THREADS GATHERED UP
                   A Sequel to “Virgie’s Inheritance”


                       _By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

                               AUTHOR OF

   “Max,” “Lost, A Pearle,” “For Love and Honor,” “Helen’s Victory,”
                       “Brownie’s Triumph,” Etc.

[Illustration]

                           A. L. BURT COMPANY

                     PUBLISHERS            NEW YORK




                             Popular Books

                        By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

                       In Handsome Cloth Binding

                   Price per Volume,        60 Cents

          BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH.
          EARL WAYNE’S NOBILITY.
          FOR LOVE AND HONOR. Sequel to Geoffrey’s Victory.
          FORSAKEN BRIDE, THE.
          GEOFFREY’S VICTORY.
          HER HEART’S VICTORY. Sequel to Max.
          HELEN’S VICTORY.
          LOVE’S CONQUEST. Sequel to Helen’s Victory.
          LOST, A PEARLE.
          MAX, A CRADLE MYSTERY.
          NORA, OR THE MISSING HEIR OF CALLONBY.
          SIBYL’S INFLUENCE.
          THREADS GATHERED UP. Sequel to Virgie’s Inheritance.
          TRIXY, OR THE SHADOW OF A CRIME.
          TRUE ARISTOCRAT, A.
          VIRGIE’S INHERITANCE.

                      For Sale by all Booksellers
              or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price
                     A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
                    52 Duane Street        New York

                      Copyright, 1887, 1888, 1891
                           By STREET & SMITH

                Under the title of VIRGIE’S INHERITANCE

                          THREADS GATHERED UP.




                                CONTENTS


          CHAPTER I. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
          CHAPTER II. VIRGIE RECEIVES A MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE.
          CHAPTER III. VIRGIE SHALL YET HAVE HER INHERITANCE.
          CHAPTER IV. A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
          CHAPTER V. VIRGIE BECOMES A NURSE.
          CHAPTER VI. “I AM THE WOMAN YOUR BROTHER LOVED.”
          CHAPTER VII. AFTER EIGHT YEARS.
          CHAPTER VIII. A GLIMPSE AT LILLIAN LINTON’S HEART.
          CHAPTER IX. A STRANGE MEETING.
          CHAPTER X. MR. AND MISS KNIGHT VERSUS CUPID.
          CHAPTER XI. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.
          CHAPTER XII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
          CHAPTER XIII. RUPERT’S REQUEST.
          CHAPTER XIV. THE BETROTHAL.
          CHAPTER XV. “I HAVE MET LADY LINTON BEFORE.”
          CHAPTER XVI. MORE INTRODUCTIONS.
          CHAPTER XVII. SOME STARTLING DISCOVERIES.
          CHAPTER XVIII. A SUDDEN FLITTING.
          CHAPTER XIX. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
          CHAPTER XX. A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT.
          CHAPTER XXI. THE ARRIVAL AT HEATHDALE.
          CHAPTER XXII. A BACKWARD GLANCE.
          CHAPTER XXIII. REUNITED.
          CHAPTER XXIV. “GOD IS GOOD.”
          CHAPTER XXV. THREADS GATHERED UP.




                          THREADS GATHERED UP




                               CHAPTER I.
                         AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.


Three years passed, and nothing occurred to disturb the even tenor of
Virgie’s life.

She had worked diligently during this time, gaining fresh laurels with
every season. She had removed from the retired lodgings which she had
taken at first upon coming to San Francisco, into a better locality,
where she had a handsome suite of rooms in a well-known apartment-house.

These were bright and pleasant, tastefully furnished also, and Virgie
thoroughly enjoyed the pretty home which she had won by the labor of her
own hands.

When she had made the change she gave the contents of her other home to
Chi Lu, who had married a thrifty woman of his own country, and together
they were carrying on quite a flourishing laundry business, while, in
place of the faithful Chinese, Virgie had taken a bright and capable
Swedish woman.

One evening, after a dreary, rainy day, the bell under the name of
“Alexander,” in the house of which we have been speaking, was pulled by
a vigorous hand.

Virgie was in her chamber, putting her little girl to bed—a service
which she enjoyed, for the child always expected a merry frolic and then
some “pretty story before the dustman came.”

She heard the bell, and soon after voices in the pretty parlor leading
from her chamber, and she wondered who could have chosen such a stormy
night to call up her, for she seldom had visitors, even in pleasant
weather.

Presently Mina, the Swede, came to her, and said that a gentleman was
waiting to see her.

“Who is he? Did he give no name?” Virgie questioned, surprised.

“No, madam. I asked him, and he said there was no need to take his name,
for you would know him when you saw him.”

Virgie’s heart beat more quickly at this, and a feeling of dread took
possession of her.

Mr. Knight came to see her occasionally, and one or two of his clerks
had been there a few times on business, but Mina knew them, so she was
sure it was none of these, but someone who must have known her in the
past.

She finished the story she was telling little Virgie, made some trifling
changes in her toilet, and then went into the parlor.

A gentleman was seated by the table, with his back toward her, and
though he had on a heavy overcoat, and his form was considerably bowed,
and his hair very gray, there was something familiar about him that sent
a sudden shock through Virgie’s frame.

As she went forward to greet him he suddenly arose and turned toward
her, bending a pair of piercing black eyes searchingly upon her face.

Virgie stopped short as she met that glance, all the color leaving her
face, while a startled cry escaped her lips.

The man flushed, and his eyes sank guiltily before hers as he said, in a
low tone:

“You know me, then, Virgie?”

“Uncle Mark!” she gasped, and then sank weakly into a chair.

“Yes, I am your Uncle Mark,” the man returned, a touch of bitterness in
his tone; “but I scarcely expected that you would acknowledge me as
such. Where is your father?”

“Dead.”

Mark Alexander staggered as if some one had struck him a sudden blow.

“When did he—die?” he asked, with whitening lips.

“Six years ago last November.”

The man sank back into his chair, and bowed his head upon the table,
with a groan.

Profound silence reigned in the room for several minutes, while each
occupant was tortured by bitter thoughts.

Virgie could scarcely realize that at last the man who had wrought her
father’s ruin was sitting in her presence. She had never seen him but
once since that dreadful time when the thunderbolt had fallen to crush
them all, and that had been when she had fled from him in the street
more than three years previous. She wondered how he had found her now.
She had hoped she should never meet him again; she feared him; she
abhorred him for the crime and wrong he had committed.

Her heart was even now filled with great bitterness toward him, for, but
for him her dear father might have been living, an honored and respected
citizen of San Francisco, and she could only remember how he had
suffered, how, believing his name forever dishonored, he had fled, as it
were, into the wilderness, there to drag out a weary existence among
strangers.

A heavy sigh at length aroused her from these unhappy musings, and she
glanced at her companion.

She could see that he, too, was sadly changed.

Evidently the last twelve years had been far from happy ones with him.
His bowed form, his haggard face and gray hair, all told of a mind ill
at ease, of a heart tortured by fear, if not with remorse.

Apparently, too, he had been very ill; he might even be so still, for he
was fearfully emaciated, his face was hueless, and he was trembling with
either weakness, cold, or emotion, perhaps all three combined.

His coat was drenched in the heavy rain in which he had come, and he
looked so utterly wretched and forlorn, that something of pity began to
crowd the anger from her heart.

“Uncle Mark,” she said, trying to steady her trembling voice, “you have
taken me so by surprise that I am forgetful of my duty. Remove your wet
coat, and come nearer the fire, while I ring for a cup of tea and some
supper for you.”

“Ah! then you will not turn me out again into the storm. Still you
cannot have much but hatred for me in your heart,” he returned, lifting
to her a face that was almost convulsed.

“I trust that nothing would make me unmindful of the duties of
hospitality, especially toward one who is ill and suffering as you
appear to be,” Virgie answered, as she arose and went out to confer a
moment with Mina regarding the comfort of her unbidden guest.

“Where is Aunt Margaret?” she inquired, when she returned, a few moments
later.

“Dead.”

“Ah! and Philip?”

“Dead—and little Bertha, too. All are gone—victims of cholera, while I
have not known a well day since I had it,” the man answered, in a harsh,
unnatural voice.

Virgie felt the tears rise to her eyes, and her heart softened still
more. Surely his punishment had begun, and in no light manner, if death
had so quickly robbed him of all his family, ruining his own health
also.

“How did you know that I was here in San Francisco?” she asked, after
another painful pause.

He started at her question.

“I saw you here more than three years ago. I was not quite sure it was
you the first time I met you, and I followed you, hoping to learn where
you lived; but you evaded me without knowing it, that time. The next day
I haunted the place where I lost sight of you, and came upon you just as
you turned the corner, you remember. You knew me, I was very sure, by
the look of dismay that sprang to your eyes. I was more sure after your
little strategy in that store. But I wanted to see you desperately,
Virgie. Didn’t you see my advertisement among the personals?”

“Yes; but I—could not meet you. I—could not forget,” faltered Virgie.

The man shivered at her words.

“Well, I cannot blame you. But never mind that now. I meant to find you
if I could; but I made up my mind after a while that you and Abbot had
left San Francisco—I had not a thought that he was dead—and so I went
elsewhere to hunt for you. I have spent the last three years in
wandering about, but finally came back here to end my days. I was in at
Knight’s bookstore a day or two since. There was a pile of new books on
the counter, and as I stood looking at one of them a gentleman came for
one, and said to a boy, ‘I want you to take one of Mrs. Alexander’s new
books around to her.’ The name startled me. I turned to the title page,
and saw ‘Virginia Alexander’ printed there, as the author. I bought a
copy, and followed the boy here. I should have come to see you
yesterday, but I was not able to get out; I had hardly strength
sufficient to-day, but to-night despair drove me out in spite of the
storm.”

“I am afraid you were imprudent. But what can I do for you, Uncle Mark?”
Virgie asked, hardly knowing what to say to the returned fugitive.

“I will tell you that by and by. Can I—will you let me stay here
to-night?” he humbly asked.

Virgie had but two beds, her own and her servant’s, but she had not the
heart to send him forth again into the storm, he looked so ill and
miserable; so she replied, with a look of pity:

“Yes, if you wish.”

The poor creature broke down and sobbed at her kindness, but he
recovered himself after a moment, and turned away from her gaze.

“It is my nerves,” he explained; “I am a total wreck; I am utterly
shattered.”

Mina now came in with a tempting little supper, and he was more composed
and cheerful after he had eaten something and taken a cup of tea, and
soon began to talk more freely of his past.

He had been in the East Indies, he told Virgie, engaged in the spice
trade, most of the time since his flight from San Francisco. But he had
never known a moment of peace since the day that he had fled with all
the available funds of the bank, of which he had been the cashier, and
his brother the president, for he had known well enough that the good
name of the latter would have to suffer as well as his own.

“At first,” he said, “I tried traveling, throwing myself into every
excitement, and took my family with me. But it would not do; the fortune
which I had stolen and was trying to enjoy, was like a mill-stone about
my neck; the word ‘thief’ was branded upon my heart with every beat of
my pulse, until, in despair, I at last located at Batavia, on the island
of Java, and threw myself, heart and brain, into business. I invested
the most of my ill-gotten gains where they would be safe, and began to
speculate with the rest. The Bible says that ‘the wicked shall not
prosper;’ but I did—if you call it prospering to have money literally
pouring in upon you and be nearly distracted with an accusing conscience
at the same time. The richer I grew the more wretched I became. I had
heard that your father had sacrificed all that he was worth toward
wiping out my iniquity; but of course I knew that it could not begin to
make my defalcation good, and that people would only scoff and sneer,
and say it was all pretense—doubtless we were in league and would share
equally in the spoils. I knew his high sense of honor, and how sensitive
he was, and I believed the blow would crush him.”

“It did! it did!” cried Virgie, bursting into a passion of tears, as all
the sad past came pressing upon her with this recital.

“Poor child! poor child!” returned her uncle, tremulously. “But you and
your father were in a state of bliss compared with me. Then there came
that terrible epidemic sweeping all whom I loved in three days from the
face of the earth, and bringing me, also, very near to death’s door.
When it was all over, and I knew that I was to live, I felt that there
remained but one thing for me to do—to come back here and make an open
confession of everything, and atone, as far as I was able, for the
mischief I had wrought. If I could have found Abbot I should have done
this long ago. Oh, my brother, I wish you had not died!”

Again he broke down, and Virgie felt herself fast melting toward him.

She could not but feel that his repentance had come far too late, but he
was much too wretched not to appeal to her sympathies.

They talked for several hours, she telling him all that had occurred
since his flight, though she touched but lightly upon her individual
sorrows.

But he appeared so exhausted that she finally persuaded him to retire,
giving up her own room to him, she and little Virgie occupying Mina’s,
while the girl slept upon a lounge in their small dining-room.

When morning came Mr. Alexander was too ill to rise, and feared that he
was going to have a relapse of his former illness.

He grew better, however, toward evening, and seemed to be so grateful
for the care which his niece had given him, so repentant for the sorrow
that he had brought upon her, that she was deeply touched.

After a few days he appeared much stronger, and seemed greatly
interested in Virgie, her work, and particularly in her little one.
Still, he did not seem to be quite at his ease.

“I did not mean to be such a burden upon you, Virgie,” he said, humbly,
one afternoon, as she was performing some little service for him.

“I do not consider you a burden. I am glad if I can make you
comfortable, Uncle Mark,” she returned, kindly.

“You shall not be a loser for your kindness to me,” he added, smiling.

Virgie turned upon him sharply, her face flushing crimson, her eyes
blazing.

“Uncle Mark,” she retorted, in a clear, decided voice, “whatever I have
done for you has been done from sympathy, and because I felt it my duty
to minister to your needs; but I shall never receive any compensation
from you—I could not. If you are as rich as you have hinted several
times, I want you to right the wrong that you committed so long ago.
There is much that still remains unpaid, even though the bank has long
since resumed business. Many depositors lost heavily; there were several
years that no interest was paid to them, and their funds were so locked
up that they could not have what rightfully belonged to them, and much
suffering was occasioned by it. All this—_everything_ must be paid to
the uttermost farthing.”

“It shall be done. I will do all that can be required of me. But,
Virgie, _you_ have been the heaviest loser of all through what your
father paid out for me, and that will be one of the debts to be canceled
with the rest. Don’t let your pride prevent my relieving my conscience
of that obligation,” said the sick man, tremulously.

Virgie had not thought of the matter in that light before. Her chief
desire had been to have a confession, and restitution made to the bank
and all depositors, and thus clear her father from all imputation of
wrong-doing. She had never reckoned herself among the number of the
injured—never counted upon receiving a dollar in return for the
sacrifice her father had made. To have his honor re-established, and
then be able to bring his body back to rest beside her mother, would
give her more joy than she ever expected to know again in this world.

“Papa’s good name is more to me than all else,” she said, tearfully.

“Dear child, it shall be fully restored; his honor vindicated. Oh, that
he could have lived to know it! That it could not is the hardest part of
my punishment. But after I have done that, you will not refuse to
receive what I can offer you?” pleaded Mark Alexander, earnestly.

“Can you satisfy _all_ claims upon the bank?” Virgie asked, in surprise,
for she knew that the interest of all those years would amount to a
great deal.

“I can do far more than that, and to-morrow I will make a beginning, if
I have the strength. What I do must be done quickly, for my days are
numbered.”




                              CHAPTER II.
                 VIRGIE RECEIVES A MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE.


Virgie, remembering her promise to Mr. Knight, to let him know if she
ever met her uncle in San Francisco again, determined to consult with
him regarding Mark Alexander’s intentions.

She knew that he would advise her rightly, and relieve her from all
anxiety in the matter. She feared that her uncle might be arrested and
tried for the crime that he had committed, in spite of the fact that he
was willing and eager to make full restitution, and he was far too ill a
man for any such excitement.

But she did not have to fear this long, for he was suddenly attacked
with very alarming symptoms and his physician told him plainly that he
would never leave his chamber again.

“It is far better so,” he said to Virgie, when he told her of the
verdict, “for nothing can occur now to cause you any annoyance. I shall
be glad to have ‘life’s fitful fever over,’ and can die content if you
will assure me that you forgive me for all the unhappiness I have caused
you.”

“Yes, I do, Uncle Mark,” she answered.

And she was sincere. She could freely forgive him for all _she_ had
suffered through his wrong-doing, but she could not quite forgive him
for the shame and sorrow her father had endured on his account.

To be sure the truth would all come out now, restitution would be made,
and the world would know that Mark Alexander alone had been guilty of
the crime imputed to his brother as well; but her father was not there
to experience the benefit of tardy justice, and, though grateful, she
was only partially content.

She sent for Mr. Knight and confided the whole matter to him. He told
her to leave it all with him, and he would see that full justice was
done.

After a conference with the invalid a lawyer was sent for, a full
confession of the crime was written out and signed in the presence of
the required number of witnesses, after which he made his will, making
Mr. Knight his executor, and bequeathing all that was necessary of his
fortune to liquidate his indebtedness to the bank he had wronged, the
remainder to go to his niece, Virginia Alexander, and her heirs forever.

After this important business was finished, the lawyer and witnesses
gone, Mr. Alexander requested Virgie to bring him a package of papers
she would find in the lower part of his trunk.

She complied, and then he asked her if she would assist him in looking
them over, as he wished to destroy those that were of no value and leave
some directions regarding the others.

There were a great many of them, and they were of various descriptions,
therefore their examination required some time. But at last everything
seemed to be arranged satisfactorily—all but one sealed package, which
the invalid had laid aside from all the others.

This he now took up, remarking, as he viewed it thoughtfully:

“There is quite a romantic history connected with this, and it came into
my hands in a remarkable way. I am going to tell you the story, and then
give the package to you to keep for the owner, if you should ever be
fortunate enough to find her.”

“Ah! It is something that some one has lost?” Virgie remarked, looking
interested.

“Yes. I stopped in London for a few days on my way home from the East.
But on the last day of my stay I gave up my room at the hotel several
hours before I left, and went into the gentlemen’s reception-room to
read my paper. I was far from well, and the noise and smoke there
annoyed me exceedingly, so I stole into a small parlor devoted to
ladies’ use, and seating myself behind some draperies in a bay-window,
gave myself up to the enjoyment of solitude and the news of the day. I
must, however, have soon fallen asleep, for I was not conscious that any
one had entered the room until I heard the voices of two ladies almost
beside me. How long they had been there I do not know, and my first
impulse was to make my presence known and then leave the room. But this
seemed an awkward thing to do, particularly as they might have been
talking some time before I awoke, and they might consider me very
ill-bred for having remained a listener to what had already been said.
Then, I thought, I was an utter stranger to them; I was about leaving
for another country, and whatever the nature of their conversation, it
could make no difference to either them or me, if I did overhear it. It
proved to be very harmless, however, until just as they were about to
separate, one lady remarked to the other:

“‘By the way, as we are going to the Continent for a while, I want to
ask you to take charge of a package for me. It would be valuable to no
one excepting myself, and yet if it should chance to fall into other
hands during my absence, it might occasion me a great deal of trouble. I
know it will be safe with you, and if anything should happen to me while
I am away, I want you to burn it.’

“‘Very well, I will do as you wish,’ returned her companion, as she
appeared to receive something that the other handed to her.

“They conversed a few moments longer, and then arose and left the room.
I judged that they had met there at the request of the lady who was
going abroad, simply to take leave of each other, and I thought no more
of the affair until I took my seat in the evening train for Edinburgh,
whence I was to go to Glasgow to await the sailing of a steamer for
home. A lady entered just after I was seated, and while giving some
directions to the porter who brought in her luggage, her voice struck me
as familiar. Still I could not place her—indeed I was very sure I had
never seen her before, and being exceedingly wary I settled myself in a
corner and was soon fast asleep. When I awoke it was very dark outside,
though the coach lamps burned dimly above me, and I found myself alone
in the compartment; my companion, whoever she might have been, had left
the train.

“Judging from the cramped condition I was in, I must have slept a long
time and very soundly. I arose to stretch myself and change my position,
when my foot struck some object on the floor. I stooped and picked up
the package. Taking it nearer to the light I found that its seal was
stamped simply with a coat of arms, while there was written on the back
of the wrapper, ‘To be destroyed, unopened, in the event of my death.’

“Instantly it flashed upon me that the lady of the familiar voice, who
had been my companion, was one of the women who had been in the ladies’
parlor at the hotel that afternoon, and that this was the very package
intrusted to her care by her friend. Of course I would not presume to
open the package to ascertain to whom it belonged, and I had not the
faintest idea what to do with it, for no names had been called during
that interview to enlighten me as to the identity of the ladies.

“When the train stopped again I asked the guard at what station my
companion had left. He did not know; he said the guards had been changed
at Sheffield, and the lady must have got out before that, as I was alone
in the compartment when he came on. I was both puzzled and annoyed. I
did not like to intrust the package to any one connected with the train,
for I judged from what the lady had said that it contained something of
great importance—at least to her. I did not doubt that inquiries would
be made for it, for doubtless the woman who had lost it would be in
great anxiety about it. My time was not valuable, and I began to be
considerably interested in my discovery, so I resolved to return to
London, and wait to see if any inquiries were made regarding the lost
package. Accordingly I took the next train back, and the following
morning, I myself inserted a notice in some of the papers, describing
what I had found and stating where it could be obtained. I remained in
the city a fortnight, but no one ever came to claim the package, and
though I closely examined the newspapers, no inquiry for it ever
appeared. I felt that I had done my whole duty in the matter, so I again
started for home, bringing my mysterious possession with me.

“It is just as I found it. I confess I have often felt a curiosity
regarding its contents, but I have respected the owner’s evident desire
that it should remain a sealed matter to every one save herself. I am
going to give it to you now, Virgie. Of course, I know it is very
doubtful whether you will ever meet the owner, but I do not like to
destroy it, fearing there may be something of importance contained in
it. Here it is, just as I found it, and if you should ever happen to
hear any one mention having lost a sealed package on the Edinburgh
train, this may prove to be the one. It can easily be identified by the
crest upon the seal.”

Virgie took the mysterious thing and examined it with some curiosity.

It was of an oblong shape, nicely wrapped in thick white paper, sealed
with red wax, upon which had been stamped a coat of arms.

“What a queer looking device,” Virgie said. “A shield bearing a cross
that is doubled crossed.”

“Yet, it is what is called a patriarchal cross. I was curious about the
crest, so I studied up a little on the subject of heraldry; and the
motto is certainly an excellent one, ‘_Droit et Loyal_,’ meaning
‘Upright and Loyal,’” returned the sick man, with a sigh, as if the
words were a stab at him.

Virgie turned the package over, and found written there, in an evidently
disguised hand, the sentence, “To be destroyed unopened in the event of
my death.”

“I feel almost as if I hold the fate of someone in my hands,” she said,
a slight shiver disturbing her.

She was not naturally superstitious, but she experienced a very
uncomfortable sensation in the possession of the mystic thing, and years
after the words that she had just uttered returned to her mind with
peculiar force; she did indeed hold the fate of a human being in her
hands.

“If you do not like to keep it, if the knowledge of its possession
becomes irksome or burdensome, then destroy it,” her uncle said, as he
noticed that she was strangely affected.

“I will keep it for the present,” she answered. “There is no
probability, however, that the owner and I will ever meet.”

“I do not know; stranger things than that have happened, our lives cross
those of others in a marvelous way sometimes,” returned Mr. Alexander,
dreamily. “I believe,” he added, arousing himself after a few moments,
“that some power stronger than myself has influenced me to preserve that
package, and to confide it now to you. I am impressed that it may even
prove useful to you. Let me advise you to take good care of it, Virgie,
keep it, say for twenty years, if you should live so long, and then, if
nothing has come of it, do what you like with it; by that time it is
doubtful if it could do the owner either harm or good.”

“Very well, I will do as you suggest, Uncle Mark,” Virgie answered, and
saying this, she arose and locked it in a small drawer in her
writing-desk.

Mark Alexander failed very rapidly after that. Disease and remorse had
done their work pretty effectually, and in less than three weeks from
that stormy evening when he had come to Virgie he was laid to his last,
long rest in Lone Mountain Cemetery.

After this Mr. Knight lost no time in carrying out the instructions he
had received, and instituted measures for making ample restitution for
the crime that had been committed nearly twelve years previous.

The bank from which Mark Alexander had stolen so largely had been nearly
ruined. All payments had been suspended for years, and the most
strenuous exertions were made to turn to the best advantage the
comparatively small assets left, and thus prevent a total loss to the
depositors and stockholders. It had been but a little while since it had
been able to resume business upon its former basis, and it will be
readily understood that the accession of nearly half a million
dollars—the sum returned to them by the former criminal—was most
joyfully received by the directors.

A statement of the fact was published, together with an announcement
that all depositors who had suffered from the defalcation would receive
remuneration for all loss and annoyance in the past.

Abbot Alexander, the former president, was exonerated from all blame.
Every taint, every doubt and suspicion were removed from his name, and
justice was at last rendered to an honest man. A glowing tribute was
paid to his nobility of character, to his rare talents as a business
man, and to the spirit of self-sacrifice he had manifested at the time
of the trouble, in giving up all his own wealth.

It was a day long to be remembered by Virgie, when all this was
proclaimed to the world. The papers were full of it, and seemed to vie
with each other in trying to atone for the wrong which Abbot Alexander
had so patiently suffered, which had broken the heart of his gentle wife
and driven his wife and his beautiful daughter into exile. It was tardy
justice, but it was ample and complete.

But little was said of Mark Alexander and his wonderful prosperity since
his defalcation, but that little, while it did not conceal or condone
the crime that he had committed, commended most highly that last act of
his life.

It was also hinted in these same papers, that the talented author of
“Gleanings from the Heights,” and several other charming productions of
the same character, was the daughter of the lamented bank president who
had been so cruelly maligned.

“Oh, if my father could have but known of this!” Virgie exclaimed, when
talking the matter over, afterward, with Mr. Knight.

“You may be very sure that he does know it,” he responded, gravely. “It
is to be regretted that he could not have known it before his death; it
would have helped to soothe his last days. But still, if anything can
add to his joy in another world, the fact that his name is to-day held
up as one of the most honored in San Francisco, must contribute to it,
as also must the knowledge that his daughter will henceforth be relieved
from all pecuniary care or anxiety. You are really quite a wealthy young
woman, my friend,” the publisher concluded, smiling.

“Am I?” Virgie questioned, absently.

She was thinking of those weary years among the mountains when, day
after day, her father came and went, to and from the mine, like a common
laborer, toiling persistently and patiently, so that she might have a
competence when he could care for her no longer. “And all for naught!”
she mused, with a bitter pang, “for had not that also fallen into the
hands of an adventurer?” It seemed to have been his fate to accumulate
for others to spend.

“How indifferent you are! Have you no curiosity about the matter?”
questioned Mr. Knight, archly.

“Yes, of course I have,” Virgie answered, rousing herself from her
reverie. “Is the amount that remains to me finally determined?”

“Yes; there will be about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars—not much
more than half what your father sacrificed for his brother, but
sufficient to make you quite independent.”

“So much!” exclaimed Virgie, in surprise.

“It is quite a snug little fortune, and I am glad for you. There will be
no longer any need for your working as you have done, and I am afraid I
must lose my matchless designer.”

“Indeed you will not,” Virgie cried eagerly; “that is, if you will allow
me to continue my work. I have become so accustomed to regular
employment—I love my work so well, that I shall be far happier to
continue it. I will not try to do quite so much,” she added,
thoughtfully, “now that there is no actual necessity for it; I will
perhaps give you one or two designs a year, but I could not think of
living an idle life.”

“I shall be only too glad to get anything from your pen,” Mr. Knight
returned. “But what do you think about removing to New York? I am
contemplating giving up my business here and establishing myself in New
York city. My partner, who, as you know, is a younger man than I, wants
to branch out a little more than I care to at my age, so I have sold out
to him. Still, I, too, am unwilling to be idle, so I think I will go
East and do a little quiet business on my own account.”

“It matters very little to me where I am located,” Virgie said, with a
sigh. It was a little hard, she thought, not to have any ties anywhere.
“I should like to travel a portion of every year, and I may as well make
my headquarters in New York as anywhere.”

And now it seemed as if a very peaceful, if not delightful future lay
before her; yet, aside from the many advantages which her newly acquired
wealth would enable her to give her child, its possession gave her but
very little pleasure.

She did not believe that life would ever hold any special enjoyment for
her again. Excepting her child, she had not a single object for which to
live, nothing to look forward to. She cared little for society, indeed
she shrank from meeting strangers; at least, those in her own position
in life, although she went much among the poor, and spent money freely
upon them.

When Mr. Knight went to New York she went also, making a quiet but
elegant home for herself not far from his residence, where he and his
sister kept bachelor’s and old maid’s hall, and there she lived her
uneventful life, with nothing save a season of travel now and then, to
vary its monotony.

Thus several years went by. She never heard one word either from or of
Heathdale; she knew not whether Sir William was living or dead,
prosperous or otherwise, though often her heart yearned for some tidings
of him.

One summer, when little Virgie was nine years of age, they went for a
week or two to Niagara Falls. Virgie had never visited the place, and
she promised herself a rare treat in studying nature there in all its
grandeur, and in making some sketches for the coming winter’s work.

She reached the village late in the day, and was driven directly to one
of the principal hotels, where she ordered a couple of rooms—for she had
a maid with her—and then stepped to the office to register.

After she had done so she carelessly glanced over some of the preceding
pages to see who were guests in the house.

At the top of one of the pages, and under the date of a week previous,
she saw three names that sent every drop of blood back upon her heart
and turned her giddy and faint.

“William Heath and wife. Master Willie Heath and maid,” she read, and
every letter seemed as if it had been branded in characters of fire upon
her brain.




                              CHAPTER III.
                 VIRGIE SHALL YET HAVE HER INHERITANCE.


Could it be possible that the man who had been her husband had come
again to this country, accompanied by the woman who had supplanted her?

They had a child too, it seemed, a young heir, and they were all
underneath the same roof with her.

For a moment she was dazed with the knowledge; then she was tempted to
dash the pen through her own name and fly to some other place.

But she did not like to make herself conspicuous; even now the clerk had
noticed her emotion, and was asking her if she was faint and would like
a glass of water. So she braced herself to face whatever might come,
though she felt as if it would kill her to meet the man who had once
called her wife.

She resolved to go to her rooms and remain in them, at least for a day
or two, then she would quietly leave the hotel and go to some other.

She found her apartments very pleasant, overlooking the river and the
rapids, while in the distance she could hear the never-ceasing roar of
the falls. But there were no attractions in the place now for her; all
interest had been swallowed up in the intense excitement that had taken
possession of her.

She slept but little that night, and during all the next day she was
wretched and almost ill. All her wrongs seemed to rise up afresh before
her, and she wondered that Sir William had dared to cross the ocean lest
her vengeance should overtake him. He was traveling, too, the same as he
used to, as plain Mr. Heath. Oh, how supremely happy she had been in
those lovely rooms in New York, when she had believed herself to be his
honored wife, and was looking forward to a bright future as the mistress
of Heathdale.

But now she believed another was reigning there. She wondered if she was
fair and lovely; if she had ever suspected the wrong that her husband
had done his first wife. She wondered, too, if Sir William had ever
legalized that mock marriage after receiving the notice of his divorce
from her.

All day she lay there, too miserable to rise, listening to every
footfall that passed her door; she believed that she could recognize
_his_ step, even though a decade of years had passed since she had heard
it.

When night came again she was nearly worn out, and, with little Virgie
clasped close to her heart, she slept the sleep of exhaustion, and awoke
the next morning feeling stronger and much refreshed, though still very
unhappy.

She would not go down to breakfast, however, but had it served in her
room. She had not courage to come face to face with the man who, she
believed, had so wronged her; she shrank from him, but even more from
the woman who, she supposed, occupied the position that belonged to her.

After breakfast she dressed her little daughter in the daintiest manner,
and sent her out for a walk with her maid, telling the latter that she
might keep Virgie out as long as desired, as she was not feeling well
and wished to be quiet.

When they were gone she lay down again, and tried to think what was best
for her to do. Should she go away immediately, and avoid all danger of
being seen and recognized? Should she fly from the temptation that was
fast laying hold of her to look once more upon the old-time lover—the
father of her child?

She feared that it was not wise for her to linger there; indeed she knew
that it would be far better for her peace of mind to turn resolutely
away from all that pertained to the past, go elsewhere, and try to
forget—if that were possible—that such a person as Sir William Heath had
ever existed.

She fell asleep while musing thus, and was conscious of nothing more
until someone knocked upon her door, and a childish voice called out:

“Mamma! mamma! oh, please let me in. I want to tell you something.”

Virgie aroused herself, and going to the door, unlocked and opened it,
and was confronted by her little daughter, her face flushed and eager,
her hat hanging from her neck by its blue ribbons, her golden curls
floating in charming disarray about her shoulders, while she held by the
hand a bright, dark-eyed little boy, perhaps a year younger than
herself.

“Oh, mamma!” cried little Virgie, all excitement, “I have had such a
lovely time down stairs on the veranda. There was the nicest lady and
gentleman there, and this is their little boy. We played a long time
with some beautiful white stones, and we had some caramels and taffy,
the lady told us some pretty stories, and Willie’s papa sang us such a
funny song; then they went away for a walk, and told Willie that he
might come and play with me for a little while.”

Something made Virgie grow very pale and still while her child was
talking; something in those dark eyes of the little stranger, lifted in
wonder and inquiry to her beautiful, white face, made her shrink and
tremble, a terrible suspicion in her heart.

She stooped quickly and looked closer into the small, upturned face.

“Your name is Willie,” she said, in a low, repressed tone—“Willie what?”

“Willie Heath,” he answered, regarding her earnestly.

“Yes, mamma, and he lives away over the sea, in England—away over that
water where poor papa went and——”

“Yes, dear,” said Virgie, interrupting her, and though she had known
well enough, the moment she saw him, who the child was, the sound of
those two names smote her with such startling force that she reeled
dizzily and was obliged to lay hold of the door for support.

“Poor mamma! your head is bad again, isn’t it?” said her little girl,
taking her hand and lifting it tenderly to her lips, while she looked
pitifully into her white face.

“Yes, darling, and I shall have to lie down again; but you and your
little friend may come in if you like,” she forced herself to say, as
she feebly made her way to a lounge, and almost fell upon it, a deadly
faintness nearly overpowering her.

“No, mamma; we will go out into the hall and play,” Virgie replied,
while the young stranger regarded the stricken woman with wide, grave
eyes. “I am going to get that box of toys that you bought me yesterday,
then Willie and I will go away, and we will not make any noise, so you
can sleep. Does your mamma ever have such dreadful headaches?” she asked
of the boy.

“No, but papa does sometimes; then he has to stay in a dark room, and
everybody has to keep as still as mice,” he answered.

It seemed to the suffering woman as if she could not suppress a moan of
agony to hear the child call that man “papa,” and she wondered if he
ever knew what it was to have such a heartache as she was at that moment
suffering.

Little Virgie secured her box of playthings, and then the two children
tiptoed out of the room, softly shutting the door after them, while
Virgie lay another hour trying to compose herself and rally her
shattered nerves.

She arose at last with the fixed determination to have one look at the
man and woman whom she believed had ruined her life—just one glance to
see how life had dealt with them, and then she would fly from all danger
and temptation.

She arrayed herself in a lovely dress of black lace, made over rich
lavender silk, and looped here and there with glistening ribbons of the
same color. She had coiled her abundant hair in a coronet about her
shapely head and pinned it with a golden arrow, in which there gleamed a
single diamond. Her ornaments were of dead rough gold, fashioned in some
quaint design, and she fastened in her belt a cluster of white acacia
blossoms, which made a lovely contrast against the black and lavender of
her dress.

She was exquisitely beautiful, and she realized the fact as she finished
her toilet, and she could not help wondering what she—that other woman
was like—the woman who had won her husband from her.

She could hear the merry voices of the children, who were still at their
play in the hall, and a bitter smile curled her lips as she thought how
unconscious they were of each other’s identity, or of the torture she
was suffering to have them thus together, two rivals, she believed, for
the same name and inheritance.

After a little she went to her door and looked out at them. The children
were both seated upon the floor, with Virgie’s toys between them, and
were chatting gayly with all the unconscious freedom of childhood.

“Oh, mamma, you are better!” cried Virgie, catching sight of her mother,
her face lighting with pleasure, “and how nice you look! Willie,”
turning with an impressive air to her companion, “do you know I think
_my_ mamma is the prettiest mamma there is in the world; yours is very
nice and grand, but I _don’t_ think she is quite as lovely as mine.”

The boy fixed his eyes on Virgie, and looked gravely thoughtful for a
moment, as if debating the point in his mind, and she was amused, in
spite of her pain, by his evident desire to be guilty of no disloyalty,
and yet not wound his new friend by contradicting her assertion, as he
replied:

“Well, perhaps; but my _papa_ is very handsome. Where is your papa?”

“Sh!” Virgie whispered, as her mother turned quickly away at the
question and walked to the end of the corridor, where there was an
alcove inclosed by rich draperies, “it makes mamma very sad to say
anything about my papa. We lost him when I was a little baby.”

“Lost him!”

“Yes; he went away over the same sea that you had to cross and he never
came back.”

“Oh! he was drownded!” whispered the little fellow, in an awe-stricken
voice, and looking exceedingly shocked.

“What is your mamma’s name?” he asked, after a pause.

“Virginia—the same as mine. What is yours?”

“Margaret, and it means ‘a pearl.’ Papa sometimes calls her his ‘pearl
of great price.’”

“Oh!” moaned Virgie from behind the draperies, as she caught these
words, “a pearl of great price, indeed.”

Just then a door midway of the corridor opened and another lady came
slowly down the lofty hall.

She was tall and commanding in figure; not so slight or graceful as
Virgie, but possessing a sweet and gracious dignity that was exceedingly
pleasing.

She was a perfect blonde, and her beautiful golden hair was gathered
into a massive and graceful knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were
blue, her cheeks delicately tinted with pink, and a rare, winning smile
played about her sweet mouth.

She was dressed all in white. A robe of some soft clinging material was
_en traine_, very artistically draped and elaborately trimmed with a
profusion of white satin ribbons. She wore an elegant set of opals
surrounded with diamonds, and was truly a beautiful and distinguished
looking woman.

