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Title: The Missing Bride

Author: Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

Release Date: December 20, 2004  [eBook #14382]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1


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THE MISSING BRIDE

A Novel

by

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

Author of _Self-Raised_, _Ishmael_, _Retribution_, _The Bridal Eve_,
_The Bride's Fate_, _Mother-in-Law_, _The Haunted Homestead_, _The
Bride's Dowry_, _Victor's Triumph_, _A Fortune Seeker_, etc.







CHAPTER I.

LUCKENOUGH.


Deep in the primeval forest of St. Mary's, lying between the Patuxent
and the Wicomico Rivers, stands the ancient manor house of Luckenough.

The traditions of the neighborhood assert the origin of the manor and
its quaint, happy and not unmusical name to have been--briefly this:

That the founder of Luckenough was Alexander Kalouga, a Polish soldier
of fortune, some time in the service of Cecilius Calvert, Baron of
Baltimore, first Lord Proprietary of Maryland. This man had, previous to
his final emigration to the New World, passed through a life of the most
wonderful vicissitudes--wonderful even for those days of romance and
adventure. It was said that he was born in one quarter of the globe,
educated in another, initiated into warfare in the third and buried in
the fourth. In his boyhood he was the friend and pupil of Guy Fawkes; he
engaged in the Gunpowder Plot, and after witnessing the terrible fate of
his master, he escaped to Spanish America, where he led for years a sort
of buccaneer life. He afterwards returned to Europe, and then followed
years of military service wherever his hireling sword was needed. But
the soldier of fortune was ill-paid by his mistress. His misfortunes
were as proverbial as his bravery, or as his energetic complaints of
"ill luck" could make them. He had drawn his sword in almost every
quarrel of his time, on every battlefield in Europe, to find himself,
at the end of his military career, no richer than he was at its
beginning--save in wounds and scars, honor and glory, and a wife and
son. It was at this point of his life that he met with Leonard Calvert,
and embarked with him for Maryland, where he afterwards received from
the Lord Proprietary the grant of the manor "aforesaid." It is stated
that when the old soldier went with some companions to take a look at
his new possessions, he was so pleased with the beauty, grandeur,
richness and promise of the place that a glad smile broke over his dark,
storm-beaten, battle-scarred face, and he remained still "smiling as in
delighted visions," until one of his friends spoke and said:

"Well, comrade! Is this luck enough?"

"Yaw, mine frient!" answered the new lord of the manor in his broken
English, cordially grasping the hand of his companion, "dish ish loke
enough!"

Different constructions have been put upon this simple answer--first,
that Lukkinnuf was the original Indian name of the tract; secondly, that
Alexander Kalouga christened his manor in honor of Loekenoff, the native
village of his wife, the heroic Marie Zelenski, the companion of all his
campaigns and voyages, and the first lady of his manor; thirdly, that
the grateful and happy soldier had only meant to express his perfect
satisfaction with his fortune, and to say:

"Yes, this is luck enough! luck enough to repay me for all the past!"
Be it as it may, from time immemorial the place has been "Luckenough."

The owner in 1814 was Commodore Nickolas Waugh, who inherited the
property in right of his mother, the only child and heiress of Peter
Kalouga.

This man had the constitution and character, not of his mother's, but of
his father's family--a hardy, rigorous, energetic Montgomery race, full
of fire, spirit and enterprise. At the age of twelve Nickolas lost his
father.

At fifteen he began to weary of the tedium of Luckenough, varied only by
the restraint of the academy during term. And at sixteen he rebelled
against the rule of his indolent lymphatic mamma, broke through the
reins of domestic government, escaped to Baltimore and shipped as cabin
boy in a merchantman.

Nickolas Waugh went through many adventures, served on board
merchantmen, privateers and haply pirates, too, sailed to every part of
the known world, and led a wild, reckless and sinful life, until the
breaking out of the Revolutionary War, when he took service with Paul
Jones, the American Sea King, and turned the brighter part of his
character up to the light. He performed miracles of valor--achieved for
himself a name and a post-captain's rank in the infant navy and finally
was permitted to retire with a bullet lodged under his shoulder blade, a
piece of silver trepanned in the top of his skull, a deep sword-cut
across his face from the right temple over his nose to the left
cheek--and with the honorary title of commodore.

He was a perfect beauty about this time, no doubt, but that did not
prevent him from receiving the hand of his cousin Henrietta Kalouga, who
had waited for him many a weary year.

No children blessed his late marriage, and as year after year passed,
until himself and his wife were well stricken in years, people, who
never lost interest in the great estate, began to wonder to which among
his tribe of impoverished relations Nickolas Waugh would bequeath the
manor of Luckenough.

His choice fell at length upon his orphan grandniece, the beautiful
Edith Lance, whom he took from the Catholic Orphan Asylum, where she had
found refuge since the death of her parents and placed in one of the
best convent schools in the South.

At the age of seventeen Edith was brought home from school and
established at Luckenough as the adopted daughter and acknowledged
heiress of her uncle.

Delicate, dreamy and retiring, and tinged with a certain pensiveness,
the effect of too much early sorrow and seclusion upon a very sensitive
temperament, Edith better loved the solitude of the grand old forest of
St. Mary's or the loneliness of her own shaded rooms at Luckenough than
any society the humdrum neighborhood could offer her. And when at the
call of social duty she did go into company, she exercised a refining
and subduing influence, involuntary as it was potent.

Yet in that lovely, fragile form, in that dreaming, poetical soul, lay
undeveloped a latent power of heroism soon to be aroused into action.
"Darling of all hearts and eyes," Edith had been at home a year when the
War of 1812 broke out.

Maryland, as usual, contributed her large proportion of volunteers to
the defense of the country. All men capable of bearing arms rapidly
mustered into companies and hastened to put themselves at the disposal
of the government.

The lower counties of Maryland were left comparatively unprotected. Old
men, women, children and negroes were all that remained in charge of the
farms and plantations. Yet remote from the scenes of conflict and
hitherto undisturbed by the convulsions of the great world, they reposed
in fancied safety and never thought of such unprecedented misfortunes as
the evils of the war penetrating to their quiet homes.

But their rest of security was broken by a tremendous shock. The British
fleet under Admiral Sir A. Cockburn suddenly entered the Chesapeake. And
the quiet, lonely shores of the bay became the scene of a warfare
scarcely paralleled in atrocity in ancient or modern times.

If among the marauding band of licensed pirates and assassins there was
one name more dreaded, more loathed and accursed than the rest, it was
that of the brutal and ferocious Thorg--the frequent leader of foraging
parties, the unsparing destroyer of womanhood, infancy and age, the
jackal and purveyor of Admiral Cockburn. If anywhere there was a
beautiful woman unprotected, or a rich plantation house ill-defended,
this jackal was sure to scent out "the game" for his master, the lion.
And many were the comely maidens and youthful wives seized and carried
off by this monster.

The Patuxent and the Wicomico, with the coast between them, offered no
strong temptation to a rapacious foe, and the inhabitants reposed in the
fancied security of their isolation and unimportance. The business of
life went on, faintly and sorrowfully, to be sure, but still went on.
The village shops at B---- and C---- were kept open, though tended
chiefly by women and boys. The academicians at the little college
pursued their studies or played at forming juvenile military companies.
The farms and plantations were cultivated chiefly under the direction of
ladies whose husbands, sons and brothers were absent with the army. No
one thought of danger to St. Mary's.

Most terrible was the awakening from this dream of safety, when, on the
morning of the 17th of August, the division under the command of Admiral
Cockburn--the most dreaded and abhorred of all--was seen to enter the
mouth of the Patuxent in full sail for Benedict. Nearly all the
able-bodied men were absent with the army at the time when the combined
military and naval forces tinder Admiral Cockburn and General Ross
landed at that place. None remained to guard the homes but aged men,
women, infants and negroes. A universal panic seized the neighborhood
and nothing occurred to the defenseless people but instant flight.
Females and children were hastily put into carriages, the most valuable
items of plate or money hastily packed up, negroes mustered and the
whole caravan put upon a hurried march for Prince George's, Montgomery
or other upper counties of the State. With very few exceptions, the
farms and plantations were evacuated and left to the mercy of the
invaders.

At sunrise all was noise, bustle and confusion at Luckenough.

The lawn was filled with baggage wagons, horses, mules, cows, oxen,
sheep, swine, baskets of poultry, barrels of provisions, boxes of
property, and men and maid servants hurrying wildly about among them,
carrying trunks and parcels, loading carts, tackling harness, marshaling
cattle and making other preparations for a rapid retreat toward
Commodore Waugh's patrimonial estate in Montgomery County.

Edith was placed upon her pony and attended by her old maid Jenny and
her old groom Oliver.

Commodore and Mrs. Waugh entered the family carriage, which they pretty
well filled up. Mrs. Waugh's woman sat upon the box behind and the
Commodore's man drove the coach.

And the whole family party set forward on their journey. They went in
advance of the caravan so as not to be hindered and inconvenienced by
its slow and cumbrous movements. A ride of three miles through the old
forest brought them to the open, hilly country. Here the road forked.
And here the family were to separate.

It had been arranged that as Edith was too delicate to bear the forced
march of days' and nights' continuance before they could reach
Montgomery, she should proceed to Hay Hill, a plantation near the line
of Charles County, owned by Colonel Fairlie, whose young daughter Fanny,
recently made a bride, had been the schoolmate of Edith.

Here, at the fork, the party halted to take leave.

Commodore Waugh called his niece to ride up to the carriage window and
gave her many messages for Colonel Fairlie, for Fanny and for Fanny's
young bridegroom, and many charges to be careful and prudent, and not to
ride out unattended, etc.

And then he called up the two old negroes and charged them to see their
young mistress safely at Hay Hill and then to return to Luckenough and
take care of the house and such things as were felt behind in case the
British should not visit it, and to shut up the house after them in case
they should come and rob it and leave it standing. Two wretched old
negroes would be in little personal danger from the soldiers.

So argued Commodore Waugh as he took leave of them and gave orders for
the carriage to move on up the main branch of the road leading north
toward Prince George's and Montgomery.

But so argued not the poor old negroes, as they followed Edith up the
west branch of the road that led to Charles County.

This pleasant road ran along the side of a purling brook under the
shadow of the great trees that skirted the forest, and Edith ambled
leisurely along, low humming to herself some pretty song or listening
to the merry carols of the birds or noticing the speckled fish that
gamboled through the dark, glimmering stream or reverting to the subject
of her last reading.

But beneath all this childish play of fancy, one grave, sorrowful
thought lay heavy upon Edith's tender heart. It was the thought of poor
old Luckenough "deserted at its utmost need" to the ravages of the foe.
Then came the question if it were not possible, in case of the house
being attacked, to save it--even for her to save it. While these things
were brewing in Edith's mind, she rode slowly and more slowly, until at
length her pony stopped. Then she noticed for the first time the heavy,
downcast looks of her attendants.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"Oh! Miss Edith, don't ask me, honey--don't! Ain't we-dem got to go back
to de house and stay dar by our two selves arter we see you safe?" said
Jenny, crying.

"No! what? you two alone!" exclaimed Edith, looking from one to the
other.

"Yes, Miss Edith, 'deed we has, chile--but you needn't look so 'stonish
and 'mazed. You can't help of it, chile. An' if de British do come dar
and burn de house and heave we-dem into de fire jes' out of wanton,
it'll only be two poor, ole, unvaluable niggers burned up. Ole marse
know dat well enough--dat's de reason he resks we."

"But for what purpose have you to return?" asked Edith, wondering.

"Oh! to feed de cattle and de poultry? and take care o' de things dat's
lef behine," sobbed Jenny, now completely broken down by her terrors. "I
know--I jis does--how dem white niggers o' Co'bu'ns 'ill set de house o'
fire, an' heave we-dem two poor old innocen's into de flames out'n pure
debblish wanton!"

Edith passed her slender fingers through her curls, stringing them out
as was her way when absent in thought. She was turning the whole matter
over in her mind. She might possibly save the mansion, though these two
old people were not likely to be able to do so--on the contrary, their
ludicrous terrors would tend to stimulate the wanton cruelty of the
marauders to destroy them with the house. Edith suddenly took her
resolution, and turned her horse's head, directing her attendants to
follow.

"But where are you going to go, Miss Edith?" asked her groom, Oliver,
now speaking for the first time.

"Back to Luckenough."

"What for, Miss Edith, for goodness sake?"

"Back to Luckenough to guard the dear old house, and take care of you
two."

"But oh, Miss Edy! Miss Edy! for Marster in heaven's sake what'll come
o' you?"

"What the Master in heaven wills!"

"Lord, Lord, Miss Edy! ole marse 'ill kill we-dem. What 'ill old marse
say? What 'ill everybody say to a young gal a-doin' of anything like dat
dar? Oh, dear! dear! what will everybody say?"

"They will say," said Edith, "if I meet the enemy and save the
house--they will say that Edith Lance is a heroine, and her name will be
probably preserved in the memory of the neighborhood. But if I fail and
lose my life, they will say that Edith was a cracked-brained girl who
deserved her fate, and that they had always predicted she would come to
a bad end."

"Better go on to Hay Hill, Miss Edy! 'Deed, 'fore marster, better go to
Hay Hill."

"No," said the young girl, "my resolution is taken--we will return to
Luckenough."

The arguments of the old negroes waxed fainter and fewer. They felt a
vague but potent confidence in Edith and her abilities, and a sense of
protection in her presence, from which they were loth to part.

The sun was high when they entered the forest shades again.

"See," said Edith to her companions, "everything is so fresh and
beautiful and joyous here! I cannot even imagine danger."

Edith on reaching Luckenough retired to bed, and addressed herself to
sleep. It was in vain--her nerves were fearfully excited. In vain she
tried to combat her terrors--they completely overmastered her. She was
violently shocked out of a fitful doze.

Old Jenny stood over her, lifting her up, shaking her, and shouting in
her ears:

"Miss Edith! Miss Edith! They are here! They are here! We shall be
murdered in our beds!"

In the room stood old Oliver, gray with terror, while all the dogs on
the premises were barking madly, and a noisy party at the front was
trying to force an entrance.

Violent knocking and shaking at the outer door and the sound of voices.

"Open! open! let us in! for God's sake, let us in!"

"Those are fugitives--not foes--listen--they plead--they do not
threaten--go and unbar the door, Oliver," said Edith.

Reluctantly and cautiously the old man obeyed.

"Light another candle, Jenny--that is dying in its socket--it will be
out in a minute."

Trembling all over, Jenny essayed to do as she was bid, but only
succeeded in putting out the expiring light. The sound of the unbarring
of the door had deprived her of the last remnant of self-control. Edith
struck a light, while the sound of footsteps and voices in the hall
warned her that several persons had entered.

"It's Nell, and Liddy, and Sol, from Hay Hill! Oh, Miss Edy! Thorg and
his men are up dar a 'stroyin' everything! Oh, Miss Edy! an' us thought
it was so safe an' out'n de way up dar! Oh, what a 'scape! what a 'scape
we-dem has had!"




CHAPTER II.

THE ATTACK.


That summer day was so holy in its beauty, so bright, so clear, so cool;
that rural scene was so soothing in its influences, so calm, so fresh,
so harmonious; it was almost impossible to associate with that lovely
day and scene thoughts of wrong and violence and cruelty. So felt Edith
as she sometimes lifted her eyes from her work to the beauty and glory
of nature around her. And if now her heart ached it was more with grief
for Fanny's fate than dread of her own. There comes, borne upon the
breeze that lifts her dark tresses, and fans her pearly cheeks, the
music of many rural voices--of rippling streams and rustling leaves and
twittering birds and humming bees.

But mingled with these, at length, there comes to her attentive ear a
sound, or the suspicion of a sound, of distant horse hoofs falling upon
the forest leaves--it draws nearer--it becomes distinct--she knows it
now--it is--it is a troop of British soldiers approaching the house!

They rode in a totally undisciplined and disorderly manner; reeling in
their saddles, drunken with debauchery, red-hot, reeking from some scene
of fire and blood!

And in no condition to be operated upon by Edith's beautiful and holy
influences.

They galloped into the yard--they galloped up to the house--their leader
threw himself heavily from his horse and advanced to the door.

It was the terrible and remorseless Thorg! No one could doubt the
identity for a single instant. The low, square-built, thick-set body,
the huge head, the bull neck, heavy jowl, coarse, sensual lips,
bloodshot eyes, and fiery visage surrounded with coarse red hair--the
whole brutalized, demonized aspect could belong to no monster in the
universe but that cross between the fiend and the beast called Thorg!
And now he came, intoxicated, inflamed, burning with fierce passions
from some fell scene of recent violence!

Pale as death, and nearly as calm, Edith awaited his coming. She could
not hope to influence this man or his associates. She knew her fate
now--it was death!--death by her own hand, before that man's foot should
profane her threshold! She knew her fate, and knowing it, grew calm and
strong. There were no more hopes or fears or doubts or trepidations.
Over the weakness of the flesh the spirit ruled victorious, and Edith
stood revealed to herself richly endowed with that heroism she had so
worshiped in others--in that supreme moment mistress of herself and of
her fate. To die by her own hand! but not rashly--not till a trial
should be made--not till the last moment. And how beautiful in this
last fateful moment she looked! The death pallor had passed from her
countenance--the summer breeze was lifting the light black curls--soft
shadows were playing upon the pearly brow--a strange elevation
irradiated her face, and it "shone as it had been the face of an angel."

"By George! boys, what a pretty wench! Keep back, you d----d rascals!"
(for the men had dismounted and were pressing behind him) "keep back, I
say, you drunken ----! Let rank have precedence in love as in other
things! Your turn may come afterward! Ho! pretty mistress, has your
larder the material to supply my men with a meal?"

Edith glanced around for her attendants. Jenny lay upon the hall floor,
fallen forward upon her face, in a deep swoon. Oliver stood out upon the
lawn, his teeth chattering, and his knees knocking together with terror,
yet faintly meditating a desperate onslaught to the rescue with his
wooden rake.

"No matter! for first of all we must have a taste of those dainty lips;
stand back, bl--t you," he vociferated with a volley of appalling oaths,
that sent the disorderly men, who were again crowding behind him, back
into the rear; "we would be alone, d---- you; do you hear?"

The drunken soldiers fell back, and he advanced toward Edith, who stood
calm in desperate resolution. She raised her hand to supplicate or wave
him off, he did not care which--her other hand, hanging down by her
side, grasped the pistol, which she concealed in the folds of her dress.

"Hear me," she said, "one moment, I beseech you!"

The miscreant paused.

"Proceed, my beauty! Only don't let the grace before meat be too long."

"I am a soldier's child," said Edith; her sweet, clear voice slightly
quavering like the strings of a lute over which the wind has passed; "I
am a soldier's child--my father died gallantly on the field of battle.
You are soldiers, and will not hurt a soldier's orphan daughter."

"Not for the universe, my angel; bl----t 'em! let any of 'em hurt a hair
of your head! I only want to love you a little, my beauty! that's
all!--only want to pet you to your heart's content;" and the brute made
a step toward her.

"Hear me!" exclaimed Edith, raising her hand.

"Well, well, go on, my dear, only don't be too long!--for my men want
something to eat and drink, and I have sworn not to break my fast until
I know the flavor of those ripe lips."

Edith's fingers closed convulsively upon the pistol still held bidden.

"I am alone and defenseless," she said; "I remained here, voluntarily,
to protect our home, because I had faith in the better feelings of men
when they should be appealed to. I had heard dreadful tales of the
ravages of the enemy through neighboring sections of the country. I did
not fully believe them. I thought them the exaggerations of terror, and
knew how such stories grow in the telling. I could not credit the worst,
believing, as I did, the British nation to be an upright and honorable
enemy--British soldiers to be men--and British officers gentlemen. Sir,
have I trusted in vain? Will you not let me and my servants retire in
peace? All that the cellars and storehouses of Luckenough contain is at
your disposal. You will leave myself and attendants unmolested. I have
not trusted in the honor of British soldiers to my own destruction!"

"A pretty speech, my dear, and prettily spoken--but not half so
persuasive as the sweet wench that uttered it," said Thorg, springing
toward her.

Edith suddenly raised the pistol--an expression of deadly determination
upon her face.

Thorg as suddenly fell back. He was an abominable coward in addition to
his other qualities.

"Seize that girl! Seize and disarm her! What mean you, rascals? Are you
to be foiled by a girl? Seize and disarm her, I say! Are you men?"

Yes, they were men, and therefore, drunken and brutal as they were, they
hesitated to close upon one helpless girl.

"H--l fire and furies! surround! disarm her, I say!" vociferated Thorg.

Edith stood, her hand still grasping the pistol--her other one raised in
desperate entreaty.

"Oh! one moment! for heaven's sake, one moment! Still hear me! I would
not have fired upon your captain! Nor would I fire upon one of you, who
close upon me only at your captain's order. There is something within me
that shrinks from taking life! even the life of an enemy--any life but
my own, and that only in such a desperate strait as this. Oh! by the
mercy that is in my own heart, show mercy to me! You are men! You have
mothers, or sisters, or wives at home, whom you hope to meet again, when
war and its insanities are over. Oh! for their sakes, show mercy to the
defenseless girl who stands here in your power! Do not compel her to
shed her own blood! for, sure as you advance one step toward me, I pull
this trigger, and fall dead at your feet." And Edith raised the pistol
and placed the muzzle to her own temple--her finger against the trigger.

The men stood still--the captain swore.

"H--l fire and flames! Do you intend to stand there all day, to hear the
wench declaim? Seize her, curse you! Wrench that weapon from her hand."

"Not so quick as I can pull the trigger!" said Edith--her eyes blazing
with the sense of having fate--the worst of fate in her own hands; it
was but a pressure of the finger, to be made quick as lightning, and she
was beyond their power! Her finger was on the trigger--the muzzle of the
pistol, a cold ring of steel, pressed her burning temple! She felt it
kindly--protective as a friend's kiss!

"Seize her! Seize her, curse you!" cried the brutal Thorg, "what care I
whether she pull the trigger or not? Before the blood cools in her body,
I will have had my satisfaction! Seize her, you infernal--"

"Captain, countermand your order! I beg, I entreat you, countermand your
order! You yourself will greatly regret having given it, when you are
calmer," said a young officer, riding hastily forward, and now, for the
first time, taking a part in the scene.

An honorable youth in a band of licensed military marauders.

"'Sdeath, sir! Don't interfere with me! Seize her, rascals!"

"One step more, and I pull the trigger!" said Edith.

"Captain Thorg! This must not be!" persisted the young officer.

"D--n, sir! Do you oppose me? Do you dare? Fall back, sir, I command
you! Scoundrels! close upon that wench and bind her!"

"Captain Thorg! This shall not be! Do you hear? Do you understand? I say
this violence shall not be perpetrated!" said the young officer, firmly.

"D--n, sir! Are you drunk, or mad? You are under arrest, sir! Corporal
Truman, take Ensign Shields' sword!"

The young man was quickly disarmed, and once more the captain
vociferated:

"Knock down and disarm that vixen! Obey your orders, villains! Or by
h--l, and all its fiends, I'll have you all court-martialed, and shot
before to-morrow noon!"

The soldiers closed around the unprotected girl.

"Lord, all merciful! forgive my sins," she prayed, and with a firm hand
pulled the trigger!

It did not respond to her touch--it failed! it failed!

Casting the traitorous weapon from her, she sunk upon her knees,
murmuring:

"Lost--lost--all is lost!" remained crushed, overwhelmed, awaiting her
fate!

"Ha! ha! ha! as pretty a little make-believe as ever I saw!" laughed the
brutal Thorg, now perfectly at his ease, and gloating over her beauty,
and helplessness, and, deadly terror. "As pretty a little sham as ever I
saw!"

"It was no sham! She couldn't sham! I drawed out the shot unbeknownst to
her! I wish, I does, my fingers had shriveled and dropped off afore they
ever did it!" exclaimed Oliver, in a passion of remorse, as he ran
forward, rake in hand.

He was quickly thrown down and disarmed--no one had any hesitation in
dealing with him.

"Now then, my fair!" said Thorg, moving toward his victim.

Edith was now wild with desperation--her eyes flew wildly around in
search of help, where help there seemed none. Then she turned with the
frenzied impulse of flying.

But the men surrounded to cut off her retreat.

"Nay, nay, let her run! Let her run! Give her a fair start, and do you
give chase! It will be the rarest sport! Fox-hunting is a good thing,
but girl-chasing must be the very h--l of sport, when I tell you--mind,
I tell you, men--she shall be the exclusive prize of him who catches
her!" swore the remorseless Thorg.

Edith had gained the back door.

They started in pursuit.

"Now, by the living Lord that made me, the first man that lays hands on
her shall die!" suddenly exclaimed the young ensign, wresting his sword
from the hand of the corporal, springing between Edith and her pursuers,
flashing out the blade, and brandishing it in the faces of the foremost.

He was but a stripling, scarcely older than Edith's self--the arm that
wielded that slender blade scarcely stronger than Edith's own--but the
fire that flashed from the eagle eye showed a spirit to rescue or die in
her defense.

Thorg threw himself into the most frantic fury--a volley of the most
horrible oaths was discharged from his lips.

"Upon that villain, men! Beat him down! Slay him! Pin him to the ground
with your bayonets! And then! do your will with the girl!"

But before this fiendish order could be executed, ay, before it was half
spoken, whirled into the yard a body or about thirty horsemen, galloping
fiercely to the rescue with drawn swords and shouting voices.

They were nearly three times the number of the foraging soldiers.




CHAPTER III.

YOUNG AMERICA IN 1814.


Young students of the neighboring academy--mere boys of from thirteen to
eighteen years of age, but brave, spirited, vigorous lads, well mounted,
well armed, and led on by the redoubtable college hero, Cloudesley
Mornington. They rushed forward, they surrounded, they fell upon the
marauders with an absolute shower of blows.

"Give it to them, men! This for Fanny! This for Edith! And this! and
this! and this for both of them!" shouted Cloudesley, as he vigorously
laid about him. "Strike for Hay Hill and vengeance! Let them have it, my
men! And you, little fellows! Small young gentlemen, with the souls of
heroes, and the bodies of elves, who can't strike a very hard blow, aim
where your blows will tell! Aim at their faces. This for Fanny! This for
Edith!" shouted Cloudesley, raining his strokes right and left, but
never at random.

He fought his way through to the miscreant Thorg.

Thorg was still on foot, armed with a sword, and laying about him
savagely among the crowd of foes that had surrounded him.

Cloudesley was still on horseback--he had caught up an ax that lay
carelessly upon the lawn, and now he rushed upon Thorg from behind.

He had no scruple in taking this advantage of the enemy--no scruple
with an unscrupulous monster--an outlawed wretch--a wild beast to be
destroyed, when and where and how it was possible!

And so Cloudesley came on behind, and elevating this formidable weapon
in both hands, raising himself in his stirrups and throwing his whole
weight with the stroke, he dealt a blow upon the head of Thorg that
brought him to the earth stunned. From the impetus Cloudesley himself
had received, he had nearly lost his saddle, but had recovered.

"They fly! They fly! By the bones of Caesar, the miscreants fly! After
them, my men! After them! Pursue! pursue!" shouted Cloudesley, wheeling
his horse around to follow.

But just then, the young British officer standing near Edith, resting
on his sword, breathing, as it were, after a severe conflict, caught
Cloudesley's eyes. Intoxicated with victory, Cloudesley sprang from his
horse, and raising his ax, rushed up the stairs upon the youth!

Edith sprang and threw herself before the stripling, impulsively
clasping her arms around him to shield him, and then throwing up one arm
to ward off a blow, looked up and exclaimed:

"He is my preserver--my preserver, Cloudesley!"

And what did the young ensign do? Clasped Edith quietly but closely to
his breast.

It was a beautiful, beautiful picture!

Nay, any one might understand how it was--that not years upon years of
ordinary acquaintance could have so drawn, so knitted these young hearts
together as those few hours of supreme danger.

"My preserver, Cloudesley! My preserver!"

Cloudesley grounded his ax.

"I don't understand that, Edith! He is a British officer."

"He is my deliverer! When Thorg set his men on me to hunt me, he cast
himself before me, and kept them at bay until you came!"

"Mutinied!" exclaimed Cloudesley, in astonishment, and a sort of horror.

"Yes, I suppose it was mutiny," said the young ensign, speaking for the
first time and blushing as he withdrew his arm from Edith's waist.

"Whe-ew! here's a go!" Cloudesley was about to exclaim, but remembering
himself he amended his phraseology, and said, "A very embarrassing
situation, yours, sir."

"I cannot regret it!"

"Certainly not! There are laws of God and humanity above all military
law, and such you obeyed, sir! I thank you on the part of my young
countrywoman," said Cloudesley, who imagined that he could talk about as
well as he could fight.

"If the occasion could recur, I would do it again! Yes, a thousand
times!" the young man's eyes added to Edith--only to her.

"But oh! perdition! while I am talking here that serpent! that
copperhead! that cobra capella! is coming round again! How astonishingly
tenacious of life all foul, venomous creatures are!" exclaimed
Cloudesley, as he happened to espy Throg moving slightly where he lay,
and rushed out to dispatch him.

The other two young people were left alone in the hall.

"I am afraid you have placed yourself in a very, very dangerous
situation, by what you did to save me."

"But do you know--oh, do you know how happy it has made me? Can you
divine how my heart--yes, my soul--burns with the joy it has given me?
When I saw you standing there before your enemies so beautiful! so calm!
so constant--I felt that I could die for you--that I would die for you.
And when I sprang between you and your pursuers, I had resolved to die
for you. But first to set your soul free. Edith, you should not have
fallen into the hands of the soldiers! Yes! I had determined to die for
and with you! You are safe. And whatever befalls me, Edith, will you
remember that?"

"You are faint! You are wounded! Indeed you are wounded! Oh, where! Oh!
did any of our people strike you?"

"No--it was one of our men, Edith! I do not know your other name, sweet
lady!"

"Never mind my name--it is Edith--that will do; but your wound--your
wound--oh! you are very pale--here! lie down upon this settee. Oh, it is
too hard!--come into my room, it opens here upon the hall--there is a
comfortable lounge there--come in and lie down--let me get you
something?"

"Thanks--thanks, dearest lady, but I must get upon my horse and go!"

"Go?"

"Yes, Edith--don't you understand, that after what I have done--after
what I have had the joy of doing--the only honorable course left open
to me, is to go and give myself up to answer the charges that may be
brought against me?"

"Oh, heaven! I know! I know what you have incurred by defending me! I
know the awful penalty laid upon a military officer who lifts his hand
against his superior. Don't go! oh, don't go!"

"And do you really take so much interest in my fate, sweetest lady?"
said the youth, gazing at her with the deepest and most delightful
emotions.

"'Take an interest' in my generous protector! How should I help it? Oh!
don't go! Don't think of going. You will not--will you? Say that you
will not!"

"You will not advise me to anything dishonorable, I am sure."

"No--no--but oh! at such a fearful cost you have saved me. Oh! when I
think of it, I wish you had not interfered to defend me. I wish it had
not been done!"

"And I would not for the whole world that it had not been done! Do not
fear for me, sweetest Edith! I run little risk in voluntarily placing
myself in the hands of a court-martial--for British officers are
gentlemen, Edith!--you must not judge them by those you have seen--and
when they hear all the circumstances, I have little doubt that my act
will be justified--besides, my fate will rest with Ross, General
Ross--one of the most gallant and noble spirits ever created, Edith!
And now you must let me go, fairest lady." And he raised her hand
respectfully to his lips, bowed reverently, and left the hall to find
his horse.

Just then Cloudesley was seen approaching, crying out that they had
escaped.

"You are not going to leave us, sir?" he asked Cloudesley, catching
sight of the ensign.

"I am under the necessity of doing so."

"But you are not able to travel--you can scarcely sit your horse. Pray
do not think of leaving us."

"You are a soldier--at least an amateur one, and you will understand
that after what has occurred, I must not seem to hide myself like a
fugitive from justice! In short, I must go and answer for that which I
have done."

"I understand, but really, sir, you look very ill--you--"

But here the young officer held out his hand smilingly, took leave of
Cloudesley, and bowing low to Edith, rode off.

Cloudesley and Edith followed the gallant fellow with their eyes. He had
nearly reached the gate, the old green gate at the farthest end of the
semi-circular avenue, when the horse stopped, the rider reeled and fell
from his saddle. Cloudesley and Edith ran toward him--reached him.
Cloudesley disentangled his foot from the stirrup, and raised him in his
arms. Edith stood pale and breathless by.

"He has fainted! I knew he was suffering extreme pain. Edith! fly and
get some water! Or rather here! sit down and hold up his head while I
go."

Edith was quickly down by the side of her preserver, supporting his
head upon her breast. Cloudesley sped toward the house for water and
assistance. When he procured what he wanted and returned, he met the
troop of collegians on their return from the chase of the retreating
marauders. They reported that they had scattered the fugitives in every
direction and lost them in the labyrinths of the forest.

Several of them dismounted and gathered around the young ensign.

But Cloudesley was now upon the spot, and while he bathed the face of
the fainting man, explained to them how it was, and requested some one
to ride immediately to the village and procure a physician. Thurston
Willcoxen, the next in command under him, and his chosen
brother-in-arms, mounted his horse and galloped off.

In the meantime the wounded man was carried to the mansion house and
laid upon a cot in one of the parlors.

Presently Edith heard wheels roll up to the door and stop. She looked
up. It was the carriage of the surgeon, whom she saw alight and walk up
the steps. She went to meet him, composedly as she could, and conducted
him to the door of the sick-room, which he entered. Edith remained in
the hall, softly walking up and down, and sometimes pausing to listen.

After a little, the door opened. It was only Solomon Weismann, who asked
for warm water, lint, and a quantity of old linen. These Edith quickly
supplied, and then remained alone in the hall, walking up and down, and
pausing to listen as before; once she heard a deep shuddering groan, as
of one in mortal extremity, and her own heart and frame thrilled to the
sound, and then all was still as before.

An hour, two hours, passed, and then the door opened again, and Edith
caught a glimpse of the surgeon, with his shirt sleeves pushed above his
elbows, and a pair of bloody hands. It was Solomon who opened the door
to ask for a basin of water, towels and soap, for the doctor to wash.
Edith furnished these also.

Half an hour passed, and the door opened a third time, and the doctor
himself came out, fresh and smiling. His countenance and his manner were
in every respect encouraging.

"Come into the drawing-room a moment, if you please, Miss Edith, I want
to speak with you."

Edith desired nothing more earnestly just at that moment.

"Well, doctor--your patient?" she inquired, anxiously.

"Will do very well! Will do very well! That is, if he be properly
attended to, and that is what I wished to speak to you about, Miss
Edith. I have seen you near sick-beds before this, my dear, and know
that I can better trust you than any one to whom I could at present
apply. I intend to install you as his nurse, my dear. When a life
depends upon your care, you will waive any scruples you might otherwise
feel, Miss Edith, I am sure! You will have your old maid, Jenny, to
assist you, and Solomon at hand, in case of an emergency. But I intend
to delegate my authority, and leave my directions with you."

"Yes, doctor, I will do my very best for your patient."

"I am sure of that. I am sure of that."

Edith watched by his cot through all the night, fanning him softly,
keeping his chest covered from the air, giving him his medicine at the
proper intervals, and putting drink to his lips when he needed it. But
never trusted her eyelids to close for a moment. Jenny shared her vigil
by nodding in an easy chair; and Solomon Weismann, a young medical
student, by sleeping soundly on the wooden settee in the hall. So passed
the night. After midnight, to Edith's great relief, his fever began to
abate, and he sank into a sweet sleep. In the morning Solomon roused
himself, and came in and relieved Edith's watch, and attended to the
wants of the patient, while she went to her room to bathe her face and
weary eyes.

But instead of growing better the patient grew worse, and for days life
was despaired of. The most skillful medical treatment, and the most
careful nursing scarcely saved his life. And even after the imminent
danger was over, it was weeks before he was able to be lifted from the
bed to the sofa.

In the meantime, Throg, who was also treated by the doctor, recovered.
He took quite an affectionate leave of the young ensign, and with an
appearance of great friendliness and honesty, promised to interest
himself at headquarters in behalf of the young officer. This somehow
filled Edith with a vague distrust, and dark foreboding, for which she
could neither account, nor excuse herself, nor yet shake off. Thorg had
been exchanged, and he joined his regiment after its return from
Washington City, and before it sailed from the shores of America.

Weeks passed, during which the invalid occupied the sofa in his
room--and Edith was his sole nurse. And then Commodore Waugh, with his
wife, servants and caravan returned to Luckenough.

The old soldier had been "posted up," he said, relative to all that had
transpired in his absence.

There were no words, he declared, to express his admiration of Edith's
"heroism."

It was in vain that Edith assured him that she had not been heroic at
all--that the preservation of Luckenough had been due rather to the
timely succor of the college boys than to her own imprudent resolution.
It did no good--the old man was determined to look upon his niece as a
heroine worthy to stand by the side of Joan of Arc.

"For," said he, "was it not the soul of a heroine that enabled her to
stay and guard the house; and would the college company ever have come
to the rescue of these old walls if they had not heard that she had
resolutely remained to guard them and was almost alone in the house?
Don't tell me! Edith is the star maiden of old St. Mary's, and I'm proud
of her! She is worthy to be my niece and heiress! A true descendant of
Marie Zelenski, is she! And I'll tell you what I'll do, Edith!" he said,
turning to her, "I'll reward you, my dear! I will. I'll marry you to
Professor Grimshaw! That's what I'll do, my dear! And you both shall
have Luckenough; that you shall!"

Months passed--the war was over--peace was proclaimed, and still the
young ensign, an invalid, unable to travel, lingered at Luckenough.
Regularly he received his pay; twice he received an extension of leave
of absence; and all through the instrumentality of--Thorg. Yet all this
filled Edith with the greatest uneasiness and foreboding--ungrateful,
incomprehensible, yet impossible to be delivered from.




CHAPTER IV.

EDITH'S TROUBLES.


Late in the spring Ensign Michael Shields received orders to join his
regiment in Canada, and upon their reception he had an explanation with
Edith, and with her permission, had requested her hand of her uncle,
Commodore Waugh. This threw the veteran into a towering passion, and
nearly drove him from his proprieties as host. The young ensign was
unacceptable to him upon every account. First and foremost, he wasn't
"Grim," Then he was an Israelite. And, lastly! horror of horrors! he was
a British officer, and dared to aspire to the hand of Edith. It was in
vain that his wife, the good Henrietta, tried to mollify him; the storm
raged for several days--raged, till it had expended all its strength,
and subsided from exhaustion. Then he called Edith and tried to talk the
matter over calmly with her.

"Now all I have to say to you, Edith, is this," he concluded, "that if
you will have the good sense to marry Mr. Grimshaw, these intentions
shall be more than fulfilled--they shall be anticipated. Upon your
marriage with Grimshaw, I will give you a conveyance of Luckenough--only
reserving to myself and Old Hen a house, and a life-support in the
place; but if you will persist in your foolish preference for that
young scamp, I will give you--nothing. That is all, Edith."

During the speech Edith remained standing, with her eyes fixed upon the
floor. Now, she spoke in a tremulous voice:

"That is all--is it not, uncle? You will not deprive me of any portion
of your love; will you, uncle?"

"I do not know, Edith! I cannot tell; when you have deliberately chosen
one of your own fancy, in preference to one of mine--the man I care most
for in the world, and whom I chose especially for you; why, you've
speared me right through a very tender part; however, as I said before,
what you do, do quickly! I cannot bear to be kept upon the tenter
hooks!"

"I will talk with Michael, uncle," said Edith, meekly.

She went out, and found him pacing the lawn at the back of the house.

He turned toward her with a glad smile, took her hand as she approached
him, and pressed it to his lips.

"Dearest Edith, where have you been so long?"

"With my uncle, Michael. I have my uncle's 'ultimatum,' as he calls it."

"What is it, Edith?"

"Ah! how shall I tell you without offense? But, dearest Michael you will
not mind--you will forgive an old man's childish prejudices, especially
when you know they are not personal--but circumstantial, national,
bigoted."

"Well, Edith! well?"

"Michael, he says--he says that I may give you my hand--"

"Said he so! Bless that fair hand, and bless him who bestows it!" he
exclaimed, clasping her fingers and pressing them to his lips.

"Yes, Michael, but--"

"But what! there is no but; he permits you to give me your hand; there
is then no but--'a jailer to bring forth some monstrous malefactor.'"

"Yet listen! You know I was to have been his heiress!"

"No, indeed I did not know it! never heard it! never suspected it! never
even thought of it! How did I know but that he had sons and daughters,
or nephews away at school!"

"Well, I was to have been his heiress. Now he disinherits me, unless I
consent to be married to his friend and favorite, Dr. Grimshaw."

"You put the case gently and delicately, dear Edith, but the hard truth
is this--is it not--that he will disinherit you, if you consent to be
mine? You need not answer me, dearest Edith, if you do not wish to; but
listen--I have nothing but my sword, and beyond my boundless love
nothing to offer you but the wayward fate of a soldier's wife. Your eyes
are full of tears. Speak, Edith Lance! Can you share the soldier's
wandering life? Speak, Edith, or lay your hand in mine. Yet, no! no! no!
I am selfish and unjust. Take time, love, to think of all you abandon,
all that you may encounter in joining your fate to mine. God knows what
it has cost me to say it--but--take time, Edith," and he pressed and
dropped her hand.

"I do not need to do so. My answer to-day, to-morrow, and forever, must
be the same," she answered, in a very low voice; and her eyes sought the
ground, and the blush deepened on her cheek, as she laid her hand in
his. How he pressed that white hand, to his lips, to his heart! How he
clasped her to his breast! How he vowed to love and cherish her as the
dearest treasure of his life need not here be told.

Edith said:

"Now take me in to uncle, and tell him, for he asked me not to keep him
in suspense."

Michael led her into the hall, where the commodore strode up
and down, making the old rafters tremble and quake with every
tread--puffing--blowing over his fallen hopes, like a nor'-wester
over the dead leaves.

Michael advanced, holding the hand of his affianced, and modestly
announced their engagement.

"Humph! So the precious business is concluded, is it?"

"Yes, sir," said Michael, with a bow.

"Well, I hope you may be as happy as you deserve! When is the proceeding
to come off?"

"What, sir?"

"The marriage, young gentleman?"

"When shall I say, dearest Edith?" asked Michael, stooping to her ear.

"When uncle pleases," murmured the girl.

"Uncle pleases nothing, and will have nothing to do with it, except to
advise as early a day as possible," he blurted out; "what says the
bride?"

"Answer, dearest Edith," entreated Michael Shields.

"Then let it be at New Year," said Edith, falteringly.

"Whew!--six months ahead! Entirely too far off!" exclaimed the
commodore.

"And so it really is, beloved," whispered Michael.

"Let it be next week," abruptly broke in the commodore. "What's the use
of putting it off? Tuesdays and Thursdays are the marrying days, I
believe; let it then be Tuesday or Thursday."

"Tuesday," pleaded Michael.

"Thursday," murmured Edith.

"The deuce!--if you can't decide, I must decide for you," growled Old
Nick, storming down toward the extremity of the hall, and roaring--"Old
Hen! Old Hen! These fools are to be spliced on Sunday! Now bring me my
pipe;" and the commodore withdrew to his sanctum.

Good Henrietta came in, took the hand of the young ensign, and pressed
it warmly, saying that he would have a good wife, and wishing them both
much happiness in their union. She drew Edith to her bosom, and kissed
her fondly, but in silence.

As this was Friday evening, little preparations could be made for the
solemnity to take place on Sunday. Yet Mrs. Henrietta exerted herself to
do all possible honor to the occasion. That very evening she sent out a
few invitations to the dinner and ball, that in those days invariably
celebrated a country wedding. She even invited a few particular friends
to meet the bridal pair at dinner, on their return from church.

The little interval between this and Sunday morning was passed by Edith
and Shields in making arrangements for their future course.

Sunday came.

A young lady of the neighborhood officiated as bridesmaid, and
Cloudesley Mornington as groomsman. The ceremony was to be performed at
the Episcopal Church at Charlotte Hall. The bridal party set forward in
two carriages. They were attended by the commodore and Mrs. Waugh. They
reached the church at an early hour, and the marriage was solemnized
before the morning service. When the entries had been made, and the
usual congratulations passed, the party returned to the carriages.
Before entering his own, Commodore Waugh approached that in which the
bride and bridegroom were already seated, and into which the groomsman
was about to hand the bridesmaid.

"Stay, you two, you need not enter just yet," said the old man, "I want
to speak with Mr. Shields and his wife, Edith!"

Edith put her head forward, eagerly.

"I have nothing against you; but after what has occurred, I don't want
to see you at Luckenough again. Good-by!" Then, turning to Shields, he
said, "I will have your own and your wife's goods forwarded to the
hotel, here," and nodding gruffly, he strode away.

Cloudesley stormed, Edith begged that the carriage might be delayed yet
a little while. Vain Edith's hope, and vain Mrs. Waugh's expostulations,
Old Nick was not to be mollified. He said that "those who pleased to
remain with the new-married couple, might do so--he should go home! They
did as they liked, and he should do as he liked." Mrs. Waugh,
Cloudesley, and the bridesmaid determined to stay.

The commodore entered his carriage, and was driven toward home.

The party then adjourned to the hotel. Mrs. Waugh comforting Edith,
and declaring her intention to stay with her as long as she should
remain in the neighborhood--for Henrietta always did as she pleased,
notwithstanding the opposition of her stormy husband. The young
bridesmaid and Cloudesley also expressed their determination to stand
by their friends to the last.

Their patience was not put to a very long test. In a few days a packet
was to sail from Benedict to Baltimore, and the young couple took
advantage of the opportunity, and departed, with the good wishes of
their few devoted friends.

Their destination was Toronto, in Canada, where the young ensign's
regiment was quartered.




CHAPTER V.

SANS SOUCI.


Several miles from the manor of Luckenough, upon a hill not far from the
seacoast, stood the cottage of the Old Fields.

The property was an appendage to the Manor of Luckenoug--, and was at
this time occupied by a poor relation of Commodore Waugh, his niece,
Mary L'Oiseau, the widow of a Frenchman. Mrs. L'Oiseau had but one
child, a little girl, Jacquelina, now about eight or nine years of age.

Commodore Waugh had given them the cottage to live in, permission to
make a living, if they could, out of the poor land attached to it. This
was all the help he had afforded his poor niece, and all, as she said,
that she could reasonably expect from one who had so many dependents.
For several years past the little property had afforded her a bare
subsistence.

And now this year the long drought had parched up her garden and
corn-field, and her cows had failed in their yield of milk for the want
of grass.

It was upon a dry and burning day, near the last of August, that Mary
L'Oiseau and her daughter sat down to their frugal breakfast. And such a
frugal breakfast! The cheapest tea, with brown sugar, and a corn cake
baked upon the griddle, and a little butter--that was all! It was spread
upon a plain pine table without a tablecloth.

The furniture of the room was in keeping--a sanded floor, a chest of
drawers, with a small looking-glass, ornamented by a sprig of asparagus,
a dresser of rough pine shelves on the right of the fireplace, and a
cupboard on the left, a half-dozen chip-bottomed chairs, a
spinning-wheel, and a reel and jack, completed the appointments.

Mrs. L'Oiseau was devouring the contents of a letter, which ran thus:

"MARY, MY DEAR! I feel as if I had somewhat neglected you, but, the truth
is, my arm is not long enough to stretch from Luckenough to Old Fields.
That being the case, and myself and Old Hen being rather lonesome since
Edith's ungrateful desertion, we beg you to take little Jacko, and come
live with us as long as we may live--and of what may come after that we
will talk at some time. If you will be ready I will send the carriage for
you on Saturday.

"YOUR UNCLE NICK."

Mrs. L'Oiseau read this letter with a changing cheek--when she finished
it she folded and laid it aside in silence.

Then she called to her side her child--her Jacquelina--her Sans
Souci--as for her gay, thoughtless temper she was called. I should here
describe the mother and daughter to you. The mother needs little
description--a pale, black-haired, black-eyed woman, who should have
been blooming and sprightly, but that care had damped her spirits, and
cankered the roses in her cheeks.

But Jacquelina--Sans Souci--merits a better portrait. She was small
and slight for her years, and, though really near nine, would have
been taken for six or seven. She was fair-skinned, blue-eyed and
golden-haired. And her countenance, full of spirit, courage and
audacity. As she would dart her face upward toward the sun, her round,
smooth, highly polished white forehead would seem to laugh in light
between its clustering curls of burnished gold, that, together with the
little, slightly turned-up nose, and short, slightly protruded upper
lip, gave the charm of inexpressible archness to the most mischievous
countenance alive. In fact her whole form, features, expression and
gestures seemed instinct with mischief--mischief lurked in the kinked
tendrils of her bright hair; mischief looked out and laughed in the
merry, malicious blue eyes; mischief crept slyly over the bows of her
curbed and ruby lips, and mischief played at hide and seek among the
rosy dimples of her blooming cheeks.

"Now, Jacquelina," said Mrs. L'Oiseau, "you must cure yourself of these
hoydenish tricks of yours before you expose them to your uncle--remember
how whimsical and eccentric he is."

"So am I! Just as whimsical! I'll do him dirt," said the young lady.

"Good heaven! Where did you ever pick up such a phrase, and what upon
earth does doing any one 'dirt' mean?" asked the very much shocked lady.

"I mean I'll grind his nose on the ground, I'll hurry him and worry him,
and upset him, and cross him, and make him run his head against the
wall, and butt his blundering brains out. What did he turn Fair Edith
away for? Oh! I'll pay him off! I'll settle with him! Fair Edith shan't
be in his debt for her injuries very long."

From her pearly brow and pearly cheeks, "Fair Edith" was the name by
which the child had heard her cousin once called, and she had called her
thus ever since.

Mrs. L'Oiseau answered gravely.

"Your uncle gave Edith a fair choice between his own love and
protection, and the great benefits he had in store for her, and the
love of a stranger and foreigner, whom he disapproved and hated. Edith
deliberately chose the latter. And your uncle had a perfect right to act
upon her unwise decision."

"And for my part, I know he hadn't--all of my own thoughts. Oh! I'll do
him--"

"Hush! Jacquelina. You shall not use such expressions. So much comes of
my letting you have your own way, running down to the beach and watching
the boats, and hearing the vulgar talk of the fishermen."

On Saturday, at the hour specified, the carriage came to Old Field
Cottage, and conveyed Mrs. L'Oiseau and her child to Luckenough. They
were very kindly received by the commodore, and affectionately embraced
by Henrietta, who conducted them to a pleasant room, where they could
lay off their bonnets, and which they were thenceforth to consider as
their own apartment. This was not the one which had been occupied by
Edith. Edith's chamber had been left undisturbed and locked up by Mrs.
Waugh, and was kept ever after sacred to her memory.

The sojourn of Mrs. L'Oiseau and Jacquelina at Luckenough was an
experiment on the part of the commodore. He did not mean to commit
himself hastily, as in the case of his sudden choice of Edith as his
heiress. He intended to take a good, long time for what he called
"mature deliberation"--often one of the greatest enemies to upright,
generous, and disinterested action--to hope, faith, and charity, that I
know of, by the way. Commodore Waugh also determined to have his own
will in all things, this time at least. He had the vantage ground now,
and was resolved to keep it. He had caught Sans Souci young, before she
could possibly have formed even a childish predilection for one of the
opposite sex, and he was determined to raise and educate a wife for his
beloved Grim.




CHAPTER VI.

THE BLIGHTED HEART.


In February the deepest snow storm fell that had fallen during the whole
winter. The roads were considered quite impassable by carriages, and the
family at Luckenough were blocked up in their old house. Yet one day, in
the midst of this "tremendous state of affairs," as the commodore called
it, a messenger from Benedict arrived at Luckenough, the bearer of a
letter to Mrs. Waugh, which he refused to intrust to any other hands but
that lady's own. He was, therefore, shown into the presence of the
mistress, to whom he presented the note. Mrs. Waugh took it and looked
at it with some curiosity--it was superscribed in a slight feminine
hand--quite new to Henrietta; and she opened it, and turned immediately
to the signature--Marian Mayfield--a strange name to her; she had never
seen or heard it before. She lost no more time in perusing the letter,
but as she read, her cheek flushed and paled--her agitation became
excessive, she was obliged to ring for a glass of water, and as soon as
she had swallowed it she crushed and thrust the letter into her bosom,
ordered her mule to be saddled instantly, and her riding pelisse and
hood to be brought. In two hours and a half Henrietta reached the
village, and alighted at the little hotel. Of the landlord, who came
forth respectfully to meet her, she demanded to be shown immediately to
the presence of the young lady who had recently arrived from abroad. The
host bowed, and inviting the lady to follow him, led the way to the
little private parlor, the door of which he opened to let the visitor
pass in, and then bowing again, he closed it and retired.

And Mrs. Waugh found herself in a small, half-darkened room, where,
reclining in an easy chair, sat--Edith? Was it Edith? Could it be Edith?
That fair phantom of a girl to whom the black ringlets and black dress
alone seemed to give outline and personality? Yes, it was Edith! But,
oh! so changed! so wan and transparent, with such blue shadows in the
hollows of her eyes and temples and cheeks--with such heavy, heavy
eyelids, seemingly dragged down by the weight of their long, sleeping
lashes--with such anguish in the gaze of the melting, dark eyes!

"Edith, my love! My dearest Edith!" said Mrs. Waugh, going to her.

She half arose, and sank speechless into the kind arms opened to receive
her. Mrs. Waugh held her to her bosom a moment in silence, and then
said:

"Edith, my dear, I got a note from your friend, Miss Mayfield, saying
that you had returned, and wished to see me. But how is this, my child?
You have evidently been very ill--you are still. Where is your husband,
Edith? Edith, where is your husband?"

A shiver that shook her whole frame--a choking, gasping sob, was all the
answer she could make.

"Where is he, Edith? Ordered away somewhere, upon some distant service?
That is hard, but never mind! Hope for the best! You will meet him
again, dear? But where is he, then?"

She lifted up her poor head, and uttering--"Dead! dead!" dropped it
heavily again upon the kind, supporting bosom.

"You do not mean it! My dear, you do not mean it! You do not know what
you are saying! Dead! when? how?" asked Mrs. Waugh, in great trouble.

"Shot! shot!" whispered the poor thing, in a tone so hollow, it seemed
reverberating through a vault. And then her stricken head sank heavily
down--and Henrietta perceived that strength and consciousness had
utterly departed. She placed her in the easy chair, and turned around to
look for restoratives, when a door leading into an adjoining bedroom
opened, and a young girl entered, and came quietly and quickly forward
to the side of the sufferer. She greeted Mrs. Waugh politely, and then
gave her undivided attention to Edith, whose care she seemed fully
competent to undertake.

This young girl was not over fourteen years of age, yet the most
beautiful and blooming creature, Mrs. Waugh thought, that she had ever
beheld.

Her presence in the room seemed at once to dispel the gloom and shadow.

She took Edith's hand, and settled her more at ease in the chair--but
refused the cologne and the salammoniac that Mrs. Waugh produced,
saying, cheerfully:

"She has not fainted, you perceive--she breathes--it is better to leave
her to nature for a while--too much attention worries her--she is very
weak."

Marian had now settled her comfortably back in the resting chair, and
stood by her side, not near enough to incommode her in the least.

"I do not understand all this. She says that her husband is dead, poor
child--how came it about? Tell me!" said Mrs. Waugh, in a low voice.

Marian's clear blue eyes filled with tears, but she dropped their white
lids and long black lashes over them, and would not let them fall; and
her ripe lips quivered, but she firmly compressed them, and remained
silent for a moment. Then she said, in a whisper:

"I will tell you by and by," and she glanced at Edith, to intimate that
the story must not be rehearsed in her presence, however insensible she
might appear to be.

"You are the young lady who wrote to me?"

"Yes, madam."

"You are a friend of my poor girl's?"

"Something more than that, madam--I will tell you by and by," said
Marian, and her kind, dear eyes were again turned upon Edith, and
observing the latter slightly move, she said, in her pleasant voice:

"Edith, dear, shall I put you to bed--are you able to walk?"

"Yes, yes," murmured the sufferer, turning her head uneasily from side
to side.

Marian gave her hand, and assisted the poor girl to rise, and tenderly
supported her as she walked to the bedroom.

Mrs. Waugh arose to give her assistance, but Marian shook her head at
her, with a kindly look, that seemed to say, "Do not startle her--she is
used only to me lately," and bore her out of sight into the bedroom.

Presently she reappeared in the little parlor, opened the blinds, drew
back the curtains, and let the sunlight into the dark room. Then she
ordered more wood to the fire, and when it was replenished, and the
servant had left the room, she invited Mrs. Waugh to draw her chair to
the hearth, and then said:

"I am ready now, madam, to tell you anything you wish to know--indeed I
had supposed that you were acquainted with everything relating to
Edith's marriage, and its fatal results."

"I know absolutely nothing but what I have learned to-day. We never
received a single letter, or message, or news of any kind, or in any
shape, from Edith or her husband, from the day they left until now."

"Yon did not hear, then, that he was court-martialed, and--sentenced to
death!"

"No, no--good heaven, no!"

"He was tried for mutiny or rebellion--I know not which--but it was for
raising arms against his superior officers while here in America--the
occasion was--but you know the occasion better than I do."

"Yes, yes, it was when he rescued Edith from the violence of Thorg and
his men. But oh! heaven, how horrible! that he should have been
condemned to death for a noble act! It is incredible--impossible--how
could it have happened? He never expected such a fate--none of us did,
or we would never have consented to his return. There seemed no prospect
of such a thing. How could it have been?"

"There was treachery, and perhaps perjury, too. He had an insidious and
unscrupulous enemy, who assumed the guise of repentance, and candor, and
friendship, the better to lure him into his toils--it was the infamous
Colonel Thorg, who received the command of the regiment, in reward for
his great services in America. And Michael's only powerful friend, who
could and would have saved him--was dead. General Ross, you are aware,
was killed in the battle of Baltimore."

"God have mercy on poor Edith! How long has it been since, this
happened, my dear girl?"

"When they reached Toronto, in Canada West, the regiment commanded by
Thorg was about to sail for England. On its arrival at York, in England,
a court-martial was formed, and Michael was brought to trial. There was
a great deal of personal prejudice, distortion of facts, and even
perjury--in short, he was condemned and sentenced one day and led out
and shot the next!"

There was silence between them then. Henrietta sat in pale and
speechless horror.

"But how long is it since my poor Edith has been so awfully widowed?" at
length inquired Mrs. Waugh.

"Nearly four months," replied Marian, in a tremulous voice. "For six
weeks succeeding his death, she was not able to rise from her bed. I
came from school to nurse her. I found her completely prostrated under
the blow. I wonder she had not died. What power of living on some
delicate frames seem to have. As soon as she was able to sit up, I began
to think that it would be better to remove her from the strange country,
the theatre of her dreadful sufferings, and to bring her to her own
native land, among her own friends and relatives, where she might resume
the life and habits of her girlhood, and where, with nothing to remind
her of her loss, she might gradually come to look upon the few wretched
months of her marriage, passed in England, as a dark dream. Therefore I
have brought her back."

"And you, my dear child," she said, "you were Michael Shields' sister?"

