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Title: Chateau d’Or
       Norah and Kitty Craig

Author: Mary Jane Holmes

Release Date: March 2, 2023 [eBook #70185]

Language: English

Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading
             Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from
             images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHATEAU D’OR ***





                             POPULAR NOVELS

                                   BY

                          MRS. MARY J. HOLMES.


                 TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.
                 ENGLISH ORPHANS.
                 HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE.
                 ‘LENA RIVERS.
                 MEADOW BROOK.
                 DORA DEANE.
                 COUSIN MAUDE.
                 MARIAN GREY.
                 EDITH LYLE.
                 DAISY THORNTON.
                 CHATEAU D’OR.
                 QUEENIE HETHERTON.
                 BESSIE’S FORTUNE.
                 MARGUERITE.
                 MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION PAUL RALSTON.
                 THE TRACY DIAMONDS. (_New._)
                 DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
                 HUGH WORTHINGTON.
                 CAMERON PRIDE.
                 ROSE MATHER.
                 ETHELYN’S MISTAKE.
                 MILBANK.
                 EDNA BROWNING.
                 WEST LAWN.
                 MILDRED.
                 FORREST HOUSE.
                 MADELINE.
                 CHRISTMAS STORIES.
                 GRETCHEN.
                 DR. HATHERN’S DAUGHTERS.


 “Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books
  are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the
  sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention
             to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.”


 Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, $1.00 each, and sent _free_ by mail on
                            receipt of price,

                     G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers
                                NEW YORK.

[Illustration: HAVERLEIGH SAT WITH HIS FACE BURIED IN HIS
HANDS.—_Chateau d’Or, Page 185._]




                              CHATEAU D’OR
                         Norah and Kitty Craig


                                   BY

                             MARY J. HOLMES

[Illustration]

                        G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
                     PUBLISHERS           NEW YORK




                            COPYRIGHT, 1880,
                                   BY
                             DANIEL HOLMES.

                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.




                               CONTENTS.


              CHAPTER                                     PAGE
                   I. Annie Strong                          11
                  II. Chateau d’Or                          27
                 III. Madame Verwest and Anna               56
                  IV. The News which Came to Millfield      67
                   V. The News which Came to Chateau d’Or   75
                  VI. In the Autumn                         97
                 VII. Eugenie and Anna                     112
                VIII. More News which Came to Millfield    131
                  IX. Eugenie’s Waiting-Maid               137
                   X. Eugenie Goes Again to Chateau d’Or   153
                  XI. The Escape                           166
                 XII. The Denouement                       172
                XIII. In America                           188

          NORAH                                            223
          KITTY CRAIG                                      329




                             CHATEAU D’OR.


We had left Paris behind us, and were going down to the southern part of
France, as far as Marseilles and Nice. All day Hal and I had had the
compartment to ourselves, and had talked, and smoked, and read, and
looked out upon the country through which we were passing so rapidly.
But this had become rather monotonous, and I was beginning to tire of
the gray rocks, and bleak mountain sides, and gnarled olive trees, when
suddenly, as we turned a curve and came out into a more open and fertile
tract, Hal seized my arm, and pointing to the left of us, said:

“Quick, quick! Do you see that old chateau in the distance?”

Following the direction of his hand, I saw what at first seemed to be a
mass of dark stone walls, turrets, towers, and balconies, tumbled
promiscuously together, and forming an immense pile of ruins. A closer
and nearer inspection, however, showed me a huge stone building, which
must have been very old, judging from its style of architecture, and the
thickness of its walls, and the gray moss, which had crept up to the
very eaves, and found there before it the ivy, which grows so rankly and
luxuriously in many parts of France.

“Yes, I see it,” I said. “What of it, and what place is it?”

“That,” said Hal, “is CHATEAU D’OR, which, translated into plain English
for a stupid like you, means ‘Chateau of gold,’ though why that somber,
dreary old pile should have that name is more than I can tell, unless it
is that it cost so much to build it. It is nearly two hundred years old.
Its first owner ruined himself on it, I believe, and it has passed
through many hands since. You see that stream of water yonder, almost a
river? Well, that passes entirely round the chateau, which really stands
on an island, and is only accessible from one point, and that an iron
bridge. That old building has been the scene of the strangest story you
ever heard—almost a tragedy, in fact, and the heroine was an American
woman, and native of my own town. I’ll tell you about it to-night, after
we have had our dinner.”

I was interested now, and leaned far out of the window to look at the
chateau, which seemed gloomy and dreary enough to warrant the wildest
story one could tell of it. And that night I heard the story which I now
write down, using sometimes Hal Morton’s words, and sometimes my own.




                               THE STORY.




                               CHAPTER I.
                             ANNIE STRONG.


“Millfield,” said Hal, “is one of those little New England towns which
seem to have been finished up years and years ago, and gone quietly to
sleep without a suspicion that anything more could be expected of it. It
stands on a spur of the mountains which lie between Pittsfield and
Albany, and can be distinctly seen from the car windows, with its
spotless houses of white, with fresh green blinds, and the inevitable
lilac bushes and sweet syringas in front. I was born there, and when I
wish to rest and get away from the noise and turmoil of New York, I go
there and grow a younger and a better man amid the Sunday stillness
which reigns perpetually in its streets. And yet you would be surprised
to find how much intelligence and genuine aristocracy that little
village has. There are the Crosbys, who claim relationship with the
Adamses, and a real scion of the Washingtons, and a lineal descendant of
Lord Cornwallis, and Miss Talleyrand, who prides herself upon having, in
her veins, the best blood in New England, though good old Deacon
Larkin’s wife once shocked her horribly by saying ‘she didn’t see, for
her part, why Polly Talleyrand need to brag so about good blood, when
she was as full of erysipelas as she could hold.’”

Here I laughed heartily over Miss Talleyrand’s good blood, while Hal
lighted a fresh cigar, and continued:

“Next to these aristocrats—upper crust, as the deacon’s wife called
them—comes the well-to-do class, tradespeople and mechanics, the people
whose sons and daughters work in the shoe-shops, for you know the shoe
business is nowhere carried on so extensively as in New England, and it
gives employment to many girls as well as boys, the former stitching the
uppers, as they are called, and the latter putting on the soles. There
is a very large shop in Millfield, which employs at least fifty girls,
and at the time I am telling you about, there was not in the whole
fifty—no, nor in the entire town—so pretty a girl as Annie Strong, the
heroine of my story. She was not very intellectual, it is true, or very
fond of books, but she was beautiful to look at, with a lithe, graceful
figure, and winsome ways, while her voice was sweet and clear as a
robin’s. Birdie Strong, we called her, on account of her voice, and when
she sang in the gallery of the old brick church, I used to shut my eyes,
and fancy I was in Heaven, listening to the music of the sweetest singer
there.

“Bob I may as well be frank with you. I was in love with Annie Strong,
and I am certain she liked _me_ a little, though she never encouraged me
in the least. She was not a bit of a coquette, and made no secret of the
fact that _money_, and nothing else, would have any influence with her.
Annie was ambitious, and when, from her shoe-bench in the hot work-room,
she saw Judge Crosby’s daughter go by in her dainty white dress and sash
of blue, she thought hard, bitter things of the humble life she led, and
vowed to accept the first man who could give her silks, and lace, and
diamonds, and a place in society.

“At last the man came—a brusque, haughty Englishman, with a slight limp
in his left ankle, and a cold, hard expression in his steel-gray eyes,
but tolerably good-looking, with a certain assurance and style, and
lavish generosity, which won upon the people, and made him quite a lion.
Eva Crosby invited him to tea; Miss Talleyrand’s niece drove with him
once or twice; and so he became the fashion. He was not young—was
thirty-five at least, and looked older. He was of Scottish descent, he
said, though English born, and he owned an estate in the north of
Scotland, a large chateau in the south of France, and a city house in
London, and he called himself Ernest Walsingham Haverleigh. If he chose
he could be very gracious and agreeable, though his manner was always
haughty in the extreme, and had in it an undisguised contempt for
everything American.

“I disliked him from the first, and hated him after the day of Miss
Crosby’s lawn party, to which Annie Strong was invited, and where she
shone the belle of the fête, notwithstanding that her dress was a simple
blue muslin, and the ruffle round her throat imitation lace. I learned
that fact from hearing Miss Talleyrand’s niece, from Springfield, say to
Eva Crosby, in speaking of Anna, ‘She _is_ rather pretty, but decidedly
_flashy_. Her love of finery leads her to wear imitation lace. If
there’s any one thing I detest, it is that. It always stamps a person.’

“And so Anna was stamped, but did not seem to mind it at all. How
plainly I can see her now as she came through the gate with her hat in
her hand, and her beautiful hair falling in curls about her neck and
shoulders.

“Up to that moment Haverleigh had maintained an indolent, bored
attitude, with a look of supreme indifference on his face, but when Anna
joined us, his manner changed at once, and he devoted himself to her
with a persistency which brought upon her the jealous rancor of every
lady present. But Anna did not seem to know it, and received the
Englishman’s attentions with an air of sweet unconsciousness, which only
deepened his ardor, and made him perfectly oblivious to every one around
him. The next day he made some inquiries with regard to Anna’s family,
and before night had learned all there was to know of them, both good
and bad. They were poor, but perfectly respectable people, and no taint
had ever rested upon the name of Strong. Years and years before,
Grandfather Strong had married a second wife, with a daughter about the
age of his own son, afterwards Anna’s father, and this daughter, Milly
Gardner, who was in no way connected with the Strongs, had run away with
a Boston man, who promised her marriage and then deserted her. A few
years later news was received in Millfield of her death, and so the
scandal died and was buried in poor Milly’s grave, and the family seldom
spoke her name. Indeed, Anna’s mother, who was many years younger than
her husband, had never known Milly, while Mr. Strong himself, who had
loved her as a dear sister, never blamed her. She was more sinned
against than sinning, and so he let her rest in peace, and his children
only knew of her as Aunt Milly, who was very pretty, and who was dead.
Mr. Strong was dead now himself, and his widow lived in a little red
house on the common, with her three children—Mary, who made dresses in
the winter, and taught school in the summer; Anna, who worked in the
shoe-shop; and Fred, the youngest and pet of the family, who was
destined for college, and for whom the mother and sisters hoarded their
small earnings and denied themselves everything.

“This is the history of the Strongs up to the time when Haverleigh came
to Millfield and made up his mind to marry Anna, with the decided
understanding, however, that in taking her he was not taking her family.
And Anna listened to him, and throwing aside her love, and pride, and
womanhood, cast into one scale her humble home, with its poverty and
privations, her scanty dress, her hateful life of toil in the dingy
shop, stitching shoes for the negroes to wear; while into the other she
put a life of ease and luxury, the country seat in Scotland, the chateau
in Southern France, the city house in London, with the gay seasons
there, and what weighed more with her—the satins, and laces, and
diamonds which, as Mrs. Haverleigh, she was sure to wear. Of course, the
latter scale overbalanced the former, and without a particle of love,
but rather with a feeling of dread and fear for the cold Englishman,
Anna promised to be his wife, on one condition. Fred was to go to
college, the mortgage of five hundred dollars on the red house was to be
paid, her mother was to have a dress of handsome black silk, and Mary
one of dark blue. This request she made timidly, not daring to look at
the man who, with a sneer on his face, answered, laughingly:

“‘Oh, that is a mere trifle. Fred shall go to college, the mortgage
shall be paid, the silk gowns shall be forthcoming, and here is the
wherewithal.’

“It was a check for five thousand dollars which he gave her, and his
unlooked-for generosity went far toward reconciling Mrs. Strong and Mary
to the match. And so it was a settled thing, and Anna stitched her last
shoe in the dingy shop; went down the staircase for the last time, sang
her last song in church, and was married quietly at home one lovely
morning in July, when Millfield was looking its best from the effects of
a recent rain. There were drops of crystal on the freshly cut grass, and
the air was sweet with the perfume of roses and pinks, and heliotrope,
while the sky overhead was blue and clear as the eyes of the young
bride, who, if she felt any regret for the home she was leaving, did not
show it in the least. Perhaps she was thinking of the costly diamond on
her finger, and the silken robe she wore, or possibly of the grandeur
which awaited her over the sea. Poor Anna—she was very young—only
eighteen—and to change at once from a poor girl, who was every morning
awakened by the shoe-shop whistle, to a life she hated, to step into
wealth and elegance must have benumbed and bewildered her so that she
did not realize what she was doing, when at last she said good-by to the
home of her childhood, and went away alone with a man she had scarcely
known two months—a man whom she did not love, and who, even while
caressing her, made her feel the immense condescension it had been on
his part to make her his wife.

“Their destination was New York, where Anna had never been, and where
they were to spend a week or two before sailing for Europe. At the hotel
where they stopped, Anna met with an old school friend, who, like
herself, was a bride taking her wedding trip. As was natural, the two
young girls talked together freely of their future prospects and the
husbands they had chosen, and Anna could not help showing her elation at
being the wife of a man like Mr. Haverleigh.

“‘But tell me honestly, do you love him?’ Mrs. Fleming, said to her one
day. ‘He is not at all the person I should have selected for you. Why,
do you know I feel a kind of terror stealing over me every time he
speaks to me, there is such a hard ring in his voice, and it seems to me
a cruel look in his eyes. Then I always thought you would eventually
marry Hal Morton.’

“This was a great deal to say to a bride concerning her husband, but
Lucy Fleming was just the one to take liberties, and Anna did not resent
it in the least, but answered laughingly: ‘Oh, _Hal_ is quite _too_
poor. He took it hard, and looked like a goosey at the wedding. I fancy
he did not like Mr. Haverleigh, and I see you think him a kind of Blue
Beard, too, and so I confess do I, but then I never intend to _peek_,
and lose my life as did his silly wives. Honestly, though, Lucy, I do
not love him, and I experience that same fear of him which you describe,
and actually shrink from him when he kisses me; but he is very kind to
me, and I believe loves me truly, and I shall make him think that I love
him. I married him for money, for fine dresses, and jewelry, and
handsome furniture, and servants, and horses and carriages, and that
Chateau d’Or, which did more toward influencing me than anything else.
Only think of living in a house almost as large as a castle, with a
French maid, and troops of servants, and a housekeeper to take every
care from me; one could endure almost any man for the sake of all that.’

“Here the conversation ceased, and a moment after Mr. Haverleigh himself
entered the room. To an ordinary observer there was nothing in his
manner to indicate that he had overheard a word, but there was a kind of
ferocious look in his eyes, and his lips were shut more tightly together
than usual as he bowed to Mrs. Fleming, and then, crossing to his wife,
bent over her affectionately, and kissed her forehead as he asked if she
would take a drive. It was a lovely afternoon. The Park was full of
people, and Anna’s fresh young face attracted a great deal of notice, as
did the haughty looking man at her side, who had never been as
lover-like in his attentions as he was from that day on until the ocean
was crossed, and they were at the Grosvenor House in London. His own
house was closed, he said, when Anna asked why they did not go there,
but he drove her past it, and she was sure she saw a lady’s face looking
at them from one of the upper windows. Haverleigh must have seen it,
too, for he muttered something which sounded like an execration under
his breath, and drove on faster than before.

“‘Does any one live in your house? I thought I saw a lady at the
window,’ Anna said, timidly, for she was beginning to understand his
moods, as he called his frequent fits of abstraction, and knew he was in
one now.

“There was nobody occupying his house, and she had not seen any one at
the window, he answered rather curtly; but Anna knew she had, and
dreamed that night of the large black eyes which had peered at her so
curiously from the house on Belgrave Square. She could not be ignorant
of the fact, either, that her husband, while paying her marked
attention, especially in the parks and at table, was restless, and
nervous, and very anxious to hurry away from London, and very impatient
on account of the slight illness which kept them there a week longer
than he wished to stay.

“Once, just before their marriage, he had asked her whether she would
rather go to Scotland first or France, and she had answered Scotland,
preferring Southern France later in the autumn, when she hoped to see
Nice and Mentone, before settling down for the winter at Chateau d’Or.
‘Then to Scotland we will go,’ he had replied, and she had greatly
anticipated her visit to Scotland, and her trip through the Trosachs,
and across the beautiful Lakes Lomond and Katrine, but all this was to
be given up; her master had changed his mind, and without a word of
explanation told her they were going at once to Paris.

“‘You can attend to your dressmaking better there than elsewhere, and
you know you are fond of satins, and laces, and jewelry,’ he said, and
there was a gleam in his eye from which Anna would have shrunk had she
noticed it; but she did not. She was thinking of Paris and its gayeties,
and she packed her trunks without a word of dissent, and was soon
established in a handsome suite of rooms, at the Grand Hotel, with
permission to buy whatever she wanted, irrespective of expense.

“‘I’d like you to have morning dresses, and dinner dresses, and evening
dresses, and riding dresses, and walking dresses, and everything
necessary to a lady’s wardrobe,’ he said; and poor unsuspecting Anna
thought, ‘How much society he must expect me to see, and how glad I
shall be of it!’”

Anna was beginning to feel a good deal bored with no company but that of
her husband, for though he sometimes bowed to ladies on the Boulevards,
no one came to see her, and as their meals were served in their parlor,
she had but little chance to cultivate the acquaintance of the people
staying at the hotel, so that, with the exception of her milliner and
dressmaker, both of whom spoke English, and a few clerks at the
different stores, she could talk with no one in all the great, gay city,
and there gradually settled down upon her a feeling of loneliness and
homesickness, for which all her costly dresses and jewelry could not
make amends. But this would be changed when they were at Nice or
Mentone, or even at the chateau, which her husband told her was
frequently full of guests during the autumn months. Oh, how many
pictures she drew of that chateau, with its turrets and towers
overlooking the surrounding country, its beautiful grounds, its
elegantly furnished rooms, its troops of servants, and herself mistress
of it all, with a new dress for every day in the month if she liked, for
it almost amounted to that before her shopping was done, and when at
last they left Paris, the porters counted fourteen trunks which they had
brought down from No. —, all the property of the pretty little lady,
whose traveling-dress of gray silk was a marvel of puffs, and ruffles,
and plaitings, and sashes, as she took her seat in the carriage, and was
driven away through the streets of Paris to the Lyons Station.

“They were going to the chateau first, her husband told her, adding that
he hoped the arrangement suited her.

“‘Oh, certainly,’ she replied. ‘I shall be so glad to see one of my new
homes. I know I shall like it and perhaps be so happy there that I shall
not care to leave it for a long time. I am getting a little tired.’

“They were alone in the railway carriage, and as Anna said this she
leaned her head against his arm as if she were really tired and wanted
rest. It was the first voluntary demonstration of the kind she had ever
made toward him, and there came a sudden flush into his face and a light
into his eyes, but he did not pass his arm around the drooping little
figure—he merely suffered the bright head to rest upon his shoulder,
while he gazed gloomily out upon the country they were passing, not
thinking of the dreary landscape, the barren hills, and gray mountain
tops, but rather of the diabolical purpose from which he had never
swerved an hour since the moment it was formed.




                              CHAPTER II.
                             CHATEAU D’OR.


“It was late one September afternoon when they came at last in sight of
the chateau, and Haverleigh pointed it out to Anna, who involuntarily
exclaimed:

“‘Why, it’s more like a prison than a house: is that Chateau d’Or?’

“‘Yes, that’s Chateau d’Or,’ was the short reply, and fifteen minutes
later they stopped at the little town where they were to leave the
train.

“Two men were waiting for them, one the coachman, who touched his hat
with the utmost deference to his master, while the other seemed on more
familiar terms with Mr. Haverleigh, and stared so curiously at Anna that
she drew her veil over her face, and conceived for him on the instant an
aversion which she never overcame. He was a tall, dark man, with a
sinister expression on his face, and a look in his keen black eyes as if
he was constantly on the alert for something which it was his duty to
discover. Her husband introduced him as Monsieur Brunell, explaining to
her that he was his confidential agent, his head man, who superintended
Chateau d’Or in his absence, and whose house was close to the bridge
which crossed the river so that no one could ever leave the grounds
without his knowledge.

“Anna paid little heed to what he was saying then, though it afterward
came back to her with fearful significance. Now, however, she was too
tired and too anxious to see the inside of the chateau to think of
anything except the man’s disagreeable face, and she was glad to find
herself alone with her husband in the carriage.

“‘Why does that man stare so impudently at me? I do not like it,’ she
said, and Haverleigh replied, jestingly:

‘Oh, that’s the way with Frenchmen; he thinks you pretty, no doubt.’

“They had crossed the bridge by this time, and Anna noticed that they
passed through a heavy iron gate, which immediately swung together with
a dull thud, which involuntarily sent a shiver through her as if it
really were the gate of a prison. They were now in the park and grounds,
which were beautifully kept, and Anna forgot everything else in her
delight at what she saw about her.

“‘Oh, I shall be so happy here!’ she cried, as they rode along the broad
carriage road, and she saw everywhere signs of luxury and wealth.

“And at that moment Anna was happy. She had sighed for money, for a home
handsomer than the humble red house far away among the New England
hills, and lo, here was something more beautiful than anything of which
she had even dreamed. If there had been anything lovable about Ernest
Haverleigh, Anna might have loved him then in her great delight with the
home he was bringing her to; but there was nothing in his nature
answering to hers, and he did not seem to see how pleased she was, but
sat back in the carriage, with a dark look on his face and a darker
purpose in his heart. And still he saw her every moment, and watched the
light in her eyes and the clasping of her hands as she leaned from the
window; but it awoke no answering chord of gladness, unless it were a
gladness that he had it in his power to avenge the insult he had
received. They were close to the chateau now, directly in the shadow of
the gray old walls, which looked so dark and gloomy, so out of keeping
with the beauty of the grounds, that Anna’s spirits sank again, and
there was a tremor in her frame as she descended from the carriage in
the wide court, around which balconies ran, tier upon tier, and into
which so many long, narrow windows looked.

“At the head of a flight of steps an elderly woman was standing, her
white hair arranged in puffs about her face, which, though old and
wrinkled, was so sweet and sad in its expression that Anna felt drawn to
her at once, and the court was not half so damp and dreary, or the walls
so dark and high.

“The woman was dressed in black silk, with a tasteful lace cap upon her
head, while the bunch of keys attached to her side with a silver chain
showed her to be the housekeeper, even before Mr. Haverleigh said:

“‘This is Madame Verwest, the head of the house, just as Monsieur
Brunell is head of the grounds. You will do well to conciliate her, and
not show your dislike, if you feel it, as you did to monsieur.’

“‘Oh, I shall love her. I love her now for that sweet sorry face. Has
she had some great trouble, Ernest?’

“It was the first time Anna had ever called her husband by the familiar
name of Ernest. He had asked her to do so in the days of their
courtship, and she had answered him, playfully: ‘Oh, Mr. Haverleigh, you
are so much older than I am, and know so much more, and then—Well, to
tell the truth, I am a little bit afraid of you yet, but by and by I
mean to learn to say Ernest.’

“But the by and by had never come until now. Anna was the creature of
impulse, and while driving through the handsome grounds she had felt
elated and proud, that she, little Anna Strong, who once sewed shoes in
New England, and planned how to get an extra pair of gloves, should be
riding in her carriage, the mistress of so much wealth, and her heart
had thrilled a little for the man through whom this good fortune had
come to her. But the gloomy chateau, and the still more gloomy court,
had driven this all away, and a wave of genuine homesickness was
sweeping over her when the serene face of Madame Verwest looked so
kindly down upon her and brought the better feeling back. She _was_
happy. She was glad she was there, Mr. Haverleigh’s wife, and she called
him Ernest purposely, and looked up in his face as she did so. Did he
soften toward her at all? Possibly, for a red flush crept up to his
hair; but he raised his hand as if to brush it away, and then he was
himself again—the man who never forgave, and who could break a young
girl’s heart even while seeming to caress her. If he heard Anna’s
question with regard to Madam Verwest, he did not notice it or make her
any answer. He merely took her arm in his, and, leading her up the broad
stone steps, presented her to the lady as Madam Haverleigh, his wife.

“Instantly there came a change over the placid features, which kindled
with a strange light, and the dim eyes, which looked so accustomed to
tears, fastened themselves eagerly upon the fair face of the young girl,
and then were raised questioningly to the dark face of the man whose
lips curled with a sneering smile, as he said, in French:

“‘She does not understand a word. Ask me what you please.’

“‘Your wife truly!’ was the quick question of the woman, and Haverleigh
replied:

“‘Yes, truly. What do you take me for?’

“To this there was no answer, but the woman’s arms were stretched toward
Anna with a quick, sudden motion, as if they fain would hold her a
moment in their embrace; but a look from Mr. Haverleigh checked the
impulse, and only madame’s hand was offered to Anna, who, nevertheless,
felt the warm welcome in the way the fingers tightened round her own,
and was sure she had found a friend.

“‘Madame is very welcome, and I hope she will be happy here,’ the woman
said; but she might as well have talked in Greek to Anna, who could only
guess from her manner what she meant to say, and who smiled brightly
back upon her, as she followed on up one narrow staircase after another,
until they reached a lofty room, which she first thought a hall such as
the New Englanders call a ball-room, but which she soon discovered to be
the apartment intended for herself.

“The floor was inlaid and waxed, and so slippery that, she came near
falling as she first crossed the threshold. A few Persian rugs were
thrown down here and there, and at the further end, near to a deep
alcove, was a massive rosewood bed with lace and silken hangings, and
heavy tassels with knotted fringe. On the bed was a light blue satin
spread, covered with real Valenciennes lace of a most exquisite pattern,
and Anna stood a moment in wonder to look at and marvel at its richness.
Then her eyes went on to the alcove, across which lace curtains were
stretched, and which was daintily fitted up with the appliances of the
toilet, with the bath-room just beyond. All this was at the far end of
the room, the remainder of which might have served as a boudoir for the
empress herself, it was so exquisitely furnished with everything which
the ingenuity of Paris could devise in the way of fauteuil, ottoman,
easy-chair, and lounge, with mosaic tables from Florence, inlaid
cabinets from Rome, lovely porcelains from Munich and full-length
mirrors from Marseilles.

“‘This is your room; how do you like it?’ Mr. Haverleigh asked: and
Annie replied:

“‘I wish mother and Mary knew. I wish they could be here too. Only the
windows are kind of prison-like, they are so long and narrow, and so
deep in the wall.’

“As she said this she entered one of the arched recesses and tried to
look from the window, but it was almost too high for her, and by
standing on tip-toe she could just look over the ledge and get a view of
the tree-tops in the grounds, of rocky hills beyond, and in the far
distance a bit of the blue Mediterranean, which brought back to her mind
a day at the seaside, where she had gone with a picnic party and bathed
in the Atlantic. That day seemed so very, very far back in the past, and
the ocean waves she had watched as they broke upon the beach was so far,
far away that again that throb of homesickness swept over her, and there
were tears in her eyes when she turned from the window and came back
into the salon. It was empty, for both her husband and Madame Verwest
had left it, and she was free to look about her as much as she liked,
and to examine the many beautiful things with which the salon was
filled. But they did not quite satisfy her now, for that pang of pain
was still in her heart cutting like a knife, and her thoughts went back
to the day when she and Mary had fitted the cheap ingrain carpet and
white curtains to the little parlor at home, and thought it, when done,
the finest room in Millfield. The carpet and curtains were there still,
but oh, how many miles and miles of land and sea lay between her and the
humble surroundings she had once so fretted against, longing for
something better! She had the something better, but it did not satisfy,
and it was so dreadful to be in a strange land where she could not
understand a word the people said, and it would be still more dreadful
without Mr. Haverleigh there as interpreter, she thought; and there
began to grow in her a sense of nearness to her husband, a feeling of
dependence upon and protection in him such as she had not experienced
before.

‘I believe I could love him after all; anyway, I mean to try, and will
begin to-night,’ she thought, just as there came a knock upon the door,
and in answer to her ‘_Entrez_,’ the one French word besides oui which
she knew, a smart-looking young woman entered, followed by a man, who
was bringing in her trunks.

“With a low courtesy, the girl managed to make Anna understand that her
name was Celine, and that she was to be her waiting-maid, and had come
to dress her for dinner.

“‘_Voyez les clefs_,’ she said, holding up the keys which her master had
given her, one of which she proceeded to fit to a certain trunk, as if
she knew its contents, and that it contained what she wanted.

“Anna had not before had the luxury of a maid, but she accepted it
naturally as she did everything else, and gave herself at once into the
deft hands of Celine, who brushed and arranged her beautiful hair with
many expressions of delight, not one of which Anna understood. But she
knew she was being complimented, and when her toilet was completed, and
she saw herself in one of the long mirrors arrayed in a soft, light gray
silk, with trimmings of blue and lace, with flowers in her hair, and
pearls on her arms and neck, she felt that Celine’s praises were just,
and laughed back at the vision of her own loveliness.

“‘Oh, if the folks at home could see me now they would say it paid,’ she
thought, as she walked up and down the apartment, trailing her silken
robe after her, and catching frequent flashes of her beauty in the
mirrors as she passed.

“And still there was a little of the old homesickness left, a yearning
for companionship, for somebody to see her, somebody to talk to, and
then she remembered her resolution to try to love her husband, and she
said again: ‘I’ll do it, and I’ll begin to-night.’

“But where was he that he left her thus alone, walking up and down,
until, too tired to walk longer, she seated herself upon a satin couch
to await his coming, little dreaming as she sat there of the scene which
had taken place between him and Madame Verwest, who had invited him to
her own room, and then turning fiercely upon him, demanded: ‘Tell me, is
she your wife, or another Agatha, brought here to beat her wings against
her prison bars until death gives her release? She is too young for
that, too beautiful, too innocent, with those childish eyes of blue.
Tell me you mean well by her, or——’

“She did not finish her threat, save by a stamp of her foot and an angry
flash of the eyes, which had looked so pityingly at Anna, for Haverleigh
interrupted her with a coarse laugh, and said: ‘Spare yourself all
uneasiness and puny threats which can avail nothing. You are as much in
my power as she. Honestly, though, this girl is as lawfully my wife as a
New England parson could make her.’

“‘New England,’ and the woman started as if stung. ‘Is she an American?
Is she from New England? You wrote me she was English born.’

“‘Did I? I had forgotten it. Well, then, she is an American and a New
Englander, and her name was Anna Strong, and she worked in a shoe-shop
in Millfield, where I stopped for a few months on account of the scenery
first, and her pretty face afterward. I married her for love, and
because I fancied she loved me a little; but I have found she does not,
and so she shall pay the penalty, but have her price all the same,
diamonds and pearls, with satins and laces and a dress for every day of
the month.’

“He spoke bitterly, and in his eyes there was a look which boded no good
to Anna, but Madame Verwest scarcely heard him. At the mention of Anna’s
name and Millfield she had laid her hand suddenly over her heart, which
beat so loudly that she could hear it herself, while her eyes had in
them a concentrated, far-off look, and she evidently was not thinking of
the objects around her, the old chateau and the dreadful man who brought
her back to the present by saying:

“‘I shall leave her here with you for a time, and it is my wish that she
has everything she wants except, of course, her freedom; you
understand?’

“She did understand; she had been through the same thing once before,
and she shuddered as she remembered the dark-haired, white-faced girl,
who had died in that gloomy house, with wild snatches of song upon her
lips, songs of ‘Ma Normandie,’ and the home where she had once been pure
and innocent. ‘_Je vais re voir, ma Normandie_’ poor Agatha had sung as
the breath was leaving her quivering lips, and the sad, sweet refrain
had seemed to Madame Verwest to haunt the old chateau ever since, and
now was she destined to hear another death-song or moaning cry for New
England instead of Normandy? ‘Never!’ was her mental reply, and to
herself she vowed that the fate of Anna Strong should not be like that
of Agatha Wynde. But she could do nothing then except to bow in
acquiescence as she listened to Haverleigh’s instructions, and from them
gathered what his intentions were. Not to desert Anna absolutely; he
could not bring himself to do that, for the love he had felt for her was
not yet extinct; but she had offended him deeply, and had hurt his
pride, and for the present she was a prisoner in Chateau d’Or, till such
time as he chose to set her free, or ‘till she recovers her reason, you
know,’ he said to Madame Verwest, who made no sign that she heard him,
but whose face was white as ashes as she went out from his presence, and
gave orders that dinner was to be served at once in the grand
_salle-a-manger_, which was all ablaze with wax candles and tapers when
Haverleigh led his bride thither, and gave her a place at the head of
his table.

“He had found her asleep on the couch, where she had thrown herself from
sheer fatigue, and for a moment had stood looking down upon her
childish, beautiful face, while something like pity did for an instant
stir his stony heart. But only for an instant, for when he remembered
her words, ‘I do not love him, and never expect to,’ he hardened against
her at once, and the gleam in his eye was the gleam of a mad man as he
touched her arm and bade her rouse herself.

“It is not necessary to describe in detail that elaborate dinner of ten
courses, which was served from solid silver, with two or three servants
in attendance. Haverleigh was very rich and very purse-proud, and it
suited him to live like a prince wherever he was; besides, he wished to
impress the simple New England girl with a sense of his greatness and
wealth, and he enjoyed her evident embarrassment, or rather
bewilderment, at so much glitter and display for just themselves and no
one else. Anna had not forgotten her resolution to try to love him, and
after their return to the salon, where a bright wood fire had been
kindled, as the autumn night was chilly, she stole up behind him as he
lounged in his easy-chair, and laying her white arms about his neck,
drew his head back until her lips touched his forehead. Then she said,
softly and timidly:

“‘Ernest, this is our first coming home, and I want to thank you for all
the beautiful things with which you have surrounded me, and to tell you
that I mean to be the best and most faithful of little wives to you.’

“It was quite a speech for Anna, who stood in great fear of the man she
could not understand, and who seemed to her to be possessed of two
spirits, one good and one bad, and should she rouse the latter she knew
it would not be in her power to cope with it. But she had no fear of
rousing it now, and she felt as if turning into stone when, for reply to
her caress, he sprang to his feet and placing a hand on either of her
shoulders, stood looking at her with an expression in his eyes she could
not meet and before which she cowered at last, and with quivering lip
said to him:

“‘Please take your hands from my shoulders; you hurt me, you press so
hard. And why do you look so terribly at me? You make me afraid of you,
and I wanted to love you to-night. What have I done?’

“Then he released her, and flinging her from him left the salon without
a word, and she saw him no more that night. At eleven o’clock Celine
came in to undress her, and when Anna managed to make her understand
that she wished to know where Monsieur Haverleigh was, she only received
for answer a meaning shrug and a peculiar lifting of the eyelids, which
she could construe as she liked. It was not so pleasant a home-coming
after all, and Anna’s first night at the chateau was passed with
watching, and waiting, and tears, and that intense listening which tells
so upon the brain. Once she thought to leave the room, but the door was
bolted on the other side, and so at last, when wearied with walking up
and down the long apartment, she threw herself upon the rosewood bed and
fell into a disturbed and unrestful sleep.

“Meanwhile the master—Haverleigh—was fighting a fiercer battle with
himself than he had ever fought before. He had said that his mind was
made up, and he was one who boasted that when once this was so nothing
could turn him from his purpose; his yea was yea, his nay, nay, but
those white arms around his neck, and the touch of those fresh lips upon
his forehead had not been without their effect, though the effect was
like the pouring of molten lead into his veins, and had made him what,
at times, he was, a mad man. When he rushed from Anna’s presence, with
that wild look in his eye and the raging fire in his heart, he went
straight to the dark, dreary room where Agatha had died with the sweet
refrain ‘_Je vais revoir, ma Normandie_,’ upon her lips, and there amid
the gloom and haunting memories of the place walked up and down the
livelong night, now thinking, thinking, with head bent down, and now
gesticulating in empty air with clinched fist, and again talking to
himself, or rather to the spirits, good and bad, which seemed to have
possession of him.

“‘Was she in earnest? Did she mean it? Is it possible that she might
learn to love me through these baubles she prizes so much?’ he
questioned of his better nature, which replied:

“‘Try her, and see. Don’t leave her here in this dreary place Don’t shut
out all the gladness and sunshine from her young life. Give her a
chance. Remember Agatha.’

“Just then, through the casement he had thrown open, there came a gust
of the night-wind, which lifted the muslin drapery of the tall bed in
the corner and swept it toward him, making him start, it was so like the
white, tossing, billowy figure he had seen there once, begging him for
the love of God to set her free, and let her go back to ‘_la belle
Normandie_,’ where the father was watching for her, and would welcome
her home again.

“Was Agatha, the wild rose of Normandy, pleading for Anna, the singing
bird from New England? Possibly; and if so, she pleaded well, and might
have gained her cause if the wicked spirit had not interposed, and
sneeringly repeated: ‘Do not love him—shrink from his caresses—can’t
endure to have him touch me—married him for money—can wind him round my
little finger.’ And that last turned the scale. No man likes to be wound
round any finger, however small it may be, and Ernest Haverleigh was not
an exception.

“‘She shall pay for that,’ he said—‘shall suffer until the demon within
me is satisfied, and I rather think I am possessed of the devil. Eugenie
says I am, in her last interesting document,’ and he laughed bitterly,
as he took from his pocket a dainty little epistle, bearing the London
post-mark, and stepping to the window, through which the early morning
light was streaming, glanced again at the letter which had been
forwarded to him from Paris, and a part of which had reference to Anna.

“‘Who was the doll-faced little girl I saw with you in the carriage, and
why didn’t you call upon me after that day? Were you afraid to meet me,
and what new fancy is this so soon after that other affair? Ernest
Haverleigh, I believe you are possessed with a demon, which makes you at
times a maniac.’

‘Yes, I believe I am mad. I wonder if it is in the family far back,
working itself out in me?’ Haverleigh said, as he stood with his eyes
riveted upon the last two lines. ‘Curse this woman with that spell she
holds over me. If it were not for her Agatha might have been living, and
I might forgive Anna, for I do believe I am nearer loving her than any
woman I ever saw, and that is why I feel so bitter, so unrelenting, so
determined upon revenge.’

“There were signs of waking life in and around the chateau now. The
servants were astir, and so Haverleigh left the room where he had passed
the night, and which since Agatha’s death had borne the cognomen of ‘the
haunted chamber.’ On the stairs he met with Madame Verwest, who stood
with hands folded and eyes bent down, her usual attitude while receiving
his orders.

“Anna was to have breakfast in her own room, he said, and be waited on
by Celine, and then about ten o’clock he would see her alone, for he
must be off that night for Paris.

“It was a very dainty breakfast of chocolate, and fruits, and French
rolls, and limpid honey and eggs which Celine took to her mistress, whom
she had dressed becomingly in a white cashmere wrapper, with broad blue
sash, knotted at the side, and a blue silk, sleeveless jacket. In spite
of the weary night, Anna was very beautiful that morning, though a
little pale and worn, with a shadow about the eyes, which were lifted so
timidly and questioningly to Haverleigh when at last he entered the
salon and closed the door behind him.

“‘Oh, Ernest, husband!’ she began; but she never called him by either of
those names again, and half an hour later she lay on her face among the
silken cushions of the couch, a terrified, bewildered, half-crazed
creature, to whom death would have been a welcome relief just then.

“He had succeeded in making her comprehend her position fully, and in
some degree to comprehend him. He was a man who never forgot and who
never forgave. He had loved her, he believed; at least, he had conferred
upon her the great honor of becoming his wife—had raised her from
nothing to a high and dazzling position, because he liked her face and
fancied she liked him. She had certainly made him think so, and he, whom
many a high-born damsel of both Scotland and England had tried to
captivate, had made a little Yankee shoe-stitcher Mrs. Haverleigh, and
then had heard from her own lips that she loathed him, that she shrank
from his touch, that she married him for money, for fine dresses, and
jewelry, and furniture, and horses, and carriages, and servants—and he
added with an oath: ‘You shall have all this. You shall have everything
you married me for, except your freedom, and that you never shall have
until I change my purpose;’ then, without giving her a chance to speak
in her own defense, he went on to unfold his plan formed on the instant
when he stood by the door in New York and heard her foolish speech to
Mrs. Fleming. She was to remain at Chateau d’Or, where every possible
luxury was to be hers, and where the servants were to yield her perfect
obedience, except in one particular. She was never to go unattended
outside the grounds, or off the little island on which the chateau
stood. Monsieur Brunell, who kept the gate, would see this law enforced,
as he would see to everything else. All letters which she wished to send
to him or her friends would be given to Brunell’s care. No other person
would dare touch them, and it would be useless for her to try to
persuade or bribe them, as they all feared him and would obey his
orders. For society she would have Madame Verwest, and plenty of books
in the library, and a splendid piano, which she would find in the same
room, with a small cabinet organ for Sunday use, ‘as you New Englanders
are all so pious,’ he added, with a sneer. Then pausing a moment, as if
to rally his forces for a last blow, he said, slowly and distinctly:

“Brunell and Madame Verwest know you are my wife, but I have told them
you are crazy, and that rather than send you to a lunatic asylum, I
shall keep you in close confinement here for a while, unless you become
furious, in which case there are plenty of places for you, not so good
as this, or as much to your taste. To the other servants I make no
explanations, except that you are crazy, and that it is a fancy of yours
that you are not. This fancy they will humor to a certain extent, but
you cannot bribe them. They will give you every possible attention.
Celine will wait upon you as if you were a queen. You can dine in state
every day, with twenty courses, if you like, and wear a new dress each
time. You can drive in the grounds when it suits you, and drive alone
there; but when you go outside the gates, Madame Verwest, or Celine, or
some trusty person will accompany you, as it is not _safe_ for a
_lunatic_ to go by herself into strange quarters. At intervals, as it
suits my convenience or pleasure, I shall visit you as my wife, and
shall be the most devoted of husbands in the presence of the servants,
who will thus give me their sympathy and wholly discredit anything you
may tell them. So beat your pretty wings as you may, and break your
heart as often as you like, you cannot help yourself. I am supreme here.
I am your master, and Madame Verwest says of me sometimes that I am a
madman—ha, ha!”

“It was the laugh of a demon, and the look of the man was the look of a
madman as he pushed from him the quivering form which had thrown itself
upon the floor at his feet supplicating for pity, for pardon. He had
neither, and with a coarse laugh which echoed through the salon like the
knell of death to all poor Anna’s happiness, he left the room and she
heard his heavy footsteps as he went swiftly down the stone stairway and
out into the court.

“Was it a dream, a nightmare, or a horrible reality, she asked herself
as she tried to recall the dreadful things he had said to her and to
understand their import. ‘A prisoner, a maniac,’ she whispered. ‘Oh,
mother, oh, Mary, that I should come to this. Oh, if I could die, if I
could die;’ and in her anguish she looked about her for some means of
ending her wretched life. Her New England training, however, was too
strong for that. She dared not deliberately and suddenly die by her own
hand, but if this thing were true, if she were a prisoner here with no
means of escape, she would starve herself to death. They could not
compel her to eat, and she would never taste food again until she knew
that she was free.

“There was a murmur of voices in the court below, and a sound of wheels
crushing over the gravel. Was he really going, and without her? She must
know, and springing from her crouching attitude she started for the
door, but found it locked from the other side it would seem, and she was
a prisoner indeed, and for a time a maniac as well, if sobs and moans
and piteous cries for some one to come to her aid could be called proofs
of insanity. But no one came, and the hours dragged heavily on till she
heard the house clock strike four, and then Celine came in to dress
madame for dinner, but Anna waved her off loathing the very thought of
food—loathing the glitter and display of the day before—loathing the
elegant dresses which Celine spread out before her, hoping thus to tempt
her.

“‘Go away, go away, or let me out,’ she cried, while Celine, who could
not understand a word, kept at a safe distance, eying her young mistress
and thinking it very strange that her master should have two crazy girls
in succession—poor Agatha Wynde and this fair American, who Madame
Verwest said was his wife.

“‘Perhaps,’ Celine had thought with a shrug of her shoulders; ‘but if
the lady is his wife why leave her so quick?’

“But wife or not it was Celine’s business to attend her, and she had no
intention of shrinking from her duty.

