The telegram was directed to that hotel near the Battery, which has already been described.



CHAPTER LVII.

KITCHEN GOSSIP.

The day was passing—that long, terrible day—in which the moments seemed to lengthen themselves into hours, while with every one the gloom about the old house deepened and pressed more heavily down.

Grantley Mellen was in his library still, it had been a busy day with him; it appeared as if every creature within reach who could invent a plea of business had chosen that time to trouble him with it.

He was alone at last, and that was well; he was literally incapable of enduring any farther self-restraint.

He rang the bell and gave strict orders to Dolf:

"Let no one else in to-day; I have letters to write; I will not see another human being."

Dolf bowed himself out, and took his way to the lower regions, to communicate to Clo and Victoria the commands his master had given. Those three servants kept themselves aloof from the few others employed for tasks which they considered too menial for the dignity of their position, and these gaping youths and girls were strictly forbidden to enter the apartment in which Clo had installed herself.

They were perfectly well aware, those three sable dignitaries, that something was wrong in the house; servants always do know when anything out of the common routine happens, and no pretence can blind their watchful eyes.

"Marster says he won't see nobody more," said Dolf, as he entered the room where Clo was rolling out her pie-crust, and Victoria busily occupied in watching her.

"I wonder what's come over 'em all," said Vic. "Der's missus was a walkin' up an' down like a crazy woman—"

"She didn't eat no breakfast," interrupted Dolf, "an' she never teched a thing yesterday; now she's just done gone out a riden' all alone."

"An' Miss Elsie stretched out on de sofa, lookin' as if she'd cried her pretty eyes out," went on Victoria. "Says she's got a headache—go 'long; tell dat to blind folks! It's my 'pinion der's more heart-ache under dem looks dan anythin' else."

"Dat's jis' what I tink," assented Dolf.

Clorinda, from her station at the pastryboard, gave a sniff of doubtful meaning, tossed her head till her frizzed locks shook, brought her rolling-pin down on the board with great energy, and remained silent for the express purpose of being questioned.

"What does yer tink 'bout it, Miss Clorindy?" asked Dolf.

Vic looked a little spiteful at hearing this appeal to Clo, but she was so anxious for anybody's opinion, that for once she forgot to quarrel.

"I tinks what I tink," said Clo, with another toss of her head and an extra flourish of the rolling-pin.

"Oh!" said Dolf, quite discomfited.

"Jis' so," said Clorinda.

"Any pusson could have guessed dat ar," put in Victoria, in an irritated way; "yer needn't make sich a mysteriousness."

"I shall make a mysteriousness or shall luff it alone, jis' as I tink best," retorted Clo, "so yer needn't go a meddlin' wid my dumplin', Miss Vic, 'cause yer'll git yer fingers burnt if yer does."

"Don't wanter meddle wid nothin' that recerns you," cried Vic, jumping at the prospect of a quarrel, since there was nothing to be gained by amicable words.

"Jis' give me any of yer sarse," said Clo, "and I'll mark yer face smash wid dis ere dough, now I tells ye?"

"Don't lay a finger on me, cause I won't stand it," shrieked Vic; "yer a cross ole, ole—dat's what's de matter."

"Go 'long 'bout yer business," shouted Clo, shaking her rolling-pin in a threatening rage. "Dis ere's de housekeeper's room, an' yer hain't no business here."

"Much business as you has, I guess; yer ain't housekeeper as I knows on; yer only potwasher anyhow."

"Missus telled me to use dis room for makin' pies and cakes in till she got anoder housekeeper, an' I'se gwine ter."

"I don't keer if she did, dat don't make yer housekeeper any more'n stolen feathers makes a jackdaw an eagle."

"Now, ladies, ladies!" pleaded Dolf, fearful of the extent to which the tempest might reach if not checked in time. "Don't let us conflusticate dese little seasons of union by savagerousnesses; don't, I beg."

"Den her leave me alone," sniffled Vic.

"Larn dat gal ter keep a civil tongue in her yaller head if yer want peace an' composion," said Clo.

"Dat ar's religion wid a vengeance," cried Vic; "a callin' names is pretty piety, ain't it! I'll jis' see what Elder Brown says ter dat ar de bery next time I sees him."

"Oh, yes!" said Clo, contemptuous; "yer allers glad ob a 'casion ter gabble! How's a pusson gwine ter hab religion when dey's persecuted by sich a born debil; wurs 'en dem in de scripture as was worrying de swine."

"Laws!" said Vic, with a vicious sneer, "was yer roun wid dat drove 'bout dat time."

"I'll drove yer," cried Clo.

But Dolf interposed again, and luckily Clo's nostrils detected the odor of burning pie-crust, and she rushed into the kitchen to see if the girl had allowed her pastry to burn.

Dolf took that opportunity to soothe the angry Victoria, and succeeded admirably.

"Now, Miss Clorindy," said Dolf, when she had relieved her feelings by abusing Sally for her carelessness about the pies, and was once more tranquilly occupied with her work; "now, Miss Clorindy, jis' glorify us wid yer 'pinion 'bout de 'fairs ob dis dwellin' which we has all noticed is more mysteriouser dan is pleasant."

"I ain't gwine ter talk, jis' ter be snapped up like a beetle by a Shanghai," said Clo; "shan't do it, nohow."

Dolf winked at Victoria, and the artful maiden condescended to mollify her fellow servant.

"Now don't be cross, Clo," said she, "it's bad enough ter hab conflictions above stairs widout us a mussin'."

"Dem's my sentiments," cried Dolf, "and I knows fair Miss Clorinda 'grees wid dem—she coincidates, if yer'll 'scuse the leetle bit ob dictionery."

Victoria made a grimace behind Clo's back, but said, graciously:

"I'se gwine ter gib yer dat ar blue handkercher Miss Elsie gub me, Clo," she said, "so now let's make up and be comfoble."

"I don't want ter fight," replied Clo, "'taint my way—only I knows my persition and I 'spects ter be treated 'cording."

The handkerchief was something Clo had coveted for a long time, and the gift quite restored her good-humor.

"Dat's as it orter be," said 'Dolf. "Peace and harmony once more prewails, and we's here like—like—de Happy Family as used ter be at Barnum's Museum," he added, finding a comparison at length, and quite unconscious of its singular appropriateness.

"I'se gwine to mend dis tablecloth," said Vic, "and I'll set here to do it—when I go upstairs I'll git yer the hankercher, Clo."

"Oh! laws," said Clo, "yer want it yerself—don't be a givin' away yer truck."

"I'd ruther yer had it," observed Vic, "blue's allers becoming to yer, ain't it, Mr. Dolf?"

She made another grimace, unseen by Clorinda, which nearly sent Dolf into fits, but he restrained his merriment, and answered with the gravity of a judge:

"Miss Clorindy overcomes whatever she puts on, but since yer wishes my honest 'pinion, I must say I tink blue's about de proper touch fur her."

Clo grew radiant with delight, but she worked away resolutely, only observing:

"Victy, dar's a leetle cranberry tart I jis' tuk out ob de oben—it's on de kitchen table—I 'spect we might as well eat it, cause 'taint big enough to go on de table."

"I'll fotch it," cried Dolf; "to sarve de fair is my priv'lege."

He darted into the kitchen, bore off the tart from before Sally's envious eyes, and closed the door so that she could not be regaled even with a scent of the delicacy.

"I've jis' done gone now," said Clo, "so I'll rest a leetle afore I 'gins dinner. I'll jis' taste de tart to see ef it's good—it kinder eases my mind like."

"In course it does," said Dolf, and he cut the tart into four pieces, having an idea that the last slice would revert to him in the end.

They ate the pie and talked amicably over it, while in the end Dolf received the extra piece by earnestly pressing it on his companions, who in turn insisted upon his eating it himself.

"Mebby Sally'd like a taste," he said, virtuously.

"Sally, 'deed no!" cried Clo. "It's nuff fur her ter see such tings widout eatin' 'em—a lazy, good-fur-notin' piece."

"Den ter 'blige yer I'll dispose of it," said Dolf, and he did so in just three mouthfuls.

"If yer wants my 'pinion 'bout what's gwine on," said Clo, suddenly, as she rose to pile up the dishes she had been using preparatory to making poor Sally wash them in the kitchen; "it's jis' dis yer! Dis trouble's all missus!"

"Missus!" repeated Vic.

"Now what does yer mean?" cried Dolf.

Clo nodded her head several times with gravity and precision.

"Yes, missis," she repeated, with the firmness of a person who meant what she said, and was fully prepared to defend her opinion.

"What's come over her?" asked Vic.

"Dat's jis' it," returned Clo; "now you've hit it prezact—yer might talk a week, Victy, and not come inter de pint agin."

Victoria looked at Dolf, and he looked at her, but, however convincing her own words might have seemed to Clorinda, there was nothing to throw any light upon their minds.

"Yer's repeatin' wid yer usual knowledge," said Dolf, softly, "but can't yer sperficate a leetle more clear."

"Mr. Dolf," said Clorinda, rolling up her eyes 'till only the whites were visible, "when I lives in a house de secrets ob dat house is locked in my bussom—"

"But ter feller domestics," put in artful Dolf.

"Jis' 'mong us," said Vic.

"I know, I feels dat, and so I speak," replied Clo. "I ain't gwine ter say Miss Mellen is a favoright ob mine, 'cause she ain't—but she's my missus. Her ways isn't my ways, dat's all I says, and I hain't recustomed to bein' brung up so sharp roun' de corners as is her way ter do."

"Tain't ter be 'spected," said Dolf.

"Mebby 'tis and mebby 'tisn't," returned Clorinda; "I only says I ain't recustomed to it, dat's all."

"But what do yer tinks happened ter her ter put 'em all in sich a to-do?" questioned Victoria.