"No, madam, no kin to him--and yet more than kin--for he loved me, and I
loved him more than any one else in the world, as I now love his poor
young widow. This was the way of it, Mrs. Waugh: Michael's father and my
mother had both been married before, and we were children of the first
marriages; when Michael was fourteen years old, and I was seven, our
parents were united, and we grew up together. About two years ago,
Michael's father died. My mother survived him only five months, and
departed, leaving me in charge of her stepson. We had no friends but
each other. Our parents, since their union, had been isolated beings,
for this reason--his father was a Jew--my mother a Christian--therefore
the friends and relatives on either side were everlastingly offended by
their marriage. Therefore we had no one but each other. The little
property that was left was sold, and the proceeds enabled Michael to
purchase a commission in the regiment about to sail for America, and
also to place me at a good boarding school, where I remained until his
return, and the catastrophe that followed it.

"Lady, all passed so suddenly, that I knew no word of his return, much
less of his trial or execution, until I received a visit from the
chaplain who had attended his last moments, and who brought me his
farewell letter, and his last informal will, in which the poor fellow
consigned me to the care of his wife, soon to be a widow, and enjoined
me to leave school and seek her at once, and inclosed a check for the
little balance he had in bank. I went immediately, found her insensible
through grief, as I said--and, lady, I told you the rest."

Henrietta was weeping softly behind the handkerchief she held at her
eyes. At last she repeated:

"You say he left you in his widow's charge?"

"Yes, madam."

"Left his widow in yours, rather, you good and faithful sister."

"It was the same thing, lady; we were to live together, and to support
each other."

"But what was your thought, my dear girl, in bringing her here?"

"I told you, lady, that in her own native land, among her own kinsfolk,
she might be comforted, and might resume her girlhood's thoughts and
habits, and learn to forget the strange, dark passages of her short
married life, passed in a foreign country."

"But, my dear girl, did you not know, had you never heard that her uncle
disowned her for marrying against his will?"

"Something of that I certainly heard from Edith, lady, when I first
proposed to her to come home. But she was very weak, and her thoughts
very rambling, poor thing--she could not stick to a point long, and I
overruled and guided her--I could not believe but that her friends would
take her poor widowed heart to their homes again. But if it should be
otherwise, still--"

"Well?--still?"

"Why, I cannot regret having brought her to her native soil--for, if we
find no friends in America, we have left none in England--a place
besides full of the most harrowing recollections, from which this place
is happily free. America also offers a wider field for labor than
England does, and if her friends behave badly, why I will work for her,
and--for her child if it should live."

"Dear Marian, you must not think by what I said just now, that I am not
a friend of Edith. I am, indeed. I love her almost as if she were my own
daughter. I incurred my husband's anger by remaining with her after her
marriage until she sailed. I will not fail her now, be sure. Personally,
I will do my utmost for her. I will also try to influence her uncle in
her favor. And now, my dear, it is getting very late, and there is a
long ride, and a dreadful road before me. The commodore is already
anxious for me, I know, and if I keep him waiting much longer, he will
be in no mood to be persuaded by me. So I must go. To-morrow, my dear, a
better home shall be found for you and Edith. That I promise upon my own
responsibility. And, now, my dear, excellent girl, good-by. I will see
you again in the morning."

And Mrs. Waugh took leave.

"No," thundered Commodore Waugh, thrusting his head forward and bringing
his stick down heavily upon the floor. "No, I say! I will not be
bothered with her or her troubles. Don't talk to me! I care nothing
about them! What should her trials be to me? The precious affair has
turned out just as I expected it would! Only what I did not expect was
that we should have her back upon our hands! I wonder at Edith! I
thought she had more pride than to come back to me for comfort after
leaving as she did!"

This was all the satisfaction Mrs. Waugh got from Old Nick, when she had
related to him the sorrowful story of Edith's widowhood and return, and
had appealed to his generosity in her behalf. But he unbent so far as to
allow Edith and Marian to be installed at Mrs. L'Oiseau's cottage, and
even grudgingly permitted Henrietta to settle a pension upon her.




CHAPTER VII.

WANDERING FANNY.


It was a jocund morning in early summer--some five years after the
events related in the last chapter.

Old Field Cottage was a perfect gem of rural beauty. The Old Fields
themselves no longer deserved the name--the repose of years had restored
them to fertility, and now they were blooming in pristine youth--far as
the eye could reach between the cottage and the forest, and the cottage
and the sea-beach, the fields were covered with a fine growth of sweet
clover, whose verdure was most refreshing to the sight. The young trees
planted by Marian, had grown up, forming a pleasant grove around the
house. The sweet honeysuckle and fragrant white jasmine, and the rich,
aromatic, climbing rose, had run all over the walls and windows of the
house, embowering it in verdure, bloom and perfume.

While Marian stood enjoying for a few moments the morning hour, she was
startled by the sound of rapid footsteps, and then by the sight of a
young woman in wild attire, issuing from the grove at the right of the
cottage, and flying like a hunted hare toward the house.

Marian impulsively opened the gate, and the creature fled in,
frantically clapped to the gate, and stood leaning with her back
against it, and panting with haste and terror.

She was a young and pretty woman--pretty, notwithstanding the wildness
of her staring black eyes and the disorder of her long black hair that
hung in tangled tresses to her waist. Her head and feet were bare, and
her white gown was spotted with green stains of the grass, and torn by
briars, as were also her bleeding feet and arms. Marian felt for her the
deepest compassion; a mere glance had assured her that the poor,
panting, pretty creature was insane. Marian took her hand and gently
pressing it, said:

"You look very tired and faint--come in and rest yourself and take
breakfast with us."

The stranger drew away her hand and looked at Marian from head to foot.
But in the midst of her scrutiny, she suddenly sprang, glanced around,
and trembling violently, grasped the gate for support. It was but the
tramping of a colt through the clover that had startled her.

"Do not be frightened; there is nothing that can hurt you; you are safe
here."

"And won't he come?"

"Who, poor girl?"

"The Destroyer!"

"No, poor one, no destroyer comes near us here; see how quiet and
peaceable everything is here!"

The wanderer slowly shook her head with a cunning, bitter smile, that
looked stranger on her fair face than the madness itself had looked,
and:

"So it was there," she said, "but the Destroyer was at hand, and
the thunder of terror and destruction burst upon our quiet--but I
forgot--the fair spirit said I was not to think of that--such thoughts
would invoke the fiend again," added the poor creature, smoothing her
forehead with both hands, and then flinging them wide, as if to dispel
and cast away some painful concentration there.

"But now come in and lie down on the sofa, and rest, while I make you a
cup of coffee," said Marian.

But the same expression of cunning came again into the poor creature's
face, as she said:

"In the house? No, no--no, no! Fanny has learned something. Fanny knows
better than to go under roofs--they are traps to catch rabbits! 'Twas in
the house the Destroyer found us, and we couldn't get out! No, no! a
fair field and no favor and Fanny will outfly the fleetest of them! But
not in a house, not in a house!"

"Well, then I will bring an easy chair out here for you to rest in--you
can sit under the shade, and have a little stand by your side, to eat
your breakfast. Come; come nearer to the house," said Marian, taking
poor Fanny's hand, and leading her up the walk.

They were at the threshold.

"Are you Marian?" poor Fanny asked, abruptly.

"Yes, that is my name."

"Oh, I oughtn't to have come here! I oughtn't to have come here!"

"Why? What is the matter? Come, be calm! Nothing can hurt you or us
here!"

"Don't love! Marian, don't love! Be a nun, or drown yourself, but
never love!" said the woman, seizing the young girl's hands, gazing on
her beautiful face, and speaking with intense and painful earnestness.

"Why? Love is life. You had as well tell me not to live as not to love.
Poor sister! I have not known you an hour, yet your sorrows so touch me,
that my heart goes out toward you, and I want to bring you in to our
home, and take care of you," said Marian, gently.

"You do?" asked the wanderer, incredulously.

"Heaven knows I do! I wish to nurse you back to health and calmness."

"Then I would not for the world bring so much evil to you! Yet it is a
lovelier place to die in, with loving faces around."

"But it is a better place to live in! I do not let people die where I
am, unless the Lord has especially called them. I wish to make you well!
Come, drive away all these evil fancies and let me take you into the
cottage," said Marian, taking her hand.

Yielding to the influence of the young girl, poor Fanny suffered herself
to be led a few steps toward the cottage; then, with a piercing shriek,
she suddenly snatched her hand away, crying:

"I should draw the lightning down upon your head! I am doomed! I must
not enter!" And she turned and fled out of the gate.

Marian gazed after her in the deepest compassion, the tears filling her
kind blue eyes.

"Weep not for me, beautiful and loving Marian, but for
yourself--yourself!"

Marian hesitated. It were vain to follow and try to draw the wanderer
into the house; yet she could not bear the thought of leaving her. In
the meantime the sound of the shriek had brought Edith out. She came,
leading her little daughter Miriam, now five years old, by the hand.

Edith was scarcely changed in these five years--a life without
excitement or privation or toil--a life of moderation and regularity--of
easy household duties, and quiet family affections, had restored and
preserved her maiden beauty. And now her pretty hair had its own will,
and fell in slight, flossy black ringlets down each side the pearly brow
and cheeks; and nothing could have been more in keeping with the style
of her beauty than the simple, close-fitting black gown, her habitual
dress.

But lovely as the young mother was, you would scarcely have looked at
her a second time while she held that child by her hand--so marvelous
was the fascination of that little creature's countenance. It was a face
to attract, to charm, to delight, to draw you in, and rivet your whole
attention, until you became absorbed and lost in the study of its
mysterious spell--a witching face, whose nameless charm it were
impossible to tell, I might describe the fine dark Jewish features, the
glorious eyes, the brilliant complexion, and the fall of long, glossy,
black ringlets that veiled the proud little head; but the spell lay not
in them, any more than in the perfect symmetry of her form, or the
harmonious grace of her motion, or the melodious intonations of her
voice.

Edith, still leading the little girl, advanced to Marian's side, where
the latter stood at the yard gate.

"I heard a scream, Marian, dear--what was it?"

Marian pointed to the old elm tree outside the cottage fence, under the
shade of which stood the poor stroller, pressing her side, and panting
for breath.

"Edith, do you see that young woman? She it was."

"Good heaven!" exclaimed Edith, turning a shade paler, and beginning,
with trembling fingers, to unfasten the gate.

"Why, do you know her, Edith?"

"Yes! yes! My soul, it is Fanny Laurie! I thought she was in some asylum
at the North!" said Edith, passing the gate, and going up to the
wanderer. "Fanny! Fanny! Dearest Fanny!" she said, taking her thin hand,
and looking in her crazed eyes and lastly, putting both arms around her
neck and kissing her.

"Do you kiss me?" asked the poor creature, in amazement.

"Yes, dear Fanny! Don't you know me?"

"Yes, yes, you are--I know you--you are--let's see, now--"

"Edith Lance, you know--your old playmate!"

"Ah! yes, I know--you had another name."

"Edith Shields, since I was married, but I am widowed now, Fanny."

"Yes, I know--Fanny has heard them talk!"

She swept her hands across her brow several times, as if to clear her
mental vision, and gazing upon Edith, said:

"Ah! old playmate! Did the palms lie? The ravaged tome, the
blood-stained hearth, and the burning roof for me--the fated nuptials,
the murdered bridegroom, and the fatherless child for you. Did the palms
lie, Edith? You were ever incredulous! Answer, did the palms lie?"

"The prediction was partly fulfilled, as it was very likely to be at the
time our neighborhood was overrun by a ruthless foe. It happened so,
poor Fanny! You did not know the future, any more than I did--no one on
earth knows the mysteries of the future, 'not the angels in heaven, nor
the Son, but the Father only.'"

This seemed to annoy the poor creature--soothsaying, by palmistry, had
been her weakness in her brighter days, and now the strange propensity
clung to her through the dark night of her sorrows, and received
strength from her insanity.

"Come in, dear Fanny," said Edith, "come in and stay with us."

"No, no!" she almost shrieked again. "I should bring a curse upon your
house! Oh! I could tell you if you would hear! I could warn you, if you
would be warned! But you will not! you will not!" she continued,
wringing her hands in great trouble.

"You shall predict my fate and Miriam's," said Marian, smiling, as she
opened the gate, and came out leading the child. "And I know," she
continued, holding out her palm, "that it will be such a fair fate, as
to brighten up your spirits for sympathy with it."

"No! I will not look at your hand!" cried Fanny, turning away. Then,
suddenly changing her mood, she snatched Marian's palm, and gazed upon
it long and intently; gradually her features became disturbed--dark
shadows seemed to sweep, as a funereal train, across her face--her bosom
heaved--she dropped the maiden's hand.

"Why, Fanny, you have told me nothing! What do you see in my future?"
asked Marian.

The maniac looked up, and breaking, as she sometimes did, into
improvisation, chanted, in the most mournful of tones, these words:

"Darkly, deadly, lowers the shadow,
  Quickly, thickly, comes the crowd--
From death's bosom creeps the adder,
  Trailing slime upon the shroud!"

Marian grew pale, so much, at the moment, was she infected with the
words and manner of this sybil; but then, "Nonsense!" she thought, and,
with a smile, roused herself to shake off the chill that was creeping
upon her.

"Feel! the air! the air!" said Fanny, lifting her hand.

"Yes, it is going to rain," said Edith. "Come in, dear Fanny."

But Fanny did not hear--the fitful, uncertain creature had seized the
hand of the child Miriam, and was gazing alternately upon the lines in
the palm and upon her fervid, eloquent face.

"What is this? Oh! what is this?" she said, sweeping the black tresses
back from her bending brow, and fastening her eyes upon Miriam's palm.
"What can it mean? A deep cross from the Mount of Venus crosses the line
of life, and forks into the line of death! a great sun in the plain of
Mars--a cloud in the vale of Mercury! and where the lines of life and
death meet, a sanguine spot and a great star! I cannot read it! In a
boy's hand, that would betoken a hero's career, and a glorious death in
a victorious field; but in a girl's! What can it mean when found in a
girl's? Stop!" And she peered into the hand for a few moments in deep
silence, and then her face lighted up, her eyes burned intensely, and
once more she broke forth in improvisation:

"Thou shalt be bless'd as maiden fair was never bless'd before,
And the heart of thy belov'd shall be most gentle, kind and pure;
But thy red hand shall be lifted at duty's stern behest,
And give to fell destruction the head thou lov'st the best.

"Feel! the air! the air!" she exclaimed, suddenly dropping the child's
hand, and lifting her own toward the sky.

"Yes, I told you it was going to rain, but there will not be much, only
a light shower from the cloud just over our heads."

"It is going to weep! Nature mourns for her darling child! Hark! I hear
the step of him that cometh! Fly, fair one! fly! Stay not here to listen
to the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely!" cried the wild
creature, as she dashed off toward the forest.

Marian and Edith looked after her, in the utmost compassion.

"Who is the poor, dear creature, Edith, and what has reduced her to this
state?"

"She was an old playmate of my own, Marian. I never mentioned her to
you--I never could bear to do so. She was one of the victims of the war.
She was the child of Colonel Fairlie and the bride of Henry Laurie, one
of the most accomplished and promising young men in the State. In one
night their house was attacked, and Fanny saw her father and her husband
massacred, and her home burned before her face! She--fell into the hands
of the soldiers! She went mad from that night!"

"Most horrible!" ejaculated Marian.

"She was sent to one of the best Northern asylums, and the property she
inherited was placed in the hands of a trustee--old Mr. Hughes, who died
last week, you know; and now that he is dead and she is out, I don't
know what will be done, I don't understand it at all."

"Has she no friends, no relatives? She must not be allowed to wander in
this way," said the kind girl, with the tears swimming in her eyes.

"I shall always be her friend, Marian. She has no others that I know of
now; and no relative, except her young cousin, Thurston Willcoxen, who
has been abroad at a German University these five years past, and who,
in event of Fanny's death, would inherit her property. We must get her
here, if possible. I will go in and send Jenny after her. She will
probably overtake her in the forest, and may be able to persuade her to
come back. At least, I shall tell Jenny to keep her in sight, until she
is in some place of safety."

"Do, dear Edith!"

"Are you not coming?" said Edith, as she led her little girl toward the
house.

"In one moment, dear; I wish only to bind up this morning-glory, that
poor Fanny chanced to pull down as she ran through."

Edith disappeared in the cottage.

Marian stood with both her rosy arms raised, in the act of binding up
the vine, that with its wealth of splendid azure-hued, vase-shaped
flowers, over-canopied her beautiful head like a triumphal arch. She
stood there, as I said, like a radiant, blooming goddess of life and
health, summer sunshine and blushing flowers.

The light tramp of horse's feet fell upon her ear. She looked up, and
with surprise lighting her dark-blue eyes, beheld a gentleman mounted on
a fine black Arabian courser, that curveted gracefully and capriciously
before the cottage gate.

Smilingly the gentleman soothed and subdued the coquettish mood of his
willful steed, and then dismounted and bowing with matchless grace and
much deference, addressed Marian.

The maiden was thinking that she had never seen a gentleman with a
presence and a manner so graceful, courteous and princely in her life.
He was a tall, finely proportioned, handsome man, with a superb head, an
aquiline profile, and fair hair and fair complexion. The great charm,
however, was in the broad, sunny forehead, in the smile of ineffable
sweetness, in the low and singularly mellifluous voice, and the manner,
gentle and graceful as any woman's.

"Pardon me, my name is Willcoxen, young lady, and I have the honor of
addressing--"

"Miss Mayfield," said Marian.

"Thank you," said the gentleman, with one involuntary gaze of
enthusiastic admiration that called all the roses out in full bloom upon
the maiden's cheeks; then governing himself, he bent his eyes to the
ground, and said, with great deference: "You will pardon the liberty I
have taken in calling here, Miss Mayfield, when I tell you that I am in
search of an unhappy young relative, who, I am informed, passed here not
long since."

"She left us not ten minutes ago, sir, much against our wishes. My
sister has just sent a servant to the forest in search of her, to bring
her back, if possible. Will you enter, and wait till she returns?"

With a beaming smile and graceful bend, and in the same sweet tones, he
thanked her, and declined the invitation. Then he remounted his horse,
and bowing deeply, rode off in the direction Fanny had taken.

This was certainly a day of arrivals at Old Fields. Usually weeks would
pass without any one passing to or from the cottage, except Marian,
whose cheerful, kindly, social disposition, was the sole connecting link
between the cottage and the neighborhood around it. But this day seemed
to be an exception.

While yet the little party lingered at the breakfast-table, Edith looked
up, and saw the tall, thin figure of a woman in a nankeen riding-shirt,
and a nankeen corded sun-bonnet, in the act of dismounting from her
great, raw-boned white horse,

"If there isn't Miss Nancy Skamp!" exclaimed Edith, in no very
hospitable tone--"and I wonder how she can leave the post-office."

"Oh! this is not mail day!" replied Marian, laughing, "notwithstanding
which we shall have news enough." And Marian who, for her part, was
really glad to see the old lady, arose to meet and welcome her.

Miss Nancy was little changed; the small, tall, thin, narrow-chested,
stooping figure--the same long, fair, freckled, sharp set face--the
same prim cap, and clean, scant, faded gown, or one of the same
sort--made up her personal individuality. Miss Nancy now had charge of
the village post-office; and her early and accurate information
respecting all neighborhood affairs, was obtained, it was whispered, by
an official breach of trust; if so, however, no creature except Miss
Nancy, her black boy, and her white cat, knew it. She was a great news
carrier, it is true, yet she was not especially addicted to scandal. To
her, news was news, whether good or bad, and so she took almost as much
pleasure in exciting the wonder of her listeners by recounting the good
action or good fortune of her neighbors or the reverse.

And so, after having dropped her riding-skirt, and given that and her
bonnet to Marian to carry up-stairs, and seated herself in the chair
that Edith offered her at the table, she said, sipping her coffee, and
glancing between the white curtains and the green vines of the open
window out upon the bay:

"You have the sweetest place, and the finest sea view here, my dear Mrs.
Shields; but that is not what I was a-going to say. I was going to tell
you that I hadn't hearn from you so long, that I thought I must take an
early ride this morning, and spend the day with you. And I thought you'd
like to hear about your old partner at the dancing-school, young Mr.
Thurston Willcoxen, a-coming back--la, yes! to be sure! we had almost
all of us forgotten him, leastwise I had. And then, Miss Marian," she
said, as our blooming girl returned to her place at the table, "I just
thought I would bring over that muslin for the collars and caps you were
so good as to say you'd make for me."

"Yes, I am glad you brought them, Miss Nancy," said Marian, in her
cheerful tone, as she helped herself to another roll.

"I hope you are not busy now, my dear."

"Oh, I'm always busy, thank Heaven! but that makes no difference, Miss
Nancy; I shall find time to do your work this week and next."

"I am sure it is very good of you, Miss Marian, to sew for me for
nothing; when--"

"Oh, pray, don't speak of it, Miss Nancy."

"But indeed, my dear, I must say I never saw anybody like you! If
anybody's too old to sew, and too poor to put it out, it is 'Miss
Marian' who will do it for kindness; and if anybody is sick, it is 'Miss
Marian' who is sent for to nurse them; and if any poor negro, or
ignorant white person, has friends off at a distance they want to hear
from, it is 'Miss Marian' who writes all their letters!"

When they arose from breakfast, and the room was tidied up, and Edith,
and Marian, and their guest, were seated at their work, with all the
cottage windows open to admit the fresh and fragrant air, and the rural
landscape on one side, and the sea view on the other, and while little
Miriam sat at their feet dressing a nun doll, and old Jenny betook
herself to the garden to gather vegetables for the day, Miss Nancy
opened her budget, and gave them all the news of the month. But in that
which concerned Thurston Willcoxen alone was Edith interested, and of
him she learned the following facts: Of the five years which Mr.
Willcoxen had been absent in the eastern hemisphere, three had been
spent at the German University, where he graduated with the highest
honors; eighteen months had been passed in travel through Europe, Asia,
and Africa; and the last year had been spent in the best circles in the
city of Paris. He had been back to his native place about three weeks.
Since the death of Fanny Laurie's old guardian, the judge of the
Orphans' Court had appointed him sole trustee of her property, and
guardian of her person. As soon as he had received this power, he had
gone to the asylum, where the poor creature was confined, and hearing
her pronounced incurable, though harmless, he had set her at liberty,
brought her home to his own house, and had hired a skillful, attentive
nurse to wait upon her.

"And you never saw such kindness and compassion, Miss Marian, except in
yourself. I do declare to you, that his manner to that poor unfortunate
is as delicate and reverential and devoted as if she were the most
accomplished and enviable lady in the land, and more so, Miss Marian,
more so!"

"I can well believe it! He looks like that!" said the beautiful girl,
her face flushing and her eyes filling with generous sympathy. But
Marian was rather averse to sentimentality, so dashing the sparkling
drops from her blushing cheeks, she looked up and said: "Miss Nancy, we
are going to have chickens for dinner. How do you like them cooked? It
don't matter a bit to Edith and me."

"Stewed, then, if you please, Miss Marian! or stop--no--I think baked in
a pie!"




CHAPTER VIII

THE FOREST FAIRY.


On the afternoon of the same day spent by Miss Nancy Skamp at Old Field
Cottage, the family at Luckenough were assembled in that broad, central
passage, their favorite resort in warm weather.

Five years had made very little alteration here, excepting in the case
of Jacquelina, who had grown up to be the most enchanting sprite that
ever bewitched the hearts, or turned the heads of men. She was petite,
slight, agile, graceful; clustering curls of shining gold encircled a
round, white forehead, laughing in light; springs under springs of fun
and frolic sparkled up from the bright, blue eyes, whose flashing light
flew bird-like everywhere, but rested nowhere. She seemed even less
human and irresponsible than when a child--verily a being of the air,
a fairy, without human thoughtfulness, or sympathy, or affections! She
only seemed so--under all that fay-like levity there was a heart. Poor
heart! little food or cultivation had it had in all its life.

For who had been Jacquelina's educators?

First, there was the commodore, with his alternations of blustering
wrath and foolish fondness, giving way to his anger, or indulging his
love, without the slightest regard to the effect produced upon his young
ward--too often abusing her for something really admirable in her
nature--and full as frequently praising her for something proportionately
reprehensible in her conduct.

Next, there was the dark, and solemn, and fanatical Dr. Grimshaw, her
destined bridegroom, who really and truly loved the child to fatuity,
and conscientiously did the very best he could for her mental and moral
welfare, according to his light. Alas! "when the light that is in one is
darkness, how great is that darkness!" Jacquelina rewarded his serious
efforts with laughter, and flattered him with the pet names of Hobgoblin,
Ghoul, Gnome, Ogre, etc. Yet she did not dislike her solemn suitor--she
never had taken the matter so seriously as that! And he on his part bore
the eccentricities of the elf with matchless patience, for he loved her,
as I said, to fatuity--doted on her with a passion that increased with
ripening years, and of late consumed him like a fever.

And then there was her mother, last named because, whatever she should
have been, she really was the least important of Jacquelina's teachers.
Fear was the key-note of Mrs. L'Oiseau's character--the key-stone in the
arch of her religious faith--she feared everything--the opinion of the
world, the unfaithfulness of friends, changes in the weather, reverses
of fortune, pain, sickness, sorrow, want, labor!

Now the time had not yet come for this proposed marriage to shock the
merry maiden. She was "ower young to marry yet."

So thought not the commodore; for a year past, since his niece had
attained the age of fourteen, he had been worrying himself and the
elders of the family to have the marriage solemnized, "before the little
devil shall have time to get some other notion into her erratic head,"
he said. All were opposed to him, holding over his head the only rod he
dreaded, the opinion of the world.

"What would people say if you were to marry your niece of fourteen to a
man of thirty-four?" they urged.

"But I tell you, young men are beginning to pay attention to her now,
and I can't take her to church that some jackanapes don't come capering
around her, and the minx will get some whim in her head like Edith
did--I know she will! Just see how Edith disappointed me! ungrateful
huzzy! after my bringing her up and educating her, for her to do so!
While, if she had married Grim when I wanted her to do it, by this time
I'd have had my grandchil--! I mean nieces and nephews climbing about my
knees. But by ----! I won't be frustrated this time!"

And so Jacquelina was kept more secluded than ever. Secluded from
society, but not from nature. The forest became her haunt. And a chance
traveler passing through it, and meeting her fay-like form, might well
suppose he was deceived with the vision of a wood-nymph.

The effervescent spirits of the elf had to expend themselves in the same
way. As a child she had ever been as remarkable for surprising feats of
agility as for fun, frolic, mischief, and _diablerie_. And every one of
these traits augmented with her growth. Feats of agility became a
passion with her--her airy spirit seemed only to find its full freedom
in rapid motion in daring flights, in difficult achievements, and in
hair-breadth escapes. Everything that she read of in that way, which
could possibly be imitated, was attempted. She had her bows and arrows,
and by original fitness, as well as by constant practice, she became an
excellent markswoman. She had her well-trained horse, and her vaulting
bars, and made nothing of flying over a high fence or a wide ditch. But
her last whim was the most eccentric of all. She had her lance. And, her
favorite pastime was to have a small ring suspended from a crossbeam,
and while riding at full speed, with her light lance balanced in her
hand, to catch this ring and bear it off upon the point of that lance.
In feats of agility alone she excelled, not in those of strength--that
airy, fragile form was well fitted for swiftness and sureness of action,
yet not for muscular force. Her uncle and Grim indulged her in all these
frolics--her uncle in great delight; Grim, under the protest that they
were unworthy of an immortal being with eternity to prepare for.

In these five past years, Cloudesley had been at sea, and had only
returned home once--namely, at the end of the stated three years. He had
been received with unbounded joy by his child-friend; had brought her
his outgrown suit of uniform; had spent several months at Luckenough,
and renewed his old delightful intimacy with its little heiress
presumptive, and at length had gone to sea again for another three
years' voyage. And it must be confessed that Jacquelina had found the
second parting more grievous than the first. And this time Cloudesley
had fully shared her sorrow. He had been absent a year, when, upon one
night the old mansion, that had withstood the storms of more than two
hundred winters, was burned to the ground!

The fire broke out in the kitchen. How, no one knew exactly.

Be the cause as it may, upon the evening of the fire Jacquelina had gone
to her room--she had an apartment to herself now--and feeling for the
first time in her life some little uneasiness about her uncle's "whim"
of wedding her to Grim, she had walked about the floor for some time in
much disquietude of mind and body; then she went to a wardrobe, and took
out Cloudy's treasured first uniform, and held it up before her. How
small it looked now; why, it was scarcely too large for herself! And how
much Cloudy had outgrown it! It had fitted him nicely at sixteen, now he
was twenty-one, and in two years more he would be home again! Smiling to
herself, and tossing her charming head, as at some invisible foe, she
said:

"Yes, indeed. I should so like to see them marry me to that ogre Grim!"

She pressed the cloth up to her face, and put it away, and, still
smiling to herself, retired to rest, to dream of her dear playmate.

She dreamed of being in his ship on the open sea, the scene idealized to
supernatural beauty and sublimity, as all such scenes are in dreams; and
then she thought the ship took fire, and she saw, and heard, and felt
the great panic and horror that ensued.

She woke in a terrible fright. A part of her dream was true! Her
chamber was filled with smoke, and the house was chaotic with noise
and confusion, and resounded with cries of "Fire! Fire!" everywhere.
What happened next passed with the swiftness of lightning. She jumped
out of bed, seized a woolen shawl, and wrapped it around her head, and
even in that imminent danger not forgetting her most cherished
treasure--Cloudy's suit of uniform--snatched it from the wardrobe and
fled out of the room. Her swift and dipping motion that had gained her
the name of "Lapwing" now served her well. Shooting her bright head
forward and downward, she fled through all the passages and down all the
stairs and out by the great hall, that was all in flames, until she
reached the lawn, where the panic-stricken and nearly idiotic household
were assembled, weeping, moaning and wringing their hands, while they
gazed upon the work of destruction before them in impotent despair!

Jacquelina looked all around the group, each figure of which glared
redly in the light of the flames. All were present--all but the
commodore! Where could the commodore be?

Jacquelina ran through the crowd looking for him in all directions. He
was nowhere visible, though the whole area was lighted up, even to the
edge of the forest, every tree and branch and twig and leaf of which was
distinctly revealed in the strong, red glare.

"Where is uncle? Oh! where is uncle?" she exclaimed, running wildly
about, and finally going up to Mrs. Waugh, who stood looking, the statue
of consternation.

Jacquelina shook her by the arm.

"Aunty! aunty! Where is uncle? Are you bewitched? Where is uncle?"

"Where? Here, somewhere. I saw him run out before me."

"No, you didn't! You mistook somebody else for him. Oh, my Lord! he is
in the burning house! he is in the house!"

"Oh, he is in the house! he is in the house!" echoed Henrietta, now
roused from her panic, and wringing her hands in the most acute
distress. "Oh! will nobody save him! will nobody save him!"

It was too late! Commodore Waugh was in the burning mansion, in his
bedchamber, near the top of the house, fast asleep!

"Good heaven! will no one attempt to save him?" screamed Henrietta,
running wildly from one to the other.

They all gazed on each other, and then in consternation upon the burning
building, every window of which was belching flame, while the sound of
some falling rafter, or the explosion of some combustible substance, was
continually heard! To venture into that blazing house, with its sinking
roof and falling rafters, seemed certain death.

"Oh! my God! my God! will none even try to save him?" cried Henrietta,
wringing her hands in extreme anguish.

Suddenly:

"Pray for me, aunty!" exclaimed Jacquelina, and she darted like a bird
toward the house, into the passage, and seemed lost in the smoke and
flame!

Wrapping her woolen shawl closely about her, and keeping near the floor,
she glided swiftly up the stairs, flight after flight, and through the
suffocating passages, until she reached her uncle's door. It was open,
and his room was clearer of smoke than any other, from the wind blowing
through the open window.

There he lay in a deep sleep! She sprang to the bedside, seized and
shook the arm of the sleeper.

"Uncle! uncle! wake, for God's sake, wake! the house is on fire!"

"Hum-m-m-e!" muttered the old man, giving a great heave and plunge, and
turning over into a heavier sleep than before.

"Uncle! uncle! You will be burned to death if you don't wake up!" cried
Jacquelina, shaking him violently.

"Humph! Yes, Jacquelina! um--um--um--Grim! um--um--Luckenough!"
muttered the dreamer, flinging about his great arms.

"Luckenough is in flames! Uncle! wake! wake!" she cried, shaking him
frantically.

"Ah! ha! yes! d--d little rascal is at her tricks again!" he said,
laughing in his sleep.

At that moment there was the sound of a falling rafter in the adjoining
room. Every instant was worth a life, and there he lay in a sodden,
hopeless sleep.

Suddenly Sans Souci ran to the ewer; it was empty. There was no time to
be lost! every second was invaluable! He must be instantly roused, and
Jacquelina was not fastidious as to the means in doing so!

Leaping upon the bolster behind his great, stupid head, she reached
over, and, seizing the mass of his gray, grizzly beard, she pulled up
the wrong way with all her might, until, roaring with pain, he started
up in a fury, and, seeing her, exclaimed:

"Oh! you abominable little vixen! is that you: Do you dare! Are you
frantic, then? Oh, you outrageous little dare-devil! Won't I send you to
a mad-house, and have you put in a strait-jacket, till you know how to
behave yourself! You infernal little wretch, you!"

A sudden thought struck Sans Souci to move him by his affection for
herself.

"Uncle, look around you! The house is burning! if you do not rouse
yourself and save your poor little 'wretch,' she must perish in the
flames!"

This effectually brought him to his senses; he understood everything! he
leaped from his bed, seized a blanket, enveloped her in it, raised her
in his arms, and, forgetting gout, lameness, leg and all, bore her down
the creaking, heated stairs, flight after flight, and through the
burning passages out of the house in safety.

A shout of joy greeted the commodore as he appeared with Jacquelina in
the yard.

But heeding nothing but the burden he bore in his arms, the old sailor
strode on until he reached a convenient spot, where he threw the blanket
off her face to give her air.

She had fainted--the terror and excitement had been too great--the
reaction was too powerful--it had overwhelmed her, and she lay insensible
across his arms, her fair head hanging back, her white garments streaming
in the air, her golden locks floating, her witching eyes closed, and her
blue lips apart and rigid on her glistening teeth--so she lay like dead
Cordelia in the arms of old Lear.

Henrietta and Mrs. L'Oiseau, followed by all the household, crowded
around them with water, the only restorative at hand.

At length she recovered and looked up, a little bewildered, but soon
memory and understanding returned and, gazing at her uncle, she suddenly
threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears.

She was then carried away into one of the best negro quarters and laid
upon a bed, and attended by her mother and her maid Maria.

The commodore, with his wife, found shelter in another quarter. And the
few remaining members of the household were accommodated in a similar
manner elsewhere.

It was near noon before they were all ready to set forth from the scene
of disaster, and it was the middle of the afternoon when they found
themselves temporarily settled at the little hotel at Benedict in the
very apartments formerly occupied by Edith and Marian.

Here Jacquelina suffered a long and severe spell of illness, during
which her bright hair was cut off.

And here beautiful Marian came, with her gift of tender nursing, and
devoted herself day and night to the service of the young invalid. And
all the leisure time she found while sitting by the sick bed she busily
employed in making up clothing for the almost denuded family. And never
had the dear girl's nimble fingers flown so fast or so willingly.

Every day the commodore, accompanied by Dr. Grimshaw, rode over to
Luckenough to superintend the labors of the workmen in pulling down and
clearing away the ruins of the old mansion and preparing the site for a
new building.

Six weeks passed and brought the first of August, before Jacquelina was
able to sit up, and then the physicians recommended change of air and
the waters of Bentley Springs for the re-establishment of her health.

During her illness, Jacquelina had become passionately attached to
Marian, as all persons did who came under the daily influence of the
beautiful girl. Dr. Grimshaw was to accompany the family to Bentley.
Jacquelina insisted that Marian should be asked to make one of the
party. Accordingly, the commodore and Mrs. Waugh, nothing loth, invited
and pressed the kind maiden to go with them. But Marian declined the
journey, and Commodore Waugh, with his wife, his niece and his Grim set
out in the family carriage for Bentley Springs. Jacquelina rapidly
regained health and rushed again to her mad breaks. After a stormy scene
with the commodore, the latter vowed she should either marry Dr.
Grimshaw or be sent to a nunnery. To the convent of St. Serena she went,
but within a week she was home in disgrace.




CHAPTER IX.

CLIPPING A BIRD'S WINGS.


The clouds were fast gathering over poor San Souci's heavens.

The commodore had quite recovered for the time being, and he began to
urge the marriage of his niece with his favorite. Dr. Grimshaw's
importunities were also becoming very tiresome. They were no longer a
jest. She could no longer divert herself with them. She felt them as a
real persecution, and expressed herself accordingly. To Grim she said:

"Once I used to laugh at you. But now I do hate you more than anything
in the universe! And I wish--I do wish that you were in heaven! for I do
detest the very sight of you--there!"

And to the commodore's furious threats she would answer:

"Uncle, the time has passed by centuries ago for forcing girls into
wedlock, thanks be to Christianity and civilization. You can't force me
to have Grim, and you had as well give up the wicked purpose," or words
to that effect.

One day when she had said something of the sort, the commodore answered,
cruelly:

"Very well, miss! I force no one, please to understand! But I afford my
protection and support only upon certain conditions, and withdraw them
when those conditions are not fulfilled! Neither you nor your mother had
any legal claim upon me. I was not in any way bound to feed and clothe
and house you for so many years. I did it with the tacit understanding
that you were to marry to please me, and all your life you have
understood, as well as any of us, that you were to wed Dr. Grimshaw."

"If such an understanding existed, it was without my consent, and was
originated in my infancy, and I do not feel and I will not be in the
least degree bound by it! For the expense of my support and education,
uncle! I am truly sorry that you risked it upon the hazardous chance of
my liking or disliking the man of your choice! But as I had no hand in
your venture, I do not feel the least responsible for your losses. Yours
is the fate of a gambler in human hearts who has staked and lost--that
is the worst!"

"And by all the fiends in fire, Minion! you shall find that it is
not the worst. I know how to make you knuckle under, and I shall do
it!" exclaimed the commodore in a rage, as he rose up and strode off
toward the room occupied by Mary L'Oiseau. Without the ceremony of
knocking, he burst the door open with one blow of his foot, and entered
where the poor, feverish, frightened creature was lying down to take a
nap. Throwing himself into a chair by her bedside, he commenced a
furious attack upon the trembling invalid. He recounted, with much
exaggeration, the scene that had just transpired between himself and
Jacquelina--repeated with additions her undutiful words, bitterly
reproached Mary for encouraging and fostering that rebellious and
refractory temper in her daughter, warned her to bring the headstrong
girl to a sense of her position and duty, or to prepare to leave his
roof; for he swore he "wouldn't be hectored over and trodden down by her
nor her daughter any longer!" And so having overwhelmed the timid,
nervous woman with undeserved reproaches and threats, he arose and left
the room.

And can any one be surprised that her illness was increased, and her
fever arose and her senses wandered all night? When her mother was ill,
Jacquelina could not sleep. Now she sat by her bedside sponging her hot
hands and keeping ice to her head and giving drink to slake her burning
thirst and listening, alas! to her sad and rambling talk about their
being turned adrift in the world to starve to death, or to perish in the
snow--calling on her daughter to save them both by yielding to her
uncle's will! And Jacquelina heard and understood, and wept and
sighed--a new experience to the poor girl, who was

"Not used to tears at night
Instead of slumber!"

All through the night she nursed her with unremitting care. And in the
morning, when the fever waned, and the patient was wakeful, though
exhausted, she left her only to bring the refreshing cup of tea and
plate of toast prepared by her own hands.

But when she brought it to the bedside the pale invalid waved it away.
She felt as if she could not eat. Fear had clutched her throat and would
not relax its hold.

"I want to talk to you, Jacquelina," she said.

"Eat and drink first, Mimmy, and then you and I will have such another
good talk!" said Jacquelina, coaxingly.

"I can't! Oh! I can't swallow a mouthful, I am choking now!"

"Oh! that is nothing but the hysterics, Mimmy! 'high strikes,' as Jenny
calls them! I feel like I should have them myself sometimes! Come! cheer
up, Mimmy! Your fever is off and your head is cool! Come, take this
consoling cup of tea and bit of toast, and you will feel so much
stronger and cheerfuler."

"Tea! Oh! everything I eat and drink in this unhappy house is
bitter--the bitter cup and bitter bread of dependence!"

"Put more sugar into it, then, Mimmy, and sweeten it! Come! Things are
not yet desperate! Cheer up!"

"What do you mean, my love? Have you consented to be married to Dr.
Grimshaw?"

"No! St. Mary! Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Jacquelina, shuddering for the
first time.

"Now, why 'heaven forbid?' Oh! my child, why are you so perverse? Why
won't you take him, since your uncle has set his heart upon the match?"

"Oh, mother!"

"I know you are very young to be married--too young! far too young! Only
sixteen, gracious heaven! But then you know we have no alternative but
that, or starvation; and it is not as if you were to be married to a
youth of your own age--this gentleman is of grave years and character,
which makes a great difference."

"I should think it did."

"What makes you shiver and shake so, my dear? Are you cold or nervous?
Poor child, you got no sleep last night. Do you drink that cup of tea,
my dear. You need it more than I do."

"No, no."

"Why, what is the matter with my fairy?"

"Oh, mother, mother, don't take sides against me! don't! or you will
drive me to my ruin. Who will take a child's part, if her mother don't?
I love you best of all the world, mother. Do not takes sides against me!
take my part! help me to be true! to be true!"

"True to whom, Jacquelina? What are you talking about?"

"True to this heart--to this heart, mother! to all that is honest and
good in my nature."

"I don't understand you at all."

"Oh, mother, the thought of marrying anybody is unwelcome to me now; and
the idea of being married to Grim is abhorrent; is like that of being
sold to a master that I hate, or sent to prison for life; it is full of
terror and despair. Oh! oh!--"

"Don't talk so wildly, Jacquelina, you make me ill."

"Do I, Mimmy? Oh, I didn't mean to worry you. Bear up, Mimmy; do try to
bear up; don't fear; suppose he does turn me out. I am but a little
girl, and food and clothing are cheap enough in the country, and any of
our neighbors will take me in just for the fun I'll make them. La! yes,
that they will, just as gladly as they will let in the sunshine."

"Oh, child, how little you know of the world. Yes, for a day or two, or
a week or two, scarcely longer. And even if you could find a home, who
would give shelter to your poor, sick mother for the rest of her life?"

"Mother! uncle would never deny you shelter upon my account!" exclaimed
Jacquelina, growing very pale.

"Indeed he will, my child; he has; he came in here last night and warned
me to pack up and leave the house."

"He will not dare--even he, so to outrage humanity and public opinion
and everything he ought to respect."

"My child, he will. He has set his heart upon making Nace Grimshaw his
successor at Luckenough, that if you disappoint him in this darling
purpose, there will be no limit to his rage and his revenge. And he will
not only send us from his roof, but he will seek to justify himself and
further ruin us by blackening our names. Your wildness and eccentricity
will be turned against us and so distorted and misrepresented as to ruin
us forever."

"Mother! mother! he is not so wicked as that."

"He is furious in his temper and violent in his impulses--he will do all
that under the influence of disappointment and passion, however he may
afterwards repent his injustice. You must not disappoint him,
Jacquelina."

"I disappoint him? Why, Mimmy, Luckenough does not belong to me. And if
he wants Grim to be his successor, why, as I have heard aunty ask him,
does he not make him his heir?"

"There are reasons, I suspect, my dear, why he cannot do so. I think he
holds the property by such a tenure, that he cannot alienate it from the
family. And the only manner in which he can bestow it upon Dr. Grimshaw,
will be through his wife, if the doctor should marry some relative."

"That is it, hey? Well! I will not be made a sumpter-mule to carry this
rich gift over to Dr. Grimshaw--even if there is no other way of
conveyance. Mother! what is the reason the professor is such a favorite
with uncle?"

"My dear, I don't know, but I have often had my suspicions."

"Of what, Mimmy?"

"Of a very near, though unacknowledged relationship; don't question me
any further upon that particular point, my dear, for I really know
nothing whatever about it. Oh, dear." And the invalid groaned and turned
over.

"Mother, you are very weak; mother, please to take some tea; let me go
get you some hot."

"Tell me, Jacquelina; will you do as the old man wishes you?"

"I will tell you after you take some refreshments," said Jacquelina.

"Well! go bring me some."

The girl went and brought more hot tea and toast, and waited until her
mother had drunk the former and partaken of a morsel of the latter.
When, in answer to the eager, inquiring look, she said:

"Mother, if I alone were concerned, I would leave this house this
moment, though I should never have another roof over my head. But for
your sake, mother, I will still fight the battle. I will try to turn
uncle from his purpose. I will try to awaken Grim's generosity, if he
has any, and get him to withdraw his suit. I will get aunty to use her
influence with both of them, and see what can be done. But as for
marrying Dr. Grimshaw, mother--I know what I am saying--I would rather
die!"

"And see me die, my child?"

"Oh, mother! it will not be so bad as that."

"Jacquelina, it will. Do you know what is the meaning of these afternoon
fevers and night sweats and this cough?"

"I know it means that you are very much out of health, Mimmy, but I hope
you will be well in the spring."

"Jacquelina, it means death."

"Oh, no! No, no! No, no! Not so! There's Miss Nancy Skamp has had a
cough every winter ever since I knew her, and she's not dead nor likely
to die, and you will be well in the spring," said the girl, changing
color; and faltering in spite of herself.

"I shall never see another spring, my child--"

"Oh, mother! don't! don't say so. You--"

"Hear me out, my dear; I shall never live to see another spring unless I
can have a quiet life with peace of mind. These symptoms, my child, mean
death, sooner or later. My life may be protracted for many years, if I
can live in peace and comfort; but if I must suffer privation, want and
anxiety, I cannot survive many months, Jacquelina."

The poor girl was deadly pale; she started up and walked the floor in a
distracted manner, crying:

"What shall I do! Oh! what shall I do?"

"It is very plain what you shall do, my child. You must marry Dr.
Grimshaw. Come, my dear, be reasonable. If I did not think it best for
your happiness and prosperity, I would not urge it."

"Mimmy, don't talk any longer, dear!" Jacquelina interrupted. "There's a
bright spot on your cheek now, and your fever will rise again, even this
morning. I will see what can be done to bring everybody to reason! I
will not believe but that if I remain firm and faithful to my heart's
integrity there will be some way of escape made between these two
alternatives."

But could Sans Souci do this? Had the frolicsome fairy sufficient
integral strength and self-balance to resist the powerful influences
gathering around her?




CHAPTER X.

A GRIM MARRIAGE.


As the decisive day approached, Jacquelina certainly acted like one
distraught--now in wild defiance, now in paleness and tears, and anon in
fitful mirth, or taunting threats. She rapidly lost flesh and color, and
in hysterical laughter accounted for it by saying that she believed in
her soul Grim was a spiritual vampire, who preyed upon her life! She
avoided him as much as she could. And if sometimes, when she was about
to escape from him, he would seize her wrist and detain her, she would
suddenly lose her breath and turn so pale that in the fear of her
fainting, he would release her. So he got no opportunity to press his
claims.

One morning, however--it was about a week before Christmas--she
voluntarily sought his presence. She entered the parlor where he sat
alone. Excitement had flushed her cheeks with a vivid crimson and
lighted her eyes with sparkling fire--she did not know that her beauty
was enhanced a thousand fold--she did not know that never in her life
had her presence kindled such a flame in the heart of her lover as it
did at that moment. And if he restrained himself from going to meet her,
it was the dread lest she should fade away from him as he had seen her
do so often. But she advanced and stood before him.

"Dr. Grimshaw!" she said, "I have come to make a last appeal to you! I
have come to beg, to supplicate you, for my sake, for honor, for truth
and for mercy's sake, yes! for heaven's sake, to withdraw your
pretensions to my poor hand. For, sir, I do not and cannot like you! I
do not say but that you are far too good and wise, and every way too
worthy for such a girl as I am--and that you do me the very greatest
honor by your preference, but still no one can account for tastes--and,
sir, I cannot like you--pray, pardon me! indeed, I cannot help it."

Although her words were so humble, her color was still heightened, and
her eyes had a threatening, defiant sparkle in them, so contradictory,
so piquant and fascinating in contrast with the little, fragile,
graceful, helpless form, that his head was almost turned. It was with
difficulty he could keep from snatching the fluttering, half-defiant,
half-frightened, bird-like creature to his bosom. But he contented
himself with saying:

"My fairy! we are commanded to love those that hate us; and should you
hate me more than ever, I should only continue to love you!"

"Love me at a distance, then! and the greater the distance, the more
grateful I shall be!"

He could no longer quite restrain himself. He seized her hand and drew
her towards him, exclaiming in an eager, breathless, half-whisper:

"No! closer and closer shall my love draw us, beautiful one! until it
compasses your hate and unites us forever!"

With a half-suppressed cry she wrung her hand from his grasp and
answered, wildly:

"I sought your presence to entreat you--and to warn you! I have
supplicated you, and you have turned a deaf ear to my prayer! Now I warn
you! and disregard my warning, if you dare! despise it at your peril! I
am going out of my wits, I think! I warn you that I may consent to
become your wife! I have no persevering resistance in my nature. I
cannot hold out forever against those I love. But I warn you, that if
ever I consent, it will be under the undue influence of others!"

"Put your consent upon any ground you please, you delightful, you
enchanting little creature. We will spare your blushes, charming as they
are!" he exclaimed, surprised out of self-control and seizing both her
hands.

Angrily she snatched them from him.

"What have I said? Oh! what have I said? I believe I am going crazy! I
tell you, Dr. Grimshaw, that if I ever yield, it will be only to the
overwhelming force brought to bear upon me; and even then it will be
only during a temporary fit of insanity! And I warn you--I warn you not
to dare to take me at my word!"

"Will I not? You bewitching little sprite! do you do this to make me
love you ten thousand times more than I do?"

Passionately she broke forth in reply:

"You do not believe me! You do not see that I am in terrible earnest! I
tell you, Dr. Grimshaw, that were I induced to consent to be your wife,
you had better not take advantage of such a consent! It would be the
most fatal day's work you ever did for yourself in this world! You think
I'm only a spoiled, petulant child! You do not know me! I do not know
myself! I am full of evil! I feel it sensibly, when I am near you! You
develop the worst of me! Should you marry me, the very demon would rise
in my bosom! I should drive you to distraction!"

"You drive me to distraction now, you intoxicating little witch!" he
exclaimed, laughing and darting towards her.

She started and escaped his hand, crying:

"Saints in heaven! What infatuation! What madness! It must be fate!
Avert the fate, man! Avert it! while there is yet time! Go get a
mill-stone and tie it around your neck and cast yourself into the
uttermost depths of the sea before ever you dare to marry me!" Her
cheeks were blazing with color and her eyes with light! He saw only her
transcendant beauty.

"Why, you little tragi-comic enchantress, you!--what do you mean? Come
to my arms! Come, wild, bright bird! come to my bosom!" he said,
stepping towards her and throwing his arms around her.

"Vampire!" she exclaimed, struggling to free herself for a moment; and
then as his lips sought hers the color faded from her face and the light
died in her eyes, and he hastily released her and set her in a chair
lest she should swoon in his hated arms.

"Now, how am I expected to live with such a wife as this girl would make
me? If it were not for the estate I should be tempted to give her up,
and travel to forget her! How shall I overcome her repugnance? Not by
courting her; that's demonstrated. Only by being kind to her, and
letting her alone." Such was the tenor of his thoughts as he stood a
little behind her chair out of her sight.

But Jacquelina, when she found herself free, soon recovered, and arose
and left the room.

Until a day or two before Christmas, when, in the evening, she glided in
to her uncle's room and sunk down by his side--so unlike herself; so
like a spirit--that the old sinner impulsively shrank away from her, and
put out his hand to ring for lights.

"No; don't send for candles, uncle! Such a wretch as I am should tell
her errand in the dark."

"What do you mean now, minx?"

"Uncle, in all your voyages around the world did you ever stop at
Constantinople? And did you ever visit a slave mart there?"

"Yes; of course I have! What then? What the deuce are you dreaming of?"

"How much would such a girl as myself bring in the slave market of the
Sultan's city?"

"Are you crazy?" asked the commodore, opening his eyes to their widest
extent.

"I don't know. If I am, it can make little difference in your plans. But
as there is method in my madness, please to answer my question. How much
would I sell for in Constantinople?"

"You are mad; that's certain! How do I know--where beauties sell for
from five hundred to many thousand zechins. But you wouldn't sell for
much; you're too small and too thin."

"Beauty sells by the weight, does it? Well, uncle, I see that you
have been accustomed to the mart, for you know how to cheapen the
merchandise! Save yourself the trouble, uncle! I shall not live long,
and therefore I shall not have the conscience to ask a high price for
myself!"

"Mad! Mad as a March hare! As sure as shooting she is!" said the
commodore in dismay, staring at her until his great, fat eyes seemed
bursting from their sockets.

"Not so mad as you think, uncle, either. I have come to make a bargain
with you."

"What the foul fiend do you mean now? Do you want me to send you to
Constantinople, pray?"

Jacquelina laughed, something like her old silvery laugh, as she
answered:

"No, uncle; though if it were not for Mimmy, I really should prefer it
to marrying Grim!"

"What do you mean, then? Speak!"

"This, then, uncle: By what I have heard, and what I have seen, and what
I have surmised, I am already as deep in your secrets respecting Grim as
you are yourself."

"You speak falsely, you little ----! No one knows anything about it but
myself!" exclaimed the commodore, betraying himself through astonishment
and indignation.

Without heeding the contradiction, except by a sly smile, Jacquelina
went calmly on:

"And I know that you wish to make me a stalking-horse, to convey the
estate to Grimshaw, only because you cannot give it to him in any other
way but through his wife."

"What do you mean, you little diabolical ----! It is my own--why can I
not give it to whom I please, I should like to know?"

"You can give it to any one in the world, uncle, except Dr. Grimshaw, or
to one who bears the same relationship to you that he does; for to such
a one you may not legally bequeath your landed estate, or--"

"You shocking, impudent little vixen! How dare you talk so?"

"Hear me out, uncle. I say, knowing such to be the case, I also know my
own importance as a 'stalking-horse,' or sumpter-mule, or something of
the sort, to bear upon my own shoulders the burden of this estate, which
you wish to give by me to Dr. Grimshaw. Therefore, I shall not give
myself away for nothing. I intend to sell myself for a price! Nothing on
earth would induce me to consent to marry Dr. Grimshaw, were it not to
secure peace and comfort to my mother's latter days. Your threat of
turning me out of doors would not compel me into such a marriage, for
well I know that you would not venture to put that threat into
execution. But I cannot bear to see my poor mother suffer so much as she
does while here, dependent upon your uncertain protection. You terrify
and distress her beyond her powers of endurance. You make the bread of
dependence very, very bitter to her, indeed! And well I know that she
will certainly die if she remains subjected to your powers of
tormenting. I speak plainly to you, uncle, having nothing to conceal;
to proceed, I assure you I will not meet your views in marrying Dr.
Grimshaw, unless it be to purchase for my poor mother a deliverance from
bondage, and an independence for life. Therefore, I demand that you
shall buy this place, 'Locust Hill,' which I hear can be bought for five
thousand dollars, and settle it upon my mother; in return for which I
will bestow my hand in marriage upon Dr. Grimshaw. And, mind, I do not
promise with it either love, or esteem, or service--only my hand in
civil marriage, and the estate it has the power of carrying with it! And
the documents that shall make my mother independent of the world must be
drawn up or examined by a lawyer that she shall appoint, and must be
placed in her hands on the same hour that gives my hand to Dr. Grimshaw.
Do you understand? Now, uncle, that is my ultimatum! For, please the
heavens above us! come what may! do what you will! turn me and my mother
out of doors, to freeze and starve--I will die, and see her die, before
I will sell my hand for a less price than will make her independent and
at ease for life! For, look you, I would rather see her dead, than leave
her in your power! Think of this, uncle! There is time enough to-morrow
and next day to make all the arrangements; only be sure I am in earnest!
Look in my face! Am I not in earnest?"

"I think you are, you little wretch! I could shake the life out of you!"

"That would be easy, uncle! There is not much to shake out. Only, in
that case, you would have no stalking-horse to take the estate over to
Dr. Grimshaw." And so saying, Jacquelina arose to leave the room.

"Come back here--you little vixen, you!"

Sans Souci returned.

"It's well to 'strike while the iron's hot,' and to bind you while
you're willing to be bound, for you are an uncertain little villain.
Though I don't believe you'd break a solemn pledge once given--hey?"

"No, sir!"

"Pledge me your word of honor, now, that if I buy this little farm of
Locust Hill, and settle it upon your mother, you will marry Dr. Grimshaw
on this coming Christmas Eve?"

"I pledge you my word of honor that I will"

"Without mental reservation?"

"Without mental reservation!"

"Stop! it is safer to seal such a pledge! Climb up on the stand, and
hand me that Bible down off the top shelf. Brush the cobwebs off it, and
don't let the spiders come with it."

Jacquelina did as she was bid, with a half indifferent, half disdainful
air.

"There! Now lay your hand upon this book, and swear by the Holy
Evangelists of Almighty God that you will do as you have pledged
yourself to do."

"I swear," said Jacquelina.

"Very well! Now, confound you! you may put the book back again, and go
about your business."

Sans Souci very willingly complied. And then, as she left the room and
closed the door after her, her quick ear caught the sound of the
commodore's voice, chuckling:

"So! I've trapped you! Ten minutes more, and it would have been
impossible."

Full of wonder as to what his words might mean, doubting also whether
she had heard them aright, Jacquelina was hastening on toward her
mother's room, when she met her Aunt Henrietta hurrying toward her, and
speaking impetuously.

"Oh, my little Lapwing! where have you been? I have been looking for you
all over the house! Good news, dear Lapwing! Good news! Deliverance is
at hand for you! Who do you think has come?"

"Who? Who?" questioned Sans Souci, eagerly.

"Cloudy!"

"Lost! lost!" cried the wretched girl; and, with a wild shriek that rang
through all the house, she threw up her arms and fell forward to the
ground.

The marriage was appointed to take place Christmas Day. Jacquelina
suffered her mother to dress her in bridal array. Dr. Grimshaw was
waiting for her in the hall.

As soon as she reached the foot of the stairs, he took her hand; and,
pressing it, whispered:

"Sweet girl, forgive me this persistence!"

"May God never forgive me if I do!" she fiercely exclaimed, transfixing
him with a flashing glance.

Never lover uttered a deeper sigh than that which Dr. Grimshaw gave
forth as he led his unwilling bride to the carriage. The groomsman
followed with the bridesmaid. The commodore and Mary L'Oiseau
accompanied the party in a gig. Henrietta, true to her word, refused to
be present at the marriage.

When the wedding party arrived at the chapel, all the pews were filled
to suffocation with the crowd that the rumor of the approaching marriage
had drawn together. And the bridal party were the cynosure of many
hundred eyes as they passed up the aisle and stood before the altar.

The ceremony proceeded. But not one response, either verbally or
mentally, did Jacquelina make. The priest passed over her silence,
naturally ascribing it to bashfulness, and honestly taking her consent
for granted.