“‘Poor girl, and so young,’ she thought, and she tried to quiet and
conciliate her, and brought out dress after dress and held up to view,
until, maddened at the sight of the finery so detestable to her now,
Anna shut her eyes, and stopping her ears shrieked aloud in the utter
abandonment of despair.

“‘_Mon Dieu_,’ Celine exclaimed, as she fled from the room in quest of
Madame Verwest, whose face was white as marble and whose eyes had in
them a look which Celine had never seen before. But she did not offer to
go near the lady whom Celine represented as being so bad, nor did she
see her during that day or the next. She, too, was acting very queerly,
the servants said to each other, as they talked in whispers of the
American who refused to touch a morsel of food, and who had not tasted a
mouthful since the master went away.

“She was in bed now, Celine said, lying with her face to the wall, and
moaning so sadly and saying things she could not understand. ‘If Madame
would only go to her and speak one word—_Anglaise_,’ she said to Madame
Verwest on the morning of the third day, and with that same white,
pinched look upon her face, madame started at last for the _salon_.




                              CHAPTER III.
                        MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.


“It was now the third day since Haverleigh’s departure, and Anna had
adhered to her resolution not to eat or drink, hoping thus to hasten the
death she so longed for, and yet dared not achieve by rasher means. Four
times a day Celine had carried her the most tempting dishes which a
French cook could manufacture, and tried by signs, and gestures, and a
voluble rattling of her mother tongue, to persuade her mistress to eat,
or, at least, sip the delicious chocolate, or _cafe au lait_, whose
perfume itself was almost meat and drink. But all in vain. Anna neither
turned her head nor spoke, but lay with her face to the wall on the
massive bedstead of rosewood and gilt, whose silken and lace hangings
seemed to aggravate her misery. So much grandeur, so much elegance, and
she so hopeless and wretched. Oh, with what wild yearnings she thought
of her New England home, and the labor she had so despised.

“‘Oh, mother, mother, if you only knew, but I shall never see you again.
I shall die, and nobody will know. I believe I am dying now,’ she
moaned, as the gnawings of hunger and thirst began to make themselves
felt, and there stole over her that deathly sickness and cold, clammy
sweat which so often precedes a fainting fit, or a severe attack of
vomiting. ‘Yes, I’m dying and I’m glad,’ she whispered, as everything
around her began to grow dark, and she seemed to be floating away on a
billow of the sea.

‘No, you are not dying. You are only faint with hunger and excitement.
Take a sip of this wine,’ was spoken in her ear in a pure English
accent, while a cool hand was laid kindly upon her hot, throbbing head.

“It was the English voice, the sound of home, which brought Anna back to
consciousness, and turning herself quickly toward the speaker, she saw
Madame Verwest bending over her, with a glass of spiced wine and some
biscuits, at which she clutched eagerly, forgetful of her recent desire
to die. The English voice had saved her, and a flood of tears rained
over her young face as she glanced up at Madame Verwest, and met the
same kind expression which had greeted her the first day of her arrival
at Chateau d’Or.

“‘Oh, you can speak English. You will help me to get away, to go home to
mother? You’ll save me from him, won’t you? Why didn’t you come to me
before?’ she cried; and raising herself in bed, she laid her head upon
the bosom of the woman and sobbed convulsively. ‘Are you crying, too?
Crying for me?’ she asked, as she felt the hot tears falling upon her
hair, and drawing herself a little from Madame Verwest, she gazed at her
in astonishment, for every feature was convulsed with emotion, and the
tears were running down her pallid cheeks.

“‘What is it? Are you a prisoner? Does he say you are crazy like me? Who
are you, and why are you in this dreadful place?’ Anna asked, and then
Madame was herself again, and answered, calmly:

“‘I am Madame Verwest, Mr. Haverleigh’s housekeeper, and I am here from
choice. I am neither a prisoner nor crazy, but I am your friend and can
help you in many ways.’

“‘Can you set me free; oh, can you set me free and send me home to
mother?’ Anna cried, but the lady shook her head.

‘I dare not do that, and could not if I would. Monsieur Brunell keeps
the gate, the only way of escape, and would not let you pass. I can,
however, make your life more endurable while you are here; but the
servants must not suspect me, that is, they must not know that I talk
English so fluently. They are aware that I speak it a very little, so
never expect much talking from me in their presence. But learn the
French yourself at once; it will be better for you.’

“Anna was too wholly unsuspicious to think for a moment that Madame
Verwest was not French, though she did wonder at the perfect ease with
which she spoke English, and said to her:

“‘You talk almost as well as I do. Where did you learn?’

“‘I have lived three years in London, and two in Edinburgh,’ was the
quiet reply, as the woman held the wine again to Anna’s lips, bidding
her drink before talking any more.

“Anna obeyed eagerly, and then continued:

“‘You lived in London three years, and in Edinburgh two? Were you with
Mr. Haverleigh all the time?’

“‘Part of the time I lived with him, and part of the time alone, though
always in his employ.’

“‘You must have known him a long, long time,’ Anna rejoined. ‘Tell me
then who he is and what he is? What kind of man, I mean?’

“‘That is a strange question for a wife to ask concerning her husband.
Who did _you_ think he was, and what? Surely your mother, if you have
one, did not allow you to marry him, without knowing something of his
antecedents,’ Madame Verwest said, and Anna colored painfully, for she
remembered well how her mother and sister both had at first opposed her
marrying an entire stranger of whom they knew nothing, except what he
said of himself.

“‘Did you know nothing of his history? Did you not inquire? How long had
you known him, and what was he doing in your town?’ Madame continued,
and Anna replied:

“‘He was traveling for pleasure, I think, and stopped for a few days in
Millfield because he liked the scenery; then he was sick, I believe, and
so staid on as everybody was kind to him and made so much of him. He
came from New York with a Mr. Stevens whom he knew and who said he was
all right, and he had so much money and spent it so freely—’

“‘Yes, but what did he say of himself?’ madame persisted in asking, and
Anna answered:

“‘He said he was of Scottish descent on his father’s side, but born in
England, at Grasmere, I think—that he left there when he was three years
old—that his father died when he was twenty-two, and left him a large
property which by judicious management had doubled in value, so that he
was very rich, and that weighed so much with me, for we were poor,
mother, and Mary, and Fred, who wants to go to college. I’ll tell you
just the truth, I worked in the _shoe-shop_, and my hands were cut with
the waxed-ends, and my clothes smelled of leather, and I was nothing but
a shop-girl, and I hated it and wanted handsome dresses, and jewelry,
and money, and position, and Mr. Haverleigh could give me these, I
thought, and he showed us letters from London and Liverpool, and so I
married him, and he overheard what I said of him to Lucy Fleming in New
York, and it made him so angry and jealous that he brought me here, and
that is all. Oh, madame, tell me, please, what you know of him, and what
people say of him who know him best, and will he ever set me free?’

“Anna asked her questions rapidly, but madame replied in the same quiet,
measured manner, which marked all her movements.

“‘I think he told you truly with regard to his birth and his money, and
people who know him best say he is honest, and upright, and generous to
a fault. Did he tell you anything of his mother? He must have spoken of
her.’

“Madame was the questioner now, and Anna replied:

“‘He never said much of her, nothing which I recall, but I have an
impression that her family was not as good as his father’s. Do you know?
Did you ever see her?’

“‘Yes, I have seen his mother.’

“‘Oh, tell me of her, please. Was she a lady?’

“‘Not as the English account ladies, perhaps,’ madame said, and Anna
went on:

“‘Was she nice? Was she good?’

“‘I believe she tried to be good,’ was the low-spoken answer, and Anna
cried:

“‘Then there must be some good in him and sometime he’ll relent and set
me free. It would be so terrible to die here, and mother and Mary never
know. He says I am crazy; he has told you so, but you don’t believe it;
tell me, you do not believe me mad!’

“‘Not yet, but you will be if you suffer yourself to get so fearfully
excited. Be quiet and make the best of the situation, which is not
without its ameliorating circumstances. Everybody will be very kind to
you here, and believe me when I say it is better to live here without
him, than to travel the world over with him; so make the best of it, and
at least seem to acquiesce. If you are fond of reading there are plenty
of books in the library, many of them English. There is a fine piano,
too. Are you fond of music?’

“‘Yes, but do not play. I always had to work, and could not afford the
lessons,’ Anna replied, and Madame Verwest said:

“‘I think I can get you a teacher. I know Mr. Haverleigh will not object
to that: and now you must rest—must sleep. I’ll draw the curtains of the
bed, and leave you alone for a time.’

“There was something so soothing and reassuring in madame’s manner that
Anna felt the influence, and worn out as she was and tired, she turned
upon her pillow and fell into a quiet sleep, which lasted till the sun
went down, and the evening shadows were gathering in the room. Madame
was sitting by her when she woke, and on a table at her side was a
dainty supper which Celine had just brought in, and which Anna did not
refuse.

“‘Perhaps you would like to tell me of your home in Millfield. I am
always pleased to hear of foreign countries, and how the people live
there,’ Madame Verwest said, as she saw the color coming back to Anna’s
face, and knew that she was stronger.

“So Anna told her of New England and her Millfield home, the hills
around it and the little ponds sleeping in the valley, and the river
winding its graceful way to the east, until it was lost in the noble
Connecticut. And Madame Verwest listened eagerly, with a deep flush on
her pallid cheek, and a bright gleam in her eye.

“‘And the pond lilies grow there by the old bridge, and the boat-house
is near by,’ she said, in a half-whisper, as Anna told her of the
beautiful lilies which open their petals in June, and fill the summer
air with such delicious perfume.

“‘Why, were you ever there? Did you ever see the boat-house?’ Anna
asked, in some surprise, and madame replied:

“‘You describe it all so vividly that I feel as if I had seen it. I love
New England, and some day, perhaps—who knows—we may go there
together—you and I.’

“She wrung her hands nervously, like one under strong excitement, and
Anna looked at her wonderingly, while she continued:

“‘Yes, some day we’ll go away from this prison-house, but it may be long
hence. He is vigilant and cunning, and mad, I believe; so be quiet, and
seem to be content, nor beat your wings till you die like poor—’

“She checked herself ere the name of Agatha escaped her lips, but a new
idea had crossed Anna’s mind, making her unmindful of what Madame
Verwest was saying. She would write at once to Millfield, telling her
mother where she was, and begging her to send some one to her relief.
Strange she had not thought of that before as a way of escape, and she
begged Madame Verwest for the lamp and writing material, that she might
at once begin the letter which was to bring relief.

“‘Wait till to-morrow,’ madame said, ‘when you will be stronger and
fresher.’

“And to this Anna was finally persuaded, but early the next morning the
letter was written, detailing every particular of her unhappy position,
and asking her mother to send some one at once to liberate her.

“This letter she intrusted to Celine, while Madame Verwest looked
pityingly on, knowing in her heart that in all human probability the
letter would never reach New England, but go instead to Paris, there to
be read by Haverleigh and committed to the flames.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                   THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.


It was Thanksgiving day, and in the little red house which Anna had once
called her home, the table was laid for dinner, laid for four—Mary,
Fred, and the Anna over the sea, who had never been absent before from
the festival which, in New England, means so much and is kept so
sacredly. They knew she would not be there, and they had grown somewhat
accustomed to living without her, but on this day it was Mary’s fancy to
lay the table for her, to put her plate just where she used to sit, and
place by it the little napkin ring of Stuart plaid which had been Fred’s
present to her on her last birth-day.

“‘We’ll play she is here, mother,’ Mary said. ‘She will be in fancy.
Surely she’ll remember us to-day of all days, and I know she’ll wish
herself here once more. How long it is now since we heard from her. Only
one letter since she reached Paris. You don’t suppose she is forgetting
us with all the grandeur and the fine things she has?’

“‘Oh, no, Anna will never do that. She is probably too much occupied in
Paris, and too happy with Mr. Haverleigh to write many letters,’ Mrs.
Strong replied, but her face belied her hopeful words.

“She had felt many misgivings with regard to Anna’s marriage, and her
chance for happiness with a man as cold, and proud, and reticent as Mr.
Haverleigh. But it could not now be helped, and so she made the best of
it, and prided herself on having a daughter abroad, and rather enjoyed
the slight elevation in society which it really had given her. In the
little town of Millfield it was something to be the mother of the rich
Mrs. Haverleigh, and to talk of my ‘daughter’s country-house in
Scotland, and Chateau d’Or in France;’ and on this Thanksgiving day the
good woman wore her new black silk—Mr. Haverleigh’s gift—in honor of
him, and committed the extravagance of celery and cranberries, too, and
wondered as she basted the turkey browning in the oven, where Anna was
and what her dinner would be.

“‘Perhaps Fred will bring us a letter. I told him to stop at the office.
It is time he was here, she said, as, her arrangements for dinner
completed, she stood a moment looking into the street, where the first
snow-flakes were falling.

“Why was it that the day seemed so dreary to her, and why was there such
an undefined dread of something in her heart? Was it a presentiment of
the sad news coming to her so fast, borne by Fred, who appeared round a
corner running rapidly, and waving his cap when he saw his mother’s face
at the window.

“‘Here’s a letter from Anna,’ he cried, as he burst into the room, and
held the precious document to sight. ‘Isn’t it jolly to get it on
Thanksgiving day? ‘Most as good as having her here. Let’s keep it for
the dessert!’

“But the mother could not wait, and taking the letter from her son, she
glanced at the superscription, which was in Mr. Haverleigh’s
handwriting. But that was not strange. The other letter had been
directed by him, and so she had no suspicion of the blow awaiting her as
she hastily broke the seal.

“‘Why, it is written by Mr. Haverleigh,’ she exclaimed, and then, with
Mary and Fred both looking over her shoulder, she read the following:

                                               “‘PARIS, _November 10th_.

  “‘MRS. STRONG:—_Dear Madame_:—I am sorry to be obliged to tell you the
  sad news about Anna, and I hope you will bear up bravely, for there is
  hope, and insanity is not as bad as death.’

“‘Insanity,’ the three whispered together, with white lips, and then
read on rapidly:

  “‘My bright-haired darling, whom I loved so much, and who every day
  was growing more and more into my heart, has been very sick here in
  Paris, and when the fever left her her reason seemed wholly gone. The
  ablest physicians in France were consulted, but her case seemed to
  baffle all their skill, and as she constantly grew worse, they advised
  me, as a last resort, to place her in a private asylum, where she
  would have absolute quiet, together with the best and kindest of care.

  “‘I need not tell you how I shrank from such an alternative, feeling,
  for a time, that I would rather see my darling dead than behind a
  grated window, but it was my only hope of restoring her, and as she
  was at times very violent and uncontrollable, I yielded at last to the
  judgment of others, and yesterday I took her to a private asylum in——’

“Here was a great blot, which entirely obliterated the name of the
place, but in their sorrow and surprise the three did not observe it
then, but read on rapidly:

  “‘It is a charming spot, with lovely views. She has her own
  apartments, and maid, and private table, and carriage, and is
  surrounded by every comfort which love can devise or money buy, but
  oh, my heart is wrung with anguish when I think of her there, my
  beautiful Anna, who enjoyed everything so much. She was happy for the
  brief space that she was with me, and I am glad to remember that in
  the dreariness and darkness which have so suddenly overshadowed my
  life. But oh, dear madame, what can I say to comfort you, her mother.
  Nothing, alas, nothing, except bid you hope, as I do, that time will
  restore her to us again, and that reminds me of a question the
  physician asked me. Is there insanity on either side of her family? If
  not, her recovery is certain. Meanwhile, do not be troubled about her
  treatment; it will be the tenderest and best, as I know her doctor and
  nurse personally, and money will secure everything but happiness. It
  is not thought advisable for me to see her often, but I shall keep
  myself thoroughly informed with regard to her condition, and report to
  you accordingly.

  “The last time Anna was out with me before her sickness, she saw and
  greatly admired an oil painting from a scene among the mountains of
  the Tyrol. It reminded her, she said, of New England, and the view
  from the hill across the river in Millfield. Recently I have seen the
  picture again, and remembering that she said, ‘Oh, how I wish mother
  and Mary could see it,’ I purchased it, and yesterday it started for
  America, marked to your address. In the same box is a porcelain
  picture of Murillo’s Madonna (the one in the Louvre gallery), and I
  send it because it bears a strong resemblance to Anna, as I have seen
  her in her white dressing-gown, with her hair unbound, her hands
  folded upon her breast, and her sweet face upturned to the evening
  sky, which she loved to contemplate, because, she said, ‘the same moon
  and stars were shining down on you.’ I hope you will like them, and
  accept them as coming—the painting from Anna, and the Madonna from me.
  Should you ever be in need of money, I beg you will command me to any
  extent, for I desire to be to you a son for the sake of the daughter I
  have taken from you.

  “‘As I may not be in Paris the entire winter, direct to Munroe & Co.,
  and your letters will be forwarded.

                                         Very truly, dear madame, yours,
                                                 “‘ERNEST HAVERLEIGH.’

“This was the letter received at the red house that Thanksgiving day,
and for a time the mother and sister felt that Anna was as surely lost
to them as if she had been lying dead in some far-off grave across the
sea. There was no insanity in the family on either side that Mrs. Strong
had ever heard of, and that gave them a little hope, but their hearts
were aching with a bitter pain as they sat down to the dinner which was
scarcely touched, so intent were they upon the sorrow which had come so
suddenly. It was terrible to think of their beautiful Anna as a maniac,
confined behind bars and bolts, and so far away from home.

“‘If we could only see her,’ Mary said, while Fred suggested going to
France himself to find her if she did not recover soon.

“‘Where is she? Where did Mr. Haverleigh say the asylum was?’ he asked,
and then reference was had to the letter, but the name of the place was
wholly unintelligible, and after trying in vain to make it out, they
gave it up and gathered what comfort they could from the apparent
kindness and cordiality evinced in Mr. Haverleigh’s letter, so different
from his cold, proud manner when there, Mrs. Strong remarked, and she
felt her love go out toward him as to a son, and before she slept that
night she wrote him a long letter, which contained many messages of love
for poor Anna, and thanks to himself for his kindness and interest in
her sorrowing family.

“That night there was a Thanksgiving party in the ball-room of the
village hotel. It had been the custom to have one there for years, and
heretofore Anna Strong had been the very prettiest girl present; and the
one most sought for in the games we played, and the merry dance. But
that night she was not with us, and the news that she was insane, and
the inmate of a mad-house, came upon us with a heavy shock, saddening
our spirits and casting a gloom over the gay scene. Poor Anna! How
little we guessed the truth, or dreamed how many, many times that day
her thoughts had been with us, or how, until the last ray of sunset
faded, she had stood by the window of her room looking to the west, as
if, with the departing daylight, she would send some message to her
far-off home.




                               CHAPTER V.
                  THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU D’OR.


Monsieur Brunell had received a telegram saying that M. Haverleigh would
visit the chateau the following day, and both Anna and Madame Verwest
had received letters apprising them of his home-coming, and bidding the
one see that a grand dinner was in readiness for him, and the other to
array herself in her most becoming attire, as befitted a wife about to
receive her husband after a separation of many months. To Anna this
visit seemed more awful than anything she had yet experienced at the
chateau, for as a whole her life there had not been without its
pleasures. Acting upon Madame Verwest’s advice, she had tried to make
the best of her position, and in acquiring the language and a knowledge
of music, she had found a solace for many a weary hour which otherwise
would have hung heavily upon her hands. She was fond of French and
music, and had developed a remarkable talent for them both, while in the
well-selected library she had found a delight she had never thought she
could find in books. Madame Verwest was herself a good scholar and a
clear reasoner and thinker, and in her constant companionship Anna was
rapidly developing into a self-reliant woman, capable of thinking and
acting for herself. She had long since given up all hope of hearing from
home, unless she could find some other method of communication than
through the medium of Monsieur Brunell, who took charge of every letter
from the chateau, and who, when questioned upon the subject as to why no
answer ever came to her, always replied that he did not know, unless her
letters were lost on the voyage. He always deposited them in the post,
and more than that he could not do. It was in vain that Anna had tried
other methods of getting her letters to the post. It could not be done,
even through Madame Verwest, who said always, ‘I would so gladly, but I
dare not.’

“And so, though letter after letter had been written home, there had
come to her no reply, and she guessed pretty accurately that her letters
were sent directly to her husband, who, of course, destroyed them. A
prisoner for life she began to fear she was, and sometimes beat her
wings cruelly against her gilded cage. Haverleigh had kept his word, and
every luxury in the way of service, elegant dress, and furniture was
hers. All the servants were respectful and attentive, while Celine was
her devoted slave. Anna could talk with her now tolerably well, and the
first use she made of her knowledge was an effort to convince her maid
of her sanity, and that she was kept a prisoner there to suit the whim
of her husband, whom she represented as a dreadful man. But to this
Celine gave no credence, though she at first smilingly assented to her
young mistress’ assertion, as if it were a part of her business to humor
every fancy of the poor lunatic. Once Anna was more earnest than usual,
and begged her maid to say if she believed her crazy.

“‘_Oui, oui_,’ Celine answered, vehemently, ‘I must think it, else why
are you here, shut up from the world and Paris, and monsieur is far too
kind, too fond to imprison madame for naught, and yet——’

“Here Celine paused a moment, as if a new idea had just occurred to her,
and then she continued:

“‘And yet it is a little strange that mademoiselle Agatha should be
crazy, too, like you, and like you shut up here.’

“‘Who was Agatha?’ Anna asked; and then, little by little, she heard the
story of the poor young girl from Normandy, who had died in what Celine
called the ‘Ghost Room,’ with the words ‘_Je vais revoir ma Normandie_’
on her lips.

“‘She haunts the room still,’ Celine said; ‘and often on stormy nights,
when the wind howls round the old chateau, we hear her voice singing of
Normandy. You see, that was her home, and she thought she was going back
to see it again. Oh, but she was pretty, much like madame; only she was
mademoiselle—no wedding ring, for true—no priest—and she was not lady,
like you Americaine. She was people—very people.’

“This was Celine’s version of the story, and that night Anna heard from
Madame Verwest more of poor Agatha, who believed herself a wife, and who
went really mad when she found that she was not. If anything had been
wanting to complete Anna’s loathing and horror of her husband, this
story would have accomplished it. That he was a demon in human form, as
well as a madman, she had no doubt, and there gradually crept into her
heart a fear lest she, too, like Agatha of Normandy, would die in that
dreary house. Still youth is hopeful, and Anna was young and cheered by
the courage of Madame Verwest, who was to her more like a mother than a
servant, she found herself constantly forming plans for escape from the
chateau. When she received her husband’s letter, telling her he was
coming, her first and predominant feeling was one of horror and dread;
but anon there arose in her mind a hope that he might be coming to
release her, or at least to take her with him to Paris, and once there
she would fall in with Americans or English, and through them obtain her
freedom.

“With this end in view she determined to make herself as attractive and
agreeable as possible to the man she detested, and on the day when he
was expected she suffered Celine to dress her in one of the many Paris
gowns which she had never worn, for it had hitherto seemed worse than
folly to array herself in laces, and silks, and jewels for her solitary
meals. But to-day there was a reason for dressing, and she bade Celine
do her best, and when that best was done and she saw herself in the
glass, a picture of rare loveliness in blue satin and lace, with pearls
on her neck and arms, something of her old vanity awoke within her, and
she found herself again wishing that her friends at home could see her.

“In the kitchen below all was bustle and expectation, for whatever
Ernest Haverleigh might be to others, he was exceedingly popular with
his servants, and not a man or woman of them but would have walked
through fire and water to serve him. In the dining salon the table was
set for dinner as it never had been laid since the first night of Anna’s
arrival at Chateau d’Or, more than five months ago. And Anna glanced in
there once as she was passing the door, and felt herself grow sick and
faint as she saw the costly array, and remembered what it was for.

“At half-past five the train was due, and just as the little silver
clock chimed the half hour, the whistle was heard, and from the window
where she had so often watched the sun setting she saw the long train
moving off toward Marseilles, and a few moments after the sound of
carriage wheels in the court below told her that her husband had come.
She did not go to meet him, but with clasped hands and rapidly beating
heart stood waiting for him just where he left her months before,
terrified, bewildered, crouching upon the couch, with her face hidden in
her hands. Now she stood erect, with an unnatural brightness in her blue
eyes, and a flush on her cheeks, which deepened to scarlet as her ear
caught the sound of heavy footsteps, and she knew he was coming.

“The next moment he opened the door, and started involuntarily, as if he
had not been prepared to see her thus. He had not expected to find her
so beautiful and so matured. He had left her a timid, shrinking girl; he
found her a woman, with that expression upon her face which only
experience or suffering brings. His _role_ had been all marked out and
arranged. He should find her tearful, reproachful, desperate possibly,
and that would suit him well, and make her insanity more probable to his
servants, while he would be the patient, enduring, martyr-husband,
humoring her like a child, and petting her as he would pet a kitten
which scratched and spit at his caresses. How then was he disappointed,
when, with a steady step, she crossed the room to meet him, and offered
her hand as quietly and self-possessed, to all appearance, as if he had
been a stranger seeking audience of her.

“‘_Ma precieuse, ma belle reine_, how charming I find you, and how
delighted I am to see you looking so well,’ he exclaimed, as he
encircled her in his arms as lovingly as if she had been the bride of
yesterday.

“Oh, how she loathed his caresses, and felt her blood curdling in her
veins as he pressed kiss after kiss upon her cheek and lips, and called
her his darling and pet, and asked if she were glad to see him again.
She could not tell a lie, and she dared not tell the truth, but her eyes
told it for her, and he saw it at once, and said in a deprecating tone:

“‘What! not glad to see me when I have lived in the anticipation of this
meeting ever since I parted with you last autumn. Why then didn’t I come
before? you may ask. Business before pleasure, you know, and then I
hoped that perfect quiet in this lovely retreat would go far toward
restoring you. _Eh, ma petite._ How is it, are you any better here?’ And
he touched his forehead significantly.

“That exasperated Anna, who, for a moment, lost her self-control, and
releasing herself from him, stepped backward, and with a proud gesture
of her head, exclaimed:

“‘Have done with that. You know I’m not crazy, and you shall not stay in
my presence if you insult me thus!’

“She was very beautiful then, and for a moment Haverleigh felt a wave of
his old love or passion sweeping over him as he stood looking at her;
then the demon within whispered of that day in New York, and the words
he had overheard, and he was himself again, her jailer and master rather
than her lover and husband.

“‘Ha, my pretty pet,’ said he, ‘and so you are mistress here, and can
refuse or permit my presence as you please! So be it then, and if it
suits you better to be sane, why sane you are to me at least. But, Mrs.
Haverleigh, joking aside, I am glad to see you, and I think you greatly
improved, and I come in peace and not in war, and if you incline to the
latter I would advise a change in your programme. Upon my soul, you
_are_ charming.’

‘He drew her to him again, and she suffered his kisses in silence, and
did not even shrink from him when in the presence of Celine he drew her
down upon his knee, and called her his angel and dove. But the color had
all faded from her cheeks, and left her very pale, while her hands shook
so that she could scarcely manage her soup, when at last dinner was
announced, and he led her to the dining salon. He was all attention to
her, and a stranger watching him would have thought him the most devoted
of husbands, but to Anna there was something disgusting and terrible in
his manner which she knew was assumed as a means of deceiving the
servants, who pitied their master for being so unfortunately married.

“When dinner was over, and they had returned to the salon, Anna could
restrain herself no longer, but going up to her husband startled him
with the question:

“‘There is something I must ask you, and for the love of heaven answer
me truthfully. I have written home seven times since you left me here
last October, but have never received a word in reply. Tell me, do you
think my letters ever crossed the sea? Did mother ever get them?’

“For an instant the hot blood flamed up in Mr. Haverleigh’s face, and
his eyes fell beneath the steady gaze fixed so searchingly upon him.
Anna knew that her suspicions were correct, and that her letters had
never gone to America, and the lie he told her did not in the least
shake her belief.

“‘Do I think your mother ever got them?’ He repeated, at last. ‘She must
have gotten some of them, and some may have been lost. You gave them to
Brunel?’

“Yes, always to Brunel. No one else would touch them, and I was never
allowed to post one myself. Why not? Why am I treated so like a
prisoner? Why do you keep me here? Surely I have been sufficiently
punished for the foolish words you overheard. Forgive me for them. Try
me again. Let me go with you to Paris, when you return. I shall die here
or go mad. Don’t drive me to that. Oh, let me go away somewhere. Let me
go home—back to mother.”

“She was kneeling now at his feet, and he was looking down upon her with
a strange glitter in his eye. Then the look softened, and there was
unutterable tenderness in the tone of his voice as he stooped to raise
her, and leading her to the couch, said to her pityingly:

“‘Poor child, you don’t know what you ask. You have no home to go to.
Your mother is dead—died suddenly—and in kindness to you I have withheld
your sister’s letter, wishing to spare you pain, but I have it with me.
Can you read it now?’

“He held a worn-looking envelope toward her but for a moment she did not
see it. The blow had fallen so suddenly, and was so terrible in its
magnitude, that for a brief space both sight and sense failed her, and
she sat staring blankly into his face as if she neither saw nor heard.
After a moment, however, her eyes relaxed from their stony expression;
there was a quivering of the lips, a rapid heaving of the chest, and
then in a voice her husband would never have recognized as hers, she
said:

“‘Give me the letter, please. I can read it now.’

“He gave it to her, and holding it mechanically in her hand she studied
the address, in her sister’s handwriting: ‘ERNEST HAVERLEIGH, ESQ.,
PARIS, FRANCE. _Care of Munroe & Co._’ The date upon the back was Dec.
8th, and there was the dear old Millfield post-mark seeming to bring her
so near her home, and making her heart throb wildly in her throat, where
was a strange sense of suffocation. At last, when every part of the
soiled envelope had been studied, she slowly opened it and drew forth
the sheet folded inside. Then the look of anguish on her face gave way
to one of perplexity, as she said:

“‘Look, this is not Mary’s letter. It is from your agent in Scotland.’

‘My agent in Scotland! Not Mary’s letter! What do you mean?’ Mr.
Haverleigh asked, and taking the paper from her he saw that she was
right, and that he held a communication from his Scottish steward
regarding his estate in the Highlands. ‘What can this mean? I don’t
understand,’ he said, and seemed to be intently thinking; then suddenly
he added: ‘Oh, I believe I know how the mistake occurred. This from
McKenzie I received the same day with the one from your sister, and
instead of putting the latter in this envelope, as I meant to do, I tore
it up, as I do all my letters of no importance, and put this in its
place. I am sorry, but I can give you the particulars. Can you bear it
now? There, lay your head against my arm, you look so white and
strange.’

“He sat down beside her, and drawing her to him made her lean against
him while he told her how her mother, after an unusually hard day’s
work, had sickened suddenly and died within three days peacefully,
happily, with a message of love on her lips for her absent daughter.
After the funeral was over, yielding to the earnest solicitations of a
lady who was visiting in Millfield, Mary had decided to rent the house
and go West with the woman as governess for her children. Fred, too, had
accompanied them, as there was in the place a good school, where he
could finish his preparation for college. The name of the lady Mr.
Haverleigh could not recollect, except that it was something like
Creydock or Heydock, while the town he had quite forgotten, and could by
no means recall. It was very unfortunate, that mistake about the
letters, and he was so sorry, he kept reiterating; but Anna did not seem
to hear, or if she did, she did not care. She only was conscious of the
fact that her mother was dead, her home broken up, and all hope of help
from that quarter cut off. The effect was terrible, and even her husband
was alarmed when he saw how white and motionless she sat, with her hands
dropped helplessly at her side. Bad as he was, he did not wish her to
die then and there, and he tried to move her from her state of apathy;
but she only answered, ‘Please go away. I want to be alone.’

“He made her lie down on the couch, and to this she did not object, but,
like a tired child, laid her head among the soft silken cushions, and
with a long, low gasping sob, closed her eyes wearily, as if to shut out
all sight of everything. Madame Verwest and Celine were sent to her, and
were told of the sad news which had so affected her, and one believed
it, and the other did not; but both were unremitting in their attentions
to the poor heartbroken girl, who gave no sign that she knew what they
were doing or saying to her, except to moan, occasionally: ‘Oh, my
mother is dead! my mother is dead.’

“Mr. Haverleigh, too, was exceedingly kind, and very lavish with his
caresses, which Anna permitted in a dumb, passionless kind of way, like
one who could not help herself. Once, when he stroked her long, bright
hair, she lifted her mournful eyes to him, and asked: ‘Won’t you take me
from here? Won’t you let me go back to where you found me? I can take
care of myself; I can work in the shop again, and after awhile you will
be free from me. Will you let me go?’

“_Free from her!_ Did he wish to be that? For a moment, when he
remembered the glittering black eyes, the only eyes in the world which
had power to make him quail, he half believed he did. On his return to
Paris he had met the woman with the glittering eyes, which seemed to
read his very soul, and ferret out his inmost thoughts. There had been a
stormy scene, for Eugenie Arschinard was not one to brook a rival. She
had compassed the ruin of poor Agatha of Normandy, whom, but for her,
Haverleigh might have dealt fairly with, and made the marriage tie more
than a mere farce, a horrid mockery. From his town-house in London,
Eugenie had seen the young, fair-haired girl driving by and looking so
eagerly at the place, and with her thorough knowledge of the world, she
knew her to be an American, and guessed her to be some new flame whom he
had lured from home, as the plaything of an hour. She never for a moment
believed him married; he was not a marrying man; he dared not marry,
bound as he was to her by the tie of honor, which, in her infidel heart,
she held above the marriage vow. So when she met him in Paris by
appointment, she charged him with his new fancy, demanding who and where
she was, and he was a very coward in her presence, and dared not tell
her the truth of that simple wedding among the New England hills, but
suffered her to believe that Anna, like Agatha, was only his dupe, whom
he could cast off at pleasure. Eugenie had no wish, at present, to be
bound herself. She was true to Haverleigh, and she enjoyed to the full
the luxuries with which he surrounded her, and in Paris, where such
connections were common, she had her circle of friends, and reigned
among them a queen because of Haverleigh’s name and the style in which
she lived. By and by, when she was older, and ceased to attract
admiration, she meant to marry him and so pass into a respectable old
age, but just now her freedom suited her best, and she gave no sign of
her real intentions for the future. But Haverleigh knew well that to
confess he had a wife was to raise a storm he had not courage to meet,
and so he told her the girl she had seen was a little wild rose from
America, whom he had lifted from poverty and taken to Chateau d’Or.

“‘You know I must have something to amuse me when I am at that dreary
place, and Anna does as well as any one. A little washed-out, spiritless
body of whom you need not be jealous.’

“This he had said to Eugenie, and then had bought her the diamond set at
Tiffany’s which she admired so much, had driven with her in the Bois de
Boulogne, and afterward dined with her in the little fairy palace just
off the Champs d’Elysees, her home, of which she had the title-deed in
her possession. And yet, in his heart, Ernest Haverleigh respected Anna
far more than he did this woman, who so fascinated and enthralled him,
for though Anna had come to him with a lie on her lips, and a lie in her
heart, and had wounded his self-love cruelly, she was pure and womanly,
while Eugenie was steeped to the dregs in sin and in intrigue.

“But she ruled him completely, and if he had desired he did not dare
take Anna back with him to Paris and present her as his wife, and he was
not bad enough to cast upon her publicly the odium of being his
mistress. Neither would he send her back to America, for there was no
pretext whatever by which he could be free from the bond which held him
her husband. She had plenty of pretexts, he had none. He could not let
her go, and besides, he was conscious of a real interest in her, a
something which fascinated him, and made him wish to keep her at Chateau
d’Or, where he, and he alone, could see her at his will. Some time,
perhaps, when Eugenie was less troublesome, he might take her away, but
not now, and when she said to him so pleadingly, ‘Will you let me go,
home?’ he answered her very gently, ‘Poor child, you have no home to go
to in America. Your home is here, with me. Not always Chateau d’Or, for
some time I mean to take you with me. I cannot do so now for certain
reasons, but by and by—so be patient, and wait for the happiness in
store.’

“A shudder was Anna’s only answer, as she turned her face away from him
and wished that she might die. For five weeks Mr. Haverleigh remained at
the chateau, devoting himself entirely to Anna, who, while shrinking
with intense disgust from his caresses, permitted them because she must.
To Madame Verwest he was very distant and cold, treating her civilly, it
is true, but always in a manner which showed how wide was the distance
between them. He was master, she was servant, and he made her feel it
keenly. Once, however, when she came suddenly upon him as he sat alone
in his room, she laid her hand on his arm, and asked:

“‘How long is this to go on?’

“‘What to go on?’ he replied, savagely, and she continued:

“‘This horrid life of sin and deception. You know the girl’s mother is
not dead.’

“‘It’s a lie!’ he cried, springing to his feet. ‘A lie—I swear it to
you! And you shall not interfere, or if you do, by——’

“There was a frightful oath as he threatened the trembling woman, who
did not speak again while he went on:

“‘I am beginning to love her once more; to feel a real interest in her.
I find her greatly improved, thanks to you, I suppose. A few months more
of seclusion, and I shall introduce her to the world; but I will not
have her family hanging on me—a set of low Yankees, working in
shoe-shops, teaching school, and making dresses for the rabble.

“‘Is not her family a good one, then?’ Madame Verwest asked, and he
replied:

“‘Good enough for its kind, for aught I know. No stain, unless it be the
half-sister or something of the father, who went to the bad they say—ran
off with a Boston man, who never meant to marry her, and the natural
consequence, of course.’

“‘Where is this woman?’ madame asked, and he replied:

“‘Dead, I believe, or ought to be. Why should such women live?’

“‘Yes, oh, why?’ was answered sadly in madame’s heart; but she made no
response, and when her tyrant of a master motioned her to the door in
token that the interview was ended, she went out without a word.

“Three days later he left the chateau, saying he should come again in
September or October, and possibly bring people with him. Madame
Arschinard, a lady of high position and great wealth, had long wished to
visit Southern France, and he might perhaps invite her down with other
friends, and fill the chateau.

“‘And you, my little white rose,’ he said to Anna, ‘I want you to get
your color back, and be like your old self, for I shall wish my wife not
to be behind any Parisian beauties. I shall send you the very latest
styles. Worth has your number, I believe. And now good-by, my pet. Take
care of yourself, and if——’

“He bent down to her, and whispered something in her ear which turned
her face to scarlet, and made her involuntarily exclaim:

“‘Oh, anything but that—anything but that!’




                              CHAPTER VI.
                             IN THE AUTUMN.


“The summer had gone by—a long, bright beautiful summer so far as sunny
skies, and fair flowers, and singing birds, and fresh, green grass could
make it bright and beautiful; but to Anna, still watching drearily the
daylight fading in the western sky, and whispering messages for the sun
to carry to the dear ones across the water, it had dragged heavily, and
not all Madame Verwest’s love and petting which were given without stint
to the poor girl, had availed to win her back to the comparatively
cheerful state of mind she had been in before receiving the sad news of
her mother’s death.

“She had ceased writing to America; that was useless, she knew. Her
letters would never reach there, and she had ceased to expect any news
from home, for however often Mary or Fred might write, their letters
would never come to her. Of this she was convinced, and she gradually
settled into a state of hopeless apathy, taking little or no interest in
anything, except poor Agatha’s grave.

“She had found it in a little inclosure on the island which held Chateau
d’Or choked with tall grass and weeds, and smothered by the drooping
branches of the pine and willow which overshadowed it and hid from view
the plain white stone on which was simply inscribed, ‘Agatha, aged 20.’
Nothing to tell when she died, or where, or where her home had been, and
what her life. But Anna knew now all the sad story of the sweet
peasant-girl lured from her home by promises of a marriage, which did
take place at last, but with a flaw in it which made it illegal, and
poor Agatha no wife. Then, when reparation had been refused, she had
held herself as pure and spotless as was Eve when she came first from
the hands of her Creator, but had gone mad with shame and remorse, and
died at Chateau d’Or, with a song of Normandy on her lips.

“With the help of Celine, the weeds and grass were cleared away from the
neglected yard, which, as the summer advanced, grew bright with flowers
and vines, and was Anna’s favorite resort. Here she would sit for hours
with her head bent down, thinking sadly of the past, and wondering what
the future, which many a young wife would have looked forward to
eagerly, might have in store for her. When first there dawned upon her
the possibility that another life than her own might be intrusted to her
keeping she had recoiled with horror, feeling that she could not love
the child of which Ernest Haverleigh was father; then there crept over
her a better, softer feeling, which was succeeded by a presentiment
which grew to a certainty that both would die, mother and little one,
and be buried by Agatha; there was just room between her grave and the
fence, room in length and breadth both, for she had lain herself down in
the grass and measured the space with her own person. She would have a
headstone, too, like Agatha, with ‘Anna, aged 19’ on it, and in the
other world, far away from Chateau d’Or, she might perhaps meet Agatha
some day, and with her recount the sorrows they had borne, and which had
helped to fit them for the eternal home, where Anna hoped now and
believed she would go. Sorrow had brought her to her Saviour’s feet, and
she felt that whether she lived or died it would be well with her.

“Occasionally her husband had written to her, short but kind letters,
and once or twice, when he had asked her some direct questions she had
answered him, but nothing he might now do could ever awaken in her a
single throb of affection for him, and when there came to her from Paris
several boxes of dresses, Worth’s very latest styles, she felt no
gratitude to the giver, and when a day or two after his letter arrived,
telling her of his intention to fill the chateau with company, and
expressing a wish that she should look her best, as some of the guests
would be ladies of cultivation and taste, she experienced only feelings
of aversion and dread in view of the coming festivities. The servants on
the contrary, were delighted. There had been no company at the chateau
for years, and now it was a pleasant excitement, opening the chambers
long shut up, airing linen, uncovering furniture, sorting silver,
hunting up receipts, making jellies, and cakes, and sweetmeats, and
speculating as to who was coming and what they would wear. Madame
Arschinard was certain, for Monsieur Haverleigh had written Madame
Verwest to that effect, and the largest and best sleeping room was to be
hers, and the finest saddle-horse, and her maid was to have the large
closet adjoining her room, so as to be always within call, and madame
was talked up and speculated upon almost as much as if it had been the
empress herself expected at the chateau, instead of the woman who had
originated this visit and insisted upon it, partly because she wanted
change, and partly because she knew that at Chateau d’Or was the
fair-haired American of whom she had caught a glimpse in London. She had
often questioned Mr. Haverleigh sharply with regard to Anna, and at
last, after a hot and angry quarrel, she had wrung from him the fact
that in an inadvertent hour he had married the little New England girl,
who recently had become hopelessly insane, and was immured within the
walls of Chateau d’Or. At first Eugenie’s rage had been something
fearful, and even Haverleigh had trembled at her violence. After a
little, however, when the first shock was over, she grew more calm, and
began more rationally to consider the situation, which was not so bad
after all. True, she could not marry him now herself, should such a
fancy take her, but she had not by any means lost her power over him or
any part of it. He spent his money for her as freely, and was quite as
devoted to her as he had been before he saw this American, who had
conveniently gone crazy, and was kept so close at Chateau d’Or. In her
heart Eugenie did not quite believe in the insanity, though it suited
her to have it so, and she was very anxious to see one who in a way was
a kind of rival to her, so she proposed and insisted upon the visit to
the chateau, and chose her own companions, three of them ladies of her
own rank in life, and six of them young men who were all in a way her
satellites, and would do to play off against each other when there was
nothing better for amusement.

