THE SELECT SERIES

                      A SEMI-MONTHLY PUBLICATION,

              Devoted to Good Reading in American Fiction.

   SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, $6.00 PER YEAR.      =No. 80.—MARCH 21, 1891.=

                _Copyrighted, 1891, by Street & Smith._

    _Entered at the Post-Office, New York, as Second-Class Matter._




                             Thrice Wedded,
                         BUT ONLY ONCE A WIFE.


                                    BY

                          MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

                                AUTHOR OF

 “SIBYL’S INFLUENCE,” “THAT DOWDY,” “TRIXY,” “A TRUE ARISTOCRAT,” “LOST—A
                              PEARLE,” ETC.


                                NEW YORK:
                       STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
                             31 Rose Street.




                    DENMAN THOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD.

                 STREET & SMITH’S SELECT SERIES No. 23.

                            Price, 25 Cents.

                      Some Opinions of the Press.


“As the probabilities are remote of the play ‘The Old Homestead’ being
seen anywhere but in large cities it is only fair that the story of the
piece should be printed. Like most stories written from plays it
contains a great deal which is not said or done on the boards, yet it is
no more verbose than such a story should be, and it gives some good
pictures of the scenes and people who for a year or more have been
delighting thousands nightly. Uncle Josh, Aunt Tildy, Old Cy Prime,
Reuben, the mythical Bill Jones, the sheriff and all the other
characters are here, beside some new ones. It is to be hoped that the
book will make a large sale, not only on its merits, but that other play
owners may feel encouraged to let their works be read by the many
thousands who cannot hope to see them on the stage.”—_N. Y. Herald_,
June 2d.

“Denman Thompson’s ‘The Old Homestead’ is a story of clouds and sunshine
alternating over a venerated home; of a grand old man, honest and blunt,
who loves his honor as he loves his life, yet suffers the agony of the
condemned in learning of the deplorable conduct of a wayward son; a
story of country life, love and jealousy, without an impure thought, and
with the healthy flavor of the fields in every chapter. It is founded on
Denman Thompson’s drama of ‘The Old Homestead.’”—_N. Y. Press_, May
26th.

“Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of the _New York Weekly_, have
brought out in book-form the story of ‘The Old Homestead,’ the play
which, as produced by Mr. Denman Thompson, has met with such wondrous
success. It will probably have a great sale, thus justifying the
foresight of the publishers in giving the drama this permanent fiction
form.”—_N. Y. Morning Journal_, June 2d.

“The popularity of Denman Thompson’s play of ‘The Old Homestead’ has
encouraged Street & Smith, evidently with his permission, to publish a
good-sized novel with the same title, set in the same scenes and
including the same characters and more too. The book is a fair match for
the play in the simple good taste and real ability with which it is
written. The publishers are Street & Smith, and they have gotten the
volume up in cheap popular form.”—_N. Y. Graphic_, May 29.

“Denman Thompson’s play, ‘The Old Homestead,’ is familiar, at least by
reputation, to every play-goer in the country. Its truth to nature and
its simple pathos have been admirably preserved in this story, which is
founded upon it and follows its incidents closely. The requirements of
the stage make the action a little hurried at times, but the scenes
described are brought before the mind’s eye with remarkable vividness,
and the portrayal of life in the little New England town is almost
perfect. Those who have never seen the play can get an excellent idea of
what it is like from the book. Both are free from sentimentality and
sensation, and are remarkably healthy in tone.”—_Albany Express._

“Denman Thompson’s ‘Old Homestead’ has been put into story-form and is
issued by Street & Smith. The story will somewhat explain to those who
have not seen it the great popularity of the play.”—_Brooklyn Times_,
June 8th.

“The fame of Denman Thompson’s play, ‘Old Homestead,’ is world-wide.
Tens of thousands have enjoyed it, and frequently recall the pure,
lively pleasure they took in its representation. This is the story told
in narrative form as well as it was told on the stage, and will be a
treat to all, whether they have seen the play or not.”—_National
Tribune_, Washington, D. C.

“Here we have the shaded lanes, the dusty roads, the hilly pastures, the
peaked roofs, the school-house, and the familiar faces of dear old
Swanzey, and the story which, dramatized, has packed the largest theater
in New York, and has been a success everywhere because of its true and
sympathetic touches of nature. All the incidents which have held
audiences spell-bound are here recorded—the accusation of robbery
directed against the innocent boy, his shame, and leaving home; the dear
old Aunt Tilda, who has been courted for thirty years by the mendacious
Cy Prime, who has never had the courage to propose; the fall of the
country boy into the temptations of city life, and his recovery by the
good old man who braves the metropolis to find him. The story embodies
all that the play tells, and all that it suggests as well.”—_Kansas City
Journal_, May 27th.




                             THRICE WEDDED.




                               CHAPTER I.
                 “GO! AND MY WORST CURSES GO WITH YOU!”


In a retired street in one of the inland cities of Massachusetts stood a
neat and attractive little cottage of purest white, the dark green of
its blinds making it seem still whiter beneath the dazzling sunshine of
a lovely June morning.

Its little gem of a yard was surrounded by the daintiest of white
fences, and filled with the brightest and choicest of flowers, showing
that the owner was a person of taste and refinement.

The neatly graveled walk, from which every intruding blade of grass was
carefully plucked, led to a smooth, wide stepping-stone as clean and
spotless as a daily application of soap and water could make it.

The door stands invitingly open this bright morning, but we will not
enter just yet. An introduction first is necessary to its inmates.

The sound of wheels is heard, and down the street comes a light, elegant
buggy, drawn by a noble, spirited, but yet gentle horse of coal black.
On and on it comes, until, at a word from the driver, it stops directly
in front of the gate before the little cottage.

A boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age sprang lightly to the
ground, tied his horse, then, with a look of eager expectation upon his
face, walked quickly toward the open door.

He was a bright and active-appearing youth, with a full, round face,
whose frank, open expression won you at once. His eyes were a fine
hazel, large and full. His forehead, as he lifted his hat and ran his
fingers through the clustering rings of chestnut hair that crowned his
head, shone white and fair as polished marble, and was broad and high.
His nose was straight and rather thin for the rest of his face, while
his mouth was small but very pleasant in its expression, though there
were certain lines about in that indicated firmness and a will of his
own.

He was manly in form and bearing, and there was a look of conscious
pride upon his beaming face as he glanced complacently back at the
handsome equipage at the gate, while the silver tinkle of a bell gave
back an answering echo to his touch.

“Oh, mamma, Robbie has come at last.”

And a bright little elf sprang dancing into the hall, and instantly a
pair of chubby arms were around Robbie’s neck, and a hearty smack
testified to the warmth of his reception.

She was just the sweetest little bit of sunshine ever caught and
imprisoned in human form. A little round rosy face, all smiles and
dimples; a pair of laughing blue eyes that danced and sparkled every
minute in the day with fun and mischief. A pug nose and a rosebud mouth,
always ready to give and take the sweetest kisses, as she had already
proved. Her hair hung in curls around her plump cheeks, and was a sort
of yellowish brown—not at all red, reader, but the brightest and richest
auburn you ever saw.

Her figure was short and plump, while her little skipping fairy feet
seemed almost too tiny to hold up so much precious flesh and blood.

“Oh, Robbie!” she said, almost breathless with delight and anticipation.
“I thought you never, never, never would come; and mamma has coaxed and
scolded to get me from the window, watching for you. She says it’s so
unbecoming and unladylike to be so impatient; but I couldn’t help it,
it’s so long since I had a ride. How nice the old pony looks, doesn’t
he? and o-oh! you’ve had the buggy newly painted, too. What a grand time
we will have! Come, I can’t wait any longer.”

The little witch was about to spring down the step, when a voice from
within arrested her.

“Dora, Dora, wait, my child, you have no collar or gloves. Your hat is
on wrong side front, and your cape is not fastened; come here, my dear,
and let me fix you.”

A quiet, lady-like looking woman followed the pleasant voice, and
approached her lovely little daughter with the missing collar and
gloves.

“Good-morning, Robert,” she said, smiling. “Did you ever see such a
little Miss Wild-fire before?”

“Good-morning, auntie! I can’t blame Dora a mite, for I can hardly keep
still myself this bright day. I wish you could go with us.”

“Thank you, Robert, I fear Dora would hardly consent, for she thinks it
is a great thing for you to take her out alone. How is your father
to-day?”

“He is about as usual, only he does not seem to be in very good spirits.
I told him the other day he would be happier if he was a poor man and
had to work for a living. He would then have something besides himself
to think about.”

“What did he say to that?” asked Mrs. Dupont.

“Oh, he only laughed and said I was a queer boy, and that I might work
for my living if I wanted to.”

“Now, Dora,” said her mother, “you must hold still or I shall never be
able to dress you. Put on your gloves while I pin the collar. I fear
Robert will not wish to take you riding often if you don’t make a better
appearance. Ladies never go to ride without their gloves.”

“But, mamma, I ain’t a lady; I’m only a little girl, and I hate gloves
and starched things.”

The bright little face was very red just now from the effort of putting
on the troublesome gloves, and there was something very like a pout upon
the red lips.

“Well, never mind, dear,” returned her mother, kindly, “you will forget
all about them after you have started. Have a happy time, and come home
and tell me all about it. I hope you are a careful driver,” she added,
turning to Robert. “You won’t forget that Dora is my all now.”

“You may trust me, auntie, and then old Prince is so gentle there is no
fear. Come, Brightie, you are ready now, and we will start.”

He took Dora by the hand, and leading her to the buggy, put her
carefully in; then unfastening the horse he sprang lightly after her,
and with smiles and waving of hands they started, and were soon out of
sight.

Mrs. Dupont stood looking after them for a few minutes, a happy smile
upon her fine face. She was a widow, and this one pet lamb—this bright
and winsome Dora was her all in the world.

Her husband had been a physician, and had settled in S—— soon after
marriage, building up a good practice, which increased every year; until
he had earned this snug little home, which with a few thousands at
interest, made him feel quite easy as to the future. Besides this he had
his life insured for five thousand more, and so when he was suddenly
stricken with a malignant fever, and knew he could not live, he felt
that he should leave his dear ones in comfortable circumstances if not
in affluence. It was a heavy blow to Mrs. Dupont, for it left her almost
alone in the world. She was an orphan, with no relatives except a maiden
aunt, who, disapproving her union with the poor physician, had cast her
off forever, and threatened to leave her large fortune to some
charitable institution.

Maggie Alroyd, scorning the fortune, married her own true love, and was
happy with the penniless doctor. He had been dead now four years; having
died when Dora was eight years of age. But he was not forgotten. His
memory was still fondly cherished in their hearts, and not a day passed
that loving words did not testify to the strength and depth of their
affection for him.

Robert Ellerton, Jr., was the son of one of Dr. Dupont’s patients. A
rich and influential man, who was proud as Lucifer of his wealth, and
also his name, which he claimed was spotless. His wife had died when
Robert, their only child, was born, and he had never married again, his
household affairs being governed by a maiden sister. He had conceived a
sudden attachment for Dr. Dupont, who had saved Robert’s life—for Mr.
Ellerton declared that he did—when he had a severe attack of the croup.

There was nothing he would not do for the doctor after that; the
families immediately became intimate, while Robert and Dora grew to love
each other like brother and sister. Better, in fact, for Robert used to
tell her that some time she should be “his little bright-eyed wife.” And
he always called Mrs. Dupont “Auntie.”

After the doctor died the intimacy continued, until within the last year
or two Mr. Ellerton had suddenly become cold and distant, though he
still allowed Robert and Dora to visit each other. Whenever questioned
why he did not visit them, his reply invariably was that his health was
failing and he did not go out much. Indeed, it seemed to be, for he grew
thin, pale, sullen, and cross to everybody about him.

Even Robert began to fear him and keep out of his way. But in his secret
heart he worshiped his bright and handsome boy, and planned his future
course, building wondrous castles in the air for him.

He was beginning to think that it was about time to put a stop to
“Robert’s foolish fancy for that girl Dora,” for they could not always
expect to keep it up. His son would be rich, and would move in very
different circles from the doctor’s daughter, who was comparatively
poor.

How well he succeeded the future alone will show!

The youthful pair, all unconscious of these plots against their peace,
and also of the very queer act in life’s drama which they were to play
that bright June day, were riding briskly along the smooth, wide road
that led into the country, enjoying to the uttermost the green fields,
sparkling brooks, and gay flowers, with faces as bright and smiling as
their own happy, joyous hearts could make them.

“Where are we going, Robbie?” asked Dora, suddenly remembering that she
did not know.

“I thought we’d ride out to N—— and look at Squire Moulton’s new
statuary. I heard he had just received some, and that it’s the finest
collection in the country. I have a nice little lunch in a basket here,
and after we’ve seen all we want to, we’ll go down by the lake and eat
it.”

“Oh, how nice!” said Dora, clapping her hands. “Is it that great, big
house with the beautiful grounds, where we went to the picnic last
summer?”

“Yes; only you remember I didn’t go. Father doesn’t like the squire very
much,” his face clouding for an instant.

“What is the reason he does not like him?” asked Dora, inquisitively.

“I don’t know, I’m sure, only he was very cross last year when I asked
if I might go to the squire’s picnic, and I thought he swore about him.”

“I don’t care,” said Dora hotly. “I think he’s a real nice man to give
all the children a picnic, and we had a splendid time. I shouldn’t think
he’d let you go to-day, if he wouldn’t then.”

“He didn’t know where I was going to-day. I asked if I might take old
Prince, and he said yes; but I don’t think there would be any harm in
going to see the statuary,” replied Robert, though the hot blood rushed
to his face, as if he felt half guilty.

“I don’t think there is any harm, either; but, oh, Robbie, look at that
squirrel there!—there he goes, right through the wall.”

“Yes, and there goes its mate. Now they’ve both gone into that hole in
that tree.”

“Yes; how cunning they were! I wish you and I were squirrels, with
nothing else to do but run around in the sunshine all day, and eat nuts;
it must be real fun,” glancing back wistfully toward the place where the
squirrels had disappeared.

“Oh, no, Dora, you don’t, either; you forget that if we were squirrels
we could not be married, and, you know that some day you are to be my
little wife,” replied Robert, looking roguishly at her.

“Yes, I could be your wife just the same; for don’t you suppose one of
those squirrels was the other’s wife? And then we shouldn’t have to
work. I hate to wash dishes, and dust, and——”

“Well, Dora,” interrupted Robert, “you won’t have to work when you marry
me, for I shall have plenty of money, and you can have servants to do
the work, and all you’ll have to do will be to dress up in pretty
clothes and trinkets, and play all the time, if you want to.”

“Oh, that will be so nice, Robbie!” exclaimed Dora, heaving a sigh of
relief at the pleasing prospect of not having to work. “I wish I were
your little wife now.”

“Do you?” he asked, a bright look coming into his face. “Well, I’ll tell
you what we will do. We will go and be married before we go home, then I
can take you to mother, for she will be my mother too, then. Will you,
Brightie?”

“Yes, indeed, we will,” replied Dora. “Then my name will be Dora
Ellerton, won’t it? I think it’s a real pretty name, too. But who will
marry us, Robbie?”

“I don’t know. I guess Squire Moulton will; he’s justice, or something.
Any way, I’ll ask him. Come, get up, old Prince, for we are going to be
married.”

He touched the horse lightly with the whip, and these two children, so
full of their fun and mischief, laughed, chatted, and planned for the
future, little dreaming of the sorrow and misery they were about to
entail upon themselves.

At length they rode up the broad drive-way, and stopped before the
squire’s elegant country seat.

He was not in, the man said, who opened the door for them, but guessed
they would find him somewhere about the grounds.

“Well, no matter,” said Robert, who was beginning to feel a little
embarrassed with his strange errand. “We will go and find him.”

And taking Dora by the hand, they strolled down one of the beautiful
walks until they came to a rustic arbor.

On looking within they discovered a little bent man of about fifty, with
sharp black eyes and grizzly hair.

He looked up crossly as they entered, and demanded what they wanted, in
a tone that made Dora shrink closer to Robert’s side.

“Are you Squire Moulton, sir?” asked Robert, respectfully.

“Yes, I’m Squire Moulton. What is it?” he replied sarcastically
mimicking the boy’s manner.

“We’ve come to be married; that’s what we want,” said Dora, smartly, at
the same time snapping her large eyes angrily at him.

“Come to be married, indeed! Ha! ha! ha!”

The little gray-headed old man went off into a paroxysm of laughter that
made the echoes ring all over the grounds, while his evil black eyes
glowed with the intensity of his merriment.

“And pray,” he continued, when he could find breath to speak, and
looking amusedly at the youthful pair before him, “who are you, and what
may be the names of the parties who wish to assume the hymeneal yoke?”

And he laughed again.

“My name is Dora Dupont, and Robbie’s is Robert Ellerton, and you
needn’t laugh, either, for we’ve been engaged this long time.”

There was a sudden change in the man’s manner, and he repeated, with a
dark scowl, looking first at one, then the other.

“Been engaged this long time, have you?”

“Yes, we have, and if you won’t marry us, we can go to some one else.
Robbie is rich, and I guess he can pay for it, so you needn’t be afraid
about that.”

The indignant little lady’s face was of a crimson hue, and her blue eyes
snapped fire, while she enforced her speech with a stamp of her tiny
foot, as she stood erect and defiant before him.

They made a strange picture, and one that each remembered in the long,
dreary years that followed. That gray old man, with his evil face, and
wicked eyes, sitting there, looking so intently at the two children
before him. Robert, with his fine, manly face, glowing with excitement
and exercise, a smile wreathing his full lips at Dora’s anger, while at
the same time there was a half perplexed look in his eyes at the old
man’s words and manner. He was holding Dora’s hand in a protecting sort
of way, while she stood all flushed and indignant, and half ready to cry
at the bare idea of being made fun of, her hair tossed and flying with
every motion of her quivering little form.

Yes, it was an interesting and striking picture beneath that rustic
arbor, with the waving trees, the bright sunshine, and beautiful
flowers, for a background, interspersed here and there with the gleaming
white figures of statuary, and an occasional glimpse of the silvery
waters of a miniature lake, as the waving branches of the trees were
parted by a gentle breeze.

As Dora mentioned the name of Robert Ellerton, a sudden change came over
the squire’s wrinkled face.

He became ashy pale, his lips were clenched beneath his teeth until they
sank deep into the flesh, and his coal-black eyes became almost red with
the fierce blaze of passion that seemed to stir him.

His frame quivered, and he glanced at the youthful lovers in a way that
frightened Dora, who pulled Robert by the sleeve, and whispered that she
was afraid, and wanted to go home.

Robert stood silent and spell-bound, at the sudden and almost terrifying
change in the squire’s manner, staring at him with wonder-wide eyes, and
gaping mouth.

“Robert Ellerton!” at length almost gasped the man. “And is your
father’s name Robert Ellerton, too, young man?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, still regarding him with surprise.

“And your mother—tell me quick,” he continued, hastily, and almost
sternly.

“My mother is dead, sir. She died when I was born, and Aunt Nannie has
always taken care of me.”

“Dead! Oh, Heaven, dead! Jessie dead!” muttered the old man, pressing
his hand to his side, and staggering back upon the seat from which he
had just arisen.

Great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, and his hands shook as
if with palsy, as he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped
them off.

“Oh, Jessie,” he wailed, “thou wert lost to me before, but I did not
think that thou hadst gone so long to the regions of the unknown.

“Say, boy,” he added, and he clutched Robert almost fiercely by the arm,
“was your father kind to her? Did she love him?”

“Of course he was kind to her—of course she loved him,” replied Robert,
indignantly, but wondering still more at the man’s strange behavior.

“Come, Dora,” he added, “we will go home; we won’t stay here any
longer.”

He again took Dora’s hand, which he had dropped in his astonishment, and
started to leave the place.

“Stay,” said Squire Moulton, quickly, and a wicked expression swept away
the agony that had been on his white face a moment before, while the
devilish look came back to his evil eyes, though he tried to control it,
and render his manner pleasant and affable.

“Stay, my young friends, you shall have your wish. I will marry you. I
used to know your mother, young man, and hearing that she was dead took
me by surprise. Yes, I will marry you, certainly,” he continued,
gleefully rubbing his hands together; “only tell me first who this young
lady is. Is her papa rich like your father?”

“No, sir,” replied Dora, promptly, her anger vanishing at the squire’s
pleasant manner. “Poor papa is dead; he was a doctor; and my name is
Dora, and mamma lives in a little cottage; but that is no matter, for
Robbie will be rich, so it doesn’t make any difference.”

“No, no, certainly not, my little miss,” and he laughed disagreeably
again.

“You stay here a few minutes while I go and make out a certificate—for,
luckily, I happen to be clerk as well as justice—and then I’ll come back
and perform the ceremony, and you shall be truly Mrs. Robert Ellerton
before you go home.”

So saying the squire strode with hasty steps toward his elegant mansion,
where, once within his library, he gave free vent to his pent-up
feelings.

With clenched hands and wrinkled brow he paced back and forth the
spacious length of that great room, cursing, bitterly cursing, and
muttering to himself:

“Oh, Robert Ellerton,” he said, “I have you now; I can now pay you twice
told for all my weary years of woe and anguish. You shall moan and weep,
and gnash your teeth, even as I have done. Your false pride shall have a
blow from which it will never recover. I remember you too well to know
how it would gall you to have your son marry a poor girl, and under such
circumstances, too. And he—he too, will chafe in the future at the chain
that binds him. I know how you have built proud castles in the air for
him, even as you used to for yourself, but they shall all tumble about
your ears in confusion. It is in my power to crush you now, and, curse
you, I will do it! Oh, Jessie, my poor blossom, had you but given
yourself to me, how bright would I have made your life! I would have
held you close—close to this beating heart, and it should have given you
life. My life has been, and is, like the dregs of the wine-cup, sour and
bitter, but you could have made it sweet and fragrant as burning
incense. But now there is nothing left but revenge, and—I will take it!
Oh, how I hate you, blighter of my happiness! I curse you! and I will
crush you and yours if I can.”

It was a fearful passion that moved him. One moment of intense hatred
and anger toward one whom he imagined had wrecked his life. The next
full of tenderness and sorrow for the one loved and lost sweetness of
his existence. It was a long pent-up agony flowing afresh over his soul,
a wound long since healed and scarred over now torn rudely open, and
pouring forth his inmost heart’s blood. He tore his hair, he beat his
breast, as he strode wildly back and forth, until at last, utterly
overcome, he sank back exhausted upon a chair.

Several moments passed, when with a mighty effort he conquered his
emotion in a measure, and rising, he went to his secretary, took out
some papers, and sitting down, commenced writing. He soon finished,
folded the paper, and then went back to the arbor, where the children,
having forgotten all unpleasantness, were chatting merrily.

They became silent as he approached, and looked uneasy; but he entered
with a pleasant smile, told them to rise and take hold of each other’s
right hand, and going hastily through the marriage service, he soon
pronounced them man and wife.

His own face paled as he looked into those so earnestly raised to his,
and his heart half sank within him as the thought of what he had done
rushed over him. But he quickly cast it from him, and giving the folded
paper to Dora, he told her, with a sinister smile, that she must never
part with it, but treasure it sacredly, or she could not prove that she
was Robert’s wife.

She took it, with a feeling half of awe, half of shame, and thrust it
quickly within the depths of her pocket.

How could that bold, bad man stand up so calmly and perform such a
mockery in the sight of Heaven? How could he so deliberately plan to
blight and crush two innocent hearts and lives—two babes, as it were,
who had never had a thought or wish of evil for any of God’s creatures?
He little knew or realized to what extent his threat would be carried.
Perhaps, could he have looked into the future, even he would have shrunk
from the depth of woe to which his curses consigned them.

After he had performed this diabolical act, he instantly became the most
agreeable of hosts, taking them all over his grounds, showing them the
statuary, and explaining the different subjects to them; afterward
giving them a sail upon the miniature lake in the daintiest of dainty
boats. He then invited them into the grand old house, where, after
looking a half-hour or so at some magnificent paintings, he ushered them
into a pleasant little room, where they found a tempting little treat of
strawberries and cream and cake.

They made merry here for a while, and then, as their buggy was ordered
to the door, they bade their host a pleasant good-by, thanking him for
his kindness to them; took their seats, and drove merrily away.

Squire Moulton watched them until they disappeared from view; then,
raising one clenched hand, he shook it threateningly, and hissed through
his shut teeth:

“Go, you young fools! and my worst curses go with you!”

He then went within, slamming the door violently after him. As he did
so, two men arose from behind some bushes and shrubs which grew beside
the arbor where the strange marriage had taken place, and stealthily
made their way out of the grounds, whispering as they went.




                              CHAPTER II.
                  “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!”


All unmindful of the withering curses invoked upon their devoted heads,
the young and newly-wedded pair went on their homeward way, as happy and
light-hearted as they had come, little dreaming of the reception that
awaited the announcement of their mad freak—little dreaming of the
sudden and cruel separation in store for them—that the bright day so
happily begun, and well-nigh spent, was to close, as it were, in a night
of black despair, and long, long years of weary sorrow and heart-pangs
intervene ere joy and reunion would come again to them.

Old Prince held his head higher than ever, and stepped briskly along on
the homeward route, as if half conscious of the new and strangely
important relations which the occupants of the buggy bore to each other.

“Well, Robbie, I don’t feel any different from what I did before, do
you?” asked Dora, with a comical look on her rosy face.

“Why, no, Brightie; I didn’t expect to, did you?”

“I d’no,” replied the child, looking somewhat confused. “Well—yes—I
thought folks who got married felt bigger and grander some way.”

Robert laughed.

“Did you?” he asked. “I guess it must be because they always have on new
clothes, and are fixed up so much.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Dora, still looking puzzled. “And now I’m married,
I suppose I shall have to wear my dresses long, like other ladies, and
do my hair up in a waterfall behind, and wear bonnets instead of hats,
and, oh, dear! now I shall always have to wear gloves and stiff
collars.”

She heaved a little sigh here, half regretful, but presently went on:

“And, Robbie, you must have a tall hat and a long-tailed coat, and I
wish you had whiskers and a mustache; then I guess it would seem more
real, but I don’t feel a bit as if I was married now.”

Robert looked rather sober and sheepish, as he answered:

“I don’t know, Dora; I’m afraid we shouldn’t know each other rigged up
in that style. I don’t think I should like you half so well, with your
hair bobbed up behind, and then the long dresses would cover up your
pretty little feet; and I’m sure I shouldn’t know how to act in a
stove-pipe hat, and a long-tailed coat. I like you best as you are,
Brightie, so I guess we hadn’t better change.”

“But,” persisted the little lady, still fearful they would not be able
to support the dignity of man and wife, “don’t you think you could raise
some whiskers? I think you would look real nice if you had some like
Professor Allen.”

“I could get some false ones, if you want——”

“Ugh, don’t!” shivered Dora, as she thought of the horrid thing she had
seen in the shop windows on the street. “Well, I don’t care much any
way,” she continued; “but what do you suppose mamma will say?”

“I rather think she will be surprised when I call her mother, for I love
her dearly, and you know I never had one of my own.”

His bright face fell for a moment.

“I don’t believe I can ever say papa to your father. He has been so
sober and cross lately I’m almost afraid of him.”

“I guess he’ll get over that when he finds out what a pretty little
daughter he’s got,” replied Robert, with a fond look into the lovely
face of his little bride. “Here we are at home again,” he added, as he
drew up before the gate. “Whoa, old Prince, till I help my wife out and
take her into mother.”

Old Prince stopped in obedience to the word of command, and Robert
helped Dora out just as Mrs. Dupont’s smiling face appeared at the door
of the cottage to welcome them home.

Robert, taking Dora gravely by the hand, led her up to her mother, and
said:

“How do you do, mother? We’ve had a nice day, and I’ve brought my wife
back to you safe and sound.”

Mrs. Dupont laughed a light mocking laugh, as she said, with comic
seriousness:

“Happy to see you, little Mrs. Ellerton, and very glad to know you have
had such a nice time.”

“Very nice time, indeed, mamma,” replied Dora, with funny dignity; “only
the man who married us acted so strangely that I was almost afraid of
him. However, he got over it, and it’s all right now.”

“Really, my dear madam,” replied her mother, still willing to humor what
she thought was one of their old jokes, “who was the clergyman that
married you?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a minister at all, mamma, but Squire Moulton, and he gave
me the certificate, and told me I must never part with it, or I couldn’t
prove I was Robbie’s wife.”

“Nonsense, Dora, what do you know about a marriage certificate?”

“Well, but, mamma, he did, and I have it here in my pocket—haven’t I,
Robbie?”

“Yes,” answered Robert, now glad of a chance to say a word; “and you are
really and truly my mother now. Aren’t you glad you have a son?”

She did not answer; she looked first at one, then at the other with a
puzzled expression, hardly knowing what to make of the affair. Both
their faces were so earnest, and they talked in such a matter-of-fact
way, that she could not comprehend it.

At last Dora, who had been fumbling in her pocket, took out the
certificate and handed it to her mother, saying, triumphantly:

“There, mamma, read and see if we ain’t married, really and truly.”

Mrs. Dupont was frightened, and sank down pale and faint on the
door-step, the paper still folded in her fingers.

“Now, Robert and Dora, if this is a joke,” she said, “you have carried
it far enough; but if you are in earnest, tell me all about it at once.”

Robert then related all that had transpired from the time they left home
until their return. He told her how the squire had questioned him about
his father and mother, how angry and excited he seemed to get, and about
his wanting to know if Dora’s papa was rich, etc. He described the
marriage ceremony, their ramble around the grounds, their sail on the
lake, and their treat in the house, with such truthful manner that Mrs.
Dupont could not doubt him.

With trembling fingers and paling lips Mrs. Dupont opened the paper, and
saw it was a regular certificate, with the children’s names and ages
attached. She could no longer doubt the truth of what she heard and saw.

With a low moan the paper dropped from her hand, and she cried out in
frightened tones:

“Oh, Robert, oh, Dora, my children, what have you done?”

“Why, mamma!” exclaimed Dora, in astonishment, “I thought you’d like it.
You know I always promised to be Robbie’s wife, and now I am, what makes
you feel so? I’m sure I’m as glad as can be.”

“Stop!” replied her mother, sternly. “You foolish child, you know not
what you have done.”

Poor innocent Dora had never heard her mother speak so before, and with
her heart almost broken she rushed sobbing into the house, and crouched
half frightened in a corner.

Robert, who had listened to all that passed, with surprise and almost
anger, grew pale himself at Mrs. Dupont’s strange manner, and began to
think it had not been such a happy day after all. That he had done a
serious thing was certain, though for his part he could not yet see the
harm.

“Robert,” at length said Mrs. Dupont, “drive home as quickly as you can,
and bring your father to me. I must talk this matter over with him
immediately.”

Robert became seriously alarmed. He thought if he had done anything that
demanded a solemn conference with his father, it must be serious indeed.

“Auntie,” he said, looking wistfully into her face and addressing her by
the old name, “I am sorry you feel so badly about this, but do not blame
Dora, for I alone am to blame for all that has happened.”

“Go!” she said wearily, pointing toward his buggy.

“But please, auntie——”

“Go bring your father here. My brain is in a whirl, I cannot think or
act until I have seen him.”

She stooped and picked up the paper she had dropped, and then entered
the house.

With a long drawn sigh and a quivering lip he turned to obey her, and
entering his buggy, drove rapidly toward home, fearing, he knew not
what, but his heart was heavy within his bosom.




                              CHAPTER III.
                        “THE FUTURE WILL SHOW.”


While Robert is gone for his father we will return to Squire Moulton’s
mansion.

It was a large and elegant building, unique in its architecture and
adornments, and furnished with the most exquisite taste. It was a home
of exceeding beauty, but, with all its costliness and splendor, it was a
dreary and lonely home, for its master lived alone, with only his
servants for companions. No loving smile from a tender and affectionate
wife greeted him when he came; no watchful eyes or listening ears waited
to catch the shadow of his form, or the sound of his footsteps; no
prattling voices made the lofty rooms ring with their joy and merriment,
or sang out the glad word “papa” at his approach. No, it was a dreary
life of lonely splendor.

I said he lived alone; but not alone all of the time, for his nephew,
Ralph Moulton, a youth of seventeen, made his uncle’s mansion his home,
and was always there to spend his holidays. The squire had brought him
home when he came from abroad, and when the boy was very young, merely
saying he was his nephew and would always remain with him.

He gave him every advantage, which, to the lad’s credit be it said, he
eagerly improved, and he was now preparing for college. He was a clever,
active youth, very attractive in form and feature, and when nothing went
wrong was pleasant and agreeable. But when in a passion he displayed the
same sinister emotions that moved his uncle. He was selfish and cruel at
heart, aiming only to gratify his own desires and passions, in spite of
all opposition. Report said that he was to inherit the squire’s
property, indeed he had been brought to believe so himself, and the
world bowed down in reverence and humility accordingly. He was now at
home on a few days’ vacation.

The squire, on entering his mansion, after the departure of the
children, proceeded in deep thought to his library again. When here he
violently pulled a bell-rope, and then seated himself in a large
easy-chair, burying his face in his hands.

Presently the massive door swung softly open, and a servant stood
respectfully awaiting his commands.

Squire Moulton raised his head and said, in a harsh voice:

“Is Master Ralph in?”

“No, sir,” replied the man, “he went fishing this morning, and has not
yet returned.”

“Well, send him immediately to me on his return. You may go.”

With an humble bow the man disappeared.

Half an hour, perhaps more, elapsed, when the sound of whistling was
heard in the hall, and immediately the door opened again, and the young
man in question entered.

He was dressed with exquisite neatness, and very gentlemanly in bearing
and manners.

“Well, uncle, John told me I was wanted here, so I came as soon as I
could get off some of the fish smell—such mean luck I never had before,”
he said, a vexed look coming into his handsome face at the remembrance.

“I did wish to see you, Ralph; be seated, for I have much to say to
you.”

The young man obeyed, inwardly wondering what was coming.

“Did you ever hear me speak of a man named Robert Ellerton?” asked the
old man, looking sharply at his nephew.

“No, sir, but I’ve seen you look mighty cross if any one else happened
to speak his name in your presence,” was the curt reply.

“You perhaps know that he has a son by the same name?” was the next
query.

“Yes, sir, I’ve met him, and he’s a tip-top fellow, for a youngster, and
smart as chain lightning!”

The squire’s face was black as night at this stream of praise, which,
coming from such a source, annoyed him exceedingly.

“Spare your praises,” he said sarcastically; “perhaps you won’t laud him
so highly when you hear what I have to tell you.”

“Well, out with it, uncle. What has the boy done? Thrown a stone and
broken one of your treasured nymphs out yonder?”

And Ralph motioned toward the grounds, which could be seen from the deep
bay-window near which they sat.

“Cease your nonsense, boy, and listen, for I have a story to tell you,”
replied Squire Moulton, angrily.

He paused a few moments, while an expression of pain swept over his hard
face. At length, with an effort, he began; while Ralph listened,
wonderingly.

“When I was a boy of nineteen or twenty, I loved a beautiful girl. Her
name was Jessie Almyr. I need not describe her; my days of rhapsodies
are passed. Sufficient that I loved her with all the fire of my heart.
It had grown with the growth of years, for we had been intimate from
childhood, and I had almost begun to consider her as rightfully
belonging to me.

“I had never told her of my love; I was poor then, and would not offer
her an empty hand. I had written to an uncle in the city for a
situation, and was waiting for an answer, which, if favorable, I felt
would then place me in a position that would warrant my telling Jessie
how dear she was to me.

“While waiting for the much-wished for answer, a young man two or three
years older than myself came to our village. He was rich, talented and
handsome. He was introduced to Jessie, and, of course, loved her, too.
Who could help it that knew her? But I will not anticipate. The
long-looked for letter at last arrived, telling me that I could have the
situation, and offering me an ample salary, more than I had expected,
and I felt that now I could support my bride in comfort. Wild with joy,
I sought her and poured out the whole story of my love, not dreaming but
that her reply would be all I could wish. She listened with downcast
eyes and beating heart; I could see it throb beneath the folds of her
dress. Her cheek was flushed, and I felt that I was almost sure of my
prize, when—oh, my God! I can never forget it——”

The squire stopped and covered his face with his hands, while tears
gathered in his eyes and rolled down his withered cheeks, as the memory
of his blighted hopes rushed over him. It was some minutes before he
could proceed, and there was utter silence in the room. Finally he
raised his head; a stern, hard look had taken the place of the softened
expression, and he continued:

“We were standing before a window that looked out on the western sky;
the sun was just setting, and its yellow rays streamed in a golden glory
all around my love, making her look like some bright-robed divinity.
When I had finished telling her my hopes and plans, her lips moved as if
she was about to speak, and I bent my ear to catch the blessed words.
She raised her eyes, and I could have sworn that the love-light was in
their bright depths; but—the sound of a horse’s footsteps outside drew
them from me to rest on the handsome face and figure of Robert Ellerton
as he rode by on horseback.

“He saw us, bowed gracefully, and waved one daintily gloved hand to her.

“The look of love fled from my darling’s eyes, as his form passed from
sight, and with an absent-minded air she said she was afraid she did not
love me well enough to be my wife—that she could not give me as much in
return as I could wish.

“I protested that if she would only be mine, I would never complain of a
lack of affection. She replied that she would think of my offer for a
day or two before she gave me her answer. I gazed at her for a moment in
astonishment—I was so sure she loved me! I could hardly believe it was
the same Jessie whom I had always worshiped—her manner was so changed.

“Half-mad with jealousy, and the fear that I might lose her after all, I
seized her in my arms and kissed her passionately. She gently released
herself, and I went away—and—I never spoke to her again!

“A few days after, she sent me a note, telling me she could not be my
wife—that she did not love me well enough, and she would not wrong me by
giving me her hand without her heart.

“Oh! I saw it all! I saw it all! Another had usurped my place! Ralph,
listen to me!”

The agitated old man leaped forward, while he whispered, hoarsely:

“In three months from that time she married that villain, Robert
Ellerton—that city dandy. Yes, she chose a shallow love, of three or
four months’ growth, to a devotion of years—but he was rich, and I was
poor. But I swear he stole her from me—he stole her from me—the thief
that he is!”

The bitter remembrance was too much for the squire, and he sank back
nearly fainting in his chair.

Ralph sprang up, poured out a glass of wine, and held it up to his lips.
He swallowed it eagerly, and it revived him. He was about to proceed,
when his nephew interrupted him:

“Uncle, do not finish your story to-night. Some other time will do as
well; though, for the life of me, I can’t see yet what I have to do with
it.”

“No, no, my boy; I must finish it now; I should not have courage to
begin again. Well, they were married, and went to their city home—for he
was rich, and lived in great style—while I was left to my loneliness and
desolation, without a thought or care. But I swore revenge, deep and
fearful, and since I have had means to secure it, I have sought to keep
my oath! For awhile I lost track of them, but finally followed them to
this city, though I only heard to-day that Jessie was dead. She died
nearly fifteen years ago, and I never knew it until to-day. And to-day I
have begun my work of revenge in earnest.”

He then narrated how he had married the children, and sent them home
with the certificate made out in due form in their pockets.

“Now Ralph,” he continued, “what I want of you is to help me fulfill my
oath. I want you to watch this boy and defeat every plan of his life. Be
his evil genius, as it were. I have given the father a heavy blow in
marrying his son to a poor girl, for he is as proud as Lucifer. I don’t
care what you do or how you do it, only ruin him, and his girl wife,
too. I want them to experience a little of what I have suffered, and of
what has made me an old man before my time. I look more than fifty, and
am not yet forty. In return for your promise to do this I will bequeath
you all my fortune. I may not live to see the end of it—I do not expect
to, for I have heart disease, and am liable to die at any time. Will you
do it?”

Ralph had been deeply interested in his uncle’s story, but he hesitated
now to give the desired promise. At last he said:

“I don’t know, uncle, about it; it’s a pretty hard task to set a fellow,
to avenge another man’s injuries, especially when he’s in no way
concerned himself.”

“Perhaps you’re more concerned in it than you think,” replied his uncle,
eying him wickedly.

“I should like the fortune well enough, but I thought—I have always
thought I was to have that anyway.”

“Oh, really, young man, have you? Pray, who informed you to that
effect?” sneered the squire.

Ralph blushed angrily.

“I have been brought up with that hope always held out to me. If any one
is to blame in the matter I think it’s you,” he retorted.

“Indeed! But let me ask you, have you any conscientious scruples about
undertaking this affair?”

“Hang it, no!” answered Ralph. “Conscience and I don’t trouble each
other much. But how do I know but you may get a grudge against me
sometime, and then where will the fortune go?”

“Very well, young man, you can do as you choose about it,” replied the
squire, bitterly. “But as long as a fortune of half a million does not
seem to tempt you, perhaps I can whisper a word in your ear that will
have more weight with you; and you will be glad to seek revenge on your
own account.”

“Well, what is it?” impatiently demanded the boy.

“Presently, presently; but first tell me why you thought you would be my
heir.”

“Why, I am your nephew for one thing, and——”

“My nephew, are you? Can you prove it?”

“Prove it! what do you mean, sir!”

Ralph was beginning to be frightened at the other’s manner and words.

The squire looked almost fiendish, as his face glowed with a sudden
thought and determination. He leaned toward the youth, speaking in a low
tone, as if fearful of being overheard.

“I mean,” he said, “that you are not my nephew!”

“You lie!” gasped the thunder-struck boy, with a white face. “Then why
am I here?”

“Yes,” coolly replied Squire Moulton, “I have lied. My whole life for
the last few years has been a lie. You are here simply because I brought
you here. You are a part of my plan of revenge!”

The old man’s face grew ghastly at this statement.

Ah! what a double lie was on his soul!

“You old schemer, this is too much! If I am not your nephew, who am I
then?”

He sprang to his feet, and stood with one clenched hand raised as if he
would strike the evil man before him dead.

“Oh, you begin to be interested, do you?” was the taunting reply. “You
are ready enough to look after your own interests, but won’t risk
anything to help another.”

“Who am I? I ask you,” fairly hissed the boy, the perspiration starting
from every pore of his white, convulsed face.

“Will you promise——”

“I promise nothing; but I’ll choke you if you don’t tell me quick,” and
he glared savagely at his uncle.

The wicked squire looked uneasy. He sat in deep thought for a moment,
while Ralph watched him in stern and breathless silence. He was about to
venture a great stake, and if he failed it might prove the worse for
him. At last he heaved a deep sigh, and with sudden determination in his
voice, said:

“Put your ear down here, Ralph, for I would not have a breath of this
heard.”

Ralph bent close to the old man, his white face growing whiter with the
intense excitement he felt.

“You are——”

The rest was in a swift, hissing whisper, but the boy heard it, for his
eyes instantly blazed with a lightning passion, while the rage and hate
shown in every feature, and he shook as with an ague fit.

“Curse him! Ten thousand maledictions on him! I will do it!” he wildly
exclaimed, striding up and down the room in a towering fury.

“Ha, ha!” laughed the other. “I thought you’d come to your senses, my
fine fellow. Now you can work for two fortunes instead of one.”

He laughed wickedly, and looked so evil that his cloven-footed master
must have been proud of such an ally.

“I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it,” said Ralph, stopping suddenly,
as if in doubt. “I don’t see how it can be possible.”

“Very well,” answered Squire Moulton, with an ugly sneer. “Sit down
again and be calm, and I will tell you how it happens to be so. I will
give you the whole history.”

Ralph Moulton (for we who are not in the secret must still call him so)
went to the sideboard and poured out a glass of wine, which he instantly
drained, and then resumed his seat.

“Draw nearer,” said the squire, “for should a breath of this be heard it
would spoil all our plans.”

Ralph obeyed, and for an hour listened with breathless interest to the
exciting story related by his supposed uncle.

And as they sat there, those two with their white faces and coal black
eyes that glowed with the fierce fires of hate and revenge, any one
would have been willing to swear, so fearfully alike was the expression
of both, that they inherited the same evil passions, and that the same
blood flowed in their veins.

Did it?

The future will show.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                             “I WILL NOT!”


Robert drove home as fast as he could make old Prince go, his mind all
confused, while doubts and fears oppressed him. His father was just
going in to tea when he arrived, and Robert followed him into the
dining-room.

Mr. Ellerton received Mrs. Dupont’s message with evident displeasure.

“What does Mrs. Dupont wish to-night,” he asked, “that is so important?
Can’t she wait until some other time?”

“No, sir; she told me to come back immediately.”

“Do you know what she wants?” inquired his father.

“Yes, sir,” replied Robert, blushing deeply; “but I cannot tell you; she
will do that.”

Mr. Ellerton eyed him sharply, as if he mistrusted he had been up to
some mischief. He then took his seat at the table, and ate his supper in
silence.

As for Robert, he was so anxious and uneasy that he could scarcely
swallow; but the meal was soon over, and they started for Mrs. Dupont’s.

It was only a short distance, and they were soon there.

Mrs. Dupont met them in the hall, with a grave and troubled face, and
ushered them into the cozy sitting-room, where Dora lay upon a lounge,
with red and swollen eyes. At sight of Robert, her tears started afresh,
and she sobbed as if her heart were broken.

He went to her, and took her in his arms, whispering words of comfort in
her ears, and soon had her smiling again. She could not be unhappy long
when he was with her.

Taking Mr. Ellerton’s hat, Mrs. Dupont asked him to be seated, and then
drawing a low rocker opposite him, she began her story.

Mr. Ellerton listened with cold politeness until she mentioned Squire
Moulton’s name, when he glanced angrily at his son. Robert understood
the look, and his own eyes fell.

When she had finished, he replied, half laughing at what he considered
children’s play:

“Well, my dear madam, you are making yourself unhappy about a very
slight matter. No ceremony like that could possibly be legal. In the
first place, they are minors; then there are no witnesses, and they had
no certificate.”

“Oh, but I forgot to tell about that,” she replied, hastily. “There it
is,” and she handed him the paper.

His brow clouded instantly as he read it. The affair was beginning to
assume a more serious look than he liked. He saw it was made out in due
form, and signed by “Anson Moulton, clerk.”

He saw through the whole plot immediately—saw that the man whom he knew
to be his deadly enemy had intended to do him this great wrong; that he
meant to strike a blow where it would tell.

He turned sternly to Robert, and said:

“Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself? You have disobeyed me by
going where I have strictly forbidden you, to say nothing of the fix you
have got yourself into.”

“I intended no harm, father,” replied Robert, respectfully. “I heard of
the squire’s statuary, and you know how fond I am of such things, so I
told Dora we would ride out and see it.”

“What put this ridiculous idea into your heads?” he asked, shaking the
certificate impatiently at him.

“I don’t know; I always thought Dora was to be my wife, so I thought we
might as well be married to-day as any time.”

“Such talk was all very well for a couple of children; but you could not
think I would really allow such a thing, either now or in the future. I
had other plans for you,” said Mr. Ellerton, an angry flush spreading
itself over his face.

“But I did, sir,” replied Robert, firmly, though with a mortified air,
for the implied inferiority cast upon the Duponts by his father’s words
stung him. “It has been talked of for years,” he went on, “and I, for
one, have believed it. I love Dora, and always shall love her; and if we
had waited ten years, and she was willing, I would have done the same
thing.”

“Bosh!” exclaimed his father, impatiently. “You can sit down again, and
hold your peace. Madam,” he continued, turning icily to Mrs. Dupont
again, “I think we can fix this little affair. Even if the ceremony
proves to be legal, we can easily have them divorced. I suppose it’s
your wish as well as mine?”

“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Dupont, in a constrained tone, for she was
deeply hurt at Mr. Ellerton’s words and manner. “But do you think the
marriage is legal?”

“I don’t see how it can be, for they are under age; but I assure you
there will be no trouble about the matter.”

“Can we not see a lawyer to-night, and get his advice about the matter?
I should feel much relieved to have it settled at once.”

“I don’t think it is necessary; still, if you desire it, I will drive to
Lawyer Leonard’s office, and talk it over with him.”

“Do, if you please, for I shall not rest easy until I know beyond a
doubt,” replied Mrs. Dupont, nervously.

Without a word Mr. Ellerton took his hat and left the house.

He drove directly to the office of his friend, Squire Leonard, where he
remained nearly an hour, and when he came out the lawyer was with him,
and he looked moody and anxious. They entered the buggy and drove back
to Mrs. Dupont’s.

Mr. Ellerton introduced the lawyer, and then sat down, stern and silent.

Mr. Leonard questioned and cross-questioned the children, making them
relate over again every particular of their trip.

He could find no flaw anywhere. The irrevocable words were pronounced,
and the ceremony was legal in every particular except that the children
were under age. The certificate was made out without an error, and it
seemed as if every precaution had been taken against proving the
marriage null and void.