The rites were finished, the benediction bestowed, and friends and
acquaintances left their pews, and crowded around with congratulations.

Among the foremost was Thurston Willcoxen, whose suave and stately
courtesy, and graceful bearing, and gracious words, so pleased Commodore
Waugh that, knowing Jacquelina to be married and safe, he invited and
urged the accomplished young "Parisian," as he was often called, to
return and partake of the Christmas wedding breakfast.

"Nace, do you take your bride home in the gig, as you will want her
company to yourself, and we will go in the carriage," said the
commodore, good-naturedly. In fact, the old man had not been in such
a fine humor for many a day.

Dr. Grimshaw, "nothing loth," led his fair bride to the gig, handed her
in, and took the place beside her.

"Now, then, fairest and dearest, you are at last, indeed, my own!" he
said, seeking her eyes.

"Thank Heaven, I am not! I never foreswore myself. I never opened my
lips, or formed a vow in my head. I never promised you anything," said
Jacquelina, turning away; and the rest of the journey was made in
silence.




CHAPTER XI.

DELL-DELIGHT


It should have been an enchanting home to which Thurston Willcoxen
returned after his long sojourn in Europe. The place, Dell-Delight,
might once have deserved its euphonious and charming name; now, however,
its delightfulness was as purely traditional as the royal lineage
claimed by its owners.

Mr. Willcoxen was one of those whose god is Mammon. He had inherited
money, married a half-sister of Commodore Waugh for money, and made
money. Year by year, from youth to age, adding thousands to thousands,
acres to acres; until now, at the age of ninety-five, he was the master
of incalculable riches.

He had outlived his wife and their three children; and his nearest of
kin were Thurston Willcoxen, the son of his eldest son; Cloudesley
Mornington, the son of his eldest daughter, and poor Fanny Laurie, the
child of his youngest daughter.

Thurston and Fanny had each inherited a small property independent of
their grandfather.

But poor Cloudy had been left an orphan in the worst sense of the
word--destitute and dependent on the "cold charity of the world,"
or the colder and bitterer alms of unloving rich relatives.

The oldest and nearest kinsman and natural guardian of the boys--old Mr.
Willcoxen--had, of course, received them into his house to be reared and
educated; but no education would he afford the lads beyond that
dispensed by the village schoolmaster, who could very well teach them
that ten dimes make a dollar, and ten dollars an eagle; and who could
also instruct them how to write their own names--for instance, at the
foot of receipts of so many hundred dollars for so many hogsheads of
tobacco; or to read other men's signatures, to wit, upon the backs of
notes of hand, payable at such a time, or on such a day. This was just
knowledge enough, he said, to teach the boys how to make and save money,
yet not enough to tempt them to spend it foolishly in travel, libraries,
pictures, statues, arbors, fountains, and such costly trumpery and
expensive tomfoolery.

To Thurston, who was his favorite, probably because he bore the family
name and inherited some independent property, Mr. Willcoxen would,
however, have afforded a more liberal and gentlemanly education, could
he have done so and at the same time decently withheld from going to
some expense in giving his penniless grandson, Cloudy, the same
privilege. As it was, he sought to veil his parsimony by conservative
principle.

It was a great humiliation to the boys to see that, while all the youths
of their own rank and neighborhood were entered pensioners at the local
college, they two alone were taken from the little day-school to be put
to agricultural labor--a thing unprecedented in that locality at that
time.

When this matter was brought to the knowledge of Commodore Waugh, as he
strode up and down his hall, the indignant old sailor thumped his heavy
stick upon the ground, thrust forward his great head, and swore
furiously by the whole Pandemonial Hierarchy that his grandnephews
should not be brought up like clodhoppers.

And straightway he ordered his carriage, threw himself into it, and rode
over to Charlotte Hall, where he entered the name of his two young
relatives as pensioners at his own proper cost.

This done, he ordered his coachman to take the road to Dell-Delight,
where he had an interview with Mr. Willcoxen.

And as he met little opposition from the old man, who seemed to think
that it was no more than fair that the boys' uncle should share the
expense of educating them, he sought out the youths, whom he found in
the field, and bade them leave the plough, and go and prepare themselves
to go to C---- and get educated, as befitted the grandnephews of a
gentleman!

The lads were at that time far too simple-minded and too clannish to
feel their pride piqued at this offer, or to take offense at the rude
manner in which it was made. Commodore Waugh was their grand-uncle, and
therefore had a right to educate them, and to be short with them, too,
if he pleased. That was the way in which they both looked at the matter.
And very much delighted and very grateful they were for the opening for
education thus made for them.

And very zealously they entered upon their academical studies. They
boarded at the college and roomed together. But their vacations were
spent apart, Thurston spending his at Dell-Delight, and Cloudy his at
Luckenough.

When the academical course was completed, Commodore Waugh, as has been
seen, was at some pains to give Cloudy a fair start in life, and for the
first time condescended to use his influence with "the Department" to
procure a favor in the shape of a midshipman's warrant for Cloudesley
Mornington.

In the meantime old Mr. Willcoxen was very gradually sinking into the
imbecility natural to his advanced age; and his fascinating grandson was
gaining some ascendancy over his mind. Year by year this influence
increased, though it must be admitted that Thurston's conquest over his
grandfather's whims was as slow as that of the Hollanders in winning the
land from the sea.

However, the old man--now that Cloudy was provided for and off his
hands--lent a more willing ear to the petition of Thurston to be
permitted to continue his education by a course of studies at a German
university, and afterward by a tour of the Eastern continent.

Thurston's absence was prolonged much beyond the original intention, as
has been related; he spent two years at the university, two in travel,
and nearly two in the city of Paris.

His grandfather would certainly never have consented to this prolonged
absence, had it been at his own cost; but the expenses were met by
advances upon Thurston's own small patrimony.

And, in fact, when at last the young gentleman returned to his native
country, it was because his property was nearly exhausted, and his
remittances were small, few and far between, grudgingly sent, and about
to be stopped. Therefore nearly penniless, but perfectly free from the
smallest debt or degradation--elegant, accomplished, fastidious, yet
truthful, generous, gallant and aspiring--Thurston left the elegant
salons and exciting scenes of Paris for the comparative dullness and
dreariness of his native place and his grandfather's house.

He had reached his legal majority just before leaving Paris, and soon
after his arrival at home he was appointed trustee of poor Fanny
Laurie's property.

His first act was to visit Fanny in the distant asylum in which she was
confined, and ascertain her real condition. And having heard her
pronounced incurable, though perfectly harmless, he determined to
release her from the confinement of the asylum, and to bring her home
to her native county, where, among the woods and hills and streams, she
might find at once that freedom, space and solitude so desired by the
heart-sick or brain-sick, and where also his own care might avail her.

Old Mr. Willcoxen, far from offering opposition to this plan, actually
favored it--though from the less worthy motive of economy. What was the
use of spending money to pay her board, and nursing, and medical
attendance, in the asylum, when she might be boarded and nursed and
doctored so much cheaper at home? For the old man confidently looked
forward to the time when the poor, fragile, failing creature would sink
into the grave, and Thurston would become her heir. And he calculated
that every dollar they could save of her income would be so much added
to the inheritance when Thurston should come into it.

Very soon after Thurston's return home his grandfather gave him to
understand the conditions upon which he intended to make him his heir.
They were two in number, viz., first, that Thurston should never leave
him again while he lived; and, secondly, that he should never marry
without his consent. "For I don't wish to be left alone in my old age,
my dear boy; nor do I wish to see you throw yourself away upon any girl
whose fortune is less than the estate I intend to bequeath entire to
yourself."




CHAPTER XII.

MARIAN, THE INSPIRER.


It was not fortunate for old Mr. Willcoxen's plans that his grandson
should have met Marian Mayfield. For, on the morning of Thurston's first
meeting with the charming girl, when he turned his horse's head from the
arched gateway of Old Field Cottage and galloped off, "a haunting shape
and image gay" attended him.

It was that of beautiful Marian, with her blooming face and sunny hair,
and rounded roseate neck and bosom and arms, all softly, delicately
flushed with the pure glow of rich, luxuriant vitality, as she stood in
the sunlight, under the arch of azure morning-glories, with her graceful
arms raised in the act of binding up the vines.

At first this "image fair" was almost unthought of; he was scarcely
conscious of the haunting presence, or the life and light it gradually
diffused through his whole being. And when the revelation dawned upon
his intellect, he smiled to himself and wondered if, for the first time,
he was falling in love; and then he grew grave, and tried to banish the
dangerous thought. But when, day after day, amid all the business and
the pleasures of his life, the "shape" still pursued him, instead of
getting angry with it or growing weary of it, he opened his heart and
took it in, and made it at home, and set it upon a throne, where it
reigned supreme, diffusing delight over all his nature. But soon, too
soon, this bosom's sovereign became the despot, and stung, goaded and
urged him to see again this living, breathing, glowing, most beautiful
original. To seek her? For what? He did not even try to answer the
question.

Thus passed one week.

And then, had he been disposed to forget the beautiful girl, he could
not have done so. For everywhere where the business of his grandfather
took him--around among the neighboring planters, to the villages of
B---- or of C----, everywhere he heard of Marian, and frequently he
saw her, though at a distance, or under circumstances that made it
impossible for him, without rudeness, to address her. He both saw and
heard of her in scenes and society where he could hardly have expected
to find a young girl of her insignificant position.

Marian was a regular attendant of the Protestant church at Benedict,
where, before the morning service, she taught in the Sunday-school, and
before the afternoon service she received a class of colored children.

And Thurston, who had been a very careless and desultory attendant,
sometimes upon the Catholic chapel, sometimes upon the Protestant
church, now became a very regular frequenter of the latter place of
worship; the object of his worship being not the Creator, but the
creature, whom, if he missed from her accustomed seat, the singing, and
praying, and preaching for him lost all of its meaning, power and
spirituality. In the churchyard he sometimes tried to catch her eye and
bow to her; but he was always completely baffled in his aspirations
after a nearer communion. She was always attended from the church and
assisted into her saddle by Judge Provost, Colonel Thornton, or some
other "potent, grave and reverend seignors," who "hedged her about with
a divinity" that it was impossible, without rudeness and intrusion, to
break through. The more he was baffled and perplexed, the more eager
became his desire to cultivate her acquaintance. Had his course been
clear to woo her for his wife, it would have been easy to ask permission
of Edith to visit her at her house; but such was not the case, and
Thurston, tampering with his own integrity of purpose, rather wished
that this much coveted acquaintance should be incidental, and their
interviews seem accidental, so that he should not commit himself, or in
any way lead her to form expectations which he had no surety of being
able to meet. How long this cool and cautious foresight might avail him,
if once he were brought in close companionship with Marian, remains to
be seen. It happened one Sunday afternoon in October that he saw Marian
take leave of her venerable escort, Colonel Thornton, at the churchyard
gate, and gayly and alone turn into the forest road that led to her own
home. He immediately threw himself into his saddle and followed her,
with the assumed air of an indifferent gentleman pursuing his own path.
He overtook her near one of those gates that frequently intersect the
road. Bowing, he passed her, opened the gate, and held it open for her
passage. Marian smiled, and nodded with a pleasant:

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Willcoxen," as she went through,

Thurston closed the gate and rode on after her.

"This is glorious weather, Miss Mayfield."

"Glorious, indeed!" replied Marian.

"And the country, too, is perfectly beautiful at this season. I never
could sympathize with the poets who call autumnal days 'the melancholy
days--the saddest of the year.'"

"Nor I," said Marian; "for to me, autumn, with its refulgent skies, and
gorgeous woods, and rich harvest, and its prospect of Christmas cheer
and wintry repose has ever seemed a gay and festive season. The year's
great work is done, the harvest is gathered, enjoyment is present, and
repose at hand."

"In the world of society," said Thurston, "it is in the evening, after
the labor or the business of the day is over, that the gayest scenes of
festivity occur, just preceding the repose of sleep. So I receive your
thought of the autumn--the evening of the year, preceding the rest of
winter. Nature's year's work is done; she puts on her most gorgeous
robes, and holds a festival before she sinks to her winter's sleep."

Marian smiled brightly upon him.

"Yes; my meaning, I believe, only more pointedly expressed."

That smile--that smile! It lightened through all his nature with
electric, life-giving, spirit-realizing power, elevating and inspiring
his whole being. His face, too, was radiant with life as he answered the
maiden's smile.

But something in his eyes caused Marian's glances to fall, and the rosy
clouds to roll up over her cheeks and brow.

Then Thurston governed his countenance--let no ardent or admiring
glance escape, and when he spoke again his manner and words were more
deferential.

"We spoke of the world of nature, Miss Mayfield; but how is it with the
world of man? To many--nay, to most of the human race--autumn is the
herald of a season not of festivity and repose, but of continued labor,
and increased want and privation and suffering."

"That is because society is not in harmony with nature; man has wandered
as far from nature as from God," said Marian.

"And as much needs a Saviour to lead him back to the one as to the
other," replied Thurston.

"You know that--you feel it?" asked Marian, turning upon him one of her
soul-thrilling glances.

Thurston trembled with delicious pleasure through all his frame; but,
guarding his eyes, lest again they should frighten off her inspiring
glances, he answered, fervently:

"I know and feel it most profoundly."

And Thurston thought he spoke the very truth, though in sober fact he
had never thought or felt anything about the subject until now that
Marian, his inspirer, poured her life-giving spirit into his soul.

She spoke again, earnestly, ardently.

"You know and feel it most profoundly! That deep knowledge and that deep
feeling is the chrism oil that has anointed you a messenger and a
laborer in the cause of humanity. 'Called and chosen,' be thou also
faithful. There are many inspired, many anointed; but few are faithful!"

"Thou, then, art the high priestess that hast poured the consecrated oil
on my head. I will be faithful!"

He spoke with such sudden enthusiasm, such abandon, that it had the
effect of bringing Marian back to the moderation and _retenue_ of her
usual manner. He saw it in the changed expression of her countenance;
and what light or shade of feeling passed over that beautiful face
unmarked of him? When he spoke again it was composedly.

"You speak as the preachers and teachers preach and teach--in general
terms. Be explicit; what would you have me to do, Miss Mayfield? Only
indicate my work, and tell me how to set about the accomplishment of it,
and never knight served liege lady as I will serve you!"

Marian smiled.

"How? Oh, you must make yourself a position from which to influence
people! I do not know that I can advise you how; but you will find a
way, as--were I a man, I should!"

"Being a woman, you have done wonders!"

"For a woman," said Marian, with a glance full of archness and
merriment.

"No, no; for any one, man or woman! But your method, Marian? I beg your
pardon, Miss Mayfield," he added, with a blush of ingenuous
embarrassment.

"Nay, now," said the frank girl; "do call me Marian if that name springs
more readily from your lips than the other. Almost all persons call me
Marian, and I like it."

A rush of pleasure thrilled all through his veins; he gave her words a
meaning and a value for himself that they did not certainly possess; he
forgot that the grace extended to him was extended to all--nay, that she
had even said as much in the very words that gave it. He answered:

"And if I do, fairest Marian, shall I, too, hear my own Christian name
in music from your lips?"

"Oh, I do not know," said the beautiful girl, laughing and blushing. "If
it ever comes naturally, perhaps; certainly not now. Why, the venerable
Colonel Thornton calls me 'Marian,' but it never comes to me to call him
'John!'"




CHAPTER XIII.

LOVE.


This was but one of many such meetings, Thurston growing more and more
infatuated each time, while Marian scarcely tried to hide the pleasure
which his society gave her.

One day when riding through the forest he met Marian returning from
the village and on foot. She was radiant with health and beauty, and
blushing and smiling with joy as she met him. A little basket hung upon
her arm. To dismount and join her, to take the basket from her arm, and
to look in her face and declare in broken exclamations his delight at
seeing her, were the words and the work of an instant.

"And whither away this morning, fairest Marian?" he inquired, when
unrebuked he had pressed her hand to his lips, and drawn it through his
arm.

"I have been to the village, and am now going home," said the maiden.

"It is a long walk through the forest."

"Yes; but my pony has cast a shoe and lamed himself slightly, and I fear
I shall have to dispense with his services for a few days."

"Thank God!" fervently ejaculated Thurston to himself.

"But it is beautiful weather, and I enjoy walking," said the young girl.

"Marian--dearest Marian, will you let me attend you home? The walk is
lonely, and it may not be quite safe for a fair woman to take it
unattended."

"I have no fear of interruption," said Marian.

"Yet you will not refuse to let me attend you? Do not, Marian!" he
pleaded, earnestly, fervently, clasping her hand, and pouring the whole
strength of his soul in the gaze that he fastened on her face.

"I thank you; but you were riding the other way."

"It was merely an idle saunter, to help to kill the time between this
and Sunday, dearest girl. Now, rest you, my queen! my queen! upon this
mossy rock, as on a throne, while I ride forward and leave my horse. I
will be with you again in fifteen minutes; in the meantime here is
something for you to look at," he said, drawing from his pocket an
elegant little volume bound in purple and gold, and laying it in her
lap. He then smiled, sprang into his saddle, bowed, and galloped away,
leaving Marian to examine her book. It was a London copy of Spenser's
Fairy Queen, superbly illustrated, one of the rarest books to be found
in the whole country at that day. On the fly-leaf the name of Marian was
written, in the hand of Thurston.

Some minutes passed in the pleasing examination of the volume; and
Marian was still turning the leaves with unmixed pleasure--pleasure in
the gift, and pleasure in the giver--when Thurston, even before the
appointed time, suddenly rejoined her.

"So absorbed in Spenser that you did not even hear or see me!" said the
young man, half reproachfully.

"I was indeed far gone in Fairy Land! Oh, I thank you so much for your
beautiful present! It is indeed a treasure. I shall prize it greatly,"
said Marian, in unfeigned delight.

"Do you know that Fairy Land is not obsolete, dearest Marian?" he said,
fixing his eyes upon her charming face with an ardor and earnestness
that caused hers to sink.

"Come," she said, in a low voice, and rising from the rock; "let us
leave this place and go forward."

They walked on, speaking softly of many things--of the vision of
Spenser, of the beautiful autumnal weather, of anything except the one
interest that now occupied both hearts. The fear of startling her
bashful trust, and banishing those bewitching glances that sometimes
lightened on his face, made him cautious, and restrained his eagerness;
while excessive consciousness kept her cheeks dyed with blushes, and her
nerves vibrating sweet, wild music, like the strings of some aeolian
harp when swept by the swift south wind.

He determined, during the walk, to plead his love, and ascertain his
fate. Ay! but how approach the subject when, at every ardent glance or
tone, her face, her heart, shrank and closed up, like the leaves of the
sensitive plant.

So they rambled on, discovering new beauties in nature; now it would be
merely an oak leaf of rare richness of coloring; now some tiny insect
with finished elegance of form; now a piece of the dried branch of a
tree that Thurston picked up, to bid her note the delicately blending
shades in its gray hue, or the curves and lines of grace in its twisted
form--the beauty of its slow return to dust; and now perhaps it would
be the mingled colors in the heaps of dried leaves drifted at the foot
of some great tree.

And then from the minute loveliness of nature's sweet, small things,
their eyes would wander to the great glory of the autumnal sky, or the
variegated array of the gorgeous forest.

Thurston knew a beautiful glade, not far distant, to the left of their
path, from which there was a very fine view that he wished to show his
companion. And he led Marian thither by a little moss-bordered,
descending path.

It was a natural opening in the forest, from which, down a still,
descending vista, between the trees, could be seen the distant bay, and
the open country near it, all glowing under a refulgent sky, and hazy
with the golden mist of Indian Summer. Before them the upper branches of
the nearest trees formed a natural arch above the picture.

Marian stood and gazed upon the wondrous beauty of the scene with soft,
steady eyes, with lips breathlessly severed, in perfect silence and
growing emotion.

"This pleases you," said Thurston.

She nodded, without removing her gaze.

"You find it charming?"

She nodded again, and smiled.

"You were never here before?"

"Never."

"Marian, you are a lover of nature."

"I do not know," she said, softly, "whether it be love, or worship, or
both; but some pictures spell-bind me. I stand amidst a scene like this,
enchanted, until my soul has absorbed as much of its beauty and glory
and wisdom as it can absorb. As the Ancient Mariner held with his
'glittering eye' the wedding guest, so such a picture holds me
enthralled until I have heard the story and learned the lesson it has to
tell and teach me. Did you ever, in the midst of nature's liberal
ministrations, feel your spirit absorbing, assimilating, growing? Or is
it only a fantastic action of mine that beauty is the food of soul?"

She turned her eloquent eyes full upon him.

He forgot his prudence, forgot her claims, forgot everything, and caught
and strained her to his bosom, pressing passionate kisses upon her lips,
and the next instant he was kneeling at her feet, imploring her to
forgive him--to hear him.

Marian stood with her face bowed and hidden in her hands; but above the
tips of her fingers, her forehead, crimsoned, might be seen. One half
her auburn hair had escaped and rippled down in glittering disorder. And
so she stood a few moments. But soon, removing her hands and turning
away, she said, in a troubled tone:

"Rise. Never kneel to any creature; that homage is due the Creator
alone. Oh, rise!"

"First pardon me--first hear me, beloved girl!"

"Oh, rise--rise, I beg you! I cannot bear to see a man on his knee,
except in prayer to God!" she said, walking away.

He sprang up and followed her, took her hand, and, with gentle
compulsion, made her sit down upon a bank; and then he sank beside her,
exclaiming eagerly, vehemently, yet in a low, half-smothered tone:

"Marian, I love you! I never spoke these words to woman before, for I
never loved before. Marian, the first moment that I saw you I loved you,
without knowing what new life it was that had kindled in my nature. I
have loved you more and more every day! I love you more than words can
tell or heart conceive! I only live in your presence! Marian! not one
word or glance for me? Oh, speak! Turn your dear face toward me," he
said, putting his hand gently around her head. "Speak to me, Marian, for
I adore--I worship you!"

"I do not deserve to be loved in that way. I do not wish it, for it is
wrong--idolatrous," she said, in a low, trembling voice.

"Oh! what do you mean? Is the love upon which my life seems to hang so
offensive to you? Say, Marian! Oh! you are compassionate by nature; how
can you keep me in the torture of suspense?"

"I do not keep you so."

"You will let me love you?"

Marian slipped her hand in his; that was her reply.

"You will love me?"

For all answer she gently pressed his fingers. He pressed her hand to
his heart, to his lips, covering it with kisses.

"Yet, oh! speak to me, dearest; let me hear from your lips that you love
me--a little--but better than I deserve. Will you? Say, Marian! Speak,
dearest girl!"

"I cannot tell you now," she said, in a low, thrilling tone. "I am
disturbed; I wish to grow quiet; and I must go home. Let us return."

One more passionate kiss of the hand he clasped, and then he helped her
to her feet, drew her arm within his own, and led her up the
moss-covered rocks that formed the natural steps of the ascent that led
to the homeward path.

They were now near the verge of the forest, which, when they reached,
Marian drew her arm from his, and, extending her hand, said:

"This is the place our roads part."

"But you will let me attend you home?"

"No; it would make the return walk too long."

"That can be no consideration, I beg you will let me go with you,
Marian."

"No; it would not be convenient to Edith to-day," said Marian, quickly
drawing her hand from his detaining grasp, waving him adieu, and walking
swiftly away across the meadow.

Thurston gazed after her, strongly tempted to follow her; yet withal
admitting that it was best that she had declined his escort to the
cottage, and thanking Heaven that the opportunity would again be
afforded to take an "incidental" stroll with her, as she should walk to
church on Sunday morning; and so, forming the resolution to haunt the
forest-path from seven o'clock that next Sabbath morning until he should
see her, Thurston hurried home.

And how was it with Marian? She hastened to the cottage, laid off her
bonnet and shawl, and set herself at work as diligently as usual; but a
higher bloom glowed on her cheek, a softer, brighter light beamed in her
eye, a warmer, sweeter smile hovered around her lips, a deeper, richer
tone thrilled in her voice.

On Sunday morning the lovers "chanced" to meet again--for so Thurston
would still have had it appear as he permitted Marian to overtake him in
the forest on her way to the Sunday-school.

She was blooming and beautiful as the morning itself as she approached.
He turned with a radiant smile to greet her.

"Welcome! thrice welcome, dearest one! Your coming is more joyous than
that of day. Welcome, my own, dear Marian! May I now call you mine? Have
I read that angel-smile aright? Is it the blessed herald of a happy
answer to my prayer?" he whispered, as he took her hand and passed his
arm around her head and brought it down upon his bosom. "Speak, my
Marian! Speak, my beloved! Are you my own, as I am yours?"

Her answer was so low-toned that he had to bend his head down close to
her lips to hear her murmur:

"I love you dearly. But I love you too well to ruin your prospects. You
must not bind yourself to me just yet, dear Thurston," and meekly and
gently she sought to slip from his embrace.

But he slid his arm around her lightly, bending his head and whispering
eagerly:

"What mean you, Marian? Your words are incomprehensible."

"Dear Thurston," she answered, in a tremulous and thrilling voice, "I
have known your grandfather long by report, and I am well aware of his
character and disposition and habits. But only yesterday I chanced to
learn from one who was well informed that old Mr. Willcoxen had sworn to
make you his heir only upon condition of your finding a bride of equal
or superior fortunes. If now you were to engage yourself to me, your
grandfather would disinherit you. I love you too well," she murmured
very low, "to ruin your fortunes. You must not bind yourself to me just
now, Thurston."

And this loving, frank and generous creature was the woman, he thought,
whose good name he would have periled in a clandestine courtship in
preference to losing his inheritance by an open betrothal. A stab of
compunction pierced his bosom; he felt that he loved her more than ever,
but passion was stronger than affection, stronger than conscience,
stronger than anything in nature, except pride and ambition. He
lightened his clasp about her waist--he bent and whispered:

"Beloved Marian, is it to bind me only that you hesitate?"

"Only that," she answered, softly.

"Now hear me, Marian. I swear before Heaven, and in thy sight--that--as
I have never loved woman before you--that--as I love you only of all
women--I will be faithful to you while I live upon this earth! as your
husband, if you will accept me; as your exclusive lover, whether you
will or not! I hold myself pledged to you as long as we both shall live!
There, Marian! I am bound to you as tight as vows can bind! I am pledged
to you whether you accept my pledge or not. You cannot even release, for
I am pledged to Heaven as well. There, Marian, you see I am bound, while
you only are free. Come! be generous! You have said that you loved me!
Pledge yourself to me in like manner. We are both young, dear Marian,
and we can wait. Only let me have your promise to be my wife--only let
me have that blessed assurance for the future, and I can endure the
present. Speak, dear Marian."

"Your grandfather--"

"He has no grudge against you, personally, sweet girl; he knows nothing,
suspects nothing of my preferences--how should he? No, dearest girl--his
notion that I must have a moneyed bride is the merest whim of dotage; we
must forgive the whims of ninety-five. That great age also augurs for us
a short engagement and a speedy union!"

"Oh! never let us dream of that! It would be sinful, and draw down upon
us the displeasure of Heaven. Long may the old man yet live to prepare
for a better life."

"Amen; so be it; God forbid that I should grudge the aged patriarch his
few remaining days upon earth--days, too, upon which his soul's immortal
welfare may depend," said Thurston. "But, dearest girl, it is more
difficult to get a reply from you than from a prime minister. Answer,
now, once for all, sweet girl! since I am forever bound to you; will you
pledge yourself to become my own dear wife?"

"Yes," whispered Marian, very lowly.

"And will you," he asked, gathering her form closer to his bosom, "will
you redeem that pledge when I demand it?"

"Yes," she murmured sweetly, "so that it is not to harm you, or bring
you into trouble or poverty; for that I would not consent to do!"

"God bless you; you are an angel! Oh! Marian! I find it in my heart to
sigh because I am so unworthy of you!"

And this was spoken most sincerely.

"You think too well of me. I fear--I fear for the consequences."

"Why, dearest Marian?"

"Oh, I fear that when you know me better you may love me less," she
answered, in a trembling voice.

"Why should I?"

"Oh! because your love may have been attracted by ideal qualities, with
which you yourself have invested me; and when your eyes are opened you
may love me less."

"May my soul forever perish the day that I cease to love you!" said
Thurston, passionately pressing her to his heart, and sealing his
fearful oath upon her pure brow and guileless lips. "And now, beloved!
this compact is sealed! Our fates are united forever! Henceforth nothing
shall dissever us!"

They were now drawing near the village.

Marian suddenly stopped.

"Dear Thurston," she said, "if you are seen waiting upon me to church do
you know what the people will say? They will say that Marian has a new
admirer in Mr. Willcoxen--and that will reach your grandfather's ears,
and give you trouble."

"Stay! one moment, beautiful Marian! When shall we meet again?"

"When Heaven wills."

"And when will that be, fairest?"

"I do not know; but do not visit me at the cottage, dear Thurston, it
would be indiscreet."

"Marian! I must see you often. Will you meet me on the beach to-morrow
afternoon?"

"No," answered Marian, gravely, "in this single instance, I must not
meet you, though my heart pleads like a sick child with me to do it,
Thurston, dear Thurston."

She raised her eyes to his as she spoke, and giving way to a sudden
impulse, dropped her head upon his shoulder, put her arms around his
neck, and embraced him. And then his better angel rose above the storm
of passion that was surging through his veins, and calmed the tumult,
and spoke through his lips.

"You are right, Marian--fairest and dearest, you are right. And I not
only love you best of all women, but honor you more than all men. It
shall be as you have said. I will not seek you anywhere. As the mother,
dying of plague, denies herself the parting embrace of her 'unstricken'
child--so, for your sake, will I refrain from the heaven of your
presence."

"And, dear Thurston," she said, raising her head, "it will not be so
hard to bear, as you now think. We shall see each other every Sunday in
the church, and every Monday in the lecture-room. We shall often be of
the same invited company at neighbors' houses. Remember, also, that
Christmas is coming, with its protracted festivities, when we shall see
each other almost every evening, at some little neighborhood gathering.
And now I must really hurry; oh! how late I am this morning! Good-by,
dearest Thurston!"

"Good-by, my own Marian."

Blushingly she received, his parting kiss, and hurried along the little
foot-path leading to the village.

Thurston had been perfectly sincere in his resolution not to seek a
private interview with Marian; and he kept it faithfully all the week,
with less temptation to break it, because he did not know where to watch
for her.

But Sunday came again--and Thurston, with a little bit of human
self-deception and _finesse_, avoided the forest path, where he had met
her the preceding Sabbath, and saying to himself that he would not
waylay her, took the river road, refusing to confess even to himself
that he acted upon the calculation that she also would take the same
road, in order to avoid meeting him in the forest.

His "calculus of probabilities" had not failed him. He had not walked
far upon the forest-shaded banks of the river before he saw Marian
walking before him. He hastened and overtook her.

At first seeing him her face flushed radiant with surprise and joy.
She seemed to think that nothing short of necromancy could have conjured
him to that spot. She had no reproaches for him, because she had no
suspicion that he had trifled with his promise not to seek her. But she
expressed her astonishment.

"I did not know you ever came this way," she said.

"Nor did I ever before, love; but I remembered my pledge, not to follow
or to seek you, and so I avoided the woodland path where we met last
Sunday," said Thurston, persuading himself that he spoke the precise
truth.

It is not necessary to pursue with them this walk; lovers scarcely thank
us for such intrusions. It is sufficient to say that this was not the
last one.

Blinded by passion and self-deception, and acting upon the same astute
calculus of probabilities, Thurston often contrived to meet Marian in
places where his presence might be least expected, and most often in
paths that she had taken for the express purpose of keeping out of his
way.

Thus it fell that many forest walks and seashore strolls were taken, all
through the lovely Indian summer weather. And these seemed so much the
result of pure accident that Marian never dreamed of complaining that
his pledge had been tampered with.

But Thurston began to urge her consent to a private marriage.

From a secret engagement to a secret marriage, the transition seemed to
him very easy.

"And, dearest Marian, we are both of age, both free--we should neither
displease God nor wrong man, by such a step--while it would at the same
time secure our union, and save us from injustice and oppression! do you
not see?"

Such was his argument, which he pleaded and enforced with all the powers
of passion and eloquence. In vain. Though every interview increased his
power over the maiden--though her affections and her will were both
subjected, the domain of conscience was unconquered. And Marian still
answered:

"Though a secret marriage would break no law of God or man, nor
positively wrong any human creature, yet it might be the cause of
misunderstanding and suspicion--and perhaps calumny, causing much
distress to those who love and respect me. Therefore it would be
wrong. And I must do no wrong, even for your dear sake."




CHAPTER XIV.

CLOUDY.


It was Christmas Eve and a fierce snow-storm was raging.

Old Mr. Willcoxen sat half doubled up in his leather-covered elbow
chair, in the chimney corner of his bedroom, occupied with smoking his
clay pipe, and thinking about his money bags.

Fanny was in the cold, bleak upper rooms of the house, looking out of
the windows upon the wide desolation of winter, the waste of snow, the
bare forest, the cold, dark waters of the bay--listening to the driving
tempest, and singing, full of glee as she always was when the elements
were in an uproar.

Thurston was the sole and surly occupant of the sitting-room, where he
had thrown himself at full length upon the sofa, to lie and yawn over
the newspaper, which he vowed was as stale as last year's almanac.

Suddenly the front door was thrown open, and some one came, followed by
the driving wind and snow, into the hall.

Thurston threw aside his paper, started up, and went out.

What was his surprise to see Cloudesley Mornington standing there, with
a face so haggard, with eyes so wild and despairing, that, in alarm, he
exclaimed:

"Good heaven, Cloudesley. What is the matter? Has anything happened at
home?"

"Home! home! What home? I have no home upon this earth now, and never
shall have!" exclaimed the poor youth, distractedly.

"My dear fellow, never speak so despondently. What is it now? a
difficulty with the commodore?"

"God's judgment light upon him!" cried Cloudy, pushing past and hurrying
up the stairs.

Thurston could not resume his former composure; something in Cloudy's
face had left a feeling of uneasiness in his mind, and the oftener he
recalled the expression the more troubled he became.

Until at length he could bear the anxiety no longer, and quietly leaving
his room, he went up-stairs in search of the youth, and paused before
the boy's door. By the clicking, metallic sounds within, he suspected
him to be engaged in loading a pistol; for what purpose! Not an instant
was to be risked in rapping or questioning.

With one vigorous blow of his heel Thurston burst open the door, and
sprung forward and dashed the fatal weapon from his hand, and then
confronted him, exclaiming:

"Good God, Cloudy! What does this mean?"

Cloudy looked at him wildly for a minute, and when Thurston repeated the
question, he answered with a hollow laugh:

"That I am crazy, I guess! don't you think so?"

"Cloudy, my dear fellow, we have been like brothers all our lives; now
won't you tell me what has brought you to this pass? What troubles you
so much? Perhaps I can aid you in some way. Come, what is it now?"

"And you really don't know what it is? Don't you know that there is a
wedding on hand?"

"A wedding!"

"Aye, man alive! A wedding! They are going to marry the child Jacquelina
to old Grimshaw."

"Oh, yes, I know that; but, my dear boy, what of it? Surely you were
never in love with little Jacko?"

"In love with her! ha! ha! no, not as you understand it! who take it to
be that fantastical passion that may be inspired by the first sight of a
pretty face. No! I am not in love with her, unless I could be in love
with myself. For Lina was my other self. Oh, you who can talk so glibly
of being 'in love,' little know that strength of attachment when two
hearts have grown together from childhood."

"It is like a brother's and a sister's."

"Never! brothers and sisters cannot love so. What brother ever loved a
sister as I have loved Lina from our infancy? What brother ever would
have done and suffered as much for his sister as I have for Lina?"

"You! done and suffered for Lina!" said Thurston, beginning to think he
was really mad.

"Yes! how many faults as a boy I have shouldered for her. How many
floggings I have taken. How many shames I have borne for her, which she
never knew. Oh! how I have spent my night watches at sea, dreaming of
her. For years I have been saving up all my money to buy a pretty
cottage for her and her mother that she loves so well. I meant to have
bought or built one this very year. And after having made the pretty
nest, to have wooed my pretty bird to come and occupy it. I meant to
have been such a good boy to her mother, too! I pleased myself with
fancying how the poor, little timorous woman would rest in so much peace
and confidence in our home--with me and Lina. I have saved so much that
I am richer than any one knows, and I meant to have accomplished all
that this very time of coming home. I hurried home. I reached the house.
I ran in like a wild boy as I was. Her voice called me. I followed its
sound--ran up-stairs to her room. I found her in bed. I thought she was
sick. But she sprang up, and threw herself upon my bosom, and with her
arms clasped about my neck, wept as if her heart would break. And while
I wondered what the matter could be, her mother interfered and told me.
God's judgment light upon them all, I say! Oh! it was worse than murder.
It was a horrid, horrid crime, that has no name because there is none
heinous enough for it. Thurston! I acted like a very brute! God help me,
I was both stunned and maddened, as it seems to me now. For I could not
speak. I tore her little, fragile, clinging arms from off my neck, and
thrust her from me. And here I am. Don't ask me how I loved her! I have
no words to tell you!"




CHAPTER XV.

THE FAIRY BRIDE.


Since the morning of her ill-starred marriage, Sans Souci had waned like
a waning moon; and the bridegroom saw, with dismay, his fairy bride
slowly fading, passing, vanishing from his sight. There was no very
marked disorder, no visible or tangible symptoms to guide the
physicians, who were in succession summoned to her relief. Very obscure
is the pathology of a wasting heart, very occult the scientific
knowledge that can search out the secret sickness, which, the further it
is sought, shrinks the deeper from sight.

Once, indeed, while she was sitting with her aunt and uncle, the latter
suddenly and rudely mentioned Cloudy's name, saying that "the fool" was
sulking over at Dell-Delight; that he believed he would have blown his
brains out if it had not been for Thurston, and for his own part, he
almost wished that he had been permitted to do so, because he thought
none but a fool would ever commit suicide, and the fewer fools there
were in the world the better, etc., etc. His monologue was suddenly
arrested by Henrietta's rushing forward to lift up Sans Souci, who had
turned very pale, and dropped from her seat to the floor, where she lay
silently quivering and gasping, like some poor wounded and dying bird.

They tacitly resolved, from this time forth, never to name Cloudy in her
presence again.

And the commodore struck his heavy stick upon the floor, and
emphatically thanked God that Nace Grimshaw had not been present to
witness her agitation and its cause.

And Jacquelina waned and waned. And the physicians, wearied out with her
case, prescribed "Change of air and scene--pleasant company--cheerful
amusement--excitement," etc. A winter in Washington was suggested. And
the little invalid was consulted as to her wishes upon the subject.
"Yes," Jacquelina said she would go--anywhere, if only her aunty and
Marian would go with her--she wanted Marian.

Mrs. Waugh readily consented to accompany her favorite, and also to try
to induce "Hebe," as she called blooming Marian, to make one of their
party.

And the very first day that the weather and the roads would admit of
traveling, Mrs. Waugh rode over to Old Fields to see Marian, and talk
with her about the contemplated journey.

The proposition took the young lady by surprise; there were several
little lets and hindrances to her immediate acceptance of the
invitation, which might, however, be disposed of; and finally, Marian
begged a day to consider about it. With this answer, Mrs. Waugh was
forced to be content, and she took her leave, saying:

"Remember, Hebe! that I think your society and conversation more
needful, and likely to be more beneficial to poor Lapwing, than anything
else we can procure for her; therefore, pray decide to go with us, if
possible."

Marian deprecated such reliance upon her imperfect abilities, but
expressed her strong desire to do all the good she possibly could effect
for the invalid, and made little doubt but that she should at least be
able to attend her. So, with this hope, Mrs. Waugh kissed her and
departed.

The very truth was, that Marian wished to see and consult her bethrothed
before consenting to leave home for what seemed to her to be so long a
journey, and for so long a period. In fact, Marian was not now a free
agent; she had suffered her free will to slip from her own possession
into that of Thurston.

She had not seen him all the wretched weather, and her heart now yearned
for his presence. And that very afternoon Marian had a most pressing
errand to Charlotte Hall, to purchase groceries, which the little family
had got entirely out of during the continuance of the snow.

There was no certainty that she should see Thurston; still she hoped to
do so, nor was her hope disappointed.

He overtook her a short distance from the village, on her road home.

Their meeting was a very glad one--heart sprang to heart and hand to
hand--and neither affected to conceal the pleasure that it gave them.
After the first joyous greetings, and the first earnest and affectionate
inquiries about each other's health and welfare, both became grave and
silent for a little while. Marian was reflecting how to propose to leave
him for a three-months' visit to the gay capital, little thinking that
Thurston himself was perplexed with the question of how to break to her
the news of the necessity of his own immediate departure to England for
an absence of at least six or eight months. Marian spoke first.

"Dear Thurston, I have something to propose to you, that I fear you will
not like very well; but if you do not, speak freely; for I am not
bound."

"I--I do not understand you, love! Pray explain at once," said he, quick
to take alarm where she was concerned.

"You know poor little Jacquelina has fallen into very bad health and
spirits? Well, her physicians recommend change of air and scene, and her
friends have decided to take her to Washington to pass the remainder of
the winter. And the little creature has set her sickly fancy upon having
me to go with her. Now, I think it is some sort a duty to go, and I
would not willingly refuse. Nevertheless, dear Thurston, I dread to
leave you, and if you think you will be very lonesome this winter
without me--if you are likely to miss me one-half as much as I have
missed you these last three weeks, I will not leave you at all."

He put his hand out and took hers, and pressed it, and would have
carried it to his lips, but her wicked little pony suddenly jerked away.

"My own dearest Marian," he said; "my frank, generous love! if I were
going to remain in this neighborhood this winter, no consideration, I
fear, for others' good, would induce me to consent to part with you."

It was now Marian's turn to change color, and falter in her tones, as
she asked:

"You--you are not going away?"

"Sweet Marian, yes! A duty--a necessity too imperative to be denied,
summons me."

She kept her eyes fixed on his face in painful anxiety.

"I will explain. You have heard, dear Marian, that after my father's
death my mother married a second time?"

"No--I never heard of it."

"She did, however--her second husband was a Scotchman. She lived with
him seven years, and then died, leaving him one child, a boy six years
of age. After my mother's death, my stepfather returned to Scotland,
taking with him my half-brother, and leaving me with my grandfather. And
all communication gradually ceased between us. Within this week,
however, I have received letters from Edinburgh, informing me of the
death of my stepfather, and the perfect destitution of my half-brother,
now a lad of twelve years of age. He is at present staying with the
clergyman who attended his father in his last illness, and who has
written me the letters giving me the information that I now give you.
Thus, you see, my dearest love, how urgent the duty is that takes me
from your side. Yet--What! tears, my Marian! Ah, if so! let my dearest
one but say the word, and I will not leave her. I will send money over
to the lad instead."

"No, no! Ah! no, never trust your mother's orphan boy to strangers, or
to his own guidance. Go for the poor, desolate lad, and never leave him,
or suffer him to leave you. I know what orphanage in childhood is, dear
Thurston, and so must you. Bring the boy home. And if he lives with you,
I will do all I can to supply his mother's place."

"Dear girl! dear, dear Marian, my heart so longs to press you to itself.
A plague upon these horses that keep us so far apart! I wish we were on
foot!"

"Do you?" smiled Marian, directing his attention to the sloppy path down
which they were riding.

Thurston smiled ruefully, and then sighed.

"When do you set out on your long journey, dear Thurston?"

"I have not fixed the time, my Marian! I have not the courage to name
the day that shall part us for so long."

He looked at her with a heavy sigh, and then added:

"I shrink from appointing the time of going, as a criminal might shrink
from giving the signal for his own execution."

"Then let some other agent do it," said Marian, smiling at his
earnestness. Then she added--"I shall go to Washington with Jacquelina.
Her party will set out on Wednesday next. And, dear Thurston, I shall
not like to leave you here, at all. I shall go with more content, if I
knew that you set out the same day for your journey."

"But fairest Marian, never believe but that if you go to Washington, I
shall take that city in on my way. There is a vessel to sail on the
first of February, from Baltimore, for Liverpool. I shall probably go by
her. I shall pass through Washington City on my way to Baltimore. Nay,
indeed! what should hinder me from joining your party and traveling with
you, since we are friends and neighbors, and go at the same time, from
the same neighborhood, by the same road, to the same place?" he asked,
eagerly.

A smile of joy illumined Marian's face.

"Truly," she answered, after a short pause. "I see no objection to that
plan. And, oh! Thurston," she said, holding out her hand, and looking at
him with her face holy and beaming with affection, "do you know what
fullness of life and comfort--what sweetness of rest and contentment I
feel in your presence, when I can have that rightly?"

"My own dear Marian! Heaven hasten the day when we shall be forever
united."

And he suddenly sprang from his horse--lifted her from her saddle, and
holding her carefully above the sloppy path, folded her fondly to his
bosom, pressed kisses on her lips, and then replaced her, saying:

"Dear Marian, forgive me! My heart was half breaking with its need to
press you to itself! Now then, dearest, I shall consider it settled that
I join your party to Washington. I shall call at Locust Hill and see
Mrs. Waugh, inform her of my destination, and ask her permission to
accompany her. By the way--when do you give your answer to that lady?"

"I shall ride over to the Hill to-morrow morning for that purpose."

"Very well, dearest. In that case I will also appoint the morning as my
time of calling; so that I may have the joy of meeting you there."

They had by this time reached the verge of the forest and the cross-road
where their paths divided. And here they bade a loving, lingering adieu
to each other, and separated.

That evening Marian announced to Edith her decision to accompany
Jacquelina to Washington City.

Edith approved the plan.

The next morning Marian left the house to go to Locust Hill, where,
besides the family, she found Thurston already awaiting her.

Thurston was seated by Jacquelina, endeavoring, by his gay and brilliant
sallies of wit and humor, to charm away the sullen sadness of the pale
and petulant little beauty.

And, truth to tell, soon fitful, fleeting smiles broke over the little
wan face--smiles that grew brighter and more frequent as she noticed the
surly anxiety they gave to Dr. Grimshaw, who sat, like the dog in the
manger, watching Thurston sunning himself in the light of eyes that
never, by any chance, shone upon him, their rightful proprietor!

Never! for though Jacquelina had paled and waned, failed and faded,
until she seemed more like a moonlight phantom than a form of flesh and
blood--her spirit was unbowed, unbroken, and she had kept her oath of
uncompromising enmity with fearful perseverance. Petitions,
expostulations, prayers, threats, had been all in vain to procure one
smile, one word, one glance of compliance or forgiveness. And the fate
of Dr. Grimshaw, with his unwon bride, was like that of Tantalus. And
now the inconceivable tortures of jealousy were about to be added to his
other torments, for this man now sitting by his side, and basking in the
sunshine of her smiles, was the all-praised Adonis who had won her
maiden admiration months ago.

But Thurston soon put an end to his sufferings--not in consideration of
his feelings, but because the young gentleman could not afford to lose
or risk the chance of making one of the party which was to number Marian
among its members. Therefore, with a light smile and careless bow, he
left the side of Jacquelina and crossed over to Mrs. Waugh, with whom,
also, he entered into a gay and bantering conversation, in the course of
which Mrs. Waugh mentioned to him their purpose of going to Washington
for a month or two.

It was then that, with an air of impromptu, Thurston informed her of his
own contemplated journey and voyage, and of his intention to go to
Baltimore by way of Washington.

"And when do you leave here?" asked Mrs. Waugh.

"I thought of starting on Wednesday morning."

"The very day that we shall set out--why can't we travel in company?"
asked Henrietta, socially.

"I should be charmed, indeed--delighted! And nothing shall prevent me
having that honor and pleasure, if Mrs. Waugh will permit my
attendance."

"Why, my dear Thurston, to be sure I will--but don't waste fine speeches
on your uncle's old wife. How do you travel?"

"As far as Washington I shall go on horseback, with a mounted groom to
bring back the horses, when I proceed on my journey by stage to
Baltimore."

"On horseback! Now that is excellent--that is really providential, as it
falls out--for here is my Hebe, whom I have coaxed to be of the party,
and who will have to perform the journey also on horseback, and you will
make an admirable cavalier for her!"

Thurston turned and bowed to Marian, and expressed, in courtly terms,
the honor she would confer, and the pleasure she would give, in
permitting him to serve her. And no one, to have seen him, would have
dreamed that the subject had ever before been mentioned between them.

Marian blushed and smiled, and expressing her thanks, accepted his
offered escort.

These preliminaries being settled, Thurston soon after arose and took
leave.

Marian remained some time longer to arrange some little preparatory
matters with Mrs. Waugh, and then bade them good-by, and hastened
homeward.

But she saw Thurston walking his horse up and down the forest-path, and
impatiently waiting for her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Grimshaw was very much dissatisfied; and no sooner had Marian left
the home, and left him alone with Mrs. Waugh and Jacquelina, than he
turned to the elder lady, and said, with some asperity:

"I think it would have been well, Mrs. Waugh, if you had consulted the
other members of your party before making so important an addition to
it."

"And I think it would be better, Dr. Grimshaw, if you would occupy your
valuable time and attention with affairs that fall more immediately
within your own province," said Henrietta, loftily, as she would
sometimes speak.

Dr. Grimshaw deigned no reply. He closed his mouth with a spasmodic
snap, and sat ruminating--the very picture of wretchedness. He was,
indeed, to be pitied! For no patience, no kindness, no wooing could win
from his bride one smile. That very afternoon, under the combined
goadings of exasperated self-love and poignant jealousy, Dr. Grimshaw
sought an interview with Mrs. L'Oiseau, and urged her, in the most
strenuous manner, to exert her maternal influence in bringing her
daughter to terms.

And Mrs. L'Oiseau sent for Jacquelina, to have a talk with her. But not
all her arguments, entreaties, or even tears, could prevail with the
obstinate bride to relax one single degree of her unforgiving antagonism
to her detested bridegroom.

"Mother," she said, with sorrowful bitterness, "you are well now;
indeed, you never were so ill as I was led to believe; and you are
independent. I parted with my only hope of happiness in life to render
you so; I sold myself in a formal marriage to be the legal medium of
endowing Dr. Grimshaw with a certain landed estate. Even into that
measure I was deceived--no more of that! it crazes me! The conditions
are all fulfilled; he will have the property, and you are independent.
And now he has no further claim upon me, and no power over me!"

"He has, Jacquelina; and it is only Dr. Grimshaw's forbearance that
permits you to indulge in this wicked whim."

"His forbearance! Oh! hasn't he been forbearing, though!" she exclaimed,
with a mocking laugh.

"Yes; he has, little as you are disposed to acknowledge it. You do not
seem to know that he can compel your submission!"

"Can he!" she hissed, drawing her breath sharply through her clenched
teeth, and clutching her fingers convulsively, while a white ring
gleamed around the blue iris of her dilated eyes. "Let him try! let him
drive me to desperation, and then learn how spirits dare to escape! But
he will not do that. Mimmy! he reads me better than you do; he knows
that he must not urge me beyond my powers of endurance. No, mother! Let
him take my uncle into his counsels again, if he pleases; let them
combine all their ingenuity, and wickedness, and power, and bring them
all to bear on me at once; let them do their worst--they shall not gain
one concession from me; not one smile, not one word, not one single look
of tolerance--so help me heaven! And they know it, mother!--they know
it! And why? You are secured from their malice; now they can turn no
screws upon my heart-strings!--and I am free! They know it, mother--they
know it, if you do not."

"But, Jacquelina, this is a very, very wicked life to lead! You are
living in a state of mortal sin while you persist in this shocking
rebellion against the authority and just rights of your husband."

"He is not my husband! that I utterly deny! I have never made him such!
There was nothing in our nominal marriage to give him that claim. It was
a mere legal form, for a mercenary purpose. It was a wicked and shameful
subterfuge; a sacrilegious desecration of God's holy altar! but in its
wickedness heaven knows I had little will! I was deluded and disturbed;
facts were misrepresented to me, threats were made that could never have
been executed; my fears were excited for your life; my affections were
wrought upon; I was driven out of my senses even before I did consent to
be his nominal wife--the legal sumpter-mule to carry him an estate. I
promised nothing more, and I have kept all my promises. It is over! it
is over! it is done! and it cannot be undone! But I never--never will
forgive that man for the part he played in the drama!"

"_Ave Maria, Mater Dolorosa!_ Was ever a mother so sorrowful as I? Holy
saints and angels! how you shock me. Don't you know, wretched child,
that you are committing deadly sin? Don't you know, alas! the holy
church would refuse you its communion?"

"Let it! I will be excommunicated before I will give Dr. Grimshaw one
tolerant glance! I will risk the eternal rather than fall into the
nearer perdition!"

"Holy Mary save her! Don't you know, most miserable child! that such is
your condition, that if you were to die now your soul would go to
burning flames?"

"Ha! ha! Where do you think it is now, Mimmy?"

"You are mad! You don't know what you're talking about! And, alas! you
are half an infidel, I know, for you don't believe in hell!"

"Yes, I do, Mimmy! Oh! yes, indeed I do! If ever my faith was shaken
in that article of belief, it is firm enough now! It is more than
re-established, for, look you, Mimmy! I believe in heaven, but I know
of hell!"

"I'm very glad you do, my dear. And I hope you will meditate much upon
it, and it may lead you to change your course in regard to Dr. Grimshaw."

"Mimmy!" she said, with a wild laugh, "is there a deeper pit in
perdition than that to which you urge me now?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Fortune certainly favored the lovers that day; for when Thurston reached
home in the evening, his grandfather said to him:

"Well, Mr. Jackanapes, since you are to sail from the port of Baltimore,
I think it altogether best that you should take a private conveyance,
and go by way of Washington."

"That will be a very lonesome manner of traveling, sir," answered the
young man, demurely.

"It will be a very cheap one, you mean, and, therefore, will not befit
you, Sir Millionaire! It will cost nothing, and, therefore, lose its
only charm for you, my Lord Spendthrift," cried the miser, sharply.

"On the contrary, sir, I only object to the loneliness of the long
journey."

"No one to chatter to, eh, Mr. Magpie! Well, it need not be so! There's
Nace Grimshaw, and his set--extravagant fools!--going up to the city to
flaunt among the fashionables. You can go as they go, and chatter to the
other monkey, Jacquelina--and make Old Nace mad with jealousy, so that
he shall go and hang himself, and leave you the widow and her fortune!
Come! is there mischief enough to amuse you? But I know you won't do it!
I know it! I know it! I know it! just because I wish you to!"

"What, sir? drive Dr. Grimshaw to hang himself?"

"No, sir! I mean you won't join the party."

"You mistake, sir. I will certainly do so, if you wish it," said
Thurston, gravely.

"Humph! Well, that is something better than I expected. You can take the
new gig, you know, and take Melchisedek to drive you, and to bring it
back."

"Just as you say, sir," said the young gentleman, with filial
compliance.

"And mind, take care that you are not led into any waste of money."

"I shall take care, sir."

And here Thurston's heart was gladdened within him. He profoundly
thanked his stars. The new gig! What an opportunity to save Marian the
fatigue of an equestrian journey--offer her an easy seat, and have the
blessing of her near companionship for the whole trip! While his
servant, Melchisedek, could ride Marian's pony. And this arrangement
would be so natural, so necessary, so inevitable, that not even the
jealous, suspicious miser could make the least question of its perfect
propriety. For, under the circumstances, what gentleman could leave a
lady of his party to travel wearily on horseback, while himself and his
servant rode cosily at ease in a gig? What gentleman would not rather
give the lady his seat in the gig--take the reins himself and drive her,
while his servant took her saddle-horse. So thought Thurston. Yet he did
not hint the subject to his grandfather--the method of their traveling
should seem the impromptu effect of chance. The next morning being
Sunday, he threw himself in Marian's path, waited for her, and rode with
her a part of the way to church. And while they were in company, he told
her of the new arrangement in the manner of traveling, that good fortune
had enabled him to make--that if she would so honor and delight him, he
should have her in the gig by his side for the whole journey. He was so
happy, so very happy in the thought, he said.

"And so am I, dearest Thurston! very, very happy in the idea of being
with you. Thank God!" said the warm-hearted girl, offering her hand,
which he took and covered with kisses.

Thurston's good fortune was not over. His star was still in the
ascendant, for after the morning service, while the congregation were
leaving the church, he saw Mrs. Waugh beckon him to her side. He quickly
obeyed the summons. And then, the lady said:

"I may not see you again soon, Thurston, and, therefore, I tell you
now--that if you intend to join our party to Washington, you must make
all your arrangements to come ever to Locust Hill on Tuesday evening,
and spend the night with us; as we start at a very early hour on
Wednesday morning, and should not like to be kept waiting. My Hebe is
also coming on Tuesday evening, to stay all night. Now, not a word,
Thurston, I know what dilatory folks young people are. And I know very
well that if I don't make sure of you on Tuesday evening, you will keep
us a full hour beyond our time on Wednesday morning--you know you will."

Thurston was secretly delighted. To spend the evening with Marian! to
spend the night under the same roof with her--preparatory to their
social journey in the morning. Thurston began to think that he was born
under a lucky planet. He laughingly assured Mrs. Waugh that he had not
the slightest intention or wish to dispute her commands, and that on
Tuesday evening he should present himself punctually at the supper-table
at Locust Hill. He further informed her that as his grandfather had most
arbitrarily forced upon him the use of his new gig, he should bring it,
and offer Miss Mayfield a seat.

It was now Mrs. Waugh's turn to be delighted, and to declare that she
was very glad--that it would be so much easier and pleasanter to her
Hebe, than the cold, exposed, and fatiguing equestrian manner of
traveling. "But mind, young gentleman, you are not to make love to my
Hebe! for we all think her far too good for mortal man!" laughed Mrs.
Waugh.

Thurston gravely promised that he would not--if he could help it. And
so, with mutual good feeling, they shook hands and separated.

On Monday evening, at his farewell lecture, Thurston met Marian again,
and joyfully announced to her the invitation that Mrs. Waugh had
extended to him. And the maiden's delightful smile assured him of her
full sympathy with his gladness.

And on Tuesday evening, the whole party for Washington was assembled
around the tea-table at Locust Hill. The evening passed very cheerily.
The commodore, Mrs. Waugh, Marian and Thurston, were all in excellent
spirits. And Thurston, out of pure good nature, sought to cheer and
enliven the pretty, peevish bride, Jacquelina, who, out of caprice,
affected a pleasure in his attentions that she was very far from
feeling. This gave so much umbrage to Dr. Grimshaw that Mrs. Waugh
really feared some unpleasant demonstration from the grim bridegroom,
and seized the first quiet opportunity of saying to the young gentleman:

"Do, Thurston, leave Lapwing alone! Don't you see that that maniac is as
jealous as a Turk?"

"Oh! he is!" thought Thurston, benevolently. "Very well! in that case
his jealousy shall not starve for want of ailment;" and he devoted
himself to the capricious bride with more _impressement_ than
before--consoling himself for his discreet neglect of Marian by
reflecting on the blessed morrow that should place her at his side for
the whole day.

And so the evening passed; and at an early hour the party separated to
get a good long night's rest, preparatory to their early start in the
morning.

But Thurston, for one, was too happy to sleep for some time; too happy
in the novel blessedness of resting under the same roof with his own
beautiful and dearest Marian.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE BRIDE OF AN HOUR.