“To these people Mr. Haverleigh had explained that there was a Mrs.
Haverleigh, a sweet, unfortunate young creature, who was hopelessly
insane. She was perfectly harmless, and quiet, and ladylike, he said,
and might easily be taken for a rational woman, unless she got upon the
subject of her sanity. Then she would probably declare that she was
sane, and kept at Chateau d’Or against her will, and that her friends
knew nothing of her fate, as none of her letters ever reached them, and
none of theirs reached her. Of course, all this was false, he said, as
she was free to write as often as she pleased, while he always showed
her whatever he thought she ought to see from home. When the sad news of
her mother’s death reached him, he had withheld it for a time, thinking
it better so, but he had told her at last, and the result was as he had
feared, an aggravation of her malady and a state of deep despondency
from which she was seldom roused. He did not know what effect so much
gayety and dissipation would have upon her, but he hoped the best, and
trusted to their good sense not to talk with her of her trouble, or to
credit anything she might say with regard to him. He repeated all this
with a most grieved expression upon his face, as if his burden was
almost heavier than he could bear, and the younger ladies were deeply
sorry and pitiful for the man upon whose life so great a blight had
fallen.

“Eugenie Arschinard, who knew him so well, kept her own counsel, but of
the four ladies none were half as anxious to see Anna Haverleigh as
herself. It was late one lovely September afternoon when the guests
arrived at the chateau, where all was in readiness for them, and Madame
Verwest, in her best black silk and laces, stood waiting for them,
courtesying respectfully as they were presented to her, and then
conducting them to their several rooms. Anna was not present to receive
them. She preferred not to see them until dinner, and stood waiting for
her husband in the salon. She had not been permitted to wear mourning
for her mother, as she had wished to do, but on this occasion she was
dressed in a black silk grenadine, with puffings of soft illusion lace
at her neck and wrists, while her only ornaments were a necklace and
earrings of jet. To relieve the somberness of this attire, Celine had
fastened in her bright, wavy hair a beautiful blush rose, which was far
more effective than any costly ornament could have been, and had Anna
studied her toilet for a month, she could not have chosen a more
becoming one, or one which better pleased her fastidious lord. She was
beautiful as she stood before him with that pale, pensive style of
beauty so attractive to most men, and as he held her in his arms he
felt, for a few moments, how far superior she was to the brazen, painted
women he had brought there as her associates, and for half an instant he
resolved to keep her from them, lest so much as their breath should fall
upon and contaminate her in some way. But it was too late now. She must
meet them day after day, and he must see her with them, and go on acting
his false part, and make himself a still greater villain, if possible,
than ever. But he would be very kind to her, and deferential, too,
especially before Eugenie, whom for the time being he felt that he hated
with a most bitter hatred, not only for what she was, but for the power
she had over him. How gorgeous she was at dinner in her dress of crimson
satin, with lace overskirt, and diamonds flashing on her neck and arms,
and how like a queen, or rather like the mistress of the house, she
carried herself among her companions as they stood in the grand salon
waiting for Mrs. Haverleigh, the younger portion speculating upon the
probabilities of her acting rationally in their presence, while she,
Eugenie, listened to their speculations with a scornful curl on her lip,
and an increased glitter in her black eyes.

“There was the sound of soft, trailing garments on the stairs, and
Eugenie drew her tall figure to its full height, and tossed her head
proudly as Anna entered the room, a graceful little creature, with a
tint of the sun on her wavy hair, a faint flush on her cheeks, and the
purity of her complexion heightened by the color of her dress. And still
she was not a child, for the woman was stamped in every lineament, and
shone in the blue eyes she bent so curiously upon the guests, as, one by
one, they gathered around her to be presented. And Anna received them
graciously, and welcomed them to the chateau, which, she said, would be
pleasanter for having them there.

“‘You must be often very lonely living here alone so much,’ Eugenie said
to her, and instantly the great blue eyes, which had been scanning her
so curiously, filled with tears, and the sweet voice was inexpressibly
sad which replied:

“‘Oh, you don’t know how lonely.’

“It was long since Eugenie Arschinard had felt a throb of anything like
kindly pity for any one; but there was something in Anna’s face and
Anna’s eyes which struck a chord she had thought stilled forever, and
brought back a wave of memory which shook her, for an instant, like a
tempest, and made her grow faint and weak before this woman she had
meant to hate. Years ago, before Eugenie Arschinard was the woman she
was now, she had loved a young half-sister with all the intensity of her
strong, passionate nature, and loved her the more for having had the
care of her from the time her first wailing cry echoed through the
chamber of the dying mother. For this child Eugenie had toiled and
denied herself, and gone without sufficient food that the little one
might be daintily clothed and fed on delicacies. Then, in an unlucky
hour, Eugenie went to Paris to make her fortune as a milliner, and get a
home for the young girl growing each day more and more beautiful. But
before that home was made Eugenie’s brilliant beauty had been her ruin,
and she would not bring her sister into the tainted atmosphere of her
world.

“The glamour of Haverleigh’s love and money was in its freshness, and in
her intoxication she forgot everything else until there came a terrible
awakening, and she heard that ‘_La Petite_,’ as she called her sister,
had left her home with a stranger, and gone no one knew whither, or
whether for good or bad. Then for a time the fairy palace off the Champs
d’Elysees was closed, while Eugenie, maddened and remorseful, sought far
and near for traces of _La Petite_, but sought in vain, and after many
weeks she returned to her home and life in Paris, gayer, more reckless
than ever, but with a pain in her heart which never left her for a
moment.

“Time passed on till more than a year was gone, and then she heard from
the gray-haired father at home that in a roundabout way, which he
nevertheless felt to be reliable, tidings had come to him of _La
Petite’s_ death, though how she died or where he did not know.

“These were very uncomfortable days for Ernest Haverleigh, who, never
having heard Eugenie mention her sister, did not know she had one, and
could not guess of the bitter grief which consumed her day and night,
and made her sometimes like a raging animal in her hatred of all
mankind.

“It was at that time that Mr. Haverleigh, finding no comfort with
Eugenie, had decided to visit America, and leave the lady to herself
until she was in a better frame of mind. He had found her better on his
return, and furiously jealous of Anna, whom she wished so much to see,
and whom, when she saw, she felt herself drawn strangely toward, because
of a resemblance to the dear little sister dead, she knew not where.

“Mr. Haverleigh had dreaded this meeting between the eagle and the dove,
as he mentally styled the two women who were bound to him, one by the
tie of marriage, the other by the so-called tie of honor. Would the
eagle tear the dove, he wondered, and he watched them curiously as they
met, marveling much at Eugenie’s manner, and the pallor which showed
itself even through her paint. Anna had either made a favorable
impression, or else Eugenie thought her too insipid to be considered as
a rival for a moment. In either case he was pleased to know that there
was not to be war between the two ladies, and with this load off his
mind he became the most urbane and agreeable of hosts.

“It was a very merry dinner party, for the guests were all young and in
the best of spirits, and the light jest and gay repartee passed rapidly
around the board. Only Anna was quiet. She did not understand French
well enough to catch readily what they said, especially when they talked
so rapidly, and so many at a time. But she was a good listener, and
tried to seem interested and smile in the right place, and she looked so
girlish and pretty, and did her duties as hostess so gracefully, that
her husband felt proud of her, while every man at the table pronounced
her perfect, and every woman charming.

“Those October days at Chateau d’Or were very pleasant, for Mr.
Haverleigh was a good host, and his guests knew well how to entertain
themselves, so that from early morning into the small hours of night
there was no cessation of pleasure and revelry. But Anna did not join in
the dissipation. She was not at all strong, and in the freedom of
intercourse between these volatile, unprincipled French people she saw
much to censure and shock her, and shrunk from any familiarity with
them. This reticence on her part was attributed to her supposed malady,
which made her melancholy, the ladies thought, and after a few
ineffectual efforts to draw her into their circle, they gave it up, and
suffered her to remain quietly in her room.

“Eugenie, however, often sought her society, attracted by the look in
her face to the lost one, and by a desire to see how far the story of
her insanity was true, and to know something of her early history. But
it was not until the party had been at the chateau for three weeks, and
were beginning to talk of going back to Paris, or still farther south to
Nice or Mentone, that an opportunity for the desired interview presented
itself.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                           EUGENIE AND ANNA.


“It had been Anna’s daily custom to steal away after lunch to her
favorite resort, the little yard where Agatha was buried, and where one
of the servants had built her a rustic seat beneath the trees, and here
Eugenie found her one afternoon, and leaning over the iron fence asked
first if she might come in, and next whose grave it was. From where she
stood she could not see the name upon the headstone, but when Anna
answered, ‘It is the grave of the young girl who is said to haunt the
chateau; you have heard the absurd story, of course,’ she was interested
at once, for she had heard from her maid something of a ghost whose
plaintive cry for home was heard wailing through the long, dark
corridors, and in the lonely rooms, especially on stormy nights when the
wind was high, and shook the massive walls of the chateau. Eugenie was
not at all superstitious, and knowing that nearly every old place like
Chateau d’Or had its ghost and ghost room, she had paid no attention to
the tale as told her by Elise, but when it assumed a tangible form in
the shape of a real grave, her curiosity was roused, and without waiting
for Anna’s permission she passed through the gate, and going round to
the seat where Anna sat, said:

“‘Then there was a girl who died and was buried here? Who was she? Do
you know?’

“‘It was before I came,’ Anna answered, ‘and I only know that she was
sick—crazy, they said, from some great wrong done to her, and quite up
to her death she kept singing of her home in Normandy.’

“‘Normandy! Did you say she came from Normandy? What was her name?’
Eugenie asked, but before Anna could answer she bent down and read
‘Agatha, aged 20.’

“‘Agatha!’ she repeated, as she grasped the headstone and stood with her
back to Anna, who thus did not see the corpse-like pallor which spread
all over her face as a horrible suspicion passed through her mind.
‘Agatha what? Had she no other name?’ she asked at last, when she had
mastered her emotion sufficiently to speak in her natural voice.

“‘Yes. Agatha Wynde,’ Anna replied, and was instantly startled by a low,
sharp cry from her companion, who laid her hand upon her side,
exclaiming:

“‘It’s my heart. I’m subject to it; but don’t call any one; let me sit
here until I’m better. Anything like a fuss around me disturbs me so
much.’

“She was very white, and shivering like one with an ague chill, and
though Anna did not call any one, she was glad to see her own maid,
Celine, coming toward them. Eugenie did not object to her, but suffered
her to rub her head and hands until she was better, and the violent
beating of her heart had ceased.

“‘Now let me sit here in quiet, and do you tell me about this Agatha,
whose ghost is said to haunt the chateau. Was she pretty, and when did
she die?’

“This she said to Celine, who, always ready and glad to talk, began the
story of Agatha so far as she knew it, telling of her arrival at the
chateau one wild rainy night, of her deep melancholy and sweet, quiet
ways, of her lapse into insanity, her pleadings to go home to Normandy,
and of her subsequent death with the words upon her lips, ‘_Je vais
revoir ma Normandie._’

“‘She was not like you, madame,’ Celine said. ‘She was the people like
me, and so she talked with me more than ladies might. There was no real
marriage, only a sham, a fraud she said; but she was innocent, and I
believe she told the truth; but _Mon Dieu_, what must such girls expect
when gentlemen like monsieur entice them away from home:’ and Celine
shrugged her shoulders meaningly, as if to say that the poor dead girl
beneath the grass had received only her due in betrayal and ruin.

“‘Yes, don’t talk any more, please. The pain has come back, and I
believe I’m dying,’ Eugenie gasped, while both Anna and Celine knelt by
her, rubbing her again, and loosening her dress until the color came
back to her face and she declared herself able to return to the chateau.
‘Don’t talk of my illness and bring everybody around me,’ she said to
her attendants. ‘I cannot bear people when I’m so. Send me Elise, and
leave me alone. She knows what to do.’

“They got her to her room, and called her maid, who said she had seen
her thus a hundred times, and so Anna felt no particular alarm at the
sudden illness, and did not think to connect it in any way with that
lonely grave in the yard, or dream of the agony and remorse of the proud
woman who lay upon her face writhing in pain and moaning bitterly:

“‘_Ma Petite_, oh, _ma Petite_. I have found thee at last, sent to thy
early grave by me—by me. Alas, if I too could die and be buried there
beside thee.’

“Eugenie did not appear at dinner that evening. She was suffering from a
severe nervous attack, Elise said, and the attack kept her in her room
for three days, during which time she saw no one but her maid, who
reported her to the servants as in a dreadful way, walking her room day
and night, eating nothing, but wringing her hands continually, and
moaning:

“‘Oh, how can I bear it—how can I bear it, and live?’

“Once Mr. Haverleigh attempted to see her, but she repulsed him angrily.

“‘No, no, tell him to go away. I cannot, and will not see him,’ she
said; and her eyes glared savagely at the door outside which he was
standing.

“After a few days, however, she grew more quiet, and asked for Anna, who
went to her immediately, feeling shocked at the great change a few days
had wrought in the brilliant woman whom so many accounted handsome. True
to her instincts as a French woman, she was becomingly dressed in an
elegant morning wrapper, with a tasteful cap upon her glossy hair, but
all her bright color was gone; her eyes were sunken and glassy, and she
looked pale, and withered, and old as she reclined in her easy-chair.

“‘Oh, madame, I did not know you had been so sick. I am very sorry,’
Anna said, going up her, and offering her hand.

“But Eugenie would not take it, and motioning her away, said:

“‘It is not for you to touch such as I; but sit down. I want to talk
much with you. There is something I must tell somebody, and you are the
only true, pure woman here, unless it may be Madame Verwest, who hates
me. I’d as soon talk to an icicle and expect sympathy, as to her. I
liked you when I saw you, though I came prepared to hate, and do you
harm.’

“‘Hate me, and wished to do me harm? Why?’ Anna asked, her great blue
eyes full of wonder and surprise.

“‘Don’t you know? Can’t you guess some reason why I should hate you?’
Eugenie said: and Anna, into whose mind a suspicion of what this woman
really was had never entered, answered:

‘I do not know why any one should hate me, when I am so desolate, and
wretched, and homesick here, but not crazy. Oh, madame, surely you do
not believe me crazy?’

‘Crazy! No, not half as much so as the man who keeps you here,’ and
Eugenie spoke impetuously, while her black eyes flashed, and there came
a deep red flush to her face. ‘What age have you, girl? You look too
young to be madame,’ she continued.

“‘Not quite nineteen,’ was Anna’s reply.

“‘Neither was _she_ when I saw her last, and you are like her in voice
and manner, and so many things, and that’s why I cannot hate you. Oh,
_Mon Dieu_, that she should die and I live on,’ said Eugenie. ‘Let me
tell you about her, the sweetest child that ever drew breath; not high
or noble, but lowly born, a country lass, as innocent and happy as the
birds which sang by that cottage door, and I loved her, oh, how I loved
her from the hour her dying mother, who was not my mother, but my
father’s wife, put her in my arms. I am almost thirty-eight. She, if
living, would be twenty-three; so you see my arms were young and strong,
and they kept her so tenderly and lovingly. How I cared for her and
watched over her as she grew into the sweetest rose that ever bloomed in
fair Normandy. How I toiled and drudged for her, going without myself
that _Petite_ might be fed, that hers might be the dainty food, the
pretty peasant’s dress in which she was so lovely. How I meant to
educate and bring her up a lady, so that no soil should come to her soft
white hands, no tire to her little feet. When she was fifteen I went to
Paris, hoping to get money and a home for her. I was a milliner first,
then I recited, I sang, I acted and attracted much attention, and kept
myself good and pure for her, till there came a chance of earning money
faster, and woe is me. I took it. You are _Anglaise_ or _Americaine_,
which amounts to the same thing. You do not understand how a woman may
think herself respectable and do these things, but I am French, educated
differently. Half of my countrywomen have their _grande passion_, their
_liaison_, their, what do you call it in English?’

“‘I know, I understand,’ Anna said, feeling an involuntary shrinking
from the woman, who went on:

“‘I sent her money and such lovely dresses, and meant to leave my own
bad life and make a home where she could come and keep herself
unspotted; but, alas! the wolf entered the fold, and the news came
startlingly, one day, that she had fled from Normandy with an
Englishman, who promised her marriage, and she believed him, and left
these lines for me:

“‘Darling sister, I go for good, not for bad. He will marry me in Paris,
and he is so noble and kind; but for a time it must be secret, his
relatives are so grand, and will be angry at first.’

“‘Then I believe I went mad, and for weeks I scoured Paris in quest of
her, but found her not, and I grew desperate, for I knew the world
better than she did, and knew he would not marry her, and so the
wretched months dragged on and grew into a year and a half, and then the
white-haired father wrote me our darling was dead, where, or how, or
when he did not know, only she was dead, with a blight on her name I was
sure, and I think I was glad she was gone before she grew to be what I
was. I folded away all the pretty dresses and trinkets I had saved for
her; I put them in a chest and turned the key, and called it _Petite’s_
grave, and made another grave in my heart, and buried there every
womanly instinct and feeling, and stamped them down and said I did not
care to what lengths I went now that _Petite_ was gone. Then I painted
my face, and braided my hair, and put on all my diamonds, and went to
the opera that very night, and was stared at and commented upon, and
called the best dressed woman there, and I had a _petit souper_ after at
my home, and was admired and complimented by the men who partook of my
hospitality, and whom I hated so bitterly because they were men, and
through such as they _ma Petite_ was in her grave.’

“‘And did you never hear how she died, or where?’ Anna asked, without a
shadow of suspicion as to the truth.

“‘Yes,’ Eugenie replied. ‘After years—three years, I believe, though
they seemed a hundred to me—I heard that my darling was pure and white
as the early snow which falls on the fields in the country. The wretch
could not possess her without the marriage tie, and so entangled was he
with another woman, who had great power over him, that he dared not make
her his wife; and so there was a form, which would not stand and was no
marriage at all, and when she found it out she went mad, and died with a
song of home on her lips. Yes, went mad—mad, my darling. You know whom I
mean.’

“She hissed out the two words, ‘mad, mad,’ and rocked to and fro in her
anguish, while Anna, with a face as white as the dead girl’s in her
grave, whispered back:

“‘You mean Agatha.’

“‘Yes, I mean Agatha—Agatha—my pet, my pride, my idol. Agatha, lured,
deceived, betrayed, ruined, murdered by the man on whom I who would have
given my heart’s blood to save her, was even then wasting my
blandishments, and doing all I could to keep him from a new love. Oh,
Agatha, if you could but know the grief I am enduring for my sin. No
Magdalen ever repented more bitterly than do I, but for me there is no
voice bidding me sin no more, and I shall go on and on, deeper and
deeper, till the horror of the pit overtakes me, and Agatha and I will
never meet again—never, never.’

“Oh, how Anna pitied the poor, repentant woman, writhing with pain and
remorse, and how she loathed the man who stood revealed to her just as
he never had been before—the monster who had wrought such misery. And
she shrank from Eugenie, too; but pitied her as well, for there was much
of the true woman left in her still, and Anna forced herself to lay her
hands on the bowed head of the sorrowing woman, to whom the touch of
those hands seemed to be life-giving and reassuring for there was a
storm of sobs, and tears, and fierce gesticulations, and then the
impetuous and excitable Frenchwoman grew calm, and something of her old
self was on her face as she shrugged her shoulders significantly, and
said:

“‘Oh, _Mon Dieu!_ such a scene as I’ve made, and frightened you, child.
How monsieur would have enjoyed that; he would call it my high art in
acting. Curse him! I’ll act for him no more;’ and the hard, bitter look
of hatred came back to her face for an instant, then left it again as
she said: ‘I’ve told you my story, little one, who seems like Agatha.
Now tell me yours; where you met him; why you married, and how you came
here shut up, a prisoner. Maybe I can help you. Who knows? I owe him
something for his wrong to Agatha.’

“But for this hint that possibly Eugenie could help her, Anna might have
shrank from confiding her story to her, but this new revelation of her
husband’s character had so increased her horror and dislike of him, that
she readily seized upon anything which offered the shadow of a chance to
escape from a life she hated; and conquering all feelings of distrust
and aversion for one who had openly confessed herself a bad woman, she
began the story, and told first of her New England home, her poverty,
and her life in the dingy shoe-shop, with the sickening smell of leather
and wax. At this point Eugenie started forward, exclaiming joyfully, and
this time in her broken English:

“‘Then you are not _no-bil-i-te_. You be very _people_ as me. _J’en suis
bien aise._ I hate _no-bil-i-te_, who will trample such as we. I am
pleased you are much the people. I will help you more.’

“‘You mistake,’ Anna cried, eagerly, ‘I am _nobility_, as you call it.
We are _all_ nobility in America, or can be. We are all sovereigns by
right. No matter what we do, we can rise.’

“Anna grew very warm with this flash of national and personal pride,
while Eugenie looked at her curiously, wondering, no doubt, how a born
sovereign could work in wax and leather, but she was too good-natured
and polite to dispute the point, and answered, laughingly:

“‘_Pardonnez moi, madame. Je me trompe. En Amerique vous—vous_—what you
call it? You all expect to marry kings and emperors, and be mi-lady some
time—_oui—oui—je l’aime beaucoup_, but go on, I wait to hear how
monsieur came——’

“Then Anna told her of Haverleigh’s visit to Millfield; of his
admiration for herself; of her desire for money and position; of the
marriage in the church, which was a real marriage; of the foolish words
spoken and overheard in New York; of Haverleigh’s jealousy and rage; of
the punishment finally inflicted upon her, and of her husband’s
different moods since, sometimes so loving as to fill her with disgust,
and again revengeful and savage to a degree which made her dread him as
a madman.

“Ah, _ma Petite_,” Eugenie cried, ‘and he is a madman, at times—much
mad; but, tell me, was there no other one whom _Petite_ cared for at
home, in that quiet, small town? No _grande passion_ to make monsieur
jealous?’

“So much had happened since the days when Anna walked home from church
with Hal Morton, and sang to him in the twilight, that she had almost
forgotten him, but thoughts of him came back to her now, and by the
sudden heaving of her chest, and the flush which rose to her forehead,
Eugenie guessed that there was some _grande passion_, as she named it,
and very adroitly drew from Anna that somebody was perhaps sadder for
her marriage, ‘though I never should have married him,’ she said, ‘We
were both too poor, and Mr. Morton’s family were the first in Boston.’

“‘_Mon Dieu. Quel difference_,’ Eugenie exclaimed, with a shrug. ‘Are
you not all born—what you call it in English—governors! _Non,
pardonnez_—sovereigns! I do so have things mixed.’

“Anna laughed at the mistake, the first real, hearty laugh in which she
had indulged since she came to Chateau d’Or, and said:

“‘Yes, but sometimes there’s a difference in sovereigns, you know.’

“‘_Oh, ciel_, but it’s to me very strange. I think I should like _votre
republique_, but go on. You never think to marry Monsieur Morton, but
you like him much, and Monsieur Haverleigh find it out, and trust me,
child, that broil—bake—fry; what you call it, rankle in his jealous
brain, for however many passions he have, he want you to own but one.
_Me comprenez vous? Bien! Je commence a comprendre l’affaire_; but I can
help _la petite madame_, and I will. And _la mere_, does she never know
where you stay all these time?’

“There was then a rain of tears as Anna told of her mother’s death, and
her sister’s removal to some place in the far West, whose name she did
not even know, and how, latterly, the sister had ceased to write at all,
Mr. Haverleigh said.

“‘And they think I am in a mad-house, and that is the worst of all. Oh,
I wish I were dead like mother, for I’ve given up all hope of leaving
Chateau d’Or, and when baby is born I hope I’ll die,’ Anna said, amid
her tears.

“‘_Die! Jamais!_ You shall go home—back to the leetle house, and the
wax, and the leather, and the smell-bad, and the mother who is _not_
dead. I not believe that, it is one part of the great whole; _la mere_
not dead, and you shall see her yet. Give me the—the—what you say—_post
restante—l’addresse_ of the little _village_, and I write _toute de
suite_. Trust me, _ma petite enfant_. Trust Eugenie, for the sake of
Agatha.’

“It seemed to Anna that when Eugenie attempted English she was softer
and more womanly in her way of expressing herself; was very pretty and
sweet, and Anna began to feel a degree of trust in and dependence upon
her which astonished herself. Eugenie remained at the chateau a week
longer, but never again took any part in the gayeties which without her
suggestive and ruling spirit, were inexpressibly flat and stale. To
Haverleigh she was cold and distant to a degree, which angered him
sorely and made him cross, and irritable, and moody; but he was far from
suspecting the cause of Eugenie’s changed demeanor, and never dreamed of
connecting it in any way with Agatha, or suspected the intimacy
springing up between his wife and Eugenie.

“It was no part of Eugenie’s plan that he should do so, and though she
saw Anna often in the privacy of her apartment, where she spent much of
her time, she scarcely ever spoke to her in the presence of Haverleigh,
except to pass the compliments of the day, and when at last she left the
chateau for good, there was a simple hand-shake and _au revoir_ between
herself and Anna, who, nevertheless, grew more cheerful and happy, but
kept, even from Madame Verwest, the hope she had of a release, or at
least of hearing once more from home. How this would be accomplished she
did not know, but she trusted to Eugenie’s ready wit and ingenuity in
deceiving Haverleigh, who lingered at the chateau until November and who
grew so moody, and unreasonable, and tyrannical that, popular as he
usually was with his servants, every one hailed his final departure with
delight.

“When next Anna heard from him he told her of a dangerous and most
unaccountable illness which had come upon Eugenie the very day she
reached Paris.

“‘She did not go straight home,’ he wrote, ‘but took a roundabout way
through Normandy, where in some obscure place she spent a week with her
father, who, it seems, died while she was there. His death or something
upset her terribly, and she has suffered, and is still suffering, with a
nervous fever which makes her perfectly dreadful at times—out of her
head in fact—and she will not see one of her old friends. Even I, who
have known her so long, am forbidden the house, her nurse telling me
that she actually knows when I step on the stair and instantly grows
fearfully excited. So, lest I make her worse, I only send now twice a
day to inquire how she is. They say she talks a great deal of _La
Petite_, and Anna when delirious. That Anna is you, of course, but who
is _Petite_? Do you know?’

“Anna thought she did, but did not deem it advisable to enlighten her
husband, whose letter she only answered because of her anxiety to hear
again from Eugenie. All her hopes for the future were centered upon that
woman for whose recovery she prayed many times a day, wondering if any
letter had yet gone across the water, and waiting so anxiously for the
response it was sure to bring.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                   MORE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.


“It was generally known all over Millfield that poor Anna Strong was a
lunatic. ‘Hopelessly insane,’ was the last message from the disconsolate
husband, who wrote regularly and affectionately to the sorrowing family,
which still occupied the small red house by the mill-pond; for Mrs.
Strong was not dead, though her brown hair had all turned gray, and her
face wore continually a look of sorrow and anxiety. Grief and concern
for Anna weighed heavily upon her, and she could not rid herself of a
presentiment that there was something behind—something which had never
been told her. Haverleigh’s letters were exceedingly kind, and often
contained money-orders for the family, who were far better off in
worldly goods than when he first came to Millfield. Fred was ready for
the Sophomore class in college; Mrs. Strong’s sign of ‘Dressmaking’ was
taken down, and Mary only taught a select class of young ladies who came
to her to recite.

“In a pecuniary and social point of view, the Strongs had been gainers
by Anna’s marriage; but they missed her terribly, and mourned for her as
for one worse even than dead. Very eagerly they watched for Mr.
Haverleigh’s letters, which at first were frequent and regular.
Latterly, however, they had grown less frequent, and it was now some
time since Mrs. Strong had heard from him, and she was beginning to get
impatient and anxious, when one day, the last of February, there came to
her two letters bearing the foreign post-mark. Both were from Paris, and
one in Mr. Haverleigh’s well-known handwriting. This was opened first,
and said that Anna was better, and had recognized and talked with her
husband the last time he saw her, and was beginning to manifest some
little interest in what was passing around her.

“‘Thank Heaven for that,’ was Mrs. Strong’s fervent ejaculation, as she
folded the short letter and turned to Fred, who was studying the
superscription of the other envelope, which he had not noticed
particularly before.

“It was in his mother’s box, and had been handed to him with
Haverleigh’s, which, as the more important, had received the first
attention.

“‘What does this mean, and whom can it be from?’ he said, reading aloud
the novel direction, which was written in that small, peculiar hand
common to the French.

“‘To the friends of Madame Ernest Haverleigh, _nee_ Mademoiselle Anna
Strong, Millfield, Wooster County, Massachusetts, United States of
Amerique, in New England. P.S. If the friends may be gone forward where
they may be.’

“So much writing covered nearly the entire side of the envelope, which
looked soiled and worn, as if it had been long upon the road, which in
fact was the case.

“After leaving Chateau d’Or, Eugenie had gone to her father, to whom she
confessed the whole shameful story of her life, and told what she knew
of poor Agatha’s fate. Such news was too much for the old man, who the
day following was stricken with paralysis and died. Doubly and trebly
steeped in remorse, and accusing herself as the murderer of both father
and sister, Eugenie returned to Paris, and before she could collect her
senses sufficiently to write to Anna’s friends, she sank into that
nervous, half delirious state of mind in which she continued until
January was nearly gone, when she began to rally. But her improvement
was so slow, and she was so weak, that it was some time before she had
the power to write, as she had promised, to the friends in Millfield.
This was quite a task for her, as she could write English very
indifferently, and mixed it up with a good deal of French. But she
accomplished it at last, and managed, pretty accurately and fully, to
tell what she had heard from Anna, to propose a plan for action, in
which she was to be one of the principals.

“It would be impossible to describe the surprise and consternation,
amounting almost to incredulity, with which Mrs. Strong listened to this
letter which Mary contrived to read with the help of the dictionary and
Fred, who knew a little French. At first it did not seem to her possible
that any man could be so deliberately cruel and treacherous, but the
facts were there, and when she recalled many things which had appeared
strange in Mr. Haverleigh’s letters, she could not doubt the truth of
what Eugenie had written. Fred did not doubt it for a moment. He had
always distrusted Haverleigh; always thought it strange that
notwithstanding the many times they had asked where Anna was, they had
never received a reply. They knew now where she was, but for a few
moments sat staring blankly at each other, too much benumbed and
bewildered to speak. Fred was the first to rally, and with quivering lip
and clinched fist exclaimed:

“‘If he was here I’d kill him.’

“That broke the spell at once; the tongues were loosened, and they
talked long and earnestly together of the best course to be pursued, and
deciding finally to follow Eugenie’s directions. But in order to do this
it was necessary to write to her first, and this Fred did that very day,
sending his letter by the next mail which left Millfield, and then,
during the interval of waiting devoted himself assiduously to acquiring
a speaking knowledge of the French language. Fortunately there was in
Millfield a native teacher, and to him Fred went for instruction,
studying night and day, and working so industriously that by the time
Eugenie’s second letter was received, and he was ready to start on his
journey, he felt certain of at least making himself understood in
whatever part of France he might be.

“Both Mrs. Strong and her daughter thought it better to say nothing of
Eugenie’s letters and the information they contained for the present,
but rather to wait for the result of Fred’s adventure. Consequently all
the people knew was that Fred was going to see his sister, and it was
generally supposed that Mr. Haverleigh had forwarded the money for the
voyage, and his kindness and generosity to his wife’s family was the
subject of much comment and praise. Little did the people of Millfield
dream of the truth, or suspect that when at last the _Oceanic_ sailed
down the harbor of New York with Fred Strong on board, he was there with
the steerage passengers and under the name of Charles Patterson. He was
not able to take a first-class passage, and he was afraid to bear his
own name lest by some chance it should reach the eye of Mr. Haverleigh,
who would thus be put on the alert. So he bore cheerfully all the
annoyances and discomforts of a steerage passage, kept himself very
quiet, and mostly aloof from all his companions but one, a Swiss lad who
spoke French, and who willingly taught and talked with the young
American so anxious to learn.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                        EUGENIE’S WAITING-MAID.


“‘Charles Patterson, London,’ was the name of the occupant of No. 512,
Hotel du Louvre, Paris, and 512 was a small bedroom on the fifth floor,
and looked down upon the busy Rue St. Honore. Charles was a very fair,
girlish-looking boy, who, from the night he took possession of No. 512,
kept his room entirely, and was served in his apartment daily with
‘_cafe complet_’ and two eggs in the morning, and with ‘_bif-tek au
pommes_’ and _haricots verts_ for dinner in the afternoon. At first the
waiter had pointed significantly to the printed notice that having his
meals thus served would cost an extra franc, but Charles had answered
promptly, ‘_Je le sais_,’ and that had ended it, and he was free to eat
where he liked. Nobody noticed or thought of him again until the close
of the second day, when, as he stood looking down upon the street below,
and reading the strange names on the signs, there came a knock at the
door, and a servant handed in a card bearing the name of ‘Eugenie
Arschinard.’ The lady herself was in the hall near the door, and in a
moment was in the room alone with the young boy, whom she addressed as
‘Monsieur Sharles,’ and whom she regarded intently as he brought her a
chair, and then proceeded to light the one candle which the room
possessed.

“‘_Mon Dieu!_’ she began, in her pretty, half-French, half-English
style; ‘_vous etes un petit garcon! Mais n’importe_. You make a very
_joli_—what you call him?—waiting-maid _pour moi_. Ah! but you very like
_votre sœur_. Poor leetle madame!’

“‘Oh, tell me of Anna, please! Tell me all you know, and what I am to
do,’ Fred said, speaking in a whisper, as she had done, lest the
occupants of the adjoining rooms should hear what it was necessary to be
kept secret.

“‘Madame has a leetle babee,’ Eugenie said, and as Fred uttered an
exclamation of surprise, she continued: ‘It is so, _veritable_, but I it
not write, for fear to worry _la mere_. Both doing well, _petite_ mother
and babee, which makes a boy, and monsieur is—what you call it?—very
much up; _oui_, very much; but I hasten. Monsieur comes to find me
to-night _a diner_. I tell you all _toute de suite_.’

“Then very rapidly she communicated her plan for future action,
interspersing her talk frequently with ‘_Mon Dieu!_ you make so pretty
girl _Anglaise_, with that fair hair and those blue eyes. Nobody can
suspect.’

“And Fred followed her closely, and understood what he was to do, and,
after she was gone, wrote to his mother a full account of his adventures
thus far, and then waited with what patience he could command for what
was to follow.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“As will have been inferred, Eugenie was better. The nervous depression
and weakness had passed away, and, stimulated with this new excitement,
she had never looked handsomer than when she consented at last to
receive Haverleigh as a guest at her house. He had not seen her for
weeks, or rather months; for since the time she left Chateau d’Or, until
the day she visited Fred at the Louvre, he had not so much as heard the
sound of her voice, and this long separation from her, and seeming
indifference on her part, had revived his old passion for her ten-fold,
and when at last she wrote, ‘Come and dine with me this evening,’ he
felt as elated and delighted as the bashful lover who goes for his first
visit to his _fiancee_.

“He found her waiting for him, dressed with elegant simplicity, and
looking so fresh and young that he went forward eagerly to meet her,
with his usual gush of tenderness, but she stepped backward from him,
with something in her manner which kept him in check so that he only
raised her hand to his lips, and then stood looking at her and marveling
at her changed demeanor. And yet in most points she was not changed; she
would not suffer him to touch her, and she compelled him to treat her
with a respect he had not been accustomed to pay her in private; but
otherwise she was the same brilliant, fascinating woman, bewildering him
with her beauty and intoxicating him with her wit and sharp repartees.

“For the _le petite madame_ and _la petite garcon_ she made many
inquiries, expressing a strong desire to see them, and telling him that
as soon as the weather was more favorable she meant to go down to
Chateau d’Or for a little visit. To this Haverleigh assented, for he was
perfectly willing that Eugenie and Anna should be on terms of intimacy,
especially as the former pretended to believe in the lunacy of the
latter, and inquired now very anxiously how she was in her mind since
the birth of her child.

“‘A little better,’ Haverleigh hoped, and Eugenie continued:

“‘I mean some time this summer, say in June, to have her here at my
house for a little; the change will do her great good. You are willing,
of course, when it will please me so much.’

“The eyes which looked at him were very soft and pleading, and
Haverleigh could not resist them, and answered readily that Madame Anna
should certainly come up to Paris; that he should be glad to have her
come, especially as Madame Arschinard was so kind as to ask her. Then
Eugenie grew more gracious and captivating, and told him of her strange
sickness, which made her so nervous that she could not see her dearest
friends, but she was so much better now, and glad to have monsieur to
dine just as he used to do; then she told him as a great misfortune that
Elise, her waiting-maid, had left her, and that she had made up her mind
to advertise for an English girl to fill her place. She was _so_ tired
of the trickery of her own countrywomen that she wanted to try some
other nation; did monsieur think an English girl would suit her?
Haverleigh did not know, but advised her to try, and then the
conversation drifted into other channels until the elegant little dinner
was served.

“After dinner they drove to the opera, where Eugenie’s face was welcomed
back again by a score or more of lorgnettes leveled at her as she sat
smilingly unconscious of the attention she was attracting, and with her
mind far more occupied with the boy sleeping quietly in No. 512 than
with the gay scene around her.

“The next morning there appeared in the French journals an advertisement
for a young English maid, who could speak a little French, and before
night Eugenie had been interviewed by at least a dozen girls, of all
ages and sizes, wanting the place, but none of them quite suited. She
would wait a little longer, she said, hoping to get just what she
desired. The next day, at a very unfashionable hour, she drove to the
picture gallery at the Louvre, and bidding her coachman leave her there,
stationed herself in one of the halls of statuary, which she knew to be
less frequented than some others, especially at that hour of the
morning. And there she waited anxiously, now glancing through the open
door as a new comer entered, and again pretending to be very busy with
some broken-nosed or armless block of marble.

“Meanwhile Charles Patterson had settled his bill at the Louvre, and
with his traveling-bag, the only piece of luggage brought from home, he
passed from the court into the Rue de Rivoli, and crossing the street
walked rapidly to the gallery of the Louvre, where madame was waiting
for him. There were a few words spoken between them, and then both
walked across the grounds to the street which skirts the river, where
Eugenie called a carriage, and bade the coachman drive to a second-rate
furnishing house in an obscure part of the city, with which she had once
been more familiar than she was now. It was a tolerably large
establishment and supplied her with what she wanted, an entire outfit of
a good substantial kind for a young English girl serving in the capacity
of waiting-maid. There were several bundles, but Fred’s bag held them
all, except the round straw hat which Eugenie carried herself, closely
wrapped in paper.

“‘Drive us to the station St. Lazare,’ she said to the coachman, and in
the course of half an hour Fred found himself alone with his companion
in a first-class carriage, speeding along toward Versailles.

“Eugenie had spoken to the conductor, and thus secured the carriage to
herself and Fred so that there was no one to see them when they opened
the bag, and brought out one by one the different articles which were to
transform the boy Frederic Strong into the girl _Fanny Shader_, who was
to be Eugenie’s waiting-maid. For that was the plan, and with a little
shrug of her shoulders and a significant laugh Eugenie said:

“‘Now I go to sleep—very much asleep—while you make the grand toilet;’
and closing her eyes she leaned back in her seat, and to all human
appearance slept soundly, while Fred arrayed himself in his feminine
habiliments, which fitted him admirably and became him remarkably well.
Fair-haired, pale-faced, blue-eyed and small, he had frequently taken
the part of a girl in the little plays his school companions were always
getting up in Millfield, so he was neither strange nor awkward in his
new dress and character, but assumed both easily and naturally as if
they had belonged to him all his life, and when at last he said:

“‘I am ready; you can wake up now,’ and Eugenie opened her eyes; she
started in astonishment and wonder, for instead of the delicate boy who
had been her companion, there sat a good-sized girl, in a neatly-fitting
brown stuff dress and sacque, with bands of white linen at the throat
and wrists, and a dark straw hat perched jauntily upon the hair parted
in the middle and curling naturally. The disguise was perfect, and
Eugenie exclaimed delightedly:

“‘Oh, _Mon Dieu, c’est une grande success_. You make such _joli_ girl.
Nobody suspect ever. Now you must be _bien attentif_ to me. You carry my
shawl; you pick up my _mouchoir_, so;’ and she dropped her handkerchief
to see how adroitly the new maid would stoop and hand it to her. It was
well done, and Eugenie continued:

“‘You act perfectly—perfectly. Now you not forget, but walk behind me
always with the parcels, and not talk much with the other _domestiques_.
_Ah, ciel_, but you cannot, you cannot speak much French to them, and
that be good; but to me you speak French _toujours_; you learn it, which
must be better by and by when the great trial comes.’

“They were now near to Versailles, and, when the long train stopped,
Eugenie and her maid stepped out unobserved by any one; and as there was
an interval of two hours or more before they could return to Paris,
Eugenie spent it in showing her companion the beauties of the old Palace
and its charming grounds. And _Fanny_ was very attentive and very
respectful to her mistress, and acted the _role_ of waiting-maid to
perfection, though occasionally there was a gleam of mischief in the
blue eyes, and a comical smile lurking about the corners of the mouth,
as Fred answered to the new name, or held up his skirts as they walked
over a wet piece of ground.

“‘_Mon Dieu_, but your feet are much large for the rest of you,’ Eugenie
said, as she caught sight of his boots. ‘You must not show them so
much.’

“So Fred kept his dress down, and wondered how girls managed to walk so
well with a lot of petticoats dangling around their ankles, but behaved
himself, on the whole, with perfect propriety, and by the time Eugenie’s
residence in Paris was reached, had completely won his mistress’ heart.
It was past the luncheon hour, but Eugenie had chocolate and rolls in
her room, and Fanny served her with the utmost deference, and moved so
quietly and gently among her fellow servants that she came into favor at
once, and _la jeune Anglaise_ was toasted at dinner by one of the
footmen, who thought the new girl did not understand a word he said.

“It was two days before Haverleigh came to stop any length of time, and
then he came to dine, and by appointment.

“‘I shall ring for you to do something for me after dinner, and you will
be much careful,’ Eugenie said to Fred, who had never been so nervous
and excited as he was in view of the approaching ordeal.

“The stuff dress had been exchanged for a pretty calico, and the white
fluted apron which he wore had been bought at the _Bon Marche_. The
light, abundant hair was covered with a bit of muslin called a cap, with
smart blue ribbons streaming behind, and this, more than anything else,
made Fred into a girl—a tidy-looking maid, who stood with beating heart
in the upper hall, listening to the tones of Haverleigh’s voice, as they
came from the salon below. How well Fred remembered that voice, and how
his young blood boiled as he longed to rush upon the man and with all
his feeble strength avenge his sister’s wrongs. But he must bide his
time, and he waited till his mistress’ bell should summon him to her
presence, and that of his detestable brother-in-law.

“Haverleigh was in excellent spirits that night. Indeed he had been in
excellent spirits ever since the morning when he received the dispatch
from Chateau d’Or announcing the birth of a son. Whether it would ever
please him to have his wife fully restored to reason, and free to come
and go with him in his journeying was doubtful. It was a rather pleasant
excitement, having her at the chateau, where he could visit her when the
mood was on him; but to have her with him in Paris and Nice, and London,
where he wished to be free and untrammeled, was another thing.

“So Anna seemed likely to remain just where she was for an indefinite
length of time, unless he allowed her as a great favor to visit Eugenie
for a few weeks. But the son—his boy—was to be a great source of pride
and happiness to him, and he had already formed many plans for the
future of that son, and everything wore a brighter hue since that little
life began at Chateau d’Or. Then, too, Eugenie was latterly more
gracious in her demeanor toward him, and he had hopes that in time he
might be reinstated in her good graces, and as he had a genuine liking
for her, this of itself was a sufficient reason why he seemed so elated
and even hilarious as he sat once more at her table and basked in the
sunshine of her smile. To be sure she talked of Madame Haverleigh more
than he cared to have her, but then she had conceived a great friendship
for his wife, and it was for his interest to encourage it. So he, too,
talked of madame and her health, and answered Eugenie’s questions
regarding her family _en Amerique_. Was there insanity in the blood? Was
it a large family? many sisters? any brothers? and were they _nobilite_?

