Without knowing how, Elizabeth found herself on the lawn before her old home. The odor of dead leaves and late autumn blossoms rose up from the soil, and enveloped her with sickening remembrances. All at once the woman recognised the place. That pile with its gables and towers had been her home only a few short hours before. Why had she turned that way? What mocking fiend had driven her back against her will? The thought maddened her, but she could not move. The passionate love in her heart anchored those weary feet. She flung up her arms towards a window through which a light shone dimly—the window of his room, and an agonising cry of farewell broke from her. It was his name that fled from her lips like a burning arrow, and reached her husband in the gloomy stillness of his chamber.

The window opened. She tore her feet from the earth and fled. Her husband, of all others, should not know that she was there, prowling about the home from which he had driven her. That cry of agony coming from her lips frightened back her pride.

She darted away across the flower-beds, through thickets and over the lawn, which lay moist and heavy under the fog. Her wet feet got entangled among clusters of dead heliotrope and crysanthemums, still blooming in defiance of storm and frost. The shawl blew loose from her hands, which unconsciously huddled it close to her bosom, and was torn by the thorny rosebushes. Fragments of her dress were left behind. She plunged into a swampy hollow where clusters of tall catstail, sweet flag and sedgy rushes grew around a little pond, swarming with trout and gold fish. Her feet sank into the marsh till the water gurgled over her gaiters. She stood a moment, looking out upon the black pool, tempted to throw herself in; but some water-rat or frog, frightened by her approach, made a great leap, and plunged into the black depths, giving out a horrible idea of reptile life.

Not there, not there; no one should find her after she was dead. The ocean, the great heaving ocean had called her; why was she lingering by that miserable pool of black water, full of living things? Again she plunged forward, broke through the tangled sedges, and trampled down the spicy peppermint, till she reached firm land again. Then on—on—on till she stood under the beetling cliff which frowned over the shore tavern.

It was the dark hour now which comes just before daylight. The gleam of a candle shone through one of the tavern windows, and this faint idea of warmth drew her that way. She crept up close to the building, and through the little panes of glass saw Benson with his daughter and her children at breakfast together.

When the days grew short it had always been the old man's habit to eat his breakfast by candlelight. It was a pleasant, homely picture that the wretched woman looked upon. Her haggard eyes grew wild at the sight of so much warmth, while her teeth chattered with cold, and terrible chills shook her from head to foot. A noble wood fire blazed on the hearth, filling the small white-washed room with its golden glow. The soft steam from the tea-kettle curled up the chimney, broiled fish and hot Indian cakes sent a savory odor through the ill-fitted sash.

Elizabeth had eaten nothing for the past two days, and with the sight of this comfortable breakfast, an aching desire for food seized on her. Food and warmth; let her have them and she was ready to die. This animal want drew her close to the window. A child at the table saw that white face with its wild burning eyes, and pointed its finger, uttering frightened shrieks.

Elizabeth darted away, crying out to the storm, "They will not have me; even his menials drive me forth."

The beach was not far off, and from it rose a sound of lashing waves, hoarse with the thunder of mustering storms. Afar off the moan of the deep had sounded like an entreaty, but now it came full and strong, commanding her to approach. She obeyed these ocean voices like a little child; her powers of reasoning were gone; all consciousness of pain or danger benumbed; everything else had rejected her, but the great ocean was strong, boundless. With one heave of its mighty bosom it would sweep her away forever.

She walked steadily on to the beach, forcing her way to the sands; through drifts of seaweed and slippery stones, on, on she walked, slowly, but with horrible firmness, through great feathers of foam that curled upon the sands; on and on through whirlwinds of spray, till a great wave seized her in its black undertow and she was gone.



CHAPTER LXVIII.

PLANS AND LETTERS.

All that day Elsie remained in bed, sleeping a good deal, but so nervous and shaken that she would not permit herself to be left alone for a single instant. Her brother's presence seemed to fill her with fear, and she shrank with a strange sort of timidity from every tender word or soothing caress; still she was wretched if he left her bedside, and there he watched the long day through.

Evening came. Mellen was compelled to go through the pretence of another meal; indeed he forced himself to eat, for he began to grow angry with his own weakness.

He had thought when the first struggle was over to feel only an icy, implacable resentment against the woman who had wronged him; he was ashamed of the tenderness in his own nature when he found that, stronger than his rage, more powerful than the horror with which he regarded her dishonor, was the love he had believed uprooted suddenly from his heart, as a strong tree is torn up by tornados.

Yes, he regretted her! It was not only that his life must be a desolate blank, he pined for her presence. But for his pride he would have rushed out in search of her, and taken her back to his heart, sweeping aside all memory of her sin.

He roused himself from what appeared to him such degrading weakness by one thought—the partner in her guilt was his old enemy; a man too vile for vengeance, even.

That memory brought all the hardness back to his face, all the insane passion to his soul, but it centered on the man now.

That night, in the woman's very presence, he could not take the vengeance that he meditated, but now he was prepared to force her from the villain's grasp—on to repentance.

Alone in his library, Grantley Mellen wrote several letters; it was impossible to tell how that meeting would end, and he must make preparations for the worst. When all was done he rose to go upstairs again; a sudden resolution made him pause. He sat down at his desk once more, and wrote these lines:

"ELIZABETH—I said that even in your dying hour, I would never forgive you: I retract. If my pardon can console your last moments, remember that it is yours. I have made no alteration in my will; if you can accept the benefits which may accrue to you by my death, take them; but so surely as you ever attempt to approach the innocent girl who has been so long endangered by your companionship, my curse shall follow you, even from the grave to which you will have consigned me."

He put the note in an envelope, sealed it carefully, and addressed it—"To Elizabeth."

These were necessary precautions. The man who had twice wronged him possessed the fierce courage of a bravo. If Elizabeth was found with him, death might come to one of them—even if that followed, the woman who had been his wife should never share the degrading future of a man too vile for personal vengeance. In mercy to her he would separate them.

He found Elsie sitting up in bed. She shrank away among the pillows when he entered; he saw the movement, and it shook his heart with a new pang. This artful woman had drawn the spell of her fascinations as closely about that pure girl as she had enthralled him. Elsie shrank from the brother who had deprived her of the love on which she had leaned. Elizabeth had left him nothing but bitterness.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked, sitting down by the bed.

"Oh, I never shall be any better," she murmured; "I shall die, and then, perhaps, you will be sorry."

Mellen could not be angry with her; it wounded and stung him to hear her speak thus, but he answered, patiently:

"When you are able to reflect, Elsie, you will see that I could not have acted differently. Few men would have shown as much leniency as I have done; regardless of the consequences to themselves, they would have made that woman's conduct public, and ruined her utterly."

"She wasn't bad," cried Elsie; "you are crazy to think so. She was the best woman in the world."

"Have you forgotten what I told you this morning—what I was forced to tell you or submit to your hatred? From yon window you could look out on the spot where she had buried——"

"Be still!" interrupted Elsie, with a shriek. "I won't stay in the house if you go on so—be still, I say!"

It required all his efforts to soothe the excited girl. He longed to question her, to know if she had left Elizabeth much alone during his absence, to understand how she could have been so persistently deceived, but she was in no state to endure such inquiries then.

Elsie lay back among her pillows, refusing to be comforted:

"If you want to cure me send for Bessie—my dear, dear Bessie! Search for her—send the people out!"

"Elsie, she has gone with that man; I cannot follow her there."

"No, no; she is wandering about in the cold. Go, search for her!"

"Anything but that, Elsie—ask anything else in the world."

"I don't want anything else."

"As soon as you are better we will go away from here," he continued; "to Europe, if you like."

"But how will she live?" persisted Elsie. "What will become of her? No money—no friends. Oh, Bessie, Bessie!"

"She has plenty to live on," he replied. "There are stocks enough deposited in her name to give her a comfortable income."

"But they are gone," cried Elsie. Then, remembering the danger of that avowal, she stopped suddenly.

"Gone!" he repeated. "How do you know? Oh, Elsie, do you know more than you own—do—"

"Stop, stop!" she screamed. "You have driven Bessie away and now you want to kill me! I don't know about anything—you know I don't. Just the other day Bessie spoke something about the stocks; I thought from what she said that you had taken them back for some purpose."

He was perfectly satisfied with her explanation, but the distress and fright into which she had fallen nearly brought on another nervous crisis. Great drops of perspiration stood on her forehead, and the slender fingers he held worked nervously in his grasp.

"Don't talk any more, dear child," he said. "Try to go to sleep again."

"I can't sleep—I never shall rest again—never! I feel so wicked—I hate myself!"

"Child, what do you mean?"

She must restrain herself, no danger must come near her. Even her sorrow for Elizabeth, her stinging remorse, could not make her unselfish enough to run any personal risk of his displeasure.

"I don't know what I mean—nothing at all! But it drives me wild to think of Bessie. Where can she be—where could she go? Suppose she has killed herself! Oh, she may be drowned in the bay—drowned—drowned!"

She went nearly mad with the ideas which her fancy conjured up, but it was perfectly in keeping with her character that in the very extremity of her suffering, no word for Elizabeth should be spoken that would implicate herself. Mellen must not guess at her knowledge of his wife's fault.

"You will have her searched for," she cried; "promise me that, if you don't want to kill me outright, promise me that."

"It could do no good, Elsie, none whatever. She has chosen her own destiny."

"It might, it might! If she has no money what will become of her?"

"I will inquire to-morrow," he replied. "I will write to my agent. If she has disposed of the stocks I will see that she has means to live upon; I promise you that."

"Really, truly?"

"Did I ever break my word, Elsie?"

"No, no; but you are so hard and stern."

"Never with you, darling—never with you."

Elsie groaned aloud, but hastened to speak:

"I am only in pain—don't mind it."

"My poor little Elsie, my sister, my treasure!"

"Do you love me so much, Grant?"

"Better than ever; you are all I have now! Oh, Elsie, don't shut your heart against me, I can't bear that. Try to believe that I have acted as justly as a man could. To the whole world I can be stern and silent, but let me tell you the truth. I loved that woman so, my heart is breaking under this grief. Bear patiently with me, child."

"Oh, if you suffer, send for her back," cried Elsie. "Let her explain; you gave her no time——"

"Hush, hush! Have I not said all those things to myself?"

This man's pride was so utterly crushed that he was revealing the inmost secrets of his soul to this frail girl, scarcely caring to conceal from her how keenly he suffered.

"But try," pleaded Elsie; "only try."

