BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH


                        _By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

                                AUTHOR OF

 “Nora,” “Trixy,” “Earle Wayne’s Nobility,” “Stella Rosevelt,” “Virgie’s
                 Inheritance,” “His Heart’s Queen,” Etc.

[Illustration: Logo]

                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                        PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK




                    Copyright 1879, 1880, 1881, 1901
                           By STREET & SMITH

                           Renewal Granted to
                       Mrs. Georgie Sheldon Downs
                                  1907

                           BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH




                           BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH




                               CHAPTER I
                              AN ENCOUNTER


“Brownie! Brownie Douglas, wait a moment.”

Time—three o’clock in the afternoon of the 5th of September, 1876.

Place—vestibule of the Memorial Hall, at the World’s Centennial
Exposition, Philadelphia, when all the world did literally flock to
behold the great sights in that city of brotherly love.

The speaker of the above sentence was a young lady of about twenty,
tall, slender, and of aristocratic bearing.

The person addressed was a bright little fairy, who looked not over
sixteen, yet who in reality was two years older.

She turned quickly toward the aristocratic looking lady who had spoken.

“What is it, Aspasia? I have been waiting for you. Where have you been?”
she asked, brightly.

“Oh, this is you, then? I thought that young lady just passing out was
you—these linen dusters deceive one so.”

“You look heated and weary; will you not sit down and rest?” asked
Brownie Douglas, regarding the flushed face of her friend with an amused
look in her dark, bright eyes.

There was never a greater contrast than between those two young ladies.

One tall, fair, and languid, and dressed in the height of fashion;
covered with jewels, laces, flowers, and furbelows, not to mention a
three-quarters of a yard train, which, with the other fixings referred
to, demanded so much of her attention that she could enjoy nothing of
the wonders and beauties around her.

The other, petite and dainty; her glossy brown hair simply coiled at the
back of her small head, which was crowned with a hat of dark straw,
trimmed with a wreath of scarlet berries and shining dark green leaves.
Her half-fitting linen ulster protected, while it did not wholly conceal
her rich though simple dress of black silk, which just cleared the
floor, and did not hide the “two mites of feet,” incased in their tiny
French boots. A pair of gray silk gloves covered her little hands, and a
simple linen collar was fastened at her delicate throat by a richly
carved spray of coral, her only visible ornament.

“Are you ready to go on now?” she asked her friend, as she saw the frown
upon her brow fade out, at being once more set in moving order.

“Yes, but— There! Oh, dear!”

Miss Douglas, who was about moving on, turned again at this cry of woe,
and immediately a ripple of musical, irrepressible laughter broke from
her scarlet lips.

There stood her friend in the act of gathering up her voluminous train,
while directly behind her stood an unmistakable countryman, with one
huge foot planted firmly upon the ruffles and plaitings of the beautiful
skirt, securely pinning it to the floor, and making it optional with
Miss Aspasia, either to go on and leave behind her that (to her) very
important appendage, or wait until that herculean member should be
removed.

The luckless, though innocent cause of this uncomfortable state of
affairs, was gazing with wide eyes, and open mouth, at the figure of an
Indian upon the trail opposite him, and wholly unconscious of the strong
attachment which bound him to the fashionable belle.

“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Douglas, hastening to the rescue, “but
will you please lift your foot?”

“Eh? What? Oh, ya-as,” ejaculated the clumsy, but good-natured fellow.
“I declare, miss, I never saw so many wimmen a losin’ their clo’s off
before. I hain’t ben nowhere to-day but somebody’s dress has ben
tumblin’ off on ’em, and I’ve stepped on’t. I sh’d hev a fit if ’twar
me, and I’m tarnal glad I wur born to a pair o’ breeches.”

Miss Huntington colored angrily, and murmured something about “such
insufferable insolence,” whereupon the irrepressible countryman offered
a piece of friendly advice.

“Grandm’th’r ’d tell ye to sew it on stronger to the bindin’—put on a
button and make a buttonhole. That’s her way, and I don’t believe she
ever lost her petticoat in her life.”

Having delivered himself of these pithy remarks, he moved away, and at
this instant a suppressed laugh greeted Miss Brownie’s ear. Looking up,
she caught two pairs of mirth-gleaming eyes fixed upon herself and her
unfortunate companion.

Two young men were standing near, and had been amused witnesses of the
comical scene just described.

On being discovered, one of them lifted his hat and bowed low to Miss
Douglas, who flushed a rosy red as she returned it, and who would
instantly have burst into gleeful laughter had it not been for doing
violence to her companion’s feelings.

As it was, however, she linked her arm in Miss Huntington’s and turned
quickly away, but not before she had caught the look of unmistakable
admiration with which the other gentleman regarded her.

“Who is she?” he asked eagerly of his companion, after he had watched
her out of sight.

“That full-rigged craft, with all her sail crowded on, is Miss Aspasia
Huntington, a Baltimore belle and heiress——”

“And the other?” interrupted the first speaker, somewhat impatiently.

“Is—hold on to your ears, my boy—Miss Mehetabel Douglas, of
Philadelphia,” was the startling announcement, accompanied with a smile
of amusement.

“Thunder!”

“’Tis rather an imposing cognomen for such a dainty piece of flesh and
blood, I admit.”

“Her parents ought to be choked for giving her such a name.”

“They are already defunct, and, I believe, in no way responsible for the
obnoxious appellation.”

“How so?”

“Her father died before she was born, and her mother at her birth; so
the poor little waif fell to the tender mercies of a maiden great-aunt
on her father’s side, who immediately had her christened for herself,
and proceeded forthwith to bring her up, after her own ideas, to inherit
her million of money.”

“But the other one called her Brownie?”

“Yes; no one could ‘Mehetabel’ that sprite. Her nurse called her Brownie
from the first, on account of her eyes, hair, and skin, for she was very
dark as a child.”

“Showed her good taste—the name just suits her,” muttered the first
speaker, absently.

“The little elf liked the pet name so well herself that she would never
allow any one to call her anything else. I believe since she has grown
up her schoolmates and a few of her gentlemen acquaintances, who do not
feel familiar enough to address her so freely, shorten the obnoxious old
maid title into ‘Meta.’”

“You seem to know all about her.”

“Yes, my sisters are intimate with, and very fond of her. As for myself,
I always thought her a bewitching little fairy.”

“She has the sweetest and brightest face in the world,” was the
enthusiastic reply.

“Ah, ha! Hard hit, aren’t you, Dredmond?”

“So hard that I should like another of the same kind. Will you introduce
me?”

“Certainly, the first opportunity.”

“You say the old aunt is rich?”

“Immensely, and very aristocratic, too.”

“Aristocratic, is she? The little one herself seems to be simple enough;
she put on no airs. How civilly she spoke to that countryman.”

“Oh, yes; she treats the rich and the poor alike. She has been very kind
to some poor working girls whom I know, and yet she has a
thus-far-and-no-farther way with her, when the occasion requires, which
even your high blood could not overcome.”

“There’s fun in her, though; how her bright face dimpled and gleamed
when that clown stood ballast for Miss Huntington. Douglas, I believe,
was the name of the little one, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“It is a good one with us.”

“A good one! I guess it is, my boy. Why, Miss Mehetabel, the elder,
claims to be a direct descendant from the Scottish nobility.”

“Aha! is that so?”

“Yes, indeed; but I warn you if you go there not to bring up the subject
of genealogy, for once started upon that topic, there is no whoa until
she brings up with an ancient queen.”

“Pshaw! you are talking gammon now,” returned the young man,
impatiently.

“Indeed, I am not. I have seen the genealogical tree, and I assure you
she has as good blood flowing in her veins as you have, notwithstanding
she has been an inhabitant of plebian America for nearly half a
century.”

“Well, well, Gordon, we won’t quarrel about their ancestry; there is
beauty enough there, let alone blue blood.”

“Yes. But I think we have discussed the subject sufficiently. Shall we
go over to Machinery Hall now?”

“Anywhere you choose; but stop! What have we here?”

Adrian Dredmond stooped and picked up the shining something upon which
he had almost stepped as they turned to leave the place.

It proved to be a costly cuff button of black enamel and gold. Upon the
face of it was a large D, studded with brilliants, while a tiny row of
the same precious stones was set around the edge.

Turning it over, the young man discovered the word “Brownie” engraved in
finest letters on the back.

“‘Ye gods and little fishes,’ Gordon! I’ve found a treasure!” and he
held it up to view.

“Egad! that is so. That must have cost a cool hundred,” exclaimed
Gordon, examining it critically, then added: “You are in luck, my boy.
It is a good omen to find something belonging to one whom you admire.”

“Is it?”

“Yes; but I suppose torture would not compel you to give it up until you
can put it into the owner’s own little hands,” and the young man
laughed.

“You are right for once,” returned Dredmond, lightly, although with
heightened color.

“It will give me a good excuse for seeking an introduction,” he added,
as he carefully tucked the button into his vest pocket.

Again Gordon laughed.

“Mark my words, Dredmond, something unusual will come of your finding
that trinket.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I don’t know—it is a sudden impression, perhaps, but I believe it will
have an influence on your future.”

“You are superstitious,” replied Dredmond, with a little scornful curl
of his handsome lips.

“If it should result in your carrying Miss Brownie Douglas off to the
old country with you, there would be a buzzing about your ears, I can
tell you; for not a few have their eye fixed already upon the dainty elf
with her golden pile in prospect.”

“Are you among the number, Gordon?” asked his friend, with a keen glance
at the young man.

“Not I, my boy; my star shines from another quarter,” Gordon replied,
laughingly, though growing red in the face with the acknowledgment.

“I think then, my friend, you are getting up a little romance upon your
own account, and without much of a foundation to begin with. If you were
interested I should not wonder, but as there is no jealousy in the
matter it seems a little singular that you should jump at conclusions
thus. I fear, Gordon, I shall have to set you down as a masculine
match-maker.”

“Call me what you like, but I confess that I think you and that little
fairy would suit each other wonderfully well. She is just the right kind
of a little woman to make a——”

“Hush, my boy; do not reveal my secrets here,” interrupted Adrian
Dredmond, looking anxiously around.

“Well, well, come on then to Machinery Hall; but, Dredmond, I think you
are over modest about some matters.”

“It is a failing which will never harm anybody,” the young man replied,
smiling; then linking arms in a friendly way with his companion, they
wended their way to view that wonder of modern achievements, the Corliss
engine, and those countless other inventions of the human brain.




                               CHAPTER II
                           BROWNIE’S THOUGHTS


In a luxurious apartment of a modern house on Chestnut street, two hours
after the incidents related in our first chapter, Miss Mehetabel
Douglas, the senior, might have been seen sitting in a comfortable
easy-chair, while Brownie sat upon an ottoman at her feet.

The former was a woman of about sixty-five years of age, with a
delicate, high-bred face, surrounded by bands of soft, silvery hair. She
had dark gray eyes, which always had a look in them as of some hope
suddenly crushed out of her life, while a patient, gentle expression
hovered about her thin, aristocratic lips.

Brownie had just been reading to her from “Patience Strong’s Outings,”
and now they were talking it over together.

“Why is it, I wonder,” said Brownie, reflectively, “that so much sport
is made of old maids?”

“I suppose because the theory prevails, that every old maid has failed
to catch a husband, and is therefore a fit subject for ridicule,” Miss
Mehetabel returned, a little gleam of amusement lighting up her sad
eyes.

“Pshaw! I know any number of people, who are no more fit to be wives and
mothers than so many children; and yet every one has managed to secure a
husband, while there are plenty of ‘old maids’ in the world, so
patiently living out their lonely lives, who would make such strong,
helpful wives, such wise and tender mothers. Now, auntie, you would have
made such a splendid wife for some good man; and you ought to have had
at least a dozen children. What a charming household it would have been,
for you would have governed so wisely and so well. I don’t believe
nature ever intended you for an old maid.”

A spasm of pain contracted the old lady’s brow, but she replied,
quietly:

“Perhaps not; yet there is, doubtless, some wise reason for it. What
would have become of you, dear, if I had had a large family of my own?”

“Oh, I should have only made up the baker’s dozen, and it seems such a
pity that so much native talent should all be lavished upon one poor
little waif like me,” Brownie said, with a little laugh.

“If I had had the number you assign me, dear, and they had all proved
the blessing to me that you have been, I fear it would have been too
much happiness for one human being; and yet——”

The old lady did not conclude her sentence, but heaved a deep sigh,
while unshed tears stood in her beautiful eyes.

“Auntie, why were you an old maid? I don’t understand it—it must have
been no one’s fault but your own.”

“My own fault, Brownie! You don’t know—child, you don’t know,” cried
Miss Mehetabel, sharply, while a deep, dry sob, that was almost a groan,
burst from her lips.

Brownie was startled at her deep emotion. She had spoken lightly, and
with no thought that she was probing an old wound.

She sprang up quickly, and seeing the fair old face above her almost
convulsed with agony, she twined her arms about her neck, saying,
remorsefully:

“Auntie, dear, forgive me! Have I touched some hidden spring of sorrow?
I would not have wounded you so for the world.”

“Dear child, would you like to read a sad page in an old woman’s
history?”

“No, dear auntie, do not talk of anything that gives you pain. Forgive
me for speaking in a way that should recall anything to distress you,”
said the young girl, sadly.

“You did not think to pain me, and I am glad now that the conversation
has taken this turn, for I would like you to know something of what my
past has been.”

“Let us wait until some other time—you are tired and ought to rest now,”
pleaded Brownie, recoiling from a revelation she believed would be
painful.

“No, Brownie, something prompts me to tell you now, and I will obey the
call. The book of my life is almost written, love, and it will do me no
harm to review it once more before it is closed forever. I have borne my
sorrow alone for forty-five years, and it seems as if it would do me
good to breathe it to some one who would give me sympathy and remember
it tenderly when I am gone.”

Brownie’s little hand fluttered down upon Miss Mehetabel’s lips, and the
tears sprang to her eyes.

“Let us not talk about it, auntie; I don’t like you to speak about going
away from me. I should be desolate without you, if I had ever so much
money,” and the bright face wore a look of pain.

Miss Douglas drew the shining head down to her, and kissed the sweet
lips.

“Well, well, so be it, though it must come sooner or later; but we will
talk no more of it now. You are very precious to me, darling, and your
love has been the only brightness of my life for the past eighteen
years,” she said softly. “Go lock the door,” she added, after a moment,
“so that we may be uninterrupted; then draw a chair beside me, and I’ll
tell you how I came to be an old maid. It may be a lesson that will do
you good.”

Brownie glided softly to the door and turned the key. Then she drew a
low rocker and seated herself beside Miss Douglas, while a feeling of
solemnity took possession of her, as she realized that a hidden page of
life was about to be turned back for her to read.




                              CHAPTER III
                            THE AUNT’S STORY


“You know who the Douglases are?” began Miss Mehetabel, bracing herself
up, with a look of pride.

“Oh, yes; you have always given me to understand that they belonged to a
very honorable race.”

“An honorable race, indeed! Why, child, they are the descendants of a
queen—a Scottish queen! Lady Margaret Douglas was the daughter of Queen
Margaret Tudor, and back to her we can trace our ancestry. Never forget
it, child—never forget that you are descended in a direct line from the
royalty of Scotland.”

Brownie did not reply to her last remark, for it was a hobby with her
proud kinswoman, and once thoroughly started on the subject, she knew
the family tree would have to be brought out, and the wearisome task of
tracing the Douglas race for three long centuries would have to be
rehearsed. So she wisely held her peace.

“Yes, the descendant of a queen!” she repeated; “and many of our
ancestors intermarried with the English nobility, so that to-day,
Brownie Douglas, there runs no better blood in any veins than in yours
and mine.

“Before I left the old country, dear, I mingled with the proudest
circles of the land. I was presented at Court, and during a brilliant
London season I was introduced to the young Lord of Dunforth, son of the
fifth Lord of Firth.

“His name was Royal—they called him Roy—and he was rightly named, for he
was fit to be a king!

“From the first hour of our meeting we loved each other, and we were
betrothed, by the consent and approval of both his friends and my own,
after an acquaintance of six months. Our marriage was to be delayed for
a year, until Roy should complete his course at Oxford, when he would
come in possession of a fine estate in Essex. We exchanged letters
frequently, and the words he penned were like a feast to my soul. I have
them now, every one, and they are all that I have left of the love, the
glorious love, which I once fondly hoped would brighten my life to its
end. In the same circle in which we moved, there was a very handsome
girl, by the name of Lady Helen Capel. She belonged to a very wealthy
and honorable family, and it was said that before Lord Dunforth was
introduced to me he used to pay some attention to her. From the very
first of my acquaintance with him she evinced an intense dislike toward
me.

“Report said that she wanted to win him for herself, and I believe in my
heart that was why she was so haughty and disagreeable whenever we met.

“Lord Dunforth finished his course at Oxford with great honor to
himself, and preparations were began for our marriage, which was
appointed to take place just before the Christmas holidays.

“One evening we attended a ball given by Helen Capel’s aunt, Lady
Ruxley.

“On entering the ballroom I had given my card to Roy to fill out such
sets as he wished for himself, and then as others were introduced to me,
they put their names in the blanks that were left.

“Soon after, Charles Capel came up with a handsome but rather
rakish-looking gentleman, whom he introduced as the Count de Lussan. Roy
had left me for a few minutes to speak to some one he knew, or what
followed never would have happened.

“The stranger immediately requested the pleasure of dancing with me, and
I innocently assented, never for a moment dreaming that any one would be
present in Lady Ruxley’s rooms with whom it would not be proper for me
to dance.

“I gave him my card, and he put his name down against a waltz, while a
peculiar smile curled his lips.

“Not many minutes after Helen Capel sauntered toward me, and sat down by
my side.

“For the first time in her life she was gracious to me, and, bearing her
no ill-will, I chatted freely with her for quite a while.

“‘Have you danced much?’ she asked, holding out her hand for my card.

“‘Several times,’ I returned, with a smile, as I gave it up to her.

“She ran her eyes hastily over the names, and I could see her scowl
every time she read Roy’s. Then, suddenly looking up, she exclaimed,
aghast:

“‘Why, Miss Douglas, will his lordship permit you to dance with the
Count de Lussan?’

“The form of the question nettled me exceedingly, and I replied,
somewhat haughtily:

“‘His lordship will permit me to dance with whomsoever I choose, Miss
Capel.’

“She laughed a silvery, wicked laugh, and fixing her bold black eyes
upon me, said, in an exasperated way:

“Pardon me, Miss Douglas, but I do not believe Lord Dunforth, who is
very arbitrary when once his will is aroused, will permit his betrothed
to dance with any one who bears the reputation which Count de Lussan
bears.’

“‘But your own brother introduced me to him, Miss Capel!’ I exclaimed,
indignantly.

“‘Charles? I’m astonished at him; but I presume the count asked him, and
he did not like to refuse. Why, he is a notorious blackleg, and how he
ever gained admission here, is more than I can tell.’

“I was startled at this intelligence, but I would not show it before
her, nor yield one iota; and looking up at that moment, I saw Lord
Dunforth and Count de Lussan both approaching me.

“Miss Capel remained by my side, evidently desirous of seeing the little
game played out.

“The count reached me first, and bowing low, offered me his arm, saying
his turn had come.

“I glanced nervously into my lover’s face as I hesitatingly took the
count’s arm, fearing that all was not right, and my heart stood still,
as I noted its expression of blank dismay and stern displeasure.

“He hastened forward, and taking my card, hastily scanned the names upon
it, and his brow grew dark with wrath, as he read Count de Lussan’s
against a waltz.

“Bowing haughtily to my companion, he said, with compressed lips:

“‘Excuse me, but I must ask you to release this lady from her promise to
dance with you.’

“The count’s eyes flashed fire, and his face grew crimson, as he
answered, coldly:

“‘I cannot do so, my lord, except at the lady’s own request.’

“‘She does request it through me—by my desire,’ replied Lord Dunforth,
sternly.

“‘Miss Douglas, do you command me to release you?’ asked the count,
turning to me with that same disagreeable smile upon his lips that I had
seen there when he had written his name against the waltz.

“‘Tell him yes, Meta. I cannot allow it, and will give you my reasons
the first opportunity,’ whispered my lover, in pleading tones, in my
ear.

“I was on the point of yielding. Oh, why was I so blind that I did not?
I had half withdrawn my hand from the count’s arm, when I heard a low,
mocking laugh near by.

“Glancing up, I saw Helen Capel watching every motion, catching every
word and tone, a smile of mocking triumph on her handsome face.

“In an instant I remembered my boast to her, that ‘Lord Dunforth would
permit me to dance with whomsoever I chose,’ and in that fatal moment I
resolved to show her my power over him; that I had a will of my own.

“Lifting my head a trifle haughtily, I said:

“‘My lord, I have promised Count de Lussan that I will waltz with him,
and I cannot break my word.’

“‘Meta, Meta, don’t do it!’ he begged, in a whisper.

“‘I must,’ I answered, coldly.

“‘I command you not!’ he said, in a tone which the count caught, and
curled his lip in scorn.

“I bowed coldly, all the antagonism in my nature aroused by his command,
then turning to my companion, I said:

“‘The music is inspiriting, count. I am ready,’ and encircling my waist
with his arm, he whirled me into the midst of the giddy dancers.

“I had always loved to waltz; but, oh! how I have hated it since then.
And this is the reason, dear, why I would never allow you to learn. It
is not decent for young girls to be encircled in the arms of men of whom
they know nothing.

“As we waltzed I became aware of strange, surprised glances following
us; whispered words of censure greeted my ears, and a tremor of
uneasiness took possession of me, which merged into absolute terror when
I reached the spot where Lord Dunforth still stood.

“He was like a piece of statuary, his noble brow overcast, and his fine
lips white and set as if in pain.

“Count de Lussan released me, thanking me for the great pleasure I had
given him, and then moved away.

“My lover did not speak one word to me until the music struck up again,
and the attention of the people around us was attracted in other
directions.

“‘Will you oblige me by withdrawing from the company?’ he asked then.

“I arose at once and took his arm.

“‘Oh, Roy, what have I done?’ I exclaimed, in deep distress at his
coldness, my heart thrilling with a terrible pain.

“‘You have disgraced yourself and me—the Count de Lussan is the lowest
blackleg in London.’

“I lifted my eyes and searched my lover’s face after those, to me, words
of doom. It was as inflexible as marble, not a gleam of love, kindness,
or forgiveness. He was like a stern judge pronouncing sentence upon me,
and the thought burst like lightning upon me, searing my very soul.

“I had lost him forever! and throwing out my hands toward him, I sank
with a low moan of agony at his feet before he could even put forth an
arm to save me.”




                               CHAPTER IV
                          THE LEGACY OF JEWELS


“In falling my head struck against the base of a pillar, cutting a
severe gash in my forehead, which, with the blow, nearly cost me my
life—there is the scar now, dear.”

The old lady lifted the silvery hair from her forehead, revealing a
white seam about an inch in length.

Brownie reached over and pressed her red lips upon it. The act nearly
unnerved Miss Mehetabel again.

“I was taken to a room in the house,” she went on, “put to bed, and a
physician sent for, but it was hours before I recovered consciousness,
and the doctor said I had had a marvelous escape.

“I lay for days listening, trying to catch the echo of Roy’s footsteps,
and once or twice I fancied I heard it, and the deep, rich tones of his
voice, asking some eager question. Then the sound would die away, and I
thought my ears and my longing heart had deceived me, for he never came,
and I was too proud and hurt to send for him.

“At last one day my maid brought me in a little note.

“I saw and recognized the handwriting as soon as she opened the door.

“‘Give it to me, quick!’ I cried, my heart bounding at the sight of it.

“With trembling fingers I tore it open and read these cold, formal
words:


“‘Will Miss Douglas kindly favor me with an interview, if she is strong
enough to endure it? and oblige,

                                                      “‘ROYAL DUNFORTH.’


“I nearly shrieked at the icy words—my nerves were still unstrung, and
they hurt me as nothing else had ever done before.

“Was he coming to blame me—to charge me with the disgrace I had brought
upon him and myself, and then cast me off forever? Had I sinned past all
forgiveness? I asked myself again and again.

“I seized a pencil and wrote:


“‘Yes, come at once, if you can forgive your repentant

                                                                “‘META.’


“I folded and enclosed it in an envelope, without sealing it, and giving
it to a maid, told her to carry it down to Lord Dunforth, who, she said,
was awaiting an answer.

“I did wrong to send him a written reply. I ought to have gone to him,
even if I had been obliged to crawl upon my hands and knees to do so;
but I was weak—I had not yet left my room, was able only to sit up for
an hour or two at a time, and I thought, of course, he could come to me.
I never dreamed of treachery.”

“Treachery, auntie!” exclaimed Brownie, who was intensely interested in
the sad tale.

“Ah, treachery, child, as you will soon see, and I might have known it,
too, had my wits been about me.

“The maid came back almost immediately.

“I looked up in surprise as she entered.

“‘Why are you back so soon?’ I demanded.

“‘I met Miss Helen on the stairs,’ she answered, ‘and she told me Lord
Dunforth was in the drawing-room, and she would take the note to him.’”

“I could not say anything, but I did not like it even then; I did not
like Helen Capel to be the bearer of any message from me to my lover. I
liked her far less since the ball than I had ever done before, for I
believed she had tried to make all this trouble for me. I had refused to
see her during my sickness, although she had called a number of times,
and had also sent me beautiful flowers.

“I lay two hours, listening for my loved one’s tread on the stairs. I
had not a doubt but that he would obey my message and come to me. But at
last I heard gay voices in the hall, then his deep, rich tones gravely
saying ‘good-morning’ to some one, after which came the sound of closing
doors, and I knew he had gone.

“With a heart like lead, I bade the maid go down and ask Miss Capel if
she had given Lord Dunforth my message.

“She came back, saying that Miss Capel said, ‘Certainly, she had given
his lordship the message.’

“Then it came to me that I had made a condition in my note—I had said if
he could forgive me, to come to me.

“He could not forgive me, therefore he would not come, and, without even
a word of farewell, he had left me forever.

“I cannot tell all that I suffered, Brownie. I know I raved against the
injustice of Heaven in permitting such sorrow to come upon me, and in
shutting out the light of my life from me. I cursed Helen Capel, her
brother, and the Count de Lussan for their part in the drama; but most
of all, I cursed myself for having allowed myself to become their dupe.

“I insisted at once upon returning to my own home, where I was again
prostrated, and for another long month lay sick and weak, and praying to
die; and thus my wedding day passed. Oh, who can tell the blackness of
despair which came over me as that day came and went. I was to have been
a happy wife, proud and blessed in the love of a noble man. Instead, I
was a heart-broken girl, wailing out my life in loneliness. A homeless
beggar in the street was not more wretched than I.

“Another month went by, and I was at length thought able to ride out;
and one day my father took me out to Richmond Park, where we spent an
hour or two driving about.

“On our return, when about two miles from the city, I saw Lord
Dunforth’s elegant carriage, with its span of black horses, approaching.
He was driving himself, and a lady whom I did not know sat by his side.

“With my brain on fire, and my heart quivering with pain, I sat like a
statue, watching his every movement, noting his every expression.

“He gave a sudden start, which I could see shook his whole frame, while
an expression of pain passed over his features. His face grew pale as my
own, and he leaned forward with an eager look in his eyes, as if about
to speak. Oh, if I had only smiled, if I had but spoken one word, all
would have been well even then; but I did not, and drawing himself erect
again, he inclined his head with haughty grace, and was gone.

“Many times I longed to write him a line, begging him to come to me, if
only for an hour, that I might hear him say he forgave me; many times I
had the pen in my hand to do so, but pride whispered, ‘you are sick and
feeble, it is his place to come to you, not yours to beg his presence;’
and so we, who to-day might have been united and loving, were parted
forever.

“My parents decided soon after to take me abroad, as the physician said
my health would never improve unless I had some change, and we set sail
for the United States early in May.

“In July, after our arrival here, they both sickened and died very
suddenly, and I was left alone a stranger in a strange country.

“I could not return to England, where I had suffered and lost so much,
and I could not remain here alone. Accordingly, I wrote to my brother,
begging him to take his family and come to me. I had often heard him say
he would like to live in America. I commissioned him to settle the
estate, as far as I was concerned, to the best of his ability, and bring
me the proceeds when he came.

“To my great comfort, he consented to my request, and in October arrived
in New York with his wife and child—their son, who was your father,
Brownie.

“We decided to make our home in this city, having spent some time in
traveling, and finding no other place we liked so well; and here they
lived until God called them, and here I have lived ever since.

“Five years after our arrival we heard that Lord Dunforth had married
Helen Capel’s cousin, Lady Leonie Herford, and just three months later I
learned that but for Miss Capel’s treachery I might have been his wife.”

“Oh, auntie! only just three months after his marriage!” exclaimed
Brownie, in deep distress.

“Yes, dear, those three months were all that stood between me and my
future happiness; but what matters it if it had been but a day, or an
hour even, if it were that much too late?

“I found out that Miss Capel never gave that note of mine to Lord
Dunforth, but told him instead that I utterly refused to see him then
and ever after.

“When he met me driving afterward, and I did not even recognize him, but
sat so cold and indifferent, he was confirmed in the truth of her
statement. I was told that it was a terrible blow to him, for he loved
me, and would have made me his wife notwithstanding all that had passed.
He left England almost immediately after we sailed for America, and did
not return until a year before his marriage.”

“Who told you all this, auntie?”

“A friend of his lordship told my brother, who met him while he was
traveling in this country. He did not know the truth of the matter
regarding the note I sent, until brother told him, and I do not suppose
Lord Dunforth knows to this day of Helen Capel’s treachery, or that she
was the cause of our separation.

“Now, darling,” concluded Miss Mehetabel, with a little tremulous smile
which was sadder than tears, “you know the reason why I am an old maid.”

“Did Miss Capel ever marry?” Brownie asked.

“Yes, the year following Lord Dunforth’s marriage; but I have forgotten
the name of her husband.”

“If you had discovered her treachery before his marriage would you have
sought a reconciliation?”

“Certainly, dear, for I know that he loved me with a love as true and
strong as my own for him, and this makes me think to caution you, never
to let pride stand in the way of your happiness. If I had hushed the
voice of pride, and written his lordship to come to me, when I so longed
to do so, all would have been well even then.”

“I should like to have known Lord Dunforth, auntie—I mean I should like
to see the man whom you would choose,” the young girl said, musingly,
and not heeding the advice just given.

In after months she remembered it.

A look of keen pain swept over the old lady’s face, but she had fully
recovered her self-possession now.

“Go and bring me a little ebony box, dear, which you will find in the
third drawer of my dressing-case,” she said.

Brownie arose to obey, and soon returned, bringing a beautiful casket
about twelve inches square and eight deep. It was inlaid with pearl and
gold, in lovely designs, and was quite heavy for anything so small.

Miss Mehetabel took a delicate chain from her neck, to which was
attached a tiny golden key.

Her hand shook as with the palsy, as she inserted the key in its lock.

“This has not been opened for forty years, my child, and I feel as if I
were about to look upon the dead,” she said, in a voice that shook,
despite her efforts to control it.

“Don’t open it now, then, Aunt Meta. I cannot bear you to live over this
sorrow for me,” Brownie answered, a feeling of awe stealing over her at
Miss Mehetabel’s words.

“I will look once more before I die, dear, and I wish to tell you about
these things, which are to be yours when I am gone.”

She turned the key as she spoke, and lifted the jeweled cover, and
Brownie uttered a cry of delight at the sight which greeted her eyes.

There, upon their blue velvet bed, gleamed such jewels as she had never
seen before.

In the center lay a beautiful diamond necklace, with ear-pendants to
match. Then there was a coral and diamond cross, with a hair ornament,
in the shape of a butterfly, to match. A tiara composed of pearls,
opals, and diamonds, with a cross for the neck. Rings of pearls, rubies,
sapphires, and emeralds; one, a large pearl, surrounded by six small,
pure diamonds, Miss Mehetabel took up tenderly in her hand.

“This,” she said, while her lips quivered, “Lord Dunforth put upon my
finger when he told me of his love. It has never been there since that
day, when I believed he went away from me forever of his own accord.
These other jewels were given me in honor of my approaching marriage,
but I have never worn any of them, excepting this coral and diamond
cross which Royal gave me, and which I wore to that ball, where I lost
everything dear in life. I have no use for them, and henceforth they are
all yours, dear, to do as you like with—if ever you feel that you can
wear them for my sake, I wish you to do so.”

“Oh, auntie, they seem too precious for me to wear; they seem like
something sacred to me,” the young girl said, reverently, while her eyes
lingered upon their beauty.

“Then you will prize them all the more, dear, and I am glad that it is
so—you will never wear them lightly, and they will never grow valueless
to you. You have the cuff buttons already which Lord Dunforth gave me
the same time with the coral cross.”

“Are those—did you give them to me?” stammered Brownie, feeling that she
had almost been sacrilegious in wearing anything so precious, and not
know it.

“Yes, dear, they were the only articles of his giving which I ever
permitted myself to wear, and then only a few times. So, feeling that
they ought to do somebody some good, I had them marked for you for your
last birthday.”

“I shall never wear them again without feeling that they are tenfold
more precious than ever before,” the young girl said, with starting
tears.

She little knew that even then one of them was lost. She had removed her
linen ulster upon returning home, and left her cuffs hanging in it.

Miss Mehetabel now lifted the velvet bed, and laid it with all its
glittering wealth upon the table near which she sat. Beneath it lay a
locket of blue enamel and gold, studded with diamonds; a little bunch of
dried flowers, a crumpled card, and a pair of soiled white kid gloves.

“These,” Miss Mehetabel said, touching the flowers, “I wore in my hair
that night, fastened with the butterfly; and these are the gloves—they
bear the last touch of his hand. This is the card on which the Count de
Lussan wrote his name.”

She took up the locket with a tender touch.

“This contains the face of the one man on earth to me. Open it, dear—I
cannot.”

Brownie took it, the great tears rolling over her flushed cheeks. It
seemed so inexpressibly sad, and as if she, too, were about to look upon
the face of the dead.

She pressed the spring and it flew open. From one side of it there gazed
up at her the dark, noble face of a man about twenty-five years of age.

The fair girl gazed upon it for several moments in silence, then heaving
a deep sigh, she said, softly:

“He was grand, auntie!”

“Put it away,” said Miss Mehetabel, with white lips, “and when I am dead
come and get this chain and key, and wear it around your own neck as
long as you live.”

Little did that fond old lady dream of the pain and shame which that
legacy of jewels would bring upon the fair girl whom she so loved.




                               CHAPTER V
                            STAKED AND LOST


That night Miss Mehetabel died suddenly of heart disease.

How the next few days passed Brownie never knew, but it was all over at
last.

There were no near relatives, only some distant cousins, and these,
knowing they had no claim upon the old lady’s money, did not deem it
worth their while to come to the funeral. So Brownie and Aspasia, who
had proved herself a real comfort in these days of trial, sat alone,
excepting the servants and a few intimate acquaintances, in those great
somber rooms, while those last sad words were spoken above the dead.

And then they carried her forth to her last long home, and laid her
beside those other dear ones, who had been gone so many years.

It seemed to Brownie as if she were almost the only one living—as if all
the world had died and were buried, when she returned to that great
house in all its lonely splendor.

“Oh, Aspasia,” she cried, throwing herself into Miss Huntington’s arms,
with her first wild burst of tears, “What shall I do? I have nobody in
the world now to love me.”

“Don’t talk so, darling,” she said, her own tears flowing in sympathy.
“I love you better than any one else in the world, and I will never
forsake you.”

She little knew how soon her words would be put to the test.

“I know you love me, dear, but you cannot stay with me; you will soon go
home, where you have a fond father and mother, brothers and sisters,
while I have no one. I have no object in life, Aspasia, now that auntie
is gone,” and again the torrent of grief rushed forth.

Miss Huntington made her lie down, and soothed her as she would a child.
With her own dainty hands she removed her boots, brought a soft pair of
slippers and put them on, then bathed her head, and worked over her
until she grew calm again.

Their conversation was interrupted by a servant coming to tell them that
Miss Douglas’ presence was required in the library to listen to the
reading of the will. The summons made the poor girl’s grief burst forth
afresh.

“Oh, auntie, auntie!” she sobbed, “your money will be nothing to me
without you—gold without love is worthless.”

“You will go down with me, Aspasia,” she said, holding out her hand to
her friend as she arose to obey the request.

“Certainly, dear, if you wish,” was the kind reply, and the two friends
descended to the library, to find Miss Mehetabel’s lawyer, the family
doctor, and clergyman awaiting their appearance.

Brownie greeted them with a graceful inclination of her head, then
seated herself to await their business.

Rev. Mr. Ashley approached and took her hand.

“My dear Miss Douglas,” he said, and his voice shook with sympathy as he
looked into her sad face, “it was your aunt’s request that her will be
read immediately after the funeral ceremonies, and as our good friend,
the doctor, and myself were witnesses to that document, we were invited
to be present at the reading of it.”

Brownie bowed. She could not speak, for the tears were choking her so.

What was wealth to her in her lonely condition.

She knew everything was willed to her, for Miss Mehetabel had told her
so, but her generous little heart recoiled from having so much, when
there was no one but herself on whom to lavish it.

Mr. Ashley retired to a seat, and signified to Mr. Conrad, the lawyer,
that they were ready to listen.

He took up the legal-looking document from the table, near which he was
sitting, and began to read.

Everything, as she had expected, was given to Brownie, excepting a
legacy of five hundred dollars to each of the trusty servants, who had
been with her so many years.

All the plate, the house, with its elegant furnishings, the stable, with
its fine horses and carriages, were hers, and she privileged to choose
whom she liked to manage her affairs in the future.

There was a long silence after the lawyer ceased reading.

Brownie sat listless, and gazing absently out of the window, and feeling
so strange and lonely, as if some great burden had suddenly fallen upon
her.

“Ahem! ah—Miss Douglas—will you kindly give me your attention for a few
moments?” asked Mr. Conrad, breaking in upon her reverie, and speaking
with great embarrassment.

She started violently.

“Yes, sir; I beg your pardon for seeming inattentive,” she said, and the
color leaped into her face for a moment.

She waited a few moments, but he seemed suddenly to have become as
absent-minded as she had been.

She glanced at him, and was amazed at his appearance, while the doctor
and Mr. Ashley exchanged wondering glances.

Mr. Conrad was an elderly man of about sixty; his hair was gray, and his
face was wrinkled, but it was a noble face withal.

At this moment it seemed to be convulsed with pain.

His lips were drawn into a tight line across his teeth, and were almost
livid, while the cords stood out hard and knotted upon his forehead, and
the hand which held the will trembled visibly.

Brownie forgot herself instantly when she saw his evident suffering.

“Mr. Conrad, are you ill? Let me call Jones to get you something,” she
exclaimed, half rising to ring the bell.

“No, Miss Douglas, keep your seat. My illness is of the mind, not of the
body,” he replied, in tones of deepest pain.

Then, quickly rising, he went over and stood before her, with bowed
head, and hands clinched, as if he were struggling with some terrible
emotion.

“Miss Brownie,” he continued, speaking very gently and humbly, “I have a
very humiliating confession to make. I pray you, when you have heard it,
to judge me as kindly as you can, and whatever you do with me to meet
the claims of justice, if you will only say on your own part that you
forgive an old man, it will take the heaviest burden of my life from my
heart.”

She could not understand what this proud, self-reliant man, who for many
years had had charge of all her aunt’s affairs, could mean by speaking
in this humble, broken way to her.

“You wonder at my words,” he went on, “and yet you look trustingly upon
me; but it will not be quite so when I tell you that I have betrayed
that trust.”

“Betrayed my trust!” she repeated.

“Yes, betrayed your trust, betrayed your aunt’s trust, and played the
villain of the deepest dye. Miss Douglas, I have made a beggar of you!”

“Conrad, man, are you mad?” exclaimed Dr. Sargeant.

“Surely, my friend, you do not mean anything so bad as you have stated,”
said the kind-hearted clergyman, in grave tones.

“A beggar!” cried Miss Huntington, she alone taking in the full sense of
the word, and appalled at her friend’s calamity.

“Did you understand me, Miss Douglas?” asked Mr. Conrad, somewhat
impatiently, and wondering at her apathy, while he did not heed the
questions of the others.

“Yes; you said I—I should not have my property,” she replied, avoiding
the harsh words he had used.

“Heavens! how indifferent you are: I said I had made you a beggar. Not a
pauper in the streets has less than you will have when the debts are all
paid,” he cried, sinking into a chair by her side, the sweat rolling off
his face.

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean,” Brownie said, arousing herself when
she saw how distressed he appeared, then added: “But please, Mr. Conrad,
do not look so—do not feel so badly about it. I know auntie trusted you
fully, and I am sure it was something you could not help; I dare say, I
shall not mind it so very much when I get used to it,” she concluded,
gently.

The stricken lawyer groaned aloud. He had been prepared for tears, and
sobs, and censure; and here the noble girl was forgetting all her own
wrong, and striving to comfort him for his share in it.

“Dear Mr. Conrad, will you please explain this disagreeable affair to
me? I see it is troubling you very much. I do not understand much about
business, but I will listen attentively, and try to comprehend,” she
said, gently.

“God bless you, dear child, for your goodness to me,” he said, taking
her hand in one of his, while he wiped his moist brow with the other. “I
do not deserve it from you. Yes, I will explain at once, and have this
dreadful burden off my mind; it has nearly crushed me for years. You
know, dear, that I have had the care of your aunt’s property for the
last forty years—in fact, nearly ever since she came to this city to
live.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, for thirty years I was faithful to my trust. Had any one told me
then that to-day I should be a thief, I would have felled him to the
ground and spurned him with my foot. Ten years ago a dear friend of mine
died, leaving his only child in my care, together with a property of
fifty thousand dollars. I invested it in what I believed to be a sound
concern, but in less than a year it failed, and my friend’s child was
penniless.”

“How sorry I am,” was Brownie’s simple comment, and deeply impressed in
the lawyer’s tale.

He smiled bitterly, but clasping her hand more firmly, went on:

“I then did something which was not right, but which I thought must
succeed, and everything would be all right again. I felt that I was
entirely to blame for the loss of my ward’s property, and that I was in
duty bound to replace it. I had no ready funds of my own, but I knew
that your aunt, with her vast wealth, would not miss fifty thousand
dollars for a little while, and I resolved to use it—speculate in what
promised to be a very successful operation, hoping thus to win back a
portion at least of what I had lost for my ward. I staked it and lost!”

“Ah!” ejaculated the clergyman, with a sorrowful shake of the head.

“Whew!” whistled the doctor.

“Horrid man!” breathed Miss Huntington, under her breath.

But Brownie only nestled a step nearer the poor man’s side.

“Driven desperate by this unfortunate circumstance,” he went on, with a
deep sigh, “I grew reckless, and invested a hundred thousand more of
Miss Douglas’ money, but again I lost. Then a bank where I had deposited
a very large amount of her funds suddenly suspended payment; but hoping
that all would come out right by and by, I kept all knowledge of the
difficulty from her. You know that the old lady loved the good things of
this life, and was not at all careful of the dollars; and she need not
have been, had I been faithful. But I continued to speculate with what
ready money I could get hold of, and, with her annual expenditure, her
thousands have melted into hundreds; and to-day, when she thought you
would inherit at least a million, I have to tell you, that if I pay the
debts and the legacies to the servants, there will not remain sufficient
to feed you for a year. I, who always prided myself upon my integrity
and my incorruptibility, have forfeited my character for probity and
honesty, and stand here before you a criminal worthy to suffer the
extent of the law.”

He paused for a moment, but as no one spoke, he continued:

“This is my confession; and now I surrender myself into your hands, to
do with me as you will. I had no right whatever to touch a penny of your
aunt’s money. I was deeply distressed at the loss of my ward’s property,
but I ought to have stopped there. However, having once failed of
success in using Miss Douglas’ money, I kept on, hoping, in my
desperation, that some favorable turn in fortune’s wheel would enable me
to replace everything.”

There was an awkward silence when the old man concluded.

Dr. Sargeant and Mr. Ashley were horror-struck at the revelation.

It had been deeply humiliating to the old and respected lawyer to make
this confession in the presence of these witnesses, but the time had
come when the state of affairs could no longer be concealed. The
property was all gone, and Miss Douglas’ death necessitated a settlement
of some kind, and it would have to come out that her niece and reputed
heiress was penniless. The house and everything would have to be sold to
pay the outstanding debts, and she who had been cradled in the lap of
luxury from her earliest infancy, must now go forth into the cold world,
to buffet with its storms and bitterness alone.

Brownie’s face was very grave as he concluded, and all but the lawyer
were watching her anxiously, to see how she would bear the news.

She began already to realize the care that had thus suddenly fallen upon
her. She knew that henceforth she must work with her hands for the bread
which she ate; and during the lawyer’s story she had changed from the
gay and light-hearted girl to the grave and thoughtful woman. But still
her first thought was for others.

“I am so glad auntie did not know of this be—before she died,” she said,
her lips quivering as she uttered those last words.

Mr. Conrad looked up with an expression of bewilderment.

“It would have made her so unhappy, you know, on my account,” Brownie
explained.

“What will you do with me?” he asked, wearily.

“What will I do with you, Mr. Conrad? I do not think I clearly
understand what you mean,” she answered, with a troubled expression on
her sweet face.

“You know that the law takes care of people who do as I have done. The
crime of embezzlement is no light one.”

“Oh, dear Mr. Conrad, do not speak so! You meant to commit no crime; you
only wished to right some one else’s wrong. It was not, perhaps, just
the right thing to do without auntie’s knowledge, but I can do nothing
with you only——”

“Only?” the lawyer asked, raising his haggard face, and eagerly reading
the lovely flushed one at his side.

“Only to be very, very sorry for you, my friend,” she said, softly, and
with a little quivering smile.

Mr. Conrad looked upon her as if she had been an angel—wonder,
reverence, awe, all expressed upon his countenance. Then, with a deep
groan, the strong man bowed his head and wept the bitterest tears he had
ever shed in his life.

He could have borne to hear the felon’s doom pronounced upon him with
the face of a Stoic; but this sublime pity and forgiveness caused him to
forget his manhood, and made a child of him.




                               CHAPTER VI
                        LOVE HAD CONQUERED PRIDE


Dr. Sargeant now came forward, saying:

“Miss Douglas, do you realize how serious this matter is? Have you
considered what your position will be in the world henceforth?”

He did not like to have the lawyer escape so easily.

“I realize, doctor, that I am no longer an heiress to great wealth, as
every one has thus far supposed—that there is no longer a life of
idleness and pleasure for me. On the contrary, I must go out into the
world and work for my living,” Brownie replied, lifting her grave eyes
to the doctor’s face, while there was a touch of dignity in her manner
which he had never seen before.

“Mr. Conrad,” he said, turning to the lawyer, “this is a very grave
matter. How do your own affairs stand?”

“Much the same as Miss Douglas’. I have nothing in the world except what
I earn from day to day. If I had money of my own, do you suppose I would
have touched any one else’s?” he asked, a flash of indignation kindling
his eyes, and his fine form for a moment becoming erect.

“Pardon me. No. But who is this ward of yours?”

“Miss Emily Eliot.”

“Where is she now?”

“In my own family. She has never known of her loss; I have provided for
her every need and want by the labor of my own hands. I never intend
that she shall know of it while I live—if I am taken away it will have
to come out.

“And, Miss Douglas,” turning eagerly to Brownie, “if you do not utterly
hate me for the trouble which I have brought upon you, will you, too,
come to my home and let me provide the comforts of life for you? I can
easily do that; I have no one but my wife and Miss Elliot, and my
business will give me enough to support you all comfortably.”

“It is well thought of, Mr. Conrad,” said Mr. Ashley, approvingly.

“Oh, Mr. Ashley, and you, doctor, you can never know the suffering which
this thing has brought upon me,” Mr. Conrad continued, rising, and
pacing the floor nervously. “I thought I was an honorable man—I am an
honorable man at heart now, but my zeal to do well by my friend’s child,
my zeal that no one should suffer who had placed their interests in my
keeping, has led me to commit a wrong for which I can never atone. Had
it not been that others were dependent upon me, my life would have paid
the forfeit years ago.

“If that bank only had not suspended payment, Miss Douglas might still
have had a competence; but everything has seemed to be against me. But,
Miss Brownie,” he added, turning again to the sorrowful girl, “you have
not yet answered my question. Will you come to me and let me take care
of you?”

“No, dear friend; you have enough upon your mind and heart now, and I
cannot add to your burdens.”

“It will not. I pray you, give me the satisfaction of doing this much
toward averting the consequences of my wrong,” he pleaded, earnestly.

“My dear,” interposed the clergyman, impressively, “I advise you, by all
means, to accept Mr. Conrad’s hospitality and protection. You are very
young, and not at all fitted to do battle with the world. It will never
do for you to try and support yourself; you are entirely ignorant of the
ways of the world.”

“Mr. Ashley, there are hundreds, yes, thousands, as young, and even more
delicate than I, who not only support themselves, but assist in
maintaining their father and mother, brothers and sisters,” returned
Brownie. “I do not claim to be of finer clay than my unfortunate
sisters.”

“But they have been brought up to it,” interposed Mr. Conrad.

“Some of them have, and some have not. God has given me health; and,
thanks to my aunt, who took infinite pains with me, I have an excellent
education; and, gentlemen, I really feel competent to take care of
myself,” the young girl returned, proudly, yet with a more cheerful look
than she had worn since Miss Mehetabel’s death.

In vain they pleaded and urged, both the clergyman and the doctor
offering her a home with them, if she would not go with Mr. Conrad. She
remained firm, and they were filled with admiration at the strength of
character which she displayed.

“I will try for a while,” she said, seeing how bitterly disappointed Mr.
Conrad was; “and if I fail, I shall know where to come for a home.”

“You are not strong, you will break down under it,” he said, gloomily.

“I think not,” was the cheerful response. “I have always sympathized
with these poor girls, and now I shall know, by actual experience, what
their life is.”

“What will you do?” the lawyer asked, while great tears rolled down his
wrinkled cheeks.

“I do not know yet; I shall have to consider that point a while.”

Then, after a few minutes’ thought, and pitying his distress, she added:

“At all events, whatever I undertake, if I fail, I promise you I will
not refuse the home you offer me; and if I need a friend I shall always
know where to find him.”

She held out her hand to him with a sweet, winning smile, and again the
strong man broke down, weeping like a child, and there was not a dry eye
in the room excepting her own.

“What a foolish set we are!” exclaimed the doctor, after a vigorous
blowing of the nose. “This young lady shames us all. Succeed? Of course,
she’ll succeed, and I say God bless her—she is an honor to the name
which she bears.”

After a few more remarks the gentlemen took their departure, and the two
girls were once more alone.

“Brownie Douglas, you surely did not mean what you told Mr. Conrad!”
exclaimed Aspasia Huntington, the moment the door closed after them.

“I told him quite a number of things; to what in particular do you
refer?”

“Why, working for your living, to be sure.”

“Certainly, I meant it; there remains nothing else for me to do.”

“But Mr. Conrad offered to relieve you from all anxiety about your
future. Why did you not accept his offer?”

“I will never be dependent upon any one but myself,” Brownie said,
haughtily.

“But you will lose caste.”

“Perhaps; but I shall not lose my character nor my self-respect,” was
the very quiet though cold reply.

“Your friends will forsake you.”

“They are not worthy the name, then, nor a regret,” and the delicate red
lips curled with infinite scorn, yet there was the faintest perceptible
quiver upon them, and a wistful look in the dark, beautiful eyes.

Would Aspasia go with the rest?

“Do you not care if you lose them?” Aspasia asked eagerly.

“I have had many kind and dear ones, but if they have loved my
prospective fortune more than they have loved me, the sooner I find it
out the better. At all events, this calamity, if it can be so termed,
will show me the true and the false.”

“And you will not feel degraded to go out and earn your pittance,
perhaps a dollar a day, with your own hands?”

“No. My hands may grow hard and rough with the toil, but my heart will
be the same.”

“Brownie Douglas, you are a splendid girl, and I love you a thousand
times more at this moment than I ever did in my life before. I am
prouder of you as a friend, prouder of you without a penny to-day, than
I was yesterday when I thought you worth a million!” exclaimed Miss
Huntington, impulsively, as she threw her arms around her friend and
embraced her fervently.

This broke Brownie down completely, and she sobbed wildly for a few
minutes.

“Dear, Asia,” she said, at length, wiping her tears, “I thought surely,
when you were talking about caste and the degradation of toil you were
speaking your own thoughts. We have loved each other so well, that the
idea of losing your friendship was very painful to me.”

“Forgive me if I for the moment pained you. I have read of people being
above such feelings upon the loss of all their earthly goods, but I
never believed it, and I was testing you. I truly prize you more in your
misfortune than I ever did before. You have taught me a lesson to-day
which I shall not soon forget. Your example toward the poor and
unfortunate has always troubled my conscience, and henceforth I shall
shorten my trains and extend my charities.”

“I am glad to hear you say this, Asia, for you have the means at your
command to do great good,” replied Brownie, her face now radiant at this
proof of true friendship.

“Well, but I’m afraid the lesson will not be lasting if you do not
follow it up with others, and so, my darling, I am going to propose that
you go home to stay with me. No, you needn’t refuse,” she continued,
putting her hand playfully over Brownie’s lips, “on the score of being
dependent, for you know papa has plenty, and would never feel it in the
world. He would be delighted, for he has always admired you intensely.”

“Aspasia, I know it will hurt you deeply to have me refuse this
kindness, but indeed it cannot be, dear. My mind has been made up from
the first to earn my bread ‘by the sweat of my brow,’ and nothing can
change it,” Brownie answered, decidedly.

“But if he desires you to come as a companion and a help to me?” urged
Aspasia, earnestly.

Brownie laughed aloud at the idea, in spite of her sadness.

“A companion, Aspasia, when your home is already full!”

“Well, but you know Jennie is soon to be married, and Lina needs some
one to look after her French and music. You would be just the one, and
we would have such delightful times together.”

“It would be all a mere form. I know I should not be received or treated
as a governess or companion in your father’s house, and I should live a
life of idleness and pleasure as much as heretofore. No; I have said I
will work, and work I will! And if my friends prove themselves as true
as you have, I shall only be so much happier,” was the firm reply.




                              CHAPTER VII
                         EARNING HER OWN LIVING


It soon became noised abroad that Miss Meta Douglas, the heiress, was no
more than any other common mortal, since her wealth had taken to itself
wings and flown away.

It seemed as if her heart must break, when, as the last day before the
sale came, she went from room to room to take a farewell view of
everything, and gather up the few precious treasures which Mr. Conrad
had told her she was at liberty to take. Aspasia had insisted upon
remaining with her until everything was over, and donning a simple
calico dress, minus either ruffle or train, she superintended with her
own fair hands the packing of valuable books, statuettes, bronzes, and
ornaments, which she knew were so dear to Brownie’s tender heart.

And when, at length, the last day arrived, early in the morning, before
even the servants were astir, she had slipped downstairs, and, moving
noiselessly from room to room, had tucked a card bearing the words
“sold” upon several of the finest paintings, which she knew Miss
Mehetabel had highly prized, from the fact of their having been brought
over from the old country.

Her father had given her permission and _carte blanche_ to perform this
delicate service for her friend.

But it was all over at last.

Everything was sold, and the house was left bare and desolate.

Aspasia had gone, and Brownie was alone.

The debts were all paid, also the bequests to the servants, which
Brownie had insisted upon, although strongly urged to invest the money
for herself.

Mr. Conrad was obliged to do her bidding, and then, with a sigh of
despair, placed two hundred dollars, all that remained of a fortune of a
million, in her little hands.

“Why, I feel quite rich!” she exclaimed, merrily, as, after counting it
over, she looked up and saw his quivering lip.

With a mighty effort he swallowed the sobs which nearly broke forth, and
managed to say:

“Now, my dear child, you will come home with me for a while. Mrs. Conrad
desires it, and Emily is lonely.”

“Thank you, dear Mr. Conrad, I cannot, as I have promised to be in New
York to-morrow morning,” she answered, with an air of business which
would have amused him had not his heart been so full.

“In New York to-morrow morning!” he ejaculated in astonishment.

“Yes, I have an engagement there.”

“An engagement? May I ask of what nature?” and he felt hurt that she had
not consulted him regarding her movements for the future.

“Certainly. I saw an advertisement a week ago for one hundred girls to
work on fancy straws. I have always been bewitched over fancy-straw
work, so I wrote, asking for a situation.”

“But you have no friends there, and where will you make your home?” he
asked, in dismay, yet admiring the resolution expressed in her bright
eye and flushed face.

“There is a boarding-house connected with the establishment for the
accommodation of those who work in the factory, and I shall board there
for the present.”

And thus it ended as Brownie decreed. He bade her farewell as she took
her seat in the train that was to bear her away, feeling worse than any
condemned criminal who had been sentenced to hard labor for life, for
she must go forth unprotected into the world to earn the bread she ate,
and he was utterly powerless to prevent it.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Never was there a more lonely or heart-sick girl than Brownie Douglas
when she entered the office of Ware & Coolidge the next morning, and
presented her card, and the letter she had received from them engaging
her to come into their employ.

“Do you wish to see any one, miss?” asked a clerk, as she entered the
office, and bestowing a bold stare of admiration upon her lovely face.

“I wish to see Mr. Coolidge, if you please,” Brownie answered, with cold
dignity, yet a hot flush arose to her cheek at his look and manner.

“Ah, yes, certainly. Walk this way,” and the dandy led her into an inner
office, where a man of about forty-five sat reading his paper.

“Mr. Coolidge, a young lady to see you, sir,” the young man said, and,
with another insolent stare, bowed himself out.

The gentleman immediately came forward, and Brownie gave him her card
and the letter.

“Ah, yes, Miss Meta Douglas,” he said, pleasantly, reading the name,
while his quick eye ran over her dainty figure from head to foot, taking
in her beauty and expensive apparel at a glance. “You understand the
business, I suppose. What department would you prefer to work in?”

“No, sir, I know nothing whatever about the business; I have come to
learn,” she answered, frankly and simply.

The gentleman gave her a look of surprise, then a smile of amusement
curled his lips.

“My dear young lady,” he said, a trifle embarrassed, “there is some
mistake about this. We never employ any but experienced hands. The fall
work is coming on rapidly, and we need those who can go right into it
without any showing or teaching. Did not the advertisement say ‘none but
experienced hands need apply?’”

“Yes, sir,” Brownie replied, with a sinking heart; “but I thought it
might be only a mere form; and as I am very quick to learn anything, and
necessity has suddenly compelled me to labor for my living, I thought I
would apply for the easiest work I could find.”

“Do you think straw sewing easy work?” Mr. Coolidge asked, with a genial
smile, and deeply interested in the fair stranger.

“I always thought it very pretty work, and judged it easy,” she
answered, naïvely.

