"A wonderful woman!" he said to himself, after she had disappeared. "What a pity she hates me so; the only woman in the world worth having at your feet."

He went to the table, searched among the bottles till he found one that still contained brandy, poured the contents into a glass and drank with feverish eagerness.

"That'll put a little life in me," he muttered. "Well, there is nothing for it but to wait. I must keep myself very quiet. I think I'll have some breakfast—at any rate I can afford to leave this den."

He pulled out a pocket-book with a laugh, glanced at the contents and put it away.

"Luck enough for a parlor and bed-room in the best uptown hotel for a week or so," he muttered; "pah! how I loathe this hole!"

North threw off his dressing-gown, bathed his face in cold water, arranged his dress a little, and went down stairs in search of his morning meal.

Elizabeth Mellen hurried through the narrow street in which the hotel stood, as if trying to walk herself into calmness. Once she murmured:

"Five days more—five! If I can live through them and keep the tempest back I may be safe. If I can! Such a dread at my heart—worse as the time shortens—oh heavens, if discovery should come now when the haven is so near!"



CHAPTER XLVI.

THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP.

Weeks had glided along. It was now late autumn; the gorgeous leaves lay strewn along the ground, and the wind sighed up from the ocean chill and bleak, scattering thoughts of decay with each gust. With that gathering desolation, the coldness and the shadows had crept deeper and deeper into Grantley Mellen's life.

He had accompanied Elizabeth to the city, one of these chilly autumn days, and put her in a carriage at the ferry, that she might attend to the purchases and calls which was her ostensible errand to town, while he went about the business on hand, with an arrangement that they were to meet in time for the afternoon boat.

Elsie had chosen to pass the day at home; indeed, the light-hearted girl and Elizabeth were never together now when it could possibly be avoided. Elsie seemed determined to keep aloof from the mystery of the unhappy woman's life, lest its gloominess should cast some shadow over the brightness of her own path.

While Elizabeth was absent on her mysterious visit, Mellen occupied himself with a matter which would have added another trouble to the anxiety of that bitter day, had she dreamed of it. From the first he had determined that the disappearance of that gauntlet bracelet should be in some way explained, if it lay in human power to discover the mystery. What his precise motive was he could hardly have told. The trinket might have been picked up by some vagabond who had wandered into the grounds; if so there was little hope of ever gaining any tidings concerning it, but Mellen could not satisfy himself that such was the case; he believed the jewel would yet be found.

There was some mystery in Elizabeth's life—of that irksome suspicion he could not divest himself. Twenty times each day he went over in his mind every event that had occurred since his return, from the moment when he came upon her wandering so wildly about on that stormy night.

Twenty times each day he convinced himself that there was nothing in the whole catalogue to awaken the slightest doubt in any mind not given up to self-torture and jealousy like his; yet, argue as he would, bring conviction as closely home to his soul as he might, doubts rose up again and haunted him like ghosts that had no power to speak, but pointed always towards trouble and blackness which lay in the past.

If the bracelet had been given to a needy person for any reason, it would undoubtedly find its way to the hands of some pawnbroker—that was his thought. He reproached himself for indulging it—he called himself unworthy the love of any woman while he could harbor such suspicions, but they would not pass out of his mind—the treachery which had wrecked his youth had sown the seeds of suspicion too deeply in his soul to be easily eradicated.

Then he compounded with his conscience, and decided that he was right in taking every step possible to solve these doubts, if only to prove the innocence of his wife. He kept repeating to himself that this was the reason which urged him on.

"I want to be convinced," he thought again and again, "of my own injustice—it is right that I should endure this self-abasement as a punishment for doubting a woman who is beyond suspicion."

Solacing his self-reproaches a little by such arguments and reflections, he had gone to work in earnest to make such discoveries as would drive these harassing doubts away forever.

Among other efforts, he had confided to a leading pawnbroker the details of the affair, and it was in him that his hopes principally lay. If the bracelet was not brought to this man's establishment he had means of discovering if it was carried elsewhere.

That day Mr. Hollywell had news for him; a bracelet similar to the one he had described, was in the possession of an old Chatham street Jew, and they went together in search of this man.

The old Israelite was dreadfully afraid of getting himself into difficulty, but Mr. Hollywell satisfied his fears in regard to that, and assured him that the gentleman would reward him liberally for any disclosures that he might make regarding this particular bracelet.

Then it came out that the bracelet had been disposed of for a considerable sum—it was a sale rather than a deposit. The man who brought it there had more than once come to the shop on similar errands; and always pledged valuable ornaments or sold them recklessly for whatever would satisfy the needs of the moment.

Mr. Mellen grew more interested when he described the man's appearance; the keen eyes of the money-lender and the sharp sight of the old Jew, accustomed to reading countenances, saw a singular expression of uncertainty rested upon his face, which took a slow, deadly paleness as the identity of this man seemed to strike him.

He walked several times up and down the little den where the aged Israelite kept watch, like a bloated spider ready to pounce upon any unwary fly that might venture into his mesh, and at last returned to the place where the two men were standing.

"Have you any of that man's writing?" he asked. "Just a scrap—I don't ask to see his name—only a few words in his writing."

The old Jew looked doubtful.

"Sometimes he has write me, my good sare, but not often, he ish very careful—very careful."

"And have you nothing by you?"

The old Jew turned to a great desk that filled up one end of the dark room, unlocked a variety of doors and drawers, turned over piles of dirty notes, and at last selected a scrap of paper from among them.

"This is his writin'," he said, in a guttural whisper. "I'm taking great trouble, great trouble," he whined; "de good gentleman ought to remember that."

"You shall be well rewarded," said Mr. Mellen impatiently, snatching the paper from his hand.

He glanced at the writing—the paleness of his face grew death-like—he stood like a statue, with his eyes rivetted upon the page, while the two men regarded him in silence.

The writing was peculiar. It had an individuality so marked and so increased by practice, that any person who had seen a page of the delicate characters, could have sworn to the writing among whole volumes.

Mr. Mellen looked up—the astonishment in his companions' faces brought him to himself.

"That is what I wanted," he said.

"I hopes it ish all right," urged the Jew. "The good gentleman is satisfied!"

"Perfectly, perfectly! Now I want the bracelet! How much did you receive on it?"

The old Jew's face changed at once.

"And I won't get my reward?" he faltered. "You will sheat a poor man's out of his earnings."

"Who talks of cheating you," said Mr. Hollywell.

"I am ready to pay you," pursued Mr. Mellen; "I would rather give double the price of the bracelet than not get it."

Mr. Hollywell made a sign of caution; such words would increase the old rascal's cupidity to a height money could hardly satisfy, but they were interrupted by a groan from the Jew.

"And it ish gone!" cried he; "and so leetle paid—so leetle paid. The good gentleman would have given more."

"Gone!" repeated Mr. Mellen.

"Why didn't you say so?" asked Mr. Hollywell angrily. "It was only yesterday you told me it was safe in your possession."

"Yes, yes, I knows, and so I had."

"Where is it, then?"

"The man came for it—he has brought his ticket, paid his money and took the bracelet; I was out—my boy let him have it! Oh, my reward—my reward!"

"Shut your foolish old mouth!" exclaimed Mr. Hollywell.

The old Jew sank into a chair, still groaning and lamenting, while the money-lender turned to Mr. Mellen.

"What will you do now, sir?" he asked.

"Nothing."

He looked despondent now, though the fierce anger that had blazed in his face at the first sight of the writing lighted it up still.

"I am perfectly satisfied," he continued. "I am much obliged to you for your trouble."

"I am very sorry," Mr. Hollywell began, but Mellen checked him.

"It is just as well—don't be troubled."

He took out his pocket-book, laid down a bank note whose value made the old Jew's eyes sparkle with avidity, and hurried out of the dark little shop.



CHAPTER XLVII.

TEASING CONTINUALLY.

All the next day the house at Piney Cove was in confusion with guests coming and going. This husband and wife were not once left alone.

Mrs. Harrington had come up to spend the day, and go out with them in the evening, and Tom Fuller was at his post as usual, though he appeared with a very blank face indeed.

"You look more like Don Quixote than ever," was Elsie's salutation, as he entered the room, where she sat with Elizabeth and their guests.

"How do you do, Mr. Fuller?" cried the widow. "I wonder you have any patience at all with that little witch; she teases you constantly; I am sure you must be amiability itself."

"She won't have the chance for some time to come, more's the pity," returned Tom, disconsolately.

"And why not, pray?" demanded Elsie.

"Because I've got to go to Pittsburg, and flounder about in coal mines, and the Lord knows what."

"Have you business there?" asked Elizabeth.

"Yes, to be sure! Bless me, I was better off when I had no property. I could do as I pleased then, and didn't have to go about breaking my neck in pits, and bothering over all sorts of business that I understand no more than the man in the moon—taking care of my interests as they call it."

"Poor, unfortunate victim!" mocked Elsie.

"The penalty of riches," sighed Mrs. Harrington. "But think of the good they bring to yourself and all about you, Mr. Fuller."

"Yes, I know," returned he; "I'm an ungrateful wretch; it's in my nature; I need to have my head punched twenty times a day, there's no doubt of that."

They all laughed at his energy; even Elizabeth tried to come out of her anxious thoughts, and confine her wandering fancies to the conversation.

"When are you going, Tom?" she asked.

"Oh, to-morrow."

"He speaks as if it were the Day of Judgment," said Elsie.

"And I may be gone a whole week or more," pursued he.

"A small eternity," cried Elsie. "Dear me, dear me, how we all pity you."

"I don't believe you care a straw," said Tom, dismally; "you won't miss me."

"He wants to be flattered," cried Elsie.

"I am sure you will be missed, dear Mr. Fuller," said the widow; "you wrong your friends by a suspicion so cruel."

"I hope so, I'm sure," returned Tom, glancing at Elsie; but she was in one of her mischievous moods, and would not give him a gleam of consolation.

"Don't spoil him, Mary Harrington," said she; "the creature's vanity is becoming inordinate; isn't it, Bessie?"

"You can ill-treat him sufficiently without my assistance," said Mrs. Mellen, smiling; "I shall not help you, certainly."

"That is right, Bess," cried Tom; "stand by a fellow a little; she hasn't a spark of pity."

"Take care, sir!" said Elsie, lifting her embroidery scissors. "Don't try to win my natural allies over to your side by underhand persuasions."