When Mr. Leonard had finished his examination of the children he turned
to Mr. Ellerton and Mrs. Dupont, saying:

“I find there is but one course left us. That villain has bound them for
life, unless they will agree to a separation. If they will say they are
sorry it ever happened we can procure a divorce, and it is the only way
now that they can be separated.”

“Of course there will be no difficulty, then,” returned Mr. Ellerton,
looking much relieved. “Robert,” he continued, turning to his son, “you
will tell Mr. Leonard that you are sorry for this affair immediately.”

“But, father, I am not sorry, and I can’t say that I am, unless I tell
an untruth.”

“Heavens, boy, don’t be stubborn! Don’t you see what a fix you are in?
Don’t you see that you are tied to that girl for life?”

“I can’t see that it is a very bad fix to be in,” replied Robert,
smiling fondly at Dora, who lay with her head upon his shoulder, and
looking up at him with her big eyes.

“I told you I loved Dora,” he went on, “and that if we waited ten years,
I should marry her. No, sir, I am glad instead of sorry.”

“Your son has learned one virtue at least, Mr. Ellerton—that of
frankness,” laughed the lawyer, much amused.

Mr. Ellerton, exasperated beyond control at being thus defied, left his
seat, and going to his son, laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder, saying,
in a fierce voice:

“Robert Ellerton, I command you to say, in the presence of these
witnesses, that you regret this marriage.”

“Father, I cannot,” pleaded the boy, beseechingly.

“You mean you will not, willful boy. But disobey me at your peril!”

The lines about the boy’s mouth grew hard and firm. He looked his father
calmly in the eye as he replied:

“I will not, then, if that pleases you better.”

Mr. Ellerton threatened and entreated, coaxed and pleaded, but all to no
purpose, for his son was firm as a rock, and at length, in despair, he
turned to his friend and asked what he should do.

Squire Leonard looked amused yet perplexed, for it was the most novel
affair he had ever had anything to do with.

“Try the other one,” he said, pointing to Dora.

“Dora,” said Mr. Ellerton, trying to frighten her into obedience by a
black look, “are you not sorry that you and Robert are married? Just
think what a wrong thing for two little children to do.”

Dora looked wistfully up at Robert.

“Robbie,” she asked, sadly, “shall I tell him that I am sorry?”

“Tell them just as you feel, Brightie,” he replied, yet there was an
anxious expression in his eye as he waited for her answer.

“Well, then, I ain’t sorry one mite,” she said, flushing angrily, “and I
think you are a real wicked man to try and part us, for Squire Moulton
said ‘what God hath joined together let no man put to thunder.’ Was not
that it, Robbie?” she asked, half doubtfully, thinking that it didn’t
sound just right.

The lawyer shouted, while even her mother and Mr. Ellerton could not
repress a smile at this new version of the Scriptural command.

“No, ‘put asunder,’ darling,” replied the boy lover, a glad look in his
eye, while he gathered her closer in his arms.

“Come here, Dora,” said Mrs. Dupont, who had noticed the act, and feared
it might influence her replies.

She obeyed, though somewhat unwillingly.

Lawyer Leonard, controlling his mirth, turned to the child and said:

“My dear little girl, don’t you see how unhappy you are making your
mother? Only see how pale and sad she looks at what you have done. If
you will only say you are sorry she will be happy again.”

Dora looked up in her mother’s face with a troubled expression.

“Mamma,” she asked, “are you unhappy?”

“Yes, dear, very,” replied Mrs. Dupont.

“Mamma, do you want me to tell a lie?”

“I have always told you to speak the truth, my child,” replied her
mother, somewhat evasively.

“No, but do you want me to tell one now?”

Mrs. Dupont caught the child to her bosom as she whispered:

“No, dear.”

She then turned with a look of anguish to her visitors, and said:

“It’s of no use, gentlemen; I cannot ask my child to tell a falsehood
even for this. I have always taught her to shun an untruth, and I cannot
be the first to bid her speak one.”

Dora threw herself into her mother’s arms again, and bursting into
tears, said, between her sobs:

“Mamma, if Robbie was sorry, I should be—because—because if he didn’t
want me for his wife I shouldn’t want to be.”

Something very like a curse burst from Mr. Ellerton’s lips, while the
lawyer, with tears in his eyes, turned to him and said:

“I think, my dear sir, you had better let this matter rest, at least for
the present. It is clear that the children love each other. It’s an odd
predicament, I know, and I must say I never before knew or heard of an
attachment so strong in persons so young. It may prove to their mutual
happiness hereafter, and therefore I advise you to let the subject
drop.”

“No!” thundered Mr. Ellerton. “If the law won’t separate them, I shall.
They are a couple of stubborn fools, and if they won’t give in, I will
send Robert off where he shall never see the girl again. Once for all,
what do you say, Robert?”

“Oh, Robbie!” sobbed Dora.

“Hush, darling,” whispered her mother, while she anxiously waited
Robert’s reply.

A look of anger flashed from the boy’s fine eyes, while the lines about
his mouth grew harder and sterner, though his tone was perfectly
respectful as he replied:

“I say, sir, that I am glad it was done before you had a chance to stop
it. She is mine now and forever, and nobody can take her from me.”

White with suppressed wrath, Mr. Ellerton walked to the table, took up
his hat and giving Robert his cap, pointed silently to the door.

Robert took the cap and went boldly to Dora’s side.

“Good-night, darling,” he whispered. “Watch for me, for I shall come
again soon.”

He bent down and kissed her flushed cheek, and bowing to the others,
followed his father from the room.




                               CHAPTER V.
                              THE PARTING.


Mr. Ellerton and his son entered their carriage in silence; the one in
stern and gloomy displeasure, the other with a look of firm resolve
still upon his face, though his heart throbbed and glowed with
exultation, that Dora had remained steadfast as he himself.

Mr. Ellerton drove furiously homeward, giving free vent to his feelings
by smartly applying the lash to poor startled old Prince’s back, which
had never been beaten so before.

At the door he gave the horse to a servant, and telling Robert to go
directly to the library, he took off his light summer overcoat and hat,
hung them upon the rack in the hall, and then followed him.

He locked the door after him, and going the table, lit an astral lamp
and seated himself in silence, motioning Robert to do the same.

After a few moments spent in deep thought, he turned his eyes upon his
son and said, in a hard, cold voice:

“Well, sir, how much longer do you intend to carry on this farce?”

“What farce?” asked Robert, innocently.

“What farce, you fool? why, this ridiculous obstinacy about this more
ridiculous marriage.”

“It is no farce, father,” firmly replied his son.

“Have done with such talk, or by Heaven, I’ll flog you. I tell you this
thing is going to be made null and void, and if you won’t obey me
willingly, I will force you to obedience. Not one penny of my money
shall you have, to begin with; I will give it to some one who is willing
to give heed to my wishes. And I think I know of one who would be very
glad to get it.”

This latter sentence was muttered partly aloud and partly to himself,
while a bitter sneer curled his lips.

“I will shut you up,” he continued, “and you shall live upon bread and
water until you consent, or if that does not bring you to your senses, I
will send you to the remotest lands of the earth, where, with barely
enough to live upon, you will soon be glad to come to terms. The idea of
you really thinking that you love this low, ill-bred girl, or even the
thought of marrying her in the future, is perfectly absurd. Why, boy,
she is almost a beggar, while you will be worth your hundreds of
thousands. My son mating with such as she! I tell you I won’t have it.
Better had you died when you were so ill, than that Dr. Dupont should
have saved your life, to waste it on his girl. Choose, sir, and choose
thoughtfully and carefully, for I swear I’ll move heaven and earth
before this thing shall go on. You know what the girl said; if you would
repent she would also.”

“I will ask you the same question, father, that Dora asked her mother:
Do you wish me to utter a falsehood? You have been as strict with me
about the truth as any one.”

“This talk is all cant, Robert,” replied his father, angrily. “You know
as well as I that you will regret it in the future. It’s only your
thundering will. Just think how ashamed you will be to introduce her
into your own circle by and by; as commonly brought up as she has been,
and such a frightful little squab, with red hair, too.”

Robert’s eyes blazed now with a dangerous sparkle.

“I am not at all afraid, sir, that I shall ever have cause to be ashamed
of my wife. Her mother is more of a lady now than you are a gentleman,
with the insinuation that you cast at her to-night.”

Mr. Ellerton winced. He had repented what he had said as soon as the
words were uttered; but it enraged him beyond measure to be reproved by
his son, and he shouted:

“Silence, you young rascal! If you ever call that girl wife again in my
presence, I swear I’ll thrash you. I ask you again, will you give up
this girl?”

“No, sir.”

“You will not?”

“I will not.”

They sat gazing into each other’s eyes for several minutes; those two,
so firm and unyielding, until Mr. Ellerton, unable longer to endure his
son’s steadfast look, turned angrily away, and, in a voice hoarse with
wrath, said:

“Go to your room, you ungrateful boy, and remain there until I decide
your fate.”

Robert picked up his cap, which had fallen to the floor, and moved to
the door. He opened it, and turning back, said, respectfully:

“Good-night, father.”

There was no reply, and he passed out, up the broad and handsome
stairway, into his own room; where he sat in deep and earnest thought
for several hours. At length, feeling tired and worn, he retired, and
slept soundly until morning.

Poor Mr. Ellerton, down stairs, paced the room all night long. He was
angry, but he was more, he was crushed.

It was, indeed, as Squire Moulton meant it should be, a heavy blow, not
only to his pride, but to all his hopes and plans for his boy in the
future. He intended to educate his boy in the most thorough manner,
giving him every advantage and privilege that money could procure, and
he had hoped to see him contract a brilliant marriage in the future.
Those plans were now crushed in a single day—were blighted, never to
revive again, and—“by a nobody,” he said, bitterly, to himself; and he
cursed his foe with the deadliest curses. He felt that he had never
wronged the man otherwise than by marrying the girl he had loved. But he
knew that, besides this, there was another reason, which, though he
himself was not to blame for it, the squire might see fit to revenge
upon him. It was a secret between them, and they had never breathed it
to mortal ears.

He determined to keep Robert a close prisoner for awhile, until he had
the best advice in the state about the matter, and if that did not bend
his will, he would send him abroad to be educated, and perhaps, with
time and absence, he would get over his infatuation.

When morning broke Robert arose and dressed himself, but on attempting
to leave the room, he found the door was locked on the outside. The hot
and angry blood mounted to his brow, and he stood several minutes with
his hands grasping the silver knob, as if he would wrench it open,
despite the strong lock that held it fast.

Finally, thinking better of it, he turned away, and, taking up a book,
commenced reading.

An hour elapsed, when the key turned, and a man entered, bearing a
silver tray upon which was arranged a steaming and tempting breakfast.
He sat it down, and, without a word, left the room, Robert disdaining to
question a servant.

He remained thus alone for nearly a week, his meals being brought
regularly to him, only each day they grew less and less palatable, until
at last he received only a glass of water to wash down his cold, dry
bread.

The confinement began to grow tedious; his father or any member of the
family had not been near him, and he began to feel uneasy about Dora,
for he had promised to come and see her, and he knew she was watching
for him. While thinking thus the lock clicked and his father entered,
still wearing the same stern and forbidding countenance as when he last
saw him.

“Well, Robert,” he said, coldly, “are you ready to yield to my wishes?”

“If your wishes remain the same as when I last saw you, I am not.”

“Will nothing move you, my son?” pleaded his father, a look almost of
despair on his fine face.

His voice softened, and tears stood in his eyes.

“Father, did you love my mother?” asked Robert, softening for a moment.

“As my life, my boy,” and his lip quivered.

“Even so I love Dora, and I cannot give her up.”

“That is all gammon, Robert,” replied his father, again becoming
excited. “If you were older, I might think there was something in it;
but you two; such a couple of babies—bah! I say you shall give her up.”

Robert turned moodily to the window.

“Will you, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well,” icily responded Mr. Ellerton. “Prepare yourself to start
for Germany to-morrow morning. Major Atherton will take charge of you,
and place you in an institution, where I hope rigid discipline and a
thorough education will bring you to your senses.”

Saying which he hastily left the room, again locking the door after him.

Robert caught his breath quickly.

Could he go so far away from Dora? He asked himself the question over
and over again. His brain seemed on fire at the thought, and for a long
time he rebelled at the idea.

Finally, when he could think calmly about it, he reasoned that he must
have an education, that he wanted one, and that Dora must be educated
too, and he desired that she might become a polished and elegant young
lady, so that when he graduated and came to claim her, his father could
not help being reconciled to their marriage, and willing to acknowledge
her as his daughter.

Yes, indeed, he thought, on the whole it was better so. Better even to
be separated; then each would study the hardest to please the other, and
he resolved to calmly obey the decree, go his long journey peaceably,
and make the most of every advantage.

But he must see Dora first; and how to manage it? Here the anxious look
came back to his eyes.

He was a prisoner, securely locked within his room, but he must get out
some way, he must and would see his Brightie once more before he
commenced the long and weary discipline in store for him.

A light and fancy trellis was underneath his window, so near that he
could easily step out upon it. But would it bear his weight?

He went to the window and looked out, and his face lighted up with a
triumphant smile, for he saw it was perfectly safe, and the way was now
opened for him to go and bid his little wife a last “good-by.”

He spent the rest of the day in gathering up his treasures, and
preparing for his journey.

It seemed a long time after the servant brought him his tea, (and a
dainty supper it was too, this last one which he was to eat beneath his
father’s roof for years) until dark.

But at length night drew her sable robe around the earth, and all was
hushed and quiet. Robert satisfied himself that no one was around the
house, and then lightly descended the trellis, and made his way swiftly
toward the little white cottage, which contained the treasure of his
heart.

As he approached, he saw a little white face pressed close against the
window-pane, and he knew that Dora was watching for him; and his heart
ached for her, for he felt that thus she had been watching every day
since he left her, nearly a week ago.

He sprang lightly up the step, just as the door opened, and his
child-bride threw herself sobbing into his arms.

“There, Dora, darling, do not cry. I could not come before,” he said,
while his own lip quivered.

“Oh, Robbie, I thought you never would come again, and I have watched
every day till it got so dark that my eyes ached.”

She hugged him tight, and sobbed afresh from joy at seeing him.

“Is your mother at home, Brightie?” he asked, when she grew quiet again.

“No; she went out to see a sick lady, and oh, Robbie, I was so lonely, I
thought my heart would break.”

“Well, then, let us go into the house, for I have something to tell
you.”

He put his arms around her and drew her in. He sat down and took her in
his lap, clasping her close in his arms, while a great lump rose in his
throat and almost choked him as he thought it was the last time.

“Robbie,” she asked, softly patting his face with her little hand, “you
aren’t sorry yet, are you?”

“No, darling, nor ever shall be. Why?”

“Why, I thought you must be, or you would have come before.”

“I could not, Dora. I have been locked in my room ever since that night,
and I climbed down the trellis to come to you to-night. I ran away!”

He flushed with shame that he was obliged to say it.

“You have, you did?” said Dora, with flashing eyes. “I don’t care, I
think your father is a wicked, naughty man, and I hope God will punish
him.”

“Hush, darling, for I have something worse than that to tell you.”

And he told her all that had passed between him and his father, only
keeping back what he had said of her, and that he was to start for a
far-off country on the morrow.

Again the flood-gates were opened, and torrents poured from the riven
heart. She clung to him with a death-like grip, crying out, in her
agony, “that she would not let him go—that they would make him love some
one else, and she should never see him again, and she should be, oh! so
lonely that she should surely die!”

The poor boy hardly knew how to comfort her, and really did not know but
she would die, while his own heart ached almost to bursting at the sad
parting.

“No, Dora, dear,” at length he gravely replied, “you will not die. You
will have your mother to love you, and I shall never forget you while I
live. Now, listen to me, and promise to do as I ask you. I want you to
mind your mother in everything, for she knows best what is right; I want
you to study hard, and learn all you can; and do not be naughty any more
about practicing your music; for I am going to get the best education I
can, and I shall come back for you some day, and I want to feel proud of
my little wife. Yes, Dora, I want you to be as nice a young lady then as
Miss Annie Burton is now. Will you promise to try?”

Dora caught her breath at this request.

“Oh, Robbie, I’m afraid I can’t; but I’ll try. I promise anything that
you want me to, but I can’t bear to have you go. I shall never be happy
again as long as I live.”

“Yes, you will, darling; you must try to be happy. And now I want you to
say that you love me, and won’t ever forget me, and then I must go.”

“Of course I will not forget you, and you know I love you,” she said,
raising her tear-stained face from his shoulder.

His arms closed tightly round her as he said:

“Look at me, Brightie—right into my eyes! There now—how much do you love
me?”

She looked at him, half-puzzled, a moment, before answering, then said:

“I don’t believe I can tell you, Robbie; I guess as well as—as if you
were really my brother.”

His arms clasped her more tightly yet, and while a disappointed look
came into his eyes, he whispered:

“Brightie, think—don’t you love me any better than that? Would you
rather always be my sister than my wife?”

His heart beat quick and hard; his eyes burned with a deep and abiding
passion, while they eagerly sought for some answering sign in the fair
face upraised to his.

The blue orbs that heretofore had looked so clearly and fearlessly into
his own took on a look of startled surprise, then they softened with a
consciousness of some deeper emotion, and began to droop until they were
hidden beneath the white lids, with their long silken fringes, while the
rich crimson tide swept over cheek, neck and brow, with the sudden
unvailing of her heart.

Instantly her face was buried in his bosom, and her little frame
quivered in every nerve with the strange and exciting emotions.

Robert’s face lighted with instant happiness. The varying expression of
that innocent face was all the answer he needed, and he did not press
her for a reply, but held her in a close and silent embrace for a few
moments.

At length, he said, tenderly:

“Look up, Brightie, for I must go, or I shall be missed. You must say
good-by, now. I know that you will not forget me; and, see here,
darling! I have brought you something to look at when I am gone.”

He took from his pocket a little box and handed it to her.

She opened it eagerly, and a cry of pleased surprise broke from her
lips, as her eyes caught the glimpse of a beautiful gold locket and
chain.

“It is a locket that belonged to my mother, Brightie; her picture is on
one side, and mine is on the other. I have brought it for you, and you
must never part with it, but wear it for my sake. See.”

He touched the spring and it flew open, revealing a lifelike picture of
himself, and opposite, that of a young and lovely woman.

“Oh, Robbie, how like you it is! And this is your mother! I love her,
she is so beautiful. No, I never will part with it, and I am so glad I
have got it!”

He smiled fondly as he fastened it about her neck.

“I have a picture of you, you know. But my little Brightie must be brave
now, and say ‘good-by,’ for it is time I was at home. Kiss me, darling.”

The red blood again mounted to her brow as his lips thrilled a lingering
kiss upon hers. Then, forgetting everything except that he was going
where she could not see him, she threw her arms around his neck, and
sobs she could not restrain again racked her frame.

One long, long, close embrace, and he put her down and sprang from the
room, out into the darkness of the night, wiping from his own cheek the
fast-falling tears.

Dora flung herself full length upon the floor, in an utter abandonment
of grief, and there her mother found her, an hour after, sound asleep,
with the bright crystals still on her brown lashes.

Robert retraced his steps, and reached his room undiscovered, and though
he was grieved and sad to part with Dora, yet he hugged to his heart
with joy the knowledge that she was really and truly his very own, and
that her love for him was all he could ask.

The next morning he started on his long journey, his father accompanying
him as far as New York, from which place he was to sail.

Robert wept at parting with his only parent, and felt almost desolate to
thus sunder every tie and go a stranger to a strange land. He had always
loved and respected his father in spite of his cold, stern manner; still
he would not beg to be allowed to remain at home, for he was fully
determined to improve every advantage of travel and study, and thus fit
himself to be a useful and happy man.

So when Mr. Ellerton coldly shook his hand at parting, he could not
realize the agony that whitened his boy’s proud face, and hardened his
already stern voice; nor could he know how that pent-up anguish burst
forth as the vessel bore him from his father’s lingering eyes, from
which the tears rolled fast and unheeded, as he turned with aching heart
to go back to his lonely home.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                           “I AM NO BEGGAR.”


Squire Moulton was walking on the white pebbly margin of his beautiful
miniature lake.

His head was bowed upon his narrow and sunken chest, his hands were
clasped with rigid firmness at his back, while his long grizzly hair
hung in neglected masses around his stooping shoulders.

His face, always ugly, looked yellower and uglier still as the dim light
of a cloudy day—rendered yet more dismal by the thick branches of the
overhanging trees—fell around him.

He looked like some restless evil spirit haunting that lovely spot, and
lying in wait for his unsuspecting prey, rather than the master and the
owner of so much beauty.

He was pacing back and forth in deep and evidently unpleasant
meditation, judging of his lowering brow and the mutterings constantly
issuing from his thin lips.

He doubtless considered himself entirely alone. But he could not see the
pair of eyes, bright and black, and evil as his own, that glared
fiercely upon him from within a closely growing circle of arbor vitæ.

For an hour his restless pacings and mutterings had continued, and for
an hour these fierce eyes had blazed upon him, at first with anger and
hatred, then as time went on, with uneasiness. Evidently whoever was
within that verdant circle was becoming impatient with the proprietor’s
lengthened promenade; for there was a slight rustle as if some one was
trying to change his or her position.

Unlucky moment!

For losing its balance, a figure came crushing against the branches with
a force that could not fail to disturb and attract the attention of the
master of Moulton Hall.

With a start of surprise, and a quick glance of his fiery eyes toward
the place, he called out rudely:

“Who’s there? and what do you want?”

There was no reply, only a further crouching among the foliage.

With hasty steps the squire reached the arbor, parted the branches at
the entrance, and gazed within.

A woman in soiled and ragged garments slowly turned her face, scornful
and defiant, full upon him!

For a moment she gazed thus upon him, then silently arose.

She must have been beautiful once; but her cheeks were hollow and livid,
the large and brilliant black eyes sunken in their sockets. The mouth
was distorted with the play of evil passion and suffering; while her
long raven hair, streaked with silver, hung in tangled masses from
beneath her soiled and misshapen hat.

“What do you want here?” again demanded the squire. “I do not allow
beggars about my premises.”

“I am no beggar,” she replied, lifting her head with a sudden, haughty
grace, and her voice possessed a certain musical cadence, despite its
sharpness.

What was there in her movement and tone that made the proud squire start
and gaze so fixedly at her, while a white fear settled over his face?

“Who are you then?” he asked, quickly.

“Ha, ha!” laughed the woman. “Your memory does not serve you quite as
well as mine does me, most worthy squire. I presume my acquaintance
would not be considered much of an honor. Nevertheless you and I are old
friends!”

“Have done with your croaking, and tell me what you want here,”
interrupted Squire Moulton, impatiently, yet with a touch of uneasiness
in his voice.

“What do I want? I will tell you soon enough what I wish!” she replied,
flashing her eyes angrily at him. “You had a sister once?”

“Yes, to my sorrow. What of her?”

“Where is she now?” asked his visitor, with a sinister smile.

“Dead, and gone to perdition, for all I know or care,” returned he,
brutally.

“Dead, is she,” repeated the woman, with the same look.

“Yes, dead, I say! Confound you, what do you mean by all this quizzing,
you fool?”

The squire was becoming enraged, and could not calmly bear the
steadfast, penetrating gaze of the persistent woman before him.

“How do you know she is dead?” was the quiet question.

“How do I know, you vile hag? She died at Naples, thirteen years ago. I
was with her only a few hours before her death. The next time I went to
see her they told me she was dead and buried.”

“Ah! but what became of the child she left for you to take charge of?”

She bent forward and gazed eagerly into his face, as if she would read
his very soul.

“Curse you, it’s none of your business! I’m sure I don’t know why I
stand here parleying with such as you.”

A bright flush spread itself over the woman’s pale face at this taunt,
while her lips quivered with suppressed rage.

“Stop!” she said, sternly, as he turned to go. “Stop, you fiend in human
form, and give an account of yourself. It is my business, and I will
know. It is true your sister was sick and destitute in the city of
Naples. It is also true that when she heard of your arrival there she
sent to you for assistance. She felt there was no help on earth for her,
and she wanted to be reconciled to the only living member of her family
before she went the way of all the earth. She also needed food and
medicines, but most of all she wanted to give you her child, her bright
and beauteous boy, to educate and rear, so that he might never feel the
curse and sting of poverty and shame. You obeyed the summons. But how
did you comfort her? You swore at her; you taunted and reviled her; you
cursed her with the bitterest curses your vile heart could invent, and
your lips utter; and when she prayed for a little love and forgiveness,
you turned a deaf ear to her entreaties. Ah! cannot you hear her now
pleading for her boy, that you would not leave him to the cold mercies
of strangers? Cannot you see her now as she quivered in her anguish when
you swore that you would not be disgraced by such as he? Are your dreams
never haunted by that white, drawn face, by a wasted hand clutching
yours, and a trembling voice begging, pleading for her one earthly
treasure? Does not a phantom hover around your couch at night? I think
there does. You look as if your whole life had been passed amid ghostly
shadows.

“But to my story. A week after you left your only sister to suffer and
die alone—a stranger in a strange land—you sought her again; your hard
heart relented a little. Tardy repentance! They told you she was dead
and buried. With a curse, and not even inquiring where her body was
laid, you asked for her boy and took him away with you. That, Ralph
Moulton, was the only good deed you ever did in your life. But has it
continued to be a good deed? How have you kept your trust? Is it well,
or would it have been better that he had died also, than that you should
have taken him to rear in a poisoned atmosphere? I ask you, Ralph
Moulton, where is that boy—where is he whom you have named for yourself,
but who was christened Ralph Ellerton?”

The wicked man stood gazing at her, as if an avenging angel had smitten
him, while she related these incidents of his past life. A look of blank
amazement and fear covered his face; his knees knocked together, and
when he tried to speak his ashen lips refused to move.

At length he managed to articulate:

“Who are you, that you know all this?”

“Who am I?” she cried, bitterly. “Look and see who I am. Does not your
heart speak for itself? Is there not one spark of kindred affection left
in its hardened depths? Who am I indeed? I am Rose Moulton; she who
loved, trusted, and was betrayed; who thought she was an honored and
cherished wife, whom Heaven had blessed with its own and earth’s richest
blessings, but who soon awoke to the misery and knowledge that she was
no wife—only a disgraced and ruined woman, whose only child and treasure
had no right to claim his father’s name. An outcast, deserted and
dishonored! Who am I? I am your disgraced and erring sister, whom you
cast off when she and every one else thought she was dying. I did not
die. I began to gain from the moment you left me.”

“It is a lie!” shrieked the wretched old man, as, with eyes starting
from their sockets, he staggered back against the green wall behind him.

“It is no lie; and you know every word I speak is true. I have followed
you—I have been on your track ever since; and now I have come to claim
my son, and be recognized as a member of your family. I knew if you
thought me dead and out of the way, you would take my boy. So I went and
hid myself, making those who took care of me promise to say I was dead.
I followed you from abroad. I have watched you ever since, but have
never spoken to my boy since I pressed that last fond kiss upon his pure
lips, when I left him quietly sleeping in his childish innocence. I have
just recovered from a long and weary illness. I am alone, forsaken,
destitute; and, my brother, I have come to you for comfort and support.
Oh! Ralph, will you not take your Rose once again to your heart, forgive
her, and bless her with your love?”

She stopped and looked beseechingly in his face, while her wild eyes
softened and tears poured down her sunken cheeks. Her hands were
clasped, and in almost breathless silence, she awaited his reply.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                                FOILED.


While the unhappy woman was pleading so earnestly for recognition, and a
welcome, the heartless squire had in a measure recovered from his fright
at thus being confronted by one whom he had long supposed dead, and who
now threatened to overthrow all his careful plottings; and he exclaimed
in a voice of scornful wrath:

“You are not Rose Moulton; you cannot prove it. You are only some vile
imposter who has picked up small bits of gossip, and, cleverly putting
them together, has come to frighten me with the story, doubtless
expecting to be bought off. Go! I will have nothing to do with you.”

“Your heart is harder than adamant, but, thank Heaven, it is in my power
to prove my identity. Look!”

She raised her long, bony hand, and held it out to him.

On the palm lay a large and heavy brooch. She touched a spring, and a
lid flew open, revealing the face of a very handsome man.

Squire Moulton started, and a look of hatred flashed over his
countenance; for the face that looked out upon him was like the face of
his deadly foe, only with a younger and fresher expression.

“Look!” she said again, and touched another spring.

The face of the man disappeared, and in its place that of a young and
exquisitely beautiful girl appeared.

The dark and star-like eyes had a wistful look in their depths; the
ripe, full lips a tempting curve, and masses of raven hair fell upon her
neck and shoulders, spotless and fair as polished marble.

The evil man smote his brow with his hand, and caught his breath
convulsively at sight of this radiant creature.

“Rose,” burst from his pale lips.

Again she repeated that one word:

“Look!”

Another spring yielded to her touch, and a dimpled, rosy-cheeked cherub,
with black eyes and hair, smiled joyously up at him.

With an oath he sprang to seize the strange jewel from her; but quickly
shutting the several lids, she hid it in her bosom.

“Oh, Heaven!” he exclaimed, “you are, you must be Rose!”

“You acknowledge me, then, at last!” she cried, with a wave of hope in
her voice. “Oh, bless you for Ralph’s sake. Do not harden your heart
again, for my life has been a desolate waste. My name was a misnomer,
for nothing but thorns and briers have grown along my life-path. Say, my
brother, speak, and tell me that I have not come to plead in vain—that
you will give me back my place in your heart and home, and, I promise
you, no servant ever was more faithful and devoted than I will prove, if
you will but lift me out of the depths of my present woe.”

Vain, useless pleading! Hearts of stone do not yield to a woman’s tears.

With a bitter oath he spurned her from him.

“No, you shameless wretch!” he exclaimed. “Get you gone from my sight,
for I swear, by all that’s sacred, that you shall never cross my
threshold. My house shall burn to ashes before it shall be polluted by
your vile presence!”

She bent her head upon her hands in silent anguish for a moment. Her
heart was crushed anew within her as its returning affection was thus
outraged. All hope died within her bosom. An outcast she had been for
many long and weary years, and an outcast she must remain.

The squire smiled grimly. It pleased him well to see her writhing in her
agony at his feet, for he deemed the conquest now would be an easy one.

But can a mother forget her young?

Never!

“Where is my boy?” at length she demanded, hoarsely. “How have you
brought him up? Is he as evil and cruel as yourself? or have you kept
that one trust sacred? Tell me!”

“Rose Moulton—for I am convinced that you are indeed she whom I once
called sister, for no other could have had that brooch—for this once,
and only this once, will I condescend to answer your question, then you
must tramp. I never will recognize you. You chose your own path in life,
and now you may reap the fruits of it. After I left you that night, as I
thought, to die, I resolved never to think of you again; you might die
and rot, you and yours, before I would lift a finger to save you.

“I did not leave the city, for it was my pleasure to stay. I was
plotting vengeance against one whom I had followed for years. A week
went by, when all at once it flashed upon me, that if I had your boy, I
could use him to carry out my plans; so I resolved to go back and get
the young one——”

“Oh, Heaven! pity—spare me!” groaned the stricken mother, sinking back
among the bushes, and burying her face in her emaciated hands.

“Yes,” pursued the villain, “I knew if rightly trained, he would be just
the one for my purpose. You know all about that silly story of my youth;
how Ellerton stole my bride. And that was not all, either, that I had
against that family. Your own seared heart, and blighted life, will bear
me witness to that.

“Well, Ellerton was in Naples. I had followed him there. His wife was
dead, but he, poor love-sick youth, could not get over it, and so went
abroad to take his mind from his grief. His son and nurse were with him.
He left them at Naples while he went traveling for a few months.

“His boy was not very well—was pale and puny, but after his father’s
departure he began to pick up, and grew wonderfully, until I was struck
with his strong resemblance to Ralph, who you know was always small for
his age. There was two years difference in their ages, but you would
never have known it, and a stranger would have sworn they were twins.
Satan must have put the idea into my head, for I resolved to change the
children. I resolved to have my darling’s child to myself, and let him
have yours to bring up and educate.”

“Ralph Moulton, curse you—curse you!” shrieked the poor creature,
rocking to and fro in her agony.

“Hold, I have not finished yet. You wanted to know how your boy had been
brought up, and I am telling you. I felt assured that if I could effect
the change without the nurse’s knowledge, the father would never be the
wiser, for they were so near alike.

“For weeks and weeks I watched, but it was of no use; the nurse was
always with him, never leaving him for a moment. But one day fortune
favored me. They were out in a grove behind their villa, and the boy
begged for a drink of water. The nurse tried to make him go in to get
it, but he was obstinate and refused.

“At length she consented to go, but told him not to move from the place
while she was gone. I almost shouted for joy, for I felt my hour of
triumph had come. I stepped from my place of concealment, taking Ralph
with me, and seated him beside the other one. It was a picture I shall
never forget. The two children, as near alike as two peas, sat looking
at each other for a moment in silent astonishment. But I could not stop
to look long, and lifting the one I was after in my arms I turned to
flee, when a heavy blow felled me.

“The nurse had gone like a flash for the water, and was back in an
instant; she had seen me take the child from the seat where she had left
him, and comprehended the whole thing. She struck me on the head with
the tumbler, and seizing the child, sped away into the villa. Cursing my
ill-luck, I took Ralph and made off. The next I heard of them was that
Mr. Ellerton had been sent for; the nurse had had an apoplectic fit and
was dying—people said she had received a fright the day before; what it
was no one could learn, for she would not speak of it until her master
came. When he arrived it was too late, and she died trying to tell him
something.

“What that something was I know, and you can guess; so my secret was
safe, and I thought I might have another opportunity to effect the
change. But he suddenly left the city, taking the boy with him, and for
several years I lost sight of them.

“We finally met in this place, but the boys had not retained their
resemblance to each other; besides, they were too old, so I had to give
up the idea. I have sought in vain for other ways to wreak my vengeance,
but never had an opportunity until a little while ago, when I played him
a fine trick. But that’s not here nor there.

“I have recently taken Ralph into my confidence, only I have changed the
story to suit my purposes. I have told him that it was Ellerton whom you
sent for when you were dying—that you were his mistress before he
married, and you sent for him, begging he would take your boy and
educate him. He refused to do so, scorning alike him and you. I have
also forged papers proving that you were legally married, and that he is
in reality the rightful son and heir. He believes every word I have told
him, and being brought up, you know, under right influences, he enters
heartily into my plans for vengeance,”

Nothing could have been more fiendish than the expression with which
Squire Moulton concluded these dark revelations.

“Heaven pity me that I was ever born, or that I ever gave birth to a
child for you to bring up to such wickedness and woe,” groaned the poor
woman, in a voice of despair.

Then suddenly springing to her feet, she shrieked:

“It shall not be, you villain! I will thwart your fell designs; I will
go to my boy and reveal the whole plot—tell him what a foul lie you have
told him, and that you are but making a tool of him. I will reveal
myself to him and expose your villainy. You shall not ruin my boy!”

“You will reveal yourself to your son, will you?” sneered the other.
“What a revelation that will be! Do you think he will believe that you
are his mother? You look like the mother of the boy who is to inherit a
million! He would be proud of you, no doubt!”

She flushed deeply at his cruel insinuations, but replied, sadly:

“If there is one particle of filial affection in his heart he will show
it, and believe me when I show him this.”

She held up the brooch before him.

He had forgotten she had it, but he now knew that she could prove her
story with it, and he resolved to gain possession of it by fair means or
foul.

“You said you were destitute,” he said, trying to assume a more friendly
air; “what will you sell me that bauble for? I will give you a good
price for it.”

“I thank you, sir,” she replied, with biting scorn. “But I do not choose
to part with such valuable evidence in my behalf. No, sir! this will
prove my story, and I will use it. Such wickedness as you meditate shall
not go on.”

“You talk well of wickedness; pray, how long since you became such a
saint? But enough of this,” he added, sternly. “How do you suppose Ralph
would receive your story? Do you think he would love a woman who had
brought him into the world to suffer shame and disgrace? Do you think he
would feel tenderly toward a mother who confesses she deserted him in
infancy, and led a dissolute, abandoned life ever since? And, moreover,
would he thank you for revealing to him the fact that he had no name?
Madam, take warning; you don’t know your son as well as I do.”

“Oh!” wept the desolate creature, realizing the truth of all he said.
“But you lied to him about his parentage, and—”

“What of that? Ought not his name to be Ralph Ellerton?”

“Yes, oh, yes; but——”

“Well, then let him claim it, and get the fortune if he can. The papers
I have will prove all I want, in spite of all Ellerton can do. I’ll make
a bargain with you. If you’ll help the matter along, when it is all
settled, I will acknowledge you as a relative, perhaps a cousin or
something of the kind.”

“Never! You do but insult me the more by such an offer! I tell you it
shall never be. If I cannot see Ralph, I can at least go to Mr. Ellerton
and warn him, so that his son may be saved from such suffering and
disgrace. I have sinned in the past, but I trust I have repented, and am
willing to do what is right now, even to the sacrificing of my own son!
Let me pass.”

She tried to leave the arbor, but he barred the way, standing firm
within the entrance.

“No,” he said, “you do not go until you give me those pictures, and a
promise not to meddle with my affairs.”

Her heart quailed, for there was a wicked look in his eye that was
fearful. But she put on the semblance of boldness.

“Let me pass.”

She drew herself to her full height, raised her head haughtily, sweeping
back with one hand the heavy masses of her hair, while she flashed her
brilliant eyes witheringly upon him.

She must have been glorious in her youthful days, for there was majesty
even now in her look and mien, despite the soiled and tattered clothing.

“Never!” he growled between his teeth.

Swifter than a flash she darted toward him, seized him around one knee,
and he fell to the ground, crashing and struggling among the thick
branches of the arbor vitæ.

Another instant, and she had vanished from his sight like a ghost.

Curses loud and deep burst in a torrent from Squire Moulton’s foaming
lips, as, painfully arising, he made his way from the place.

Scarcely had he stepped outside the circle, when a sight met his eyes
which caused him to totter back, half fainting and gasping for breath.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                             “LOOK TO IT.”


Half crouching, half lying among the tall grass just outside the circle
of arbor vitæ, was a large, swarthy-looking man, his eyes and mouth
agape with astonishment at the wondrous story he had just heard
rehearsed.

A close observer might have noticed his paleness and agitation.
Evidently something in the tale had moved him deeply, for great beads of
perspiration stood on his forehead, from which his cap was pushed back,
and the hand he raised to wipe his brow shook like a reed.

He might have been a fine-looking man, for his face was highly
intelligent in expression, and his form was tall, straight, and well
developed. But clad in his soiled and much-worn garments, with face
deeply bronzed, locks uncombed, and beard unshaven, he was but a
sorry-looking object. There was a roughness about him, too, and a
fierceness in the gaze of his eye as he looked upon the terror-stricken
squire, which were enough in themselves, coming as he did unexpectedly
upon him, to drive the color from his face and lips.

The stranger was the first to recover his self-possession, and assuming
a sneering, half defiant air, while at the same time he seemed to enjoy
Squire Moulton’s fright, said:

“Well, squire, I must say she’s a pretty spunky sort of a woman, that
sister of yourn!”

“Who are you—how long have you been here—did you hear——” incoherently
gasped the startled villain.

“I heard every word!” interrupted his visitor, with an air of triumph.
“That answers two of your questions, I believe; but the other I do not
know as I feel inclined to reply to just at present.”

“How came you here?” demanded Squire Moulton, beginning to recover
himself somewhat, and angry at the insolent manner of the other.

“Well, if you must know just how I came, I rode part of the way, and
walked t’other part.”

There was a sly twinkle in his eye, and a sarcastic smile lurking in the
corners of his mouth.

“What was your object in prowling around my grounds, and listening to
conversation which did not concern you!”

The schemer’s voice was more friendly now, for he felt he was in the
man’s power, and it would be better to temporize with him than to
threaten him, though in his heart he wished he could strike him dead at
his feet.

“Well, squire, I don’t know as I object to telling you that that woman
has been prowling around here, too, for several days. I’ve sort o’ had
my eyes on her, and I thought I’d find out what she was up to. As to its
being no concern of mine, perhaps ’tis, and then again perhaps it isn’t.
Anyway, I rather think she’s got a little the best of you, hain’t she,
squire!—that is,” he added slyly, “unless you can get hold o’ them
pictures. Handsome man, that! Seems to me I’ve seen him somewhere before
now.”

“The duse take it!” muttered the squire, uneasily. “I would give a good
deal if I had them in my possession.”

“Would you, really?” asked the other, a sudden idea seeming to strike
him. “Well, what would you give a feller to get them for you?”

“Ah!” said Squire Moulton, starting, and eying his strange companion
closely. “I would give a hundred dollars—fifty on the spot, and fifty
more when they are in my possession.”

“By golly, I’m your man, then! Fork over, and call it a job!”

The strange man sprang eagerly to his feet, evidently anxious to have
his services engaged.

“But,” returned the other, hesitating, “I don’t know anything about you.
How do I know but you will make off with the money I give you, and never
show yourself again? What is your name?”

“Well, I am a stranger in these parts, so I guess you won’t be able to
find out much about me, except what I choose to tell you myself. I go by
the name of Ronald Edgerton—a pretty good sounding one, I think, too.
And as to my making off with your money, you’ll have to take me on
trust, I guess, as I’ve nobody to back me.”

“Where did you come from?” asked the squire, wishing he could strike the
man, for his cool insolence exasperated him beyond measure.

“Well, I came from the city out here; but I hail from California.”

“California!” repeated the squire, with a gasp. “What part of the
State?”

“The diggins! Mighty poor diggins they were, too, for me, so I thought
I’d better dig for somewhere else. But what do you say, squire—is it a
trade that I go for the pictures?”

“I don’t know,” muttered the perplexed man, less and less inclined to
trust the stranger.

“Better,” replied Ronald Edgerton, laconically.

“Why?” demanded Squire Moulton, sharply.

“Well”—continuing to use what seemed to be a favorite word with
him—“well, I’ve gained some pretty valuable information to-day, you
know, and if I can’t make a trade with you, why, I shall be under the
necessity of doing so with some one else!”

“Oh! you threaten me, do you?”

“Not at all, squire—not at all; only a feller must get a living some way
or other.”

“What do you do generally for a living?”

“Well, most anything that turns up; sometimes this and sometimes that.”

Squire Moulton was in despair. He could get nothing whatever out of the
man. He was too much for even his sharp villainy to fathom, and no
cross-questioning could catch him. He did not like his appearance at
all. Sometimes he spoke like a gentleman, and sometimes like a rough,
ignorant fellow. He was a puzzle, which it was beyond his power and wit
to solve. It would have pleased him better had there been more of the
decided rascal about him. But the man had evidently listened to the
whole of the conversation he had had with his sister, and he was in his
power. All his dearest secrets were now in the possession of this cool,
insolent man who called himself Ronald Edgerton; and he cursed himself
again and again for having allowed himself to breathe them in the open
air. But it was of no use now, to waste time in vain repinings, and he
resolved to do the best he could by making an ally of the man.

“I’ll tell you what I will do, Edgerton,” he said, at length, assuming a
friendly air, at the same time drawing forth his purse. “I will hire you
to do such little odd jobs as these, if you like, and pay you well for
them, too. You shall have the fifty dollars now, and the remainder when
you bring me the pictures, then I shall have something else on the
docket, I have no doubt.”

“That’s it; now you talk to the point! Thank’ee, sir,” he said, as he
took the money.

“You will not fail me now—I may depend upon you?”

“Depend upon me, that you may. If it’s in the power of man, I’ll have
that breastpin before many days. I guess I’ll be traveling now,” he
said, as he put the bill out of sight; “but you will see me again soon.
Good-day, sir.”

He touched his slouch cap politely to the squire, and turning, was
quickly lost to view.

For some moments Squire Moulton stood lost in deep thought. He could not
trust the man fully, try as he would. But he was where he could not help
himself, and so resolved to make the best of the matter.

Ronald Edgerton walked briskly in the direction of the city, for half a
mile, when he came upon a horse tied to a tree. He quickly unhitched the
animal, and leaping into the saddle, trotted swiftly away. It was
getting dark, and he spurred his horse onward, looking anxiously at
every object he passed. Soon his eye brightened, for he caught sight of
a familiar figure hurrying in the same direction with himself. He now
slackened his speed, in order to keep the figure in view, but did not
follow so closely as to be himself discovered.

They entered the city, and he rode nearer to Rose Moulton, for she it
was whom he was watching.

She had walked swiftly after fleeing from her brother’s grounds, in
order to gain her lodgings before night came on; but her now lagging
gait told that she was foot-sore and weary. Once she stopped and leaned
against a lamp-post, but having a faint sigh, she soon started on again.

She had not proceeded far before, uttering a deep cry, she fell
stumbling upon the rough pavement.

Quick as thought the horseman sprang to the ground, and before other
assistance was offered, he had tenderly raised her in his arms. He bent
an anxious look upon her face, and placed his hand upon her heart. She
had only fainted from weariness; and hastily calling a cab he placed her
within, and giving the name and number of the street, to which he wished
to be driven, he then followed.

Seating himself, he took the insensible woman’s head in his lap,
smoothed back with a gentle hand the heavy masses of her tangled hair;
and once he heaved a long, quivering sigh, and murmured—“Poor Rose!”

But this weakness soon passed, and he began searching earnestly for the
hidden treasure. Not many moments passed ere he held it in his hand. He
thrust it within his own bosom, and then hastily rolling the
fifty-dollar note which he had received from the squire in a piece of
paper, he put it in place of the stolen brooch.

He had barely completed these operations when the carriage stopped.
Quickly gathering the woman, who was beginning now to revive, in his
arms, he bore her into the house before which they had stopped, and left
her in the care of the kind-hearted lady.

The next day Edgerton, completely transformed by rich and handsome
apparel, looking what he was in reality—every inch a gentleman—entered
one of the first jewelry establishments in the city, and ordered a
brooch to be made exactly like the one he had with him. When it was
completed he took the two to an artist, had the pictures copied and the
copies put into the new ones, and in just one week from the day on which
he made the bargain with the squire, he was back again to report his
success.

It was evening when he arrived, and he was shown into the library where
the old man was sitting.

It was a damp, chilly evening, and there was a glowing fire in the
grate, which rendered the room cheerful and inviting.

“Well, squire,” remarked Edgerton on entering, “you see taking a feller
on trust ain’t so bad after all. Here I am back again, and with the
plunder safe and sound in my pocket!”

“Really, Mr. Edgerton, I am surprised that you should have been so
expeditious,” replied Squire Moulton, a flash of joy lighting up his
wrinkled face. “Where are they?” he continued, eagerly.

“Here,” replied Edgerton, and handed him the brooch which he had had
made.

He took it, and opening each lid, convinced himself that they were
really the pictures of the faces he wished to possess, then shutting
them with a snap, he uttered an oath and cast them into the blazing
grate.

“Zounds!” exclaimed his ally, springing from his chair as if to save the
doomed jewel; then drawing in a deep breath, he sank back again,
inwardly congratulating himself that it was only the copy, and not the
original.

“There!” said Squire Moulton, with an evil smile. “Those infernal
pictures will never trouble anybody again.”

“That is true, sir,” replied Edgerton, returning the smile tenfold, and
speaking with marked emphasis. “Now,” he continued, “if you’ll hand over
the cash, squire, I’ll go.”

“Oh! but you have not told me how you gained possession of the brooch
yet.”

“Well,” laughed the other, “I was not aware it was in the bargain for me
to reveal all my slight-of-hand performances, though it was easy enough
done. You see I had my eye on the woman, and one day she fainted in the
street, and I very humanely went to her assistance; a little maneuvering
and the thing was mine.”

“Where does she live?” asked the squire, scowling darkly.

“Couldn’t say just now, squire; but perhaps I can find out,” replied
Edgerton, with a sly glance at the dark face before him.

“Well, at all events, you have earned your hundred dollars easily
enough.”

He handed him the other fifty as he spoke.

“Just keep your eye open, and report occasionally, and you shall be well
paid for it.”

“All right; and now I will say good-evening to you, sir. It is some
distance back to the city, and it is getting late.”

Ronald Edgerton passed out into the night, leaving Squire Moulton to
indulge in more pleasing reflections than he had enjoyed this many a
day.

“Ah!” muttered Edgerton, “you little know, my worthy squire, with whom
you are dealing. I shall study this game pretty thoroughly. Your
instinct is finer than your honor, you fool, for you did not like to
trust me; but you were in rather a tight place, and I warn you to look
to it, that some day you are not in a tighter one.”




                              CHAPTER IX.
                              CONFIDENCE.


Six years!

How much significance those two short words contain! To how many souls
they have brought joy and sorrow, weal and woe—some lifted to the
highest pinnacle of happiness, while others are driven to the deepest
depths of despair!