"It is impossible; later you will see that as plainly as I do. Don't you see what a sin I should commit in taking a false, dishonored woman back to my heart; what a wrong to my sister in exposing her to the society of a creature so lost and fallen?"

"She is good!" cried Elsie. "Bessie was an angel! Oh, I wish I was dead—dead—dead! I can't bear this; it is too much—too much!"

Elsie wrung her hands and sobbed piteously; she had wept until nature exhausted itself, and that choked anguish was more painful to witness than the most violent outburst of tears.

"We loved her so," muttered Mellen; "she was twined round that girl's heart as she enthralled mine; she has broken both."

"What are you saying, Grant?"

"Nothing, dear; I only pitied you and myself for loving her so much."

"I will always love her," cried Elsie; "you never shall change me; nothing shall do that. She is innocent; I believe it; I would say so before the whole world."



CHAPTER LXIX.

ELSIE PROMISES TO BE FAITHLESS.

Mellen was seized with a sudden fear.

"Elsie," he said, "if anything should happen to me; if I should die——"

She caught his hands and began to tremble.

"What do you mean? Die—die!"

"Nothing, dear; don't be frightened. But life is uncertain; what I mean is this—if you should outlive me promise never to seek that woman; never to let her come near you."

"I can't promise that; I can't be so wicked."

"You must, Elsie."

"I can't; I won't! No, no; I'll never be bad enough for that!"

"If you refuse me this, Elsie, you will sink a gulf between us which can never be filled up."

"Don't talk so; remember how sick I am."

"I do; I won't agitate you, but we must have an end of this subject. If I should die—"

"I won't hear you talk about dying," she broke in. "You frighten me; you'll kill me."

But he went on resolutely;

"Promise never to see or hear from her."

"Not that; it is too wicked—too horrible."

"Elsie," he cried, in stern passion, "promise, or I will go out of this room, and though we live together it shall be as strangers."

He rose as if to fulfil his threat; she sprang up in bed; her cowardice, her selfishness mastered every other feeling.

"I promise. Come back, Grant, come back; oh, do!"

He seated himself again, soothed and caressed her.

"We will not talk any more," he said, kindly. "Henceforth let everything connected with this subject be dead between us; that woman's name must never be mentioned here; her very memory must be swept out of the dwelling she has dishonored. You and I will bury the past, Elsie, and place a heavy stone over the tomb; will you remember that, child?"

"Yes, yes; anything! Do what you please; I cannot struggle any longer; it is not my fault."

"Indeed no, darling! You are tender and forgiving as an angel! Oh, Elsie, in all the world yours is the only true heart I have found."

She lay there and allowed him to speak those words; she suffered terribly in her shallow, cowardly way, but she could not force her soul to be courageous even then. In time her volatile nature might turn determinedly from the dark tragedy. She probably would convince herself that she was powerless; that, since it could do no good to grieve over Elizabeth and her mournful fate, it was better that she should dismiss all recollection of it from her mind, drown her regrets, enjoy such pleasures as presented themselves, and build up a new world between her and the past.

But as yet she could not do that; she was completely unnerved and incapable of any resolution. She writhed there in pitiable pain and caught at every straw for comfort.

"You won't forget your promise, Grant?"

"What, dear?"

"To send money—that she may live, you know."

"I will not forget, rest satisfied. I will attend to it this very day; don't think about that any more."

"How can I help thinking? You might as well tell me not to breathe; I must think!"

"The end has come; it can do no good to look back!"

Almost the very words Elizabeth had so many times repeated during those last terrible days; the recollection went like a dagger to Elsie's soul.

It was a long time before she could be restored to anything like composure; then Mellen forbade her to talk, fearing the consequences of continued excitement.

"You can sleep, now, darling; you will be better in the morning."

"And you will take me away from here, Grant?"

"Yes, dear; whenever you like."

"I don't care about the place—the farther the better! I cannot stay in this house—I should die here. But not to Europe—oh, you won't take me to Europe?"

He only thought the sudden terror in her voice rose from a fear of the voyage or some similar weakness.

"You shall choose, Elsie; just where you please. We will go to the West Indies—as you say, the farther the better."

"Yes, Grant, yes."

"Now shut your eyes and go to sleep."

"You won't leave me," she pleaded.

"No; I shall stay near you all night."

"It is so dreadful," she went on, glancing wildly about the room; "I should go mad to wake up and find myself alone."

"You shall not, dear; indeed you shall not."

She grew quiet then; after a little time he heard Victoria in the hall, and went out to speak with her.

"You will lie down on the bed in the room next Miss Elsie's," he said, "and be near her if she wants anything."

He had not forgotten that he must be absent in the night, and was careful to guard the cherished girl against every possible cause of fright or agitation.

He spent the evening in Elsie's sick chamber as he had passed the day. Elsie did not sleep, but she was glad to lie quiet and keep her eyes closed, shutting out the objects around her. Sometimes when her reflections became too painful to bear, she would start up, catch his hands and shriek his name wildly, but his voice always served to calm her.

Towards midnight she fell into a heavy slumber. More than an hour before he heard Victoria enter the next room, and knew that he could leave Elsie in safety.

He bent over the bed, kissed her white forehead, and stole softly out of the room.

He went down into the library and sat there drearily, starting at the least sound, almost with a belief that he should stand face to face once more with his wife who might yet return on some possible pretence. The hours passed, but there was no step from without, no sign of approach anywhere about the house.

He went to the window, pushed back the curtains and looked out—the first thing he saw was the cypress tree waving its branches as they had done the night before when their moans seemed inarticulate efforts to speak.

The moon was up now, streaming down with a broad, full glory, very different from the spectral radiance of the previous night. How vividly recollection of those fearful hours came back as he stood there! He lived over every pang, felt every torture redoubled—started back as if again looking on the dead object which had shut out all happiness from him for ever.

Suddenly he saw the figure of a man, that man, stealing across the lawn; he did not wait to reflect, flung open the window and dashed out in pursuit. He was too late—the intruder disappeared, and though he made a long and diligent search his efforts were futile.

He returned to the house, livid with the new rage which had come over him.

"I will find him," he muttered; "there is no spot so distant, no place so secret, that my vigilance shall not hunt him down!"

So the night passed, and when the dawn again struggled into the sky Grantley Mellen returned to his sister's chamber, and sat down to watch her deep, painful slumber once more.

No sleep approached his eyelids—it seemed to him that he must not hope to lose consciousness again—that never even for an instant would that crushing sorrow and that mad craving for the lost woman leave him at rest.



CHAPTER LXX.

ALMOST A PROPOSAL.

In the basement story of Piney Cove, the absence of Mrs. Mellen was a continued source of curiosity. But for once, that part of the household had little but conjecture to go upon; so after a time, curiosity died out and the selfish element rose uppermost, especially with the mulatto, Dolf, who had not yet found out the sum total of Clorinda's fortune.

The night after Mrs. Mellen's disappearance, there had been an anxious meeting in the neighborhood, at which Elder Spotts had held forth with peculiar eloquence, and Clorinda had been wonderfully loud in her responses, a state of things which filled Dolf with serious perplexity; in fact, it had been a very anxious meeting to him. After their return home, that young gentleman lingered in the basement, looking so miserable that Clorinda asked the cause.

"Yer knows," said Dolf, prolonging the situation as much as possible, in the hope that some bright thought would strike him by which the conversation might be led round to the subject uppermost in his worldly mind; "yer knows very well."

"Why, yer's making me out jis' a witch."

"No, Miss Clorindy, no; don't say dem keerless tings—don't! I ain't a makin' you nothin', only de most charmin' and de most cruel of yer sect."

If Clo did not blush it was only because nature had deprived her of the dangerous privilege, but she fell into a state of sweet confusion that was beautiful to behold.

"Dar ye go agin," said she; "now quit a callin' me witches and sich, or else say why?"

"Didn't I see you dis berry even'?" said Dolf.

"In course ye did; we was to Mrs. Hopkins's when de meeting was ober."

"And wasn't Elder Spotts dar, too?"

"In course he was; yer knows it well enough."

"I knows it too well," said Dolf. "Dar's whar de coquettations comes in; dat's jis' de subjec' I'm 'proachin' yer wid."

"Me!" cried Clo, in delightful innocence. "Laws, I didn't know yer even looked at me; I tought ye was fascinated wid dat Vic."

"I'se neber too busy to reserve you, Miss Clorindy," said Dolf; "wherever I may be, whatever my ockipation, I'se eyes fur you. And I seed you; I seed de elder a bending over ye, a whisperin' in yer ear."

"Oh, git out!" cried Clo. "He didn't do no sich."

"Oh, yes, he did, Miss Clorindy; dese eyes seen it."

"Wal, he was a axin' me if I was gwine to come to meetin' more reg'lar dan I had ob late."

"It took him a great while to ax," said Dolf, in a reproachful voice.

Clo laughed a little chuckling laugh.

"He's a bery pleasant man, de elder," said she; "bery pleasant."

"Dey say he wants a wife," observed Dolf.

"Do dey! Mebby he do; anyway he hain't told me dat."

"But he will, Clorindy, he will!"

"Tain't no ways likely; don' 'spec I shall knows much bout it!"

"Oh, yes, yer will," insisted Dolf.

He was serious, and Clo began to grow dizzy at the thought of so many conquests crowding upon her at once.

"I jis' b'lieve he's a sarpint in disguise," said Dolf, with great energy; "one ob de wust kind of old he ones."

"Laws, Mr. Dolf, don't say sich things; he's a shinin' light in de sanctumary, I'se certain."

"It's a light I'd like to squinch," cried Dolf, "and if he pokes himself into my moonshine I'll do it."

Clo gave a shrill scream, and caught his arm, as if she feared that he was intending to rush forth in search of the elder, and put his menace into instant execution.

"Don't kick up a muss wid him," she pleaded: "why should yer?"

"It 'pends on yer, Miss Clorindy, yer know; de 'couragement yer've ben a givin' him is 'nuff to drive yer admirers out o' der senses."

"Oh, dear me, I neber heerd sich audacious nonsense!" said Clo.

"It's true," answered Dolf, "an' yer knows it. But ye're received in dat man, Miss Clorindy, yer is! He's got both eyes fixed on de glitterin' dross. I've heerd him talk 'bout de fortin yer had, an' how it wud set a pusson up, an' what good he might do wid it 'mong de heathen."

Clo gave another scream, but this time it was a cry of indignation and wrath.

"Spend my money 'mong de heathen!" she cried. "I'd like to see him do it! comes 'bout me I'll pull his old wool fur him, I will."

Dolf smiled at the success of his falsehood, and made ready to clench the nail after driving it in.