Her face gleamed with infinite tenderness as she drew near the children.

“Why, are you still playing together?” she asked, as she stopped beside
them; “you seem inclined to be very friendly.”

“Yes, Virgie is a very nice girl to play with,” returned Master Heath,
with the air of one paying a great compliment; “and see what she has
given me, mamma,” he added, holding up a handful of toys.

“Do not let the little girl rob herself,” said his mother, in a voice of
tender caution.

“No; she made me take them; and—oh, mamma! I have seen her mamma—she was
here just now—such a lovely lady! And Virgie says she lost her papa when
she was a little baby—he was drownded.”

“Drowned, you mean, Willie,” corrected the lady; “how sad! but perhaps
you ought not to talk about it, dear,” she added tenderly, as she bent
forward and softly stroked Virgie’s glossy hair with her jeweled hand.

There were tears in her eyes as she said it, and though Virgie, in her
hiding place behind the draperies, could not see these, she could hear
the slight tremulousness in her tones, and she knew that she was a
tender-hearted, sympathetic woman.

She then began to talk about something else and thus led their minds
away from the sad topic until in a few moments they were laughing in the
merriest manner—the childish voices ringing out fresh and clear, that of
the beautiful woman like a silver bell.

Virgie saw and heard all with the keenest pain in her heart and though a
torturing jealousy filled her soul—a sense of wrong and humiliation—from
the belief that another had supplanted her in the heart and home of the
man she loved, yet she could but own the worth, the beauty, and the
fascination of that sweet, womanly woman who seemed so unconscious of
wrong, whose heart was so full of tenderness and sympathy for the
sorrows of others.

Oh, if, as she stood behind those curtains peering out upon that merry,
attractive group, she could have known how very near she was just then
to happiness and an explanation of all the dark past, she never would
have concealed herself as she did. She would have made herself known;
she would have sought rather than shunned that beautiful woman in white,
and learned the mistake that had so embittered the last ten years of her
life.

But she could more resolutely have faced a wild beast than those pure,
innocent eyes and that happy smile. At first she had thought that she
would go down to dinner, she would assert herself and make her presence
a living reproach to the guilty pair.

But now she knew she could not; her strength would fail her, and she
only longed for an opportunity to steal away unobserved to her room and
hide her wretchedness once more from every human eye.

She turned away from that pretty tableau where her darling was so happy,
and gazed out upon the street beneath her; but she saw nothing, heard
nothing, for the tumult within her heart and brain.

She was conscious of nothing else till a movement almost beside her
caused her to turn suddenly, and she found herself face to face with
William Heath’s wife.

“I beg your pardon,” said the latter, flushing slightly as she met the
startled, surprised look that shot into Virgie’s eyes; “I did not know
that any one was here. I came to find a book that I left here
yesterday.”

Virgie bowed, and moved aside to see if she was hiding it; but her heart
beat almost suffocatingly, and she was as white as that cluster of
acacias in her belt.

Yes, there was a volume lying on the chair beside her, which Mrs. Heath
recognized, remarking as she took possession of it:

“Ah, yes, this is it. Thank you; I am sorry to have intruded upon you.”
Then, with an upward, admiring glance into the beautiful face, she
added: “Pray, excuse me, but are not you the mother of the little girl
who is playing with my son in the corridor? The resemblance between you
is very striking.”

“Yes, Virgie is my daughter,” Virgie answered, laying an unconscious
stress upon the pronoun.

“She is a dear little thing—so merry, yet so gentle and affectionate,”
remarked Mrs. Heath, with a tender inflection which somewhat softened
her listener, “and I believe she is the loveliest child I ever saw. How
old is she?”

“She was nine in June.”

“And my boy is eight,” smiled the fond mother, with a proud, backward
glance; “and he seems to have become really attached to Virgie during
the little time they have played together. Have you been in Niagara
long, Mrs. Alexander?”

Virgie started at being thus addressed by the woman who bore the name
which had once been rightly her own.

“We arrived the day before yesterday,” she said, briefly.

“Ah! So recently?” replied her companion, wondering why the beautiful
woman should be so reserved. “Then you have had no opportunity to see
the attractions of the place, and it is wonderful here. I have never
seen anything so grand in all Europe as these mighty falls and the
rapids.”

She was so sweet and gracious, and evidently so desirous of pleasing,
that Virgie was seized with an impulse to show her the better side of
her character. She felt sure that they would meet again some day when,
perhaps, their relative positions might be reversed, and something like
a feeling of pity for the lovely woman prompted her to put aside her
pain, her jealousy and bitterness, and exert herself to be agreeable.

She responded cordially to the remarks she had just made relative to the
scenery of that locality, and thus, once launched, she talked as she had
never talked before—of nature, of art, of literature, of men, and things
generally; and when, half an hour later, the two women separated, Mrs.
Heath was fascinated, almost enraptured.

“I have never met any one so brilliant or beautiful before,” she
murmured to herself, as she went to call her boy from his play,
remarking that he must bid his little friend “good-by, since papa had
decided that they were to leave directly after dinner.”

Several hours later, as the twilight had begun to deepen, Virgie, weak
and pale from the excitement of the day, sat upon the balcony opening
from her room, eagerly watching a little scene below.

A carriage had just been driven to the door. Two large trunks were
brought out from the hotel and strapped upon it, then a gentleman and a
lady with a little boy and maid followed.

Virgie crouched down behind the railing and strained her eyes for a look
at that tall, manly figure, firmly believing it to be Sir William
Heath—her recreant husband.

He stood by the carriage door and assisted his wife to enter with
affectionate care, seeing that she was perfectly comfortable before he
attended to anything else; then he caught his boy in his arms, and with
some playful remark, which the eager ear above could not catch, tossed
him lightly in beside his mother. Then the maid was kindly assisted,
after which he entered himself, and the travelers were driven away.

But Virgie, with all her anxiety to do so, had not been able to catch
even one glimpse of that face. There was something familiar about the
form, although it was somewhat stouter than Sir William had been ten
years ago, while he had spoken so low that she could not tell whether it
was the old loved voice or not; but as the carriage was whirled away in
the growing dusk she felt a hundred-fold more desolate than ever before.

They were so happy, she so miserable! Why, oh, why must such things be?

Then a different mood took possession of her, and she grew hard and
stern.

“It is coming—a day of retribution will surely come,” she said. “There
may be a son to inherit the title, but, if he told me the truth, the
eldest born inherits the bulk of the property, and Virgie shall yet have
her inheritance.”




                              CHAPTER IV.
                         A STARTLING DISCOVERY.


It was a great relief to Virgie to know that the Heaths were gone, for
now she would be perfectly free from all restraint and could go about as
much as she desired without the fear of encountering them.

She remained a fortnight at the falls, visiting every place of interest
in the vicinity, and making many beautiful sketches. Then she turned her
face westward and northward, following the great lakes, intending to see
much of the scenery of Michigan and Wisconsin before her season of
travel should end.

She traveled very leisurely, never hurrying from place to place, for she
strove to get all the enjoyment possible out of her tours, both for
herself and her little girl, who was never happier than when journeying
in this easy way.

But once they were obliged to ride all night. It was not often that
Virgie would allow herself to do this, for they could not rest well upon
the cars, but in this instance it seemed to be necessary in order to
make connections.

She retired early for the sake of little Virgie, who was nervous at
being on the train at night, they taking the lower berth of their
section, while the maid occupied the upper one.

Virgie was very weary and soon dropped asleep without a thought of
danger or of the terrible tragedy that was so soon to send a score of
those thoughtless travelers into eternity, maim as many more for life,
and stamp every memory with a never-to-be-forgotten horror.

Virgie did not know how long she had slept, when she became conscious of
several heavy thuds against the bottom of the car she was in,
accompanied by violent jerks and wrenches, and a swaying from side to
side; then it seemed as if they were being thrown into space; there was
one awful moment of horror and suspense, then a terrible crash, mingled
with shrieks, and groans, and prayers; after that darkness and oblivion.

When she came to herself again it was to find her little daughter
clinging to her in an agony of terror, calling piteously to her to “wake
up and take her out of that dreadful place.”

She tried to sit up, but found that she could not, there was barely
space between her own and the upper berth to admit of her moving at all.
To make the situation even more appalling it was as dark as Erebus,
while the cries for help and the shrieks of pain all around her filled
her with a sickening horror, and she knew there had been a dreadful
disaster.

“Are you hurt, darling?” she asked, an agony of dread at her heart, and
her relief was almost as intense when the reply came:

“No, mamma, only so frightened by the dreadful noises.”

Virgie had not removed her clothing, simply loosened it, and now it was
the work of but a moment or two to gather her wraps about her, fold a
shawl around Virgie and help her from the berth, though she found great
difficulty in standing erect, for the car had been thrown partly upon
its side.

She called to her maid; but there was no reply, and, fearing the worst
for the poor girl, Virgie resolved to get her darling out of danger and
then return to see what she could do for her unconscious servant.

They worked their way out of the car with difficulty, realizing as they
did so that the portion where they had been was the least shattered of
any—that they had been wonderfully preserved.

Virgie emerged from the debris as well as she could, and found herself
in a swamp. She could now account for that sensation of being thrown
into space, and the awful moment of suspense following before that
terrible crash had come; the train had been pitched from its roadbed,
she did not know how many feet above, and now lay a mass of ruins in a
bog or meadow.

She bore Virgie to more solid ground, set her down by some bushes, and
then, throwing her own mantle over her, bade her not move from that spot
until she came back to her again.

“Oh! don’t go back again, mamma,” cried the child, clinging to her in
terror.

“I must, darling,” Virgie answered, firmly. “I cannot leave Mina to die
there. Be a brave little girl and do not detain me. I will come back as
soon as I can.”

“But I am afraid, mamma.”

“Nothing can harm you now, dear; we are both safe, thank God! while no
one can tell how many have met their doom and are dead or dying.”

She bent down and kissed the child tenderly, thankfully, and then sped
back to the car, determined to know the fate of her maid.

All about her the direst confusion prevailed. Men were hurrying hither
and thither. Women were weeping and moaning, and wandering about calling
piteously for lost ones, while children were screaming with fright and
pain.

It was lighter now, for two of the cars were burning, having taken fire
from overturned lamps, and Virgie made her way more easily back into the
sleeper she had left.

“Mina! Mina!” she called, springing toward the berth she occupied, and
to her intense relief a muffled sound came back in reply, and she knew
that she was not dead.

She found that the top of her car had been smashed in, and the girl,
thus pinioned to her berth, was half-suffocated by the pressure from
above.

Virgie never could tell afterward how she managed to release her, but by
dint of encouragement and commands she succeeded in making the girl
exert herself, and, using all her own strength, she by degrees got her
to the edge of the berth and finally out of it.

“Are you badly hurt Mina?” she asked, as she supported the half-fainting
girl, and wrapped a blanket around her trembling form.

“Yes, marm, my left arm is dreadful,” the girl moaned, and Virgie could
feel that it hung limp and helplessly by her side, and she knew it was
broken.

“Well, we must hurry out of the car, for it is filling with smoke, and I
fear has taken fire somewhere,” she said.

They were just turning to leave the place when, from the very midst of
the smoke there pealed forth a heartrending shriek:

“Help! help! Will no one save me?”

Virgie felt every nerve in her body creep at the sound.

“Oh, some poor creature is there, and will be burned to death if help
does not come. What shall we do?” she cried.

Clearly Mina could do nothing with her broken arm, for she was moaning
with every breath, and there was no one else at hand; every one who was
able had deserted the car long since, and was either looking out for
number one or assisting others elsewhere; but Virgie felt that she could
not leave the sufferer, whoever it might be, to the terrible fate of
being burned to death.

She helped Mina from the car, told her where she would find little
Virgie, and then she flew back to find the origin of that pitiful cry
for help.

“Where are you?” she called, as she groped her way toward the spot from
whence it had seemed to proceed.

“Here. Oh! come quickly! I am almost suffocated! I shall be burned
alive!” was the agonized response, accompanied by groans of pain.

It was a woman, Virgie knew by the tones, and all her sympathies were
instantly aroused.

She found her at last, and her heart sank within her as she saw her
condition, for the poor creature was wedged between a demolished berth
and the side of the car in such a way that it seemed impossible to
rescue her.

It was a sickening sight, for, already, Virgie could see little tongues
of flame leaping up all about her and shooting out toward her as if
eager for their prey, while the smoke was rapidly growing denser.

The woman saw it, too, and her face was almost convulsed with agony and
fear.

“Oh, do help me,” she prayed. “I shall be burned. I cannot die such a
horrible death.”

Virgie felt that she was powerless—she knew that she could not so much
as stir that mass of debris.

“I will go and call some one,” she said.

“No, no! You shall not leave me,” screamed the woman, frantic with
terror.

“Madam,” Virgie returned, calmly but firmly, “it is impossible for me to
do anything for you unaided. The best I can do will be to go for help;
but first tell me who you are in case anything should happen to you
before I can return.”

“I am Lady Linton. I live in Hampshire County, England, and am just on a
visit to this country with my son and daughter, and some other friends,
who are now awaiting me in Chicago. Now go—go and save me if you can.”

It would be difficult to portray with what stunning force these
sentences fell upon the ears of Virginia Alexander.

Her heart almost ceased beating, while a thousand thoughts went flashing
with lightning-like rapidity through her brain.

She had recently avoided a meeting as she supposed, with Sir William
Heath; and had now encountered in this marvelous way his sister—the
woman who had written those cruel letters to Mrs. Farnum so many years
ago, but which were still stamped upon her brain so indelibly that she
could repeat them word for word. This was the woman who had scorned her
claims upon her brother—who had heartlessly advised her to “settle in
some place where she was not known and try to bring up her child in a
respectable way,” who had insulted her by sending her a hundred pounds
to soothe her disappointment for the loss of her husband and because she
could not be recognized as the mistress of Heathdale; and now she lay
crushed beneath a mass of ruins, doomed to a dreadful death unless the
very woman she had so wronged and mocked should strain every effort to
save her. It was truly a strange fate that placed her thus in the power
of Virgie.

For an instant an evil spirit took possession of her heart and
whispered:

“She helped to ruin my life; she mocked and scoffed at my misery, and
she ought to suffer.”

But the next moment she called out in clear, resolute tones:

“I will save you! have courage—do not fear,” and she almost flew over
the debris, through the gathering smoke and out of the car, where she
seized a man by the arm and cried:

“Come with me; a woman is helplessly pinned down inside this car; it is
on fire, and she will soon be burned to death.”

She dragged him almost by main force into the burning wreck, and made
her way back to the spot where she had left her suffering foe.

“I can never get her out of there—ten men couldn’t do it before we
should all perish,” said her companion, when he saw her situation.

“You _must_! I tell you she _shall_ be saved!” Virgie cried, almost
savagely, and, seizing hold of one of the fallen timbers in her
excitement, she gave it a wrench which told, and showed that it was not
impossible as it had first appeared to rescue the unhappy victim.

Thus inspired and encouraged, the man braced himself and pulled with all
his might at the berth in which the woman lay. It yielded; they knew
they would save her.

A fearful shriek rent the air; then all was still.

“Oh! pull her out. I can brace this beam for a moment,” Virgie cried,
and calling all her strength and will to her aid, she did actually brace
herself against one of those heavy timbers, holding it back, until the
man dragged the unfortunate woman from her perilous situation, and then,
gathering her all unconscious, in his arms, he staggered out of the now
rapidly burning car, closely followed by Virgie, who had barely strength
enough left to reach the open air.

“Lend a hand here, somebody,” cried her companion, and three or four
helpers sprang forward to relieve him of his burden, when he turned and
caught the brave woman, who had risked her own life to save that of an
enemy, just as her strength failed her and she would have fallen
senseless, back into the burning wreck.

The account of her heroism flew from lip to lip, and many willing hands
were stretched forth to minister to her. Restoratives were brought, a
physician was called to attend her, and it was not many minutes before
she rallied, although she was as weak as a little child from the
terrible strain during those last few moments in the burning car.

But she refused all attention now.

“I do not suffer—I am uninjured; I am only temporarily exhausted. Go to
those who need you,” she said, and creeping to the spot where she had
left her child, she gathered her close in her arms and burst into a
passion of thankful tears—thankful, not only because they had been
spared unharmed to each other, but because she had been enabled to obey
the divine mandate “Do good unto them which hate you,” and though Lady
Linton might never know _who_ had saved her—might never experience an
atom of gratitude to her whom she had wronged, yet _she_ would always
have the blessed consciousness of evil resisted and a noble action
performed.




                               CHAPTER V.
                        VIRGIE BECOMES A NURSE.


Three cars of that night train had been literally dashed in pieces, two
more had been partially demolished, and only two baggage cars and the
engine remained uninjured.

Twenty passengers had been killed outright, several were so badly
injured that their death was only a question of time, and many were
crippled for life.

It was a shocking casualty, and even those who escaped unhurt were so
badly shaken up and so unnerved by the sight of the dead, the dying, and
the sufferings of the wounded, that they dropped exhausted and almost
helpless the moment the necessity for action was over, and all who could
be removed had been taken out of the wreck.

The disaster had been caused by a broken rail on a bridge that spanned a
small stream. The wrench and strain of the first car, as it was thrown
from the track, had snapped the iron arch, the whole structure had then
given away, and most of the train had been precipitated into the meadow
below, with the fearful results already described.

The sleeper, in which Virgie had been traveling, was the least shattered
of any, and most of the frightened passengers had escaped from it as
soon as possible after it touched the ground.

One man affirmed that he went back afterward to ascertain if any one
remained in the car, but there had been no response to his shout, he
could see nothing, for all the lights had been extinguished, there had
been no cries or groans, and believing that everybody had succeeded in
getting out, he went elsewhere to render assistance.

It was supposed, and rightly, that Virgie, with her maid and child, and
Lady Linton, must have been stunned by the shock of going over the
embankment, and did not recover consciousness until all others had left
the wreck, and thus, had it not been for the brave woman’s energy and
perseverance, they might have been left there to perish.

When she had recovered sufficiently to look after the comfort of her
small family, she found poor Mina suffering extremely, her arm having
been broken in two places, while she was otherwise badly bruised; and
little Virgie, although she had escaped without even a scratch, had
become almost frantic with terror on account of her mother’s swoon.

There was a small village not far from the scene of the disaster, and to
this the sufferers were borne, the kind-hearted people cheerfully
throwing open their homes to them and offering whatever they had to make
them comfortable, and their services also as nurses. Medical and
surgical assistance was immediately summoned, and the whole place
immediately became a veritable hospital.

Mina’s needs were among the first to be attended to, and she bore the
operation of having the broken bones set with much fortitude and
patience.

After that was over she became comparatively comfortable, although
Virgie hovered about her all day, ministering to her as tenderly as if
she had been a sister, sparing neither her own strength nor expense to
alleviate her sufferings.

But toward evening, when she had fallen into a heavy sleep, produced by
an anodyne, and little Virgie, wearied out with excitement and the
trying scenes that she had witnessed during the day, had begged to be
put to bed, Virgie bethought herself of other sufferers and went out to
ascertain if she could be of assistance elsewhere.

Her first inquiry was for Lady Linton, who, she found, had been carried
to a neighboring cottage and was reported as very seriously injured.

She made her way thither, and was told that, although there were no
bones broken, it was feared the lady had suffered some internal injury
which might prove fatal.

She had been unconscious most of the day, but now she was lying in a
heavy sleep that almost amounted to stupor.

Virgie asked the weary woman who told her this, if she could be of any
assistance, and she replied that if she could come in and sit awhile
with the sick lady it would give her a chance to get her husband’s
supper and put her house in order; she had neglected everything to
attend to the sufferer.

Virgie willingly complied, and passing quietly into the sick-room, she
sat down by the bed and looked upon her husband’s sister, her heart
filled with the strangest emotions.

She saw that she slightly resembled Sir William, although she was a good
many years older and not nearly so attractive. This, however, might be
owing somewhat to her injuries, for there were several bruises about her
head and face; she looked haggard and worn; her hair was in disorder and
thin and quite gray; one hand had been badly cut and lay bandaged upon a
pillow beside her, and truly she was a pitiable object in her present
condition.

For long years Virgie had entertained hard and bitter feelings toward
this woman. She did not, of course, know the extent of the wrong of
which she had been guilty, but she had never forgotten Lady Linton’s
arrogance, nor the scorn which she had expressed regarding her to Mrs.
Farnum; still, as she now lay there before her, so helpless and
miserable, she could feel only compassion and regret for her. Something
of the divine nature always animates the heart and begets a certain
tenderness for those whom we benefit, particularly if some signal
sacrifice has been made to secure it.

She sat there beside the unconscious woman for an hour or more, changing
the wet cloths on her bruised head and gently fanning her, for the room
was far from airy or comfortable, although it was the best in the house.

Then the physician came in, and Virgie questioned him regarding Lady
Linton’s condition.

He could not tell just yet how serious her injuries were, he told her.
They might not prove to be anything alarming, but her nervous system had
undoubtedly suffered a severe shock which might prove to be worse than
any hurt.

“Do you know her?” he asked, in conclusion, while his keen eyes searched
Virgie’s beautiful face curiously. He had heard something of the heroism
which she had shown that morning in saving the woman’s life.

“I know who she is,” she replied. “Her name is Lady Linton.”

“Hum! English, then,” interrupted the doctor, with a quick glance at the
figure on the bed. “Any friends in this country?”

“She mentioned that she was on her way to Chicago to meet her son and
daughter, and some other friends, but I do not know their address.”

“Where is her home?”

“With her brother, Sir William Heath, in Hampshire County, England.”

Virgie flushed scarlet as she spoke this name which she had not uttered
before in years.

“She ought to have some friends here to care for her, but he is so far
away it would be useless to send for him, at least until we know more
about her condition. Was she traveling entirely alone?”

“I judge so. She spoke of no one being with her when she was found.”

“You found her; you saved her. I heard about it,” said the doctor, his
face glowing.

“I went for assistance,” Virgie returned, quietly.

“You did much more than that, madam. Did you escape unhurt?”

“Entirely, and my little daughter also, for which I cannot be too
grateful. My maid, however, has a broken arm, besides several bruises;
but she is very comfortable, and requires but little attention, so if I
can make myself useful by caring for any others who are suffering, I
shall be more than glad to do so.”

The physician thought a moment, and then asked:

“Have you ever had any experience in a sick-room?”

“Yes. My father was an invalid many months before his death.”

“Then you might do good service here, if you are willing to devote
yourself to this case under my direction. There’s only one woman in the
house. She cannot, of course, give her whole time to nursing, and this
lady will need close watching and a great deal of attention during the
next two or three days. Indeed she really needs someone who can be
depended upon.”

Virgie flushed again.

It was very strange, she thought, that she, of all persons, should be
commissioned to care for Lady Linton at such a critical time.

But she did not hesitate; it was her duty to do what she could for her,
without regard to her own personal feelings in the matter; her enemy was
like the Levite who had been left wounded by the wayside, and it now
fell to her to act the good Samaritan’s part.

“Very well,” she answered, quietly, “then you may consider that I am at
your service.”

The doctor looked relieved, and after giving her minute instructions for
the night, he went his way to other patients, confident that he could
not leave the sufferer in better hands.

As soon as the woman of the house was at liberty again, Virgie went back
to see if Mina was comfortable, and to arrange for someone to wait upon
her if she should need it during the night, and then she returned to her
charge.

But there was very little change in Lady Linton’s condition during the
next two days. She slept most of the time, only rousing to take the
nourishment that was almost forced upon her, and then sinking into that
death-like stupor again.

But the third day she awoke and began to manifest some interest in her
condition and surroundings, and seemed to remember all that had
occurred.

Then, after a thorough examination, it was ascertained that her injuries
was not nearly so serious as had at first been feared. There was a
severe contusion on one side, where the broken timbers of the car had
pinned her down to the floor; she had several ugly scratches and flesh
wounds, besides bruises on the head, and one ankle was badly sprained.
The stupor, as the physician thought, had been caused more by the shock
to the whole nervous system than by her injuries, and he now said that
if no new symptoms developed she would improve rapidly.

And it proved even so. At the end of a week she was able to be bolstered
up in bed, and began to appear more like herself and to realize that she
had another lease of life.

She had conceived a great liking for Virgie, although she had not been
told, neither had she recognized the fact that she had saved her from
death at the time of the accident. She treated her with the greatest
deference—an unusual thing for the haughty woman under any
circumstances—and expressed a great deal of gratitude for the attention
she so freely bestowed upon her.

Once she had begged to be told her name, and Virgie had told her to call
her “nurse.” She shrank from telling her who she was lest she should
recognize her.

“But you are not a nurse, you are a lady,” she persisted, “and you are
so kind to me I want to know you.”

Virgie could not fail to feel a thrill of triumph at these words, she,
who had been “that girl” and who had been held up to such scorn and
contempt in those cruel letters so long ago.

“I am simply your nurse for the present,” she replied, with averted
face; “perhaps some other time before I leave you I will tell you my
name,” and her ladyship had to be content with that.

But Virgie did not remain quite so much with her after that, she did not
need such constant care, and she left her more with the woman of the
house. She went in several times every day, and was careful to see that
she had every attention, but there was a quiet dignity and reserve about
her which Lady Linton admired.

“Who is this beautiful woman who has been so kind to me—to whom I owe so
much?” she asked the doctor one day.

“Truly she is a beautiful woman, and you do owe her a great deal. You
owe her your life twice over,” he answered, impressively.

“How so?” was the surprised query.

“In the first place she saved you from that burning wreck almost at the
risk of her own life; in the second place she is the only one in the
town who could be found to give you proper care; everybody else was
engaged with the other sufferers, and during those days and nights when
you lay in that heavy stupor, she never left you; she fed you, she
ministered most faithfully to your every need, and brought you safely
out of it.”

“Was it she who came to me when I lay pinned down in my berth?” asked
Lady Linton, gravely.

“Yes, madam.”

“Who is she?”

“I am obliged to confess that I do not know her name,” the doctor
admitted, smiling. “I doubt if she knows mine either. We have not
stopped to exchange cards in this business; it has been of too serious a
nature to admit of much ceremony. I call her ‘madam,’ and she has,
naturally, addressed me as ‘doctor.’”

“She seems a thorough lady,” said his patient, thoughtfully.

She had, as Sir William once told her she would, changed her ideas
somewhat regarding American people since coming to this country.

“You are right, madam,” replied the physician, emphatically. “It has
never been my privilege to meet a more cultured lady nor a truer woman.
I shall certainly ask her to favor me with her name and address before
she leaves.”

“Is she going away?” demanded Lady Linton, quickly.

“Yes; in a day or two, I believe; her maid is doing nicely now and able
to travel. But, bless me, I must not sit chattering here when there are
more than forty patients waiting for me.”

And the brisk little doctor trotted off, leaving Lady Linton looking
very thoughtful, and wondering who her mysterious but beautiful nurse
might be.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                  “I AM THE WOMAN YOUR BROTHER LOVED.”


The morning after the foregoing conversation between Lady Linton and her
physician, Virgie went in to see the invalid, taking her daughter with
her.

She had come to take leave of her ladyship, for they were going away to
some quiet resort for a few weeks, for Mina’s sake, and after that home
to New York. She brought Virgie as a sort of shield from embarrassment,
for she dreaded any effusions of gratitude from the woman who, she felt
sure, would hate her even now, in spite of all she had done for her, for
having won her brother’s love; while, too, she had a curiosity to see if
she would be attracted toward her child; she was a believer in the old
adage that “blood is thicker than water.”

The invalid’s face lighted the moment the door opened to admit her kind
attendant.

“I am so glad to see you,” she cried, heartily; then her glance fell
upon the beautiful child, and she added, with evident delight: “And you
have brought your little daughter with you! Come here, dear, and let me
see if you are as lovely as your mamma.”

She held out both hands to her and the little one went composedly
forward and stood before her, her dark eyes searching the woman’s face
with a look that thrilled her strangely, while she was deeply impressed
with her wonderful beauty.

“You are very like your mamma,” said Lady Linton, smiling down upon the
sweet child; “all excepting your eyes. I rather imagine that those came
from papa. What is your name, dear?”

“Virgie.”

Her ladyship started slightly and glanced quickly at the child’s mother,
and something that she saw in that beautiful countenance made her grow
suddenly pale.

Her mind went back to that morning when her brother had laid before her
several photographs of his lovely wife, and she was almost sure—even
though she had never looked upon them since—that there was a resemblance
between that face and this; and the child’s name was the same, too.

But no; it could not be; and she banished the suspicion from her as
quickly as it came. It was only a “singular coincidence,” she told
herself.

“Virgie,” she repeated, trying, but in vain, to resume her light tone,
“I suppose that stands for Virginia. Well, my little maiden, do you know
how kind your mother has been to me while I have been so ill?”

“Mamma is always kind to everybody,” was the grave response, and Virgie
wondered to see her in this strange, self-contained mood. She was
usually very free and confiding with every one.

“What a loyal-hearted little girl!” laughed Lady Linton; “how thankful I
am that you were spared for her and she to you from that dreadful
accident. Your papa, too, must be a very happy man to know that both his
treasures are safe.”

“I haven’t any papa.” said Virgie, with a soft little sigh.

A painful thrill shot through Lady Linton’s nerves at this, and she
darted another look at the child’s mother.

It was very strange! She wore no widow’s weeds, she was not even in
black! Instead, she was looking very lovely in her stylish traveling
suit of dark gray, with a knot of pale blue ribbon at her throat and
another in her hat.

“Yes, indeed,” the mother interrupted, not liking to have the child
questioned further, “we are very grateful for having escaped such
danger. We came to tell you that we are going away to-day, though I
would gladly remain, if I could be of use to anyone, and duty did not
call me elsewhere.”

“To-day!” exclaimed Lady Linton, in surprise. “I shall be very sorry to
part with you,” and her under lip quivered, for at that instant she
thought of the debt she owed the beautiful woman.

Virgie bowed. She was laboring under a fearful constraint. She would
gladly have avoided this last interview, but something that impelled her
to come, if for nothing more than to let her ladyship see her brother’s
child, even though she was unconscious of the relationship existing
between them.

“Is your maid doing well?” Lady Linton inquired, after a somewhat
awkward pause.

“Thanks; yes, much better than I had hoped she would. She feels quite
able to travel, is rather homesick, and longs to get away from this
dreary place.”

“It is a lonely place. I, too, shall be glad to rejoin my friends. I
expect someone will come to me to-morrow, and the physician thinks that
by the end of another week, I may also be able to get away. Oh, must you
go?” the invalid concluded, regretfully, as Virgie arose to leave.

“Yes, my carriage will come for us in half an hour,” she replied,
glancing at her watch. “I am glad to leave you so comfortable, and I
trust nothing will occur to retard your full recovery—that your visit to
this country may not be spoiled by this accident.”

Lady Linton looked up astonished, as these cold, measured words fell
upon her ears.

Virgie had not meant to speak so frigidly, but her ladyship’s reference
to her “friends” made her surmise instantly that she was speaking of her
brother and his family, whom she believed she had seen at Niagara, and
it was with the greatest difficulty that she could control herself at
all.

“Surely you are not going to leave me thus?” said the sick woman,
reproachfully, “without even allowing me to clasp your hand; you, who
have done so much for me, who have twice saved my life. Come here and
let me kiss you good-by—let me tell you that I shall never cease to
think of you with gratitude and love. Why, you have never yet told me
your name! You must not go without telling me who you are, so that I can
inform my brother and friends who was my deliverer from a dreadful
death—who was my kind nurse during my critical illness.”

Virgie was as pale as a marble statue now; she could bear no more, and
she resolved that she would tell her the truth. She should tell her
brother, any anyone else she chose, who had saved her, if she wished to
do so.

“Run away, Virgie, and help Mina to get ready,” she said to her
daughter, “and I will come presently;” then, as the child obeyed, she
turned back, and stood tall and straight before the woman who had
wronged her.

“Lady Linton,” she began, in low, intense tones that smote her like a
whip, and made her shiver with dread at what might follow, “it is true,
I suppose, that I saved your life at the time of the disaster: it is
true, also, that I have tried to make you comfortable during your
illness; but I have not done it to win your gratitude or to oppress you
with any sense of obligation. I did it, first, from a sense of duty, as
I would have performed the same service for any stranger in trouble;
and, second, because I would not allow myself to turn coldly from you in
the hour of danger and distress, because of a feeling of enmity toward
you——”

“Enmity?” interrupted her listener, with pale lips, and putting out her
hand as if to ward off a blow.

“Yes, enmity, for my heart was full of it when you told me who you were.
If I had listened to the evil that surged through my brain on that
dreadful night, if I had yielded to a spirit of revenge for past
injuries, I should have turned my back upon you when you called upon me
to save you, telling myself that you deserved no better fate. But I
believe I am a Christian, a disciple of One who commanded us to ‘love
our enemies, to do good to those who despitefully use us,’ and I wished
to conquer that enmity, to subdue myself, to return good for evil; and
that is why I tried to save you then, and afterward served you as
tenderly as I would have served my own mother.”

“Why—why! what are you saying? I do not understand,” incoherently cried
the startled woman, as she gazed wildly into that beautiful face before
her, and began to realize something of the terrible truth yet to come.

“I did not mean that you should understand,” Virgie resumed, speaking
more gravely. “I did not mean that you should ever know to whom you owed
your life. I meant to do what good I could for you, and then go quietly
away, taking with me as my only reward, the consciousness of a duty
faithfully performed. I do not know why I have spoken thus even now, but
the words seemed forced from me by a power beyond my control. Perhaps it
is because you asked me to kiss you, to clasp your hand in friendly
farewell, when I was conscious that you would wish me to do neither, if
you knew who I am, that you would shrink from me, repel me, perhaps even
hate me more than you have ever done. I see that you begin to realize
who I am. Yes. I am Virginia Alexander, the woman whom your brother once
loved, for I believe even now that he did love me then—and who worshiped
him, who would have devoted her life to his happiness, and considered
herself blessed in so doing.”

Lady Linton had fallen back upon her pillow as Virgie uttered that well
remembered name, and now lay, as if transfixed, gazing upon her with a
look of amazement mingled with something of terror.

A suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon her when the child had told
her name; it had been strengthened when she had so innocently said she
had no papa, and it was now confirmed by Virgie’s open declaration.

The knowledge almost paralyzed her; she could neither move nor speak;
she had no power but to stare with a helpless, appalled look at that
perfect figure, that pale, beautiful, high-bred face, as she realized,
at last, the enormity of the wrong of which she had been guilty.

“You have seen my little daughter,” Virgie resumed, after a moment, with
a tender, even pathetic inflection; “she is also your brother’s child,
and the heiress of Heathdale——

“Does that offend you?” she asked, as Lady Linton shrank again, as if
from a blow, at these words. “It is to be regretted, but it is a fact
which nothing can change, and she will one day claim her own, even
though her mother is no longer the wife of her father, and I trust that
she will then do honor to the name and position which she will assume.
You may rest assured that I shall attend most faithfully to her
education, for it has been, and still shall be, my chief object in life
to make her worthy in every way to be received as a representative of
the ‘ancient and honored house of Heath.’ Pardon me if I seem ironical,”
Virgie interposed, a slight smile flitting over her lips as she quoted
this sentence, which had been burned into her brain so long ago; “but I
cannot forget the cruel things which you wrote to your friend, Mrs.
Farnum, ten years ago. Do you blame me for refusing to clasp, in
pretended friendship, the hand that penned them? or for shrinking from
the kisses of one who so scorned and mocked me; who offered me money, as
if my honor was a thing to be bought, my wretchedness and despair
something to be alleviated with gold? You wrote of me is ‘that
person’—‘that girl,’ as if I belonged to a lower order of humanity; but,
madam, my grandmother was an English woman like yourself, and
perchance—though I assume nothing of the kind—there is as good blood in
my veins as in your own. But,” with a weary sigh, “perhaps I am wrong to
recriminate thus. I had no intention of saying aught like this when I
came to you. I am afraid I have been inconsiderate of your weakness, but
my words have come unbidden. I wish you no ill. I think I have proved
that during the past week. I wish your brother no ill, if he is happy in
his present relation; far be it from me to wish him to suffer as I have
suffered, although he has done me the greatest wrong it is possible for
a man to do a woman. It is a strange freak of fate, Lady Linton, this
meeting between you and me, and yet I believe I do not regret that we
have seen and known each other; it has served to show you what the
woman, whom your brother wooed and won, is like; that although she may
not have belonged to the titled aristocracy of a kingdom, she was at
least a true-hearted daughter of a grand republic, and in no way his
inferior in character or intellect. We may never meet again, and we may;
I cannot tell; but some day the wrong that has been done me will be
righted through the justice which must and shall be rendered to my
daughter.”

As she ceased Virgie bowed gravely and then turned and quietly left the
room, leaving Lady Linton more astonished and browbeaten—though it had
been done in the most courteous and dignified way imaginable—than she
had ever been before. For several minutes she sat staring, in a dazed
way, at the door which had been so softly shut upon that graceful,
retreating form, and almost feeling as if the whole interview must have
been some hallucination of the brain.

That lovely woman—proud, beautiful, cultivated—with that magnificent
form and carriage, the “low-born girl!” whom she supposed her brother
had married! It seemed impossible! She was so entirely different from
what she had conceived her to be.

Why, this brilliant creature was fitted to grace a throne—to shine a
star in the highest circles of even her own country, of which she was so
arrogantly proud, and she, by her cunning plotting, her falsehood and
calumny, had debarred her from her home, from all the rights which
legally belonged to her; she had brought shame and dishonor upon her,
broken her heart, and, in so doing, had made her own brother’s home
desolate, his life almost a barren waste.

That beautiful child, too—that dainty, graceful, golden-haired fairy,
with her mother’s delicate features and her father’s eyes; yes, they
were strikingly like Sir William’s own—she had tried to cheat her out of
her heritage, and thus the grand old house at Heathdale was childless
and was likely to remain so until this brave, determined woman came to
demand justice, and to claim for her daughter the respect and honor that
had been denied her as a wife.