At this question Haverleigh winced, for he was not certain how much
nobility Eugenie would think there was in a shoe-shop, but he tried to
answer her readily, and said the family was highly respectable, not
nobility exactly, but good; that _la mère_ was dead—and here he did not
look straight at Eugenie lest the lie should show itself—that there was
a sister Mary, a stronger girl every way than Madame Anna, though not so
pretty, and a boy Fred, who was, or seemed to be, quite young, and of
whom he did not remember much; he was more interested in girls, he said,
and seldom took much notice of boys.

“Eugenie shrugged her shoulders significantly and as they had finished
their dessert led the way to the drawing-room, telling him as she went
that her advertising had been very successful, and brought her such a
treasure of an English girl, Fanny Shader, who was so nice and
respectable. Haverleigh cared nothing for Fanny Shader personally, but
if she interested Eugenie he must be interested, too, and he said he was
very glad madame was suited, and asked from what part of England Fanny
came. London was a safe place to come from, and so Fanny’s home was
there, and Eugenie said so, and fluttered about the salon until she
remembered that she needed a shawl, and rang the bell for Fanny.

“Haverleigh was standing with his back to the fire, looking straight at
the door, when Fanny came in, a flush on her cheek, but with a very
modest expression in her blue eyes, which never glanced at Haverleigh
but once. But in that glance they saw him perfectly from his head to his
feet, and knew him for the same haughty Englishman who had so ignored
Anna’s family in Millfield. Hating Haverleigh as he did, it was
impossible for Fred not to show something of it, and there was a sudden
gleam, a kindling, in his eyes, which attracted Haverleigh’s notice, and
made him look more curiously after the supposed girl than he would
otherwise have done. But there was not a shadow of suspicion in his mind
as to the personality of the stranger, and when she was gone for the
shawl he said, carelessly:

“‘And so that is the treasure? Nice, tidy-looking girl enough, but I
should say she had a temper, judging from her eyes; looks a little like
somebody I have seen.’

“Fanny had returned with the shawl by this time and so the conversation
regarding her ceased, and Haverleigh thought and said no more of her,
although she appeared several times during the evening in answer to her
mistress, who wanted an unusual amount of waiting upon, it seemed to
Haverleigh.

“‘She is certainly growing very nervous and fidgety, and I don’t much
envy that new girl her post as my lady’s maid,’ he said to himself, and
that was about all the thought he gave to Fanny Shader, whom for several
days he saw every time he called upon Eugenie.




                               CHAPTER X.
                  EUGENIE GOES AGAIN TO CHATEAU D’OR.


It was some time during the latter part of January that the new life
came to Chateau d’Or, and Madame Verwest telegraphed to Haverleigh, ‘You
have a son.’ It was a big, healthy-looking boy, with great blue eyes,
and soft curly hair like Anna’s, but otherwise it was like its father,
‘all Haverleigh,’ Madame Verwest said, as she hugged the little creature
to her, and, amid a rain of tears, whispered something over it which
Anna could not understand. Was it a blessing, or a prayer that this
new-born child might be kept from the path of sin trodden by another
child which once had lain on her bosom, as soft and helpless and
innocent as this, with the Haverleigh look on its face. Nobody could
tell what she thought or felt, but from the moment the first infant wail
echoed through the dreary house, Madame Verwest took the little one into
her love and heart, and seemed to care for it far more, even, than the
mother herself, for at first Anna shrank from the child so like its
father, and felt better when it was not in her sight. But with returning
health and strength there came a change; the mother love had asserted
itself, and Anna was much happier than she had been before the little
life came to claim her care. But for her husband there was no
tenderness, no love—only a growing disgust and antipathy to him, and an
increased dread of his visits, which were more frequent than formerly.
He was very proud of his boy—Arthur he called him—though there had been
no formal christening, because there was in the neighborhood no
Protestant priest. But Haverleigh meant to bring one down with him from
Paris and have a grand christening party, and when Eugenie proposed
visiting the chateau, he decided to have it while she was there, and to
persuade her to stand as god-mother. So a box of elegant dresses, both
for Anna and the child, was forwarded to the chateau, with the
intelligence that Madame Arschinard would follow in a few days, together
with a Protestant clergyman, who was traveling for his health, and whose
acquaintance Haverleigh had accidentally made at a hotel. The prospect
of seeing Eugenie again, and hearing from her whether she had ever
written to America, and with what result, was a delightful one to Anna,
who had never been so lovely even in her girlish days as she was that
afternoon in early April, when, with her baby in her arms, she stood
waiting the arrival of the train which was to bring the expected party
from Paris. She had never heard of Fanny Shader, and naturally supposed
that Elise would accompany Eugenie, as she did before.

The train was late, half an hour behind time, and when it came, and the
carriage returned from the station, to Anna’s inexpressible relief her
husband was not in it. A sprained ankle, which was so very painful that
he could not put his foot to the floor, would detain him in Paris for a
few days, Eugenie explained, as she warmly greeted Madame Haverleigh,
and stooped to kiss the baby in her arms. Then, turning to her maid, she
said, in English:

‘Here Fannee, take my shawl and hat up to my room. Somebody shall show
you the way, while I sit here a little minute in this pretty court.’

It was the first time Anna had noticed the new maid who had stood partly
hidden by Eugenie, gazing at her with flushed cheeks and bated breath,
and trying so hard to keep from rushing upon her and crying out, ‘Oh,
Anna, sister, I am Fred. Don’t you know me?’

“She did not know or dream that the tall, slight girl in the gingham
dress, with white apron and straw hat, was other than a waiting-maid,
English, probably, as Eugenie addressed her in that language; and she
felt glad of the change, for Celine, her own maid, had not agreed very
well with Elise on the occasion of her last visit at the chateau. It was
Celine who conducted the new girl to Eugenie’s rooms, and tried to be
gracious by using the little English she had learned from Anna.

“‘How you call yourself?’ she asked. ‘_Fannee, votre nom? c’est bien
joli._ Are you _Anglaise ou Americaine_?’

“There was a moment’s hesitancy, and then Fred answered:

“‘_Je suis Anglaise._’

“Whereupon Celine, delighted that she could speak a word of French, and
taking it for granted she could speak more, rattled on so vehemently
that her companion stood aghast, comprehending nothing except that
Celine had thought him _Americaine_, because he was tall and thin, and
not—not ‘_comment appellez vous cela_,’ she said: ‘very much grown, much
stomach and chin, _comme Anglais_.’

“‘_Anglais_ thin _quelque fois_,’ Fanny said: and then the mischievous
Celine commented upon his hands and feet, which her quick eyes had noted
as large and unfeminine, albeit the hands were very white and shapely.

“Coloring to the roots of his hair, Fred stood the ordeal as well as he
could, feeling almost as if he were in the presence of a detective, and
should have his real name, and sex, and business screamed to all the
world. But Celine was far from suspecting the truth, and rather liked
_la femme Anglaise_ on the whole, and while the ladies talked together
in the court below, took her over the house and showed her the view from
the windows, and presented her to any of the servants whom they chanced
to meet as _Fannee_, who was _Anglaise_, and came from _Londres_.

“Meanwhile Eugenie and Anna sat talking on indifferent subjects, while
all the time the latter was longing to ask the all-important question as
to whether there was any news from America. At last she could endure the
suspense no longer, and grasping Eugenie’s hand, said, in a whisper:

“‘Tell me, have you written? Do they know? I have waited so long for
some message.’

“‘Yes, I have wrote; and they do know, and _la mère n’est pas morte_, as
I tell you, but lives in Millfield the same. More I tell you _plus
tard_,’ was Eugenie’s reply.

“And the next moment Anna had fainted.

“The shock was too great for her, and with a little gasping cry, which
sounded like ‘mother,’ she fell across Eugenie’s lap, where she lay
unconscious, while the excitable Frenchwoman screamed lustily for help.
Celine and Fred had just come out upon the open gallery which ran
entirely round the court and connected with the sleeping rooms on the
third floor.

“Both heard the cry, and both started for the rescue, but _la femme
Anglaise_ outstripped Celine, and taking Anna in her arms as if she had
been a child, exclaimed:

“‘Where is her room? Let me take her to it.’

“‘_Oui, oui_, I show you,’ Celine replied, as she led the way to her
mistress’s room, ejaculating ‘_Mon Dieu!_ what strength slim people must
have to carry madame so.’

“Oh, how tenderly Fred held his unconscious sister, never thinking of
her weight, thinking only that he had her in his arms, and could press
his boyish lips against hers, and hug her to his bosom. Very gently he
laid her upon the bed, and then stood back while restoratives were
applied, until she opened her eyes and showed signs of returning
consciousness.

“‘She hold _l’enfant_ too long in her weak state, and just fainted
sudden,’ Eugenie explained to Madame Verwest, who cared for Anna until
she seemed wholly herself and declared that she was as well as ever, but
would like to be rather quiet, with no one to sit with her but Madame
Arschinard.

“‘She never tires me,’ she said.

“And so the two had tea together in Anna’s room, and were waited upon by
Celine, so there was no chance for further conversation until the next
morning after the late breakfast, when Eugenie invited Anna to her room,
where the _soi-disant_ Fanny was busy arranging her mistress’s wardrobe
in the closet and drawers.

“At her Anna did not even glance, but she knew she was in the room, and
felt anxious for her to leave, as the presence of a third party would
necessarily prevent her from questioning Eugenie with regard to
Millfield. But Fanny was apparently in no hurry to leave, and it seemed
to Anna that she was purposely dawdling and taking a long time to
accomplish a little.

“Anna was occupying the seat which Eugenie offered her, near the window,
and directly facing Fanny, whose movements could all be seen if one
chose to watch her; and despairing of her quitting the apartment, Anna
began at last to watch her as she moved from box to closet or shelf,
sometimes with her face turned full toward the window where Anna sat,
and sometimes with her back that way. At last, as Anna made no sign of
recognition, Eugenie said:

“‘Fanny, have you found that box of bon-bons?’

“‘Yes, madame, I have found it,’ was the reply, spoken in Fred’s own
natural voice, which sent a thrill through Anna’s veins, and made her
heart beat rapidly as she thought of home and Fred, whose voice Fanny’s
was so like; and Fanny was like him, too—the same walk, the same motion
of the hands, the same turn of the head. Surely, surely, she had seen it
all before, and involuntarily grasping Eugenie’s arm, she whispered in a
tone of affright:

“‘Who is she—that girl you call Fanny?’

“‘That girl’ heard the question, and, turning square round toward Anna,
tore off the cap from the head, and, running her fingers through her
curly hair, gave to it the old, natural look, and then stood confronting
the startled woman, whose face was white as marble, and whose lips tried
in vain to articulate the one word: ‘Fred.’

“He had her in his arms the next moment, kissing her passionately, and
saying to her:

“‘It’s I, Anna; truly Fred, and no ghost. I’ve come to get you away, to
take you home to mother, who is not dead. Sweet sister, how much you
must have suffered; but it is all over now. Madame and I will save you
from that dreadful man.’

“Then Anna’s tears began to flow, and she sobbed passionately, while
Fred tried to comfort and reassure her by talking of Millfield and home
as of things just within her reach.

“‘Before all the summer flowers are gone we will be there,’ he said;
‘but you must be very discreet, and no no-one here must ever know that I
am not Fanny Shader. Don’t I make a nice maid? Only Celine thinks my
feet and hands too big,’ he said, as he adjusted his jaunty cap again,
and walked across the floor with a swinging motion to his skirts which
set Anna to laughing hysterically, and so saved her from another
fainting fit.

“Eugenie put away her own dresses and finery after that, and left the
brother and sister free to talk together of all which had transpired
since the day Anna left home with the man who seemed to her more and
more a demon, as she learned all he had written of her to her friends.

“‘He must be mad himself,’ she said, ‘as I can see no motive for his
pursuing his petty revenge so long and to such extremes.’

“And then together they talked of her escape, which Fred had come to
accomplish, or rather to assist in, for Eugenie was the one who was to
plan and devise, and both agreed to trust her implicitly

“After a long consultation it was decided that Madame Verwest should be
taken into confidence and be told at once who Fanny Shader was, and
after that matters were to rest for awhile and Eugenie to remain at the
Chateau d’Or until the last of May or the first of June, during which
time Fred was to devote himself to the baby and become so necessary to
its well-being that to leave him at the chateau as nurse would be
comparatively easy of accomplishment, after which the _denouement_ was
to follow naturally.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Mr. Haverleigh’s sprain proved more serious than he had at first
anticipated, and it was nearly two weeks before he was able to come down
to the chateau. Then he arrived unannounced one afternoon, and was
accompanied by a young English clergyman, a rollicking, easy-going man,
who was out on what he called _a lark_, and who enjoyed nothing better
than the trip to Chateau d’Or with Haverleigh, for whom he had conceived
a great liking. The christening was uppermost in Haverleigh’s mind. His
boy, his son and heir, must have a name, and the second evening after
his arrival the ceremony took place, and the baby was baptized _Arthur
Strong_, Eugenie standing as god-mother, and Fanny Shader holding the
child. Fanny had proved invaluable, and entirely superseded the fine
lady from Avignon, who had come to the chateau when the child was born,
and when Haverleigh arrived there was a plan on foot for keeping the
girl entirely as baby’s nurse. This plan was made to appear wholly
Eugenie’s, who felt it a duty to part with her treasure for the good of
her little god-child. In this matter Haverleigh was not particular, and
greatly to the satisfaction of all parties Fanny became little Arthur’s
nurse, and was thus almost constantly in Anna’s society. Once or twice
Haverleigh had looked curiously and closely at the new girl as if there
was something familiar in the features, but Fred always seemed to know
when he was an object of inspection, and managed adroitly to get out of
sight without appearing to do so. He never spoke to his master except to
answer a question, and then his manner was exceedingly deferential and
quite gratifying to the man, who liked nothing better than a cringing
manner in a servant, as if he were lord and master of all.

“Those spring days at Chateau d’Or were very pleasant ones, for Anna was
buoyed up with the hope of escape from the man who grew each day more
and more detestable and terrible to her. His evident admiration for
Eugenie, which he did not try to conceal, would alone have made her hate
him had there been no other cause. But Eugenie’s infatuation for him was
ended, and though she had no fear or dread of him in her heart, like
Anna, she had no liking for him, and only feigned to tolerate him until
she had achieved her revenge, for with her it was nothing more than
that. She was not a woman of good or firm principles of any kind, and
with the right or wrong she did not trouble herself, but she had loved
her young sister with an all-absorbing love, and if she could do aught
to harm the man who had wrought her sister’s ruin she was resolved to do
it; so she lingered at the chateau and professed herself so much in love
with Anna and the child that she could not endure the thought of a
separation from them, and only decided at the last to return to Paris on
condition that Anna should be allowed to visit her sometime in June or
July. And to this Haverleigh consented, and said he would himself come
down from Paris for her when she was ready for the journey. But this was
no part of Eugenie’s plan. When Anna left Chateau d’Or she must leave it
without other escort than her brother, and of her ability to manage this
she constantly reassured Anna, who grew so excited and anxious that she
sank into a kind of nervous fever, which confined her to her room when
Eugenie at last said good-by, and started for Paris with Haverleigh.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                              THE ESCAPE.


“A letter had been received at the chateau to the effect that Anna was
to be ready to go to Paris the following week, with her baby and nurse,
and that her husband would come down to accompany her. It would be
impossible to describe Anna’s state of mind at the receipt of this
letter, while Madame Verwest, who had been taken fully into her
confidence, seemed for a time as bewildered and nervous as Anna herself.
Then she rallied, and astonished Anna and Fred by declaring her
intention to go with them.

“‘What, go to America?’ Anna asked; and madame replied:

“‘Yes, to America. I have long wished to see it, and cannot be separated
from the baby. I will go with you;’ and from this decision she never
wavered, but went calmly on with her few preparations, while Anna waited
anxiously for the telegram which Eugenie had promised to send her, and
which came the day after the receipt of Haverleigh’s letter, and was as
follows:

  “‘You are to come at once, instead of waiting till next week, and
  monsieur will meet you at Avignon.

                                                              EUGENIE.’”

“As this was directed to the care of Brunel, who knew of the proposed
visit, it was considered all right by that functionary, and by him
passed to Anna, who trembled so violently that she could scarcely read
the message, which was exactly what Eugenie had said it should be, and
early to-morrow she was going away from what had really been a prison so
long, notwithstanding that in some respects it had been a pleasant home.
But she had no regrets at leaving it, for every spot was so closely
connected with the man whose name she bore, and from whom she was
fleeing, that she loathed it utterly, just as she loathed the elegant
dresses with which her closets were filled, and not one of which she
took with her. She packed her jewels, however; her diamonds, and pearls,
and topazes, for she might need the money they would bring. To Celine,
who had expected to go as maid, she had said that she did not need her,
and had quieted her with a set of coral and a handsome evening dress.

“And now the morning had actually dawned, and nothing happened to
prevent our travelers from passing out from Chateau d’Or to the
carriage, which conveyed them to the station in time for the early train
from Marseilles; but Anna was so weak and nervous that she was lifted
bodily into the railway carriage, and continued in a half-unconscious
state for nearly an hour, while she was whirled rapidly away from the
scene of so much misery. Avignon was reached at last, and Eugenie’s face
was the first to greet them as they passed from the station, and then
Anna fainted quite away, for now it seemed sure that freedom and America
were just within her grasp.

“‘Is it sure, and where is he?’ Anna asked, when she could speak at all,
and Eugenie replied in her broken English, interspersed with French:

“‘_Ou est-il? a Paris, mais, mon Dieu_, such time I have had. I get him
to write for you to come next week, late some day in the week, and then
I telegraph myself for you to start to-day, and last night he dine with
me, and I tell him I must go to Normandy for one, two, or three days. I
don’t know sure, and so I cheat him and come here to meet you with
Madame Verwest. _Ciel_, why is she here?’

“‘I go with Madame Haverleigh to America,’ was Madame Verwest’s reply;
whereupon Eugenie exclaimed:

“‘_Vous allez en Amerique! c’est impossible! Ou est l’argent? Nous n’en
avons pas assez pour vous._’

“‘But I have more than enough to pay my passage, and I am going,’ madame
said, so firmly and decidedly that Eugenie merely shrugged her
shoulders, and replied:

“‘_Eh bien_, I fear bad.’

“‘You need not, you need not, for she is the truest friend; she would
never betray us,’ Anna cried.

“‘And if she did!’ Eugenie replied, with a threatening gleam in her
flashing eyes which meant much, but did not intimidate Madame Verwest,
who knew her own business and interests better than any one else.

“It was dark when they took the train again, and this time their
destination was Havre, and when at last that port was reached, their
party consisted of Anna, her baby, Madame Verwest, Eugenie, and the boy
Fred, who had on the road been metamorphosed into himself and his own
clothes again, and stepped from the car a very assured youth, equal to
any emergency which might present itself.

“Fortunately for the travelers, a ship was to sail for New York the
following morning, and there was one vacant state-room, which was
immediately secured for Anna and Madame Verwest, while Fred went as
second-class. Eugenie saw them on board and bade them adieu with tears
raining down her cheeks, and when Anna kissed her again and again, and
said:

“‘I never can thank you enough, or understand why you have been so kind
to me,’ she answered, sobbingly:

“‘Not for you, _petite madame_. Not for you, _seule_. Do not think me
good as that. I learn to like you much; _c’est vrai_, but not care
particularly to run much risk. It is for her, _ma petite, ma sœur_, for
Agatha, for revenge. He lose me my sister, I lose him his boy, and he
will feel it. Oh, he will suffer and I shall think of Agatha, and be
glad, much glad at first, and then who knows, I may comfort him, for
what matter now for me. I bad anyway.’

“‘Oh, madame,” Anna cried, “you will not go back to him again? You will
live a better life! promise me that!’

“‘No, I not promise. I not know. We French not think so bad as you. We
do not live without intrigue and little love affairs, but I hate
monsieur now, and I so long to see him suffer. _Mon Dieu_, but it will
be good! Write me, _ma chere, d’Amerique_, and tell me of _la mère_, and
now—it is good-by _vraiment_.’

“She wrung Anna’s hand, while great tears rolled down her cheeks as she
said her last good-by, and turning resolutely away walked from the ship
to the landing, where she stood until the vessel was loosened from its
moorings and moved slowly out to sea; then, wondering why she should
care so much for _les Americaines_, she was driven to the station, where
she took the train for Paris, eager for the _denouement_ when Haverleigh
would find how he had been deceived.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                            THE DENOUEMENT.


Anna’s party sailed from Havre on Friday, and it was not until the
following Thursday that Mr. Haverleigh arrived at the chateau for the
purpose of escorting her to Paris. During the last week he had spent
much of his time with Eugenie, who on her return from Havre had been
very gracious to him, and seemed in high spirits, breaking out suddenly
into bursts of merriment on the most trifling provocation, and making
him sometimes wonder if she was not going mad. She talked a great deal
of ‘_la petite madame et la petit garcon_,’ and showed him the rooms
they were to occupy, and made him buy a handsome crib for his son, and
predicted that Anna would not return to the dreary old chateau when once
she had tasted the pleasures of Paris.

“‘Why do you keep her shut up there?’ she asked him once, with a merry
twinkle in her eyes. ‘I’d run away.’

“‘You could hardly do that with Brunell on guard,’ Haverleigh replied;
adding, after a pause: ‘Madame Haverleigh, you know, has not been quite
right in her mind, and quiet was better for her. Her own family
recommend it. They know all about it.’

“‘_Mon Dieu_, how the man lies!’ was Eugenie’s mental comment, but she
merely said: ‘Tell me more of madame’s family—of the sister and the
brother,’ and she persevered until she had heard from Haverleigh again
all there was to know of the mother, and sister and the boy Fred, of
whom Eugenie seemed to like particularly to talk.

“‘I shall wait so impatiently for you to come with madame,’ she said to
him when he left her to go to the chateau, and in her eyes there was a
look which puzzled him, and which he could not fathom.

“If he had staid a little longer she might have betrayed the secret
which so tormented her; but he was gone at last, and on his way to
Chateau d’Or, wondering, as he went, if it were wise in him to take Anna
to Paris, even for a week. At the chateau she was safe and out of the
way, and gave him no trouble, while in Paris she might seriously
interfere with his actions. On the whole, the chateau was the best place
for her, he decided; but he would give her more freedom there, and she
should be at liberty to ride around the country as much as she chose,
and go and come like any other sane person.

“Thus magnanimously arranging for Anna’s future, Haverleigh arrived at
the chateau in the afternoon train, and wondering a little that his
carriage was not waiting for him, started to walk. It was the lovely
month of June, when southern France is looking her loveliest, and the
grounds about the chateau seemed to him especially beautiful as he
entered them by a little gate, of which he always kept the key.

“‘Anna ought to be happy here,’ he said, and then, glancing up in the
direction of her windows, it struck him as odd that every one was
closed.

“Indeed, the whole house had a shut-up, deserted appearance, and
impressed him unpleasantly as he quickened his footsteps with a vague
presentiment of evil. The first person he saw, on entering the court,
was Celine, who, at sight of him, screamed out:

“‘Oh, Monsieur, what brings you here now, and where is madame? Has
anything happened to the little master?’

“‘Where is madame? What do you mean? Where should she be but here, when
I have come to take her to Paris?’ Haverleigh said, and Celine,
violently excited, continued:

“‘Come to take her to Paris? She’s gone to Paris, long ago; gone with
Madame Verwest. Surely you knew that?’

“Surely he did not, and he shook so violently that he could not stand,
but was obliged to sit down while Celine told him rapidly, and with a
great many gesticulations, what she knew of madame’s going away.

“‘A letter had come that monsieur would be there to accompany madame to
Paris, and then Mistress Anna had packed her boxes, but taken no grand
dresses—nothing but her plainest—and had told Celine she was not to go,
as Fanny Shader could do all that was necessary, and Madame Verwest,
too.’

“‘Madame Verwest!’ Haverleigh gasped, ‘is she gone, too?’

“‘To be sure she has; but it was after the telegram that she decided to
go,’ Celine said, ‘for the day after the letter there came down a
telegram from Madame Eugenie, bidding Madame Anna start at once, and you
would meet her at Avignon; and she started last Wednesday is a week for
Paris, with Madame Verwest, the baby, and Fanny Shader, and now you come
after them. I know not what it may mean.’

“Celine had talked very rapidly, and a little incoherently, but
Haverleigh had managed to follow her and understand at least one fact,
his wife and child were gone, and had been gone for more than a week;
and as they were not in Paris, where could they be, and what did it all
mean, and what was this about a telegram from Eugenie? He could not
understand it, but bade Celine send Brunell to him at once. She obeyed,
and Brunell came, but could throw no light upon the mystery. Anna had
gone, as Celine said, and gone, too, in accordance with instructions
received from Eugenie Arschinard, whose telegram he saw himself.

“‘And you knew nothing of it?’ he asked. ‘You have never seen them in
Paris?’

“‘Never,’ and the veins upon Haverleigh’s forehead began to swell and
stand out like ridges as he grew more and more amazed and excited.

“Even then he did not suspect the truth; but, weak, vain man as he was,
wondered if it could be some deep-laid plot of Eugenie’s to spirit his
wife away in order to have him quite to herself. He did not believe that
she had ever been reconciled to his marriage, even though she had
professed so much friendship for Anna, and a Frenchwoman like her was
capable of anything, he knew. Still it seemed impossible that she should
attempt a thing of that kind when detection was so easy. The tickets for
the party were for Avignon, and thither he would go at once, taking
Brunell with him as an ally whose services would be invaluable in a
search. Accordingly when the next train northward-bound passed the
little hamlet, he was a passenger in it, chafing with impatience to
arrive at Avignon, where he hoped to hear tidings of the fugitives. What
he heard by diligent inquiry at station and hotel, utterly confounded
him and made him for a time a perfect madman. An elderly woman and a
young one, with nurse and baby, had come up on the Marseilles train, and
been met by a large, dark-eyed lady, who had gone on with them next
morning to Havre, which was their destination.

“‘Havre! Havre!’ Haverleigh gasped, the shadow of a suspicion beginning
to dawn upon him. ‘Went to Havre, Brunell? What could they go to Havre
for?’

“‘Only one thing that I can think of, but you’d better follow on and
see,’ was Brunell’s reply; and they did follow on, traveling day and
night, as Anna had done before them, until Havre was reached and the
records of passengers’ names examined.

“There was a frightful imprecation, a horrid oath, which made the
bystanders stare in amazement as Haverleigh read that on the — day of
June, Mrs. Haverleigh, nurse, and child, had sailed for America in the
_Europe_, and that Frederic Strong had accompanied them.

“‘Frederic Strong! Who the —— is he, and where did he come from?’ he
said, as, white with rage and trembling in every limb, he walked from
the room with Brunell, who replied:

“‘Was not madame a Strong when you married her?’

“‘Yes, and she had a brother Fred. But how came he here, and where is
Madame Verwest, and what did Eugenie have to do with it? I tell you,
Brunell, there is a hellish plot somewhere, but I’ll unearth it. I’ll
show those women with whom they have to deal.’

“He clenched his fists and shook them at some imaginary person or
persons, while a string of oaths issued from his lips, so horrid and
dreadful that Brunell tried to stop him, but tried in vain; the storm of
passion raged on, until, with a sudden cry and distortion of the body,
the crazy man fell down in a fit. It did not last long, but it left its
traces upon his face, which was livid in hue, while his eyes looked
blood-shot and haggard, and he could scarcely walk without assistance.

“Still, he insisted upon taking the first train for Paris, for until he
saw Eugenie he was uncertain how to act. Anna might never have sailed
for America at all, for where did she get the money? It might be a ruse
to deceive him, and by the time he reached Paris he had made up his mind
that it was. Calling the first carriage he saw, he was driven rapidly to
Eugenie’s house, and ringing the bell violently, demanded to see Madame
Arschinard. She was ready for him, and had counted upon his doing just
what he had done. She knew he would take the first train to Avignon, and
the next train to Havre, and then she knew he would come to her.

“‘Send him to my room,’ was her reply to the servant’s message, and in a
moment he stood confronting her with a face more like that of an enraged
animal than a human being.

“But she met his gaze unflinchingly, and when he said:

“‘Where are my wife and child?’

“She answered him fearlessly:

“‘I last saw them on the deck of the _l’Europe_ as it put out to sea; if
living, they are in that vessel still, and almost to America. It is
several days since they sailed.’

“For a moment he could not speak, but stood glancing at her as a wild
beast might glance at some creature it meant to annihilate. But she
never flinched a hair, and her eyes grew larger and brighter, and her
lips more firmly compressed, as she stood regarding him, with a thought
of Agatha in her heart. This was her hour of revenge, and when he found
voice to say:

“‘Why has she gone, and who helped her to go, and where is Madame
Verwest? Tell me what you know,’ she burst forth impetuously, and
answered him:

“‘Yes, I will tell you what I know, Ernest Haverleigh, and I am glad, so
glad, of this hour of settlement between us. I told you your wife had
gone to America, and you ask me why. Strange question to ask about a
wife, a mere girl, whom you have kept shut up so long a prisoner in
reality, with no freedom whatever. A wife whom you have branded with
insanity, when she is far more sane than you, a wife to whom you have
told lie after lie, withholding her letters, and making her believe her
mother dead and her old home desolate. Ay, Ernest Haverleigh, you may
well turn pale, and grasp the chair, and breathe so heavily, and ask me
how I know all this. I do know that they across the sea, in the little
red house, thought her a lunatic, and mourned for her as such, while
she, this side the water, mourned her mother dead and sister gone she
knew not where, for you never told her; and you did all this to her, for
why, I know not, except the foolish words she spoke in New York when she
did not love you. What matter for love then, and she so young? In time
it would have come. She meant you fair, and you, you darkened her young
life, and made her almost crazy, and she could not love you. Only one
did that truly—loved you to her snare and death, but I come not to speak
of her yet, or I cannot say to you what I must. Madame Anna would have
loved you in time, but you killed the love, and she was so desolate when
I went to the chateau to hate her—yes, to hate her, and make merry of
her because she was your wife. I did not want to be your wife, remember
that; not now, not yet. I like freedom too well, but by and by, when I
am older, and the hair is gray, and the rouge and the powder will not
cover the wrinkles, I meant to be Madame Haverleigh, and respectable,
and go and live in England, and make the strict madames and
mademoiselles think much of me; but this little pale American came
between, and I meant to hate her, but could not, for the sweetness and
helplessness in the blue eyes and the—oh, _mon Dieu_, the look of the
dead darling in her face. So I liked her much, and pitied her more, and
then—oh, woe is me!—then I found at last my darling’s grave—found it
there at that dreary place. Agatha, my sister, whom you ruined and drove
mad, really mad, and killed, you villain! Oh, you villain! how I hate
you, and how I would tear your heart out and break it as you broke hers,
only I want you to live and hear me out, you villain!’

“Here Eugenie stopped to breathe, for she had wrought herself up to such
a pitch of frenzy that she seemed in danger of apoplexy, and clutched at
the fastenings of her dress about her throat as if to loosen them.
Haverleigh saw the strange look in her face, and how she gasped for
breath, but was himself too much paralyzed to move. At the mention of
Agatha, the sweet rose from Normandy, whom he had almost loved, and
whose memory was still green in his heart, he had thrown up both his
hands and then sank into the chair, unable to stand any longer. That
Agatha Wynde should have been the sister of Eugenie stunned him
completely, and made him for a time forget even Anna and his child. At
last, as the color faded from Eugenie’s face and she breathed more
freely, he found voice to say:

“‘Agatha your sister, yours! I never dreamed of that.’

“‘No, of course not, but you knew she was somebody’s darling, the
white-haired old man’s who died with a curse of you on his lips. You
lured the simple peasant-girl away, and told her you meant fair, and
because she was pure, and innocent, and could not otherwise be won, you
made believe marry her; but it was no marriage, no priest, and when she
found it out she went raving mad and died.’

“Haverleigh might have taunted the woman with the fact that she had had
something to do with the deception practiced upon Agatha, but she did
not give him a chance, for she went on to accuse herself:

“‘For this deed of blackness, I, too, was to blame, but I never dreamed
it was my darling, for whom I would have died; never guessed it was she
of whom I was so madly jealous, those days and nights when you left me
so much, and I knew a younger, fairer face than mine attracted you. I
was not fair then, for I knew of Agatha’s flight, and was hunting for
her everywhere, and all the time you had her in Paris, and I working
against her. Oh, Agatha, Agatha, sister, I’d give my life to have you
back, but you are gone, and on that little grave in southern France I
swore you should be avenged; and so——’ turning now to Haverleigh who sat
with his face buried in his hands—‘and so I learned the story of the
little American, and wrote to her friends, for I knew the mother was not
dead, as you told her, Heaven only knows why! I wrote, I say, and the
boy Fred started himself for France. Do you remember my telling you I
had advertised for an English maid, and do you remember the _Fanny
Shader_ of whom I thought so much? That was Frederick Strong, in girl’s
attire.’

“Haverleigh lifted his head then and ejaculated, ‘the devil,’ then
dropped it again, and Eugenie went on. ‘You begin, no doubt, to see the
plot. I took Fanny to Chateau d’Or, and left her there, and planned the
visit to Paris, and all that happened next. I telegraphed to madame just
as I agreed. I met her at Avignon; I accompanied her to Havre; I engaged
her passage, and I paid the bills for her and Fred, not for Madame
Verwest. She paid her own. She was an unexpected character in the little
drama. That she has gone to America, I know. Why she went I do not know.
Now I have told you all, and Agatha is avenged.’

“He neither looked up, nor moved, nor spoke as she swept from the room.
Indeed, although he heard the trail of her heavy silk as she went past
him, he hardly knew she had gone, so completely confounded and stupefied
was he with what she had said to him. That she, for whom he had done so
much, and on whose fidelity he had so implicitly trusted, should turn
against him, hurt him cruelly, that she should be the sister of Agatha
confounded and bewildered him; and that Anna had fled with his boy to
America, where his villainy, and treachery, and deceit would be fully
exposed, and that Madame Verwest had gone with her and thus virtually
turned against him, maddened and enraged him, and took from him for a
time the power even to move, and he sat perfectly quiet for at least
fifteen minutes after Eugenie had left him. Then, with an oath and a
clenching of his fists at something invisible, he sprang up, exclaiming,
‘I’ll follow them to America and claim my own. The law will give me my
wife, or at least my child, and that will stab them deeply.’

“Excited and buoyed up with this new idea, he felt himself growing
strong again to act, and without seeking to see Eugenie, he left the
house, and the next steamer which left Havre for America carried him as
a passenger.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                               IN AMERICA


“The ship _l’Europe_ came slowly up New York harbor one pleasant summer
morning, and among the eager crowd gathered on its deck, none were more
eager and expectant, ay, and nervous too, than our friends Madame
Verwest and Anna. The latter had been sick all the voyage, and kept her
state-room, tormented with a thousand groundless fears as to what her
infuriated husband might do. He was capable of anything, she knew, and
felt that he would follow her to America, and try to get her again in
his power. It was Fred who thoughtlessly suggested that he might
telegraph to New York for officers to be ready to arrest his runaway
wife as a lunatic, and after that idea once lodged in her brain, Anna
never rested a moment, night or day; and when at last New York was in
sight, and she was forced to dress herself and go on deck, she looked
more like a ghost than the blooming girl who had sailed down that very
harbor not quite two years before. Madame Verwest had been very silent
during the entire voyage, and had never given the slightest reason why
she had left the chateau. Nor did Anna care to question her. She was
satisfied to have her with her and clung to her as to a mother.

“‘Do you think he has telegraphed, and what shall we do if he has? You
will never let them have me,’ she said, as the ship was nearing the
wharf, and she gazed in terror at the promiscuous crowd waiting there,
and mistaking the custom-house officers for the police come to arrest.

“Madame Verwest herself had thought it possible that Haverleigh might
telegraph, but she did not admit it. She only said:

“‘They will take both of us, if either. I shall not leave you and your
friends will soon know of it.’

“Thus reassured, Anna grew more calm, and waited till the ship was fast
at the landing and the passengers free to leave. There was no officer
there, no telegram, and our party took the first train which left next
morning on the Harlem Road for Millfield. A telegram, however, had
preceded them, and the whole town was in a state of wild excitement when
it was known that Anna was coming back, and why. Up to this time but
little had been said of Fred’s departure for Europe, and though there
were surmises of something wrong, nothing definite was known until the
telegram was received, when the story came out and set the town on fire.
Everybody told everybody else, so that long before the train was due the
history of Anna’s life in France had been told a thousand times, and had
Ernest Haverleigh then appeared in the streets he would assuredly have
been torn in pieces by the crowd which surged toward the depot long
before the train was due. Everybody was there; those who had known Anna
in her girlhood and those who had not, the new-comers who only knew her
story and waited for a glimpse of her. Oh, how white, and frightened,
and wild she looked when at last she came and stepped upon the platform.
Fred’s arm was around her, and behind her came Madame Verwest, carrying
the child, which slept soundly all through the exciting scene.

“‘Mother—where’s mother?’ the pallid lips asked as Anna’s feet touched
the ground, and then her mother’s arms were round her, and the tired
head dropped on the maternal bosom with a low pitiful cry, and it was
whispered in the crowd that she had fainted.

They took her home to the low red house, and laid her in the little room
she used to occupy, and which she once had so despised. It seemed like
heaven to her now, as she sank down among the snowy pillows, and felt
the sweet breath of the summer air, laden with the perfume of the
new-mown hay, and the lilies of which she had talked so much to Madame
Verwest.

“‘Oh, mother, Mary, I am so glad,’ she said, as she saw them bending
over her, and felt that she was safe. ‘No one can get me here. You’ll
never let me go, for he will come after me; he is coming now,’ and with
a shudder she drew the sheet over her face as if to hide herself from
the dreaded husband coming to take her away.

“After that Anna knew no more of what was passing about her for days,
and even weeks. Nature had borne all it could, and she lay almost
motionless, and utterly unconscious of everything. But never sure was
queen tended with more care than she for whom everybody cared, and whose
room was filled with tokens of remembrance, flowers and fruit, and such
masses of white lilies, for these had been her favorites, and every
school-boy in town considered it an honor to wade into the pond,
knee-deep, and even imperil his life to secure the fragrant blossoms.

“From the first Madame Verwest was a puzzle to all, and a very little in
the way. It is true she was the nurse who took the entire charge of the
baby, and who, more than any one else, seemed to understand and know
what to do for Anna. But still she was in the way—a stranger, who had
not been expected, but whose only fault seemed to be that she stared too
much at Mrs. Strong and at the people in Millfield, especially the older
inhabitants, and asked too many questions about them. It was a little
strange, too, how fond she was of roaming about the town, and exploring
it in all its parts. Sometimes, with the baby in her arms, she would
leave the house in the morning, and not return again until dinner time,
and Mrs. Strong had heard of her more than once in the graveyard,
studying the old head-stones; and again down near the boat-house by the
river, sitting apparently in deep thought upon the grass, with Anna’s
baby sleeping on her lap. At first Mrs. Strong felt some natural anxiety
for the safety of the child, but when she saw how it clung to Madame
Verwest, and how devoted she seemed to be to its every movement, she
came to trust her fully, and to forget all else in her great concern for
her own child, who grew weaker and weaker every day, until to those who
watched her so closely there seemed little hope that she could ever
rally from the death-like stupor into which she had fallen. Nothing
roused her to the least degree of consciousness or motion, except,
indeed the mention of her husband’s name. As an experiment Madame
Verwest bent over her and said:

“‘_Ma petite_, do you remember Monsieur Haverleigh of Chateau d’Or?’

“Then there was a quivering of the lids, and a shiver ran through Anna’s
form, and she whispered faintly:

“‘Yes, yes, and he is coming; he is almost here, but don’t let him get
me.’

“And four days after he came, on the six o’clock train, from which he
stepped like a prince of the royal blood, and confronting the first man
he met upon the platform, haughtily demanded if he knew ‘whether Mrs.
Ernest Haverleigh, formerly Miss Anna Strong, were in town.’

“All the town was watching for Haverleigh, and threatening him with dire
vengeance should he attempt the removal of his wife by force. As it
chanced, the person addressed was a burly truckman, and who, with his
whip in his hand, looked a rather formidable personage, as, in answer to
Haverleigh’s question, he replied:

“‘Yes, _sir_, the lady you mean is in town, sick to death, they say, and
if you are that contemptible dog who shut her up and called her crazy,
and told them infernal lies, the quicker you leave these parts the
healthier for you, if you don’t want to be ducked in the mill-pond.’

“Haverleigh was too much astonished to speak at first. That he, the
proud Englishman, should be thus addressed by a low, ignorant, working
Yankee was more than flesh and blood like his could bear, and his face
was purple with rage, and his eyes gleamed savagely as he replied:

“‘Who are you that dares speak to me in this manner, and do you know who
I am?’

“‘Yes, _sir-ee_, I know darned well who you are,’ the man replied,
nothing intimidated by Haverleigh’s threatening manner, but strengthened
by the crowd gathering so fast around him.

“It had circulated rapidly that Haverleigh had come, and was ‘sassing’
Ben Rogers, and the idlers gathered near at once, eager to hear and
ready to defend, if necessary, their comrade, who continued:

“You are the confoundedest, meanest, contemptiblist animal that the Lord
ever suffered to live, and I am Benjamin Franklin Rogers, at your
service, and if you open your dirty mouth again I’ll give you a taste of
this horse-whip; so, if you want to save your British hide, skedaddle
quick for the Widder Strong’s, as I s’pose you must go there, but, mark
my words, me and these chaps, my friends’—sweeping his arm toward the
crowd—‘will go with you to see you do no harm, and if the widder says
_duck you_, we’ll do it, or tar you and ride you on a rail, or any other
honor such as we can give you _grattis_ for nothin’.’

“Whether Haverleigh was intimidated, or too proud to speak, I do not
know. He made no reply except to glare like a madman upon the speaker
and the crowd, which made way for him to pass, and then followed at a
little distance as he moved rapidly in the direction of Mrs. Strong’s.
The news of his arrival had preceded him, and with a face white with
terror Mrs. Strong was waiting for him, and so was Madame Verwest. _She_
was neither pale nor frightened. She had carried the baby to Anna’s
room, and bidding Mary watch it, had left the apartment, and locking the
door after her joined Mrs. Strong in the parlor below, where they sat
together until the sound of the coming rabble drew them both to the
door.

“Very proudly and erect Haverleigh moved on, never once glancing back at
the crowd behind him. But he knew that it was there, and heard the
muttered menaces as he opened the gate and walked to the door. It was
Madame Verwest who met him and asked: ‘Ernest Haverleigh, why are you
here?’

“‘Why?’ he repeated, and his voice was like a savage growl. ‘Why am I
here? I am here for my wife and my son, and I intend to have them, too.
I’d like to see the law that can keep them from me, so lead the way
quickly, for I shall be off in the next train.’

“‘Never with Anna and the baby. Never, while I have the power to prevent
it, as I have,’ Madame Verwest replied, and then all the pent-up fury of
the terrible man burst out, and there were flecks of white foam about
his lips as he cursed the woman who boldly kept him at bay, with the
most horrible of curses, calling her at last by the vilest name a woman
can be called, and asking for her wedding ring and the certificate of
her marriage.

‘Ernest Haverleigh, hush; nor dare speak to me, _your mother_, like that
again.’

“The voice which said these words was very steady and low, but
Haverleigh heard it distinctly, and grasping the back of the chair near
which he was standing, repeated: ‘My mother; you, who were only my
nurse. You call yourself my mother!’

“‘Yes, and before Heaven I am your mother; listen while I tell you what
you should have known before, but for a promise to the dead.’