"Dat's what he tinks anyhow. Why, Miss Clorindy, he was a tryin' ter find out jist how much yer was wuth."

"'Taint nobody's business but my own," cried Clo, angrily, "folks needn't be a pumpin' me; 'taint no use."

"Jis' what I've allers said," remarked Dolf, with great earnestness; "sich secrets, says I, is Miss Clorindy's own."

"Yes, dey be," said Clo, holding on to the sides of her stool as tightly as if it had been the box which contained her treasures.

"I've said sometimes," continued Dolf, "dat if de day shud eber come when dat parathon ob her sex made up her mind ter gib her loved hand to some true bussom, she'd probably whisper musical in his ear de secret she has kept from all de wuld."

Clo was divided between the tenderness awakened by these words and the vigilance with which she always guarded the outposts leading to her cherished secret.

"Ain't dat sense, Miss Clorindy?" demanded Dolf, getting impatient.

"I hain't said it warn't," she replied.

"Dis wuld is full ob mercenary men," Dolf went on, "searchin' fur de filty lucre; I'se glad I neber was one ob dem. I allers has 'spised de dross; gib me lobe, I says, and peace wid de fair one ob my choice, and I asks no more."

Clo played with her apron string again, and looked modestly down.

But Dolf did not know exactly what to say next without committing himself more deeply than he desired; indeed, he had been led on now considerably farther than he could wish, but that was unavoidable.

"Not but what fortins is desirous," he said, "'cause in dis wuld people must lib."

Clo assented gently to that self-evident proposition.

"Do yer know what I'se often tought, Miss Clorindy," said Dolf, starting on a new tack.

"'Spect I don't," said Clo.

"I'se wished many a time, more lately'n I used ter, dat I could take some fair cretur I lobed ter my heart, and dat 'tween us we had money 'nuff ter start a restauration or sometin' ob dat sort."

Clo sniffed a little.

"In dem places de wurk all comes on de woman," said she.

Dolf was quite aware of that fact; it was the one thing which made him contemplate the idea with favor.

"Oh, not at all," he said, "de cookin's a trifle; tink ob de 'counts; my head's good at figures."

"Dey kind o' puzzles me," Clo confided to him softly.

"Tain't 'spected in the fair sect," said Dolf; "dey nebber ort to trouble 'emselves 'bout sich matters."

Then Dolf sighed.

"Yer wonders what's de matter," he said; "I was jis lamentin' dat I hadn't been able to save as much as I could wish, so dat I could realise sich a dream."

"Laws," cried Clo, so agitated and confused she was about to speak the words he so longed to hear; "how much wud it take? Does yer tink dat if a woman had—"

"I say Clo, where be yer?"

The interruption was a cruel one to both the darkeys, though from different reasons; the voice was Victoria's.

"Clo!" she called again, in considerable wrath, "jis' you answer now."

Clo sprang up in high indignation. Dolf mounted a couple of steps and appeared to be diligently searching for something in a closet.

Victoria opened the kitchen door, looked out and tossed her head angrily when she saw the pair.

"I s'pose I might a split my throat callin', and yer wouldn't a answered," she cried.

"I'se 'bout my business," said Clo, grimly, "jis' mind yours."

"I s'pose Mr. Dolf am 'bout his business too," retorted Vic.

Dolf turned around from the closet and asked sweetly, "Did you 'dress me, Miss Vic?"

"No, I didn't, and don't mean ter. But Miss Elsie's woke up, and wants some jelly and a bird; where am dey, Clo?"

"Look whar dey be and ye'll find 'em," replied Clo.

"Ef they hain't gone down dat ol' preacher's throat it's lucky," cried Vic, slamming the door after her, thus defeating poor Dolf in the very moment of success.



CHAPTER LXXI.

FUTILE PLEADINGS.

Elsie was better that morning. When the physician arrived he pronounced her much improved, and confessed to Mellen that he had at first feared an attack upon the brain, but he believed now it was only the result of a severe nervous paroxysm. This time he made no inquiries of Mellen concerning his wife; the manner in which they had been received on the previous day did not invite a renewal of the subject.

Elsie was eager to get up, after her usual habit, the moment she began to feel better; but the doctor ordered her to lie in bed, at least for that day.

"But I want to get up so badly," said she, when her brother returned to the chamber; "I am so tired of lying here."

"Just have patience for to-day; the doctor would not allow the least exertion."

"He's a cross old thing!" pouted Elsie, with a faint return to her old manner, which made Mellen both sigh and smile.

"You will soon be able to put him at defiance. But, indeed, you are so weak now you could not attempt too much."

"Oh, that's nonsense! I don't believe anything about it. You shall stay here with me; if I have to be kept prisoner I will hold you fast, too."

"There is no fear of my attempting to leave the room," he replied.

Elsie felt much improved. She sat up in bed, made her brother play at various games of cards with her, talked and looked herself again.

But into the conversation, in which Mellen did his best to hold a share, there crept some chance mention of that name which those walls must no longer hear. It fell from Elsie's lips thoughtlessly, and at once dispelled her faint attempt at cheerfulness, throwing her into the gloom which she had succeeded in shutting out for a little time.

"Did you write that letter, Grant?" she asked, quickly.

"Yes; I sent it down to the village, to go by the morning's mail."

"Thank you, Grant, thank you!"

She attempted to console herself with thinking she had done something in Elizabeth's behalf, but when her conscience compared it with all that she ought to have done, her coward heart shrank back at the contrast.

"I am tired of cards," she said, sweeping the bits of pasteboard off the bed with one of her abrupt movements, which would have been rude in another, but seemed graceful and childish in her. "Cards are stupid things at the best!"

Mellen patiently collected the scattered pack and laid it away, trying to think of some other means of relieving her ennui.

"Shall I read to you?" he asked.

"I don't believe I could listen," she said, tossing her head wearily about. "I don't know—just try."

There was a pile of new novels and magazines on the table in the centre of the room, for Elsie always kept herself liberally supplied with these sources of distraction, though it must be confessed that she generally carried the recreation to an extreme, reading her romance to the exclusion of more solid studies, just as she preferred nibbling bon-bons, to eating substantial food.

"There certainly is opportunity for a choice," Mellen said, glancing at the pile. "What book will you choose?"

"Oh, bring a magazine; read me some short story."

Mellen seated himself, opened the periodical and commenced reading the first tale he lighted upon. It was a story by a popular author, beginning in a light, pleasant way, and promising the amusement his listener needed. But as the little romance went on it deepened into a pathetic tragedy. It was an account of a noble-born Sicilian woman who, during the Revolution, endured, silently, every species of suffering, at last death itself, rather than betray her husband to his enemies, yet the husband had bitterly wronged her and half-broken her heart during their married life.

Elsie did not listen at first, but as the story went on her thoughts became so painful that she tried to fasten her attention upon the reading. When she began to take notice Mellen was just in the midst of the account of this Sicilian woman's martyrdom in prison, bearing up with such serene patience, faithful to her vow, firm in her determination to save the man who had injured her.

Elsie fairly snatched the volume from his hand.

"Don't read it!" she exclaimed. "What made you choose such a doleful thing; it makes my flesh creep."

He saw the change which had come over her face, and reproached himself for his carelessness in having chosen so sad a tale; but the truth was, in his absorption, he had not the slightest idea of what he was reading, his voice sounded in his own ears mechanical, and as if it belonged to some other person.

He went to the table to make a more fortunate selection.

"Here is a volume of parodies," he said, "shall I try those?"

"Anything; I don't care."

He commenced a mischievous travestie of a poem, but though it was wittily done, its lightness jarred so terribly on both reader and listener that it was speedily thrown aside. For some time they remained in gloomy silence, then Elsie began to moan and move restlessly about, then Mellen tried to rouse himself and be cheerful again.

The afternoon passed very much in the same way. At last Elsie declared that she would sleep awhile.

"Anything to wear away the time!" she said.

Mellen wondered if he should ever find anything that would shorten the hours to him, but he held his peace.

"I have such an odd, horrible feeling," said Elsie; "just as if I were waiting anxiously for something—every instant expecting it."

"That is because you are nervous."

"Perhaps so," she said, fretfully.

He was waiting. Henceforth life would be but one long waiting just for revenge, then to be free from the dull pressure of this existence.

"How white you are!" Elsie said suddenly. "I don't believe you have slept at all."

It was true. For nights Mellen had not closed his eyes, but he felt no approach towards drowsiness even now.

"You will fall sick!" cried Elsie. "What shall I do then?"

"Don't be afraid; I am well and strong."

He said the words with a loathing bitterness of his own ability to endure.

The more powerful his physical organization, the more years of loneliness and pain would be left for him to bear. His mind flew on to the future; he pictured the long, long course towards old age; the dreary lapse of time which would bring only a cold exterior over his sufferings, like a crust of lava hardening above the volcanic fires beneath.

"Don't sit so, looking at nothing," cried Elsie.

"Yes, dear. There, do you think you can go to sleep?"

"I won't try, unless you go to sleep too. Draw the sofa up by the bed and lie down."

He obeyed her command, willing to gratify her least caprice. She gave him one of her pillows, threw a part of the counterpane over him, and made him lie there, holding fast to his hand, afraid to be alone, even in her dreams.

"Do you feel sleepy, Grant?" she asked, after a pause.

"Perhaps so; I am resting, at all events."

"Don't you remember when I was sick once, years ago, I never would sleep unless I held your hand?"

"Yes, dear."

How far back the time looked—he had been a mere youth then—what a fearful waste lay between that season and the present!

Suddenly Elsie started up again.

"You sent the letter, Grant?"

"Yes, yes; be content."

She was so much afraid even to sleep, that it relieved her to turn her last waking thoughts upon some little good she was doing Elizabeth.

"Good-night, now," she said; "I can go to sleep. Kiss my hand, Grant. You love me, don't you?"

"Always, darling, always; nothing can part you and me."

She fell away into a tranquil slumber, and Mellen lay for a long time watching her repose; it was a brief season of peace to her, for burning thoughts had not followed her into her dreams.

The extreme quiet, the sight of her placid face soothed him imperceptibly. A dreary weakness began to make itself felt after that long continued excitement. At length the lids drooped over his eyes, and he slept almost as profoundly as Elsie herself. For a long time there was no sound in the chamber; the brother and sister lay slumbering while the day wore on and the twilight crept slowly around.

When Elsie awoke it was to rouse him with the cry which had been so often on her lips during the previous day—

"Bessie, Bessie!"

He started up, spoke to her, and his voice brought her back to the reality.