“Have you relatives living in New York?” Mr. Coolidge asked,
thoughtfully.

“I have no relatives, excepting very distant ones,” and the sad tones
touched him.

“Excuse me for asking the question,” he added, courteously, “but I
feared if you remained with us, the accommodations in the boarding-house
might not be pleasant for you, and I hoped you had some other place to
which to go.”

“Thank you,” Brownie answered quietly, “but if you kindly consent to my
staying, the boarding-house will do as well for me as for the others
whom you employ.”

He opened a door opposite the one by which she had entered the office,
and led her into a long room where a hundred girls sat at tables, their
hands flying back and forth upon the hats and bonnets, as if their very
existence depended upon the number of stitches which they could set in a
minute; as it did, poor things!

“This is the wiring room,” explained Mr. Coolidge, “and I think you
could learn to do this work more easily than any other; you are not
strong enough to run a machine, and your fingers are too tender to
finish off the tips,” and he glanced at the delicate hands from which
she had drawn her gloves.

“Machines! Are hats and bonnets made by machinery?” she exclaimed, in
surprise.

“Yes,” and he smiled at her ignorance, then asked: “Do you think you
would like to work here?”

“Yes,” Brownie answered, “and I think I can learn very readily.”

“Very well. Miss Walton, please come here a moment,” Mr. Coolidge called
to the overseer of the room.

She came at his bidding.

A tall, angular, sour-visaged woman, who had been in the establishment
for years, and her face grew darker yet when her eyes fell upon the
delicate beauty of the young girl standing by her employer’s side.

She had always hated everything that was bright or beautiful, probably
because it made her own deficiency in that respect so apparent.

“Miss Walton,” continued Mr. Coolidge, “this is Miss Douglas, and I wish
you to assign her a pleasant seat in the hall, and teach her to wire
hats.”

“Teach her! I thought no inexperienced hands were wanted here?”
exclaimed the woman, measuring the young girl with her keen eyes, and
speaking in an impatient tone.

“That was what I said, Miss Walton. I desire you to teach her to wire
hats. Please give her some work right away.”

Mr. Coolidge spoke in a quiet, authoritative way, which there was no
gainsaying, and he had specified hats, because he knew they were much
easier to do than bonnets.

Without replying to him, Miss Walton told Brownie to follow her, and,
with a grateful smile and bow to her employer, she obeyed.

She was led to a seat in a quiet corner of the hall, where Miss Walton,
sitting down beside her, took up a hat, and without speaking once during
the operation, wired it with rapid fingers, Brownie watching intently
meanwhile.

“Can you do it?” she asked, curtly, when she had finished.

“I can try,” the young girl answered, with a little sigh, longing to ask
a few questions, yet not possessing the courage to do so of the
forbidding-looking personage at her side.

And now the wearisome, lonely task of earning her own living was begun.

Her heart ached with a sense of utter desolation as she sat there,
vainly trying to imitate Miss Walton’s example of wiring a hat.

She felt more utterly alone among these hundred girls than she had done
the night before in her quiet room at the hotel.

The wire hurt her delicate fingers, the needle, instead of going to its
appointed place, often slipped and pierced their rosy tips, and the
crimson drops would ooze forth, causing her to lay aside the work and
wrap the wounded members in her handkerchief until they ceased to bleed,
lest they should stain the hat.

One sad-looking girl on her left, had, without appearing to do so, been
watching her ineffectual efforts with a great deal of sympathy.

When at length, after running her needle half its length under her
finger-nail, Brownie laid down her work in despair, she turned kindly
toward her and said, with a smile:

“The work is new to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Brownie replied, looking up at the sweet tones, and much
comforted by them; “and I am afraid I shall never learn. I am so
awkward.”

“Oh, yes, you will. We were all so at the beginning.”

“Were you? Then I’ll try again,” she said, brightening instantly.

It was a real comfort to her to know that she was not quite such a goose
as she had thought herself, after all.

“Perhaps if I show you how to hold the hat, and just how to set the
needle, you would get on faster,” said the strange girl, laying down her
work, and holding out her hand for Brownie’s.

It was even so. She was very quick in her motions, and apt to learn, and
after a while she found she could wire a hat in ten minutes, when at
first it had taken her more than double that time.

But the confinement—the close, hot room, the noise of distant machinery,
and incessant chatter of the girls around her, began to wear upon her.

Her head throbbed and ached, as did also her arms and back, from their
accustomed work, and she grew so tired and nervous that it seemed to her
when night came as if her brain were turned.

Wearily and sorrowfully she wended her way back to the hotel where she
had stopped the night before, and threw herself upon her bed, too
thoroughly worn out to even heed the demands of hunger.

But her strong spirit conquered at last, and, rising, she bathed her
face and head, rearranged her toilet, put on her hat again, and went
down to the office to settle her bill at the hotel.

Notwithstanding her loneliness on the night of her arrival, after the
noise and din of the day, she would gladly have remained in that quiet
room, but she knew her purse would not permit of it; so, after paying
the clerk, she ordered a carriage and proceeded to the factory
boarding-house, which was to be her home for the present.




                              CHAPTER VIII
                              AN ADVENTURE


The days passed slowly by, and Brownie became more and more accustomed
to her work.

Before the week was out, she found, by diligent application, that she
could earn seventy-five cents a day, and during the next week her
earnings gradually crept up to a dollar a day.

She became quite hopeful after this, for her nature was naturally
buoyant, and she was one who would not readily give up an undertaking,
for the spirit of the Douglas was strong within her.

She began to feel very independent, too, and she really enjoyed the
feeling that she was able to take care of herself.

To be sure, her earnings at the most were only six dollars a week. Three
and a half of these were paid out for her board and lodging, and another
dollar for washing, leaving her only a dollar and a half for other
needs.

But she still had the two hundred dollars which she had received from
Mr. Conrad, and her wardrobe was amply supplied for a year or two, so
that she had no fears but that she could live, at least until some
better position should be offered her. She hoped in time to find a
situation as teacher.

Had it not been for that dreadful boarding-house, with its noise, its
small, close rooms, and its ill-cooked fare, she would have been
comparatively content, for she had made the acquaintance of one or two
young girls who were refined and intelligent like herself, and who, too,
had been suddenly reduced from affluence to poverty.

Mattie Burnham was the name of the young girl who had been so kind to
Brownie on that first day of her life in the factory, and soon, by her
gentleness and refinement, won a warm place in her heart.

Both of the young girls were extremely fond of reading.

One evening they issued forth, arm in arm, and wended their way to a
public library to exchange their books, and to look over the new
periodicals in the reading-room connected with it.

They exchanged their books, and then proceeding to the reading-room,
seated themselves in a cosy corner, and were soon deeply interested in
the various reading matter which lay scattered about upon the tables.

They read for an hour or more, then Mattie, suddenly glancing up at the
clock, asked:

“Meta, do you know what time it is?”

“No,” absently.

“It is half-past eight.”

“Is it?” and Brownie’s eager eyes were not even raised from her book;
she scarce heeded what her friend was saying.

“What have you there that is so interesting?” demanded Mattie, after
watching her in silence for a few minutes.

“It is a little French story, and so intensely interesting! Must we go
home now?” and Brownie looked up wistfully at the clock.

“Yes, it is about time. We shall be locked out if we do not get in
before ten, you know.”

“Oh, well, there is time enough, then. I must read just a little more. I
will read aloud, for I know you will like it, the story is so
beautifully told. Do you understand French?”

“No.”

“Well, no matter, I will translate it as I go along;” and Brownie began
and read for ten minutes as fast as her tongue could fly, Mattie soon
becoming as deeply interested as herself.

She at length stopped, with a sigh.

“Well, I suppose I must leave it; and they will not allow us to take any
of these books away,” she said, regretfully.

“It is beautiful, Meta; but, before we go, just read me a little in
French. I should like to hear you.”

Brownie laughed, and glad of any excuse to return to the book, began to
read aloud in a spirited, piquant manner.

“Dear, dear, what a chatter! I should certainly take you to be a
Frenchwoman yourself,” interrupted Mattie, at length, adding: “It is not
half so interesting to me, though, as when you translated it.”

She arose as she spoke, and Brownie, with another wistful look at the
entrancing pages, reluctantly laid the book down and followed her
example.

They were suddenly arrested, however, by a pleasant voice, saying:

“One moment, if you please, young ladies.”

They stopped and looked around.

An old gentleman was sitting just a little back of where Brownie had
sat, and he had been a very attentive listener while she was reading so
glibly from the French romance. She had not dreamed of having another
listener.

He was venerable, genial-looking man, with flowing white hair and beard,
and he wore gold-bowed spectacles, through which his clear blue eyes
beamed kindly upon them.

“Pardon me,” he said, courteously rising and addressing Brownie, “but I
wished to ask you if you are a teacher of French?”

“No, sir,” replied the young girl, blushing, as she thus became aware
that he had been listening to her. “I only read for my own profit and
amusement.”

“Your accent is remarkably pure. Pardon me again, but where were you
instructed in the language?”

“In Philadelphia, sir. I had a teacher who was a native, and who never
allowed his class, after they once understood the language, to utter a
word in any other tongue during the hours for recitation.”

“An excellent plan, young lady. Now, if it would not tax your patience
too far, will you kindly read me two or three more sentences in French
from this book?”

The old gentleman took up the book she had but just laid aside, and held
it out to her.

Brownie bowed gracefully, wondering what his object could be in thus
testing her powers, as she took the book and began reading again,
fluently.

“Thank you,” he said, after a few minutes, during which time he had been
intently reading the face of the beautiful girl before him.

He then immediately asked her a question in French.

She smiled brightly, and answered it on the instant.

He asked another, and soon they were in a lively controversy, which was
like Choctaw to poor Mattie, who was anxious to get home.

“Do you speak any other language? Can you speak Italian?”

“A _piacere_,” Brownie responded, in liquid tones, which, being
interpreted, means, “at pleasure.”

“And German?”

“I will not say I can speak it as fluently as the others, although I
understand it, and can read at sight in the language. But its guttural
tones never had that attraction for me that the more musical languages
of Italy and France have.”

“Are you musical?” demanded the old man, abruptly, after a few moments’
thought.

“Yes, sir, I am passionately fond of music,” returned Brownie, becoming
somewhat embarrassed at being so closely questioned.

“I fear you think I am very presuming, my young friend,” he said,
noticing her confusion, “but I have a very particular reason for asking
you these questions; and now, if you care to humor an old man, will you
come into the music-room yonder and let me hear you play a little?”

Brownie had ached to get hold of a piano ever since leaving her dear old
home, yet she shrank from displaying her accomplishments in so public a
place.

Still, the old gentleman was so courteous, and seemed so really
interested in her, that she disliked to refuse him, and bowing assent,
she beckoned to Mattie, and followed him to the music-room.

To her intense relief, she found it was empty, and sitting down at the
piano, she began lightly running her rosy fingers over the white keys.

The tones of the instrument inspired her in a moment, and she soon lost
all thought of self and her listener in her intense enjoyment of the
sounds which her soul so loved to hear.

“Sing something, Meta,” whispered Mattie, who had stood by in wondering
surprise at her friend’s accomplishments, and had only waited for a
pause to make her request.

Without a demur, she moderated her touch into an accompaniment, and sang
that beautiful little song, “Your Mission,” the words of which had been
running in her head ever since she had first entered that disagreeable
factory.

She sang the first verses beautifully, but the third was too much for
her, and ere the second line was finished she broke down utterly, and
bowing her head upon the piano, she had to let the bitter tears have
their way.

It was a song which Miss Mehetabel had dearly loved, and many times
during the past year, when they had been sitting in the twilight
together, she had sung it to her.

In a moment she remembered that she was in the presence of a stranger,
and almost as suddenly as she had broken down, she recovered herself,
and, rising from the piano-stool, she signified to Mattie her desire to
return home.

Upon the first outbreak of her grief, the old gentleman had retired to
the farther side of the room, that his presence need not embarrass her.

He now came forward, and she saw that his own eyes were shining with
tears.

He held out his hand to her, and there was a note of tenderness in his
voice, as he said:

“My young friend, forgive me for taxing your patience and good nature to
such an extent, and allow me to say that you have given me more pleasure
during this half hour than I have experienced this many a day.”

Brownie gave him her hand, and while holding it, he asked:

“And now will you allow me just one more question?”

She bowed, wondering what was coming next.

“I do not know what your circumstances may be,” he said, with a little
embarrassment, “but could you be persuaded to teach?”

“Yes, sir, if I could feel satisfied that I was competent to fill the
position offered me,” Brownie replied, frankly.

It had been her desire to teach from the first, but no opportunity had
offered, and she had resolved to secure the first situation of whatever
nature, if honorable, that she could obtain.

“I am happy to hear it,” returned the old man. “You ought to be a
teacher of languages and music. Now, if you will kindly give me your
name and address, I will endeavor to call upon you at an early date, and
talk with you further regarding the matter.”

Brownie did as requested, and did not fail to notice his start of
surprise when she mentioned her connection with the firm of Ware &
Coolidge, nor the contraction of his finely shaped brows which followed
it.

He then presented his card to her, after which he lifted his hat, and
bowed to both girls as if they had been the most aristocratic ladies in
the land, and then left them.

Brownie looked at the card.

It bore the name of Wm. H. Alcott, M. D.

Wondering what object Wm. H. Alcott, M. D., could have in view regarding
her, she carefully put the little bit of pasteboard in her pocketbook,
and then the two young girls hastened home, arriving there just as their
landlady was about locking the doors for the night.

“You’re late,” she said, grimly, and with a suspicious look into
Brownie’s beautiful face, she added: “I don’t believe in girls o’ your
age walking the streets at this time o’ night. I only advertise to take
respectable boarders.”

Brownie’s proud spirit boiled at these insulting words, but she did not
deign to notice them further than by lifting her proud head a trifle
more haughtily, as she swept up the stairs to her own room, followed by
the more subdued and trembling Mattie.




                               CHAPTER IX
                          CHANGE OF OCCUPATION


The next day but one, while Brownie was trying her utmost to do her
allotted task and get out of the factory an hour earlier, that she might
slip down to the reading-room and finish that little French romance in
which she had been so deeply interested, Miss Walton came to her and
told her, in her grim, curt way, that she was wanted in the office.

Somewhat disturbed by this unexpected summons, she laid aside her work,
removed her dainty white apron, then, with heightened color, but a
dignified mien, she bent her steps toward the room where she had been
received upon her arrival, and which she had not entered since.

Upon opening the door, she was surprised to find sitting, in
confidential communication with Mr. Coolidge, Mr. Alcott, the gentleman
whose acquaintance she had made in the reading-room two evenings
previous.

She bowed slightly to him, and then turned to Mr. Coolidge, who had
arisen as she entered, and now greeted her in courteous tones.

“My father-in-law, Mr. Alcott, Miss Douglas,” he said, by way of
introduction, and Brownie now understood his start of surprise when she
gave him her address.

“Be seated, Miss Douglas, if you please,” her employer continued,
placing a chair for her.

She sat down and folded her little hands in her lap. Both gentlemen
noticed her ladylike and self-possessed demeanor, and inwardly commented
upon it.

“Miss Douglas, Mr. Alcott has done nothing but rehearse your
accomplishments since his meeting with you night before last,” said Mr.
Coolidge, with an affable smile.

“If what he says is true,” the gentleman continued, “and I have no doubt
it is, since he is amply qualified to judge, this factory is no place
for you.”

Was she to be turned away on account of her little knowledge?

“One cannot always control one’s circumstances, sir,” she said, quietly.

“True; I understand you, Miss Douglas. But it may be in the power of
others to control them for you in a measure. Now, I have a proposal to
make to you. If I understood Mr. Alcott correctly, you would like to
teach?”

“Indeed, I should like it very much, sir.”

“Very well. My family contemplate going abroad in about one week; the
steamer sails the tenth, I believe. We have been trying for several
weeks to find some person competent to superintend the education of my
two younger daughters, and act as a sort of companion and interpreter
for them during their travels. Now, will you accept this position and
accompany us to Europe?”

“How long do you contemplate remaining abroad?” Brownie asked, after a
few moments spent in thought, and greatly surprised at this offer.

“A year, at least; probably longer, if the girls and their mother enjoy
it.”

“How old are your daughters, Mr. Coolidge?”

“Viola is sixteen, Alma is fourteen. I have another who is twenty, but I
believe she considers her education completed, although I think she said
something about studying the languages a little more while she is
abroad.”

“Have the young ladies completed any course as yet?” Brownie asked,
wishing to know something of their attainments before deciding.

“No; I regret to say, they have not. Their mother was unwilling they
should attend any public institution, so they have had private teachers,
and I am afraid they have not improved their advantages as they should
have done.”

“Indeed, they have not!” exclaimed Mr. Alcott, excitedly. “They have
behaved shamefully about it, and are a couple of ignoramuses.”

Brownie laughed as he said this, then asked:

“And do you think, sir, that I am capable of instructing them, if older
and wiser teachers have failed?”

“Young lady, when you were reading French to me the other evening, I was
not impressed wholly by your pronunciation. No; there was a ring of
decision in your tones, there was a look of character and firmness in
your face, that told me you would not fail to make a first-class
teacher,” said the old gentleman, with emphasis.

“Your very youthfulness may help you to win where the others have
failed. And, as I told you, it is not altogether an instructress that we
want, but a refined and genial companion, and an interpreter also, for
none of the family are able to converse fluently in foreign languages,”
said Mr. Coolidge.

Sixteen and fourteen!

They were trying ages—just the time when girls loved fun and frolic
better than anything else in the world.

Was she competent to take charge of them and direct their studies?

She longed to accept the position, she longed to go abroad and visit
those old countries so fraught with interest, poetry, and romance, and
where her aunt had lived and suffered so much. But the responsibility!
Would it be right for her to assume it? Would she be able to influence
these young girls aright?

“Mr. Coolidge,” she said, when she had thought of all these things, “I
will tell you frankly that I would like this position which you are so
kind to offer me, more than I can express, but I am only eighteen years
of age myself, and I do not really feel like deciding whether I am
competent to direct the education of your daughters or not. The other
duties, I think, I could fulfill satisfactorily.”

“Have you ever completed a regular course of study?” asked Mr. Alcott.

“Yes, sir; a thorough course. I graduated from the high school before I
was sixteen, and I have since taken a two years’ classical course,”
replied Brownie.

“You’ll do, then,” said the old man, with a contented nod of his head.

He was very much interested in the beautiful girl.

“My principal reason for hesitating is, that I have never had any
experience in teaching, and could only follow the example of my own
teachers, as far as I can remember it.”

“You are very truthful and frank, at all events,” remarked Mr. Coolidge,
smilingly.

“I should not presume to accept this position, sir, by placing myself in
a false position,” replied Brownie, gravely.

“I think with my father-in-law, that you will do, and I feel confident
that you will prove faithful to your trust. Shall we consider the
bargain closed?” asked her employer, giving her a glance of admiration.

“Mr. Coolidge—I—really——” stammered the young girl.

She was astonished that he should desire to close the bargain, without
making any inquiries regarding her character or antecedents, and yet she
did not know how to broach the subject.

“Ah, I beg your pardon, Miss Douglas,” and the man of business looked
utterly confused for a moment, “it was an oversight entirely that I did
not mention what salary you would receive. Would four hundred a year and
expenses meet your acceptance?”

“Make it five, William,” interrupted Mr. Alcott, adding: “With those
harum-scarum girls it will be none too much; there will be plenty of
little knickknacks that she will want to bring away from the old
country, and an extra hundred will be none too much.”

“Well, call it five hundred and expenses, then,” said Mr. Coolidge.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I had not thought of the salary which I
should receive. I was upon the point of saying that—you know nothing
about me personally—whether I am, morally, one whom you would wish to
receive into your family. I expected you would require references,”
Brownie said, with dignity.

“Really, Miss Douglas,” said the former, “you have shown yourself wiser
than I in this matter. That is a question which ought, according to the
etiquette of the nineteenth century, to have been settled in the first
place.”

“The very fact of her speaking of the matter herself is reference enough
for me,” said Mr. Alcott, _sotto voce_.

“However,” continued her employer, “I suppose Mrs. Coolidge would be
better pleased to have that matter satisfactorily settled. What
reference can you give us, Miss Douglas?”

“That is where I feared there might arise an objection,” replied
Brownie, with a sad smile, then added: “I have only one friend in the
world to whom I feel at liberty just now to refer you; he is in
Philadelphia—Mr. Arthur Conrad.”

“What! Arthur Conrad, Esq., the noted lawyer of that city?” exclaimed
Mr. Alcott, with great interest.

“Yes, sir. He has known me all my life, and I think I may trust him to
speak a good word for me to you.”

“That will be sufficient, Miss Douglas,” said the old man, with a smile.
“Arthur Conrad was a classmate of mine years and years ago; he was a
splendid fellow, too. I know all about him, and if he knows all about
you, we shall not quarrel over further references.”

“I will write to him this afternoon,” said Mr. Coolidge, “and we shall
probably hear in a day or two from him. Then, as this is a mere matter
of form, shall we consider that you are engaged to us, and for the
salary I named?”

“Yes, sir; and I thank you for your courtesy, and for the confidence
which you have shown to me, an utter stranger. I assure you, I will do
my utmost to prove myself worthy of the trust you have placed in my
hands.”

Brownie arose as she spoke, and he saw that tears stood in her grave,
beautiful eyes.

Then, bowing to both gentlemen, she returned to her work.

Two, three, four, five days slipped rapidly by, and Brownie heard
nothing more from Mr. Coolidge.

On the sixth day, as she was removing her apron and putting her table in
order, she saw Miss Walton hastening toward her, a smile of satisfaction
gleaming upon her face.

“Miss Douglas,” she said, loud enough for several of the other girls to
hear, “Mr. Coolidge wishes you to come to the office again; he wishes to
settle with you.”

Now, it was considered quite a disgrace for any one to be called upon to
“settle” before the season was over, and Brownie became at once the
cynosure of all eyes in her neighborhood.

Brownie saw that several of the girls were regarding her suspiciously,
and listening eagerly to the conversation.

“Yes, Miss Walton,” she said, in her clear, sweet tones, “I have been
expecting some such message as this for several days. I sail for Europe
with Mr. Coolidge and his family on Monday.”




                               CHAPTER X
                    BROWNIE AT THE COOLIDGE MANSION


Mr. Coolidge glanced up with a smile of welcome, as Brownie, more
beautiful than ever with the excitement of her little encounter with
Miss Walton, entered the office.

“Miss Walton said you wished to see me, sir,” she said, simply.

“Yes, Miss Douglas, as we sail on Monday, I thought best to close your
account with the firm to-night.”

“You have heard from Mr. Conrad, then, I suppose,” she said, taking it
for granted, while her face became radiant with hope.

“No, Miss Douglas; I have not. I wrote immediately, but, receiving no
reply, after waiting three days, I telegraphed, and his clerk returned
word to-day that he had left town for a week.”

Brownie’s countenance fell, and she grew very pale.

All her bright hopes crumbled to dust, and nothing remained for her but
to plod wearily along day by day.

“I am very sorry,” she said, regretfully. “Of course, it is settled that
I am not to go with you.”

“Why not?” he asked, quickly adding: “You jump at conclusions, do you
not? I told you, I believe, that, as we sailed on Monday, I wished to
close your account to-night. That does not look much like not going,
does it?”

She had forgotten his words, and her face lighted a trifle at this; but
she asked:

“But would you be justified, sir, in taking me without a
recommendation?”

“I think so, and I think you are over-sensitive upon that point. I never
met a governess before without a recommendation who did not try to pass
the circumstance over as lightly as possible,” returned the gentleman,
with an amused smile.

“I only desire that you and Mrs. Coolidge should be entirely satisfied,”
she said, with proud dignity.

“Miss Douglas,” he said, fixing a keen look upon her face, “I told you,
when we first talked this matter over, that I considered it a mere form.
I have been fully satisfied from the first that you are a lady, and
amply qualified for the position I offer you. Now, if you will assure me
that there has been nothing in your life, morally speaking, which would
debar you from entering my family, I can rest satisfied, and there will
be time enough in the future to write to Mr. Conrad.”

Anything in her life, morally speaking!

A little smile of scorn curled her red lips, and the color leaped again
to her very brow; but she lifted her clear, truthful eyes to his, and he
was answered, even before she said, with conscious pride:

“There is nothing, there has been nothing in my life which any one could
question.”

“I knew it,” he answered; “and now I have a request to make, and that
is, that you will allow me to send my carriage for you this evening.
There remains only about a day and a half before we sail, and my family
would like to become somewhat acquainted with you beforehand.”

Brownie shrank from this ordeal, but she knew it must come sooner or
later, and the quicker it was over with the better for all parties.

“Very well, sir,” she answered.

“At what time shall I send for you?”

“An hour will give me ample time to make all needful preparations for
the change.”

“It is five o’clock now. Then at six precisely the carriage shall call
for you. We dine at half-past, when you will meet my family. Now, about
this account; it is not a very large one, Miss Douglas,” he said,
smiling, and turning to the books.

After a moment, he continued, with some hesitation:

“Allow me to give you a check on account. You may wish to make some
purchases before leaving New York.”

Brownie drew herself up like a little princess.

“If you will please pay me what I have earned, sir, it will be all I
require, thank you.”

He ran his eye quickly over the figures, and then paid her just sixteen
dollars and a half, the amount of her earnings for three weeks and two
days.

“Thank you; that is correct,” she said, after counting it; then, with a
bow, she withdrew, a strange feeling of pride and independence in her
heart that for three weeks she had supported herself by the labor of her
own hands.

True, it would take about fourteen of it to pay for her board and
washing, leaving her only two dollars and fifty cents surplus.

She was to receive a salary of five hundred dollars a year, and she
smiled to think how large the sum looked to her now and besides there
were her expenses and the opportunity of a year of travel in charming
Europe.

Brownie arrived at the Coolidge mansion in season to be introduced to
the family before dinner was served.

She did not feel particularly drawn toward either Mrs. Coolidge or her
eldest daughter.

They were evidently worldlings, and received her with an air of
superiority and patronage that was intensely galling to our
proud-spirited little Douglas.

The younger girls, Viola and Alma, were more simple and affectionate,
and, although somewhat hoidenish, yet she felt assured that they had
kind hearts, and promised herself some pleasure with them.

After dinner the whole family repaired to the drawing-room, and the
girls being anxious to know what the new governess could do, desired to
hear her play and sing.

She gratified them, playing and singing for an hour, then tempting them
from the piano, she made herself so sweet and engaging that they were
charmed with her, while even Mrs. Coolidge and Miss Isabel relaxed their
haughtiness somewhat, though they both considered her too pretty and
polished for the latter’s interest. She wished no rival in the way at
present.

“If only Wilbur will not lose his senses and fall in love with her at
first sight,” Isabel said to her mother, when they had withdrawn to Mrs.
Coolidge’s boudoir to discuss Brownie’s merits.

“Never fear, dear; Wilbur knows we would never tolerate a wife for him
unless she was his equal in society,” replied the matron, complacently.

“But you know that sometimes young men fall in love with a pretty face,
and become entangled before they know it.”

Miss Isabel was evidently very jealous of Brownie’s beauty and
accomplishments.

She had not been at all pleased that her father should engage a
governess without consulting her own and her mother’s pleasure.

This feeling was shared by Mrs. Coolidge, but she had learned wisdom
from long experience, and did not openly oppose her liege lord’s
authority upon any matter.

“I think you are worrying about nothing,” she said, in reply to her
daughter. “I’m sure I can’t see anything so very beautiful about Miss
Douglas,” and she cast a proud look at her own fashionable darling.

“Where are your eyes, mamma?” was the impatient reply. “Her features are
perfect; she has the loveliest complexion and color I have ever seen in
any face; her hands and feet are at least two sizes smaller than either
mine or Viola’s, and her form just dainty enough to suit a fastidious
young man like Wilbur.”

“Really, Isabel, you must have spent considerable time inspecting the
new governess to serve up such a catalogue of her charms,” remarked Mrs.
Coolidge, contemptuously, adding: “Perhaps you are afraid she may
attract others, and interfere with your own prospects.”

“She may; who knows?” replied the envious girl.

“Well, if you really think there is danger, I will try and persuade your
father to get rid of her even now. But I am of the opinion that you have
exaggerated her good looks; I see nothing so very noticeable about her,
and I’m sure she dresses plainly enough to suit anybody. She does not
wear a single ornament—nothing but those soft ruches at her neck and
wrists.”

“Her dress is all right, but hers is a style of beauty that does not
need dress to set it off. She would look lovely in anything. But it
would never do to think of sending her away now. Papa is bewitched with
her, and I do believe if grandpa was a young man he would fall in love
with her himself; he has done nothing but sound her praises ever since
he met her in the reading-room.”

“Pshaw! Isabel, how extremely foolish you are; do try and get such
nonsense out of your head. But I promise I will take care that Wilbur
does not see much of her, or any other young gentleman whom we may meet
abroad,” said Mrs. Coolidge, resolutely.

“If you can only put that resolution in force she may prove very useful
to us, after all. Her accent is every bit as pure as Monsieur Renaud’s,
and I must confess that her music is perfectly bewildering. She will
save all need of music-masters or teachers in the languages, which will
be quite an item; it has cost me more than her salary every year for my
music and French,” said Isabel.

“True, dear, and she will also be very valuable as an interpreter in our
shopping and sightseeing expeditions abroad. But to turn to more
agreeable things. I want you, Isabel, to do your utmost to make a
brilliant match while we are in Europe. With your father’s purse, your
face, figure, and appearance, I think you ought to win somebody worth
having.”

“I hope I may, mamma; I should really enjoy being ‘lady’ somebody,” and
the vain girl got up and sailed over to the full-length mirror to survey
herself.

“Is it not time for Wilbur to come, mamma?” she asked, presently.

“Yes; he ought to have been here an hour ago,” answered Mrs. Coolidge,
glancing at her watch.

Scarce were the words uttered when the doorbell gave forth a clamorous
peal; another moment, and there was a manly step on the stair, a deep
rich voice called “Mother!” “Isabel!” then the door swung open, and the
only son and heir was received with open arms and joyous exclamations of
greeting.

Wilbur Coolidge was an exceedingly handsome young man of twenty-two
years, with a face that challenged all criticism—bright, careless,
defiant, full of humor, and possessing a gleam of poetry—a face that
girls judge instantly and always admire. He had a frank clear eye of
deepest blue, brown hair tinged with gold, a smiling mouth, from which,
when he spoke, there gleamed two rows of white, handsome teeth. Yet it
was a mouth one could not quite trust—there was something wanting which
made one feel that he lacked depth, that there was no great chivalry in
his nature, no grand treasure of manly truth, no touch of heroism in his
soul. There were few women who would have read him thus critically, yet
Brownie did at a glance, when, descending the stairs arm in arm with his
sister Isabel, they met face to face, and she was obliged to present him
to her.

“My brother, Miss Douglas,” she said, briefly and coldly, and with a
haughty lifting of her head.

Miss Douglas greeted him with quiet politeness, and passed on; but not
before she had caught his stare of surprise and look of admiration as
his eyes for a moment rested on her face, then swept her dainty form
from head to foot.

“And who is Miss Douglas?” he asked, after they had passed beyond her
hearing.

“Oh, she is a young person whom grandpa came across in one of the public
libraries, and persuaded papa to secure as governess to the girls,” Miss
Isabel answered, with a yawn.

“Governess! Young person, indeed! Why, if I ever saw the mark of the
true and cultured lady in any one, I do in her,” he replied, with
enthusiasm.

“Nonsense, Wilbur! I hope you do not allow your head to be turned by
every pretty face you chance to meet.”

“Not I,” and the young man tossed his head, with a gay laugh. “But this
Miss Douglas is something more than pretty. Hers is a face which, if a
man learned to love, he would gladly serve twice seven years for the
sake of making its owner his wife.”

This was said partly to tease his sister, for he well knew her weak
points; yet, it must be confessed, he had been startled by Brownie’s
wondrous beauty.

“Pshaw! Wilbur, I shall get entirely out of patience with you if you run
on like that; and let me warn you beforehand, if mamma discovers you are
‘sweet’ on the governess, it will prove most disastrous to the poor
girl’s prospects, for she will post her off without any ceremony.”

“Don’t be disturbed, sister mine. We men, I admit, have an eye for the
beautiful, be it in princess or maid. I suppose I may admire Miss
Douglas from a distance, as one would admire a picture, with no thought
of possessing it. By the way, to change the subject, what is father
going to do with the horses while we are away?”

“Send them up to the farm, I think.”

“When do they go?”

“Monday morning, I think.”

“Let us go out to the stable, then, and take a farewell look at them,”
proposed Wilbur, cunningly.

“Not I, thank you! I’ve no notion of being perfumed with the scent of
the stable if any one should call. You can go if you choose, and I will
wait for you in the drawing-room.”

The young man gladly availed himself of the permission, laughing
meanwhile in his sleeve that his artifice had succeeded so well. He did
not particularly enjoy a _tête-à-tête_ with the frivolous girl.

He knew well enough that his fastidious sister would not accompany him
to the stable, and he longed to be by himself, that he might feast upon
the remembrance of that lovely face, which had flashed like a gleam from
Paradise upon him.

“She is the loveliest girl I have ever met, and I will see more of her,
Isabel and the maternal to the contrary notwithstanding,” was his mental
resolve, as he paced absently back and forth in the stable, wholly
unconscious of his stated object in visiting the place.




                               CHAPTER XI
                            ADRIAN DREDMOND


The day of sailing came at last.

A good deal of confusion prevailed in getting the family, with their
endless supply of luggage, from the Coolidge mansion to the steamer; and
in the midst of it all, Wilbur managed several times to escape the Argus
eyes of his watchful mother and jealous sister, and get a word with
Brownie.

Every hour in her presence only served to enthrall him more hopelessly.
He never wearied of looking upon her bright face, nor of listening to
the sweet tones of her voice. She wove a sweet spell about him.

Miss Douglas, however, responded very quietly, and with some dignity,
whenever he addressed her.

She was observing enough to perceive that his attentions to her were
anything but acceptable to the Coolidge family; so, without appearing to
do so, she avoided him, and devoted herself to her young charges, Viola
and Alma.

But a little incident occurred, just as they were going aboard the
steamer, which was to influence the young girl’s whole after life.

Brownie was the last to step aboard, excepting Wilbur, and not paying
strict heed to her steps, she caught her foot in a coil of rope,
stumbled, and would have fallen had she not been quickly caught and
upheld by a strong arm. The shock was so severe that, overcome with
dizziness, she lay almost unconscious for a moment in the stranger’s
clasp.

“Has she fainted?” asked Wilbur Coolidge, in anxious tones, as he sprang
forward, too late to render service.

“I think not. It was only the shock; she will rally in a moment,” were
the words which Brownie, on coming to herself, heard in such deep, rich
tones, that she was conscious of a sudden thrill running through her
whole frame.

She opened her eyes, and found herself looking up into a face that was
strange, yet familiar.

For one instant her eyes met his, and their souls met through that
glance. Then, with a vivid blush of shame staining her fair cheek, as
she realized she was being held in the arms of a stranger, Brownie
gently disengaged herself, and tried to stand alone.

“Brownie Douglas!” the stranger murmured, in wondering surprise, and as
if the words were forced from him by some previous memory.

As she caught them, the color again flew to her face, and he, seeing her
embarrassment, hastened to say:

“I beg your pardon, but my surprise made me forget myself. Will you take
my arm and allow me to conduct you below? I fear you are not quite
strong yet.”

“Thank you,” Brownie began, when Wilbur Coolidge suddenly interfered.

“I will attend to the lady, sir, thanking you kindly for the service you
have already rendered her,” he said, somewhat haughtily, and offering
Miss Douglas his own arm.

She took it, and with a grateful little bow to the strange gentleman,
and one more rapid glance into his fine eyes, she allowed Mr. Coolidge
to lead her away.

“Who was that gentleman, Miss Douglas?” Wilbur Coolidge demanded, with a
grave face, when they had left him, and he was carefully conducting her
down the companionway.

“I do not know; I have never met him before, and yet——” was Brownie’s
hesitating reply, while her face wore a puzzled look.

“And yet what?” asked the young man, trying to speak carelessly, yet
with the vestige of a frown.

“It seems to me as if I have seen his face at some time, but where, I do
not remember.” And the perplexed look still remained upon her
countenance.

“He seemed to know you. He called you ‘Brownie Douglas.’ Is that your
name?”

The color flamed again into her cheeks at the question. She had noticed
the stranger’s involuntary utterance of her pet name, and had been
strangely moved by it.

“It used to be when I had dear friends.”

She grew sad and pale again at the memories which came thronging upon
her at the sound of the dear old name.

“I cannot understand, though, how he should come to know it,” she added,
after a moment.

“Brownie—Brownie—it just suits you, Miss Douglas,” said Mr. Coolidge,
taking in at one admiring glance the shining coils of brown hair, the
liquid chestnut eyes, and the long, dark lashes which just now half
concealed them.

“My name is Mehetabel Douglas, Mr. Coolidge,” Brownie said, coldly, and
with dignity, not relishing his familiarity, nor the tender cadence
which his voice had assumed.

He laughed aloud.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but such a name for you is an abomination. Don’t
you ever shorten it?”

“I do not think it is very euphonious myself, Mr. Coolidge, and
therefore, when I write it, I shorten it into Meta,” she explained,
smiling at his indignation, and disarmed by his frankness.

“That is quite respectable. But what is the matter? I fear you have not
recovered from your fall yet. Are you sure you are not injured by it?”
he asked, anxiously, seeing she had grown very white again.

“No; but it gave me quite a shock, and I think the motion of the boat
prolongs the dizziness. But I shall do very well if I can only sit
down.”

“If this gentle swaying affects you so, I do not know what you will do
when we come to move,” he replied, as he hastened toward the saloon with
her.

Here they found the rest of the family, quite anxious at their
non-appearance; and his mother and Isabel were not in the best frame of
mind in the world when they saw the governess come in, leaning upon the
arm of Wilbur.

“Miss Douglas has had a fall, mother, and is faint; please let her have
your vinaigrette,” he explained, as he carefully seated her upon a sofa.

“Thanks, but I have one,” Brownie said, and straightway produced one
from her little traveling-bag, which caused Miss Isabel’s pale eyes to
expand with wonder.

It was a costly little trifle of solid gold, and its stopple was
curiously formed and set with pearls.

She prized it, and loved to use it, because it has been one of the
things which had been used last by Miss Mehetabel.

“Do look, mamma! Wherever did she get it?” whispered Isabel.

“I’m sure I don’t know, child; evidently, she belonged to a different
sphere in life before she came to us. I only wish your grandfather had
been at the poles that night she went to the library to beguile him with
her pretty face,” returned the maternal Coolidge, impatiently.

“Oh, you begin to think she is pretty, do you?” sneered her dutiful
daughter.

“Wilbur evidently thinks so, if I do not,” was the moody reply.

Brownie’s quick ears had caught every word, and she very coldly refused
the glass of ice water which the young man in question at that moment
brought her.

She then settled herself upon the couch and closed her eyes, thus
intimating her desire to be left alone.

Upon the deck above them there paced a young man, with bent head and
thoughtful brow.

He was tall and exceedingly well-formed, his broad, full chest and
square shoulders giving one the impression of great strength and powers
of endurance.

He looked the Englishman every inch, and a very noble one withal.

He was not handsome, like Wilbur Coolidge, but he possessed a face of
decision and truth.

He had deep, thoughtful gray eyes, a good mouth with kindly lines about
it, and an expression of great firmness and character withal. It was a
true, good face—a face to be trusted under any circumstances.

“How does she happen to be here, I wonder?” he muttered, with a far-away
look out over the waters. “I know she left Philadelphia soon after her
aunt’s death,” he continued, “and though Gordon tried hard to find where
she had gone, he could not. She faded out of the fashionable world in
which she used to move as completely and suddenly as a fallen star drops
out of existence. I’m glad now I did not leave the button with him, as
he wished me to do; no, I’ll give it to her with my own hands, or I will
keep it forever!”

He walked absently to the side of the steamer, and stood looking into
the turbid waters beneath; and not long after two ladies drew near, and
he overheard the following conversation:

“Mamma, I tell you we shall have trouble with that governess as sure as
the world.”

“I hope not,” replied the elder lady, with a troubled look.

“Wilbur is over head and ears in love with her already, and it will be
just like her to lead him on for the sake of gaining a good position in
the world,” and the young lady’s tone was exceedingly disagreeable.

“Well, it cannot be helped now; you must make yourself so interesting
and agreeable that he will prefer your society to that of any one’s
else; you must monopolize him during the voyage, and when we are once
settled, I will see that she does not have any spare time to flirt.”

“Talk about her having a fall,” continued Isabel Coolidge, indignantly.
“Alma saw the whole proceeding, and says it was nothing but a stumble.
She said a gentleman caught her, and saved her from going to the floor,
and she lay back in his arms as helplessly and gracefully as any heroine
in a novel.”

“I have not much doubt that she is artful, and would not scruple to take
advantage of Wilbur’s weakness for pretty faces, notwithstanding she
appears so meek and demure.”

“Meek and demure, mamma! Why, she is anything but that. She has the
manners and bearing of a little queen!” interrupted Miss Coolidge.

“Well, but she is very quiet, and does not appear to be seeking his
attentions; but, as I said before, we cannot help it now; all we can do
is to watch them closely.”

“Never fear but that we can do that with our sharp eyes; and with you
and I both on the lookout, I reckon we can manage them,” laughed the
young lady.

“Yes; and if we find any indications of anything serious upon Wilbur’s
part, I will find some excuse for shipping her off our hands as soon as
we land. I will not have my son’s prospects ruined by a poverty-stricken
governess,” replied the haughty woman, sternly.

They moved away from the place where they had been standing, and the
young Englishman resumed his pacings, a smile of ineffable scorn curling
his fine lips.

“A poverty-stricken governess, indeed!” he muttered between his teeth;
“and I would not have her prospects for future happiness ruined by the
son of such a woman! Poor child!” and his face softened into tenderness;
“then she has been reduced to that cruel necessity, and she will have a
hard time of it if left to the tender mercies of those two. At all
events,” he continued, “I will manage some way to get acquainted with
her before the voyage is ended, and return her cuff button. I shall miss
it, too, for it has lain so long in its place that it seems like a
precious talisman.”

He took it from the pocket of his vest as he spoke—that beautiful little
trifle of black enamel and gold, with its sparkling initial in the
center, inclosed in its brilliant circle.

He turned it over, and read the tiny letters engraved on the back.

“Brownie!” he murmured. “I could not help speaking her name as I held
her in my arms; and how beautiful she looked when the lovely color
leaped into her face as she heard it. Never mind, when I put this into
her own little hands, I will explain it all.”

He replaced the button in his pocket, with a deep sigh, and then turned
his attention to the steamer, as she cast off her moorings and began to
move out into the mighty deep.

The reader has doubtless recognized in the stranger the person of Adrian
Dredmond, one of the young men who stood in the vestibule of the Art
Gallery at Philadelphia, on the day when Miss Huntington met with such a
series of accidents to her elaborate toilet.

He had come from the old country to attend the world’s wonderful
exposition, and was now returning—but more of him hereafter.




                              CHAPTER XII
                         DRESSING FOR THE OPERA


The passage proved to be an exceedingly rough one, and Brownie suffered
more than any of the party, not being able to leave her stateroom during
all the voyage.

Upon their arrival at Liverpool, she was so weak and wan that Mr.
Coolidge and Wilbur were obliged to bear her in their arms from the boat
to the carriage which was to convey them to their hotel, much to the
annoyance and disgust of Isabel and her mother.

Adrian Dredmond had waited in vain for the opportunity he had so
desired. He had not once seen Brownie during the voyage. He stood by
when they carried her to the carriage, and a feeling of pain smote his
heart as he saw her wan face and sunken eyes.

“I cannot give it to her now, but I will seek an opportunity. I will see
her again,” he breathed to himself.

They lifted her into the carriage, shut the door, and drove away.

“Brownie Douglas—the name is as sweet as she looks—good-by, my Brownie;
we shall meet again,” he murmured; and, with a deep tenderness in his
heart for her Adrian Dredmond went his own way.

From Liverpool, the Coolidges, after a few days of rest went to London,
where they proposed establishing their headquarters for three or four
months, while they made excursions about the country.

Here they took a house in the neighborhood of Regent’s Park, and, to
Isabel’s delight, entered at once upon the gayeties of the season.

Brownie’s heart is stirred with various emotions as she finds herself
thus settled among the very scenes of her aunt’s former life.

Here Miss Mehetabel lived when she was a girl; here she was wooed and
won; here she had lived that short, bright year, loving and beloved, and
which was followed by a lifetime of mourning and sadness.

She wondered if Lord Dunforth were still living, and if it would be her
lot while abroad to meet him. She hoped so; and she was confident that
she should recognize him, from the picture which was now in her
possession, even though so many years had passed, and he was an old man
of over sixty.

Of course, she never expected to meet him as an equal, or even speak to
him; but she longed for just one look into his face, to see if he had
fulfilled the promise of his early manhood, and to assure herself that
he was the noble, high-minded knight which her little romantic heart had
pictured him from Miss Mehetabel’s description.

During the first hours of the day Miss Douglas and her pupils dived deep
into the mystic lore; and so charming did she make their studies, and so
interested did she appear in everything pertaining to their welfare,
that, to their credit be it said, they applied themselves with the
utmost diligence to their tasks, and soon gave promise of becoming quite
proficient.

The afternoons were devoted to sightseeing and riding, the evenings to
receiving company, attending drawing-rooms, the opera, or the theatre.

One morning Wilbur came home in considerable excitement, and throwing
some tickets upon the table, said:

“There, mother, are some tickets for her majesty’s opera, and I want
every member of this family to attend, for there are wonderful
attractions to-night.”

“Then, of course, we must all go, and the girls will be delighted that
you remembered them, for they are not often allowed to appear in
company, you know,” she said, smiling.

“And Miss Douglas, too, mother; I procured a ticket for her,” he added.

Mrs. Coolidge demurred at this.

“But Miss Douglas is in deep mourning; it would not be suitable for her
to appear with us in her black garments,” she said.

“Pshaw! she can wear something else for once. It is a shame to debar her
from such a luxury; any one can see that she is passionately fond of
music, and I should feel mean to take all the others and leave her
behind,” he returned, indignantly.

Mrs. Coolidge thought a moment, and finally assented.

She well knew that too much opposition often whetted passion, and she
had no desire to provoke Wilbur into being a champion for the governess,
and accordingly gave her consent.

He met Brownie in the hall a few moments afterward, and told her of the
arrangement for the evening.

Her face lighted with pleasure.

“Please, if I may be so bold as to make the request, wear something not
quite so somber as this,” and he just touched the black dress.

Her face grew very sad, and her eyes filled with tears. Miss Douglas had
been dead just two months, and the thought of gay attire seemed
unsuitable to her.

“Forgive me if I pain you, but I would like to see you for once as
bright as the others,” the young man added, and then passed on.

She knew her black dress would not be suitable for the opera, and yet
she hesitated about changing it for two reasons.

Her own feelings rebelled against it, as if it were doing a wrong to
Miss Mehetabel.

“And yet,” she said, thinking it over, “I know auntie would not wish me
to deprive myself of the pleasure of attending the opera, and I know,
also, she would not like me to appear in such a place in black.”

The other reason was the fear of displeasing Mrs. Coolidge if she made
any change.

But that matter was settled for her by that lady herself. She came to
her room during the day, repeating the invitation which Wilbur had given
her, and concluded by saying:

“Miss Douglas, have you not something a little more appropriate that you
could wear? This black is hardly the thing.”

“I have several nice dresses which I used to wear upon such occasions,
but I fear they are hardly suitable for my position now,” Brownie
replied, with heightened color, for the first time alluding to the
change in her circumstances.

“Ah!” said the matron, in surprise, and pleased with this evidence of
the governess’ modesty; then she added, patronizingly: “You have seen
better days, I presume?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Well, I leave the matter to your own judgment, only do not wear black,
nor white, for Alma will wear that. Indeed,” she added, after a moment’s
thought, “if you have a nice dress, Miss Douglas, wear it, for, as we
are all going together, I do not care how nicely our party appears.”

An amused smile curled her lips at the expression, “if you have a nice
dress,” and when the door closed after Mrs. Coolidge, she laughed
outright.

Evidently she thought if the governess had seen better days, they could
not have been very remarkable ones.

She crossed the room, and opened the trunk in which she had packed the
richer portion of her clothing, and took out her evening dresses.

The decision was a difficult matter, and it was more than an hour before
she could make up her mind which one of those beautiful garments it
would do to wear.

She had no desire to outshine Miss Isabel.

But that young lady, with all her love for show and fashion, had nothing
more elegant than Brownie’s own wardrobe contained.

She at length fixed upon a delicate maize-colored silk, trimmed with
puffings of soft illusion, and ruffles of fine thread lace.

When the hour came for dressing, she arrayed herself with a throbbing
heart.

She had nearly completed her toilet, when Viola came sweeping in, lovely
in blue silk and white tulle.

In her hands she carried a most exquisite bouquet of flowers.

She stood breathless on the threshold as she caught sight of Brownie.

“Miss Douglas,” she at length exclaimed, “how perfectly lovely you are!”

“Thank you, Viola; but you are altogether too enthusiastic in your
compliments,” Brownie returned, with a smile.

Yet as she glanced into the mirror, she grew suddenly conscious, and
blushed with a sense of her own beauty.

Her hair was drawn away from her broad, low forehead, and knotted
gracefully at the back of her small head.

Her beautiful neck gleamed through the misty fichu, and her rounded arms
were only half concealed by the fall of delicate lace from her sleeves.

She wore a finely wrought chain of gold about her neck, from which was
suspended the beautiful coral cross, set with brilliants, which her aunt
had given her at the same time she gave her the other contents of the
casket.

The butterfly hair ornament to match she had fastened in her glossy
hair, and it sparkled and gleamed with her every movement.

She surely was lovely, as Viola said:

“I’m afraid your mamma will think me too fine,” she said, half
regretfully, and struck by the young girl’s words.

“But,” she added, “this is the simplest thing I have, unless I wear
white, and your mamma said Alma was to dress in white.”

“Miss Douglas, who—what are you?” Viola asked, an expression of
perplexity on her young face.

“My dear, must I repeat my dreadful name? I am Mehetabel Douglas, and a
poor governess,” Brownie said, gayly.

“I know that, of course; but haven’t you been a fine lady at some time
in your life?” demanded the young girl, impatiently.

“That depends altogether upon what you mean by the term ‘fine lady,’
Viola.”

“Why, one who has everything rich and elegant, and who goes among
fashionable people.”

Brownie smiled at this definition of the term, but she replied, gravely,
and a little sadly:

“My dear, you have been so kind to me, I will gratify you in this, only
please remember that I do not care to have it spoken of again. A year
ago—yes, and much less—my prospects in life were as bright as your own
are now. But death and misfortune took everything from me, and I was
obliged to do something for my own support.”

“Did you live in an elegant house, and have servants, horses, and
carriages?”

“Yes.”

“Have you always had these things until now?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Then you are every bit as good as we are, and it’s a shame that you are
not treated as an equal,” burst from Viola’s lips, indignantly, as she
remembered all Isabel’s sneers about “the governess,” and her mother’s
scathing remarks regarding “that person, Miss Douglas.”

“Hush, Viola!” Brownie said, quietly, yet again smiling at the child’s
naïve remark. “Shall I tell you what my idea of a fine lady is?”

“Yes, do,” Viola said, eagerly.

“In the first place, it is to be always kind and courteous to every one;
to respect one’s self, so that one would never do a mean or cruel act;
and never to triumph over or hold one’s self above others who may be
less fortunate in life.”

“That’s it! that’s it! I only wish mamma and Isabel could hear you. They
think they are fine ladies, but, dear Miss Douglas, I’d rather be one
after your standard, and I will!” and the impulsive girl threw her arms
around Brownie’s neck and kissed her heartily.

Brownie was afraid she had made a mistake in speaking thus.

She thought it wise now to change the subject, and asked:

“Where did you get such lovely flowers, dear?”

“Oh, I nearly forgot! Wilbur sent them to you, with his compliments,”
Viola said, apologetically, as she gave them to her.

Miss Douglas colored a vivid crimson.

She did not like to take gifts from him, knowing the feelings of Mrs.
Coolidge and Isabel; and, at the same time, she did not like to wound
him by refusing them.

“They are very beautiful, dear, and it is very kind of your brother to
remember me. But there are so many of them, let me fasten this spray in
your hair.”

She took the loveliest cluster of white moss rosebuds from the bouquet.

“There, see for yourself. Is it not an improvement?” she asked, as her
deft fingers wove it among Viola’s golden braids.

“Thank you,” the young girl said, her face beaming with pleasure. “But
you have given me the prettiest you had, Miss Douglas,” she added,
regretfully.

“And why shouldn’t I, dear? I have not forgotten who was so kind and
faithful to a poor, sick, useless little body when we were crossing the
ocean,” Brownie playfully replied, as she kissed the flushed cheek.

She then selected a few flowers for herself, and telling Viola that she
was ready, they both descended to the drawing-room.

A hush of expectation followed their entrance.

Isabel’s eagle eye took in at one sweeping glance the simple elegance of
the governess’ toilet, and her astonishment was plainly visible as she
noticed those two almost priceless ornaments which she wore upon her
bosom and in her hair.

“Indeed, Miss Douglas, I did not expect to see you quite so radiant,”
said Mrs. Coolidge, in cold tones, and wondering where her governess got
such elegant jewels.

Brownie blushed deeply, but replied, courteously:

“Do I not meet your approbation, madam? If not, any change you may
choose to suggest, I will gladly make.”

“They’ll spoil all her pleasure, the vixens,” was Wilbur’s inward
comment, as his eyes gloated upon her wonderful beauty, and gleamed with
a stronger ray of love than he had henceforth dared betray.

Mrs. Coolidge knew she had tied her own tongue by what she had said to
Brownie in her own room, but she inwardly resolved that the same thing
should never happen again.

“Your costume is rather rich for your position,” she remarked, with
well-assumed indifference, “but it is of no consequence for once.”

Then, as they left the house, she whispered to her daughter:

“No one need know but that she is a guest.”

“It’s fine, isn’t it, to have your governess outshine your own daughter?
I do hope this night’s experience will teach you wisdom,” grumbled the
envious girl.




                              CHAPTER XIII
                                A SCENE


Her Majesty’s Opera, Drury Lane, was crowded to its utmost capacity when
our party arrived.

But having secured a private box, this circumstance did not
inconvenience them in the least.

Wilbur Coolidge took care, after his mother and Isabel were comfortably
seated, that Miss Douglas should have a place where she could command a
good view of the stage.

He was disgusted with their treatment of the lovely governess, and
strove by numerous little attentions to atone in part for their
rudeness.

A battery of lorgnettes was immediately leveled at this brilliant
company, and there were numberless surmisings and questionings as to who
the newcomers could be.

In a box not far from the Coolidge party there sat a royal-looking
couple—an old gentleman, still hale and hearty, although upward of
sixty-five, and a matron of perhaps a half-dozen years younger.

By the side of the latter, and assiduously attending to her wants, was a
young man of about two-and-twenty.

It was no other than Adrian Dredmond!

He, too, had leveled his glass as the newcomers settled themselves in
their places.

After one sweeping glance, he half started from his chair, with a low
exclamation of pleasure.

“Whom do you see, Adrian?” asked the lady by his side.

“Some friends who came over in the same steamer with me, I believe,” he
replied, taking another look, and a smile of pleasure curving his fine
lips as his eye rested upon Brownie, who seemed to him in her elegant
robes like some beautiful vision from another sphere.

“Americans?” demanded his companion, preparing to adjust her own glass.

“Yes, your ladyship,” was the quiet response.

“Ah!”

Her ladyship, as she uttered this with a slight accent of contempt,
evidently did not deem them worthy the effort of a glance, and
accordingly turned her glass toward the stage, the curtain having risen
for the first act.

For a time the attention of all was attracted in the same direction.

Brownie sat as one entranced, forgetting the past, and living over again
the exquisite delight which she had so often experienced in by-gone
days.

“You are fond of the opera, Miss Douglas?” Wilbur whispered, when the
curtain at length fell.

“Passionately,” she replied, turning her glowing face toward him; then
added: “And, Mr. Coolidge, you have given me the first bit of unalloyed
pleasure I have had since great misfortune came upon me.”

Her voice quivered, her eyes were dewy, and her breast heaved with the
deliciousness of the hour.

“I would I could henceforth give you every joy of earth,” he murmured,
tenderly, in her ear.

“Wilbur,” his mother said, in cold, hard tones, “will you come and
arrange your sister’s cloak?”

She had watched his every movement, and her heart was in a tumult of
rage at that artful girl for presuming to keep him at her side.

A meaning glance was exchanged between mother and daughter, as she made
her request; and after the cloak was satisfactorily arranged, as he was
about returning to his post, Isabel said:

“Sit down here, Wilbur, and point out to me some of the people whom you
know.”

He pointed out several, when she suddenly exclaimed:

“Why, there is Mr. Dredmond who came over with us, is it not?”

“Yes,” dryly replied her brother.

“I like his appearance very much. I wish you would go and bring him
here, and introduce him to us.”

“What is the use? Any other time will do as well, and it is nearly time
for the curtain to rise again,” he said, impatiently, and with an uneasy
glance toward Miss Douglas.

“Oh, there is plenty of time. Look! he is bowing to you now.”

Wilbur returned the salutation, but did not move, and his mother
exclaimed:

“Do oblige your sister, Wilbur. He is, indeed, a fine-looking young man;
I wonder if he is well connected?”

“Rather. He is grandson to an earl,” was the laconic reply.

“An earl!” ejaculated both mother and daughter, in a breath.

“Yes; so I have lately learned, and, notwithstanding he will succeed to
an earldom upon his grandfather’s death, he is very modest about it, and
prefers to be addressed as plain Mr. Dredmond, rather than ‘my lord.’”

“Wilbur, you must introduce him, by all means. Isabel, who knows what
may happen?” and Mrs. Coolidge, much excited at the intelligence she had
just received, ruffled her feathers with motherly pride.

“There, Wilbur! I do believe he is coming here. He has left his box, and
is coming this way!” exclaimed Isabel, her cheeks flushing a vivid
scarlet at the thought of being introduced to a peer of the realm.

Adrian Dredmond was indeed bending his steps in that direction; but had
those proud women known that it was on account of their despised
governess, and her alone, they would not have been so elated.

Wilbur arose, and met him at the entrance.

“How are you, Coolidge?” exclaimed the young man, heartily, and
extending his hand. “We have not met often of late,” he added.

“No; I have been dancing attendance upon the ladies. Will you come in
and be introduced?”