“He was still staring at her, with that same corpse-like pallor on his
face, and the look of a wild beast in his eyes, but he did not speak,
for some thing in the woman before him kept him silent while she went
on:

“‘I am your mother, and I thought I was your father’s wife, until after
you were born, when there came a day of horrid awakening, and I found I
was betrayed by the man I loved, and for whom I had left my home, for I
was young and innocent once, and pretty, too, they said; but I was poor
and hated poverty, and when this rich man came with honeyed words and
fair promises, I believed and trusted him to my ruin, and went with him
over the sea—for I am American born, and not English, as you suppose. We
staid in lodgings in London till you were born, and by that time a face
fairer than mine had come between me and your father, a woman he meant
to marry, and so he told me the truth of his villainy, and when I found
I was not a wife, I think I went mad for a time, and when I came to
myself I was in poorer lodgings in an obscure part of London, where I
passed for Mr. Haverleigh’s housekeeper, who had served him so
faithfully that he would not cast me off in my trouble. That was the lie
he told, and they believed him and were kind to me for the sake of the
money he paid them, You were at Grasmere then with your father, whom in
spite of everything I loved, and to whom I went, begging him to let me
have the care of my child if nothing more. To this he consented, the
more readily because he was about to marry my rival, and you might be in
the way. He loved you, I do believe, and he trusted me, but made me
swear not to divulge my real relation to you. I was your nurse, your
foster-mother, nothing more. There might be no children of the marriage,
he said, and if so, he should make you his heir, and did not wish you to
know the stain upon your birth. There _were_ no children, and as if to
punish him for his sin to me, his wife died within the year, and he was
left alone and made you his heir, so that when he died all he had was
left to you, except a thousand pounds given to me, whom he designated as
the foster-mother of his child.

“‘You, as you grew up, believed the woman who died at Grasmere was your
mother, and that I was only your nurse; but that was false; I was your
mother, else I had never followed your fortunes as I have, and clung to
you through all as only a mother can cling to the son whose wickedness
she knows, and whom she cannot forsake. You thought me in your power,
because you fancied I had been indiscreet in my youth, and that your
threats to expose me kept me quiet to do your bidding. There you were
mistaken. It was the mother loving you through everything which made me
the same as a prisoner at Chateau d’Or, where I was really happier than
when following you about. Because it suited you I consented to be Madame
Verwest, a Frenchwoman, and for you I have lived a life of deceit,
which, thank Heaven, is over now. I meant to release Anna myself
sometime, on the plea of _your_ insanity, if by no other, for there is
madness in your father’s family, and you are mad at times. But others
planned the escape, and I gladly followed to America, my native land,
and to Millfield, my old home, for I am Milly Gardner, step-sister to
Anna’s father, and the one you told me went to the bad, and was the only
blot on the family.’

“Up to this time there had been a listener to Madame Verwest’s
story—Mrs. Strong, who, terrified at the appearance of Haverleigh, had
fled to the adjoining room, where she sank into a chair faint and
helpless, and thus heard all that was said by Madame Verwest. At the
mention of Milly Gardner, however, she sprang to her feet and ran to the
woman’s side, exclaiming:

“Oh, Milly, Milly! I have heard so much of you from my husband, and from
him learned to love you even while believing the story I know now to be
false. It is all so strange that you should be here when we thought you
dead years ago. And _you_ are _his_ mother,” she continued, pointing to
Haverleigh. ‘Send him away, if you have any power over him; he must not
see my child.’

“The sound of Mrs. Strong’s voice speaking of Anna roused Haverleigh
from his stupor, or rather state of bewilderment, and with a savage oath
he started forward, exclaiming:

“‘I _shall_ see your child, and take her, too, for she is mine. Stand
aside, woman—hag—beldame—who dares to call herself my mother,’ he
continued, as Madame Verwest laid both her hands upon his arm. ‘It is a
lie you have told me. My mother was she who lived and died at Grasmere,
and you—you—are——’

“He did not finish the sentence, for his excitement and passion had been
increasing every moment, while his face grew more and more swollen and
purple, until the flecks of foam gathered more thickly about his lips,
which gave forth a bubbling sound as he fell across the chair in a fit.

“Then the mother woke again in Madame Verwest, and kneeling by the side
of her tossing, struggling son, she lifted up his head, and cared for
him as tenderly as when he was a new-born baby and first lay upon her
bosom. The terrible convulsions ceased at last, and the natural color
came back to his face; but the eyes, which fastened themselves upon her
with such a look of hate, were the eyes of a madman, who had in his
heart intense hatred and even murderous designs toward the woman who
still held his head upon her lap, and dropped her tears upon his face.

“‘Woman—fiend—liar—I’ll have your life!’ he screamed, as he sprang to
his feet, and with clenched fists darted toward his mother, who stepped
aside to avoid the blow, and thus made way for the men outside upon the
walk, who, attracted by the loud, angry tones, had come nearer and
nearer to the door, which they reached just as Haverleigh rose to his
feet and sprang toward his mother.

“‘Hold, villain—stop that!’ the foremost of them cried; and Haverleigh
was caught by both arms, and held as in a vise by two men, who yet had
hard work to keep him from breaking loose from their grasp.

“A moment sufficed to convince them that it was no sane man they held,
and then arose a call for ropes with which to bind him. I think the
whole town knew by this time what was going on, and the street in front
of Mrs. Strong’s was densely packed with an excited throng, but only a
few entered the house, and these the more intimate acquaintance of the
family. That Haverleigh was raving mad was a fact no one doubted, and to
secure his person was a step which seemed imperative, but was hard of
accomplishment, for he was naturally strong, and his excitement lent to
him a double strength. But he was mastered at last, and carried bodily
to the village hall, where he was to be kept securely until some
decision was reached as to what should be done with him. That decision
was reached before the close of the next day, for he grew more and more
furious and uncontrollable, until the asylum seemed the only
alternative, and thither they carried him at last, and placed him in the
strong room, as it was called, where, struggle as he might, he could not
get free or burst the bars and bolts which held him.

“Meanwhile, in Millfield, Madame Verwest, as we will still call her, had
told her story more fully to Mrs. Strong, while Anna, too, when she was
better and could bear it, heard that the woman who from the first had
been so kind to her in Chateau d’Or, was in reality her mother-in-law,
and the grandmother of the little boy Arthur. Like poor Agatha Wynde she
had been lured from her place in Boston, where she was employed in a
straw shop. The man, who gave his name to her as Stevens, was an
Englishman, and rich, and she went with him trustingly and honorably, as
she believed, until the dreadful day when she found how she had been
deceived. Even then she loved him and clung to her child, whom she was
allowed to care for on condition that she passed as his nurse or
foster-mother, and to this promise she held for many years, during which
time Haverleigh died and left by will all his fortune to his son, except
a thousand pounds bequeathed to the wretched woman who stood by him when
he died; and when, selfish to the last, he said: ‘Don’t let the boy know
the story of his birth. Let him think that Mabel was his mother,’ she
answered him, ‘I will,’ and bore her secret bravely, and cared for the
boy, and was a very slave to do his wishes, because of the love she bore
him.

“Whatever opinion he might have had of her, her influence over him was
great, and he really seemed to have a genuine affection for her as the
only mother he had ever known, and would never suffer her to leave his
service, as he called it. He paid her well, told her most of his plans,
counseled with her often, and at times evinced for her a liking and
respect very dear to the woman who longed so much to fall upon his neck
and claim him as her son. She had been with him in Scotland, and London,
and Paris, and at last, six years before his marriage with Anna, had
gone with him to Chateau d’Or, which he had just bought, and where for
weeks he held a high carnival with his wild, dissipated friends. The
quiet and seclusion of the place just suited his mother, who at his
request had before leaving Paris, taken the name of Madame Verwest.

“Up to that time she had been Mrs. Stevens, for she clung to the name
she once believed to be her own, but it pleased her son to have her
Madame Verwest, and a Frenchwoman, so a Frenchwoman she was; and because
she liked the chateau so much he permitted her to stay there in charge
of his servants, who held her in great esteem. The isolated position of
the chateau was just suited to some of Haverleigh’s nefarious schemes,
and poor Agatha Wynde was not the first young girl who had been immured
in its walls. A fair-haired German from Munich, and a dark-eyed Italian
from Verona had been hidden there for months until the search for them
by their grief-stricken friends was over. When poor Agatha came there
she had been so fair, so sweet, and so confiding, that Madame Verwest
had taken the erring, repentant girl into her heart, and loved her like
a mother.

“‘We don’t think quite the same,’ Agatha had said to her during a lucid
interval a day or two before she died. ‘We are not the same religion.
You Protestant, I _Catholique_; but you love Jesus, you ask him to
forgive, and so do I; Him and Mary, too; and He will, and you will come
to Heaven after poor Agatha some day. I sure you will, for there be now
and then some Protestant there.’

“This was quite a concession for one so devout as Agatha, and Madame
Verwest had smiled faintly when it was made, but she kissed the pallid
lips and brow where death had already set its seal, and when at last all
was over she placed a golden crucifix in the white hands folded so
meekly over the heart which would never know pain again. She telegraphed
to Haverleigh, who was dining with Eugenie when he received the message,
and who read the telegram without a word of comment, and then, lest the
jealous eyes watching him so closely should see it, he lighted a match,
and applying it to the paper saw it burn to ashes. But he could not seem
quite natural, and as soon as dinner was over he excused himself, and
started directly for the station, leaving Eugenie to speculate upon the
nature of the telegram which had so plainly affected his spirits, and
taken him from her earlier than his wont. Alas, she little guessed the
truth, or dreamed of the beautiful girl lying so cold and still in her
coffin, and on whose white face even Haverleigh’s tears fell when he
looked upon her dead, and remembered what she was when he first saw her,
a lovely peasant-girl in Normandy, singing by her father’s door. They
buried her quietly, and then Haverleigh returned to Paris and Eugenie,
while over the lonely grave Madame Verwest vowed that no other maiden
should ever come there as Agatha had come; and so, when she first heard
of Anna, she determined upon something desperate, until told that Anna
was a wife in very deed, and that no stain was on her name. Then, when
she learned who she was, and whence she came, her heart went out to the
desolate creature with a great throb of love, which strengthened every
day, and was such as a real mother feels for a suffering, ill-used
child. Many times, when listening to Anna’s talk of her New England
home, she had been tempted to tell her who she was, but had refrained
from doing so, hoping always that the day was not far distant when she
could disclose everything, and be her real self again. That day had come
at last, and with no fear of the dreadful man who had ruled her for so
many years, she told her story, and waited the verdict of her wondering
listeners.

“Anna was the first to speak. Motioning Madame Verwest to her bedside,
she wound her arms around her neck, and said:

“‘I loved you as a mother at Chateau d’Or, and am so glad to find you
are my mother truly, and the grandmother of little Arthur.’

“Neither were Mrs. Strong and Mary backward in their demonstrations of
friendship and esteem for the woman who had suffered so much since the
day, years and years before, when she had left her home in Millfield and
returned no more. Could the inmates of the red house have blotted from
their minds the memory of the poor lunatic who, not many miles away, was
chafing and raging like a newly-caged animal, they would have been very
happy these last summer days; and, to a certain degree, they were happy,
though, in her low, nervous state Anna could never quite put from her
mind the fear lest her dreaded husband should by some means escape from
his confinement and come to do her harm. But the bolts and bars were
very strong which held him, else he might perhaps have escaped, for he
seemed endowed with superhuman strength, and clutched savagely at the
iron gratings of his cell, shaking them at times as if they were but
dried twigs in his hands.

“He was terrible in his insanity, and only his keeper and physician ever
ventured near him. At them he sprang and snapped viciously, like a dog
chained to a post, while he filled the room with the most horrid oaths,
cursing Madame Verwest, who had dared to call him her child.

“‘He who was highly born, the son of a gentleman, the child of a
servant, a nurse, a Yankee, and illegitimate at that; curse her! curse
her! she lies! she lies! she played me false, and I hate her!’ he would
scream, when his mother was the subject of his thoughts.

“Again, when it was Eugenie, he grew, if possible, more desperate than
before, and would utter such oaths that even his keeper, hardened as he
was by similar scenes, fled from the hearing of the blasphemous words.

“Of Anna and Agatha he never spoke until toward the last, when, as if he
had worn his fierce nature out, he grew more quiet, and would sit for
hours perfectly still, with his head bowed upon his hands, intently
brooding over something in the past. Was he thinking of Agatha, and the
cottage far away in Normandy, where he first saw her singing in the
sunshine, with the sweet, shy look of innocence in her soft eyes, or did
she come up before him as he last looked upon her, cold, white, and dead
in her coffin, ruined by him, who had used every act in his power to
lure her into the snare. It would seem that she came to him in both
phases, for at times he would smile faintly and whisper, very soft and
low:

“‘_Ma petite, ma cherie. Venez avec moi a Paris. Je vous aime bien_.’

“To her he always spoke in French and with the utmost tenderness, saying
to her, as he thought himself bending over her coffin:

“‘I am sorry, Aggie, I am so sorry, and I wish I had left you in your
home as innocent as I found you, poor little Aggie, so white and cold;
don’t look at me with those mournful eyes; don’t touch me with those
death-like hands; don’t you know you are dead, _dead_, and dead folks
lie still? Don’t touch me, I say;’ and cries of fear would echo through
the hall as the terror-stricken man fancied himself embraced and held
fast by the arms which for so long had been at rest beneath the sod in
southern France.

“‘It’s the French girl after him now,’ the keeper would say, as he heard
the cries and pleadings for some one ‘to lie still and take their cold
hands off.’ ‘It’s the French girl after him now, _death hug_, you know.
He’ll be quieter when it’s t’other one;’ the ‘t’other one’ referring to
Anna, who was often present to the disordered mind of the man, but who
never excited him like Agatha.

“He was not afraid of Anna, but would hold long conversations with her,
trying sometimes to convince her of her insanity, and again telling her
that he loved her and always had, notwithstanding what he had heard her
say of him in New York. It was in the spring following the summer when
Anna arrived at Millfield that this softer, quieter mood came upon him,
and with it a debility, and loss of strength and appetite, and gradual
wasting away, which told that his days were numbered. Years of
dissipation had undermined his naturally strong constitution, and he had
no surplus vitality on which to draw, so that the decay, once commenced,
was very rapid, and just a year from the day Anna came back to
Millfield, he was dead.

“Madame Verwest was with him when he died for though he never asked for
her or for any one, the mother love was too strong to keep her from him,
and she went to him unbidden when she heard how sick he was. Whether her
presence was any gratification to him or not, she never knew, for he
expressed nothing, either by word or look. Once, when she spoke to him
of Anna and his boy, there came a faint flush upon his face, and he
repeated the names:

“‘Anna—Arthur.’

“Again, when she said to him:

“‘Ernest, you have much money, and land in your possession. If you die,
where do you wish it to go?’

“For a moment he regarded her intently, and then replied:

“‘Anna, Arthur—mother.’

“The last word was spoken softly, kindly, and brought a rain of tears
from the poor woman, who had clung to him so many years, and never heard
that name from him before. Two days after that he died, and went to the
God who deals justly with all His creatures. They bought him an elegant
coffin, and dressed him in the finest of broadcloth, and brought him up
to Millfield and buried him in the quiet graveyard behind the church,
where he sleeps till the resurrection morning. Anna did not see him. She
could not, but she suffered Madame Verwest to take Arthur with her to
the grave, and so the mother and the son stood together while the coffin
was lowered to the earth, and the solemn words were uttered, ‘ashes to
ashes, dust to dust.’

“To the little boy the weeping woman said:

“‘That’s your father, Arthur; your father they are burying;’ but Arthur
was thinking more of the sunshine, and birds, and flowers than of the
ceremonial which had no meaning for him, and releasing himself from his
grandmother, started in pursuit of a butterfly, and his loud baby laugh
mingled with the sound of the dirt rattling down upon the coffin which
contained what had been his father.”

Here Hal Morton paused, and pointed toward a half-closed shutter through
which the early morning was breaking. We had sat up all night, he
telling and I listening to this strange story, which I felt was not
finished yet, for I must know more of Anna, and if anything had ever
been heard from Eugenie, who, however bad she might seem, had shown
herself in some respects a noble woman, with many noble instincts and
kindly feelings; so I said to my companion:

“Never mind the daylight, Hal. We will order a tip-top breakfast by and
by, and meantime you finish the story and tell me more of Anna and
Eugenie. Did they ever hear from her, and did Anna and the child get
Haverleigh’s money?”

“Yes, they got Haverleigh’s money,” Hal replied. “Anna and Arthur
between them. It was theirs lawfully, you know, and there was a million
in all. Think of Anna Strong a millionaire. But it did not hurt her one
whit, or change her in the least from the sweet, modest, half-frightened
woman who came back to Millfield in place of the gay Anna we had known.
She did not wear mourning for her husband; she could not with that
consciousness in her heart of relief because he was dead; but she always
wore black or white, relieved perhaps with a knot of ribbon or a flower,
and never was there a fairer sight than was she in this sober attire as
she went about our village seeking the sick and suffering, and giving to
the poor of the wealth that God had given her. She built her mother a
handsome house on an elevation just out of the town, and a wing was
added for Madame Verwest, who was so much one of the family that she
could not leave them.

“And so the working in the shoe-shop was at an end, with the smell of
wax and leather, and the horrors of Chateau d’Or were past, and there
were people foolish enough to say that it paid after all to marry a
madman when the end had brought such peace. To Eugenie, Anna had often
written, and when all was over she wrote again telling of the death.
Then the French inconsistency of character showed itself, and the woman
to whom Haverleigh had always been kind and indulgent, wept and refused
to be comforted, partly for her loss, and more, I think, because no
provision had been made for her.

“‘_Mon dieu!_’ she wrote to Anna, ‘to think no little legacee _pour
moi_, who have given everything for him. Not so much as one, what you
say, one dollar, and I so poor, too. Not so much to buy one pair of
gloves, and they so cheap at _Au Bon Marche, trois francs et demi_, and
so good. Shall I send you a box of black—bah, _non, ma cherie_. You not
wear that for he, but _me_, I must wear _crepe_, and bombasin, one
leetle month, for my heart all French, all _crepe_, all ache, _douleur_,
for the bad monsieur, who once love Eugenie. He have account at bank and
I draw check at will, and have draw till only one thousand franc left,
which you make two hundred dollars. Then what I must do? I grow old and
want no more monsieur—bah! I hate him all. I look in my glass and see
Eugenie most forty, with some gray hairs, some wrinkles, which paste
will not cover. No monsieur want me for wife: I want no monsieur. So I
must work; must hang out the sign, ‘_Robes et Costumes. Madame
Eugenie_,’ and tie to it some bonnets and caps. Oh, but it will go hard
after all the ease, to have so many girls round, and I must scold them
all the time; perhaps I act again, but it I hate so much; it brings me
_les messieurs_ again, and I won’t have it. For you, you so happy with
_beaucoup de l’argent_, no more nasty shop, no more wax, no more
leather, no more smell-bad; but for me leather, and wax, and smell-bad,
_toujours, toujours_. _Mon Dieu_, ’tis quite hard, and I give all to
him, all, and if he not die, what you call him, crazy, he remember
Eugenie in his—his little last testament, you call it, or some book like
that. Oh, me, I starve, I die. I have the many girls around me with the
bad to sew, and you have the silk, the satin, the opera, and the lunch
at _Trois Freres—bien_—’tis right, but hard, and it takes so few money
to set me up, quite. _Me comprenez vous?_’

“Anna did understand the hint, and sent to the Frenchwoman, who had done
her great service, ten thousand dollars, which Eugenie acknowledged with
rapture.

“‘Enough, with _prudency_ and _save_, to keep me lady all my life. No
need for the girls now to sew _les robes_; no leather, no wax, no
smell-bad, forevermore, but highly respectable woman, who let rooms to
_les Americains_ and bring them _cafe_ in the morning.’

“This was Eugenie’s reply, and after that Anna heard no more from her,
but supposed her happy as a highly respectable woman and keeper of
lodgers.”

The mention of Eugenie’s _cafe_ was too much for Hal and myself in our
exhausted condition, and, ringing the bell, we ordered _cafe_ for two in
our apartments, and while we were sipping the delicious beverage, I said
to my companion:

“Hal, you have told a splendid story, but I must hear a little more. You
were in love with Anna Strong before she married Haverleigh. Did the
love come back after he was dead?”

Hal made no answer for a moment, then he said:

“I will not tell you another word to-day; nor have I time. We must see a
little of Marseilles, and to-night be off for Nice.”

“And not stop at Cannes?” I asked, and he replied:

“No, not stop at Cannes—a stupid place, full of English. Nice is the
spot in all the world for me.”

So we went straight to Nice, and were quartered at the Grand Hotel, and
our rooms opened upon the spacious garden, where, looking from my window
in the morning, I saw several groups of people, one of which attracted
my attention at once. A beautiful boy of three years old was running up
and down a graveled walk, followed by a smart-looking French maid, who
always brought him back to two ladies sitting on a bench under the
trees.

One lady was old and draped in black, but the other was young, and oh,
so fair in her morning-dress of white, with a blue ribbon in her wavy
hair. There were diamonds and costly gems sparkling on her hands, and
everything about her betokened the lady of wealth and culture.

“Who is she, I wonder?” I was saying to myself, when I saw Hal enter the
garden and walk straight up to her, while a shout from the little boy
showed that he was no stranger.

Stranger! I should say not, by the _kiss_ he gave that girl or woman,
with me looking on, and saying aloud:

“That’s Anna, sure!”

Yes, it was Anna come abroad with Madame Verwest and her child, and her
former maid, Celine, whom she had found at Chateau d’Or, where they had
stopped for a few days. And an hour after I was introduced to Mrs.
Haverleigh, and sat opposite her at the breakfast we had in her parlor,
and studied her closely, and decided that Hal had not overrated her
charms.

She was beautiful, with that soft, refined, unconscious beauty that one
rarely sees in a really handsome face. There was nothing of the doll
about her. She was a thorough woman, graceful, pure, and lovely, with a
look in her blue eyes which told of Chateau d’Or and the dreamy day and
night watches there. But those were over now. Chateau d’Or was rented
for a series of years, at a price merely nominal, and so that was off
her hands, and the greatest care she had was the care of her immense
fortune. Of course Hal had offered to relieve her of this care, and she
had accepted his offer, and given him herself as a retaining fee.

We kept with her after that, or Hal did, and I kept at a distance, and
talked with Madame Verwest, and romped with Arthur until we reached
Venice, and there, one moonlight night, Hal and Anna were married, and
we made the tour of the Grand Canal for a wedding trip, and the canopy
over the bride was of pure white satin, and in the soft, silvery
moonlight we sang the “Star-Spangled Banner,” our two boatmen joining in
the chorus with their sweet Italian voices.

That was long ago, and Hal Morton has a boy of his own now, and a
blue-eyed baby daughter, too, and he lives in one of the finest places
on the Connecticut river, and goes to Europe every year, and Madame
Verwest lives with him; and Fred has been through college, and is on the
Continent now; and Mary is married to a Methodist minister, and Mrs.
Strong is dead; and Eugenie—well, when the Commune swept over Paris,
Eugenie herself went into the street and cared for the wounded and
dying, and hurled a stone at a Frenchman who was attacking an American,
and kept him at bay, and got the young man into her own house, and
bandaged up his head, and called him “Sharles,” and asked him if he
remembered her.

Fred did remember her then, and staid with her till the fierce storm was
over and he was free to leave beleaguered and desecrated Paris and go on
his way to Scotland, where he found Hal Morton and Anna in their
beautiful home among the Highlands, not very far from Loch Katrine, and
so I finish this story of Chateau d’Or.


                                THE END.




                                 NORAH.


I had crossed in the bright October sunshine from Calais to Dover
without once taking refuge in the close, pent-up saloon, which is like a
little purgatory when the waters of the Channel are stirred to their
depths, and the boat is tossed like a feather from one angry wave to
another. It was very quiet that day, and the sea was literally like
glass, with the sunshine falling so softly upon it. Nobody had been sick
except a fair young girl, with _bride_ unmistakably stamped upon her,
from her dainty traveling-dress to the trustful glance of the blue eyes
lifted so often and lovingly to the face of the young man beside her.
Once, when the boat rocked more than usual, she had turned white to her
lips, and, dropping her golden head upon the shoulder of her husband,
had kept it there in a weary, languid kind of way, while I speculated
about her, wondering who she was, and where she was going, and hoping
that the party of American girls, who seemed to monopolize and fill the
entire deck, would take note of her, and see that at least one of my
countrywomen had taste, and style and beauty combined.

“Such frights as the English women are, with their horrid shoes, their
dresses made before the flood, and that everlasting white thing tied
high about their throats,” I had heard one of them say and, while
flushing with indignation, had felt, to a certain degree, that their
criticism was just, and that, taken as a whole, the English ladies did
not compare favorably with their American sisters, so far as grace and
style were concerned.

But this little bride, with the blue eyes and golden hair, might have
come from the show-rooms of the most fashionable modiste on Broadway,
and not have shamed her mantua-maker. She had evidently been gotten up
in Paris, and I watched her with a good deal of interest until the
cliffs of Dover were in sight, and we were nearing the shores of England
and home. Then, in seeing to my boxes, which were the very last to be
brought from the boat, I forgot everything, and came near being left by
the train waiting to take us to London.

“Hurry up, miss, you’ve only quarter of a second,” a porter cried, as,
in my bewilderment, I was looking for a carriage. “Here, here! this way!
Second class?” he screamed again, interrogatively, and seizing the door
of a second-class carriage, he held it open for me, guessing, by what
intuition I know not, that I must necessarily be a second-class
passenger.

For once, he was mistaken; for, thanks to the kindness of dear Kitty
Bute, with whom my vacation had been passed, I was first-class all the
way from Paris to London, and, rejecting contemptuously the porter’s
offer of assistance, I sprang into the nearest first-class compartment,
just as the train began to move, and found myself alone with the little
bride and groom. There was a look of annoyance in the eyes of the bride,
while the young man gave a significant pull to his brown mustache, and I
knew I was not wanted. But I had a right as valid as their own, and
taking my seat on the opposite side, near the open window, I pretended
to be occupied with the country through which we were passing so
swiftly, while my thoughts went back to the past, gathering up the
broken threads of my life, and dwelling upon what I had been once and
what I was now.

And this is the picture I saw far back through a vista of twelve long,
weary years. A pleasant old house in Middlesex—an English house, of
stone, with ivy creeping over it even to the chimney-tops, and the boxes
of flowers in the windows, the tall trees in front, the patches of
geraniums and petunias in the grass, the honeysuckle over the door of
the wide, old-fashioned hall, through which the summer air blew softly,
laden with the perfume of roses, and the sweet-scented mignonette. And I
was standing in the door, with a half-opened rose in my hair, and the
tall, angular boy who had placed it there was looking down upon me with
great tears swimming in his eyes, as he said:

“Keep the rose, Norah, till I come back, and I shall know you have not
forgotten me, even if you _are_ Mrs. Archibald Browning.”

There was an emphasis on the last name, and a tone in his voice as he
spoke it, which did not please me, and I said:

“Oh, Tom, why can’t you like Archie better, and he so noble and good,
and so kind to get you that position with his uncle in India?”

“Yes, I know; Archie is lovely, and I am a brute because I don’t feel
like kissing his feet just because he interested himself to get me the
place. But I hope you will be happy, and if those two lubbers of cousins
happen to die, you will be my Lady Cleaver, and mistress of Briarton
Lodge; but don’t forget old Tom, who by that time will be married to
some black East Indian princess, and have a lot of little darkies
running round. There, I must go now; it’s time. I say, Norah, come with
me through the field to the highway. I want to keep hold of you to the
very last, and Archie won’t care. I’m your brother, you know.”

He was my brother to all intents and purposes, though really my second
cousin. But I had no brother, or sister, or mother, only a father and
aunt, and Tom had lived with us since I was a little girl of ten, and
now he was going out to India to make his fortune. His ship would sail
on the morrow, and I could not refuse to go with him as far as the
highway, where he was to take the stage for London. It was a forlorn,
dreary walk through the pleasant grassy lane; for I loved Tom very
dearly, and there was a great wrench in my heart at the thought of
parting with him. He was silent, and never spoke a word until the stile
was reached, where we were to part. Then, suddenly lifting me high in
his arms, as if I were a child, for I was very short and he was very
tall, he kissed my forehead and lips, and cried like a baby, as he said:

“Good-by, little Norah, Mrs. Archibald Browning, good-by, and God bless
you; and if that husband ever does abuse you, tell him he will answer
for it to me, Tom Gordon, the gawky cousin with more legs than brains.”

“Oh, Tom,” I said, struggling to my feet, “you know Archie did not mean
that, and maybe he never said it. I wish you did not hate him so.”

“I don’t hate him, Norah. I simply do not like him, or any of his race.
They are a proud set, who think you highly honored to be admitted into
the blooded family of Brownings. And then, too, Norah,” he continued,
with that peculiar smile which was his one beauty and made him
irresistible, “then, too, Norah, you see—you know—I’m not your brother;
I’m only your second cousin, and though I never thought you very
handsome, you are the nicest girl I ever knew, and—well, I think I meant
to marry you myself!”

He burst into a merry laugh and looked straight in my face as I drew
back from him with a gasp, exclaiming:

“_You_, Tom; _you_ marry me! Why, I’m old enough to be your
grandmother!”

“You are twenty, I am nineteen; that’s all the difference, though I
confess that you have badgered, and scolded, and lectured me enough for
forty grandmothers,” he said; “but there’s the stage, and now it’s
really good-by.”

Two minutes more and I was walking back alone through the quiet shady
lane, where Tom and I had played together so often, and where now were
the remains of a playhouse he had built under a spreading oak. There was
his room, divided from mine by a line of stones, and there in the wall
the little niche where I kept my dishes and hid the gooseberry tarts
away from greedy Tom. How happy we had been together, making believe
sometimes that I was his mother and he my sick baby, which I tried to
rock to sleep in my lap, finding his long legs a great inconvenience and
a serious obstacle to much petting on my part. Again he was a fierce
knight and I a lorn maiden shut up in some grim fortress—usually old
Dunluce Castle—for we had once visited the north of Ireland and explored
the ruins of what some writer terms “the grandest, romantickest,
awfullest sea-king’s home in all the broad kingdom.” We had had our
quarrels, too, and even fights, in which I always came off victor, owing
to my peculiar mode of warfare, as I had a habit of springing upon him
like a little cat and tearing his face with my nails, while he was
usually content with jerky pulls at my hair. But all that was over now,
and buried with the doll whose head he had broken because I would not
stay home and nurse him when he had the quinsy, and could only talk in a
wheezy kind of way. He had threatened revenge, and taken it upon my
prettiest Paris doll, and I had flown at him like a tiger and scratched
his nose till it bled, and cried myself sick, and then we had made it up
and buried dolly near the old playhouse in the lane, and reared a slab
to her memory, and planted some daisies on her grave. And just here,
near what seemed to be the grave of my childhood, I sat down that summer
afternoon and thought of all those years—of Tom on his way to India, and
of the future opening so brightly before me, for I was the betrothed
wife of Archibald Browning, who belonged to one of the best families in
the county, and in less than a month we were to be married and spend our
honeymoon in Switzerland, among the glorious Alps, of which I had
dreamed so much. I knew that Archie’s mother was very proud, and thought
her son might have looked higher than Norah Burton, especially as there
was a possible peerage in prospect, but she was civil to me, and had
said that a season in London would improve me greatly, if such a little
creature could be improved; and Archie, I was sure, loved me dearly,
notwithstanding that he sometimes criticised my style and manner, and
wished I was more like his cousin, Lady Darinda Cleaver, who, I heard,
powdered her face and penciled her eyebrows, and was the finest rider on
Rotten Row. Tom, who had been often in London, had seen the Lady
Darinda, and reported her as a perfect giantess, who wore a man’s hat,
with a flapper behind on the waist of her riding-suit, and sat her horse
as stiffly and straight as if held in her place by a ramrod, and never
rode faster than a black ant could trot.

This was Tom’s criticism, which I had repeated to Archie, who laughed a
little, and pulled his light brown mustache, and said: “Tom was not a
proper judge of stylish women, and that Darinda’s manners were
faultless.”

I had no doubt they were, though I had never seen her, but I should ere
long, as she had consented to be one of my bride-maids, and had written
me a note which was very prettily worded, and very patronizing in its
tone, and made me dislike her thoroughly. She was in London now, Archie
had written in the letter in which he told me he should be with me on
the day after Tom’s departure. I was never so glad for his coming, I
think, for my heart was very heavy at parting with Tom, whose words, “I
meant to marry you myself,” kept ringing in my ears as I sat alone in
the grassy lane by the ruins of the playhouse he had built. Not that I
attached the slightest importance to them, or believed for a moment that
he was serious in what he said, for he was my brother, my dear, good
brother, who had been so much to me, and whom I missed so much, that at
last I laid my head upon dollie’s miniature grave and cried bitterly for
the boy traveling so fast to London, and the ship which would take him
away. There was, however, comfort in the thought that Archie was coming
on the morrow, and the next morning found me with spirits restored,
eager and expectant for my love. But Archie did not come, and the hours
wore on and there was no news of him until the following day, when there
came a note from his mother telling me he was sick.

“Nothing very serious,” she wrote, “only a heavy cold, the result of a
drenching he received while riding with Darinda several miles out in the
country. He sends his love, and says you are not to be alarmed, for he
will soon be with you.”

That was the note, and I was not to be alarmed, nor was I. I was only
conscious that a strange kind of feeling took possession of me, which I
could not define, but which sent me to my room, where the bridal finery
lay, and made me fold it up, piece by piece, and put it carefully away,
with a feeling that it would never be worn. There was much sickness in
our neighborhood that summer, and the morning after hearing of Archie’s
illness I took my breakfast in bed, and after that day knew little of
what was passing around me until the roses which were blossoming so
brightly when Tom went away were fading on their stalks, and other and
later flowers were blossoming in their place.

I had been very sick, Aunt Esther said, with the distemper, as they
called the disease, which had desolated so many homes in our vicinity.

“What day is it? What day of the month, I mean?” I asked, feeling dazed
and bewildered, and uncertain whether it was yesterday that I sat in the
lane and cried for dear Tom, or whether it was long ago.

“It’s the tenth,” she said; and her voice shook a little, and she did
not turn her face toward me but pretended to be busy with the curtains
of the bed.

“The tenth?” I cried. “Tenth of July, my wedding-day! Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” she answered, softly; “it was to have been your wedding-day.”

“And Archie,” I continued; “is he better—is he here?”

Still her face was turned from mine, and her hands were busy with the
curtain, as she replied:

“He is not here now, but he is better, much better.”

This time her voice and manner awoke in me a suspicion of some impending
evil, and exerting all my strength, I raised myself in bed and said,
vehemently:

“Aunt Esther, you are keeping something from me. Tell me the worst at
once. Is Archie dead, or Tom, or both?”

“No, no. Oh, no, not Tom. Heaven forbid that Tom should die. There’s a
letter for you from him. I’ll get it, shall I? You were not to read it
till to-day.”

She started to leave the room, but I kept her back with my persistent
questionings.

“You have not told me all. You are trying to deceive me. Is Archie
dead?”

Archie _was_ dead and buried ten days ago. The heavy cold taken while
riding with Lady Darinda had become congestion of the lungs, and while I
lay unconscious of my loss, he had died, and Lady Darinda had written me
a note of condolence and sympathy. Mrs. Browning was too much broken
down to write, she said, and so on her devolved the painful duty of
telling me how quietly and peacefully Archie had died, after an illness
of a few days.

“I nursed him myself to the very last, and was the more anxious to do
it,” she wrote, “because I fancied he had never quite forgiven me for
having refused him, as you probably knew I did two or three years ago,
just before he met you at the Trossachs Hotel. I was very fond of
Archie, poor fellow, even if I could not marry him, and it nearly broke
my heart to see him die. He spoke your name once or twice, but I could
not make out exactly what he said, except ‘Be kind to her,’ and Mrs.
Browning wishes me to assure you of her friendship, and good feeling,
and desire to serve you if ever in her power to do so. We did not tell
Archie you were sick; we thought it better not, and as he expressed no
wish to have you come to him, it was not necessary. I send a lock of his
hair, which I cut for you myself, and Mrs. Browning says she thinks the
picture you have of him better than any she has ever seen, and she will
be very glad if you will loan it to her until she can have some copies
of it taken. Please send it at once, as we shall leave London soon for
Bath, my aunt’s health rendering a change of air and scene imperative.

                                      Yours, in sorrow and sympathy,
                                                      “DARINDA CLEAVER.”

As I read this strange epistle, I felt as if turning into stone, and had
my life depended upon it I could not have shed a tear for the lover dead
and the ruin of all my hopes. Indeed, in looking back upon the past, I
do not think I ever _really_ cried for _Archie_, though for weeks and
months there was a heavy pain in my heart, a sense of loss and
loneliness, and disappointment, but often, as I felt the hot tears
start, there came the recollection that I had not been his first choice,
if indeed I were ever his choice at all; that it was probably in a fit
of pique he had asked me to be his wife, and this forced the tears down
and made me harder, stonier than before. I sent his picture back that
very day, and with it my engagement ring, a splendid solitaire, which I
reflected with bitterness would some day sparkle on Lady Darinda’s
finger, and it did. I did not write a word. I could not. I merely sent
the ring and the picture, and felt when I gave them to Aunt Esther that
my old life was ended and a new one just begun.

“Tom’s letter you have not read yet. That may comfort you. I’ll bring it
directly,” Aunt Esther said: and in a moment I had it in my hand and was
studying the superscription:

                                 “MISS NORAH BURTON,
                                                 “The Oaks,
                                                             “Middlesex.

  “Not to be opened till the wedding-day.”

Then for a moment there was a feeling in my throat as if my heart were
rising into my mouth, but I forced it down, and breaking the seal, read
the letter, which was so much like Tom. He had been out to sea three
days, and there was a ship in sight by which they hoped to send messages
home, so he was trying to write in spite of the fearful condition of his
stomach, which he described as a kind of raging whirlpool.

  “DEAR NORAH,” he began, “I am sitting on deck on a coil of rope, and
  am sicker than a horse. I’ve thrown up everything I ate for a month
  before I left England, and everything I expect to eat for a month to
  come; but I must write a few lines of congratulation to Mrs. Archibald
  Browning, as you will be when you read this letter. Norah, I hope you
  will be happy; I do, upon my word, even if I did talk against him and
  say I meant to marry you myself. That was all bosh, for of course a
  venerable kind of a girl like you never could think of such a
  spindle-shanked, sandy-haired gawky as I am. Archie is far better for
  you, and I am glad you are his wife, real glad, Norah, and no sham,
  though last night when I sat on the deck and looked out over the dark
  sea toward old England and you, there was a lump in my throat as big
  as a tub, and, six-footer as I am, I laid my head on the railing and
  cried like a baby, and whispered to myself, ‘Good-by, Norah, good-by,
  once for all.’ I was bending up double the next minute, and that cramp
  finished the business, and knocked all sentiment out of me, so that
  to-day you are my sister, or mother, or grandmother, just which you
  choose to call yourself, and I am very glad you are to marry Archie. I
  mean to be a rich man, and by and by pick up some English girl in
  India, and bring her home to you. There it comes again! that horrid
  creep from the toes up. I wonder if the whale felt that way when he
  cast up Jonah. Oh, my gracious. I can’t stand it. Good-by. Yours in
  the last agony,

                                                           “TOM GORDON.”

I had been out in a yacht on the Irish coast, and been sea-sick, and I
knew just how Tom felt, and could imagine how he acted, and I laughed
aloud in spite of Archie dead and the great pain at my heart. In fact,
the laugh did me good, and with Tom’s letter under my pillow I felt
better than before I read it.

It was four months before we heard from him again, and then he was so
sorry for me, so kindly sympathetic, that I cried as I had not cried
since Archie died. Tom was well and happy, and liked the country and his
employment, and to use his words was having a “gay old time,” with some
“larks of chaps” whose acquaintance he had made. Regularly each month we
heard from him for a year or more, and then his letters became very
irregular, and were marked with a daring and flippancy I did not like at
all. Then followed an interval of silence, and we heard from other
sources that Tom Gordon, though still keeping his place and performing
his duties to his employer faithfully, was growing fast into a reckless,
daring, dissipated man, such as no sister would like her brother to be.
I was his sister; he was my brother, I said, and I wrote him a letter of
remonstrance and reproof, telling him how disappointed I was in him and
begging him to reform for my sake, and the sake of the old time when we
were children together, and he had some respect for goodness and purity.
He did not answer that letter. I think it made him angry, and so I could
only weep over the wayward boy, and pray earnestly that Heaven would
save him yet, and restore him to us as he used to be before he strayed
so far from the paths of virtue.

And so the years went by till I was twenty-five, when, suddenly, without
a note of warning, my father died, and by some turn in the wheel of
fortune, never clear to my woman’s vision, Aunt Esther and I were left
with a mere pittance not sufficient to supply the necessities even of
one of us. Then Tom wrote and offered to come home if I wished it, but I
did not. I was a little afraid of him, and something in my reply must
have shown him my distrust, for he was evidently hurt and piqued, and
did not write again until after Aunt Esther and myself were settled in
lodgings in London, and taking care of ourselves. For we came to that at
last; came to the back room, upper floor, of a lodging house in pleasant
old Kensington, with the little hall bedroom, scarcely larger than a
recess, for our sleeping apartment, and only my piano left me as a
reminder of the dear old home in Middlesex, where strangers now are
living. And I was a teacher of French and music, and went out every day
to give lessons to my pupils, who lived, some of them, near to Abingdon
Road, and some of them farther away.

With the next seven years this story has little to do. Aunt Esther died
within the first two years, and I was left alone, but stayed always with
the Misses Keith, the three dear old ladies who kept the house and
petted me like a child. They were poor themselves, and depended for
their living upon what their lodgers paid them, and I was the least
profitable to them of all, for my little back room on the upper floor
was the cheapest room they had. Still I think they would have parted
with me more unwillingly than with the rich widow and her son who
occupied the drawing-room floor, and made them handsome presents every
Christmas. I kept their old hearts young, they said, with my music and
my songs, and they pitied me so much, knowing what I used to be, and
what I am now.

From Tom I heard quite often after Aunt Esther died. He was a better
man, rescued from depths of dissipation he knew not how, he wrote,
unless it was the memory of the olden time in Middlesex, and the prayers
he was always sure I made for him. It was strange that through all his
wildness he had been retained and trusted by his employer, who depended
greatly upon him, and made him at last his confidential clerk. That was
the turning point, and from that time he went up and up until few young
men, it was said, stood higher or were more popular in Calcutta than my
cousin Tom. And I was so proud of him; and when I read his letters
telling me of his success and the many people whom he knew, and the
families where he visited—families whose friends lived in London—I was
glad he did not know just how poor I was, and that if even one scholar
failed me I must deny myself something in order to meet the necessities
of my life. I had never written him the truth with regard to my
circumstances. I told him of the Misses Keith, who were so kind to me,
and of my cozy room which looked into a pleasant garden, and upon the
rear of the church which the Duke of Argyle occasionally honored with
his presence. I had also mentioned incidentally, that, as I had plenty
of leisure, I gave a few lessons in music to the daughters of gentlemen
who lived in the vicinity of Abingdon Road. For this deception my
conscience had smitten me cruelly, and if asked for a motive, I could
not have given one. I merely wished to keep my poverty a secret from
Tom, and up to the time when I was a passenger in a first-class carriage
from Dover to London I had succeeded in doing so, and though Tom
frequently sent me some token of remembrance from India, and, among
other things, a real Cashmere shawl, which I could not wear because of
the contrast between that and my ordinary dress, he had never sent me
money, and so my pride was spared at the expense of a deception on my
part.