"I was so happy," she moaned; "I dreamed that Bessie and I were gathering pond lilies—she was wreathing them about my head—then just as I woke I saw a snake sting her—before that it was all bright. Oh, dear, if I could only sleep forever!"



CHAPTER LXXII.

TOM FULLER RETURNS.

The next day Elsie was still stronger and better. She consented to lie in bed all the morning, making it a condition that she might get up and be carried downstairs to pass the evening.

"That is the dreariest time," she said; "it drags on so heavily."

Mellen promised her, and she was childishly happy.

"You shall have an early dinner, Grant, and then we'll take tea in the evening, and eat toast and jam just as we did when I was a child."

"Yes, that will be very comfortable."

He had tried to say pleasant, but he could not speak the word. The day was so warm and bright that a little after noon he took her out for a short drive, then she lay down to rest again, resolved to be strong and pass the evening below. The change was pleasant to her—she felt quite elated, as she always was in health, at the idea of amusement.

They got through the day rather quietly, and Elsie did not have a single relapse of her nervous tremors.

When she awoke from her afternoon nap it was growing dark. She cried out quite joyfully when she saw Grantley sitting by the bed:

"It is almost evening at last!"

At that moment Victoria appeared at the door.

"Come in," Mellen said; "what do you want?"

Victoria entered on tip-toe, though she knew plainly enough that her young mistress was awake, and whispered in the doleful semitone she reserved for sick rooms:

"If you please, Mister Fuller's just arrived, and he's a asking after all of you in a breath."

Elsie started up on her pillows, and the brother and sister looked at each other in blank dismay when they thought of the blow that must be inflicted upon the warm, honest heart of Elizabeth's cousin.

"Go and say that we will be down," said Elsie, recovering her presence of mind.

Victoria departed, and Grantley cried out passionately:

"How can I tell him? Poor Tom, he will nearly die."

"You must not tell him yet," said Elsie, "not one word—just say Bessie is absent."

"Such prevarication is useless, Elsie, he must know the truth."

Elsie began to cry.

"There, you are contradicting me already. I won't go down—I shall be sick again—my head swims now."

"Don't distress yourself, dear, don't."

"Then let me have my own way," she pleaded.

"What do you wish? Anything to content you."

"That's a good brother," said Elsie. "Go down and merely tell Tom I have been very sick, and that Bessie has gone to New York—anywhere—not a word more."

"But he will wonder at her absence during your illness."

"No, he never wonders; it doesn't make any difference."

"I detest these white lies, Elsie."

"Oh, well, if you want to kill me with a scene, go and tell Tom," she exclaimed, throwing herself back on her pillows; "I shall be worried to death at last."

Mellen was anxious to soothe her, and against his judgment submitted.

"I'll go, darling; I'll go."

"Good Grant; kind brother! Send Victoria to me; I will be all dressed when you come back."

Mellen went out and called the servant, then he passed downstairs, and in the hall met Tom, who rushed towards him, exclaiming:

"The woman says Elsie is very sick; is she better; what is it?"

"She is much better; don't be frightened; she will be downstairs in a few minutes."

"Thank God," muttered Tom, his face still white with fears that Victoria had aroused.

Mellen was too much preoccupied to notice his extreme agitation, or speculate upon its cause if he had observed it.

"I only got back this afternoon," said Tom, "and I hurried over here at once. How is Bessie?"

"She—she is not at home," faltered Mellen.

"Not at home and Elsie sick?"

"She was gone," said Mellen, "and I did not send for her."

Tom was too much troubled about Elsie to reflect long upon anything else, and directly Mellen broke from his eager questions, saying:

"Go into the library, Tom; I'll bring Elsie down."

He went upstairs, and knocked at his sister's door.

"You may come in," Elsie called out; "I am ready."

When he entered she was sitting up in an easy chair, wrapped in a pretty dressing-gown of pink merino, braided and trimmed after her own fanciful ideas, a white shawl thrown over her shoulders, the flossy hair shading her face, and looking altogether quite another creature.

For the first time since Elizabeth's departure, a feeling of relief loosened the oppression on Mellen's heart.

"You look so well again; God bless you, darling!"

"Of course I'm pretty!" she cried childishly, pointing to herself in the glass. "I shall make a nice little visitor."

"You will always be one, my sunbeam," he said.

She shivered a little at his words, but she would not permit herself to think, determined to have her old carelessness, her old peace back, if she could grasp it.

"How is Tom?" she asked.

"Dreadfully anxious about you, poor fellow."

"Did he ask for Bessie?"

"Yes—yes."

"But you said nothing?"

"No, Elsie; he knows nothing."

"That is right," she said; "I can tell him better than you. Be kind to him, Grant."

"Yes, dear; he saved your life; Tom is very dear to me; poor fellow."

"I am to be a visitor, remember," she said childishly; "You must not forget that."

"I will forget nothing that can give you pleasure, be certain of that," he answered, kindly.

"Now you shall lead me downstairs," she said.

"You must not walk; I will carry you."

"No, no; I am so heavy."

But he took her in his arms and carried her downstairs, as he had so often done in her childhood, while Victoria followed with cushions and shawls to make her perfectly comfortable.

"I am your baby again, Grant! Don't you remember how you used to carry me about?"

"Indeed I do; you are not much larger now."

"You saucy thing! I would pull your hair only I am afraid you would let me fall."

He carried her into the library and laid her on the sofa. Tom sprang forward with a cry of terror at the change his absence had made in her appearance, but a gesture from Mellen warned him that he must control his feelings lest his anxiety should agitate her.

"I am so glad to see you, Tom, so very glad," she said, clasping her delicate fingers about his hands, and so filling him with delight by her look and words that he could not even remember to be anxious.

"It has seemed an age to me since I went away," said Tom. "And you have been sick, little princess, and Bessie gone! that is strange."

"There, there," cried Elsie; "you must not talk about my appearance or sickness or anything else! Just tell me how pretty I look, and do nothing but amuse me."

"You seem like an angel of light," cried Tom, looking wistfully at her little hand, as if he longed to hide it away in his broad palm.

The fire burned cheerfully in the grate, the chandeliers were lighted, the tea-table spread, and everything done to make the room pleasant which could suggest itself to Dolf and Victoria, in their anxiety to please the young favorite.

"It is so pleasant," she said, with a sigh of relief; "so pleasant."

Then Victoria brought her a quantity of flowers Dolf had cut in the greenhouse, and she strewed the fragrant blossoms over her dress and wreathed them in her hair, making a beautiful picture of herself in her rich wrappings and delicate loveliness.

"Now we will have tea," she said, "bring all sorts of nice things, Victy."

"Yes, 'deed. I will, Miss! Clo she's ben a fixin' fur yer! Laws, it jis' makes my heart jump to see you up agin."

As the girl left the room Mellen said:

"How she loves you! Everybody does love you, Elsie."

"They must," she answered; "I should die if I were not petted. Oh, Grant, it's so nice here; don't you like it?"

"Yes, indeed; you make the old room bright again."

Her spirits had risen, she was really quite like her old self, and that without effort or pretence.

Then the tea was brought in, and she insisted on at least tasting everything on the table. Clo was well acquainted with her dainty ways, and the varieties of preserves and jellies she had brought out from her stores was marvellous.

Elsie fed Tom with bits of toast, made him eat everything he did not want, and beg for all that he did, and was so bright and peaceful that Mellen himself grew quiet from her influence.



CHAPTER LXXIII.

A FEAST AND A LOVE FEAST.

While the evening was passing so pleasantly with Elsie, the principal personages below stairs were holding a subdued revel in the housekeeper's room.

Miss Dinah had come up from the village, and her ebony suitor was expected. With that and their delight at Miss Elsie's improvement, the whole staff was in excellent spirits.

"It's one ob dem 'casions," said Dolf, "when we ort ter do somethin' a little out ob de common run—what do yer say, Miss Clorindy?"

Clo smiled affably; certain explanations had passed between her and Dolf on the previous day, which made her inclined to consider any proposal of his with high favor.

She summoned her unfortunate drudge Sally, and ordered her to set the table at once.

"And don't spend yer time a gaupin' at Miss Dinah's new dress," said she, severely; "'taint manners, nohow."

The truth was Sally had not observed the gown, but its bright crimson had struck Clorinda's fancy, and being tempted to stare at it enviously herself, she concluded the girl must be doing the same thing.

"Jis' obsarve what Miss Clorindy tells yer," remarked Dolf, "and yer'll be on the road ter 'provement; Sally, yer couldn't hab a more reficient guide."

Clo bridled and grew radiant; she cast a glance of triumph at Dinah, and only regretted that Victoria had not yet come downstairs to hear these benign words.

"I 'spect Othello won't get here till late," said Dinah, beginning to fear that the good things would all have disappeared before his arrival. "Der's some meeting at de hotel, and he'll be kept dar—de gemmen tinks nobody else can wait on em."

"He desarves deir 'preciation," said Dolf, loftily, with the air of a man so supremely great that he could well afford to allow ordinary people to claim their little virtues unchallenged.

"Wal," said Clo, "arter all it needs trabbel and the world to develop a man proper."

"Jis' so, Miss Clorindy; yer's allers rezact."

He gave her a very tender glance, and Clo giggled in delightful confusion.

"But I tell you, Mr. Othello mustn't lose his share of 'freshment," pursued Dolf, anxious to secure as many extra meals as possible. "Miss Clo, will you permit me to make a proposition?"

"I'll feel it an honor," said Clo.

"Yer does me proud," returned Dolf with a profound bow, while Dinah sat quite aghast at their stateliness and high breeding, and Sally began to think Clo must speak Spanish as well as Dolf.

"I moves we has our tea now," said Dolf; "it's a sort of delercate compliment to Miss Elsie to eat when she does, and later in de ebenin' arter Mr. Othello comes we might make a brile ob dat chicken in de closet—marster don't eat nothin', and I'se afeared it'll be wasted."

Clo was complaisance itself, and went to work while Dolf encouraged her with his smiles.

By the time Victoria came downstairs the table was spread sumptuously, and in order to carry out Dolf's extraordinary idea of complimenting Miss Elsie, there were sweetmeats and cakes, hot muffins, cold tongue, and stores of eatables that brought the water into Dolf's crafty mouth.

The meal began in greatest harmony, Miss Dinah was very affable, Vic really was the best-natured creature in the world, and just now she was perfectly happy from seeing her beloved young mistress better; Dolf was so circumspect in his conduct that Clo was kept in the state of high good humor befitting the glory of her new turban, and the first brightness of the change which had come upon her prospects.