“With pleasure,” and his eyes lingered upon that graceful figure, clad
in maize-colored silk, seated between the two young girls.

Wilbur lead him first to his mother and Isabel, then presented him to
Viola and Alma, and finally to Brownie, in spite of Mrs. Coolidge’s
warning glance, as she saw what he was about to do.

The young girl’s cheeks kindled to a flame as she laid her daintily
gloved hand in his, and remembered that this handsome stranger, whose
name she had not known until this moment, had held her in his arms, and
so close to his bosom that she had felt the beating of his great heart.

Wilbur noted her rich color, and the shy drooping of her white lids; he
noted, too, the lingering look of admiration which the young man bent
upon her, and a great pain smote his heart—a fear that trouble, and
disaster to his hopes, would follow this introduction.

Mr. Dredmond was invited to a seat by Isabel, and instantly monopolized
by her, while Mrs. Coolidge, much elated at the turn events were taking,
took care that Wilbur did not resume his position near the governess,
but kept him busy answering questions till the opera was over.

Miss Isabel intended that Mr. Dredmond should attend her to the
carriage, but, by some means, in leaving the box, they became separated,
he standing at the entrance until all had passed out.

Brownie being the last one, he offered her his arm to conduct her
through the crowd.

She could not refuse without seeming rude, yet she was keen enough to
perceive that the attention would call down the dire displeasure of her
employer upon her head.

In the lobby they encountered an old gentleman and lady. In an instant
the gaze of the former became riveted upon Miss Douglas.

He stopped in her path.

His face grew ghastly white, his lips twitched nervously, and he
breathed as if terribly agitated.

Brownie lifted her eyes, and was startled at his appearance. It seemed
to her as if she was confronting a madman. He bent toward her until his
quick breath smote her cheek. He did not seem to notice her companion;
all his faculties were concentrated upon the startled girl.

He lifted his shaking hand and touched with one finger that glittering
cross upon her bosom.

“There is but one cross like that in the world,” he muttered. “Girl,
girl, where did you get it?” he demanded, hoarsely.

Before she could collect her scattered senses to reply the crowd surged
in between them; the old man was borne one way, Brownie and her
companion the other, and she only caught one more glimpse of a pair of
deep, fathomless eyes, filled with keenest pain, a white, set face, its
lips livid and rigid.

Then she found herself in the fresh, cool air, and Adrian Dredmond
saying, in tones of apology:

“You will excuse him, Miss Douglas; he is an old man.”

“Certainly; but he startled me somewhat,” she answered, drawing a deep
breath; and before she could ask if he knew who the strange gentleman
was, she found they were beside the Coolidge carriage.

“Really, Miss Douglas, is it you at last? You have kept us waiting until
we are tired,” exclaimed Isabel, peevishly.

“I hope you have not been troubled, Mr. Dredmond,” apologized Mrs.
Coolidge, graciously, and giving Brownie a withering look.

“Oh, no; it has given me pleasure to attend Miss Douglas,” blundered the
young man, saying the very worst thing possible.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs. Coolidge, but the crowd
detained us, and my cloak caught upon one of the seats,” explained
Brownie.

“Crowd, indeed! I’ve seen governesses before this who liked to flirt,”
sneered the irate Isabel under her breath.

Both Mr. Dredmond and Miss Douglas caught the insolent words, and they
aroused all the fire in the young girl’s blood.

With the air of a queen, she turned, as she was about entering the
carriage, and holding out her little hand, she said to Mr. Dredmond.

“Thank you, Mr. Dredmond, for your kindness, and good-night.”

He bowed low over her hand, then assisting her to enter the carriage,
lifted his hat to the others and turned away, but not before he had
noted the menacing looks cast upon the poor little governess for her
audacity.

“Miss Douglas, please step this way one moment,” Mrs. Coolidge
commanded, in icy tones, upon entering the house.

She led the way toward the library, Brownie following with head erect,
and a mien which even the fashionable and imposing Mrs. Coolidge could
not subdue.

“I wish it distinctly understood, Miss Douglas,” the matron began, with
a look which would have annihilated the young girl had she possessed
less of the spirit of heroes within her, “that hereafter you are to
receive no attention from gentlemen while you remain in my employ. Miss
Isabel’s prospects are not to be interfered with by you.”

Brownie’s red lips curled with scorn.

She met her glance proudly and without the quiver of a nerve.

“Mrs. Coolidge, I have not the slightest desire to interfere in any way
with Miss Coolidge’s prospects. The occurrence of this evening was
wholly unpremeditated as far as I am concerned. But, madam, I wish it
distinctly understood upon my part, that if the insults to which I have
been subjected to-night are ever repeated I shall consider my connection
with you at an end.”

Mrs. Coolidge could have strangled her as she stood there in her proud
beauty, but she began to be a little afraid of her as well.

“Really, Miss Douglas, it seems to me you are assuming a great deal for
a dependent,” returned the woman, haughtily.

“I recognize the fact, madam, that I am in a measure dependent upon your
favor; but I am also aware that my services are of no small value to
you. When I consented to take charge of your daughters’ education, I did
not consent to forfeit my self-respect by quietly submitting to any
abuse from any member of your family.”

Brownie’s tone was very quiet, but very clear and firm.

“What am I to understand by this language from you, Miss Douglas?”
demanded Mrs. Coolidge, nearly choking with anger.

“That I expect due consideration from yourself and family, while I in
turn render you all proper respect. I wish you good-night, madam.”

With a courteous inclination of her bright head, Brownie turned and
walked from the room with the air of an empress.

Mrs. Coolidge stood looking after her for several minutes in utter
amazement.

“Who is the little vixen, I wonder?” she ejaculated, when she had
recovered her self-possession somewhat. “She is evidently far above her
station; and, judging from her appearance to-night, she must have moved
in society equal to any into which we are received.”

But that lady knew, as the young girl had said, that she was invaluable
to her.

Already her younger daughters were acquiring a fluency of speech and an
elegance of manner which delighted her, and she felt that it would not
do to part with her cultivated governess for any light consideration.

She knew it would be very difficult to find any one, while they were
abroad, who would prove as useful in every respect as Miss Douglas, and
she resolved to swallow her wrath, and keep her at all hazards, unless
Wilbur should fall in love with her.

At all events, one thing was settled—Miss Douglas should be seen no more
in company.




                              CHAPTER XIV
                           ISABEL’S DISCOVERY


A few days later Brownie donned her hat and jacket, and went out for a
stroll.

She had been very brave and defiant while confronting Mrs. Coolidge, but
the reaction followed immediately, and she had been sad and low-spirited
ever since.

She felt so alone in the world—so weary of this loveless life.

It was evident that she was looked upon as a mere machine, fit only to
make herself obliging and useful.

To be sure, there had been no more unkind or insolent speeches, for
Isabel had been warned by her mother that Miss Douglas was so extremely
high-spirited that she would not submit to them; but their manner to her
was so arrogant and overbearing that it was absolutely painful to be in
their presence.

She was thinking of it to-day as she went out, and try as she would to
rise above it, to feel that it was beneath her to notice anything so low
and ignoble, yet it did sting with a keenness which was very hard to
bear.

She almost began to long for the old days in the straw factory, and the
independence of being her own mistress again even though she was obliged
to live less luxuriously and work more laboriously.

She walked briskly on for a mile or two, past elegant residences, modern
villas, and ancient halls, wholly unconscious of the more direful
calamity which would befall her upon her return—of the fearful cloud
about to burst above her head.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Isabel Coolidge had, so to speak, been dying of envy ever since the
night of their attendance at the opera.

How did Miss Douglas happen to have such elegant apparel? Where did she
get such wonderful jewels?

She did not believe her mother’s theory that she had been suddenly
reduced from prosperity to poverty.

“Mamma, I tell you I don’t believe the girl came by them honestly,” she
said one day.

“Why, child, you do not mean to say that you believe the girl is a
thief?” exclaimed her mother, aghast.

“It is an ugly word, I know, but you said yourself that you considered
her artful.”

“Yes, I think she is about attracting the attention of gentlemen;
although, with her drooping eyes and unconscious manner, one less versed
in the ways of the world would say she was the impersonation of
modesty.”

“I hate such prudish airs, and I do not think there will be any harm in
watching her.”

Since Adrian Dredmond’s evident attraction toward her on the night of
the opera, she had resolved that Brownie Douglas and she should not live
long in the same house.

With these thoughts continually in her mind, she had kept up a constant
espionage upon the governess’ actions, and to-day, when she saw her
leave the house, equipped for a long walk, she concluded that the right
time had come to carry out certain plans which she had formed.

Watching her opportunity, when no one was about, she slipped quietly
into Miss Douglas’ room, and locked the door after her.

She had never deigned to enter there before, and she was now surprised
to find how tastefully everything was arranged.

She noticed the few choice pictures upon the walls, and here and there
an exquisite little statuette or article of bronze—those relics of
Brownie’s beautiful home in Philadelphia, which she dearly loved.

She went to her dressing-case, and was surprised at the elegance of her
toilet appurtenances. She had none so rich!

One little thing in particular struck her.

It was an exquisite case of Russia leather, with the initials “E. H.”
engraven in gilt upon its handle.

She opened it, and an exclamation of delight escaped her.

Within were six tiny flasks of cut glass, with gold stoppers, filled
with choicest perfumes, upon each of which the same letters were cut.

“Ah, ha! ‘E. H.,’ that does not stand for Mehetabel Douglas!” she said,
with a sinister smile.

She took them out, one by one, removing their gold stoppers and inhaling
the delicious perfume with which they were filled.

Suddenly her attention was attracted by a folded paper in the bottom of
the case.

She took it up, opened it, and read, in a gentleman’s handwriting:


“My Darling: To-morrow will be our wedding day. I cannot come to you
to-day, as I promised, but I send my little gift to help grace your
table. I pray Heaven that the fragrance which this little case contains
may be but the emblem of your future life with me. Ever thine,

                                                              “WILLIAM.”


Could it be that Miss Douglas had been rich, and about to be married,
and then disappointed?

There was no date, and no name but that of William, to give the prying
girl any clew as to the author of the note.

No, this could have been no wedding gift intended for her, or the
initials would have been different.

She replaced the note, also the bottles, and then turned her attention
to other things, but becoming more and more convinced of Brownie’s
dishonesty.

She opened the bureau drawers, and was surprised to find several other
articles marked with the same initials.

Two or three sets of undergarments, trimmed with costly laces and
embroideries, a couple of handkerchiefs, which made her eyes water to
look at them, an emerald ring and a pearl pin.

She found Brownie’s jewel-box, containing only a few plain articles of
jewelry, and one or two sets of jet, which she had purchased since her
aunt’s death, and the cuff button, the mate of which was in Adrian
Dredmond’s possession.

But the jeweled cross and hair ornament were not to be found there.

“I wonder where she keeps them?” Miss Coolidge soliloquized, as, after
examining all the drawers, she turned her gaze about the room.

Her eye fell upon a large writing-desk, which stood upon a table at the
further side of the room.

She went over to it, and tried to raise the lid.

It was locked, and the key removed.

Brownie’s keys, which were held together in a bunch by a steel ring,
hung by one of their number in the trunk from which she had taken her
evening dress on the night of the opera.

Isabel’s quick eye soon caught sight of them, and, with a cry of
pleasure, she darted across the room to secure them, then returned to
the desk, and finally succeeded in fitting the right key in its lock.

The desk, in itself, was nothing remarkable, for it had seen long usage,
but its contents were rare and lovely.

A golden penholder and pen lay within; also an elaborate paper knife of
the same metal; a silver paper weight of exquisite workmanship and
design; a seal of onyx, in which blazed a huge ruby; besides several
other things; and all these were marked with the same initials, “E. H.”

Isabel lifted the inner lid, and, behold! the casket of ebony, inlaid
with pearl, which Miss Mehetabel had given Brownie on that last day of
her life, was within.

There were also several packages of letters and papers, but to these she
paid no heed.

“I have found them,” she cried, and was about to seize the casket, when
she caught the sound of a footstep outside the door.

Her heart stood still with fear, and cold chills crept down her back.

She had not dreamed that Miss Douglas would return so soon, for she had
heard her tell Alma she would be gone for an hour or more.

She would not be caught in this contemptible act for all the jewels in
the queen’s crown, and she began to look about for some way of escape.

A hand was laid upon the doorknob, and it turned. A moment’s silence,
and it was tried again—this time with more force.

Then a voice called:

“Miss Douglas, please, may I come in a moment?”

It was Viola’s; and Isabel grew faint with a sense of relief, but she
stood silent, scarcely daring to breathe, lest she should be heard, and
her sister insist upon coming in.

Presently she heard Alma call out:

“Viola, Miss Douglas is not there; she has gone out for a walk.”

Then the steps moved away, and the guilty girl was obliged to sit down
to gather strength, before she could continue her investigations.
Cowardice and guilt are inseparable.

She dare not wait long, however, and soon turned her attention to the
ebony casket again.

Fortunately for her, the little golden key, with its curious chain
attached, was in the lock.

Brownie had forgotten to clasp it about her neck again after replacing
the jewels.

As she was about turning the key she hesitated, while a feeling of her
own meanness stole over her.

“If I didn’t mistrust the girl, I wouldn’t do it,” she apologized to
herself. Then she added: “If she is not what she pretends, of course, it
is better for us to know it before the girls become contaminated; but if
I do not discover anything, why, then it is all right.”

With this bit of doubtful sophistry in her mind, she turned the key and
lifted the lid.

The sight which greeted her dazzled her, even as it had Brownie when she
had first looked upon those treasures.

There lay the coral cross and the butterfly hair ornament, for which she
had been seeking, but she almost lost sight of them while gazing upon
those others, of tenfold more value and beauty.

“Now I know she is a thief!” murmured the astonished girl, when she had
somewhat recovered from her surprise. “It is not possible,” she added,
“that any girl of her age, outside of royalty itself, could ever be the
rightful possessor of such magnificence as this. Why, there is a fortune
here,” she went on; “and no one need tell me that a girl would choose to
work for her daily bread when she has the means of living in luxury in
her possession. But no, it is evident that she has stolen them, and does
not dare to sell them for fear of detection. Yes, and she must have
stolen all those other things marked ‘E. H.’ What a creature we have
been harboring! I imagine Wilbur and Mr. Dredmond will not think her
quite so charming when they come to know that her dainty hands have been
guilty of kleptomania. How exquisite,” she said, bending over them and
touching the precious stones with her white fingers. “This diamond
necklace is fit for a princess. But what shall I do about them?” she
asked, after she had inspected them all. “If she has stolen them, as I
do not doubt she has, they certainly ought not to be left in her
possession. I will take them to mamma, and ask her what shall be done
with them.”

With this decision arrived at, Isabel closed the lid of the casket,
remarking its beautiful inlaid cover as she did so; then, removing it
from the desk, she shut and locked that, and restored the keys to the
trunk where she had found them. Then she sped swiftly to her mother’s
boudoir, devoutly hoping that Brownie would not return until she had
displayed her treasures to her, made her explanation, and they could
decide what was best to be done about the matter.

If the truth had been known, the meddlesome girl had a secret longing to
possess the jewels herself.




                               CHAPTER XV
                         A TERRIBLE ACCUSATION


Mrs. Coolidge looked up with a frown, as Isabel entered the room.

“What have you there?” she demanded, as she caught sight of the casket
which her daughter carried.

“You remember, mamma, what I said about Miss Douglas being the possessor
of such elegant jewels?” said Isabel, not heeding the question.

“Yes; you said you did not believe she came by them honestly. Why?”

“I am sure of it now. Look here!”

She suddenly threw back the lid of the casket, and placed it in her
mother’s lap.

“Merciful heavens, child! Where did you get these? Ah!” she continued,
as Isabel did not reply, “here are the very ornaments which Miss Douglas
wore the other evening.”

She looked up at her daughter, and the two read each other’s faces in
silence for a moment.

“You do not mean to tell me that you found all these in her possession?”
she at length asked, in a low tone.

“I do, mamma,” Isabel said, impressively.

“But how did you happen to discover them? Surely, my daughter, you have
not been guilty of prying into her things during her absence,” said Mrs.
Coolidge, gravely.

Isabel colored violently.

“I have, mamma. I should think it was time some one investigated
matters, when we have a governess in the house possessing such
treasures. I believed her guilty of theft, and I was determined that the
girls should not remain under her influence if anything could be proved
against her. So I set myself to work; and I think when you have examined
the contents of that box, and hear what I have to tell you, that you
will conclude that she is no fit instructress for your daughters.”

“Isabel, I am afraid you have done a very unwise thing,” remarked her
mother, thoughtfully, with her eyes still fixed upon the jewels.

“How so?”

“We cannot prove that she stole a single article in her possession.”

“Why, she has quantities of beautiful things, marked with the initials
‘E. H.’”

And Isabel explained about the case of golden-stoppered perfumery
flasks, and the contents of the writing-desk; also about the note.

“If she is light-fingered, you don’t want her here; she’ll be adding to
her stock by approaching our treasures,” concluded the heartless girl.

“No; if she is that kind of a person, she ought not to be allowed to
remain.”

“Well, do you believe that any girl in her circumstances could be the
honest possessor of that fortune?” Isabel asked, pointing toward the
gleaming jewels.

“N-o, I’m afraid not. Yet I dislike, of all things, that you should have
got them in the way you have.”

Mrs. Coolidge took up the diamond necklace, and it sparkled in her hands
like huge drops of dew in the sun.

“Very well; I will replace them at once, mamma, if you think best, and
we will say no more about it,” replied her daughter, cunningly.

She had noticed the avaricious gleam in her mother’s eyes as they
contemplated their beauty, and she knew she would give as much to
possess them as she would herself.

“That would never do, my daughter. I should not rest easy while there is
a suspicion against Miss Douglas’ honesty in my heart. There is only one
thing to be done now.”

“What is that?”

“We must demand an explanation of her immediately upon her return.”

“Of course, she has a trumped-up story of some kind; she is too artful
not to be prepared for us.”

“She will have to prove her property, my dear. At all events, I shall
advise her to dispose of them in some way. It is not proper for a
governess to have such valuables.”

“Perhaps she would sell them to us, mamma,” said Isabel, a greedy look
in her eyes. “That tiara would be vastly becoming to me.”

“They are the most exquisite jewels I have ever seen in my life, and the
settings are peculiar. But what is there underneath? Have you looked,
Isabel?” Mrs. Coolidge asked, finding the velvet bed was movable.

“No; I was so startled at finding such an array that I did not stop to
make any further investigations, but brought them directly to you.”

Mrs. Coolidge lifted the velvet bed.

“What have we here?” she exclaimed, as she saw the enameled locket
studded with diamonds.

With breathless curiosity she touched the spring, and it flew open,
revealing the face of Lord Dunforth.

“Who can it be, mamma?” asked Isabel, with wonder-wide eyes.

“I do not know; no one who belongs to Miss Douglas, I fancy, from his
looks. How strangely he is dressed—like some court gentleman.”

“And what is this?” said Isabel, taking up the card that lay beneath.
Then she cried out. “Why, mamma, it is a dancing list, and look! here
are the names of counts and lords! Do you believe now that Miss Douglas
ever came by these things honestly?” she demanded, in tones of triumph.

“No, Isabel, I do not,” returned her mother, with firmset lips; “and I
shall inquire into it immediately on her return.”

“What could a young girl eighteen years old—a poor girl without a penny,
too, and who had never been out of her own country before, know of lords
and counts?”

The idea was absurd.

There was a mystery about the whole thing, a tantalizing mystery, which
both women were eager to solve.

Evidently Miss Douglas had seen better days, they reasoned, or she could
never have received the excellent education she possessed; but then any
enterprising person in moderate circumstances could acquire that under
the training of the first-class schools which are found in most of the
larger cities of the United States.

While these thoughts were passing through the mind of Mrs. Coolidge, she
heard the hall door open and close, and Brownie’s voice in cheerful
conversation with Wilbur.

He had joined her by accident (?) while she was walking, and had made
himself so entertaining and agreeable that the clouds upon her face had
all been driven away.

She tripped gayly upstairs, wholly unconscious of the thunderbolt
awaiting her.

Isabel confronted her as she reached the top stairs.

“Mamma would like to see you in her dressing-room immediately, Miss
Douglas,” she said, haughtily.

She colored at the tone and manner, but, wholly unconscious of any
coming evil, she obeyed the summons as soon as she had removed her hat
and jacket.

She found Mrs. Coolidge sitting cold and dignified in her armchair.

“Be seated, Miss Douglas,” she said, solemnly. “I wish to speak to you
upon a matter of importance.”

Brownie sat down, her clear eyes wide with wonder at her reception.

There was a moment’s awkward silence, the lady of the house hardly
knowing how to commence.

“Ahem!” she began, shifting her glance from the clear, innocent eyes,
which she had thought must have fallen before her accusing look. “Ahem!
Miss Douglas, I have sent for you to ask what may seem a strange
question; nevertheless, I feel it to be a duty to myself and family to
ask it.”

Brownie’s fair face began to change color again.

Mrs. Coolidge noticed it, and her assurance was restored.

“I, of course, expect you to give me a straightforward reply,” she
added, impressively.

The shining brown head was lifted a trifle, her delicate nostrils
dilated, while an unwonted spark lighted those beautiful eyes, which
never for a moment left the matron’s face.

She requested to give a straightforward answer!

When had she ever done otherwise?

“I wish to ask you, Miss Douglas,” Mrs. Coolidge said, coming to the
point at once, and feeling very uncomfortable beneath her look, “if you
have anything in your possession which does not honestly belong to you?”

She now fixed her stern gaze full upon the beautiful face. The battle
was begun, and she was prepared to fight it out.

For an instant all three—for Isabel had returned to the room, and now
stood behind her mother’s chair, where she could watch her rival—could
distinctly hear the ticking of Mrs. Coolidge’s watch, which lay upon the
dressing table at her side.

Then Brownie arose, and stood like an insulted princess before her
inquisitor.

“Madam, I ask—nay, I demand—to know why you put such a question to me!”
she said, in low, firm tones.

Her face had grown white as the narrow linen collar which she wore, and
her eyes burned dangerously.

“You forget yourself, Miss Douglas,” Mrs. Coolidge said, pompously. “It
was I who asked you a question.”

“And I consider such a question an insult, madam!”

“Very well; I expected you would; all people who are guilty of wrong
feel insulted, or appear to, when they are accused.”

“Guilty of wrong! accused! I do not understand you, madam. Of what do
you accuse me?” demanded the young girl, with a proud dignity which her
employer had not expected from her.

She began to feel a little shaky, but she was in for it now, and must go
on.

“I accuse you of having stolen costly articles and appropriating them to
your own use,” she said, solemnly.

“Explain yourself, if you please, Mrs. Coolidge.”

Those brown eyes were almost black now, but her answer was intensely
quiet, and the lovely face like a snowflake.

“Allow me to ask you one question before I explain.”

“Certainly.”

“How came you by those beautiful jewels, those very costly ornaments,
which you wore to the opera last Wednesday evening?”

“They were given to me, madam.”

“By whom?”

“By a very dear friend.”

There was a quiver in the sweet voice, a trembling of the scarlet lips,
but the lovely eyes were bright and tearless.

“How long have they been in your possession?” continued Mrs. Coolidge.

“A little over three months, madam.”

“Mamma, mamma, does not that prove enough?” burst out Isabel,
triumphantly. “Why, she has been with us over two months, and she worked
in the factory three weeks. Who would give a poor girl such jewels as
those?”

Brownie’s only reply to this outburst was a look of ineffable scorn, and
the elder lady went on in a severe tone:

“I fear, Miss Douglas, that your story is against you. When you sought
employment from my husband you were in such circumstances that you were
obliged to toil for your daily bread.”

A proud inclination of her head was all the reply to this query. She
dare not trust her voice just then.

“And you say these jewels were given to you about that time?”

Another bow.

“The rich clothing, and other trifles which you have, were they given to
you also?”

“Yes, madam!”

“And all by this same dear friend?”

A peculiar look accompanied this question, while Isabel’s eyes gleamed
in wicked triumph.

She could see whither these questions were tending, if innocent Brownie
did not.

“They were,” she said.

“Was this friend a gentleman, Miss Douglas?”

For one moment there came into the young girl’s lovely eyes a look of
perplexity and astonishment, followed by one of blank horror.

Then all the royal blood in her Douglas veins sprang to arms!

The rich color surged up from her enraged heart over her neck and face;
up, up, as the full force of this horrible thought nearly drove her mad,
until it lost itself among the bands of shining hair, and tingled to her
fingertips. Then it all receded, leaving her colorless as marble, and,
in her proud indignation, like some avenging spirit.

“Mrs. Coolidge,” she said, in the same quiet, ladylike tones, but they
made the woman shiver notwithstanding, “your language and insinuation is
the grossest insult to me, and again I demand an immediate explanation.”

“Isabel, bring me that box,” said Mrs. Coolidge, pointing to Brownie’s
casket, which stood upon the table behind her.

Miss Coolidge obeyed and Brownie uttered a cry of astonishment as she
saw it.

“How came you by that? Where did you get it?” she said, starting forward
her lips quivering, and a choking sensation in her throat.

Her dear, precious casket, still sacred from the last fond touches of
Miss Mehetabel’s hand, profaned by their ruthless handling!

But all this emotion was but an evidence of guilt in the eyes of those
hard-hearted women.

“Is not that guilt, mamma, if you ever saw it?” whispered Isabel in her
mother’s ear.

She nodded her head sternly, and then turned to face her victim again.

“I will explain, Miss Douglas. The jewels which you wore to the opera
are in this box with others of much greater value. Were these others
given to you?”

“They were.”

“At the same time?”

“At the same time, Mrs. Coolidge.”

“By whom?”

“I decline to answer that question, madam,” came defiantly from the
young girl’s compressed lips.

She had been insulted, abused; she would bear nothing more from them.

They—these evil-minded, jealous women—had gone to her room like thieves
and hunted among her possessions to satisfy their low-born curiosity,
and having found something which they could not clearly understand, they
were determined to make use of it to crush her.

Mrs. Coolidge could scarcely restrain her anger at Brownie’s defiance.
She was very curious to know the history of those jewels, that
attractive picture, and that dancing card with its high-sounding names.

“Am I to understand that you refuse to clear yourself from the suspicion
which rests upon you?” she asked, growing white with anger.

“Madam, I question your right to arraign me before you in this manner,
as I also question your right to enter my room in my absence, pry into
my affairs, and abstract from under lock and key things which belong to
me.”

“Whose picture is this?” demanded Mrs. Coolidge, taking up the jeweled
locket and looking again upon that noble face.

She ignored entirely Brownie’s indignant protest, although she colored
deeply, for she knew that if Miss Douglas owned that box with its
contents she and Isabel were the thieves.

“I decline answering,” said Brownie, firmly.

She could hardly refrain from crying out with pain to see those sacred
relics of a lost love and a shattered life thus profaned by their rude
handling.

“Beware, Miss Douglas; this defiance goes against you, and I fear will
be your ruin if you persist in it,” said the woman, majestically; then
she added, feeling that she needed to make some explanation: “You see
that it is something very unusual for a poor person like you to have
such rich apparel and jewelry in her possession. We invite you to go to
the opera. We do not wish you to wear black, and ask you to wear some
other color. You appear more elegantly clad than any member of my
family, and you tell Viola that it is the simplest dress you have. Now,
what are we to think? Would not any mother having daughters desire to
investigate the matter? You say these things were all given to you at
the same time and by the same person, and only three months ago. Can you
not see how very improbable such a statement appears, when we know that
you have been toiling for your daily bread nearly the whole of that
time? It would have taken a small fortune,” she went on, after an
impressive pause, “from anyone, to buy all these precious stones at one
time, and young girls like you are not in the habit of receiving so much
at once. Why, Isabel thinks herself fortunate to get one piece of
diamond jewelry at a time. Besides all this, I find here a card with the
names of counts and lords upon it. We do not have counts and lords in
America; you have never been abroad before, consequently I know you have
never had any acquaintance with persons of such high degree. Here is
also a glove marked six and a half—I happen to know that you wear a
six.”

This was said with a frowning look at the little white hands, which were
folded in a clasp of pain, and hanging against the folds of her sable
dress.

“You refuse also to give me the name of the young man in the locket.
Now, I can account for all this in two ways only.”

Mrs. Coolidge, as she made this statement, bent her stern gaze upon the
pale face and downcast eyes of the haughty girl before her, and thought
she could see guilt in every feature. She thought she had very cleverly
argued the matter, and paused a moment, well satisfied with herself,
before clinching her point.

“And those are,” she continued, in a hard, unfeeling voice, “you have
either stolen them from some wealthy families with whom you have served,
or——”

“Madam!”

The downcast eyes were raised now, and the fire which flashed from them
seemed almost to sear the heartless woman’s face.

“I dare say, mamma, she was waiting-maid in some rich family, and came
by them in that way,” put in Isabel, spitefully.

“Do not interrupt me, Isabel. Miss Douglas, please wait until I finish
before you make any remarks,” Mrs. Coolidge said, coldly, with a wave of
her hand; then continued: “As I was saying, I think you either stole
them, or you have had relations with some person which would debar you
from ever entering any respectable family, though I cannot conceive how
anyone could be such a fool as to lavish so much upon a——”

“Cease!” came in a hoarse whisper from Brownie’s lovely lips, which had
grown of the color of ashes, and were quivering with insulted pride and
anger, while her heart stood still with horror.

The word checked Mrs. Coolidge, in spite of her insolent self-assurance,
and, bad as her language had been, she was ever after glad that she had
not uttered that last maddening word.

To be accused of theft had been almost more than Brownie could bear.

A Douglas accused of stealing!

But the other insinuation! She had hardly been able to comprehend it at
first.

She grew sick at heart, dizzy and faint, when the woman’s meaning at
length burst upon and nearly crashed her.

For one moment her blood seemed turned to ice, and her brain on fire.

The next, conscious virtue asserted itself.

The proud figure grew more proudly erect, the little head was lifted
with a haughty grace, and Queen Margaret Tudor herself, of whom Miss
Mehetabel had been wont to boast, would have gloried in the majesty of
her appearance.

Then the pained, almost convulsed expression about her delicate mouth
relaxed into a withering smile of scorn.

What were these two base spirits, that she, a Douglas, with royal blood
in her veins, should fear them?

She turned her blazing eyes full upon her accusers, and she found they
could not bear the glance; their eyes dropped guiltily beneath it.

Then, with that mighty calmness in her tones and manner, Brownie said to
Mrs. Coolidge:

“Have you anything further to say to me regarding those jewels, madam?”

“Not unless I can persuade you to confess and make restitution,” she
answered, uneasily.

“I have no confession to make; I have no restitution to make. These
articles of jewelry are legally mine—how, I do not intend to explain to
you, either now or at any other time. The manner in which you or your
daughter became possessed of them does you infinite credit; it is an act
of which doubtless you will be proud all your life. Now, if you please,
I will relieve you of them; and from this moment consider my engagement
with you at an end, as, after such repeated insults I could no longer
remain in your family.”

She reached forth her hand to take the casket, but Mrs. Coolidge
clutched it with the grip of a miser.

“Oh, no, Miss Douglas, you cannot have this again; you have not yet
proved to me that it is yours, and I cannot allow such a valuable
possession to go out of my hands until I am assured who the rightful
owner is.”

She sneered, white with anger, that the girl should dare brave her so.

“You can put on as many grand airs as you choose, miss, but you’ll find
that we know how to take them for just what they are worth,” said
Isabel, scoffingly.

“Mrs. Coolidge, that box and all its contents are mine, and I demand
that you yield it up to me,” Brownie said, sternly, fully aroused.

“Hear the minx, mamma; do dismiss her instantly,” cried Isabel, angrily.

“You cannot have them, Miss Douglas, until you prove that they are
yours,” returned Mrs. Coolidge, firmly, and she closed the box with a
snap.

“Then I shall be obliged to take legal measures to obtain them,”
returned the young girl, with decision.

“Ha, ha! hear her, mamma. She speaks like a princess, and she says she
shall consider her engagement with you at an end, as if that were a
matter she only can decide,” cried Isabel, actually quivering with rage.

Brownie noticed her by neither word nor look.

Addressing Mrs. Coolidge again very gently, she said:

“Once more, madam, will you give up my property?”

She spoke so imperatively that for a moment the woman was staggered, and
began to think she had better yield the point, for, if the girl should
call in official aid, it might make things very awkward and unpleasant.

Isabel saw her mother’s indecision, and, stooping, she whispered in her
ear:

“Don’t you do it, mamma; wait until papa comes, at least.”

“You prize them very highly?” Mrs. Coolidge asked, after a moment’s
thought.

“I do.”

“They are not suitable for you to wear in your position; you are
poor—could you be persuaded to part with them for a consideration?”

A sudden idea had come to her that if she could persuade the governess
to sell them, they would hush the matter up among themselves.

She was greedy for the jewels, and was determined that they should not
go out of her hands if she could help it.

“What do you mean by ‘a consideration,’ madam?” asked Miss Douglas, in a
peculiar tone.

“Why, if I should pay you something handsome for them, and pledge myself
to say nothing more about the matter, would you give them up?”

“Really, Mrs. Coolidge, you are very discriminating in your ideas of
honesty. You assert that I have stolen property?”

The woman’s face grew crimson with rage at this shaft.

“You can leave the room, Miss Douglas, your insolence is insufferable,”
she cried, rising and pointing with her shaking finger to the door.

“You understand me, madam; I shall take the law, unless you give me my
property,” returned the young girl, calmly confronting her, and taking
no notice of her command.

“Take the law, then; you’ll have a fight of it, if you do, let me tell
you, for no one will believe the tale of a governess, who has been
dismissed for unworthy conduct. Now, go!” cried the irate woman, almost
beside herself with passion.

Brownie uttered no words, but walked like a queen from the room; but
once within her own, she broke down utterly.

To lose those treasures, which had been the silent companions of her
heart-broken aunt during all those lonely years, and around which
clustered so much of hope and despair, was more than she could bear.

The little chain, too, with its golden key, which her aunt had told her
to wear as long as she lived, that, too, was in the power of those cruel
women.

She grew nearly wild over the thought of her loss.

She must have them again—she would have them, but how to get them was
the question.

She realized all the difficulties which lay in her path.

She was a stranger in this foreign land, without a friend outside the
family to whom to turn in her hour of need.

If she should take the law, as she had threatened, no one would believe
the story, as Mrs. Coolidge had said.

Only Isabel and her mother knew anything of what had just transpired,
and if they should deny her statement, how could she help herself, and
who, indeed, would believe that a poor governess owned such valuables?

The more she thought the more hopeless her case seemed to become.

Once her thoughts turned involuntarily to Adrian Dredmond; perhaps he
would help her.

But her maidenly delicacy recoiled from seeking aid from him, a
stranger.

Where should she go? What should she do?




                              CHAPTER XVI
                          DECLARATION OF LOVE


While Brownie was weeping out her misery alone, and trying to plan what
was best for the future, Isabel Coolidge and her mother were examining,
more at their leisure, the beautiful ornaments, which had so excited
their admiration and astonishment and which they both began now to
covet.

Isabel tried the effect of each separate piece upon herself.

To do the two women justice, they really believed that the jewels had
been stolen.

“Mamma, this tiara of opals, pearls, and diamonds will be just the thing
for me to wear next Wednesday night at Lady Peasewell’s; see how
becoming it is.” And Isabel turned from the mirror, where she had been
catering to her vanity for the last half hour.

“It is lovely, my dear; but I doubt whether your father will be willing
you should wear it. His ideas are peculiar, you know.”

“He won’t be here, mamma. You know he said he should not be home for a
week or ten days; so he need not know anything about it.”

“I am at a loss to know whether it is best to tell him anything about
this affair,” said Mrs. Coolidge, musingly.

“But what excuse will you give him for bouncing Miss Douglas?” asked
Isabel, who had a taste for using slang once in a while.

“Her insolence to me ought to be a sufficient reason, I think,” her
mother answered, flushing as she recalled the governess’ keen shafts and
haughty manner.

“No one knows anything of the matter but you and I; why not keep still
about it?” urged Isabel, eagerly.

“My only fear is, that she will take the law, as she threatened, and
then your father would have to know about it. Besides, he will be very
angry at the way we gained possession of them, and then there will be no
end of trouble.”

She very well knew that if that day’s doings became known to her
honorable husband he would insist upon her returning the casket to Miss
Douglas, and tell her that she was meddling with what was none of her
business.

She began to fear that she had been rash in pursuing the course she had,
and she heartily wished that Isabel had kept her meddlesome fingers at
home. And yet, every time her eyes rested upon the glittering wealth
with which her daughter was toying, the desire to possess them became
stronger.

“Pshaw!” returned Isabel, “she’ll never dare take the law, and, if she
does, who will believe her, providing the jewels cannot be found, and we
are very much astonished and indignant at being accused of taking them
from her!”

The two women gazed at each other in silence for a moment.

“Isabel, you would not dare do such a thing—it would be stealing and
lying,” said her mother, in a whisper.

“Oh, no, mamma; you are too conscientious altogether,” returned the
girl, shrugging her shoulders, and trying on Miss Mehetabel’s beautiful
engagement ring at the same time. “We both agree,” she went on, “that
they have already been stolen, and we only take possession of them for a
little while, until we can find the true owner. I’m sure I would give
them up at once if we could find the person whom they belong to. Of
course, if we should acknowledge that we have them in our possession we
should have to give them up, and, whether Miss Douglas proved her
property or not, we should lose them. At any rate, let us hold on to
them, and wait a while to see what she will do.”

“I am afraid it will not do for you to wear them, Isabel; you may meet
the very person to whom they belong, here in London.”

“So much the better, then, mamma; we shall know that we did right in
taking them from Miss Douglas, and can make our explanations and restore
them. It strikes me that my suggestion is a very wise one, after all,”
concluded the artful girl, who was determined to keep the jewels.

“You may be right, but I don’t feel exactly easy about the matter; above
all things, don’t let Wilbur know anything about it,” returned Mrs.
Coolidge, fearing more and more that there might be trouble ahead for
them.

“No, indeed, mother, and, as I began this business, I’ll take charge of
these jewels, and you need know nothing about them, if your conscience
is troubling you.”

Isabel replaced the jewels in the casket, shut it, and, with a laugh,
started for her own room.

As she opened the door, which had stood ajar ever since Brownie went
out, she encountered Wilbur, face to face.

She would rather have faced an alligator at that moment.

“What is it you don’t wish Wilbur to know, and what jewels are you
talking about?” he smilingly demanded, as he barred her passage.

He had come up just in time to hear their last remarks.

“That is my secret,” she replied, trying to turn the matter off
playfully, though her heart was beating like a trip-hammer.

“Are they in that box? Let me see.”

Before she hardly knew what he was about, he had taken it from her and
opened it.

“Where did you get these?” he asked, in great surprise.

“They are borrowed,” Isabel replied, giving her mother a significant
look.

“Borrowed! who could lend such a valuable collection as this?” he asked,
beginning to feel, from their appearance, that all was not right.

“Ah,” he added, with a start, after he had examined them more carefully,
“here are those ornaments which Miss Douglas wore the other evening. Do
the others belong to her, too?”

They saw that it would be useless to try to keep their secret from him,
and little by little he drew it all from their reluctant lips. A more
indignant mortal never trod the earth than Wilbur Coolidge when he got
at the truth of the matter.

He demanded that the jewels be returned at once to Miss Douglas, and a
suitable apology made for their insulting treatment of her.

An angry scene ensued, which Mrs. Coolidge finally put an end to by
coming forward, taking the casket from her son’s hand, and locking it
within her husband’s safe, which stood in the room.

“Now, Wilbur, be so kind as to hold your tongue,” she said, angrily,
“you have made a fool of yourself with this girl. I intended to keep
these things until your father returns, and see if he believes a poor
governess came by these things lawfully.”

“You women are regular tyrants, and I reckon when father does return
there will be a different state of things,” he replied, with flashing
eyes.

“Oblige me by dropping the subject, my son; you are interfering in what
does not concern you in the least,” returned Mrs. Coolidge, coldly.

“I shall make it my business, madam, mother mine, just as soon as the
law will allow, if the poor, abused darling will let me,” he muttered,
as he angrily left the room.

He watched for Brownie to come down all the evening, but she remained in
her own room, too utterly miserable to desire to meet anyone.

Viola and Alma inquired for her at tea time, but were told that she was
indisposed, and would not come down.

Viola afterward stole upstairs with a cup of tea and a tempting plate of
cold chicken and toast, but Miss Douglas’ door was locked, and she could
not gain admittance, so she was forced to take it back again to the
dining-room.

The next morning Mrs. Coolidge and Isabel started off on a shopping
expedition, and as the carriage drove from the door, Wilbur rang the
library bell, and desired the servant who appeared to ask Miss Douglas
to grant him a few moments’ conversation. The young man was pale and
excited, and after the servant disappeared, he walked the floor
nervously.

Brownie soon came down, looking haggard and wan, her usually bright eyes
heavy and lusterless, and great dark circles underneath them.

Wilbur hastened forward to meet her as she opened the door.

“My dear Miss Douglas,” he said, flushing deeply, “I do not know what to
say to you, but I am more indignant than I can express at the treatment
you received yesterday.”

Brownie smiled wearily, though her lips quivered at his kindly words. It
was so comforting to be treated civilly.

“Can I do anything for you, Miss Douglas?” Wilbur asked, eagerly, his
heart deeply touched by her sorrowful appearance.

“Thank you; I do not suppose it is in your power to do the one thing I
wish—give me back my jewels, for they are mine, Mr. Coolidge,
notwithstanding it seems improbable for a poor girl to own such
valuables,” she replied, her color rising.

“I do not doubt it in the least,” he answered, impulsively. “I know that
you are truth and purity itself, and, believe me, you shall yet have
your own.”

“Ah! can I?” she interrupted, her face lighting up with its wonted
beauty for a moment.

Oh, how he loved her; and how it thrilled him, that any words of his
should have the power to make her beautiful countenance brighten like
that.

“Yes, you shall have them again,” he said. “I cannot restore them to you
to-day, but just as soon as my father returns I shall acquaint him with
what has happened, and he will see that justice is done.”

“Thank you,” Brownie said, appreciating his kindness, yet fearing that
his mother and sister would outwit him, and influence his father against
her.

“I feel deeply mortified,” he went on, dropping his eyes, “that anyone
who is akin to me should be guilty of doing what my sister did
yesterday; and the treatment which you afterward received—there can be
no excuse for it.”

“Do not speak of it again, Mr. Coolidge; it is past and cannot be
recalled. Your kindness and sympathy have lightened my heart already;
and as I go away, it will be a comfort to know that I have your esteem
and friendship.”

“Go away! What do you mean?” he asked looking up startled.

His mother had not told him that she was going away.

“Surely you do not think that I would remain where my truth and honesty
are called in question!” she replied, with dignity.

“Where will you go?” and his brow contracted with pain.

She could not stay; it were folly to think of it, he knew.

But it was like taking the sun from the heavens to have her go.

“I do not know,” she said, with a sigh, and her tone, so sadly sweet,
moved him to his very soul.

She had been with them less than three months, but during that time she
had grown to be the one woman in the world to him.

He had learned to watch and live upon her every motion and expression,
to listen eagerly for her footsteps and even the soft rustle of her
clothing. The lightest sound of her voice, her very presence, thrilled
him as nothing else had ever done before. He had lived a new life since
her coming. He knew he was a better man for it.

She had stirred into being new motives and purposes, and he was
beginning to think of forsaking this idle way of living, and of trying
to fit himself to be useful in the world, and worthy of her.

And now she was being driven away like a criminal, and insulted by his
own kin.

If she should go away thus, with this dreadful cloud hanging over her,
what would become of her? Who would take her in?

His pulses throbbed wildly; he grew desperate with the thought.

“You do not know? Will you let me tell you where to go?” he breathed,
bending eagerly toward her, his face flushing hotly, and his eyes
glowing with the wild love which moved him.

She looked up a little surprised by his manner, and her clear eyes fell
before his passionate gaze.

“Darling,” he cried, seizing her little hands, “you do not know where to
go? Come to me. My dear, my dear, you do not know how I have learned to
love you since you came like a ray of light into this household. Come to
me, Meta—be my wife, and no stain shall touch you; they shall not dare
to breath aught against you; place your hand in mine, and I will plant
myself between you and all harm. My love, my love, I have found you. I
have seen many fair women, but now I have found my fate, the sweetest
fate man ever found. Say, dearest, will you be my wife?”

She sat before him white, and still, and dumb.

“Brownie, you do not answer me. Will you not crown my life with the
blessing of your love? They shall never harm you. We will go away where
they cannot trouble you by so much as a word. Will you not speak and
give me hope?”

She drew back from him, pained and sorrowful.

“Mr. Coolidge, if I speak at all, it must be to crush all hope of any
such thing as you desire,” she said, sadly, with downcast eyes and
crimson cheeks.

“Meta! Miss Douglas! no!” he cried, hoarsely, his handsome face clouding
with pain.

“Yes, Mr. Coolidge; hard as it is for me to wound you thus, when you
offer me the greatest homage a woman can ever receive—the love of an
honest heart—yet I cannot bid you hope, for I do not love you in
return.”

“You have not had time to think of it. I have startled you with my
abruptness; you do not know your own heart yet,” he said, his lips
growing white and quivering.

“I have not, indeed, had time to think, for I did not at once imagine
that you cherished any such feelings toward me. But my heart does not
respond to yours. No, Mr. Coolidge, I cannot be your wife.”

“Are you sure—are you very sure you can never love me, Meta?” he
pleaded, while great drops came out upon his forehead.

“Quite sure,” she said, firmly, though kindly.

“Brownie, Brownie, when I love you so; when I have listened eagerly for
the sound of your footfall; when even the tone of your voice has been
music to me from the first; when every fiber of my being has twined
itself about you! Oh! it is too cruel; I cannot have it so—only give me
one little ray of hope, and I will wait years, if need be.”

His voice sounded like the cry of the lost, and he caught his breath
with a hard, dry sob, that made the young girl’s heart ache with pity
for him.

She arose from the chair where she had been sitting, and the great tears
rolled swiftly over her flushed cheeks.

“Mr. Coolidge, be assured if I could truthfully speak the words you
wish, I would do so; but it cannot be, and as it will only give us both
pain to meet again, let me say good-by to you here, for I go this
evening. Please accept my thanks for your kindness to me, and let me
still be your friend.”

She held out her hand to him and he took it, his whole frame shaking
with the great bitterness which well-nigh crushed him.

He lifted it to his lips, then broke down entirely, and with one quick
movement, gathered her close in his arms, and pressed his lips to her
white brow.

“My darling, my darling,” he groaned, “forgive me, but you can never
know the wretchedness of this moment to me.”

At that moment the library door sprang open, and Mrs. Coolidge and
Isabel stood upon the threshold.




                              CHAPTER XVII
                                JEALOUSY


With a feeling of utter dismay, Brownie disengaged herself from Wilbur
Coolidge’s embrace, and started to leave the room.

But the two women barred the way, and would not let her pass; while Mrs.
Coolidge demanded, in stern tones:

“Pray, what is the meaning of this affecting scene?”

Wilbur colored deeply, but braced himself for battle.

“Mother—Isabel—let Miss Douglas pass!” he commanded, in a voice as stern
as Mrs. Coolidge’s own.

They dare not disobey him in that mood, and moving aside, Brownie passed
out, and sped swiftly to her own room.

“Now I will answer your questions, if you have any to ask,” the young
man said, folding his arms, and regarding them with a gloomy brow.

“I should like to know how that designing hussy succeeded in entrapping
you into making such a fool of yourself?” said Isabel, furiously.

“Really, Isabel, you are acquiring an elegance of speech at which I am
surprised!” retorted her brother, sarcastically.

“Wilbur, hush! Isabel, keep quiet!” said Mrs. Coolidge, authoritatively.
Then, turning to her son, continued:

“I am astonished, my son, at what I have just witnessed. That girl will
ruin the peace of this family yet.”

“She has ruined it already, as far as I am concerned,” he replied,
moodily; then added:

“But, mother, Miss Douglas is in no way accountable for what you saw. I
alone am to blame. I had just asked her to be my wife——”

“What!” exclaimed both women, aghast.

“Yes; I began to love that beautiful girl the first moment I saw her.
Further intercourse has only served to deepen and strengthen that
sentiment, and to-day I resolved to ask her to be my wife, that I might
shield and protect her from further insult and abuse on your part.”

“Indeed!” said his mother, growing white with anger.

“When is the wedding to take place between you and this lovely beggar?”
sneered Isabel.

“I warn you not to try me too far, either of you!” Wilbur replied, with
a dangerous gleam in his eye; then added:

“You did not permit me to finish my statement. However, I have only to
tell you that Miss Douglas has refused me.”

His mother heaved a sigh of intense relief, and murmured:

“What an escape!”

While Isabel retorted:

“Showed her good sense for once! She probably knew she would not be
received into a respectable family after what occurred yesterday. You
always were a fool when there was a pretty face around.”

“Thank you! But be it known to you both, that if she had so chosen, I
should have made Miss Douglas Mrs. Wilbur Coolidge just as soon as the
law would have allowed,” was the stern reply.

“Now, if you please,” he added, addressing his mother, “I would like you
to write a recommendation for Miss Douglas.”

“A recommendation for what—truth and honesty?” she sneered.

“For her thorough education and superior accomplishments, and her
efficiency and success as a governess,” he retorted, firmly.

“I shall do no such thing!” was the indignant reply.

“Then, mother, mark my words, if Miss Douglas goes away from here
without a recommendation from you, as a good governess, a refined and
cultivated lady, I leave this house also to-day, and utterly refuse to
accompany you farther on your tour. Is it not enough,” he continued,
excitedly, “that you abuse and insult her, prowling about among her
possessions, and appropriating them, without driving her forth from your
home with no means of providing for herself in the future?”

“Of course those jewels do not belong to her, Wilbur—why will you
persist in such nonsense? I honestly believe the girl is a thief!” said
Mrs. Coolidge, impatiently.

“But just suppose the future proves they are her property, who, then,
will be the thief?” he demanded, hotly.

“Why, if she can prove it to me satisfactorily, then I shall have to
yield them up to her, of course,” replied Mrs. Coolidge, flushing, and
not relishing this side of the question.

“Will you give her the recommendation?”

“I suppose I shall have to, in order to keep you with us.”

She dreaded nothing so much as his roaming off by himself.

“Then make it out at once—and a good one let it be, too; for Miss
Douglas leaves to-day.”

“Does she, indeed? I have not dismissed her yet, I believe,” sneered the
irate woman. But she sat down to the table and began to write.

“That will not be necessary, since she has already decided to go.”

“Thank you,” he said, as she handed him what she had written, and he ran
his quick eye over it. “That will do nicely. Now, if you will give me
what you owe her, I will hand both to her at the same time.”

She saw that her son was in no mood to be trifled with, and did as he
requested, although inwardly resolving to be equal with the despised
governess, if ever the opportunity should offer.

Wilbur took both paper and money, and left the room. He went directly to
Brownie’s door, and tapped. She opened it, and he saw that she had been
weeping. The sight filled him with self-reproach.

“Forgive me,” he said, regretfully, “for having added to your
unhappiness by my selfishness. I would have given my right arm rather
than that this should have happened. But,” he added, after a moment’s
pause, “I did not come here to say this; I came to bring you these, that
you might be saved any further unpleasantness,” and he handed her the
money and paper.

“Thank you,” she said, touched by this kindness.

She opened the paper, and read Mrs. Coolidge’s recommendation. It was
all that she could ask, or even desire. She counted the money, and found
that there were five pounds more than were actually due her. A painful
flush overspread her lovely face, as she separated them from the rest of
the money; then, folding it within the recommendation, she passed it
back to Wilbur, saying, briefly, but proudly:

“I cannot make use of these.”

“I understand you,” he said, humbly, “and I cannot blame you; but I
thought in this strange city you would need something of the kind.”

“I do need it—indeed, I do not know how I am to get along without
something of the kind; but, after what has occurred, I could not use
that,” Brownie said, with a weary sigh.

He bowed, but did not press her to take it; then, after a moment’s
thought, he asked:

“Miss Douglas, would you make use of one signed by my father?”

“Yes, and be very thankful for it,” she replied, her eye brightening.

“You shall have it; I will make it my first business to obtain a good
recommendation for you as soon as he returns, and send it to you.”

“Thank you; you are very kind,” and a tear sprang to her eye at his
thoughtfulness.

“When do you go?” he asked, as he was about turning away.

“As soon as I can pack my trunks and send for a cab.”

“Can I help you in any way?”

“If you will order the cab for me, it will save me a little trouble,”
she answered, smiling wearily.

“Anything that I can do will be a pleasure,” he replied, though an
expression of anguish swept over his handsome face as he bowed and left
her.

In two hours she was ready, her trunks strapped and in the lower hall,
waiting for the cab.

With a nearly breaking heart, Brownie sought Viola and Alma to bid them
farewell.

They were deeply distressed at the thought of parting with her,
protesting loudly against it.

Mrs. Coolidge and Isabel ignored her departure entirely, and did not
show themselves, much to Brownie’s relief.

As Wilbur, with clouded brow, and white, compressed lips, assisted her
into the cab, he asked:

“Where to, Miss Douglas?”

“To the ‘Washington’ for the present. It is a good hotel and has a
familiar sound, which seems quite homelike,” she answered, trying to
smile, but he saw that her lips quivered.

She felt inexpressibly desolate and forlorn.

“Then if I address a note to you there within a few days or a week, you
will get it,” he said.

“Yes.”

“May I call?”

“No, Mr. Coolidge, I prefer you should not; it would be wiser not to do
so at present,” Brownie answered, gently, but firmly.

She knew if she gave him permission, it might lead him to hope, and,
besides, it might cause her further trouble if his mother and sister
should discover that he was visiting her.

He colored, wrung her hand, and shut the door; then giving her direction
to the driver, she was whirled away.

Wilbur returned to the house very sore at heart. Life seemed to him very
dark just then; its brightness had all vanished with Brownie.

He went back to the library. No one was there.

He passed on upstairs to his mother’s rooms, and found both her and
Isabel within.

They had been watching his leave-taking of the despised governess, and
now turned upon him, with faces of scorn.

“Now that your inamorata has departed, I hope you will show some common
sense, Wilbur,” his mother said, sharply.

He took no notice of the remark, but handed her the recommendation, with
the money inclosed, in silence.

“What does this mean? Ah! she would take only what was due her, and you
did not give her the recommendation, after all,” she said, in tones of
satisfaction, as her quick eye ran over it.

“I did not give it to her?” cried her son, angrily. “Of course I gave it
to her; but the poor, insulted girl refused to take it; she refused to
obtain another situation upon your recommendation.”

“The upstart! I’d like to box her ears soundly for putting on such
airs!” exclaimed Isabel, spitefully.

“Upstart, indeed! I’ll warrant that there is better blood now in her
veins than ever flowed in ours. She has been born and bred a lady, which
is more than I can say of you. There is some mystery about her, I admit;
but, mark my words, the time will come when both of you will be glad to
cultivate her acquaintance, and when you will rue the day that you, led
on by your curiosity and covetousness, ever meddled with her treasures,
and drove her from your house by your abuse.”

Wilbur Coolidge spoke indignantly and at random, but in after months he
remembered his words, and wondered at the truth of his prophecy.

Before he had concluded there came a rap upon the door.

Isabel opened it.

A servant stood without bearing a silver salver, upon which lay a card.

“A gentleman to see Miss Douglas,” he said, bowing respectfully.

“A gentleman to see Miss Douglas!” repeated Mrs. Coolidge,
contemptuously, while Isabel pounced upon the card and read the name,
“Adrian Dredmond.”

The color flushed over her fair face in a scarlet flood.

“There is some mistake here,” she said, sharply, to her servant.

Then turning to her mother, she added:

“Mamma, it is Lord Dredmond.”

She had persisted in giving him this title ever since she had learned
that he was the grandson of an earl, although Wilbur had repeatedly told
her that he did not care to have it used until he came into his
property. He was very modest about it.

“Of course, there is a mistake,” returned Mrs. Coolidge. “You had better
pay more attention. The gentleman doubtless wishes to see Miss Isabel,”
she said, severely, to the servant.

“Isabel, you must go down and receive him yourself. Find out, if you
can, what he wants of her, and make yourself as agreeable as possible to
him,” Mrs. Coolidge remarked, running her eye critically over her
daughter, to see that everything was all right.

“It is time that minx was out of the way; she seems to have a strange
faculty for bewitching the gentlemen, without appearing to do so,”
muttered Isabel, as she swept from the room, smoothing out her distorted
face, and followed by her brother’s contemptuous glances.

Wilbur himself soon after arose and left.

A jealous feeling was beginning to creep into his own heart, and he
wondered what Adrian Dredmond could want of Brownie Douglas.




                             CHAPTER XVIII
                         AN UNSUCCESSFUL SEARCH


When Isabel entered the drawing-room, Mr. Dredmond arose to salute her;
but an expression of disappointment swept over his fine face, when he
saw Miss Coolidge instead of Miss Douglas.

Isabel approached him, holding out her white hand, and saying,
cordially:

“This is a pleasure, my lord.”

He flushed at the title.

“You mistake, Miss Coolidge,” he said, smiling, as he shook hands with
her, “I am not lord, or, at least, I should say, that I prefer not to
answer to that title at present. While my grandfather lives I prefer to
be only plain Mr. Dredmond.”

“The title suits you, nevertheless,” she answered, sweeping him an
admiring glance, and then drooping her lashes shyly.

“I hope to be worthy of it when it becomes mine,” he replied, gravely,
and wondering why she did not explain Miss Douglas’ absence.

But it was no part of her plan to do so.

She intended to appropriate the call to herself, and make the most of
her opportunity.

Ever since she had learned that he was heir to an earldom she had
resolved to exert all her powers to win him, and become “my lady,” and
now she set herself to work to charm him.

She began chatting in a lively manner, and possessing much native tact,
and a very; pleasing address, she beguiled him out of half an hour
before he was aware of it.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, starting, when he heard the hall clock
strike, “but I wished to see Miss Douglas. I have a little piece of
property belonging to her, which I desire to return.”

Isabel longed to ask what it was, but dare not.

“Miss Douglas!” she said, with elevated eyebrows, and well-assumed
surprise.

“Yes; I inquired for her when I gave my card to the servant.”

“I am sorry there should have been any mistake, Mr. Dredmond,” replied
Isabel, smiling sweetly, but inwardly raging, “but the servant must have
misunderstood, for he brought your card to me; besides, Miss Douglas is
not with us now, she has left.”

“Left! Indeed, I thought she came abroad with you, and intended to
return with you,” he said, in great surprise, and beginning to think
that all was not right.

“I know nothing as to her intentions, Mr. Dredmond, but we have been
pained to discover that Miss Douglas is not trustworthy, and mamma was
therefore obliged to dispense with her services.”