"I ain't prepared ter say ezzactly," replied Clo, "but I tink she's gwine crossways wid marster and dat lubly angel, Miss Elsie. Dar's a syrup fur ye! She nebber gubs a pusson orders widout eben lookin' at 'em—she ain't so high and mighty dat de ground ain't good 'nuff for her ter walk on! Not but what missus a mighty fine woman—she steps off like a queen, and I tell yer when she's dressed der ain't many kin hold a candle ter her, and as fur takin' de shine off, wal, I'd jis' like ter see anybody do dat."

"It's all true," said Dolf, "as true as preachin'!"

"Mr. Dolf," said Clo, gravely, "don't take dem seriousnesses so lightsome on yer lips."

"I won't," said Dolf, humbly, "I begs ter 'polegise—yer see in gazing 'bout de world a gemman 'quires some parts ob speech as seems keerless, but dey don't come from de heart."

"I'se glad dey don't," observed Clorinda, "bery glad, Mr. Dolf."

"But what do yer tink missus has done?" demanded Victoria.

Such a straightforward question was rather a puzzler to Clorinda, so she answered with a stately air:

"Der's questions I couldn't answer eben ter my most intemancies—don't press it, Victy."

Victoria's big eyes began to roll wildly in their sockets; she was astonished to find that Clo had for some time seen that things were going wrong, when the fact had escaped her own observation, and, for the first time in the course of their acquaintance, she felt a sort of respect for her usual foe but temporary ally.

"Does yer tink dey's quarr'ling?" she asked.

"When I hears thunder," said Clo, sententiously, "I allers takes it there's a storm brewin'."

Vic looked more puzzled than ever, and Dolf was not much better off, though he tried to appear full to the brim with wisdom and sagacity.

"Yer 'members the night missus lost her bracelet, Mr. Dolf?" asked Clo.

"I does bery well."

"When missus bemeaned herself to shout out at me as if I'd been a sarpint," cried Clo, viciously. "Wal, if ever I see thunder I seed it in marster's face dat ar night!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Victoria, bundling up her work, "if you and Mr. Dolf has got secrets to talk ober, I'd better go 'way."

"Who's a destryin' the harmony now?" shouted Clo. "It's raal sinful, Victory, to give way to temper like you does."

"Oh, dat's all fine 'nuff. But I don't wish to stand in nobody's way. I'd better take my work upstairs."

"Set still, set still, Miss Victory," urged Dolf. "Der's no secret. We shall have de uttermost pleasure in making you 'quainted wid de pint in question."

Clorinda did not look altogether pleased with his eagerness to explain; she rather liked Victoria to suppose there was a secret between Dolf and herself; it seemed like paying off old scores, and though in a friendly mood, Clorinda was a woman still.

"'Splain or not, jis' as yer please," said Vic, tossing her head, viciously, "it's quite 'material to me."

But Dolf gave a voluble account of what his master and mistress had said and done the night the bracelet was lost, and ornamented the conversation beautifully, calling on Clorinda to set him right if he erred, and the points where Clo most loudly expressed her approval as being the exact words spoken, were those Dolf embroidered most highly.

"Why, dar goes marster now," exclaimed Victoria, suddenly. "He's gwine out to walk."

They all rushed to the window to look, as if there had been something wonderful in the sight, and just then Sally rushed in with a cry:

"The soup's bilin' over, Clo; come—quick!"



CHAPTER LVIII.

THE INTERCEPTED TELEGRAM.

That afternoon confinement in the house became so irksome to Grantley Mellen that he could support it no longer, so he put on his hat and hurried out into the grounds.

Upon one point his mind was fully made up. The clue to the mystery appeared to be in his hands; he would follow it out to the end now—he would know the worst. If this woman had wronged him he resolved to sweep her out of his life, even as he had done that false one in years gone by.

That thought drove him nearly mad, it recalled that writing. Should it prove the same! If this man had a second time thrust himself into his life to blacken it with his treachery and hate! Terrible words died, half uttered, on Mellen's lips, his face was fairly livid with passion, a loathing and a hatred which only blood could wipe out.

Below the house the lawn and gardens led away into a grove, and towards its gloom Mellen mechanically directed his steps under the cold, gray sky. A chill wind was blowing up from the water, but he did not observe it; in the fever which consumed him the air seemed absolutely stifling, and he hurried on, increasing its excess by rapid movements.

He was in the grove, walking up and down, with no settled purpose, striving only to escape those maddening thoughts which still clung to him.

The wind was shaking the few remaining leaves from the trees and blowing them about in rustling dreariness, the frosts had already touched the grass and ferns, and though the place on a bright day would still have been lovely, it looked bare and melancholy enough under that frowning sky.

"It is like my life," muttered Mellen; "like my life, with an added blackness coming up beyond."

Then his mood changed; again that fierce passion swept over his face, leaving it dangerous and terrible.

"If that woman has deceived me," he cried aloud, "this time I will have no mercy! She shall taste her degradation to the very dregs; there is no depth of shame through which I will not drag her, though I ruin my own soul in doing it! But it can't be! it can't be! It were death to believe it! Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!"

Every tender feeling of his nature went out in that last agonizing cry. For the first time he realised all that this woman had been to him, how completely she had woven herself with his life, and what a terrible blank it would become if he were forced to tear her from it.

He made an effort to check those black thoughts, to invent excuses; he was almost inclined to rush into the house, beg for the truth and promise pardon in advance. Then he called himself a weak fool for the idea that any excuse was possible.

"I will wait—I have the clue—it will all be made clear soon. I will wait."

He clenched his hands with a groan that was half anguish, half rage, and hurried more swiftly into the depths of the woods.

He came out upon a little eminence, from whence he could look down on the paths and avenues leading towards the house, though the dwelling itself was hidden by the thick growth of trees.

Along the high road he saw his wife riding at full speed toward the woods, through which she passed with weary slowness, walking her horse homeward, and looking anxiously down upon his reeking sides, and smoothing his neck with her hand, as if troubled by those signs of hard riding.

Where had the woman been? What deception was she practising now?

Mellen could see his wife's face plainly—for she passed near him quite unconsciously. It was pale and wild with the fear of a hunted animal.

"Traitoress!" he muttered between his teeth, "she thinks to evade me."

He watched the slow progress of Gipsy as she walked toward the house, taking the lawn, evidently because her rider feared to give warning of her expedition by the sound of hoofs on the beaten track. He saw Elizabeth dismount unaided, and go wearily into the house.

Where had she been?

Over and over Mellen asked himself this question, as he sat minute after minute, pondering over the most bitter thoughts that ever haunted a man's brain.

It might have been an hour after, when he saw a man coming up from the direction of the village, walking forward with great rapid strides. Instantly his suspicions fell upon this new object. He was always keen-sighted enough, but just then the thought in his mind made his vision still quicker and more clear.

Without pausing for an instant's reflection he darted down the hill—as he approached the figure it disappeared. On into the woods Mellen followed the intruder, and before he could look around grasped his arm with a clutch so firm that there was no shaking it off.

"Rascal!" he cried, "what are you doing here? Answer me, or I'll shake you to pieces!"

The man struggled violently, but Mellen was like a giant in his passion, and swung him to and fro as if he had been a child.

"Let me alone!" cried the man. "I ain't a doing no harm!"

"What are you prowling about my house for, then? Do you know that I am master here? I shall take you indoors, and keep you till I can send for a constable. Take care, no resistance; what is your business here?"

"I wasn't prowling round," pleaded the man, gasping for breath in Mellen's hard grasp; "I thought these woods was public property."

"Then you shall be taught. You had some errand here—speak out, or by the Lord I'll kill you!"

"Don't—don't! You're choking me!" groaned the wretch.

"Then speak! What are you doing here—whom do you want to see?"

"Just let me go and I'll tell you," pleaded his prisoner. "I can't speak while you're throttling me."

Mellen loosened his grasp on the man's throat, but still held him fast. His hold had been a fearful one—the man was actually breathless.

"Will you speak now?" he demanded, with terrible menace in his voice.

The man began to breathe more freely; but, though shaking with fear, he answered sullenly:

"I hain't got nothin' to tell; I was going to the house yonder, and took a short cut through here."

"What business have you at the house? Tell me the truth, for I will know."

The man could both see and feel that he was in horrible earnest; he might easily have supposed himself in the power of an insane man—and for the moment Mellen was little better.

"How do I know that you have a right to ask?" questioned the man.

"I am the master of that house. Now will you speak?"

"Yes," faltered the man, "I'll tell you. It's a telegram that I was carrying to the lady; nothing wrong in that I hope."

"No harm, certainly; give the telegram to me. I will deliver it."

The man gave up the telegram. The envelope which contained it was sealed, but Mellen tore it open without a moment's hesitation. Even as he unfolded the paper, his hand faltered—in the very height of his rage he could not think of the woe its contents might bring, without a sharp pang.

He read it slowly, standing there motionless, unable, at first, to take in the full extent of his crushing anguish. "Have no fear. I will be at the old spot, prompt to help you. All shall be prepared."

This was the telegram. There was no signature—it needed none. Mellen knew only too well who the writer was, knew it as thoroughly as he did the woman for whom it was intended.

For a full half hour Grantley Mellen was a madman. The fever and the insanity passed at length; he lay upon the ground, staring up at the cold sky, the telegram still clutched in one hand, the other dug deeply into the earth, in a wild conflict of passion that shook him to the soul. He raised himself and looked about; it seemed as if he had been suffering in a fearful dream—he glanced down at the paper—that brought conviction back.

He sat there for a long time revolving vague plans in his mind, and deciding upon the course he would pursue.

"Meet craft with craft," he muttered; "their own evil weapons."

He rose from the ground, arranged his dress, and walked towards the house.

"Not a sign, not a word which can betray," he said aloud. "I will meet her with a duplicity equal to her own,—wait—a little longer—only a little longer."

He walked towards the house, and again Victoria called out to her companions:

"Here comes marster as fast as fast can be."