I had been on a little trip to Paris and Switzerland with one of my
pupils, who defrayed all my expenses, and to whom I was indebted for the
freest, happiest weeks I had known since my father’s death. But these
had come to an end. I had said good-by to the glorious Alps, good-by to
delightful Paris, good-by to my pupil, who was to remain abroad with her
mother, and here I was at the last stage of my journey, nearing London,
whose smoke and spires were visible in the distance. As we flew along
like lightning toward the city, there came over me a great dread of
taking to the old, monotonous life again—a shrinking from the little
back room, third floor, which was dingy and dreary, with the dark paper
on the walls, the threadbare carpet, and the paint which had seen so
many years. There was a loathing, too, of my daily fare, always the
cheapest I could find—the mutton chop, with rolls and eggs, and the
Englishwoman’s invariable tea. No more French dishes, and soups, and
_cafe au lait_ for me. I was not the guest of a party, now; I was again
the poor music-teacher, going back to my bondage, and for a few moments
I rebelled against it with all my strength, and hot, bitter tears forced
themselves to my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. Hastily dashing them
away, I glanced at the couple opposite, the bride and groom, to see if
they were noticing me; but they were not; they were wholly absorbed in
themselves, and were talking of Paris and the fine people they had met
there, while the bride was wondering if Miss Lucy Elliston, who lived on
Grosvenor Square, would really call upon her as she had promised to do.
The name, Elliston, was not new to me, for Tom had more than once
mentioned a friend of his, Charlie Elliston, whose father lived on
Grosvenor Square, but I did not know there was a Lucy, and I became
interested when I heard the bride say:

“George, do you remember how long it is since Miss Elliston returned
from India?”

George did not, and the bride, whom George called Addie, continued:

“How very stylish she is, and how much she talked of Mr. Gordon. Is it
one of _the Gordons_, do you suppose?”

George did not know, and the conversation soon changed to another
subject, while I began to wonder if it could be Tom of whom Miss Lucy
Elliston talked so much. Tom was in India, and Tom was descended
directly from _the Gordons_, whose coat of arms could be seen any day in
Hyde Park during the season. Did Tom know Miss Lucy Elliston, and was
she so very stylish and proud, and had he not in one of his letters
mentioned the number of the house on Grosvenor Square? If so, I would
walk round, some day, and look at it, I said, just as we shot under
cover at Victoria Station, and my journey was at an end.

It seemed as if my one insignificant little box was always destined to
be the last found, and it was a long time before I took my seat in the
cab and was driven in the direction of No. — Abingdon Road. The October
sun, which all the day had poured such a flood of golden light upon the
English landscape, had gone down in a bank of clouds, and I remember
that there were signs of rain in the chill evening air, and the fog
began to creep up around the lamp-posts and the corners of the streets
as I rode through the darkness with a feeling of homesickness at my
heart, as I remembered the Alps and Paris, the long vacation free from
care, with every want supplied, and then thought of the little back
room, third floor, with its dingy furniture. Even the warm welcome I was
sure to receive from the Misses Keith, was forgotten in the gloom which
weighed upon my spirits, when at last the cab stopped before No.—, which
was all ablaze with light, candles in the basement, candles in the
dining-room, and gas, it would seem, in the drawing-room floor, which
the wealthy widow had left before I went away, but which evidently had
another occupant now. My ring was answered by the youngest Miss Keith,
who I fancied looked a very little disappointed at sight of me and my
box.

“You here!” she said; “we didn’t expect you till to-morrow night. Not
but you are very welcome but you see—come this way, please, down stairs.
Don’t go to your room now. It’s cold there, and dark. We have let the
drawing-room floor very advantageously to a newly-married couple, who
have just arrived. She is so pretty.”

By this time we had reached the little room in the basement, where the
Misses Keith took their meals and sat when the business of the day was
over, and where now a cheerful fire was blazing, making me feel more
comfortable than I had since I left the Victoria Station in the cab. The
elder Miss Keith and her sister were glad to see me, but I thought they
looked askance at each other as if I were not after all quite welcome,
and in a forlorn, wretched state of mind I sat down to warm my cold feet
by the fire, wondering if letting the drawing-room floor so
advantageously had quite put me in the background. Evidently it had, for
after a few questions as to my journey, I was left alone, while the
three ladies flitted back and forth, up stairs and down, busy with the
grand dinner to be served in the drawing-room for the new arrivals, Mr.
and Mrs. Trevyllan, who were reported as making elaborate toilets for
the occasion.

“Married just six weeks, and her dress is beautiful,” Miss Keith said to
me, as she conducted me at last to my room, which she reported as ready
for me.

The drawing-room door was open, and as I passed it I could not forbear
glancing in at the table, set with the best damask and silver and glass
which No.— afforded, and, right before the fire, under the chandelier,
stood the bride in full evening dress of light silk, her golden curls
falling behind from a pearl comb, and her blue eyes upturned to the
husband who stood beside her, to _George_, as I knew in a moment,
recognizing them at once as my fellow-travelers from Dover, and
remembering again what the bride had said of Miss Lucy Elliston and a
Mr. Gordon. Strangely enough, too, my thoughts went far back to Archie,
and what I might have been had he lived, and there was a swelling of my
heart, and the tears were in my eyes as I followed Miss Keith to my
room, the door of which she threw wide open, and then stood back for me
to see and admire.

“Oh-h! what have you done? I exclaimed, and then in an instant I
comprehended the whole, and knew just how the good souls had planned,
and contrived, and undoubtedly denied themselves to give me this
surprise and delightful welcome home.

It was not the old dingy apartment at all, but the coziest of rooms,
with fresh paint and paper, a new, light ingrain carpet of drab and
blue, with chintz coverings for the furniture, of the same shade, and
pretty muslin curtains looped back from the windows in place of the
coarse Nottingham lace which had always been an offense to me. Add to
this a bright fire in the grate, and my little round tea-table drawn up
before it, with the rolls and chop, and pot of damson plums, and the
teakettle boiling merrily, and you have the picture of the room which I
stood contemplating, while Miss Keith blew her nose softly, and wiped
her eyes with the corner of her apron as she said:

“You see, the girls and me (they always spoke of each other as _girls_,
these women of fifty, fifty-five and sixty) the girls and me thought you
had been forlorn long enough, and when Mrs. Winters left and was pleased
to give us ten pounds extra, and we let the drawing-rooms so quick and
well, pay beginning the day it was let, we said we would do something
for Miss Norah, and we meant to have the fire made and a nice hot supper
ready when you came, but you took us by surprise, and we had to keep you
below till we could straighten up. I am glad you like it. There’s Mrs.
Trevyllan’s bell, and I must go.”

She left me then and went to the little bride, who I knew did not enjoy
her elaborately served dinner in her handsome parlor one-half as much as
I enjoyed my simple tea in my rocking-chair before the fire, which
whispered and spit so cheerily and cast such pleasant shadows on the
wall. All my poverty and loneliness were for the time forgotten in the
glamour of these creature comforts, but they returned to a certain
extent when, my supper over and the tea-things removed, I sat down to
read the few letters which had come for me within the last two weeks and
not been forwarded. Was there one from Tom? I asked myself, and I was
conscious of a feeling of disappointment when I found there was not.

“Tom does not care for me anymore,” I said, sadly, to myself, as I
opened the first letter and read, with a pang, that Mrs. Lambert, on
Warwick Crescent, had concluded to employ a governess in the house, and
consequently would not need my services as French and music-teacher to
her three daughters.

This was a great loss to me, and I remember a feeling of cold and almost
hunger as I mechanically folded the letter and laid it aside, and as
mechanically opened the second, and read that Mrs. Lennox, High street,
Kensington, was going abroad for the winter with her daughters, and
would not need me until spring, when she should be glad to employ me
again if my time was not fully occupied.

“Fully occupied,” I said, bitterly. “Small danger of that. I shall
starve at this rate,” and in a hopeless, despairing kind of way I opened
the third and last letter and read that Lady Fairfax, No.—Grosvenor
Square, would like me to call _at once_ if I cared for another scholar,
as she might wish to put her little daughter Maude under my instruction.

The note was dated more than two weeks back, and the _call at once_ was
underscored as if the summons admitted no delay.

“Lost that chance too,” I said, as I studied the small, delicate
handwriting, and wondered where I had seen it before, or a handwriting
like it.

I could not tell, but somehow my thoughts went back to that summer
afternoon twelve years ago, and the breezy hall, with the doors opened
wide, the sweet-scented air, and the tall, lank boy placing the white
rose in my hair and bidding me keep it till he came back.

I had put the rose between the leaves of a heavy book that night, and
when, weeks afterward, I found it there, I laid it away in a little
Japanese box with a lock of Archie’s bright brown hair, cut for me from
his dead brow by Lady Darinda’s hand, and one of Tom’s sandy curls cut
by himself with a jack-knife, and given me on one of my birth-days. That
was twelve years in the past, and everything was so changed, and I was
so tired, so poor and lonely as I recalled it all, and thought first of
Archie dead, then of the father dead also, and the money gone, and then
of Tom, who had been so much to me once, and who seemed of late to have
forgotten me entirely, for I had not heard from him since July, when he
wrote, asking for my photograph, and bidding me be sure and send it, as
he wished to know how “the little old mother looked after a dozen
years.”

That was what he called me; “little old mother,” the name he gave me
long ago when I used to lecture him so soundly and call him a “naughty
boy.” He had asked me in the letter if I did not want some money,
saying, if I did he wished I would tell him so frankly, and it should be
forthcoming to any amount. I did not want money from him; he was too
much a stranger to me now to admit of that, but I had sent him a
photograph, which the Misses Keith had pronounced excellent, but which I
thought younger, fairer, and better-looking than the face I knew as
mine. Still, such as it was, I sent it to Tom, and thanked him for
offering me money, and said I did not need it, and told him of my
projected trip to Switzerland with some friends, and asked him to write
to me again, as I was always glad to hear from him. But he had not
written me a line, and it was almost four months now since I sent him
the photograph.

“He was probably disappointed and disgusted with the picture, and so has
ceased to think of or care for me,” I said; and notwithstanding my
newly-renovated room, which an hour before I thought so bright and
cheerful, I do not remember that I had ever felt so lonely, and
wretched, and forsaken, as I did that night, when I sat thinking of Tom
and listening to the rain which had commenced to fall heavily, and was
beating against the shutters of the room.

How long I sat there I do not know, but the house was perfectly quiet,
and the fire was burned out, when at last I undressed myself and crept
shivering to bed.

Next morning I awoke with a dull pain in my head and bones, a soreness
in my throat, and a disposition to sneeze, all of which, Miss Keith
informed me, were symptoms of influenza, which would nevertheless
succumb to a bowl of hot boneset tea, a dose of pills, and a blister on
the back of my neck. I took the tea, but declined the blister and pills,
and was sick in bed for two whole weeks, during which time the Misses
Keith were unremitting in their attentions, and the bride, little Mrs.
Trevyllan, came to see me several times. She was a kind-hearted, chatty
body, disposed to be very familiar and communicative, and during her
first visit to my room told me all about herself, and how she happened
to meet _George_, as she always called her husband. Her father was a
clergyman in the Church of England, and had a small parish in the north
of Ireland, not far from the Giant’s Causeway, where she was born. Her
mother had belonged to one of the county families in Essex, and so she
was by birth a lady, and entitled to attention from the best of the
people. George was junior partner in the firm of Trevyllan & Co., near
Regent Circus, and would some day be very rich. He was the best fellow
in the world, and had been staying at Portrush for a few weeks the
previous summer, and seen and fallen in love with her, and carried her
off in the very face of an old, _passe_ baronet, who wanted her for his
wife. Then she spoke of her home looking out on the wild Irish Sea, and
of her mother, who, to eke out their slender salary, sometimes received
one or two young ladies into the family, and gave them lessons in French
and German. Miss Lucy Elliston had been one of these; and on her second
visit to me, the little lady entertained me with gossip concerning this
lady, whom she evidently admired greatly—“so stylish, and dignified, and
pretty,” she said, “and so fond of me, even if I am the daughter of a
poor clergyman, and she the daughter of Colonel Elliston, who served so
long in India, and whose son is there now. We always corresponded at
intervals after she left Ireland, and I was so delighted to meet her
again in Paris. She has been to India herself for a year, it seems, and
only came home last spring. I believe she has a lover out there; at all
events, she talked a great deal of a certain Mr. Gordon, who is very
rich and magnificent-looking, she said. She did not tell me she had his
photograph, but I heard her say to a friend that she would show it to
her sometime, though she did not think it did him justice. I would not
wonder if I have it in my possession this very minute.”

“You!” I exclaimed—“you have Mr. Gordon’s photograph! How can that be?”

“I’ll tell you,” she replied. “I met Miss Elliston shopping at Marshall
& Snellgrove’s, the other day, and she apologized for not having called
upon me as she promised to do when I saw her in Paris. ‘She was so
busy,’ she said, and then she was expecting her brother from India, and
she wished I would waive all ceremony and come and see her some day. She
gave me her address, and as her card-case was one of those Florentine
mosaic things which open in the center like a book, she dropped several
cards upon the floor. I helped her pick them up, and supposed we had
them all, but after she was gone, I found, directly under my feet, the
picture of a man, who could not have been her brother, for he is sick,
and as it was taken in Calcutta, it must have been Mr. Gordon. I shall
take it back to her, and am glad of an excuse to call, for, you see,
George laughs at my admiration for Miss Elliston, and says it is all on
one side, that she does not care two straws for me, or she could find
time to come and see me, and all that nonsense, which I don’t believe;
men are so suspicious.”

“I’d like to see the photograph,” I said, thinking of Tom, and the utter
impossibility that he could be Miss Elliston’s friend, or that she could
think him splendid-looking.

Tall, raw-boned, thin-faced, with sandy hair, brownish-gray eyes, and a
few frecks on his nose—that was Tom, as I remembered him; while the
picture Mrs. Trevyllan brought me was of a broad-shouldered,
broad-chested, dark-haired man, with heavy, curling beard, and piercing,
gray eyes, which yet had a most kindly, honest expression as they looked
into mine. _No_, Miss Elliston’s Mr. Gordon was _not_ Tom, and I
experienced a feeling of relief as I returned the photograph to Mrs.
Trevyllan.

Looking back upon that time, I know that in my inmost heart there was no
thought or wish that Tom could ever be more to me than a friend and
brother, but I did want him in that capacity, I was so alone in the
world; and though I did not know Miss Elliston personally, I was sure
she would separate me entirely from Tom, for there could be no sympathy
between a proud, fashionable woman like Miss Lucy Elliston, and a poor
music-teacher like myself.

The next day Mrs. Trevyllan made her call, and returned quite
disappointed, and, as I fancied, a little disgusted. Miss Elliston was
very sorry, but too much occupied with a dressmaker to see any one, so
Mrs. Trevyllan had left her card and the photograph, and retraced her
steps with a feeling that she had taken the trouble for nothing, unless
she took into consideration the fact that she had at least seen the
parlors of Miss Elliston’s home. Beautiful beyond anything I had ever
seen they must have been, if her description of them was to be trusted,
and I sighed a little as I listened to her glowing account of the
carpets, and curtains, and pictures, and rare works of art, and then
glanced at my own humble surroundings, and thought how poor I was. Only
one pound ten was left in my purse, and there was the doctor’s bill and
the two weeks’ rent, to say nothing of a new pair of boots which I must
have, for the old pair leaked, and was past being made respectable by
any amount of French dressing. Yes, I was very poor; too poor, in fact,
to remain idle much longer, and as soon as I was able, I started out in
quest of pupils in the place of those I had lost.

Remembering the note of Lady Fairfax, I resolved to seek her first,
hoping that she had not engaged another teacher for her little girl,
notwithstanding the imperative “Come at once, if you care for another
scholar.”

How well I remember that November day, when, with a leaden sky overhead,
muddy sidewalks under foot, and a feeling of snow or rain in the air, I
started, in my suit of last year’s gray, which nothing could make new or
stylish, but which I did try to freshen a little with clean linen collar
and cuffs, and a bright blue necktie in place of the inevitable white
one so common then in England. I hunted up, also, an old blue feather
which I twisted among the loops of ribbon on my hat, and felt a little
flutter of satisfaction when one of the Misses Keith told me how pretty
I looked, and how becoming blue was to me. It used to be, when I lived
in the roomy old house in Middlesex, and Tom said my eyes were like
great robin’s eggs; but that was years and years ago, and I felt so old
and changed as I turned into High street, and went down the stairs to
the station, and took my seat in a third-class carriage of the
under-ground railway. I always traveled third-class in London, but so
did hundreds of others far richer than myself, and I did not mind that,
or think myself inferior to the people around me, but when at last I
found myself ringing the bell at Lady Fairfax’s handsome house, and met
the cool stare of the powdered footman, who opened the door to me, and
looked as if he wondered at my presumption in ringing there, I felt all
my misgivings return, and was painfully conscious of the faded gray
dress, the old feather, and the leaky boots, which were wet even with
the short distance it had been necessary for me to walk, and which began
to smoke as I involuntarily drew near and held them to the warm coal
fire in the grate in the reception-room where I was to wait for Lady
Fairfax.

She was at home, the tall footman said, and engaged with a lady, but
wished me to wait, and I fancied there was a shade of deference in his
demeanor toward me after he had taken my card to his mistress and
received her message for me. How pleasant it was in that pretty room,
with the flowers in the bow window, the soft, rich carpet, the
comfortable chairs, the bright fire, which felt so grateful to me after
the raw November wind outside. And for a time I enjoyed it all, and
listened to the murmur of voices in the parlor across the hall, where
Lady Fairfax was entertaining her visitor. Both were well-bred voices, I
thought, and one seemed stronger than the other, as if its owner were a
stronger, more self-reliant woman than her companion, and I felt
intuitively that I would trust her before the other. Which was Lady
Fairfax, and who was her visitor, I wondered, just as a rustling silk
trailed down the stairs, and an elderly lady entered the parlor
opposite. I heard her address some one as Miss Elliston, and the lower,
softer voice responded. Then the stronger voice said: “Oh, Lucy, by the
way, when have you heard from your brother, and will he soon be home?”

Instantly then I knew that Lucy Elliston was Lady Fairfax’s guest, and I
was hoping I might have a glimpse of her as she passed the door on her
way out, when a smart waiting-maid entered the room hurriedly, and
apparently spoke a few words to Lady Fairfax, who exclaimed:

“Why, Lucy dear, Christine tells me that your mamma has sent word for
you to come home immediately. Your brother has just arrived.”

“Good gracious!” I heard Miss Elliston say, and wondered a little at the
slang from which I supposed her class was free. “Charlie come! Was he
alone, Christine? Was no one with him?”

There was a moving of chairs, a shuffling of feet and in the confusion I
lost Christine’s reply, but heard distinctly Mr. Gordon’s name uttered
by some one. Then the three ladies moved into the hall, and through the
half-open door I saw a tall young lady in a maroon velvet street suit,
with a long white plume on her hat, and very large black eyes, which
shone like diamonds through the lace vail drawn tightly over her face.
That was Miss Elliston; and the _very_ tall and rather stout woman in
heavy black silk, with lavender trimmings, was Lady Fairfax, who pushed
the door of the reception-room wide open, and with a firm, decided step
crossed to the mantel in front of me, and eying me closely said:

“You are Miss Burton, I believe?”

“Yes,” I replied, and she continued: “Miss Norah Burton, who once lived
at the Oaks in Middlesex?”

“Yes,” I said again, wondering a little at the question, and how she had
ever heard of the Oaks.

She was regarding me very intently, I knew, taking me in from the
crumpled blue feather on my hat to the shockingly shabby boots still
smoking on the fender. These I involuntarily withdrew, thinking to hide
them under my gray dress. She saw the movement, guessed the intention,
and said kindly:

“Dry your boots, child. I see they are very wet Did you walk all the
distance from Kensington here?”

“Oh, no,” I answered; “only to and from the station, but the streets are
very nasty to-day;” and then I looked at her more closely than I had
done before.

She was very tall, rather stout, and might have been anywhere from
thirty-five to forty; certainly not younger. She had fine eyes, a good
complexion, and very large hands, which, nevertheless, were shapely,
soft and white, and loaded with diamonds. One splendid solitaire
attracted my attention particularly from its peculiar brilliancy, and
the nervous manner with which she kept touching it as she talked to me.
She saw I was inspecting her, and allowed me time in which to do it;
then she began abruptly, and in a tone slightly fault-finding:

“You received my note, of course, or you would not be here, It was
written a month ago, and as I heard nothing from you I naturally
supposed you did not care for, or need, another pupil, so I have
obtained a governess for Maude.”

There was a choking sob in my throat which I forced down as I replied:

“Oh, I am so sorry, for I do need scholars so much, oh, so much.”

“Why didn’t you come, then?” she asked; and I told her how her letter
had been two weeks at my lodgings before my return from the continent,
and of the sickness which had followed my return.

“And you live there all alone. Have you no friends, no relations
anywhere?” she asked.

“None since father and Aunt Esther died.” I said. “I have nobody but
Cousin Tom, who is in India, and who never writes to me now. I think he
has forgotten me. Yes, I am quite alone.”

“I wonder you have never married in all these years,” was the next
remark, and looking up at her I saw something in her face which went
over me like a flash of revelation, and my voice shook a little as I
repeated her last words, “Never married!” while my thoughts went back to
Archie and the summer days when I waited for him, and he did not come,
and that later time when Lady Darinda wrote me he was dead.

Was this Lady Darinda? My eyes asked the question, and she answered me:
“Perhaps my manner seems strange to you, Miss Burton; let me explain. I
was wishing for a new teacher for my little Maude, one who was gentle
and patient to children. A friend of mine, Mrs. Barrett, whose daughter
you have taught, told me of you. The name attracted me, for I once knew
of a Miss Norah Burton. I made inquiries, and learned that Jennie
Barrett’s teacher and Miss Norah Burton of the Oaks, Middlesex, were one
and the same. I wanted to see you, and so I wrote the note.”

She spoke rapidly, and kept working at the solitaire, without once
looking at me, till I said: “You are Lady Darinda Cleaver?”

Then her large blue eyes looked straight at me and she replied:

“I was Lady Darinda Cleaver, cousin to Archibald Browning, whom you were
engaged to marry. If you had married him you would have been Lady
Cleaver now of Briarton Lodge, for both my brothers are dead, and Archie
was next in succession.”

“Lady Cleaver of Briarton Lodge;” I whispered the words with a gasp, and
for a moment tried to realize what was involved in being Lady Cleaver of
Briarton Lodge.

Not a third floor back room, sure, with shabby boots and mended gloves,
and faded dress of gray, but luxury and elegance, and troops of servants
and friends, and equality with such people as Lady Fairfax, who, I knew,
was trying to imagine how the crumpled, forlorn little woman, with the
shabby boots and feather, would have looked as Lady Cleaver of Briarton
Lodge. Tom had once taunted me with the possibility of my being Lady
Cleaver, and with a thought of him the great bitter throb of regret for
what might have been passed away, and I was glad in my heart that I was
not the mistress of Briarton Lodge; so, when at last Lady Fairfax said
to me, “Are you not sorry?” I looked at her steadily and answered, “Yes,
very sorry that Archie is dead, but not sorry that I am not his wife.
Years have shown me that we were not suited to each other. We should not
have been happy together, and then——” I hesitated a moment, while a
feeling of pique, or malice, or jealousy, or whatever one chooses to
call a desire to give another a little sting, kept growing within me,
until at last I added, “and then—Archie’s first choice was for you; he
loved you best; offered himself to you first, you know. You wrote me so
in the letter.”

She turned the solitaire on her finger entirely round, and her cheek
flushed as she smiled faintly, and replied:

“Offered himself to me first? Yes, and was very fond of me, I think, but
whether he loved me best is doubtful. Poor Archie, he did not want to
die, and at the last, after he had ceased to answer our questions, he
whispered to himself: ‘Poor little girl; she will be so sorry. Be kind
to her.’ That was you, I think.”

There was a great lump now in my throat, and a faintness came over me
which must have shown itself in my face, for Lady Darinda exclaimed:

“How pale you look, Miss Burton, and how tired. I am sure you will be
better to take something,” and touching the bell she bade the servant
who appeared bring some biscuits and a glass of wine. I was not hungry,
but I reflected that the lunch would save the expense of supper at home,
and I took thankfully the biscuits, and sandwiches and wine, which were
served from solid silver and the most delicate of Sevres. To such
straits of calculation had I come: I, who had just missed of being Lady
Cleaver, of Briarton Lodge. I pitied myself even while I ate the
sandwiches, with Lady Fairfax looking on and fathoming all my poverty,
as I believed. Perhaps I did her injustice, for I think she really meant
to be kind, and when I had finished my lunch, she said:

“Archie’s mother, Aunt Eleanor, is here with me now—lives with me
entirely. Would you like to see her?” and before I could reply, she
stepped across the hall into the drawing-room, where I heard a few
low-spoken words; then another step beside that of Lady Darinda, and
Archie’s mother, Mrs. Browning, was at my side, and holding my hand in
hers.

Time and sorrow had changed her greatly, or else the silvery puffs of
hair which shaded her face softened the cold, haughty expression I
remembered so well, and made it very pleasing and kind.

“Child,” she said, “it is many years since we met, and I am sorry to
hear so sad a story of you. You are all alone in the world, Darinda
tells me.”

She had seated herself beside me, still holding my hand, and at the
sound of her voice I broke down entirely. All the loneliness, and
dreariness and poverty of my life swept over me like a billow of the
sea, and forgetting the difference in our stations, I laid my head in
her lap and cried bitterly. I think she must have cried, too, a very
little, and that for a few moments she lost sight of the poor music
teacher in crumpled feather and shabby boots, and saw in me only the
girl who had loved her boy, and whom the boy was to have married, if
death had not interfered. She was very kind to me, and made me tell her
all the sad story of my life since father died, and questioned me of
Tom, and then, turning to her niece, who had retired to the window,
said:

“Darinda, you did not positively engage Mademoiselle Couchet to read to
me?”

Her tone implied that she wished her niece to say no, which she
accordingly did, while Mrs. Browning continued:

“Then, I think I shall ask Miss Burton if she can come to me for two
hours five days in the week, and read to me either in English or French,
as I may choose at the time. I will give her a pound a week for the
winter. Will you come for that?” and she turned now to me. “Come between
eleven and one, so as to lunch with me in my room.”

I had hidden nothing of my needs from her, and I felt sure that she
included the lunch for a purpose, and my heart swelled with a gratitude
so great that it was positive pain, and kept me from accepting the
generous offer for a few moments. I had indeed found friends where I
least expected them, and when a little later I arose to go, my heart was
lighter than it had been since I bade good-by to one favorite pupil in
Paris. I was to have a pound a week, with lunch, and what was better
yet, Archie’s friends were mine at last. I was sure of that, and was not
foolish enough to question their motives or to suspect—what was perhaps
the truth—that inasmuch as I was in no way connected with them, and they
were not at all responsible for my appearance, they could afford to be
kind and lend me a helping hand; and then, I might have been the lady of
Briarton Lodge, and lived in as grand a house as that of Lady Fairfax or
Miss Lucy Elliston. I passed the latter on my way to the station,
knowing it by the number which Mrs. Trevyllan had told me, and which I
found was the same which Tom had sent me long ago.

The short November day was drawing to a close, and already the gas was
lighted in the parlors of No. —, and in the dining-room, where the
butler was arranging the dinner-table. He had not yet closed the
shutters, and I could see the silver, and damask, and flowers, and
wondered if they were expecting company besides the son just returned,
or were their table surroundings always as elegant and grand. Then I
remembered Mr. Gordon, and said: “He is to be there too,” just as the
figure of a young lady passed before the window of the parlor. It was
Miss Elliston, in blue silk evening dress, with white roses in her hair
and a soft fall of lace at her throat. She was dressed for dinner, and I
stood watching her a moment as she walked up and down for two or three
times, restlessly as it seemed, and then came to the window and looked
out upon the street. Did she see me, I wonder?—the forlorn little woman
who hurried away in the fast-gathering darkness. If she did she thought
it some maid or shop-girl, no doubt, and continued her watch, while I
sped on my way to the station and was soon mounting the stairs which led
up and out to High street, Kensington.

It was not far to No. — Abingdon road, but a heavy mist was falling, and
I was wet, and bedraggled, and cold when at last I reached the house,
and finding the door unfastened, walked in without ringing, and hurried
directly to my room. From the basement below one of the Misses Keith
called to me softly, and thinking it was some inquiry about my supper
which she wished to make, I answered back:

“I have had something to eat, and do not wish anything more.”

Then I ran on up the next flight of stairs, at the head of which was the
door of my room. It was partly open, and a flood of light and warmth
streamed out into the hall, causing me to stand perfectly still for a
moment, while my eyes took in the view presented to them. Such a fire as
was roaring in the grate had never been seen there since I had been
mistress of the apartment, while in the middle of the floor the table
was spread as for a gala dinner, with celery and jelly, and even the
coffee-urn which I never had used. What did it mean? Why had the Misses
Keith taken this liberty with me, and plunged me into such extravagance,
when they knew the low state of my finances? I think I felt a very
little indignant at the good, kind old souls, as I pushed the door wide
open and advanced into the room, starting back and stopping suddenly, at
sight of a man—a big, broad-shouldered, tall man—muffled in a heavy
coat, and sitting with his back to me, his feet resting on a chair, and
his hands clasped behind his head, as if he were intently thinking. Who
was he that dared thus intrude? I thought, and my voice had a sharp ring
in it, as I said:

“Sir, what are you doing here? You have made a mistake. This is my
room.”

He started then, and sprang up so quickly as to upset the chair on which
his feet had rested, and which he did not stop to pick up, as he came
rapidly toward me. What a giant of a fellow he was, in that shaggy coat,
with all that brown, curling beard! and how my heart beat as he caught
me in his strong arms, and, kissing me on both cheeks, said:

“I have made no mistake, Norah, and I am here to see you. Don’t you
remember spindle-shanks?”

Then I knew who it was, and, with a glad cry, exclaimed:

“Oh, Tom! Tom! I am so glad. Why didn’t you come before, when I wanted
you so much?”

I had struggled to my feet, but did not try to release myself from the
arm which held me so fast. In my excitement and surprise I forgot the
years since we had met, forgot that he was a full-grown man, and no
longer the “spindle-shanks,” as I used sometimes to call him—forgot
everything but the fact that he had come back to me again, and that I
was no longer alone and friendless in the world. Tom was there with me,
a tower of strength, and I did not hesitate to lean upon my tower at
once, and when he said, as only Tom could say, in a half-pitiful,
half-laughing tone, “Have it out, Norah. Put your head down here, and
cry,” I laid my head on the big overcoat, and “cried it out.”

I think he must have cried, too, for, as soon as his hands were at
liberty, he made vigorous use of his pocket-handkerchief, and I noticed
a redness about his eyes, when at last I ventured to look him fully in
the face. How changed he was from the long, lank, thin-faced,
sandy-haired Tom of old! Broad-shouldered, broad-chested, brown-faced
brown-haired, and brown-bearded, there was scarcely a vestige left of
the boy I used to know, except the bright smile, the white, even teeth,
and the eyes, which were so kind and honest in their expression, and
which, in their turn, looked so searchingly at me. I had divested myself
of my hat and sacque by this time, and came back to the fire, when,
turning the gas-jets to their full height, Tom made me stand directly
under the chandelier, while he scanned me so closely that I felt the hot
blood mounting to my hair, and knew my cheeks were scarlet.

“How changed and old he must think me,” I said to myself, just as he
asked:

“I say, Mousey, how have you managed to do it?”

“Do what?” I asked, and he continued:

“Managed to keep so young, and fair, and pretty, or rather, to grow so
pretty, for you are ten times handsomer than you were that day you
walked down the lane with me, twelve years ago, and I said good-by with
such a lump in my throat.”

“Oh, Tom, how can you——” I began, when he stopped me short and
continued:

“Hear me first, and then put in as many disclaimers as you choose. I
want to tell you at once all it concerns you now to know of my life in
India. Those first years I was there I fell in with bad associates, and
came near going to the dogs, as you know, and nothing saved me from it,
I am sure, but the knowing that a certain little English girl was
praying for me every day, and still keeping faith in me, as she wrote me
in her letters. I could not forget the little girl, Norah, and the
memory of her and her pathetic, ‘You will reform, Tom, for the sake of
the dear old times, if for nothing else,’ brought me back when my feet
were slipping over the brink of ruin, and made a man of me once more. I
do not know why Mr. Rand trusted me and kept me through everything, as
he did, unless it was for certain business qualities which I possessed,
and because I did my work well and faithfully. When your father died you
know I offered to come home, but you bade me not, and said you did not
need me; and so I staid, for money was beginning to pour in upon me, and
I grew richer and richer, while you—oh, Norah, I never dreamed to what
you were reduced, or nothing would have kept me away so long. I always
thought of you as comfortable and happy, in pleasant lodgings, with a
competence from your father. I did not know of music scholars and daily
toil to earn your bread. Why didn’t you tell me, Norah? Surely I had a
right to know—I, your brother Tom!”

He did not wait for me to answer, but went on:

“Six months ago Mr. Rand, my old employer and then partner, died, and
for some good or favor he fancied I had done him, he left me £50,000,
which, with what I already had, made me a rich man, and then I began to
think of home and the little cousin who, I said, must be a dried-up old
maid by this time.”

At this I winced and tried to draw back from Tom, but he held me fast,
while his rare smile broke all over his face as he went on:

“I thought I’d like to know just how you did look, and so wrote for your
photograph, which, when it came, astonished me, it was so young and
pretty and girlish; not in the least old maidish, as I feared it might
be——”

“Tom, Tom—are you crazy?” I cried, wrenching my hands from his. “I’m not
pretty; I’m not girlish; I’m not young; and I am an old maid of
thirty-two.”

“Yes, yes, very true. I know your age to a minute, for didn’t we use to
compare notes on that point when you brought up your seniority of ten
months as a reason why you should domineer over and give me fits. I knew
you were thirty-two, but you’d pass for twenty-five. Why, I’m ten years
older than you now, with my bushy head, and tawny face, and brawny
chest. Look at the difference, will you?” And leading me to the mirror
he showed me the picture it reflected—picture of a tall,
broad-shouldered, brown-faced, brown-haired man, who might have been
thirty-five, and by his side, not quite reaching his shoulder, the
petite figure of a woman whose forehead and lips were very pale, whose
cheeks were very red, whose eyes were bright with excitement, and whose
wavy hair was not unbecoming even if it was all tumbled and tossed, and
falling about her face and neck.

That was Tom and I, and when, with his mischievous smile shining on me
from the glass he asked: “Well Mousey, what do you think of us?” I
answered with a dash of my old sauciness: “I think you look like a great
shaggy bear, and I like a little cub.”

He laughed aloud at that and said: “You are very complimentary, but I’ll
forgive you for once, and go on with my story, which was interrupted at
the point where I received the photograph, which astonished me so much
that I determined to come home and see if it was correct. And, as you
know, I came, and wishing to surprise you gave no warning of my coming,
but hunted up your lodgings, and felt utterly confounded when I was
ushered into this little back third floor room, and was told you had
occupied it for years, and not only that, but that you gave music
lessons for a living, and had gone out to hunt up scholars. I don’t
think I quite swore, but I did tear round a little, and bade the woman
make up a roaring fire against your return, and told her I was going to
dine with you. You ought to have seen her twist her apron, and heard her
stammer and hesitate as she told me ‘Miss Burton didn’t mostly have
dinners nowadays;’ meaning, of course, that you couldn’t afford it. I
believe I did say d——, with a dash, under my breath, but I gave her a
sovereign, and told her to get up the best dinner possible for the time,
for I was hungry as forty bears. She courtesied almost to the floor and
departed, but upon my soul I believe they think me a burglar or
something dreadful, for one or the other of them has been on this floor
watching me slyly to see that I was not rummaging your things.”

While he talked I was trying to dry my wet boots which, like Lady
Darinda, he spied at last and exclaimed, “Why, child, how wet your boots
are. Why do you not change them? You will surely take cold. Go now and
do it.”

I did not tell him they were all I had, but he must have guessed it from
my manner, and looking sharply at me as if he would wring the truth from
me, he said: “Norah, are these your only boots?”

“Yes, Tom, they are,” and my lip quivered a little, while he stalked up
and down the room, knocking over a chair with his big overcoat, and
nearly upsetting a stand of plants. I think I felt my poverty more at
that moment than I had ever done before, but there was nothing I could
say, and fortunately for us both Miss Keith just then appeared, saying
dinner was ready, and asking if she should send up the soup. What a
dinner it was, and Tom did ample justice to it, until suddenly,
remembering himself, he said:

“By the way, I must be moderate here, for I have another dinner to eat
to-night: one, too, where the fatted calf has been killed.”

Up to this point I had not once thought of Miss Elliston since I found
Tom sitting in my room, but now I remembered the handsome dinner table
seen through the windows of No. — Grosvenor Square, and felt sure it was
to that table Tom had been bidden as a guest; but I would not ask him,
and he continued:

“My fellow-traveler from India was an invalid—that Lieut. Elliston of
whom I wrote you once. I nursed him through a contagious disease when
every one else had deserted him, and he seems to think he owes his life
to me, and sticks to me like a burr; while his family, on the strength
of that and the little Gordon blood there is in my veins, make much of
me, and insist that I shall dine with them to-night; so I must leave you
soon, but shall return to-morrow.”

I made no answer, but busied myself with preparing his coffee, and after
a moment he went on:

“By the way, Norah, what do you think of Miss Elliston? She wrote you
were at the same hotel in Paris.”

“At the same hotel with me? Miss Elliston at the Grand? When?” I asked,
in much surprise; and he replied:

“Last September, when you were there with friends. Did you not see her?”

“No,” I answered, “I did not see her, or if I did, I did not know it;
and she is much too proud to make herself known to me, a poor music
teacher.”

This last I said bitterly, but Tom made no reply, and hardly knowing
what I was saying, I added:

“Then you are the Mr. Gordon she talks so much about?”

“Miss Elliston talk about me! How do you know that?” Tom asked, with an
increase of color in his face.

Very foolishly I told him how I knew, and of the photograph which must
be his, though it was not quite like him now.

“Yes, it was taken three years ago, and we exchanged. I remember it
now—and she has it yet,” he said, abruptly; then looking steadily at me
across the table, he continued: “Norah, I have not told you all the
reasons which brought me home. I am thinking of getting married and
settling down in England among the daisies and violets.”

“Yes, Tom,” I said, with a great throb of pain in my heart, for I knew
his marriage with Miss Elliston would separate him from me further than
his absence in India had done.

“Are you not glad?” he added, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his
eyes, and a lurking smile at the corners of his mouth.

Then I told a fib, and said I was glad, for I could some time hope to
see him. My life would not be so lonely.

He had risen by this time, and was putting on his overcoat, which made
him so big and bearish.

“Good-by, Mousey, till to-morrow. Take off those boots and dry your feet
the instant I am gone. I cannot have you sick now. _Au revoir._”

He passed his warm hands caressingly over my hair and across my cheek,
and then he was gone, and I sat down alone to think it all over, and
wonder if it really was Tom who had been there, or if it was a dream
from which I should awaken. Naturally too, I followed him in imagination
to the dinner, and saw Miss Lucy in her blue silk with white roses in
her hair, and to my very finger tips I felt how Tom must be impressed
with the difference between her high-bred grace and ease of manner, and
the little shrinking woman in faded gray, with worn out, leaky boots. I
did not take them off, but held them to the fire and watched the steam
as it came from the soles, and rather enjoyed my poverty and loneliness,
and thought hard things against Miss Elliston, who had known I was at
the hotel and had never spoken to me.

I must have fallen asleep while I thought, and the fire was out, and the
clock striking twelve when I awoke, chilled in every limb, with a dull,
heavy pain in the back of my head, and a soreness in my throat. I
remember going to the window and looking out into the foggy night, and
wondering if the grand dinner was over, and how soon Tom would come
again. Then I crept shivering to bed, and when I woke the Misses Keith
were all in my room, together with Mrs. Trevyllan, and I heard them say:

“Twelve pairs of boots for her to try, with orders to keep them all if
they fit. He is very generous.”

Then I knew that somebody had sent me a box of beautiful French gaiters,
and it made me so tired to think of wearing them all at once, as I
thought I must, that I gave a weary sigh, which brought the ladies
instantly to my side with anxious inquiries as to how I felt, and where
I was the sickest.

“Not sick at all,” I said, “only tired, and cold, and sleepy. Please go
away with the dinners, and boots, and Toms, and leave me alone. I want
to sleep it out.”

“Poor girl, she’s out of her head,” I heard one of them say, and then I
slept again, how long I do not know, but when I woke a curious thing
seemed to have happened, which yet did not surprise me in the least.

I, Norah Burton, was hidden away in the deep window seat, where, myself
unseen, I could command a view of the bed, which had been brought from
the little recess, and now occupied the center of my room. On that bed,
with a face as white as the pillows, save where the fever spot burned on
either cheek, somebody was lying—somebody who looked like me, and yet
was not I, though they called her Norah, and talked in whispers about
the long strain upon her nerves, being so much alone; the long walk in
the November mist and fog before she was able, and the repeated wetting
of her feet from the want of strong, new shoes. How queerly it all
sounded; how curiously I watched the girl, who looked so young, lying
there so still, with her hands folded always the same way, just over her
breast, and her face turned a little toward me.

If she had ever been restless, and from what they said I judged she must
have been, it was over now, and she lay like one dead, never moving so
much as an eyelid, or paying the slightest heed to what was passing
around her. The Misses Keith and Mrs. Trevyllan were never all together
in the chamber now, though each came frequently, and Mrs. Trevyllan
always cried out and asked, “Do you think she is any better? Will she
live?” of the tall man who sat and watched the sick girl just as closely
as I did, and who would sometimes answer, “God knows,” and again shake
his head mournfully, as if there was no hope.

How kind, and tender, and gentle he was—gentle, and tender, and kind as
any woman—and I found myself wishing the girl could know he was there,
and know how, when he was all alone, he kissed the pale little fingers,
and smoothed the ruffled hair, and called so soft and low, “Norah,
Norah! don’t you hear me? Don’t you know old Tom?”

She did not hear; she did not know; and the pale fingers never stirred
to the kiss he gave them, and only the breath from the parted lips told
there still was life. How sorry I felt for them both, but sorriest I
think, for the man, who seldom left the room, and sat always where he
could see the white face on the pillow.

“Dear little face! dear little girl! I cannot let her die. Please, God,
spare her to me!” I heard him say once. Then there certainly was a
fluttering of the eyelids—an effort like struggling back to life; and I
think the girl in the bed wanted to tell the man in the chair that she
heard him, and appreciated all his watchful care.

But nature was too weak to rally, and after that one sign the sick girl
lay quiet and motionless as ever, and only the ticking of the clock
broke the deep silence of the room. I wondered did that ticking disturb
her. It would have worried me, and I should have been forever repeating
the monotonous one-two, one-two, which the pendulum seemed to be saying.
Did my thought communicate itself to her the girl on my pillow, with a
face like my face, and which yet was not mine? Perhaps, for she did at
last move uneasily, and the pale lips whispered: “One-two, one-two! it
keeps going on forever and ever, and makes me so tired. Stop it, Tom.”

He knew what she meant, and the clock which had not run down in years
was silenced at once, while Tom’s face grew bright and hopeful, for she
had spoken, and called him by his name.

Outside there was the sound of carriage wheels stopping before the
door—a pull at the bell, a hurried conversation in the hall below, Miss
Keith’s voice sounding flurried and confused, the other voice
self-assured, surprised, and commanding; and then footsteps came up the
stairs, and Archie’s mother, Mrs. Browning, was standing on the
threshold, red, tired, panting, and taking in rapidly every portion of
the room, from the cheap hearthrug and carpet to the tall man by the
bedside, and the pallid face on the pillows. At sight of that her
countenance changed sensibly, and she exclaimed:

“I did not suppose it so bad as this.”

Then Tom, who had arisen from his seat, spoke a little sternly, for he
was angry at the intrusion:

“Madam, don’t you know Miss Burton is very sick and cannot see
strangers?”

“Yes, I know;” and Archie’s mother pressed close to the girl on the
pillow, trailing her India shawl on the floor directly across Tom’s
feet. “She was engaged to read to me every day for two hours, and I
waited for her to come or send some message, till at last I concluded to
drive round and see what had become of her. You are her cousin, I
believe? I am Mrs. Browning.”