The lie stung her tongue, but she remembered his evident admiration of
Brownie the night of the opera, and she resolved to disenchant him if
possible.

“Not trustworthy!” he exclaimed, aghast.

He would have staked his own honor against hers.

“It is very painful, is it not, Mr. Dredmond, when she appeared so
innocent and was so beautiful?” asked Isabel, with a sad smile.

He did not reply, and she went on:

“But we found that she had been taking that which did not belong to her,
and, of course, mamma could not longer trust the girls under her
influence.”

The artful girl’s tone and manner expressed the deepest regret, but he
was not deceived by it, although her statement of Brownie’s dishonesty
confounded him.

“Impossible!” he ejaculated, with a pained, startled look, and his mind
went back to that moment when her pure face lay one moment upon his
bosom, and when she had lifted her clear eyes, which were like shining
pools of purest water, so trustingly to his, and now he was told that
she was a thief!

“It does not seem possible, I admit,” Isabel hastened to say, fearing
she had been unwise, and not liking the way he had received her
information. “Mamma and I were infinitely shocked when we discovered it,
but the proof was too incontestable, even without her evident guilt, for
us to doubt.”

“Was she—did she confess her—fault?” he stammered.

“Oh, no! such persons never do that, you know; they always put on any
amount of airs, and make a great show of innocence. But, then, we had
the proof right in our own hands.”

“Would you mind telling me what she has done—what proof you have of her
guilt? Perhaps there may be some misunderstanding to which I could
suggest an explanation,” he said, inwardly writhing with pain at her
words.

“Excuse me; but that would not be right, and I fear that I have been
very unwise to speak of it at all. The girl is gone, and I have no wish
to injure her; I only hope she may repent of her folly, and try to do
better in the future. Please forget what I have said, Mr. Dredmond, and
do not remember it against her if you should ever meet her again. I
assure you it is a very painful topic to me.”

After a few moments more spent in general conversation Adrian arose to
go.

“Can you give me Miss Douglas’ present address?” he asked. “I would
really like to return what belongs to her.”

She would not have told him for a kingdom, had she known, but she
replied, with every appearance of kindness:

“How sorry I am, but really I do not know. Indeed, I was so shocked and
disappointed to discover one so young and lovely so old in guilt, that
it did not occur to me to ask where she was going.”

It nettled him exceedingly to have her talk thus; and could she have
read his heart, she would have seen at once that there was little chance
of her becoming “my lady.”

“Should you discover where she is, will you kindly inform me?” he asked.

“Oh, certainly, with great pleasure,” smiled the fascinating hypocrite.

“I still think you will find there has been some mistake, Miss
Coolidge,” he added gravely. “I knew something of Miss Douglas before
meeting her in this country, and the statement you have made regarding
her seems utterly impossible.”

“You!” exclaimed Isabel, her heart bounding wildly. “Did you know Miss
Douglas in America?”

Perhaps, after all, here was the solution of the mystery of those
beautiful gems, and that card with the names of counts and lords upon
it. Had he had anything to do with it?

Her brain reeled at the thought.

She hung breathless on his reply.

“I knew of her, although I never made her acquaintance, until your
brother introduced me at the opera the other evening.”

She breathed more freely now; he had not given Brownie the gems, that
was evident. He knew nothing of the card.

“I have friends who know her intimately,” he went on, watching her
keenly, to mark the effect of his words. “She was a Philadelphian, and
belonged to a very wealthy and honorable family. About a month
ago—perhaps a little more—death and misfortune suddenly deprived her of
everything. She is very highly educated, as undoubtedly you have
discovered, and before the trouble came upon her, she moved in the very
best circles. I speak of this merely to show you why I believe it
impossible for Miss Douglas to be guilty of what you accuse her. I
trust, also, to hear ere long that you have been mistaken.”

And with this thorn planted in Miss Isabel’s conscience, Adrian Dredmond
bowed himself from her presence, leaving her astounded, confused, and
with a heavy weight of guilt upon her heart.

What had she done?

Accused an innocent girl of theft, and stolen a fortune from her; then
driven her forth in disgrace into an uncharitable world to beg her bread
or starve; for likely as not it would come to that since she had no
recommendation wherewith to gain another place.

She sat for an hour in anything but agreeable meditation.

She did not know what to do, or which way to turn in the matter. Had she
known Miss Douglas’ address, she would have hastened to send the casket
to her, and considered herself lucky to be so well rid of it.

“If only Wilbur did not know about it, mamma and I could hide the
jewels, and deny all knowledge of them,” she murmured, in deep
perplexity.

She finally resolved that she would say nothing to any one concerning
what Adrian Dredmond had told her, but keep the matter to herself for a
few days at least; and if the governess did come to demand the jewels
again, she would tell her mother, and persuade her to give them up
quietly and save further trouble.

“At all events,” she added, with a sigh of relief, as she went to her
own room, “she is gone, and I’ve nothing more to fear from her charms.”

Adrian Dredmond left the Coolidge mansion in a fever of impatience and
indignation.

That any one should accuse Brownie Douglas of the crime of theft was
sufficient to drive him wild.

Did he not know that she had been reared with tenderest care? Had she
not the blood of royalty in her veins? and had he not seen her in all
the brightness and purity of her young life, and been assured of her
integrity by his friend Gordon?

How well he remembered that scene in the vestibule of the Art Gallery,
when she had appeared like some beautiful vision to him, with her
bright, sweet face, and clad so richly, yet simply, in her plain black
silk, protected by the linen ulster. How lovely she had looked, with not
a jewel to deck her, excepting that rich coral clasp at the throat.

Her every look, tone and movement had betokened the true lady, both then
and recently, when he had met her at the opera.

That evening, as he sat in his own room, his valet brought him a note.

It was signed by Wilbur Coolidge, and told him that he would find Miss
Douglas at the “Washington.”

As early the following morning as it would do, Adrian Dredmond presented
himself at the “Washington” and inquired for Miss Douglas.

The clerk turned to his book and looked over the names of the new
arrivals.

Hers was not there!

Mr. Dredmond was in despair.

“Are you sure?” he asked, anxiously.

For reply the clerk placed the book before him, and pointed with his
finger to the list of arrivals for the last two days.

It was even as he had said; her name was not there!

For two days after he returned to the “Washington,” making the same
inquiries and receiving the same answer.

No, Brownie Douglas had not been there, and she never came.

He sought her at every respectable hotel in London, but not a trace of
her could he find.

He haunted the streets where genteel lodgings were advertised, but
without success.

On the Sabbath he walked the streets, peering into every young face that
he met, but those clear, brown eyes never greeted his weary search, and
that lovely face was but a vision in his memory.

Monday he went to Wilbur and told him of Miss Douglas’ strange
disappearance, and his fruitless search for her; and the young man was
nearly distracted himself.

“They have driven her to death, curse them!” he muttered, fiercely, and
he told Adrian the story of the jewels.

His father had returned unexpectedly, and he acquainted him also with
the facts of the case.

A scene ensued which was long remembered by both Isabel and her mother,
while Mr. Coolidge spared no trouble or expense to find the unfortunate
girl.

Wilbur had been so bound up in his own sorrow that he had paid no
attention to the number of the cab in which Brownie had gone away,
neither had he noticed the driver; so that although he sought out and
questioned every cabby that he could find, he could gain no clew to the
missing girl.

Mr. Coolidge advertised and engaged a detective to look her up, while
Adrian Dredmond and Wilbur haunted the streets day and night, but all to
no purpose.

Beautiful Brownie Douglas—abused, insulted, friendless—seemed to have
dropped out of existence as completely as a star when it falls from its
place in the heavens!




                              CHAPTER XIX
                        A STARTLING RECOGNITION


Meanwhile the day for Lady Peasewell’s drawing-room dawned.

Isabel Coolidge spared no pains or expense to make herself captivating
for the occasion, and she succeeded admirably.

Her father’s unexpected return, and his anger at her own and her
mother’s treatment of Miss Douglas, had threatened to upset all her
plans, however.

He demanded that the jewels be brought to him, and another exciting
scene ensued over them.

It must be confessed that he was somewhat confounded himself when he
beheld them, and a feeling of doubt entered his mind regarding Brownie’s
honesty; but he would not confess it to his family, and censured them in
no light terms for the dishonorable way in which they had become
possessed of the rare stones.

It all ended in angry tears on the mother’s and daughter’s part, and in
his taking charge of those unfortunate trinkets which had caused so much
trouble, and locking them securely in his safe.

Isabel dawdled away the morning in a state of fretful unhappiness, and
declared to herself, over and over again, that her appearance would be
ruined without the governess’s jewels.

After dinner, however, her father complained of a raging headache; two
hours later he was in a high fever, and all thoughts of his attending
the evening’s festivities were relinquished.

From that moment Isabel’s spirits rose, the clouds vanished from her
brow, and she was even heard humming a gay opera air.

“Wilbur can act as our escort, mamma; so we shall be all right,” she
said, when her mother complained of the circumstance as spoiling all
their pleasure.

“I have no heart for it, and would not go myself, were it not on your
account,” she replied, wearily.

Her husband’s displeasure, and the fate of the missing governess, still
weighed heavily on her conscience.

A few hours later she and Wilbur were waiting in the drawing-room for
Isabel to make her appearance.

“Does my amiable sister contemplate a brilliant conquest to-night, that
she is so long making her toilet?” sneered the young man, who had been
pressed into the service, and was impatient of the delay.

“Do speak a little more kindly of Isabel, my son,” said Mrs. Coolidge,
adding, with a heavy sigh: “In all probability she will marry some day,
and it is desirable that she should make a good match.”

“Certainly; only there may be a difference of opinion as to what a ‘good
match’ is,” he returned, sarcastically.

“I consider any one who occupies a good position in the world, and who
has plenty of money, an eligible _parti_.”

“Regardless of either heart, brain, or principles,” interrupted Wilbur
cynically.

“Why will you be so disagreeable, Wilbur? Of course, I expect your
sister will exercise good judgment in the matter, and I have no fear of
her letting herself down, or losing her head by any silly nonsense,”
retorted Mrs. Coolidge, pointedly.

Wilbur understood her insinuation perfectly, but would not notice it
enough to reply, and just then the rustle of rich, trailing garments was
heard upon the stairs.

A moment later the door opened, and Isabel entered.

There was an instant’s silence as both mother and son turned to
contemplate her.

“Isabel!” exclaimed the former, in tones of gratified pride.

“Whew!” whistled her brother, under his breath.

There was cause, truly, for these ejaculations of pleasure and surprise,
for the young girl certainly had the appearance of a queen, and, for the
first time in her life, she was handsome.

Her tall figure was clad in a rich white silk, with raised figures of
golden maize wrought upon it. It fitted her elegantly, and swept out
behind her in a graceful train. It was very simply made, being trimmed
only by a fall of elegant lace from the low-cut corsage and sleeves. Its
very richness was enough in itself.

Her hair was arranged _a la coronet_, around which glistened Brownie’s
lovely tiara of pearls, opals, and diamonds; while upon her neck she
wore the wonderful diamond necklace, from which was suspended the cross
which matched the tiara. Upon her white arms she wore her own bracelets,
which, although not so rich as the necklace, yet went with it very well.

She was absolutely perfect and dazzling, from the crown of her haughty
head to the sole of her elegantly embroidered satin slipper.

“Will I do, mamma?” she asked, enjoying their silent admiration, and
sweeping Mrs. Coolidge a profound courtesy.

“Where did you find those ornaments?” her mother asked, nervously, and
unheeding her question, while Wilbur scowled his disapprobation
savagely.

“Why, you know papa is sick, and it was a very easy matter to get his
keys, unlock his private desk, and get them,” she said, and laughed
lightly, although secretly she was anxious lest there should be another
scene.

“He would be very angry, Isabel, if he knew it,” returned her mother,
trying to speak severely, yet, in her heart, gloating over her
daughter’s magnificent appearance.

“I cannot help it, mamma. I had set my heart upon wearing them; they set
off my dress superbly; and I was bound I would not be disappointed. He
need never know it, for I can return them just as soon as we get home
again, and no one will be harmed,” she replied, wilfully.

“Your sense of honor is extremely delicate, surely, Isabel,” said
Wilbur, mockingly.

“No one asked your opinion, and you can just hold your tongue. I shall
go to Lady Peasewell’s just as I am, and he may help it who can!” she
retorted, rudely, and they knew it would be useless to say anything more
to her.

“Isabel, you do look magnificent!” whispered Mrs. Coolidge, when they
had arrived at Lady Peasewell’s, and were in the dressing-room putting
the last touches to their toilet.

“Don’t I? I tell you this was worth a little finesse,” she replied,
surveying herself admiringly in the double swinging mirrors; and her
mother, in her heart, was glad that she had succeeded in getting the
jewels, although she feared the consequences should the fact be
discovered.

“Who is that queenly girl?” asked a fine-looking young man of another.

They were standing in the doorway leading from the dancing-room to the
conservatory, where they had been watching the dancers for the last ten
minutes.

Isabel had just swept by them in all her elegance, and it was he who had
called forth the above question.

“That is a Miss Coolidge. She is an American, and belongs to a very
wealthy family, who are spending a year abroad.”

“I should judge she did belong to a wealthy family from her appearance.
Why, she has at least a thousand pounds in diamonds on her!” said the
first speaker.

“She is a stunner, eh?”

“She is that. She is the most striking woman present this evening; and
yet, aside from her jewels, her dress is the most simple. Do you know
her?”

“Yes; I have met her several times.”

“Will you introduce me?”

“Certainly, Sir Charles.”

A few moments later, as Isabel was resting after her dance, she saw two
gentlemen approaching her.

“Miss Coolidge, allow me to present Sir Charles Randal, who requests the
pleasure of an introduction to you.”

Sir Charles bowed low, and Miss Coolidge, rising, swept him a graceful
curtsy, and soon after was again circling around the room, supported
upon the arm of a baronet.

She had heard of Sir Charles Randal, but had never seen him before. She
knew he was reputed to be very wealthy, being an only son, and there was
a prospect of more property to come in the future from a rich old aunt.

She had watched long for the appearance of Adrian Dredmond, hoping to
captivate him at once by her charms. But when he did come, he only
noticed her presence by the haughtiest bow, and a scornful curl of his
lips, as his eyes fell upon the jewels she wore. He had never seen them
before, but instinct told him at once that they were the ones which had
caused so much trouble, and he despised her so heartily that she knew at
once that all hope of winning him was useless.

Therefore, after her introduction to Sir Charles, she had said to
herself that the next best thing to a lord was a baronet, and being a
very attractive, noble-looking man, she exerted herself to charm him.

That night was one long to be remembered by Isabel Coolidge!

She was, indeed, as Sir Charles had said, the most striking-looking
woman in the room. Admirers flocked around her, introductions pressed
upon her, men raved about her, and women yielded the palm to her for the
time being; and for once she realized that she was being borne upon the
topmost wave of popularity.

Mrs. Coolidge was in her element, and deemed it the proudest moment of
her life, and the castles which she reared for her daughter in
imagination were of the grandest character.

Sir Charles was evidently very much interested in the fair American, and
certainly if she had only been as pure and beautiful at heart as she
seemed, she would have been well worthy of all the admiration which she
excited.

After his third dance with her he led her away to the conservatory to
rest.

As they were passing through the crowd they met a white-haired,
royal-looking gentleman, who, as his eyes rested upon Isabel, suddenly
paused, started on, then turned back again and gave her a keen,
searching glance, and finally moved on, after bowing to her companion.

“Who was that?” she asked, strangely interested, and vainly attributing
the man’s queer actions to admiration of herself.

“That was his lordship, the Earl of Dunforth,” was the reply.

Sir Charles led her to a seat beneath a spreading palm tree, then
excusing himself, he went to get her an ice.

She had danced a great deal, and was tired and heated.

With a sigh of content, she leaned back in her seat, and drew off her
gloves.

Upon the forefinger of her left hand there gleamed Miss Mehetabel’s
engagement ring, its central pearl surrounded with its six pure
brilliants.

She had been determined to make the most of her opportunity that
evening, fearing she would never have another, and while putting on the
other jewels, this had caught her fancy, and she had slipped it upon her
finger.

Sir Charles was detained longer than he had intended to be gone, and
while she sat there silently thinking, her hand carelessly resting upon
the back of the seat, she was suddenly startled by having it seized by
some one behind her, in a grip of iron, while a voice, hoarse with
suppressed feeling, said:

“Where did you get this? Young woman, where did you get this ring?”

She started to her feet, and turning quickly, found herself face to face
with that white-haired, stately looking man whom but a few moments
before she had inquired about—Lord Dunforth!

To say that she was startled is to say the very least, for the man’s
face was as white as his hair, his eyes dilated and fixed upon the ring,
his lips set and livid, while the hand which grasped hers shook as if he
had been stricken with the palsy.

“Where did you get it?” he demanded again, this time somewhat
impatiently.

Then, as she still continued silent from fear, and not knowing how to
answer him, he looked up in her face.

“And this!—and this!—oh, God! and this!” he cried, as his eyes caught
the gleam of the other jewels, his voice rising in pain with each word,
as he touched, first the cross, then the necklace, and last the
glittering tiara upon her golden head.

She began to think him a lunatic, or else that the gems were bewitched
and were about to get her into deeper trouble.

“They—they are heirlooms,” she finally managed to articulate, and
speaking at random.

“Did she give them to you?”

“Whom?”

“Meta—my Meta—Mehetabel Douglas!” he said, speaking incoherently, almost
wildly.

“Yes, they used to be hers,” Isabel said, thinking only of the despised
and injured governess, and inwardly quaking as she wondered what would
come next.

“Used to be!” he cried, catching at her words, while his face grew
almost convulsed—“used to be! Then she is dead! Ah, me!” and he caught
his breath in a hard, dry sob. “This was our engagement ring,” he
continued, touching it again, tenderly. “How beautiful she was the night
I put this upon her finger! There is not a woman here to-night as fair
as she was then! And these other gems were her bridal gifts, and I
thought to see her wear them when she should have been my wife. But the
time never came. That is long ago—ages ago, it seems to me! I thought
the memory of it had faded out into but a shadow, but the sight of these
things to-night is like the keen edge of a knife in my heart.”

His voice had grown infinitely sad. He appeared quite unnerved; his lips
quivered, and tears stood in his fine eyes, while he gazed upon that
ring, as if he were looking his last upon his dearest friend who was
dead.

“Was she your mother?” he at length asked, breaking the spell, and
looking up at her.

“No, she was not my mother,” Isabel answered, guiltily, scarce knowing
what to say, and yet strangely moved by his wild, sad words.

“Your aunt, perhaps, then?—she had a brother.”

“But—but,” he added, with sudden thought, “you are not the one who wore
the corals that night at the opera; she was short, and darker than you.
Those were my gifts to Meta, and she wore them last on that dreadful
night. Ah! ah! I did not think the pain was so bitter still! But my
heart was broken then, and though I have tried to live bravely, I find
the wound is not healed even now.”

His lordship seemed to have lost all knowledge of where he was, in
living over the sad past, and there is no knowing how long he might have
gone on in his rambling talk, had not Sir Charles now made his
appearance, bearing a salver filled with dainties for his companion.

Isabel was infinitely relieved to see him, for she was suffering torture
under this forced inquisition.

The young man bowed to his lordship again as he drew near, although his
face expressed some surprise at finding him conversing with Isabel.

“I beg your pardon for my seeming rudeness. There are certain
circumstances under which one will sometimes forget one’s self. I beg
you to forgive and forget what has just occurred.”

He turned and left them almost as abruptly as he came, while Isabel sank
back into her seat, weak and frightened, although considerably
enlightened upon some points. Her tongue had seemed glued to the roof of
her mouth, and she could not have answered his questions had he given
her the opportunity. She was immensely relieved, however, that it had
not been required of her; for she feared she should have committed
herself, since it was evident that he knew the history of the jewels
which she wore.

She had wronged the governess; the property was hers beyond a doubt, and
what should she do about it?

She was filled with dismay; she could not return the jewels for the
young girl was apparently lost to them forever, and she would have to
carry about with her always the unpleasant consciousness that she was,
as Wilbur had said, the thief.

But it would not do to indulge in such thoughts now, and in explanation
of what Sir Charles had just witnessed, she said:

“His lordship thought from my appearance that I was the child of some
one whom he knew, and he spoke to me very abruptly.”

“My lord is very eccentric about some things; he is getting quite old,
too, and people do not mind him,” replied Sir Charles, giving the matter
no further thought.




                               CHAPTER XX
                               THAT VOICE


Isabel and her mother were jubilant over the result of Lady Peasewell’s
drawing-room.

The occasion had been one of signal triumph for the former, for she had
been universally declared the belle of the evening—the reigning star in
all that brilliant company.

Not so much indeed on account of her superior beauty—for she could lay
no claim to beauty of features—as her stately presence, fascinating
address, and her rich and elegant attire.

Sir Charles Randal had undoubtedly been deeply impressed, for after his
introduction to her he had scarce left her side during the remainder of
the evening.

He called the next day, and the next he came to escort her to Buckingham
Palace, the queen and her retinue being absent, and he having obtained
passes to visit that royal residence so fraught with historic interest.

These incidents led to a more intimate acquaintance, until the young
baronet became her almost constant attendant at the opera and other
places of amusement, and it soon grew to be common talk that the fair
American was likely to win him for a husband.

Isabel’s heart often turned longingly toward Adrian Dredmond, for she
had been deeply touched by him. He was her ideal of manly excellence and
nobility, but she knew how useless was that longing, for that look of
scorn which he had given her at Lady Peasewell’s told her but too
plainly how heartily he despised her.

She had met him since at a number of places of amusement, but he never
asked her to dance, or noticed her presence save by a grave, cool bow,
and the involuntary curling of his handsome lips; so she turned the
battery of her charms upon the baronet, and with much better success.

Sir Charles was accounted a very fine young man, and a great catch, for
he, too, was very rich; so that Mrs. Coolidge spread her motherly wings,
ruffled her most gorgeous plumage, and made much of him, feeling
immensely gratified at her daughter’s evident conquest, although no
proposals had as yet been made.

Two months passed thus; the search for Brownie had been given up by Mr.
Coolidge, who could not gain the vestige of a clew that, despairing of
obtaining a situation in exclusive and aristocratic old England, she had
returned to her native land, hoping to be more successful there.

What to do with her property was a puzzle to him, and he was greatly
troubled on account of it, but he could only lock it carefully away,
hoping some time in the future to see her and return it.

Isabel had been successful in returning the gems she had worn to the
casket without his knowledge, and emboldened by her good luck, she
continued, from time to time, to abstract some of them to garnish her
ravishing toilets. At length her triumph was complete.

Sir Charles proposed and was accepted, and great was the rejoicing
thereof.

His mother at first was somewhat troubled at the idea of his marrying
out of his own country—she had hoped he would choose some one from the
nobility; but as she was eager to multiply his worldly possessions, and
she had heard such accounts of Mr. Coolidge’s fabulous wealth, she
consented as gracefully as possible, and the contract was finally
concluded to the satisfaction of all parties.

Mr. Coolidge, who could not fail to honor the young man, told Isabel
that she was getting a husband much too good for her, unless she mended
her ways in the future, and it certainly seemed as if she had adopted
his advice, for she became so amiable, apparently, that she excited the
admiration of all for the time.

Lady Randal was a widow.

At the death of her husband she had been left with two sons, one
fifteen, the other, which was Sir Charles, ten.

The elder died in just a year after his father, so that the younger came
into the title and property.

There had been a prospect two years after Sir Charles’ birth of another
addition to the family, but Lady Randal was traveling upon the Continent
at the time of its birth, and remained away a year after the event
occurred; therefore it occasioned scarce any remark when it was reported
that there was no child after all.

When, after her return to England, a friend ventured to speak of her
disappointment, Lady Randal had put her black-bordered handkerchief to
her eyes, and remarked that “it was so hard to lose one’s children,” and
there the matter dropped.

Not more than a week after the engagement between Sir Charles and Isabel
was announced, Mr. Coolidge was suddenly recalled to New York upon
important and unforeseen business.

His partner telegraphed for his immediate return, and he departed in
great haste, having only a few hours in which to make his preparation
and catch the steamer. And in his haste he forgot to take with him, as
he had intended, Miss Douglas’ casket of jewels.

As soon as Lady Randal knew of his departure, she sent a polite note,
containing an invitation, to Mrs. Coolidge and her family, to spend a
month with them at their country seat, as they were about departing for
a season from town.

This was exceedingly flattering to the Coolidges, and the last of
February found them domiciled at “Vallingham Hall,” near the ancient and
beautiful town of West Malling, Kent County; all but Wilbur, who, still
heart-sore and filled with anxiety upon Brownie’s account, resolved to
try to lose himself in a trip to Switzerland and the Alps.

Lady Randal and her servants preceded her guests by a week to the Hall,
leaving Sir Charles behind to escort their visitors, so that upon their
arrival everything was in readiness for them, and they received a most
cordial welcome.

Vallingham Hall was a handsome, though rather an ancient-looking
structure, built partly of brick and partly of stone. The central
portion seemed much older than the rest, a couple of wings and other
additions having evidently been built on at different times. It had
mullioned windows, and wide, massive doors, which gave it a grand and
imposing appearance. The beautiful ivy, green and luxuriant, which
clambered upon its sides to the very top of some of its turrets, gave it
also a picturesqueness which made it charming to every one, and more
than one artist, enamored of its beauty, had reproduced it upon canvas.

About a mile from the Hall, and standing within the limits of its park,
there was a charming little villa of quite modern structure, and having
such an air of comfort and cosiness about it that tempted the beholder
to seek an entrance and obtain a glimpse within, wondering if the inside
were as attractive as the outside.

Vallingham Hall was already gay with company when the Coolidges arrived,
and more was expected the following week.

Sir Charles’ courtship seemed to be of the most blissful nature, at
least to two persons.

Isabel was brilliant from her conquest, and rendered herself so
fascinating to everybody that the young man was nearly overwhelmed with
congratulations at having won so bonny and wealthy a bride, although
among some of the high-born damsels, who were husband-hunting for
themselves, there was now and then the curl of a red lip, and murmur of
scorn about “plebian blood.”

Lady Randal, ignoring caste entirely, was always eulogizing Isabel’s
“elegant manners, and her exquisite taste in dress,” and promising
herself “so much happiness with a daughter, which she had always wanted,
but never had.”

Mrs. Coolidge spared neither labor nor expense for her eldest, and her
wardrobe was the most _recherché_ of anything to be seen among all the
visitors at the Hall, while the jewels which she wore were a marvel to
every one, and helped to swell the reports of her vast wealth.

When she found that her father had departed without taking them with
him, she was delighted, and appropriated them without a scruple, and, as
time wore away, she began to look upon them as almost belonging to her.

It must be confessed that she stood a little bit in awe of her high-born
lover.

It did not take her long to discover that he was actuated only by the
loftiest sentiments.

His manner was as courteous to a servant or an inferior as to an equal,
and he never stopped to consider the position of any one when granting a
favor.

The beggar or the peer was befriended with equal kindness.

Open and frank himself, he could not tolerate deception or hypocrisy in
any one, and a deliberate wrong incurred his deepest displeasure.

Of course, the haughty and selfish girl could feel no sympathy with any
such sentiments so foreign to her own nature, but having once learned
Sir Charles’s idiosyncracies, and being extremely anxious to share his
coronet and plethoric purse, she exerted herself to the utmost to blind
his eyes, and, to all outward appearance, she became a most earnest
advocate of all his philanthropic schemes, much to his satisfaction, and
the secret contempt and amusement of Viola and Alma, who neglected no
opportunity when alone with their sister to torment her about it.

One evening Sir Charles invited her to walk over a portion of the estate
with him, and unfolded to her his plans for beautifying it, and of
improving the condition and comfort of his tenantry.

She strove to listen attentively, and appear interested in it all, but
it was hard work, and although she was exceedingly kind and gracious to
all whom she met, and won for herself high encomiums for her sweetness
among his people, yet her heart was not in it, and she was immensely
relieved when they turned their steps homeward.

On their way they had to pass the villa before described.

Just before reaching it, Sir Charles had called her attention to a
lovely view.

They stood silent for several minutes enjoying it, when suddenly a few
rich chords, struck upon a fine-toned piano, saluted their ears, and
then a voice of ravishing sweetness and power burst forth into joyous
song.

Isabel started at the sound as if a wasp had stung her.

“Who is that?” she demanded, her face flushing with a sudden thought and
fear.

“It comes from yonder villa. Did it startle you?” asked Sir Charles,
regarding her disturbed manner with some surprise.

“A little—it was so quiet before.”

“I think it very fine,” he replied, stopping to listen again to the
clear, beautiful tones.

“Who lives there?” Isabel asked, an anxious expression on her face.

“Lady Ruxley, an aged aunt of my mother’s.”

“Indeed! I thought she resided with you,” she said, wondering why a lady
of such high degree should be living in what appeared to her such
limited quarters.

She had heard of Lady Ruxley before, and knew that it was from her Sir
Charles was to inherit a large amount of his property.

She had never met her, although she was quite curious about her, having
heard much about her peculiarities.

“Lady Ruxley always makes her home with us while we are in town, but
when we come to Vallingham Hall she prefers to be by herself, and a few
years since she had this villa built, so as to escape the gayety and
confusion which always reign there,” Sir Charles explained.

“Does she live alone?” Isabel queried, with a thoughtful look.

“She has never had any one but her servants, until within the past few
years she has had a companion to read to and amuse her. She is quite
old.”

“Ah, then it must be her companion who is singing now,” and she leaned
eagerly forward to listen again. “Who is she?” she asked, somewhat
sharply, when after a moment the sweet singer suddenly ceased.

“I really do not remember the name—some unfortunate individual, I
believe, who met with an accident, enlisted Aunt Ruxley’s sympathies,
and she insisted upon having her as a companion. I have never seen her.
Indeed,” he added, smiling, “my time has been so fully occupied in
another direction lately that I have not paid much attention to other
people’s affairs,” and Sir Charles bestowed a fond look upon his
betrothed, which called the bright color to her cheeks, and the smile to
her lips again.

She asked no more questions, and they remained a few moments longer
gazing into the valley; then, as the sun sank out of sight, and the air
began to grow keener, they turned their faces homeward.

As they passed the villa they caught a glimpse of an old woman bent
nearly double with age, hobbling into the house from the vine-covered
porch.

She was leaning upon the arm of a slender, graceful figure, who seemed
to be clad in deep mourning, the sight of which made Isabel Coolidge’s
heart bound again with a sudden fear, and she bent forward for a better
view.

She could not distinguish the person clearly, for the shadow of the
vines about the door made it impossible, but a nameless dread of
something, she knew not what, pursued her the entire evening, which
neither the gay company at the Hall nor her lover’s fondest words could
make her forget.




                              CHAPTER XXI
                     “CHICKENS COME HOME TO ROOST!”


The next day cards were received at Vallingham Hall for the family and
all guests, soliciting their presence at a grand state dinner, to be
given by his lordship, the Earl of Dunforth, at his country residence at
East Malling, about five miles from the west village.

A great deal of excitement prevailed in anticipation of this event, for
all recognized the honor conferred by this invitation, as the earl
occupied a high position in the world, and owned almost the whole
township of East Malling, where Dunforth Castle was situated.

“What shall I wear, mamma?” Isabel asked, when they were talking over
the event in their own room.

“That light blue velvet, with the pipings of white satin, and the
stomacher of pearls, which came from Worth’s last week, will be the most
suitable, I think,” returned Mrs. Coolidge, reflectively.

“That is the one I had in mind. It will be very becoming and with those
coral ornaments, and a few flowers, it will be a very lovely costume,”
assented the dutiful daughter.

“I want you to look uncommonly well, Isabel, for I heard to-day that any
one who is received by the Earl of Dunforth needs no better voucher in
the first circles of London. Besides, he is a relative of the family,
and it will be wise for you to secure their favor. By the way, has Sir
Charles asked you to name the day yet?”

“No, and I’ve played my very prettiest to him this week, hoping he
would. I’ve visited all those dirty cottages and hovels, and helped him
plan a hundred disagreeable things for suffering humanity around us;
but, apparently, he is so bound up in the woes of others that he cannot
stop to consider things of such minor importance as his own happiness,”
replied Isabel, with bitter scorn, and with an ugly frown upon her brow.

“You must have patience, my dear. A great deal has been accomplished in
his proposing to you, and in your acknowledged engagement.”

“Patience! I feel as if I should go wild, at times, with the constant
restraint which I put upon myself.”

“I know; you are behaving beautifully,” said Mrs. Coolidge, soothingly,
who lived in constant fear lest there should be an outbreak. “Lady
Randal,” she went on, “thinks you are just perfect; and even the
servants are all enthusiastic in your praise.”

“If only the prize was secure,” muttered Isabel, moodily.

“Only go on a little longer as you have begun and it will be, I am
sure,” purred her mother.

The day of the dinner party arrived.

A half hour before the Vallingham company were to start, Lady Randal
knocked at Isabel’s door.

“Excuse me, dear,” she said, “but I wanted to see how you look before we
start. I am particularly anxious that Lord and Lady Dunforth should be
pleased with you. You know he is a relative of the family,” she
concluded, with an accent of pride.

“I heard something to that effect,” responded Isabel; “but how is he
connected?”

“His lordship and I are own cousins,” explained Lady Randal, while her
face clouded for a moment, as if from some painful thought.

Then suddenly changing the subject, she exclaimed:

“But I need not have been anxious about your appearance, for you are
just lovely. You have exquisite taste, my love, and I shall feel quite
proud when you are my daughter. The blue velvet is charming, and your
hair is very becomingly arranged, while that stomacher of pearls is
superb. But”—and she started suddenly, while her face grew crimson—“but
where did you get those coral ornaments?” and her eyes were fixed in
utter astonishment, and with something of terror in them, upon the
elegant coral and diamond cross, and butterfly hair ornament, which
Isabel has just fastened in her hair, and clasped about her neck.

Isabel colored violently at the question.

Could she never wear those things without some one’s remarking them
particularly, and continually reminding her that they were not her own?

Lady Randal marked her confusion, and feeling it might have appeared a
rude question, hastened to add:

“Pardon me, but they are so like some that I once saw a long time ago,
that I could not help exclaiming at the moment.”

“Ah!” said Isabel, regaining her self-possession, and striving to speak
indifferently; “I did not suppose there was another set like them in the
world—they were made to order,” and the lie slipped off her tongue
without a quaver.

“It is a singular coincidence, surely,” murmured Lady Randal, absently.
“Did you ever know——” she began again, then suddenly checking herself,
she added: “But, of course, you did not, for she must be over sixty if
she is living now. It is strange, though, I could have sworn they are
the same.”

“What were you saying?” asked Isabel, who had not distinctly understood
what she said last.

“Never mind, dear; but a lady whom I used to know had some ornaments
very like these. Have you nothing else which will do to go with this
costume?”

She seemed to dislike the idea of her wearing them.

“Oh, yes; I have plenty of others, but these look best with this light
blue—they give a dash of color which it seems to need, and I prefer
them.”

“Well, never mind; you do look very nice, and,” she added, partly to
herself, “perhaps he will not notice.”

Isabel created quite a sensation upon entering the great drawing-room at
Dunforth, for there were many people present whom she had never met
before, and all were quite anxious to see the bride Sir Charles had
chosen.

His lordship was very gracious to her, and seemed desirous to atone for
his rudeness on the night of Lady Peasewell’s drawing-room, though
Isabel noticed that a spasm of pain contracted his face when his eye
first fell upon her as she was presented.

He introduced her to Lady Dunforth, who completely surprised her by
turning to a gentleman at her side, and saying:

“Miss Coolidge, allow me to present my grandson, Mr. Dredmond.”

She looked up astonished, and the color flamed into her cheeks at his
cold salutation and the well-remembered, scornful curl of his lips, as
his critical eye took in every item of her costume from head to foot.

He, too, had recognized those lovely corals, with their diamond
garnishings, and he longed to wrest them from her hair and bosom, and
denounce her as the false-hearted woman he knew she was.

He, then, was the grandson of the Earl of Dunforth.

Isabel had known all along that he was heir to an earldom, but supposing
it to be a nobleman by the name of Dredmond, she had never made any
inquiries about the matter.

A feeling of chagrin came over her that she had not played her cards
differently, for she knew the Dunforth wealth far exceeded that of the
Randals.

A sense of fear, too, arose in her heart lest he should strive to
influence Sir Charles against her.

Lady Randal had told her that she and Lord Dunforth were cousins,
consequently Sir Charles and Adrian were connected, and might he not
tell him what he knew?

Later in the evening she was introduced to Lady Ruxley, whose
acquaintance she had long desired to make, and whose favor she was most
anxious to secure.

The old lady had arrived at the castle that morning by special
invitation, and was to remain a few days to visit Lady Dunforth, who was
a favorite with her.

She was a very peculiar body, this old lady of eighty, with her
wrinkled, withered face, her scant, wiry, gray hair, her restless black
eyes keen and sharp as a briar. She was bent nearly double, and walked
with a cane, and when she tried to talk to or look at anybody she
twisted her neck and shoulders into all manner of contortions. She was
little as well as old—she could not have weighed over ninety pounds—and
in her straight, old-fashioned black satin gown she made Isabel think of
some witch or sprite of evil.

She felt anything but comfortable beneath those keen, bright eyes, which
seemed to read her through and through at a glance, and her blunt way of
asking questions disconcerted her not a little.

“False as fair; false as fair!” and “chickens always come home to
roost!” muttered the “old crone,” as she watched the handsome couple
move away.

“What were you saying, aunt?” asked Lady Randal, sharply.

She had been standing near, and saw the distrustful expression on her
face, and heard the muttered tones.

“I said ‘chickens always come home to roost,’” she snapped in reply.

“What do you mean by it? I don’t understand you.”

“I mean that you are going to get your pay through her for some of your
own evil deeds in the past,” she answered, pointing her shaking finger
at Isabel.

“Don’t be a fool, aunt,” Lady Randal said, sharply, yet growing a shade
paler than usual. “What have I done that is so very wicked?”

“Ah, ha! your memory doesn’t serve you as well as mine, for all I am in
my dotage,” and the old woman gave a cracked, spiteful laugh.

“I haven’t forgotten how, when you were yonder girl’s age, you played a
game upon his lordship in my house which nearly broke his heart, and
without accomplishing your purpose, too; and now I say you’re going to
get your pay for it.”

“That was years and years ago, and I’m sure I don’t see what it can have
to do with Sir Charles or my affairs to-day. Don’t you like Miss
Coolidge? I think her very striking in appearance.”

“She has a stately presence, truly; but mark my words, Helen Capel, if
you live long enough, you will find that she can plot as cunningly as
you did when you admitted Count de Lussan to my parlors to ruin the
happiness of an innocent and beautiful girl.”

“Pshaw! what has put those absurd fancies and memories into your head
to-night?” and Lady Randal tried to laugh, though she shuddered at the
same time.

“Laugh away, my lady, while you can,” snapped the old woman, viciously,
“but you’ll change your tune before long. I never quite forgave you for
that night’s work, Helen; it was the first time such a man ever
disgraced my house, to say nothing about her coming to such grief there.
But, ah! that was more than forty years ago. I wonder whatever became of
her! I am sorry for Charles, though—he is a noble fellow, and ought to
have a good wife,” and Lady Ruxley heaved a sigh of regret.

“Then you don’t approve of his choice, aunt; I’m sorry. She is certainly
fine looking, and then she belongs to a very wealthy family.”

“That’s it; that’s it, you were never satisfied with what you had,” was
the impatient interruption. “You always want to hear the jingle of gold.
I’d rather the boy would marry a girl like my companion, without a
penny, than forty such stately, false-hearted dames, with a million
apiece.”

“You continue to like the girl as well as ever, then,” said Lady Randal,
glad to change the subject.

“Like her! There isn’t her equal here to-night, for all you were so sure
I’d be taken in. I tell you, Helen, these eyes of mine are good yet, if
they have been well used for eighty years.”

“Where is she to-night?”

“Upstairs, reading; she would not come down, though I tried hard enough
to make her. But go along to your friends, an old woman like me is not
worth minding, besides, I’m going to bed presently.”

She waved her hand the same as she had to Isabel, and Lady Randal moved
away, feeling anxious and miserable, despite her assumed indifference.

Unpleasant memories had been rudely aroused to-night, and the sting of
conscience, mingled with remorse, was severe.

“Whatever could have made her rake up those old times?” she muttered,
uneasily, as she glanced at her son, who was hovering about Isabel like
a moth about a candle. “Can it be that she also noticed those jewels? It
is lucky for me that Lord Dunforth never discovered the part I played in
that tragedy—he never would have forgiven it. I wonder what I did with
that note—destroyed it, I suppose. Oh, dear, what a memory Aunt Ruxley
has! It is as keen as her tongue, and she has made me exceedingly
uncomfortable; but I would not offend her for anything, on Charles’
account. I do hope he will be happy, and that he has chosen wisely; he
is too good to be deceived—he is like his father, poor man! Ah, me! how
many men have been taken in by the girls they have married; however, it
is too late to be helped now.”

Such were Lady Randal’s reflections after leaving her aunt.

Doubtless she has been recognized before this as being the girl of whom
Miss Mehetabel Douglas had told Brownie as having been the cause of her
lifelong misery.

Yes, Lady Randal was that same Helen Capel. Finding, after she had
accomplished her foul purpose, that she could not console her cousin,
Lord Dunforth, for his loss, she turned her charms in another direction,
and at last succeeded in winning a good and true man, Sir Ralph Randal,
for a husband.

She had not lived the pleasantest life in the world with the baronet, or
rather, it should be said, that he had discovered his mistake when it
was too late.

She could not deceive him always, and after the irrevocable step had
been taken he found that instead of a true, loving, and domestic wife,
he had been entrapped into marrying a vain, frivolous girl, who cared
more for fashion and society than she did for her family. His death had
not seemed to break her heart, for after the year of mourning expired,
she returned to society with as much zest as ever.

But when her eldest son was taken from her she felt the blow more
keenly, and it seemed to change her.

Charles, the younger son, had always been the favorite, and she feared
lest she should lose him, too, and from that time she devoted herself to
him, and during her later years became apparently the self-sacrificing
and loving mother.

All her hopes now centered in him, and she bent all her energies toward
carving out a brilliant future for him. And yet there were times when
she seemed so troubled and melancholy that for days, and even weeks, she
would be unlike herself, and as if brooding over some hidden grief or
sin.

She had long since banished the memories of those deeds of her early
life.

They were not pleasant to recall.

But to-night those homely old proverbs, “Chickens always come home to
roost,” “You’ll get your pay,” as uttered by Lady Ruxley, seemed to
possess a strange significance, and sounded like uncanny prophecies in
her ears.




                              CHAPTER XXII
                            A LEAP FOR LIFE


Adrian Dredmond was indeed the grandson and heir of Lord Dunforth, the
former lover of Miss Mehetabel Douglas.

He had married, as she told Brownie, five years after the terrible
disappointment which had well-nigh ruined both their lives.

His wife was a sweet-tempered, gentle little body, and she loved him
with her whole heart.

He liked her well enough, and respected her thoroughly, but the one love
of his life had been that proud, fair-haired girl who had broken his
heart. It had been a deathless love, as could easily be seen by his
rambling talk the night he met Isabel at Lady Peasewell’s.

When he finally married he had done so to please his father, and in
order to perpetuate the name.

But another disappointment awaited him, for only a daughter blessed
their union, and there was no heir to take the title. At the age of
sixteen she fell in love with a colonel in the English army—a widower
nearly twice her age.

Her father, whose life had been such a failure, would not doom her to a
like fate, and so consented to the marriage, although he did not fully
approve of it, both on account of his daughter’s youth and the
profession of Colonel Dredmond, since, in all probability, it would
eventually separate him from his only child.

But the fair young girl bride only lived one short year, and died soon
after the birth of their only child—a fine boy, whom his father named
Adrian.

Colonel Dredmond was soon after ordered into active service, and was
killed fighting like the brave man he was.

Henceforth Adrian became his grandfather’s sole joy and comfort, and he
lavished upon him all the love which his bruised heart was capable of
feeling.

The boy inherited all his father’s bravery, together with his
grandfather’s honor and nobility of character, and bade fair to make the
declining years of Lord and Lady Dunforth the best and happiest of their
lives.

During the last few weeks he had been very unhappy and depressed.

His anxiety regarding Brownie, in whom he had at last acknowledged he
had more than an ordinary interest, rendered him gloomy and
absent-minded.

He did not enjoy company, it irritated and angered him to look around
and see others so gay, when, perhaps, the one whom he now knew he loved
more than his own life, was friendless and maybe suffering.

He had come down to Dunforth Castle to be present at the dinner party to
please his grandmother, but he told her, upon his arrival, that he must
return to London upon the next day, as he had important business which
would not allow of his absence.

That business was his constant and almost hopeless search for Brownie
Douglas. His meeting with Isabel to-night made his trouble seem more
bitter than ever, and for the first time in his life he felt, as if he
almost hated a human being.

He regretted exceedingly her engagement to Sir Charles, for he was
warmly attached to the young man; but he felt that he was powerless to
save him from what he feared his future would be with such a vain and
selfish girl as he knew Miss Coolidge to be.

As soon as dinner was over, feeling weary and gloomy, he lighted a
cigar, and went out by himself into the cool night air.

The sky was somewhat overcast, but not dark, for there was a full moon,
which every now and then burst out gloriously from behind the clouds,
and he could distinguish objects quite plainly.

About a quarter of a mile from the castle the ground arose very abruptly
for a short distance, and suddenly terminated in a high precipice, which
shelved out over a deep and swift-running river.

This was accounted a very dangerous spot by people in that vicinity, for
the continual dropping and caving away of the rocks and earth had left
the hill above but a mere shell or shelf, hanging out over the river a
hundred feet below, and which, it was predicted, was liable to be had
appeared about twenty feet from the brink, and the spot was shunned by
every one, although it used to be much frequented on account of the
lovely view which it commanded.

To any one unacquainted with the path which led up this ascent, it was
like tempting Providence to try to reach the top, for there were
pitfalls on every side, and the path was winding and uneven.

But Adrian knew every step of the ground, for during his boyhood he had
explored every inch many a time, and he clambered on now, still thinking
gloomily of his own affairs.

He had accomplished about two-thirds of the distance, and he could hear
the restless surging of the river, as its waters rushed over its rocky
bed, when the moon came sailing out from behind a white-edged cloud, and
flooded the whole landscape with its yellow light.

He looked up and swept his eye over the hill. He started, and an
exclamation of horror broke from him as he did so.

He had seen some one standing on the very edge of the dangerous
precipice, and gazing down into the valley beyond.

It was a woman, and the breeze made her dark, flowing garments sweep out
behind her in graceful folds, and now she lifted her head, and he could
faintly distinguish the outline of her face as the moonlight fell upon
it.

He dare not call out to her for fear the sound of his voice would
startle her, and she would be precipitated into the boiling river below.
For a moment the strength all went out of his body, as he thought he
should never be able to reach and save her—that his extra weight upon
that frail shelf must bring death to them both.

Then, without a second thought of self, he sprang forward with swift,
noiseless steps.

Surely, whoever she was, she could not realize the horrible danger of
that moment, and the young man’s heart fairly ceased its beating, as
with a few rapid strides he was at her side, and laying a firm hand upon
her arm, he said, in tones thrilling with anxiety:

“Madam, do you know that you are tempting death? This portion of the
hill is liable to cave at any moment.”

Then, without releasing his strong hold of her, he drew her quickly back
from the spot, farther and yet farther from the sound of those roaring
waters, which seemed hungering for their prey, until they reached the
fatal seam, which Adrian saw was now wider than ever before.

Just then a sudden shock seemed to strike him, then a rattling, rolling,
horrible sound reached his ears, and a sensation of swaying and
dizziness crept over him.

He knew what it meant—death!

Only one thought was in his heart now, and it rent his soul with its
silent agony.

“Brownie, my Brownie, I shall never see you again!”

The next instant—he never knew how he did it—but he caught the form at
his side in his arms, and sprang forward, all his strength and energies
gathered into that leap for life.

Not an instant too soon, however, for the whole space which they had
just traversed was swept from their sight as if by magic, and went
crashing and tumbling down into the fearful depths below, leaving that
noble man and trembling woman faint, dizzy, sick, with the thought of
the horrible death which they had so narrowly escaped and clinging
wildly to each other in horrified silence.

Then, keeping his hold upon her to support her, he led her still farther
away from the yawning chasm, saying, gently:

“Sit down upon this rock under this tree for a few moments until you
regain your strength.”

She obeyed, and he bent down to look into her face.

“Are you faint? Shall I go for some water?” he asked; then suddenly
dropping upon his knees before her he exclaimed:

“Just Heaven! is it you that I have saved from that? Oh! if I had not
come!” burst from him in a startled, almost anguished cry.

His voice shook like an old man’s with horror, his face, as the
moonlight struck it, was ashen in its hue, and for the moment he was
more completely unnerved than the girl whom he had rescued from such
imminent danger. Her hands lay white and limp in her lap.

He gathered them up in his strong clasp, and pressed his lips again and
again upon them, while his breast heaved with the fierce, frightened
throbbings of his heart.

Ah! only Heaven knew the horrible yet rapturous sensations of that
moment, when he discovered that she whom he had just saved from a
terrible death, was none other than Brownie Douglas whom he had sought
so long sorrowing!

“Yes, it is I whom you have saved, Mr. Dredmond; but for you I should
now be lying crushed, and bruised, and dead at the bottom of yonder
stream,” was the low reply, in those sweet tones, which he would have
recognized at the ends of the earth.

“I little thought to find you here. I learned something of your trouble,
and I have searched everywhere for you in London, Miss Douglas, for the
last two months, and it was with reluctance that I relinquished my quest
long enough to obey a summons hither,” he said, when he began to recover
himself a little.

He did not stop to think that she might deem it singular that he, almost
a stranger, should be searching so earnestly for her.

“How strange,” he went on, “that I should have come hither to save you
from even worse than what I feared might have happened to you? It was
dreadful for you to be there, and my brain grows dizzy with the thought
of what must have been if I had not come! Did you know of that perilous
shelf? Has no one told you?”

“No, Mr. Dredmond, I only came to Dunforth Castle to-day. I was sad and
lonely to-night, and being freed from my duties, I came out for a stroll
in the moonlight. I saw this hill, and heard the dashing of the stream,
and thinking a delightful view might be obtained from the top, I
clambered up. It was like being suddenly awakened from a beautiful
dream, when you seized and bore me from the place.”

Adrian shuddered.

“I expected that both of us would be dashed in pieces when I saw the
earth giving way, and heard that dreadful noise,” she added, in
trembling tones.

“Better that, than that I should not have come at all,” he returned,
passionately.

His tone seemed to recall her suddenly to herself, and she tried to
release her hands, which he still held tightly clasped in his.

He was almost unconscious that he still held them, but at the effort she
made he looked up at her and saw that her face had grown crimson with
blushes, while her eyes dropped shyly beneath his gaze.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, releasing them at once, and rising to his
feet. “You will think me presuming, but my gratitude that you were safe
made me forget myself. Did I understand you that you are staying at the
castle?” he asked, changing the subject to relieve his embarrassment.

“I am there for a few days.”

“Indeed! and so am I,” he replied, much pleased, and forgetting that he
had told his grandmother he could not possibly remain longer than over
one night. “You are cold,” he added, as he saw her shiver; “shall I take
you back now to the castle?”

“Thank you; yes.”

Then, with a tenderness which thrilled her through and through, yet with
a courtly deference which made him seem more grand and noble than ever
before, he supported her faltering steps down the steep path, and led
her back to the castle.

“You have not yet told me, nor will I ask you to-night, how you happened
to leave London so suddenly. Wilbur Coolidge told me that I should find
you at the ‘Washington,’” he said, as he drew near the door.

“Yes, I did tell him that I should be there for a few days, but an
accident prevented my ever going to the hotel at all. I am now with Lady
Ruxley, at her cottage near Vallingham Hall.”

“Zounds! She has got right back into that Coolidge nest again, poor
thing! I wonder if she knows it, or has seen them yet?” was Adrian’s
inward comment; then he said, aloud: “If you remain here a few days I
shall probably see you again.”

Then, as he clasped her hand, he continued, with a smile:

“Now, good-night; and, Miss Douglas, do not go wandering off by yourself
again in the night to places you know nothing of.”

Again she thrilled at his touch, and the fire leaped into her cheeks at
his words.

“I will not,” she promised, with a little answering smile, though he saw
that tears were dropping from her eyes, as she added: “But, Mr. Desmond,
I have not been able to find words adequate to express my feelings for
what you have done for me to-night; but surely you will not deem me
ungrateful.”

“No, no, dar——” He nearly said it in spite of himself, but quickly
checking the word, he exclaimed: “Great Heaven! how it unmans me even
now to think of it; but I pray you go to rest, and try to forget it if
you can.”

He led her up the steps to a side door, where she could enter unseen,
let her in, then wandered away by himself again into the park, his soul
stirred to its very depths by the events of the last half hour.




                             CHAPTER XXIII
                             TAKEN BY STORM


Adrian had been obliged to exert the sternest self-control in order to
keep back the wild words which were burning upon his lips for utterance
after saving Brownie.

He loved her, he knew he loved her, and he longed to pour out the
fullness of his heart to her.

But how could he presume to do so, when she was comparatively a stranger
to him?

Only twice before had he met her, and he reasoned that it could not be
possible that she had any thought of love for him, although he had
worshiped her from afar for the last six months.

He felt that he must tell her ere long. He had almost betrayed it
to-night, and the hot blood surged into his face as he thought of it,
and wondered how she regarded him.

Would she not feel that he was presuming upon the service which he had
just rendered her if he should confess it?

And yet, in his heart, he exulted over the event, even while he trembled
and grew faint as he realized how near he had come to losing her
forever.

The danger and the escape from it had brought them nearer to each other
than ever before. She had trusted him, leaned upon him, and even allowed
his arm to clasp her unshrinkingly when she could not stand alone.

And now she was under the same roof with him, and would remain several
days, she said.

It seemed too much happiness, after all his discouragements and
disappointments in seeking her.

Of course, he would not return to London now; of what use would it be,
when the object of his search there was found?

No, he would stay here and win her if he could; and when she was his
wife, how proud he would be to introduce her to Isabel Coolidge and her
mother as the future Lady of Dunforth!

And Brownie!

Who shall describe the tumult that was in her heart, as she sought Lady
Ruxley’s apartments?

She could not misinterpret Adrian’s manner toward her. Had not he almost
called her darling? Had not his every tone and look been fraught with
that magnetic influence which could not be mistaken?

Did not his horror, when he had found it was she who had been in such
peril, bespeak a deeper interest than that of a mere friend?

Ah, yes! and her hands burned with his passionate kisses even now.

How precious—how doubly precious the boon of life would seem to her
hereafter, since it had been bestowed upon her by him!

                  *       *       *       *       *

“I will know my fate this day,” said Adrian, the next morning, as he
arose from his almost sleepless couch and descended to the breakfast
parlor.

For the past six months Brownie had been so continually in his thoughts
that she had grown to seem almost a part of himself, and now it seemed
to him as if, in the great horror of the night previous, when they had
stood so near to death, and together had caught a glimpse, so to speak,
of the darkness and gloom of mysterious eternity, it seemed, I say, as
if they had tacitly acknowledged and felt that they belonged to each
other.

“How now,” said the grandfather, as he entered the room; “you must be
off to-day? I was hoping that you would spend several weeks with us.”

“I’m sure I cannot see what there is so important to call you back to
London,” put in Lady Dunforth, reproachfully.

“Do you take it so much to heart? Well, then suppose I compromise the
matter, and say that I will remain a few days,” Adrian replied,
laughingly, though he colored a conscious crimson as he altered his
plans.

His lordship gave him a searching glance, as if he did not exactly
understand this change; he had been so positive last night about
returning.

Lady Dunforth, however, was delighted, and other guests entering at that
moment, she imparted the good news, and then all sat down to breakfast.

Adrian was on the watch all day for Brownie, but late hours did not
agree with Lady Ruxley, and she did not rise until very late. Then,
being in rather a more exacting mood than usual, she kept her companion
in constant attendance upon her all day.

It was not until late in the afternoon that Brownie was free to take a
stroll by herself; then, her ladyship having fallen into a doze, she
donned her hat and shawl and stole out.

She had a strange desire to visit again the spot where she had so nearly
lost her life, and view by daylight the havoc which had been wrought.

Walking rapidly, she soon gained the top of the hill, and, turning from
the narrow path, she ere long stood upon the precipice where the great
shelf of earth had crumbled away.

“Strange that he should be here! Strange that he should have saved me a
second time,” she murmured to herself, and the rosy color flashed over
her beautiful face, as she recalled that scene upon the boat in
connection with the events of the night previous.

She could not forget the clinging clasp of his arms; she could not
forget his upturned, anxious face, as he dropped upon his knees, nor the
burning, passionate kisses which he had pressed upon her hands; the
horror in his voice when he realized that it was she who had been in
such danger; the intense thankfulness which quivered in his tones at her
deliverance, and the pathos with which he had said it would have been
better for them both to have perished beneath that falling mass than
that he had not come to save her.

He had told her, too, of his long and anxious search for her in London;
and now she lived over again, every moment, and recalled it all, with
that beautiful color deepening upon her cheek, and those lovely eyes
glowing with a deep tenderness and joy.

She knew it could only be accounted for in one way; he loved her! Her
whole being thrilled with the thought.

A strange, rapturous joy surged through her heart, for she knew, despite
the difference in their position—for she had heard that he would one day
inherit a title, although she had no idea that he was connected with
Lord Dunforth—that it was an honorable and deathless love which he bore
her.

She would as soon have doubted her own purity as his manliness and
truth. And she? Did she love him in return?

Before she had time to analyze her own feelings, she became conscious of
a presence near her, though she had heard no step, and looking up, she
beheld the object of her thoughts at her side, regarding her with grave,
earnest eyes.

“Are you fascinated by the horror of this place, Miss Douglas?” Adrian
asked, holding out his hand to her.

“I came to see by daylight from what I had been saved,” she replied,
coloring vividly as she laid her own within it.

“It is even more dreadful than it seemed in the night,” he said,
shuddering, as he looked below and took in the dizzy depth, while his
clasp grew stronger over the little hand, as if he feared to let it go.

“This place,” he resumed after a moment, “has been regarded with dread
for years. I can remember when I was a little boy of seeing the smallest
crack in the earth here, and I was told never to step near it. Every
year, as the trees and shrubs growing upon it have become larger, the
seam has widened and deepened, until the crash has been expected for a
long time. I suppose our extra weight upon it last night was all that
was needed to complete the dreadful work. I am glad, though, that it is
over with, for everybody has been in suspense about it for so long;
but—but do you know, darling, that if it had buried you beneath its
cruel weight that the world would have been a blank to me to-day?”