But Clorinda's thoughts were now centred upon her dinner, and she had no time even for gossip.

"Get away from dat window and go 'bout your work," cried the dark spinster, austerely; "what hev yer got to do wid de marster's outgoin's or incomin's? Beat dese eggs into a foam rite off, for I'se in a hurry. Mr. Dolf puts one back so."

Victoria cast one more glance through the window, for the wild agony on her master's face rather alarmed her. But Clorinda called out in a voice so shrill that it was not to be disregarded, and she was constrained to undertake the task assigned her without more delay.



CHAPTER LIX.

FORCED HOSPITALITY.

While Mellen stood on the veranda in front of the house, Mr. Rhodes came up the avenue. There was no hope of escape for him; he had not perceived the visitor until it was too late to retreat, and a voice called out:

"Oh, there you are, old fellow; I'm in luck after all. You see I walked over to my farm on the back road," he explained, "intending to take the half-past three train to New York, but I missed it. So I said to myself, 'I'll cut across the fields, down the hill, and stop at Mellen's, beg a dinner, and get him to send me over in time for the five o'clock train'—wasn't a bad idea, eh?"

"A very good idea on the contrary," Mellen answered, with a desperate attempt at hospitality, while the visitor wrung his hand again and burst into shouts of laughter, as if some wonderfully good joke lay in the affair. "And how is your good lady?" he asked. "And the pretty little sister—quite well, eh?"

"Tolerably so," Mellen answered; "complains of headache and that sort of thing."

He conducted his guest into the library, and meeting Dolf in the hall, directed him to inform his mistress of the arrival.

Mellen made an effort to be civil though the man was tiresome in the extreme; perhaps it was better to endure his society than to meet his wife that day without the restraint of a stranger's presence.

Indeed, without some of those social restraints to which all men are more or less slaves, it is doubtful if Mellen could have appeared so perfectly calm. As it was, the fire that consumed him raged unseen. Dolf carried his message upstairs, where it was received with a little shriek from Elsie, and blank dismay on the part of Elizabeth.

"I can't go down," she said; "Elsie, you must take my place at the table. Say that I am ill, fainting, anything."

"Indeed, I'll do nothing of the sort," returned Elsie; "if you don't go down I shall stay with you. I am nervous as I can be, and if you are not at the table I shall break down completely."

The girl was full of selfishness to the very last—not willing to yield her comfort in the slightest particular, but Elizabeth only sighed as she observed it, and said, quietly:

"After all, it is just as well—change your dress, Elsie."

These two women commenced the duties of a dinner toilet with heavy hearts, scarcely heeding what they put on.

But when the dinner hour approached, they entered the drawing-room together and almost smiling, Elsie looking exquisitely pretty in her dark blue silk, with those bright ringlets floating about her shoulders; her volatile spirits were already rising at the idea of an escape from that shadowy chamber where she had dragged through the day.

Elizabeth was calm and self-possessed as ever. To a casual observer she looked pale, but her heavy black dress might account for that, and the delicate contrast it gave to her complexion made amends for any lack of bloom.

Mellen sat watching her while she greeted Mr. Rhodes, and listened patiently to his labored compliments.

"Is she stone—ice?" he thought. "Is there no touch of nature about her that she can be so calm?"

If the man could have read her mind, he might have pitied her even in the midst of his anger and fearful doubts. What she suffered in putting that terrible restraint upon herself was almost beyond the power of belief; but woman-like, having formed her resolution, not all the tortures of the rack could have driven her from it.

Elsie had seated herself on a low stool at her brother's feet; he sat absently playing with her curls, and looking moodily into the fire, but he had no words even for her, though she tempted him with rather mournful smiles. But he had been so silent and sullen by times during the past week, that there was not change enough in his manner to be at all perceptible.

Sometimes Elizabeth glanced over at the pair, and then some sharp pain contracted her brows, but there was no other appearance of emotion; she would control even that instantly, and bending her head once more, listen patiently to her persecutor's verbiage.

Dolf announced dinner, and the party passed into the dining-room, Mr. Rhodes honoring the hostess with his arm. As Mellen and his sister followed, Elizabeth heard Elsie whisper in a low voice:

"Grant, dear, you are not cross with me?"

In the midst of Mr. Rhodes's uproarious laugh at one of his own jokes, she caught Mellen's answer:

"Never, darling, never! You are my one comfort—my only blessing."

With her head more proudly erect, a faint crimson beginning to burn on her cheeks, Elizabeth Mellen walked on and took her seat at the table, appearing so completely engrossed in Mr. Rhodes's conversation that she did not once meet her husband's eye.

To all but the guest, that dinner seemed interminable, but Mr. Rhodes was so busy with the delicacies Clorinda's skillful hands had prepared, and so full of himself, that he was in a perfect glow of content.

The lights danced before Elizabeth's eyes, every morsel she ate was swallowed with a pang, the wine was like a bitter drug on her lips, yet there she sat in patient endurance.

Occasionally Mellen glanced towards her, and her composure sent such a thrill of rage through his soul, that it was with difficulty he could keep from springing up and overwhelming her with the discovery he had made, on the spot.

The dinner was over at last, but tedious as it had seemed to Elizabeth, she would gladly have prolonged it: anything to lengthen the hours; to keep afar off the stillness of the night, when she must undertake that to which she had doomed herself.

But she would not think of that; she dared not; madness lay so near the dismal reflection that it must be swept from her mind.

They dragged through the evening; Elizabeth played cribbage with Mr. Rhodes, and Elsie gave snatches of desultory music at the piano; every time her fresh young voice rang out in joyous song Elizabeth started, as if an unseen dagger had struck her to the heart.

"You will all come and pass a day with us before long, I hope," Mr. Rhodes said, with exuberant hospitality, when the time came at last to order the carriage for his departure.

Elizabeth only answered with a wan smile. She could hardly stand. Mellen accompanied his visitor through the hall, and the instant they disappeared Elizabeth started for the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Elsie.

"To my room; I can't bear this."

"I'll go—"

"No, no, not yet; stay awhile, for heaven's sake let me rest alone one moment." She staggered through the dining-room and was gone; when Mellen entered the library again, Elsie sat alone by the fire, teasing the cat, looking cheerfully pretty and childlike.



CHAPTER LX.

WAITING FOR THE HOUR.

The clock in Elizabeth's dressing-room had struck eleven, but there she sat desolately looking into the fire, just as she had sunk into her chair on first entering the chamber.

She heard her husband and Elsie ascend the stairs a full hour before, but Mr. Mellen went straight on towards his own apartments. He had not entered hers since the day the bracelet was found; she knew well that he would not intrude upon her then.

For two long hours she had been alone with her dismal thoughts, no sound broke the stillness, save the monotonous ticking of the clock or an occasional sob and moan from the half spent wind without.

There was too much anxiety and agony in her mind for any of the nervous terrors which had haunted her during the day. Then, as she thought what the coming of the night would bring her, the heart in her bosom shuddered. Now it stood still and seemed hardening into iron. If some spirit had appeared with an articulate warning, she could not have been more convinced that exposure and ruin were approaching her with rapid strides. She would do her best, but that, she knew in her innermost soul, would lead to destruction. She looked back on the past weeks, and tried to remember if her plans had failed through her own weakness.

Before Mellen's return it had seemed possible to carry them out, to bury the past utterly, and build a new palace of hope on its grave, but they had all failed. It was not her fault, she had borne up as bravely as any woman could have done under the circumstances, had been as circumspect and guarded as it was possible to be, but from the moment of his inopportune arrival, some untoward event had occurred to thwart every project she had endeavered to carry out for her own salvation.

"It is fate," she muttered, in a cold whisper; "it is fate! Oh, my God, help me, help me, for I have yet a right to pray!"

No, even the consolations of prayer were denied this most wretched woman; the words seemed to freeze upon her lips; she could only moan in that broken whisper:

"My God, help me, help me!"

As she sat there, the door opened and Elsie softly entered the apartment. She had taken off her evening-dress, and put on a loose white wrapper, and over that had thrown a crimson shawl, which made the pallor that had come over her face still more apparent.

There was no light in the chamber except that given by the fire.

Elizabeth had extinguished the lamps; the gloom and the shadows befitted her mournful thoughts.

"Bessie, Bessie?" called Elsie, unable at first to distinguish any object in the half light. "Are you there?"

"Here I am," was the hoarse answer; "come in."

"I was so afraid to be alone with Grant," continued Elsie; "I felt as if I should scream every moment."

"What did he say to you; what did my husband talk about?"

"Oh, nothing in particular; he said very little; he did not even ask where you were. I told him you had gone to bed with a headache, but he did not seem to hear. He sat and looked in the fire, as if he were reading something in the red hot coals; after a long time he asked me if I loved him, and kissed my forehead. That was all."

Elizabeth struck her hands hard together, choked back the groan which rose to her lips, and sat gazing into the fire, as if she too read something terrible in the scarlet caverns which were breaking up and forming in its midst.

"I'm so cold," shivered Elsie; "there isn't half enough coal in the grate."

Cold! The chill had crept into Elizabeth's very soul which no power of hers could warm, and close to her that weak creature crouched, moaning out her petty complaints!

Even then, up to the last, while the glittering hands of the clock were seen in the firelight, creeping swiftly over the dial, and its solemn tick measured off the awful minute on which Elizabeth had agreed with her own soul to go forth on her terrible errand, the wretched woman was compelled to pause in that dim chamber, worse than dead herself, to comfort and soothe the creature who lay like a wounded fawn on the hearth.

"What time is it, Bessie?"

She raised herself and looked at the clock.

"Half-past eleven," answered Elizabeth, solemnly. "My hour has come!"

"I thought it was later," groaned Elsie. "Will it never be morning?"

"Soon enough," whispered Elizabeth, "soon enough."