She said the last name as if between Mrs. Browning and the cousin there
was a vast difference, but if Tom recognized it, he did not seem to
notice it; he merely said:

“Yes, I am her cousin, and you were to have been her mother-in-law?”

“Yes, Archie was my son. If he had lived he would have been heir of
Briarton Lodge; both the young lords are dead.”

“Oh, yes, and my cousin would have been Lady Cleaver of Briarton Lodge,”
Tom answered, and it seemed to me that he thought just as I did, namely,
that the sick girl was of more importance to Mrs. Browning because of
what she _might have been_.

The shadow of the honor she had missed reached even to this humble room,
and made Mrs. Browning more gracious, more pitiful, more anxious than
she might otherwise have been. And yet it was wholly the fault of her
birth and education that she cared so much for these things. At heart
she was a thoroughly good woman, and there was genuine kindness in her
inquiries of Tom as to what was needed most, and in her deportment
toward the sick girl, whom she tried to rouse, calling her by name, and
saying to her:

“I am Archie’s mother; you remember Archie, who died?”

There was a little sob in the mother’s voice, but the girl gave no sign;
only Tom looked gloomy, and black, and intensely relieved when the India
shawl was trailed down the stairs, and the Browning carriage drove away.
Next day it stopped again before the house, and this time it held an
added weight of dignity in the person of Lady Darinda Fairfax, whose
heavy silk rustled up the stairs, and whose large white hands were
constantly rubbing each other as she talked to Tom, in whom she had
recognized the Mr. Gordon seen once at Miss Elliston’s, where she was
calling at the same time with himself.

“Really, Mr. Gordon, this _is_ a surprise. I had no idea, I am sure,
that Miss Burton was your cousin; really, I am surprised. And she came
near being _my_ cousin, too. You must know about Archie?”

“Yes,” and Tom bowed stiffly. “I had the honor of seeing him years ago
when he visited my cousin. I went out to India just before he died.”

“Yes, I see; and did not return until a few days since. It must have
shocked you very much—the change in her circumstances. Poor girl, we
never knew it until she came to us for employment. I am glad for her,
that you have come to care for her. She will live with you, of course,
if you marry and settle here.”

Lady Darinda, though esteeming herself highly bred, was much given to
direct questioning which sometimes seemed impertinent. But Tom did not
resent it in this case; he merely replied:

“My cousin will live with me when I am married, and I am happy to say
she has no further need to look for employment of any kind. I shall take
care of her.”

Lady Darinda was so glad. Nor was it a sham gladness. The intimate
friend of Miss Lucy Elliston, she had heard much of “the Mr. Gordon who
had saved Charlie’s life, and who was of the Gordon stock, and a
thorough gentleman.” She had also felt a kindly interest in the girl who
had _almost_ been Lady Cleaver, and that interest was increased when she
knew her to be a near connection of Miss Elliston’s Mr. Gordon. The time
might come when it would do to speak of her and possibly present her to
her friends, and she made many anxious inquiries concerning her, and
talked so rapidly and so loud that the head on the pillow moved as if
disturbed, and Tom was glad when the lady at last gathered herself up to
leave. She was still nervously rubbing her jeweled hands, and Tom’s
attention was attracted to a solitaire of great brilliancy, the same I
had observed the day I sat in her reception-room, and she stood talking
to me and rubbing her hands just as she was rubbing them now. Suddenly,
and as if her mind was made up, she drew off the ring, and bending over
the sick girl pushed it upon the fourth finger of the left hand, saying
to Tom as she did so:

“The ring is hers, and she ought never to have parted with it. I don’t
know why she sent it back to us, but she did, just after Archie died,
and as his cousin I kept it, but wish her to have it again, and I fancy
she is too proud to take it if she knew. I must go, now, but will come
again soon, or send to inquire. Shall I see you at Miss Elliston’s
to-night at the musicale? Lucy will be greatly disappointed, if you do
not come.”

“I shall not leave my cousin while she is so sick,” was Tom’s reply, and
with a loud spoken good-by, Lady Darinda left the little room which she
had seemed to fill so full with her large, tall person and voluminous
skirts.

Scarcely was she gone, when Tom took in his own the pale little hand
where the solitaire was sparkling, looked at it a moment, then gently
withdrew it; put it in his pocket-book, with a muttered something I
could not quite understand. Then the girl on the pillow began to grow
restless, and her fever came on, and Tom said there had been too much
talking in the room, and no one must be admitted except the Misses Keith
and Mrs. Trevyllan, and across the window they hung a heavy curtain to
exclude the light, and so to me everything became a blank, and I knew no
more of what was passing until one bright December morning, when I awoke
suddenly to find myself in the bed where the sick girl had lain.

I was very weak and languid, and very much bewildered as I tried to
recall the past, and remember what had happened. It was something like
the awakening after Archie died, only, in place of dear old Aunt Esther,
here was a tall, brown man looking down upon me, with so much kindness
and anxiety in his eyes, that without knowing at all who he was, I tried
to put out my hand as I said: “You are very, very good. I’ll tell Tom
about it.”

“Norah, Norah. I am Tom. Don’t you know me?” and his great warm hands
were laid on mine as he bent over me with his eager questioning. “Don’t
you know me, Norah? I am Tom.” I did know him then, and I said:

“Yes, I know you, and I’ve been very sick; it must have been the leaky
boots which kept my feet so cold and wet. Where are they, Tom?”

“Burned up, Norah. I did it myself in the kitchen range, and you have in
their place twelve pairs of the neatest little gaiters you ever saw,
waiting for your feet to be able to wear them. Shall I show them to you
now?”

He did not wait for me to answer, but darted into the recess adjoining,
and bringing out the boots, tumbled them all upon the bed where I could
see them. Twelve pairs of boots, of every style and make! Walking boots,
morning boots, calling boots, prunella boots, bronze boots, French
calfskin boots, and what was very strange, a dainty pair of white satin
boots, which laced so very high, and were so pretty to look at. I think
these pleased me more than all the others, though I had no idea as to
when or where I could wear them.

A handsome boot was one of my weaknesses, and lo! here were a dozen
pairs of them, and I laughed as a child would have done over a box of
toys. He let me enjoy them a few moments, and then took them away,
telling me I was not to get too tired, and how glad he was that I was
better, and able to recognize him. I had been sick three weeks, he said,
and he had been with me all the time, except when he went out for a
short time each day.

“You have been out of your head,” he said, “and insisted that you were
sitting over in the window, and that somebody else was here in bed, and
that I was a big bear. What do you think of me, now?”

I looked at him closely, and saw that the heavy overcoat and coarse sea
clothes had given place to garments of the most fashionable kind, which
fitted him admirably, and gave him quite a _distingue_ air, while his
hair and beard were cut and trimmed after the most approved style of
Hyde Park and Rotten Row at the height of the season. He was a man to be
noticed anywhere, and after inspecting him a moment, I said:

“I think you are very nice, and very handsome, and I am so glad you have
come home.”

This was a great deal to say at once in my feeble state, and he saw how
tired I was, and bade me not talk any more, and drew the covering about
me and tucked it in, and brought me a clean handkerchief, and laid it on
my pillow, and did it all as deftly and handily as any woman could have
done.

Oh, those first days of getting better, how happy they were, and how
delightful it seemed to be made much of, and petted, and waited on as if
I were a princess.

Archie’s mother called two or three times, and was very kind to me, and
said once, as she was leaving:

“You will hardly come to me now as we had agreed upon.”

“Oh, yes I shall,” I replied. “I must get to work again as soon as I am
able.”

Then Tom came forward and said in a quiet, decided way, as if he had a
right:

“My cousin will not go out any more. She is under my care now.”

That was so like Tom; and I let him have his way with Mrs. Browning, but
was nevertheless just as firm in my determination to care for myself. I
had not forgotten what he had said about being married, nor had I any
doubt that he meant to marry Miss Elliston, and if so, our lives must
necessarily drift very far apart. But it was so nice to have him all to
myself just now, and I enjoyed it to the full, and let him wait on me as
much as he liked, and took gladly what he brought me, rare flowers and
hot-house plants, and books of engravings for me to look at, and books
which he read aloud to me while I lay on my pillows, or sat in my great
arm-chair and watched him as he read, and wondered at, and rejoiced
over, and felt glad and proud of the change in his appearance. I think
he was, without exception, the finest-looking man I ever saw, and Mrs.
Trevyllan quite agreed with me, always excepting, of course, her George.
She was with me a great deal during my convalescence, and one morning,
when Tom was out, she came with a radiant face, which I knew portended
some good news. Miss Elliston had actually called—that is, she had come
to the door in her carriage, sent in her card, and with it an invitation
to a large party to be given the next week.

“And are you going?” I asked; and she replied:

“Certainly I am. I think it was real snipping in her not to call
herself, but then I can excuse something on the score of old
acquaintance, and I must wear that lovely silk before it gets quite out
of fashion. She wrote me a little note, saying it was to be a grand
affair—quite a crash. I can hardly wait to see it.”

Just then Tom came in, and the conversation ceased, though I was tempted
to tell him I knew of the party. He was going, of course, and I felt a
little hurt that he did not speak to me about it; He might have done as
much as that, I thought, but he did not until the very day, when he said
to me, late in the afternoon:

“I have an engagement for to-night, Mousey. Miss Elliston gives a large
party, and as she has deferred it until I could be present, I think I
ought to go.”

“Yes, certainly, by all means,” I said; and then, when he was gone, I
was silly enough to cry, and to think hard things of Miss Elliston, who
was so rich and happy in everything.

When Mrs. Trevyllan was dressed she came to let me look at her, and I
thought I had never seen anything as lovely as she was, in pink silk,
and lace, and pearls, with her sunny blue eyes and golden hair.

“You will be the belle of the party,” I said; but she shook her head,
laughingly, and replied:

“I’ll tell you to-morrow.”

Alas! when the morrow came, the little lady’s plumes were drooping, and
her spirits a good deal ruffled. Tom was late in his visit that morning,
and so she had ample time to tell me all about it.

“Such a jam!” she said; “and it had taken half an hour for their
carriage to get up to the house, then another half hour to push her way
to the dressing-room and down again to the drawing-room, where Miss
Elliston just touched her hand and said good-evening; and then she was
shoved on to a corner, where she and George stood, entirely surrounded
by strangers, and feeling more alone than if they had been in the
desert. When the dancing commenced, it was better, for the parlors
thinned out, and she was able to walk and look about a little; but
nobody spoke to her or noticed her in any way, and she was not
introduced to a single individual, until the lion of the evening, the
man who received so much attention from every body, accidentally
stumbled upon her, and was so kind and good. And who do you suppose it
was? I was never more astonished in my life. And they say he is to marry
Miss Elliston. It is quite a settled thing, I heard. Your cousin, Mr.
Gordon; and that was his photograph, though not very natural; at least,
I did not recognize him from it. Perhaps, because I never thought of
such a thing.”

“The picture was taken three or four years ago,” I said; “and Tom says
it was never a good one.”

“Then you did know all the time that he was Miss Elliston’s Mr. Gordon,
and you never told me?” Mrs. Trevyllan cried, in a slightly aggrieved
tone of voice.

“I knew he was her brother’s friend,” I said, “but not till after he
came home. Is she so very handsome?”

“Why, yes, I think she is, or at least she has a style and high-bred air
better than mere beauty. Last night she was all in white, with blush
roses on her dress, and in her hair, and when she walked or danced with
Mr. Gordon, everybody remarked what a splendid couple they were, she so
tall and graceful, and he so big and prince-like. Did you know they were
engaged?”

She put the question direct, and I knew my cheeks were scarlet, as I
replied:

“I supposed—yes. I—Tom told me he came home to be married; that’s all I
know.”

I was taking my breakfast, and my hand shook so that I spilled my
chocolate over the clean napkin and dropped my egg-spoon into my lap.

There was an interval of silence, and then the impulsive little lady
burst out:

“I say, Miss Burton, it’s too bad. Here I’d been building a castle for
you, and behold, Lucy Elliston is to be its mistress. I don’t like her
as well as I did, I’m free to say, for I do not think she treated me as
she should at the party; never introducing me to a person, or even
speaking to me till just as I was leaving, when she was so glad I came,
and hoped I had not found it very dull among so many strangers; and
then, Miss Burton—I despise a talebearer—but I will tell you what I
heard. I was standing by myself in a little window alcove, and Lucy came
along with a tall, large woman, whom I think she called Lady Fairfax.
They did not see me, and after the conversation commenced I dared not
show myself, so I kept still and heard them talk of you.”

“Of me?” I exclaimed; and she continued:

“Of you; yes.” Lady Fairfax said:

“‘What a splendid fellow he is, and how he wins the people. I almost
envy you, Lucy, if you do marry him. By the way, do you know his cousin,
Miss Burton? Was she invited to-night?’

“‘No,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ve never called upon her. She teaches music, you
know. I saw her in Paris, with one of her pupils; rather pretty, but no
style. You never saw her, of course!’

“‘Yes, I have;’ and I fancied Lady Fairfax spoke a little hotly. ‘I know
all about her, and she is as nice as she can be, and a lady too. She was
to have married Cousin Archie, who died, and if she had she would have
been Lady Cleaver, of Briarton Lodge, now. She has been very sick; did
you know that?’

“‘Yes, I should think so, for that has kept Mr. Gordon from us so much,
and Charlie was so vexed, for he needed amusing himself. I trust she
will soon be well. Is she really nice and a lady?’

“‘Yes, every whit a lady; and I advise you to cultivate her at once.’

“From where I sat I could see Miss Elliston distinctly, and saw her give
a little shrug which she picked up abroad, and which always irritates
me. Lady Fairfax must have understood its meaning, for she went on:

“‘Mr. Gordon is evidently very fond of his cousin, and looks upon her as
a sister, and——’

“‘How do you know that? How do you know he is very fond of her?’ Miss
Elliston asked, quickly; and I saw in a moment she was jealous of you.
And when Lady Fairfax told of her call when you were sick, and of his
devotion to you, and added, ‘He will undoubtedly expect her to live with
you when you are married,’ she gave another shoulder shrug and said:

“‘_Cela depend._ I have not married him yet, and, if I should, I do not
propose marrying his entire family. This girl is not of the Gordon
blood.’

“What more they would have said I do not know, for just then some
dancers came out to cool themselves, and behind them Mr. Gordon, looking
for Lucy, who took his arm with such a sweet smile and air of
possession, and I heard her say to him:

“‘Lady Fairfax has been telling me such nice things about your cousin. I
wish you would bring her to see me; I am so busy and have so many
engagements, I think she might waive ceremony with me.’”

“What did Tom reply?” I asked, and Mrs. Trevyllan said:

“I did not hear his answer; but, mark my words, she’ll make a fool of
him, and he will be asking you to call on her. But don’t you do it, and
don’t you live with them either.”

“I never shall,” was my answer; and as Tom’s step was heard in the hall
just then, Mrs. Trevyllan left me to receive his visit alone.

He looked tired and ennuied, and was absentminded and moody for him,
while I, too, was very reticent, and never once mentioned the party
until he said:

“I met Mrs. Trevyllan as I came up. She told you about the party last
night, I suppose.”

“Yes,” I answered, and he continued:

“What did she say of Miss Elliston? They are old friends, I believe.”

“Yes: they knew each other in Ireland. She said she was very pretty and
stylish, and so lovely last night in white, with blush roses——”

“Yes,” Tom replied, evidently wishing to hear something more.

“And she said everybody was talking of you, and what a fine-looking
couple you were.”

“Yes,” and this time the yes rang out rather sharply, but brought no
response from me.

I had told him all I had to tell him of Miss Elliston, and, after
waiting a few moments, he began himself:

“Miss Elliston it a very handsome girl, with fine manners and style. She
is considered a great catch, I believe. Would you like to see her—that
is, enough to call on her with me when you are able? She asked me to
bring you, as her time is so fully occupied. Will you go?”

“No, Tom, I’d rather not. I’d do much to please you, but not that. It is
her place to call on me, if she cares to know me.”

I said this faintly, and with tears gathering in my eyes, and a horrid
feeling of loneliness gathering in my heart.

I was losing Tom sure, and it made me very sad, and made the old life to
which I must return seem harder than before. Perhaps it was this, and
perhaps it was that I had no vital force with which to rally, no bank to
draw from, as the physician said, which kept me an invalid all that
winter, with barely strength to walk about my room, and drive
occasionally with Tom, who came to see me nearly every day, and who
surrounded me with every possible comfort and luxury, even to the
providing me with a maid to wait upon me. I protested against this,
knowing how hard it would be to go back to my work after so much
petting, and said so once to Tom when he was spending the evening with
me.

“Go back to your work again! What do you mean?” he asked, and I said:

“Mean just what I say. Take care of myself as soon as I am able,
and—and—you are married, as they say you are going to be.”

Since the morning after the party he had never mentioned Miss Elliston
or referred to her in any way, and his silence was beginning to annoy
me, and so I added:

“You are, are you not?”

“Are what?” he asked, with a comical gleam in his eye.

“Are going to be married?” I replied, and he continued:

“Yes, I believe I am, provided the lady will have me. Do you think she
will?”

“Have you! Of course she will,” I said, quite vehemently, and felt my
whole face burn with excitement.

“And if I do marry,” Tom added, “why should that compel you to return to
your teaching, I’d like to know? Wouldn’t you still be my care?”

“No,” I answered, emphatically. “I shall just take care of myself as I
did before you came from India. It will not be any harder.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Tom answered, with a laugh, nor was I so sure
of it either, and after he was gone I remember that I cried bitterly
over the certainty of his marriage and the change it would bring to me.

During the next three or four weeks I did not see Tom quite as often as
usual; he was very busy, he told me; occupied, I supposed, with Miss
Elliston, whom I saw with him in the gardens where I was taking an
airing in a Bath chair one pleasant morning in April. Mrs. Trevyllan was
walking by my side, and first called my attention to them coming
straight toward us, and so near that to escape by turning into a by-path
was impossible. Tom saw me at the same moment, and I fancied there was a
look of annoyance on his face as if the meeting were one he would have
avoided. But it was too late now. We were very near each other, and
wishing to spare him the necessity of recognition, if possible, I pulled
my blue hood closely about my face and pretended to be very much
interested in a bed of crocuses; but Tom was not inclined to pass me by,
and before I quite knew what I was doing, I had been presented to Miss
Elliston, and she was looking at me, and I was looking at her, and each
was undoubtedly forming an opinion of the other not altogether
complimentary. Mine of her was: Fine-looking, stylish, very stylish, but
cold as an iceberg, selfish, smooth and deep, and if it be true that in
the case of every married couple there is one who loves and one who
permits it, Tom will be the one who loves, and she the passive
recipient. I should as soon think of receiving a caress from an iceberg
as from that calm, quiet, self-possessed woman. Poor Tom, with his warm,
loving heart, and demonstrative nature! This was my opinion of Miss
Elliston, while hers of me, I fancy, was something as follows: “That
little dowdy, faded old maid, Mr. Gordon’s cousin! and does Lady Fairfax
think I’ll ever consent to her living with me as a poor relation?”

I thought I read all this in her eyes, which scanned me so curiously,
while she tried to be agreeable and said she was glad to see me; that
she had been coming to call upon me for a long time, but really her time
was not her own, and she wished I would come to see her with Mrs.
Trevyllan, “who, naughty girl, owes me a party call,” she added,
playfully, and shaking her finger at the “naughty girl,” she made a
movement to pass on.

Tom said very little, and I felt he was glad when the interview was
over, and I was being trundled along the road further and further from
him and his _fiancee_. She was that, I almost knew, and when three weeks
later, he told me of a place on Finchley Road, Hampstead, which was for
sale, and which he meant to buy, I was sure of it, and asked him when it
was to be.

“The wedding, you mean?” and he looked so quizzically at me. “I’d like
it as soon as the middle of June. How do you suppose that would suit
her?”

I thought he could ascertain that better by asking her rather than me,
and I told him so a little pettishly, I am afraid, though he did not
seem the least bit ruffled, but held me high in his arms just as he did
the night he came from India, and said: “Mousey must manage to get back
some color in her cheeks, for I want her to look her best at the
wedding.”

Secretly I hoped I’d be sick and unable to go, but I did not say so, and
when, a few days later, he came and told me he had bought Rose Park, and
wished me to drive out with him and see it, I did not object, but put on
my hat and shawl with a feeling as if I were about to visit a grave,
instead of the charming spot which Rose Park proved to be. The house
stood in an inclosure of two acres, and we went through the grounds
first, admiring the beautiful flowers and shrubs, the velvety grass, the
statuary gleaming so white through the distant trees, the rustic seats
and gravel walks, and pretty little fountain which sent up such tiny
jets of water near the front door. How delightful it all was; just a bit
of country in the busy city, from which it was shut out by a high stone
wall, over which the English ivy was rioting so luxuriantly. And yet in
my heart there was an ache as I thought how very, very seldom I should
ever go there, and in imagination saw Miss Elliston’s tall, graceful
figure, wandering about the shaded walks with Tom, or sitting down to
rest in the rose-covered arbor, just as he and I were doing, he asking
me innumerable questions about the place, how I liked it, and if I
thought his wife would be suited with it.

“Suited!” I cried. “She ought, for I think it a little Paradise. I did
not know there was such a pretty place in London, city and country all
in one.”

“Well, then, Mousey,” he said, “if you like the grounds so much, let us
go inside and see what you think of the house, and what, if any, changes
you would suggest.”

The inside of the house took my breath away, it was so handsome, and yet
so cozy and home-like, as if made to live and be happy in. There was
nothing stiff about it, nothing too grand to be used every day, and yet
it was elegant and rich, and I felt like one in a dream as Tom led me
through room after room, some with low windows and balconies, others
opening into little conservatories, and all so charming that I could not
tell which I liked the best.

“Has Miss Elliston been here? Has she seen it?” I asked, and Tom
replied: “Not yet. I wished to bring you here first and see if there was
any alteration you could suggest.”

“I!” and I looked quickly up at him. “She would not think much of my
taste, I fancy. Neither do I think she will care to have a thing
changed, it is all so charming, especially her room.”

That was indeed the glory of the house, so large and airy, and
commanding a fine view of the town outside the garden walls. To the
south was a large bay window, fitted up just like a fairy playhouse,
with pictures and flowers, and lace curtains across the arch, and a
canary bird caroling a merry song in his handsome cage. To the west a
long balcony, with two or three easy-chairs, and at each corner an urn
full of bright flowers and drooping vines. Such a nice place to sit and
read, or work in the morning, especially as a door from it communicated
with the sleeping room, which had the tallest bedstead and bureau I had
ever seen, and was pretty enough for the queen herself. Indeed, I
doubted whether there was in Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle any
rooms as pretty and suggestive of genuine comfort as these, and I said
so to Tom as we stood in what he called “my wife’s room,” with the south
bay window and the long west balcony.

“Then you really like it, and think you could be happy here?” Tom said,
sitting down upon the blue satin couch, and drawing me beside him.

“Happy!” I repeated; “yes, perfectly happy with people whom I loved, and
I am sure you’ll be happy, Tom, and I’m so glad for you that you have so
beautiful a home.” He was silent a moment, and then he said:

“Norah, you have not selected your room yet. I know which I have
designed for you, but I want you to be suited. Can you tell me which you
would like?”

Now was the time to make an end of all the talk about my living with him
at Rose Park, and I began:

“Tom, why can’t you understand how impossible it is that I should stay
here after you are married?”

“Why impossible?” he asked, and I replied:

“Because there is nothing in common between me and Miss Elliston. She is
elegant, and grand, and high-born, and I am a little plain old maid of
whom she would be ashamed even as a poor relation. She loves you, and
you will be happy with her alone. I should only be an element of discord
in your household. No, Tom, don’t speak till I’m through. My mind is
fully made up. I cannot live with you, and shall resume my old work
again and so be independent. But I thank you all the same for your kind
offer, and shall be happier in the old life, knowing you are in London,
where I can reach you if anything should happen.”

I had made my speech, and when it was ended Tom began in a tone of voice
I had never heard from him before, except as I remember dimly the time I
was so sick and heard him say:

“Dear little girl, please, God, spare her to me now.”

Sitting in the window, as I fancied I sat then, and watching the man who
ministered so tenderly to the sick girl, I had thought there was love in
his voice and manner, but when the cobwebs of delirium cleared away the
past seemed very vague and misty, and sometimes I doubted if I had seen
or heard anything, or if Tom’s lips had touched mine more than once as a
brother’s lips never touch those of his sister. Now, however, there
could be no mistaking his voice, or the fact that he had wound his arm
around my waist and drawn me nearer to him.

“Norah,” he began, “do you remember that summer afternoon years ago when
you walked with me down the lane, and said good-by at the stile when the
stage stopped to take me up? Yes, you remember it, and how the boy
cried, and the wild words he spoke about having meant you for his
wife—you, who were ten months his senior, and felt yourself to be his
grandmother. Norah, I was in earnest then, and there was such a pain in
my heart as I watched you standing on the stile and waving your hand to
me, and to myself I said: ‘Please God if I can’t have her, I’ll never
have anybody.’ Then the years went by and changes came, and the boy-love
seemed to have died out, though I never saw a fair English face in India
that I did not contrast it with yours, and say to myself: ‘Norah’s is
the best, though possibly not so pretty.’ I was a man among men. I had
money and social position, and more than one mother wanted me for her
daughter, and I knew it, and, being human, was flattered by it somewhat,
but always remembered you and the summer afternoon when we said good-by
at the stile in Middlesex. Then Miss Elliston came to India. It was an
honor to be noticed by her, and I was thus honored, and as the friend of
her favorite brother was often at their rooms and came to know her well.
She is very handsome, and though she may be cold and haughty to those
whom she considers her inferiors, she is sweet and gracious to her
equals, and was the most popular girl in Calcutta. I was much in her
society, and liked her better than any girl I knew, and, as was natural,
our names came at last to be mentioned together, and I was looked upon
as a suitor for her hand; but I never was, Norah—never.”

I started then, but the arm around my waist tightened its hold, and he
continued:

“I was not a marrying man, I thought, and whenever I did dream of a home
and wife, your face came always before me as it looked that day when you
watched me going from you. ‘It is not like that now,’ I said to myself.
‘Norah must have grown old in these dozen years;’ and then I sent for
the photograph, which, when it came, astonished me so much by its sweet,
pensive beauty and girlish fairness that I changed my mind, and thought
I was a marrying man, and that no other face than that of the original
could ever satisfy me. So I came home and found you more than I had
hoped. I saw at once that you, too, associated me with Miss Elliston,
and as a means of winning you I suffered you to be deceived. Miss
Elliston is nothing to me—never can be anything to me, even if you now
refuse to select your room at Rose Park. Which shall it be, Norah? Will
you take the pretty suit, you supposed was intended for another, and
will you let me be somewhere in the vicinity, say within call, in case
you need me?”

It was a novel way of asking me to be his wife, but it was like Tom, and
I understood what it meant, and for a moment sat perfectly still, too
much overcome to speak. Then, as Tom pressed me for an answer, and said:

“Come, Norah, I am bound to marry somebody so which shall it be, Miss
Elliston or you?” I answered:

“I think it better be I; but oh, Tom, I never dreamed of such a thing,”
and then, of course, I cried, and Tom soothed and quieted me in the
usual way, and we sat and talked it over, and I found that I must have
loved him all my life, and he was certain he had loved me since the
first day of his arrival at the old home in Middlesex, when he chased me
with an apple-tree worm, which he succeeded in dropping into my neck,
and for which I rewarded him with a long scratch on his face.

It was settled that we should be married sometime in June, and that
Archie’s mother and Lady Darinda should be invited to the wedding, which
otherwise was to be void of guests, with the exception of the Misses
Keith and Mrs. Trevyllan. How surprised these last were, and how glad,
and how much they made of me as the future Mrs. Gordon, I went and told
Lady Fairfax myself, and she insisted upon giving me a wedding, and
saying that I should be married from her house in Grosvenor Square. But
to that Tom would not listen. A quiet wedding suited him better, with no
fuss and worry, and no one to criticise.

Lady Darinda was bitterly disappointed, and was not to be appeased until
Tom consented to allow her to give us a party after our return from
Switzerland, for we were going there on the bridal trip—going to see the
glorious Alps once more, with their ever-changing hues, and the silvery
lakes which sparkle in the sunshine like silver jewels on a bed of
green. Oh! that lovely June morning, when the air was filled with the
perfume of roses and violets, and not a cloud hung over Kensington. My
wedding morning, and it comes back to me so freshly now, with the song
of the robin in the tree by my window, the dewy sweetness of the air,
the deep blue of the sky, the smiles, and tears, and kisses of Mrs.
Trevyllan and the Misses Keith, the loud, decided talk of Lady Darinda,
the quiet “God bless you, child, and make you happy,” of Archie’s mother
when she was ushered into my room, for both ladies came to the house and
went with me to the church, on the street just around the corner, where
Tom met me, radiant and happy, and so handsome in his new suit “right
from Paris,” and the old saucy, teasing smile in his eyes and about his
mouth, as he looked down upon me and heard me promise to love, honor,
and obey. There were no tears at my wedding, and I trust no sorry
hearts, though Miss Lucy Elliston was there with her brother Charlie,
mere lookers-on, and when the ceremony was over and we were going down
the aisle, she confronted Tom laughingly, and said:

“I meant to see you married whether you invited me or not.”

To me she was very polite and affable, and I remembered what Tom had
said of her sweet graciousness to those whom she thought her equals. I
was that now, and she said something about seeing much of me when I
returned to England; but she has not, and we shall never be more than
mere calling acquaintances, with occasionally a dinner or a lunch.

Lady Darinda gave the promised party, and I wore white satin and pearls,
and the white boots Tom bought with the dozen, and Archie’s solitaire,
too, for Tom told me about it one night at Giessbach, where we spent two
delightful weeks, wandering through the woods and up and down the falls
to the shores of the lake.

“I did not wish to see it on your finger then,” he said, “when you were
so sick and I feared you might die; but now that you have the wedding
ring and are absolutely mine, I do not care, and you can wear it if you
choose.”

I did choose, for I had a weakness for diamonds, and this was a superb
one, handsomer even than the one Tom gave me, which chagrined him, I
think, a little.

The party was a great success, so far as numbers, and dress, and music,
and titled people were concerned; and I was, I believe, considered a
success, too, especially after it was generally known that I came near
being Lady Cleaver of Briarton Lodge, and that Tom was one of _the_
Gordons, with heaps of money and the prettiest place in St. John’s Wood.
For myself, I did not like the party at all, and felt tired, and bored,
and glad when it was over and I could come back to the beautiful home
where I have been so happy since the day Tom brought me here as his
bride.

It is _wife_ now. The bridal festivities are all in the past; the bridal
dress worn at Lady Darinda’s party is yellowed by time, and on the
terrace in front of the bow window where I am writing two children are
playing—my sweet, blue-eyed Nellie of six, and my brave, sturdy boy of
four, with light brown hair and a freck on his nose, just where Tom’s
used to be when he, too, was a boy. We called him Archie, to please the
dear old lady, whom I have learned to love so much, and who divides her
time about equally between Lady Darinda and myself. The children call
her grandma, and I heard Archie explaining to the gardener’s son, the
other day, that she was really his grandmother, because she was the
mother of his first father!

To me the past seems all a dream, and when I look about me upon my home,
and hear the voices of my children shouting on the lawn, and see their
father coming up the walk, and know that he will soon be at my side,
bending over me in the old, teasing, loving way, I cannot realize that I
am she who once plodded so drearily through the London fog and rain,
hunting for work with which to get my daily bread. God has been very
good to me, and, though I have known much of poverty and sorrow, it is
over now, and in all the United Kingdom there is not a happier home than
mine, or a happier pair, I am sure, than Tom and I—and so this quiet
story of real English life is done.


                                THE END.




                              KITTY CRAIG


Kitty Craig was just married; and the white satin and fleecy lace, in
which she had looked so much like an angel that her great, handsome
giant of a husband hardly dared to touch her, was folded and packed away
in one of the trunks which stood in the hall waiting the arrival of the
express wagon which was to take them to the train. And Kitty in her
traveling-dress looked infinitely prettier and more approachable than
she had in all that sheen of lace, and satin and flowers, which had cost
so much money and discussion, the mother and aunties saying that it was
a useless expense, as were nearly all such bridal dresses, when the
bride was neither wife nor daughter of a millionaire—that in nine cases
out of ten the costly fabric was worn only at the altar and then laid
aside to fade and grow yellow with time, or at best to be made over
after a lapse of years, when there arose some occasion which demanded
it. Kitty, on the contrary, knew she should need it, for was she not
going to New York, the very “hub” of parties, and receptions and
society, and though she did not know an individual there, and might, as
her quaint old aunt expressed it, be at first “a rat among cats,”
instead of “a cat among rats,” as she had hitherto been, she should soon
have troops of friends, for was not John the confidential clerk in a
first-class wholesale house on Broadway, and already acquainted with the
wives of his employers, Messrs. Orr, Guile and Steele, and as each of
these ladies was in her way a star, would they not be the _sesame_
through which Kitty would enter society, and eventually become a _cat_.
There was Mrs. Orr, the wife of the senior partner, a handsome matron,
who rolled in gold—name, house and person, all golden—and telling of the
dollars her husband counted by the millions. John knew her, and had once
been invited to dine with her on Sunday, and in his next letter to Kitty
had delighted her with a description of the dinner, at which Mrs. Orr
presided in satin dress of golden-brown, with diamonds in her ears, and
where her daughter, Miss Elinor Orr, wore natural camellias in her hair
and talked French to her mother all the time. Then there was Mrs. Guile,
a second wife, and a dashing brunette, whose servants did not speak a
word of English, and at whose house John had once taken tea on a Sunday
night, when his fine baritone voice was wanted in a quartette of music
which followed in the evening.

Kitty’s fancy was caught with the French servants, the camellias, and
the silver service and satin of golden-brown, but the Sunday dining, and
tea-drinking, and practicing of music shocked her keen sense of right
and wrong, and lowered the Orrs and Guiles a little in her estimation.
To her the words, “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy,” meant
just that, and nothing less; and not all John’s assurances that many
good, pious people in New York visited on Sunday, especially in the
evening, availed to convince her. Brought up in a New England town, she
had imbibed some of the puritanical notions of right and wrong, which,
sneer at them as we may, are the bone and sinew of that honesty of
purpose and integrity of soul which characterize so many of the New
Englanders and stamp them as different from their Western brothers.
Kitty could not fellowship Sabbath-breaking, and Madames Orr and Guile
were looked upon with a shadow of distrust. But she was sure to like the
young and beautiful Lottie, the only daughter of Mr. Guile, whose second
marriage had been distasteful to the young girl, and hurried her into
matrimony with the quiet, staid Amasa Steele, the junior partner of the
firm, who was several years her senior. John knew her well, for she
often drove to the store for her husband, and while waiting for him
amused herself with the confidential clerk, whose young face and fresh
ideas were more to her taste than the sober manners and gray hair of her
spouse. Kitty had once seen a note from Lottie to John, a delicate,
perfumed thing, inviting him to take part in a little musicale she was
getting up, and saying so much about his splendid baritone, which she
must have, that Kitty had felt a twinge of something like jealousy of
the city girl, and was glad when John wrote to her that Lottie Guile was
married that morning and gone on her bridal tour.

That was two years ago, and before John was as able to take a wife as he
was now. An increase of salary and a few thousand dollars left him by a
considerate old uncle, whose name he bore, made marriage possible, and
he and Kitty were married on a lovely June morning, when the air was
full of sunshine and sweet odors from the roses and the heliotropes
blossoming in the garden beds. And Kitty was very happy, and her heart
beat high with joyful anticipations of the future and her life in New
York, where she was sure to know people through the Orrs, and Guiles,
and Steeles. The firm had sent her a bridal present of a beautiful
silver tea-set, and wholly ignorant of the fact that neither of the
three ladies representing the firm knew anything of the gift, Kitty felt
as if acquainted with them already, and had insisted upon the white
satin and scores of things which her mother predicted she would never
need. But Kitty knew she should. The white satin was for the possible
party which might be given for her by some one of “the firm,” and the
pretty light silk for calls at home and abroad; and Kitty had it all
marked out in her mind just what she should wear on different occasions,
and knowing but little of the paraphernalia of a city woman’s toilet,
was happy accordingly.

They were not to board; John had had enough of that, and felt sick every
time he remembered the boarding-house dinners, now done with forever. A
pretty little cozy house far up town, in the vicinity of the park, was
to be their home, and John had furnished it with the money left him by
his uncle, and in the absence of other feminine advice had ventured to
ask Mrs. Lottie to “drive round some day and see if it would do.”

There was a slight elevating of Lottie’s eyebrows and a look of surprise
at the boldness of the young man, and then, thinking within herself, “I
have talked with him so much about music that I daresay he thinks he can
take liberties,” the lady graciously signified her readiness to oblige.
But she found it very inconvenient to go the day John fixed upon, very
inconvenient, in fact, to go any day, and at last sent her maid, who had
“exquisite taste,” and who reported “everything perfectly lovely,” to
John, and “rather plain, but quite good enough” to her mistress.

There was a trip to Niagara Falls, a sail down the St. Lawrence, a
rambling about in Montreal and Quebec, a few days at the White
Mountains, a week of rest in the dear old home among the Berkshire
hills, and then, right in the heat of summer, when everybody was out of
town, they came one night to the cozy home in Fifty-seventh street,
where Susan, the maid of all work, hired in Chicopee, met them with her
kindly smile, and the tea-table nicely spread stood waiting to greet
them. John’s holiday was over, and he went back to his business the next
morning the happiest man who rode down town either in stage, or car, or
private carriage. He was married and Kitty was his wife, and he felt her
kiss upon his lips and saw her as she stood looking after him with those
great, sunny, blue eyes of hers, and there was a song of joy in his
heart which showed itself upon his face as he entered the counting-room
and took his accustomed seat at the desk.

Messrs. Orr and Guile were away doing duty at Saratoga, but Mr. Steele
was at home and welcomed the young man warmly, and tried to say some
smart thing with regard to the business which had kept him away so long.
Then John asked for Lottie, and was told that she was at Newport with a
party of friends.

“Confounded bores those watering-places. I can’t endure them; and Lottie
told me I’d better come home, she could do very well without me,” Mr.
Steele said, in a weary kind of way; and John thought of Kitty and how
unwilling he should be to be separated from her now she was all his own.

In the exuberance of his new happiness and because he pitied the junior
partner, who must be so lonely without his wife, he invited him to dine
with himself and Kitty, and Mr. Steele accepted the invitation, and was
made so welcome by the pretty bride that he went again and again, and by
the time autumn hung out her gay attire and Lottie came back to her home
it had become a matter of course for him to dine with the Craigs as
often as twice a week; and those visits, where he saw for the first time
in his life, perhaps, how pleasant a home could be with love upon the
hearthstone and in the atmosphere of every room, were influencing him
for good and making him a softer, more demonstrative man than he had
been hitherto. And when at last Lottie came early in October, he met her
at the train; a very unusual thing for him to do, and kissed her so
warmly that she looked at him with surprise, wondering if he had
“failed” and was trying to smooth it over to her.

“What is it? Has anything happened?” she asked.

“No, nothing,” he answered; and, chilled with his reception and a little
ashamed of having kissed his wife before everybody, when she did not
care two straws for it, he sank back into his old self again, and was as
silent and quiet as ever during the drive from the station to his house.

Lottie was very pretty next morning in her becoming dress of drab and
scarlet, and Amasa Steele admired her secretly, and thought how handsome
she was as over his paper he watched her pouring his coffee, her white
hands moving gracefully among the silver, and every motion indicative of
fine ladyism and high breeding. It was pleasant to have her home again,
and he felt better because she was there, and thought of Kitty and John
and their pretty little dining-room, and cleared his throat twice to
speak to Lottie about them.

The fact was that Kitty, whose thoughts and feelings were as transparent
as noon-day, had made many inquiries of Mr. Steele concerning his wife,
and in so doing had shown plainly that she was anticipating a great deal
of pleasure from Mrs. Lottie’s acquaintance.

“It seems so strange not to know an individual in all this great city,
when at home I know everybody, and I shall be glad when Mrs. Steele
returns,” she had remarked to him once in reply to something he said,
which implied at least that he hoped she and his wife would see a great
deal of each other.

And he did hope so, though secretly he felt doubtful with regard to the
matter. Still, he meant to do his best for the little lady whom he liked
so much, and after his coffee was drank and his paper finished, and he
had coughed ominously a few times, he began:

“By the way, Lottie, John Craig has brought his wife to the city, and
they are keeping house up in Fifty-seventh street. I’ve dined with them
several times.”

“Ah-h!” and Lottie’s great black eyes looked across the table
wonderingly.

“Yes, and it’s a jolly place, too; so home-like and nice, and Kit—Mrs.
Craig, I mean, is very pretty.”

“Indeed!” And Lottie was interested now. “I did not suppose Mr. Craig
able to support very much style, but, perhaps, it was the pretty wife
which took you there.”

“It certainly was _not_ style, but rather the absence of it which
pleased me so much,” the husband replied. “It is a little nutshell of a
house. You could almost put the whole of it in one of our parlors, and
they keep but one servant, a perfect gem, who makes the nicest kind of
apple pie and ginger-snaps. I say, Lottie, why don’t we ever have such
things? They are a thousand times better then those French dishes you
get up for dessert.”

Lottie smiled derisively, but her voice was very sweet and pleasant as
she said:

“I hardly think Celine is accomplished to the extent of apple pie and
ginger-snaps.”

Amasa felt the rebuke and wondered at his temerity in expecting anything
so common from a cook, whose name was Celine, and who sometimes took the
title of Madame.

As yet he had made no headway with regard to the call, and so at last he
blurted it out, and told Mrs. Lottie plainly that he wished her to call
on Mrs. Craig and show her some attention.

“She is a lady, every whit,” he said, “and pretty, too, and intelligent,
and well—yes—she rather expects you to call, and she would like to see a
little of New York society, and she don’t know a single soul, and it’s
lonesome for her, and you can show her some attention without hurting
you one bit, and I hope you will do it.”

He had said a great deal more than he intended saying, for something in
Lottie’s proud eyes exasperated him, and without waiting for her to
answer he left the breakfast-room suddenly, and his wife heard the bang
of the street door as it shut behind him.

“Expects me to call and show her some attention! How absurd,” she said
to herself, as she went back to her room. “She cannot be much accustomed
to the usages of society if she supposes I am to call on every clerk who
happens to get married. Why, my list is so large now that I am nearly
crazy and I certainly shall not add Mrs. John Craig’s name to it. Apple
pie and ginger-snaps, and one servant! Poor John! He was a nice kind of
a fellow, and ought to have been rich.”

And then Lottie fell into a fit of musing as to what might have been had
John been rich instead of poor. The truth was, Lottie Guile had fancied
John Craig better than any man she ever knew, and once, after a long
chat with him in the office, where she was waiting for her father, she
had tried to make up her mind to encourage the liking he evidently had
for her, but fear of what Mrs. Grundy would say if the daughter of
Richard Guile should marry her father’s clerk prevailed, and when Amasa
Steele offered himself and his half-million, she accepted him, and
wished he was not quite so gray, and that he looked more like the
confidential clerk, who was present at the wedding, and who, she
thought, seemed a little sorry.