Hearts so gay and happy six years ago, now crushed with their weight of
trials and cares. Bright eyes have wept away their luster over hopes
that were born but to wither and die. The cankerous worm, sorrow,
gnawing at once happy hearts, has robbed the once rounded cheek of its
bloom and beauty, leaving in their place deep lines of pain and
suffering which time can never remove.

Sorrow! sorrow! The earth is full of sorrow! Yet a happy few there are
who move on in the even tenor of their way, growing each year more
beautiful and lovely, making the world glad, bright, and gay, dispensing
sunshine and joy along the pathway of their lives, giving and receiving
a full measure of earth’s choicest blessings—love, joy, happiness!

We will have nothing to do, dear reader, with life’s shady side just
now. Our lines are cast in more pleasant places, and we will enter for a
while the charmed circle of the careless and free.

Madame Alroyd’s elegant up-town mansion was all one glittering blaze of
light and beauty.

Every pane of glass in the high and lofty windows was like a star, and
every door-way and arch a constellation of stars; while every room and
hall was a floral temple, filling the air around with the richest
perfume.

Guests, young, gay, and lovely, clad in their richest and most becoming
robes, throng this modern palace to pay their compliments,
congratulations, and adieus to its fair young mistress and heiress, who
on the morrow is to leave her native land to travel among scenes new and
strange in the olden world.

It is Dora Dupont’s eighteenth birthday.

As she stands in all her royal beauty at one end of the spacious
drawing-room, clad in robes of glistening white, and receiving her
guests with faultless grace, one cannot marvel at the words and looks of
admiration and homage that fall from the lips and eyes of that brilliant
assemblage.

Yes, it is Dora Dupont! That “homely little squab,” to use Mr.
Ellerton’s phraseology, had sprung up into a tall and graceful woman,
beautiful as a dream, but in other respects the same laughing, happy
Dora as of yore.

The years had only added new graces, instead of robbing her of the old.
There were the same sunny blue eyes, and golden brown hair, only perhaps
with a deeper tint in their bright depths and silken sheen. The same
rosebud mouth and laughing dimples. Her manners were as free and simple
as when she ran skipping through the hall of the little white cottage to
meet Robert Ellerton on that bright, fine morning, six years ago. No
amount of city polishing could rob her of her freshness, and this alone
added tenfold to her charms.

But how came she here, surrounded by so much wealth and magnificence?

Ah! Death had again breathed his icy breath upon her home, and laid low
her fond and tender mother. But not to leave her friendless and alone,
as she feared, for before her grief had had time to sere her heart, she
was again surrounded by an atmosphere of tenderest love and care.

Ere she could realize to the full extent her great loss, she was plunged
into the lap of luxury, and into the arms of a doting, lonely old woman.

The years passed quickly away after Robert Ellerton’s departure for
Germany, despite the loneliness and dreariness which “Brightie” at first
thought would follow. Then her mother suddenly sickened and died, and
the poor girl thought she was desolate indeed—alone in a cold and
heartless world.

But the great Giver of Good did not so will it that this bright bird, so
full of promise, should wither and droop before its bloom.

One day an elegant barouche stopped before the little white cottage, and
a woman, attired to the extent of fashion, stepped to the ground and
entered.

It was Mrs. Dupont’s maiden aunt, who had cast her off when she
displeased her by marrying the poor doctor. She was sixty years of age,
but looked scarce fifty.

Many a time her heart had been lonely and sick for the want of a little
love; many a time her conscience had whispered that she had done wrong
in forsaking her own flesh and blood; but pride would not let her yield,
until her once darling and favorite was laid cold and silent beneath the
sod.

Then, in her grief and remorse, she pounced down upon poor, terrified
little Dora, and carried her off, to love, pet, and spoil her, if she
could, and to make a lady of her.

Everything that heart could wish was now hers, and she reigned a very
queen over a household of servants, and in the heart of Madame Alroyd,
and despite the shadows that had clouded her young life, she grew happy
as a bird, and bright and winsome as the day.

Her education was now completed, and for the past few months she had
reigned as a beauty and a belle in the first circles of New York.

But Dora had not forgotten her childhood, nor her boy husband.

Oh, no! Even now his picture lay against her throbbing heart, and not a
day passed but that it was taken from its hiding-place, and pressed
tenderly and passionately to her ripe, beautiful lips.

But it was _her secret_!

She had never dared to tell her aunt of that episode in her life,
fearing that the sacredness with which she regarded it would be laughed
to scorn.

And so the years came and went, until she arrived at young ladyhood, and
suitors by the score flocked around the wealthy beauty, seeking in vain
for a favorable response to their vows of eternal love and fidelity.

All met with the same firm yet gentle reply, and went away disappointed,
yet loving the more.

Two young men had lately appeared in society, who seemed more favored
than the others had been, and report said that one of these two would
receive the prize. Which—all were waiting eagerly to learn.

One was a young German, highly educated and refined, handsome and
wealthy. He had recently graduated at a celebrated seminary in his
native country, and was now making a tour of the United States.

His name was Fredrich Weimher.

The other was—_Ralph Moulton_!

Both hovered near Dora now, waiting anxiously to be favored with a smile
or a word.

A band of musicians, concealed by a floral screen, suddenly struck up
their inspiriting music, and both these young gentlemen stepped quickly
forward to secure her hand for the dance.

Fredrich Weimher, being first, secured the prize, and led her away,
leaving Ralph Moulton standing alone, angrily gnawing his lips and
frowning darkly.

Graceful as a willow was our heroine, and as gracefully Mr. Weimher bore
her through the mazes of the dance, and then led her away to get a
breath of fresh air.

Sweeping aside some heavy curtains, they stepped through a low window,
out upon a balcony, and were hidden from view of the guests within the
drawing-room.

“Miss Dora,” said Fredrich Weimher, gayly, “I have not yet offered you
my congratulations. Permit me to do so now.”

“I thank you, my friend, for I believe you sincere; which can be said of
very few out of the many who are here to-night.”

“All seem happy, nevertheless,” he replied.

“Yes,” replied Dora, half regretfully. “And I am happy, while at the
same time I am sad. I long to visit the old world, and yet it makes me
almost homesick to leave my native land, though I have not many kindred
ties to bind me here.”

“Your friends will miss you sadly, Miss Dupont.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Weimher, and I may reckon _you_ among them, I
trust,” she replied, smiling archly up at him.

“A friend! Oh, Dora, pardon me, but I can be still no longer. I brought
you out here to speak my farewell, for I _could_ not say it when others
were looking coldly on; and does not your heart tell you that I had more
than a formal farewell to say? Does it not tell you that I am more than
a friend? It is a cold word to apply to me, who loves you as deeply as I
do. Do not hide your face, my darling, but give, oh, give me the love I
crave.”

He would have taken her hand, but she held it from him, while a look of
pain swept over her fair face.

“Oh, Dora,” he went on, while a shade of keen disappointment clouded his
eyes, “have you not seen how dear you have become to me, how I have fed
and lived upon your smile? Has your heart no welcome for me? You do not
answer. Oh, my love, my love! do not send me from you, I pray! Give me
what I ask, else my heart will break.”

“Fredrich,” she began, and then hesitated.

“Ah, darling, thank you for uttering that one word. Bless you. You
_will_ give yourself to me—you _are_ mine!”

He passed his arm around her waist, and drawing her tenderly toward him
bent a look of eager love upon her fair face.

But she quietly disengaged herself from his embrace, and though the
tears were in her lovely eyes, and her voice trembled with every word
she uttered, there was a quiet firmness in her manner that crushed every
atom of hope from his breast.

“Mr. Weimher, I am pained beyond measure at your words, for they make me
feel as if I had deceived you with false hopes; but what you ask can
never be!”

She paused a moment, then went on, sadly:

“I have loved you—nay, hear me,” she added, quickly, as he flashed a
look of joy at her—“I have respected you as a friend, and loved you as I
would a brother, but I never dreamed you cherished a deeper feeling for
me. I thought Miss Nettie Allen had your heart’s best and deepest
devotion!”

“Oh, Dora, my lost love, I cannot bear this,” he groaned.

“Yes, my friend, you _must_ bear it, though it pains me to say it. I
have always treated you openly and frankly, have I not?”

“Yes, but—oh, cruel fate! I had so hoped there might be something deeper
beneath.”

“Forgive me, Fredrich, if I have unintentionally misled you. But I can
never give you more than a sister’s affection, and that you shall have.”

“But, Dora, I will give you time, and perhaps you can learn to love me
as something nearer. Oh, if you will try,” pleaded the disappointed man.

“My poor friend, it can never, never be. It is an utter impossibility!”
she replied, weeping bitterly. After a few moments spent in deep
thought, she continued:

“Listen, Mr. Weimher, and I will tell you a secret. No one knows it. It
is a story of the past, and I tell it to you to prove to you how
hopeless it is for you to love me. My friend, I may trust you? You will
not betray me?”

“Can you ask? You have but to command me, and I obey, even to the
yielding up of life itself.”

She sighed deeply. It pained her to know of such rare devotion, when she
had nothing to give in return. Bending toward him, she whispered:

“I love another. I am already married!”

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, leaning trembling and aghast against the
railing of the balcony.

“It is even so,” she returned, sadly. “But I doubt if I should even know
my own husband should I meet him now.”

She then related to him the story of her youthful marriage, with which
the reader is already acquainted; while Fredrich Weimher listened,
spell-bound, to the thrilling and startling events which had transpired
to bind for life one so young, beautiful, and good.

There was a look of hope in his eyes again when she had finished, and he
said, eagerly:

“Dora, do you not know that that marriage ceremony can be set aside now
if you so will it. If you will only give yourself to me, I will devote
my life to your service until you are free.”

“Nay—nay, my kind friend, you would but wreck my life then——”

“The fates forbid!” he interrupted, fervently.

“For,” she went on, “I love Robbie Ellerton still. Strange though it may
seem, when that evil-minded man made us man and wife, I gave myself
wholly to him. My love has grown with the growth of years, and I feel
that naught but death can ever break the link that binds us.”

“But, Dora, were you free—forgive me, but I must know—if by any chance
death should set you free, would you give yourself to me?”

He bent over her, holding his very breath, and his heart beat almost to
suffocation as he waited for her answer, for upon it depended his last
and only hope.

“Fredrich—Mr. Weimher, I beg—I entreat you will not harbor such a
thought for an instant,” she said, wildly. “He will not die—he shall not
die. It cannot be that I have loved him all these long years for naught.
It would shroud my life in a night of wild despair. No, he promised he
would come and claim me, and I feel—I know he will. Yes, I am Robert
Ellerton’s bride, and his alone will I be, whether it be a bride of life
or of death.”

He buried his face in his hands, and she could see the bright tears
trickling through his fingers and falling at his feet.

The sight of his sorrow recalled her to herself.

“Fredrich,” said she, almost tenderly, “forgive me, but I must tell you
the truth, and it is best you should know the worst at once. Go and seek
some one fairer and more worthy your love than I, and from my heart I
will say Heaven bless you.”

“Can you ask me to do that? can you bid my heart so soon forget its
allegiance?”

“Ah! but you would bid mine forget its own, and come to you,” she
replied, smiling.

He started at the reproof.

“Forgive me,” he said, repentantly; “I am selfish in my sorrow. I accept
my sentence, and will try to bear it patiently, and think myself blessed
if I can but merit your friendship; and should you ever need a faithful
friend, you have only to call upon Fredrich Weimher.”

“Thank you, I will,” she said, frankly holding out her hand to him,
while in her secret heart she honored him for his manly conduct. “And
now,” she added, “would you like to see my hero as he was then?”

She drew the hidden locket from its resting-place, touched the spring,
and held it up before him. He looked—started—looked again.

“Miss Dupont,” he exclaimed, “surely it cannot be—but it must be—it is
one of the dearest friends I have! Robert Ellerton! strange I did not
think before. Why, Dora, I know your boy husband—he and I have spent
many an hour in hard study together, though he is younger, and I
graduated a year ago. He is a splendid fellow, and worthy even of your
priceless love.”

She had listened in pale and silent amazement to his words, while she
trembled in every nerve with joyous excitement, and now poured forth a
perfect torrent of questions.

And he gave her the whole story.

When Robert Ellerton first entered the German institute he was a lonely,
sorrowful boy, always pale and silent, but a perfect scholar, never
knowing what the word failure meant. Fredrich Weimher, noble,
kind-hearted, and tender, pitied the stranger so far from his native
land, sought him out, and at once made friends with him.

They were more like brothers than friends, and were scarcely ever
separated until Fredrich graduated and started on his American tour.

One thing alone Robert would never talk about, and that was his home
affairs, seeming quite sensitive if the subject was even mentioned.
That, and that alone, was the only thing in which Fredrich did not share
his confidence.

“Heaven bless you, Dora, my friend!” cried Weimher, as he concluded his
recital, and smiling quite brightly. “I can give you up with one pang
less, now that I know you belong to my dearest friend.”

“Oh, Fredrich Weimher,” replied the delighted girl, “if I considered you
my friend before, you are doubly so now. I only regret that I did not
make a confidant of you sooner; it might have saved you pain, and given
me much happiness to hear directly from one who is so dear to me. But I
leave on the morrow, and must say farewell to you now and return to my
guests, or I shall be missed.”

He took the white-gloved hand held out to him, and pressed it fervently,
then gently drawing her toward him, he bent and respectfully kissed her
fair upturned brow, saying:

“Good-by, my friend—my sister. May old Neptune bear you safely on your
journey, and perchance we may meet abroad, for I shall shortly return to
my native country. God grant you may meet your own loved one, and that
unalloyed happiness may ever be yours.”

He turned quickly from her, and disappeared within, leaving her alone,
happy yet sorrowful, for his was too noble a heart to be rent with
unrequited love.

As Fredrich Weimher lifted the heavy curtains which concealed the
balcony on which he and Dora had stood, and stepped within the
drawing-room, a man moved quickly aside, scowling blackly upon him, yet
with a certain air of triumph. But his evil gaze was thrown away, for
its object passed on and soon left the mansion.




                               CHAPTER X.
                          “GO!” SHE COMMANDED.


Waiting a few moments, Ralph Moulton—for it was he who was hidden among
the heavy folds of drapery, and had listened to every word that passed
between Weimher and Dora—stepped softly out upon the balcony, and stood
beside his fair hostess.

She was weeping, and did not notice him until he laid his hand gently
upon her smooth, bare arm, and said, in a sympathizing tone:

“Why do you weep, Miss Dupont?”

With a start of affright and a haughty gesture, she moved away from him,
for his familiar touch angered her.

Hastily wiping her eyes, she said, coldly:

“Really, Mr. Moulton, I don’t know as I can explain to you my feelings.
Sadness, I presume, is one cause of my tears.”

“And what could possibly render Miss Dupont sad? Methought her life was
as fair and bright as earth’s choicest gifts could make it,” he said,
with a voice which he tried to make tender.

“If you please,” she replied, “we will not discuss that subject now, Mr.
Moulton.”

She turned abruptly to leave the balcony, for she deemed him rude to
intrude himself upon her when she was struggling with her sad feelings.

He quickly caught her hand, detaining her, while he exclaimed:

“Stay, Miss Dupont; do not leave me so, for I have something to say to
you.”

“I am listening,” she replied coldly. “But pray, Mr. Moulton, be good
enough to release my hand.”

He did not release it, but drew it within his arm, and then led her to
one end of the balcony.

“Miss Dupont—Dora, I love you; will you be my wife?”

“No, sir,” she answered, sharply.

He started violently; then said, reproachfully:

“I beg your pardon; did I understand you aright?”

“I beg _your_ pardon, Mr. Moulton, for allowing myself to speak in such
a manner,” she replied, wearily.

Her heart had been almost broken with the scene that had just
transpired, and she did not feel equal to another.

“I have not been feeling very happy for a few moments past,” she went
on; “but I am pained at your declaration, for I cannot return your
affection.”

“Miss Dupont, you must not say that,” he returned, almost fiercely, “for
my happiness—nay, my life depends upon your love.”

“I cannot listen to such words as these, Mr. Moulton; my answer is
final. Please allow me to return to the drawing-room.”

“Never!” he replied, hotly, as he seized her in his arms with a
convulsive clasp and rained kiss after kiss upon her white face. “Never
until you yield to my love, my darling. My heart tells me that you are
mine—mine by the right of my insatiable love, which nothing earthly can
quell. No, no, my pretty one; lie still in these arms, which have ached
to infold thee for months—nay, for years; while my tongue has burned to
pour forth the story of my adoration, but never before have I dared to
approach you with these words. My own, my own, you are about to be torn
from me, and I cannot longer be silent. I cannot let you go; I would die
to serve you, and do you think I will let the sea divide us? Never! I
will follow you to the ends of the earth, and the land where you dwell
shall be _my_ home. Dora—Dora Dupont, you must—you _shall_ be my wife!”

He stopped, exhausted by his emotions, though he still held her pressed
close to his fiercely throbbing heart.

“Mr. Moulton, will you be good enough to unhand me? or shall I be
obliged to call for assistance?”

Ice could not have been harder or colder than the clear, frozen tones
which fell upon his ear.

In an instant his arms dropped from around her, and then they closed
firmly across his breast, while he gazed upon her with eyes that almost
burned her with their intense brightness.

Scornfully erect she stood for a moment, returning his gaze with one
full of defiance.

Her white robes trailed in graceful folds around her; her head was
thrown haughtily back, while her nostrils quivered and dilated with the
virtuous indignation that surged beneath her heaving bosom. Juno in her
wrath could not have been more majestic and glorious.

“Your insulting words and deportment, sir, merit but one answer,” she
sternly said. “Go, and never let me look upon your face again!”

“By Heaven, I will not!” he replied, stung to madness by her look and
tone. “Is there no pity in your heart for love like mine? I will not
believe you so cold and dead to all feeling as your words imply.”

“If you expected love, or sympathy even, from me, Mr. Moulton, you have
taken the wrong way to obtain them. I am not one to be forced!”

“Forgive me, my beautiful one; but I could not help it, and on my knees
I beg your pardon,” pleaded Ralph Moulton, with white face and imploring
eyes upraised to hers.

“’Tis useless; I do not and cannot love you.”

He was on his feet again in an instant, while the hot, angry blood
mounted to his brow.

“Is that answer final, Dora Dupont?” he asked between his set teeth.

“It is,” she returned, coldly. “And now allow me, if you please, to
return to my guests.”

She began to wonder within herself how she had ever tolerated this man’s
presence.

He placed himself directly in her way while he said:

“I warn you, Dora Dupont, to beware. I am not one to be trifled with. I
give you one more opportunity to accept as true and pure a love as ever
throbbed in the heart of man or woman. Will you accept it?”

“Never!”

“Enough! I swear—hear me—I swear you shall yet be my wife! Think not
that I care for that foolish, childish ceremony; that can easily be set
aside. Yes, you need not start and grow pale—I know your whole history.
You little dreamed that it was the nephew of the man who bound you and
your boy lover together; who bowed down and worshiped you. That marriage
was illegal; I can prove it, and besides there were no witnesses. And
then I have a sweet little secret for your ear that may cause you to
change your mind, and accept my offer. I presume you think you are
wedded to an honorable person, and the son of a wealthy man. But let me
undeceive you! Robert Ellerton, Jr., has no right to his name! Come
nearer and let me whisper, lest the winds should perchance gather the
words and waft them to other ears. I am the rightful son of Robert
Ellerton, while he is——”

The remainder of the sentence was barely breathed in her ear; but she
heard it, for she grew white to her very lips, and shivered as if with
the cold; but her voice never faltered as she replied:

“Coward, do you think I will credit your base falsehood? You have no
proof of your vile assertions!”

“Not quite so fast, my pretty one. I have the proofs here; come nearer
to this light and I will explain.”

He took some papers from his pocket as he spoke, while she, drawn as if
by fascination, came and stood beside him.

“Robert Ellerton,” he explained, casting a triumphant look upon her,
“was secretly married to my mother long before your hero was born. I say
secretly married, for he believed the ceremony to be only a farce, for
he hired a man to marry them whom he thought had no legal authority. But
he was mistaken, as these papers prove. My mother was Squire Moulton’s
cousin, though until within a few years I had been led to believe that
she was his sister. When Ellerton wished to marry his other sweetheart,
he coolly informed my mother that she was not legally his wife, and that
he could no longer take care of her; and she, stung to madness, fled
from the country. After she had gone, my uncle, who hated Ellerton,
discovered that the marriage was legal, and went to seek her and restore
her to her rights; but she died at Naples, and Squire Moulton brought me
to this country and educated me. I only discovered this a few years ago,
and have been waiting until we both had finished our education, that my
triumph might be more complete. I am the rightful son and heir of Robert
Ellerton; and now it rests with you whether I assert my claims, and
bring shame and disgrace upon one whom you profess to love so deeply, or
whether I remain plain Ralph Moulton, with you for my loved and
cherished wife. Examine these papers, and see if I have not proof of
what I tell you.”

He held them up before her as he finished speaking.

She read the marriage certificate, with Robert Ellerton and Rose
Moulton’s names attached, and her heart sank like lead in her bosom as
she realized what suffering and shame it would bring upon her loved one
if exposed to the world.

She could easily have snatched the paper from him and torn it to
fragments had she desired; but her pride would not allow her to let him
see and gloat over the pain that racked her soul, and she answered,
proudly:

“I do not believe the story you have told me!”

“What! not with this paper to prove it?” he asked, shaking the paper he
held.

“No. It were easy enough to forge it, to serve your base purposes. And
were Robert Ellerton to-day a beggar in rags, and disgraced as you would
have me believe, I would gladly share his lot before I would wed with
you, had you a thousand fortunes! Now I command you go, and never
pollute my sight with your vile presence again!”

She raised her graceful arm and pointed toward the drawing-room.

“You’ll repent of this, my fair lady, and that right soon, too,” he
muttered, savagely.

“Go!”

He took a step forward as if to obey the imperious command, then stopped
and turned toward her again.

“I warn you once again that I will hunt your lover to the death, and I
swear that you shall yet be my wife!”

Her clear eyes flashed angrily, and her finger did not even quiver as it
still pointed toward him.

“Go!”

Clear and ringing as a trumpet-call it sounded on the still night air,
and a tiny foot stamped impatiently upon the floor of the balcony.

Like the craven coward he was, his eyes drooped before her stern gaze,
and he slunk cringingly from her sight.

A deep, shuddering sob burst from Dora Dupont’s pale lips as he
disappeared. She clasped her hands upon her breast, as if to still the
painful throbbings of her aching heart, while an expression of keenest
agony swept over her beautiful face.

“Heaven grant that it is nothing but a base calumny,” she murmured, as
she paced to and fro. “But I fear it is all too true; still, it may be,
he only did it to frighten me into becoming his wife—coward that he is,
to threaten a weak woman! But Robbie, come weal or come woe, I am yours,
and only yours, until my heart shall cease to beat.”

A sweet smile dispersed the shade of anxiety that clouded her lovely
face, as her thoughts flew over the seas to one whom she knew would yet
claim her as his own.

“Oh, heartless flirt that I am,” she continued, after a moment—“two
offers in one night! The Fates defend me against another!”

Saying which, she gracefully swept aside the heavy drapery, and appeared
within the brilliantly lighted drawing-room again.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The following day a noble steamer sailed slowly down the harbor, laden
with its precious weight of human freight. Hundreds were gathered upon
its wide, clean decks, gazing back upon the gradually receding spires
and domes of the great city.

Among these, but standing apart by themselves, was a gay and joyous
party, who seemed to have cast all care and trouble to the winds, and
who were happy only in the present, and in anticipations of the future.

Madame Alroyd and Dora, attended by their servants, were of this party;
and our lovely heroine was laughing and chatting merrily, as if no
sorrow had ever clouded her fair brow or dimmed the luster of her clear
blue eye.

She could not be still. Her gayety sparkled and bubbled forth in a
continual stream of bright sayings and musical, silvery laughter, for
was she not bound for the land that held her darling? And perhaps she
might by some chance meet him there! It should be no fault of hers if
she did not; and she knew their hearts would speak for themselves when
that happy day should arrive; and she felt earth could hold no greater
joy for her than to be again clasped to his loving, throbbing heart as
in days of yore, and to feel that nothing earthly could ever again
separate them.

Many wondered at this bright, innocent beauty’s excessive life and joy
that day, and many envious glances were drawn toward the group that was
such a host of pleasure in itself.

On the opposite side of the deck stood a man wrapped in a large
traveling cloak, and with a hat slouched and drawn down over a pair of
piercing black eyes.

At his side stood another clad in like manner, only his hair was white,
and he had a disagreeable stoop in his shoulders.

Both these men were engaged in a low, muttering conversation, while at
the same time they cast baleful looks upon the party opposite, who
little dreamed of the phantoms of evil lurking in their path, tracking
their every footstep, and vowing eternal vengeance.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                          THE MIDNIGHT VISIT.


Late one night, while the wind was howling dismally, and the rain poured
down in torrents, a carriage drawn by a pair of noble but weary and
dripping horses, drew up before an inn in the village of ——, Germany.

Two men alighted, and muttering discontentedly about the storm, hastened
within the friendly shelter of the inn.

It was not a first-class inn. All those were already filled to
overflowing by the crowds who thronged the place to be present on the
morrow at the commencement exercises of —— Institute.

The house before which our travelers had stopped, although clean and
moderately well kept, was one in which the middle and lower classes
collected every night to drink their beer, smoke their meerschaums and
chat a while around the fire, which always burned brightly in the public
room.

This room was now occupied by a dozen or more of this class, who left
off their drinking and smoking as the strangers entered and shook the
water from their dripping cloaks.

Mine host approached them with many smiles, asking what he could do for
them, and at the same time assisting them to remove their wet garments.

“Give us a warm, private room, and something hot to eat and drink,”
replied the younger of the two gentlemen, “and be quick about it too,”
he added, “for we are almost perished with this cold, miserable storm.”

The speaker took off his hat as he spoke, revealing the handsome face of
Ralph Moulton! While his companion proved to be Ralph Moulton the elder!

A man who was seated in the back part of the room, and rather in the
shadow, started violently as the features of the new-comers were
revealed; and he drew still farther into the shade, while he pulled up
his coat collar, so that it half concealed his face; and then he sat in
an attitude which showed that he was eagerly listening to catch every
word that should be uttered.

In a few moments the host entered, saying their room was in readiness,
and that supper would soon be served to them.

“A wet night!” he said, affably, while he lighted a candle.

“Yes, blast it!” replied Ralph, the younger, who constituted himself
spokesman. “A mighty disagreeable night for any one to be out,
especially if they have traveled as many miles as we have to-day.”

“Come to be here at the grand doings to-morrow?” asked the irrepressible
keeper.

“Um—yes—partly. Please show us to our room now,” was the curt reply.

The host accommodatingly shut his mouth, and taking the candle preceded
the strangers from the room.

The moment they had disappeared, the man who was sitting in the back
part of the room, and who had been so affected upon their arrival, arose
and left the inn.

Heedless of the driving storm, he proceeded quickly toward a drug store.
Arriving there he purchased a fine white powder, and again returned to
the inn.

He did not go back into the public room, but proceeding round to the
back door, entered the kitchen where he seemed to be perfectly at home.

Going to the stove he sat down and appeared to be watching the servants
while they prepared the strangers’ supper.

He seemed to be a favorite with the maids, with whom he laughed and
joked in a familiar manner.

“Who are them new ones? Seen ’em?” at length asked one whom they called
Mina, and who seemed to be queen of the kitchen.

“Strangers from over the water,” was the reply.

“Pretty grand, ain’t they? with their private rooms and supper served in
them? Most folks who come here don’t feel so big but what they can eat
in the room with common people.”

“Oh, well,” replied the man, “that’s the way with the bon ton, as they
call them over in the United States.”

“What’s that,” asked Mina, with wide eyes and open mouth.

“Bon ton! Don’t you know what that means?” replied her companion, with
an amused smile at her astonishment. “It means those who live at the top
of the ladder!”

“How do you know? Have you ever been there?”

“Lord bless you, yes! I was born there!”

“Eh!” exclaimed the girl, amazed. “And you talk as much like a Dutchman
as any of us!”

Again the man smiled. Had he chosen he could have entertained her with
several other languages; but he did not choose to subject himself to her
curiosity, and so remained silent, but watching intently every movement
of the servants as they prepared the tempting viands for the new-comers.

Once he was left entirely alone in the room. He hastily arose, and
noiselessly lifting the lid of the steaming coffeepot, emptied the whole
powder he had obtained at the drug store within it, then resumed his
seat and former position.

“What room do the strangers have? I thought the house was full,” he
carelessly asked when Mina returned to her duties.

“Oh, the one over the keeping-room. We never let any but big bugs have
that, you know, no matter how full we are,” replied the girl.

His eyes glowed with a strange bright light for a moment, then a look of
fierce determination settled over his face.

Soon after he arose, and taking a candle retired to his room, which
proved to be directly back of the one which Ralph Moulton occupied.

The house was a wide building, with a hall running through the center.
The public room and kitchen were on one side of this, and on the other
the keeping-room and dining-room; and overhead were chambers
corresponding.

Between the room which the Moultons occupied and that belonging to the
strange man was a huge chimney, leaving quite a space on one side for
closets, one in each room, which were separated from each other only by
a thin, loose, board partition.

The man, on entering his room, set his candle upon a table. He then
began to disrobe himself, first removing a huge wig and heavy pair of
whiskers, revealing the black, curling locks and handsome face of Ralph
Moulton’s ally, _Ronald Edgerton_.

“I guess the old rascal couldn’t have known me, anyhow,” he muttered,
with a complacent smile at the transformation, “but I felt rather
ticklish when they came in so unexpectedly. To think that youngster
should be so near me and not——”

He stopped suddenly, and looked around as if he feared some one might
overhear what he was about to utter. Then, heaving a deep sigh, while a
look of sadness overshadowed his face, he removed his coat.

“Well, I must to work now. I am bound to know if he has it in his
possession. If I do not find it to-night I shall give up the game.”

Saying which, he took a small screw-driver from the table drawer, and
going into the closet, listened intently.

He could hear nothing but the sharp rattling of dishes and the low
muttering of voices.

He then cautiously applied his screw-driver, and removed an already
loosened board at one end of the partition, and out of sight of the
door, so that any one going to the closet would not discover the
aperture.

He then carefully squeezed himself through this opening and found
himself in the closet belonging to the other room, and could now hear
the voices quite plainly.

He crept softly along to the door, and applying his ear to the crevice,
could easily catch every word that was uttered. Squire Moulton was
speaking, and he heard the words:

“Let the girl go to the duse, boy; you have something of more importance
on hand just now.”

“I tell you, uncle, I would give up everything to gain Dora Dupont for
my wife,” said Ralph, excitedly.

“What! would you give up an honorable name?” sneered the squire.

The young man colored angrily.

“I tell you,” he hissed, “I won’t be twitted with that again. You may
carry out your own plans for revenge alone, for all me, if you can’t
treat me decently.”

“Well, well,” interrupted his uncle, soothingly.

“No, no; it isn’t _well, well_. You are always throwing out something
about my parentage, and I am about tired of it.”

“That’s all the thanks I get,” retorted Squire Moulton, hotly. “Here I
am trying to help you to one of the first positions. Perhaps you would
rather I would tell you outright that you are illegitimate, with no
chance of claiming an honorable name?”

There was a touch of intense sarcasm in his tone.

“You know better than that, uncle, and that I am only too willing to
believe that I am the rightful son of Mr. Ellerton; but it is not
pleasant to be twitted about one’s obligations.”

“Very true,” returned the squire, with an evil smile. “But I wish you
would let the girl alone.”

“I will not. I have sworn that I will have that girl for my wife, and
have her I _will_.”

“Well, let us talk of something else, then. You know Ellerton will be
here to witness the honors with which his son is to graduate. He has not
yet arrived. I bribed the driver who was to bring him not to let him
arrive until after the exercises had commenced. It won’t do to let
father and son meet, you know—at least, not at present—it would spoil
our plans. Have you made any arrangements to prevent it yet?”

“Yes; I saw Hans, the smuggler, told him what I wanted, and he has
promised to have a decoy ready as soon as the exercises are over. I will
see that he is kept out of the way until I bring the girl to terms and
get my claim established; then he may go free, for all I care.”

“How are you going to manage it? You know as well as I do that the
marriage was legal, and can only be annulled by both parties consenting
to it.”

“I know it was legal, though I have told Dora Dupont that I could prove
it was not. She won’t believe me, so I have given up trying to lie her
out of it. But she is gloriously proud, and I can easily send her a
dainty little note, purporting to come from her gallant husband, saying
that time and absence have effaced the affection he once had for her,
and planted other hopes and plans in his heart; and asking that she will
consent to a divorce! Of course, you can easily imagine what the reply
of such a proud little beauty would be to a note of that kind. And then
my way is clear.”

“Hum!” murmured his listener, discontentedly. “I don’t know as I care,
only I wish you would take up the other matter first. I hate the son as
bad as I hate the father, and want to see him dethroned. Perhaps, on the
whole, it would be a good idea to get the girl away from him; it will
only make the victory more complete.”

“That’s it; now you talk like business,” returned Ralph, his good nature
now fully restored at his uncle’s concession. “But,” he added, “I’m
dused sleepy; so let us go to bed.”

“Very well; but first tell me how you are going to manage to keep young
Ellerton out of the way while you do all this,” replied Squire Moulton.

Ralph lowered his voice to a whisper as he replied; and turn which way
he would, their listener could not hear what he said, only once he
caught the words “cave” and “smuggler.” But that was sufficient to set
him on the right track.

The two plotters then retired to bed, and Ronald Edgerton returned to
his room, to wait until the drug which he had put into their coffee
should take effect.

Two hours passed, and again donning his disguise, Ronald again made his
way through the closets into the adjoining room. He left his candle just
within the closet, partly closing the door, so that the light should not
disturb the sleepers.

He smiled triumphantly as he heard their deep, regular breathing, while
he coolly set himself about investigating their luggage.

He found nothing there that seemed satisfactory, and so turned his
attention to their clothing.

He found two wallets filled with money and drafts; but these he put back
again, after a careful examination of their contents, and without taking
anything from them.

It was evident that money was not the object of his midnight visit.

At length he found another smaller wallet in the breast-pocket of the
squire’s coat. This he took to the light and opened.

It contained a number of papers, which he carefully examined, and then
laid aside with evident disappointment.

The last one was in his hand, and he hesitated a moment before opening
it, as if he dreaded to have his hopes blasted by not finding it to be
the one he sought.

At length, with a half-desperate, half-resigned air, he unfolded it.

The instant his eyes caught sight of its contents his whole face lighted
up with sudden joy.

It was the long-lost and long-searched-for paper!

“Ah!” he whispered to himself, with a deep sigh of relief. “Now I begin
to feel like a man once more!”

Hastily unfolding it and concealing it about his person, he replaced the
other papers, and laid the clothing back as he had found it. Then
picking up the candle, he returned as noiselessly to his room as he had
come, where after carefully replacing the board he had removed, he had
retired to bed and slept soundly until morning.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                                TRAPPED.


The day following broke clear, bright and beautiful, and at an early
hour a vast crowd was assembled in the great hall of —— Institute.

It was commencement day! That day so dreaded, while at the same time it
possesses a strange fascination to every one who attains the position of
a graduate.

The examination exercises of the few days past had passed off
satisfactorily alike to professor and pupil; and now the last day of
all, the great day, had arrived, that was to give to the class of
faithful students, the honors they had so valiantly battled for, and so
bravely won!

The orations were delivered, the diplomas given, and each and all had
performed his allotted part except the valedictorian.

The band in attendance suddenly sent forth a burst of rich triumphant
music, as if proclaiming the victory of one who had won the first honors
through all his college course, and who now was about to be crowned
victor and conqueror!

The music ceased, and the crowd sat in almost breathless silence,
awaiting the appearance of the hero of the day. He came and bowed low
and gracefully, was greeted with a burst of enthusiastic applause,
and—our friend Robert Ellerton stands before us.

He it is, who by hard labor, and close application, has borne off the
highest prize, who has taken the first place in all his classes, and now
stands before an anxiously waiting audience, with the first honor of the
day, to deliver the valedictory!

It is delivered in the German language, and as his voice rises clear and
deep, floating over that vast assembly, and filling every niche and
corner of that grand edifice, not a movement is made; not a whisper
heard; scarcely a breath drawn; and as the young orator gradually loses
himself in his theme, and mounts higher and higher, carrying every
listener with him, it seems almost as if the hush of death was on the
air, or as if every living, breathing form of a few moments before, had
turned to sculptured marble!

Oh, what a tribute is such breathless silence to eloquence! Who can ask
for more? Who would wish for more?

For an hour the thrall was upon them, and when our hero resumed his
seat, shout after shout rose up from the throats of the multitude, and
rent the air with their bursts of approbation and praise. Handkerchiefs
were waved, and hands were clapped, while a few of the more aristocratic
of the crowd threw bouquets of choice and fragrant hothouse flowers at
his feet.

Once he stooped to raise one; and then arose and bowed gracefully in
acknowledgment of the tribute.

The bouquet that he raised was the loveliest cluster of flowers one ever
saw; formed of pure waxen tuberoses and heath.

In vain he looked around to see whence the offering came. No one
answered his look of inquiry; only his eyes fell upon the flushed and
lovely face of a young girl, who was sitting quietly smiling to herself,
while her downcast orbs and heightened color, and the tears sparkling
upon her long, heavy lashes, told that her very soul had been moved by
the glowing eloquence of the young orator.

Why did Robert Ellerton’s heart leap so suddenly and fiercely within his
bosom as his gaze rested upon the fair girl?

He bent eagerly forward for a better view of her lovely features.

They seemed strangely familiar—strangely like the face of one who had
long been cherished and enshrined within the holy of holies of his
heart, and he felt almost sure that the elegant floral offering had come
from her dainty hand.

He cast his eyes again upon the flowers, and started as he saw, coiled
between the pure leaves, a little perfumed note.

He quivered in every nerve as he drew it quickly from its hiding-place,
and unfolded it.

A cry almost burst from his lips as the words within met his gaze. They
were simple, chaste, yet breathing an intense longing for the one to
whom they were addressed.

  “Robbie, I am here; I could not stay away. Oh, come and tell me if I
  am welcome.

                                                                   DORA.

  “At the Glenburn House.”

For a moment he sat clasping that precious missive, in a trance of
motionless delight. He almost feared to move lest he should break the
spell. His face was pale as marble, and he could scarcely credit the
evidence of his own senses. He feared to raise his eyes lest the vision
should have vanished, and he find it all a dream.

Poor Robert! Poor Dora! That moment of hesitation was fatal to both!

Dora timidly raised her eyes to him, while his were bent in their
riveted gaze upon her note; and his pale, cold look, as she interpreted
it, struck a chill to her heart, and with a look of deep disappointment
upon her lovely face, she turned with a heavy sigh, to obey her aunt,
who called for her to go; for the band had ceased its music, and the
throng was dispersing.

When Robert recovered himself, and sprang eagerly to his feet to seek
his darling, he saw her leaving the hall.

He curbed his disappointment as best he could, though still clinging
fondly to the precious bouquet, and resolving, the moment he was at
liberty, to seek her at the Glenburn House.

Other parties had been present to witness Robert Ellerton’s triumph, and
a mad jealousy burned within the hearts of both the Ralph Moultons at
the well-merited homage he received.

Their eyes had greedily devoured the little by-play of the bouquet and
the note. And an expression of satisfaction gleamed from Ralph’s dark
and fiery eyes, as he took in at a single glance the position of
affairs, and realized how keen and fierce would be the agony of his
rival, ere the day should close.

Another still had listened, rapt and spell-bound, to the thrilling
eloquence of the valedictorian, with a heart that was well-nigh bursting
with pride and affection for the noble young man who was his all—his
only child!

Yes, Mr. Ellerton, having been detained by the breaking of a part of the
carriage in which he was traveling, had only arrived just as his son
arose from his seat to utter his farewell to those with whom he had
spent so pleasantly and so profitably the past six years.

Mr. Ellerton looked weary and worn, as if he had missed something out of
his life during the past six years, and was lonely and hungry after a
morsel of love. But his thin face lighted up with joy and affection as
he feasted his eyes upon the manly beauty of his son. The rolling years
had removed every trace of bitterness from his heart, and he was willing
to concede everything, could he but once again clasp Robert to his
breast.

Poor, mistaken father, thou didst commit a grave error when thou didst
banish thine only son from thy love and presence. Ay, gaze fondly upon
him, as he stands there so noble, and so like one inspired! Revel in his
brilliant powers and intellect! gloat over him with all thy father’s
fondness, for he is worthy of it. Yet he and thou wilt suffer much of
sorrow and misery ere ye shall meet again. And ye little dream that that
fond look had nearly been the last!

But we will return to Robert.

He was eagerly pressing his way through the crowd, when he felt a light
touch upon his arm.

Looking around, he saw a little fellow neatly and simply dressed, who
held a note up to him.

“Who sent it?” he asked, as he took it from the boy.

“A gentleman with white hair,” he respectfully answered, and which was
true, for Ralph had cunningly given the note to his uncle to send by the
boy.

With a beating heart Robert hastily tore it open, and read the following
lines:

  “MY DEAR SON:—

  “I arrived to-day, but not in time to see you before the exercises
  commenced. Come to me at once, for my heart aches to welcome my long
  absent boy to my arms. Come quickly to your impatient father.

                                                       “ROBERT ELLERTON.

  “The hotels are all full, so I have been obliged to take up with such
  accommodations as I can get. The bearer of the note will conduct you
  to me.

                                                                  R. E.”

“When was this note given to you?” he asked again, turning to the boy,
and with a joyous smile upon his fine face.

“Just a few minutes since, sir.”

“Which way did the gentleman go?” asked Robert, with a sharp glance over
the boy.

“I will show you, sir,” he replied, quickly dropping his eyes before
Robert’s clear gaze.

“What is your name?” pursued our hero, who did not like the youngster’s
looks at all.

“Hans Weichel, sir.”

“What is your father’s name?”

“Hans Weichel, sir?”

Robert smiled at the boy’s concise replies, and said:

“Well, we will not wait for this crowd to get out; we can go out through
the chapel.”

And turning, they went through another large room, then down some steps,
and thus reached the street.

The boy led Robert away from the town, down toward the sea, where there
were several little cottages in which fishermen lived. They passed these
and walked on some distance before Robert noticed where he was going, so
deeply was he engaged in thought, wondering at his darling’s unexpected
presence that day.

At length, on looking up, he saw only the vast expanse of the sea upon
one side of him, and on the other great, rocky cliffs, rising high
against the sky in somber and majestic grandeur; while behind him,
nearly half a mile distant, was the town, and the great buildings of the
institute.

Turning suddenly to his guide, he said, sternly:

“Where are you leading me?”

“We are most there,” answered the boy, somewhat confusedly. “Just beyond
that clump of trees is the house.”

“Are you sure the gentleman told you to come to this place?” pursued
Robert, somewhat suspiciously.

“Yes, sir; he said he did not like noise, and wanted to be where he
could see the ocean, and be quiet,” replied young Hans, with evident
truth.

Robert knew his father could not bear confusion, and that he loved the
sea, though he could not help wondering that he should choose such a
very remote abode, and rather an unsafe one, too, for there were reports
abroad that a band of smugglers was concealed somewhere about the ledge
of rocks, which they were gradually approaching.

However, he continued to follow the boy, and soon came in sight of a
neat little cottage, painted white, and both quickening their steps,
soon arrived before the door.

The boy gave three sharp raps upon it, and it was immediately opened by
a rough-looking man, who bade them enter.

Robert’s suspicions were now fully aroused, and he demanded if a man by
the name of Ellerton was waiting for him there.

The man replied that there was, and Robert, with a rather doubtful air,
entered.

In an instant the door was shut and barred. A heavy hand was laid upon
his shoulder, while a pistol covered his heart, and the same rough voice
said:

“Make the least disturbance, and you are a dead man.”

“What means this violence, villain?” demanded Robert, thoroughly
alarmed.

“It means that you are my prisoner.”

“For what offense?”

“Oh, you will know all in good time, my proud youngster,” replied Hans
Weichel, senior, with a coarse laugh.

“If it is my money or watch you want, you are welcome to them, only do
not detain me, for my friends are anxiously waiting for me,” said
Robert, thinking he could bribe the man.

“Not quite so fast, my young lark; I care nothing for your purse or
baubles, but you are not to see your friends at present.”

“Why, I demand to know?”

“Why? Oh, because one of your very particular friends forbids it,”
replied Hans, again laughing disagreeably.

“Take that, then, for your insolence, you rascal,” shouted Robert,
suddenly dealing the man a heavy blow upon the temple.

He fell to the floor with a groan, then quick as lightning Robert turned
to unfasten the door to escape.

Before he could draw the bolt, his arms were pinioned from behind, while
at the same moment a heavy cloak was thrown over his head, completely
blinding him and smothering his cries.

It was done so quietly and quickly that he was amazed, for he had
supposed there were no others in the house, though now he heard several
voices; but all spoke in low tones.

He was borne through the house, then down some steps. And now he heard
some one stamp three times upon the ground. Immediately there was a
grating sound, as if a heavy door was swinging upon its hinges. He was
then borne within what seemed to be an underground passage, for he felt
the air cool and damp, even through the fold of the heavy cloak, and he
shuddered, for he was now convinced that he was in the hands of the
smugglers, though for what purpose he could not conceive. He did not
know that he had an enemy in all Germany, and the words of the rough
brute who met him at the door were a mystery to him.

After proceeding through the several passages, and what appeared to be
secret doors, he was at length set down, and the cloak removed from his
head.

A flash of dazzling light blinded him for a moment, but when he opened
his eyes again, he looked around him in utter amazement.

He found himself in one of the richest and most gorgeous apartments he
had ever entered in his life; in fact, the whole room was one bower of
beauty and luxury, like unto a very modern palace.

At one end of the room stood a magnificent piano; also a harp of gold
set with pearls.

The ceiling, as our hero glanced above, was dazzling as the sun, from
which chandeliers of gold, crystal, and bronze hung suspended.

The man who had brought him to this fairy bower had unbound him
immediately upon entering, and then disappeared, uttering no word of
explanation, neither seeming to have any fear about leaving him alone.

He had not finished the inspection of his surroundings when the heavy
tapestry suddenly parted near him, and a boy, clad as a page, entered,
bearing a silver tray, upon which a most tempting repast was arranged.

This he placed upon a small table, and then wheeled it in front of
Robert, after which he went and stood behind his chair, waiting to obey
his slightest wish.

Despite his wonder at this strange adventure, he was very faint, and set
himself to eat the savory viands with the keenest relish. There were
fragrant coffee and choice wines, and luxurious fruits, which, added to
the more substantial viands, made a meal a royal prince might envy.

Again the heavy tapestry parted, and a lovely girl, clothed in heavy
white silk and gauzy lace, looped with scarlet trimmings, entered, and,
seating herself gracefully at the piano, made the grand room echo again
and again with the sweetest music.

Was he dreaming a fairy dream? Or had some knavish sprite—a “Puck”
perchance—bewitched his eyes, that he should see such marvelous sights,
and deem them reality.

He questioned the page; but he might have been a breathless statue, for
all the reply he got was a cold, calm glance from a pair of pale blue
eyes.

He finished his meal, convinced that the mystery must remain a mystery
still, and the page bore away the tray, while at the same time the
lovely nymph at the piano glided as noiselessly away as she had come.

Soon another page entered, and bade Robert follow him. He could but
obey; besides, his curiosity was excited to explore still farther this
underground palace, with its beauteous maidens, secret passages, and
elegant appointments.

The youth led him through spacious halls, hung like the room he had just
left, with tapestry, and lighted by chandeliers of strange forms and
devices, until at length stopping, he parted some rich and heavy
curtains, and bade our hero enter.

The page then turned and disappeared.

Robert found himself in a chamber scarcely less elegant than the room he
had just left. A luxurious bed stood at one side, and was hung with
curtains of white silk, looped with cord and tassels of gold.

The room contained everything that the most fastidious could desire,
either for comfort or luxury. Books, richly bound, were scattered in
profusion upon a marble table, and it being early in the evening, Robert
amused himself an hour or two with these, and then retired to rest; and
being much fatigued with the efforts of the day, he slept soundly until
morning.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                              CONSPIRACY.


The next morning Robert arose, and found a perfumed bath and all the
dainty appointments of a toilet awaiting him. After performing his
ablutions, and dressing himself with great care, he sat down to await a
summons to the morning meal.

Almost immediately a page appeared, and conducted him into a room hung
with green and gilt, where a table, spread for two, contained an
inviting repast served upon dishes of silver.

The page conducted Robert to a seat, and then placed himself, as the
other had done, behind his chair.