"I wonder if Grant has gone to bed; I asked him if he was sleepy, and he—"

"Well?"

"Oh, he only gave a queer sort of laugh, and said, 'Sensible people always are sleepy when it comes bedtime.'"

Elizabeth had said truly her hour had come, but she could not go yet; she must wait until all danger of discovery was over—stand there breathless while her husband forgot her and her agony in peaceful sleep. They were both silent for a time, then Elsie began to shiver again, like some young bird lost from its nest in a storm.

"Oh, if it would only come morning!"

"Soon enough, soon enough," repeated Elizabeth, as before.

"Do talk to me; I shall die if you don't!"

"What can I say, child? I can only wait—wait."

"Wait! What do you mean? Oh, I know—I know!"

The girl broke off with a more violent shudder and buried her face in her hands.

"What made you remind me?" she cried. "I shall go crazy now. Bessie! Bessie!"

But this time, when the girl clung to her, Elizabeth removed her hands, not impatiently, but with quiet firmness.

"You must control yourself," she said. "I have upon me all that I can bear now. Be still, Elsie!"

"I will! I will!" she sobbed. "Oh, wouldn't it be better to be dead?"

"Better! Yes, a thousand times; but it is not easy to die."

Elsie checked her sobs again, and caught at the hope with which she had sustained herself all day.

"This is the last of it," she said; "this night once safely over, and there is an end."

"One way or the other," muttered Elizabeth.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing—nothing."

It was worse than useless, to agitate the girl's weakness afresh with fears that lay so deep in her own mind. Whichever way the end came, Elsie was safe. Was the creature thinking that as she shut her eyes and leaned more closely against her sister?

"Yes, it will be all safe then," she went on. "The money is paid; we shall have the papers; there is nothing more to fear."

Elizabeth did not answer; she allowed her to think that the danger from that quarter was removed. It could do no good to fill her mind with added fears.

"There is the wind again!" cried Elsie. "Oh, if it would only stop!"

The sound recalled all that lay in the coming hours, and she was unnerved again.

"You are not frightened, are you, Bessie?" she asked.

"I suppose not; there is nothing to fear."

"To be alone with him and—and—Oh, I ought to go with you; I'll try—I'll try."

At that late hour some remorse woke in her mind for her unsisterly selfishness, but Elizabeth said very kindly:

"You will stay here; you could do no good."

"But I shall go mad while you are gone."

"You must get into bed again."

"How long shall you be away?"

"I can't tell. Stop—don't talk about it. I shall go through with it all; let me alone till then."

Elsie writhed to and fro in hysterical weakness.

"You must be quiet," Elizabeth said. "Suppose he should hear you?"

"Grant? Oh, I'll be still—I'll be still as death."

"What time is it?" Elsie asked again.

"Almost twelve; the clock will strike in a moment."

"How much longer shall you wait?" asked the girl in a whisper. "Did he answer your telegram?"

"I did not expect that he would, there was too much danger in it. But hush, I must discover if he is asleep."

"Grantley?"

"Yes."

"What was that noise?" Elizabeth exclaimed suddenly.

"I heard nothing," Elsie answered, lifting her head and allowing it to fall again on her sister's knee.

"It sounded like a step in the hall," said Elizabeth.

"It was only your fancy," returned Elsie. "This house is as still as the grave."

Elizabeth rose from her chair and walked to the window.

"You are not going?" cried Elsie.

"No; I only want to look. Be still!"

Elsie cowered down on the rug and muffled herself more closely in her shawl, lying quite still, with a sort of comfort in the feeling of warmth which began to creep over her.

Elizabeth pushed back the heavy curtains and looked out into the night. A stream of dim, silvery radiance shot into the room, and played like rippling water over the floor.

Elsie half started to her feet with a cry.

"What is that? What is that?"

"The moon is up," said Elizabeth, simply.

Elsie laid her head down again, Elizabeth stood leaning her hands on the window-sill, looking straight before her.

The moonlight was peculiarly clear, and millions of stars shone forth with the diamond radiance seen only in a frosty night. Every object was visible. Hoar frost shone up whitely from the crisp grass of the lawn, and long black shadows were cast downward by the trees, shaken like drapery when the wind tossed the branches up and down.

From where Elizabeth stood she could look out over the withered flower-beds and into the thicket beyond.

Suddenly her eye caught sight of a man standing under the cypress tree, which rose up gloomy and dark, its branches waving slowly to and fro, looking, to her excited fancy like spectral hands that beckoned her forth to her doom.

She uttered a faint sound and strained her eyes towards it with a chill feeling of horror. Elsie was roused again by the noise, and asked, quickly:

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"What made you groan, then?"

"I am looking out," returned Elizabeth, in a low voice, leaning more heavily against the window for support, "he is there!"

"Come away, come away!" cried Elsie, muffling her face more closely in her shawl, as if to shut out some dreadful object. "Come back to the fire, Elizabeth, do!"

"Surely, if I can go out there to meet him," she said, "I have courage enough to look at the old tree."

Elsie only groaned anew. She sat upright and rested herself against the chair her sister had left.

"How does the night look, Bessie?" she asked, in a low, scared tone.

"The moonlight is so ghostly," returned Elizabeth; "it looks frightened. No wonder—no wonder!"

Elsie trembled more violently, but it seemed as if some power stronger than her own will forced her to continue these harassing questions.

"And the cypress, Bessie, how does it look?"

"Stern and dark—no wonder, sheltering him," cried Elizabeth. "It beckons to me; the branches look like giant arms tempting me to ruin. I must go—I must go!"

Her voice was little more than a whisper, but it sounded painfully sharp and distinct. Elsie buried her face in both hands, once more to shut out the images it conjured up.

"Come back!" she moaned; "Elizabeth, come back!"

"I must go. It is time."

"Wait—wait—just a moment! Don't go yet—don't leave me—I shall die here alone."

Elsie dragged herself along the floor to where Elizabeth stood, and caught her dress in a convulsive grasp.

"Wait a little—just a little?"

The very weakness of this girl seemed to give Elizabeth a sort of insane composure.

"Let go my dress," she said; "I must be gone."

"I can't stay here—I can't!"

"Be still—you must, and shall!"

She wrenched her garments from Elsie's hands, and the girl fell helplessly on the floor.

"Let me creep into bed first," she moaned; "I shall run mad if you leave me here. Oh, I'll go—I ought to go! What an unnatural creature I am! I'll go!"

"Don't talk—don't think—it is too late," whispered Elizabeth. "If you can pray, do it."

"I can't—I daren't! Help me up, Elizabeth—help me up."

But there was no response. Elizabeth was bending towards the window again, looking straight at the cypress tree; but the dread which had been in her face before was weak compared to the horror that convulsed it now.

"He is going there!" she cried, in an awful voice.

Elsie caught hold of her and raised herself so as to look out of the window.

"Who—who? What do you mean?"

"See—see!" continued Elizabeth. "Some one is creeping towards the cypress. He has a spade in his hand. Merciful God, it is too late!"

"Is it Grantley?" shrieked Elsie. "Is it Grantley?"

"There he goes! I told you I heard steps! My God! my God!"

She fell on her knees by the window, still staring out into the spectral light. Elsie gave one glance, saw her brother walking towards the cypress, and then sank back, unable to venture another look.



CHAPTER LXI.

THE MIDNIGHT SEARCH.

Alone in his room, Grantley Mellen had sat for hours with only stern thoughts for his companions, and they grew so black and fierce that the most terrible crisis would have been less hard to endure than that suspense.

He waited silent, immovable, till the last sound in the house died away; waited still for slumber to overtake every inmate of the dwelling, that he might carry out the plan he had formed.

He was going out to the cypress tree; he would discover if his wife's agitation, when he proposed digging about it, was in any way connected with the mystery which surrounded her. He believed that it was so, though in what manner it was impossible to divine. Perhaps there were letters hidden there—some condemning evidence against her which she had found no opportunity since his return to destroy. Whatever it was, he would discover it, drag it out, and with this fresh proof of her treachery in his hands, overwhelm her with a knowledge of her guilt.

He, too, sat watching the clock, counting the strokes as the hours sounded, but to him the time appointed did not arrive quickly. It seemed as if the hands scarcely moved; in his mad impatience he thought the appointed instant never would approach.

It was a terrible vigil that he kept; the strongest man could not for many hours have endured that strain of suspense, while tortured by such fiendish whispers as moaned in his ear.

The time came at last; the moonlight streamed pale and uncertain through the casement; no sound broke the stillness, even the wind had ceased its moaning. He could go forth now without fear of discovery.

He could go forth, but to what?

His very inability to form an idea of the discoveries he might make, increased the fever of his impatience. He could wait no longer—not a moment—not a second.

He opened the door and crept cautiously through the gallery, down stairs into the lower hall, undid the fastenings of the outer door and passed on to the veranda.

The garden tools were some of them in a closet in the area; he went down the steps, opened the door, took out a spade and hurried towards the cypress tree.

There he was, standing under the moaning branches, his head bare, digging wildly and aimlessly about the roots, peering at every lump of earth with his insane gaze, ready to believe that he had at last come upon that nameless thing for which he sought.

And while he dug furiously into the earth, Elizabeth Mellen knelt by the window-seat watching him; and Elsie lay upon the floor, so utterly prostrated that she could only cry out to Elizabeth at intervals in her sharp, discordant voice:

"Is he there yet—is he there?"

"Still there," she answered.

"What is he doing?"

"Digging, digging! He is on the wrong side of the tree."

Elsie gave a sigh of relief.

"No, no," continued Elizabeth; "he stops to throw the earth back—he is going farther round."

"Has he found the place—has he?"

"Not yet."

Elsie could not even groan; her breath came in quick gasps; her hands tore madly at the carpet, but Elizabeth leaned motionless against the window-sill, watching always with that strained gaze.

"Where is he now, Bessie?"

