"Sir Lemuel," said the marquis, with some irrepressible emotion, "were I now really the Duke of Hereward, and the owner of Lone, and were your lovely daughter as dowerless as I am penniless at this moment, and did you give her to me, my deepest gratitude would be due you, and you have it now. When may I see Miss Levison and put my fate to the test?"

"That's right. Upon my word, my boy, if I were a galvanic foreigner instead of a staid Englishman, I should jump up and embrace you. Consider yourself embraced. When shall you see her? We will go into the dining room now and get a cup of tea from the ladies; after which, you shall see her as soon and as often as you please. And after you win her, as I am sure you will, we will have a blithe wedding and you and your bride will do the Continent for a wedding-tour, and then come back and spend the Autumn at Lone. We two old papas, the duke and myself, will join you there, and everything will be quite as it used to be in the old days."

"Ah! my poor father!" sighed the young man.

"What of the duke, my dear boy? You told me he was well," said the banker, anxiously.

"Yes, he is well in body, better in body than he has been for years; but I think that is only because his mind is failing."

"I am very sorry to hear that! In what respect does this failure show itself—in loss of memory?"

"In partial loss of memory; but chiefly in a hallucination that possesses him. He thinks that he is still the master of Lone as well as the Duke of Hereward. He thinks that he lives in London, and in the most Objectionable part of London, only to gratify my 'eccentric whim' of being a journalist. And he daily and hourly urges me to return with him to Lone!"

"In the name of Heaven, then gratify him! Take him to Lone as my guest, until you can keep him there as your own. Let him be happy in the illusion that he is still its master. I will see that the servants there, who are most of them his own old people, do not say or do anything to dispel the illusion! Come, my son-in-law, that is to be, will you take your father at once to Lone?"

For all answer the young marquis grasped and wrung the hand of his old friend.

"But will you do it?" persisted the banker, who wanted to be satisfied on that point.

"I will think of it. I will think most gratefully of your kind invitation, Sir Lemuel. And now shall we join the ladies?"

"Certainly," said the banker.

They went into the drawing-room.

Lady Belgrade was presiding over the tea urn.

Salome, who was seated near her, looked up and saw him. Again the marquis noted the sudden, beautiful lighting up of those soft, gray eyes, as they were lifted for a moment to his face. Again they fell beneath his glance, as her pale cheeks flushed up. He could not be mistaken. This sweet girl whom he loved, loved him in return.

"I was just about to send for you. You lingered long at table, Sir Lemuel," said Lady Belgrade, as the two gentlemen bowed and seated themselves.

"Oh, important political and journalistic matters to discuss," said Sir Lemuel. ("Only they were not discussed,") he added, mentally.

"So I supposed," said Lady Belgrade, as she handed him a cup of tea, which he immediately passed to his guest.

After tea, when the service was removed, Sir Lemuel challenged Lady Belgrade for a game of chess, and told his daughter to show Mr. Scott those chromoes of the Madonnas of Raphael which had arrived in the last parcel from Paris.

Salome flushed to the edges of her dark hair as she arose, glanced shyly at her guest for an instant, and walked to the other end of the drawing-room.

There, on a gilded stand, under a brilliant gasolier, lay a large and handsome volume, which Salome indicated as the one referred to by her father.

The marquis brought two chairs to the stand, and they sat down to go over the book.

Meanwhile, the banker and the dowager commenced their game of chess. But from time to time, each looked furtively in the direction of the young people. They were looking at the Madonnas of Raphael, and, once in a while, shyly into each other's eyes. All that Sir Lemuel saw there pleased him. All that Lady Belgrade saw there displeased her.

At length she put her hand over that of her antagonist, and stopped his move while she said:

"Sir Lemuel, a conflagration may be arrested by stamping out a spark of fire."

"Whatever do you mean, my lady!" inquired the perplexed banker.

"An inundation may be prevented by stopping up a small leak."

"I am more mystified than ever!"

"Look at Salome and Mr. Scott, then," said her ladyship, solemnly.

"Well, what of them? They seem to be very happy and very well pleased with each other."

"Ah! that is it, and worse may come of it."

"What worse can come of it?"

"Sir Lemuel, this Mr. Scott, you must remember, is nothing but an adventurer, who only gains an entrance into respectable circles on account of his journalistic reputation. He is probably also a pauper, but being a very handsome and attractive man, he is certainly a very dangerous, and likely to be a very successful fortune-hunter."

"You mean he may try to marry my heiress?"

"Yes, Sir Lemuel."

"He has my full consent to do so."

"Sir Lemuel!"

"Listen, my good lady, I have a secret to tell you. That gentleman whom we have known as Mr. John Scott only, is really Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis of Hereward."

A woman of the world is hardly ever "taken aback." Lady Belgrade gave no exclamation. But she caught her breath and stared at the speaker.

"It is as I have told you. He is the Marquis of Arondelle. He is going to marry my daughter. He will get back Lone through her. And she will be Marchioness of Arondelle, and in due time Duchess of Hereward."

"You—don't—say—so!" breathed her ladyship, slowly.

"And now, you know how to manage it. You must aid the young couple as much as you can by giving them as much as possible of each other's society."

"Yes, I see," said her ladyship. "And now—don't look toward them again."

The banker nodded intelligently. And they gave their attention to the game.

And the two young people seemed to find inexhaustible interest in the volume they were bending over.

It was eleven o'clock before the young marquis arose to take leave.

"I have asked Miss Levison to ride with me in the Park to-morrow, and she has kindly consented—with your approbation, Sir Lemuel," said the young man.

"Certainly, Mr. Scott. I consider horseback riding one of the most healthful of exercises," said the banker, heartily.

The young marquis then bowed and took his leave.

Lady Belgrade gathered up her embroidery work and bade them good-night.

"My girl, what do you think of Mr. Scott?" asked the banker, when he was left alone with his daughter.

"Oh, papa," she breathed in an embarrassed manner.

"Do you know who he really is, my dear?"

"Yes, papa, I knew him when I first met him at the Premier's dinner. I knew him by his portrait that I saw at Castle Lone!"

"Oh, you did!" said the banker, musing.

His daughter looked at him for a moment, and then suddenly threw herself into his arms, clasped his neck and kissed him fervently, exclaiming, with her face radiant with delight:

"Oh, papa! this is all your doing! I understand it all, dear papa! Bless you! bless you! bless you, my own, own dear papa! You have made your child so happy!"



CHAPTER V.

ARONDELLE'S CONSOLATION.

On the next day, at the appointed hour, Salome came down to the drawing-room dressed for her ride.

She wore a rich habit of dark blue summer-cloth, fastened with small gold buttons, fine, tiny white linen cuffs and collar, dark blue gloves, dark blue velvet hat with a short, white ostrich plume secured by a small gold butterfly, and she carried in her hand a slender ivory-handled riding-whip, set with a sapphire. Her dress was neat, elegant, and appropriate; and her face was for the moment radiant and beautiful from inward joy.

In due time, the young marquis presented himself, and the lovers went forth for their ride.

It is not necessary to linger over this courtship, in which "the course of true love" ran so smooth as to seem monotonous to all but the lovers themselves.

The ride was followed by the small dinner party. And after that the young marquis became a daily visitor at Elmthorpe House, where he was ever received with fatherly affection by Sir Lemuel, and with subdued delight by Salome.

The lovers had come to a mutual understanding for days before the marquis made a formal proposal for Miss Levison's hand.

But it happened one evening that they found themselves alone in the drawing-room. They were seated at a table, loaded with books of engravings, photographs, and so forth.

Salome was turning over the pages of Dore's Milton.

"Close the volume, now, Miss Levison," Lord Arondelle said at length, uttering the formal words with a tone and look of such reverential tenderness as to seem a caress.

Salome shut the book, and looked up to read the open volume of his eloquent face; but her eyes instantly sank beneath the gaze of ardent passion that met them.

"Listen to me, Salome, my beloved; for I love you, and have loved you ever since the first moment when I met the beautiful spirit beaming through your sweet eyes—'Sweetest eyes were ever seen!' Dear eyes! look on me!"

Salome, for all her profound and ardent affections, was still a very shy maiden. She wished to raise her eyes to his; she wished to pour her heart out to him; to let him have the comfort of knowing how perfectly she loved him, how utterly she was his own. But she could not look at him, she could not speak to him as yet. Her dark eyelashes drooped to her crimson cheeks.

"My beloved, do you hear me? I am telling you how I have loved you since I first met your heavenly eyes. This is no lover's rhapsody, my own, for your eyes are heavenly in their spiritual beauty. And they have haunted me, Salome, like the eyes of a guardian angel ever since they first looked upon me. Daily they would have drawn me to your side but for my wrecked and ruined state," he said, with a half suppressed sigh.

His look, his tone, and, more than all, his allusion to the calamity of his house, reached her soul, and broke the spell of reserve by which she was bound.