Presently another man entered, likewise followed by a page.

He was a tall and well-formed man, and fine-looking, though his face was
somewhat bronzed, and his beard was long, black, and very heavy, giving
him a rather fierce expression.

He was clad in a suit of rich green velvet, ornamented with gold lace
and seed pearls; while at his side there hung an elegant dagger, whose
golden handle was brilliantly ornamented with jewels.

He greeted Robert in a very gentlemanly manner as he seated himself
opposite him. Our hero returned the bow, without at all losing his
self-possession.

He felt assured that he was in the presence of the chief of the band of
smugglers.

And he was right.

“Did you rest well, Mr. Ellerton?” asked the chief, as he filled a plate
with the good things spread before them and passed it to Robert.

“Very well, indeed, sir,” he replied, courteously; “but you have the
advantage of me, for I cannot call you by name.”

“Weilman Weichel, at your service, and brother of the man whom you
saluted with such warmth on entering his cottage yesterday,” replied the
chief, with a smile, and bowing low.

“’Twas but in self-defense, Herr Weichel,” returned our hero, a shade of
uneasiness crossing his face at the remembrance of the severe blow he
had given the villain.

“Nay, do not be alarmed, my friend; I know it,” said Weichel, remarking
the look. “I but honor you the more for the courage and bravery you
displayed; and I assure you Hans himself bears you no ill-will. We are a
class of people who admire courage, be it in friend or foe.”

“Have the goodness to answer a question, Herr Weichel. Why am I brought
like a prisoner to this place, and yet treated in a manner of which a
prince could not complain?”

The chief smiled at this off-hand compliment, and then replied:

“’Tis true, you are my prisoner, or rather, let me say guest, and as
such you must remain for a few weeks. I admit it is no personal feeling
that causes me to retain you as such; you have never injured me or mine,
and, indeed, I respect you highly, for I know who you are, and the high
position you have always held during the few years you have been in our
country. But I will be candid with you. I am to have fifty thousand
dollars if you remain here six weeks, and that is a sum I should like to
possess. I trust, however, that you will not feel like a prisoner, and I
pledge myself that you shall be entertained to the best of my ability.
Everything you wish you have but to name, and it shall be granted.”

“I thank you, chief, for your kindness and hospitality, but I have only
one desire at present, and that is my liberty. I am rich, or at least,
my father is. He is now in this village, and I promise you that I will
give you a check for fifty thousand dollars—the same sum that you have
been promised for detaining me here—as soon as you place me in his
presence.”

“Your offer is very generous, Mr. Ellerton,” said the chief, after a few
moments’ deliberation, “but I cannot accept it. My word is pledged to
another, and no amount could tempt me to break that.”

“My friends will surely institute a thorough search for me, and thus
your retreat may be discovered, and yourselves routed, perhaps
arrested,” returned Robert, deeply chagrined and disappointed that the
smuggler refused to set him at liberty.

A sneer half-curled the lip of the chief, but quickly repressing it, he
politely replied:

“I have no fears, my friend, on that score; for our fortress is of solid
rock, with no crack or crevice to betray that there is aught within.
Only those who are perfectly familiar with our secret openings can ever
enter these vaults. There is but one in the wide world outside of our
band, who has an inkling even of their existence; and he is not now in
the country. He learned it through the carelessness of one of our pages;
but I have no fear that he will ever trouble us.”

“Who are the instigators of this foul wrong?” demanded Robert, hotly,
hardly heeding the latter part of the chief’s speech.

“That, also, I cannot reveal to you. You doubtless realize they are
enemies,” he returned, not at all disturbed by Robert’s passion.

“Well, then, will you tell me the motive which actuates it?”

The chief did not reply at once. He sat absently sipping his coffee for
a few minutes; then suddenly waving the pages from the room, he bent
toward his guest, and said, in a low tone:

“A person has discovered that you are not the legitimate son of your
father—that he was married to another woman before he ever saw your
mother. That woman he forsook, believing the marriage only a farce, and
wedded your mother. The first marriage has been proved legal, and a
friend of the first wife is now on your father’s track, with the
rightful son, to make him acknowledge him. They thought there would be
less trouble about the matter if you were out of the way, and that is
one reason why you are here.”

“It is false, every word of it!” burst in indignant amazement from
Robert’s pale and quivering lips, while the perspiration started from
every pore.

He arose and paced the floor, in mingled grief, mortification, and rage,
at the stain thus cast upon his name—the name which he had always been
taught to believe was spotless.

He would not believe it; for did it not blast every hope that he had
cherished from his boyhood up to the present time? He could not claim
Dora if it were true! He had no right to her; for he had no name to give
her. His heart almost withered within him at the thought, and even the
chief cast looks of pity upon his white, agonized face, as he sank, with
a despairing cry, into a chair and bowed his head upon his hands.

“It is all a base conspiracy!”

“False or true,” resumed the other, “that is what I have been informed
is the fact. But that is not the principal reason why you are confined
here.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake tell me what it is, or I shall go mad,” groaned
Robert.

“A young man has become very much enamored of a young lady, and wishes
to marry her; but he says you imagine you have a prior claim upon
her—some foolish childish ceremony or betrothal, and that if you were
allowed to remain at liberty it would interrupt all his plans with
reference to her. When they are united, then you are to have your
freedom.”

“Tell me the name of this fiend in human form, whose brain but plans
ruin for fellow-mortals. Tell me! I will know it!”

Robert sprang fiercely to his feet and confronted his captor with
clenched hands. The veins upon his forehead were hard and knotted. Like
a hero of the ancient times, every nerve trembled, every muscle was on
the stretch; rage and contempt, hate and revenge were in all his
features; and for a moment Weilman Weichel dropped his eyes in
confusion.

“Tell me,” repeated Robert, huskily, “for by all the gods, the villain
whoever he is, shall dearly pay for this!”

“I cannot, Herr Ellerton; and I beg you will calm yourself. This passion
is of no earthly use,” the chief coldly replied.

“Heavens! what a conspiracy I am the victim of, and not to know who my
enemies are! To be struck by a hidden foe is worse than all else; let
them but come to open warfare, and equal combat, and I will battle to
the death! Chief, I tell you, you are as vile as they, with your
complicity in the affair.”

“Agreed, my friend,” returned the ruffian, smiling complacently, though
not in the least ruffled at Robert’s ravings and revilings. “I do not
profess to be at all saintly you know; but I do assure you that I am
very fond of money, and so have made up my mind to see this thing
through.”

“Money!” repeated Robert, bitterly. “Sell your soul for a few paltry
dollars, and wreck the happiness of two loving, trusting hearts.”

After a few moments spent in troubled thought, while he paced to and
fro, Robert suddenly halted and said:

“Weilman Weichel, I will pledge you a hundred thousand dollars if you
will set me free—nay, do not refuse until you hear my story!”

He then related the history of his whole life, up to the present time,
and ended by showing the chief the note he had received from Dora the
day before.

The chief appeared to be convinced of the truth of the story, and
started violently when Robert spoke the name of Squire Moulton. He
hesitated a long time before he replied. He evidently coveted the great
sum that Robert offered him, but he finally replied in a cold, hard
tone:

“I told you before, young man, that my word was pledged, and that no
amount of money could tempt me to break it.”

The chieftain withdrew, and Robert was left alone. In a few moments a
page appeared. He conducted the unhappy young man to the chamber
allotted to his use. Robert threw himself upon the couch, and utterly
exhausted with his passionate emotions, fell into a sound slumber, which
lasted many hours.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                             DORA’S GRIEF.


Madame Alroyd and Dora, on leaving the institute, drove rapidly back to
the Glenburn House, where they had an elegant suite of rooms.

Madam was in ecstasies over the young orator—the more so, because he was
one of her own countrymen, and had borne off the palm in the face of all
the natives.

She kept up an incessant chattering during the drive, extolling his
eloquence, praising his manly beauty and elegant manners, and ended by
declaring that they must manage some way to get acquainted with him.

Dora, on the contrary, sat silent and sad, scarcely heeding her aunt’s
many expressions of delight. She was wounded to her heart’s core that
Robert had not given her a smile of recognition, nor even a glance of
his eye, to show that he was glad she had been present to witness his
triumph.

His pale, cold look haunted her. Perhaps he thought her
unmaidenly—wanting in womanly delicacy, to thus force herself unasked
upon his presence and notice; and her delicate cheek burned with shame
and mortification as the thought presented itself to her.

She wished now that she had given heed to her aunt, who had tried to
persuade her not to come. But from the moment she heard when the
exercises were to take place, her heart had been set upon it; and
although Madame Alroyd deemed it a wild, unaccountable freak of Dora’s
to break in upon their pleasure trip and go so far out of their way, she
at length yielded the point, as she always did, to gratify every wish of
her darling.

“What is the matter with my pet?” she said, when they had removed their
outer wrappings, and she noticed for the first time Dora’s sad face.
“Were you not pleased with our countryman’s valedictory? But I need not
ask you that, for your face was radiant during the whole of it, and I
began to fear that, at last, my little girl had lost her heart. And no
wonder, for I almost wished myself young again, if only for the
privilege of trying to win the heart of our handsome hero of to-day. Eh,
Dora?”

And madam laughed at what she considered a very bright saying.

A vivid blush spread itself over Dora’s fair face at this sally, which,
upon noticing, Madame Alroyd laughed again, and exclaimed:

“Ah! that’s it, is it? Surely I had not given myself credit for quite so
much shrewdness.”

Poor Dora could bear no more, but burst into a flood of tears.

Her heart was full, well-nigh to bursting, and she longed to unburden
her mind that she might gain sympathy and comfort. She had kept her
secret thus far sacred; but its weight was getting too heavy for her to
bear alone.

Still she dreaded to reveal it, lest she should displease her aunt, who,
she knew, was hoping great things for her in the future.

“What is it, my darling? Have I wounded you so deeply? Forgive me; I was
only rallying you on your somber looks.”

Her darling’s tears alarmed her; and, going to Dora, she took her in her
arms, and fondly kissed away the bright drops as they fell.

For a few minutes Dora could not answer, for her sobs.

But at length she suddenly sat up, and wiping her eyes, said earnestly,
looking her aunt in the face:

“Auntie, am I very much changed since you took me to live with you?”

“Yes, dear, I think you are a good deal changed about many things; still
you have many of your girlish ways and looks about you even now. You are
Dora yet, but with considerable development, and a good deal of polish
added. But why do you ask me such a question, my love?”

“Because—because——”

She hesitated a moment, deeply confused, then went on.

“Do you think if a friend had not seen me for six years, he would know
me now?”

“What do you mean, Dora? Did you ever know Mr. Ellerton when he was a
boy?” asked madam, suddenly, a light breaking in upon her mind, and half
explaining Dora’s sadness.

“Answer me, please, auntie, and then I will tell you what I mean,”
pleaded Dora, earnestly, her cheeks taking a still deeper hue.

“I can’t say confidently whether he would recognize you or not,” she
said, answering her question. “He might think there was something
familiar about you, and yet seeing you in such a crowd, not feel
confident you were the same person. You may have changed more to other
eyes than to mine you know. But what has that to do with your tears, my
pet?”

“One more question, auntie, first,” persisted Dora, turning away her
burning face from madam’s piercing gaze. “Did you notice Mr. Ellerton
when he picked up my bouquet?”

“Yes, dear,” replied her aunt, starting violently, and becoming more and
more convinced that the two were old friends. She went on.

“He gazed very earnestly at you for a few moments. He then turned his
look upon the flowers again, and suddenly became very pale and
abstracted. I looked at you then, and your eyes were downcast, while I
thought you looked confused, about a very little thing—if throwing a
bouquet could make you lose your self-possession.”

“It wasn’t that, auntie,” returned Dora, desperately. “I—I—put a note in
that bouquet.”

“Dora—Dora Dupont!” cried Madame Alroyd, in a voice of amazement, and
lifting her hands in horror. “You don’t mean to tell me that you did
such an indelicate thing as that! I don’t wonder now at his strange
looks. Did you ever know that young man before?”

“Yes, auntie,” replied her niece, in a low, clear voice. “Robert
Ellerton is my husband!”

“What!” shrieked the old lady, bounding from her seat like an India
rubber ball, and gazing upon Dora as if she thought she was demented.

“It is true, auntie,” said she, sadly, “and the note I put among my
flowers was to tell him I was here, and asking him to come to me.”

“Is the child crazy? I believe you are. Oh, I wish we had never come
here now. For pity’s sake tell me what you mean, child!” she muttered
wildly, while she walked the floor with a woeful face and wrung her
hands.

“Sit down, auntie, and be quiet, and I will tell you all about it,”
replied Dora, calmly; intensely relieved that her secret was out, and a
secret no longer.

She led Madame Alroyd to an easy-chair, then bringing a footstool she
sat down at her feet. She laid her head lovingly in her lap, and then
repeated the story of her marriage, her love for Robert, how it had
grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength. And this was
the reason why she had persisted in coming to be present at his
graduation.

She showed her the locket, which she had always worn next to her heart,
and Madame Alroyd felt, as she gazed upon the honest and handsome face
of our hero, that treachery or fickleness could not lurk in the heart of
one who possessed such truthful eyes, and such a frank, open
countenance.

She had listened in speechless amazement to the strange tale, and when
Dora finished, she asked in a husky voice:

“Why have you never told me this before, Dora?”

“I didn’t dare to, auntie. I feared to displease you, and above all, I
feared to be ridiculed about it. I thought you would say just as
everybody else did, who knew it, that ‘it was a foolish, childish
affair,’ and try to persuade me to consent to a separation.”

Dora buried her burning face in the folds of madam’s dress, and sobbed
afresh.

Her aunt laid her hand fondly upon that golden-crowned head, and stroked
it tenderly, while she sat for a few minutes in deep and troubled
thought. At last she said:

“And do you love him now, darling, well enough to consider yourself
bound to him for life?”

“Oh! yes, auntie, only—I am afraid he has forgotten his love for me.”

And again the tears poured forth.

“Why, love?” asked madam.

“Because,” she replied, when she could control her voice, “when I looked
up after he found the note, he sat pale and cold as a marble statue. You
say you saw it too. I hoped he would at least give me one look of
remembrance; but no, he did not, and my heart sank like lead in my
bosom. Just then you called me, and I did not dare to look again. I felt
so ashamed and grieved.”

“What did you write, darling?”

Dora repeated word for word what she had written.

“There was nothing that you need feel at all ashamed of; and if he is
true to you, he will seek you the first moment he is at liberty. And I
don’t believe a man with such a face could be untrue!”

“Bless you, auntie!” exclaimed Dora, giving her a little hug, “you make
me very happy by saying so.”

“Perhaps,” resumed madam, “he was so taken by surprise that he could not
believe it at first, and if you had looked at him again you might have
come away with a happier heart.”

Truly she was a “shrewd one at guessing,” for she could not know how
nearly the truth she came!

“Do you really think so?” asked Dora, eagerly, the bright look coming
again to her eyes.

“I hope that may be the truth of it,” replied her aunt, thoughtfully.
“But if it should not—nay, darling, try to look at it bravely,” she
added, as Dora shuddered, and uttered a little moan. “If you should
discover that, during the long years of hard study, his heart should
have forgotten its allegiance to the little girl whom he married upon
the impulse of a moment—or if, perchance, some German beauty has usurped
your place, I know it would be hard, but it is best to look at the
matter calmly—would you—could you desire to force yourself upon him as
his wife?”

“Never! I would let my heart break—I would die first!” exclaimed Dora,
with glittering eyes and heaving bosom. “But, oh!” she added, a moment
after, with quivering lips, “I cannot believe anything so dreadful of
Robbie. I feel that he _is_ true. I could almost say I _know_ he is.”

“Ah!” replied Madame Alroyd, smiling at her returning trust, and patting
her tenderly upon the cheek.

“Ah, could he see you now, your faith alone would win him. We will hope
the best of your hero, and try to wait with patience his coming. And so
my pet could not trust the old woman with her secret?”

“No, it was _not_ I could not _trust_ you. I could not bear to have my
love made light of.”

“Ah, you did not know that this old and withered heart was once as
trusting and fresh as your own. But we will not talk of that now,” she
said, with a sigh; then added, softly, “My own darling, I love you too
dearly to ever make light of anything which you consider sacred; so
don’t ever shut me out in the cold again.”

Dora threw her arms around her aunt’s neck, and said, while she rained
kisses upon her wrinkled face:

“You are the best and dearest auntie in the whole world, and I love
you—almost as well as I do somebody else.”

Madame Alroyd lovingly returned her embrace, while at the same time she
slyly wiped a tear from her eye.

The dressing-bell for dinner now rang, and both hastened to make their
toilets; while Dora’s heart was relieved of half its burden by the
blessed influence of love and sympathy.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                           THE FORGED LETTER.


In direct contradiction to the note which Robert received, Mr. Ellerton
bent his steps toward the Glenburn House, where, despite the crowd of
visitors, he had managed to obtain rooms.

He sought in vain for his son among the throng that poured out from the
institute. He then found one of the professors and asked him to send
Robert to him, if he should find him.

The professor had politely told him that he would send to his
boarding-place, and inform him of his father’s arrival, which he did,
and with what success future chapters will show.

Thanking him for his kindness, Mr. Ellerton then returned to the hotel,
where he waited with ill-disguised impatience for Robert’s appearance.

At the dinner-table Madame Alroyd and Dora sat directly opposite Mr.
Ellerton; and as his eyes fell upon the graceful and familiar beauty of
our heroine, he started violently, and during the whole meal intently
studied her features.

Dora had recognized him at a glance, and all her old anger toward him
revived instantly. For she could not forget how bitterly he had opposed
Robert’s love for her, nor the sarcastic insinuations he had cast at her
mother.

She wondered why Robert was not with his father, if they had seen each
other at all. She wondered also if he had fully forgiven his father for
his former harshness and ill-treatment, and if Mr. Ellerton was as cross
and unyielding as ever.

She glanced up furtively at him, as her thoughts reached this crisis,
and caught his eye fastened earnestly and thoughtfully upon her.

Her own dropped instantly, and with almost a guilty feeling; for she
felt as if he must have read her thoughts, so searching had been his
glance.

She thanked the fates fervently that just at this moment her aunt
finished her meal, and arose to leave the table. She felt that a pair of
eyes were following her the whole length of the room, and she was ill at
ease until the door closed upon them.

“Who were those two ladies who just left the room?” asked Mr. Ellerton
of a gentleman who sat at his right hand, and with whom he had been
having some previous conversation.

“Madame Alroyd and Miss Dora Dupont, her niece. They are from your own
country, sir, I have been told,” replied his companion.

Mr. Ellerton puckered up his mouth very much as if he were going to
whistle, while he muttered to himself:

“Well, I don’t wonder the little beauty looked at me, as if she thought
I was an old bear. She must have known me; and now I know where I have
seen those great, deep blue eyes before.”

“Do you know anything about them?” he asked, aloud.

“Only by report,” replied his neighbor. “That says that the old lady is
as rich as Crœsus, and has adopted the young lady who is her niece. They
are making a tour for pleasure of this country. They say the little
beauty is turning all the young men crazy.

“Is she? That’s a pity, for I have my doubts about any of them getting
her,” remarked Mr. Ellerton, dryly.

“I don’t know about that. I sat beside her to-day in the institute, and
I began to think that one young man had turned her head; for she scarce
breathed all through Ellerton’s valedictory; and when he finished she
threw him a lovely bouquet, and which you might have seen in his hand
afterward. She’s a dainty little craft, anyhow—don’t you think so?”

“Um—well, yes—rather,” replied Mr. Ellerton, smiling at his companion’s
volubility, and rather enjoying this bit of gossip about his son. Then
to himself he added, “I guess I shall have to look into this matter a
little. Rich, is she? well, I won’t mind so much about his having her
now. I’ll cultivate their acquaintance immediately, and try to get the
little one to like me if I can.”

With which complacent reflections he arose and left the table.

As Madame Alroyd and Dora were passing up the stairs to their rooms, a
servant met them and handed the latter a note.

She glanced at the handwriting, and in an instant flushed crimson, then
turned pale as the pure lilies which hung from her hair, and lay against
her soft cheek.

Passing swiftly to her room, with the note clasped in both her hands
over her beating heart, she sank breathless upon a sofa, quivering in
every nerve. The writing was Robert’s, and she felt that that white
folded missive had power to seal her happiness or plunge her into the
depths of woe.

Madame Alroyd took in at a glance the cause of her emotion, and so
remained silent until her niece should recover herself sufficiently to
read the note.

She had not long to wait, for soon Dora tore it eagerly open and read it
through, her white face blanching to the hue of death, until at the last
word she fell with a moan of anguish to the floor.

Her aunt sprang quickly to her side, and, seizing the fatal missive,
flashed her eyes swiftly over it, for she felt she had a perfect right
to know its contents.

“Dastard! cowardly villain!” burst fiercely from her firmly compressed
lips at its close. Then ringing a furious peal for her maid, she
gathered the unconscious girl tenderly in her arms, and moaned, “My poor
stricken lamb, it is cruel, cruel to crush your young heart thus.”

The maid came in, and together they raised her and laid her gently upon
a sofa, and applied restoratives.

Could Ralph Moulton have seen her then, methinks even his cruel heart
would have failed him at the sight of that white, rigid face, and he
would have been glad to give the lovers back to each other to have seen
those lovely eyes again unclose, and that breathless bosom heave again.

His diabolical plan had worked well, for the note ran thus:

  “DORA:—

  “For I cannot say my dear Dora—I feel as if I have forfeited all right
  to name you thus—your note, so deftly concealed in your lovely tribute
  to-day, causes me more suffering than I like to own, for it shows me
  how fully and faithfully you have trusted in me all these years; when
  I——. Well, I thought when I last saw you, that I, too, should be true,
  and that nothing could ever change my affection for you. But how
  changeable is life! I will be frank with you, however, and trust to
  your kindness of heart to release me from all bonds that have united
  us in the past. I have recently met a young and lovely maiden, without
  whom life to me would be utterly wretched. Could you see her, you
  would not blame me that I wish to wed her. And now I have one request
  to make, and then I bid you farewell forever, and hope that you may
  yet attain earth’s highest happiness. Will you consent that the bonds
  which unite us be annulled? I feel that I have not the courage to meet
  you, and when you receive this I shall be far away. I have written to
  my father the cause of my absence, and if you will sign the paper
  which he will present you, you will render deeply grateful one who has
  done you great wrong, and who earnestly wishes to be forgiven.

                       “Yours, with deep repentance,
                                                       ROBERT ELLERTON.”

For an hour Dora lay in a fearful swoon, and Madame Alroyd was nearly
distracted with the fear that her darling would die. She showered the
bitterest reproaches her heart could invent upon the author of all this
sorrow and suffering. She blamed herself, again and again, for being
overpersuaded to come to that “horrible place.” But Dora’s health was
good, and her constitution firm and strong, and she finally opened her
eyes and gazed wildly upon her aunt and maid, who hung so anxiously over
her.

At first she could not realize why she was lying upon the sofa, so weak
and languid, but presently the remembrance came to her, and she closed
her eyes again wearily, with a low, helpless moan.

“There, darling, you are better now; drink this, and it will give you
new strength,” said her aunt, putting some wine to her lips.

She obeyed, and the color soon began to tinge her pale lips again.

Madame Alroyd bent tenderly over her and pressed a kiss upon her pure
brow.

“Have courage, my precious pet,” she whispered. “Show your brave little
heart now. You are all that poor old auntie has got, and must try and
live for her.”

“Do you know—did you read? she gasped, a look of stony agony in her deep
eyes.

“Yes, love; I knew I might; and, oh, darling, this poor old withered
heart has suffered, too. I know how it feels, and the sting is there
yet. The thorn is left, if the rose is faded and dead.”

And poor, sympathizing Madame Alroyd took the pale, crushed lily in her
arms, and sobbed as if the sweetness of her own life had been just
crushed out, instead of years and years ago.

And Dora cried, too; the tears came like a flood, and they did her good,
though she felt as if life held no joy for her now. But she would live
as happily as she could for her dear aunt’s sake, who had made her life
so happy the past six years.

She passed her night of sorrow alone, and when morning came she rose up
calm and proud, and pale and cold as an iceberg. Not another tear did
Madame Alroyd see, not another sob did she hear. Dora’s heart might have
been impregnable marble, after that first wild burst of sorrow, for any
outward appearance of grief.

No queen could have borne herself more proudly and coldly at the offense
of some criminal, than did Dora Dupont after she believed that she was
forsaken; and her aunt being a woman of the world, exulted at the spirit
she showed, while in her secret heart she wondered at her powers of
endurance.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                         SIGNING AN AGREEMENT.


Madame Alroyd and her niece were sitting quietly in their room, the
morning after the reception of that fatal note.

Both were trying to busy themselves about some light fancy work, to
drive away the agony that was tugging so fiercely at their
heart-strings, and failing most miserably, as their white, wan faces
plainly showed.

Not a word was spoken about Robert’s faithlessness; only when they met
that morning, madam had taken Dora tenderly in her arms, kissed her, and
murmured some loving and soothing words of fondness, and calling her by
all the pet names she had at her command. But Dora gently withdrew from
her aunt’s fond embrace, with a low, “Please don’t, auntie!” while her
face grew a shade paler, and she caught her breath convulsively.

So the subject was dropped, for madam knew she could bear it better if
let alone, and so she said no more, and Dora subsided into her icy
calmness again.

All through that day her aunt kept regarding her with wonder, for Dora
had always been a creature of impulse, and now she was like a block of
marble, so hard and cold; and she more than once found herself repeating
these words of Thomas Hood:

           “Fair is she as the dreams young poets weave—
             Bright eyes, and dainty lips, and tresses curly—
           In outward loveliness a child of Eve,
             But cold as nymph of Lurley!”

A slight commotion in the hall attracted their attention, toward the
middle of the forenoon.

There were steps going back and forth, and anxious, troubled whispers;
then the voices grew to muttering, and then louder, till the ladies
sitting so quietly in their room could hear quite plainly what was said,
and Dora instantly recognized the voice of Mr. Ellerton; the other one
she did not know.

“It is the strangest thing,” she heard Robert’s father say, “I ever knew
the boy to do! It doesn’t seem like Robert at all! He never was a coward
about anything when he was at home, and I can’t understand his showing
the white feather now. Besides, the letter doesn’t read like him; it is
too precise and constrained.”

“But you say the writing is his?” asked the other voice.

“Yes, as near as I can tell. You know I have not seen much of it for the
last six years. I will show it to you; you can judge better than I, as
you have probably seen more of it.”

There was a rustling, as if some one was unfolding a letter, then a
moment of quiet, and the strange voice again said:

“It certainly looks like his hand, though perhaps a little straggling,
as if written in a hurry. But I cannot understand why he should do such
a dishonorable thing. As you say, it is not in the least like him. I
have always had the greatest respect for him, thinking him one of the
most noble and manly young men I ever met with.”

“Did you have any idea of his having formed another attachment in this
place?” asked Mr. Ellerton, with a deep sigh.

“No; and that is what puzzles me. But there is his own word for it in
black and white; and can we doubt it? I am deeply disappointed—deeply!”
and the unhappy father’s sigh was echoed from the breast of the other.

“It is _very_ strange; for when he left home neither coaxing nor threats
would move him an inch. He was thoroughly bewitched; and I did not think
he was one that would change.”

“Did I understand you to say that this same young lady was present
yesterday to witness his honors?”

“Yes; and I must say I as deeply regret the termination of this affair
as I was opposed to it in the beginning.”

“May I ask the young lady’s name?”

“Miss Dora Dupont——”

Dora waited to hear no more, but, with flashing eyes and form drawn
haughtily erect, she walked proudly to the door and threw it open, and
stood confronting the astonished gentlemen.

Mr. Ellerton started violently, and the hot blood rushed to his very
brow as he realized how inconsiderate he had been in choosing the
corridor in which to reveal his troubles to the professor. But he had
met him at the head of the stairs as he was about descending, and almost
unconsciously they had turned back into the hall to converse.

The little German professor gazed upon our enraged but beautiful heroine
with eyes and mouth gaping wide with amazement and admiration.

“I beg pardon,” she said, icily, and bowing low, “but will the gentlemen
have the kindness to walk in here and finish their conversation? Being
an interested party, I feel somewhat sensitive about having my name made
public in the affair. Besides, sir,” she added, turning to Mr. Ellerton,
“I believe there is a little matter of business to be settled between
us.”

She stepped one side, and made a graceful motion with her hand for them
to enter.

Being thus taken entirely at a disadvantage, they knew not what else to
do than obey her, and entered the presence of Madame Alroyd with rather
a crest-fallen air.

With queenly stateliness Dora introduced her aunt to Mr. Ellerton, and
he in his turn introduced Professor Ursengen of the —— Institute to both
the ladies.

Mr. Ellerton gazed upon Dora with wonder.

He knew by her words that she had received some communication akin to
his own; and he had not expected to see her bear herself so proudly. He
remembered her only as a little girl whom he had seen in tears, and he
had anticipated a reception of the same kind when he should make known
his son’s desire. But the tables were turned; _she_ was the one who was
self-possessed, and he confused and abashed before a slender girl.

The little professor’s eyes wandered admiringly over her, from the top
of her queenly head to the tip of her dainty feet, while he quoted to
himself:

                      “A daughter of the gods!
                 Divinely tall and most divinely fair.”

Then suddenly feeling that he had no part nor lot in her affairs, asked
to be excused and bowed himself out.

Mr. Ellerton immediately recovered himself, and said, in a voice of
regret:

“I beg, Miss Dupont, you will pardon me for being so inconsiderate as to
mention this subject in so public a place. My intense anxiety and
disappointment at the absence of my son must be my apology for my
forgetfulness.”

Dora bowed coldly, then arose, and taking Robert’s letter from the
table, handed it to him, saying:

“It is but right, sir, that you should know the contents of the
communication I have received from your son. I understood from your
conversation with Professor Ursengen that you had been the recipient of
one something like it.

Mr. Ellerton read that cruel letter through, and then exclaimed, with
perplexity:

“Zounds!” He immediately recovered himself, and added, “I beg pardon,
ladies, but I don’t understand this business—it is so unlike Robert of
old.”

“I agree with you there, sir,” replied Dora, a scornful smile wreathing
her white lips, which had again grown pale as her marble cheek.

“I never knew Robert to do a mean thing in his life before. Why on earth
could he not have informed us of the change in his feelings sooner? I
never thought they would change when he left home.”

“But you see that he acknowledges life to be very changeable. But, if
you please, we will not discuss this matter further. He spoke of a paper
for me to sign, which I presume you have with you. I would like to have
this matter settled at once.”

Oh, how proud and cold was that voice!

But he could not see those tiny hands, so fiercely clasped among the
folds of her dress that the blood started beneath the pressure of the
delicate nails.

“My dear young lady,” responded Mr. Ellerton, in deep distress, “I
wish—shall we not wait awhile, until I can see my son, and obtain a more
definite explanation?”

“Sir,” she retorted, pointing to the note he held in his hand, while her
eyes flashed fire, and the blood mounted in an angry torrent to her pale
brow, “sir, I have no desire to humiliate myself enough to await
anything more definite than that.”

He regarded her with a look of admiration while he replied:

“Believe me, Miss Dupont, I suffer more than I can express, that
anything so unfortunate as this should have occurred. Nay,” he
entreated, as he saw the scornful curve of her lip, and knew that she
was thinking of her former opposition, “I also sincerely regret the
past; so sincerely that I had come to receive my boy with open arms, and
allow him to follow his own inclinations, if he still chose to claim you
as his bride. I beg you will believe me. All opposition has long since
died out of my heart.”

Again Dora bowed coldly, and then said, with a touch of sarcasm in her
voice:

“You perceive that your son has followed his own inclinations in
renouncing me. And I pray you will believe me when I say that I, too,
regret the past; bitterly regret that I was ever the cause of discord in
your family. If you will now give me the paper, I will prove my
sincerity by at once sundering the relations which bind me to your son,
Robert Ellerton!”

With tears in his eyes, the unhappy father took a folded paper from his
bosom and handed it to our heroine. He knew the beautiful young creature
was suffering, despite her cold and haughty manner, and his heart melted
at the sight of her pure, waxen face and pale, sternly compressed lips.
Had he dared he would gladly have taken her in his arms and comforted
her.

But she was unapproachable.

She hid her fearfully lacerated heart beneath a barrier of chilling
scorn and contempt.

Dora ran her eyes swiftly over the paper.

It was in the form of an agreement between both parties, to annul the
marriage ceremony which had been performed over six years before.

Robert Ellerton’s name was signed beneath!

With a dash of her pen Dora affixed her own name underneath, and then
returned the document to Mr. Ellerton.

He placed it carefully in his pocket, and then rising, bade the ladies a
polite “good-morning” and retired, sad and disappointed, from the room.

Our poor stricken lamb, utterly overcome by the restraint she had
imposed upon herself, again fell lifeless to the floor.

She soon revived, however, and resumed her cold, calm exterior; refusing
all sympathy, and forbidding the subject to be mentioned.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                            “WE SHALL SEE!”


That same evening found Ralph Moulton and his uncle again seated in
their room at the inn, engaged in earnest conversation, while the same
eager listener, Ronald Edgerton, was within the closet, to devour every
word that fell from the two plotters’ lips.

“I tell you things don’t work just as I want them to, Ralph,” said the
old man, discontentedly.

“Why?” asked Ralph.

“Because the old fellow does not seem to mind the young one’s
disappearance very much. He seems to take it as a matter of course,
that, if his son did not wish to meet the young lady, he should take
himself off. I saw him just after he had received your cunning forgery,
or at least within a couple of hours after, and he was as calm as a
clock. It would have done me good to have seen him rave and tear a
little.”

“I guess he’ll rave and tear enough when I demand my rights, which I
intend to do to-morrow,” replied the nephew, with a touch of bitterness.

His uncle did not reply at once. He did not like to have Ralph quite so
eager about this claim. When he had told him his history—or rather when
he had invented this abominable lie, in order to make him a willing tool
to further his own evil designs—he had hoped to be able, by promising
him his whole fortune, to make him give up the idea of claiming Ellerton
as his father. But he was determined to prove that he had a legal claim
to that name. And the squire blamed himself now for twitting him so much
about his obscure birth.

Another thing troubled him greatly. He had not anticipated meeting Mr.
Ellerton in Germany.

His plan had been to ruin the son, blast all his prospects in life, and
then return and try to destroy the father.

While Mr. Ellerton was in the country, he knew he could do nothing with
Robert without exciting suspicion, unless——

A bright idea struck him here, and his evil face lighted with a fiendish
triumph.

He reasoned that his enemy had probably disposed of most of his property
on leaving his native land, intending to spend several years traveling
with his son. In that case he would have most of it in gold with him, or
if not in the coin itself, something equivalent in value to show for it.

Why could he not put Mr. Ellerton out of the way, and thus ruin father
and son at one blow! Then he could put forward Ralph’s claim, with no
one to dispute it, and he would be sure to win. He felt he would never
have so favorable an opportunity as now, for the smugglers were at hand
to aid him, and once the thing was done, they could leave the country
and enjoy their triumph without a fear of being molested.

As these thoughts passed with lightning-like rapidity through his mind,
he glanced askance at his nephew, wondering within himself whether it
would be safe to impart to him this diabolical plan.

He was a little fearful that Ralph was not quite hardened enough in sin
yet, to calmly contemplate robbery and murder. At all events, it would
do no harm to sound him a little upon the subject.

“I don’t know about going to the trouble and expense of trying to prove
your claim, Ralph,” he finally said. “I think we can come at it easier
than that!”

“How?” asked Ralph, looking up, surprised.

“Why, I have been thinking that Ellerton must have turned most of his
property into money before leaving home. I know he did before when he
went abroad, and it would only take a little maneuvering to get
possession of it,” he replied, winking wickedly at him.

Ralph cast a quick, searching glance over his uncle’s face, and then
replied, with an assumed air of indifference:

“Explain yourself, if you please. I don’t understand.”

“Well, if we will only say the word, the smugglers will quickly put him
out of the way, and the money is ours.”

“What _then_ is to become of my _honorable_ name that you have harped
upon so much?” demanded Ralph, with a sneer.

His uncle winced beneath this quick retort, but replied confidently:

“Why, you foolish boy, don’t you see that will be easy enough then. You
will have no one to dispute your claim but that puling boy, and what can
he do, with no proofs, against such incontestable ones as you have?”

“Then you mean for us to cage up the father for life, get possession of
the property, and let my young rival go, and work or beg for his
living?” Ralph said, in a manner which gave his uncle some encouragement
to reveal the whole of his plan.

“That is just what I mean, with one or two important alterations, which
I will name,” he replied, jocosely. “I propose to cage him, as you call
it, but not like his son, but rather in a wooden box, and six feet below
ground, and then let the young man go to Jericho if he wants to.”

“In other words, you would murder the man,” said Ralph, in a husky
voice, with a pale face and stern brow.

“You’ve hit it right this time, my boy!” he answered, with a wicked
leer. “And now what do you think of it?”

Ralph involuntarily shuddered at such bold, out-spoken treachery, and he
replied in a voice of intense loathing and horror:

“I think you are a fiend, and I only wish you had left me to die in the
land of strangers, where my mother died, instead of bringing me up for
crimes like this. And I tell you I will never dip my hands in human
blood.”

“Really, young man, you are getting to be quite complimentary in your
style of address,” sneered the heartless villain, an angry glow
suffusing his yellow and wrinkled face.

“I do but speak the truth, sir; and I would have you distinctly
understand that I will never stain my soul with the crime of murder. And
I begin to think that I have taken the wrong way after all to gain my
honorable name that you tell so much about. You have inspired my heart
with hatred—from my infancy, as it were—toward every legally born child,
making me feel like an outcast and a beggar. I believe if I had gone
bravely and openly to him whom you say is my father, with the proofs in
my hand, he might have been willing to recognize me equally with his
son. But you have always bribed me to hatred and revenge. Oh! if my
mother had only lived to teach me to be upright and truthful, I would
have blessed her, even had she been unable to give me an honorable
name.”

Squire Moulton’s heart was boiling with wrath at the boy’s bold and
defiant language, and cursing himself for a fool for revealing his plans
to him, he retorted bitterly:

“Oh, ho, my fine young man! it’s all very nice to imagine a man like Mr.
Ellerton to be so generous and noble. A man in his position you know is
apt to be willing to acknowledge his own dishonor. I advise you to
proceed to him at once and see what kind of a reception he will give
you.”

Imagination cannot picture the expression of that vile man’s face as he
made this sarcastic and taunting reply. It seemed as if all the evil
passions of his nature had concentrated themselves into one look of
convulsive fear, hate, and malice, while his wicked heart beat with
terror lest his tool—his dupe—should reveal everything, and thus thwart
every chance for vengeance upon his despised foe.

He saw it would not do to break with Ralph; he had trusted in him to
such an extent that he was necessary to help him. He resolved to work
upon his evil passions again. It would not do to let him madly plunge
both of them into ruin by one false step. But he felt almost as if he
could strike him dead as young Ralph looked him full in the face and
replied to his last taunt.

“I shall at least make the trial,” Ralph said, firmly. “I have done evil
enough already without having a dead man haunting me all the days of my
life. I have sworn that Dora shall be my wife; and I am willing to do
anything reasonable to win her. I shall force her into a marriage, and
teach her to love me afterward. But as for murder, ugh! I will not do
it!”

“I tell you, Ralph, you shall not do anything so rash as to go, as you
intend, to Mr. Ellerton. You would only get kicked and scorned for your
pains, and perhaps be arrested; then how will you marry your lady-love?
Besides, I think you are rather overlooking the wrong he has done your
mother, and that you also forget that he has known of your own
existence, and willfully deserted you all these years. Are you willing
to forgive and forget all this?” asked the crafty man.

“I know all this,” replied his nephew, with a weary sigh, as he realized
the force of his uncle’s remarks.

“Then, don’t you see, if you make yourself known at this early hour, and
get yourself into trouble, you will surely lose the girl, together with
your name and fortune?”

Squire Moulton saw the advantage he had gained, and thus had hastened to
increase it.

Ralph bowed his head upon the table in troubled thought, while heavy
sighs burst every now and then from his aching heart. He felt the truth
of what his uncle argued, namely, if they possessed themselves of Mr.
Ellerton’s money, he would be almost powerless to resist them, and would
be willing, perhaps, to concede what they asked.

At last he looked up and said, half desperately, half sadly:

“Uncle, I don’t see but that one sin leads to another, and that we will
have to get possession of the old fellow’s money before we can
accomplish much. But, mark me, I will not have a single drop of blood
spilled!” His love for Dora prompted him to use every exertion to win
her, and he added, “I will tell you what I will consent to do; but
beyond it I will not go. I will agree that Mr. Ellerton be waylaid and
conveyed to the cave, where we can get possession of his valuables; for
in all probability he carries them about his person. Then, when we have
him in our power, we can compel him to sign papers agreeing to
acknowledge me as his rightful heir, or, at least, joint heir, with
Robert. The boy has never wronged me, and is not to blame for what his
father has done, and I don’t wish to take anything from him. If Ellerton
will agree to this, as I have no doubt he will when he sees our proofs,
then we will free them both. It will probably take some time to bring
him to these terms, and in the meantime I will secure my bride. What do
you say to my plan?”

While Ralph had been speaking the squire’s brain had been busily at
work.

He saw at once it would be policy to appear to agree to his nephew’s
proposition.

After they had once got his enemy in their power, he knew there would be
ways enough to dispose of him.

Indeed, he rather liked the plan on the whole, for he would then have an
opportunity of triumphing over him, and making him feel his victory.

Yes, he would agree with Ralph, but—he vowed Ellerton should die—and—by
his own hand.

If once safe within the smuggler’s cave, he should never see the light
of day again.

Oh! it would be sweet to see him chained in a dungeon, and taunt him
with his grief! It would be glorious to tell him how he had worked out
his ruin, planning it night and day for years, and see him writhe and
suffer in his agony!

Then he would reveal to him how he had helped Ralph to tear Robert’s
bride from his almost clasping arms, and appropriate her to himself. And
it was with difficulty that he disguised and concealed his anticipated
triumph from the sharp eyes of his nephew. But he dropped his glowing
orbs, and replied, calmly:

“Yes, yes, boy. I’ll agree to anything to keep the peace between us;
and, in fact, I guess it’s the best thing we can do. When shall we put
the plan in force?”

“To-morrow, if possible. I want this thing over with as soon as
practicable. I will go immediately to see Hans, and give him our
instructions, and have him on Ellerton’s track before sunset to-morrow
evening.”

“All right. The quicker the better,” replied the old villain.

Ralph instantly arose and left the room, intent on his errand, leaving
his uncle maturing his diabolical plan for the future.

Ronald Edgerton, who had listened to the above conversation with
creeping flesh and eyes distended with horror, crept cautiously back
into his room, muttering to himself:

“We shall see! We shall see!”




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                         THE UNHEEDED WARNING.


Toward evening of the following day Mr. Ellerton stood booted and
spurred upon the steps of the Glenburn House, impatiently waiting for
the groom to bring around a horse.

He was going for a gallop over the distant hills to get a breath of
fresh air and a view of the surrounding country.

While standing thus he saw a dirty little urchin, barefooted and ragged,
behind one of the large fluted pillars which supported the porch, and
every little while he caught him peeping out upon him with curious eyes.

He bore this scrutiny as long as he cared to, and then walked up to him,
saying, somewhat crossly:

“What are you prowling about here for, you youngster? Anything wanted?”

The little fellow tore off his tattered cap, and catching hold of the
shock of yellow, tangled hair that hung down over his forehead, gave it
a vigorous pull.

He then thrust his hand deep into his trousers pocket, pulled out a
soiled and crumpled piece of paper, which he put hastily into Mr.
Ellerton’s hand, and with a low “Mum’s the word, sir,” he darted like a
flash from his sight.

Somewhat amused at this singular proceeding, while at the same time he
was unconsciously impressed by the urchin’s mysterious manner, he
glanced around to see if any one had observed the event before he opened
the note.

There was no one about, and he unfolded it and read the contents.

It was written in a round, manly hand, which Mr. Ellerton thought had a
familiar look; but where or when he had seen that same handwriting
before, he could not remember.

It had been carefully and neatly folded, but the boy had probably soiled
and rumpled it through carelessness.

It contained the following words:

  “ROBERT ELLERTON:—

  “Be on your guard to-day. Do not go beyond the reach of help without
  the means of self-defense, for danger lurks in your path!

                                                             “A FRIEND.”

Mr. Ellerton curled his lips in a scornful smile, as if he did not fully
credit the writer’s story. Nevertheless he turned and went within the
hotel, back up into his room, and slipped a couple of loaded pistols
into his breast-pocket.

When he appeared below again the groom stood waiting with his horse.

He mounted, and, putting his spurs to the animal, galloped swiftly away
in the direction of the cliffs which we have before mentioned, and in
the recesses of which our hapless hero was imprisoned.

Mr. Ellerton thought if he could gain the summit of these cliffs he
should have a splendid view of the surrounding country.

As he slowly ascended the side of the rugged cliffs, he began to ponder
upon the strange warning he had received. Who could have written it? Who
was there in all the country who knew him familiarly enough to call him
Robert Ellerton?

Where had he seen that handsome handwriting before? It was somewhere
away back in the dim past; but when or where he could not recall, and
the more he tried to remember the more puzzled he grew. Neither could he
imagine what the danger was that lurked in his path.

Had he been in a country among barbarians, he might well give heed to
such a warning; but here, in such a quiet town, where almost every one
gave his attention to cultivation and learning, it could not be possible
that any very great danger could threaten him.

Still, the more he meditated upon it, the more uneasy he grew.

By this time he had reached the summit of the cliff.

The prospect from this point was attractive. Far, far away as the eye
could reach was the sea in all its grandeur, and reflecting from its
silver bosom the many-tinted glories of yonder sky, while just at his
feet its waves gently washed the huge crags with its foam and yellow
sands; and involuntarily he murmured those beautiful lines from
Tennyson’s pen:

               “Break, break, break,
                 At the foot of thy crags, oh, sea!
               But the tender grace of a day that is dead
                 Will never come back to me.”

With a feeling half of pleasure, half of melancholy at his heart, he
turned to leave the enchanted spot, when a shrill cry, as of some one in
pain, startled him.

Turning his eyes in the direction whence the sound proceeded, he saw
just below him a noble horse, madly rearing and plunging among a cluster
of bushes, while near by lay the prostrate form of a man apparently much
injured, judging from his repeated cries and shrieks.

Without a moment’s thought, except that of helping a suffering
fellow-being, Mr. Ellerton put spurs to his horse and clashed recklessly
down the narrow path of the cliff—out of sight of the village, out of
the reach of help—on, on into danger and treachery, and into the hands
of a set of vile and heartless villains!

Oh, why did he not heed that timely warning?

He quickly gained the side of the prostrate man, and sprang to the
ground to his assistance.

Scarcely had his foot touched the earth when the man sprang to his feet,
and covering Mr. Ellerton’s heart with a heavy revolver, shouted:

“Stand, or your life is the forfeit!”

Like a flash of lightning his situation rushed upon him, and he realized
all too late how necessary had been the warnings he had that morning
received!

He knew he must have been followed and watched every step of the way
from the hotel, and that the farce of the dismounted and injured rider
had only been an ingenious trap, into which he had so readily fallen.

His own hand involuntarily sought for his weapons of defense, but at
that moment a slight rustling caused him to glance up, and he saw three
more ruffians surrounding him.

He realized at once how utterly vain and useless would be any attempt at
resistance, and without a word he submitted to have his hands bound
behind him.

One of the villains now approached him with a folded handkerchief,
remarking jocosely, with a tantalizing grin:

“Neat little trap, wasn’t it? Now, if you please, we will cover up those
peepers of yours, as you might be adding to your stock of information
while we make our journey to the palace; and that would not suit the
king you know.”

The villain laughed a coarse laugh, in which he was heartily joined by
his companions.

“For what am I molested?” demanded Mr. Ellerton, with calm disdain,
while he suffered himself to be blindfolded.

“The king wants you,” was the reply.

“What king?”

“Why, our king. He has got no particular province as I know of. I may as
well call him the King of the Cannibal Islands as anything else,”
replied the ruffian, winking at his comrades.

Again their rude laughter rang over the echoing hills.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Mr. Ellerton, not deigning to notice
the wretched attempt at witticism.

“To the palace, as I informed you before; and to safe quarters I’ll
warrant you. Come, tramp, for we are in a hurry,” and the poor man was
seized by both arms and hurried roughly over the uneven path.

He asked no more questions. His pride kept him silent, and he would not
have calmly borne their coarse insolence had it been in his power to
resent it.