"He has not reached it—he is near! No! he is digging again—he has not found the place."

"If we could only stop him," cried Elsie, roused to new courage. "If I opened my window and called out."

"Too late, too late!"

"But he will find it—he will find it!"

"Then God help me, I can do no more!"

Elsie sprang up with another shriek.

"You'll tell—you'll tell! I know you will give way—and Grant will murder you—murder us all."

Elizabeth caught the frantic creature in her arms, and forced her back on the couch.

"Lie still," she said.

"Let me go, I say—let me go! I want to die—I won't live after he finds you out. I'll kill you, Elizabeth, if you don't let me go."

But Elizabeth held her firmly in spite of her insane struggles, crying out:

"It is nothing to you—you have no cause to fear. You are mad, mad! I tell you the trouble is mine; whatever comes falls on my head; be still, Elsie."

"You promise. Swear it—swear not to bring my name in."

"I have sworn and I will keep my oath," returned Elizabeth. "Disgrace, infamy, death—I will bear them all alone. What should I gain by dragging you down with me?"

She fell away from the girl as she spoke, but Elsie did not attempt to rise; she lay still now, exhausted by her recent violence, and reassured by Elizabeth's promise.

Again the woman leaned against the window-sill and looked out towards the tree. Mellen was at work still, more furiously than ever, throwing up great shovelsful of earth and dashing them down with frantic haste.

"Is he there yet?" called Elsie.

"Yes, yes! How he works—dig—dig—dig!"

She stopped suddenly: the silence raised wilder horror in Elsie's mind.

"Has he found it?"

"Not yet. He is standing still now, he is throwing the earth back."

"What now—what now?" called Elsie, when Elizabeth paused.

"He is looking about—he is puzzled. There is only that place left—he will miss it. The shadows are blackest there."

Another instant of intent watching, then a low cry.

"He is there—he is there!"

"Stop him!" shrieked Elsie. "Shout to him!"

Elizabeth whispered hoarsely:

"Too late! too late!"

"Is he digging?"

"Yes; wait—wait!"

She clutched the window-sill until her nails bent and broke against the woodwork.

"First on one side, then the other," she whispered. "He doesn't touch the right spot—I know it so well—night and day I have seen it——"

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

She never heeded the mad cry, pressed closer and closer to the window-frame, staring out as if every energy of her nature was centred in that gaze.

"He has not found it! He stops again—he throws down the spade! He is stamping on the ground. Oh! once more!"

Then another pause, and at last Elizabeth cried in the same sharp whisper:

"He is throwing the earth back—he turns away!"

"Saved! saved!" shrieked Elsie.

Elizabeth watched her husband's movements still. He stood for some moments in quiet, then walked about the tree; she could feel the baffled rage that shook him.

He turned away at last and disappeared around the corner of the house. Then Elizabeth sprang to her feet.

"Where are you going?" cried Elsie.

"Lie still—don't speak, on your life!"

She ran to the door and locked it, then threw herself down by the fire.

"He might come in and find us," she whispered.

Elsie crept across the floor again, seeking protection at her side. There they waited, hushing their breaths, listening for the echo of his step on the stairs. It came at last, muffled and cautious, but terribly distinct to their strained senses. He half paused at the room where they were, passed on, the door of his chamber opened and shut.

"He has gone in," said Elizabeth.

"Saved! saved!" broke again from Elsie, but there was no answering echo from the woman by her side.

For a time they sat motionless, whether moments or hours neither of them ever could have told.



CHAPTER LXII.

UNDER THE CEDAR.

At last Elizabeth rose, moved noiselessly across the chamber, while Elsie raised her head to look.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"You know," Elizabeth answered.

"You won't—you can't! Oh, wait—wait!"

"And to-morrow have the whole household look on while the work is more thoroughly done!"

"Is there no other way?"

"None. This is the last hope; I shall try it."

There was no elation in her voice at the danger she had escaped, no hope rising up now that she might go through her task in safety, no dread either of what she had to do, only stern determination, the chill of utter despair, ready to struggle but not to hope. She wrapped a shawl about her without the slightest appearance of haste, and stood still a little longer, more like a marble statue endowed with the power of motion than a breathing, living creature.

"Are you going?" called Elsie.

"Yes; I shall not be long—not long."

But Elsie rushed after her and caught her in her arms.

"Every moment is worth a whole life," cried Elizabeth. "Let me go!"

She forced the girl to release her hold, and with one feeble wail Elsie fell senseless to the floor.

"Better so," muttered Elizabeth, "better so!"

The excitement she was laboring under gave this woman new strength. She raised the insensible girl, carried her through the vacant chamber, and laid her on the bed in her own room. She drew the bedclothes over her inanimate form and turned away.

"Now for the end," she murmured, "the bitter, bitter end."

She went back to her own room, closing the doors after her, then, without further delay, passed down the private staircase which led to the little entry off the library.

Once on the stairs she paused to listen, but there was no sound, and she hurried on noiseless as a spirit. One of the shutters was ajar, admitting a few gleams of light, by which she could see to unbolt the door.

She was out in the air at last; the first step was taken in safety—in her turn she flew towards the cypress tree. She was under its shadow, the branches writhed and moaned like living things, the moon shot in and out of the gathering clouds, and cast a flickering, uncertain light about that was more terrible than the deepest gloom.

As she stood in the depth of the shadows, a man came out from the thick darkness that lay under a neighboring clump of white pines, and drew close to her.

"I have been here some time," he whispered. "Everything is ready out yonder—rather rough work for a gentleman, but take it as a proof how ready I am to help you, even after all the money is paid in. But do you know that Mellen has been here?"

"I saw him—I know it; we have no time!"

"Fortunately, he will know why the earth is broken up, having done it with his own hands," said the man, with a suppressed laugh, that made Elizabeth shudder. "Better still, he has left the spade—threw it down in angry disappointment. That is fortunate, for mine was partly disabled out yonder: now show me the exact spot."

She had no need to search, only too well she knew the place. Night and day for weeks the dread spot had been with her, in every dream she had watched men digging, digging—digging with frantic haste; and, as in her dreams, all strength seemed to fail, and some unseen power to hold her back, so now, in that frightful reality, her arms fell half paralyzed, and she could not lift her hand to point out the spot.

To and fro the branches swayed above her head, beating themselves about, moaning like evil voices. The wind swept up chill and warningly.

Such a terrible face it was that confronted the man—such a pale terrified face, lighted up with those agonized eyes, that seemed to grow large and wild in the moonlight.

The man stood before her, leaning on his spade, waiting.

"It is there just in that line of moonlight," she said at last, pointing downward with her finger.

The man lifted the spade with all his fierce might, and struck it deep into the earth, which the cold nights had frozen, until it gave out a sharp ringing sound.

Elizabeth held her breath; what if that sound had reached the house!

Another firm downward thrust of the spade was scarcely heard. The crust was broken, the earth grew soft and yielding—the wretched woman remembered how carefully it had been packed down over the spot. For nights after, the hollow sound of the spade had rung in her ears, and nothing could dull its echo.

A horrible fear was coming over her, a supernatural, ghostly dread, that made her flesh creep and the hair rise on her temples.

Spadeful after spadeful of earth was thrown out, but still the bottom was not reached. She had not thought it deep—so deep. If it should be empty—if nothing was there!

What if the place had been searched before, if the least possibility of removing that terrible evidence was gone beyond her power!

The idea was too maddening, and she shook off the nightmare-like oppression which had been upon her, as the spade suddenly struck some substance harder than the earth, and rang out with a dull, heavy sound.

For one instant she started back. She was alone in the night, alone with that man, who uttered an exclamation of delight that his task was so near done. Elizabeth drew back. She dared not even peer into the cavity. It was choked up with shadows, and their blackness seemed to warn her off.

The mighty strength that had carried this woman forward till now, left her. The cold pierced her through and through; still she found strength to speak, and implored the man to complete his work. He took up the spade again, dropped it into the impalpable darkness of the hole and pressed it down, leaning his whole weight upon it.

She shivered violently now. A sharp pain ran through her chest, as if she, too, had been putting forth some great physical energy. Shadows from the disturbed cypress boughs were falling all about her, breaking and forming again in a thousand fantastic movements. But one shadow, dark, solid and still, fell across a gleam of moonlight at her feet, freezing her to the heart. She looked slowly up and saw her husband.



CHAPTER LXIII.

FACE TO FACE.

For several seconds the husband and wife remained looking at each other in utter silence; the moaning of the cypress boughs sounded louder and more weird; through the whirl of her senses Elizabeth heard it still.

"Come forward," she heard her husband's voice say at length, in the hard, icy tones of concentrated passion. "Come forward, woman, that I may see your face."

The words seemed to come from a great distance; looking over at him, it seemed as if that shallow trench between them was a bottomless abyss which no power could bridge over,—the gulf between them for ever and ever.

"Come forward, I say."

She staggered slowly into the moonlight; the warning was fulfilled; ruin, disgrace had come; yet there she stood speechless, motionless, unable even to give utterance to a moan.

The man who had been digging, flung down his spade with a smothered oath.

For a little time Mellen stood almost as still and helpless as herself. Suddenly, in a voice that sounded scarcely human, he turned upon this man.

"Take up the spade, and finish your work!"

With something between a laugh and an oath, North snatched the spade, plunged it into the grave, and pressed all his force upon it. Slowly the edge of a box appeared. That evil man seemed to triumph in his gloomy work: placed one foot on the handle of the spade to hold it firmly, bent down and dragged the box into the moonlight.

Pulling the spade up from the crumbling earth, he raised it on high, and was about to dash the box open. Elizabeth lifted her hands in mute appeal.

She hoped nothing from her husband's forbearance. The action was only an instinct of her whirling senses, such as makes a drowning man clutch at straws; but with it her limbs gave way, and she fell upon her knees by the box, still lifting her white face to that stem, determined countenance.