"Oh, do not say that you are ruined!" she cried, in a voice thrilled and thrilling with profound emotion. "Do not think that you are ruined. You could never be ruined. Nothing could ruin you. It is not in the power of fate to ruin a man like YOU. And if you loved me when you first met my eyes it was because you read in them the soul that was created yours! And if these eyes have haunted you ever since it was because this soul has been always longing, yearning, aspiring towards yours!" And she dropped her face in her hands and wept for pure joy.

"Salome, Salome, can this be indeed true? Can I have been so blessed? Am I indeed so happy? Then is this abundant compensation for all that I have lost in this world! Heavenly consolation for all I have suffered on earth! Speak again, oh, my dearest! Tell me once more, for I can scarcely realize my happiness! Speak again, beloved, for your words are life to me!" he exclaimed, with profound emotion.

"Yes, I will tell you all!" she said, wiping away her joyful tears and looking up. "I will tell you everything for it is your right! You have made me so happy to-day! I loved you from the beginning. First, I loved the magnanimous, self-sacrificing man who, at the age of twenty-one years, with a brilliant future before him, could renounce all his prospects to give peace to his father's latter years. I loved you then, Lord Arondelle, before I knew what manner of man you looked!"

"How blessed, how surely blessed I am in hearing you," he breathed, in a low and reverent tone.

"Afterward I saw your portrait in Malcolm's Tower at Lone," she continued, in a soft voice. "And I saw a beauty and a grandeur in the face and form that seemed the fitting manifestation of a soul like yours. And I loved you more than ever. My mornings were passed in the tower near the glory of that picture. But I gazed on it so hopelessly! You were missing, you were lost to your world! And then I was so plain, so pale, and dark and gray-eyed. If I should ever be so fortunate as to meet you, I thought you would never be likely to love me!"

"My consolation! You are most lovely from your spirit, and now you know that I loved you from my first meeting with you," he breathed, in a low, earnest tone, pouring his whole soul's devotion through the gaze that he fixed on her face.

Again her eyes drooped as she murmured:

"If I am lovely in the very least, it must be that my love for you has made me so; for, even then, when I had only heard your story and seen your portrait, I loved you so, that I could not think of marriage with any other man."

"And that was the reason why you refused so many excellent offers?" he inquired, with a smile.

"Perhaps that was the reason," she replied, lowly bending her head.

"Tell me more, my consolation! I thirst for your words; they are as the words of life to me," he murmured, eagerly.

She continued, still speaking in a low, thrilling voice:

"At last—at last—at last—after three long years of waiting, longing, aspiring, I met you face to face. Oh!" she exclaimed, and as she spoke her hand for the first time went out to meet his, which closed upon it with a close clasp, and her eyes lifted themselves to his in a full blaze of love that seemed to blend their spirits into one.

"Oh! if in that moment you loved me, it must have been because you read my soul, for in that moment I consecrated my life to you for acceptance or rejection. I recorded a vow in heaven to be no man's wife unless I could be yours; but to live unmarried so that when, in the course of nature, my dear father should pass to the higher life and leave me Castle Lone, I might be free to transfer it to its rightful owner."

"Ah! my beloved! you would have been capable of such an act of renunciation as that! But I could not have accepted the sacrifice, Salome."

"In that case I should have made a will and bequeathed it to you, and then prayed to the Lord to take me from the earth, that you might have it all the sooner. But let that pass. Thanks be to Heaven, there is no need of that. It would have been sweet to die for you, but it is so much sweeter to live for you, dearest!" she said, lifting up a face in which rosy blushes, radiant smiles, and beaming eyes were blended in dazzling beauty.

"Oh! angel of my destiny, what can I render you for all the blessings you have brought me?" exclaimed her lover, clasping her to his bosom in a close embrace.

"Your love—your love! which will crown me a queen among women!" she whispered, softly.

The morning succeeding this scene, Lord Arondelle called and asked for a private interview with Sir Lemuel Levison.

He was invited up into the library, where he found the banker alone among his books.

"Good morning, Arondelle. Glad to see you. Take this chair," said the old gentleman, rising, shaking hands with his visitor, and placing a seat for him.

The young marquis returned the hearty shake of the banker's hand, and took the offered chair.

"Now, I suppose that you have come to tell me that you have taken up the girl I flung at your head about a month ago?" said the banker, rubbing his hands.

"No, nothing of the sort," replied the young marquis, effectually declining to understand the jest of his host. "I do not remember that you ever flung any girl at my head. I came, Sir Lemuel, to tell you that I am so happy as to have won Miss Levison's consent to be my wife, if we have your approbation," he added, with a bow.

"Humph! It amounts to about the same thing. Well, my dear boy, you have my consent and blessing on two conditions."

"Name them, Sir Lemuel."

"The first is, that you can assure me on your honor that you really do love my daughter. I would not give her to an emperor who did not love her as she deserves to be loved," said the banker, emphatically.

"Love her!" repeated the young man, in a deep and earnest tone. "Love is scarcely the word, nor adoration, nor worship! She is the soul of my soul! She lives in my life, and my life is the larger, higher, holier for her!"

"Humph! I don't understand one word of what you are talking about, but I suppose it means that you really do love Salome. So the first condition will be fulfilled," said the banker, with a smile.

"And the second, sir. What is the second?"

"The second is, that the marriage shall take place within a month from this time."

"Agreed, sir. The sooner the better. The sooner I may call your lovely daughter mine, the sooner I shall be the most blessed among men," exclaimed the young marquis, earnestly clapping his palm into the open hand of the banker, and shaking it heartily.

"There! well, the second condition will be fulfilled. And now I will tell you what I never told you in so many words before, namely, that on the day Salome Levison becomes Marchioness of Arondelle, I will give her Lone as a marriage portion. There, now, not a word more upon that subject. I will send a message to my attorney to meet us here to-morrow morning," said the banker, rising and ringing the bell.

"You will let me thank—" began the marquis.

"No, I won't!" exclaimed the banker, cutting short the young gentleman's acknowledgements. "Excuse me now half a minute, I want to write a line," he added, as he hastily scribbled off a note.

A footman entered in answer to the bell.

"Take this to the office of the Messrs. Prye, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and wait an answer," said Sir Lemuel, handing the folded note to the man, who bowed and retired.

"Prye must meet us here to-morrow morning to see to the marriage settlements. And I must see to Prye! Even lawyers may be hurried if they be well paid for making haste!" concluded the banker, rubbing his hands. "But now go and find Salome, and tell her it is all right! She has not got a stern father to ruffle the course of her true love, but a spooney old fellow who spreads out his hands over your heads and says: 'Bul-less you, my chee-ild-der-en!'"

Lord Arondelle smiled at the dry banker's imitation of the heavy stage-father, but made no comment.

"Yes, go see Salome; and then go to the duke, your father, and acquaint him with the result of your proposal. I take it for granted that you had his grace's authority for making it."

"I had, sir. He told me to be guided by my own judgment."

"Well tell him all about the settlements as I have told them to you. Agree to any amendment he may propose, for I will make it all right."

"That is allowing a very large margin, indeed. I thank you, Sir Lemuel; but I must reflect before taking advantage of it."

"Well, well; perhaps the duke will meet my solicitor here to-morrow morning in regard to the settlements. I consider the fact that he has steadily declined every invitation I have sent him to come to us on any occasion. Still, I hope he may be induced to honor us with his presence to-morrow in the interest of these marriage settlements, and to remain and dine with us in honor of this betrothal," said the banker.

"I hope you will kindly continue to excuse my father, sir. His age, his infirmities, his failing mind and body, will, I trust, be his sufficient apologies," said the young marquis gravely.

"You think that he will not come, then!"

"I fear that he cannot."

"I'm sorry for that. However, tell him all that I have told you, and agree to any alterations in the settlements that he may see fit to suggest. There! Go to Salome! Go to Salome! I must be off to the House," said the conscientious M.P. rising, and putting an end to the interview.

It was subsequently arranged that the marriage should be celebrated at Castle Lone on that day three weeks.

Two weeks out of the three, Sir Lemuel Levison remained in town to give his daughter and her chaperon an opportunity of getting up as good a trousseau as could be prepared in so short a time. But jewellers, milliners, and dressmakers may be hurried as well as lawyers, when they are well paid to make haste. And so, in two weeks, the banker's heiress, the future Marchioness of Arondelle and Duchess of Hereward, had a trousseau as magnificent and splendid as if it had been in preparation for two years. When it was all carefully packed and sent down to Lone, Sir Lemuel Levison and his household prepared to follow.

On the day before their departure a very curious thing happened.

Sir Lemuel was waiting in his library, when a footman entered and laid a card before him. It was not a visiting card, but a business card. And it bore the name of a firm:

Dazzle and Sparkle, jewellers, Number Blank, Bond street.

"What is the meaning of this?" inquired the banker.