They traveled more than a mile in this manner, then after the same
ceremonies of stamping, passing through secret passages and doors that
his son had noticed, he was finally unbound, and found himself in a
large stone cell comfortably furnished. The ruffians left him to himself
after bolting and barring the door.

The cell was lighted by a large hanging lamp, while the air which
ventilated the apartment came through the upper part of the door which
was formed of an iron grating.

With a heavy heart he sat down to consider his uncomfortable position,
and to wonder why he was thus a prisoner.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                           “I SHALL GO MAD.”


The sound slumber into which Robert had fallen was broken by the
sweetest strains of music. He sat up on his couch and rubbed his eyes,
trying to arouse himself; he was bewildered, yet enchanted, for the
strains continued, now bursting forth into joyous melody, then dying
away into the softest cadences, and finally sweeping on into intense
passion and sadness.

They seemed to come from behind his bed, and he vowed to himself that
mortal ear never before heard such exquisite music.

It sounded like a voice accompanied by a harp, and the tones so clear,
so sweet, were like the chiming of delicate silver bells.

He examined the tapestry hangings and found a place where they could be
parted; he pulled aside the heavy folds, and saw a ponderous block of
stone upon hinges, and swung open a foot or so into his chamber.

Determined to learn all he could of this strange underground castle, and
hoping this might be some secret passage which would lead him to
liberty, he swung the block still farther back, and sweeping the heavy
curtain aside, he beheld a fairy bower of beauty and elegance.

The room was about the size of the one assigned to him, but hung with
elegant white velvet, with gilt and purple trimmings. The carpet, also
of white velvet, was strewn with great purple pansies, so perfect with
their golden centers, and in their royal beauty, that Robert scarcely
dared to step lest he should crush out their brilliant hues.

The furniture, of purple and white, and framed in gilt, was of the most
exquisite and graceful pattern. Lovely paintings and statues adorned the
walls and niches of the room, and upon a table of some foreign wood
inlaid with pearl, were scattered richly bound books, music, and all the
delicate little trifles which one so likes to see in a lady’s boudoir.

Over this table, and perched daintily upon one foot in his fancy cage,
was a canary of purest gold, ever and anon twittering and chirping an
echo to the song of his fair mistress.

For several moments Robert scarcely dared to breathe, lest the lovely
scene should melt away before his vision, and he awake and find it all a
dream. He stood transfixed and amazed; every step he took in this
strange smugglers’ fortress, he discovered new beauties and fresh
mysteries.

Upon a divan, dressed in spotless white, sat a golden-haired maiden,
lightly fingering a magnificent harp, and pouring forth her soul in
song.

Her face was fair and pure as a lily, and round, sweet, and almost
babyish in its contour. Her heavily fringed lids drooped over a pair of
purple-blue eyes, and almost lay upon her delicately tinted cheeks,
while occasionally a bright drop left their wondrous depths and rolled
like a sparkling dewdrop down upon the purple pansies at her feet.

All at once her song ceased, and with a deep sigh the bright beauty
bowed her lovely head and rested it against the harp before her.

Almost involuntarily the sigh was echoed from our hero’s breast, and the
spell was broken.

The young girl started violently, and rising, a low, frightened cry
broke from her ripe lips as her glance rested upon Robert.

He recognized her at once.

She was the same beautiful maiden whom he had seen the previous evening,
and who had entertained him with her music while he was eating his
supper.

He saw that she was startled by his presence, and raising his hand with
a reassuring gesture, he said, respectfully:

“I pray you, fair lady, do not be alarmed. I mean you no harm. Some kind
fate, or Providence, has opened a secret passage between your room and
mine, and impelled partly by curiosity, partly by your beautiful song, I
ventured to seek its source. Is my apology accepted?”

She raised her liquid orbs to his, while a bright blush suffused her
face, and bowed her graceful little head in token of assent, but spoke
no word in reply.

“I am a captive,” Robert went on to explain, “put here by some bitter
enemy, and I must needs believe you are in a like situation, for no one
so fair and lovely would voluntarily remain in these vaults, gloomy
despite their oriental magnificence.”

“I am a prisoner, and yet I am not a prisoner. There are circumstances
which would compel me to remain here were every secret door and passage
thrown open to give me liberty,” replied the lovely being, in tones so
sweet, yet so sad, that the tears involuntarily started to our hero’s
eyes.

“Can such a thing be possible?” he asked in surprise.

“Yes, for I have no other home in all the wide, wide world, and while I
mourn, I am still glad, for it is in my power to protect and minister to
others, who, like yourself, are held in captivity here.”

“Will you forgive my curiosity, and explain yourself more fully? Or do I
intrude? If so I will retire at once?”

Robert’s eyes pleaded hard to be allowed to remain, though he made a
motion as if about to retreat.

“Nay, be seated,” the girl replied, waving him to a seat, and at the
same time sinking back upon the divan from which she had risen.

Robert took the seat indicated, and anxiously waited for his fair
hostess to resume the conversation.

At length she said, with a strain of sympathy in her sweet voice:

“I know something of your history, and partly the reason why you are
confined here, and I sorrow every day I live that I cannot in some way
be the means of liberating the unfortunate ones who are so often brought
here. But I am only a weak woman, and can do but very little against so
many wicked men.”

Robert thought that she was a very, very beautiful woman, if she was
weak; almost as lovely as Dora.

“I told you,” she continued, “that I have no other home. My mother is
dead. My father I never saw, as he deserted his wife before I was born.
My uncles, who were once rich and prosperous, have spent all their
wealth in trying to hunt down the man who so deeply wronged their
sister; and when she died they took me, a poor little orphan, brought me
up and educated me, suffering every privation that I might not be denied
any dainty or luxury.

“Finally their last dollar was spent, and in their desperation they
joined this band of smugglers, and while on some business for the gang
in the United States they discovered my father.

“They watched and dogged his every step until he came to this country,
and are now waiting for a favorable opportunity to wreak their vengeance
upon him, and claim my rights, after which they have promised me they
will forever renounce this wicked business.”

“You say the man, who is your father, is now in this country,” said
Robert, as he paused for a moment.

“Yes, in the country and in this very village, though why he is here, I
do not know, unless a righteous Providence has driven him here to compel
him to do justice to the wronged.”

A shade of sadness clouded her fair brow, and a deep sigh broke from her
lips.

“Will you tell me this unnatural father’s name?” asked Robert.

“Ralph Moulton.”

“Ralph Moulton!” exclaimed Robert, wildly. “Which—who—what—pardon me, I
am so taken by surprise. But will you please tell me in what part of the
United States your uncles found him?”

Our hero leaned breathlessly forward, awaiting her reply.

“In S——, Massachusetts,” she answered, glancing up in gentle surprise.

“The same—the very same. How exceedingly strange!” he replied, starting
to his feet and pacing back and forth.

“Do you know this man, who, I am told, is my father?”

“Know him?” replied Robert, bitterly. “I know him as an enemy—as my
father’s bitterest enemy; and I begin to feel convinced that he is
concerned in that plot against me. Yes, yes; I see it all now—fool that
I have been, not to think of it before!”

He struck his hand violently against his brow as he recalled what the
chief had told him—about his father’s unlawful marriage, and his being
an illegitimate son.

Then his mind went far back to the day when he and Dora went to the
squire to be married; his questions and emotion concerning his mother;
and he realized at once that there was a deep and vile plot on foot to
destroy him.

He remembered that the squire had a nephew, and was convinced that it
was he who had seen Dora, become attached to her, and was resolved to
marry her, taking this way to get rid of him in order to make his own
way clear.

He was deeply agitated, and wondered what his father thought had become
of him. And Dora—would she think he had willfully deserted her? He
feared so, feeling that his enemy would urge this view of the case, and
eventually win her for himself.

He was nearly frantic with the thought, and forgot where he was—forgot
everything but that he would wreak the bitterest vengeance upon the vile
plotters, could he but lay his hands upon them; and wrung his hands in
his agony, utterly regardless of the two beautiful eyes that were
wistfully following his every movement.

“Yes, yes; it is as I fear, without doubt. Oh, why does Heaven permit
such wickedness to go unpunished? Is there no way that I can escape,
that I may thwart them? Oh, Heaven, give me strength to bear this, or I
shall go mad!”

He threw himself, exhausted, into a chair, and groaned aloud.

The lovely girl opposite him arose, and gliding softly to his side, laid
one of her small white hands upon his arm, and said:

“My friend, I begin to believe that a kind Providence has indeed led you
to me to-day; and that our lives and destinies are in some mysterious
way connected, and the same person has done us both a foul wrong. I pray
that you will have confidence in me. Tell me your story, and perhaps I
may be able to help you, or rather we may be able to help each other.”

He looked at her with a sad, yet admiring glance, and taking her little
hand, pressed it reverently to his lips; then said:

“My dear young lady, you do me honor to put so much faith and trust in
me; while at the same time you shame me with your courage and calmness.
I thank you sincerely for your sympathy, for your gentle eyes tell me I
have that. But I am selfish to be so bound up in my own sorrows and
troubles, besides being rude to interrupt so abruptly your story. Please
pardon me, and continue your narrative, after which I shall, in return,
tell you my own history.”

He led her gently to a sofa, and taking a seat beside her signified his
readiness to listen to her tale.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                            A STRANGE STORY.


“Some nineteen years ago,” said the maiden, “a gentleman, Ralph Moulton
by name, was traveling in Italy. He came to Naples, where my mother’s
family resided. There were four of them in the household—my grandfather,
my two uncles, and my mother. Their names were Count of Lamerack,
Gerient and Edwin, and Vivien. She was the darling of their hearts, the
light and pride of their eyes. Nothing was too good or too expensive for
her, her every wish was gratified, every whim pampered.

“At a fashionable evening party my mother was introduced to this Mr.
Moulton, and loved him at once. It was not a mere girlish fancy, but the
strong, pure love of her inmost soul. He, in return, professed to
reciprocate her affection, and wished to marry her. This her father
objected to strongly. He gave as one reason that he could not part with
his darling to go so far away. Neither did he wish her to marry a
foreigner, no matter how wealthy he might be. She must have a titled
gentleman for a husband.

“Mr. Moulton became very angry at this decided refusal of his suit, and
vowed he would be revenged, and my mother, in her intense love and
passion, at length yielded to her lover’s persuasions, and wedded him in
secret.

“The blow was too much for my grandfather, and he died in a fortnight
after the discovery of his idol’s disobedience. Upon looking into his
affairs, instead of the wealthy nobleman that every one supposed him to
be, he was found to be involved to the extent of his whole fortune, and
his darling was therefore left penniless. Her brothers had each a small
fortune, left them by their father’s brother, which they generously
offered to settle upon my mother. But she firmly refused the sacrifice,
believing that her husband loved her for herself alone, and would be
true to her, though she brought him no dowry.

“She was quickly and cruelly undeceived, however, for he commanded her
to accept her brother’s proposition. Again she refused, and he coaxed
and threatened to no purpose, until finding it all unavailing, he
declared he would have nothing more to do with her, brutally telling her
that he did not love her, and had only been attracted to her by her
resemblance to one whom he had loved a few years before. Moreover, he
said that their marriage was only a farce; that he hoped by making her
father believe they were married, he would be willing to forgive her,
acknowledge him, and settle his fortune upon them. Now that she had no
money, and would not take what was offered her, he was tired of her, and
never wished to see her again. He left her in her weakness and despair,
and she never saw his face again.

“My uncles were furious, and vowed the deepest vengeance upon the
villain; they tried to prove the marriage legal, but the brute had
cunningly planned the affair, and removed every trace and proof of its
legality. After a tedious search they at length found the man who had
performed the ceremony. He was a poor monk, who had been confined in a
mad-house by this villain, and, on his death-bed, sent for a clergyman
and confessed the whole story.

“In the meantime I was born, and my mother died of a broken heart.

“I was put out to nurse until I was old enough to go to school, when I
entered a convent, and there received my education, during which time my
uncles were constantly searching after the wretch who had so wronged
their sister.

“As I told you before, they spent all their money, and then in their
desperation joined this band, all of whom swore to help each other in
their troubles. About six years ago, while on duty in the United States,
they accidentally discovered my unnatural father living in the most
luxurious manner imaginable. They were witnesses of an event which was
likely to affect him injuriously in the future, and treasured it up,
hoping to use it against him. From that day to this they have followed
him, tracking every step, until at last he has strangely come to the
very place of all others they most wished him to come, and, they trust,
a few days, or weeks at most, will give them their long sought triumph.

“Perhaps you think it strange that I so love and cling to my uncles; but
I do love them dearly, despite what they have come to be. They have been
both father and mother to me, and are ever gentle and tender. I will not
leave them, and go forth into the world, where I know I should find more
congenial associations, for I feel that my love keeps them from
committing many crimes which otherwise they might be led into.”

“You are as noble as you are beautiful!” exclaimed Robert, in
admiration, as the fair girl finished her narrative, to which he had
listened with breathless interest.

“Nay,” she replied, blushing deeply at his earnest words and gaze; “you
forget how lonely I should be had I no one to love, or who loved me.
They are all the relatives I have in the world.”

“True; but this is no fit place for such as you to live in, and among
all these rough villains, too.”

“Oh, but I never see any but the chief and my uncles, unless it is, in
such instances as yours, where I go to entertain with my poor efforts
some poor person who has been taken captive.”

“I need not tell you, my gentle friend, that blessings will ever follow
you for your kind ministrations,” exclaimed Robert, enthusiastically.
“And I trust,” he added, “the time may soon come when you may be
liberated, and know earth’s brightest joys.”

“I fear the sun will never brighten my pathway in life,” she returned,
with a sigh, “for my destiny lies underground.”

She shuddered as she spoke, and grew ashy pale.

Robert regarded her in silence for a moment, then asked, gently:

“Will you tell me why you fear this?”

The question recalled her to herself, and she flushed a deep crimson,
and buried her face in her fair hands.

Our hero regarded her wonderingly, but did not press her for a reply.

Presently she uncovered her face, and, without looking up, said:

“The chief is not willing I should leave this place, at least, until he
sees fit to remove me himself.”

The truth flashed upon Robert at once. He realized that that great rough
man wished to appropriate this delicate and lovely blossom to himself.
His very soul revolted at the thought, and he inwardly vowed that if
ever he escaped, his first duty should be to set at liberty this
suffering maiden.

“Cannot your uncles protect you from a fate like this?” he at length
asked.

“They would if they dared; but you doubtless realize that they, too, are
in his power. He has but to say the word and they die, and in that case
my lot would be a hundred-fold worse.”

“Cowardly wretch! Let me but regain my liberty, and I swear before
Heaven I will put to rout this miserable gang of thieves!” said Robert,
passionately.

“You would do a noble act, for others suffer as well as myself. I am in
no immediate danger, for my uncles have made the chief take an oath that
he will not press his attentions until I am of age. But I pray Heaven
that I may die before that time. I will die! for I will never, never be
that bad man’s wife!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and in a voice
of agony.

“You shall not, my dear friend—my sister, let me call you, for I have
none of my own. I promise you that it shall never be.”

She shook her head sadly, and heaved a deep sigh.

“I thank you, but I fear your efforts will prove unavailing. I thank
you, too, for giving me the sweet name of sister. You forget that I am
the daughter of the man whom you say has wronged you deeply, do you
not?”

“I do forget it, as I trust you yourself do. For no such brute has a
right to claim so pure a being for his child.”

She smiled archly as she replied:

“Silence, flatterer, though your words are very sweet to me, and I am
only too proud to regard you by so dear a tie.”

“Do you never feel lonely here with no companions of your own age and
sex?” asked Robert, eager to turn her thoughts into a different channel.

“Oh, no! I have plenty of company. Come and you shall see.”

She bounded lightly from her seat, and moving quickly to a curtain of
purple velvet, and sweeping it aside, revealed a glass door.

She motioned Robert to conceal himself among the folds of the drapery
and glance within the room beyond.

He obeyed, and saw six lovely girls almost as lovely as his companion,
elegantly dressed, and seated in different parts of the room, and
laughing and chatting pleasantly, though upon every face he could trace
lines of sorrow.

“They are my companions and my charges,” she said, gazing fondly upon
them. “I am, as it were, their ‘mother abbess.’ For I protect them from
all harm and unpleasant attentions from the band. My word is law here,
and no person can enter their presence without my permission. It is my
compact with the chief that I will remain here cheerfully so long as he
allows these innocent girls to remain innocent and unmolested. So you
see that this must be my home, and that I have my duties here, and I
assure you that I am happy in being allowed to do even this much good.
Come away now, please, for I would not have you discovered by my
friends.”

She led him back to his seat, first carefully drawing the curtains over
the door.

“How came these beautiful girls in this place?” he asked, more and more
surprised with what he saw.

“They were stolen by different members of the band from their homes. You
perceive that everything is done here to render life beautiful and
attractive. When the band are at liberty they wish to be amused, and
these young girls, with myself, play, sing, and read to them just as
they desire. We always assemble in the drawing-room, and sometimes we
have dancing, and sometimes merely conversation. Though we know that we
are associating with the worst characters the world affords, yet at
these times a stranger would think he was among the very first people of
the country. The conversation is refined and elevating; no word or act
is ever allowed that could wound the most delicate or fastidious. This
is the way I have managed to guard and protect my sisters, as I call
them. Nearly all of them are of noble birth, and would prefer death to
dishonor. I live in the hope that I may yet be the means of returning
them pure and spotless to their mourning friends.”

“You are an angel,” burst involuntarily from Robert’s lips as she
finished speaking. “Now please tell me your name. That I consider an
important omission in your story.”

“Sure enough,” she laughed, “though you already know it, for I was named
for my mother. I am called Vivien Lamerack, but I suppose my true name
is Vivien Moulton. They tell me I am very like my poor mother.”

Robert’s eyes plainly said that he thought her mother must have been a
very beautiful woman, but he asked:

“Who was that dark-eyed little fairy in yonder room, who was playing
with a pet kitten?”

“Ah! you noticed her, did you?” said Vivien, with a smile. “She is my
darling, my pride, my second self. Her name is Enid Chichester, an
English lady, who was taken from a ship that fell into the hands of the
band. Her father was killed in helping the crew defend the vessel. He
was her only relative, and she is left all alone in the world. Mr.
Chichester was very wealthy, and she is, of course, his heiress. The
band have long been trying to get possession of her wealth, but
unsuccessfully as yet. Could my darling but regain her liberty she would
be one of the richest ladies of her country.”

“Poor, unfortunate girls! I little imagined such wickedness was going on
so near our quiet institute, or I should not have enjoyed my years of
study so fully. It is very strange this retreat has never been
discovered,” said Robert, thoughtfully.

“People do mistrust that the smugglers have a den, but all their efforts
to discover it have proved fruitless. The entrances are so cleverly
concealed that it would take a great deal of searching to discover them.
I have been told there is one person who has an inkling of its
whereabouts; but it may be only a story.”

“Do you and your companions never go out to enjoy a breath of fresh air
or the sunshine?”

“Oh, yes, frequently. There is an underground passage to the sea, and we
often go out for a sail, but always dressed like high-born ladies, and
accompanied by some of the band richly clad as gentlemen, so that any
one to see us would think we were some of the gentry out on a pleasure
excursion. In the same way we often go out horseback riding, though we
are never allowed to go where it is thickly settled, lest some of us
should give the alarm. We are carefully guarded at all times, and every
precaution taken to conceal our identity. Now,” she added, looking up at
Robert, archly, “I have gossiped long enough, so please take your turn
and tell me about yourself. I am getting impatient to know all about
you.”

Robert, in return, related all that the reader already knows about him,
much to the wonder and indignation of his fair listener, who mourned
from the very depths of her pure heart that she was the child of a man
who was so vile in all his acts and intentions; whose only desire seemed
to be to work out revenge and the unhappiness of others.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                          AN ENEMY’S TRIUMPH.


A week passed away, more quickly and pleasantly than Robert could have
imagined, and he daily had secret interviews with the fair Vivien, and
her sweet presence soothed him to bear with something of calmness and
patience his torturing imprisonment and suspense.

Robert told his fair sister, as he called her, of Dora, and of all her
enchanting ways, her beauty and accomplishments, painting her in the
most glowing colors, until Vivien said that she already loved her, and
longed to see one whom she knew must be good and beautiful, to win so
noble and true a heart as his own.

Strange though it may seem, her own heart was not touched by the many
engaging qualities which Robert possessed, other than with a pure
sisterly affection. She never dreamed of loving him, herself, which many
a girl of less mind and character would surely have done. Their
intercourse was pure, free, and ennobling, such as two delicate,
accomplished, and high-minded persons could not help enjoying to the
uttermost.

Notwithstanding all this, there were many hours of weariness and
impatience which our hero spent by himself. It chafed him almost beyond
endurance to be thus shut off from all communication with the outer
world; to be so confined that he could do nothing for himself, or demand
or secure redress from others for his wrongs; and most of all, cut off
from all possibility of rescuing his darling from the fate which he had
been told awaited her.

He would have felt tenfold more miserable had he even dreamed that not a
dozen yards from his own chamber, which hour after hour he paced in such
an angry and discontented mood, his father lay in a dark and dismal
cell, a close and unhappy prisoner.

Poor Mr. Ellerton was unhappy indeed, for he felt that he had almost
willfully thrown himself into his present situation, by so utterly
disregarding the warning he had received. A week had passed since his
abduction, and as he sat brooding over his situation, a slight rustling
outside his door caused him to look quickly up, with a faint hope at his
heart that some friend might be at hand.

His hope was quickly crushed, however, as he caught sight of the ugly
face, with its cruel and sinister expression, which peered eagerly at
him from between the iron bars of his prison door.

Ugh! what a horrible face it was! with its wolfish grin and snaky
red-black eyes. Despite its ugliness it had a familiar look; but where
or when he had ever seen it he could not recall to mind.

“Ha! my friend,” said the stranger, in a disagreeable voice, and with
intense irony. “You don’t seem to remember me, do you?”

“No, sir, I do not,” was the reply. “And yet there is something about
your face that seems familiar.”

“Um!—it’s a pleasant face to you, no doubt,” was the sneering rejoinder.

Mr. Ellerton made no answer. He loathed the very sight of this man, but
resolved not to gain his ill-will by making any incautious remark.

The stranger eyed him balefully, while he kept hopping uneasily first
upon one foot and then upon the other; at length he said, grimly:

“Um! I presume if you don’t remember me you do Jessie Almyr! Ha! that
touches you in a tender spot, doesn’t it?” said the villain, with a
horrible grin, as the other started violently, and flushed to his very
brows with a deep crimson, at hearing one whom he had tenderly loved and
reverenced spoken thus lightly of, and by such a monster, too.

At last, raising himself to his full height, he replied, proudly:

“Of course I remember one who was my wife. But I do not know who you are
that dare mention her name to me in that tone.”

“Oh, no! But you probably know who it was that dared to steal her from
her rightful lover; curse you!”

“Ha! I know you now, Ralph Moulton!” replied the unhappy man, again
closely scrutinizing his enemy’s face, going nearer to the grating for
that purpose. “Yes, I know you now,” he continued; “but I cannot
understand what has brought you here, unless you are a prisoner like
myself. However that may be, I wish no conversation with you, under any
circumstances, with regard to my marriage. I will say this, though, as
the subject has been mentioned: Miss Almyr probably accepted me for her
husband because she loved me and considered me worthy to fill that
place; and Heaven knows that I loved and cherished her as the apple of
my eye; and life has been dark and dreary enough to me since she left me
for her happy home above.”

As Mr. Ellerton finished speaking, he turned away from the intruder at
his door, as if to put an end to any further conversation, and again
seating himself, buried his sad face in his hands.

Squire Moulton, exasperated at his enemy’s calm dignity of manner, and
at his inability to excite his anger, fairly gnashed his teeth, and in a
frenzy of passion, exclaimed:

“It is a lie—a base lie! You know that you came with your flattery and
honeyed words, your wealth and baby face, and won her from me—me, who
had always loved her, and whose whole life had been one continual study
for her happiness and the gratification of her every wish, in the hope
that she would one day be mine. She would have been my wife, but for
your coming. She had almost promised me, when you interposed your form
between us, and blinded her eyes, and snatched her away from as true a
heart as ever beat within a human breast. There was no more joy or
sunshine in the dreary world for me. The very sun was black and the
stars went out, and demons from the lowest depths of Hades possessed my
soul, spurring me on to desperation and revenge. Yes, revenge; and I
swore it then and there in my maddening agony. I vowed, and called upon
Heaven to witness my oath, that you should yet writhe and suffer even as
I did; that you should cry out in your misery for mercy, but that you
should cry and plead in vain. I have followed and dogged you ever since,
striving to wreak my vengeance upon you. But the Fates have been against
me, with the exception of once or twice, until now. Now that you are in
my power, my very soul pains me with the intense desire I have to see
your torture and misery begin; to see you clasp your hands, and on your
knees sue for mercy; to see you beat your breast, tear your hair, and
plead and beg for death to release you from your torments!”

The villain had wrought himself to the highest pitch of excitement, and
he fairly shrieked out his last words, as he shook his fist in the face
of his astonished rival.

I say astonished, for Mr. Ellerton had never dreamed that any defeated
lover would carry his disappointment to such an extent, and he gazed
upon the furious man with a sort of stupid amazement, as he realized
that this jealous and revengeful lover of so many years ago was the
cause of his present suffering and imprisonment.

He knew that he had always hated him for being his successful rival, and
for that reason always kept out of his way, thinking the less he had to
do with him the better. He had never thought of such a thing as his
attempting to revenge himself, until six years ago, when he married
Robert and Dora.

He recognized the fact then, and cursed him for it, but supposed that
would be the extent to which he would carry it.

Now that he found he had been hated, cursed, and pursued all his
life-time, and for this one offense, he could not help regarding with
wonder the man who had devoted his whole life to such an unworthy and
dishonorable purpose.

“Ha! ha! ha!” wildly laughed the still intensely excited squire, when he
had regained his breath. “You may well look surprised. Methinks I can
astonish you still more. Listen! I followed you, years ago, when you
made your trip after the death of your darling. I tried to steal your
child—her child, and put my own nephew in his place. But that cursed
nurse of yours was too quick for me, and I only got a sore and aching
head for my pains. Yes, yes,” he hissed, as he saw the light beginning
to break over Mr. Ellerton’s face. “It was probably the fright I gave
her that caused her death. You possibly remember how hard she tried to
tell you something when she was dying? Yes, well, that was it. And had
you not suddenly disappeared from the place, I should have tried another
grab at the youngster.”

“Villain, do you mean to tell me that you have allowed such a pitiful
jealousy to lead you to such crimes? Beware, lest they descend with
tenfold force upon your own vile head!” exclaimed Mr. Ellerton, his eye
flashing with angry excitement.

“Ha! you are beginning to be touched, are you? Good! that is what I came
here to-day for. I want to see you cringe beneath my power. It is very
sweet to me to see you so; it quiets my nerves, and fills my heart with
exultant joy, and I trust to see your proud head bowed still lower
before I have done with you,” sneered the monster.

“Leave my presence, vile fiend! I will not be polluted by so evil a
thing,” commanded Mr. Ellerton, angrily.

“Not quite so fast, my lord,” replied the squire, mockingly. “I have not
yet finished my interesting narrative. I would like to give you a list
of the things I have done, rather than of those I have tried to
accomplish. I reckon I gave your pride a severe blow when I married your
only child to a beggar. You may look as lofty and scornful as you
choose, but for all that I knew it cut deep, as I meant it should, else
you would not have separated them, and banished your boy from his home
and his native land——”

“Hold, you scoundrel!” shouted the now thoroughly enraged man, but with
a gleam of triumph in his eye. “Hold! and let me tell you for your
benefit, that the girl is not a beggar, as you imagine, but the sole
heiress of hundreds of thousands, and that, if my son chose to claim her
to-day, he would have my full and free consent to do so. How does that
compare with the heavy blow to my pride that you tell about?”

Squire Moulton threw back his grizzled head and laughed a long, loud,
and scornful laugh, making the dull and unearthly echo ring again and
again through the dim, low vaults. It was the utter abandonment of the
most fiendish joy, and his captive, goaded almost to madness by its
mocking tones, gazed upon him with a look in which perplexity, fear, and
anger were mingled.

What did it mean—that taunting, derisive peal of laughter? Could it be
possible that he had been so closely watched and followed that his rival
knew of the signatures attached to that document lying so safely stowed
away in his pocket?

Could it be that his son, like himself, had been enticed into captivity?

He began to think so, and his heart sank like a stone, as he marked the
look of gloating triumph that gleamed upon him from the savage eye of
the wicked squire.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                          A FATHER’S ANXIETY.


When the squire recovered from his fit of merriment, which lasted many
minutes, he replied, in a voice of intense satisfaction:

“Oh, my fine gentleman, that is too good! The joke is really refreshing,
after my hard labor in accomplishing what I have. It is truly very
cunning of you to seek to blind my eyes in that manner, when you know
that the marriage between your son and Miss Dupont is rendered null and
void—that you have the signature of both parties in your pocket at this
very minute, agreeing to consider it so. You are very smart, Robert
Ellerton, but I must own that I am a little ahead of you, this time.”

The look of blank and troubled amazement which spread itself over Mr.
Ellerton’s face, at this unexpected disclosure, was distressing to see.
And with a disturbed and crest-fallen air, he exclaimed:

“Who told you—how do you know?”

“How do I know? Very easily. My little plot has worked finely,
gloriously; and a few days more will see the consummation of my dearest
hopes. The paper you have is all a forgery, except the girl’s signature,
as are also the letters which you and she received. But that is no
matter, for one of their signatures is sufficient to break the marriage,
which is all I want. Perhaps you would like to know why? I will gladly
inform you. You are aware that I have a nephew. You know who he is,
although you have never been willing to recognize the tie that binds him
to you. Well, this nephew is very much in love with Miss Dora Dupont,
and wishes to make her his wife, which she never could be legally unless
she signed a document consenting to a divorce from your son. Ralph
Moulton Ellerton—oh, you need not start, you know that ought to be his
name—realized that she would never give up her first love unless her
pride was severely wounded, so he planned this little plot, forged the
necessary papers—with what success you already know—and in a few days
she will be his bride.”

“Coward! dastard! you don’t mean to tell me that she will willingly
become his wife!”

“Oh, no! she has not even been asked to consent to it yet. She will be
forced into the contract, and learn to love him afterward, you know!”
said the wretch, making a horrible grimace.

“But such a marriage will not be legal. The law would never recognize
it,” returned Mr. Ellerton, in a composed manner. He was utterly
confounded by the bold wickedness of the other.

“Ha, ha! The law won’t have anything to do with it. The young lady will
be wedded here, in the presence of witnesses enough to prove all that is
necessary. And when she is set at liberty it will be too late for the
law to do anything about it.”

“And my boy—my boy! what is to become of him?” now gasped the thoroughly
frightened father, as he began to realize how firm was the web that
entangled himself and son, how cunningly the plot had been laid, and how
fatal the snare into which they had been enticed.

“Oh! you begin to think my vengeance is going to amount to something
after all; don’t you? I swore you should rue the day you stole my bride,
and now your son shall taste some of the bitterness which I have
realized!”

“What have you done with him?”

“He is safe, where I can clap my hands upon him the moment I want him.”

“Where is he, I ask you? Oh! you will not murder my boy!” shrieked the
agonized father.

“Murder him? No!” replied his foe, with a sneer, “I would not have him
die on any account. I should feel deeply disappointed should anything
happen to him. I want him to live, and drag out a miserable existence,
as I have done, without the cheering smile of one he loves; I want him
to see her the wife of another, and let his heart wither and die within
his breast, and to have life become a dreary, wretched burden, almost
too tedious to be borne.”

“Oh, Heaven! Is it possible that such wicked heartlessness can dwell
upon this fair earth? Is there no mercy in your hard heart?” he cried,
with a look almost of despair written upon his pale features.

“No, not an atom! Was there mercy in your heart for me when you stole
Jessie Almyr almost from my arms?” asked the vile wretch, with a wicked
leer.

Poor Mr. Ellerton dropped into his chair, groaning in anguish. Oh, could
he but burst his prison bars, what direful vengeance would he wreak upon
his tormentor! He would trample him into the very dust; he would grind
him to powder, for this shameful wrong.

Some moments elapsed in silence, while each was busy with his own
thoughts, the squire full of irrepressible joy, and his captive’s heart
beating with sad despair. At last the squire spoke:

“You seem to be enjoying this little drama so much, my friend, that I
will proceed with it to the end. I have another cunningly devised fable
to relate to you. As I said before, you know who my nephew is, and what
his true name ought to be. I have made him acquainted with that fact,
and planned a way for him to obtain it. I made a few alterations in the
story to suit my own arrangements, however. I will explain why he was so
ready to join me in my plans for your destruction. I told him that you
were his father; that you pretended to marry his mother, who was my
cousin; that you lived with her until you saw my darling, when your
fickle heart turned to her, and her pretty face won you from your
fidelity to his mother. Then you coldly told her that your marriage was
only a farce, and you wanted nothing more to do with her, at the same
time heartlessly informing her that she must henceforth take care of
herself.”

“Wretch!——” began Mr. Ellerton, in a furious tone.

With a slight wave of the hand, and a taunting smile, the squire
replied:

“Yes; he thinks you are a wretch. But please do not interrupt me again;
it is very annoying. I told Ralph a pitiful story; how his beautiful
mother begged and pleaded at your feet that you would not forsake her in
her delicate situation, that you would not cast her and her child upon
the cold charities of the world. But to all you turned a deaf ear, and
went your way, and never saw her again. I also told him that you refused
to acknowledge him as your son, but lavished all your love and all your
wealth upon the son of his mother’s rival.

“The boy curses you from his heart, and believes himself your legal son
and heir, for I have shown him a paper which proves to him that your
marriage with his mother was legal. He joins me heart and hand, and as
soon as our business is ended here, he will return and try to establish
his claim to your name and fortune, which, you perceive, will be a very
easy matter to do with the proofs he has in his hands. Do you not think
it will be a proud day for your brilliant boy when he discovers his name
and honor are claimed by another, and believes himself to be only a
child of shame? And will not my revenge then be complete?”

“God will never allow such a foul lie to prosper—such a tissue of
lies—such a wicked fraud to succeed,” moaned the miserable man.

“Ha! ha! God! What has he to do with it?” was the impious retort. “If
you have a God, perhaps He will help you out of this fix. But I rather
think that Ralph Moulton will win the day this time.”

“You have not told me what you have done with my son. I demand to know
where he is.”

“Well, I don’t mind telling you, if it will be any satisfaction,”
replied the villain, with a malicious sparkle in his eye. “His agony, at
this moment, is almost equal to yours; for he is a prisoner within these
very vaults, and not a dozen yards from your own cell, but his life
shall be spared. When my nephew and myself have settled everything to
our own satisfaction, then he can go free.”

“And what is to become of me?” asked Mr. Ellerton, fixing his eye firmly
upon his foe.

“You,” he hissed, with a furious expression—“you shall die!”

“Fiend!—for none but a fiend could conceive so vile a plot—you dare not
do this dreadful thing!”

Mr. Ellerton grew white to his very lips, while a spasmodic quiver ran
over his frame at the thought.

Squire Moulton laughed a low, taunting laugh.

“You will never do what you propose,” at length Mr. Ellerton said, in a
firm, even tone. “Something will occur to prevent the perpetration of
such a crime. But be that as it may, you shall not rob my boy of his
name, his honor, and his pride. His fortune is not of so much account,
for he can carve out his own. You shall have it, every penny, for I have
it nearly all with me, only grant my boy this one boon. Oh, if there is
one drop of mercy in your heart, do not deny me this one request.
Promise me, promise me, and I will yield up everything else, even to my
very life.”

But the poor man might as well have pleaded to the cold and silent
walls. He noted the greedy sparkle in the squire’s eyes, when he
mentioned his having his fortune with him, and realized that his
pleadings were vain.

“Oh, ho! I thank you for your most generous offer,” was his reply. “But
I intend to have the fortune anyway. It was partly for this that I came
to see you to-day. I must have it before I leave this place, together
with that paper we spoke of; and—listen”—he hissed the words from
between his teeth—“the next time I come, I promise you that you shall go
to join your long-lost and much-loved wife.”

“Craven, is not your soul already black enough?”

“Ha! I must hunt you to death, or my triumph will not be complete. Come,
now, hand over your funds, for I must hasten to other matters.”

“Never, sir! You will never get them from me until you take them from my
dead body, and that, I warn you, will never be, for—villain, you die!”

Mr. Ellerton had spoken with a calm, defiant air, and as he muttered the
last words he hastily pulled a pistol from his breast, and leveling it
at his enemy, fired!

Just an instant too late! for Squire Moulton darted like a flash to one
side, and the ball sped harmlessly across the narrow passage, and
flattened itself against the impenetrable rock beyond.

Mr. Ellerton then drew another pistol from its hiding-place, and calmly
awaited what should follow.

Squire Moulton, from his position of safety, realized the danger he
should be in if he revealed himself, and taking a silver whistle from
his pocket he blew it.

Immediately footsteps were heard, and two rough-looking men appeared.
Both of them cast baleful glances at the squire from beneath their
shaggy brows, showing at once that they were not friends of his,
although they might be obliged to obey him for the present.

One of them glanced eagerly within the cell, and his eyes lighted
peculiarly as he caught sight of the firm, defiant form within.

“Go within and bind that man. Search him thoroughly, and bring me
whatever you may find about his person,” commanded Squire Moulton, as
they appeared.

“Hold!” cried Mr. Ellerton. “I have no wish to shed blood, but I warn
you, that the first one who attempts to lay his hand upon me, dies. I
only act in self-defense.”

He held his pistol cocked, and ready for action. But the man before
mentioned fixed his eyes calmly upon him, and quickly made a peculiar
sign, and the weapon dropped from the prisoner’s nerveless hand upon the
floor of his cell.

The door was quickly unlocked, and both men approached the prisoner, who
allowed himself to be searched and robbed of his possessions without the
slightest resistance, though his eyes closely questioned the one who had
made that strange signal. And a look of blank surprise remained upon his
countenance meanwhile.

Suddenly the stranger bent over him, and as he pretended to be busily
unfastening a purse-belt from his waist, whispered:

“Courage! we are friends, and will strive to set you right, and free,
ere long. Had you obeyed the warning you would not be here. Make no
sign, but be on the watch!”

He then gathered up the booty, and carried it all to the squire, and
they departed, leaving the unfortunate man to himself again.

But he felt cheered, even at the light ray of hope offered him, though
his blood boiled within him at the heartless torture he had been
subjected to by his relentless enemy. And he prayed that the day might
come when the tables would be turned, and the miserable wretch brought
to justice.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                        UNSUSPICIOUS TRAVELERS.


Madame Alroyd and Dora had intended departing from the place where they
had suffered so much, the day following the one on which Mr. Ellerton
had visited them and obtained our heroine’s signature to that fatal
document. But their plans were defeated; for on the morning set for
their departure, madam awoke with one of her raging nervous headaches,
caused by the excitement of the day previous, and from which she did not
recover for several days. Then a driving storm set in, which detained
them three days longer.

Toward evening of the third day, however, the clouds dispersed, and Dora
begged her aunt not to delay their departure any longer.

Madam thought it rather late in the day to begin a long journey, but
finally yielded to her niece’s persuasions, and ordered their carriage
to be got in readiness.

The kind-hearted landlord was much distressed at this decision, for he
knew it was unsafe for any one to travel in that part of the country
during the night, and put forth every inducement he could think of to
make them defer their journey until the following day.

But, no; Madame Alroyd said she wanted to get away from that “horrible
place” as soon as possible, and now that she had made up her mind, she
should not alter it; and in defiance of the anxious landlord’s
protestations, they started, with only their driver for a protection,
just as the last rays of the glorious setting sun faded from sight.

They soon repented of their hasty determination, for they had not
proceeded five miles upon their way when heavy clouds overcast the
before cloudless sky; the winds arose, and there was every indication of
another severe storm, or a continuation of the previous one. But they
would not turn back.

On they went, over the dark, rugged, mountain road, which was rendered
doubly dismal by the huge forest trees which lined each side of the
rough way.

Suddenly the carriage lights revealed to the driver’s frightened eyes a
closely muffled figure, with upraised arm, in the act of hurling a
heavy, knotted club at his head.

He dodged, but too late, for it struck him full in the face, and, with a
groan of pain, his fingers relaxed their hold upon the reins, and he
rolled senseless from his seat to the damp earth below.

At the same moment, the flying horses were seized by the bits by a
strong and evidently masterly hand, for after a few fearful plunges,
they yielded to firm hold, and stood quiet and resistless.

Madame Alroyd, thoroughly alarmed at this fearful state of affairs, but
without knowing the cause, hastily pulled down the carriage window, and
strove in vain to see what was the trouble.

“Thomas, what has occurred?” she asked, in a frightened voice.

“Nothing much, mum; only the horses got a little unruly and one of the
lamps went out, so I stopped to light it again,” replied a voice which
madam thought did not sound quite natural, but laid it to the howling
winds which rendered it almost impossible to hear.

“Very well,” she returned. “Light it again as soon as possible, for it
is a fearful night, and I am anxious to gain a shelter.”

“Yes, mum.”

“How far is it before we can reach one?” she continued.

“About six or eight miles,” said the man with a low chuckle, as he bent
over the refractory lamp which would not light.

“Blast it! there goes my last match,” he added, as it flickered, flared,
and went out.

“Well, well, Thomas, never mind,” returned the lady, impatiently. “Let
it go, and do the best you can with the other, only do hasten, for we
are almost frightened to death in this darkness, and long for a
comfortable room, with cheerful lights and a fire.”

“Yes, mum. All right, mum,” was the answer, as the man hastily climbed
to his seat, and touched the horses with his whip, muttering with
intense satisfaction.

“Neat little job that! neat little job; though I would rather have liked
to see what became of that stupid coachman.”

The horses’ heads, during the struggle which had just occurred, had been
adroitly turned to one side, and now in obedience to the reins, dashed
on with the speed of the winds in an entirely different direction from
that which they had been pursuing.

In fact, our unsuspicious travelers were being conveyed back to the very
place whence they had just come.

On, on they sped through the night’s intense blackness, over a rough and
uneven road, jolted and pitched from side to side, until they were ready
to cry out with pain and fatigue.

Two mortal hours, which they thought would never end, were spent in this
manner, and then they drew up before a small white house, from the
casement of which a single light was gleaming.

The driver went to the door and rapped.

His summons was immediately answered by a trim servant girl, who
demanded his business, though a close observer might have noticed the
look of recognition which passed between them.

He explained, loud enough for the inmates of the carriage to hear, their
situation; and after a slight demur on the part of the girl, obtained
permission for them to pass the night there.

Going back to the coach, he stated that it was not a regular inn, only a
little cottage in which lived a poor but honest family.

Our weary travelers cared not whether it was inn or hovel, so that they
could obtain rest, and quickly alighted, eagerly seeking the welcome
shelter, when they found to their surprise a neat little parlor at their
service, and a cheerful fire.

Their spirits readily returned under these pleasant influences, and when
a tempting little supper of tea, toast, and chicken was added to their
comforts, their faces fairly grew radiant with satisfaction.

Having finished their meal, they spent an hour or more chatting
cheerfully, and congratulating themselves upon their comfortable
quarters. The same trim little servant then entered and signified her
readiness to show them to their sleeping-room.

Both felt their need of rest, and followed her to the apartment behind
the one they had first entered, where they found a soft and inviting
bed, hung with dainty white curtains, and everything fresh, sweet, and
clean. They retired to rest, and soon their senses were locked fast in
sound and refreshing slumber.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                            DORA’S SURPRISE.


Midnight found the night calm, quiet, lovely.

The roaring winds had ceased, and the clouds had been suddenly swept
aside by a master-hand, and the blue-vaulted heavens, studded with their
sparkling gems, looked serenely down upon earth and sea. Our weary
travelers lay wholly unconscious of the change without, their eyelids
heavy with the weight of sleep, and their bodies cumbered with its
powerful influence.

But see! Suddenly their white-draped couch begins to move! Slowly,
silently, steadily, it commences to descend!

Heavens! Will not some one warn those unconscious sleepers? Will not
some one bid them awake, arise, and flee?

Ah! but what could two such defenseless women do against the powers at
work.

They could not escape even should they awake, for the entrance to that
innocent looking white cottage was closely guarded, and none could enter
or retreat without the knowledge and consent of that rough, stern
sentinel!

Reader, you doubtless recognize the place as the same to which Robert
Ellerton was so adroitly enticed and made a prisoner.

The villain who had knocked madam’s faithful driver senseless from his
seat had driven the unsuspecting women back, though by an unfrequented
road, to the German settlement which they had but just left. And now
they were in the power of a band of heartless villains, sleeping as
calmly and sweetly as if no such thing as danger or treachery inhabited
the earth!

Softly, gently as a tender mother would bear her slumbering infant upon
her bosom, their bed descended through the floor, down, down—twenty,
yes, thirty feet, when it was received by four muffled figures and
carefully wheeled to one side of a most gorgeous apartment, which
contained every comfort and luxury that the most fastidious could
desire; after which the trap noiselessly ascended to its place, leaving
no crack or crevice by which its existence could possibly be detected!

Immediately after the four muffled forms silently glided from the room,
leaving our friends to pass the remainder of the night unmolested.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Late the next morning Dora opened her deep blue eyes, and with one fair
hand swept aside the spotless curtain, and gazed out into the room.

An expression of wondering admiration shone in her lovely orbs as she
beheld the splendor, lighted by the many-jetted chandelier, which
surrounded her, and she raised her hand as if to brush away some
imaginary vision; but when she looked again the fair scene remained.

With a breathless voice, and a quickly beating heart, she shook her
aunt, and cried out:

“Auntie, auntie, wake up, and tell me what this means!”

“What, child—what is it?” exclaimed the old lady, in a fright, sitting
bolt upright in bed, and unable to get her eyes open.

“Why, this lovely room!—all these beautiful things! Everything around us
is gorgeous. This is not the room we came into last night. That was
plain and homely, although neat and clean. And—why—but this is the same
bed!”

“Sure enough,” said Madame Alroyd, staring about with an amazed
expression on her face. “We are either bewitched,” she continued, “or
our room has been entered during the night, and we borne off, bed and
all, to another.”

“Oh, auntie, see what lovely pictures and statuettes—and just look at
this lovely toilet set—was there ever anything so exquisite!” exclaimed
the impulsive girl, who had sprung from her couch, and was pattering
about in her little bare feet upon an exploring expedition, and filled
with admiration at everything she saw.

But madam was in a brown study. The change was as unaccountable as it
was lovely, and she was deeply troubled and perplexed. What could be the
motive for this complete transformation?

The design could not have been robbery, for there lay all their luggage
right before them, while her watch and money were snugly tucked beneath
her pillow, just where she had placed them before retiring.

The more she strove to solve the mystery, the more puzzled she became.

But she wisely resolved not to excite Dora’s fears, until she saw
something actually alarming.

At this moment a servant swept aside the heavy curtain which covered the
entrance to the room, and approached. But she suddenly stopped upon
seeing that little white-robed fairy who was flitting about the room,
and a look of honest admiration settled over her face.

Presently she went forward, and said, in a low, sweet voice:

“Can I assist mademoiselle about her toilet?”

Dora gave a little scream of startled surprise, for she had not heard
the girl’s light steps behind her. But seeing that it was not the same
maid who had attended them the previous night, she recovered her
self-possession, and said:

“How you startled me, my good girl! But never mind. Where did you drop
from and what is your name?”

“Nina, at your service; and I came in at the door,” was the reply.

“Well, then, Nina, if that is so—for I did not know but that you had
woke up and found yourself here, like ourselves—please tell me where we
are, for I believe my head is nearly turned with so much beauty and
elegance.”

“I am happy to know that mademoiselle is pleased with her apartments,”
returned Nina, evading Dora’s query.

“Apartments? Is there more than one?” questioned Dora, in surprise.

The girl stepped hastily forward, and seizing a heavy tassel, gave it a
vigorous pull, and instantly two huge curtains slid apart, disclosing an
elegant boudoir.

“See!” she said. “This is for your accommodation, too.”

“Oh-o-oh! Auntie, do come and see!” exclaimed the gratified girl, with a
radiant face. Her features clouded again instantly, as she said: “But
you have not yet answered my question; you have not told me where I am.”

She tapped her foot impatiently, while she went on:

“It is all very nice to have these beautiful things at my command. But I
want to know whose hospitality I am enjoying, all unasked. We were not
in this place last night. Whose residence is this?”

There was no retreat. The little maiden’s tone was very imperative, and
there was an indignant sparkle in her blue eyes.

“You are in the palace of his lordship, the Baron Weichel,” answered
Nina, dropping her eyes, while a guilty flush mounted to her brow,
beneath the penetrating gaze of Miss Dupont.