And John was sorry that one as young and sprightly as Lottie should
marry a man so wholly unlike herself as the sober, middle-aged Amasa
Steele. He was sorry to have her marry at all, for he had found it very
pleasant to chat and laugh and sing with her on the occasions when
chance threw her in his way, but further than that he did not care. He
had known and loved Kitty Clew ever since she was a child, and he drew
her to school on his sled, and he expected one day to make her his wife,
so foolish Lottie was mistaken when she thought there was a pang in his
heart as he saw her made Mrs. Amasa Steele, and called her by that name.
She knew nothing of Kitty Clew, and went on dreaming her little romance
and fancying there was one joy less in John Craig’s life until she heard
he was to be married. There was a shadow on her brow, and she felt
somehow as if John had misused and deceived her, while to crown all she
was expected to call on his wife and make a friend of her. It was a hard
case and Lottie felt aggrieved, and the first time she met John Craig
she was very cool toward him, and never asked for his wife or hinted
that she knew there was such a creature in the world. John felt her
manner keenly, but did not tell Kitty, who, knowing that Mrs. Steele had
returned, began to look daily for the call she so certainly expected.
One after another the dresses her aunties had pronounced useless were
brought out and worn, and in the prettiest of toilets Kitty waited
morning, noon and night for one who never came. Lottie did not call,
neither did any one else except the clergyman to whom Kitty had brought
a letter of introduction from her own rector, and who dropped in for a
few moments to see his new parishioner.

Accustomed at home to be first in every good work, Kitty asked what she
could do, and was told of the mission school, where teachers were always
needed, and of the regular sewing society of the church, which met one
day in each week. Kitty was pleased with the mission school, and entered
heart and soul into the work, and found fast friends among the ragged
girls and boys, who looked upon her as a kind of divinity. From the
sewing society, however, she shrank at first, dreading to encounter so
many strangers; but when she heard what need there was for help, she
laid aside her own personal feelings and went week after week, mostly
from a sense of duty, and a little, it may be, with a hope, that by some
chance she might come to know those with whom she worshiped Sunday after
Sunday, and with whom she had more than once knelt around the chancel on
communion days.

And there, in the little sewing-room of St. ——’s she sat, one Thursday
morning, as much alone as if around her there were not twenty ladies or
more talking socially together, and all unmindful of the stranger in the
midst, poor little Kitty, who actually started in surprise when she
heard herself addressed by a pleasant-faced, elderly woman, who sat near
her, and who seemed herself to be a stranger.

“Can you tell me who that is?” she asked, nodding toward a young and
dashing-looking lady, who sat near them talking and laughing merrily,
and showing in all she did that she felt herself a privileged character,
and could do and say what she pleased.

Kitty, too, had been watching her, and taking notes of the cut of her
dress and style of her hair, but she did not know who she was, and she
said so to her interlocutor; then, as if the sound of a voice speaking
kindly to her upon some other topic than her work had unlocked her
pent-up feelings, she continued:

“I do not know any one. I have been here week after week, too, and not a
person has spoken to me except about my work.”

“Is it possible?—and they call themselves Christians, too,” was the
reply of the woman, who, having once passed a similar ordeal, knew just
how desolate and neglected Kitty felt.

Meantime there was a lull in the conversation of the ladies at the
right, and, as Kitty’s voice was very clear, her words were distinctly
heard by one of the group, at least. Swiftly the proud black eyes
scanned Kitty’s face and person, and then, as if continuing an
interrupted conversation, the lady said, loudly enough for Kitty to
hear:

“There is one thing this society needs, and that a committee, whose
business it shall be to look after the new-comers—the sensitive ones,
who feel slighted if they are not noticed—and introduce them, you know.”

“An admirable idea,” said her companion. “Suppose we make you that
committee.”

“No, thank you; that is not in my line. I’ve no patience with people who
think to make the sewing society a stepping-stone to other society. I
come from a sense of duty, and think every right-minded person should do
the same;” and again the black eyes flashed sidewise at poor Kitty, who
could hardly restrain her tears, and who would have cried outright had
she been alone, with no curious ones around her.

Just then there was a fresh arrival, and the newcomer greeted her of the
black eyes with the exclamation:

“Why, Lottie Steele—it’s an age since you were here. I thought you had
forsaken us.”

Kitty did not hear the reply, so great was her astonishment at learning
that this woman, who had wounded her so cruelly, was Lottie Steele, the
one for whom she had watched so long, and on whose acquaintance and
friendship she had counted so much in her utter ignorance of the city
and its customs. Alas, how had her idol fallen, and how were all her
hopes destroyed! She had nothing whatever to expect in that
quarter—nothing to expect anywhere; and, with a swelling heart as she
remembered the church society at home, where she was what Lottie Steele
was here, or, as her dear old auntie expressed it, “a cat among rats,”
she gathered up her work, and bidding good-morning to the pleasant-faced
woman at her side, who alone of all the ladies there had spoken
familiarly to her, started for home, feeling more desolate and alone
than she had thought it possible for any one in the great city of New
York, which had once seemed to her like an earthly paradise.

As she left the sewing-room she met the rector of the parish, who said a
few friendly words to her and then passed on into the room, where he was
immediately accosted by Lottie Steele, who asked him who the lady was he
met with at the door.

“That was Mrs. John Craig, from Rosefield,” he replied. “She is a
stranger in the city, and I wish some of my ladies would take a little
pains to be polite to her. Her former clergyman speaks highly of her as
a Christian and a lady of culture and education. She is very regular at
church, I see, and her husband is a splendid-looking fellow.”

“Why, that must be the John Craig in our store,” chimed in Agatha Orr, a
pert miss of seventeen. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Steele? You ought to know, for
you and he used to be so intimate.”

A withering glance from Lottie’s eyes silenced Miss Agatha, while
Lottie’s cheeks were scarlet, and her pulse throbbed faster than its
wont. She was not naturally hard and cruel, and given to wounding people
unnecessarily. She professed to be a Christian; perhaps she was one. She
certainly was very rigid with regard to all the fasts and holy days, and
no religious devotee kept Lent, so far as churchgoing was concerned,
more strictly than she did; but she had been reared and trained in the
school of fashion and caste until many of her better impulses were
warped and deformed, and she sometimes did things thoughtlessly, of
which she repented afterward. Bearing the reputation of being
exceedingly exclusive, she had no idea of inviting into her charmed
circle any who wished to enter, and deemed it her duty to shut and bar
the door against all intruders, especially if she felt that the intruder
had some claim upon her. So, when she overheard Kitty’s complaint, and
felt in her heart that not only herself but many of her sisters in the
church were sadly remiss in their reception of strangers, she said what
she did, in a sudden fit of impatience that any one should expect to
make her acquaintance at a sewing society. But she had no idea it was
Kitty Craig whom she was lashing so unmercifully, and she would have
given considerable for the privilege of recalling her thoughtless words.
But it was too late; the mischief was done, and Kitty was gone, and, as
is frequently the case when we are conscious of having injured a person
in any way, Lottie, after the first pangs of self-reproach were over,
found herself with a greater aversion than ever to that “nutshell of a
house” which might be “put into her parlor,” and Kitty’s chances for an
acquaintance with Mrs. Amasa Steele were far less than before. “A rat
among cats” she certainly was, and she felt it keenly as she walked
home, with Lottie’s scornful words ringing in her ears and making her
heart throb so painfully.

“The sensitive ones, who feel slighted if they are not noticed.”

Had it really come to this, that she was thus designated—she, who at
home had been first in everything, and had herself, perhaps, been a
little hard on the sensitive ones, not knowing then just how they felt.
She knew now, and, once alone in her room, wept bitter tears at the
first real slight she had ever received. Then, as she remembered what
Lottie had said of duty, she questioned herself closely to see how far
her motives in going so regularly to the sewing-rooms had been pure and
such as God would approve, and she found, alas! that they would not
altogether bear the test applied. Something beside a genuine desire to
do good had drawn her thither; a hope that she might by chance make some
pleasant acquaintance, had been strong in her heart, and she confessed
it, amid a gush of tears, to the Friend who never failed her, and to
whom she always took her sorrows, whether great or small.

Kitty’s religion was not on the surface, a mere routine of form and
ceremony. She knew in whom she had believed, and she told Him all about
her trouble, with the simplicity of a little child, and asked to be
forgiven so far as she was wrong, and that toward Lottie Steele she
might feel as kindly as before. Kitty’s face was very bright after that
talk with God, and when John came home at night it was a very pretty and
gay little wife which sat at his table and told him she had at last seen
Mrs. Steele, and thought her very handsome and very bright. Of the
insult, however, she said nothing, and John never dreamed how little
cause his wife had for speaking as kindly as she did of the thoughtless
lady who had wounded her so sadly.

Kitty did not go to the sewing meeting after that, but worked at home
for the poor and needy, and felt far happier alone in her quiet
sitting-room, with only her singing-bird for company, than she had when
surrounded by ladies whom she did not even know by name. She did not
expect Lottie Steele now, and never dreamed how near that unlucky affair
at the sewing-room came to bringing about the very thing she had once so
greatly desired. For Lottie was disturbed and annoyed at her own
rudeness and wished she could in some way atone, and half made up her
mind to call upon Mrs. Craig and make friends with her. But when at the
dinner-table her husband himself broached the subject and suggested that
she go with him that very evening, her pride took alarm at once. It was
too soon; Kitty would of course think she came to conciliate her, and
she would not humble herself like that before the wife of a clerk. So
she declined rather crossly, and said she was too tired, and she didn’t
believe Mrs. Craig wanted her to call, and she was certain “John” did
not care to have her see in what a small way he was living.

Amasa Steele never talked much, and now he only muttered something about
being “so thundering proud,” and without a word as to where he was
going, left the house soon after dinner; and Lottie saw no more of him
until the clock was striking eleven. Then he found her at her prayers,
for Lottie never omitted any duty of that kind, and when her husband
came home she was kneeling by the bedside with her fanciful
dressing-gown sweeping the floor, and trying to ask forgiveness for
having wounded Kitty Craig. Amasa had not much faith in Lottie’s
religion, and without waiting for her devotions to end, he asked “where
the deuce his slippers were, that he could never find them?”

This untimely interruption brought Lottie from her knees, feeling
indignant and aggrieved, and as if she was persecuted for righteousness’
sake, and she would neither tell her husband where his slippers were nor
ask him where he had been so long, although she was dying to know, and
felt almost sure he had visited the Craigs. She knew he had the next
day, for he told her so, and said so much in praise of Kitty that she
felt a pang of something like jealousy, and avenged herself by driving
to the store that afternoon and talking with the confidential clerk so
long that her father at last suggested that she go home, as “women were
out of place in a business office.”

When she and Kitty met again it was at the altar rail, where they knelt
side by side, Lottie’s rich velvet cloak brushing against Kitty’s
plainer cloth, and the glitter of her rings flashing before Kitty’s
eyes. As they rose and turned away Lottie half bowed a recognition, and
felt for the remainder of the day as if she were a very good and
forgiving woman, inasmuch as Kitty, in her surprise, had not returned
the bow.

New York was very gay that winter, and Lottie had no leisure to spare to
such as Kitty Craig, who would in time have been wholly forgotten but
for an event which occurred just one year from the day when John first
brought Kitty home as his bride. Then a new little life came into that
house; and Lottie, who chanced to be in the city for a few days, was
surprised to hear from her husband that he was to stand sponsor for
little Frederic Steele, who was to be baptized that afternoon. Would she
go and see it?

There was a shrug of Lottie’s shoulders and a lifting of her eyebrows,
but she made no reply, except:

“You and the Craigs must be very intimate to warrant their taking such a
liberty. Pray, where have you seen so much of them?”

Amasa did not tell her how many of his evenings when she was away were
spent in that nutshell of a house, where they had apple pie and
ginger-snaps for dessert, or how the sight of the little round-faced boy
which John had shown him with so much pride on the occasion of his last
visit had raised in his heart a vague dissatisfaction with the stillness
of his grand house, where baby voices were never heard. He himself had
suggested Frederic Steele, saying:

“I won’t ask you to inflict upon him such a name as Amasa, but my only
brother was Fred, and I’d like the little chap called for him.”

So the baby was christened “Frederic Steele,” and Lottie was there and
saw it. She had no fancy for christenings, where the children usually
screamed so vigorously, she said, but she did want to see how John
looked as a father and how Amasa behaved as sponsor. So she went to the
church and mentally criticised Kitty’s dress and the baby’s dress, and
thought her husband very awkward and John very handsome, and drove next
day to Tiffany’s and selected a silver cup, which was marked, “For
little Fred,” and sent it to the address of the Craigs, who wondered
greatly whence it came, and wondered, too, what they should do with it,
inasmuch as Amasa’s gift was also a silver cup, gold-lined, and looking
as if it were the twin of the one which had come no one knew whence, and
which Kitty put away as something to be looked at but never used.

And now we pass over a period of more than eighteen months, and come to
a time when, wearied out with gayety and dissipation, Lottie Steele was
almost glad when the first days of Lent came and put an end to the
parties and receptions which had so engrossed her time, and made her
grow pale and thin, with dark rings around her eyes. But she would rest
now, or at least lead a different kind of life, for though she wore her
second-best dresses and kept all the fasts and holy days, and never
missed a service, whether on Sunday or week day, she still had a good
deal of leisure time for quiet, and kept earlier hours, and hoped to
come out at Easter as bright and fresh as the new bonnet which she had
in her mind for that occasion. Lent was really beneficial, both to her
health and her complexion, she thought, and she kept it religiously, and
affected to be greatly shocked when she heard that Kitty Craig had
committed the enormity of going to the opera, where a wonderful bird of
song was entrancing the people with its melody. Lottie went to elaborate
lunches served in darkened rooms, and went to the Philharmonics, and to
concerts, and lectures but avoided the opera as if the plague had been
rioting there, and felt that the example of consistency she thus set
before her husband was infinitely better than that of sinful,
opera-going Kitty Craig.

But Lottie grew tired at last of the same daily routine, and wanted
something new, and devised a little _musicale_, which was to be held in
her parlors and to be highly exclusive and _recherché_. Only the
_creme-de-la-creme_ were to be there, and these by invitation—said
invitation to be in the form of cards, for which five dollars were to be
paid, and the proceeds appropriated to a new mission school, in which
Lottie was greatly interested, and of which John Craig was
superintendent. This had latterly thrown John and Lottie together again,
and they were the best of friends; and Lottie’s little dainty hand had
more than once rested on John’s coat sleeve, and Lottie’s eyes looked
straight into his while she talked of some ragged boy, or devised some
new scheme for the advancement of the school.

The musicale was her hobby now, and she must have Mr. Craig in at least
three of the quartettes. And she asked if he would come to rehearsal at
her house, and go with her to see the Misses Barrows, whose voices were
wonderful for depth and richness, and one of whom played accompaniments
remarkably well? It did not matter now that they sold bonnets and
ribbons on Broadway during the week, and that Lottie would never dream
of inviting them to her house except on an occasion like this, when she
needed their services. She wanted them, and John must go with her and
see them.

This was down in the office, and her fine face was all aglow with
excitement, and her carriage was at the door, and John felt his blood
stir a little as he looked at her and thought of a drive up Broadway
with that fashionable turnout. Yes, he would go to see the Misses
Barrows; and he went and met them that night at Mrs. Steele’s, and
before Kitty came back from a visit she had made at home everything was
arranged, and he had promised to sing in four pieces at least, and
possibly five, and meet at Mrs. Steele’s for practice three evenings in
a week.

What Kitty said to him when she heard of it made him doubt a little the
propriety of going to a house where his wife’s existence had never yet
been recognized by so much as an inquiry, and to which she would not in
all human probability be invited; and when next day Lottie drove down to
the office to consult with him about some new idea, he mustered courage
to tell her that he wished she would find some one to take his place as
now that his wife had returned he did not like being away from her
evenings, as he necessarily must be if he perfected himself in the
difficult passages assigned to him. Womanlike, Lottie understood him at
once, and knew that some bold move on her part was requisite if she
would not lose him. And she could not do that now. He was too necessary
to the success of her musicale, and with a mental anathema against the
offending Kitty, she exclaimed:

“Oh, Mr. Craig, you know I cannot do without you and will not. Tell your
wife so, please. When did she return, and how is little Freddie Steele?
By the way, I do not believe I have sent her invitation yet, have I? She
was gone, you know. Suppose I write her a little note now; that will be
more friendly than a card,” and snatching up a pen Lottie dashed off a
half-formal, half-familiar note to Kitty, inviting her to the musicale
and apologizing for not having sent the invitation earlier.

“That will settle it,” she thought, while John, who saw only the
flashing eyes and beaming face, began to descend from his stilts, and in
his delight at having an autograph letter for Kitty from this high-born
lady, forgot that in all the two years and a half of his married life
this was the first time his wife had ever been alluded to.

But Kitty did not forget, nor seem as much elated with Lottie’s
autograph note as John thought she ought to be.

“She was much obliged to Mrs. Steele,” she said, “for the invitation,
but she could not for a moment think of accepting it. She should feel
out of place among so many strangers.”

And to this decision she firmly adhered, insisting, however, that her
husband should go on with his practice, and not disappoint Mrs. Lottie.
But to this John objected. There was something amiss somewhere, and his
better way was to remain at home with Kitty, and so the next morning he
wrote Mrs. Lottie a note, saying positively that he could not take the
parts assigned to him, and mentioning as a substitute Will Archer, whose
voice was quite as good as his own, and who read music even better than
himself.

“Will Archer! That clown in my parlors! Never!” was Lottie’s indignant
exclamation, as she threw the note aside. “Cannot spend the time! Why
wasn’t he frank enough to say that obstinate wife of his would not let
him? It all comes of those thoughtless words she heard me say at the
sewing society. She has never been there since, and I really was sorry
for it.”

“But she don’t know that,” Conscience whispered; and then Lottie began
to wonder what she could do to secure John’s services.

She could not do without him, and to get him she was willing even to ask
his wife’s pardon, if necessary, and at all events she would call the
next day and apologize, for John’s voice she must and would have at any
cost.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Kitty’s morning work was done. The little parlor, which did duty as
sitting-room and nursery too, was nicely swept and dusted, and
everything was in its place. A bright fire was blazing in the grate.
Freddie was asleep in his crib, the gift of Amasa Steele, who had mostly
supplied the wants of his god-child since the day he stood with him at
the font, and Kitty, in her neat delaine wrapper, with faultlessly clean
collar and cuffs, was just sitting down to the pile of work which lay
beside her “Wilcox & Gibbs,” John’s Christmas gift to her. She was never
troubled with morning calls; for, though she had some few acquaintances
in the city by this time, they were not of the fashionable kind to whom
one hour is as free as another, and she had no thought of the honor in
store for her, and which was even then at her very door, in the shape of
a handsome little coupé, satin lined, and bearing the stamp of the very
latest style in all its appurtenances, from the silver-tipped harness to
the driver in his livery, and the footman, whose coat came nearly to the
ground as he obsequiously held the door for his mistress to alight.

“It _is_ a nutshell of a house,” was Lottie’s mental comment, as she
went up the steps and rang the bell. “Poor John, with his refined
instincts, he ought to have done better;” and, so low down in Lottie’s
heart that it was hardly a wrong to Amasa Steele, there was the shadow
of a regret that she had not thought twice before deciding not to
encourage her father’s confidential clerk.

But it was too late now. She was Mrs. Amasa Steele, and had come to call
on John’s wife, who, greatly to her amazement, opened the door herself!
Kitty had heard the ring, and not seeing the stylish turnout in front,
and knowing that in all human probability Susan’s hands were in the
bread, she went to the door, expecting to meet either a book agent or
somebody inquiring if Dr. Jones lived there, he being her next neighbor,
as she and John both had learned from sundry calls at all hours of the
day and night. She was prepared for the agent and the patient of Dr.
Jones, but not for the “grand dame” clad in velvet and Russian sable,
whose big black eyes looked their surprise, but who nevertheless smiled
sweetly, and asked in the blandest of tones if this were Mrs. Craig.

Lottie’s first impulse had been to suppose the lady a servant, and ask
for her mistress, but she had come for an object, and it suited her to
be very amiable and even familiar.

“So kind in you to let me in yourself,” she said, as she followed Kitty
into the little parlor, and then apologized for not having called
before.

She did not say out and out that she had intended calling, for she would
not tell an absolute lie, but her manner implied as much, and she talked
so fast and made herself so agreeable, that Kitty began to be drawn
toward her in spite of herself, and when she praised the new Wilcox &
Gibbs sewing machine, and pronounced it “the dearest plaything in the
world,” and then, pouncing upon little Freddie, called him a darling,
and complimented his eyes and his hair, the conquest was more than half
completed. But when Lottie ventured at last to introduce the musicale,
and to say how sorry she was that Mrs. Craig had declined coming, and
how very badly she felt to lose Mr. Craig’s services, there was a
peculiar look in Kitty’s eyes which did not bode success to Mrs.
Lottie’s project. Still she was not disheartened. Her heaviest forces
were still in reserve. The day was so fine and the air so bracing, would
not Mrs. Craig like a drive in the Park? It would do her good, and the
baby, too. Dear little fellow, he looked pale, though possibly that was
his natural complexion.

Freddie had not been well for a day or two, and Kitty had wished that
very morning that she was rich and could afford a drive, and now that it
was so gracefully offered to her, she hesitated at first, and then
finally accepted, and almost before she had time to think she was seated
on the satin cushions by Mrs. Lottie’s side, and was rolling over the
level roads of the beautiful Central Park. Lottie insisted upon holding
Freddie herself, and was so generally charming that Kitty was sorry when
the carriage stopped at last at her own door.

Up to that moment not a word had been said of the musicale, but Lottie
bided her time, and just as Kitty was getting out she laughingly said:

“You do not invite me, but I mean to go in and see if I cannot coax you
to reconsider your decision with regard to the musicale after all, and
persuade your husband to sing. You don’t know how much I am in earnest.”

She followed Kitty into the house, and while her own fingers helped to
disrobe little Freddie, she went on:

“If you do not come I shall think you have never forgiven those
thoughtless words I said in your hearing the first time I ever saw you.
You remember them, I am sure, but you do not know how sorry I was,
especially when I learned who you were. It was wrong under any
circumstances, but we had been so annoyed with commonplace people coming
just to be noticed, and besides that I’d had a little ‘tiff’ that
morning with Amasa about calling on the dowdiest woman you ever saw, and
I was not in the best of moods. You will forgive me, won’t you, and be
friends? Ah, that must be your lunch bell. I’d no idea it was so late.”

“Stay to lunch, won’t you?” Kitty faltered, devoutly hoping her visitor
would decline; but she did not.

She was nearly famished, she said, and accepted the invitation
graciously, and followed on to the dining-room, where the lunch-table
was very neatly spread, for Kitty was particular about everything
pertaining to her table, which was arranged with as much care for
herself and Freddie as it was when she had company to dinner. And Susan
waited nicely and suggested that she bring the fresh apple pie she had
made that morning, and which looked so tempting, with its white, flaky
crust, that Mrs. Lottie took a large piece, and ate a ginger-snap which
Susan also brought.

Apple pie and ginger-snaps were evidently favorites in that house, and
Lottie praised them both, and asked how they were made, and said her
husband had told her about them. She was outdoing herself, and when at
last she said good-by and went out to her cross coachman, who had driven
up and down, up and down, and actually sworn about her to the footman,
she had Kitty’s promise that John should sing, and that possibly she
herself would attend the musicale, while to crown all there was in her
pocket a receipt for ginger-snaps, which Susan had given her at the last
moment, when she stood in the hall telling Kitty, “It would not be a
dress affair—that anything she had would answer.”

Lottie was in a very pleasant frame of mind when she reached home that
day. She had accomplished her object, as she felt that she deserved to
do, for had she not called on Kitty Craig and apologized for her
rudeness, and taken her to drive, and lunched with her in that
“under-ground” dining-room, not much longer than her butler’s pantry,
and lunched, too, on apple pie and ginger-snaps, food which heretofore
she had thought only fit for those made of coarser clay than herself,
and was there not in her pocket a receipt for those same snaps, which
poor, deluded Susan, who had taken a great fancy to the grand lady,
thought maybe her cook might like, as Mr. Steele was so fond of them!
Celine and ginger-snaps! and Lottie laughed merrily as she took out the
receipt and began to read, “One cup of molasses; half-a-cup of butter;
and half-a-cup of lard——”

“Lard! Horrors, I can never insult her dignity with that. Amasa must go
elsewhere for his snaps,” and turning to the grate the little bit of
paper was soon blackening upon the coals, and Amasa’s chance for snaps
at home was lost.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Kitty had said that John should sing, and she did not find it at all
hard to keep her word. He was fond of music, and only too glad of an
opportunity to serve Mrs. Lottie, who had been and who continued to be
so very kind to Kitty. Lottie never did anything by halves, and now she
had taken up the Craigs she meant to keep them up till after the
musicale at least, and she frequently sent to Kitty flowers and fruit,
and even her carriage for the dear little boy to take the air, and
Kitty, though she in a measure understood it all, wisely concluded to
accept the good the gods provided, and submitted patiently to John’s
absence three nights in a week, and when he was home, played the music
for him, accompanying him with her voice until she was almost as
familiar with it as he was himself, and, as he declared, played better
than the Misses Barrows, who did not always keep perfect time or give
the best expression.

Kitty was going to the musicale, too, and she began to look forward to
it with a great deal of pleasure, although she dreaded it somewhat,
inasmuch as “she had nothing to wear.” All those pretty silks made at
the time of her marriage were out of style. The sleeves were too large,
the waists too small, and “they had not a bit of a stuck-up behind,”
Susan said, when she tried them on one after another to see if they
would do. Only one was at all “_au fait_” in that respect, and that a
plain black silk, which, having been made over the summer previous, was
nearly enough “_bouffant_” in appearance to suit the fastidious Susan.

“Some do take a newspaper,” she said, as she tried to make the overskirt
stand out as far as Mrs. Steele’s had done. “Some do take a newspaper
and tie on, and if you was to do that you’d bunch out beautiful.”

But Kitty declined the newspaper, and when the night of the musicale
came she looked very pretty and modest in her black silk, with her coral
and real lace, and John kissed her proudly and told her she was sure “to
pass muster.” They were among the first arrivals, and they found the
house ablaze with light and full of flowers, while Lottie herself was
splendid in silk, and lace, and jewels, and in a high state of
excitement. The last rehearsal had been very satisfactory and she had
reason to expect a great success. But where were the Misses Barrows, her
pianist and soprano? They had promised to be early, and it lacked but
half an hour of the time appointed for the first piece, and they had not
yet appeared.

“Dressing, probably, as if anybody will care what they wear,” she said
to Kitty, thus showing the estimate in which she held them outside the
services she desired.

There was a sharp ring at the door and a servant brought a note to
Lottie, who, feeling intuitively that it in some way concerned her
greatly, tore it open at once, her face flushing and then turning pale
as she read that the Misses Barrows had just received news that their
mother was dying, and they must start for home that night if they would
see her alive. It was a bitter disappointment, and Lottie felt as if
that poor woman dying in that little village in Ohio had somehow injured
her. But there was no help for it now. The Barrowses were out of the
question, and in her utter helplessness and distress, she turned to John
to know what they should do.

“It is a failure, of course,” she said, and the great tears stood in her
fine eyes.

John hesitated a moment and glanced toward his wife, and then to her
utter dismay replied:

“Not necessarily an entire failure, perhaps. I think it just possible
that Mrs. Craig can play the accompaniments and, possibly, sing as
well.”

“Oh, John,” Kitty gasped, while Lottie’s black eyes flashed a curiously
doubtful glance at her and Lottie’s voice said:

“_She—your wife_,” as if even to her the idea was preposterous.

“Yes, my wife,” John answered, proudly. “She has a fine voice and was
accounted a good musician at home.”

“And will she—will you try?” Lottie asked, willing, now that her first
feeling of surprise was over, to grasp at a straw. “Dear Mrs. Craig,
will you try? It is a positive failure if you do not. I might ask that
horrid Mrs. Banks, but her voice is like a peacock’s. Do. Mrs. Craig,
and I will love you forever.”

She had her arm around Kitty’s waist and was drawing her toward the
piano where in a moment poor, bewildered Kitty found herself seated with
piles of music before her and a crowd of strange people staring at her
and asking each other who that little nun-like woman was, and where the
Misses Barrows were. Very softly Kitty played over a few of the more
difficult places, and Lottie, who was a judge of fine playing, began to
feel confidence in her new performer, and whispered encouragingly:

“You are doing splendidly,” while to herself she groaned: “Oh, if I only
knew what her voice was.”

She did know ere long, and as Kitty’s clear, birdlike tones began to
fill the room, growing sweeter, and clearer and stronger as Kitty became
more confident of herself, she could have hugged the little woman in her
joy, and did kiss her when the musicale was over and pronounced a
perfect success.

“You are a darling, a second Nilsson. I shall never forget this, never,”
she said, while many of her friends crowded around Kitty, asking for an
introduction and thanking her for the treat she had given them. “And to
think she never tried the music before! It is wonderful,” Lottie kept
saying while others, too, expressed their surprise that she could play
such difficult music at sight.

For a few moments Kitty sat irresolute; then her love of truth prevailed
over every other feeling, and crossing to where John stood, she put her
hand on his arm and said: “Please let me speak a word to you all.”

In an instant there was a hush throughout the room, and every eye was
fixed upon the brave little woman who would not even act a lie, and
whose voice was very clear and distinct, as she said: “It would be wrong
for me to leave an impression on your minds that I never tried that
music before. I have played it many times at home for my husband, and
sang it with him when he was practicing. I cannot play at sight like
that. I am not a very fine musician.”

“But you are a good, conscientious, little darling!” was Lottie’s
impulsive exclamation, while a murmur of admiration for this unexpected
frankness ran through the room. “I could never have done that, I know I
could not. I should just let them think it was my first effort, but
somehow I love you better for it,” Lottie whispered to Kitty, when for a
moment they stood together alone, and as she said it, the fashionable
woman of the world felt that she had learned a lesson of good from
plain, simple-hearted Kitty, who found herself the belle of the evening,
and received so much attention that when at last she was put into
Lottie’s carriage and sent home, with Lottie’s kiss warm on her lips,
and Lottie’s assurance that she should see a great deal of her now that
she knew her, she felt herself to be in a bewildered, dazed kind of
state, sure of nothing except that the door of society, so long locked
and barred against her, was open now, and that if she chose, she could
enter the charmed circle she had once thought so desirable.

“Guess what I’ve brought you, little woman? An invitation to dine with
Mrs. Steele! What think you of that?” John said to Kitty one night,
about a week after the drawing-room musicale. “The Guiles and Orrs are
to be there, too. Quite an affair! You don’t suppose there would be time
for you to get a new dress made, do you?”

John was a good deal excited, and, if the truth was told, a little proud
of being invited to a company dinner with the old and haughty members of
the firm.

“Just our own people, you know—papa’s family and the Orrs,” Lottie had
said to him, and John felt that he was recognized as one of “our own
people,” and was flattered accordingly, and said he knew no reason why
he should not accept; and thought to himself that Kitty should have a
new dress, made with puffs, and ruffles, and bows, and which should
stand out like Lottie Steele’s, and have a New York look.

Of the cost of such a dress, and the time and trouble to get it up, he
knew nothing. He only thought Kitty should have one, and put a fifty
dollar bill in his pocket for the emergency, and went home half an hour
earlier than usual to tell Kitty of the honor in store for her. And
Kitty was pleased, too, and her face flushed a little as she said she
guessed the old black silk would have to do duty again, as a new one,
such as he had in his mind, was far beyond their means.

“When is it?” she asked, and then John felt again a little twinge he had
experienced when Mrs. Lottie named Sunday as the most convenient time
for getting “all the family,” as she termed them, together.

“Sunday, at six o’clock,” she had said, adding when she saw the
questioning look on John’s face: “You know it is dark now at six, and
the Sabbath ends at sundown; besides that, I mean to have some sacred
music in the evening, so be prepared, please.”

John would rather the dinner had been on some other day, but what people
like the Guiles and Steeles did must be right, and he had not a thought
that Kitty would object. But she did—firmly and decidedly.

“God never meant that His day should be remembered by giving dinner
parties,” she said. “That was not keeping it holy, and she could not go
to Mrs. Steele’s, much as she would like to.” And to this decision she
stood firm; and when John met Mr. Steele next day in the office, he told
him to say to Mrs. Steele that he regretted it exceedingly, but he must
decline her kind invitation to dinner.

“The fact is,” he said, “my wife was brought up in New England, where I
guess they are more strict about some things than the people in New
York, and she thinks she——”

John hesitated as if fearful that to give Kitty’s reason would sound too
much like a reproof, but Mr. Steele understood him and said, “She does
not believe in Sunday dinner parties; that is what you mean. Well, well,
I’ve seen the day when I did not, but that time seems to me ages and
ages ago. Somehow here in New York first we know we get to doing things
which once we would not have done for the world, and Sunday visiting is
one of them I’ll tell Lottie. She will be terribly disappointed, for she
wanted you badly, but I guess your wife is right. I’m sure she is.
Remember the Sabbath—I’ve most forgotten how it goes, though I used to
say it the best of any of them, when I was a boy at home;” and folding
his hands behind him, Amasa Steele walked up and down his office,
thinking of the summers years ago, when he sat in the old-fashioned pew
in that little church at the foot of the mountain, and saw the sunshine
lighting up the cross behind the chancel, and felt upon his cheek the
air sweet with the fragrance of the hay cut yesterday in the meadow by
the woods, and said his catechism to the white-haired rector, whose home
was now in Heaven.

That time seemed long, long ago—ay, was long ago, before he was the city
millionaire and husband of the dashing, self-willed Lottie, who, while
professing to believe just what Kitty did, practiced a far different
creed. All the tithes of anise, and mint and cumin she brought, but she
neglected the weightier matters, and her dark eyes flashed angrily for a
moment when she heard Kitty’s reason for declining her Sunday dinner.

“As if she were so much better than anybody else,” she said, and she was
going on to say more when her husband cut her short with, “I suppose she
does not feel like going straight from the altar to a dinner party.
Isn’t it communion next Sunday in your church?”

Yes, it was, but Lottie had forgotten that, and her face flushed as her
husband thus reminded her of it. The two did not seem to be wholly
congruous, and so she staid home the next Sunday, and felt a strange
feeling of disquiet, and thought more of Kitty Craig, and how she would
look with that expression of peace on her face when she turned away from
the altar than she did of the grand dinner which was being prepared in
her kitchen, and which, though pronounced a success by those of her
guests who cared nothing for the fourth commandment, seemed to her a
failure. Nothing suited her; everything was wrong, from the color of the
gravy to the flower in her step-mother’s hair, and the fit of Mrs. Orr’s
dress; and when all was over, and the company gone, and she was alone
with her thoughts and the Bible she tried to read, and, which by some
chance she opened at the words. “Remember the Sabbath day to keep it
holy,” she said to herself, “I don’t believe I’ll ever try to have
another dinner party on Sunday.”

She went to see Kitty the next day and chided her for her absence, and
called her a little Methodist and a Puritan, and asked how she came to
be so strait-laced, and ended with: “But I believe you are right after
all, only here in the city people do differently, and you will be like
us in time.”

“I trust I never may forget that God is in the city as well as in the
country,” was Kitty’s reply, which Lottie pondered long in her heart,
and which at last bore the fruit which ripens on the everlasting hills
of glory.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It is two years since the night of the musicale, and more than one
carriage with servants in livery and ladies gayly dressed has stopped at
Kitty’s door, and Kitty has the _entree_ to many a fashionable house.
But having tasted the once coveted apple and found how unsatisfying it
was, she has put it from her and sees but little of the _beau monde_
save such as she sometimes meets at the house of Lottie Steele, who is
now her best friend, and whose carriage stands at her door on the night
of which we write. There was a message from Mr. Steele to John and Kitty
Craig, telling them to come immediately, for Lottie, he feared, was
dying.

There were tears in Kitty’s eyes, and a throb of pain in her heart, as
she read the note and then prepared for the drive. There was a hushed
air about the house as if death had already entered there, and the
servant who opened the door spoke in a low whisper, as in reply to
Kitty’s questions she said, “Very low, and asking for you. Will you go
up now?”

Without waiting to throw aside her wrappings Kitty followed up the
stairs, past the room where Lottie’s week-old baby girl was sleeping,
and on to the chamber where the young mother lay. There was the pallor
of death on her face, and her eyes seemed larger and blacker than ever.
But they lighted up suddenly and her white cheek flushed when she saw
Kitty come in.

“Oh, Mrs. Craig, I am so glad. I wanted to tell you how much I owe you,
and that but for you I could not be as happy lying here right in the
face of death—for I am going to die, I know it and feel it—but first I
want to see baby baptized, and you and your husband must be her
sponsors. Please, Am, tell them to bring her in.”

The child was brought, and the clergyman, who had been waiting for the
Craigs, was summoned from the parlor below.

“I would call her Kitty,” Lottie said, as she laid her hand on the
silken curls of the little one, “but Am wants her named for me. Poor Am!
I didn’t think he’d care so much. I’m sorry I have not done better,” she
continued, looking up into the face of her husband, who gave one great
choking sob as he whispered “Don’t, Lottie, don’t. You _have_ done
well;” then taking the little girl in his arms he held it so low that
Lottie’s hand rested as in blessing on its head all through the first of
the service, until the clergyman took the little one himself and
baptized it “Charlotte Maude.”

Then, when all was over and the clergyman gone, Lottie said, “Hold me,
Am; raise me up and let me lay my head on your arm while I talk to Mrs.
Craig and tell her how much good she has done me, and how her speaking
the truth so frankly that night of the musicale, and her refusing to
come to my dinner on Sunday, set me to thinking that she possessed
something which I did not; and the more I thought about it, and the more
I saw of her consistent life, the more I was convinced that my religion
was one of mere form, and that my heart had never been touched. I had
been confirmed, it is true, but I did not know what for, except that it
was the proper thing to do, and was expected of me. There is too much of
that kind of thing done, and young people need more instruction, more
personal talks than they get oftentimes, and so the church is harmed. I
meant to do right, and I kept all the fasts and holy days, and denied
myself many things in Lent, and thought I was a saint to do it, and all
the while was just as selfish and proud as I could be, and felt above
every body, and was bad to Am——”

“No, Lottie, never bad,” and Mr. Steele pressed the hand he held in his,
while Kitty wondered to see this grave, quiet man so tender and loving
when she had heretofore thought him cold and indifferent.

“Yes, I was bad,” Lottie said. “I’ve never been the wife I ought to have
been, and I’m so sorry now, and when I’m gone I want you to think as
kindly of me as you can and bring baby up to be just such a woman as
Kitty Craig. Not fashionable, Am, though she might be even that and a
good woman, too. There are many such, I know, but do not let her put
fashion before God. Don’t let her be what I have been. Mrs. Craig will
see to her and tell her of her mother, who was a better woman before she
died; for I do believe I am, and that the Saviour is with me, and has
forgiven even me. I’d like to live for baby’s sake, and show Am that I
could be good, but I am willing to die, and ready, I trust; and maybe if
I get well I should be bad again; so it is right, and Heaven knows best.
Lay me down now, husband, and let Kitty Craig kiss me good-by, and tell
me she forgives the cruel words I said when I first saw her, and my
neglect after that.”

She seemed like a little child in her weakness and contrition, and
Kitty’s tears fell like rain as she gave the farewell kiss, and said
that she had long ago forgotten the insult offered her.

“Now go: I breathe better when there is no one here but Am,” Lottie
said. “And when you come again, maybe I shall be gone, but I hope I
shall be at peace where there is no more pain or temptation to be bad.”

So John and Kitty went out together, and left her alone with her
husband, who drew the covering about her, and, smoothing her tumbled
pillow, bade her sleep if she could. And Lottie slept at last, while her
husband watched beside her with his eyes fixed upon her white face, and
a heavy crushing pain in his heart as he thought of losing her now, just
as he had a glimpse of what she might be to him, and as he hoped, just
as she was beginning to love him.

He had always loved her in his quiet, awkward way—always been proud of
her; and though her frivolities and inconsistencies had roused his
temper at times, and made him say harsh things to her and of the
religion she professed, he had through all been fond of her and believed
in God—that in, believed in the God he had learned about in the New
England Sunday-school at the foot of the mountain, and he thought of Him
now, and for the first time in years his lips moved with the precious
words:

“Our Father.”

That prayer had once been so familiar to him, and as he said it now the
past came back again, and he was a boy once more, with all the glow and
fervor of youth, and Lottie was to him all she had been when he first
called her his wife, only he seemed to love her more; and with a choking
sob he cried:

“I can’t let Lottie die. Oh, Father, save her for me, and I’ll be a
better man.”

Softly he kissed the white hand he held, and his tears dropped upon it,
and then a feeble voice said, in some surprise:

“Am, are you crying, or was it a dream? and did you pray for me, and do
you love me sure, and want me to get well?”

“Yes, darling, I do,” and the sobs were loud now, and the strong man’s
tears fell fast upon the face turned so wonderingly and joyfully toward
him.

“Then I will get well,” Lottie said; “or at least I’ll try. I really
thought you would be happier without me. I’ve been such a bother, and it
was not worth while to make an effort, but, if you do love me and want
me, it’s different, and I feel better already. Kiss me, Am, and if I
live we’ll both start new and be good—won’t we?”

Lottie did not die, and when Kitty went to inquire for her next morning
she found her better and brighter, with an expression of happiness on
her face which she had never seen there before.

“I almost went over the river,” she said; “and felt sure I was dying
when Am’s voice called me back. Dear old Am, do you think he actually
prayed for me, that I might get well, and I thought once he did not
believe in praying. Any way he used sometimes to say that my prayers
were all humbug, and I guess they were; some of those long ones I used
to make when I came from a dancing party at two in the morning, and he
was tired and sleepy, and wanted me to turn off the gas. But he is
different now, and says he loves me after all I’ve been. Why, I never
gave him a speck of love, or kissed him of my own accord. But I’m going
to do better; and I guess God let me live to prove to Am that there is a
reality in our church as well as in others. He says he believes in the
Methodist—his grandmother was one—and when we were first married he used
to want me to play those funny hymns about ‘Traveling Home,’ and ‘Bound
for the Land of Canaan,’—and he believes a little in the Presbyterians,
and some in the Baptists, but not a bit in the Episcopalians—that is, he
didn’t till he knew you, who, he thinks, are most as good as a
Methodist; and I am going to try and convince him that I am sincere, and
mean to do right and care for something besides fashion and dress. I
have baby now to occupy my time, and I am glad, for when the spring
bonnets and styles come out, my head might be turned again, for I do
dote on lace and French flowers. Do you think I ought to wear a mob cap
and a serge dress to mortify myself?”

Kitty did not think so; and when two months later she met, down in one
of the miserable alleys in the city where want, and misery, and vice
reigned supreme, “a love of a” French chip hat, trimmed with a bunch of
exquisite pansies and blonde lace, she did not believe that the kindness
paid to the poor old paralytic woman who died with her shriveled hand
clasped in Lottie Steele’s, and her lips whispering the prayer Lottie
had taught her, was less acceptable to God than it would have been had
Lottie’s face and form been disfigured by the garb with which some
well-meaning women make perfect frights of themselves.

Lottie’s heart was right at last, and Amasa never muttered now nor swore
if he could not find his slippers while she was saying her prayers. On
the contrary he said them with her, and tried to be a better man, just
as he said he would, and at last one morning in June, when even the
heated city seemed to laugh in the glorious summer sunshine, he knelt
before the altar and himself received the rite of which he had once
thought so lightly.

“We are so happy now,” Lottie said to Kitty one day. “And I am so glad
of Maudie, though I did not believe in babies once; and Am is just like
a young lover and I’d rather have him than all the men in the world if
he was fifty his last birth-day, and I am only twenty-five; and do you
know I charge it all to you, who have influenced me for good ever since
I first saw you, and made that atrocious speech.”

“Let us rather both ascribe to Heaven every aspiration after a holier,
better life which we may have,” was Kitty’s reply, but her heart was
very happy that day, as she felt that she might perhaps have been an
instrument of good to one household at least, and that to have been so
was infinitely of more value and productive of more real happiness than
getting into society, which she had once thought so desirable, and
which, now that she was or could be in it if she chose, seemed so
utterly worthless and unsatisfactory.


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------


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------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

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