"If you please, sir, the person who brought it directed me to say, that he craves to speak with you on the most important business," answered the man.

"Important to himself most likely, and not in the least so to me. Well, show him up," said Sir Lemuel.

The servant withdrew and, after a few moments, reappeared and announced:

"Mr. Dazzle, of Dazzle and Sparkle, Bond street."

A little, round-bodied, bald-headed man entered the library.

Sir Lemuel Levison received him with some surprise, but with much politeness.

"I have come, sir, on a little business," began the visitor, who forthwith proceeded and explained his business at length.

It seemed that the imbecile Duke of Hereward, being well pleased with his son's marriage, and imagining himself still to be the master of Lone and of a princely revenue, went to Messrs. Dazzle and Sparkle, and ordered a splendid set of diamonds for his prospective daughter-in-law.

The firm, who, as well as all the world of London, had heard of the forthcoming marriage between the son of the pauper duke and the daughter of the wealthy banker, gravely accepted the order, pondered over it, and finally determined to lay the whole matter before the banker himself.

"You have acted with much discretion, Mr. Dazzle. Fill the duke's order, and hold me responsible for the amount. And say nothing of the affair," was the banker's answer to the tradesman, who bowed and left the room.

The next morning Sir Lemuel Levison, his daughter, her chaperon, and their household, went down to Castle Lone.

Active preparations were at once commenced for the wedding, which was to take place at Lone on the Tuesday of the following week.

The first thing that Salome did on reaching the castle was to have the portrait of the Marquis of Arondelle brought down from the tower and mounted in state between the two lofty front windows of her favorite sitting-room.

Among the servants at Lone, none received the bride elect with more effusive love than the old housekeeper, Girzie Ross.

"Eh, me leddy! Heaven, sent ye to redeem Lone. My benison on ye, me leddy! and my ban on yon hizzie, wha hae been makin' sic' an ado, ever sin the report o' your betrothal has been noised about!" said the dame.

"But who are you talking about, my dear Mrs. Ross?" inquired Salome.

"Ou just that handsom hizzie, Rosy Cameron, wha will hae it that she, her vera sel', is troth-plighted to our young laird—the jaud!" replied the housekeeper.

"But, Mrs. Ross, surely that must be a mistake of yours. No girl could have the impertinence to say such a false thing of Lord Arondelle," exclaimed Salome, in disgust and abhorrence of the very idea presented.

"Indeed, then, my young lady, she ha' the impertinence to say just that thing—not in a whisper and in a corner, but loudly in the vera castle court, to whilk she cam yestreen, sae noisily that I was fain to threaten her wi' the constable before I could get shet o' her," said the housekeeper nodding her head.

"What can the girl mean by it? What excuse can she possibly have to justify such a mad charge?" inquired Salome, in a painful anxiety that she could neither conquer nor yet explain to herself. She did not doubt the honor of her promised husband. She would have died rather than doubt him. Why, then, should this sudden anguish wring her heart. "What excuse can she have, Mrs. Ross?" repeated Salome.

"Eh, me leddy, wha kens? Boys will be boys. And whiles the best o' them will be wild where a bonny lassie is concerned. No that's I'm saying sic a thing anent our young laird. But ye ken he used to be unco fond o' the sport o' deer stalking up by Ben Lone, where this handsome hizzie, Rose Cameron, bides wi' her owld feyther. And I e'en think the young laird, may whiles, hae putten a speak on the lass. Nae mair nor less than just that," said the housekeeper as she left the room to look after some important household work.

A few minutes after her exit, Sir Lemuel Levison entered.

Finding his daughter almost in tears, he naturally inquired:

"What on earth is the matter with you, my child?"

"Nothing, papa! At least nothing that should trouble me!"

"But what is it?"

"Well then, papa, dear, here has been a foolish girl—very foolish, I think she must be, going about, intruding even into the Castle, and telling all that will listen to her, that she is betrothed to the Marquis of Arondelle."

"Oh! Just as I feared!" muttered the banker, in a tone that instantly riveted the attention of his daughter.

"What did you fear, my father?" she inquired, fixing her eyes upon his face.

The banker hesitated.

His daughter repeated her question:

"What did you fear, my dear father?"

"Why, just what has happened, my love!" impatiently answered the banker. "That this silly report would reach your ears and give you uneasiness. It has reached you; but do not, I beseech you, let it trouble you!"

"There is no truth in it of course, papa?" said Salome, in a tone of entreaty.

"No, no, at least none that need concern you. Lord bless my soul, girl, young men will be young men! Arondelle is now about twenty-five years of age. And he was not brought up in a convent, as you were. He has lived for a quarter of a century in the world! Surely, you do not expect that a young man should live as long as that without ever admiring a pretty face, and even telling its owner so, do you?"

"I never once thought about that, at all, papa," said Salome, in a mournful tone.

"No, I'll warrant you didn't! Well, don't think anything more of it now. And don't expect too much of human nature. In this year of grace there are no saints left alive! Believe that, and accept it, my girl!"



CHAPTER VI.

A HORRIBLE MYSTERY ON THE WEDDING DAY.

On the day before the wedding all the preparations were completed.

The grounds around the castle, paradisial in their own natural beauty under this heavenly blue sky of June, were adorned with all that art and taste and wealth could bring to enhance their attractions in honor of the occasion.

Triumphal arches of rare exotic flowers were erected at intervals along the avenue leading from the castle courtyard down to the bridge that spanned Loch Lone from the island, to the mountain hamlet on the main land. The bridge itself was canopied with evergreens, and starred with roses. Every house in the little hamlet of Lone was so wreathed and festooned with flowers as to look like a fairy bower. The little gothic church, said to be coeval in history with the castle itself, was decorated within and without as for an Easter or Christmas festival. And the only inn of the place, an antiquated but most comfortable public house, known for centuries as the "Hereward Arms," was almost covered with flags, banners and bushes, in honor of the presence of the Duke of Hereward, and the Marquis of Arondelle, especially, and of other noble guests who had arrived there to assist at the wedding of the next day.

Yes, the expectant bridegroom and his aged father were at the Hereward Arms. Etiquette did not admit of their being guests at the Castle on the day before the expected marriage. And much ado had the young marquis to keep the duke quietly at the inn. The old man enjoying his pleasing hallucination of being still the proprietor of Lone, and the possessor of a princely revenue, fretted against the delay that detained him at the Hereward Arms, when he was so anxious to go on to Castle Lone. And his son did not venture to leave him until late at night, when he left him in bed and asleep.

Then the young marquis walked out and crossed the evergreen covered bridge leading to the Castle grounds. He knew that custom did not sanction his visit to his bride-elect on the night before their wedding, but he could at least gaze on the walls that sheltered her, while he rambled over the rich lawns, parterres, shrubberies, and terraces.

Within the Castle, meanwhile, all the arrangements for the morning's festivity were completed.

Halls, drawing-rooms, parlors, chambers, and dining-rooms, all sumptuously furnished and beautifully decorated, were ready for the wedding guests.

In the dining-room the luxurious wedding-breakfast was set. The service was of solid gold and finest Sevres china; the viands comprised every foreign and domestic delicacy fitting the feast.

In the drawing-room the magnificent bridal presents were displayed—coronets, necklaces, earrings, brooches, bracelets, rings, of pearls, diamonds, opals, emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts; jewel caskets, dressing cases, work boxes, and writing desks, of ormolu, of malachite, of pearl, and of ivory, of silver, and of gold; illuminated prayer-books and Bibles, with antique covers and clasps set with precious stones; tea and dinner sets of solid gold; camel's hair and Cashmere shawls and scarfs; sets of lace in Honiton, Brussels, Valencia. Irish point and old point—on to an endless list of the most splendid offerings.

"The wealth of Ormus and of Ind"

seemed to load the tables in costly gifts to the banker's daughter, and marquis' bride.

In the bride's own luxurious dressing-room, the elegant bridal costume was displayed. It consisted of a fine point-lace dress over a trained-skirt of rich white satin, a full-length vail of priceless cardinal point-lace; white kid boots, embroidered with small pearls; white kid gloves, trimmed at the wrists with lace; wreath and bouquet of orange flowers; necklace and pendant earrings and bracelets of rich Oriental pearls, set with diamonds. These jewels were the imaginary gift of the mad duke to the bride-elect of his son, and were paid for, as has been already explained, by the bride's own father. A sentiment of tender reverence for the unfortunate old duke had inspired Salome to select these jewels from all the others that had been lavished upon her, to wear on her wedding day.

To the credit of the good banker's delicacy and discretion let it be said, that not even Salome knew but that this elegant gift had been given by the duke in reality as it was in intention.

The Castle was now full of guests, friends of the bride and of her father's family. The eight young ladies who were to attend her to the altar, had arrived early in the afternoon, each chaperoned by her mother, aunt, or some matronly friend. These had all been shown to their separate apartments.