“But how came we here?” interrupted Madame Alroyd, with a sharp glance
at her, as she noted her evident confusion.

“You were brought here by the baron’s own orders, madam.”

“And what authority has he to order us here, I should like to know?”
said the old lady, indignantly. “And another thing I want to have you
explain to me; and that is, how were we brought here during the night
without our knowledge?”

“His lordship arranged all that,” said Nina.

“Well, then, I must say that his lordship is no gentleman, to allow
people to enter a room and remove its sleeping occupants,” returned
madam, with a good deal of asperity.

“No one entered your room to remove you, madam——”

“No one entered our room!” repeated the now angry woman, with hands
upraised in absolute astonishment. “Do you suppose you can make me
believe such an unlikely story as that?”

“No, madam, unless you choose,” was the humble reply.

“I am all out of patience with you. Do, Dora, try and make her explain
this mystery,” urged Madame Alroyd, with a look of perplexity upon her
face.

And Dora, with a charming expression of good nature, which won the
servant’s heart at once, went up to her and said, sweetly:

“Now, Nina, please to dress my hair; and, in the meantime, tell us all
you know about this singular transportation during the night. You must
realize that it is a very trying situation to us.”

Dora seated herself, and the girl went to work, with nimble and willing
fingers, to bind up and arrange her abundant golden tresses; and after a
few moments’ hesitation, replied:

“Mademoiselle must excuse me, for I cannot answer her question.”

“Why not?” asked Miss Dupont, with a pout upon her red lips.

“Because—because the chief—I mean his lordship—will do that,” stammered
Nina, in confusion.

Dora was startled from her seat by a sharp shriek from her aunt, who
sprang frantically from the bed, wringing her hands, and exclaiming:

“The chief! the chief! Do you hear, Dora?—the chief! Oh, heavens! we are
in the hands of a band of robbers—in the hands of those awful smugglers
that we heard about at the hotel! I see it all now—the trouble with the
horses, their plunging and rearing; that dreadful noise as of some one
falling; the unnatural tones of the driver, which was not Thomas at all!
All—all is as plain as day to me now. Oh, Dora, Dora, my darling, we are
lost!”

Dora, with a pale face, turned to Nina, and demanded sternly:

“Girl, what have you to say? Is what my aunt suspects the truth?”

“Ah! pardon, pardon, mademoiselle, but I dare not tell!” cried the poor
girl, with streaming eyes and clasped hands, for she was touched to the
heart with their cruel distress.

“It is enough!” answered our heroine, her very lips becoming white as
marble, and her heart sinking with despair at what she imagined their
fate would be. Then suddenly assuming a haughty, defiant air, she added,
“Go at once and tell your chief that I desire his presence immediately!”

“Oh, my lady, do not blame poor Nina, for she would gladly serve you if
she could. But my lot is that of a slave here, and I dare not disobey,
lest my life pay the forfeit. Were it not for my own dear mistress, I
would gladly die.”

“What!” almost shrieked Dora, “are there others here, in the same
situation with ourselves?”

“Ah, mademoiselle, there are seven as lovely ladies here as ever the sun
shone upon.”

“Oh, heavens! and how long have they been held captive in such a place?”

“Some have been here three or four years; some not as long, but one has
lived here many years. But I must not tell you more, lest I be
overheard; only do not blame me for what you suffer,” she entreated,
heaving a deep sigh.

“My poor child!” said Madame Alroyd, soothingly, while a shudder
quivered through her frame. “We cannot regard you with any other feeling
than that of pity. And rest assured, should kind Providence send friends
to our rescue, we will not forget you and your poor mistress.”

The grateful girl seized her hand and kissed it passionately, and
immediately glided from the room.

The two terror-stricken ladies then made a hasty toilet, and sat down
with fear and trembling, to await the appearance of the much dreaded
chief.

Presently Nina returned and said:

“The chief desires that you will partake of your breakfast, which is
waiting; after which your request shall be attended to.”

She parted another set of curtains, and revealed beyond an elegant
breakfast-room, in which a table was daintily spread for two.

Dora walked proudly within, without uttering a word in reply. Madam
timidly followed, and they seated themselves, going through the ceremony
of eating, being attentively waited on by the faithful girl.

When the repast was ended, Nina seized a tiny silver whistle that lay
upon the table and blew it, and instantly a page entered and removed the
service, followed by the girl.

Not many minutes elapsed, and Dora saw the drapery which hid the
entrance move; then there was a sound, as of persons whispering.

She held her breath—she felt that the decisive moment had arrived.

A fair, white, shapely hand parted the curtains; a trim, finely formed
foot was upon the threshold, and for an instant our heroine’s head grew
dizzy, while a mist vailed her eyes; but with a mighty effort she
conquered the faintness, and drew her queenly little form to its fullest
height, and waited for the appearance of her dreaded visitor.

The drapery was swept entirely aside, and a cry of indignant surprise
parted her lips as she fixed her eyes upon the figure before her.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                               DEFIANCE.


Well might Dora Dupont cry out, for she recognized in the handsome face
and form of the man who stood beneath that arched entrance, her rejected
suitor and enemy, Ralph Moulton.

Utterly overcome by his sudden and unwelcome presence, her trembling
limbs refused to support her, and she sank weak and faint upon a sofa
which stood behind her.

A look of intense love, followed by one of triumph, flashed over his
dark, fine face, as his gaze fell upon the lovely girl before him.

Madame Alroyd, who had half risen as he entered, now sank into her seat
again, exclaiming:

“Mr. Moulton! and here too!”

“Yes, madam,” he replied, with a smile and a graceful bow; “and I trust
that I find you well this morning.” Then turning composedly to Dora, he
added: “Miss Dora, allow me to congratulate you upon your fine looks,
although I perceive that traveling has robbed you of some of your former
bloom.”

He seated himself carelessly, though his restless eyes devoured every
expression of her marble face.

She had by this time recovered her self-possession somewhat, and rising
with proud hauteur, she said, in icy tones:

“To what circumstance am I to attribute this untimely visit, Mr.
Moulton? It was my desire to have an interview with the chief of this
place. I am now awaiting his presence.”

“The chief you will not see this morning, Miss Dupont; and you are to
attribute this visit from me to your own fair self, and the love I bear
you.”

She waved her hand with a gesture of scornful impatience and said:

“That subject was long since forbidden between us.”

“Nay, my fair one, I could not receive your cruel answer as final; and
if you remember right, you know I told you that I should at some future
time renew my suit. And I am here this morning to plead again, that you
will consent to be my wife. Madam, have I your permission to address
your niece?” he said, turning quickly to Dora’s aunt.

“It must be as she says, Mr. Moulton. I trust all such matters to her
own heart and judgment,” she returned, coldly.

“Very well, then to her I will appeal,” turning to our heroine again.

“How came you in this place, sir?” she demanded.

“Why, I came here the same as I would go anywhere, but my object was to
meet you.”

“Ah! perhaps Mr. Moulton has something to do with our captivity here,”
said Dora, shooting a wicked glance at him from her flashing eyes.

“Possibly he may have,” he returned, with a smile and a bow.

“Thank you, sir; you are very kind. You have taken a load from my mind,”
she answered, in a relieved tone.

“How so?” he asked, surprised.

“I feared I had been brought here by a set of lawless robbers, and that
my honor would be the sacrifice; but, I assure you, I fear no such
craven as yourself,” she said, in a voice of intense sarcasm.

He colored angrily at the scorn and irony which her look and tone
betrayed, and replied:

“I did not come here to be scorned and abused, Miss Dupont. I came to
offer you marriage, honorable and true, together with a heart as
faithful as ever beat in the breast of one mortal for another. In a
word, I have come to ask you to be my wife!”

Dora stood in a graceful attitude, her pretty head raised just a trifle
more than was natural, her little hands coquettishly clasped before her,
and one tiny blue velvet slipper peeping out from beneath her white
robe, while her eyes were fixed in a cold, unflinching gaze upon his
own.

She did not reply, as he ceased speaking, but stood calmly regarding
him, as if waiting for him to continue.

His eyes wavered, and finally drooped, and he said, while he moved
uneasily in his chair:

“Do you understand my proposition, Miss Dupont?”

“I do, sir!”

“And do you accept it?”

“I do not, sir!”

“Do I understand that you refuse me a second time?”

“Utterly and forever!” she answered, without once changing her position,
or removing her eyes from his face.

“Dora——”

“Allow me to correct you, sir. My name is Miss Dupont.”

“I warn you not to exasperate me beyond endurance,” he returned,
angrily.

Just the least little bit of a sneer curled her red lips at this threat,
but he saw it, and said, with sudden determination:

“I will give you five minutes in which to reconsider your answer, after
which, if it is not favorable, I shall not hesitate to take the matter
into my own hands. Possibly you remember the oath I took in your
presence the night of your birthday entertainment.”

He uttered these last words in a meaning tone, at the same time taking
an elegant gold watch from his pocket to note the time.

She did remember the oath he referred to, and she grew a shade paler,
but by no other sign did she show that she felt or noticed his words,
and remained standing in the same cold, calm attitude during the whole
five minutes.

“Miss Dupont, your time is up!” at length said Ralph Moulton, in a
gentler voice than he had hitherto used.

He thought he really and truly loved this beautiful creature, and his
heart softened toward her a little, for he knew she suffered in spite of
her apparent indifference.

She made no reply, nor moved a muscle.

He regarded her in perplexity for a moment, then arose and went and
stood before her.

“Will you be my wife?”

“No, sir!”

“Beware! Do you mean it?”

“Most emphatically! And now, if you are done with your persecution, I
can dispense with your society.”

“By heavens, I won’t bear this! I have sworn that you shall be mine, and
I will not give you up!” he exclaimed, excitedly. Then turning to Madame
Alroyd, he continued, “Madam, will you not use your influence before it
is too late. Her fate is in my hands, but I have no desire to use my
power, if by any possible means she can be induced to yield willingly.”

Madam cast an appealing glance at Dora; but there was no encouragement
to be gathered from her inflexible features, and with a bitter sigh she
remained silent.

Cursing both of them in his heart, Ralph bent toward Dora, and said in a
low, concentrated voice:

“Listen! This evening you are to become my wife. Everything is arranged,
and at seven o’clock the clergyman will be present to perform the
ceremony. Nothing can save you; your fate is sealed.”

He had no reason to complain of her want of animation now, for instantly
neck, cheek, and brow were flooded with an angry crimson, and with a
gesture of intense loathing she cried:

“You dare not do this thing! I will defy you at the very altar, and no
clergyman will pronounce the banns against my will.”

“My darling, you will do no such thing; it would be very improper,” he
laughed, lightly, glorying in her proud, brilliant beauty.

“Villain, you shall see,” she retorted, snapping her small pearly teeth
savagely together.

“Shall I, my beautiful one? Very well, I shall come for you a little
before the time; and in the meantime some suitable attire shall be
provided for you. I would not have my bride disgrace the occasion, for
we are to have a ‘gay company’ at our wedding.”

“I will die first!” she said, passionately.

“You see that lady sitting there—your only friend—your benefactress?
Well, the moment you attempt your life, she dies. And should you refuse
to be my wife when we come before the clergyman, she will be instantly
shot by a concealed foe. I told you truly when I said your fate was
sealed. Will you defy me now?”

“Oh, merciful Heaven! I am lost—lost!” shrieked the miserable girl, in a
heart-rending voice, as she sank back half fainting upon her seat.

Madame Alroyd sprang frantically forward, and clasping her convulsively
in her arms, cried out:

“No, no, my precious darling, it shall not be! You shall not sacrifice
your life and happiness for such an old and worthless thing as I. You
shall defy him at the very altar.”

Then turning with a sort of scornful majesty to Ralph, she added:

“You can have my life and welcome, but you must spare this poor stricken
child. She shall never be your wife!”

“And do you think, madam, she would be allowed to escape me, even if
your life were sacrificed? No, I want her, not you. I have sworn that
mine she shall be, and nothing can turn me aside from the accomplishment
of my oath. So prepare yourselves to carry out gracefully the plan for
this evening.”

With these heartless words Ralph Moulton turned and disappeared from the
room.

“Oh, merciful Father! sustain me in this trying hour,” moaned the
fainting girl, as she sank unconscious to the floor.

For hours she lay in this blessed stupor, and only revived to be arrayed
for her bridal.




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                            ENID CHICHESTER.


As Ralph withdrew from the presence of those heart-broken women, and was
swiftly passing along the narrow corridor to his own apartment, he ran
against a fairy form.

She was half enveloped in a cloud of gauzy, spotless lace and dainty
ribbons, which she carried in her arms.

With a startled cry, she staggered and would have fallen, had not his
quickly outstretched hand caught and upheld her.

Ralph was rewarded by a sweet “thank you,” and a glimpse of a pair of
lovely purple-black eyes, which for a moment were roguishly upturned to
his, and then vailed beneath their long silken fringes, which drooped
low upon her fair, soft cheek.

“I beg your pardon, lady,” said he, gallantly, as he noted her exceeding
beauty. “It was very awkward in me to be so heedless.”

“No harm done, sir, except the tumbling of my laces a little. And that
my dear maid can easily remedy,” replied the girl, in clear, bell-like
tones, while a deeper color suffused her face, as she noticed the look
of ardent admiration.

Her manner was that of a high-bred lady, while her pure English accent
showed her to be of that origin.

“May I ask is this in honor of the bridal to-night?” he cunningly asked,
as he touched the finery in her arms.

“Yes,” and she laughed a little gleeful laugh; then added, “We do not
often have an opportunity to grace a wedding here, so all are striving
to look their sweetest and best to-night.”

“You say we; are there more young ladies like yourself here?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” with a deep sigh and a look of sadness. “There are
seven, besides the poor young lady who was brought here last evening,
and who is to be forced into a marriage to-night.”

“How do you know that the lady is opposed to the union?” he asked,
flushing deeply.

“Oh, we found it out, through Nina, who is my maid, and whom I lent to
wait upon this unfortunate lady. She says she is the loveliest person
she has ever seen, and my faithful girl sobbed like a child while
telling me of it.”

“Does she not even except her fair mistress, when she lavishes so much
praise upon the captive?” asked Ralph, with a gaze she could not
misinterpret.

“Ah! but Nina loves me, and besides, I do not allow her to flatter!”
replied the little lady, with an air of reserved dignity.

“I beg pardon again. I realize that I am very unfortunate to-day in my
words, as well as my motions. But do you know the gentleman whom this
fair young girl is to wed?”

“No, but I think him a heartless wretch!” she returned, with blazing
cheeks and flashing eyes, while her little foot came down with a decided
pat upon the floor.

“Why so, my little friend?”

“If I were a man do you think I would wish to marry a girl who scorned
my love? If it be for revenge that he wishes to wed her, and darken
forever her bright young life, why, he is more vile than aught else in
the world. But to profess to love and wed one who loathed me, my pride
would never let me bow so low as that!”

“But,” urged Ralph, uneasily, “look at the case in a different light.
Suppose this man had taken a solemn oath that this lovely being should
be his wife, what then?”

This little dark-eyed lady was showing him up in colors, altogether too
truthful to be agreeable, though he could but admire her for her spirit
and honesty, and already he felt his passion for Dora beginning to cool
beneath the charms of the more brilliant, yet not more lovely, girl by
his side.

“I should say,” she replied, in answer to his question, “that his oath
was a most unworthy one, and were better broken than kept. But excuse
me. I forget that I am talking very plainly to an entire stranger,” and
with a haughty little bow she was turning away when his voice arrested
her.

“Stay, please, and I will introduce myself according to rule. I should
have done so before, but my awkwardness in obstructing your path has put
to flight all my ideas of etiquette. I am Ralph Moulton, at your
service.”

He bowed low and gracefully before her as he spoke, for, in spite of her
surroundings, he recognized her as a lady noble and pure. Then he added,
“Will you kindly return the favor?”

“Certainly. My name is Enid Chichester.”

“And are you and your companions retained as captives here? But I need
not ask, for doubtless you are.”

“Yes. I have not seen my bright, beautiful home for two weary years.”

Two sparkling drops struggled up from the liquid depths of her lovely
eyes, and rolled like gems over her flushed cheeks, hiding themselves
within the folds of the fleecy robes in her hands.

A strange expression gleamed within Ralph Moulton’s eyes as he gazed
upon her emotion. One might interpret it thus:

If he had but seen this lovely, friendless little fairy before he had
gone to such extremes with Dora, he thought he could have found all the
consolation he wished in her smile.

With a sigh, half of regret for himself, and the other half of sympathy
for her, Ralph Moulton asked, in a low tone:

“Would you accept freedom, Miss Chichester, could it be obtained for
you?”

“Would I accept it? Oh, Heaven grant me but this one boon, and no
sacrifice would be too great to testify my gratitude!”

“My friend,” he whispered, bending nearer, so that his own dark locks
mingled with hers. “Listen. Prepare yourself for the change, and your
wish shall be gratified. I pledge you my word that it shall be so.”

“Will you? Oh, thanks, thanks!”

She dropped her laces all in a heap upon the floor, and clasping her
hands impulsively around his arm, bowed her dainty head, and sobbed like
a child.

Ralph Moulton quivered in every nerve beneath her touch, and the color
mounted hotly to his brow. He thought to clasp her in his arms and
comfort her, dry her tears, and win back her smile.

But he dared not do it; from his very soul he respected this pure girl,
and felt himself unworthy even to touch her robes. If he had not made
that rash vow, or even if he had not had this last interview with Dora,
all would be well.

He began to feel as if the net he had spread for others was becoming
entangled about himself, and the chains which he had prepared for our
heroine were beginning to gall him severely.

Cupid was busy at work, but—would he win?

Enid Chichester wept unrestrainedly for a few moments. The hope was so
unexpected, she had schooled her heart so long to bear her lot, that
this sudden rift in the clouds, revealing the brightness beyond, was too
dazzling to her sorrow-shadowed soul, wholly overpowering her.

At last she started suddenly, and said, in a quivering, grateful voice:

“Oh, Mr. Moulton! it was so unexpected I could not help it, and you have
my deepest gratitude, even though you should not succeed.”

The look which she shot at him contained something stronger than mere
gratitude.

“I am a stranger to you, Miss Chichester. Are you sure that you can
trust yourself to me. I fear you look upon me as being really better
than I am,” he said, searching her face closely, and with a rather
remorseful tone.

“I know I can,” she answered, confidently.

“But should I happen to do something, between this and the time that I
could effect your escape, that seemed to you most unworthy—that would
merit perhaps your sternest disapprobation—what then?”

She looked at him for a moment, with a puzzled air, then smilingly
replied:

“If you should—if I should be very, very much displeased with you for
anything you might do, still I should feel that there was some good in
you—that you were noble and kind at heart—and I should not fear to trust
you.”

“I thank you, and bless you for your words. I feel them more deeply than
I can express,” returned Ralph, the tears actually springing to his eyes
at so much trust and confidence.

He pressed her little hand reverently, and hearing footsteps
approaching, he hastily left her, saying he would see her again, and
passed on to his room, sadder and more dissatisfied with himself than he
had ever been in his life.

He was not all bad, as she had said. There was a germ of truth and
goodness within his heart which, if nourished and tended in the sunshine
of purity and love, might yet bloom with beauty and fragrance.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                          “I AM ONE OF THEM.”


Early on the morning of the same day on which Ralph imparted his
diabolical design to our heart-broken heroine, two men sat in the room
back of the one which was occupied by Squire Moulton and his nephew, at
the inn before spoken of.

We recognize them at once—one as its former occupant, Ronald Edgerton,
who now sits without his previous disguise; and the other as Fredrich
Weimher, Dora’s former friend and lover.

The latter had only a few days before returned from his foreign tour,
and immediately on arriving, his first inquiry had been for his old
friend, Robert Ellerton.

He had intended to arrive in season to be present at the commencement
exercises, but was unavoidably detained. He was deeply disappointed, for
he knew well enough that his friend would take the first honors, and he
wished to be among the first to congratulate him upon his success.

Unlike his rival, Ralph Moulton, his noble nature repelled the idea of
allowing a feeling of jealousy and ill-will to spring up in his heart
because the object of his love refused to listen to his suit.

When Fredrich Weimher was informed of Robert’s sudden disappearance, and
also its cause—for in some mysterious way it had leaked out, in defiance
of Mr. Ellerton’s reticence upon the subject—he was astonished beyond
expression.

But when he learned that his father also had vanished in the same
unaccountable manner, together with the horse which he had hired for his
ride—and, stranger than all else, leaving his luggage behind him—he
looked grave and troubled.

He felt convinced that all was not right, that there was foul play
somewhere, and resolved to set himself about unraveling the mystery.

Ronald Edgerton, on hearing of his interest in the matter, sought him
out, and taking him to his room, related all he knew of the affair,
together with what he had overheard in the closet which communicated
with the plotter’s room.

“I know the young man you speak of,” replied Fredrich Weimher, in reply
to the other’s story. “I met him several times in New York; he is very
fine looking, though his principles are none of the best; still I always
felt that there was some good about him. I knew of his admiration for
Miss Dupont, and now you say he is going to force her into a marriage
with him.”

“Yes, I heard him swear it!” returned the man, with a look of pain upon
his rough but fine-looking face.

“But they have left the place, I hear,” said Fredrich.

“They started to leave the place last night,” replied Edgerton, in a
whisper, “but were intercepted about five miles from here, their driver
knocked senseless from his seat, which was immediately occupied by
another man, and the unfortunate ladies driven off to a place of
security.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Partly from the coachman himself, whom I discovered lying half dead
upon the ground, where he had fallen, and partly from my own knowledge
of what is transpiring among these regions.”

“Where is the man now?” asked Fredrich.

“He is safe, and under good care; and no one knows anything about the
affair except those who have the charge of him and myself. Of course,”
he added, “I mean aside from those who instigated the deed.”

“Who do you think are the instigators? Do you think the Moultons would
dare commit such an act, and if so, where have they carried their
captives?”

“I know that, personally, Squire Moulton and his nephew had nothing to
do with the abduction, but that it was some one or two of the smugglers
who did it for them, and for their money. I also know where they are at
the present moment.”

“The smugglers?” ejaculated Fredrich Weimher, springing eagerly to his
feet. “Ah! I know where their den is, and we will organize a party at
once, and go to the rescue of my friend and his bride.”

“But how will you enter their den, as you call it? That is a secret
which but very few even of their own band is possessed of.”

“How do you know?” demanded Fredrich Weimher, regarding the man
searchingly.

“Because I am one of them,” he replied, boldly meeting his glance.

“You!”

“Yes, I!”

“Then you are, after all, an enemy to those whom I would serve,”
returned Fredrich, sternly.

The strange man smiled, and Fredrich Weimher, fearing that he had been
willfully duped, said sharply:

“Do you mean me to understand that you are in league against these
people?”

“To that question I can answer both yes and no,” he calmly returned. “I
am a friend, and yet I am an enemy.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I will; listen. I have followed these Moultons everywhere for a long
time, for I know what their aim has been. I have watched every footstep
since they came here, but in a complete and safe disguise. Look!”

He opened the drawer in the table before which they sat, and, taking out
a wig and heavy pair of whiskers, put them on.

“Ah! I should never know you for the same man,” exclaimed Fredrich, in
surprise; then asked, “But why is this disguise necessary? Do they know
you?”

“Because,” he answered, as he removed the wig and whiskers and replaced
them in the drawer, “I have been a sort of ally of the squire’s in my
present character, and am therefore in the secret of what he is up to.”

“My friend, if I indeed can call you so, you surprise me more and more;
you are a mystery, and I scarcely know whether to call you friend or
foe,” said Weimher, with a troubled look.

“I will soon convince you with regard to that,” returned Edgerton, with
a peculiar smile. “I have told you that I am one of the smugglers’ band,
and I will now explain how it happens. Some few years ago, while I was
in the United States, I came across a couple of fellows—I call them
fellows, because they appeared to be rough, rude men when I first saw
them, though they had known better days. They were sons of an Italian
nobleman, and were on the track of this very self-same squire. Ah! I
tell you he has been a wicked one in his day,” said the man, with a
gleam of hate in his eye.

“I believe you; but go on,” returned Fredrich, earnestly.

“It seems that he, Moulton, had married their only sister secretly, and
then, on discovering that her father was insolvent, deserted her,
proclaiming their marriage a farce, and leaving her to bear alone the
cruel sufferings of poverty and childbirth. She died when the child was
born—a beautiful girl, the image of her mother—and the brothers took
their oath that they would hunt the villain to his death. They had a
small fortune of their own, but spent it all before they had got any
trace of him, and as a last resort joined this band of smugglers, which
has branches all over the world; but this place seems to be the
principal rendezvous, and I assure you it is no ‘den,’ but a veritable
palace. People have an idea that it is somewhere in the region of that
ledge of rocks yonder, and have sought it for years, but have been
wholly unsuccessful as yet.

“As I was saying, these Italians were on some business for the band when
I came across them, and, learning their story and object, I told them
mine, at the same time expressing a wish to join them. They gladly took
me as a companion, and since then I have worked in unison with them.”

“But I do not understand yet why you should be such an enemy to him. How
has he injured you?”

“No, I suppose you don’t; but wait awhile and I shall come to that part
of it.”

He arose as he spoke, and going to his toilet-stand, rubbed something
over his face and then washed it thoroughly; he then brushed his rough
locks in the style of the present day, then removed a heavy pair of
eyebrows and his mustache, and, going to his wardrobe, exchanged his
rough smuggler’s jacket for a finer and more stylish covering.

Not until he had made a complete transformation did he again turn to his
visitor, who had been watching him curiously during these strange
proceedings.

“Zounds!” exclaimed Fredrich Weimher, more than ever astonished, and
gazing in perplexity at the wonderful change which he had effected. “Who
are you, that you adopt so readily and so cleverly such different
characters?”

It was no wonder that he exclaimed, for the transformation was more
complete than the previous disguise had been.

Edgerton had washed off the swarthy hue that had hitherto been upon his
face, revealing a clear though rather dark complexion. His eyes, which
before with their heavy eyebrows had looked fierce and evil, now had a
mild and genial expression, and his mouth was very handsome, the lips
being thin and finely curved, which, with the change in his apparel,
made him look like a highly educated, intelligent, and polished
gentleman.

“Listen, my friend,” he said, seating himself again, still in his new
character; “you shall know my whole story before we part, and then judge
for yourself whether I am an interested party in the treacherous plot
this gray-headed sinner is at work upon.”

He ground his white, even teeth as he uttered these last words.

“Do you know, sir, that there is a familiar look about you since this
last change. I think I must have met you before somewhere,” said
Fredrich Weimher, regarding his companion earnestly.

“No, I think not,” he returned, with a smile. “But you may be able to
account for that familiarity when I tell you who I really am. Come
nearer, for I would not have even a breath of what I am about to relate
heard, before the time comes for me to reveal myself. My name is——”

He dropped his voice to the lowest whisper, and Fredrich Weimher sprang
to his feet, startled and amazed.

“Hush!” said his companion; “you have not yet heard all.”

Then he continued to speak in low, rapid tones for nearly half an hour.

When he had finished, the young man sat looking at him in wondering
silence for a moment, then grasping his hand, he shook it warmly, while
a smile of sympathetic triumph suffused his face as he exclaimed:

“I see it all now! I understand! Oh, I almost envy you your triumph; and
yet there must be something of bitterness in it. But I trust all is not
as bad as you anticipate, and that it will all end well.”

“Heaven grant it!” returned the strange man, earnestly, while a tear for
a moment dimmed his fine eye. “But we must to work at once,” he added,
with energy, “for they will make quick business now they have the game
in their hands, you may be sure, and the odds are against us.”

“How so? It seems to me that it will be a very easy matter to raise a
company of daring men, enter their den, and release the captives,” said
Fredrich.

“Yes, but there is the trouble. How are we going to enter it?”

“Do you not know the way?” asked the young man, in surprise.

“I know the entrance by the way of the water well enough, but not that
by land. But it will be necessary for a party to enter both ways, for
there are so many passages and secret doors that they will escape us
unless they find themselves between two fires. My plan is for you to go
one way and I the other, and if no alarm is given before we reach the
principal room, to station a guard before each entrance to it; and then
it will be impossible for them to resist us.”

“But why before this particular room?”

“Because I heard it hinted that the ceremony is to be performed at seven
to-night, and in that case every one will be there to witness it.”

“Heavens! we have got to work with a will. I think your plan is
excellent, though I know nothing of the interior of this wonderful
place; but I can solve the difficulty about the land entrance easily
enough.”

“You!” returned Ronald Edgerton, amazed.

We must continue to know this man of triple character by that name, at
least for the present.

“Yes, I, for strange though it may seem, I know of one way to enter that
place, and I believe it is the principal one too. I will tell you how it
happened:

“Several years ago I was straying about that ledge of rocks, hunting up
geological specimens, when I saw strange maneuvering among some men at
the base of them. I resolved to know what was going on, and crept slyly
toward the place, shielding myself as well as I could from observation
by the rocks and bushes. Nearer and nearer I went, until I could hear
their voices quite plainly, and at length I made a bold push, darted
across an open space like the wind, and crouched panting and half
frightened behind a rock so near them that I could see every face, and
hear every word that was spoken. You can imagine that my alarm was
somewhat increased when at something that was said I discovered them to
be the smugglers that I had heard so much about. I was half tempted to
retreat, but feared they would see me, and there was just danger enough
in my situation to give spice to the adventure, so I resolved to remain
in my hiding-place until they were gone, and learn all I could.

“Presently I saw a little fellow go three paces forward alone, then
stamp three time upon the ground. Suddenly it seemed as if a portion of
the solid rock was swung back upon a pivot; the men entered, and the
rock closed again. I thought I would just creep forward and examine this
strange entrance into the solid granite, and accordingly went cautiously
toward the place. I stood, as nearly as I could judge, upon the spot
where I saw the boy stand. I then walked three paces forward, and
carefully examined the surface of the rock before me.

“It was some time before I could make out anything. Then I found a very
fine crack, and tracing it, found it surrounded a nearly square block of
stone, about five or six feet each way. I was very much delighted with
my discovery, for I felt convinced that I had now found out the much
talked of smugglers’ cave, that so many people had tried in vain to
find.

“But my joy was suddenly turned into terror, as a heavy hand was laid
upon my shoulder, and a gruff voice demanded:

“‘Well, youngster, what are you looking for here?’

“‘I—I—was hunting for specimens,’ I replied, in confusion, while my
heart beat like a trip-hammer.

“‘No use trying to come that, you little Paul Pry. I’ve been watching
you for some minutes, and I rather think you have got yourself into a
scrape with your meddlesome disposition.’

“He shook me roughly, and I began to think my doom was surely sealed,
for he made as though he was about to give the signal to enter the cave.
But I begged so piteously to be let off, promising I would never tell
what I had seen, that after a few moments spent in meditation he said:

“‘Well, then, down on your knees, and swear that you will never tell any
one where the entrance you have discovered is.’

“I immediately obeyed, glad enough to get off on any terms, and then he
let me go.

“I assure you I never ventured within a mile of that region alone again,
and I have kept my promise not to tell any one what I saw. I shall still
keep my oath, and not tell, but I shall now avail myself of the
knowledge I possess, and go and force an entrance with a strong party at
my heels.”

“My young friend, you are really very fortunate,” said Edgerton, who had
been much interested in his account. “Your knowledge will be of great
service, for we shall surely capture this notorious band, which for so
many years has overrun the country, and done so much wickedness. It is
settled, then. I will blockade the entrance from the water, while you
force the one by land. In this way we shall take them by surprise, and
everything will work to our advantage. I will go now and enlist my men,
and if I have the opportunity give a hint of what we are up to, to the
Italian brothers. They will greatly facilitate the work for us. In the
meantime do you make your preparations, and remember one thing, to go
well armed. We may not need to fight at all, for if things are as I
think they are, the whole band (or what there is of them at home now)
will be unarmed while they witness the ceremony. In that case they will
all be at our mercy. Still, we must not neglect to take plenty of
weapons.”

“Very well; where shall we meet?” asked Fredrich Weimher, his handsome
face all aglow with excitement.

“I will have the men scattered near the place; it will not do to have
them go in a body, lest some of the band should see them and give the
alarm. I will notify them to secrete themselves near the spot, with the
understanding that when they hear a short, sharp whistle, they collect
directly behind the little cottage, where you say the entrance is. Of
course you will have to be on the lookout and choose your time. At the
same time, I, on hearing the signal, will enter the passage in boats
from the sea with my own men.”

“That is well. And now at what hour shall I give the signal?”

“A little before seven will be a good hour; it is quite dark at that
time. I will go at once and make arrangements, for we have no time to
lose.”

With which words Ronald Edgerton arose, resumed his disguise, and both
departed to prepare for the exciting and perilous adventure of the
evening.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                              “TOO LATE.”


Seven o’clock came, and Dora sat, pale as the robes in which she was
arrayed, awaiting the appearance of her persecutor, who was to lead her
forth to such a heartless sacrifice.

Very, very lovely she looked in her misty dress of costly lace over
glimmering satin.

Nina, ever ready to entertain, had related the history of those fatal
robes while decking our wretched heroine.

She shuddered as she heard the story, and felt as if she were being
arrayed in a shroud instead of bridal attire.

The dress had been provided for a beautiful lady, brought there like
Dora against her will, and whom on seeing, one of the smugglers had
become very much enamored with, and desired to marry her. She
indignantly refused his suit, but preparations were made for the bridal,
the dress and its paraphernalia were all in readiness, but when the time
came the bride was missing.

Every vault and passage was explored, but without success, until at last
her body was found floating in the sea.

She had found a passage leading to it, and had cast herself into it
rather than become the bride of such a wretch.

Poor Dora! no wonder her heart shrunk within her at this sad story. But
she would gladly have followed the unfortunate lady’s example had the
opportunity offered.

Only once did she betray the slightest interest about her apparel, and
that was when Nina placed a very large casket before her, and opening
it, began to fasten the elegant jewels which lay within it upon her
person.

Then for a few moments her eye brightened at beholding so much
magnificence.

There were bracelets, ear-rings and necklace; a coronet with which to
fasten the vail, from which hung graceful and delicate pendants; little
tassels and ornaments to loop up the long, full skirt; a pair of dainty
slippers, embroidered in strange devices with the same costly gems; and
a girdle for the waist, from which depended two superb tassels, one
before, and one behind, and which outrivaled anything that our heroine’s
most brilliant imagination had ever pictured.

Madam Alroyd, even through her tears, could not help exclaiming:

“Oh, how lovely!” as Nina clasped the last ornament in its place, and
stepped back to note the effect.

She then gently led the fair girl before a full length mirror, and
entreated her to look.

Dora raised her sad, lovely eyes, and gazed upon her reflected image,
and realized for an instant that she was indeed surpassingly beautiful;
but with a shudder she covered her face with her white-gloved hands.

“Oh, Robbie! Robbie!” she exclaimed, as the extent of her shattered
hopes rushed over her.

With unsteady steps she walked to a chair, upon which she sat, with
clasped hands and a stony heart, waiting for the fatal summons.

It came before she was aware of it.

A curtain noiselessly swung aside, and Ralph Moulton entered.

He stopped spell-bound at sight of the vision before him, and the cloud
that had hung on his brow ever since he had parted from little
black-eyed Enid Chichester vanished in the presence of his elegant
bride-elect.

She did not move, for she had not heard nor seen him enter.

He passed swiftly to her side, bent upon one knee, and taking her icy
hand, pressed a passionate kiss upon it.

Then she started as if an asp had stung her, and spurned him from her
with loathing. Rising, she stood haughtily erect, and fixed her flashing
eyes full upon him.

He arose also, not in the least disturbed at his reception, and bowing
low before her, said in tones of earnest admiration:

“My bride, my queen, I am overwhelmed with so much loveliness, and my
heart exults with pride over your exquisite beauty.”

Still he heaved a little sigh as his mind wandered involuntarily to the
fair Enid.

The hour had arrived, the clergyman was waiting, and Ralph offered Dora
his arm, saying, imperatively:

“Come!”

“Go, and I will follow; but I will not touch you until I am obliged to,”
she said, icily.

Somewhat crest-fallen he obeyed, turned, and led the way from the room,
followed by the three sorrowful women.

They passed through several brilliantly lighted corridors, and at length
paused before a wide entrance, draped with heavy curtains, before which
stood two pages.

There was a confused murmur of voices within, as if a large company were
assembled, and waiting for the appearance of the bridal party.

Dora gasped once or twice, but made no other sign to reveal the
struggles of her almost breaking heart.

Without a word Ralph stepped to her side, and taking her hand, drew it
within his arm; then making a sign to the pages, the curtains were
suddenly swept aside, revealing the magnificent and brilliantly lighted
drawing-room, into which Robert was conducted on the night of his
capture.

A murmur of admiration greeted the ears of the party as they thus stood
revealed to the company within.

At one end of the room there had been erected an altar, over which was a
canopy of white velvet looped with gold cord and tassels, a most
graceful and elegant affair. The floor of the altar was likewise
carpeted with white velvet, with a delicate vine of gold trailing over
it.

Thither Ralph proceeded, leading his fair and lovely bride. They reached
it, ascended the steps, and placed themselves in position, waiting for
the clergyman to speak the words which should make them one.

He arose, an old, gray-headed man, with a sad, pale face, and who
glanced with compassion at the white, rigid countenance of Dora.

He knew she was an unwilling bride, and his heart ached in sympathy for
the anguish so plainly stamped upon her features, and he rebelled
against performing such a mockery in the sight of Heaven.

But he was powerless, for he himself was a prisoner within those vaults,
and had received his orders to pronounce them man and wife in defiance
of all opposition, or his own life would pay the forfeit.

The assembled guests consisted of about fifty persons in all, and
comprised twenty-five of the band of smugglers, most of the captives,
and the servants.

All were clad befitting the occasion, and conspicuous among the company
were the seven lovely girls before alluded to, all of whom were robed in
spotless white.

Near the altar, and with a smile of fiendish exultation upon his evil
face, stood Squire Moulton.

He was muttering to himself, in a satisfied sort of tone (a habit he had
recently acquired), at the smooth way his plans were working.

“One scene more in this drama, and my revenge will be complete, and then
I will rest awhile!” he said.

Ah! thou soulless reprobate! Several scenes more will pass before your
gaze ere you shall take your rest!

There was a sudden hush as Father Francis (as he was called) passed
slowly from his seat to the foot of the altar.

Faint and trembling the tones fell from his lips as he began the
ceremony, and Ralph Moulton felt himself shudder, and his flesh creep,
as they floated up through space, and died away in the lofty,
brilliantly gemmed vault above them.

The demand came forth, solemnly and fearfully.

“Wilt thou take her whom you hold by the hand to be your true and
lawfully wedded wife, to love, honor, and cherish while life doth last?”

“I will!”

Then, with a tear moistening his sunken eye, the holy man turned to the
cold, white statue leaning on Ralph’s arm.

“Will you take him who stands by your side to be your true and lawful
husband, to love, honor, and obey until death doth part you?”

The hush of death was on the air, an awful stillness reigned, while the
clergyman waited for the expected response.

It came not; the white lips moved not—the pale eyelids did not even
quiver, and the bosom scarcely fluttered!

Ralph Moulton might have been wedded to a marble statue, for all the
reply that could be gained from that calm, cold creature at his side.

He scowled angrily; he grasped the hand he held with such cruel force
that at any other time she would have fainted with the pain.

All to no purpose, however, for not a muscle moved, not a sound or
motion escaped her, that could be construed into a token of either
assent or refusal.

Again the voice of the priest rang out; this time full and clear, almost
with a note of warning in its tones——

“Does any one here present know any reason why the banns of matrimony
should not be sealed between these two? If so, in the name of Heaven I
command you, speak.”

It was an awful moment!

The clergyman raised his clear eyes with an air of almost inspired
authority, and scanned every face before him. But not a glance answered
his, every orb drooped before his earnest, thrilling gaze, and every
face wore a look of conscious guilt.

Each and every one realized the sacrilegiousness of the act, and those
who would have answered that solemn appeal dared not; and in that
breathless, voiceless silence the fatal, mocking words were spoken, the
holy man himself shuddering as he uttered them.

“I pronounce you husband and wife; and what God has joined together let
not man put asunder!”

A startling, piercing, horrible shriek instantly followed, and that
white-robed form dropped senseless at Ralph Moulton’s feet.

“Hold!” thundered a deep, full voice. “I forbid the banns!”

“Too late! too late!” chattered the squire, starting forward, and
wringing his hands with malicious triumph.




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                        IN THE SMUGGLERS’ CAVE.


Every eye was turned like a flash upon the intruder, and the chief, with
a fearful oath, sprang toward him, with a gleam of startled fear in his
eye notwithstanding his dauntless bearing.

He would have seized in his rough grasp him who had thus defied him in
his den; but stepping back a pace or two, Fredrich Weimher turned his
flashing eyes full upon the towering form before him, and said, in
clear, ringing tones:

“Not another step, sir! I warn you!”

His heavy revolver was raised, and covered the defeated villain’s heart,
and grinding his teeth in bitter rage, he retreated a step, for he saw
that courage and determination lurked in the young man’s eyes.

He could not help admiring him too, for, though armed to the teeth, few
would have dared to come into the presence of so large a number of his
band, even though they were entirely defenseless.

He could not account for the strange circumstance. How could he have
gained an entrance to his fortress? There must be treachery somewhere,
unless——A sudden thought struck him; he looked again, and then his eyes
gleamed with such a fire of rage and hate that a stronger man than he
might have quailed beneath it.

“Ha!” he roared; “I know you now!—curses on you! You shall not escape me
a second time! Fool that I was, not to finish you when I had the
chance!”

“Sir?” demanded Fredrich, in his turn surprised.

“Sir! You needn’t sir me, you young Paul Pry; I told you your meddlesome
disposition would yet lead you into trouble.”

“Ah! yes, now I understand you, although for the moment I did not
recognize you,” replied Fredrich, smiling calmly.

“And you have broken your oath never to reveal to mortal man what you
knew of this place,” returned the chief, more and more amazed at his
calm, self-possessed manner, while those around were speechless with
surprise, that any one should thus dare to “beard the lion in his lair.”

“How do you know I have broken my oath?”

“How do I know? Is not your presence here alone sufficient proof? Who is
your companion in this hazardous expedition?”

“If you remember rightly, my oath was worded thus—that I would never
tell any one where the entrance to the cave was to be found. I have
literally kept my word. I have not told, but I have come myself to
release my friends whom you hold as captives. I have come to stop that
fiendish business,” he said, pausing, and pointing to Dora’s lifeless
form. “That villain says I am too late; but a short time will serve to
prove that I am not.”

“Curse you! do you think I am going to stand this insolence, and from a
mere boy? Seize him, and bind him instantly!” he cried, turning to his
band, and fairly foaming at the mouth with rage.

Several men sprang forward to do his bidding, while he shouted to the
rest:

“To arms, all of you! There is a traitor in the camp, I’ll swear.”

“Hold!”

The word was echoed from a dozen different points of that enormous room,
and instantly the drapery was swept aside from as many places, and from
each entrance emerged five or six stalwart men, with pistols cocked, and
otherwise armed to the teeth.

Every smuggler stood mute and terror-stricken; they saw at once the
fearful odds against them, and knew that resistance would be useless. In
sullen silence they awaited the result of this fearful and unexpected
interruption of their wedding gayeties.

“Edgerton, place your men in position, and shoot the first man that
moves or resists,” commanded Fredrich Weimher, in a clear, ringing tone.

Ronald Edgerton and about twenty-five men filed along at one end of the
room, and at a word of command from him each raised his weapon, and held
it ready for action.

The smugglers gazed in terror around, but every entrance had an armed
sentinel, and not a chance of escape was possible.

“Forward and bind these villains, every one of them!” shouted Fredrich,
and boldly springing forward to lead the attack.

The scene which followed was exciting beyond description.

Those great lawless men, who for years had fearlessly roamed the world
at large, committing their crimes, and the most daring acts
conceivable—who were a terror and a dread to all who knew of their
existence—were now rendered powerless in a single instant.

The fame of an artist, who could have faithfully transferred to his
canvas that brilliant, gorgeous room, with its strange and excited
occupants, would forever have been established, and his praises sung
throughout the world.

See them!

That company of conquerors, with their flushed, eager faces, weapons
raised and aimed at the hearts of the baffled villains, Fredrich
Weimher’s men, with coils of stout cord in their hands, and in the act
of springing forward to bind their helpless foes.

The smugglers, with their sullen, terror-pale faces, their confused and
faltering manner, gazing half beseechingly, half menacingly at their
hitherto infallible chief, who, with white and foaming lips, frantic
eyes, despairing mien, stood stunned and dismayed before them. While on
one side were the beautiful maidens, huddled together, shivering and
gazing with a sort of horrible fascination upon the scene before them,
though in their faces one might read of hopeful hearts beating beneath
their colorless features.

Opposite this group, and seated upon the floor of the altar, was Madame
Alroyd, holding the senseless bride clasped in her trembling arms, while
Ralph, the clergyman, and Nina were bending anxiously over them, and
applying restoratives.

Last, but not least, was the astonished squire, who stood with his gray
locks streaming back, his eyes protruding from their sockets, his face
shrunken and livid with fear and rage, while his hands worked backward
and forward, and his whole attitude betraying uncertainty and doubt.

They seized and bound the much-dreaded chief first, who, though he
cursed and raved fearfully, dared not offer resistance. The rest, now
that their leader was secured, were a comparatively easy conquest,
though the words which fell from their lips were horrible to hear, and
the expression of their faces fearful to behold.

There were only about twenty-five of them present, and these were all
quickly and firmly bound, and then placed under a guard upon one side of
the room.

When the last one was disposed of those lovely captives could restrain
themselves no longer. They clasped each other in their arms, weeping and
laughing by turns for joy.

They felt that their time for release was near at hand, that loving arms
would soon encircle them, and hearts that long since mourned them as
dead would beat once again with joy and thankfulness at their
resurrection, as it were.

Vivien Lamerack, or Moulton, alone had retained her self-possession
through the whole scene, and now stood regarding the handsome leader of
this glorious enterprise, her lovely, earnest eyes filled with
profoundest admiration.

Poor Enid Chichester knew nothing whatever of what was transpiring
around her, for the moment the curtains had parted, revealing Ralph
leading in his lovely bride, she had uttered a faint cry, and then sunk
softly down into the depths of a massive chair and quietly swooned away;
and there she had remained, wholly unconscious, no one noticing or
realizing what had happened to her, so intent were all upon the exciting
scene before her.

Ralph’s whole attention, after the first moment of startled surprise,
had been devoted to his senseless bride, who continued to lay pale and
still, as if death had already claimed her for his own. When he would
have raised her in his arms Madame Alroyd waved him sternly off, and
taking her to her own heart, bent with streaming eyes over her, calling
pitifully upon her to awake, while Ralph at last, conscience-stricken,
remained standing silently and sadly by.

Suddenly he raised his eyes, and saw his uncle stealing noiselessly
toward one of the outlets of the room.

There was a most sinister expression upon his evil face, which, upon
interpreting, Ralph’s heart grew still with a deathly horror for a
moment, then instantly bounding with new life and a sudden
determination, he left the sad group at the altar and quickly followed
his retreating figure.

The squire, on lifting the drapery at the door, discovered a guard; but
a lightning blow dropped him senseless, and he sped with flying steps in
the direction of Mr. Ellerton’s cell, feeling the sharp edge of a dagger
as he went, and muttering to himself:

“Now’s my time—now’s my time!”




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                            FREE TO CHOOSE.


Suddenly Vivien started forward, and gliding quickly up to Fredrich
Weimher’s side, said sweetly, while her face flushed crimson beneath his
gaze of admiration:

“Will you allow me to leave this place for a few minutes? Nay,” she
added, quickly, as she saw him hesitate and glance suspiciously at her,
“it is only good that I would do. I would liberate one who has mourned
in vain for freedom, and if I mistake not, one whom you came to release
to-day.”

“His name?” eagerly cried the young man.

“Robert Ellerton!” she answered.

“Yes, lady, yes, you shall be allowed to go wherever you choose; and if
you will allow me I will accompany you, for he is the dearest friend I
have.”

She smiled an assent, and offering her his arm, they proceeded from the
room.

She led him through several passages and rooms, he gazing with wonder as
he went at everything he saw, until at length they stopped before the
glass door through which Robert had gazed down upon the six lovely
girls.

She took a tiny key from her pocket and unlocked the door; leading him
within, she asked him to be seated while she went to summon his friend.

He took the seat indicated, but said, as she was turning away:

“Stay, lady, one moment, and tell me, first, if I am, indeed, too late
to prevent that sacrilegious ceremony, as that old villain said?”