He paused a moment, just glancing at her, his face growing pale and
anxious with his emotion; then he went on, rapidly:

“You know now, dear, what I want to say to you. I love you—I love you,
my darling, and I want you for my own, my cherished wife.

“I fear you will think me presuming,” he hastened to say, as he saw the
rich color flash over cheek, neck, and even to the tips of her delicate
fingers, “for you have only met me two or three times; but you cannot
know how, for the last six months, I have sought you continually, this
love growing in my heart all the while.

“Yes,” he added, as she gave a slight start of surprise, “I met you
first last September, though you were not conscious of the fact, and I
meant then to make your acquaintance. But your aunt died, and you went
away somewhere, and I, deeply disappointed, lost sight of you entirely.
You can judge of my surprise and pleasure when you came aboard the
steamer at New York, although you cannot judge of my feelings when you
stumbled, and I caught and held you, just a moment, in my arms. I had
been thinking of you continually; your bright face dwelt in my heart
like a picture, but at that moment I became conscious that you, and you
alone, could make life worth the living to me.

“I resolved then that I would know you before the voyage was finished;
but you were sick all the time, and I only caught glimpses of you when
they bore you from your stateroom to the coach. Then I saw you in London
at the opera, and the long-desired introduction took place. I resolved
to cultivate the acquaintance, and called at Mr. Coolidge’s the day
you—you went away.

“They told me you had gone,” he resumed, after a pause, “though they
could not or would not tell me where. Afterward young Coolidge said that
I would find you at the ‘Washington.’ I haunted the hotel for a week,
and I have searched the city over and over for you since. But, dearest,”
he said, clasping the little hand closer, “I have found you now, and can
you give me the one precious boon I crave—your priceless love?”

He bent eagerly toward her, his noble, handsome face flushed and
hopeful, for her attitude was one of sweet and modest confusion, and she
had not even sought to withdraw the hand he was holding.

“Will you, Brownie?” he pleaded, softly.

She flashed one quick look at him from her beautiful eyes as he called
her that, and he saw in their clear depths all that he wished or hoped.

She loved him! Her soul answered to his, and clasping her close to his
heart, he murmured:

“You are mine, darling—I have won you by the mighty power of my silent,
magnetic love, and you will be my wife?”

She lifted her head, which had been resting against his bosom, quickly
at these last words, and said, with drooping lashes and quivering lips:

“Mr. Dredmond, you have taken me by storm.”

“Yes, and I mean to hold you,” he interrupted, gayly, as he noticed her
excessive embarrassment; then added, more earnestly: “Brownie, do you,
can you love me?”

She smiled faintly at his first words, then with modest frankness gave
him the honest answer which she knew was his due.

“If I am truthful, I must confess that my heart does respond to yours;
but knowing so little of you, I should have deemed it unmaidenly to have
confessed it, even to myself.”

“But you do confess it now—you do love me?” he interrupted again, and
impatient for a more definite reply.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“And you will be my wife?” he asked, as his lips met hers.

“Yes, God willing,” in tones of solemn sweetness.

“Darling, God has given you to me; I acknowledge the giver as I take the
gift. From that first moment when I met you in the Art Gallery in
Philadelphia until now this mighty love has been growing within me.”

“In the Art Gallery?” questioned Brownie, with a puzzled look.

“Yes, when your friend, Miss Huntington, met with such a series of
accidents.”

“Oh, was that you with Mr. Gordon?” she demanded, her face dimpling at
the remembrance, and she eagerly searched his face. “I remember now; it
has haunted me like a strange dream ever since I met you on the boat,
where I had seen you before. Now it all comes back to me,” she said.

“I found something that day which belongs to you, but not in season to
return it to you then,” Adrian said.

He took from his pocket as he spoke the elegant sleeve button, which he
had always carried with him since.

Brownie exclaimed, joyously, as she saw it:

“Oh, how glad I am to get it—I never thought to see it again; and you
have had it all this time?”

“Yes, darling—my Brownie—how I have longed to say it—and I vowed then
that I would only yield it up into your own little hands.”

“It belonged to auntie once,” she explained, “and there are associations
connected with it which make it very dear to me.”

“And now come to yonder rock and sit down. I want to know all that has
happened to you since you left the Coolidges; there has been some
mystery connected with it which I could never understand,” Adrian said,
leading her to a sheltered seat, and sitting down beside her.

And Brownie, feeling that she was now no longer alone, but that instead
she had a host in him to battle for her, poured forth all the story of
her wrongs about the jewels, and the abuse and insult which she had
received from Isabel and her mother.




                              CHAPTER XXIV
                             RETROSPECTIVE


When Brownie, in her despair and desolation, bade farewell to Wilbur and
drove away from the Coolidge mansion, it was her intention to go
directly to the “Washington,” and there await, for a few days at least,
whatever destiny might send her.

But this plan was overruled in a way she had not thought of.

The man who drove the cab was more than half intoxicated, and upon
turning a corner, he ran into a heavily loaded team. More by luck than
by any good wit, he turned quickly aside, and the cab was almost
miraculously disengaged from the other vehicle; but the animals had now
become unmanageable from excessive fright. They gave a sudden leap into
the air, then bounded forward in a mad and furious race.

The cabby was thrown from his seat into the gutter, and in turning
another corner, the carriage was upset. Now, wholly beside themselves,
the horses kicked themselves free from the _débris_, and plunged out of
sight, leaving poor Brownie in a state of insensibility, buried beneath
the ruins.

The accident had happened in a quiet, aristocratic street of the city;
consequently there were few to witness it, and the young girl escaped
the curious gaze of the crowd which always gathers about any such event
in the more frequented portions.

The massive door of a grand house swung open, and an old lady of over
eighty, very peculiar in appearance—for she was bent nearly double, and
walked with a cane—appeared, attended by the gray-haired butler of the
house.

“Go and bring her in instantly, James,” she was saying, when another
woman came forward and seemed to protest against the order in a very
emphatic manner.

“I tell you it’s inhuman, Helen, to let her lie there, to be carried off
to some hospital by the police,” cried the old woman, in shrill, almost
angry tones.

“But, aunt, the house is full now; and if she is badly injured it will
not do to move her from here after she has been once attended to.”

“I don’t care if there are five hundred in the house; that girl shall
not be left there to be carried off by the police, I tell you. James, go
bring her in this instant. Get some one to help you, and take her up to
my bedroom.”

“But, aunt——”

“Hold your tongue, Helen. You were always hard-hearted as adamant. Go
along, I say!” And she flourished her cane about the grave butler’s ears
in a way to make him move more quickly to execute her orders than was
his wont.

He beckoned to two under-servants, and together they proceeded to the
overturned carriage, where Brownie could be seen lying prone against the
window, her white face upturned and motionless.

They extricated her, and bore her into an upper room, where, in the
presence of the brusque and energetic old woman, she was kindly
ministered unto, while awaiting the arrival of the family physician.

For three days she continued very ill, being feverish and somewhat
delirious, but after that she began to mend rapidly, and at the end of a
week she was able to sit up.

Evidently she could not have fallen into better hands, for she was
surrounded by every luxury imaginable, and upon questioning the servant
who attended her, she was told that she was in the house of Lady Randal.

She wondered why her ladyship did not come in to see her, and then
sighed to think that she was only a poor, friendless waif, who had been
picked out of the streets and ministered unto for charity’s sake.

But one day, upon awaking from a long and refreshing sleep, she found
the queerest-looking old lady bending over her and scrutinizing her
closely. She was nearly bent double, and held a cane in her hand. She
uttered a low grunt as Brownie opened her large brown eyes, giving her a
surprised look, and then asked, in a sharp, though not unkindly, tone:

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

“My name is Douglas,” replied Brownie, quietly, her pale face flushing
slightly at the blunt question.

“Eh? What? Oh! Dundas,” returned the deformed creature, twisting her
neck to get a better view of the delicate face. She was evidently hard
of hearing, and did not catch the name correctly; but she continued:

“And what’s your other name?”

“Mehetabel,” the young girl said, with her usual quiet smile whenever
she pronounced the obnoxious cognomen.

“Ah! Mabel,” replied the old woman, only seeing the motion of her lips,
and catching the last syllables. “Mabel Dundas! That is a good-sounding
name. Now, how old are you?”

Brownie was upon the point of correcting the mistake regarding her name,
when she checked herself.

“What matters it,” she breathed, with a sad sigh, “whether I am
Mehetabel Douglas or Mabel Dundas? It will be all the same to her, and
perhaps help to shield me from my enemies.”

“I am nearly nineteen,” she replied to the question.

“What? I’m not always so hard of hearing, but I’ve got a cold to-day.
How old did you say you are?”

“Nearly nineteen,” Brownie repeated, speaking louder.

“Do you suffer much?”

“Not very much.”

“Where are your friends?”

“I have none,” and the sad, sweet eyes filled with tears.

“Humph! That’s bad for a pretty face like yours. What do you do for a
living?”

“Teach.”

“Teach what?”

“Almost anything, except the higher classics.”

“Ah! indeed! and only nineteen! Perhaps you are one of those reduced
gentlewomen, who go out governessing, and pretend to know everything!”
snapped the old woman, with a sneer.

Probably she had been taken in some time during her life by some such
person as she described, which accounted for her scorn.

“No, madam; I pretend to nothing. I have a good education, therefore
teach for a living, and am only a poor girl without home or friends.”

Brownie’s cheeks were very red now, but her dignity would have done
credit to the highest lady in the land.

The strange woman chuckled audibly, nodded her head two or three times,
as if much amused, and then went on with her catechising:

“Do you read French?”

“Yes, madam,” replied the young girl, inwardly resenting the woman’s
brusque manner, yet feeling bound to reverence her gray head.

“And German.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Can you play the piano, and sing?”

“I can.”

“Have you an engagement now?”

“No, madam.”

“Are you desirous of obtaining a situation?”

“I am.”

“Can you produce the ‘best of references?’”

This question was also accompanied by a sneer.

“I cannot, madam. I have only my qualifications and my own word to
recommend me,” Brownie answered, with a good deal of spirit.

Again the old woman chuckled, and distorted her neck to look at her, in
a way which made Brownie fear she would dislocate it.

“Where were you last?” she demanded.

Evidently the old lady possessed authority in the house, or she would
not have assumed this manner toward her. She was very richly dressed,
too, and despite her deformity, had the appearance of nobility about
her.

Brownie tried to hide her indignation at being so persistently
questioned, for she had been kindly treated, having received every care
and kindness, although as yet she was unconscious how much of it was due
her present tormentor.

“I taught in an American family,” she at last replied.

“Ah! Came over with them, didn’t you? And you are an American, too,
aren’t you?” she asked, with a searching look.

Brownie nodded her head wearily; she was becoming very nervous.

“What was the name of the family, and what did they dismiss you for?”

This was going a little too far, and assuming too much.

“Pardon me, madam,” Brownie answered, with proud dignity. “I do not
understand your motive in interrogating me thus, and prefer not to reply
to any more questions. I will simply say, however, that I was not
dismissed from my position, but being unkindly treated, I came away of
my own accord.”

“Good! good! I like that! Nobody can set their heel upon your neck! You
are not fond of the inquisition either, nor afraid to say no. You’ve got
pluck, and I like it; but I’m an old woman, and always have my own way
wherever I am. I’ll go now, though, for you look tired; but I shall come
to see you again.” And the strange character, after twisting her neck to
get another view of Brownie’s fair face, hobbled from the room, striking
her cane upon the floor with a vigorous thump at every step, and nodding
her head and muttering to herself all the way out.

The next day Brownie was awakened from her nap the same as on the
previous day, and was greeted by that same low grunt as she opened her
eyes.

She had no idea how long the woman had been gazing at her, nor how she
had entered the room, for she had heard neither the opening nor the
shutting of a door, nor the thumping of the cane across the floor.

She held in her left hand to-day a delicate vase of fretted silver, in
which there was a single stalk of hyacinths, with a few sprays of
feathery heath.

“Better to-day?” she questioned, briefly.

Brownie smiled a little, as she answered in the affirmative. She saw
that the keen gray eyes had a softer, kinder gleam in them than they had
yesterday.

“Do you like flowers?” asked the strange old lady, holding out a rose to
her.

Brownie sat up, her lovely face flushing all over with delight, and put
her hand out to receive it.

“You are very kind. They seem like a ray of sunshine after a cold and
dismal storm,” she said, bending over them to inhale their fragrancy.

“Humph! it takes mighty little to make some people chipper,” the old
woman returned bluntly; yet there was a note of satisfaction in her
shrill voice, as if Brownie’s appreciation pleased her.

Then she asked:

“Are you getting stronger? Are you able to walk about the room?”

“Oh, yes; I am quite strong to-day, and have been thinking I must go
away soon.”

“What for? Aren’t you comfortable?” and the old lady spoke more sharply
than usual.

“Yes, indeed; too comfortable, I’m afraid. But, then, I am depending on
strangers, and I ought to be looking out for myself,” Brownie said, her
cheeks crimsoning with embarrassment.

“Ahem! you’d like me to think you are one of the industrious kind,
wouldn’t you?” the old woman said, grimly.

Evidently she did not like anything which seemed like self-praise.

“Oh, no,” Brownie answered, with a mischievous smile; “I assure you I do
not love drudgery a bit better than other people; but when one has not a
penny excepting what one earns, it is necessary to bestir one’s self.”

“Well, if you want to work, and can walk a few steps, come with me. I’ll
take you at your word, and set you a task right away,” said the old
creature.

Much amused, and wondering what was coming next, Brownie arose with
alacrity, for she had grown weary of being shut up in one room, and
longed for a change.

The old woman led the way half across the room, then stopping short and
turning suddenly around, she said:

“Perhaps you’d like to know who I am, since I’ve managed to find out so
much about you and your affairs. I’m Lady Ruxley, and I’m aunt to Lady
Randal, in whose house you are. She’s a hard-hearted creature—Helen is,
but she can’t come it over me; no, no, not until I lose more of my wits
than I have yet,” she concluded, with a triumphant chuckle.

Lady Ruxley! Lady Ruxley! Where had she heard that name before, Brownie
wondered.

It sounded familiar, and her thoughts went leaping back into the past.

Then all at once it came to her with a force which made her feel faint
and sick, and she caught her breath with almost a sob.

Lady Ruxley was that woman at whose ball in London, more than forty
years ago, that tragedy in her aunt’s life had occurred, and Lady Randal
was, without a doubt, the hard-hearted Helen, and that same Helen Capel
whose cruel plotting and intrigue had ruined the life of Miss Mehetabel
Douglas.

And she had been receiving, and was still receiving, such heavy
obligations from the hands of that wicked woman!




                              CHAPTER XXV
                      A LITTLE MATTER OF BUSINESS


“What’s the matter? You are not strong enough to walk! Go back and sit
down,” commanded Lady Ruxley, as she saw the young girl first flush a
deep crimson, and then grow white as a ghost.

But she quickly recovered herself.

“Thank you, but I am perfectly able to go; I was dizzy for a moment,
though it has passed now,” she returned, quietly, although a tumult of
feelings was raging in her bosom.

Giving her another searching glance, her ladyship passed on, and instead
of going out at the door, as Brownie expected she would do, she
proceeded toward the opposite side of the room, where a set of heavy
satin damask curtains hung suspended from a richly gilded cornice.

Brownie supposed that they concealed a window, but sweeping them aside,
her guide conducted her through a lofty archway into a small vestibule,
lighted from above through richly stained panels of glass to another
archway also concealed by curtains.

Passing through this she ushered her companion into the sunniest,
pleasantest, airiest room in the world.

It was a sort of parlor, library, and music-room combined, and contained
every comfort and luxury which the human heart could suggest.

Leading from this large room was a smaller one, in which Brownie caught
sight of a narrow bed, simply draped in white.

She afterward learned that the strange old woman, out of the abundant
tenderness of her heart for her in her dangerous condition, had given up
her own luxurious chamber to her, and slept upon this small couch in an
anteroom.

“Sit down,” said Lady Ruxley, indicating by a motion of her head a
tempting chair standing near a marble table covered with richly bound
books.

Brownie obeyed, while her ladyship seated herself in another opposite.

“There,” she said, when, by an ingenious contrivance, she had tipped the
chair back so that she could look at her without twisting her neck; “now
I’ll tell you what I want of you. Three weeks ago I sent away my
companion because she neglected me. I suppose it was dull staying with
such an old dry-bones as I am; and I’ve had no one since to read to me,
or do anything for my amusement. Now, if you want something to do, won’t
you please read me something from that ‘English Review?’”

“With pleasure,” Brownie replied, her pale face brightening again with
the thought of contributing thus to the poor lonely old woman’s comfort.

It seemed almost like the old times with her own auntie, only it would
have appeared more real if Lady Ruxley had not been so blunt and sharp,
but a little more lovable, like Miss Mehetabel.

She read an hour, in clear, distinct tones, which, although her ladyship
was hard of hearing, she had no difficulty in catching every word.

“That was reading worth listening to,” she said, heaving a sigh of
appreciation. “Now put the book aside, and rest a while.”

“I am not weary; let me read you something else,” she answered.

“No, no; I’ll not listen to any more now; but if you do not mind, I’d
like you to sit with me a while longer.”

“Yes, certainly, if you wish.”

“Nobody cares for an old mummy like me,” (how Brownie wished she would
not call herself such horrid names), “and I do get lonely staying by
myself all the time; though the time was when there were few who were
not glad to seek the society of Lady Ruxley. Minnett, my maid, is no
company, and I’ve not been able to find any one who was willing to be
companion to a deaf old woman.

“They try to be polite,” she went on garrulously, “to me when I go down
into the drawing-room, because they know I’m rich, and they think it
won’t do to cross me; but I know my room is better than my company.
Nobody but Charles cares for his old aunt; he’s Lady Randal’s son, and
as good as gold. He’s always civil, and would give me his arm out to
dinner as gallantly as to the handsomest belle in the kingdom. He
believes in the old proverb about ‘honoring the hoary head,’ which is
more than most young people nowadays do. How is it, young woman—do you
like old folks?”

She had run on in a rambling sort of way, but as she asked this
question, she turned to Brownie, and eyed her keenly.

“I had a dear aunt, who was all the friend I had in the world since I
was a little baby. She was both father and mother to me, and I shall
always feel tenderly toward old people for her sake,” Brownie replied,
the quick tears springing to her eyes.

“Is she dead?”

“Yes; she died the fifth of last September.”

“Was she old and ugly and withered like me?”

Poor Brownie! it was a hard question, remembering so vividly as she did
Miss Mehetabel’s fair, lovely face, set in its framework of clustering,
silvery curls.

The comparison was not favorable, to say the least, to this antediluvian
before her.

She flushed with embarrassment as she gently replied:

“All old people grow wrinkled, you know, and her hair was much whiter
than yours.”

Lady Ruxley chuckled merrily over this non-committal answer.

“Young woman, you are as ‘wise as a serpent, and as harmless as a dove,’
and I’m of the opinion that your aunt might have thought considerable of
you. What was her name?”

“I was named for her,” the young girl replied, evasively.

“Mabel Dundas. It is a pretty name; I like it.”

And the queer old lady looked as if she liked the owner of it, too.

The next morning, after the servant who waited upon Brownie had attended
to all her wants, and left her, there came a rap upon her door. The next
moment a handsome woman of about fifty entered. Brownie arose, bowed
courteously, and remained standing till she was addressed.

“Miss Dundas,” the lady said, “I must apologize to you for any seeming
neglect in not coming to see you before, but I have a house full of
company; but I have given orders that you should want for nothing. I am
Lady Randal, and I have come to have a few moments’ conversation with
you.”

She seated herself, and motioned for Brownie to do the same, then
resumed:

“You have had quite a serious accident, and I am glad to see you are
better. Are you quite comfortable, and do the servants attend you
properly?” and she put up her eyeglasses to inspect the stranger.

“Thank you, I have been very kindly cared for, and am very grateful for
the good Samaritan’s charity which has provided for my necessities,”
Brownie answered, trying to speak heartily, although she felt the
greatest repugnance toward this woman, who she believed was guilty of so
much wrong.

She had a cold, false eye, and a cunning, cruel expression about her
handsome mouth.

She was just the kind of a woman to ruin the life of any one who stood
in her way, Brownie thought.

She laughed lightly but disagreeably at the young girl’s words.

“Oh, I do not claim any merit whatever regarding your comfort or
necessities. My house was full, and at first I thought it would be
impossible to take you in, but Lady Ruxley, who is very eccentric and
wilful, insisted upon it, and gave up her own chamber for your
accommodation, she sleeping, meanwhile, in her maid’s room.”

Brownie’s fair face grew scarlet, as she listened to this, and was made
to feel, by the indelicate explanation, that Lady Randal, at least, had
regarded her in the light of an intruder.

It explained to her, too, what she had at first considered singular—that
the rooms should be connected by archways and curtains instead of doors.

“I regret exceedingly,” she returned, with dignity, “that I should have
put an aged lady like Lady Ruxley to such inconvenience. I laid my plans
yesterday to go to some hotel as soon as I should be able, and remain
until I fully recover. If you will allow one of your servants to order a
carriage for me, I will put my plan into execution at once.”

“No, no, Miss Dundas, that would never do at all, and Aunt Ruxley would
berate me soundly if she knew I had told you this. She is a very queer
woman, as doubtless you discovered yesterday. She will not be crossed in
anything, and when her mind is once made up, you can no more move her
than you could one of the seven hills of Rome. But,” continued the
woman, who had never once taken her eyes from the fair young face before
her, and had read every expression with a boldness which made her
odious, “I did not come to tell you this—I came upon a little matter of
business.”

She paused a moment, and Brownie wondered what business she could have
with her.

“Aunt Ruxley has taken a great shine to you, so to speak,” she resumed,
“and has commissioned me to ask you if you would be willing to remain
with her as her companion? Wait, if you please, until I get through,
Miss Dundas, before you decide,” she said, as Brownie looked up in
surprise, and then went on, as if she supposed the young girl possessed
of no feeling or delicacy: “I do not approve of the plan myself; I never
believed in engaging any one in this way, for she says you have no
recommendation or credentials beyond your own word. But she has set her
heart upon it, and seems to think you will be willing to remain. It is
very difficult to get any one of the right sort who is willing to stay
and do for her what she requires, on account of her peculiarities. We
have tried several during the last two years. Now, if you think you
would like the place, and would exert yourself to please her, we will
overlook your lack of credentials, and I think we can arrange to give
you the situation. Your salary would be fifty pounds a year. Of course
we do not expect,” she hastened to add, “that you can do very much until
you get strong, and we will make every allowance for that.”

Brownie was disgusted with the woman’s coarseness, and felt more like
refusing the offer than accepting it, but what could she do?

It seemed like flying in the face of Providence to reject it.

She had no credentials, and no good family having children would engage
her without, and she knew she was likely to fare no better, if as well,
if she returned to her native land, unless she should acknowledge she
had failed in her great undertaking, and fall back upon Mr. Conrad’s
offer to give her a home.

So, after thinking the matter over carefully, she decided to accept Lady
Randal’s offer.

“Does Lady Ruxley remain in town most of the year?” she asked, before
giving her answer.

“Oh, no. I ought to have mentioned that we all leave town in a few weeks
for our country seat in Kent County, where Lady Ruxley has a house of
her own, preferring to live alone rather than endure the noise and
confusion of Vallingham Hall. Do you object to the country?”

“Oh, no, I like it.”

This intelligence relieved Brownie greatly, for she felt as if she could
scarcely endure to live in the same house with this woman.

“It may be a little lonely for you at first,” Lady Randal added, “but
aunt frequently pays a visit at the Hall, for she likes to know what is
going on in the world, I assure you, if she does live alone with her
servants most of the time.”

“I will accept this position, Lady Randal, and if I can make Lady
Ruxley’s life more pleasant than it has been I shall be very thankful,”
Brownie said, gravely, yet a little proudly.

She did not fancy her visitor’s patronizing, almost insolent manner, and
inwardly resented her bold, fixed stare.

“Very well, then we will call the matter settled,” Lady Randal replied,
rising, and infinitely relieved that she had been able to secure a
companion for her troublesome aunt, though she thought the girl a “proud
minx.”

She left her with a cool good-morning, and the young girl seemed to
breathe freer the moment the door closed after her.

A month later they were settled in that gem of a villa, near Vallingham
Hall.

Brownie had fully recovered, and was getting stronger every day.

She really grew quite attached to the old lady when she became better
acquainted with her, and found her, with all her oddities, a much more
congenial companion than either Mrs. Coolidge or Isabel had been.

She read a great deal, and practiced several hours a day, so that the
time slipped by until Lady Randal and her family came down to Vallingham
Hall, the advent of which was to open a new era in Brownie Douglas’
life.




                              CHAPTER XXVI
                       “AND YOU WILL BE MY WIFE!”


The events contained in the last two chapters Brownie related in
substance to Adrian, as they sat together upon the rock where he had
first discovered who she was the night previous.

“I suppose you know Miss Isabel is engaged to Sir Charles Randal,”
Adrian said, when she had concluded.

“Sir Charles Randal! No!” replied Brownie, growing pale at the
intelligence.

“What! you have been an inmate of their family so long, and not know of
this important circumstance.”

“I saw but very little of the family while I was at their house in
London. I was with Lady Ruxley constantly, and scarcely went out until
we came down to West Malling, which we did a month before the family at
the Hall; and we have not seen much of them since, but live very quietly
and pleasantly at the villa.”

“It is too bad, for Charles really deserves a better fate,” said Adrian,
with a clouded brow.

“By the way,” and Brownie glanced up mischievously, “do you know that
that honor was intended for you?”

“I surmised as much from certain circumstances which came to my
knowledge,” he replied, with a scornful curl of his fine lips. “But,” he
added, a moment after, as he gathered her close in his arms, “she will
find that there was one who could look beneath the surface. My
darling—my darling—my pure little pearl! what is she compared with you?”

“Lady Ruxley will be very much disappointed, Adrian.”

“I presume so; I should be somewhat surprised if she was not. But is
Lady Ruxley of more consequence than some one else whom you know?” the
young man asked, as, placing one finger beneath her chin, he raised the
blushing face so that he could look into the lovely eyes.

“No; oh, no—but——” with a little smile.

“But what, dear?” questioned her lover, tenderly, as he saw the
sensitive lips quivering.

“But, Adrian, I may as well say it first as last—I shrink from the
ordeal which I know must come.”

“What ordeal?” he asked, very gravely.

“I have heard that you are allied to a noble house—that you are some
time to inherit great possessions and a title, though just what that
title is I know not; and I fear that your proud kinsmen will scorn the
idea of a poor, friendless waif like me becoming your wife!”

“Who informed you that I was heir to such ‘great expectations,’” he
asked, with a quiet smile.

“It was spoken of often by Mrs. Coolidge and her daughter.”

“And do you deem yourself unworthy to be my wife on account of your
poverty?”

“No!” and the bright head was lifted proudly now, the lovely eyes glowed
with a fire which told that, despite her lack of wealth and position,
she considered herself the equal of the proudest in the land.

“What then? Suppose you and I were suddenly to change places, would you
deem me to be unworthy to be your husband because I had lost my wealth?”

“No! I should be proud——”

He stopped her lips with tender kisses.

“And I, my darling, should be proud to call you my wife were you the
lowliest-born in all England. But you are not; you are my equal in birth
and station, and it is only an accident which has placed you where any
one is liable to be. A man often misses his expectations, and I am only
plain Adrian Dredmond as yet; surely you are not afraid of me, if you
are of those whom you choose to term my high-born kinsmen.”

Brownie nestled closer to him as she replied, with dignity:

“I am afraid of no one, yet one naturally shrinks from bringing contempt
upon one whom one loves, and you know the ways of the world, Adrian.”

“You never can bring contempt upon me. The world may say what it
pleases—and I warn you it will not dare say very much, and since I am of
age, and capable of choosing my own wife, I think we will call no one
else into the consultation,” he said, decisively.

Brownie laughed at his way of settling the matter.

“You have not answered me yet, darling,” he added, a moment after; “you
have given yourself to me?”

“Yes, Adrian, I am proud to give myself to you.”

“And you will be my wife?” drawing her closer.

“Yes.”

“Whenever I say?”

She lifted her eyes again to read his, but their light dazzled her, and
with her own lashes drooping shyly upon her crimson cheeks, she
murmured:

“Whenever you will, dear.”

“Then, my Brownie, with your permission, I will see Lady Ruxley
immediately, after which I shall wish to introduce you to those
high-born kinsmen of mine.”

“Not to-day, Adrian, please. I cannot bear you to speak to Lady Ruxley
to-day. I have hardly got used to my own happiness yet. Let it rest
until we go back to the villa, and then I will not say you nay,” pleaded
the young girl, earnestly.

Her joy was something so new and sacred that she felt unwilling to
impart the knowledge of it yet to any one.

“Very well, darling, let it be as you wish. That will not be very long
to wait, and meantime I shall call the high and mighty ones into
counsel,” he replied, with a sly laugh, which brought the ever-ready
color into her cheeks again.




                             CHAPTER XXVII
                        “SHE IS NOT BENEATH ME.”


Contrary to her own and Brownie’s expectations, and somewhat to the
disappointment of the latter, Lady Ruxley decided to return to West
Malling the next afternoon. She had taken cold the night previous, and
was not so well as usual, and thought she would feel better to be at
home.

“I shall come soon, my darling,” Adrian had managed to whisper, as he
handed Brownie into the carriage, and then stood wistfully watching it
until it was out of sight.

Lady Ruxley reached home about five, where she found awaiting her a
summons to Vallingham Hall.

Lady Randal was planning a musical _soirée_, to come off the following
week, and requested her aunt to lend her Miss Dundas’ services for the
occasion. She also stated that it would take three or four days’
practice to prepare for the occasion; meanwhile they were invited to
make the Hall their home, she promising that her ladyship should have
every comfort and attention, and be assigned rooms in as quiet a portion
of the house as possible.

“It will do the child good; she has perked up wonderfully in the last
two days by just going over to Dunforth Castle,” mused the old lady, who
continued to marvel at the wondrous change in her usually sad companion.

Wholly unmindful of the aches and pains which had hurried her home from
Dunforth Castle, she rang the bell a furious peal for her maid.

“Pack up a week’s supply of clothing, and have it ready by ten
to-morrow. We go to Vallingham Hall for a seven days’ visit.”

With which command, she left the astonished Minnett and hobbled away to
find Brownie and impart the news to her.

Brownie, as soon as she had removed her wrappings, repaired to the
conservatory, and was greatly surprised when she heard Lady Ruxley’s
cane come clinking over the tiled floor, supposing her to be snug in
bed, and enjoying the delights of a rousing rum-sweat—her favorite
remedy for colds and rheumatics.

“I thought I should find you here,” her ladyship said, as Brownie arose
quickly and came forward to lead her to a chair. “You like birds and
flowers, don’t you?” she added, keenly regarding the lovely, smiling
face and sparkling eyes.

“Yes, my lady, I am exceedingly fond of them. But are you not imprudent
to come here, where it is so damp, with your cold?” she asked, as she
seated her and placed a hassock at her feet. She was ever tenderly
mindful of her comfort.

“No, no, child; I’m all right now I am home again. I never feel well
when I’m visiting—that is,” she hastened to add “in strange places. It
did you good, though; you have more color, and look brighter.”

“Yes, I am much better than when I first came to West Malling,” Brownie
admitted, with a conscious blush.

“Yes, the trip to the castle did you much good, undoubtedly,” persisted
her ladyship, nodding and chuckling knowingly.

“It was a change, you know.”

“Yes, yes; that’s it. Young folks need change. I was a fool not to think
of it before. I might have known that a young, bright thing like you
would droop and pine, hived up with a croning old owl like me for
company.”

“Pray, dear Lady Ruxley, do not talk so!” Brownie interrupted, eagerly,
and much distressed at her words. “Indeed, I have been very happy with
you—much more so than I was during the five months previous.”

“I know—I know all about it. You’re plucky, and you will not own it to
me. But you’ve been lonely and sad. I’ve got eyes, and I can see for
myself. You went away from here pale, sad and quiet; you come back rosy,
happy, almost gay, and the life, music, and company up yonder was what
you needed, and you shall have some more of it. I like to see folks
bright and chipper about me.”

Brownie felt more and more guilty.

But her next words filled her with still deeper dismay.

“They’ve got a houseful of company, as usual, up at the Hall, and we go
there, too, to-morrow, to stop a few days.”

“Indeed, Lady Ruxley, I hope you are not going on my account. I do not
desire or need company, and I should really prefer to remain quietly
here,” she said, in distress.

“Oh! I’ve got eyes—good ones, too, if they are old; besides, Lady Randal
desires it. She is getting up a _soirée_, and desires your services as
musician. She sent a note to-day, asking me.”

“But—but you are not well. Really, I think it would be best for neither
of us to go.”

“Oh, I’m all right, and I’ve given Minnett orders to have everything in
readiness by to-morrow at ten. You will please be ready by that time,
too,” returned her ladyship, somewhat impatiently, who thought the young
girl hesitated about going only on her account.

That settled it, of course.

Brownie could not refuse point-blank to go, but her heart grew faint
within her at the thought of meeting the Coolidges, and particularly
under an assumed name.

Of course, she could not avoid meeting them, and doubtless they would
reveal all the past to both Lady Randal and Lady Ruxley.

They would tell their story about the jewels, and of that scene with
Wilbur, and the way she had left their employ.

Yet what need had she to fear Isabel Coolidge, or, indeed, any one, now
that she had Adrian to lean upon and protect her?

With this brighter thought in her mind, she sought her own room to
prepare for her absence and the approaching gayeties, which, after all,
she began to anticipate with something of pleasure and interest.

Meanwhile, a very different scene was being enacted at Dunforth Castle.

As soon as Lady Ruxley’s carriage was driven from sight, Adrian Dredmond
turned to his grandfather, saying, gravely:

“Can I have a private interview with you, sir?”

“Yes, yes, my boy, of course; come into my sanctum at once.”

He led the way to the luxuriously appointed library, where a cheerful
fire in the grate toned the chill air to just the right temperature, and
gave the lofty, beautiful room an appearance of homelike comfort.

“Well, now, what is it, Ad?” the old man asked, familiarly, as he threw
himself into his easy-chair, and bent a look of pride upon the young
lover’s handsome, animated face.

Adrian colored, but, coming to the point at once said:

“Sir, I desire your permission to marry.”

“Bless my soul, my boy! What’s this?” and he sat up and stared at his
grandson for a moment, as if he had never thought of such a thing before
in connection with him.

“Well, well,” he added the next; “you took me rather by surprise; that’s
a fact; but, after all, you couldn’t please me better. Aha! that
accounts for your hurry to get back to London, doesn’t it?”

“Yes—no,” replied Adrian, somewhat confused, and yet half-laughing at
his grandfather’s comical surprise and ready acquiescence to his
request.

“Yes—no,” repeated his lordship, with a merry twinkle in his eye; “that
is rather a doubtful reply. But, seriously, Adrian, my boy, nothing
would give me greater satisfaction than to see you settled in life; and
I have no doubt but that the lady of your choice is in every way
desirable.”

“She is, sir, a perfect lady, highly educated and accomplished, and
there never was, in my opinion, a more beautiful Countess of Dunforth
than she will make,” returned the ardent lover, who felt that everything
was progressing finely.

“Yes, yes; that is always so with lovers. I remember——”

What he remembered he did not say, but his face grew wan and sad, as he
suddenly checked himself.

Then he resumed, more gravely:

“The lady is of good birth, of course?”

“Yes, sir, excellent,” Adrian returned, recalling what his friend Gordon
had said about Miss Mehetabel’s “family tree.” Then he added: “But
misfortune of a very serious nature has deprived her during the last six
or eight months of all her property, and death of her last friend.”

“That is bad, truly, my boy; but, then, you will have enough, and to
spare, and I would be the last one to put anything in the way of your
happiness for the lack of filthy lucre. You love the lady, of course?”
and he searched the noble face that he loved so well.

“As my own life!” Adrian said, earnestly.

“Ah! you have been a sly dog to get so far as this and we never
suspected it. Who is the fair inamorata?”

“You would not deem it anything out of the way, I presume, sir, if a
lady of good birth should be reduced to the necessity of becoming a
governess or a companion?” Adrian asked, ignoring the question, and
determined to lay all the facts before his grandfather before telling
his darling’s name.

“Zounds, Adrian! Has it been so bad as that in the case of your
ladylove?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then the quicker you marry her, and relieve her dire necessity the
better,” his lordship said, little thinking how he was committing
himself.

“Thank you. Yes, sir, it came to that, as I told you some six or eight
months ago.”

“But—what is this? Why, you were in America at that time,” and he began
to fidget uneasily.

“Yes, sir; I met the lady in America.”

“Ah, ha!”

This time Lord Dunforth scowled disapprobation. He had the English
prejudice against English nobility intermarrying with American
plebeianism, so-called.

Adrian noticed his look, and his heart sank.

“My lord,” he said, “you have seen the lady, and acknowledged her
loveliness. I heard you tell Sir Charles that she was very beautiful,
and too much of a lady for the position which she occupies. I assure
you, and I speak advisedly, that she is of good birth, and fitted in
every way to be my wife. She is companion to Lady Ruxley. Have I still
your permission to marry her?”

His lordship stared at his grandson in dismay.

“Miss Dundas, Adrian!” he exclaimed, aghast, his fine face flushing a
deep crimson.

“Miss Douglas, my lord,” corrected Adrian, somewhat proudly.

His lordship did not notice the correction. His head was bent in deep
thought, his brow was knotted, his lips compressed. At length, looking
up, he said, with emotion:

“My boy, your happiness is of the greatest importance to me, and has
always been my first consideration. I know what it is to love deeply,
and the anguish which follows the loss of a loved one”—his voice
quivered painfully. “But,” he added, “it is better to give up an
unworthy love than to marry beneath you, and then repent of it when it
is too late.”

“Sir, the lady is not unworthy, and I shall never repent making her my
wife,” Adrian said, indignantly; then continued, speaking rapidly: “I
told you that she descended from a highly respectable family. They were
English, too, and removed to America many years ago. They were very
wealthy at that time, but a series of misfortunes deprived them of this.
I learned this from my friend, Gordon, whom, you remember, I met two
years ago in Germany. He vouched for her respectability, and told me he
had seen the ‘family tree,’ and that they traced back their ancestry to
the Scottish nobility.”

“But it must be very remote. Besides, she was born and reared in
America, and has not a friend living, as you say, to prove her
respectability, and all this would be very disagreeable to establish.”

“The fact that I have chosen her for my wife would be sufficient to
establish her respectability without any questioning,” replied Adrian,
proudly.

“But I want you to have an English wife, Adrian—one who will fill her
position proudly and creditably.”

“I am as eager for that, my lord, as you can possibly be,” said the
young man, with a quiet smile, as he thought how perfectly Brownie would
reign in those grand old halls.

“How came she to be in England if she was so reduced in circumstances?”

“She came over as governess with a family, in the same steamer with
myself.”

“How does it happen that they did not retain her—that she left them to
be companion to a woman like Lady Ruxley?” demanded his lordship, his
face beginning to grow stern and set.

Adrian colored vividly. He knew it did not sound well, but he was truth
itself, and replied:

“She was ill-treated and insulted—in fact, was accused of taking that
which did not belong to her.”

“Enough, sir! No person with any such record can ever become allied to
my family!” burst forth Lord Dunforth, rising from his chair in wrath.

“But, sir, let me explain——”

“No, sir!” he thundered; “not another word! I am astonished and
disappointed in you, Adrian, that you could so demean yourself as to
desire to marry any one so far beneath you!”

“She is not beneath me,” began the indignant lover, hotly.

“Not another word, Adrian, if you please, on the subject, unless you
wish to incur my stern displeasure. You, the future Earl of Dunforth,
marry a person accused of theft! Never!” and he paced the floor, with
angry strides.

Suddenly he wheeled upon his grandson, and demanded:

“May I ask, have you made proposals to this very estimable person?”

“I have, my lord.” The manly eyes blazed dangerously at this almost
insulting question, while his hands worked nervously at the biting
sarcasm of his grandfather’s words.

“Fool!”

“Sir!”

“You’re a fool, I say!”

The two men glared at each other furiously for a moment. Then Adrian,
growing very pale, moved a step or two back, and said, in a quiet,
though concentrated voice:

“Then I am to understand that you refuse your consent to my marrying?”

“I do, most emphatically refuse to allow you to marry any such doubtful
person as Lady Ruxley’s companion appears to be. Shame upon you stooping
so low!”

“Then, my Lord Dunforth, listen to me,” Adrian said, flushing angrily,
and drawing his proud form to its fullest height. “I love this gentle
girl with my whole heart; I have told her so, and I have asked her to be
my wife. I am of age, and, sir, I shall marry her!”

Lord Dunforth suddenly wheeled about, and came forward with rapid
strides.

The two proud men stood looking steadfastly into each other’s eyes for a
moment, and each read there a determination never to yield.

“Then you are no longer a child of mine!” whispered the irate lord,
hoarsely, his whole frame shaking from anger, disappointment, and
mortification.

“Grandfather,” returned Adrian, sadly, “you know I love you, and would
gladly do anything in reason to please you; but the happiness of two
lives is at stake, and in this matter I must choose for myself.”

There was a note of quiet determination in his voice, albeit it was so
sad, which told the other that he meant every word he uttered.

“Then choose for yourself,” he cried, almost beside himself with grief
and mortified pride, “and choose beggary with your wife, for not one
shilling from the Dunforth coffers shall you ever touch!”

“But I am not a beggar quite yet, my lord; I have my own income,”
returned Adrian, proudly, yet smiling, in spite of himself, for his
income was no mean one.

“Then leave me—begone!”

“Sir——”

“Not another word, unless you will yield to me!” shouted the earl.

“I cannot!”

“Then go! Marry your plebian beggar, and never darken Dunforth’s doors
again!”

“Is that your ultimatum? Have you no sympathy nor mercy?” asked Adrian,
growing very white about the mouth, though his eyes gleamed with a lurid
light.

His lordship caught his breath hard at these questions. Who should have
sympathy if not he? But he would not yield.

“It is my ultimatum. I have no sympathy with anything like that,” he
said, yet the face of his own lost love arose before him at that moment
like a phantom.

With an inclination of his haughty head, Adrian turned and left the room
without another word.




                             CHAPTER XXVIII
                          “HOW CAME YOU HERE?”


Lady Ruxley had said truly that Vallingham Hall was full of company, and
as Brownie, who sat reading to her ladyship the next morning after their
arrival, caught the sound of fresh young voices and silvery laughter, as
they floated up through those lofty halls, she felt her own heart grow
warm and light, and she found herself longing to mingle with the gay
company. Lady Ruxley had tried to prevail upon her to go down the
evening previous and enjoy the music and dancing, but the thought of
meeting the Coolidges was so repugnant to her that she preferred
remaining quietly in her own room, although it was quite a trial,
knowing that Viola and Alma were in the same house, and yet not be able
to see them.

Just before noon Lady Randal came bustling in in great haste, bearing a
great box in her hands.

“Auntie,” she began, affably, “I want to borrow Miss Dundas for a little
while.”

“What for?” demanded the old lady sharply, and eying the box
suspiciously.

She had no idea of having the young girl imposed upon, or made to
perform any disagreeable tasks for her exacting niece.

“I can’t find an operetta which I had set my heart upon having performed
at the _soirée_. I thought I could put my hand upon it at once, but I
have mislaid it, and thought it might be among these papers. Charles
wants me immediately to arrange the programme, so that I have not time
to look for it myself, and I thought perhaps Miss Dundas might be
willing to hunt it for me. Will you?” she demanded, turning to Brownie.

“Certainly, if Lady Ruxley has no objections,” she answered, quietly.

“Well, well, child, you’d never refuse, no matter what anybody asked of
you. Put down the box, Helen, and she shall look as soon as she has
finished the article she is reading,” Lady Ruxley replied.

Lady Randal obeyed.

“While you see about it, you may as well arrange the papers orderly;
they have been turned over so many times that they are all in a muss,”
she said, and then left the room.

Half an hour after, her reading finished, she took the box to a large
table standing in the bay window, and began her work.

It was no easy task to put that promiscuous assortment in order.

There were bills of all kinds, letters and notes, and memoranda, all
mixed with loose papers and envelopes.

She at length succeeded in finding the operetta, and then proceeded to
arrange and tie up the letters, bills and other documents so that they
need not get mixed again.

She had nearly finished her task, and the bundles were all neatly
arranged in the box, when, taking up a small package, the wrapper
suddenly gave way, and several little notes and papers fell scattering
into her lap.

They were directed to different persons, and all in different
handwriting, and Brownie could not help wondering how they happened to
be in Lady Randal’s possession.

She began to gather them up, pondering upon the singular circumstance,
yet too honorable to take advantage of her opportunity and gratify her
curiosity, when her eye fell upon a note, the corner of which had been
doubled back, revealing the writing within.

The writing, though, irregular, as if a trembling hand had traced it,
had a strangely familiar look as she glanced at it.

It had been written with a pencil, and was not very distinct. Bending
closer, Brownie discovered the words, “repentant Meta.”

A thrill of intense pain ran through every nerve, and, without stopping
to consider that she had no moral right to do so, she unfolded the
paper—it was yellow and old, and only folded once—and began to read.

Scarce had her eye swept over the few words written within, when every
vestige of color faded from her cheeks and lips, while her eyes burned
with a fierce, vengeful light.

She had heard of that little note before.

How well she remembered the pain in that dear old face, the quivering of
those sweet, pale lips, and the note of mortal anguish in the loved
voice which had told her of this little message which had never
accomplished its mission.

In her mind she went back nearly fifty years, and saw a beautiful young
girl, lying pale and sick in a lofty room, a deep scar upon her fair
temple, but a deeper pain looking forth from the sad eyes, as she
watched eagerly for the sound of a footstep which never came.

Yes, it was the very note—that anguished, repentant cry, which Miss
Mehetabel had sent from the depths of her soul to the man she had loved!


“Yes, come at once, if you can forgive your repentant

                                                                 “META.”


How well she remembered the words, and now she had found them, as her
aunt had told her, in the possession of Helen Capel, now Lady Randal.

They had been kept back from the honest, faithful lover, who was only
waiting for this permission to fly to the side of his betrothed and
comfort her, by the hand of this treacherous woman, who had thus
ruthlessly wrecked a human life, yea, two lives!

How strange, Brownie thought, that the note should thus have fallen into
her hands.

“Surely, there is Providence in it,” she murmured, as, with one swift
glance to see that Lady Ruxley was not observing her, she hid it in her
bosom, and then hurriedly completed her task.

The operetta was sent to Lady Randal, and the box of papers returned to
their accustomed place; but all day long Brownie felt as if a mountain
was crushing her heart, with that little paper lying in her bosom.

She felt she could not breathe in the same house and under the same roof
which sheltered the woman who had deliberately planned to entrap a young
and guileless girl into disgracing both herself and her lover, that she
might separate them forever, hoping to win him for herself.

She wondered if Lady Ruxley knew of her share in the event, or if Lord
Dunforth had ever found it out.

Probably not, since they were still good friends, and had he known of it
he could not have forgiven so bitter a wrong.

The more she thought of these things, the more her heart rebelled
against them, until she grew so restless and nervous that she nearly
cried out with pain whenever any one spoke to her.

About four o’clock, finding that Lady Ruxley was sleeping, she stole
out, thinking to get away into the sunshine and calm herself, and
perhaps Adrian would come ere long, and she could share her burden with
him; at all events, he would comfort her.

She opened the door and passed noiselessly out into the hall.

She had nearly traversed the long corridor leading to the grand
staircase, when she almost ran against some one who suddenly came out of
a room she was passing.

“I beg your pardon,” Brownie murmured, and then looked up to see who it
was.

It was none other than Isabel Coolidge!

Instantly the two girls braced themselves for the encounter, and looked
the surprise which neither of them for the moment could speak.

“You here?” Isabel exclaimed, at length, growing white, while her eyes
emitted a lurid light.

“Yes, Miss Coolidge,” gently replied Brownie, yet with lifted eyebrows
and a calm, scornful look into her enemy’s face.

“How came you here?”

“Pardon me, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to relate
the train of circumstances which brought me here,” she said, coldly.

“Insolence! Then it was you whom I heard singing down at Lady Ruxley’s
villa the other day!”

“Doubtless, since I sing to her ladyship every day.”

“What an appreciative listener you must have in that old, crooked back,”
sneered Isabel.

Brownie’s eyes blazed, dangerously.

“I presume Sir Charles Randal would be much edified with Miss Coolidge’s
remark regarding his aged aunt,” she said.

Isabel looked frightened for a minute, then replied, with a short laugh:

“He might be, if he should hear it, that’s a fact. Then you’re her
companion. I remember now hearing that she took a sudden shine to a
young woman who met with an accident, and would have her stay with her.
You’re mighty lucky about getting into fine places, it seems to me.”

A curl of those beautiful red lips was all the satisfaction she received
from this insulting speech, and then Brownie made as if she would have
passed on.

“Wait,” commanded Isabel, peremptorily, and laying her hand upon the
young girl’s shoulder.

She was inwardly boiling with rage that she could not move or browbeat
the haughty governess.

“Wait,” she repeated; “I have not done with you yet.”

“Please remove your hand from my shoulder, Miss Coolidge,” Brownie
commanded, in tones that she dare not disobey.

“Mr. Dredmond called upon you at our house the day you left; he said he
had something belonging to you which he came to return,” she went on, as
her hand fell by her side, and dropping her eyes before the other’s
indignant gaze.

She was very curious about the object of that visit.

“I know it,” replied Brownie, much amused, as she saw that Isabel was
almost afraid of her in her haughty pride.

“You know it? How?”

“Yes, and I have my property back again,” and she deftly shifted her
cuff, bringing the glittering button upon the upper side of her sleeve.

Miss Coolidge started slightly on beholding the elegant trifle.

“Ah, that was it, then? It is very elegant, isn’t it? I presume it
belongs with the collection we have in our possession,” she said,
spitefully.

“It does, Miss Coolidge, and I will thank you to return my property.”

“When you prove it is yours, I will.”

“These buttons are marked with my name on the back.”

“That may be; you have had plenty of time, doubtless, to get them
marked,” sneered Isabel.

“I shall compel you to return that casket to me,” retorted Brownie, with
flashing eyes.

“Ha, ha! Perhaps you will, and then again perhaps you won’t. But we have
discussed that subject sufficiently in the past. When did you see Mr.
Dredmond?” Isabel asked, insolently, and noting how exquisitely lovely
Brownie had grown since she saw her last.

“Really, Miss Coolidge, if I remain here longer I shall lose my walk,
and that I cannot afford to do.”

With which tantalizing remark, Brownie, her figure proudly erect, moved
down the corridor, leaving her interlocutor beautifully in the dark as
to how or when she had seen Mr. Dredmond.

“I suppose you thought by coming down here you’d have a better chance to
practice your wiles upon that young gentleman; but, mark my words, you
won’t succeed, for I shall feel it my duty to inform Lady Randal of the
very suspicious character which she is harboring,” hissed the irate girl
after her.

She might just as well have talked to the winds, for Miss Douglas never
gave a sign that she heard.

As Brownie passed Isabel’s room again, a few hours later, she saw that
the door was open.

Her maid had gone out a few moments before, had carelessly left it
standing open, and was now in the servants’ hall flirting with the
butler’s assistant.

Involuntarily, Brownie paused and glanced within, and her heart stood
still as her eyes almost instantly caught sight of her own little ebony
casket standing upon the elegant dressing-case, its tiny key in the
lock, with the delicate chain attached.

Swift as light, the impulse came upon her to enter and seize it, and
bear it away to her own room.

She glided quickly and noiselessly forward.

There was no one in the corridor, there was no one in the room.

She crossed the threshold, and, with a few fleet steps, cleared the
space between herself and her treasures.

She lifted the lid.

All were there, in their glittering beauty.

She closed the box again, turned the key in the lock, removed it, and
fastened the chain about her neck, concealing it beneath the folds of
her dress.

The next moment she had the precious casket in her hands, and turned, to
find herself face to face with Mrs. Coolidge.




                              CHAPTER XXIX
                               ENTRAPPED


“Thief!” hissed the woman, under her breath. “How dare you? Where did
you come from?”

She had not seen Isabel since her encounter with Brownie, therefore did
not know until that moment of her proximity.

She had come out of her own room just as Miss Douglas entered Isabel’s,
and, seeing the door open, glanced in as Brownie had done.

She recognized Miss Douglas in an instant, and comprehended at once her
object there.

She glided in noiselessly, hoping to come upon her unawares, and wrest
the casket from her without much trouble, but the girl turned just in
season to confront her.

Brownie herself grew pale at this unexpected encounter, but, clutching
her recovered property firmly in her hands, she held herself proudly at
bay.

“You are the thief, madam—you and your daughter,” she said, haughtily.

“Liar! Put down that box!”

“I shall not, madam!”

“Then I will ring and have you arrested. I know not how you happen to be
here; I devoutly hoped you would never cross our path again; but fate
seems to decree that you turn up as a marplot wherever we go. Will you
put that box down, or shall I ring?” and the angry woman grasped the
bell-pull vigorously.

Brownie never relaxed a muscle, except that the proud lips curled into a
scornful smile.

“You can ring the bell if you choose, Mrs. Coolidge.”

“Have you no fear of the consequences?” her enemy asked, eying her
wonderingly, and her lips twitching with wrath.

“None!”

“But you will have to face this whole household.”

“Gather the whole household here, if you will, and have the facts
regarding this property brought to light; also the way in which you
became possessed of it. Methinks Sir Charles Randal would not be pleased
to know that his betrothed wife entered the room of another and
purloined such things as these.”

Mrs. Coolidge winced at her words, and she could have trampled her under
foot for her scorn and fearlessness.

“You are insolent, Miss Douglas,” she breathed, in suppressed, wrathful
tones.

“Insolent or not, I only speak plain truth; and I shall not yield up
this casket unless personal violence is used to wrest it from me,”
Brownie answered, with calm dignity.

“You are cool, truly,” sneered the woman, exasperated by her manner more
than by her words, and as desirous of creating no disturbance as Brownie
herself could be.

“Yes, I am cool. This box is mine, I tell you, and this much I will say,
if you persist in disputing my right to it and its contents, I have only
to appeal to a certain nobleman of the realm to substantiate my claim
and protect me from your abuse,” Brownie said, suddenly resolving to
appeal to Lord Dunforth, if Mrs. Coolidge persisted in her abuse.

“A nobleman of the realm! You!”

Intense scorn was breathed in these few words.

“Yes, madam, I! I have but to tell my story of these jewels to prove
that they belong to me, and reveal your wickedness to those whom you do
not care to have know it!”

“Pray, why did you not make this appeal in the first place?” queried
Mrs. Coolidge, skeptically.

“Because I did not know then if he were living. I have since discovered
that he is. Now, as I have no desire to prolong this interview further,
I will wish you good-day.”

Brownie took a step toward the door, but her enemy, rendered desperate
by her undaunted bearing, and the fearful consequences which would
result if Isabel should thus suddenly be deprived of wearing the jewels,
darted before her, shut the door, locking it, and put the key in her
pocket.

“There! We will see who will win in this little game, Miss Douglas,” she
said, between her teeth, while there was a dangerous gleam in her eye.
“You do not leave this room,” she added, “until you give up that casket.
How do you suppose Isabel will account for the disappearance of all her
elegant jewels, which have been so much admired?”

“Madam, truth is a virtue which is safe always to cultivate,” Brownie
answered, with quiet sarcasm.

She utterly baffled her; while she was so cool, so haughty, so beautiful
standing so fearless there, with her jewels closely clasped in her arms,
that she became enraged beyond endurance.

“Will you give me that, once for all, I ask you?” Mrs. Coolidge
whispered, hoarsely, with livid face and a deadly light in her light
blue eyes.

“I will not!” and the beautiful brown eyes met hers fearlessly,
defiantly.

Mrs. Coolidge took a few steps forward, as if impelled by some hidden
force, hesitated, bent her head a moment in thought, while an evil smile
flitted over her hard features.

Then, assuming a more conciliatory tone, she said:

“Really, Miss Douglas, you are so persistent, and so positive, that you
almost persuade me into the belief that the jewels are yours, after
all.”

Brownie made no reply to this concession, but stood quietly regarding
her enemy.

“Come into my room and let us talk the matter over quietly,” the wily
woman added, flashing a cunning look at the young girl from her
half-closed eyes. “I think we can come to a better understanding, and I
have a proposition to make to you.”

Brownie felt somewhat suspicious of this smooth talk, and feared that
the sudden change in Mrs. Coolidge’s manner was only assumed for some
hidden purpose; yet she thought it might be better to temporize with
her, and it would, perhaps, save publicity.

She could not leave the room, as things were, without making a
disturbance, for the door was locked, the key in the woman’s pocket, and
she knew of no other means of egress, although there were several arches
in the spacious apartment, hung with draperies, which she thought must
conceal entrances to some other portion of the house.

“I do not know what better understanding you may wish for,” she replied,
coldly. “Your daughter took this box from my room, and I have told you
repeatedly that it and its contents belong to me, and you know, as well
as I, Mrs. Coolidge, that any judge would decide in my favor should the
case be brought into court. But we can talk it over here as well as
anywhere.”

“Then why did you come sneaking into this room, like a thief, to get
them? Why didn’t you take the matter into court, and let the judge
decide in your favor?” sneered the exasperated woman, almost losing her
self-control again under Brownie’s coolness and her refusal to go with
her.

“I did not sneak into the room like a thief, madam. I was passing along
the corridor, the door was open, and, glancing in, I saw my casket upon
the table, I entered and took it, intending to inform Miss Coolidge of
the fact as soon as I had it beyond her reach.”

“You say you can prove your claim. Who is this nobleman who knows so
much about these jewels?” asked Mrs. Coolidge, with sudden interest.

Brownie thought a moment before answering.

She disliked to implicate his lordship in the matter if she could
possibly help it; but she saw that Mrs. Coolidge was desperate about the
jewels, and perhaps the power of his name might frighten her into
letting them go, and the matter would drop there, so she said:

“It is Lord Dunforth!”

“Lord Dunforth!” she exclaimed, with a violent start of surprise.

Then she suddenly remembered, with a thrill that made her feel faint,
Isabel’s account of her strange interview with his lordship at Lady
Peasewell’s, and she began to fear that she was getting beyond her depth
in this matter; and yet this very revelation made her more determined
than ever to keep the jewels, at least until after Isabel’s marriage;
for their absence would occasion a great hue and cry, and necessitate
such awkward explanations that Sir Charles would mistrust something
wrong, and then all their plans would be ruined, for he had only that
day named the wedding day. Yet, if she resorted to force to keep them,
Brownie, on the other hand, would instantly take active measures to
recover them, and if she could, she said, prove through Lord Dunforth
that they were hers, they would immediately be brought into open
disgrace. Whichever way she turned, it looked dark.