She knew that she would do it if she lived; those quiet, resolute tones
still rang in her ears, and she fell back upon her pillows weak and
faint, heart-sick and terrified, and, for the moment, filled with
remorse for the sin of the past.

She fully realized at last the enormity of her treachery and
wickedness—the hardness of her heart, the selfishness of her nature.

She had been utterly heartless when she had attempted to crush the
lovely girl whom her brother had won, and now the basely wronged woman
had turned and heaped coals of fire upon her head. She had nobly put
aside all sense of injury, and, knowing full well that she was serving
an enemy, had saved her life and then given her kindest attention and
tenderest care during her illness.

Lady Linton knew that she should carry a burdened heart to her grave on
account of it.

Fired with sudden impulse, she started up and sharply rang her bell.

The woman of the house came to her almost immediately.

“Where is she?” demanded the invalid, wildly.

“Who?” asked her attendant, surprised by her excessive agitation.

“The lady who has been so kind to me. Call her back! Call her at once!”

“She has gone. The carriage has just driven away from the cottage where
she stopped.”

Lady Linton sank back again with a groan.

She was too late. She had meant to do a good deed. Under the impulse of
the moment, and with a feeling of gratitude animating her, overcome with
admiration for a rarely beautiful woman, and a sense of superiority;
with the vision of that lovely, dark-eyed child still before her, she
had resolved to make a full confession of all her wrong-doing, try to
effect a reconciliation between those two who, she knew, still devotedly
loved each other, and thus atone, as far as was possible, for the sin
she had committed.

But the opportunity was gone, and when she came to think of it more
calmly afterward, she began to upbraid herself for her momentary
weakness, and to be glad that she had not committed herself.

Her good angel fled, her better nature was overcome, and she grew
harder, more bitter than before.

“There will be some way out of it,” she muttered, as she recalled
Virgie’s threat to claim her child’s heritage. “I will fight it out to
the bitter end. I am glad I did not make a fool of myself.”




                              CHAPTER VII.
                           AFTER EIGHT YEARS.


Eight years have passed since Lady Linton, with her son and daughter,
her cousin William Heath, and his family, visited America; since she so
nearly fell a victim to that railway disaster, and was rescued by a
woman whom she had hated, whom she now hated a hundred-fold.

It is a beautiful winter morning, and in the sunny, elegantly appointed
dining-room at Heathdale an interesting group of five persons is
gathered around the bountifully spread breakfast table.

At one end sits Sir William Heath, a handsome, dignified gentleman a
little above forty, yet hardly looking that, for the fleeting years have
touched him but lightly, in spite of the great sorrow which has lain so
heavily upon his heart and robbed his life and his home of its chief
joys—the love and presence of a fond, true wife, the patter of little
feet, and the happy laughter and merry chatter of childish voices.

Opposite him, and engaged in serving coffee, is his sister, Lady Linton,
who has changed greatly during the last eight years. She has grown old
and wrinkled, and her face has hardened, if that could be possible.
There is a cynical expression about her thin mouth, and her eyes are
cold and critical in their expression, excepting when they rest upon her
children, who now sit beside her, one at her right, the other at her
left hand.

Percy Linton had done credit to the promise of his youth, and is a fine
young man of twenty-one, honest, noble, and thoughtful beyond his years.
He is lately home from Oxford, where he achieved great honors, and is
now planning to return to the neglected and impoverished estate which
has father’s prodigality nearly ruined, with the intention of reclaiming
it and restoring it to something of the thrift and prosperity for which
it was noted under the care of his grandfather, for whom he is named,
and whose mantle seems to have fallen upon him.

His mother is not at all in sympathy with these plans. She wishes her
son to adopt a public career. She still has strong hopes that he will
fall heir to her brother’s title and property, in which case there would
be no need of his spending the best years of his life in striving to
redeem a heavily-mortgaged estate.

Sir William, however, heartily approves of his noble resolve, and
promises to assist him in every possible way, and, with this
encouragement, he has decided to devote himself to Linton Grange.

Lillian Linton is a brilliant and beautiful girl of nineteen. She is a
clear brunette, with a lovely bloom on her cheeks, vividly red lips,
dark eyes and hair. Her features are delicate and regular; she is tall
and finely formed, attractive in manner, but in disposition and
temperament she is much like her mother.

The remaining individual of the group was Rupert Hamilton, Sir William
Heath’s ward, and the child of his dear friend, Major Hamilton, who died
several years ago. He is now a young man of twenty, tall and stalwart in
form, with a well-shaped head set proudly upon a pair of square, broad
shoulders. He has a handsome and intelligent face, with a pair of full,
wine-brown eyes, which always meet yours with a clear, steady gaze, that
proclaims a noble character and a clear conscience.

His nose is something after the Roman type, his mouth firm and strong,
yet when he smiles, as sweet and expressive as a woman’s. One would know
at a glance that he was true and generous, kind and genial.

One could perceive also that Sir William loved him like a son by the
affectionate glances which he bent upon him, by his answering smile
whenever their eyes met, and the confidential tone which he used when
addressing him.

The young heir to half a million pounds thought his guardian the noblest
man in the world, and he would have deemed no service too difficult or
disagreeable to perform for him.

He knew something of the trouble of his early life, that he had been
married and parted from his wife, although he had never heard her name
spoken, or asked a single question upon the subject, and he had always
felt a peculiar tenderness and sympathy for him on this account.

The fact of Sir William’s marriage was no longer a secret, although Lady
Linton had tried every way to conceal it. It was not very generally
known, however, even now; but in his own household and among his
intimate friends it was understood that he had married a beautiful woman
while on his first visit to America, and that some cruel
misunderstanding had resulted in a separation. He had insisted upon this
explanation, for hope was not yet quite dead in his heart that some time
he might find Virgie, effect a reconciliation, and bring her home to
Heathdale.

Those who knew that he was free to marry again, if he chose, sometimes
urged him to do so and not allow his name to become extinct.

But he always replied, with a heavy sigh:

“I have a wife already, and some time, please Heaven, I shall find her.
No other shall ever be mistress of Heathdale while I live.”

This reply never failed to arouse the fiercest anger in Lady Linton, who
grew more bitter with every year toward the woman whom she had wronged,
and who had repaid her injuries with such kindness and Christian charity
to her everlasting shame and humiliation.

“‘Wife,’ indeed!” she once retorted. “A woman who divorced herself from
you in the way she did, coolly severing the bonds, which you seem still
to hold in such reverence, is not worthy the name.”

“But I loved her, Miriam—I love her still; I shall be true to her till I
die,” her brother answered. “Our separation has been the strangest thing
in the world—it is wholly incomprehensible to me; but if I ever find we
have been the victims of treachery, let the enemy who has meddled
beware!”

Twice during these last eight years he had crossed the Atlantic and
renewed his search for Virgie, but without obtaining the least clew of
her whereabouts, and so he returned again to his home.

He never intruded his sorrow upon any one; indeed his life flowed along
so calmly and smoothly that a stranger might have supposed that he had
remained single from choice, although there was a wistful sadness in his
eyes that impressed every one.

Of late he had interested himself considerably in politics and been in
Parliament, having been returned for his borough several times.

But to return to the breakfast table, from which we have roved, and
where an animated discussion was in progress, together with the
disposition of the many tempting viands.

“I am sure I do not know what I am going to do without you during the
next six months, Rupert,” Sir William remarked. “Here I was anticipating
having you all to myself for awhile, after you got through school, and
now you want to go roving the first thing.”

“Yes, I do want to see a little of the world I live in, I confess,
before I choose my profession; and you have told me so many interesting
things about America, and American people, that I have a curiosity to
see the country and mingle with the people myself. Why can’t you come
with me, Uncle Will? then we need not be separated,” concluded the young
man, wishfully.

“I should be glad to, my boy, but my time and attention will have to be
given to the interests of the borough for this year,” responded his
guardian. “The troubles in Ireland, too, bid fair to be pretty serious,
and every true-hearted Englishman ought to give careful thought to the
questions that are arising in connection with them.”

“I hope that I am a true-hearted Englishman, but since I cannot cast my
vote until next year, I presume you will not consider me disloyal for
running away for a little while,” Rupert said, earnestly.

“No, indeed, I want you to go, since you desire it so much, and,
considering all things, this is the best time for you to go. Let me see;
it is a Raymond excursion to California that you have decided to join
after reaching New York, I believe.”

“Yes, the circular which Raymond has issued is so attractive I could not
resist it. I feel sure that by joining this party I shall see more of
the country, in less time and to better advantage, than I could to
travel by myself and lay out my own route.”

“Will you be with a large party, Rupert?” Lillian asked, her color
deepening and a rather anxious expression in her eyes.

Lillian Linton had learned to love Rupert Hamilton with a strong and
passionate affection, and this attachment had been most unwisely
fostered by her mother, who was still determined that her idolized
daughter should marry her brother’s wealthy young ward, and the heir to
still greater prosperity and honor, if it was possible to accomplish it.

“I do not know how large the party will be, Lillian; probably there will
be quite a number in it,” he answered.

“All gentlemen?”

“Oh, no, I judge not from some hints that are given regarding the
equipments necessary for the journey; for articles which only ladies
require are mentioned in them.”

Lillian lost some of her brilliant color, and her eyes drooped at this
reply.

“But do you like the idea of mingling so freely with strange people?”
she asked, with a slight curl of her red lips. “Americans too,” she
added, slightingly.

“Why, Lillian, are you so prejudiced against our neighbors over the
sea?” exclaimed the young man, in surprise.

The girl shrugged her graceful shoulders and arched her pretty brows,
but deigned no reply. The act, however, expressed far better than words
could have done her contempt for the people of whom they had been
speaking.

Percy glanced up at her with a roguish twinkle in his eyes.

“Rupert will doubtless meet some fair damsel among his party whose
bright eyes and charming smiles will prove too much for his susceptible
nature, and, before we know it, our loyal Englishman will have forsworn
his colors and joined the great republic,” he said, to tantalize his
sister.

“Oh, Percy, how little faith you have in me,” laughed Rupert. “Of course
I expect there will be some fair damsels in my party, but doubtless they
will be so closely guarded by jealous parents and vigilant chaperons
that no young man of my age will have an opportunity to play the
agreeable to them.”

Neither of the young men observed the spasm of pain that contracted Sir
William’s brow at these remarks, nor the hardening of Lady Linton’s
face, as they thought of that episode in the life of the former, some
eighteen years previous, while he was traveling in America.

“I trust that Rupert will not be beguiled into any discretions, no
matter how attractive the ladies of his party may be; he owes it to his
self-respect to choose his wife from his own countrywomen,” remarked her
ladyship, with a swift glance at her daughter, whose eyes were fixed
upon her plate, as if she had no interest in anything but the morsel
that she was diligently reducing to mince-meat with her knife.

“Are the ladies of America more artful in that respect than those of any
other nationality, Lady Linton?” asked the young man, innocently, but
with a quizzical smile.

“I am happy to say that I know but very little about them, but what I do
know has not served to prepossess me in their favor,” was the sharp
retort of her ladyship.

“Miriam, I will trouble you for another cup of coffee,” said Sir
William, quietly, but in a tone which warned his sister that she had
better not pursue the conversation further on that line.

Then he turned to his nephew, with a genial smile, saying:

“I only wish Percy had not been in quite such a hurry to settle at the
Grange; I would really like to have you run over to the United States
with Rupert for a little holiday before you begin work.”

“Thank you, Uncle Will; but, truly, I feel that it would not be right to
take either the time or the money for such a journey. My duty plainly
points to the earliest possible restoration of my fallen house,” the
young man answered, gravely.

“I wish that every young man possessed as conscientious a regard for
duty as you do, Percy. I confess I honor you for your desire to clear
the Grange of all incumbrance, though I would gladly be your banker if
you would consent to accompany Rupert.”

“You have already been my banker to such an extent that I do not feel
willing to draw upon you any more. I am very grateful for all your
kindness, Uncle Will, but indeed my self-respect demands that I should
begin to depend upon my own exertions; so I shall wed myself to the home
of my ancestors until every debt is paid and the glory of the days of my
grandfather is restored,” Percy concluded, smilingly, but with a
firmness which plainly told that his mind was made up regarding the
course he was to pursue.

“I consider it a senseless, quixotic notion; I think you had much better
sell the place and realize what you can from it, rather than spend the
best of your life in trying to pay debts that other people have
contracted,” said his mother, resentfully.

“Sell Linton Grange,” exclaimed the young man, aghast. “Why, mother,
where is your loyalty to the home of more than a dozen generations?”

“I have suffered too much at Linton Grange to feel very much loyalty for
bundles of mortgages, promissory notes, etc.,” retorted Lady Linton, a
deep flush suffusing her face.

“Percy is right, Miriam, so do not try to discourage him. It would,
indeed, be a pity to sacrifice such a grand old place, while there was
the least hope of reclaiming it. It will, no doubt, be up-hill work for
the first few years, but, with the spirit which animates him, I am sure
he will succeed, and his reward will be sweet,” Sir William said,
heartily, as he arose from the table. Then turning to his nephew, he
continued: “I will ride over to the Grange with you in a couple of
hours, and we will consider further the measures you proposed to me
yesterday.”




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                  A GLIMPSE AT LILLIAN LINTON’S HEART.


“Rupert, have you seen my orchids since they bloomed?” Lillian asked of
her uncle’s ward, as the family were leaving the dining-room.

“No. Are you indulging in orchids, Lillian?”

“Yes; I am wild over them. Uncle Will gave me several varieties on my
last birthday, and they are just doing their best for me now. Come into
the conservatory and let me show them to you.”

“All right. I have a fancy for the pretty things, too,” replied the
young man as he followed the fair girl toward the hot-house, and
thinking, as he did so, how lovely and graceful the girl was in her
perfectly fitting morning robe of garnet cashmere trimmed with
swansdown, and which harmonized delightfully with her brilliant
complexion.

She took him to a sunny corner of the conservatory which Sir William had
set apart and fitted up expressly to gratify this extravagant whim of
his pretty niece, and where the young lady had really displayed much
taste and appreciation of the rare things in which she was interested,
both as to choice and arrangement.

They spent half an hour or more in examining the beautiful things, and
Rupert became almost as enthusiastic as Lillian herself over them.

But she had no notion of allowing even her favorite flowers to
monopolize all his attention. She had had a far more important object in
view in bringing him there with her.

“So you are really determined on taking this American trip, Rupert?” she
remarked, as they paused before a lovely arethusa in full bloom, from
which she broke its fairest blossom, and, bending forward, fastened it
to the lapel of his coat.

“Oh, Lillian, what a pity to break the pretty thing!” he said,
regretfully.

“Not for you,” she answered, looking up at him with a smile, and
flushing as she met those frank brown eyes that were regarding her with
unmistakable admiration. “You would be welcome to more if you wished.”

“You are very generous,” he returned, regarding the flower thoughtfully,
and wondering what made her blush so when with him. “But about my trip.
Yes, I have decided that I will go.”

“When?”

“I sail just a week from to-day. I wrote yesterday to engage my
passage.”

“So soon?” Lillian cried, catching her breath, and losing all her
brilliant color.

“Yes; if I am to join that excursion to the Pacific coast on the 12th of
next month, I must be off.”

“The house will seem like a convent when you are gone; you are the life
and soul of everything here,” said the girl, tears starting to her eyes.

“Thank you; I had no idea that I was of so much importance,” he
returned, lightly.

“Didn’t you?” she asked, sweeping him a coy look from beneath her long,
dark lashes. “You have something to learn yet, then. But how long will
you be away? Surely not six months, as Uncle Will said this morning.”

“Yes, I think so. I do not wish to hurry, and I mean to get a pretty
thorough idea of what the United States are like. I think I shall be
away until July or August.”

“Oh, Rupert, don’t! It will be too lonely and wretched for anything
without you!” Lillian burst forth, impetuously, and in an agitated
voice.

“Why, Lillian!” he exclaimed, astonished, and bestowing a puzzled look
upon her downcast, agitated countenance; “will you miss me like that?”

“Did you expect you could go away for so long and not be missed?” she
asked, tremulously.

“I confess I had not thought much about it,” he replied, gravely; “but I
suppose, as we have all been brought up together, and had so much in
common, that no one of us could go away without being missed. However,
you will have Percy.”

“But Percy is soon to go to the Grange, and will be so taken up with his
interests there that we shall see but very little of him. Oh, Rupert, I
wish there was no such place as America!” Lillian concluded, with
quivering lips.

“Bless you, little sister! I never thought that my going away would
upset you like this,” Rupert said, laying his hand lightly on her
shoulder, and really moved to see how she was taking it to heart.

“Little sister!” she repeated, flushing crimson, and drawing her figure
to its full height.

She was very handsome at that moment, and Rupert wondered that he had
not noticed of late how exceedingly lovely she had grown, while there
was a nameless something in her expressive face, and even in her
attitude, that thrilled him strangely.

“Does that offend your young ladyship?” he questioned, laughing. “You
are not so little after all, and I was unfortunate in my choice of an
adjective; but you were such a tiny midget when I came here, eight years
ago, that I have always regarded you as very _petite_.”

“But I am not—your sister; we are not related at all,” she murmured.

He started, and bent a puzzled look upon her. She was standing before
him, with half-averted face, her darkly fringed lids almost touching her
cheeks, her bosom heaving with the heavy pulsations of her heart.

“True,” he returned, in a constrained tone, “and you must pardon me if I
have presumed too far; but you must understand, Lillian, that it has
become a natural consequence for me to regard you almost in that light,
since one cannot live so many years in a family without becoming
strongly attached to its members. I had flattered myself, too, that I
had won at least a little corner in the hearts of my friends here.”

“You have! you have! Oh, Rupert, I did not mean anything like that!”
Lillian cried, in a distressed tone, and with visible agitation.

“Then what did you mean? I do not understand you,” the young man asked,
and leaned forward to look into her downcast face.

Lillian lifted her great dark eyes to his for an instant, and his heart
gave a startled bound at what he read in their dusky depths. Then the
rich blood rushed in a crimson flood to her very brow, dyeing even her
white neck with its rosy hue.

At that moment a door of the conservatory opened and shut, and the girl
started guiltily from his side.

“There comes the gardener,” she said, with evident confusion, “and I
must speak to him.”

She darted away, speeding swiftly down the walk, leaving the young man
speechless and amazed at the discovery that he had made; for he had read
in the girl’s beautiful face and speaking glance the confession of her
love for him.

“Whew!” he ejaculated, recovering himself after a moment; “I never
dreamed of anything like that! What in the world have I been thinking of
not to realize before that she had grown a young lady, and a very
beautiful one, too? I wonder if I could—can it be possible that I
have—bah! I never have meant to do any mischief in that way. Perhaps
I’ll—no. I’ll wait until I get back from my trip. It is very awkward. I
wish it had not happened just now,” he soliloquized, brokenly.

He stood gazing out of the conservatory in an absent way for several
minutes, his face very grave, an anxious look in his fine eyes; but, as
he heard Lillian and the gardener approaching, he passed around to
another path and so out of the hot-house, and thus avoided meeting them;
he did not feel that he could encounter the young girl again just then.
He wished to get away by himself and think over the revelation he had
just received.

The thought of love in connection with Lillian Linton had never entered
his mind until now.

She had simply been a genial playmate during the earlier years of his
life, sharing many of his own and Percy’s sports, and a pleasant
companion when, of late, he had returned to Heathdale from college to
spend his vacations.

He had scarcely realized—as his own words betrayed—that she had reached
woman’s estate. He knew she was very pretty, very bright and sparkling;
he knew that Heathdale would not seem like home to him without her, and
he enjoyed her society as he would that of a dear sister; but as for
anything nearer, as a wife, he had never thought of her.

More and more he regretted that little episode in the conservatory. The
memory of it embarrassed him, try hard as he would to overcome it, and
he found himself avoiding the possibility of a _tête-à-tête_ with
Lillian again, while he began to grow anxious for the day of his
departure, that he might escape the unnatural constraint that seemed to
have fallen upon him.

Sir William wondered what had come over him during the next few days,
but attributed his unusual gravity to his regret at the approaching
separation.

Lady Linton knew from Lillian’s manner, that something had gone wrong;
but, although she questioned her, she could learn nothing satisfactory,
and she became more and more unreconciled over Rupert’s projected tour.

If she could only have succeeded in arranging an engagement between him
and Lillian before he left, she would have felt quite safe in letting
him go; he would have stood committed then, and it would have been a
safeguard during his absence.

She did everything in her power to make it pleasant for him during the
little time that remained to him at home; she meant that he should at
least take away agreeable memories with him, and he assured her again
and again that he should never forget her kindness to him, for all that
she was doing for him.

“You have been like a mother to me, Lady Linton, ever since I came to
Heathdale,” he said, gratefully, to her one day when she was arranging
something for his comfort during the voyage.

“And you have been like a son to me, my dear boy,” she returned, with a
fond glance. “I shall always regard you as such. I am sure I do not know
what we are going to do without you.”

“Six months will soon pass,” Rupert said, trying to speak lightly.

“They may to you, who will be traveling constantly, but they will be
long to us who wait at home. Poor Lillian! I set her to marking some
handkerchiefs for you this morning, but she broke down and cried so over
her work that she had to give it up.”

“I am afraid I am an unworthy subject for so much regret,” Rupert said,
with a sigh.

Lillian’s regard for him, her pale, sad face, and hollow eyes, were a
great burden on his heart.

The day of his departure arrived, and he took an affectionate leave of
his friends.

Lady Linton embraced him as fervently as if he had indeed been her son,
bade him take care of himself and come safely back to them, for it would
break their hearts to lose him entirely. Percy wished him every possible
pleasure, and promised to write to him every week. Lillian gave him an
icy cold hand at parting; there were tears on her dark lashes, and her
lips quivered painfully over her farewell; but she would not allow him
to kiss her in the old friendly fashion, as he used to do when he and
Percy went back to school at the end of their holidays. She had vowed
that their lips should never meet again until he had given her a lover’s
kiss.

Rupert looked troubled at being thus repulsed. He understood the reason
for it, however, and it was with a feeling of relief that he realized he
was to have six months in which to make up his mind as to what his duty
was toward his guardian’s niece.

Sir William accompanied him to London, thence to Liverpool, where he saw
him safely on board the stanch Cunarder that was to bear him across the
Atlantic, after which he returned to Heathdale, feeling as if half the
sunshine had suddenly been blotted from his life. The boy was
inexpressibly dear to him, and he would have been bereaved indeed if
anything happened to him.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                           A STRANGE MEETING.


The voyage was a tempestuous one, but the steamer made her time
notwithstanding, and Rupert landed in New York eight days after leaving
Liverpool, and was not sorry to be once more upon _terra firma_.

He joined the Raymond party on the twelfth of January, according to his
plans, and found himself among a very pleasant company of gentlemen and
ladies, young men and maidens, all enthusiastic in view of their trip.

He was particularly attracted by the appearance of one young man, who,
like himself, was traveling alone, and after one or two interviews,
being mutually pleased with each other, they decided to become traveling
companions.

On the third day after starting Rupert’s new friend, who, by the way,
had introduced himself as Harry Webster, remarked to him:

“I say, Hamilton, have you noticed that dainty little piece of humanity
opposite, who is traveling with that old codger, Mr. Knight, they call
him?”

“Yes; she is a very attractive young lady,” Rupert answered, as his eyes
wandered to a trio who occupied seats a little in front of the young men
on the opposite side of the car. “I wonder who she is.”

“Our list will probably tell us,” remarked Mr. Webster, as he drew the
card from his pocket. “Yes, I have found it. Mr. Robert G. Knight, Miss
E. F. Knight, and Miss Virginia Alexander.”

“Ah, then the old gentleman and lady must be brother and sister, and the
young lady some friend, perhaps a niece, who is traveling with them,”
said Rupert.

“The old gentleman appears to be remarkably fond of her though,”
returned Mr. Webster.

“Yes; but the old lady keeps guard over her as if she feared that some
brigand was in ambush, waiting to abduct her pretty charge to regions
unknown,” Rupert responded with a roguish twinkle in his eye.

“What do you say to making a raid upon the party?” proposed his
companion. “Now I am bent upon getting acquainted with that pretty girl,
if for nothing more than to show that prim spinster that I can do it.
Will you join me, or does such a proposition shock your English ideas of
etiquette?”

“I confess I should prefer to have a formal introduction,” Rupert
returned, flushing slightly, but regarding that graceful figure with a
look of unmistakable admiration.

The maiden whom the young men had been discussing was indeed a very
lovely girl, about eighteen years of age. She was a trifle above the
medium height, having a slender, willowy figure, with a peculiar grace
and animation in every movement. Her glossy brown hair was twisted into
a shining coil at the back of her head, which was crowned with a pretty
hat of gray felt, trimmed with velvet of the same shade and a single
scarlet wing. She wore a closely fitting ulster, trimmed with fur, which
showed her perfect form to great advantage; a plain linen collar was
fastened at her throat with a brooch of dull red gold, and tiny
ornaments of the same metal were in her small ears. Her eyes were a dark
brown, and quick and restless in their glances; her features were
beautifully clear and delicate; the glow of perfect health was on her
cheeks; her lips were a vivid red and her complexion very pure.

She was a vivacious little body, laughing and chatting with the elderly
gentleman, in whose charge she appeared to be, in a way that betrayed
she stood in no fear of him, while his fond glances and the many
attentions he bestowed upon her plainly betrayed that he was indeed very
fond of her.

Young Webster had been especially attracted toward this party from the
hour of starting, and had been on the alert to make their acquaintance,
although he had not mentioned the subject before; but the trio had kept
pretty well by themselves and appeared quite contented with their own
company, so, as yet, there had been no opportunity for him to approach
them without making himself conspicuous in so doing.

But in spite of his boast that he would make Miss Alexander’s
acquaintance, he was destined to be outdone and thrown into the
background by his more modest English friend.

When the party was summoned to dinner that day there was the usual rush
for the dining-car; human nature will not always be curbed when people
are hungry; but Mr. Knight and his companions lingered to avoid the
crowd.

Mr. Webster also delayed, and held his friend back in the hope that
something might occur to establish an acquaintance with the young lady
whom he so much admired.

And something did occur.

In passing from one car to the other, Mr. Knight first assisted his
sister across, then turned to his young charge, when a gust of wind
whirled her pretty hat from her head, it being held in place only by a
pin, and it would have been wafted beyond recovery but for Rupert, who
was directly behind her, and who deftly caught it in its flight.

He instantly returned it to its fair owner, saying, with a bow and his
frank smile:

“I am very glad that I was quick enough to save it.”

“I am glad, too,” returned the little lady, with a merry laugh. “Thank
you. It would be very awkward to have to go on my way bare-headed.”

Rupert glanced at her as she restored the hat to its place with a look
which plainly said that he thought it a very pretty head, even in that
state.

Mr. Knight politely acknowledged his obligations for the service; but
his sister, who was looking over his shoulder, regarded the two young
men askance, as if she was not quite sure that the occurrence had not
been all a plot, to which old Boreas had craftily lent his aid.

Then they all passed into the dining-room car, where there was one small
table unoccupied, with space for four persons, with only one other
vacancy at another, midway of the car.

Mr. Knight turned to Rupert, saying, cordially:

“Come and share our table—I see the others are nearly full—and let me
introduce you to my sister and ward. What shall I call you, if you
please?”

Rupert drew forth a card, and handed it to the gentleman.

“Ah, Mr. Hamilton. My name is Knight. This lady,” turning to the
spinster, “is my sister, and this gay young woman,” with a fond glance
into the pretty face beside him, “to whom you have just rendered so
signal a service, allow me to introduce as Miss Alexander, Mr.
Hamilton.”

The young couple acknowledged the introduction, though with heightened
color, and then Mr. Knight motioned them to their seats, while Mr.
Webster, feeling somewhat chagrined to find that he was being left in
the lurch, hastened on to the vacant place farther down, giving his
friend a comical glance of recognized defeat as he passed.

Rupert found his new acquaintances very delightful people. Even the
spinster, whom he and Webster had laughingly pronounced a “female ogre,”
proved to be a lady of rare culture and an exceedingly entertaining
companion. He was seated beside her, consequently his conversation was
mostly with her, although Miss Alexander was his _vis-à-vis_, and he
found it almost impossible to keep his eyes away from her dimpled,
expressive face.

“How are you enjoying your journey thus far, Mr. Hamilton?” Mr. Knight
inquired, during the meal.

“Very much, thank you, although I have no doubt I should enjoy it much
better if I were not quite such a stranger to the party.”

“We are all strangers for that matter,” returned the elder gentleman. “I
have noticed that you and your young friend keep much by yourselves; but
you must stir about and get acquainted.”

“One does not like to intrude upon family parties,” Rupert replied,
modestly.

“You must not stand upon formality. I have tried to impress that upon my
sister here, who is a trifle shy about making new acquaintances; but in
such a company as this we all expect to become acquainted with each
other, and we shall enjoy our trip much better than to be ceremonious.
At all events, I have broken the ice for you; I find it pleasant to have
young people about me, and shall be glad to know you better. Eh, Virgie,
it has been a little lonely, hasn’t it, to have only two old fogies to
talk to?” and Mr. Knight turned, with a roguish twinkle in his eyes, to
the fair maiden at his side.

The young girl shot a quick glance at Rupert, a charming smile wreathing
her red lips.

Then her cheeks began to dimple and her eyes to gleam with mirth.

“I know of one ‘old fogy’ who is fishing for a compliment,” she
retorted, with a saucy toss of her bright head, “and who has been
speaking two words for himself and one for others. I know what he wants.
Mr. Hamilton, do you play whist? Because if you do,” she went on,
archly, without waiting for him to reply, “and are fond of it, it will
be all right; for you will doubtless be invited by my guardian to ‘take
a hand,’ and once committed, look out for yourself; he is an inveterate
player, and he has no mercy on his foes.”

“Oh, fie! Virgie, what a character to give your best friend; and to a
stranger, too,” laughed Mr. Knight, good-humoredly; “but I confess I am
a dear lover of whist, Mr. Hamilton, and”—with a quizical look at
Virgie—“if you know the game, won’t you and your friend take a hand,
after dinner, with me and my ward? My sister does not play.”

“There! I told you so,” interposed the gay girl, with a ripple of
silvery laughter.

Rupert joined her heartily.

“I thank you for your timely warning, Miss Alexander,” he said, “but I
do understand the game and like it, too; but before I commit myself,
won’t you tell me, please, is your friend a very formidable antagonist?”

“Dreadful! he plays as if his life and honor depended upon his winning
every game,” she answered, the dimples playing at hide and seek about
her lovely mouth, while Rupert thought her the most delightful little
body he had ever met.

“Then perhaps you may know some of the weak points of the enemy, and
will join me in besieging his fort after dinner,” he said, with an
appealing glance.

“Thank you; I will, with pleasure, Mr. Hamilton,” was the gay response;
“it is not often that I play against him; but if I could see him beaten
a few times, just to take some of what our Irish neighbors call ‘the
consate’ out of him, I think I should rather enjoy it.”

“Oh! the depravity of human nature!” cried Mr. Knight, in mock distress,
though his eyes rested very tenderly upon the bright face beside him;
“after sharing all my honors in the past, to forswear your allegiance
like this! it is rank treason.”

“Do not be disheartened, my dear guardian,” laughed Virgie, “for perhaps
you have it in your power to punish me severely for my presumption in
taking up arms against you; however, Mr. Hamilton, we will do our best
to come off victorious.”

When they returned to the palace car, Rupert introduced his friend, and
then the quartet gave themselves up to the enjoyment of their cards,
Miss Knight occupying a seat in another section, and burying herself in
a book.

They played for two or three hours, and to Miss Virgie’s great glee, she
and her partner beat the others three games out of five.

Mr. Knight accepted his defeat very good-naturedly, but declared that he
would be even with them some other time, and then he fell into
conversation with his new acquaintances upon the topics of the day,
while Virgie sat by and listened, and studied the two young men in whose
society she had been so unexpectedly thrown.

Of course we all recognize in Mr. Knight the great publisher, who had
been so kind to Mrs. Alexander, in San Francisco, during her many trials
there.

The beautiful girl who is traveling with him is her daughter, Virgie,
who, when we last saw her at Niagara, was but ten years of age. She is
now eighteen, and blossoming into lovely womanhood, and as charming and
winsome a maiden as one could find, go the world over.

Her home for a number of years had been in New York city, her mother, as
we know, having changed her residence at the time that Mr. Knight
decided to come East to establish himself in business.

Mrs. Alexander had used her pen during all this time, giving her friend
one or two little gems of art every year, for it was a pleasant pastime
for her to employ herself in this way, but her chief thought had been
given to the education of her daughter, who proved to be bright and
intelligent beyond the average nineteenth century girl. She had
graduated from one of the select schools of the city during the summer
just passed, and her mother had begun to contemplate taking her abroad
when spring should come again, with the intention of demanding her right
at Heathdale.

Still, as the time gradually drew nearer, she had shrunk more and more
from the task before her, until the constant dread of it had begun to
affect her health, and she had been far from well during the last few
months.

Mr. Knight and his sister had never visited San Francisco since leaving
that city, although they had often talked of doing so. But this winter,
when they learned of the Raymond excursion to that and other points on
the Pacific coast, they proposed to join it, and invited Mrs. Alexander
and her daughter to accompany them.

She did not feel equal to either the weariness or the excitement of the
journey; but she thought that it would be a good opportunity for Virgie
to visit the far West, and she gladly confided her to the care of her
friends for the two months that the trip would occupy, and thus we find
her in company with Mr. and Mrs. Knight, bound for the State where her
mother had been born, and as fate had strangely ordered it, with the
very party which Sir William Heath’s ward, Rupert Hamilton, had joined.




                               CHAPTER X.
                   MR. AND MISS KNIGHT VERSUS CUPID.


The ice once broken between Mr. Knight’s party and the two young men,
the acquaintance progressed rapidly, and it soon became evident that
Rupert and Virgie found each other especially congenial.

The young Englishman managed to constitute himself the beautiful girl’s
escort upon almost every occasion when they were sight-seeing, until Mr.
Webster began to realize that he was _de trop_, or as he humorously
expressed it, but the “fifth wheel to the coach,” and he was forced to
look about him for other society to soothe his wounded pride.

He soon found it in the companionship of two sisters, who were traveling
with an aunt, and the dark eyes and sparkling beauty of the elder ere
long bade fair to make as much a captive of him as Virgie had already
made of Rupert Hamilton.

She was the loveliest girl that he had ever seen. Lillian Linton, and
the startling discovery which Rupert had made regarding her feelings
toward himself just before leaving Heathdale, were forgotten, and he
surrendered himself to the charm of her society, never questioning to
what it might lead, or what his feelings might be when the trip was
ended, and they should go their different ways.

But others began to consider these things if the youthful couple did
not.

Older and more experienced eyes could see that he was fast learning to
love the charming girl, and that she was also yielding her young heart,
with its first strong passion, to the handsome Englishman.

Mr. and Miss Knight could not fail to perceive the danger that lurked in
the pleasant companionship, and, while they liked the frank, manly
fellow uncommonly well, they were troubled at the thought of anything
serious growing out of it, while Virgie was in their care.

“Robert, I am afraid there is mischief brewing, and I feel very uneasy
about it,” Miss Knight remarked to her brother one day, as Rupert and
Virgie stole away together to a corner of the parlor in the hotel where
they were stopping to look over a collection of views, which the young
man had recently purchased.

Mr. Knight shot a keen, anxious look at them.

“I’ve been a little fearful of it myself, Stella,” he replied, gravely;
“but I do not know as we can prevent it.”

“We must prevent it,” returned his sister, firmly. “We must do our duty,
Robert; it would not be right to allow that dear child to become
entangled in a love affair while she is away from her mother. I should
never forgive myself, and she would never forgive us, if any harm should
befall her while she is in our care.”

“I cannot think there is anything wrong about the young chap,” returned
Mr. Knight, his eyes resting thoughtfully on the handsome face looking
so smilingly into Virgie’s; “he seems like a fine, manly fellow and has
no bad habits; he does not even smoke, which is a rare virtue among
young men nowadays.”

“But we know nothing about him or his family,” persisted the lady; “we
do not even know from what portion of England he came; at least I do
not.”

“Neither do I,” said her brother; “I have never questioned him and he
seems very modest about talking of himself; but if Virgie were my
daughter—and you know that I love her almost as well as if she were—I do
not think I should feel very much alarmed to have her fall in love with
as noble a specimen of manhood as young Hamilton appears to be.”

“I like him, too, Robert,” said Miss Knight; “he is every inch a
gentleman, and doubtless belongs to a good family or he would not have
been so carefully reared. Still I am troubled; I want Virgie to go home
as free as she came, and—I feel as if young Hamilton ought to be put
upon his honor—at least until we can give her back to her mother, when,
of course, our responsibility will cease. I can read the signs of the
times pretty well, if I have grown to be an old woman, and, if we do not
look out, they will be acknowledged lovers before another fortnight goes
by.”

Mr. Knight looked thoughtful.

“Well,” he responded after a moment of silence, “we shall not be
together much longer. Hamilton leaves this party as soon as we have done
California to go to Mexico with another company, so——”

“Yes, I know that,” interrupted his sister, “and that is just what is
going to precipitate matters if we are not on our guard. When the time
comes for them to separate you do not suppose he will leave her without
begging for some word of hope?”

“Stella, you reason remarkably well,” said Mr. Knight, laughing, “and I
think it will be best to put a flea in the boy’s ear. I suppose it will
be better for me to get the name of being a meddlesome old fogy rather
than run any risk of future unhappiness for our dear girl.”

Miss Knight appeared to be satisfied with this decision of her brother,
and dropped the subject.

The party was at San Jose when this conversation occurred. They were to
remain several days in the beautiful city, making it their headquarters
also while visiting points of interest in its vicinity, and Mr. Knight
resolved to make a bold stroke at once at the disagreeable task that his
sister had imposed on him, and have the matter off his mind.

As they were leaving the table of the Anjerais House after dinner that
evening he slipped his arm within Rupert’s in a confidential way and
said, with a genial smile:

“Mr. Hamilton, I am going out for a little quiet stroll about the city;
will you come with me?”

