to behold her face, he staried forward, the dreamer’s foot disturbed the fire- irons in the grate, and the crash awoke him, “How you startled me!’’ exclaimed a sweet woman’s voice close to him, the very voice of Angela in his dreams. “I thought I was alone in the room!’’ Thus suddenly brought back from dreamland, he frowned and blinked. His eyes, hardly able yet to take in what they saw, focussed them- selves upon a face which seemed evolved from his sleeping fancies, the face of a beautiful woman with gray eyes and shining, ir. mene was standing in the middle of the room, in the direct line of a ray of sulphurous light, which struck upon her hair and illumined her pale skin and strangely bright eyes. Her face auburn was older, sadder, and sweeter than in the old days, which seemed to her so very long ago, when she played “lead” in the Stanford Gunning Company. She was taller and thin- ner, too, and at two-and-twenty might have passed for three or four years older, so full of expression was her mobile countenance, so charged with sadness the occasional gaze of her eyes. Yet increased experience had but added to the charm of her personality; her smiles, though less frequent, were as radiant as of old, perhaps even more so from the con- trast with the habitual gravity of her expres- sion, and her voice, always one of her greatest charms, had gained a fuller note of tenderness and of sympathy. She was dressed simply, but with consider- able elegance, in a gown of straw-colored Tus- sore silk, with ruffles of lace at her throat and elbows; long Suede gloves and a black straw “picture’’ hat completed her toilet, and, as her sole ornament, she wore a long, light gold chain, to which was attached a small, heart- shaped locket. All these things Ernest Ferry noted as he stood in the deep shadow of the chimney- corner, contemplating her, drinking in every detail of her appearance. To the young man, suddenly awakened in this romantic spot from half-waking dreams of his childish sweetheart, this lovely woman, in whose face and voice something strangely familiar to him lingered, came as the embodiment of all the fleeting fancies, the vague ideals of his ardent and poetic imagination. He dared not speak lest he should break the spell; but he waited with longing ears for the next words uttered by that delicious voice. Surprised at his Silence, Angela again ad- dressed him. “Will you tell me, please, if there is some one here to show me over the cottage? I would much rather ramble over it alone. But per- haps that isn’t allowed? Do you—do you be- long to the piace?’ He had seemed so much at home dozing in the chimney-corner that the question was not unnatural. All that she could distinguish was a slightly-built youth, who stood in the shad- Ow, gazing at her with shy attention. As for Ernest, true to his half-French origin, he jumped at such an opportunity for a tete- a-tete with the lady whose appearance so greatly charmed him. “T will show you over the cottage with much pleasure,”’ he said, ‘‘The good woman here is making some tea. She is very proud to be in some wonderful, indirect way a descendant of Ann Hothaway’s. No doubt she will explain to you he whole thing. This, of course, was the living-room—what you call parlor, is it not? I expect it was kitchen also in the days of Shakespere.’’ He spoke with a slight softening of the “th’s’’ and the “‘r’s,’”’ which betrayed his half-foreign origin, and all the while he watched Angela’s face with his brilliant, blue eyes. She, for her part, was so much delighted with her sur- roundings that she half forgot her companion, “To think that I have been talking Shakspere ever since I could talk at all, and that I am now standing where he stood three hundred years -ago!’” she murmured, a sudden glow ereeping over her cheeks. ‘““‘When he came courting Ann Hathaway,”’ added Ernest. “T wish one didn’t know the sequel,’ cried Angela—‘‘that he got tired of her in three years and left her for eighteen—that she was eight years older than he, and that in ‘Twelfth Night’ he reminded her of it!’’ ““What did he say, then?’ “Surely you know— ** “Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband’s heart.’ And again, a little later— “*Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold its bent.’ I often wonder whether poor Ann read all that, Se oe she understood it and it hurt er. “Poet’s wives should not be too sensitive,” observed Ernest. ‘‘Let us hope that she was commonplace and did not feel too much! No doubt that is the happiest state.’’ “Do you think so?’ Angela was beginning eagerly, when she checked herself. After all, this pleasant-voiced lad with the slight, foreign accent and gentile, sympathetic manners was a complete stranger, and Angela was by no means disposed to become on friend- ly terms with strangers. The frank confidence which had once distinguished her was gone for- ever—gone also were all hopes of happiness in life outside her art. Love and marriage, to which most girls look forward with such eagerness, had passed forever beyond her horizon. Fortunately work was left, unceasing work and study, in a short interval from which she had made this expedition to Stratford to gratify a long-cherished wish to behold the spots sacred to Shakspere’s memory . Without another remark she followed her guide up the narrow, wooden staircase, and listened while he repeated all that he remem- bered of the caretaker’s stereotyped informa- -tion. ‘Then she leaned her head from the case- ment, as he had done, and gazed out beneath the overhanging thatched roof across the hol- lyhocks and roses, the dahlias and larkspurs in the garden, to the meadows across which Will Shakspere came courting Richard Hatha- way’s daughter three centuries before. Suddenly from the mass of black cloud loom- ing across the sky came a forked flash. An- gela drew her head in with a slight scream and put her fingers in her ears as a peal of thunder followed. “TI beg your pardon,’’ she exclaimed, turning in half-laughing apology to her guide, ‘‘but I am so afraid of thunderstorms—even more of the thunder than of the lightning, which is absurd, of course!’’ “But you were always like that!’’ he said quickly, She turned upon him in amazement. He was standing close behind her. His eyes, alight with surprise and joy, were fixed upon a very small, white scar on her neck a little lower than her ear, a mark barely half an inch long, and not to be discerned at all upon the satin smoothness of her fair skin at any distance. “What are you saying?’ she asked sharply, drawing away from him in surprise and indig- nation. ‘And what are you looking at?’’ “T am looking at a little mark. Oh, a noth- ing! It would not mean anything to any one but me; but to me it means a great deal—a whole picture. Shall I paint the picture for you? Imagine a room in a flat in Paris, a large room, with a paper of white and gold on the walls, and a great settee covered with pink roses on a white ground. Inside the sef- tee are toys—oh, toys of all sorts!