The truth was, the day before, while she was peeling onions, Dolf grew desperate, and was led on to that point beyond which there was no turning back. Clo had grown tender and confidential—he learned the amount of her fortune—five hundred hard dollars in the bank. After this the happiness of that sable pair was supreme. For the moment she really looked beautiful in his eyes, and with tears in their depths—the result of affection, not of the onions he assured her—he implored her to make him the happiest of men. He performed his part in the most grandiloquent style, dropping on one knee as he had seen lovers do from the upper loft of the Bowery Theatre, and holding her hands fast, one of which grasped a knife and the other an onion.

Before they were disturbed matters were completely settled, though Dolf pleaded for the engagement being kept secret a little while.

"I jis' want to see what dat ole parson'll say," he averred, though the truth was, Dolf had been so indiscreet in his protestations to Victoria that he was a little fearful of consequences if that high-spirited damsel learned the news without a little preparation.

"Nebber you mind de parson," said Clo; "laws, I wouldn't wipe my ole shoes on him, 'sides it ed be something wuth while jis' to denounce our connubiolity to de hull company dis ebening."

But Dolf flattered and persuaded until she consented to comply with his wishes.

Victoria had been so much occupied above stairs that she found no opportunity for observation, otherwise Dolf's manner and the mysterious air of importance which Clo assumed, would have warned her that something extraordinary had happened.

Clo made Sally wait on her more than ever, boxed the girl's ears for her own mistakes, tried on new turbans, surveyed herself in the glass, and fluttered from room to room in the highest state of feminine triumph. Dolf tried his best to be happy, but it required a vivid recollection of the money lying in that bank to make him at all comfortable. He kept repeating to himself:

"Five hundred dollars! One—two—three—four—five!"

Then he would remember Victoria's youth and golden beauty, his own delicious freedom, and groan heavily. But he was sure to bring up his spirits again by muttering, vigorously:

"Five hundred dollars! One—two—three—four—five!"

But it was a season of holiday delight to Clorinda. The highest aspiration of her spinster soul was soon to be gratified—she would have a husband! No long engagement for her; she made up her mind to that on the moment. With that yellow bird once in the cage, she was not going to lose time in closing the door—not she!

She fed her intended to repletion with dainties, and it spoke marvels for his digestion that after all the dinner he had eaten he could make such havoc among the cake and preserves, still looking complacently forward to the prospect of broiled chicken. Crisp crullers disappeared like frostwork in his nimble jaws, he laid in a very unnecessary stock of tongue considering his natural advantages that way, made a dismal cavern of an immense fruitcake, and softened the effect with a whole mould of apricot jelly.

Dinah and Vic certainly kept him in countenance, but Clorinda rather trifled with the sweets, drinking so much strong tea in her pleasurable agitation, that to an observer given to ludicrous ideas, her jetty face would have suggested the idea of an old fashioned black teapot, with her pug nose for the chubby spout. Sally witnessed this dashing festival from behind the door, scraped up the jelly left in the glasses, stole bits of toast and muffins on their road to the table, and solaced her appetite on various fragments, till at last, growing bold and getting hungry, she crept to the pantry and purloined half a pumpkin pie. Until it had disappeared, like a train down a tunnel, she never remembered that Clo was sure to miss it in the morning, but reflected, in her fright, that it was possible to shut the cat up in the closet at bedtime, and so escape detection.

After tea Dolf brought out a pack of cards—a pack which had mysteriously disappeared from the library table some time before—and inducted the ladies into the mysteries of sundry little games, winning their pennies easily and cheating them without the slightest compunction.

That was a point beyond Clo, she could not lose her money even to Dolf, and vowed from that time out she would only play for pins.

"Gamblin's wicked," she said, virtuously.

So they played for pins, and Dolf allowed her to be the gainer. When she lost, Clo gave crooked ones in payment, and thus her high spirits were preserved untarnished.



CHAPTER LXXIV.

THAT MONEY IN THE BANK.

At last Othello arrived and made the circle complete. A great, shiny creature, uglier than a mortal easily can be, at whom Miss Dinah cast admiring glances, and did the fascinating in a way which Clo copied on the instant.

Dolf reminded her of the chicken, and proposed making a bowl of flip while she cooked the fowl, an idea which received unanimous approval.

They were gathered about the supper-table, Dolf was carver, and managed to secure an unfair portion of the delicate bits, proposing all sorts of trifles to suit Othello's palate, and then devouring them before the unfortunate creature could get more than a look at the dainties.

Othello was giving an account of his labors during the evening, and from his story it was quite evident that he had been the most important personage in the assembly, and Dinah shone like a bronze Venus with the triumph in his success.

"Oh, laws!" said he, suddenly; "I quite forgot!"

"What, what?" they asked.

"Why, what Mr. Moseby said. 'Spec it don't consarn nobody here; only, as Miss Clorindy's a lady of property, she naterally feels interested in what happens to oder folks wid fortins."

Clo bridled, and Dolf said majestically, feeling that he had already a share in her wealth:

"In course, in course; perceed, Mr. Othello."

"Wal, yer see the gemmen was talkin' 'bout de banks—I didn't hear de beginning, 'cause dat boy, Pete Hopkins, let de punch glasses fall, and I was a fixin' him."

"Did it break 'em?" cried Dinah, feeling an interest in the details not shared by the others.

"Only two. I gave him six cracks for each—the little limb!"

"Wal, 'bout de bank," said Dolf, impatiently.

"Yes, dat's what I'm gwine to tell. Mr. Moseby, he said—you know him—dat tall man——"

"Laws, we know him well 'nuff," said Vic. "Go on if you're gwine to."

Dinah looked reproachfully at her, and Othello continued:

"Mr. Moseby—he said de Trader's Bank had blowed all to smash—clean up."

A scream from Clorinda brought them all to their feet.

"Massy sakes," cried Vic; "what is it?"

"Have yer got fits?" demanded Dinah.

"Bring de peppermint," suggested Othello.

"Miss Clorindy, dear Miss Clorindy, what am it?" cried Dolf, with a sudden sinking at his heart.

Clo would have had hysterics, but not being a fine lady, she gave two or three yells, kicked the table, pulled her frizzed hair, and shouted, amid her tears:

"You Sally, git my bunnit—quick!"

She rose, and they crowded about her.

"Whar be you gwine? What's up?"

"Git my bunnit!" she repeated. "Ise gwine to York, I is."

"To York, this time o' night?" cried Vic.

"Yes, I is—let me go."

Dolf laid a hand on her arm.

"Only 'splain, Clorindy, 'splain!"

"Ise gwine to git at dem rascals. I want my money—I'll have it! Marster shall git it. Oh de villin scampsesses! I want my money."

Dolf dropped speechless in a chair, while the rest poured out floods of questions, which Clorinda was in no state to answer.

"Was yer money in dat bank?"

"Ise gwine to York; get my bunnit!"

They fairly shook her, the general curiosity was so great.

"Why don't yer speak?" said Vic. "Was yer money in de bank?"

"Yis; ebery red cent. Oh! oh! Five hundred dollars—and it's a—all g—gone!" she sobbed. "I'll hev it! I'll hev it! Call marster! Git my bunnit. Oh! oh!"

They made her sit down, they explained to her that nothing could be done until the next day, and finally she subsided into silent tears. All this while Dolf sat without offering one word of consolation; now he said:

"Mebby dar's some mistake, Othello."

"No, dar ain't," persisted Othello. "Mr. Moseby's lost ten thousand dollars; he'd orter know. De bank's gone to smash, clar nuff."

Clo burst into a new paroxysm of distress, and Dolf, after a brief struggle with his own disappointment, turned on her:

"Yer needn't rouse de house wid yer hurlyburly," said he, savagely. "Better 'member Miss Elsie's sick."

Clo stared at him in tearless horror; a new fear struck her; was he going to prove false?

"Don't talk so," she said; "tink of yesterday, Dolf!"

Dolf drew himself up, and looked first at her and then at the company with an air of profound astonishment.

"I tink her brain am turned," said he.

"'Taint!" roared Clo. "Oh, Dolfy, yer said yer loved me; yer knows yer did; dat yer didn't care for money; dat I was a Wenus in yer eyes—oh—oh!"

"Wal, I do declar!" cried Vic.

Dolf flew into a great rage.

"Miss Clorindy, yer sorrow makes yer forget yerself; yer've ben a dreaming."

Clo drew her apron from her eyes and looked at him; lightning was gathering there which he would have done well to heed, but he did not.

"Does yer mean that?" she demanded, sternly.

"Sartin, I does."

"Yer denies kneelin' at my feet an' sayin', "Wasn't de onions made yer cry;" a pleadin' and a coaxin' till I 'sented to marry yer."

"In course I does," repeated Dolf, doggedly.

"Take care! Jis' tink!"

"Miss Clo, dis ere ain't decorous; I'se 'stonished at yer!"

With a bound like an unchained tigress Clo sprang at him. Dolf dodged, ran behind the startled group, in and out among the chairs, through the kitchen, back again, and Clo at his heels. She had caught up a broom; once or twice she managed to hit him, and her sobs of rage mingled with Dolf's cries of distress.

"Take her off," he shrieked; "ketch a hold of her!"

"I'll kill him," shouted Clo. "I'll break every bone in his 'fernal body! Oh, yer varmint, yer cattle!"

They laid hands on Clorinda at length, though it was a difficult operation; and Dolf took refuge behind a great chair, peeping through the slats at the back, with his eyes rolling and his teeth chattering like some frightened monkey in a cage.

The women were consoling and blaming Clo; Vic divided between conviction and anger, and Othello, like a sensible man, siding neither way.

Suddenly they were roused by a prolonged cry from the floor above, a cry so shrill and unearthly that it froze the blood in their veins. In an instant there followed a loud knocking at the outer door, and forgetful of their own troubles, they crowded together like a flock of frightened crows driven from a cornfield.



CHAPTER LXXV.

UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENTS.

The evening had passed very pleasantly to Elsie; Mellen had humored her caprices at whatever cost to himself, and kept her thoughts as much aloof as possible from the events of the past days.

It was growing late, and he had several times reminded her that it was time she went to rest. Tom Fuller had taken the first hint and retired.

"Let me sit up a little longer," she pleaded; "I am not in the least sleepy; it is so nice to get out of that dull chamber."

"But I am afraid you will tire yourself so completely, that to-morrow you cannot come down at all."

"There is not the slightest danger of that; I am stronger than you think. When this little dizziness in my head leaves me I shall be quite well."