"Do you think to oppose me even now?" he exclaimed. "I wonder I do not kill you. Ask this man, this double dyed villain to dig deeper his pit, which has concealed your infamy, and bury you there alive,—that would be a mercy to us both."

"If you would only kill me," she moaned, "only kill me."

"Stand up," he cried again; "stand up, I say."

But she stretched out her hands over the box; some insane idea of still preserving it from his touch, rushed across her mind.

"Open it," he said, turning fiercely on North; "I will look on this dishonor with my own eyes."

"Don't open it; don't open it! Let us pass away from your sight for ever."

Mellen caught her arm and pulled her roughly away.

"You shall not touch the dead," she cried; "kill me but do not commit sacrilege."

Elizabeth struggled on to her knees, and wound her arms about him in a convulsive grasp: he shook her off with loathing, as if a poisonous reptile had brushed his garments.

North stood with an evil light in his eyes, looking on Mellen, snatched the spade from his grasp, and while a despairing cry died on Elizabeth's lips, dashed it upon the cover; again and again, till the frail board split, revealing a gleam of white underneath.

Elizabeth was lying on the ground—not insensible; no such blessed relief came to her—but incapable of a movement; watching her husband always with those insane eyes.

His passion had exhausted itself in this sacrilegious violence, and he stood over the shattered box, struck with remorseful awe. But the wind swept over it, lifting some folds of transparent muslin from a little face that Elizabeth had seen night and day in her thoughts and her dreams, since the dreadful night when that grave was dug under the cypress tree.

She saw the face; saw her husband looking down upon it; saw all the shuddering horror in his eyes. Still she could not move.

"This has been a murder!" he hissed through his clenched teeth. "I swear that the guilty ones, even if my own name is dragged down to infamy with them, shall be brought to judgment."

"No, no," she moaned; "not murder; not that."

He caught her arm again and lifted her up.

"Tell the truth," he cried; "I will hear it!"

She could only stare at him with an affrighted gaze.

"I will bring the whole neighborhood to look," he went on; "I will drag this secret guilt out in the face of day if you do not speak! I will give you no time; no chance of escape; speak, or I will rouse the whole house, and let them see you here with this vile man, at your guilty work."

"Wait," she shivered; "wait!"

"Do you know what this is?" he cried. "The murder of a child! Do you know that to-morrow may find you a criminal in the hands of justice—you, my wife! You, in whose care I entrusted not only my honor but the most innocent soul that ever lived. Speak then! Expect no mercy from me; not to save my own honor; not to keep my own soul would I lift one finger to help you! Think of it! Picture it to yourself!—The eager crowd gathering about this spot; the hootings and execrations that will follow you forth to prison! Think of the days and nights in your lonely cell; remember the trial! the sentence! the horrible death! you shall not escape! you shall not escape one of these things."

"Grantley! Grantley!"

"Not content with one crime, you have added murder; striving to hide your guilt with a deeper sin!"

"This child died," she moaned; "it was God's own mercy, not my crime!"

"Speak then, and tell the whole truth. Do it. But have no thought that even confession can save you; never hope for mercy from my weakness! You can have no enemy who will prove so relentless as I will; if there was a hope of your escape I would hunt you both down to utter disgrace—nay, to death itself!"

"It is only to die," she muttered; "only to die."

"Will you speak; will you confess? Tell me how you murdered it?"

"There was no murder."

"But you buried it; you and this fiend who shared your guilt? Speak that man's name; I will have it, and from your lips. But, oh, if you have degraded my sister with this secret; if you have blighted her innocence with a knowledge of your guilt——"

"Stop," she broke in; "stop! do not speak of her."

Even in that moment some recollections came upon her, and her face fell forward, bowed down to her marble bosom.

"Elsie knows nothing," she said; "for her sake spare me."

"If you wish to escape having your shame dragged before the whole world, tell me the truth."

"For her sake, for Elsie's, have mercy! I don't expect it—but, remember, disgrace to me reflects not only on you but her! Think of that—don't blight her whole future in crushing me!"

"I left her in your hands—she has been living in daily intercourse with you—you have stained her lips with your kisses—degraded her by your affection."

"I have not hurt her," she cried; "I tell you she never received harm from me."

There was only one thought in her mind, to preserve Elsie from his anger—the worst had come to her now. Her present agony was too great for dread—the shame of the world—the most loathsome prison—nothing could bring such pangs as this wrenching away of hope and happiness.

She sat upright on the ground, folding her hands in her lap. Weaker women would have fainted, perhaps gone mad, but when the first dizzy whirl had left her senses, she could see and think clearly.

"With this man you alone buried the child. Will you own it, or shall I charge the servants as your accomplices—will you carry out your guilt to the last, and let others suffer that you may escape?"

"No, no! I do not struggle. See, I do not defend myself. Let it fall on me! But no murder, do not charge me with murder. Oh, I am not so bad as that—I could not harm one of God's creatures."

"Is not your sin worse than murder? Why, the blackest criminal has white hands compared to yours! You whom I loved and trusted—you have dragged a man's soul through the depths of your sin."

"I have not, I have not!" she broke forth.

He pointed to the box—he turned his finger to the man who stood in the shadows, shrouded with blackness, like the fiend he was. What could she say—how could she deny with that evidence at her feet.

"Oh, my God, have mercy!" she groaned.

"Don't take his name on your lips—don't curse yourself more deeply by a prayer!"

She crouched lower on the ground, her wild eyes were raised to heaven, but there was no help—no aid.

"All the facts—I will hear them from your own lips—speak."

She was silent.

"I know—I have been on your track for days. It was not enough that you destroyed my life, trampled on my honor, but you must choose for the partner of your guilt the man who had most cruelly wronged me—the one foe I had on earth."

"No, no! I never saw that man—never!"

"Peace, woman! I tell you that man standing yonder with a grin of Satan on his lips, is William Ford."

She did cry out then—this was a horror of which she had not dreamed.

"I never knew it; I never knew it."

"And you love this wretch? Through him you shall suffer!"

"I hate him, loathe him!" she cried. "Oh, in this one thing believe me—I never knew it was Ford. The name was changed to deceive me."

"I would not believe a word from your lips though you brought an angel to witness it."

Then he looked down at the little coffin, and a fierce gust of insanity swept over him.

"I will send for some officer of justice."

She caught his arm and held him firmly.

"For Elsie's sake—don't overshadow her life with the shame you hurl on me. Let me go away—you shall never hear of me again—I will never cross your path! I do not ask for mercy, but for your sister's sake, for your own honored name, let me go away and die."



CHAPTER LXIV.

BURIED OUT OF SIGHT.

Lost and guilty as this woman was, there existed still one human virtue in her soul—even in his rage Mellen could feel that she spoke the truth—she was not asking mercy for herself—she was pleading for the innocent girl whose future would be destroyed were it known how vile the creature was with whom she had been the associate.

"Where will you go—what will you do?"

"Anything—anything! You shall never hear from me again."

"You are going with this man!"

"There is no life so horrible that I would not prefer it to his presence," she said; "no death so shameful that it would not be heaven compared to seeing his face again."

There was a brief pause then; Mellen grasped her by the arm.

She thought he was about to kill her. She sank on her knees and a broken prayer rose to her lips. She would not have struggled; she would have knelt there and received death patiently from his hands.

"Do you think me lost and vile as yourself?" he cried, reading her thoughts in this gesture. "I do not want your life—do with it what you will! For my innocent sister's sake I will spare you—but go—go where I never can hear your name—let me have no reason to know that you exist! If you cross my path again, nothing shall keep me from exposing you to the whole world."

All at once, North came out from the shadows that had concealed his face, and stood before the man he had so foully wronged.

"Grantley Mellen," he said, "for your own sake, believe me. If this woman will not speak, I am not coward enough to keep silent."

Elizabeth stepped forward, her head raised, her eyes flashing.

"But I charge you—North or Ford, I charge you, make no defence for me. At your hand, neither he or I, will accept it. There has been no murder, there must be none. If this most wronged man grants us the mercy of silence, it is enough."

"But I am not brute enough to——"

"Peace," said Elizabeth; "if you would serve me, obey him."

"Obey him," answered North, with a sneer. "I would do almost anything. Yes, and I will do even that; but you are the only woman on earth for whom I would so bend and creep to this man."

These words stung Mellen like vipers, but he would not allow those two criminals to know how his heart writhed.

"It is well," he said; "there is more to be done. Go and finish your work."

North took up the spade.

"Remember," he said. "It is for her sake."

Elizabeth made an effort to speak.

"Be still," said Mellen, "we need no more words."

North began throwing the earth back into the trench, Elizabeth sat still and watched him.

It seemed to her that she did not suffer—there was nothing in her mind save the blank feeling which one might experience sitting over the ruin an earthquake had made, after burying home, love, everything the soul clings to. North filled the chasm and smoothed the earth down over it carefully. Then, without a pause, he straightened the lid of the coffin—there was no haste, no recoiling—he drove back the nails that had been loosened, into their place—then he raised the box in his arms, saying, only:

"Come!"

Mellen walked forward, Elizabeth followed a little behind—she did not ask a single question, but moved slowly down the avenue towards the outer gates. They passed through, out into the high road, up the little hill, Mellen walking sternly on, and the woman following, North marching forward with long strides, bearing the coffin on his shoulder.

They reached the graveyard; the fence was broken in one place; Mellen wrenched off the picket and forced a passage. He passed through, and Elizabeth mechanically kept in his footsteps. At the lower end of the yard was a single grave, with the earth still fresh around it; not a tuft of grass had sprung on the torn soil, but dead leaves had drifted over it, and the frost crusted it drearily, turning its moisture to ice. Elizabeth might have recognised this grave as one that had been given to a fair woman who had perished in the late shipwreck, had she found any room for thought out of her great misery. But she only saw a dreary-looking grave, at which North paused. He set down the coffin and again raised his spade. Elizabeth stood by, silently turning to stone, as it were. She watched him dig a deep cavity, saw him lower the box down into it, then he began to fill up the gap.