"I am sure you don't need allies or assistance of any sort to be more than a match for a dozen men," said Tom.

"Another of my womanly prerogatives," replied Elsie.

"Well," said Tom, "there seems to be no end to them."

Everybody laughed at his tone, and Tom sat down near Elsie, tumbling her work, and making signs to her to go out of the room, that he might secure a few moments alone with her, but the little witch pretended not to understand his signals in the least, and went on demurely with her work.

"You ruin my work!" cried she, snatching her embroidery from his touch. "What on earth are you making such faces for?"

Tom laughed in a distressed way, red with confusion.

"Dazzled by your presence, Elsie," cried the widow, seeing that Tom had not presence of mind enough for the compliment.

Elizabeth began to get restless again; it was perfectly impossible for her to keep quiet any length of time that day, and she made some excuse for leaving them.

"Let me go with you," said Mrs. Harrington; "I know you are going to order luncheon, and I should so like to get a peep at your kitchen; it is a perfect Flemish picture."

"Particularly the crowd of dusky faces," said Elsie. "Mary Harrington, you're a humbug."

"I am sure she is quite right," said Tom, anxious to insure her departure; "I was in the kitchen one day and it looked as picturesque as Niagara."

Elsie perfectly understood the motive which led him to speak, and hastened to rejoin:

"If you think it so stupendous you had better accompany them, and get another peep."

"No," said Tom; "I might disturb the colored persons; I'll stay where I am."

"Bless me," cried Elsie; "what consideration! You will be bursting into unpremeditated poetry about the dark future, before we know it."

"Oh, Elsie," said Mrs. Harrington, "what a provoking creature you are."

She followed Elizabeth out of the room, and Tom was alone at last with his idol.

"Are you sorry I am going?" he asked.

"Do I look so?" she asked.

"No, you don't."

"Well, looks can't tell fibs," said she, provokingly.

"Oh, Elsie, be good to me now; just think; I shall be gone a whole week!"

"It's a calamity I dare not contemplate," replied she. "Now, whatever you do, don't break your neck in those horrid coal mines, or come back smelling of brimstone like a theatrical fiend."

"I believe you would jest during an earthquake."

"If it would stop the thing shaking I might," she answered. "There, there, don't be cross, Tom."

Elsie threw down her work, and with one of her quick changes of manner brought her lover back to serenity.

"If you would only let me do one thing before I go," he said, getting courage enough from her kindness to propose an idea that had been in his mind ever since he arrived.

"What is it, Monsieur Exigeant?"

"Just let me tell Grant of our—our—"

"Our what, stammerer?"

"Of the happiness you have promised me," said Tom, changing the original word from fear of vexing her.

"You were going to say engagement; don't deny it."

"And aren't we engaged?" he pleaded.

"Not a bit of it, Mr. Tom Fuller; I am just as free as air; please to remember that."

"Oh, Elsie!"

"And Elsie oh!" cried she. "But it's true! You said all sorts of foolish things about love, and I let you talk, but what right have you to say we are engaged?"

Tom instantly became so nervous that he could not sit still.

"Oh, Elsie, Elsie, how can you?" he pleaded.

"Now, aren't you deliciously miserable," said Elsie; "that is the way I like to see you; it's your duty, sir."

"I wouldn't think you so cruel at such a time."

"Oh, wouldn't you? And pray what right have you to think at all; no man has a right; that's another female privilege."

"You are worse than the Women's Rights people," said he.

"Now you are calling me names," cried Elsie, indignantly. "I won't stay with you another moment."

She half rose, but Tom caught her dress.

"Oh, don't go, don't!"

"Go on your knees then, and beg my pardon," said Elsie.

"No," said Tom, "I'll do no such thing."

"Ah, do now, just to please, you know."

Down went Tom in dumb obedience. After enjoying his distress and penitence for a few moments, Elsie suddenly threw both her arms about his neck, and whispered:

"I am very sorry you are going. I do love you dearly, Tom!"

He strained her to his heart with a burst of grateful delight.

"And may I tell Grant?" he pleaded.

"Not yet," she said; "wait till you come back; not a word till then."

"But as soon as I come?"

"Yes; if you are good. But not a look till I say the word."

She tried to escape from him, but he would not let her go until he had extorted one other pledge.

"You must write to me," he said.

"Now, Tom, I hate to write letters! I never write even to Grant, when I can possibly help it."

"But just a few words—"

"If you will behave yourself properly, perhaps yes."

"Every day?"

"Oh, worse and worse! Tom, get up. I hear Mary Harrington's voice; she's the most inveterate gossip."

"Promise then!"

"Yes—yes—anything; oh, get away!"

She struggled from him, and Tom had just time to resume his seat and look as decorously grave as perfect happiness could permit, when the door opened, and Mrs. Harrington entered, with her usual flutter.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE PET MESSENGER.

"Elsie, Elsie!" the widow cried out, "Mr. Rhodes and the fascinating Jemima are driving up the avenue; the old maid is rushing on destruction again without the slightest warning."

"It's delightful!" said Elsie. "I shall tell her how rich Tom Fuller is, and that he wants a wife."

"Don't set the old dragon at me," said Tom.

"Yes, I will! Mary, you must flirt desperately with the dear old man; between her desire to watch you and be agreeable to Tom, the spinster will be driven to the verge of distraction."

"I'll go and find Elizabeth," said the widow, "and appear after the old maid gets nicely settled."

Mrs. Harrington darted away, and just made her escape as Dolf opened the hall-door to admit the guests.

The father and daughter were ushered into the room where Elsie and Tom sat, looking demure and harmless as two kittens.

"Here we are again, you see," said the stout man; "no one can resist your fascinations, Miss Elsie."

"Pa would stop," said Miss Jemima, "though I told him it was a shame to come so often."

The truth was, the spinster's appetite had warned her that it was quite luncheon time, and recollecting the bounteous repasts always spread at Piney Cove, she had graciously assented to her parent's proposal that they should call.

"I am delighted to see you," said Elsie, shaking hands as if they were her dearest friends; "my brother and sister will be down in a moment; you must stay to luncheon, of course."

"No, oh, no," said Miss Jemima, glancing at Tom through her scant eyelashes. "We couldn't think of it!"

"But you must, you shall!" said Elsie. "Let me present Mr. Fuller."

The spinster curtseyed and looked grimly propitious. Tom was nearly out of his wits; while Mr. Rhodes talked to him he saw Elsie whisper to Miss Jemima, and felt perfectly certain that she had given the threatened information about his being a rich bachelor in search of a wife.

"And when did you see your charming friend, Mrs. Harrington, last?" asked Mr. Rhodes.

"The oddest thing!" said Elsie. "Why, she is here now; hadn't you a suspicion of it, Mr. Rhodes?"

Miss Jemima's face changed so suddenly, that Tom made a great effort to keep from laughing outright.

"Oh, Mr. Rhodes," continued Elsie; "I am afraid the attractions of this house are only borrowed ones."

The good man was thrown into a state of blushing and pleasant confusion, but the spinster brought him through it without mercy.

"If there's company we won't stay, pa," said she.

But Elsie would not permit her to go; she whispered again about Tom, and between her desire to stop long enough to fascinate him and her fear of exposing her father to the wiles of the artful widow, Jemima was in terrible perplexity.

In the midst of it Elizabeth entered, and welcomed her neighbors; Mellen followed; and after a few moments the widow swooped down on the unfortunate Mr. Rhodes in spite of the dragon, as a well-practised hawk pounces on a plump chicken.

"Ah, Mr. Rhodes, this is such a surprise," she cried, fluttering up to him with a simper on her face, which of late years had done the duty of a blush.

"I dare say a great surprise," snapped in Jemima, siding up to her father.

This was exquisite sport for Elsie and Mrs. Harrington; Tom would have enjoyed it more if the spinster had not beset him as much as her divided attention would permit, and Elizabeth and Mellen bore the infliction as people must endure all things that come to an issue in their own house, smiling and polite, however much they may wish for a release.

While they were at luncheon, Elizabeth's dog ran into the room with a paper in its mouth. It was the most intelligent little creature in the world, educated to fetch and carry in a surprising manner.

This pretty creature, which seemed almost human in her intelligence, ran towards her mistress, but another, a new pet of Elsie's, a frolicsome, wicked animal that had quite worried poor Fanny's life out ever since her intrusion in the house, followed it.

Piccolomini sprang at the paper in Fan's mouth, and a contention ensued between them which attracted general attention.

"Fanny's got a paper," cried Elsie, pointing towards her pets.

"It may be a letter," said Mellen; "Dolf often sends them in by her; call off Pick, Elsie; she'll tear it."

But Pick would not be called off, and Fanny refused to relinquish her hold; between them the paper was rapidly destroyed, Fanny howling dismally all the time, and making sagacious efforts to fulfil her errand in her usual trusty manner.

Mellen went towards them; as he did so Fanny sprang towards Elizabeth; she stooped, caught sight of the paper, and grew pale. Fairly pushing Mellen aside, she snatched the paper from the animal's mouth.

"It's only an old bill, I must have dropped it," she said, thrusting it hurriedly in her pocket.

Mellen saw how pale his wife had become; he noticed her alarm; he remembered, too, seeing Fanny running about the shrubbery just before he came in.

It was another phase of the mystery, he was certain of that; the little creature was carrying a note to his wife. He seated himself at the table again, and appeared to forget the circumstance, but Elizabeth hardly looked like herself during the entire meal.

It was late before the visitors departed; after that Tom Fuller was compelled to take his leave,—a heartrending performance as far as he was concerned; so the day drew to a close, leaving both the husband and wife more preoccupied and anxious than the dreary morning had found them.



CHAPTER XLIX.

ELSIE FINDS THE BRACELET.

There was a dinner engagement the next day. When Elizabeth came down to the library in full dress, her husband sat moodily over the fire. He looked up as she entered, and gazed upon her with mournful admiration, for her beauty that day was something wonderful; unabated excitement had fired her eyes with a strange lustre, and lent a rich scarlet to cheeks, from which protracted suspense had of late drained all the color. Her dress, of rose colored silk, was misty with delicate lace that shaded her neck and arms like gossamer on white lilies. Star-like jewels flashed in the rich blackness of her hair and shone through the soft lace. The calm loveliness of former days was nothing to the splendor of her beauty now a feverish restlessness was upon her,—a glow of pain conquered by courage.