They assembled again at the seven o'clock dinner in the family dining-room, and afterwards made a little tour of inspection through the rooms, looking with approval and admiration upon the sumptuous wedding-breakfast table, set in the great dining-room, and with surprise and enthusiasm at the splendid wedding presents displayed in the drawing-room. Finally, after a social cup of tea, they separated and retired to their several rooms, that they might be up in good time the next morning.

When Salome entered her own bed-chamber, she found the old housekeeper, Girzie Ross, awaiting her.

"I took the liberty, me leddy, to come to see ye, gin ye hae ony commands for me the night," said the dame, courtesying.

"No, Mrs. Ross, I have no orders to give. All is done, as I understand. If there be anything left undone, you will use you own discretion about it. I can thoroughly trust you," said Salome.

"Guid-night, then, me leddy. And a guid rest and a blithe waking till ye," said the dame, courtesying again, and turning to leave the room.

"One moment, Mrs. Ross, if you please," said the young lady, gently arresting her steps.

"Ay, me leddy, as mony as ye'll please," promptly replied the dame, returning to her place.

"I wish to ask you a question," began Salome, in a slow and hesitating manner. "Have you seen or heard anything more of that girl, Mrs. Ross?"

"Meaning that ne'er-do-weel light o' love Rose Cameron, me leddy!" inquired the housekeeper.

"Yes, Rose Cameron. There have been such crowds of people on the island today to inspect the decorations, that I thought—I thought—"

"As that handsome jaud might be amang 'em, me leddy? Ou, ay, and sae she waur! But when I caught her prowling about here, I sent Mr. McRath to warn her off the place, and threaten her wi' the constable gin she didna gang!" said the housekeeper.

"But that was cruel, Mrs. Ross."

"Na, na, me leddy. It waur unco well dune! She was after no guid prowling about here, and making an excuse o' luking at the deekorated grounds. She didna care for the sight a bodle! Aweel she's gane, and a guid riddance."

"What does the girl look like, Mrs. Ross?"

"Eh, leddy, she's a strapping wench! tall and broad-shouldered, and full-breasted, with a handsome head that she carries unco high, and big, bold blue eyes, and a heap o' long, red hair. That's Rosy Cameron, me leddy."

This was a rather rough portrait of the Juno-like Highland beauty; but then, it was drawn by an enemy, you know.

"But dinna fash yersel' about yon hizzie ony mair, me young leddy. She'll na be permitted to trouble ye," concluded the housekeeper.

"That will do, Mrs. Ross. Thanks. But pray do not let anyone be harsh with that poor girl. If she is a little crazy, she is all the more to be pitied. Good-night," said Salome, thus gently dismissing her talkative attendant.

"Guid night, me young leddy. Guid rest and blithe waking to ye," repeated the old woman, as she courtesied and left the room.

"Poor girl!" mused Salome. "I cannot help sympathizing with her tonight. What if Arondelle who is so courteous to all, were courteous to her also. And she, unused to courtesy in her rude Highland home, mistook such gentle courtesy for preference, for love, and gave him her love in return? He would not be in the least to be blamed, while she would be much to be pitied. What a cruel sight these wedding preparations must be to her! What a miserable night this must be for her! I must see to that poor girl's welfare," concluded Salome.

A low rap at her door disturbed her.

"Come in."

Her maid entered.

"What is it, Janet?"

"If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel's man has just brought me a message for you. Sir Lemuel requests, Miss, that you will come to his room before you retire."

"Dear papa, I will go at once. You need not wait for me here, Janet. Just turn the lights down low—they make the room so warm—and leave the windows partly open, and then go to bed, my girl, I shall not want you again tonight," said Salome, as she passed out of the chamber and went down to the long hall, at the opposite extremity of which was her father's room.

She entered silently, and found the banker wrapped in his gray silk dressing-gown and seated in his large resting-chair.

"Come and sit by me, my dear. I only wanted to have a little talk with you tonight," he said, holding out his hand to her.

She went up to him, clasped and kissed the out-stretched hand, and then seated herself, not on the chair by his side, for that would not have brought her near enough to him, but on the footstool at his feet, so that she could lay her head upon his knees.

"Salome, my darling, I have not been a good father to you," he said, sadly, as he ran his long white fingers through the tresses of the little dark-haired head that lay upon his knees.

"Oh, papa! the best and dearest papa that ever lived!" she answered, drawing his hand to her lips and kissing it fondly.

"No, no; I have not been a good father to you, my poor motherless child. I feel it to-night. I left you fourteen years in a foreign convent, and scarcely ever saw you. Was that being a good father to you, my child?"

"Yes, dear, it was. I had to be educated. And the nuns did their whole duty by me, did they not?" said Salome, soothingly.

"They sent me home a sweet and lovely child, who in the three years that she has been my greatest blessing and comfort has made me feel and know how much I lost in banishing her from my presence so long—fourteen years!—a time never to be redeemed!" said the banker, with a sigh.

"Yes, papa, dear. It can and shall be redeemed. For now you know I shall live with you as long as you live. My marriage will not deprive you of your daughter, but give you a dear and noble son. You know it is settled that after our brief wedding we shall return to Lone, and you and the duke, and Arondelle and myself, will all live here together until the meeting of Parliament in February, and then we shall go up to London together. So cheer up, papa. All the coming years shall compensate for all we have lost in the past," said Salome, gayly caressing him.

"'The coming years?' Ah, my darling! do you forget that I am quite an old man to be your father? You were the child of my old age, Salome! I was nearly fifty when you were born. I am nearly seventy now!"

"Dear father!" murmured Salome, caressing him with ineffable tenderness.

"Do not let me sadden you, my darling. I would not be a day younger. It is well to be old. It is well to have lived a long time in this world, for it is a good world. But good as it is, it is but rudimentary. It is to the human being only what the soil is to the seed—the germinating bed; the full and perfect world is beyond. Young Christians believe this. Aged Christians know it. There, brighten up! And think that this marriage of yours and Arondelle's if it be as true as I feel assured it is—will be not for time only but for all eternity! Believe this and be happier than you were ever before! There now, my darling! I called you in here to make my little confession. I have received absolution. Now go to your rest. Good night," said the banker, bending and kissing her forehead.

"Dear, dearest father! bless your daughter before she goes," said Salome, in a voice thrilling with emotion, as she raised from her seat and knelt at her father's feet.

The old man laid his hand upon her bowed head and solemnly invoked a blessing upon her.

"May the Lord look down on you, my daughter. May He give you health and grace to bear your burdens and do your duties as wife and mother, and save and bless you and yours, now and ever more, for Christ's dear sake. AMEN."

She arose in silence from her knees, put her arms around his neck, kissed him, and glided from the room.

And now a terrible and mysterious thing happened to the bride-elect.

The lights had been turned very low in the hall. The household had all retired to rest. The stillness and the sense of darkness awed her as she glided noiselessly along in the deep shadows. Suddenly she saw the form of a man approaching from the direction of her own room. He might be some belated servant on some legitimate business for one of the guests, yet he startled her. She looked intently toward him, but in the obscure light she could only see that he was a tall man in dark clothing, and with a very white face. She shrank back in the shadow of the wall as he swiftly and silently approached her.

Then with amazement she recognized the face and form of her betrothed husband. But the face was deadly pale, and the form was shaking as with an ague fit.

"ARONDELLE! You here!" she exclaimed, starting towards him.

But she met only the empty air, the form had vanished.

In unbounded amazement she stared all around to see where it could have gone, and in what part of the darksome hall she herself then stood.

She found herself opposite to the entrance of a long, narrow passage opening from the hall and leading to the door of a staircase communicating with the dungeons of Malcolm's Tower.

She looked down that passage. It was black as the mouth of Hades!

A nameless terror seized her, and she fled precipitately down the hall, nor stopped until she had reached her own room, rushed in, and shut and bolted the door. Then she sank down into the nearest chair, feeling cold as ice, and trembling from head to foot.

Her maid had over-acted her instructions, and had not only turned the lights low, but had turned them out entirely.

There was no need of artificial light, however; for the windows were open and the room was flooded with the brilliant moonshine of these northern latitudes.

Salome did not know or care how the room was lighted. She sat there thrilled with awe of what she had just experienced.

Had she really seen the marquis?—or his spirit? Or had she been the victim of an optical illusion?

If she had seen the marquis, what could have brought him secretly into the house and up into the hall of the bed-rooms, at that hour of the night? And why did he not answer her, when she called him?

It surely could not have been the marquis whom she saw! He never would have crept into the house and up to their private-rooms, at that hour of the night, or fled from her, when she called him?

What was it then that she had seen in the likeness of her lover?

Was it the disembodied spirit of Arondelle? Could the spirit of a living man appear in one place, while the body of the man was present in another? She had heard and read of such wonders, yet she could not accept them as facts.

No, this was no spirit.