Rupert had been meditating a cozy _tête-à-tête_ with Virgie on the
veranda, while the band discoursed sweet music on the stand near by, but
he was too well bred and unselfish to refuse an old gentleman’s request,
and unhesitatingly responded:

“Thank you, sir, I shall be happy to accompany you.”

When they were in the street Mr. Knight turned his steps toward the park
near by, and, after walking up and down its beautiful avenues for a
while, he seated himself upon a rustic bench and motioned his companion
to sit beside him.

Then he turned frankly to him, and, speaking with great kindness, said:

“My young friend, it has always been my practice, when I had any
disagreeable duty to perform, to adopt the most straightforward course,
and, as I have something on my heart which I wish to say to you, I trust
that you will pardon me if I speak out freely.”

Rupert Hamilton’s heart gave one tremendous bound at these words, and he
cast a startled look into the friendly face beside him, knowing
intuitively what was coming.

“If I am in any way connected with this disagreeable duty, sir, I hope
you will speak frankly,” he managed to stammer.

“Thank you. I felt sure that you would receive what I have to say in a
friendly spirit,” Mr. Knight continued, pitying the embarrassed lover
sincerely. “I am an old man, my boy, but I have been young and do not
forget the temptations and pleasures belonging to youth; neither can I
find it in my heart to blame two charming people for recognizing a
congenial spirit, and turning to each other for companionship; but——”

Rupert Hamilton turned now, and looked squarely into his aged friend’s
countenance.

“In other words, sir, you wish to speak with me regarding my admiration
for Miss Alexander, which, of course, I know you have not failed to
remark,” he said, in a manly, outspoken fashion, that pleased Mr. Knight
well, though a deep red flush mantled his cheek.

“You are right, that is just what I wish to confer with you about,” the
elder gentleman returned, adding, “You will no doubt appreciate the
responsibility of my position, when I tell you that Miss Alexander is
the only child of a very dear friend, and the young lady was intrusted
to my own and my sister’s care, during the journey, because her mother
was not herself able to accompany her. We therefore feel that it would
be very unwise and dishonorable on our part, to allow her to receive,
from any one, attentions which might tend to hamper her future in any
way. For this reason, I wish to speak a word of caution to you. Virgie
is very young, and I do not believe she has given a thought to what
might result from this pleasant intercourse, and I should deeply regret
it if she should become involved in any affair of the heart while away
from her mother.”

“You are right, sir;” Rupert answered, gravely, after a moment of
thought, “and I thank you for your timely admonition, else, in a moment
of impulse, I might have been led to betray more of my regard for Miss
Alexander than would be wise or right, under the circumstances. I will
deal as frankly with you, as you have dealt with me, and confess that I
admire her more than any young lady I have ever met. She is very lovely,
and”—the flush on his handsome face deepening—“were you her father
instead of her temporary guardian, I should boldly ask your permission
to address her with the hope of some day winning her affection.”

Mr. Knight smiled upon the eager lover.

“I imagine that I have spoken none too soon,” he said. “I am afraid that
sly little god, Cupid, has already wrought more mischief than I will be
able to remedy. But I admire your candor, Mr. Hamilton, and if you
desire a more intimate acquaintance with my pretty little ward, by and
by, I will give you her address and you can seek her in her own home,
where there will be no ogre to rear obstacles in your path.”

“Do not call yourself hard names, Mr. Knight,” Rupert said, regarding
him with a look of profound respect. “I am sure you have done only what
you believe to be right.”

“Thank you; you may be assured that it was not an agreeable duty,”
returned the publisher, with a shrug of his shoulders, adding, with a
roguish twinkle in his eyes, “and if Virgie were my daughter I think you
would not have found me a very obdurate parent. Truly, young man, I like
you exceedingly well, and when we go back to New York, I will do all in
my power to favor your suit, if you are then of the same mind as now.”

“You are very kind, sir,” Rupert said, gratefully, “and now, as I may
not have another opportunity to make the request, if you will give me
Miss Alexander’s address, I shall consider it a favor.”

Mr. Knight drew forth a card and wrote it for him, wondering why he
should speak as he had done about not having another opportunity to get
it.

A little later they returned to the hotel, where Rupert at once sought
the manager of the excursion, and did not join the company again for an
hour or more.

Then it seemed as if a change had come over him. He was quiet and
preoccupied, almost spiritless. Virgie noticed it, and wondered what
could have occurred to make him so. He did not devote himself as
exclusively as usual to her, although he was never far away from her.

When the party broke up for the night, after an unusually merry evening,
he went to her with a sinking heart.

She looked up at him with shy eyes and a dimpling smile, that almost
made him break a resolve that he had made since he last saw her.

“You have not been like yourself this evening, Mr. Hamilton,” she said.
“Have you had bad news, or are you not quite well?”

“Neither, Miss Alexander,” he replied, looking down upon her bright face
with eyes that kindled and glowed in spite of the restraint that he was
imposing on himself. “I am simply experiencing a good deal of regret
that I must leave some of my pleasant companions; I am going to join a
party for Mexico immediately.”

“Are you?” Virgie asked, with a start, and looking greatly surprised,
while she lost some of her lovely color.

She thought it very singular that he had not before mentioned the fact
of his intention to leave at this point. She knew that later on he was
intending to go farther South.

“Yes,” he said, his heart beating heavily, as he read the regret in her
eyes. “Some gentlemen have arranged for an ocean trip, intending to
touch at the Santa Barbara Islands and land at San Diego, whence they
will proceed into Mexico. I am going with them.”

All the light had died out of Virgie’s face during this explanation. It
seemed as if there was nothing left for her to enjoy during the
remainder of the tour.

She had never realized before how dependent for enjoyment she had been
upon his society, and now he was going another way. Perhaps they would
never meet again; he would doubtless go directly back to England after
his return from Mexico, and that would end this delightful episode of
her life.

Her heart cried out against the separation, and, like a flash, it came
to her how much this frank, noble young Englishman had become to her.

She did not know what to say to him; she stood there silent, wretched,
and pale as the snowy lace that lay in folds upon her white neck.

“You—have changed your plans quite suddenly, have you not?” she at last
managed to stammer.

“It is rather an unexpected move,” he tried to say, in a natural tone;
“but I may never have another opportunity to take a voyage upon the
Pacific Ocean, and it seems best that I should go.”

It would have taken but very little more to have broken the fair girl
down entirely. In all her life she had scarcely known a trial, hardly a
wish ungratified, and this had come upon her like a thunderbolt from the
sky.

She knew that she ought to make no sign before him, and yet she could
not repress all feeling.

Her lips quivered slightly and there was a wistful expression in her
eyes as she lifted them to him and said:

“I am sorry that you are going, Mr. Hamilton. We shall miss you sadly.”

“Shall you?” he cried, eagerly, his face growing luminous. “Thank you,”
he added, checking himself again. “I am sorry, too, to leave you; but,
Miss Alexander, I shall be in New York early in the spring. May I hope
to renew our acquaintance there? May I come to see you in your own
home?”

A rosy glow leaped into the young girl’s face at this request. A heavy
load dropped from her heart, a sweet, new hope began to bud within her
soul.

“Yes, indeed; do come, Mr. Hamilton. I know that mamma will be glad to
meet you,” she said, cordially.

“Thank you; but will you also be glad to see me, Vir—Miss Alexander?”
the young man asked, in a low, eager tone, and there was an expression
in his eyes of which he was wholly unconscious, but which told his fair
companion much that he had fully intended should remain hidden deep
within his own heart until he could stand before Mrs. Alexander, tell
her how tenderly he had learned to love her daughter, and ask her
sanction to his suit.

“Yes, I shall be glad,” Virgie breathed, softly, her white lids hiding
the happy light in her eyes, though there was a tell-tale glow upon her
cheek.

Some one was approaching them and he knew he must leave her, though she
had never seemed so lovely to him as in that shy, sweet mood.

“I leave early to-morrow morning, therefore I must say good-night and
good-by now,” he said, trying to smile as he extended his hand to her,
though his voice was a trifle unsteady.

She laid hers within it and looked up archly, as she replied:

“I shall not say good-by to you, Mr. Hamilton. I do not like the words.
I will bid you good speed, wishing you a pleasant voyage and a safe
return.”

His fingers closed over the small hand with a fond, lingering clasp,
then with one last look into her dear face, he turned away, to make his
adieus elsewhere, knowing that he should not see her again for months,
but feeling as if his soul had quaffed some strangely inspiring elixir
during that last moment or two in her sweet presence.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                        A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.


It seemed very dull to Virgie for a while after the departure of Rupert,
who had been a very lively and agreeable traveler; indeed, the whole
company missed him; but Mr. Knight and his sister exerted themselves to
fill the young man’s place as far as possible, and, with the memory of
that last interview, and the hope of meeting him again in New York in
the spring, Virgie resolved not to pine, and gave herself up to the
hearty enjoyment of her sight-seeing and other pleasures of the journey.

The trip proved to be a most enjoyable one in every way, and when Virgie
returned to her mother, in March, looking rosy and happy, and full of
life and enthusiasm over what she had recently seen, Mrs. Alexander felt
well repaid for the loneliness she had experienced during this, their
first separation.

Mr. Knight told her confidentially of Rupert Hamilton and his evident
admiration for her charming daughter, and warned her that she might look
for the young man’s return about the first or middle of May.

Mrs. Alexander was at first inclined to laugh over the romantic episode,
until her friend mentioned that Rupert was an Englishman, whereupon she
grew very grave and sad.

“I hope they will never meet again,” she said, sternly. “I do not want
my child to marry an Englishman; it is enough that her mother’s heart
was broken by one of that nationality.”

“Surely, my friend, you do not imagine that all Englishmen are knaves
simply because one has proved himself such?” said Mr. Knight.

“I suppose I have no right to judge them so, yet I have a prejudice
against them that I cannot overcome,” responded Mrs. Alexander, with a
sigh. “I hope my darling, if she ever marries, will become the wife of a
stanch American.”

“The young man is a noble specimen of his countrymen, I can assure you,”
Mr. Knight answered, anxious to do Rupert justice. “I confess I should
be rather proud of him for a son-in-law.”

Mrs. Alexander sighed heavily, and did not reply; but she secretly
resolved that if it was in her power to prevent it, Virgie and her
English admirer should never meet again.

April passed and May came, and Virgie began to grow expectant. She was
blooming into brighter beauty with every day, and seemed to become more
womanly, so that her mother felt, with something of sadness, that she no
longer had her little girl, but a lovely and winsome maiden, who would
doubtless soon be won from her sheltering care to grace the home of
another.

She had been a beautiful child, but she was far lovelier now, possessing
her mother’s refined and delicate features and graceful figure, while
her eyes were so like her father’s that her mother often suffered
keenest pain as she looked into them, and seemed to be gazing again
through them into the heart of the man whom she had loved so fondly in
her youth.

Of late she had pined anew for the affection which had guarded her so
tenderly in those early years.

Perhaps it was because her health had not been as firm as usual during
the last few months. She felt weary and depressed. She longed for some
one to lean upon—some one strong and true to shield her from the cares
and worry of life.

Every day, during the first two weeks of May, Virgie watched for the
coming of Rupert Hamilton.

She knew that he expected to return to New York about this time, and she
felt sure that he would seek her at once, while she believed that his
coming would mean a great deal to her. There was an eager, expectant
look on her young face, a deeper flush in her cheeks, a bright and
hopeful light in her eyes.

Mrs. Alexander read the signs of the time well, and realized that the
hour for her to act had come.

The warm weather was very enervating to her. She drooped visibly, and
calling her physician she asked his advice regarding some change of
residence.

He advised her to leave the city immediately; to go to some quiet
country place where she could have pure air, fresh, rich milk, and a
nourishing diet.

Consequently she decided to seek a lovely place on the Hudson, where she
had spent a summer several years previous, and where she could be as
quiet as she chose, and rest the livelong day if she wished.

Miss Knight decided to accompany her, for her brother feared that the
woman whom he still regarded with far more than mere friendly feelings,
was more frail than she acknowledged herself to be, and he thought she
ought to have some one more experienced than Virgie with her in the
event of any more serious illness.

Mr. Knight himself was contemplating a trip through the New England
States, but promised to join them and spend the remainder of the summer
with them upon his return.

Poor Virgie was made very unhappy upon learning of these plans, for it
destroyed her hope of meeting Rupert Hamilton, who, she believed, was
even now upon his way back to New York.

She did not, however, pose a single objection to her mother’s plans, for
the doctor had said her health demanded an immediate change, and she was
not selfish enough to wish to delay a single hour, even though her going
might blight the fondest hopes of her life.

But she could not deceive the keen eyes of love, and Mrs. Alexander was
quick to note her paling cheek, the thoughtful, wistful look upon her
hitherto bright face, and she realized with a bitter pang that already
her darling’s heart had responded to a stronger affection than hers.

But it made her all the more eager to hasten her departure, and on the
fifteenth of May they left New York for their summer home upon the
Hudson.

Thus it will be seen that Rupert, who arrived in New York only a few
days later, missed them, and was cut off entirely from all communication
with Virgie.

He sought Mr. Knight upon the very day of his arrival, but was greatly
disappointed to learn that he had left the city. He then repaired to the
address which he had given him, hoping to find Virgie, but the house was
closed; and though he inquired at one or two places, no one could tell
whither Mrs. Alexander and her daughter had gone.

Life seemed to grow suddenly dark to him then, for he had been looking
forward to this hour with a great deal of hope. It had been no light
struggle for him to break away from the party at San Jose as he had
done, and only a sense of honor and his own weakness had enabled him to
do so.

He knew that he loved Virgie Alexander with the one strong passion of
his life, and that if he had continued the journey with her he must have
told her so. Mr. Knight’s conversation with him, however, had convinced
him that this would be wrong, and so the only thing that remained for
him was to get out of the way of temptation. But during all his journey
he had looked forward to the day when, in her mother’s presence, he
could honorably proclaim his affection, which only strengthened with
every passing day, and win her for his wife.

He remained in New York for two or three weeks, hoping to learn
something of either Mr. Knight or the Alexanders; but he failed to do
so, and then turned his face in another direction, resolving to prolong
his stay in America until fall, with the hope of finding Virgie, when he
should again return to New York before sailing for England.

He spent the summer in visiting the New England States, the great lakes,
and some portions of Canada. He saw much to interest him, but was
conscious all the time of one intense longing, one unsatisfied desire,
and it was with a feeling of relief that, at the beginning of October,
he found himself once more in New York.

Sir William was very impatient for his return, and had written charging
him to take passage as early as possible for home, for there was to be a
great celebration at Heathdale on the twentieth of the month to
commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of an orphans’
home.

Consequently Rupert’s first duty was to engage his stateroom for his
return voyage, the steamer advertising to sail on the eighth.

Then he again instituted inquiries for his friends, but none of them had
yet returned, neither was he able to discover their summer resort, and
thus the eighth of October came, and, with a sadder heart than he ever
possessed, Rupert went on board the Cephalonia to return to his native
land.

How many times Sir William Heath had turned his face homeward with just
the same despair at his heart; the same moody brow, and pained, anxious
face; the same intense longing for the woman whom he loved better than
life itself!

But the end was not yet.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                         AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.


Rupert stood at the stern of the vessel as the last bell rang, and she
slowly swung out from her moorings and began to steam down the harbor.

His arms were tightly folded across his chest, which seemed laden with a
hundred-pound weight; his face was pale and stern, his eyes moody and
fixed upon the receding domes and spires of the great city that he had
just left.

There was a conflict of emotions in his soul, and rebellion was the
fiercest of them all—rebellion against his bitter disappointment and the
unrequited love that filled his heart.

He never moved from his post for an hour; he had no interest in anything
that was transpiring about him; he knew, or thought he knew, no one on
board, and he had no desire for society just then, even if he had; he
cared little or nothing about the location of his stateroom, or to learn
who were to be his companions during the next eight days.

The day was perfect. It had been oppressively warm in the city, but
there was a delightful breeze upon the ocean and the air was delicious.
There was not a cloud to be seen, and the sun shone around that floating
world in matchless splendor, tipping every wave and ripple made by the
motion of the vessel with gleams of silver, while beyond the waters were
darkly and beautifully blue.

But the young man was not conscious of any of this beauty, and he might
have stood there still another hour, absorbed in his own sorrowful
reflections, but for a little circumstance that startled and shocked him
into new life.

A voice near him was saying:

“Mamma, do you think you would like to sit here? this life-boat makes a
nice shelter. I will arrange your chair and wraps, and I am sure you
will be comfortable.”

“It looks inviting,” was the pleasant rejoinder; “I will at least try it
until I begin to experience those qualms which all voyagers so much
dread.”

A merry little laugh rang out at this—a laugh that made Rupert
Hamilton’s blood tingle and glow, and his heart beat with quickened
throbs; then the first voice responded:

“We are not going to have any qualms, mamma. I am determined to be a
good sailor, and I will not hear a word about your being sick. Why, what
should I do for company without you, and not a friend to speak to on
this great ship?”

Rupert turned now to look at the speaker, his face luminous with
surprise and delight; the moody look all gone from his brow, his fine
lips wreathed with smiles.

At this movement the young girl glanced up and their eyes met.

“Miss Alexander!” cried the young man, going forward with outstretched
hand.

“Mr. Hamilton!” Virgie stammered, her lovely face suffused with blushes.

Their hands met in an eager clasp, and Mrs. Alexander, viewing this
unexpected reunion of the youth and maiden from her position a little in
the background, and noting how much their looks and actions expressed,
knew that she had run directly into the danger she had been trying to
escape all summer.

But it was too late to mend matters now; fate had ordered it so to be,
and she could only submit to the inevitable with as good a grace as
possible.

“Mamma,” Virgie said, as soon as she could collect herself, “this is Mr.
Hamilton, whom we met during the trip to California; Mr. Hamilton, let
me introduce you to my mother, Mrs. Alexander.”

The lady and gentleman exchanged greetings, and then Rupert insisted
upon making himself useful to Mrs. Alexander, who was still something of
an invalid, although much better than when we last saw her in May.

He unfolded her chair, saw her comfortably seated, and then arranged her
wraps and rugs so deftly, and was so kindly attentive to her needs, so
gentlemanly and entertaining in conversation, that she was at once
disarmed of half her fears and prejudices.

“He is really a very charming young man,” she admitted to herself, as
she lay back among her robes and watched his expressive face while he
talked with Virgie. “I do not wonder that she became interested in him,
and, perhaps, after all, if she is to live in England, it might be as
well for her to make an English alliance; I hope his family is a good
one.”

That a great deal of mischief, if it could be regarded as such, had been
done during those few weeks of travel in the West was plainly apparent.

Rupert showed his happiness over this unexpected meeting in every look
and gesture. One could hardly believe him to be the same person, who,
half an hour previous, had stood like some stern statue looking back in
despair upon the city he was leaving behind; while as for Virgie, her
mother scarcely knew her for the drooping, pale-faced damsel that she
had been all summer, although she had not been guilty of a single
murmur.

Mrs. Alexander’s health had improved somewhat, but she was far from
strong even yet, and her physician had urgently advised an ocean voyage.

She had demurred at first, but when he said, “Your daughter, too, needs
the change; I do not like her looks at all,” her mother-love prevailed,
and she nerved herself for her long contemplated voyage to England,
feeling that perhaps the proper time had come for her to act in the
matter of Virgie’s inheritance, and thus it chanced—if chance it
was—that they were booked for the same steamer in which Rupert had
sailed.

But, alas! for Virgie’s boast that she was “determined to be a good
sailor,” for she had not been on deck many hours before she was
prostrated by that much dreaded enemy of all voyagers, sea-sickness, and
thus all the pleasant _tête-à-têtes_ and promenades which Rupert had
begun to plan immediately upon discovering that she was on board the
steamer, came to naught.

The poor girl was hardly able to lift her head from her pillow during
the whole voyage, and when they arrived at Liverpool she was so reduced
that she had to be carried off the vessel.

She began to rally at once, however, after landing, and continued to
improve during the journey to London.

Mrs. Alexander had borne it all wonderfully well, suffering but very
little from “qualms,” which she had so much dreaded, and Rupert having
constituted himself her constant attendant, they had become the best of
friends during the eight days that they had spent together.

When they arrived in London, Rupert assisted them in finding pleasant
lodgings in an excellent locality, and then began to think of his own
friends at Heathdale.

“I shall be in London again soon, and may I beg the privilege of coming
to see you occasionally?” he asked, as he was taking leave of the two
ladies.

“Yes, indeed, we shall be very glad to see you, Mr. Hamilton,” Mrs.
Alexander rejoined, cordially, while Virgie blushed with pleasure at the
request, and a shy smile dimpled the corners of her pretty mouth. “But,”
she added, “you have not yet told us whither you are going—in what
portion of England is your home.”

“I have no home really, as yet, Mrs. Alexander, but I have friends in
Hampshire County, and I am going to them for a while,” Rupert replied.

As was his custom, he seldom talked about himself, and this was the
first intimation that Mrs. Alexander had received of his having friends
in Hampshire, where Sir William lived.

She grew a trifle pale as he mentioned the fact, and longed to ask him
if he knew the baronet; but she checked herself, and they separated
without a suspicion on her part of his being in any way connected with
the man whom she had come to England to seek.

Mr. Knight had given her letters of introduction to some friends of his
residing in Grosvenor square, and, upon seeking them, she found them to
be most delightful people.

Sir Humphrey Huntington and his family occupied a high social position
in London, and thus had it in their power to make it very pleasant for
any one in whom they were interested.

They tried to persuade Mrs. Alexander to come to them as their guest,
instead of remaining in lodgings; but she preferred, for various
reasons, to be independent, although she compromised the matter somewhat
by frequently allowing Virgie to visit Sir Humphrey’s two daughters, who
were about her own age.

And now there began a charmed life for Virgie Alexander, as, for the
present, we must continue to call her, since her mother did not wish her
to be introduced by the name of Heath until she could be assured that
she would succeed in having her acknowledged as the heiress of
Heathdale.

As soon as she was sufficiently rested, Mrs. Alexander intended to
consult with some good lawyer and give her interests into his care; but,
meanwhile, she was willing that her darling should enjoy to the utmost
the pleasures at hand.

Grace and Helen Huntington were bright and attractive girls, but neither
of them possessed a tithe of the beauty which the gods has conferred
upon their young guest. They were generous and kind enough, too, not to
envy her for it, but rather made a pet of her, and were proud to
entertain the fair American, who soon became an acknowledged belle.

The Huntingtons were in the habit of giving fortnightly receptions to
some of the _bon ton_, of London, and it was at one of these gatherings
that Virgie made her _début_ in society.

She had never been much in company, having left school only the previous
year, but now she entered into the enjoyment of everything with all the
enthusiasm of her girlish nature.

She was very lovely on the evening of her first appearance at a
reception at Lady Huntington’s.

She came into the great drawing-room leaning on the arm of Helen
Huntington, a sparkling brunette, clad in garnet silk.

Virgie’s mother had taken great pains with her toilet, and it was
absolutely perfect. It was of finest albatross cloth, combined with
white satin, fitting her slender form like a glove, and draped in the
most artistic manner, while the scarlet flowers, gleaming here and there
among the graceful folds, made a very pleasing effect.

Her nut-brown hair was loosely coiled and fastened with a small silver
comb, while a few light rings lay in careless array upon her pure
forehead. Her dark eyes were gleaming with excitement and anticipation;
her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her red lips wreathed with happy
smiles.

“Who is that beautiful girl in white, with scarlet verbenas?” asked a
distinguished-looking woman, who was conversing with Lady Huntington, as
Virgie entered the room.

“She is a young American for whom a friend of my husband bespoke our
hospitality and attention.”

“Ah!” replied the other, looking interested, and raising her glass for a
better view of the stranger. “I might have known. We have few beauties
of that delicate type in this country. What is her name?”

But the woman started even as she asked the question, while her glance
searched Virgie’s face with an eager, wondering look. Something in its
delicate outlines and striking beauty seemed to arouse long dormant
memories.

“Miss Alexander,” said Lady Huntington; “she and her mother arrived from
New York only ten days ago. Would you like an introduction? She is very
charming, and wonderfully well informed for a girl of her age.”

“Um!—yes, presently; but——Sadie, do tell me who she looks like!” and
Mrs. Farnum, for it was she, turned to a queenly woman near by, to draw
her attention to the fair stranger.

Sadie Farnum, or Lady Royalston, as she was now known, had long since
resigned all hope of becoming the mistress of Heathdale, and, having
married a wealthy lord twice her age, had given herself up to fashion
and society.

“Of whom are you speaking, mamma?”

“Of that girl who is standing beside Helen Huntington. Of whom does she
remind you?”

“I am sure I cannot tell,” Lady Royalston answered, searching the bright
face to which her attention had been called. “It certainly has a
familiar look, and yet one that I cannot place. She is very pretty.”

Mrs. Farnum did not reply, but continued to follow every movement of
that graceful form, every expression of the sweet countenance, while she
searched the chambers of her memory for its counterpart and the
circumstances under which she had seen it.

Presently the two girls approached Lady Huntington, when she passed her
arm around Virgie’s slight waist, saying:

“My dear, I wish to introduce you to an old friend who has been
inquiring about you. Mrs. Farnum, allow me to present our young guest,
Miss Virgie Alexander.”




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                           RUPERT’S REQUEST.


“Virgie Alexander!” repeated Mrs. Farnum to herself, as she acknowledged
the presentation, and it almost seemed as if some one had struck a blow
upon her heart as she recalled that long-forgotten name and looked into
that delicate, clear-cut face, while a vision from out of the past
suddenly rose to confront her.

She saw the tall, slight figure of a beautiful woman very like this
young girl, standing straight and proud before her, as, with a face of
agony and a voice full of despair, she asserted her own purity and her
child’s legitimacy, and hurled back scorn for scorn upon the arrogant
women who repudiated her claim and tried to crush her with a vile
conspiracy.

Again she seemed to hear those ringing, prophetic words, “My child is
also the lawful child of Sir William Heath; she is the heiress of
Heathdale, and she shall yet occupy the position that rightfully belongs
to her. Let your ‘peer of the realm and his honored family’ take
warning; the time will come when a righteous judgment will overtake
them.”

She shivered slightly as she recalled all this and Virgie wondered what
should make the fine-looking woman grow so suddenly pale, and why she
should regard her with such a fixed and startled gaze.

But she gave the circumstance only a passing thought, and then turned to
speak to Lady Royalston, to whom Lady Huntington also presented her,
only to find herself again the object of a curious and astonished stare.

Sadie Farnum turned to her mother as the maiden passed on, and the eyes
of the two women, as they met, expressed a great deal.

“Her name is Virgie, and she looks like that woman,” whispered Mrs.
Farnum, in an agitated voice.

“She certainly does; but Lady Huntington introduced her as Miss
Alexander.”

“Don’t you understand? That was the name of her father—that man who
defaulted from the —— bank, in San Francisco.”

“True! I had forgotten. But—it cannot be possible that this girl was
that baby?”

“Why not? She is just about the age that child would be. You know, it is
eighteen years since we were in America.”

“So it is. How time does fly!” Lady Royalston remarked, with a sigh of
regret for the lost hopes of her youth.

“And, you know, that girl threatened to come to England some time to
claim her position.”

Mrs. Farnum had confided all the plot against Virgie to her daughter
after their return to England, and upon learning that a divorce between
Sir William Heath and his wife had been secured, she had gathered fresh
hope that Sadie would yet become Lady Heath.

“I know you said she did; but so many years have elapsed without
anything happening, I supposed she had given up that idea, particularly
as she obtained a divorce.”

“She was a high-spirited thing,” replied Mrs. Farnum, with a troubled
look, “and I believe she procured a legal separation simply to show him
that she would not hold him bound if he wished to be free; but I imagine
that she has never relinquished the determination to prove her child the
heiress of Heathdale. I am afraid Lady Linton’s plans will come to grief
after all, and if they do, we may become involved in the unpleasant
business.”

Lady Royalston looked disturbed for a moment, then she replied:

“Pshaw! I would not worry over a fancied resemblance.”

“It is not fancied,” returned her mother, “it is very striking. You have
seen it as well as I.”

“Where is the girl’s mother?”

“I do not know. Lady Huntington simply said that they arrived from New
York ten days ago, bringing a letter to Sir Humphrey from a friend who
requested his hospitality for them.”

“If that is the case, they must have been moving in good society,”
remarked Lady Royalston, reflectively.

“Yes; and they must have means. Did you notice the girl’s toilet? It was
simply exquisite.”

“Yes; the finest of everything, and in the best of taste. I cannot
understand it, for you told me that Sir William brought all his wife’s
fortune back to England with him.”

“She told me so herself! but she must have found another somewhere, or
they could not come here in this style.”

“Perhaps she has married again,” suggested Lady Royalston.

“No, indeed. Don’t you understand? She still retains her maiden name,
with simply the ‘Mrs.’ added. I must find out more about them. I will
pump Lady Huntington again before we leave,” Mrs. Farnum concluded,
rather inelegantly.

She was as good as her word, but all that she could learn was that Mrs.
Alexander had come abroad for her health—that she and her daughter were
traveling alone. Lady Huntington believed she was a widow, but judged
she must have lost her husband many years ago, since she never mentioned
him, and wore no weeds. She said she was not able to go much into
society, being still something of an invalid, although much better than
before her voyage.

This was not very satisfactory to Mrs. Farnum, and she felt very uneasy.

“I must see the woman for myself,” she told her daughter. “I should know
her at once, and I shall not rest until I do. I sincerely wish we had
never meddled with that wretched business.”

“I wish so, too,” sighed Lady Royalston, but it was more for her
mother’s sake than her own, for, as we know, her sympathies had been
with the poor young wife when they were together in New York.

But Virgie, all unconscious of the anxiety which her presence had
created, was enjoying herself exceedingly.

She attracted a great deal of attention, and was soon surrounded by a
group of admirers who vied with each other in doing homage to the lovely
young American, while the Misses Huntington appeared to enjoy her
conquests as if they were themselves the recipients of similar honors.

But, in the midst of her triumphs, Virgie chanced to glance toward the
entrance to the drawing-room and saw standing there a figure that sent
all the blood tingling to her finger-tips; and, as she met the eyes that
were fixed so admiringly upon her, her own sent back a responsive glance
which made Rupert Hamilton forget that there was anyone else in the room
and start forward to greet her, regardless of the charmed circle about
her which he must pass.

“Miss Alexander!” he said, in a low, earnest tone, “I did not anticipate
this pleasure when I came hither to-night.”

“And you are a surprise to me,” Virgie answered, blushing slightly. “I
did not know that you were in town. Have you been well since we parted?”

“Very; and I do not need to ask if you fully recovered from the effects
of your voyage,” he returned, with a glance that made her pulses leap.

“I am, indeed, very well,” she said, “and mamma is also very much
improved, although she does not feel quite equal to society yet. Did you
find your friends well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Rupert answered, but his face fell at the question,
for it brought Lillian so forcibly to his mind. She had betrayed so much
joy upon his return that he had been painfully embarrassed and
distressed upon her account.

“Have you been long in London?” Virgie asked, wondering what caused the
cloud upon his brow.

“Can you ask that?” he returned, with a look that made her own eyes
droop. “I arrived this evening with my guardian, and, finding cards for
Lady Huntington’s reception, dropped in to pay my regards to the young
ladies; but I could not be long in London without availing myself of the
privilege that I craved when we parted. But,” glancing around and
realizing that their meeting was attracting more attention than was
agreeable, “will you let me take you out for an ice? It is very warm
here.”

Virgie gladly availed herself of this invitation, for his sudden coming
had agitated her, and she did not feel quite at her ease, while she,
too, saw that her meeting with Rupert had excited considerable surprise
in the group around her.

The young man led her to a small reception-room, found her a comfortable
chair, and then remarked: “Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I
will get an ice for you.”

“Please do not,” Virgie interrupted, laying her hand lightly on his arm
to detain him; “I do not care for it. I was only glad of an excuse to
get away from the crowd for a few minutes’ quiet chat with you——”

She stopped suddenly and colored with confusion at her confession; but
Rupert, with a radiant glow on his face, drew a chair and sat down
beside her.

“Thank you,” he said; “and now tell me how have you enjoyed London
during the last ten days.”

“I am afraid my enjoyment of London has been rather doubtful,” Virgie
returned, laughing, “since I have seen scarcely anything of it for the
fog and rain; but I have met a good many people whom I consider simply
delightful.”

“And, judging from the court you were holding when I came in to-night,
those very people would return the compliment most heartily,” said
Rupert, smiling.

“Did your guardian accompany you this evening?” Virgie asked, by way of
changing the subject.

“No; he was rather weary, and begged me to make his excuses to Lady
Huntington.”

“You have never told me who your guardian is, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Haven’t I? Then I have been very negligent, for he is the best friend I
have in the world. He is Sir William Heath, and I hope to have an
opportunity to introduce you to him soon.”

“Do you intend to remain in London?” Virgie asked.

“For the present. Sir William Heath has a house in town, and we shall
all be here for several weeks. By ‘all’ I mean Sir William’s sister,
Lady Linton, her daughter Lillian, who is a young lady a little older
than yourself, and—your humble servant,” explained Rupert.

“Lady Linton!” Virgie repeated, thoughtfully; “where have I heard that
name before? It is very familiar, and yet I cannot recall the person to
whom it belongs.”

“Very likely you have heard it spoken in society here, as Lady Linton is
in the habit of going out a good deal when in town,” returned the young
man.

“Perhaps so,” Virgie assented, and yet almost positive she had heard it
before ever coming to London.

They chatted a little longer, and then the young girl said she must
return to the company, and Rupert, giving her his arm, conducted her
back to the drawing-room.

But once there, she was again surrounded by a merry company, and he had
no further opportunity to converse with her.

The next morning, however, he called at Mrs. Alexander’s lodgings, and
was very cordially received by that lady, whom he found looking far
better than he had ever seen her.

She was rapidly regaining flesh and strength, and much of her old-time
beauty as well. He had not realized until now how very lovely she was.

Virgie was not in when he arrived—she was out driving with the Misses
Huntington, her mother told him—and, knowing that he could not long
refrain from speaking of his love for the beautiful girl, he resolved
that he would improve this opportunity and crave Mrs. Alexander’s
permission to address her daughter with the hope of winning her for his
wife.

But how to broach the subject so near his heart was an embarrassing
question, and after the first few moments he became thoughtful, and even
pale, causing Mrs. Alexander to wonder if anything had gone wrong with
him since his return.

“I am afraid your native air does not agree with you, Mr. Hamilton,”
said his hostess, breaking an awkward pause; “you are not looking as
well as when I saw you last.”

The truant color rushed into the young man’s face in a torrent at this
remark, and he made a bold venture, resolved to put his fate to the test
at once.

“It is not my ‘native air,’ Mrs. Alexander,” he answered, smiling
slightly; “but, finding you alone this morning, I have been impelled to
confess something to you, and yet I find myself lacking the courage to
break the ice.”

“Surely, I did not suppose that I was one to inspire fear in anyone,”
remarked his friend, archly.

“You are not; but when one’s dearest hopes are at stake, it is sometimes
hard to speak of them,” Rupert answered, gravely; then added, frankly:
“Mrs. Alexander, you must have suspected ere this how fondly I love your
daughter. I have loved her ever since our meeting on that California
trip last winter, and I have only been waiting for your sanction to my
suit to open my heart to her. I hoped to see you last spring on my
return to New York, but you had left the city and I could not learn your
address. I then resolved to seek you again at the end of the summer, but
you were still absent when I came back the last of September. You can,
perhaps, imagine something of my disappointment—I may even say
despair——when I found that I must return to England with no hope of
confessing my love to Virgie. I do not need to tell you that I
experienced a sudden ecstasy when I discovered that you were both on the
same vessel with me and bound for the same port, and I could not have
remained silent as long as I have, had it not been for the illness which
kept my dear one a prisoner in her berth during our voyage. I know that
I am, comparatively, a stranger to you, but you are so situated now that
you can easily ascertain whether what I have to offer Virgie—a true
heart, an untarnished name, and all that I have of this world’s goods—is
worthy of her acceptance. Mrs. Alexander, will you give me leave to try
to win her?”




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                             THE BETROTHAL.


Mrs. Alexander smiled at the young lover’s ardor, while she regarded his
handsome, earnest face with a look almost of affection.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, as he concluded, “to be frank with you, I must
tell you that I have been expecting a request of this nature from you.”

Rupert looked a trifle surprised at this declaration.

“A mother’s eyes are very sharp,” the lady resumed, “and it has not
required much penetration to see that you were learning to regard my
Virgie with more than friendly affection; besides, Mr. Knight told me of
the conversation that he had with you at San Jose, and warned me of what
I might expect when you returned to New York. And now I will confess to
you freely that I was very much opposed to the idea of having Virgie
become the wife of an Englishman. I had reason for the prejudice, which
I will explain to you some other time; and I resolved you two should not
meet again if I could help it. I did help it, as you know; that was the
reason why I left New York so early; but only to be overreached by fate,
which decreed that we should all come aboard at the same time. The
moment Virgie introduced you to me, on board the Cephalonia, I felt that
I was powerless, and so resigned myself to the inevitable. I must admit,
however,” Mrs. Alexander added, with a genial smile, “that I was
disarmed of my prejudices before I had known you many hours, and as I
became better acquainted with you, I could but acknowledge with Mr.
Knight, who, by the way, is a strong champion in your favor, that I
should be proud to give my daughter to so true a man; and so, Mr.
Hamilton, you have my full and free permission to win my darling if you
can, and——”

“Oh, thank you!” Rupert cried, seizing his companion’s hand in his
gratitude, his face luminous with joy; “you have made me the happiest
man in London.”

“I like to see young people happy,” Mrs. Alexander replied, still
smiling, but with a little sigh; “and I imagine it is safe to tell you I
think you have no cause for fear. But now tell me something about
yourself and your family; I should not like to make inquiries about you
of other people.”

“There is not very much to tell,” Rupert said. “I am an orphan; my
mother died when I was an infant; my father was a major in her majesty’s
service, and the only relatives I have living are an uncle and his
family, by the name of Shaftonsbury, so my home has been with my
guardian in Hampshire County——”

“Ah! Hampshire! Who is your guardian?” hastily asked Mrs. Alexander,
paling a little at the familiar name.