“You are, indeed!” she said, sadly. “The fatal words were but just
spoken as you entered; the shriek you heard was one of despair, that she
was too truly the wife of a man whom she detested and loathed.”

“I am grieved,” he replied, “for I would have saved Miss Dupont the
suffering of being compelled to go through with such a trial. But it
will never be recognized as a legal marriage; she is as free as ever,
and can choose for herself whom she will marry; and I have not much
doubt what that choice will be,” he added, with a smile.

Vivien’s fair face glowed with joy, as she replied:

“I am rejoiced more than I can express to hear you say this, for my
heart has been filled with sorrow at the young lady’s fate, and I dared
not tell Mr. Ellerton lest it should drive him to some act of
desperation.”

“How is it that you are allowed to associate with one who is held so
close a prisoner as my friend?”

“I am not allowed. He by accident discovered a secret passage leading
from his room into this. Since then we have passed many pleasant hours
in each other’s society.

“He has told me his history, and the reason why he was enticed here.
Though he never imagined that his lovely bride was to be brought here to
be sacrificed.”

The lovely eyes filled with tears of sympathy, while her cheeks were
crimson, with the excitement which she had undergone that day.

He gazed upon her with profound admiration, and every time the sweet
tones fell upon his ear his heart quickened its pulsations, and he felt
the blood leap madly in his veins.

At last he said, respectfully:

“Will you tell me your name, lady? I am grateful for the consolation
which I know your society must have been to my deeply tried friend.”

Her lips quivered painfully, and the hot blood swept over cheek, neck,
and brow, as she replied:

“My true name is Vivien Moulton, but——”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, springing quickly to his feet. “And that vil—I beg
your pardon, Miss Moulton.”

He stopped in confusion, for his mind instantly reverted to the story
which Ronald Edgerton had related to him that morning, and he saw at
once that he was reviling one who was intimately connected with the fair
girl before him.

“Yes, that wicked man is my father, and though my heart almost breaks
with the knowledge, yet it is none the less true,” she returned, sadly.

“And did you know that he was present to witness the ceremony this
evening?”

“What! here?” she almost shrieked, starting toward him with clasped
hands and pale face.

“Yes, my friend, here. Did you not notice that bent, gray-haired man,
who came forward as I entered the place? That was Ralph Moulton.”

She shuddered, and covered her white face with her hands. She had
noticed that ugly, sinister face, and in her heart she had hated him,
though she could not have told why had she been asked.

Fredrich Weimher arose, and taking her by the hand, led her gently to a
seat.

“Pardon me,” he said, “for arousing such unpleasant feelings; he may
indeed be unfortunately allied to you by blood, but surely the sacred
name of ‘father’ can never be breathed by your pure lips to one such as
he. You cannot recognize him by any such tie when he has willfully
forfeited all such claim.

“Never,” she replied. “Though it is deeply humiliating to me to know
that I am indeed the child of one who is so base.”

The tears burst passionately from her beautiful eyes as she finished.

“Do not weep; he is not worthy that you should shed a tear for him.
Believe me, you have my deepest sympathy. I know your history, and
before I saw you my heart bled for your sufferings and your wrongs.”

His voice had softened to its tenderest accents, and its tones were very
sweet and pleasant to the young and almost friendless girl’s ears.

She raised her head, and gazed with gratitude for a moment into his
expressive eyes; and she saw within them that which made her own droop
instantly, while the rich crimson tide again rushed upward, suffusing
her whole face. He could not resist giving the delicate hand he held
just the least little bit of a pressure, then hastened to relieve her
confusion by asking:

“Did you not know the young man who officiated as bridegroom in the
heartless mockery you have just witnessed? Your words lead me to infer
as much.”

“No,” she answered. “We were so excited over Miss Dupont’s sufferings,
that we never thought to ask who her persecutor was. Our thoughts and
sympathies were only for her. Do you know him?”

“Yes, I know him well. I met him in New York, where we both first met
Miss Dupont.”

“And his name?” she asked.

“Shall I tell you—can you bear to know it?”

“Why not? Oh, yes—quick—your face tells me that it is one in whom I am
interested,” she said, breathlessly.

“Nay, do not be alarmed; he can never do you harm. His name is also
Ralph Moulton, his——”

“His son—oh, no—do not tell me that I have a brother, too, who is
steeped in crime,” she moaned, in a voice of anguish.

“Forgive me, my friend, for thus causing you to suffer. He is no brother
of yours, but a nephew of the elder Moulton.”

“Thank Heaven that he is no nearer to me than a cousin!” she said, with
a sigh of relief, then added: “And I thank Heaven too, sir, that you
have come here to-day; for of course all these unfortunate captives will
be restored to their homes and friends. But—please—will you not tell me
who their deliverer is?”

“I do not claim to be their deliverer; I am only working in unison with
others. But my name is Fredrich Weimher.”

“Oh, yes! I know you now. Mr. Ellerton has told me all about you,” she
returned, with a brilliant smile. “But come, we have nearly forgotten
him; let us hasten to impart to him the glad tidings that he is once
more free!”

“In one moment. But tell me that when we leave this place to-night you
will accompany us,” he asked, with an expression of his eyes that
revealed much more of meaning than his words conveyed.

“I would gladly do so, but my uncles, who will probably remain here for
the present, must decide my destiny. They are all the friends I have,”
she replied.

“I know they are all the relatives you have, but I cannot leave this
place until you are free. If I can gain their consent, will you make one
of Miss Dupont’s party, until other arrangements can be made for you?
This is no fitting place for a lady!”

“Willingly, with Miss Dupont’s leave,” she smiled.

“Thanks,” he returned, fervently.

“And now I am ready to go to my friend.”

She turned, and sweeping aside the drapery, pressed upon a spring, and
the heavy stone before mentioned swung back.

She then blew a tiny silver whistle which hung at her girdle, and stood
waiting.

Almost instantly Robert Ellerton parted the hangings in his room and
appeared.

“Mr. Ellerton, come quick!” she exclaimed, her beautiful face all aglow
with glad triumph.

There was a joyous ring in her voice that made him quicken his steps,
and he had hardly entered her boudoir when his hand was warmly grasped,
and the word “Robert!” was uttered in familiar and welcome tones.

“Fredrich! Heaven bless you, my boy, how came you here?”

Gently as they could they told him the whole story, and notwithstanding
that he was somewhat prepared to learn that harm had happened to his
darling, still his suffering was pitiful when he learned the extent to
which the villains had carried their vile plottings.

Dora herself was not paler than he at this moment, and they had hardly
finished their account, when he sprang wildly to his feet and begged
them to take him to her.

Vivien went up to him and said, gently:

“My dear friend, I beg that you will be calm. Miss Dupont had fainted
when we came for you, and it would unnerve her again to see you thus
moved, if she should be recovered.”

“Thanks, my sweet sister, for your kindly warning; I will be calm, but I
beg you will not keep me longer here.”

He dashed through the entrance of the room as he spoke, in direct
contradiction of his previous assertion that he would be calm; but he
soon stopped and waited for Vivien to come up with him, for he did not
know one step of the way through those intricate passages.

At last they entered the spacious room.

Wholly unmindful of the conquered chief, who gazed at him with black and
threatening looks, passing over with one swift glance of his eye every
inmate of the place, until his gaze fell upon the group at the altar,
when with one bound and a wild cry of joy, Robert sprang to Dora’s side,
and seizing her in his arms, pressed kiss after kiss upon her cold lips,
while he murmured tenderest words of endearment in her dull ears.

As if in answer to his beseeching eyes, and the earnest, touching
appeals which fell from his lips, she revived there in his arms.

A faint tinge of color crept into the death-white lips, the heavy
eyelids fluttered, unclosed, and closed again, then flew wide open,
revealing the blue orbs beneath, which fixed their astonished gaze full
upon the loving, tender face bending above her.

A smile of rapture overspread her features, and nestling closer in his
arms, she murmured:

“Oh, Robbie, am I dead—and is this heaven? When did you die? I thought
you did not love me, but you do!”

“No, darling, you are not dead, but, thank Heaven, living, breathing
still, and my own little wife once again.”

“Where am I?” she asked, glancing above at the brilliant, sparkling
vault, with a perplexed look.

“Safe, safe, my precious, and nothing shall ever part us again.”

She closed her eyes again wearily, and heaving a deep, satisfied sigh,
as a tired child in its mother’s arms might have done, laid her soft
cheek against his throbbing heart.

He watched her anxiously for a few moments, until suddenly he saw the
crimson tide of life surge swiftly up, covering her fair face with its
deepest hue.

Then an expression of keenest anguish settled around her quivering lips,
and plowed deep furrows in the smooth white brow, and with a quick
motion she slid from his clasping arms, covering her face with her
hands.

“What is it, darling? Come back to me again,” he said, earnestly, while
a pained look settled over his features.

But when he would have taken her to him, she motioned him away.

“No, no I cannot, I dare not—they have married me to—to—oh, heaven! it
shall not be, I will not have it so!” she shudderingly answered, while
she crouched in anguish at his feet.

He knelt beside her, and again drew her to him, saying:

“Darling, you are not that rascal’s wife, except by your sweet will. A
forced marriage is no marriage. Look up, Brightie, you are mine yet, and
I shall never let you go, until you bid me give you up.”

She looked up, a faint smile for a moment wreathing her pale lips; but
it quickly faded, and again releasing herself from his clasp, she said,
sorrowfully:

“No, I am not yours—you do not want me, else why did you send me that
horrible paper to sign? And that cruel letter——”

“What paper? What letter? I know not what you mean!”

“Oh, don’t you!” she cried, wildly starting to her feet, then said,
gravely, looking him full in the eye, “Robert Ellerton, do you indeed
speak truly? Oh, I will bless you all the days of my life if you will
tell me you did not write them.”

She stretched out her clasped hands to him with such an eager, wistful
look, that his heart ached within him, for he knew that, like himself,
she must have suffered untold agony, and that in some way she had been
led to believe him untrue to her.

He took the little clasped hands tenderly in his own, and said, gazing
earnestly in her eyes:

“Dora, my own, I do not understand what you mean; tell me what it is
that has caused your love to turn from me?”

“Oh, not my love! That has always been yours; it is yours now and
forever,” she sobbed, bowing her head, and resting it upon her clasped
hands.

“Well, then, explain what has caused this mistrust in me.”

He drew her head to his bosom, and there she told him all. And he
realized how near he had come to losing her, how cunningly the plot had
been laid, and in his heart he blessed his friend, Fredrich Weimher,
that he had come in time to save her. When she finished, he said:

“My darling, I never penned one word of what you have repeated to me;
both the letter and the paper which you signed were gross forgeries. You
remember the dainty little bouquet which you threw to me; for a moment
after I read the note which you concealed in it, I was so overwhelmed
with joy—with the knowledge that you of all others were there to
congratulate me upon my honors, that I was fairly dizzy; my head began
to swim, and a mist was before my eyes. When I had collected myself
sufficiently to glance at you, intending to look the love and joy I
could not speak, you were leaving the hall. I started up, and was
hastening after you, when a boy handed me a note, purporting to be from
my father. It proved, like what you received, to be a forgery—a decoy to
lure me here, where I have been detained as a prisoner ever since. You
can imagine something of my agony and indignation, especially when I
heard of the foul wrong that was being meditated against you. I have
mourned and prayed, but all was of no avail. Now that I have you safe
once again, I cannot be thankful enough.” He smiled, fondly drawing her
closer to him, then added, slyly: “And if you really feel that you have
signed away your right in me, why, we can make it all right again, in a
very short time.”

She hid her now radiant and blushing face upon his shoulder, and
whispered:

“But am I really and truly free from that horrid man—free to choose for
myself?”

“Yes, Brightie, you are free to give your own precious self to whom you
will. Must I ask again for my wife?”

He raised her head and gazed earnestly in her happy eyes. They told him
all he wished to know, but her answer filled his cup of joy full to
overflowing.

“No, Robbie; I am blessed indeed if you will take me the second time.”

Joyous tears glittered upon the heavy fringes of her eyes, and as he
stooped and kissed her now scarlet lips she returned the caress with a
pressure that thrilled to his heart’s core.

“Come,” she then said, starting up; “let me take you to auntie. There
she sits, looking as if she could not wait for us much longer.”

They went down from the altar with beaming, radiant faces, and hand in
hand approached the happy old lady, who had drawn Nina away the moment
her darling had revived, feeling in the delicate kindness of her heart
that their meeting was too sacred to be gazed curiously upon.

When she saw by their happy looks that all was right, she wept and
laughed by turns at her niece’s recovered joy, until they approached to
ask her blessing.

She greeted the young man with a warmth which convinced him at once that
he had nothing to fear for his future from her.

He had conversed with her only a few moments when these words fell upon
his startled ear:

“Robert, my son!”

He turned and was clasped in a warm, fervent embrace, while the one
word, “Father!” burst from his glad lips.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                                BAFFLED.


We must go back to the moment when Ralph saw his uncle leave the room,
fell the guard, and speed away through the mazy passages.

He followed as well as he was able, for he was wholly unacquainted with
the situation of the different cells and the way which led to them.
Every few moments Ralph paused to listen, to catch the sound of the
squire’s footsteps, and then hurried on.

At last there was a moment of utter silence, then he heard the sharp
clang of a heavy bolt as it was drawn from its socket, then the noise of
an opening door, after which an almost satanic laugh echoed through
those low vaults as Squire Moulton at last reached his victim.

Ralph crept cautiously nearer. He did not wish to be seen by his uncle,
and resolved not to interfere in any way, unless he should attempt
violence.

“Ha!” he heard the squire say, tauntingly, “I thought I’d bring you news
of the wedding. Your——” Ralph could not catch the next word, though he
strained his ears to do so—“has wedded the wealthy little lady, as I
told you he would, and deeming it likely that you would be anxious to
learn when it was all nicely over, I came to tell you.”

“Cease, babbler, and leave; I would be alone,” replied Mr. Ellerton,
commandingly.

“Oh, ho! Command the rocks to open and set you free; perhaps they will
hear and obey,” was the sneering retort. “But I cannot obey you just
yet; you know, I promised to return to you again, and I always keep
promises of this kind, especially when I have a purpose to accomplish.”

Mr. Ellerton bowed his head wearily upon his hands and made no reply.
The evil-hearted squire went on, sneeringly:

“Nice little match that of Ralph Ellerton’s. I presume you will be
interested to know that he will now have the command of three fortunes;
you have always taken such an interest in the lad’s welfare that it must
be pleasing to you to know of his present good luck. Miss Dupont’s, or
rather Mrs. Ellerton’s fortune, united with my own, and then yours on
the top of that, will make quite a little pile, amounting in all to
about two millions of dollars. You perceive I keep posted about these
things.”

“Villain! will you hold your peace?” demanded Mr. Ellerton, exasperated
nearly beyond control.

He raised his head again, and sharply scrutinized the face of his enemy,
and grew a shade paler at the diabolical purpose he saw written there.
He saw at once that the man meant to take his life.

Step by step the squire approached nearer to his victim, until only a
short space remained between them.

In a stern, authoritative tone, Mr. Ellerton cried out:

“Back, villain! Do not dare to take another step, or you shall pay
dearly for it!”

The wretch leered fearfully at him, and, with a shrill, mocking laugh,
glided still nearer.

“Do you think I fear you?” he asked, “or that I have come here
unprepared to defend myself! Look!”

The squire drew a long, slender dagger from his bosom as he spoke, and
held it up before the face of his victim.

“This beautiful little instrument,” he said, lightly feeling its edge
with one long, bony finger, “is poisoned, and one scratch would send you
to your long-lost and lovely bride—she who ought to have been mine, and
whom you stole from me, curses on you!”

His deepest passions began to be stirred, as they always were when his
mind reverted to the fancied wrongs of long ago.

“But,” he continued, “my revenge will soon be complete, for I am going
to stab you to the heart with this, and then watch you while you die.
Oh, it will be a feast to my eyes, a joy to my soul! No, no—better not
try that,” he said, as Ellerton made a motion as if to seize the weapon
from his hand. “Remember, the merest trick will prove fatal and cause
you tenfold more suffering. Better take it quietly to your heart at once
and have it over with; you will meet Jessie then all the sooner.”

“Oh, heavens, what a monster!” moaned the wretched man.

His heart sickened within him as he realized his horrible situation.

The fiend bent near to him; he could feel his hot breath against his
cheek, see the pupil of his eye dilate and then contract with the deadly
purpose of his heart shining through them.

The squire raised his arm high above his head, while his long, bony
fingers firmly clutched the handle of the dagger. For a moment it
quivered in the air, then it descended toward his foe with full force.

But it missed its destination, for his arm was fiercely arrested in its
downward motion, and with a howl of baffled rage the squire turned to
see who had cheated him of his long wished for revenge. He met the stern
face and flashing eyes of his nephew. He was pale as the dead, and he
shook with the excitement of the dreadful moment; but his hold upon his
uncle was like the grip of a vise, and the murderous wretch could no
more move his arm under it than if he had been an infant.

Ralph pulled him roughly from his intended victim, and said, hoarsely:

“I told you that you should not do this thing.”

“Curse you, I will!” he shrieked, frantically striving to free himself.
“He shall not live—I will have his black heart to pay me for what I have
suffered! Let me go, you young dog. Oh, it was treacherous in you to
cheat me so, when my triumph was so near. Help! help!—I will be free!”

The baffled wretch writhed and twisted in the iron grasp that held him.
His eyes grew blood-shot, his face became of a purple hue, while flecks
of foam flew from his mouth.

Gaining renewed courage from his almost miraculous deliverance, Mr.
Ellerton struck his foe a powerful blow, which felled him to the floor,
and sent the fatal dagger flying to the farthest corner of the room.

“Now,” said Ralph, “if you have a cord anywhere, we will bind this
dangerous gentleman until he recovers his senses; it will not do to let
him run at large.”

Mr. Ellerton picked up the weapon that had so nearly put an end to his
existence, and, quickly stepping to the stout bell-rope, severed it with
a single blow; then together they firmly bound the squire’s arms behind
him, wholly unmindful of his curses and shrieks.

When this was accomplished Mr. Ellerton turned to Ralph, and said
gratefully:

“Young man, I know not who you are, whether friend or foe; but you have
saved my life, and for this I am inexpressibly thankful.”

“I ask no thanks; I have simply done my duty,” replied Ralph, quietly
and coldly, though he gazed searchingly in the other’s face. Then, after
a moment, he added, while the hot blood rushed over his features,
“Perhaps it is right that you should know who I am. My name is Ralph
Moulton Ellerton.”

“You!” he gasped, staggering back as if some one had struck him.

“Yes, sir; and, of course, with your blood flowing in my veins, I could
not see him do this thing,” returned the young man.

“Ah, my friend, I know what you think, and I assure you you have been
grossly deceived about your history, and are not so much to be blamed
for the part you have taken against me and mine.”

“What! do you mean still to deny our relationship?” asked Ralph, an
indignant sparkle replacing the former cold glitter of his eye.

“I have never denied the true relationship existing between us. But I
have never wronged you, neither have I ever done you any good. How could
I, when you were in the hands of my bitterest foe? Had he not taken you,
believe me, I would never have allowed you to suffer,” said his
companion, earnestly.

Ralph gazed at him half wonderingly; he could not doubt the truthful
look which he saw upon his face, yet he asked severely:

“Do you mean to say that you have never done me wrong in denying your
own flesh and blood, and have you never done me wrong in the injury you
have done my mother? What am I if I am not your son?”

“You are not my son. I swear it! I told you that you had been cruelly
deceived. You are the son of my brother, who married your mother in
secret, or rather, without consulting his friends, and shame be upon
him, deserted her soon after your birth.”

“Is this true?” demanded Ralph, pale and faint.

“Every word of it, as sure as there is a heaven above us.”

“Is this true?” he asked again, turning fiercely to his uncle.

He would not answer, but remained sitting doggedly silent. But that
silence was answer enough; it convinced Ralph, who cried brokenly:

“If you have deceived me with this awful lie, I will have no mercy upon
you. Oh! if it is true—what have I done? May Heaven and you forgive me,
sir, for I have bent all my energies toward your own and your son’s
ruin, believing that you had done me this great wrong, and desiring to
be revenged upon you for it.”

He covered his face with his hands and groaned aloud. Mr. Ellerton went
to him and laid a hand gently on his shoulder, saying:

“My boy, I believe you, and I freely forgive you for all you may have
been influenced to do in this affair. I know what a black-hearted wretch
yonder man is, and feel that he alone will have to answer for all these
crimes. But I will explain all to your satisfaction some other time. Did
you come to give me liberty? I see the door is open—am I to go free? I
am anxious to see my son, whom I know has been a prisoner here like
myself.”

“Yes, sir; all within these vaults are now free, except the smugglers,
whose den it has been for so many years. But please answer me one more
question before I lead you to your son. Are my father and mother
living?”

“I know not,” replied Mr. Ellerton, sadly. “My brother suddenly
disappeared and went to California. I have never seen him since, and
your mother I can tell you nothing of. She went away soon after he left
her, and I have never heard from her since. I supposed she was dead, as
the squire had taken you. Ask him where she is; he ought to know, for
she was his sister,” he said, pointing to the squire.

“You told me she was not your sister, but your cousin, you reprobate,”
thundered Ralph, turning to the squire, who was now writhing beneath the
words which proved his lies. But he lifted his head defiantly, and
sneered:

“Yes, I’ve told you a good many things.”

“That were false?” questioned his nephew, with angry eagerness.

“Some were true, and some were false,” was the dogged reply.

“It is enough,” replied Ralph, with an ominous calmness. Then, turning
again to Mr. Ellerton, he said, “We will talk of this again; but come
now, and I will take you to your son. You, sir, must go also; there will
perhaps be some explanations to be made which will require your
presence,” he said to his uncle.

They each took an arm, and led the baffled wretch back through the
passages whence he came so jubilantly but a short while before.

They entered the principal room, placed him under guard, and then Ralph,
with a humble air, led Mr. Ellerton toward the group where he saw Robert
conversing with Madame Alroyd. He then immediately retired to a distant
part of the room, and sat down to nurse his sorrow and remorse alone.




                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                               DEFEATED.


With those few touching words, which fell from the lips of the
long-parted father and son, they were clasped in each other’s arms, all
the bitter feeling of the six years previous swept from their hearts,
leaving nothing but love, joy, and thankfulness in their place.

Dora looked upon this meeting, sobbing for joy, and, like them,
forgetting past injuries in the bliss of the delightful present.

At length Robert wiped the tears, which would come, and taking Dora’s
hand placed it within that of his father, saying, with a proud, fond
look:

“Father, this is Dora; you surely remember her.”

“Ah! yes, indeed,” he replied, pressing the little hand warmly.

She greeted him with a charming smile, returned the hearty shake of his
hand, and was her own sweet, natural self once more. There was no cold,
scornful dignity in her manner, and in his heart Mr. Ellerton pronounced
her a most lovely and lovable little lady.

“But,” he presently said, with a comical look, first at Robert, then at
her, “by what name shall I address this young lady?”

“Dora Dupont, for the present, please,” she laughed, though her cheeks
were rosy red.

In the meantime, Ronald Edgerton, in his disguise, had seen that every
smuggler was securely bound and placed under a sufficient guard to
insure against any possibility of their escaping.

Then he sought the two Italians, and held a whispered conference with
them for a few moments; then all approached the group where Robert and
his father stood.

“Sir,” said Edgerton, with a pale face, and in a voice that quivered in
spite of his efforts to steady it, “I see you are free, and my aid in
that matter will not be necessary; but yonder sits a man,” pointing to
the squire, “with whom I have a long account to settle, and I would like
you to be present and listen to what passes between us.”

Mr. Ellerton started forward and grasped his hand warmly, saying:

“Ah! yes, my friend; I think I have seen you before. If I mistake not,
you are the one who gave me a word of cheer, while you relieved me of my
property. Strange contradiction, though,” he added, laughing, “to take
all I was worth, leave me a beggar, and then tell me to be of good
cheer. But please tell me your name, and then I’ll comply with your
request.”

“I am known here as Jake Toleman; but more of myself hereafter; we will
attend to Squire Moulton first.”

“Very well; lead the way, and we will follow.”

All proceeded toward the wretch, who glared savagely at them.

Dora and her aunt, too, drew near, and soon the others about the room
gathered around to hear what was going on.

In the back part of the room and watching with a piercing eye every
movement that was made, sat a tall, slender figure, enveloped in a heavy
cloak, with its hood drawn close around her face. No one seemed to
notice her presence, nor had she moved from her seat since she entered
the place. She had quietly followed one file of men when they entered,
and seated herself near the entrance.

Now she suddenly rose and drew near the group surrounding the squire,
and listened eagerly to every word that was spoken.

Jake Toleman, as he called himself, stepped forward in front of Squire
Moulton and said:

“Do you know me, sir?”

“Curse you, no, only as a smuggler, who was paid to do my will; nor do I
wish to know you,” he growled.

“I can easily believe the latter part of your reply,” replied the man,
grimly, then added, “but the first part I deny. Look!”

He pulled off his heavy wig and whiskers as he spoke.

“Ha! Edgerton! Traitor!” exclaimed the wretch, starting angrily up.

“No, sir, you are wrong; Edgerton is not my name, it is only the name of
a character I have assumed.”

“Who are you, then—and how came you here?” he asked, curiosity getting
the better of his fear for a moment.

“Your first question I will answer presently. I am here because I
followed you. I knew your errand, and I came to thwart you at every
point. I have been on your track for the last six or seven years. Why,
do you ask? Because I had an object in view; you possessed something
which I wanted, and which at last I have got.”

“What—what is it?” gasped the squire, wildly, and striving to free
himself from his fetters.

“This!” said the other, sternly, taking a paper from his bosom,
unfolding it, and holding it up before his eyes.

“Blast you! what did you want of that? Ten thousand fiends take you—who
are you, I say?”

“I am one whom you have deeply wronged. You have made my life desolate,
as well as that of others, by misrepresenting my character, my
intentions, and everything connected with me. Would you know who I am?
then look again!”

He hastily pulled off his rough coat, revealing a neat and rich suit of
broadcloth; then off came his fierce, heavy eyebrows and mustache—he had
previously removed the swarthy tint from his face—and he stood forth the
gentleman whom we saw in earnest conversation with Fredrich Weimher at
the inn!

“Alfred Ellerton!”

“My brother! thank Heaven!”

These exclamations burst simultaneously from the trembling lips of the
villain before him, and from Mr. Ellerton, who stood at his side.

Ralph, who had been leaning despondently upon a chair near by, sprang
eagerly up and came nearer the deeply interesting group.

At this instant, a sharp, shrill cry rang through the room, and a
woman’s figure rushed frantically forward, and threw herself at the feet
of him who stood at last revealed in his true character.

It was the woman before mentioned, enveloped in the heavy cloak.

Alfred Ellerton’s face paled to the hue of death, his heart throbbed
wildly, and he shook in every limb as he stooped and gently raised the
prostrate woman to her feet.

She leaned against him, scarcely able to sustain her own weight.

With nervous and trembling fingers he quickly unfastened her wrappings
and cast them from her, revealing a tall, graceful form clad in a rich
black velvet robe.

She was queenly. Her hair, black as midnight, was twined around her
small head like a coronet, but her face, which every one imagined must
be beautiful, was hidden in her trembling hands.

The man who so tenderly supported her drew them firmly but gently away,
and eagerly scanned her face for a moment, then clasping her in a close,
fond embrace, exclaimed, in joyful accents:

“Rose, my wife!” and she nestled in his arms once more, a happy wife,
feeling that all was right, that he had been true to her all these
years, was true to her still; and she trusted him with the full
confidence of her noble, loving heart.

Squire Moulton sank back nearly fainting, the moment his sister’s face
was revealed to him, terror plainly depicted upon every feature. He knew
and realized now that the castle of revenge which he had been rearing
all these long years was about to tumble and crush him in its fall. Oh,
if he were only free he would fight his way from that dreadful place; he
felt as if he could defy them all, were his arms only at liberty, or
even if he had that cruel dagger which he had so cunningly prepared for
another, he would plunge it into himself and thus escape his present
torture.

Poor Ralph, as he saw those whom his heart told him were his father and
mother, longed to spring forward and clasp the two to his heart; but—the
doubt lingered still “was he a lawful child?” So he controlled himself,
and resolved to wait for further developments.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                        ALFRED ELLERTON’S STORY.


Alfred Ellerton raised the fair face that was hidden upon his bosom, and
tenderly kissed the rich, full lips of his wife; then wiping the tears
from her splendid eyes, said:

“Rose, my wife, how came you here?”

She smiled, such a sweet, rare smile, as his tender words fell upon her
ears, and fondly replied:

“Alfred, I forget everything now that I am here, and you call me by that
dearest name—wife; and I would fain ignore all the past. But am I truly
your wife?”

“Yes, dear, if you choose to remain such, after so many years of cruel
desertion on my part. Why do you ask?” he added, a heavy frown clouding
his brow.

“Why! Because all this weary time I have believed that I was a ruined,
abandoned woman; that you had taken from me the dearest treasure a woman
possesses—my honor—and then left me to bear my shame alone; that you had
won my heart’s best affections but to trample them beneath your feet,
and worse than all else—left my child fatherless, and without a name.”

“Hush, Rose, hush!” said the husband, soothingly, for she was becoming
terribly excited, as the agony of years rushed over her heart and almost
crushed her anew.

“I know all that you have suffered, my poor darling,” he said; “but
listen, and I will make everything as clear as noonday. I will tell you
all that has happened to me since I last saw your dear face. Sit here,
dear, and calm yourself, for it is a long story.”

He placed her in a chair, but remained standing by her side, holding her
hand in his own. Then he said:

“You are my own true wife, and have been for over twenty-five years,
though I myself have sometimes feared that you had freed yourself from
me during the years of our separation.

“You remember, doubtless, the day I received a letter calling me away on
business. I went, bidding you a fond ‘good-by,’ but expecting to see you
again in two or three days at most. My business took me aboard a vessel,
where I met a friend who was just ready to sail for California; or, at
least, he was ready to start in a few days. He urged me strongly to
accompany him, and I was sorely tempted to give him the desired promise,
for he pictured in glowing colors the fortunes so easily made in the
land of gold. Finally I left him, promising to go home and talk it over
with you, and if you consented, I would join him before the vessel
sailed.

“It seemed such a good opportunity that I longed to improve it. And then
I was so poor! I could not give you the comforts and luxuries which you
seemed so fitted to enjoy, and I knew it would take years to gain them
plodding on in the old routine of life. All the way home I planned how I
would work and save the year or two I intended to spend in
California—for I thought that sufficient time in which to make a fortune
where gold was so plenty. I would deny myself everything, that I might
gain a competence for my darlings; then home again on the wings of love,
and the earnest welcome I should receive. Then I would build a palace
fit for my treasures, and spend the rest of our days in peace and
plenty.

“Charming picture! But how quickly its bright and glowing colors
vanished and faded from my sight!

“On entering our little home, eager to clasp you and my boy to my heart,
I found it deserted. I searched every room, but no wife’s glad smile
greeted me; no baby’s chubby arms were outstretched, eager to come to
me. At last, in your work-basket, I found a closely written letter,
saying that you had gone back to your home to stay—that you did not love
me, as I had believed you did, and that you could not longer live in the
presence of one who constantly made you unhappy. You said you never
wished to see my face again, and that I was free from that moment to go
where I chose. You closed your cruel letter by positively forbidding me
to seek you, saying you should not see me if I did; neither would you
allow me to send you money, as you could not look for support from one
whom you did not love.

“Hush, dearest, till I have finished,” he said, as she would have
interrupted him.

“I know now that you did not pen one word of it; but I will tell you my
story, and then you shall relate yours. You can imagine something of
what my feelings were! At first I was stunned, overwhelmed; then grief
filled my heart, and I was nearly crazy. Once I resolved to go to you
and demand an explanation; but I knew your proud, willful spirit, and
felt assured it would be of no avail. Ah! if I had but obeyed the
instincts of my heart then, all this sorrow would have been spared us.

“But my own pride began to assert itself, and, in a fit of desperation,
I hastily packed a few things in a valise, and, with an almost breaking
heart, I went back to the city, found my friend, and started for
California.

“There I toiled for many long, weary years, growing rich and prosperous
beyond my most sanguine expectations, though I was often starving for a
morsel of love—for a kiss and a smile from your sweet lips, and a
glimpse of my baby boy. I still loved you, and clung to you, in spite of
what I believed you to be—false!

“At last, about seven years ago, a man came among us who had lived near
your former home. I immediately sought him and inquired after you and my
boy. He told me that which made my blood boil, my heart furious, and
realized who the schemer was—your vile brother! He said you returned
home the day after I departed, and found a letter from me awaiting you,
saying that I was tired of you, pronouncing our marriage a farce,
telling you that I did not love you, and had left you forever. In a
frenzy of grief and passion, you flew to the little casket where you had
always kept our marriage certificate; but, lo! it was gone.

“I questioned him closely, asking how you had happened to leave home
while I was gone. He said that you had received a letter the very day I
left, saying that your father was ill, and you, somewhat alarmed at such
an unusual occurrence, hastened to go to him; but finding him more
comfortable than you expected, you returned the next day but one,
fearing I would miss you.

“You found I had been there and gone, leaving, as you believed, that
heartless letter behind me. He said you fainted when you read it; and
only revived when the cries of the little one attracted the attention of
some one passing, who entered, and came to your assistance. Soon after
you disappeared, and were only heard from when your brother returned
from abroad, bringing our boy with him, saying he had found you in
Naples, where, dying, you left Ralph to his care.

“These were the facts which I gathered from the man. I immediately
closed up my affairs and started for home, nearly heart-broken at the
loss of you, and the knowledge of what you must have suffered, believing
me false, and resolving to claim my boy, and bring to justice the
villain who had thus heartlessly plotted our ruin.

“I realized at once why he had done this wicked thing—that he was
resolved to destroy the whole family of Ellertons (even to the
sacrificing of his only sister), because one of them had married the
girl he loved.

“The day I arrived in ——, I went directly to Squire Moulton’s house. I
was passing up the avenue, with bitter and revengeful thoughts in my
heart, when I heard voices within a sort of arbor near by. I stopped to
listen, and glancing between the branches I saw you (oh, how it makes my
heart ache even now to think of it!) in soiled and tattered garments,
pleading with your brother to take you to his heart again, and to give
you your child.

“I knew you at once by your voice, and by the haughty grace with which
you lifted your head when he called you a beggar, and you answered:

“‘I am no beggar!’

“I nearly betrayed myself then, for I was about rushing forward to clasp
you in my arms, when I remembered that you would not know me, for I had
disguised myself so that your brother should not recognize me until I
had sounded him, and found out where my boy was. So I resolved to listen
to what passed between you. I crouched among the bushes, and there
remained until you fled from the place; then, when the heartless man
followed, I showed myself, and half cajoled, half threatened him, into
hiring me to steal those pictures from you.

“He engaged me, and I immediately followed you, saw you when you
fainted, picked you up, took you into a cab, and while we were being
driven to a house where I knew you would find kind attention, I took the
locket from your bosom, leaving a fifty-dollar bill in its place,
together with a few words, telling you to go to the post-office in a
fortnight.

“Oh! how I longed to wait until you revived, and tell you all. But I
resolved that I would not reveal myself until I could bring you the
proof of our marriage.

“I knew well enough that your brother had stolen it, and I felt assured
I could get it from him before many weeks passed. But I followed him
from place to place, never gaining the opportunity I sought.

“At length he left the country, and I, determined not to be thwarted,
immediately followed. I have at last succeeded in my efforts, and here
is our marriage certificate, proving beyond a doubt that you are my
lawful wife. I got discouraged many and many a time, and once went to
the house where I had taken you when you fainted, but you were gone, and
had left no address behind you, so I lost track of you, though I did not
cease to blame myself for leaving you so long in ignorance of the true
state of affairs. I ought to have gone to you in the beginning, and thus
saved you all these years of suffering. Can you—will you forgive me,
that I did not?”

She smiled, and sealed his forgiveness with a kiss as he bent over her;
then said, eagerly:

“But the pictures, Alf; where are they? You did not give them to him?”

He too smiled as she uttered the old, fond name, and replied:

“I took them to an artist, had them faithfully copied, then had another
brooch made exactly like the original, and carried it to your scheming
brother, who immediately threw it into the fire. But here is the
original, safe and uninjured for you.”

He drew it from his bosom, unfastened from his neck the chain to which
he had it attached, and clasped it around her own.

She seized it with eager, trembling fingers, opened it, and gazed with
tender, tearful eyes upon the faces within. Then turning to her husband,
she wailed:

“But, Alfred, where is our boy? Oh! I have not seen him since I left him
long years ago in Naples, though I begged and pleaded with my brother to
take me to him.”

There was a look of pain upon Alfred Ellerton’s fine face as he raised
his eyes and glanced around upon the group in front of them.

“Here! Oh! mother! mother!” suddenly exclaimed a choking voice; and
Ralph suddenly rushed forward, threw himself at his mother’s feet, and
hid his tearful face in her lap.

She raised his head and drew it to her bosom, put back the heavy black
locks from his brow, and gazed earnestly into his flushed face. Then
suddenly her mother’s heart spoke, and she cried, in tenderest accents:

“Oh, my boy! oh, my boy! can it be? Yes, it must be; my heart tells me
that you are my child—my long-lost deserted boy!”

She rained kisses upon his brow, cheeks, and lips, while her own
fast-dropping tears mingled with his.

Alfred Ellerton regarded them with looks at once fond and proud, stern
and sorrowful, until at length he said: “Has my son no word for his
father?”

Ralph rose to his feet at once, while the hot blood mounted to his brow.

He realized that his father knew what he was—that all his plots and evil
deeds were known to him; and he stood sad and humble before him, his
heart nearly bursting with shame and sorrow for what he had done—also
with joy and gratitude that he had found a father and a mother, and that
there was no longer a doubtful stain upon his name.

He raised his eyes, and met the sorrowful gaze of his parent, and
stretching out his hands, as if beseeching his love and forgiveness, he
uttered the one word:

“Father!”

“My son!”

Their hands clasped, and father and son wept tears which were an honor
to their manhood, and the sight of which caused other eyes to fill.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
                              FORGIVENESS.


It was several minutes ere the reunited family could compose themselves.
But at length Alfred Ellerton conquered in a measure his emotion, and
said:

“I thank Heaven for these unexpected and unmerited blessings. It is more
than I ever hoped for, to have both wife and child restored to me at
once. But, my son, we will now listen to your mother’s story, after
which we will hear what you may have to tell us. I know my dear ones
have seen much of suffering, but I trust all is over now, and that the
future has only blessings in store for us.”

Ralph turned again to his mother, seated himself by her side, and took
her delicate hand in his.

She smiled a sweet, fond smile at the caressing touch, and clasped her
other hand over it, then turning to her husband, began her tale:

“My life has been a dreary one indeed! When I returned to our home,
Alfred, and found your letter, or what I supposed to be yours, and also
that the only proof of our marriage was missing, I could not do
otherwise than believe you false and heartless, as your cruel words
indicated.

“I believe I was deranged for awhile, for I remembered nothing for
several days after. Finally, I went to my brother Ralph, and questioned
him.

“I knew he never had liked you, and had never felt the same toward me
after I married you; but I was not prepared for the fury and abuse which
burst forth upon my defenseless head, when I asked him if he knew
anything about your sudden disappearance. He answered affirmatively,
saying he knew you were a vile and unprincipled man; that he had warned
me against you in the beginning, but I had chosen my path in life, and
now must walk in it; he would have nothing to do with a nameless outcast
like myself.

“I bore all meekly until he hinted that you had fled to the arms of
another; then with a shriek of agony I took my child, and I too fled!

“I cared not where I went, so that I hid my shame and sorrow from
familiar and prying eyes. My brother, glorying in my anguish, had
already blazed the story of your desertion around, and I left the place,
leaving no clew by which they could trace me.

“I sold my jewels, which, though few in number, were rare, and realized
sufficient to take me abroad; and I went to Naples. There for a year or
two I lived quietly with my baby. He was my only comfort, for I shunned
acquaintances, and lived wholly by myself.

“Finally he sickened, and I feared he would die. For weeks I watched
him, giving myself no rest, until the fever turned, and I knew he would
live. Had I lost my idol then, I think I should have taken my own life;
existence without him would have been such a burden. I prayed as only a
broken-hearted wife and mother can pray, and Heaven in His mercy heard,
and gave me back my child from the jaws of death!

“Then my slender stock of money began to fail, and it was the old, old
story of cruel poverty, seeking for employment, and finding scarcely
sufficient to sustain life.

“At length when Ralph was four years old, my own health began to fail,
though I still dragged myself about, and strove to work that he need not
go hungry.

“One day I sat drearily gazing from my window, when my eyes fell upon a
familiar form. I started wildly to my feet, and looked again. I could
not be mistaken, and my heart beat with fresh hope and courage, for I
felt assured that help was near.

“That familiar form was my brother Ralph. I rushed forth, followed him
at a distance, and found out the place where he stopped, resolving to go
to him the day following, and claim his care and protection.

“Alas, for human plans! That night I was taken violently ill, and when
morning came I felt that my earthly race was almost run. I immediately
sent for my brother, and he came. But only to curse me anew, and taunt
me with my shame and degradation, and to swear that he would do nothing
for me. I begged and pleaded that he would take my boy, and care for
him, when I was gone, telling him I felt I could not live a week; but
with a heart like adamant, he turned from me, and, as I thought, left me
to die alone, and my darling to the cold care of strangers.

“But, contrary to all expectations, my disease took a favorable turn,
and I grew better immediately. Still, I was so destitute and friendless
that my heart nearly failed me at the prospect of continued toil and
poverty, with no one to encourage or lend me a helping hand.

“A week passed, and I was able to sit up. One day, with a heart full of
sorrow, and forebodings of ill, as I sat clasping my boy in my arms, as
if I could thus shield him from all harm, I chanced to turn my gaze
without, and saw Ralph coming again toward my dwelling.

“My heart told me at once that his coming was not to benefit me, but
that he thought I was no more, and, with a dim spark of humanity still
flickering in his bosom, he had determined to care for my boy.

“I made a sudden resolution, and, hastening to the woman who had charge
of the house where I lived, and who was a gentle, kind-hearted creature,
I hastily told her my situation, and begged her to tell my brother that
I was buried.

“It was no lie that I urged her to speak, for I intended to effectually
bury and hide myself henceforth from every one whom I had ever known or
ever seen.

“The woman consented to do my bidding, from pity of me and my suffering
child; and with an almost bursting heart I gave my idol the last
embrace, and fled from the house to see him no more.

“My plot worked well. For Ralph Moulton took my child, gave him his own
name, believing I was dead, and has reared him till the present moment.
But, oh! better would it have been had I kept him with me, to suffer
poverty and illness, hunger and thirst, and brought him up as best I
could under the influences of a tender, loving heart, than to have
committed him, so pure and innocent, to the care of one so vile and
heartless, so devoid of principle, and all that makes a man good and
noble. Oh! my boy, forgive your mother, for she erred unconsciously,
believing she deserted you only for your future good.

“I felt you would never suffer hunger any more, that you would receive
an education such as I craved for you, and perhaps in the end so twine
yourself around your uncle’s heart that he would make you the heir of
his vast wealth.

“But I know, my darling, by the hungry look in your eyes, that you have
starved for the want of a little love and tenderness.”

The lovely woman turned her eyes pleadingly upon Ralph for a moment,
then, with a passionate burst of tears bowed her stately head upon his
shoulder.

He clasped her convulsively to him, and in a broken, husky voice
replied:

“Mother—the sweetest name I have ever spoken—it is I who should ask your
forgiveness for not better improving the privileges which, to gain for
me, you doomed yourself to a solitary, loveless life. It is I who should
sue for pardon, that I have allowed my heart to become like a garden
full of noxious weeds, instead of bright blooming flowers, whose
fragrance and beauty would now be grateful to you, and in a measure
repay you for your great sacrifice.”

She would have stopped him with a kiss, but he gently restrained her,
saying, with a sad smile:

“No; let me lay bare my whole heart to you, and show you that I am not
wholly hardened and depraved. I know I have too willingly been
influenced to do evil and crime, but I beg that you will believe me when
I say that I have often felt the stingings and upbraidings of
conscience, and I now humbly repent all the evil I have ever done or
contemplated doing. Say that you forgive me, my sweet mother, and you
too, my father, and I promise you that my life henceforth shall be
devoted to your comfort and happiness, and to the atonement of injuries
which I have done to others.”

“Bless you, my boy!” said Rose Ellerton, raising her face radiant with
happiness; “your words make my heart leap for joy, and I seal your
pardon thus.”

She took his pale grave face between her slender hands, and kissed him
lovingly upon his quivering lips.

Then, with a half-drawn sob, he turned for that other pardon he so much
desired.

It was not denied him!

Alfred Ellerton clasped his son’s hand warmly, and said, with a deeper
feeling:

“I thank Heaven, my son, for this confession, and I believe you are
sincere in your repentance. All our lives, thus far, have nearly proved
a failure, but together we will strive to make the future atone for the
past, and, in trying to do right, yet receive much of the joy and
happiness that for so many years have been denied us. Still,” he added,
gravely, and with an anxious glance at Ralph, “there is one wrong you
have done that demands immediate reparation. It has caused me more
sorrow than all else, and is, I believe, your greatest sin. Are you
willing to atone for it, Ralph? I mean the wrong you have done Miss
Dupont this evening.”

Ralph sprang quickly to his feet, his face crimson with mingled shame,
sorrow, and remorse.

He made no reply to his father’s words, but walking bravely to where
Dora stood, her hand clasped in Robert’s, said manfully, but humbly:

“Miss Dupont, if you do not hate me too much to listen to my words, I
would implore your pardon for my shameful persecution, and for what I
forced you to this evening, together with the suffering I have caused
you. And believe me when I say I gladly yield you up to one who is
nobler in every respect than I. I will not deny,” he continued, while a
look of regret passed over his face, “that you have been very dear to
me, and that I had intended forcing you to recognize the tie which I
compelled you tacitly to submit to to-night, vainly believing that in
time I could teach you to return my affection. Once more I implore you
to forgive me, and allow me the pleasure of saying that you are free;
though the mockery we listened to an hour or so since was in no way
binding, still, it affords me satisfaction to bid you go free.”

Dora’s eyes had flashed indignantly when he came forward and began to
address her, but long before he was done she was sobbing with sympathy
for him; and now, wiping the bright drops from her heavenly eyes, with
something of her own impulsiveness she held out her dainty hand toward
him, and said, sweetly:

“Mr. Moulton—no, let me call you by your right name, and a better
one—Mr. Ellerton, you have my full and free pardon.”

“Thanks!” was all he could utter, and stooping, he kissed the little
hand outstretched to him. He then turned to Robert, and was about to
crave a like pardon from him, but he stopped him, saying heartily, as he
shook his hand:

“No, my boy, don’t say one word. I know all you would ask, and it is
freely granted. I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving the life of my
father. Yes, he has told me all about it,” he said, in answer to Ralph’s
look of inquiry, then added, “and now let us be friends, as well as
cousins, forget the past, and live as persons who are so nearly
connected should live. Now I must go and greet your new-found friends.”

He turned quickly away, and went to speak to his aunt and uncle, to
allow Ralph time to recover himself, for he was entirely overcome at
this unlooked-for cordiality.

Then there was a general handshaking, while good wishes and
congratulations passed blithely from lip to lip between the reunited
friends.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.
                          FURTHER DISCLOSURES.


When their boisterous joy had subsided a little, Alfred Ellerton turned
again to his wife and said:

“My love, your story was rather unceremoniously interrupted. If you feel
equal to it, I would like to hear how you spent all those long years,
after you gave up our boy.”

There was a tenderness in his voice, as he pronounced the words “our
boy,” that brought the tears to Ralph’s eyes, and, seeking his mother’s
side again, he remained a rapt listener while she continued her tale.

“I lived,” she said, “most of the time quite comfortably by the effort
of my needle. But sometimes, when too ill to work, I was very destitute.
I left Naples and went into a quiet village, where the people were kind
and friendly, and after a while my life became quite peaceful, but, oh,
so lonely.

“Finally a long and weary sickness unfitted me for labor of any kind,
and I resolved to return to my native land and make one last appeal to
Ralph.

“I had not quite money enough to defray my expenses, so I pawned
everything but a few necessary articles and the precious brooch.

“I went to him, and the result you know, as you say you heard all that
passed between us. When I fled from him that day, I thought my heart was
breaking. I felt so friendless, homeless, and so weary of life, that I
longed to die and be at rest. The last I remembered, as I wandered
through the streets of the city, was falling heavily upon the pavement,
believing that I was dying. When I again recovered consciousness it was
far into the night, and the woman in whose care you say you had left me
was bending kindly over me. I asked her where I was and what was the
matter. She told me that I had fainted in the street, and a gentleman
had brought me there in a cab.