"It is done, your sin is buried; we part, and forever," said Mellen.

"We part here!" echoed Elizabeth.

"I have no more to say," he went on; "if you can live, do so; but, remember, death comes at last—death and the judgment. I think, had your sin been other than it is, I could have promised you forgiveness in your last hour. But the horror of your crime in choosing that man——"

"I never knew it," she broke in. "Oh, believe that—do believe that! I ask nothing more—I have no right even to ask so much—but if you should one day hear that I am dead, believe that I have now told you the truth."

"You have the means of subsistence," he went on; "the stocks I settled upon you will be sufficient for your support. If you ever see this wretch again, it is because you are altogether bad."

"Only say that when I am dead you will pardon me—only say that, Grantley Mellen, for I have great need of one kind word."

"You will be careful that your name never reaches my ear," he went on, regardless of her appeal. "Hide yourself in some strange land, where no tidings of you may ever come near my home. I warn you, for your own sake."

"Give me your forgiveness in my dying hour; only that, Grantley, for I have loved you so!"

"I will not promise it. This mockery is worse than your sin!" he exclaimed. "If it were to keep your soul from eternal torture, I could not speak a pardoning word."

She fell forward upon the ground.

"Only for my death-bed—your pardon for my death-bed?"

"Never! Never!"

His voice rang out clear and sharp, as steel striking steel. It was like the sound of prison doors shutting out the last gleam of light and hope from a condemned criminal.

"Don't be found here," he said; "nor be heard of again. We are parting now forever. Take the shelter of my roof for the rest of this miserable night. I will not send you forth in darkness—go, but we meet no more!"

He turned and walked away; she watched him threading his path among the graves, and it seemed as if she must die when her eyes lost him.

He had reached the palings, he was passing through. She raised herself, her last expiring energy went out in one agonized appeal:

"Your pardon—for my death-bed—Grantley—husband!"

He never turned, never paused—perhaps he did not hear—but walked steadily and firmly on.

Elizabeth looked up at the cold sky; the moon was partially hidden, the dawn was struggling up gray and chilled in the east, the wind moaned faintly among the graves, and rustled her garments like the stirring of a shroud; there she stood among the graves of her world, as utterly helpless and lost as if eternity swept between her and the past, and there she remained during some minutes that lengthened out like years, with the wind moaning around her and dead leaves crackling under her feet. She could see her old home through the naked trees, with the dull smoke curling in clouds above the chimneys, and the great trees sweeping their naked branches over it. Oh, how her heart yearned towards it, how wistfully her eyes watched all those signs of her forfeited life through the leafless grove and the drifting leaves!

"Can I help you, can I do anything?"

Elizabeth lifted her dreary eyes. It was North. The desolation of that poor woman smote him with remorse, his voice trembled with human pity.

"The money—you shall have part of that."

Elizabeth shook her head; she had no strength for resentment. All pride was crushed within her.

"Go," she said, "leave me here alone; I want nothing."

"But I cannot leave you so—I will not."

Elizabeth arose and stood upright among the graves.

"I am going somewhere—this way, I think. One cannot rest here, you know," she said, with a wan and most pathetic smile. "You and I have been too much in company—the world is wide—oh, misery, misery, how wide—but you can go that way and I the other. No one will ask for me."

Was the woman dropping into piteous insanity?

North thought so, and made another effort to arouse her, but she only entreated him to go away, and at last he went; afraid that the daylight would find him there.



CHAPTER LXV.

THE HUSBAND RELENTS.

Grantley Mellen turned back to the miserable grandeur of his home. The proud heart ached in his bosom. What if, from fear or weakness, Elizabeth did not return to the house? What if she remained there among the cold graves, or wandered off in terror of his wrath?

The graveyard was full half a mile from the spot where this thought struck him. He turned at once and went back, feeling how unmanly it was to leave the miserable creature stricken with such anguish, alone with that man. He remembered how her uncovered head had drooped under his denunciations in the moonlight, that the cold wind had lifted the waves of her hair and revealed the dead marble of a face in which all hope was quenched. Notwithstanding his wrongs, notwithstanding the ache at his heart, he would go back and take her home for that one night—only for that one night.

He walked rapidly towards the graveyard, more eager now to find Elizabeth than he had been to separate from her only a brief time before. He looked to the right and left in search of her, but the moon was obscured now by thin gray clouds, and a fog drifting up from the ocean was fast obliterating the crowd of golden stars that had been so brilliant when he went forth.

Mellen walked on, growing more and more anxious, till he came in sight of the graveyard, then he paused under a clump of cedars; for he saw his unhappy wife forcing her way, in desperate haste, through the broken pickets of the fence, with her face turned homewards. The gray woollen shawl was floating loosely around her, giving a weird ghostliness to her appearance.

Mellen turned and went back, sheltering himself under the cedar trees. When he saw that she was safe, a revulsion came upon his feelings; a sense of the wrong she had done him returned with bitter force, and when she passed along the outskirts of the cedars, making her way down the hill, he retreated deeper into the shadows, recoiling from contact with her.

"She will go home," he said, gloomily, "no one is more familiar with the paths through the woods. Thank heaven she does not know that I am weak enough to care for her safety! Let her reach the house first, we shall be less likely to meet."

With these thoughts in his mind he lingered in the cedars till Elizabeth was out of sight. The wind was dying away in low sobs now, smothered down by the fog, through which he could hear the moaning of the ocean afar off.

Mellen left the woods, and made the best of his way home, believing that his wife had already found a shelter there.

The house was dark and still as the grave when he entered it again. Instinctively he trod with caution along the halls and crept stealthily upstairs, for in the depths of his heart he was anxious to conceal Elizabeth's movements that night from the servants, and, above all, from Elsie. He paused and listened a moment in the square passage that led to her rooms, hoping to hear some movement by which he could be certain that she had reached home in safety. But there was no sound, and he turned away sighing, for compassion and the tender pity which every generous man feels for a fallen woman whom he has once loved, was turning the bitterness of his rage into intense pain.

Hearing nothing, and with vague uncertainty at his heart, the unhappy man entered his own dark chamber, threw off his clothes and flung himself into bed, wretched beyond any power of my pen to describe.

But he could not sleep, could not even rest, the very effort at repose drove him wild. He got up again, dressed himself and sat down by the open window, looking out into the darkness. All at once he started and leaned far out of the window. Was it fancy, or had some wailing voice pronounced his name? Something gray and weird seemed floating from his sight through the gathering fog. At first it had the form of a human being, then it seemed as if a pair of wings unfurled and swallowed it up. Was it his wife? Could that winglike envelopment be her gray woollen shawl, tossed by the wind? Had her voice been engulfed in the far-off moan of the ocean? In this dreary state the unhappy and most wronged man remained all the rest of that gloomy night.



CHAPTER LXVI.

GONE.

The day began; the sun was up; once more the old house awoke to life and activity.

Sitting in his chamber, Grantley Mellen heard the familiar sounds below; he knew that life must sweep on again, that he must rise once more and go forth among his fellow-men, hiding his misery as best he might, taking his place in the world and bearing the secret burden of his dishonored life. He went to the window, swept back the curtains which he had drawn over it, and looked at himself in the glass. If he had wished to know how his corpse would look after the ravages of time and disease, he could have learned it in that prolonged gaze.

It was absolutely the face of a dead man; even the eyes looked lifeless—there was only a heavy, stony expression, which had neither spirit or humanity in it.

It was late in the morning when Elsie awoke from the heavy slumber which had succeeded her swoon. For a few moments she lay still, believing that the events of the past night had been only a dream. Suddenly she raised herself with a cry of anguish—she had caught sight of the shawl which Elizabeth had wrapped about her—she knew that it was all real.

She sprang out of bed, opened the door, ran through the empty chamber and entered her sister's room:

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

There was no answer. She looked about—the fire had died down in the grate, the room was empty and desolate as a grave.

She hurried through into the sleeping apartment, calling still in a voice which frightened herself:

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

The bed-chamber was empty too—the bed untouched.

"Gone!" cried the wretched girl. "Gone! Where is she? What has become of her? Elizabeth, Elizabeth!"

She shrieked frightfully in her anguish—cried out in such terrible anxiety, that the sound reached the chamber where Grantley Mellen sat.

He went out into the hall and approached the door of the dressing-room. Elsie heard him—her first impulse was to flee but her limbs refused to move.

She heard him try the door—heard him call:

"Elsie! Elsie!"

She must meet him—there was no escape.

Again the summons was repeated, more imperatively now.

"Elsie, open the door—quick, I say!"

She got to the door, she turned the key; her brother entered quickly, and stood in Elizabeth's desolate room.

"Where is Elizabeth?" she cried. "I can't find her—I want Elizabeth."

Mellen felt a shiver of dread pass through his frame. He pushed the chamber-door open and looked in, pale with anxiety. She was not there—the bed was untouched, and gleamed upon him through the crimson light that filled the room, like a crusted snowbank. There was none of that luxurious confusion which usually marks the apartment of a sleeping lady. The rich toilet service was in complete order. There was no jewelry flung down with half sleepy indifference, no garments laying ready for use on the chairs, or across the sofa. The silken window curtains were drawn close. The carpet looked like moss in the deep shadows of an autumnal forest.

"Gone, gone! Oh, my God, what has become of her?" he exclaimed.

"Where—what has happened? Is she dead? Oh, I shall go mad—I shall go mad now," cried Elsie.

She fell into spasms, but still preserved her senses sufficiently not to speak again—she dared not utter a word more, lest she should betray her knowledge of Elizabeth's sorrow.