“He was my father’s dearest friend, Sir——” began Rupert, but before he
could speak the name the door opened, and Virgie, looking flushed and
beautiful from her exercise in the open air, stood upon the threshold,
and the young man, forgetting both question and answer, sprang forward
to greet her.

The conversation became general then for a little while; but by and by
Mrs. Alexander excused herself, saying she had letters to write, and
left the young couple alone.

Rupert’s eyes had been seeing a great deal ever since Virgie came in; so
much that she could not meet them without her color coming and going
with tell-tale consciousness; and when, the moment the door closed after
her mother, he arose and came to her side, she knew instinctively what
was trembling on his lips.

“My darling,” he said, in a low, earnest tone, “I have just told your
mother that I love you, and she has given me leave to win you if I can.
Virgie, I have loved you ever since those delightful days that we spent
together on the way to California. I might have told you of it even
then, had not Mr. Knight and my own sense of what was right warned me
against it. But now, dearest, there are no barriers, unless you yourself
raise one between us, and my heart bids me hope that you will not. Tell
me, dear, that you love me—that you will be my wife.”

He knelt by her side and gathered the two small hands that lay upon her
lap into his, while he searched the lovely downcast face with his eager
eyes.

She did not repulse him; she made no effort even to release her hands
from his clasp. She cast one shy, sweet glance into his face, a little
smile of love and joy trembled on her lips, while rosy blushes surged up
to the waves of bright hair lying on her forehead, and Rupert needed no
other answer to assure him of his heart’s desire.

“You do love me, my darling!” he cried, drawing her into his arms. “I
read it in your dear face, in your beautiful eyes; but let me hear it
from your lips. I am selfish enough not to be satisfied with anything
less. Virgie, you will give yourself to me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her head drooping until her hair almost mingled
with his; “you _made_ me love you on that journey.”

“Oh, if I had known it then I fear I could not have held my peace,” he
interrupted, laying his lips fondly against her forehead. “I had, in
fact, to run away from you at San Jose lest I should violate all bonds
and betray myself in spite of the caution of Mr. Knight, who said I must
wait until you were safely back with your mother.”

“Did Mr. Knight suspect?” faltered Virgie, growing crimson again.

“Indeed he did. He is a very observing old gentleman, and took me to
task for monopolizing you so much. He was right, too, dear, for it would
have been rash and imprudent for me to have tried to win you then, and I
honored him for restraining me, though it required a terrible wrench for
me to tear myself away from you; but I knew my only safety was in
flight. I resolved, however, that I would settle the question when I
returned to New York; but I was very miserable when I came back in May
and could not find you.”

“And I, too, Rupert,” Virgie confessed. “I thought it is very hard when
the doctor ordered mamma away just at the very time when I was looking
for you; but of course I could not say a word, for her health was of
more importance than anything else, while——”

“While what, Virgie?” her lover asked, as she stopped in confusion.

“While I was not sure but that I was nourishing a delusion; and, taking
it all in all, I was very wretched.”

“Ah! and you have been loving me all this time?” Rupert breathed, as he
bent to kiss the lips that had confessed so much. “And I have been
fearing that you might send me away hopeless.”

“I could not send you away, Rupert.”

“Oh, Virgie, I hope I shall not wake to find this all a dream,” he
breathed, as he folded her closer in his arms, and drew her head upon
his breast.

“Do not fear,” the young girl returned, looking archly up into his eyes.
“I assure you I have ample evidence that you are very much awake now,
and, if you please, it won’t do to disarrange my hair _too_ much, for
Grace Huntington is coming back in an hour to help me plan for Lady
Dunforth’s ball that is to occur next week.”

Rupert laughed, but released her, smoothing very tenderly the tresses
that he had disarranged; then seating himself on the sofa beside her, he
asked:

“How will it be, my Virgie—can you be content to remain in England, or
are you such a stanch American that you will pine for your native land?”

“It is said that ‘home is where the heart is,’ and if _you_ are to live
in England, I am afraid that America would not seem very home-like to
me, even though it was my birthplace,” Virgie confessed, with a shy
smile that was very bewildering.

“Then you will not mind becoming an English matron?” Rupert observed,
with a caress that again endangered the glossy tresses.

“Yes, I think I shall mind it very much,” Virgie retorted; “so much that
I should be unhappy to be anything else. Besides,” she added, more
gravely, “my father was an Englishman.”

“Is it possible? But I do not think that Alexander is an English name,”
Rupert returned. “Of what portion of England was he a native?”

“I do not know, Rupert,” Virgie said, looking troubled. “I imagine there
is something about my father that mamma has never been willing to tell
me. She always grows so sad and pale whenever I speak of him that I have
not the heart to question her, although, as I have grown older, I have
been very desirous of knowing more concerning him.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Oh, no; I never saw him. He was called home to England a few weeks
before my birth, and was lost.”

“Lost at sea! How sad! Mrs. Alexander must have been very young.”

“Yes, she was only a little over twenty.”

“You will probably visit your father’s home now that you are here,”
Rupert remarked.

“I asked mamma that one day, and she grew so white that I was
frightened. She remarked that that was one object she had in coming
abroad, but it was chiefly for my sake; and then she shivered as if
there was something about it that she regarded with great dread. But
hush! she is coming back to us.”

Mrs. Alexander entered at that moment, and smiled as she saw the happy
faces of the two young lovers, although Virgie was sure that there was a
suspicious redness about her eyes, as if she had been weeping.

“I have won her, Mrs. Alexander,” Rupert said, taking Virgie by the hand
and leading her to her mother. “This dear girl has promised to be my
wife, and I am sure you will give us your blessing and congratulations.”

“Indeed I will,” she responded, heartily, though she appeared greatly
agitated as she drew Virgie into her arms and tenderly kissed her
blushing cheek; “and I give her to you very willingly, because I feel
sure that you are worthy of her, and I am confident that you will make
each other happy. Still,” she added, a little sadness in her voice, “it
is not an easy thing for a mother to give away her only child, or to
feel that she has been supplanted in her affections.”

“Not supplanted, mamma—do not say that!” cried Virgie, clinging to her;
“it could not be! I could never love you less, even though I——”

“Even though you love Rupert more,” interposed her mother, archly. “I
expect that, of course, and would not have it otherwise. I wish you to
be all in all to each other, and,” her voice growing husky with emotion,
“may no cloud ever dim your happiness; may nothing ever come between you
to mar your confidence in each other. Oh, my darling!” she cried, in a
voice of agony, as she folded the lovely girl almost convulsively to her
heart, and seeming to forget for the moment where she was, “I would
rather lay you away in your grave to-day than to have you live to suffer
what I have suffered.”

“Mamma,” cried Virgie, looking up anxiously into the almost convulsed
face bending over her, “what can you mean? I have never seen you so
unnerved before. Surely if you are in trouble, you should not hide it
from me.”

“Forgive me, love, for casting a shadow upon your joy at this time,”
said her mother, recovering herself with an effort; “but your happiness
brought back all my own early hopes—hopes that were most cruelly
blighted—so vividly that I forgot myself. Do not mind me, Virgie; your
future looks very bright, and I have done wrong even to allude to
anything to distress you on this day of all others.”

Virgie stood back and looked gravely into her mother’s face.

“Mamma,” she said, with a seriousness that was new to her, “I fear that
you have been hiding something from me all my life. I have often
suspected it, and your excessive agitation this morning proves it. If
you have known any great trouble in the past; if, as I surmise, it is
connected with my father, I feel that you ought to confide it to me, and
let me at least sympathize with, if I cannot alleviate, your sorrow.”

Mrs. Alexander grew very thoughtful at these words. For a moment she
stood irresolute, then a look of resolve overspread her face, and she
said:

“Sit down, my children, and listen to me. I believe the time has come
when I should open my heart to you, my Virgie, and since Rupert is now
one of us it will be just as well for him to hear the story that I have
to tell you at the same time; it will save a repetition, and I am not
strong enough to review the past many times. Perhaps, too,” she added,
turning to the young man, who, in obedience to her request, had drawn
his betrothed back to her seat upon the sofa, “you may be able to give
me some advice regarding a duty which I have soon to perform.”

She sat down near the lovers as she ceased speaking, but looking more
like a statue of wax than a living being, for it seemed almost like
going to her own execution to confess the wrongs which had been the
death-blow to all the hopes of her own youth.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                    “I HAVE MET LADY LINTON BEFORE.”


“You have always supposed, Virgie,” Mrs. Alexander continued, after
pausing a moment to summon all her fortitude for the duty which lay
before her, “that your father was dead.”

“And is he not, mamma?” cried the startled girl, growing almost as pale
as her mother, and casting a terrified look upon her lover.

“No, dear; he is still living and here in England.”

“Mamma!” and the cry of dismay, almost of agony, smote heavily on the
fond mother’s heart, while Rupert Hamilton gazed from one to the other,
a look of wonder on his fine face.

“Be quiet, Virgie,” returned Mrs. Alexander, gently. “No stigma rests
upon either your name or mine, as I perceive you apprehend. Although I
was most cruelly deserted in less than a year after my marriage, and at
a time when I needed tenderest care and sympathy; although I was scorned
and repudiated by the family of the man whom I had wedded; although I
was left weak, unprotected, and comparatively destitute in a strange
city—yet I have risen above it all; I have been able to prove that I was
a lawful wife; that my child could claim an honored name, and it is for
that purpose that I am here in London to-day. But let me begin at the
beginning, and tell you all about it.”

She went back to the commencement of her acquaintance with Sir William,
although she did not call him by name—she was not quite ready to reveal
that yet—and related all the story of his visit to that settlement among
the mountains of Nevada. She told how he had won her; how kind he had
been to her invalid father, and how they had been married while he was
so ill; how, after his death, her husband had taken her to many places
of interest in order to win her mind from her grief, and had made
himself so necessary and was so devoted to her that she had grown to
idolize him and to believe him the truest and noblest man on earth. She
told of his sudden recall to England, while she was obliged to remain
behind; of the sudden cessation of letters; of the arrival at the hotel,
where she was boarding, of two English ladies, whom she did not name,
who were the means finally of her discovering her husband’s
faithlessness, his previous engagement to one of his own countrywomen,
and his subsequent marriage with her, in defiance of those bonds that he
had assumed in connection with her. She related how she had at once
returned to the West, where she had collected incontestable proofs of
her marriage, notwithstanding that she had no certificate; how she had
been enabled to turn her artistic talents to account and provide for her
own necessities. She spoke of the divorce that she had obtained, and her
reasons for wishing to secure it, scorning to remain bound to a man who
had deserted her, and yet desirous of saving another pure woman from
dishonor. Then she told something of her father’s history and fortunes,
of her uncle’s return, his repentance and restitution, and the provision
which he had made for her and which had placed her forever beyond the
fear of want or the need of toil, even though she might never recover
the fortune that her father had left her, or succeed in establishing
Virgie’s claim to her inheritance.

It was a sad, heart-breaking story, and told with thrilling power and
earnestness by the long-tried woman, who almost seemed to be enduring
again the sufferings of her early life; and when at length it was
concluded, she was nearly exhausted by the effort it had cost her.

Virgie had long since crept to her mother’s side, and was now in tears,
with her arms twined about her and her head resting on her bosom; while
Rupert sat near with averted eyes and looking grave and deeply
distressed.

“Oh, mamma, why have you not told me this before?” Virgie at length
asked, trying to control her sobs.

“Because, my darling, I could not bear to sadden your young life.”

“But I could have sympathized with you, and then I need not have pained
you by asking so many distressing questions.”

“It was better for me to bear my burden alone,” her mother persisted;
“of course I know it would have to be told some time, but I have put it
off as long as I could. Now, however, I must soon confront the man who
has so wronged us, and demand justice and restitution for you, and so it
has become necessary that you should know all this sad history.”

“But, mamma, if he was married to that other woman there may be other
children, and—and——”

Virgie could not go on, but broke down in distress.

“True; there are—at least I know of one; but that fact cannot affect
your claim or deter me from demanding that you be recognized as the
legitimate heir; for, of course, unless he made his second marriage
legal, after the divorce was obtained, you alone have any lawful claim
upon him,” returned Mrs. Alexander, in a resolute tone, and with a look
that denoted an inflexible purpose.

“But that will be dreadful,” Virgie said, greatly troubled; “just think
of the shame that such a proceeding would bring upon those who are
innocent of wrong; they are not to blame for the evil that my—that their
father has done, and it does not seem right that they should be made to
suffer, or be deprived of their inheritance; think of their poor mother
and all her hopes for her children.”

“Does it count for nothing, Virgie, that my hopes were crushed; that I
was abandoned when you were a helpless little one; that I was left to
depend upon myself and to provide for you?” cried her mother, sternly;
though there was a note of keenest agony in her tones. “Does it count
for nothing that the happiness of my whole life has been wrecked; that I
was repudiated, scorned, mocked; that you have never been acknowledged
by your own name, never allowed to occupy your true position in life?”

“I know it has all been wrong, cruel, wicked,” Virgie returned, sadly
and with trembling lips; “but I have been very happy, with you, mamma;
you have never allowed me to realize anything of this trouble; we have
had everything we needed, and your fortune is ample without striving for
that which you affirm should be mine; I cannot bear to think that anyone
must be made to suffer just to secure a little more wealth, or a higher
position in life, for me.”

“And are you willing to sacrifice all your rights to those who have
supplanted you—who have lived all their lives upon your heritage?”
demanded Mrs. Alexander, excitedly.

“Mamma,” Virgie answered, sitting up and meeting her mother’s flashing
eye with a proud look, “leaving the innocent out of the question
entirely, I scorn to accept anything from the man who has so wronged
you; I would not be recognized as his child; I would not be known by his
name, were he allied to royalty itself.”

Mrs. Alexander leaned forward and kissed the beautiful girl, clasping
her fondly to her.

“Ah, my darling, you are not lacking in spirit, in spite of your
forgiving nature,” she said; “but justice demands that he shall make you
restitution; that must be part of his punishment.”

Then turning to Rupert she continued:

“You are a man, just and true, Mr. Hamilton; you have heard my story as
a disinterested witness, and are therefore capable of judging with an
unprejudiced mind; I ask you, is it right that I should demand for my
child the position and inheritance that belong to her?”

And Rupert Hamilton replied, gravely, decidedly:

“It is right; a great wrong has been done both you and Virgie, and it is
but just that it should be atoned for as far as may be—if not willingly,
then by compulsion.”

The young man little realized that he was passing sentence upon his
respected and well-beloved guardian; but he had been greatly shocked by
the story to which he had listened, and he deemed no punishment too
severe for him who had been guilty of such wrong.

Virgie sighed at his verdict. She never could bear the thought of giving
pain to others, and she shrank almost with loathing from meeting one who
had caused her mother so much unhappiness.

“Mamma, who is my father?” she asked, after a thoughtful pause.

“My dear, I do not wish to tell you just yet, for you are liable to meet
him or some members of his family in society, and you will be happier
not to know it, at least until my plans are matured and I have decided
when and how to act. I have simply related this story to you now because
I thought that Rupert ought to know something of our history, and to
prepare you for what must soon occur.”

“Very well; I will wait your time,” the young girl returned; but a
little shiver of dread crept over her; she felt that she could never
forgive or own the man who had so ill-treated her beautiful mother.

“And one thing more,” continued Mrs. Alexander, turning to Rupert. “I
should prefer that your engagement remain unannounced for a little
while, until this business is settled. My lawyer hopes to be able to
arrange matters in the course of two or three weeks.”

“It shall be just as you wish,” the young man responded, adding, with a
fond smile, as he turned to Virgie: “So long as I am assured of the love
that I crave it matters little to me whether the world knows it or not
for the present. I would, however, like to make one exception. I should
like to inform my guardian of the fact.”

“That is but right,” returned Mrs. Alexander; and she was again about to
ask the name of his guardian, but a ring of their bell just then warned
them that Miss Huntington had arrived, and as she entered Rupert took
his leave, wondering to himself who this man was, who evidently stood so
high in London society, and who had so ruthlessly ruined the life of a
beautiful and trusting woman and discarded his own child.

A few evenings after this Virgie, accompanied by her mother for the
first time, attended the reception and ball given by Lord and Lady
Dunforth.

Lady Dunforth had herself been a beautiful American girl—Brownie Douglas
by name—and she was always eager to entertain her countrywomen when they
visited London.

She had met Virgie at the Huntingtons, and had at once been attracted
toward her, and had taken pains to secure her presence on her next
evening at home, arranging for extra attractions for her sake.

Mrs. Alexander was feeling unusually well on this night, and had taken a
great deal of pains with her own and her daughter’s toilet.

Virgie’s costume was exquisite, consisting of pale blue satin, with an
overdress of misty lace, wrought with tiny crystals, and draped with
clusters of blush-roses, while she wore strings of rare pearls on her
neck and arms and in her hair.

Mrs. Alexander wore simple black, but of richest material and finest
texture, while her laces were exceptionally rare and her diamonds of the
purest water.

She was a strikingly beautiful woman. Her form was finely developed, and
yet it had lost nothing of the graceful outline of her maidenhood. Her
face possessed a peculiar delicacy of beauty, and her complexion was as
faultless as of old. She had gained much in ease and self-possession;
her bearing was regal, her manner charming.

Lady Dunforth was even more delighted with her than she had been with
Virgie, and took especial pains to present her to her most honored
guests.

It happened that Lady Linton and Lillian were also present that evening.

Both were accomplished society women, and were much sought after,
because of their tact and brilliancy, for there was never any lack of
life, there was never any stiffness or awkwardness where they were. Lady
Linton could entertain charmingly, and Lillian was always the center of
a brilliant circle.

But for once Lady Linton’s accomplishment in this direction failed her.

As Lady Dunforth was presenting Mrs. Alexander to some of her guests,
she suddenly came face to face with Sir William Heath’s sister.

“Ah! Lady Linton,” said her hostess, in her genial way, “I have a friend
here to whom I would like to introduce you; Mrs. Alexander—Lady Linton.”

Her ladyship gave one glance into the beautiful face before her, and
recognized it.

She knew her instantly for the woman who had saved her life at the time
of that frightful railroad disaster eight years previously; who had
nursed her so faithfully during the illness that followed, and who had
afterward told her, “I am the woman whom your brother loved—whom he
wooed and won.”

A deadly pallor overspread her countenance, while her customary elegant
self-possession was utterly routed. She was actually stricken dumb—her
lips refused to pronounce the name she had heard, in acknowledgment of
the introduction; she could only stand still with her eyes fastened in a
blank, startled stare upon that graceful figure, while her heart sank a
dead weight in her bosom.

Instinctively Lady Linton knew why Mrs. Alexander was there in London.
She had come to fulfill the threat that she had uttered so long ago, and
a terrible despair settled down upon the finished woman of the world,
rendering her speechless, constrained, embarrassed.

Mrs. Alexander, however, was entirely at her ease. She had expected to
meet this woman in society at some time or other, and was prepared for
the encounter.

She bowed with exceeding grace, but with a suspicion of ironical
politeness, while she remarked in cool, placid tones:

“I have had the pleasure of meeting Lady Linton before.”

The sound of her voice broke the spell that held her ladyship
enthralled; she managed to bow and to murmur some inarticulate words in
return, then Lady Dunforth passed on with her guest, wondering if Lady
Linton was ill, that she should appear so unlike herself.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                          MORE INTRODUCTIONS.


Meanwhile another spiritual episode was transpiring in a different
portion of Lady Dunforth’s drawing-room.

Lillian Linton, brilliantly beautiful in pale pink silk, with elegant
ornaments of opals, was entertaining a group of young people, while
merry jest and sparkling repartee ran from lip to lip, when, chancing to
glance toward the door, she saw Rupert Hamilton coming forward with a
girl of bewildering loveliness leaning on his arm.

Her heart gave a great startled bound as she looked, for something in
the glance, at once proud and fond, which the young man bent upon his
fair companion—something in the happy, trustful eyes which Virgie raised
to meet her lover’s, told her that her own dream of love in connection
with her uncle’s ward could never be realized.

Rupert had appeared very different to her since his return from America.
While he always treated her with every mark of politeness and
friendliness, there was at the same time an unusual reserve—a constraint
in his manner which seemed like a brazen wall between them.

At first she had told herself that it was because he had been absent so
long; that when he was once more thoroughly settled at home matters
would resume their usual course, and she would be able to win him by the
witchery of her charms.

But he had been restless and absent-minded; he was anxious to get back
to London, and could hardly control his impatience until the family
completed their arrangements to go for a while to their town house.

Now she could understand it all. She was quick and keen enough to
comprehend why his handsome face was all aglow; why his eyes beamed with
that tender, unaccustomed light that called the soft color to the young
girl’s cheeks and wreathed her red lips with happy smiles—he loved and
was beloved.

Her proud, passionate heart instantly arose in rebellion against the
cruel fate which decreed that the sweetest hopes of her life must be
blighted; that the love of which she had dreamed all her life, and which
had grown into her soul so strong and deep, must be denied her, just as
she had begun to feel so sure of winning it.

That the girl was peerlessly beautiful, and of a more delicate and
refined type than herself, she realized with a pang of jealousy, and she
was conscious, too, that Rupert was bringing her straight toward her,
doubtless with the intention of introducing her.

Unlike her mother, she had a moment in which to compose and brace
herself before meeting her rival; and, calling all her pride to her aid,
she looked the picture of brilliant, happy maidenhood when Rupert
reached her side.

“Lillian,” he said, “I wish to introduce you to a friend; Miss
Alexander—Miss Linton.”

Lillian put forth her daintily gloved hand without a tremor, and, with a
dazzling smile, expressed her pleasure at making her acquaintance.

“Miss Alexander is an American,” Rupert explained, and Lillian’s heart
sank; a sudden faintness seemed to come over her at his words.

Her brother Percy’s prophecy had been verified; he had fallen in love
with this girl while on his tour in the United States.

But she would rather have died than betrayed anything of her dismay
before the girl, and looking straight into Virgie’s clear eyes, she
said, brightly:

“Ah! then I suppose you have recently come abroad, as I have not met you
before.”

“Yes, we were passengers on the same steamer with Mr. Hamilton,” Virgie
answered, “and we owe him a great deal, for he was very kind to us—mamma
and me.”

“And how do you like England and English people?”

“Very much,” Virgie replied, smiling, while her eyes turned
instinctively to Rupert, as if she judged the whole nation by her
estimate of him.

Lillian shut her white teeth together viciously as she saw the look and
Rupert’s answering smile, and she wondered what her mother would say
when she learned that her uncle’s ward had bestowed his heart upon a
hated American.

“Have you ever been in the United States, Miss Linton?” Virgie asked,
wholly unconscious of the disturbance which her presence was creating.

“Yes, I traveled considerably there one summer several years ago.”

“And were you pleased with my country?”

“Well, of course America is very different from England, and I like my
own land best, although America has some grand scenery,” Lillian
responded. “But mamma came near losing her life there in a terrible
railway accident, and I was only too glad to get safely home again.”

“Oh!” said Virgie, with a quick indrawn breath, “I remember; we were on
that very train. Is that Lady Linton your mother?”

“Yes; how strange that you should have been in that accident, too?”
returned Lillian, greatly surprised. “Were you injured?”

“No; mamma and I both escaped unhurt, though my maid had one arm badly
broken. I can just remember Lady Linton; mamma took me to see her just
before we left the place; I was sure I had heard the name before, when
Mr. Hamilton mentioned her to me one day last week, but I could not
place it.”

“I wonder——” began Lillian, excitedly, and then she suddenly checked
herself.

She was just upon the point of saying, “I wonder if your mother was the
lady who was so kind to mamma while she was so ill.”

Lady Linton had been obliged to confirm her physician’s statements to
her son when he arrived, that a brave woman had saved her life at the
time of the accident, and then carefully and faithfully nursed her
through a critical crisis afterward; but she pretended not to know her
name and never mentioned her again, though Percy and his sister often
spoke of the circumstance with considerable curiosity and interest.

Virgie raised questioning eyes, as Lillian cut herself short, and she
felt compelled to complete her sentence in some way, so she said:

“I wonder there were not more lives lost at that time; it must have been
a shocking accident. But have you seen Lady Dunforth’s Japanese
curiosities, Miss Alexander?”

“No, I have not,” Virgie answered, thinking her new acquaintance had
changed the subject rather abruptly.

“Then let me take you to examine them, Vir—Miss Alexander,” Rupert
interposed, eagerly, glad of an excuse to get her again to himself, and
Virgie, bowing a graceful adieu to Lillian, took his arm and allowed him
to lead her from the room.

Lillian watched them with an angry, aching heart, but she was obliged to
conceal her feelings, for she knew that others were observing her, and
not for the world would she have her jealous fears suspected; so it was
not long before she was again the life and center of an admiring circle.

Rupert led Virgie to a small room opposite the drawing-room, which had
been fitted up in Japanese style, and where many curiosities and choice
bric-a-brac from that country had been collected and tastefully
arranged.

It was a lovely room, and Virgie was delighted with its unique
treasures.

The lovers spent some time examining the different objects and in the
enjoyment of each other’s society, and they had nearly made the round of
the room when someone put aside the curtains of the door-way and
entered.

Rupert glanced up, and then started forward, his face lighting with a
smile of pleasure.

“Uncle Will,” he cried, “I did not know that you were coming here
to-night. When did you arrive?”

“Only a few moments ago,” returned Sir William Heath, regarding his ward
affectionately. “I did not expect that I should be able to accept Lady
Dunforth’s invitation; in fact, I told Miriam I could not, but I managed
to get through my business somewhat earlier than usual, and so concluded
to drop in here for a little relaxation.”

“I am glad you did; you are working too hard, Uncle Will, and need more
recreation. But come, I have a friend here whom I want you to know,”
Rupert concluded, linking his arm within his guardian’s and leading him
toward Virgie, who was examining an elaborate piece of embroidery on the
opposite side of the room.

“Ah! a young lady!” remarked Sir William, archly, as his glance fell
upon the pretty figure; her face he could not see, for it was turned
from him.

Rupert colored slightly at his tone, but he said nothing until he
reached the side of his betrothed, then he remarked:

“Miss Alexander, I want to introduce you to the best friend I have in
the world, my guardian, Sir William Heath.”

Virgie turned, a smile of pleasure on her lips, for she had longed to
meet Rupert’s guardian, and something in the fair face which she lifted
to him, in that delicate profile, in those refined features, in the
glancing of her eye, and in the very movement she made, as she stepped
forward to greet him, suddenly smote the baronet with the strangest
sensation that he ever experienced, yet he never dreamed that he was
looking into the face of his own daughter!

It almost seemed to him as if he had known her before in some previous
state of existence—as if somewhere in the dim and misty past their souls
had met and held sweet and genial converse.

For a moment he hardly knew whether he was in the body or out; a mist
obscured his sight, a mighty ringing was in his ears, dulling every
other sound, while the very earth seemed quaking beneath his feet.

“Uncle Will, you are ill!” was the startled remark that recalled him to
himself, and made him suddenly realize that he was conducting himself
very strangely.

“No, my boy, it is only a sudden dizziness; it will pass in a moment; it
is gone even now, and I beg pardon for alarming you and your friend,”
the baronet replied, as his vision began to clear and he met the
beautiful dark eyes of the young girl fixed upon him with a look of deep
concern.

He put out a hand to steady himself, even as he spoke, and she took a
step forward, drawn toward him by a power of attraction she could not
understand.

“Pray sit down, Sir William; have this rocker,” she said, as she drew
forward a light but roomy willow chair for him.

“Thanks,” he returned; “let us all sit; we can chat a few moments more
comfortably so,” and he gladly sank into the rocker, still feeling as if
the floor was slipping from under him.

Rupert drew another chair for Virgie, and then went to get a glass of
water for his guardian, for his pallor alarmed him greatly.

But he was soon entirely himself again, making light of his sudden
attack, and they sat and talked some time about the curiosities around
them.

But the baronet watched every movement of the fair young stranger with
an eager, wistful eye. Her grace charmed him more and more; even the
tones of her voice thrilled him with a painfully sweet sensation, and
whenever she addressed him the tears would almost start into his eyes.

“Are you a stranger in London?” he asked, after a little pause in their
conversation.

“Yes, sir; but I have not been allowed to remember the fact since coming
here—everyone is so kind,” she said, smiling.

“Where is your home?” he inquired.

“In New York city, on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“Indeed! Then you have come hither recently?”

“It is scarcely three weeks since my arrival in London,” Virgie
returned.

Sir William turned a questioning look upon Rupert.

“I met Miss Alexander during my trip, Uncle Will,” he said, quietly, but
coloring beneath his glance.

“Alexander!” repeated the baronet, with a sudden start.

“I did not quite catch the name before. Is New York your parents’ native
place?”

“No, sir. Mamma’s early home was in the West, and my father—oh! what
have I done?”

In her nervousness, caused by speaking of her father, Virgie had swept
something from the table, by which she was sitting, with a motion of her
arm, and it had fallen with a crash to the floor.

“No harm,” Rupert returned, as he stooped to pick it up, “it is only a
metallic paper knife and could not break. It is, however, a curiously
carved affair; had you noticed it?” and he passed it to her to examine,
for he observed that she was disturbed and excited by the mention of her
father.

Virgie took it, glad of an excuse for changing the subject, and then
they all fell to discussing the skill and ingenuity of the Japanese.

While they sat thus, a face suddenly looked in upon them from the hall.

It was the face of Lady Linton.

She had heard voices there, while passing, and stepped to the door-way,
impelled by an unusual curiosity.

She took in the situation instantly.

Her brother had told her that he could not attend Lady Dunforth’s
reception that evening, and, ever since her encounter with Mrs.
Alexander, she had been congratulating herself that he had been
detained, while now she had found him here, sitting face to face with
his own daughter, and perhaps upon the very verge of discovering her
relationship to him.

She could have shrieked aloud with terror and anger.

Must all her skillfully wrought plans come to naught?

Had she sacrificed truth and honor for years, to fail now—to have the
woman whom she had hated all her life triumph over her at last?

No! She would fight it out to the bitter end; if there was any power on
earth that could keep them apart they should never meet, and she must
begin now—this instant, by breaking up this interesting group.

“William!” she cried, in a strangely altered voice, “_you here!_”

Sir William started up at the words, turned and saw his sister standing
upon the threshold with a face of ghastly whiteness.

“Yes. What is the matter, Miriam?” and he sprang forward and caught her
in his arms, just as she was falling to the floor in a well-feigned
swoon.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                      SOME STARTLING DISCOVERIES.


Of course the attention of all centered at once upon Lady Linton, and
Sir William’s interest in his beautiful but unknown daughter was, for
the time, merged in his anxiety for his sister.

As it happened, there was no one else in the room just then, and Rupert
and his guardian laid the apparently unconscious woman upon a lounge
that was standing near, and immediately exerted themselves for her
recovery.

Virgie, too, was very helpful, dipping her own dainty handkerchief into
some water that Rupert brought, and bathing Lady Linton’s face with it,
while she gave directions to Sir William about chafing her hands to
assist in restoring circulation.

When the woman began to show signs of recovery and opened her eyes, she
found herself looking directly into the face of the lovely girl whose
presence there had caused her so much concern.

“Where is my brother?” she demanded, jerking her head away from the
gentle hand that was ministering so tenderly to her.

“I am here, Miriam,” said Sir William, bending over her. “What shall I
do for you?”

“Take me home,” she replied, with a shiver, as she glanced darkly at
Virgie, who had drawn back and was standing beside Rupert.

“I will, as soon as you are able,” her brother replied.

“I am able now,” and she sat up with surprising energy for one who but a
few moments before had appeared so seriously ill.

“Very well; I will attend you immediately,” Sir William responded;
“but,” he added, as he regarded her anxiously, “what could have caused
this sudden attack? I never knew you to faint before.”

A guilty stain shot for a moment into Lady Linton’s cheeks.

“I imagine the rooms are overheated, and I have not been quite myself
this evening,” she said, which was true enough, for there had been a
deadly sinking at her heart ever since her encounter with her brother’s
former wife.

She glanced uneasily toward the door as she spoke, for she was in mortal
terror lest she should chance to make her appearance there in search of
her daughter, and she felt that she would rather drop dead, there at her
brother’s feet, than to have those two, so long parted by her plotting,
meet and become reconciled.

Her purpose now was to get him out of that house and away from London as
soon as possible, and she resolved to stop at nothing to accomplish her
object. It was a terrible blow to her to find that woman there. So many
years had elapsed, during which she had kept silence, that she had grown
to feel very secure in her position as mistress of her brother’s home,
and she had fully expected that she would retain it as long as she
should live, and had come to regard the threats which the injured wife
had made in the past as so many idle words.

Life of late had looked brighter to her than at any previous time since
her marriage. Percy had recently become engaged to a beautiful girl—one
in every way worthy of him, and who, when she became his wife, would
bring with her a noble dower; indeed, her father was so much pleased
with his prospective son-in-law that he had himself proposed to relieve
Linton Grange of all incumbrances, and thus all the burden entailed by
his father’s profligacy would be lifted from the young lord’s shoulders.

Lillian’s _début_ in society had been very brilliant; she was greatly
admired and much sought after; so the mother’s cup of pride and joy in
her children seemed to be full to the brim.

The only bitter drop in it was Lillian’s unrequited affection for
Rupert, and Lady Linton had never relinquished the hope of succeeding in
accomplishing even this marriage until after the young man’s return from
America.

He had seemed very different since then; restless and preoccupied, but
betraying at the same time an undercurrent of joy which told of some
sweet hope cherished in his heart, the fulfillment of which he was
eagerly awaiting.

His treatment of Lillian was courteous and respectful, but not
calculated to inspire anyone with the belief that he regarded her with
feelings of more than ordinary friendship, and thus Lady Linton had
begun to fear that her favorite and his magnificent fortune were likely
to slip from her grasp and become the prey of some more fortunate beauty
and belle.

She had not, however, had a suspicion of _who_ was to be the favored
maiden, until she came so suddenly upon that group in the Japanese
parlor, when she had taken in at a glance the mortifying and
exasperating truth, and immediately she was wrought almost into a frenzy
between anger and fear, and ready to adopt the most daring measures to
protect herself from exposure.

But to return to the Japanese parlor.

Lady Linton arose as she replied to her brother’s questions, and
signified her readiness to leave immediately.

“Wait a moment here,” he said, “while I go to make our excuses to Lady
Dunforth and tell Lillian that we are going.”

“No—oh, do not leave me, William!” pleaded Lady Linton, growing
frightfully pale again and trembling visibly; she would not trust him
one moment in that drawing-room, lest he should meet Virginia Alexander.
“I am afraid I shall have another fainting turn. Let Rupert see her
ladyship. Will you?” she asked, turning to him.

“Certainly,” he answered, readily.

“Thank you. And now, William, if you will please ring for a servant to
bring my wraps here. I do not feel equal to the effort of going for
them.”

Sir William did as she requested, wondering to see her so unnerved.
Nothing had ever seemed to unsettle her like this before.

“And, Rupert,” she continued, “won’t you be so good as to look after
Lillian for the rest of the evening, and see that she gets home safely?”

“I will do anything you wish,” the young man returned, although he was
not very well pleased with this latter commission, for he had
anticipated a pleasant drive and chat with Virgie, as it had been his
intention to attend her home.

“I do particularly wish this,” Lady Linton said, with decision. “It
would not be proper for Lillian to come by herself, and I do not quite
like to alarm her or tear her away so early while she is enjoying
herself so much. Ah! here come my wraps,” she concluded, with a sigh of
relief, as a servant appeared with them.

She put them on with nervous haste, and then turning to her brother,
said, almost peremptorily:

“Come, William, I am ready.”

“In one moment, Miriam.”

He had stepped back and was standing before Virgie, who, keenly
sensitive regarding Lady Linton’s evident aversion to her, had withdrawn
herself from her immediate presence.

He held out his hand to her, saying, as he smiled almost tenderly down
on her upturned face:

“It has been a great pleasure to me to meet you. I trust we shall see
each other again soon.”

“I think you will, Uncle Will,” Rupert interposed, in a tone that made
his guardian turn and regard him searchingly, while he said to himself:

“I do believe the young scamp is in love with her. I would not wish a
more charming little wife for him, but I am afraid it will be rather
hard on Lillian.”

“Thank you, Sir William,” Virgie returned, and there was a slight tremor
in her voice, for the presence of this man thrilled her strangely. “I am
sure the pleasure has been mutual, and I should feel very sorry if I
thought I should not meet you again.”

“William!” interrupted his sister, impatiently; and giving the soft hand
he was holding a last, lingering pressure, the baronet turned away, with
a sigh, and attended his sister to her carriage, while Rupert took
Virgie to the drawing-room, where he sought Lillian, to inform her of
her mother’s sudden indisposition and departure.

An hour later Mrs. Alexander and Virgie retired, for the former was not
strong yet, and therefore unequal to very much dissipation.

Rupert attended them to their carriage, but just as they were about to
enter it an elegant coupe drew up beside it, and Mrs. Alexander’s
attention was instantly attracted by a device that was emblazoned upon
one of its panels.

She stopped with her foot upon the step, and turned for a nearer view.

A startled, surprised look came into her face.

The coat of arms represented a patriarchal cross, while underneath it
there were stamped the words, “_Droit et Loyal._”

“Whose carriage is that?” Mrs. Alexander asked of Rupert.

He glanced in the direction indicated.

“That is Lady Linton’s,” he replied; “she has sent it back for Lillian.”

“Lady Linton’s!” repeated Mrs. Alexander, with a start, while she
thought it a little strange that he should speak so familiarly of her
daughter and be so well informed of the lady’s movements.

“Yes; Sir William Heath, her brother, presented both carriage and horses
to her for her individual use one Christmas,” Rupert explained.

“And what is that device upon the panel of the carriage door?”

“It is the Linton coat of arms.”

“The Linton coat of arms! You seem to know the family well, Mr.
Hamilton.”

“And why should I not?” Rupert returned, smiling. “I have made my home
with them during the last ten or twelve years. William Heath is my
guardian.”

“What?” cried his listener, sharply.

“Have I not told you before?” Rupert asked, looking up in surprise at
her tone. “You must pardon me, Mrs. Alexander, for being so negligent;
but surely, I thought I had informed you of the fact.”