There was only one way of escape from this threatening danger, and that
was very hazardous; but she had resolved from the first, if worse came
to worst, that she would try it, and that was why she appeared so
anxious to get her into her rooms.

She stood measuring her strength against Brownie’s, while these thoughts
passed through her mind, and that same cunning gleam lurked in her eyes
as before.

“Lord Dunforth!” she repeated. “Do you know him?”

“No, madam; at least, not well enough to claim his acquaintance and
protection, except in case of stern necessity; but he knows all about
these jewels, and when I told my story he would know that I spoke the
truth.”

“How would he know it? When did he ever see those jewels before he saw
Isabel wear them?” the woman asked, inquisitively, and burning with a
desire to know more about them herself.

“Madam,” Brownie answered, haughtily, “I decline answering any more
questions. I insist that you let me go quietly; you can then make
whatever explanation regarding the absence of these gems you may see
fit. But, if you persist in giving me further trouble, I shall
immediately make the whole matter public, and doubtless you know what
the consequences will be.”

Mrs. Coolidge’s eyes flashed, and the young girl, catching their gleam
at that instant, involuntarily shivered, they looked so evil.

“My dear Miss Douglas,” she began, politely, after a moment, “can we not
temporize in this matter? You know if Isabel ceases suddenly to wear
those jewels it is going to make matters very awkward for her. Could you
not be persuaded, for a handsome consideration, to loan them to her
until after her marriage, which will be in a little more than a month?”

Brownie’s lips curled with scorn at this proposition. The woman who
could make it under the existing circumstances seemed so little and
small of soul to her.

“No, madam; I think I have loaned them long enough already,” was her
quiet but scathing reply.

The angry woman’s lips twitched nervously, and her hands were clinched
with passion that this poor, friendless girl should dare to thwart her
so—that she should dare to stand so proudly, defiantly before her, and
fling out so coolly her scathing sarcasms. She grew white as the
delicate lace at her throat, and her eyes burned with a lurid light
which boded mischief.

“Hark,” she said, suddenly. “Somebody is coming. It may be Isabel, and
we shall have a scene. Come into my room, and I will let you out through
there.”

She walked swiftly across the room, seemingly much disturbed, although
Brownie had caught no sound of any one approaching.

She pushed aside some hangings and revealed a narrow door.

Brownie wondered that such a narrow, peculiar door should connect two
elegant rooms, but she reasoned that this must be part of the original
castle, and that all these elegant hangings had been put up to conceal
the awkward doors.

Before opening it, Mrs. Coolidge shoved a heavy bolt (another
circumstance which struck Brownie as singular), and, opening the door,
revealed a small, square room or passage, dimly lighted by a dormer
window set high in the stone wall.

The place was perfectly bare, and there was a damp, uncanny feeling in
the atmosphere, as if it had not been opened before in a long while.

Brownie involuntarily drew back, as she reached the door, and again
glanced suspiciously at her companion.

Mrs. Coolidge, who was watching her prey with the intentness of a cat
watching a mouse, noticed her hesitation, and, with a light laugh, said:

“It isn’t a very nice way to take you, Miss Douglas, but it saves going
through the corridor, and I would not have Isabel meet you now, with
that casket in your hands, for the world. My room is at the end of this
passage, and we use it when we want to run back and forth. I do not
think it can have been used much of late years, for it is so damp and
full of cobwebs; but I discovered it while gratifying my Yankee
curiosity to find out what was underneath all these hangings, and we
have found it very convenient, I assure you. Come on; I’ll go forward
and open the door at the other end of the passage, and then you will see
better.”

She half-crossed the dimly lighted space, and Brownie followed,
considerably reassured by her fluent explanation, although even then she
thought it strange that the door should have been bolted if the passage
was “so convenient.”

Suddenly Mrs. Coolidge stopped, with a startled look.

“Did you not hear some one at the door?” she whispered.

“No; I heard nothing,” Brownie replied, yet bending her head to listen.

“There is surely some one there,” persisted Mrs. Coolidge. “I forgot to
unlock Isabel’s door, and the key is in my pocket. Wait just a moment
while I go and unfasten it.”

She glided swiftly by the young girl, holding her breath and watching
her narrowly with her basilisk eyes, passed through the narrow door,
drew it hastily after her, and shoved the bolt, leaving the astonished
and dismayed girl a close prisoner in that dismal cell.

All too late, Brownie saw how she had been fooled and entrapped, and
berated herself soundly for having trusted the faithless woman for an
instant.

After the first surprise was over, she looked about her to measure the
dimensions of her prison.

It could not have been more than eight feet by six, and was lighted only
by that one small window set so high in the wall that it was impossible
to look out. There was no sign of any other door or mode of egress that
she could discover, only the bare, damp walls of solid stone.

There was not an article of furniture in the place, and Brownie groped
her way to the wall, leaning against it for support, for she was excited
and trembling at finding herself so cleverly entrapped and shut up from
the light of day.

“I suppose she thinks to frighten me into submission by shutting me up
like a naughty child,” she said, with curling lips and flashing eyes.
“But she will find she has ‘reckoned without her host,’ for only one
stronger than I shall ever get these precious jewels away from me again.
Oh, auntie,” she added, a moment after, “you little knew what a
troublesome legacy you were giving me; were they not sacred to me on
your account, they are not worth all this trouble and contention. But
they shall not have them now.”

She walked to the door and rapped upon it.

“Mrs. Coolidge,” she said, in cold, stern tones, “if you think to subdue
me thus, and gain your end, you are very much mistaken in my character,
and I warn you that you are only heaping up wrath for yourself.”

There was no answer, and Brownie finally concluded that the only thing
she could do for the present was to exercise abundant patience and wait.

She had not a thought of fear, however, that the wicked woman would dare
to keep her there long; her whole soul—all the Douglas blood in her
veins rose up in rebellion against this arbitrary act, and she resolved
that the future should hold for her jailer a reckoning full of
retribution.

When Mrs. Coolidge had accomplished her piece of diabolical treachery,
and the door was bolted upon her prisoner, she sank down upon a chair,
nearly fainting.




                              CHAPTER XXX
                       “I WILL DARE DO ANYTHING”


Not long after, the wicked woman heard Isabel’s voice in the hall.

Hastily rising, she went to the door, unlocked it, though her hands
trembled so that it was with difficulty that she inserted the key in the
lock.

“Good gracious, mamma! what is the matter? You are as white as a ghost!”
she exclaimed, as she entered.

“Hush! Come in quick, and lock the door again; then I will tell you.”

Isabel obeyed, and then Mrs. Coolidge related all that had transpired
during the last half hour.

“Confound the girl! I had a wrangle with her myself just a little while
before,” Isabel exclaimed, angrily.

“Don’t, dear, use such language; you will forget yourself to your sorrow
some day. What if Sir Charles or Lady Randal should hear you!”

“I can’t help it, mamma; it does try my patience so to have her turn up
just now, when everything is going so lovely.”

“How do you suppose she happened to be here?” asked Mrs. Coolidge, to
whom the matter was still a mystery.

“Oh, she is that Miss Dundas, who is companion to Lady Ruxley. Since I
met her, a couple of hours ago, I have been making some judicious
inquiries, and it seems that, instead of going to the Washington Hotel
after leaving us, as she told Wilbur she intended to do, she got tipped
over in front of Lady Randal’s town house, broke her arm, and made such
an impression upon Lady Ruxley that she insisted upon taking care of
her; and finally nothing would do but she must have her for a companion.
You know I told you that I saw some one at the villa when we first came
here who looked like Miss Douglas, and I got quite a fright over it
until Lady Randal told me her name was Mabel Dundas, and that deceived
me.”

“It is very unfortunate just now, to say the least, when we are so
anxious to have everything go smooth,” complained her mother, wearily.

“That is so,” returned Isabel, with scowling brow. “You say she still
has the casket in there with her?”

“Yes.”

“Why under the sun didn’t you take it away from her by main force?”

“Because she was so haughty and defiant I did not dare touch her,” Mrs.
Coolidge admitted, with rather a crestfallen air. “Besides, she told me
she should appeal to Lord Dunforth if I did not let her go quietly; and
I knew, after what you had told me, that that would never do.”

“No, indeed; it is very evident that he knows too much about the jewels,
while we know too little. But how are we going to get out of this
abominable muss, anyhow?” and Isabel looked miserably anxious.

“Keep her in there until she gives up the box and promises secrecy,”
returned her mother, with a significant nod at the veiled door.

“Well, suppose she will not yield at all?”

“She must sleep, at all events; and, if we cannot catch her in a natural
sleep, there are things that will make her unconscious, and then we can
take the jewels away from her,” was the whispered reply.

“But she will be missed, meanwhile.”

“Well, we must wonder with the rest what has become of her. I am
confident no one saw her come in here, and so no one will suspect us in
the matter. I tell you, Isabel, we have a desperate game to play now, or
you will lose Sir Charles. Those jewels we must have, for their absence
will occasion endless inquiry and remark. If she won’t yield, we must
keep her shut up until after the wedding. When that is over, and you are
sure of your position, I do not care what becomes of them or her,” the
proud woman whispered, in concentrated tones, and with a desperate and
reckless air that almost frightened her daughter.

“Mamma, would you dare keep her in there so long?”

“Yes, I will dare anything, rather than that all your bright prospects
should be sacrificed. Just so sure as we let her out, she will reveal
everything, and we shall be ruined.”

“But you know we are all to go to Paris next week to be gone a
fortnight, and attend to my _trousseau_.”

“I know it was so arranged, but you and Lady Randal will have to go—I
shall be ill, and not able to go; then I can easily look after our
prisoner, and no one will be the wiser for it.”

“But is there no danger that she will be heard if she should scream, or
cry, or make a fuss?”

“Not the least in the world. The place seems to be made of solid
masonry; it has no other door but this, which is very thick, and, with
those heavy curtains dropped over it, no one could ever hear her.
Besides, I have no fear that she will make any disturbance—she is too
proud.”

“What if she should die in there, mamma?”

The two plotting women looked at each other with whitening faces for a
moment.

Mrs. Coolidge was the first to recover herself, however.

“Pshaw! what a foolish notion, Isabel. She is strong and well, and there
is no danger. I will take her plenty of good food every day, and we can
make her up a comfortable bed from our own, and she will do well
enough.”

“But mamma, the bare possibility of the thing gives me a dreadful
feeling. I am as weak as if I had just recovered from a swoon,” said
Isabel, shuddering.

“Don’t be a fool, child; only let us tide the next four or five weeks
over, and we shall be all right. However, if you say so, and are willing
to run the risk, we will let her out now,” returned Mrs. Coolidge,
impatiently.

“No, no; there is no other way as I see but to keep her shut up. Sir
Charles is so particular and conscientious that he would never forgive
the wrong we have done her; and, mamma, I am really very fond of him. I
believe it would upset me entirely if anything should happen to separate
us now, and I mean to try and be a better woman after I am married,”
Isabel returned, nervously, and with very crimson cheeks, as if ashamed
of the confession.

An hour later Lady Ruxley’s bell rang a furious peal. It had been nearly
three hours since Brownie left her. Such a thing had never happened
before, and she did not know what to make of it. She was getting so
attached to her gentle and lovable companion that she missed her sadly
if she were absent an hour.

Presently Minnett came in.

“Minnett, find Miss Dundas, and ask her to please come to me,” she said,
shortly.

Minnett retired, was gone another half hour, while the old lady grew
furious at the delay, then returned and said Miss Dundas could not be
found.

She forthwith angrily commanded to go and find Miss Dundas, and not
return until she did.

Minnett meekly withdrew again, and her ladyship sat another hour, fuming
and raging, first against her maid, then at Lady Randal, whom she
believed to be at the bottom of it all, to serve some purpose of her
own, and lastly her ire turned upon Brownie herself for allowing herself
to be detained so long.

Finally, her patience completely wearied out, she marched down into the
drawing-room, ready to berate the first person she met.

Here she found everybody in a great state of excitement over the
non-appearance of Miss Dundas.

One, two, three hours more passed, and still no light was thrown upon
the mystery. Lady Ruxley became nearly distracted, Lady Randal was very
much disturbed, while the guests, who had remarked Brownie’s beauty and
refinement, began to whisper of an elopement, or something equally
romantic.

In the midst of the excitement, Viola and Alma appeared upon the scene
and, upon being told that Miss Dundas was missing, the former asked what
sort of a looking person she was.

Sir Charles immediately gave a very accurate description of Brownie,
whereupon both girls exclaimed:

“Why, that is our Miss Douglas, and we met her only a few hours ago, as
she was going out!”

Mrs. Coolidge and Isabel were confounded at this speech.

They had not thought of such a thing as the girls meeting her, and had
fondly hoped they should not be drawn into the matter any more than to
wonder, with the other guests, what could have become of her.

Everybody gathered around the young girls at once, eager to hear more.

“She was with us an hour or more,” Viola further explained, “then she
said she must return to the Hall, and the last we saw of her she came
this way.”

“And who is ‘our Miss Douglas,’ and what connection has she with Lady
Ruxley’s companion?” asked Sir Charles, coming forward and looking very
grave.

“She was our governess until about two months ago, when—when——”

Viola stammered, and got very red in the face.

Her heart prompted her to stand up loyally for the teacher whom she so
dearly loved, but she stood somewhat in awe of her mother, who was
regarding her with sternest displeasure, and whose eye she had just
caught.

Mrs. Coolidge hastened to the rescue.

“What is this you are saying about Miss Douglas, Viola?” she asked, in
well-assumed surprise, at the same time giving her daughter a warning
glance.

Viola repeated what she had already said, adding some further account of
what had transpired in the park.

When she had concluded, her mother turned to Sir Charles, with a grave
and sorrowful face.

“I really fear, Sir Charles, that your aunt has been grossly imposed
upon. This Miss Douglas, of whom Viola speaks, came over with us from
America as governess to the girls. I began to suspect at the very first
that she was not just the person I could desire, but I put up with her
until about two months ago, when her very unbecoming conduct made it
necessary that I should dismiss her immediately.”

“What did she do,” demanded Lady Ruxley, sharply, “that was so
dreadful?”

“Really, I am very sorry to be drawn into this very disagreeable matter
thus. I dislike to say anything derogatory to any one, but, since you
ask, I will say that she took things which did not belong to her, and
made herself offensively free with my son, who is now in Germany,”
replied Mrs. Coolidge, with every appearance of sorrow that she was
obliged to make the confession.

“You’ll have to be older than you are now to make me believe that,”
muttered the old lady, indignantly, in an undertone, as she eyed Isabel,
and her mother suspiciously, while Viola and Alma looked the daggers
they dare not use to defend their beloved Miss Douglas.

The date of her accident and advent into Lady Randal’s house was
identical with that of her leaving Mrs. Coolidge, their description of
her was the same, and Isabel recalled to Sir Charles the evening of
their ramble, when they had seen her at the villa, and she had
questioned him regarding the companion.

Every one was convinced now of Brownie’s unworthiness, and believed that
she had taken herself out of the way because she feared an exposure on
the part of Mrs. Coolidge, and dare not meet it; or that she had eloped,
but who with, was the question.

All but Lady Ruxley.

Her confidence was unshaken yet.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” she said to Lady Randal, as she assisted
her to her room.

“But, aunt, it must be so. Mrs. Coolidge’s word is indisputable.”

“Maybe you think so,” retorted her ladyship, irritably.

“The evidence is so clear, too,” resumed her niece, unheeding her
remark. “I have feared from the first that you were being imposed upon.
That’s always the way with these girls who have no recommendation; they
are all adventuresses. I only hope you won’t find that she has helped
herself from your belongings.”

“Shut up, Helen! You are always ready to believe the worst of everybody.
I tell you I believe that there has been foul play in this matter, and,
if the girl has gone away, she has been driven away in some underhanded
manner. I can read the signs of the times, if I am a superannuated, and
I shall not rest until I know more of this matter,” and the crusty old
lady actually shed tears over the absence of the patient, gentle girl,
to whom she was becoming deeply attached.

“The very fact of her giving a false name goes against her,” persisted
Lady Randal.

“That was not just the thing, of course,” was the rather subdued reply.
Then she added, as if a new thought struck her: “I believe that I was to
blame for that, after all. I had a bad cold at that time, and was as
deaf as a post. I am convinced now that she gave me her name correctly,
and I misunderstood her, and she, having had trouble with those folks,
let it go so.”

“She had no business to do that,” returned Lady Randal, with an
expression of righteous indignation.

“If she never does anything worse than give an assumed name, she’ll be
better than some folks whom I know. I reckon you’ve some sins on your
conscience, Helen, blacker than any that poor girl ever thought of,”
said Lady Ruxley, spitefully.

Notwithstanding the general belief that Miss Douglas, as she was now
called, had absconded, Sir Charles gave orders that the search should be
kept up a while longer.

Something might have happened to her, he reasoned, and he would give her
the benefit of the doubt.

About eight o’clock Adrian Dredmond was announced. He had been to Lady
Ruxley’s villa, but, upon being told that she and her companion were at
the Hall, he drove immediately thither.

Lady Randal met him in the hall on her return from Lady Ruxley’s
apartments.

She greeted him cordially, and then, taking his arm, led him into the
drawing-room, where he was received with loud acclamation, for he was a
favorite wherever he went.

The conversation ran in a new channel for a few moments after his
entrance, but the all-absorbing topic was soon resumed, and Brownie’s
character was most unmercifully picked to pieces again, while with a
terrible sinking at his heart, Adrian soon learned something of what had
transpired, and it was with great difficulty that he maintained his
composure, hoping to learn more.

But he could not bear the aspersions cast upon his betrothed, and after
a terribly scathing remark upon Brownie’s virtue from Isabel, followed
by a bitter denunciation from Mrs. Coolidge, his indignation burst
forth.

He arose, and, with a flushed face and blazing eyes, demanded of the
latter:

“Of whom do I understand you to be speaking?”

“Of Miss Douglas, Mr. Dredmond—the governess who came to England with
us, and who has turned out so sadly,” she replied, serenely, and all
unconscious of the terrible storm hovering over her head.

“Perhaps you know who is accountable for Miss Douglas’ misfortunes since
she came abroad?” he returned, meaningly, and with a look that made
Isabel’s heart quake, for she knew he had seen Brownie lately, and it
was possible he, too, knew all the story of their abuse.

But Mrs. Coolidge was, as usual, equal to the occasion.

“Really, no. She told me she knew no one in this country,” she returned,
with raised eyebrows, and in surprised tones.

“I know something of Miss Douglas, and that she is undeserving a word of
the censure which you have heaped upon her this evening; and I demand
that you retract every word you have said—all of you!” he said, in tones
which could not be mistaken.

There was a sudden hush among the company, while all eyes were fixed
upon the young man, towering so proudly in his haughty strength before
them.

Mrs. Coolidge felt by no means as easy as she appeared; but hers was a
desperate case, and it would not do to relax in the least her vigilance.
So she glowered disapprobation and surprise upon him, while Isabel tried
to curl her trembling lips in scorn.

“Really, Adrian,” soothingly said Lady Randal, who began to be afraid of
a quarrel, “I am sorry to see you so excited over this unfortunate
affair. I know you are very philanthropic, but I am afraid you are
allowing yourself to become quixotic regarding this very singular young
person.”

His fine lips curled, and he turned and bowed slightly, as he replied:

“If it is quixotic to defend a pure and lovely girl in her absence from
such abuse as you have heaped upon her here to-night, then I plead
guilty to the charge. I met Miss Douglas several months ago in the
United States. I know that she is as well-born as most of you in this
room, and few possess the cultivation and accomplishments which she is
mistress of. At the time of which I speak she was believed to be the
heiress of more than a million, and moved in circles equal to our own,
but sudden misfortune reduced her to the necessity of becoming a
governess.”

“Why, Adrian, I am astonished! I did not suppose that you knew aught
concerning Miss Douglas,” replied Lady Randal, beginning to regard the
companion rather more leniently.

“Nor I, that he was so interested in the poor but misguided girl,” added
Mrs. Coolidge, with sarcastic commiseration.

She had never forgiven Adrian’s preference for the beautiful governess
that night at the opera, and could not now conceal her spite.

He wheeled upon her in an instant.

“I am deeply interested in her, madam. Miss Douglas is my betrothed
wife; and I warn you to be very careful how you speak of her in the
future. I could say much more, but”—with a glance from Isabel to Sir
Charles—“existing circumstances compel me to be silent.”




                              CHAPTER XXXI
                       BROWNIE’S STRANGE VISITOR


Had an earthquake shaken the house at that moment greater consternation
could not have prevailed than at this announcement.

“Adrian, surely you are crazy!” almost shrieked Lady Randal, at last.
“You make such a _mésalliance_ as that!”

“Call it whatever you choose, madam, but please remember when you speak
of Miss Douglas in the future, that you are speaking of the future Lady
of Dunforth,” he said, coldly, but proudly.

Surely a nobler specimen of manhood never braved the world’s scorn than
Adrian Dredmond at that moment; and poor Brownie, although in “durance
vile” above them, might well look hopefully into the future, which
should be passed by the side of such a noble defender as this.

Turning to Sir Charles, he made a signal for him to follow him, and
then, with a haughty bow to the assembled company, he withdrew.

“Charles,” he exclaimed, seizing his friend’s hand when they were alone
in the hall, “will you lend me your aid in this trouble? Something is
wrong,” he went on speaking, in tones of anxiety; “she was expecting me
to come to her, and I know she would never have gone away of her own
accord.”

“I am constrained to take that view of it now, after what you have told
me; although I must confess, before you came, I was inclined to believe
the very worst of her. I hope,” he added, with some uneasiness, “that
you have not been deceived in Miss Douglas.”

Adrian’s lips curled again.

He knew what he had reference to. Sir Charles believed that something
must be wrong or Mrs. Coolidge would not have spoken as she had done.

“The future will disclose whether I have or not,” he replied, coldly.

“You may depend upon me, Adrian, to do all in my power to unravel this
mystery. Miss Douglas certainly appeared like a very lovely person, and
until to-night I admired her very much, although I have rarely met her.
Believe me, you have my sympathy,” and he meant it in more senses than
one.

“Thank you, but I am wild in trying to think what has become of the poor
child. I am almost tempted to believe——”

He checked himself suddenly.

He was upon the point of saying he feared treachery on the part of the
Coolidges; but, remembering that it would not do to speak of them thus
in Sir Charles’ presence, he stopped.

“What?” Sir Charles demanded, with a curious look.

“I do not know what to believe,” Adrian said; then added, suddenly: “You
may think what you choose concerning what I have told you to-night, and
the world may say what it will, but Miss Douglas is of unexceptional
parentage, and I shall marry her just as soon as I am fortunate enough
to find her.”

After a few more minutes spent in consultation as to the best means of
seeking for the lost one Adrian departed, his heart filled well-nigh to
bursting with grief, insulted affection, and anxiety.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Mamma, did you ever hear anything like it?” demanded Isabel of her
mother as soon as they could excuse themselves from the drawing-room and
retire to their own rooms.

“No; things are getting terribly mixed up, it seems to me. How, when,
where did he meet her again, I wonder?”

“I have it,” said Isabel. “Lady Ruxley attended the dinner at Dunforth
Castle; of course, her companion accompanied her, and they met there. It
must have been quite recent, I judge.”

“Well, he won’t find her again for a while, that is sure,” returned Mrs.
Coolidge, with a savage glitter in her eyes.

“Oh, mamma, you look almost as though you would like to kill her!”
Isabel exclaimed, in a frightened whisper.

“I believe I wish she had died before she ever saw Adrian Dredmond,” she
answered, vindictively. “To think that she should win him, while you
will only be a baronet’s wife!”

Isabel flushed angrily.

“Let us go and see how it fares with her now; methinks the proud beauty
will be somewhat humbled by this time. But, humbled or not, she will
have to stay there until after your marriage, for if Mr. Dredmond should
find her now, there would be an end to all your fine plans,” said Mrs.
Coolidge, moving toward the draped door.

She shoved the heavy bolt, and the two women entered Brownie’s prison.

They found her sitting upon the floor, looking pale and wan.

The light which they bore blinded her eyes at first so that she could
scarcely see, but she arose as they entered and stood in haughty silence
before them and, holding the precious casket tightly clasped in her
hands behind her.

“Well, how do you like your place of retirement? Quiet, isn’t it?”
sneered Isabel, while she began to walk about the place as if to examine
it.

The insulted girl deigned her no reply.

“Miss Douglas, I have come to make one more appeal to you. Are you
willing to accede to my terms?”

“No, madam!”

“Will nothing move you? Cannot I persuade you, under any circumstances,
to let Isabel retain those jewels a while longer, and you keep silent
about them?”

“You cannot, madam; there is a limit to human endurance, I have reached
that limit.”

But scarce were the words spoken when she uttered a cry of pain and
dismay.

Isabel had glided stealthily around behind her, and with one powerful
blow had dashed the casket from her hands.

The next instant, and before Brownie could turn to prevent her, she had
captured it, and with a low, mocking laugh, glided from the place.

With all her spirit roused to battle, Brownie sprang to follow the
artful girl, but Mrs. Coolidge barred the way.

“No, no, miss, you cannot leave this place to-night; you are in too
dangerous a mood,” she said.

“What do you mean by detaining me here?” Brownie demanded, almost
passionately.

“I mean just what I said, that you are too dangerous to be let loose
to-night, unless you will solemnly promise not to make any trouble for
us.”

“You are very much mistaken if you think you can make any such terms
with me, Mrs. Coolidge. I do not fear you in the least, and unless you
restore my jewels, and let me go at once, I shall make such trouble that
you will rue it until your dying day.”

“You do not fear me, and I have power to keep you here indefinitely?”
she retorted, flushing angrily.

“That may be, but there will come a day of reckoning sooner or later,”
Brownie replied, dauntlessly. “You do not suppose,” she added,
scornfully, “that in this nineteenth century you can keep me concealed
for any length of time. I shall be missed, if I am not already, and the
whole house searched for me.”

“You have been missed by the whole house and grounds have been
thoroughly searched for you, but no one has thought of looking here for
you, Miss Douglas,” Mrs. Coolidge replied, with a malicious gleam in her
eyes.

Brownie’s heart sank, and she grew whiter about the mouth at these
words, but she would give no outward sign of the growing fear in her
heart.

“May I ask how long you intend to keep me in solitary confinement? You
are aware, perhaps, that people cannot live very long shut up in a dark
place like this,” she said, thinking to frighten her into letting her
go.

The woman started. She had not thought of its being solitary confinement
before, and it was a good while before the grand wedding would come off.

She meditated a moment before replying, then she said:

“I will endeavor to see that you do not suffer, Miss Douglas, but I must
keep you here for the present. Undoubtedly you know that Isabel is to
marry Sir Charles Randal very shortly, and I am resolved that nothing
shall interfere with that match. If I should let you go now, you would
raise such a breeze for us that everything would be upset. There is only
one condition upon which I would release you,” she concluded, with a
searching look into the young girl’s face, and really feeling anxious to
let her go, if she would only keep silence.

“What is that?” demanded Brownie, quickly.

“That you would go quietly away from Vallingham Hall and conceal
yourself from everybody until after the wedding; then, I promise you, we
will return the jewels to you.”

The delicate lips curled, and the lovely eyes flashed ominously.

“Will you?” asked her enemy.

“No! I will not yield to you in a single point!” was the haughty reply.

“Very well, there is nothing more to be said, then. I will arrange a
good bed for you, give you plenty of books and papers to read, and bring
you food three times a day. You shall have plenty of candles, too, so
that I imagine you will manage to exist quite comfortably for a few
weeks,” and she left the room as she spoke.

Mrs. Coolidge soon returned, and Isabel with her, bringing a mattress,
bedclothes, and a tray containing a dainty supper, the former having
taken care to provide it, knowing that her prisoner had been long
without food. They also brought her a chair, and left her a candle, and
then retired, leaving her somewhat anxious for the future, but by no
means subdued.

Left to herself, Brownie’s first work was to eat her supper, for she was
really very hungry, and the inner man thus strengthened she felt
somewhat more cheerful.

She arranged her bed for she was weary with sitting for so many hours
upon that stone floor, and then retired, feeling rather lonely and sad,
but confident that the Lord, her shepherd, would care for her there as
tenderly as in her own room; and ere long she was sleeping soundly.

She never knew how long she had been sleeping, for her rest had been
unbroken and dreamless, but she was suddenly awakened by a cold clasp
upon her hand!

In an instant every sense was unlocked, and she was broad awake, with
that instinctive consciousness of a horrible presence, which people
sometimes have when danger lurks near.

The candle still burned, and lighted the place with a reddish glare, for
she had not extinguished it, feeling that the darkness would have been
too horrible, and by its light she could distinguish a strange-looking
object kneeling by her side.

With a cry of terror she started up to find herself face to face with a
form so misshapen, so frightful, so weird and uncanny, that the sound
suddenly died upon her lips, and left her paralyzed with fear.

The creature immediately arose and moved away from her a pace or two at
seeing her so terrified.

“Have I frightened you? I am so sorry, and yet I might have known. But,
do not fear, I would be the last person in the world to harm you,” were
the words which greeted her ears, in tones so soft and gentle that
Brownie involuntarily raised her eyes, and was at once reassured, though
still so weak and trembling from her first fright that she could not
speak.

His head was very large for the rest of his body, and rested forward
upon his breast, while his shoulders came up so high that he seemed to
have no neck at all; one hand hung limp, withered, and helpless by his
side, while one foot and leg were twisted entirely out of place, the
heel being where the toe should be.

Ah! he was a sad-looking object, but Brownie felt no fear of him now.

He had a true, good face, full of intelligence and mental power, and
while she looked into it, a great pity came into her eyes, and the tears
involuntarily started.

He was quick to read her sympathy, for he said, with his sad smile:

“Thank you; I see you don’t fear me any longer.”

“Oh, no,” she answered, gently; “but I did not think any one could get
in here, and I was startled at first.”

“I ought to have been more careful, but I did not like to speak loud
enough to wake you, lest I should be heard,” and he glanced toward the
door.

Then he added:

“Can you trust me sufficiently to let me take you out of this miserable
place? I came to release you.”

“Can you? will you?” she exclaimed, eagerly. “Oh, yes, I can trust you
fully!”

“But how did you get in here?” she asked, the next instant.

“I have been here many times, and yet I never entered by that door,” he
answered, pointing to the door by which Brownie had come in, and
speaking somewhat bitterly.

“But how did you know I was here?” and she looked perplexed, for she
could not detect so much as a rathole anywhere.

“I overheard all that passed between you and those women,” he answered,
with a nod in the direction of Isabel’s room.

She looked more astonished than ever.

“Come this way and I will explain it all to you,” he said.

He stooped and picked up the candle, and then moved with difficulty to
the opposite end of the cell.

Holding the light close to the floor, he continued:

“Do you see that semi-circular block of stone about a foot and a half in
diameter?”

“Yes.”

“And what looks like a huge iron bolt set close to that small round
shaft of stone which runs clear to the ceiling?”

“Yes.”

“If you will step upon that block, and press your foot firmly upon that
bolt, you will find that this stone pillar will begin to slide slowly
down. When you have descended about four feet you will see a short
flight of stone steps; step upon these and this shaft will return to its
place. Follow the stone steps and they will lead you to a comfortable
room; I left the door open, and there is a light within, so that you
will have no difficulty in finding the way.”

“But you—you will have to return here,” Brownie said, hesitatingly.

It all seemed so wonderful and mysterious to her, that for a moment she
could scarcely comprehend it.

“As soon as the shaft returns to its place, I will join you; only one
can go at a time, because the platform is so narrow,” he replied.

Brownie lifted her clear eyes once more and searched his face.

It was a noble countenance, and full of marks of pain and patient
suffering, and while she looked it seemed suddenly to grow strangely
like some other face which she had seen, but whose she could not at that
moment recall.

“Yes, I will go,” she said, and stepped upon that semi-circular block of
stone.

“You will only be alone for a moment,” he said, “for I shall follow you
immediately; now lean close against the shaft. There! now plant your
foot upon the bolt—so. Now you are all right.”

Brownie obeyed his directions without a fear, for she saw that he was
only intent upon serving her, and she felt herself going slowly and
smoothly downward.

A moment more and she found herself in another dark closet, or passage,
from which a short flight of stone steps led up to an open door, through
which a light shone, dimly lighting the place.

She stepped from the platform upon the stairs, and the shaft instantly
began to ascend again.

Following the stairs, she soon found herself, as she had been told, in a
large, airy, and comfortable room.

The walls were hung with ancient and faded tapestry, but the floor was
carpeted with bright, warm colors, and the room was quite tastefully
furnished.

It was lighted by two tall wax candles in silver candlesticks, and a
cheerful fire burned in the grate. There were several bookcases well
filled with nicely bound volumes, and a few fine engravings, with some
beautiful drawings, hung upon the walls.

She had not time for a more minute survey of the apartment, for she was
rejoined by her strange companion.

He smiled at her look of wonder and curiosity, and after shutting and
locking the door, and dropping the tapestry over it, said:

“Now, I will explain how I happened to know that you were in trouble and
needed assistance.”

He moved a few steps further up the room, thrust aside another portion
of the hangings, and Brownie saw the same shaft or pillar of stone that
she had seen in the cell. At the right of it she also saw that a portion
of the stone wall had been hammered or chiseled away, until only a very
thin surface divided the two rooms, and this had been punctured full of
tiny holes, through which could be seen the light of the candle which
they had left behind; and yet from the room they had just left nothing
of this could be detected.

“Ah! I see,” Brownie said.

“Yes,” the young man replied, while a look of infinite pain swept over
his features, “it is always very quiet here, and to-night while reading
I was startled by the sound of voices and a low, mocking laugh coming
from this direction. Much astonished, for nothing like it has ever
happened before, I threw down my book, crept to this spot, and listened.
Although I could not see very distinctly, I could hear, and soon
discovered that some one had been forced into yonder cell to cover up
some dark deed or other. I learned that your name was Miss Douglas, and
that you possess a very brave spirit, for you refused to yield to your
tormentors, when most young ladies would have begged and prayed to be
let out upon any terms.”

He concluded with another glance of admiration.

Her lips curled in a little mischievous smile, as she wondered how
Isabel and her mother would feel the next time they unbolted that door,
and found their bird flown!

“But I don’t see how you got the shaft down those stairs,” she said, in
perplexity. Her spirits were rising every moment.

“It works in the same way from this room that it does from the other;
only when it got down, I moved around to the opposite side without
stepping off, and then, not pressing upon the bolt, it arose to its
place again. I thought it best for you, however, to come up by the
stairs, fearing you might fall from the platform if you moved,” the
young man explained.

“How came these holes punctured here, and this stone cut away so?” she
asked, feeling deeply interested in the strange piece of machinery and
that riddled wall.

“There is a sad story connected with that, Miss Douglas, which I fear it
would do no good to relate,” was the pained reply, while the white face
flushed a sudden, vivid crimson.




                             CHAPTER XXXII
                             HERBERT RANDAL


“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be inquisitive, or to arouse any
unpleasant memories,” Brownie hastened to say, but she looked somewhat
disappointed, as well as embarrassed.

He saw it, and, after a moment’s thought, continued, speaking more to
himself than to her:

“During the last few years of my life I have been led to recognize a
higher power as guiding my life, and I have been praying that its
bitterness might be removed. I am not sure but what that prayer is
beginning to be answered by the events of to-night, and your presence
here. So why should I not tell you?”

Then, with sudden decision, he went on:

“Miss Douglas, this place has been my home all my life. Yes,” as he saw
her look of surprise, and speaking with great bitterness, “a galley
slave is scarcely more of a prisoner than I have been ever since my
unfortunate birth. I have never seen the outside of these buildings,
excepting four blank walls which inclose a small court; I know not what
my surroundings are, what my country is like, and, beyond my own
attendants, scarce have seen the face of a human being. I think I must
have been born with a deformed disposition as well as a distorted body;
for, as a child, I was subject to fits of passion, so furious and of
such long duration, that those who had charge of me deemed me insane and
unsafe for the time, and used to confine me in yonder cell until I came
to my senses. The bolt, you perceive, can be fastened on this side, so
that the shaft will not move, and I could not get out until they
released me. I used to grow frightened and almost idiotic shut up in
that dismal place, with its sepulchre-like stillness, and I really think
that in those days I was more brute than human. Forgive me for
disturbing you with my sorrow—it will overcome me at times. But, as I
was saying, I used to think I should die shut up in there away from
every one; so, after my passion exhausted itself and I was let out, I
would busy myself, when I was alone in this room, by cutting away this
wall, and puncturing these holes; and then when they put me in there, I
would creep close to this spot, and, with my ear against these holes, I
could hear what was said and done here, and did not feel quite so lonely
and wild.”

A shudder seemed to shake his whole frame at the remembrance of those
fearful days.

“No one but yourself,” he continued, “knows to this day that the wall
has been mutilated thus.”

The more she heard him talk, the more she wondered who he could be—this
sad young cripple, who was so gentle, yet repulsive, so intelligent, yet
to all appearance scarcely human. She looked at her watch, and found it
was four o’clock. The young man, noting the act, suddenly said:

“How thoughtless of me, Miss Douglas, to keep you standing all this
time. I suppose you will be obliged to remain here until daylight, as
there is no way for you to get back into the Hall except by going
outside from here, and, of course, it will be useless to attempt that
until the household are astir. If you can be comfortable here for an
hour longer, I will do my best to entertain you. I have books, and all
the latest periodicals, and there is an easy-chair by the fire, which I
know you will enjoy.”

He led her toward the fire, which really made the somewhat dismal
apartment very cheerful.

Her thoughts were filled with this young man; she longed to know more of
his sad history, and why his life had been rendered such a blank.

It could not be that he was really insane, and that it was necessary to
confine him thus! Was she with a madman?

The thought for the moment startled her so that she actually felt faint.
But, no; one look into that calm, patient face, with its deep,
intelligent eyes, completely banished all fear, and left her more in the
dark than ever.

“You are very weary,” the young man remarked, seeing her listless
attitude.

“No,” she answered, smiling; “but I am wondering how my explanation
regarding my absence and sudden reappearance will be received by Lady
Ruxley.”

“Ah! I had not thought of that,” he replied, with a painful start, and a
vivid flush crimsoning his white face.

“You are an inmate of the family, then?” he asked, thoughtfully.

“I am companion to Lady Ruxley, although before coming to her I was
governess in the family of that woman who entrapped me into yonder
cell.” She then related to him something of her troubles with Mrs.
Coolidge.

“And it is her daughter who is to marry m—— Sir Charles?” the young man
asked, deeply interested.

“Yes.”

“Is she anything like her mother?”

“Very much like her,” Brownie said, dryly.

“A fine wife he will have, I fear!” he answered, with curling lips.

“I am very sorry for him,” the young girl replied, gently.

“He is very nice, I expect,” said the cripple, his lips quivering
painfully, while he shaded his face with his hand.

“He is indeed a very fine young man, I am told.”

“Would you mind telling me what he is like?” and Brownie wondered why
his tones were husky and tremulous.

She described him as well as she could, and concluded:

“To sum it all up, he is very handsome, and as good—they say—and noble
in proportion.”

A heavy sigh was the only reply, and then he appeared to be sunk in
reverie.

After an awkward silence, he suddenly aroused himself and said:

“Miss Douglas, you and I are both placed in a very trying position by
the events of to-night. It did not enter my mind that any explanation
would have to be rendered as to your release from yonder cell, although
I should not have hesitated an instant about aiding you had I thought of
it. I see now that some account of it will be necessary, but I must tell
you frankly that it will bring the direst confusion upon the inmates of
Vallingham Hall, when you return and make known the fact of your
imprisonment and the manner of your release.”

“I expected it would be somewhat embarrassing to Mrs. Coolidge and her
daughter, but how else will it bring confusion?” Brownie asked,
wonderingly.

“Because it will have to be known that I was instrumental in it, and
there are but two or three people in the world who know of my existence;
consequently, it would involve some very awkward explanations on the
part of at least one individual, and that is my own mother. Miss
Douglas, my name is Herbert Randal!”

“What! are you Lady Randal’s son?” demanded Brownie, in astonishment.

“Yes; and Sir Charles is my brother, although I have never yet looked
upon his face; neither do I remember having seen my mother more than
half a dozen times in my life,” he replied, with intense bitterness.

“Impossible! Why, it is too horrible!” ejaculated the young girl, more
and more astonished and shocked.

“It is even so. It does not seem possible that a mother could so far
forget her motherhood as to willingly condemn her own flesh and blood to
what I have been doomed ever since my birth; but it is true,
nevertheless. I was born abroad while my mother was traveling one
summer, but I was such a misshapen mass of humanity that she went into
convulsions upon first beholding me, and has seldom been able to bear
the sight of me since. While my father lived I was kept out of the
country, and I do not believe that even he knew of my existence; but
after his death my mother had me brought here, and hired an old woman
and her son to take care of me until I was about fourteen years of age.
They often abused and ill-treated me, and I think perhaps it was owing
to this that I was so ungovernable at times. Since that time a
broken-down professor has had the principal charge of me and my
education. He has been paid a high salary upon the condition that he
would never betray his trust. I think he would be glad to see me in
different circumstances, but he has an invalid sister depending upon
him, and he has no other means of support. I am never allowed to go out,
except under circumstances of the utmost secrecy, and then only into a
little court hemmed in by the blank walls of these buildings, and I live
here in this secret chamber, unknown to all but my mother, my tutor, and
my servants.”

“Dreadful!” murmured Brownie, almost moved to tears by the sad recital.

“Yon may well say that. It is dreadful to be shut up from the beautiful
world—for I read of its beauties, if I cannot see them; but it is more
dreadful to be shut away from all affection and kindness. In my youth I
could not patiently bear it, and gave way to those fearful outbursts of
passion of which I have told you. If my father were living, things might
be different, for I have heard that he was a good man. My brother I have
never seen, and I suppose he does not dream of such a thing as a
relative like me; and while my mother not only cannot bear the sight of
her crippled son, she is also ambitious that the one who is a credit to
her should profit by all the advantages possible. My first thought when
I resolved to release you to-night, was that perhaps the event might
open a way of escape for me also, and that I could go away by myself and
no one ever know who I am. But your connection with Lady Ruxley, and
your having been an inmate of the family, will make it necessary that my
agency in the matter be explained. Of course, in order to justify
yourself, you will have to tell how you came to be shut up, and the next
inquiry will be, ‘How did you get out?’”

“I see,” said Brownie, with curling lips; “and if I proclaim the fact
that a young man by the name of Herbert Randal, who has also been kept a
close prisoner for over twenty years by a heartless mother’s decree,
liberated me, it is going to make it very uncomfortable for Lady Randal.
Pardon me,” she added, flushing a lovely color, and dropping the scorn
out of her voice, “but I honestly believe the time has come when it is
right that the world should know of your existence, and that you should
know something of your kindred and the world in which you live,” she
concluded, indignantly.

“I sometimes go to a little old chapel, which incloses one side of the
little court of which I have spoken. I found an entrance to it through
the vaults, and I sometimes go there to read. I might have escaped long
ago in that way had it not been for my tutor, whom I knew would be
reduced to the most abject poverty if deprived of his situation, and so
pity has kept me here.”

“But you might go out and assert your rights. Of course, a portion of
all this property would fall to you, and then you could see that he did
not suffer,” interposed Brownie.

“Yes, I might do that, and perhaps thereby gain the hatred of my
brother. I want his love—oh, I crave the love of some human being!” he
cried, almost passionately.

“He has sent you a friend at all events, if you will allow me to be
such,” Brownie said, impulsively, and reaching out her hand to him,
while two bright tears rolled over her flushed cheeks and dropped upon
her black dress.

“Ah! then this is the beginning of good things for me, and I will accept
it as a precious omen,” he replied, clasping her hand warmly, and his
eyes lighted with a deep, and sudden joy. “I do not mean to complain,”
he added, a moment after, “for I have many things to be thankful for,
and I thank my Maker every day that He gave me this ugly body rather
than a blunted intellect. I have my books, and moderately good health,
though that would be better, I think, if I could be more in the air. But
I try to feel that all my privations are sent to teach me some great
lesson in life, and fit me for better things.”

Brownie sat in deep and perplexed thought for several minutes. There
were evidently only two things which she could do; either leave the Hall
altogether and hide, as Mrs. Coolidge had proposed, letting her
disappearance still remain a mystery, or boldly face them all, and let
the guilty suffer for their own wrong-doing.

Herbert Randal read something of Brownie’s thoughts in her troubled
face.

“I do not see that there is but one course for you to pursue, Miss
Douglas,” he said, “and that is to explain everything in a
straightforward way. Perhaps if you could conceal the fact from all but
the immediate family that it was Lady Randal’s son who released you, it
might save some scandal.”

“Do you not think it right and just that that fact be made known?”
Brownie asked, gravely, adding: “I shall never rest content until I know
you are at liberty to go and come at your own will and pleasure, and
have your rights.”

“You are very kind. I shall leave it all to your own judgment. If it is
necessary, of course the secret will have to come out. You can judge how
much of an explanation may be necessary as soon as you reach the Hall.”

He took the candle, and sweeping aside a portion of the tapestry
hangings, revealed an iron door. He asked her to draw back the bolt and
push the door open.

She did so, and saw a flight of stone steps.

He limped down these, she following, and soon came to what appeared a
grated window.

He told her to slide back the grating, when she would see another bolt
which fastened the window.

She obeyed, and slipping the bolt, the window swung open on hinges,
when, descending two or three more steps, they found themselves in what
he had called a court, but what was in reality a small, ancient burying
ground, surrounded on three sides by the walls of the Hall, and on the
fourth by that of the old chapel.




                             CHAPTER XXXIII
                           BROWNIE LIBERATED


“You would not suppose that Vallingham Hall concealed such a spot in its
very heart, would you?” Herbert Randal asked, as they stepped into the
court.

“No; it is an enigma to me even now.”

“Where you have been to-night is a portion of the original buildings.
The chapel and the Hall have been built around this square, and, as you
perceive, there are no windows overlooking the place, which was once
used as a burial ground, although nearly all evidences of that have
disappeared.”

Brownie followed her guide bravely.

“Take care!” he cried, as she stumbled and nearly fell over a grave; “I
did not think we were so near that. It seems strange that it should
remain when all the others have disappeared.”

He halted for her, for her sudden fall, the weird place, together with
the night of excitement, made her so weak and trembling that she could
scarcely walk.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, pityingly.

She shook her head and tried to smile courageously, but he saw that her
lips were white and quivering.

It was beginning to be light overhead, but, hemmed in by those towering
walls, the place, with its deep-tangled grass, and damp, moldy smell,
was fearfully gloomy and ghostly, while her guide, with his misshapen
form, and his white waving hair, his haggard face, rendered more ghastly
still in the flickering, uncertain light of the candle which he bore,
made it seem like some haunted spot in which restless spirits roamed at
will.

When they reached the chapel there was another grating to be removed,
another window, from which nearly every pane of glass had disappeared,
to be opened, and they came to another flight of stone steps.

These they descended cautiously, for they were becoming loosened from
their place, and were falling to ruin, and soon found themselves in a
vaulted cavern, dismal and gloomy enough for the dwelling-place of the
dead.

The candle flickered and flared, giving an uncertain light, but Brownie
could see the numerous shelves which were ranged along the side, each
containing a silent occupant, in its moldy, worm-eaten coffin.

A gasp of fear told young Randal something of what his companion was
suffering.

He halted at the foot of the steps, and said, regretfully:

“Miss Douglas, nothing but necessity would ever compel me to bring a
delicate lady into such a dreadful place; and now, if I can only
persuade you to put your hand upon my arm, and close your eyes, I will
guide you safely through this vault, and you need never realize what is
in it.”

She laid her hand lightly upon his arm, and he thrilled at the touch.

It was a new and strange experience for the lonely boy, and one which he
long lived upon in remembrance.

The abode of the dead was soon traversed, and they came to still another
flight of steps.

Herbert Randal, mounting them first, lifted a trapdoor, and setting his
candle down, reached his hand to Brownie, and in another moment she was
standing safe, but nearly exhausted, within the altar of the chapel.

The young man made her sit down and rest, while he talked cheerfully and
interestingly of the place, hoping thus to turn her mind from the
horrors through which they had just passed.

After a while he arose, crossed the channel, and led the way to a small
side door, whose key was in the lock.

This he turned and pushed the door open, letting in the fresh breath of
morning.

The relief which Brownie experienced was expressed by a long-drawn sigh,
and, looking up into her companion’s face, she smiled a wan, forced
smile, as she said:

“I fear you will think me very cowardly, but indeed my nerves were
nearly unstrung by excitement and anxiety before this last experience.”

“Do not speak of it; I am sure you have borne it bravely. And now, if
you will follow that path,” he added, pointing it out to her, “it will
lead you directly through this grove, around to the front of the Hall,
where I think you will find no difficulty now in entering.”

“Thank you. And, Mr. Randal, I feel that I owe you a great deal. I trust
it will not be long before we shall meet again under happier
circumstances,” Brownie said, heartily, as she held out her little
trembling hand to him.

He took it, while an expression of infinite sadness swept over his face.

“I shall always remember you, and I believe we shall meet again,”
Brownie said, with quivering lips, and eyes which were swimming in
tears.

He bent and touched her hand with his lips, then, with a murmured
farewell, he closed the door and went back to his loneliness and
desolation, leaving Brownie standing alone in the gray dawn, a strange,
deep tenderness in her heart for this poor sufferer, whom God had
stricken so heavily.

She leaned wearily against the door and looked about her. She had felt
tenfold more dreary than when she had been shut within the cell, for she
was still in some doubt as to what was best for her to do, and as to
what her reception would be if she should return to the Hall.

She was cold, and weak, and faint, and it was quite a distance around to
the front of the hall, but, after a few moments spent in deliberation,
she turned into the path leading through the grove.

The morning was cloudy and misty, and within the shadow of the trees,
most of which were spruce and pine, the gloom was most oppressive, while
the keen air pierced her scant clothing, chilling her through and
through.

She had not gone many steps when the crackling of twigs made her start
nervously and look around her, and her heart stood still with fear as
she beheld the figure of a man, enveloped in a long, dark cloak, coming
toward her with rapid strides.

She stopped, her heart beating like a trip-hammer, and stepped behind a
tree, hoping he had not observed her, and would pass on without noticing
her.

Vain hope! The figure quickened his steps, coming directly toward the
spot where she stood.

What to do she knew not.

If she attempted to fly he could easily overtake her. If she remained
where she was, and harm came to her, no one could hear her cries and
come to her aid.

She felt that her strength was failing, the strain had been so great
upon her nerves during the last twelve hours that she knew she could not
endure much more; but she resolved to meet this new danger as bravely as
possible, and, stepping forth from her hiding-place, she went forward
with dizzy brain and bated breath.

Another moment and she found herself face to face with her lover, Adrian
Dredmond!




                             CHAPTER XXXIV
                     CONSTERNATION OF THE COOLIDGES


During all those hours so full of adventure to Brownie, Mrs. Coolidge
and Isabel had been sleeping heavily, for both had been well-nigh
overcome with the excitement of the evening previous, and a sense of
their own guilt in the matter of the young companion’s disappearance.

They did not wake until quite late the next morning, when Mrs.
Coolidge’s first act was to order a good hot breakfast, telling the
servant that she did not feel able to go down to eat with the family.

As soon as the servant departed, and she was assured that the guests
were all assembled in the dining-room, she crept into Isabel’s room, and
together they sought their prisoner.

They drew the bolt, and pushed the door open cautiously. All was silent
and dark within, for the candle had burned down to the socket, and then
gone out.

They entered and called Brownie by name.

There was no reply, and with a nameless fear in her heart, Isabel rushed
back into her own room, lighted another candle, and returned to explore
the cell.

One glance served to show that it was empty!

But with the vain hope that all guilty people have they began turning
over the mattress and bedclothes, as if they expected to find her
concealed underneath them.

“Where can she be?” gasped Isabel, white as the wrapper which she wore,
and shaking as with the ague.

Mrs. Coolidge shook her head, and looked up at the small grated window
above them.

She mounted upon the chair, and seizing one of the heavy bars, shook it.

It did not so much as move, and even had it been possible to remove it,
their captive could not possibly have reached the window to escape, it
was set so high in the wall.

“Isabel, I firmly believe that girl is a witch, for none but a spirit
could have escaped from this dungeon!”

“Mamma,” exclaimed her daughter, suddenly, “I do not believe you
fastened the door last night, and she came out when we were asleep!”

“How foolish you are,” was the impatient reply. “I am very sure that I
shoved the bolt, and I do not believe it possible that she could have
worked upon the door in any way to have slipped it back.”

However, to satisfy themselves, they went out, shut and bolted the door,
and then tried, by gentle working it back and forth, to see if the bolt
would slip.

No; it remained firm and tight, and the matter still continued to be a
mystery, and a terribly tantalizing one, too.

They tried all the different doors leading from their own rooms into the
corridors, but all were locked, excepting the one by which the servant
who had brought the breakfast had entered, and Mrs. Coolidge had been
obliged to rise to admit her, so that they knew it could not have been
possible for Brownie to have escaped that way.

They knew well enough if Brownie had escaped and returned to her post,
that the deepest shame and disgrace awaited them.

They little thought, however, during their anxious and almost ludicrous
search in the cell, a pair of keen, bright eyes had been earnestly
regarding them, while it must be confessed that Herbert Randal never
enjoyed anything in his life so much as their anxiety and discomfiture
regarding the beautiful maiden whom he had so opportunely aided.

The two disappointed plotters were, however, somewhat reassured, upon
descending to the drawing-room, to find that Brownie’s disappearance was
still the theme of conversation, together with the startling
announcement which Adrian Dredmond had made.

Lady Randal looked anxious and annoyed, and was somewhat irritable.

Lady Ruxley was too ill to rise, being overcome with solicitude as to
the fate of her companion, a fact which was received with the most
cheerful resignation by most of the company, since it relieved them from
the sting of her sharp tongue.

Sir Charles was very grave and preoccupied, and while he was not exactly
cool, yet there was a certain dignity about him which somewhat awed his
betrothed. There were some things which he could not understand, in
particular, Adrian’s stern words and manner to Mrs. Coolidge, which the
more he thought about them the more mysterious and inexplicable they
became.

Altogether it was not the happiest company in Christendom that assembled
in the Vallingham Hall drawing-room that morning.

Every door that opened made Isabel and her mother quake with fear, and
both would gladly have given up every jewel in their possession to have
been freed from that horrible suspense.

Several days passed, and still there was no news. Their anxiety began to
abate, and with every passing hour they breathed more freely, yet that
puzzled, wearing question was ever before them:

“Where is she?”

The drawing-room concert, or musical _soirée_, came off according to
appointment, but did not prove very satisfactory. It was not really a
failure, but there was a lack of inspiration which made everything drag,
and it was with a uniform sense of relief that at the end of the week
the gay company dispersed, while Sir Charles, Lady Randal, Isabel, and
her mother departed for Paris, intent upon the all-important
_trousseau_.

The two latter were only too eager to plunge into the pleasures of the
gay French metropolis, and busy themselves with the cares which the next
few weeks would involve, hoping thus to drive more unpleasant thoughts
out of mind.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When Adrian Dredmond recognized his betrothed in the dim light of that
dismal morning, he sprang forward with a cry of joy, mingled with
dismay, and folded her close within his arms, while Brownie, utterly
overcome by the reaction from excessive fright to a sense of security,
and that her troubles were all over, burst into nervous sobbing, and
clung to him with a grip so fierce that he was startled.

“My darling, my darling, what does all this mean?” he asked, soothingly.

But she could not tell him; the floodgates were open, and the storm must
spend itself ere the calm would come; the restraint which she had
imposed upon herself had been so resolute and of such long duration
that, now she had once given the rein to her feelings, it was not easy
to regain her self-control.

“My precious one,” Adrian continued, “I have been searching for you all
night long. I came hither to see you last evening, and they told me you
had disappeared in the most mysterious manner. Not knowing which way to
turn to find you, I started for Dunforth again in despair, but something
seemed to be holding me back, and I have roamed over the park and the
forest, the highways and byways, all night. As daylight approached, I
resolved to return to the Hall and inquire if any clew had been gained
during the night, and then I saw you coming through this grove. Dearest,
how cold you are,” he added, tenderly, “and how you tremble. Did I
frighten you? Come back into the shadow of yonder chapel, and tell me
how it is that I find you thus alone and unprotected from the cold night
air.”

He wrapped his cloak about her, for the mist was settling down into a
fine rain, while the air grew more piercing and chill, and he almost
bore her back to the door of the old chapel, where they were screened
from observation and protected somewhat from the wind.

He chafed the little icy, quivering hands, and kissed the warmth and
color back to her pale cheeks. But it was long before she was herself
again, for now that she realized that she was safe, her strength all
forsook her, and she lay almost lifeless in his arms. But at last she
was able to whisper something of the story of her fearful experience,
and a mighty wrath arose in his heart against the authors of it all.

“I mistrusted they might have had some hand in it last night, but they
shall pay dearly for this shameless insult to you, my dearest,” he
muttered, between his set teeth.

Then he became suddenly silent and thoughtful, but still holding her
form in his loving embrace, until she grew warm and strong again, while
a sense of security and happiness began to steal over her, until she
felt that she could return to the Hall, if need be, and face them
without a tremor, with him by her side.

But he had been revolving other matters in his mind. He had been greatly
startled and surprised to learn that Lady Randal had another son, and
had been criminally concealing it all these years, and he classed her
with the others as a false and heartless woman.

He knew that Lady Ruxley was very fond of her companion, but he knew her
temperament, and was unwilling that Brownie should remain longer with
her in that capacity, while, after the events which had so recently
transpired, he did not deem it wise to seek her as a protector for the
young girl, as he had planned to do, for any length of time. He could
not feel safe about her while the Coolidges were near.

Finally, he raised the beautiful face which was resting against his
bosom, and, with a look of infinite tenderness, asked:

“Darling, it is settled, is it not, that you belong to me now?”

“Yes, Adrian, wholly.”

“And you will trust me fully, from this time forth?”

“I trust you fully,” and the little hands fluttered confidingly in his.

“Then, little one—my Brownie, will you come to me now, and let me make
you my own wife to-day—or at least as soon as that is possible? I feel
that I cannot allow you to be exposed to such suffering and insult for
another hour.”

He felt her heart leap against his own at his words, but she did not
reply.

“Darling,” he questioned, “am I putting your love and faith in me to too
severe a test?”

“To-day! so soon—oh, Adrian!” she whispered, and he could see wave on
wave of rich color surging up over her lovely face.

“Will you love me better by waiting a week—a month—or a year?” he asked,
gravely.

“No, oh, no!” she said, quickly.