They talked a few moments longer, then she began turning over the papers on a stand near her sofa. Suddenly she took up a letter, and glancing at the writing, exclaimed:

"This is from Mr. Hudson! You did not tell me that you had heard."

"It came this afternoon while you were asleep."

"What does he say? Does he know where she is? Will you send him money for her?"

"There is no necessity."

"But she must have it; she can't live."

"My dear, she has her money. He writes me that sometime since he sold out the stocks by her orders. She was doubtless preparing to leave the country with that man."

Elsie fell back on the sofa overwhelmed by the new fear which came over her. The money had been paid; but where was Elizabeth? What to do—how to act! Before the whirl had left her brain there was a sound at the door of the little passage already described.

"What is that?" exclaimed Mellen. "Some one trying that door."

"No, no," she cried. "Come back; it's nothing; I'm afraid; come back!"

He gave no attention to her cry, but hurried towards the door, while she was attempting to rise from the sofa; he had it open, Elsie heard a muttered curse, an answering imprecation from another voice, looked out, saw the outer door ajar and a man just entering the passage with whom Mellen closed instantly in a fearful struggle.

That one glance had been enough; she knew the man; then it was her insane shriek rang through the house.

Mellen forced Ford into the room, flung him against the wall, locked the door, and exclaimed in a terrible voice:

"At last! at last!"

A bell rang at the front entrance, but no one in that room heeded it.

Mellen sprang towards the man again, but he cried out savagely:

"Keep off, if you value your life, keep off."

"One of us dies here!" cried Mellen. "William Ford, one of us dies here!"

After that long shriek Elsie had fallen back helpless; she had not fainted, but a sort of cateleptic rigor locked her limbs; there she lay without voice or power of motion, listening to their words, which seemed to come through blocks of ice.

"I did not expect to meet you here," said Ford, calling up a sudden audacity. "It's an honor I did not wish."

"I know who you expected to see; but the woman is gone; you must seek her elsewhere!"

"Then you have driven her to destruction at last. I tell you, sir, we are a pack of cowards hunting down an angel. You and I and that pretty imp of satan. I came to tell you this: bad as I am, her goodness has touched me with human feelings. If she is here and alive, justice shall be done her, and for once the truth shall be spoken under this roof. That woman has bribed me to shield another through her. Soul and body she has been made a sacrifice. There is danger to me here. This bit of goodness may bring ruin upon me, but I cannot leave the country forever, and know that she is being ground to dust under your heel; while that other flimsy coward crowds her from hearth and home. For once, Grantley Mellen, you shall be forced to hear the truth and believe it."

"The truth from you!" exclaimed Mellen, with unutterable scorn, "that or anything else from so vile a source I reject—go, sir, we are not alone!"

Ford, or North, glanced towards the sofa; recognised Elsie lying there, and turned again towards Mellen.

"Twice you have broken up my life," cried Mellen, "but this time you shall not escape! Here, in the home you have dishonored, you shall meet your fate. Burglar, villain, how did you get here?"

"By the way I have been in the habit of reaching these rooms. I hoped to see your wife here, and tell her that at last I was resolved to knock my chains from her soul. She never would have spoken; but nothing, even though she had gone on her knees again, should have silenced me! If she is not alive to benefit by the exculpation, I am resolved that her memory, at least, shall be saved all reproach."

"I believe," said Mellen, with cool scorn, "that it is expected that a man should perjure himself in behalf of a woman whom he has dragged into sin, but here, impudent falsehoods of this kind, count for nothing."

"But you shall believe me! If that woman is lost, if she has gone mad, for she was mad, when I left her in the graveyard, if she has wandered off and perished, or worse still——"

"Hold, hold!" cried Mellen, shuddering.

"If she is lost or dead," continued North, without heeding the anguish in this cry, "you have murdered the sweetest and noblest woman that ever drew breath, and only that the worthless thing lying yonder, should continue to be pampered and sit above her."

Mellen started to his feet.

"Silence!" he thundered. "Do not dare to take the name of that innocent child into your lips."

A keen, sarcastic laugh, preceded the answer North gave to this.

"So that strikes home, does it? Your wife has probably died by her own hand, but you do not feel it. When that paltry thing is mentioned, you tear at the bit and begin to rave, as if she were the most worthy creature on earth. Ah, ha! There you are wounded, my friend."

Mellen remembered Elsie's presence.

"Well," he cried, pointing to her, "that woman only had my heart; my blood did not run in her veins; if you had struck me there the blow would have been keener."

The man laughed again; Elsie heard both words and laugh, as she lay in that marble trance. Had she been laid out shrouded for burial she could not have been more helpless.

"So you drove your wife away; out of the house?" cried the man. "I guessed as much."

"She is gone for ever, but you shall not live to join her."

"Before now she is dead! Listen to what you have done. I repeat it, your wife was as innocent as an angel. She is dead, and I tell you so, knowing how it will poison your life. If there was guilt or dishonor in loving me it belonged to that pretty heap of deception on the sofa. Hear that, and let your soul writhe under it, for your blood does run in her veins. I came to tell you this. That great hearted creature forced the truth back in my throat, the other night; but you shall hear it now. There lies the mother of the child we buried, the other night!"

"Liar! Traitor!" cried Mellen.

Again came a violent ringing of the door-bell; steps in the hall; this time the two men listened.

"I am pursued," muttered Ford; "they've cornered me; it is your turn now."

"I will give you up if these are enemies," cried Mellen; "there is no escape."

He took one stride towards the door, but Ford called out:

"You are giving up your sister's husband; remember the whole world shall know it."

There was bitter truth in the tone, but before Mellen could move or speak, the door opened and two officers entered the room.

"We have him safe," said one of the intruders as he passed Mellen. "Caught at last, my fine fellow."

Ford started back—thrust one hand under his vest, and drew it out again—there was a flash—a stunning report—he staggered back against the wall, shot through the chest.

For a few instants there was wild confusion; the servants rushed in, the wounded criminal was lifted up, but during all that time Elsie lay on the sofa quite unnoticed, not insensible yet, but utterly helpless, so blasted by the shock that mind and body seemed withering under it.

Ford sat on the floor in gloomy silence. In spite of his resistance an effort was made to staunch the blood which was trickling down his shirt bosom, but he said in a low, quiet voice:

"It is useless. I have cheated you at last—the first good act of my life has killed me—I am a dying man. It was my last stake, and I have lost it."

A great change in his face proved the truth of his words; even the officers, inured to scenes of suffering and pain, recoiled before his stony hardihood.

One of them spoke in explanation to Mellen.

"We don't know what he wanted here; we have been on his track for days; he committed a forgery, months ago, and was trying to get off to Europe just as it was found out."

"He's bound on a longer journey, that you cannot stop now," said Ford. "Mellen, I have something to say to you—better send these men away unless you want our little affairs discussed before them."



CHAPTER LXXVI.

THE CONFESSION.

After a few moments the men went out and left Mellen alone with the suicide—in his excitement Mellen forgot Elsie's presence, and the dreadful state she was in.

"I am dying," said Ford; "I may live the night out—it don't matter! You are glad to see my blood run—that's natural enough! Man, man, the torment I go to isn't half as bad as that I shall leave behind for you."

"Say quickly what you wish," exclaimed Mellen, forgetting even his hatred in the dreadful picture his enemy made, his garments red with blood, his face pale with the death agony, distorted with baffled rage and hate. "I believe nothing you say—you cannot move me."

"So be it," said the man. "These fellows have tied my hands—put yours in my coat pocket—you'll find three letters, a paper and a roll of money."

Mellen obeyed, shuddering to feel the blood drops warm on his fingers as he drew forth the package.

"Read them," said Ford, briefly.

Mellen opened one after another of the epistles and read—they were in Elsie's writing—they proved the truth of the villain's assertions. The smaller paper was a marriage certificate. The roll of bills—each note for a thousand dollars—was the price of Elizabeth's bonds.

Mellen staggered back with one heartbroken cry.

"I have touched you," exclaimed the man! "There lies your precious sister in a dead faint—here I am, dying, a criminal, but your brother-in-law none the less—stoop down, I want to whisper something."

Mellen bent his head, for his enemy was dying.

"It is a fair certificate you see, but I was a married man all the time."

As Ford whispered these words a fiendish smile covered the lips on which death was scattering ashes.

Mellen started forward with a wild impulse to choke the ebbing life from his lips, but they whispered hoarsely:

"You can't fight a dying man—you'll only put me out of this cursed pain if you choke me."

Mellen stood transfixed.

"I'll tell you the story," continued Ford; "novels always have dying confessions in them—hear mine. I tell you because it is too late to remedy what you have done—your wife is gone—I'm glad of it. She was ten thousand times too good for any of you. She's dead, I dare say; just the woman to do it, without a word, and all for that little heap of froth."

Mellen could not speak; he felt about blindly for support, and sank into a chair.

"I always hated you," Ford went on, and the hatred of a life burned in his voice and convulsed his face. "When we were boys together, I swore to pay you off for getting that old man's money away from me, his rightful heir. That was bad enough, but your insolent kindness, your infernal, condescending generosity, was ten times worse. Mighty willing, you were, to dole out money that was more mine than yours, and claim gratitude for it. But I had a little revenge at the time, remember. I took away the woman you loved—I cheated you out of money—that was something, but not enough. I came back to this country just after you sailed from Europe, and even before I ever saw the woman who became your wife, or your sister, I had formed my plan—it succeeded. I met that bunch of flimsy falsehood—I made her love me—made her mad for me—you wince—I'm glad of it. But mind me, I would not have married her after all, but that I thought she had inherited half her old uncle's property. It would not have been worth while to saddle myself with a thing like that. Then came your turn to laugh, if you had but known it. I was taken in—sold. The creature had not a cent, and no hope of one if she offended you.

"It was a hateful position, especially as I did not care for the pretty fool after the speculation failed, and what's better, she soon got over caring for me, just as the other did, and wanted to be off her bargain. I had given her a glimpse or two of my way of life. That did not frighten her, but my poverty did. This little sister of yours has luxurious tastes, and understands the value of wealth uncommonly well. But she had told me just how far you had made your wife independent in means. It was a pretty sum, and I saw a way of getting it.

"Elsie had told me a great deal about your wife, and I made my own observations, though she detested me from the first, some women will take such fancies. I say nothing of certain wires that I had laid in the basement region of your house.