Mellen arose from his seat as his wife came in with the graceful rush of a cloud across the sky. He watched her approach gloomily. It seemed to him that her first impulse was to flee when she saw him sitting there, but if so the desire was quickly controlled, and she came up to the hearth, standing so near him that the folds of her dress brushed his arm.

"You are ready too," she said. "But it is impossible to say how long we shall have to wait for Elsie and Mrs. Harrington!"

He made no answer; she began clasping and unclasping her bracelets, but was watching him all the while from under her downcast lashes.

"Are you ill, Grantley?" she asked at length.

"Oh! no; quite well."

"You are so silent, and you sat there in such a dreary way, I feared something was the matter."

He made an effort to rouse himself and shake off the oppression—the heavy, heavy weight which had lain on his soul all day.

"I am only stupid," he replied, with an attempt at playfulness. "I have been forced to talk so incessantly to those people, that I have no ideas left."

"I am sure conversation with people in general doesn't consume one's ideas," she said, with a lightness which appeared forced like his own.

"How long does Mrs. Harrington stay?" he asked.

"Only till to-morrow. You don't like her, I fancy?"

"There is too much of her in every way," he said, peevishly; "she dresses too much, talks too much—she tires one."

"That is very cruel and ungrateful; the lady confided to me only a little while ago that she had a profound admiration for you, and was dying to get up a flirtation, if I did not mind."

"Don't repeat such nonsense," he said, almost rudely, "you know how I hate it. I think either the married man or woman who flirts, deserves to be as severely punished as if he or she had committed an actual crime."

"I am afraid you would condemn the greater part of our acquaintance," she said. "After all, with most women it arises only from thoughtlessness."

"Thoughtlessness!" he repeated satirically. "I can only say that the woman who endangers her husband's peace from want of thought, is more culpable than a person who does wrong knowingly, urged on by recklessness or passion."

"I have never thought about it," said Elizabeth vaguely; "it may be so."

She was playing with her bracelets again; the action reminded him of the lost trinket. He did not speak, but a restrained burst of passion broke over his face, which might have changed a plan she was revolving in her mind, had she seen or understood it.

It was too late!

That moment Elsie came dancing into the room, her thin evening dress floating around her like a summer cloud, her fair hair wreathed with flowers, and everything about her so pure and ethereal, that it seemed almost as if she must breathe some more joyous air than the pain-freighted atmosphere which weighed so heavily on others. She was holding her hands behind her, and ran towards them in her childish way, exclaiming:

"I have found something! Who'll give a reward? Won't you both be glad—guess what it is!"

Mellen's face had brightened a little at her entrance, but as she spoke a sudden thought shook his soul like a tempest.

"What is it?" Elizabeth asked.

"Oh, guess, guess!"

"But I never can guess," she replied, seeming to enter into the spirit of the thing.

"You try, Grant. Come, do credit to your Yankee descent!"

He rose suddenly and stood looking full in his wife's face, fixing her glance with a quick thrill of terror, which the least thing unusual in his manner caused her now.

Elsie began to dance up and down before the hearth, exclaiming:

"Oh! you provoking things—you stupid owls! Now do guess—oh! Grant, just try. Tell me what I have found."

Mellen's eyes had not moved from his wife's face.

"Have you found Elizabeth's bracelet?" he asked in a tone which made the unhappy woman shiver from head to foot, and startled Elsie out of her playfulness.

"Why, how did you think of that?" demanded Elsie; "did she tell you? Have you——"

She stopped short, the words frozen on her lips by the look which Grantley Mellen still fixed upon his wife. Without changing that steady gaze, he extended his hand towards Elsie.

"Give me the bracelet!" he said, in the cold, hard tone which, with him, was the sure forerunner of a tempest of passion.

Elsie hesitated; she had grown nearly as pale as Elizabeth herself, but she looked like a frightened child. Elizabeth did not speak or move, but though her face was absolutely death-like, her eyes met her husband's with unflinching firmness.

"Give me the bracelet!" repeated Mellen.

"Here it is!" exclaimed Elsie, nervously, putting the bracelet in his hand. "What is the matter with you, Grant? I am sure there is nothing to make a fuss about. I found the bracelet among a lot of rubbish in one of Bessie's drawers—I suppose she forgot it was there."

Grantley Mellen turned furiously towards her.

"Are you learning to cheat and lie also?" he said.

Elsie burst into a passionate flood of tears.

"You are just as cruel and bad as you can be!" she moaned. "You ought to be ashamed to talk so to me! I haven't done anything; I thought you would be so pleased at my having found the bracelet, and here you behave in this way. You needn't blame me, Grant—I don't know what it all means! I am sure your dear mamma never thought you would speak to me like that! I wish I was dead and buried by her—then you'd be sorry——"

"I am not angry with you, child," interrupted Mellen, softened at once by this childish appeal. "Go away and find Mrs. Harrington, Elsie. The falsehood and the treachery are not yours—thank God! at least my own blood has not turned traitor to me!"

Elizabeth sank slowly in a chair; Elsie stole one frightened look towards her, then the woman in her confusion and dizziness saw her float out of the room, and she was alone with her husband. He held the bracelet up before her eyes, his hand shaking so that the jewels flashed balefully in the light.

"Your plan was carried out too late; you should have had it found before!" he said, and his last effort at self-control was swept away.

She must speak—must try to stem the tide, and keep back a little longer the exposure and ruin which for days back some mysterious warning had told her was surely approaching.

"I don't know what you mean," she faltered.

"I mean that the bracelet was found where you put it!" interrupted Mellen.

"Why should I have hidden it? What reason—"

"Stop!" he broke in. "Not another word—not a single falsehood more! You brought this bracelet back with you from the city—don't speak—I went to the pawnbroker's—it had just been taken away."

In the whirl of that unhappy woman's senses the words seemed to come from afar off; the lights were dancing before her eyes; the flashing gems blinded her with their rays, but she still controlled herself. She must make one last effort—she must discover how much of the truth he knew—there might be some loophole for escape—some effort by which she could avert a little longer the coming earthquake.

"Why don't you speak?" he cried. "Say anything—another lie if you will—anything rather than this black truth! That man; you know him! Speak, I say!"

"What man?" she faltered.

"That traitor—that wretch! He had the bracelet; he got it from you! Explain, I say—woman, I will have an explanation."

"I never gave the bracelet away," she said, desperately. "I have no explanation to make. I will not open my lips while you stand over me in that threatening way."

"Will you defy me to the last?" he exclaimed.

"You can only kill me," she moaned; "do it and let me have peace!"

He flung the bracelet down upon the table.

"I have loved you, and I know that you are false!"

"What do you suspect?" she demanded. "What do you know?"

The momentary weakness of passion passed; the husband stood up again cold and stern.

"I know," he said, "that this bracelet was in the hands of a bad, wicked man; only yesterday he took it from the pawnbroker's, and now I find it in your possession."

There was a hope; only in another deception; but she must save herself; while there was a thread to grasp at, she could not allow herself to be swept down the gathering storm.

"And is there no possibility that I may be innocent in all this?" she exclaimed. "If I receive an anonymous letter, telling me I can find my bracelet by paying a certain reward, is it not natural that I should go? Knowing your strange disposition, is it not equally natural that I should keep the whole thing a secret, and strive to make every one believe that the bracelet had been mislaid."

"Is this true?" he cried. "Can you prove to me that you speak the truth?"

She was not looking at him; the apathy of despair which came over her seemed like sullen obstinacy.

"I can prove nothing," she said; "if it were possible I would not make the effort. Do what you like; believe what you please; I will defend myself no more."



CHAPTER L.

IN THE TEMPEST.

Mellen turned away, and walked up and down the room in silence. There was a fearful struggle in his mind; the love he still felt for his wife was contending against horrible doubts, and almost threatening his reason.

He could not decide what to think or how to act! For the moment at least he was glad to grasp at any pretext which might prove a settlement to the question, whatever his thoughts and belief might be on after reflection.

He looked again at Elizabeth; her stony calmness irritated him almost to a frenzy. He was too much excited to perceive that her very quiet was the apathy of despair; it seemed to him that she was only testing her power over him to its full extent. If her story was true, she would die rather than humble her pride by protestations or proof; if it was false! There was deceit somewhere, he felt that; but even in his madness he could not believe that Elizabeth had been guilty of anything that affected his honor; that was a black thought which had not reached him yet.

"Are you determined to drive me mad?" he exclaimed.

She lifted both hands with a strange gesture of misery and humiliation, which he could not have understood.

"What have I done?" she cried. "What have I said?"

"Nothing! There you sit like a stone, and will not speak."

"It is useless to say anything," she returned; "quite useless."

"And you expect me to leave this matter here; to endure this mystery patiently?"

"I expect nothing—nothing!"

The same dreary, desperate wail pervaded her voice, but it was not strange that he mistook her coldness for obstinacy or indifference; the very intensity of agony she was enduring made her appear heartless.

"You won't explain—you won't—"

She drooped her head wearily.

"I have no explanation to make; there is the bracelet."

He caught up the bracelet, snatched her arm so rudely, and fastened the bracelet on it with such reckless haste, that she uttered a cry of pain.

"You hurt me," she exclaimed; "this is cruel, unmanly."

"Wear it," he cried; "wear it, and when you look at it remember that you have dug a gulf between my heart and yours! Wear it, and remember how you have perjured yourself; how your whole conduct since my return has been a lie, and if you have any shame or power of repentance left, the gems will burn into your very soul when you look at them."

Elizabeth fell back in her chair cold and white. He rushed out of the room. She was not conscious of any thought; her brain was too dizzy; but sat there clasping her forehead between her hands, and seeming to feel the whole world reel into darkness before her gaze.

"Has he gone; where is he?"

It was Elsie's voice; she had stolen into the room to learn how the matter had ended.

"Can't you speak, Bessie; what did he say?"

Elizabeth dropped the hands from her face, and rose from her seat.

"No matter what he said; the end is coming. I told you it would; the end is coming!"

"Don't look so!" cried Elsie, "you frighten me."

"Frighten!" she repeated with intense bitterness. "You haven't soul enough in your bosom to be frightened."