“Can you bear for a moment to think of going back to the old life?”

She nestled closer to her lover, and he answered for her:

“No, dear, you cannot; and you have nowhere else on earth to go but to
the one who loves you best, Brownie,” he continued, with tender
authority, “you are mine—you have freely given yourself to me, and now I
am not willing that you should go back to face those wolves until I have
an indisputable right to go with you to demand proper respect for you,
and the restitution of your property, without the possibility of a
repetition of the insult and suffering to which you have heretofore been
subjected. I know all the objections you would raise,” he went on. “I
have thought them all over carefully. Lady Ruxley’s anxiety upon your
account; the misconstruction which will be put upon your mysterious
absence; the notoriety of a clandestine marriage, etc. But I think it
will do them all good to suffer a little upon your account, without it
is Lady Ruxley. And as to the other reasons, I do not care a straw for
them. In fact, our marriage will not be so very secret, since I
announced the fact of our engagement to the whole company assembled in
the drawing-room last evening, and told Sir Charles I should marry you
just as soon as possible.”

“Adrian! did you do that?” demanded Brownie, looking up astonished.

“Certainly I did. You do not suppose I could sit tamely by and listen to
all their remarks and surmises without making an effort to silence them,
do you?”

“But it was very brave and noble in you—few would have braved public
opinion like that,” and she lifted her red lips to give him a voluntary
kiss of gratitude.

“What had I to brave, my darling? I shall be proud to call you by that
dearest name in the world—wife; and since they all know now that I mean
to make you such, they cannot say that you have run away with me. We
will go to London to-day. I will get a special license, and you shall be
my wife to-morrow.”

“But—but——” she began, with a troubled face.

“No, dear,” he interrupted smiling, as he read her thought, “you shall
not go alone with me. My old nurse and her daughter shall go with us to
make everything proper. Nurse Clum will do anything in the world for me,
and keep any secret I intrust to her. Milly, her daughter, has long been
trying to get a situation as lady’s maid, and we will make one for her
at once, thus doing a charitable deed, as well as make ourselves happy.
In a week’s time, less if you desire, we will return to Vallingham Hall,
claim our property, and right that other wrong; while with me by your
side, you will be freed from the possibility of insult from any one.
Will you go with me, dear?”

“But you have relatives, I fear——”

“I am my own master, my darling, and no one can say me nay upon this
most vital point,” he replied, gravely, yet with decision.

“I will go with you, Adrian,” she said, simply.

“Bless you, my own!” he exclaimed, joyfully, then added, in tones of
regret: “It is not a fitting way to wed you, I know—not as I had fondly
hoped it would be, when I planned to lead you before my friends, and wed
you openly, as befits your station and mine; but,” he added lightly,
“when once we are settled we will make a great feast, and all shall do
honor to my wife. But we must not delay longer if we would escape
observation. But, first, I have something for you—I brought it last
evening.” He then took the ring from his pocket and put it upon her
finger, saying as he did so: “There, that seals our vows so far.”

He then took his cloak from his own shoulders, and, wrapping it closely
around her, led her by an unfrequented path to the spot where he had
left his carriage.

He drove directly to Nurse Clum’s, where, giving his betrothed into
Milly’s hands to be fed and cared for, he secured a private interview
with the former, told her his plans, and what he thought necessary of
the circumstances which seemed to make them advisable.

The faithful old nurse shook her head when he told her that he was
braving his grandfather’s displeasure; but she saw he was determined
upon the course he had marked out, and she could not say him nay.

Milly was delighted at the prospect of being lady’s maid to a bride, and
was charmed with the sweet lady who was to be Master Adrian’s wife.

They took as early a train as possible from West Malling, in order to
escape observation, and before noon they were all comfortably settled in
London, Brownie and her two companions having an elegant suite of rooms
at the Langham Hotel, in Portland Place, the most fashionable quarter of
the city, while Adrian returned to his own private apartments in St.
James Street.

Before sundown he had procured the special license, and believed himself
the happiest man alive, the only cloud being the disapproval of his
grandfather, and this, he trusted, time would overcome.

Meantime, Brownie, in company with Milly, visited a fashionable ladies’
furnishing house, and procured the most suitable outfit it was possible
to procure at so short a notice, and gave orders for several other
articles of apparel which she would need in the future.

The next morning a quiet little wedding party alighted at St. George’s
Church, Hanover Square, at eleven o’clock, and, leading his beautiful
betrothed proudly up the grand aisle, Adrian Dredmond stopped before the
gray-haired rector, and the twain were made one.

It was a very sweet but solemn face which looked up into Adrian’s when
he paused a moment in the vestibule and whispered, tenderly:

“God bless my own wife!”

But her eyes, as he pressed that first kiss upon her lips, were full of
happiness and trust, and he knew that he had it in his power to make her
life very bright. It was well for him, however, that he had not betrayed
to her the fact of his grandfather’s disapproval, nor what he was likely
to forfeit by his alliance with her, else all the pride of a royal race
would have risen within her, and that fair April day would not have seen
Brownie Douglas, Adrian Dredmond’s bride!




                              CHAPTER XXXV
                         LADY DUNFORTH’S VISIT


Adrian Dredmond, as he had stated to his grandfather when he so
wrathfully opposed his marrying, was not quite a beggar; indeed, he was
entirely independent of Lord Dunforth as regarded pecuniary matters.

His mother’s settlement had been the generous sum of twenty thousand
pounds, which, of course, after her death became his.

His father also had accumulated quite a handsome property, so that, if
he never received a pound from Dunforth’s coffers, he was able to
surround his bride with every luxury, while nothing could prevent him
from inheriting the title and landed property upon the old gentleman’s
decease, since they were entailed.

The day after his marriage Adrian read in the _Times_ that his lordship
was in town for a few days, and he resolved to visit him, and acquaint
him with the step which he had taken, and have the worst over with at
once.

He was received kindly, yet with some coolness.

“Have you gotten over your folly, my son?” the old man asked, regarding
the bright, handsome face keenly.

“No, my lord; instead, I came to tell you that I have only gotten deeper
into it,” was the grave yet quiet reply.

“What do you mean, sir?” and Lord Dunforth got quite red in the face at
this answer.

“I mean, my lord, that I meant just what I said several days ago. I told
you that the happiness of two lives was at stake, and that I should
marry the lady I love. Sir, I found that she was being shamefully abused
and insulted in her situation, and I made her my wife yesterday.”

“And you dare come hither and tell me of it!” thundered the angry lord,
starting to his feet.

“I could not endure to be at variance with you, sir, and I know you
would honor me for the course I have taken if you would but consider the
circumstances.”

“Never!” he interrupted, white with passion; “you have braved my
displeasure, and now—begone! That a Dunforth should have stolen forth
like that to marry a beggar!” and he groaned aloud.

“But, grandfather, listen——”

“I will not, I tell you, and I command you to begone; you are of age,
and can henceforth manage your own concerns; but not one shilling of my
property shall revert to you more than I can help, and I would keep the
title and estate from you if I could. Go to your beggar-bride, and be
happy, if you can. You have ruined my life. Oh, God! I thought I had
suffered enough at the beginning without this last blow to crush me,”
and he turned away from him, with a gesture of despair.

The young man’s heart bled for him, and he longed to comfort him, but he
saw that his presence only excited him, and he withdrew, sad indeed, but
without a single regret for the step which he had taken. He knew he had
done right.

He was puzzled to know what his lordship had meant by saying he thought
he had suffered enough in the beginning. He had never heard the story of
his early disappointment, so he could not know to what he referred.

He sought his grandmother, and related his adventures and their
termination to her.

He found her very kind and willing to listen to him, and he told her all
about Brownie from the time of his first meeting with her; but she, too,
deemed it a _mésalliance_, and was deeply distressed on account of it,
as well as the rupture between him and his lordship.

But Adrian was her idol—the deed was done, and could not now be
undone—and he was so high in his praises of his bride that she was half
won over to his side before he left her, and she promised to visit them,
if she could do so without incurring the displeasure of her husband.

Three days later the happy husband and wife might have been seen sitting
in their luxurious drawing-room in the Langham Hotel, where everything
which love could suggest or money procure had been lavished upon the
lovely bride.

Adrian had insisted immediately following their marriage upon her
procuring an extensive and elaborate wardrobe, “befitting a lady of
rank,” as he laughingly said, although what that rank was he had not yet
seen fit to tell her, and she was too happy, as well as too delicate, to
question him upon such minor points.

Upon this particular morning, Brownie was exquisitely lovely in a soft,
trailing robe of white cashmere, trimmed with rose-colored silk, and
confined at the waist by a heavy cord and tassels of the same color.
Full ruchings of costly lace surrounded her neck and wrists, and from
beneath the folds of her dress peeped the tiniest kid slipper,
ornamented with bows of rose-colored satin. Her hair was arranged
simply, but very becomingly, for Milly took the utmost delight in her
new vocation, and spared no pains to make her fair young mistress look
beautiful; and no one could say, as she sits listening while her husband
reads to her from the morning paper, but that the lovely bride was
absolutely perfect, from the crown of her pretty head to the sole of her
dainty slipper.

Nurse Clum has returned to West Malling, since she is no more needed for
propriety’s sake; but she did not go empty-handed by any means, for
Adrian crowded her poor little purse to its fullest capacity, while
Brownie bought the very nicest black silk for a dress which she could
find as a testimonial of her appreciation of the kindness which she had
done her.

The little golden clock upon its bracket of carved marble chimed the
hour of eleven, and scarcely had it ceased when there came a knock upon
the door.

Another instant it was swung open, and the waiter announced:

“Lady Dunforth!”

Brownie colored violently at the name, and glanced in surprise at her
husband, wondering how it happened that she, of all others, should be
the first to call upon her.

Much pleased, Adrian rose to greet her ladyship, and, leading her to
Brownie, said, to her increasing surprise:

“Grandmother, this is my darling. Will you love her for my sake first,
until you come to know her, when, I am sure, you will love her for her
own?”

The old lady had hardly seen Brownie when she was at the castle, she had
been so much engaged with her company, and she would never have
recognized her as the same being as she stood before her now in all her
bright loveliness.

She was charmed with her!

Her quick eye took in at a single glance every item of her tasteful
toilet, and even the narrow little foot, with its arching instep; and
she knew at once that she was in the presence of a true and well-born
lady.

Her heart, which had been filled with dread and distress ever since she
had first known of her boy’s marriage, instantly settled down into a
state of restful satisfaction and delight.

She greeted the young bride with the utmost graciousness, and said,
sweetly, as she kissed her:

“My dear, I do not think I shall even need Adrian’s recommendation to
make me love you.”

Brownie concealed her amazement at this new development as best she
could.

She had never dreamed that Adrian was the grandson of Lord Dunforth
until that moment, and the knowledge brought with it various conflicting
emotions.

She gave him one quick, surprised look, and then devoted herself to the
entertainment of her distinguished guest.

As she kissed Brownie again at parting, Lady Dunforth put into her hands
a large velvet case.

“I do not know what you may have already, dear,” she said, “but I like a
bride to wear pearls. Please accept these, with my love.”

Brownie touched the spring, and her lovely face flushed with pleasure as
the cover flew back.

Upon their blue velvet cushion there lay a most exquisite and complete
set of pearls in the loveliest design—necklace, bracelets, earrings,
with a beautiful spray for the hair.

Adrian was very much gratified at this token of remembrance, and added
his thanks to his wife’s.

“I do not know how soon we shall return to Dunforth Castle, but I wish
you might come to West Malling before very long,” Lady Dunforth said,
wistfully, when she went away, but she did not invite them to call upon
her while she remained in town. She knew it would not do.

Delicately as she had worded the sentence, Brownie felt it with a sudden
pain, and knew that no invitation was conveyed in the words, and her
brow grew troubled and her face very grave when they were alone again.

Adrian at once divined the cause, and knew that he must explain his
position; he could not keep it from her longer.

“My Brownie is looking troubled; were you not pleased with Lady
Dunforth?” he asked, drawing her into his arms.

“Oh, yes. I think she is very lovely; but, Adrian, I never dreamed that
you were anything to Lord Dunforth.”

“You never asked me, did you?” he asked, with mock gravity.

“Of course not; I did not like to be questioning you as to your
ancestry; I supposed you would tell me all in good time of your own
accord. I have heard that you were connected with a titled family, but
never supposed you were a descendant of his, and would occupy such a
high position,” she said, looking rather uneasy.

“Then it can never be said that you schemed for me on that account,” he
replied, with twinkling eyes and an amused smile, “while I, on the other
hand, have had the advantage of you all along. I have known ever since
the day I first saw you that you were a descendant of royalty.”

Brownie lifted her head, and gave him a perplexed look.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean,” and he laughed, mischievously, “that I have heard Miss Douglas
was very proud of having descended from Queen Margaret Tudor. Have you
the genealogical tree, Brownie?”

“Poor auntie! But you are laughing at me, and who told you all this?”

“My friend Gordon, of course; so you see, I took care to find out all
about you before I made any advances.”

She smiled at his pleasantry, but she was not to be diverted from the
subject which occupied her thoughts.

“But—but, Adrian, why did Lady Dunforth speak in just the way she did?
And why did not his lordship call with her? It would have been the right
thing to do,” and she searched his face with her clear eyes.

He told her as gently as he could then that when he went to seek his
grandfather’s consent, that, knowing something regarding the
circumstances of her leaving Mrs. Coolidge, he had imbibed a sudden and
unjust prejudice, and had withheld his consent to their marriage.

“Did you know of this before you announced our engagement at Lady
Randal’s?” she demanded, when he had finished.

“Yes, darling; and, if the whole world had opposed, it would have made
no difference. I am not a slave, nor a vacillating boy, that any one
should choose my bride for me; and you are the only woman I have ever
seen whom I would willingly make my wife. If my grandfather would only
have listened to me while I explained your position, he would never have
been so unreasonable.”

“But I——” Brownie began, haughtily, but he stopped her with a kiss.

“Yes, I know, my own, that the pride of that royal race is so strong
within you that you never would have wedded me had you known of this
opposition; therefore, I took care that you should know nothing of it
until it was too late.” Then he added, more seriously, as he saw that
her face was still overcast: “But, my darling, what is birth or caste,
compared with our future happiness, even if you were not my equal,
socially speaking, which I contend you are? We love each other, and have
no right to make ourselves miserable over what the world might think or
say. You and I are satisfied with each other, are we not?” he asked,
fondly.

The look which she gave him told him that she, at least, was content
with him; but, still knowing all that she did regarding Lord Dunforth,
the knowledge that he was opposed to her marrying Adrian still rankled
in her heart, though she forgot to consider that he could not know who
she was, or that she had any connection with his former love.

“But, Adrian,” she said, some time after, and when he had supposed the
matter dropped entirely, “Lord Dunforth need not have been so very
particular, for he himself was once betrothed to auntie, and would have
married her if——”

It was now the young husband’s turn to look surprised and puzzled, and
he interrupted her in astonished tones:

“Dearest, what is this that you are saying?”

“It is true,” she answered, smiling at his incredulity, “that he wanted
to marry her, and would, but for some treachery on the part of Miss
Helen Capel, who is now Lady Randal, I believe; and poor auntie loved
him till the last minute of her life.”

“Who told you of this?”

“Auntie herself, the very day she died, and the jewels which Isabel
Coolidge has were, most of them, given to her in honor of her
approaching marriage with his lordship.”

More and more amazed, Adrian was now eager to hear the whole story, and
Brownie, nothing loth, went over the whole ground, and then proved her
position by reminding him of Lord Dunforth’s recognition of the jewels
she wore the night she attended the opera.

When she had concluded, he said, with a little touch of triumph in his
tone:

“I think, Mrs. Dredmond, that we are about to turn the table upon my
proud-spirited grandsire finely, and we will prove to him that there is
such a thing as being ‘more nice than wise.’”

With which trite quotation he immediately sat down and wrote out a
complete history of Miss Mehetabel Douglas and Brownie, and dispatched
it at once to Lord Dunforth, feeling assured that this explanation would
make everything all right, and bring his lordship to them in rather a
more humble frame of mind than when he last saw him.

His chagrin can be imagined when the epistle was returned to him
unopened, and without a word, thus showing that henceforth he wished no
communication with him; and while his indignation for the moment got the
better of him, he was still deeply grieved to be thus alienated from his
grandfather in his old age.

But Brownie, all her pride aroused to arms, vowed within herself that
the haughty earl should yet sue for her favor.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI
                        BROWNIE’S LITTLE CHARGE


Brownie was exceedingly anxious that Lady Ruxley should be informed of
her happiness and safety, and would have hastened at once to Vallingham
Hall to relieve her anxiety; but Adrian insisted that they would be
constantly receiving callers, and after sending their cards abroad as he
had done, it would not do to run away; besides, he was desirous that she
should see more of the great metropolis, and mingle in its gayeties for
a while. But he suggested she should write.

So Brownie wrote her ladyship an affectionate letter, telling her of her
marriage, and that she would come to see her just as soon as possible,
and explain everything. Meanwhile, she requested that she would keep her
secret from the Randals and Coolidges until she saw her.

This duty accomplished, she gave herself up heartily to all the
pleasures which Adrian planned for her.

One day, upon returning from a stroll in Regent’s Park, they had almost
reached Portland Place when their attention was suddenly attracted by a
shrill scream, and then by the distressing cries of a child.

Turning quickly in the direction whence the sound proceeded, Adrian saw
that a woman, who but a moment before had been standing on the river’s
brink, had disappeared from sight, while the child of whom she had had
charge was reaching out its hands toward the river, and screaming at the
top of its lungs.

The young husband and wife hastened to the spot, and saw that the woman
had fallen from the bank, and was lying motionless at the bottom of the
stream.

Whether she had fainted, or what had caused the fall, they could not
imagine, and Adrian hastened to rescue her, while Brownie, taking the
little one from its elegant carriage, tenderly strove to comfort it.

A crowd began to gather around, and Adrian was assisted in bringing his
burden to a safe, dry place; but to all his inquiries as to who she was
no one could give any information.

She was evidently a nurse in some high family, as her cap and apron
denoted, while the child, a little boy of about three years, was clothed
with taste and elegance. He kept crying for “Nannie, Nannie,” at first,
and his little face wore a grieved, distressed look, as he saw her lying
so still upon the ground, but Brownie removed him to a little distance,
and soon succeeded in quieting him with her fond, sweet words.

The woman continued insensible, and as they could gain no clew to her
identity, Adrian, fearing she had been seriously injured in falling,
began to wonder what would be best to do with her.

A policeman now appeared, and advised that she be taken to some
hospital, and deeming this the wisest course to pursue, the young man
gave directions that she be taken to St. George’s, it being the finest
one in the city.

“But what will become of the child?” he asked, in perplexity, as he saw
it in Brownie’s arms.

“Take him to the station-house until called for,” some one said,
heartlessly.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Brownie, with an appealing, terrified look at her
husband; while the child, frightened at being so curiously regarded,
threw his little arms around her neck and hid his face upon her
shoulder.

She clasped him to her with a sudden thrill.

“Let us keep him until his parents come to claim him,” she said, in a
low tone, to her husband.

“But, dearest, it will never do for you to have the care of him,” he
returned, disapprovingly.

“Ah! Adrian, he is such a darling, I should like it. Milly will assist
in the care of him, and, in all probability, his parents will claim him
by to-morrow.”

“That is true,” he said, hesitatingly.

“I know he will be content with me, and that I shall treat him tenderly.
Dear, I cannot let them take him to the station-house,” she pleaded,
earnestly.

Adrian himself said that was not to be thought of for a moment, and
being strongly attracted toward the beautiful boy, it was finally
arranged that it should be as Brownie desired, and they all returned to
the Langham, while the unfortunate nurse was borne away to the hospital.

The little fellow was soon as happy as a king, and, although he talked
of Nannie, seemed perfectly contented when in Brownie’s presence.

She found, upon questioning him, that he was called Eddie, but she tried
in vain to make him repeat his last name. Evidently he had not been
taught it.

The next morning Adrian went early to the hospital, hoping the nurse
would be able to converse with him and give him information regarding
her little charge; but he found her raving in delirium, and the doctors
said she had doubtless been seriously injured about the head in falling,
and they were fearful that the accident would cost her her life.

Only one thing remained to be done now, and that was to advertise the
child in the papers, which Adrian immediately did, and then strove
quietly to await the issue.

Since the little one would occupy her for a few days, Brownie persuaded
Adrian to run down to Vallingham Hall to relieve Lady Ruxley’s suspense,
and consult with her as the best method of securing her jewels, and of
releasing Herbert Randal.

It was Saturday that the accident happened, and on Monday he departed
for West Malling, where he found Lady Ruxley in her usual health, but
feeling very lonely without her companion. She still remained at the
Hall, where she said she should stay until the folks returned from
Paris, and then they might have their grand doings to themselves and
welcome.

She had received Brownie’s note that day before their departure for
Paris, but she had carefully guarded her secret, thoroughly believing in
her, and inwardly triumphing in her good fortune.

“I knew they were humbugs from the beginning,” she said, wrathfully,
when Adrian told her about the jewels; “but,” and she shook her head
sadly, “it’s too bad for Charles to be taken in so.”

“I sympathize with your ladyship,” Adrian returned. “But let us hope
that he may have his eyes opened before it is too late.”

He then related Brownie’s history from beginning to end, and though the
old lady felt some uncomfortable twinges of conscience upon hearing that
she was the grandniece of that same Mehetabel Douglas who came to such
grief in her own house, yet she rejoiced over the young girl’s triumph
and good fortune. She sniffed contemptuously when Adrian spoke of his
grandfather’s opposition to his marriage.

“She has just as good blood in her veins as Royal Dunforth himself, and
when he gets his eyes open he’ll be ashamed of being so crotchety.
Humph!” she went on, with her irrepressible chuckle; “I told Helen she’d
get her pay yet; and I knew that girl was treacherous. What a mongrel
she is to appropriate the poor, abused thing’s jewels and wear them!—and
they were Meta Douglas’s, too! I thought I had seen them before, but I
didn’t say a word, for Helen says I am always poking into other folks’
affairs. And they hid the poor child in that wretched cell, did they?”

“Yes; although I do not see how they dared do it,” Adrian replied.

“Sir Charles shall know of this, or my tongue will be palsied before I
can tell him!” she muttered, angrily, and then demanded: “Who did you
say let her out?”

Adrian really dreaded relating this portion of his story, lest the shock
should be too much for the old lady. He had merely mentioned the fact of
Brownie’s being released by some one upon the other side of the cell,
but now he broke to her as gently as he could the tale of Lady Randal’s
sin in concealing her deformed son.

“Has she dared do this cruel thing?” she whispered hoarsely; then added:

“I had given her credit during these later years for regretting and
repenting of her former wickedness and intrigues, but it seems she is
capable of almost anything He—Herbert, did you say his name is?”

“Yes; that was what he told my wife.”

“Well, he must not remain there another hour—it is too horrible!”

She insisted upon going immediately to the young man, asking Adrian to
accompany her.

Lady Ruxley appeared to know the way perfectly; for, passing through
Isabel’s room, she unbolted the door of the cell, and groped her way to
the opposite side.

As she stepped upon that semi-circular block of stone, she explained the
secret to Adrian, and bidding him follow her, she pressed her foot upon
the bolt and disappeared. As soon as the shaft arose to its place, he
followed immediately, and soon found himself standing by her side, in
the room already described.

The young cripple was sleeping upon a couch, and had not heard them
enter; but as Lady Ruxley stumped toward him with her cane, he started
up, and regarded his strange visitors with amazement.

Lady Ruxley nearly shrieked aloud as she beheld his terrible deformity,
but quickly recovering herself, she moved still nearer to him, and
exclaimed, in her blunt way:

“Well, Herbert Randal, thank the Lord that you are at last born into the
world!”

“Madam, are you—who are you?” he stammered, regarding her with nearly as
much curiosity as she did him.

“I am a withered antediluvian, as you perceive, but the heart within me
is sound yet, and capable of feeling for others’ woes, if not for
others’ faults. I am Lady Ruxley, your mother’s aunt.”

“I have heard of you, and Miss Douglas said you were very kind,” he
said, gently, and regarding her bent form with a pitying eye.

“Did she?” said her ladyship, eagerly, while her thin lips broke into a
pleased smile. “Miss Douglas was a jewel.”

“Miss Douglas was,” repeated the cripple, catching his breath, and a
look of pain crossing his face.

“Yes, was; for she is no longer Miss Douglas, but Mrs. Dredmond, and
this is her husband,” returned Lady Ruxley, introducing Adrian.

The two young men clasped hands, but Herbert Randal searched Adrian’s
face wistfully and eagerly.

And now there followed many questions and explanations, and a long
conference, which resulted in Lady Ruxley deciding that young Randal
should return at once with her to the villa, where he should remain
until the return of the family from Paris, “when there will be a serious
reckoning,” she concluded, with a stern, bitter look.

Herbert demurred at first, but upon being assured by Adrian that it
would be best, he at last consented, upon condition that he could induce
his tutor to be party to the plan.

The tutor was summoned, and although very much disturbed at this
unexpected state of things, he was really glad at heart that for the
future his pupil would know the comforts of life. Lady Ruxley assured
him that his salary should be continued to him during his own and his
sister’s life, for the sake of the kindness which he had shown his
charge during the past.

So, as the matter was to be kept as quiet as possible from the servants,
it was decided they should wait until evening before they made the
change, when it was accomplished without exciting suspicion.

Adrian remained until the next morning, when, bidding them a kind
farewell, and feeling much pleased with the result of his journey, he
returned to London, taking with him Brownie’s trunks, a cordial
invitation from Lady Ruxley to the bride to come and visit her, and also
an elegant piece of Irish point lace, that would have made the eyes of
half the London belles water with envy, as a bridal present.

Lady Ruxley seemed to forget her own aches and pains in ministering to
the comfort of her unfortunate grand-nephew; and she found him a most
entertaining companion, for he had improved his time and was well read
upon almost every subject.

She was eager for the return of Lady Randal from Paris, and yet she was
somewhat anxious as to what the result of this new development would be;
while she could not help feeling a little bit of triumph as she thought
how astonished and somewhat chagrined her amiable niece would be when
she should discover that Mehetabel Douglas would be the Lady of Dunforth
after all.

“And Charles, how will he receive his brother, I wonder?” she often
thought, with some anxiety. “If he is noble and manly, as I hope he will
be, my fortune shall be divided between them; but if he should be unkind
or ungenerous, then Herbert shall have every farthing!”

Upon Adrian’s return to London, his young wife met him with the saddest
face in the world, and threw herself into his arms with a heart-broken
cry.

The beautiful child, whom she had so tenderly taken to her heart in its
desolation, and whom she had begun to love very dearly, was alarmingly
ill—dying, she feared, from what the physician said—with that dread
disease, membraneous croup!

He had been taken very suddenly, almost immediately upon Adrian’s
departure, and, despite their tenderest care, had rapidly grown worse,
until now he was wholly unconscious, and seemed sinking fast.

Adrian was extremely shocked by this distressing intelligence, and
together they returned to Eddie’s bedside.

The doctor was there holding the little pulse and watching the ebbing
life. He shook his head very gravely at Adrian’s look of inquiry, and
one glance into the little pale, distressed face, told more plainly
still that there was no hope.

An hour passed with scarce any change, and still those kind watchers
hovered around his bed.

But suddenly there came to them from the drawing-room sounds of
confusion and eager questioning.

Adrian passes out to inquire the cause, and Brownie hears a few hurried
sentences, then a sharp cry of pain, which is followed by the sudden
rush of garments, and a beautiful woman of about thirty rushes
frantically to the bedside, and bends, sobbing and moaning, over the
dying child.

She is immediately followed by a gentleman a few years older, who with a
groan of agony, seizes the little cold hands and passionately presses
kiss after kiss upon them.

Brownie comprehends at once that at last the parents have found their
missing child.

“It is Sir Edgar Douglas and his wife, who have just returned from a
journey into Wales,” Adrian whispers, drawing his wife a little aside,
and then continued: “They arrived only this morning, and were rendered
nearly frantic at finding the nurse and their boy missing; but almost
immediately they saw my advertisement, and hastened hither at once.”

“How dreadful!” murmured Brownie, weeping with the stricken ones.

Then she hastened to minister to the little one, who seemed now to be
struggling with the mighty foe; while his mother was too much overcome
by her violent grief to be capable of any effort, and the father seemed
like one turned to stone.

Brownie closes the beautiful eyes, smooths the bright curling locks back
from the marble brow, and clasps the tiny hands upon the still breast,
then turns to comfort the bereft mother.

It is a hopeless task, however, for she is borne fainting to another
apartment, whither her husband soon follows her, having first, in reply
to Adrian’s offer of assistance, requested that he would arrange for the
last sad rites.

The mother wept, and would not be comforted; but the father was like a
block of marble, until he looked his last upon his darling’s face and
they bore him from his sight. Then, with one deep, heartrending groan,
he sank lifeless upon the floor, stricken down by a fatal attack of
apoplexy.

It was his heir, his only treasure, and death had ruthlessly snatched
him from his grasp; he had not thought that his peerless boy could die,
so young, so bright, so beautiful, and his own heart-strings were
snapped asunder.

Three days later those who had borne his son away, took him also, and
laid him by his side, while the widow returned to her home desolate.

The nurse was very ill for several weeks, but at length, contrary to all
expectation, she began to recover, and in time returned to her sorrowing
mistress.




                             CHAPTER XXXVII
                           ANOTHER REVELATION


The following notice appeared a few days subsequent in the London _Daily
Times_:

“The nearest of kin to Sir Edgar Douglas, who was son of Sir William
Douglas, son of Sir Frederick Douglas, formerly of Winship Towers,
Winchester, will learn something to his or her advantage by applying to
Capel & Armand, attorneys-at-law, No. 47 Gray’s Inn.”

“What was your father’s name, Brownie?” Adrian asked, lifting his eyes
from the paper he had been reading.

“William Douglas.”

“And what was his father’s name?”

“James. But why do you ask? Shall I bring forth the genealogical tree?”
she asked, mischievously.

“Yes, bring it,” he said, gravely, and with something of surprise in her
manner she obeyed.

“Now see if you can find the name of Sir Frederick Douglas three
generations back,” he said, when he had spread it out.

“Yes, here it is.”

“Now who was his heir?”

“Sir William E. Douglas.”

“Does the table give the name of his son?”

“No, the record of that family stops there.”

“I thought likely; now what connection is, or was Sir William E. Douglas
to your branch of the family?”

Brownie referred again to the chart.

“Sir William, James, my grandfather, and auntie, were all the children
of Sir Frederick Douglas; and I never knew until his moment that auntie
had more than one brother,” Brownie said, in surprise.

“That is strange; and he was the heir to the baronetcy, too,” returned
Adrian; then he asked: “What is the date of his death?”

“1840. It is put here in auntie’s own handwriting.”

“That is thirty-six years ago. Then Sir William Douglas was your
father’s uncle, which makes him your grand-uncle, and just the same
relation to you that Miss Mehetabel Douglas was.”

“Well, what does all this mean, Adrian.”

“It means that Sir Edgar Douglas was Sir William Douglas’ heir, and he
being deceased, also his son and only child Eddie, there does not seem
to be any immediate heir to the property, which probably is entailed, or
this advertisement would not have appeared,” Adrian replied, as he
handed it to his wife to read.

She read it, and then turned to the genealogical table again with a
flushed face. After a few minutes she looked up with a puzzled
expression, and said:

“I have an idea of what you are thinking, Adrian, but I cannot quite
make it out.”

He took pencil and paper, and after a few moments placed a diagram
before her.

“According to that you are the only living relative and heir of Sir
Edgar Douglas,” he said.

“Do you suppose it can be true?” she asked, gravely.

“We will apply to Capel & Armand and see, dear.”

Accordingly they ordered a carriage and drove to Gray’s Inn, taking Miss
Mehetabel’s precious family tree with them.

Brownie used to have her patience severely tried in the days when Miss
Mehetabel would descant upon her illustrious birth and ancestry, and
often wished this same family tree at the bottom of the ocean, little
thinking of the future good it was to bring her.

They were most kindly received by Messrs. Capel & Armand, and after
listening to Adrian’s explanation, and thoroughly examining the record,
they fully agreed with him that Brownie was the person whom they were
seeking.

They congratulated her upon her good fortune, telling her that there was
a fine estate at Winchester, and also a handsome town house, which would
now become hers, and that in her own right she possessed an independent
fortune.

“How strange!” Brownie exclaimed, tearfully, when they were once more
alone, and talking the matter over again, “that the little darling
should be of my own kin.”

“It is, indeed, and I never thought of the coincidence of names when Sir
Edgar and his wife came,” replied Adrian.

“I am so glad that he fell into our hands, instead of strangers; yet I
grieve for the poor little fellow and his father, who was just in the
prime of life. It is sad that my gain must come from poor Lady Douglas’
misfortune.”

“It is sad, dearest; and I was satisfied with my wife just as she was;
but, I suppose, that this will go to prove to Mrs. Grundy that I have
not made a _mésalliance_ after all,” Adrian returned, somewhat
scornfully.

“It never rains but it pours,” is the homely old adage, and the next day
brought a lengthy epistle from Mr. Conrad, of Philadelphia, stating that
the concern in which he had invested so much of Miss Mehetabel’s
property had formed a new stock company, which had assumed all the
obligations of the old one, which they would cancel at their earliest
convenience.

It might be some time, he wrote, before they could make over the whole
amount to her, but meantime, they would continue the interest on the
whole, and make a yearly deposit in whatever bank she saw fit to
designate, unless she should prefer to let her shares remain as they had
been.

And, the honest lawyer added, things were beginning to look brighter to
him, also, and he hoped to be able soon to do something for her on his
own account.

One day, not long after, it was necessary for Brownie to go to Capel &
Armand’s to sign some papers regarding her coming into possession of the
estate at Winchester.

Adrian accompanied her as far as the door, where he was obliged to leave
her to transact some business of his own.

She mounted the stairs to the office, swung open the door, entered, and
found herself face to face with Lord Dunforth!

He did not recognize her, for he had only seen her once while she was at
the castle, and he could not associate this elegantly clad, blooming
woman, with the pale, black-robed figure, who had been so attentive to
Lady Ruxley’s wants.

At all events, he thought her wondrously beautiful now, and wondered who
she could be.

Brownie knew him instantly, and the rich color flew to her cheek, but
she did not lose an atom of her self-possession.

Her manner was perfect, her language, as she conversed with the lawyers,
was choice and fluent, while the little hand with which she signed the
documents they placed before her, was white, and soft, and tapering—“a
sure sign of a lady,” his lordship, who was watching from behind his
paper, said to himself.

“A remarkably lovely woman that,” Mr. Capel said to him, after Brownie’s
departure.

“She is, indeed. Who is she?”

“She is heiress to the property of Sir Edgar Douglas, who died so
suddenly a couple of weeks since.”

“Ah, yes! I heard that he left no heir. That was a sad circumstance.”

“It was, indeed, for his rent roll at Winchester is no mean one, and his
town house will compare favorably with the best.”

“So I have been told; but how does this young lady happen to inherit
them? Whose child is she?”

“Sir Edgar’s father, Sir William Douglas, and her grandfather, James
Douglas, were brothers, each of whom had but one child, a son, and they
in turn had only one child, one a son, the other a daughter. Sir Edgar’s
son, as you are aware, died only a few days previous to his father, and
that leaves this lady the sole surviving relative. Her own parents died,
one just before her birth, the other just after, leaving her to the care
of a maiden aunt, Miss Mehetabel Douglas, who left this country many
years ago, and settled in Philadelphia, United States.”

“Sir! What!” demanded his lordship, to whom this news was like a
thunderbolt, which opened the old wound afresh.

“Yes, her own name was Mehetabel Douglas until her marriage; she was
named for her aunt. My lord, you are ill!” said the lawyer, startled to
see him grow so white, while his hand shook so that the paper he held
rattled.

“No, no; go on. Then you say they are all dead, excepting this young
lady?” he cried, trying with a mighty effort to steady his nerves.

“Yes, Miss Mehetabel, the elder, died less than a year ago, the young
woman tells me. They were supposed to be very wealthy at her death, but
a series of misfortunes deprived them of everything, and this young lady
obtained a situation as governess in a family that was coming abroad.
Strange, isn’t it, how things work around, and that she should come here
to walk right into this fortune?”

It was passing strange, his lordship acknowledged; and this beautiful
young girl was the niece of his lost love, and her adopted child,
doubtless.

He wished he had known of this before she left; he would have requested
an introduction, and by that means he would have learned all about his
lost one’s life. As it was, he resolved to seek her out at his earliest
convenience, and learn more of her and her antecedents.

Then there suddenly arose a thought which troubled him.

If this young lady was Miss Mehetabel’s only living relative, how came
Miss Isabel Coolidge by those jewels? Could it be that the poor child
had been reduced to the necessity of selling them? It did not yet occur
to him that she was the poor, discarded governess of whom Adrian had
told him.

But no, he could not believe that a Douglas would be guilty of parting
with precious heirlooms for filthy lucre no matter how destitute she
might become.

“You say the young lady is lately married,” he said, resuming his
conversation with the lawyer, and determined to learn all he could.

“Yes, I think it is not more than two or three weeks since the event
occurred.”

Lord Dunforth did start now, remembering that that was about the time of
Adrian’s marriage. Still the truth did not enter his mind, as his next
words proved.

“You say she was a governess previous. Whom did she marry? I trust she
has not made a _mésalliance_; the Douglases are remarkably good stock. I
used to know the family intimately,” he concluded, with a troubled brow.

“You are right; they were always a fine family. I do not think that the
young lady has brought any disgrace upon it, however, for her husband
appears to be a very fine man. His name is Dredmond—Adrian Dredmond.”

His lordship’s face turned ghastly pale at this, and he looked up at the
loquacious lawyer in a dazed sort of way.

“You are surely ill, my lord!” Mr. Capel said, alarmed at his
appearance, and pouring out a glass of wine, he brought it to him,
thinking it strange, too, that the story should affect him so.

“Thank you; it is merely a sudden dizziness, it will pass soon,” he
said, as he drank the wine; then, after he had regained his scattered
senses somewhat, he arose, bade the lawyer good-morning, and departed.

His first and only love was dead, and his heart told him that she had
been true to him to the last, from the fact of her never having married.

But how could he meet her in the future and answer for all the insult
and abuse he had heaped upon the child of her love.

He wondered if she had recognized him as she came into Capel & Armand’s
office.

“If she did, the little witch displayed wonderful dignity and
self-possession. I don’t blame the boy for falling in love with her,” he
muttered.

Then he remembered how earnestly Adrian had begged him to listen while
he explained, and he would not; how he had returned unopened his letter,
which doubtless contained all the information and more than he had
gained to-day; and he sought his elegant home in Upper Grosvenor Street,
in a remarkably humble frame of mind for so proud a man.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII
                        THE CYNOSURE OF ALL EYES


Lord Dunforth, without acquainting his wife of the change of his
feelings, called the next day, as early as the rules of etiquette would
allow, at the Langham, and desired to be shown to Mr. Dredmond’s
apartments.

He was informed, much to his disappointment, that Mr. Dredmond and his
wife had left town for a few days.

Like all truly noble natures, when he found he was in the wrong he was
willing to acknowledge it, and anxious to atone as far as lay in his
power; but nothing remained now but to wait with patience until the
return of the young couple.

Adrian and his wife had decided, upon talking the matter over, to wait
until the return of the Coolidges from Paris before making their trip to
West Malling, meantime they would run down to Winchester to pay poor
Lady Douglas a visit and take a look at Winship Towers.

Upon their return to London they found numerous cards and invitations
from families in high life awaiting them, requesting the pleasure of Mr.
Dredmond and lady’s presence, etc., etc. One for the evening called them
to Manchester House, the residence of the Marquis of Hertford.

“The world is really waking up to the fact that you are actually
married, Adrian,” Brownie said, mischievously, as she turned over the
dainty missives, but her cheeks were glowing with indignation.

“Yes,” her husband replied, laughingly, “and I wish to show them that I
have chosen a wife worth marrying! I want you to look especially elegant
to-night. Do you need anything to embellish your toilet?”

Brownie laughed merrily at this question, and taking him by the arm, led
him to her dressing-room, where, throwing open the door of one of the
enormous wardrobes, she commanded him to look and choose for himself
what he would have her wear.

“My darling,” exclaimed Adrian, as she swept into the drawing-room a
little later, “how beautiful you are, and how proud I am of you!” and he
held out his arms as if about to clasp her to him; but drawing suddenly
back, he added: “But no; I will not crush a single bud, nor disarrange
one of those perfect folds.”

“Don’t be foolish, dear,” Brownie replied, nestling close to him, and
clasping her own arms around his neck; “the dress is nothing to me
except as it pleases you, and makes me look more lovable in your eyes;
besides, I do not wish to look too new.”

Adrian’s marriage—or rather the news of it—had spread like wildfire
among the _élite_ of London, and many were the comments and sneers
poured upon the unknown American behind her back for having been so
successful in “taking him in.”

Comparatively little was really known of her, or their marriage,
excepting that it had been very sudden and quiet, and without the
sanctioning presence of Lord and Lady Dunforth.

Contrary to Brownie’s surmise, the report of her sudden accession to
wealth and position had not yet become very generally known, and Mrs.
Grundy was exceedingly curious to behold this _rara avis_ which had
created such an unexpected commotion in polite circles.

When at length “Mr. Dredmond and lady” were announced at Manchester
House, there was a sudden hush, a stretching of necks—yes, even in that
noble crowd, for human nature is the same the world over—and all eyes
were turned toward the door as they entered.

Brownie knew that she was the cynosure of all eyes, and although her
heart beat rather more quickly than usual, not a muscle of her pure,
patrician face quivered as they threaded their way through the crowd.

It was a moment of triumph to her idolizing husband when she was
presented to the Marquis and Marchioness of Hertford, and greeted them
with graceful yet perfect self-possession, while the manner of her
salutation was remarked by hundreds, and they were dumb with surprise
and admiration at both her exceeding beauty and grace.

Could this be a governess—a girl of questionable character and birth—a
plebeian American?

Lord and Lady Dunforth were both present, and had been gratified
witnesses of the presentation, and both were as proud of Adrian and his
peerless bride as if they had been first and foremost in sanctioning the
marriage, instead of so bitterly opposing it.

Lord Dunforth inwardly cursed himself anew at having been so precipitate
in his denunciation of his grandson and his “plebeian bride,” if he had
only waited until he had seen her he never would have been so rash; and
he began to turn over in his mind the best way to get out of a bad fix.
He knew Adrian would wish to present his wife to him, and he dreaded to
meet her scorn; the sight of her in her proud beauty carried him vividly
back to the time when he had so joyfully presented her aunt as his
betrothed, and he turned away with almost a groan, as he remembered how
that joy had been suddenly turned into mourning.

Adrian’s fond heart leaped with exultation at the homage which was being
paid his darling, and the surprise which he saw expressed in every eye
contributed not a little to his amusement.

But a more signal and unexpected triumph awaited them.

They were busy receiving and responding to congratulations, when all at
once a familiar voice fell upon Brownie’s ears, giving her a violent
inward start.

She pressed Adrian’s arm without giving any other sign, and he, glancing
up, saw Lady Randal, Mrs. Coolidge, Sir Charles and Isabel approaching
them.

Another moment the crowd separated, and they stood face to face.

Sir Charles and his party were evidently taken entirely by surprise, for
Mrs. Coolidge, as her eyes fell upon the despised governess, became
white as the fan of costly feathers that she held in her hand.

Isabel grew crimson with anger and mortification, especially as she had
on at that moment the young girl’s diamonds, and she looked as if she
longed for the earth to open and devour her.

Sir Charles, however, hastened forward, with an expression of real
pleasure upon his face, and grasping Adrian warmly by the hand, offered
his congratulations, and begged to be presented to his bride.

Brownie received him gracefully and cordially, but vouchsafed to Isabel
only a haughty lifting of her beautifully arched brows. She bowed
distantly to Lady Randal, and, ignoring entirely the presence of Mrs.
Coolidge, she turned to speak to some one at her side.

Sir Charles flushed angrily at this marked slight of his betrothed and
her mother, and, with a haughty bow, passed on.

“I am sorry on his account, darling; but it could not be helped, and you
treated them just as you ought,” Adrian whispered. “Now I perceive that
a still greater trial awaits you, but I know you are fully equal to it.”

They both knew that many curious eyes were fastened upon them, to see
how these greetings would be exchanged.

Many and various had been the reports circulated regarding his
lordship’s sentiments concerning his grandson’s marriage; but if people
were expecting any demonstration, they were deeply disappointed.

Lord Dunforth approached and shook his boy heartily by the hand, and
then turned, with a very pale but benignant face, to the young bride.

She could not take his hand, but swept him a charming courtesy, with
every appearance of marked respect; then, with very bright eyes, and her
slender form very erect, she turned to greet her ladyship, and was soon
chatting upon the most friendly terms with her.

“By Jove!” muttered Lord Dunforth to himself, “she understands herself
perfectly. The most critical could find no fault with her greeting; and
yet to me it is very evident I shall be obliged to hoist a flag of truce
before we can come to any terms of peace. I’m glad of it,” he added, his
eyes resting admiringly upon the bright face: “it just suits me. My own
Meta was not more regal.”

Turning to Adrian, he said, with a suspicious tremble in his voice:

“I heartily congratulate you, my boy. Shall there be peace between us?”

“Certainly, my dear sir, if——”

“I understand you,” he interrupted, “and I find no flaw in her. Indeed,
Adrian, I am as proud of your triumph to-night as you can possibly be.”

“Thank you. If you had read the letter I wrote you all unpleasantness
might have been avoided, for in it I explained that she is a niece of
your—of a Miss Douglas whom you used to know,” Adrian returned.

“I know all about it, my boy,” his lordship said, in a husky voice. “I
discovered all the other day when I met your wife at Capel & Armand’s.”

“Yes, she told me you were there.”

“What! did she recognize me?” and the color flew to his face, as he
recalled Brownie’s entire self-possession, and how she had ignored his
presence.

“Oh, yes; you know she was at Castle Dunforth several weeks since, and
it is not likely she would forget you so soon, especially as she already
knew so much about you.”

“True,” he muttered, with a troubled look, adding: “I shall call upon
you immediately, Adrian, and I hope to persuade you to return to us—we
are very lonely.”

“Thank you; but we will talk further of that another time. We shall be
delighted to see you at the Langham, and I have much more to tell you
regarding the circumstances of the past three or four weeks,” Adrian
returned, gravely.

Meanwhile Isabel and her mother were in anything but a comfortable frame
of mind.

They had been thunderstruck upon beholding Brownie, in all her glory,
leaning upon Adrian’s arm.

There was no enjoyment for them after that uncomfortable encounter, and,
pleading fatigue, they persuaded Sir Charles to withdraw almost
immediately, while they racked their brains trying to solve the riddle
of the young girl’s escape from that secret chamber.

They had returned from Paris rather earlier than they had anticipated,
their arrangements regarding the trousseau having been more easily
effected than they had expected, so, as Sir Charles was anxious to be
back at Vallingham Hall to superintend some alterations which he desired
completed before his marriage, they had hastened home.

On reaching London they had found cards awaiting them for the ball at
Manchester House, and remained to attend the festivities.

They had seen hardly any one since their arrival, consequently knew
nothing of the nine days’ wonder which was agitating the minds of the
Londoners.

Lady Randall professed to be horrified at the course which Adrian had
taken, and hoped his grandfather would disown him forever for the
disgrace he had brought upon the family. She believed that he knew all
the time where Miss Douglas was that evening when he had so boldly
announced his betrothal, and had only told them of the engagement to
soften the scandal of the act he was even then contemplating. Of course,
not being cognizant of the part the Coolidges had played in the little
drama, this was the only construction she would be likely to put upon
the matter.

Sir Charles was highly indignant at the treatment which his party had
received, while at the same time he was secretly uneasy about the whole
affair.

He could not understand it, and the more he pondered upon it the more
puzzled he grew, for he felt that there must be something underneath it
all which ought to be accounted for and thoroughly sifted.

Yet after Mrs. Dredmond’s reception of his betrothed, which to him
appeared almost like a public insult, he was too proud and too deeply
wounded to seek any explanation from Adrian, between whom and himself
until now the firmest friendship had existed.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX
                          BURYING THE HATCHET


Lord and Lady Dunforth called again at the Langham the next morning, but
found they had been forestalled by numerous other callers, whom Brownie
was entertaining in the most charming manner.

She received his lordship with proud but respectful dignity, which,
while it grieved him, yet it also excited his admiration that she should
thus resent the injury he had done her.

One by one the other visitors departed, until at length they were left
alone with the young couple.

After a few moments spent in a pleasant chat, Lady Dunforth whispered a
few words in Brownie’s ear.

She smiled and nodded compliance, then, turning with inimitable tact to
her husband, said:

“Adrian, Lady Dunforth is anxious to inspect the wedding wardrobe and
gifts; will you attend her while I entertain his lordship? If you need
any explanations Milly can make them.”

Adrian saw the point of all this, and rising he gave his arm to his
grandmother, and conducted her from the room.

Brownie knew that this moment must come, and was grateful to the
countess for so delicately opening the way for those explanations which
were needful.

Lord Dunforth was glad to be left alone with her, yet man of the world
though he was, he felt a terrible awkwardness stealing over him, and he
scarcely knew how to break the ice.

It was a trying moment for the proud peer, but taking advantage of a
pause in the conversation, he bent toward her, took one of her little
soft hands in his, and asked, in eager, trembling tones:

“Can the child of my Meta’s care and love forgive an old man’s folly?”

Brownie’s lovely face crimsoned instantly, and the tears sprang unbidden
to her eyes.

She had not expected any such humble apology from him. She thought he
would be stately and dignified, and would yield his haughty spirit only
so far as he could do so gracefully; and she had resolved to show him
that a Douglas could be as proud as he; so she was wholly unprepared for
anything so subdued as this.

“I have wronged you,” he went on, studying the beautiful face, “by
judging you, without knowing you, and I have wronged Adrian in thinking
that, with him, caste could ever outweigh love. He is a grand and noble
boy—all my hopes are centered in him, and I could not endure the thought
that his heart and his sympathy for any one’s misfortune should have run
away with his judgment. But I should not have been so hasty—I should
have allowed him to bring you to us, that we might have been convinced
of the worthiness of his choice. And I cannot tell you, dear, how proud
and happy, how relieved I am to find his selection a most fitting one
after all.”

Ah! then he was only satisfied with her now because he had discovered
that she was heiress to Sir Edgar Douglas, and a descendant of the one
whom he had loved in his youth; not because of her own worthiness to be
his wife, and her ability to make him happy. It was the pride of blood
after all. Thus she interpreted his words.

She released her hand, and lifting her head proudly, said, with hauteur:

“Pardon me, my lord, if I cannot agree with you in thinking that I shall
make Adrian any better wife for having noble blood in my veins. I have
been brought up under the shadow of democratic institutions, and I
believe that true worth should in every instance be considered before
birth or position. My being a Douglas does not change in the least
degree my character.”

She looked like a little queen as she proudly faced him, and fearlessly
advanced her independent principles.

But the spirit was on him to try her still further, and he asked:

“But, my dear, if you should live to see a son grow to man’s estate,
would you be willing for him to seek out a wife among the mechanics or
peasantry?”

It was a hard question, and Brownie thought a moment before replying.
Then she said:

“Sir, I believe that the worldly condition of a person makes no
difference with the heart or intellect, only so far as it contributes
advantages of education and culture. If my son should choose a wife
whose heart was pure and true, whose mind had been cultivated, and whose
nature was refined, so that she was his equal morally and
intellectually, for otherwise they could never be congenial, I should
never dare take the responsibility of destroying the happiness of a
lifetime, were she titled lady or peasant born.”

“What a noble-hearted little woman you are!” his lordship exclaimed, in
admiration, and inspired with something of her own enthusiasm.

Then he added, with a little smile of amusement, while there was an
expression of earnest entreaty in his eyes:

“My dear, I think if I had another grandson I should never dare judge
his bride until I knew her personally. I like and admire you just as you
are, independent of your being a Douglas. Now shall we shake hands and
bury the hatchet?”

She looked up, and their eyes met.

She regarded him earnestly for a minute.

With a witching smile and gesture, she laid both her hands in his
outstretched palm, and said, archly:

“I had made up my mind to forgive you for Adrian’s sake, but I begin to
think I shall have to for your own, and,” she added, in a lower tone,
the tears springing to her eyes, “because auntie loved you so well.”

“Did she?” he said, eagerly; “tell me about her.”

He led her to a seat, and Brownie, never weary of talking of her dear
one who was gone, rehearsed all the sad story which Miss Mehetabel had
told her on that last day of her life.

When she had told him about the note which Miss Capel had undertaken to
deliver his lordship became greatly excited:

“Ah, the treacherous girl! I almost suspected it when it was too late,
and but for her I should never have known the sorrow and bitterness I
have suffered all these weary years. Oh, Meta, Meta,” he cried, with
almost a sob, “it was too hard when I loved you so! It has been a
terrible wound, and one that has never healed. I cannot even hear her
name spoken without its ringing forth from memory’s chords notes of
anguish. I would not wrong the living,” he hastened to say, “for I honor
my wife as a pure and noble woman, and she has ever been a kind and
gentle helpmeet, but that love was the love of a lifetime, which nothing
could kill. And she died, you say,” he continued, wiping the tears which
he could not stay, “only last September, true to the last. Oh, fool and
blind that I was, not to have crushed my pride and forced my way into
her presence! But,” and he started fiercely to his feet and began pacing
the room, “I will have it out even at this late day with that
traitoress, Lady Randal. I will know what was in that note yet, and she
shall know that her perfidy is discovered.”

“My lord, I have the note,” interrupted Brownie, and she told him how
she had gained possession of it, thinking it no wrong to take it under
the circumstances.

“It was perfectly justifiable, and will you give it to me?” he begged.

“Yes, I will get it for you before you go.”

Then he asked her about the mystery of the jewels, and how Isabel
Coolidge happened to have them, and she had to repeat all the
circumstances regarding them.

“You shall have them again,” he cried. “I can prove that every one
belongs to you. That girl shall give them up, and I only hope that Sir
Charles will have his eyes opened before it is too late.”

Brownie smiled as she thought how many had expressed that wish, and just
at that moment Adrian appeared with Lady Dunforth.

“Have you two made it up?” the former asked, laughing, as he saw how
confidential they had become.

“Yes; and I’ve promised not to interfere with my next grandson’s
matrimonial inclinations in any way,” Lord Dunforth replied, with a sly
glance at Brownie, as he shook the young man’s hand.

He laughed, then asked:

“Did she tell you how they made her a prisoner down at West Malling, and
of her discoveries there?”

“No.”

So Adrian related that circumstance himself, and explained how, when he
found her cold and desolate the next morning, with not a friend to whom
to flee, and feeling it impossible to return to Lady Ruxley, he had
proposed on the spot to take her away in the only way in which he could
do so honorably—by making her his wife, and so they had come immediately
to London and were married.

“Right, my boy, and I honor you for it. May Heaven forgive me for
seeking to destroy your happiness in the way I did,” returned his
lordship, heartily, while his horror and indignation against Lady Randal
for her conduct regarding her younger son was boundless.

Harmony being fully restored, Lord and Lady Dunforth spent the day and
dined with the young couple, and parted from them in the evening upon
the best of terms, insisting that they must sojourn at least a part of
every year at Castle Dunforth.

“You know that it is your home, Adrian—yours and—may I call you Meta?”
his lordship asked, suddenly turning to Brownie, and speaking the name
with infinite tenderness.

“Yes, do; I should like it,” she replied, with a smile.

“Then, my children, you will come home soon,” he added.

“Yes, sir, we will,” and Adrian shook his hand heartily.




                               CHAPTER XL
                          THE IMPENDING STORM


For a week longer calls and invitations poured in upon the newly wedded
couple, and it seemed almost impossible to tear themselves away from
London.

But at the expiration of that time Adrian thought they ought not to
delay their visit to Vallingham Hall any longer, lest the marriage of
Sir Charles should take place, and they be off upon the Continent before
they could secure Brownie’s jewels.

Besides, he had it in his power to save his friend from a lifetime of
misery, and he felt that he would be doing him a grievous wrong did he
not warn him of the precipice upon which he was standing.

Neither did he think it would be right to allow him to go away without
acquainting him of the fact that he had a brother living, for, of
course, that circumstance alone would make a great difference in his
future prospects, and he ought to know of it before the settlements were
completed.

Accordingly, on Monday preceding the wedding, which was to occur upon
Wednesday, the 11th of June, they went down to West Malling, intending
after their errand was accomplished to make Lady Ruxley their promised
visit, and then repair to Dunforth Castle for a while.

Lord Dunforth had stipulated that he was to be one of the party whenever
they went to Vallingham Hall, consequently they stopped and took him up
on their way.

“You will need me,” he had said, “to help prove your property; and since
I purchased some of the jewels myself, and have seen them all, I can
identify them in case they should attempt to contest your right.
Besides, we may as well finish the whole business at once, and I’ll call
Helen to account for her part in the drama of my life.”

They arrived at Vallingham Hall about four o’clock, and Lady Randal came
to the drawing-room, all smiles, to receive them.

She had recently heard who Brownie was, and of the sudden change in her
prospects, so she adopted the _rôle_ of ignoring all the “scandalous
circumstances” of their marriage which had so shocked her, and was
exceedingly gracious to them.

It would be very unwise, she reasoned, to have any falling out with the
future Lord and Lady Dunforth.

“How kind of you,” she exclaimed, “to come to us; we ought to have
called upon you when we were in London, but we were so hurried with
preparations for the wedding that we had no time. And really we were
tired out with our trip. You received our cards for the ceremony on
Wednesday, I suppose?” she concluded.

“Yes, we received them,” Adrian replied, then added, “but we called
to-day to see Mrs. Coolidge and Miss Isabel upon a little matter of
business.”

“I presume they will be delighted to see you. The _trousseau_ has just
arrived, and we were examining it just as you came. It is perfectly
elegant, I assure you, Mrs. Dredmond, and I presume Isabel will take you
up to see it; I only hope we shall have a fine day, and that everything
will pass off well. How very romantic your marriage was, my dear,” she
ran on, heedless of Lord Dunforth’s threatening looks; “we were very
much distressed about your sudden disappearance, and I must say, Adrian,
you played your part that evening exceedingly well,” and she laughed
slyly.

“Played my part well! I do not understand you, madam,” Adrian returned,
astonished at the accusation.

“You do not understand, indeed! when you knew all the time where she
was, and took her away the very next day to marry her. Really, it is
quite an unparalleled case.”

“Lady Randal,” the young man said, sternly, as he saw Brownie’s delicate
face flush painfully at these insinuations, “at any other time I should
deem your words an unpardonable insult, for I knew no more than yourself
where Miss Douglas was at that time; but if you will have the kindness
to notify your guests that we wish to see them, that matter, as well as
some others, will soon be satisfactorily explained.”