Mrs. Alexander clutched at the carriage door for support, and for a
moment thought she must fall to the ground; two such startling
discoveries as she had just made were sufficient to make her heart stand
still and her blood run cold, and she scarcely had strength to move.

Rupert Hamilton Sir William Heath’s ward?

It was a strange fate that had decreed that her daughter and his should
become the _fiancée_ of the young man he had reared.

She was aghast; her brain reeled and she stumbled into the carriage and
sank weakly upon the seat, anxious to be gone, to be alone, and think it
all out by herself.

Her face was deathly in its paleness, and Rupert, though he wondered at
her strange behavior, so at variance with her usual courtesy, feared
that she was displeased with him for his negligence.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, smilingly, as he leaned in to tuck the robes
about them.

His question brought the stricken woman somewhat to herself, and she
replied:

“There is nothing to forgive, Mr. Hamilton. Of course, it was an
oversight, your not mentioning that Sir William Heath was your guardian.
Did Virgie know?”

“Yes, mamma. Rupert introduced me to him to-night as his best friend;
but he had told me before, and I thought you knew,” said the young girl,
marveling at her mother’s strange emotion.

“_Introduced him to you to-night! Was he here?_” cried the woman, with a
gasp and a sense of suffocation.

“Yes. But, mamma, how strangely you act! Are you ill?” Virgie inquired,
noticing, with increasing alarm, her mother’s pale face and
uncontrollable agitation.

“No—yes. Let me get home as soon as we can—I believe I am not well,” and
she sank weakly back among the cushions, almost panting for breath.

“Shall I come, too? Will you need me?” Rupert asked, anxiously.

“No, thank you,” Mrs. Alexander answered, with a great effort. “It is
not far—we shall soon be there—good-night!”

The young man would gladly have gone, but her tone was decisive, and he
turned back into the mansion, as the carriage drove away, greatly
puzzled by her strange manner, and at the way she had spoken of his
guardian.

Mrs. Alexander scarcely spoke all the way home, and insisted upon going
directly to her room alone, although Virgie begged to be allowed to do
something for her—to stay with her during the night.

“All that I need is rest and quiet,” she said. “Good-night my darling!”

She kissed her tenderly, wondering, with a terrible heart-pang, how she
could ever tell her that her lover’s guardian was her own father—the man
who had so cruelly wronged his wife and child more than eighteen years
ago.

Once in the room, without even stopping to remove her wraps, she went to
her writing-desk, drew forth a package from a drawer in it, and took it
to the light for examination.

It was the mysterious package which her uncle, Mark Alexander, had
confided to her on his death-bed, charging her to return it to the owner
should she ever discover who that person was.

She had discovered that night to whom it belonged.

She held the seal close to the candle, and gazed upon it with darkening
eyes and sternly compressed lips. It was stamped with a shield bearing a
patriarchal cross, and under it was the motto, “_Droit et Loyal_.”

“How strange!” she murmured. “It belongs to his sister—to that woman who
mocked and scorned me; whom I saved from a dreadful death, and nursed
through a critical illness! She must have been one of those women whom
Uncle Mark heard conversing together that day in the hotel parlor here
in London. How wonderful that anything belonging to her should have
fallen into my hands! How wonderful everything is—Virgie’s betrothal to
Rupert—her meeting with him to-night! How will it all end? To think that
he was there, in the same house with me, this evening! I am really
curious to know what this contains,” she continued, turning the package
over and over, and regarding it with troubled eyes, while her thoughts
were busy with the past.

“Well,” she concluded, after musing for several minutes, “it must be
returned to its owner, I suppose. I promised, and I must fulfill my
word. Yes,” lifting her head resolutely, “she shall have it on the day
that my darling stands within her ancestral halls the acknowledged
heiress of Heathdale, not before.”




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                           A SUDDEN FLITTING.


The next morning Mrs. Alexander’s lawyer, Mr. Thurston, made a call upon
his client, and had an interview with her of more than two hours’
duration.

After his departure, she sought Virgie, with a very grave face, and
explained the nature of his business, which caused the young girl to
open wide her lovely eyes and exclaim, with astonishment:

“Why, mamma, it is the strangest romance in the world! I never heard
anything like it!”

“Well, dear, get yourself ready as soon as possible, for we must leave
town this afternoon, as there is no time to lose,” her mother replied,
as she arose to go to make her own preparations for the proposed
journey.

“But, mamma, what shall I do about Rupert?” Virgie asked, looking
troubled.

Mrs. Alexander’s face fell at the mention of the young man’s name.

She had scarcely slept during the previous night, for many things
troubled her, and, among others, the thought that Virgie’s engagement to
Rupert Hamilton seemed likely to complicate matters very much when she
should be ready to make her claim upon Sir William Heath.

“You can leave a note telling him that we are obliged to leave town for
a while, and we can explain further to him when we ascertain just how we
are to be situated,” her mother replied, after considering a moment.

So, when Rupert called that evening, he found only a note awaiting him
instead of the bright face he had hoped to see, while it told him that
his betrothed and her mother had been unexpectedly called away from
London upon important business, which might detain them a week, perhaps
longer.

“It is very strange that she does not mention where they are going,” he
said, as he read the note over for the second time, and remarked this
omission. “Mrs. Alexander acted very strangely last evening. I wonder if
this sudden departure can have had anything to do with that?”

He retraced his steps, feeling unaccountably depressed over the absence
of Virgie, and he resolved to seek an interview with Sir William and
acquaint him with the fact of his engagement that very evening.

He did not, however, find his guardian upon his return; he had gone out
upon a matter of business, his valet told the young man, and would not
be back until late; so he retired, resolving to improve the first
opportunity on the morrow.

The next morning, after breakfast, he said, in a quiet aside:

“Can I have a few moments’ conversation with you, Uncle Will?”

“Certainly, my boy. Come into the library in about ten minutes, and I
will be there.”

Lady Linton, always on the alert for everything of a mysterious nature,
and doubly keen now to suspect mischief, heard this request, and at once
resolved to become acquainted with the nature of the interview.

Sir William’s chamber was just back of the library, although there was
no door communicating with it.

The same furnace-pipe, however, conducted heat to the two rooms, and, by
stationing herself close to this, her ladyship knew she could overhear
whatever might pass between the two men. She therefore slipped quietly
into her brother’s bed-room, locked the door, and, creeping close to the
register, laid her eager ear against it.

Rupert was already with Sir William, for the housekeeper had detained
Lady Linton for a few moments with questions regarding some domestic
matter, but she was in season to hear him broach the subject so near his
heart.

“I have come to make a confession to you, Uncle Will,” he said, as he
seated himself opposite his guardian.

“A confession! Nothing very serious, I hope,” said Sir William, glancing
keenly into the flushed face of his ward.

“Yes, I think it is of rather a serious nature,” he returned, smiling
slightly. “I wish to tell you that I have become deeply attached to Miss
Alexander, to whom I introduced you last night, and to ask your sanction
to our engagement.”

“Aha! has it gone so far as that?” inquired Sir William. “I began to
surmise last evening that she was taking your heart captive, but did not
imagine matters had reached a crisis yet.”

“Don’t you think her lovely, Uncle Will?” Rupert asked, eagerly.

“Very lovely; but, my boy, the ocean rolls between England and America.
I cannot bear the thought of a separation from you, Rupert.”

“Nor I from you, my dear guardian; and, I assure you, you need not fear
it, for the young lady does not object to a permanent residence in
England. I trust you will not oppose my marriage with Miss Alexander.”

“Rupert,” said Sir William, gravely, “my only wish is for your
happiness, and if Miss Alexander is the woman of your choice—if you are
sure that she alone can make you happy—then I can only say Heaven bless
you and grant that your future may be all that you desire.”

“Thank you, Uncle Will, I—I hope you do not disapprove of my choice of a
wife?” Rupert said, regarding his guardian’s grave face anxiously.

“No, no,” returned the baronet, hastily. “I admired the little lady very
much during the few moments that I spent with her last evening. She
seems a lovely girl. My first thought was that she might take you from
us.”

“No. Although she was born in America, she is herself of English decent
on her father’s side, and she and her mother are now in this country,
for the purpose of claiming some property inherited from him,” Rupert
explained.

“Ah! then she has no father.”

“No; he—she—lost him when she was a child.”

The young man began to fear he was trespassing somewhat upon Mrs.
Alexander’s confidence, and resolved that he would betray no more at
present.

“Are you sure that the family is one with which you will feel proud to
ally yourself?” Sir William inquired.

“I know but very little concerning their family,” Rupert admitted. “I
doubt if they have any, but everything about them indicates that they
are above reproach, while Mr. Knight, the gentleman whom I met in
America, and of whom you have often heard me speak, introduced them, and
he is of irreproachable character. He occupies a high position in New
York, and it is in compliance with his request that they are presented
here, and chaperoned by the Huntingtons.”

“The Huntingtons are all right, and would introduce no one regarding
whom there was any question,” Sir William said, in a satisfied tone. “Is
Mrs. Alexander as much of a beauty as her daughter?” he concluded,
smilingly.

“Hardly in my eyes,” returned the young man, with heightened color; “and
yet she is a remarkably handsome woman. I hope I may be able to arrange
for you to make their acquaintance very soon; but until then please
regard what I have told you as strictly confidential.”

“Ah! Then you do not intend to announce your engagement just yet,”
remarked Sir William, with some surprise.

“No, sir. At Mrs. Alexander’s request, we shall delay it for the
present, until she secures the property of which I have already spoken.”

“How much of an heiress is your pretty _fiancée_ going to be, Rupert?”
his guardian asked.

“I cannot tell. I do not even know of what this property consists,” the
young man answered, thoughtfully.

“I am afraid there is something a little mysterious about these ladies.
Doesn’t it strike you so?” inquired Sir William, gravely, yet without a
suspicion of the wonderful truth.

Rupert knew there was, but he was not going to confess it, and he
replied, evasively:

“I do not imagine there is anything but what will soon be satisfactorily
explained to us all.”

Lady Linton, hearing all this, and knowing so much more than either
Rupert or her brother, grew deadly faint as she listened and realized
how near she stood to the verge of a terrible exposure.

Just then there came a brisk tap on the library door, and the next
moment Lillian put her bright face into the room, and looking as lovely
as the morning itself in her white flannel wrapper, fastened at the
waist with cherry ribbons, and with her hands full of jacqueminot roses.

Her face assumed a look of surprise as she saw Rupert there, and she
regarded him with searching curiosity.

“Pardon me, Uncle Will,” she said, flushing; “I did not know that you
were engaged with anyone; I have just received a box of flowers, and
came to arrange some for your table. May I come in? I won’t be long.”

“Yes, indeed, come in; you are doubly welcome coming with so much beauty
and fragrance,” said her uncle, smiling.

Rupert arose as she entered, and asked with an arch smile:

“What enamored swain has been guilty of the extravagance of lavishing
such costly flowers upon you, Lillian?”

“Lord Ernest Rathburn is the donor; he has exquisite taste. I wish you
could have seen the box when it came,” the girl replied, with a
conscious drooping of her brilliant eyes.

“Lord Ernest Rathburn!” repeated Rupert in a peculiar tone, which
brought the angry color to Lillian’s cheek.

Lord Ernest was a young nobleman with a large revenue, but possessing
far less brains than mustache, and who was regarded with contempt by all
manly young men, on account of his effeminacy and excesses.

“I wish,” he added, “that you could meet a friend of mine, Lillian; you
will, I hope, before very long. Lord Ernest would sink into
insignificance by comparison.”

“And who may this paragon of manly excellence be, Mr. Hamilton, if I may
inquire?” Lillian asked, with a toss of her head.

“Harry Webster, the young man with whom I traveled, last winter, in
America.”

“I despise Americans,” retorted Miss Linton, with considerable asperity.

“That is rather a sweeping assertion; isn’t it, my dear?” asked Sir
William, looking a trifle amused.

“It is the truth, Uncle Will, whatever else it may be,” she retorted, as
she began to arrange her flowers in a vase on the table. “I am English
to the backbone. I am thoroughly imbued with a love for my own people,
and I shall never permit myself to draw disloyal comparisons.”

Rupert laughed outright as, in his mind, he placed the stooping figure
and imbecile face of the halfwitted young lord beside the grandly
developed form and frank, handsome countenance of his American friend.

“If you could place the two men side by side, I warrant you would be
compelled to draw disloyal comparisons, in spite of your very
praiseworthy patriotism, my fair cousin,” he said, a roguish twinkle in
his eyes.

Lillian shot an angry glance at those last words; nothing annoyed her
more than to be called “sister” or “cousin” by Rupert.

“I thank you for acknowledging that I am imbued with patriotism. I
wonder what has become of yours,” she said, sarcastically.

“I have plenty of it, only I do not allow it to warp my judgment; I can
appreciate both beauty and goodness whenever I find it, at home or
abroad.”

“That is a self-evident fact,” remarked the young girl, dryly, and
Rupert colored consciously.

“I give you credit for just as nice discrimination,” he retorted. “Wait
till you see my friend, Webster, and if he doesn’t take the palm I shall
‘lose my guess,’ as the Yankees say.”

“That is American slang; they are all insufferably coarse,” Lillian
returned, contemptuously.

“Did you meet the pretty little American, Miss Alexander, at Lady
Dunforth’s the other evening, Lillian?” inquired Sir William.

“Yes, I met her,” the girl admitted, rather ungraciously.

“Well, you would hardly class her among those whom you term coarse,
would you? I thought her an unusually attractive girl.”

“No; I admit she appeared very pretty and lady-like and yet I have no
doubt that she would soon betray her nationality if one was to see much
of her.”

“Neither have I; and she would be proud to own it, also, I’ll wager,”
Rupert observed, with some spirit.

He was out of patience with Lillian’s unreasonable prejudices, and her
slighting tone in speaking of Virgie made him indignant.

She looked at him with a mocking smile on her red lips.

“When shall we have the pleasure of congratulating you upon your
American conquest?” she asked, saucily.

“I shall take great pleasure in informing you when the proper time
arrives,” he replied, with studied politeness, and with a seriousness
that drove all color from the girl’s face and made her heart sink like
lead in her bosom.

At that moment the butler entered the room with a telegram, which he
presented to Sir William, and then withdrew.

The baronet tore it open and read:

  “Come to Middlewich at once. William has had a dangerous fall.

                                                        MARGARET HEATH.”

Middlewich was the country seat of the nobleman to whom the baronet’s
cousin, William Heath, was private secretary, and it was to this place
that he was now so peremptorily summoned.

Lady Linton, in her hiding place, heard her brother read this telegram
with a thrill of joy.

She was glad of anything that would take him out of London and away from
the danger of meeting “that woman,” and she resolved that it should go
hard with her if she could not find some way of opposing other barriers
before his return. It was a desperate case, and she was prepared for
desperate measures.

She crept out of her brother’s chamber with a pale, drawn face, saying
to herself that Rupert Hamilton should never fulfill his engagement with
Virgie Alexander, if there was any power on earth to prevent it; she
could never bear the humiliation of it.

She packed her brother’s portmanteau with alacrity, and promised to
attend faithfully to his various commissions during his absence, and
uttered a sigh of relief when the carriage drove from the door, and she
knew that he was well on his way to Middlewich.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                         AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.


Three days later Lady Linton received a letter from her brother, giving
the particulars of his cousin’s accident. He had been riding from
Chester to Middlewich, when his horse became frightened at some object
by the roadside, and Mr. Heath, not being sufficiently on his guard, had
been thrown, suffering the fracture of two ribs, a broken arm, and, it
was feared, some internal injury besides. He was in a very critical
state at the time of Sir William’s writing, and the latter said he
should not think of returning to London until assured that his kinsman
was out of danger.

“Thank fortune!” Lady Linton breathed, most fervently. “Of course,” she
added, a guilty flush rising to her forehead as she suddenly realized
how heartless her expression sounded, “of course, I do not mean that I
am thankful to have Cousin William suffer such injuries, but I am
immeasurably relieved to have my brother called away just at this time,
and the longer he stays, the better I shall be pleased.”

She heard nothing more for a week, when there came another letter
stating that Mr. Heath was slightly improved, but still unable to be
moved, and quite a sufferer. There were some more particulars, too,
regarding the accident.

Lord Norton, an aged friend of the Duke of Falmouth—the nobleman to whom
Mr. Heath was private secretary—was very ill, and he had sent for his
grace to confide to him a historical work upon which he had been engaged
for more than two years. It was nearly completed, only a few more
chapters to be copied, and Lord Norton, feeling that he should not live
to see it published, desired his friend to take charge of it, finish it,
and secure its publication.

The duke readily consented to put the work through; but, as his eyesight
would not permit him to do very much in the way of either reading or
writing, he suggested that his secretary, Mr. Heath, who was eminently
qualified, should get it ready for press, and he himself would attend to
its publication.

Lord Norton was pleased with this proposition, and Mr. Heath consented
to take hold of the book at once, hoping to complete the copying while
his lordship’s strength endured to oversee the work and make important
suggestions for his benefit.

Of course, this necessitated numerous visits to the invalid, and it was
while returning from one of these that Mr. Heath’s horse took fright,
causing the accident and putting a stop to the project which lay so near
the old lord’s heart.

Sir William wrote that the disappointment of both the Duke of Falmouth
and Lord Norton was so great that he had himself offered to take his
cousin’s place and finish the copying of the book, while he remained at
Middlewich in attendance upon his injured relative and his family.

Lady Linton was jubilant after receiving this letter, for it was evident
that Sir William would be detained at Middlewich for quite a while;
meantime she would exert all the cunning of which she was mistress to
ruin the woman whom she both feared and hated, and thus plant an
insurmountable barrier between Rupert and his beautiful _fiancée_.

With this mad scheme in mind, she ascertained Mrs. Alexander’s address,
and boldly went one morning to face her enemy in her own domain.

But she was bitterly disappointed to learn that she was not in town. She
was away on a little trip, the landlady told her; she might be gone a
week longer; she might not return even at the end of that time. “The
rooms were paid for in advance for three months, so the woman had not
asked when they would return, nor whither they were going, but she had
heard the young lady say something about a visit to Edinburgh; possibly
they had gone there.”

So Lady Linton had to rest on her belligerent oars for a season, though
she resolved to be on the alert to act as soon as Mrs. Alexander and her
daughter should return.

A couple of weeks later she went one morning to do some shopping for
Lillian on Oxford street, and just as she was about to enter a
fashionable furnishing store the door opened, a lady came out, and—she
stood face to face once more with Mrs. Alexander.

An angry red suffused Lady Linton’s face, an ominous flash lighted her
cold, gray eyes.

“Ah! so you have returned,” she said, sharply, and planting herself
directly in the path of her foe.

She was looking very lovely—so lovely, indeed, that her ladyship
marveled at her beauty. She wore a black silk dress, simply made, but of
richest texture, an elegant mantle of black velvet heavily trimmed with
jet, a bonnet of the same material, relieved by three graceful ostrich
tips of cream-white; and the dainty affair was bewitchingly becoming;
her hands were faultlessly gloved, and a single half-blown Lamargue rose
had been drawn into one of the fastenings of her mantle, its pale yellow
petals nestling lovingly among the rich folds of velvet. There was the
daintiest bloom on her cheeks, her eyes were bright, her whole face
animated, and she was a woman to attract admiring attention wherever she
went.

Lady Linton congratulated herself that her brother was far from London,
for she well knew that it would need but one glance at this beautiful
picture to bring him a hopeless captive to her feet once more.

Mrs. Alexander slightly raised her brows at her ladyship’s abrupt manner
of address, bowed politely, and would have passed on, but the other laid
a detaining hand upon her arm, and drew her into a little vestibule just
inside the door.

“I want to speak to you,” she said, authoritatively.

“Certainly; I am at your service, Lady Linton,” was the quiet, lady-like
reply, and Virgie’s full, blue eyes looked calmly down upon the sallow
countenance before her, as she waited to learn why she had been so
unceremoniously detained.

“Why have you come to London?” Lady Linton inquired, brusquely.

Mrs. Alexander drew herself up a trifle, and hesitated a moment before
replying; then she said, gravely:

“Partly upon business; partly for health.”

“Health!” scornfully repeated Lady Linton, with a quick upward glance
into that beautiful, blooming face.

A musical laugh rippled over Mrs. Alexander’s lips, and she flushed an
exquisite color; for both glance and emphasis, although not so intended,
were a marked compliment to her appearance.

“You think I do not need to go anywhere in search of health,” she
observed. “That is true, just now, although I was far from well when I
left America.”

“What is your ‘business’ here?” demanded her companion, ignoring her
reply.

“Really, Lady Linton,” Mrs. Alexander returned, coldly, “I do not know
as I feel obliged to explain that to you just yet.”

“Just yet!” repeated the other, with a sudden heart-bound. “What am I to
understand by that?”

“Just what you choose, Lady Linton.”

“Is your ‘business’ connected in any way with that threat which you made
in my presence more than eight years ago?”

“Ah! then you have not forgotten what happened more than eight years
ago?”

Lady Linton colored angrily.

“I could almost wish that I had died then, rather than that you should
have saved me!” she said, passionately.

“Why?”

Gravely, almost solemnly, the brief inquiry was made.

“Because I hate you! You came between me and some of my brightest hopes.
Because you——”

“No, it is not wholly that,” Virgie interposed quietly, while her grave,
beautiful eyes searched Lady Linton’s face, with something of pity in
them: “It is because you have injured me, and one is apt to dislike and
shrink from another whom one has wronged.”

“How have I wronged you?” demanded Lady Linton, in a startled tone, and
wondering how much the woman knew.

“I do not need to tell you. Your own conscience needs no other accuser
than itself,” was the calm reply. “But it would have been far better had
your ladyship constituted yourself my friend instead of my enemy.”

“I could never be your friend. I shall be your foe to the bitter end,
and it was to warn you of this that I detained you to-day. If you have
come to London with the intention of thrusting yourself and your
daughter upon my brother, let me tell you to beware! You are a divorced
woman; you have no claim whatever upon Sir William Heath, and your child
shall never be acknowledged by his name. I have vowed this, and I mean
it. You may think it all an idle threat, but if you are in London one
month from to-day it will be at your peril. I will ruin you. I will so
shame and humiliate you that you will be glad to hide yourself from all
who know you. I will do even worse if need be. Nothing shall hinder me
from making sure work this time.”

She was actually hoarse with passion as she concluded.

“This time, Lady Linton? Then it was your work that other time. You
acknowledge it?” said Mrs. Alexander, in a calm tone, and without a
trace of excitement in either face or manner.

She was as unruffled as when Lady Linton first met her; she had not even
lost a vestige of color. All the change that was visible in her was a
half-sorrowful light in her beautiful blue eyes, a grave, pitiful
expression about her mouth.

Lady Linton saw instantly that she had made a mistake; in her anger and
hatred she had admitted more than was wise or prudent, and she grew very
pale.

“I acknowledge nothing; I only warn you,” she said, almost fiercely.

“Lady Linton,” her companion answered composedly, “your threats do not
move me; they cannot hurt me, and I fear they will but recoil upon your
own head. Believe me, I would much rather be upon friendly terms with
you. I feel more like forgiving the injuries of the past than cherishing
hostile feelings. I could even at this moment take your hand—the hand
that wrote such cruel things of me so many years ago—and say, ‘Let us be
at peace;’ but you will not, and I must go my way and leave you to go
yours, hoping that before it is too late for repentance to avail you
anything, a better spirit may possess you.”

“You defy me then?” said Lady Linton, through tightly closed teeth.

“Oh, no; I do not defy you,” was the pleasant rejoinder. “You are very
angry, Lady Linton, because I will not allow myself to be frightened and
browbeaten by you, but you will feel differently by and by when you come
to consider matters in another light. I would rather do you a kindness
than harm, and, by the way, I have a package belonging to you which I
mean to return to you very soon.”

“A package belonging to me! Where did you get it?”

“It is one that I have had many years, but I have only recently
discovered that it is yours.”

“It is impossible that you can have anything of mine,” returned Lady
Linton, coldly.

Her companion smiled slightly, then said:

“An uncle of mine was returning from the far East some twelve or
thirteen years ago, and, on his way from London to Edinburgh, rode in
the same railway carriage with a lady who got out at one of the way
stations. He never knew which station it was, for he had fallen asleep
shortly after leaving London, and when he awoke she was gone. He found a
package, however, which she had dropped and which he could not return,
because there was no name upon it, therefore he was forced to take it
home to America with him. He confided it to me on his death-bed with the
injunction to return it to the owner if I should ever be so fortunate as
to meet her. I discovered on the evening of our meeting at Lady
Dunforth’s that you were the owner.”

“I assure you that you are mistaken. I never lost a package in a railway
carriage,” returned Lady Linton, haughtily.

“No, but a friend to whom you confided it, lost it.”

“What—who?” demanded her ladyship, with a start.

“The way I learned that it belonged to you,” Mrs. Alexander resumed,
“was by observing upon the panel of your carriage door, as I left Lady
Dunforth’s that evening, the Linton coat of arms. The seal upon the
package of which I speak is stamped with a shield bearing a patriarchal
cross and the motto ‘_Droit et Loyal_,’ and there is also written upon
the wrapper this sentence, ‘To be destroyed unopened in the event of my
death.’”

Lady Linton had shrunk back appalled during this description, and now
stood leaning against the wall, white, trembling while great beads of
perspiration stood about her mouth and on her forehead.

“Great heavens! have you got that?” at last burst from her quivering
lips, in a tone or horror.

“Yes! it is a singular coincidence, is it not?” inquired her companion,
serenely. “However, I will return it to you very soon. And now,
good-morning, Lady Linton. This will be a very busy day for me, and I
must not tarry longer.”

With these words, Virginia Alexander swept by the stricken woman with a
courteous inclination of her head, and went on her way, apparently
unruffled by anything that had occurred during the spirited interview
with her sworn enemy, Sir William Heath’s sister.

Lady Linton stood for a moment or two utterly motionless, almost
paralyzed by the startling revelations which her brother’s former wife
had just made to her, and then she, too, tottered from the place,
murmuring:

“To think that she, of all persons, should have had that during these
years! What a fool I have been! But,” she continued, with an ominous
glitter in her steely eyes, “the die is cast—it will now take desperate
measures indeed to secure my own safety and accomplish her defeat.”

She returned directly home, for she had neither the strength nor the
heart to purchase fashionable gewgaws for Lillian; at least until she
had recovered somewhat from the shock she had just received.

Upon her arrival she found still another letter from Sir William
awaiting her, and one which filled her with astonishment and put an
entirely different aspect upon the future, while a portion, at least, of
its contents was calculated to electrify his whole household as well as
society at large.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                       A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT.


Lady Linton’s letter was handed to her by the butler just as she was
sitting down to lunch.

She had come in just as the bell rang, and leaving her bonnet and wraps
in the hall, went directly to the dining-room without going, as usual,
to her room to make a change in her toilet; she was far too weary and
shaken to mount the stairs.

She broke the seal absently, and began to read in a listless,
preoccupied way, when all at once she uttered a startled exclamation,
and the paper dropped from her nerveless fingers upon the table.

“Why, mamma, what is it? You are as pale as a ghost. Is Cousin William
worse or—dead?” exclaimed Lillian, regarding her mother with mingled
curiosity and astonishment.

“No, but the strangest thing in the world has happened.”

“It must be something strange to disturb your equanimity like this; but
what is it?” inquired the girl, eagerly.

“Your Uncle William is going to be married!”

“You cannot mean it, mamma?—at last!” cried Lillian, amazed; then she
added, with a gay laugh: “The dear old bachelor! Well, you will have
your wish, after all. You have wanted him to marry for the last dozen
years.”

“Yes; and—I am glad—I am delighted!” replied Lady Linton, slowly, but
with strange exultation in her voice, while her eyes gleamed with almost
ferocious triumph.

“Well, I am astonished. I had given Uncle Will up as a hardened case,”
Lillian said, growing more and more surprised, as she considered the
matter; “but do tell me who is the happy woman?”

“A niece of Lord Norton who has just died; you know we read of his death
last week, and I have been wondering why your uncle did not write. This
accounts for it,” replied Lady Linton. Then taking up his letter, she
continued: “I will read you what he says. The epistle is very brief, and
does not sound like him at all, but I suppose we must excuse it under
the circumstances.”


“‘You will doubtless be surprised by the contents of this letter,’ he
writes, ‘and as I have much on my mind, I will simply state bare facts,
leaving details until my return. You already know of my having taken my
cousin’s place as temporary amanuensis to Lord Norton. I was enabled to
complete the manuscript for him the week before his death, which
occurred on the ninth. But, during my visits to him, I met a niece of
his, who, I may say, is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. By
his lordship’s will she becomes the heiress to all his possessions,
which consist of his fine estate called Englewood, here in Chester,
besides a large amount of personal property. To make a long story short,
however, I am going to make this lady my wife, and as I am too old to
waste any time upon forms or so-called etiquette, we intend to be
married immediately—that is, within the month—about the twenty-first, I
think, after which we shall repair to Heathdale, where we shall quietly
remain for the present. The wedding will be strictly private on account
of his lordship’s recent death and in compliance with the request of his
niece. I will, however, notify you further of my plans before the
twenty-first.’”


The epistle closed abruptly and rather formally, and Lady Linton’s face
was crimson as she concluded the reading of it.

“It is the most unheard of thing in the world!” she said, excitedly. “A
private wedding, indeed—not even his own sister invited, and it is all
so sudden that it fairly takes my breath away.”

“They might at least have asked us to go to Englewood to witness the
ceremony,” Lillian observed, thoughtfully. “The letter doesn’t sound a
bit like Uncle Will.”

“I suppose he is so taken up with his bride-elect that he has not much
time or thought for any one else; but he might have told us something
about her; he did not even mention her name; I suppose, however, we are
to infer that she is a Miss Norton. I wonder whether she is young or
old?” Lady Linton said, in an injured tone, and looking both perplexed
and annoyed.

“He says she is beautiful, mamma.”

“Of course; one’s betrothed is always beautiful to the man who is to be
married. They are going directly to Heathdale,” she added, musingly.
“There ought to be some one there to receive them, and the house needs
preparation for the occasion. I think, Lillian, that, notwithstanding I
have been rather shabbily treated in this affair, I shall go down to
Heathdale and give them the best welcome possible at so short a notice.
I can at least brighten things up and arrange for a small dinner-party
and reception in honor of the bride.”

“Perhaps they would prefer not to meet anyone just yet, mamma,” Lillian
suggested.

“I cannot help it. Such a home-coming as that would be too dismal, and
not at all in keeping with the dignity of the family. I shall take
matters into my own hands and conduct the affair as I think best. We
will go to Heathdale the last of the week.”

Her ladyship fell into a profound reverie after announcing this
decision, while Lillian took up the morning paper and began to read.

Lady Linton was deeply hurt by the way that her brother had written of
his approaching marriage, and more so at having been ignored in all the
arrangements; yet in spite of all this she was secretly jubilant over
the fact that Sir William was about to bring a mistress to Heathdale. It
would relieve her of a great burden; of all further plotting and
intrigue regarding the enemy whom she had encountered only that day.
Virginia Alexander might do her worst now—once let the twenty-first of
December pass and she need fear her no more. She might succeed in
securing an acknowledgment from Sir William that Virgie was his lawful
child and a settlement of a portion of his property upon her; but there
would be no longer any fear of the long-parted husband and wife coming
to an understanding with each other—she, at least, would never come to
Heathdale to queen it as mistress.

She had heard of Lord Norton. He was reputed to be very old, very
eccentric, and very literary; but she had not known of what his family
consisted. She did not know, even now, farther than that he had a niece,
but in her present mood, with that bitter hatred against Virginia
Alexander rankling in her heart and the fear that her own past treachery
was liable to be exposed if she was ever allowed to enter Heathdale, she
was prepared to welcome Lord Norton’s heiress in the most cordial
manner, and her spirits rose light as air at the prospect of a new
sister-in-law.

“Mamma,” said Lillian, suddenly looking up from her paper and breaking
in upon these musings, “Uncle Will’s engagement is announced here.”

“What! in the paper? Well, I must say they are rushing things.”

She held out her hand for the sheet, an evil smile on her thin lips, as
she imagined something of the chagrin and disappointment that Mrs.
Alexander would experience upon reading an account of Sir William
Heath’s approaching marriage.

There was quite an extended paragraph regarding it, considerable being
said about the late Lord Norton and his recent death; mention being made
of his having left the whole of his large property to a niece; while the
fact that Sir William Heath was contemplating matrimony with the
“beautiful heiress,” gave rise to some pleasantry, since the
“distinguished baronet having for so many years resisted Cupid’s most
artful endeavors to lead him to Hymen’s altar, his friends and
well-wishers had begun to fear that he was hopelessly invulnerable.”

“Mamma, what will become of us when Uncle Will brings his wife home?”
Lillian asked, somewhat anxiously, as Lady Linton laid down the paper.

The same question had been agitating her ladyship’s mind.

They could not well go to Linton Grange, for Percy was making extensive
improvements in view of his own approaching marriage; they had no home
of their own—in fact they were wholly dependent upon Sir William, and
Lady Linton felt that no place but Heathdale would ever be like home to
her.

“We will not borrow trouble about that, Lillian,” she answered, “this
Miss Norton may be very young and inexperienced; in that case she would
need some older person, like myself, to advise and assist her; so I
imagine that we shall still be welcome in your uncle’s household.”

That evening, at a dinner-party, Lady Linton was besieged by numerous
friends with questions regarding her brother’s engagement.

She looked wise, and appeared as if she had been in the secret for some
time but had not been allowed to divulge anything.

It was true, she admitted, that the marriage was rather a sudden one;
but of course it could not have occurred before, because of Lord
Norton’s critical condition, and there was no reason now why it should
not take place, except for etiquette’s sake, and her brother did not
propose to defer their happiness simply to observe a law of fashion.
They would not, however, appear in society at present, she affirmed, but
remain quietly at Heathdale, perhaps until another season, while there
would only be an informal reception of their oldest friends, at their
home-coming, and to arrange for this she was herself going to Heathdale.

She appeared to be very much elated over the marriage, spoke eloquently
of the bride-elect, of her grace, beauty, and intelligence; for she was
far too proud to allow it to be known that she had been taken as much by
surprise as society at large by the announcement of the event.

To Mrs. Farnum alone she acknowledged it; for that lady called the next
day, and had asked her point-blank some questions which she could not
answer, and she had been obliged to confess that she “did not know.”

“Well, Miriam,” said her friend, “it is rather hard on you, I own, not
to be consulted, or even asked to the wedding, but your heart will be
set at rest on one subject—you need not fear that Alexander woman any
more after the twenty-first.”

“No; she may do her worst then. I have lived in daily terror lest she
should meet William and everything would be explained. What do you
think, Myra?” asked Lady Linton, suddenly. “She has got that diary!”

“What diary?”

“That one I gave to you to keep for me, the summer I was on the
Continent—the diary you lost!”

“Miriam Linton! how came she by it?” cried Mrs. Farnum, aghast.

“She says her uncle was in the railway carriage with you when you left
London that afternoon after I had met you at the —— Hotel, and you
dropped it in the coach.”

“Well, I am at least glad to know _how_ I lost it,” returned her friend,
in a relieved tone. “It has been a most annoying mystery to me all these
years. Does she know what there is in it?”

“I do not know,” Lady Linton said, growing pale. “I met her yesterday on
Oxford street, when she told me she had it, and would return it soon. If
she has not opened the package, I am all right; if she has, and ever
sees fit to betray me to Sir William, it will be a sad day for me.”

“You were very foolish ever to commit to paper anything concerning that
American escapade.”

“I suppose I was, but I always keep a diary; there are many things of
importance that I like to remember accurately, and a diary is so
convenient to refer to—it has saved me many mistakes.”

“It would have been far better if you had destroyed _that_ year’s notes,
as I advised you,” returned Mrs. Farnum.

“But it was full of important data, and I never dreamed that anything
could happen to it—it was very careless of you to lose it,” said her
ladyship, complainingly.

“I know it was, and I have suffered a great deal of anxiety on account
of it; for, of course, with all those names and dates, I am implicated
almost as much as yourself. Why don’t you go around to her lodgings and
get it at once?—your mind will be at rest then. If the seal has never
been broken, you are as safe as if it had never been lost.”

“True; I believe I will,” Lady Linton answered, brightening.

She followed the advice of her friend the very next day, and, calling at
Mrs. Alexander’s lodgings, was shown at once up to her private parlor.

There was no one there when she entered, but presently Virgie came in,
looking charming in her morning robe of mauve cashmere, with blue silk
facings, and greeted her ladyship politely, although with some reserve.

“You wished to see mamma,” she said, “but I am obliged to receive you as
she is not in just now. Can I do anything for you, Lady Linton?”

“I wished to see Mrs. Alexander personally,” returned Lady Linton,
haughtily. “Will she return soon?”

“I am afraid not. She had an engagement with Madame Gerbier, her
modiste, at eleven, and one with her lawyer at one,” Virgie explained.

Lady Linton thought a moment, then she said:

“Mrs. Alexander told me, a day or two ago, that she had a package
belonging to me; do you know anything about it?”

“A package?” repeated Virgie, looking mystified; then she added,
quickly, “Oh! perhaps it is that sealed package that mamma’s uncle found
so long ago. Is that yours, Lady Linton?”

“Yes. Sealed!—did you say it is _sealed_?” asked the woman,
breathlessly.

“Yes, it is sealed with a strange device and motto.”

“And has it never been opened?” was the eager query.

“Of course not; it is just as mamma’s uncle found it,” Virgie responded,
with curling lips, and flushing indignantly at the implied suspicion of
the woman.

Lady Linton could have wept for joy. She was saved! her vile secrets
were still all her own; and if she could but get that coveted diary into
her possession once again, she had nothing to fear; she would burn it
without a moment’s hesitation.

“I am very sorry to miss Mrs. Alexander; but perhaps _you_ could get it
for me?” she said, insinuatingly.

“I do not think I should like to do that without mamma’s sanction,”
Virgie answered; “but I will tell her your errand, and no doubt she will
take measures to return the package to you at once.”