"Oh, you cruel, wicked creature!" sobbed Elsie. "Oh, oh! I'll kill myself if you talk so to me; I'll go to Grant; I'll—"

"Hush!" interrupted Elizabeth. "There—I will say no more! I don't blame you—remember that! Whatever comes, I won't blame you for this new danger."

"Oh, you good, unselfish darling!" cried Elsie, drying her tears at once.

She made a step forward as if to throw her arms about her sister, but Elizabeth retreated.

"Don't touch me," she said, faintly; "don't touch me!"

"Should I poison you?" cried Elsie, angrily. "One would think I was some dreadful reptile."

"No, no; don't be angry! I need all my strength! Let me alone, Elsie; don't speak to me."

"The carriage is at the door," said Elsie, "and Mrs. Harrington is waiting; for mercy's sake don't let her think anything is wrong. I am going to find Grant; wait here."

She ran out of the room, and Elizabeth stood thinking over her words.

Very soon perhaps the whole world would know that she was a lost, ruined woman, without a home, a friend, or even a name.

Could she bear up; could she find strength to go on to the end and not die till then?

The hardness and desperation died out of her face; she fell to her knees, and a prayer for help rose to her lips; low and faint, but intense with agony.

She heard steps in the hall; they were coming for her. She sprang to her feet, moved towards the door and opened it; her husband, Elsie and their guest were there. She answered Mrs. Harrington's careless words; passed on with them through the hall, and took her misery out into the world as we all do so often, hidden carefully in the depths of a tortured soul.

At dinner that day Elizabeth met two or three superior people from the city, men and women of note, whose presence at the board was like meteor flashes—kindling everything with brilliancy; but among the most cheerful and most witty this wretched woman shone forth preeminent. Every word she spoke carried electric fire with it. Her cheeks were scarlet; her eyes radiant. The lips that had been so pale in her husband's presence a few hours before, glowed like ripe cherries with the sunshine upon them. In her desperation she was inspired, and kindled every mind around her with enthusiasm.



CHAPTER LI.

THE OLD CEDAR TREE.

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Harrington returned to the city, perhaps glad to escape from the unnatural mental atmosphere of the house, certainly much to the relief of all the inmates of the dwelling.

Grantley Mellen drove his guest down to the railway train. The moment they departed Elizabeth and Elsie, as if by a common impulse, started in a different direction, apparently anxious not to be left alone with each other.

Elsie was passing through the hall when her brother drove up to the door. She stopped him after he got out of the carriage for a few moments' trifling conversation, then allowed him to pass on towards the library.

As the girl fluttered back towards the veranda, she saw old Jarvis Benson approaching the house, and hurried out.

"Oh, Jarvis, I wanted to see you."

Jarvis took the pipe out of his mouth, regarded her complacently, and answered:

"Then thar's a pair on you, Miss Mellen."

"I want to have a pair of very light oars made to the little boat, so that I can learn to row it," pursued Elsie.

"That's easy done," said Jarvis. "I guess I've got a pair that'll answer. Only don't dround yourself."

"I'll take care of that," she replied, laughing. "But who else wants you, Jarvis?"

"Your brother told me to come up, and—oh, there he is."

Mr. Mellen had heard voices, and came through the hall out on the veranda.

"Good morning, Jarvis!" he said, in his quiet way.

"Good morning, sir! You don't look very well, I think," observed the keen-sighted old man.

Elsie glanced at her brother; he was very pale, and his heavy eyes told of a long, sleepless night.

Mr. Mellen frowned slightly; it displeased him to have his personal appearance commented upon, and wounded his pride to know that he had not sufficient strength to keep back every outward sign of the anxiety and trouble he was enduring.

"Be you well, now?" continued the pertinacious old man, who had a habit of asking questions and expressing his opinions with the utmost freedom to people of every degree.

"Perfectly well," replied Mr. Mellen. "You have come up about that tree, have you?"

"Wal, yes," said Jarvis. "I hadn't much to do this morning, so I thought I'd just come round and find out what's the matter. You hain't found no gardener yet?"

"No; I have sent to town for one. You have sufficient knowledge to keep the greenhouse in order until one is found."

"Just as you say, sir; I'll do my best."

The gardener at Piney Cove had seen fit to leave the place a few days before without the slightest warning, with the true, reckless independence of the Hibernian race. When a dilemma of this kind arose, the people of the neighborhood were in the habit of sending for old Benson, who seemed, in some mysterious way, to have acquired a smattering of knowledge about everything that could make him generally useful.

Elsie did not feel particularly interested in the subject of conversation, and was moving off in search of other amusement, when she heard old Jarvis say:

"It's the big cypress yonder, in the thicket, ain't it?"

She stopped short in the hall, and stood leaning against the door with her back towards them.

"Yes," Mr. Mellen answered. "I am afraid it is dying. I want you to dig about the roots and see if you can find out where the trouble lies."

"Loosening the earth a bit'll maybe do a world of good," said Jarvis; "I've seen it 'liven a tree right up."

"We will try, at all events," observed Mr. Mellen. "First you may take those plants under the library window into the greenhouse; it is too late for them to be left out."

He walked to the side of the house to point out the flowers he wished to have removed. Elsie darted through the hall and up the stairs in breathless haste.

She paused at the door of her sister's room and tried the knob, but the bolt was drawn.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" she called out in a frightened whisper, utterly incapable of speaking aloud. "Open the door—for heaven's sake, open the door!"

There was terror in her voice which communicated itself to the woman sitting so apathetically in her chamber. She rose and opened the door, whispering, in a voice full of alarm:

"What is it? What is it?"

Elsie pushed her back into the room, shut and locked the door, and staggered to a couch.

"The cypress tree!" she gasped. "They are going there."

"Who?" cried Elizabeth. "What do you mean?"

"I can't speak—oh, I am choking!" gasped Elsie.

Elizabeth seized her arm, and fairly shook her with frenzied impatience.

"Speak!" she exclaimed. "Speak, I say!"

"Grant has sent old Jarvis to dig about the roots," returned Elsie, in a shrill whisper.

Elizabeth Mellen sank slowly upon her knees, her limbs giving way suddenly, as if she had been struck with paralysis. She caught at Elsie's dress, the girl raised herself, and there they remained for several moments, staring in each others' faces, with a white, sickening terror, which could find no relief in words.

After a time Elizabeth shook herself free from Elsie's grasp and rose; the power to think and act was coming back to her.

"You heard them say this?" she asked.

"Yes, yes!" cried Elsie. "Grant sent for old Jarvis to come up and dig round the tree; he thinks it is dying."

Elizabeth threw up her arms in silence, more expressive of agony than a shriek.

"It has come at last!" broke from her white lips. "It has come at last!"

Elsie cowered down upon the sofa and buried her head in the cushions, shaking with hysterical tremors from head to foot, and uttering repressed sobs.

"Exposure—ruin—disgrace!" moaned Elizabeth, as if repeating words that some secret voice whispered in her ear. "It has come at last! It has come at last!"

"I shall die!" shrieked Elsie. "I shall go mad!"

She beat the couch wildly with her clenched hands and gave way to a violent nervous spasm, but this time Elizabeth made no effort to soothe her; she stood there, cold and white, repeating at intervals, in that dismal whisper:

"It has come at last! It has come at last!"

"Do something," sobbed Elsie. "Don't stand there as if you were turning to stone. Think of some way to stop them."

"What can I do?" returned Elizabeth. "I tell you it has come! I knew it, I have been expecting it!"

Elsie gave another shriek, sprang off the sofa, threw herself at her sister's feet, clutching her dress with both hands, and cried out:

"Do something—anything! I shall go crazy—my brain is burning! I won't live—I tell you I won't live if you don't stop this."

Elizabeth shook off her grasp, not angrily, not impatiently even, but with a sudden change of expression, as if Elsie's despair had brought back some half-forgotten resolution, and given her wild strength once more.

"You will not suffer," she said, drearily. "You are safe."

"But you—what will become of you?" groaned the girl.

"Let go my dress—get up, Elsie! See, I am calm. I tell you, no harm will come to you—get up."

Elsie staggered to her feet, and sat down on the sofa with a burst of tears.

"I'd rather kill myself than see you tormented so!" she cried. "I have the poison yet—I've always kept it. If they don't stop, Elizabeth, they shall find us dead and cold——"

"Stop!" said Elizabeth. "I won't hear such wicked words! The danger is mine, the ruin and disgrace are mine—all mine; but I do not talk of killing myself."

"You are so brave," moaned Elsie, "and I am such a poor, weak thing. Oh, oh! This will kill me either way, I know it will!"

"I know what will happen to me," said Elizabeth, in a voice of unnatural calmness. "Do you know what this day will bring? Before two hours are gone I shall be driven out of this house, a lost, ruined woman."

"No, no! Grant will forgive you—he loves you so!"

"Does a man ever forgive a wrong like that?"

"But you will say you don't know—I will."

"Are you a baby? Don't you know there will be an exposure—we shall all be questioned—forced to give evidence."

"We will say anything—anything!" cried Elsie.

"We cannot satisfy Grantley Mellen. I tell you, Elsie, this is the last interview we shall ever hold under this roof."

Elsie threw herself down in renewed anguish, shrieking and sobbing so violently that nothing could be done or thought of till she had been restored to composure by the strong remedies Elizabeth administered.

"Promise not to tell that I ever knew of it," she pleaded. "Swear! I'll kill myself if you don't!"

"I have promised," returned Elizabeth, in a hollow voice. "I will bear whatever comes—ruin, death—and bear it alone, you shall not be dragged in."

These words, so solemnly spoken, appeared to give the girl new life and energy.

"Go downstairs," she said; "stop them. You can stop them yet."

"How—what can I say?"

"Tell Grant that the gardener said the tree must be left till spring—bribe old Jarvis to say so—oh, anything, anything; only try, Elizabeth. Save yourself if possible."

The woman walked to the window and looked out.

"They are going," she said.

"Go down!" shrieked Elsie. "Go down, I say!"

Elizabeth took a few steps towards the door—caught sight of her face in the mirror, and stopped appalled at the haggard image reflected there.

"Look at me," she said; "my face tells the whole story."

"There is some rouge in that drawer," said Elsie. "Mrs. Harrington left it. I'll put it on your cheeks."

Elsie could think, now that Elizabeth showed herself ready to bear her danger alone. She got out the rouge, rubbed it on her sister's cheeks, and smoothed her hair.