"The little goose yonder really believed that you had married that glorious woman only as a companion for her—that you did not love her in the least. I knew better; she was a woman to adore, worship for ever and ever: and you are no fool in such matters, I know that of old our tastes in that direction have always harmonized beautifully. Your wife adored you; I can say this now that you have killed her, but that little witch convinced her of the story she told me, and it was breaking her heart, for that woman had a heart.

"To save you from trouble and the creature that you worshipped even in her presence from disgrace, I knew that she would give up everything, even her life, which you have taken at last.

"I told Elsie the truth, after I got a little tired of her, which was early in the honeymoon; let her know frankly that I had a wife living in Europe, though it was impossible for any one to prove it against my will. The very day that I told her this I managed to convey some of her letters to me—fond, silly things they were—into your wife's room. Then I sent Elsie home to tell her own story.

"The girl was mad, crazy as a March hare, went into hysterics, made an insane effort to kill herself, took poison and heaven knows what else in the presence of your wife. I knew she would, and set her loose for that purpose. These tragedies were kept up till your wife, thinking your soul bound up in the girl, and herself nothing in comparison, made a solemn promise never to betray Elsie's secret, and to shield her from all harm with her own life if needful. I heard this and knew that my money was safe.

"Your wife came to me, for I was not permitted to enter the house after she found me out. There was a woman! I swear the only creature of the sex that I ever respected. She was firm but grand in her generosity, ready to sacrifice everything so long as it took Elsie out of my power. I gave up more of the letters, reserving these three for use, unknown to her. She raised all the money in her power at the time, but I kept the certificate, resolved not to sell that without demanding the last cent she possessed.

"In telling my grand secret, I had been cautious to keep all possibility of proof to myself. They knew that my first wife, your old lady love, was living, but had no means of proving the fact, or even that I had ever been married at all, otherwise my position might have been dangerous; as it was, those two women were like flies in a spider's web.

"Our child, your nephew, was born, and died, fortunately for us all. They were obliged to trust me a little then. Your wife summoned me to the house, for she was afraid to claim help from any other human being—I went, and with my own hands buried it under a cypress tree in your grounds. That heroic woman stood by and watched. She would not trust me out of her sight, fearing that I might attempt to see Elsie, whom she guarded like a mother bird when hawks are near. Noble soul. It was all useless; I had no wish to see that faithless little imp, and as for her, I dare say she was glad to get rid of me even at the bitter cost she was paying. In fact I know she was, after that other noble creature took up her burden.

"Well, after this I got a little money from your wife now and then, under threats of claiming my wife, which always brought her to terms—remember I had told her she was not my legal wife, but held proofs that she was—I could claim or reject her as I pleased.

"But one day a new idea came into my head; I found out that you were coming home just as the steamer which brought you was on the coast. That your will had been made, leaving all you had to be equally divided between your wife and sister. If you should never reach shore Elsie would be worth claiming in earnest. But with that news came a letter from my wife; against my commands she was following me to this country, just when her presence was certain ruin."

The man broke off in his narration here, evidently convulsed with more than physical pain, specks of foam flew to his lips, great drops of agony stood on his forehead.

"Brandy; give me some brandy!" he cried out huskily. "Some brandy, I say."

Mellen poured some brandy into a glass and held it to his mouth. He drank eagerly, and sank back to the floor again.

"What's the use of talking about that? I would have saved her at the last, and tried hard enough, but the storm was too much for me. After all that, you baffled me and got on shore; the fiends must have guided that pilot boat. I got frightened too. It was not a part of my programme to go down with you."

"Wretch!" said Mellen, struck with a sudden idea, "you were the person who nearly lost me among the breakers."

"Yes," answered Ford. "We both had a narrow chance, but the risk was worth running—that is, if your will really was made—but when you once touched shore all hope for me was over. I must leave America; I sent word to your wife that I must have twenty-five thousand dollars or claim my wife.

"She was trying to get it; she gave me the bracelet as a bribe for delay, one night when I came. Still of one thing I pledge you my soul, it is pretty much all I have left now, your wife never dreamed that I was your enemy, Ford. She knew I was a villain, and held the fate of that pretty fool in my hands. Now you have the whole story. I came here to-night because I had not heard from her; now I believe she's dead. I thought I would see that girl there. Now, then, Grantley Mellen, are you satisfied? You have driven your wife away, you could believe her guilty, and pet that frivolous thing in her place!"

"'When did I first see her?' when she was a flirty little school girl.

"'When did I marry her?' what there was of it, remember—just after you started for California, when the widow Harrington innocently brought me a guest into this house against the wishes of its mistress, who had seen me about the boarding-school, charming the canary birds with serenades. Once or twice she caught me with my guitar playing the fool under her own window. Of course she was not certain whether the homage was intended for her or Elsie, but I think took it to herself and was indignant, giving me in exchange for my music, such looks as a queen might bestow on her slave. I rather liked her for it; that kind of homage was not suited to her. The heap of thistle down yonder liked it. She knew what it meant. The only deep thing about such creatures is their craft. That girl is cunning as a fox. The pure, innocent thing, for whom that splendid creature was sacrificed; if I were not dying, the idea would make me laugh.

"There, now are we even? You deprived me of a fortune I was brought up to expect; I have managed to get some of it back. You loved a woman, and I married her. You married another woman, the most glorious creature I ever saw, and in a fit of jealous rage with me, turned her out upon the world to die.

"Tell me now, if my revenge has been complete?"

Mellen ran to the door and opened it.

"Come in," he cried to the officers. "Carry that man away! Take him to the lodge; he shall not even die here."

"As you will," cried Ford. "I will hold my tongue for that poor woman's sake."

He could not walk, so they carried him down to the lodge, and there, while waiting for a doctor to come, he sat looking death in the face, with the same desperate bravado that had marked his conduct all the night.



CHAPTER LXXVII.

SEARCHING.

Shriek after shriek from Elsie roused Mellen. She was raving in horrible delirium, and when assistance arrived it proved that she had been seized with brain fever, and there was scarcely a hope of her recovery.

Standing there by her bed, this thought must have been a relief to Mellen; but he did not forsake her, his pride was utterly crushed. He longed to cast himself down by her side and die there.

The next morning, when nurses and physicians arrived, Mellen left the house. He was going out on an aimless search for his lost wife—the woman who had given up her last hope for him and his.

He learned at the lodge that the wounded prisoner had been carried to the village by his own command; that he was alive still, but could not last more than another day; that his name was North, and he was well-known among the sporting gentry who came to the shore tavern. All this was told him as news.

Mellen hurried to the city and commenced his task. He sought for Elizabeth in every place where there was a possibility of her having taking refuge, but without avail. He used every means in his power to make some discovery, but they were ineffectual.

When night came he returned home, only to hear Elsie's mad shrieks and laughter echoing through the desolate house, to pass the night with those sounds ringing in his ears, and feel that terrible remorse tugging at his heart.

The next morning he started again on his errand. He was told in the village that the man was dead. The story had gone abroad that he was a daring burglar, and that the officers had surprised him breaking into Mellen's house. He had found no strength to tell his story, so fear of open disgrace perished with him.

In the madness of his grief, Mellen had forgotten that Tom Fuller was his guest. The young man's chamber was in another wing of the building, and he heard nothing of the wild turmoil that distracted the family. Tom was not a very early riser, and when he came down in the morning, sauntering lazily into the breakfast-room, expecting to see Elsie there in her pretty blue morning-dress and flossy curls, he found the room empty, no table spread, and no human being to greet him.

"Well, this is strange," said Tom; "but when Bessie is away things will go to sixes and sevens, I dare be sworn. And Elsie isn't well, poor darling! Hallo! there goes Mellen, riding like a trooper! What on earth does all this mean? I am getting hungry, and lonesome, and——"

Here Tom gave a jerk at the bell, and cast himself into an easy chair.

Dolf presented his woe-begone face at the door.

"What's the matter, Dolf? Isn't it breakfast-time? Where is your master going—and—and—Well, Dolf, can't you tell me why Miss Elsie isn't down?"

"Miss Elsie, oh, sah, she am sick."

"Sick, Dolf! You don't say that?" cried Tom, starting up, with his face all in a chill of anxiety.

"Yes, I mean just dat, and nothing else."

"No, no; not very sick, Dolf," cried Tom, trembling through all his great frame, "only a little nervous, a headache, or something of that sort."

"She's just ravin'—crazy—ask Vic if you don't believe me. The doctors come in before daylight; I went after 'em myself. Robbers broke into de house last night, sah, and frightened our sweet young lady a'most to death."

"Robbers, Dolf!"

"Yes, sah. A gemman, too, as has been a visitor in dis dentical house. Marster catched him in de act ob takin' out de silver, and de gemman—robber, I mean—felt so 'shamed ob himself dat he up and banged a bullet straight frough his own bussom, afore Miss Elsie, too!"

"Poor thing; precious little darling," cried Tom; "Mellen's left her all alone, and Elizabeth away; dear me! Dolf, Dolf, what was that?"

"It's her a screaming."

"What, Elsie, my Elsie?"

"Yes, sah; dat am her."

"Dolf, I say," cried Tom, in breathless anxiety, thrusting a ten dollar gold piece into the negro's hand; "Dolf, would it be very much amiss, you know, if I was to take off my boots and just steal up?"

"Well, I doesn't 'zactly know; de fair sex am so captious 'bout us gemmen; but Vic is up dar, and you can ask her, she knows all 'bout de 'prieties. Smart gal, dat Vic, I tell you; loves Miss Elsie, too, like fifty."

"Does she?" said Tom; "here's another gold piece, give it to her, with my best regards, Dolf."

Dolf pocketed the gold piece, and that was the last time it saw the light for many a day. Tom took off his boots and crept upstairs in his stocking feet, holding his breath as he went. Vic came out of the shaded room, and the young man's grief softened her so much that she allowed him to steal into Elsie's boudoir, where he sat all the morning listening to the poor girl's muttered fancies, after bribing Vic with gold pieces to leave the door open, that he might catch a glimpse now and then of the beloved face, flushed and wild as it was.

Generous, noble-hearted Tom Fuller; he had been really hungry when he came from his own room, but all that was forgotten now, and there he sat fasting till the shadows slanted eastward. Then he saw Mellen riding towards the house at a slow, weary pace, which bespoke great depression.

Tom arose and went downstairs, urged to meet his friend by the kindest heart that ever beat in a human bosom.

"She's better, I am quite sure; she slept two or three minutes; so don't look so downhearted," he cried, seizing Mellen's hand as he dismounted. "But where's Elizabeth? I thought you had gone after her."

"Elizabeth, my wife," answered Mellen, lifting his haggard eyes to Tom's face. "She is gone—lost—dead. My friend, my friend, I have murdered your cousin, murdered my own wife."