What then? Had she been the subject of an optical illusion? She had heard of those wonders also!

But no! This was too real, too solid, too substantial for an optical illusion!

Was the form she had seen possibly that of some other person, some guest of the house, who had lost his way.

No, and a thousand noes! She knew every guest staying at the castle, and knew that not one of them bore the slightest resemblance to the Marquis of Arondelle.

No, the form that she had seen in the murky hall seemed that of her betrothed husband, or it was his spirit.

She could not tell which, nor could she test the question now. The house was full of wedding guests, who were now most probably sound asleep in their beds. And the household all had long since retired. She could not rouse them only to satisfy her own doubts without any other practical result. For what if the intruder were Lord Arondelle? He was not in the least an objectional guest. And in the morning he would explain his strange presence.

By this time Salome had reasoned herself into some degree of calmness. But she was still too much excited to feel sleepy or to think of retiring to bed.

The mid-summer night was warm and close, even there in the Highlands—or in her nervous condition it seemed to her to be so. She wanted more air. She went to the window, and seated herself in an easy-chair, and looked out.

A heavenly night!

The deep-blue sky was spangled with myriads of sparkling stars. The full harvest moon was at the zenith and pouring down a flood of silvery radiance over mountain, lake and island.

Right opposite the window was the elegant little bridge that spanned the lake between the island and the mountain, at the base of which stood the little Gothic church with the cottages of the hamlet clustered around it.

A beautiful scene!

This morning it had been gay and noisy with a rejoicing crowd come to inspect the decorated grounds, and to triumph over the approaching marriage of their disinherited young lord, with the present heiress of his lost estate.

To-morrow this scene would be even more gay and more noisy, with a greater and more rejoicing crowd. For all the Clan Scott were to gather here to do honor to the nuptials of their hereditary chieftain.

But to-night the beautiful scene was holy in its solitude and stillness.

Hark!

A sound of voices beneath the window.

Salome started, and drew back. And the next moment, paralyzed by consternation and despair, she overheard the following conversation:

"Hist! are you there, Rose?" inquired a dear familiar voice.

"Ay, I'm here, me laird! After being turnit frae the castle like a thief, or a beggar, or a dog! after being threatened wi' a constable and a prison if I ever showed my face here; but once mair I hae come agen, in obedience to your bidding! Come creeping, creeping, creeping ander the castle wa', by night, like ony puir cat afeared o' scauding water! Ay, me laird, I'm here, mair fule I!" replied a woman's voice.

"Hush, Rose! Do not say so, my girl. And do not call me 'lord;' I am your slave and not your 'lord,' my lady queen! You know I love you—you only of all women."

"Luve me? Ou, ay, sae ye tell me. But this gran' wedding is coming unco near to be naething but a jest. How far will ye carry the jest? Up till the altar railings? Into the bridal chamber? It's deceiving and fuling me, ye are, me laird! But I'll tell ye weel! Ye sail no marry yon girl, I say! Gin ye gae sae far as to lead her to the kirk mesel' will meet you at the altar and forbid the marriage. And then see wha will put me out!"

"Hush, hush, you wild Highland witch, and listen to me. I shall not marry that girl! How can I, when I am married to you? I have had an object in letting this thing go on thus far. My plans could not all be accomplished until to-night. But to-night something will happen that will put all thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage effectually out of the heads of all parties concerned, I will warrant. And to-morrow, you and I will be far away from this place—together, and never to part again. Wait here for me, my love; I shall not be long away. But on your life, do not stir, or speak, or scarcely breathe until you see me again."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Perhaps an hour. Perhaps two hours. You can be patient?"

"Ay, I can be patient."

Here the low, whispering voice ceased. And Salome?

Before that conversation was half through, Salome had fallen back in her chair in a deadly swoon.



CHAPTER VII.

THE MORNING'S DISCOVERY.

When Miss Levison recovered her consciousness it was broad daylight. The rising sun glancing over the top of the Eastern mountain sent arrows of golden light in through the window at which she sat.

Music filled the morning air!

Salome passed her hands over her eyes, and gazed around. So long and deep had been her swoon that, for the time, she had utterly lost her memory, and now found difficulty in trying to recover it. Bewildered, she looked about, and listened to the strange, wild music sounding under her window—a sort of morning serenade or reveille, it seemed.

Next her eyes fell upon her magnificent bridal array, displayed on stands near the elegant dressing-table.

Then she remembered that this was her wedding-day, and a flush of joy lighted up her face.

But it passed in a moment.

What was this that lay so heavy at her heart! Was it the remnant of an evil dream?

What had happened? Something must have happened! Else why should she find herself seated in that easy-chair at the open window, and see that her bed had not been occupied?

Then, slowly, she recollected the events of the previous night—her retirement to her chamber; her talk there with the housekeeper about Rose Cameron, the "handsome hizzie," who had been haunting the premises and giving trouble all that day; the message from her father; her affecting interview with him in his bedroom; her return to her own apartment through the dimly-lighted, deserted hall, where she met the pale and spectral form of Lord Arondelle, who vanished as she called to him! her terrified flight into her own chamber!

All these incidents she clearly remembered.

Then her excited vigil in the easy-chair, by the open window, and the two voices that broke upon it—that of her betrothed husband and that of a woman—of this same Rose Cameron, whose name had been so disreputably connected with Lord Arondelle's; who then and there claimed to be his wife and was not contradicted!

There! that was the weight that lay so heavy at her heart!

"And yet it must have been a dream!" she said to herself. Of course she had fallen asleep there in the easy-chair, and with her thoughts running on the apparition she had met in the hall, and on the country people's gossip about Lord Arondelle and Rose Cameron, she had had that evil dream. Unquestionably it was only a dream! Lord Arondelle could never play so base a part as he had seemed to do in her dream! She reproached herself for having even involuntarily been the subject of it.

And yet! and yet! the weight lay heavy at her heart, and although this was a warm June morning, she shivered as though it had been January.

She arose to close the window.

Then—

What a magnificent and beautiful scene burst upon her vision! The eastern horizon was ablaze with glory. Lovely morning clouds, soft, transparent white, tinted with rose, violet and gold, tempered the dazzling splendor of the rising sun, and half vailed the opal-hued mountain tops, and even hung upon the emerald mountain side. Morning sky, rosy clouds, and opal mountains, were all reflected as by a mirror in the clear water of the lake below.

The hamlet at the foot of the mountain was gay with flags and banners and festoons of flowers. The bridge spanning the lake and connecting the hamlet with the island, was grand with triumphal arches. The lake was alive with gayly-trimmed pleasure-boats of every description. The island, with its groves, shrubberies, parterres, arbors, terraces, statues, was decorated with flags and banners, innumerable colored lamps and floral mottoes and devices.

The streets of the hamlet, the bridge and the island was each alive with a merry crowd of tenantry and peasantry in their picturesque holiday suits, coming to see the wedding pageant.

Gayer than all was the gathering of the Clan Scott, in their brilliant tartans, and with their national music to do honor to the nuptials of the heir of their chief.

As Miss Levison looked and listened, the shadows of the night vanished from her mind as clouds before the sun!

How strange the thought that the evil dream should have troubled her at all! But the dream had seemed as real as any waking experience. But then, again, dreams often do seem so! She would think no more of it, except to repent having been so unjust to Lord Arondelle, even though it was but in an involuntary dream.

It was as yet very early in the morning—not seven o'clock. Her serenaders had waked her betimes, and the country people had clearly determined to lose not one hour of that festive day. But Miss Levison was still shivering in the mild June morning. She thought she would ask for a cup of coffee to warm her.

She rang her bell.

Her maid entered the room, courtesied, and stood waiting

"Janet, tell the housekeeper to send me a strong, hot cup of coffee," she said.

"Yes, Miss. If you please, Miss, my lord's gentleman is below with a note and a parcel for you, Miss."

"Very well, Janet. Do you bring it up and ask the man to wait. There may be answer," replied Miss Levison, as the rose clouds rolled over her clear, pale cheeks.

The girl courtesied and withdrew.

"To think of my being so wicked as to have such a dream about him—him!" she said to herself, as again she shivered with cold.

Presently the housekeeper entered with a tiny cup of coffee on a small silver tray in her hand, and with many cordial congratulations on her lips.

Fortunately the lace curtains of the bed were down, so that she could not see that it had not been slept in, and annoy her young mistress with exclamations and questions.

"Eh, me young leddy! a blithe bridal morn ye hae got; and a braw sight on the ramparts of a' the Scotts, wi' their tartans and bag-pipes, come to do ye honor!" said the housekeeper, as she held the tray to her mistress.

Miss Levison drank the coffee, returned the cup, and then inquired:

"Where is Janet? I sent her with a message; she should have returned by this time."

"Ou, aye, sae she should. She's clacking her clavvers wi' yon lad frae the 'Hereward Arm.' But here she is now, me young leddy," answered the housekeeper, as the maid entered the room and placed in her mistress' hand a note and a small parcel, tied up in white paper with narrow white ribbon, and sealed with the Hereward crest.