"Now you look like yourself—nobody would notice. Go quick—stop them—stop them!"



CHAPTER LII.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

Elizabeth dared not pause an instant for reflection; she opened the door, walked downstairs, through the library, and joined her husband on the lawn.

He turned at her approach. She felt a mad sort of courage nerve her—she could speak now.

"What, planning against the great cypress?" she asked, and even in that moment of supreme agony and fear she was conscious of vague wonder at the composure of her voice.

"It seems to be dying," replied Mellen; "I am going to have the earth dug away from about the roots."

"I am afraid you will only kill it," returned Elizabeth; "it is so late in the season."

"I did not know that you were a gardener," he said, coldly.

He looked at her standing there with that unnatural brightness on her cheeks, that wild glitter in her eyes, and it seemed to him that she had only come out in her beauty and unconcern, to mock him after the long night of wild trouble which he had spent.

"I know that is what Jones said," she went on. "He thought in the spring something could be done, but not now."

He was turning away—that action deprived her of all self-control—she caught his arm, crying:

"Don't touch that tree—don't go near it."

He stopped and looked at her in blank amazement; she saw the danger in which her impetuosity had placed her—dropped his arm and tried to appear composed again.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "The tree is not a human being that I am going to assassinate."

She forced herself to laugh; even then the woman's self-mastery was something astounding.

"I was a little theatrical," she said; "but I can't bear to have the old tree touched."

"Why, marm, it'll die if it ain't," put in Jarvis, who considered that he had been silent quite long enough.

"You don't know anything about the matter!" cried Elizabeth, sharply.

The old man drew himself up, and looked so indignant that she felt sure he would oppose her now with might and main.

"I mean," she added, "you don't know how I feel about it, I want the poor thing left alone."

The old man relinquished his erect attitude and looked somewhat mollified.

"If it's yer whim, marm, that's another thing, but I thought I'd lived too long in this neighborhood for anybody to accuse me of not knowing a thing when I pretended to, especially about trees."

"Oh, no, no," interrupted she; "I always knew that you were a universal genius, a better gardener than half the professed ones."

"Wal, I don't know about that," said Jarvis, his face beaming all over with satisfaction, for the old man was peculiarly susceptible to flattery.

"Then you won't touch the tree?" cried Elizabeth, turning again towards her husband.

Mr. Mellen had been watching her while she talked; he was growing more and more angry now, thinking that she only wished to interfere unwarrantably with his plans.

"You will leave the tree till spring?" she continued.

"I shall have the earth loosened," he answered, "I don't choose to sacrifice the tree to a mere caprice."

"It is not a caprice," she exclaimed, forgetting herself once more. "I ask you not to touch it—I beg you not to touch it!"

"Might I ask the reason of your extraordinary conduct?" he began; then remembering old Benson's presence, checked himself quickly.

"I think it the best thing for the tree," he added.

"But Jones did not think so, and he ought to know."

"I fancy he said that to avoid the work."

"No, no! In the spring you can do it—not now—not now."

"By spring it will be too late; the earth must be dug away now."

She clasped her hands under her shawl, resolved to make one effort more—a respite must be found—for a day, at least.

She looked out toward the tree—the lower part of it was hidden, where they stood, by a thicket of shrubs and bushes, but the stately top towered up dark and solemn, waving in the morning breeze and seeming to whisper an omen of dread to her half maddened senses.

"Not to-day," she exclaimed; "at least do not touch it to-day."

His suspicious mind, so wildly on the alert since the strange events of the past week, was now fully aroused by the singular earnestness and trouble of her manner.

There was another secret! It was no desire to contradict him which actuated her—there was something at the bottom which he could not understand—a new phase of the mystery with which he had felt himself surrounded from the first moment of his arrival, and which had gathered and darkened so rapidly during the past week.

"Leave the tree at least to-day," pleaded Elizabeth.

"I can't send for Jarvis and put him off without a reason," he said; "he has plenty of work on his hands."

"It can't make no difference, Miss Mellen," the old man joined in; "'tain't no use to put it off—anyhow I couldn't come again till the last of the week."

"Let it go till then," she said, eagerly; and new life stole over her face at the bare hope of obtaining that delay.

"This is sheer folly," said her husband. "Go in—go in. You will catch cold—the grass is damp. Come, Jarvis, get your spade."

"It won't hurt the tree a spec, Miss Mellen," said he; "don't feel oneasy about it—I'll be as tender of it as if it was a baby."

He moved away as he spoke, and left the husband and wife together. Elizabeth was pale even through her artificial bloom—no matter what he thought, she must obtain some delay.

"Grantley," she cried, "don't touch the tree—I ask it as a favor—you will not refuse—let it stand as it is."

He gave one look at her face and turned his head away to hide the expression of anger and doubt which crept over his own.

"Can you give any reason?"

"No, no! It is one of my fancies—only gratify it—let the tree alone for a day or two at least."

Fierce passion shook Mellen like a sudden tempest. His first impulse was to drag her into the house and force from her lips the secret and the mystery which surrounded her, but he controlled the impulse and answered:

"As you please. I will leave it for the present."

With this curt concession Mellen walked away, and Elizabeth went back into the house. She paused to rest a few moments in the library; her limbs were shaking so violently that they refused to support her. She was roused by the sound of her husband's voice in conversation with old Benson—he might come in and find her there.

She started up like a wounded animal that concentrates its dying strength in one wild effort for escape—hurried from the room and up the stairs into her own chamber.

Elsie was still lying on the sofa; she sprang up as Elizabeth entered.

"Will he leave it?" she cried. "Will he leave it?"

"Yes, he has promised."

Elizabeth sank in a chair, so broken down by agony that it might have softened the heart of her deadliest enemy could he have seen her then.

"Saved again!" cried Elsie. "Don't despair, Bessie—it will all end right."

"Saved!" repeated Elizabeth. "Have you thought what must be done before I can breathe again?"

Elsie gave a cry and hid her face.

"Be still!" said Elizabeth. "I will do it—be still!"

"Don't let me know—don't tell me—I should die of fright!"

"Think of me, then," she returned. "In the night—alone with that——what can I do?"

Elsie interrupted her with another cry and her old appealing wail.

"You are killing me! You are killing me!"

"Be still," repeated Elizabeth, in the same awful voice. "Be still!"



CHAPTER LIII.

CLORINDA'S GHOST STORY.

Mellen set old Benson about some other duties and went into the library. While he stood at one of the windows, looking gloomily out on the autumn landscape, he heard the voices of 'Dolf and his spinster inamorata in the area below.

"What's marster gwine to have done to de tree?" Clo asked.

"He's afeared it's deceasin'," replied Dolf, pompously, "and he wishes to perwent."

"Don't come none o' yer furrin lingo over me," said Clorinda, angrily. "Can't yer say what he's gwine to do, widout any of dem dern outlandish Spanish 'spressions."

"'Twarn't Spanish, lubly one," said 'Dolf, greatly delighted at the effect his grandiloquent language had produced. "Sometimes I do 'dulge in far away tongues jist from habit; its' trabeling so much, you know."

"Don't know nothin' about it, and don't want to," interrupted Clorinda. "Ef yer can't answer a civil question as it outer be, yer needn't stay round dis part of de house."

"Don't be ravagerous," returned Dolf. "Any question ob yours it is my delight to answer, only propose it."

"I does, plainly enough. What's marster gwine to have done to dat ar ole tree?"

"Hab de airth dug up," said Dolf, deeming it wiser to use a more simple phraseology; "he's 'feared it's dying."

Mellen was about to order them away from that part of the house—the veriest trifle irritated him now—when Clorinda's next words made him pause.

"I wish he'd hev it dug up by the roots," she said; "I do 'lieve dat ar tree is haunted."

"Haunted!" screamed Dolf, who possessed a large share of the superstition of his race. "Now what does yer mean, Miss Clorindy?"

"Jes' what I ses," replied she sharply; "I ain't one ob de kind dat tittervates up my words till dey haint got no sense left."

"But I never heerd of a haunted tree," said Dolf, gaining new courage as he remembered that it was broad daylight. "Haunted houses I've heerd on in plenty; but a tree——"

"Oh, mebby yer don't know eberything yet!" said Clo, viciously.

Clo had been rather short with her lover of late, having interrupted several private flirtations of Victoria, with the faithless one.

"Do tell me what yer mean, Clorindy," pleaded Dolf, his eyes fairly started out of his head with curiosity.

"Oh, mebby you'd better go to Vic," she retorted, "she's a heap cuter dan what I be. I ain't coffee-colored, I'se only a nigger."

"Now, Miss Clorindy!" cried Dolf, understanding that this was an occasion when flattery and soft words were absolutely necessary. "You know I'se ales in for de genuine article."

"Don't know nothin' ob de sort," said Clo. "I kint flirty and flighty about like some folks; but, anyhow, I ain't fool enough to put all my wages on my back. I guess marster cud tell what I've got in de bank."

That allusion to her golden charms drove the youthful graces of Victoria quite out of Dolf's head. He grew more tender and submissive at once.

"Yer's de pearl ob de creation!" he cried enthusiastically.

Mellen stamped his foot passionately, furious with their nonsense, upbraiding himself that he could listen to the conversation of his own servants, yet unable to move away without hearing the revelation which Clorinda evidently had to make.

After a little more persuasive eloquence which began to restore Clorinda's good-humor, Dolf said:

"But do tell me what yer means 'bout de tree?"

"No," said Clorinda, mysteriously; "it's one ob dem tings as is best not talked 'bout. I don't run and tell all I sees and hears."

"Jis' confide in my buzzom," said Dolf, tenderly.

"Men is so duberous, 'specially dem as brags 'bout der mean white blood, which comes out coppery any how," said Clorinda.

"Yer knows I'se de most faithful and constance ob my sect," cried Dolf. "Yer may speak freely to me."

"I 'spose yer'd say de same to Vic."

"Neber, Miss Clorindy! What, dat silly, giggling girl—don't tink it!"

His persuasions met with their reward at last; he pleaded again:

"Jis' tell me what yer means 'bout de tree bein' haunted?"

She yielded to his flattery and her feminine desire to tell all that she had seen or imagined about the old cedar.

"Mebby 'twas two months 'fore you came back," she said, in the tone of a person trying to be exact in her recollection of events.

"What was?" cried Dolf, impatiently, "de hauntin'?"