—toys that might, you would say, content any children. But, no—there are some children nothing can content! The two children in the room are an adorably pretty little girl, with long hair like waves of gold, and a little boy a year or two older. Oh, but they have imagination, these children! Ordinary toys will not content them. The boy is learning English history, and he and the little girl are to act the beheading of Marie Stuart. He is the headsman, with a paper mask; she, with her head on the foot- stool, has a paper fuff, which he must remove in order to cut her head off with his wooden sword. But, alas! the little fairy has a pas- sion for realism. She has: seen in the kitchen a real chopper, such as the boy had shown her in the pictures in his History of England, Nothing will content her but that the boy must go and. fetch the chopper from the kitchen. “She is his liege lady. He must obey! He returns in triumph with the chopper. They recommence the execution. But, alas! the chopper is heavy, the headsman not very strong, and, as it descends carefully upon Marie Stuart’s head, she moves! Execrable clumsiness! I graze her skin deeply, the blood flows. Tableau! “And the result, dear Angela, is that little, white mark on your neck, just there where I touch it with the tip of my finger.’’ Long before this point Angela had under- stood. Half laughing, half crying, she turned upon him and held out both her hands. “But it’s wonderful!’’ she cried. ‘I can hard- ly believe it. Here, too, of all places! When did you first know me? How could you pos- sibly remember ?’’ “T knew the locket—‘H. F. to A. W.’ And I knew your eyes before then, and your -hair. And I was dreaming of you by Ann Hatha- way’s fireside when I opened my eyes and saw you.”’ “You dear boy!’’ she cried; and, forgetting all the years that had rolled by since those childish days and turned them into man and woman, she bent her head and kissed him in quick, sisterly, French fashion on each cheek. He made no attempt to return her caress, nor did he say one.word to suggest the effect it had upon him. Angela’s delight at meeting him was so unalloyed, so frank, that he would not for the world have spoiled it by a look or word that might remind her they were no longer childish playfellows, and that, in spite of his youthful appearance, he was a man of twenty-five years of age, and that she was a married woman, He. suffered her to slip her arm through his and descend the staircase with him to the room where they had first met, to seat herself beside him, lean her head toward him while 6 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. she chattered of their childish days until her soft hair almost brushed his cheek, and neither by word nor sign did he betray the fact that he had fallen madly in love with her, and that it needed all his self-control, all his strong sense of honor, to restrain the passionate avowal of his feelings which trembled on his lips. ‘ : For the time Angela was a child again. Did Ernest remember how they went to the Hippo- drome on her sixth birthday, and the china doll that turned its head and had real gloves and boots ‘“‘that took off,’’ which he had given her on that occasion? And did he remember how they both disliked Miss Gourlay, his Eng- lish governess? “And how afraid I used to be of your father!” exclaimed Angela. ‘‘He was short and stout, and had prominent eyes that used to blaze when he got angry. But your mother—ah, your mother was a darling! ‘Aunt Mary,’ I used to call her. Of course she wasn’t my aunt, but she was my godmother, and I was named Mary after her—Angela Mary. Do tell me how she is!” A spasm of pain passed over the young man’s face. “Didn’t you know?” he began in a low voice. “But of course how should you? My mother died more than four years ago. She always wanted so much to see you first.’’ “Dead! Aunt Mary dead! Oh, Ernest, I am so sorry! How you must feel her loss! She was so sweet and loving, and she adored you. Poor, dear boy!”’ And the kind little gloved hand was laid upon his again. Ernest did not return the pressure of her fin- gers. So strong was the feeling with which Angela already inspired him that he dared not venture upon the lightest demonstration of af- fection. All the time that she sat there beside him, gayly chattering of their doings when, as children, they were constantly together, Er- nest was wondering where Angela’s husband was, what kind of a man she had_ blessed with her love, whether he were worthy of it and capable of appreciating her, why the ex- pression of her face in repose was so sad, and what her husband meant by allowing so lovely a woman to visit Stratford-on-Avon or any other place minus his protection. “Are you staying at Stratford?’ he asked presently, “Oh, no! I came from London, where I start rehearsing next week. In September I shall make my first London appearance as Juliet. Think of it! Juliet in London at last!”’ Her eyes shone with excitement at the thought. She had forgotten him again in her absorption in the art for which she lived. Watching her, he understood as perfectly the tenor of her thoughts as though they had been daily companions for years. The idea flashed through his mind as he noted the deli- eate spirituality of her features, the rapt en- thusiasm of her deep gray eyes, that she could not love her husband very deeply. Sadness he read in her face, sadness and thought, in- tellectuality, power and tenderness; but of pas- sionate love, as it seemed to Ernest, there was never a trace in those clear eyes or in the curves of that beautiful, resolute mouth. What kind of man could her husband be that he had failed to make this peerless creature love him? Ernest asked himself. “T shall be staying in England for a little while longer,’’ he said, after a pause, ‘‘so that I shall be able to be present at your first rep- resentation.” . “Oh, how delightful!’’ she cried. ‘I shall act to you, then. Not that I shall see you. I never see any one in front. I am just the least little bit short-sighted, luckily for me, so taat the illusion is never destroyed.’’ ““Who is your Romeo?”’ ‘“‘Who should he be at the Queen’s Theatre but the manager, Mr. Cuthbert Fairbanks?’’ “Rather an old Romeo for you, is he not?’’ ‘Oh, he’ll look all right made up! And, then, he is a good actor and a London favorite, and the critics are sure to write him up,’’ she an- swered indifferently. ‘‘I wish I were half as sure they would be kind to me, a poor, little country actress, with no London name at all!’” He was amazed at her indifference onthesub- ject. He knew absolutely nothing of the stageor of theatrical ways of thought, Already he loved Angela, and to him, as a man and a lover, it was almost incomprehensible that a lovely young woman should care so little who it was took part in those scenes of passionate tender- ness with her ‘‘provided he could act.’’ At every moment his curiosity. concerning her husband increased. That a man could exist who would allow Angela to be caressed in a theatre every evening by an actor playing the part of her lover filled Ernest with wondering indignation. Were Angela his wife, he told himself, he would work like a galley-slave sooner than let her earn money by appearing before a coarse and stupid public, above all as Juliet. “Your family will, of course, be all there the first night you play the part?’ he suggested suddenly. “My family?’’ she repeated,-with a touch of wonder. ‘“‘You mean y uncle and aunt and their son? But my uncle Bertie died two years ago, and my aunt has married again, and is living in Buckinghamshire with her husband, who keeps a hotel there. Bobby is with them. I live in London with a distant relative, Miss Doreas Morley. I left her at Stratford because she was so tired, and shqais coming over here presently in a fly to fetch’ me back.”’ He listened, bewildered. Apparently Angela had forgotten the existence of her husband. Was she by any chance a widow? The thought came as a winged hope to him, yet he dared not ask the question. When Ann Hathaway’s descendant entered with the tea-things she found her visitors the best of friends, and not unnaturally concluded that they were sweethearts who had arranged a meeting at the historic cottage. In pursu- ance of which belief she rallied them pleasant- ly before benevolently retiring from the room. “You young lady and gentleman can wait upon yourselves, I daresay,’ she observed, ‘‘and maybe will thank me for going? Oh, I’ve been young myself! Perhaps you'll be so good as to ring when you want anything? You won’t forget to write your names in the visitors’ book, will you? Here it is ready for you!”’ At the door she paused, glanced at the pair over her spectacles, and chuckled benignly. ‘‘No wonder he wasn’t interested in Shaks- pere,’’ she muttered half aloud. ‘‘He doesn’t let her sit the other side of the fireplace.’’ Angela blushed slightly and laughed. “Silly old lady!’’ she observed, in an extreme- ly matter-of-fact tone. ‘‘She thinks we are sweethearts.”’ ‘Absurd, isn’t it? gloves?” “No, thanks. They are long ones, and take some time to put on again.’’ He had been desperately anxious to learn whether she wore a wedding-ring. Foiled in this, another idea occurred to him, and he laid the visitors’-book on the table before her, and placed the pen in her fingers. “Sign your name to please her,” he gested, ‘‘and I will sign mine.’ “Certainly.”’ , She took the pen, and in a large, clear hand wrote the following signature: “Angela Mary Vavasour.’’ His heart sunk as he read the name, but he inscribed his own beneath it. “Ernest Ferry.’”’ Then he replaced the book in its original po- sition, and resumed his seat at the tea-table by Angela’s side. “So Vavasour is your married name?” he observed, trying to speak steadily. “My mother’s name,’’ she corrected him, have used it for about five years*now.”’ “Ah, and may I ask what your married name is?’ “T have no married name,” she said coldly. ‘What made you suppose I was married?” Won’t you take off your sug- r eer CHAPTER XIII. The storm was approaching ever nearer and nearer. An intense darkness spread over the sky, and less time intervened between each fresh flash of blinding light and its attendant roar of thunder. ‘Dorcas will be so anxious about me!’”’ An- gela exclaimed as, having finished her tea, she nestled in the seat in the chimney-corner in which she had first discovered Ernest Ferry. “She knows how horribly afraid I am of thun.- derstorms.”’ “Not now, with me to take care of you,’’ Er- nest said reassuringly. ‘I remember years ago when we were overtaken, you and I and your bonne, by a thunderstorm, and took refuge for nearly an hour under the Arc de Triomphe, And I held your hand all the while to give you confidence. Would you like me to hold it now ?’’ She laughed, and her laughter sounded like the ripple of a brook to her adoring listener, “T am not quite so silly as that now,” she said, as she declined the small, strong, brown hand he offered her. ‘‘Let me see, what were we talking of before that last peal?’ “About your marriage,’’ he answered boldly. “You wrote to me five years ago—shall IT éver forget it?—and said you were to be married the next day to an actor. You did not tell me his name or one word about him. Your letter was dated the twenty-ninth of June five years ago, ane you were to: be married on the thir- tieth——”’ “Before midday on the thirtieth,’ she said, interrupting him quickly, ‘‘I found I had made a great, a very terrible mistake. I have never seen the man since. I don’t know what has become of him. And now we will never allude to the subject again, will we?’ ‘‘Why should I wish to speak of it again?’ he exclaimed eagerly. ‘‘But why have you not written during all these years to tell me the truth?” “What difference could it make to you or anybody?’ she asked gravely. ‘‘Love for me means stage-love, otherwise the word is ban- ished from. my vocabulary. And I shall never marry.’’ In the obscurity of the cloud-laden sky she could not. see the smile that played upon his lips as, in solemn tones, she made this state- ment, to which Ernest attached no importance at all. Lovely girls who practiced any art with intelligence and enthusiasm invariably made similar vows, and broke them when art failed to satisfy their woman’s natures, as, sooner or later, it was bound to fail, so Ernest re- flected, But he was too clever to contradict her as- sertion. “That is excellent!’ was his artful comment. “Because, you see, I am going to be an old bachelor. I admire women at a distance, but T am really dreadfully afraid of them, and you and I can always be friends and sympathize with each other, and gossip about other peo- ple over a cup of-tea, to which you will very often invite me.’’ “But you will be in France!’’ “Ah, well, I daresay I shall contrive to be a good deal in England, too!’’ They were so much interested in this conver- sation, and the noise of the storm without was so great, that neither of them heard the approach of wheels, and it was at the moment when, to seal this covenant of friendship, Er- nest Ferry took Angela’s hand and raised it to his lips, that the door opened, and Dorcas Mor- ley surprised the modern pair thus playfully courting in Ann Hathaway’s chimney-corner. ‘““Angela!”’ a Volumes of surprise, indignation and re- proach were contained in Miss Morley’s enun- ciation of that name; but the owner of it, though she flushed a little, appeared in no way disconcerted. “This is Monsieur Ernest Ferry, the son of my godmother and my mother’s deafest friend,’’ she said. ‘‘You have often heard me talk of him, Dorcas.”’ “Not that I remember,’ returned the little spinster frigidly. “Well, at any rate, you have often seen his portrait,’’ cried Angela perversely, “for I al- ways wear it in this locket on my neck!’’ “Oh, that!’’ said Dorcas, with the slightest of nods to Ernest. ‘‘He’s altered a great deal since then.’’ “Well, whether he has altered or not in face,’’ protested Angela, nettled by her friend’s rudeness, ‘‘he is just the same in himself, and I am more than delighted to see him, Just imagine—he was showing me over this place, and suddenly knew me again by @ little scar on my neck, and by the initials on the locket he.gave me as a child.’’ “Very interesting!’ observed Dorcas dryly. “But I must remind you, Angela, that trains won’t wait, and you’ve got to get back to Lon- don to-night. It’s a blessing we arranged for me to fetch you in a cab. Good-bye, Monsieuf Ferry!’’ “Certainly not ‘Good-bye’! protested Ange- la. ‘‘Monsieur Ferry will come with us to the station. He is returning to London also—aren’t you, Ernest?’ “But, yes! It is certainly not my intention to take up my abode in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakspere for breakfast, Shakspere for lunch- eon, Shakspere for dinner—enfin, he would fin- ish by becoming extremely tiresome!”’ “No heresy about Shakspere before me!”’’ cried Angela, as she laughingly placed a finger on. his lips. : “JT am dumb!” he responded gayly, kissed her finger. But Dorcas caught at the opportunity, while he was absent administering a handsome tip to the caretaker, to seize her friend by the arm and utter in her ear a hissing warning. “Angela, what are you thinking about? Why are you encouraging this young man? He is head over ears in love with you already. Do you forget that you are married? And do you mean to tell him so?’’ ~ Angela shook off her grasp petulantly. ‘‘“How can you talk such nonsense?’’