It was a clear, cold, sharp, invigorating winter morning. The snow was
crusted over with hoar frost, and the bare forest trees were hung with
icicles. The cunning fox, the 'possum and the 'coon, crept shivering
from their dens; but the shy, gray rabbit, and the tiny, brown
wood-mouse, still nestled in their holes. And none of nature's small
children ventured from their nests, save the hardy and courageous little
snow-birds that came to seek their food even at the very threshold of
their natural enemy--man.

The approaching sun had scarcely as yet reddened the eastern horizon, or
flushed the snow, when at Locust Hill our travelers assembled in the
dining-room, to partake of their last meal previous to setting forth.

Commodore Waugh, and Mrs. L'Oiseau, who were fated to remain at home and
keep house, were also there to see the travelers off.

The fine, vitalizing air of the winter morning, the cheerful bustle
preparatory to their departure, the novelty of the breakfast eaten by
candle-light, all combined to raise and exhilarate the spirits of the
party.

After the merry, hasty meal was over, Mrs. Waugh, in her voluminous
cloth cloak, fur tippet, muff, and wadded hood; Jacquelina, enveloped in
several fine, soft shawls, and wearing a warm, chinchilla bonnet; and
Dr. Grimshaw, in his dreadnaught overcoat and cloak, and long-eared fur
cap, all entered the large family carriage, where, with the additional
provision of foot-stoves and hot bricks, they had every prospect of a
comfortable mode of conveyance.

Old Oliver, in his many-caped drab overcoat, and fox-skin cap and
gloves, sat upon the coachman's box with the proud air of a king upon
his throne. And why not? It was Oliver's very first visit to the city,
and the suit of clothes he wore was brand new!

Thurston's new gig was furnished with two fine buffalo robes--one laid
down on the seats and the floor as a carpet, and the other laid over as
a coverlet. His forethought had also provided a foot-stove for Marian.
And never was a happier man than he when he handed his smiling companion
into the gig, settled her comfortably in her seat, placed the foot-stove
under her feet, sprang in and seated himself beside her, tucked the
buffalo robe carefully in, and took the reins, and waited the signal to
move on.

Melchisedek, or as he was commonly called, Cheesy, mounted upon Marian's
pony, rode on in advance, to open the gates for the party. Mrs. Waugh's
carriage followed. And Thurston's gig brought up the rear. And thus the
travelers set forth.

The sun had now risen in cloudless splendor, and was striking long lines
of crimson light across the snow, and piercing through the forest
aisles. Flocks of saucy little snow-birds alighted fearlessly in their
path; but the cunning little gray rabbits just peeped with their round,
bright eyes, and then quickly hopped away.

I need not describe their merry journey at length. My readers will
readily imagine how delightful was the trip to at least two of the
party. And those two were not Dr. Grimshaw and Jacquelina.

Thurston pleaded so hard for a private marriage when they got to
Washington that at last Marian consented.

So one day they drove out to the Navy Yard Hill, and there in the
remotest and quietest suburb of the city, in a little Methodist chapel,
without witnesses, Thurston and Marian were married.

Thurston and Marian found an opportunity to be alone in the drawing-room
for the few moments preceding his departure. In those last moments she
could not find it in her heart to withhold one word whose utterance
would cheer his soul, and give him hope and joy and confidence in
departing. Marian had naturally a fine, healthful, high-toned
organization--a happy, hopeful, joyous temperament, an inclination
always to look upon the sunny side of life and events. And so, when he
drew her gently and tenderly to his bosom, and whispered:

"You have made me the happiest and most grateful man on earth, dear,
lovely Marian! dear, lovely wife! but are you satisfied, beloved--oh!
are you satisfied? Do I leave you at ease?"

She spoke the very truth when she confessed to him--her head being on
his shoulder, and her low tones flowing softly to his listening ear:

"More than satisfied, Thurston--more than satisfied, I am inexpressibly
happy now. Yes, though you are going away; for, see! the pain of parting
for a few months, is lost in the joy of knowing that we are united,
though separated--and in anticipating the time not long hence, when we
shall meet again. God bless you, dearest Thurston."

"God forever bless and love you, sweet wife." And so they parted.




CHAPTER XVII.

SPRING AND LOVE.


It was late in February before the party reached home. Thurston's
business finished he also hastened back and sought out Marian. One
memorable episode must be related. Thurston had met Marian not many
yards down the lonely forest foot-path, leading from the village school
to Old Fields one evening.

After a walk of about a quarter of a mile through the bushes they
descended by the natural staircase of moss-covered rocks, and sat down
together upon a bed of violets at its foot.

Before them, through the canopy of over-arching trees, was seen, like a
picture in its frame of foliage, a fine view of the open country and the
bay now bathed in purple haze of evening.

But the fairest prospect that ever opened had no more attraction for
Thurston than if it had been a view of chimney tops from a back attic
window. He passed his right hand around Marian's shoulders, and drew her
closer to his side, and with the other hand began to untie her bonnet
strings.

"Lay off this little bonnet. Let me see your beauteous head uncovered.
There!" he said, putting it aside, and smoothing her bright locks. "Oh,
Marian! my love! my queen! when I see only the top of your head, I think
your rippling, sunny tresses your chief beauty; but soon my eyes fall to
the blooming cheek--there never was such a cheek--so vivid, yet so
delicate, so glowing, yet so cool and fresh--like the damask rose bathed
in morning dew--so when I gaze on it I think the blushing cheek your
sweetest charm--ah! but near by breathe the rich, ripe lips, fragrant as
nectarines; and which I should swear to be the very buds of love, were
not my gaze caught up to meet your eyes--stars!--and then I know that I
have found the very soul of beauty! Oh! priceless pearl! By what rare
fortune was it that I ever found you in these Maryland woods? Love!
Angel! Marian! for that means all!" he exclaimed, in a sort of ecstasy,
straining her to his side.

And Marian dropped her blushing face upon his shoulder--she was blushing
not from bashful love alone--with it mingled a feeling of shame, regret,
and mistrust, because he praised so much her form and face; because he
seemed to love her only for her superficial good looks. She would have
spoken if she could have done so; she would have told what was on her
heart as earnest as a prayer by saying:

"Oh, do not think so much of this perishable, outward beauty; accident
may ruin it, sickness may injure it, time will certainly impair it. Do
not love me for that which I have no power over, and which may be taken
from me at any time--which I shall be sure to lose at last--love me for
something better and more lasting than that. I have a heart in this
bosom worth all the rest, a heart that in itself is an inner world--a
kingdom worthy of your rule--a heart that neither time, fortune, nor
casualty can ever change--a heart that loves you now in your strong and
beautiful youth, and will love you when you are old and gray, and when
you are one of the redeemed of heaven. Love me for this heart."

But to have saved her own soul or his, Marian could not then have spoken
those words.

So he continued to caress her--every moment growing more and more
enchanted with her loveliness. There was more of passion than affection
in his manner, and Marian felt and regretted this, though her feeling
was not a very clearly defined one--it was rather an instinct than a
thought, and it was latent, and quite subservient to her love for him.

"Love! angel! how enchanting you are," he exclaimed, catching her in his
arms and pressing kisses on her cheek and lips and neck.

Glowing with color, Marian strove to release herself. "Let me go--let us
leave this place, dear Thurston," she pleaded, attempting to rise.

"Why? Why are you in such a hurry? Why do you wish to leave me?" he
asked, without releasing his hold.

"It is late! Dear Thurston, it is late," she said, in vague alarm.

"That does not matter--I am with you."

"They will be anxious about me, pray let us go! They will be so
anxious!" she said, with increasing distress, trying to get away.
"Thurston! Thurston! You distress me beyond measure," she exclaimed in
great trouble.

But he stopped her breath with kisses.

Marian suddenly ceased to struggle, and by a strong effort of will she
became perfectly calm. And looking in his eyes, with her clear, steady
gaze, she said:

"Thurston, I have ceased to strive. But if you are a man of honor, you
will release me."

His arms dropped from around her as if he had been struck dead.

Glad to be free, Marian arose to depart. Thurston sat still--his fine
countenance overclouded with mortification and anger. Marian hesitated;
she knew not how to proceed. He did not offer to rise and attend her. At
length she spoke.

"Will you see me safely through the woods, Thurston?"

He did not answer.

"Thurston, it is nearly dark--there are several runaway negroes in the
forest now, and the road will not be safe for me."

"Good-night, then," she said.

"Good-night, Marian."

She turned away and ascended the steps with her heart filled nearly to
bursting with grief, indignation and fear. That he should let her take
that long, dark, dangerous walk alone! it was incredible! she could
scarcely realize it, or believe it! Her unusually excited feelings lent
wings to her feet, and she walked swiftly for about a quarter of a mile,
and then was forced to pause and take breath. And then every feeling of
indignation and fear was lost in that of sorrow, that she had wounded
his feelings, and left him in anger. And Marian dropped her face into
her open hands and wept. A step breaking through the brushwood made her
start and tremble. She raised her head with the attitude of one prepared
for a spring and flight. It was so dark she could scarcely see her hands
before her, but as the step approached, a voice said:

"Fear nothing, Marian, I have not lost sight of you since you left me,"
and Thurston came up to her side.

With a glad smile of surprise Marian turned to greet him, holding out
her hand, expecting him to draw it through his arm and lead her on. But
no, he would not touch her hand. Lifting his hat slightly, he said:

"Go forward if you please to do so, Marian. I attend you."

Marian went on, and he followed closely. They proceeded in silence for
some time. Now that she knew that he had not left her a moment alone in
the woods, she felt more deeply grieved at having so mortified and
offended him. At last she spoke:

"Pray, do not be angry with me, dear Thurston."

"I am not angry that I know of, fair one; and you do me too much honor
to care about my mood. Understand me once for all. I am not a Dr.
Grimshaw, in any phase of that gentleman's character. I am neither the
tyrant who will persecute you to exact your attention, nor yet the slave
who will follow and coax and whine and wheedle for your favor. In either
character I should despise myself too much," he answered, coolly.

"Thurston, you are deeply displeased, or you would not speak so, and I
am very, very sorry," said Marian in a tremulous voice.

"Do not distress yourself about me, fair saint! I shall trouble you no
more after this evening!"

What did he mean? What could Thurston mean? Trouble her no more after
this evening! She did not understand the words, but they went through
her bosom like a sword. She did not reply--she could not. She wished to
say:

"Oh, Thurston, if you could read my heart--how singly it is devoted to
you--how its thoughts by day, and dreams by night are filled with
histories and images of what I would be, and do or suffer for you--of
how faithfully I mean to love and serve you in all our coming years--you
would not mistake me, and get angry, because you would know my heart."
But these words Marian could not have uttered had her life depended on
it.

"Go on, Marian, the moor is no safer than the forest; I shall attend you
across it."

And they went on until the light from Old Field Cottage was visible.
Then Marian said:

"You had better leave me now. They are sitting up and watching for me."

"No! go on, the night is very dark. I must see you to the gate."

They walked rapidly, and just as they approached the house Marian saw a
little figure wandering about on the moor, and which suddenly sprang
toward her with an articulate cry of joy! It was Miriam, who threw
herself upon Marian with such earnestness of welcome that she did not
notice Thurston, who now raised his hat slightly from his head, with a
slight nod, and walked rapidly away.

"Here she is, mother! Oh! here she is!" cried Miriam, pulling at
Marian's dress and drawing her in the house.

"Oh! Marian, how anxious you have made us! Where have you been?" asked
Edith, in a tone half of love, half of vexation.

"I have been detained," said Marian, in a low voice.

The cottage room was very inviting. The evening was just chilly enough
to make the bright little wood fire agreeable. On the clean hearth
before it sat the tea-pot and a covered plate of toast waiting for
Marian. And old Jenny got up and sat out a little stand, covered it with
a white napkin, and put the tea and toast, with the addition of a piece
of cold chicken and a saucer of preserves, upon it. And Marian laid off
her straw bonnet and muslin scarf and sat down and tried to eat, for
affectionate eyes had already noticed the trouble of her countenance,
and were watching her now with anxiety.

"You do not seem to have an appetite, dear; what is the matter?" asked
Edith.

"I am not very well," said Marian, rising and leaving the table, and
refraining with difficulty from bursting into tears.

"It's dat ar cussed infunnelly party at Lockemup--last Toosday!" said
Jenny, as she cleared away the tea service--"a-screwin' up tight in
cusseds an' ball-dresses! an' a-dancing all night till broad daylight!
'sides heavin' of ever so much unwholesome 'fectionery trash down her
t'roat--de constitution ob de United States hisself couldn't stan' sich!
much less a delicy young gall! I 'vises ov you, honey, to go to bed."

"Indeed, Marian, it was too much for you to lose your rest all night,
and then have to get up early to go to school. You should have had a
good sleep this morning. And then to be detained so late this evening.
Did you have to keep any of the girls in, or was it a visit from the
trustees that detained you?"

"Neither," said Marian, nervously, "but I think I must take Jenny's
advice and go to bed."




CHAPTER XVIII.

THAT NIGHT.


From that miserable night, Marian saw no more of Thurston, except
occasionally at church, when he came at irregular intervals, and
maintained the same coolness and distance of manner toward her, and with
matchless self-command, too, since often his heart yearned toward her
with almost irresistible force.

Cold and calm as was his exterior, he was suffering not less than
Marian; self-tossed with passion, the strong currents and
counter-currents of his soul whirled as a moral maelstrom, in which
both reason and conscience threatened to be engulfed.

And in these mental conflicts judgment and understanding were often
obscured and bewildered, and the very boundaries of right and wrong
lost.

His appreciation of Marian wavered with his moods.

When very angry he would mentally denounce her as a cold, prudent,
calculating woman, who had entrapped him into a secret marriage, and
having secured his hand, would now risk nothing for his love, and
himself as a weak, fond fool, the tool of the beautiful, proud diplomat,
whom it would be justifiable to circumvent, to defeat, and to humble in
some way.

At such times he felt a desire, amounting to a strong temptation, to
abduct her--to get her into his power, and make her feel that power. No
law could protect her or punish him--for they were married.

But here was the extreme point at which reaction generally commenced,
for Thurston could not contemplate himself in that character--playing
such a part, for an instant.

And then when a furtive glance would show him Marian's angel face,
fairer and paler and more pensive than ever before--a strong
counter-current of love and admiration approaching to worship, would set
in, and he would look upon her as a fair saint worthy of translation to
heaven, and upon himself as a designing but foiled conspirator, scarcely
one degree above the most atrocious villain. "Currents and
counter-currents" of stormy passion, where is the pilot that shall guide
the understanding safely through them? It is no wonder, that once in a
while, a mind is wrecked.

Marian, sitting in her pew, saw nothing in his face or manner to
indicate that inward storm. She only saw the sullen, freezing exterior.
Even in his softened moods of penitence, Thurston dared not seek her
society.

For Marian had begun to recover from the first abject prostration of her
sorrow, and her fair, resolute brow and sad, firm lips mutely assured
him that she never would consent to be his own until their marriage
could be proclaimed.

And he durst not trust himself in her tempting presence, lest there
should be a renewal of those humiliating scenes he had endured.

Thus passing a greater portion of the summer; during which Thurston
gradually dropped off from the church, and from all other haunts where
he was likely to encounter Marian, and as gradually began to frequent
the Catholic chapel, and to visit Luckenough, and to throw himself as
much as possible into the distracting company of the pretty elf
Jacquelina. But this--while it threw Dr. Grimshaw almost into frenzy,
did not help Thurston to forget the good and beautiful Marian. Indeed,
by contrast, it seemed to make her more excellent and lovely.

And thus, while Jacquelina fancied she had a new admirer, Dr. Grimshaw
feared that he had a new rival, and the holy fathers hoped they had a
new convert--Thurston laughed at the vanity of the elf, the jealousy of
the Ogre, and the gullibility of the priests--and sought only escape
from the haunting memory of Marian, and found it not. And finally, bored
and ennuied beyond endurance, he cast about for a plan by which to
hasten his union with Marian. Perhaps it was only that neighborhood she
was afraid of, he thought--perhaps in some other place she would be less
scrupulous. Satan had no sooner whispered this thought to Thurston's ear
than he conceived the design of spending the ensuing autumn in Paris--and
of making Marian his companion while there. Fired with this new idea and
this new hope, he sat down and wrote her a few lines--without address or
signature--as follows:

"Dearest, forgive all the past. I was mad and blind. I have a plan to
secure at once our happiness. Meet me in the Mossy dell this evening,
and let me explain it at your feet."

Having written this note, Thurston scarcely knew how to get it at once
into Marian's hands. To put it into the village post-office was to
expose it to the prying eyes of Miss Nancy Skamp. To send it to Old
Fields, by a messenger, was still more hazardous. To slip it into
Marian's own hand, he would have to wait the whole week until
Sunday--and then might not be able to do so unobserved.

Finally, after much thought, he determined, without admitting the elf
into his full confidence, to entrust the delivery of the note to
Jacquelina.

He therefore copied it into the smallest space, rolled it up tightly,
and took it with him when he went to Luckenough.

He spent the whole afternoon at the mansion house, without having an
opportunity to slip it into the hands of Jacquelina.

It is true that Mrs. Waugh was not present, that good woman being in the
back parlor, sitting at one end of the sofa and making a pillow of her
lap for the commodore's head, which she combed soporifically, while,
stretched at full length, he took his afternoon nap. But Mary L'Oiseau
was there, quietly knotting a toilet cover, and Professor Grimshaw was
there, scowling behind a book that he was pretending to read, and losing
no word or look or tone or gesture of Thurston or Jacquelina, who talked
and laughed and flirted and jested, as if there was no one else in the
world but themselves.

At last a little negro appeared at the door to summon Mrs. L'Oiseau to
give out supper, and Mary arose and left the room.

The professor scowled at Jacquelina from the top of his book for a
little while, and then, muttering an excuse, got up and went out and
left them alone together.

That was a very common trick of the doctor's lately, and no one could
imagine why he did it.

"It is a ruse, a trap, the grim idiot! to see what we will say to each
other behind his back. Oh, I'd dose him! I just wish Thurston would kiss
me! I do so!" thought Jacquelina. "Thurston," and the elf leaned toward
her companion, and began to be as bewitching as she knew how.

But Thurston was not thinking of Jacquelina's mischief, though without
intending it he played directly into her hands.

Rising he took his hat, and saying that his witching little cousin had
beguiled him into breaking one engagement already, advanced to take
leave of her.

"Jacquelina." he said, lowering his voice, and slipping the note for
Marian into her hand, "may I ask you to deliver this to Miss Mayfield,
when no one is by?"

A look of surprise and perplexity, followed by a nod of intelligence,
was her answer.

And Thurston, with a grateful smile, raised her hand to his lips, took
leave and departed.

"I wonder what it is all about? I could easily untwist and seal it, but
I would not do so for a kingdom!" said Jacko to herself as she turned
the tiny note about in her fingers.

"Hand me that note, madam!" said Dr. Grimshaw, in curt and husky tones,
as, with stern brow, he stood before her.

"No, sir! it was not intended for you," she said, mockingly.

"By the demons, I know that! Hand it here!"

"Don't swear nor get angry! Both are unbecoming professor!" said the
elf, with mocking gravity.

"Perdition! will you give it up?" stamped the doctor, in fury.

"'Perdition,' no;" mocked the fairy.

"Hand it here, I command you, madam!" cried the professor, trying to
compose himself and recover his dignity.

"Command away--I like to hear you. Command a regiment, if you like!"
said the elf.

"Give it up!" thundered the professor, losing his slight hold upon
self-control.

"Couldn't do it, sir," said Jacko, gravely.

"It is an appointment, you impudent ----! Hand it here."

"Not as you know of!" laughed Jacko, tauntingly shaking it over her
head.

He made a rush to catch it.

She sprang nimbly away, and clapped the paper into her mouth.

He overtook and caught her by the arm, and shaking her roughly,
exclaimed, under his breath:

"Where is it? What have you done with it? You exasperating, unprincipled
little wretch, where is it?"

"'Echo anfers fere?'" mumbled the imp, chewing up the paper, and keeping
her lips tight.

"Give it me! give it me! or I'll be the death of you, you diabolical
little ----!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, shaking her as if he would have
shaken her breath out.

But Jacko had finished chewing up the paper, and she swallowed the pulp
with an effort that nearly choked her, and then opening her mouth, and
inflating her chest, gave voice in a succession of piercing shrieks,
that brought the whole family rushing into the room, and obliged the
professor to relax his hold, and stand like a detected culprit.

For there was the commodore roused up from his sleep, with his gray hair
and beard standing out all ways, like the picture of the sun in an
almanac. And there was Mrs. Waugh, with the great-tooth comb in her
hand. And Mary L'Osieau, with the pantry keys. And the maid, Maria, with
the wooden tray of flour on her head. And Festus, with a bag of meal in
his hands. And all with their eyes and ears and mouths agape with
amazement and inquiry.

"In the fiend's name, what's the matter? What the d----l's broke loose?
Is the house on fire again?" vociferated the commodore, seeing that no
one else spoke; "what's all this about, Nace Grimshaw?"

"Ask your pretty niece, sir!" said the professor, sternly, turning away.

"Oh, it's you, is it, you little termagant you? Oh, you're a
honey-cooler. What have you been doing now, Imp?" cried the old man,
turning fiercely to Jacquelina. "Answer me, you little vixen!--what does
all this mean?"

"Better ask 'the gentlemanly professor' why he seized and nearly shook
the head off my shoulders and the breath out of my bosom!" said
Jacquelina, half-crying, half-laughing.

The commodore turned furiously toward Grim. Shaking a woman's head off
her shoulders, and breath out of her body, in his house, did not suit
his ideas of gallantry at all, rough as he was.

"By heaven! are you mad, sir? What have you been doing? I never laid the
weight of my hand on Jacquelina in all my life, wild as she has driven
me at times. Explain your brutality, sir."

"It was to force from her hand a paper which she has swallowed," said
Dr. Grimshaw, with stern coldness regarding the group.

"Swallowed! swallowed!" shrieked Mrs. Waugh, rushing toward Jacquelina,
and seizing one of her arms, and gazing in her face, thinking only of
poisons and of Jacko's frequent threats of suicide. "Swallowed!
swallowed! Where did she get it? Who procured it for her? What was it?
Oh, run for the doctor, somebody. What are you all standing like you
were thunderstruck for? Dr. Grimshaw, start a boy on horseback
immediately for a physician. Tell him to tell the doctor to bring a
stomach pump with him. You had better go yourself. Oh, hasten; not a
single moment is to be lost. Jacquelina, my dear, do you begin to feel
sick? Do you feel a burning in your throat and stomach? Oh, my dear
child! how came you to do such a rash act?"

Jacko broke into a loud laugh.

"Oh! crazy! crazy! it is something that affects her brain she has taken.
Oh! Dr. Grimshaw, how can you have the heart to stand there and not go?
Probably opium."

Jacko laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks--never, since her
marriage, had Jacko laughed so much.

"Oh, Dr. Grimshaw! Don't you see she is getting worse and worse. How can
you have the heart to stand there and not go for a physician?" said Mrs.
Waugh, while Mary L'Oiseau looked on, mute with terror, and the
commodore stood with his fat eyes protruding nearly to bursting.

"Go, oh, go, Dr. Grimshaw!" insisted Mrs. Waugh.

"I assure you it is not necessary, madam," said the professor, with
stern scorn.

"There is no danger, aunty. I haven't taken any poison since I took a
dose of Grim before the altar!" said Jacko, through her tears and
laughter.

"What have you taken, then, unfortunate child?"

"I have swallowed an assignation," said the elf, as grave as a judge.

"A what?" exclaimed all, in a breath,

"An assignation," repeated Jacko, with owl-like calmness and solemnity.

"What in the name of common sense do you mean, my dear?" inquired Mrs.
Waugh, while the commodore and Mary L'Oiseau looked the astonishment
they did not speak. "Pray explain yourself, my love."

"He--says--I--swallowed--an--assignation--whole!" repeated Jacquelina,
with distinct emphasis. Her auditors looked from one to another in
perplexity.

"I see that I shall have to explain the disagreeable affair," said the
professor, coming forward, and addressing himself to the commodore. "Mr.
Thurston Willcoxen was here this afternoon on a visit to your niece,
sir. In taking leave he slipped into her hand a small note, which, when
I demanded, she refused to let me see."

"And very properly, too. What right had you to make such a 'demand?'"
said Mrs. Waugh, indignantly.

"I was not addressing my remarks to you, madam," retorted the professor.

"That will not keep me from making a running commentary upon them,
however," responded the lady.

"Hold your tongue, Henrietta. Go on, Nace. I swear you are enough to
drive a peaceable man mad between you," said the commodore, bringing his
stick down emphatically. "Well what next?"

"On my attempting to take it from her she put it in her mouth and
swallowed it."

"Yes! and then he seized me and shook me, as if I had been a
fine-bearing little plum tree in harvest time."

"And served you right, I begin to think, you little limb, you. What was
it you had, you little hussy?"

"An assignation, he says, and he ought to know--being a professor."

"Don't mock us, Minx! Tell us instantly what were the contents of that
note?"

"As if I would tell you even if I could. But I couldn't tell you even if
I would. Haven't the least idea what sort of a note it was, from a note
of music to a 'note of hand,' because I had to swallow it as I swallowed
the Ogre at the church--without looking at it. And it is just as
indigestible! I feel it like a bullet in my throat yet!" And that was
all the satisfaction they could get out of Jacko.

"I should not wonder if you had been making a fool of yourself, Nace,"
said the commodore, who seemed inclined to blow up both parties.

"I hope, sir," said the professor, with great assumption of dignity,
"that you now see the necessity of forbidding that impertinent young
coxcomb the house."

"Shall do nothing of the sort, Grim. Thurston has no more idea of
falling in love with little Jacko than he has with her mother or
Henrietta, not a bit more." And then the commodore happening to turn his
attention to the two gaping negroes, with a flourish of his stick sent
them about their business, and left the room.

The next evening Thurston repaired to the mossy dell in the expectation
of seeing Marian, who, of course, did not make her appearance.

The morning after, filled with disappointment and mortifying conjecture
as to the cause of her non-appearance, Thurston presented himself before
Jacquelina at Luckenough. He happened to find her alone. With all her
playfulness of character, the poor fairy had too much self-respect to
relate the scene to which she had been exposed the day before. So she
contented herself with saying:

"I found no opportunity of delivering your note, Thurston, and so I
thought it best to destroy it."

"I thank you. Under the circumstances that was best," replied the young
man, much relieved. When he reached home, he sat down and wrote a long
and eloquent epistle, imploring Marian's forgiveness for his rashness
and folly, assuring her of his continued love and admiration; speaking
of the impossibility of living longer without her society--informing her
of his intention to go to Paris, and proposing that she should either
precede or follow him thither, and join him in that city. It was her
duty, he urged, to follow her husband.

The following Sunday, after church, Marian placed her answer in his
hands. The letter was characteristic of her--clear, firm, frank and
truthful. It concluded thus:

"Were I to do as you desire me--leave home clandestinely, precede or
follow you to Paris and join you there, suspicion and calumny would
pursue me--obloquy would rest upon my memory. All these things I could
bear, were it necessary in a good cause; but here it is not necessary,
and would be wrong. But I speak not of myself--I ought not, indeed, to
do so--nor of Edith, whose head would be bowed in humiliation and
sorrow--nor of little Miriam, whose passionate heart would be half
broken by such a desertion. But I speak for the cause of morality and
religion here in this neighborhood, where we find ourselves placed by
heaven, and where we must exercise much influence for good or evil. Wait
patiently for those happy years, that the flying days are speeding on
toward us--those happy years, when you shall look back to this trying
time, and thank God for trials and temptations passed safely through. Do
not urge me again upon this subject. Be excellent, Thurston, be noble,
be god-like, as you can be, if you will; it is in you. Be true to your
highest ideal, and you will be all these. Oh! if you knew how your
Marian's heart craves to bow itself before true god-like excellence!"




CHAPTER XIX.

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.


"No! The mail isn't come yet! leastways it isn't opened yet! Fan that
fire, you little black imp, you! and make that kittle bile; if you
don't, I shall never git this wafer soft! and then I'll turn you up, and
give you sich a switching as ye never had in your born days! for I won't
be trampled on by you any longer! you little black willyan, you! 'Scat!
you hussy! get out o' my way, before I twist your neck for you!"

The first part of this oration was delivered by Miss Nancy Skamp, to
some half-dozen negro grooms who were cooling their shins while waiting
for the mail, before she closed the doors and windows of the
post-office; the second part was addressed to Chizzle, her little negro
waiter--and the third concluding sentence, emphasized by a smart kick,
was bestowed upon poor Molly, the mottled cat. The village post-office
was kept in the lower front room of the little lonely house on the hill,
occupied by the solitary spinster.

The mail-bags were stuffed remarkably full, and there were several
wonderful letters, that she felt it her duty to open and read before
sending to their owners.

"Let's see," said the worthy postmistress, as she sorted the letters in
her hand. "What's this? oh! a double letter for Colonel Thornton--pshaw!
that's all about political stuff! Who cares about reading that? I don't!
He may have it to-night if he wants it! Stop! what's this? Lors! it's a
thribble letter for--for Marian Mayfield! And from furrin parts, too!
Now I wonder--(Can't you stop that caterwauling out there?" she said,
raising her voice. "Sposen you niggers were to wait till I open the
office. I reckon you'd get your letters just as soon.) Who can be
writing from furrin parts to Marian Mayfield? Ah! I'll keep this and
read it before Miss Marian gets it."

When Miss Nancy had closed up for the night she took out the letter
directed to Marian, opened, and began to read it. And as she read her
eyes and mouth grew wider and wider with astonishment, and her wonder
broke forth in frequent exclamations of: "M--y conscience! Well now!
Who'd a dreamt of it! Pity but I'd a let Solomon court her when he
wanted to--but Lors! how did I ever know that she'd--M--y conscience!"
etc., etc.

Her fit of abstraction was at last broken by a smart rap at the door.

She started and turned pale, like the guilty creature that she was.

The rap was repeated sharply.

She jumped up, hustled the purloined letters and papers out of sight,
and stood waiting.

The rap was reiterated loudly and authoritatively.

"Who's that?" she asked, trembling violently.

"It's me, Aunt Nancy! Do for goodness' sake don't keep a fellow out here
in the storm till he's nearly perished. It's coming on to hail and snow
like the last judgment!"

"Oh! it's you, is it, Sol? I didn't know but what it was--Do, for
mercy's sake don't be talking about the last judgment, and such awful
things--I declare to man, you put me all of a trimble," said Miss Nancy,
by way of accounting for her palpitations, as she unbarred the door, and
admitted her learned nephew. Dr. Solomon Weismann seemed dreadfully
downhearted as he entered. He slowly stamped the snow from his boots,
shook it off his clothes, took off his hat and his overcoat, and hung
them up, and spoke--never a word! Then he drew his chair right up in
front of the fire, placed a foot on each andiron, stooped over, spread
his palms over the kindly blaze, and still spoke--never a word!

"Well! I'd like to know what's the matter with you to-night," said Miss
Nancy, as she went about the room looking for her knitting.

But the doctor stared silently at the fire.

"It's the latest improvement in politeness--I shouldn't wonder--not to
answer your elders when they speak to you."

"Were you saying anything to me, Aunt Nancy?"

"'Was I saying anything to you, Aunt Nancy?' Yes I was! I was asking you
what's the matter?"

"Oh! I never was so dreadfully low-spirited in my life, Aunt Nancy."

"And what should a young man like you have to make him feel
low-spirited, I should like to know? Moping about Marian, I shouldn't
wonder. The girl is a good girl enough, if she'd only mind her own
business, and not let people spoil her. And if you do like her, and must
have her, why I shan't make no further objections."

Here the young doctor turned shortly around and stared at his aunt in
astonishment!

"Hem!" said Miss Nancy, looking confused, "well, yes, I did oppose it
once, certainly, but that was because you were both poor."

"And we are both poor still, for aught that I can see, and likely to
continue so."

"Hish-ish! no you're not! leastways, she's not. I've got something very
strange to tell you," said Miss Nancy, mysteriously drawing her chair up
close to her nephew, and putting her lips to his ear, and
whispering--"Hish-ish!"

"'Hish-ish!' What are you 'hish-ish'ing for, Aunt Nancy, I'm not saying
anything, and your breath spins into a fellow's ear enough to give him
an ear-ache!" said Dr. Solomon, jerking his head away.

"Now then listen--Marian Mayfield has got a fortune left to her."

Miss Nancy paused to see the effect of this startling piece of news upon
her companion.

But the doctor was not sulky, and upon his guard; so after an
involuntary slight start, he remained perfectly still. Miss Nancy was
disappointed by the calm way in which he took this marvelous revelation.
However, she went on to say:

"Yes! a fortune left her, by a grand-uncle, a bachelor, who died
intestate in Wiltshire, England. Now, what do you think of that!"

"Why, I think if she wouldn't have me when she was poor, she won't be
apt to do it now she's rich."

"Ah! but you see, she don't know a word of it!"

"How do you know it, then?"

"Hish-ish! I'll tell you if you will never tell. Oh, Lord, no, you
mustn't indeed! You wouldn't, I know, 'cause it would ruin us! Listen--"

"Now, Aunt Nancy, don't be letting me into any of your capital crimes
and hanging secrets--don't, because I don't want to hear them, and I
won't neither! I ain't used to such! and I'm afraid of them, too!"

"'Fraid o' what? Nobody can prove it," answered Miss Nancy, a little
incoherently.

"You know what better than I do, Aunt Nancy; and let me tell you, you'd
better be careful. The eyes of the community are upon you."

"Let 'em prove it! Let 'em prove it! They ain't got no witnesses!
Chizzle and the cat ain't no witnesses," said Miss Nancy, obscurely;
"let 'em do their worse! I reckon I know something about law as well as
they do! if I am a lone 'oman!"

"They can procure your removal from office without proving anything
against you except unpopularity."

"That's Commodore Waugh's plan! the ugly, wicked, old buggaboo! 'Tain't
such great shakes of an office neither, the dear knows!"

"Never mind, Aunt Nancy, mend your ways, and maybe they'll not disturb
you. And don't tell me any of your capital secrets, because I might be
summoned as a witness against you, which would not be so agreeable to my
feelings--yon understand! And now tell me, if you are absolutely certain
that Miss Mayfield has had that fortune left her. But stop! don't tell
me how you found it out!"

"Well, yes, I am certain--sure, she has a great fortune left her. I have
the positive proofs of it. And, moreover, nobody in this country don't
know it but myself--and you. And now I tell you, don't hint the matter
to a soul. Be spry! dress yourself up jam! and go a courting before
anybody else finds it out!"

"But that would scarcely be honorable either," demurred the doctor.

"You're mighty particular! Yes, it would, too! Jest you listen to me!
Now if so be we were to go and publish about Marian's fortune, we'd have
a whole herd of fortune hunters, who don't care a cent for anything but
fortune, running after and worrying the life out of her, and maybe one
of them marrying of her, and spending of her money, and bringing of her
to poverty, and breaking of her heart. Whereas, if we keep the secret of
the estate to ourselves, you, who desarve her, because you 'counted her
all the same when she was poor, and who'd take good care of her
property, and her, too--would have her all to yourself, and nobody to
interfere. Don't you see?"

"Well, to be sure--when one looks at the thing in this light,"
deliberated the sorely-tempted lover.

"Of course! And that's the only light to look at it in! Don't you see?
Why, by gracious! it seems to me as if we were doing Marian the greatest
favor."




CHAPTER XX.

AS A LAST RESORT.


In the meantime Marian's heart was weighed down by a new cause of sorrow
and anxiety. Thurston never approached her now, either in person or by
letter. She never saw him, except at the church, the lecture-room, or in
mixed companies, where he kept himself aloof from her and devoted
himself to the beautiful and accomplished heiress Angelica Le Roy, to
whom rumor gave him as an accepted suitor.

So free was Marian's pure heart from jealousy or suspicion that these
attentions bestowed by Thurston, and these rumors circulated in the
neighborhood, gave her no uneasiness. For though she had, for herself,
discovered him to be passionate and impetuous, she believed him to be
sound in principle. But when again and again she saw them together, at
church, at lecture, at dinner parties, at evening dances; when at all
the Christmas and New Year festivities she saw her escorted by him; when
she saw him ever at her side with a devotion as earnest and ardent as it
was perfectly respectful; when she saw him bend and whisper to the
witching girl and hang delighted on her "low replies," her own
confidence was shaken. What could he mean? Was it possible that instead
of being merely impulsive and erring, he was deliberately wicked? No,
no, never! Yet, what could be his intentions? Did he really wish to win
Angelica's heart? Alas! whether he wished so or not, it was but too
evident to all that he had gained her preference. In her blushing cheek
and downcast eyes, and tremulous voice and embarrassed manner, when he
was present, in her abstracted mind, and restless air of wandering
glances when he was absent, the truth was but too clear.

Marian was far too practical to speculate when she should act. It was
clearly her duty to speak to Thurston on the subject, and, repugnant as
the task was, she resolved to perform it. It was some time before she
had the opportunity.

But at last, one afternoon in February, she chanced to meet Thurston on
the sea beach. After greeting him, she candidly opened the subject. She
spoke gently and delicately, but firmly and plainly--more so, perhaps,
than another woman in the same position would have done, for Marian was
eminently frank and fearless, especially where conscience was concerned.


And Thurston met her arguments with a graceful nonchalance, as seemingly
polite and good-humored as it was really ironical and insulting.

Marian gave him time--she was patient as firm--and firm as sorrowful.
And until every argument and persuasion had failed, she said:

"As a last resort, it may be necessary for me to warn Miss Le Roy--not
for my own sake. Were I alone involved, you know how much I would endure
rather than grieve you. But this young lady must not suffer wrong."

"You will write her an anonymous letter, possibly?"

"No--I never take an indirect road to an object."

"What, then, can you do, fair saint?"

"See Miss Le Roy, personally."

"Ha! ha! ha! What apology could you possibly make for such an
unwarrantable interference?"

"The Lord knoweth! I do not now. But I trust to be able to save her
without--revealing you."

"Do you imagine that vague warnings would have any effect upon her?"

"Coming from me they would."

"Heavens! What a self-worshiper! But selfishness is your normal state,
Marian! Self-love is your only affection--self-adulation your only
enthusiasm--self-worship your only religion! You do not desire to be
loved--you wish only to be honored! The love I offered you, you trampled
underfoot! You have no heart, you have only a brain! You cannot love,
you only think! Nor have you any need of love, but only of power!
Applause is your vital breath, your native air! To hear your name and
praise on every tongue--that is your highest ambition! Such a woman
should be a gorgon of ugliness that men might not waste their hearts'
wealth upon her!" exclaimed Thurston, bitterly, gazing with murky eyes,
that smoldered with suppressed passion, upon the beautiful girl before
him.

Marian was standing with her eyes fixed abstractedly upon a distant
sail. Now the tears swelled under the large white eyelids and hung
glittering on the level lashes, and her lip quivered and her voice
faltered slightly as she answered:

"You see me through a false medium, dear Thurston, but the time will
come when you will know me as I am."

"I fancy the time has come. It has also come for me to enlighten you a
little. And in the first place, fair queen of minds, if not of hearts,
let me assure you that there is a limit even to your almost universal
influence. And that limit may be found in Miss Le Roy. You, who know the
power of thought only, cannot weigh nor measure the power of love. Upon
Miss Le Roy your warnings would have no effect whatever. I tell you that
in the face of them (were I so disposed), I might lead that girl to the
altar to-morrow."

Marian was silent, not deeming an answer called for.

"And now, I ask you, how you could prevent it?"

"I shall not be required to prevent such an act, Thurston, as such a one
never can take place. You speak so only to try your Marian's faith or
temper--both are proof against jests, I think. Hitherto you have trifled
with the young lady's affections for mere _ennui_ and thoughtlessness, I
do believe! but, now that some of the evil consequences have been
suggested to your mind, you will abandon such perilous pastime. You are
going to France soon--that will be a favorable opportunity of breaking
off the acquaintance."

"And breaking her heart--who knows? But suppose now that I should prefer
to marry her and take her with me?"

"Nay, of course, I cannot for an instant suppose such a thing."

"But in spite of all your warnings, were such an event about to take
place?"

"In such an exigency I should divulge our marriage."

"You would?"

"Assuredly! How can you possibly doubt it? Such an event would abrogate
my obligations to silence, and would impose upon me the opposite duty of
speaking."

"I judged you would reason so," he said, bitterly.

"But, dear Thurston, of what are you talking? Of the event of your doing
an unprincipled act! Impossible, dear Thurston! and forever impossible!"

"And equally impossible, fair saint, that you should divulge our
marriage with any chance of proving it. Marian, the minister that
married us has sailed as a missionary to Farther India. And I only have
the certificate of our marriage. You cannot prove it."

"I shall not need to prove it, Thurston. Now that I have awakened your
thoughts, I know that you will not further risk the peace of that
confiding girl. Come! take my hand and let us return. We must hasten,
too, for there is rain in that cloud."

Thurston--piqued that he could not trouble her more--for under her calm
and unruffled face he could not see the bleeding heart--arose sullenly,
drew her hand within his arm and led her forth.

And as they went the wind arose, and the storm clouds drove over the sky
and lowered and darkened around them.

Marian urged him to walk fast on account of the approaching tempest, and
the anxiety the family at the cottage would feel upon her account.

They hurried onward, but just as they reached the neighborhood of Old
Fields a terrible storm of hail and snow burst upon the earth.

It was as much as they could do to make any progress forward, or even to
keep themselves upon their feet. While struggling and plunging blindly
through the storm, amid the rushing of the wind and the rattling of the
hail, and the crackling and creaking of the dry trees in the forest, and
the rush of waters, and all the din of the tempest, Marian's ear caught
the sound of a child wailing and sobbing. A pang shot through her heart.
She listened breathlessly--and then in the pauses of the storm she heard
a child crying, "Marian, Marian! Oh! where are you, Marian?"

It was Miriam's voice! It was Miriam wandering in night and storm in
search of her beloved nurse.

Marian dropped Thurston's arm and plunged blindly forward through the
snow, in the direction of the voice, crying, "Here I am, my darling, my
treasure--here I am. What brought my baby out this bitter night?" she
asked, as she found the child half perishing with cold and wet, and
caught and strained her to her bosom.

"Oh, the hail and snow came down so fast, and the wind shook the house
so hard, and I could not sleep in the warm bed while you were out in the
storm. So I stole softly down to find you. Don't go again, Marian. I
love you so--oh! I love you so!"

At this moment the child caught sight of Thurston standing with his face
half muffled in his cloak. A figure to be strangely recognized under
similar circumstances in after years. Then she did not know him, but
inquired:

"Who is that, Marian?"

"A friend, dear, who came home with me. Good-night, sir."

And so dismissing Thurston, he walked rapidly away. She hurried with
Miriam to the house.




CHAPTER XXI.

ONE OF SANS SOUCI'S TRICKS.


Sans Souci stood before the parlor mirror, gazing into it, seeing--not
the reflected image of her own elfish figure, or pretty, witching face,
with its round, polished forehead, its mocking eyes, its sunny, dancing
curls, its piquant little nose, or petulant little lips--but
contemplating, as through a magic glass, far down the vista of her
childhood--childhood scarcely past, yet in its strong contrast to the
present, seeming so distant, dim, and unreal, that her reminiscence of
its days resembled more a vague dream of a pre-existence, than a
rational recollection of a part of her actual life on earth. Poor Jacko
was wondering "If I be I?"

Grim sat in a leathern chair, at the farthest extremity of the room,
occupied with holding a book, but reading Jacquelina. Suddenly he broke
into her brown study by exclaiming:

"I should like to know what you are doing, and how long you intend to
remain standing before that glass."

"Oh, indeed! should you?" mocked Jacko, startled out of her reverie, yet
instantly remembering to be provoking.

"What were you doing, and--"

"Looking at myself in the glass, to be sure."

"Don't cut off my question, if you please. I was going on to inquire of
what you were thinking so profoundly. And madam, or miss--"

"Madam, if you please! the dear knows, I paid heavy enough for my new
dignity, and don't intend to abate one degree of it. So if you call me
miss again, I'll get some one who loves me to call you 'out!' Besides,
I'd have you to know, I'm very proud of it. Ain't you, too? Say, Grim!
ain't you a proud and happy man to be married?" asked Jacko, tauntingly.

"You jibe! You do so with a purpose. But it shall not avail you. I
demand to know the subject of your thoughts as you stood before that
mirror."

Now, none but a half madman like Grim would have gravely made such a
demand, or exposed himself to such a rebuff as it deserved. Jacko looked
at him quizzically.

"Hem!" she answered, demurely. "I'm sure I'm so awestricken, your
worship, that I can scarcely find the use of my tongue to obey your
reverence. I hope your excellency won't be offended with me. But I was
wondering in general, whether the Lord really did make all the people
upon earth, and in particular, whether He made you, and if so, for what
inscrutable reason He did it."

"You are an impertinent minion. But, by the saints, I will have an
answer to my question, and know what you were thinking of while gazing
in that mirror."

"Sorry the first explanation didn't please your eminence. But now,
'honor bright!' I'll tell you truly what I was thinking of. I was
thinking--thinking how excessively pretty I am. Now, tell the truth, and
shame the old gentleman. Did you ever, in all your life, see such a
beautiful, bewitching, tantalizing, ensnaring face as mine is?"

"I think I never saw such a fool!"

"Really? Then your holiness never looked at yourself in a mirror! never
beheld 'your natural face in a glass!' never saw 'what manner of man'
you are."

"By St. Peter! I will not be insulted, and dishonored, and defied in
this outrageous manner. I swear I will have your thoughts, if I have to
pluck them from your heart."

"Whe-ew! Well, if I didn't always think thought was free, may I never be
an interesting young widow, and captivate Thurston Willcoxen."

"You impudent, audacious, abandoned--"

"Ching a ring a ring chum choo! And a hio ring tum larky!"

sang the elf, dancing about, seizing the bellows and flourishing it over
her head like a tambourine, as she danced.

"Be still, you termagant. Be still, you lunatic, or I'll have you put in
a strait-jacket!" cried the exasperated professor.

"Poor fellow!" said Jacko, dropping the bellows and sidling up to him in
a wheedling, mock-sympathetic manner. "P-o-o-r f-e-l-l-o-w! don't get
excited and go into the highstrikes. You can't help it if you're ugly
and repulsive as Time in the Primer, any more than Thurston Willcoxen
can help being handsome and attractive as Magnus Apollo."

"It was of him, then, you were thinking, minion? I knew it! I knew it!"
exclaimed the professor, starting up, throwing down his book, and pacing
the floor.

"Bear it like a man!" said Jacko, with solemnity.

"You admit it, then. You--you--you--"

"'Unprincipled female.' There! I have helped you to the words. And now,
if you will be melo-dramatic, you should grip up your hair with both
hands, and stride up and down the floor and vociferate, 'Confusion!
distraction! perdition! or any other awful words you can think of.
That's the way they do it in the plays."

"Madam, your impertinence is growing beyond sufferance. I cannot endure
it."

"That's a mighty great pity, now, for you can't cure it."

"St. Mary! I will bear this no longer."

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to emigrate!"

"I'll commit suicide."

"That's you! Do! I should like very well to wear bombazine this cold
weather. Please do it at once, too, if you're going to, for I should
rather be out of deep mourning by midsummer!"

"By heaven, I will pay you for this."

"Any time at your convenience, Dr. Grimshaw! And I shall be ready to
give you a receipt in full upon the spot!" said the elf, rising.
"Anything else in my line this morning, Dr. Grimshaw? Give me a call
when you come my way! I shall be much obliged for your patronage," she
continued, curtseying and dancing off toward the door. "By the way, my
dear sir, there is a lecture to be delivered this evening by our gifted
young fellow-citizen, Mr. Thurston Willcoxen. Going to hear him? I am!
Good-day!" she said, and kissed her hand and vanished.

Grim was going crazy! Everybody said it, and what everybody says has
ever been universally received as indisputable testimony. Many people,
indeed, averred that Grim never had been quite right--that he always had
been queer, and that since his mad marriage with that flighty bit of a
child, Jacquelina, he had been queerer than ever.

He would have been glad to prevent Jacquelina from going to the lecture
upon the evening in question; but there was no reasonable excuse for
doing so. Everybody went to the lectures, which were very popular. Mrs.
Waugh made a point of being punctually present at every one. And she
took charge of Jacquelina, whenever the whim of the latter induced her
to go, which was as often as she secretly wished to "annoy Grim." And,
in fact, "to plague the Ogre" was her only motive in being present, for,
truth to tell, the elf cared very little either for the lecturer or his
subjects, and usually spent the whole evening in yawning behind her
pocket handkerchief. Upon this evening, however, the lecture fixed even
the flighty fancy of Jacquelina, as she sat upon the front seat between
Mrs. Waugh and Dr. Grimshaw.

Jacquelina was magnetized, and scarcely took her eyes from the speaker
during the whole of the discourse. Mrs. Waugh was also too much
interested to notice her companions. Grim was agonized. The result of
the whole of which was--that after they all got home, Dr. Grimshaw--to
use a common but graphic phrase--"put his foot down" upon the resolution
to prevent Jacquelina's future attendance at the lectures. Whether he
would have succeeded in keeping her away is very doubtful, had not a
remarkably inclement season of weather set in, and lasted a fortnight,
leaving the roads nearly impassable for two other weeks. And just as
traveling was getting to be possible, Thurston Willcoxen was called to
Baltimore, on his grandfather's business, and was absent a fortnight.
So, altogether, six weeks had passed without Jacquelina's finding an
opportunity to defy Dr. Grimshaw by attending the lectures against his
consent.

At the end of that time, on Sunday morning, it was announced in the
church that Mr. Willcoxen having returned to the county, would resume
his lectures on the Wednesday evening following. Dr. Grimshaw looked at
Jacquelina, to note how she would receive this news. Poor Jacko had been
under Marian's good influences for the week previous, and was, in her
fitful and uncertain way, "trying to be good." "As an experiment to
please you, Marian," she said, "and to see how it will answer." Poor
elf! So she called up no false, provoking smile of joy, to drive Grim
frantic, but heard the news of Thurston's arrival with the outward
calmness that was perfectly true to the perfect inward indifference.

"She has grown guarded--that is a very bad sign--I shall watch her
closer," muttered Grim behind his closed teeth. And when the professor
went home that day, his keen, pallid face was frightful to look upon.
And many were the comments made by the dispersing congregation.

From that Sunday to the following Wednesday, not one word was spoken of
Thurston Willcoxen or his lecture. But on Wednesday morning Dr. Grimshaw
entered the parlor, where Jacquelina lingered alone, gazing out of the
window, and going up to her side, astonished her beyond measure by
speaking in a calm, kind tone, and saying:

"Jacquelina, you have been too much confined to the house lately. You
are languid. You must go out more. Mr. Willcoxen lectures this evening.
Perhaps you would like to hear him. If so, I withdraw my former
prohibition, which was, perhaps, too harsh, and I beg you will follow
your own inclinations, if they lead you to go."

You should have seen Jacko's eyes and eyebrows! the former were dilated
to their utmost capacity, while the latter were elevated to their
highest altitude. The professor's eyebrows were knotted together, and
his eyes sought the ground, as he continued:

"I myself have an engagement at Leonardtown this afternoon, which will
detain me all night, and therefore shall not be able to escort you; but
Mrs. Waugh, who is going, will doubtless take you under her charge.
Would you like to go?"

"I had already intended to go," replied Jacquelina, without relaxing a
muscle of her face.

The professor nodded and left the room.

Soon after, Jacquelina sought her aunty, whom she found in the pantry,
mixing mince-meat.

"I say, aunty--"

"Well, Lapwing?"

"When Satan turns saint, suspicion is safe, is it not?"

"What do you mean, Lapwing?"

"Why, just now the professor came to me, politely apologized for his
late rudeness, and proposed that I should go with you to hear Mr.
Willcoxen's lecture, while he, the professor, goes to Leonardtown to
fulfill an engagement. I say, aunty, I sniff a plot, don't you?"

"I don't know what to make of it, Lapwing. Are you going?"

"Of course I am; I always intended to."

No more was said at the time.

Immediately after dinner Dr. Grimshaw ordered his horse, and saying that
he was going to Leonardtown and should not be back till the next day,
set forth.

And after an early tea, Mrs. Waugh and Jacquelina set out in the family
sleigh. A swift run over the hard, frozen snow brought them to Old
Fields, where they stopped a moment to pick up Marian, and then shooting
forward at the same rate of speed, they reached the lecture-room in full
time.

Jacquelina was perhaps the very least enchanted of all his hearers--she
was, in fact, an exception, and found the discourse so entirely
uninteresting that it was with difficulty she could refrain from yawning
in the face of the orator. Mrs. Waugh also, perhaps, was but half
mesmerized, for her eyes would cautiously wander from the lecturer's
pulpit to the side window on her right hand. At length she stooped and
whispered to Jacquelina:

"Child, be cautious; Dr. Grimshaw is on the ground--I have seen his face
rise up to that lower pane of glass at the corner of that window,
several times. He must be crouched down on the outside."

Jacquelina gave a little start of surprise--her face underwent many
phases of expression; she glanced furtively at the indicated window, and
there she saw a pale, wild face gleam for an instant against the glass,
and then drop. She nodded her head quickly, muttering:

"Oh, I'll pay him!"

"Don't child! don't do anything imprudent, for gracious' sake! That man
is crazy--any one can see he is!"

"Oh, aunty, I'll be sure to pay him! He shan't be in my debt much
longer. Soft, aunty! Don't look toward the window again! Don't let him
perceive that we see him or suspect him--and then, you'll see what
you'll see. I have a counter plot."

This last sentence was muttered to herself by Jacquelina, who thereupon
straightened herself up--looked the lecturer in the eyes--and gave her
undevoted attention to him during the rest of the evening. There was not
a more appreciating and admiring hearer in the room than Jacquelina
affected to be. Her face was radiant, her eyes starry, her cheeks
flushed, her pretty lips glowing breathlessly apart--her whole form
instinct with enthusiasm. Any one might have thought the little creature
bewitched. But the fascinating orator need not have flattered
himself--had he but known it--Jacquelina neither saw his face nor heard
his words; she was seeing pictures of Grim's bitter jealousy,
mortification and rage, as he beheld her from his covert; she was
rehearsing scenes of what she meant to do to him. And when at last she
forgot herself, and clapped her hand enthusiastically, it was not at the
glorious peroration of the orator--but at the perfection of her own
little plot!

When the lecturer had finished, and as usual announced the subject and
the time of the next lecture, Jacquelina, instead of rising with the
mass of the audience, showed a disposition to retain her seat.

"Come, my dear, I am going," said Mrs. Waugh.

"Wait, aunty, I don't like to go in a crowd."

Mrs. Waugh waited while the people pressed toward the outer doors.

"I wonder whether the professor will wait and join us when we return
home?" said Mrs. Waugh.

"We shall see," said Jacquelina. "I wish he may. I believe he will. I am
prepared for such an emergency."

In the meantime, Thurston Willcoxen had descended from the platform, and
was shaking hands right and left with the few people who had lingered to
speak to him. Then he approached Mrs. Waugh's party, bowed, and
afterward shook hands with each member of it, only retaining Marian's
hand the fraction of a minute longest, and giving it an earnest pressure
in relinquishing it. Then he inquired after the health of the family at
Luckenough, commented upon the weather, the state of the crops, etc.,
and with a valedictory bow withdrew, and followed the retreating crowd.

"I think we can also go now," said Mrs. Waugh.

"Yes," said Jacquelina, rising.

Upon reaching the outside, they found old Oliver, with the sleigh drawn
up to receive them. Jacquelina looked all around, to see if she could
discover Thurston Willcoxen on the grounds; and not seeing him anywhere,
she persuaded herself that he must have hastened home. But she saw Dr.
Grimshaw, recognized him, and at the same time could but notice the
strong resemblance in form and manner that he bore to Thurston
Willcoxen, when it was too dark to notice the striking difference in
complexion and expression. Dr. Grimshaw approached her, keeping his
cloak partially lifted to his face, as if to defend it from the wind,
but probably to conceal it. Then the evil spirit entered Jacquelina, and
tempted her to sidle cautiously up to the professor, slip her arm
through his arm, and whisper:

"Thurston! Come! Jump in the sleigh and go home with us. We shall have
such a nice time! Old Grim has gone to Leonardtown, and won't be home
till to-morrow!"

"Has he, minion? By St. Judas! you are discovered now! I have now full
evidence of your turpitude. By all the saints! you shall answer for it
fearfully," said the professor, between his clenched teeth, as he closed
his arm upon Jacquelina's arm and dragged her toward the sleigh.

"Ha! ha! ha! Oh! well, I don't care! If I mistook you for Thurston, it
is not the first mistake I ever made about you. I mistook you once
before for a man!" said Jacko, defiantly.

He thrust her into the sleigh already occupied by Mrs. Waugh and Marian,
jumped in after her, and took the seat by her side.

"Why, I thought that you set out for Leonardtown this afternoon, Dr.
Grimshaw!" said Mrs. Waugh, coldly.

"You may have jumped to other conclusions equally false and dangerous,
madam!"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean, madam, that in conniving at the perfidy of this unprincipled
girl, your niece, you imagined that you were safe. It was an error. You
are both discovered!" said the professor, doggedly.

Henrietta was almost enraged.

"Dr. Grimshaw," she said, "nothing but self-respect prevents me from
ordering you from this sleigh!"

"I advise you to let self-respect, or any other motive you please, still
restrain you, madam. I remain here as the warden of this pretty
creature's person, until she is safely secured."

"You will at least be kind enough to explain to us the causes of your
present words and actions, sir!" said Mrs. Waugh, severely.

"Undoubtedly, madam! Having, as I judged, just reasons for doubting the
integrity of your niece, and more than suspecting her attachment to Mr.
Willcoxen, I was determined to test both. Therefore, instead of going to
Leonardtown, to be absent till to-morrow, I came here, posted myself at
a favorable point for observation, and took notes. While here, I saw
enough to convince me of Jacquelina's indiscretions. Afterward leaving
the spot with lacerated feelings I drew near her. She mistook me for her
lover, thrust her arm through mine, and said, 'Dear Thurston, come home
with me--'"

"Oh! you shocking old fye-for-shame! I said no such thing! I said,
Thurston! Come! Jump in the sleigh and go home with us.'"

"It makes little difference, madam! The meaning was the same. I will not
be responsible for a literal report. You are discovered."

"What does that mean? If it means you have discovered that I mistook you
for Thurston Willcoxen, you ought to 'walk on thrones' the rest of your
life! You never got such a compliment before, and never will again!"

"Aye! go on, madam! You and your conniving aunt--"

"Dr. Grimshaw, if you dare to say or hint such impertinence to me again,
you shall leave your seat much more quickly than you took it," said Mrs.
Waugh.

"We shall see, madam!" said the professor, and he lapsed into sullenness
for the remainder of the drive.

But, oh! there was one in that sleigh upon whose heart the words of wild
Jacko had fallen with cruel weight-Marian!




CHAPTER XXII.

PETTICOAT DISCIPLINE.


When the sulky sleighing party reached Luckenough they found Commodore
Waugh not only up and waiting, but in the highest state of
self-satisfaction, a blessing of which they received their full share of
benefit, for the old man, in the overflowing of his joy, had ordered an
oyster supper, which was now all ready to be served smoking hot to the
chilled and hungry sleigh-riders.