"Ef I'm gwine to tell you my story I'll do it in my own way," said Clorinda, majestically.

"In course, in course," returned Dolf. "I begs pardon for de 'ruption. Jis' go on, sweetest Miss Clo'."

"I tells yer dar's been somethin' agoing on in dis house," pursued Clorinda. "Dat ar bracelet losing was all of a piece wid what went afore. Missus was awful mad at me for saying so, but I don't care. She's queer—stuck up like. There's Miss Elsie, sweet allers as a young kitten!"

"Yes, yes," Dolf said, ready to agree with anything in order to get at the heart of Clorinda's mystery.

"Afore ever dat ring was lost I seed a man in de house in de dead ob de night—a man and a woman!"

"Good gracious!" cried Dolf.

"I'd had de toothache, and ben down to de kitchen fire a smokin' pennyryal, and awful sick it made me. I was gwine up de back stairs, when I heard steps in de hall. I looked in and I seed a man and woman plain. I had de candle in my hand. I screeched right out, and shut my eyes, and let de candle fall. When I opened 'em again missus had come out of her room, wid a shawl over her and a lamp in her hand.

"'What yer doin' dar?' says she.

"I up and telled her 'bout de man and woman, and she larfed in my face.

"'Whar be dey?' says she. 'Dar's nobody here but us.'

"'Twarn't no use to say nothin', she flew off into one o' her tantrums, and scolded me like all possessed. I don't like her, anyhow, and dat's all 'bout it!"

"But is dat all?" questioned Dolf, in a disappointed tone.

"No, it ain't all; jis' wait and don't go off de handle afore you knows which end you've got hold on."

"But de tree, Clorindy," said Dolf; "tell me 'bout de tree."

"I'se comin' to dat," replied Clo, growing eager again. "I'd ben down to see Dinah Jameson, at de cross roads; it was real late; we'd had a prayer meetin' and I kinder forgot myself in de refreshin' season——"

"Yes," said Dolf, fearing she would go off in a long digression and lose sight of the all-important topic, "dey is refreshin'; as preserves is to de taste so is meetin's to de spirit—soothin', yer know."

"Jis' so," said Clorinda.

"Wal, yer was comin' home," suggested Dolf.

"Yes; two or tree on 'em came with me to de gate and dar dey left me. I heeled it up de avenue jis' as hard as I could, but when I got near de house I thort, suppose missus should see me, she's a pokin up at all hours, she'd scold me like smoke. I jis' cut out ob de road to take de path trough de thicket, and came in sight ob de ole cypress tree."

Clorinda broke off abruptly to recover her breath and to allow her narrative to have its full effect upon her listener.

"Go on; oh, do go on!" cried Dolf.

Could the pair have seen the face leaning over the balcony, straining to catch every word, they might almost have thought that one of the ghosts they so dreaded had started up before them.

"I came in sight ob de cypress tree," recommenced Clo, working up her story to a climax with great art.

"Yes, yes," said Dolf again. "In sight ob de tree——"

"I seed somethin' all in white a couchin' down dar, a throwin' up its arms and moaning like. I jis' give one yell and danced away. When I got to de house, what do you tink? dar was missus. Whar she come from I don't know, and she give me goose again for screaming; but la! she was white as a dead woman all de while."

"What could it all a ben?"

"I don't know more'n you. The next morning she sent for me, and she telled me she'd hev to send me away ef I didn't quit dat habit of bein' up so late and skeerin' de gals wid stories 'bout ghosts; so I jis' held my tongue."

"And had you ebber seed anytink more?"

"Laws, I wouldn't go near dat tree after dark for all de money on Long Island! I tells you dar's sometin' queer somewhar."

"So dar is," assented Dolf, in a perplexed manner, "dar is, sure."

"Don't yer say nothin', 'cause I'd get my walkin' papers ef yer did. But ef you're so mighty wise, jis' tell me what yer makes ob all dis mysteriousness?"

"Clorindy," said Dolf, in a solemn voice, "ghostesses is a subject 'taint proper to talk on, and the queernesses ob our marsters and misseses is not tropics for us."

"A body must wonder, I s'pose, black or white," said Clo, angrily.

"But dat's all you've seen?"

"Dat's all, and it's 'nuff and more too."

Grantley Mellen stepped back into the library and closed the window. He had need to be alone. Every day, every hour, the mystery which had intruded into his home deepened and took more appalling shapes.



CHAPTER LIV.

THE SABLE FORTUNE HUNTER.

The pair of sable retainers went on with their conversation, totally unconscious of a listener, and when the interest connected with that subject had culminated, diverged to themes more intimately connected with their own affairs.

One of the chief desires of Dolf's soul was to find out exactly how much money Clorinda had in the bank, but he had never been able, with all his arts, to bring her to that degree of confidence necessary to make him a partner in that dearest secret of her life.

The other servants and her friends in the neighborhood gave very contradictory accounts concerning the amount, and Victoria openly avowed her belief that—

"De whole ting was just gammon—didn't b'lieve she had no money no whar—she know'd she was so old dat it was her only chance of ketchin' a beau, so she tried it on; dat was 'bout all it 'mounted to."

But Dolf was too wise to be influenced by Victoria's sneers, and had lately convinced himself that the sum was larger than he at first supposed. In that case Dolf felt the extreme folly of allowing a fancy for Victoria to stand in the way of his interest. Already he had incurred Clorinda's serious displeasure; it had required a vast amount of eloquence to reconcile matters after his indiscretion with the strange young woman at old Mother Hopkin's, besides, his flirtations with Victoria were a constant bone of contention between them.

Dolf felt certain that if he only came directly to the point and made Clorinda a bona fide offer of his hand with his heart in it, she would forgive him; but it required a good deal of resolution to make up his mind to that step.

Clorinda was not prepossessing in her appearance,—that her most partial friends would have been forced to admit; probably in her youth she might have had her attractions, but now that years, avarice, and a not very patient temper had worn their furrows in her face, it really required all the glitter of her reported wealth to make her endurable in Dolf's mercenary eyes.

Then her color and her frizzed locks, at which Victoria sneered so openly—that was a tender point with Dolf; he had the general contempt for the jetty hue which one is certain to find among those of the bronze complexion.

Dolf stood there looking at Clorinda and revolving all those things in his mind, while she washed her vegetables and made herself busy as possible at the kitchen dressers.

"Dis life is full of mysteriousness, Miss Clorindy," he said in a meditative tone.

Clorinda snipped off the tops from the carrots she was preparing for her soup, and assented.

"Dar ain't much wuth livin' for," she said gloomily.

Dolf was frightened at once; when Clo got into one of her desponding humors she became very religious without delay; and he trembled with fear that she would condemn him to Methodist hymns and a prayer-meeting that very night.

"Don't say dat, Miss Clorindy, now don't!" he exclaimed pathetically. "You's de light ob too many eyes for sich renumerations—you lights der hearts as de sun does de sky at noonday."

Clorinda relented; with all her firmness and numerous other grim virtues, she was a thorough woman at heart, and never could withstand flattery adroitly administered.

"Go 'long wid yer poety nonsense," said she, giving a coquettish toss to her head that made her gorgeous bandanna flutter as if suddenly electrified. "Go 'way wid sich, I say."

"Don't call it nonsense, sweet Miss Clorindy," urged Dolf; "when a gemman disposes de tenderest feelins' ob his bussom at yer feet, don't jist at 'em."

To be called by such endearing epithets in two consecutive sentences, softened Clorinda greatly; this time something uncommon must be coming—Dolf certainly was in earnest.

"I don't see nothin' at my feet," said she, with a little giggle.

"Yes, yer does, Miss Clorindy," pleaded Dolf; "yes, yer does—now don't deny it."

"La!" said Clorinda, in a delightful flurry, "you men is so confusin'."

"I don't mean ter be confusin', Miss Clorindy," said Dolf; "it's far from my wishes—leastways wid you."

There was a tender emphasis on the concluding pronoun which quite upset Clorinda. She allowed the carrots to fall back in the pan of water, and seated herself on a stool near by—if anything serious was coming she would receive it with dignity befitting the occasion.

Artful Dolf, profound in his knowledge of the sex, read her thoughts without the slightest difficulty, and chuckled inwardly at the idea that any female heart could resist his fascinations. Still he was in a condition of great perplexity; he had no intention of committing himself until he had learned the exact price Clorinda could pay for the sacrifice he was prepared to make of his youth and good looks. On the other hand, he was sorely puzzled how to obtain the desired information without laying his heart at her feet. All his craft in that direction had signally failed; in that respect Clorinda was astute enough to be fully his match.

But he must say something; Dolf could not afford to lose time in misunderstandings, particularly as he had lately discovered that the sable parson whose meetings she attended, was becoming seriously devoted in his attentions.

"Ah! Miss Clorindy," he said, "de sect is all resemblous in one particular."

"What do yer mean?" inquired Clo, and her voice softened in response to the tenderness in his.

"In yer cruelty," said Dolf, "yer cruelty, Miss Clorindy."

"Laws, nobody ebber sed I was cruel," returned the matter-of-fact Clo. "I wrings de necks ob de chickens and skin de eels alive, 'cause it's a cook's lookout, but I hasn't got a speck ob cruelty in me."

Dolf shook his head, then dropped it on one side with an air which he had found very effective in former flirtations.

"In course yer'll deny it—it's de way ob de sect, but de fact is dar."

"I don't know what yer mean," said Clorinda, beginning to resume a little of her usual rigidity; "if yer ain't a talkin' Spanish now, it's jist as bad."

"I alludes to de coquettations in which yer all indulge."

"I don't," said Clo; "I leaves all sich foolishnesses to silly things like dat Vic—I hasn't no patience wid 'em."

"Oh! Miss Clorindy, Miss Clorindy!"

"Dat's my name, fast 'nuff; yer needn't go shouting it out dat ways."

"When I'se seed wid my own eyes," said Dolf.

"What has yer seen? Jis' 'ticlarise—I hate beatin' round de bush."

Clo really believed that Dolf was getting jealous; the bare idea filled her with a delicious thrill—triumphs of that sort were sufficiently rare in her experience to be exceedingly precious.

"But I don't know what yer mean," she went on, "no more'n de man in de moon."

"Dar it is!" said Dolf. "Why, I b'lieves dat ar's de only reason de sect looks at de moon, cause dar's a man in it."