Miss Levison opened the note and read:

"HEREWARD ARMS INN, Tuesday Morning.

"I greet you, my only beloved, on this our bridal morning—the commencement of a long and happy union for both of us! Yes, a long union, for it will stretch into eternity, and a happy one, for come what will, we shall be happy in each other. I send you the richest jewel that has ever been in our possession, the only one which has survived the wreck of our fortunes. It has been preserved more on account of its traditionary interest than for its intrinsic value. Tradition tells us that at the taking of Jerusalem, in the first crusade, this jewel was snatched from the turban of Saladin, the Sultan, in single combat, by our wild crusading ancestor, Ranulph d' Arondelle. It adorned his own hemlet at the siege of St. Jean d' Acre, some years later. In short, it has been handed down from father to son through six centuries and sixteen generations. It has "in the thickest carnage blazed" on battle-fields, and in the maddest merriment flashed in festive scenes. Yet it is an offering all too poor for my great love to make, or your great worth to receive. But take it as the best I have to give.

"ARONDELLE."

She read this note with tearful eyes, roseate cheeks' and smiling lips. And then she untied the white ribbon and opened the white paper. It first disclosed a golden casket about four inches square, richly chased and bearing the Hereward arms set in small precious stones. The tiny key was in the lock. She opened it and found, lying on a bed of rich white satin, a large, burning, blazing ruby heart—the famous ruby of the Hereward, said to be the largest in the world. Miss Levison had read of this jewel as one of the most valuable among precious stones. She had heard also, what evidently the young marquis did not think worth while to tell her in connection with its history, namely, that it had been held as an amulet of such power that it was believed the ducal house of Hereward would never be without a male heir as long as it possessed that priceless ruby heart. Miss Levison supposed this to be the reason why it had been preserved by the old duke from the total wreck of his fortune. And the marquis had given it to her! Well, that was not giving it out of the family, since she was to be his wife. While offering it he had undervalued the royal gift. But how highly she appreciated it, rating it far above all the other jewels that blazed upon her table.

"And to think I should have had such an evil dream about him, and even suffered myself to be troubled by it!" she said, pressing his note to her lips.

Then she shivered so hardly that her old housekeeper exclaimed:

"Me dear young leddy, ye hae surely taken cauld. Let me order a fire kindled here."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Ross—a fire on this warm summer morning? I could not bear it. Besides if I shiver with cold one moment, I glow with heat the next," said Miss Levison, smiling.

"Ay; I am sair afeard ye's gaun to be ill, wi' all thae shivers and glows," replied the dame, shaking her head.

"Nonsense again, Mrs. Ross, dear woman. I am well enough. Now, Janet, did you tell his lordship's messenger to wait?"

"Yes, Miss."

Miss Levison drew a little writing-stand to her side, opened the desk, took out materials and penned the following note:

"LONE CASTLE, Tuesday.

"MY MOST BELOVED AND HONORED: Your right royal gift is beyond all price for richness, beauty, traditional interest, and symbolism, and as such I shall hold it above all other gifts, and cherish it to the end of my life. But it is not only to speak of your invaluable gift I write; it is also to ask you to do a strange thing to please me this morning. It is now eight o'clock. We are appointed to meet at the church at eleven. Will you meet me here first at half-past nine? I wish to tell you something before we go to the altar. It is nothing important that I have to tell you—you will probably only laugh at it; but I must get it off my mind; for it weighs there like a sin. Come and receive my little confession, and give absolution to YOUR OWN SALOME."

She enveloped and directed this note, and gave it to Janet, with orders to hand it to Lord Arondelle's man.

When the girl had left the room, Miss Levison turned to the housekeeper and inquired:

"Has my father's bell rung yet, do you know?"

"Na, me young leddy, it has na rung yet. Sir Lemuel's man, Mr. Peter, is down-stairs, waiting for the summons."

"Perhaps he had better call his master," suggested Miss Levison.

"Na, Miss, sae I tauld him; but he said his orders were no to call his master the morn', but to wait till he heard his bell ring. He's waiting for that e'en noo."

"Very well, Mrs. Ross. Papa was up late last night, I know, and is probably tired this morning. So we must let him sleep as long as possible. But as soon as his bell rings, be sure to take him up a cup of coffee."

"Verra weel, Miss."

"And, Mrs. Ross, I hope that all our guests are cared for, and served in their own rooms with tea and toast, or coffee and muffins, as they choose?"

"Ou, ay, me dear young leddy, I hae ta'en care of a' that. And what will I bring yersel', Miss, before ye begin to dress?"

"Nothing; I have had a cup of coffee. That is sufficient for the present."

"Neathing but ae wee bit cup o' coffee, my dear young leddy?"

"No; I have no appetite. I suppose no girl ever did have on her wedding morning," said Miss Levison, shivering and then flushing.

The housekeeper contemplated her young mistress with growing anxiety.

"I am sure ye are no weel," she ventured again to suggest.

"I am quite well, my dear Mrs. Ross. Do not disturb yourself. But go now and send Janet and Kitty to me. I must begin to dress."

The housekeeper left the room, and was soon replaced by the lady's maid and the upper house-maid.

"Is my bath ready, Kitty?"

"Yes, Miss; and I have poured six bottles of ody collone intil it," said the girl, with a very self-approving air.

"You needn't have done that," said Miss Levison, with an amused smile, "but you meant well, and I thank you."

She took her customary morning bath, and slipping on a soft, white, cashmere wrapper, placed herself in the hands of her maidens to be dressed for the altar.

Janet combed, and brushed and arranged the shining dark brown hair. Kitty laced the dainty white velvet boots. Janet arrayed her in her bridal robes, and Kitty clasped the costly jewels around her neck and arms. One placed the bridal vail and wreath upon her head, while the other drew the pretty pearl-embroidered gloves upon her hands.

At length her toilet was complete, and she stood up, beautiful in her youth, love, and joy, and imperial in her array.

She wore a long trained dress of the richest white satin, trimmed with deep point lace flounces, headed with trails of orange flower buds; an over-dress of fine cardinal point lace, looped up with festoons of orange buds; a point lace berthe and short sleeve ruffles; a necklace, pendant, and bracelets of pearls set in diamonds, white kid gloves, embroidered with fine white silk; white satin boots worked with pearls. On her head the rich, full orange flower wreath. And over all, like mist over frost and snow, fell the long bridal vail of finest point lace, softening the whole effect.

"The young ladies, your bridesmaids, bid me tell you, Miss, that they are quite ready to come to you, when you are so to receive them," said Kitty, as she placed the bouquet of orange flowers in its jewelled holder, and handed it to her mistress.

"Very well. I will send for them in good time," answered Miss Levison, glancing at the little golden clock upon the mantel-piece, and noticing that it was nearly half-past nine, the hour at which she expected Lord Arondelle. "But now, Kitty, my good girl, go and inquire if my father is up, and return and let me know. I would like to see him in his room."

The house-maid courtesied and went out, and after a few minutes' absence returned running.

"If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel hasn't rung his bell yet, and Mr. Peters says, with his duty to you, Miss, as it is so late, hadn't he better call his master?"

"By no means! Let Mr. Peters obey his master's orders not to disturb him until his bell rings," answered the young lady.

"Yes, Miss; and if you please, Miss, here is a card, and his lordship, Lord Arondelle, is down stairs asking for you, Miss," said the girl, laying the pasteboard in question before her young mistress.

"Lord Arondelle! Yes, I expected his lordship. Where is he?"

"Mr. McRath showed him into the library, Miss."

"Quite right. None of our guests have left their rooms yet?"

"No, Miss, they be all busy a dressing of themselves, as I think."

"Ah! then go before me and open the door, and tell his lordship that I shall be with him in a moment," said Miss Levison.

The girl dropped another courtesy and preceded her mistress down stairs. In going down the great upper hall, Miss Levison passed the door of the dark, narrow passage at right angles with the hall, and leading to the tower stairs, where she had seen the apparition of the night before. She shivered and hurried on. She paused a moment before the door leading to the ante-room of her father's bed-chamber, and listened to hear if he were stirring; but all within seemed as still as death. She went on and descended the stairs and reached the library-door, just as Kitty opened it and said:

"Miss Levison, my lord," and retired to give place to the young lady.

Miss Levison entered the library.

Lord Arondelle, in his wedding dress, stood by the central book-table. As his costume was the regulation uniform of a gentleman's full dress, it needs no description here. Gentlemen array themselves much in the same style for a dinner or a ball, a wedding or a funeral—the only difference to mark the occasion being in the color of the gloves.

Lord Arondelle advanced to meet his bride.

"My love and queen! this meeting is a grace granted me indeed! How beautiful you are!" he exclaimed, taking both her hands and carrying them to his lips. "But you are shivering, sweet girl! You are cold!" he added anxiously, as he looked at her more attentively.