"I wonder what's out now?" said Jacquelina, as she threw off her
wrappings, scattering them heedlessly on the chairs and floor of the
hall. "Some awful calamity has overtaken some of Uncle Nick's enemies.
Nothing on earth but that ever puts him into such a jolly humor. Now
we'll see! I wonder if it is a 'crowner's 'quest' case? Wish it was
Grim."

Mrs. Henrietta blessed her stars for the good weather, without inquiring
very closely where it came from, as she conducted Marian to a bedroom
to lay off her bonnet and mantle.

It was only at the foot of his own table, after ladling out and serving
around the stewed oysters "hot and hot," that the commodore, rubbing his
hands, and smiling until his great face was as grotesque as a
nutcracker's, announced that Miss Nancy Skamp was turned out of
office--yea, discrowned, unsceptred, dethroned, and that Harry Barnwell
reigned in her stead. The news had come in that evening's mail! All
present breathed more freely--all felt an inexpressible relief in
knowing that the post-office would henceforth be above suspicion, and
their letters and papers safe from, desecration. Only Marian said:

"What will become of the poor old creature?"

"By St. Judas Iscariot, that's her business."

"No, indeed, I think it is ours; some provision should be made for her,
Commodore Waugh."

"I'll recommend her to the trustees of the almshouse, Miss Mayfield."

Marian thought it best not to pursue the subject then, but resolved to
embrace the first opportunity of appealing to the commodore's smothered
chivalry in behalf of a woman, old, poor, feeble, and friendless.

During the supper Dr. Grimshaw sat up as stiff and solemn--Jacquelina
said--"as if he'd swallowed the poker and couldn't digest it." When they
rose from the table, and were about leaving the dining-room, Dr.
Grimshaw glided in a funereal manner to the side of the commodore, and
demanded a private interview with him.

"Not to-night, Nace! Not to-night! I know by your looks what it is! It
is some new deviltry of Jacquelina's. That can wait! I'm as sleepy as a
whole cargo of opium! I would not stop to talk now to Paul Jones, if he
was to rise from the dead and visit me!"

And the professor had to be content with that, for almost immediately
the family separated for the night.

Marian, attended by the maid Maria, sought the chamber assigned to
herself. When she had changed her tight-fitting day-dress for a wrapper,
she dismissed the girl, locked the door behind her, and then drew her
chair up before the little fire, and fell into deep thought. Many causes
of anxiety pressed heavily upon Marian. That Thurston had repented his
hasty marriage with herself she had every reason to believe.

She had confidently hoped that her explanation with Thurston would have
resulted in good--but, alas! it seemed to have had little effect. His
attentions to Miss Le Roy were still unremitted--the young lady's
partiality was too evident to all--and people already reported them to
be engaged.

And now, as Marian sat by her little wood-fire in her chamber at
Luckenough, bitter, sorrowful questions, arose in her mind. Would he
persist in his present course? No, no, it could not be! This was
probably done only to pique herself; but then it was carried too far; it
was ruining the peace of a good, confiding girl. And Jacquelina--she had
evidently mistaken Dr. Grimshaw for Thurston, and addressed to him words
arguing a familiarity very improper, to say the least of it. Could he be
trifling with poor Jacquelina, too? Jacko's words when believing herself
addressing Thurston, certainly denoted some such "foregone conclusions."
Marian resolved to see Thurston once more--once more to expostulate with
him, if happily it might have some good effect. And having formed this
resolution, she knelt and offered up her evening prayers, and retired to
bed.

The next day being Holy Thursday, there was, by order of the trustees, a
holiday at Miss Mayfield's school. And so Marian arose with the prospect
of spending the day with Jacquelina. When she descended to the
breakfast-room, what was her surprise to find Thurston Willcoxen, at
that early hour, the sole occupant of the room. He wore a green shooting
jacket, belted around his waist. He stood upon the hearth with his back
to the fire, his gun leaned against the corner of the mantle-piece, and
his game-bag dropped at his feet. Marian's heart bounded, and her cheek
and eye kindled when she saw him, and, for the instant, all her doubts
vanished--she could not believe that guilt lurked behind a countenance
so frank, noble and calm as his. He stepped forward to meet her,
extending his hand. She placed her own in it, saying:

"I am very glad to see you this morning, dear Thurston, for I have
something to say to you which I hope you will take kindly from your
Marian, who has no dearer interest in the world than your welfare."

"Marian, if it is anything relating to our old subject of dispute--Miss
Le Roy--let me warn you that I will hear nothing about it."

"Thurston, the subjects of a neighborhood's gossip are always the very
last to hear it! You do not, perhaps, know that it is commonly reported
that you and Miss Le Roy are engaged to be married!"

"And you give a ready ear and ready belief to such injurious slanders!"

"No! Heaven knows that I do not! I will not say that my heart has not
been tortured--fully as much as your own would have been, dear
Thurston, had the case been reversed, and had I stooped to receive from
another such attentions as you have bestowed upon Miss Le Roy. But, upon
calm reflection, I fully believe that you could never give that young
lady my place in your heart, that having known and loved me--"

Marian paused, but the soul rose like a day-star behind her beautiful
face, lighting serenely under her white eyelids, glowing softly on the
parted lips and blooming cheeks.

"Ay! 'having known and loved me!' There again spoke the very enthusiasm
of self-worship! But how know you, Marian, that I do not find such
regnant superiority wearisome?--that I do not find it refreshing to sit
down quietly beside a lower, humbler nature, whose greatest faculty is
to love, whose greatest need to be loved!"

"How do I know it? By knowing that higher nature of yours, which you now
ignore. Yet it is not of myself that I wish to speak, but of her.
Thurston, you pursue that girl for mere pastime, I am sure--with no
ulterior evil purpose, I am certain; yet, Thurston!" she said,
involuntarily pressing her hand tightly upon her own bosom, "I know how
a woman may love you, and that may be death or madness to Angelica,
which is only whim and amusement to you. And, Thurston, you must go no
further with this culpable trifling--you must promise me to see her no
more!"

"'Must!' Upon my soul! you take state upon yourself, fair queen!"

"Thurston, a higher authority than mine speaks by my lips--it is the
voice of Right! You will regard it. You will give me that promise!"

"And if I do not--"

"Oh! there is no time to argue with you longer--some one is coming--I
must be quick. It is two weeks, Thurston, since I first urged this upon
you; I have hesitated already too long, and now I tell you, though my
heart bleeds to say it, that unless you promise to see Angelica no more,
I will see and have an explanation with her to-morrow!"

"You will!"

"You can prevent it, dearest Thurston, by yourself doing what you know
to be right."

"And if I do not?"

"I will see Miss Le Roy, to-morrow!"

"By heaven, then--"

His words were suddenly cut short by the entrance of Mrs. Waugh. In an
instant his countenance changed, and taking up his bag of game, he went
to meet the smiling, good humored woman, saying with a gay laugh:

"Good-morning, Mrs. Waugh! You see I have been shooting in the woods of
Luckenough this morning, and I could not leave the premises without
offering this tribute to their honored mistress."

And Thurston gayly laid the trophy at her feet.

"Hebe! will you please to see that a cup of hot coffee is sent up to
Mrs. L'Oiseau; she is unwell this morning, as I knew she would be, from
her excitement last night; or go with it yourself, Hebe! The presence of
the goddess of health at her bedside is surely needed."

Marian left the room, and then Mrs. Waugh, turning to the young
gentleman, said:

"Thurston, I am glad to have this opportunity of speaking to you, for I
have something very particular to say, which you must hear without
taking offense at your old aunty!"

"Humph! I am in for petticoat discipline this morning, beyond a doubt,"
thought the young man; but he only bowed, and placed a chair for Mrs.
Waugh.

"I shall speak very plainly, Thurston."

"Oh! by all means! As plainly as you please, Mrs. Waugh," said Thurston,
with an odd grimace; "I am growing accustomed to have ladies speak very
plainly to me."

"Well! it won't do you any harm, Thurston. And now to the point! I told
you before, that you must not show any civility to Jacquelina. And now I
repeat it! And I warn you that if you do, you will cause some frightful
misfortune that you will have to repent all the days of your life--if it
be not fatal first of all to yourself. I do assure you that old Grimshaw
is mad with jealousy. He can no longer be held responsible for his
actions. And in short, you must see Jacquelina no more!"

"Whe-ew! a second time this morning! Come! I'm getting up quite the
reputation of a lady-killer!" thought the young man. Then with a light
laugh, he looked up to Mrs. Waugh, and said:

"My dear madam, do you take me for a man who would willingly disturb the
peace or honor of a family?"

"Pshaw! By no means, my dear Thurston. Of course I know it's all the
most ridiculous nonsense!"

"Well! By the patience of Job, I do think--"

Again Thurston's words were suddenly cut short, by the entrance of--the
commodore, who planted his cane down with his usual emphatic force, and
said:

"Oh, sir! You here! I am very glad of it! There is a little matter to be
discussed between you and me! Old Hen! leave us! vanish! evaporate!"

Henrietta was well pleased to do so. And as she closed the door the
commodore turned to Thurston, and with another emphatic thump of his
cane, said:

"Well, sir! a small craft is soon rigged, and a short speech soon made.
In two words, how dare you, sir! make love to Jacquelina?"

"My dear uncle--"

"By Neptune, sir; don't 'uncle' me. I ask you how you dared to make love
to my niece?"

"Sir, you mistake, she made love to me."

"You impudent, impertinent, unprincipled jackanape."

"Come," said Thurston to himself, "I have got into a hornet's nest this
morning."

"I shall take very good care, sir, to have Major Le Roy informed what
sort of a gentleman it is who is paying his addresses to his daughter."

"Miss Le Roy will be likely to form a high opinion of me before this
week is out," said Thurston, laughing.

"You--you--you graceless villain, you," cried the commodore in a
rage--"to think that I had such confidence in you, sir; defended you
upon all occasions, sir; refused to believe in your villainy, sir;
refused to close my doors against you, sir. Yes, sir; and should have
continued to do so, but for last night's affair."

"Last night's affair! I protest, sir, I do not in the least understand
you?"

"Oh! you don't. You don't understand that after the lecture last
evening, in leaving the place, Jacquelina thrust her arm through
yours--no; I mean through Grim's, mistaking him for you, and said--what
she never would have said, had there not been an understanding between
you."

Thurston's face was now the picture of astonishment and perplexity. The
commodore seemed to mistake it for a look of consternation and detected
guilt, for he continued:

"And now, sir, I suppose you understand what is to follow. Do you see
that door? It leads straight into the hall, which leads directly through
the front portal out into the lawn, and on to the highway--that is your
road, sir. Good-morning."

And the commodore thumped down his stick and left the room--the image of
righteous indignation.

Thurston nodded, smiled slightly, drew his tablets from his pocket, tore
a leaf out, took his pencil, laid the paper upon the corner of the
mantel-piece, wrote a few lines, folded the note, and concealed it in
his hand as the door opened, and admitted Mrs. Waugh, Marian and
Jacquelina. There was a telegraphic glance between the elder lady and
the young man.

That of Mrs. Waugh said:

"Do have pity on the fools, and go, Thurston."

That of Thurston said:

"I am going, Mrs. Waugh, and without laughing, if I can help it."

Then he picked up his shooting cap, bowed to Jacquelina, shook hands
with Mrs. Waugh, and pressing Marian's palm, left within it the note
that he had written, took up his game bag and gun, and departed.




CHAPTER XXIII.

SANS SOUCI'S LAST FUN.


"The inconceivable idiots!" said Thurston, as he strode on through the
park of Luckenough, "to fancy that any one with eyes, heart and brain,
could possibly fall in love with the 'Will-o'-the-wisp' Jacquelina, or
worse, that giglet, Angelica; when he sees Marian! Marian, whose least
sunny tress is dearer to me than are all the living creatures in the
world besides. Marian, for whose possession I am now about to risk
everything, even her own esteem. Yet, she will forgive me; I will earn
her forgiveness by such devoted love."

He hurried on until he reached an outer gate, through which old Oliver
was driving a cart loaded with wood. As if to disencumber himself, he
threw his game bag and valuable fowling piece to the old man, saying:

"There, uncle; there's a present for you," and without waiting to hear
his thanks, hurried on, leaping hedges and ditches, until he came to the
spot where he had left his horse tied since the morning. Throwing
himself into his saddle, he put spurs to his horse, and galloped away
toward the village, nor drew rein until he reached a little tavern on
the water side. He threw his bridle to an hostler in waiting, and
hurrying in, demanded to be shown into a private room. The little parlor
was placed at his disposal. Here, for form's sake, he called for the
newspaper, cigars and a bottle of wine (none of which he discussed,
however), dismissed the attendant, and sat waiting.

Presently the odor of tar, bilge water, tobacco and rum warned him that
his expected visitor was approaching. And an instant after the door was
opened, and a short, stout, dark man in a weather-proof jacket, duck
trousers, cow-hide shoes, and tarpaulin hat entered.

"Well, Miles, I've been waiting for you here more than an hour," said
Thurston, impatiently.

"Ay, ay, sir--all right. I've been cruising round, reconnoitering the
enemy's coast," replied the man, removing the quid of tobacco from his
mouth, and reluctantly casting it into the fire.

"You are sure you know the spot?"

"Ay, ay? sir--the beach just below the Old Fields farmhouse."

"And south of the Pine Bluff."

"Ay, ay, sir. I know the port--that ain't the head wind!" said Jack
Miles, pushing up the side of his hat, and scratching his head with a
look of doubt and hesitation.

"What is, then, you blockhead?" asked Thurston, impatiently; "is your
hire insufficient?"

"N-n-n--yes--I dunno! You see, cap'n, if I wer' cock sure, as that 'ere
little craft you want carried of wer' yourn."

"Hush! don't talk so loud. You're not at sea in a gale, you fool. Well,
go on. Speak quickly and speak lower."

"I wer' gwine to say, if so be I wer' sure you wer' the cap'n of her,
why then it should be plain sailing, with no fog around, and no breakers
ahead."

"Well! I am, you fool. She is mine--my wife."

"Well, but, cap'n," said the speaker, still hesitating, "if so be that's
the case, why don't she strike her colors to her rightful owner? Why
don't you take command in open daylight, with the drums a-beating, and
the flags a-flying? What must you board her like a pirate in this way
fur? I've been a-thinkin' on it, and I think it's dangerous steering
along this coast. You see it's all in a fog; I can't make out the land
nowhere, and I'm afraid I shall be on the rocks afore I knows it. You
see, cap'n, I never wer' in such a thick mist since I first went to sea.
No offense to you, cap'n!"

"Oh, none in the world! No skillful pilot will risk his vessel in a fog.
But I have a certain golden telescope of magic powers. It enables you to
see clearly through the thickest mist, the darkest night that ever fell.
I will give it to you. In other words, I promised you five hundred
dollars for this job. Come, accomplish it to-night, and you shall have a
thousand. Is the mist lifting?"

"I think it is, cap'n! I begin to see land."

"Very well! now, is your memory as good as your sight? Do you recollect
the plan?"

"Ay, ay, sir."

"Just let me hear you go over it."

"I'm to bring the vessel round, and lay to about a quarter of a mile o'
the coast. At dusk I'm to put off in a skiff and row to Pine Bluff, and
lay under its shadow till I hear your signal. Then I'm to put to shore
and take in the--the--"

"The cargo."

"Ay, ay, sir, the cargo."

Leaving the two conspirators to improve and perfect their plot, we must
return to the breakfast parlor at Luckenough. The family were assembled
around the table. Dr. Grimshaw's dark, sombre and lowering looks, enough
to have spread a gloom over any circle, effectually banished
cheerfulness from the board. Marian had had no opportunity of reading
her note--she had slipped it into her pocket But as soon as breakfast
was over, amid the bustle of rising from the table, Marian withdrew to a
window and glanced over the lines.

"My own dearest one, forgive my haste this morning. I regret the
necessity of leaving so abruptly. I earnestly implore you to see me once
more--upon the beach, near the Pine Bluffs, this evening at dusk. I have
something of the utmost importance to say to you."

She hastily crumpled the note, and thrust it into her pocket just as
Jacquelina's quizzical face looked over her shoulder.

"You're going to stay all day with me, Marian?"

"Yes, love--that is, till after dinner. Then I shall have to beg of Mrs.
Waugh the use of the carriage to go home."

"Well, then, I will ride with you, Marian, and return in the carriage."

All the company, with the exception of Mrs. Waugh, Marian and
Jacquelina, had left the breakfast-room.

Mrs. Waugh was locking her china closet, and when she had done, she took
her bunch of keys, and turning to Marian, said:

"Hebe, dear, I want you to go with me and see poor old Cracked Nell. She
is staying in one of our quarters. I think she has not long to live, and
I want you to talk to her."

"Now?"

"Yes, dear, I am going to carry her some breakfast. So, come along, and
get your mantle," said the good woman, passing out through the door.

Marian followed, drawing out her pocket handkerchief to tie over her
head; and as she did so, the note, unperceived by her, fluttered out,
and fell upon the carpet.

Jacquelina impulsively darted upon it, picked it up, opened, and read
it. Had Jacquelina first paused to reflect, she would never have done
so. But when did the elf ever stop to think? As she read, her eyes began
to twinkle, and her feet to patter up and down, and her head to sway
from side to side, as if she could scarcely keep from singing and
dancing for glee.

"Well, now, who'd a thought it! Thurston making love to Marian! And
keeping the courtship close, too, for fear of the old miser. Lord, but
look here! This was not right of me? Am I a pocket edition of Miss Nancy
Skamp! Forbid it, Titania, Queen of the Fairies! But I didn't steal
it--I found it! And I must, oh! must plague Grim a little with this!
Forgive me, Marian, but for the life and soul of me, I can't help
keeping this to plague Grim! You see, I promised to pay him when he
charged me with swallowing an assignation, and now if I don't pay him,
if I don't make him perspire till he faints, my name is not Mrs.
Professor Grimshaw! Let's see! What shall I do! Oh! Why, can't I pretend
to lose it, just as Marian lost it, and drop it where he'll find it? I
have it! Eureka!" soliloquized the dancing elf, as she placed her
handkerchief in the bottom of her pocket, and the note on top of it, and
passed on to the drawing-room to "bide her time."

That soon came. She found the professor and the commodore standing in
the middle of the room, in an earnest conversation, which, however,
seemed near its close, for as she took her seat, the commodore said:

"Very well--I'll attend to it, Nace," and clapped his hat upon his head,
and went out, while the professor dropped himself into a chair, and took
up a book.

"Oh, stop, I want to speak to you a minute, uncle." cried Jacquelina,
starting up and flying after him, and as she flew, pulling out her
handkerchief and letting the note drop upon the floor. A swift, sly,
backward glance showed that Grim had pounced upon it like a panther on
its prey.

"What in the d----l's name are you running after me for?" burst forth
the old man as Jacko overtook him.

"Why, uncle, I want to know if you'll please to give orders in the
stable to have the carriage wheels washed off nicely? They neglect it.
And I and Marian want to use it this afternoon."

"Go to the deuce! Is that my business?"

Jacquelina laughed; and, quivering through every fibre of her frame with
mischief, went back into the drawing-room to see the state of Grim.

To Jacquelina's surprise she found the note lying upon the same spot
where she had dropped it. Dr. Grimshaw was standing with his back toward
her, looking out of the window. She could not see the expression of his
countenance. She stooped and picked up the note, but had scarcely
replaced it in her pocket before Dr. Grimshaw abruptly turned, walked up
and stood before her and looked in her face. Jacquelina could scarcely
suppress a scream; it was as if a ghost had come before her, so blanched
was his color, so ghastly his features. An instant he gazed into her
eyes, and then passed out and went up-stairs. Jacquelina turned slowly
around, looking after him like one magnetized. Then recovering herself,
with a deep breath she said:

"Now I ask of all the 'powers that be' generally, what's the meaning of
that? He picked up the note and he read it; that's certain. And he
dropped it there again to make me believe he had never seen it; that's
certain, too. I wonder what he means to do! There'll be fun of some
sort, anyway! Stop! here comes Marian from the quarters. I shouldn't
wonder if she has missed her note, and hurried back in search of it.
Come! I'll take a hint from Grim, and drop it where I found it, and say
nothing."

And so soliloquizing, the fairy glided back into the breakfast-room, let
the note fall, and turned away just in time to allow Marian to enter,
glance around, and pick up her lost treasure. Then joining Marian, she
invited her up-stairs to look at some new finery just come from the city.

The forenoon passed heavily at Luckenough. When the dinner hour
approached, and the family collected in the dining-room, Dr. Grimshaw
was missing; and when a messenger was sent to call him to dinner, an
answer was returned that the professor was unwell, and preferred to keep
his room.

Jacquelina was quivering between fun and fear--vague, unaccountable
fear, that hung over her like a cloud, darkening her bright frolic
spirit with a woeful presentiment.

After dinner Marian asked for the carriage, and Mrs. Waugh gave orders
that it should be brought around for her use. Jacquelina prepared to
accompany Marian home, and in an hour they were ready, and set forth.

"You may tell Grim, if he asks after me, that I am gone home with Marian
to Old Fields, and that I am not certain whether I shall return to-night
or not," said Jacquelina, as she took leave of Mrs. Waugh.

"My dear Lapwing, if you love your old aunty, come immediately back in
the carriage. And, by the way, my dear, I wish you would, either in
going or coming, take the post-office, and get the letters and papers,"
said Mrs. Waugh.

"Let it be in going, then, Mrs. Waugh, for I have not been to the
post-office for two days, and there may be something there for us also,"
said Marian.

"Very well, bright Hebe; as you please, of course," replied good
Henrietta.

And so they parted. Did either dream how many suns would rise and set,
how many seasons come and go, how many years roll by, before the two
should meet again?

The carriage was driven rapidly on to the village, and drawn up at the
post-office. Old Oliver jumped down, and went in to make the necessary
inquiries. They waited impatiently until he reappeared, bringing one
large letter. There was nothing for Luckenough.

The great double letter was for Marian. She took it, and as the carriage
was started again, and drawn toward Old Fields, she examined the
post-mark and superscription. It was a foreign letter, mailed from
London, and superscribed in the handwriting of her oldest living friend,
the pastor who had attended her brother in his prison and at the scene
of his death.

Marian, with tearful eyes and eager hands, broke the seal and read,
while Jacquelina watched her. For more than half an hour Jacko watched
her, and then impatience overcame discretion in the bosom of the fairy,
and she suddenly exclaimed:

"Well, Marian! I do wonder what can ail you? You grow pale, and then you
grow red; your bosom heaves, the tears come in your eyes, you clasp your
hands tightly together as in prayer, then you smile and raise your eyes
as in thanksgiving! Now, I do wonder what it all means?"

"It means, dear Jacquelina, that I am the most grateful creature upon
the face of the earth, just now; and to-morrow I will tell you why I am
so," said Marian, with a rosy smile. And well she might be most grateful
and most happy, for that letter had brought her assurance of fortune
beyond her greatest desires. On reading the news, her very first thought
had been of Thurston. Now the great objection of the miser to their
marriage would be removed--the great obstacle to their immediate union
overcome. Thurston would be delivered from temptation; she would be
saved anxiety and suspense. "Yes; I will meet him this evening; I cannot
keep this blessed news from him a day longer than necessary, for this
fortune that has come to me will all be his own! Oh, how rejoiced I am
to be the means of enriching him! How much good we can both do!"

These were the tumultuous, generous thoughts that sent the flush to
Marian's cheeks, the smiles to her lips, and the tears to her eyes; that
caused those white fingers to clasp, and those clear eyes to rise to
Heaven in thankfulness, as she folded up her treasured letter and placed
it in her bosom.

An hour's ride brought them to Old Field Cottage. The sun had not yet
set, but the sky was dark with clouds that threatened rain or snow; and
therefore Jacquelina only took time to jump out and speak to Edith,
shake hands with old Jenny, kiss Miriam, and bid adieu to Marian; and
then, saying that she believed she would hurry back on her aunty's
account, and that she was afraid she would not get to Luckenough before
ten o'clock, anyhow, she jumped into the carriage and drove off.

And Marian, guarding her happy secret, entered the cottage to make
preparations for keeping her appointment with Thurston.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, at Luckenough, Dr. Grimshaw kept his room until late in the
afternoon. Then, descending the stairs, and meeting the maid Maria, who
almost shrieked aloud at the ghastly face that confronted her, he asked:

"Where is Mrs. Grimshaw?"

"Lord, sir!" cried the girl, half paralyzed by the sound of his
sepulchral voice, "she's done gone home 'long o' Miss Marian."

"When will she be back, do you know?"

"Lord, sir!" cried Maria, shuddering, "I heerd her tell old Mis', how
she didn't think she'd be back to-night."

"Ah!" said the unhappy man, in a hollow tone, that seemed to come from a
tomb, as he passed down.

And Maria, glad to escape him, fled up-stairs, and never paused until
she had found refuge in Mrs. L'Oiseau's room.

One hour after that, Professor Grimshaw, closely enveloped in an ample
cloak, left Luckenough, and took the road to the beach.




CHAPTER XXIV.

NIGHT AND STORM.


The heavens were growing very dark; the wind was rising and driving
black clouds athwart the sky; the atmosphere was becoming piercingly
cold; the snow, that during the middle of the day had thawed, was
freezing hard. Yet Marian hurried fearlessly and gayly on over the
rugged and slippery stubble fields that lay between the cottage and the
beach. A rapid walk of fifteen minutes brought her down to the water's
edge. But it was now quite dark. Nothing could be more deserted, lonely
and desolate than the aspect of this place. From her feet the black
waters spread outward, till their utmost boundaries were lost among the
blacker vapors of the distant horizon. Afar off a sail, dimly seen or
guessed at, glided ghost-like through the shadows. Landward, the
boundaries of field and forest, hill and vale, were all blended, fused,
in murky obscurity. Heavenward, the lowering sky was darkened by wild,
scudding, black clouds, driven by the wind, through which the young moon
seemed plunging and hiding as in terror. The tide was coming in, and the
waves surged heavily with a deep moan upon the beach. Not a sound was
heard except the dull, monotonous moan of the sea, and the fitful,
hollow wail of the wind. The character of the scene was in the last
degree wild, dreary, gloomy and fearful. Not so, however, it seemed to
Marian, who, filled with happy, generous and tumultuous thoughts, was
scarcely conscious of the gathering darkness and the lowering storm, as
she walked up and down upon the beach, listening and waiting. She
wondered that Thurston had not been there ready to receive her; but this
thought gave her little uneasiness; it was nearly lost, as the storm and
darkness also were, in the brightness and gladness of her own loving,
generous emotions. There was no room in her heart for doubt or trouble.
If the thought of the morning's conversation and of Angelica entered her
mind, it was only to be soon dismissed with fair construction and
cheerful hope. And then she pictured to herself the surprise, the
pleasure of Thurston, when he should hear of the accession of fortune
which should set them both free to pursue their inclinations and plans
for their own happiness and for the benefit of others. And she sought in
her bosom if the letters were safe. Yes; there they were; she felt them.
Her happiness had seemed a dream without that proof of its reality. For
once she gave way to imagination, and allowed that magician to build
castles in the air at will. Thurston and herself must go to England
immediately to take possession of the estate; that was certain. Then
they must return. But ere that she would confide to him her darling
project; one that she had never breathed to any, because to have done so
would have been vain; one that she had longingly dreamed of, but never,
as now, hoped to realize. And Edith--she would make Edith so
comfortable! Edith should be again surrounded with the elegancies and
refinements of life. And Miriam--Miriam should have every advantage of
education that wealth could possibly secure for her, either in this
country or in Europe. If Edith would spare Miriam, the little girl
should go with her to England. But Thurston--above all, Thurston! A
heavy drop of rain struck Marian in the face, and, for an instant, woke
her from her blissful reverie.

She looked up. Why did not Thurston come? The storm would soon burst
forth upon the earth; where was Thurston? Were he by her side there
would be nothing formidable in the storm, for he would shelter her with
his cloak and umbrella, as they should scud along over the fields to the
cottage, and reach the fireside before the rain could overtake them.
Where was he? What could detain him at such a time? She peered through
the darkness up and down the beach. To her accustomed eye, the features
of the landscape were dimly visible. That black form looming like a
shadowy giant before her was the headland of Pine Bluff, with its base
washed by the sullen waves. It was the only object that broke the dark,
dull monotony of the shore. She listened; the moan of the sea, the wail
of the wind, were blended in mournful chorus. It was the only sound that
broke the dreary silence of the hour.

Hark! No; there was another sound. Amid the moaning and the wailing of
winds and waves, and the groaning of the coming storm, was heard the
regular fall of oars, soon followed by the slow, grating sound of a boat
pushed up upon the frozen strand. Marian paused and strained her eyes
through the darkness in the direction of the sound, but could see
nothing save the deeper, denser darkness around Pine Bluff. She turned,
and, under cover of the darkness, moved swiftly and silently from the
locality. The storm was coming on very fast. The rain was falling and
the wind rising and driving it into her face. She pulled her hood
closely about her face, and wrapped her shawl tightly about her as she
met the blast.

Oh! where was Thurston, and why did he not come? She blamed herself for
having ventured out; yet could she have foreseen this? No; for she had
confidently trusted in his keeping his appointment. She had never known
him to fail before. What could have caused the failure now? Had he kept
his tryste they would now have been safely housed at Old Field Cottage.
Perhaps Thurston, seeing the clouds, had taken for granted that she
would not come, and he had therefore stayed away. Yet, no; she could not
for an instant entertain that thought. Well she knew that had a storm
risen, and raged as never a storm did before, Thurston, upon the bare
possibility of her presence there, would keep his appointment. No;
something beyond his control had delayed him. And, unless he should now
very soon appear, something very serious had happened to him. The storm
was increasing in violence; her shawl was already wet, and she resolved
to hurry home.

She had just turned to go when the sound of a man's heavy, measured
footsteps, approaching from the opposite direction, fell upon her ear.
She looked up half in dread, and strained her eyes out into the
blackness of the night. It was too dark to see anything but the outline
of a man's figure wrapped in a large cloak, coming slowly on toward her.
As the man drew near she recognized the well-known figure, air and gait;
she had of the identity. She hastened to meet him, exclaiming in a low,
eager tone:

"Thurston! dear Thurston!"

The man paused, folded his cloak about him, drew up, and stood perfectly
still.

Why did he not answer her? Why did he not speak to her? Why did he stand
so motionless, and look so strange? She could not have seen the
expression of his countenance, even if a flap of his cloak had not been
folded across his face; but his whole form shook as with an ague fit.

"Thurston! dear Thurston!" she exclaimed once more, under her breath, as
she pressed toward him.

But he suddenly stretched out his hand to repulse her, gasping, as it
were, breathlessly, "Not yet--not yet!" and again his whole frame shook
with an inward storm. What could be the reason of his strange behavior?
Oh, some misfortune had happened to him--that was evident! Would it were
only of a nature that her own good news might be able to cure. And it
might be so. Full of this thought, she was again pressing toward him,
when a violent flurry of rain and wind whistled before her and drove
into her face, concealing him from her view. When the sudden gust as
suddenly passed, she saw that he remained in the same spot, his breast
heaving, his whole form shaking. She could bear it no longer. She
started forward and put her arms around his neck, and dropped her head
upon his bosom, and whispered in suppressed tones:

"Dearest Thurston, what is the matter? Tell me, for I love you more than
life!"

The man clasped his left arm fiercely around her waist, lifted his right
hand, and, hissing sharply through his clenched teeth:

"You have drawn on your own doom--die, wretched girl!" plunged a dagger
in her bosom, and pushed her from him.

One sudden, piercing shriek, and she dropped at his feet, grasping at
the ground, and writhing in agony. Her soul seemed striving to recover
the shock, and recollect its faculties. She half arose upon her elbow,
supported her head upon her hand, and with her other hand drew the steel
out from her bosom, and laid it down. The blood followed, and with the
life-stream her strength flowed away. The hand that supported her head
suddenly dropped, and she fell back. The man had been standing over her,
speechless, motionless, breathless, like some wretched somnambulist,
suddenly awakened in the commission of a crime, and gazing in horror,
amazement, and unbelief upon the work of his sleep.

Suddenly he dropped upon his knees by her side, put his arm under her
head and shoulders and raised her up; but her chin fell forward upon her
bosom, and her eyes fixed and glazed. He laid her down gently, groaning
in a tone of unspeakable anguish:

"Miss Mayfield! My God! what have I done?" And with an awful cry,
between a shriek and a groan, the wretched man cast himself upon the
ground by the side of the fallen body.

The storm was beating wildly upon the assassin and his victim; but the
one felt it no more than the other. At length the sound of footsteps was
heard approaching fast and near. In the very anguish of remorse the
instinct of self-preservation seized the wretched man, and he started up
and fled as from the face of the avenger of blood.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE STRUGGLE ENDED.


In the meantime Jacquelina had reached home sooner than she had
expected. It was just dark, and the rain was beginning to fall as she
sprang from the carriage and darted into the house.

Mrs. Waugh met her in the hall, took her hand, and said:

"Oh, my dear Lapwing! I'm so glad you have come back, bad as the weather
is; for indeed the professor gives me a great deal of anxiety, and if
you had stayed away to-night I could not have been answerable for the
consequences. There, now; hurry up-stairs and change your dress, and
come down to tea. It is all ready, and we have a pair of canvasback
ducks roasted."

"Very well, aunty! But--is Grim in the house?"

"I don't know, my love. You hurry."

Jacquelina tripped up the stairs to her own room, which she found
lighted, warmed, and attended by her maid, Maria. She took off her
bonnet and mantle, and laid them aside, and began to smooth her hair,
dancing all the time, and quivering with suppressed laughter in
anticipation of her "fun." When she had arranged her dress, she went
down-stairs and passed into the dining-room, where the supper table was
set.

"See if Nace Grimshaw is in his room, and if he is not, we will wait no
longer!" said the hungry commodore, thumping his heavy stick down upon
the floor.

Festus sprang to do his bidding, and after an absence of a few minutes
returned with the information that the professor was not there.

Jacquelina shrugged her shoulders, and shook with inward laughter.

They all sat down, and amid the commodore's growls at Grim's irregular
hours, and Jacquelina's shrugs and smiles and sidelong glances and
ill-repressed laughter, the meal passed. And when it was over, the
commodore, leaning on Mrs. Waugh's arm, went to his own particular sofa
in the back parlor; Mrs. L'Oiseau remained, to superintend the clearing
away of the supper-table; and Jacquelina danced on to the front parlor,
where she found no one but the maid, who was mending the fire.

"Say! did you see anything of the professor while I was gone?" she
inquired.

"Lors, honey, I wish I hadn't! I knows how de thought of it will give me
'liriums nex' time I has a fever."

"Why? What did he do? When was it?"

"Why, chile, jes afore sundown, as I was a carryin' an armful of wood
up-stairs, for Miss Mary's room, I meets de 'fessor a comin' down. I
like to 'a' screamed! I like to 'a' let de wood drap! I like to 'a'
drapped right down myself! It made my heart beat in de back o' my
head--he look so awful, horrid gashly! Arter speakin' in a voice hollow
as an empty coffin, an' skeerin' me out'n my seventeen sensibles axin
arter you, he jes tuk hisself off summers, an' I ain't seen him sence."

"What did he ask you? What did you tell him?"

"He jes ax where you was. I telled him how you were gone home 'long o'
Miss Marian; he ax when you were comin' back; I telled him I believed
not till to-morrow mornin'; then his face turned all sorts of awful dark
colors, an' seemed like it crushed right in, an' he nodded and said
'Ah!' but it sounded jes like a hollow groan; and he tuk hisself off,
and I ain't seen him sence."

The elf danced about the room, unable to restrain her glee. And the
longer Dr. Grimshaw remained away, the more excited she grew. She
skipped about like the very sprite of mischief, exclaiming to herself:

"Oh, shan't we have fun presently! Oh, shan't we, though! The Grim
maniac! he has gone to detect me! And he'll break in upon Thurston and
Marian's interview. Won't there be an explosion! Oh, Jupiter! Oh, Puck!
Oh, Mercury! What fun--what delicious fun! Wr-r-r-r! I can scarcely
contain myself! Begone, Maria! Vanish! I want all the space in this room
to myself! Oh, fun alive! What a row there'll be! Me-thinks I hear the
din of battle!

"Oh clanga a rang! a rang! clang! clash! Whoop!"

sang the elf, springing and dancing, and spinning, and whirling, around
and around the room in the very ecstasy of mischief. Her dance was
brought to a sudden and an awful close.

The hall door was thrown violently open, hurried and irregular steps
were heard approaching, the parlor door was pushed open, and Dr.
Grimshaw staggered forward and paused before her!

Yes; her frolic was brought to an eternal end. She saw at a glance that
something fatal, irreparable, had happened. There was blood upon his
hands and wrist-bands! Oh, more--far more! There was the unmistakable
mark of Cain upon his writhen brow! Before now she had seen him look
pale and wild and haggard, and had known neither fear nor pity for him.
But now! An exhumed corpse galvanized into a horrid semblance of life
might look as he did--with just such sunken cheeks and ashen lips and
frozen eyes; with just such a collapsed and shuddering form; yet,
withal, could not have shown that terrific look of utter, incurable
despair! His fingers, talon-like in their horny paleness and rigidity,
clutched his breast, as if to tear some mortal anguish thence, and his
glassy eyes were fixed in unutterable reproach upon her face! Thrice he
essayed to speak, but a gurgling noise in his throat was the only
result. With a last great effort to articulate, the blood suddenly
filled his throat and gushed from his mouth! For a moment he sought to
stay the hemorrhage by pressing a handkerchief to his lips; but soon his
hand dropped powerless to his side; he reeled and fell upon the floor!

Jacquelina gazed in horror on her work.

And then her screams of terror filled the house!

The family came rushing in. Foremost entered the commodore, shaking his
stick in a towering passion, and exclaiming at the top of his voice:

"What the devil is all this? What's broke loose now? What are you
raising all this row for, you infernal little hurricane?"

"Oh, uncle! aunty! mother! look--look!" exclaimed Jacquelina, wringing
her pale fingers, and pointing to the fallen man.

The sight arrested all eyes.

The miserable man lay over on his side, ghastly pale, and breathing
laboriously, every breath pumping out the life-blood, that had made a
little pool beside his face.

Mrs. Waugh and Mary L'Oiseau hastened to stoop and raise the sufferer.
The commodore drew near, half stupefied, as he always was in a crisis.

"What--what--what's all this? Who did it? How did it happen?" he asked,
with a look of dull amazement.

"Give me a sofa cushion, Maria, to place under his head. Mary L'Oiseau,
hurry as fast as you can, and send a boy for Dr. Brightwell; tell him to
take the swiftest horse in the stable, and ride for life and death, and
bring the physician instantly, for Dr. Grimshaw is dying! Hurry!"

"Dying? Eh! what did you say, Henrietta?" inquired the commodore, in a
sort of stupid, blind anxiety; for he was unable to comprehend what had
happened.

"Speak to me, Henrietta! What is the matter? What ails Grim?"

"He has ruptured an artery," said Mrs. Waugh, gravely, as she laid the
sufferer gently back upon the carpet and placed the sofa pillow under
his head.

"Ruptured an artery? How did it happen? Grim! Nace! speak to me! How do
you feel? Oh, Heaven! he doesn't speak--he doesn't hear me! Oh,
Henrietta! he is very ill--he is very ill! He must be put to bed at
once, and the doctor sent for! Come here, Maria! Help me to lift your
young master," said the old man, waking up to anxiety.

"Stay! The doctor has been sent for; but he must not be moved; it would
be fatal to him. Indeed, I fear that he is beyond human help," said
Henrietta, as she wiped the gushing stream from the lips of the dying
man.

"Beyond human help! Eh! what? Nace! No! no! no! no! It can't be!" said
the old man, kneeling down, and bending over him in helpless trouble.

"Attend Dr. Grimshaw, while I hurry out and see what can be done,
Mary," said Mrs. Waugh, resigning her charge, and then hastening from
the room. She soon returned, bringing with her such remedies as her
limited knowledge suggested. And she and Mary L'Oiseau applied them; but
in vain! Every effort for his relief seemed but to hasten his death. The
hemorrhage was subsiding; so also was his breath. "It is too late; he is
dying!" said Henrietta, solemnly.

"Dying! No, no, Nace! Nace! speak to me! Nace! you're not dying! I've
lost more blood than that in my time! Nace! Nace! speak to your
old--speak, Nace!" cried the commodore, stooping down and raising the
sufferer in his arms, and gazing, half wildly, half stupidly, at the
congealing face.

He continued thus for some moments, until Mrs. Waugh, putting her hand
upon his shoulder, said gravely and kindly:

"Lay him down, Commodore Waugh; he is gone."

"Gone! gone!" echoed the old man, in his imbecile distraction, and
dropped his gray head upon the corpse, and groaned aloud.

Mrs. Waugh came and laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder. He
looked up in such hopeless, helpless trouble, and cried out:

"Oh, Henrietta! he was my son--my only, only son! My poor, unowned boy!
Oh, Henrietta! is he dead? Are you sure? Is he quite gone?"

"He is gone, Commodore Waugh; lay him down; come away to your room,"
said Henrietta, gently taking his hand.

Jacquelina, white with horror, was kneeling with clasped hands and
dilated eyes, gazing at the ruin. The old man's glance fell upon her
there, and his passion changed from grief to fury. Fiercely he broke
forth:

"It was you! You are the murderess--you! Heaven's vengeance light upon
you!"

"Oh, I never meant it! I never meant it! I am very wretched! I wish I'd
never been born!" cried Jacquelina, wringing her pale fingers.

"Out of my sight, you curse! Out of my sight--and may Heaven's wrath
pursue you!" thundered the commodore, shaking with grief and rage.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE BODY ON THE BEACH.


In the meanwhile, where was he whose headlong passions had precipitated
this catastrophe? where was Thurston? After having parted with his
confederate, he hurried home, for a very busy day lay before him. To
account for his sudden departure, and long absence, and to cover his
retreat, it was necessary to have some excuse, such as a peremptory
summons to Baltimore upon the most important business. Once in that
city, he would have leisure to find some further apology for proceeding
directly to France without first returning home. Now, strange as it may
appear, though his purposed treachery to Marian wrung his bosom with
remorse whenever he paused to think of it, yet it was the remorse
without humiliation; for he persuaded himself that stratagem was fair in
love as in war, especially in his case with Marian, who had already
given him her hand; but now the unforseen necessity of these subterfuges
made his cheek burn. He hastened to Dell-Delight, and showing the old
man a letter he had that morning received from the city, informed him
that he was obliged to depart immediately, upon affairs of the most
urgent moment to him, and then, to escape the sharp stings of
self-scorn, he busied himself with arranging his papers, packing his
trunks and ordering his servants. His baggage was packed into and behind
the old family carriage, and having completed his preparations about one
o'clock, he entered it, and was driven rapidly to the village.

The schooner was already at the wharf and waiting for him. Thurston met
many of his friends in the village, and in an off-hand manner explained
to them the ostensible cause of his journey. And thus, in open daylight,
gayly chatting with his friends, Thurston superintended the embarkation
of his baggage. And it was not until one by one they had shaken hands
with him, wished him a good voyage and departed, that Thurston found
himself alone with the captain in the cabin.

"Now you know, Miles, that I have not come on board to remain. When the
coast is clear I shall go on shore, get in the carriage, and return to
Dell-Delight. I must meet my wife on the beach. I must remain with her
through all. I must take her on board. You will be off Pine Bluff just
at dusk, captain?"

"Ay, ay, sir."

"You will not be a moment behind hand?"

"Trust me for that, Cap'n."

"See if the people have left."

The skipper went on deck and returned to report the coast clear.

Thurston then went on shore, entered the carriage, and was driven
homeward.

It was nearly four o'clock when he reached Dell-Delight, and there he
found the whole premises in a state of confusion. Several negroes were
on the lookout for him; and as soon as they saw him ran to the house.

"What is the meaning of all this?" he inquired, detaining one of the
hindmost.

"Oh, Marse Thuster, sir! oh, sir!" exclaimed the boy, rolling his eyes
quite wildly.

"What is the matter with the fool?"

"Oh, sir; my poor ole marse! my poor ole marse!"

"What has happened to your master? Can't you be plain, sir?"

"Oh, Marse Thuster, sir! he done fell down inter a fit, an had to be
toted off to bed."

"A fit! good heavens! has a doctor been summoned?" exclaimed Thurston,
springing from his seat.

"Oh, yes, sir! Jase be done gone arter de doctor."

Thurston stopped to inquire no farther, but ran into the house and up
into his grandfather's chamber.

There a distressing scene met his eyes. The old man, with his limbs
distorted, and his face swollen and discolored, lay in a state of
insensibility upon the bed. Two or three negro women were gathered
around him, variously occupied with rubbing his hands, chafing his
temples and wiping the oozing foam from his lips. At the foot of the bed
stood poor daft Fanny, with disheveled hair and dilated eyes, chanting a
grotesque monologue, and keeping time with a see-saw motion from side to
side. The first thing Thurston did, was to take the hand of this poor
crazed, but docile creature, and lead her from the sick-room up into her
own. He bade her remain there, and then returned to his grandfather's
bedside. In reply to his anxious questioning, he was informed that the
old man had fallen into a fit about an hour before--that a boy had been
instantly sent for the doctor, and the patient carried to bed; but that
he had not spoken since they laid him there. It would yet be an hour
before the doctor could possibly arrive, and the state of the patient
demanded instant attention.

And withal Thurston was growing very anxious upon Marian's account. The
sun was now sinking under a dark bank of clouds. The hour of his
appointed meeting with her was approaching. He felt, of course, that his
scheme must for the present be deferred--even if its accomplishment
should again seem necessary, which was scarcely possible. But Marian
would expect him. And how should he prevent her coming to the beach and
waiting for him there? He did not know where a message would most likely
now to find her, whether at Luckenough, at Old Fields or at Colonel
Thornton's. But he momentarily expected the arrival of Dr. Brightwell,
and he resolved to leave that good man in attendance at the sick bed,
while he himself should escape for a few hours; and hurry to the beach
to meet and have an explanation with his wife.

But an hour passed, and the doctor did not come.

Thurston's eyes wandered anxiously from the distorted face of the dying
man before him, to the window that commanded the approach to the house.
But no sign of the doctor was to be seen.

The sun was on the very edge of the horizon. The sufferer before him was
evidently approaching his end. Marian he knew must be on her way to the
beach. And a dreadful storm was rising.

His anxiety reached fever heat.

He could not leave the bedside of his dying relative, yet Marian must
not be permitted to wait upon the beach, exposed to the fierceness of
the storm, or worse the rudeness of his own confederates.

He took a sudden resolution, and wondered that he had not done so
before. He resolved to summon Marian as his wife to his home.

Full of this thought, he hastened down stairs and ordered Melchizedek to
put the horse to the gig and get ready to go an errand. And while the
boy was obeying his directions, Thurston penned the following lines to
Marian:

"My dear Marian--my dear, generous, long-suffering wife--come to my aid.
My grandfather has been suddenly stricken down with apoplexy, and is
dying. The physician has not yet arrived, and I cannot leave his
bedside. Return with my messenger, to assist me in taking care of the
dying man. You, who are the angel of the sick and suffering, will not
refuse me your aid. Come, never to leave me more! Our marriage shall be
acknowledged to-morrow, to-night, any time, that you in your nicer
judgment, shall approve. Come! let nothing hinder you. I will send a
message to Edith to set her anxiety at rest, or I will send for her to
be with you here. Come to me, beloved Marian. Dictate your own
conditions if you will--only come."

He had scarcely sealed this note, when the boy, hat in hand, appeared at
the door.

"Take this note, sir, jump in the gig and drive as fast as possible to
the beach below Pine Bluffs. You will see Miss Mayfield waiting there,
give her this note, and then--await her orders. Be quicker than you ever
were before," said Thurston, hurrying his messenger off.

Then, much relieved of anxiety upon Marian's account, he returned to the
sick-room and renewed his endeavors to relieve the patient.

Ah! he was far past relief now; he was stricken with death. And with
Thurston all thoughts, all feelings, all interests, even those connected
with Marian, were soon lost in that awful presence. It was the first
time he had ever looked upon death, and now, in the rushing tide of his
sinful passions and impetuous will, he was brought face to face with
this last, dread, all-conquering power! What if it were not in his own
person? What if it were in the person of an old man, very infirm, and
over-ripe for the great reaper? It was death--the final earthly end of
every living creature--death, the demolition of the human form, the
breaking up of the vital functions, the dissolution between soul and
body, the one great event that "happeneth to all;" the doom certain, the
hour uncertain; coming in infancy, youth, maturity, as often or oftener
than in age. These were the thoughts that filled Thurston's mind as he
stood and wiped the clammy dews from the brow of the dying man.

Thurston might have remained much longer, too deeply and painfully
absorbed in thought to notice the darkening of the night or the beating
of the storm, had not a gust of the rain and wind, of unusual violence,
shaken the windows.

This recalled Marian to his mind; it was nearly time for her to arrive;
he hoped that she was near the house; that she would soon be there; he
arose and went to the window to look forth into the night; but the deep
darkness prevented his seeing, as the noise of the storm prevented his
hearing the approach of any vehicle that might be near. He went back to
the bedside; the old man was breathing his life away without a struggle.
Thurston called the mulatto housekeeper to take his place, and then went
down stairs and out of the hall door, and gazed and listened for the
coming of the gig, in vain. He was just about to re-enter the hall and
close the door when the sound of wheels, dashing violently,
helter-skelter, and with break-neck speed into the yard, arrested his
attention.

"Marian! it is my dear Marian at last; but the fellow need not risk her
life to save her from the storm by driving at that rate. My own Marian!"
he exclaimed, as he hurried out, expecting to meet her.

Melchizedek alone sprang from the gig, and sank trembling and quaking at
his master's feet.

Thurston blindly pushed past him, and peered and felt in the gig. It was
empty.

"Where is the lady, sirrah? What ails you? Why don't you answer me?"
exclaimed Thurston, anxiously returning to the spot where the boy
crouched. But the latter remained speechless, trembling, groaning, and
wringing his hands. "Will you speak, idiot? I ask you where is the lady?
Was she not upon the beach? What has frightened you so? Did the horse
run away?" inquired Thurston, hurriedly, in great alarm.

"Oh, sir, marster! I 'spects she's killed!"

"Killed! Oh, my God! she has been thrown from the gig!" cried the young
man, in a piercing voice, as he reeled under this blow. In another
instant he sprang upon the poor boy and shaking him furiously, cried in
a voice of mingled grief, rage and anxiety: "Where was she thrown? Where
is she? How did it happen? Oh! villain! villain! you shall pay for this
with your life! Come and show me the spot! instantly! instantly!"

"Oh, marster, have mercy, sir! 'Twasn't along o' me an' the gig it
happened of! She wur 'parted when I got there!"

"Where? Where? Good heavens, where?" asked Thurston, nearly beside
himself.

"On de beach, sir. Jes' as I got down there, I jumped out'n de gig, and
walked along, and then I couldn't see my way, an' I turned de bull-eye
ob de lantern on de sand afore me, an' oh, marse--"

"Go, on! go on!"

"I seen de lady lying like dead, and a man jump up and run away, and
when I went nigh, I seen her all welkering in her blood, an' dis yer
lying by her," and the boy handed a small poignard to his master.

It was Thurston's own weapon, that he had lost some months previous in
the woods of Luckenough. It was a costly and curious specimen of French
taste and ingenuity. The handle was of pearl, carved in imitation of the
sword-fish, and the blade corresponded to the long pointed beak that
gives the fish that name.

Thurston scarcely noticed that it was his dagger, but pushing the boy
aside, he ran to the stables, saddled a horse with the swiftness of
thought, threw himself into his stirrups, and galloped furiously away
towards the beach.

The rain was now falling in torrents, and the wind driving it in fierce
gusts against his face. The tempest was at its very height, and it
seemed at times impossible to breast the blast--it seemed as though
steed and rider must be overthrown! Yet he lashed and spurred his horse,
and struggled desperately on, thinking with fierce anguish of Marian,
his Marian, lying wounded, helpless, alone and dying, exposed to all the
fury of the winds and waves upon that tempestuous coast, and dreading
with horror, lest before he should be able to reach her, her helpless
form, still living, might be washed off by the advancing waves. Thus he
spurred and lashed his horse, and drove him against rain and wind, and
through the darkness of the night.

With all his desperate haste, it was two hours before he approached the
beach. And as he drew near the heavy cannonading of the waves upon the
shore admonished him that the tide was at its highest point. He pressed
rapidly onward, threw himself from his horse, and ran forward to the
edge of the bank above the beach. It was only to meet the confirmation
of his worst fears! The waters were thundering against the bank upon
which he stood. The tide had come in and overswept the whole beach, and
now, lashed and driven by the wind, the waves tossed and raved and
roared with appalling fury.

Marian was gone, lost, swept away by the waves! that was the thought
that wrung from him a cry of fierce agony, piercing through all the
discord of the storm, as he ran up and down the shore, hoping nothing,
expecting nothing, yet totally unable to tear himself from the fatal
spot.

And so he wildly walked and raved, until his garments were drenched
through with the rain; until the storm exhausted its fury and subsided;
until the changing atmosphere, the still, severe cold, froze all his
clothing stiff around him; so he walked, groaning and crying and calling
despairingly upon the name of Marian, until the night waned and the
morning dawned, and the eastern horizon grew golden, then crimson, then
fiery with the coming sun.

The sky was clear, the waters calm, the sands bare and glistening in the
early sunbeams; no vestige of the storm or of the bloody outrage of the
night remained--all was peace and beauty. In the distance was a single
snow-white sail, floating swan-like on the bosom of the blue waters. All
around was beauty and peace, yet from the young man's tortured bosom
peace had fled, and remorse, vulture-like, had struck its talons deep
into his heart. He called himself a murderer, the destroyer of Marian;
he said it was his selfishness, his willfulness, his treachery, that had
exposed her to this danger, and brought her to this fate! Some outlaw,
some waterman, or fugitive negro had robbed and murdered her. Marian
usually wore a very valuable watch; probably, also, she had money about
her person--enough to have tempted the cupidity of some lawless wretch.
He shrank in horror from pursuing conjecture--it was worse than torture,
worse than madness to him. Oh, blindness and frenzy; why had he not
thought of these dangers so likely to beset her solitary path? Why had
he so recklessly exposed her to them? Vain questions, alas! vain as was
his self-reproach, his anguish and despair!




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE MISSING MARIAN.


In the meantime, how had the morning broken upon Dell-Delight? How upon
Luckenough? and how at Old Field Cottage?

At Dell-Delight the old man had expired just before the sun arose. The
two physicians that had been summoned the night previous, but had been
delayed by the storm, arrived in the morning only to see the patient
die. Many inquiries were made and much conjecture formed as to the cause
of Thurston Willcoxen's improper and unaccountable absence at such a
juncture. But Melchizedek, poor, faithful fellow, having followed his
master's steps, did not appear, and no one else upon the premises could
give any explanation relative to the movements of their young master. He
had left the bedside of his dying relative at nine o'clock the night
before, and he had not since returned--his saddle-horse was gone from
the stable--that was all that could be ascertained. Dr. Brightwell took
his departure, to answer other pressing calls. But Dr. Weismann, seeing
that there was no responsible person in charge, and having elsewhere no
urgent demands upon his time and attention, kindly volunteered to stay
and superintend affairs at Dell-Delight, until the reappearance of the
young master.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Old Field Cottage, Edith had sat up late the night before waiting for
Marian; but, seeing that she did not return, had taken it for granted
that she had remained all night with Miss Thornton, and so, without the
least uneasiness at her prolonged absence, had retired to rest. And in
the morning she arose with the same impression on her mind, gayly
looking forward to Marian's return with the visitor, and the certain
happy revelation she had promised.

She had breakfast over early, made the room very tidy, dressed Miriam in
her holiday clothes, put on her own Sunday gown, and sat down to wait
for Marian and the visitor. The morning passed slowly, in momentary
expectation of an arrival.

It was near eleven o'clock when she looked up and saw Colonel Thornton's
carriage approaching the cottage.

"There! I said so! I knew Marian had remained with Miss Thornton, and
that they would bring her home this morning. I suppose Colonel Thornton
and his sister are both with her! And now for the revelation! I wonder
what it is," said Edith, smiling to herself, as she arose and stroked
down her dress, and smoothed her ringlets, preparatory to meeting her
guests.

By this time the carriage had drawn up before the cottage gate. Edith
went out just in time to see the door opened, and Miss Thornton alight.
The lady was alone--that Edith saw at the first glance.

"What can be the meaning of this?" she asked herself, as she went
forward to welcome her visitor.

But Miss Thornton was very pale and tremulous, and she acted altogether
strangely.

"How do you do, Miss Thornton? I am very glad to see you," said Edith,
cordially offering her hand.

But the lady seized it, and drew her forcibly towards the door, saying
in a husky voice:

"Come in--come in!"

Full of surprise, Edith followed her.

"Sit down," she continued, sinking into a chair, and pointing to a
vacant one by her side.

Edith took the seat, and waited in wonder for her further speech.

"Where is Marian?" asked Miss Thornton, in an agitated voice.

"Where? Why, I believed her to be at your house!" answered Edith, in
surprise and vague fear.

"Good heaven!" exclaimed the lady, growing very pale, and trembling in
every limb. Edith started up in alarm.

"Miss Thornton, what do you mean? For mercy's sake, tell me, has
anything happened?"

"I do not know--I am not sure--I trust not--tell me! when did you see
her last? When did she leave home? this morning?"

"No! last evening, about sundown."

"And she has not returned? You have not seen her since?"

"No!"

"Did she tell you where she was going?"

"No!"

"Did she promise to come back? and when?"

"She promised to return before dark! She did not do so! I judged the
storm had detained her, and that she was with you, and I felt easy."

"Oh, God!" cried the lady, in a voice of deep distress,

"Miss Thornton! for Heaven's sake! tell me what has occurred!"

"Oh, Edith!"

"In mercy, explain yourself--Marian! what of Marian?"

"Oh, God, sustain you, Edith! what can I say to you? my own heart is
lacerated!"

"Marian! Marian! oh! what has happened to Marian! Oh! where is Marian?"

"I had hoped to find her here after all! else I had not found courage to
come!"

"Miss Thornton, this is cruel--"

"Ah! poor Edith! what you required to be told is far more cruel. Oh,
Edith! pray Heaven for fortitude?"

"I have fortitude for anything but suspense. Oh, Heaven, Miss Thornton,
relieve this suspense, or I shall suffocate!"

"Edith! Edith!" said the lady, going up and putting her arms around the
fragile form of the young widow, as to shield and support her. "Oh,
Edith! I heard a report this morning--and it may be but a report--I pray
Heaven, that it is no more--"

"Oh, go on! what was it?"

"That, that last evening on the beach during the storm, Marian
Mayfield--" Miss Thornton's voice choked.

"Oh, speak; for mercy speak! What of Marian?"

"That Marian Mayfield had been waylaid, and--"

"Murdered! Oh, God!" cried Edith, as her over-strained nerves relaxed,
and she sank in the arms of Miss Thornton.