“I remembered all then, and somewhat anxiously felt in my bosom for my
treasured pictures. Imagine my grief and indignation when I found they
were gone. All I possessed on earth to link me to the joys of the past
taken by a cruel, relentless hand from me, for I felt convinced that I
had been robbed by my brother. All hope was crushed out of my heart, for
now I had nothing with which to prove my identity. Once again I thrust
my hand in my bosom, hoping that I had missed my treasure in my search.
I only found the paper containing the fifty-dollar bill, and upon which
were the words bidding me go to the post-office in a fortnight.

“Then I was convinced that my brother was the robber, and perhaps,
feeling a touch of remorse, had left the money in its place. I could not
do otherwise than accept my fate, cruel though it was, and at the end of
that fortnight I went as directed to the office. I found an envelope
directed to ‘Rose Moulton’ awaiting me. It contained another fifty
dollars, with instructions to go for the same every fortnight.

“I still thought the money came from my brother, and accepted it as my
rightful due. I resolved at once to improve my condition and appearance,
and, when I had become something like the Rose Moulton of former years,
to seek my son, in spite of all opposition, tell him my story, and rely
on the natural love-instincts of the heart to own and greet me as his
mother.

“But while I waited and prepared, he and his uncle disappeared. After a
few years I heard of them in New York. In the meantime I had lived
comfortably, with plenty of means at my command, and really looked like
my own self once more.

“I immediately went to New York, but when I arrived there I found that
they whom I sought had gone abroad. I learned their destination from the
lawyer whom I engaged to receive my remittances and forward them to me,
and immediately followed them.

“I only arrived this morning, and hearing the story of the unfortunate
lady who was to be forced to wed my son, also of the expedition formed
to prevent it, I wrapped myself in this heavy cloak and followed, little
dreaming of the happiness and joy that awaited me.”

“Oh, what is there of evil that you have not done, wretch that you are?”
said Alfred Ellerton, sternly, turning to the squire, who had sat in a
state of torture, as he listened to the stories just related.

Now he ground his teeth with rage at the sight of their joy, but
replied, with a fiendish leer:

“I have the satisfaction of knowing that my plots worked well for twenty
years, even if they do fail in the end.”

“Silence, fiend; the day of reckoning is for you at hand!”

He subsided again into a dogged and sullen silence.

“But, Alfred, how came you to get the certificate again? you have not
told me,” said Rose, turning again to her husband.

“I told you that I followed him for a long time. I knew he must have
stolen it, for I had never opened the casket which contained it except
in your presence. I felt assured, too, that he would either keep it
about his person, or else destroy it, and I resolved to satisfy myself,
feeling it was well worthy an effort. In my disguise I went to the inn
where he and Ralph put up, and while the maids were getting their supper
the night they arrived, I went into the kitchen and slyly drugged their
coffee. My room was directly back of theirs, with only a closet between,
and after they were asleep (sound asleep, too, I assure you they were,
for it was a powerful drug I used) I removed a board from the partition
in the closet, entered their apartment, and searched until I found this
precious bit of paper.”

He put it in her hand as he ceased speaking, and she clutched it
eagerly, while her eyes flew swiftly over it, devouring every word;
then, with a smile and a sigh of intense relief, she hid it within her
bosom.

“I concealed myself several times in that closet,” continued her
husband, “and in that way learned much of the treachery that was
afloat.”

The squire gave a howl of rage at this disclosure, and muttered a
horrible oath, while Ralph hung his head in shame and confusion.

“Now, my precious wife,” said Alfred Ellerton, without heeding the
interruption, “I believe I have told you everything you care to know,
unless I repeat that I have an abundance of this world’s goods, and that
your future life shall be one bright dream of happiness, if my devotion
and love can make it such. We will improve every moment, and strive to
forget in the joy of the present the bitterness and suffering of the
past. But,” he added, quickly turning and glancing around, “I have a
couple of friends here who have, also, something against this
peace-destroying wretch; and when they have settled with him we will
leave this place for more agreeable quarters.

He turned away, as he spoke, to see the Italians before mentioned, while
the squire, with an uneasy, and anxious expression upon his yellow face,
remained waiting and watching, not without cause, for further painful
developments.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
                            UNBROKEN FAITH.


We left poor Enid Chichester in a faint in the arm-chair, into which she
had fallen on discovering who the bridegroom was; and there she had
remained unnoticed and uncared for until the excitement had somewhat
subsided—until every smuggler was firmly bound and put under close and
watchful guard.

Then some of her fair sisters had discovered her and immediately set
about her restoration. For a long time the efforts of her friends were
unsuccessful, but, at last, with a heavy sigh, she opened her eyes and
gazed wonderingly around her.

Soon she remembered where she was—why she was there, and what had
happened—that he—he who had promised to devote himself to the work of
liberating her—he upon whom she had placed her whole dependence, her
whole faith and trust, was married to another; worse than that! was the
wretch who had heartlessly forced the bonds of wedlock upon an unwilling
bride; and with a moan of pain she covered her beautiful face with her
hands.

“What is it, Enid—what made you faint?” gently asked one of her friends.

She started as if suddenly smitten with a rod, at the question.
Disagreeable as the fact might be, she realized that her heart had gone
out to this same sinful and erring man, with all its freshness and
wealth of affection; in plain words, that she loved him, in spite of the
hideous and glaring colors in which he now stood revealed.

But she would die before she would ever let any one suspect the truth.
So, setting her little teeth firmly together, and tossing her head
defiantly, she said, in reply to the query of her friend:

“Oh, nothing but a nervous shock, from which I shall soon recover.”
Then, anxious to turn the conversation from herself, she added: “But
what does all this mean?—and what makes you all look so happy?”

They explained everything to her, while she listened, laughing and
crying at the same time, with joy that once more they would all see home
and friends.

Finally, when Enid grew more calm, they all arose and joined the group
where such interesting revelations were being made, and where Rose
Ellerton had just thrown herself at the feet of her husband. They
listened with intense interest to the story of the long-parted husband
and wife, and Enid began to feel her heart warming toward Ralph again
when she heard how he had been deprived of a mother’s influence all his
life, and in the clutches of his vile uncle.

Then, when he so humbly begged forgiveness, her warm heart grew
sympathetic, and poor little Enid’s defiance and pride all melted away
like the dew before the sun, and bowing her pretty head, she sobbed out
her pity and her love—pity for the painful remorse he felt, and the
trial he did not spare himself in confessing it, and love for the good
that her tender, womanly heart told her was in him.

Ralph had seen her tears, and half-interpreting their cause, his heart
bounded; and when his mother had finished her story, and his father had
gone to seek the Italians, he arose, and approached her.

“Miss Chichester, why do you weep?” he asked, gently.

She started violently at the sound of his voice, and then looked up at
him.

The instant their eyes met both colored deeply, and the young girl
drooped her gaze, as she replied:

“Who could help weeping at all this happiness and good that has come so
unexpectedly?”

“I know strange things have developed themselves here to-night; but,” he
added, with a touch of sadness in his voice, “do you remember what you
promised me this morning?”

“Yes, I do remember.”

“I have come to release you from that pledge. You must have seen, ere
this, that I am unworthy to perform such a duty, and though I know you
have no friends to care for you, yet knowing what you now do of me, I
feel I have no right to expect you to trust in me. But I will find some
one who will care for you faithfully.”

His voice was full of regret and self-depreciation, and the sound of it
brought the tears again to the fair girl’s eyes. But she hastily lifted
her head, and glanced half-defiantly at him, as if daring him to accuse
her of being unmaidenly in what she was about to say, and replied:

“I do not desire to be released from my promise.”

“Miss Chichester! surely you do not mean it,” he said, eagerly, his
whole face lighting brilliantly.

“Yes, Mr. Ellerton, I do.”

“And can you trust me still, after knowing what you do?”

“I can. Do you not remember what I said this morning—that you might do
something, impelled by the force of circumstances, that would merit my
severest censure, but that even then I should feel there were goodness
and truth in you. My words have proved true! There is much of good in
you; I feel that you were intended for a noble man, and had the
influences around you been pure, you would never have been led into such
evil ways. I feel that the words you only a short time since uttered
were sincere, and I have no wish to retract anything that I have
pledged, least of all my faith in you.”

Ralph gazed at her in wondering admiration!

“I cannot tell you, Miss Chichester,” he said, “how deeply grateful I am
for your confidence in me. Your words move me more than I can express;
they give me new courage, they inspire me with a blessed hope.”




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
                           GONE TO HIS DOOM.


Meanwhile Alfred Ellerton had found the Italian brothers, who had
retreated into the background when the long-lost wife presented herself;
but they now came forward, and stood proudly and coldly before the
squire, having first sought and found Vivien, who still remained with
Fredrich Weimher, both seeming to find an irresistible charm in each
other’s society.

They, too, came near, but took their places behind Squire Moulton, where
he could not see them until the proper moment should arrive for Vivien
to reveal herself.

“Well, what now?” snarled the villain, as, on looking up, he beheld, as
he supposed, two of the smugglers standing in front of him.

“Your doom!” was the stern response, while both men threw aside their
rough garments, and stood revealed in their true characters as Italian
noblemen.

A shriek of craven fear rang long and loud throughout the lofty cavern,
and finally died away among the glittering arches above; then a
death-like silence ensued for a few moments, while, with rigid face and
starting eyes, the unhappy wretch gazed upon the forms before him as if
they had been ghosts from the other world, come back to haunt and
torture him with fearful memories.

At length the elder spoke, in tones that froze the listeners’ blood.

“Our oath is nearly fulfilled, and the fearful wrong you did our sister
is about to be avenged, and justice will at last be done. We have hunted
and tracked you for long, long years; we have seen you plot evil and
suffering for others, and only waited for a favorable opportunity to
wreak our own vengeance upon you. That opportunity has at last arrived.
You are soon to be called to account for your treacherous and
sin-blackened career.”

“Oh, you will not kill me; you will let me live a little longer!” cried
the wretched man, trembling with terror.

“Who killed our sister? Who came into a peaceful, loving family, created
discord and sorrow, blighted every joy and hope it had ever known,
dishonored its fair name, and broke the hearts of a loving father and a
tender, devoted daughter? Do you deserve to be spared? Think you there
is one iota of pity in my heart for such a wretch as you? No! As I said
before, your doom is sealed, and justice shall have her due.”

“Mercy—mercy!” the squire gasped, writhing in agony at their feet.

“Mercy!” thundered Count Gerient, of Lamerack. “Were you merciful when
you deserted her whose innocent heart and affections were won by your
artful schemes, whom you made your wife that you might fill your purse
with gold, and finding none, pronounced your marriage a trick, broke her
gentle heart, and heartlessly left her to suffer poverty and childbirth
alone. Mercy to such as you? Wretch, unnatural father, who never cared
even to look upon his offspring’s face, or clasp in his arms the tiny
creature formed from his own flesh and blood! No! no mercy shall be
shown you; we have sworn it, and our oath is inviolable.”

The cringing villain turned shiveringly to his sister; his teeth
chattered in his head, and huge drops of cold perspiration rolled down
his shrunken cheeks.

“Oh, Rose,” he cried, “plead for me; do not let them murder me; think
how I reared your boy; I cared for him for over twenty years, and do I
not deserve something for it? I cannot die now. I shall go to eternal
perdition—oh, save me, save me!”

His sister’s lips curled slightly at the sight of his abject fear,
though her face was pale as death as she replied, huskily:

“It would please me better, Ralph Moulton, to see you on your knees
pleading to Heaven for mercy. You cannot expect much love from me,
though I would that you had time to repent.”

“Oh, Heaven! will no one help me?”

“Here cometh one, and it shall be as she says,” sternly said the Count
Gerient, as he beckoned Vivien to come forward.

She came, pale as marble, but beautiful as an angel, leaning upon
Fredrich Weimher’s arm.

Slowly, softly she glided forward, and stood before the kneeling wretch.

He did not see her at once, she had come so silently; but chancing to
raise his eyes after a moment, he instantly started wildly to his feet,
his eyes protruded from their sockets, his nostrils dilated, and his
under jaw dropped like a dead man’s.

“Back!” screamed Squire Moulton, frantically. “Back to the land of
spirits whence you came. Heavens! why come you here to torture me thus?”

“Villain, it is your daughter!” said her uncle, solemnly.

“It is a lie! Back with you—come no nearer—mercy—Vivien!”

With a shriek of mortal agony that pierced every heart like an arrow,
that rang and echoed, and rang again through that lofty, spacious
cavern, curdling the blood in every vein, and paling every cheek with
horror, the miscreant, by a mighty effort, burst the fetters that bound
his hands, waved them wildly in the air for a moment, then tottered
forward, swaying from side to side, and fell prostrate again at Vivien’s
feet.

With a moan of fear and anguish, the lovely girl closed her eyes upon
the horrible scene, and sank fainting upon the bosom of him who
supported her. Ralph and his father sprang forward and raised the form
of the prostrate squire; but life had fled, and they raised only a
stiffening corpse.

The heart disease that so many years had threatened him, hanging like an
avenging sword ever above him, had cut him down in an instant and he had
gone to his reward; gone to where justice would be dealt unto him, not
by the weak and erring hands of humanity, but by a stern and righteous
Judge.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.
                             FREE AT LAST.


An hour later a happy company, comprising the reunited husband and wife,
the happy lovers, and the lovely but now joyous and hopeful maidens, who
long had been held in captivity within that wonderful underground
palace, might be seen wending their way toward the large and commodious
inn where Madame Alroyd and Dora, also Mr. Ellerton, had taken rooms on
first entering the place.

Mine host’s face glowed all over with sympathy, delight, and genial
hospitality, as he welcomed so many illustrious people beneath his
comfortable roof.

It was not often that anything so interesting and exciting occurred in
the quiet village, a proof of which might be seen in this honest
landlord’s flurried manner, as he rushed hither and thither, giving an
order here, and countermanding one there. But at last all was right,
every one was comfortably settled, and every eye closed in sound and
peaceful slumber, and every heart forgetting in its gentle embrace the
thrilling events of the few hours previous.

The fated smugglers were left behind within the cavern, under a strong
and watchful guard, until morning, when they were handcuffed and chained
in pairs, and then sent from the place to be tried and sentenced by the
country’s laws, which for so many years they had boldly and successfully
defied.

The body of the squire was quietly interred in a wild and secluded spot
not far from the sea, the people refusing to allow so wicked a man to be
buried in their sacred grounds. A plain shaft of marble, bearing his
name, age, and the date of his death, was erected over his lonely grave,
and he was left to sleep even as he had lived—alone.

For a week after these events the hotel where our friends sojourned was
a scene of hilarity and joy, such as the wide old rooms had not
witnessed in many a year; then the gay and happy company broke up, and
all departed, to go their different ways.

The lovely captives, all except Vivien and Enid, were placed under the
care and protection of good old Father Francis, together with an
abundance of means, to be conveyed to their several homes, where all
arrived safely, as Vivien learned through loving letters received from
her affectionate and grateful charges. Having satisfactorily
accomplished the mission with which he was intrusted, the good father
returned to his former duties in a distant convent.

Dora claimed Vivien and Enid, declaring that they should accompany her
on the remainder of her tour, which she was unwilling to give up, though
madam would have preferred going straight home, after receiving such a
fearful fright.

Vivien consented to make one of their party, but Enid gravely shook her
head and said “no; she must go to her own home and attend to her
estates, which so long had lain without an owner. But,” she added,
trying to smile, though her heart was sad and heavy, “I will return and
get everything in order, and be prepared to receive you all when your
travels are ended, six months hence, and we will have a joyful reunion
before the final separation, and each return to his and her own
fireside.”

So it was agreed, and lovely Enid Chichester bade them all a tearful
farewell, and departed with Nina and Mr. Ellerton, who had promised to
see her safely within the halls of her ancestors, and then join his own
party in Paris, whither they had decided to go.

Poor Ralph was disconsolate enough at this arrangement, for he had come
to love the “sparkling little English Gem,” as they called her, with the
purest affection of his heart; but he had obtained a promise that she
would write to him, and he tried to content himself with that poor
consolation, resolving that when his six months’ probation—for he knew
she meant it as such by the look she gave him when she bade him
good-by—was over that he would tell his love, and win, if possible, the
beautiful Enid for his wife.

Madame Alroyd, Dora and Robert, Vivien and Fredrick Weimher (who had
discovered that he could not exist beyond the presence of the fair
Italian), Alfred Ellerton, with Rose, his wife, and Ralph, then all bade
a final farewell to Germany, and departed for gay, thoughtless, charming
Paris.

Vivien’s two uncles returned to their native country, to fair and lovely
Italy, with its sunny skies and fragrant vineyards, to prepare a home
for the idol of their hearts, where she was to dwell with them after the
promised reunion at Chichester Hall.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX.
                              A GOOD OMEN.


The six months were past.

Behold! upon a lofty hill, surrounded by magnificent beeches, whose
overhanging boughs make a royal arch of green above the smoothly
graveled drive-way that encircles it, stands a grand old castle, the
very air around which breathes of centuries and aristocracy.

On this brilliant day its massive portals were swung wide open.

A magnificent floral arch was erected over the wide entrance, while
above it, in letters of gilt, is inscribed that sweetest of words,
WELCOME! And garlands and festoons hung suspended through every room and
hall, as if clad in holiday attire, in honor of loved and long expected
guests.

The great drawing-room on the left of the grand old hall is redolent
with the richest perfume, and within it, pacing up and down its spacious
length, clad in her rich and trailing robes, is the fair mistress of all
this grandeur and magnificence—lovely Enid Chichester.

Hope and joy beam in her eyes, a flush is upon her soft cheek, which
creeps higher and higher with every passing moment, while smiles part
her ruby lips, showing the gleaming pearls between.

Suddenly she starts; a happy, expectant look is upon her face, as she
bends eagerly forward in a listening attitude.

Yes, she is not deceived; the sound of approaching wheels, grating upon
the graveled drive-way, comes in through the open hall, and with a
joyous cry she bounds out to receive her friends.

Three heavy traveling carriages drew up before the hospitable door,
their glowing occupants alighted and immediately all was gay confusion;
handshaking until the bones ached, kissing and congratulations.

At last all was over and settled in his or her respective apartments,
and the next two or three days were given up to resting, after their
long and tedious journey.

Enid did the honors as mistress, as she did everything else, gracefully,
and dispensed her hospitality with a lavish hand, her heart overflowing
with excess of joy in the happiness she was contributing and receiving.

One morning, soon after the arrival, she arose early, and descending the
grand old stairway, went, softly humming to herself, into the library,
where she intended to have a quiet hour all her own, before her guests
should come down to breakfast.

The morning sun streamed brightly in through the low, open window, which
led out upon a balcony overlooking the park. With a sigh of pleasure
Enid seated herself in an inviting arm-chair, and lay back among its
cushions, with a smile of happiness upon her sweet lips, wholly
forgetful of the book she held in her hand, and which she had intended
reading, and wholly unconscious that a pair of fine dark eyes were
tenderly regarding her from behind the heavy curtains which draped the
balcony window.

Neither did she hear a step upon the soft carpet, or realize the
presence of any one, until a fragrant waxen capejasmine was suddenly
dropped from above into her lap.

She started then, and looked quickly up, but flushed the deepest
crimson, as she met the earnest gaze of Ralph Ellerton, who was bending
over the back of her chair.

“Why, good-morning, Mr. Ellerton,” she said, striving to cover her
confusion by speaking lightly. “How you surprised me. I thought I was
the only one stirring so early this morning.”

“Pardon me for startling you, but I have been up since sunrise,

                     ‘Over the hills and far away.’

I have but just come in, and stepped out upon the balcony to enjoy the
glorious view.”

“It is fine, isn’t it? Poor papa used to enjoy it so much,” she replied,
sadly, the tears springing to her eyes; then added, “This was always his
favorite resort, and he would sit for hours upon the balcony and gaze
upon the scenery around.”

She picked up the flower he had thrown into her lap, inhaled its
fragrance, and then fastened it upon her bosom.

He smiled slightly at the act, and she, suddenly looking up, caught his
eye fixed upon her, and again the rich blood suffused her face, but she
did not remove the flower.

“Enid,” said Ralph, tenderly, “may I interpret that as a good omen? May
I tell you of my love after waiting so long?”

“There is no need to tell it, Ralph; I knew it long ago,” she replied,
in tones as tender, and with an irresistible frankness.

“Darling, your tones tell me if your words do not, that you return it,
unworthy as I am,” he said, as he passionately clasped her in his arms.

“Yes, Ralph, I do; I loved you before I left that horrid cavern, and it
almost broke my heart when I thought you the husband of another. But
even after I found you were free again, I would not encourage you to
speak the words which I knew were on your lips, for I wished to try you
first, to prove the good I felt there was in you.”

“Bless you for your frankness; but you will perhaps be surprised when I
tell you that my heart forgot its allegiance to that other the moment I
first beheld you.”

“Then why did you persist?” hastily interrupted Enid, raising her
radiant face in surprise, then blushing scarlet again as she remembered
it must wound him to be thus reminded of the past.

“It is all right, darling,” he returned, noticing her confusion, and
clasping her again to him. “I wish you to know me just as I am. I
persisted in the evil I had begun, merely because my will and my pride
would not yield to my heart. But I cannot express the gratitude I feel
for the gift of your precious love. I know——”

“Now, Ralph, you are not to talk that way any more. You have done wrong,
and you own it and repent of it. It is enough. None are perfect, and I
have my faults, as you will find out one of these days. I love you just
as you are now, not what you may have been a long time ago, so please
don’t disparage my lover to me any more,” and the bright-eyed little
maiden held up two pouting lips.

She received what she wished, and then Ralph asked, tenderly:

“And you will be my wife, Enid?”

“Yes, Ralph.”

“When, darling?”

“Whenever you wish.”

“God bless you, my precious one; let it be soon, then, for I need you
much, and I think you know it.”

They conversed some time longer, and when the breakfast bell sounded,
and their friends descended, the day was decided upon.

Ralph led his promised bride directly to his father and mother, and
proclaimed the good news; and then breakfast had to be delayed, much to
the annoyance of the worthy housekeeper, half an hour, for the joyful
congratulations of all that happy company.

After breakfast was over, Enid, with a very mysterious air drew Dora and
Vivien away to impart a very important bit of information, as she called
it, to them, namely:

That she was to be married in three weeks.

“I know,” she said, as both the girls held up their hands in dismay at
the limited time, “that it usually takes six months, at least, to
complete the trousseau of a fashionable young lady; but I think I can do
better than that; and then, poor Ralph is so sad and lonely, I am going
to humor him in this. You both must be my bridesmaids; and Vivien, would
you be willing to stand up with Mr. Weimher? I don’t think he would
object to you,” said the sparkling girl, mischievously.

Vivien blushed and stammered, and then broke down entirely. At last she
saw it was no use to try and hide it longer, and made a clean breast of
it, confessing that she was engaged to that same gentleman.

“Ah! you rogue, I mistrusted you long ago,” said Dora. “You little
goose, why did you try to keep it so still?”

“Because I wished the consent and congratulations of my uncles, first.
Mr. Weimher spoke to them yesterday, and we were to acknowledge the
engagement to-day. But you see how you have robbed me of my secret, you
heartless girls!”

She laughed gayly, though the tell-tale color still remained upon her
fair face.

Just then there was a rap upon the door, and a maid entered saying that
Miss Dupont and Miss Moulton were requested to step into the library for
a few moments.

The two girls twined their arms about each other’s waists and
wonderingly obeyed the summons. In the room designated they found their
lovers, who, likewise having been informed of the approaching nuptials
of their hostess, now importuned their own fair brides-elect to consent
to don the matrimonial bonds upon the same day, and thus make a triple
wedding of the affair. Both demurred at first, but finally the ardent
gentlemen overcame all obstacles, and, consenting, they immediately
vanished to communicate the news to their fair hostess.

Enid was in raptures, declaring that theirs should be a wedding, such as
was never heard of before in the annals of Chichester history.

Then ensued three weeks of such bustle and confusion as made worthy Mrs.
Judson, the housekeeper, nearly distracted, and the servants were kept
flying hither and thither from early morn till dewy eve.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The bridal morn broke calm, clear, and beautiful. The hour appointed for
the ceremony arrived, and the three beautiful girls, clad in their white
gleaming robes, with no ornaments save nature’s sweetness—pure and
fragrant orange blossoms—were ready to confide themselves for life into
the keeping of their hearts’ chosen ones.

Three chariots, each drawn by a noble pair of milk-white steeds, bore
them from the Chichester mansion to the distant cathedral, where the
bishop waited to speak the irrevocable words, and where anxious friends
were waiting to witness the brilliant wedding.

Ralph and Enid led the way up the broad aisle to the foot of the sacred
altar, and the words were spoken which bound them to each other for
life.

Then Fredrich and Vivien pledged their vows, and likewise received the
benediction of the holy man.

Last, but not least, Robert and Dora joined their hands and
re-pronounced the vows uttered in childhood, and which had been so
faithfully and fondly kept through sorrows and trials, and in defiance
of all disappointments and opposition.

Never had the lovely girl looked more beautiful, nor her lover more
strikingly noble and handsome, than at that moment when, in solemn,
earnest tones, they repeated the marriage service that gave them anew to
each other.

Faithful hearts they truly were, and faithful we know they will ever
remain; and there in their happiness and love we will leave them,
bidding them a long farewell, trusting that the lives of each and all
may be a succession of blessings, so bright that they will never fade
until the greater brightness and glory of heaven and eternity shall
burst upon them, enveloping them in endless bliss.


                               [THE END.]


“A GODDESS IN EXILE; OR, THE SPANISH PLOTTERS,” by PHILIP S. WARNE, will
be published in the next number (81) of THE SELECT SERIES.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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These popular books are large type editions, well printed, well bound,
and in handsome covers. For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers; or
sent, _postage free_, on receipt of price, 25 cents each, by the
publishers,

                            STREET & SMITH,
          P. O. Box 2734.      25 to 31 Rose Street, New York.




                       The Secret Service Series.

             DEVOTED TO STORIES OF THE DETECTION OF CRIME.


 No. 40—RUBE BURROWS’ LEAGUE, by Marline Manly                        25

 No. 39—THE VESTIBULE LIMITED MYSTERY, by Alex. Robertson, M. D.      25

 No. 38—THE LOS HUECOS MYSTERY, by Eugene T. Sawyer                   25

 No. 37—A WOMAN’S HAND, by Nick Carter                                25

 No. 36—THE GREAT TRAVERS CASE, by Dr. Mark Merrick                   25

 No. 35—MUERTALMA; or, THE POISONED PIN, by Marmaduke Dey             25

 No. 34—DETECTIVE BOB BRIDGER, by R. M. Taylor                        25

 No. 33—OLD SPECIE, by Alex. Robertson, M. D.                         25

 No. 32—ADVENTURES AND EXPLOITS OF THE YOUNGER BROTHERS, by Henry
   Dale                                                               25

 No. 31—A CHASE ROUND THE WORLD, by Mariposa Weir                     25

 No. 30—GOLD-DUST DARRELL, by Burke Brentford                         25

 No. 29—THE POKER KING, by Marline Manly                              25

 No. 28—BOB YOUNGER’S FATE, by Edwin S. Deane                         25

 No. 27—THE REVENUE DETECTIVE, by Police Captain James                25

 No. 26—UNDER HIS THUMB, by Donald J. McKenzie                        25

 No. 25—THE NAVAL DETECTIVE’S CHASE, by Ned Buntline                  25

 No. 24—THE PRAIRIE DETECTIVE, by Leander P. Richardson               25

 No. 23—A MYSTERIOUS CASE, by K. F. Hill                              25

 No. 22—THE SOCIETY DETECTIVE, by Oscar Maitland                      25

 No. 21—THE AMERICAN MARQUIS, by Nick Carter                          25

 No. 20—THE MYSTERY OF A MADSTONE, by K. F. Hill                      25

 No. 19—THE SWORDSMAN OF WARSAW, by Tony Pastor                       25

 No. 18—A WALL STREET HAUL, by Nick Carter                            25

 No. 17—THE OLD DETECTIVE’S PUPIL, by Nick Carter                     25

 No. 16—THE MOUNTAINEER DETECTIVE, by Clayton W. Cobb                 25

 No. 15—TOM AND JERRY, by Tony Pastor                                 25

 No. 14—THE DETECTIVE’S CLEW, by “Old Hutch.”                         25

 No. 13—DARKE DARRELL, by Frank H. Stauffer                           25

 No. 12—THE DOG DETECTIVE, by Lieutenant Murray                       25

 No. 11—THE MALTESE CROSS, by Eugene T. Sawyer                        25

 No. 10—THE POST-OFFICE DETECTIVE, by George W. Goode                 25

 No.  9—OLD MORTALITY, by Young Baxter                                25

 No.  8—LITTLE LIGHTNING, by Police Captain James                     25

 No.  7—THE CHOSEN MAN, by Judson R. Taylor                           25

 No.  6—OLD STONEWALL, by Judson R. Taylor                            25

 No.  5—THE MASKED DETECTIVE, by Judson R. Taylor                     25

 No.  4—THE TWIN DETECTIVES, by K. F. Hill                            25

 No.  3—VAN, THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE, by “Old Sleuth.”               25

 No.  2—BRUCE ANGELO, THE CITY DETECTIVE, by “Old Sleuth.”            25

 No.  1—BRANT ADAMS, THE EMPEROR OF DETECTIVES, by “Old Sleuth.”      25

For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent, postage
free, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of
price, 25 cents each, by the publishers,

                            STREET & SMITH,
          P. O. Box 2734.      25 to 31 Rose Street, New York.




                       The Sea and Shore Series.

            Stories of Strange Adventure Ashore and Afloat.

                         PRICE, 25 CENTS EACH.


 No. 28—TEXAS JACK, by Ned Buntline.
 No. 27—CAMILLE, by Alexandre Dumas, fils.
 No. 26—RED DICK, THE TIGER OF CALIFORNIA, by Ned Buntline.
 No. 25—DASHING CHARLIE, by Ned Buntline.
 No. 24—BUFFALO BILL’S LAST VICTORY, by Ned Buntline.
 No. 23—BUFFALO BILL’S BEST SHOW, by Ned Buntline.
 No. 22—THE STRUGGLE FOR MAVERICK, by J. F. Fitts.
 No. 21—ROCKY MOUNTAIN SAM, by Burke Brentford.
 No. 20—THE HOUSE OF SILENCE, by Dr. J. H. Robinson.
 No. 19—THE IRISH MONTE CRISTO’S TRAIL, by Alex. Robertson, M. D.
 No. 18—THE YANKEE CHAMPION, by Sylvanus Cobb., Jr.
 No. 17—FEDORA, from the famous play of the same name, by Victorien
    Sardou.
 No. 16—SIBALLA, THE SORCERESS, by Prof. Wm. H. Peck.
 No. 15—THE GOLDEN EAGLE, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
 No. 14—THE FORTUNE-TELLER OF NEW ORLEANS, by Prof. Wm. H. Peck.
 No. 13—THE IRISH MONTE CRISTO ABROAD, by Alex. Robertson, M. D.
 No. 12—HELD FOR RANSOM, by Lieut. Murray.
 No. 11—THE IRISH MONTE CRISTO’S SEARCH, by Alex. Robertson, M. D.
 No. 10—LA TOSCA, from the celebrated play, by Victorien Sardou.
 No.  9—THE MAN IN BLUE, by Mary A. Denison.
 No.  8—BEN HAMED, by Sylyanus Cobb, Jr.
 No.  7—RUY BLAS, by Victor Hugo.
 No.  6—THE MASKED LADY, by Lieutenant Murray.
 No.  5—THEODORA, from the celebrated play, by Victorien Sardou.
 No.  4—THE LOCKSMITH OF LYONS, by Prof. Wm. H. Peck.
 No.  3—THE BROWN PRINCESS, by Mrs. M. V. Victor.
 No.  2—THE SILVER SHIP, by Lewis Leon.
 No.  1—AN IRISH MONTE CRISTO.

For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent, postage
free, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of
price, 25 cents each, by the publishers,

                            STREET & SMITH,
     P. O. Box 2734.      25, 27, 29 and 31 Rose Street, New York.




[Illustration: LAKE ERIE & WESTERN RAILROAD]

                             LAKE ERIE AND
                           WESTERN RAILROAD,

             Ft. Wayne, Cincinnati, and Louisville Railroad.

            “Natural Gas Route.”        The Popular Short Line

                                —BETWEEN—

     Peoria, Bloomington, Chicago, St. Louis, Springfield, Lafayette,
 Frankfort, Muncie, Portland, Lima, Findlay, Fostoria, Fremont, Sandusky,
 Indianapolis, Kokomo, Peru, Rochester, Plymouth, LaPorte, Michigan City,
   Ft. Wayne, Hartford, Bluffton, Connersville, and Cincinnati, making
     Direct Connections for all Points East, West, North, and South.


                         THE ONLY LINE TRAVERSING

                   The Great Natural Gas and Oil Fields

Of Ohio and Indiana, giving the patrons of this =Popular Route= an
opportunity to witness the grand sight from the train as they pass
through. Great fields covered with tanks in which are stored millions of
gallons of Oil, =Natural Gas= wells shooting their flames high in the
air, and the most beautiful cities, fairly alive with glass and all
kinds of factories.

We furnish our patrons with Elegant Reclining Chair Car Seats Free on
day trains, and L., E. & W. Palace Sleeping and Parlor Cars on night
trains, at very reasonable rates.

Direct connections to and from Cleveland, Buffalo, New York, Boston,
Philadelphia, Baltimore, Pittsburg, Washington, Kansas City, Denver,
Omaha, Portland, San Francisco, and all points in the United States and
Canada.

This is the popular route with the ladies, on account of its courteous
and accommodating train officials, and with the commercial traveler and
general public for its comforts, quick time and sure connections.

    For any further particulars call on or address any ticket agent.

               H. C. PARKER,               CHAS. F. DALY,
            Traffic Manager,        Gen’l Pass. & Tkt. Agt.
                           Indianapolis, Ind.




                   PROVIDENCE & STONINGTON S. S. CO.

[Illustration: logo]

                            PROVIDENCE LINE
                            STONINGTON LINE

                                BETWEEN

                           NEW YORK & BOSTON,

                         Providence, Worcester,

                        AND ALL EASTERN POINTS.


                            PROVIDENCE LINE.
                           (May to November.)

The longest water route and shortest rail ride (only 42 miles) of any
Sound Line. Steamers the peers of any in the World. An orchestra on
each. Parlor Car Trains direct from Steamers’ Landing to Boston and
Worcester. Connecting for all points in New England. During the season a
Parlor Car Train runs from Steamers’ Landing to the


                            WHITE MOUNTAINS
                            Without Change.

Steamers leave Pier 29, N. R., daily, except Sunday, at 5 or 5:30 P. M.


                            STONINGTON LINE.
                         (Throughout the Year.)

This is the INSIDE ROUTE, and especially safe and comfortable in Winter.
Connects at Stonington with THREE Express Trains for Boston, Worcester,
and all points North and East. Steamboat Express to and from Boston has
reclining chair Parlor Cars without extra charge. This is the only
direct Sound route in Summer to


                           NARRAGANSETT PIER
                            and WATCH HILL.

Steamers leave New Pier 36, N. R., daily, except Sunday, at 4:30 or 5 P.
M.

           Send for Book of Summer Excursion Tours and Rates
                            to O. H. BRIGGS,
                           Gen’l Pass. Agent,
                             J. W. Miller,
           Pres’t.             New Pier 36, N. R., New York.




[Illustration: “_The D&H_”]

                                  THE
                                Delaware
                                  AND
                                 Hudson
                               Railroad.

                    THE ONLY DIRECT ROUTE TO THE GREAT

                          ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS,

  Lake George, Lake Champlain, Ausable Chasm, the Adirondack Mountains,
 Saratoga, Round Lake, Sharon Springs, Cooperstown, Howe’s Cave, and the
    Celebrated Gravity Railroad between Carbondale and Honesdale, Pa.,
    present the Greatest Combination of Health and Pleasure Resorts in
                                 America.


         THE DIRECT LINE TO THE SUPERB SUMMER HOTEL OF THE NORTH,

                          “THE HOTEL CHAMPLAIN,”

          (Three Miles South of Plattsburgh, on Lake Champlain).


  The Shortest and Most Comfortable Route Between New York and Montreal.

      In Connection with the Erie Railway, the most Picturesque and
              Interesting Route between Chicago and Boston.
                      The only through Pullman Line.


           Enclose Six Cents in Stamps for Illustrated Guide to

                               H. C. YOUNG,
                            2d Vice-President,

                              J. W. BURDICK,
                     Gen’l Pass. Agent, Albany, N. Y.




[Illustration: CH&D CINCINNATI, HAMILTON & DAYTON R.R.]

                          THE FINEST ON EARTH

                                THE ONLY

                        Pullman Perfected Safety

                        VESTIBULED TRAIN SERVICE

                            WITH DINING CAR

                                BETWEEN

                      CINCINNATI,
                              INDIANAPOLIS,
                                      AND CHICAGO.

                           THE FAVORITE LINE
                        CINCINNATI to ST. LOUIS,

                    Keokuk, Springfield, and Peoria,


                          THE ONLY DIRECT LINE
                                BETWEEN

                      Cincinnati, Dayton, Findlay,

                         Lima, Toledo, Detroit,
                      THE LAKE REGIONS and CANADA.

                   PULLMAN SLEEPERS ON NIGHT TRAINS.

   _Parlor and Chair Cars on Day Trains between Cincinnati and Points
                      Enumerated, the Year Round._

   M. D. WOODFORD, Vice-Pres.        E. O. McCORMICK, Gen. Pass Agt.




                          THE PRIMROSE SERIES

                                   OF

                         WORLD’S BEST FICTION,

 Comprising translations of the best foreign fiction, together with the
            works of popular =English and American Authors=.


              ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY.        PRICE, 50 CENTS.

 =No.  1—Another Man’s Wife=, by Bertha M. Clay                       50
 =No.  2—The Belle of the Season=, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis              50
 =No.  3—Doctor Jack=, by St. George Rathborne                        50
 =No.  4—Kathleen Douglas=, by Julia Truitt Bishop                    50
 =No.  5—Her Royal Lover=, by Ary Ecilaw                              50
 =No.  6—Jose=, by Otto Ruppius                                       50
 =No.  7—His Word of Honor=, by E. Werner                             50
 =No.  8—A Parisian Romance=, by A. D. Hall                           50
 =No.  9—A Woman’s Temptation=, by Bertha M. Clay                     50
 =No. 10—Stella Rosevelt=, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon                    50
 =No. 11—Beyond Pardon=, by Bertha M. Clay                            50
 =No. 12—Lost A Pearle=, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon                      50
 =No. 13—The Partners=, by Alphonse Daudet                            50
 =No. 14—Sardou’s Cleopatra=, by A. D. Hall                           50
 =No. 15—The Lone Ranch=, by Capt. Mayne Reid                         50
 =No. 16—Put Asunder=, by Bertha M. Clay                              50

=THE PRIMROSE SERIES= combines the highest art of bookmaking with the
best fiction that can be obtained. For sale by all Booksellers and
Newsdealers; or sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by




                           THE SELECT SERIES

                                   OF

                  POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT STORIES.

 No. 81—A GODDESS IN EXILE, by Philip S. Warne                        25
 No. 80—THRICE WEDDED, BUT ONLY ONCE A WIFE, by Mrs. Sheldon          25
 No. 79—THE GAY CAPTAIN, by Mrs. M. V. Victor                         25
 No. 78—VASHTI’S FATE; or, PURIFIED BY FIRE, by Helen Corwin Pierce   25
 No. 77—THE THREE BLOWS, by Karl Drury                                25
 No. 76—A PROUD DISHONOR, by Genie Holtzmeyer                         25
 No. 75—THE WIDOWED BRIDE, by Lucy Randall Comfort                    25
 No. 74—THE GRINDER PAPERS, by Mary Kyle Dallas                       25
 No. 73—BORN TO COMMAND, by Hero Strong                               25
 No. 72—A MODERN MIRACLE, by James Franklin Fitts                     25
 No. 71—THE SWEET SISTERS OF INCHVARRA, by Annie Ashmore              25
 No. 70—HIS OTHER WIFE, by Rose Ashleigh                              25
 No. 69—A SILVER BRAND, by Charles T. Manners                         25
 No. 68—ROSLYN’S TRUST, by Lucy C. Lillie                             25
 No. 67—WILLFUL WINNIE, by Harriet Sherburne                          25
 No. 66—ADAM KENT’S CHOICE, by Humphrey Elliott                       25
 No. 65—LAURA BRAYTON, by Julia Edwards                               25
 No. 64—YOUNG MRS. CHARNLEIGH, by T. W. Hanshew                       25
 No. 63—BORN TO BETRAY, by Mrs. M. V. Victor                          25
 No. 62—A STRANGE PILGRIMAGE, by Mrs. J. H. Walworth                  25
 No. 61—THE ILLEGAL MARRIAGE, by Hon. Evelyn Ashby                    25
 No. 60—WON ON THE HOMESTRETCH, by Mrs. M. C. Williams                25
 No. 59—WHOSE WIFE IS SHE? by Annie Lisle                             25
 No. 58—KILDHURM’S OAK, by Julian Hawthorne                           25
 No. 57—STEPPING-STONES, by Marion Harland                            25
 No. 56—THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT, by Mary A. Denison              25
 No. 55—ROXY HASTINGS, by P. Hamilton Myers                           25
 No. 54—THE FACE OF ROSENFEL, by C. H. Montague                       25
 No. 53—THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S, by Jean Kate Ludlum                   25
 No. 52—TRUE TO HERSELF, by Mrs. J. H. Walworth                       25
 No. 51—A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN’S SIN, by Hero Strong                       25
 No. 50—MARRIED IN MASK, by Mansfield Tracy Walworth                  25
 No. 49—GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY, by Mrs. M. V. Victor                    25
 No. 48—THE MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE, by A. M. Douglas                       25
 No. 47—SADIA THE ROSEBUD, by Julia Edwards                           25
 No. 46—A MOMENT OF MADNESS, by Charles J. Bellamy                    25
 No. 45—WEAKER THAN A WOMAN, by Charlotte M. Brame                    25
 No. 44—A TRUE ARISTOCRAT, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon                    25
 No. 43—TRIXY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon                                25
 No. 42—A DEBT OF VENGEANCE, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins                 25
 No. 41—BEAUTIFUL RIENZI, by Annie Ashmore                            25
 No. 40—AT A GIRL’S MERCY, by Jean Kate Ludlum                        25
 No. 39—MARJORIE DEANE, by Bertha M. Clay                             25
 No. 38—BEAUTIFUL, BUT POOR, by Julia Edwards                         25
 No. 37—IN LOVE’S CRUCIBLE, by Bertha M. Clay                         25
 No. 36—THE GIPSY’S DAUGHTER, by Bertha M. Clay                       25
 No. 35—CECILE’S MARRIAGE, by Lucy Randall Comfort                    25

These popular books are large type editions, well printed, well bound,
and in handsome covers. For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers; or
sent, _postage free_, on receipt of price, 25 cents each, by the
publishers,

                            STREET & SMITH.
          P. O. Box 2734.      25 to 31 Rose Street, New York.




                          .AN ENTERING WEDGE.


[Illustration]

                                  THE
                                STANDARD
                                 COCOA
                                 OF THE
                                 WORLD.

              The Messrs. VAN HOUTEN have put an entering
                 wedge into unhealthy domestic economy,
                 by advertising a pure, soluble cocoa,
                 as a substitute for tea and coffee. As
                  inventors and original patentees of
                cocoa, the VAN HOUTEN’S have introduced
                          it so thoroughly all
                     over Europe that “VAN HOUTEN’S
                           COCOA” has become
                         a household word. The
                            end of the wedge
                        which has been inserted
                                here is
                              fast making
                              way for the
                                “leading
                                Cocoa of
                               America.”

                                  THE
                                STANDARD
                                 COCOA
                                 OF THE
                                 WORLD.

            Van Houten’s                        Van Houten’s
               Cocoa.                              Cocoa.
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  ☛ It only needs a single trial to convince any one of the superiority
  of VAN HOUTEN’S COCOA. Please insist upon your grocer or storekeeper
  ordering it for you, _and take no substitute_. It is put up in
  one-eighth, one-quarter, one-half, and one pound cans. ☛ If not
  obtainable, enclose 25 cents in stamps or postal note to either VAN
  HOUTEN & ZOON, 106 Reade Street, New York, or 45 Wabash Avenue,
  Chicago, and a large sample can will be sent, postpaid, _if you
  mention this publication_. Prepared only by VAN HOUTEN & ZOON, Weesp,
  Holland.




                            MADAME ROWLEY’S

                       TOILET MASK OR FACE GLOVE


[Illustration:

  The Toilet Mask in position to the face

  _To be worn three times in the week._
]

is the _only natural beautifier_ for _bleaching_ and _preserving_ the
_skin_ and _removing complexional imperfections_.

It is _soft_ and _pliable_, and _can be easily applied_ and _worn_
without _discomfort_ or _inconvenience_.

The _Mask_ is patented, has been introduced ten years, and is the _only
genuine_ article of the kind.

It is _recommended_ by _eminent physicians_ and _scientific men_ as a
_substitute for injurious cosmetics_.

           A few Specimen Extracts from Testimonial Letters.

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skin, leaving it soft, clear, brilliant, and beautiful. It is harmless,
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Valuable illustrated pamphlet, with proofs and full particulars, mailed
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             THE TOILET MASK CO., 1167 Broadway, New York.




                            THE COUNTY FAIR.

                            By NEIL BURGESS.


[Illustration]

Written from the celebrated play now running its second continuous
season in New York, and booked to run a third season in the same
theater.

The scenes are among the New Hampshire hills, and picture the bright
side of country life. The story is full of amusing events and happy
incidents, something after the style of our “Old Homestead,” which is
having such an enormous sale.

“=THE COUNTY FAIR=” will be one of the great hits of the season, and
should you fail to secure a copy you will miss a literary treat. It is a
spirited romance of town and country, and a faithful reproduction of the
drama, with the same unique characters, the same graphic scenes, but
with the narrative more artistically rounded, and completed than was
possible in the brief limits of a dramatic representation. This touching
story effectively demonstrates that it is possible to produce a novel
which is at once wholesome and interesting in every part, without the
introduction of an impure thought or suggestion. Read the following

                         OPINIONS OF THE PRESS:

  Mr. Neil Burgess has rewritten his play, “The County Fair,” in story
  form. It rounds out a narrative which is comparatively but sketched in
  the play. It only needs the first sentence to set going the memory and
  imagination of those who have seen the latter and whet the appetite
  for the rest of this lively conception of a live dramatist.—_Brooklyn
  Daily Eagle._

  As “The County Fair” threatens to remain in New York for a long time
  the general public out of town may be glad to learn that the
  playwright has put the piece into print in the form of a story. A tale
  based upon a play may sometimes lack certain literary qualities, but
  it never is the sort of thing over which any one can fall asleep.
  Fortunately, “The County Fair” on the stage and in print is by the
  same author, so there can be no reason for fearing that the book
  misses any of the points of the drama which has been so successful—_N.
  Y. Herald._

  The idea of turning successful plays into novels seems to be getting
  popular. The latest book of this description is a story reproducing
  the action and incidents of Neil Burgess’ play, “The County Fair.” The
  tale, which is a romance based on scenes of home life and domestic
  joys and sorrows, follows closely the lines of the drama in story and
  plot.—_Chicago Daily News._

  Mr. Burgess’ amusing play, “The County Fair,” has been received with
  such favor that he has worked it over and expanded it into a novel of
  more than 200 pages. It will be enjoyed even by those who have never
  heard the play and still more by those who have.—_Cincinnati
  Times-Star._

  This touching story effectively demonstrates that it is possible to
  produce a novel which is at once wholesome and interesting in every
  part, without the introduction of an impure thought or
  suggestion.—_Albany Press._

  Street & Smith have issued “The County Fair.” This is a faithful
  reproduction of the drama of that name and is an affecting and vivid
  story of domestic life, joy and sorrow, and rural scenes.—_San
  Francisco Call._

  This romance is written from the play of this name and is full of
  touching incidents.—_Evansville Journal._

  It is founded on the popular play of the same name, in which Neil
  Burgess, who is also the author of the story, has achieved the
  dramatic success of the season.—_Fall River Herald._

=The County Fair= is No. 33 of “The Select Series,” for sale by all
Newsdealers, or will be sent, on receipt of price, 25 cents, to any
address, postpaid, by =STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 25–31 Rose st., New
York.=

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Moved advertisements from the front of the book to after the ad
      section at the end.
 2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.