"Oh, he's too far off," returned Clo, with a prolonged chuckle at her own wit; "too high up for much use."

"Bery good," said Dolf, "bery good indeed! Yer's in fine spirits to-day, Miss Clorindy."

Here Dolf sighed dolefully.

He certainly was in earnest this time—Clo felt assured of that. She forgot the half-washed vegetables, the unseasoned soup, and tried to pose herself with becoming dignity.

"I don't see why," she said, in sweet confusion. "But any how yer didn't prove nothin' 'bout my bein' coquettious."

"Dar it is!" cried Dolf. "It all goes togeder."

"Oh, laws," cried Clo, "as ef dat ar would set you a sighin'; I knows a heap better'n dat, Mister Dolf."

"Yer don't do me justice, Clorindy," said Dolf, seriously, putting on an injured look; "yer neber has done me justice."

"Why, what have I done now?" demanded Clo, beginning to play with her apron string.

"Clo! I say, ole Clo!"

Victoria, who was getting impatient with her confined position behind the laundry door, where she had done jealous duty as a listener, now dashed in upon the lovers, and broke up the conversation just as it reached a most interesting point.

"I say, ole Clo, them perserves are a bilen over; you can smell 'em here."



CHAPTER LV.

IN THE NET.

The day was wearing slowly on; a day more terrible in its moral darkness and suspense than perhaps had ever before descended upon that old house.

Mr. Mellen was engaged with a succession of visitors on business, with whom he remained shut up in the library; Elsie took refuge at first in her own chamber, but either nervousness or a desire to talk drove her again to Elizabeth's room. Their dressing-rooms were separated by Elizabeth's chamber, so Elsie flung the door open and ran into her sister's room, exclaiming:

"You must let me stay; I can't be alone."

Elizabeth only replied by a gesture; she was walking slowly up and down the floor as she had been during all the morning; it was entirely out of her power to accept one instant of physical rest. She left the door open and extended her promenade through the second chamber into Elsie's, and then back, pacing to and fro till she looked absolutely exhausted, but never once pausing for repose.

They were undisturbed, except when one of the servants knocked at the door for orders, and at each request for admittance Elsie would give a nervous little cry.

"Tell them not to come any more," said she, lifting both hands in nervous appeal.

"They must have their orders," Elizabeth replied; "come what may, everything must go on as usual to the last moment."

Elsie shivered down among her cushions and was silent. She had pulled the sofa close to the hearth, gathered a pile of French novels about her, and sat there trying her best to be comfortable in her feeble way.

"If you would only sit down," she exclaimed, at length.

"I cannot," replied Elizabeth; and resumed her dreary walk.

Then there came more interruptions; Victoria wished to know if they would have luncheon.

"Marster's got in de library wid dem men—'spect missus don't want to go down."

"What is she talking about?" questioned Elsie from her sofa.

"Luncheon," said Elizabeth; "will you have it up here?"

"As if one could eat—"

A warning gesture from Elizabeth checked her.

"You may bring the luncheon up here," Elizabeth said to the girl.

Victoria went out and closed the door.

"I believe they would come if we were dying, to know if we would take time to eat," cried Elsie.

"Everything must go on as usual," was Elizabeth's answer.

"How can you stand there and talk so calmly to them!" cried Elsie. "It's enough to drive one frantic."

"It is too late now to be anything but quiet—entirely too late."

Elsie began some shuddering complaints, but Elizabeth did not wait to hear them; she had resumed her promenade, walking with the same restless, eager haste, her eyes seeming to look afar off and unable to fix themselves upon any object in the rooms.

"There is another knock," cried Elsie. "Oh, they'll drive me frantic!"

"Come in," Elizabeth said, sharply.

It was Victoria with the luncheon tray, and it seemed as if she never would have done arranging it to her satisfaction.

"I brung yer some apricot jelly, Miss Elsie," she said; "I knowed you had one of yer headaches."

But Elsie only moaned and turned upon her cushions.

"Dar's only cold chicken and dat patter," said Vic; "I took de ducks in fur marster."

"There is quite enough," said Elizabeth; "you needn't wait."

"Yes, miss," returned Vic. "I hain't had no time yet to sweep de room Miss Harrington had—Clo, she's ugly as Cain, ter day."

"It makes no difference," said Elizabeth, while Elsie threw down her book in feverish impatience.

"Yes, miss, but tain't pleasant," returned Vic, with her most elegant curtsey. "I likes to do my work reg'lar and in time, missus knows dat; but when Clo gets into one o' her tantrums she sets ebryting topsy-turvey, 'specially when dat yaller nig', Dolf, come down feering wid de work."

"Then keep out of the kitchen," cried Elsie; "don't quarrel."

"Laws, Miss Elsie," said Victoria, with all the injured resignation of suffering innocence; "I neber quarr'ls wid nobody, but I defy an angel to git along wid Clo! She's jest de most aggravatin' piece dat eber wore shoe leather! She's so mad 'cause she's gettin' ole dat she hates a young girl wuss nor pison, she does."

Vic was now fairly started on the subject of her wrongs, and hurried on before Elsie could stop her, with all the energy of a belated steam engine. Elizabeth had walked into the other room, and Victoria took that opportunity to pour out her sorrows with the utmost freedom to Elsie.

"Miss Elsie, sometimes I tinks I can't stand it. I wouldn't nohow, if twarn't fur my affection fur you—you and miss," Victoria hastened to add diplomatically, fearful that her mistress might be within hearing and that the omission would be turned to her disadvantage. "Clo, she gits agravatiner ebery day, and sence Dolf come back she's wurs'n a bear wid a sore head."

"Oh, you make mine ache," cried Elsie.

"Laws, miss, I wouldn't for the worl'."

"Then go along, and let me sleep, if I can."

"Sartin, miss; but let me do somethin' for yer head," said Victoria, out of the goodness of her heart.

"No, no; I only want to be let alone."

"If yer'd only let me bathe it wid cologny," persisted Vic.

"I don't want it bathed," fretted Elsie.

"Laws, miss, it does a heap o' good! Pennyryal tea's good—"

"Oh, do go away!" groaned Elsie.

"In course I will, miss; but I'd like to do something fur ye—yer looks right sick."

"Then just go away, and don't come up again for the next two hours."

"Yes, miss, I'll jest—"

"Go out!" shrieked Elsie.

"I'se only fixin' yer cushins," said Vic. "Dear me, Miss Elsie, yer allers says I'm right smart handy when yer has dem headaches."

"Oh, I can't bear anybody to-day."

"Dear me, ain't it a pity! Now, miss, I knows what 'ud be good for yer—"

"Elizabeth," groaned Elsie, "do come and send this dreadful creature away!"

This time Victoria deemed it prudent to make a hasty retreat, for she stood in a good deal of awe of her mistress. She went out, reiterating her desire to be useful, and really very full of sympathy, for she was a kindhearted creature enough, except where her enemy, Clorinda, was in the question.

"They'll kill me, I know they will!" moaned Elsie.

Elizabeth did not pay the slightest attention to her complaints, and she relapsed into silence. Finally, her eye was caught by the luncheon temptingly laid out. There lay a mould of delicious apricot jelly in a dish of cut crystal, shining like a great oval-shaped wedge of amber; the cold chicken was arranged in the daintiest of slices, and there was custard-cake, Elsie's special favorite.

She made an effort to fancy herself disgusted at the bare sight of food, and turned away her head, but it was only to encounter the fragrant odor from the little silver teapot, which Victoria had set upon the hearth.

"Could you eat anything, Elizabeth?" she said, dejectedly.

"No, no; I am not hungry."

"But you never touched a morsel of breakfast, and you ate nothing all yesterday."

"I can't eat now—indeed I can't," was Elizabeth's reply.

"Oh, nor I!" moaned Elsie. "I feel as if a single mouthful would choke me."

She glanced again at the tray, and began to moan and weep.

"Oh, dear me! This day never will be over! Oh, I wish I were dead, I do truly! Do say something, Bessie; don't act so."

But Elizabeth only continued her incessant march up and down the floor, and Elsie was forced to quiet herself.

She rose from the sofa at last, stood by the window a few moments, but some magnetism drew her near the luncheon-tray again. She took up a spoon and tasted the apricot jelly.

"I want things to look as if we had eaten something," she said, giving Elizabeth a wistful glance from under her wet eyelashes.

"You had better try and eat," said her sister.

"One ought, I suppose," observed Elsie. "I think I will drink a cup of tea—won't you have some?"

Elizabeth shook her head, and with renewed sighs Elsie poured herself out a cup of tea and sat down at the table.

"Oh, this wretched day! I'd rather be dead and buried! Oh, oh!"

In an absurd, stealthy way, she thrust her spoon into the apricot jelly again, and stifled her moans for a second with the translucent compound.

"I wish I could eat; but I can't!"

She put a fragment of chicken on her plate, made a strong effort and actually succeeded in eating it, while Elizabeth was walking through the other rooms.

"I've tried," she said, when her sister appeared in the doorway again, "but I can't, it chokes me."

She drank her tea greedily.

"I am so thirsty; I believe I've got a fever."

But Elizabeth was gone again, and Elsie stood staring at the pate—a magnificent affair, she knew it was—one of Maillard's best, full of truffles and all sorts of delicious things. She felt something in her throat, which might have been hunger or it might have been weakness; she chose to think it the latter.

"I feel so weak," she said, when Elizabeth returned on her round; "such a sinking here," and she put her hand in the region where her heart might be supposed to beat.

"You had better lie down," her sister said, absently.

That was not the advice Elsie wanted or expected, and she cried out, spasmodically:

"How can I keep still! Oh, I wish I had some drops, or something to take!"

She moaned so loudly that it disturbed Elizabeth, who became impatient.

"Drink your tea," she said, "and eat something; you cannot go without food."

"Well, I'll try," said Elsie, resignedly. "I wish you'd sit down and have a cup; perhaps I could eat then."

"Not now," replied Elizabeth.

The very sight of food was loathsome to her. She had hardly touched a morsel for two days.

After a good deal more hesitation, Elsie attacked the pate, and the jelly, and the pickles, and the custard-cake, and some crisp little wafers, and, finally, made an excellent meal; all the while declaring that she could not eat, that every mouthful choked her, that she believed she was dying. To all these complaints Elizabeth paid no more attention than she did to the meal that sensitive young creature was making.