Lady Randal colored with displeasure at his words, but she rang the
bell, and sent the servant, who appeared, to tell Isabel and her mother
that there were callers for them. At Adrian’s request she did not send
their names, as he feared they might refuse to see them.

The Coolidges soon presented themselves in the drawing-room, and Sir
Charles came with them.

He greeted the guests somewhat coolly, for he could not forget the
slight his betrothed had received that evening in London at Manchester
House.

Isabel and her mother felt a sudden shock run through all their frame
when they saw who were present, but the latter at once resolved to carry
a high hand and fight the battle out bravely to the end.

Lord Dunforth and Adrian arose and bowed coldly as they entered, while
Brownie inclined her head the merest trifle in the world; but Isabel,
ignoring her manner, began gushingly, thinking to take their castle by
storm:

“Really, Mrs. Dredmond, you have given us all a terrible fright, but I
am rejoiced to find that nothing worse than being married has happened
to you. I little thought I should have to tender my congratulations
first,” she concluded, turning with a simper to Adrian.

“Yes,” put in her mother, before any one else could speak, “I suppose we
shall be obliged to pardon you for causing us all so much terror, since
your strange disappearance has terminated so happily.”

Brownie could endure their insolence no longer.

“We will waive that topic, if you please,” she said, icily, “until we
have settled a little matter of business. Mrs. Coolidge, I desire to
relieve you of a certain casket, with its contents, which belongs to me,
and which you have in your possession.”

Mrs. Coolidge was equal to the situation. Turning to her daughter, she
said:

“Oh, yes; Isabel, won’t you go and get it? Of course, she needs it now.
If we had only known your address,” she added, graciously, turning to
Brownie, “we might have forwarded them to you.”

Isabel arose to do her mother’s bidding, and she whispered to her as she
did so:

“You must manage some way to get Sir Charles out of the room, and keep
him out.”

Isabel turned to go, and got as far as the door, when she looked back at
Adrian and his wife, and said, with a slight blush:

“As long as this is a business call to mamma, may I beg you to excuse
Sir Charles and me? I assure you we are very busy at present.”

They bowed coldly, and then turning to her lover, she said:

“Sir Charles, may I speak with you privately?”

He arose and followed her from the room with a perplexed brow. He did
not exactly like being called from guests in this way.

“What does all this mean?” he demanded, when they were alone in the
hall.

“It means that when Miss Douglas went away from us she left a box
containing some valuables with papa for safe keeping,” was the glib
reply.

She had been expecting some such question, and had the answer all ready.

“But I thought she was dismissed.”

“So she was. She did not behave with propriety, and mamma would not keep
her longer. Papa did not like it very well, for he was bewitched with
her pretty face, and they were good friends, so she left the box with
him until she should be settled somewhere else. You know what happened
after that, and we have never had an opportunity to return her property,
which papa left in our keeping, until now.”

“What did she do that was so very improper while she was with you?” he
asked. “I have never heard.”

“Really, Charles,” Isabel replied, flushing and pouting in a grieved
way, “I do not like to enter into particulars quite so minutely; but if
you must know, why, you must, I suppose. One day mamma and I were out on
a shopping expedition, when we were obliged to return much earlier than
we expected to. On entering the library, we found Miss Douglas lying in
Wilbur’s arms, with apparently as much composure as if she were
reclining upon a couch.”

“Is that so!” exclaimed Sir Charles, much shocked. “She does not seem
like such a person at all.”

“Oh, no; and when mamma talked with her about it, she put on that
haughty, queenly air which you noticed the other evening in London, and
again this morning, and would listen to nothing.”

“But did your father uphold her in this?” Sir Charles asked her,
gravely.

“Oh, no, indeed; but she had so bewitched Wilbur that he took all the
blame upon himself, and told papa something so that he excused it, and
she made him think she was the injured one, after all.”

Isabel was almost frightened at herself as she coined these base
falsehoods; but she felt that the truth must be concealed from him for
the next two days at all hazards. If she could only bridge them over
until the fatal vows were spoken, and she was once mistress of
Vallingham Hall, all would be well.

“I never would have believed her to be guilty of such indiscretions if
you had not told me,” Sir Charles said, not yet wholly convinced, but
greatly disturbed by the account.

“No, you would not, nor any one else, she is so demure and ladylike,”
Isabel hastened to say, with every appearance of fairness. “But she
never met Mr. Dredmond, to my knowledge, more than three or four times
in her life; and, to my mind, it does not look just right for her to run
away to be married to him upon so short an acquaintance.”

“That is so. It does not seem just the thing, I must confess. And I am
surprised at Adrian, too. I thought him a man of more depth,” Sir
Charles assented, gravely. Then, with a fond glance into the face of his
betrothed, he asked: “But what did you wish of me? Can I do anything for
you?”

“Yes, indeed; but you nearly made me forget, with all your catechising,”
she laughed, and then went on: “I find that my dress is altogether too
loose, and I must have a seamstress to fix it immediately; then I find I
neglected to get a pair of pearl-colored gloves to match my traveling
suit. Would you mind riding over to the village to attend to it?”

She did not need either, but she must get rid of him.

“No, indeed; but will it not do as well a couple of hours hence? Our
callers in yonder might think me ungracious to go away while they are
here.”

Isabel’s heart sank; she must get him away at once if possible; she knew
that Adrian Dredmond would allow no part of their meanness to be
concealed, and there would probably be a hot battle before they were
through. But she thought if she could only get her lover away from it
all, maybe they could come to some terms with Lady Randal to conceal the
affair from him; for she knew she was as anxious as any one for the
marriage to come off. But it would not do to let him mistrust how
anxious she was, so she replied, hesitatingly:

“It might do if it were not for the dress—that must be attended to at
once; and then if you do not succeed in matching my dress in gloves, I
shall have to send up to town for them, and you know we have no time to
spare.”

“Would it not do to send a piece of the dress and let Brown do the
errand? I really do not like to seem uncourteous, notwithstanding their
treatment of us the other evening,” he replied.

Isabel flushed angrily at the remembrance.

“No, indeed, I should not dare trust Brown; and then you forget you have
not given your instructions concerning the bell, which was to be made at
the village florists, as there were not japonicas enough in the
greenhouse here,” Isabel said, catching at this device for getting him
away. “Besides,” she added, “this is only a business call, you know.”

He began to notice her anxiety in spite of her forced composure, and
with a searching look into her face he replied, as he turned away:

“True, I had almost forgotten about that. I will attend to your
commissions at once.”

She told him to wait one moment while she procured a piece of silk to
match the gloves by; and he stood there with bent head and contracted
brow until she returned with it, and then, without a word, he passed out
toward the stables.

The guilty girl then sped back again to her room as if on wings to bring
the casket, anxious to have everything settled, and those wretched
marplots out of the way before his return.

As she re-entered the drawing-room she saw at a glance that her mother
was very much disconcerted about something, and she heard Adrian say,
sternly:

“Then, madam, you still assert that you were very much surprised, as
well as distressed, at Miss Douglas’ disappearance?”

“Certainly; how could it be otherwise?” she demanded, haughtily, but
very pale.

“Were you a man,” he returned, with biting scorn in his tones, “I should
not thus privately bandy words with you—you should answer publicly for
what you have done; and it is time your complicity in this matter be
exposed.”

“I beg your pardon,” she interrupted, “but Isabel has returned with the
box for which you came, and as we are extremely busy, you will kindly
excuse us from a longer interview.”

She arose as if to leave the room, but Adrian advanced a step or two,
and said, firmly:

“Not so, madam; you have done my wife altogether too much injury, and
covered up your iniquity too long to admit of my keeping silence now.
You have sneered and tried my patience beyond endurance to-day with your
insinuations concerning a ‘clandestine marriage,’ and it is but just and
right that she should be exonerated in the presence of Lady Randal from
all blame for what you, by your cruelty, drove her to.”

“Good heavens! Adrian explain yourself. I am all in a maze! What do you
mean by all this talk about complicity, iniquity, and cruelty?” demanded
Lady Randal, looking from one to another in perplexity.

Adrian, in the fewest words possible, told the story of the jewels, and
her ladyship knew before he had finished that every word he uttered was
truth.

She, too, began to grow pale and nervous, as she realized that his wife
was the niece of the woman whom she had so deeply injured, and
conscience stung her sharply as these memories of the past were revived.

“Mrs. Dredmond,” said Lady Dunforth, who had scarcely spoken yet, “will
you please open that casket, and allow me to look at its contents?”

Brownie lifted the lid, for the lock had been forced after she had taken
the key, and it was only fastened by the spring, and revealed the
glittering treasures it contained.

Lady Randal uttered a cry, and gasped out:

“I might have known it in the first place. I thought I had seen them
before, especially those corals.”

“Ah! you recognize the corals, then? Possibly you remember the first and
only time this lady’s aunt wore them, years and years ago?” said his
lordship, with bitter irony, while his own face blanched and great drops
of perspiration stood upon his forehead. “Those jewels,” he went on,
striving for composure, “were given to Miss Mehetabel Douglas, the
grandaunt of Mrs. Dredmond, more than forty years ago. I myself
presented those corals, also that tiara, with one or two other pieces.
The others were given her in honor of her approaching marriage with
myself.”

Mrs. Coolidge nearly screamed at this announcement. Yes, she saw it all
now; the mystery was all explained—the titled names upon the dancing
card, the faded flowers, and everything which had so puzzled her.

But Brownie, thinking a little more explanation was necessary, lifted
the velvet bed, and taking up that dancing list, passed it to him, and
asked him to unlock the secret of it, since it had greatly troubled Mrs.
Coolidge and her daughter.

He took it; but his hand shook as with the ague, as he read the names
upon it.

“This,” he said, turning first to Mrs. Coolidge, then to Lady Randal,
with stern brow, “is the order of dances as they occurred upon a certain
occasion at the house of your aunt, Lady Ruxley, more than forty years
ago. Do you remember, Helen?”

“Yes, I remember,” her lips articulated, while her eyes seemed fastened,
as if by fascination, upon him.

He referred to the card again, and though his face was ghastly from the
pain he was suffering, he went on:

“Do you remember a certain Count de Lussan who was present that
evening?”

She bowed her head. She would not have spoken at that moment to save her
life, so great was the fear in her heart, while all the events of that
fatal night rose up before her with a vividness which turned her sick
and faint.

“Do you know how it happened that a man of his character was present
among respectable people?”

“Yes; he came at my brother’s invitation, my lord,” she said, lifting
her head, and speaking defiantly.

“True; but at your invitation, and to serve a vile purpose of your own.
It was through your maneuvering that he was introduced to Miss Douglas,
and it was your taunts which spurred her on to disgrace herself and
dance with him, in spite of her better judgment and my persuasions. I
mistrusted something of it when it was too late, and you, by that last
vile act, which I have only recently discovered, had separated us
forever.”

“And pray what terrible deed have you discovered at this late day?” her
ladyship demanded, sarcastically, although she was colorless as a piece
of marble, and her lips twitched nervously.

“This! Do you remember ever seeing it before?”

He took from his pocket a folded paper, yellow and creased with age, and
advancing, gave it into her hands.

For an instant she sat like one stunned, but she was livid even to her
lips, and a trembling seized her which shook her like a reed.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered, hoarsely, after a moment.

“Accident threw it into my hands—how, it does not matter now; but it
reveals all your vile plot to separate Meta and me, in which you
succeeded only too well.”

“But how do you know that I had anything to do with this note? I do not
see that you have proved what you assert at all,” she said, bridling.

“She gave that note to a servant to bring to me, you met her on the
stairs, said you would deliver it, and then came and told me that Meta
refused to see me then or at any other time; have I proved my point
now?” he asked, sternly.

She saw all was discovered, and made no reply, and he went on:

“Mrs. Dredmond, as you know already, is my Meta’s grandniece. At her
aunt’s death she found herself very unexpectedly reduced to the
necessity of earning her own living. She found a place as governess in
Mrs. Coolidge’s family, and came abroad with them. One day when she was
out, she,” pointing to Isabel, who sat pale and cowering, “entered her
room, where she discovered this casket of jewels. She took them to her
mother, and they both came to the conclusion that a poor governess had
no business with such valuables—that she must have stolen them! They
accused her of it upon her return, and refused to give up the jewels
until she could prove them to be hers.”

“Why didn’t she demand them, and take the law to enforce her rights
then?” demanded Lady Randal, sharply. “It does not sound like a very
probable story to me. How do you know she is Meta Douglas’ niece? I
believe you’ve been taken in yourself.”

She was determined not to believe anything against her guests if she
could help it. Matters had gone so far now, that she could not have the
match between Sir Charles and Isabel broken off; the scandal of it would
be unbearable, to say nothing of the loss of Isabel’s fortune, which she
believed to be enormous. They had been expecting Mr. Coolidge for a
week, and thought surely he would be there to-day, when the settlements
were to be arranged, and there must be no trouble now.

“We have indisputable proof, Lady Randal; and as for Miss Douglas taking
the law to enforce her rights, she fully intended to do so when she left
Mrs. Coolidge’s house; but you remember the accident which occurred, and
which threw her into your family; and then before she was fully
recovered Lady Ruxley brought her down here.

“The day when she so strangely disappeared she met Miss Coolidge in the
upper corridor, as she was going out for her walk. She again demanded
her property, and was again refused. Upon returning to the hall, in
passing Miss Isabel’s room, she saw the casket upon the table, she
entered and took it, and was about leaving the room when Mrs. Coolidge
confronted her, demanding that she put down the casket. She refused,
when the woman locked the door, putting the key in her pocket, saying
she could not leave the place until she relinquished it.”

“Really, Lady Randal,” interrupted Mrs. Coolidge, rising, apparently in
great wrath, “I cannot remain to endure further insult!”

“Please be seated,” she returned, “we will hear this whole story now. I
must confess it does not sound very plausible to me, but we will hear
their side, and then your own.”

She little thought how the “whole story” would affect her!

“Go on,” she added, to Lord Dunforth; but Adrian now took up the story.

“Miss Douglas utterly refused to give up her property again, and the two
had a stormy scene, until Mrs. Coolidge finally professed to be willing
to temporize with her, and pretending to take her into her own room,
enticed her into a secret chamber which she had discovered——”

“What! the treasure chamber!” ejaculated Lady Randal, excitedly, and
losing all her color again.

“I do not know what the place is called,” Adrian replied, “but she
locked her within it, and kept her there without food or light, or even
a chair to sit upon until midnight, when she and her daughter sought her
again, and, by stratagem and force combined, succeeded in getting
possession of the jewels again. Then they brought her food and bedding,
telling her she was to remain there until after the wedding, since they
could not run the risk of her making them trouble and interfering with
their prospects.”

“’Tis false!” shrieked Isabel, nearly beside herself.

“Be quiet, my daughter,” said Mrs. Coolidge, soothingly. Then turning to
Lady Randal, she asked: “Can you believe such a tissue of falsehood? No
one has seen the girl from the time she parted with my children in the
park that day until after her marriage. It is a preposterous story, and
only fabricated to save the parties most interested from the scandal
usually attending a clandestine marriage. Besides, what is all this talk
about a secret chamber?” she concluded, scornfully.

Lady Randal looked at her in a dazed kind of a way, while a terrible
fear was tugging at her heart.

“But how could she know there is a secret chamber unless she had seen
it?—and it leads from Isabel’s room. Go on, Adrian, I must hear all
now,” she said, in a low, concentrated tone.

He gave her a look of compassion, and resumed:

“Miss Douglas arranged her bed, striving to make the best of her
situation, and, being very weary, soon fell into a sound slumber. She
was not conscious of how long she had slept, but she was suddenly
awakened by a feeling that some one was in her room, and upon opening
her eyes saw the strangest being she ever beheld kneeling by her side.”

“Oh, heavens!” breathed Lady Randal, sinking back in her chair, and
covering her face with her trembling hands.




                              CHAPTER XLI
                         “WHERE IS MY BROTHER?”


Isabel and her mother now forgot some of their own fear when they saw
Lady Randal so unnerved.

It had been a matter of great mystery to them how their prisoner
escaped, and it seemed that it was about to be explained; and Mrs.
Coolidge, with her ready wit, began to think that the skeleton of the
house was to be revealed also.

“This person,” Adrian resumed, “proved to be a young man by the name
of——”

“Oh, spare me!—in mercy, spare me, Adrian!” cried the guilty woman,
springing toward him, with outstretched hands and agonizing face.

“Spare you? Have you spared your own flesh and blood?” demanded Adrian,
sternly. “Have you ever felt an atom of mercy for your own son, whom,
for over twenty years, you have doomed to almost solitary confinement,
away from the sunlight and fresh air, depriving him of the simplest
rights which a human being craves—liberty and his own place in the
world? Oh, heartless mother that you are! it is but just and right that
the world should know that Herbert Randal, your third son, because of a
deformity with which God saw fit to afflict him, has been loathed by the
woman who bore him, and that, to further the interests of your favorite
child, you have kept him secreted for years, hoping that, in his feeble
state, every year would be his last, and your guilty course never become
known. But God is merciful, and the time for restitution is at hand;
and, be it known to you, it was through him Miss Douglas was released
from her confinement.”

He then went on and explained at length how it had transpired; how he
had found Brownie, cold and trembling, and exhausted from excitement and
terror, in the grove in the rear of the Hall, and had persuaded her to
give him the right to protect her at once.

He explained their journey to London, in company with Nurse Clum and
Milly, and concluded by saying:

“We intended returning hither immediately, but unforeseen circumstances
prevented; and when at length I was enabled to come, you were gone to
the Continent. We should not have intruded upon you to-day had we not
deemed it best to secure this casket before Sir Charles and his wife
should leave again.”

When the young man concluded there was an awkward silence for a few
moments, except for Mrs. Coolidge’s whispering to Isabel, and then,
lifting her haggard face, Lady Randal asked:

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“What are we going to do about it, madam?” exclaimed Lord Dunforth, in
astonished tones. “I should ask, what are you going to do about it? Of
course, we all expect to see justice done at once.”

“You shall,” she said, eagerly; adding: “Yes, it is all true. We were
traveling that summer when he was born; we were stopping just at the
time in a picturesque village in Savoy, and my husband was called away
to Paris on business. He was absent a fortnight, during which time
Herbert was born. I can never tell you,” she went on, shuddering, “what
a frightful object he was. His present appearance is nothing to what he
was as a baby, and I prayed the nurse to take him from my sight, and
never let me look upon him again. My husband was detained long beyond
the time he had anticipated, so that at the end of three weeks I was
well and strong again. Then it came to me that, as he had not been with
me, and fully believing that the child could not live long anyway—both
the doctor and the nurse affirmed it—I deemed it would be better to keep
all knowledge of its existence from him. I could not travel with it in
its feeble state, and it would be exceedingly painful to do so if I
could, so I made arrangements with the nurse to care for it as long as
it should live, and never let any one know whose child it was.

“I wrote my husband that my child had been born, telling him it was
better it should die, since such a poor little cripple could not live
long at the most, and said I would join him in Paris in a few days, as
it was intolerable for me to remain longer where I had suffered such a
severe disappointment. When I met him he seemed grieved and sorrowful,
yet he never questioned me further, and so I kept my secret until his
death. After that I concluded to bring the child here, since the nurse
wrote me that he was getting unmanageable, and so I fitted up those
secret chambers as comfortable as I could, and have kept him there. God
knows that I could not wilfully have wronged the child so, but after
that first concealment it seemed impossible to confess his existence,
and so it has gone on until now.”

“Have you never considered the sufferings and feelings of the poor boy?”
demanded his lordship, wrathfully.

“Oh, yes,” she moaned; “but I saw no way out of it without bringing
disgrace upon Charles and all of us.”

“Do you think he would uphold you in such a deed?”

“No, no! Oh, how you torture me! But,” she said, looking up pitifully,
“you will not take any public action against me?”

“Public action!” he repeated, contemptuously. “Could any public action
restore those twenty years of his lost life to the poor boy? No; but I
want justice now.”

“He shall have it. I will strive as far as I can to repair the injury I
have done him, just as soon as we are through with the wedding—that is,
if Isabel is willing to go on with it after this,” she said, regarding
the young girl somewhat doubtfully.

Mrs. Coolidge’s heart leaped at this; it was just the condition of all
others she most desired Lady Randal to be in. Rising, she went over to
her side, and holding out her hand, said with an appearance of great
magnanimity:

“I regret exceedingly that anything so very dreadful should have
occurred, but we have all done wrong. I am ready to acknowledge my share
regarding Mrs. Dredmond. Shall we then overlook each other’s faults, and
still allow our children, who are not to blame, to be happy?”

“And you will not betray me to Charles just yet?” she gasped.

“Certainly not; you must confide in him yourself when you think proper.
I think myself it would be wiser not to tell him until after his return
from his tour, for it might destroy all his pleasure. When once he is
settled at home again, then all these things can be explained,” she
said, suavely.

Lord Dunforth, towering aloft in his indignation, advanced, and stood
before the two women.

“No, madam,” he said, firmly; “you may hide what else you choose from
him, but Sir Charles must be acquainted this day—nay, this hour—with the
fact that he has a brother.”

The attention of all was at this moment attracted by a slight noise at
the other end of the drawing-room.

Another instant and they were thunderstruck to behold Sir Charles
himself staggering toward them like a drunken man. His face was haggard
and drawn, as if he had but just recovered from a convulsion; even his
lips were white and rigid, while his forehead shone with the clammy
moisture which a fierce agony had drawn forth.

Isabel sprang forward, with a sharp cry of pain, but he warded her off
by a motion of his hand.

His mother shrieked.

“Oh, Charles, have you heard?” and Mrs. Coolidge shrank back appalled at
this unexpected turn of affairs.

“Yes,” he said, in a hollow voice, and casting a look of withering
contempt upon Isabel. “I see now why you were so anxious to get rid of
me. I mistrusted something was not right, and after sending Brown to the
village to execute your commission, I came in by the lawn window, as it
was nearer. I entered just as Mrs. Dredmond opened the casket of jewels,
and instantly a great deal was explained to me. I was so overcome by the
discovery that I dropped upon the divan behind the curtains, where I
have remained, a silent witness of all that has occurred in this room.”

Adrian, deepest sympathy in his face, went to him, and taking his hand,
said, with emotion:

“Believe me, Charles, God knows I would have saved you from this if I
could. You do not deserve it.”

He groaned aloud at these words of sympathy; then wringing his hand he
dropped it, and advancing to his mother, demanded, in cold, hard tones:

“Madam, where is my brother?”

“Your brother—oh, my boy!” she began, between her sobs.

“Yes, my brother. I demand him at your hands, and may God forgive you
for your iniquity—I am afraid I never can.”

The shriek which burst from her died suddenly upon her lips, and the
look of anguish in her eyes froze into one of terror, as the
drawing-room door slowly swung back, revealing a strange picture within
its frame—the little, bent form of Lady Ruxley, her old and withered
face full of a stern resolve, one hand resting upon her cane, the other
upon the arm of Herbert Randal!




                              CHAPTER XLII
                         WOULD HE FORGIVE HER?


Lady Ruxley had arranged with one of the servants that she was to be
notified whenever Mr. Dredmond and his wife should come. Consequently
she had received the intelligence of their arrival almost immediately.

She knew that Adrian would make a clean breast of everything, and she
reasoned that it would be the best time now for Herbert to be introduced
to his brother and their friends, and have his future position in the
family established at once.

She had kept the young man with her until Lady Randal returned from
Paris, when he insisted upon returning to his old quarters until his
existence should be made known to his brother; and this meeting with Sir
Charles had caused him many sleepless nights and much anxious thought.
He had hesitated now with an undefinable dread at his heart about making
his appearance, but, after a second thought, he had yielded to Lady
Ruxley’s command, feeling that it would be better for all parties to
have the matter settled for all time.

She had learned to love the quiet, gentle young man during the short
time he had been with her; he was so attentive and entertaining that he
made her forget her bodily ailments, while he shamed her by his own
patience and submission into repressing her fretfulness and grumbling.

She seemed to have grown younger since she had had this new object in
life to interest her, and she now entered the room in a brisk, decided
manner, her wrinkled face all alive, and her keen eyes on the alert to
watch and read every movement and expression.

Lady Randal started up wildly as they entered.

“How came you here—what right have you to come here?” she demanded,
almost fiercely.

“The right of a free man, mother,” was his quick but firm reply.

“Ha!” exclaimed Lady Ruxley, bitterly. “I suppose you did not fill up
the measure of your wickedness in your youth, Helen, and so you must
needs hide this innocent child, denying him all love and care, and his
rightful place in his own home.”

“Spare me now, aunt—I suffer enough,” groaned the unhappy woman, who had
sunk back trembling again at her son’s reply.

“Spare you? Whom have you ever spared, I should like to know, if they
happened to obstruct your path? Look back over your past life, think of
your victims, and repent before it is too late. I only regret that I did
not know of this wrong earlier; it should have been righted long ago, I
promise you. Charles,” and she turned suddenly upon him, searching his
face eagerly with her keen gray eyes, “this is your brother!”

The moment the door had opened, and his eyes had fallen upon his
crippled brother, Sir Charles had stood as one transfixed.

The hideous deformity had been the first thing to attract his attention,
of course. That misplaced head, the misshapen shoulders, the withered,
helpless hand, the twisted leg and foot had struck a terrible feeling in
his heart. Then his eyes had sought the sad, pale face with an eager,
searching gaze, as if seeking to know something of the soul within that
distorted body.

At once he marked the grandly shaped head, with its broad, square
forehead, which looked almost majestic beneath the crown of snowy hair.
He marked the delicate, refined features, the deep, true, blue eyes,
with their dark, sweeping lashes, the sensitive, expressive mouth, and
the firm, decided chin.

It was a noble, attractive face, and as he looked, the shock of
repulsion which he had at first experienced passed, and in its place
came a tender pity and affection born of sympathy and the knowledge that
this was his kin—his brother.

At Lady Ruxley’s word he went eagerly toward him, and clasping his hand
in a strong, protecting clasp, exclaimed:

“My brother! How glad I am for the gift, even though it comes so late.
Shall we begin to love each other now, Herbert?”

The two men—one so strong, handsome, and self-reliant in his glorious
manhood, the other so weak and helpless in his deformity—gazed into each
other’s eyes with a look which seemed to read their very souls, and the
tears started unbidden to each.

“God bless you, my brother!” murmured Herbert Randal, with quivering
lips, while a deep joy, such as he had never known in all his life
before, thrilled him through and through.

Isabel Coolidge, looking on and beholding this scene, saw herself in a
new light. She was bowed with shame and humiliation at the thought of
her own selfish, wasted life, while she realized the grandness of Sir
Charles’ nature as she had never done before, and knew she was unfit to
mate with him.

She knew, also, although he had spoken no word to that effect, that that
hour would probably separate them forever.

“Charles! Charles! my dear boy!” cried Lady Ruxley, in trembling tones,
while tears rained over her wrinkled face, “I hoped you would stand this
test of character nobly. I have always been proud of you, but God knows
that I love you at this moment with a deeper love than ever before.”

“Dear aunt, surely you did not expect I should reject my brother?” he
said, in surprise, then added, as he saw how affected she was: “Come,
let me take you to a seat.”

He led her to a comfortable chair, and then, while Lord Dunforth and his
party exchanged greetings with his brother, he went and stood once more
before his mother.

“Mother,” he began, in low but firm tones, “I will not upbraid you for
this cruel wrong, for I know that your own conscience will reprove you
more sharply than I have the heart to do; but I wish it to be distinctly
understood that Herbert and I are henceforth to live upon terms of
equality. Whatever I have of this world’s goods that he can share, he
shall share, and I bespeak for him in the future your tenderest love and
care, and the respect and consideration of the entire household.”

Lady Randal could only reply by cries and sobs; she was utterly
unnerved. The plottings of a lifetime had been brought to naught in an
hour.

He then turned his attention to Mrs. Coolidge, who was sitting, sullen
and crestfallen, near by.

“Madam,” he said, haughtily, “the carriage will be at your disposal at
any hour you may see fit to name. I will see,” and a spasm of pain
crossed his face, “that our friends are all notified that their presence
here on Wednesday will not be acceptable, since, after the cruelties and
deceptions brought to light to-day, I must decline the honor of your
daughter’s hand and an alliance with your family.

“And, oh, Isabel!” he said, suddenly facing the nearly fainting girl,
and almost unnerved himself, “may God forgive you for your part in this
matter. I deemed you so good and true that I had built my strongest
hopes upon spending a happy and useful life with you. The veil has been
rudely torn from my eyes, but it is better now than later.”

“Forgive me—oh, forgive me!” she cried, with an agonized look; “the loss
of your love and respect is more than I can bear.”

“I feel less of anger than of sorrow,” he returned; “but there are
others whose forgiveness you should seek also,” and he glanced at Mrs.
Dredmond.

Sir Charles saw her face harden and darken with passion, and, while he
sighed over the wickedness of her heart, he yet wondered how he ever
could have been so blinded and deceived by her.

“Shall I take you to Mrs. Dredmond?” he pleaded, longing for her own
sake to have her acknowledge her wrong-doing, and hating to lose all
respect for her.

“No, I thank you, Sir Charles. Do you think, after this day’s doing,
that I could ever bow down to her?” she sneered, trying to brave it out,
though her face looked drawn and pinched from the torture she was
suffering.

He half turned from her in disgust, and saw that Brownie herself was
approaching them.

She held out her hand to him, and he clasped it warmly—every spark of
the resentment which he had cherished since they met in London gone from
his heart.

She then turned to Mrs. Coolidge and Isabel, saying, in sweet, low
tones:

“I am sorry you think that I have the least feeling of triumph, for I
have not, and I believe there will come a time in the future when you
will both feel differently toward me. Now I would like to tell you
something, which I once refused to do. Those initials, “E. H.,” which
you discovered marked upon so many articles in my room, stand for Elinor
Hungerford, which was my mother’s maiden name.”

A half hour later, Lord Dunforth, Adrian, and his wife left Vallingham
Hall with Lady Ruxley, who insisted that they should spend the day and
dine with her.

Lady Randal went to her own room and to bed, too ill and heart-broken to
sit up. And for the first time in her life the proud Helen Capel was
humbled in the dust.

As Mrs. Coolidge and Isabel left the drawing-room to seek their own, Sir
Charles said to the former:

“At what hour shall I order the carriage for you, madam?”

“Really you are extremely hospitable, it seems to me. You appear to be
very anxious to get rid of us,” she retorted, sharply.

“Madam, I think it will be the kindest arrangement for all of us for you
to go as soon as possible,” he replied, sadly, but firmly.

At four o’clock that afternoon they were all _en route_ for London,
where they purposed remaining until Mr. Coolidge should return from
America, when they hoped to leave for the Continent and join Wilbur on
his travels. But he did not return to them!

Instead, they shortly received a telegram bidding them come home
immediately, as he had found his affairs in such a confused state upon
reaching New York that a failure seemed inevitable.

Accordingly, the first of July found them a sadder but wiser family,
once more domiciled in their home in New York City.




                             CHAPTER XLIII
                            ASPASIA COOLIDGE


Six months later a cheerful group gathered in the breakfast-room of Lord
Dunforth’s house in London.

Brownie has taken the head of the table lately, as Lady Dunforth says
she is getting too old to have the responsibility of it, but in reality
she loves to sit and watch the lovely face beaming over the silver urns,
and the dainty little hands as they flutter like white doves about the
rich and glittering service.

And truly the beautiful young wife, although she makes a lovely picture,
presides with a gentle dignity all her own. Lord Dunforth has also
resigned his place to Adrian, and he and his wife now sit side by side.

He seems to grow more tender of his gentle companion of late, as if he
experienced a sort of remorse for the secret barrier which has stood
between them all these long years, and thus their lives are being filled
with a blessed content, as, with their faces turned toward the setting
sun, they calmly await the evening rest.

They have several guests this morning at their table, and one has a very
familiar, as well as a decidedly American appearance. It is Mr. Conrad,
who has lately arrived in England to return a portion of that property
which was intrusted to his care so many years ago.

The other guests are his wife, and ward—Miss Emily Eliot.

Brownie was delighted to receive a visit from them—it seemed almost to
link her to the old life once more, for she still had a tender regard
for her native land, although she never expected to make it her home
again.

Adrian had been giving him a dramatic account of his so-called runaway
marriage, and they had just concluded a hearty laugh at his expense,
when the butler entered with the mail-bag.

“Now for the letters!” said the young man, and he unlocked the bag and
began distributing them.

“Aha!” he said, with a mischievous glance across the table, as he took
up a heavy missive directed, in a round, bold hand, to his wife. “May I
inquire, madam, what gentleman correspondent you have in America?”

“When you get through inspecting the envelope, I will inspect the
contents, and then, perhaps, I’ll tell you,” replied Brownie, saucily.

“You see, Mr. Conrad,” said Adrian, turning to the lawyer, with mock
seriousness, “that although my wife is getting quite English in some
respects, yet the American independence will crop out occasionally. I
despair of ever eradicating that!” he added, with a fond look at the
bright face bent so earnestly over the closely written pages she had
unfolded.

Suddenly she looked up, with a little exclamation of delight and
surprise.

“Oh, Adrian!” she said, “I have such good news for you! Aspasia is going
to be married—and to whom do you think?”

“Get Mr. Conrad to guess—he knows more concerning your acquaintances
than I,” Adrian replied.

“But it is no one whom Mr. Conrad knows at all, and you are well
acquainted with him. Besides, he is a New Yorker.”

“I am sure I know of no one in New York who is marriageable, unless it
be——”

“Well, whom?” Brownie asked, with shining eyes, as he hesitated.

“Wilbur Coolidge,” he replied, with a peculiar expression.

“And why not?” she demanded, mischievously; and he laughed outright.

He had always been a trifle sensitive over that little episode in her
life. He could not bear the thought that another should even have
presumed to love her.

“Let me read you what she says,” Brownie went on. “Mr. Conrad knows all
about her, and of course you are all interested in my friends, and then
Aspasia was so kind when auntie died.” The sweet voice always softened
tenderly when speaking of auntie. “She begins her news by saying,” she
continued, referring to the letter:


“‘And now, darling, I have some wonderful things to tell you. In the
first place, I have abandoned, as I promised you, my trains, except for
evening wear, and I trust I have lengthened my charities, and received
much personal benefit thereby. I thought I would try short dresses
before the Paris Exposition, and get a little accustomed to them, for
another such experience as I went through with the 5th of one September
would finish me entirely. Speaking of the Paris Exposition brings me to
another important point. I am making extensive preparations for a
European tour, and, if nothing happens, I intend to run over to England
and take a look at my Brownie before I return. Now, the cream of my
letter lies in the fact that my contemplated tour is to be prefaced by a
brief ceremony, which will change Aspasia Huntington to Aspasia
Coolidge! Yes, dear, I am going to marry Wilbur Coolidge. He has told me
all about his liking for you, and I could not blame the dear boy in the
least; for I know if I had been a man I should have wanted to marry you
myself. I met Mr. Coolidge while in New York some five months ago, and
was at once attracted toward him on account of his manly independence.
His father has met with business reverses, which have reduced the family
from their former magnificence to almost a state of poverty. Wilbur has
proved himself a man in the emergency, putting his shoulder to the
wheel, devoting himself to his profession—that of the law—and has done
much toward the support of his mother and sisters; consequently, I am
very proud of him.

“‘Now, I want to tell you a little about Isabel and the rest of the
family, but particularly about her, for I know all that you have
suffered from her unkindness in the past, although you have never
written me a word about it.

“‘Mrs. Coolidge is a confirmed invalid, entirely broken down by
disappointment and their reduced circumstances; but Isabel, instead of
being the weak-minded, vain, and selfish being every one thought her to
be, has, like Wilbur, risen nobly above their calamities, takes the
whole charge of the household affairs and of her mother, with whom she
is as patient as an angel. But she is the saddest creature I ever saw,
and I believe that the girl’s heart is really broken, for her brother
tells me she did truly love and esteem Sir Charles Randal,
notwithstanding her inordinate desire to obtain a high position in the
world. She never speaks of herself or her sorrow, but devotes herself to
others. Whatever her past errors have been, she is atoning nobly for
them, and I believe will come out of this furnace a pure, good woman.

“‘The other girls, Viola and Alma, are charming, and they can never say
enough in praise of Lady Dredmond, as they persist in calling you.

“‘Now, dearest, you may expect to see me about the first of February,
and don’t I long to clasp you once again in my arms, my Brownie, for,
dear, it is to you I feel I owe the higher and better views which I now
have of life.

                                 “‘Ever your loving friend,
                                                 “‘ASPASIA HUNTINGTON.’”


“I shall show this letter to Sir Charles,” she said, when she was alone
with Adrian, and had read it a second time.

“But what have you there?” she added, as she saw him examining another
letter with a puzzled expression.

“I am trying to make out whether this epistle is directed to you or to
me. The ‘Mr.’ or ‘Mrs.’ whichever it is, is very indistinct,” he
replied.

“I think it must be for me,” Brownie said, smiling. “It is a lady’s
hand, and the ‘Mrs.’ looks as if a tear had dropped upon it.”

“At all events, you may have the privilege of opening it,” said Adrian,
giving it to her.

She did so, and all doubt was removed as she read:


“MY DEAR MRS. DREDMOND:—If you will allow me to address you thus, after
all the trying events of the past. Since misfortune has come upon us,
and I now occupy an humbler position than even you did when you were
with us, my eyes have been opened, and I now see my wickedness in all
its enormity. I cannot rest until I tell you how sincerely I repent of
my unkindness to you, and ask you to forgive me if you can. Your lovely
spirit and example on that last dreadful day at Vallingham Hall shamed
while it maddened me, but the memory of it has since conquered me. I
grieve continually over my treatment of you, and the sinfulness which
has ruined my own life and wronged others; yet I can truthfully say that
I rejoice that the right triumphed, and that you are now happy.

“I do wrong, perhaps, to say that my life is ruined, for although much
of it has been wasted, and the crowning joy of womanhood denied me, yet
I can, God helping me, improve the future by making myself useful to
others, and, in so far as I am able, atone for the past. A word from you
will greatly comfort me.

                                           “Very truly, yours,
                                                       “ISABEL COOLIDGE.

“NEW YORK, December 15, 1877.”


“Poor child! she was good at heart after all, only it was so covered up
by ambition and pride that no one was conscious of it,” Brownie said,
her tears falling fast.

“It is a very earnest, humble letter, and I honor her more to-day than I
did when she stood so high in society,” Adrian replied, heartily.

“How submissively yet hopelessly she speaks of her love for Sir
Charles.”

“Yes, poor fellow, this trouble has been a severe blow to him, also,”
said her husband.

“I think I shall drive over to Lady Randal’s to-day; and, Adrian, do you
think there would be any harm in my showing him both these letters?” the
young wife asked, with a wistful look in her dark eyes.

“What a forgiving little—or great heart you have, my darling,” he said,
as he read her thought.

“‘Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,’” Brownie repeated
with great earnestness.

Her husband stooped and kissed her.

“Do as you like, my own; I believe wherever you go you always carry
light and joy with you,” he said, almost reverently.

Accordingly, while Lord Dunforth took his guests to visit several points
of interest which he could best explain to them, Adrian drove his wife
over to call on Lady Ruxley, who, since she had lost her charming
companion, had taken a deep interest in her crippled nephew, and now
resided all the time with the family.

Brownie’s visits were always like gleams of sunshine to her, for Lady
Randal, since the developments which had resulted in such mortification
to her, and in the destruction of so many hopes, had been very
melancholy, and kept her own room nearly all the time, seldom seeing
visitors, and scarcely ever going abroad.

Her sons were both very kind to her, and exerted themselves to cheer and
comfort her, but her spirit had been crushed, and she could not rally
from the blow.

As for the young men themselves, they were congenial spirits—two noble
sons of a noble father! The tenderest ties of affection had united them
from the moment of their first meeting; their hopes, and aspirations,
and sympathies were the same, and wherever they went their aim was to do
good.

As soon as he felt he could do so, without offending Herbert, Charles
had proposed taking him to a noted surgeon in Paris to see if anything
could be done to remedy the deformity which was so wearisome to himself
and so unsightly to others.

The result had been beyond their expectations, although the operation
had involved infinite pain and patience. The twisted foot and leg had
been straightened, and that bowed head lifted, until the young man could
walk erect like others. But the withered hand, of course, could not be
restored, though the great surgeon had said much more could have been
done for him had he been treated in his early youth. This intelligence
the brothers did not impart to their mother, willing to save her an
added pang while she was suffering so much.

The cripple’s health had improved greatly since he had been able to have
plenty of out-door exercise, and his face lost much of that deep sadness
which had so touched Brownie’s tender heart when she first saw him, but
there was always a wistful look about his eyes which told of a life that
had had but little of joy in it.

Adrian’s wife Herbert Randal considered the essence of perfection, and
he spent many hours at her charming home, and often accompanied her upon
her errands of mercy among the poor, while she valued him among her
choicest friends.

Sir Charles also had the most profound respect for her, and to-day, as
she drove up to their elegant residence, he sprang to assist her to
alight, a most cordial welcome on his lips and shining in his eyes.

She lingered a moment in the hall with him, and putting her two letters
in his hands, said:

“Go away by yourself and read these carefully, while I make my call upon
your mother and Lady Ruxley, and then come and tell me if you can
forgive as I do.”

He looked at her a moment in astonishment, then at the address upon the
back of each letter. In an instant the color flamed into his face as he
recognized the handwriting upon one; he lifted his head haughtily, his
lip curled just a trifle in scorn, then, turning without a word, he
conducted her to Lady Ruxley’s apartments, dispatched a servant to tell
his mother that Mrs. Dredmond had called, and quickly withdrew with a
strange quickening of his heart-pulses.

Herbert had already taken Adrian off to inspect a new conservatory which
was being built.

An hour passed, which Brownie made bright and cheerful for Lady Ruxley,
Lady Randal having sent regrets that she was not able to see visitors
that morning. Then the gentlemen all came in together.

Sir Charles appeared very thoughtful, but there was a brighter and more
hopeful gleam in his eye than there had been for many a day.

He drew Mrs. Dredmond one side as soon as he could do so without
attracting too much notice.

“Thank you,” he said, as he gave back her letters. “They have comforted
me greatly, for I had felt, as she says, as if the crowning joy of life
was to be denied me forever.”

“And now?” Brownie asked, eagerly.

“What! can you wish her happiness?” he demanded, more in reply to her
eager look than her words.

“Ah, yes, poor child, her suffering has been worse than mine. We do not
any of us know our own weakness until we have been tempted. You and I
might fall even lower than Isabel did under some peculiar temptation,
and shall we presume to judge one who trusted in her own weak strength,
and who, now sorrowing, has found, if I am not mistaken, a stronger arm
to lean upon?”

“What a peacemaker you are, Mrs. Dredmond—you conquer us all. You take a
very sweet way to be revenged upon your enemies,” Sir Charles exclaimed,
with a suspicious moisture in his fine eyes.

“I do not believe in that element at all,” she replied, gently, “but if
I could win Isabel’s love, and see you both happy, I should ask for no
greater triumph.”

“What greater triumph could any one have than to make a friend of an
enemy?” the young man asked, smiling; then he added, gravely: “I think
by another year I may visit the United States—it is always best to let
patience have its perfect work, you know; then, if it shall have
accomplished its mission, there may be happiness for two more human
beings in this world.”

Brownie’s face fairly shone at his words, then, seeing her husband
approaching, she shook him heartily by the hand, and bidding the others
good-morning, went away, leaving the house brighter for her coming.

The young man and wife rode in silence for several minutes. Then Adrian,
suddenly bending forward, scanned the fair, beautiful face eagerly.

“What is it, dear?” she asked, with a fond, bright smile.

He bent and touched her forehead with his lips.

“God bless you, my own wife!” was his reverend benediction.

He had caught Sir Charles’ last words, and knew that Brownie had
accomplished her mission.


                                THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------




POPULAR LITERATURE FOR THE MASSES, COMPRISING CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE
TREASURES OF THE WORLD’S KNOWLEDGE, ISSUED IN A SUBSTANTIAL AND
ATTRACTIVE CLOTH BINDING, AT A POPULAR PRICE


[Illustration: Book]

BURT’S HOME LIBRARY is a series which includes the standard works of the
world’s best literature, bound in uniform cloth binding, gilt tops,
embracing chiefly selections from writers of the most notable English,
American and Foreign Fiction, together with many important works in the
domains of History, Biography, Philosophy, Travel, Poetry and the
Essays.

A glance at the following annexed list of titles and authors will
endorse the claim that the publishers make for it—that it is the most
comprehensive, choice, interesting, and by far the most carefully
selected series of standard authors for world-wide reading that has been
produced by any publishing house in any country, and that at prices so
cheap, and in a style so substantial and pleasing, as to win for it
millions of readers and the approval and commendation, not only of the
book trade throughout the American continent, but of hundreds of
thousands of librarians, clergymen, educators and men of letters
interested in the dissemination of instructive, entertaining and
thoroughly wholesome reading matter for the masses.

                                                   [SEE FOLLOWING PAGES]

BURT’S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth. Gilt Tops. Price, $1.00

  _Abbe Constantin._ BY LUDOVIC HALEVY.

  _Abbott._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  _Adam Bede._ BY GEORGE ELIOT.

  _Addison’s Essays._ EDITED BY JOHN RICHARD GREEN.

  _Aeneid of Virgil._ TRANSLATED BY JOHN CONNINGTON.

  _Aesop’s Fables._

  _Alexander, the Great, Life of._ BY JOHN WILLIAMS.

  _Alfred, the Great, Life of._ BY THOMAS HUGHES.

  _Alhambra._ BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

  _Alice in Wonderland, and Through the
    Looking-Glass._ BY LEWIS CARROLL.

  _Alice Lorraine._ BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

  _All Sorts and Conditions of Men._ BY WALTER BESANT.

  _Alton Locke._ BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

  _Amiel’s Journal._ TRANSLATED BY MRS. HUMPHREY WARD.

  _Andersen’s Fairy Tales._

  _Anne of Geirstein._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  _Antiquary._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  _Arabian Nights’ Entertainments._

  _Ardath._ BY MARIE CORELLI.

  _Arnold, Benedict, Life of._ BY GEORGE CANNING HILL.

  _Arnold’s Poems._ BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

  _Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam._ BY MRS.
    BRASSEY.

  _Arundel Motto._ BY MARY CECIL HAY.

  _At the Back of the North Wind._ BY GEORGE
    MACDONALD.

  _Attic Philosopher._ BY EMILE SOUVESTRE.

  _Auld Licht Idylls._ BY JAMES M. BARRIE.

  _Aunt Diana._ BY ROSA N. CAREY.

  _Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin._

  _Autocrat of the Breakfast Table._ BY O. W. HOLMES.

  _Averil._ BY ROSA N. CAREY.

  _Bacon’s Essays._ BY FRANCIS BACON.

  _Barbara Heathcote’s Trial._ BY ROSA N. CAREY.

  _Barnaby Rudge._ BY CHARLES DICKENS.

  _Barrack Room Ballads._ BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

  _Betrothed._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  _Beulah._ BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.

  _Black Beauty._ BY ANNA SEWALL.

  _Black Dwarf._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  _Black Rock._ BY RALPH CONNOR.

  _Black Tulip._ BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

  _Bleak House._ BY CHARLES DICKENS.

  _Blithedale Romance._ BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

  _Bondman._ BY HALL CAINE.

  _Book of Golden Deeds._ BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

  _Boone, Daniel, Life of._ BY CECIL B. HARTLEY.

  _Bride of Lammermoor._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  _Bride of the Nile._ BY GEORGE EBERS.

  _Browning’s Poems._ BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

  _Browning’s Poems._ (SELECTIONS.) BY ROBERT
    BROWNING.

  _Bryant’s Poems._ (EARLY.) BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

  _Burgomaster’s Wife._ BY GEORGE EBERS.

  _Burn’s Poems._ BY ROBERT BURNS.

  _By Order of the King._ BY VICTOR HUGO.

  _Byron’s Poems._ BY LORD BYRON.

  _Caesar, Julius, Life of._ BY JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.

  _Carson, Kit, Life of._ BY CHARLES BURDETT.

  _Cary’s Poems._ BY ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.

  _Cast Up by the Sea._ BY SIR SAMUEL BAKER.

  _Charlemagne (Charles the Great), Life of._ BY
    THOMAS HODGKIN, D. C. L.

  _Charles Auchester._ BY E. BERGER.

  _Character._ BY SAMUEL SMILES.

  _Charles O’Malley._ BY CHARLES LEVER.

  _Chesterfield’s Letters._ BY LORD CHESTERFIELD.

  _Chevalier de Maison Rouge._ BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

  _Chicot the Jester._ BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

  _Children of the Abbey._ BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE.

  _Child’s History of England._ BY CHARLES DICKENS.

  _Christmas Stories._ BY CHARLES DICKENS.

  _Cloister and the Hearth._ BY CHARLES READE.

  _Coleridge’s Poems._ BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

  _Columbus, Christopher, Life of._ BY WASHINGTON
    IRVING.

  _Companions of Jehu._ BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

  _Complete Angler._ BY WALTON AND COTTON.

  _Conduct of Life._ BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

  _Confessions of an Opium Eater._ BY THOMAS DE
    QUINCEY.

  _Conquest of Granada._ BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

  _Conscript._ BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.

  _Conspiracy of Pontiac._ BY FRANCIS PARKMAN, JR.

  _Conspirators._ BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

  _Consuelo._ BY GEORGE SAND.

  _Cook’s Voyages._ BY CAPTAIN JAMES COOK.

  _Corinne._ BY MADAME DE STAEL.

  _Countess de Charney._ BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

  _Countess Gisela._ BY E. MARLITT.

  _Countess of Rudolstadt._ BY GEORGE SAND.

  _Count Robert of Paris._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  _Country Doctor._ BY HONORE DE BALZAC.

  _Courtship of Miles Standish._ BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

  _Cousin Maude._ BY MARY J. HOLMES.

  _Cranford._ BY MRS. GASKELL.

  _Crockett, David, Life of._ AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

  _Cromwell, Oliver, Life of._ BY EDWIN PAXTON HOOD.

  _Crown of Wild Olive._ BY JOHN RUSKIN.

  _Crusades._ BY GEO. W. COX, M. A.

  _Daniel Deronda._ BY GEORGE ELIOT.

  _Darkness and Daylight._ BY MARY J. HOLMES.

  _Data of Ethics._ BY HERBERT SPENCER.

  _Daughter of an Empress, The._ BY LOUISA MUHLBACH.

  _David Copperfield._ BY CHARLES DICKENS.

  _Days of Bruce._ BY GRACE AGUILAR.

  _Deemster, The._ BY HALL CAINE.

  _Deerslayer, The._ BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

  _Descent of Man._ BY CHARLES DARWIN.

  _Discourses of Epictetus._ TRANSLATED BY GEORGE
    LONG.

  _Divine Comedy._ (DANTE.) TRANSLATED BY REV. H. F.
    CAREY.

  _Dombey & Son._ BY CHARLES DICKENS.

  _Donal Grant._ BY GEORGE MACDONALD.

  _Donovan._ BY EDNA LYALL.

  _Dora Deane._ BY MARY J. HOLMES.

  _Dove in the Eagle’s Nest._ BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

  _Dream Life._ BY IK MARVEL.

  _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde._ BY R. L. STEVENSON.

  _Duty._ BY SAMUEL SMILES.

  _Early Days of Christianity._ BY F. W. FARRAR.

  _East Lynne._ BY MRS. HENRY WOOD.

  _Edith Lyle’s Secret._ BY MARY J. HOLMES.

  _Education._ BY HERBERT SPENCER.

  _Egoist._ BY GEORGE MEREDITH.

  _Egyptian Princess._ BY GEORGE EBERS.

  _Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon._ BY JULES
    VERNE.

  _Eliot’s Poems._ BY GEORGE ELIOT.

  _Elizabeth and her German Garden._

  _Elizabeth (Queen of England), Life of._ BY EDWARD
    SPENCER BEESLY, M. A.

  _Elsie Venner._ BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

  _Emerson’s Essays._ (COMPLETE.) BY RALPH WALDO
    EMERSON.

  _Emerson’s Poems._ BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

  _English Orphans._ BY MARY J. HOLMES.

  _English Traits._ BY R. W. EMERSON.

  _Essays in Criticism._ (FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.) BY
    MATTHEW ARNOLD.

  _Essays of Elia._ BY CHARLES LAMB.

  _Esther._ BY ROSA N. CAREY.

  _Ethelyn’s Mistake._ BY MARY J. HOLMES.

  _Evangeline._ (WITH NOTES.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

  _Evelina._ BY FRANCES BURNEY.

  _Fair Maid of Perth._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  _Fairy Land of Science._ BY ARABELLA B. BUCKLEY.

  _Faust._ (GOETHE.) TRANSLATED BY ANNA SWANWICK.

  _Felix Holt._ BY GEORGE ELIOT.

  _Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World._ BY E. S.
    CREASY.

  _File No. 113._ BY EMILE GABORIAU.

  _Firm of Girdlestone._ BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

  _First Principles._ BY HERBERT SPENCER.

  _First Violin._ BY JESSIE FOTHERGILL.

  _For Lilias._ BY ROSA N. CAREY.

  _Fortunes of Nigel._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  _Forty-Five Guardsmen._ BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

  _Foul Play._ BY CHARLES READE.

  _Fragments of Science._ BY JOHN TYNDALL.

  _Frederick, the Great, Life of._ BY FRANCIS KUGLER.

  _Frederick the Great and His Court._ BY LOUISA
    MUHLBACH.

  _French Revolution._ BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

  _From the Earth to the Moon._ BY JULES VERNE.

  _Garibaldi, General, Life of._ BY THEODORE DWIGHT.

  _Gil Blas, Adventures of._ BY A. R. LE SAGE.

  _Gold Bug and Other Tales._ BY EDGAR A. POE.

  _Gold Elsie._ BY E. MARLITT.

  _Golden Treasury._ BY FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE.

  _Goldsmith’s Poems._ BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

  _Grandfather’s Chair._ BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

  _Grant, Ulysses S., Life of._ BY J. T. HEADLEY.

  _Gray’s Poems._ BY THOMAS GRAY.

  _Great Expectations._ BY CHARLES DICKENS.

  _Greek Heroes. Fairy Tales for My Children._ BY
    CHARLES KINGSLEY.

  _Green Mountain Boys, The._ BY D. P. THOMPSON.

  _Grimm’s Household Tales._ BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

  _Grimm’s Popular Tales._ BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

  _Gulliver’s Travels._ BY DEAN SWIFT.

  _Guy Mannering._ BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  Hale, Nathan, the Martyr Spy. BY CHARLOTTE MOLYNEUX HOLLOWAY.

  Handy Andy. BY SAMUEL LOVER.

  Hans of Iceland. BY VICTOR HUGO.

  Hannibal, the Carthaginian, Life of. BY THOMAS ARNOLD, M. A.

  Hardy Norseman, A. BY EDNA LYALL.

  Harold. BY BULWER-LYTTON.

  Harry Lorrequer. BY CHARLES LEVER.

  Heart of Midlothian. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  Heir of Redclyffe. BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

  Hemans’ Poems. BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.

  Henry Esmond. BY WM. M. THACKERAY.

  Henry, Patrick, Life of. BY WILLIAM WIRT.

  Her Dearest Foe. BY MRS. ALEXANDER.

  Hereward. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

  Heriot’s Choice. BY ROSA N. CAREY.

  Heroes and Hero-Worship. BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

  Hiawatha. (WITH NOTES.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

  Hidden Hand, The. (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

  History of a Crime. BY VICTOR HUGO.

  History of Civilization in Europe. BY M. GUIZOT.

  Holmes’ Poems. (EARLY) BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

  Holy Roman Empire. BY JAMES BRYCE.

  Homestead on the Hillside. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

  Hood’s Poems. BY THOMAS HOOD.

  House of the Seven Gables. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

  Hunchback of Notre Dame. BY VICTOR HUGO.

  Hypatia. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

  Hyperion. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

  Iceland Fisherman. BY PIERRE LOTI.

  Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow. BY JEROME K. JEROME.

  Iliad. POPE’S TRANSLATION.

  Inez. BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.

  Ingelow’s Poems. BY JEAN INGELOW.

  Initials. BY THE BARONESS TAUTPHOEUS.

  Intellectual Life. BY PHILIP G. HAMERTON.

  In the Counsellor’s House. BY E. MARLITT.

  In the Golden Days. BY EDNA LYALL.

  In the Heart of the Storm. BY MAXWELL GRAY.

  In the Schillingscourt. BY E. MARLITT.

  Ishmael. (COMPLETE) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

  It Is Never Too Late to Mend. BY CHARLES READE.

  Ivanhoe. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  Jane Eyre. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

  Jefferson, Thomas, Life of. BY SAMUEL M. SCHMUCKER, LL.D.

  Joan of Arc, Life of. BY JULES MICHELET.

  John Halifax, Gentleman. BY MISS MULOCK.

  Jones, John Paul, Life of. BY JAMES OTIS.

  Joseph Balsamo. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

  Josephine, Empress of France, Life of. BY FREDERICK A. OBER.

  Keats’ Poems. BY JOHN KEATS.

  Kenilworth. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  Kidnapped. BY R. L. STEVENSON.

  King Arthur and His Noble Knights. BY MARY MACLEOD.

  Knickerbocker’s History of New York. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

  Knight Errant. BY EDNA LYALL.

  Koran. TRANSLATED BY GEORGE SALE.

  Lady of the Lake. (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  Lady with the Rubies. BY E. MARLITT.

  Lafayette, Marquis de, Life of. BY P. C. HEADLEY.

  Lalla Rookh. (WITH NOTES.) BY THOMAS MOORE.

  Lamplighter. BY MARIA S. CUMMINS.

  Last Days of Pompeii. BY BULWER-LYTTON.

  Last of the Barons. BY BULWER-LYTTON.

  Last of the Mohicans. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

  Lay of the Last Minstrel. (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  Lee, General Robert E., Life of. BY G. MERCER ADAM.

  Lena Rivers. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

  Life of Christ. BY FREDERICK W. FARRAR.

  Life of Jesus. BY ERNEST RENAN.

  Light of Asia. BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

  Light That Failed. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

  Lincoln, Abraham, Life of. BY HENRY KETCHAM.

  Lincoln’s Speeches. SELECTED AND EDITED BY G. MERCER ADAM.

  Literature and Dogma. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

  Little Dorrit. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

  Little Minister. BY JAMES M. BARRIE.

  Livingstone, David, Life of. BY THOMAS HUGHES.

  Longfellow’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

  Lorna Doone. BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

  Louise de la Valliere. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

  Love Me Little, Love Me Long. BY CHARLES READE.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.