“Very well,” replied Lady Linton; “tell her to send it immediately to my
brother’s residence; the street and number are on my card, which you
have. I shall leave town to-morrow, and would like it before I go.”

Virgie promised to deliver the message, and her ladyship took her leave,
with a heart lighter than she had known for years, for the burden of a
great dread had been rolled from it.

But she did not receive the package before leaving for Heathdale, as she
had confidently expected.

She had arranged to go on the fifteenth, taking Lillian with her, and
although she waited until the last minute, hoping for the appearance of
her long-lost diary, she was obliged to depart without it.

She did not worry over it very much, however, for she told herself that
if it had been kept all these years with the seal unbroken, there was
not much danger of its being disturbed at this late day.

Just as she was about to enter the carriage there arrived a telegram
from her brother. It contained just two lines:

“Shall leave Englewood Wednesday noon; arrive at Heathdale on the 7:30
express. Meet us there if you like.”

“Rather a curt bidding to a wedding feast,” Lady Linton sarcastically
observed, showing it to her daughter; but she would have been more than
content had she not been bidden at all, for her brother’s marriage was,
to her, an unlooked-for triumph over her enemy, a release from a much
dreaded doom.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                       THE ARRIVAL AT HEATHDALE.


Upon her arrival at Heathdale, Lady Linton was considerably surprised to
find that Sir William had engaged the services of a professional
decorator to prepare his home for the reception of his bride, and great
improvements had been made in many of the rooms. The suite over the
library, and looking out upon the river, had been exquisitely fitted up
in blue and white, and gold for his wife’s special use, while several
new pictures and pieces of statuary had been added to the already choice
collection which the old mansion possessed.

Still, with all this added elegance, it needed the touch of a tasteful
woman’s hand to make it really home-like, and both Lady Linton and her
daughter exerted themselves to make everything as attractive as
possible.

Her ladyship realized that perhaps she was presuming a little beyond her
jurisdiction in arranging, unauthorized, for a dinner-party, but she was
determined to do honor to the new mistress of Heathdale, and to show her
brother her entire approval of the step he had taken. She was bound,
too, that no funereal gloom should hang over their first evening at
home, but that all things should wear a joyous and inviting aspect; so
she sent invitations to a select few to come and welcome the baronet and
his bride upon their arrival.

The eventful day at length dawned—a bright, beautiful winter’s day, yet
mild for the season, and, at an early hour, the household at Heathdale
was all astir, and preparations for the grand event went briskly
forward; for everyone, down to the lowest servant, loved the master, and
was eager to show him honor on this unlooked-for occasion, while all
were on the alert to learn what manner of a wife he was about to bring
home.

The state dining-room was handsomely decorated for the grand event; the
best plate had been polished to the last degree of brightness, the
finest linen bleached and pressed, and a most sumptuous dinner was in
preparation.

There were flowers, choice and rare, everywhere, and every room was
fragrant with their perfume and bright with their beauty.

A glowing fire was built in the great hall, while over the carved mantle
above the huge fire-place, Lady Linton had caused to be placed a
beautiful shield, representing the crest of her family, and composed of
lilies and roses, with the word “Welcome,” in immortelles, surmounting
it.

At seven o’clock the guests began to gather; there were the Hon. Mr.
Capron with his wife and daughter, from an adjoining estate. The rector
and his genial helpmate; Lord Alfred Hartington, and his sister; Percy
Linton and his charming _fiancée_; Mrs. Farnum with Lord and Lady
Royalston. Rupert had of course been included in the list, but, not
having yet arrived, was looked for on the train from London, that was
due a few minutes before the one from the west.

Lady Linton was magnificent in garnet velvet, point lace, and diamonds.
She had spared neither time nor money for the occasion, and really had
never looked so well as now.

Lillian wore simple white silk, with crimson roses, in which she was
brilliantly handsome.

The remainder of the party were equally well arrayed, and it was truly a
goodly company that gathered to welcome the Baron of Heathdale.

At precisely a quarter to eight a carriage was heard to arrive, and Lady
Linton hastened to the hall to be the first to welcome her brother and
his wife; but she started back, almost affrighted, as she beheld
instead, William Heath, looking pale and thin, but bright and smiling,
enter, leaning upon Rupert Hamilton’s arm, and followed by his wife and
son.

“Where is my brother?” she inquired, after greeting them all most
cordially.

Rupert smiled roguishly as he replied:

“They have achieved a flank movement upon you, Lady Linton; when they
saw the house ablaze, they suspected a reception, and as a bride would
naturally be somewhat sensitive about appearing before company in
travel-stained garments, Sir William and Lady Heath drove to the
side-entrance, and doubtless are now in their own rooms. I am
commissioned to make their excuses, and to beg that you will send word
when dinner will be served.”

Lady Linton at once dispatched a servant to tell his master that dinner
had been ordered at nine o’clock, but it could be delayed if he desired.

Sir William returned answer not to make any change, that he and Lady
Heath would be ready to meet their friends by half-past eight.

The time would have passed heavily after that, had it not been for
Rupert, who was a general favorite, and soon had the whole company in
the best possible humor with themselves and everybody else, and Lady
Linton blessed him in her heart for his genial mirth, his exhaustless
fund of anecdote and repartee.

She was very restless, however, and anxiously watched the clock upon the
mantle, while it seemed as if half-past eight would never arrive.

All at once she saw Rupert dart from the side of Lillian, with whom he
had been talking, toward the lower door of the drawing-room, and
disappear in the hall.

Then there came a murmur of surprise from the opposite direction, and
glancing toward the upper door, she saw Sir William standing there,
smiling and looking the personification of joy, with a beautiful woman
leaning upon his arm.

Lady Linton started eagerly forward to greet them, when, all at once,
her heart bounded into her throat with suffocating force, a blur came
before her eyes, her limbs trembled and almost sank beneath her.

What delusion was this—what trick of her fancy?

Was it a horrible nightmare, or had some sorceress suddenly bewitched
her sight.

She covered her eyes with her hand for a moment, and then looked again.

No, it was no delusion—it was no trick; for just before her, looking
like a queen in her rich robes, her face radiant with happiness as she
leaned proudly upon her husband’s arm, she saw the woman who she had
hated and wronged for long, long years; whom she had plotted to ruin and
sweep from her path forever—Virginia Alexander! the chosen bride of her
brother in his youth, and now, in spite of falsehood, calumny, treachery
and even divorce, his happy wife, and the mistress of Heathdale!

She was clad in a reception robe of pale lavender velvet, simply piped
with satin; it faultlessly fitted her perfect form, while its ample
train, sweeping out behind her, made her stately figure seem more regal
than usual. Diamonds of purest water sparkled in her ears, gleamed upon
her bosom, and an exquisite crescent was fastened among the glossy coils
of her still rich and abundant hair.

Never had she been more beautiful, even in her youth, than now, as she
stood upon the threshold of her new home, where she was destined to
reign for long years yet, an honored and idolized wife.

Happiness had done much for her during the last few weeks; her face had
resumed its rounded outlines; a delicate bloom had come into her cheeks;
her lips were like lines of brightest coral; her eyes brilliant with the
exhilaration caused by the restoration of blissful hopes.

Just behind her, and now attended by Rupert Hamilton, was Virgie,
inexpressibly lovely in cream-white silk, with no ornaments save a bunch
of fragrant mignonette in her corsage; but, in the eyes of her lover,
and to others gathered there, she seemed the fairest vision of youth
that they had ever looked upon.

Lady Linton afterward confessed that she suffered more than death in the
brief interval that elapsed before her brother led his bride cross the
threshold and advanced to greet her.

But she was a woman of indomitable will, and, though her spirit for a
moment recoiled beneath this unexpected blow, she resolutely rallied her
failing courage—an almost uncontrollable rage took possession of her as
she realized how she had been duped—fooled; how this overwhelming
surprise had been deliberately prepared for her, and, though she was as
colorless as the costly lace that was fluttering upon her bosom with
every pulsation of her fiercely bounding heart, she swept haughtily
toward that regal-looking couple until within a few feet of them, when
she made a profound obeisance before them, saying with formal
politeness:

“Welcome, Sir William and Lady Heath, to Heathdale.”

She met and bore her defeat superbly, although she was sick at heart and
almost in a frenzy of anger, mortification, and humiliation, at being
thus triumphantly confronted in her own home by the woman, whom, all her
life, she had schemed to crush. To think that she should have made all
these elaborate preparations and planned this brilliant welcome but to
suffer such an ignominious overthrow in Virginia Alexander’s very
presence, was maddening beyond description.

But she would rather have died than betray anything of the conflict
within her, and, after that one obeisance, she stepped aside to allow
others to offer their greetings and congratulations, and by the time
supper was announced she had recovered, to all outward appearances at
least, entire control of herself.

Sir William led the way to the dining-room, and, without one word to his
sister, conducted his wife to the head of the table, whispering fondly
as he seated her:

“Welcome, my darling, to your home and to your position as mistress of
Heathdale.”

He then sought his own place opposite, while the butler seated the other
guests according to their rank.

There were two others among that company who had recognized the new
mistress of Heathdale with fear and trembling—Mrs. Farnum and her
daughter, Lady Royalston.

But, judging from Lady Heath’s gracious manner and the attention which
she bestowed upon all her guests alike, there was not one among the
company whom she did not regard in the most friendly way.

She was simply charming; her bearing and all her observances of
etiquette were faultless, and once, during the meal, Lady Royalston bent
and whispered in her mother’s ear:

“This is the woman whom Lady Linton scorned as unfit to mate with a
Heath! This is the woman whom we lent our aid to ruin! Mamma, we ought
to go down on our knees to her and her lovely daughter whom we have so
wronged.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Sadie, do not add to my torture,” returned Mrs.
Farnum, with pale lips. “Remember it was all for you—I knew that you
loved——”

“That will do, mamma; we will never open that grave again,” returned
Lady Royalston, losing some of her own color, “but I would give much to
be able to have Lady Heath for my friend, and I am impressed that we
shall never be bidden to Heathdale again.”

After dinner, an hour or more was spent in social intercourse, during
which something of Sir William’s and Lady Heath’s story was divulged.

The baronet had insisted upon this, for Virgie’s sake.

“She is my own daughter, and I must claim her as such before the whole
world,” he said, so as much as he deemed advisable to relate, without
publicly compromising any one who had been instrumental in causing the
misunderstanding between himself and his wife, he told to his friends.

It was also announced at the same time that Mr. Hamilton, the baronet’s
ward, had won the baronet’s beautiful daughter, and that there would be
another wedding about Easter.

When Lady Linton heard this she looked around for Lillian, but she had
quietly withdrawn from the company directly after dinner, and did not
make her appearance again.

The evening was over at last, and the guests dispersed, pronouncing Lady
Heath “delightful,” and predicting a happy future for the master of
Heathdale after the romantic trials of his youth and the sorrow of his
later years.

When Mrs. Farnum and her daughter took leave of Sir William and his
bride, the baronet simply bowed to them without offering his hand,
saying, with the least possible but unmistakable emphasis:

“Good-by, Mrs. Farnum; adieu, Lady Royalston.” And both knew that all
the past had been explained, and they had received their final _congé_.

Lady Royalston’s prediction had been verified.

When the last guest had departed, Sir William turned to his sister, his
face stern and cold.

“Miriam,” he said, in a tone that made her shiver, “at last I have found
my Virgie, my mountain maid whom I have loved all my life long. But what
of the lost years of the past?—the sorrow, the loneliness, and
misunderstanding? What of the hatred and treachery that produced it
all?”

Every word fell upon Lady Linton’s heart as if it had been a blow from a
hammer.

She made a gesture of despair. She could not speak; she felt that she
should go mad unless she could soon get away to the quiet of her room
and be released from that fearful constraint which she had imposed upon
herself for so many hours.

Lady Heath read something of her suffering in that wild gesture, and she
laid her lips against her husband’s ear, whispering:

“Dear Will, we can afford to be generous out of the abundance of our
happiness.”

Sir William’s face melted into infinite tenderness at her plea.

He placed his arm about her waist and drew her fondly to him.

“If you can plead for her, my darling, I should not be obdurate,” he
murmured, tenderly; then, turning again to his sister, he added: “We
will talk further of this matter to-morrow. Good-night, Miriam.”

With one more stern glance at the unhappy woman, he led his beautiful
wife from the room, and Lady Linton, her strength exhausted, her proud
spirit crushed, sank with a moan of anguish to the floor, and there the
butler found her half an hour later when he came to put out the lights.

He called her maid, and together they helped her to her room, where she
spent half the night in hysterics, and then, worn out, sank into a
profound slumber or stupor.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                           A BACKWARD GLANCE.


In order to more fully comprehend the events related in the last chapter
we must go back to the day following Lady Dunforth’s reception, when
Mrs. Alexander’s lawyer, Mr. Thurston, called and held a protracted
interview with her.

She had consulted him soon after arriving in London, and, after
gathering all the information possible regarding her history, he
informed her that there would be no difficulty whatever in establishing
Virgie’s claim, as a daughter of the House of Heath, and this morning he
had called to tell her that he was ready to arrange a meeting with Sir
William whenever she felt equal to the trial.

“Must I meet him!” she asked, growing faint at the thought.

“It will be best for both you and Miss Alexander to meet him at the
outset, for, of course, if he is at all inclined to contest the claim,
he will at once demand the proof of your identity,” Mr. Thurston
replied.

Mrs. Alexander felt that this would be a severer test upon her strength
than she had anticipated.

She did not wish to meet Sir William, and yet at the same time there was
an almost uncontrollable longing in her heart to see him once more. If
she could look upon him without his seeing her, it would be all she
would ask; she shrank from forcing herself upon his presence.

Still if it must be, she resolved to brace herself for the interview;
she had determined that he should acknowledge Virgie as his child, and
nothing should deter her from accomplishing her object.

“Very well,” she said, “I will be governed wholly by your advice. But
what is this?” she added, as he laid a paper before her.

“I simply desire your signature to this document as a mere matter of
form,” the lawyer told her.

Mrs. Alexander signed it and passed it back to him.

“Virginia N. Alexander,” he read; then he started.

“What is your middle name?” he asked.

“Norton. My grandmother was an English woman, by that name, before her
marriage.”

“What was her Christian name?” Mr. Thurston asked, eagerly.

“Nora.”

“Whom did she marry?”

“A man by the name of Charles Bradford. They went to America soon after
their marriage and settled in California,” Mrs. Alexander replied,
wondering why the lawyer should question her thus regarding her family.

“Did your grandmother have any brothers or sisters?”

“I believe there was a brother—Albert by name—for I have heard my
mother, who was called Alberta, say that she was named for an uncle; but
I never knew anything of him, as he lived in England, and, after my
grandmother’s death, all communication between the families ceased. It
was a whim of hers to call me Virginia Norton, for she said she did not
wish the family name to die out entirely.”

Mr. Thurston changed color and began to look excited. He drew a set of
tablets from his pocket, and, opening them, examined several entries
therein.

“Mrs. Alexander,” he said at last, “I believe you have at last
unwittingly solved a riddle that has been a very complicated one to me
and my partner for the last two years, and which we had almost despaired
of ever solving.”

“How can that be?” she asked, greatly surprised.

“Listen, and I will tell you,” said the lawyer. “There is living in
Cheshire County, England, a man by the name of Lord Albert Norton——”

“Oh, I do not think there was ever any title in our family,” Mrs.
Alexander interrupted, smiling. “I am sure they were people in moderate
circumstances, as my grandfather went to America to try to improve his
condition in life.”

“Lord Albert Norton was a comparatively poor man himself until he was
over fifty years of age,” Mr. Thurston went on, composedly, “when he
published some literary works of great merit. He began about that time
to interest himself in political affairs, and was created a peer of the
realm in 1840. He has been a very eccentric man, has never married, but
devoted himself almost wholly to literature and politics. He has amassed
wealth rapidly during the later years of his life, for, having no one
but himself on whom to expend it, his income has accumulated. He seldom
went into society and rarely entertained in his own home. He is now
about ninety years of age, and although very feeble in body, his mind
appears to be as vigorous as ever.

“Two years ago he applied to us to look up some relatives who went to
America many years ago. We were authorized to make thorough work and
spare no expense, for his lordship was anxious that his property should
go to some of his kindred rather than to the crown after his death. We
traced Nora Norton Bradford to California, but she had been dead many
years. We found she had had a daughter Alberta who had married a man by
the name of Alexander. She and her husband were also dead; their graves
were found in the Lone Mountain cemetery, San Francisco. We learned that
they, too, had a daughter by the name of Virginia, but she had
disappeared from the city several years ago, and no trace of her could
be found; not until I saw your signature this morning did it occur to me
that I had found the heir for whom Lord Norton commissioned us to search
so long ago.”

Mrs. Alexander looked up with a pale, wondering face.

“Do you mean to imply that I am Lord Norton’s heir?” she asked, in an
agitated tone.

“Exactly,” replied Mr. Thurston, confidently, “judging from what you
have told me there can be no doubt of it. I suppose that you have proofs
of your identity, however?”

“Yes, I have my marriage certificate and an old Bible that belonged to
my grandmother, which contains, in her own handwriting, the date of her
birth and marriage, also that of her husband’s death and my mother’s
birth.”

“That will be ample proof. And now, Mrs. Alexander, as Lord Norton is in
a very critical condition, being liable to drop away any day, we must go
to Chester immediately. When can you be ready?”

“In an hour, if necessary,” she replied, “but it does not seem possible
that I can be related to this gentleman! I cannot realize it—a peer of
the realm!” she quoted to herself with a strange smile.

“We will submit our evidence to his lordship himself and see what his
verdict will be,” returned Mr. Thurston, smiling. “A train will leave
for Liverpool at two this afternoon. Chester is a few miles this side,
and we will avail ourselves of that, if agreeable to you.”

“Very well; I submit myself wholly to your guidance, in this matter,”
Mrs. Alexander responded. “Meantime, I suppose, my other business will
have to wait.”

“I should advise it; as Lord Norton is in such a critical condition,
every moment is precious. It will be far better for him to recognize you
as his heir, than to be obliged to prove it after his death; and, madam,
you will occupy no mean position if you become the mistress of
Englewood, which is the name of his fine estate.”

Mr. Thurston then took his leave, promising to call in season to
accompany her to the train, and then the still wondering woman sought
Virgie and related the marvelous tale to her.

This was the business that called them so suddenly from London, and
which was destined to bring about even greater changes in their lives
before their return.

They arrived at Englewood late in the evening, and found his lordship’s
carriage awaiting them at the station, for Mr. Thurston had telegraphed
of his coming, and stated that he should bring two ladies with him.

They found Englewood, at least what they were able to see of it, a
delightful place. The house, a massive structure of stone, was an
ancient affair, but it had been well preserved, and although it was the
home of an eccentric old bachelor, was a most comfortable and home-like
dwelling. Evidently his lordship knew and appreciated the luxuries of
life.

The following morning, Mr. Thurston had an interview with the invalid
and informed him of his recent discovery.

Lord Norton expressed himself very much delighted with the news, and
appeared very eager to make the acquaintance of his grand-niece and her
daughter.

Accordingly, after he was somewhat rested, Mr. Thurston conducted the
ladies into his presence, and the moment his eye rested upon Mrs.
Alexander, he declared his conviction that she was a Norton; “her
features are very like his sister Nora’s,” he said, “although her
grandmother was not nearly as handsome,” he added, with a twinkle of
humor about his mouth.

The old Bible and marriage certificate were brought to him, and
confirmed his statement regarding the relationship. He recognized his
sister’s handwriting immediately, and produced some of her letters to
compare with it.

“There can be no doubt,” Mr. Thurston said, after a careful examination
of the chirography, “and I congratulate you, my lord, upon the
fulfillment of your desire; and you, madam,” turning to his client,
“upon having discovered your relative.”

“Will you stay with me, Virginia?” the old man asked, turning a wistful
glance upon the beautiful woman. “It will not be for long,” he added;
“the sands of my life are nearly run out; a few days, or weeks at the
most, will end my life, and it will be pleasant to feel that some of my
own kin are near me at the last.”

Yes, his niece said, she would stay; her heart went out with a feeling
of pity and tenderness toward the man, who all his life, had lived in
such loneliness and isolation, and she resolved that she would devote
herself exclusively to his comfort during the little while that he
remained upon earth.

Mr. Thurston was detained a day or two to attend to some business,
relating to the will, which gave everything, with the exception of some
annuities to old servants, to Virginia Alexander and her heirs forever.

She had come to Englewood on the very day of Mr. William Heath’s
accident, and it was the following morning, at the very hour of her
first interview with her uncle, that Sir William Heath received the
telegram announcing his cousin’s critical condition.

He, too, left on the two o’clock train for Liverpool, reaching
Middlewich about the same time that Mrs. Alexander had arrived at
Englewood the night before.

It was three days later, that in accordance with his proposition to the
Duke of Falmouth to act as amanuensis to Lord Norton in his cousin’s
place, he went to Englewood to begin his work under the old lord’s
direction, little dreaming of the surprise and joy in store for him
there.

When the butler answered his ring, he stated his business, and was shown
directly to the invalid’s chamber, where he found him propped up in bed
with manuscripts lying all about him, and impatiently awaiting his
appearance.

He spent several hours, learning the plan of the work, making notes, and
even venturing a few suggestions upon some points regarding which he was
well posted, and then took his leave promising to get regularly to work
the next day.

As he was following the servant down stairs, the man remarked that his
carriage was not ready, but if he would step into the library for a few
moments, he would inform him when it came to the door.

He signified his willingness to do so and passed down the wide old hall,
which was paneled in oak exquisitively carved, to a lofty room,
furnished and frescoed in rich tints, and lined from floor to ceiling
with books of every description.

It was a most luxurious apartment, and plainly indicated that the old
lord, eccentric though he might be on some points, had loved the
elegancies of life. If he had been something of a miser, as report
accredited him, it could not have been in anything relating to his own
comfort or tastes.

Sir William sat down by a table that was drawn close to a cheerful fire,
and, leaning back lazily in the huge lounging chair stationed there, he
took up the morning paper which lay open at his hand.

He had read scarcely a dozen lines, when the door behind him opened and
some one came forward, saying, in an eager tone:

“Oh, Virgie, I have just found an old Bible up stairs, in which there
are records of all family births, marriages, and deaths for many
generations; my grandmother’s and my mother’s are among them and
correspond exactly with those I have—ah! excuse me; sir—I thought—oh,
Heaven!”——




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                               REUNITED.


Virginia Alexander had gone up to her room less than half an hour
previous, leaving Virgie in the library reading, and snugly ensconced in
that great lounging chair by the fire.

While looking for something in a closet, she had come across the old
Bible referred to, and opening it for examination, she had found a
complete genealogical record covering more than a century and a half.

Delighted with her discovery, she hastened back to Virgie—who meantime
had stolen out for a little exercise—eager to tell her news, and, coming
into the room turning the leaves of the book, she had not noticed that a
stranger was there until Sir William suddenly arose, his heart bounding
within him at the sound of that well-remembered voice, and turned toward
her.

She had not seen him for more than eighteen years, and he had changed
far more than she during that time.

Sorrow had saddened him somewhat; he had grown grave and dignified, and
his hair had just begun to be streaked with silver. There were lines
about his mouth telling of a grief that he had never outgrown, there was
a wistful look in his eyes showing that his heart still yearned for the
love of his youth. His form, too, had developed; he was
broader-shouldered and stouter.

But he was a grand and kingly looking man, and she knew him in a moment.

The color left her face; something seemed to smite her heart with a
heavy blow, almost benumbing her, and she put out her hand, catching at
the table for support, while the Bible fell heavily to the floor.

But she was very lovely even in her pallor and consternation. She wore a
tea-gown of silver-gray, with a dainty fichu of lace and blue ribbons,
while, as she arose from the dinner-table an hour before, Virgie had
selected some pink and white roses and playfully tucked them in her
corsage.

Even during that first blissful year of their wedded life she had never
seemed more beautiful or more dear to Sir William Heath than at that
moment.

“Virgie,” he cried, springing toward her, and would have caught her
wildly to his breast, the past all forgotten, conscious only that he had
found her, his own loved one, once more!

But she rallied instantly, though she trembled violently and still clung
to the table for support.

She put out her hand to stop him.

“Sir William Heath!” she said, weakly, but with a haughty bearing which
became her well, and warned him that he must not approach her, causing
him to remember, too, that she was his wife no longer, for that dread
decree of the divorce court stood between them.

Yet he loved her madly still; his heart recognized her as his wife in
spite of all.

“Oh, Virgie, I have found you at last!” he cried, his voice breaking in
a great sob.

“At last we meet,” she said, with pale lips, although she thrilled at
his words, “but I did not think it would be like this. Did you come here
to seek me?”

“No, I came upon business with Lord Norton. I never dreamed of finding
you here. Where have you been all these long—these endless years? Where
is our child? Oh, Virgieseamstresses how can you stand there like that,
so cold, so relentless, when you think of that bond between us?”

“But—there is between us a barrier as relentless, as impassable as
death!” she murmured, with quivering lips, while a film seemed gathering
over her eyes, and her strength almost failed her.

Something in her tone and manner told Sir William, that she still loved
him in spite of the misunderstanding of the past, and her present
coldness, and his heart leaped with a sweet, new hope.

“Virgie, there is no barrier—there has never been any barrier save that
which you yourself have interposed between us,” he said, eagerly, and
venturing a step nearer to her.

Again she put out her hand to check him—that small, beautiful hand whose
rosy finger-tips he had so loved to kiss in those old days.

“Your wife! your son!” she murmured, brokenly.

“I have no wife, Heaven help me!” he cried, the veins standing out full
and hard upon his forehead. “What can you mean? I have no son.”

“Are they—dead?” she asked, lifting her eyes to his face for the first
time since he had first confronted her.

“No,” he returned, briefly, trying to comprehend her meaning, for of
course he never knew that she had seen his cousin’s boy and believed him
his.

“No?” Virgie questioned, catching her breath quickly. Was it possible
that the beautiful woman he had married had, after long years,
discovered his treachery and forsaken him?

“Virgie, my beloved, I never had but one wife,” said Sir William,
gravely.

She seemed turning to stone at those words.

Had there been some terrible mistake after all? Had she lost eighteen
years of happiness when she might have been his loved and loving wife?

“I know,” he went on, eagerly, “all about that wretched blunder in the
newspapers, when my cousin, William Heath, was mistaken for me. He was
married to Miss Margaret Stanhope soon after my return to England, but
the notice in the papers read as if I had been married instead. They
have a son. Oh, Virgie! is it possible that you have believed Willie was
my boy?” he asked, light beginning to break in upon his mind.

A moan of pain broke from the pale woman before him.

“But they told me, Lady Linton wrote; ah! those cruel letters,” she
faltered, in a voice of anguish.

“Who told you? what has my sister——” Sir William began, but that brave,
long suffering heart, could bear no more as it realized all too late,
that the bitter past need not have been, and she sank unconscious at his
feet before he could complete his sentence.

Sir William sprang forward with a cry of fear, and raised her tenderly
in his arms.

He laid her bright head upon his breast; he bent and kissed the fair,
pale face with passionate, trembling lips, and held her to his throbbing
heart with a clasp that claimed her all his own, in spite of the cruel
decree that had parted them for so many years.

But Virgie did not lose herself for more than a moment; the fall
partially restored her, and she began to realize what was passing even
though she had not strength to assert herself. She knew that she was
lying upon the bosom of the man whom she had always loved, and it seemed
like a blessed repose to rest there, and to feel his sheltering arms
around her after the cares and struggles of the past.

She knew now that he had always loved her, and had been true to her, and
that the woman, who for more than eighteen years had been the object of
her jealousy and envy was, as far as he was concerned, but a myth—a
phantom.

Oh! the delight of knowing that his affection had never wavered, of
realizing that he had been as faithful to her as she to him.

Her eyes unclosed and she looked up into the fond face bending over her,
and a quick flush of happiness swept up to her brow, as she met the
fervent lovelight in his glance.

She sat up and gently released herself from his clinging arms, and he
raised and led her to the great chair in which he had been sitting when
she entered the room.

At that moment there came a knock on the door and the servant announced
that Sir William’s carriage was ready.

Sir William controlled his emotion as well as he was able, and turning
to the man, said:

“I find I cannot leave for another hour yet, please send the carriage
back to the stable, and I will ring when I wish it again.”

The man bowed and withdrew, and Sir William turned again to his dear
one.

“Are you better, Virgie! Shall I call a maid to get you something?” he
asked, regarding her still pale face anxiously.

“No, do not,” she pleaded, putting out her hand beseechingly.

“At least let me get you some water,” he said, and going to a table
where there were an ice pitcher and goblets, he filled a glass, and
brought it to her.

She drank thirstily and passed the goblet back to him, looking up with a
grateful little smile for the service.

He bent impulsively and touched his lips to her forehead.

“My darling!” he breathed.

Again the quick color flooded her face and tears sprang into her eyes;
how she had longed for years to hear those tender tones!

The sight of her tears moved him deeply.

He put down the glass, and kneeling beside her drew her again into his
arms.

“Oh, my love!” he whispered, a great sob heaving his broad chest, “you
have been cruelly deceived, but set me at rest upon one point—tell me
that you love me yet. I have never been untrue to you in thought or
deed. I have lived a lonely, solitary life. I have been heart-broken
without you. Virgie, you were the one love of my whole life; now tell me
if your heart is still mine.”

She bowed her head upon his breast, melted by his fond words, and sobbed
in an agony of grief for her lost happiness; she twined her arms about
his neck and drew his face down to her tear-wet cheek.

“Oh, Will,” she murmured, brokenly, “I have ruined all your life and
mine! I should have come to you, in spite of all, and to learn my fate
from your own lips. We have lost all these years when we might have been
so happy. You know that I love you; every day, every hour of my life my
heart has cried out for you. I have literally been starving for your
love.”

He needed no stronger proof of her devotion; he knew that she loved him
as fondly now as in those months of their early wedded life, and he
folded her still closer to him, kissing, again and again, those dear
lips, which for eighteen years had known no caress save what she had
received from her child.

Their reunion was perfect and complete, and, for a little while, they
could think of nothing, speak of nothing save the joy of being once more
all in all to each other.

But at length Sir William insisted that she should tell him all the
story of the past; how the first suspicion of his treachery had taken
root in her mind, and all the circumstances attending her quitting the
hotel in New York where he had left her.

He was amazed when she related Mrs. Farnum’s instrumentality in the
matter. It had never occurred to him that she could have been connected
with it, although he had known that she was in America at that time.

He was furious upon learning how she had garbled the account of his
cousin’s engagement to Margaret Stanhope, and how his sister had
purposely misrepresented facts in order to accomplish their separation.

He understood at once the whole plot, and recalled many things which
went to prove that her ambition for him and her unreasonable prejudice
against Virgie had been at the root of the whole matter.

“Did she dare write such falsehoods?” he cried, as Virgie repeated some
passages from her letters.

“Yes,” she replied, “I copied both letters. I knew that some time there
would come a day of reckoning between you and me, and although every
line had been burned into my brain, as if branded there with a hot iron,
I was resolved that you should have all the evidence against you, and
know whence my information came.”

“Have you those copies with you, darling?”

“Yes; they are in my trunk.”

“Will you go and get them for me? I want them now,” he said, with a
pale, set face.

Virgie left the room to comply with his request, but returned almost
immediately with an envelope and a package in her hands.

“These are the letters—both are inclosed in one envelope,” she said,
“and this is something that belongs to your sister, Lady Linton,” and
she handed both to him.

She then told him how strangely her uncle had become possessed of that
package so many years ago, and how she had but recently discovered to
whom it belonged. She desired that he would now take charge of it and
return it to her ladyship.

“It must be something very important for Miriam to be unwilling to trust
it in the house during her absence,” Sir William remarked, as he
examined the seal and read the sentence penned upon the wrapper.

He laid it carelessly upon his knee, while he drew the copies of those
miserable letters from their envelope.

But in so doing he changed his position slightly and the package, which
a moment before he had laid down, tumbled to the floor.

It struck on a corner and the wrapper, which was old and brittle, burst
from end to end, revealing a book about six inches long by four wide,
which flew open midway as it escaped confinement disclosing pages
closely written in Lady Linton’s own hand.

“Ah! a diary, I judge,” said Sir William, as he stooped to pick it up.

Then he gave a violent start as a few words caught his eye, and every
atom of color fled from his face.

Lady Linton wrote a very bold, almost masculine hand, and it would
hardly have been possible for anyone to be so near the book and not
catch something written there.

The words which the baronet saw were under the date of August 15, and
read thus:

“Another letter from that girl in New York.”

He lifted his glance for an instant to Virgie—hesitated, then resolutely
bent his eyes again upon the page and read on, while Virgie wondered at
the act.

“* * * * Will she never have done sending her whining, nauseating
love-missives to W?” said the diary. “My patience is exhausted watching
the mail bag, lest by some chance he should get one, and all my nicely
laid schemes be upset just as success seems so sure.”

He turned a few leaves, glancing with lightning-like rapidity over them
until he came to another entry that arrested his attention.

“The plot has worked to a charm, Myra says she accepted the whole story
for a fact, and believes W. really untrue to her. She claims though that
the child is legitimate, and says she will yet prove it. She threatens
divorce—not wishing to hold a man unwillingly bound, ha! ha! If she will
only carry out that project, my heart will be at rest.”

Still further on he read:

“The girl has gone—disappeared, and no one knows whither. Her last
letter was really quite tragic, but, thank fortune, it was the last; she
said it was a final plea, but the paper writhed and seemed almost like a
thing of life as I burned it; it nearly gave me the horrors. But I can
afford to suffer a few stings for the sake of keeping that low-born girl
from disgracing the house of Heath. W. will get over his moping by and
by, and marry again befitting his rank; but if he does not, why, Percy
and Lillian will be the gainers.”

The book dropped from Sir William’s nerveless fingers at this point, for
a terrible passion was raging within him as the heartlessness, the
treachery and cunning of his sister were revealed. He understood
everything now; he realized how his sister had schemed and plotted the
ruin of all his hopes, out of spite against the innocent girl whom he
had married, and in the hope that he would choose a wife from the
English aristocracy.

Surely Mark Alexander’s prophecy had come true, for that mysterious
package had indeed proved useful to Virgie in this crisis of her life.
Sir William was amazed, shocked, and moved to fearful anger at his
sister’s daring wickedness.

She had robbed his mail bag for months, intercepting both his own and
his wife’s letters. She had also been guilty of falsehood and treachery
of the worst kind, hardening her heart against his sufferings, ignoring
the agony of a beautiful young wife and mother, and all the while eating
his bread, educating her children at his expense, and lavishly spending
his money to gratify her own extravagant tastes and whims.

“Will, dear, you positively frighten me! What troubles you? Your face is
terrible to look upon,” Virgie said, laying her hand gently upon his arm
to arouse him from the stern reverie into which he had fallen.

He started at her touch, took the fair hand and raised it lovingly to
his lips, while a smile, that was like sunlight after a tempest, broke
over his face.

“I believe I was in a terrible mood, my darling,” he said, “but you will
not marvel when I tell you all that I have read; no, I will not tell
you,” he added, “it would be cruel to make you live over the past again
as you would if I should reveal all my sister’s treachery to you.
Suffice it to say that all our sorrow has been the result of a cunningly
devised and—yes, a fiendish plot that originated in her brain. Under
ordinary circumstances I should regard a diary as something sacred to
its owner, but the few words that caught my eye as I picked the book up
made me feel justified in reading more.

“But, Virgie,” Sir William concluded, sternly, “I shall never forgive
Miriam Linton for the ruin which she wrought eighteen years ago.”

Then he read the letters, and his ire grew hotter and fiercer until he
came to that portion where lady Linton sent the money to Virgie and
advised her to “go away to some quiet place, where she was not known,
and might be able to bring up her child in a respectable way, so that
its future might not be hampered by its mother’s mistakes.”

At this point, his anger reached a white heat.

Sir William dashed the paper to the floor, his face one crimson sheet of
flame, and pressed to his breast the woman he so passionately loved.

“My poor, wronged darling, how dared she write such horrible things of
you?” he cried, in a shaking voice, “and to send you that paltry hundred
pounds! What must you have thought of me, to be guilty of such a
dastardly act, after taking away all the fortune that your father
settled upon you? I wonder your love did not all turn to bitterest
hatred. Oh, Virgie! Virgie! I feel as if I could not bear it, even
though you are all my own once more,” he concluded, great drops of agony
starting out upon his face.

“Don’t, Will,” she whispered, clinging fondly to him, “it is all over
now; let us forget it, if possible, and enjoy to the utmost our
new-found happiness.”

“Forget! I can never forget. I will never forgive this terrible wrong,”
he said sternly. “Oh, my love, nothing can give us back those lost
years; nothing can ever make me forget that for more than eighteen years
I had a lovely daughter and never once looked upon her face to know her
as such. Miriam Linton is a sister of mine no longer.”




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                             “GOD IS GOOD.”


“To think,” continued Sir William, after a moment of thought, “how
systematically she set about her dreadful work, how remorselessly she
persisted in it until she had achieved her end. And Mrs. Farnum! how she
could see and know you, my beloved; how she could look upon that
innocent darling, in whom was centered the hopes of both of us, and lend
her aid, is a marvel and—a shame upon the name of woman! She shall never
cross the threshold of Heathdale again.”

“I cannot understand how she could have lent herself to such a base
intrigue!” said Virgie, thoughtfully.

Sir William smiled bitterly.

“What is it, dear?” she asked, remarking it.

“I suppose I can give a reason, although it may sound somewhat
egotistical,” he returned. “Sadie Farnum—now Lady Royalston—once aspired
to become Lady Heath, while it was the dearest wish of both her mother
and my sister, who have been life-long friends, that I should marry
her.”

Virgie flushed. She could now understand why she had been the object of
their curious glances when they first came to the —— Hotel, New York.

Sir William leaned forward and touched his lips to her crimson cheek and
murmured:

“But I never saw but one woman whom I could be willing to have reign as
mistress in my home. Virgie, I shall take you to Heathdale immediately.”

Her whole face was dyed scarlet in an instant.

“You forget,” she faltered, humbly, “I have no right to go there. I have
forfeited all title to your name and home.”