A child's wild, frenzied shriek resounded through the house. It was the
voice of Miriam.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Luckenough that morning, the remains of the unfortunate Dr. Grimshaw
were laid out preparatory to burial. Jacquelina, in a bewildered stupor
of remorse, wandered vaguely from room to room, seeking rest and finding
none. "I have caused a fellow creature's death!" That was the envenomed
thought that corroded her heart's centre. From her bosom, too, peace had
fled. It was near noon when the news of Marian's fate reached
Luckenough, and overwhelmed the family with consternation and grief.

But Jacquelina! the effect of the tragic tale on her was nearly fatal.
She understood the catastrophe, as no one else could! She knew who
struck the fatal blow, and when and why, and under what mistake it was
struck! She felt that another crime, another death lay heavy on her
soul! It was too much! oh! it was too much! No human heart nor brain
could sustain the crushing burden, and the poor lost elf fell into
convulsions that threatened soon to terminate in death. There was no
raving, no talking; in all her frenzy, the fatal secret weighing on her
bosom did not then transpire.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before the day was out the whole county was in an uproar. Never had any
event of the neighborhood created so high an excitement or so profound a
sympathy. Great horror and amazement filled every bosom. A county
meeting spontaneously convened, and handbills were printed, large
rewards offered, and every means taken to secure the discovery of the
criminal. In the deep, absorbing sympathy for Marian's fate, the sudden
death of Professor Grimshaw, and the reasonably-to-be-expected demise of
old Mr. Cloudesley Willcoxen, passed nearly unnoticed, and were soon
forgotten. Among the most zealous in the pursuit of the unknown murderer
was Thurston Willcoxen; but the ghastly pallor of his countenance, the
wildness of his eyes, and the distraction of his manner, often varied by
fits of deep and sullen despair, excited the surprise and conjecture of
all who looked upon him.

Days passed and still no light was thrown upon the mystery. About a
fortnight after the catastrophe, however, information was brought to the
neighborhood that the corpse of a woman, answering to the description of
Marian, had been washed ashore some miles down the coast, but had been
interred by the fishermen, the day after its discovery. Many gentlemen
hurried down to the spot, and further investigation confirmed the
general opinion that the body was that of the martyred girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three weeks after this, Edith lay upon her deathbed. Her delicate frame
never recovered this last great shock. A few days before her death she
called Miriam to her bedside. The child approached; she was sadly
altered within the last few weeks; incessant weeping had dimmed her
splendid eyes, and paled her brilliant cheeks.

"Sit down upon the bed by me, my daughter," said Edith.

The child climbed up and took the indicated seat. Something of that
long-smothered fire, which had once braved the fury of the British
soldiers, kindled in the dying woman's eyes.

"Miriam, you are nearly nine years old in time, and much older than that
in thought and feeling. Miriam, your mother has not many days to live;
but in dying, she leaves you a sacred trust to be fulfilled. My child,
do you follow and understand me?"

"Yes, mamma."

"Do not weep; tears are vain and idle. There was an injured queen once
whose tears were turned to sparks of fire. So I would have yours to
turn! She came among us a young stranger girl, without fortune or
position, or any of the usual stepping-stones to social consideration.
Yet see what influence, what power she soon obtained, and what reforms
and improvements she soon effected. The county is rich in the monuments
of her young wisdom and angelic goodness. All are indebted to her; but
none so deeply as you and I. All are bound to seek out and punish her
destroyer; but none so strongly as you and I. Others have pursued the
search for the murderer with great zeal for a while; we must make that
search the one great object of our lives. Upon us devolve the right and
the duty to avenge her death by bringing her destroyer to the scaffold.
Miriam, do you hear--do you hear and understand me?"

"Yes, mamma; yes."

"Child, listen to me! I have a clue to Marian's murderer!"

Miriam started, and attended breathlessly.

"My love, it was no poor waterman or fugitive negro, tempted by want or
cupidity. It was a gentleman, Miriam."

"A gentleman?"

"Yes; one that she must have become acquainted with during her visit to
Washington three years ago. Oh, I remember her unaccountable distress in
the months that followed that visit! His name, or his assumed name,
was--attend, Miriam!--Thomas Truman."

"Thomas Truman!"

"Yes; and while you live, remember that name, until its owner hangs upon
the gallows!"

Miriam shuddered, and hid her pale face in her hands.

"Here," said Edith, taking a small packet of letters from under her
pillow. "Here, Miriam, is a portion of her correspondence with this man,
Thomas Truman--I found it in the secret drawer of her bureau. There are
several notes entreating her to give him a meeting, on the beach, at
Mossy Dell, and at other points. From the tenor of these notes, I am led
to believe that she refused these meetings; and, more than that, from
the style of one in particular I am induced to suppose that she might
have been privately married to that man. Why he should have enticed her
to that spot to destroy her life, I do not know. But this, at least, I
know: that our dearest Marian has been basely assassinated. I see reason
to suppose the assassin to have been her lover, or her husband, and that
his real or assumed name was Thomas Truman. These facts, and this little
packet of notes and letters, are all that I have to offer as testimony.
But by following a slight clue, we are sometimes led to great
discoveries."

"Why didn't you show them to the gentlemen, dear mamma? They might have
found out something by them."

"I showed them to Thurston Willcoxen, who has been so energetic in the
pursuit of the unknown murderer; but Thurston became so violently
agitated that I thought he must have fallen. And he wished very much to
retain those letters, but I would not permit them to be carried out of
my sight. When he became calmer, however, he assured me that there could
be no possible connection between the writer of these notes and the
murderer of the unfortunate girl. I, however, think differently. I think
there is a connection, and even an identity; and I think this packet may
be the means of bringing the criminal to justice; and I leave it--a
sacred trust--in your charge, Miriam. Guard it well; guard it as your
only treasure, until it has served its destined purpose. And now,
Miriam, do you know the nature of a vow?"

"Yes, mamma."

"Do you understand its solemnity--its obligation, its inviolability?"

"I think I do, mamma."

"Do you know that in the performance of your vow, if necessary, no toil,
no privation, no suffering of mind or body, no dearest interest of your
life, no strongest affection of your soul, but must be sacrificed; do
you comprehend all this?"

"Yes, mamma; I knew it before, and I have read of Jeptha and his
daughter."

"Now, Miriam, kneel down, fold your hands, and give them to me between
my own. Look into my eyes. I want you to make a vow to God and to your
dying mother, to avenge the death of Marian. Will you bind your soul by
such an obligation?"

The child was magnetized by the thrilling eyes that gazed deep into her
own. She answered:

"Yes, mamma."

"You vow in the sight of God and all his holy angels, that, as you hope
for salvation, you will devote your life with all your faculties of mind
and body, to the discovery and punishment of Marian's murderer; and also
that you will live a maiden until you become and avenger."

"I vow."

"Swear that no afterthoughts shall tempt you to falter; that happen what
may in the changing years, you will not hesitate; that though your
interests and affections should intervene, you will not suffer them to
retard you in your purpose; that no effort, no sacrifice, no privation,
no suffering of mind or body shall be spared, if needful, to the
accomplishment of your vow."

"I swear."

"You will do it! You are certain to discover the murderer, and clear up
the mystery."

The mental excitement that had carried Edith through this scene
subsided, and left her very weak, so that when Thurston Willcoxen soon
after called to see her, she was unable to receive him.

The next morning, however, Thurston repeated his visit, and was brought
to the bedside of the invalid.

Thurston was frightfully changed, the sufferings of the last month
seemed to have made him old--his countenance was worn, his voice hollow,
and his manner abstracted and uncertain.

"Edith," he asked, as he took the chair near her head, "do you feel
stronger this morning?"

"Yes--I always do in the forenoon"

"Do you feel well enough to talk of Miriam and her future?"

"Oh, yes."

"What do you propose to do with her?"

"I shall leave her to Aunt Henrietta--she will never let the child
want."

"But Mrs. Waugh is quite an old lady now. Jacquelina is insane, the
commodore and Mrs. L'Oiseau scarcely competent to take care of
themselves--and Luckenough a sad, unpromising home for a little girl."

"I know it--oh! I know it; why do you speak of it, since I can do no
otherwise?"

"To point out how you may do otherwise, dear Edith. It would have been
cruel to mention it else."

She looked up at him with surprise and inquiry.

"Edith, you have known me from my boyhood. You know what I am. Will you
leave your orphan daughter to me? You look at me in wonder; but listen,
dear Edith, and then decide. Marian--dear martyred saint! loved that
child as her own. And I loved Marian--loved her as I had never dreamed
it possible for heart to love--I cannot speak of this! it deprives me of
reason," he said, suddenly covering his eyes with his hands, while a
spasm agitated his worn face. In a few minutes he resumed.

"Look at me, Edith! the death of Marian has brought me to what you see!
My youth has melted away like a morning mist. I have not an object in
life except to carry out purposes which were dear to her benevolent
heart, and which her sudden death has left incomplete. I have not an
affection in the world except that which comes through her. I should
love this child dearly, and cherish her devotedly for Marian's sake. I
shall never change my bachelor life--but I should like to legally adopt
little Miriam. I should give her the best educational advantages, and
make her the co-heir with my young brother, Paul Douglass, of all I
possess. Say, Edith, can you trust your child to me?" He spoke
earnestly, fervently, taking her hand and pressing it, and gazing
pleadingly into her eyes.

"So you loved Marian--I even judged so when I saw you labor hardest of
all for the apprehension of the criminal. Oh, many loved her as much as
you! Colonel Thornton, Dr. Weismann, Judge Gordon, Mr. Barnwell, all
adored her! Ah! she was worthy of it."

"No more of that, dear Edith, it will overcome us both; but tell me if
you will give me your little girl?"

"Dear Thurston, your proposal is as strange and unusual as it is
generous. I thank you most sincerely, but you must give me time to look
at it and think of it. You are sincere, you are in earnest, you mean all
you say. I see that in your face; but I must reflect and take counsel
upon such an important step. Go now, dear Thurston, and return to me at
this hour to-morrow morning."

Thurston pressed her hand and departed.

The same day Edith had a visit from Mrs. Waugh, Miss Thornton and other
friends. And after consulting with them upon the proposal that had been
made her, she decided to leave Miriam in the joint guardianship of Mrs.
Waugh and Thurston Willcoxen.

And this decision was made known to Thurston when he called the next
morning.

A few days after this Edith passed to the world of spirits. And Thurston
took the orphan child to his own heart and home.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN MERRY ENGLAND.


When Marian recovered consciousness she found herself on board ship and
a lady attending to her wants. When she was at last able to ask how she
came there the lady nurse told the following story:

"On the evening of Holy Thursday, about the time the storm arose, our
vessel lay to opposite a place on St. Mary's coast, called Pine Bluff,
and the mate put off in a boat to land a passenger; as they neared the
shore they met another boat rowed by two men, who seemed so anxious to
escape observation, as to row away as fast as they could without
answering our boat's salute. Our mate thought very strange of it at the
time; but the mysterious boat was swiftly hid in the darkness, and our
boat reached the land. The mate and his man had to help to carry the
passenger's trunks up to the top of the bluff, and a short distance
beyond, where a carriage was kept waiting for him, and after they had
parted from him, they returned down the bluff by a shorter though
steeper way; and just as they reached the beach, in the momentary lull
of the storm, they heard groans. Immediately the men connected those
sounds with the strange boat they had seen row away, and they raised the
wick in the lantern, and threw its light around, and soon discovered you
upon the sands, moaning, though nearly insensible. They naturally
concluded that you had been the victim of the men in the boat, who were
probably pirates. Their first impulse was to pursue the carriage, and
get you placed within it, and taken to some farmhouse for assistance;
but a moment's reflection convinced them that such a plan was futile, as
it was impossible to overtake the carriage. There was also no house near
the coast. They thought it likely that you were a stranger to that part
of the country. And in the hurry and agitation of the moment, they could
devise nothing better than to put you in the boat, and bring you on
board this vessel. That is the way you came here."

The grateful gaze of Marian thanked the lady, and she asked:

"Tell me the name of my angel nurse."

"Rachel Holmes," answered the lady, blushing gently. "My husband is a
surgeon in the United States army. He is on leave of absence now for the
purpose of taking me home to see my father and mother--they live in
London. I am of English parentage."

Marian feebly pressed her hand, and then said:

"You are very good to ask me no questions, and I thank you with all my
heart; for, dear lady, I can tell you nothing."

The next day the vessel which had put into New York Harbor on call,
sailed for Liverpool.

Marian slowly improved. Her purposes were not very clear or strong
yet--mental and physical suffering and exhaustion had temporarily
weakened and obscured her mind. Her one strong impulse was to escape, to
get away from the scenes of such painful associations and memories, and
to go home, to take refuge in her own native land. The thought of
returning to Maryland, to meet the astonishment, the wonder, the
conjectures, the inquiries, and perhaps the legal investigation that
might lead to the exposure and punishment of Thurston, was insupportable
to her heart. No, no! rather let the width of the ocean divide her from
all those horrors. Undoubtedly her friends believed her dead--let it be
so--let her remain as dead to them. She should leave no kindred behind
her, to suffer by her loss--should wrong no human being. True, there
were Miriam and Edith! But that her heart was exhausted by its one
great, all-consuming grief, it must have bled for them! Yet they had
already suffered all they could possibly suffer from the supposition of
her death--it was now three weeks since they had reason to believe her
dead, and doubtless kind Nature had already nursed them into resignation
and calmness, that would in time become cheerfulness. If she should go
back, there would be the shock, the amazement, the questions, the
prosecutions, perhaps the conviction, and the sentence, and the horrors
of a state prison for one the least hair of whose head she could not
willingly hurt; and then her own early death, or should she survive, her
blighted life. Could these consequences console or benefit Edith or
Miriam? No, no, they would augment grief. It was better to leave things
as they were--better to remain dead to them--a dead sorrow might be
forgotten--living one never! For herself, it was better to take fate as
she found it--to go home to England, and devote her newly restored life,
and her newly acquired fortune, to those benevolent objects that had so
lately occupied so large a share of her heart. Some means also should be
found--when she should grow stronger, and her poor head should be
clearer, so that she should be able to think--to make Edith and Miriam
the recipients of all the benefit her wealth could possibly confer upon
them. And so in recollecting, meditating, planning, and trying to reason
correctly, and to understand her embarrassed position, and her difficult
duty, passed the days of her convalescence. As her mind cleared, the
thought of Angelica began to give her uneasiness--she could not bear to
think of leaving that young lady exposed to the misfortune of becoming
Thurston's wife--and her mind toiled with the difficult problem of how
to shield Angelica without exposing Thurston.

A few days after this, Marian related to her kind friends all of her
personal history that she could impart, without compromising the safety
of others: and she required and received from them the promise of their
future silence in regard to her fate.

As they approached the shores of England, Marian improved so fast as to
be able to go on deck. And though extremely pale and thin, she could no
longer be considered an invalid, when, on the thirtieth day out, their
ship entered the mouth of the Mersey. Upon their arrival at Liverpool,
it had been the intention of Dr. Holmes and his wife to proceed to
London; but now they decided to delay a few hours until they should see
Marian safe in the house of her friends. The Rev. Theodore Burney was a
retired dissenting clergyman, living on his modest patrimony in a
country house a few miles out of Liverpool, and now at eighty years
enjoying a hale old age. Dr. Holmes took a chaise and carried Marian and
Rachel out to the place. The house was nearly overgrown with climbing
vines, and the grounds were beautiful with the early spring verdure and
flowers. The old man was overjoyed to meet Marian, and he received her
with a father's welcome. He thanked her friends for their care and
attention, and pressed them to come and stay several days or weeks. But
Dr. Holmes and Rachel simply explained that their visit was to their
parents in London, which city they were anxious to reach as soon as
possible, and, thanking their host, they took leave of him, of his old
wife, and Marian, and departed.

The old minister looked hard at Marian.

"You are pale, my dear. Well, I always heard that our fresh island roses
withered in the dry heat of the American climate, and now I know it! But
come! we shall soon see a change and what wonders native air and native
manners and morning walks will work in the way of restoring bloom."

Marian did not feel bound to reply, and her ill health remained charged
to the account of our unlucky atmosphere.

The next morning, the old gentleman took Marian into his library, told
her once more how very little surprised, and how very glad he was that
instead of writing, she had come in person. He then made her acquainted
with certain documents, and informed her that it would be necessary she
should go up to London, and advised her to do so just as soon as she
should feel herself sufficiently rested. Marian declared herself to be
already recovered of fatigue, and anxious to proceed with the business
of settlement. Their journey was thereupon fixed for the second day from
that time. And upon the appointed morning Marian, attended by the old
clergyman, set out for the mammoth capital, where, in due season, they
arrived. A few days were busily occupied amid the lumber of law
documents, before Marian felt sufficiently at ease to advise her
friends, the Holmeses, of her presence in town. Only a few hours had
elapsed, after reading her note and address, before she received a call
from Mrs. Holmes and her father, Dr. Coleman, a clergyman of high
standing in the Church of England. Friendliness and a beautiful
simplicity characterized the manners of both father and daughter. Rachel
entreated Marian to return with her and make her father's house her home
while in London. She spoke with an affectionate sincerity that Marian
could neither doubt nor resist, and when Dr. Coleman cordially seconded
his daughter's invitation, Marian gratefully accepted the proffered
hospitality. And the same day Mr. Burney bade a temporary farewell to
his favorite, and departed for Liverpool, and Marian accompanied her
friend Rachel Holmes to the house of Dr. Coleman.

       *       *       *       *       *

We may not pause to trace minutely the labors of love in which Marian
sought at once to forget her own existence and to bless that of others.

A few events only it will be necessary to record.

In the very first packet of Baltimore papers received by Dr. Holmes,
Marian saw announced the marriage of Angelica Le Roy to Henry Barnwell.
She knew by the date, that it took place within two weeks after she
sailed from the shores of America. And her anxiety on that young lady's
account was set at rest.

After a visit of two months, Dr. Holmes and his lovely wife prepared to
return to the United States. And the little fortune that Marian intended
to settle upon Edith and Miriam, was intrusted to the care of the worthy
surgeon, to be invested in bank stock for their benefit, as soon as he
should reach Baltimore. It was arranged that the donor should remain
anonymous, or be known only as a friend of Miriam's father.

In the course of a few months, Marian's institution, "The Children's
Home," was commenced, and before the end of the first year, it was
completed and filled with inmates.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THURSTON.


After a stormy passage in life comes a long calm, preceding, perhaps,
another storm. I must pass rapidly over several years.

Thurston was a new being. He resolved to devote his time, talents and
means, first of all to carrying on and perfecting those works of
education and reform started by Marian in his own neighborhood.

But this was a very mournful consolation, for in every thought and act
of the whole work, the memory of Marian was so intimately woven, that
her loss was felt with double keenness. Every effort was doubly
difficult; every obstacle was doubly great; every discouragement doubly
hopeless, because she was not there with her very presence inspiring
hope and energy--and every success was robbed of its joy, because she
was not there to rejoice with him. He missed her in all things; he
missed her everywhere. Solitude had fallen upon all the earth from which
she had passed away. Because her face was gone, all other faces were
repulsive to his sight; because her voice was silent, all other voices
were discordant to his ear; because her love was impossible, all other
friendships and affections were repugnant to his heart; and Thurston,
young, handsome, accomplished and wealthy, became a silent and lonely
man.

The estate left by old Cloudesley Willcoxen had exceeded even the
reports of his hoarded wealth. The whole estate, real and personal, was
bequeathed to his eldest grandson, Thurston Willcoxen, upon the sole
condition that it should not be divided.

Dell-Delight, with its natural beauties, was a home that wealth could
convert into a material paradise. Once it had been one of Thurston's
happiest dreams to adorn and beautify the matchless spot, and make it
worthy of Marian, its intended mistress. Now he could not bear to think
of those plans of home-beauty and happiness so interwoven with fond
thoughts of her. So poignant were the wounds of association, that he
could scarcely endure to remain in a neighborhood so filled with
reminiscences of her; and he must have fled the scene, and taken refuge
from memory in foreign travel, had he suffered from bereavement and
sorrow only; but he was tortured by remorse, and remorse demands to
suffer and to atone for sin. And, therefore, though it spiritually
seemed like being bound to a wheel and broken by its every turn, he was
true to his resolution to remain in the county and devote his time,
wealth, and abilities to the completion of Marian's unfinished works of
benevolence.

Dell-Delight remained unaltered. He could not bear to make it beautiful,
since Marian could not enjoy its beauty. Only such changes were made as
were absolutely necessary in organizing his little household. A distant
relative, a middle-aged lady of exemplary piety, but of reduced fortune,
was engaged to come and preside at his table, and take charge of
Miriam's education, for Miriam was established at Dell-Delight. It is
true that Mrs. Waugh would have wished this arrangement otherwise. She
would have preferred to have the orphan girl with herself, but Commodore
Waugh would not even hear of Miriam's coming to Luckenough with any
patience--"For if her mother had married 'Grim,' none of these
misfortunes would have happened," he said.

Even Jacquelina had been forced to fly from Luckenough; no one knew
wither; some said that she had run away; some knew that she had retired
to a convent; some said only to escape the din and turmoil of the world,
and find rest to her soul in a few months or years of quiet and silence,
and some said she had withdrawn for the purpose of taking the vows and
becoming a nun. Mrs. Waugh knew all about it, but she said nothing,
except to discourage inquiry upon the subject. In the midst of the
speculation following Jacquelina's disappearance, Cloudesley Mornington
had come home. He staid a day or two at Luckenough, a week at
Dell-Delight, and then took himself, with his broken heart, off from the
neighborhood, and got ordered upon a distant and active service.

There were also other considerations that rendered it desirable for
Miriam to reside at Dell-Delight, rather than at Luckenough: Commodore
Waugh would have made a terrible guardian to a child so lately used to
the blessedness of a home with her mother--and withal, so shy and
sensitive as to breathe freely only in an atmosphere of peace and
affection, and Luckenough would have supplied a dark, and dreary home
for her whose melancholy temperament and recent bereavements rendered
change of scene and the companionship of other children, absolute
necessities. It was for these several reasons that Mrs. Waugh was forced
to consent that Thurston should carry his little adopted daughter to his
own home. Thurston's household consisted now of himself, Mrs. Morris,
his housekeeper; Alice Morris, her daughter; Paul Douglass, his own
half-brother; poor Fanny, and lastly, Miriam.

Mrs. Morris was a lady of good family, but decayed fortune, of sober
years and exemplary piety. In closing her terms with Mr. Willcoxen, her
one great stipulation had been that she should bring her daughter, whom
she declared to be too "young and giddy" to be trusted out of her own
sight, even to a good boarding school.

Mr. Willcoxen expressed himself rather pleased than otherwise at the
prospect of Miriam's having a companion, and so the engagement was
closed.

Alice Morris was a hearty, cordial, blooming hoyden, really about ten or
eleven years of age, but seeming from her fine growth and proportions,
at least thirteen or fourteen.

Paul Douglass was a fine, handsome, well-grown boy of fourteen, with an
open, manly forehead, shaded with clustering, yellow curls, as soft and
silky as a girl's, and a full, beaming, merry blue eye, whose flashing
glances were the most mirth-provoking to all upon whom they chanced to
light. Paul was, and ever since his first arrival in the house had been,
"the life of the family." His merry laugh and shout were the pleasantest
sounds in all the precincts of Dell-Delight. When Paul first heard that
there was to be an invasion of "women and girls" into Dell-Delight, he
declared he had rather there had been an irruption of the Goths and
Vandals at once--for if there were any folks he could not get along
with, they were "the gals." Besides which, he was sure now to have the
coldest seat around the fire, the darkest place at the table, the
backward ride in the carriage, and to get the necks of chickens and the
tails of fishes for his share of the dinner. Boys were always put upon
by the girls, and sorry enough he was, he said, that any were coming to
the house. And he vowed a boyish vow--"by thunder and lightning"--that
he would torment the girls to the very best of his ability.

Girls, forsooth! girls coming to live there day and night, and eat, and
drink, and sleep, and sit, and sew, and walk up and down through the
halls, and parlors, and chambers of Dell-Delight--girls, with their
airs, and affectations, and pretensions, and exactions--girls--pah! the
idea was perfectly disgusting and offensive. He really did wonder at
"Brother," but then he already considered "Brother" something of an old
bachelor, and old bachelors would be queer.

But Thurston well knew how to smite the rock, and open the fountain of
sympathy in the lad's heart. He said nothing in reply to the boy's saucy
objections, but on the evening that little Miriam arrived, he beckoned
Paul into the parlor, where the child sat, alone, and pointing her out
to him, said in a low tone:

"Look at her; she has lost all her friends--she has just come from her
mother's grave--she is strange, and sad, and lonesome. Go, try to amuse
her."

"I'm going to her, though I hardly know how," replied the lad, moving
toward the spot where the abstracted child sat deeply musing.

"Miriam! Is that your name," he asked, by way of opening the
conversation.

"Yes," replied the child, very softly and shyly.

"It's a very heathenish--oh, Lord!--I mean it's a very pretty name is
Miriam, it's a Bible name, too. I don't know but what it's a saint's
name also."

The little girl made no reply, and the boy felt at a loss what to say
next. After fidgeting from one foot to the other he began again.

"Miriam, shall I show you my books--Scott's poems, and the Waverley
novels, and Milton's Paradise, and--"

"No, I thank you," interrupted the girl, uneasily.

"Well, would you like to see my pictures--two volumes of engravings, and
a portfolio full of sketches?"

"No, thank you."

"Shall I bring you my drawer full of minerals? I have got--"

"I don't want them, please."

"Well, then, would you like the dried bugs? I've got whole cards of them
under a glass case, and--"

"I don't want them either, please."

"Dear me! I have not got anything else to amuse you with. What do you
want?" exclaimed Paul, and he walked off in high dudgeon.

The next day fortune favored Paul in his efforts to please Miriam. He
had a tame white rabbit, and he thought that the child would like it for
a pet--so he got up very early in the morning, and washed the rabbit
"clean as a new penny," and put it under a new box to get dry while he
rode to C---- and bought a blue ribbon to tie around its neck. This jaunt
made Paul very late at breakfast, but he felt rewarded when afterward he
gave the rabbit to old Jenny, and asked her to give it to the little
girl--and when he heard the latter say--"Oh, what a pretty little thing!
tell Paul, thanky!" After this, by slow degrees, he was enabled to
approach "the little blackbird" without alarming her. And after a while
he coaxed her to take a row in his little boat, and a ride on his little
pony--always qualifying his attentions by saying that he did not like
girls as a general thing, but that she was different from others. And
Mr. Willcoxen witnessed, with much satisfaction, the growing friendship
between the girl and boy, for they were the two creatures in the world
who divided all the interest he felt in life. The mutual effect of the
children upon each other's characters was very beneficent; the gay and
joyous spirits of Paul continually charmed Miriam away from those fits
of melancholy, to which she was by temperament and circumstances a prey,
while the little girl's shyness and timidity taught Paul to tame his own
boisterous manners for her sake.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Waugh had not forgotten her young _protége_. She came as often as
possible to Dell-Delight, to inquire after the health and progress of
the little girl.

It is not to be supposed, in any neighborhood where there existed
managing mammas and unmarried daughters, that a young gentleman,
handsome, accomplished, wealthy, and of good repute, should remain
unmolested in his bachelorhood. Indeed, the matrons and maidens of his
own circle seemed to think themselves individually aggrieved by the
young heir's mode of life. And many were the dinners and evening parties
got up for his sake, in vain, for to their infinite disgust, Thurston
always returned an excuse instead of an acceptance.

At length the wounded self-esteem of the community received a healing
salve, in the form of a report that Mr. Willcoxen had withdrawn from the
gay world, in order the better to prepare himself for the Christian
ministry. A report that, in twelve months, received its confirmation in
the well established fact that Thurston Willcoxen was a candidate for
holy orders.

And in the meantime the young guardian did not neglect his youthful
charge, but in strict interpretation of his assumed duties of
guardianship, he had taken the education of the girl and boy under his
own personal charge.

"Many hard-working ministers of the Gospel have received pupils to
educate for hire. Why may not I, with more time at my command, reserve
the privilege of educating my own adopted son and daughter," he said,
and acting upon that thought, had fitted up a little school-room
adjoining his library, where, in the presence of Mrs. Morris, Miriam and
Paul pursued their studies, Mrs. Morris hearing such recitations as lay
within her province, and Mr. Willcoxen attending to the classical and
mathematical branches. Thus passed many months, and every month the
hearts of the children were knitted closer to each other and to their
guardian.

And Thurston Willcoxen "grew in favor, with God and man." His name
became the synonym for integrity, probity and philanthropy. He built a
church and a free-school, and supported both at his own expense. In the
third year after entering upon his inheritance, he was received into
holy orders; and two years after, he was elected pastor of his native
parish. Thus time went by, and brought at length the next eventful epoch
of our domestic history--that upon which Miriam completed her sixteenth
year.




CHAPTER XXX.

MIRIAM.


Six years had passed away. Thurston Willcoxen was the most beloved and
honored man, as well as the most distinguished clergyman of his day and
state. His church was always crowded, except when he changed with some
brother minister, whose pulpit was within reach--in which case, a great
portion of his congregation followed him. Many flattering "calls" had
the gifted and eloquent country parson received to metropolitan
parishes; but he remained the faithful shepherd of his own flock as long
as they would hear his voice.

As Miriam grew into womanhood prudence kept her silent on the subject of
her strange vow. She, however, preserved in her memory the slight
indexes that she already had in possession--namely, beginning with
Marian's return after her visit to Washington--her changed manner, her
fits of reverie, her melancholy when she returned empty-handed from the
post-office, her joy when she received letters, which she would read in
secret and in silence, or when questioned concerning them, would gently
but firmly decline to tell from whom or whence they came; the
house-warming at Luckenough, where Marian suddenly became so bright and
gay, and the evening succeeding, when she returned home through night
and storm, and in such anguish of mind, that she wept all night; and the
weeks of unexplained, unaccountable distress that followed this! All
these things Miriam recalled, and studied if by any means they might
direct her in the discovery of the guilty.

And her faithful study had ended in her assurance of one or two
facts--or one or two links, perhaps, we should say, in the chain of
evidence. The first was, that Marian's mysterious lover had been present
in the neighborhood, and perhaps, in the mansion at the time of the
house-warming at Luckenough--that he had met her once or more, and that
his name was not Thomas Truman--that the latter was an assumed name,
for, with all her observation and astute investigation, she had not been
able to find that any one of the name of Truman had ever been seen or
heard of in the county.

She was sure, also, that she had seen the man twice, both times in night
and storm, when she had wandered forth in search of Marian.

She remembered well the strange figure of that man--the tall form
shrouded in the black cloak--the hat drawn over the eyes--the faint
spectral gleam of the clear-cut profile--the peculiar fall of light and
shade, the decided individuality of air and gait--all was distinct as a
picture in her memory, and she felt sure that she would be able to
identify that man again.

Up to this time, the thought of her secret vow, and her life's mission,
had afforded only a romantic and heroic excitement; but the day was fast
approaching when these indexes she retained, should point to a clue that
should lead through a train of damning circumstantial evidence destined
to test her soul by an unexampled trial.

Paul Douglass had grown up to be a tall and handsome youth, of a very
noble, frank, attractive countenance and manners. To say that he loved
Miriam is only to say that he loved himself. She mingled with every
thought, and feeling, and purpose of his heart.

And when, at last, the time came that Paul had to leave home for
Baltimore, to remain absent all winter, for the purpose of attending the
course of lectures at the medical college, Miriam learned the pain of
parting, and understood how impossible happiness would be for her, with
Paul away, on naval or military duty, more than half their lives, and
for periods of two, three, or five years; and after that she never said
another word in favor of his wearing Uncle Sam's livery, although she
had often expressed a wish that he should enter the army.

Miriam's affection for Paul was so profound and quiet, that she did not
know its depth or strength. As she had not believed that parting from
him would be painful until the event had taught her, so even now she did
not know how intertwined with every chord and fibre of her heart and how
identical with her life, was her love for Paul. She was occupied by a
more enthusiastic devotion to her "brother," as she called her guardian.

The mysterious sorrow, the incurable melancholy of a man like Thurston
Willcoxen, could not but invest him with peculiar interest and even
strange fascination for one of Miriam's enthusiastic, earnest
temperament. She loved him with more than a daughter's love; she loved
him with all the impassioned earnestness of her nature; her heart
yearned as it would break with its wild, intense longing to do him some
good, to cure his sorrow, to make him happy. There were moments when but
for the sweet shyness that is ever the attendant and conservator of such
pure feeling, this wild desire was strong enough to cast her at his
feet, to embrace his knees, and with tears beseech him to let her into
that dark, sorrowful bosom, to see if she could make any light and joy
there. She feared that he had sinned, that his incurable sorrow was the
gnawing tooth of that worm that never dieth, preying on his heart; but
she doubted, too, for what could he have done to plunge his soul in such
a hell of remorse? He commit a crime? Impossible! the thought was
treason; a sin to be repented of and expiated. His fame was fairest of
the fair, his name most honored among the, honorable. If not remorse,
what then was the nature of his life-long sorrow? Many, many times she
revolved this question in her mind. And as she matured in thought and
affection, the question grew more earnest and importunate. Oh, that he
would unburden his heart to her; oh! that she might share and alleviate
his griefs. If "all earnest desires are prayers," then prayer was
Miriam's "vital breath and native air" indeed; her soul earnestly
desired, prayed, to be able to give her sorrowing brother peace.




CHAPTER XXXI.

DREAMS AND VISIONS.


Winter waned. Mrs. Waugh had attended the commodore to the South, for
the benefit of his health, and they had not yet returned.

Mrs. Morris and Alice were absent on a long visit to a relative in
Washington City, and were not expected back for a month. Paul remained
in Baltimore, attending the medical lectures.

The house at Dell-Delight was very sad and lonely. The family consisted
of only Thurston, Fanny and Miriam.

A change had also passed over poor Fanny's malady. She was no longer the
quaint, fantastical creature, half-lunatic, half-seeress, singing
snatches of wild songs through the house--now here, now there--now
everywhere, awaking smiles and merriment in spite of pity, and keeping
every one alive about her. Her bodily health had failed, her animal
spirits departed; she never sang nor smiled, but sat all day in her
eyrie chamber, lost in deep and concentrated study, her face having the
care-worn look of one striving to recall the past, to gather up and
reunite the broken links of thought, memory and understanding.

At last, one day, Miriam received a letter from Paul, announcing the
termination, of the winter's course of lectures, the conclusion of the
examination of medical candidates, the successful issue of his own
trial, in the acquisition of his diploma, and finally his speedy return
home.

Miriam's impulsive nature rebounded from all depressing thoughts, and
she looked forward with gladness to the arrival of Paul.

He came toward the last of the week.

Mr. Willcoxen, roused for a moment from his sad abstraction, gave the
youth a warm welcome.

Miriam received him with a bashful, blushing joy.

He had passed through Washington City on his way home, and had spent a
day with Mrs. Morris and her friends, and he had brought away strange
news of them.

Alice, he said, had an accepted suitor, and would probably be a bride
soon.

A few days after his return, Paul found Miriam in the old wainscoted
parlor seated by the fire. She appeared to be in deep and painful
thought. Her elbow rested on the circular work-table, her head was bowed
upon her hand, and her face was concealed by the drooping black
ringlets.

"What is the matter, dear, sister?" he asked, in that tender, familiar
tone, with which he sometimes spoke to her.

"Oh, Paul, I am thinking of our brother! Can nothing soothe or cheer
him, Paul? Can nothing help him? Can we do him no good at all? Oh, Paul!
I brood so much over his trouble! I long so much to comfort him, that I
do believe it is beginning to affect my reason, and make me 'see visions
and dream dreams.' Tell me--do you think anything can be done for him?"

"Ah, I do not know! I have just left his study, dear Miriam, where I
have had a long and serious conversation with him."

"And what was it about? May I know?"

"You must know, dearest Miriam, it concerned yourself and--me!" said
Paul, and he took a seat by her side, and told her how much he loved
her, and that he had Thurston's consent to asking her hand in marriage.

Miriam replied:

"Paul, there is one secret that I have never imparted to you--not that I
wished to keep it from you, but that nothing has occurred to call it
out--"

She paused, while Paul regarded her in much curiosity.

"What is it, Miriam?" he at last inquired.

"I promised my dying mother, and sealed the promise with an oath, never
to be a bride until I shall have been--"

"What, Miriam?"

"An avenger of blood!"

"Miriam!"

It was all he said, and then he remained gazing at her, as if he doubted
her perfect sanity.

"I am not mad, dear Paul, though you look as if you thought so."

"Explain yourself, dear Miriam."

"I am going to do so. You remember Marian Mayfield?" she said, her face
beginning to quiver with emotion.

"Yes! yes! well?"

"You remember the time and manner of her death?"

"Yes--yes!"

"Oh, Paul! that stormy night death fell like scattering lightning, and
struck three places at once! But, oh, Paul! such was the consternation
and grief excited by the discovery of Marian's assassination, that the
two other sudden deaths passed almost unnoticed, except by the
respective families of the deceased. Child as I then was, Paul, I think
it was the tremendous shock of her sudden and dreadful death, that threw
me entirely out of my center, so that I have been erratic ever since.
She was more than a mother to me, Paul; and if I had been born hers, I
could not have loved her better--I loved her beyond all things in life.
In my dispassionate, reflective moments. I am inclined to believe that I
have never been quite right since the loss of Marian. Not but that I am
reconciled to it--knowing that she must be happy--only, Paul, I often
feel that something is wrong here and here," said Miriam, placing her
hand upon her forehead and upon her heart.

"But your promise, Miriam--your promise," questioned Paul, with
increased anxiety.

"Ay, true! Well, Paul, I promised to devote my whole life to the pursuit
and apprehension of her murderer; and never to give room in my bosom to
any thought of love or marriage until that murderer should hang from n
gallows; and I sealed that promise with a solemn oath."

"That was all very strange, dear Miriam."

"Paul, yes it was--and it weighs upon me like lead. Paul, if two things
could be lifted off my heart, I should be happy. I should be happy as a
freed bird."

"And what are they, dear Miriam? What weights are they that I have not
power to lift from your heart?"

"Surely you may surmise--the first is our brother's sadness that
oppresses my spirits all the time; the second is the memory of that
unaccomplished vow; so equally do these two anxieties divide my
thoughts, that they seem connected--seem to be parts of the same
responsibility--and I even dreamed that the one could be accomplished
only with the other."

"Dearest Miriam, let me assure you, that such dreams and visions are but
the effect of your isolated life--they come from an over-heated brain
and over-strained nerves. And you must consent to throw off those
self-imposed weights, and be happy and joyous as a young creature
should."

"Alas, how can I throw them off, dear Paul?"

"In this way--first, for my brother's life-long sorrow, since you can
neither cure nor alleviate it, turn your thoughts away from it. As for
your vow, two circumstances combine to absolve you from it; the first is
this--that you were an irresponsible infant, when you were required to
make it--the second is, that it is impossible to perform it; these two
considerations fairly release you from its obligations. Look upon these
matters in this rational light, and all your dark and morbid dreams and
visions will disappear; and we shall have you joyous as any young bird,
sure enough. And I assure you, that your cheerfulness will be one of the
very best medicines for our brother. Will you follow my advice?"

"No, no, Paul! I cannot follow it in either instance! I cannot, Paul! it
is impossible! I cannot steel my heart against sympathy with his
sorrows, nor can I so ignore the requirements of my solemn vow. I do not
by any means think its accomplishment an impossibility, nor was it in
ignorance of its nature that I made it. No, Paul! I knew what I
promised, and I know that its performance is possible. Therefore I can
not feel absolved! I must accomplish my work; and you, Paul, if you love
me, must help me to do it."

"I would serve you with my life, Miriam, in anything reasonable and
possible. But how can I help you? How can you discharge such an
obligation? You have not even a clue!"

"Yes, I have a clue, Paul."

"You have? What is it? Why have you never spoken of it before?"

"Because of its seeming unimportance. The clue is so slight, that it
would be considered none at all, by others less interested than myself."

"What is it, then? At least allow me the privilege of knowing, and
judging of its importance."

"I am about to do so," said Miriam, and she commenced and told him all
she knew, and also all she suspected of the circumstances that preceded
the assassination on the beach. In conclusion, she informed him of the
letters in her possession.

"And where are now those letters, Miriam? What are they like? What is
their purport? It seems to me that they would not only give a hint, but
afford direct evidence against that demoniac assassin. And it seems
strange to me that they were not examined, with a view to that end."

"Paul, they were; but they did not point out the writer, even. There was
a note among them--a note soliciting a meeting with Marian, upon the
very evening, and upon the very spot when and where the murder was
committed! But that note contains nothing to indicate the identity of
its author. There are, besides, a number of foreign letters written in
French, and signed 'Thomas Truman,' no French name, by-the-bye, a
circumstance which leads me to believe that it must have been an assumed
one."

"And those French letters give no indication of the writer, either?"

"I am not sufficiently acquainted with that language to read it in
manuscript, which, you know, is much more difficult than print. But I
presume they point to nothing definitely, for my dear mother showed them
to Mr. Willcoxen, who took the greatest interest in the discovery of the
murderer, and he told her that those letters afforded not the slightest
clue to the perpetrator of the crime, and that whoever might have been
the assassin, it certainly could not have been the author of those
letters. He wished to take them with him, but mother declined to give
them up; she thought it would be disrespect to Marian's memory to give
her private correspondence up to a stranger, and so she told him. He
then said that of all men, certainly he had the least right to claim
them, and so the matter rested. But mother always believed they held the
key to the discovery of the guilty party; and afterward she left them to
me, with the charge that I should never suffer them to pass from my
possession until they had fulfilled their destiny of witnessing against
the murderer--for whatever Mr. Willcoxen might think, mother felt
convinced that the writer of those letters and the murderer of Marian
was the same person."

"Tell me more about those letters."

"Dear Paul, I know nothing more about them; I told you that I was not
sufficiently familiar with the French language to read them."

"But it is strange that you never made yourself acquainted with their
contents by getting some one else to read them for you."

"Dear Paul, you know that I was a mere child when they first came into
my possession, accompanied with the charge that I should never part with
them until they had done their office. I felt bound by my promise, I was
afraid of losing them, and of those persons that I could trust none knew
French, except our brother, and he had already pronounced them
irrelevant to the question. Besides, for many reasons, I was shy of
intruding upon brother."

"Does he know that you have the packet?"

"I suppose he does not even know that."

"I confess," said Paul, "that if Thurston believed them to have no
connection with the murder, I have so much confidence in his excellent
judgment, that I am inclined to reverse my hasty opinion, and to think
as he does, at least until I see the letters. I remember, too, that the
universal opinion at the time was that the poor young lady had fallen a
victim to some marauding waterman--the most likely thing to have
happened. But, to satisfy you, Miriam, if you will trust me with those
letters, I will give them a thorough and impartial study, and then, if I
find no clue to the perpetrator of that diabolical deed, I hope, Miriam,
that you will feel yourself free from the responsibility of pursuing the
unknown demon--a pursuit which I consider worse than a wild-goose
chase."

They were interrupted by the entrance of the boy with the mail bag. Paul
emptied the contents of it upon the table. There were letters for Mr.
Willcoxen, for Miriam, and for Paul himself. Those for Mr. Willcoxen
were sent up to him by the boy. Miriam's letter was from Alice Morris,
announcing her approaching marriage with Olive Murray, a young lawyer of
Washington, and inviting and entreating Miriam to come to the city and
be her bridesmaid. Paul's letters were from some of his medical
classmates. By the time they had read and discussed the contents of
their epistles, a servant came in to replenish the fire and lay the
cloth for tea.

When Mr. Willcoxen joined them at supper, he laid a letter on Miriam's
lap, informing her that it was from Mrs. Morris, who advised them of her
daughter's intended marriage, and prayed them to be present at the
ceremony. Miriam replied that she had received a communication to the
same effect.

"Then, my dear, we will go up to Washington and pass a few weeks, and
attend this wedding, and see the inauguration of Gen. ----. You lead too
lonely a life for one of your years, love. I see it affects your health
and spirits. I have been too selfish and oblivious of you, in my
abstraction, dear child; but it shall be so no longer. You shall enter
upon the life better suited to your age."

Miriam's eyes thanked his care. For many a day Thurston had not come
thus far out of himself, and his doing so now was hailed as a happy omen
by the young people.

Their few preparations were soon completed, and on the first of March
they went to Washington City.




CHAPTER XXXII.

DISCOVERIES.


On arriving at Washington, our party drove immediately to the Mansion
House, where they had previously secured rooms.

The city was full of strangers from all parts of the country, drawn
together by the approaching inauguration of one of the most popular
Presidents that ever occupied the White House.

As soon as our party made known their arrival to their friends, they
were inundated with calls and invitations. Brother clergymen called upon
Mr. Willcoxen, and pressed upon him the freedom of their houses. Alice
Morris and Mrs. Moulton, the relative with whom she was staying, called
upon Miriam, and insisted that she should go home with them, to remain
until after the wedding. But these offers of hospitality were gratefully
declined by the little set, who preferred to remain together at their
hotel.

The whole scene of metropolitan life, in its most stirring aspect, was
entirely new and highly interesting to our rustic beauty. Amusements of
every description were rife. The theatres, exhibition halls, saloons and
concert rooms held out their most attractive temptations, and night
after night were crowded with the gay votaries of fashion and of
pleasure. While the churches, and lyceums, and lecture-rooms had greater
charms for the more seriously inclined. The old and the young, the grave
and the gay, found no lack of occupation, amusement and instruction to
suit their several tastes or varying moods. The second week of their
visit, the marriage of Alice Morris and Oliver Murray came off, Miriam
serving as bridesmaid, Dr. Douglass as groomsman, and Mr. Willcoxen as
officiating minister.

But it is not with these marriage festivities that we have to do, but
with the scenes that immediately succeed them.

From the time of Mr. Willcoxen's arrival in the city, he had not ceased
to exercise his sacred calling. His fame had long before preceded him to
the capital, and since his coming he had been frequently solicited to
preach and to lecture.

Not from love of notoriety--not from any such ill-placed, vain glory,
but from the wish to relieve some overtasked brother of the heat and
burden of at least one day; and possibly by presenting truth in a newer
and stronger light to do some good, did Thurston Willcoxen, Sabbath
after Sabbath, and evening after evening, preach in the churches or
lecture before the lyceum. Crowds flocked to hear him, the press spoke
highly of his talents and his eloquence, the people warmly echoed the
opinion, and Mr. Willcoxen, against his inclination, became the clerical
celebrity of the day.

But from all this unsought world-worship he turned away a weary,
sickened, sorrowing man.

There was but one thing in all "the world outside" that strongly
interested him--it was a "still small voice," a low-toned, sweet music,
keeping near the dear mother earth and her humble children, yet echoed
and re-echoed from sphere to sphere--it was the name of a lady, young,
lovely, accomplished and wealthy, who devoted herself, her time, her
talents and her fortune, to the cause of suffering humanity.

This young lady, whose beauty, goodness, wisdom, eloquence and powers of
persuasion were rumored to be almost miraculous, had founded schools and
asylums, and had collected by subscription a large amount of money, with
which she was coming to America, to select and purchase a tract of land
to settle a colony of the London poor. This angel girl's name and fame
was a low, sweet echo, as I said before--never noisy, never rising
high--keeping near the ground. People spoke of her in quiet places, and
dropped their voices to gentle tones in mentioning her and her works.
Such was the spell it exercised over them. This lady's name possessed
the strangest fascination for Thurston Willcoxen; he read eagerly
whatever was written of her; he listened with interest to whatever was
spoken of her. Her name! it was that of his loved and lost Marian!--that
in itself was a spell, but that was not the greatest charm--her
character resembled that of his Marian!

"How like my Marian?" would often be the language of his heart, when
hearing of her deeds. "Even so would my Marian have done--had she been
born to fortune, as this lady was."

The name was certainly common enough, yet the similarity of both names
and natures inclined him to the opinion that this angel-woman must be
some distant and more fortunate relative of his own lost Marian. He felt
drawn toward the unknown lady by a strong and almost irresistible
attraction; and he secretly resolved to see and know her, and pondered
in his heart ways and means by which he might, with propriety, seek her
acquaintance.

While thus he lived two lives--the outer life of work and usefulness,
and the inner life of thought and suffering--the young people of his
party, hoping and believing him to be enjoying the honors heaped upon
him, yielded themselves up to the attractions of society.

Miriam spent much of her time with her friend, Alice Murray.

One morning, when she called on Alice, the latter invited her visitor up
into her own chamber, and seating her there, said, with a mysterious
air:

"Do you know, Miriam, that I have something--the strangest thing that
ever was--that I have been wanting to tell you for three or four days,
only I never got an opportunity to do so, because Olly or some one was
always present? But now Olly has gone to court, and mother has gone to
market, and you and I can have a cozy chat to ourselves."

She stopped to stir the fire, and Miriam quietly waited for her to
proceed.

"Now, why in the world don't you ask me for my secret? I declare you
take so little interest, and show so little curiosity, that it is not a
bit of fun to hint a mystery to you. Do you want to hear, or don't you?
I assure you it is a tremendous revelation, and it concerns you, too!"

"What is it, then? I am anxious to hear?"

"Oh! you do begin to show a little interest; and now, to punish you, I
have a great mind not to tell you; however, I will take pity upon your
suspense; but first, you must promise never, never, n-e-v-e-r to mention
it again--will you promise?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, listen. Stop! get a good place to faint first, and then
listen. Are you ready? One, two, three, fire. The Rev. Thurston
Willcoxen is a married man!"

"What!"

"Mr. Thurston Willcoxen has been married for eight years past."

"Pshaw!"

"Mr. Willcoxen was married eight years ago this spring at a little
Methodist chapel near the navy yard of this city, and by an old
Methodist preacher, of the name of John Berry."

"You are certainly mad!"

"I am not mad, most noble 'doubter,' but speak the words of truth and
soberness. Mr. Willcoxen was married privately, when and where I said,
to a beautiful, fair-haired lady, whose name heard in the ritual was
Marian. And my husband, Olly Murray, was the secret witness of that
private marriage."

A wild scream, that seemed to split the heart from whence it arose,
broke from the lips of Miriam; springing forward, she grasped the wrist
of Alice, and with her wild eyes starting, straining from their sockets,
gazed into he face, crying:

"Tell me! tell me! that you have jested! tell me that you have lied?
Speak! speak!"

"I told you the Lord's blessed truth, and Oily knows it. But Miriam, for
goodness sake don't look that way--you scare me almost to death! And,
whatever you do, never let anybody know that I told you this; because,
if you did, Olly would be very much grieved at me; for he confided it to
me as a dead secret, and bound me up to secrecy, too; but I thought as
it concerned you so much, it would be no harm to tell you, if you would
not tell it again; and so when I was promising, I made a mental
reservation in favor of yourself. And so I have told you; and now you
mustn't betray me, Miriam."

"It is false! all that you have told me is false! say that It is false!
tell me so! speak! speak!" cried Miriam, wildly.

"It is not false--it is true as Gospel, every word of it--nor is it any
mistake. Because Olly saw the whole thing, and told me all about it. The
way of it was, that Olly overheard them in the Congressional Library
arranging the marriage--the gentleman was going to depart for Europe,
and wished to secure the lady's hand before he went--and at the same
time, for some reason or other, he wished the marriage to be kept
secret. Olly owns that it was none of his business, but that curiosity
got the upper hand of him, so he listened, and he heard them call each
other 'Thurston' and 'Marian'--and when they left the library, he
followed them--and so, unseen, he witnessed the private marriage
ceremony, at which they still answered to the names of 'Thurston' and
'Marian.' He did not hear their surnames. He never saw the bride again;
and he never saw the bridegroom until he saw Mr. Willcoxen at our
wedding. The moment Olly saw him he knew that he had seen him before,
but could not call to mind when or where; and the oftener he looked at
him, the more convinced he became that he had seen him first under some
very singular circumstances. And when at last lie heard his first name
called 'Thurston,' the whole truth flashed on him at once. He remembered
everything connected with the mysterious marriage. I wonder what Mr.
Willcoxen has done with his Marian? or whether she died or whether she
lives? or where he hides her? Well, some men are a mystery--don't you
think so, Miriam?"

But only deep and shuddering groans, upheaving from the poor girl's
bosom, answered her.

"Miriam! Oh, don't go on so! what do you mean? Indeed you alarm me! oh,
don't take it so to heart! indeed, I wouldn't, if I were you! I should
think it the funniest kind of fun? Miriam, I say!"

She answered not--she had sunk down on the floor, utterly crushed by the
weight of misery that had fallen upon her.

"Miriam! now what in the world do you mean by this? Why do you yield so?
I would not do it. I know it is bad to be disappointed of an expected
inheritance, and to find out that some one else has a greater claim,
but, indeed, I would not take it to heart so, if I were you. Why, if he
is married, he may not have a family, and even if he has, he may not
utterly disinherit you, and even if he should, I would not grieve myself
to death about it if I were you! Miriam, look up, I say!"

But the hapless girl replied not, heard not, heeded not; deaf, blind,
insensible was she to all--everything but to that sharp, mental grief,
that seemed so like physical pain; that fierce anguish of the breast,
that, like an iron band, seemed to clutch and close upon her heart,
tighter, tighter, tighter, until it stopped the current of her blood,
and arrested her breath, and threw her into convulsions.

Alice sprang to raise her, then ran down-stairs to procure restoratives
and assistance. In the front hall she met Dr. Douglass, who had just
been admitted by the waiter. To his pleasant greeting, she replied
hastily, breathlessly:

"Oh, Paul! come--come quickly up stairs! Miriam has fallen into
convulsions, and I am frightened out of my senses!"

"What caused her illness?" asked Paul, in alarm and anxiety, as he ran
up stairs, preceded by Alice.

"Oh, I don't know!" answered Alice, but thought to herself: "It could
not have been what I said to her, and if it was, I must not tell."

The details of sickness are never interesting. I shall not dwell upon
Miriam's illness of several weeks; the doctors pronounced it to be
_angina pectoris_--a fearful and often fatal complaint, brought on in
those constitutionally predisposed to it, by any sudden shock to mind or
body. What could have caused its attack upon Miriam, they could not
imagine. And Alice Murray, in fear and doubt, held her tongue and kept
her own counsel. In all her illness, Miriam's reason was not for a
moment clouded--it seemed preternaturally awake; but she spoke not, and
it was observed that if Mr. Willcoxen, who was overwhelmed with distress
by her dreadful illness, approached her bedside and touched her person,
she instantly fell into spasms. In grief and dismay, Thurston's eyes
asked of all around an explanation of this strange and painful
phenomenon; but none could tell him, except the doctor, who pronounced
it the natural effect of the excessive nervous irritability attending
her disease, and urged Mr. Willcoxen to keep away from her chamber. And
Thurston sadly complied.

Youth, and an elastic constitution, prevailed over disease, and Miriam
was raised from the bed of death; but so changed in person and in
manner, that you would scarcely have recognized her. She was thinner,
but not paler--an intense consuming fire burned in and out upon her
cheek, and smouldered and flashed from her eye. Self-concentrated and
reserved, she replied not at all, or only in monosyllables, to the words
addressed to her, and withdrew more into herself.

At length, Dr. Douglass advised their return home. And therefore they
set out, and upon the last of March, approached Dell-Delight.

The sky was overcast, the ground was covered with snow, the weather was
damp, and very cold for the last of March. As evening drew on, and the
leaden sky lowered, and the chill damp penetrated the comfortable
carriage in which they traveled, Mr. Willcoxen redoubled his attentions
to Miriam, carefully wrapping her cloak and furs about her, and letting
down the leathern blinds and the damask hangings, to exclude the cold;
but Miriam shrank from his touch, and shivered more than before, and
drew closely into her own corner.

"Poor child, the cold nips and shrivels her as it does a tropical
flower," said Thurston, desisting from his efforts after he had tucked a
woolen shawl around her feet.

"It is really very unseasonable weather--there is snow in the
atmosphere. I don't wonder it pinches Miriam," said Paul Douglass.

Ah! they did not either of them know that it was a spiritual fever and
ague alternately burning and freezing her very heart's blood--hope and
fear, love and loathing, pity and horror, that striving together made a
pandemonium of her young bosom. Like a flight of fiery arrows came the
coincidences of the tale she had heard, and the facts she knew. That
spring, eight years before, Mr. Murray said he had, unseen, witnessed
the marriage of Thurston Willcoxen and Marian. That spring, eight years
before, she knew Mr. Willcoxen and Miss Mayfield had been together on a
visit to the capital. Thurston had gone to Europe, Marian had returned
home, but had never seemed the same since her visit to the city. The
very evening of the house-warming at Luckenough, where Marian had
betrayed so much emotion, Thurston had suddenly returned, and presented
himself at that mansion. Yet in all the months that followed she had
never seen Thurston and Marian together, Thurston was paying marked and
constant attention to Miss Le Roy, while Marian's heart was consuming
with a secret sorrow and anxiety that she refused to communicate even to
Edith. How distinctly came back to her mind those nights when, lying by
Marian's side, she had put her hand over upon her face and felt the
tears on her cheeks. Those tears! The recollection of them now, and in
this connection, filled her heart with indescribable emotion. Her
mother, too, had died in the belief that Marian had fallen by the hands
of her lover or her husband. Lastly, upon the same night of Marian's
murder, Thurston Willcoxen had been unaccountably absent, during the
whole night, from the deathbed of his grandfather. And then his
incurable melancholy from that day to this--his melancholy augmented to
anguish at the annual return of this season.

And then rising, in refutation of all this evidence, was his own
irreproachable life and elevated character.

Ah! but she had, young, as she was, heard of such cases before--how in
some insanity of selfishness or frenzy of passion, a crime had been
perpetrated by one previously and afterward irreproachable in conduct.
Piercing wound after wound smote these thoughts like swift coming
arrows.

A young, immature woman, a girl of seventeen, in whose warm nature
passion and imagination so largely predominated over intellect, was but
too liable to have her reason shaken from its seat by the ordeal through
which she was forced to go.

As night descended, and they drew near Dell-Delight, the storm that had
been lowering all the afternoon came upon them. The wind, the hail, and
the snow, and the snow-drifts continually forming, rendered the roads,
that were never very good, now nearly impassable.

More and more obstructed, difficult and unrecognizable became their way,
until at last, when within an eighth of a mile from the house, the
horses stepped off the road into a covered gully, and the carriage was
over-turned and broken.

"Miriam! dear Miriam! dear child, are you hurt?" was the first anxious
exclamation of both gentlemen.

No one was injured; the coach lay upon its left side, and the right side
door was over their heads. Paul climbed out first, and then gave his
hand to Miriam, whom Mr. Willcoxen assisted up to the window. Lastly
followed Thurston. The horses had kicked themselves free of the carriage
and stood kicking yet.

"Two wheels and the pole are broken--nothing can be done to remove the
carriage to-night. You had better leave the horses where they are, Paul,
and let us hurry on to get Miriam under shelter first, then we can send
some one to fetch them home."