. she ex- claimed. ‘This boy is like a brother to me; we played together as babies. My dear mother died in his mother’s arms. Why, we were betrothed in our cradles——’”’ : “And he hasn’t forgotten it. Now are you going to tell him that you are married, or must I?” “T have told you,’ said Angela, her face growing suddenly pale and hard, “‘that if you allude to that horrible mistake I made years ago I will no longer live with you. I have al- ready told Ernest Ferry I shall never marry——” All girls talk like as he ‘As if he cared for that! that, or, at least, all girls who have a chance of marrying. You have been so good and,sensi- ble all these years, snubbing and avoiding all men for the sake of poor Francis——”’ “Do you suppose for a moment it was for his sake?’’ Angela turned upon Dorcas as she asked the question with blazing eyes and cheeks aflame. *“Listen!’’ she said, in a very low voice that vibrated with fierce emotion. ‘I avoid men because I have a horror of them, because all men have become hateful to me on account of one man’s wickedness, Do you imagine that I have kept silence about that man, and have made you also keep silence all these years, because I love him? It is because I dare not speak or think of him lest I should realize and you should realize, too, how much I hate him! I don’t mean to be harsh or unkind to you, Dorcas; I don’t mean to reproach you for having encouraged me in my folly and in- experience; I am not putting the blame for that wretched mistake which has spoiled my life on you! But “you must never remind me of it! The remembrance is burnt quite deeply enough into my heart; it needs no reviving. There, now! We _won’t quarrel, and we will never talk like this any more. Only please remember I am a woman now, and when I choose to make a friend, man or woman, I must not be interfered with.’’ Doreas looked oddly at her lovely kinswoman out of her faded eyes. She did not understand Angela, and she was only _ beginning to real- ize the fact after she had watched the girl grow up by her side for ten years. Dorcas herself had not changed in these last five years. The two loves of her life, Angela and Francis ,were as deeply cherished as of old, and on Angela’s account, as well as on the account of Francis, she was disposed to be bit- terly jealous of Ernest Ferry, the first man she had ever seen Angela specially gracious _ to since that ill-omened thirtieth of June five years ago, the day upon which Angela gained and lost a husband, “T don’t want to interfere with your friends,”’ she said now, sulkily, as Ernest re-entered the room, He was ‘shaking the rain-drops from his hat, and in his other hand he carried a bunch of freshly-cut roses. “T got these from the garden by the good woman’s permission,’”? he’ said. ‘I knew you would like flowers from the garden of Mrs. Shakspere.’”’ Angela took the flowers and thanked him. She purposely avoided Dorcas’ eye, for she knew quite well that the incident would send the thoughts of Dorcas flying back, as hers had done, to that mean little back street in Saltford along which a kingly figure was wont to come swiftly every day with an offering of roses ‘for his ladylove. And Angela felt that she hated the past, that it was a clog on her life which she longed to shake off, and the existence of which she wanted to forget. Almost she wished at the moment to be rid of Dorcas, too, with her pale, watchful eyes, and her jealous devotion to the absent Francis. It was as her eyes met the bright, soft gaze of Ernest Ferry that these thoughts flashed into the mind of Angela over the roses from Ann Hathaways’ garden. The young man’s very dissimilarity in build, type, and coloring, in manner, in speech, in everything, in fact, from Francis, endeared him the more to An- gela. He was so slight and boyish and youth- ful-looking that she was even surprised, as she passed down the narrow garden-path to the fly under the umbrella he was holding, to note that he was considerably taller than she, His manner, gay, gentle and unassuming, made Francis’ bearing, as she recalled it, ap- pear by comparison bumptious and swagger- ing, and back upon her mind, as she glanced across at Ernest seated opposite to her in the fly, came her own description of her ‘“‘ideal Romeo’”’ given to Miss Loring in the dressing- room at Karslade years before. ‘“‘A Romeo who is not yery young, and dark- eyed, and olive-skinned, and lithe and slight, is impossible, from my point of view!’ The eyes fixed now upon her were of so dark a blue as to appear almost purple under their heavy fringe of black lashes, and their ex- pression seemed to denote in their owner that very temperament Angela had required in a Romeo, ‘passionate, emotional and melan- choly.’”’” Angela had indignantly rejected Dor- cas’ warning a few minutes earlier; but now, as she marked the light in the young man’s ‘face, and the tenderness of his voice when he addressed her, the thought flashed into her mind that this dear old playfellow might grow to love her, might indeed already love her too much for his peace of mind, and that, in jus- tice to him, she should avoid him or inform him of the irrevocable barrier which stood between them. For herself she had never a fear. It seemed to Angela that, after that early bitter disillu- sion, she was incapable of any other feeling than indifference toward mankind; moreover, she had been strictly reared, and, in her in- experience of real as distinct from stage emo- tions, she imagined that the ceremony she had taken part in at St. Peter’s Church, at the age of seventeen, ought-to be a safeguard against all possibility of ‘‘falling in love,’’ because, under the circumstances, although her mar- riage was the most hollow of mockeries, ‘‘fall- ing in love’ would be ‘‘wicked.”’ But for Ernest, she liked him so much, and he brought back so many affectionate memo- ries-of childish joys, that Angela had not the heart to dismiss him. He was only in England on a short visit. What harm to him or to her could come of this pleasant renewal of their early friendship? So she argued within herself, misleading her- self, as so many do in matters of feeling, and wholly ignoring the tragic consequences which were to follow swiftly upon her decision. In the train to London Dorcas sulked in si- lence in her eerner, with closed eyelids, and Angela and Ernest, seated side by side, re- called old memories, and chattered and laughed like happy children, speaking half in French— which Angela had talked fluently as a child, but had almost forgotten—and half in English, with lowered voices lest they should disturb the apparent slumber of Dorcas, who was not in reality asleep at all, but listening, with a heart bursting with jealous spite, to their merry whispers. Not. for years had Dorcas seen Angela so happy and light-hearted, so full of bright rail- lery and gay retort. The years of work and worry seemed to have rolled off her; she was no longer the ‘‘coming’’ emotional and tragic actress, who could hold an audience spellbound by. her electric passion, no longer the bitterly disappointed woman who had loved a scoun- .drel and had seen her best friend murdered before her eyes, but a light-hearted girlish coquette, giving herself up whole-heartedly to the enjoyment of the moment as she teased her ‘rediscovered old friend. As for Ernest, the young man was experi- encing unalloyed happiness for the first time. He had been allowed the extreme liberty of action permitted by French fathers, he had served three years in a French cavalry regi- ment, and for nearly a year he had been made much of by a large circle of friends