"I have been shivering all the morning. I sat at my open window late last night and got a little chilled; but it is nothing," she answered, smiling.

"You shall not do such suicidal things, when I have the charge of you, my little lady," he said, half jestingly, half seriously, as he led her to a sofa and seated her on it, taking his own seat by her side.

"Come, now," he gayly continued, "was that indiscreet star-gazing which has resulted in a cold the little sin for which you wish me to give you absolution?"

"No, my lord. My sin was an evil dream."

"A dream!"

"Ay, a dream."

"But a dream cannot be a sin!"

"Hear it, and then judge. But first—tell me—were you in the castle late last night?" she gravely inquired.

He paused and gazed at her before he replied:

"I in the castle late last night? Why, most certainly not! Why ever should you ask me such a question, my love?"

"Because if you were not in the castle last night—"

"Well?"

"I met your 'fetch,' as the country people would call it."

"My—I beg your pardon."

"Your 'fetch,' your double, your spectre, your spirit, whatever you may call it."

"Whatever do you mean, Salome?"

"Shall I tell you all about it?"

"Of course—yes, do."

Miss Levison began and related all the circumstances in detail of her night visit to her father's room, and her meeting with an appearance which she took to be that of her betrothed husband, but which, on being called by her, instantly vanished.

Lord Arondelle mused for awhile. Miss Levison gazed on him in anxious suspense for a few minutes, and then inquired:

"What do you think of it?"

"My love, if I were a transcendental visionary, I might say, that at the hour you saw my image before you, my thoughts, my mind, my spirit, whatever you choose to call my inner self, was actually with you, and so became visible to you; but—" he paused.

"But—what?" she inquired.

"Not being a transcendentalist or a visionary, I am forced to the conclusion that what you thought you saw, was, really nothing but an optical illusion!"

"You think that?"

"Indeed I do!"

"I assure you, that the image seemed as real, as substantial, and as solid to me then as you do now."

"No doubt of it! Optical illusions always seem very real—perfectly real."

"It was an optical illusion then! That is settled! And now!" exclaimed Salome. Then she paused.

"Yes, and now! About the sinful dream! What did you dream of? Throwing me over at the last moment and marrying a handsomer man?" gayly inquired the young marquis.

"I will tell you presently what I dreamed; but first tell me, were you in our grounds last night?" she gravely inquired.

"Yes, my little lady; but how did you know of it?" inquired the young marquis in surprise.

"I did not know it. Were you under my window?" she asked, in a low, tremulous tone.

"Yes, love. How came you to suspect me?" he inquired, more than ever astonished.

"I did not suspect you. Had you a companion with you?" she murmured.

"No, Salome. Certainly not. Why, sweet, do you ask me?"

"I thought I heard your voice speaking to some one who answered you under my window."

"But, love, there was no one with me. I was quite alone. And I did not speak at all—not even to myself. I am not in the habit of soliloquizing."

"Please tell me, if you can, at what hour you were under my window."

"It was between ten and eleven o'clock. I was walking in the grounds, and I went under your wall and looked up. I saw three shadows pass the lighted windows, which I took to be those of yourself and your attendants, and then suddenly the lights were turned off and all was dark. I knew then that you had retired to rest, and of course I turned away and walked back to the hamlet. But, love, instead of telling the little story you promised, it seems that you have put me through a very sharp examination," said his lordship, laughing. "Now, what do you mean by it? There is something behind all this," he added, gravely.

"Of course there is something behind. Did I not tell you that I had a confession to make concerning a wicked dream? Listen, Lord Arondelle. At the time you stood under my window and saw the light turned off, and supposing that I had gone to rest, you turned away and left the grounds, at that time I had not gone to rest, but had gone to my father's room, in returning from which I experienced that strange optical illusion. My nerves must have been strangely disordered, for when I reached my own chamber again, and finding it quite dark, opened the window and sat down to look out upon the moonlit lake, I immediately fell asleep, and had a terrible, and a terribly real and distinct dream—a dream, dear, that nearly overturned my reason, I do believe."

"What was it, love?" he inquired.

She told him without the least reserve.

He listened to her with interest, and then laughed aloud.

"The idea of your having such a dream about me as that! I do not wonder it weighed upon your mind. Yes, it was very wicked of you, my sinful child—very. But since you sincerely repent, I freely absolve you. Benedicite!"

Salome looked and listened to him with surprise; for as she spoke of dreaming that he called Rose Cameron his wife, he not only laughed at that idea, but really appeared as if the very existence of the girl was unknown to him.

Then Salome ventured another question:

"Do you know any one of the name of Rose Cameron?"

"No, not personally. I believe one of our shepherds, up at Ben Lone, has a very handsome daughter of that name, but I have never seen her," said the young marquis, with an open sincerity that carried conviction with it.

Salome was amazed, but convinced. What could have started the false reports concerning the young marquis and the handsome shepherdess? Clearly Rose's own hallucination. She had seen the marquis somewhere, without having been seen by him; she had fallen in love with him, and had partly lost her reason and imagined all the rest, she thought.

"And so you have never even looked upon the beauty of that dream?" she said, with a smile.

"Never even looked upon her," assented the marquis.

"Then I do, in downright earnest, beg your pardon for my dream," said Salome, gravely.

"But I have already given you absolution, my erring daughter? Benedicite! Benedicite!" replied the marquis still laughing.

At that moment there was a light rap at the library door, followed by the entrance of a footman who placed a small, twisted note in the hands of Miss Levison. She opened it and read:

"MY DEAR CHILD: It is after ten o'clock. We go to church at eleven. Sir Lemuel has not yet rung his bell. His valet having received his orders last night not to call him this morning, has declined to do so. What is to be done under these circumstances? Send me a verbal message by the bearer. Your loving Aunt,

"SOPHIE BELGRADE."

"My father not yet risen!" exclaimed Salome in surprise. "He must have overslept himself with fatigue. Tell Lady Belgrade, with my thanks, that I will go to my father's room and waken him," she added, turning to the footman, who bowed and went to deliver his message.

"I hope Sir Lemuel is quite well?" said the young marquis, earnestly.

"He is quite well. My father regulates his habits so well as to live in perfect harmony with the laws of life and health. If he fatigues himself over night, he always takes a compensating rest in the morning. That is what he is doing now. But I think he is sleeping even longer than he intended to do, so I really must arouse him now, if we are to keep our appointment with the minister. Good-by, until we meet at the church, Lord Arondelle," she said, as she floated from the room in her bridal robe, and vail.

"Who says that she is not beautiful, belies her? She is lovely in person and in spirit," murmured the young marquis, as he took up his hat to leave the house.



CHAPTER VIII.

A HORRIBLE DISCOVERY.

In order not to attract the attention of the crowds of people who swarmed in the village, on the bridge, and on the island, Lord Arondelle had driven over to the castle in a closed cab that now waited at the gates to take him back again.

He left the library and went out into the great hall.

The hall porter, an elderly, stout, and important-looking functionary, slowly arose from his chair to honor the young marquis by opening the doors with his own official hands instead of leaving that duty to the footman.

And Lord Arondelle was just in the act of passing out when his steps were suddenly arrested.

A WILD AND PIERCING SHRIEK RANG THROUGH THE HOUSE, STARTLING ALL ITS ECHOES!

It was followed by a dead silence, and then by the sound of many hurrying feet and terrified exclamations.

"Salome! my bride! Oh, what has happened!" thought the startled young marquis, rushing back into the hall and up the stairs.

In the upper hall he found a crowd of terrified people, all hurrying in one direction—toward the bedroom of the banker.

"The dear old gentleman has got a fit, I fear, and his daughter has discovered him in it," was the next thought that flashed upon the mind of the marquis as, without waiting to ask questions, he rushed through and distanced the crowd, and reached the door of the banker's bedroom, which was blocked up by men and women, wedding guests, and servants, some questioning and exclaiming, some weeping and wailing, some standing in panic-stricken silence.

"What has happened?" cried the young marquis pushing his way with more violence than ceremony through all that impeded his entrance into the chamber.

No one answered him. No one dared to do so.

"It is Lord Arondelle—let his lordship pass," said one of the wedding guests, recognizing the expectant bridegroom as he entered the room.

An awe-struck group of persons was gathered around some object on the floor; they made way in silence for the approach of the marquis.

He passed in and looked down.

HORROR UPON HORRORS! There lay the dead body of the banker, full-dressed as on the evening before, but with his head crushed in and surrounded by a pool of coagulated blood! The face was marble white; the eyes were open and stony, the jaws had dropped and stiffened into death. Across the body lay the swooning form of his daughter, with her bridal vail and robes all dabbled in her father's blood.

"HEAVEN OF HEAVENS! Who has done this?" cried the marquis, a cold sweat of horror bursting from his pallid brow as he stared upon this ghastly sight!