They were near the park gate, and the road from there to the mansion was
very good. Paul was busy in bundling Miriam up in her cloak, shawls and
furs. And then Mr. Willcoxen approached to raise her in his arms, and
take her through the snow; but--

"No! no!" said Miriam, shuddering and crouching closely to Paul. Little
knowing her thoughts, Mr. Willcoxen slightly smiled, and pulling his hat
low over his eyes, and turning up his fur collar and wrapping his cloak
closely around him, he strode on rapidly before them. The snow was
blowing in their faces, but drawing Miriam fondly to his side, Paul
hurried after him.

When they reached the park gate, Thurston was laboring to open it
against the drifted snow. He succeeded, and pushed the gate back to let
them pass. Miriam, as she went through, raised her eyes to his form.

There he stood, in night and storm, his tall form shrouded in the long
black cloak--the hat drawn over his eyes, the faint spectral gleam of
the snow striking upward to his clear-cut profile, the peculiar fall of
ghostly light and shade, the strong individuality of air and attitude.

With a half-stifled shriek, Miriam recognized the distinct picture of
the man she had seen twice before with Marian.

"What is the matter, love? Were you near falling? Give me your arm,
Miriam--you need us both to help you through this storm," said Thurston,
approaching her.

But with a shiver that ran through all her frame, Miriam shrank closer
to Paul, who, with affectionate pride, renewed his care, and promised
that she should not slip again.

So link after link of the fearful evidence wound itself around her
consciousness, which struggled against it, like Laocoon in the fatal
folds of the serpent.

Now cold as if the blood were turned to ice in her veins, now burning as
if they ran fire, she was hurried on into the house.

They were expected home, and old Jenny had fires in all the occupied
rooms, and supper ready to go on the table, that was prepared in the
parlor.

But Miriam refused all refreshment, and hurried to her room. It was
warmed and lighted by old Jenny's care, and the good creature followed
her young mistress with affectionate proffers of aid.

"Wouldn't she have a strong cup of tea? Wouldn't she have a hot bath?
Wouldn't she have her bed warmed? Wouldn't she have a bowl of nice hot
mulled wine? Dear, dear! she was so sorry, but it would have frightened
herself to death if the carriage had upset with her, and no wonder Miss
Miriam was knocked up entirely."

"No, no, no!"

Miriam would have nothing, and old Jenny reluctantly left her--to
repose? Ah, no! with fever in her veins, to walk up and down and up and
down the floor of her room with fearful unrest. Up and down, until the
candle burned low, and sunk drowned in its socket; until the fire on the
hearth smouldered and went out; until the stars in the sky waned with
the coming day; until the rising sun kindled all the eastern horizon;
and then, attired as she was, she sank upon the outside of her bed and
fell into a heavy sleep of exhaustion.

She arose unrefreshed, and after a hasty toilet descended to the
breakfast-parlor, where she knew the little family awaited her.

"The journey and the fright have been too much for you, love; you look
very weary; you should have rested longer this morning," said Mr.
Willcoxen, affectionately, as he arose and met her and led her to the
most comfortable seat near the fire.

His fine countenance, elevated, grave and gentle in expression, his kind
and loving manner, smote all the tender chords of Miriam's heart.

Could that man be guilty of the crime she had dared to suspect him of?

Oh, no, no, no! never! Every lineament of his face, every inflection of
his voice, as well as every act of his life, and every trait of his
character, forbade the dreadful imputation!

But then the evidence--the damning evidence! Her reeled with the doubt
as she sank into the seat he offered her.

"Ring for breakfast, Paul! Our little housekeeper will feel better when
she gets a cup of coffee."

But Miriam sprang up to anticipate him, and drew her chair to the table,
and nervously began to arrange the cups and put sugar and cream into
them, with the vague feeling that she must act as usual to avoid calling
observation upon herself, for if questioned, how could she answer
inquiries, and whom could she make a confidant in her terrible
suspicions?

And so through the breakfast scene, and so through the whole day she
sought to exercise self-control. But could her distress escape the
anxious, penetrating eyes of affection? That evening after tea, when Mr.
Willcoxen had retired to his own apartments and the waiter had
replenished the fire and trimmed the lamps and retired, leaving the
young couple alone in the parlor--Miriam sitting on one side of the
circular work-table bending over her sewing, and Paul on the other side
with a book in his hand, he suddenly laid the volume down, and went
round and drew a chair to Miriam's side and began to tell her how much
he loved her, how dear her happiness was to him, and so entreat her to
tell him the cause of her evident distress. As he spoke, she became
paler than death, and suddenly and passionately exclaimed:

"Oh, Paul! Paul! do not question me! You know not what you ask."

"My own Miriam, what mean you? I ought to know."

"Oh, Paul! Paul! I am one foredoomed to bring misery and destruction
upon all who love me; upon all whom I love."

"My own dearest, you are ill, and need change, and you shall have it,
Miriam," he said, attempting to soothe her with that gentle, tender,
loving manner he ever used toward her.

But shuddering sighs convulsed her bosom, and--

"Oh, Paul! Paul!" was all she said.

"Is it that promise that weighs upon your mind, Miriam? Cast it out; you
cannot fulfill it; impossibilities are not duties."

"Oh, Paul! would Heaven it were impossible! or that I were dead."

"Miriam! where are those letters you wished to show me?"

"Oh! do not ask me, Paul! not yet! not yet! I dread to see them. And
yet--who knows? they may relieve this dreadful suspicion! they may point
to another probability," she said, incoherently.

"Just get me those letters, dear Miriam," he urged, gently.

She arose, tottering, and left the room, and after an absence of fifteen
minutes returned with the packet in her hand.

"These seals have not been broken since my mother closed them," said
Miriam, as she proceeded to open the parcel.

The first she came to was the bit of a note, without date or signature,
making the fatal appointment.

"This, Paul," she said, mournfully, "was found in the pocket of the
dress Marian wore at Luckenough, but changed at home before she went out
to walk the evening of her death. Mother always believed that she went
out to meet the appointment made in that note."

Paul took the paper with eager curiosity to examine it. He looked at
it, started slightly, turned pale, shuddered, passed his hand once or
twice across his eyes, as if to clear his vision, looked again, and then
his cheeks blanched, his lips gradually whitened and separated, his eyes
started, and his whole countenance betrayed consternation and horror.

Miriam gazed upon him in a sort of hushed terror--then exclaimed:

"Paul! Paul! what is the matter? You look as if you had been turned to
stone by gazing on the Gorgon's head; Paul! Paul!"

"Miriam, did your mother know this handwriting?" he asked, in a husky,
almost inaudible voice.

"No!"

"Did she suspect it?"

"No!"

"Did you know or suspect it?"

"No! I was a child when I received it, remember. I have never seen it
since."

"Not when you put it in my hand, just now?"

"No, I never looked at the writing?"

"That was most strange that you should not have glanced at the
handwriting when you handed it to me. Why didn't you? Were you afraid to
look at it? Miram! why do you turn away your head? Miriam! answer me--do
you know the handwriting?"

"No, Paul, I do not know it--do you?"

"No! no! how should I? But Miriam, your head is still averted. Your very
voice is changed. Miriam! what mean you? Tell me once for all. Do you
suspect the handwriting?"

"How should I? Do you, Paul?"

"No! no! I don't suspect it."

They seemed afraid to look each other in the face; and well they might
be, for the written agony on either brow; they seemed afraid to hear the
sound of each other's words; and well they might be, for the hollow,
unnatural sound of either voice.

"It cannot be! I am crazy, I believe. Let me clear my--oh, Heaven!
Miriam! did--was--do you know whether there was any one in particular on
familiar terms with Miss Mayfield?"

"No one out of the family, except Miss Thornton."

"'Out of the family'--out of what family?"

"Ours, at the cottage."

"Was--did--I wonder if my brother knew her intimately?"

"I do not know; I never saw them in each other's company but twice in my
life."

The youth breathed a little freer.

"Why did you ask, Paul?"

"No matter, Miriam. Oh! I was a wretch, a beast to think--"

"What, Paul?"

"There are such strange resemblances in--in--in--What are you looking at
me so for, Miriam?"

"To find your meaning. In what, Paul--strange resemblances in what?"

"Why, in faces."

"Why, then, so there are--and in persons, also; and sometimes in fates;
but we were talking of handwritings, Paul."

"Were we? Oh, true. I am not quite right, Miriam. I believe I have
confined myself too much, and studied too hard. I am really out of
sorts; never mind me! Please hand me those foreign letters, love."

Miriam was unfolding and examining them; but all in a cold, stony,
unnatural way.

"Paul," she asked, "wasn't it just eight years this spring since your
brother went to Scotland to fetch you?"

"Yes; why?"

"Wasn't it to Glasgow that he went?"

"Yes; why?"

"Were not you there together in March and April, 182-?"

"Once more, yes! Why do you inquire?"

"Because all these foreign letters directed to Marian are postmarked
Glasgow, and dated March or April, 182-."

With a low, stifled cry, and a sudden spring, he snatched the packet
from her hand, tore open the first letter that presented itself, and ran
his strained, bloodshot eyes down the lines. Half-suppressed, deep
groans like those wrung by torture from a strong man's heart, burst from
his pale lips, and great drops of sweat gathered on his agonized
forehead. Then he crushed the letters together in his hand and held them
tightly, unconsciously, while his starting eyes were fixed on vacancy
and his frozen lips muttered:

"In a fit of frantic passion, anger, jealousy--even he might have been
maddened to the pitch of doing such a thing! But as an act of base
policy, as an act of forethought, oh! never, never, never!"

"Paul! Paul! speak to me, Paul. Tell me what you think. I have had
foreshadowings long. I can bear silence and uncertainty no longer. What
find you in those letters? Oh, speak, or my heart will burst, Paul."

He gave no heed to her or her words, but remained like one impaled;
still, fixed, yet writhing, his features, his whole form and expression
discolored, distorted with inward agony.

"Paul! Paul!" cried Miriam, starting up, standing before him, gazing on
him. "Paul! speak to me. Your looks kill me. Speak, Paul! even though
you can tell me little new. I know it all, Paul; or nearly all. Weeks
ago I received the shock! it overwhelmed me for the time; but I survived
it! But you, Paul--you! Oh! how you look! Speak to your sister, Paul!
Speak to your promised wife."

But he gave no heed to her. She was not strong or assured--she felt
herself tottering on the very verge of death or madness. But she could
not bear to see him looking so. Once more she essayed to engage his
attention.

"Give me those letters, Paul--I can perhaps make out the meaning."

As he did not reply, she gently sought to take them from his hand. But
at her touch he suddenly started up and threw the packet into the fire.
With a quick spring, Miriam darted forward, thrust her hand into the
fire and rescued the packet, scorched and burning, but not destroyed.

She began to put it out, regardless of the pain to her hands. He looked
as if he were tempted to snatch it from her, but she exclaimed:

"No, Paul! no! You will not use force to deprive me of this that I must
guard as a sacred trust."

Still Paul hesitated, and eyed the packet with a gloomy glance.

"Remember honor, Paul, even in this trying moment," said Miriam; "let
honor be saved, if all else be lost."

"What do you mean to do with that parcel?" he asked in a hollow voice.

"Keep them securely for the present."

"And afterward?"

"I know not."

"Miriam, you evade my questions. Will you promise me one thing?"

"What is that?"

"Promise me to do nothing with those letters until you have further
evidence."

"I promise you that."

Then Paul took up a candle and left the room, as if to go to his
sleeping apartment; but on reaching the hall, he threw down and
extinguished the light and rushed as if for breath out into the open
air.

The night was keen and frosty, the cold, slaty sky was thickly studded
with sparkling stars, the snow was crusted over--it was a fine, fresh,
clear, wintry night; at another time it would have invigorated and
inspired him; now the air seemed stifling, the scene hateful.

The horrible suspicion of his brother's criminality had entered his
heart for the first time, and it had come with the shock of certainty.
The sudden recognition of the handwriting, the strange revelations of
the foreign letters, had not only in themselves been a terrible
disclosure, but had struck the whole "electric chain" of memory and
association, and called up in living force many an incident and
circumstance heretofore strange and incomprehensible; but now only too
plain and indicative. The whole of Thurston's manner the fatal day of
the assassination--his abstraction, his anxious haste to get away on the
plea of most urgent business in Baltimore--business that never was
afterward heard of; his mysterious absence of the whole night from his
grandfather's deathbed--provoking conjecture at the time, and
unaccounted for to this day; his haggard and distracted looks upon
returning late the next morning; his incurable sorrow; his habit of
secluding himself upon the anniversary of that crime--and now the
damning evidence in these letters! Among them, and the first he looked
at, was the letter Thurston had written Marian to persuade her to
accompany him to France, in the course of which his marriage with her
was repeatedly acknowledged, being incidentally introduced as an
argument in favor of her compliance with his wishes.

Yet Paul could not believe the crime ever premeditated--it was sudden,
unintentional, consummated in a lover's quarrel, in a fit of jealousy,
rage, disappointment, madness! Stumbling upon half the truth, he said to
himself:

"Perhaps failing to persuade her to fly with him to France, he had
attempted to carry her off, and being foiled, had temporarily lost his
self-control, his very sanity. That would account for all that had
seemed so strange in his conduct the day and night of the assassination
and the morning after."

There was agony--there was madness in the pursuit of the investigation.
Oh, pitying Heaven! how thought and grief surged and seethed in aching
heart and burning brain!

And Miriam's promise to her dying mother--Miriam's promise to bring the
criminal to justice! Would she--could she now abide by its obligations?
Could she prosecute her benefactor, her adopted brother, for murder?
Could her hand be raised to hurl him down from his pride of place to
shame and death? No, no, no, no! the vow must be broken, must be evaded;
the right, even if it were the right, must be transgressed, heaven
offended--anything! anything! anything but the exposure and sacrifice of
their brother! If he had sinned, had he not repented? Did he not suffer?
What right had she, his ward, his _protégé_, his child, to punish him?
"Vengeance is mine--I will repay, saith the Lord." No, Miriam must not
keep her vow! She must! she must! she must, responded the moral sense,
slow, measured, dispassionate, as the regular fall of a clock's hammer.
"I will myself prevent her; I will find means, arguments and persuasions
to act upon her. I will so appeal to her affections, her gratitude, her
compassion, her pride, her fears, her love for me--I will so work upon
her heart that she will not find courage to keep her vow." She will! she
will! responded the deliberate conscience.

And so he walked up and down; vainly the fresh wind fanned his fevered
brow; vainly the sparkling stars glanced down from holy heights upon
him; he found no coolness for his fever in the air, no sedative for his
anxiety in the stillness, no comfort for his soul in the heavens; he
knew not whether he were indoors or out, whether it were night or day,
summer or winter, he knew not, wrapped as he was in the mantle of his
own sad thoughts, suffering as he was in the purgatory of his inner
life.

While Paul walked up and down, like a maniac, Miriam returned to her
room to pace the floor until nearly morning, when she threw herself,
exhausted, upon the bed, fell into a heavy sleep, and a third time,
doubtless from nervous excitement or prostration, suffered a repetition
of her singular vision, and awoke late in the morning, with the words,
"perform thy vow," ringing in her ears.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE AVENGER.


Several days passed in the gloomy mansion misnamed Dell-Delight. Miriam
and Paul avoided each other like death. Both dreaded like death any
illusion to the awful subject that lay so heavy upon the heart of each.
Paul, unacquainted with her thoughts, and relying upon her promise to do
nothing with the letters without further evidence, contented himself
with watching her motions, feeling comparatively at ease as long as she
should remain in the house; and being resolved to prevent her from going
forth, or to accompany her if she persisted in leaving home.

With Miriam, the shock, the anguish, the struggle had well-nigh passed;
she was at once subdued and resolved, like one into whom some spirit had
entered and bound her own spirit, and acted through her. So strange did
all appear to her, so strange the impassiveness of her own will, of her
habits and affections, that should have rebelled and warred against her
purpose that she sometimes thought herself not herself, or insane, or
the subject of a monomania, or some strange hallucination, a dreamer, a
somnambulist, perhaps. And yet with matchless tact and discretion, she
went about her deadly work. She had prepared her plan of action, and now
waited only for a day very near at hand, the fourth of April, the
anniversary of Marian's assassination, to put Thurston to a final test
before proceeding further.

The day came at last--it was cold and wintry for the season. Toward
evening the sky became overcast with leaden clouds, and the chill
dampness penetrated into all the rooms of the old mansion. Poor Fanny
was muttering and moaning to herself and her "spirits" over the wood
fire in her distant room.

Mr. Willcoxen had not appeared since breakfast time. Miriam remained in
her own chamber; and Paul wandered restlessly from place to place
through all the rooms of the house, or threw himself wearily into his
chair before the parlor fire. Inclement as the weather was, he would
have gone forth, but that he too remembered the anniversary, and a
nameless anxiety connected with Miriam confined him to the house.

In the kitchen, the colored folk gathered around the fire, grumbling at
the unseasonable coldness of the weather, and predicting a hail-storm,
and telling each other that they never "'sperienced" such weather this
time o' year, 'cept 'twas that spring Old Marse died--when no wonder,
"'siderin' how he lived long o' Sam all his life."

Only old Jenny went in and out from house to kitchen, Old Jenny had
enough to do to carry wood to the various fires. She had never "seed it
so cold for de season nyther, 'cept 'twas de spring Miss Marian went to
hebben, and not a bit o' wonder de yeth was cole arter she war gone--de
dear, lovin' heart warm angel; 'deed I wondered how it ever come summer
again, an' thought it was right down onsensible in her morning-glories
to bloom out jest de same as ever, arter she was gone! An' what minds me
to speak o' Miss Marian now, it war jes' seven years this night, since
she 'parted dis life," said Jenny, as she stood leaning her head upon
the mantel-piece, and toasting her toes at the kitchen fire, previous to
carrying another armful of wood into the parlor.

Night and the storm descended together--such a tempest! such a wild
outbreaking of the elements! rain and hail, and snow and wind, all
warring upon the earth together! The old house shook, the doors and
windows rattled, the timbers cracked, the shingles were torn off and
whirled aloft, the trees were swayed and snapped; and as the storm
increased in violence and roused to fury, the forest beat before its
might, and the waves rose and overflowed the low land.

Still old Jenny went in and out of the house to kitchen and kitchen to
house, carrying wood, water, meat, bread, sauce, sweetmeats, arranging
the table for supper, replenishing the fire, lighting the candles,
letting down the curtains--and trying to make everything cozy and
comfortable for the reassembling of the fireside circle. Poor old Jenny
had passed so much of her life in the family with "the white folks,"
that all her sympathies went with them--and on the state of their
spiritual atmosphere depended all her cheerfulness and comfort; and now
the cool, distant, sorrowful condition of the members of the little
family circle--"ebery single mudder's son and darter ob 'em,
superamblated off to derself like pris'ners in a jailhouse"--as she
said--depressed her spirits very much. Jenny's reaction from depression
was always quite querulous. And toward the height of the storm, there
was a reaction and she grew very quarrelsome.

"Sam's waystin'[A] roun' in dere," said Jenny, as she thrust her feet
into the kitchen fire, before carrying in the urn; "Sam's waystin', I
tells you all good! all werry quiet dough--no noise, no fallin' out, no
'sputin' nor nothin'--all quiet as de yeth jest afore a debbil ob a
storm--nobody in de parlor 'cept 'tis Marse Paul, settin' right afore de
parlor fire, wid one long leg poked east and toder west, wid the boots
on de andirons like a spread-eagle! lookin' as glum as if I owed him a
year's sarvice, an' nebber so much as a-sayin', 'Jenny, you poor old
debbil, ain't you a-cold?' an' me coming in ebery minnit wid the icicles
a-jinglin' 'roun' my linsey-woolsey skurts, like de diamonds on de
Wirgin Mary's Sunday gown. But Sam's waystin' now, I tells you all good.
Lors Gemini, what a storm!

[Footnote A: Waysting--Going up and down.]

"I 'members of no sich since dat same storm as de debbil come in to
fetch ole marse's soul--dis berry night seven year past, an' he carried
of him off all in a suddint whiff! jist like a puff of win'. An' no
wonder, seein' how he done traded his soul to him for money!

"An' Sam's here ag'in to-night! dunno who he's come arter! but he's
here, now, I tells you all good!" said Jenny, as she took up the urn to
carry it into the parlor.

When she got there she could scarcely get to the fire; Paul took up the
front. His immobility and unconsciousness irritated Jenny beyond silent
endurance.

"I tell you all what," she said, "I means to 'sign my sitewation! 'deed
me! I can't kill myself for dem as wouldn't even care 'nough for me to
have a mass said for de 'pose o' my soul."

"What do you mean?" asked Paul, angrily, for confinement, solitude, bad
weather, and anxiety, had combined, to make him querulous, too.

"I means how ef yer doesn't have a kivered way made from de house to de
kitchen an' back ag'in, I gwine give up waitin' on de table, now min' I
tell yer, 'deed me! an' now ef you likes, yer may jes' go an' tell Marse
Rooster."

"'Marse Rooster!' Will you ever give up that horrid nonsense. Why, you
old--! Is my brother--is your master a barn-door chicken-cock, that you
call him 'Rooster?'" asked the young man, snappishly.

"Well, Shrooster, den, ef you wants me to wring my tongue in two. Ef
people's sponsors in baptism will gib der chillun such heathen names,
how de debbil any Christian 'oman gwine to twis' her tongue roun' it? I
thanks my 'Vine Marster dat my sponsors in baptism named me arter de
bressed an' holy S'int Jane--who has 'stained an' s'ported me all my
days; an' 'ill detect now, dough you do try to break my poor ole heart
long wid onkindness at my ole ages o' life! But what's de use o'
talkin'--Sam's waystin'!" And so saying, Jenny gave the finishing
touches to the arrangement of the table, and then seized the bell, and
rang it with rather needless vigor and violence, to bring the scattered
members of the family together.

They came, slowly and singly, and drew around the table more like ghosts
than living persons, a few remarks upon the storm, and then they sunk
into silence--and as soon as the gloomy meal was over, one by one they
dropped away from the room--first went poor Fanny, then Mr. Willcoxen,
then Miriam.

"Where are you going, Miriam?" asked Paul, as the latter was leaving the
room.

"To my chamber."

And before he could farther question, or longer detain her, she pressed
his hand and went out. And Paul, with a deep sigh and a strangely
foreboding heart, sank back into his seat.

When Miriam reached her bedroom, she carefully closed and locked the
door, went to her bureau, opened the top-drawer, and took from it a
small oblong mahogany glove-box. She unlocked the latter, and took out a
small parcel, which she unwrapped and laid before her upon the bureau.

It was the xyphias poniard.

The weapon had come into her possession some time before in the
following manner: During the first winter of Paul Douglass' absence from
home, Mr. Willcoxen had emancipated several of his slaves and provided
means for their emigration to Liberia. They were to sail early in March.
Among the number was Melchisedek. A few days previous to their
departure, this man had come to the house, and sought the presence of
his youthful mistress, when he knew her to be alone in the parlor, and
with a good deal of mystery and hesitation had laid before her a dagger
which he said he should rather have given to "Marster Paul," if the
latter had been at home. He had picked it up near the water's edge on
the sands the night of Miss Mayfield's death, which "Marster" had taken
so to heart, that he was afraid to harrow up his feelings by bringing it
to him a second time--but that as it was an article of value, he did not
like to take it away with him. And he begged Miss Miriam to take charge
of it. And Miriam had taken it, and with surprise, but without the
slightest suspicion, had read the name of "Thurston Willcoxen" carved
upon its handle. To all her questions, Melchisedek had given evasive
answers, or remained obstinately silent, being determined not to betray
his master's confidence by revealing his share in the events of that
fatal night. Miriam had taken the little instrument, wrapped it
carefully in paper, and locked it in her old-fashioned long glove-box.
And from that day to this she had not opened it.

Now, however, she had taken it out with a fixed purpose, and she stood
and gazed upon it. Presently she took it up, rolled it in the paper,
took her lamp, and slowly left her room, and passed along the passages
leading to Mr. Willcoxen's library.

The storm howled and raved as she went, and the strong blast, driving
through the dilapidated window-sashes, nearly extinguished her light
before she reached the study door.

She blew out the light and set down the lamp, and rapped at the door.
Again and again she rapped, without awakening any response from within.

Then she turned the latch, opened the door, and entered. No wonder she
had received no answer.

The abstracted man before her seemed dead to every sight and sound
around him. He sat before the table in the middle of the room, his elbow
on the mahogany; his face bowed upon his hand, his haggard countenance
revealing a still, speechless despair as awful as it was profound.

Miriam approached and stood by him, her breath went by his cheek, so
near she stood, and yet her presence was unheeded. She stooped to see
the object upon which he gazed--the object that now shut out all the
world from his sight--it was a long bright tress of golden auburn hair.

"Mr. Willcoxen!"

He did not hear her--how should he hear her low tones, when he heard not
the cannonading of the storm that shook the house to its foundations?

"Mr. Willcoxen!" she said once more.

But he moved not a muscle.

"Mr. Willcoxen!" she repeated, laying her hand upon his arm.

He looked up. The expression of haggard despair softened out of his
countenance.

"Is it you, my dear?" he said. "What has brought you here, Miriam? Were
you afraid of the storm? There is no danger, dear child--it has nearly
expended its force, and will soon be over--but sit down."

"Oh, no! it is not the storm that has brought me here, though I scarcely
remember a storm so violent at this season of the year, except one--this
night seven years ago--the night that Marian Mayfield was murdered!"

He started--it is true that he had been thinking of the same dread
tragedy--but to hear it suddenly mentioned pierced him like an
unexpected sword thrust.

Miriam proceeded, speaking in a strange, level monotone, as if unwilling
or afraid to trust her voice far:

"I came this evening to restore a small but costly article of _virtu_,
belonging to you, and left in my care some time ago by the boy
Melchisedek. It is an antique dagger--somewhat rusty and spotted. Here
it is."

And she laid the poniard down upon the tress of hair before him.

He sprang up as if it had been a viper--his whole frame shook, and the
perspiration started from his livid forehead.

Miriam, keeping her eye upon him, took the dagger up.

"It is very rusty, and very much streaked," she said. "I wonder what
these dark streaks can be? They run along the edge, from the extreme
point of the blade, upwards toward the handle; they look to me like the
stains of blood--as if a murderer had stabbed his victim with it, and in
his haste to escape had forgotten to wipe the blade, but had left the
blood upon it, to curdle and corrode the steel. See! don't it look so to
you?" she said, approaching him, and holding the weapon up to his view.

"Girl! girl! what do you mean?" he exclaimed, throwing his hand across
his eyes, and hurrying across the room.

Miriam flung down the weapon with a force that made its metal ring upon
the floor, and hastening after him, she stood before him; her dark eyes
fixed upon his, streaming with insufferable and consuming fire, that
seemed to burn through into his brain. She said:

"I have heard of fiends in the human shape, nay, I have heard of Satan
in the guise of an angel of light! Are you such that stand before me
now?"

"Miriam, what do you mean?" he asked, in sorrowful astonishment.

"This is what I mean! That the mystery of Marian Mayfield's fate, the
secret of your long remorse, is no longer hidden! I charge you with the
murder of Marian Mayfield!"

"Miriam, you are mad!"

"Oh! well for me, and better still for you, if I were mad!"

He was tremendously shaken, more by the vivid memories she recalled than
by the astounding charge she made.

"In the name of Heaven, what leads you to imagine such impossible
guilt!"

"Good knowledge of the facts--that this month, eight years ago, in the
little Methodist chapel of the navy yard, in Washington City, you made
Marian Mayfield your wife--that this night seven years since, in just
such a storm as this, on the beach below Pine Bluff, you met and
murdered Marian Willcoxen! And, moreover, I as sure you, that these
facts which I tell you now, to-morrow I will lay before a magistrate,
together with all the corroborating proof in my possession!"

"And what proof can you have?"

"A gentleman who, unknown and unsuspected, witnessed the private
ceremony between yourself and Marian; a packet of French letters,
written by yourself from Glasgow, to Marian, in St. Mary's, in the
spring of 1823; a note found in the pocket of her dress, appointing the
fatal meeting on the beach where she perished. Two physicians, who can
testify to your unaccountable absence from the deathbed of your parent
on the night of the murder, and also to the distraction of your manner
when you returned late the next morning."

"And this," said Thurston, gazing in mournful amazement upon her; "this
is the child that I have nourished and brought up in my house! She can
believe me guilty of such atrocious crime--she can aim at my honor and
my life such a deadly blow?"

"Alas! alas! it is my duty! it is my fate! I cannot escape it! I have
bound my soul by a fearful oath! I cannot evade it! I shall not survive
it! Oh, all the heaven is black with doom, and all the earth tainted
with blood!" cried Miriam, wildly.

"You are insane, poor girl! you are insane!" said Thurston, pityingly.

"Would Heaven I were! would Heaven I were! but I am not! I am not! Too
well I remember I have bound my soul by an oath to seek out Marian's
destroyer, and deliver him up to death! And I must do it! I must do it!
though my heart break--as it will break in the act!"

"And you believe me to be guilty of this awful crime!"

"There stands the fearful evidence! Would Heaven it did not exist! oh!
would Heaven it did not!"

"Listen to me, dear Miriam," he said, calmly, for he had now recovered
his self-possession. "Listen to me--I am perfectly guiltless of the
crime you impute to me. How is it possible that I could be otherwise
than guiltless. Hear me explain the circumstances that have come to your
knowledge," and he attempted to take her hand to lead her to a seat. But
with a slight scream, she snatched her hand away, saying wildly:

"Touch me not! Your touch thrills me to sickness! to faintness!
curdles--turns back the current of blood in my veins!"

"You think this hand a blood-stained one?"

"The evidence! the evidence!"

"I can explain that evidence. Miriam, my child, sit down--at any
distance from me you please--only let it be near enough for you to
hear. Did I believe you quite sane, Miriam, grief and anger might
possibly seal my lips upon this subject--but believing you partially
deranged--from illness and other causes--I will defend myself to you.
Sit down and hear me."

Miriam dropped into the nearest chair.

Mr. Willcoxen took another, and commenced:

"You have received some truth, Miriam. How it has been presented to you,
I will not ask now. I may presently. I was married, as you have somehow
ascertained, to Marian Mayfield, just before going to Europe. I
corresponded with her from Glasgow. I did appoint a meeting with her on
the beach, upon the fatal evening in question--for what purpose that
meeting was appointed, it is bootless to tell you, since the meeting
never took place--for some hours before I should have set out to keep my
appointment, my grandfather was stricken with apoplexy. I did not wish
to leave his bedside until the arrival of the doctor. But when the
evening wore on, and the storm approached, I grew uneasy upon Marian's
account, and sent Melchisedek in the gig to fetch her from the beach to
this house--never to leave it. Miriam, the boy reached the sands only to
find her dying. Terrified half out of his senses, he hurried back and
told me this story. I forgot my dying relative--forgot everything, but
that my wife lay wounded and exposed on the beach. I sprung upon
horseback, and galloped with all possible haste to the spot. By the time
I had got there the storm had reached its height, and the beach was
completely covered with the boiling waves. My Marian had been carried
away. I spent the wretched night in wandering up and down the bluff
above the beach, and calling on her name. In the morning I returned home
to find my grandfather dead, and the family and physicians wondering at
my strange absence at such a time. That, Miriam, is the story."

Miriam made no comment whatever. Mr. Willcoxen seemed surprised and
grieved at her silence.

"What have you now to say, Miriam?"

"Nothing."

"'Nothing?' What do you think of my explanation?"

"I think nothing. My mind is in an agony of doubt and conjecture. I must
be governed by stern facts--not by my own prepossessions. I must act
upon the evidences in my possession--not upon your explanation of them,"
said Miriam, distractedly, as she arose to leave the room.

"And you will denounce me, Miriam?"

"It is my insupportable duty! it is my fate! my doom! for it will kill
me!"

"Yet you will do it!"

"I will."

"Yet turn, dear Miriam! Look on me once more! take my hand! since you
act from necessity, do nothing from anger--turn and take my hand."

She turned and stood--such a picture of tearless agony! She met his
gentle, compassionate glance--it melted--it subdued her.

"Oh, would Heaven that I might die, rather than do this thing! Would
Heaven I might die! for my heart turns to you; it turns, and I love you
so--oh! I love you so! never, never so much as now! my brother! my
brother!" and she sunk down and seized his hands and wept over them.

"What, Miriam! do you love me, believing me to be guilty?"

"To have been guilty--not to be guilty--you have suffered remorse--you
have repented, these many long and wretched years. Oh! surely repentance
washes out guilt!"

"And you can now caress and weep over my hands, believing them to have
been crimsoned with the life-stream of your first and best friend?"

"Yes! yes! yes! yes! Oh! would these tears, my very heart sobs forth,
might wash them pure again! Yes! yes! whether you be guilty or not, my
brother! the more I listen to my heart, the more I love you, and I
cannot help it!"

"It is because your heart is so much wiser than your head, dear Miriam!
Your heart divines the guiltlessness that your reason refuses to credit!
Do what you feel that you must, dear Miriam--but, in the meantime, let
us still be brother and sister--embrace me once more."

With anguish bordering on insanity, she threw herself into his arms for
a moment--was pressed to his heart, and then breaking away, she escaped
from the room to her own chamber. And there, with her half-crazed brain
and breaking heart--like one acting or forced to act in a ghastly dream,
she began to arrange her evidence--collect the letters, the list of
witnesses and all, preparatory to setting forth upon her fatal mission
in the morning.

With the earliest dawn of morning, Miriam left her room. In passing the
door of Mr. Willcoxen's chamber, she suddenly stopped--a spasm seized
her heart, and convulsed her features--she clasped her hands to pray,
then, as if there were wild mockery in the thought, flung them fiercely
apart, and hurried on her way. She felt that she was leaving the house
never to return; she thought that she should depart without encountering
any of its inmates. She was surprised, therefore, to meet Paul in the
front passage. He came up and intercepted her:

"Where are you going so early, Miriam?"

"To Colonel Thornton's."

"What? Before breakfast?"

"Yes."

He took both of her hands, and looked into her face--her pallid
face--with all the color concentrated in a dark crimson spot upon either
cheek--with all the life burning deep down in the contracted pupils of
the eyes.

"Miriam, you are not well--come, go into the parlor," he said, and
attempted to draw her toward the door.

"No, Paul, no! I must go out," she said, resisting his efforts.

"But why?"

"What is it to you? Let me go."

"It is everything to me, Miriam, because I suspect your errand. Come
into the parlor. This madness must not go on."

"Well, perhaps I am mad, and my words and acts may go for nothing. I
hope it may be so."

"Miriam, I must talk with you--not here--for we are liable to be
interrupted every instant. Come into the parlor, at least for a few
moments."

She no longer resisted that slight plea, but suffered him to lead her
in. He gave her a seat, and took one beside her, and took her hand in
his, and began to urge her to give up her fatal purpose. He appealed to
her, through reason, through religion, through all the strongest
passions and affections of her soul--through her devotion to her
guardian--through the gratitude she owed him--through their mutual love,
that must be sacrificed, if her insane purpose should be carried out. To
all this she answered:

"I think of nothing concerning myself, Paul--I think only of him; there
is the anguish."

"You are insane, Miriam; yet, crazy as you are, you may do a great deal
of harm--much to Thurston, but much more to yourself. It is not probable
that the evidence you think you have will be considered by any
magistrate of sufficient importance to be acted upon against a man of
Mr. Willcoxen's life and character."

"Heaven grant that such may be the case."

"Attend! collect your thoughts--the evidence you produce will probably
be considered unimportant and quite unworthy of attention; but what will
be thought of you who volunteer to offer it?"

"I had not reflected upon that--and now you mention it, I do not care."

"And if, on the other hand, the testimony which you have to offer be
considered ground for indictment, and Thurston is brought to trial, and
acquitted, as he surely would be--"

"Ay! Heaven send it!"

"And the whole affair blown all over the country--how would you appear?"

"I know not, and care not, so he is cleared; Heaven grant I may be the
only sufferer! I am willing to take the infamy."

"You would be held up before the world as an ingrate, a domestic
traitress, and unnatural monster. You would be hated of all--your name
and history become a tradition of almost impossible wickedness."

"Ha! why, do you think that in such an hour as this I care for myself?
No, no! no, no! Heaven grant that it may be as you say--that my brother
be acquitted, and I only may suffer! I am willing to suffer shame and
death for him whom I denounce! Let me go, Paul; I have lost too much
time here."

"Will nothing induce you to abandon this wicked purpose?"

"Nothing on earth, Paul!"

"Nothing?"

"No! so help me Heaven! Give way--let me go, Paul."

"You must not go, Miriam."

"I must and will--and that directly. Stand aside."

"Then you shall not go."

"Shall not?"

"I said 'shall not.'"

"Who will prevent me?"

"I will! You are a maniac, Miriam, and must be restrained from going
abroad, and setting the county in a conflagration."

"You will have to guard me very close for the whole of my life, then."

At that moment the door was quietly opened, and Mr. Willcoxen entered.

Miriam's countenance changed fearfully, but she wrung her hand from the
clasp of Paul's, and hastened toward the door.

Paul sprang forward and intercepted her.

"What does this mean?" asked Mr. Willcoxen, stepping up to them.

"It means that she is mad, and will do herself or somebody else much
mischief," cried Paul, sharply.

"For shame, Paul! Release her instantly," said Thurston,
authoritatively.

"Would you release a lunatic, bent upon setting the house on fire?"
expostulated the young man, still holding her.

"She is no lunatic; let her go instantly, sir."

Paul, with a groan, complied.

Miriam hastened onward, cast one look of anguish back to Thurston's
face, rushed back, and threw herself upon her knees at his feet, clasped
his hands, and cried:

"I do not ask you to pardon me--I dare not! But God deliver you! if it
brand me and my accusation with infamy! and God forever bless you!" Then
rising, she fled from the room.

The brothers looked at each other.

"Thurston, do you know where she has gone? what she intends to do?"

"Yes."

"You do?"

"Assuredly."

"And you would not prevent her?"

"Most certainly not."

Paul was gazing into his brother's eyes, and, as he gazed, every vestige
of doubt and suspicion vanished from his mind; it was like the sudden
clearing up of the sky, and shining forth of the sun; he grasped his
brother's hands with cordial joy.

"God bless you, Thurston! I echo her prayer. God forever bless you! But,
Thurston, would it not have been wiser to prevent her going out?"

"How? Would you have used force with Miriam--restrained her personal
liberty?"

"Yes! I would have done so!"

"That would have been not only wrong, but useless; for if her strong
affections for us were powerless to restrain her, be sure that physical
means would fail; she would make herself heard in some way, and thus
make our cause much worse. Besides, I should loathe, for myself, to
resort to any such expedients."

"But she may do so much harm. And you?"

"I am prepared to meet what comes!"

"Strange infatuation! that she should believe you to be--I will not
wrong you by finishing the sentence."

"She does not at heart believe me guilty--her mind is in a storm. She is
bound by her oath to act upon the evidence rather than upon her own
feelings, and that evidence is much stronger against me, Paul, than you
have any idea of. Come into my study, and I will tell you the whole
story."

And Paul followed him thither.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

UPON CHARGE OF MURDER.


Some hours later in that day Colonel Thornton was sitting, in his
capacity of police magistrate, in his office at C----. The room was
occupied by about a dozen persons, men and women, black and white. He
had just got through with one or two petty cases of debt or theft, and
had up before him a poor, half-starved "White Herring," charged with
sheep-stealing, when the door opened and a young girl, closely veiled,
entered and took a seat in the farthest corner from the crowd. The case
of the poor man was soon disposed of--the evidence was not positive--the
compassionate magistrate leaned to the side of mercy, and the man was
discharged, and went home most probably to dine upon mutton. This being
the last case, the magistrate arose and ordered the room to be cleared
of all who had no further business with him.

When the loungers had left the police office the young girl came
forward, stood before the magistrate, and raised her veil, revealing the
features of Miriam.

"Good-morning, Miss Shields," said Colonel Thornton; and neither the
countenance nor manner of this suave and stately gentleman of the old
school revealed the astonishment he really felt on seeing the young lady
in such a place. He arose and courteously placed her a chair, reseated
himself, and turned toward her and respectfully awaited her
communication.

"Colonel Thornton, you remember Miss Mayfield, and the manner of her
death, that made some stir here about seven years ago?"

The face of the old gentleman suddenly grew darkened and slightly
convulsed, as the face of the sea when clouds and wind pass over it.

"Yes, young lady, I remember."

"I have come to denounce her murderer."

Colonel Thornton took up his pen, and drew toward him a blank form of a
writ, and sat looking toward her; and waiting for her further words.

Her bosom heaved, her face worked, her voice was choked and unnatural,
as she said:

"You will please to issue a warrant for the arrest of Thurston
Willcoxen."

Colonel Thornton laid down his pen, arose from his seat, and took her
hand and gazed upon her with an expression of blended surprise and
compassion.

"My dear young lady, you are not very well. May I inquire--are your
friends in town, or are you here alone?"

"I am here alone. Nay, I am not mad, Colonel Thornton, although your
looks betray that you think me so."

"No, no, not mad, only indisposed," said the colonel, in no degree
modifying his opinion.

"Colonel Thornton, if there is anything strange and eccentric in my
looks and manner, you must set it down to the strangeness of the
position in which I am placed."

"My dear young lady, Miss Thornton is at the hotel to-day. Will you
permit me to take you to her?"

"You will do as you please, Colonel Thornton, after you shall have heard
my testimony and examined the proofs I have to lay before you. Then I
shall permit you to judge of my soundness of mind as you will,
premising, however, that my sanity or insanity can have no possible
effect upon the proofs that I submit," she said, laying a packet upon
the table between them.

Something in her manner now compelled the magistrate to give her words
an attention for which he blamed himself, as for a gross wrong, toward
his favorite clergyman.

"Do I understand you to charge Mr. Willcoxen with the death of Miss
Mayfield?"

"Yes," said Miriam, bowing her head.

"What cause, young lady, can you possibly have for making such a
monstrous and astounding accusation?"

"I came here for the purpose of telling you, if you will permit me. Nor
do I, since you doubt my reason, ask you to believe my statement,
unsupported by proof."

"Go on, young lady; I am all attention."

"Will you administer the usual oath?"

"No, Miss Shields; I will hear your story first in the capacity of
friend."

"And you think that the only capacity in which you will be called upon
to act? Well, may Heaven grant it," said Miriam, and she began and told
him all the facts that had recently come to her knowledge, ending by
placing the packet of letters in his hands.

While she spoke, Colonel Thornton's pen was busy making minutes of her
statements; when she had concluded, he laid down the pen, and turning to
her, asked:

"You believe, then, that Mr. Willcoxen committed this murder?"

"I know not--I act only upon the evidence."

"Circumstantial evidence, often as delusive as it is fatal! Do you think
it possible that Mr. Willcoxen could have meditated such a crime?"

"No, no, no, no! never meditated it! If he committed it, it was
unpremeditated, unintentional; the accident of some lover's quarrel,
some frenzy of passion, jealousy--I know not what!"

"Let me ask you, then, why you volunteer to prosecute?"

"Because I must do so. But tell me, do you think what I have advanced
trivial and unimportant?" asked Miriam, in a hopeful tone, for little
she thought of herself, if only her obligation were discharged, and her
brother still unharmed.

"On the contrary, I think it so important as to constrain my instant
attention, and oblige me to issue a warrant for the apprehension of Mr.
Thurston Willcoxen," said Colonel Thornton, as he wrote rapidly, filling
out several blank documents. Then he rang a bell, that was answered by
the entrance of several police officers. To the first he gave a warrant,
saying:

"You will serve this immediately upon Mr. Willcoxen." And to another he
gave some half dozen subpoenas, saying: "You will serve all these
between this time and twelve to-morrow."

When these functionaries were all discharged, Miriam arose and went to
the magistrate.

"What do you think of the testimony?"

"It is more than sufficient to commit Mr. Willcoxen for trial; it may
cost him his life."

A sudden paleness passed over her face; she turned to leave the office,
but the hand of death seemed to clutch her heart, arresting its
pulsations, stopping the current of her blood, smothering her breath,
and she fell to the floor.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wearily passed the day at Dell-Delight. Thurston, as usual, sitting
reading or writing at his library table; Paul rambling uneasily about
the house, now taking up a book and attempting to read, now throwing it
down in disgust; sometimes almost irresistibly impelled to spring upon
his horse and gallop to Charlotte Hall, then restraining his strong
impulse lest something important should transpire at home during his
absence. So passed the day until the middle of the afternoon.

Paul was walking up and down the long piazza, indifferent for the first
time in his life to the loveliness of the soft April atmosphere, that
seemed to blend, raise and idealize the features of the landscape until
earth, water and sky were harmonized into celestial beauty. Paul was
growing very anxious for the reappearance of Miriam, or for some news of
her or her errand, yet dreading every moment an arrival of another sort.
"Where could the distracted girl be? Would her report be received and
acted upon by the magistrate? If so, what would be done? How would it
all end? Would Thurston sleep in his own house or in a prison that
night? When would Miriam return? Would she ever return, after having
assumed such a task as she had taken upon herself?"

These and other questions presented themselves every moment, as he
walked up and down the piazza, keeping an eye upon the distant road.

Presently a cloud of dust in the distance arrested both his attention
and his promenade, and brought his anxiety to a crisis. He soon
perceived a single horseman galloping rapidly down the road, and never
removed his eyes until the horseman turned into the gate and galloped
swiftly up to the house.

Then with joy Paul recognized the rider, and ran eagerly down the stairs
to give him welcome, and reached the paved walk just as Cloudy drew rein
and threw himself from the saddle.

The meeting was a cordial, joyous one--with Cloudy it was sincere,
unmixed joy; with Paul it was only a pleasant surprise and a transient
forgetfulness. Rapid questions were asked and answered, as they hurried
into the house.

Cloudy's ship had been ordered home sooner than had been expected; he
had reached Norfolk a week before, B---- that afternoon, and had
immediately procured a horse and hurried on home. Hence his unlooked-for
arrival.

"How is Thurston? How is Miriam? How are they all at Luckenough?"

"All are well; the family at Luckenough are absent in the South, but are
expected home every week."

"And where is Miriam?"

"At the village."

"And Thurston?"

"In his library, as usual," said Paul, and touched the bell to summon a
messenger to send to Mr. Willcoxen.

"Have you dined, Cloudy?"

"Yes, no--I ate some bread and cheese at the village; don't fuss; I'd
rather wait till supper-time."

The door opened, and Mr. Willcoxen entered.

Whatever secret anxiety might have weighed upon the minister's heart, no
sign of it was suffered to appear upon his countenance, as, smiling
cordially, he came in holding out his hand to welcome his cousin and
early playmate, expressing equal surprise and pleasure at seeing him.

Cloudy had to go over the ground of explanation of his sudden arrival,
and by the time he had finished, old Jenny came in, laughing and
wriggling with joy to see him. But Jenny did not remain long in the
parlor; she hurried out into the kitchen to express her feelings
professionally by preparing a welcome feast.

"And you are not married yet, Thurston, as great a favorite as you are
with the ladies! How is that? Every time I come home I expect to be
presented to a Mrs. Willcoxen, and never am gratified; why is that?"

"Perhaps I believe in the celibacy of the clergy."

"Perhaps you have never recovered the disappointment of losing Miss Le
Roy?"

"Ah! Cloudy, people who live in glass houses should not throw stones; I
suspect you judge me by yourself. How is it with you, Cloudy? Has no
fair maiden been able to teach you to forget your boy-love for
Jacquelina?"

Cloudy winced, but tried to cover his embarrassment with a laugh.

"Oh! I have been in love forty dozen times. I'm always in love; my heart
is continually going through a circle from one fit to another, like the
sun through the signs of the zodiac; only it never comes to anything."

"Well, at least little Jacko is forgotten, which is one congratulatory
circumstance."

"No, she is not forgotten; I will not wrong her by saying that she is,
or could be! All other loves are merely the foreign ports, which my
heart visits transiently now and then. Lina is its native home. I don't
know how it is. With most cases of disappointment, such as yours with
Miss Le Roy, I suppose the regret may be short-lived enough; but when an
affection has been part and parcel of one's being from infancy up; why,
it is in one's soul and heart and blood, so to speak--is identical with
one's consciousness, and inseparable from one's life."

"Do you ever see her?"

"See her! yes; but how?--at each return from a voyage. I may see
her once, with an iron grating between us; she disguised with her
black shrouding robe and veil, and thinking that she must suffer
here to expiate the fate of Dr. Grimshaw, who, scorpion-like, stung
himself to death with the venom of his own bad passions. She is a
Sister of Mercy, devoted to good works, and leaves her convent only
in times of war, plague, pestilence or famine, to minister to the
suffering. She nursed me through the yellow fever, when I lay in the
hospital at New Orleans, but when I got well enough to recognize her she
vanished--evaporated--made herself 'thin air,' and another Sister served
in her place."

"Have you ever seen her since?"

"Yes, once; I sought out her convent, and went with the fixed
determination to reason with her, and to persuade her not to renew her
vows for another year--you know, the Sisters only take vows for a year
at a time."

"Did you make any impression on her mind?" inquired Thurston, with more
interest than he had yet shown m any part of the story.

"'Make any impression on her mind!' No! I--I did not even attempt to.
How could I, when I only saw her behind a grate, with the prioress on
one side of her and the portress on the other? My visit was silent
enough, and short enough, and sad enough. Why can't she come out of
that? What have I done to deserve to be made miserable? I don't deserve
it. I am the most ill-used man in the United States service."

While Cloudy spoke, old Jenny was hurrying in and out between the house
and the kitchen, and busying herself with setting the table, laying the
cloth and arranging the service. But presently she came in, throwing
wide the door, and announcing:

"Two gemmun, axin to see marster."

Thurston arose and turned to confront them, while Paul became suddenly
pale on recognizing two police officers.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Willcoxen--good-afternoon, gentlemen," said the
foremost and most respectable-looking of the two, lifting his hat and
bowing to the fireside party. Then replacing it, he said: "Mr.
Willcoxen, will you be kind enough to step this way and give me your
attention, sir." He walked to the window, and Thurston followed him.

Paul stood with a pale face and firmly compressed lip, and gazed after
them.

And Cloudy--unsuspicious Cloudy, arose and stood with his back to the
fire and whistled a sea air.

"Mr. Willcoxen, you can see for yourself the import of this paper," said
the officer, handing the warrant.

Thurston read it and returned it.

"Mr. Willcoxen," added the policeman, "myself and my comrade came hither
on horseback. Let me suggest to you to order your carriage. One of us
will accompany you in the drive, and all remarks will be avoided."

"I thank you for the hint, Mr. Jenkins; I had, how ever, intended to do
as you advise," said Thurston, beckoning his brother to approach.

"Paul! I am a prisoner. Say nothing at present to Cloudy; permit him to
assume that business takes me away, and go now quietly and order horses
put to the carriage."

"Dr. Douglass, we shall want your company also," said the officer,
serving Paul with a subpoena.

Paul ground his teeth together and rushed out of the door.

"Keep an eye on that young man," said the policeman to his comrade, and
the latter followed Paul into the yard and on to the stables.

The haste and passion of Paul's manner had attracted Cloudy's attention,
and now he stood looking on with surprise and inquiry.

"Cloudy," said Thurston, approaching him, "a most pressing affair
demands my presence at C---- this afternoon. Paul must also attend me. I
may not return to-night. Paul, however, certainly will. In the meantime,
Cloudy, my boy, make yourself as much at home and as happy as you
possibly can."

"Oh! don't mind me! Never make a stranger of me. Go, by all means. I
wouldn't detain you for the world; hope it is nothing of a painful
nature that calls you from home, however. Any parishioner ill, dying and
wanting your ghostly consolations?"

"Oh, no," said Thurston, smiling.

"Glad of it! Go, by all means. I will make myself jolly until you
return," said Cloudy, walking up and down the floor whistling a love
ditty, and thinking of little Jacko. He always thought of her with
tenfold intensity whenever he returned home and came into her
neighborhood.

"Mr. Jenkins, will you follow me to my library?" said Thurston.

The officer bowed assent and Mr. Willcoxen proceeded thither for the
purpose of securing his valuable papers and locking his secretary and
writing-desk.

After an absence of some fifteen minutes they returned to the parlor to
find Paul and the constable awaiting them.

"Is the carriage ready?" asked Mr. Willcoxen.

"Yes, sir," replied the constable.

"Then, I believe, we also are--is it not so?"

The police officer bowed, and Mr. Willcoxen walked up to Cloudy and held
out his hand.

"Good-by, Cloudy, for the present. Paul will probably be home by
nightfall, even if I should be detained."

"Oh, don't hurry yourself upon my account. I shall do very well. Jenny
can take care of me," said Cloudy, jovially, as he shook the offered
hand of Thurston.

Paul could not trust himself to look Cloudy in the face and say
"Good-by." He averted his head, and so followed Mr. Willcoxen and the
officer into the yard.

Mr. Willcoxen, the senior officer and Paul Douglass entered the
carriage, and the second constable attended on horseback, and so the
party set out for Charlotte Hall.

Hour after hour passed. Old Jenny came in and put the supper on the
table, and stood presiding over the urn and tea-pot while Cloudy ate his
supper. Old Jenny's tongue ran as if she felt obliged to make up in
conversation for the absence of the rest of the family.

"Lord knows, I'se glad 'nough you'se comed back," she said; "dis yer
place is bad 'nough. Sam's been waystin' here eber since de fam'ly come
from de city--dey must o' fetch him long o' dem. Now I do 'spose sumtin
is happen long o' Miss Miriam as went heyin' off to de willidge dis
mornin' afore she got her brekfas, nobody on de yeth could tell what
fur. Now de od-er two is gone, an' nobody lef here to mine de house,
'cept 'tis you an' me! Sam's waystin'!"

Cloudy laughed and tried to cheer her spirits by a gay reply, and then
they kept up between them a lively badinage of repartee, in which old
Jenny acquitted herself quite as wittily as her young master.

And after supper she cleared away the service, and went to prepare a bed
and light a fire in the room appropriated to Cloudy.

And so the evening wore away.

It grew late, yet neither Thurston nor Paul appeared. Cloudy began to
think their return unseasonably delayed, and at eleven o'clock he took
up his lamp to retire to his chamber, when he was startled and arrested
by the barking of dogs, and by the rolling of the carriage into the
yard, and in a few minutes the door was thrown violently open, and Paul
Douglass, pale, haggard, convulsed and despairing, burst suddenly into
the room.

"Paul! Paul! what in the name of Heaven has happened?" cried Cloudy,
starting up, surprised and alarmed by his appearance.

"Oh, it has ended in his committal!--it has ended in his committal!--he
is fully committed for trial!--he was sent off to-night to the county
jail at Leonardtown, in the custody of two officers!"

"Who is committed? What are you talking about, Paul?" said Cloudy,
taking his hand kindly and looking in his face.

These words and actions brought Paul somewhat to his senses.

"Oh! you do not know!--you do not even guess anything about it, Cloudy!
Oh, it is a terrible misfortune! Let me sit down and I will tell you!"

And Paul Douglass threw himself into a chair, and in an agitated, nearly
incoherent manner, related the circumstances that led to the arrest of
Thurston Willcoxen for the murder of Marian Mayfield.

When he had concluded the strange story, Cloudy started up, took his
hat, and was about to leave the room,

"Where are you going, Cloudy?"

"To the stables to saddle my horse, to ride to Leonardtown this night!"

"It is nearly twelve o'clock."

"I know it, but by hard riding I can reach Leonardtown by morning, and
be with Thurston as soon as the prison doors are opened. And I will ask
you, Paul, to be kind enough to forward my trunks from the tavern at
Benedict to Leonardtown, where I shall remain to be near Thurston as
long as he needs my services."

"God bless you, Cloudy! I myself wished to accompany him, but he would
not for a moment hear of my doing so--he entreated me to return hither
to take care of poor Fanny and the homestead."

Cloudy scarcely waited to hear this benediction, but hurried to the
stables, found and saddled his horse, threw himself into the stirrups,
and in five minutes was dashing rapidly through the thick, low-lying
forest stretching inland from the coast.

Eight hours of hard riding brought him to the county seat.

Just stopping long enough to have his horse put up at the best hotel and
to inquire his way to the prison, he hurried thither.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and the street corners were thronged with
loungers conversing in low, eager tones upon the present all-absorbing
topic of discourse--the astounding event of the arrest of the great
preacher, the Rev. Thurston Willcoxen, upon the charge of murder.

Hurrying past all these, Cloudy reached the jail. He readily gained
admittance, and was conducted to the cell of the prisoner. He found
Thurston attired as when he left home, sitting at a small wooden stand,
and calmly occupied with his pen.

He arose, and smilingly extended his hand, saying:

"This is very kind as well as very prompt, Cloudy. You must have ridden
fast."

"I did. Leave us alone, if you please, my friend," said Cloudy, turning
to the jailor.

The latter went out and locked the door upon the friends.

"This seems a sad event to greet you on your return home. Cloudy; but
never mind, it will all be well!"

"Sad? It's a farce! I have not an instant's misgiving about the result;
but the present indignity! Oh! oh! I could--"

"Be calm, my dear Cloudy. Have you heard anything of the circumstances
that led to this?"

"Yes! Paul told me; but he is as crazy and incoherent as a Bedlamite! I
want you, if you please, Thurston, if you have no objection, to go over
the whole story for me, that I may see if I can make anything of it for
your defense."

"Poor Paul! he takes this matter far too deeply to heart. Sit down. I
have not a second chair to offer, but take this or the foot of the cot,
as you prefer."

Cloudy took the foot of the cot.

"Certainly, Cloudy, I will tell you everything," said Thurston, and
forthwith commenced his explanation.

Thurston's narrative was clear and to the point. When it was finished
Cloudy asked a number of questions, chiefly referring to the day of the
tragedy. When these were answered he sat with his brows gathered down in
astute thought. Presently he asked:

"Thurston, have you engaged counsel?"

"Yes; Mr. Romford has been with me this morning."

"Is he fully competent?"

"The best lawyer in the State."

"When does the court sit?"

"On Monday week."

"Have you any idea whether your trial will come on early in the
session?"

"I presume it will come on very soon, as Mr. Romford informs me there
are but few cases on the docket."

"Thank Heaven for that, as your confinement here promises to be of very
short duration. However, the limited time makes it the more necessary
for me to act with the greater promptitude. I came here with the full
intention of remaining in town as long as you should be detained in this
infernal place, but I shall have to leave you within the hour."

"Of course, Cloudy, my dear boy, I could not expect you to restrict
yourself to this town so soon after escaping from the confinement of
your ship!"

"Oh! you don't understand me at all! Do you think I am going away on my
own business, or amusement, while you are here? To the devil with the
thought!--begging your reverence's pardon. No, I am going in search of
Jacquelina. Since hearing your explanation, particularly that part of it
relating to your visit to Luckenough, upon the morning of the day of
Marian's death, and the various scenes that occurred there--certain
vague ideas of my own have taken form and color, and I feel convinced
that Jacquelina could throw some light upon this affair."

"Indeed! why should you think so?"

"Oh! from many small indexes, which I have neither the time nor
inclination to tell you; for, taken apart from collateral circumstances
and associations, they would appear visionary. Each in itself is really
trivial enough, but in the mass they are very indicative. At least, I
think so, and I must seek Jacquelina out immediately. And to do so,
Thurston, I must leave you this moment, for there is a boat to leave the
wharf for Baltimore this morning if it has not already gone. It will
take me two days to reach Baltimore, another day to get to her convent,
and it will altogether be five or six days before I can get back here.
Good-by, Thurston! Heaven keep you, and give you a speedy deliverance
from this black hole!"