Elsie went back to her sofa, feeling somewhat comforted, and prepared to take a brighter view of things. It appeared possible now for her to live an hour or two longer—a little while before she had declared that her death might be expected any moment.

"Do come and sit down, Bessie," she said, as Elizabeth entered, for about the hundredth time. "I'll give you the sofa; you must be tired out."

"No; I am not tired."

"But I am sure you have been for three hours march—march—march! Do sit down."

Elizabeth only turned away in silence, but Elsie felt so much relieved after her creature comforts, that she could not forbear attempting to inspire her sister with a little of the hope which had begun to spring up in her own narrow heart.

"Oh, Bessie," she cried, "I feel as if this would get over somehow, I do indeed."

"But how? may I ask how?"

"Oh, I can't tell; but there'll be some way, there always is; nothing ever does happen, you know."

Elizabeth did not reply. She was thinking of the books she had read, in which women's ruin and disgrace were depicted with such thrilling force, of the accounts in almost every daily journal of families broken up, their holiest secrets made a public jest; of terrible discoveries shaking a whole community with the commotion, and dragging all concerned before the eyes of the whole world in scorn and humiliation. Yet Elsie could say:

"Nothing ever does happen!"

She was thinking that perhaps in a few hours her beautiful home might be agitated by a discovery, mysterious and full of shame as any of the occurrences in the novels she was recalling; only a few hours and she might be driven forth to a fate terrible as that of the unhappy women whose names she had shuddered even to hear mentioned.

Not for one instant did she delude herself. She knew that the crisis was at hand, the fearful crisis which she had seen approaching for weeks. This time there would be no loophole of escape—this last respite was all that would be granted her; and even now that she had gained that much, there seemed every hour less probability of her being able to turn it to advantage.

Then the task before her, the thing she had to do, a work at which the stoutest man's heart might have quailed, alone in the dead of night, with the fear of discovery constantly upon her, and the horror of an awful task frenzying her mind!

She clenched her hands frantically as the scene presented itself, in all its danger, to her excited fancy. She saw the night still and dark, herself stealing like a criminal from the house; she saw the old cypress rising up weird and solemn, she heard the low shiver of its branches as they swayed to and fro; she saw the earth laid bare, saw——

The picture became too terrible, she could endure no longer, and with a shuddering moan sank upon her knees in the centre of the room:

"God help me! God help me!"

Elsie sprang off the couch and ran towards her with a succession of strangled shrieks.

"What is the matter? What ails you? You frighten me so. Are you sick—did you see something? Is he going that way?"

But the woman neither saw nor heard; her eyes were fixed upon vacancy, an appalling look lay on her haggard face, which might well have startled stronger nerves than those of the girl by her side.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" shrieked Elsie, in genuine terror which there was no mistaking.

"I must do it," muttered the woman; "I must do it!"

"Oh, Bessie, dear Bessie! Get up! Don't look so! Oh, for heaven's sake! Bessie, Bessie!"

Elsie threw herself upon the floor beside her sister, crying and shrieking, clinging to her, and hiding her face in her dress. Her agitation and wild terror recalled Elizabeth to her senses. She disengaged herself from Elsie's arms and staggered to her feet.

"It's over now," she said, feebly, with the weariness of a person exhausted by some violent exertion; "I am better—better now."

"Oh, you frightened me so."

"I will not frighten you again. Don't cry; I am strong now."

"What was the matter? Did you see anything?"

"No, no. I was only thinking; it all came up so real before me—so horrible."

"But it may be made safe yet," urged Elsie. "If you can escape this time—only this once."

She did not connect herself with the trouble which might befall her sister. Even in that moment of anguish, her craft and her selfishness made her remember to keep present in Elizabeth's mind the promise she had made.

"Only this once," she repeated.

"It is too late," returned Elizabeth. "I knew the day would come—it is here!"

"But he can't discover anything, Bessie, when everybody is abed."

"Have you thought what I must do?" she broke in. "The horror of appealing to that man is almost worse to bear than exposure and ruin."

Elsie wrung her hands.

"Don't give way now. You have borne up so long; don't give way when a little courage may save everything."

"I shall not give way; I shall go through with it. But, Elsie, it will all be useless; the end has come, deception cannot prosper forever."

"No, it hasn't! I'm sure it hasn't! Think how many secrets are kept for ever. It needs so little now to make all secure; only don't give way, Bessie—don't give way."

"Be quiet, child; I shall not fail!"

Elizabeth walked away and left the girl crouching upon the floor, went to the glass and looked at herself. The rouge Elsie had rubbed on her cheeks burned there yet, making the deathly pallor of her face still more ghastly; her eyes gleamed out of the black shadows that circled them so full of agony and fear that she turned away with a shudder. Her hair had fallen loose, and streamed wildly about her shoulders. She bound it up again, arranged her dress and recommenced her restless walk.

"Get up, Elsie," she said; "some one may come in."

Elsie took refuge on her sofa, and sobbed herself into a sound slumber, while Elizabeth, in her haggard anxiety, moved up and down, wounded by cruel reflections which wrung her soul and left it dumb, with a passive submission, born rather of desperation than endurance.



CHAPTER LVI.

THE SECRET TELEGRAM.

Elizabeth at last paused, and in her bitter anguish stood for minutes regarding Elsie as she lay asleep upon the sofa. She approached and bent over her. The girl had brushed her long fair curls back from her face, and they fell over the cushions in rich luxuriance, a feverish color was on her cheeks, lighting up her loveliness, and her whole appearance was so pretty, so singularly childlike, as she lay there, that it seemed impossible, even then, that she could have anything in common with the trouble that oppressed Elizabeth.

Elizabeth stood for a long time regarding her, and many changes passed over her face as she did so, but they all settled into a look of determination, and she turned away. Whatever was to be borne she would endure alone; she would keep her promise to the very letter. If ruin and disgrace came they should fall on her alone. Why attempt to involve that fair young creature in it?

She went to a cabinet in the corner of the room, opened a little drawer and took out a package of letters. They were those her husband had written to her during his long absence.

She drew an easy-chair near to the sofa and sat down, with her face turned towards Elsie, opened one or two of the epistles and read passages from them. One of the pages ran thus:

"Whatever may happen, no matter how long my absence may be protracted, I know that you will take care of Elsie. If the worst should happen—if death should surprise me in this far-off land, I know that you will fulfil for me the promise I made my dying mother, and be a parent to that desolate girl.

"Forgive me if I pain you by writing so sadly. I do not believe that any misfortune will happen to me; something tells me that I shall reach home in safety, and find love and happiness once more awaiting me there.

"But the charge I have in Elsie's future is always present to my mind. I never can forget the words that my dying mother spoke; they are with me night and day, and have been since the hour when they died on her pallid lips.

"It rejoices my heart to think how different from most girls our little Elsie is. If any harm were to reach her I think I should go mad; disgrace to one whose blood was kindred to that in my veins would kill me. You may think this pride a weakness, but it is too deeply rooted in my nature ever to be eradicated. When I look about the world and see girls disgracing themselves by improper marriages, elopements, often social crimes, which must blight their lives and those of all connected with them, I think what I should do under such circumstances.

"Elizabeth, I could not endure it. You are my wife; I love you more deeply than you know of; but I tell you that I could better bear sorrow which came to me through my wife, than the weakness or dishonor of one who claimed my name by right of birth. It is an inherited pride, which has, I know, come down from father to son, and will go with me through life.

"But Elsie is safe—in your hands quite safe. I rest upon that thought. I remember her loveliness, her innocence, her sweet childish ways, and I am at peace again, knowing that you will care for her."

* * * * *

This was the letter Grantley Mellen had written during his long exile, and his wife sat reading it in the presence of that sleeping girl.

After a time Elizabeth folded up the letters, kissed them passionately, and laid them away.

"Perhaps it is the last time," she murmured. "The last time! I must not think of it. Oh, my God, how will this day pass?"

She began walking up and down the rooms again, treading softly that she might not disturb Elsie's slumber. This time her movements had some purpose. She went into her dressing-room, took her riding dress from a wardrobe and hastened to put it on. She grew cold, and her poor hands shivered as she drew on her gauntlet gloves, and tied the veil over her hat. In passing through the next room, the unhappy woman lingered a moment to look on that sleeping girl, and her soul filled itself with the cruel desolation of this thought.

"He will not feel it so very much when it is only me on whom disgrace falls," she thought, with mournful satisfaction. "For her at least I shall have done my best. I have struggled so hard to keep the fair creature he loves from harm. When I am swept from his path, like a black cloud that had no silver lining for him, he will be happy with her. I ought to be comforted by this. Yet, oh, my God! my God! this thought alone makes the worst of my misery. They will be so happy, and without me!"

In passing down stairs Elizabeth met Dolf, moving dejectedly up from the basement story where Vic had so maliciously disturbed his love making. He stood aside to make room for his mistress, who addressed him in her usual calm fashion.

"Go to the stables," she said, "and order my groom to bring Gipsy round; he need not trouble himself to attend me. I shall ride alone."

Dolf hurried down the hall, and his mistress went into her little sitting-room, opened her desk and wrote some words on a slip of paper which she folded and thrust under the gauntlet of her glove. Then she stood by the window watching till her horse was brought round.

He came at last, a light graceful animal, so full of life, that he fairly danced upon the gravel, and flung the sunshine from his arched neck with the grace of a wild gazelle. He whinnied a little, and put out his head for a tribute of sugar, which Bessie always gave him before she mounted the saddle. But she had nothing of the kind for him now; scarcely touching the groom's hand with her foot, she sprang upon his back and rode slowly away, turning him upon the turf which was like velvet, and gave back no sound. Thus, with an appearance of indolent leisure, she passed out of sight.

There was nothing remarkable in this. Elizabeth had been in the habit of riding around the estate, without escort, during the two years in which her husband had been absent, so the groom went back to his work and thought no more of the matter.

Elizabeth rode forward, without any appearance of excitement, until a grove of trees concealed her from the house; then she put her horse upon the road, and ran him at the top of his speed to the edge of the village.

Once among houses she rode on leisurely again, and stopped at the post office to enquire for letters,—getting down from her horse, an unusual thing with her. There was a telegraph station connected with the post office, and while the man was searching his mail, she took the slip of paper from her glove, and laid it with some money before the operator.