Mellen carried her to the sofa and laid her down upon it, wrapped shawls and eider down quilts over her, holding her hands, which trembled like frightened birds, striving in every way to soothe her, as Elizabeth had so often done in the time gone by for ever.

Elsie lay back at length, quiet but utterly exhausted.

"Where is Elizabeth?" she moaned. "What has happened?"

"Never take that name on your lips again," he said; "let even her memory be dead between us. That woman is no longer my wife—you will never see her. She shall not suffer; I will deal gently with her; but to you, my dearest sister, she is dead, forever and ever."

"You have killed her!" shrieked Elsie. "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

"She leaves this house of her free will, Elsie—the only condition I have made is that she takes her name far out of our lives. Have you known—have you suspected this woman, Elsie?"

"No, no! I don't know anything but what is good of her—I don't believe anything! She is good and kind—send for her! You shan't drive her away—she shall come to me now! My dear Elizabeth—I love her! You shall not do this—you are mad, mad! She is the best woman that ever lived! Let me go to her—I will go!"

She was writhing again in hysterical spasms, but Mellen forced her back when she attempted to rise.

"Be still, Elsie—try to understand me! I can't tell you the whole story—but we are parted. Do not plead for her. Do not mention her name."

"But, Grantley, Grantley!"

"No more, I say—not a word."

"She is innocent," moaned the girl; "she is innocent."

"I know what you suffer—think of all that I endure—let that give you strength."

"I tell you she is an angel—she has done no wrong!"

"I had the confession which separates us from her own lips—I tell you I would not have believed any other testimony. Don't struggle so, Elsie—lie still."

The girl fought with him like an insane creature—she had no self control or reason—it was inability to speak which kept her from shrieking out in Elizabeth's defence. She could only gasp for breath, and when words did come, it was that broken cry:

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

"You must try to understand me, Elsie! You are all I have left in the world—oh, Elsie, Elsie! She has gone forever, and I loved her so—I loved her so. You and I must live on as best we can—it is only for you, child, that I live at all."

"Only bring her back—clear it all up—the truth—the truth at last! Oh, Grantley, I——"

Her words were so indistinct that he could not gather their meaning; she was struggling more fiercely than ever, and it required all his strength to hold her.

"If you love me, Elsie, strive to be calm! Oh, think of my trouble, my anguish—my sister, my sister!"

"Only send for her—call her here!"

"Be quiet and I will search, but she went off last night, I do not know where!"

Elsie gave one frightful cry and sank back in his arms insensible again. Her swoon was so death-like that it seemed as if life had gone out for ever.

Just as Elizabeth had raised her and carried her into her own room, so did Grantley Mellen carry her now, stricken by a fear so horrible that his past agony paled under it. What if she were dead—if she should wake a raving maniac, and all from the evil influence of that woman.

He called no assistance; he watched over Elsie in that lonely chamber, trying every remedy he could find, but for a long time his efforts were unavailing; she lay there, white and cold, as if the snowy counterpane had been her winding sheet.

Just as he was calling her name in a last frenzied burst of grief, Elsie opened her eyes. She was too feeble for speech, but she remembered everything clearly, and made a vain effort to rise.

"You must not talk, Elsie; don't stir—you will hurt yourself!"

He searched on the toilet table, found a bottle of laudanum, and administered as large a dose as he dared; he knew that the effects could not be so dangerous as her present suffering.

He sat down by the bed, folding his arms about her, calling her by every endearing name that his tenderness and fear could suggest, striving to soothe her into slumber.

Elsie would lie quiet for a few moments, then begin to struggle and cry out, till it seemed to Mellon that she would die before the opiate could take effect.

The potion worked at length; she lay back on the pillows white and still—her eyes stared drearily about the chamber once more, and then closed—she had fallen into a heavy sleep.

For a long hour Grantley Mellen remained on his knees by her bedside, where he had fallen.

He rose at length. Victoria was knocking at the door, and warning her young mistress that breakfast was on the table.

Mellen went to the door and opened it, checked the girl's cry of astonishment with a gesture, and said:

"Miss Elsie is very ill—go downstairs at once, and let there be no noise in the house."

Vic crept away in frightened silence; Mellen followed her into the hall, gave orders to one of the men servants to get a horse ready, went into the library and wrote a dispatch to his physician in the city, and came out again.

By the time the man was starting off to the station, Clorinda and several of the servants, to whom Victoria had communicated her tidings, were assembled in the hall.

In consultation they forgot their awe of the master, and asked a thousand eager questions, which he answered with brief sternness.

"Go back to your places, all of you," he said; "Miss Elsie is asleep, and must not be disturbed till the doctor arrives."

"Is missus wid her?" demanded Clo.

He turned upon her with a frown which made her spring back as if she had received an electric shock, and entirely checked any further desire to question him where his wife was concerned.

He turned towards the stairs again, but Dolf interposed with one of his profound bows.

"'Scuse me, sar, but de brekfus is on de table."

Self-restraint must be kept up; whatever suspicions might arise when the fact of Elizabeth's disappearance became known in the house, this proud man would not expose himself to the curious eyes of his menials.

He went into the breakfast-room, drank the coffee Dolf poured out with a skillful hand, pretended to eat a few morsels, then pushed his chair back and hurried up to Elsie's chamber—he could not trust himself yet in the presence of his servants.

Below stairs all sorts of stories were rife. Victoria peeped into Elsie's room and came down with the information that "She lay dar like a beautiful corpus!"

Everybody groaned in concert, but she added new astonishment by saying:

"And missus ain't nowhars about. She ain't in Miss Elsie's room, and she ain't in her own, and her bed ain't been touched all night."

Clorinda began to nod her turban with a sapient air.

"What did I tell yer!" cried she. "Now what did I jist tell yer."

"But whar can she be?" wondered Dolf. "What do yer s'pose has happened, Miss Clorinda?"

"'Nuff's happened," returned Clo, "and more'n 'nuff! I told yer de tunderbust would break, an it has."

They urged and entreated her to speak; but it was difficult to speak when she literally knew nothing, so she contented herself with going about her work with unusual energy, while the rest stood around and watched her, deeming this an occasion when idleness was to be taken quite as a matter of course.

Clo nodded her head, muttered to herself, and made dreadful confusion among her pots and pans, exciting her fellow-servants to a fearful pitch by her air of mystery, but not a word would she speak beyond vague and appalling hints.

While the servants below stairs wore away the morning in vague conversation and surmises, growing every instant wilder and more improbable, Grantley Mellen sat in that darkened chamber watching his sleeping sister.

The physician arrived late in the evening; by that time Elsie was awake, and he looked a little grave while giving his medicines and examining into the case.

"Keep her very quiet," he said to Mellen, who followed him into the hall; "it is a severe nervous attack, but she can endure nothing more. Don't let her get up—I'll come back to-morrow. Where is Mrs. Mellen? she is so good a nurse I should like to give her my directions."

"She—she is not here," Mellen answered.

"In town, I suppose? You had better send for her, or give me her address and I will call and tell her how much she is wanted the moment I reach town. To-night I stay in the village."

"Thank you, I won't trouble you," replied Mellen. "You will be here to-morrow morning?"

"Oh, certainly! Don't be at all alarmed—Miss Elsie is subject to these nervous attacks. So I shan't call on your wife?"

"No, sir, no;" Mellen answered, impatiently. "I must return to my sister."

He bowed the doctor downstairs and disappeared, leaving the son of Esculapius to go on with some rather strange ideas in his head.

He had another patient in the village, and so drove over there in the carriage which had brought him from the station. As he was standing on the hotel porch old Jarvis Benson came up, caught him by the button-hole and began a long story, to which the physician listened with such patience as he could find.



CHAPTER LXVII.

UTTER LONELINESS.

When Elizabeth Mellen quitted the graveyard, she was for the moment insane. Mellen had left her alone with the dead and the man she had so hated. He had forsaken her there in that cold, desolate night, regardless that she had once been his wife, scorning to remember her even as a woman. This thought stung her proud soul through all its anguish. She would not return home; not a single hour would she rest under the roof which loomed up so gray and ghostly behind those weird trees. But where could she go? in all the headlands that spread away from the coast there was no shelter for her. Degraded, broken-hearted, abandoned to her fate, like a wild animal, she stood alone among the graves of those who had been happy enough to die.

This terrible blow, long as it had been dreaded, came upon the poor woman suddenly at last. At the bottom of her heart there had been all the while a desperate hope of escape. But it was over now. The worst had come, and that was almost annihilation. She looked up to the sky. The stars were all out. The soft gray clouds which had floated over them only a little while before were turning leaden and heavy, so heavy that the ocean was one mass of blackness, as if the mighty deep had veiled itself with mourning, while the throes of a coming tempest heaved its inner depths.

The man North had left her at last—she was utterly alone.

Never in this world had a human being been cast forth to such utter desolation. She looked down on the torn earth at her feet, and her poor heart ached to lie down with that other woman who had found her rest so early, and was at peace. She thought of her with strange envy, remembering that the ocean had cast her forth when it moaned and heaved as she could hear it now,—the grand, beneficent ocean, that could give death to a poor soul pining for it as she did. She bent her head and listened to the far-off voice which held her with a sort of fascination.

"I will go," she said, "I will go. It calls me—with ten thousand voices it calls me."

She started from the tombstone against which she had leaned, and swiftly treading a passage through the graves, forced her way out by the broken pickets. That moment Mellen stood in the cedar grove and saw her pass. Had he come forth all might have been well, but fierce pride rushed in and checked the noble impulse that had brought him back so far. She swept swiftly by him and was lost in the fog. Some strong impulse of love broke up through the insane fascination which drove her toward the ocean, and in spite of herself she drifted homewards. Once a break in the clouds sent down wild gleams of light, throwing up black vistas of gloom through every break in the woods, and revealing dense, gray masses of vapor, frowning over the waters. Then came darkness again, and she wandered on.