And Cloudy threw his arms around Thurston in a brotherly embrace, and
then knocked at the door to be let out.

In half an hour Cloudy was "once more upon the waters," in full sail for
Baltimore.




CHAPTER XXXV.

MARIAN.


Great was the consternation caused by the arrest of a gentleman so high
in social rank and scholastic and theological reputation as the Rev.
Thurston Willcoxen, and upon a charge, too, so awful as that for which
he stood committed! It was the one all-absorbing subject of thought and
conversation. People neglected their business, forgetting to work, to
bargain, buy or sell. Village shopkeepers, instead of vamping their
wares, leaned eagerly over their counters, and with great dilated eyes
and dogmatical forefingers, discussed with customers the merits or
demerits of the great case. Village mechanics, occupied solely with the
subject of the pastor's guilt or innocence, disappointed with impunity
customers who were themselves too deeply interested and too highly
excited by the same subject, to remember, far less to rebuke them, for
unfulfilled engagements. Even women totally neglected, or badly
fulfilled, their domestic avocations; for who in the parish could sit
down quietly to the construction of a garment or a pudding while their
beloved pastor, the "all praised" Thurston Willcoxen, lay in prison
awaiting his trial for a capital crime?

As usual in such cases, there was very little cool reasoning, and very
much passionate declamation. The first astonishment had given place to
conjecture, which yielded in turn to dogmatic judgments--acquiescing or
condemning, as the self-constituted judges happened to be favorable or
adverse to the cause of the minister.

When the first Sabbath after the arrest came, and the church was closed
because the pulpit was unoccupied, the dispersed congregation, haunted
by the vision of the absent pastor in his cell, discussed the matter
anew, and differed and disputed, and fell out worse than ever. Parties
formed for and against the minister, and party feuds raged high.

Upon the second Sabbath--being the day before the county court should
sit--a substitute filled the pulpit of Mr. Willcoxen, and his
congregation reassembled to hear an edifying discourse from the text: "I
myself have seen the ungodly in great power, and flourishing like a
green bay-tree. I went by, and lo! he was gone; I sought him, but his
place was nowhere to be found."

This sermon bore rather hard (by pointed allusions) upon the great
elevation and sudden downfall of the celebrated minister, and, in
consequence, delighted one portion of the audience and enraged the
other. The last-mentioned charged the new preacher with envy, hatred and
malice, and all uncharitableness, besides the wish to rise on the ruin
of his unfortunate predecessor, and they went home in high indignation,
resolved not to set foot within the parish church again until the
honorable acquittal of their own beloved pastor should put all his
enemies, persecutors and slanderers to shame.

The excitement spread and gained force and fire with space. The press
took it up, and went to war as the people had done. And as far as the
name of Thurston Willcoxen had been wafted by the breath of fame, it was
now blown by the "Blatant Beast." Ay, and farther, too! for those who
had never even heard of his great talents, his learning, his eloquence,
his zeal and his charity, were made familiar with his imputed crime and
shuddered while they denounced. And this was natural and well, so far as
it went to prove that great excellence is so much less rare than great
evil, as to excite less attention. The news of this signal event spread
like wildfire all over the country, from Maine to Louisiana, and from
Missouri to Florida, producing everywhere great excitement, but falling
in three places with the crushing force of a thunderbolt.

First by Marian's fireside.

In a private parlor of a quiet hotel, in one of the Eastern cities, sat
the lady, now nearly thirty years of age, yet still in the bloom of her
womanly beauty.

She had lately arrived from Europe, charged with one of those benevolent
missions which it was the business and the consolation of her life to
fulfill.

It was late in the afternoon, and the low descending sun threw its
golden gleam across the round table at which she sat, busily engaged
with reading reports, making notes, and writing letters connected with
the affair upon which she had come.

Seven years had not changed Marian much--a little less vivid, perhaps,
the bloom on cheeks and lips, a shade paler the angel brow, a shade
darker the rich and lustrous auburn tresses, softer and calmer, fuller
of thought and love the clear blue eyes--sweeter her tones, and gentler
all her motions--that was all. Her dress was insignificant in material,
make and color, yet the wearer unconsciously imparted a classic and
regal grace to every fold and fall of the drapery. No splendor of
apparel could have given such effect to her individual beauty as this
quiet costume; I would I were an artist that I might reproduce her image
as she was--the glorious face and head, the queenly form, in its plain
but graceful robe of I know not what--gray serge, perhaps.

Her whole presence--her countenance, manner and tone revealed the
richness, strength and serenity of a faithful, loving, self-denying,
God-reliant soul--of one who could recall the past, endure the present,
and anticipate the future without regret, complaint or fear.

Sometimes the lady's soft eyes would lift themselves from her work to
rest with tenderness upon the form of a little child, so small and still
that you would not have noticed her presence but in following the lady's
loving glance. She sat in a tiny rocking chair, nursing a little white
rabbit on her lap. She was not a beautiful child--she was too diminutive
and pale, with hazy blue eyes and faded yellow hair; yet her little face
was so demure and sweet, so meek and loving, that it would haunt and
soften you more than that of a beautiful child could. The child had been
orphaned from her birth, and when but a few days old had been received
into the "Children's Home."

Marian never had a favorite among her children, but this little waif was
so completely orphaned, so desolate and destitute, and withal so puny,
fragile and lifeless that Marian took her to her own heart day and
night, imparting from her own fine vital temperament the warmth and
vigor that nourished the perishing little human blossom to life and
health. If ever a mother's heart lived in a maiden's bosom, it was in
Marian's. As she had cherished Miriam, she now cherished Angel, and she
was as fondly loved by the one as she had been by the other. And so for
five years past Angel had been Marian's inseparable companion. She sat
with her little lesson, or her sewing, or her pet rabbit, at Marian's
feet while she worked; held her hand when she walked out, sat by her
side at the table or in the carriage, and slept nestled in her arms at
night. She was the one earthly blossom that bloomed in Marian's solitary
path.

Angel now sat with her rabbit on her knees, waiting demurely till Marian
should have time to notice her.

And the lady still worked on, stopping once in a while to smile upon the
child. There was a file of the evening papers lying near at hand upon
the table where she wrote, but Marian had not yet had time to look at
them. Soon, however, she had occasion to refer to one of them for the
names of the members of the Committee on Public Lands. In casting her
eyes over the paper, her glance suddenly lighted upon a paragraph that
sent all the blood from her cheeks to her heart. She dropped the paper,
sank back in her chair, and covered her blanched face with both hands,
and strove for self-control.

Angel softly put down the rabbit and gently stole to her side and looked
up with her little face full of wondering sympathy.

Presently Marian began passing her hands slowly over her forehead, with
a sort of unconscious self-mesmerism, and then she dropped them wearily
upon her lap, and Angel saw how pallid was her face, how ashen and
tremulous her lip, how quivering her hands. But after a few seconds
Marian stooped and picked the paper up and read the long,
wonder-mongering affair, in which all that had been and all that had
seemed, as well as many things could neither be nor seem, were related
at length, or conjectured, or suggested. It began by announcing the
arrest of the Rev. Thurston Willcoxen upon the charge of murder, and
then went back to the beginning and related the whole story, from the
first disappearance of Marian Mayfield to the late discoveries that had
led to the apprehension of the supposed murderer, with many additions
and improvements gathered in the rolling of the ball of falsehood. Among
the rest, that the body of the unhappy young lady had been washed ashore
several miles below the scene of her dreadful fate, and had been
charitably interred by some poor fisherman. The article concluded by
describing the calm demeanor of the accused and the contemptuous manner
in which he treated a charge so grave, scorning even to deny it.

"Oh, I do not wonder at the horror and consternation this matter has
caused. When the deed was attempted, more than the intended death wound
didn't overcome me! And nothing, nothing in the universe but the
evidence of my own senses could have convinced me of his purposed guilt!
And still I cannot realize it! He must have been insane! But he treats
the discovery of his intended and supposed crime with scorn and
contempt! Alas! alas! is this the end of years of suffering and
probation? Is this the fruit of that long remorse, from which I had
hoped so much for his redemption--a remorse without repentance, and
barren of reformation! Yet I must save him."

She arose and rang the bell, and gave orders to have two seats secured
for her in the coach that would leave in the morning for Baltimore. And
then she began to walk up and down the floor, to try and walk off the
excitement that was fast gaining upon her.

Before this night and this discovery, not for the world would Marian
have made her existence known to him, far less would she have sought his
presence. Nay, deeming such a meeting improper as it was impossible, her
mind had never contemplated it for an instant. She had watched his
course, sent anonymous donations to his charities, hoped much from his
repentance and good works, but never hoped in any regard to herself. But
now it was absolutely necessary that she should make her existence known
to him. She would go to him! She must save him! She should see him, and
speak to him--him whom she had never hoped to meet again in life! She
would see him again in three days! The thought was too exciting even for
her strong heart and frame and calm, self-governing nature! And in
defiance of reason and of will, her long-buried youthful love, her pure,
earnest, single-hearted love, burst its secret sepulchre, and rejoiced
through all her nature. The darkness of the past was, for the time,
forgotten. Memory recalled no picture of unkindness, injustice or
inconstancy. Even the scene upon the beach was faded, gone, lost! But
the light of the past glowed around her--their seaside strolls and
woodland wanderings--

"The still, green places where they met,
 The moonlit branches dewy wet,
 The greeting and the parting word,
 The smile, the embrace, the tone that made
 An Eden of the forest shade--"

kindling a pure rapture from memory, and a wild longing from hope, that
her full heart could scarce contain.

But soon came on another current of thought and feeling opposed to the
first--doubt and fear of the meeting. For herself she felt that she
could forget all the sorrows of the past; aye! and with fervent glowing
soul, and flushed cheeks, and tearful eyes, and clasped hands, she
adored the Father in Heaven that He had put no limit to forgiveness--no!
in that blessed path of light all space was open to the human will, and
the heart might forgive infinitely--and to its own measureless extent.

But how would Thurston meet her? He had suffered such tortures from
remorse that doubtless he would rejoice "with exceeding great joy" to
find that the deed attempted in some fit of madness had really not been
effected. But his sufferings had sprung from remorse of conscience, not
from remorse of love. No! except as his deliverer, he would probably not
be pleased to see her. As soon as this thought had seized her mind,
then, indeed, all the bitterer scenes in the past started up to life,
and broke down the defenses reared by love, and faith, and hope, and let
in the tide of anguish and despair that rolled over her soul, shaking it
as it had not been shaken for many years. And her head fell upon her
bosom, and her hands were clasped convulsively, as she walked up and
down the floor--striving with herself--striving to subdue the rebel
passions of her heart--striving to attain her wonted calmness, and
strength, and self-possession, and at last praying earnestly: "Oh,
Father! the rains descend, and the floods come, and the winds blow and
beat upon my soul; let not its strength fall as if built upon the sand."
And so she walked up and down, striving and praying; nor was the
struggle in vain--once more she "conquered a peace" in her own bosom.

She turned her eyes upon little Angel. The infant was drooping over one
arm of her rocking-chair like a fading lily, but her soft, hazy eyes,
full of vague sympathy, followed the lady wherever she went.

Marian's heart smote her for her temporary forgetfulness of the child's
wants. It was now twilight, and Marian rang for lights, and Angel's milk
and bread, which were soon brought.

And then with her usual quiet tenderness she undressed the little one,
heard her prayers, took her up, and as she rocked, sang a sweet, low
evening hymn, that soothed the child to sleep and her own heart to
perfect rest. And early the next morning Marian and little Angel set out
by the first coach for Baltimore, on their way to St. Mary's County.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Convent of Bethlehem was not only the sanctuary of professed nuns,
the school for girls, the nursery of orphans, but it was also the
temporary home of those Sisters of Mercy who go forth into the world
only on errands of Christian love and charity, and return to their
convent often only to die, worn out by toil among scenes and sufferers
near which few but themselves would venture. And as they pass hence to
Heaven, their ranks are still filled up from the world--not always by
the weary and disappointed. Often young Catholic girls voluntarily leave
the untried world that is smiling fair before them to enter upon a life
of poverty, self-denial and merciful ministrations; so even in this
century the order of the Sisters of Mercy is kept up.

Among the most active and zealous of the order of Bethlehem was the
Sister Theresa, the youngest of the band. Youthful as she was, however,
this Sister's heart was no sweet sacrifice of "a flower offered in the
bud;" on the contrary, I am afraid that Sister Theresa had trifled with,
and pinched, and bruised, and trampled the poor budding heart, until she
thought it good for nothing upon earth before she offered it to Heaven.
I fear it was nothing higher than that strange revulsion of feeling,
world-weariness, disappointment, disgust, remorse, fanaticism--either,
any, or all of these, call it what you will, that in past ages and
Catholic countries have filled monasteries with the whilom, gay, worldly
and ambitious; that has sent many a woman in the prime of her beauty and
many a man at the acme of his power into a convent; that transformed the
mighty Emperor Charles V. into a cowled and shrouded monk; the reckless
swashbuckler, Ignatius Loyola, into a holy saint, and the beautiful
Louise de la Valliere into an ascetic nun; which finally metamorphosed
the gayest, maddest, merriest elf that ever danced in the moonlight
into--Sister Theresa.

Poor Jacquelina! for, of course, you can have no doubt that it is of her
we are speaking--she perpetrated her last lugubrious joke on the day
that she was to have made her vows, for when asked what patron saint she
would select by taking that saint's name in religion, she answered--St.
Theresa, because St. Theresa would understand her case the best, having
been, like herself, a scamp and a rattle-brain before she took it into
her head to astonish her friends by becoming a saint. Poor Jacko said
this with the solemnest face and the most serious earnestness; but, with
such a reputation as she had had for pertness, of course nobody would
believe but that she was making fun of the "Blessed Theresa," and so she
was put upon further probation, with the injunction to say the seven
penitential Psalms seven times a day, until she was in a holier frame of
mind; which she did, though under protest that she didn't think the
words composed by David to express his remorse for his own enormous sin
exactly suited her case. Sister Theresa, if the least steady and devout,
was certainly the most active and zealous and courageous among them all.
She yawned horribly over the long litanies and long sermons; but if ever
there was a work of mercy requiring extraordinary labor, privation,
exposure and danger, Sister Theresa was the one to face, in the cause,
lightning and tempest, plague, pestilence and famine, battle and murder,
and sudden death! Happy was she? or content? No; she was moody,
hysterical and devotional by turns--sometimes a zeal for good works
would possess her; sometimes the old fun and quaintness would break out,
and sometimes an overwhelming fit of remorse--each depending upon the
accidental cause that would chance to arouse the moods.

Humane creatures are like climates--some of a temperate atmosphere,
taking even life-long sorrow serenely--never forgetting, and never
exaggerating its cause--never very wretched, if never quite happy.
Others of a more torrid nature have long, sunny seasons of bird-like
cheerfulness and happy forgetfulness, until some slight cause, striking
"the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound," shall startle up
memory--and grief, intensely realized, shall rise to anguish, and a
storm shall pass through the soul, shaking it almost to dissolution, and
the poor subject thinks, if she can think, that her heart must go to
pieces this time! But the storm passes, and nature, instead of being
destroyed, is refreshed and ready for the sunshine and the song-birds
again. The elastic heart throws off its weight, the spirits revive, and
life goes on joyously in harmony with nature.

So it was with Jacquelina, with this sad difference, that as her trouble
was more than sorrow--for it was remorse--it was never quite thrown off.
It was not that her conscience reproached her for the fate of Dr.
Grimshaw, which was brought on by his own wrongdoing, but Marian's
fate--that a wild, wanton frolic of her own should have caused the early
death of one so young, and beautiful, and good as Marian! that was the
thought that nearly drove poor Jacquelina mad with remorse, whenever she
realized it. Dr. Grimshaw was forgiven, and--forgotten; but the thought
of Marian was the "undying worm," that preyed upon her heart. And so,
year after year, despite the arguments and persuasions of nearest
friends, and the constancy of poor Cloudy, Jacquelina tearfully turned
from love, friendship, wealth and ease, and renewed her vows of poverty,
celibacy, obedience, and the service of the poor, sick and ignorant, in
the hope of expiating her offense, soothing the voice of conscience, and
gaining peace. Jacquelina would have made her vows perpetual by taking
the black veil, but her Superior constantly dissuaded her from it. She
was young, and life, with its possibilities, was all before her; she
must wait many years before she took the step that could not be
retracted without perjury. And so each year she renewed her vow a
twelvemonth. The seventh year of her religious life was drawing to its
close, and she had notified her superior of her wish now, after so many
years of probation, to take the black veil, and make her vows perpetual.
And the Abbess had, at length, listened favorably to her expressed
wishes.

But a few days after this, as the good old Mother, Martha, the portress,
sat dozing over her rosary, behind the hall grating, the outer door was
thrown open, and a young man, in a midshipman's undress uniform, entered
rather brusquely, and came up to the grating. Touching his hat precisely
as if the old lady had been his superior officer, he said, hastily:

"Madam, if you please, I wish to see Mrs. ----; you know who I mean, I
presume? my cousin, Jacquelina."

The portress knew well enough, for she had seen Cloudy there several
times before, but she replied:

"You mean, young gentleman, that pious daughter, called in the world
Mrs. Grimshaw, but in religion Sister Theresa?"

"Fal lal!--that is--I beg your pardon, Mother, but I wish to see the
lady immediately. Can I do so?"

"The dear sister Theresa is at present making her retreat, preparatory
to taking the black veil."

"The what!" exclaimed Cloudy, with as much horror as if it had been the
"black dose" she was going to take.

"The black veil--and so she cannot be seen."

"Madam, I have a very pressing form of invitation here, which people are
not very apt to disregard. Did you ever hear of a subpoena, dear
Mother?"

The good woman never had, but she thought it evidently something
"uncanny," for she said, "I will send for the Abbess;" and she beckoned
to a nun within, and sent her on the errand--and soon the Abbess
appeared, and Cloudy made known the object of his visit.

"Go into the parlor, sir, and Sister Theresa will attend you," said that
lady.

And Cloudy turned to a side door on his right hand, and went into the
little receiving-room, three sides of which were like other rooms, but
the fourth side was a grating instead of a wall. Behind this grating
appeared Jacquelina--so white and thin with confinement, fasting and
vigil, and so disguised by her nun's dress as to be unrecognizable to
any but a lover's eyes: with her was the Abbess.

Cloudy went up to the grating. Jacquelina put her hand through, and
spoke a kind greeting; but Cloudy glanced at the Abbess, looked
reproachfully at Jacquelina, and then turning to the former, said:

"Madam, I wish to say a few words in confidence to my cousin here. Can I
be permitted to do so?"

"Most certainly, young gentleman; Sister Theresa is not restricted. It
was at her own request that I attended her hither."

"Thank you, dear lady--that which I have to say to--Sister
Theresa--involves the confidence of others: else I should not have made
the request that you have so kindly granted," said Cloudy, considerably
mollified.

The Abbess curtsied in the old stately way, and retired.

Cloudy looked at Jacquelina reproachfully.

"Are you going to be a nun, Lina?"

"Yes. Oh, Cloudy, Cloudy! what do you come here to disturb my thoughts
so for? Oh, Cloudy! every time you come to see me, you do so upset and
confuse my mind! You have no idea how many aves and paters, and psalms
and litanies I have to say before I can quiet my mind down again! And
now this is worse than all. Dear, dear Cloudy!--St. Mary, forgive me, I
never meant that--I meant plain Cloudy--see how you make me sin in
words! What did you send Mother Ettienne away for?"

"That I might talk to you alone. Why do you deny me that small
consolation, Lina? How have I offended, that you should treat me so?"

"In no way at all have you offended, dearest Cloudy--St. Peter! there it
is again--I mean only Cloudy."

"Never mind explaining the distinction. You are going to be a nun, you
say! Very well--let that pass, too! But you must leave your convent, and
go into the world yet once more, and then I shall have opportunities of
talking to you before your return."

"No, no; never will I leave my convent--never will I subject my soul to
such a temptation."

"My dear Lina, I have the cabalistic words that must draw you
forth--listen! Our cousin, Thurston Willcoxen, is in prison, charged
with the murder of Marian Mayfield"--a stifled shriek from
Jacquelina--"and there is circumstantial evidence against him strong
enough to ruin him forever, if it does not cost him his life. Now, Lina,
I cannot be wrong in supposing that you know who struck that death-blow,
and that your evidence can thoroughly exonerate Thurston from suspicion!
Am I right?"

"Yes! yes! you are right," exclaimed Jacquelina, in great agitation.

"You will go, then?"

"Yes! yes."

"When?"

"In an hour--this moment--with you."

"With me?"

"Yes! I may do so in such a case. I must do so! Oh! Heaven knows, I have
occasioned sin enough, without causing more against poor Thurston!"

"You will get ready, then, immediately, dear Lina. Are you sure there
will be no opposition?"

"Certainly not. Why, Cloudy, are you one of those who credit 'raw head
and bloody bones' fables about convents? I have no jailer but my own
conscience, Cloudy. Besides, my year's vows expired yesterday, and I am
free for awhile, before renewing them perpetually," said Jacquelina,
hurrying away to get ready.

"And may I be swung to the yard-arm if ever I let you renew them," said
Cloudy, while he waited for her.

Jacquelina was soon ready, and Cloudy rejoined her in the front entry,
behind the grating of which the good old portress, as she watched the
handsome middy drive off with her young postulant, devoutly crossed
herself, and diligently told her beads.

       *       *       *       *       *

Commodore Waugh and his family were returning slowly from the South,
stopping at all the principal towns for long rests on their way
homeward.

The commodore was now a wretched, helpless old man, depending almost for
his daily life upon the care and tenderness of Mrs. Waugh.

Good Henrietta, with advancing years, had continued to "wax fat," and
now it was about as much as she could do, with many grunts, to get up
and down stairs. Since her double bereavement of her "Hebe" and her
"Lapwing," her kind, motherly countenance had lost somewhat of its
comfortable jollity, and her hearty mellow laugh was seldom heard.
Still, good Henrietta was passably happy, as the world goes, for she had
the lucky foundation of a happy temper and temperament--she enjoyed the
world, her friends and her creature comforts--her sound, innocent
sleep--her ambling pony, or her easy carriage--her hearty meals and her
dreamy doze in the soft armchair of an afternoon, while Mrs. L'Oiseau
droned, in a dreary voice, long homilies for the good of the commodore's
soul.

Mrs. L'Oiseau had got to be one of the saddest and maddest fanatics that
ever afflicted a family. And there were hours when, by holding up too
graphic, terrific, and exasperating pictures of the veteran's past and
present wickedness and impenitence, and his future retribution, in the
shape of an external roasting in the lake that burneth with fire and
brimstone--she drove the old man half frantic with rage and fright! And
then she would nearly finish him by asking: "If hell was so horrible to
hear of for a little while, what must it be to feel forever and ever?"

They had reached Charleston, on their way home. Mrs. L'Oiseau, too much
fatigued to persecute her uncle for his good, had gone to her chamber.

The commodore was put comfortably to bed.

And Mrs. Waugh took the day's paper, and sat down by the old man's side,
to read him the news until he should get sleepy. As she turned the paper
about, her eyes fell upon the same paragraph that had so agitated
Marian. Now, Henrietta was by no means excitable--on the contrary, she
was rather hard to be moved; but on seeing this announcement of the
arrest of Mr. Willcoxen, for the crime with which he was charged, an
exclamation of horror and amazement burst from her lips. In another
moment she had controlled herself, and would gladly have kept the
exciting news from the sick man until the morning.

But it was too late--the commodore had heard the unwonted cry, and now,
raised upon his elbow, lay staring at her with his great fat eyes, and
insisting upon knowing what the foul fiend she meant by screeching out
in that manner?

It was in vain to evade the question--the commodore would hear the news.
And Mrs. Waugh told him.

"And by the bones of Paul Jones, I always believed it!" falsely swore
the commodore; and thereupon he demanded to hear "all about it."

Mrs. Waugh commenced, and in a very unsteady voice read the long account
quite through. The commodore made no comment, except an occasional grunt
of satisfaction, until she had finished it, when he growled out:

"Knew it!--hope they'll hang him!--d----d rascal! If it hadn't been for
him, there'd been no trouble in the family! Now call Festus to help to
turn me over, and tuck me up, Henrietta; I want to go to sleep!"

That night Mrs. Waugh said nothing, but the next morning she proposed
hurrying homeward with all possible speed.

But the commodore would hear of no such thing. He swore roundly that he
would not stir to save the necks of all the scoundrels in the world,
much less that of Thurston, who, if he did not kill Marian, deserved
richly to be hanged for giving poor Nace so much trouble.

Mrs. Waugh coaxed and urged in vain. The commodore rather liked to hear
her do so, and so the longer she pleaded, the more obstinate and dogged
he grew, until at last Henrietta desisted--telling him, very
well!--justice and humanity alike required her presence near the unhappy
man, and so, whether the commodore chose to budge or not, she should
surely leave Charleston in that very evening's boat for Baltimore, so as
to reach Leonardtown in time for the trial. Upon hearing this, the
commodore swore furiously; but knowing of old that nothing could turn
Henrietta from the path of duty, and dreading above all things to lose
her comfortable attentions, and be left to the doubtful mercies of Mary
L'Oiseau, he yielded, though with the worst possible grace, swearing all
the time that he hoped the villain would swing for it yet.

And then the trunks were packed, and the travelers resumed their
homeward journey.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE TRIAL.


The day of the trial came. It was a bright spring day, and from an early
hour in the morning the village was crowded to overflowing with people
collected from all parts of the county. The court-room was filled to
suffocation. It was with the greatest difficulty that order could be
maintained when the prisoner, in the custody of the high sheriff, was
brought into court.

The venerable presiding judge was supposed to be unfriendly to the
accused, and the State's Attorney was known to be personally, as well as
officially, hostile to his interests. So strongly were the minds of the
people prejudiced upon one side or the other that it was with much
trouble that twelve men could be found who had not made up their
opinions as to the prisoner's innocence or guilt. At length, however, a
jury was empaneled, and the trial commenced. When the prisoner was
placed at the bar, and asked the usual question, "Guilty or not guilty?"
some of the old haughtiness curled the lip and flashed from the eye of
Thurston Willcoxen, as though he disdained to answer a charge so base;
and he replied in a low, scornful tone:

"Not guilty, your honor."

The opening charge of the State's Attorney had been carefully prepared.
Mr. Thomson had never in his life had so important a case upon his
hands, and he was resolved to make the most of it. His speech was well
reasoned, logical, eloquent. To destroy in the minds of the jury every
favorable impression left by the late blameless and beneficent life of
Mr. Willcoxen, he did not fail to adduce, from olden history, and from
later times, every signal instance of depravity, cloaked with hypocrisy,
in high places; he enlarged upon wolves in sheeps' clothing--Satan in an
angel's garb, and dolefully pointed out how many times the indignant
question of--"Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?"--had
been answered by results in the affirmative. He raked up David's sin
from the ashes of ages. Where was the scene of that crime, and who was
its perpetrator--in the court of Israel, by the King of Israel--a man
after God's own heart. Could the gentlemen of the jury be surprised at
the appalling discovery so recently made, as if great crimes in high
places were impossible or new things under the sun? He did not fail to
draw a touching picture of the victim, the beautiful, young
stranger-girl, whom they all remembered and loved--who had come, an
angel of mercy, on a mission of mercy, to their shores. Was not her
beauty, her genius, her goodness--by which all there had at some time
been blessed--sufficient to save her from the knife of the assassin? No!
as he should shortly prove. Yet all these years her innocent blood had
cried to Heaven in vain; her fate was unavenged, her _manes_ unappeased.

All the women, and all the simple-hearted and unworldly among the men,
were melted into tears, very unpropitious to the fate of Thurston; tears
not called up by the eloquence of the prosecuting attorney, so much as
by the mere allusion to the fate of Marian, once so beloved, and still
so fresh in the memories of all.

Thurston heard all this--not in the second-hand style with which I have
summed it up--but in the first vital freshness, when it was spoken with
a logic, force, and fire that carried conviction to many a mind.
Thurston looked upon the judge--his face was stern and grave. He looked
upon the jury--they were all strangers, from distant parts of the
county, drawn by idle curiosity to the scene of trial, and arriving
quite unprejudiced. They were not his "peers," but, on the contrary,
twelve as stolid-looking brothers as ever decided the fate of a
gentleman and scholar. Thence he cast his eyes over the crowd in the
court-room.

There were his parishioners! hoary patriarchs and gray-haired matrons,
stately men and lovely women, who, from week to week, for many years,
had still hung delighted on his discourses, as though his lips had been
touched with fire, and all his words inspired! There they were around
him again! But oh! how different the relations and the circumstances!
There they sat, with stern brows and averted faces, or downcast eyes,
and "lips that scarce their scorn forbore." No eye or lip among them
responded kindly to his searching gaze, and Thurston turned his face
away again; for an instant his soul sunk under the pall of despair that
fell darkening upon it. It was not conviction in the court he thought
of--he would probably be acquitted by the court--but what should acquit
him in public opinion? The evidence that might not be strong enough to
doom him to death would still be sufficient to destroy forever his
position and his usefulness. No eye, thenceforth, would meet his own in
friendly confidence. No hand grasp his in brotherly fellowship.

The State's Attorney was still proceeding with his speech. He was now
stating the case, which he promised to prove by competent witnesses--how
the prisoner at the bar had long pursued his beautiful but hapless
victim--how he had been united to her by a private marriage--that he had
corresponded with her from Europe--that upon his return they had
frequently met--that the prisoner, with the treachery that would soon be
proved to be a part of his nature, had grown weary of his wife, and
transferred his attentions to another and more fortune-favored lady--and
finally, that upon the evening of the murder he had decoyed the unhappy
young lady to the fatal spot, and then and there effected his purpose.
The prosecuting attorney made this statement, not with the brevity with
which it is here reported, but with a minuteness of detail and warmth of
coloring that harrowed up the hearts of all who heard it. He finished by
saying that he should call the witnesses in the order of time
corresponding with the facts they came to prove.

"Oliver Murray will take the stand."

This, the first witness called, after the usual oath, deposed that he
had first seen the prisoner and the deceased together in the Library of
Congress; had overheard their conversation, and suspecting some
unfairness on the part of the prisoner, had followed the parties to the
navy yard, where he had witnessed their marriage ceremony.

"When was the next occasion upon which you saw the prisoner?"

"On the night of the 8th of April, 182-, on the coast, near Pine Bluff.
I had landed from a boat, and was going inland when I passed him. I did
not see his face distinctly, but recognized him by his size and form,
and peculiar air and gait. He was hurrying away, with every mark of
terror and agitation."

This portion of Mr. Murray's testimony was so new to all as to excite
the greatest degree of surprise, and in no bosom did it arouse more
astonishment than in that of Thurston. The witness was strictly
cross-questioned by the counsel for the prisoner, but the
cross-examination failed to weaken his testimony, or to elicit anything
more favorable to the accused. Oliver Murray was then directed to stand
aside.

The next witness was Miriam Shields. Deeply veiled and half fainting,
the poor girl was led in between Colonel and Miss Thornton, and allowed
to sit while giving evidence. When told to look at the prisoner at the
bar, she raised her death-like face, and a deep, gasping sob broke from
her bosom. But Thurston fixed his eyes kindly and encouragingly upon
her--his look said plainly: "Fear nothing, dear Miriam! Be courageous!
Do your stern duty, and trust in God."

Miriam then identified the prisoner as the man she had twice seen alone
with Marian at night. She further testified that upon the night of April
8th, 182-, Marian had left home late in the evening to keep an
appointment--from which she had never returned. That in the pocket of
the dress she had laid off was found the note appointing the meeting
upon the beach for the night in question. Here the note was produced.
Miriam identified the handwriting as that of Mr. Willcoxen.

Paul Douglass was next called to the stand, and required to give his
testimony in regard to the handwriting. Paul looked at the piece of
paper that was placed before him, and he was sorely tempted. How could
he swear to the handwriting unless he had actually seen the hand write
it? he asked himself. He looked at his brother. But Thurston saw the
struggle in his mind, and his countenance was stern and high, and his
look authoritative, and commanding--it said: "Paul! do not dare to
deceive yourself. You know the handwriting. Speak the truth if it kill
me." And Paul did so.

The next witness that took the stand was Dr. Brightwell--the good old
physician gave his evidence very reluctantly--it went to prove the fact
of the prisoner's absence from the deathbed of his grandfather upon the
night of the reputed murder, and his distracted appearance when
returning late in the morning.

"Why do you say reputed murder?"

"Because, sir, I never consider the fact of a murder established, until
the body of the victim has been found."

"You may stand down."

Dr. Solomon Weismann was next called to the stand, and corroborated the
testimony of the last witness.

Several other witnesses were then called in succession, whose testimony
being only corroborative, was not very important. And the prisoner was
remanded, and the court adjourned until ten o'clock the next morning.

"Life will be saved, but position and usefulness in this neighborhood
gone forever, Paul," said Thurston, as they went out.

"Evidence very strong--very conclusive to our minds, yet not sufficient
to convict him," said one gentleman to another.

"I am of honest Dr. Brightwell's opinion--that the establishment of a
murder needs as a starting point the finding of the body; and, moreover,
that the conviction of a murderer requires an eye-witness to the deed.
The evidence, so far as we have heard it, is strong enough to ruin the
man, but not strong enough to hang him," said a third.

"Ay! but we have not heard all, or the most important part of the
testimony. The State's Attorney has not fired his great gun yet," said a
fourth, as the crowd elbowed, pushed, and struggled out of the
court-room.

Those from distant parts of the county remained in the village all
night--those nearer returned home to come back in the morning.

The second day of the trial, the village was more crowded than before.
At ten o'clock the court opened, the prisoner was shortly afterward
brought in, and the prosecution renewed its examination of witnesses.
The next witness that took the stand was a most important one. John
Miles, captain of the schooner _Plover_. He deposed that in the month of
April, 182-, he was mate in the schooner _Blanch_, of which his father
was the captain. That in said month the prisoner at the bar had hired
his father's vessel to carry off a lady whom the prisoner declared to be
his own wife; that they were to take her to the Bermudas. That to effect
their object, his father and himself had landed near Pine Bluff; the
night was dark, yet he soon discerned the lady walking alone upon the
beach. They were bound to wait for the arrival of the prisoner, and a
signal from him before approaching the lady. They waited some time,
watching from their cover the lady as she paced impatiently up and down
the sands. At length they saw the prisoner approaching. He was closely
wrapped up in his cloak, and his hat was pulled over his eyes, but they
recognized him well by his air and gait. They drew nearer still, keeping
in the shadow, waiting for the signal. The lady and the prisoner met--a
few words passed between them--of which he, the deponent, only heard
"Thurston?" "Yes, Thurston!" and then the prisoner raised his arm and
struck, and the lady fell. His father was a cautious man, and when he
saw the prisoner rush up the cliff and disappear, when he saw that the
lady was dead, and that the storm was beginning to rage violently and
the tide was coming in, and fearing, besides, that he should get into
trouble, he hurried into the boat and put off and boarded the schooner,
and as soon as possible set sail for Bermuda. They had kept away from
this coast for years, that is to say, as long as the father lived.

John Miles was cross-examined by Mr. Romford, but without effect.

This testimony bore fatally upon the prisoner's cause--the silence of
consternation reigned through the crowd.

Thurston Willcoxen, when he heard this astounding evidence, first
thought that the witness was perjured, but when he looked closely upon
his open, honest face, and fearless eye and free bearing, he saw that no
consciousness of falsehood was there and he could but grant that the
witness, naturally deceived by "foregone conclusions," had inevitably
mistaken the real murderer for himself.

Darker and darker lowered the pall of fate over him--the awful stillness
of the court was oppressive, was suffocating; a deathly faintness came
upon him, for now, for the first time, he fully realized the awful doom
that threatened him. Not long his nature bowed under the burden--his
spirit rose to throw it off, and once more the fine head was proudly
raised, nor did it once sink again. The last witness for the prosecution
was called and took the stand, and deposed that he lived ten miles down
the coast in an isolated, obscure place; that on the first of May, 182-,
the body of a woman had been found at low tide upon the beach, that it
had the appearance of having been very long in the water--the clothing
was respectable, the dress was dark blue stuff, but was faded in
spots--there was a ring on the finger, but the hand was so swollen that
it could not be got off. His poor neighbors of the coast assembled. They
made an effort to get the coroner, but he could not be found. And the
state of the body demanded immediate burial. When cross-questioned by
Lawyer Romford, the witness said that they had not then heard of any
missing or murdered lady, but had believed the body to be that of a
shipwrecked passenger, until they heard of Miss Mayfield's fate.

Miriam was next recalled. She came in as before, supported between
Colonel and Miss Thornton. Every one who saw the poor girl, said that
she was dying. When examined, she deposed that Marian, when she left
home, had worn a blue merino dress--and, yes, she always wore a little
locket ring on her finger. Drooping and fainting as she was, Miriam was
allowed to leave the court-room. This closed the evidence of the
prosecution.

The defense was taken up and conducted with a great deal of skill. Mr.
Romford enlarged upon the noble character his client had ever maintained
from childhood to the present time--they all knew him--he had been born
and had ever lived among them--what man or woman of them all would have
dared to suspect him of such a crime? He spoke warmly of his truth,
fidelity, Christian zeal, benevolence, philanthropy and great public
benefits.

I have no space nor time to give a fair idea of the logic and eloquence
with which Mr. Romford met the charges of the State's Attorney, nor the
astute skill with which he tried to break down the force of the evidence
for the prosecution. Then he called the witnesses for the defense. They
were all warm friends of Mr. Willcoxen, all had known him from boyhood,
none would believe that under any possible circumstances he could commit
the crime for which he stood indicted. They testified to his well-known
kindness, gentleness and benevolence--his habitual forbearance and
command of temper, even under the most exasperating provocations--they
swore to his generosity, fidelity and truthfulness in all the relations
of life. In a word, they did the very best they could to save his life
and honor--but the most they could do was very little before the force
of such evidence as stood arrayed against him. And all men saw that
unless an _alibi_ could be proved, Thurston Willcoxen was lost! Oh! for
that _alibi_. Paul Douglass was again undergoing an awful temptation.
Why, he asked himself, why should he not perjure his soul, and lose it,
too, to save his brother's life and honor from fatal wrong? And if there
had not been in Paul's heart a love of truth greater than his fear of
hell, his affection for Thurston would have triumphed, he would have
perjured himself.

The defense here closed. The State's Attorney did not even deem it
necessary to speak again, and the judge proceeded to charge the jury.
They must not, he said, be blinded by the social position, clerical
character, youth, talents, accomplishments or celebrity of the
prisoner--with however dazzling a halo these might surround him. They
must deliberate coolly upon the evidence that had been laid before them,
and after due consideration of the case, if there was a doubt upon their
minds, they were to let the prisoner have the full benefit of
it--wherever there was the least uncertainty it was right to lean to the
side of mercy.

The case was then given to the jury. The jury did not leave their box,
but counseled together in a low voice for half an hour, during which a
death-like silence, a suffocating atmosphere filled the court-room.

Thurston alone was calm, his soul had collected all its force to meet
the shock of whatever fate might come--honor or dishonor, life or death!

Presently the foreman of the jury arose, followed by the others.

Every heart stood still.

"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?" demanded the
judge.

"Yes, your honor," responded the foreman, on the part of his colleagues.

"How say you--is the prisoner at the bar 'Guilty or not guilty?'"

"Not guilty!" cried the shrill tones of a girl near the outer door,
toward which all eyes, in astonishment and inquiry, were now turned, to
see a slight female figure, in the garb of a Sister of Mercy, clinging
to the arm of Cloudesley Mornington, and who was now pushing and
elbowing his way through the crowd toward the bench.

All gave way--many that were seated arose to their feet, and spoke in
eager whispers, or looked over each others' heads.

"Order! silence in the court!" shouted the marshal.

"Your honor--this lady is a vitally important witness for the defense,"
said Cloudy, pushing his way into the presence of the judge, leaving his
female companion standing before the bench and then hurrying to the
dock, where he grasped the hand of the prisoner, exclaiming,
breathlessly: "Saved--Thurston! Saved!"

"Order! silence!" called out the marshal, by way of making himself
agreeable--for there was silence in the court, where all the audience at
least were more anxious to hear than to speak.

"Your honor, I move that the new witness be heard," said Mr. Romford.

"The defense is closed--the charge given to the jury, who have decided
upon their verdict," answered the State's Attorney.

"The verdict has not been rendered, the jury have the privilege of
hearing this new witness," said the judge.

The jury were unanimous in the resolution to withhold their verdict
until they had heard.

This being decided, the Sister of Mercy took the stand, threw aside her
long, black veil, and revealed the features of Jacquelina; but so pale,
weary, anxious and terrified, as to be scarcely recognizable.

The usual oath was administered.

And while Cloudy stood triumphantly by the side of Mr. Willcoxen,
Jacquelina prepared to give her evidence.

She was interrupted by a slight disturbance near the door, and the
rather noisy entrance of several persons, whom the crowd, on beholding,
recognized as Commodore Waugh, his wife, his niece, and his servant.
Some among them seemed to insist upon being brought directly into the
presence of the judge and jury--but the officer near the door pointed
out to them the witness on the stand, waiting to give testimony; and on
seeing her they subsided into quietness, and suffered themselves to be
set aside for a while.

When this was over--a lady, plainly dressed, and close-veiled, entered,
and addressed a few words to the same janitor. But the latter replied as
he had to the others, by pointing to the witness on the stand. The
veiled lady seemed to acquiesce, and sat down where the officer directed
her.

"Order! silence in the court!" cried the marshal, not to be behindhand.

And order and silence reigned when the Sister gave in her evidence as
follows:

"My name is Jacquelina L'Oiseau--not Grimshaw--for I never was the wife
of Dr. Grimshaw. I do not like to speak further of myself, yet it is
necessary, to make my testimony clear. While yet a child I was
contracted to Dr. Grimshaw in a civil marriage, which was never
ratified. I was full of mischief in these days, and my greatest pleasure
was to torment and provoke my would-be bridegroom; alas! alas! it was to
that wanton spirit that all the disaster is owing. Thurston Willcoxen
and Marian Mayfield were my intimate friends. On the morning of the 8th
of April, 182-, they were both at Luckenough. Thurston left early. After
he was gone Marian chanced to drop a note, which I picked up and read.
It was in the handwriting of Thurston Willcoxen, and it appointed a
meeting with Marian upon the beach, near Pine Bluff, for that evening."

Here Mr. Romford placed in her hands the scrap of paper that had already
formed such an important part of the evidence against the prisoner.

"Is that the note of which you speak?"

"Yes--that is the note. And when I picked it up the wanton spirit of
mischief inspired me with the wish to use it for the torment of Dr.
Grimshaw, who was easily provoked to jealously! Oh! I never thought it
would end so fatally! I affected to lose the note, and left it in his
way. I saw him pick it up and read it. I felt sure he thought--as I
intended he should think--it was for me. There were other circumstances
also to lead him to the same conclusion. He dropped the note where he
had picked it up and pretended not to have seen it; afterwards I in the
same way restored it to Marian. To carry on my fatal jest, I went home
in the carriage with Marian, to Old Field Cottage, which stands near the
coast. I left Marian there and set out to return to Luckenough--laughing
all the time, alas! to think that Dr. Grimshaw had gone to the coast to
intercept what he supposed to be my meeting with Thurston! Oh, God, I
never thought such jests could be so dangerous! Alas! alas! he met
Marian Mayfield in the dark, and between the storm without and the storm
within--the blindness of night and the blindness of rage--he stabbed her
before he found out his mistake, and he rushed home with her innocent
blood on his hands and clothing--rushed home and into my presence, to
reproach me as the cause of his crime, to fill my bosom with undying
remorse, and then to die! He had in the crisis of his passion, ruptured
an artery and fell--so that the blood found upon his hands and clothing
was supposed to be his own. No one knew the secret of his blood
guiltiness but myself. In my illness and delirium that followed I
believe I dropped some words that made my aunt, Mrs. Waugh, and Mr.
Cloudesley Mornington, suspect something; but I never betrayed my
knowledge of the dead man's unintentional crime, and would not do so
now, but to save the innocent. May I now sit down?"

No! the State's Attorney wanted to take her in hand, and cross-examine
her, which he began to do severely, unsparingly. But as she had told the
exact truth, though not in the clearest style, the more the lawyer
sifted her testimony, the clearer and more evident its truthfulness and
point became; until there seemed at length nothing to do but acquit the
prisoner. But courts of law are proverbially fussy, and now the State's
Attorney was doing his best to invalidate the testimony of the last
witness.

Turn we from them to the veiled lady, where she sat in her obscure
corner of the room, hearing all this.

Oh! who can conceive, far less portray the joy, the unspeakable joy that
filled her heart nearly to breaking! He was guiltless! Thurston, her
beloved, was guiltless in intention, as he was in deed! the thought of
crime had not been near his heart! his long remorse had been occasioned
by what he had unintentionally made her suffer. He was all that he had
lately appeared to the world! all that he had at first appeared to
her!--faithful, truthful, constant, noble, generous--her heart was
vindicated! her love was not the madness, the folly, the weakness that
her intellectual nature had often stamped it to be! Her love was
vindicated, for he deserved it all! Oh! joy unspeakable--oh! joy
insupportable!

She was a strong, calm, self-governing woman--not wont to be overcome by
any event or any emotion--yet now her head, her whole form, drooped
forward, and she sank upon the low balustrade in front of her
seat--weighed down by excess of happiness--happiness so absorbing that
for a time she forgot everything else; but soon she remembered that her
presence was required near the bench, to put a stop to the debate
between the lawyers, and she strove to quell the tumultuous excitement
of her feelings, and to recover self-command before going among them.

In the meantime, near the bench, the counsel for the prisoner had
succeeded in establishing the validity of the challenged testimony, and
the case was once more about to be recommitted to the jury, when the
lady, who had been quietly making her way through the crowd toward the
bench, stood immediately in front of the judge, raised her veil, and
Marian Mayfield stood revealed.

With a loud cry the prisoner sprang upon his feet; but was immediately
captured by two officers, who fancied he was about to escape.

Marian did not speak one word, she could not do so, nor was it
necessary--there she stood alive among them--they all knew her--the
judge, the officers, the lawyers, the audience--there she stood alive
among them--it was enough!

The audience arose in a mass, and "Marian!" "Marian Mayfield!" was the
general exclamation, as all pressed toward the newcomer.

Jacquelina, stunned with the too sudden joy, swooned in the arms of
Cloudy, who, between surprise and delight, had nearly lost his own
senses.

The people pressed around Marian, with exclamations and inquiries.

The marshal forgot to be disorderly with vociferations of "Order!" and
stood among the rest, agape for news.

Marian recovered her voice and spoke:

"I am not here to give any information; what explanation I have to make
is due first of all to Mr. Willcoxen, who has the right to claim it of
me when he pleases," and turning around she moved toward the dock,
raising her eyes to Thurston's face, and offering her hand.

How he met that look--how he clasped that hand--need not be said--their
hearts were too full for speech.

The tumult in the court-room was at length subdued by the rising of the
judge to make a speech--a very brief one:

"Mr. Willcoxen is discharged, and the court adjourned," and then the
judge came down from his seat, and the officers cried, "make way for the
court to pass." And the way was made. The judge came up to the group,
and shook hands first with Mr. Willcoxen, whom he earnestly
congratulated, and then with Marian, who was an old and esteemed
acquaintance, and so bowing gravely, he passed out.

Still the crowd pressed on, and among them came Commodore Waugh and his
family, for whom way was immediately made.

Mrs. Waugh wept and smiled, and exclaimed: "Oh! Hebe! Oh! Lapwing!"

The commodore growled out certain inarticulate anathemas, which he
intended should be taken as congratulations, since the people seemed to
expect it of him.

And Mary L'Oiseau pulled down her mouth, cast up her eyes and crossed
herself when she saw the consecrated hand of Sister Theresa clasped in
that of Cloudy!

But Thurston's high spirit could not brook this scene an instant longer.
And love as well as pride required its speedy close. Marian was resting
on his arm--he felt the clasp of her dear hand--he saw her living
face--the angel brow--the clear eyes--the rich auburn tresses, rippling
around the blooming cheek--he heard her dulcet tones--yet--it seemed
too like a dream!--he needed to realize this happiness.

"Friends," he said, "I thank you for the interest you show in us. For
those whose faith in me remained unshaken in my darkest hour, I find no
words good enough to express what I shall ever feel. But you must all
know how exhausting this day has been, and how needful repose is"--his
eyes here fell fondly and proudly upon Marian--"to this lady on my arm.
After to-morrow we shall be happy to see any of our friends at
Dell-Delight." And bowing slightly from right to left, he led his Marian
through the opening crowd.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

REUNION.


Who shall follow them, or intrude on the sacredness of their
reconciliation, or relate with what broken tones, and frequent stops and
tears and smiles, and clinging embraces, their mutual explanations were
made?

At last Marian, raising her head from his shoulder, said:

"But I come to you a bankrupt, dear Thurston! I have inherited and
expended a large fortune since we parted--and now I am more than
penniless, for I stand responsible for large sums of money owed by my
'Orphans Home' and 'Emigrants Help'--money that I had intended to raise
by subscription."

"Now, I thank God abundantly for the wealth that He has given me. Your
fortune, dearest Marian, has been nobly appropriated--and for the rest,
it is my blessed privilege to assume all your responsibilities--and I
rejoice that they are great! for, sweetest wife, and fairest lady, I
feel that I never can sufficiently prove how much I love and reverence
you--how much I would and ought to sacrifice for you!"

"And even now, dear Thurston, I came hither, bound on a mission to the
Western prairies, to find a suitable piece of land for a colony of
emigrants."

"I know it, fairest and dearest lady, I know it all. I will lift that
burden from your shoulders, too, and all liabilities of yours do I
assume--oh! my dear Marian! with how much joy! and I will labor with and
for you, until all your responsibilities of every sort are discharged,
and my liege lady is free to live her own life!"

This scene took place in the private parlor of the hotel, while Paul
Douglass was gone to Colonel Thornton's lodgings, to carry the glad
tidings to Miriam, and also to procure a carriage for the conveyance of
the whole party to Dell-Delight.

He returned at last, accompanied by Miriam, whom he tenderly conducted
into the room, and who, passing by all others, tottered forward, and
sank, weeping, at the feet of Mr. Willcoxen, and clasping his knees,
still wept, as if her heart would break.

Thurston stooped and raised her, pressed the kiss of forgiveness on her
young brow, and then whispered:

"Miriam, have you forgotten that there is another here who claims your
attention?" took her by the hand and led her to Marian.

The young girl was shy and silent, but Marian drew to her bosom, saying:

"Has my 'baby' forgotten me? And so, you would have been an avenger,
Miriam. Remember, all your life, dear child, that such an office is
never to be assumed by an erring human creature. 'Vengeance is mine, and
I will repay, saith the Lord.'" And kissing Miriam fondly; she resigned
her to Paul's care, and turned, and gave her own hand to Thurston, who
conducted her to the carriage, and then returned for little Angel, who
all this time had sat demurely in a little parlor chair.

They were followed by Paul and Miriam, and so set forth for
Dell-Delight.

But little more remains to be told.

Thurston resigned his pastoral charge of the village Church; settled up
his business in the neighborhood; procured a discreet woman to keep
house at Dell-Delight; left Paul, Miriam and poor Fanny in her care, and
set out with Marian on their western journey, to select the site for the
settlement of her emigrant _protégés_. After successfully accomplishing
this mission, they returned East, and embarked for Liverpool, and thence
to London, where Marian dissolved her connection with the "Emigrants'
Help," and bade adieu to her "Orphans' Home." Thurston made large
donations to both these institutions. And Marian saw that her place was
well supplied to the "Orphans' Home" by another competent woman. Then
they returned to America. Their travels had occupied more than twelve
months. And their expenses, of all sorts, had absorbed more than a third
of Mr. Willcoxen's princely fortune--yet with what joy was it lavished
by his hand, who felt he could not do too much for his priceless Marian.

On their return home a heartfelt gratification met them--it was that the
parish had shown their undiminished confidence in Mr. Willcoxen, and
their high appreciation of his services, by keeping his pulpit open for
him. And a few days after his settlement at home a delegation of the
vestry waited upon him to solicit his acceptance of the ministry. And
after talking with his "liege lady," as he fondly and proudly termed
Marian, Mr. Willcoxen was well pleased to return a favorable answer.

And in a day or two Thurston and Marian were called upon to give
decision in another case, to wit:

Jacquelina had not returned to Bethlehem, nor renewed her vows; but had
doffed her nun's habit for a young lady's dress, and remained at
Luckenough. Cloudy had not failed to push his suit with all his might.
But Jacquelina still hesitated--she did not know, she said, but she
thought she had no right to be happy, as other people had, she had
caused so much trouble in the world, she reckoned she had better go back
to her convent.

"And because you unintentionally occasioned some sorrow, now happily
over, to some people, you would atone for the fault by adding one more
to the list of victims, and making me miserable. Bad logic, Lina, and
worse religion."

Jacquelina did not know--she could not decide--after so many grave
errors, she was afraid to trust herself. The matter was then
referred--of all men in the world--to the commodore, who graciously
replied, that they might go to the demon for him. But as Cloudy and Lina
had no especial business with his Satanic Majesty they declined to avail
themselves of the permission, and consulted Mrs. Waugh, whose deep,
mellow laugh preceded her answer, when she said:

"Take heart, Lapwing! take heart, and all the happiness you can possibly
get! I have lived a long time, and seen a great many people, good and
bad, and though I have sometimes met people who were not so happy as
they merited--yet I never have seen any one happier than they deserved
to be! and that they cannot be so, seems to be a law of nature that
ought to reconcile us very much to the apparent flourishing of the
wicked."

But Mrs. L'Oiseau warned her daughter not to trust to "Aunty," who
was so good-natured, and although such a misguided woman, that if she
had her will she would do away with all punishment--yes, even with
Satan and purgatory! But Jacquelina had much less confidence in Mrs.
L'Oiseau than in Mrs. Waugh; and so she told Cloudy, who thought that
he had waited already quite long enough, to wait until Marian and
Thurston came home, and if they thought it would be right for her to be
happy--why--then--maybe--she might be! But the matter must be referred
to them.

And now it was referred to them, by the sorely tried Cloudy. And they
gave Jacquelina leave to be "happy." And she was happy! And as for
Cloudy, poor, constant fellow! he was so overjoyed that he declared he
would petition the Legislature to change his name as no longer
appropriate, for though his morning had been cloudy enough, his day was
going to be a very bright one!

When Mrs. L'Oiseau heard of this engagement, she crossed herself, and
told her beads, and vowed that the world was growing so wicked that she
could no longer live in it. And she commenced preparations to retire to
a convent, to which in fact she soon after went, and where in strict
truth, she was likely to be much happier than her nature would permit
her to be elsewhere.

Cloudy and Lina were very quietly married, and took up their abode at
the pleasant farmhouse of Locust Hill, which was repaired and
refurnished for their reception. But if the leopard cannot change his
spots, nor the Ethiope his skin--neither can the fairy permanently
change her nature; for no sooner was Jacko's happiness secured, than the
elfish spirit, the lightest part of her nature, effervesced to the
top--for the torment of Cloudy. Jacko and Cloudy, even, had one
quarrel--it was upon the first occasion after their marriage, of his
leaving her to join his ship--and when the whilom Sister of Charity
drove Cloudy nearly frantic by insisting--whether in jest or earnest no
one on earth could tell--upon donning the little middy's uniform and
going with him! However, the quarrel happily was never renewed, for
before the next time of sailing, there appeared a certain tiny Cloudy at
home, that made the land quite as dear as the sea to its mother. And
this little imp became Mrs. Waugh's especial pet. And if Jacquelina did
not train the little scion very straight, at least she did not twist him
awry. And she even tried, in her fitful, capricious way, to reform her
own manners, that she might form those of her little children. And Mrs.
Waugh and dear Marian aided her and encouraged her in her uncertain
efforts.

About this time, Paul and Miriam were united, and went to housekeeping
in the pretty villa built for them upon the site of Old Field Cottage by
Thurston, and furnished for them by Mrs. Waugh.

And a very pleasant country neighborhood they formed--these three young
families--of Dell-Delight, Locust Hill and the villa.

Two other important events occurred in their social circle--first, poor
harmless Fanny passed smilingly to her heavenly home, and all thought it
very well.

And one night Commodore Waugh, after eating a good, hearty supper, was
comfortably tucked up in bed, and went into a sound, deep sleep from
which he never more awoke. May he rest in peace. But do you think Mrs.
Waugh did not cry about it for two weeks, and ever after speak of him as
the poor, dear commodore?

But Henrietta was of too healthful a nature to break her heart for the
loss of a very good man, and it was not likely she was going to do so
for the missing of a very uncomfortable one; and so in a week or two
more her happy spirits returned, and she began to realize to what
freedom, ease and cheerfulness she had fallen heir! Now she could live
and breathe, and go and come without molestation. Now when she wished to
open her generous heart to the claims of affection in the way of helping
Lapwing or Miriam, who were neither of them very rich--or to the greater
claims of humanity in the relief of the suffering poor, or the pardon of
delinquent servants, she could do so to her utmost content, and without
having to accompany her kind act with a deep sigh at the anticipation of
the parlor storm it would raise at home. And though Mrs. Henrietta still
"waxed fat," her good flesh was no longer an incumbrance to her--the
leaven of cheerfulness lightened the whole mass.

Mrs. Waugh had brought her old maid Jenny back. Jenny had begged to come
home to "old mistress" for she said it was "'stonishin how age-able,"
she felt, though nobody might believe it, she was "gettin' oler and
oler, ebery singly day" of her life, and she wanted to end her days
"'long o' ole mistress."

Old mistress was rich and good, and Luckenough was a quiet, comfortable
home, where the old maid was very sure of being lodged, boarded, and
clothed almost as well as old mistress herself--not that these selfish
considerations entered largely into Jenny's mind, for she really loved
Mrs. Henrietta.

And old mistress and old maid were never happier than on some fine,
clear day, when seated on their two old mules, they ambled along through
forest and over field, to spend a day with Lapwing or with Hebe--or
perhaps with the "Pigeon Pair," as they called the new married couple at
the villa.

Yes; there was a time when Mrs. Henrietta was happier still! It was,
when upon some birthday or other festival, she would gather all the
young families--Thurston and Hebe, Cloudy and Lapwing, the Pigeons, and
all the babies, in the big parlor of Luckenough, and sit surrounded by a
flock of tiny lapwings, hebes and pigeons, forming a group that our
fairy saucily called, "The old hen and chickens."

And what shall we say in taking leave of Thurston and Marian? He had had
some faults, as you have seen--but the conquering of faults is the
noblest conquest, and he had achieved such a victory. He called Marian
the angel of his salvation. Year by year their affection deepened and
strengthened, and drew them closer in heart and soul and purpose. From
their home as from a center emanated a healthful, beneficent and
elevating influence, happily felt through all their social circle. A
lovely family grew around them--and among the beautiful children none
were more tenderly nursed or carefully trained than the little waif,
Angel. And in all the pleasant country neighborhood, the sweetest and
the happiest home is that of Dell-Delight.



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