“I did forget,” he answered, growing pale and sighing heavily. “I cannot
realize since I have found you but that you belong to me now as in those
early days; and you do; before Heaven, you are as truly my wife to-day
as you ever were. But,” and his arm closed tenderly about her, “the only
obstacle is a legal point, and that is easily removed. You wish it, do
you not, my darling? You will come to me at once?”

“I should die if I lost you again,” Virgie cried, clinging to him with
another burst of tears. “It has been a weary struggle to live without
you all these years. But for Virgie I would gladly have laid down the
burden long ago.”

“Then may I go to London immediately for a special license, since we
must conform to the letter of the law? I can never be separated from you
again,” said Sir William, as he fondly wiped her falling tears.

“But how can I leave my uncle, Lord Norton?” Virgie asked, suddenly
remembering that new claim upon her and her promise not to leave him
while he lived.

“Lord Norton your uncle? Ah, that accounts for your being here. I could
not understand it,” returned the baronet, looking astonished and
remembering for the first time where she was.

Virgie explained how the relationship had recently been discovered, and
informed him of his lordship’s wishes that she should remain with him
for the present.

“We must respect the wishes of a dying man,” Sir William gravely
replied, “and I, too, had forgotten my own obligations to him.”

He told her all the circumstances of his cousin’s accident and the
summons that had brought him thither; of his proposal to try and
complete the manuscript of Lord Norton’s book, as, of course, Mr.
William Heath would not be able to resume his work for a long time, and
his lordship was liable to pass away without having his heart’s desire
accomplished if he attempted to wait for his recovery.

So it was finally agreed between them that they would wait at least
until the completion of the manuscript before taking any steps for their
reunion. They would see much of each other every day, while Sir William
thought it would not be liable to create quite so much excitement in
society if it was announced beforehand that he was soon to marry the
niece of Lord Norton.

He declared, however, that his sister should know nothing beyond that
fact until their return to Heathdale; but Virgie was so happy in being
reunited to the love of her youth that she was almost willing to
overlook and forgive Lady Linton’s instrumentality in her previous
suffering, and even to invite her and her family to be present when
their new ties should be solemnized.

But Sir William was inexorable.

“No,” he said, sternly; “it shall come upon her like a thunderbolt out
of a clear sky. She has always wanted me to marry, and doubtless she
will be jubilant when I announce my intentions; then she will imagine
her triumph over you complete, and she shall not be undeceived until she
sees you enter our future home as its mistress, for, of course, she will
never dream that you and Lord Norton’s niece are one and the same
person; hers will be a double punishment when we all get home.”

“Double! how so?” Virgie asked.

“It has long been her desire to marry Lillian to Rupert, my ward; but it
seems, my darling, that he has chosen our daughter to be his wife. How
strange it all seems,” he concluded, thoughtfully.

“How did you learn so much?” Virgie inquired, with some surprise.

“The young gentleman himself came and told me a couple of days ago; he
said he considered it his duty to inform me; but, let me tell you, my
sister’s disappointment will be no light one when she learns the fact,”
Sir William answered, all unsuspicious that her ladyship had learned the
secret at the same time that he was informed of it.

“Does Lillian care for him?” Virgie asked.

“I am afraid she does,” was the sober response.

“Poor child,” sighed Virgie, regretfully, “and I am really sorry for
Lady Linton’s disappointment.”

“Can you so readily forgive my sister, Virgie?”

“I believe I can, Will; I truly desire the spirit of forgiveness even
for the great wrong that she has been guilty of; and, since nothing can
ever again mar our trust in each other, I do not wish to cherish
bitterness toward anyone. I am truly grieved for Lillian; she is not
accountable for her mother’s faults, and I have suffered too much, in
believing another had usurped my place in your heart, not to feel a deep
sympathy for her in losing Rupert.”

Sir William sighed.

He regretted Lillian’s unhappiness too, for he was very fond of her. She
was a bright, beautiful girl, and for years had been the light of his
home; and he believed, away from her mother’s influence, she would make
a noble woman. Still it was a matter for rejoicing with him that the
young man whom he loved as a son would soon become a son indeed.

Virgie’s meeting with her father was quite touching. Her mother had
never told her who he was. She had shrunk more and more from the ordeal
as the time drew near when it must be revealed.

She had intended telling her the morning following Lady Dunforth’s
reception when she had so unexpectedly learned that Sir William was
Rupert’s guardian, and she would have done so but for Mr. Thurston’s
visit, his startling revelation of her relationship to Lord Norton, and
their sudden departure from London.

She was glad now that she had delayed the communication, for when she
now made it, she could soften the otherwise shocking intelligence by
telling her that all the past had been but a cruel mistake, which at
last had been explained and rectified—that her father was a true and
noble man.

Virgie came in from her walk just as her father and mother were speaking
of Lillian.

“There comes Virgie,” said her mother, starting up. “I must go to
prepare her for her meeting with you.”

“How much does she know?” Sir William asked, paling a trifle.

“Dear Will, she does not yet even know her own name, nor who her father
is. I _could_ not tell her, although I had promised to do so soon,”
Virgie explained, with quivering lips.

The baronet bent and touched them softly.

“I am glad, my beloved, that you have not told her; the shock will not
be so severe now. Go, dear, but send her to me as quickly as possible,
for my heart yearns for her. I know now why her presence affected me so
strangely the other evening.”

He released her, and she glided from the room to meet her daughter just
outside the door; another moment and she would have entered.

“Mamma, what is it?” the young girl exclaimed, as she read in her
expressive face something of the great change that had come to her
during the last hour.

“Come with me, dear; I have something to tell you,” her mother said, and
she slipped her arm about her waist and drew her into a small room
opposite.

In as few words as possible she told her all that had occurred, and the
name of her father—the name which she had so long withheld from her.

“Sir William Heath, Rupert’s guardian, _my father_!” said the bewildered
girl, looking utterly dazed by the startling information.

“Yes, darling. It is a romance in real life, is it not?—and one which
will end more happily than such romances usually do,” was the smiling
reply, although there were tears upon the grateful woman’s cheeks.

“That accounts for a great deal,” said Virgie, musingly.

“Such as what, for instance?”

“Your strange actions the other evening when Rupert told you who his
guardian was.”

“Yes; I utterly lost my self-possession then. It was an unlooked-for
shock, and I feared that matters were going to be terribly mixed when
you came to marry Rupert. But, darling, we must not keep your father
waiting; he is longing for you. Remember, he has never yet looked upon
the face of his own child, to recognize her as such.”

“But, mamma,” Virgie began, a startling thought coming to her, “you
are—you are not——”

Then she faltered and stopped, her face covered with confusion.

“‘I am, and I am not,’ is rather an ambiguous statement, is it not,
dear?” was the arch retort, although her mother was also flushed as she
caught her meaning. “I understand your trouble, dear,” she added, more
gravely, “and everything is to be set right in a little while. This
reunion will soon be properly solemnized, and then we shall all go home
together. Now go, and I will follow you in a few minutes.”

She led the beautiful girl to the door, kissed her tenderly, and sent
her to Sir William. Then she sped swiftly up to her own room, where,
locking herself in, she fell upon her knees and sobbed out her grateful
thanks for the great joy that had been sent to her that day.

Virgie, her heart all aglow with love and happiness, went straight to
the library.

Softly opening the door, she put her flushed, beautiful face within,
saying, with charming eagerness:

“Mamma says that—that my father is here.”

Sir William turned at the sound of that sweet voice, his whole soul in
his face, and held out his arms to her.

“Virgie! my child!” he cried, in a tone that thrilled her, and her heart
instantly owned its kindred, without a doubt of fear.

She sprang to his breast, laughing and sobbing all at once, and his
kisses were rained upon her upturned face.

“Oh, my baby, whom I never saw! my darling for whom my heart has yearned
so many years! God is good to give both my treasures to me, so fair and
loving,” he murmured, fondly, while his own tears mingled with hers, and
his chest heaved with the emotion he could not control.

“Papa!” Virgie breathed, with a tender inflection that touched him
deeply; “to think that I have never been able to say it before, while I
have hardly dared to speak of you at all, because of the suffering it
caused mamma.”

“How has she accounted for my absence, love?”

“She has always told me that you went over the sea and were lost. Only
since coming to London have I learned that you were living.”

“It was better so,” the baronet murmured, with a sigh. “It was better to
have you think me dead, than guilty of the unfaithfulness which she was
led to believe of me. But, my darling,” he added, holding her off and
gazing tenderly into her fair, young face, “you are very like what your
mother was when I first saw her, and it is no wonder I was so attracted
toward you the other night at Lady Dunforth’s.”

“Were you?” Virgie asked, looking up eagerly; “it is very strange, but
it almost seemed to me as if I had known you in some previous state of
existence! The sound of your voice moved me deeply and I could hardly
restrain my tears when you gave me your hand at parting.”

“It was the instinct of natural affection. Oh! it is such delight to
have found both my loved ones; and yet,” he added, with a twinkle of his
eyes, “I am afraid I am not destined to have the exclusive right to but
one of them for very long.”

Virgie blushed crimson and hid her face on her father’s shoulder at this
allusion to her engagement.

He raised it and kissed her softly on her lips.

“I shall not be inconsolable,” he said, smiling, “for if I have to
resign something of my claim upon you, I shall thereby secure a son whom
I have always loved as such. Rupert is a noble fellow, and he shall have
my heartiest blessing, also, when I give him my daughter.”

Virgie looked up archly at these words.

“I think that you and Rupert must have a mutual admiration for each
other,” she said, “for he is very fond of extolling his guardian; and,
papa, I believe—I think you are very nice, too.”

Sir William laughed. It was very sweet to find her so fond; he had
feared that, never having known what it was to have a father, she would
be shy and reserved at first.

“There will be mutual admiration between you and me if you say such
pleasant things,” he returned, with another caress. “How much you are
like your mother!—the resemblance grows upon me constantly,” he added,
gazing closely into her lovely face, “all save your eyes; those, I
think, are very like mine, my pet.”

“Yes, and mamma has always told me that they are the dearest thing about
me for that reason,” Virgie answered.

Sir William turned to gather his other Virgie into his embrace—she
having entered at that moment—a happy smile on his lips at this fresh
evidence of her faithfulness to him.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                          THREADS GATHERED UP.


Lord Norton was at once informed of the romantic incidents connected
with his niece’s early life, and while he sympathized with the trials
and sorrow to which she had been subjected, he also expressed his
gratification that all had ended so well, and she would henceforth
occupy so proud a position.

He appeared to have conceived a great affection for her during the
little time she had been with him, clinging to her as if she had been
his own daughter, while she devoted herself tirelessly to him, doing
everything in her power to make his last days peaceful and comfortable.

He lived only three weeks after she went to Englewood, but that was long
enough to see the desire of his heart accomplished; for Sir William
worked diligently upon his manuscript, completing it in about two weeks,
and thus the aged veteran had the satisfaction of knowing that he would
give to the world a valuable historical work to perpetuate his name when
the world should know him no more.

The week following his death, and after the obsequies were over, Sir
William wrote that letter to Lady Linton, announcing his contemplated
marriage with Lord Norton’s niece.

He purposely withheld nearly everything from her, save the bare facts
that he was about to give Heathdale a mistress, and that she was the
relative and heiress of his lordship.

He would have insisted upon having their reunion solemnized immediately
if his cousin, Mr. Heath, had been considered wholly out of danger,
while Virgie pleaded that it would hardly be proper, following so
closely upon her uncle’s death.

She went at once to Mrs. Heath upon being released from her own duties
in the sick-room, to express her sympathy for her in her trouble, and
the two women instantly became the warmest friends.

Mrs. Heath at once recognized Virgie as the beautiful woman whom she had
met several years previous at Niagara. She was deeply wounded upon
learning how she had been deceived regarding her marriage, and how she
had suffered when they met, believing her to be the wife of the man who
had wooed and won her.

“I loved you even then,” she said, with starting tears, “though I
wondered why you appeared so strangely at first. I wonder now how you
were enabled to conduct yourself with so much self-possession.”

Virgie and her playmate of that olden time renewed their acquaintance
with evident pleasure, though the maiden could hardly realize that the
stalwart, but rather bashful young man, to whom she was introduced as
the “Willie” of long ago, was the same with whom she had enjoyed such
childish freedom and shared her toys in the corridor of that great hotel
in America.

Rupert was invited to come to Englewood the week following the funeral
of Lord Norton, when he was greatly astonished to learn of the strange
sequel to the story of his guardian’s early life; and yet, a dim
suspicion of something of the kind had been floating in his mind ever
since that evening when Mrs. Alexander had been so unnerved upon
learning that Sir William was his guardian; for he had known that there
had been some deep sorrow connected with his past, and, having learned
Mrs. Alexander’s story, it seemed not unlikely that the two were in some
way associated.

On the day that Virgie had encountered Lady Linton in Oxford street she
had come to London, Sir William and Virgie accompanying her, to spend
several days, having found it necessary to make a few purchases and some
changes in her wardrobe before going to Heathdale; so it will be readily
understood why the happy woman was at that time so unmoved by her
ladyship’s warnings and threats. Her heart was too full of joy and
gratitude to allow of her feeling anything save pity and sorrow for her
enemy, for she knew but too well that her evil deeds would all recoil
upon her own head.

It was fortunate for their plans, however, that her ladyship did not
meet her brother. He had accompanied his beloved to the store, where,
after fastening that one lovely half-blown Lamarque rose in her mantle,
he took leave of her for awhile; and went to attend to some business for
himself; thus his presence in the city was not even suspected by Lady
Linton. As soon as Virgie could be released by her dressmaker they all
returned once more to Englewood.

By the 21st of the month Mr. William Heath was so far advanced toward
recovery that his physician consented to allow him to be present at the
ceremony, which was to occur in the church at Chester, and afterward to
accompany the bridal party home to Heathdale.

At ten in the morning Sir William led the woman of his deathless love
once more to the altar. Virgie and Rupert stood beside them as they
renewed the vows of their youth, while Mr. and Mrs. William Heath, with
their family, the Duke of Falmouth and his household, were also present
to witness the ceremony.

The rector had been told something of the history of the couple upon
whom he was to pronounce this second nuptial benediction, and his words
to them were very solemn, very touching and impressive; and then the
reunited husband and wife went out from his presence filled with a deep
and holy joy such as they had never hoped to realize again in this
world, while their future prospects seemed but the brighter for the
chastening they had endured.

At noon the whole party left Englewood for Heathdale, followed by the
congratulations and good wishes of the duke and his family, with whom
Sir William and Lady Heath had formed a delightful friendship, and
promised themselves much pleasure in the future interchange of visits.

Sir William and his wife experienced a slight feeling of dismay upon
finding Heathdale all ablaze with light, and a brilliant reception in
progress.

He had imagined that his sister, all unsuspicious of whom he was to
bring home, might be there to meet him. He rather hoped she would, for
he felt that Virgie deserved the triumph of coming to take her position
there in her presence; but he was not quite prepared for a formal
reception.

“I fear that Miriam has killed the fatted calf, and made a feast in view
of our coming,” he said, as they drove up the avenue.

“But, Will, it will be hardly the thing for me to receive your friends
in my traveling dress,” Virgie remarked, in a dubious tone.

“How long will it take you to make a toilet?” he asked.

“Half an hour will be ample time.”

“Very well, then, while the rest of the party are received at the main
entrance, we will drive around to a side door, slip up to our rooms, and
send word that we shall be happy to greet our friends at half-past
eight. Rupert, will you engineer the matter for us?”

Rupert gladly undertook the commission, and we know with what success,
as well as all that occurred later, when Sir William appeared before the
astonished company with his wife, whom they had previously known as Mrs.
Alexander.

On the following day Lady Linton was so ill that she was unable to leave
her room. The shock she had received, and the terrible restraint to
which she had afterward subjected herself, was too much for her
strength, and she was utterly exhausted, while her proud spirit was
crushed to the earth.

Lillian was also in a very unhappy state of mind, although, to her
credit be it said, she exerted herself, for her uncle’s sake, to make
everything as pleasant for him and Lady Heath as she was able to do
under the circumstances.

She had spent the night in serious thought, and had wisely resolved to
make the best of what she could not help, and in spite of the pain in
her heart over her disappointed hopes, she was won by the beauty and
sweetness of Rupert’s betrothed, and after a day or two spent in each
other’s society, it was safe to predict that the two young girls would
eventually become firm friends.

On the third day after his return Sir William visited his sister in her
own room, and had a long and serious talk with her, deeming it wise to
come to some understanding regarding their future relations without
further delay.

She knew by the expression on his face, the moment he entered her
presence, that she had nothing to hope from him; that he would not spare
her for her part in the vile plot which had caused the misery of his
past life.

He made a brief but very comprehensive statement of the whole matter,
charging her with all her treachery and falsehood and crime, and she was
forced to acknowledge her guilt.

But when he gave her the diary, portions of which he had read, and she
saw that it had been examined, something of her old haughty spirit and
arrogance blazed forth.

“Talk to me of falsehood; she told me that the seal had never been
broken,” she cried, with bitter scorn, a spot of vivid scarlet settling
upon each sallow cheek.

“And she told you nothing but the truth, Miriam, for the seal was
unbroken when she gave me the package to return to you. My wife has
never read a single line that is written there. No one knows anything of
its contents save you and me,” Sir William replied, sternly, and then
told her how he had happened to discover the nature of its contents,
after which he felt justified in reading enough more to confirm the
suspicions that one line had aroused.

“You have proved yourself a very unwomanly woman, Miriam,” said her
brother, with cold gravity. “Your nature, aside from the affection which
you have for your children, is wholly selfish; it has become
warped—degraded. You have not only hardened yourself against all honor
and sisterly affection, but you have committed the most reprehensible
crimes to further your miserable schemes.

“The wrong you did my young wife years ago, the insults you offered her,
the falsehood and even theft of which you were guilty in sending that
hundred pounds to her, the intercepting of our letters, are things that
I can never overlook.”

“Do you dare to accuse me of theft?” interrupted Lady Linton, bridling.
“You gave me that hundred pounds for charitable purposes.”

“I gave you that hundred pounds to use for the poor girl who was injured
in that railway accident, and you stole it to add insult to injury. You
mocked and scorned a woman who was your superior in every way—in whose
veins there was as good blood as in your own, notwithstanding your
boasted preëminence, and I grow cold with shame and horror every time I
think of that paltry sum that you sent her, when I had brought back
thousands of her money with me to England. Mr. Alexander left a small
fortune to his daughter and I have had it in my possession ever since.”

Lady Linton looked up aghast at this information. It was the first she
had ever heard of that matter.

“You begin to appreciate something of what I have suffered,” he
continued, as he noticed the look, “but you can never begin to realize
the misery which you brought upon two loving hearts so long separated;
and to think that for more than eighteen years I was a father and never
once looked upon the face of my child. Miriam, I can never overlook it.
You have forfeited all respect from me, all claim upon me, and Heathdale
can no longer be your home—you must go elsewhere to live, for I will not
subject my wife to the constant companionship of one who has done her
such irreparable wrong.”

“William Heath, will you turn me out from my home, where I was born?”
cried the miserable woman, almost fiercely.

“Your home?” he returned, severely. “For how many years have you cheated
my dear ones out of _their_ home—out of the love and sheltering care
which should have been theirs? While my wife was toiling to earn her own
support and to make provision for my child, you were spending money
which rightfully belonged to them, with a lavish, almost reckless, hand,
and rearing your children amid the luxury of which you had maliciously
deprived them. I have family pride enough to provide for your needful
support, for I cannot see you suffer; so I will fit up Fernleigh Lodge
for your use while you live, and settle upon you an annuity of two
hundred pounds——”

“Two hundred pounds!” interrupted Lady Linton, in a tone of horror.

“Yes. With economy, that will be sufficient for your individual needs,”
replied Sir William, coldly.

“I will give Lillian as much more until her marriage, when I shall hope
to add something to the sum.”

His sister’s face was almost convulsed with rage at this announcement.
She had never imagined any descent in the world so dreadful as this. She
had spent three times the amount now offered her in a single year upon
her own wardrobe, and now she was expected to provide her whole support
out of two hundred pounds.

“Do you suppose Lillian and I are going to be able to live on a paltry
sum like that?” she demanded, with quivering lips.

“My wife and child lived on far less than that for years, after you
succeeded in ruining her faith in me,” was the stern response. “It was
no sum settled outright upon her, either; she had to _toil_ for it with
her own hands. She was not only the provider for the household, but
nurse, and governess, and seamstress as well; while _your_ children had
their maids and tutors, to say nothing of the bills which I have paid
sewing-girls and milliners for them. We will reverse the order for a
while, and the sum that I have named will have to answer your purpose,
unless your fertile brain can invent some way to increase it.”

Lady Linton groaned at this inflexible verdict, while she writhed
beneath his cutting words as if under a lash.

She could no longer shine in society, for there would be no means for
providing the necessary accessories—dresses, jewels, laces, and the
hundred other things she so dearly loved and had always had for the
simple asking.

Her brilliant daughter, too, who had been so admired in the gay circles
they had frequented, would have to drop out of her orbit now and be
forgotten, while there would be no opportunity for her to make a
distinguished marriage, which had been the acme of her mother’s
ambition.

“What will the world think? William, how can you be so cruel? It will
blight all Lillian’s prospects,” she sobbed.

“If by blighting Lillian’s prospects you mean that Lord Ernest Rathburn
will give her the cold shoulder, it will be a good thing to have them
nipped in the bud, for the fellow is devoid of both brains and
principle, and has absolutely nothing but his plethoric purse to
recommend him to anyone. I would much prefer to have her never marry
than become the wife of such a coxcomb. As for your charge of cruelty, I
must say it ill becomes you to make that complaint; you have been very
extravagant during the last few years, and the study of economy will not
harm you; besides, it is no more than right that _my_ daughter should
now enjoy the full benefit of her inheritance, which your children have
so long usurped; not that I regret anything that I have done for them,
for they are both dear to me, and I shall always be deeply interested in
their welfare. Will you go to Fernleigh, Miriam?”

She would have been glad to reject his offer with scorn, but it was
Hobson’s choice with her—that or nothing.

Doubtless Percy would have offered his mother and sister a home, when he
was settled, but his estate was yielding him comparatively little as
yet, and she was far too proud to accept favors at the hands of his
wife.

“I suppose there is nothing else for me to do,” she wailed, and Sir
William arose to leave her, uttering a sigh over this new evidence of
her total selfishness.

He lost no time in fitting up the lodge, which was a small but cozy and
convenient house, about five miles from Heathdale.

Virgie very kindly interested herself in all the arrangements, for Lady
Linton would not make a suggestion or express a wish. When consulted
upon any point she assumed an injured air, and remarked it was of no
consequence—they could do just as they saw fit.

It was really a pleasant home when all completed, and Lillian thanked
her uncle and Lady Heath most heartily for their kindness, and seemed
quite interested in the domestic details of their small establishment.

In three weeks from the time of Sir William’s return, Lady Linton took
possession of Fernleigh, a sadder if not a wiser or a better woman, and
there she literally buried herself, making no visits, and denying
herself to all callers.

Lillian, however, showed a much better spirit, and tried to look upon
the bright side of their condition. She was growing very fond of the new
occupants of their old home, and was often invited to visit Heathdale,
and when Harry Webster at last came, for his long-promised visit to
Rupert, she did not fail to recognize the young man’s superiority over
her old admirer, Lord Ernest, while Mr. Webster’s admiration for the
brilliant brunette was very marked from the first.

In less than three months it was formally announced that Lillian Linton
would, in the following fall, through her marriage to Mr. Webster,
become a naturalized citizen of America, the country which she had once
affected to so despise.

Mr. Knight and his sister paid Lady Heath a visit in March, and were
overjoyed to find all her sorrow at an end and the future looking so
bright.

They were persuaded to remain until after the marriage of Rupert and
Virgie, which was to occur about Easter.

A grand wedding had been arranged, and after a tour on the Continent the
young couple were to reside at Englewood for a portion of each year and
spend the remainder with Sir William and Lady Heath at their town house
in London.

Lillian was invited to officiate as chief bridesmaid, assisted by the
Misses Huntington and the Duke of Falmouth’s eldest daughter, while, of
course, Harry Webster was to be “best man.”

The ceremony occurred in the fine old church at Heathdale, which was
crowded with the elite of the country for miles around, for a report of
the beauty of the heiress of Heathdale had spread far and near.

Sir William gave away the bride, and the gift was accompanied with his
heartiest blessing.

Virgie, in her bridal robes, seemed the “fairest that e’er the sun shone
on,” and no one looking into her dark eyes, so full of a calm, trustful
joy, or noting the fond, proud smile upon her young husband’s face,
could doubt that these were

               “Two souls in sweet accord,
             Each for each caring and each itself unheard;
             True to truth, nor needing proof nor proving,
             Sure to be ever loved and ever loving.”

There was a brilliant reception afterward in the grand old mansion of
which Sir William was so justly proud, and the servants were heard to
declare that a finer wedding had never occurred within the memory of the
oldest among them.

As Virgie came down stairs, after exchanging her bridal dress for a
traveling suit, Sir William met her in the hall and drew her into the
library for a last few words. He put a package into her hands; and then,
drawing her to his breast, he said, with great tenderness:

“My darling, this is your marriage dowry, to be used just as you choose,
and I am sure of its being wisely used; but remember that you are to
come freely to your father if at any time you particularly wish for
anything. All that I have is yours. I live but for you and my other
Virgie, and Heathdale is your inheritance.”


                               [THE END.]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




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 Addison’s Essays. EDITED BY JOHN RICHARD GREEN.
 Aeneid of Virgil. TRANSLATED BY JOHN CONNINGTON.
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 Lady with the Rubies. BY E. MARLITT.
 Lafayette, Marquis de, Life of. BY P. C. HEADLEY.
 Lalla Rookh. (WITH NOTES.) BY THOMAS MOORE.
 Lamplighter. BY MARIA S. CUMMINS.
 Last Days of Pompeii. BY BULWER-LYTTON.
 Last of the Barons. BY BULWER-LYTTON.
 Last of the Mohicans. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
 Lay of the Last Minstrel, (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Lee, General Robert E., Life of. BY G. MERCER ADAM.
 Lena Rivers. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
 Life of Christ. BY FREDERICK W. FARRAR.
 Life of Jesus. BY ERNEST RENAN.
 Light of Asia. BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
 Light That Failed. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
 Lincoln, Abraham, Life of. BY HENRY KETCHAM.
 Lincoln’s Speeches. SELECTED AND EDITED BY G. MERCER ADAM.
 Literature and Dogma. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.
 Little Dorrit. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
 Little Minister. BY JAMES M. BARRIE.
 Livingstone. David, Life of. BY THOMAS HUGHES.
 Longfellow’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
 Lorna Doone. BY R. D. BLACKMORE.
 Louise de la Valliere. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. BY CHARLES READE.
 Lowell’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
 Lucile. BY OWEN MEREDITH.
 Macaria. BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.
 Macaulay’s Literary Essays. BY T. B. MACAULAY.
 Macaulay’s Poems. BY THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.
 Madame Therese. BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.
 Maggie Miller. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
 Magic Skin. BY HONORE DE BALZAC.
 Mahomet, Life of. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
 Makers of Florence. BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
 Makers of Venice. BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
 Man and Wife. BY WILKIE COLLINS.
 Man in the Iron Mask. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Marble Faun. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
 Marguerite de la Valois. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Marian Grey. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
 Marius, The Epicurian. BY WALTER PATER.
 Marmion. (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Marquis of Lossie. BY GEORGE MACDONALD.
 Martin Chuzzlewit. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
 Mary, Queen of Scots, Life of. BY P. C. HEADLEY.
 Mary St. John. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Master of Ballantrae, The. BY R. L. STEVENSON.
 Masterman Ready. BY CAPTAIN MARRYATT.
 Meadow Brook. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
 Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. TRANSLATED BY GEORGE LONG.
 Memoirs of a Physician. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Merle’s Crusade. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Micah Clarke. BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
 Michael Strogoff. BY JULES VERNE.
 Middlemarch. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
 Midshipman Easy. BY CAPTAIN MARRYATT.
 Mildred. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
 Millbank. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
 Mill on the Floss. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
 Milton’s Poems. BY JOHN MILTON.
 Mine Own People. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
 Minister’s Wooing, The. BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
 Monastery. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Moonstone. BY WILKIE COLLINS.
 Moore’s Poems. BY THOMAS MOORE.
 Mosses from an Old Manse. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
 Murders in the Rue Morgue. BY EDGAR ALLEN POE.
 Mysterious Island. BY JULES VERNE.
 Napoleon Bonaparte, Life of. BY P. C. HEADLEY.
 Napoleon and His Marshals. BY J. T. HEADLEY.
 Natural Law in the Spiritual World. BY HENRY DRUMMOND.
 Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.
 Nature, Addresses and Lectures. BY R. W. EMERSON.
 Nellie’s Memories. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Nelson, Admiral Horatio, Life of. BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.
 Newcomes. BY WILLIAM M. THACKERAY.
 Nicholas Nickleby. BY CHAS. DICKENS.
 Ninety-Three. BY VICTOR HUGO.
 Not Like Other Girls. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Odyssey. POPE’S TRANSLATION.
 Old Curiosity Shop. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
 Old Mam’selle’s Secret. BY E. MARLITT.
 Old Mortality. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Old Myddleton’s Money. BY MARY CECIL HAY.
 Oliver Twist. BY CHAS. DICKENS.
 Only the Governess. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 On the Heights. BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH.
 Oregon Trail. BY FRANCIS PARKMAN.
 Origin of Species. BY CHARLES DARWIN.
 Other Worlds than Ours. BY RICHARD PROCTOR.
 Our Bessie. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Our Mutual Friend. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
 Outre-Mer. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.
 Owl’s Nest. BY E. MARLITT.
 Page of the Duke of Savoy. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Pair of Blue Eyes. BY THOMAS HARDY.
 Pan Michael. BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.
 Past and Present. BY THOS. CARLYLE.
 Pathfinder. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
 Paul and Virginia. BY B. DE ST. PIERRE.
 Pendennis, History of. BY WM. M. THACKERAY.
 Penn, William, Life of. BY W. HEPWORTH DIXON.
 Pere Goriot. BY HONORE DE BALZAC.
 Peter, the Great, Life of. BY JOHN BARROW.
 Peveril of the Peak. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Phantom Rickshaw, The. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
 Philip II. of Spain, Life of. BY MARTIN A. S. HUME.
 Picciola. BY X. B. SAINTINE.
 Pickwick Papers. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
 Pilgrim’s Progress. BY JOHN BUNYAN.
 Pillar of Fire. BY REV. J. H. INGRAHAM.
 Pilot. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
 Pioneers. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
 Pirate. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Plain Tales from the Hills. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
 Plato’s Dialogues. TRANSLATED BY J. WRIGHT. M. A.
 Pleasures of Life. BY SIR JOHN LUBBOCK.
 Poe’s Poems. BY EDGAR A. POE.
 Pope’s Poems. BY ALEXANDER POPE.
 Prairie. BY JAMES F. COOPER.
 Pride and Prejudice. BY JANE AUSTEN.
 Prince of the House of David. BY REV. J. H. INGRAHAM.
 Princess of the Moor. BY E. MARLITT.
 Princess of Thule. BY WILLIAM BLACK.
 Procter’s Poems. BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
 Professor at the Breakfast Table. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
 Professor. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
 Prue and I. BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.
 Put Yourself in His Place. BY CHAS. READE.
 Putnam, General Israel, Life of. BY GEORGE CANNING HILL.
 Queen Hortense. BY LUISE MÜHLBACH.
 Queenie’s Whim. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Queen’s Necklace. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Quentin Durward. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Rasselas, History of. BY SAMUEL JOHNSON.
 Redgauntlet. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Red Rover. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
 Regent’s Daughter. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Reign of Law. BY DUKE OF ARGYLE.
 Representative Men. BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
 Republic of Plato. TRANSLATED BY DAVIES AND VAUGHAN.
 Return of the Native. BY THOMAS HARDY.
 Reveries of a Bachelor. BY IK MARVEL.
 Reynard the Fox. EDITED BY JOSEPH JACOBS.
 Rienzi. BY BULWER-LYTTON.
 Richelieu, Cardinal, Life of. BY RICHARD LODGE.
 Robinson Crusoe. BY DANIEL DEFOE.
 Rob Roy. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Romance of Natural History. BY P. H. GOSSE.
 Romance of Two Worlds. BY MARIE CORELLI.
 Romola. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
 Rory O’More. BY SAMUEL LOVER.
 Rose Mather. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
 Rossetti’s Poems. BY GABRIEL DANTE ROSSETTI.
 Royal Edinburgh. BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
 Rutledge. BY MIRIAM COLES HARRIS
 Saint Michael. BY E. WERNER.
 Samantha at Saratoga. BY JOSIAH ALLER’S WIFE. (MARIETTA HOLLEY.)
 Sartor Resartus. BY THOMAS CARLYLE.
 Scarlet Letter. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
 Schonberg-Cotta Family. BY MRS. ANDREW CHARLES.
 Schopenhauer’s Essays. TRANSLATED BY T. B. SAUNDERS.
 Scottish Chiefs. BY JANE PORTER.
 Scott’s Poems. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Search for Basil Lyndhurst. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Second Wife. BY E. MARLITT.
 Seekers After God. BY F. W. FARRAR.
 Self-Help. BY SAMUEL SMILES.
 Self-Raised. (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
 Seneca’s Morals.
 Sense and Sensibility. BY JANE AUSTEN.
 Sentimental Journey. BY LAWRENCE STERNE.
 Sesame and Lilies. BY JOHN RUSKIN.
 Shakespeare’s Heroines. BY ANNA JAMESON.
 Shelley’s Poems. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
 Shirley. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
 Sign of the Four. BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
 Silas Marner. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
 Silence of Dean Maitland. BY MAXWELL GRAY.
 Sir Gibbie. BY GEORGE MACDONALD.
 Sketch Book. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
 Smith, Captain John, Life of. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
 Socrates, Trial and Death of. TRANSLATED BY F. J. CHURCH, M. A.
 Soldiers Three. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
 Springhaven. BY R. D. BLACKMORE.
 Spy. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
 Stanley, Henry M., African Explorer, Life of. BY A. MONTEFIORE.
 Story of an African Farm. BY OLIVE SCHREINER.
 Story of John G. Paton. TOLD FOR YOUNG FOLKS. BY REV. JAS. PATON.
 St. Ronan’s Well. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Study in Scarlet. BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
 Surgeon’s Daughter. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Swinburne’s Poems. BY A. C. SWINBURNE.
 Swiss Family Robinson. BY JEAN RUDOLPH WYSS.
 Taking the Bastile. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Tale of Two Cities. BY CHAS. DICKENS.
 Tales from Shakespeare. BY CHAS. AND MARY LAMB.
 Tales of a Traveller. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
 Talisman. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Tanglewood Tales. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
 Tempest and Sunshine. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
 Ten Nights in a Bar Room. BY T. S. ARTHUR.
 Tennyson’s Poems. BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
 Ten Years Later. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Terrible Temptation. BY CHARLES READE.
 Thaddeus of Warsaw. BY JANE PORTER.
 Thelma. BY MARIE CORELLI.
 Thirty Years’ War. BY FREDERICK SCHILLER.
 Thousand Miles Up the Nile. BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS.
 Three Guardsmen. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Three Men in a Boat. BY JEROME K. JEROME.
 Thrift. BY SAMUEL SMILES.
 Throne of David. BY REV. J. H. INGRAHAM.
 Toilers of the Sea. BY VICTOR HUGO.
 Tom Brown at Oxford. BY THOMAS HUGHES.
 Tom Brown’s School Days. BY THOS. HUGHES.
 Tom Burke of “Ours.” BY CHARLES LEVER.
 Tour of the World in Eighty Days. BY JULES VERNE.
 Treasure Island. BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
 Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. BY JULES VERNE.
 Twenty Years After. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Twice Told Tales. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
 Two Admirals. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
 Two Dianas. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Two Years Before the Mast. BY R. H. DANA, JR.
 Uarda. BY GEORGE EBERS.
 Uncle Max. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Uncle Tom’s Cabin. BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
 Under Two Flags. BY “OUIDA.”
 Utopia. BY SIR THOMAS MORE.
 Vanity Fair. BY WM. M. THACKERAY.
 Vendetta. BY MARIE CORELLI.
 Vespucius, Americus, Life and Voyages. BY C. EDWARDS LESTER.
 Vicar of Wakefield. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
 Vicomte de Bragelonne. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Views A-Foot. BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
 Villette. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
 Virginians. BY WM. M. THACKERAY.
 Walden. BY HENRY D. THOREAU.
 Washington, George, Life of. BY JARED SPARKS.
 Washington and His Generals. BY J. T. HEADLEY.
 Water Babies. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
 Water Witch. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
 Waverly. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Webster, Daniel, Life of. BY SAMUEL M. SCHMUCKER, LL.D.
 Webster’s Speeches. (SELECTED.) BY DANIEL WEBSTER.
 Wee Wifie. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Westward Ho! BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
 We Two. BY EDNA LYALL.
 What’s Mine’s Mine. BY GEORGE MACDONALD.
 When a Man’s Single. BY J. M. BARRIE.
 White Company. BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
 Whites and the Blues. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
 Whittier’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
 Wide, Wide World. BY SUSAN WARNER.
 William, the Conqueror, Life of. BY EDWARD A. FREEMAN, LL.D.
 William, the Silent, Life of. BY FREDERICK HARRISON.
 Willy Reilly. BY WILLIAM CARLETON.
 Window in Thrums. BY J. M. BARRIE.
 Wing and Wing. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
 Wolsey, Cardinal, Life of. BY MANDELL CREIGHTON.
 Woman in White. BY WILKIE COLLINS.
 Won by Waiting. BY EDNA LYALL.
 Wonder Book. FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
 Woodstock. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 Wooed and Married. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
 Wooing O’t. BY MRS. ALEXANDER.
 Wordsworth’s Poems. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
 Wormwood. BY MARIE CORELLI.
 Wreck of the Grosvenor. BY W. CLARK RUSSELL.

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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_.