"Murdered her; now I like that," said Fuller; "but where is she? not gone off in a tiff. Bessie wasn't the girl to do that any way; but as for murder, oh nonsense!"

"Fuller, you are her only relative, and have a right to know. Come out into the grounds, the air of the house would stifle me."

They sat down together on a garden chair within sight of the old cypress.

"I have been a proud man, Fuller, sensitive beyond everything to the honor of my family, but never knowingly have I allowed this feeling to stand between my soul and justice. Your cousin has been terribly wronged since she came under my roof. It is now too late for reparation, but to you, her only relative, the truth must be known. I will not even ask you to keep the facts secret. I have no right."

"Look here, old fellow," said Tom, wringing Mellen's slender hand in his; "if this is a lover's quarrel between you and Elizabeth, don't say another word. Lord bless you! I can persuade her into anything, she knows me of old. Besides, I am glad there is something that I can do to make you both good-natured just now, for as like as not, I shall be asking a tremendous favor of you before long, and this will pave the way; tell me where your wife is, I'll take care of the rest."

"Tom, I believe—I fear that she is dead."

The solemnity with which this was spoken, appalled Tom.

"Dead!" he repeated, and the ruddy color faded from his face. "Dead—you can't mean it."

"Listen patiently to me if you can," said Mellen, sadly. "This must be told, but the effort is terrible."

Tom folded his arms and bent his now grave face to listen. Then Mellen told him all; the anguish, the deception, the anxiety which these pages have recorded so imperfectly. There was but little exhibition of excitement, Mellen told these things in a dull, dreary voice that bespoke utter hopelessness. He was so lost in his own misery that the signs of anguish in Tom's face never disturbed his narrative.

When he had done Tom Fuller arose, and stood before him, white as death, but with a noble look in his eyes.

"Mellon, give me your hand, for you and I are just the two most wretched dogs in America at this minute. I loved her, Mellen, O God help me! I love her as you did the other one. Great heavens, what can we do?"

"Nothing," answered Mellen; "I did not think another pang could be added, and my soul recoils from this. Could she prove so base to you also?"

"Base; look here, Mellen, you don't take this in the true light. It was all my fault. I forced myself upon her; I—I——"

The poor fellow broke down, a convulsion of grief swept his face, and he walked away.

Directly he came back, holding out his hand.

"Come, now let us search for Elizabeth," he said.

"It is useless; I have searched."

"But come with me—it was not in town you should have looked; Elizabeth would not go there."

Mellen arose and walked towards the bay. In passing a clump of rosebushes Tom stopped to extricate a fragment of silk from the thorns.

"What dress did she wear that night?" he inquired, examining the shred in his hand.

"I remember well, it was purple," answered Mellen, without lifting his weary eyes from the ground.

"Come this way, for she has been here," said Tom. "This path leads to the fishpond."

They walked on, Tom searching vigilantly all the thickets he passed, and Mellen looking around him in terror lest the dead body of his wife should appear and crush his last hope for ever.

"She has been this way," said Tom, when they reached the pond. "See, that tuft of cat-tails has been broken. No, no, don't be afraid to look; see yonder where the bushes are swept down; she went away towards the shore."

Mellen groaned aloud. This was his most terrible fear. They walked on, taking a path that curved round the bay, and leaving the shore tavern on the right, went down to the beach. It was now sunset, and a golden glow lay upon the waters till they broke along the beach like great waves of pearls and opals drifting over the Sound together, and melting in the sand. Near the two men was a winrow of black seaweed, on which great drops of spray were quivering. Something in the appearance of this dark mass arrested Tom's attention. He went up to the pile of weeds and kicked them apart; a dark sodden substance, compact and heavy, lay underneath. He took it in his hands, gave the weeds that clung to it a shake, and held it up. Mellen came forward, his white lips parted, his breath rising with pain. He reached forth his hand, but uttered no word.

It was the ample shawl that Elizabeth had worn that night.



CHAPTER LXXVIII.

IN BENSON'S TAVERN.

She was dead! That fiendish man had spoken the truth—Mellen believed it now. Elizabeth was dead, and he had killed her—that noble, grand woman, so resolute in her sacrifice, so determined to save that girl, to preserve him from the hardest shock to his honor and pride, had offered herself up to death, body and soul.

Those few moments of conviction changed him more than many years would have done. The pride and anger which had helped to aid him in his first grief were gone now—he was the wronger—searching for the wife he had driven forth to perish. And she was dead!

No clue—no hope!

He did not touch the shawl, but leaving Tom Fuller, went back and sat down in Elsie's room, with the sick girl's delirious cries smiting his ear, and terrible images rising before his eyes of Elizabeth—dying, dead—drowned and dashed upon some lonely beach, with her cold, open eyes staring blankly in his face.

Tom dropped the shawl in a wet mass at his feet, and walked away without attempting to detain or comfort the stricken husband. He too believed Elizabeth dead, and had no heart to offer consolation. Indeed, the pang of sorrow that this conviction brought took away his own strength.

He walked on, over the wet sands of the beach, ready to cry out with the anguish of this sudden bereavement, when the figure of old Caleb Benson cast its long shadow on the shore.

"Is that you, Mr. Fuller, and alone? I'm mighty pleased to find any one from the Cove—most of all you."

"Do you want me for anything particular?" asked Tom in a husky voice; "if not I—I'm engaged just now."

"Well, yes; I must tell you," said the old man. "I've bin to your house twice—once in the night—I thought mebby I'd see the young gal."

"What is it?" asked Tom, in the impotence of his grief.

"She made me promise not to tell—but whatever's wrong, you're her cousin, and can't be hard on her—she's dreadful sick."

Tom caught his arm.

"My cousin—are you talking of my cousin, Mrs. Mellen?"

"Why yes, sure enough, though she never will forgive me for telling you."

"But where is she? Where is she?" shouted Tom. "How did you find her? Who got her out of the water? Great heavens, old man, can't you speak?"

"Well, this is the way it was," answered the old man. "T'other night, or morning, for it was nigh on to daylight, I was eating breakfast with the young uns, when one on 'em got scared by a face at the winder looking in on us as we eat. I jist got one sight of the face, and kinder seemed to know it. So up I jumps, and on with my great coat, and out into the fog. Something gray went on afore me, and I follered, for sometimes it looked like a woman, and sometimes not. Down it went, making a bee-line for the beach, and I arter it full split, for it travelled fast, I can tell you. The night had been kinder rough, and the waves dashed up high, considering that the storm wasn't nothing much to speak on. But the woman, for I could see that it was a woman now, went right straight on, as if she'd made up her mind to pitch head forred into the sea and drown herself the first thing.

"This riled me up, and I went on arter her like a tornado, now I tell you. But jist as I was reaching out both hands to drag her back from a wave that came roaring along, it broke, and the undertow sucked her in right afore my face.

"Now some folks might a pitched in arter her, but I knew better'n that. We should both on us have gone to kingdom come and no mistake if I had. Not a bit of it; I planted myself firm and waited. Sure enough the second wave arter that came tearing along, tossing the poor cretur up and down like a wisp of seaweed, and pitched her ashore right in my tracks.

"In course the next wave would have dragged her out to sea agin, but I got hold of her shawl and tried to haul her back, but the tarnal thing gave way, and I had just time to drop it and make a grab at her clothes, when it came crashing over us agin. But I held on, and planted myself firm, so it only dragged us both a foot or two and went roaring off. Then I got a fair hold of the lady and dragged her up the beach out of harm's way. But I really thought that she was dead; the daylight broke while she lay on the sand, and then I saw who it was, and the sight of her cold face drove me wild. I took her up in my arms and carried her home. There was a good fire burning, and my darter is used to taking care of sich cases. So she wrapped her in hot blankets, and worked over her till the life came back."

"And she's alive—doing well," cried Tom, "at your house; old Benson, you're—a—a—trump. If I hadn't given away every gold piece I had in my pocket, you should have a double handful—by Jove, you should! But never mind, just come along, I must have one splendid hug, and then for the Cove. No, no, that won't be fair after all," thought the generous fellow, "Grant must have the first kiss, he must tell her——"

The thought of what must be told her went through the poor fellow's brain like an arrow of fire. But he dashed into the path which led to Piney Cove, calling back to Benson, "Don't tell her anything!" and strode away.

Breathless, eager, forgetful of his own great sorrow, Tom cleared the distance between the shore and Piney Cove with enormous strides. He crossed the lawn almost at a run, leaped up the steps two at a time, and found Mellen lying upon a sofa in the balcony, with his face to the wall.

"Get up, old fellow, get up and shake yourself," he cried, seizing upon Mellen and turning him over as if he had been a Newfoundland dog in the wrong place; "I've found her—by Jove, I have!—she's at old Benson's. Isn't he a brick? She's well—no, she isn't quite that according to the latest accounts, but by all that's sacred, your wife is alive!"

Mellen started to his feet, bewildered, wild.

"Tom Fuller, is this true?"

"Do I look like a man who tells lies for fun?" said Tom, drawing himself up.

"Have you seen her—is my wife truly alive?"

"Yes—no—no—I haven't seen her—was in too great a hurry for that. But she's there at Benson's tavern, just as sure—as sure—as a gun."

Mellen brushed past the kind fellow while he was hesitating for a comparison. His saddle horse stood at the door—for he had been too excited for any orders regarding it. He sprang upon its back and dashed across the lawn, through the grove and out of sight, quickly as a fast horse could clear the ground. He drew up in front of old Benson's house, leaped off and rushed in.

"Where is she?" he cried, to the frightened woman who met him. "My wife—where is she?"

A cry from the upper room answered his words; he dashed into the apartment. There, on the humble bed, lay Elizabeth, pale and changed, but alive!

She was cowering back in deadly terror—putting out her hands in wild appeal.

"I'm going away," she moaned; "don't kill me! I can start now—I'll go—I'll go!"

He fell on his knees by the bed, he was telling the truth in wild, broken words.

"Only forgive me, Elizabeth; only forgive me; my wife, my darling, can you forgive me? You would if my heart lay in your hands. Oh, Elizabeth, speak to me!"

She could not comprehend what he was saying at the moment; when she did understand, her first thought was of the girl—his sister.

"Elsie! Elsie!"

"She is ill—dying perhaps. Oh, my wife! my wife! Try to speak—say that you forgive me."

She was too greatly agitated for words then, but she put out her hands with a gesture he understood. He lifted her in his arms and folded her close to his heart. She lay in their passionate clasp with a long sigh of content.