and ac- quaintances in Paris. But, whether in conse- quence of his half-English origin, or by rea- son of a certain dreamy fastidiousness and high ideal of womanhood which distinguished him, he had never before Known what it was to be in love, never desired, as he now de- sired with all his heart, to breathe low into a woman’s ear those infinitely tender words: “Je t’ aime!” The journey seemed all too short for both the young people. Arrived in London, they found the thunderstorm had shifted its quarters and awaited them there. Ernest had taken up his abode in a hotel hard by Charing Cross, whereas Angela and Dorcas occupied a first floor near Portland road. But, when they ar- rived at Paddington, nothing would content Angela but to drive in the rain in a four- wheeler to the outside of the Queen’s Theatre, that her dear old playfellow might, in her presence, read the notices outside, upon which were inscribed the words: “Juliet—Miss vasour. ance in London.” Ernest got out of the cab to inspect the ad- vertisements more closely, while Angela leaned her bright face, laughing; from the carriage window. Another person was apparently deep- ly interested in the Queen’s Theatre announce- ments, for, under-an umbrella in the pouring rain, a tall man in an Inverness cape and soft, felt hat stood studying them closely, a man whose pointed, red beard, long waxed red mustachios, and elosely cropped red hair, together with his heasy tortoiseshell- med pince-nez, gave him a sOmewhat foreign ap- pearance, . This individual glanced at Ernest Ferry, and then, with considerable interest, at the pretty face at the window of the four-wheeler. “T beg your pardon, sorr,”’ the red-haired stranger began, addressing Ernest, “‘but can you inform me who is this Miss Vavasour?’”’ His voice was pleasant, though difficult to understand by reason of his marked Irish accent. Ernest Ferry glanced up at the speak- er, and decided that he was handsome and dis- tinguished-looking, in spite of the unpleasantly earroty shade of his hair; but he instinctively disliked the face none the less, He therefore answered in reserved tones that he had never seen Miss Vavasour act, but_that he had heard she was marvelously clever. Then he raised his hat, with Gaelic courtesy, and re- turned to the cab, where an unexpected tab- leau greeted his eyes. Angela was supporting Dorcas, who, deadly pale and with closed eyes, lay, to all appear- ance senseless, in her arms. ; “Dorcas has fainted!’ cried Angela. ‘‘Poor darling! I suppose the journey tired her. But Ernest, can, Her first appear- I neyer knew Her to faint before. you’ get her some brandy from a hotel, and some water to dash in her face?” But, even while the young man was hurried- ly inquiring of the driver—aged and slow-wit- ted, as are most drivers of four-wheelers—the way to the nearest hotel, the tall man in the Inverness cape approached the carriage win- ow. “Is it a lady who has fainted?” he inquired m his genial brogue . “Will you do me the honorr, madam, to use me flask?” He unscrewed the stopper as he spoke, and, pouring out some brandy in the metal cup, handed it to Angela, who thanked him grate- fully, and held it to the lips of the fainting woman, Gradually a mottled color overspread Dorcas’ face, and, opening her eyes, she stared wildly about her. Her gaze met that of the red- haired stranger, fixed with intent and appar- ently kindly solicitude upon her. She gave a little gasp and sat upright in the cab. At the same moment Ernest returned to the window, and the tall man fell back a step to give place to him. “T think she is all right now,’’ said Angela. “That gentleman kindly offered his flask. Please thank him for me. Poor, dear Dorcas! You feel better now, don’t you, dear? It was my fault, dragging you down to the theatre after we got to London, just to satisfy my vanity! Get in, Ernest, and you shall see us home. But first we must return the flask so kindly lent us.’’ She was holding the cup in her hand as she spoke. To her surprise, Dorcas snatched it from: her. : “J will return it. I will thank him myself,” she said in a loud, clear voice. Then, leaning across Angela, she held the metal cup out to its owner, 3 “T am extremely obliged to you,”’ she said. “The thunder had affected me, but I am quite well now. Thank you very much!’”’ The stranger raised his soft felt hat, expos- ing a head of red hair cropped, in Continental fashion, so close to the scalp that it stood on end like the pristles of a brush. “T am deal: zhted to be of any use to you, madam,” he caid, ‘And I’m glad you're bet- ter.’’ : Then he took the flask back somewhat slow- ly, bowed again, and strode away with a swinging stride that was slightly hampered by a limp. Dorcas stared after him, and then sank back in:the cab, her small eyes strangely bright and her ordinarily colorless face flushed. She was silent during the remainder of the journey, until the house in Demain street, where she and Angela lodged, was reached, and here she greatly astonished Angela by suddenly waking to vivacity, and begging Er- nest to stay and have supper with them, ‘“‘We live in the plainest way,’’ she said. “But, if you will excuse that, I am sure An- gela and I will be very glad to have you stay an hour or two to talk over old times again. After this week Angela will be too busy re- hearsing to see anybody,” Ernest was only too delighted to accept her invitation, and, to his extreme satisfaction, he was left for over half an hour to talk to An- gela in the sitting-room, while Dorcas retired to the large double-bedded room adjoining, which she shared with Angela. Here Dorcas carefully locked the door, and then, with thumping heart, she drew from the inside of her glove a slip of paper, upon which were scribbled in pencil the following words: “Run you to earth at last. Hurray! Write at once Frank Moriarty, Charing Cross Hotel. Who is that man? Must know. Don’t betray Fr. eS (To be continued.) ae AFTERSONG. I watched the thistledown floating by, And saw the humming-bird go skimming after; ‘ I felt the dancing sunbeam’s merry mood, And joined the noisy fieldbird’s mocking laughter. I caught the queenly butterfly’s soft gleam; The blythe, coquettish flutter of her pinion, The fairy pressure of her feather feet Sent joyous tremors through her wide do- minion. e I loved the romance of the balmy day; The soothing zephyr's breath of fragrant flowers. With heart as free and lightsome as the air, A dream of perfect bliss were those swift hours! * 7 * o & * * *” Ah, summer moments of an ardent youth! Those fair-winged things without a care or sorrow! I would, alas! that I might dream again, And know not of the gray and sad to-mor- row! —_-> @~<+__ —__— The Broken Trust; A WOMAN'S SILENCE. By BERTHA M. CLAY,- Author of “4 Wife’s Peril,” ‘‘Lady Ona’s Sin,” ‘A Hand Without a Wedding Ring,” ‘‘Dora Thorne,” “How Will It End," ete. (“THE BROKEN TRUST’? was commenced in No, 39. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers. ) CHAPTER XXXVII. THE MILLS OF THE GODS. As then, justice should be Tempered by sweet mercy. Sir Alan Aynsley entered the library with his —— quick step and careless, graceful bear- At one glance he took in the four faces, all so familiar, but now half averted from him. And Mr. Grey, watching him keenly, saw, for one half moment, his lips open and elose—grow suddenly white, while a low, gasping sigh es- caped them; for in that moment, looking at the a. Nera him, the impostor felt his hour had He had nerve and courage worthy of a better fate; he bit his lips fiercely, and clinched the fingers of his strong hands. Then he advanced to the table, cool and collected as of old. ‘An unexpected pleasure, gentlemen,” he said, courteously. ‘‘My servant was mistaken; he told me a deputation awaited me—it is a deputation of friends, I hope.’’ But no smile looked back at him—no lips an- swered his words; from Paul Westerne, the man he had loaded with favors, there came a low cry that might have been a sob. He looked from one to the other, and their faces wore the aspect of judges. “T am at a loss, gentlemen,’”’ he said; ‘‘I bid you good morning, I bid you welcome to my house, and you have no word for me. What does it mean? Why this change? Yesterday I counted you among my friends; to-day you stand before me as strangers.”’ , Mr. Grey came forward, and on his face there was deep emotion; his white head was bent for a moment before he spoke. “IT charge you, sir,’’ he said, solemnly, ‘‘as you shall one day be judged by God, tell us the truth we come to seek—are you Paul Lynne or Adan Wayne?’’ With nerve that might have made @ hero in- stead of serving a thief, he replied: “T do not understand you. Iam Alan Ayns- ley—I was Alan Wayne.”’ “On your oath?’ asked Lord Damar. *On my oath.’’ he replied. It was: Vivian Chandos who spoke next. “JT am a soldier, and I like a fair fight—face to face. By the bright heavens above us, if you have cheated me, you shall pay a heavy reckoning; if I am wronging you, there will be no pardon too abject for me to ask. I might have struck you down at once; I might have played with you. as a spider would a fly; I pre- fer honestly telling you what I know and ask- ing for your defense or your confession. I might have sent over to Australia and have brought fifty witnesses to identify you; I spared you that, and ask for the truth.” “JT am really at a loss,’’ replied the courteous voice, in which the keenest ear could detect no faltering; ‘‘some one mentioned the name of Paul Lynne, the young friend who lived with me at Otana and died there. If you want proofs of his death, there are the certificates, the name upon his gravestone, the announce- ment of his death in the public papers; the young lady who loved him—to whom he “was engaged—lives in England; ask her if Paul Lynne be living or dead!’’ oe Think what his reliance .on Esther was, when he dare say that—but there came to him a conviction, in the hour of his danger, that she would give her life to save him. Still the stern, grave faces did not relax, and no man present uttered a word, “Why,” he asked again, “am I doubted? What have I to do with Paul Lynne?’ “That remains to be seen,’ said Mr. Grey; ‘sf you are really the Alan Wayne who lived at Wabash you will be able to answer certain questions. In the first place, was your por- trait ever taken there; and if so, by whom and on what occasion? Boys or men seldom forget their first portraits.” He did not know what to answer, one mis- taken reply might be fatal. “Really, gentlemen, I must deny your right to question me thus. I do not understand your proceedings; why have you suddenly taken up so cruel and false a doubt of me?” s “JT will tell you,’’ said Captain Chandos; ‘“‘be- cause at this moment I hold in my hands a certain proof of your imposture. Others have doubted you from the first—I never did. I tell you quite honestly, there is a grave suspicion, amounting to certainty, that you are Paul Lynne and not Alan Wayne—the doubt is only known to us. Let the scandal—if it be one— die amongst ourselves. You cannot refuse now to answer the few questions.” “J will answer any questions you like to ask}” said Sir Alan, seeing he could no longer with decency refuse. so ze “Was your portrait ever taken at W abash? asked Mr. Grey again. 3 “T really do not remember,”’ he replied. “T have some dim recollection of Mr. West- erne here saying something about it once.’’ The artist’s kindly face grew bright and joyous, z “Je remembers,’’ he cried; “he remembers; he will tell us all about it.” Even Sir Alan was touched by the cry. | “Indeed I cannot, my dear old friend,’ he replied. “I never had a good memory. I have some hazy, indistinct recollection, but nothing more,’’> : “Acknowledging such a picture was taken, should you recognize your own face?’ said Captain Chandos. “Gan there be any doubt of that?” asked Sir Alan, trying to smile. Then, suddenly raising a small, square pic- ture from the ground, Vivian held it before im. ial the dead risen? The face that smile@ upon the canvas was the same he covered with the white cloth in the hut near Otana; it was the same thoughtful, spiritual brow, the same clear, calm features; the eyes smiled as though they recognized him, the lips seemed about to speak, They who watched saw a dark shadow come into his eyes, his lips quiver, his hands trem- ble, for how could he gaze unmoved into the face of Alan Wayne? “Gentlemen,’’ said Captain Chandos, ‘‘in the cause of justice look from this pictured face to that of the living and tell me if there is the slightest, even the faintest, resemblance?”’ They looked long and earnestly. Sir Alan bore the serutiny well, only that his eyes fell he- fore the level glances turned upon him. The eyes in the picture were blue, Sir Alan’s were black. The hair in the picture light brown, with beautifully waving lines. Sir Alan’s dark as night. Look, turn, criticise as they would, there was no possible way of find- ing out the least resemblance, and they all said so. a “What says the artist?’ asked Lord Damar. “T swear, my lord, that this is the portrait of near me at abash. I swear that I painted it i Alan Wayne, son of Edgar Wayne, who lived} aon that it resembled him exactly,’’ said the artist. ; “There are hundreds of men in whose faces cannot be traced the features of childhood,’ said Sir Alan. “I am not singular in that re- spect.’’ But he was beginning to lose confidence, the calm, serene eyes of the picture seemed to fol- low and reproach him; it was agony for him to stand before it, yet he dare not move. Perhaps earth had no greater reproach than the smiling pictured face of the dead friend he had betrayed. Great drops of perspiration be- gan to gather on his brow, and still the serene eyes met his own. “It is useless for you to persevere in denial,’’ said Captain Chandos, his voice severe and cold. “If you give me the trouble and expense of sending to Wabash, you. must be quite sure that you must be found out at once, and mercy then will be in other hands than mine. We have sufficient evidence to cause you to be committed for trial. Why imprison yourself for a year? Why add to the wrong you have done? Why injure me still more?’ : “You are quite mistaken,” said Sir Alan; ‘“‘T have nothing to confess.”’ : But his courage was giving way. They knew it, who saw how the sight of the picture tor- tured him; how he tried not to see it; yet, as though irresistibly compelled, his eyes ever wandered to it. Once he drew back with a quick, frightened start; for to his feverish, ex- cited imagination, it seemed that the dead lips opened, and Alan’s voice said: : “You will be true to my trust, Paul?’ He recovered himself quickly, and then again wondered if he were going mad, for the room and the faces faded from him, and he stood with Esther’s Bible in his hand, trying to help Alan Wane die. ’ “T have nothing to confess,’’ he finally said. Then Vivian Chandos, like a lion aroused, stood up. : ‘Do you dare to say so with that face before you,’’ he cried—‘‘do you dare to persist in a lie? Listen, the dead speaks—the voice that. convicts you, Paul Lynne, of fraud, of deceit, of theft, of cruel deception, of base betrayal, is a voice from the grave. Hear Alan Wayne’s own words.’’ CHAPTER XXXVIILI. BROUGHT TO BAY. Sir Alan Aynsley looked aghast when, from a roll of papers, Captain Chandos drew forth one that seemed familiar to him. : For one moment his heart gave a great bound—then stood still. What could it be that every one seemed to look upon as a death warrant? Mr. Grey shaded his eyes as he listened, and unwonted emotion came upon the worldly, cynical face of Lord Damar. In the midst of a silence that was unuttera- bly painful, the clear voice of Captain Chandos rang out, and his words were the words of doom: : “Dear Captain Chandos: “My fortune has come to me, all too late. I am dying, and it has made me unwilling to die. You will take my place. Will you carry out my last wishes? Give to my friend who bears my papers to England what reward you will. None can be too great, for he stands alone by my deathbed, helping me to die. Every act of kindness you show to him is shown to me; for my sake, help him and give him a good start in life. My second prayer is that you will cause a handsome monument to be erected to my father’s memory in Wabash. My third prayer is, if ever you come across a father’s old friends—the Westernes—you will befriend them, and say my last thoughts were of them. God bless you, Captain Chandos. I hope you will live long and enjoy the wealth that has overshadowed my deathbed. My friend, Paul Lynne, will give this letter into your hands. (Signed), “ALAN WAYNE.”’ There was no sound save a deep drawn, gasp- ing sigh from the unhappy man, who listened with death and despair in his heart. He could look into the pictured face and deny it. He could take false oaths with impunity, but he dare not deny those words. © 3 : He saw the dying face, the great drops of agony standing on the broad brow; he saw the white, trembling fingers slowly moving over — the paper, the faint, dying voice saying to him: — “This is my trust—keep it well.’ ; “Now,’’ said Mr. .Grey, “‘the dead has I can swear to the writing. What have you to say? Look first before you speak, into the face of the friend you have betrayed. I ask you solemnly in his presence, in the presence of the Most High God, to tell the truth.” . He broke down utterly. For one half mo- ment he had thought of a sneering denial—of declaring the letter a forgery, but he dare not libel the dead. 3 He bent lower and lower; he crouched be- neath the gaze of those grave, sorrowful faces turned upon him. Mr. Grey laid his hand upon the unhappy man’s shoulder. “T do not ask for fear of men,’’ he said, gen- tly, “but in the name of God.” Then he bent still lower, and with a voice they never forgot, cried: “Have mercy on me, for I helped him to die!”’ - ; . There was one moment of subdued excite- ment, a moment when the calm, brave face of Captain Chandos grew white, as it had never done before an enemy’s fire. Then in a grave voice he replied: “Mercy shall be shown to you for Alan Wayne’s sake. Are you Paul Lynne, as we surmised?” . : Perhaps some part of his sin was forgiven him, for sake of the agony that mastered him, as he said:. + eee — “T am he.’ : “Mercy shall be shown you,” said Captain ~ Chandos, ‘‘in proportion as you confess fully and freely. Keep nothing back. We can de- cide better then what to do.” There were a few minutes of silence. They believed he was collecting his thoughts. In truth, he was wondering at the strengt of the hand of God. He believed he had destroyed that paper. He could have sworn he had torn it to-pieces in the hut, and then burned the shreds. He had destroyed some paper in that manner, believing it to be Alan Wayne’s letter. Could it be possible he had carried this, the warrant of his doom, with him over the seas— that he had placed it carefully away with the other papers—little dreaming that it should one day rise in judgment against him? If he could but have known, how easy to have destroyed it. Had that been destroyed the words of men against him would have availed little. va ““As your confession is full and open, again said Captain Chandos, ‘so shall the merey meted out to-you be liberal.’ Standing there before the men whom he had treated as his inferiors, with bowed head and white lips, he told the story of his sin and his betrayal. SE Sia not mean it,’’ he said. “I had -no thought, when Alan Wayne trusted me, of bea traying him. The temptation came afterward, and it was strong—too strong—for me. I tried to believe there was little harm in taking an- other’s place. I gave up something, too. And now I have lost all!” Word for word he told his infamous story, never seeking to screen or save himself. He told the story of Esther’s love, her devotion, her fidelity under the most cruel wrong that man could inflict on woman. He told of the deadly shock that came to him when BHdith’s calm eyes rested upon him and her clear, piti- less voice said: ‘This js not Alan Wayne. -He told of his great, passionate love for Lady Blanche—but Lord Damar rose with a dignity new to him. : “You must not sully my daughter’s;name by the mention of anything so utterly odious as our love,” he said, yPaul Lynne raised his eyes and looked at his adversary calmly. This was the man to whom he had lent countless thousands, whom he had loaded with benefits, who had been content to live at his expense, and to use the revenues of Carsdale freely, as though they had been his own. os “JT have a right to give my opinion,’’ cone. tinued the Earl, ‘‘and it is this: that mercy shown to such a man is utterly out of place. What mercy has he shown? You may thank him, Chandos, for the loss of everything you valued; I, for having dragged my daughter's name through the mire. Justice, and not mercy, should be dealt out to him.” “Tord Damar,” said Paul Lynne, “I have be- friended you, I haye saved you from the rage of angry creditors, your name from the bank. rupt’s list; have you no compassion for me?” — “None,” said the old man. “The greatest stain on my not-over-clean hand is that it has ever touched gold from yours.” “T have been most deeply injured,’’ said Cap- tain Chandos, ‘‘and must remember Alan Wayne’s words—‘Every act of kindness you. ~ show to him is shown to me.’ Let us forego all vengeance; let the man who has injured } both living and dead go forth free and unin- — jured. He is punished bitterly paouet iH “T am of thessame opinion,’ said Paul ° rerne, gravely, eS ; oT do still. further,” said Mr. | spoken; these are Alan Wayne’s own words>—> = VOL. 54—No. 61. THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. _ Wayne bids me give this man a fair start in life. I am an old man now, but I haye seen Many things. I have seen repentant men lead good and useful lives. Paul Lynne may do the same. It is never too late to mend. He stands before us a criminal now; give him time, he may become a good and useful member of so- ciety. I have seen stranger things.” “You were always kind to me,’’ murmured _the unhappy man; and for the first time his lips trembled and his eyes filled with tears. “You are right, Mr. Grey,’ said Captain Chandos, but Lord Damar dissented. “You are bound in justice to expose, to pros- ecute, and to punish him.” But the tears were streaming down Paul Westerne’s face. “No, no, my lord,” he cried; ‘‘the man re- lents, repents; he can do no more. Do you remember Divine lips that long centuries ago said, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone’? My lord, have you no need for mercy, that, you refuse to show it? Give him another chance. He is human. He is a repentant man, not a defiant foe, to be trampled under foot. Give him a chance. Do not be hard, it will rise up against you, if you-are.’’ _ “Yes,” said Mr. Grey, ‘‘it must be mercy, not ustice! Something is due to him; he might ave given us long months of trouble and un- told expense; he has made all the reparation in his power, and he repents.’’ Even Lord Damar turned uneasily away as | _ the long, bitter sobs fell upon his ear. “T cannot stand this,’’he said; ‘“‘there is no more to do; let us go away.” It was Captain Chandos—true friend and noble foe—who went up to Paul Lynne, and bending over the crouching figure, said: “"The worst is over; we will leave you. You yourself shall decide your future. You must at once give up Carsdale, and return there no more. If you like to go abroad, I will comply with Alan Wayne’s last wishes; I will give you a fair start in life, and you can atone for this miserable sin.’’ But the bowed head was not raised. “In one hour,’ said Captain Chandos, “TI will return. I will save you all further shame, Hush! do not weep so; try to think. I will help you all I can.” They left the room silently, one by one, and as the artist closed the door he said, gently: -*There must be some good left in a man who can weep so bitterly.” Slew sound of that bitter weeping went with them. ~ Esther was still sitting in the hall; her wist- ful eyes followed them. Paul Westerne went up to hér. “We know the secret,’’ he said, gently. ‘‘You love him; go to him and comfort him; he stands in sore need of it.”’ CHAPTER XXXIX. STRENGTH OF A WOMAN’S LOVE. He knelt where they had left him, his face buried in his hands, deep, convulsive sobs shaking the strong figure. He heard no noise; neither the opening nor closing of the door aroused him. He never looked up, even when two tender arms were clasped round his neck, when a fair face was laid on his, and a voice that was all music said: 5 ‘‘Let me comfort you, Paul. again.”’ He could not thrust her from him. She, to whom his cruelty and treachery had been boundless as the deep sea, was the only one in his hour of shame and humiliation that came near him, a> _ S§She, who refused all share in his prosperity; who would rather have perished with hunger than have taken from him one shilling of his ill-gotten money, came now to share his sor- row. Had they placed him in the felon’s dock, she would have stood by his side; had he been placed upon the scaffold, she would have re- mained near him. There are, thank Heaven, women of such loving, devoted natures, and their heroism is not rare. *“Paul,’”’ she said, ‘‘you have atoned; you have confessed; look up—all is not lost. You may live this down; let me help you; it was a great temptation, and you fell—others have fallen, and have risen higher and higher.’’ But in the white face raised to hers there was nothing but despair. “Esther,” he cried, ‘I do not you should be here with me now. You are my own deserve that “Tt is my place,’ she said, gently; “had I —peen-reahy your wife, it weuld Dhave-been-for- pes or worse; let it be so now. Oh, Paul, —let my place be here by your side. I would rather be near you even now than sit a crowned queen by a king’s side. You believe me, do you not?’ He murmured something that he was all un- worthy, but she hushed him, her fair face ee with a light that did not come from earth. “Let me comfort you,” she said; ‘‘this is a dark hour. Oh, remember, when all other faces turn coldly from you—when all other hearts seem closed against you—remember, I live for you—remember, my heart is a sanctuary of rest and refuge.” _He let the tender arms claspthemselves more tightly round him; the let the fair face rest more lovingly against his; he had trampled upon her heart and broken it; but he could not fling the gentle hands from him, . “It must have been a terrible dream, dear,’’ she continued, gently; ‘‘a dreadful madness that possessed you. You would have told, even had they never discovered it. Your own true, better nature would have awakened in time. It seems to_me it is not too late yet to live it down. I do not want to make light of your terrible sin, but while you repent do not despair. Let me teach you, let me help you, live it down.”’ ; But he turned from her with a despairing cry. : “Tt is too late, Esther, too late! I could not go back to the old life after I have tasted this. I could never bear poverty, and work, and shame, and sordid misery again. I laid all on this one stroke and lost.’’ : But she would not be repulsed—she woull not let him speak so mournfully. “Poverty and hard work are not so hard to bear,’’ she said. life is all before you; you can redeem the past’ if you will.’’ “No,” he cried again, ‘‘it is too late!’ She knelt again by his side; something in the despairing face startled her. She tried to draw him nearer to her to soothe and caress him, as she would have done a child. “You can go to some new world,” she said. “You need not stay here. In another land men will not look coldly upon you; there may be a long, honorable life before you yet, and, oh! Paul, let me share it—let me go with you—l can comfort you best.” He was touched at last by her self-devotion and her undying love. Something of the old gentleness came to his face. “Esther,” he said, ‘‘Syou are very good—too good for me. I have brought you nothing but sorrow and shame.” _ “T have forgotten it all. I shall never re- member anything except that I bade Paul Lynne farewell, and have found him again. You will soon forget ‘this miserable, golden dream, and be your own self again—brave and true.’’ “That self died in the hut near Otana,’”’ he said, mournfully, ‘‘and can never live again. I cannot do it, Esther. I do not repent as good people use the word. I am sorry they have found me out, and, perhaps, I am sorry I did it, but I do not repent. I can never look my fellow man in the face again, yet I am not humbled in my sin.”’ She spoke sweet, womanly words to him— words of hope, of mercy, of pardon, of love— but they fell on deafened ears. He listened without replying, his face never losing its look of rigid, blank despair. She liked to remem- ber afterward -how he turned to her and’ clasped her in his arms, saying: “Bsther, I sinned against the dead man, and against his heir; but I have sinned more cruel- ly against you than any one else. Will you say you forgive me? No man ever tortured a loving woman as [I have tortured you.’’ “Tt is all forgotten,’’ she said, ‘‘and was for- given soon as it was done.”’ “There have been great influences over me,”’ he said mournfully. ‘‘Yours has always been the best. There will be no one to say a prayer for’ me but you. Say one for me now; fold your ha over my head, and say: ‘God bless and pardon you, Paul.’ ” She did exactly as he asked her; then she kissed the dull eyes, the pale lips, with a pas- sion of love and grief that could not be put into words; kissed it as mothers do the face of a dead chlid; clinging to him and crying: “My love—my love—you are all mine again.” aust drew himself from her gentle hold at ast. “BWsther,’’ he said, ‘‘they have given me one hour in which to decide my future life. I must have time to think; half of the hour is over. You have been true and faithful to me when| otners would have fled in disgust and anger; you must leave me now, my only friend, while do you not know I love you? 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