A dozen voices answered him at once, to the effect that no one yet knew.

"Run! run! and fetch a doctor instantly! Some of you! any of you who can go the quickest!" he cried, as he stooped and lifted the insensible form of his bride and laid her on the bed—the bed that had not been occupied during the night. Evidently from these appearances, the banker had been murdered before his usual hour of retiring.

"Who has gone for a doctor?" inquired Lord Arondelle, in an agony of anxiety, as he bent over the unconscious form of his beloved one.

"I have despatched Gilbert, yer lairdship. He will mak' unco guid haste," answered the steward, who stood overcome with grief as he gazed upon the ghastly corpse of his unfortunate master.

"My lord," said Lady Belgrade, who stood by too deeply awed for tears, and up to this moment for action either—"my lord, you had better go out of the room for the present, and take all these men with you, and leave Miss Levison to the care of myself and the women. This is all unspeakably horrible! But our first care should be for her. We must loosen her dress, and take other measures for her recovery."

"Yes, yes! Great Heaven! yes! Do all you can for her! This is maddening!" groaned the marquis, smiting his forehead as he left the bedside, yielding his place to the dowager.

"Do try to command yourself, Lord Arondelle. This is, indeed, a most awful shock. It would have been awful at any time, but on your wedding day it comes with double violence. But do summon all your strength of mind, for her sake. Think of her. She came to this room in her bridal dress to call her father, that he might get ready to take her to the altar, to give her to you, and she found him here murdered—weltering in his blood. It was enough to have killed her, or unseated her reason forever," said the lady, as she busied herself with unfastening the rich, white, satin bodice of the wedding robe.

"Oh, Salome! Salome! that I could bear this sorrow for you! Oh, my darling, that all my love should be powerless to save you from a sorrow like this!" cried the young man, dropping his head upon his clenched hands.

"My lord," continued Lady Belgrade, who was now applying a vial of sal ammonia to her patient's nostrils: "my dear Lord Arondelle, rouse yourself for her sake! She has no father, brother, or male relative to take direction of affairs in this awful crisis of her life. You, her betrothed husband, should do it—must do it! Rouse yourself at once. Look at this stupefied and gaping crowd of people! Do not be like one of them. Something must be done at once. Do WHAT OUGHT TO BE DONE!" she cried with sudden vehemence.

"I know what should be done, and I will do it," said the young man, in a tone of mournful resolution. Then turning to the crowd that filled the chamber of horror, he said:

"My friends we must leave this room for the present to the care of Lady Belgrade and her female attendants."

Then to the dowager he said:

"My lady, let one of your maids cover that body with a sheet and let no one move it by so much as an inch, until the arrival of the coroner. As soon as it is possible to do so, you will of course have Miss Levison conveyed to her own chamber. But when you leave this room pray lock it up, and place a servant before the door as sentry, that nothing may be disturbed before the inquest."

Lastly addressing the stupefied house-steward, he said:

"McRath, come with me. The castle doors must all be closed, and no one permitted to learn the arrival of a police force, which must be immediately summoned."

So saying, after a last agonized gaze upon the insensible form of his bride, he left the room of horrors, followed by the house-steward and all the male intruders.

The news of the murder spread through the castle and all over the island, carrying consternation with it. Yet the wedding guests outside, who were quite at liberty to go, showed no disposition to do so. They had come to take part in a joyous wedding festival—they remained, held by the strange fascination of ghastly interest that hangs over the scene of a murder—and such a murder!

So, the crowd, instead of diminishing, greatly increased. Peasants from the hills around, who, having had no wedding garments, had forborne to appear at the feast, now came in their tattered plaids, impelled by an eager curiosity to gaze upon the walls of the castle, and see and hear all they could concerning the mysterious murder that had been perpetrated within it.

The country side rang with the terrible story. And soon the telegraph wires flashed it all over the kingdom.

The coroner hastened to the castle, inspected the corpse, and ordered that everything should remain untouched. He then empanelled a jury for the inquest, whose first session was held in the chamber of death, from which the suffering daughter of the deceased banker had been tenderly removed.

Such among the guests who were not detained as witnesses, found themselves at liberty to depart. But very few availed themselves of the privilege. They preferred to stop and see the end of the inquest.

Skillful and experienced detectives were summoned by telegraph from Scotland Yard, London, and arrived at the castle about midnight.

The house was placed in charge of the police while the investigation was pending.

But the materials for the formation of a decided verdict seemed very meagre.

A careful examination of the body showed that the banker had been killed by one mortal blow inflicted by a blunt and heavy instrument that had crushed in the skull. The instrument was searched for, and soon found in a small but very heavy bronze statuette of Somnes that used to stand on the bedroom mantel-piece; but was now picked up from the carpet, crusted with blood and gray hair. But the miscreant who had held that deadly weapon, and dealt that mortal blow, could not be detected.

Investigation further brought to light that an extensive robbery had been committed. From the banker's person his diamond-studded gold watch, chain, and seals, his gold snuff-box, set with emeralds, a heavy cornelian seal ring set in gold, and his diamond studs and sleeve buttons were taken. A patent safe, which stood in his room, and contained valuable documents as well as a large amount of money, had been broken open, the documents scattered, and the money carried off.

Yet no trace of the robber could be found.

The broken safe was the only piece of "professional" burglary to be seen anywhere about the house. The fastenings on every door and every window were intact.

The most plausible theory of the murder was, that some burglar, or burglars, attracted and tempted by the rumor of almost fabulous treasure then in the castle in the form of wedding offerings to the bride, had gained access to the building, and penetrated to the upper chambers, where, finding the banker still up and awake, they had killed him by one fell blow, to prevent discovery.

True, the priceless wedding presents had not been disturbed. They still blazed in their open caskets upon the drawing-room table—a splendid spectacle. But then they had been guarded all through the night by two faithful men-servants armed with revolvers and seated at the table under a lighted chandelier. It was supposed that the robbers, seeing this lighted and guarded room, had crept past it and mounted to the banker's chamber to pursue their nefarious purpose there; that simple robbery was their first intention, but being seen by the watchful banker, they had instantly killed him to prevent his giving the alarm.

For no alarm had been given!

Every inmate of the house who was examined testified to having passed a quiet night, undisturbed by any noise.

The hall porter and footmen whose duty it was to see to the closing of the castle at night, and the opening of it in the morning, testified to having fastened every door at eleven o'clock on the previous night, and to having found them still fastened at six in the morning.

How, then, did the murderers and robbers gain access to the house, since there was no sign of a broken lock or bolt to be seen anywhere, except in the safe in the banker's room.

Suspicion seemed to point to some inmate of the castle, who must have let the miscreants in.

Yes, but what inmate?

No member of the small family, of course; no visitor, certainly; no servant, probably! Yet, for want of another subject, suspicion fell upon Peters, the valet. He was always the last to see his master at night, and the first to see him in the morning. He had a pass-key to the ante-room of his master's chamber. It was believed to be a very suspicious circumstance, also that he had so persistently declined to call his master that morning, asserting as he did to the very last that Sir Lemuel had given orders that he should not be disturbed until he rang his bell.

This story of the valet was doubted. It was suspected that he might have been in league with the robbers and murderers, might have admitted them to the house that night after the family had retired, and concealed them until the hour came for the commission of their crime; and that he made excuses in the morning not to call his master so as to prevent as long as possible the discovery of the murder, and give the murderers time to get off from the scene of their awful crime.

The valet was not openly accused by any one. The officers of the law were too discreet to permit that to be done.

But he was detained as a witness, and subjected to a very severe examination.

Peters was a very tall, very spare, middle-aged man, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, with a thin, flushed face, sharp features, weak, blue eyes, and scanty red hair and whiskers, dressed with foppish precision. He looked something like a fool; but as little like the confederate of robbers and murderers as it was possible to imagine.

Witness testified that his name was Abraham Peters, that he was born in Drury Lane, London, and was now forty years of age; that he had been in the service of Sir Lemuel Levison for the last five years; that he loved and honored the deceased banker, and had every reason to believe that his master valued him also. He said that it was his service every night to assist his master in undressing and getting to bed, and every morning in getting up and dressing.

A juror asked the witness whether he was in the habit of waiting every morning for his master's bell to ring before going to his room.

The witness answered that he was not; that he had standing orders to call his master every morning at seven o'clock, except otherwise instructed by Sir Lemuel.

Another juror inquired of the witness whether he had received these exceptional instructions on the previous night.

The witness answered that he had received such; that his master had sent him with a message to his daughter, Miss Levison, requesting her to come to his room, as he wished to have a talk with her. He delivered his message through Miss Levison's maid, and returned to his master's room. But when Miss Levison was announced Sir Lemuel dismissed him with permission to retire to bed at once, and not to call his master in the morning, but to wait until Sir Lemuel should ring his bell.